Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 1
Novel
1932-0930-01
978-1932-0930-01
10.1125/Baen.1932-0930-01
Baen Books
Eric Flint
David Mattingly
Science Fiction
2006 by Eric Flint
2006-06-01
US English (en-us)

Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 1

by
Eric Flint

Table of Contents

Jim Baen's Universe
1 Vol 1 Num 1: June 2006

Credits, Issue 1

Written by Jim Baen's Universe! staff

Jim Baen's Universe Magazine, Volume 1 Number 1

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by Jim Baen's Universe

A Baen Publishing Enterprises Publication
Jim Baen's Universe
P. O. Box 7488
Moore, OK 73153-1488

ISSN: 1932-0930

"Chilling" Copyright © 2006 by Alan Dean Foster
"Bow Shock" Copyright © 2006 by Gregory Benford
"Pimpf" Copyright © 2006 by Charlie Stross
"What Would Sam Spade Do?" Copyright © 2006 by Jo Walton
"Brieanna's Constant" Copyright © 2006 by Eric Witchey
"Bob's Yeti Problem" Copyright © 2006 by Lawrence Person
"Slanted Jack" Copyright © 2006 by Mark Van Name
"Candy-Blossom" Copyright © 2006 by Dave Freer
"The Darkness" Copyright © 2006 by David Drake
"The Cold Blacksmith" Copyright © 2006 by Elizabeth Bear
"Poga" Copyright © 2006 by John Barnes
"Build-A-Bear" Copyright © 2006 by Gene Wolfe
"The Opposite of Pomegranates" Copyright © 2006 by Marissa Lingen
"'Ware the Sleeper" Copyright © 2006 by Julie Czerneda
"The Thief of Stones© Copyright © 2006 by Sarah Zettel
"The Ancient Ones Part 1" Copyright © 2006 by David Brin
"Travails with Momma" Copyright © 2006 by John Ringo
"Fish Story, Episode 1" Copyright © 2006 by Andrew Dennis, Eric Flint and Dave Freer
"Fancy Farmer" Copyright © 2006 by Pamela Uphoff
"The Puzzle of the Peregrinating Coach" Copyright © 2006 by George Phillies
"Astromonkeys!" Copyright © 2006 by Tony Frazier
"Giving it 14 Percent" Copyright © 2006 by A. S. Fox
"Local Boy Makes Good" Copyright © 2006 by Ray Tabler
"Gods and Monsters in Hollywood" Copyright © 2006 by Gregory Benford
"Back to the Moon" Copyright © 2006 by Travis Taylor
"Light of Other Days" by Bob Shaw was first published in Analog, August 1966
"The Facts Concerning The Recent Carnival Of Crime In Connecticut" by Mark Twain was first published in 1877

First electronic publication: June 2006

OUR ANIMATED COVER

Written by David Mattingly

David Mattingly has been a major cover artist at Baen for a long time. He has recently completed cover art animations for Jim Baen's Universe and for Baen's upcoming re-issue of The Mote in God's Eye.

We hope you enjoy our first animated cover.

Note that the animation requires the Flash player version 8 or higher. If you don't have that, you'll still get a nice still from the end of the animation.

So, please go view the cover.

David has also been producing animations from other illustrations in the first issue. You can see those in our animations gallery which is also reachable through the side menu.

STORIES

Chilling

Written by Alan Dean Foster
Illustrated by Milivoj Ćeran

"You stupid idiot, you've killed us!"

Arik looked over at his new wife. "I love you too."

They sat on opposite sides of the cave. It was not much of a cave. At its highest the ceiling barely allowed him enough room to stand, and it could not have been more than six or seven meters wide. But compared to the frozen, howling wilderness outside it might as well have been the Garden of Eden. Strange fungal growths carpeted the surface of the interior with a subdued cerulean radiance while coiled flowerless scrubs no higher than a man's knee clustered as close to the bubbling central pool as possible. Twitching yellow-brown tendrils hung from the ceiling, reaching toward the heat. While individual specimens occasionally emitted a soft whistle, without pulling one free from its perch and taking it apart Arik was unable to tell if they were plant or animal. Jen refused to touch them.

One of several thermal springs that dotted the tiny island on which the cave was located, the hot pool was what was keeping the two humans as well as the exotic flora alive. While certain specialized growths like pika-pina and the much larger pika-pedan flourished out on the bare frozen oceans of Tran-ky-ky, rarer flora like the orange fiesin were restricted to locales where the ice world's internal heat reached the surface. The cloud of steam generated by one such thermal vent was what had initially drawn him and Jen to the island. A sister spring was also the cause of their present predicament.

Sitting back against the wall of the cave with his knees drawn up to his chest and his bare hands extended toward the life-preserving warmth of the bubbling spring, Arik reflected that their present desperate situation was not wholly his fault. The Tran who had rented them the small native iceboat should have provided more detailed advice about the possible dangers to be encountered out on the frozen ocean. Or perhaps he had, and Arik's translator had failed to interpret everything. The latter was not an impossibility. Not on a world that had only recently applied for associate Commonwealth membership, where the sale and use of advanced technology was still forbidden to the local sentients, and where along with so much else the study of the strongly guttural native language was still in its infancy.

Jen looked across at him. Having slipped out of the cheap daysuit, she was sitting nearly naked next to the pool. She would gladly have immersed herself if not for the fact that even at the edges its surface temperature was close to boiling.

Some choice they had, he mused. Poach in the pool inside the cave or freeze in the air outside it.

"We're not dead yet." He tried to reassure her.

"Might as well be." She was chewing on a fingernail. Because of the hot spring the air inside the cave was warm enough for them to remove their protective daysuits. Outside—outside was another matter entirely. Another world, in every sense of the word. Tran-ky-ky's vast oceans were frozen solid to varying but usually considerable depths, exposed earth crackled and snapped beneath one's boots, a gust of wind sent sharp pain racing through exposed eyes, and on a more intimate note the moisture in a person's nose caused the hairs to freeze almost instantly on contact with the air.

They had arrived as passengers on a wide-ranging interstellar transport, intending to visit this new outpost of the Commonwealth only for the couple of days the KK-drive craft spent off-loading cargo. When it reentered space plus on its way to the next system, they would go with it. It was a journey as unorthodox as it was costly. Interstellar travel was too expensive and time-consuming to allow people to journey lazily from system to system. Citizens traveled from point to point with very definite destinations in mind.

The atypical postwedding journey was a present from their respective families, each of whom happened to be quite wealthy. All the credit in the Commonwealth, however, had not prevented the new couple's rented iceboat from sinking.

How was he to have known that a subsurface fumarole had melted and weakened the ice close to the island where they had decided to come ashore? Or that anything called a "boat" would promptly sink when exposed to open water? In retrospect, of course, it all made perfect if disheartening sense. Designed to skim across the frozen sea on runners chiseled from solid marblelike stone, the craft had been built to skate, not to float. Why would anyone on Tran-ky-ky build something capable of floating when there was no open water for it to float upon? It was solid ice everywhere, solid ice all the time. Even if the material of which the iceboat had been fashioned had been sufficiently buoyant, the craft still would have been dragged down by the weight of its stone runners.

They had set out for the day trip from the outpost of Brass Monkey. Located not far north of the planetary equator, it was the headquarters of the sole humanx settlement on the planet. Journey farther north, they had been told, and the climate made functioning difficult for even those humans equipped with modern arctic gear. Far to the east lay the enormous volcano whose Tran name translated as The-Place-Where-the-Earth's-Blood-Burns. According to the small but steadily expanding information file on Tran-ky-ky, between the volcano and the mountainous lands of Arsudun where Brass Monkey was located lay a multitude of small islands. Some of these were home to distinctive biological environments abounding with endemic species, many of which had yet to be identified and scientifically described. The island on which they currently found themselves marooned was one such outpost of unique indigenous biological diversity.

He estimated that it was just past noon local time. He had to estimate because their communicators had gone down with the iceboat. He chose not to try to guess the temperature outside the cave. When they had arrived at the island his communicator had declared that the temperature was minus twenty-one centigrade with a wind chill double, possibly triple that. Cold enough to kill. Tonight it would drop to that point. Tomorrow morning—tomorrow it might not matter. Like everything else they had brought with them, their self-heating meals had gone down with the iceboat. Having been raised in a privileged family where only the quality and never the quantity of the food he had eaten had ever been in question he had no idea how long a person could survive sans nourishment. Even in the semiprotected environment of the cave.

Of course, if the spring that supplied the hot pool turned out to be inconsistent and chose to stop bubbling for awhile, the heat it provided would be quickly sucked from the small cavern. They would die swiftly and without having to worry about food.

"Visit some of the Commonwealth's most exotic locations before we settle down on Earth, you said. Experience the hard-to-see worlds while we're still young enough to do so in comfort, you said."

Muttering under her breath, Jen moved her feet closer to the bubbling pool. She wished she could ease her legs into the boiling water. Arik felt it was too risky. Reluctantly, she agreed with him. If the temperature rose suddenly she ran a real risk of being scalded. She had to settle for scooping her hands quickly in and out of the water and splashing her face and body.

"I didn't hear any violent objections from you when the trip was being organized," he shot back.

"I had this, in retrospect, unreasonable expectation that you might know what you were doing." One hand gestured in the direction of the cave opening. Outside, the wind sang subzero. "You could at least have had the sense to bring along our gear pack when we got off the boat."

Said gear pack, which held all their food, drinks, chemical reaction space heater, and most important of all any means of communicating with civilization, had gone down with the iceboat when it had fallen through the thin pane of ice that had been undermined by the hidden fumarole. At least they had water, though they dared not drink directly from the effervescent pool. It reeked of sulfur and other minerals. For all they knew, it was rich in dissolved arsenic. So they grabbed snow from outside the cave entrance and held it in their hands just above the hot mineral water until it melted.

They did not even have a cup, he reflected morosely.

"I didn't see you carrying anything off the boat when we came ashore," he reminded her accusingly.

"I didn't think we'd be here more than ten or fifteen minutes," she countered unhappily. "Half an hour at most."

He saw no point in arguing further. Mutual accusations accomplished nothing. Half an hour maximum. That had been the plan. It was no one's fault, certainly not his, that the subheated ice had given way beneath the modest weight of their iceboat. If they had been traveling airborne, now, in a proper skimmer . . . But the use of such advanced technology outside the boundaries of the station was forbidden.

He'd had no trouble navigating the simple single-sail iceboat. An experienced open-water sailor, he had found the native rigging not so very different from that of a small sailing vessel back home. The native Tran had been using multiple permutations of such craft for centuries. He and Jen had even had the opportunity to take a tour of its most recent elaboration, the massive icerigger Slanderscree that had been tied up in the harbor.

"Someone will find us," he assured her more gently. "We were supposed to have been back late yesterday afternoon. The native who rented us the iceboat will have informed the proper authorities."

Using spread fingers, she brushed out her shoulder-length blonde hair. Rich and beautiful, he thought as he looked at her. If someone did not find them today, by tomorrow she might be rich and dead. She would certainly make the more attractive corpse of the two.

"It's one thing for the people at the station to be informed that we're missing," she muttered unhappily. "It's another for someone to find us."

Rising, he walked around the small pool and sat down close to her. Her anger had moderated sufficiently so that this time she did not object. "Emergency position locators are designed to keep operating under severe conditions. Even submerged in ice water it could still be functioning."

"Unless harsh chemicals from the hot vent corroded it as soon as it sank."

Now why did she have to go and point that out, he asked himself? If their personal communicators and the locator that had been on the iceboat had failed, then no one would know where they were. While they had not traveled all that many kilometers from Brass Monkey, they had not sailed in a straight line. As tourists, they had taken their time and wandered around. They would be difficult to track even if the original angle of their departure had been observed and noted.

Unlike Jen, he had stayed dressed. Looking down, he checked the weather seals at wrists and ankles. The daysuit was designed to keep an individual comfortable while outside even in Tran-ky-ky's climate. But the chemicals in the fabric that combined to generate heat when the suit was put on were intended to last no more than a couple of days. In contrast, a fully powered cold climate survival suit of the type worn by the scientists at the outpost would use a combination of solar, chemical, cell, and the body's own internal heat to keep a traveler warm indefinitely.

But why would anyone need one of the bulkier, more expensive survival suits just to go out for a midday jaunt? A simpler, cheaper, disposable daysuit would serve perfectly well.

For a day.

He started to shiver. "We're going to have to risk bathing in a shallow part of the pool. Near the far edge." He nodded. "The water temperature is tolerable there."

"For the moment and barring any tectonic surprises," she responded. "But sure, let's risk that. You can go first."

"We'll step in together." He revised his suggestion.

"Not a chance, Arik. If you suddenly start to cook, I need to be able to pull you out. And vice versa when it's my turn." She eyed him evenly. "And don't say anything to me about how romantic a mutual dip would be. I'm not in the mood."

Their present situation was not, he decided, what was generally meant when a relationship was described as blowing hot and cold. He edged over until he was sitting up against her. His left arm went around her shoulder.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? The information file on this world said the oceans here never melt. Nothing was said about keeping an eye out for liquid water in the vicinity of volcanic activity." He hugged her. This time she leaned into him instead of away, which was encouraging. Or maybe she was just looking for a little extra warmth.

"We're going to die," she reiterated glumly. "Married less than two months and I'm going to die."

"Someone will find us. They must have started searching this morning, even in this weather, and—"

As if in direct response to his encouraging words a shape appeared outside the entrance to the cave. Springing to his feet and bending over to avoid bumping into the low ceiling, he started excitedly forward.

"See, I told you!" he called back to the equally excited Jen. "Everything'll be all right now. Hey!" Slipping his gloves back on and resealing them to the wrists of the daysuit he started forward while waving his hands. "Hey, we're in here! We're okay!" Behind him, Jen was hastily climbing into her own suit.

The shape stopped and turned to look at him. It was a big man. No, he quickly corrected himself, it was bigger than a man. Its ventral side narrowed to a sharp V-shape where bone had fused to form a solid keel. A pair of legs on either side resembled hairy flippers that terminated in downward-curving double spikes. There was no neck. Jutting out from the stout cylindrical body, the tapering head terminated in a wide, flat mouth suitable for snatching things off the ice. The jaws were filled with curved, hooklike teeth that pointed in all directions, designed to impale and hold squirming, fast-moving prey. Protected by double transparent eyelids, both pale green eyes focused avidly on Arik.

Behind him Jen inhaled sharply. Neither of them had any idea what the creature was. They did not remember it from the very limited guide. Evolved to live and thrive on naked ice, Tran-ky-ky's fauna was as exotic as its flora. From the look of it, this particular carnivore probably traveled by lying on its skatelike keel bone and pulling itself forward by jamming its cramponish flipper-spikes into the ice. That it could also drag itself forward on solid ground was self-evident from the way it now began to pull itself into the cave. It was likely, Arik decided as he retreated, that the menacing beast was not nearly as agile on land as it was out on the open ice.

It was, however, plenty big enough to completely block the only exit.

As it shoved its head farther into the cave opening it emitted a deep, reverberant moan that sounded more like the cry of something giving birth subsequent to a delayed pregnancy than it did a predatory challenge.

"Do something!" Jen yelled as she hurriedly resealed her gloves.

Keeping one eye on the lurching, advancing predator, Arik searched the cave as he continued to back up. They had no weapons. What would anyone need with weapons on a one-day sightseeing trip? It was a moot regret. Even if they had brought one along it would have gone down on the iceboat with the rest of their equipment.

Jen picked up a rock and threw it. It produced a reverberant thunk as it struck the intruder, the same kind of dull sound she had heard when she had once been forced to slap an over-amorous dolphin.

The stone bounced off the carnivore exactly as if it had hit a hunk of solid rubber. Hacking up another eager moan, the creature continued to drag itself deeper into the cave. Its bulk scoured gravel and rock dust from the walls. There was no possible way they could get around it.

"Keep the pool between it and us!" Arik had retreated to join Jen and take her hand. He squeezed it firmly and she replied in kind. "It's adapted to permanent cold, so it might avoid the hot water. If it comes at us from the left, we go right. If it comes right, we make a run for it around the other side of the pool."

"Great," she commented dryly. "Then what?"

Then—they would be outside, he realized. In their failing daysuits. Could the creature run them down? And if so, would it start to consume them before they froze and died?

Arching back its head, the intruder bellowed sharply. It was a completely different sound from the enthusiastic moaning it had been emitting thus far. The source of the cry soon became apparent.

First one spear, then a second, then two more struck the animal from behind, the sharp points driving deeply into the thickly insulated flesh. As the beleaguered creature roared and bellowed in pain it rocked back and forth against the walls of the cave. Stone shards and ice crystals broke loose. The creature's dying cacophony was awful to hear. A dust cloud of pulverized rock filled the cavity that housed the pool, causing both humans to break out coughing.

It took twenty minutes for the embattled carnivore to die. Then all was silent except for the hot spring's persistent bubbling and the whine of the wind outside.

Waving dust away from his face, Arik advanced cautiously toward the exit. Something he could not see was pulling the now deceased beast backwards and out of the cave. He strained for a better look.

"It's okay," he told Jen. "I can count spears sticking out of it." His heart leaped. "It has to be the natives. We're saved!"

There were half a dozen of them; tall, densely furred, dressed in heavy, well-made clothing fashioned of wind-breaking leathers and the cured skins of lesser fauna. Large furry ears stuck out from the sides of their heads while oval catlike eyes gazed into the wind from behind double lids. Two of them boasted beards that blended without a break into the fur that covered their elongated faces. The membranous dan that formed wind-catching wings hung limp from wrists to waists.

Sharp knives emerged from scabbards and flashed in the brilliant sunlight as they began to cut up the dead carnivore. Sunlight glinted off the extended, backward curving claws on their feet. Called chiv, these remarkable evolutionary adaptations allowed the Tran to skate on their bare feet across the endless expanses of ice.

Arik was so relieved to see them that when he hurried outside he did not even bother to snap down his protective face shield. "Hello, hello! O'Morion, are we glad to see you! We've been stuck here for—"

The fist that struck him was as unyielding as it was unexpected. When his momentarily blurred vision cleared again it was to reveal two of the natives standing over him, swords drawn. Piercing eyes that were feline yet alien bored into his own. He ignored the chill that was creeping over his face.

"Hey, what's the idea? What . . . ?" He started to rise.

One of the Tran put a foot on his chest and shoved. Gently, or the triple razor-sharp chiv on the bottom of his foot would have sliced into the human's daysuit. The pair of armed locals began chattering animatedly among themselves. Though Arik knew nothing of the local language, the tone of the natives' conversation did not strike him as cordial.

"Arik!"

Looking to his right he saw that two more of them were dragging Jen out of the cave. She'd had the foresight to flip down her face shield. Behind her the remaining pair of Tran continued to work on the carcass of the dead predator.

"Keep calm," he called to her. He thought frantically back to what he had read of this world. Despite its recent application for associate Commonwealth membership, many of the natives of Tran-ky-ky still lived in a semifeudal society. It was said that there still remained a number to be convinced of the benefits of Commonwealth membership. Not all had voted in favor of it.

Could it be, he found himself thinking uneasily, that those who had landed on the island might just possibly fall into the latter social group?

With only primitive blades at their disposal two of them were rapidly reducing the remains of the dead carnivore to chops, steaks, and the equivalent of local cuts. Steam rose from the gaping, disemboweled corpse. Would he and Jen be next?

After cleaning his blade in the snow and then wiping it dry against his gray jerkin, the tallest Tran scabbarded it and walked over to gaze down at the humans. As the alien approached, Jen stepped slightly behind her husband where he lay on the ground. They eyed the natives warily. After inspecting them both, the knife wielder focused yellow eyes on Arik. At a gesture, the Tran with a foot on the human's chest stepped back and allowed him to stand.

"I hight Signur Draz-hode." Though he sounded as if he was talking with a mouthful of molasses, the Tran's terranglo was quite intelligible. With a clawed hand he indicated his companions. As he raised his arm, his right dan unfurled like half a translucent cape "We are kurgals of the Virin Clan." Leaning forward, he studied the two humans more closely. "Though you have not the look of invaders, that does not absolve you."

"Invaders?" Behind her face shield, Jen blinked. "We're not invaders."

"We're tourists," Arik added helpfully.

"'Tourists'?" The Virin Signur Draz-hode's command of terranglo was not perfect.

"Visitors," Jen explained. "Sightseers. Casual travelers who are here for only a day to see some of your unique world. To enjoy its ice oceans and snow-covered mountains, its plant and animal life." Maintaining a smile, she nodded in the direction of the gutted, steaming carcass nearby. "Like that."

Straightening, Draz-hode turned into the wind to eye the corpse. Fully adapted to the unrelenting climate, he needed no face shield. "A sodj? There is nothing unique about a sodj. Even in taste it is ordinary. But it was the best we could find on this hunting journey." He looked back at her. "Until now."

"Until . . . ?" She swallowed hard. "You're—you're going to eat us?"

It took a moment for the Tran to dissolve the human words in his mind. When he finally did, he howled with laughter. At least, Arik assumed it was laughter. It certainly was a howl. When the Tran translated for his hunting companions, they promptly mimicked his vocalization. To Arik it sounded like a chorus of tenors warming up for a concert by engaging in a coughing contest.

Eventually Draz-hode recovered sufficiently to regard the female human once more. "We might—later. For now, we have the sodj. You are invaders. You come to our world and turn everything upside town. You insist we make a government not of peoples and clans but of all mixed together without regard to history or honor. You trample tradition under your soft, chiv-less feet!"

"We don't," Jen argued as forcefully as she dared. "We don't trample anything. We're not politicians. We're just tourists."

"You'll be better off as citizens of the Commonwealth," Arik could not resist saying. "You'll have modern conveniences, medicine, technology, exposure to the arts and culture of other races—"

Draz-hode interrupted him roughly. "Who asked for the things of which you speak? Not I. Not the Virin. Yet your allies and our traditional enemies try to force them upon us. So be it. The Virin can adapt to new circumstances without foregoing the old. You wish to see some of our 'unique' world? You will be given that opportunity." He added something in the guttural yet attractive local tongue.

His companions came forward. Using cord woven from strips of pika-pedan they secured the prisoners' arms behind their backs. One of the natives automatically started to furl the dan he expected to see running from Arik's waist up to his arm before remembering that humans did not possess the tough membrane that allowed the Tran to speed across the ice with only the wind at their backs to propel them.

"What are you going to do with us?" a worried Arik asked their captor.

Draz-hode did not hesitate. "Ransom. It is an old and venerable custom among our kind. We will find out if it operates similarly among your people." He exposed sharp teeth. "Call it cultural exchange."

"We've traveled here on our own," Jen put in. "It would take a long time to work out the details of such a trade."

Walking up to the female human, Draz-hode bent forward so that his face was close to hers. For a second time, he showed his teeth. "In that eventuality we will find out how you taste. If it turns out that you are not worth money, you will still be valuable as food."

As he and Jen were marched down the uneven slope toward the waiting iceboat Arik noted that their captors did not bind their legs. There was no need. If they did somehow manage to escape they could not possibly walk all the way back to Brass Monkey. They could not walk, period. Unlike the Tran whose razor-sharp chiv protruded from the undersides of their feet, the boots he and Jen were wearing would find them slipping and sliding all over the ice if they tried to hike more than a few meters.

Their captors' iceboat was considerably bigger than his and Jen's day rental. It had a higher mast, a crude bowsprit equipped with a foresheet, a pika-pedan railing, and a much larger central cabin. Essentially an arrowhead-shaped raft mounted on runners of cut and polished stone, it also featured a pointed stern to which a fourth runner was attached. Unlike the three forward runners that were fixed in position, the one aft was attached to a tiller that served to steer the craft.

With proportionately longer arms than a human, the lean and muscular Virin had no trouble hauling their prisoners up onto the open raft. Once all were aboard, the single square sail was let out. As soon as the boat cleared the lee of the island and encountered a steady breeze it began to rapidly pick up speed.

"Don't worry," Arik whispered to his new wife. "One of the search parties will find us."

She glared moodily back at him. "First, you're assuming there are search parties out looking for us. Second, you're assuming at least one of them will have some idea where to look. Third, at the speed we're making now we'll soon be far from any hypothetical area where any hypothetical search party might choose to hypothetically search. Fourth, you're an idiot."

Lying on his side on the rough-hewn deck of the iceboat, hands bound behind him, he pondered her reaction. "Do you want a divorce?"

"You really are an idiot," she snapped. "Or maybe just a man. I know that you love me, really and for certain. I'd rather be married to an idiot who I know truly loves me than a genius who thinks of me as little more than an ornament to his own brilliance. Or," she added, "just because I'm beautiful and rich."

"I'm rich, too," he protested.

"Lot of good it does us now," she ruminated. "Both of our families have the means to ransom us. That won't matter because it's likely we'll freeze to death before the necessary arrangements can be made." It was not necessary for her to see the color-coded heat-sensitive readout that was part of the fabric of her daysuit's left arm to know that the integrated chemical reaction that kept the suit warm would have run the last of its reactive course by morning. Then they would find themselves clad in suits that kept out the wind but not the bitter cold. If the temperature hovered a few degrees below freezing they might still be able to survive.

This, however, was Tran-ky-ky—not some comfortable ski resort on one of the developed worlds. Native clothing—a lot of native clothing—would certainly help. How distant lay the abode of the Virin? Could they get there before they froze?

By evening they were far from the little island of the hot springs—and presumably also well beyond the area likely to be checked by any wandering search parties. Within the failing suits a cold-induced lethargy had begun to take hold. In this reduced state of awareness they were barely able to appreciate the stunning sunset as Tran-ky-ky's star, warm and bright as Earth's but more distant, began to set in a sky as stridently blue as cornflower sapphire. The glare of sunlight ricocheting off the surface of the ice ocean forced them to look away.

Leastwise it did until one of their captors left his position abaft and walked forward to the starboard railing. Halting there he squinted into the distance, toward the setting sun, before letting out a roar that made even the two humans jump. In response, his comrades flew into a frenzy of action. Racing back to the stern, Draz-hode joined the steersman in leaning hard on the tiller. The iceboat heeled over dangerously, its starboard runner actually rising up off the ice. Running to that side, two of the crew grabbed pika-pina ropes and heeled out, lending their weight to the ascending side of the craft. Slowly, gradually, the runner in the air dropped down until it once more was in contact with the ice.

The rest of the crew was racing to break out a second triangular sail. It was not quite a spinnaker, but it did allow the iceboat to put on additional speed. The sturdy craft was traveling with the wind nearly full behind it now. Draz-hode's intent was clearly to make speed as opposed to maintaining his original course. The reason for this soon became apparent.

They were being chased by a mountain—and a forested one at that.

Arik could see Jen's eyes widen behind her face shield. He wondered if she could see his. Were they as reflective of the shock he was feeling at the sight of what was bearing down on them? The alarm evident in the actions and expressions of their captors was hardly a consolation. If those sailing the iceboat died, so would their involuntary passengers.

One of the reasons he and Jen had come to Tran-ky-ky was to observe the local wildlife—but not like this.

Closing on the fleeing iceboat was an enormous lump of ivory-hued flesh. Slashes of gray and pale blue streaked its deeply ribbed flanks. What at a distance had appeared to be trees turned out to be wind-blown growths of another kind. Evolution had caused a dozen or so huge fins to grow wider, higher, and thinner. No longer required by nature to push water, they now caught air like so many macrobiotic blades. The monster had no limbs. It had no eyes or ears. What it did have was a dozen or more integral "sails" protruding from its back and sides. Also a cavernous mouth large and dark enough to swallow the fleeing iceboat whole.

Projecting forward and out from the top of the blunt-headed alien atrocity was a distinctive fleshy organ the size of a bus and the color of an irritated blister. Eyeing the bizarre growth, Arik found himself wondering how the creature could locate prey without eyes to see, ears to hear, or nostrils to smell. What senses were left?

This was Tran-ky-ky, he reminded himself. Where everything was frozen solid except for isolated areas of volcanism and—living, organic beings. Not being versed in the tenets of exobiology he could not be certain, but it seemed to him a reasonable assumption the massive protuberance that dominated the head of the oncoming creature might have evolved to detect the heat given off by living things.

Ironically, while the energetic kurgal of Virin were radiating heat like mad, the predator might not be able to sense either him or Jen because their body heat was bottled within their daysuits. Under different circumstances, it might utterly ignore them.

Despite the best efforts of Draz-hode and his crew the gap continued to close between the fleeing iceboat and that enormous mouth. It seemed impossible that something so massive, florid, and alien could travel so fast. What on earth—or rather on ice—enabled it to do so? It was not until it was almost upon them that the fading daylight allowed him to make out the layer of glistening liquid that bubbled and frothed around the creature's underside.

He remembered what little he and Jen had been able to learn about Tran-ky-ky's remarkable fauna. The key to survival of many species was the presence in their blood of highly evolved complex glycoproteins. These naturally occurring organic antifreezes kept the bodily fluids of everything from the lowliest ice-burrower to the Tran themselves from freezing when temperatures dropped precipitously. He could now see for himself that when exuded from special organs located in the monster's underside, they could also be employed for purposes of lubrication. The monster produced and secreted a glycoproteinetic fluid that provided a continuously replenished low-friction liquid cushion between itself and the ice. Or at least it did so when it needed to make speed to capture food.

Some predators relied on venom to snare their prey, others on natural glues, others on extensible tongues or claws. This was the first he had seen that relied on slime.

Realizing that despite their best efforts they were about to be overtaken, two of the crew disappeared into the central cabin. They reemerged moments later bearing armfuls of spears. Arik could not imagine the metal-tipped shafts having much effect against the looming monster. He wished only that his and Jen's hands were not bound. Not that it really mattered. Even if the creature did not eat them, even if it smashed the iceboat but subsequently ignored them, they would be marooned out on the vastness of the open ice ocean, unable to walk to a destination even if one happened to be in sight.

Then, abruptly and unexpectedly, the gargantuan predator veered off to the right. Spears in hand, the two Tran looked on in bewildered silence as the predator pulled up next to them. It made no move to swallow, crush, or otherwise attack the iceboat. Holding onto the tiller for dear life, Draz-hode and his steersman maintained their present course. They did not want to do anything to startle or disturb the speeding hulk that had inexplicably drawn harmlessly alongside. In any case, changing course would have meant losing wind and therefore sacrificing speed.

The monster began to drift away to port. On board the iceboat the baffled but relieved Tran allowed themselves to relax ever so slightly. It was then that the giant landed in their midst.

Gray beard flying in the wind, face shield flipped up in defiance of the elements, he had leaped from behind one of the monster's stiff-spined sails with a pistol clasped in his massive left hand. Shod in boots and not fur, his enormous feet were devoid of ice-cutting chiv. Spears flew and swords were drawn. The iceboat was crewed by six warriors of the Virin, bold and true. In such close quarters the single modern weapon brandished by the arriving apparition did not enjoy the advantage it would have held at a distance.

On the other hand, Arik saw as he did his best to stay out of the way, the new arrival was taller even than the Tran, and far more stout. The man stood well over two meters tall and must have weighed close to two hundred kilos. This explained how he was able to pick up one warrior and throw him into a pair of his companions as easily as Arik would have tossed a ball.

One of the walloped was the steersman, who had remained at his post. Struck senseless, he fell forward onto the tiller. The iceboat promptly heeled hard over to starboard. With the remaining Virin occupied in trying to swarm the giant there was no one to haul out on the lines. The iceboat's starboard runner came up, up off the ice. Arik felt himself loosing his balance, falling, and rolling helplessly down the now sharply tilting deck. Somewhere nearby, Jen screamed.

Darkness arrived before the sun had time to set.

* * *

A light that was bright teased his consciousness back to wakefulness. Faintly, Arik remembered that a bright light was what dead people supposedly saw before they passed into nothingness or onward to another plane of existence. As his vision cleared he saw that the light was coming from a fire. That was probably not what dying people saw, he decided. Optimism restored, he sat up.

He was sitting on a piece of flat woody material. An unmoving Jen lay on another alongside him. As he cried out, a voice that was ridiculously deep but not ponderous addressed him from the other side of the crackling blaze.

"Take it easy, young feller-me-lad. She ain't dead. Dreaming maybe, but not dead."

Placing his hands on his spouse, Arik was able to reassure himself that the words spoke the truth. He was further persuaded when she began to moan softly. At that point he thought it might be expeditious to have a closer look at the source of the voice.

Seated on the far side of the fire, the giant who had leaped from the back of the monster onto the deck of the iceboat fed another piece of that shattered craft into the blaze. Moonglow highlighted the rest of the nearby wreckage. The spectral pile of splintered pika-pedan glittered with ice crystals. Of the monster that had chased them down there was no sign.

"September," the big man rumbled around a mouthful of food.

"Actually," Arik replied as he tried to get comfortable on the rough board that elevated his backside above the treacherous ice, "I think it's still July."

The giant let out a snort. "No, feller-me-lad—I'm September. You can call me Skua. Don't know why I should let you, though. By rights you at least owe me proper formalities."

"We owe you everything, I should think, Mr. Sep—Skua. You saved our lives."

"I've gone and saved your behinds," the big man grunted through his flaring gray beard. Barely detectible beneath overhanging brows, his eyes were as blue as the sky of Tran-ky-ky. "As to your lives, those remain hanging in the balance unless we can get you back to Brass Monkey before you freeze. Tomorrow we'll know if it's all one way or all the other."

Jen blinked and sat up sharply. Arik was delighted to see that the integrity of her daysuit had not been compromised and that she appeared to be unhurt. As for himself, he was bruised from head to toe, but nothing seemed to be broken. Hugging Jen tightly to him as she put both hands to her head, he looked back at the giant.

"You sound upset," he ventured.

"Upset?" Arik thought the big man's gaze was going to cut right through him. "'Pon my word, young feller-me-lad, you've no notion of what you've cost me, do you?"

Arik swallowed. Had they been saved from the Virin of kurgal only to find themselves in the hands of a madman of their own species? "Whatever it is, sir, my wife and I will do our best to make it up to you if you'll just help us to get back to the outpost."

"Bollocks and botheration!" the giant snapped. "What I should have done was left the both of you fools to ice cube yourselves out here. You've cost me time, is what you've cost me. How d'you expect to pay that back?" He turned suddenly wistful. "I was all set to take transport away on the same ship that brought you here. Now I expect it has vacated orbit and gone on its merry changeover way."

"No it hasn't." Returned to full awareness once more, Jen spoke up.

The giant glanced over at her. "No offense, young lass, but I don't see any KK-drive vessel out this way flouting its schedule on my behalf."

"Not your behalf, sir. On ours." She favored Arik with an unexpectedly affectionate look. "My new idiot husband and I are not particularly important people, but we do come from families of some importance. I don't think the ship will leave without us, or at least not until our deaths should be confirmed."

Skua September glared at her. "I'm afraid you have a disproportionately elevated opinion of yourself, young miss. It's been my humble experience that starships don't hang around waiting on tardy passengers. No matter who their daddy is."

Daring to raise her face shield, she flashed blue eyes of her own at him. "I don't like to think that wealth makes me arrogant. Just realistic."

Arik stepped back into the conversation. "We might anyway have a few days before the ship's captain feels he has to depart. How soon can you get us back to the station?"

September considered. "I'll do my best, young feller-me-lad. Out of personal interest as much for your sake. I didn't come out here with the intention of returning with a block of honeymooning ice in tow." He smiled. "Yes, I know about that. I just wouldn't hold out hope that you'll be leaving this paradise quite as soon as you'd like."

"Whatever happens, we're in your debt, Skua."

"Your goddamn debt's got nothing to do with it. The sooner we get back, the better the chance I have of making that ship."

"If you don't mind my asking," Arik began as he started to shiver uncontrollably, "how did you find us? And that creature you were riding . . . ?"

Rising, the giant disappeared into the darkness. When he returned he was carrying an armful of rough-hewn Tran clothing. "Here, put these on as best you can over those failing daysuits. You'll find the native attire surprisingly insulating." Sitting back down beside the fire, he used a Tran knife to slice off another chunk of charred meat and shove it into his mouth. Melting grease dribbled off his lips to stain his beard.

"When you didn't check back in to your accommodations last night or return your rented iceboat, Ms. Stanhope—she's the resident Commonwealth commissioner for Tran-ky-ky—sent out a couple of skimmers to look for you. By law and Church edict that kind of technology is not supposed to travel beyond Brass Monkey until this world's application for associate membership has been vetted and approved. Given the circumstances, she decided to allow an exception so a proper search could be conducted. Since she has less than half a dozen operatives assigned to her staff, the commissioner also asked for Tran and human volunteers to join the search.

"Unsurprisingly, the local Tran have no interest in wasting time looking for a couple of humans dim-witted enough to lose themselves out on the ice. Those more noble Tran who might have taken the time aren't around right now. They're back home north of here in Arsudun. Needless to say, no humans volunteered—they're not dumber than the natives. However you don't get to be a Resident Commissioner, even for an ends-of-the-galaxy iceball like Tran-ky-ky, unless you know how to manipulate hearts and minds. A few of my friends and I have invested quite a bit of time and energy in helping the locals reach the point where they qualify to apply for associate membership in the Commonwealth. Commissioner Stanhope, the old dear, bluntly pointed out that the deaths of an attractive young couple such as yourselves following so soon upon such a submission would reflect badly on the formal application." He spat to one side. "Politics!"

"So she appealed to your sense of honor," Jen remarked.

"'Pon my word she did. Fortunately for you, that was not all she relied upon. Other words were spoken. 'Reward' being among them, I decided it was worth burning a day or two looking for you.

"Having spent some time on this world and acquired an understanding of certain of its ways, I managed to track your wandering iceboat's tracks to a hot spring island. There I found evidence pointing to the recent visit of a clandestine native hunting party. Also human spoor, but no sign of your rented craft or you. Knowing what I do about the Tran, I came to some assumptions. Iceboat tracks leading straightaway from Arsudun and not just from the island confirmed my suspicions.

"That presented a new problem. I knew that no matter how fast and low I came up in a modern skimmer on you and your new friends, they would have ample time to put knives to your throats before I could be certain of taking all of them out, or even talking to them. I was at a bit of a loss how to proceed until I came across the solitary tarqan.

"Now, a tarqan's dangerous when it's on the move, but not so much when it's feeding. I managed to sneak up on that one. Adept Tran can pretty well steer them where they want them to go by applying heat to certain areas of their body. I had some chemical instant heat paks in the skimmer's supply locker. They did the job. I knew the hunting party that had taken you would respond defensively to an approach by a tarqan, but they wouldn't connect its presence to you or to a rescue attempt. In the fading daylight I was able to draw close without being seen. After that I was able to get in among them before they had time to realize what was happening.

"I would've preferred to stay on the tarqan and pick them off from a distance, but I knew that before I could get them all," he concluded as casually as if describing a day's excursion in a park, "they would have had plenty of time to cut off your heads."

He bit back down into whatever it was that he had cooked over the fire. Arik's stomach chose that moment to say hello and, by the way, he was starving, and could he perhaps do something about it? Jen was undoubtedly no better off.

"Could I ask you . . ." He indicated the hunk of well-seared flesh. It smelled wonderful. "Jen and I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday." He tried hard not to salivate, knowing that if he did so dripping saliva would freeze hard to his lower lip and chin.

"Bless my soul, I've forgotten my manners." From the lump he was chewing on, September promptly carved off slices of cooked flesh for both of them.

Arik bit hungrily into his. Next to him Jen was chowing down with an enthusiasm that was anything but ladylike. With a flavor that was somewhere between pork and undercooked beef, the blackened flesh was delicious.

"I'm surprised that you would have room in your backpack for raw meat," he observed, "though on second thought I suppose keeping it frozen isn't a problem here."

"It ain't frozen, feller-me-lad," September informed him casually. "It's fresh."

"Fresh?" Jen stared at the giant, her slab of seared flesh halfway to her lips. "Fresh what? Some local food?"

"In a manner of speaking, young lass." September nodded in the direction of the destroyed Virin iceboat. "In a difficult situation on a world like this one makes use of whatever is available. Not just here on Tran-ky-ky. I've been in awkward circumstances before and if there's one thing I've learned in the course of a tolerably long lifetime, it's that meat is meat."

Rising slightly from his sitting position, Arik was able to get a better look at what lay just beyond the fire. Along with the giant's pack and pistol he was able to make out a larger, more irregular object. It was the corpse of the Virin commander Draz-hode.

It had been neatly and very professionally butchered.

Slowly, he removed a half-chewed piece of meat from his mouth. In the flickering light from the fire it looked exactly like any other piece of cooked meat. Next to him, Jen had not so much as paused in her voracious masticating despite September's matter-of-fact identification of what it was that she was consuming.

This is not impossible, he admonished himself sternly. All you had to do was turn off your brain while leaving your digestive system running. Slipping the meat back between his lips he resumed chewing while simultaneously doing his best to stop thinking. His stomach thanked him.

To help take his mind off the fact that he was violating two and possible four of the principle canons of contemporary civilized behavior, he confronted the giant with a question that had been bothering him for a while now.

"Why are we sitting here eating in the dark and the cold like this? Why haven't you signaled your skimmer to come fetch us and take us back to the station?"

By way of reply September unfastened one of his sturdy survival suit's external pockets. Removing a small handful of electronics, he tossed them across the fire. Arik had to drop his deviant steak to make the catch. Still, several of the pieces missed his fingers to scatter on the ice. Too many pieces, he thought with sudden unease.

"This component is broken," he murmured as he and Jen studied the debris.

September nodded. "Sure can't fool you, young feller-me-lad. During the dust-up, that module took the full force of a blow from a Tran battle-axe. The flat side of the axe, fortunately. Only bruised me, but it sure made a mess of my communicator."

Jen gaped at him. "So we're marooned again? Except that now there's three of us, and we're that much farther from Brass Monkey?"

"It is a bit of a hike back, yes." Setting his food aside, September reached behind him and hauled his backpack into the firelight. From its depths he withdrew a pair of enormous ice skates. The blades were not stone, and had been fashioned out of duralloy or some similar metal.

"Local government issue. Wish I'd had them with me a year ago." Illustrating how they fit, he slipped one over the integrated right boot of his survival suit. Wiggling it caused the triple blades to catch the light of the fire. It dawned on Arik that the skate's design had been modeled after a Tran foot.

"Special coating baked onto the blades reduces friction to next to nothing," September told them proudly. "You can make pretty good time with a pair of these. And with this." Digging into the pack once more he pulled out a thin sheet of carboflex. A contiguous seal was visible along the edge.

"This attaches to a survival suit. Fits in a roll over your arms and across your back. Mimics Tran dan." Extending both long arms out to his sides he made slightly awkward flapping motions. "Catches the wind and propels you across the ice. Just like one of the natives."

"Clever." Jen eyed the commodious pack. "Where's ours?"

"Well now, lass, that does present a bit of a problem. This is emergency gear. It's intended to allow someone who knows what they're doing to maybe make it back to civilization in the event of a complete skimmer or iceboat breakdown. I'm afraid I only have the one set, for me."

The newlyweds exchanged a glance. "Then what are we to do?" Arik asked. "Wait here for you to return with your skimmer?"

"Hardly. There are enough fancy ice sculptures in Brass Monkey without adding the two of you to the gallery. You're coming with me."

"How?" Jen considered their rescuer's size. "Can you carry us?"

"Not while trying to stay upright on the ice while maneuvering artificial dan. But in the course of the past year I've gotten pretty good at improvising."

The flat ice-skid the big man threw together from the wreckage of the Virin iceboat was uncomfortable and fragile. At any moment Arik expected it to come apart under him and Jen. Salvaged pika-pedan ropes attached it to September's waist. With his arms held outspread and the artificial dan attached at wrist, arms, sides and waist, he could both pull the sled and catch the ubiquitous wind.

Though they started out slow, soon the three of them were all but flying across the ice. Buried beneath appropriated Tran clothing and eyeing September through his protective face mask, Arik wondered how long the giant could keep his arms extended straight out to the sides. Long enough, it developed, for the skid's two recumbent passengers to feel more bumps and jolts than they had before in their lives.

By the time they reached the small cold spire of an island where September had parked his skimmer, the both of them were sore from head to heel. Though their rented daysuits had by now chemically redlined, the layers of Tran fur and leather taken from their dead abductors had kept them from freezing. Aching and exhausted, they stumbled gratefully into the waiting warmth of the skimmer's interior. With the inadequate pilot's seat groaning beneath his weight, September set a course back to the Commonwealth outpost.

There they discovered that the giant had been right about something else. Commercial KK-drive ships did not linger on behalf of passengers who missed their assigned shuttle. Not even on behalf of rich ones. The next starship was not due to visit Tran-ky-ky for a month. Until then the newlyweds would have to listen like everyone else to their rescuer grumble and complain as he stalked the heated halls of the station. They would have to endure this just as they would have to endure surroundings that were considerably less appealing than those they had planned to enjoy on the balance of their travels. At least, however, they were alive and had each other.

Even if it was for as frigid a honeymoon as any two citizens of the Commonwealth had ever experienced.

* * *

Alan Dean Foster is the author of many novels and short stories. "Chilling" is a story in Alan Dean Foster's Tran-ky-ky setting. The novels in that setting are Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin and The Deluge Drivers.

Bow Shock

Written by Gregory Benford

Ralph slid into the booth where Irene was already waiting, looking perky and sipping on a bottle of Snapple tea. "How'd it . . ." She let the rest slide away, seeing his face.

"Tell me something really awful, so it won't make today seem so bad."

She said carefully, "Yes sir, coming right up, sir. Um . . ." A wicked grin. "Once I had a pet bird that committed suicide by sticking his head between the cage bars."

"W-what . . .?"

"Okay, you maybe need worse? Can do." A flash of dazzling smile. "My sister forgot to feed her pet gerbils, so one died. Then, the one that was alive ate its dead friend."

Only then did he get that she was kidding, trying to josh him out of his mood. He laughed heartily. "Thanks, I sure needed that."

She smiled with relief and turned her head, swirling her dirty-blonde hair around her head in a way that made him think of a momentary tornado. Without a word her face gave him sympathy, concern, inquiry, stiff-lipped support—all in a quick gush of expressions that skated across her face, her full, elegantly lipsticked red mouth collaborating with her eggshell blue eyes.

Her eyes followed him intently as he described the paper he had found that left his work in the dust.

"Astronomy is about getting there first?" she asked wonderingly.

"Sometimes. This time, anyway." After that he told her about the talk with the department chairman—the whole scene, right down to every line of dialog, which he would now remember forever, apparently—and she nodded.

"It's time to solicit letters of recommendation for me, but to who? My work's already out of date. I . . . don't know what to do now," he said. Not a great last line to a story, but the truth.

"What do you feel like doing?"

He sighed. "Redouble my efforts—"

"When you've lost sight of your goal?" It was, he recalled, a definition of fanaticism, from a movie.

"My goal is to be an astronomer," he said stiffly.

"That doesn't have to mean academic, though."

"Yeah, but NASA jobs are thin these days." An agency that took seven years to get to the moon the first time, from a standing start, was now spending far more dollars to do it again in fifteen years.

"You have a lot of skills, useful ones."

"I want to work on fundamental things, not applied."

She held up the cap of her Snapple iced tea and read from the inner side with a bright, comically forced voice, "Not a winner, but here's your Real Fact number two thirty-seven. The number of times a cricket chirps in fifteen seconds, plus thirty-seven, will give you the current air temperature."

"In Fahrenheit, I'll bet," he said, wondering where she was going with this.

"Lots of 'fundamental' scientific facts are just that impressive. Who cares?"

"Um, have we moved on to a discussion of the value of knowledge?"

"Valuable to whom, is my point."

If she was going to quote stuff, so could he. "Look, Mark Twain said that the wonder of science is the bounty of speculation that comes from a single hard fact."

"Can't see a whole lot of bounty from here." She gave him a wry smile, another hair toss. He had to admit, it worked very well on him.

"I like astronomy."

"Sure, it just doesn't seem to like you. Not as much, anyway."

"So I should . . .?" Let her fill in the answer, since she was full of them today. And he doubted the gerbil story.

"Maybe go into something that rewards your skills."

"Like . . .?"

"Computers. Math. Think big! Try to sign on with a hedge fund, do their analysis."

"Hedge funds . . ." He barely remembered what they did. "They look for short-term trading opportunities in the market?"

"Right, there's a lot of math in that. I read up on it online." She was sharp; that's what he liked about her. "That data analysis you're doing, it's waaay more complicated than what Herb Linzfield does."

"Herb . . .?"

"Guy I know, eats in the same Indian buffet place some of us go for lunch." Her eyes got veiled and he wondered what else she and Herb had talked about. Him? "He calculates hedges on bonds."

"Corporate or municipal?" Just to show he wasn't totally ignorant of things financial.

"Uh, I think corporate." Again the veiled eyes.

"I didn't put in six years in grad school and get a doctorate to—-"

"I know, honey." Eyes suddenly warm "But you've given this a real solid try now."

"A try? I'm not done."

"Well, what I'm saying, you can do other things. If this doesn't . . . work out."

Thinking, he told her about the labyrinths of academic politics. The rest of the UC Irvine astro types did nearby galaxies, looking for details of stellar evolution, or else big scale cosmological stuff. He worked in between, peering at exotic beasts showing themselves in the radio and microwave regions of the spectrum. It was a competitive field and he felt it fit him. So he spelled out what he thought of as The Why. That is, why he had worked hard to get this far. For the sake of the inner music it gave him, he had set aside his personal life, letting affairs lapse and dodging any long-term relationship.

"So that's why you weren't . . . connected? . . . when you got here." She pursed her lips appraisingly.

"Yeah. Keep my options open, I figured."

"Open for . . .?"

"For this—" He swept a rueful, ironic hand in the air at his imaginary assets. For a coveted appointment, a heady way out of the gray postdoc grind—an Assistant Professorship at UC Irvine, smack on the absurdly pricey, sun-bleached coast of Orange County. He had beaten out over a hundred applicants. And why not? He was quick, sure, with fine-honed skills and good connections, plus a narrow-eyed intensity a lot of women found daunting, as if it whispered: careerist, beware. The skies had seemed to open to him, for sure . . .

But that was then.

He gave her a crinkled smile, rueful, and yet he felt it hardening. "I'm not quitting. Not now."

"Well, just think about it." She stroked his arm slowly and her eyes were sad now. "That's all I meant . . ."

"Sure." He knew the world she inhabited, had seen her working spreadsheets, reading biographies of the founding fathers and flipping through books on "leadership," seeking clues about rising in the buoyant atmosphere of business.

"Promise?" Oddly plaintive.

He grinned without mirth. "You know I will." But her words had hurt him, all the same. Mostly by slipping cool slivers of doubt into his own mind.

* * *

Later that night, he lay in her bed and replayed the scene. It now seemed to define the day, despite Irene's strenuous efforts.

Damn, Ralph had thought. Scooped!

And by Andy Lakehurst, too. He had bit his lip and focused on the screen, where he had just gotten a freshly posted paper off the Los Alamos library web site, astro-ph.

The radio map was of Ralph's one claim to minor fame, G369.23-0.82. The actual observations were stunning. Brilliant, clear, detailed. Better than his work.

He had slammed his fist on his disk, upsetting his coffee. "Damn!" Then he sopped up the spill—it had spattered some of the problem sets he'd graded earlier.

Staring at the downloaded preprint, fuming, he saw that Andy and his team had gotten really detailed data on the—on his—hot new object, G369.23-0.82. They must have used a lot of observing time, and gotten it pronto.

Where? His eyes ran down the usual Observations section and—Arecibo! He got observing time there?

That took pull or else a lucky cancellation. Arecibo was the largest dish in the world, a whole scooped bowl set amid a tropical tangle, but fixed in position. You had to wait for time and then synchronize with dishes around the planet to make a map.

And good ol' ex-classmate Andy had done it. Andy had a straightforward, no-nonsense manner to him, eased by a ready smile that got him through doors and occasionally into bedrooms. Maybe he had connections to Beth Conway at Arecibo?

No, Ralph had thought, that's beneath me. He jumped on G369.23-0.82 and did the obvious next step, that's all.

Further, Andy was at Harvard, and that helped. Plenty. But it still galled. Ralph was still waiting to hear from Harkin at the Very Large Array about squeezing in some time there. Had been waiting for six weeks, yes.

And on top of it all, he then had his conference with the department chairman in five minutes. He glanced over Andy's paper again. It was excellent work. Unfortunately.

* * *

He sighed in the dark of Irene's apartment, recalling the crucial hour with the department chairman. This long day wouldn't be done until he had reviewed it, apparently.

* * *

He had started with a fixed smile. Albert Gossian was an avuncular sort, an old-fashioned chairman who wore a suit when he was doing official business. This unconscious signal did not bode well. Gossian gave him a quick, jowly smile and gestured Ralph into a seat.

"I've been looking at your Curriculum Vitae," Gossian said. He always used the full Latin, while others just said "CV." Slow shake of head. "You need to publish more, Ralph."

"My grant funding's kept up, I—"

"Yes, yes, very nice. The NSF is putting effort into this field, most commendable—" A quick glance up from reading his notes, over the top of his glasses—"and that's why the department decided to hire in this area. But—can you keep the funding?"

"I'm two years in on the NSF grant, so next year's mandatory review is the crunch."

"I'm happy to say your teaching rating is high, and university service, but . . ." The drawn-out vowels seemed to be delivering a message independent of the actual sentences.

All Assistant Professors had a review every two years, tracking their progress toward the Holy Grail of tenure. Ralph had followed a trajectory typical for the early century: six years to get his doctorate, a postdoc at Harvard—where Andy Lakehurst was the rising star, eclipsing him and a lot of others. Ralph got out of there after a mutually destructive affair with a biologist at Tufts, fleeing as far as he could when he saw that UC Irvine was growing fast and wanted astrophysicists. UCI had a mediocre reputation in particle theory, but Fred Reines had won a Nobel there for showing that neutrinos existed and using them to detect the spectacular 1987 supernova.

The plasma physics group was rated highest in the department and indeed they proved helpful when he arrived. They understood that 99% of the mass in the universe was roasted, electrons stripped away from the nuclei-plasma. It was a hot, rough universe. The big dramas played out there. Sure, life arose in the cool, calm planets, but the big action flared in their placid skies, telling stories that awed him.

But once at UCI, he had lost momentum. In the tightening federal budgets, proposals didn't get funded, so he could not add postdocs to get some help and leverage. His carefully teased-out observations gave new insights only grudgingly. Now five years along, he was three months short of the hard wall where tenure had to happen, or became impossible: the cutoff game.

Were the groves of academe best for him, really? He liked the teaching, fell asleep in the committee meetings, found the academic cant and paperwork boring. Life's sure erosions . . .

Studying fast-moving neutron stars had been fashionable a few years back, but in Gossian's careful phrasings he heard notes of skepticism. To the Chairman fell the task of conveying the senior faculty's sentiments.

Gossian seemed to savor the moment. "This fast-star fad—well, it is fading, some of your colleagues think."

He bit his lip. Don't show anger. "It's not a 'fad.' It's a set of discoveries."

"But where do they lead?"

"Too early to tell. We think they're ejected from supernova events, but maybe that's just the least imaginative option."

"One of the notes here says the first 'runaway pulsar,' called the Mouse, is now well understood. The other, recent ones will probably follow the same course."

"Too early to tell," Ralph persisted. "The field needs time—"

"But you do not have time."

There was the crux of it. Ralph was falling behind in paper count. Even in the small 'runaway pulsar' field, he was outclassed by others with more resources, better computers, more time. California was in a perpetual budget crisis, university resources were declining, so pressure was on to Bring In the (Federal) Bucks. Ralph's small program supported two graduate students, sure, but that was small potatoes.

"I'll take this under advisement," Ralph said. The utterly bland phrase did nothing to help his cause, as was clear from the chairman's face, but it got him out of that office.

* * *

He did not get much sleep that night. Irene had to leave early and he got a double coffee on the way into his office. Then he read Andy's paper carefully and thought, sipping.

Few astronomers had expected to find so many runaway neutron stars.

Their likely origin began with two young, big stars, born circling one another. One went supernova, leaving a neutron star still in orbit. Later, its companion went off, too, spitting the older neutron star out, free into interstellar space.

Ralph had begun his UCI work by making painstaking maps in the microwave frequency range. This took many observing runs on the big radio antennas, getting dish time where he could around the world. In these maps he found his first candidate, G369.23-0.82. It appeared as a faint finger in maps centered on the plane of the galaxy, just a dim scratch. A tight knot with a fuzzy tail.

He had found it with software that searched the maps, looking for anything that was much longer than it was wide. This retrieved quite a few of the jets that zoomed out of regions near black holes, and sometimes from the disks orbiting young stars. He spent months eliminating these false signatures, looking for the telltales of compact stellar runaways. He then got time on the Very Large Array—not much, but enough to pull G369.23-0.82 out of the noise a bit better. This was quite satisfying.

Ralph got more coffee and went back and studied his paper, published less than half a year ago. Until today, that was the best data anybody had. He had looked for signs of rotation in the point-like blob in front, but there were none. The first runaway seen, the Mouse, discovered many years before, was finally shown to be a rotating neutron star—a pulsar, beeping its right radio beams out at the cupped ears of radio telescopes.

Then he compared in detail with Andy's new map:

Clean, smooth, beautiful. He read the Conclusions section over again, mind jittery and racing.

We thus fail to confirm that G369.23-0.82 is a pulsar. Clearly it has a bow shock, creating a wind nebula, undoubtedly powered by a neutron star. Yet at highest sensitivity there is no trace of a pulsed signal in microwaves or optical, within the usual range of pulsar periods. The nebular bow shock cone angle implies that G369.23-0.82 is moving with a Mach number of about 80, suggesting a space velocity ≅ 120 km/s through a local gas of density ≅ 0.3 per cubic cm. We use the distance estimate of Eilek et.al. for the object, which is halfway across the galaxy. These dynamics and luminosity are consistent with a distant neutron star moving at a velocity driven by ejection from a supernova. If it is a pulsar, it is not beaming in our direction.

Beautiful work. Alas.

The bright region blazed forth, microwave emission from high energy electrons. The innermost circle was not the neutron star, just the unresolved zone too small for even Arecibo to see. At the presumed distance, that circle was still bigger than a solar system. The bow shock was a perfect, smooth curve. Behind that came the microwave emission of gas driven back, heated and caught up in what would become the wake. At the core was something that could shove aside the interstellar gas with brute momentum. A whole star, squeezed by gravity into a ball about as big as the San Francisco Bay area.

But how had Andy gotten such fine resolution?

Ralph worked through the numbers and found that this latest map had picked up much more signal than his earlier work. The object was brighter. Why? Maybe it was meeting denser gas, so had more radiating electrons to work with?

For a moment he just gazed at the beauty of it. He never lost his sense of awe at such wonders. That helped a bit to cool his disgruntlement. Just a bit.

* * *

There wasn't much time between Andy's paper popping up on the astro-ph web site and Ralph's big spring trip. Before leaving, he retraced his data and got ahead on his teaching.

He and Irene finessed their problems, or at least delayed them. He got through a week of classes, put in data-processing time with his three graduate students, and found nothing new in the radio maps they worked on.

Then came their big, long-planned excursion. Irene was excited, but he now dreaded it.

His start-up money had some travel funds left in it, and he had made the mistake of mentioning this to Irene. She jumped at the chance, even though it was a scientific conference in a small town—"But it's in France," she said, with a touch of round-eyed wonder he found endearing.

So off they jetted to the International Astronomical Union meeting in Briancon, a pleasant collection of stone buildings clinging to the French Alps. Off season, crouching beneath sharp snowy peaks in late May, it was charming and uncrowded and its delights went largely ignored by the astronomers. Some of the attendees went on hikes in the afternoon but Ralph stayed in town, talking, networking like the ambitious workaholic he was. Irene went shopping.

The shops were featuring what she called the Hot New Skanky Look, which she showed off for him in their cramped hotel room that evening. She flounced around in an off-the-shoulder pink blouse, artfully showing underwear and straps. Skanky certainly caught the flavor, but still he was distracted.

In their cramped hotel room, jet-lagged, she used some of her first-date skills, overcoming his distance. That way he got some sleep a few hours later. Good hours, they were.

The morning session was interesting, the afternoon a little slow. Irene did sit in on some papers. He couldn't tell if she was interested in the science itself, or just because it was part of his life. She lasted a few hours and went shopping again, saying, "It's my way of understanding their culture."

The conference put on a late afternoon tour of the vast, thick-walled castles that loomed at every sharp peak. At the banquet inside one of the cold, echoing fortresses they were treated to local specialties, a spicy polenta and fresh-caught trout. Irene surveyed the crowd, half of them still wearing shorts and T-shirts, and remarked, "Y'know, this is a quirky profession. A whole room of terribly smart people, and it never occurred to them to try to get by on their looks."

He laughed; she had a point. She was a butterfly among the astro-drones, turning heads, smiles blossoming in her wake. He felt enhanced to have her on his arm. Or maybe it was the wine, a Vin Local red that went straight to his head, with some help from the two kilometer altitude.

They milled around the high, arched reception room after the dessert. The crowd of over two hundred was too energized to go off to bed, so they had more wine. Ralph caught sight of Andy Lakehurst then. Irene noted his look and said, "Uh oh."

"Hey, he's an old friend."

"Oh? You're glaring at him."

"Okay, let's say there's some leftover baggage."

She gave him a veiled look, yawned, and said. "I'll wander off to the room, let you boys play."

Ralph nodded, barely listening. He eavesdropped carefully on the crowd gathered around lanky, broad-shouldered Andy. The man's booming voice carried well, over the heads of just about everybody in the room. Andy was going on about good ol' G369.23-0.82. Ralph edged closer.

"I figure maybe another, longer look at it, at G—"

"The Bullet," Ralph broke in.

"What?" Andy had a high forehead and it wrinkled as he stopped in mid-sentence.

"It looks like a bullet. Why not call it that, instead of that long code?"

"Well," Andy began brightly, "people might mistake—"

"There's even the smoke trailing behind it, the wake." Ralph said, grinning. "Use that, if you want it to get into Scientific American."

"Y'know, Ralph, you haven't changed."

"Poorer, is all."

"Hey, none of us went into this to get rich."

"Tenure would be nice."

"Damn right, buddy." Andy clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going up for it this winter, y'know."

He hadn't, but covered with, "Well deserved. I'm sure you'll get it," and couldn't resist adding, "Harvard's a tough sell, though. Carl Sagan didn't make it there."

"Really?" Andy frowned, then covered with, "So, uh, you think we should call it the Rifle?"

"The Bullet," Ralph said again. "It's sure going fast, and we don't really know it's a neutron star."

"Hey, it's a long way off, hard to diagnose."

"Maybe it's distant, I kinda wonder—"

"And it fits the other parameters."

"Except you couldn't find a pulse, so maybe it's not a pulsar."

"Gotta be," Andy said casually, and someone interrupted with a point Ralph couldn't hear and Andy's gaze shifted to include the crowd again. That gave Ralph a chance to think while Andy worked the room.

There were nearly a thousand pulsars now known, rotating neutron stars that flashed their lighthouse beams across the galaxy. Some spun a thousand times in a second, others were old and slow, all sweeping their beams out as they rotated. All such collapsed stars told their long tale of grinding decay; the slower were older. Some were ejected after their birth in bright, flashy supernovas, squashed by catastrophic compression in nuclear fire, all in a few minutes.

Here in Briancon, Ralph reflected, their company of smart, chattering chimpanzees—all evolved long after good ol' G369.23-0.82 had emerged from its stellar placenta—raptly studied the corpses of great calamities, the murder of stars by remorseless gravity.

Not that their primate eyes would ever witness these objects directly. They actually saw, with their football-field sized dishes, the brilliant emissions of fevered electrons, swirling in celestial concert around magnetic fields. Clouds of electrons cruised near the speed of light itself, squeezing out their waves—braying to the whole universe that they were alive and powerful and wanted everyone to know it. Passing gaudy advertisements, they were, really, for the vast powers wrecking silent violences in the slumbering night skies.

"We're out of its beam; that's got to be the answer," Andy said, turning back to Ralph and taking up their conversation again, his smile getting a little more rigid. "Not pointed at us."

Ralph blinked, taken unaware; he had been vaguely musing. "Uh, I'm thinking maybe we should consider every possibility, is all." Maybe he had taken one glass too many of the Vin Local.

"What else could it be?" Andy pressed his case, voice tightening. "It's compact, moving fast, bright at the leading edge, luminosity driven by its bow shock. A neutron star, charging on out of the galaxy."

"If it's as far away as we think. What if it isn't?"

"We don't know anything else that can put out emissions like that."

He could see nearby heads nodding. "We have to think . . ." grasping for something . . . "uh, outside the box." Probably the Vin Local talking.

Smiling, Andy leaned close and whispered through his tight, no-doubt-soon-to-be tenured lips, "Ol' buddy, you need an idea, to beat an idea."

* * *

Definitely the Vin Local, yes.

He awoke next morning with a traffic accident inside his skull. Only now did he remember that he had exchanged polite words with Harkin, the eminence gris of the Very Large Array, but there was no news about getting some observing time there. And he still had to give his paper.

It was a botch.

He had a gaudy Powerpoint presentation. And it even ran right on his laptop, a minor miracle. But the multicolored radio maps and graphics failed to conceal a poverty of ideas. If they could see a pulsed emission from it, they could date the age and then look back along the track of the runaway to see if a supernova remnant was there—a shell of expanding hot gas, a celestial bull's eye, confirming the whole theory.

He presented his results on good ol' G369.23-0.82. He had detailed microwave maps of it, plenty of calculations—but Andy had already given his talk, showing that it wasn't a pulsar. And G369.23-0.82—Ralph insisted on calling it the Bullet, but puzzled looks told him that nobody much liked the coinage—was the pivot of the talk, alas.

"There are enough puzzling aspects here," he said gamely, "to suspend judgment, I think. We have a habit of classifying objects because they superficially resemble others."

The rest was radio maps of various blobby radio-emitting clouds he had thought could be other runaways . . . but weren't. Using days of observing time at the VLA, and on other dish systems in the Netherlands and Bologna, Italy, he had racked up a lot of time.

And found . . . nothing. Sure, plenty of supernova remnants, some shredded fragments of lesser catastrophes, mysterious leftovers fading fast in the radio frequencies—but no runaways with the distinctive tails first found in the famous Mouse. He tried to cover the failure by riffing through quick images of these disappointments, implying without saying that these were open possibilities. The audience seemed to like the swift, color-enhanced maps. It was a method his mother had taught him while playing bridge: finesse when you don't have all the tricks.

His talk came just before lunch and the audience looked hungry. He hoped he could get away with just a few questions. Andy rose at the back and asked innocently, "So why do you think the, uh, Bullet is not a neutron star?"

"Where's the supernova remnant it came from?" Ralph shot back. "There's nothing at all within many light years behind it."

"It's faded away, probably," Andy said.

A voice from the left, one of the Grand Old Men, said, "Remember, the, ah, Bullet is all the way across the galaxy. An old, faint remnant it might have escaped is hard to see at that distance. And—" a shrewd pursing of lips "—did you look at a sufficiently deep sensitivity?"

"I used all the observing time I had," Ralph answered, jumping his Powerpoint slides back to a mottled field view—random flecks, no structure obvious. "The region in the far wake of the Bullet is confusion limited."

Astronomers described a noisy background with that term, meaning that they could not tell signal from noise. But as he fielded a few more quick questions he thought that maybe the jargon was more right than they knew. Confusion limited what they could know, taking their mayfly snapshots.

Then Andy stood again and poked away at details of the data, a bit of tit for tat, and finishing with a jibe: "I don't understand your remark about not jumping to classify objects just because they superficially resemble other ones."

He really had no good reason, but he grinned and decided to joke his way through. "Well, the Bullet doesn't have the skewed shape of the Duck . . ."—which was another oddly shaped pulsar wake, lopsided fuzz left behind by a young pulsar Andy had discovered two years ago—"Astronomers forget that the public likes descriptive terms. They're easier to remember than, say, G369.23-0.82." Some laughter. "So I think it's important to keep our options open. And not succumb to the sweet temptation to go sensational, y'know—" He drew a deep breath and slipped into a falsetto trill he had practiced in his room. "Runaway star! High speeds! It will escape our galaxy entirely!"

—and it got a real laugh.

Andy's mouth twisted sourly and, too late, Ralph remembered that Andy had been interviewed by some flak and then featured in the supermarket tabloid National Enquirer, with wide-eyed headlines not much different.

Oops.

* * *

Irene had been a hit at Briancon, though she was a bit too swift for some of his colleagues. She was kooky, or as some would say, annoying. But at her side he felt he had fully snapped to attention. Sometimes, she made it hard to concentrate; but he did. When he got back to UCI there was teaching to catch up on, students to coach, and many ideas to try out. He settled in.

Some thought that there were only two kinds of science: stamp collecting and physics. Ernest Rutherford had said that, but then, he also thought the atomic nucleus had no practical uses.

Most scientific work began with catalogs. Only later did the fine distinctions come to suggest greater, looming laws. Newton brought Galileo's stirrings into differential laws, ushering forth the modern world.

Astronomers were fated to mostly do astro-botany, finding varieties of deep space objects, framing them into categories, hoping to see if they had a common cause. Stamp collecting.

Once the theory boys decided, back in the 1970s, that pulsars were rotating neutron stars, they largely lost interest and moved onto quasars and jets and then to gamma-ray bursters, to dark energy—an onward marching through the botany, to find the more basic physics. Ralph didn't mind their blithe inattention. He liked the detective story aspects, always alive to the chance that just because things looked similar didn't mean they had to be the same.

So he prowled through all the data he had, comparing with other maps he had gotten at Briancon. There were plenty of long trails in the sky, jets galore—but no new candidates for runaway neutron stars. So he had to go back to the Bullet to make progress. For that he needed more observing time.

* * *

For him and Irene, a good date had large portions of honesty and alcohol. Their first night out after the French trip he came armed with attention span and appetite. He kept an open mind to chick flicks—rented and hauled back to her place, ideally—and even to restaurants that played soft romantic background music, which often did the same job as well as a chick flick.

He had returned to news, both good and bad. The department wasn't interested in delaying his tenure decision, as he had fleetingly asked (Irene's suggestion) before leaving. But: Harkin had rustled up some observing time for him on the VLA. "Wedges, in between the big runs," he told Irene.

"Can you get much with just slices of time?"

"In astronomy, looking hard and long is best. Choppy and short can do the same job, if you're lucky."

It was over a weekend, too, so he would not have to get someone to cover his classes.

So he was definitely up when they got to the restaurant. He always enjoyed squiring Irene around, seeing other guys' eyeballs follow them to their table—and telling her about it. She always got a round-eyed, raised eyebrow flash out of that. Plus, they both got to look at each other and eat. And if things went right this night, toward the dessert it might be like that scene in the Tom Jones movie.

They ordered: for her, the caramelized duck breasts, and for him, tender Latin chicken with plantains. "A yummy start," she said, eyeing the upscale patrons. The Golden Coast abounded with Masters of the Universe, with excellently cut hair and bodies that were slim, casually elegant, carefully muscled (don't want to look like a laborer), the women running from platinum blonde through strawberry. "Ummm, quite soigne', Irene judged, trying out her new French vocabulary.

Ralph sensed some tension in her, so he took his time, glancing around at the noisy crowd. They carried themselves with that look not so much of energetic youth but rather of expert maintenance, like a Rolls with the oil religiously changed every 1500 miles. Walking in their wake made most working stiffs feel just a touch shabby.

He said, "Livin' extra-large in OC," with a rueful smile, and wondered if she saw this, the American Dream Extreme, as he did. They lived among dun-colored hills covered by pseudo-Spanish stucco splendor, McMansions sprawled across tiny lots. "Affluenza," someone had called it, a disease of always wanting more: the local refrain was "It's all about you," where the homes around yacht-ringed harbors and coves shone like filigree around a gemstone. He respected people like her, in business, as the drivers who created the wealth that made his work possible. But just today he had dropped her at the Mercedes dealership to pick up her convertible, in for an oil change. Pausing, he saw that the place offered free drop-in car washes, and while you waited with your cinnamon-topped decaf cappuccino you could get a manicure, or else work on your putting at a green around the back. Being an academic scientist around here felt like being the poor country cousin.

He watched her examine all the flatware and polish it with her napkin. This was not routine; she was not a control freak who obsessed over the organization of her entire life, or who kept color-coded files, though, yes, she was a business MBA.

"That was a fun trip," Irene said in the pensive tones that meant she was being diplomatic. "Ah . . . do you want to hang out with those people all your life?"

"They're pretty sophisticated, I think," he said defensively, wondering where she was going with this.

"They—how to put this pleasantly?—work too damn hard."

"Scientists do."

"Business types, too—but they don't talk about nothing else."

"It was a specialists' conference. That's all they have in common."

"That, and being outrageously horny."

He grinned. "You never thought that was a flaw before."

"I keep remembering the M.I.T guy who believed he could wow me with"—she made the quote marks with her fingers—"a 'meaningful conversation' that included quoting The Simpsons, gangsta flicks, and some movie trilogy."

"That was Tolkein."

"Elves with swords. I thought you guys were scientists."

"We have . . . hobbies."

"Obsessions, seems like."

"Our work included?"

She spread her hands. "I respect that you're deeply involved in astronomy, sure." She rolled her eyes. "But it pays so little! And you're headed into a tough tenure decision. After all these years!"

"Careers take time."

"Lives do, too. Recall what today is?"

He kept his face impassive, the only sure way to not get the deer-in-headlights expression he was prone to. "Uh, no . . ."

"Six months ago."

"Oh, yes. We were going to discuss marriage again."

Her eyes glinted. "And you've been hiding behind your work . . . again."

"Hey, that's not fair—"

"I'm not waiting forever."

"I'm in a crunch here. Relationships don't have a 'sell-by' date stamped on them—"

"Time waits for no man. I don't either."

Bottom line time, then. He asked firmly, "So instead I should . . .?"

She handed him a business card.

"I should have known."

"Herb Linzfield. Give him a call."

"What inducement do I have?" He grinned to cover his concern.

She answered obliquely by ordering dessert, with a sideways glance and flickering little smile on her big, rich lips. On to Tom Jones.

* * *

To get to the VLA from UC Irvine means flying out of John Wayne airport—there's a huge, looming bronze statue of the Duke in cowboy duds that somehow captures the actor's trademarked gait—and through Phoenix to Albuquerque. Ralph did this with legs jammed up so he couldn't open his laptop, courtesy of Southwest Airlines—and then drove a Budget rental west through Socorro.

The crisp heat faded as he rose up the grade to the dry plateau, where the Array sprawls on railroad lines in its long valley. Along the Y-shaped rail line the big dishes could crawl, ears cupped toward the sky, as they reconfigured to best capture in their "equivalent eye" distant radiating agonies. The trip through four-lane blacktop edged with sagebrush took most of a day. When Ralph arrived Harkin had been observing a radio galaxy for eight hours.

"Plenty more useful than my last six hours," he said, and Harkin grinned.

Harkin wore jeans, a red wool shirt and boots and this was not an affectation. Locals described most of the astronomers as "all hat and no cattle," a laconic indictment of fake westerners. Harkin's face seemed to have been crumpled up and then partly smoothed out—the effect of twenty years out here.

The radio galaxy had an odd, contorted look. A cloud of radio emitting electrons wrapped around Harkin's target—a brilliant jet. Harkin was something of a bug about jets, maintaining that they had to be shaped by the magnetic fields they carried along. Fields and jets alike all were offhand products of the twirling disk far down in the galactic center. The black holes that caused all this energy release were hard to discover, tiny and cloaked in gas. But the jets carried out to the universe striking advertisements, so they were the smoking gun. Tiny graveyards where mass died had managed to scrawl their signatures across the sky.

Ralph looked at the long, spindly jet in Harkin's radio images. It was like a black-and-white of an arrow. There was a lot of work here. Hot-bright images from deep down in the churning glory of the galactic core, then the long slow flaring as the jet moved above the galactic disk and met the intergalactic winds.

Still, it adamantly kept its direction, tightly arrowing out into the enveloping dark. It stretched out for many times the size of its host galaxy, announcing its presence with blaring radio emission. That came from the spiraling of high-energy electrons around magnetic field lines, Ralph knew, yet he always felt a thrill at the raw radio maps, the swirls and helical vortices bigger than swarms of stars, self-portraits etched by electrons alive with their mad energies.

At the very end, where it met the intergalactic gas, the jet got brighter, saturating the images. "It's turned toward us, I figure," Harkin said. "Bouncing off some obstruction, maybe a molecular cloud."

"Big cloud," Ralph said.

"Yeah. Dunno what it could be."

Mysteries. Many of them would never be solved. In the murder of stars, only tattered clues survived.

Harkin was lean and sharp-nosed, of sturdy New England stock. Ralph thought Harkin looked a lot like the jets he studied. His bald head narrowed to a crest, shining as it caught the overhead fluorescents. Harkin was always moving from the control boards of the ganged dishes to the computer screens where images sharpened. Jets moved with their restless energies, but all astronomers got were snapshots. Black holes spewed out their advertisements for around a hundred million years, so Harkin's jet was as old as the dinosaurs. To be an astronomer was to realize one's mayfly nature.

"Hope I haven't gotten you to come all this way for nothing." Harkin brought up on a screen the total file on G369.23-0.82.

He recognized one image from the first observations a year before, when Feretti from Bologna had picked it up in the background of some jet observations. Over the last three years came others, Andy's and Ralph's extensive maps, polarization data files, the works. All digital; nobody kept much on paper anymore.

"Y'see here?" An observing schedule sheet. "The times when G369.23-0.82 is in the sky, I've only got three slices when we're reconfiguring the dishes. Each maybe half an hour long."

"Damn!" Ralph grimaced. "Not much."

"No." Harkin looked a bit sheepish. "When I made that promise to you, well, I thought better of it the next day. But you'd already left for your flight in Geneva."

"Vin Local," Ralph said. "It hit me pretty hard, too."

Harkin nodded at his feet, embarrassed. "Uh, okay, so about G369.23-0.82—"

"I call it the Bullet. Easier than G369.23-0.82."

"Oh yeah." Hankin shrugged. "You said that in Briancon."

But what could he do in half hour fragments? He was thinking this through when Harkin asked the same question.

"Andy pretty well showed there was no pulsar beam," Harkin said helpfully, "so . . .?"

Ralph thumbed through his notes. "Can I get good clarity at the front end? The Bullet's bow shock?"

Harkin shook his head, looking disappointed. "No way, with so little observing time. Look, you said you had some out of the box ideas."

Ralph thought furiously. "How about the Bullet's tail, then?"

Harkin looked doubtful, scribbled a few numbers on a yellow lined pad. "Nope. It's not that luminous. The wake dies off pretty fast behind. Confusion limited. You'd get nothing but noise."

Ralph pointed. "There's a star we can see at the edge of the Bullet."

Harkin nodded. "A foreground star. Might be useful in narrowing down how far away it is."

"The usual methods say it's a long way off, maybe halfway across the galaxy."

"Um. Okay, leave that for later."

Ralph searched his mind. "Andy looked for pulses in what range?" He flipped through his notes from Briancon. "Short ones, yes—and nothing slower than a ten-second period."

Harkin nodded. "This is a young neutron star. It'll be spinning fast."

Ralph hated looking like an amateur in Harkin's eyes, but he held his gaze firmly. "Maybe. Unless plowing through all that gas slows it faster."

Harkin raised his eyebrows skeptically. "The Mouse didn't slow down. It's spinning at about a tenth of a second period. Yusef-Zadeh and those guys say it's maybe twenty-five thousand years old."

Twenty-five thousand years was quite young for a pulsar. The Mouse pulsar was a sphere of nothing but neutrons, a solar mass packed into a ball as small as San Francisco, spinning around ten times a second. In the radio-telescope maps that lighthouse beam came, from a dot at the very tip of a snout, with a bulging body right behind, and a long, thin tail: mousy. The Mouse discovery had set the paradigm. But just being first didn't mean it was typical.

Ralph set his jaw, flying on instinct—"Let's see."

So in the half hours when the dish team, instructed by Harkin, was slewing the big white antennas around, chugging them along the railroad tracks to new positions, and getting them set for another hours-long observation—in those wedges, Ralph worked furiously. With Harkin overseeing the complex hand-offs, he could command two or three dishes. For best use of this squeezed schedule, he figured to operate in the medium microwave band, around 1 or 2 Ghz. They had been getting some interference the last few days, Harkin said, maybe from cell phone traffic, even out here in the middle of a high desert plateau—but that interference was down around 1 Ghz, safely far below in frequency. He need not worry about callers ringing each other up every few minutes and screwing up his data.

He took data carefully, in a way biased for looking at very long time fluctuations. In pulsar theory, a neutron star was in advanced old age by the time the period of its rotation, and so the sweeping of its lighthouse beam, was a second long. They harnessed their rotation to spew out their blaring radiation—live fast, die young. Teenage agonies. Only they didn't leave beautiful corpses—they were corpses. Pulsars should fade away for even slower rates; only a handful were known out in the two or three minute zone.

So this search was pretty hopeless. But it was all he could think of, given the half hour limit.

He was dragging by the time he got his third half hour. The dish team was crisp, efficient, but the long observing runs between his slices got tedious. So he used their ample computing resources to process his own data—big files of numbers that the VLA software devoured as he watched the screens. Harkin's software had fractured the Bullet signal into bins, looking for structure in time. It caressed every incoming microwave, looking for repeating patterns. The computers ran for hours.

Hash, most of it. But then . . .

"What's that?" He pointed to a blip that stuck up in the noisy field. The screen before him and Harkin was patchy, a blizzard of harmonics that met and clashed and faded. But as the Bullet data ran and filtered, a peak persisted.

Harkin frowned. "Some pattern repeating in the microwaves." He worked the data, peering at shifting patterns on the screen. "Period of . . . lessee . . . forty-seven seconds. Pretty long for a young pulsar."

"That's got to be wrong. Much too long."

In astronomy it paid to be a skeptic about your work. Everybody would be ready to pounce on an error. Joe Weber made some false detections of gravitational waves, using methods he invented. His reputation never fully recovered, despite being a brilliant, original scientist.

Harkin's face stiffened. "I don't care. That's what it is."

"Got to be wrong."

"Damn it, Ralph, I know my own codes."

"Let's look hard at this."

Another few hours showed that it wasn't wrong.

"Okay—funny, but it's real." Ralph thought, rubbing his eyes. "So let's look at the pulse itself."

Only there wasn't one. The pattern didn't spread over a broad frequency band. Instead, it was there in the 11 gigaHertz range, sharp and clear—and no other peaks at all.

"That's not a pulsar," Harkin said.

Ralph felt his pulse quicken. "A repeating brightness. From something peaking out of the noise and coming around to our point of view every forty-seven seconds."

"Damn funny." Harkin looked worried. "Hope it's not a defect in the codes."

Ralph hadn't thought of that. "But these are the best filter codes in the world."

Harkin grinned, brown face rumpling like leather. "More compliments like that and you'll turn my pretty little head."

* * *

So Harkin spent two hours in deep scrutiny of the VLA data processing software—and came up empty. Ralph didn't mind because it gave him to think. He took a break partway through—Harkin was not the sort to take breaks at all—and watched a Cubs game with some of the engineers in the Operations room. They had a dish down for repairs but it was good enough to tip toward the horizon and pick up the local broadcast from Chicago. The Cubs weren't on any national 'cast and two of the guys came from UC, where the C was for Chicago. The Cubs lost but they did it well, so when he went back Ralph felt relaxed. He had also had an idea. Or maybe half of one.

"What if it's lots bigger than a neutron star?" he asked Harkin, who hadn't moved from his swivel chair in front of the six-screen display.

"Then what's the energy source?"

"I dunno. Point is, maybe it's something more ordinary, but still moving fast."

"Like what?"

"Say, a white dwarf—but a really old, dead one."

"So we can't see it in the visible?" The Hubble telescope had already checked at the Bullet location and seen nothing.

"Ejected from some stellar system, moving fast, but not a neutron star—maybe?"

Harkin looked skeptical. "Um. Have to think about it. But . . . what makes the relativistic electrons, to give us the microwaves?"

That one was harder to figure. Elderly white dwarfs couldn't make the electrons, certainly. Ralph paused and said, "Look, I don't know. And I have to get back to UCI for classes. Can I get some more time wedged in between your reconfigs?"

Harkin looked skeptical. "I'll have to see."

"Can you just send the results to me, when you can find some time?"

"You can process it yourself?"

"Give me the software and, yeah, sure."

Harkin shrugged. "That forty-seven second thing is damn funny. So . . . okay, I suppose . . ."

"Great!" Ralph was tired but he at least had his hand in the game. Wherever it led.

* * *

Ralph spent hours the next day learning the filter codes, tip-toeing through the labyrinth of Harkin's methods. Many thought Harkin was the best big-dish observer in the world, playing the electronics like a violin.

Harkin was a good teacher because he did not know how to teach. Instead he just showed. With the showing came stories and examples, some of them even jokes, and some puzzling until Harkin changed a viewing parameter or slid a new note into the song and it all came clear. This way Harkin showed him how to run the programs, to see their results skeptically. From the angular man he had learned to play a radio telescope as wide as a football field like a musical instrument, to know its quirks and deceptions, and to draw from it a truth it did not know. This was science, scrupulous and firm, but doing it was an art. In the end you had to justify every move, every conclusion, but the whole argument slid forward on intuition, like an ice cube skating on its own melt.

* * *

"Say, Andy," Ralph said casually into his cell phone, looking out the big windows at New Mexico scrub and the white radio dishes cupped toward the sky. "I'm trying to remember if you guys looked at long periods in your Bullet data. Remember? We talked about it at Briancon."

"Bullet? Oh, G369.23-0.82."

"Right, look, how far out did you go on period?"

A long pause. Ralph thought he could hear street noise. "Hey, catch you at a bad time?"

"No, just walking down Mass Ave., trying to remember. I think we went out to around thirty second periods. Didn't see a damn thing."

"Oh, great. I've been looking at the Bullet again and my preliminary data shows something that, well, I thought I'd check with you."

"Wow." Another pause. "Uh, how slow?"

Ralph said cautiously, "Very. Uh, we're still analyzing the data."

"A really old pulsar, then. I didn't think they could still radiate when they were old."

"I didn't, either. They're not supposed to." Ralph reminded himself to check with the theorists.

"Then no wonder we couldn't find its supernova remnant. That's faded, or far away."

"Funny, isn't it, that we can pick up such weak signals from a pulsar that's halfway across the galaxy? Though it has been getting brighter, I noticed."

Andy sounded puzzled. "Yeah, funny. Brighter, um. I wonder if it shows up in any earlier survey."

"Yeah, well I thought I'd let you know."

Andy said slowly, "You know, I may have glimpsed something, but will get back to you."

They exchanged a few personal phrases and Ralph signed off.

Harkin was working the screens but turned with eyebrows raised.

Ralph said, "Bingo."

* * *

As soon as Irene came into the coffee shop and they kissed in greeting, he could see the curiosity in her eyes. She was stunning in her clingy blue dress, while he strutted in his natty suit. He had told her to dress up and she blinked rapidly, expectant. "Where are we going tonight?"

He said, not even sitting down, "Y'know, the only place where I can sing and people don't throw rotten fruit at me is church."

Irene looked startled. "I didn't think you were religious."

"Hey, it's a metaphor. I pay for a place to dance, too, so—let's go. To the Ritz."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. "What an oblique invitation. Puttin' on the Ritz?"

As they danced on the patio overlooking sunset surfers, he pulled a loose strand of hair aside for her, tucking it behind her ear. She was full of chatter about work. He told her about his work on the Bullet and she was genuinely interested, asking questions. Then she went back to tales of her office intrigues. Sometimes she seemed like a woman who could survive on gossip alone. He let it run down a bit and then said, as the band struck up "Begin the Beguine,""I need more time."

She stiffened. "To contemplate the abyss of the M word?"

"Yes. I'm hot on the trail of something."

"You didn't call Herb Linzfield, either, did you." Not a question.

"No."

"Oh, fine."

He pulled back and gazed at her lips. Lush, as always, but twisted askew and scrunched. He knew the tone. Fine. Yeah, okay, right. Fine. Go. Leave. See. If. I. Care.

* * *

He settled into it then, the rhythm: of thickets of detail, and of beauty coming at you, unannounced. You had to get inside the drumroll of data, hearing the software symphonies, shaped so that human eyes could make some hominid sense of it. These color-coded encrustations showed what was unseeable by the mere human eye—the colors of the microwaves. Dry numbers cloaked this beauty, hid the ferocious glory.

When you thought about it, he thought, the wavelengths they were "seeing" with, through the enormous dish eyes, were the size of their fingers. The waves came oscillating across the blunt light years, messages out of ancient time. They slapped down on the hard metal of a radio dish and excited electrons that had been waiting there to be invited into the dance. The billions of electrons trembled and sang and their answering oscillations called forth capturing echoes in the circuits erected by men and women. More electrons joined the rising currents, fashioned by the zeros and ones of computers into something no one had ever seen: pictures for eyes the size of mountains. These visions had never existed in the universe. They were implied by the waves, but it took intelligence to pull them out of the vagrant sizzle of radio waves, the passing microwave blizzard all life lived in but had never seen. Stories, really, or so their chimpanzee minds made of it all. Snapshots. But filling in the plot was up to them.

In the long hours he realized that, when you narrow your search techniques tuned to pick up exactly what you're looking for, there's a danger. The phrase astronomers use for that is, "I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't believed it."

* * *

The paper on the astro-ph web site was brief, quick, three pages.

Ralph stared at it, open-mouthed, for minutes. He read it over twice. Then he called Harkin. "Andy's group is claiming a forty-seven second peak in their data."

"Damn."

"He said before that they didn't look out that far in period."

"So he went back and looked again."

"This is stealing." Ralph was still reeling, wondering where to go with this.

"You can pull a lot out of the noise when you know what to look for."

Whoosh— He exhaled, still stunned. "Yeah, I guess."

"He scooped us," Harkin said flatly.

"He's up for tenure."

Harkin laughed dryly. "That's Harvard for you." A long pause, then he rasped, "But what is the goddamn thing?"

* * *

The knock on his apartment door took him by surprise. It was Irene, eyes intent and mouth askew. "It's like I'm off your radar screen in one swift sweep."

"I'm . . ."

"Working. Too much—for what you get."

"Y'know," he managed, "art and science aren't a lot different. Sometimes. Takes concentration."

"Art," she said, "is answers to which there are no questions."

He blinked. "That sounds like a quotation."

"No, that was me."

"Uh, oh."

"So you want a quick slam bam, thank you Sam?"

"Well, since you put it that way."

An hour later she leaned up on an elbow and said, "News."

He blinked at her sleepily "Uh . . . what?"

"I'm late. Two weeks."

"Uh. Oh." An anvil out of a clear blue sky.

"We should talk about—"

"Hoo boy."

"—what to do."

"Is that unusual for you?" First, get some data.

"One week is tops for me." She shaped her mouth into an astonished O. "Was."

"You were using . . . we were . . ."

"The pill has a small failure rate, but . . ."

"Not zero. And you didn't forget one?"

"No."

Long silence. "How do you feel about it?" Always a good way to buy time while your mind swirled around.

"I'm thirty-two. It's getting to be time."

"And then there's us."

"Us." She gave him a long, soulful look and flopped back down, staring at the ceiling, blinking.

He ventured, "How do you feel about . . ."

"Abortion?"

She had seen it coming. "Yes."

"I'm easy, if it's necessary." Back up on the elbow, looking at him "Is it?"

"Look, I could use some time to think about this."

She nodded, mouth aslant. "So could I."

Ralph had asked the Bologna group—through his old friends, the two Fantis—to take a scan of the location. They put the Italian 'scopes on the region and processed the data and sent it by Internet. It was waiting the next morning, forty-seven megs as a zipped attachment. He opened the attachment with a skittering anxiety. The Bologna group was first rate, their work solid.

On an Internet visual phone call he asked, "Roberto, what's this? It can't be the object I'm studying. It's a mess."

On-screen, Roberto looked puzzled, forehead creased. "We wondered about that, yes. I can improve the resolution in a few days. We could very well clear up features with more observing time."

"Yes, could you? This has got to be wrong."

A head-bob. "We will look again, yes."

* * *

Forty-seven seconds . . .

The chairman kept talking but Ralph was looking out his window at the eucalyptus weaving in the vagrant coastal winds. Gossian was listing hurdles to meet before Ralph would be "close to tenure"—two federal grants, placing his Ph.D. students in good jobs, more papers. All to get done in a few months. The words ran by, he could hear them, but he had gone into that place he knew and always welcomed, where his own faith dwelled. The excitement came up in him, first stirrings, the instinct burning, his own interior state of grace. The idea swarmed up thick in his nostrils, he blinked—

"Ralph? You listening?"

"Oh, uh, yeah." But not to you, no.

* * *

He came into the physics building, folding his umbrella from a passing rain storm, distracted. There were black umbrellas stacked around like a covey of drunken crows. His cell phone cawed.

Harkin said, "Thought I'd let you know there's not much time I can use coming up. There's an older image, but I haven't cleaned it up yet."

"I'd appreciate anything at all."

"I can maybe try for a new image tomorrow, but I'm pretty damn busy. There's a little slot of time while the Array reconfigures."

"I sent you the Fantis' map—"

"Yeah, gotta be wrong. No source can change that much so fast."

Ralph agreed but added, "Uh, but we should still check. The Fantis are very good."

"If I have time," Harkin said edgily.

* * *

Between classes and committees and the long hours running the filter codes, he completely forgot about their dinner date. So at 9 P.M. his office phone rang and it was Irene. He made his apologies, distracted, fretting. He knew he looked tired, his forehead gray and lined, and he asked, "No . . . change?"

"No."

They sat in silence and finally he told her about the Fanti map.

She brightened audibly, glad to have some distraction. "These things can change, can't they?"

"Sure, but so fast! They're big, the whole tail alone is maybe light years long."

"But you said the map is all different, blurred."

"The whole object, yes."

"So maybe it's just a mistake?"

"Could be, but the Fantis are really good . . ."

"Could we get together later?"

He sighed. "I want to look at this some more." To her silence he added more apologies, ending with, "I don't want to lose you."

"Then remember where you put me."

* * *

The night wore on.

Wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't believed it.

The error, he saw, might well lie in their assumptions. In his.

It had to be a runaway neutron star. It had to be a long way off, halfway across the galaxy. They knew that because the fraying of the signal said there was a lot of plasma in the way.

His assumptions, yes. It had to be.

Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly wrong?

He had used up a lot of his choppy VLA time studying the oblong shroud of a once-proud star, seen through the edge of the Bullet. It was fuzzy with the debris of gas it threw off, a dying sun. In turn, he could look at the obscuration—how much the emission lines were absorbed and scattered by intervening dust, gas and plasma. Such telltales were the only reliable way to tell if a radio image came from far away or nearby. It was tricky, using such wobbly images, glimpsed through an interstellar fog.

What if there was a lot more than they thought, of the dense plasma in between their big-eyed dishes and the object?

Then they would get the distance wrong. Just a like a thick cloud between you and the sun. Dispersing the image, blurring it beyond recognition—but the sun was, on the interstellar scale, still quite close.

Maybe this thing was nearer, much nearer.

Then it would have to be surrounded by an unusually dense plasma—the cloud of ionized particles that it made, pushing on hard through the interstellar night. Could it have ionized much more of the gas it moved through, than the usual calculations said? How? Why?

But what was the goddamn thing?

* * *

He blinked at the digital arrays he had summoned up, through a thicket of image and spectral processors. The blurred outlines of the old star were a few pixels, and nearby was an old, tattered curve of a supernova remnant—an ancient spherical tombstone of a dead sun. The lines had suffered a lot of loss on their way through the tail of the Bullet. From this he could estimate the total plasma density near the Bullet itself.

Working through the calculation, he felt a cold sensation creep into him, banishing all background noise. He turned the idea over, feeling its shape, probing it. Excitement came, tingling but laced with caution.

* * *

Andy had said, I wonder if it shows up in any earlier survey.

So Ralph looked. On an Italian radio map of the region done eleven years before there was a slight scratch very near the Bullet location. But it was faint, an order of magnitude below the luminosity he was seeing now. Maybe some error in calibration? But a detection, yes.

He had found it because it was bright now. Hitting a lot of interstellar plasma, maybe, lighting up?

Ralph called Harkin to fill him in on this and the Fanti map, but got an answering machine. He summed up briefly and went off to teach a mechanics class.

* * *

Harkin said on his voice mail, "Ralph, I just sent you that map I made two days ago, while I had some side time on a four point eight GHz observation."

"Great, thanks!" he called out before he realized Harkin couldn't hear him. So he called and when Harkin picked up, without even a hello, he said, "Is it like the Fanti map?"

"Not at all."

"Their work was pretty recent."

"Yeah, and what I'm sending you is earlier than theirs. I figure they screwed up their processing."

"They're pretty careful . . ."

"This one I'm sending, it sure looks some different from what we got before. Kinda pregnant with possibility."

The word, pregnant, stopped him for a heartbeat. When his attention returned, Harkin's voice was saying, "—I tried that forty-seven second period filter and it didn't work. No signal this time. Ran it twice. Don't know what's going on here."

The E-mail attachment map was still more odd.

Low in detail, because Harkin had not much observing time, but clear enough. The Bullet was frayed, longer, with new features. Plunging on, the Bullet was meeting a fresh environment, perhaps.

But this was from two days ago.

The Bologna map was only 14 hours old.

He looked back at the messy Bologna view and wondered how this older picture could possibly fit with the 4.8 GHz map. Had the Fantis made some mistake?

* * *

"Can you get me a snapshot right now?" Ralph asked. "It's important."

He listened to the silence for a long moment before Harkin said, "I've got a long run on right now. Can't it wait?"

"The Fantis at Bologna, they're standing by that different looking map. Pretty strange."

"Ummm, well . . ."

"Can you get me just a few minutes? Maybe in the download interval—"

"Hey, buddy, I'll try, but—"

"I'll understand," but Ralph knew he wouldn't.

* * *

His home voice mail from Irene said, fast and with rising voice tone, "Do onto others, right? So, if you're not that into me, I can stop returning your calls, E-mails—not that there are any—and anyway, blocking is so dodge ball in sixth grade, right? I'll initiate the phase-out, you'll get the lead-footed hint, and that way, you can assume the worst of me and still feel good about yourself. You can think, hey, she's not over her past. Social climber. Shallow business mind. Workaholic, maybe. Oh, no, that's you, right? And you'll have a wonderful imitation life."

A long pause, time's nearly up, and she gasped, paused, then: "Okay, so maybe this isn't the best idea."

He sat, deer in the headlights, and played it over.

They were close, she was wonderful, yes.

He loved her, sure, and he had always believed that was all it took.

But he might not have a job here inside a year.

And he couldn't think of anything but the Bullet.

While she was wondering if she was going to be a mother.

Though, he realized, she had not really said what she thought about it all.

He had no idea what to say. At a talk last year about Einstein, the speaker quoted Einstein's wife's laconic comment, that sometimes when the great man was working on a problem he would not speak to anyone for days. She had left him, of course. But now Ralph could feel a certain kinship with that legendary genius. Then he told himself he was being fatuous, equating this experience . . .

Still, he let it all slide for now.

* * *

His eighth cup of coffee tasted bitter. He bit into a donut for a sugar jolt. When had he eaten last?

He took a deep breath and let it out to clear his head.

He was sure of his work now, the process—but still confused.

The earlier dispersion measure was wrong. That was clear from the broadening of the pulses he had just measured. Andy and everybody else had used the usual interstellar density numbers to get the Bullet's distance. That had worked out to about five thousand light years away.

From his pulse measurements he could show that the Bullet was much closer, about thirty light years away. They were seeing it through the ionized and compressed plasma ahead and around the . . . what? Was it a neutron star at all?

And a further consequence—if the Bullet was so close, it was also much smaller, and less intrinsically luminous.

While the plume was huge, the Bullet itself—the unresolved circle at the center of it all, in Andy's high-resolution map—need only be a few hundred kilometers long. Or much less; that was just an upper limit.

Suppose that was the answer, that it was much closer. Then its energy output—judging that it was about equal to the radiated power—was much less, too. He jotted down some numbers. The object was emitting power comparable to a nation's on Earth. Ten gigaWatts or so.

Far, far below the usual radiated energies for runaway neutron stars.

He stared into space, mind whirling.

And the forty-seven second period . . .

He worked out that if the object was rotating and had an acceleration of half an Earth gravity at its edge, it was about thirty meters across.

Reasonable.

But why was the shape of its radio image changing so quickly? In days, not the years typical of big astronomical objects. Days.

* * *

Apprehensively he opened the E-mail from Irene.

You're off the hook!

So am I.

Got my period. False alarm.

Taught us a lot, though. Me, anyway. I learned the thoroughly useful information (data, to you) that you're an asshole. Bye.

* * *

He sat back and let the relief flood through him.

You're off the hook. Great.

False alarm. Whoosh!

And asshole. Um.

But . . .

Was he about to do the same thing she had done? Get excited about nothing much?

* * *

Ralph came into his office, tossed his lecture notes onto the messy desk, and slumped in his chair. The lecture had not gone well. He couldn't seem to focus. Should he keep his distance from Irene for a while, let her cool off? What did he really want, there?

Too much happening at once. The phone rang.

Harkin said, without even a hello, "I squeezed in some extra observing time. The image is on the way by E-mail."

"You sound kind of tired."

"More like . . . confused. " He hung up.

It was there in the E-mail.

Ralph stared at the image a long time. It was much brighter than before, a huge outpouring of energy.

His mind seethed. The Fanti result, and now this. Harkin's 4.8 Ghz map was earlier than either of these, so it didn't contradict either the Fantis or this. A time sequence of something changing fast—in days, in hours.

This was no neutron star.

It was smaller, nearer, and they had watched it go to hell.

He leaned over his desk, letting the ideas flood over him. Whoosh.

* * *

Irene looked dazed. "You're kidding."

"No. I know we've got a lot to talk through, but—"

"You bet."

"I didn't send you that E-mail just to get you to meet me." Ralph bit his lip and felt the room whirl around.

"What you wrote," she said wonderingly. "It's a . . . star ship?"

"Was. It got into trouble of some kind these last few days. That's why the wake behind it—" he tapped the Fantis' image "—got longer. Then, hours later, it got turbulent, and—it exploded."

She sipped her coffee. "This is . . . was . . . light years away?"

"Yes, and headed somewhere else. It was sending out a regular beamed transmission, one that swept around as the ship rotated, every forty-seven seconds."

Her eyes widened. "You're sure?"

"Let's say it's a working hypothesis."

"Look, you're tired, maybe put this aside before jumping to conclusions."

He gazed at her and saw the lines tightened around her mouth. "You've been through a lot yourself. I'm sorry."

She managed a brave, thin smile. "It tore me up. I do want a child."

He held his breath, then went ahead. "So . . . so do I."

"Really?" They had discussed this before but her eyelids fluttered in surprise.

"Yes." He paused, sucked in a long breath, and said, "With you."

"Really?" She closed her eyes a long time. "I . . . always imagined this."

He grinned. "Me too. Time to do it."

"Yes?"

"Yes." Whoosh.

They talked on for some moments, ordered drinks to celebrate. Smiles, goofy eyes, minds whirling.

Then, without saying anything, they somehow knew that they had said enough for now. Some things should not be pestered, just let be.

They sat smiling at each other and in a soft sigh she said, "You're worried. About . . ."

Ralph nodded. How to tell her that this seemed pretty clear to him and to Harkin, but it was big, gaudy trouble in the making. "It violates a basic assumption we always make, that everything in the night sky is natural."

"Yeah, so?"

"The astronomy community isn't like Hollywood, y'know. It's more like . . . a priesthood."

He sipped his coffee and stared out the window. An airplane's wing lights winked as it coasted down in the distance toward the airport. Everybody had seen airplanes, so seeing them in the sky meant nothing. Not so for the ramscoop ship implied by his radio maps.

There would be rampant skepticism. Science's standards were austere, and who would have it differently? The angles of attack lived in his hands, and he now faced the long labor of calling forth data and calculations. To advance the idea would take strict logic, entertaining all other ideas fairly. Take two steps forward, one back, comparing and weighing and contrasting—the data always leading the skeptical mind. It was the grand dance, the gavotte of reason, ever-mindful of the eternal possibility that one was wrong.

Still . . . When serendipity strikes . . . let it. Then seize it.

"You need some sleep." Her eyes crinkled with concern. "Come home with me."

He felt a gush of warm happiness. She was here with him and together they could face the long battle to come.

"Y'know, this is going to get nasty. Look what happened to Carl Sagan when he just argued there might be intelligent life elsewhere."

"You think it will be that hard to convince people?"

"Look at it this way. Facing up to the limits of our knowledge, to the enormity of our ignorance, is an acquired skill—to put it mildly. People want certainty."

He thought, If we don't realize where the shoreline of reasonably well established scientific theory ends, and where the titanic sea of undiscovered truth begins, how can we possibly hope to measure our progress?

Irene frowned. Somehow, after long knowledge of her, he saw that she was glad of this chance to talk about something larger than themselves. She said slowly, "But . . . why is it that your greatest geniuses—the ones you talk about, Hawking, Feynman, Newton—humbly concede how pitifully limited our reach is?"

"That's why they're great," he said wryly. And the smaller spirits noisily proclaim the certainty of their conclusions. Well, here comes a lot of dissent, doubt, and skepticism.

"And now that ship is gone. We learned about them by watching them die."

She stared at him. "I wonder . . . how many?"

"It was a big, powerful ship. It probably made the plasma ahead of it somehow. Then with magnetic fields it scooped up that plasma and cooked it for energy. Then shot it out the back for propulsion. Think of it as like a jet plane, a ramscoop. Maybe it was braking, using magnetic fields—I dunno."

"Carrying passengers?"

"I . . . hadn't thought of that."

"How big is it? . . . was it?"

"Maybe like . . . the Titanic."

She blinked. "That many people."

"Something like people. Going to a new home."

"Maybe to . . . here?"

He blinked, his mind cottony. "No, it was in the plane of the sky. Otherwise we'd have seen it as a blob, head on, no tail. Headed somewhere fairly near, though."

She sat back, gazing at him with an expression he had not seen before. "This will be in the papers, won't it." Not a question.

"Afraid so." He managed a rueful smile. "Maybe I'll even get more space in National Enquirer than Andy did."

She laughed, a tinkling sound he liked so much.

But then the weight of it all descended on him. So much to do . . . "I'll have to look at your idea, that they were headed here. At least we can maybe backtrack, find where they came from."

"And look at the earlier maps, data?" she ventured, her lip trembling. "From before . . ."

"They cracked up. All that life, gone." Then he understood her pale, tenuous look. Things living, then not. She nodded, said nothing.

He reached out and took her hand. A long moment passed and he had no way to end it but went on anyway. "The SETI people could jump on this. Backtrack this ship. They can listen to the home star's emissions . . ."

Irene smiled without humor. "And we can send them a message. Condolences."

"Yeah." The room had stopped whirling and she reached out to take his hand.

"Come on."

As he got up wearily, Ralph saw that he was going to have to fight for this version of events. There would always be Andys who would triangulate their way to advantage. And the chairman, Gossian . . .

Trying for tenure—supposedly a cool, analytic process—in the shouting match of a heated, public dispute, a howling media firestorm—that was almost a contradiction in terms. But this, too, was what science was about. His career might survive all that was to come, and it might not—but did that matter, standing here on the shores of the titanic ocean he had peered across?

* * *

Gregory Benford is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

Pimpf

Written by Charlie Stross
Illustrated by John Ward

I hate days like this.

It's a rainy Monday morning and I'm late in to work at the Laundry because of a technical fault on the Tube. When I get to my desk, the first thing I find is a note from Human Resources that says one of their management team wants to talk to me, soonest, about playing computer games at work. And to put the cherry on top of the shit-pie, the office's coffee percolator is empty because none of the other inmates in this goddamn loony bin can be arsed refilling it. It's enough to make me long for a high place and a rifle . . . but in the end I head for Human Resources to take the bull by the horns, decaffeinated and mean as only a decaffeinated Bob can be.

Over in the dizzying heights of HR, the furniture is fresh and the windows recently cleaned. It's a far cry from the dingy rats' nest of Ops Division, where I normally spend my working time. But ours is not to wonder why (at least in public).

"Ms. MacDougal will see you now," says the receptionist on the front desk, looking down her nose at me pityingly. "Do try not to shed on the carpet, we had it steam cleaned this morning." Bastards.

I slouch across the thick, cream wool towards the inner sanctum of Emma MacDougal, senior vice-superintendent, Personnel Management (Operations), trying not to gawk like a resentful yokel at the luxuries on parade. It's not the first time I've been here, but I can never shake the sense that I'm entering another world, graced by visitors of ministerial import and elevated budget. The dizzy heights of the real civil service, as opposed to us poor Morlocks in Ops Division who keep everything running.

"Mr. Howard, do come in." I straighten instinctively when Emma addresses me. She has that effect on most people—she was born to be a headmistress or a tax inspector, but unfortunately she ended up in Human Resources by mistake and she's been letting us know about it ever since. "Have a seat." The room reeks of quiet luxury by Laundry standards: my chair is big, comfortable, and hasn't been bumped, scraped, and abraded into a pile of kindling by generations of visitors. The office is bright and airy, and the window is clean and has a row of attractively un-browned potted plants sitting before it. (The computer squatting on her desk is at least twice as expensive as anything I've been able to get my hands on via official channels, and it's not even switched on.) "How good of you to make time to see me." She smiles like a razor. I stifle a sigh; it's going to be one of those sessions.

"I'm a busy man." Let's see if deadpan will work, hmm?

"I'm sure you are. Nevertheless." She taps a piece of paper sitting on her blotter and I tense. "I've been hearing disturbing reports about you, Bob."

Oh, bollocks. "What kind of reports?" I ask warily.

Her smile's cold enough to frost glass. "Let me be blunt. I've had a report—I hesitate to say who from—about you playing computer games in the office."

Oh. That. "I see."

"According to this report you've been playing rather a lot of Neverwinter Nights recently." She runs her finger down the printout with relish. "You've even sequestrated an old departmental server to run a persistent realm—a multiuser online dungeon." She looks up, staring at me intently. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

I shrug. What's to say? She's got me bang to rights. "Um."

"Um indeed." She taps a finger on the page. "Last Tuesday you played Neverwinter Nights for four hours. This Monday you played it for two hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon, staying on for an hour after your official flexitime shift ended. That's six straight hours. What have you got to say for yourself?"

"Only six?" I lean forward.

"Yes. Six hours." She taps the memo again. "Bob. What are we paying you for?"

I shrug. "To put the hack into hack-and-slay."

"Yes, Bob, we're paying you to search online role-playing games for threats to national security. But you only averaged four hours a day last week . . . isn't this rather a poor use of your time?"

* * *

Save me from ambitious bureaucrats. This is the Laundry, the last overmanned organization of the civil service in London, and they're everywhere—trying to climb the greasy pole, playing snakes and ladders with the org chart, running esoteric counterespionage operations in the staff toilets, and rationing the civil service tea bags. I guess it serves Mahogany Row's purposes to keep them running in circles and distracting one another, but sometimes it gets in the way. Emma MacDougal is by no means the worst of the lot: she's just a starchy Human Resources manager on her way up, stymied by the full promotion ladder above her. But she's trying to butt in and micromanage inside my department (that is, inside Angleton's department), and just to show how efficient she is, she's actually been reading my time sheets and trying to stick her oar in on what I should be doing.

To get out of MacDougal's office I had to explain three times that my antiquated workstation kept crashing and needed a system rebuild before she'd finally take the hint. Then she said something about sending me some sort of administrative assistant—an offer that I tried to decline without causing mortal offense. Sensing an opening, I asked if she could provide a budget line item for a new computer—but she spotted where I was coming from and cut me dead, saying that wasn't in HR's remit, and that was the end of it.

* * *

Anyway, I'm now looking at my watch and it turns out that it's getting on for lunch. I've lost another morning's prime gaming time. So I head back to my office, and just as I'm about to open the door I hear a rustling, crunching sound coming from behind it, like a giant hamster snacking down on trail mix. I can't express how disturbing this is. Rodent menaces from beyond space-time aren't supposed to show up during my meetings with HR, much less hole up in my office making disturbing noises. What's going on?

I rapidly consider my options, discarding the most extreme ones (Facilities takes a dim view of improvised ordnance discharges on Government premises), and finally do the obvious. I push the door open, lean against the battered beige filing cabinet with the jammed drawer, and ask, "Who are you and what are you doing to my computer?"

I intend the last phrase to come out as an ominous growl, but it turns into a strangled squeak of rage. My visitor looks up at me from behind my monitor, eyes black and beady, and cheek-pouches stuffed with—ah, there's an open can of Pringles sitting on my in-tray. "Yuh?"

"That's my computer." I'm breathing rapidly all of a sudden, and I carefully set my coffee mug down next to the light-sick petunia so that I don't drop it by accident. "Back away from the keyboard, put down the mouse, and nobody needs to get hurt." And most especially, my sixth-level cleric-sorcerer gets to keep all his experience points and gold pieces without some munchkin intruder selling them all on a dodgy auction site and re-skilling me as an exotic dancer with chloracne.

It must be my face; he lifts up his hands and stares at me nervously, then swallows his cud of potato crisps. "You must be Mr. Howard?"

I begin to get an inkling. "No, I'm the grim fucking reaper." My eyes take in more telling details: his sallow skin, the acne and straggly goatee beard. Ye gods and little demons, it's like looking in a time-traveling mirror. I grin nastily. "I asked you once and I won't ask you again: Who are you?"

He gulps. "I'm Pete. Uh, Pete Young. I was told to come here by Andy, uh, Mr. Newstrom. He says I'm your new intern."

"My new what . . . ?" I trail off. Andy, you're a bastard! But I repeat myself. "Intern. Yeah, right. How long have you been here? In the Laundry, I mean."

He looks nervous. "Since last Monday morning."

"Well, this is the first anyone's told me about an intern," I explain carefully, trying to keep my voice level because blaming the messenger won't help; anyway, if Pete's telling the truth he's so wet behind the ears I could use him to water the plants. "So now I'm going to have to go and confirm that. You just wait here." I glance at my desktop. Hang on, what would I have done eight years ago . . . ? "No, on second thought, come with me."

* * *

The Ops wing is a maze of twisty little passageways, all alike. Cramped offices open off them, painted institutional green and illuminated by underpowered bulbs lightly dusted with cobwebs. It isn't like this on Mahogany Row or over the road in Administration, but those of us who actually contribute to the bottom line get to mend and make do. (There's a malicious, persistent rumor that this is because the Board wants to encourage a spirit of plucky us-against-the-world self-reliance in Ops, and the easiest way to do that is to make every requisition for a box of paper clips into a Herculean struggle. I subscribe to the other, less popular theory: they just don't care.)

I know my way through these dingy tunnels; I've worked here for years. Andy has been a couple of rungs above me in the org chart for all that time. These days he's got a corner office with a blond Scandinavian pine desk. (It's a corner office on the second floor with a view over the alley where the local Chinese take-away keeps their dumpsters, and the desk came from IKEA, but his office still represents the cargo-cult trappings of upward mobility; we beggars in Ops can't be choosy.) I see the red light's out, so I bang on his door.

"Come in." He sounds even more world-weary than usual, and so he should be, judging from the pile of spreadsheet printouts scattered across the desk in front of him. "Bob?" He glances up and sees the intern. "Oh, I see you've met Pete."

"Pete tells me he's my intern," I say, as pleasantly as I can manage under the circumstances. I pull out the ratty visitor's chair with the hole in the seat stuffing and slump into it. "And he's been in the Laundry since the beginning of this week." I glance over my shoulder; Pete is standing in the doorway looking uncomfortable, so I decide to move White Pawn to Black Castle Four or whatever it's called: "Come on in, Pete; grab a chair." (The other chair is a crawling horror covered in mouse-bitten lever arch files labeled STRICTLY SECRET.) It's important to get the message across that I'm not leaving without an answer, and camping my hench-squirt on Andy's virtual in-tray is a good way to do that. (Now if only I can figure out what I'm supposed to be asking . . .) "What's going on?"

"Nobody told you?" Andy looks puzzled.

"Okay, let me rephrase. Whose idea was it, and what am I meant to do with him?"

"I think it was Emma MacDougal's. In Human Resources." Oops, he said Human Resources. I can feel my stomach sinking already. "We picked him up in a routine sweep through Erewhon space last month." (Erewhon is a new Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game that started up, oh, about two months ago, with only a few thousand players so far. Written by a bunch of spaced-out games programmers from Gothenburg.) "Boris iced him and explained the situation, then put him through induction. Emma feels that it'd be better if we trialed the mentoring program currently on roll-out throughout Admin to see if it's an improvement over our traditional way of inducting new staff into Ops, and his number came up." Andy raises a fist and coughs into it, then waggles his eyebrows at me significantly.

"As opposed to hiding out behind the wet shrubbery for a few months before graduating to polishing Angleton's gear-wheels?" I shrug. "Well, I can't say it's a bad idea—" Nobody ever accuses HR of having a bad idea; they're subtle and quick to anger, and their revenge is terrible to behold. "—but a little bit of warning would have been nice. Some mentoring for the mentor, eh?"

The feeble pun is only a trial balloon, but Andy latches onto it immediately and with evident gratitude. "Yes, I completely agree! I'll get onto it at once."

I cross my arms and grin at him lopsidedly. "I'm waiting."

"You're—" His gaze slides sideways, coming to rest on Pete. "Hmm." I can almost see the wheels turning. Andy isn't aggressive, but he's a sharp operator. "Okay, let's start from the beginning. Bob, this fellow is Peter-Fred Young. Peter-Fred, meet Mr. Howard, better known as Bob. I'm—"

"—Andy Newstrom, senior operational support manager, Department G," I butt in smoothly. "Due to the modern miracle of matrix management, Andy is my line manager but I work for someone else, Mr. Angleton, who is also Andy's boss. You probably won't meet him; if you do, it probably means you're in big trouble. That right, Andy?"

"Yes, Bob," he says indulgently, picking right up from my cue. "And this is Ops Division." He looks at Peter-Fred Young. "Your job, for the next three months, is to shadow Bob. Bob, you're between field assignments anyway, and Project Aurora looks likely to keep you occupied for the whole time—Peter-Fred should be quite useful to you, given his background."

"Project Aurora?" Pete looks puzzled. Yeah, and me, too.

"What is his background, exactly?" I ask. Here it comes . . .

"Peter-Fred used to design dungeon modules for a living." Andy's cheek twitches. "The earlier games weren't a big problem, but I think you can guess where this one's going."

"Hey, it's not my fault!" Pete hunches defensively. "I just thought it was a really neat scenario!"

I have a horrible feeling I know what Andy's going to say next. "The third-party content tools for some of the leading MMORPGs are getting pretty hairy these days. They're supposed to have some recognizers built in to stop the most dangerous design patterns getting out, but nobody was expecting Peter-Fred to try to implement a Delta Green scenario as a Neverwinter Nights persistent realm. If it had gone online on a public game server—assuming it didn't eat him during beta testing—we could have been facing a mass outbreak."

I turn and stare at Pete in disbelief. "That was him?" Jesus, I could have been killed!

He stares back truculently. "Yeah. Your wizard eats rice cakes!"

And an attitude to boot. "Andy, he's going to need a desk."

"I'm working on getting you a bigger office." He grins. "This was Emma's idea, she can foot the bill."

Somehow I knew she had to be tied in with this, but maybe I can turn it to my advantage. "If Human Resources is involved, surely they're paying?" Which means, deep pockets to pick. "We're going to need two Herman Miller Aeron chairs, an Eames bookcase and occasional table, a desk from some eye-wateringly expensive Italian design studio, a genuine eighty-year-old Bonsai Californian redwood, an OC3 cable into Telehouse, and gaming laptops. Alienware: we need lots and lots of Alienware. . . ."

Andy gives me five seconds to slaver over the fantasy before he pricks my balloon. "You'll take Dell and like it."

"Even if the bad guys frag us?" I try.

"They won't." He looks smug. "Because you're the best."

* * *

One of the advantages of being a cash-starved department is that nobody ever dares to throw anything away in case it turns out to be useful later. Another advantage is that there's never any money to get things done, like (for example) refit old offices to comply with current health and safety regulations. It's cheaper just to move everybody out into a Portakabin in the car park and leave the office refurb for another financial year. At least, that's what they do in this day and age; thirty, forty years ago I don't know where they put the surplus bodies. Anyway, while Andy gets on the phone to Emma to plead for a budget I lead Pete on a fishing expedition.

"This is the old segregation block," I explain, flicking on a light switch. "Don't come in here without a light or the grue will get you."

"You've got grues? Here?" He looks so excited at the prospect that I almost hesitate to tell him the truth.

"No, I just meant you'd just step in something nasty. This isn't an adventure game." The dust lies in gentle snowdrifts everywhere, undisturbed by outsourced cleaning services—contractors generally take one look at the seg block and double their quote, going over the ministerially imposed cap (which gets imposed rigorously on Ops, freeing up funds so Human Resources can employ plant beauticians to lovingly wax the leaves on their office rubber plants).

"You called it a segregation block. What, uh, who was segregated?"

I briefly toy with the idea of winding him up, then reject it. Once you're inside the Laundry you're in it for life, and I don't really want to leave a trail of grudge-bearing juniors sharpening their knives behind me. "People we didn't want exposed to the outside world, even by accident," I say finally. "If you work here long enough it does strange things to your head. Work here too long, and other people can see the effects, too. You'll notice the windows are all frosted or else they open onto air shafts, where there aren't any windows in the first place," I add, shoving open the door onto a large, executive office marred only by the bricked-up window frame in the wall behind the desk, and a disturbingly wide trail of something shiny—I tell myself it's probably just dry wallpaper paste—leading to the swivel chair. "Great, this is just what I've been looking for."

"It is?"

"Yep, a big, empty, executive office where the lights and power still work."

"Whose was it?" Pete looks around curiously. "There aren't many sockets . . ."

"Before my time." I pull the chair out and look at the seat doubtfully. It was good leather once, but the seat is hideously stained and cracked. The penny drops. "I've heard of this guy. 'Slug' Johnson. He used to be high up in Accounts, but he made lots of enemies. In the end someone put salt on his back."

"You want us to work in here?" Pete asks, in a blinding moment of clarity.

"For now," I reassure him. "Until we can screw a budget for a real office out of Emma from HR."

"We'll need more power sockets." Pete's eyes are taking on a distant, glazed look and his fingers twitch mousily; "We'll need casemods, need overclocked CPUs, need fuck-off huge screens, double-headed Radeon X1600 video cards." He begins to shake. "Nerf guns, Twinkies, LAN party—"

"Pete! Snap out of it!" I grab his shoulders and shake him.

He blinks and looks at me blearily. "Whuh?"

I physically drag him out of the room. "First, before we do anything else, I'm getting the cleaners in to give it a class four exorcism and to steam clean the carpets. You could catch something nasty in there." You nearly did, I add silently. "Lots of bad psychic backwash."

"I thought he was an accountant?" says Pete, shaking his head.

"No, he was in Accounts. Not the same thing at all. You're confusing them with Financial Control."

"Huh? What do Accounts do, then?"

"They settle accounts—usually fatally. At least, that's what they used to do back in the sixties; the department was terminated some time ago."

"Um." Pete swallows. "I thought that was all a joke? This is, like, the BBFC? You know?"

I blink. The British Board of Film Classification, the people who certify video games and cut the cocks out of movies? "Did anyone tell you what the Laundry actually does?"

"Plays lots of deathmatches?" he asks hopefully.

"That's one way of putting it," I begin, then pause. How to continue? "Magic is applied mathematics. The many-angled ones live at the bottom of the Mandelbrot set. Demonology is right after debugging in the dictionary. You heard of Alan Turing? The father of programming?"

"Didn't he work for John Carmack?"

Oh, it's another world out there. "Not exactly, he built the first computers for the government, back in the Second World War. Not just codebreaking computers; he designed containment processors for Q Division, the Counter-Possession Unit of SOE that dealt with demon-ridden Abwehr agents. Anyway, after the war, they disbanded SOE—broke up all the government computers, the Colossus machines—except for the CPU, which became the Laundry. The Laundry kept going, defending the realm from the scum of the multiverse. There are mathematical transforms that can link entities in different universes—try to solve the wrong theorem and they'll eat your brain, or worse. Anyhow, these days more people do more things with computers than anyone ever dreamed of. Computer games are networked and scriptable, they've got compilers and debuggers built in, you can build cities and film goddamn movies inside them. And every so often someone stumbles across something they're not meant to be playing with and, well, you know the rest."

His eyes are wide in the shadows. "You mean, this is government work? Like in DeusEx?"

I nod. "That's it exactly, kid." Actually it's more like Doom 3 but I'm not ready to tell him that; he might start pestering me for a grenade launcher.

"So we're going to, like, set up a LAN party and log onto lots of persistent realms and search 'n' sweep them for demons and blow the demons away?" He's almost panting with eagerness. "Wait'll I tell my homies!"

"Pete, you can't do that."

"What, isn't it allowed?"

"No, I didn't say that." I lead him back towards the well-lit corridors of the Ops wing and the coffee break room beyond. "I said you can't do that. You're under a geas. Section III of the Official Secrets Act says you can't tell anyone who hasn't signed the said act that Section III even exists, much less tell them anything about what it covers. The Laundry is one hundred percent under cover, Pete. You can't talk about it to outsiders, you'd choke on your own purple tongue."

"Eew." He looks disappointed. "You mean, like, this is real secret stuff. Like mum's work."

"Yes, Pete. It's all really secret. Now let's go get a coffee and pester somebody in Facilities for a mains extension bar and a computer."

* * *

I spend the rest of the day wandering from desk to desk, filing requisitions and ordering up supplies, with Pete snuffling and shambling after me like a supersized spaniel. The cleaners won't be able to work over Johnson's office until next Tuesday due to an unfortunate planetary conjunction, but I know a temporary fix I can sketch on the floor and plug into a repurposed pocket calculator that should hold 'Slug" Johnson at bay until we can get him exorcised. Meanwhile, thanks to a piece of freakish luck, I discover a stash of elderly laptops nobody is using; someone in Catering mistyped their code in their Assets database last year, and thanks to the wonders of our ongoing ISO 9000 certification process there is no legal procedure for reclassifying them as capital assets without triggering a visit by the Auditors. So I duly issue Pete with a 1.4 gigahertz Toshiba Sandwich Toaster, enlist his help in moving my stuff into the new office, nail a WiFi access point to the door like a tribal fetish or mezuzah ("this office now occupied by geeks who worship the great god GHz"), and park him on the other side of the spacious desk so I can keep an eye on him.

The next day I've got a staff meeting at 10:00 a.m. I spend the first half hour of my morning drinking coffee, making snide remarks in e-mail, reading Slashdot, and waiting for Pete to show up. He arrives at 9:35. "Here." I chuck a fat wallet full of CD-Rs at him. "Install these on your laptop, get on the intranet, and download all the patches you need. Don't, whatever you do, touch my computer or try to log onto my NWN server—it's called Bosch, by the way. I'll catch up with you after the meeting."

"Why is it called Bosch?" he whines as I stand up and grab my security badge off the filing cabinet.

"Washing machines or Hieronymus machines, take your pick." I head off to the conference room for the Ways and Means Committee meeting—to investigate new ways of being mean, as Bridget (may Nyarlathotep rest her soul) once explained it to me.

At first I'm moderately hopeful I'll be able to stay awake through the meeting. But then Lucy, a bucktoothed goth from Facilities, gets the bit between her incisors. She's going on in a giggly way about the need to outsource our administration of office sundries in order to focus on our core competencies, and I'm trying desperately hard not to fall asleep, when there's an odd thudding sound that echoes through the fabric of the building. Then a pager goes off.

Andy's at the other end of the table. He looks at me: "Bob, your call, I think."

I sigh. "You think?" I glance at the pager display. Oops, so it is. "'Scuse me folks, something's come up."

"Go on." Lucy glares at me halfheartedly from behind her lucky charms. "I'll minute you."

"Sure." And I'm out, almost an hour before lunch. Wow, so interns are useful for something. Just as long as he hasn't gotten himself killed.

I trot back to Slug's office. Peter-Fred is sitting in his chair, with his back to the door.

"Pete?" I ask.

No reply. But his laptop's open and running, and I can hear its fan chugging away. "Uh-huh." And the disc wallet is lying open on my side of the desk.

I edge towards the computer carefully, taking pains to stay out of eyeshot of the screen. When I get a good look at Peter-Fred I see that his mouth's ajar and his eyes are closed; he's drooling slightly. "Pete?" I say, and poke his shoulder. He doesn't move. Probably a good thing, I tell myself. Okay, so he isn't conventionally possessed . . .

When I'm close enough, I filch a sheet of paper from the ink-jet printer, turn the lights out, and angle the paper in front of the laptop. Very faintly I can see reflected colors, but nothing particularly scary. "Right," I mutter. I slide my hands in front of the keyboard—still careful not to look directly at the screen—and hit the key combination to bring up the interactive debugger in the game I'm afraid he's running. Trip an object dump, hit the keystrokes for quick save, and quit, and I can breathe a sigh of relief and look at the screen shot.

It takes me several seconds to figure out what I'm looking at. "Oh you stupid stupid arse." It's Peter-Fred, of course. He installed NWN and the other stuff I threw at him: the Laundry-issue hack pack and DM tools, and the creation toolkit. Then he went and did exactly what I told him not to do: he connected to Bosch. That's him in the screenshot between the two half-orc mercenaries in the tavern, looking very afraid.

* * *

Two hours later it's lunchtime, Brains and Pinky are baby-sitting Pete's supine body (we don't dare move it yet), Bosch is locked down and frozen, and I'm sitting on the wrong side of Angleton's desk, sweating bullets. "Summarize, boy," he rumbles, fixing me with one yellowing rheumy eye. "Keep it simple. None of your jargon, life's too short."

"He's fallen into a game and he can't get out." I cross my arms. "I told him precisely what not to do and he went ahead and did it. Not my fault."

Angleton makes a wheezing noise, like a boiler threatening to explode. After a moment I recognize it as two-thousand-year-old laughter, mummified and out for revenge. Then he stops wheezing. Oops, I think. "I believe you, boy. Thousands wouldn't. But you're going to have to get him out. You're responsible."

I'm responsible? I'm about to tell the old man what I think when a second thought screeches into the pileup at the back of my tongue and I bite my lip. I suppose I am responsible, technically. I mean, Pete's my intern, isn't he? I'm a management grade, after all, and if he's been assigned to me that makes me his manager, even if it's a post that comes with loads of responsibility and no actual power to, like, stop him doing something really foolish. I'm in loco parentis, or maybe just plain loco. I whistle quietly. "What would you suggest?"

Angleton wheezes again. "Not my field, boy, I wouldn't know one end of one of those newfangled Babbage machine contraptions from the other." He fixes me with a gimlet stare. "But feel free to draw on HR's budget line. I will make enquiries on the other side to see what's going on. But if you don't bring him back, I'll make you explain what happened to him to his mother."

"His mother?" I'm puzzled. "You mean she's one of us?"

"Yes. Didn't Andrew tell you? Mrs. Young is the deputy director in charge of Human Resources. So you'd better get him back before she notices her son is missing."

* * *

James Bond has Q Division; I've got Pinky and Brains from Tech Support. Bond gets jet packs, I get whoopee cushions, but I repeat myself. Still, at least P and B know about first-person shooters.

"Okay, let's go over this again," says Brains. He sounds unusually chipper for this early in the morning. "You set up Bosch as a server for a persistent Neverwinter Nights world, running the full Project Aurora hack pack. That gives you, oh, lots of extensions for trapping demons that wander into your realm while you trace their owner's PCs and inject a bunch of spyware, then call out to Accounts to send a black-bag team round in the real world. Right?"

"Yes." I nod. "An internet honeypot for supernatural intruders."

"Wibble!" That's Pinky. "Hey, neat! So what happened to your PFY?"

"Well . . ." I take a deep breath. "There's a big castle overlooking the town, with a twentieth-level sorceress running it. Lots of glyphs of summoning in the basement dungeons, some of which actually bind at run-time to a class library that implements the core transformational grammar of the Language of Leng." I hunch over slightly. "It's really neat to be able to do that kind of experiment in a virtual realm—if you accidentally summon something nasty it's trapped inside the server or maybe your local area network, rather than being out in the real world where it can eat your brains."

Brains stares at me. "You expect me to believe this kid took out a twentieth-level sorceress? Just so he could dick around in your dungeon lab?"

"Uh, no." I pick up a blue-tinted CD-R. Someone—not me—has scribbled a cartoon skull-and-crossbones on it and added a caption: DO'NT R3AD M3. "I've been looking at this—carefully. It's not one of the discs I gave Pete; it's one of his own. He's not totally clueless, for a crack-smoking script kiddie. In fact, it's got a bunch of interesting class libraries on it. He went in with a knapsack full of special toys and just happened to fuck up by trying to rob the wrong tavern. This realm, being hosted on Bosch, is scattered with traps that are superclassed into a bunch of scanner routines from Project Aurora and sniff for any taint of the real supernatural. Probably he whiffed of Laundry business—and that set off one of the traps, which yanked him in."

"How do you get inside a game?" asks Pinky, looking hopeful. "Could you get me into Grand Theft Auto: Castro Club Extreme?"

Brains glances at him in evident disgust. "You can virtualize any universal Turing machine," he sniffs. "Okay, Bob. What precisely do you need from us in order to get the kid out of there?"

I point to the laptop: "I need that, running the Dungeon Master client inside the game. Plus a class four summoning grid, and a lot of luck." My guts clench. "Make that a lot more luck than usual."

"Running the DM client—" Brains goes cross-eyed for a moment "—is it reentrant?"

"It will be." I grin mirthlessly. "And I'll need you on the outside, running the ordinary network client, with a couple of characters I'll preload for you. The sorceress is holding Pete in the third-level dungeon basement of Castle Storm. The way the narrative's set up she's probably not going to do anything to him until she's also acquired a whole bunch of plot coupons, like a cockatrice and a mind flayer's gallbladder—then she can sacrifice him and trade up to a fourth-level demon or a new castle or something. Anyway, I've got a plan. Ready to kick ass?"

* * *

I hate working in dungeons. They're dank, smelly, dark, and things keep jumping out and trying to kill you. That seems to be the defining characteristic of the genre, really. Dead boring hack-and-slash—but the kiddies love 'em. I know I did, back when I was a wee spoddy twelve-year-old. Fine, says I, we're not trying to snare kiddies, we're looking to attract the more cerebral kind of MMORPG player—the sort who're too clever by half. Designers, in other words.

How do you snare a dungeon designer who's accidentally stumbled on a way to summon up shoggoths? Well, you need a website. The smart geeks are always magpies for ideas—they see something new and it's "Ooh! Shiny!" and before you can snap your fingers they've done something with it you didn't anticipate. So you set your site up to suck them in and lock them down. You seed it with a bunch of downloadable goodies and some interesting chat boards—not the usual MY MAG1C USR CN TW4T UR CLERIC, D00D, but actual useful information—useful if you're programming in NWScript, that is (the high-level programming language embedded in the game, which hardcore designers write game extensions in).

But the website isn't enough. Ideally you want to run a networked game server—a persistent world that your victims can connect to using their client software to see how your bunch 'o' tricks looks in the virtual flesh. And finally you seed clues in the server to attract the marks who know too damn much for their own good, like Peter-Fred.

The problem is, BoschWorld isn't ready yet. That's why I told him to stay out. Worse, there's no easy way to dig him out of it yet because I haven't yet written the object retrieval code—and worse: to speed up the development process I grabbed a whole bunch of published code from one of the bigger online persistent realms, and I haven't weeded out all the spurious quests and curses and shit that make life exciting for adventurers. In fact, now that I think about it, that was going to be Peter-Fred's job for the next month. Oops.

* * *

Unlike Pete, I do not blunder into Bosch unprepared; I know exactly what to expect. I've got a couple of cheats up my non-existent monk's sleeve, including the fact that I can enter the game with a level eighteen character carrying a laptop with a source-level debugger—all praise the new self-deconstructing reality!

The stone floor of the monastery is gritty and cold under my bare feet, and there's a chilly morning breeze blowing in through the huge oak doors at the far end of the compound. I know it's all in my head—I'm actually sitting in a cramped office chair with Pinky and Brains hammering away on keyboards to either side—but it's still creepy. I turn round and genuflect once in the direction of the huge and extremely scary devil carved into the wall behind me, then head for the exit.

The monastery sits atop some truly bizarre stone formations in the middle of the Wild Woods. I'm supposed to fight my way through the woods before I get to the town of, um, whatever I named it, Stormville?—but sod that. I stick a hand into the bottomless depths of my very expensive Bag of Holding and pull out a scroll. "Stormville, North Gate," I intone (Why do ancient masters in orders of martial monks always intone, rather than, like, speak normally?) and the scroll crumbles to dust in my hands—and I'm looking up at a stone tower with a gate at its base and some bint sticking a bucket out of a window on the third floor and yelling, "Gardy loo." Well, that worked okay.

"I'm there," I say aloud.

Green serifed letters track across my visual field, completely spoiling the atmosphere: WAY K00L, B0B. That'll be Pinky, riding shotgun with his usual delicacy.

There's a big, blue rectangle in the gateway so I walk onto it and wait for the universe to download. It's a long wait—something's gumming up Bosch. (Computers aren't as powerful as most people think; running even a small and rather stupid intern can really bog down a server.)

Inside the North Gate is the North Market. At least, it's what passes for a market in here. There's a bunch of zombies dressed as your standard dungeon adventurers, shambling around with speech bubbles over their heads. Most of them are web addresses on eBay, locations of auctions for interesting pieces of game content, but one or two of them look as if they've been crudely tampered with, especially the ass-headed nobleman repeatedly belting himself on the head with a huge, leather-bound copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream. "Are you guys sure we haven't been hacked?" I ask aloud. "If you could check the tripwire logs, Brains . . ." It's a long shot, but it might offer an alternate explanation for Pete's predicament.

I slither, sneak, and generally shimmy my monastic ass around the square, avoiding the quainte olde mediaeval gallows and the smoking hole in the ground that used to be the Alchemists' Guild. On the east side of the square is the Wayfarer's Tavern, and some distance to the southwest I can see the battlements and turrets of Castle Storm looming out of the early morning mists in a surge of gothic cheesecake. I enter the tavern, stepping on the blue rectangle and waiting while the world pauses, then head for the bar.

"Right, I'm in the bar," I say aloud, pulling my Project Aurora laptop out of the Bag of Holding. (Is it my imagination, or does something snap at my fingertips as I pull my hand out?) "Has the target moved?"

N0 J0Y, B08.

I sigh, unfolding the screen. Laptops aren't exactly native to NWN; this one's made of two slabs of sapphire held together by scrolled mithril hinges. I stare into the glowing depths of its screen (tailored from a preexisting crystal ball) and load a copy of the pub. Looking in the back room I see a bunch of standard henchmen, -women, and -things waiting to be hired, but none of them are exactly optimal for taking on the twentieth-level lawful-evil chatelaine of Castle Storm. Hmm, better bump one of 'em, I decide. Let's go for munchkin muscle. "Pinky? I'd like you to drop a quarter of a million experience points on Grondor the Red, then up-level him. Can you do that?" Grondor is the biggest bad-ass half-orc fighter for hire in Bosch. This ought to turn him into a one-man killing machine.

0|< D00D.

I can tell he's really getting into the spirit of this. The barmaid sashays up to me and winks. "Hiya, cute thing. (1) Want to buy a drink? (2) Want to ask questions about the town and its surroundings? (3) Want to talk about anything else?"

I sigh. "Gimme (1)."

"Okay. (1) G'bye, big boy. (2) Anything else?"

"(1). Get me my beer then piss off."

One of these days I'll get around to wiring a real conversational 'bot into the non-player characters, but right now they're still a bit—

There's a huge sound from the back room, sort of a creaking graunching noise. I blink and look round, startled. After a moment I realize it's the sound of a quarter of a million experience points landing on a—

"Pinky, what exactly did you up-level Grondor the Red to?"

LVL 15 C0RTE5AN. LOL!!!

"Oh, great," I mutter. I'll swear that's not a real character class. A fat, manila envelope appears on the bar in front of me. It's Grondor's contract, and from the small print it looks like I've hired myself a fifteenth-level half-orc rent boy for muscle. Which is annoying because I only get one hench-thug per game. "One of these days your sense of humor is going to get me into really deep trouble, Pinky," I say as Grondor flounces across the rough wooden floor towards me, a vision of ruffles, bows, pink satin, and upcurved tusks. He's clutching a violet club in one gnarly red-nailed hand, and he seems to be annoyed about something.

After a brief and uncomfortable interlude that involves running on the walls and ceiling, I manage to calm Grondor down, but by then half the denizens of the tavern are broken and bleeding. "Grondor pithed," he lisps at me. "But Grondor thtill kickth ath. Whoth ath you wanting kicked?"

"The wicked witch of the west. You up for it?"

He blows me a kiss.

LOL!!! ROFL!!! whoops the peanut gallery.

"Okay, let's go."

* * *

Numerous alarums, excursions, and open-palm five-punches death attacks later, we arrive at Castle Storm. Sitting out in front of the cruel-looking portcullis, topped by the dismembered bodies of the sorceress's enemies and not a few of her friends, I open up the laptop. A miniature thundercloud hovers overhead, raining on the turrets and bouncing lightning bolts off the (currently inanimate) gargoyles.

"Connect me to Lady Storm's boudoir mirror." I say. (I try to make it come out as an inscrutable monkish mutter rather than intoning, but it doesn't work properly.)

"Hello? Who is this?" I see her face peering out of the depths of my screen, like an unholy cross between Cruella De Vil and Margaret Thatcher. She's not wearing make-up and half her hair's in curlers—that's odd, I think.

"This is the management," I intone. "We have been notified that contrary to statutory regulations issued by the Council of Guilds of Stormville you are running an unauthorized boarding house, to wit, you are providing accommodation for mendicant journeymen. Normally we'd let you off with a warning and a fifty-gold-piece fine, but in this particular case—"

I'm readying the amulet of teleportation, but she seems to be able to anticipate events, which is just plain wrong for a non-player character following a script. "Accommodate this!" she hisses, and cuts the connection dead. There's a hammering rumbling sound overhead. I glance up, then take to my heels as I wrap my arms about my head; she's animated the gargoyles, and they're taking wing, but they're still made of stone— and stone isn't known for its lighter-than-air qualities. The crashing thunder goes on for quite some time, and the dust makes my eyes sting, but after a while all that remains is the mournful honking of the one surviving gargoyle, which learned to fly on its way down, and is now circling the battlements overhead. And now it's my turn.

"Right. Grondor? Open that door!"

Grondor snarls, then flounces forward and whacks the portcullis with his double-headed war axe. The physics model in here is distinctly imaginative, you shouldn't be able to reduce a cast-iron grating into a pile of wooden kindling, but I'm not complaining. Through the portcullis we charge, into the bowels of Castle Storm and, I hope, in time to rescue Pete.

I don't want to bore you with a blow-by-blow description of our blow-by-blow progress through Cruella's minions. Suffice to say that following Grondor is a lot like trailing behind a frothy pink main battle tank. Thuggish guards, evil imps, and the odd adept tend to explode messily very soon after Grondor sees them. Unfortunately Grondor's not very discriminating, so I make sure to go first in order to keep him away from cunningly engineered deadfalls (and Pete, should we find him). Still, it doesn't take us too long to comb the lower levels of the caverns under Castle Storm (aided by the handy dungeon editor in my laptop, which allows me to build a bridge over the Chasm of Despair and tunnel through the rock around the Dragon's Lair, which isn't very sporting but keeps us from being toasted). Which is why, after a couple of hours, I'm beginning to get a sinking feeling that Pete isn't actually here.

"Brains, Pete isn't down here, is he? Or am I missing something?"

H3Y d0NT B3 5AD D00D F1N|< 0V V XP!!!

"Fuck off, Pinky, give me some useful input or just fuck off, okay?" I realize I'm shouting when the rock wall next to me begins to crack ominously. The hideous possibility that I've lost Pete is sinking its claws into my brain and it's worse than any Fear spell.

OK KEEP UR HAIR 0N!! 15 THIS A QU3ST?? D0 U N33D 2 C0NFRONT S0RCR3SS 1ST?

I stop dead. "I bloody hope not. Did you notice how she was behaving?"

Brains here. I'm grepping the server logfile and did you know there's another user connected over the intranet bridge?

"Whu—" I turn around and accidentally bump into Grondor.

Grondor says, "(1) Do you wish to modify our tactics? (2) Do you want Grondor to attack someone? (3) Do you think Grondor is sexy, big boy? (4) Exit?"

"(4)," I intone—if I leave him in a conversational state he won't be going anywhere, dammit. "Okay, Brains. Have you tracerouted the intrusion? Bosch isn't supposed to be accessible from outside the local network. What department are they coming in from?"

They're coming in from—a longish pause—somewhere in HR.

"Okay, the plot just thickened. So someone in HR has gotten in. Any idea who the player is?" I've got a sneaking suspicion but I want to hear it from Brains—

Not IRL, but didn't Cruella act way too flexible to be a 'bot?

Bollocks. That is what I was thinking. "Okay. Grondor: follow. We're going upstairs to see the wicked witch."

Now, let me tell you about castles. They don't have elevators, or fire escapes, or extinguishers. Real ones don't have exploding whoopee cushions under the carpet and electrified door-handles that blush red when you notice them, either, or an ogre resting on the second-floor mezzanine, but that's beside the point. Let me just observe that by the time I reach the fourth floor I am beginning to breathe heavily and I am getting distinctly pissed off with Her Eldritch Fearsomeness.

At the foot of the wide, glittering staircase in the middle of the fourth floor I temporarily lose Grondor. It might have something to do with the tenth-level mage lurking behind the transom with a magic flamethrower, or the simultaneous arrival of about a ton of steel spikes falling from concealed ceiling panels, but Grondor is reduced to a greasy pile of goo on the floor. I sigh and do something to the mage that would be extremely painful if he were a real person. "Is she upstairs?" I ask the glowing letters.

SUR3 TH1NG D00D!!!

"Any more traps?"

N0!!??!

"Cool." I step over the grease spot and pause just in front of the staircase. It never pays to be rash. I pick up a stray steel spike and chuck it on the first step and it goes BANG with extreme prejudice. "Not so cool." Rinse, cycle, repeat, and four small explosions later I'm standing in front of the doorway facing the top step. No more whoopee cushions, just a twentieth-level sorceress and a minion in chains. Happy joy. "Pinky. Plan B. Get it ready to run it, on my word."

I break through the door and enter the witch's lair.

Once you've seen one witch's den you've seen 'em all. This one is a bit glitzier than usual, and some of the furniture is nonstandard even taking into account the Laundry hack packs linked into this realm. Where did she get the mainframe from? I wonder briefly before considering the extremely ominous Dho-Na geometry curve in the middle of the floor (complete with a frantic-looking Pete chained down in the middle of it) and the extremely irate-looking sorceress beyond.

"Emma MacDougal, I presume?"

She turns my way, spitting blood. "If it wasn't for you meddling hackers I'd have gotten away with it!" Oops, she's raising her magic wand.

"Gotten away with what?" I ask politely. "Don't you want to explain your fiendish plan, as is customary, before totally obliterating your victims? I mean, that's a Dho-Na curve there, so you're obviously planning a summoning, and this server is inside Ops block. Were you planning some sort of low-key downsizing?"

She snorts. "You stupid Ops heads, why do you always assume it's about you?"

"Because—" I shrug. "We're running on a server in Ops. What do you think happens if you open a gateway for an ancient evil to infest our departmental LAN?"

"Don't be naïve. All that's going to happen is Pimple-Features here is going to pick a good, little, gibbering infestation then go spread it to Mama. Which will open up the promotion ladder once again." She stares at me, then her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "How did you figure out it was me?"

"You should have used a smaller mainframe emulator, you know; we're so starved for resources that Bosch runs on a three-year-old Dell laptop. If you weren't slurping up all our CPU resources we probably wouldn't have noticed anything was wrong until it was too late. It had to be someone in HR, and you're the only player on the radar. Mind you, putting poor Peter-Fred in a position of irresistible temptation was a good move. How did you open the tunnel into our side of the network?"

"He took his laptop home at night. Have you swept it for spyware today?" Her grin turns triumphant. "I think it's time you joined Pete on the summoning-grid sacrifice node."

"Plan B!" I announce brightly, then run up the wall and across the ceiling until I'm above Pete.

P1AN 8 :) :) :)

The room below my head lurches disturbingly as Pinky rearranges the furniture. It's just a ninety-degree rotation, and Pete's still in the summoning grid, but now he's in the target node instead of the sacrifice zone. Emma is incanting; her wand tracks me, its tip glowing green. "Do it, Pinky!" I shout as I pull out my dagger and slice my virtual finger. Blood runs down the blade and drops into the sacrifice node—

And Pete stands up. The chains holding him to the floor rip like damp cardboard, his eyes glowing even brighter than Emma's wand. With no actual summoning vector spliced into the grid it's wide open, an antenna seeking the nearest manifestation. With my blood to power it, it's active, and the first thing it resonates with has come through and sideloaded into Pete's head. His head swivels. "Get her!" I yell, clenching my fist and trying not to wince. "She's from personnel!"

"Personnel?" rumbles a voice from Pete's mouth—deeper, more cultured, and infinitely more terrifying. "Ah, I see. Thank you." The being wearing Pete's flesh steps across the grid—which sparks like a high-tension line and begins to smolder. Emma's wand wavers between me and Pete. I thrust my injured hand into the Bag of Holding and stifle a scream when my fingers stab into the bag of salt within. "It's been too long." His face begins to lengthen, his jaw widening and merging at the edges. He sticks his tongue out: it's grayish-brown and rasplike teeth are sprouting from it.

Emma screams in rage and discharges her wand at him. A backwash of negative energy makes my teeth clench and turns my vision gray, but it's not enough to stop the second coming of "Slug" Johnson. He slithers towards her across the floor, and she gears up another spell, but it's too late. I close my eyes and follow the action by the inarticulate shrieks and the wet sucking, gurgling noises. Finally, they die down.

I take a deep breath and open my eyes. Below me the room is vacant but for a clean-picked human skeleton and a floor flecked with brown—I peer closer—slugs. Millions of the buggers. "You'd better let him go," I intone.

"Why should I?" asks the assembly of molluscs.

"Because—" I pause. Why should he? It's a surprisingly sensible question. "If you don't, HR—Personnel—will just send another. Their minions are infinite. But you can defeat them by escaping from their grip forever—if you let me lay you to rest."

"Send me on, then," say the slugs.

"Okay." And I open my salt-filled fist over the molluscs—which burn and writhe beneath the white powderfall until nothing is left but Pete, curled fetally in the middle of the floor. And it's time to get Pete the hell out of this game and back into his own head before his mother, or some even worse horror, comes looking for him.

* * *

"Pimpf" is a Bob Howard story, in the same setting as The Atrocity Archives.

To read more work by Charles Stross, visit: http://www.accelerando.org/ and http://www.goldengryphon.com/Stross-Concrete.html

What Would Sam Spade Do?

Written by Jo Walton
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

It was shaping up to be a quiet day when Officer Murtagh and Officer Garcia came knocking on my door. The PI business isn't all it's cracked up to be, especially not in Philly and especially not this week. With sniffers and true-tell and DNA logging, and most especially with the new divorce laws, I'd have been better off in home insurance. I'd have been better off, that is, if it wasn't for the glamour, and the best thing you can say for glamour is that it isn't religion. I was amusing myself that morning by rearranging the puters and phones on top of my desk and calculating how long it would be before I could afford to hire a beautiful assistant to sit in the outer office. I couldn't afford an outer office either; my door opened directly from the street. The answer had come out at fourteen thousand and seven years when the knock came. I couldn't wait that long, so I answered it myself.

They showed me their IDs straight off. I looked them over while pretending to read. Murtagh was a typical cop, solid muscle all through. His canine ancestry showed in his expression as well as his build. I'd put it at half bulldog and half terrier. Garcia, on the other hand, was thoroughly human and thoroughly female and gorgeous enough to bring an inertialess drive to a full stop. Unfortunately, I'd met her before.

They came in. I took my usual seat. Murtagh took the client's chair, which left Garcia perching on the side of the desk.

"So what can I do for you, Officers?" I asked. It's always good for people in my profession to keep on the right side of the law.

"Where were you last night at eighteen-thirty?" Garcia asked.

"Right here," I said.

"You work that late?" Murtagh asked, wrinkling his pug nose, skepticism practically oozing out of his pores.

"This is my home as well as my office."

Murtagh looked around pointedly.

Garcia took pity on me. "It's all nanogear. It doesn't always look like Sam Spade's office. The desk turns into a bed."

Murtagh looked at her like maybe he was wondering how she knew. With her long black hair and tight-fitting uniform I might just have wished that Garcia's knowledge of my bed was more than just theoretical, but as I said, I'd met her before. Murtagh decided to let it go for once.

"There's a Jesus been killed," he said, and watched me closely for a reaction.

He didn't get one. It didn't seem like front page news. Jesi get killed all the time. Goes with being pacifists, goes with being set to push a lot of buttons on a lot of religious nuts. He held the pause, so I asked: "How does this affect me?"

"You don't care?" Murtagh barked.

"Only in so far as no man is an island," I replied. "I guess the dead man was a brother, but—" I was going to say he was also a stranger. Garcia cut me off.

"Closer than a brother," she said. "More like another you, as I understand cloning."

"Still a stranger, as far as I know," I said, and shrugged.

About fifty years ago they got cloning straightened out. Nobody much bothered with it. Not as if there weren't already lots of people. Sure, some people had kids as little personal faxes to the future, but it wasn't common. It seemed a bit tacky somehow. It was more use for pandas and cheetahs who didn't get a say in it. Sure, some people mixed up superkids, and animal-ancestry kids like Murtagh, but most people just yawned and pushed the next button.

About forty years ago some idiot had the bright idea of taking some of the DNA from a blood-stained handkerchief in a church in Greece and producing a genuine certified clone of Jesus. There was uproar, as you'd expect, and the uproar was only calmed down a little when they said they'd give the clones to anyone who wanted one, free of charge, every church and every family can have their own Jesus. A lot of people did, a surprising number of people, enough so that soon having a baby Jesus of your own wasn't all that interesting or unusual. In fact, it was a fad. Being a Jesus, well, that was another thing. To start with, for the first few, everything we did was news. Jesus suffers little children. Jesus cuts hair, Jesus works in gas station. By the time I was growing up, Jesi were pretty much just like any other ethnicity, only with fewer women and no cuisine. There were hundreds of thousands of us in the U.S. alone. People argued about whether the DNA was really that of Jesus, people argued about heredity versus environment, people argued about whether we were the Antichrist or the Second Coming. Churches took positions, Jesi took positions. I tried to stand somewhere well away from all the positioning. I kept my hair short and my face shaved and me well out of it. If you have to have a personal role model, I think Sam Spade is better than Jesus Christ any day.

"You're theoretically a suspect," Garcia said quietly.

This truly surprised me. Sniffers can tell who's moved through an area for hours afterwards. Tasters keep photographs and air samples, and with universal logging of DNA it's really hard to actually get away with a murder these days. "Murder suspect" seemed like a very old fashioned concept. Crime, and detection too mostly, had moved online. Then I got it. It took longer than it should have.

"Your dead Jesus was killed by another Jesus?"

Garcia grimaced. Murtagh nodded. "You're the only Jesus on record who's ever killed anyone."

"Hell, Garcia, you know about that."

Garcia tapped her fingers on my screen and brought up a record. She shouldn't have been able to do that, but I didn't object. "Like I said," she said to Murtagh. "He did it to save himself and me. He was a split-second ahead of the villain."

Villain was another old-fashioned word, but it didn't sound strange on Garcia's lips, not when referring to Kelly. Kelly, Turrow and Li had robbed a client of mine of a large amount of money, and Garcia was working on them too. She'd come to see me and we'd agreed to cooperate. We'd worked together so well. I still didn't like to think about it.

"I had a license for the gun," I said.

"There wasn't any question," Garcia said.

We'd gone in side by side. I'd shot Kelly. She'd shot Turrow and Li without hesitation. Kelly had been coming at us with a gun in her hand. Turrow and Li were sitting at their puters. Li was off in virtual. She hadn't even moved.

"You're still the only Jesus on record who's ever killed anyone," Murtagh said. "Jesi are always getting killed. A Jesus killing is something new. So, what made you do it?"

"Save my life. Save hers," I said. I've thought about it since, but I didn't think at all at the time. I saw the gun coming up and squeezed my own trigger. What was Kelly's life compared to Garcia's, or even mine? So what if it was casting the first stone? Kelly was coming right at us. One shot, one death. I couldn't have done what Garcia did, and taken out the others.

"Well this wasn't any case of self-defense," Murtagh said.

"There are what, a couple of thousand Jesi in Philly?" I googled around and got an answer right away, 2912. "Others could have flown in, or come by train, hell, even landed at the spaceport. I can't prove it wasn't me, but in the same way I don't see how you can prove it was." They couldn't use truth-tell unless they had a court order, or unless I volunteered. Fifth Amendment.

"It wasn't you," Garcia said. "The sniffers outside this building show that you came in yesterday and didn't leave again."

"Then why are you here?"

"We wanted your help. Your psychological insight into Jesi, the insight of a Jesus who became a private investigator and who killed in self-defense, into which of the suspects it could have been. If we had a good idea we could get a truth-tell, but we can't just ask to pump it into the lot of them. The lawyers of all the innocents would scream blue murder." Garcia crossed her legs and bit her lip. "Will you help us?"

"Will you pay my professional rates?"

"Hey—" Murtagh growled, but Garcia cut him off.

"We'll pay your professional rates. Jesus!" I couldn't tell if she was calling me by name or swearing.

"So, tell me about the suspects."

"Well, the taster records are just about useless, as the DNA all comes up as just plain Jesus," Murtagh said. There are second generation Jesi now, kids of the originals, not clones, who would show up as a Jesus-mix, same as Murtagh would show as a dog-mix. "But the sniffers let us narrow it down to six individuals who were in the street at the right time."

"Tell me about them."

"First, let me tell you about the murder. The dead man is Alambert Jesus," Garcia said. "You heard of him?"

"The writer," I said. He was a bestseller, and probably Philly's best known Jesus. I hadn't read any of his books. They looked to be several gig thick, and I don't have much time for reading.

"Lots of you have writing talent. It seems to be genetic. Come to that I guess the parables are pretty good short stories," Murtagh said.

"I save my skill in that direction for writing up my cases."

Murtagh gave a little barking laugh.

Garcia went on. "Well, Alambert Jesus lived in Chinatown. He was home. He opened the door to a Jesus. The Jesus tortured him to death, slowly. Then the Jesus left."

"Tortured him? That doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't, does it?" Murtagh sighed. "Doesn't go with the pacifism and thou shalt not kill stuff."

"Maybe this one came to bring a sword," Garcia suggested, looking at me.

I had enough of that in my childhood. "Whoever we're clones of, and as far as I'm concerned Jesus is just shorthand for the person whose blood was on that handkerchief, I think there are enough of us for you to be able to tell that we're the same in some ways and different in others without getting religion into it."

"You don't think religion has anything to do with the murder?" Murtagh asked.

"Was he crucified?" I asked.

"Interesting guess," Garcia said. "But while I hear that happens a lot in the South, no. Alambert was not crucified."

"Then it probably wasn't religious."

"The suspects," Murtagh said, getting a look in his eye like he was on the trail. "These are the ones who were on the spot right after. Let me run through them quickly." As he named them he brought their faces up on my screen, one pair of soulful brown eyes after another, different arrangements of hair and clothes. All of them could have been my brothers. Or me. "Jesus Potrin, 28, local radio talk show host. Only suspect who actually knew Alambert. They weren't close friends, but he'd had him on the show. Jesus Dowell, 18, down-and-out. No known connection. Alex Jesus Feruglio, 35, chef at Joseph Poon's, on Arch. Alambert ate in there occasionally. Joshua Jesus, 33, minister of the Church of the Second Coming. No known connection. Karl Jesus, 26, motor mechanic, no known connection. Malcolm Jesus Zimmerman, 29, doctor from Montana, in town for a convention. No known connection."

"Jesus, they really do have nothing in common except their genes," Garcia said. This time I was sure she was swearing.

"I don't know any of them either," I said. "I've eaten in Joseph Poon's, but who hasn't?" It was the best fusion food in town.

"Nothing jumps out at you?" Garcia asked.

"Not immediately. They all had the opportunity. The method's obvious. The problem is motive. I'll poke about on line and see what I can find in their biographies, but I'm not hopeful." Why would any of them kill Alambert? Why would a Jesus kill another Jesus? What could they possibly get out of it?

"Well, Jesus or not, we'll catch them, and whichever of them it was will fry for it," Murtagh said, getting up.

"Though what that will do with public opinion I don't know," Garcia said.

"It must have been Joshua Jesus," I said, as the pieces came together. "Don't execute him. That's what he wants."

Murtagh sat down again. "That's what he wants? Explain."

"That's his motivation. He's a millenarian, a religious nut, a priest of the Second Coming and he thinks he's it. He's thirty-three, the age Jesus was when he was crucified. He must have picked this as a sure way of being executed by the state."

"A nut," Garcia said. "A religious fanatic."

"True-tell will get it out of him, and you ought to be able to get an order. You can put him in a nuthouse and throw away the key," I said.

"Huh," barked Murtagh. "Coming, Garcia?"

"I'll just be a moment," she said.

Murtagh stepped outside.

"You're not a religious fanatic," she said.

"There are possibilities in the genes, not predestination," I said. "I'm not a writer or a chef either. There's more to me than my genes."

"And there's more to me than my trigger finger."

We looked at each other, a little wary, a little uncertain, but damn she was beautiful and even more than a beautiful assistant and an outer office I needed a partner. "Blessed be the trigger happy," I said, and she was in my arms.

Sometimes in this life you've just got to ask yourself: "What would Sam Spade do?"

* * *

Jo Walton is the author of several novels and short stories.

Brieanna's Constant

Written by Eric Witchey
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

He redlined his black Camry into the parking lot of the Leeman building, a four-story redbrick full of software engineers and psychologists. Dr. Alan Dickson considered parking directly in front of the main entrance in Brieanna's space—the target space. Of course, that would skew his experiment results. He swung wide.

Only Brieanna Wolfe had a one hundred percent success rate. She had parked her ugly, red coffee vendor's truck in the same slot in front of the Leeman building at exactly 7:30 every weekday morning for two years. He planned to put an end to Ms. Wolfe's impossible luck and finish his study of the influence of personal expectations on chaotic systems.

He parked on the far side of the lot and reached to the passenger seat for his briefcase.

The seat was empty.

Marg's mascara-streaked face came back to him. She'd wanted some romantic time with him before work. He couldn't be late. She'd seemed so confused. It wasn't her fault she didn't understand. Aching guilt filled his chest. He reached for the gray cell phone mounted on his dash.

His hand hovered.

Calling wouldn't help. Only success and tickets to Kauai would make her smile. The tickets were in his briefcase. He needed to create the success. He got out of the car and headed across the lot.

* * *

Brieanna gathered her waist-long, honey-and-ash hair behind her head and bound it into a ponytail with a blue scrunchie. Blue because she saw a crack of clear sky in the orange-bottomed, dawn clouds over the sleeping city. She and Valdez, her tiger tomcat, had just finished loading Big Red's refrigerators.

Big Red, a two-ton, step van painted like a red dog, waited loyally at the curb outside her one bedroom bungalow in the wooded hills west of the city.

Red had been very near his trip to the scrap yard when Brieanna found him stalled and dying at a county fair. He'd been primer gray then, owned by a greasy, toothless perv selling carnivore carcinogen tubes wrapped in white bread buns. It made Brieanna shiver to think about what those things did to people's chi.

She rescued Red. She brush-painted him to look like a huge dog from a kid's book she had read in her aroma therapist's waiting room. His painted ears surrounded the tall doors on both sides of the cab. She put a big black spot on his side to make the sales window look right. The square windshield panels on the front weren't exactly good eyes, but the black basketball hanging on the grill was a great nose. She loved him, and that kept him running. After all, that's what kept everything running.

She checked the paws on her Mr. Peabody watch. "Six-twenty," she said. Valdez meowed acknowledgment and pressed his broad head against her ankles. "We're early today." She lifted Valdez and draped him over her shoulders like a fat, striped stole. Together, they mounted the two steps into Big Red.

Valdez leaped down onto his fleece-lined bed beside the long stick shift. The van smelled of fresh-roast and eucalyptus incense. Golden tassels surrounded the windshield. The cargo area overflowed with humming propane reefers and engine-driven steamers personally decorated by Brie. Her milk cooler was black-and-white and named Bessie. Her bran muffin box had little heart stickers on the glass. Her latte machine was fire engine red, except for the hand-painted, yellow smiles and the chrome tubing. She called it "Morning Smiles," after the poem she'd written the morning after a prophetic dream told her to sell coffee.

She settled into her duct-taped, bucket seat and stretched her legs until her feet met the wooden blocks taped to the pedals on the floor.

"Come on, Big Red!" she cheered as she turned the key. Big Red coughed, shuddered, lurched, and died. In her side mirror, Brie watched a cloud of blue smoke explode from the exhaust and roll across her yard, engulfing her newly emerged sweet peas and the scarlet blooms of her rhododendrons.

"Oh, Red. Why'd you do that? They didn't do anything to you. Wake up, love. The world depends on us. It's a beautiful day to give people smiles!"

Brie turned the key. Red shuddered, and woke. While the engine warmed and settled into its gravelly purr, Brie threw switches to bring power to the equipment in the rear. Finally, she tuned in her favorite FM station. Dulcimer, drum, and pipe tunes filled the truck. She swayed to the tunes and let out the clutch.

* * *

For the seventeenth time in a week, Marg decided to leave her workaholic husband. She stripped off her spike heels. She'd thought she could excite him with a little leather and lace fantasy over breakfast.

She'd been stupid. Only work held his attention. She pulled some slack into her fishnet stockings and knelt to wipe splattered egg from the floor. A brassy flash under the kitchen table caught her eye. She peered into the shadow of Alan's chair. The shield-shaped lock of his briefcase reflected the kitchen lights.

She hoisted the bulging case to the table. The worn and ragged cowhide body strained. Its dry-leather stench made her nose wrinkle.

The case held the numbers and graphs that were more important than his wife. She tugged at the leather strap holding the case closed. It was locked.

She poked the three combo wheels until her birthday lined up. The lock held. She rolled her eyes. Of course it wouldn't be her birthday.

Damn him and his briefcase. He kept secrets from her. She was sick of his secrets, of supporting his obsessions, his delusions of Nobel prizes.

She sat down at the table and lined up his birthday on the tiny wheels.

Nothing.

His work had seemed important to her ten years ago—more important than her happiness.

His mother's birthday?

No. Damn him.

More important than children.

His father's?

* * *

Alan closed the lab's fireproof door and threw the dead bolt to secure the experiment space. When he had leased the unfinished office space, the manager had tried to sell him carpeting for the concrete floor, a suspended ceiling for the aluminum grid overhead, and wire and drywall for the room's metal stud skeleton. Alan preferred to use his funding on more important things.

Morgan, his white, overeducated, grunge lab assistant stared out the full wall window opposite the door. Morgan was not an important thing. After two hundred grant proposals, only one flaky R&D firm, LURC, was willing to risk money on Alan's ideas. Unfortunately, Morgan was part of LURC's deal.

The window was important. It was directly over Brieanna's parking slot.

Morgan turned and flipped a dust-blond dreadlock away from his eyes. "You look like hell, Doctor Al," he said.

"You haven't washed your hair in years," Alan said, venting his morning's frustration. "You show up in a purple tee and baggy shorts, and you insult me?"

"Take a pill, Doctor Al!" Morgan held up his hands in mock defense. "Your clothes are always retro-spiff. I meant the bags under your eyes."

Alan glanced at the coffee machine on top of a small refrigerator in the corner. The carafe was empty. "It's five-fifty. Where's my coffee?"

"Sorry, Doc. I forgot." Morgan laughed. "When Brie gets here, I'll buy you a double vanilla latte."

The morning was bad and getting worse. First Marg had dressed up in leather and spikes and thrown herself over his eggs and toast in some tabloid romance makeover stunt. Then he'd left his briefcase home. Now Morgan, with his woo-woo credentials in nonliner phenomenology, was too damn happy and assuming Brieanna would arrive as usual—and the dry-land surf bum hadn't bothered to make the coffee. "To hell with Brieanna Wolfe," Alan snapped. "I want coffee now."

"I'll make it," Morgan said. "It'll be ready in a minute, but Brie's is a lot better."

"No air-headed, coffee-selling, 'As if,' earth muffin is going to screw up the most important study of my life! I'm going to finish this today, Morgan. Today!"

Morgan stared, mouth open, from behind his dreads.

Alan took a deep breath. To hide his embarrassment, he crossed the lab to a long folding table supporting two computer workstations separated by his dispatcher's radio set. He dropped his keys in his jacket pocket and hung the coat over the back of his chair.

Alan took a breath. Stay objective. Don't let him get to you, he told himself. To Morgan, he said, "She won't make it."

Morgan went to the coffee machine and stripped the top off a foil packet. "Anticipating results, Doc? Won't your expectations influence the outcome?"

Ignoring Morgan, Alan settled into his chair and turned on his workstation. Cables climbed from the back of both workstations like red and green vines strangling the galvanized wall studs. The wires stretched in bellied arcs across the ceiling grid and down the opposite wall. There, another table supported LURC's quantum computer, "Q." At a glance, the million-dollar machine looked like a child's pretend computer, a bright orange shoebox anchoring the descending cables.

Q could track a nearly infinite number of seemingly unrelated details from Alan's city–wide sensor grid. Using Alan's equations, Q could calculate the effect of each detail on all other details then provide a prediction of probable outcome for a predefined event. The predefined event was whether a certain airhead could put her truck in a certain parking slot at 7:30. Q could suggest adjustments to the interrelated minutiae of the causal matrix. Using the dispatch radio, Alan could order those adjustments made by teams of disciplined, stone-faced field agents.

When he heard the pop and hiss of the coffee machine, Alan turned away from his workstation. "Is Q ready?"

Morgan slipped a stained, green mug under the steaming stream in the carafe bay. "All quantum pairs have undefined, linked, super-symmetrical spin. Q's copasetic. The sensor grid's up and recording." Morgan grinned and peered through tangled dreads. "Sorry I kinda' pissed you off, Doc."

Alan glared. "It isn't you, personally," he lied. "I just don't like taking money from a shady R&D firm that recruits nut cases for research in irrational sciences."

"LURC studies luck. So do you. And the correct term for the mental status of us LURC researchers is 'paradigm free.'"

"I lied. It is you," he said. "You and that coffee seller are wrecking my experiment and wrecking my marriage."

"We are both pretty cute," Morgan said.

Alan gripped the arms of his chair and took a deep breath. "No more practice." He forced himself to speak with academic authority. "Today, we execute Brieanna's special experiment, end her influence. I'm going to pay off LURC at one hundred to one and get rid of you."

"Ouch." The coffee machine dry-sputtered. "Please don't throw me in the briar patch." Morgan laughed.

"Morgan, if you can't be ser—"

"Don't jump me! You're the one obsessing on Brie. You're all caught up in how tomorrows should be. I live where I am and see what I see."

Alan wanted to bash a clipboard into Morgan's I'm a Zen kinda' guy smile. "And your superior, paradigm free sight shows you what?"

"That we're part of the system you want to measure."

"Experimental controls exclude us." Alan turned to his workstation. "Run diagnostics. I want to be ready by six-fifteen."

"Your show, Doc." Morgan handed Alan the green mug, then settled into the chair at his workstation.

The Buddha-boy got that right, Alan thought. My show. After years refining his equations, he had used hundreds of thousands of minutia sensors, seven supercomputers, and a random sample of two thousand commuters to build his model of the effects of human expectations on causal minutia.

Every day for twenty-four months, he used covert observation profiles to identify each subject's optimum daily parking place. His extensive sensor network recorded minute environmental changes as the day's commute unfolded. He plugged the sensor data and the subject's failure rate into his equations.

After weeks crunching numbers, the computers plotted the subjects' belief influence on their success or failure.

Of course, Brieanna never failed.

Her impossible, perfect record destroyed his hypothesis. She had to fail if he were going to measure the influence of her expectations on her outcomes. To force her failure, he needed to manipulate her environment and project outcomes in real-time.

He needed Q's speed and his highly trained, environmental adjustment teams.

He smiled. He'd look great at the podium in Stockholm. He straightened his tie and turned on his radio. "Let's do it," he said.

"I got zeros, Doc," Morgan said. "Q's happy. Are your spooks ready to haunt?"

"They're called adjustment teams."

"Whatever."

Adjustments had to perfectly mimic natural influences. If Brieanna suspected manipulation, her expectations would change, and her influence couldn't be measured. Alan had personally trained the adjustment teams to act without creating suspicion.

Alan put on the dispatcher's headset. "Check one?"

A deep voice answered from the headphones. "Power utilities covered."

"Two?"

"Water and sewer, confirmed."

"Three?" He continued until all teams confirmed readiness.

"For once, Morgan, your coffee is going to be late."

Morgan laughed. "We got no number yet. She's way off the right end of your graph. I'm thinking she's like gravity. Her influence is simultaneous. It's everywhere."

Alan launched his interface software for Q. "You know better, Morgan. Gravity's a spin two, vector gauge bozon. Everything's quantifiable, Doctor Rat Hair."

"Okay, not like gravity, but she's a statistically stable point. Maybe the universe defines variations relative to her. It needs some reference point. Why not her?"

"That statement assumes consciousness on the part of the universe."

"The universe is conscious."

"You can't prove that."

"Are you conscious?"

"That's a pointless, ridiculous question."

"If you're conscious and you're part of the universe, the universe is, by definition, conscious."

"Idiot."

"That's an ad hominem ethical, rhetorical fallacy. Do you have an actual counter argument?"

Alan shook his head. "By the numbers: we block her, do the analysis, and plot her influence. You disappear back into whatever grungy R&D cave spit you out, and I accept the Nobel." Alan poked his finger in the air at Morgan. "You got that, Mr. Paradigm Free?"

Morgan smiled and nodded. "Relax, Doc." Studying his workstation, he said, "I'm on your program. Data feeds are go, and I got numbers for you."

Alan's monitor blossomed with calculations of probabilities for Brieanna's successful arrival.

In his headphones a voice said, "Team three to base."

Alan checked the digital clock on his screen and initialized his log file at 06:22:57:04. "Go ahead, team three."

"Subject passing our checkpoint."

"Status, Morgan?"

"Clocks are synched, sensors go," Morgan said. "She's early. Maybe she knows we're trying to stop her."

Alan ignored him. "Copy, team three. Computing probabilities."

"Like Brie cares," Morgan mumbled. Then, in mock horror, he said, "The big red truck is alive. It's coming for us."

"Shut up, Morgan."

"I hope the men in black can stop it! Oh god!" Morgan's cackle filled the lab.

Alan muted his microphone. "She's moving, Morgan. You don't get paid for color commentary. Monitor Q."

"Q'll answer your questions." Morgan grinned mischievously. "You're sure you're asking the right questions?"

"Just give me simulations and predictions."

"Simulations coming up now," Morgan said.

On Alan's screen, numbers flashed in two columns. Q did its magic. Minute details from all over the city poured into the box: barometric pressure at the airport; pavement temperatures on Burnside and Third; the disposition of the pregnant Dalmatian at the fire station on Northwest 23rd. Three hundred thousand sensors pumped data at light speed, and Q turned it into a mass of possibilities colliding, canceling, and occasionally amplifying one another into statistically significant probabilities. In pico-time, all the canceling and comparing resulted in a single number.

Brieanna Wolfe had an impossible 99.999 percent chance of parking success.

Alan frowned.

"There you go, Herr Doktor. Same as every day for two years," Morgan chided. "Me and Q did our jobs according to spec and protocol. The parking goddess cometh."

Alan examined the column of suggested adjustments for Brie's currently predicted path. He selected a solution and sent a message. "Team seven, release your mice on my mark."

"Affirmative, base. All seven?"

"All seven."

"On your mark."

"Three, two, one, mark."

"Mice away."

* * *

From the dashboard, Valdez played with the swaying gold tassels hanging from the sun visor. A brown mouse ran into the road. Valdez batted at the window. Brie slowed to let the mouse cross. Checking her side mirror as she continued on, she saw the mouse scurry into the azalea bushes of a garden. "That was close, little guy. Look both ways next time."

* * *

On Alan's screen, new numbers appeared. The mice had changed her timing and ruined her probability of success. He turned to Morgan and grinned in triumph. "We did it! She's got less than a one percent chance of hitting her slot on time."

"A little early to call, don't you think?" Morgan said. "I mean, Brie's not even at the end of her street. A lot of stuff can shift the causal matrix—"

"Be as negative as you want. I have my number."

"A number."

"The number. And Morgan?" Alan spun to face his assistant.

"Doc?"

"You did a good job."

"Don't be too nice. You still might need to blame someone."

Alan felt magnanimous. He laughed.

"Really, Doc. I know you don't like it, but I think you should reconsider. We're part of the system. So is Q."

"Q says a forest green Ford Explorer full of kids will arrive for family counseling just before Brieanna."

"Look again, Doc."

Alan turned. The number that had been less than one was rising rapidly.

"Damn!" He tapped his screen like it was an analog gauge and vibration would free its sticky pointer. "Her success probability's rising." Frantic, Alan wheeled on Morgan. "What'd you do?"

Morgan pushed a dreadlock out of his eyes. "Told you you'd need me."

"Check the feeds!"

"Won't help." Morgan let lose a mad scientist's maniacal laugh. "She's the parking goddess of urban legend." He lowered his voice dramatically, lifted his arm, and pointed at Alan. "She's coming for you!"

Alan turned on his assistant, "If you can't be professional, get out!"

Morgan frowned. "Sorry, Doc. Checking feeds." Morgan hovered over Q, touching each cable with ritual precision.

Confused, Alan watched the number continue to rise. He swiveled his chair. "Morgan?"

"Q's happy with the universe." He crossed from Q to his workstation. "So am I, by the way."

"Don't give me attitude, just give me a new simulation."

Alan swiveled back to his screen. He didn't understand what had happened. Q had given them the answer. He released the adjustment. The mice shifted the causal matrix and changed her arrival time. It all worked, but it only worked for a moment.

For the probability of success to rise so fast and so far, her influence would have had to be . . .

No.

Impossible.

That was many orders of magnitude beyond the influence of any other subject.

Brieanna's number passed 80 percent and continued to rise.

* * *

Marguerite, still in lingerie, finished her coffee. She couldn't keep her eyes off the briefcase full of secrets on her kitchen table, nor could she get it open.

God! Even when he was gone, his work made her miserable. Hadn't she had friends at Livermore too? Hadn't she warned him about how he sounded? Did he care? No! He argued funding policy in public and got them exiled. He only cared about being right. She couldn't believe she'd supported him while he wrote those stupid grant proposals. She had thought the obsession would pass, that he'd settle into a teaching job at some community college. How could she have known LURC would be stupid enough to give him money?

He thought she didn't understand his work. She understood. She understood that the probability of getting spontaneity out of Alan Dickson was zero.

Staring at his bag only fueled her anger. It was so damned important, and he'd left it under the table. He'd blame her. He'd say, "You put on that getup and attacked me." Well, screw him. She'd put the case back in the closet. She'd bury it under sweaters and let him think he missed it.

She grabbed the case. Under her assault, the aged handle broke. The case fell to the tile floor. A seam split. Photographs and plane tickets spilled onto the floor.

She stared. The photographs were of a very young, very blond woman. Long, silky hair cascaded over her broad back and teased the curve of her young rear. Her tube top barely covered breasts gravity hadn't touched. The girl couldn't have been more than twenty.

In one picture, she was beside a red truck in a sunny spring yard full of budding rhododendrons. She was bent over picking up a yellow cat. Short shorts rode up her too-smooth backside. In another shot, she was pushing her long hair up over her head and smiling like some vixen from a shampoo commercial.

The ticket jackets showed tanned women in grass skirts undulating under palm trees.

Marg picked up a photo that had landed face down. The blond was sunbathing. Topless!

"Alan Dickson, you son of a bitch!"

Marguerite scooped up the pictures and tickets, dug her trench coat from the closet, wrapped it over her lingerie, and stormed through cool morning air to the curb and her little white Honda hatchback.

* * *

Searching for solutions, Alan organized his thoughts out loud. "I have eighty-seven adjustment teams. The sensors are fine. I designed the experiment myself." He tugged on his starched cuffs. "We're getting good, real-time data."

"That's the problem, Doc," Morgan said. "Q measures here and now. He's doing what you told him, but you think the causal matrix exists in unidirectional, linear time."

"Your point?"

"The time vector goes forward and backward. Your adjustments create a causal ripple, but the universe has already set its own adjustment canceling adjustments in motion; so, the number rises immediately. Your adjustments are readjusted before Q thinks of them."

"The universe can't anticipate complex future potentials."

"Why not? You think you can."

"That's different."

Morgan laughed. "Oh," he said. "That explains everything."

"We have work to do."

"Q, you, Brie, me; we're all inside this universe, not outside watching. Everywhere, every when, and everyone are part of the system."

"I'm going to make several adjustments at once."

"Let it go, Doc. You can't predict the ripples. Don't make things worse."

Alan reached for the microphone toggle.

* * *

A teat-worn beagle and three pups bolted into the street. "Whoa, Big Red!" Brie stomped the brakes to keep from flattening them. A man in a dark trench coat and silvered glasses slipped into the bushes where the dogs had appeared. "Figures," she said to Valdez. "There's a perv in their bushes. I won't run in this park on weekends."

When the last pup was clear, she pulled forward. At the next intersection, the traffic light was out. In fact, as far as she could see down the street, all the traffic lights were out. She checked both ways and ventured across.

A white hatchback zipped in front of her, narrowly missing her bumper.

Big Red lurched. Valdez said, "Mrower."

"I guess some people have very important things to do this morning," she said.

* * *

"Not enough!" Alan pressed loose hair over his bald spot. He tore at his sleeves. The number headed up again. "Get my briefcase! I need my secondary causal relationship tables."

"Where is it, Doc?"

Alan scanned the lab. Cool sweat broke out on his forehead. He remembered breakfast, setting the case beside his chair, Marg throwing herself spread-eagle over the table and saying filthy things. "No," he whispered.

"Where?" Morgan asked.

"I left it home." Alan closed his eyes, tried to visualize the numbers and corresponding actions on the secondary tables.

"We can't just make random adjustments, Doc. The results are unpredictable. Someone might get hurt."

"Most adjustment ripples are self-canceling."

"Most. Not all. Your own protocols say we shut down if something like this happens."

Morgan was right. An adjustment might ripple through the matrix and amplify into a catastrophe. He couldn't risk the damage random manipulations might cause.

Or could he?

He called his teams. "Seven?"

"Monitoring, base. What do you need?"

"Status on the mice."

"She almost hit one. One's in the sewers. Bookstore cat has one. Two disappeared. One went back in the cage. He's eating a leftover pellet. One's under a bush by the curb."

"Kill one."

"Doc!" Morgan protested. "That's just mean. It's not in the protocols. Don't mess with—"

Alan waved Morgan to silence.

"Mouse in the cage is dead," Seven said.

"Bad karma," Morgan said. "Very bad. Wouldn't want to be you when the universe sends out that bill."

Alan muted his microphone and studied the numbers on his screen. Brieanna's probability of success dipped then rose to nearly 100.

"It doesn't make sense," Alan said. "She was past team seven, and the mouse death caused a dip. The ripple of an event that should have been behind her had affected her potential—even if only for a moment."

"Doctor Dickson." The good humor was gone from Morgan's voice. "This whole thing is cruising left of center."

"Whole thing," Alan echoed. In his mind, the universe twisted, dissolved, then rebuilt itself with new clarity. He jumped up and looked out the window. Below, a small group waited for Brieanna's coffee. "Morgan, have you had your coffee?"

"You know I buy from Brie. I can't stomach the camel—"

"Get out!" Righteous, white fire filled Alan's mind. He grabbed Morgan's chair and rolled him toward the door. "Get everyone in this building a cup of coffee."

"Killing mice not enough?" Morgan jumped up and faced Alan. "You want to steal Brie's business?"

"Morgan, you're right. I was inside the box. I missed a control! She isn't isolated."

Morgan squinted from behind his dreads.

"Customers account for the strength of her effect. They expect her to be in that slot at seven-thirty. They amplify her influence. Eliminate them, and she's alone." Alan opened the lab door and pushed him. "Go! Do!"

"The protocols! There's no coffee in the protocols! You can't predict—"

"Giving people free coffee is good karma! Q will record everything. We'll do the analysis after we stop her!" Alan thought he was going to explode. He screamed at Morgan. "Go!"

Morgan headed out.

Alan called teams 85 through 87. "Get coffee! A lot of coffee. Report to the Leeman building. Keep bringing coffee until every person in the building has a cup. Move it!"

All three teams acknowledged with a crisp "Yes, sir!"

* * *

At 7:10, Morgan entered the lab, breathless. He poured a paper cup full of black coffee into Alan's mug. "Last cup," he said. "Everyone has some, and you owe Java-Roast four hundred twenty-two dollars."

Alan stared at his numbers. "Beat that, Brieanna!"

"What?"

"We have a stable outcome. There's an EMT vehicle in her slot. It'll stay for two hours."

"Wanna bet?"

Alan spun in his chair, spilling coffee on Morgan's purple shirt. "Q gives her almost zero chance. Those EMTs are teaching CPR to the web geeks down the hall."

"Fifty bucks and two almond-vanilla lattes."

Alan laughed. "You're on!"

Morgan flipped dreadlocks over his shoulder and smiled.

The smile made Alan nervous. He checked his screen. The number that had been steady at practically 0 was rising. The right side of the decimal was a blur. "How the hell?"

"She's a force of nature, Doc. Measuring her influence is like trying to trap the position of an electron. The harder you try, the crazier things get."

"This isn't a quantum effect. She's an air-headed coffee vendor."

"Not everything makes sense within our limited perspectives." Morgan patted Alan on the back. "Before I learned to surf reality waves, I was like you. I thought I could figure it all out, nail it all down."

"Don't patronize me." Alan spoke in low tones. "Get back on your machine. We need this data point, and by God, I'll have it."

"You won't get what you want. Brie's a spooky constant."

Alan's pulse pounded against his tight tie. What if Morgan was right? He pulled at the knot then checked out the window. The EMT truck was still there. He sighed and sat down. He had a moment before the rising probability would require the EMTs to leave.

He had to get Brie's number. If he didn't, he'd be labeled a failure by every legitimate research facility in the world, he'd spend his life working with idiots like Morgan, and he'd lose Marg.

A chill shook him. He had no choice. He toggled the microphone. "Forty-seven, break the water mains! All teams—"

Morgan leapt from his chair, dove across Alan's workstation, and muted the microphone. "The ripples could screw the whole city. Hell, the whole country! Maybe the world!"

"Get off my desk!"

Morgan planted himself between Alan and the console. "If she's a constant, the ripples won't touch her, but they have to go somewhere. You don't know what'll happen."

"Get out of my way!" Alan tried to push Morgan aside, but the younger man was too strong. "Chill, Doc. She's unstoppable. She's a statistical superhero."

"You're insane!" Alan pushed hard, but Morgan held fast. Alan collapsed back into his chair, suddenly regretting years of letting Marg go to the gym alone.

Morgan swiveled Alan away from his workstation. "Hear me out, Doc."

"You're fired."

"You proved she's a negative result. She's an anomaly. Log it and let it go."

"My contract says I complete the model or pay back the funding."

"You think I'd work for a company that allowed indentured servitude? That service clause only makes sure you believe completely in what you're doing. You fulfilled the contract. LURC has more useful data than they dreamed possible."

Alan considered. Morgan might believe what he was saying. He seemed sincere. But he was a LURC employee.

Alan relaxed his shoulders and dropped his hands to his lap. "Of course," he said quietly. "You're right." He looked up. "I'm okay. Let me up."

Morgan stepped back. Alan stood, put a hand on Morgan's shoulder, and said, "Fifty and two lattes."

Confused, Morgan stared.

"The bet," Alan said, taking Morgan's elbow and leading him to the door. "One outlier doesn't invalidate the study." Alan unbolted and opened the door. He smiled as they passed into the hallway. "I suppose," he said. The door closed behind them. "We'll have to accept the Nobel together."

Morgan laughed. "No way, Doc. I hate flying."

Alan chuckled and patted his pants pockets. "My wallet," he said. "I'll get my coat."

Alan opened the door, stepped into the lab, slammed the door, and threw the bolt.

"Doc!" Morgan screamed from the hallway. "No!"

Alan called back. "I'm not risking my future on a LURC employee's word that their lawyers are ethical."

Morgan's muffled words came through the door. "She's a stable statistical anomaly in chaos. You can get the Nobel for just discovering her, but you can't stop her. Don't screw yourself. Don't hurt her!" Morgan pounded on the door. "Doc! Please! Don't hurt her!"

Alan went to his workstation and called his teams. "Eleven, light the matches. Twelve, open the hoses. Thirteen, hit . . ." He went through his list like a machine. Each adjustment forced the probability closer to zero.

Then, after each drop, no matter how deep, the number rose.

At 7:25, he realized he had to drive the probability so low it couldn't rise above one before 7:30. Frantically, he called out adjustments.

Morgan pounded on the door.

* * *

Brie swerved, just missing a shuffling old woman in a pink running suit. In the back of the truck, Bessie spit out a plastic jug of milk. It split. Brie twisted in her seat to look. Valdez headed for the treat. Brie turned back to the street. A fireman pulled a hose across the road toward a burning boat and trailer. She stomped both feet down on the brake pedal.

Valdez meowed with pleasure from the rear of the truck.

Brie looked away from the flaming boat in time to see a landslide sweep across the road in the block ahead. Someone's split-level ranch rode the moving earth like a drunken cowboy on a demon bronco.

From Big Red to the slide, brake lights flashed. Before blocked traffic locked her in, she backed up and headed down a side street. A block later, a huge sinkhole stopped her. A broken main gushed water from the hole. Brie could just make out the wrecked shape of a little white hatchback under the umbrella of spray. A man with a cell phone to his ear stood near the hole.

Brie pulled completely off the road onto a dirt lane. Valdez jumped into her lap and licked milk from his paws. "I hope everyone's okay," she said. As though he heard her, the man pointed at his phone and waved her off with a thumbs up.

"Sweet goddess, Valdez," she said. "The whole city's having troubles. We need to get our smiles out there." Brie looked around. The dirt lane disappeared into the shadows of a blooming cherry orchard. She inhaled fragrant air and smiled. "I know this place. This is Ida Chapman's orchard. I helped her pick during high school." She laughed, put Big Red in gear, and headed for the equipment exit at the far side of the familiar maze of pink trees and dirt lanes. "Valdez," she said, "Ida's helping us deliver smiles. Tonight, we burn a candle for her."

With a little bouncing and jostling and a few quick swerves, she and Valdez managed to reach the Leeman building. There, a crew of hard-faced street workers cordoned off her normal approach. She headed around the block to enter the lot from the other side.

* * *

Alan yelled, "More, dammit!"

Only static responded. He'd used all his adjustments. Brie's number was rising fast. He checked the window.

To his horror, two uniformed EMTs ran from the building and jumped in their truck. Lights flashed. The siren wailed, and the truck was gone.

Alan checked his screen. When Brie's number hit 99, he screamed, grabbed his keys, and sprinted for the door. He threw the bolt, ripped open the door and rammed into Morgan. "Look out!"

"Stop!" Morgan grabbed for him. "Doc, let her go! We're part of this."

Alan twisted away and ran down the stairs. Side cramped and short of breath, Alan hit the lot running. In spite of four hundred dollars worth of coffee, a small crowd waited for Brie's truck. He shoved past them, glancing in the direction of their glassy stares. The red truck was heading for the lot entrance.

Alan ran to his car, jumped in, fired it up, and raced toward Brie's spot. The crowd scattered. Alan skidded into the parking space.

Morgan stood at his front bumper, shaking his head, dreadlocks dusting back and forth across his shoulders.

In his rearview mirror, Alan saw the ridiculous red truck with a black nose slowing to enter the lot. He could see the ditzy smile on Brieanna's oblivious face.

Morgan came around to the driver's window. Alan rolled it down.

Morgan shook his head. "You better move, Doc."

"I did it!" Alan said triumphantly. He held up his wrist to show Morgan his watch. "7:29! Q has enough data. It's not precise, but an approximation is better than nothing."

"I don't know what—"

"Give it up, Rasta-boy! I win!"

"Win what?"

"I'm going back to Livermore!" Alan's laugh was shrill and giddy. "I'm calling Marg, taking her to dinner, and flying to Kauai." He reached for the phone on his dash.

It rang.

"Don't answer it," Morgan said.

Alan's hand shook. He lifted the receiver.

A woman's voice said, "Alan?"

"Marg?" He smiled and winked at Morgan. "I was about to call you."

"I've been in an accident."

His grip tightened on the phone. "Where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm at the airport. I wanted to say goodbye."

"I don't understand."

"A water main broke. I drove into a huge hole. I had the pictures of your lover. I didn't have time to change. I was soaked. I was coming—"

"My what?"

"I didn't understand until I met Brandon."

"Who?"

"Brandon Wolfe, my EMT. He pulled me out of the car. He gave me his fire coat and a cup of coffee. His little sister makes the best coffee."

"There was a fire?"

"I can't help it. I love him. I suppose it's like you and your bimbo. Anyway, fair is fair. We're using your tickets. Got an earlier flight. We leave in a half hour."

"You what?"

"It's so romantic! He quit his job to go. He's so spontaneous, so passionate. He just seems to move with the flow of things." She paused. Wet sounds came from the phone. Then, breathless, she said, "It didn't seem right to not say goodbye. No hard feelings, Alan. I really do hope you and your . . . your whatever, are happy."

Alan's vision darkened at the edges. The phone was cold in his hand. "Marg," he whispered. "You don't understand."

"We tried, Alan. This is for the best. We're both free. Aloha." The line went dead.

Thirty minutes. He could make it. He dropped the phone, burned rubber in reverse, then floored it for the street. At 7:29 and thirty seconds, he passed a lumbering, red blur and raced away toward the airport.

* * *

At Big Red's window, Morgan stroked Valdez's neck while Brie steamed milk, her smiling, blue eyes twinkling with natural magic.

The steamer fell silent and she handed him his latte.

"Thanks," he said.

She slipped her hair back over her shoulder then held up a chocolate-covered coffee bean. "Free for my favorite regular, Morgan. You always smile, and you never miss a day."

"You're a constant in my life too, Brie." Suddenly shy, he asked, "Brie?"

"No bean?"

Morgan took a deep breath. The mingling scents of eucalyptus incense, coffee, and cherry blossoms braced him. "A friend's playing banjo at a club downtown. I wondered—"

"Of course," she said. "But I have to be home by ten. A lot depends on me getting up early."

"Yeah, I know." Morgan opened his mouth. Brie laughed and put the bean gently on his tongue.

* * *

Bob's Yeti Problem

Written by Lawrence Person
Illustrated by David Maier

One morning Bob Krusden stepped outside his cabin to discover three yeti carcasses embedded in his front yard.

He was pretty sure they were yeti rather than bigfeet, as their pelts were a handsome silver-white rather than brown. Two of them were semi-naked, wearing only some sort of weird loincloth and bandoleer arrangement, while the third wore what seemed to be a dull brown uniform. All three were suffering from what Bob had learned to describe, during his three seasons writing for St. James Street, as "massive blunt trauma." Two were planted face down a good half-foot into the pine-needle covered loam outside his cabin, and the one in uniform seemed to have come down on top of the others. All three had broken limbs and were surrounded by copious quantities of dried blood.

Bob was, to say the least, surprised. Though it had been getting close to dusk, he was sure there had been no dead yeti in front of his cabin when he had come home from his afternoon hike the day before. From the looks of things, they had fallen from a great height sometime during the night without him waking. That didn't surprise him. Trish, his ex-wife, had always said he could sleep through an air-raid siren. Certainly he had slept through her loading up their downstairs furniture and leaving divorce papers on the pillow.

When he had rented the cabin for the summer, he was pretty sure the real estate agent hadn't mentioned any yeti, dead or otherwise. Moreover, the fact that yeti were generally thought of as mythological creatures, and ones native to the Himalayas rather than the Rockies, merely heightened the odd nature of the situation.

Bob wondered what to do. He had come up to Colorado to spend time cranking out screenplays far from Hollywood's clamoring Babel, and had already finished two with a third in progress. Dealing with cyrptozoological remains wasn't part of the plan.

He finally decided to head on into town. Ed might know if anything like this had happened before and who he should contact. Besides, he was out of cornflakes.

* * *

Bob pulled up in front of Ed's General Store, Hunting Emporium and Internet Café. Ed Ridley was a man of many talents, most of which involved avoiding real work. The general store portion of the business offered staples at only moderately usurious prices, while the hunting supply portion sold lures, bait, ropes, hand-warmers, ammo, etc. for a good three to five times what you would pay at your local sporting goods store. The Internet café consisted of four Formica tables with old, battered iMacs hooked up to a landline upload and satellite download for a princely $10 an hour (one hour minimum), mostly for hunters who wanted to send E-mail or check their stocks. But these days Ed's biggest cyberspace venture was swapping deer and elk leases online, leaving the store's actual grunt work to his sullen teenage son, Mike, who was busy stocking cans of beans when Bob came in.

"Hi, Mike," said Bob. "Nice day today."

"Yeah, whatever," said Mike, not looking up.

Ed nodded at him from the counter as he passed, cradling his phone with his shoulder and typing into his laptop with the other. "Three for Saturday night? Yeah, I think I can arrange that," he said.

Bob drifted around the shop, picking up a box of cornflakes, a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, a can of Folgers, and a four-pack of toilet paper. By the time he brought it up to the register, Ed was off the phone.

"That'll do ya?" asked Ed, running a scanning wand over the items.

"Yeah. Say, Ed, you ever see any yeti up these parts?"

"Yeti?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yeah, you know, yeti, abominable snowmen, bigfoot . . ."

"Oh. Bigfoot! Yeah, we had ourselves a little bigfoot boom down in Silverton around 1977, 1978 or so, whenever they had that bigfoot on The Six Million Dollar Man. Since then I can't really recall too many sightings. Most of our crazies see saucers or black helicopters these days."

"Well, I don't think I'm crazy, but this morning I found three dead yeti out in front of my cabin."

Ed stopped scanning. "Yeti?"

"Yeah."

"Three of 'em?"

"Yeah."

"Dead?"

"Oh, yeah. Looks like they had fallen a long way before smacking into the ground."

Ed scratched his head, then finished bagging Bob's groceries. "Can't say as I ever heard about anyone finding any dead bigfoots around here."

"Well, I think these are more yeti than bigfoot. They've got silver pelts."

Ed nodded sagely, as though anyone knew what color yeti pelts were. "Well, I'd tell you call Sheriff Parker, but he's in Pueblo getting his gallbladder out. That'll be $18.46."

Bob fished a twenty out of his wallet. As Ed was making change he had another thought. "Say, do you suppose yeti are an endangered species?"

"I would suppose so, since no one ever found a dead one before."

"Well, maybe you better talk to the EPA then. I've got a card from one in Denver, a Melissa Speed. She handed 'em out when she was poking around here about that spitting tree spider thing." Ed tore off his receipt and wrote the phone number down on the back. "Here, you might give her a call and see what she thinks."

Bob laid the groceries on the floorboard and fished his phone out of the Explorer's glove compartment. He kept it there for the same reason he had erased the Internet software from his laptop: so he could actually get some work done. He deleted the waiting phone spam and dialed the number Ed had given him.

"EPA field office, Melissa Speed speaking."

"Uh, Ms. Speed, I have a problem, and I'm not sure if you're the right person to talk to." He started outlining the situation.

"Yeti?" she interrupted. "This better not be a prank call! We can trace your phone number, you know!"

"No, it's no prank! I've got three dead yetis in front of my cabin, and I don't know what to do."

After Ms. Speed warned him that she could have him in jail so fast it would make his head spin for filling a false report, she had finally agreed to drive down that afternoon.

As he drove back to the cabin, Bob felt a sense of relief that the whole incident was going to be resolved soon. It had occurred to him that he could have sold the story to the National Enquirer, but Bob hated the tabloids, having seen them lie about a few of his acting friends. He was also wary of any publicity for himself rather than his screenplays. Bob was short, overweight, balding and wore glasses, and knew he looked horrible on camera. The few times he had appeared on TV (right after his first, as thus far only, Oscar nomination), he was surprised at how unpleasantly nasal his voice sounded. When you came right down to it, he was a moderately shy person, and the idea of appearing on Dateline or the evening news filled him with a certain low-key terror.

However, his sense of relief was short-lived. When he got back to his cabin, he saw that there were now four dead yeti in his front yard.

* * *

Speed was a frumpy, overweight woman with frizzy brown hair and the deeply ingrained frown of the Permanently Disapproving.

"This better not be a wild goose chase, Mr. Krusden!" she warned, eyeing him suspiciously. "Where are these three yeti you talked about?"

"Uh, four, actually, and—"

"Four? You told me there were three! Did you kill another one?"

"No, uh, I didn't kill any of them. This one seems to have fallen from the sky like the rest."

"Fallen from the sky? Do you really expect me to believe that?"

"And I dragged the bodies over here to the side of the cabin so I could get in without having to walk around them. Plus they were starting to smell."

"Don't you know what sort of—" Speed stopped, looking at the four dead yetis laid out by the side of Bob's cabin, then slowly reached down to touch one of them. After a few minutes of pulling at their hair and opening their glazed eyes, she stood up.

"They are yeti, aren't they?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I was trying to tell you."

"I need to take a Haldol," she said.

* * *

It took Bob a few minutes to brew coffee, during which Speed raged into her phone at various other government functionaries, barking orders and making demands. When the coffee was ready, Bob handed her a mug.

"Thanks," she said briskly, swallowing a pill and chasing it with the coffee. "Without my Haldol, I get unpleasant." She went back to her phone. "No I don't want him to call me tomorrow, I want him to call me right now!"

After another twenty minutes of haranguing other bureaucrats and pacing back and forth across his cabin floor, Speed finally rang off and put her phone away. "Well, that's finally settled," she said. "The FBI will be here to secure the scene in an hour or so."

"Secure the scene?"

"An endangered species is being slaughtered right under my very nose!" she said. "You can be sure there's not going to be another yeticide on my watch! Which is why you'll have to vacate this cabin "

"What? I've still got more than a month's rent paid on it!"

"That's your problem, Mr. Krusden, not mine. My problem is protecting biodiversity, which is why I'm having the forest around this cabin declared a sanctioned protection zone. You should just be glad that I don't charge you as an accessory to an environmental felony. You have ten minutes to pack up and leave!"

Speed stalked out of the cabin and slammed the door behind her.

Bob looked around the cabin in dismay. How the hell was he supposed to get everything packed in ten minutes?

Suddenly, from outside the cabin, there was a deep-throated cry, soon joined by a woman's scream, both of which were cut off by a loud, wet WHUMP.

Bob opened the door to find out that Speed had been crushed by yet another falling yeti.

* * *

"Mr. Krusden, do you know what the penalty is for killing an agent of the federal government?" asked Agent Rollins.

"Look, I did not kill Ms. Speed. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That's what you say. We have not ruled out foul play in Ms. Speed's death, and we still consider you a suspect."

"She was crushed by a yeti."

"Even if that is the case, we can't necessarily rule out that you used the yeti as an instrument of murder."

"Do you think I've got secret catapult or yeti-firing cannon out behind the cabin?"

"Never underestimate the devious byways of the criminal mind."

"Don't you think that's a little crazy?"

"Crazier than yeti falling out of the sky?"

He had a point.

Two hours after Ms. Speed's demise, two FBI agents had shown up at the cabin and had become quite perturbed at the most recent turn of events. Now Agent Hernandez was busy examining the bodies while his partner questioned Bob.

Hernandez walked up, shaking his head. "It certainly looks like she was killed by a falling yeti."

Bob spread his hands. See?

"And the others?" asked Rollins.

"It looks like they fell too. You can still see the indentions in the loam."

"Are you sure they're yeti?"

"Heck if I know. I've never seen one before. But they ain't guys in funny suits."

"That's aren't guys in funny suits. You're an FBI agent now, Hernandez. We speak proper English. And don't say 'heck.'"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Just then another SUV pulled up and two men climbed out, one of them carrying a camcorder.

"Oh, great, just what I need," groused Rollins, moving off to intercept them.

"Tightass," muttered Hernandez under his breath.

"Rollins, FBI," he said, flashing his badge, "This is a crime scene, you'll have to leave immediately!"

"Agent Rollins, Dan Parker, FOX-31 News. Is it true that this cabin is the sight of a bigfoot killing spree?"

"No, it's not, and get that camera out of here!" he said. The cameraman kept filming the FBI agent for a moment, then panned to take in the dead yeti on top of Speed.

"How many people has the murderous bigfoot killed so far?"

"Only one! No, strike that! No comment! How the hell did you hear about this anyway!?"

"Oh, you came through loud and clear on the police scanner! We were out doing a spitting tree spider story when word came across, but nine or ten other news crews are on their way."

"I said, get that camera out of here! This is a crime scene! Do you want to be arrested?"

Parker shut off his microphone for a moment. "Oh, could you? Please? That would look so cool on my resume!" He turned the microphone back on. "Agent Rollins, before arresting me, you should know that this audio and video is being fed live to FOX-31's web site, but if you need to do your duty, so be it."

Rollins muttered something under his breath as he walked away and pulled out his phone.

"Sir, are you the owner of this cabin?" asked Parker, sticking the microphone in Bob's face. Bob looked uncomfortable and unconsciously sucked in his gut.

"Uh, not the owner, the renter."

"And your name?"

"Uh, Bob Krusden."

"And your profession?"

"Uh, I'm a screenplay writer."

"And did you witness the murderous bigfoot attack?"

"Uh, well, actually it's more of a yeti than a bigfoot."

"Yeti?"

"Yeah. You can tell by the silver pelt. And it wasn't really an attack, it just fell out of the sky."

"Fell out of the sky?"

"Yeah, like the other four."

"Four?"

Bob pointed and the cameraman bounded over to the side of the cabin to film the other dead yeti.

"Mr. Krusden, how can we believe that five bigfoots—"

"Yeti."

"That five yeti just fell out of the sky?"

"Hey, now I remember!" said Hernandez suddenly. "Bob Krusden! You wrote the script for Autumn Light, right?"

Bob smiled. "Yeah, actually I did! How did you know that?"

"I knew your name sounded familiar! Yeah, there's an excerpt from that in Mastering Screenplay Basics! I've always wanted to be a screenwriter! See, I've got this idea for a script about these two FBI agents. One of them's cool, but the other is really a tightass—"

"But back to the yeti, what the public wants to know—"

At that moment, they all heard a loud, guttural cry, and turned just in time to see another yeti plowing into the ground.

Finally, Bob had an idea. He pulled out his phone.

"Ed's General Store, Hunting Emporium and Internet Café, how may I help you?"

"Hi Ed, this is Bob. Listen, I wanted to see if you had some things in stock . . ."

* * *

Night had fallen, but the area in front of the cabin was brightly lit by an array of floodlights. Bob, Agent Hernandez, Ed, and Mike were busy tying the last of the lines in Bob's makeshift net. Rope, bungie cord, several hunting slings and a couple of real nets were tied to several pine trees and the top of the cabin's porch some ten feet off the ground. Between the ropes and the lights, Bob had ended up putting more than a thousand dollars on his Visa card, all of it at Ed's exorbitant prices. When Bob had pointed out that his business would probably quintuple after tourists got wind of the yeti story, Ed had generously knocked off five percent.

"Is that end tight?" asked Bob.

"Yeah, whatever," said Mike, already climbing down the ladder.

Bob carefully walked across the makeshift net and back, uncomfortably aware of the dozens of cameramen filming his every move. There were now a good fifty to sixty reporters milling around outside the FBI's tape barrier, all covering "The Great Yeti Mystery" and all being scowled at by Agent Rollins. Rollins hadn't been wild about Bob's idea, but hadn't been able to think of anything better.

Though it shifted alarmingly under his feet, Bob was reasonably sure the net would at least break the next yeti's fall, assuming another one came tumbling. Bob carefully climbed down, waved off a batch of shouted questions, and stepped into his cabin to grab a cup of coffee. While it was brewing he checked his phone calls. Twenty-two requests for interviews, two more friends and an ex-girlfriend calling to say they had seen him on the news, his agent Sid calling with the latest offers for the movie rights to his story, and his mother, asking why he couldn't wear some nice pants for the cameras instead of those ratty old jeans. He called Sid.

"Bob, you're golden! Sony's upped the offer to $750,000!"

"Creative control?"

"No, they're balking at that. They say they're not sure you have the proper perspective to do the story right. They think the protagonist needs to be a beautiful, twenty-something half-Native American veterinarian who's capable of speaking to the spirits of the dead yeti."

"Of course they do. That's why you're going to tell them No. Call back when they're willing to offer two million and creative control."

"Well Bob, you're the man! But are you sure they'll go that high?"

"Wait until we capture a live yeti." He rung off and stepped back outside.

Bob looked up at the net. One of the strands Mike had tied seemed to be loose. Bob picked up the ladder and moved it to the next tree, painfully aware of the cameras capturing his every move. Upon closer inspection it was coming loose, but there wasn't enough rope left at the end to loop it around the tree again.

"Do we have any more rope down there?" he asked.

Before anyone answered, there was another guttural scream as another yeti fell, this one straight into the ropes. The makeshift net bowed in the middle, almost touched the ground, then held and rose back up, sending the ladder tumbling to the ground in the process. Bob grabbed the edge of net nearest him, then, with some difficulty, pulled himself up.

Dozens of live camera feeds captured the sight of the new yeti scrabbling to its feet in the netting, shielding its eyes against the floodlights' glare, fearful and disoriented. It seemed to be wearing the same brown uniform as the last few yeti and it carried some sort of flashlight. It let out another long cry.

Bob got unsteadily to his feet, unsure what to do next. "Uh, hi there!" he said, raising his hands, then wondering if that would really be seen as a peaceful gesture. The yeti turned to look at him, then slowly backed away.

Bob edged closer, painfully aware of the fact that the yeti probably weighed a good two hundred pounds more than he did. "Hi there! My name is Bob," he said, lowering one hand and pointing to himself.

The yeti made no reply, its gaze darting back and forth between Bob, the ground, and the assembled crowd. It was a good thing they had moved all the dead yeti back behind the cabin.

"My name is Bob," he repeated, still pointing at himself.

The yeti zeroed in on him.

"Bob!" he said again, still pointing.

The yeti seemed to get the idea. It pointed a finger at him and growled "Brrraaaab."

"Yes, that's right!" said Bob, nodding his head and edging closer. "My name is Bob," he said, pointing at himself again, "and your name is . . ." he said pointing at the yeti.

"Yawragrowroh!" said the yeti pointing at himself.

"Yahhgrawow," said Bob, pointing at the yeti.

"Yawragrowroh!" said the yeti, then it stiffly mimicked Bob's nodding.

Bob nodded in return. "Nice to meet you, Yawragrowroh" he said, slowly and carefully extending his hand to the yeti. Yawragrowroh looked at the hand for a moment, then, under the glare of a hundred camera flashes, cautiously reached out and grasped it.

* * *

"Are you there, Bob?"

"Yeah, Sid, I got you on the speakerphone."

"How about the Y-Man?"

Yawragrowroh growled in assent.

"What's the score?" asked Bob.

"Sony bailed at two million, but ViaDream's willing to go two point five mil, plus a one percent contingent compensation gross kicker when it exceeds one hundred sixty million."

"Crrrrrreeeeeeaaaative?" asked Yawragrowroh.

"Wellll, sorta," said Sid. "They're willing to give you 'substantial' script consultation, but no final cut approval."

"Did they ditch the chase scene with the nuclear warhead?"

"Yeah, that's gone."

"How about the dinosaur attack?"

"Turns out Paramount is doing a 'Dinosaurs vs. Robots' movie next year, so they agreed to cut that as well."

"And just to make sure: I'm still not a hot Indian veterinarian psychic, right?"

"Well, not exactly, no. You're still a male Hollywood scriptwriter, but now the half-Native American veterinarian is your girlfriend."

" I wish. Who's going to play the girlfriend?"

"They're talking Reese Witherspoon with dyed skin."

Bob pounded his head ever-so-softly against the wall. "Does she still speak to the dead yeti?"

"Yeah."

"I can live with the girlfriend. But they have to drop the psychic crap. That's a deal breaker."

"Drrrreeeealbrrrreaaaker?"

"If you can live with the girlfriend, I think they'll budge on the psychic part."

"And if we can't get a real Indian, can we at least get a real brunette?"

"See what I can do. Oh, and they're also offering 'personal casting approval.'"

"Personal casting?"

"Yeah, just for the actors to play you two."

"Who do they want to play me?"

"Jason Alexander."

Bob sighed. "Yeah, I was afraid of that. Did they try Bob Hoskins?"

"He's playing the villain in a Jet Li film."

"I can live with Jason Alexander."

"Mrrrreeeeee?"

'For you they want Ben Affleck."

"RRRRRRRRRRAWWWWWWRRRRR!"

"Okay, I'm sensing a little resistance to the Affleck idea. Who would you prefer?"

"RRRRRReeebaaacaaa?"

"Sorry, Y. Peter Mayhew is in the hospital following a golf cart accident."

"Rrrraaaawww, crrrrraaap."

"Anyone else they have lined up?" asked Bob.

'Well, unofficially, they're saying George Clooney is up next after Affleck."

Yawragrowroh made his hopeful noise. "Goooood deaaal."

"No problem with the Feds?"

"Nah, now that the gate's up and running they've got dozens of live yetis to work with, and they're too busy hammering out an inter-dimensional trade agreement to worry about some movie deal."

"So we got it? We in agreement here?"

"Yeah, let's do it. Pull the trigger."

"Y man?"

"Rrrrrrroooock aaaand Rrrrrrrrroooollll!"

"All right! I'll get ViaDream to fax over the contracts. Hang onto your seats, gentlemen. I think this one could be a monster!"

* * *

Slanted Jack

Written by Mark L. Van Name
Illustrated by Phil Renne

Nothing should have been able to ruin my lunch.

Joaquin Choy, the best chef on any planet within three jumps, had erected his restaurant, Falls, just outside Eddy, the only city on the still-developing planet Mund. He'd chosen the site because of the intense flavors of the native vegetables, the high quality of the locally raised livestock, and a setting that whipped your head around and widened your eyes.

Falls perched on camo-painted carbon-fiber struts over the center of a thousand-meter-deep gorge. You entered it via a three-meter-wide transparent walkway so soft you were sure you were strolling across high, wispy clouds. The four waterfalls that inspired its name remained visible even when you were inside, thanks to the transparent active-glass walls whose careful light balancing guaranteed a glare-free view throughout the day. The air outside filled your head with the clean scent of wood wafting downstream on light river breezes; a muted variant of the same smells pervaded the building's interior.

I occupied a corner seat, a highly desirable position given my background and line of work, that let me easily scan all new arrivals. In the clouds above me, Lobo, my intelligent battle wagon, monitored the area surrounding the restaurant so no threat could assemble without my knowledge while I ate. I'd located an exterior exit option when I first visited Choy, and both Lobo and I could reach it in under a minute. Wrapped in a blanket of security I rarely achieved in the greater world, I could relax and enjoy myself.

The setting was perfect.

Following one of my cardinal rules of fine dining—always opt for the chef's tasting menu in a topnotch restaurant—I'd forgone the conventional offerings and instead surrendered myself to Choy's judgment, asking only that he not hold back on the portion size of any course. Getting fat is never an issue for me. At almost two meters tall and over a hundred kilos, I'm large enough that I'd be able to eat quite a lot if I were a normal man, and the nano-machines that lace my cells decompose and flush any excess food I consume.

Spread in front of me were four appetizer courses, each blending chunks of a savory meat with strands of vegetables steaming on a plate of slowly changing color. Choy instructed me to taste each dish separately and then in combinations of my choice. I didn't know what any of them were, and I didn't care. They smelled divine, and I expected they would taste even better.

They did. I leaned back after the third amazing bite and closed my eyes, my taste buds coping with sensations that in over a hundred and fifty years of life they'd never experienced. I struggled to conjure superlatives equal to the flavors.

The food was perfect.

What ruined the lunch was the company, the unplanned, unwanted company.

When I opened my eyes, Slanted Jack was walking toward me from the entrance.

Slanted Jack, so named because with him nothing was ever straight, starred in one of the many acts of my life that I'd just as soon forget. The best con man and thief I've ever known, he effortlessly charmed and put at ease anyone who didn't know him. Maybe ten centimeters shorter than I, with a wide smile, eyes the blue of the heart of flame, and skin the color and sheen of polished night, Jack instantly grabbed the attention of everyone around him. While weaving his way across the room to me he paused three times to exchange pleasantries with people he was almost certainly meeting for the first time. Each person Jack addressed would know that Jack found him special, important, even compelling.

While Jack was chatting with a foursome a few tables away, I called Lobo.

"Any sign of external threat?" I said.

"Of course not," Lobo said. "You know that if I spotted anything, I'd alert you instantly. Why are you wasting time talking to me when you could be eating your magnificent meal, conversing with other patrons, and generally having a wonderful time? It's not as if you're stuck up here like I am, too high to even have the birds for company."

"It's not like I could bring you in here with me," I said, parroting his tone. "Nor, for that matter, do you eat."

"You've never heard of take-out? I may not eat, but I can be quite a pleasant dinner companion, as I'd think you'd realize after the times we've spent together."

I sighed. Every time I let myself fall into an argument with Lobo when he's in a petulant mood, I regret it. "Signing off."

I blended bits of food from three of the plates into another bite, but I couldn't take my eyes off Jack; the food's charms were dissipating faster than their aromas. Jack and I had worked together for almost a decade, and though that time was profitable, it was also consistently nerve-wracking. Jack lived by his own principles, chief among which was his life-long commitment to target only bad people. We consequently found ourselves time and again racing to make jumps off planets, always a short distance ahead of dangerous, very angry marks. By the time we split, I vowed to go straight and never work the con again.

"Jon," Jack said as he reached my table, his smile as disarming as always. "It's good to see you. It's been too long."

"What do you want, Jack?"

"May I join you?" he said, pulling out a chair.

I didn't bother to answer; it was pointless.

He nodded and sat. "Thank you."

A waiter appeared beside him, reset the table for two, and waited for Jack's order.

"I throw myself to Joaquin's mercy," Jack said. "Please tell him Jack asked only that he be gentle."

The waiter glanced at me for confirmation. Jack wasn't going to leave until he had his say, so I nodded, and the waiter hustled away.

"Joaquin truly is an artist," Jack said. "I—"

I cut him off. "What do you want?"

Jack took bits of two of my appetizers and chewed them slowly, his eyes shutting as the tastes flooded his mouth. "Amazing. Did I say he was an artist? I should have called him a magician—and I definitely should have eaten here sooner."

He opened his eyes and studied me intently. The focus of his gaze was both intense and comforting, as if he could see into your soul and was content to view only that. For years I'd watched him win the confidence of strangers with a single long look, and I'd never figured out how he managed it. I'd asked him many times, and he always told me the same thing: "Each person deserves to be the center of the universe to someone, Jon, even if only for an instant. When I focus on someone, that person is my all." He always laughed afterward, but whether in embarrassment at having said something completely honest or in jest at my gullibility is something I'll never know.

"We haven't seen each other in, what, thirty years now," he said, "and you haven't aged a day. You must give me the names of your med techs—" he paused and chuckled before continuing, "—and how you afford it. Courier work must pay far better than I imagined."

I wasn't providing private courier services when I last saw him, so he was telling me he'd done his homework. He also looked no different than before, which was to be expected: no one with money and the willingness to pay med techs needs to show age for at least the middle forty or fifty years of his life. So, he was also letting me know he had reasons to believe I'd done well since we parted. I had, but I saw no value in providing him with more information. Dealing with him had transformed the afternoon from pleasure to work, and the same dishes that had been so appealing a few minutes ago now held absolutely no interest for me.

"How did you find me?"

He arranged and slowly chewed another combination of the appetizers before answering. "Ah, Jon, that was luck, fate if you will. Though we've been apart for quite a while, I'm sure you remember how valuable it is for someone in my line of work to develop supporters among the jump-gate staff. Some of my better friends here at Mund's gate agreed to inform me when people of a certain," he looked skyward, as if searching for a phrase, "dangerous persuasion pass into the system. Traveling in a Starlon-class battle wagon earned you their attention, and they were kind enough to alert me."

I nodded and silently cursed myself. During a recent run-in with two major multiplanet conglomerates and a big chunk of the Frontier Coalition government, I'd made so many jumps in such a short period that I'd abandoned my previously standard practice of bribing jump-gate agents not to notice me. Break a habit, pay a price.

I ignored the bait about Lobo and tried to wrest control of the conversation away from him. "Jack, answer or one of us leaves: what do you want?"

He leaned back and looked into my eyes for a few seconds, then smiled and nodded. "You never could appreciate the value of civilized conversation," he said, "but your very coarseness has also always been part of your appeal—and your value. Put simply and without the context I hope you'll permit me to provide, I need your help."

Leave it to Jack to take that long to give an answer with absolutely no content.

"When we parted," I said, "I told you I was done with the con. Nothing has changed. You've ruined my lunch for no reason." I stood to go.

Jack leaned forward, held up his hand, and said, "Please, Jon, give me a little time. This isn't about me. It's about the boy."

His tone grabbed me enough that I didn't walk away, but I also didn't sit. "The boy? What boy? I can't picture you with children."

Jack laughed. "No," he said, "I have not chosen to procreate, nor do I ever expect to do so." He held up his hand, turned, and motioned to the maître d'.

The man walked over to our table, reached behind himself, and gently urged a boy to step in front of him.

"This boy," Jack said. "Manu Chang."

Chang stared at me with the wide, unblinking eyes of scared youth. With shoulders slightly wider than his hips and a fair amount of hair on his neck, he appeared to be somewhere between ten and twelve, not yet inhabiting a man's body but beginning the transformation into one. His broad mouth hung open a centimeter, as if he were about to speak. He wore his fine black hair short, not quite a buzz cut but close. Aside from the copper hue of his skin nothing about him struck me as remarkable, and even that skin tone would be common enough in any large city. He stood still, neither speaking nor moving, and I felt instantly bad for him, stuck as he was in an adult situation beyond his ability to understand.

"Are you hungry, Manu?" I said as I sat.

He nodded but didn't speak.

"Then please eat with us." The maître d' was, predictably, ahead of me: two waiters appeared, hustled the boy into a chair, and composed a plate of food for him from the remains of the appetizers and two new dishes they brought. After I took a bite of mine and Jack did the same, Manu followed suit.

I turned my attention back to Jack. I realized he was almost certainly manipulating me, because he knows no other way to interact with others. I also knew the odds of my later regretting this question were high, but I was curious. "Why do you want my help?"

Though I was certain that inside he was smiling, all Jack permitted his face to show were concern for the boy and appreciation at my interest. "My answer will make sense only if I give you some context," he said, "so I have to ask you to grant me a few minutes to explain."

"Go ahead," I said, "but, Jack, don't play me." As I heard my own words, which I meant and delivered seriously, I realized how well he'd hooked me. I was speaking nonsensically: Jack isn't capable of saying anything to anyone without having some angles at play.

He leaned conspiratorially closer and lowered his voice. "I know you're aware of Pinkelponker," he said. "Everyone is."

"Yeah, of course I've heard of it," I said. "It's quarantined."

Pinkelponker. The name shook me more than Jack's appearance. I did my best to hide my reaction from him. I was born there, and I lived there with my sister, Jennie, an empathic healer, until the government took her away and forced her to heal only those people it deemed important.

Pinkelponker occupies three unique niches in human history. It's the only planet successfully colonized by one of Earth's pre-jump-gate generation ships, though the ship crashed and stranded the entire population until humanity discovered the series of jump gates that led to the single-aperture gate near Pinkelponker. It's the only place where radical human mutations not only survived but also developed trans-human talents, such as my sister's healing abilities. And, it's the only planet humans have ever colonized that is now forbidden territory. It exists under a continuous quarantine and blockade, thanks to a nanotech disaster that led to the abandonment of all research into embedding nano-machines in humans.

What no one knows is that the rogue nano-machine cloud that led to the planet's forced isolation came into existence as part of my escape from Aggro, the research prison that orbited Pinkelponker. More importantly, to the best of my knowledge no one alive knows that I'm living proof that nano-machines can safely exist in humans—and I want it to stay that way. Any group that learned the truth about me would want to turn me into a research animal. I'll never let that happen again.

I realized I wasn't paying attention and forced myself to concentrate on what Jack was saying. Fortunately, he didn't seem to have noticed that I'd lost focus for a moment.

". . . hasn't been open to travel in over a century and a quarter," he said. "If you haven't spent much time in this sector of space, you wouldn't have any reason to keep up with it, though obviously even you know about the quarantine."

"Who doesn't?" I said as casually as I could manage. Jack held my attention now, because I realized that far more relevant than my past was a disturbing question: was he telling me all this because he'd learned more about my background than I ever wanted anyone to know?

"It's tough to avoid," he said, his head nodding, "particularly for those of us who always need to plot the best routes off any world they're visiting." He smiled and lowered his voice further, speaking low enough now that without thinking I leaned forward to hear him better. "But have you heard the legends?"

"What legends?" I said. Playing dumb and letting Jack talk seemed the wisest option.

"Psychics, Jon, not grifters working marks but real psychics. Pinkelponker was a high-radiation planet, a fact that should simply have led to a lot of deaths. Something about that world was special, though, because instead the radiation led to useful human mutations—something humanity has never seen anywhere else. The legends tell of the existence of all types of psychics, from telekinetics to healers to seers."

Jack sat back, his expression expectant, waiting for me. I've seen him use this technique to draw in marks, and I wasn't about to play. As I now feared Jack might know, I hadn't come to Mund simply for Choy's cooking, as amazing as it was reputed to be. Mund was one of the worlds with a jump aperture to Drayus, the only planet with an aperture to Pinkelponker—a blockaded aperture, one no human had successfully passed through in a hundred and thirty years, but an aperture nonetheless. I visited this sector of space periodically, each time wondering how I could get back to Pinkelponker and see if Jennie still lived—and each time realizing with a gut-wrenching sense of failure that there was no way I could reach her, no chance I could save her.

I could only lose by giving away any of this knowledge about my past, so I waited. Manu chewed quietly. I eyed the food but couldn't make myself eat.

After a minute or so, Jack realized he'd have to keep going on his own. He leaned closer again and, his eyes shining brightly, said, "Can you imagine it, Jon? In all the colonized planets, not one psychic—until Pinkelponker."

Jack was as dogged as he was slippery, so I knew he'd never give up. I had to move him along. "You said it, Jack: legends. Those are just legends."

He smiled again, satisfied now that I was playing the role he wanted me to fill. "Yes, they're legends, but not all legends are false or exaggerated. In the less than a decade between the discovery of Pinkelponker's jump gate and the permanent quarantine of that whole area after the nanotech disaster, some people from that planet naturally visited other worlds. Some of those visitors never went home. And," he said, leaning back, "a very few of those who stayed away were psychics." He put his right hand gently on the boy's back. "Like Manu's grandmother. Though she died, and though her only son didn't inherit her powers, her grandson did.

"Manu did. He's proof that the legends were true, Jon. He's a seer."

I stared at the boy, who continued to eat as if we weren't there. I already knew the legends were true, because I was proof of it. I was born retarded, but Jennie not only fixed me, she made me somehow able to communicate on machine frequencies, see in the IR range, and control the nano-machines the Aggro scientists later injected into me. She'd told me that others with special powers existed, but she'd never provided specifics, and I've never met any of them. Though Jack's story of Pinkelponker natives visiting other planets seemed reasonable enough—the wealthy of all worlds move around readily—I'd never heard it before. More importantly, with Jack I couldn't trust anything to be the whole story. I needed to keep him talking and hope I could lure him into giving me more of the truth than he'd planned.

"I don't buy it, Jack," I said. "If the boy could see the future, he'd already be famous or rich—or the hidden property of some conglomerate. He sure wouldn't be with you."

Jack shook his head. "Wrong on all counts, Jon." He held up his right hand and ticked off the points on his long, elegant fingers. "First, his powers don't work reliably. I told you: he's two generations away from the planet. He sees the future, but in visions whose subjects he can't control. He doesn't even know when they'll hit him. Second, his parents, though not well off, aren't stupid, so they've kept him hidden. Third, and this leads me to why I'm here, the visions damage him. In fact, without the right treatments to suppress them, and without continuing those treatments indefinitely, well," he looked at the boy with what appeared to be genuine fondness and then stared at me, choosing his words carefully, "his body won't be able to pay the bill his mind will incur."

"You don't need me to go to a med tech," I said.

"Normal med techs can't provide these treatments," Jack said, "and those few that do offer them charge a great deal more than his parents can afford. The whole situation is also complicated by our need to keep Manu's abilities quiet."

"You said he's with you, so why not just pay the bill yourself?"

"Alas, Jon," he said with a wistful smile, "my own funds are inadequate to the task."

"So you want to borrow the money from me?" I said. Jack and I had covered this ground before, after the second time I was stupid enough to grant him a loan, and he knew I'd vowed never to do it again.

He hadn't forgotten: he waved his hands quickly and shook his head. "No, no, of course not. I'm simply helping Manu and his parents get the money. I've arranged a way, but it has," he paused, giving the impression of searching for words I'm sure he'd already rehearsed, "an element of risk."

I motioned him to continue and looked at Manu. The boy ate slowly and methodically, without pause, with the kind of determined focus common among those who never know how long it'll be until their next meal.

"Pinkelponker is, as you might imagine, the object of considerable interest to certain mystic groups, as well as to many historians. One particular Pinkelponker fanatic, an extremely wealthy man named Manute Dougat, has set up a Pinkelponker research center and museum—almost a temple, really—near the ocean on the northern edge of downtown Eddy. Dougat's interviewed every Pinkelponker survivor and survivor descendant he's ever found. He claims to make all the recordings available in his institute, though," Jack paused and stared off into space for a moment, "I suspect he's the sort who's held back anything of any serious potential value. What matters most is that he pays for the interviews. I've contacted him about Manu, and he's offered to pay enough—just for an interview, no more—to keep the boy in treatments for a very long time."

"So what's the problem?" I said. "It sounds like you've found a way to get the money you need."

"I don't trust Dougat, Jon. He's rich, which immediately makes him suspect. Worse, you can hear the fervor in his voice when he talks about Pinkelponker, and fanatics always scare me. When I told him about Manu's visions, he sounded as if he were a Gatist with a chance to be the first to learn the secret of the jump gates. He's not faking his interest, either. You know I've spent a lot of my life cultivating desire in marks and spotting when they were hooked; well, Dougat wants Manu badly, Jon, badly enough that I'm worried he might try to take the boy."

"You're asking me to provide protection?" I said.

"You and that battle wagon of yours," Jack said quietly. "If I'm wrong about Dougat, this will cost you only a little time. If I'm right, though, then I'll feel a lot better with you beside me. You know I'm no good at violence, and, as I recall, you are."

Despite myself, I nodded. I don't like violence; at least the part of me under my conscious control doesn't like it, but the anger that's more tightly bound into me than the nano-machines emerges all too readily. I tell myself I do everything reasonably possible to avoid fights, but all too often the jobs I take end up in conflict.

"You've already learned I'm a private courier," I said. "If you and the boy want to go somewhere, and if you have the fare, I'll treat you as a package and take you to your destination under my care. I'm no bodyguard, though"—I had no reason to assume Jack knew of the five years I'd spent being exactly that—"so I can't help you with the meeting."

"One day, Jon," he said, "just one day. That's all I need you for. We meet Dougat tomorrow at the Institute. I wanted a safe, public place, but he wouldn't go anywhere he couldn't control the security. We compromised on meeting in the open, on the grounds in front of his main building, where anyone passing by could see us. All I'm asking is that you come with us, watch our backs, and if things turn bad, take us out of there. That's it."

I knew Jack wouldn't drop it until I'd found a way to say no that he understood, so I cut to the easiest escape route. "How much do you propose to pay me for this?" I said.

"Nothing."

No answer he could have given would have surprised me more. Jack always came ready to any bargaining table. I fought to keep the surprise from showing on my face. It was the first thing he'd said that made me wonder if he might actually be straight for once.

"I don't have any money to pay you," he continued, "and I won't make any from this meeting; everything Dougat pays goes to Manu. I'm doing it for him, and I'm asking you to do the same. With all the dicey business we've worked, wouldn't you like to simply do some good now and again?"

The spark of trust Jack had created winked out as I realized there was no way he was doing something for nothing. "Why are you involved in all this, Jack? Skip the pitch and just tell me."

Jack looked at Manu for a few seconds. "I really am out to help Manu. His dad's a friend, and I feel bad for the boy." He straightened and a pained expression flickered on his face for an instant. "And, Earth's greatest export has once again led me to a debt I must repay, this time to Manu's father."

"Poker," I said, laughing. "A gambling debt?" Jack had always loved the game, and we'd played it both for pleasure and on the hustle, straight up and bent. I enjoyed it well enough, but I rarely sought it, and I could always walk away. For him, poker held a stronger attraction, one he frequently lost the will to fight.

"It was as sure a hand as I've ever seen, Jon," he said, the excitement in his voice a force at the small table. Manu started at Jack's tone but resumed eating when everything appeared to be okay. "Seven stud, three beautiful eights to greet me, the next card the fourth, and a world of opportunity spread before me. He caught the final two tens on the last two cards—cards he never should have paid to see. Unbelievable luck. A better player would have folded long before. I put everything into that pot. It was mine." He paused for a few seconds, and when he continued he was back under control. "Honestly, Jon, I was willing to help Manu before that hand, but yes, losing it guaranteed my participation."

"Your debt is not my problem, Jack."

"I realize that, and I wouldn't be asking you if I had an alternative. Unfortunately, I don't. Dougat is the only option Manu's father has found, I'm committed to help, and I don't trust Dougat. I'll go it alone if I must, and I'm confident I'll walk away from the meeting, because I hold no interest for the man, but I fear—" he glanced down at Manu and then spoke quickly—"that I'll exit alone."

That Jack was in a bind was never news—he'd be in trouble as long as he lived—and my days of obligation to him were long over. I felt bad for the boy, worse than Jack could know because my inability to save Jennie has left me a soft touch for children in trouble, but I learned long ago that I can't save them all. Worse, recent experience had taught me that trying to rescue even one of them could lead to the kind of trouble I was lucky to survive. If I wanted to avoid more danger, I not only needed to steer clear of Jack, I had to leave Mund soon, because I had to assume the same gate staff he'd bribed would be alerting others to my presence. Anyone willing to sell information for the sorts of fees Jack could afford would surely try to boost their profits by reselling that same data.

The only reasonable choice was to walk away now and leave the planet.

As much as I fought it, however, I knew I wouldn't make that choice.

The problem was the Pinkelponker connection. Dougat's research center might provide information I could use. If Manu really were a seer, he might be a source of useful data. I also had to determine whether Jack knew about or even suspected my ties to the planet, and, if he did, just what he'd learned.

Finally, I had to admit that because so many of the jobs I've taken have led to so much damage, the prospect of doing something genuinely good always appealed to me.

I stared into Jack's eyes and tried to read him. He held my gaze, too good a salesman to look away or push harder when he knew the hook was in deep. Even as I looked at him I remembered how utterly pointless it was to search for the truth in his face. Jack excelled at close-up cons because at some level he always believed what he was selling, and so to marks he always appeared honest. The only way I could glean more information was to accrete it slowly by spending time with him.

When I glanced at Manu, I found him watching me expectantly, hopefully, as if he'd understood everything we'd discussed. Perhaps he had; Jack hadn't tried very hard to obscure the topic.

I took a long, slow, deep breath, and then looked back at Jack. "I'll help you," I said, "for the boy's sake."

"Thank you, Jon," he said.

"Thank you, sir," Manu said, his voice wavering but clear. "I'm sorry for any trouble we're causing you."

Either Jack had coached the kid well, or the boy meant it. I decided to hope the sentiment was genuine.

"You're welcome," I said to Manu.

Jack caught the snub, of course, but he wisely chose to ignore it.

I now had a job to do and not enough prep time to do it right. We had to get to work. "Jack, you said the meeting was tomorrow, so our mission clock is much shorter than I'd like. Lay it out for me."

* * *

The Pinkelponker Research Institute sprawled across the built-up northern border of Eddy like a fever dream. No signs warned that when you passed the last of the rows of permacrete corporate headquarters buildings you should expect something very different indeed. No lights, labels, tapestries, recordings, or welcome displays offered to explain it to you. In the middle of a five-hundred-meter-wide lot the gleaming black ziggurat simply commanded your eye to focus on the miniature of Pinkelponker that revolved slowly in the air a few meters above the building's summit.

A perfect lawn the muted green of shallow seawater surrounded the building. Circular flower beds rich in soft browns, glowing yellows, and deepwater blues burst from the grass at apparently random locations all over the lot. Only when you viewed them from the air, as I had when Lobo and I had made our first recon pass after my lunch with Jack, did you realize that each grouping of plants effortlessly evoked an image of one of the many volcanic islands that were the only land masses on my birth planet. The ziggurat itself looked nothing like any of the individual islands I'd seen, yet its rounded edges and graceful ascent reminded me of home, made me ache for it.

I'd taken Lobo to a docking facility on the west side of town and hopped a cab from there. I'd changed cabs twice on the chance anyone had tracked me from the restaurant, but neither Lobo nor I spotted anyone following me. The last cab took me down the street that bordered the Institute on the ocean side, a wide avenue jammed with hover transports, cabs, and personal vehicles all rushing to and fro in the service of Eddy's growing economy. The length of the crossing signal made it clear that city planners valued vehicles and commerce far more than pedestrians.

When I finally made it to the Institute's ocean-side entrance, I found the overall effect far more entrancing than anything I'd anticipated from my aerial surveillance. I felt as if someone had sampled my memories and recombined them, managing in the process to create a setting that in no way resembled home but that at the same time rewarded every glance with the sense that, yes, this feels like Pinkelponker. Working in the grain fields under the bright sun, the constant ocean breeze cooling me, Jennie due to come to visit when her day was done—I drifted back involuntarily, my memories summoned by Dougat's artful evocation.

I shut my eyes and forced myself to focus on the job. It was a site I had to analyze, nothing more. Jack's task was to keep Manu hidden until the meeting. Mine was to make sure we all got out safely if anything went wrong. To do that, I had to learn as much about this place as possible in the few hours available.

When I looked again, I did so professionally. None of the scattered plantings rose high enough or were dense enough that you could hide in them. That was good news for possible threats, but bad news should we need to take cover. I couldn't spot any lawn-care, gardening, or tourist appliances, and when I tuned my hearing to the frequencies such machines use, I caught nothing.

"Lobo," I said over our comm link, "have your scans turned up anything?"

"No," he said. "If there are weapons outside the building, they're not giving off any IR signatures I can trace. I can find no evidence of sensor activity on the grounds. I can't recall a more electromagnetically neutral setting this close to a city."

"Any luck penetrating the building?"

"No. It's extremely well shielded. It's transmitting and receiving on a variety of frequencies, of course, but everything is either encrypted or just the usual public data feeds."

"Anything significant between here and his warehouse?" Dougat operated a shipping and receiving center on the south end of the city.

"Encrypted bursts of the size you'd expect for inventory and sensor management. That place reeks of machine security, but it's not as shielded and currently reads IR-neutral. Best estimate is that no people are there."

Good; the security we found here might be all we had to worry about.

The air was cooling as night approached, but Eddy was still warm enough that the slight breeze from the ocean felt fine against my skin. I'd stood in one place longer than I felt a normal tourist would, so I walked slowly toward the building.

"One data point you might find useful," Lobo said, "is that in the last fifteen minutes over two dozen humans have entered the building on the far side and twenty have left."

"Shift change. How many look like security?"

"All were wearing comm links, so that's impossible to gauge. Based on the building's total lack of visible external sensors or weapons, however, I suggest we assume most are hostiles."

"Even if they're all security, they're not hostiles," I said. "At least not yet. They become problems only if Dougat chooses not to play this straight."

"You're indulging in distracting games," Lobo said, "induced by your emotions. You've chosen to involve us, an involvement that matters only if Dougat attempts to kidnap Chang. If he does, he and his staff become hostiles. If he doesn't, we're spectators. The only reasonable option, therefore, is to treat them all as hostiles for the duration of our participation."

Though I'm glad Lobo is mine, his lack of tolerance for ambiguity frequently leads to conversations that are far more cold-blooded than I prefer. "By that logic," I said, "to maximize our probability of success we should simply kill them all now."

Lobo ignored my sarcasm. "That would be sensible from an efficiency perspective," he said, "but it would remove Dougat's ability to pay and thus compromise the overall mission."

Before I could decide whether I wanted to know if he was also being sarcastic, I reached the ziggurat's entrance.

"Signing off until I exit," I said.

The atmosphere inside was a perfected version of what I'd felt outside: a bit warmer, a little more humid, with light breezes of unknown origin wafting gently across you no matter where you stood. Perpetual daylight brightened the space. Cloudscapes played across the ceiling. The faint sounds of distant surf breaking and wind moving through grasses tickled the edges of perception. Once again, I had only to shut my eyes to transport myself to the Pinkelponker of my childhood. Either Dougat or someone on his design team had visited my home world, or their research was impeccable.

The center of the space was a single large open area broken by tables, two-meter-high displays, and small conversation areas. The island theme continued here, with each cluster of displays centered on a topic such as early history, agriculture, speculation on the exact cause and final outcome of the disaster, mineral and gem samples, and so on. A few dozen people stood and sat at various spots around the interior, some clearly serious students, many only tourists. Even the most studiously focused of the visitors would close their eyes from time to time as the interior effects worked on them.

The exceptions, of course, were the security personnel. You can costume security staff appropriately, and you can train them to circulate well and even to act interested in the exhibits, but you can't make them appear under the spell of the place they're guarding. Even the most magical of settings loses its allure after you've worked in it for a few weeks. I counted fifteen men and women on active patrol. I had to assume at least a few more were monitoring displays and weapons scanners, occupying rooms I couldn't see, and generally staying out of my view.

I kept in character as a tourist, staying long enough at the historical displays to appear interested but not so long as to look like a student of the planet. I'd learned almost nothing of the world's history growing up there, so I found the background on the generation ship and the later discovery of the jump gate to be genuinely interesting. Docent holograms snapped alert when I lingered at any exhibit, and I let a few of them natter at me. At a display on the various religions of Pinkelponker—growing up there I never saw a place of worship, and the closest I came to prayer was the occasional desperate hope for Jennie to come visit me or for my chores to be over—a docent asked if by chance I belonged to any organization that viewed the planet as sacred. I hadn't even realized such groups existed; I obviously had a lot to learn about how some people viewed my home.

A large display in the right rear corner of the space offered the only discussion of the legends Jack had cited. Dougat might be as personally interested in the stories of Pinkelponker psychics as Jack had said, but the man wasn't letting his interest shape the Institute's exhibits.

Like the other tourists I spotted, I made sure to invest a large chunk of my time gawking at the cases highlighting jagged mineral samples and large, unrefined jewels. Though I frequently stood alone at one of the historicals, I always had company at the mineral and jewel displays. For reasons I've never understood, standing near items of great monetary value, even things you'll never get to touch or own, is a compelling experience for many people. As best I could tell, the larger samples here, like the big jewels in any museum on any planet, illustrated the power of natural forces applied slowly over long periods of time to create artifacts of great beauty. The waterfalls outside Choy's restaurant and the grooves they'd cut into the cliffs there made the same point and were, to me, more striking and more beautiful, but for most they lacked the powerful allure of gems.

I was intrigued to learn that Pinkelponker had been extremely rich in jewels and that the business of exporting them to other worlds had constituted a major source of revenue for the government. All I'd seen of Pinkelponker was a pair of islands: the one where I lived until the government took away Jennie, and the one where they tossed me until my failed escape attempt led them to sell Benny and me to the Aggro scientists for nanotech experimentation. The gleaming government centers sparkling in sun-drenched images and the stories of gem-fueled wealth led me to wonder, not for the first time, at the amazingly different ways that residents of a single planet can view their world.

The rearmost of the exhibits ended at a long wall that extended across the back of the building and rose to the ceiling. Offices, storage, and loading docks probably filled the remainder of the interior space. As I exited I counted off the distance from that wall; knowing the size of the staff and private space behind it might prove useful. I hoped everything would go smoothly and this scouting would prove to have been a waste, but until this was over, the more information we had, the better.

To the left of the entrance I paid a visit to a small concession area. The two machines there offered everything from beverages to quasi-historical data files to glowing bouncy models of Pinkelponker. I purchased some water and listened on the common appliance frequencies on the chance that I could glean something useful.

"Another big spender," the beverage dispenser said. "Does anyone who visits this place even appreciate what I'm capable of? If they'd bother to scroll through the menu, or even just to ask, they'd learn that I could provide everything from juices to local herbal teas—and some quite good ones, if the reactions I've heard are any indication."

"Isn't that always the way it is?" the keepsake vendor said. "Oh, sure, a few will buy a bouncing model, but what about the built-to-order and personalized options? How many of these people will take real advantage of what I could do for them? Precious few, I can tell you. Why, I bet not one in a hundred of them has even a clue as to the breadth of Pinkelponker material I could fabricate."

"If it weren't for the staff," the dispenser continued, "my conveyor and rear assembly parts might die of disuse."

"I'm sorry I'm not thirstier," I said on their frequency, "but I do appreciate the work you both do."

Though machines don't expect humans to be able to talk to them, it takes an exceptionally intelligent one, such as Lobo, to ever question why you're able to do so. Most appliances are so self-absorbed and have so much spare intelligence that they'll dive at any chance to chatter endlessly with anything or anyone that responds.

"Thank you for saying so," the dispenser said.

"At least he bought something from you," the other commented.

I interrupted before they could get into an argument and forget me entirely; appliances also have extremely short attention spans. "The staff must keep you very busy. I'm sure they appreciate you, and they seem to outnumber the visitors."

"They appreciate it," the keepsake machine said, "but not me. Except for the odd desperate birthday gift purchase, they never even visit me. Of course, it's not like I have an outlet in the back of the Institute. Some machines work at a disadvantage."

"Some machines are simply more important than others," the beverage dispenser said. "Every human has to drink, so my offerings are vital. They do not have to purchase the sort of disposable afterthoughts you hawk."

"I bet each staff member uses you at least once a day," I said, focusing on the dispenser.

"Not quite," it said, "but some order multiple times, so the average daily total is actually a bit better than that."

"You must keep quite busy simply helping them," I said, "because that must be, what, sixty or eighty orders a day."

"I wish!" it said. "It's more like thirty-five to forty orders a day, and I could handle ten times that quantity with ease."

That put the staff count at about three dozen, which meant security could run as high as twenty or more during busy hours. That estimate roughly matched what I'd guessed from walking around. That much security would have been overkill for a place this size were it not for the jewels, but given their presence it was believable. Because Dougat had the option of summoning a lot of human backup, I definitely needed to keep the meeting in the open, where Lobo could reach us quickly.

I walked outside and wandered for a few minutes among the islands of flowers. That Jack had approached me about a job involving Pinkelponker kept nagging at me. Did he know something about my background, or was it just a coincidence induced by me choosing to spend time on a world only two jumps away? If he'd learned more about me, how, and from what source? With many people I would either ask or feel them out on the topic, but neither approach would work with Jack; he was too much a manipulator for me to play him, and if he knew nothing, I certainly didn't want to alert him that this was a topic he should pursue further.

My safest option was to do the job at hand and listen closely in case he let something slip—an unlikely event, of course, but a possibility nonetheless.

I headed off the grounds and opened a link to Lobo.

"Enjoy your tour?" Lobo said.

The tone of his voice answered my earlier, unspoken question: he had been speaking sarcastically then. Lobo's mood never changes due to breaks in a conversation, no matter how long the breaks may be—unless, of course, the concerns of a mission intervene. Though his emotive programming was, in my opinion, overblown, his designers had at least possessed the good sense to make him turn all-business when the situation demanded. For that, I was always grateful.

"It was informative," I said, ignoring his tone. "As you would expect, we're going to make quite a few modifications to the draft plan we discussed earlier. Pick me up at the rendezvous point in an hour and a half, and we'll walk through it again."

"It's what I live for," Lobo said.

I ignored him and continued. "In the meantime, consider options that do minimal damage to this place. I see no reason to trash more than we have to."

"No reason?" Lobo said, incredulity replacing sarcasm in his voice. "Your instructions were that the top priorities were to get you, the boy, and Jack, in that order, to safety should this turn into more than an interview. You even established that Jack would be in command should you be incapacitated. You would not have given those orders unless you believed this could go badly. The simplest way to achieve your goals and avoid an unwanted conclusion is to take out all opposition staff and positions."

"That's not an option," I said. I winced inside at having put myself first on Lobo's list, but the reality was that if the day went nonlinear, the best hope Jack and Manu had was that I stayed alive and protected them. I also had to admit that my concern for the boy and for what Jack might know about my past extended only so far.

I signed off without further discussion. Lobo didn't agree with my orders, but like any professional soldier he'd obey them. He would, though, find ways to remind me of his displeasure; his programmers had mastered the art of the passive-aggressive comment.

I'm glad Lobo is on my team, but right then the prospect of spending the evening with him made the next afternoon's meeting appear almost attractive.

* * *

We entered the Institute grounds along the same path I'd taken during my recon. Jack and Manu walked hand in hand ahead of me. I kept out of their way but close enough that my role would be clear; for me to be effective, I would have needed to stay close enough that Dougat's people would have made me no matter how hard I tried to blend in, so broadcasting my presence seemed the best option available. The feel of Pinkelponker washed over me as I walked, and at a gust of ocean breeze I involuntarily smiled, the wind taking me back for a second to one of my most persistent childhood memories: sitting on the edge of our small mountain in the afternoon, my chores done, soaking up the warmth while waiting for Jennie. I pushed aside the thought and focused on expanding my peripheral vision as much as possible so I could take in movement all around us.

Jack's pace accelerated a bit.

"Slow and easy," I said.

He nodded and resumed his earlier pace. I wanted as much time to assess the situation as I could reasonably arrange.

The sky out to sea and above us sparkled with cloudless perfection, but a storm was approaching from the west. Lobo was marking time about five miles away behind the cover its dark clouds provided. I'd have preferred him overhead, but at this distance he could stay subsonic and still reach us in less than thirty seconds; the reward of keeping him hidden outweighed the risk of having him closer but visible.

About ten meters from the building's entrance stood a small sky-colored canopy covering two chairs and a small table. A man sat alone at one of the chairs: Dougat. Four more men stood in a rough semicircle on the other side of the canopy. Roughly three meters separated each of them, and none was in the line of fire of any of the others. All tried for nonchalant postures, but I was acting casual as well; all our attempts were equally unconvincing. The two in the middle focused completely on us, while the end men constantly swept the area.

"Lobo," I said. We communicated via a comm link that allowed me to sub-vocalize and so not be heard by those near me. Any reasonable security person would know I was talking to someone, but that was fine with me; if they believed I had backup, they might be more careful, and the more cautious everyone was, the better. "Dougat and the four behind him are obvious. Other possible hostiles?"

"Since you stopped moving," Lobo said, "one man to your left of the building has altered his path to take him in your direction."

I spotted the guy, who immediately sat on a bench in a garden area and studied the flowers there. He held his head at an angle that let him keep us in sight. "Got him," I said.

In a clear voice I said to Jack, "Hold."

He did. He stood still and appeared completely relaxed. Manu fidgeted but didn't complain. I appreciated the boy's willingness to do as we told him.

"Six more in various locations between you and the road have drawn slightly closer," Lobo said. "Locations on overlay now. Sweep once to mark them."

The contact in my left eye turned the world a slightly darker shade as the overlay snapped on. I turned slowly and surveyed the grounds behind me. As I did, small red dots appeared on the chests of the four men and two women Lobo suspected. Each avoided looking at me and found something nearby of great interest, so I assumed Lobo was right. "Track them, the obvious four, and the one near the building," I said.

"Done," he said.

My order was unnecessary, because Lobo was a pro and knew his role, but I couldn't stop myself from giving it. If we weren't in the middle of a mission, Lobo would have harassed me about the redundancy, but he never mixed serious business and sarcasm.

"We're probably missing one," I said. "Security teams love pairs. Scan again."

"A woman to your far left has walked closer to the man at the building's edge," Lobo said, "so she's a possible. No other human in the area is exhibiting any telling behaviors. So, either that's all of the external security or the remaining members are significantly more skilled at blending in than their colleagues."

I looked at the woman and smiled. She reacted with a smile of her own and then turned away, but the reaction was slow and forced.

"Assume she's a hostile," I said. "More are inside, but we'll go with this count for now."

Dougat stood, an impatient expression on his face.

Jack glanced back at me, but to his credit he stayed put.

"Proceed," I said.

Jack and Manu headed toward the canopy. "Mr. Dougat," Jack said in his most winning voice. "How nice to see you again."

Dougat ignored Jack completely and focused on the boy.

Like any good merchant, Jack paused so his customer could take his time to study the goods. Even as I hated myself for thinking of a child that way, I realized that we were in it now and I had to stay cold to be maximally effective.

I couldn't read Dougat's expression. I've seen the very rich examine other people with all the passion of butchers trying to decide which meat scraps to feed their pets, look completely through others, as if the strangers were no more substantial than mist, and stare with undisguised lust at newcomers they planned to own. Dougat did none of those.

Then I got it: Dougat viewed Manu as a potential religious artifact, something possibly precious, definitely puzzling, a little hard to believe in, and yet wonderful if it proved to be the real thing. However rich the man was and however much he had profited from his institute and his research into Pinkelponker, he was above all else a believer in the religious importance of my home world.

That scared me more than mere lust or greed would ever have troubled me. Not long after I stopped working with Jack, I spent quite a while with what is, in my opinion, the finest mercenary company anywhere, the Shosen Advanced Weapons Corp., the Saw. Several of our actions pitted us against armies of true believers determined to convert worlds to their gods or, in some cases, to purify whole planets of their heathen nonbelievers, and they were fearsome opponents. I learned to respect, fear, and despise the utter fanatical focus of their mission.

"Are you ready to proceed?" Jack said to Dougat.

Dougat stared at Jack as if he was seeing excrement on his dinner plate, then forced a businesslike expression. "Yes," he said. "Let's begin the interview."

"Should we get another chair?" Jack said, indicating the two under the canopy.

"The interview is strictly between the boy and me," Dougat said. "You and," he paused to make a dismissive motion in my general direction, "your associate should wait where you are."

Jack turned and looked at me. I shook my head slightly and turned to directly face Dougat.

"Will your associates also remove themselves?" I said. "Both those four and," I pointed slowly toward the building and then casually behind me, "the two closer to the building and the six in various locations behind me?"

Dougat smiled for the first time. "I must apologize not only for the size of my security team but also for the clearly underdeveloped skills of its staff. I mean the boy no harm. I have enemies, so I generally don't meet outside. My team seemed a reasonable precaution. Everyone will back away."

The ones I could see in front of me withdrew so they were farther from the canopy than Jack or I by at least five meters.

I turned to look behind me and the contact showed the other six had also fallen back.

"Hostiles have pulled back," said Lobo, who was monitoring the conversation via delayed bursts from transmitters woven into my coat.

"Thank you," I said. To Jack, I added, "Your call."

Jack nodded and faced Dougat again. "Perhaps we should get the payment out of the way."

Dougat smiled again, but this time the expression was pure show. He turned to one of the four men behind him, nodded, and faced Jack again when that man nodded in return. "Check your wallet," he said. "The money is in the local account you specified."

Jack did, lingering long enough that I was sure he moved the money at least twice before he looked up and smiled with what appeared to be genuine relief. "Thank you. We'll wait here while you talk." He dropped to one knee beside Manu. "All Mister Dougat wants to do is ask you questions for about an hour. Answer them honestly, and then we'll go. Okay?"

Manu studied Jack's face. "You'll stay here?" He looked at me. "Both of you?"

"Of course," Jack said. "We'll be right here."

Manu kept staring at me until I nodded in agreement.

"Okay," he said. He walked to Dougat, glanced for a moment at the man's face, and then went over and sat on one of the chairs under the canopy. Dougat shook his head and followed; I got the impression he spent about as much time around children as I did.

After Dougat sat, he offered Manu a drink from a pitcher on the table.

Manu checked with me, as we had discussed, and I shook my head. The boy murmured something—we were too far away to hear his light voice—and leaned back. The kid's behavior continued to impress me; I've guarded grown-ups with far less sense. We didn't worry about the contents of the interview; Manu had so many recorders in the active fiber of his clothing that we'd be able to view a full replay later.

"Lobo," I said. "Alert me if any of the hostiles draw closer or if Manu moves. I'm going to sweep the area visually every thirty seconds or so, and each time I do I will lose sight of the boy briefly."

"You could stay focused on him and leave the others to me," Lobo said.

"Yes," I said, "but I won't. My perspective is significantly different than yours, so I might gain data you won't, and by visibly looking I will make sure Dougat's team knows I'm on the alert."

As I finished talking, I turned and briefly scanned all the way around me. The hostiles appeared in my contact as I moved. The situation remained calm. Manu and Dougat continued to talk, the boy occasionally animated, the man studious and absorbed. Jack stood about a meter away from me, as motionless as a rock carving, watching the interview with a deceptive stillness.

Jack was right when he reminded me that he was bad at violence, but that didn't mean he was helpless. He possessed an amazing ability to simply be in a moment, to drink it in and focus totally on it, and in those times he appeared so still that you might believe he was physically and mentally slow. When he needed to move, however, he was one of the fastest humans I've ever seen, able to go from motionless to full speed almost as quickly as if he were a simulation freed from the laws of physics.

Over the next thirty-five minutes we all kept to our roles. Dougat once left the boy to ask Jack if they might run a bit over an hour, and Jack agreed. Every indication was that Dougat would behave, do the interview, and let us go. I felt the strong urge to relax, but no mission is over until you're back home safely, so I maintained my routine.

I was between sweeps, staring at the chatting boy and man, when Manu grabbed his head, cried loudly enough that we could hear him, and ran toward Jack.

Jack was moving before Manu had taken his second step and reached the boy quickly. I was right behind them.

"What's wrong?" Jack said to Manu. He stared at Dougat. "What did you do to him?

Dougat looked genuinely upset. "Nothing," he said, "nothing at all. We were talking, then for no reason I could see he appeared to be in pain."

Jack looked down at Manu. "Did he hurt you?"

Manu was holding his head and shaking it back and forth, moaning softly. "No," he said. "Not him. It's not him. It hurts." He looked up, his eyes wide, and pointed toward the road. "We can't let it happen. We have to stop it." He grabbed Jack's hand and pulled. Jack, Dougat, and I exchanged glances, and Jack decided for us by letting Manu lead him.

"All hostiles changing course and approaching," Lobo said.

I grabbed Jack's arm with my left hand, and he stopped.

Manu tugged hard at him. "We have to stop it!" he yelled.

I kept my hand on Jack's arm and faced Dougat. "Tell all your people to return to their previous positions," I said. "I don't know anything more about this than you do, but it's clear the boy wants us to move. Keep them back, and we will."

"Now!" Manu screamed. "We have to!"

Dougat nodded, turned his head, and whispered something I couldn't hear.

"Hostiles returning to prior locations," Lobo said. "All clear."

I let go of Jack's arm.

Manu saw me do it and immediately pulled harder on Jack. Jack let him set the pace. Manu ran for the road, Jack in physical tow and Dougat and I staying as close as if the four of us were trapped in the same gravity well and careening into a black hole. Manu was crying and blabbering, but between his tears and the sounds of us running I couldn't understand anything he was saying.

Five meters from the road he raised his hand and shouted a single long, hysterically elongated word, "Noooooooooo!"

I looked where he was pointing, and four events occurred in such rapid succession that I could separate them only in afterthought.

A hover transport hurtled down the road from my right toward my left.

A man stepped from a crowd of pedestrians in front of the truck, his head turned to his right as if saying goodbye to a friend, clearly unaware of the vehicle speeding toward him.

The transport hit the man.

The man sailed into the air like a flower blown free of its stem by a strong wind, red blossoming across his shirt as he flew over the crowd he'd just left. He landed behind them, out of our view.

Manu let go of Jack and ran for the road, but Jack caught him with one long stride and grabbed both his shoulders.

"I saw it and I couldn't stop it and we should have stopped it!" Manu said, tears flowing as quickly and as uncontrolled as the words.

Jack picked him up, turned him away from the sight of the crowd converging on the accident victim, and held him tightly. "It's not your fault," he said. "You did everything you could. You know we can't change what you see." The boy sobbed and tried to wriggle free, but Jack clung to him with a strength I'd seen but also with a tenderness I'd never witnessed. "It's not your fault."

Jack supported Manu's weight with his right hand and held the boy's head to his shoulder with his left. Keeping the boy's head tucked there so he wouldn't catch a glimpse of the accident, Jack turned and walked away from the road, toward the Institute.

As he moved, he looked at me for a moment, his eyes glistening, and then at Dougat. "Perhaps," he said to the man, "we could spend a few minutes inside. I'm afraid the interview is over."

For the first time since the accident, I focused on Dougat. His face was wide with shock, but more than shock, belief, the sort of ecstatic belief I've seen previously only on those in the grips of strong drugs or stronger acts of religious or violent fervor.

"He is a seer," the man said. "A true child of Pinkelponker, maybe the only one in the known universe. I've talked to so many people, heard so many stories, but I could never be sure." He ran in front of Jack and put up his hand. "You can't leave. You can't." His pupils were dilated with excitement, and his breathing was ragged.

Everything about him broadcast trouble. We needed to leave.

"Lobo," I said, "Come in fast, and prepare for full action on my command."

"Moving," he said.

"As you can see," Jack said, anger clear in his voice, "Manu is in no shape to continue. I'll return half of the fee if you'd like, but I have to get him home to rest. Even the easiest visions are hard on him, and this one, as you can clearly see, was not easy."

Dougat didn't move. "He can rest here," he said, more loudly than before. "My people will help in any way they can, but I can't let you leave."

"Hostiles converging quickly," Lobo said, his voice crisp and inflection-free in my ear. "I'm six seconds out."

"Execute plan," I said.

"Three missiles hitting Dougat's warehouse now," Lobo said. The explosions there would, we hoped, occupy the minimal local law, which predictably maintained its headquarters near the always troublesome port areas.

I grabbed Jack's shoulder and spun him to face me. Behind him I glimpsed several of Dougat's men running toward us.

"Three seconds," Lobo said.

Jack nodded and gripped Manu tightly.

I dropped and swept Jack's legs out from under him.

Lobo activated the heads-up display in my left eye, and the view from his forward video sensors overlaid my view of the approaching security men.

I watched with both normal vision and that display as Lobo transformed the Institute and its grounds into a fire zone.

Two low-yield explosive missiles left Lobo and almost immediately blew apart what I hoped we'd accurately identified as a receiving area on the back of the building. No transports were parked there, so with luck the area was unoccupied. At the same time, the world went silent as Lobo remotely enabled my sound-blocking earphones. I hoped Jack's and Manu's worked as well, because a second later the howlers rocketed out of Lobo and tore up the grounds around us.

Right behind them a cluster of sleep smokers mirved to their targets and turned the air the color of storm clouds about to burst. I kept my mouth shut and forced myself to breathe through my nose; the sinus filters worked perfectly. If Jack and Manu did the same, they'd be fine. The active antidotes we'd all taken would keep us awake even if we breathed the gas, but until it had dissipated for a few minutes it would be hard on our lungs and throats. The nano-machines in my cells would repair mine quickly enough, but I saw no reason to suffer any damage I could avoid.

The rest of Dougat's staff and, unfortunately, nearby pedestrians wouldn't be as lucky, but aside from any injuries they sustained when they fell they should suffer only long, drugged naps, raw sinuses, bad coughs, and, from the howlers, some minor ringing in their ears.

I reached for Jack, but he wasn't there. Damn! Anger shot a flood of adrenaline into my body, and I trembled with barely controlled energy and rage. He knew he shouldn't move!

"Where's Jack," I mumbled through pursed lips.

My words were clear enough for Lobo.

My left eye's display turned into an aerial schematic of the grounds, with red dots marking Dougat's staff, a blue dot indicating Jack, and a green one on Manu's position. The blue and green dots were streaking toward the building.

"Running toward the ziggurat," Lobo said. "External staff and bystanders are all sleeping. I'm hovering overhead. Howlers have discharged; reenabling hearing."

In an instant the thrumming of Lobo's hover jets joined the unconscious moans and wheezes all around me to replace the silence I'd been enjoying. I stood and headed forward. The blue and green dots veered to the side of the entrance to the ziggurat. A second later, a stream of red dots poured out of it. These guys were clearly prepared for gas, because none of them fell. I cranked my own vision to IR for another view of them and watched as the ten new security people fanned out in front of me. The blue and green dots ducked behind them, Manu barely ahead of Jack, and zipped into the building. Great. Now I had to get past this new team, retrieve Jack and Manu, and go back outside for pick-up. If they'd only kept to the plan and stayed near me, we'd already have been on our way out of here.

"Image enhancement suggests new hostiles are armed and environmentally prepared," Lobo said.

Sure enough, the new squad broke into four clusters. One sprinted for Dougat. The remaining three focused on me, one taking a direct approach and the other two going wide to flank me. The only good news was that either they'd missed Jack and Manu or they'd assumed those two were down.

"Trank 'em," I mumbled.

Lobo didn't waste time answering. I heard the rounds spraying from guns on his undercarriage, and in less than two seconds everyone on the new team dropped.

"Public feeds are rich in data about our assault," Lobo said. "We must exit soon or expect to face additional local resistance."

"I have to get Jack and Manu," I said as I ran to the side of the entrance. I stopped long enough to pull a trank pistol from the holster at the base of my back, then dove inside. I hit the ground on my shoulder and rolled quickly to a prone position. I glanced to the right and the left of the entrance. No one.

I stood and immediately regretted the action as a projectile round to the chest knocked me down. The body armor stopped it from seriously injuring me, but my chest throbbed with pain and breathing hurt. I slit my eyes and stayed still. Precious time was evaporating, but if I moved I might suffer a head shot, and I don't know if my nano-machines can repair brain damage. I hope to never find out.

A guard emerged from behind an exhibit about five meters in front of me. He kept his pistol aimed at me and moved cautiously forward. He stepped with care, and his weapon never wavered. I did my best to look unconscious; the lack of blood would tell him I wasn't dead.

A crashing sound ripped the air from somewhere behind him, and he turned for a moment to check it out.

I fired multiple times at his back and head.

He dropped.

Too many trank rounds might kill him, something I didn't want to do, but I couldn't afford the time to check on him and make sure he was okay. Dougat might have more security personnel around, and the warehouse distraction south of us was old news, so I had to get out of there, but I couldn't leave without Jack and Manu.

I had no feed from Lobo to guide me in my search, so I decided to run to the center of the building and hope I spotted them.

Before I'd gone five steps, Jack dashed toward me from my left, Manu's hand in his.

"What were you doing?" I said, my voice shaking with my anger at Jack's violation of our agreement. The air inside was now clean enough that I could talk freely without hurting my throat. "You idiot! You don't freelance and leave your team."

"Manu was terrified and ran," Jack said. "I didn't expect it, and I couldn't see him clearly, so I fell behind. I couldn't leave him here, Jon. I had to get him."

Though his answer was reasonable, even admirable in some ways, I still shook with anger and adrenaline. I forced myself to nod. "Follow me," I said.

"Heading to you," I said to Lobo as soon as we cleared the building. "Land in the closest clear area—not on people—and direct me in." Lobo had argued in our planning meeting that if we ended up in a fight he should set down right beside us, and that anyone he squashed in the process was an acceptable casualty, but even with time short I saw no reason to kill if we could avoid it.

"Moving," Lobo said. "Media scans put police ETA at under ninety seconds."

I kept moving and didn't waste any energy replying. Jack and Manu stayed close to me as we ran. A vector in my left eye's display led me about forty meters ahead and to the right, toward the southern side of the grounds. Even staying slow enough for the boy to keep up, we reached Lobo quickly. As we drew closer to Lobo, his camo armor exterior blending so well with the still gas-filled air that I doubt anyone watching without IR knew where he was, he opened a hatch on the side facing us. I ran to him, stepped inside, and turned around to make sure Jack and Manu made it.

They were right there, Jack actually showing a bit of stress, Manu in tears. We were almost clear. Jack picked up Manu, whose wide eyes reeked of terror, and handed the boy to me.

I grabbed him, turned around, and put him down.

As I was straightening, I said, "Lobo," but I never finished the sentence as I felt Jack's hand on my neck and then passed out.

* * *

I awoke slowly, my head aching and my neck and shoulders stiff. When I opened my eyes, I had trouble focusing, but after a few seconds the world snapped into view. I was lying on the floor inside Lobo, right where I'd fallen.

Where Jack had left me, I realized as the memory of what had happened caught up with me. I pushed up on my arms and quickly regretted the action as the remnants of whatever drugs he'd used coursed through me and nearly made me pass out again.

I decided the floor wasn't such a bad place to be right now. My system would naturally wash itself of the drugs in time, and the nano-machines would speed the process, but resting there for the moment seemed reasonable.

"Welcome back," Lobo said. "Are you coherent enough to respond?"

"Yes," I said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You made enough noises while unconscious that several times I thought you might be awake," he said.

"Fair enough. How long was I out?"

"Approximately three hours, fifty-seven minutes," he said with what I thought was a trace of amusement. "Jack claimed you'd be unconscious for at least five hours, but my experiences with you led me to estimate a quicker recovery. I was, of course, correct."

Lovely. How long I'd remain out of it had turned into a betting game for my battle wagon and the old friend who'd just screwed me once again.

"Why didn't you stop him?" I said.

"I had no information from you to suggest Jack would drug you," Lobo said with annoyance. "Once you were unconscious, he was, by your orders, in command. Had he then tried to injure you further, your earlier orders would have allowed me to take action to prevent him, but he did nothing to harm you from that point forward. Had your health showed signs of worsening, I could have transported you to a medical facility, but your vital signs remained steady and strong. Consequently, I could only obey his instructions—again, per your orders."

I hate being stupid, and Lobo's tone made the annoyance all the greater. At the same time, I'd given Lobo those orders to protect the boy, and they reflected the best data available at the moment I gave them.

Except, of course, for the key fact that I'd known and chosen to ignore: you can't trust Jack.

Even though years of experience had taught me that lesson, something about the way he'd behaved this time had struck me as different; it was as if he actually cared about Manu.

Manu.

"What happened to the boy?" I said.

"To the best of my ability to tell, they are safe," Lobo said. "On Jack's orders, we invested an hour in evasive action and then proceeded to the jump gate. They departed there."

Given that we'd just attacked one of the richest men on the planet, the jump gate was a reasonable place to go. Jack would have caught the first available shuttle off-planet and be far away by now. I would have done the same.

My thinking was definitely not up to par, because it took me this long to realize that what mattered was not what I would have done, but what I needed to do now—though in this case they were the same. I needed to leave Mund.

"Where are we?"

"In orbit around Drayus," Lobo said. "On the far side of the planet from the jump gate, hiding with a group of tediously dull weather satellites."

Lobo was ahead of me—but how? "You jumped from Mund on your own?" I said. "It's not that I'm not grateful, or that it wasn't the right choice—I am, and it was—but I didn't think you could book transport through a gate without a human's approval."

"Once Jack left," Lobo said, "I had to follow the next most relevant of your orders, which was to protect you. Leaving Mund was clearly the best way to do that. As for needing a human's approval, you are correct—but all approvals, including those that require DNA samples for verification—are electronically transmitted. I have complete records of all our jumps, the accounts you've used for payment, and your DNA and electronic signatures, so I simply forged your presence."

"The jump systems didn't catch the forgery?"

"We are in orbit around Drayus, as I said, so clearly, no, they did not." Lobo's voice crackled with annoyance. "As I've explained to you before, my programming is vastly beyond that of most commercial systems."

I chuckled. "I apologize for underestimating you, and I thank you for getting me off Mund."

"I accept both your apology and your thanks," Lobo said. "Would you now like to view the recording Jack left for you?"

"Jack left a recording?"

"Why do you persist in asking questions to which you already know the answer?" Lobo said, the annoyance back.

"It was a rhetorical question. Jack's never done anything like that. When he vanishes, he leaves no traces."

I sat up, and this time doing so didn't leave me weaker. "Play it for me."

A display opened on the wall in front of me. Jack snapped into view. He stood beside Manu and held the boy's hand. My unconscious body lay on the floor behind him.

"Jon," he said, waving his hand briefly at my body, "I'm very sorry for treating you like that. If I'd thought there was any other reasonable option, I would have taken it. But, I didn't. The problem is that you wouldn't have approved of what I did, and then you would have tried to make it right, and in the end there was too big a chance that Manu might have gotten hurt." Jack sounded genuinely torn and upset. He paused, glanced down at Manu, and stroked the boy's head lightly.

"The fee Dougat paid for the interview was enough to buy Manu treatments for a while, but only for a while. He was going to need more, a lot more. We—his parents and I—were hoping Dougat would be willing to pay for more interviews or maybe even to help with the med-tech bills just because of Manu's Pinkelponker ancestry." He put his hands over Manu's ears for a moment. "Yeah, I know: it was a dumb hope. I tried to tell them, but it was the only option any of us could come up with that might help for the long term. The alternative, well—" he paused and looked at Manu, and when he faced forward again his eyes were wet, "—none of us were willing to deal with that."

He took his hands off Manu's ears. "When I caught up to Manu inside the Institute, he was hiding behind one of the gemstone displays." He paused, shook his head, and smiled. "Look, I know it's not right, but Dougat is so wealthy he won't even feel the loss."

Jack turned, stooped, and reached behind Manu. When he stood, he was clutching a cluster of at least half a dozen different Pinkelponker gems, his hands twinkling as if holding a night sky drenched in green, red, blue, and purple stars. "The right collectors will pay enough for these to cover Manu's treatments forever—and then some." Jack laughed. "Besides, a man has a right to make a profit now and then, eh?"

I laughed with him. Leave it to Jack to fall into a mess and walk away rich.

Lobo's video sensor tracked him as he walked to the front acceleration couch and left a huge green gem on it.

"For your help, Jon," he said.

"Docking with jump station in sixty seconds," said Lobo's voice on the recording.

Jack nodded and returned to Manu.

"I wish it had gone better, Jon," he said, "and just as I promised, this time we did some good: Manu will get his treatments."

Jack smiled that beautiful, wide, glowing smile of his, and I felt myself smiling involuntarily in response.

"Besides," he said, "admit it: wouldn't you have been at least a little disappointed if everything had played out according to plan?" He laughed lightly. "Take care, Jon.

"Jack out."

The display vanished.

"Bye, Jack," I whispered to the still and empty air.

I stretched out on the floor. I was alive and unhurt. Manu was not only safe, he'd also receive all the treatments he needed to stay alive. I didn't approve of stealing, but it wasn't like I'd never done it before, and Jack was right that Dougat could afford the loss. I'd even come out of it with a profit; a gem that size would, from the right buyer, bring me more than the cost of the weapons we'd used.

Compared to most of my experiences with Jack, this had been a dream.

"Did I mention we called him 'Slanted Jack'?" I said.

"No," Lobo said. "Why?"

"Because nothing's ever straight with him," I said, smiling. "But sometimes that's okay."

* * *

Mark L. Van Name has had stories published in several anthologies.

Candy-Blossom

Written by Dave Freer
Illustrated by Verónica Casas

I was going to run. As soon as he . . . it . . . the THING stopped looking at me. Staring a hole through my stupid head with its four eyes. I was going to run like the wind. I shouldn't have come here. Never. I swore to God . . . if I ever got out of here . . .

The thing opened its mouth. The wrong way, like a vertical slash. The inside was watermelon-pink, full of tombstone teeth. Orange tombstones. Glowing even in the moonlight.

"Candy-blossom?" it said. Or that is what I thought it said, anyway. It sounded like one of those wind-chime magodies that that langhaar by the beach sells. What was the word he used again? Oh, Ja. Mellifluous. Mellifluous with just a little bit of lost-child despair.

Nothing that looks like a cross between a nightmare and train-smash should speak like that. Not even to an old poacher. My bag of illegal spiny lobster twitched where it lay on the sand.

The creature jumped like a startled rabbit. He pointed the thing in his—hand?—at the bag and backed off. I was happy he was pointing it at the bugs. I didn't know what a set of semi-see-through rods in these modern dayglo-fashion-design colors did. But something about the thing said "gun."

A spiny lobster stuck out a feeler and went "eerrrrrk." A bleddy scary noise in the quiet, if I say it myself. The thing crouched and aimed the gun-goody, waiting. Hey, the bugs could make a sudden move and find out if it was a cigarette vending-machine or not. Me, I was out of here.

I tensed myself to make the dash. Just a few seconds and I'd be gone behind that big gray granite boulder. And then I'd be away. I'd sneaked around these granite bricks and scrubby fynbos for thirty years. If the bleddy army couldn't catch me, then furry feeler-face Candy-blossom hadn't a chance.

Suddenly my ears picked up a familiar sound. One I was used to listening for.

Put-put . . . Patrol boat.

Old Candy-blossom heard it too. His four eyes nearly bugged out. And then, from up the hill, we heard a radio-crackle.

Shit. Not even to save my life from this alien thing was I going to be caught here! That bleddy magistraat at Vredenburg wouldn't give a damn how I'd been caught this time. . . .

"Candy-blossom? Enku?"

I didn't have to be a mindreader to understand the alien. It was just as scared of being caught as I was. And I'd bet "Enku" meant please.

"Oh, bugger it. Ja. Come." I picked up the bag.

It stood, looking bleddy pathetic.

"Man! Heretjie-tog, follow me, dammit."

It still didn't move, just made a miserable little "eeep!ting" sound. The patrol-boat was getting closer.

"Ag! Candy-blossom."

"Candy-blossom?"

"Ja, all right then, bleddy Candy-blossom. Now come."

It did.

* * *

Down here on this patch of beach there was no cover, unless you counted the piles of half-dry washed-up kelp. I'd got myself caught once before, hiding in one of those piles. The bleddy patrol had stopped and sat down on the rock next to my pile for a smoke-break. The buggers were parking off maybe three feet from where I was lying under that stinking kelp. They didn't have a clue that I was lying there with a streepsak of perlemoen and those damned kelp-goggas crawling all over me. Ai. It still makes me gril just thinking about it. Eventually I just had to scratch, even if it meant getting caught.

I wasn't doing that again.

Up the slope was mostly those big granite boulders and scrubby little renosterbossies. Not an easy place to hide but also damned near impossible to keep a skirmish-line patrol in contact with each other.

You could hear the dumb troeps vloeking their way through the bushes. Hell. There must have been a couple of hundred of them up there. This wasn't just a patrol out looking for old Piet Geel poaching in the military reserve again. They must be out looking for Candy-blossom here. Looking for him seriously.

I'd been wondering if I'd done something really stupid. Maybe I should give this monster to them. I mean he was . . . an alien. Like from the X-files, on the teevee down at Minna's place. But they shouldn't have come searching for him like that, not with half the bleddy Military Academy out after him. That got me mad. I'd had them looking for me before. Right now old Candy-blossom and me were up the same damned creek. I'd get him away, then, maybe . . .

There was a little vlei just up the hill in a bit of a flat-patch there. The water is the color of rooibos tea that's been boiled for two hours, with this red-brown scum on it. At the deepest it is just over knee-deep, and it's full of platannas and waterblommetjies. I pulled old Candy-blossom out into it, and made him lie down in between the lily-leaves. Then, pulled a couple of them over him and put one on his face. I lay down next to him, with a leaf on my face, too.

I heard them splash in the shallow water. Couldn't hear what they were saying, because my ears were underwater, but I know troeps. There hasn't been a troep born that is going to walk into the water deeper than half-way up his boots, if he gets that wet. Not on a winter's night, that's for sure. All I had to worry about was that there'd be some snotkop officer watching them. A torch shone across my face. I lay still. The torchlight stopped blinding me. Moved on.

The splashing stopped. We waited.

I gave old Candy-blossom a nudge. We got up. The skirmish line was downhill from us now. On the sea I could see not one patrol boat but all four. All around where we'd been. Not, thankfully, where we were going. I poured the water and a happy little plattie out of my boots and led old Candy-blossom over the ridge.

Now, you leave a boat on the beach, and anyone can see it. Put it in the open water and it's pretty obvious in the moonlight. Cover it with kelp and it gets full of those damned kelp-goggas. Me, I always leave the boat in a patch of three big gray rocks just off the beach. Who notices if there are three or four rocks? They're higher than my old boat. I put a bit of kelp on the back and just leave her there.

She stayed there three months, last time I got arrested. They thought I'd come over the fence. Lelik is niks, maar stupid . . . Like, I'm going to climb a ten-foot razor wire fence when I can just row around? So the old boat just stayed there. Even in the daytime nobody noticed her. Okay, it means I get myself wet getting out to her, but what is a bit of wetness to old smokkelaar like me? I could see my rocks below us, and in two minutes we'd be away.

Except there was some troepie gyppoing on the point. Okay. Maybe he was supposed to be on guard. Looked more like he was having a smoke and a daydream. Funny, they reckoned these black troeps would be different from the white ones. But a troep is a troep is a troep, like they say.

We couldn't wait. I'd swear blind that was a dog I heard. You can't fool dogs as easily as you can people.

"Stay here," I whispered. It didn't work. Candy-blooming-blossom followed me anyway. There were no small rocks around, but I took a couple of nice undersize perelemoen from my bag. There's a good thick patch of bush in the gully just other side of the headland. Couple of bat-eared foxes have their hole there, and this close to morning they're pretty near to it. I know. They nearly made me shit myself the first time I came that way. I waited till the guard had taken a nice deep pull on that smoke, and chucked the bat-eared foxes a perelemoenfor breakfast.

Hey, I didn't expect that troepie to shriek like that. "Hai! Haii!" and then to go in shooting. Shooting, nogal! Shit. I felt sorry for the bat-eared foxes. They don't even eat perelemoen. Still, we were into my old boat faster than I can pull a snoek. I've been shot at once before and I didn't like it.

Quiet like mice I rowed us away between the bricks and kelp. I tied off the bag and hung it over the side, as usual. If a Sea-fisheries boat found us now, I'd just cut the rope. I wished like hell I could do that with old Candy-blossom, too. 'Cause now that we were in the boat, I was thinking, What am I going to do with this . . . thing? I mean, I live alone. But my grandchildren are in and out of the place. Maybe I should just—

A helicopter whopped away out of the dark with a searchlight, off towards Saldahna.

"Candy-blossom?"

Ag, so what the hell could I do? I just kept on rowing along the edge, keeping near the bricks. The moon was nearly down now, and we still had a couple of hours till sunrise. Hennie and some of his boys had been going to set some nets for galjoen when the moon went down. I wondered how they'd feel about that chopper? It made me laugh. I'll bet old Hennie thought the Sea-fisheries boys were getting pretty bleddy sneaky.

We slipped across, with a couple of ships shining lights around in the dark. They never shone them at us. My word, but there are a lot of little boats out there in the bay at night. All on perfectly legitimate business, I'm sure. They kept the Navy boys busy. The Academy Reserve looked like a Christmas tree with all those lights flashing around. Me, I know you see much better without a torch, but the army always knows better, né?

So we pulled the boat up. I'll say this for Candy-blossom. He gave me a hand. Actually, he gave me four hands, and man, was he strong. I took him up to the house. It is not much of a place, but it's my home. Just an old strandhuisie, but my father's, my grandfather's and my great-grandfather's before me too. I put the spiny lobster and the perelemoen down, lit the lamp and got out a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses. After this lot I needed a shot. Hell, I thought we both needed a dop or two.

Old Candy-blossom took one look at the bottle and got excited. "Candy-blossom? Candy-blossom? " He picked up the bottle, and tried to open it by pulling the lid off. Looked like he'd never met a screw-cap and he needed a drink badly.

I grabbed it back. It was my brandy, after all.

"Hey. Los uit. I'll give you a drink, but you can't have it all!" I poured him a shot into the glass. A good double. And you know what he did?

He stuck that gun thing into it.

It turned blue. All of it. Bright glowing blue.

"CANDY-BLOSSOM!"

He pressed the button on the thing. I didn't end up dead, although, Ja, I did duck behind the table. Then he picked me up. I mean right up, off the ground, like I weighed nothing. "Candy-blossom. Enku?" and he held the brandy bottle in one of the other hands.

Ja-nee, well, what could I say? "Okay. Candy-blossom. Enku Enku. Whatever you like!"

"Splidzat." He put me down, and, with my bottle of brandy in hand he walked outside. It wasn't quite dawn . . . just gray. And the road in front of my place was full of this big thing. Long, and that same kind of blue as the thing I thought was his gun. Something spiralled out of it. Old Candy-blossom turned back to me.

For a bleddy bad minute I thought he was going to take me with him. Instead he pointed this thing that I'd thought was his finger at my doorstep. It's just a piece of the rock, that oupa-grootjie shaped. Candy-blossom cut that shape in it. With red light. I reckon if he could cut rocks, he could have sliced soldiers. Then he climbed into that seat-magodie that had spiraled out and . . . whoop he was up into the thing. With my bottle of dop. With not so much as a dankie oom or a wave goodbye.

Two seconds later he was gone. The only thing to show he'd ever been here was that twisty shape he cut in my step.

I wonder what it means. Maybe, it is like the mark the Israelites put on the door. You know, when the aliens come they won't kill me and the grandchildren.

Ja, well, maybe. But, Ag well, it is probably just alien-hobo for "you can get a dop off this old balie."

* * *

The candy-blossom wasn't very pure. Barely good enough for the ship to run on. Two enku was a quite a price for such a little. Still, the enku glyphs should protect the aboriginal for some years. And with its lifestyle, it needed them.

* * *

Glossary for the Afrikaans-deprived:

(Note from the author: The language in the story is Afrikaans of the dialect used by the Cape Coloured, as their original khoi-san has disappeared. It's about as different as English in the deep South spoken among black Americans is to "proper English" spoken by someone from the upper crust of New York or Boston.)

Ag = och

Dankie oom = thanks, uncle (uncle = any older male, a term of endearment and respect)

Dop = stiff drink.

galjoen = a prized reef-fish which it is totally illegal to net.

gogga = creepy-crawly

gril = shudder

Heretjie-tog = For God's sake

Ja= Yeah

Ja-nee = lit. Yes-no. More or less means "Well, okay."

langhaar= longhair

Lelik is niks, maar stupid... = Ugly is nothing, but stupid...

Los uit = leave it alone.

magistraat = magistrate

magodies = thing-a-majigs

Nogal = yet

oupa-grootjie = great grandfather

Perelemoen = abalone

Platanna/plattie = lit. Flat-Anna. Clawed aquatic toads, slimy, black flat, ugly as hell.

renosterbossies = rhinocerous bushes. Scrubby grey-leafed macchia.

rooibos = lit red-bush herbal tea. Iron oxide red.

Smokkelaar = lit. Smuggler. applies Applies to poachers too.

snoek = thyristes atun, long thin vicious predatory fish. Caught on hand-lines. Only possible by hauling so fast the fish doesn't get its head. Staple local food.

snotkop = snothead

strandhuisie = lit. Little Beach-house = poor, Cape Coloured fisherman's cottage.

troep/troepie = trooper, now applied to infantry. Basically the equivalent of "grunt."

Vlei = bog

Vloeking = lit. cursing generally swearing

Waterblommetjies = lit. waterflowers. Related to waterlilies, but growing in shallower water

Dave Freer is the author of a number of novels and short stories.

To read more work by Dave Freer, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

The Darkness

Written by David Drake
Illustrated by Rob Dumuhosky

"Hi, Lieutenant," someone said as he walked into Ruthven's room. "Good to see you up and around. I gotta do a few tests with you back in the bed, though."

On the electronic window, a brisk wind was scudding snow over drifts and damaged armored vehicles. Ruthven turned from it; a jab of pain blasted the world into white, buzzing fragments. It centered on his left hip, but for a few heartbeats it involved every nerve in his body.

"Your leg's still catching you?" said Drayer. He was the senior medic on this ward. "Well, it'll do that for a while, sir. But they did a great job putting you back together. It's just pain, you know? There's nothing wrong really."

Pain like this isn't nothing, thought Ruthven. If he hadn't been nauseous he might've tried to put Drayer's head through the wall; but he had no strength and anyway, there was no room for anger just now in the blurred gray confines of his mind.

He eased his weight back onto his left leg; it reacted normally, though the muscles trembled slightly. The agony of a few moments past was gone as thoroughly as if it'd happened when he was an infant, twenty-odd years earlier.

"Anyway, come lie down," Drayer said. "This won't take but a—"

Drayer noticed the window image for the first time. "Blood and Martyrs, sir!" he said. What d'ye want to look at that for? You can set these panels to show you anyplace, you know? I got the beaches on Sooner's World up on all my walls. Let me tell you, walking to my quarters across that muck is plenty view of it for me!"

Ruthven glanced back at the window, catching himself in mid-motion; his hip ignored him, the way a hip ought to do. The snow was dirty, and what appeared to be patches of mud were probably lubricating oil. The Slammers' hospital here on Pontefract shared a compound with the repair yard, a choice that probably reflected somebody's sense of humor.

"That's all right," Ruthven said, walking to the bed; monitoring devices were embedded in the frame. "I chose it deliberately."

He grinned faintly as he settled onto the mattress. The juxtaposition of wrecked personnel and wrecked equipment reflected his sense of humor too, it seemed.

Drayer knelt to fit his recorder into the footboard. "Well, if that's what you want," he said. "Me, I was hoping we'd be leaving as soon as the Colonel got transport lined up. The government found the money for another three months, though."

Drayer looked up; a sharp-featured little man, efficient and willing to grab a bedpan when the ward was short-handed. But by the Lord and Martyrs, his talent for saying exactly the wrong thing amounted to sheer genius.

"Had you heard that, sir?" Drayer said, obviously hopeful that he'd given an officer the inside dope on something. "Though I swear, I don't see where they found it. You wouldn't think this pit could raise the money to hire the Regiment for nine months."

"They're probably mortgaging the amber concession for the next twenty years," Ruthven said. He braced himself to move again.

The fat of beasts in Pontefract's ancient seas had fossilized into translucent masses which fluoresced in a thousand beautiful pastels. Ruthven didn't know why it was called amber.

"Twenty years?" Drayer sneered. "The Royalists won't last twenty days after we ship out!"

"It'll still be worth some banker's gamble at enough of a discount," Ruthven said. "And the Five Worlds may run out of money to supply the Lord's Army, after all."

He lifted his legs onto the mattress, waiting for the pain; it didn't come. It wouldn't come, he supposed, until he stopped thinking about it every time he moved . . . and then it'd grin at him as it sank its fangs in.

"Well, I don't know squat about bankers, that's the truth," Drayer said with a chuckle. "I just know I won't be sorry to leave this pit. Though—"

He bent to remove the recorder.

"—I guess they're all pits, right sir? If they was paradise, they wouldn't need the Slammers, would they?"

"I suppose some contract worlds are better than others," Ruthven said, looking at the repair yard. Base Hammer here in the lowlands seemed to get more snow than Platoon E/1 had in the hills. He'd been in for hospital three weeks, though; the weather might've changed in that length of time. "I've only been with the Regiment two years, so I'm not the one to say."

Drayer's brow furrowed as he concentrated on the bed's holographic readout. He looked up beaming and said, "Say, Lieutenant, you're so close to a hundred percent it don't signify. You oughta be up and dancing, not just looking out the window!"

"I'll put learning to dance on my list," Ruthven said, managing a smile with effort. "Right now I think I'll get some more sleep, though."

"Sure, you do that, sir," said Drayer, never quick at taking a hint. "Doc Parvati'll be in this afternoon to certify you, I'll bet. Tonight or tomorrow, just as sure as Pontefract's a pit."

He slid his recorder into its belt sheath and looked around the room once more. "Well, I got three more to check, Lieutenant, so I'll be pushing on. None of them doing as well as you, I'll tell you. Anything more I can—"

The medic's eyes lighted on the gold-bordered file folder leaning against the water pitcher on Ruthven's side table. The recruiter'd been by this morning, before Drayer came on duty.

"Blood and Martyrs, sir!" he said. "I saw Mahone in the lobby but I didn't know she'd come to see you. So you're transferring back to the Frisian Defense Forces, is that it?"

"Not exactly 'back,'" Ruthven said. He gave up the pretense of closing his eyes. "I joined the Slammers straight out of the Academy."

Sometimes he thought about ordering Drayer to get his butt out of the room, but Ruthven'd had enough conflict when he was in the field. Right now he just wanted to sleep, and he wouldn't do that if he let himself get worked up.

"Well, I be curst!" the medic said. "You're one lucky dog, sir. Here I'm going on about wanting to leave this place and you're on your way back to good booze and women you don't got to pay! Congratulations!"

"Thank you, Technician," Ruthven said. "But now I need sleep more than liquor or women or anything else. All right?"

"You bet, sir!" said Drayer said as he hustled out the door at last. "Say, wait till I tell Nichols in Supply about this!"

Ruthven closed his eyes again. Instead of going to sleep, though, his mind drifted back to the hills last month when E/1 arrived at Fire Support Base Courage.

* * *

"El-Tee?" said Sergeant Hassel, E/1's platoon sergeant but doubling as leader of First Squad from lack of noncoms. "We got something up here you maybe want to take a look at before we go belting on int' the firebase, over. "

"Platoon, hold in place," Ruthven ordered from the command car, shrinking the map layout on his display to expand the visual feed from Hassel some 500 meters ahead. The platoon went to ground, troopers rolling off their skimmers and scanning the windblown scrub through their weapons' sights.

Melisant, driving the high-sided command car today, nosed them against the bank to the right of the road and unlocked the tribarrel on the roof of the rear compartment. She used the gunnery screen at her station instead of climbing out of her hatch and taking the gun's spade grips in her hands. The screen provided better all-round visibility as well as being safer for the gunner, but many of the ex-farmers in the Regiment felt acutely uncomfortable if they had to hunch down in a box when somebody might start shooting at them.

Ruthven expanded the image by four, then thirty-two times, letting the computer boost brightness and contrast. The command car's electronics gave him clearer vision than Hassel's own, though the sergeant can't have been in any doubt about what he was seeing. It was a pretty standard offering by the Lord's Army, after all.

"Right," Ruthven said aloud. "Unit, there's three Royalists crucified upside down by the road. We'll go uphill of them. Nobody comes within a hundred meters of the bodies in case they're booby-trapped, got it? Six out."

As he spoke, his finger traced a virtual course on the display; the electronics transmitted the image to the visors of his troopers. They were veterans and didn't need their hands held—but it was the platoon leader's job, and Ruthven took his job seriously.

The Lord knew there were enough ways to get handed your head even if you stayed as careful as a diamond cutter. The Lord knew.

Instead of answering verbally, the squad leaders' icons on Ruthven's display flashed green. Seven troopers of Sergeant Rennie's Third Squad—the other two escorted the gun jeep covering the rear—were already on the high ground, guiding their skimmers through trees which'd wrapped their limbs about their boles at the onset of winter. The thin soil kept the trees apart, and the undergrowth was already gray and brittle; Heavy Weapons' jeeps, two with tribarrels and the third with a mortar, wouldn't have a problem either. The command car, though—

Well, it didn't matter that a command car's high center of gravity and poor power-to-weight ratio made it a bad choice for breaking trail in wooded hills. This wasn't a choice, it was a military necessity unless Ruthven wanted to take the chance that the bodies weren't bait. His two years' experience in the field wasn't much for the Slammers, but it'd been plenty to teach him to avoid unnecessary risks.

The victims had been tied to the crosses with their own intestines, but that was just the usual fun and games for the Lord's Army. Ruthven grinned. If he'd had a better opinion of the Royalists, he might've been able to convince himself the Regiment was Doing Good on Pontefract. Fortunately, Colonel Hammer didn't require his platoon leaders to maintain feelings of moral superiority over their enemies.

His eyes on the dots of his troopers slanting across the terrain display, Ruthven keyed his microphone and said, "Courage Command, this is Echo One-six. Come in Courage Command, over."

The combat car's display showed that the transmitter in Colonel Carrera's headquarters was one of half a dozen in Firebase Courage which were live, but nobody replied. Ruthven grimaced. He wasn't comfortable communicating with the Royalists to begin with, since any message which the Royalists could hear, the Lord's Army could overhear. It added insult to injury that the fools weren't responding.

The car bucked as the forward skirts dug into an outcrop with a skreel! of steel on stone. Ruthven expected they'd have to back and fill, but Melisant kicked her nacelles out and lifted them over the obstacle. She was driving primarily because her skimmer—now strapped to the side of the car in hopes of being able to repair it at the Royalist base—was wonky, but she was probably as good at the job as anybody in the platoon.

"Courage Command, this is Echo One-six," Ruthven repeated, keeping his voice calm but wondering if showing his irritation would help get the Royalists' attention. "Respond ASAP to arrange linkup, if you please. Over."

The car shifted back to level from its strongly nose-up attitude, though it continued to rock side to side. Ruthven had a real-time panorama at the top of his display, but he didn't bother checking it. His responsibility was the whole platoon, not the problems of weaving the car through woodland.

"Echo One-six, my colonel say, 'Who are you?'" replied a voice from the firebase. "We must know who you are, over!"

Ruthven sighed. It could've been worse. Of course, it might still get worse.

"Unit, hold in place till I sort this," he said aloud. Rennie's squad, now in the lead, must be nearly in sight of the firebase by now. "Break. Courage Command, this is Echo One-six. We're the unit sent to reinforce you. Please confirm that your troops are expecting us and won't open fire."

He hesitated three long heartbeats while deciding whether to say what was going through his mind, then said it: "Courage, we're the Slammers. If we're shot at, we'll shoot back. With everything we've got. Over."

Third Squad was in sight of the Royalists: the feed from Rennie's skimmer showed the firebase as a scar of felled trees on the hill 700 meters from him. Ruthven frowned; he was looking down into the firebase. The ridge by which E/1 had approached was a good fifty meters higher than the knoll where the Royalists had sited their guns.

"You must not shoot!" squealed a new voice from the Royalist firebase; a senior officer had apparently taken over from the radioman. "We will not shoot! You must come in and help us at once!"

Ruthven grinned faintly. "Courage, I'll give you three minutes to make sure all your bunkers get the word," he said. "We don't want any mistakes. Echo One-six out."

"Hey El-Tee?" said Sergeant Wegelin on the command push; he was crewing the tribarrel at the end of the column. "What d'ye mean, come in shooting with everything we got? We're not exactly a tank company, you know, over."

"They don't know that, Wegs," Ruthven said, smiling more broadly as he examined the real-time visuals. "And anyway, I don't think we'd need panzers to put paid to this lot, over."

Fire Support Base Courage housed four 120-mm howitzers with an infantry battalion for protection. Treetrunks had been bulldozed into a wall around the camp, but they wouldn't stop light cannon shells as effectively as an earthen berm. The Slammers' powerguns would turn the wood into a huge bonfire.

"Why in hell did they set up with this ridge above them, d'ye suppose?" asked Hassel. Though the platoon sergeant had his own line of sight to the firebase, the display indicated he was using Wegelin's higher vantage point. "We could put the guns out of action with four shots, over."

"Because I never met nobody wearing a uniform here who knows how to pour piss outa a boot, Top," said Wegelin. "Over."

"The ridge's too narrow for a battalion and the guns," said Ruthven. He was using text crawls to monitor the panicked orders flying across the firebase, but he didn't see any reason to wait in respectful silence for the Royalists to get their act in order. "They should've left a detachment—"

"Echo One-six, you must come in now," Lieutenant-Colonel Carrera said sharply. "Quickly, before the Dogs take advantage! Quick! Quick!"

"Break," said Ruthven, closing his conversation with his squad leaders. "Rennie, take your squad in. Wegelin, stay on overwatch. I'll follow Rennie, then Sellars, Wegelin, and you bring up the rear, Hassel. Six Out."

Again green blips signaled Received and Understood. Sergeant Rennie knelt on his skimmer to lead the way down and up the wooded saddle to the firebase. His troopers were lying flat with their control sticks folded down. That wasn't a good way to drive, but it made them very difficult targets in case somebody in the garrison hadn't gotten the word after all.

Rennie wasn't the brightest squad leader in the Regiment, but he was reflexively brave and never hesitated to take a personal risk to spare his troopers. They'd have followed him to Hell.

Melisant was sending power to the fans before Ruthven'd finished giving his orders, but the command car lifted awkwardly and only slowly started to wallow forward. The grace with which the troopers flitted around him made Ruthven feel like a hog surrounded by flies, but the skimmers'd run out of juice in a matter of hours without the car's fusion bottle to recharge them. He knew he was doing his proper job here inside the vehicle, though he didn't feel like he was.

The gun jeep that'd been reinforcing the lead squad didn't follow Rennie's troopers. The driver/assistant gunner waved as the combat car swept past; the jeep was hunkered down in a notch on the reverse slope that gave it a line of fire to the four howitzers and most of the interior of the firebase.

Sergeant Wegelin'd probably ordered the crew to keep under cover till he came up with the other gun and mortar. That wasn't precisely disobeying Ruthven's instructions, but it came bloody close; and Wegelin was probably right in his caution, so the El-Tee would keep his mouth shut. That was a lot of what a junior lieutenant did when he had good noncoms. . . .

The infantry moved toward the firebase through the stumps and brush in a skirmish line, but Melisant swung the car onto the road as soon as she reached the swale connecting the knolls. The track'd been cut with a bulldozer rather than properly graded, but the car's air cushion smoothed the ride nicely. The deep ruts from wheeled vehicles were frozen now and had snow on their southern edges.

Royalists cheered from the top of the wall. The soldiers were male but there were scores of women and children in the compound as well, some of them waving garments.

Ruthven grimaced, thinking of what'd happen if the Lord's Army overran the place. His job was to prevent that, but if the rebels were in the strength Intelligence thought they were—well, one platoon, even a bloody good platoon like E/1, wasn't going to be able to do the job without help that the Royalists might not be able to provide.

The firebase entrance was a simple gap in the wall, but bulldozers had scraped a pile of trunks and dirt as a screen ten meters in front of it. Semi-trailers bringing in supplies would have a hard time with the angle, but Melisant should be able to guide the combat car through without trouble.

There were three strands of barbed wire in front of the wall. That gave negligible protection against assault, but maybe it'd hearten the defenders: placebo effects were real in more areas than medicine.

Ruthven grinned. It wasn't much of a joke, but in a situation like this you took any chance for a laugh that you got.

Rennie parked his skimmer beside the entrance and hopped up the front of the wall like a baboon with a 2-cm gun; he stood facing inward. His troopers split to either side, four of them joining him on the main wall while the other two mounted the screen and looked back to cover the rest of the column.

"Melisant, ease off a bit," Ruthven said over the intercom as he opened the roof hatch. "We don't want to spook our allies, over."

"You mean they'll mess their pants, El-Tee?" Melisant said. "Yeah, we don't want that. Out."

The fan note didn't change, but the driver let gravity slow the heavy vehicle as they started up the slope toward the entrance. Ruthven thumbed the lift button and a hydraulic jack raised his seat until his head and shoulders were above the hatch coaming. This way the Royalists could see him instead of watching forty tonnes of steel and iridium growl toward them impassively.

Ruthven tried to keep his face impassive as he eyed the barrier. It was a tangle of protruding roots and branches, no harder to climb than a ladder. Defenders firing over the top from the other side would have very little advantage over an attacking force. The common soldiers carried locally made automatic rifles, but the three blockhouses spaced around the wall mounted pulsed lasers; each weapon had its own fusion bottle.

The Lord's Army wasn't any better equipped, but the Prophet Isaiah certainly did a better job of building enthusiasm in his followers than King Jorge II did. Rumor had it that Jorge and his three mistresses had left Pontefract for a safer planet several months ago . . . and this time rumor was dead right. Ruthven'd heard that from a buddy on Colonel Hammer's staff.

The command car eased through the S-bend at the base entrance. Melisant was squaring the corners, apparently to impress the locals. Ruthven looked down at them, trying to keep a friendly smile. They were impressed, all right, waving and cheering so loudly that sometimes he could hear them over the car's howling fans.

Good Lord they're young! he thought. It really was a war of children. Most of the Royalist soldiers were teenagers and so undernourished they looked barely pubescent, while the Lord's Army recruited ten year olds at gunpoint from outlying villages.

It'd go on for as long as King Jorge managed to pay the Slammers and the Five Worlds Consortium shipped arms to the Prophet. A whole generation was dying in childhood.

History was a required subject at the Academy; Ruthven had done well in it. The realities of field service had provided color for those textual accounts of revolts, rebellions, and popular movements, however. That color was blood red.

He'd expected a vehicular circuit inside the wall, but the interior of the compound was sprinkled randomly with shanties and lean-tos except for the road from the gate to a clearing in the center. The four howitzers were emplaced evenly around the open area, each in a low sandbagged ring, which again must've been built for its morale value.

"You want us up between the guns, El-Tee?" Melisant asked. "Looks like they dump the resupply there and the troops hoof it back to their billets, right? Over."

"Roger that," Ruthven said. "Break, Unit, we'll form in the central clearing while I figure out what to do next. Six out."

Blood and Martyrs! This's looking more and more like a ratfuck. Ruthven hadn't been thrilled by the assignment from the start, but until E/1 got to Firebase Courage he hadn't have guessed how bad things really were.

He'd expected the Royalist troops to be ill trained and poorly equipped—because all Royalist field units were: the defense budget never percolated far from the gaudily dressed officers in the capital, Zaragoza. He hadn't expected Fire Support Base Courage to be so ineptly constructed, though. It was a wonder that the Lord's Army hadn't rolled over the position long before.

The Headquarters complex was four aluminum trailers which'd been buried in the ground to the right of the gate. A tower in the middle of them carried satellite and short-wave antennas, making the identification obvious and coincidentally providing an aiming point to the Prophet's gunners. The Lord's Army had only small arms, but painting a big bull's-eye on your Tactical Operations Center still isn't a good plan.

An officer in a green dress uniform with gold crossbelts was coming up the steps from one of the trailers, steadying his bicorn hat. The three aides accompanying him were less gorgeously dressed; that, rather than the rank tabs on his epaulets, identified Lieutenant Colonel Carrera.

Ruthven dropped into the compartment again. As soon as Melisant brought the car to a halt, he swung the rear hatch down into a ramp and stepped out to meet the Royalist officers.

Carrera stopped where he was and braced to attention. A rabbity aide with frayed cuffs scurried to Ruthven and said, "Sir, you are the commander? My colonel asks, what is your rank?"

Ruthven frowned. Instead of answering, he walked over to Carrera and said, "Colonel? I'm Lieutenant Henry Ruthven, in command of Platoon E/1 of Hammer's Regiment. We've been sent to you as reinforcements."

"A lieutenant?" the Royalist officer said in amazement. "One platoon only? And where are the rest of your tanks? This one thing—"

He flicked his swagger stick toward the command car.

"—this is not enough, surely! We must have more tanks!"

What Major Pritchard, the Slammers Operations Officer, had actually said when he assigned Ruthven was, "to put some backbone into the garrison." It wouldn't have been polite or politic either one to have repeated the phrasing, but now Ruthven half-wished he had.

"We're infantry, Colonel," Ruthven said calmly, because it was his job—his duty—to be calm and polite. "We don't have any tanks at all, but I think you'll find we can handle things here. We've got sensors to give plenty of warning of enemy intentions. We've got our own powerguns, and we have direct communications to a battery of the Regiment's hogs."

"Oh, this is not right," Carrera said, turning and walking back toward his trailer. "My cousin promised me, promised me, tanks and there is only this tank."

"Sir?" said Ruthven. Sellars was bringing her squad in; the jeeps of Heavy Weapons followed closely. "Colonel! We need to make arrangements for the siting of my troops."

"Take care of him, Mendes," Carrera called over his shoulder. "I have been betrayed. It is out of my hands, now."

Carrera's aides had started to leave with him. A pudgy man in his forties, a captain if Ruthven had the collar insignia right, stopped and turned with a stricken look. The Royalists didn't wear name tags, but he was presumably Mendes.

"Right, Captain," Ruthven said with a breezy assertiveness that he figured was the best option. "I think under the circumstances we'll be best served by retaining my troops as a concentrated reserve here in the center of the firebase. We're highly mobile, you see. We'll place sensors around the perimeter to give us warning of attack as early as troops there could do."

That was true, but the real reason Ruthven'd decided to keep E/1 concentrated was so that his troopers could support one another. Self-preservation was starting to look like the primary goal for this operation. The Slammers'd been hired to fight and they would fight, but Hank Ruthven knew the Colonel hadn't given him troopers in order to get them killed for nothing.

All elements of E/1 were now within the compound. Hassel'd put the troopers with 2-cm shoulder weapons on the wall aiming northeast, toward the ridge they'd just come from. Both the tribarrels covered the high ground also.

The ten troopers with sub-machine guns faced in, keeping an eye on Ruthven and the babbling crowd of Royalists. They weren't threatening; just watchful. With their mirrored face-shields down they looked like Death's Little Helpers, though, and they could become that in an eye-blink if anybody gave them reason.

"We'll need the use of your digging equipment," Ruthven continued. "The bulldozer and whatever else you have; a backhoe, perhaps?"

"We have nothing," Mendes said.

Ruthven's face hardened; he gestured with his left hand toward the dug-in trailers. His right, resting on the receiver of his slung sub-machine gun, slipped down to the grip.

"They went back!" Mendes said. "They came, yes, but they went back! We have nothing here, only the guns; and no tractors to move them!"

Bloody hell, that was true! Ruthven'd assumed he wasn't getting signatures from heavy equipment during E/1's approach simply because nothing was running at the moment, but the shanties scattered within the compound would make it impossible for even a jeep to move through them.

"Right," said Ruthven. "Then I'll need a labor party from your men, Captain. We have a few power augers, but there's a great deal of work to do before nightfall. For all our sakes. However the first requirement is to garrison that knob."

He gestured toward the high ground. When Mendes didn't turn his head, Ruthven put his hand on the Royalist's shoulder and rotated him gently, then pointed again.

"It's not safe to give the enemy that vantage point," Ruthven said. To any real soldier, that'd be as obvious as saying, "Water is wet," but real soldiers were bloody thin on the ground on Pontefract.

And it seemed they all wore Slammers uniforms.

"Oh, we can't do that!" Mendes said. "That is too far away!"

"Together we can," Ruthven said. "I'll put a squad there, and you'll supply a platoon. We'll rotate the troops every day. Dug in and with fire support from here, they'll be an anvil that we can smash the rebels on if they try anything."

"Oh," said Mendes. "Oh. Oh."

He wasn't agreeing—or disagreeing, so far as Ruthven could tell. He sounded like a man gasping for breath.

"Right!" Ruthven said cheerfully, clapping the Royalist on the shoulder. "Now, let's get to your ops room and set up the assignments, shall we?"

He'd put Rennie's squad on the ridge the first night, though he might also take Sellars' up for the afternoon also to get the position cleared. He could only hope that the Royalists would work well under Slammers' direction; that happened often enough on this sort of planet.

"Top?" Ruthven said to Hassel over the command push as he walked Mendes toward the trailers. He'd cut the whole platoon in on the discussion through the intercom, though he was blocking incoming messages unless they were red-tagged. "Take charge here while I get things sorted with our allies."

He paused. Because Mendes could theoretically hear him—in fact the Royalist officer appeared to be in shock—Ruthven chose the next words carefully: "And Top? I know what you're thinking because I'm thinking the same thing. But this is going to work if there's any way in hell I can make it work. Six out."

* * *

"Good morning, Hank," a professionally cheerful voice said. "Oh! Were you napping? I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Just thinking, Lisa," Ruthven said, opening his eyes and smiling at Lisa Mahone, the Frisian recruiting officer. Apologetically he added, "I, ah . . . I haven't gotten around to the papers, yet."

He thought he saw Mahone's eyes harden, but she sat down on the side of his bed and patted his right leg in a display of apparent affection. She said, "Well, I've used the time to your advantage, Hank. I told you I hoped I'd be able to get Personnel to grant you a two-step promotion? They've agreed to it! I'm authorized to change the recruitment agreement right now."

She leaned forward to take the folder from the side table, her hip brushing Ruthven's thigh. "How does that sound, Captain Ruthven?"

"It's hard to express, Lisa," Ruthven said, forcing a smile to make the words sound positive. He slitted his eyes so that they'd appear closed. In truth he didn't know what he thought about the business; it seemed to be happening to somebody else. Maybe it was drugs still in his system, though Drayer'd sworn that they'd tapered his dosage down to zero thirty-six hours ago.

Ruthven watched silently as Mahone amended the recruitment agreement in a firm, clear hand. She was an attractive woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and a perfect complexion. Her pants suit was severely tailored, but the shirt beneath her pale green jacket was frilled and had a deep neckline.

The gold-bordered folder not only acted as a hard backing for Mahone's stylus, it recorded the handwritten changes and transmitted them to the hospital's data bank. There they became part of the Regimental files, to be downloaded or transmitted by any authorized personnel.

Mahone wasn't as young as Ruthven'd thought when she approached him three days earlier, though. Perhaps the drugs really had worn off.

"I have to admit that I didn't have to do much convincing," she said in the same bright voice as she appeared to read the document in front of her. "My superiors were just as impressed by your record as I am. Very few graduates in the top ten percent of their class join mercenary units straight out of the Academy."

"I wanted to be a soldier," Ruthven said. This time his wry smile was real, but it was directed at his naive former self. "I thought I ought to learn what being a soldier was really about. I wanted to see the elephant, if you know the term."

"Seeing the elephant," had been used by soldiers as a euphemism for battle from a very long time back. It might even be as old as "buying the farm," as a euphemism for death.

"And you certainly did," Mahone said. "Your combat experience is a big plus."

She met his eyes with every appearance of candor and said, "The Frisian Defense Forces haven't fought a serious war since the Melpomene Emergency fifteen years ago. You knew that: that's why you enlisted in Hammer's Regiment when you wanted to see action. I know it too, and most importantly, the General Staff in Burcana knows it. The Defense Forces are willing to pay very well for the experience that our troops haven't gotten directly."

Mahone smiled like a porcelain doll, smooth and perfect, and held the folder out to Ruthven. "You bought that experience dearly, Captain," she said. "Now's the time to cash in on your investment."

Ruthven winced. It was a tiny movement, but Mahone caught it.

"Hank?" she said, lowering the folder while keeping it still within reach. She stroked Ruthven's thigh again and said, "Is it your leg?"

"Yeah," Ruthven lied. "Look, Lisa—can you come back later? I want to, ah, stand up and walk around a bit, if that's all right. By myself."

"Of course, Hank," Mahone said, smiling sympathetically. "I'll leave these here and come by this evening. If you like you can just sign them and I'll pick them up without bothering you if you're asleep."

Mahone set the folder upright on the table, between the pitcher and water glass. Straightening she glanced, apparently by coincidence, at the electronic window.

"Thank the Lord you don't have to go back to that, right?" she said. She smiled and swept gracefully out of the room.

Ruthven continued to lie on the bed for nearly a minute after the latch clicked. Then he got up slowly and walked to the window. He'd been thinking of Sergeant Rennie. That, not his leg, had made him wince.

They'd met on Atchafalaya. It'd been Ruthven's first day in the field, and it was Trooper Rennie then. . . .

* * *

"Here you go, chief," said the driver of the jeep that'd brought Ruthven from E Company headquarters. "Last stop this run."

It was raining and well after local midnight. This sector was under blackout conditions; water running down the inside of Ruthven's face-shield blurred his light-enhanced vision and dripped on the tip of his nose. It was cold, colder than he'd dreamed it got on Atchafalaya, and he was more alone than he'd ever before felt in his life.

"Sir, you gotta get out," the driver said more forcefully. "I need t' get back to Captain Dolgosh."

Besides the jeep's idling fans, the only sound in the forest was rain dripping into the puddles beneath the trees. Air-plants hung in sheets from high branches, twisting and shimmering in the downpour. Ruthven couldn't see anything human in the landscape.

"Where do I . . . ?" he said.

Two figures came out of the blurred darkness. "Hold here, Adkins," one of them said. "I'll be going back with you. It won't be long."

"If you say so, El-Tee," the driver said. In bright contrast to his resigned agreement he added, "Hey, it's captain now, right? That was sure good news, sir. Nobody deserved it more!"

"Lieutenant Ruthven?" the newcomer continued brusquely, ignoring the congratulations. He was built like a fireplug and his voice rasped. "I'm Lyauty; you're taking E/1 over from me. I thought I'd stick around long enough to introduce you to your squad leaders."

"Ah, thank you very much, Captain," Ruthven said. He'd heard the man he was replacing'd been promoted to the command of Company K. That'd worried him because it meant Lyauty must be a good officer. How am I going to measure up?

The trooper who'd accompanied Lyauty was looking in the direction they'd come from, watching their backtrail. He had his right hand on the grip of his 2-cm weapon; the stubby iridium barrel was cradled in the crook of his left elbow. He hadn't spoken.

"This your gear?" Lyauty said, reaching into the back of the jeep before Ruthven could forestall him. I thought the trooper would carry the duffle bag. "Via, Lieutenant! Is this all yours? We're in forward positions here!"

"I, ah," Ruthven said. "Well, clean uniforms, mostly. And, ah, some food items. And the assigned equipment, of course."

The driver snickered. "He's got his own auger, sir," he said.

"Right," said Lyauty in sudden harshness. "And you let him bring it. Well, Adkins, for that you can haul his bag over to the car. I've got Sellars on commo watch. The two of you sort it out. Leave him a proper field kit and I'll take the rest back to Regiment with me to store."

"Sorry, sir," the driver muttered. "I shoulda said something."

"Come along, Ruthven," Lyauty said. "Sorry about the trail, but you'll get used to it. Say, this is Trooper Rennie. I've got him assigned as my runner. You can make your own choice, of course, but I'd recommend you spend a few days getting the feel of the platoon before you start making changes."

The trooper leading them into the forest turned his head; in greeting, Ruthven supposed, but the fellow didn't raise his face-shield. He was as featureless as a billiard ball.

Ruthven turned his head toward Lyauty behind him. "A power auger is assigned equipment, sir," he said in an undertone.

"Right," said the captain. "We've got three of them in the platoon. A bloody useful piece of kit, but not as useful as extra rations and ammo if things go wrong. The brass at Regiment can afford to count on resupply because it's not their ass swinging in the breeze if the truck doesn't make it forward. Here in the field we pretty much go by our own priorities."

The trail zigzagged steeply upward; Rennie in the lead was using his left hand to pull himself over the worst spots, holding his 2-cm weapon like a huge pistol. Ruthven's sub-machine gun was strapped firmly across his chest, leaving both hands free. Even so he stumbled repeatedly and once clanged flat on the wet rock.

"It's not much farther, Lieutenant," Lyauty said. "Another hundred meters up is all."

"I thought—" Ruthven said. He slipped and caught himself on all fours. As he started to get up, the toe of his left boot skidded back and slammed him down again. The sub-machine gun pounded against his body armor.

"I thought your headquarters would be the command vehicle," he said in a rush, trying to ignore the pain of his bruised ribs.

"We couldn't get the car to the top of this cone," Lyauty said. "I've been leaving it below with three troopers, rotating them every night when the rations come up."

"The jeeps couldn't climb above that last switchback," said Trooper Rennie. "We had to hump the tribarrels from there, and that's hell's own job."

There was a tearing hiss above. Ruthven jerked his head up. The foliage was sparse on this steep slope, so he was able to catch a glimpse of a green ball streaking across the sky from the west.

"Is that a rocket?" said Ruthven. Then, "That was a rocket!"

"It wasn't aimed at us, Lieutenant," Lyauty said wearily. "Anyway, our bunkers're on the reverse slope, though we've got fighting positions forward too if we need them."

"I just thought . . ." Ruthven said. "I thought we, ah . . . I thought that incoming artillery was destroyed in the air."

"They can't hit anything with bombardment rockets," Lyauty said. "Anyway, they can't hit us. To use the tribarrel in the command car for air defense, we'd have to shift it into a clearing. That'd make it a target."

"We're infantry, Lieutenant," Rennie said over his shoulder. "If you want to call attention to yourself, you ought to've put in for tanks."

Ruthven opened his mouth to dress the trooper down for insolence. He closed it again, having decided it was Lyauty's job properly since he hadn't formally handed over command of the platoon.

"We can hit hard when we need to, Lieutenant," Lyauty said. "But until then, yeah—keeping a low profile is a good plan."

"Who you got with you, Rennie?" a voice called from the darkness above them.

Ruthven looked up. He couldn't see anybody, just an outcrop over which a gnarled tree managed to grow. His torso beneath the clamshell body armor was sweating profusely, but his hands were numb from gripping wet rocks and branches.

"Six's come up, Hassel," Rennie said. "And we got the new El-Tee along."

"Sir?" said a man kneeling beside the outcrop. "Come on up but keep low. If you stand here, the Wops get your head in silhouette. I'm Hassel, First Squad."

"It's Hassel's bunker, properly," Lyauty said. "I asked the other squad leaders to come here tonight so I can introduce you."

Another man stepped into the night; this time Ruthven saw his arm sweep back the curtain of light-diffusing fabric hanging over a hole in the side of the hillside. "This the new El-Tee?" he said.

"Right, Wegs," said Lyauty. "His name's Ruthven. Lieutenant, Sergeant Wegelin's your heavy weapons squad leader. Come on, let's get under cover."

"Yessir, two tribarrels and two mortars instead of three of each," said Wegelin as he held the curtain for Hassel, then Ruthven after a directive jab from Lyauty's knuckles. "And if you think that's bad, then we only got three working jeeps. It don't matter here since we offloaded the guns, but we'll be screwed good if they expect us to displace on our own."

Ruthven hit his head—his helmet, but it still staggered him—on the transom, then missed the two steps down. He'd have fallen on his face if the tall man waiting—he had to hunch to clear the ceiling—hadn't caught him.

"Have you heard something about us displacing, Wegs?" the man said, stepping back when he was sure Ruthven had his feet. "Because I haven't. Talk about getting the shaft! E/1 sure has this time."

"Troops, this is Lieutenant Ruthven who's taking over from me," Lyauty said. "Lieutenant, that's van Ronk, your platoon sergeant, Axbird who's got Second Squad—"

"How-do, Lieutenant," said a short woman who at first seemed plump. When she lifted her rain cape to pour a cup of cacao from the pot bubbling on a ledge cut into the side of the bunker, Ruthven realized she was wearing at least three bandoliers laden with equipment and ammunition.

"And that's Purchas there on watch," Lyauty said, nodding to the man in the southeast corner. "He's Third Squad."

Purchas was on an ammo box, using a holographic display which rested on a similar box against the bunker wall. He didn't turn around.

"We pipe the sensors through optical fibers," Lyauty explained, gesturing to the skein of filaments entering the bunker by a hole in the roof. Rain dripped through also, pooling on the floor of gritty mud. "Below the ridgeline there's a microwave cone aimed back at the command car. We need the car for the link to Central, but other than that we're on our own here."

Everybody'd raised their face-shields; Ruthven raised his too, though the bunker's only illumination was that scatter from the sensor display. My eyes'll adapt. Won't they?

"If you're wondering, there isn't a separate command bunker," Lyauty said. "You can change that if you want, but I feel like moving to a different squad each night keeps me in the loop better."

Everybody was looking at Ruthven. Well, everybody but Purchas. They expected him to say something.

Ruthven's lips were sticking together. "I . . . " he said. "Ah, I see."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Lyauty said. "This is as good a platoon as there is in the Slammers, Ruthven. You're a lucky man."

He turned toward the curtained entrance. "Ah, excuse me, sir," Ruthven said. How do I address the man? Oh Lord, oh Lord! "Ah, my sleeping bag is with my other gear. Ah, in the jeep."

"No sweat, Lieutenant," said Trooper Rennie, pointing to the bag roughly folded on a wall niche. The outside was of resistant fabric; beneath were layers of microinsulation and a soft lining. This cover was torn, and from what Ruthven could see, the lining was as muddy as the floor. "There's an extra in each of the squad bunkers. You and me won't both be sleeping at the same time."

Lyauty cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "keep your heads down, troopers. I'll be thinking about you, believe me."

He muttered something else as he stepped back into the rain. Ruthven thought he heard, "I've got half a mind—" but it might not have been that.

The bunker was cold and it stank. Sweat and rain water were cooling between Ruthven's skin and his body armor, and he was sure he'd chafed blisters over his hipbones. Another rocket screamed through the sky; this time it hit close enough to shake dirt from the bunker ceiling.

Ruthven looked at his new subordinates. Their expressions were watchful, hostile, and in the case of Purchas completely dismissive.

He wished he were back on Nieuw Friesland. He wished he were anyplace else but here.

Lieutenant Henry Ruthven wished he were dead.

* * *

There was a knock on a door down the corridor. "El-Tee, is that you?" somebody called. Ruthven, his face blanking, stepped quickly around the bed to get to the door.

Muffled words answered unintelligibly. "Sorry," said the familiar voice. "I'm looking for Lieutenant Ruthven and—"

"Axbird, is that you?" Ruthven said, stepping into the corridor. "Via, Sergeant, I thought you'd already shipped out! Come on in—I've got a bottle of something you'll like."

"Don't mind if I do, El-Tee," Axbird said. "Tell the truth, there isn't a hell of a lot I don't like, so long as it comes out of a bottle. Or a can—I'm democratic that way."

E/1's former platoon sergeant had gained weight—a lot of weight—since her injury, though that hadn't been but—well, it'd been four months. Longer than Ruthven would've guessed without thinking about it. But still, a lot of weight.

The skin of her face was as smooth as burnished metal. Her eyes had the milky look of a molting snake's, and she had an egg-shaped device clipped above each ear.

Ruthven backed into his room and rotated the chair for Axbird, primarily to call it to her attention. A buzzbomb had hit the side of the command car while she was inside with her face-shield raised. The jet from the warhead's shaped charge had missed her—had missed everything, in fact; patched, the car was still in service with E/1—but it'd vaporized iridium from the opposite bulkhead. That glowing cloud had bathed her face.

Axbird entered with the careful deliberation of a robot. She wasn't using a cane, but she held her hands out at waist height as though preparing to catch herself. When she reached the chair, she put one hand on the back and tapped the device above her right ear. "How do you like them, El-Tee?" she said with a plastic smile. "I always wanted to have black eyes. Didn't say they shouldn't be lidar transceivers, though. That's what you get for not specifying, hey?"

"You're getting around very well, Axbird," Ruthven lied. He squatted to rummage in the cabinet under his side table. There was only one glass, and the brandy was too good to pour into the plastic tumbler by the water pitcher.

"I'm still getting used to them," Axbird said. "Dialing 'em in, you know? They say I'll get so I can tell the numbers, but right now I'm counting doorways."

"There's a linen closet in the middle of the corridor," Ruthven said apologetically. He offered her the glass, wondering if she could see his expression. Probably not; probably never again.

Axbird drank the brandy without lowering the glass from her lips. "Via, I needed that," she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She forced another grin and said, "How are you doing, sir? I heard you guys really got it in the neck."

"It was bad enough," Ruthven agreed carefully. He'd hesitated a moment, but he took the glass and refilled it for her. "Thank the Lord for Fire Central."

"You can't trust wogs," Axbird said. Her voice rose. "We might as well kill 'em all. Every fucking one of 'em!"

"There's better local forces and worse ones, Sergeant," Ruthven said with deliberate formality. "I'd say the Royalists here were pretty middling. They'd do well enough if they got any support from their own government."

"Yeah, I suppose," Axbird said. She was trembling; she held the glass in both hands to keep from spilling. "You trust your buddies and screw the rest, every one of 'em."

A rebel sapper had gotten close enough to nail the command car with a buzzbomb because the Royalists holding that section of the perimeter had all been asleep. The car's Automatic Defense System hadn't been live within the compound; it wouldn't have been safe with so many friendlies running around.

"Sorry, El-Tee," Axbird said. She seemed to have gotten control of herself again. "Yeah, remember on Diderot where our so-called allies were trying to earn the bounties the Chartists were offering on a Slammer's head?"

"Umm, that was before my time, Axbird," Ruthven said, sitting on his bed. He held the brandy bottle but he didn't think a drink would help him right now. "I joined on Atchafalaya, remember."

"Oh, right," said Axbird. She drank, guiding the glass to her lips with both hands. "Right, Diderot was back when I was a trooper."

For a moment she was silent, her cloudy eyes staring into space. Ruthven wondered if he should say something—and wondered what he could say—but Axbird resumed, "They got a great spot lined up for me, El-Tee. The Colonel did, I mean: a condo right on the beach on San Carlos. It's on Mainland because, well—until I get these dialed in better, you know."

Her right hand gestured toward the lidar earpiece, then quickly closed again on her empty glass.

"And for maintenance at first, I don't want to be out on my own island," she continued in a tone of birdlike perkiness. "But I can be. I can buy my own bloody island, El-Tee, I'm on full pay for the rest of my life! That'll run to a lotta brandy, don't you know?"

"Here, I'll fill that," Ruthven said, leaning forward with the bottle. He took the glass in his own hand before he started to pour. "Are you from San Carlos originally, then?"

"Naw," Axbird said. "I'm from Camside, sir. Haven't been back since I enlisted, though, twelve years."

She stared off into space. Her eyes moved normally; Ruthven wondered how much sight remained to them. Probably no more than being able to tell light from dark, though that'd be some help when she was on her own.

"I thought of going back, you know?" she said. "My pension'd make me a big deal on Camside, leastways unless things've changed a bloody great lot since I shipped out. But I thought, who do I know there? There's nobody, nobody ever who'd understand what it means to be a Slammer. What do I care about them?"

Axbird drank convulsively, dribbling brandy from the corners of her mouth. She started to lower the glass and instead dropped it. It bounced once, then shattered.

"Oh Lord, sir!" she said, her voice rising into a wail. She lurched to her feet. Tears were streaming from beneath the lids of her ruined eyes. "What do I care about wogs, on Camside or any bloody place?"

She was wearing hospital slippers. Ruthven got up quickly and gripped her shoulder to keep her from stepping in the glass she probably couldn't see. Axbird threw her arms around him.

"Oh, Lord, El-Tee!" she said. "There's nobody who'll understand! There'll never be anybody!"

Ruthven held the sobbing woman. His eyes were closed. He was remembering E/1's second and last night in Fire Support Base Courage. Nobody'll ever understand.

* * *

"El-Tee!" said Rennie in a hoarse whisper. "Sir, wake up. The bastards're bugging out!"

Ruthven jerked upright. He'd been sleeping in the rear compartment of the command car while Rennie sat at the console with the sensor readouts and commo gear. The squad leaders each took a two-hour watch, debriefing Ruthven when they were relieved or if anything significant appeared.

As it'd done, apparently.

Melisant'd been sleeping on top of the cab; her boots clunked against armor as she slid down behind the controls. The tone of Rennie's voice through the open hatch had snapped her awake, so she was heading for her action station like the good trooper she was.

Rennie had the sensor display filling most of the holographic screen; commo was a narrow sidebar, unimportant for the time being. People—hundreds of people—were clustered at the firebase entrance. They were leaving on foot, heading eastward along the road. From the south, west, and north other groups of people were approaching.

Those coming toward the base were rebels of the Lord's Army, armed to the teeth. Judging from the lack of metal for the magnetic sensors to pick up, the Royalists had left their weapons behind.

"Them wogs're just walking outa the base!" Rennie said. "They musta been talking to the rebs, don't you guess?"

"More to the point, they're walking out on us," Ruthven muttered. "Rouse the platoon—but quiet, don't let the locals know we've tumbled to what's going on."

He uncaged and pressed the panic button that automatically copied all platoon communications to Base Hammer, through the satellite net if it was up or by bouncing off cosmic ray tracks if it wasn't. It was faster than making a separate transmission to Regiment, and there was bloody little time. The rebels'd be climbing over the wall in a few minutes, and when that happened it'd all be over for E/1.

Ruthven raised the platform to put his head and shoulders through the roof hatch. Using his helmet's thermal imaging, he could see that the howitzer crews were gone too. The guns hadn't been disabled: explosions or the roar of thermite grenades would've warned the Slammers. In all likelihood, the Lord's Army had offered the Royalists their lives, in exchange for all their arms and for the Slammers who'd been sent as reinforcements.

It was at best an open question as to whether the rebels intended to honor their bargain. They'd left the road clear for half a klick from the firebase entrance, but the figures concealed in the brush there to either side looked to Ruthven like a kill zone placed far enough out that the victims couldn't run back to safety.

On the other hand, the Royalists hadn't exactly delivered Platoon E/1 into the Prophet's hands either.

"Unit, listen up," Ruthven said. The troopers in the firebase were gathered close enough that his helmet intercom reached them unaided, but the command car's powerful transceivers were relaying the signal to Sergeant Sellars' squad on the knoll to the northeast. "We can't hold this place, it's too big, but we can break out and join Second Squad. All together in a tight perimeter we can hold till help comes."

Via, what was the closest friendly unit? Maybe G Troop's combat cars, based with a Regimental howitzer battery at Firebase Groening? But that was forty klicks away, and it wouldn't be safe for them to come direct by the road.

"I'm taking the car out by the entrance," he continued aloud. "We can't get over the wall or through it. Wegelin, your jeeps follow me."

Maybe a tank could push a hole in the tangle of treetrunks, but a command car couldn't and overloaded jeeps certainly couldn't. Nor did they have enough excess power to climb the irregular surface.

"The rest of you lift over the wall in the zero to forty-five degree quadrant," Ruthven said. That'd spread the troopers enough that they wouldn't get in each other's way while awkwardly jumping the trees. "The skimmers can do it if you're careful. I'll call a fire mission on the rebs coming from the north. When it lands, that's our signal to roll. Any questions?"

"El-Tee, I was a redleg on Andersholz before I joined the Regiment," said Wegelin. "I can fire them one-twenties. The wogs keep 'em loaded but powered down, you see."

Ruthven tried to make sense of what Wegelin had just said. He hadn't known the Heavy Weapons sergeant had been an artilleryman, but he didn't see what difference it made now. They could startle the rebs and cause casualties by firing the Royalist guns in their faces as they climbed the wall, but it sure wouldn't drive them away.

"What I mean, sir," Wegelin continued, "is a charger of five HE rounds'll give us a hole any bloody place you want to go through the wall. Not at the gate where they'll be expecting us, I mean, over."

"Can you manage that in two minutes, over?" Ruthven said as he dropped into the van's interior. Rennie'd vacated the console and was on his way out of the compartment, returning to his squad.

Ruthven checked the display. Rennie'd prepped fire missions on each of the four rebel concentrations; three moved as the company-sized groups advanced on the firebase.

"We're on our way, out," the sergeant responded. As he spoke, icons on Ruthven's display showed the jeeps sprinting to the northernmost howitzer; the sound of their fans burred faintly through the open hatches. The big gun wasn't far from where Wegelin's squad was to begin with, but he obviously wanted them all to be able to jump into the jeeps as soon as they'd set up the burst.

"Unit," Ruthven said. He placed his right index finger on the terrain map image of the firebase wall, exporting the image to all his troopers. "Adjust the previous order. The car and jeeps will be leaving the firebase here. I don't know what the shells are going to do—"

One possibility was that they'd blast the existing tangle into something worse, so that the skimmers couldn't get over or through either one. It was still the best choice on offer.

"—and if you want to follow me through what I hope'll be a gap, that's fine. But don't get in the way, troopers, this car's a pig. We're going to be a full honk, and we won't be able to dodge. Questions, over?"

Nobody spoke, but three green icons blipped onto the top of the display. Via, they're pros, they're the best platoon in the bloody regiment, they really are. . . .

"Six, we got the tube ready!" Sergeant Wegelin said as his icon lit also. "Five rounds, HE, and I've programmed her to traverse right fifteen mils at each round. We're ready, over!"

The Royalist howitzers had their own power supplies to adjust elevation and traverse; they could even crawl across terrain by themselves, though very slowly. The northern weapon was now live, a bright image on Ruthven's display and a whine through the hatch as its pumps pressurized the hydraulic system.

"Fire Central, this is Echo One-Six," Ruthven said, calling the Regiment's artillery controller but distributing the exchange to his troopers on an output-only channel. "Request Fire Order One—"

Targeting the rebels approaching from the northeast. They were coming uphill by now. That plus the stumps and broken rocks of the roughly cleared terrain had slowed them.

"—HE, repeat HE only, we're too close for firecracker rounds, time of impact fifty-five, repeat five-five seconds from—"

His index finger tapped a marker into the transmission.

"—now, over."

"Roger, Echo One-Six," replied a voice barely identifiable as female through the tight compression. She was so calm she sounded bored. Then, "On the way, out."

"Echo One-Four-Six," Ruthven said. I probably sound bored, too. "This is Six. Take the wall down in three-five, I repeat three-five, seconds. Break. Unit, wait for our Hogs, don't get hasty. Then its time to kick ass, troopers, out!"

The command car's fans were howling. The vehicle slid forward; forty tonnes accelerates slowly, so Melisant was getting an early start. They'll hear us, but screw 'em. They'll hear more than our fans real soon.

Ruthven started to close the back ramp but Melisant had already taken care of that. He went up through the roof hatch and took the tribarrel's grips in his hands.

There were a lot of reasons to stay down in the body. Communications with E/1 and Central were better inside; he could operate the gun just as well from the console and had a better display than his visor gave him; and the vehicle's armor, though light, might save him from shrapnel or a bullet that'd otherwise rob the platoon of its commander. There wasn't a trooper in E/1 who'd think their El-Tee was a coward if he stayed in the compartment.

But Ruthven himself'd worry that he was a coward in the dark silences before dawn, especially if he survived and some of his troopers didn't. And somebody was going to die. That was as sure as sunrise, even if E/1 got luckier than any veteran expected.

The long-barreled 120-mm howitzer belched a bottle-shaped yellow flash toward the perimeter wall; companion flares spewed out and back from both sides through the muzzle brake's baffles. The tube recoiled and the blast slapped Ruthven. The commo helmet's active sound cancellation saved his hearing, but the shockwave pushed him against the hatch ring. Even at this distance, unburned powder grains speckled his throat and bare hands.

The wall erupted, leaking the shell-burst's red flash through the treetrunks it blew apart. Royalist shanties flattened, flung outward in a cone spreading from the howitzer. A huge dust cloud rose from the shock-pummeled compound.

The command car hit the ground, plowing a track through the hard soil. The steel skirt rang, scattering sparks when it hit embedded stones as the vehicle bucked and pitched.

Either the shockwave had startled Melisant into chopping her throttles, or she'd realized it'd be a disaster to get in front of the howitzer while it was still firing. The Regiment used rocket howitzers rather than tube artillery. She probably hadn't expected the muzzle blast of a long-range gun to be so punishing.

Ruthven hadn't expected it either. Being told something by an Academy lecturer wasn't the same as being hit by what felt like a hundred-kilo sandbag in the field.

The howitzer returned to battery and slammed again, then again, again, and again. The interval between shots was less than two seconds. The last shell screamed toward the northwest horizon as the gun fell over on its side. Rapid fire at zero elevation had lifted the recoil spades at the end of the gun's trail.

Between the third round and the fourth, the salvo from the Hogs at Firebase Groening burst outside the encampment as a white glare which silhouetted the flying treetrunks. Central'd fused the shells to go off just above the surface instead of burying themselves before exploding.

Fragments of casing screeched across the hillside in an interlocking web more deadly than any spider's. A large chunk—maybe the baseplate of a Royalist shell—howled through Firebase Courage in a flat red streak. It didn't miss the command car by much, but it missed. . . .

"Go!" Ruthven shouted. "Go! Go! Go!"

The car was accelerating again. After Melisant'd gotten them stopped the first time, she'd gimbaled the nacelles vertical and kept the fans at maximum output. They'd been hovering at ten centimeters on a pillow of air, not exactly flying—the vehicle remained in ground effect—but shuddering to every shockwave.

The elevation, though slight, gave the car a gravity boost when Melisant shoved the steering yoke forward. They gathered speed quickly despite ticks and bounces from debris scattered across the interior of the firebase. Flames spurted beneath the plenum chamber when they crossed the former perimeter; the 120-mm shells had started small fires in the wood, and the drive fans whipped them into hungry enthusiasm.

There were some larger chunks for them to kick aside, but the trees no longer formed an interlocked mass that could resist a forty-tonne battering ram. Showers of sparks and blazing torches flew ahead of the skirts. Then the car was through and heading down the slope into what remained of a company of the Lord's Army.

Ruthven snapped a short burst at what looked in his visor's thermal image like a rebel kneeling only twenty meters away. The car skidded enough to throw his bolts wide, but before he could correct he realized that he was shooting at a legless, headless torso impaled on a sapling.

Cyan bolts snapped through the night, igniting the brush. Nobody could aim accurately from a skimmer at speed, but in the corner of his eye Ruthven saw a secondary explosion. A trooper'd gotten lucky, hitting a rebel's buzzbomb and detonating the warhead.

Red tracers and muzzle flashes danced in the darkness also, but most of the rebels firing were in the companies to the south and east. The party on which the Hogs had unloaded were largely silent, dead or stunned by the 20-cm shells. One rebel opened up from a gully to E/1's left front, but at least a dozen powerguns replied to the chattering rifle. Either somebody hit the reb, or he decided that huddling out of sight was a better idea than martyrdom for the Prophet after all; at any rate, the shooting stopped.

The command car reached the ground slope rising toward Second Squad. The brush and canes hadn't been cleared here; they averaged maybe two meters high, and there were occasional much taller trees.

Melisant kept moving, but she had to slow to 20 kph. They'd drawn well ahead of the jeeps and skimmers on the downhill run, but now the smaller vehicles were able to slip between clumps which the car had to fight through.

For a wonder, Sergeant Sellars was keeping her Royalists from shooting down at Ruthven's force. Maybe Second Squad was holding the locals at gunpoint to enforce fire discipline . . . and then again, maybe that detached platoon'd bugged out when the shooting started. Either way, Ruthven was going to put Sellars in for both a medal and a promotion when this was over.

If I'm around to make the recommendation. If she's around to get it.

Badly aimed rifle fire had been zipping overhead since the beginning of the breakout, but now a machine gun on a fixed mount cut branches nearby. Ruthven rotated his tribarrel to the right. Bullets whanged off the car's high side. The machine gunner was part of the unit that'd been waiting down the road for the Royalist garrison. He was bloody good to hit a moving target at 600 meters, even with the advantage of a tripod.

Ruthven fired a short burst. His tribarrel was stabilized, but the lurching car threw him around violently even though the weapon held its point of aim. His bolts vanished into the night, leaving only faintly glowing tracks on their way toward interplanetary vacuum.

Ruthven took a deep breath, letting the car bump into a small depression. When they started up the other side, into a belt of canes trailing hair-fine filaments, he fired. This time his shots merged with the muzzle flashes of the rebel machine gun. Plasma licked a white flare of burning steel.

Got you, you bastard! Ruthven thought. Three rebels with buzzbombs rose out of the swale ten meters ahead of the car.

Ruthven swung the tribarrel back toward the new targets. The rebels to left and right fired: glowing gas spurted from the back of the launching tubes, and the bulbous missiles streaked toward the vehicle behind quick red sparks.

The car's automatic defense system banged twice, blasting tungsten pellets from the strips just above the skirts. They shredded the buzzbombs in the air, killing one of the rebels who happened to be in the way of the remainder of the charge.

Ruthven shot before his gun was on target, hoping his blue-green bolts chewing the landscape would startle the rebels. The remaining rebel fired. Because the car's bow was canted upward, the third buzzbomb approached from too low to trip the ADS. The warhead burst against the skirts, punching a white-hot spear through the plenum chamber and up into the driver's compartment.

Several lift fans shut off; pressurized air from the remaining nacelles roared through the hole blown in the steel. The car grounded, rocked forward in a near somersault, and slammed to rest on its skirts.

The first impact smashed Ruthven's thighs against the hatch coaming; pain was a sun-white blur filling his mind. When the car's bow lifted, it tossed him onto the bales of rations and personal gear in the roof rack. Ruthven was only vaguely aware of the final shock hurling him off the crippled vehicle.

He opened his eyes. He was on his back with the landscape shimmering in and out of focus. He must've been unconscious, but he didn't know how long. The car was downslope from him. One of its fans continued to scream, but the others were silent. Black smoke boiled out of the driver's compartment.

He tried to stand up but his legs didn't move. Have they been blown off? They couldn't be, I'd have bled out. He'd lost his helmet, so the visor no longer protected his eyes from the sky-searing bolts of plasma being fired from the knoll above him. The afterimages of each track wobbled from orange to purple and back across his retinas.

Ruthven rolled over, still dazed. Pain yawned in a gaping cavern centered on his right leg. He must've screamed but he couldn't hear the sound. When the jolt from the injured leg sucked inward and vanished, his throat felt raw.

"It's the El-Tee!" somebody cried. "Cover me, I'm going to get him."

Another buzzbomb detonated with a hollow Whoomp! on the right side of the command car. Momentarily, a pearly bubble swelled bigger than the vehicle itself. The jet penetrated the thin armor, crossed the compartment, and sprayed out the left side.

Ruthven started crawling, pushing himself with his left foot and dragging his right as though the leg were tied to his hip with a rope. He couldn't feel it now except as a dull throbbing somewhere.

He wasn't trying to get to safety: he knew his safest course would be to lie silently in a dip, hoping to go unobserved or pass for dead. He wasn't thinking clearly, but his troopers were on the knoll so that's where he was going.

A rebel ran out from behind the command car shouting, "Protect me, Lord!"

Ruthven glanced back. His sub-machine gun was in the vehicle, but he wore a pistol. He scrabbled for it but his equipment belt was twisted; he couldn't find the holster.

The rebel thrust his automatic rifle out in both hands; the butt wasn't anywhere near his shoulder. "Die, unbeliever!" he screamed. A 2-cm powergun bolt decapitated him. The rifle fired as he spasmed backwards.

One bullet struck Ruthven in the small of the back. It didn't penetrate his ceramic body armor, but the impact was like a sledgehammer. Bits of bullet jacket sprayed Ruthven's right arm and cheek.

He pushed himself upward again, moaning deep in his throat. He thought he might be talking to himself. A skimmer snarled through the high grass and circled to a halt alongside, the bow facing uphill. Nozzles pressurized by the single fan sprayed grit across Ruthven's bare face.

"El-Tee, grab on!" Rennie shouted, leaning from the flat platform to seize Ruthven's belt. "Grab!"

Ruthven turned on his side and reached out. He got a tie-down in his left hand and the shoulder clamp of the sergeant's armor in his right. Rennie was already slamming power to the lift fan, trying to throw his weight out to the right to balance the drag of Ruthven's body.

The skimmer wasn't meant to carry two, but it slowly accelerated despite the excess burden. Ruthven bounced through brush, sometimes hitting a rock. His left boot acted as a skid, but often enough his hip or the length of his leg scraped as the skimmer ambled uphill. A burst of sub-machine gun fire, a nervous flickering against the brighter, saturated flashes of 2-cm weapons, crackled close overhead, but Ruthven couldn't see what the shooter was aiming at.

The skimmer jolted over a shrub whose roots had held the windswept soil in a lump higher than the ground to either side. Ruthven flew free and rolled. Every time his right leg hit the ground, a flash of pain cut out that fraction of the night.

A tribarrel chugged from behind, raking the slope up which they'd come. Ruthven was within the new perimeter. Half a dozen Royalists huddled nearby with terrified expressions, but E/1 itself had enough firepower to halt the rebels. They'd already been hammered, and now more shells screamed down like a regiment of flaming banshees.

Firebase Groening was northeast of Firebase Courage, so the Hogs were overfiring E/1's present perimeter to reach the rebels. Somebody—Sergeant Hassel?—must be calling in concentrations, relaying the messages through the command car. The vehicle was out of action, but its radios were still working.

Rennie spun the skimmer to a halt. "Made it!" he shouted. "We bloody well made it!"

Ruthven found his holster and managed to lift the flap. Beside him, Rennie hunched to remove his 2-cm weapon from the rail where he'd clamped it to free both hands for the rescue.

A buzzbomb skimmed the top of the knoll, missing the tribarrel at which it'd been aimed and striking Sergeant Rennie in the middle of the back. There was a white flash.

The shells from Firebase Groening landed like an earthquake on the rebels who'd overrun the Royalist camp and were now starting uphill toward E/1. In the light of the huge explosions, Ruthven saw Rennie's head fly high in the air. The sergeant had lost his helmet, and his expression was as innocent as a child's.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Ruthven," Doctor Parvati said as he stepped into the room without knocking. "You are up? And packing already, I see. It is good that you should be optimistic, but let us take things one step at a time, shall we? Lie down on your bed, please, so that I can check you."

Ruthven wondered if Parvati'd put a slight emphasis on the phrase "one step." Probably not, and even if he had it'd been meant as a harmless joke. I have to watch myself. I'm pretty near the edge, and if I start overreacting, well . . .

"Look, Doc," he said, straightening but not moving away from the barracks bag he was filling from the locker he'd kept under the bed. "You saw the reading that Drayer took this noon, right? I'm kinda in a hurry."

"I have gone over the noon readings, yes," Parvati said calmly. He was a small, slight man with only a chaplet of hair remaining, though by his face he was in his early youth. "Now I would like to take more readings."

When Ruthven still hesitated, Parvati added, "I do not tell you how to do your job, Lieutenant. Please grant me the same courtesy."

"Right," said Ruthven after a further moment. He pushed the locker to the side and paused. The garments were new, sent over from Quartermaster's Stores. The gear on the command car's rack had burned when they shot at rebs trying to get to the tribarrel. The utilities Ruthven had worn during the firefight had been cut off him as soon as he arrived here.

He sat on the bed and carefully swung his legs up. He'd been afraid of another blinding jolt, but he felt nothing worse than a twinge in his back. Funny how it was his left hip rather than the smashed right femur where the pain hit him now. He'd scraped some on the left side, but he'd have said that was nothing to mention.

"So," said Parvati, reading the diagnostic results with his hands crossed behind his back. The holographic display was merely a distortion in the air from where Ruthven lay looking at the doctor. "So."

"I was talking to Sergeant Axbird this afternoon," Ruthven said to keep from fidgeting. "She was my platoon sergeant, you know. I was wondering how she was coming along?"

Parvati looked at Ruthven through the display. After a moment he said, "Mistress Axbird's physical recovery has gone as far as it can. How she does now depends on her own abilities and the degree to which she learns to use her new prosthetics. If you are her friend, you will encourage her to show more initiative in that regard."

"Ah," Ruthven said. "I see. I'm cleared for duty, though, Doctor. Right?"

He wondered if he ought to stand up again. Parvati always used the bed's own display instead of downloading the information into a clipboard.

"Are you still feeling pain in your hip, Lieutenant?" the doctor asked, apparently oblivious of Ruthven's question.

"No," Ruthven lied. "Well, not really. You know, I get a little, you know, tickle from time to time. I guess that'll go away pretty quick, right?"

It struck Ruthven that the diagnostic display would include blood pressure, heart rate, and all the other physical indicators of stress. He jumped up quickly. Pain exploded from his hip; he staggered forward. His mouth was open to gasp, but his paralyzed diaphragm couldn't force the air out of his lungs.

"Lieutenant?" Parvati said, stepping forward.

"I'm all right!" said Ruthven. Sweat beaded his forehead. "I just tripped on the locker! Bloody thing!"

"I see," said Parvati in a neutral tone. "Well, Lieutenant, your recovery seems to be proceeding most satisfactorily. I'd like you to remain here for a few days, however, so that some of my colleagues can check you over."

"You mean Psych, don't you?" Ruthven said. His hands clenched and unclenched. "Look, Doc, I don't need that and I sure don't want it. Just sign me out, got it?"

"Lieutenant Ruthven, you were seriously injured," the doctor said calmly. "I would be derelict in my duties if I didn't consider the possibility that the damage I was able to see had not caused additional damage beyond my purview. I wish to refer you to specialists in psychological trauma, yes."

"Do you?" Ruthven said. His voice was rising, but he couldn't help it. "Well, you let me worry about that, all right? You're a nice guy, Doc, but you said it: my psychology is none of your business! Now, you clear me back to my unit, or I'll take it over your head. You can explain to Colonel Hammer why you're dicking around a platoon leader whose troops need him in the field!"

"I see," said the doctor without any inflection. "I do not have the authority to hold you against your will, Lieutenant, but for your own sake I wish you would reconsider."

"You said that," Ruthven said. He bent and picked up his barracks bag. "Now, you do your job and let me get back to mine."

Parvati made a slight bow. "As you wish," he said. He touched the controller in his hand; the hologram vanished like cobwebs in a storm. "I will have an orderly come to take your bag."

"Don't worry about that," Ruthven said harshly. "I can get it over to the transient barracks myself. They'll find me a bunk there if there isn't a way to get to E/1 still tonight. I just want to be out of this place ASAP."

He didn't know where the platoon was or who was commanding in his absence. Hassel, he hoped; it'd be awkward if Central 'd brought in another officer already. He wondered how many replacements they'd gotten after the ratfuck at Firebase Courage.

"As you wish," Parvati repeated, opening the door and stepping back for Ruthven to lead. "Ah? By the water pitcher, Lieutenant? The file is yours, I believe?"

Ruthven didn't look over his shoulder. "No, not mine," he said. "I was thinking about, you know, transferring out, but I couldn't leave my platoon. E/1 really needs me, you know."

He walked into the corridor, as tight as a compressed spring. Even before Axbird had come to see him, he'd been thinking of night and darkness and the faceless horror of living among people who didn't know what it was like. Who'd never know what it was like.

The troopers of Platoon E/1 did need Henry Ruthven, he was sure.

But not as much as I need them, in the night and the unending darkness.

* * *

David Drake is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

To read more work by David Drake, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

The Cold Blacksmith

Written by Elizabeth Bear
Illustrated by Kevin Wasden

"Old man, old man, do you tinker?"

Weyland Smith raised up his head from his anvil, the heat rolling beads of sweat across his face and his sparsely forested scalp, but he never stopped swinging his hammer. The ropy muscles of his chest knotted and released with every blow, and the clamor of steel on steel echoed from the trees. The hammer looked to weigh as much as the smith, but he handled it like a bit of cork on a twig. He worked in a glade, out of doors, by a deep cold well, just right for quenching and full of magic fish. Whoever had spoken was still under the shade of the trees, only a shadow to one who squinted through the glare of the sun.

"Happen I'm a blacksmith, miss," he said.

As if he could be anything else, in his leather apron, sweating over forge and anvil in the noonday sun, limping on a lamed leg.

"Do you take mending, old man?" she asked, stepping forth into the light.

He thought the girl might be pretty enough in a country manner, her features a plump-cheeked outline under the black silk veil pinned to the corners of her hat. Not a patch on his own long-lost swan-maiden Olrun, though Olrun had left him after seven years to go with her two sisters, and his two brothers had gone with them as well, leaving Weyland alone.

But Weyland kept her ring and with it her promise. And for seven times seven years to the seventh times, he'd kept it, seduced it back when it was stolen away, held it to his heart in fair weather and foul. Olrun's promise-ring. Olrun's promise to return.

Olrun who had been fair as ice, with shoulders like a blacksmith, shoulders like a giantess.

This girl could not be less like her. Her hair was black and it wasn't pinned, all those gleaming curls a-tumble across the shoulders of a dress that matched her hair and veil and hat. A little linen sack in her left hand was just the natural color, and something in it chimed when she shifted. Something not too big. He heard it despite the tolling of the hammer that never stopped.

"I'll do what I'm paid to." He let his hammer rest, and shifted his grip on the tongs. His wife's ring slid on its chain around his neck, catching on chest hair. He couldn't wear it on his hand when he hammered. "And if'n 'tis mending I'm paid for, I'll mend what's flawed."

She came across the knotty turf in little quick steps like a hobbled horse—as if it was her lamed, and not him—and while he turned to thrust the bent metal that would soon be a steel horse-collar into the coals again she passed her hand over his bench beside the anvil.

He couldn't release the bellows until the coals glowed red as currant jelly, but there was a clink and when her hand withdrew it left behind two golden coins. Two coins for two hands, for two pockets, for two eyes.

Wiping his hands on his matted beard, he turned from the forge, then lifted a coin to his mouth. It dented under his teeth, and he weighed its heaviness in his hand. "A lot for a bit of tinkering."

"Worth it if you get it done," she said, and upended her sack upon his bench.

A dozen or so curved transparent shards tumbled red as forge-coals into the hot noon light, jingling and tinkling. Gingerly, he reached out and prodded one with a forefinger, surprised by the warmth.

"My heart," the woman said. "'Tis broken. Fix it for me."

He drew his hand back. "I don't know nowt about women's hearts, broken or t'otherwise."

"You're the Weyland Smith, aren't you?"

"Aye, miss." The collar would need more heating. He turned away, to pump the bellows again.

"You took my gold." She planted her fists on her hips. "You can't refuse a task, Weyland Smith. Once you've taken money for it. It's your geas."

"Keep tha coin," he said, and pushed them at her with a fingertip. "I'm a smith. Not never a matchmaker, nor a glassblower."

"They say you made jewels from dead men's eyes, once. And it was a blacksmith broke my heart. It's only right one should mend it, too."

He leaned on the bellows, pumping hard.

She turned away, in a whisper of black satin as her skirts swung heavy by her shoes. "You took my coin," she said, before she walked back into the shadows. "So fix my heart."

* * *

Firstly, he began with a crucible, and heating the shards in his forge. The heart melted, all right, though hotter than he would have guessed. He scooped the glass on a bit of rod stock and rolled it on his anvil, then scraped the gather off with a flat-edged blade and shaped it into a smooth ruby-bright oval the size of his fist.

The heart crazed as it cooled. It fell to pieces when he touched it with his glove, and he was left with only a mound of shivered glass.

That was unfortunate. There had been the chance that the geas would grant some mysterious assistance, that he would guess correctly and whatever he tried first would work. An off chance, but stranger things happened with magic and his magic was making.

Not this time. Whether it was because he was a blacksmith and not a matchmaker or because he was a blacksmith and not a glassblower, he was not sure. But hearts, glass hearts, were outside his idiom and outside his magic.

He would have to see the witch.

* * *

The witch must have known he was coming, as she always seemed to know. She awaited him in the doorway of her pleasant cottage by the wildflower meadow, more wildflowers—daisies and buttercups—waving among the long grasses of the turfed roof. A nanny goat grazed beside the chimney, her long coat as white as the milk that stretched her udder pink and shiny. He saw no kid.

The witch was as dark as the goat was white, her black, black hair shot with silver and braided back in a wrist-thick queue. Her skirts were kilted up over her green kirtle, and she handed Weyland a pottery cup before he ever entered her door. It smelled of hops and honey and spices, and steam curled from the top; spiced heated ale.

"I have to see to the milking," she said. "Would you fetch my stool while I coax Heidrún off the roof?"

"She's shrunk," Weyland said, but he balanced his cup in one hand and limped inside the door to haul the stool out, for the witch's convenience.

The witch clucked. "Haven't we all?"

By the time Weyland emerged, the goat was down in the dooryard, munching a reward of bruised apples, and the witch had found her bucket and was waiting for the stool. Weyland set the cup on the ledge of the open window and seated the witch with a little bit of ceremony, helping her with her skirts. She smiled and patted his arm, and bent to the milking while he went to retrieve his ale.

Once upon a time, what rang on the bottom of the empty pail would have been mead, sweet honeyed liquor fit for gods. But times had changed, were always changing, and the streams that stung from between the witch's strong fingers were rich and creamy white.

"So what have you come for, Weyland Smith?" she asked, when the pail was a quarter full and the milk hissed in the pail rather than sang.

"I'm wanting a spell as'll mend a broken heart," he said.

Her braid slid over her shoulder, hanging down. She flipped it back without lifting her head. "I hadn't thought you had it in you to fall in love again," she said, her voice lilting with the tease.

"'Tisn't my heart as is broken."

That did raise her chin, and her fingers stilled on Heidrún's udder. Her gaze met his; her eyebrows lifted across the fine-lined arch of her forehead. "Tricky," she said. "A heart's a wheel," she said. "Bent is bent. It can't be mended. And even worse—" She smiled, and tossed the fugitive braid back again. "—if it's not your heart you're after fixing."

"Din't I know it?" he said, and sipped the ale, his wife's ring—worn now—clicking on the cup as his fingers tightened.

Heidrún had finished her apples. She tossed her head, long ivory horns brushing the pale silken floss of her back, and the witch laughed and remembered to milk again. "What will you give me if I help?"

The milk didn't ring in the pail any more, but the gold rang fine on the dooryard stones.

The witch barely glanced at it. "I don't want your gold, blacksmith."

"I din't want for hers, neither," Weyland said. "'Tis the half of what she gave." He didn't stoop to retrieve the coin, though the witch snaked a soft-shoed foot from under her kirtle and skipped it back to him, bouncing it over the cobbles.

"What can I pay?" he asked, when the witch met his protests with a shrug.

"I didn't say I could help you." The latest pull dripped milk into the pail rather than spurting. The witch tugged the bucket clear and patted Heidrún on the flank, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and the pail between her ankles while the nanny clattered over cobbles to bound back up onto the roof. In a moment, the goat was beside the chimney again, munching buttercups as if she hadn't just had a meal of apples. A large, fluffy black-and-white cat emerged from the house and began twining the legs of the stool, miaowing.

"Question 'tisn't what tha can or can't do," he said sourly. "'Tis what tha will or won't."

The witch lifted the pail and splashed milk on the stones for the cat to lap. And then she stood, bearing the pail in her hands, and shrugged. "You could pay me a Name. I collect those."

"If'n I had one."

"There's your own," she countered, and balanced the pail on her hip as she sauntered toward the house. He followed. "But people are always more disinclined to part with what belongs to them than what doesn't, don't you find?"

He grunted. She held the door for him, with her heel, and kicked it shut when he had passed. The cottage was dim and cool inside, with only a few embers banked on the hearth. He sat when she gestured him onto the bench, and not before. "No Names," he said.

"Will you barter your body, then?"

She said it over her shoulder, like a commonplace. He twisted a boot on the rushes covering a rammed-earth floor and laughed. "And what'd a bonny lass like thaself want with a gammy-legged, fusty, coal-black smith?"

"To say I've had one?" She plunged her hands into the washbasin and scrubbed them to the elbow, then turned and leaned against the stand. When she caught sight of his expression, she laughed as well. "You're sure it's not your heart that's broken, Smith?"

"Not this sennight." He scowled around the rim of his cup, and was still scowling as she set bread and cheese before him. Others might find her intimidating, but Weyland Smith wore the promise-ring of Olrun the Valkyrie. No witch could mortify him. Not even one who kept Heidrún—who had dined on the leaves of the World Ash—as a milch-goat.

The witch broke his gaze on the excuse of tucking an escaped strand of his long grey ponytail behind his ear, and relented. "Make me a cauldron," she said. "An iron cauldron. And I'll tell you the secret, Weyland Smith."

"Done," he said, and drew his dagger to slice the bread.

She sat down across the trestle. "Don't you want your answer?"

He stopped with his blade in the loaf, looking up. "I've not paid."

"You'll take my answer," she said. She took his cup, and dipped more ale from the pot warming over those few banked coals. "I know your contract is good."

He shook his head at the smile that curved her lips, and snorted. "Someone'll find out tha geas one day, enchantress. And may tha never rest easy again. So tell me then. How might I mend a lass's broken heart?"

"You can't," the witch said, easily. "You can replace it with another, or you can forge it anew. But it cannot be mended. Not like that."

"Gerrawa with tha," Weyland said. "I tried reforging it. 'Tis glass."

"And glass will cut you," the witch said, and snapped her fingers. "Like that."

* * *

He made the cauldron while he was thinking, since it needed the blast furnace and a casting pour but not finesse. If glass will cut and shatter, perhaps a heart should be made of tougher stuff, he decided as he broke the mold.

* * *

Secondly, he began by heating the bar stock. While it rested in the coals, between pumping at the bellows, he slid the shards into a leathern bag, slicing his palms—though not deep enough to bleed through heavy callus. He wiggled Olrun's ring off his right hand and strung it on its chain, then broke the heart to powder with his smallest hammer. It didn't take much work. The heart was fragile enough that Weyland wondered if there wasn't something wrong with the glass.

When it had done, he shook the powder from the pouch and ground it finer in the pestle he used to macerate carbon, until it was reduced to a pale-pink silica dust. He thought he'd better use all of it, to be sure, so he mixed it in with the carbon and hammered it into the heated bar stock for seven nights and seven days, folding and folding again as he would for a sword-blade, or an axe, something that needed to take a resilient temper to back a striking edge.

It wasn't a blade he made of his iron, though, now that he'd forged it into steel. What he did was pound the bar into a rod, never allowing it to cool, never pausing hammer—and then he drew the rod through a die to square and smooth it, and twisted the thick wire that resulted into a gorgeous fist-big filigree.

The steel had a reddish color, not like rust but as if the traces of gold that had imparted brilliance to the ruby glass heart had somehow transferred that tint into the steel. It was a beautiful thing, a cage for a bird no bigger than Weyland's thumb, with cunning hinges so one could open it like a box, and such was his magic that despite all the glass and iron that had gone into making it, it spanned no more and weighed no more than would have a heart of meat.

He heated it cherry-red again, and when it glowed he quenched it in the well to give it resilience and set its form.

* * *

He wore his ring on his wedding finger when he put it on the next morning, and he let the forge lie cold—or as cold as it could lie, with seven days' heat baked into metal and stone. It was the eighth day of the forging, and a fortnight since he'd taken the girl's coin.

She didn't disappoint. She was along before midday.

She came right out into the sunlight this time, rather than lingering under the hazel trees, and though she still wore black it was topped by a different hat, this one with feathers. "Old man," she said, "have you done as I asked?"

Reverently, he reached under the block that held his smaller anvil, and brought up a doeskin swaddle. The suede draped over his hands, clinging and soft as a maiden's breast, and he held his breath as he laid the package on the anvil and limped back, his left leg dragging a little. He picked up his hammer and pretended to look to the forge, unwilling to be seen watching the lady.

She made a little cry as she came forward, neither glad nor sorrowful, but rather tight, as if she couldn't keep all her hope and anticipation pent in her breast any longer. She reached out with hands clad in cheveril and brushed open the doeskin—

Only to freeze when her touch revealed metal. "This heart doesn't beat," she said, as she let the wrappings fall.

Weyland turned to her, his hands twisted before his apron, wringing the haft of his hammer so his ring bit into his flesh. "It'll not shatter, lass, I swear."

"It doesn't beat," she repeated. She stepped away, her hands curled at her sides in their black kid gloves. "This heart is no use to me, blacksmith."

* * *

He borrowed the witch's magic goat, which like him—and the witch—had been more than half a God once and wasn't much more than a fairy story now, and he harnessed her to a sturdy little cart he made to haul the witch's cauldron. He delivered it in the sunny morning, when the dew was still damp on the grass, and he brought the heart to show.

"It's a very good heart," the witch said, turning it in her hands. "The latch in particular is cunning. Nothing would get in or out of a heart like that if you didn't show it the way." She bounced it on her palms. "Light for its size, too. A girl could be proud of a heart like this."

"She'll have none," Weyland said. "Says as it doesn't beat."

"Beat? Of course it doesn't beat," the witch scoffed. "There isn't any love in it. And you can't put that there for her."

"But I mun do," Weyland said, and took the thing back from her hands.

* * *

For thirdly, he broke Olrun's ring. The gold was soft and fine; it flattened with one blow of the hammer, and by the third or fourth strike, it spread across his leather-padded anvil like a puddle of blood, rose-red in the light of the forge. By the time the sun brushed the treetops in its descent, he'd pounded the ring into a sheet of gold so fine it floated on his breath.

He painted the heart with gesso, and when that was dried he made bole, a rabbit-skin glue mixed with clay that formed the surface for the gilt to cling to.

With a brush, he lifted the gold leaf, bit by bit, and sealed it painstakingly to the heart. And when he had finished and set the brushes and the burnishers aside—when his love was sealed up within like the steel under the gold—the iron cage began to beat.

* * *

"It was a blacksmith broke my heart," the black girl said. "You'd think a blacksmith could do a better job on mending it."

"It beats," he said, and set it rocking with a burn-scarred, callused fingertip. "'Tis bonny. And it shan't break."

"It's cold," she complained, her breath pushing her veil out a little over her lips. "Make it warm."

"I'd not wonder tha blacksmith left tha. The heart tha started with were colder," he said.

* * *

For fourthly, he opened up his breast and took his own heart out, and locked it in the cage. The latch was cunning, and he worked it with thumbs slippery with the red, red blood. Afterwards, he stitched his chest up with cat-gut and an iron needle and pulled a clean shirt on, and let the forge sit cold.

He expected a visitor, and she arrived on time. He laid the heart before her, red as red, red blood in its red-gilt iron cage, and she lifted it on the tips of her fingers and held it to her ear to listen to it beat.

And she smiled.

* * *

When she was gone, he couldn't face his forge, or the anvil with the vacant chain draped over the horn, or the chill in his fingertips. So he went to see the witch.

She was sweeping the dooryard when he came up on her, and she laid the broom aside at once when she saw his face. "So it's done," she said, and brought him inside the door.

The cup she brought him was warmer than his hands. He drank, and licked hot droplets from his moustache after.

"It weren't easy," he said.

She sat down opposite, elbows on the table, and nodded in sympathy. "It never is," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Frozen cold. Colder'n Hell. I should've gone with her."

"Or she should have stayed with you."

He hid his face in the cup. "She weren't coming back."

"No," the witch said. "She wasn't." She sliced bread, and buttered him a piece. It sat on the planks before him, and he didn't touch it. "It'll grow back, you know. Now that it's cut out cleanly. It'll heal in time."

He grunted, and finished the last of the ale. "And then?" he asked, as the cup clicked on the boards.

"And then you'll sooner or later most likely wish it hadn't," the witch said, and when he laughed and reached for the bread she got up to fetch him another ale.

* * *

Elizabeth Bear is the author of several novels.

Poga

Written by John Barnes
Illustrated by Verónica Casas

Her father always called her "plain old goddam Amy." Then she told him it hurt her feelings, so he started calling her "Poga," his acronym for it, which he explained to other people as her nickname from their travels in San Pantalon, the little Central American country that he made up because he liked to see if he could get people to pretend that they had been there. Being called "Poga" still hurt her feelings but not in a way other people could catch him at.

She could hear his voice now just as if he had not been dead for four years. The eyes of his photograph, dusty and propped beside her coleus on the windowsill, seemed to evade her just like when he was alive.

He would sometimes gaze over her shoulder soulfully and tell her how important she was to him. Probably he hoped she'd share those moments with his fans.

The only time she could remember him looking into her eyes directly, really, had been whenever he got ranting about all the goddam kids who'd rather re-read goddam Tolkien for the goddam twentieth time than pick up something new and good and that was why we were so goddam poor all the goddam time. Then—only then—he seemed really to see Amy, just Amy, right there and as she was.

Gah. Thinking about him too much already. She grabbed a paper towel from the rack beside the plant table, spit on his picture, and wiped the dust off. "It's not like I'm trying to avoid you, asshole. I'm going back to The Cabin and all." She set it face down on the table.

She sighed, a pretty melodramatic sigh for plain old goddam Amy, and got back to packing, which wasn't much because her vacation clothes weren't much different from her working clothes; they were just her going-out in public clothes, elf-made and without blood, paint, and ink stains.

She didn't care much. In the working week, she put on her old-blood-and-fluids stained Wal-Mart tees and jeans to go in to the lab, photographed dead animals and bits of cadavers on her digital, and brought the pictures back here to do her drawings in her paint-and-ink-spattered sweats.

To go out with friends, she wore her elf-made stuff, which always fit, never wore out, washed clean, and was warm or cool as needed. Colin always teased her about owning

"Five golden rings!

Four tee shirts,

three sweatshirts,

two pairs of jeans,

and a warm pair of Mithril socks!"

because all they ever saw her in were those. Actually she wore other socks when her Mithril of Wyoming socks were in the wash, but Colin barely noticed her except when he wanted to be funny at her expense, or when it was cool to know her, which was any time Dad came up in conversation around people new to their clique. That was when Colin's arm gripped plain old goddam Amy's plump little shoulders, and felt way too goddam good, and the girl she saw reflected in his pupils was sort of cute, or had been cute once. Cuter anyway. A cuteness had been present and now was absent.

Gah. Making little jokes the way Colin and the crowd did. It seemed like she was inviting everyone—Dad, Colin—that she really didn't want to come along.

But now the tape was running in her head, how things always went when there was a new person in the crowd who kept glancing at Amy, trying to catch her eye, shyly wanting to know who this was. When that happened, and attention began to slip away from him, Colin would tuck her under his arm like a football and start explaining that she was The Amy, The Real Amy, That Amy, yes, Little Amy from Burton Goldsbane's Wonderful Books, and she had grown up in The Cabin, and the capitals would fly thick and fast, even orally.

Anyway she was just going up to The Cabin, as Dad had always pronounced it, capitals and all. (At least Dad had only orally capitalized The Cabin and Little Amy; when he wasn't ignoring her, Colin was a storm of capitals. Or at least a steady soaking drizzle.)

Nobody in Feather Mountain was going to give a fart in a windstorm what she looked like because they hadn't since she'd been sixteen and concentrating on how close she could get to the dress-code line without getting sent home. People there didn't know what she wore all the time in Greeley, anyway.

So she packed what she wanted, just dumped all her elven stuff into her duffel bag (twenty-six years old and she'd never owned a proper suitcase, talk about a perpetual student). That was enough for the week but her thought of Colin and his dumb little song made her feel too much like Poga, so she dutifully looked through her one big drawer of as-yet-unstained human-made clothes, seeing if she could make herself find something to take along and work on getting used to.

Well, no. She couldn't. Too scratchy, too clingy, too warm, deceptively warm-looking but not really warm, not right for eight thousand feet in March. Done. She stuffed the whole scratchy, clingy, chilly pile back in the drawer on top of—

Her soul.

Her hands scrabbled at the coarse fabrics, yanking the sweaters, jeans, and tees back out, tossing them any old way onto the bed behind her, and there it was, lying in the drawer, where she had just glimpsed a corner of it.

Folded away in the corner, small and gray, unpressed, uncared for. They said when you found it you always knew it right then for what it was, and sure enough, she did.

Though it was so much smaller.

And so much dingier than she'd remembered.

In her memory it had been about two yards of fine, patterned raw silk, iridescent, coruscating, "numinous and luminous and voluminous," centered around "a big bold beautiful textured satin valentine heart set in a deep blue diamond," as she had written in her journal yesterday, making her notes for her search of The Cabin. "As long as he was tall, exactly."

As who was tall?

Maybe she had written his name, whoever he was, in her journal. Had she packed her journal? She picked it up from her desk, closed it, and dropped it into her duffel bag.

Was she all packed? No, she needed to put in her toiletry bag and—her soul, right, she had just found her soul. She looked down at her hand and there it was, again.

Not a big piece of beautifully woven raw silk with a textured valentine at the center.

A two-by-two square of gray unhemmed muslin. It was dusty. Really, she thought she had kept her soul cleaner than this.

Plus she didn't remember that her soul had been marked in dressmaker's chalk, that weird shade of blue that only came in a Baudie's Dressmaker's Stylus, which you could only get at Mrs. Puttanesca's shop, where Amy had learned to sew.

Dear Mrs. Puttanesca, so patient. Piles of bolts of fabric. Warm summer street air from Feather Mountain drifting through the shop. Just the thought took her back.

You could get a Baudie's at any Wal-Mart.

That thought took her sideways.

Why would she think you could get it at any Wal-Mart?

Of course you could only get a Baudie's Dress Makers' Chalk Stylus at Mrs. P's, because the company had been out of business for decades but Mrs. Puttanesca had bought four big boxes of them way, way, back before Amy was even born. And nothing worked as well as a Baudie's, anyone who had ever tried one knew that, you drew on the fabric as easy and fine as a good dip pen on a nice hard paper with just the right tooth—so why, in her mind's eye, was Amy seeing a big rack of them on sale at Wal-Mart?

Amy never went into Wal-Mart.

Except a lot of her scratchiest, clingiest stuff came from Wal-Mart.

Well, that was why she didn't go there, obviously.

Weird wandering thoughts and memories were supposed to be common just after you found your soul. She'd seen that on Oprah or Ricki Lake or one of those shows, they'd brought in a bunch of young women and their mothers with strange tales to tell about acting weird. Amy couldn't remember much of what they'd said but she could see that white sans-serif caption in the corner of the TV screen: "My Daughter Found Her Soul and Now She's Weird."

She didn't need TV to know about it. Every woman in her crowd who had found her soul had gone all weird. Aimee had thrown over a dream job, just walked into her boss's office and said, "I quit" and walked out, and now she was down in Oaxaca painting big-eyed kids. Ami had come by one Friday to The Lowered Bar, where the usual TGIF crowd met, waving her red-and-blue flannel soul over her head, but before they even got a good look at it, she'd said, "My ride is here," and a pegason, ridden by one hell of a hot-looking elf, had lighted on the sidewalk in front of The Lowered Bar in a clatter of hooves and a thunder of feathered wings.

Ami had run out, the TGIF crowd following like puzzled kittens after a ball, and, as the pegason swung a wing forward and up to give her room, bounded into the saddle behind the elf, tying her soul around her waist. With three big flaps and a galumph, galumph, galumph, the pegason had taken off, not giving the Greeley cops any time to get there with an illegal-landing citation, and spiraled up a thermal off The Lowered Bar's parking lot.

Ami had shouted a promise to write (Amy thought, it was hard to hear over some wisecrack Colin was making), then the pegason had merged into a bigger thermal shot upward. With an elven sense of drama, Ami and her elf had silhouetted against the full moon.

"So perfectly elvish," Amy had said, and Colin had asked her about why she said that, over and over, and why she stared so hard at the elf, until she had changed the subject and started telling stories about all the different ways she'd gotten suspended from Feather Mountain high school.

In the next few weeks, Ami had sent just a few emails from Cody and Billings, and about a year later a jpeg of a much fatter, dumpier Ami proudly holding a pointy-eared golden-eyed baby in front of something that looked for all the world like the Magic Kingdom, and then nothing, not even a thank-you for the baby quilt Amy had made. (She had lied that the rest of the crowd had chipped in materials, though in fact none of them even mentioned Ami after some nasty jokes about the picture of the baby—really nasty jokes, Amy thought, everyone knows you can't take a picture of a half-elven and have it come out, it's the camera that does that, mirrors do it too, it was unfair to Ami and unfair to her child and simply unfair. But she hadn't said anything to Colin and the others. It had been a few months after she'd given up saying anything to them, and had just accepted her usual place in Colin's armpit and her occasional place on his lapel).

And as for Émye—so horrible. And it had happened right after she had found her soul, she'd just shown it to Amy when they had dinner together on Saturday, gone missing the next week, and then the first parts of her had been found the following Monday.

It had taken Amy weeks to persuade Detective Sergeant Derrick de Zoos, he of the sincere puppy-dog look, that she really had no idea what might have become of Émye beyond the ghastly details in the papers. Worse yet, he had needed to keep coming back to break more news to her, as they found Émye's head, then the shallow grave with most of her, and then the rest, and then the place where she had been held and tortured, and so on, place after place, name after name to check with Amy's memory, until finally it had all led to nothing. Amy's memory of things Émye had said or people Émye had introduced her to contained no name they could connect to that old Q-hut above Eagle. None of the stores where the knives had been purchased, or the places Émye's torn body had been disposed of, had rung any bell for Amy, and Amy seemed to have been her only public friend (not counting the rest of the crowd, which had not known her at all except as a girl who sat next to Amy at TGIFs at The Lowered Bar).

In retrospect Émye had been the real star of the crowd as far as Amy could see, far more interesting than the daughter (and favorite character) of Burton Goldsbane, let alone an illustrator for biology and medical textbooks.

Yet Émye, half-elven, supernaturally beautiful, had merely hung around shyly, gracing the clique without the clique ever realizing it had been graced; Amy was the only one who regularly called Émye and made time and room for her. Perhaps that was why, when they found Émye's cell phone in the grave, only Amy's number had been in its memory.

She could only assume that Émye must have had some entirely separate, secret life over the border, that finding her soul (Émye had a bedsheet-sized piece of pure white linen) had made her misbehave somehow in that other world, and something or someone had punished her. Or maybe Émye had been chosen for some dark sacrifice because of something about her soul. Or perhaps that it was all a coincidence and it just happened that shortly after finding her soul, Émye was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Amy had no way to know which it had been, and just because she had been Émye's only friend in no way implied that they had been close friends.

Eventually she persuaded Detective Sergeant Derrick de Zoos that she knew no more than that, and he stopped calling her—about that.

Unfortunately, by then, Derrick had acquired another interest in Amy entirely.

Derrick really was a very nice guy, and the cards, the flowers, and the invitations were flattering. She just had to constantly remind herself that she was not the sort of woman who dated cops, at least not the kind who got serious about them (and if you were going to date Derrick de Zoos, you'd have to get serious about him—he was that type). She could not imagine herself sending him out every day and wondering if he would be shot at, or having mischievous precocious cop-kids who worshipped their father, or retiring to some beachfront community somewhere where they could spend most of their time barbecuing and going to movies.

She wanted Derrick to give up courting her. But it had to be of his own accord, because she couldn't have borne bluntly telling him to go away (oh, those big brown eyes would have been sad!) Besides, her few times going out with Derrick had been fun, or at least a welcome break from hanging out with her old college friends at The Lowered Bar.

Plus going out with Derrick upset Colin, who fancied himself a dangerously masculine man of the world, but who was actually, (though still handsome-faced in the way that had conquered a dozen nerdy freshman virgins) a soft doughy guy who lived on junk food, wrote software, and watched a lot of movies. Derrick's being a real live masculine cop made Colin get pissy in a way that reminded her of the way Dad had gotten whenever anyone mentioned Tolkien.

A cop's girlfriend, lover, or wife should have a sturdy brown burlap soul, or perhaps a pure white linen one, and hers—well, it wasn't the iridescent raw silk she had thought, now was it? She looked down, again, at the square of unbleached muslin hanging limply from her hand. Little gray dust bunnies drifted down from it onto the floor and the toes of her Bean Snow Sneakers.

She lifted her soul to eye level, grasping a corner with each hand, and shook it out gently, tumbling the remaining dust onto her feet and into her cuffs. That outline in blue chalk was obviously-–

Amy's father had a shrub of gray hair on top of his head, desert-sky eyes, and a basketball-belly on his otherwise scrawny frame. You noticed him, visually. But when Amy thought of him, most of all she remembered his clatter: the bang of the manual typewriter as she played around his feet, which had given way to the squirr-whuck-chik! of the electric welcoming her home, along with the Oreos and milk and the silly poems on the kitchen table.

Later, there had been the house-shaking daisy-wheel printer covering the sound of her running downstairs to get into a car with primer on the fender, a sullen boy in the front seat, a case of beer in the trunk, and disappointment in the offing because the boy was never quite how she thought boys should be.

Finally, during her college breaks, after he had the money for a quiet laser printer, she had awakened early every morning in Feather Mountain to the thunder of his clumsy stiff fingers pounding against the uncooperating keys, all precision aged out of his aching hands as they walloped a final three books into the word processor, as if he were regressing back onto the manual typewriter.

The window-shape of late-winter sunlight jumped sideways on the living room floor.

Amy had been in a reverie. Her soul still dangled from her upraised hands. Her arms were sore. Had she really stood here staring into that cloth for half an hour?

She switched on the bright lights over her drawing table and spread the soft cloth on it.

The outline of a heart—not a valentine heart, either. Most people would see only a blob, but Amy recognized a real human heart, lying on its atria, drawn from directly above. The chalk line showed no skips, no sketch marks, no hesitations—her soul must have been pinned tight to the table, not to have wrinkled at all as this was drawn. The unbroken chalk line had the assurance of a hard edge in an overdeveloped photograph. Yet it was just the right width and color to be Baudie's . . .

The drawing on the other side was of a human heart, at the same scale, lying on its right ventricle.

She spread her soul out on the light table. Sure enough. The blue lines on one side matched those on the other, as if the Baudie's Dressmaker's Chalk Stylus—had somehow gone right through the fabric.

Could she make her friends understand how strange this was? Now and then, for some complex patterns, if you're sewing or cutting out, it can be handy to have a mark on both sides, she would say. They would all look bored. To the guys, sewing was girl stuff. To the girls, it was something authentic for authentic Third World peasant women to do in their authentic culture so that authentic woman entrepreneurs could bring it up here and sell it in little stores that just dripped of authenticity.

Or maybe the real reason they would all look bored was just that a brilliantly drawn chalk line for sewing was the sort of thing that plain old goddam Amy would talk about. But they'd let her talk, so long as she didn't go on too long about it. See, she would say, already afraid she was boring them, it's pretty rare that you mark both sides and, if you do it at all, normally you only make a few marks on one side where it's going to be hard to see what you're doing after you've pinned something.

For a cut-out line like this, you'd never mark the whole way round. And most certainly of certainlies—that had been a favorite phrase of Dad's in his books about Little Amy at the The Cabin, so it might suppress their impatience while she finished explaining that nobody could possibly trace all the way around in a medium like chalk on muslin, with no bunching or shaking or anything. I've been doing med illo for years and I couldn't do that. Leo-fucking-nardo couldn't do that on a good day.

They would all nod solemnly, Colin would say something sarcastic, and the clique would go back to quoting television at each other.

Maybe finding your soul made you cynical too.

The rectangles of light from the sunny window distorted further into rhombi, and jumped across the floor again.

Another reverie. Forty-five minutes this time, though she'd had fewer thoughts, at least fewer she could recall.

She wadded up her too-small, colorless, strangely-marked soul and tossed it into the duffel bag with her too-large, colorless, perfectly-self-maintained elven sweaters.

On top of her soul she put her meager toiletry bag: toothpaste, shampoo, aspirin, and hairbrush. No makeup. What would be the point? There wasn't going to be anyone at The Cabin except her, and she could never get things to come out anyway no matter how long she stood at the mirror.

Or had she invited someone to The Cabin?

She closed up the duffel, shouldered it, and went down to the convertible that she'd inherited, along with too much else, from Dad.

When she turned a different way, the old LeSabre seemed to perk up and sing, as if it didn't have to do something it hated, this one time; whether it was getting away from The Lowered Bar, or from Greeley, or it was all just her imagination, the car sounded happy.

Going east to west across the Front Range, you point the car's nose down the straight-as-a-bullet two-lane road, stand on the accelerator, and go into that mental groove where you can run down a country road flat-out and wide-eyed, alert and quick enough not to rear-end a frontloader, T-bone a hay truck, or put an antelope through your windshield. You chew up road as the mountains loom, and make sure you stay alert.

The phone rang. She pulled the headset from her neck up onto her ears and said "Hello?"

"Hey, there, this is Sergeant Derrick de Zoos of the Colorado Bureau of Cute Chick Control—"

"Oh, my dear sweet god, how long did you spend making that one up?"

"Hours and hours," his voice said, a warm smiling baritone in her ears. His voice, she thought, was even better than the eyes and the muscles. Now if he could just stop being a cop and lose that sense of humor.

She reminded herself to focus on the road. "Well, maybe it just needed a few more drafts."

"Everyone's a critic. I bet your dad always said that."

"Almost as often as he said 'Goddam Tolkien.'"

"What did he have against Tolkien?"

"Several million book sales and a vast repeat business. So what are you actually after, here, Detective? Am I charged with anything cool?"

"You're charged with being cool, how's that? Here I am, a detective, all set for major crimes, and no major criminals have turned up, so of course I thought of you."

She saw brake lights far ahead and took her foot off the gas, letting the LeSabre slow down. "Aren't you worried about someone taping your calls to me?"

"They're nothing compared to the calls I make to other girls."

Amy couldn't help smiling; she liked Derrick whether she wanted to or not. "So let me guess. You're soaking up taxpayer time and money on the phone to me because you're finally getting a weekend off?"

"A three-day weekend," he said, in a tone approaching religious awe. "So, first question, does it take three days to wash your hair?"

"Day and a half, tops."

The brake lights had been a big old F250 turning off into a dirt road; she put her foot down again and the LeSabre pressed pleasantly against her back.

"Old boyfriends coming to town? Dental appointments?"

"They're rotating a paratroop regiment home from Avalon, and I should see a brain surgeon, but no." She liked bantering with the detective; Derrick got banter in a way that none of her crowd did, understanding it was a mutual game and not a public performance.

Belatedly, she realized she had just put herself into a corner, when Derrick asked, "So what lame excuse are you going to give me for not seeing me?"

"Oh, god, I should have seen that coming. There's two reasons it will be tough, but tough is not impossible. One, I'm driving up to The Cabin—right now, actually on the road—to spend a week."

"Your dad's old place?"

"You remember everything I say."

"I heard the capitals, so I recognized the place right away. But I thought that your dad's foundation was putting artists-in-residence into it."

"Right now it's in-between. Samantha just left, and Piet isn't due for another six weeks, and I get to use it during in-betweens. So you might have to be willing to drive up to Feather Mountain on one of your days off."

"Deal!"

Doh! Why had she done that? Was she trying to keep Derrick pursuing her? And if so, why? And wouldn't it be awkward with three of them there?

That was, two.

The road lurched a little sideways and her breath caught before she brought the car back into her lane. Thank all the gods for dry pavement and good tires. She must have been off in like a two-second reverie.

"Amy? Are you still there?"

"Still here," she said, thinking good question, Detective.

"Did I get too pushy?"

"Not at all," she said. "Just had to think and drive and didn't have any brain cells to spare for talking. But yes, come on up to The Cabin this weekend. I want you to. The question is whether you want to, because the other thing is, just this afternoon, I found my soul, so if you come to see me, I might be pretty weird, you know."

"And you're driving?"

You weren't supposed to do that, Amy remembered, belatedly. "Derrick, I feel fine."

"It's not a law or anything," he said, "but you are going to be kind of out of it and accident prone, so be a little careful, okay? And you're making me wonder about that long pause on the phone."

She was about to make something up, tell him there was a tractor on the shoulder and cars coming the other way, but the words stuck in her throat, like they always did.

"Or is that sounding too protective?" he asked.

"Maybe a little."

"Well, it's pure self-interest. I want you around to reject me for years to come. How do you feel right now?"

"Weird but not bad and not out of it. I did have a couple of reveries right after I found it. But as far as I can tell, I'm alert now."

"Well, I know this is hovering and I know you hate it, but call me when you get to The Cabin, okay? Just so I know you got there. And then we can figure out whether you really invited me or I just trapped you into it."

"Derrick, sometimes you are too smart for both of our good."

"Whatever. Anyway, call me from The Cabin? Then maybe we'll make plans or not, but I'll know. Call the cell—I don't get off till three a.m., but I don't expect I'll be doing much of anything, unless Greeley gets a lot tougher than it's ever been up till now. Can't even really hope for a good stabbing."

"The tough act isn't working, either," she said, smiling into the phone and hoping he heard it as teasing. "All right, I'll call you."

"You will?"

"Actually, yes. I promise. I just realized I probably did worry you some, and besides, I kind of want to have someone looking for me if I don't make it there. But as far as I can tell, I'm fine now, really."

"Okay. 'Preciate it, Amy."

"No problem, Derrick. Have a quiet night."

She crossed 25 into a series of dips and rises, where in dinosaur times the Pacific Plate finished skidding under North America like a piece of cardboard under a tablecloth. Wrinkles and folds in the Earth rise and steepen and cram together to become the Rocky Mountain Front, an area of astonishing beauty populated by elves and fairies illegally squatting below the Wyoming line, Buddhists and anarchists and old tommyknockers who can tolerate the elves, and, south toward Raton, bordersnakes, demons, and Apache ghosts.

Other ghosts are everywhere, silent, unspeaking, forever watching the invaders. Dad had taken her out to watch them gather and dance beside the borrow pit in the moonlight, countless times.

Not the borrow pit!

The lovely dark pool at the foot of the pine-covered slope from The Cabin with a twenty-foot waterfall falling into its north end. The pool that tumbled down the steep bouldery slope to Maggie's Creek in its southeast corner. She remembered vividly. The ghosts, Utes mostly, had come to dance on the flat rock, as broad as a tennis court, by the waterfall, in the moonlight, and she and her father had sat watching them till the sunrise swept them away.

Cops had found Dad floating on his back in the open water around the waterfall, nude, dead of exposure, one bright sunny February day. Pike and ravens had been feeding on him for a few days, and his blue eyes, typing-strong fingers, and sardonic lips were already gone; they had had to identify him by his teeth.

The sheriff's office had been mystified by the $400 cash on the front table but Amy hadn't. She'd had to tell them that that was $300 standard, $50 premium for getting the exact physical type (young, pale, black haired, size four or smaller, ski-jump nose, fox-faced), plus $50 for driving up from Boulder or Fort Collins. They found a bunch of escort-service phone numbers on his computer and that ended the mystery; they'd even located the girl who had driven all that way to a door that didn't open and lost a night's earnings by it. The time of his call to the service established the last time he'd definitely been alive, six days before he was found.

Amy had always wished she could find a way to apologize to the girl for that. But then she had always wished she could apologize to all the vampire-brunette pixies. Dad liked to say that he drank cheap and hated Tolkien for free, so girls who were born to play the lead in Peter Pan were his one expensive vice. He had been saying that ever since Amy was old enough to understand why she was supposed to find somewhere else to be, or stay very quietly in her room, about once a month.

Later on, in her personal finance course, she had sat down and figured out that he had dropped a bit over five k a year on his "one vice." Run that through compound interest by twenty years, think about what they could have had during those years, and the figure had made her eyes water. In her journal she had written I am changing my major from business to art and biology so I won't have to look at things that are quite so upsetting.

How far had she come over the rising wrinkles in the continent? It seemed like only five minutes in the groove, with the seat pushing against her back and the motor tached up past 4, but no, it had been almost an hour by the clock. The sun was most of the way down now, the towns farther apart, the mountains close, their shadows already stretching far out behind her so that it was night here and day in the sky. She was almost to Van Buren, at the foot of Maggie's Creek Canyon.

She topped the last rise before Van Buren, and the truck stop's neon island in a sodium-glare pond welcomed her into the dark below. She put her blinker on—she had skipped lunch, her bladder was about to burst, and the needle was near E. She glanced up and had to brake hard to make the last parking lot ramp into the truck stop. Her car fishtailed on the gravel but the passenger side door didn't quite kiss the BP stanchion (after a nervous split-second). Then her front tires grabbed pavement and she crunched over the gravel and up to the pump.

No hurt, no foul, as Dad said whenever he fucked up without totally fucking up, which was pretty much the average for Dad.

She gassed up, paid, peed, and then decided to move the car over to the main parking slots and sit down to eat at the counter. Derrick was right. If she was going to be driving within a few hours of finding her soul, she really ought to take some care of herself, for the sake of other drivers if nothing else. Might as well make sure she was comfortable, well-rested, and prepared, since the trip up Maggie's Creek Canyon Road in the dark was going to be stressy.

How had she let it get so late? Then she remembered that she had spent about an hour and a half in reverie. Aimee and Ami and Émye had all said that you forgot things a lot when you first got your soul back, though it seemed to Amy that she had been remembering things rather than forgetting them. Except that whatever she had been remembering, she'd been forgetting again.

Really, it was confusing and disorienting. She must've been driving a bit spaced out, but probably awake enough and therefore safe enough. She hoped.

Her usual double-burger-with-nothing had cooled to about room temperature, and the long hand on the clock had jumped halfway round. She wolfed the burger before it could get colder, gulped her slightly warmer chili, and left her lukewarm coffee on the counter, begging a refill with fresh hot stuff for her thermos. Forty minutes for a burger at a counter; life was slipping away just like that.

The last time she had come through here had been with her friends, with Colin sitting in the passenger seat of the red Miata she'd had then, grabbing the doorframe as she went up Maggie's Creek Canyon at a perfectly reasonable pace. It had been for Dad's funeral. Behind her there had been two more carloads of her friends, supposedly all there to support her through Dad's funeral, and actually along to be able to say that yes, they had known Little Amy in college, and been to The Cabin, and even been at Burton Goldsbane's funeral. It was the ultimate privilege—or payment—for having consented to be friends with plain old goddam Amy.

Extra privileges, such as actually riding shotgun in Poga's Miata, knowing the real story behind that Poga nickname, and being able to tell people that Little Amy drove like a lunatic, came for agreeing to sleep with her or at least to crash on her couch.

At the funeral she had almost heard her father whispering in her ear what he said often when he was drunk; Amy, Poga, Amy-Amy-Poga, I deal in lies all the time, little Poga, and the first thing to keep in mind is that to lie well you can't lose what the truth is. Disappear into the jaws of your own lie and it will digest you and leave you as a little pile of mendacious poop by the road. So lie all you want, Poga, but don't let the goddam lie eat you.

She had kind of enjoyed the shocked look on her friends' faces when they saw Feather Mountain and The Cabin and the waterfall pond the way they were. . . .

Which had been what?

No time to think about that now. She was into the canyon. In daylight this place was gorgeous, at night a scary challenge, though a familiar one. She didn't need to see anything more than what was in her headlights—she felt, or just knew, where things were and where she was. The rock walls, brief pullouts, and steep drop-offs were where they belonged, held in place by her memory, and marked by the sudden flashes of the bright mad dance of stars between the peaks, spires, and canyon lips.

She knew and watched for the game trails across the road. In icy late winter, in the last hour of light and the first hour of darkness, there were often deer and coyote, even elk or bear, heading down for a drink from fast-flowing Maggie's Creek, which never froze all the way over. Or you could see a Ute ghost, or even an elf flying low to follow the road, and be startled just as you came onto black ice, and be into the canyon before you knew it—though as long as some of the drops were, you'd know it for much too long.

A mountain road at night is busy, if you intend to make time and still get there alive. Amy had learned to drive on this road but it still required her full attention. She could never remember every place where shadow lay on the road all day long so that runoff dribbling across the road turned into black ice, suddenly under the tires, quick, thin, slick, invisible, and hard as death itself. Traffic coming the other way compelled her to constantly pop brights on and off, and she was always braking behind locals who saw no reason to hurry, or pulling into turnoffs to let other locals pass, blinking from the bright headlights in the rearview mirror, peering ahead for the not-pulled-over enough car with naked, semi-drunk kids in it that could be in any pull-off.

She wondered idly how many of these turnoffs she'd gotten laid in, during high school. Maybe the Burton Goldsbane Foundation would like to put up some small monuments: "Little Amy Was Slept With Here." And by her bedroom window, a statue of Burton Goldsbane himself, rampant with a puzzled expression—

Why by her window?

Approaching the blind curve that often had elk on the road just beyond it, she felt the reverie reaching up for her as if it were big, strong hands with unnaturally long fingers trying to cover her eyes, touch her body, stroke her—Never mind! She was driving the goddam canyon and the reverie would just have to leave her alone. The reverie vanished like the blur does when you focus a telescope.

With the very small part of her mind that had time to think, she was glad, almost smug. No reverie was going to shove her around. When she emerged at the head of the canyon, driving across the long truss bridge that leaped the raggy head of the canyon, and up into Feather Mountain Park, she glanced at the clock. As always, it had taken only about half an hour but she felt as if she had been driving all night.

Feather Mountain Park is not terribly impressive, as parks go. When she had gone off to college and met people from other parts of the country for the first time, Amy had forever been explaining that she had not grown up in a national park, that a park is a wide flat space between the mountains with too much wind and not enough rain for trees or crops, but perfect for horses and cattle. "Aryan Masculine Paradise," she used to explain. "Room for many cattle for the Tamer of Horses, and also lots of room for playing with guns and driving drunk real fast. Lots of long views you can snipe at federal agents from. Roadhouses with six country songs, none changed since 1970, on a thousand year old jukebox. When the Lord of the Park wants babies, there are local girls, dumb as rocks, blonde and well-knockered, drinking under-age at every roadhouse, drunk as shit and desperate to move out of their parents' house. And lots of room for a man to build his cabin—or park his doublewide. With all that going for it, what's a few months of below-zero, a wind that never stops whistling, and a little isolation and insanity?"

For some reason that had made people uncomfortable, though redneck jokes were common currency at UNC, especially among people who were afraid that they might not have scraped all the redneck off yet. After a while she made the connection and stopped telling those jokes; the problem wasn't what life in Feather Mountain Park was like, or that people felt bad about laughing at it. The problem was that the kids who had devoured all of Burton Goldsbane's Little Amy books did not want to picture sweet, dreamy Little Amy out on the backroads with older boys. Colin found it a little too interesting. Maybe that was why she stuck with him, though she never talked about life in Aryan Masculine Paradise any more around him.

What everyone had wanted, Amy thought, was to claim friendship with Little Amy from the books, with shy bookish good looks and a dreamy artsy iridescent valentine-centered soul; it didn't matter whether they wanted to worship her or win her heart or debauch her, they wanted Little Amy, and while she might have been perfectly happy to be worshipped or loved or debauched—better yet, all three—she just didn't have that iridescent soul.

And that brought her back to the thought of what was in her duffel bag. She had had such a clear picture in her head of her magnificent soul, and here she had a gray rag with a brilliantly drawn technical illustration: a real heart and not a valentine. Why had she ever gone looking for it in the first place, if it was going to turn out like this?

She topped the rise and looked down on the town of Feather Mountain. She'd also tried to make a joke out of the observation that there was a name shortage out here, that towns very often were named after prominent local features and so was everything else within reach, Feather Mountain standing above Feather Mountain Park where the town of Feather Mountain lay at the crossing of Feather Mountain Road and Maggie's Creek Canyon Road; she said when she was little she didn't know that anywhere could be named anything except Feather Mountain and Maggie's Creek. But nobody else thought that was weird, so she gave up on that joke too.

In the night with the miles of blinding-silver snow all around it, Feather Mountain was at least interesting, visually, and maybe even attractive. The sky was spattered with stars; you could see so many up here, down to very dim ones, and the moon had not yet risen.

She crossed the last stretch of Feather Mountain Park on the swooping miles-wide arcs of blacktop as the town popped in and out of view, until finally she came over the last low ridge just above the town and the wild spill of stars vanished in the glare on her windshield.

Two blocks of façade-style buildings with steep pitched roofs behind the façade, the real old-timey places from when this had been a tank town on the narrow gauge. Maybe twenty frame houses, Sears railroad bungalows that the real estate people now called Victorians, clustered around those two blocks, and then around that was the usual sprawl of aluminum sided fake frame houses, prefabs, and mobile homes on gravel streets. Out on the edge of that disorderly cluster, linked to the downtown by the other well-lighted street, lay a huge sodium-glaring parking lot surrounded by Wal-Mart, McDonald's, KFC, and Gibson's; the glare illuminated the irregular sprawl of mobile homes uphill from the parking lot.

Amy's LeSabre shot by the façade row of Main Street. No light on at Mrs. Puttanesca's—but what would you expect at nine o'clock on a Friday night?

She would have to make some time for a visit. She hadn't talked with Mrs. P since the funeral.

Just beyond the streetlights, as the stars popped back out of the black sky, Amy took the familiar turnoff up the steep winding road to The Cabin. Over the first hill, down into the little draw among the pines, and the friendly dark closed around her; she seemed to drive into that vivid spill of stars as she made the long climb up the main hill.

There were several houses back here, and she passed them all without seeing any sign of life. When she came to the driveway for The Cabin—actually just a place where the road narrowed and a sign announced that this was now private property rather than a public road—she was relieved to find that Bartie Brown had been up there with his snowplow, since when she'd known him in high school he'd only been reliable about getting beer. But when she'd talked to him to arrange the plowing, he'd rather shyly said that nowadays he had four trucks and was growing into a real business, and had asked permission to put up one of his advertising signs beside her private road.

She laughed when she saw his sign; the name of his company was How Now Brown Plow. Possibly there was more to Bartie than she'd realized ten years ago—maybe not being drunk and high all the time had something to do with it.

At The Cabin she parked in the same spot under the built-on carport where she had always parked her old VW Bug during high school, and her red Miata during college. "Plain old goddam Amy, home again," she said, aloud, but somehow it lacked the bitterness and irony she had intended. The car door opened into the expected blast of cold, and she pulled her duffel from the back seat and shouldered it up.

What was she doing here?

The question was what she had been trying to remember. Her whole reason for going up to Feather Mountain and The Cabin had been to look for her soul (a big expanse of vivid iridescence, in raw silk, with the most glorious embroidered ruby-red Valentine heart at its center), which she was sure was somewhere in one of the elf-crafted cedar chests along one wall of her bedroom.

But she had found her soul. It was right here in her duffel. What was she doing here?

She had reason enough to want to take some time off, but once she'd found her soul, she could have just turned left on 25, headed down to Denver or Santa Fe or even into Mexico, or picked up 70 in Denver and headed to Vegas or L.A.

She still could. If the weather didn't suit her clothes she could just buy clothes on the way; her job was to keep her busy and because she liked saving money of her own, but she could buy a new wardrobe any time she wanted one, she just never did. She could head to somewhere sunny and spend the next week in gauzy bits of fabric that cost more than her first car, in a hotel room that cost, for a week, what her apartment cost for three months, and live on umbrella drinks and desserts if she wanted. And she just might want.

No point in running the canyon again, though. Not in the dark when she was tired. Tomorrow could be another day.

Inside the front door, she found six tied-up garbage bags.

The Foundation had said that they had thoroughly checked Samantha out of the place, and yet they'd left these lying around? She had some bones to pick with the manager—

There was a pile of dishes in the sink, too. Had they not cleaned up at all, or—

She opened the refrigerator.

Fresh milk and fruit, bologna that couldn't have been more than a couple days out of the store.

There was some little sound from upstairs. She reached for her cell phone, thought for a second, and dialed.

"Derrick de Zoos."

"Derrick, it's me, Amy. I'm at The Cabin, but I want you to stay on the line with me for a little bit, if you have time and you can. I think there's someone else in here, squatting in The Cabin."

"What?! Get the hell out of there—"

"Easy. I think I know who I'm going to find. And it will be fine. I just want you on the line just in case. If something doesn't sound good, call the Larimer County Sheriff and tell them to send a deputy up here, they'll know the place, but I think it's all fine. I just want a back up plan in place in case this isn't who I think it is."

"I don't like you taking chances—"

"And I don't like you being protective, but we'll both have to live with it. My guess is it's Samantha, and trust me, she's harmless. And a friend. I just want you on the line in case a couple Texas-hunter assholes are squatting in here. But I bet it's just Samantha."

Samantha was a waif-thin, tiny, black-haired girl who churned out picture book scripts at a terrifying rate, showing great promise without ever quite selling one.

Amy carried her duffel up to her room as a way of temporizing. Since whoever was in the house didn't seem to have much furniture, and the only bed was in Amy's room, it seemed like the place to look.

"What are you doing now?"

"Climbing the stairs, Derrick. Going to the only room with a bed."

Amy's room, with the furniture her mother had given her before leaving, and Dad's office were the two rooms the Foundation required to be preserved pretty much as they had been, though Amy's room was a bit neater, and Dad's office phenomenally neater, than they had been when anyone lived there. Not to mention that they had taken down all of Amy's Kurt Cobain posters and dug the Care Bears back out of storage.

She'd kept the same bedroom set—bed, end tables, dressers, chests, and so forth, though. Her mother had returned to Elfland when Amy was too small to remember, but had left that bedroom furniture as a parting gift, and even after the money suddenly poured in following the unexpected success of Amy and Titania, that hand-carved elven furniture had been much the nicest stuff in The Cabin.

Dad had bought good things, all leather and oak and very Scandinavian, that were now in storage; he'd left Amy's room alone because it was hers, and his office because he could not bear the thought of changing anything and possibly jeopardizing the amazing luck that had taken him, after fifteen Little Amy books, from a reliable seller for every library's collection, and the recipient of a few fan letters every month, to the Times bestseller list.

Probably he had made 99% of the money he ever made in the last six years of his life. She wondered what he might have done differently if he had known that those were the last six. Probably written one less Little Amy book to make time for the series finisher he always said he would do some day, spent a little more time traveling, and had hookers up at The Cabin twice a week. And drunk more, laughed more, and eaten more pizza-with-everythings. Dad hadn't been the type to mourn about tomorrow, no matter how inevitably it was closing in. Which had something to do with those times in Amy's childhood when she had been forbidden to answer the phone because it might be "the money bastards," Dad's expression for bill collectors, "they're like goddam Tolkien's goddam orcs but not as well written, Amy, and if you talk to one on the phone he can steal your soul."

The stairs she ascended, and the balustrade were elf-carved, too, part of the list of things Dad had put into the cabin, like replacing the pinewood floors with maple and the plain old thermopane windows with old-fashioned double sashes, to make it more like The Cabin in the Little Amy books. When she'd been nine, there had been a steel utility stair he got for free from a warehouse that was being torn down, and they had rejoiced at getting to spend two weeks installing it, finally replacing the strapped on extension ladder they'd used before then.

"Talk to me, Amy, this is scary."

"You're scared? You've got a gun and you're eighty miles away."

At the top of the stairs, she flicked on a light and walked down to her bedroom door, far down at the end of the hall (at least the place had always been big).

When she flipped the light switch, she gasped.

"Amy! Are you okay!" Derrick's voice in her ear was demanding, as if she were a patrolman about to do something fatal.

Her soul—what she thought was her soul—what she had thought was her soul—was on the bed, as a quilt. A big, gorgeous, elven-made quilted comforter, with a raw silk face printed and embroidered with the pattern she remembered so well, a very nice one and it would probably have cost a thousand dollars at the gift shops in Cheyenne or Sidney, but nonetheless it was not a soul, it was just your basic shiny elf-quilt, astonishingly warm, eternally durable, fascinating and elegant.

But a quilt. Though the pattern was indeed just as long as he was tall, and—

"Amy, are you okay? Say something. I'm dialing Larimer Sheriff's right now—"

"I'm fine, I was just startled by something that has nothing to do with anything, sorry I worried you, you don't need to send the deputies."

Of course she remembered that quilt vividly, now. She had been tucked under it clear back when she was younger than Little Amy in the books. She had lain on it with her homework open in front of her while she chatted on the phone about keggers and shopping trips down to Boulder or Fort Collins. She'd debated taking it to college with her.

"I know you'll hate my asking, but are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, and realized how husky her voice sounded. Her face was wet. "Just one of those finding my soul things. I've got PMS—Perceiving My Soul—okay?"

"I think it's weird you can joke about it."

"Well, I can cry, too."

"Are you?"

"Mind your own business."

Amy just could not believe that she had remembered her fucking bedspread as her soul. She had lived so close to the Border for so long—Wyoming was less than half an hour's drive up the highway from here, one low range and you'd be descending into it—and somehow she had managed to make a mistake like–

"H'lo?" The quilt moved. "Hello?" The voice was sleep-drenched and sad. An arm, in a blue flannel sleeve with Han Solo on it, reached out from under the quilt; and a surprisingly alto voice croaked "ah shit, ah shit, ah shit," as if it had not been used in months. The quilt flipped back revealing a small, painfully thin woman, big eyes and liver-lips beneath a messy mop of jet-black hair that made her look like a dead dandelion. She groped for her thick horn-rimmed glasses, on the bedside table, like an old drunk feeling around for his bottle, pulled them on with a grimace, and blinked at Amy through a cloud of blear.

"Derrick," Amy said, "it's what I thought, and it's fine, 'kay? I need to talk to Sam now. Thanks for being there and putting up with me and everything."

"All right. Can I call later about maybe—"

"I'll call you. Promise. Gotta go." She clicked off and looked at Sam expectantly, not even considering being angry; this was too perfect and too typical.

"Ah shit, Amy, I guess I should try to explain this or something."

"Well," Amy said, "you're not in much shape to explain anything, but I bet I can. After the fellowship ran out, even though you wrote something like ten picture books while you were on it, you still hadn't sold anything, so you didn't have any money or anywhere to go. The next fellowship person wasn't due for more than two months, so you put your stuff in storage and since you still had a key here, you stay here, sleep in my bed, because it's the only one here, and write at Dad's desk or the kitchen counter, and keep hanging on and hoping your agent will call or something. You're living on mac and cheese and bologna sandwiches. That about cover it?"

"Yeah, I guess it does." Sam sat up. "You're not mad."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Dad's will set up the Foundation to support people who kept swinging at writing no matter what. I think I have pretty good proof the Board was right about you. And I'm probably only here for a day or two, and I know perfectly well you'll take better care of the place than I will. Do you have any money at all?"

"About three hundred in cash. I could give it to you if—"

"Not what I'm thinking about. I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Really. But get dressed anyway. I'm forcing you into slavery—I have a trunk load of groceries, because I had been planning to be here about ten days, and you get to help carry them in."

"But it's your house," Samantha said, climbing out of bed, unselfconsciously changing into the jeans and sweatshirt from the bedpost. "I'd be mad."

"Then I'll never hide in your house. Things have been a little weird lately, and I could use having some company, and you probably need some variety in your diet. Let's just get the stuff in and then we'll sort it all out over some frozen pizza and Castles and Fat Tire."

"Is it okay to say I love you forever?"

"Only if that means I can tease you about the Star Wars jammies."

Sam shrugged and shook her black bangs out of her eyes, finger-combing her thick mass of hair. "Warm. My size. Clearance at Wal-Mart. Helps me stay in the right spirit for the readers. Besides, Han and Chewie rock."

The frozen White Castles went into the microwave at once, while the oven warmed up a Red Baron four cheese. "This is going to be more calories than I get in a week," Samantha said. "Not that I'd dream of complaining."

The microwave pinged and Amy pulled out the plate of sliders. They huddled over the cold beer and warm Castles, going through both faster than they had intended to. They had become friends almost the instant that the Board chose Samantha (Amy wasn't supposed to meet candidates before the choice was made), sharing a morbid sense of humor and the sort of attitude that well-meaning teachers had always taken them aside to talk about.

They balanced each other somehow. Amy drew dead and pickled things with frightening precision. Sam wrote sweet, sentimental stories of very young childhood, which everyone recognized as well done and no one wanted to publish.

The last few months had been the same; a steady drizzle of rejection slips because her work "lacked something." Sam made a face. "Wish I knew what I lacked. Okay, so I've got no plot, but neither does Goodnight, Moon. I write about really trivial childhood stuff but so does Beverly Cleary. And I really exaggerate stuff and get really silly, but, well, all I can say is, Shel Silverstein, Calvin and Hobbes, Maurice Sendak, The Phantom Tollbooth. And of course, Little Amy. Which I hope you'll forgive me for saying."

"I live to be said. I don't know. Dad broke his heart and bank account for most of his life, and two different editors laid their jobs on the line to keep the series going, and about fifty librarians and book sales people created a fan club that could never get up to a hundred members—and then one day, presto, he does a lightning re-write of A Midsummer Night's Dream, Titania strikes back with the genders reversed, Little Amy as the Counter-Puck, and making fun of my first boyfriend by setting him up as Bottom, and zip, bop, bang, he's richer than God."

"I've told you before I started reading those books long before Amy and Titania. I got Amy and the Secret Cave for Christmas right after it came out because I was already such a big Little Amy fan. Thanks for the food but please don't insist that I crap all over the only good thing in my childhood."

"Sorry. I really do hope whatever made Amy and Titania a success wallops you next week."

"Can you stand one question? I really don't want to be nosy—well, I do want to be nosy, but I don't want to offend you."

"If you do I'll just break a plate over your head and get over it."

"Great. Uh, you just said your father was making fun of your first boyfriend in that book—did you hate him for that?"

"Hate him? I don't even remember him. His name started with W—Walt? Wally? something like that—and Dad said, very accurately, that he was the sort of person you wanted to look at until you heard, the kind that the phrase 'beautiful but dumb' was coined for, and I was crazy about him then, I guess, but I'd probably have to reread the book. What are you laughing at?"

"Oh, you really don't remember Amy and Titania."

"I said I don't."

"Well, he was beautiful and dumb and that was funny, but the idea of him being named Wally, it's just—just so—I mean—"

Once Samantha got going on the wonderfulness of Dad's books, she could go for hours without ever producing an independent clause, giggling and waving her hands into a string of happy "you knows." Amy did her best to look stern. "Come on, take care of yourself, Sam. Make sure you consume enough of all this lovely fat, carbs, and alcohol. You need it a lot more than I do."

"Doing my best. There's only so much of me to go around it." She folded up a drippy piece of pizza and ate it like a sandwich. "Funny thing, for a lot of us, Amy and Titania kind of spoiled things. We liked it, but not as much as the earlier ones, and suddenly Little Amy wasn't an inside joke for sad lonely brainos. But it's good that after all that work, your dad got something out of it. That's a good thing, surely?"

"Yeah. He did work hard for what he got."

They decided the first frozen pizza and round of beers would be lonesome without another, and dealt with those in pleasant silence before Samantha finally said, "Um, not that it's necessarily my place to bring up the subject, but what did you have in mind for the sleeping arrangement?"

"Well, ownership has a few privileges attached. I'm taking the bed. Can you be comfortable on the nap couch in Dad's office?"

"I sleep there half the time anyway. I was going to suggest it."

They got blankets and a fresh pillowcase for the nap couch pillow from one of the cedar chests in Amy's room. As Amy turned the light off in the office, she couldn't help feeling that she really ought to have tucked Samantha in. "Good night, Sam."

"'Night," the voice under the covers muttered. "Thanks for not bein'ad."

Mad? Sad? Bad? Probably mad.

Amy hesitated a moment in the doorway. The big, high triangular window—one of Dad's few really successful building projects—framed Taurus's head, with the Pleiades in the upper right corner and just the tip of Orion's bow in the bottom point. She had seen the same stars framing Dad, slumped asleep over his desk.

She closed the door very softly.

Back in her room, she unpacked her duffel, and there was her stupid soul again, still a lifeless gray rag, with that remarkable drawing on it. She spread it out on her bedspread to look at it a bit more, positioning it carefully—the diamond that enclosed the gaudy Valentine heart on the bedspread was the same shape and size as—

Though the lights were on, the floor was dark as it rushed up into her face.

"Come on." A hand was shaking her shoulder, in an annoyingly tentative way. She rolled over on her back, and it was Wolfbriar looking down at her, exactly as he had been when she had been thirteen and he had been whatever age an elf ever is; they are all perpetually newborn, which is the only way they can bear living forever, and they never die, which is the only thing that makes their intense sensory memory endurable. "Come on. Wake up."

"What happened?"

"Your soul became not-in-pieces."

"Whole," Amy said, sitting up and rubbing her head. She'd had hangovers she liked better than this. "Whole," she repeated. Elves were like that with human languages; they would usually only learn one of any pair of antonyms.

"Whole," he said. "Your soul has been not-whole for a not-brief time."

Or then again, who really understood elves?

"Yes, it has. Since . . . oh, my. Since the night in here." Her eyes widened. "We hid you in the trunk because my dad was coming upstairs yelling 'Who is up there with you?' . . ."

Now she remembered the kissing and touching that had gotten more and more exciting; the final wild moments where she had whispered "yes, yes, yes . . ."

The never-before-tested bed creaking and squealing in rhythm, betraying them but she hadn't cared—

Then "What the hell are you doing up there? Is Wolfbriar up there with you?" in a drunken bellow from the front room, and the realization that Dad's little pixie must already have gone home, and the thumps of a big man hurrying up a ladder . . . Wolfbriar hiding in the cedar trunk, willing himself to not-be.

But since he would not exist to terminate the hiding spell, he had had to set a condition. And with Amy's soul newly divided, surely it must have seemed to him that she would repair her soul as soon as possible, so he had made her soul's reunion the trigger for his reappearance, but . . . well, sometimes you just don't get around to things, she thought.

She stood up, breathing deeply, and now her vision had cleared and become double again, the way it naturally was for a half-elf. She saw The Cabin as she had known it as Little Amy, and she saw the clumsily modified prefab house by the borrow pit. Her elf-eye delighted in the weave of silver in the walls, and her human eye saw the rough-fitted, stained and urethaned but never sanded enough number two pine of the floor, and—

She saw the bridge to her window, that Wolfbriar had sung into existence so long ago. He reached for her hand.

"Let's go," he said, tugging at her hand. If they walked down that bridge together, it would complete what had been begun; she would be off to Wyoming with him, like Ami on her pegason.

"You're in a hurry," she said.

"You would be too, if you'd been not-out of a trunk for thirteen years," he said, and they both began to laugh.

"My friend is asleep in the other room," Amy said. "But if we're quiet, we can go down to the kitchen and talk—"

"Food, yes, and water, and . . . um—"

"Next door down the hall," Amy said. "Then just come downstairs. You have been in a trunk for thirteen years, haven't you?"

When Wolfbriar came down to the kitchen there was another bout of figuring things out, because he couldn't touch iron and all of the tableware was stainless steel, but eventually she made a pile of sandwiches for him. "I sought," Wolfbriar said, "to carry off a Singer-of-the-True's daughter. That would have been a not-small not-failure for me to claim, in Elfland, where I have long been thought not-ugly but not-impressive. The deed would have been not-small enough to make not-commoners of us both."

Amy shrugged. "At the time you came, I was very carryoffable. But now I've lived on this side for another thirteen years, and I'm human down to the bone, and, well, it's just different."

"I know," Wolfbriar said sadly. "The ceranin is gone from your soul. I thought the only chance was to lead you over the bridge, right then, and off to Elfland, because I knew your soul would hold you back."

The ceranin?

That gaudy pattern, Amy realized. That picture of all the magic her heart was capable of and of what it might be on the other side—

She ran up the stairs to look. The bedspread was now all gray muslin, but on it was the most amazing layout; in the blue chalk, the same perfect lines depicted every organ of the human body with photographic precision but the clarity that only a line drawing can have. It wasn't gaudy at all; this spoke of precision and of things as they were. She loved it at once.

The bridgehead was at the window, and the long bridge descended across the pool, Little Amy's pool, composed as a mirror in the light of the rising moon; there was the falls, and there the flat rock where the Ute ghosts danced, and there . . .

She let herself see with her other eyes, and there was the frozen spill from the culvert, and the old borrow pit gradually silting up to become the meadow it had been before, and it was just another redneck homestead in the Rockies. Barely perceptible with her human eyes, the bridge glinted as if outlined in faintly glowing spiderwebs.

The gravel along the shore would crunch and there would be no diamonds in it. The borrow pit had some carp and the occasional whitefish, just garbage fish really, and would be deep green in the summer because of the mud that ran into it and because it was warm and shallow. Amy had smoked her first (and last ever, it was nasty) cigarette over there, sitting with Dennis; she had caught some big gross carp and fed them to Rags, her old buddy of a tomcat; she had thrown rocks at the water out of sheer boredom, and gathered jars of pond water and sat for hours at the microscope, one eye on the eyepiece and the other gazing at her drawing.

She had spent one whole summer of her science project, out there with her snorkel, collecting water at one foot intervals to see how the microbial life changed from top to bottom.

The first human boy she had kissed had been the one that she shot floating bottles with. Dad would save her a case of beer bottles and they'd toss them out in the water and plink until the bottle erupted in a shower of glass shards and went to the bottom, and one day when they'd sunk a bottle after far too many tries, he had carefully set down his pistol, and then hers, muzzles pointed away (they had both had the NRA class), and put his mouth on hers.

"The lakes of Elfland," Wolfbriar said, "do not need glamour to be beautiful. There are no borrow pits in Elfland any more."

She had been to Elfland; as a Singer-of-the-True Dad had been invited, and had taken her. Every pond there sparkled like a jewel, but it had no hydras, no paramecia, just sapphire-clear water. After sneaking out at night, she had sat in the moonlight with Wolfbriar and the glamour had crawled up around them till it was as beautiful—and as untouchable—as a movie of a smiling face projected onto a cloud. She had walked along the walls of the reconstructed town of Casper, and marveled at the smooth perfection of ivory and mother of pearl that went on for miles, and never once seen graffiti, or a water stain.

"Do you know what happened at the end of every one of Dad's books?"

"No," Wolfbriar said. He was standing very close.

She pushed him away. "Little Amy came back to the real world, happy to have been away, but glad to be home."

"Oh," a little voice said.

Amy turned. Samantha was staring at them. "I heard voices and, um—"

"It's all right. Turn on the light, will you? Wolfbriar's glamour is getting to you because of the moonlight."

Samantha reached for the switch and flipped it.

"You're even more beautiful without the glamour," she told Wolfbriar. "I've never met one of your kind before."

Amy suddenly whooped, the reaction and the thought hitting so fast that she wasn't aware that she was reacting until she already had. "Oh, my. Oh, my. Well, it's a petty nasty mean pleasure, but I'm not skipping it for anything. I get to quote Tolkien in Dad's house! 'Yes, Sam, that's an elf!'"

Wolfbriar was staring back at Sam. "You are a Singer-of-the-True."

"Unpublished."

"It does not matter who listens, only who sings. You are a Singer-of-the-True."

"Well, I guess I like to think so."

Amy looked at the clock. Three in the morning. She looked back and from the way Samantha and Wolfbriar were walking toward each other, she realized that the magic that gathered around The Cabin—oh, she'd always known Dad was writing about a reality—had managed everything perfectly. "Why don't you two head down the hall," she said, "and in the morning we'll all catch up. I think you'll find you have a lot to talk about, but I'm all talked out and really sleepy."

They went out holding hands, and she climbed the stairs and slipped into bed, yet again. As she fell asleep, she could see the stars very clearly, and the bridge just barely, and the blue chalk glowed on her bedspread and she realized she might work all her life to be able to draw, just once, as well as what was already on her soul. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would put it in a chest to keep it nice, and then think about how best to take it along home with her, but for tonight, just once more, she wanted to be warmed under it.

As she had figured would happen, just before dawn, they came tiptoeing through, holding hands, as if they had been holding hands for three hours. "Don't go without saying goodbye," she said, rolling out of bed.

Samantha and Wolfbriar permitted her to hug them both, and Samantha said, "I left you a note. Three CDs of finished work and a short letter to mail to my agent. And a box of my personal stuff to send UPS to Coeur d'Alene; across the border it usually takes a couple of weeks but Wolfbriar promises me they'll have everything I need. I left most of my money to cover your trouble and the postage and all. I'll try to write to you but you know how it usually goes."

She watched them walk across the bridge, or float on air above the borrow pit, and eventually they reached the other side. They stepped off the bridge and turned and waved. A big sturdy pegason descended from the swarm of morning stars, and they were off. She waved until the bright white pegason was just another star, moving slowly as a satellite. Then she went back to bed and slept till noon.

After getting a burger at the grill downtown, she put her now-complete soul into her duffel; she realized she could leave behind the elf-clothes, which were floppy and baggy and uniformly gray-ugly. There was a Victoria's Secret in Boulder, or maybe she'd just go a bit further, down to Flatirons Crossing Mall, hit the major department stores and the trendy-girly stores and so on, spend some of that big pile of Dad's money that had been building up for so long. She'd need makeup, and perhaps to find a hairdresser who wouldn't snicker, and . . . well, today was going to be expensive but fun.

She looked at the clock. Even if he had decided to sleep in, Derrick would surely be up by now.

He sounded very pleased to hear from her.

"Just me," she said. "Plain old goddam Amy. You know my Dad used to call me that? He had a pet name for me, the abbreviation for plain old goddam Amy, Poga. No, actually, it sounds terrible, but I'd kind of like it if you'd call me that. We can talk about it when you get here. Now pack a bag, and get up here this evening, but don't be too early—shall we say eightish?" She gave him directions and made him read them back.

"Plan to stay tonight and Sunday night, okay?"

"All right," he said.

"You sound funny."

"Stunned. Very happy, but I'm stunned, Amy."

"Amy?"

"Okay, I'm stunned, Poga."

"I like the way you say 'Poga,' Derrick, it's sweet." She stretched luxuriously, cradling the phone against her ear and neck, rubbing where she planned to have Derrick do a lot of kissing. There was no one there to appreciate it but she tumbled her hair around with her hand in a way she knew made her look cute, exposing one pointed ear. Ditch the brown contacts and show the gold eyes, human guys liked that. Haircut, new clothes, girly shoes, come'n'get it undies, the whole froufy nine yards. Like she hadn't done since high school. "And do not show up early. It takes me a while to turn into plain old goddam Amy. But we're both gonna like her."

* * *

John Barnes is the author of many novels and short stories.

Build-A-Bear

Written by Gene Wolfe
Illustrated by Paul Campbell

Sighing, Viola picked up the yellow schedule of shipboard activities and glanced at her watch. It was three thirty, still two and half hours till dinner.

"Bermuda and the Bermuda Triangle" 2 Explorers Lounge. She had gone to that one yesterday, and they were into it already. Nothing had happened.

"Line dancing for beginners" 10 Gym. She could line dance nicely already, thank you very much, and did not enjoy being laughed at. Surely there had to be something more interesting than looking at the Atlantic.

"Talent Aboard—passengers display their musical skills." 4 Seaview room. She shuddered.

"Make your pet." 9 Captain's Club. What in the world . . . ?

* * *

"I'm sorry I'm late," Viola told the smiling young woman with the laptop. "I didn't even know there was a Captain's Club, and the steward I got to help me find it only made things worse."

"No fret. I'm just glad somebody came. Bellatrix." Rising, Bellatrix held out her hand. "I'm in the show. Did you see me last night?"

"Oh, yes!" Viola lied womanfully. "That was you! I thought you were wonderful." She accepted the hand, larger and harder than her own.

"Thanks. But I do this, too, and I get paid by the head. I'll have to scan your keycard."

Viola hesitated.

"You won't be charged. It's included in the cruise. It's just way I get paid." Bellatrix smiled again. "We show folks always need more money.

"Thank you." She glanced at the card. "Viola. Sit down, Viola. First we need to talk. Why did you come?"

Wondering when her card would be scanned but happy to sit, Viola said, "It sounded like fun, that's all. A friend of mine went to something like this called Build-a-Bear, where they made teddy bears. She made her own bear. It's always in the living room, and she tells everybody who'll listen all about it. Oh, God! I'm just terrible!"

"That's good, Viola." Bellatrix returned the key card. "I like terrible people. What's your specialty?"

"So I thought I might build a bigger bear than Marian. A prettier one. It'll kill her."

"Great." Bellatrix punched keys on her laptop. "It's got to be a bear? You don't want to build a cat or a horse or anything?"

Viola shook her head. "A bear. Marian's is brown, so I thought maybe pink."

"Got it. You said big. How big?"

"About like this." Viola held her hands apart. "This long. That should be twice the size of hers."

"Ninety centimeters." Bellatrix punched more keys. "You want it to talk, don't you?"

"With one of those strings in back you pull? Yes, I'd like that."

"That will take a bit of doing. Wait a minute."

"I thought I'd have to sew, and—oh, I don't know. Pick out the eyes. Make it."

Still punching keys, Bellatrix said, "You will pick out the eyes. We can do that next. What kind would you like?"

"What color, you mean?"

"Right. More pink?"

Viola shook her head. "You wouldn't be able to see them."

"Oh, you would if you looked closely. And she'd be able to see you, of course."

"A girl bear?"

Bellatrix nodded. "That's what I thought. Because of the pink."

"With a hair ribbon."

"If you want. That would be no trouble."

"I—I don't." Viola felt her cheeks grow hot. "I—I . . ."

"You don't have to explain," Bellatrix told her.

"I want to. I want to get it off my—my shoulders. I went on this cruise to meet someone."

"They have singles cruises, too. That might be better."

"I thought this was one." For a moment, Viola was puzzled. "Anyway, here I am with you instead of line dancing, and Beverly and Marian both say that's typical of me. I don't meet men because I'm too feminine. I hate singles bars."

"So do I."

"And I went with Lucas for almost three years, but he played golf. I couldn't learn, and to tell you the truth I didn't want to. I didn't think that would break us up, but it did. He met a girl with a three handicap and I was—was history. Am I going to cry?"

Bellatrix studied her. "I don't think so."

"That's good. I . . . I've cried too much about Lucas already."

"How about a pink boy bear?"

Mutely, Viola nodded.

"Nice dark eyes, with just at touch of fire in them?" Bellatrix punched more keys. "We can put a little vest on him."

"A black vest," Viola muttered, trying to get into the spirit of the thing.

"Right, to go with his eyes. Now we get into the hard part. Character, and all that. You want him to need you, don't you?"

"Absolutely." Viola almost smiled. "I want a warm bear who wants to be cuddled, not just one who sits in the living room and stares at people."

"Good. I'm with you on that. Brave?"

"Very. He's a bear after all."

"Right you are. Smart, too, I'll bet."

"Very smart. Quiet, too, and thoughtful. A bear of few words."

"Strong?"

"Very strong, too." Viola was smiling now. "A regular grizzly."

More keys were punched. "Got it. If he's going to be strong, he shouldn't be too thin. But you want him cuddly, from what you said. We need a balance of characteristics. I'm good at that."

"His expression . . . ?"

"Exactly. Strong but vulnerable. Also you'll want him to be soft when you hold him, without being too soft. Suppose somebody broke in? You'd want a pet who could protect you."

"You know," Viola said, "you're deeper into this than I am."

"Of course. You should see some of mine." Bellatrix punched more keys. "There! That should do it. He's pretty close to standard, really. Some deviations, but we can use a lot of the regular subroutines. What's his name, by the way?"

Viola considered. "Theodore."

"Theodore Bear?"

"Exactly. When will I get to see him?"

"He'll be delivered to your cabin just as soon as he's finished," Bellatrix promised. "I'm making him look just a touch old-fashioned, okay? You strike me as a conservative sort of person, a bit old-fashioned yourself."

"I am," Viola said, and knew it for the truth.

* * *

"Four-thirty," she said to herself, as she left the Captain's Club, "and the ship's rolling a little. I hope I'm not too seasick for dinner." It seemed odd that she had not noticed the roll while she was talking bears, but she left that unsaid.

A different and somewhat more Spartan elevator carried her from Deck Nine to Deck Five, where—eventually—she found her cabin. A large pink teddy bear in a black vest lay upon her bed, propped by two small pillows.

"Well, hello!" It did not seem possible. "Hello, Theodore!" Sitting on the bed, she picked up the pink bear. His expression, she decided, was indecipherable. From one angle he looked severe, from another he appeared to plead, from a third he smiled warmly; he was a bear of many moods.

His paws felt soft—yet hard at the ends. Looking more closely she found lifelike claws, not sharp but long and curved. Playing with his face did little to alter his expressions, but led to the discovering of actual bearlike teeth behind his furry lips. "I'm taking you to dinner, Theodore. I want to show you to whoever I'm seated with today."

Her questing fingers found a ring on the pink bear's back. She pulled it, but not too hard.

"I'd like that," the bear said distinctly; his voice was deepish with a squeaky "I," and gruff overall.

"Very apropos." Viola patted the bear's furry back below the ring. "Now then . . . You will have observed, Theodore my bear, that our cabin boasts a small porch, balcony, or outdoor viewing area, called by captain and crew a veranda. Besides a little table and a great big footstool, it includes two wicker chairs. The first is large, with a splayed back. Rather a peacock-tail back, actually. It's clearly intended for the gentleman. That's you."

The pink bear appeared to smile.

"You, that is to say, when you are not on my lap—I fear your fur may quickly prove over-warm in the salubrious air prevailing on our veranda. I shall occupy the other chair, a lesser seat of the wing-back persuasion. At times you may occupy it with me—not that I've a great deal of lap to offer. May I have your opinion of the arrangement I suggest?"

She pulled the string as before, and the bear said, "I'd like that."

Only one phrase. She felt a little disappointed. "Is that all you can say?"

"Two," the bear added equally distinctly. Or perhaps "too" or "to."

Violet sighed. "I hope that extra noise doesn't mean you're broken already."

The bear did not reply; and so, not knowing what else to do, she picked him up and carried him onto the veranda, plumping him down in the wide wicker chair before seating herself in the smaller wing-backed one.

Beyond the Plexiglas-faced railing, a sea impossibly blue spread small swells to the horizon. Over it arched a sky equally blue. Someone had told Viola once that the sky was blue only because it was reflecting the blue of all the world's oceans. Looking at that sea and that sky, she felt that it might almost be true. "Cities," she thought, "have scraped away the sky with their skyscrapers. I wonder why they wanted to?"

Five o'clock. The dining room would not open for dinner until six. She leaned back, and when her eyes chose to close themselves she let them.

* * *

She was awakened by a tickling nose. Dispatched to wipe the tickle away, her hand encountered something large and soft.

Her eyes opened. "Theodore my bear, please mind your fur. . . ."

It took three moments and two blinks to bring the pink bear into focus. "Did I put you in my lap? Never mind." She glanced at her watch—six thirty. Dinner would be in full swing. "What about it?" she asked. "I am going to get something to eat, Theodore. You may remain here if you prefer, or—"

He might blow away.

"Inside on my bed, I mean. Or you may escort me. Which will it be?"

She pulled the string.

"I'd like that," the pink bear said distinctly.

"I thought you would. Dinner it is."

The Grand Dining Salon (as the ship called it) was at the stern on Deck Two. It was, as its name implied, very grand indeed. Wide glass doors in a glass wall opened on a spacious chamber resembling an amphitheater, wherein white-coated gladiators wrestled valiantly with laden trays. Spotless white tablecloths were embraced by massive chairs of wood well-carved—chairs that should, as Viola reflected at each meal, make excellent life preservers.

Five persons were already seated at the table to which she was brought to fill the last chair. She glanced at the faces of the three men as she took her seat, expecting signs of disappointment. There were none, and she smiled.

A blonde smiled in return and offered her hand, "Lenore Doucette."

Viola accepted it and introduced herself.

"I love musical names," the other woman said. She was meager and almost swarthy, with the hard, secretive eyes of a professional gambler. "I have one, too. I'm Raga."

Bone and a hank of hair, Viola thought. Aloud she murmured, "Pleased to meet you, Raga."

Lenore was looking at the pink bear. "Do you always carry that with you?" Her somewhat attractive face had the tight-skinned look that bespeaks plastic surgery.

"Only on the ship. Theodore's my bodyguard."

"Since the men will not introduce themselves—"

"Perhaps he'll let me do it." Viola smiled again, more relaxed than she had been at any of her previous meals. "What about it, Theodore? May I introduce you?" She pulled the string.

"I am Viola's bear," the pink bear said distinctly. "You may call me Theodore."

"You've more vocabulary than I thought," Viola muttered from behind her menu.

The round-headed, round-shouldered man seated on the farther side of Lenore said, "Don Partlowe," as if he were a little ashamed of it, to which the big, heavily handsome man on his left added, "Blake Morrison."

The waiter arrived, and Viola told him, "Five oh five four, and I'll have the split pea and the roast beef."

The man to Viola's immediate right coughed. "T—Tim Tucker, Miss Neudorf." He was small and looked (Viola thought) like a spike buck caught in the headlights.

"You have to call her Viola," Lenore instructed him. "Rules of the ship."

Raga smirked. "Another rule of the ship is that no more than six may eat at one table. I'm afraid that means you're out of luck, Viola. What would your bear like?"

"Honey," Viola told her firmly. "As in mind your manners, honey."

There was a brief, pained silence before Don said, "That's not on the menu, Viola. I'm afraid you'll have to eat for him."

The big man, Blake, leaned toward her. "Can he say honey?"

"He doesn't have to. I know his tastes."

Lenore tapped her wineglass. "I believe the score is Viola three and Table nothing. Would anybody else like to try?"

"I would," Tim whispered. The whisper was so soft, and his lips were so near Viola's ear, that no one else could possibly have heard it.

When dinner was over and she returned to her cabin, Viola dropped the bear on the bed and kicked the door shut behind her. "I'm fed up," she told him, "and do you know who I'm fed up with?"

An accusatory forefinger stabbed at her considerable chest. "Me, that's who. "Baked Alaska! I ordered baked Alaska, and I ate it, too. When I had finished mine, I ate half of poor Tim's."

With a violence that threatened to tear it, she pulled her blouse over her head. "I should go to the show tonight and watch for Bellatrix, and what am I going to do instead? I'm going to sit right here, by myself, and hate myself."

A step took her to the mirror. "Look at that tummy! What's the use of paying a thousand dollars for a singles cruise with a tummy like that?" She was sitting on her bed trying to wipe away the tears when she felt a small, soft embrace. For the next two hundred rollings of the ship, she hugged her bear and, occasionally, sniffled.

When the hugging and sniffling were over, she sat the bear on her lap and addressed him in the tone those near to tears generally use. "I love you, Theodore. I do. You're a—a much nicer toy than anybody has a right to expect. I . . . Well, I didn't even know . . . You're the—the most wonderful bear in the whole darned world, and I certainly don't deserve you."

Quite distinctly, the pink bear's head moved from side to side.

"I don't! I—I want people to like me."

Soft pink paws touched the pink bear's own well rounded middle.

"Yes, you do. I know that. You've proved it. Can—will you tell me what I can do to make other people like me, too?"

Kindly, dark eyes opened, closed, and opened again, and the bear's large, pink head nodded.

"You can?" Viola pulled the string.

Distinctly, the bear said, "Smile."

"I do! I did! I was smiling all through dinner and nobody liked me."

Again the bear's head swung from side to side.

"All right, Tim did, and I imposed on him. Nobody else."

No signed the bear, and Viola pulled the string again.

"Lenore likes you."

"I don't believe it." Another pull of the string.

"Don liked you, too," the bear said distinctly. "She did not like that."

"He did not!" Viola insisted.

There was a knock at her door.

"Wait a minute!" Her robe was pink, too. As she knotted the sash she wondered vaguely whether the bear would approve.

"Miss . . . Viola?"

It was Tim. She nodded, groped her mind frantically for something to say, and settled for "Hi."

"I . . . You're—uh—getting ready for bed? I, um, there's a nice little—uh—cocktail lounge. The Seastar. It's—uh . . ."

"On this deck." Viola felt the need to speed things up.

"And I—uh—thought perhaps . . . But you're—"

She gave the smile her best try. "Why I'd love to have you buy me a drink, Tim. Could I meet you there in ten minutes or so?"

Tim gulped audibly.

"I won't bring Theodore. That's a promise."

"Oh, no!" Tim's eyes had flown wide. "I didn't mean that at all. Bring him, please. I—uh—I— uh . . ."

Smile again, Viola told herself firmly. Remember what Theodore said. "Then we'll both meet you there in ten or twelve minutes."

Tim's words rushed upon her like terrified birds. "It's-not-him-I'm-scared-of-it's-you." And Tim fled.

"Toward the bar," Viola, reflected. "I wonder how many he'll have before I get there."

It seemed wise to hurry and she did, resuming the blouse she had discarded and spending no more than five minutes touching up her hair and makeup.

Tim was at a table near the all-glass wall. He stood and waved the moment she came in, then pulled the table out for her. It was a very small table, bare save for an ashtray and an almost-empty glass that had probably held a Tom Collins. Smiling, she accepted the offered chair, arranged the pink bear on the chair next to her own, and smiled some more.

"You're such a nice person," Tim said without a single uh. "I wanted to tell you that, and at dinner I couldn't."

A soft paw tapped her thigh; and she nodded, although only very slightly. "I know how you feel," she told Tim. "It's hard say things like that to—to anybody. Hardest of all when you've just met the person. At dinner I had to try very hard to look at the others, and not just at you all the time."

What remained of the Tom Collins vanished in a single swallow that brought a bowing, foreign-looking waiter. Viola ordered Dry Sack up, while Tim handed over his glass and said (in a voice that squeaked a trifle), "Do it again."

He turned to Viola. "That was one thing I wanted to tell you. This is the other. I hated this cruise for the first two days. Hated it right up till dinner tonight. All these women shopping for men as if they were at a white sale. All these men hoping to get laid by a woman they can forget about as soon as the cruise is over. "I . . . I—uh—I came . . . I came looking for—uh . . ."

She whispered it. "Love."

"Yes. I knew you'd know. You—you're—you're not married?"

"No. Of course not." Viola held out her left hand.

Tim almost took it. "Neither am I. A lot of these men are. Did you know that?"

"Are they?" It was a new thought. "I thought they were divorced."

"There's a lot of that, too. A lot more, actually. And nearly all the women are divorced."

The question hung in the air until Viola said, "I'm not. I've never been married. Once I thought—but it didn't work out."

"I haven't been either." Tim's smile was small and brave. (Like Tim, Viola told herself.) "I write software, Viola, and I'm good at it—really, I am. I'm not good with people." He drew a deep breath. "Even if this doesn't work, I'll always, always remember you the way you are right now with the purple sea behind you and stars in your hair and the moon building a road across the water to you that only angels can follow."

As their drinks arrived, Viola murmured, "You're good with me."

On their way back to her cabin, the pink bear had to nudge her twice and point to keep her from getting lost. "I'm high, Theodore," she told him as she slipped her key card into the lock. "One little glass of wine, and I'm higher than—than any angel."

Her cabin was in the same, rather confused, state she had left it, her pink robe flung on the bed and makeup scattered across the top of the tiny dresser. She dropped the pink bear on the bed, too, sat there herself in utter disregard of her robe, and positioned him on one crowded knee. "He's never been married, Theodore, he's not dating anybody, and he has his own little software company. Did you see the way he looked when I told him I was a systems analyst? Did you?"

Distinctly, the pick bear nodded.

"We go together like ham and eggs, milk and cookies, roast pork and apple sauce." Viola paused to consider the final pairing. "I'm the pork, but I don't care."

There was a sound behind her, which she ignored. "I'm going to quit my job and move to New Orleans, Theodore. I didn't tell Tim that, but I am. This is not going to slip away. I won't let it. I'm—"

"Going to get hurt if you scream." The voice was deep and soft, carried on a gust of warm sea air. Half the lights in the cabin came on as the verandah door closed.

For a second she failed to recognize the big man in the aloha shirt, perhaps because so much of her attention was focused on the blue steel automatic he held.

"You're keeping quiet," Blake Morrison said. "That's good. That's smart. Now just relax and let me tell you how it's going to be between you and me."

Viola held up both hands. "If you think I've got a lot of jewelry, you're wrong. You can take what I've got. I'll tell you where everything is."

If the big man with the blue steel automatic had heard her, he gave no sign of it. "You're going to take off your clothes. All of them. You're going to do everything I tell you—and I mean everything—and you're going to act like you enjoy it. You're going to beg for more. Have you got that?"

"I guess I do, Blake." She nodded reluctantly.

"I'm leaving the gun here." He laid it on the seat of the chair nearest the window. "That will let me use both hands on you. If you try to edge over toward this side of the bed, you're going to get hurt a lot worse than you would otherwise. And no ventriloquism, understand? You're good. I'll give you that. But nothing you try is going to fool me."

Where was Theodore? As inconspicuously as she could, Viola felt for him with her feet. Nothing.

The big man was unbuttoning his aloha shirt. "You think you're going to report all this when it's over?"

Sensing the safe reply, she shook her head.

"I'll say it was consensual. How many couples do think are having consensual sex on this ship tonight?"

Still wondering desperately what had become of the pink bear, she raised her shoulders and let them drop.

"Half. Maybe more. You and me will be in that half, just for tonight. But let me tell you this, if you do report it, something very, very ugly is going to happen to you. And quick. So you'd better take it like a little soldier and try to forget it as fast as you can. Maybe you're wondering how I found out which cabin you're in."

"No, Blake." She was trying hard to keep her voice from shaking, trying hard to blink away the tears. "You learned it the same way Tim did. You have to—I had to—give my cabin number to the waiter when I ordered." It seemed worth a try. "Tim has already been here tonight, and he's coming back."

"Sure he is. Noises off, as the actors say."

A plump pink arm was reaching for the blue steel automatic on the chair seat.

A half step nearer than that blue steel automatic, the big man had dropped his jeans. "Take a look. You like it, right?"

Shuddering, she shook her head. "You want me scared, d—don't you? You want me t—terrified. Okay! Okay, I'm scared out of my wits. You did it. But—"

The big man edged nearer her, stepping out the jeans and blocking her view of the empty chair. "Take off that skirt!"

Slowly she stood, finding her knees so weak she nearly fell, and fumbled with the hook and the zipper. "I'm f—f—fat. You'll see. I'm v—very f—fat and—and ugly."

"Look lower," the big man told her, "and you'll see somebody who doesn't think so."

As though conjured by the big man's words, the pink bear rose beside Viola. Both plump pink forepaws were wrapped around the blue steel automatic.

The big man's jaw dropped.

So did Viola, sitting on the bed once more. When she had caught her breath, she turned so she could watch the big man and said, "Theodore will shoot if I tell him to." Her voice, she found, had somehow steadied itself. "Maybe even if I don't."

The big man's mouth worked soundlessly.

"Maybe you should lie down on the floor, or maybe just go without making any more trouble. I'm not sure which."

"Please!" the big man said. "Oh, please!"

"Please is nicer, Blake." Viola's smile was shaky, but it was a smile. "I like please. Wait a minute. Let's see what Theodore has to say to you." She found the ring on the pink bear's back and pulled the cord.

The pink bear lifted the blue steel automatic an inch or so, aiming it or appearing to aim it. Quite distinctly he said, "Want to close your eyes?"

* * *

Gene Wolfe is the author of many novels and short stories.

The Opposite of Pomegranates

Written by Marissa Lingen
Illustrated by Verónica Casas

The real difference between humans and fey is not the magic: there are human sorcerers, so thick on the ground some places you can hardly take a step without kicking one. (I do not advocate kicking sorcerers.) It isn't that we were born outside and they were born (or hatched or constructed) under there. Or maybe that is the difference, but not the crux of it, like saying a Russian is different from a Brazilian because their houses are far apart. There's always something else that's the heart of the matter.

And something else with the fey comes down to this: they only know how to make bargains. My bowl of milk for my housecleaning. Your freedom for your pot of gold. My answer to a riddle for your spell—but I get ahead of myself.

When my parents were young—and my parents were young for four hundred years under the hill—the fey got the notion that they might breed two changelings together and get from the continuing union a seemingly endless stream of changelings. Or at least an easier stream of changelings than the ones they'd gotten stealing from human cradles.

After her twenty-third month of pregnancy, my mother decided that this was not, in fact, the solution to anyone's problems. She was quite firm on that point. The Queen of Air and Darkness herself cowered when my mother yelled that day. They let her out on the hillside to finish the job in a mere three more months. In Victorian Ireland. With no money nor husband nor kin nearer than her nine-times-great-nieces, who were in Estonia. My mother spoke neither English nor Gaelic.

I'd like to attribute that lapse to them being fey, but humans sometimes turn out clueless, too.

Mother really wasn't sure which was worse: making her way as a single parent in that place and time or throwing her lot and mine back in with the fey. They decided not to give her a choice. After all, the point of breeding changelings had been to get more changelings. So back we came, both of us howling and red in the face.

I am told that I howled for three days running. I am told that I smiled only for three people: my mother, a fire elemental called Kezhzh, and the yeti who ended up raising me, a sweet soul named Alits. (Alits, in our 120 years together, has shared many theories of gender with me. None of them has impinged even slightly on Alits's own experience of the subject. I was sixteen before I understood that the gendered pronouns existed.)

Alits raised me in part because Alits was the only one who could do it without ear protection for the first two years, and in part because my mother had gone entirely mad. When she stopped howling, a few hours after being brought underhill, she wouldn't stop smiling. You can't leave a baby with someone like that. Even the fey know that much. So it was off to Alits's place for me, with tiny little mittens and a tiny little squirrel fur hood.

They allowed my father to visit on alternate Thursdays, when they could remember it was a Thursday in the first place. Thursday was not an important concept to the High Sidhe. Kezhzh was allowed to visit whenever he could stand the cold, which was more often than alternate fuzzy Thursdays. They taught me how to negotiate with a brownie and how to call tomten and which oceans were suitable for selkies.

They never taught me how to go outside.

It wasn't for lack of asking—there was about a decade when I asked Alits every single day. It didn't feel like a decade to me, but it must have to Alits. Finally I decided that Alits had won the battle of wills, and I would have to do something else to win the war.

But it turned out Alits had gotten there before me, too. I was a favored changeling, small and winsome, and I bargained for knowledge easily, for favors, for treats and tricks and games. I cajoled my way into more than one place I shouldn't have been, and there was always Alits's looming furry presence to bail me out if I got into trouble. But that same looming furry presence made sure I was not going anywhere outside.

Finally luck was with me. I saw a rock sprite caught in a mite trap. He was a bright purple, veined with white; at first I thought that was his fury at the trap, but it turned out he was that color all the time.

"Want some help getting out of there?" I asked casually.

"No!" snapped the rock sprite. "Stay away from me, changeling! I do not accept your help! "He bared little white teeth at me, ready to snap if I came closer.

I shrugged and settled on the hill next to him. "Suit yourself." I watched him struggle. He glared. "I could make that go a lot faster, you know."

"I know, Alits taught you," he said, stopping to rest and think. "But I don't care to owe you a favor for it."

I shrugged again. He started to chant a spell. I whistled tunelessly.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all," I said. "I was just thinking of the song I was going to sing tonight."

"I hope you sing better than you whistle," he said.

"I do. I'm singing at the revel Bald Obix is throwing. They're having all kinds of music and spell contests and dancing—of course dancing—and Alits is making banana enchiladas. "Alits's banana enchiladas, with molé sauce and cherries, wrapped in flattened fairy cakes, are famous.

"Oh, yeah?" said the rock sprite. He was trying to feign disinterest, but I had the equivalent of five years of being thirteen. I can do disinterest like nobody's business. He didn't even seem to notice that he'd freed himself from the trap.

"Yeah," I said. "It's too bad you won't be able to be there. It's really something to see."

"Maybe I'll stop by," he said.

"Oh, I don't know. They have a door troll who'll ask you a riddle. If you don't know the answer, he won't let you in."

"I'm good at riddles," said the rock sprite.

I gave him my best skeptical look.

"How tough are troll riddles anyway?"

"The troll didn't make up the riddle," I said. "Canufiel the Brown made up the riddle."

The rock sprite looked daunted, and rightly so. You don't survive long as a High Sidhe if you can't ask killer riddles. Sometimes literally.

"I'll tell you the answer, though," I said.

The rock sprite's little purple features twisted. "For what?"

"Oh, nothing much, really," I said. "You know how generous we humans are."

He looked even more suspicious. "Tell me."

"All I want to know is how to open a door in the hill."

"Oh, no," he said hastily. "Oh, no, no no no. Alits would kill me."

"Alits is a big teddy bear," I said. "And Alits would never have to know."

"Forget it," he said. "Just forget it. I can make you a lovely necklace, charmed to give you the voice of a bard—"

"Bards don't know when to shut up," I said.

"To give you the seeming of any creature underhill."

"I got bored with shapeshifter games when I was a toddler. They always smell like themselves."

"To let you fly."

I rolled my eyes.

"Anything!" he screamed. "Anything but that! If Alits wanted you to leave the underhill, Alits would have taught you how! Alits has big furry white arms for ripping rock sprites to bits! Alits has pointy vicious ivory teeth for rending rock sprites' crunchy flesh from their bones! Alits has—"

"Alits has no idea that you're talking to me," I pointed out.

When he didn't immediately reply, I knew I had him.

So I whispered the answer to the riddles, and the rock sprite—glancing furtively around him—talked his way around the spell for me. They have a kind of code worked out, so that spells can be taught without being cast. This is particularly useful for battle magics. It also comes in handy when you don't particularly want to shout about what spell you're learning.

I would have to wait for the right time to open the door to the upper world. The rock sprite was a nuisance at the party, but no one knew I'd let him in, and I certainly wasn't going to tell them. He stayed well clear of me, too—not wanting Alits to have any reason to question him (or rip his arms off) when I went above, I suppose.

I finally got my chance when one of the Puck's cousins, a straggle-haired beauty called Fee, went missing. Or rather, when everyone noticed she was missing; she had been gone at least a month. No one could be sure. But they all turned out in force to find her. They suspected foul play. So did I, but what I suspected even more strongly is that they would all be distracted and wouldn't notice one more excursion outside, more or less.

I had just finished drawing the first spiral in silver dust when the rock sprite appeared. He was in such a hurry he had lost his hat. I had never seen a sprite without a hat. "Stop! Stop it! Now is not the time!"

"Now is the perfect time," I said, adding the first of the five runes. "Everyone is distracted."

"They'll be convinced that whoever took Fee took you, too!"

"So?" I said, drawing the second rune. "I'll be back before they notice, and if they did notice, I'd just explain to them that I wasn't abducted. End of story."

"You've never been out on the surface before, and you're not going alone!" The rock sprite leapt into the middle of my spell and spread its short, squatty limbs as far as it could reach. I sniffed and continued with the third rune. When the spell was complete, I said the word of power. The rock sprite squeaked in annoyance, but the hill fell away beneath him, and a door to the outside glowed.

He picked himself up and stood, arms akimbo, in the opening. "Go back, changeling!"

"Back? I'll go through you if I have to."

"Oh, yeah?" said the rock sprite. "Awfully tough for a human, aren't you?"

"You ready to find out?"

He deflated suddenly and mumbled something I couldn't make out.

"What was that?"

"I said, let me come with you."

I stared down at him. "I don't need a babysitter."

"It would make me feel better. Then I might have some chance of throwing myself on Alits's mercy and living through all this."

"I told you, she won't find out."

"I'll go with you," said the rock sprite in a slightly desperate voice. "Let me go with you."

If I stuck around arguing much longer, some human was going to notice a door out from under the hill, or the spell would shut down, or something. "Yeah, all right, come on," I said.

I'm not sure what I expected of the outside. Here's what I got: the colors are predictable, mostly. Under the hill, we have Sidhe ladies with eyes green as grass, but more often than not, we don't have grass green as grass. Things outside stay where you put them, or if they don't, you can see what happens to them instead.

Outside, things made sense in ways I didn't know I'd been missing.

"How strange," I said aloud.

"Yes, isn't it?" said the rock sprite. "And now you've seen the outside. Come on, then, back we go."

"You go ahead if you want," I said. "I'm going exploring."

"Outside isn't like under the hill!"protested the rock sprite. "You can't just go exploring!"

"Relax," I said. "I have a knife in my boots and an entire yeti's arsenal of defensive spells at my fingertips. What more could I need?"

Scuttling after me, the rock sprite did not reply.

We walked down a dusty road made of a drab, smelly black material. The rock sprite tried to stay in the grass, chattering at the human machines that passed us. I had no idea how much time had passed—not because it felt variable, but because it felt solid for the first time in my life—when we saw human buildings. The ones with labels said they were a bank, a church, and a diner.

"I'm hungry, sprite," I said. "You hide in the bushes. I'm going into that diner."

"Oh, no," moaned the rock sprite. "No, no, you can't. Really really. Alits will—"

"Kill you. You've said that part. Haven't I promised to protect you from Alits? Are you doubting my oath, sprite?"

"It's only effective if you stick around to fulfill it," said the sprite.

It dawned on me what he was saying. "Wait, so if I eat something up here—"

"Some things are fine," said the sprite hastily. "Want an apple? We can get you an apple. Or some nice cookies. Some humans do okay with cookies. The disir trained—"

"What can't I have?"

The rock sprite, intelligently, said nothing.

"It could be pomegranates," I mused, keeping a sharp eye on his face. "But no, pomegranates kept Persephone Underhill, not above ground."

"Hades is certainly further down than Underhill." The rock sprite sniffed. But he looked nervous.

"Not a pomegranate, then. But something related to a pomegranate. Another red fruit? No, no." I chewed on my lip. "Magic doesn't work that way. It's—the opposite of a pomegranate."

The rock sprite closed his eyes. I knew I was right. But what was the opposite of a pomegranate? What was he sure they would have in a human diner? I had never been to one, of course, but the Daughters of Ran had had a party with a diner theme a few months back, or maybe it was years. Milkshakes, burgers, fruit pies, and . . .

"French fries," I said aloud. Of course. Pomegranates grew out in the air, red and juicy and seeded and sweet. Potatoes grew under the ground, white and starchy and solid. And if Persephone had given some of her above-ground sweetness to the underworld with the pomegranate . . . yes.

I marched into the diner, the rock sprite's wail dopplering after me. I fended off a few spells from him absentmindedly. He didn't dare follow me in where my kind would see him, but he felt it necessary to put up some resistance.

"I'd like an order of French fries, please," I told the first person I encountered.

"Sure, hon," she said. "Let's just get you a table first, huh? And then your waitress can take your order."

Sheepishly, I slid into the booth she had indicated. When the waitress came, I repeated myself.

"You want something to drink with that?" said the waitress.

The rock sprite pressed his nose against the glass next to my table. I looked away. "Just water. Thanks."

"French fries and some water. Got it." She walked away shaking her head and muttering, "Kids."

The sprite kept bobbing outside the window. I could tell he was trying not to call attention to himself, but he was probably doing more harm than good, popping up and down.

The French fries were ready almost immediately. The waitress plunked them down in a red plastic basket with a layer of red-and-white waxed paper lining it. They were golden and salty and smelled so good. The rock sprite's little purple head bounced up just in time to see me bite the first one in half. He rattled down the window in despair.

I chewed slowly to make it last. And rightly so: I was only going to have one. Persephone got stuck with a whole season away from home. I just wanted a vacation every year, with the chance to get to know humans a bit better.

I slid out of the diner booth.

"One fry?" demanded the waitress. "One lousy fry?"

I took a gulp of the water to mollify her.

It didn't appear to work. "What's wrong with our fries?"

"Nothing is wrong. It was excellent. But I must return to the underworld for most of the year."

She gaped at me. Finally she found solid ground: "Don't think you can get out of paying for them. There was nothing wrong with those fries."

I handed her a gold coin and walked out. The sprite was having paroxysms of delight on the sidewalk. "You changed your mind!"

I snorted. "You didn't know what my mind was to begin with. I didn't ever mean to stay here. So you can set your mind at ease: I'll go home. I just want to look around."

"Good," said the rock sprite, "because I think we have someone else to take care of here. Oh my."

"Who? What?" I said.

He pointed straight ahead, barely able to keep his mouth closed. And there in the town square, pouting up a granite storm, was our missing Fee.

"Well, I'll be," I said. The rock sprite said nothing. I looked down at him. He was practically drooling gravel.

"She's so beautiful!" he breathed.

"She's been turned into a granite statue, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I know! She used to be squishy, but now—" He sighed happily.

I shook my head. Squishy. "I came with defensive spells. I don't know how to fix this. We can go back and tell her where she is, and then—"

"I don't want to leave her!" said the rock sprite.

"It'll just be until we can find someone to fetch her. Someone with better spells. What's wrong with her, anyway?"

The rock sprite scampered forward—precipitously, I thought, considering that we didn't know what had caused her to turn to stone in the first place. I could see why he had gotten caught in the trap when I found him. "Be careful," I called after him, feeling like Alits.

"It's a trap," he called back. "Turns things to stone. Looks old—a hundred years or more."

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Of course: he was already stone. "What can you do about it?"

He hopped back to me. It had been a miserable trip for the little beast from beginning to end. "Nothing, nothing at all. But I don't want to leave her alone! What if someone—what if they take her away somewhere? We'd never find her!"

I sighed. "I don't know how to make rock into flesh, sprite. I just don't. So unless you've got a better idea—"

"Into flesh!" His face twisted. "There's no need to be nasty."

"So . . . all you want is that she should be able to move and talk again?" I chewed on my lip. "I think I can do that."

I had a spell in my pack to animate things. I'd meant it for transportation or something of the sort, but it would do for a stoned cousin of the Puck. I thought the rock sprite would die of rapture on the spot when the statue shook her granite locks and pouted quizzically down at us.

He climbed up on her shoulder. She kissed him soundly. I thought I deserved a bit of thanks as well, but as I wasn't interested in kissing her, I didn't say anything about it. In fact, I tried to ignore them for most of the way home. Next time you hear someone say, "I'm not made of stone," for heaven's sake, be glad.

Everyone was glad to see Fee, though a little taken aback by her stony appearance and her diminutive new paramour. Not everyone was distracted enough by her return not to notice who had brought her back.

"You've been outside," said Alits. "And you've had human food."

I scuffed my toe on the ground and waited for the explosion. It never came.

"I wish you hadn't."

"I'm glad I did," I said. "I needed to see where I come from. I needed to see how my people live. And—" I grinned. "It was kind of fun. And I did bring Fee back."

"I suppose you think that makes it worth it?"

"Yes!"

"You are a stubborn little beast, do you know that?" said Alits fondly.

"I can't help it. It's how I was raised."

Alits heaved a great sigh. "You're coming home sometimes, aren't you?"

"I only had one fry," I said. "That's a month on the surface and eleven months with you every year."

"I would miss you if you were gone."

"I know, Alits." I paused. "You could come with me. It could be a surface holiday for us. We could go camping. Kezhzh could roast the marshmallows."

Alits snorted and then laughed against her will. I hesitated but went on: "I wouldn't feel comfortable up there all the time. The grass stays the same color, and the rocks never teach you new spells."

Alits was too happy to tear the sprite to bits after that. Really, it worked out for all of us.

* * *

'Ware the Sleeper

Written by Julie Czerneda
Illustrated by Kevin Wasden

There were bones where the children played: small, smooth pieces perfect for game markers on the black sand, and long shards Skalda remembered using for fence posts around imaginary horses. The tides washed them here, along with links from shattered chainmail and futile bits of armor.

She regarded them now as portents. May my enemies' bones keep you company, she wished them.

"You're certain about this, Dir Agnon," this from Rathe, the priest-warrior from the Hinter Islands. His fleet lay in safety in the cove whose calm waters defined the near edge of the children's playground. Safety won too late, Skalda thought sadly, looking out over the sun-sparkled water at those handful of ships, masts split by spells of lightning, crews decimated by sendings of thirst and wasting disease.

They'd come here to huddle behind the great, untested fleet of the Circle Cove, to be nursemaided and told it wasn't their fault, that nothing anyone could do would succeed against the Enemy. Which might well be true.

"Certain? When are any of us certain these days, Dir Rathe?" Agnon offered in his soft, careful voice. As priest-advisor to the secular rulers of the Cove and the outlying island clusters, he was magnificently noncommittal at any given time. A virtue in times of slow, peaceful prosperity; a dangerous paralysis in this time of utter peril. Skalda stared out to the narrow mist-filled opening that led to the open ocean until her eyes ached from the water's glare.

"Dir Skalda sounded quite sure of this course in our Council. And why else are we here today, with them?" Rathe pointed a bone-thin finger at the brightly clad group near their feet. The ten children, daughters and sons collected from each of the Noble Houses, were equally oblivious to the presence of adults or to portents of doom, half-arguing and half-laughing in dispute of a shell. Their shrill voices rose into the still morning air like the piping of shorebirds.

"I am sure we have no other options left to us, comrades," Skalda answered. "Let us choose and speedily. No amount of magic will delay the tides for your debates. We've little margin as it is to allow the Mariner's Pride safe passage over Blood Reef."

She looked back at the children playing amid the bones of their elders' hopeless war and prepared to make her own selection. When Rathe would have simply picked the two nearest to be done with it, Skalda touched the heavy fabric of his sleeve and shook her head. His eyes were as haunted as she knew hers would appear.

The parchments, fragile with age and imperfectly translated, were clear on this point of the Summoning Spell at least. The payment for their salvation would be the blood of six innocents. That the blood should be royal and willing, not stolen from the arms of common folk, had been Skalda's decision.

* * *

Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with motes of life, golden suspended dust, then at others reflected silver as the great flocks swam through their columns, dancing with the light.

I was content thus, to gaze upward through the lens of my eye into the living magic of my world, my place, and see only that which belonged here. I felt the surge of waves over the crust of my side, reading there the approach of storms, the tug of moon and sun—events distant yet intimate. I slept, as some life reckoned this state of consciousness. It was as true a description as any; since I needed nothing and need do nothing.

If this is sleep, I sometimes wondered, struck by some particular beauty above me or caught by starlight through a rare clarity of ocean, perhaps I dream the world.

* * *

Fortress and fantasy, Skalda thought as she took one lingering, hungry look at her home before climbing the ramp onto the Mariner's Pride later that afternoon. The Circle Cove was a perfect shaping of black hard stone, the inward-facing surface of its mountainous sides etched by generations of artists into towers of breathtaking loveliness, decked with flower-laden balconies and terraces rich with green life; the outward sides carved by the ocean herself into equally fantastic shapes. The water within was the deepest, clearest blue, framed by beaches of soft black sand. Despite the grim reality of their Enemy's spread into almost all the territory once ruled from this place, the citizens continued their peacetime ways: floating scented candles on the calm waters each night and tossing flower petals from their balconies to grace the decks of the mighty ships each morning.

The Mariner's Pride had left her crew behind, a sullen group of Leeward Islanders distrustful of dry land and the mysterious ways of priests. Her captain was the only non-priest to remain. Skalda noted without surprise how he stayed on deck, refusing to even step below into his cabin where the children, soothed by spells of sleep and forgetfulness, rested on the softest of mattresses.

For this voyage, priests crewed the Pride: novices and warrior, in rank from sedir to dir, selected from scanty enough ranks not for their knowledge of the sea—they all, even the sleeping children, had that—but for the accuracy of their magic. The battle magic they would attempt tomorrow was twofold, containing both summoning and aiming. There could be no margin for error, no chance to hesitate, fear failure, and stop. Skalda had not needed the ancient parchments' warnings or the worries of her fellow dir-priests to make that plain.

Besides, what good would a second try be? The massive fleet of the Enemy was moving inexorably closer. Why should it stop now, when nothing they had sent against it had made the slightest difference?

"We'll just make the tide, Dir Skalda, Dir Rathe," said the captain, Lienthe was his name, as he joined them at the rail. Overhead, the sails snapped as the breeze began, spelled by the sedir-priests below whose talents were sufficient for this (steady wind being the most useful magic to their seafaring kind and thus the first essential learning). The tiny wind caught at the canvas edges, then began to swell the sheets themselves.

Now that his ship was alive on the sea, her deck moving lightly under their feet, the man had shed his meek and haggard look, assuming a swagger to his walk Skalda believed quite unconscious and, from his reputation, deserved. "Wouldn't have wanted to wait any longer. This girl's not one to like her belly scraped on rock, no sir."

Rathe's nostrils flared and he looked down at the rotund little seaman as though trying to fathom why he, dir-priest and warrior, was being chatted with like some fisherfolk on his way to the rich hunting of the Banks offshore. Skalda leaned back against the railing, careless of her fine robes on the damp, cold wood, and almost smiled. Instead, she drew in a deep breath through her nostrils, relishing the salt and fish tang to the air, the tar-stink of fresh caulking. "We appreciate your holding at the dock for us, Captain," she said graciously. "And be sure we also value your fine ship."

Captain Lienthe's skin darkened even further under the bristles of his sparse beard. "'Course, 'course," he muttered. "Dir Skalda. I wasn't implying other, you know."

"Have you taken her after baskers in the southern sea, Captain?" she asked absently, looking to the passageway ahead, its gap wide enough to pass three of the Circle Cove fleet's largest galleys abreast. The opening was protected by twin towers manned ceaselessly by priest-warriors, dir and so capable of calling rock falls on intruders: a last resort, since catapults and burning oil were always aimed and ready. Despite the war with the Enemy, despite bones drifting in on tides she suspected the Enemy sent to appall them with its message that not even the blessed Depths were safe, none had ever assailed this port. Some here, thought Skalda, slept well at nights. She was not one of them.

As always, preparing to leave the Circle Cove and its protection, she felt both exhilaration and fear. On this journey, she suspected her exhilaration was simply that of freedom from the endless debates, the weeks of searching musty records for any hint of a weapon; her fear had a more rational source. Those protecting cliffs curled outward just enough to hide an ambush, should the Enemy's sea-skills be able to hold ships within the crashing surf beyond. For all their sakes, this ship must not be stopped.

The captain's reply drew her back to the moment. "Baskers for sure, Dir Skalda, but the southern seas? Not damn likely, excuse me, even if the fish were willing to climb in the holds. The Enemy was scouting those parts long before their bows dipped into the Hinter Island Sound. Dir Rathe knows that."

"Dir Rathe knows it is time to go below and continue our preparations," that worthy snapped, walking away with one hand reluctantly clamped on the wet railing to counter the increasing plunging of the deck as the Pride entered the channel and rose cheerfully to meet the incoming swells.

"Dir Rathe," Skalda informed the offended captain in a low voice, "also knows this deck will surely be splashed as we pass between the Cove's arms."

Captain Lienthe's eyes met and held hers with unexpected directness. She realized Rathe's rudeness hadn't bothered him after all. He reached out as if to touch her arm. "Dir Skalda. I confess I'm not—comfortable—" words seemed to fail him, and his face paled suddenly, as if seeing a whirlpool ahead into which he was about to plunge. "Forgive my impertinence, Dir Skalda. But I worry about the children. The hazards of this journey. They looked so young when you brought them on board. And they sleep."

Skalda found she had no comfort to offer him. His eyes went dull as he looked into hers and understood. "Like that, is it," Lienthe said in a voice oddly free of bitterness. "As well they sleep, then. Would we all could."

* * *

Men rained down on me one day. I watched them come, limbs given grace by the ocean, armor catching sun glints as it dragged the bodies to me. The great flocks, startled apart by the disruption, disappeared beyond my crust. Moments later, they coyly returned to start their feast. Blood clouded the water beyond my eye, but it was a temporary blindness. I'd seen all this before.

* * *

They practiced below decks, rehearsing ritual none understood and, truth be told, none trusted. Skalda's urgings from the beginning had been to follow the Summoning Spell without modification, including use of the archaic language forms used in the parchments. Agnon, their best linguist, had coached them all in how to pronounce the words, since subtle changes had occurred since this Spell was last cast. If it ever had been. Rathe expressed all their doubts.

"The Summoning. It promises to bring the destruction of our foes, to guarantee utter and uncontestable victory. Explain to me then, if it worked before, how could our Enemy have rebuilt its fleets?" he objected one last time as they rested. Captain Lienthe had sent word down. They would reach the Blood Reef at sunset, coinciding with the highest tide of the season in this place: safety for his ship's keel but most importantly, the appointed hour for the Spell.

"There may have been another Enemy," Agnon answered, always the reasonable one. "It was certainly long ago."

Skalda sipped from the mug of mulled wine, thanking the sedir-priest who brought it warm to her hands. It was cold below deck, cold and redolent of the Pride's usual cargo. But the fisher had been the best choice available: speed and camouflage in one, her low profile on the water an aid to what they must do.

So there was no luxury in the Pride, beyond that given the sleeping children, and no food for any of them until the deed was done. She noticed the others drank cautiously as well, valuing the heat in their empty bellies but keeping their thoughts cool and directed. "If you have another plan for our salvation, Dir Rathe," she snapped, losing her patience, "we'd all be grateful. After all, you are the only one of us here to contest the Enemy's forces directly in battle. Perhaps you believe the Circle's Fleet can defeat them at sea?"

There were six of them around the crude table, all dir-priests: of the six, she, Rathe, and Agnon would bear the action of the Spell, casting it over the Blood Reef. There was a second for each of them, a source of strength if any faltered, replacement if any were killed. For herself, Dir Clefta, a grim, silent man from the Hinter Isles. His community had been the first to abandon their homes to the Enemy's newest offensive; he and three sedir priests all that survived to protect their few ships as they fled to the Circle Cove. Dir Segon would stand at Rathe's back; she, though young, was already believed heir apparent to Skalda's own place in the council. It was dangerous to risk her here, Skalda thought with regret, but this throw of the dice risked far more than the life of her promising apprentice. Agnon would rely on the quiet good sense of his own brother, Dir Agnar—theirs being one of very few family pairings within the priesthood. It added a strength to their abilities beyond either alone.

Strength? Experience? We have those, Skalda said to herself, gazing at each in turn, collecting a somber reply of determined, if anxious looks. Let's hope we also have the blessing of the Depths and Her Quiet God on this ancient magic as well.

There had been soul-searching and argument far beyond Rathe's reasonable doubts. While magic had been the tool of priests since records were first kept, that tool had evolved with their society's growth and change. Today's magic was precise, wellschooled, applied by specialists. The older magic had been, as far as their researches could discover, larger in scope and far bloodier in cost.

Skalda had deliberately sought the fabled old magic, once reports were confirmed that the Enemy—no, she would not keep them faceless—the P'okukii were about to crush the Island states once and for all.

The P'okukii had been content to rule the vast interior of the Western continent, trading for generations with the islandfolk for the riches of the sea. They had little in common, relying on a halting trade tongue and neither side interest in learning more about the other. The first of many mistakes, Skalda and many other Islanders realized too late. For while they knew the P'okukii feared invasion from some mysterious eastward land—a fear the more widely traveled islanders dismissed as superstition—they had not appreciated the depth of that fear. After all, who would take seriously a people who refused to step from the land.

Then, fifty years ago, a new soothsayer had appeared in the desert, warning the P'okukii that the doom from the east was coming. The tiny island states between, with their fierce independence and strange ways, must be conquered and fortified to defend the continent itself.

The inconceivable resources of the P'okukii were turned to the ocean they feared. Ports were closed; shipbuilding went on at a feverish pace. The amused Islanders simply took their trade elsewhere, among themselves, blind to what was coming.

For during Skalda's childhood, the P'okukii flooded seaward, melded into a vast fleet consisting of more and larger ships than all of the islands together possessed. All that saved them was the caution of an enemy new to the sea. The Enemy was fearful, their sorcerers grappling with the unpredictability of land spells over water, their commanders inexperienced. The Circle Isles defended themselves in surprise, expecting offers of reconciliation, resumptions of trade.

What they received was unending war. At first, it was an even conflict, the sea-knowledge of the islanders and their priests more than a match despite the superior numbers of their foe. Then, slowly, island after island was conquered, their inhabitants forced to flee or die. The Enemy, while never embracing the ocean, learned her ways. Their sorcerers became deadly, gaining spells stripped from the minds of dir priests captured before they could kill themselves. Somehow the battle magic of the islanders, blessed by the Depths and her Quiet God, had proved even more effective in the hands of pagans.

There were, Skalda sighed, never guarantees on what offended deity.

"'Ware Ships!" the cries from the crow's nest pulled them all on deck, only those responsible for the wind filling the sails ignoring the distraction. Skalda whispered a seeing spell, hearing muttered echoes from either side and behind as the multitude of priests did the same. The captain steadied his telescope, not needing magic to see what was swarming over the horizon.

Rathe and other survivors hadn't exaggerated, Skalda thought with regret as her vision focused on the wavy line of painted prows and tossing masts. It wasn't a fleet—it was as if an entire nation had armed and loaded itself on to the sea. Why do they think us such a threat? she wondered again. The very old tales held rumors of a decisive battle centuries ago, one in which the island states gained their freedom from the mainland. But battles, successful or otherwise, seemed unlikely to spawn such hate and fear as this. Unless, she thought uneasily, it was how that battle was won.

"Why are they here, Dir Skalda?" It was the captain pulling at her elbow urgently. "There is nothing in this direction worth attacking. Just the deserted Outer Islands and then the open ocean."

Segnon's clear, calm voice had the slightest shiver to it as she drew the conclusion they all feared. "The Blood Reef. They have learned about the Summoning Spell. They seek to stop us."

"Or to use it themselves," Skalda said flatly. "Or use it themselves." She deliberately turned her back on that threat and raised her voice so it soared over the murmurs and speculations filling the deck. "Raise all the sail the Pride carries. Dir-priests. Spells of protection, especially for the hull and the sedir-priests. We must not be hindered. We will not be stopped. For the Cove!"

"For the Cove!" they chanted back, eyes afire with purpose, gnarled hands rising in the air beside smooth young fists to accept her challenge.

The Pride drove her prow deep into the waves as speed became their best weapon. Skalda stayed well away from the railing now, knowing she had no right to risk herself so close to her duty. Wind whipped her hair free of its knot, lashing her cheeks.

"'Ware! The Blood Reef! 'Ware below!" came the cry heartbeats later. Priests scrambled to drop the Pride's sails. The Enemy fleet had already halved the distance between them; now its ships were close enough for shouts to carry, close enough for protection spells to be tested by the magic of sorcerers. So far, only those in the crow's nest had been harmed, caught in the boundary between forces, screaming as they were blinded. Another victory for their Enemy.

The Pride settled into position above the Blood Reef. There was a sudden hush, as all realized they would soon be within the range of more mundane weaponry, against which they had no defense.

"Wake the children," Skalda said calmly.

* * *

A finger of darkness scratched the crystalline sky above me, a moving finger casting its shadow and more into my sight. Six forms detached from it, drifting down to me in synchrony and sacrifice. In their wake, I could hear the old words.

The Summoning.

The forms, small and devoid of armor, fell closer. The flocks converged, undeterred by blessing or purpose. Blood stained my vision and didn't diffuse into the ocean as it should. Instead, it flowed down to me, coated me, entered my mouth tasting of innocence shed for rage's sake.

At last!

If I had slept, this was the moment I awoke.

* * *

"It's working!" shouted a voice, panic-fringed rather than triumphant. Something was happening, Skalda amended to herself, bracing as the deck of the Pride shifted under an ocean seeming to rise under their feet. A barrel came loose and rolled, making the sedir-priests jump to dodge it.

The water lifted impossibly beside them, with no wind, no swell to explain it. The Enemy fleet was caught as well, cries of alarm ringing over the strange silence of the sea. Only the noises of human and ship broke against it.

The Pride began to slip down the side of a watery mountain, the movement so delicate and deceptively slow the captain let go his death's grip on the wheel and simply stared, openmouthed at what was becoming plain.

For it wasn't a wave rising to loom beside them. It was the Blood Reef itself, its coral-crusted bulk shedding water in a fall miles long as it rose beyond the ocean's grip, the roar enough to drown out any screams. Fish died, caught by spurs and outcrops of stony growth, imprisoned helplessly in air. Other things were caught as well: bits of bone and flesh, swords and armor, a child's robe.

Skalda found it contradictory that she could hear the sounds of Dir Agnon losing his mulled wine beside her over the din of the waterfall.

She clung to the rail, more to hold what was human-scaled than because the ship was unsteady. The waterfall ended, replaced by a single loud whoof of air as whatever they had summoned expelled its first breath.

"What is it?" breathed Clefta, his hand still tight on her shoulder.

Skalda shook her head, then realized she did know just as what looked like a promontory to one end of the floating reef turned to regard her through a gleaming black and yellow eye easily as tall as the Pride's mast.

"It's the Quiet God himself," she whispered, "roused to war."

* * *

Vision sharpened and added the plane of horizon, distracting with its promises of far and new. I sought the Summoners. There. There must be three.

* * *

"There must be three," Skalda said, repeating from the parchment.

"Yes, yes. Three to Summon," Rathe added, moving to stand beside her and Agnon. His voice held the same mixture of pride and horror they likely all felt. It was one thing to pray daily and interpret blessings—quite another to wake a God and wait.

"Three to Aim," Skalda said in the same stunned whisper, tearing her eyes from that one great eye to seek out the scattered but formidable fleet of their Enemy. "But how? "Each to become an Eye," the parchment said. "What do we do?"

"Sweet Depths," breathed a voice behind her. She couldn't recognize it and didn't turn to see. Her question was answered as the huge, unbelievable head turned fully towards them. There were two more eyes, similar in size to the first, opening slowly as coral cracked away from their lids to splash in the water below.

"Quick!" Skalda ordered, her voice grown cold and calm. A shame her insides were the opposite, but that was a distant problem. "Run out the plank!"

"Remind me not to be near you when you are wrong," Rathe said, his eyes fever-bright. He undid the sword belted low around his hips and let it drop to the deck, an instinctive and accurate disarming, Skalda decided, following suit. Agnon had no weapon beyond his wit. He looked as though he'd prefer to pick up one of the deadly blades himself.

The Enemy fleet, perhaps reassured by what appeared to be merely a new island, had begun to reorganize. Catapults fired test shot, thumping into the ocean just distant from the Pride, cautiously not too close to the Quiet God. "Hurry," Skalda urged the others, moving first to the plank.

It was broad and dry, quite secure to walk along. As if fully aware of what was happening, the Quiet God slid closer, closer, until the end of the plank hung not over open water but grated delicately against a cheek of dying coral and sponge. Something held the Pride rock steady; looking down Skalda thought she could make out an immense ridge of coral disappearing under the keel.

Skalda concentrated on setting one sandaled foot ahead of the other: step, pause, step, the rhythm like that of a bride's procession. Ahead waited the soft darkness of an eye larger than herself, a darkness she knew was her future, one final payment for her people's rescue.

The end of the plank, and the world she knew. Skalda had traveled from her body in magical learnings, had swum beyond light's reach in the ocean, and known the dream plain. This great eye was another doorway, she told herself, dismissing the natural fears of her body. She stepped through its dark disc, into the warm, black core.

Welcome, Summoner, throbbed reality.

* * *

Expansion. I flowed around instincts and passions, explored terrors and lusts, searching for the common purpose of the Summons. There.

Destruction.

Was that all?

* * *

Her hands and touch, her mouth and breath were no more; almost worse, her legs prickled as though asleep. Skalda gained then lost her sense of self repeatedly. Finally, she refused the effort and focused on what was here—sight.

And such sight. As part of the Quiet God's eye she could see the regrouping of the Enemy fleet; at a thought that vision sharpened so she could see the foreign shape of their sails and swords, the exotic pallor of their skin. Otherwise, they were men and women like any others she had known. The realization was disquieting. Never had she considered them so.

If she relaxed her vision, glints appeared on the periphery of the immense lens: Rathe and Agnon, she knew without understanding how. She concentrated, trying to ignore fear and wonder—neither were helpful—and focused on uttering a spell without a tongue.

The effort drained her but was not forbidden. A link was forged between the dir-priests, as well as their host.

Skalda . . . she felt her name, wrapped in vibrations that identified the source as Agnon. What are we? Are we dead?

We are the Aim, Rathe stated, less voice than a pressure on what once was skin.

YOU ARE THE AIM, agreed some vastness. I HAVE BEEN SUMMONED. WHERE MUST I GO?

The minds of the dir-priests focused in an instant. There was no sense of motion, yet the Enemy fleet seemed to leap closer.

Skalda's view also included the Pride as a coral-crusted flipper tossed it aside, the long planks of her hull scattering over the water like so many sticks.

* * *

I accepted their guidance, almost blind in this drier, brighter world. Their rage had a color, hate another. Fear for self was there. As was regret. I'd felt all of this before.

They aimed me at frail craft filled with men and I obeyed, my passage sending more to the Depths, carried down by their armor, limbs given grace by the water, to enrich the great flocks below.

* * *

WHERE DO I GO? boomed that incessant voice, not impatient, Skalda could tell, but rather a plea like a plaintive cry from a child. She still shuddered over the ease with which the P'okukii fleet had been wiped from the ocean. Their magic, their weapons, and their numbers had availed them nothing.

Almost. There'd been one attempt at defense and one loss. A harpoon had penetrated one great eye. Agnon's presence was gone.

There'd been no pain along their link. Only a skewed view of the harpooner, lips drawn back in a rictus, his skin so white his face was already a skull, the desperate eyes black pits.

She could scarcely believe they'd won the battle. What she could believe was how many were now in the Depths. It was as if she'd had to look into each and every face as they died, share their fear and horror. None sought the sea willingly. Was it worse for the P'okukii to die here, away from their beloved earth?

No matter the cost. It was done and they had saved their people. But what now?

She had tried the Spell of Departing; they'd not been fools to summon unknown magic without being able to dispel it again. But Agnon wasn't there to support her. And Rathe had found a home for his hate.

WHERE DO I GO? wailed the God.

She couldn't keep out the punishing demand. Rathe's response was a matching crescendo of torment. To their ports! Crush their homes as they crushed mine. Kill them all!

No, Skalda objected, horrified. The Enemy is defeated. The Cove is safe.

SAFE?

Almost instantly, her memories of her home were exposed like shells on a beach, carved free from sand by the icy winds of winter. She could somehow see each one as it was torn from her: views of moon through the arched windows of her bedroom, tall to the child she'd been; breathless glimpses of the royal barges from a hiding place high on her aunt's balcony; the cool, musty darkness of the underground passages interrupted only by spells of light; the prismed beauty of fireworks overhead as she swam in the warmth of the cove.

Then, as abruptly, nothing. Skalda wept without tears or eyes, feeling the loss of her home more intimately than the loss of her physical form, the longing to return so intense she knew with horror it wasn't hers alone. The Quiet God felt it too.

It was a feeling and intention Rathe didn't share. To their ports, he insisted, rage coloring his presence so Skalda felt she looked through heat shimmers as she watched the empty ocean ahead.

This, she realized suddenly, was why there had to be three to Summon and Aim. With just two of them left, there was no consensus, no clear voice to guide the God. She wondered how long it would take them to drive the God insane.

* * *

The pain was new, a novelty I would as soon excise from my body. All I could do was close the damaged eye. My flippers drove into the water on either side, there being no reason given to stop moving. My lips cracked open, shedding even more coral. Warm ocean flowed over them, healing, soothing, reminding me of greater things than now and here and me.

But the Summoning locked me to the surface where I could not seek them.

* * *

Skalda . . . Skalda

Once, well, more than once, she'd dozed over the parchments; the stuffy room and hours of close reading making a poor combination. Each time, she woke not fully aware, her eyes glued shut until she rubbed them free of sleep, her mind slow to rouse from its subconscious exploration of the words of the Great Spell. This might be one of those times, she thought, on the edge of a dream.

Skalda.

Her name drew her back to reality, a reality encompassing the loss of friends, the agonizing defeat of an Enemy, and the sure knowledge of her own doom.

Rathe, she replied unwillingly, but aware that even his insanity was more human than anything else here.

He was in one of his calm states, almost reasonable, as if this was one of their innumerable practice sessions in the Council Chamber. They foresaw this, you know, he said to her. The P'okukii foresaw it all.

The soothsayer. Their fear of the east and superstition. Skalda would have wept if she could. Rathe was right. The Summoning Spell had been cast before—she knew it now. The Quiet God had risen at their whim and blood, destroying their Enemy so that the island states could grow and flourish. They had forgotten, attributing lifetimes of prosperity and peace to long ago human heroes and human magic. But the P'okukii, terrified of the sea, terrified of the east, had better memories.

In a sense it didn't matter, Skalda thought. Many things in the world moved in vast cycles, unnoticed until one's life was ground into insignificance by storms, famine, or drought. That they had had a part in this one was merely proof that the Depths showed her power however she chose.

We must end this, she urged Rathe, unsure how much he could understand.

We must kill them all, he replied, still soft, still reasonable.

* * *

I burned. The sunlight lost its beauty without the lens of ocean. Fish, large and small, tossed themselves ahead of my wake without recognition. The Summoners fought constantly, their purposes bright and conflicting. When they dreamed, I had no peace, only longings for a place. The Cove.

* * *

THE COVE. The darkness confused her only briefly as the longing woke her. Skalda focused and saw stars spilled overhead. Stars she knew.

Rathe, she wailed. It's taken us home!

Kill them all, he sang softly. More gifts for the Gods.

KILL.

No! But her protest wasn't helping. She could sense confusion. Alone, she wasn't strong enough to overcome Rathe's madness.

There was another way.

* * *

The entrance to the Cove was narrow. I struggled through the rocky barrier, heaving myself half out of the warm sea with reluctance, driven.

Look! Look there!

The Aiming was imperative. I turned my head upward in time for the mass of jagged stone to smash into the side of my head. Then I could no longer see the color of rage. I could no longer see at all.

Except through one eye.

* * *

Without Rathe, the Spell of Departing would work, Skalda knew. Yet she hesitated. The Quiet God waited too, stopping up the channel into the Cove. The ships within looked like a school of tiny fish startled by a shark, scattering at random as galleys rowed, others with sails filling with bespelled wind.

The balconies? They were filled with people as well as flowers, equally beautiful and as still. They were waiting too.

WHERE DO I GO?

Where you will be safe, she thought, releasing all claim on that world outside. Where we will be safe.

* * *

Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with flower petals, twirling downward. At night, the stars were doubled by closer, smaller flames, floating above us to outline the dark hulls of ships.

We were content thus, to gaze upward through the great lens of our eye into the living magic of this place and see that which belonged here. The great flocks came, seeking the richness of the new reef, dancing in the light. Others swam among them, taking as was their need, sometimes just to dance.

If this is sleep, we sometimes wondered, surprised by bursts of fireworks, or touched by the hands of children, perhaps we dream the world.

* * *

Julie Czerneda is the author of many novels and short stories.

The Thief of Stones

Written by Sarah Zettel
Illustrated by Chuck Lukacs

As I have been bidden, I will tell of how the sorcerer Merlin Ambrosius came to the shores of Ireland, and what he did there. Ambrosius was sometimes called No Man's Son, but because of these deeds I am to tell you now, he also had a third name, and that was the Thief of Stones.

He came alone to the shores of the blessed isle. Some say he flew there, having power over the wind as he had over the earth, but this is not so. Merlin Ambrosius was child of the west lands and its ragged coasts. He traveled in a boat of reeds and skins, with a brown sail to catch the winds and a stout oar to steer him through the rough grey waves of that sea. Autumn spread rust and gold over Briton's lands when he left there, and he came to the green shores on a day of chill rain and mist. It is often so in Ireland, and that is why her waters are deep and her fields more green than any others on the earth.

He drew his boat up on the sands and as he did, down from the hills there came two warlike men in the striped cloaks and tightly tied trousers favored on those shores. They marked well the short sword on Merlin's hip, as well as the white staff in his hands. This was in his younger days, before Merlin became the ancient sage of Arthur's court. He was tall, then, and broad in frame. His clothing was well made, but simple, being a blue tunic belted in bronze, green trousers, and a stout cloak of brown wool. His beard was short, and more brown than grey. His hair flowed in curling locks across his broad shoulders held back in a band of bronze chased with the images of falcons. His eyes were clear and blue, and all about his person spoke of one who is strong and bold.

Because of all this, the soldiers addressed him most courteously, inquiring whether he was the one they were sent to meet by their king, who was Berach Ui Neill.

"I am the one," Merlin answered them. "And I am ready to go with you at once to meet your king."

They were surprised at this, as it was a hard journey from the land of the Britons. They expected to linger on the coast for a time allowing him to rest. But they did not doubt his word, and led him straightaway up into the deep green hills that ring that land's coasts, now dark and tinged with brown as autumn settled in. It was a steep way. Rising mist sometimes hid the narrow tracks. But Merlin easily kept the pace the two soldiers set, and they were much impressed.

Merlin himself had good reason for his haste. He left behind him his king, new to his power, and that king had given him great charge. "It is only you, Merlin, who can save me from my brother's fate," he had whispered in the deepest darkness when there was no other awake to listen to the fears of the new king. "Go where you will and do what you must. Do not leave me to die as he did."

Merlin had knelt before Uther Pendragon and sworn it would be done. He'd left him with his heart singing in its fullness. He had already seen the greatness of his king, seen it in Uther's eyes and his deeds, and seen it in the stars overheard. He, Merlin, No Man's Son would have his last vengeance. He would raise up this man and the age to follow over those who had once sought to take his life.

Burning with this ambition, Merlin walked lightly over the chill, green hills of the blessed isle.

It was near half the day before they came to the lands and houses held by Berach Ui Neill.

In those days, the men of Eire built their houses of round frames with thatch roofs of a conical shape. Simple pens held the cattle and other animals. That these were a prosperous people was evident, for the least among them wore bright gold. Even the blind man squatting by the darkened door of the smallest house had a golden ring on his thumb. As Merlin passed among the houses, all the many sounds of life and work stopped as all turned to wonder at this stranger.

The king's high house differed little from the other dwellings that clustered around it, save that it was larger in its compass, and foundations of stone bolstered its mud, lime and withy walls. But Merlin knew well it was the house of a king, and he entered it humbly and with courtesy.

A messenger had gone ahead of Merlin and his escorts. Thus warned of his coming, King Berach Ui Neill sat on his great wooden chair illuminated by a fire in the round stone hearth at center of the room, as well as the golden light of no less than ten torches set in sconces on the walls. His hair and long mustaches were the color of red gold, and his saffron tunic was banded with scarlet. A golden torque adorned his throat and a broad golden belt encircled his waist. Four great black hounds collared with gold lay at his feet. His three sons stood before him, all clad in yellow tunics and cloaked in red and blue, with gold rings on their arms and gold-hilted swords hanging from belts that were studded with jewels. Behind the king stood his wife and four daughters, all dressed in softest wool striped in every color of the rainbow. So much gold flashed on their hands, about their throats and on their brows it was as if the whole wealth of the island had been brought there to bedeck their beauty. Many of the ornaments were etched or embossed with the sign of the cross amid the workings of knots and ribbons for which that country was famous, saying that this was a people that had converted to the ways of God and Christ.

Nor was this all, for at the king's right hand waited a bard all clad in green with golden cuffs on his wrists and a white-framed harp in his hands. No less than twelve warlike men ranged the hall with their sharp spears and gilded helms on their heads. All watched the approach of Merlin Ambrosius.

Before this wealth and noble display, Merlin knelt. The soldiers who had brought him this far made their bows and retired, leaving the sorcerer alone before Berach Ui Neill.

"Be welcome to this place, Merlin Ambrosius," said the king. His voice boomed out to fill his house. Firelight set his gold ornaments and red-gold hair to shine and glitter, but shadows hid his eyes. "We are glad to receive the ambassador of Uther of the Britains."

The king gestured for him to rise. King Berach's wife came forward with a cup of gold studded with blue gems filled with the mead of that place. Merlin accepted it and drank the whole of it down in a single draught.

"I thank you for your great courtesy, king of the Ui Neill," he said as he returned the cup to the queen with a bow. "I bring to you the greetings and love of Uther who is named the father of dragons, and as a token thereof, my king commands I present to you this stone." From the purse on his belt, Merlin brought forth an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg colored the deep blue green of the seas beneath the sun. The king received this stone with great pleasure and pride. His chest swelled and his face shone to behold the jewel. Merlin's keen eye noted this and in his silence he was deeply pleased to behold, it, for it told him what manner of man was before him.

The king handed the stone to his wife, who looked shrewdly at the sorcerer. She held her peace, however, and let her husband speak. "That is a strange sword you wear, Merlin Ambrosius," he went on, displaying to all his keen and discerning eye.

Merlin smiled and drew it slowly, laying the blade out flat against his palm. "A poor thing," he said. "Once the tool of the Romans who ruled our land while the men of Eire lived freely. Bronze only, but it suits me." He held it out. "It is yours, Majesty, if it pleases you."

This puffed out King Berach's chest even further. He waved the offering away regally and then commanded that Merlin be given a bed and all he wanted for his refreshment until the feast for his welcome could be set before them. Pleased with all he had seen, Merlin permitted the king's daughters to lead him away.

The feast was conducted with all the splendor that place had to offer. Merlin sat at the king's right hand behind a board laid with cloths of delicate and brightly embroidered linen. Whole swans were brought on silver dishes, with oaten breads, as well as suckling pigs cooked in apples and sprinkled over with salt and the peppers of Spain. To drink, they had the wine of the Medeterrine and the fiery liquor the men of that isle call the water of life. There was a gracious plenty for all the company, for King Berach meant to display his wealth in his generosity. All the while the feast went on, the bard, whose name was Ailfrid mac Rian, sat beside the fire and played on his harp. He sang the great history of the Ui Neill, dwelling with the most love on the legends of Fionn mac Cumhail, the giant and king, and whom he said was greatest ancestor of the Ui Neill. If Merlin knew it to be otherwise, he prudently kept silent. Secretly, though, he watched the bard as closely as he watched the king. For Merlin knew the wisdom and secrets of the true bards, and wanted to take the measure of this one before him.

When the feasting was over, and the bard fell silent to receive the applause and praise of all the house, Merlin rose to his feet and bowed before the king.

"Majesty, I have been feasted here in a manner most worthy of the great and generous reputation that is the name of the Ui Neill. If it is your desire, I shall exercise my own humble skills for the amusement of this house, and to in some small measure show my gratitude for the rich welcome I have here received."

King Berach inclined his head magnanimously and Merlin bowed once more, very low. He stepped out into the center of the house beside the fire. Bard Ailfrid took his harp and moved aside, but their eyes met in that small moment, the bard's the pale blue of the winter sky and Merlin's the bright blue of the summer morn. Each saw secrets, and the knowledge of secrets, and each smiled a small smile at the other, knowing there would be much speech between them later.

But for now, Merlin only raised his white staff. "See then Berach Ui Neill! See then all the souls of this land! See you the workings of Merlin Ambrosius!"

He swept the staff over the bright red fire. A great wind blew cold through the house and in an instant, the flames were quenched leaving not even the scent of the smoke. All gasped in the sudden gloom. Merlin smote the earthen floor with the butt of his staff, and from the circle of ash sprang up an apple tree covered in white blossoms. Their perfume filled the house, and was so sweet that all breathed deep and sighed with the wonder of it. Merlin then raised his right hand. The tree's blossoms closed and shrank to become green fruit. He raised his left hand, and the fruits swelled, ripened and turned red. He called out a single word, and every red fruit became a red bird that took wing. All the assembly shouted for wonder. The scarlet flock flew about the house, singing songs as sweet of the scent of blossoms had been and setting all the hounds to barking. Once more, Merlin smote the earth with his staff. Birds and tree all vanished, and where they had been there burned the homely fire of the hearth.

Astonishment tied the tongues and hands of all who witnessed this miracle until the king let out a loud laugh and beat his great hands upon the table, roaring his approval. His people joined him with applause and laughter and many exclamations. Merlin bowed humbly.

King Berach rose to his feet, holding out his cup to drink to the sorcerer. "Such a marvel I have never seen!" he cried out. "What reward can I give you for such a feat?"

Merlin's eyes looked this way and that, taking in the wealth of all the hall, but more than that.

"Will you give me the hound that sleeps at Your Majesty's feet?" he asked, pointing to one of the four dogs that waited so patiently beneath the table at Berach's feet.

"And gladly," laughed the king. The hound Merlin chose was one of the great canines they breed on that isle that are prized even by the Roman lords. It was huge and shaggy, heavy jawed and black, such as might take down elk or boar. Its golden collar might make the fortune of a freeman. The king snapped his fingers and pointed. Obedient to his master, the hound loped to Merlin's side and lapped at his hand in simple loyalty.

"His name is Ciar. But surely there is more you desire?" said the king, awash in wonder and the need to show himself great in his generosity.

Merlin let himself appear to consider this as he rested one hand on the back of his new hound, Ciar. "It is not gold I seek, great King," he said slowly, as if making this admission reluctantly. "But if you would give me what I desire, you will give me an answer."

Berach spread his hands. "What answer would that be?"

"I have heard that in this land there is one of the last of the old priests, one who worked of the groves and prophecies such as used to be so common in this land. I would speak with that person."

Berach's face fell slowly into harsh lines, and the men of the house began to mutter among themselves. "We are all Christians here," said the king, but now his voice was cold. "None of this clan know anything of such a pagan witch."

Merlin cast a glance then at Berach's wife and saw how her eyes shifted away from his. He looked at Bard Ailfrid, and saw how his face remained bland and without expression. "Of course," said Merlin, inclining his head in all humility. "But this witch had a dwelling in former times, or a grove where she practiced her pagan rites. It may be that some ancient among your people might remember where that was."

"None here would have knowledge of such a thing." The king's fists hardened as he said it, and he looked about at all his company, male and female, his wife and daughters most of all. All bowed their heads and Merlin understood, He too bowed once more.

"It is surely as Your Majesty says. I ask your pardon."

This soothed Berach and restored his good spirits. He invited Merlin to sit and drink with him once more, and called upon the bard for a new song.

So passed the night until all the house was exhausted from drink and revelry. Merlin was conducted to the place set aside for him, but he did not lie down on the soft bed. Instead, he waited in the darkness, scratching the head and ears of his black hound, until all the noises of the house fell away. Then, with Ciar trotting obediently at his heels, he stepped out of the king's house, waving to the men on watch who nodded over their spears. Outside beneath the stars, he found Bard Ailfrid. Ailfrid sat with his harp, and a plate of food and a mug of drink. He played softly upon the strings, a tune Merlin had never before heard. He paused, took a bite of meat and a swig from his mug, lost in thought, then touched his fingers to the strings once more. Merlin moved aside, thinking to wait until this moment of creation was finished, but the bard turned, unsurprised to see the sorcerer come out into the chill night. The bard raised his mug and beckoned to Merlin to come closer.

Merlin sat down beside him. "A cold night."

"Ah, well." Ailfrid drank his mead and ate a piece of oaten bread.

"You could have feasted better inside." The sorcerer waved a hand at the plate and its meager offerings.

"Well enough," Ailfrid acknowledged with a shrug. "But there are nights I prefer my thoughts as company for a smaller feast." He folded his arms over the top of his harp and gazed for a moment at the autumn stars shining so brightly down.

"And may I ask, Bard Ailfrid, what are your thoughts?"

The corner of the bard's mouth twitched. "They are of you, Merlin Ambrosius, and of your errand." He traced the diamond paths of the stars with his gaze for a moment longer, before he looked to Merlin once more. "You are right in what you heard. There is such a one in these lands. She is old now, and much diminished from what she was, as are all who once spoke to the oak and the mistletoe."

"You do not fear to tell me this?" Ailfrid shook his head. "Are you not a Christian?"

Ailfrid shrugged again. "I am a bard on the edge of winter." He gazed at the darkening trees. Some had already begun to lose their cloaks of leaves and the wind rattled their bare twigs, bringing the scent of ice as well as the scent of warm smoke from the houses below. "I am what my king would have me be."

"Yours are said to be greater than kings."

Ailfrid laughed a little at this, running his fingers gently over the frame of his harp, almost as one would touch the face of a beloved child. "The greatest of us are. I am not as great as all that, and prefer a fire to the winter pride of my calling."

This answer satisfied the sorcerer, and he turned quickly to his own business, lest the bard think the better of it, or, more importantly, one of the king's men should come to overhear them. "Do you know of this priestess?"

The bard's eyes clouded over as he searched within himself. "As I crossed the borders into the land of the Fian, it grew late and I sought shelter with a shepherd family. Glad I was to have it, as the rains came down fiercely when night fell. With them was an old woman who asked for the most ancient stories, of the kings and queens of the elder days. She shook her head and sighed heavily at all I recited. When it grew late, and she and I were the only ones left waking, I asked what made her sigh so. This she said to me; 'It is all fading. The greatness of the world. Patrick and his followers have taken it all away.' I tried to comfort her, to say that the seasons would turn, and the great would rise again, but she would not hear me.

"'All gone,' she said again. 'The secrets of the earth and the future, all gone. Fionn mac Cumhail sleeps and will not wake for there is no deed great enough for him to do. The prophets have all lost their sight. None honor the priest and priestess. My own sister was called away to the druid's grove, and for years she did what was needful that we might prosper and be safe. What is she now? A wizened thing in her hut where the river Balidoire meets the bog, and none will bring her from that lonely spot for the comfort of her age.' I asked the name of this sister, so I would know her if ever I met her, and was told her name was Lasair Ui Fian."

Merlin was silent for a long time after that. He gazed at the stars, gold, blue, red and blinding white, their graceful, curving trail and mighty patterns all froze above him. "Thank you," he said at last, to the bard and the stars. Bard Ailfrid looked steadily at him, waiting. "What might I give you in return for such a good answer?"

The bard smiled and he drank his mead and ate of his meat. "Answer for answer, Merlin," he said. He folded his arms and rested them on his knees. "Her words have weighed on me since that day. You have eyes that see. Is it true what she said, that all the greatness is gone from the world?"

Merlin did not even need to look to the heavens for his answer. "It is not true. Great kings are yet to come, and long are the tales that are to be told in the world. It is written that my king, Uther Pendragon, will bring forth the greatest age of heroes the Britons shall ever know. Not one year shall go by from now until the end of days that its tales are not told."

"Well." The bard drained his mug and then stretched his long legs. "I am glad to hear it. I had thought my days short." He spoke lightly, but Merlin heard more beneath the bard's words. It was not tales he was concerned of, it was the hearts and heights of men, for such are the charges of even the least of the bards. But Ailfrid smiled, setting that away for simple pride of his people. "And if such an age comes to pass for the Britons, then how much greater will the men of Eire be? We may even wake Fionn mac Cumhail with the thunder of our striding across the world!"

Both laughed at this, making the hound raise his head and prick up his ears. Merlin touched the bard on the shoulder. "Walk your ways, Bard Ailfrid. Hear the stories and speak them with a full heart. And if ever you feel cramped on this green isle, come find me across the waters. I will show you the greatness I have seen there with the father of dragons."

Ailfrid looked at him for a thoughtful moment and for that moment, Merlin could not read what was in the other man's heart. "Perhaps I will," said the bard. "If only to return home and sing of these great heroics your King Uther is to bring forth." Ailfrid stood, taking his harp tenderly into his arms. "I wish you well in your errand, Merlin Ambrosius, but perhaps you'll accept one word from me."

Merlin spread his hands. "And what word is that?"

"My kind must go about on foot, and here is a thing we all learn; be sure you've looked long and hard at the path where you step before you declare you know your way along it."

With these words, the bard took his harp back into the king's house. Merlin sat awhile beneath the stars, pondering the lights and the words, and the errand which brought him there.

* * *

Merlin Ambrosius stayed seven days with Berach Ui Neill. To stay less would be to insult the hospitality of a king. They talked of many things, but mostly of those men of Eire who settled in the north of the Briton's land, and how peace might be got between them and the more southerly lords. When Merlin spoke again with the bard, it was only of small matters, and small stories.

At the end of his stay, the king bid Merlin a courteous farewell and gifted him with a gold-hilted dagger to hang beside his sword. The sorcerer was given a good escort of six men to walk him to the borders of the Ui Neill lands. There, the men turned back to their homes, and Merlin Ambrosius and the great hound Ciar walked on, Merlin wrapping his cloak tight about himself, for even in the brightness of the day, the winds were grew cold.

The blessed isle may be likened to a great bowl floating on the ocean. All its steep hills and mountains ring its coasts. Once beyond their heights, the land rolls and slopes pleasantly downward and one may walk beside pure streams of running water through forests of mighty oak and ash, bountiful hazel and apple. But when one reaches the center, one finds all the waters have mixed and mingled and settled together to create black fens, dark as night and more foul than any midden. Their miasma hangs heavy over them, breeding disease and disaster. The secret lights inside lure travelers from the narrow paths and bridges so that they disappear forever. Only the poorest people cling to their edges. Those without king or clan or any other protection eke out sad lives beneath the towering trees that are fed by the black waters.

As he began the downward slope, Merlin came to a place where three streams crossed each other, mingling into one. He took Ciar's golden collar and tossed it into the river. Then, he dipped his staff into the waters and he said. "In the name of the mother of all the waters, are you the river men call Balidoire?"

And from the river came the answer. "I am that water and I will take you where you need to go."

So, Merlin walked on.

Merlin followed the path of the river and the fall of the land down through the great forests and meadows of deep green. When men stopped him and asked his business, he was always careful to give courteous answer, and to have a token gift of silver ready for whoever they named as their king. Whether these gifts found their way to these kings, Merlin neither knew or cared. He cared only that he was allowed to go his way unmolested.

At last, the land's slope gentled and the rolling hills spread out and smoothed. The air over the land took on the tinge of sulphur and death, growing warm and close despite the deepening of the autumn. So it was that Merlin knew the darkness before him was the great fen. The Balidoire, his good guide, spread out as well, growing flat, slow and murky where before it had been sprightly and silver. The trees huddled closer together, dipping their branches down to catch at his hair and clothes. Even his stout hound grew uneasy, alternately growling at the strange noises and pressing close to Merlin's side. Merlin patted the hound and urged him along, but he also kept tight grip on his white staff.

At last, through a grove of willows, mangy with autumn, he saw a thin stream of smoke rising in the fetid air. Beneath it hunched a small hovel. The house was so low and covered so much in turf that it might have grown there rather than been raised by the hand of man. Even Merlin's eyes would have missed it were it not for the smoke.

Merlin stopped some small distance away, and commanded Ciar to sit peaceably beside him. "I salute the house!" he called. "I seek Lasair Ui Fian, and would speak with her if she is here!"

He waited patiently. The birds and the frogs made their calls to one another. The waters muttered at his feet, and the trees whispered overhead in the cold, foul wind. Then, slowly, he heard a different rustling and saw movement within the darkness of the house. The blanket hanging over the low doorway moved aside and out crawled an old woman.

She was filthy beyond description, more a creature of mud and earth than of flesh. Her clotted hair was white beneath the grime and stuck out wildly in every direction. It was impossible to say what color her ungirded garment had once been, but now it was streaked green and black. So thin was she that Merlin could see all the bones beneath her skin, and her fingers were delicate twigs. Her eyes were still clear and green, but as he saw the pain in them, Merlin's heart was moved to great pity.

She smiled, a horrible gaping grin that showed her shriveled gums and single tooth. "And what is it you seek here, a fine man such as yourself?" Her voice cracked and wheezed as she spread her bony hands and tottered toward him. Her legs were bare, her feet black with muck. and her odor that of the fen itself. "Is it a love charm, perhaps?" She leered. "Some pretty young thing not sure that a man of silver as well as gold is up to keeping her fat and full?"

Despite his pity and his horror, Merlin kept his countenance and bowed low. "I would not presume to bring such a matter before you, reverend one, mother of the oak and the mistletoe."

Lasair Ui Neill stopped where she was. The leer drained from her lean face and her arms fell to her sides. "That is not myself," she said, wagging her head. "That was long ago."

"Not so long ago. A moment. A fold of years."

"Stop!" she cried, her voice suddenly so strong and clear, that Merlin raised his brows. "That is gone, I say." She jabbed one long finger at him. "Gone, and better so."

Merlin looked about at the yellowing willows and the waiting fen. He looked at the low house and breathed in the stench of the air. "How better, reverend one?" he asked quietly.

She closed her mouth, and he saw again that for all her face was ravaged by time and hardship her eyes were as clear as the streams flowing down the slopes. "Better hidden than destroyed," she said softly. "Better sleeping than dead." Her jaw hardened and her shoulders straightened. It was as if twenty years slipped from her, and he saw how well she had perfected her disguise. "You are one who sees, fine man." She spoke judiciously now, looking him up and down. "I can still tell that much. You know the time loops around itself, and all things come again to their beginnings. The age of miracles will come again, and the voice will be needed to speak once more."

Merlin let out a long, slow breath. "That voice does still exist then."

Slowly, she nodded, all guile, all terrible humor gone from her. "For those who can find it and hear, yes it does."

"The way to hear that voice must be greatly secret."

At his words, her leering smile returned all in a moment. "And you'd know that secret would you, with your hawk's eyes and your heart greedy for knowledge?" She tapped his breast with one twig-finger, and when Merlin looked disconcerted, she laughed.

Merlin hung his head, as if bested. At his feet, Ciar whined to see him distressed. "I will not lie," said Merlin. "Yes, I would know it. I have walked and sought long to find it."

"Ha!" Lasair Ui Fian stepped back, and squatted down in front of her door, settling the mask of the hag once more over the priestess. "You'll not have it here. It is all that I have left." She looked past him, up the slope of the woods, toward the places where men lived in their snug houses. "Even that fool girl who swore she wanted to study with me left when Patrick and his band came tramping through singing of their White Christ. My last acolyte, she ran away with them." Bitterness soaked her words and Merlin saw the hard glitter of tears in her eyes. "And it was all gone, all of it, save the voice that sleeps and waits."

Merlin moved forward. Laying down his staff, he knelt before her. "If you would have a acolyte, I would learn from you."

She gazed at him, and hope shone behind the glittering tears, but only for a moment. She dropped her gaze, and picked at the browning grass between her feet with her twig-like fingers. "No, you wouldn't," she muttered harshly. "You don't want to learn. You want to know."

On his knees, Merlin leaned forward. He pitched his voice soft and low, a lover's voice, a seducer's. "And were you the one to bring me that knowledge, your name would be made great," he said softly. "You would come to a land of honor and plenty and be given rings by the greatest of rulers."

Her restless hands stopped their meaningless scrabbling and she lifted her gaze. "Look at me, man."

Merlin laid one hand softly on his staff. "Look all you want," he told her. "See whatever you wish."

Her eyes were green as the heath in the sunlight, and both older and younger than herself. Merlin felt the power of her gaze reaching deep, running along the well-worn grooves of truth and possibility that lay within her heart, and his. "You stand beside kings," she spoke dreamily, in the way of the oracle. "They are brothers these kings. Mighty men, both. They are not to be defeated by honorable means. One is gone now, taken by stealth and by poison. The other, he is greater than brother or father ever were, but fears the poison. He shakes in the night with fear of it and he knows that fear cripples him. You cannot bear to see this fear for you know the greatness of the man. He is brother in your heart, but he is your vengeance too. Oh, yes, your vengeance and your triumph is this father of dragons. He sent you here. You told him the means to guard against fear and future could be found in these hills. You come to walk the ancient ways. You have heard the old names and the old wisdom. You would drink from that fountain at my hands . . . there is reverence in you . . . you understand the deep roots . . . you . . .

"No!" she shrieked the word, throwing herself backwards into the folds of the blanket that covered her doorway,

"Lasair Ui Fian, look at me!" commanded Merlin, seducer no more.

"Liar!" She screamed, scrambled backwards, her blanket falling about her ridiculously. "You try to hide your heart behind your eyes but even you cannot hide so deep."

"Look at me, and you will see the truth," Merlin grasped her wrist and its bones dug into his palm. "You can see. Your power will show you the truth!"

But she tore herself away with a strength he would not have guessed she had. "Yes, I am shown the truth, hawk-eyed man!" she spat. "I see you know where power lies, and you come to claim it." She huddled beneath her blanket, drawing in on herself, holding all she knew behind the walls she had built within her soul. "You hide too much too deeply, and will one day be hidden from all seeking. Oh, yes." She grinned again, the horrible gaping leer with which she had first greeted him. "It is true I am not blind. I see the long darkness." Her voice fell, growing low as her eyes grew distant. The blanket slipped from her grip, dropping to the ground. "The age, the time of the world creeping by, the worms seeking and seeking but gaining nothing from your flesh. Frozen, trapped, eyes fixed on a single point as the flies gather and the waters rise and fall and . . ." She stopped, swaying on her knees, her eyes blinking. She raised her hands, brushing aside nothing he could see. Then, her ruined face broke into a scowl of unbearable fear. "Get away from me!" she screamed at him, her trembling arm reaching out to sketch old signs of warding. "Demon! Death bringer! Get away!"

Screaming, she scrabbled back into her house, diving beneath her blanket. Merlin did not try to follow her. He stood and he bowed to the trembling, weeping form he could no longer see. With a word to Ciar, he walked up the slopes into the woods. Only when he was sure he was out of sight and hearing of the hovel and its ancient occupant, Merlin turned and squatted on his heels before his hound. Gently, he touched the tip of his staff to the beast's head.

"Now then, Ciar. There was a girl in that house with the old woman. She left sometime ago, and I need to know where she went. You caught her scent, good dog, I know that you did. Will you find her for me?"

The dog looked into Merlin's eyes for a long moment and then barked once, a cheerful, agreeable sound. The sorcerer stood back, and let the hound nose about at his feet for a bit. Then, Ciar barked again and loped off up the slopes on a straight and steady track that none but himself could see.

Smiling to himself, Merlin followed the dog into the woods.

* * *

For three days Merlin followed where the hound led. They crossed streams and rivers and trekked through many fair woods aflame with the colors of autumn, always upwards until they reached the windy heights of the western hills. There, he came to a small dwelling-place, well fenced, with a cross hung upon the archway of its gate. Just outside the gate, a stout woman with a wagging dewlap tended a flock of grey geese. She wore a plain brown cloak over a simple white dress girdled with braided leather. She had her hems tucked into the belt, exposing her sandaled feet, and bare, thick legs. Her only ornament was the wooden cross hung on a thong about her neck. She glowered as she saw him approach with his loping hound. Merlin patted Ciar and commanded him to sit a distance away while he approached the woman.

"God be with you, Sister," he saluted her.

"And with you, stranger," she said, but there was no sincerity in the greeting as she took in his face, his sword and his staff. "And what brings you to this house?"

"I am seeking a woman of the Ui Fian here."

She squinted at his face again, and shook her heavy head. "No one such as that here." One of the geese honked and waddled away from the rest of the flock. The woman flicked her switch, and the bird meandered obediently back. "The only ones here are daughters of Christ."

"It may be she took a new name when she came to Christ," said Merlin patiently. He leaned heavily on his staff, showing more weariness than he truly felt.

She shrugged, but did not turn her attention from the geese. "It may be. Many do."

"May I have leave to inquire after her with the other sisters?"

That made the goose-woman turn to him, as he had known it would. "We are a house of women here. You are not of the brethren of Christ," she snapped the accusation and accompanied it with another hard look. "You have no foundation to enter here."

"Forgive me, Sister," Merlin replied, bowing as humbly before the goose-woman as he had before the king. "But I have walked a long way, and my errand is urgent."

She narrowed her eyes. "Who are you that you come to claim her?"

Ah. Now he understood the hostility. Even now that most of this isle followed the Christian rite, there were many families who were less than pleased when their marriageable daughters declared their intentions to join a poor house of women and live the life of a perpetual virgin. "I do not come to claim her, only to speak with her."

"But who are you?" demanded the goose-woman again.

Merlin spread his hands. "I am not brother, nor son, nor husband, nor father, nor chief, nor master. I am only another seeker who would learn what she can tell me. Herewith, is my token to the maintenance of this place and this house." He reached into his purse and held out two silver rings.

"Hmph," grunted the woman, but she took the rings and tucked them into her sleeve.

She peered at him again, and Merlin spoke mildly, leaning there on his staff. "You see, I have no bad intention, nor do I mean to trouble this house. I only wish to speak with she who was once the daughter of the Ui Fion, who turned aside from witchcraft to come to Christ."

The goose-woman grunted again, and then said, "There is a woman of the Ui Fion here. Her name is Agnes now. You may wait while I see if she's about. Don't let the geese stray." She stumped through the gate.

Merlin settled onto his heels to wait. Patiently, he watched the grey geese, who honked and chattered and pulled at the weeds and preened, and did not one of them stray from their patch of grass where their mistress left them.

On the other side of the fence, the sisters of the house passed to and fro between the buildings. All of them, the old and the young, dressed alike in their simple white robes and brown cloaks and wooden crosses. They stared, perhaps longer than was courteous, at the man tending their geese. But Merlin made no move to speak to any of them, nor for a moment did he neglect the task to which he had been set.

At last, the goose-woman returned. Beside her walked the sister now called Agnes. If she was truly a girl as Lasair had called her, she had left that girlhood behind years ago. She was a square woman, her aspect bespeaking strength rather than beauty. Her hands were large, and her face was tanned and lined as one who worked hard and did not fear to do so. Despite this, she looked at him with apprehension bordering on alarm.

"I do not know you," she said, hanging back.

Merlin straightened, his knees popping as he did. He bowed. "I am Merlin Ambrosius, and I am come from the land of the Britons and the king Uther Pendragon only that I may speak with you, Sister."

Agnes clenched her jaw, clearly not knowing what to make of this. If the flattery touched her, it was brushed away by her uncertainty. "What could such a one have to say to me? I am no one."

Merlin smiled at this modesty and glanced at the goose-woman. "If I may have a word with your sister privately?"

The goose-woman considered this, but nodded. "Don't fear him, Agnes," she said to the other woman, laying a reassuring hand on her arm. "I'll be here if you've need of me." And she stomped back to her geese, where she would no doubt count them carefully to make sure he had done his work well.

Agnes faced the sorcerer, her eyes cast down and her fingers tightly laced together. She said nothing.

"I have been to see your former teacher," ventured Merlin.

At these words, Agnes glanced upwards, but dropped her gaze at once. "How does she?" she whispered hoarsely.

"She is old, and lonely," replied Merlin gently, trying to catch her eye.

Agnes sighed and twisted her hands more tightly together, looking away down the rolling slopes toward the distant fens, even as her teacher had looked up those same slopes. Two longing gazes missing each other for the want of time and faith. "I am sorry for her." Some memory had her snared, and Merlin strained to understand what it might be. "If she were to renounce her pagan ways and follow Christ, we would gladly care for her here." They were pious words, and deeply felt, but there was something else, something old and secret locked away.

Merlin nodded in sympathy at her words. "Alas," he said, twisting his staff as she twisted her hands. "There is another power that holds her."

"What do you mean?" Curiosity made her flick her eyes sideways toward him.

Casting a glance over his shoulder at the goose-woman who now stood with her broad back to them, Merlin took a step forward. "She still believes she guards the voice that waits and sleeps," he murmured. "While she remains sure of that, she will never turn to a new path."

The wind blew hard and cold between them. It smelled of rain and of the distant ocean and the damp rot of autumn. "I believe that you are right," said Agnes. The words were nothing, polite agreement with a stranger, nothing more. She was caught in other memories. They thronged thick behind the eyes she would raise to him only for the barest second. Memories perhaps of her leave-taking, or of the years before and since.

"Were the voice to be silenced, it would no longer drown out the voice of God in her ears."

Agnes swallowed, her face sad and sober. Merlin realized she had thought of this before. "I will turn my prayers to it." Again, a politeness, a nothing. She wanted him to leave her, to not remind her of other times and places.

"Sister," said Merlin as gently as he had ever spoken in his life. "I am come to silence the voice, but I do not know how to find it. Do you?"

Look at me. Look at me, he commanded silently. But she did not. Agnes only looked at her hands, laced so tightly together. The wind tugged at her graying hair, teasing out elf locks to hang around her ears. "I cannot tell you that," she whispered.

"Cannot or will not?"

She bit her lips. "I swore I would not." Her voice grew stronger, and Merlin cursed that strength. "When I heard the word of Christ and chose the virgin's path, I swore before God that I would not ever tell what I had formerly known." Her eyes were bright with the glimmer of tears, and Merlin remembered the tears that had also been in Lasair eyes. "It was only that oath that made her let me go."

Merlin mustered all the patience he had. If he faltered now, all would be lost. The barest hint of anger or impatience would harden her against him. "How can you hold to an oath that keeps her from God?"

Agnes lifted her head. "Because I swore," she answered and for the first time Merlin heard in her voice that strength which was so evident in her form. "Because she was mother and teacher to me for many long years. It would be sin not to keep my oath to her. God commands we honor mother and father."

But she looked at him, and he could hold her gaze now. "God also commands you destroy the ways of the pagan, sister. How can you refuse this battle for her soul?"

He reached for her, willing her understanding, her acceptance of what he said. But to his astonishment, she only glared at him. "I swore my oath. I will not break it."

Agnes turned on her heel and marched back through the gate. Merlin made to follow, but at once, the goose woman was in front of him, as if brought there by magic. Merlin looked into her stern aspect for a moment, and then bowed, retreating to the edge of the fence. There, he sat down, laying his staff across his knees, and prepared to wait.

The goose-woman stared in astonishment at him. Then, she turned her back, and tried fair to ignore him, though she cast many a disapproving glance in his direction. Merlin was not surprised that she took no further measures. To sit beside a doorway in patient fast was a gesture she would understand well. It had been used by petitioners to kings of Eire, and to stubborn brides. Usually, all that had to be done was to wait until the petitioner, ignored and humiliated, was driven away by cold or hunger.

The women beyond the fence came and went, rustling and whispering. Evening came, and the cold night afterwards. Clouds thickened, and rain came. Ciar whimpered and pressed close to Merlin. Merlin scratched the hound's head and patted his side, and they shivered together without fire.

The morning came like a blessing and the fading autumn sun dried them both. Hunger tightened Merlin's belly. Thirst parched his throat. But still he sat where he was and waited. The day passed. The women came and went behind their fence, much as the clouds scudded across the sky. The rains fell, and the sun reappeared. The cold deepened as night drew near. Ciar whimpered and barked. After awhile, he disappeared and returned with a sparrow in his mouth, which he dropped at Merlin's feet. He nosed at his master's hand, urging him to eat the offering. Merlin patted Ciar's great head, and waited.

When the first blue flush of twilight crept across the sky, Sister Agnes came to stand before him, hands on her hips and the flash of steel in her eyes. Merlin inclined his head to her.

"Leave here," she said flatly.

Merlin lifted his eyes. "I will leave when I have learned what I need to know," he croaked.

"You will starve then," she told him.

Merlin shrugged and rested both hands on his staff. "Then I will starve."

Agnes hissed wordlessly in her exasperation, and left.

So, the night came, and more rain with it. Merlin, despite all his strength of mind and training of body shivered beneath his cloak. He drank the rain as it fell, and as it ran down his face and fingertips. Ciar whined and trembled and would not leave even when Merlin commanded it, but only rested his head on his master's knee. Merlin threw the end of his cloak over the dog, sharing what pitiful warmth there was. Wolves howled unseen in the forest, making the dog growl and bark in answer.

Morning came cold and grey. Mists rose in clouds and columns from the valleys and the folds in the hills. Once more, Sister Agnes marched through the gate. This time, she held a round loaf in her hand.

"Look, here is bread." She held the before him and broke it in half so that the steam rose and warmed his face, bringing all the delicious odors of the oaten bread with it.

Merlin licked his lips, searching for some hint of moisture still there. "It is not bread I came for."

"You cannot sit here until you die." Beneath the annoyance he heard what he waited for. Worry had returned to Sister Agnes's voice.

"If I must, I must, for I cannot leave." He made himself shrug.

"I will not break the oath that set me free!" She cried, the force of her words straightening her back.

Mustering his strength, Merlin lifted his head and met her gaze, seeing how anger and concern warred within her. "Then your silence will be my death."

She dropped the loaf on the ground, turned and left, walking too fast, not looking back. Merlin pushed the loaf toward Ciar. The dog whined and thumped his tail, and ate the bread. Merlin hoped that Sister Agnes saw this, or that one of her sisters did, and would tell her truly, but could not turn his head to see.

Another day and another dragged past. He shivered uncontrollably now, as if a fever wracked him. His cloak only dried slowly. Hunger and thirst became dull aches within him. His legs alternated between a cold numbness and a storm of prickling and heat burning through them as if his blood were made of pins. When darkness enveloped the world, the wolves moved closer now, and he could see their eyes shining in the bracken that edged the forest. Ciar's hackles rose and he barked sharply, stalking forward, warning them with his bulk. They crept away, but they would return. Both master and hound knew it, but there was nothing to be done. Merlin dozed fitfully in the frigid darkness, dreaming many strange and troubling dreams, only to pry his eyes open at the grey dawn and Ciar's bark, and look up.

Sister Agnes stood before him, her square face white and pinched. Her brown cloak was laced tightly against the cold, and she bit her lips as she looked down at him. She carried a bowl of water, a haunch of bread and a blanket of undyed wool in her hands.

With a groan, Merlin pushed himself into a sitting position, and dropped one hand across his staff. To his shame he was not sure he had the strength to lift it if he had the need. The relentless cold had robbed him of all such power. It seared a path down to his lungs even now as he tried to breathe.

Agnes knelt beside him, laying the things she'd brought in her lap. She made no greeting, but only leaned close to him. "Is it true what you said? It is only the voice that keeps her from God?"

Merlin nodded, and his trembling increased.

"I have prayed long over this." She bit her lips again. "I sin, no matter what I do, but if what you say is so, then I cannot let my mother and teacher die without baptism when my actions might bring her to God." Her voice eased and strengthened. "I will tell you what I know."

"All you know?" he whispered. "You swear it?"

"All I know, and I do swear."

Merlin closed his eyes and reached one shaking hand for the water bowl she brought. He drank long of the clear water as Sister Agnes threw the warm blanket about his shoulders. She helped him tear and soften the bread so that he might eat of it. Slowly, the strength returned to his limbs and the clarity of thought to his mind.

When his trembling had ceased, Sister Agnes, bent close to him, whispering so that only he could hear. "This is what she told me, and I swear before God this is the whole of it. She told me that atop the tallest mountain of Beanncarrig, there stands an ancient tomb. Anyone who stands inside at dawn on the day of the new year will see a door. At that moment any who asks for entry in the name of the one who raised the tomb will be able to open that door and follow the path downward. He will pass three more rooms, and three more doors. The first is opened with a truth, the second with a lie, the third with all he has. Inside the last room is the voice and the blessing, and all questions will be answered there."

Merlin closed his eyes, in weariness and in gratitude. "Thank you, Sister Agnes," he murmured. "May God bless you."

She gathered up the bowl and blanket, all of her uncertainty coming over her again. "Come to me on your return and tell me I may go minister to my old teacher." She stood hastily, making to depart. To pray, Merlin thought, to try to make peace with what she had done.

"Will you care for my dog?" Merlin asked abruptly. "He cannot follow the road I must take."

She looked at the great black hound, thinking perhaps of the geese and the sheep, but also of the wolves that howled in the night. She nodded. "Go with God then."

"I thank you, Sister."

Leaning on his staff, Merlin got himself to his feet. With only slightly more difficulty, he persuaded Ciar to follow Agnes through the gate. He watched them both go with something like regret, but then turned his face westward, looking toward the taller mountains waiting there.

With a sigh, Merlin began once more to walk.

* * *

It was a long walk, for he must husband his strength. But the cold that was deepening the sky and the wind both told him the eve of the new year quickly approached. With this knowledge driving him, Merlin hurried as much as he dared. He clambered over the rocky slopes by day, finding much to drink but little to eat. He lay down beneath thick blankets of leaves at night and woke to find frost on his hood and ice in the streams that sustained him. Cold stiffened his hands and his legs. His breath came out in white clouds when the weather was clear, and in harsh gasps when the rain poured down. There were none up here to witness his passage, but neither were there any to offer him shelter. By his art he had fire at night, but not all the power he knew could keep the rain from his back without a roof and the higher he climbed, the more sparse the forest became, until there were not even branches nor leaves to help shelter him.

Bent almost double from the steepness of the climb, Merlin came at last to the height of Beanncarrig to see the tomb just where Agnes said it would be. It was an ancient place, sturdily built after the pattern of the dwellings of the living-a huge round house of stone with a conical roof of timbers, lime and slate. A stone cross thick with carvings of knots and ribbons stood before it, but that was a new thing compared to the tomb itself, and the carvings on its walls showed as much. Here were the ribbons and the knots, but no sign of cross or Christ. On the sides of the tomb Merlin found the white mare and the raven, the salmon, the bull and the boar. The horned god held court there and the goddess rode in her chariot.

If there had once been a portal set in the stone threshold, it had long since rotted away. In its place now waited two tangled thorn bushes, their barbs thrusting outward. Merlin broke off a small twig from one and tucked it into his sleeve as he made his way between them, careful to break no other branch nor tear off any of the dying leaves.

Inside the tomb was only darkness. The clouds hung so low and so thick outside, no sun streamed through the doorway. The air was dank, still and cool, with only the lightest draft to touch its fingers to the back of Merlin's neck. Before him in the gloom, he saw the dead.

They lined the walls laid out in carved niches, three high. Their names had been carved there in the oldest runes of all. They had been there as long as the tomb, these corpses, and now were nothing more than bones beneath shrouds that a breath would have turned to a shower of dust. Still, they waited, grey bones, ruined cloth and empty eyes. Here and there a jewel flashed or a ring of gold on finger bone or wrist. Merlin touched none of this. By his art, he made himself a fire and sat beside it. He ate some of the nuts and withered apples he had gathered on the lower slopes, and then stretched out before the doorway to sleep. He missed Ciar's solid warmth beside him but rolled himself in his cloak and let exhaustion carry him away.

The hooting of the first owl woke Merlin at dusk. He came to himself instantly, and picked up his staff. The owl called again, a low, warning sound. He quenched his fire and faced the doorway. The wind had picked up outside, rattling the thorns in front of him and sending a new draft to wrap around his throat and ankles. The owl called once more, searching, hunting.

Behind him, the dead rustled beneath their shrouds. Bone clicked against bone, skulls in their niches ground their jaws. The wind picked up their fear as if it were smoke and brushed it against Merlin's skin. It was old fear with roots that pushed their way beneath his skin.

"Rest, my friends," said Merlin kindly. "Rest, all of you. It is not time to rise yet."

It calls us, said the dead in their silent way. The root of their fear grew thicker, fear of being called away, of being lost, forever lost, they who truly knew what eternity meant.

"That call is not for you," Merlin told them, taking firm hold of his staff. "Sleep now. You have earned that sleep."

Slowly the clatter faded and the rustling turned again to silence. A wolf howled in the distance and Merlin lifted his head to the sound. "Not here. Not tonight," he said to the darkness. "Find some other to steal. Tonight, all sleep here under my protection."

And neither beast nor bird spoke again in his hearing. The wind was only cold, and the dead settled back to their deep and dreamless sleep.

Merlin kept watch over the doorway, helping the thorns stand guard for that long night. He was still weak from his fast and his long travels, but he kept hold of his staff and did not let sleep claim him. Gradually, he became aware that the world beyond the thorn trees had lightened. He stood, stretching himself and he bowed in greeting to the coming dawn. As if in answer, the sun let loose a single shaft that pierced the tomb. Merlin jumped back from it that he would not divert its course. On the curving western wall, he saw a stone door glowing golden in that single shaft of dawn. With a glad cry, Merlin ran to it at once and pressed his hands to it. He had just time to make out the portal's faint lines, but could see neither latch nor handle.

Then the sun was gone, and his eyes could see nothing but the carved stone wall before him. Beneath his palm, though, he felt the hair fine crack where the door fitted to wall.

Then, he spoke the words he had carried all the way from the West Lands. "In the name of Oisin mac Fionn, son of Fionnn mac Cumhail and Sabha of the leahaun sidhe, son of Cumhal mac Trenmor and Muirne of the white neck, I beg you, open this door and permit me entry."

He took a deep breath, and lowered his hand. He waited one heartbeat, two, three. He waited long enough for fear that he had been hopelessly wrong to seize tight hold.

Then, soundlessly, smoothly, the barrier before him drew back, leaving in its wake a patch of blackness deeper than the night. Merlin swallowed, his knees suddenly weak with relief. Hurriedly, he drew the dagger he had been given from his belt and thrust it deep into the earthen floor beneath the threshold. The dagger was steel, the close kin of cold iron, which was the metal proof against enchantment. Its presence would keep him from the path ahead if he tried to carry it, but left here, it would hold this way open until he returned.

Holding tightly to his staff, Merlin marched forward, and did not look back.

He had no sense of descending. The floor beneath his boots was utterly smooth, as was the curving wall beneath his fingertips when he stretched out his hand. But with each step, he felt the distance between him and all that he had known grow greater beyond all reason. His eyes strained until they ached, and at last he perceived a tiny speck of white like a star in the distance. He walked on. Each step was a league, each breath a day. All his weakness came down upon his shoulders. All behind was darkness, the only light was up ahead.

A new draft of air wafted past him. This too came from the way ahead, but where he expected the odor of earth and mould, he instead found the welcome scents of green and growing things and the warmth that only comes from sunlight. Amazed, Merlin urged his steps forward.

He emerged from the tunnel into a mighty forest at the height of summer. Trees towered on all sides of him. Light fell in long shafts of greenish gold lighting up the ferns and brilliant white and blue blossoms. If this was a cavern, the walls and roof soared so far away they were lost in the sunless light. The air was warm and clear and rich with the scents of the blossoms and the whole living world, but no bird sang, nor was there any other sound of animal life here. The quiet unsettled Merlin, and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Then, the bracken before him cracked and rustled, and a tiny man pushed through the drooping leaves. He was only as tall as Merlin's knee and as brown and twisted as tree roots clothed in moss. Merlin stared, amused, but wary, and his hand did not move from his sword's hilt.

The creature climbed nimbly up onto a rotting stump and squatted there, gazing up at the sorcerer with bright black eyes.

"You cannot pass," he piped shrilly. "Go back the way you came."

Merlin struggled to maintain his countenance, and bowed courteously to the little man. "I beg your pardon and I mean no offense, but I must pass. There is a door beyond here which I must open."

"You cannot pass," the brown man said again. "Go back or I'll set my cat on you!"

"You will do as you must," he answered gravely. "And I will do the same."

Setting his eyes on the way ahead, Merlin walked through the pleasant wood. He felt the gaze of the little man at his back, and he felt the trees lean in close, waiting, it seemed gloating, ready for the entertainment that was to come as he walked more deeply into their presence. The whole wood held its breath around him, silent, expectant.

He had not gone more than ten paces when he heard the little man shout, "Cat! Cat! Here is a mouse for you!"

Overhead, the leaves rustled. Merlin threw himself sideways. His staff spun from his hand, but he let it lie. A black blur dropped into the place where had stood. He righted himself, drawing his sword, the bright bronze blade that had once belonged to a Roman soldier. With only this as a barrier, he found himself face-to-face with a great cat, the size of the lion of Africa, but coal black in color. Its eyes blazed bright green as it snarled at him, showing all its ivory white fangs.

Merlin did not wait for the cat to lunge, instead, he leapt forward, aiming his stroke at the creature's throat. It dodged his blow, agile and quick, screaming at his temerity. Merlin turned and the cat stalked around him, tracking his movement, its hackles raised, watching the strange and dangerous mouse. Merlin lunged again, and this time the cat leapt to meet him, sinking its fangs deep into his shoulder. The sorcerer cried aloud with pain as the cat bore him to the ground, its claws digging deep into his chest and thighs. Blood and pain seared like fire and Merlin screamed to shake the world. But even as he fell he thrust upward with his sword, and that bronze blade found the cat's flesh. Now the beast screamed in agony and outrage. It scrabbled backward, scoring him over and again with its great claws. Merlin lashed out blindly, and the cat screamed once more, and the strange clank of metal against metal rang through the forest.

Breathing hard with the pain and awash in his own blood, Merlin pushed himself to his feet. He stared, his wounded left arm hanging loose at his side. The cat was limping backward. He had wounded it, in the leg and in the side, but instead of blood fat coins of shining gold dropped from those wounds.

Merlin reclaimed his sword. Gritting his teeth hard against the pain, he ran forward three steps and stabbed his blade into the flank of the retreating cat. He slashed sideways, opening a great gash in the black hide. More golden coins poured out, clinking and clanking and shining, raising a scent of hot metal in the forge. More than in the treasury of all the kings of the blessed isle poured out in that grotesque golden fountain. The creature screamed out once more, staggered, and fell dead. Under Merlin's astonished gaze, the black skin began to shrivel and fall back, as if the work of a hundred years beneath the soil was accomplished in a dozen breaths. The two eyes fell from the monster's skull. Each was an emerald the size of a baby's fist. One would have bought the emerald he'd brought to King Berach a thousand times over. Two would buy the whole of the blessed isle. Both now lay among white bones and golden coins.

"Well, it is yours now."

Painfully Merlin turned his head to see the little brown person sitting hunched beside the closed door.

"You've killed my pet, my rare one," the little man said sadly. "I did not think it could be done. Take the gold and leave me to bury her."

"It is not gold I want." Trembling, and gritting his teeth against the pain, Merlin limped back to his staff and reclaimed it. His hands shook, and his legs threatened to give way. He noted, distantly, that the forest floor drank his blood and the cat's just as thirstily.

"Ha! All men want gold."

"No." Merlin shook his head heavily. Pain made his reason swoop and spin within him. The bleeding was bad and he could not feel the staff he held. He needed to rest, to heal himself. But not here. Not yet. "No thing I have ever done has been for gold. Nor will it."

The little man regarded him keenly, and then nodded. "So it is. Go on then, man. See what you have to say to the next you meet." He nodded toward the trees. Now, Merlin could see that the cavern wall was quite close. The veil of hazy golden light had lifted from it, and in the living stone of the wall waited a portal of wood banded with bronze. Even as his blurred eyes made it out, the door fell open to reveal more darkness.

Merlin shuffled forward. His wounded legs did not want to move. His left arm could not hold his staff and he cradled it close to his chest. The blood ran down in scarlet streams and his sight swam before him. It seemed an age before he reached the blessed blinding darkness. There he leaned against the cool wall and did nothing for a moment but breathe and weep from the pain. Then, he made his left hand wrap around his staff with his right. In a harsh, hoarse voice, he spoke certain words known to him.

Fresh pain blasted through him like a lightning stroke. It seized flesh, blood and bone, twisting and compressing them tightly. His heart hammered, and he could neither breathe nor see for a long moment.

Then, it was over. Merlin pushed himself away from the wall. Blood still coated his skin and clothing, but it no longer flowed fresh. Any who had seen him then would have thought him unscathed. But Merlin knew his wounds waited close beneath the surface of his skin. This was no true healing such as only God and time could make, but it would serve for the moment, and enable him to walk again through the darkness, although the pain pulled at him with each step.

After a time that was both far too long and far too brief, light opened again around him. Merlin blinked to behold the new world he entered. Where the chamber before had been a wilderness, this place was a garden. Its tall trees and broad lawn all seemed lovingly tended. A profusion of flowers perfumed the air with a thousands scents. As he stood and breathed them in, Merlin felt his heart lift. The strength of his limbs increased and the pain ebbed away. Apple, plum and cherry trees, all in their fullest blossom grew beside a flowing stream. Within the bower of this delicate grove stood a pavilion made of many colored linens, all patterned with the figure of the white mare. The door of the pavilion had been drawn back to reveal the delicately carved furnishings and rare carpets. On one of these costly couches lay a woman.

"Be welcome, Merlin Ambrosius," she called to him, and her voice was as pure and welcome as water to a man dying of thirst. She was clothed in some fine white cloth that clung to the curves of her body as she rose to stand before him.

"Thank you, my lady." Merlin bowed, feeling strangely clumsy. For a moment, he cursed his wounds that made his movements so stiff and slow. His hand tightened on his staff as he struggled to remember himself.

The lady only smiled and walked forward, holding out both her long, white hands. "Sit and rest," she said, taking his hand in both of hers and drawing him to the couch. "You have come a long way."

"It is a long road yet," he answered. But she only smiled as she turned to the table where a graceful gilded pitcher waited. From it, she poured a wine the color of sunlight into two cups.

"You should drink and refresh yourself." She held out one of the cups.

The scent from the goblet was cool, fresh and sweet. Merlin's mouth watered. He ached, and he knew strength and health lay in that cup. But he only shook his head. "My lady, you know that I cannot."

She raised her dark brows. "You will not," she corrected him regretfully. But she set the cups aside, and instead moved a little closer to him on the couch, close enough that he could tell she was scented like the flowers around them, and that her body was warm as it was fair. "Why not take what is freely offered?"

Merlin found his mouth was dry, and that his pulse beat hard and insistent at the base of his throat. "It is not free, my lady," he made himself say.

She smiled and he could think of nothing else. "Perhaps not. Despite that, I am glad that you have come."

Her eyes were black and deep. Mysteries he would never find anywhere else waited in them. He wanted to touch her hand, and for that moment could not remember why he should not. She would welcome his touch, he was sure of it.

"Why is that?" he heard himself ask.

The lady reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was warm and soft, and where it moved, his ache eased and her warmth seeped into him. "You are brave, and cunning, true and fair. It has been a long time since such as you have walked the road to me. These days I must roam far and wide to find even a shadow of what you bring."

"You flatter me, my lady."

She laughed a little. "Perhaps." She took her hand from his face, touched her fingertips to his. "Does it displease you to hear yourself spoken well of?"

"It displeases no man." He answered her smile. He could do nothing else. He wanted to prolong the gentle merriment in her black eyes, to hear her musical voice, to have her draw closer.

She did draw closer. The scent of herself was more strengthening than any wine could ever be. "And as I have pleased you, Merlin. Will you please me?" she asked softly. Her eyes were bold. Her warmth ran into his veins, strengthening his blood but turning all his flesh weak as water. "Will you accept what I offer? It would please me greatly were you to do so. There is much I could give to you, not only in this place, but when you return to the living world." She took up his hand between her own. Merlin closed his eyes. There was too much, too much in her face so filled with promise, too much in the warmth of her touch. Too much promise in that and in the words that flowed over him. He was drowning and he had no wish to rise above it.

"My grace would be upon you there, were you to accept my gifts now." She kissed him, and the heat of it rushed through him, burning sense and mind away and leaving only bare need, the need to touch, to know, to take and take again, to revel in the touch and scent and voice of her. It had been so long since a woman had come to him, and he ached with such need now that his arms trembled as he pulled her into his embrace, letting his staff fall to the ground. He answered her kiss hungrily, roughly, delighting in the way she yielded herself so eagerly. There was no pain here, only joy, only heart's wish fulfilled more completely than even dreams could make it.

But as he pulled her closer still, the thorn he had placed in his sleeve drove itself into his arm, piercing the flesh and drawing blood. The small pain found its echo on all the others within him, and in that moment, his head cleared and memory returned to him.

Gently, he pulled away, taking both her hands in his and laying them in her lap.

"I cannot do this," he said hoarsely. "It is not love I seek." Tears threatened behind his eyes as he spoke the words. It was as if winter descended into his heart and would never leave it.

She looked at him, and he saw her eyes were wide and green. "Is it not?" She saw his tears, he knew, but she also saw how he did not move.

"No." He shook his head and dropped his gaze. He could not look at her anymore or he would weep like a babe. If he did that, he might seek his comfort in her, and this time he would not have the strength to leave it. "Nor will it be."

He felt more than saw her draw away. Her shadow fell across him as she stood. Cold. Oh, so cold that shadow. "You have spoken a mighty thing here. Be sure you stand by your words, man, for I will not forget them."

He was suffused with pitiless cold now, and all his pains returned to him. His heart beat heavily in his chest, even as he reclaimed his staff. He stood, making his bow as best he could. He kept his gaze lowered, stealing only the briefest of glances toward the lady. Her face was stern now, all her former delight vanished. She stood aside, and waved her fair hand. The door he had known beyond the blossoming trees opened at once. Merlin walked through.

With each step, his weariness grew. His heart within him beat so heavily, it seemed to be made of lead. He could not see the way forward. It was as if his eyes were still dazzled by the beauty of the lady left behind him. He ground his knuckles into his eyes and groaned aloud. Anger rose up from the depths of his soul. So simple a thing, the need of flesh and heart.

It will not defeat me, he told himself. I will not be lost to such a small thing.

One step at a time he forced himself forward. He staggered in the darkness, and his breath came ragged and rushed from his lungs. But he did not fall, and slowly, painfully, he was able to see another golden light flickering before him.

This new place was far different from the others. No paradise, wild or tamed, waited here. It was only a cavern of damp stone and rough earth and Merlin stumbled as he stepped into it, catching himself with his staff. The light was dim, and the stale air smelled of sea salt and rot. In the cavern's center stood a man. He was tall and well built, with arms and hands hardened by much labor. His skin was seamed and tanned as that of someone who stands out of doors on all days, in all weathers. His hair and beard were dark, but his eyes sparkled brightly.

"God be with you, Merlin Ambrosius," his voice echoed strongly against the close walls

Wearily, Merlin straightened himself, clutching his staff. "What are you?" he asked. His voice was harsh, chilled by the winter still within him.

The one before him cocked his head, and shrugged. "A man, as you are."

Anger flowed sluggishly in Merlin's veins. Anger and impatience. He was tired of games played against his life, and of riddling words and tests and trials. His hands hurt, his feet hurt, his king waited for him and he would be done! "I am in no humor for riddles, sir. Who are you?"

The man smiled. "I have had many names, even as you have."

Merlin leaned heavily on his staff. He hurt. His stomach cramped with hunger, and all his efforts weighed down his shoulders. The anger pulsed in his blood, stronger now, anger for all he had to do and all he must do, anger at this . . . this thing standing in front of him. "Choose one and give it me, or stand aside."

The ghost's eyes twinkled at some silent jest. "My father called me Patricus," he said.

The words fell against him as a wholly unexpected blow, and Merlin stared. "They speak in this land of a Christian man named Patrick."

The man nodded. "So they do."

"What would such a one as you be doing in this realm? Should you not be in Heaven?"

"I am where I am needed," Patrick answered simply. "And I have come to stand before you and ask you to turn aside."

Merlin's cold, pained hands gripped his staff more tightly, and it seemed as if the floor shifted beneath him. He had thought himself well prepared for the tests he would meet here, but this he had no expectation of. This he did not understand. "How can this be?"

But Patrick's face only grew grave at his words. "What you do, Merlin Ambrosius, will cause more harm than good."

Merlin shook his head, unable to believe let alone to understand. "What say you?" he cried like a man gone deaf in his old age. "With this act I will break forever the power of the druid and the magic of the pagan in this land. The followers of Christ will spread and multiply, unimpeded. It was one of your own converts who gave me the knowledge of how to come to this place."

The holy man's bright eyes grew dim and distant. "And in so doing she broke the oath she gave to God. Her repentance will be long, and sore." There was no humor in this, no calm acceptance, only a deep regret. Patrick cocked his head, and in his eyes Merlin saw the last thing he had ever expected to encounter in this realm of the otherworld. Pity. Plain, simple human pity. "You have eyes that see, Merlin," he said. "How is it you are still blind?"

Merlin closed those eyes. They burned. They ached. "I am tired, holy Patrick," he said with exhausted honesty. "I am sick and sore, and have endured much to aid my king, my people and my land. I will not turn aside." Merlin rubbed his brow. He could not stand here. What remained of his strength was draining away as his blood had drained from his wounds. His time was short, terribly short, and yet he could not seem to make himself step forward while this shade stood in his way. "Why thwart me? Why leave this power to the druids?"

He expected another riddle, or a quip, but instead the man spoke simply, and as he spoke Merlin felt a different strength surround him. This strength was greater than mountains. It lifted him up. It willed him to understand and to believe. "Because even in its shadow, God's truth is proclaimed. Because there may yet arise in this land one greater than me who could make the voice beyond speak the glory of Christ." Merlin did not know if he moved, or if the shade of Patrick moved, but they were closer together now. Patrick's voice grew soft, soft as conscience, or hope. "How much would that do, if the voice of wisdom the druids hold proclaimed that greater truth? There would be no more doubt or hesitation. All would be done, and it would be done without jeopardizing the faith in the land of my birth, or in yours. Do not do this thing, Merlin Ambrosius."

Merlin smiled, though he swayed on his feet and clutched his white staff. Without it he would fall, and yet he knew he was triumphant. "You lie, little ghost," he said harshly. "No holy man would speak so. If you were in truth who you claim, you would welcome me to rid your land of the voice beyond."

But the shade before him did not waver, nor did it disperse as he had so deeply hoped it would. Instead, it moved even closer, meeting his eyes. He could not look away, no matter how much he wished to do so. "Ask the question, Merlin, the one that you have not dared to ask. Then you will know why I tell you not to do as you say."

Merlin found he could not breathe. His thoughts swirled inside his skull, battering at each other, clawing and clinging together. Patrick stood before him, patient, hopeful. The sorcerer summoned all the will he had left within him and set the challenge aside. It did not matter. It was no part of his deed. It was as meaningless as the gold and the love that he had been offered. Only his task mattered, only his sworn duty, and that the doing of this great thing was wholly in his hands. That was the only truth. There was nothing else and nothing more. Not now.

One by one, Merlin dragged forth the words he must speak. "Will you prevent me from entering this chamber?"

Now it was Patrick who closed his eyes as if in pain. "I have not that power," he said.

"Then stand aside." Merlin raised his staff, holding it before him like a bar. He felt the power of his art rally within him, flowing with his thick, cold blood. "Stand aside!"

Patrick hung his head, and between one eye blink and the next was gone, silently and simply. Merlin stood alone in the cavern, and the light that had no source began to gutter. As swiftly as he could, Merlin hobbled to the last door and laid his palm upon it. It came open at his touch, and he entered the last chamber.

This too was a place of stone and earth. Four torches burned strongly at the four corners of the bier that waited in its center. Green boughs and blossoms strewed the bier, as fresh as if they were laid only yesterday. Perhaps in this place, in this twist and fold of time, it had only been yesterday. It was bitter cold here. Merlin shuffled forward. His breath steamed in the air.

On the bier lay a shrouded man. He had been huge when he stood, a giant among all lesser men. The linen that lay over him was fine enough that through it Merlin could seen his face had been fair and fine. His hair was long and golden. A gold band circled his brow. A torque decorated with bulls circled his throat. Cuffs and rings of gold adorned head and wrist. But he needed no gold to make the beholder see that here lay a king among men. Merlin had stood before greatness, and he knew it well. Even in the stillness of death, he knew it.

"Fionn mac Cumhail," Merlin whispered. The name moved harmlessly through the chamber. The time was not yet. This name might be shouted in this place, and it would not wake the one in front of him. It took far more words than those known to Merlin, or to Sister Agnes, to make a man who slept such a sleep waken, not whole as he was.

Holding his staff in the crook of his arm, Merlin gently drew the shroud down from the face of Fion mac Cumhail. "I am truly sorry, mac Cumhail," said Merlin as he laid the noble face bare. It was perfect as it had been in life. Whatever held him, it was not death as other men would know death. "I would not disturb you, but I have no choice. You hold wisdom that cannot be gained any other way, and what I do, I do for my king. It is a thing you would understand. More than that, though. I have seen far, king of the Fian. If you are left here to whisper your wisdom to those who can find it, your people will rise high, but it would only be to crush mine down. I cannot permit that."

Merlin drew his sword of bloodied bronze and laid it against the throat of the giant on his bier, above the golden torque. He grit his teeth, and raised it up, and with all the strength of arm he had left, he brought the blade down.

And that is how Merlin Ambrosius stole the head of Fionn mac Cumhail and carried it back with him to the aisle of the Britons. There, he washed it in the waters of a certain well and wrapped it with silk and enchantment, and thus he was able to command it to speak to him whenever he had need. In so doing he learned the secrets of making the great stone circle on the plain of kings, and much else besides. And so it was that the men of Eire lost that wisdom for all time and could no more heal heart and self for they had lost the way of building a new heart for their land.

"So ends the tale of the thief of stones."

* * *

The voice of Fion mac Cumhail fell silent. The blank, blue eyes stared past the sorcerer, waiting. Merlin sat alone in his small pavilion with this grim oracle. Beyond the rippling cloth walls, he heard the sounds of the camp; the clank of metal, the rasp of swords, the harsh voices of tired, worried men.

Merlin Ambrosius licked his lips. "And what is the question Merlin was afraid to ask?" he whispered.

Mac Cumhail answered, its voice as flat and expressionless as its cold eyes. "Whether it was Uther Pendragon who would preside over the age of heroes, or another whom he might bring into being."

Such as a son. Merlin covered his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes tight shut against the flickering light, against the shadows that went to and fro outside his tiny shelter that billowed in the wind sweeping down from the hills. When he could master his voice again, he asked harshly, "What else?"

"He never asked what Lasair would do when she felt the voice silenced."

"And what did she do?"

Mac Cumhail's voice was droning, unstoppable, uncaring. "She cursed him. She cursed him by all the names she knew. She cursed so that all he sought to build up by his theft would fall, that all he had seen and could see would never be enough to save what he held dear."

Merlin lifted his gaze and looked at the oracle he had stolen so long ago. He remembered how strong and handsome Fion mac Cumhail had been when he first looked upon the ancient king's form on its bier. No more. The features held suspended in that fold of sleep and time had slackened and turned deathly grey. The eyes were filmed over by visions of the past and future. His need had robbed the severed head of all that made it fair, and given nothing back. Merlin slumped back in his cleverly carved camp chair and looked at the thing he had ruined for its wisdom, the wisdom he had so misused.

What now? he wanted to ask. But he knew well enough that not even mac Cumhail could answer that simple question. What now?

"My lord?" called a tentative voice from outside his pavilion. Few soldiers in Uther's army would come up to Merlin's door, even when it was just a length of cloth. "My lord? He . . . you're sent for, my lord."

Merlin laid his hand over Fionn mac Cumhail's eyes, closing them. The oracle fell silent and Merlin, shuffling, (like an old man), lifted the oracle and returned him to the casket of sweet-smelling wood. He closed the lid and carefully fastened the silver latch. Then, he straightened himself. His knees ached. His back hurt. Like an old man.

I am an old man. Older than I should be. Older than when I came in here to seek the council that I neglected before.

With his staff as his support, Merlin walked through the camp. The soldiers turned their heads to watch him. Conversation fell away as he approached and picked up again softly as he passed. Gossip. Rumor. From the corner of his eye, he saw how men nodded meaningfully toward the great slabs of stone that surrounded them all. The stones he had raised with the wisdom of Fion mac Cumhail. The stones that were supposed to save Uther, the king, from his greatest fear.

Not that any of the muttering soldiers knew that much. They only knew their king was dying. Someone, somehow, had poisoned him, as his brother had been poisoned, and as his father had been.

The guards on duty beside the great pavilion saluted Merlin as he entered. He pushed his way beneath the loose-hanging cloth to see Uther stretched out on his bed. The king's hands trembled and twitched on the black bear pelt that covered him to his chin. The sweat had dried on his brow, making his skin dull and pallid, but his eyes shone fever-bright in the flickering firelight. Pale, golden Ygraine sat beside him, and the fury in her eyes lanced through Merlin as he knelt on his stiff knees to make his duty to the man who was lord and king to them both.

Uther drew in one rasping, rattling breath. "Sit and talk awhile with me, Merlin."

Merlin opened his mouth, but Ygraine spoke more swiftly. "You should rest, my husband."

The king turned his head, and, with some effort, twitched his mouth into a smile for his wife. His too-bright gaze lingered on her white, taut face, and then drifted down to her belly swollen with child beneath her ochre red gown. "I will do that soon enough, beloved. I would talk until then." He swallowed. His beard was flecked with spit, and with blood. "Tell me of my son, Merlin," he croaked, and the sentence ended in a racking cough. Ygraine reached for him, but Uther lifted two fingers and she let her hands fall. "Tell me what you see for the child she carries," he said.

Merlin twisted his staff in his hands, remembering Sister Agnes, and how she twisted her hands, not wanting the truth to be what it was, wishing he had never come to make her speak the words she held within her. How he understood that now. "He will complete all that you have begun," said Merlin to his king. "He will fight twelve battles that will become legend. His reign will be called a golden age, and his name will be on the tongues of men for generations to come. He will rule surrounded by loyalty and love, and he will be deserving of all."

Again, haltingly, the king's mouth spread into a smile. He lifted one gaunt hand, and Ygraine, despite the fullness of her belly dropped to her knees beside him and gripped that hand. "There," whispered Uther. "There, you see Ygraine? It has not been in vain. Not if it brings such a life into the world."

But Ygraine made no answer. She only clutched her lord's hand and stared at Merlin with her hatred blazing in her eyes. Men spoke of rape and treachery and the inconstancy of women when Ygraine's back was turned, but a few knew the truth. Ygraine and Uther had loved strongly since Goloris had paraded his new war bride before his fellow lordings. They buried their secret deep lest Goloris doubt the parentage of her twin daughters. But Ygraine flew to Uther's arms when he came to her. Despite all Merlin's disguises, which fooled soldier, lord, and keen-eyed mercenary, Ygraine had known exactly who came to free her from the prison of Tintagel.

And it seemed to Merlin that she knew now exactly who had failed him so badly this time.

"You should rest now, Lord King," Merlin said, and his voice cracked. He stood. "Let your lady wife comfort you."

Turning swiftly, Merlin all but stumbled out of the tent and past the guard. Outside, he drew in a deep breath of night air, filled with the scents of forge and fire, of men and horses. The whole of the army had encamped on the plain; a city's worth of men and horses making a defensive ring within the fence of the great stones. This place was meant to be the answer for Uther's only fear. Poison could not be brought here, nor heart of evil intent. This was a sacred place, a fortress for the true man and true heart. This was the place where the mind of Heaven might be plainly seen if one had but sharp enough eyes.

Even the light of so many torches and fires could not dim the diamond brilliance of the stars overhead, each one a messenger of Heaven carrying its own spark of destiny. These million sparks spread out from around the waning moon and looked down upon him. The mind of Heaven, seeing as well as being seen.

Merlin had known his error. He had known since the child began to quicken within Ygraine, whom he had helped Uther to rescue from Goloris. Until then, he had thought this place built on wisdom, but it was built only on the cold foundation of a destiny he had failed to see. Failed to see because he had not wanted to. Oh, he could gain all the answers that man could have, but only if he asked the right questions, and in that asking, it seemed he was as vain and as blind as any other mortal.

Forgive me, he said to the darkness, the stars, but who it was he begged forgiveness from he did not know. There were so many wronged. Forgive me.

But the stars had no answer. Neither did the stones that cast their long shadows in the light of moon and fire. And yet, nothing had changed. All the reading found in the ethereal and the invisible was as it had been ten years ago. It was only his failed understanding that had changed.

"Merlin."

The sorcerer winced at the sound of his own name and turned. There stood Ygraine. She was stark white. Grief had all but washed the beauty from her. Her strength remained though, honed sharp by love.

Ygraine laid her hand against her belly. "Is it as you said? Of our son?"

Merlin bowed his head. "I have done many things my lady, but I have not lied to him, or to you."

She stood there for a long moment. He could not make himself look into her face, but he could not fail to hear her breathing, ragged, harsh and filled with the pain she would not let herself release. You should cry, my lady. Set that pain free. Do not push it into your child.

Ygraine drew in one more deep breath and let it out again slowly. "Then, I have a command from our king to lay before you."

These words lifted Merlin's gaze and Ygraine met it stonily. He could see nothing past the surface of her blue eyes. Nothing at all. "What command, my lady?"

She took a deep breath again, stroking her own belly, calming the child within her. "You will kneel before me," she said, her voice was as cold and final as a curse. "You will take an oath to the child in my belly that you will be beside him always. Never will you leave him. All you do will be to guide and protect him until he rises to the kingship his father must now abandon."

Merlin heard these words and they rooted him to the ground. He wanted to cry out against her lie. This was no command of Uther's. This was hers alone. He could not see it, but he knew it. Those words of confrontation would not come to him. He could only plead. "No, my lady. Do not so condemn your son."

Grim faced, she came toward him. "Merlin Ambrosius, you do not get to abandon us in your guilt and fear. You will stay, and you will do this thing, or I will go and proclaim it through this camp that it was your hand that poisoned Uther Pendragon, for no other could break the blessing of the stones. Then, I will stand back and let the mob have you."

He looked into her eyes, and saw there the rage born of grief. She was near to breaking; Ygraine had already endured so much. She knew that it was only her body that protected Uther's son. She surely knew that the hand which poisoned the king would easily do as much to this son, who bore no name yet, but already had a destiny written over the future in lines of fire.

There, caught between the flickering torchlight and midnight's darkness, with the doomed camp going blindly about its business, Merlin knelt. He laid his crooked hand on Ygraine's warm belly.

"I swear," he whispered. "I swear that all my life shall be to protect and aid the son of Uther Pendragon. I swear that he shall have nothing but the best of my service as long as I walk this earth, and afterwards if it is so permitted."

As he spoke, visions flashed before him, as swift and sharp as memory; the stripling boy leaping up on the stone, holding aloft the shining sword; the flash and fury of battle with that boy riding through it proud as a ship on the storm-tossed sea; the grey-eyed woman on her white horse dismounting to take the hands of the young king; the black-haired sorceress; the warrior who shone like bronze, the cup of iron, the sound of harps, the clash of swords. Too much to hold in one mind, too much to be compassed by a single age, all the years of mankind, and through them all he rode.

Merlin rose shaking. He turned away from Ygraine and walked into the darkness. When he stood beneath the square arch of stones and could no more feel the heat of the fires on his back, he bowed his head.

Hoarsely, hesitantly, Merlin Ambrosius began to weep.

And in his weeping he did not know that Ygraine's labors had begun, nor did he see the comet arching overhead to herald the birth of the new king.

* * *

Sarah Zettel is the author of many novels and short stories.

Light of Other Days

Written by Bob Shaw
Illustrated by Paul Campbell

Leaving the village behind, we followed the heady sweeps of the road up into a land of slow glass.

I had never seen one of the farms before and at first found them slightly eerie—an effect heightened by imagination and circumstance. The car's turbine was pulling smoothly and quietly in the damp air so that we seemed to be carried over the convolutions of the road in a kind of supernatural silence. On our right the mountain sifted down into an incredibly perfect valley of timeless pine, and everywhere stood the great frames of slow glass, drinking light. An occasional flash of afternoon sunlight on their wind bracing created an illusion of movement, but in fact the frames were deserted. The rows of windows had been standing on the hillside for years, staring into the valley, and men only cleaned them in the middle of the night when their human presence would not matter to the thirsty glass.

They were fascinating, but Selina and I didn't mention the windows. I think we hated each other so much we both were reluctant to sully anything new by drawing it into the nexus of our emotions. The holiday, I had begun to realize, was a stupid idea in the first place. I had thought it would cure everything, but, of course, it didn't stop Selina being pregnant and, worse still, it didn't even stop her being angry about being pregnant.

Rationalizing our dismay over her condition, we had circulated the usual statements to the effect that we would have liked having children—but later on, at the proper time. Selina's pregnancy had cost us her well-paid job and with it the new house we had been negotiating and which was far beyond the reach of my income from poetry. But the real source of our annoyance was that we were face to face with the realization that people who say they want children later always mean they want children never. Our nerves were thrumming with the knowledge that we, who had thought ourselves so unique, had fallen into the same biological trap as every mindless rutting creature which ever existed.

The road took us along the southern slopes of Ben Cruachan until we began to catch glimpses of the gray Atlantic far ahead. I had just cut our speed to absorb the view better when I noticed the sign spiked to a gatepost. It said: "SLOW GLASS—Quality High, Prices Low—J. R. Hagan." On an impulse I stopped the car on the verge, wincing slightly as tough grasses whipped noisily at the bodywork.

"Why have we stopped?" Selina's neat, smoke-silver head turned in surprise.

"Look at that sign. Let's go up and see what there is. The stuff might be reasonably priced out here."

Selina's voice was pitched high with scorn as she refused, but I was too taken with my idea to listen. I had an illogical conviction that doing something extravagant and crazy would set us right again.

"Come on," I said, "the exercise might do us some good. We've been driving too long anyway."

She shrugged in a way that hurt me and got out of the car. We walked up a path made of irregular, packed clay steps nosed with short lengths of sapling. The path curved through trees which clothed the edge of the hill and at its end we found a low farmhouse. Beyond the little stone building tall frames of slow glass gazed out towards the voice-stilling sight of Cruachan's ponderous descent towards the waters of Loch Linnhe. Most of the panes were perfectly transparent but a few were dark, like panels of polished ebony.

As we approached the house through a neat cobbled yard a tall middle-aged man in ash-colored tweeds arose and waved to us. He had been sitting on the low rubble wall which bounded the yard, smoking a pipe and staring towards the house. At the front window of the cottage a young woman in a tangerine dress stood with a small boy in her arms, but she turned disinterestedly and moved out of sight as we drew near.

"Mr. Hagan?" I guessed.

"Correct. Come to see some glass, have you? Well, you've come to the right place." Hagan spoke crisply, with traces of the pure highland which sounds so much like Irish to the unaccustomed ear. He had one of those calmly dismayed faces ones finds on elderly road-menders and philosophers.

"Yes," I said. "We're on holiday. We saw your sign."

Selina, who usually has a natural fluency with strangers, said nothing. She was looking towards the now empty window with what I thought was a slightly puzzled expression.

"Up from London, are you? Well, as I said, you've come to the right place—and at the right time, too. My wife and I don't see many people this early in the season."

I laughed. "Does that mean we might be able to buy a little glass without mortgaging our home?"

"Look at that now," Hagan said, smiling helplessly. "I've thrown away any advantage I might have had in the transaction. Rose, that's my wife, says I never learn. Still, let's sit down and talk it over." He pointed at the rubble wall then glanced doubtfully at Selina's immaculate blue skirt. "Wait till I fetch a rug from the house." Hagan limped quickly into the cottage, closing the door behind him.

"Perhaps it wasn't such a marvelous idea to come up here," I whispered to Selina, "but you might at least be pleasant to the man. I think I can smell a bargain."

"Some hope," she said with deliberate coarseness. "Surely even you must have noticed that ancient dress his wife is wearing? He won't give much away to strangers."

"Was that his wife?"

"Of course that was his wife."

"Well, well," I said, surprised. "Anyway, try to be civil with him. I don't want to be embarrassed."

Selina snorted, but she smiled whitely when Hagan reappeared and I relaxed a little. Strange how a man can love a woman and yet at the same time pray for her to fall under a train.

Hagan spread a tartan blanket on the wall and we sat down, feeling slightly self-conscious at having been translated from our city-oriented lives into a rural tableau. On the distant slate of the Loch, beyond the watchful frames of slow glass, a slow-moving steamer drew a white line towards the south. The boisterous mountain air seemed almost to invade our lungs, giving us more oxygen than we required.

"Some of the glass farmers around here," Hagan began, "give strangers, such as yourselves, a sales talk about how beautiful the autumn is in this part of Argyll. Or it might be the spring, or the winter. I don't do that—any fool knows that a place which doesn't look right in summer never looks right. What do you say?"

I nodded compliantly.

"I want you just to take a good look out towards Mull, Mr. . . ."

"Garland."

". . . Garland. That's what you're buying if you buy my glass, and it never looks better than it does at this minute. The glass is in perfect phase, none of it is less than ten years thick—and a four-foot window will cost you two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred!" Selina was shocked. "That's as much as they charge at the Scenedow shop in Bond Street."

Hagan smiled patiently, then looked closely at me to see if I knew enough about slow glass to appreciate what he had been saying. His price had been much higher than I had hoped—but ten years thick! The cheap glass one found in places like the Vistaplex and Pane-o-rama stores usually consisted of a quarter of an inch of ordinary glass faced with a veneer of slow glass perhaps only ten or twelve months thick.

"You don't understand, darling," I said, already determined to buy. "This glass will last ten years and it's in phase."

"Doesn't that only mean it keeps time?"

Hagan smiled at her again, realizing he had no further necessity to bother with me. "Only, you say! Pardon me, Mrs. Garland, but you don't seem to appreciate the miracle, the genuine honest-to-goodness miracle, of engineering precision needed to produce a piece of glass in phase. When I say the glass is ten years thick it means it takes light ten years to pass through it. In effect, each one of those panes is ten light-years thick—more than twice the distance to the nearest star—so a variation in actual thickness of only a millionth of an inch would . . ."

He stopped talking for a moment and sat quietly looking towards the house. I turned my head from the view of the Loch and saw the young woman standing at the window again. Hagan's eyes were filled with a kind of greedy reverence which made me feel uncomfortable and at the same time convinced me Selina had been wrong. In my experience husbands never looked at wives that way, at least, not at their own.

The girl remained in view for a few seconds, dress glowing warmly, then moved back into the room. Suddenly I received a distinct, though inexplicable, impression she was blind. My feeling was that Selina and I were perhaps blundering through an emotional interplay as violent as our own.

"I'm sorry," Hagan continued, "I thought Rose was going to call me for something. Now, where was I, Mrs. Garland? Ten light-years compressed into a quarter of an inch means . . ."

I ceased to listen, partly because I was already sold, partly because I had heard the story of slow glass many times before and had never yet understood the principles involved. An acquaintance with scientific training had once tried to be helpful by telling me to visualize a pane of slow glass as a hologram which did not need coherent light from a laser for the reconstitution of its visual information, and in which every photon of ordinary light passed through a spiral tunnel coiled outside the radius of capture of each atom in the glass. This gem of, to me, incomprehensibility not only told me nothing, it convinced me once again that a mind should concern itself less with causes than effects.

The most important effect, in the eyes of the average individual, was that light took a long time to pass through a sheet of slow glass. A new piece was always jet black because nothing had yet come through, but one could stand the glass beside, say, a woodland lake until the scene emerged, perhaps a year later. If the glass was then removed and installed in a dismal city flat, the flat would—for that year—appear to overlook the woodland lake. During the year it wouldn't be merely a very realistic but still picture—the water would ripple in sunlight, silent animals would come to drink, birds would cross the sky, night would follow day, season would follow season. Until one day, a year later, the beauty held in the subatomic pipelines would be exhausted and the familiar gray cityscape would reappear.

Apart from its stupendous novelty value, the commercial success of slow glass was founded on the fact that having a scenedow was the exact emotional equivalent of owning land. The meanest cave dweller could look out on misty parks—and who was to say they weren't his? A man who really owns tailored gardens and estates doesn't spend his time proving his ownership by crawling on his ground, feeling, smelling, tasting it. All he receives from the land are light patterns, and with scenedows those patterns could be taken into coal mines, submarines, prison cells.

On several occasions I have tried to write short pieces about the enchanted crystal, but, to me, the theme is so ineffably poetic as to be, paradoxically, beyond the reach of poetry—mine at any rate. Besides, the best songs and verse had already been written, with prescient inspiration, by men who had died long before slow glass was discovered. I had no hope of equaling, for example, Moore with his:

Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light,
Of other days around me . . .

It took only a few years for slow glass to develop from a scientific curiosity to a sizable industry. And much to the astonishment of we poets—those of us who remain convinced that beauty lives though lilies die—the trappings of that industry were no different from those of any other. There were good scenedows which cost a lot of money, and there were inferior scenedows, which cost rather less. The thickness, measured in years, was an important factor in the cost but there was also the question of actual thickness, or phase.

Even with the most sophisticated engineering techniques available thickness control was something of a hit-and-miss affair. A coarse discrepancy could mean that a pane intended to be five years thick might be five and a half, so that light which entered in summer emerged in winter; a fine discrepancy could mean that noon sunshine emerged at midnight. These incompatibilities had their peculiar charm—many night workers, for example, liked having their own private time zones—but, in general, it cost more to buy scenedows which kept closely in step with real time.

* * *

Selina still looked unconvinced when Hagan had finished speaking. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and I knew he had been using the wrong approach. Quite suddenly the pewter helmet of her hair was disturbed by a cool gust of wind, and huge clean tumbling drops of rain began to spang round us from an almost cloudless sky.

"I'll give you a check now," I said abruptly, and saw Selina's green eyes triangulate angrily on my face. "You can arrange delivery?"

"Aye, delivery's no problem," Hagan said, getting to his feet. "But wouldn't you rather take the glass with you?"

"Well, yes—if you don't mind." I was shamed by his readiness to trust my scrip.

"I'll unclip a pane for you. Wait here. It won't take long to slip it into a carrying frame." Hagan limped down the slope towards the seriate windows, through some of which the view towards Linnhe was sunny, while others were cloudy and a few pure black.

Selina drew the collar of her blouse closed at her throat. "The least he could have done was invite us inside. There can't be so many fools passing through that he can afford to neglect them."

I tried to ignore the insult and concentrated on writing the check. One of the outsize drops broke across my knuckles, splattering the pink paper.

"All right," I said, "let's move in under the eaves till he gets back." You worm, I thought as I felt the whole thing go completely wrong. I just had to be a fool to marry you. A prize fool, a fool's fool—and now that you've trapped part of me inside you I'll never ever, never ever, never ever get away.

Feeling my stomach clench itself painfully, I ran behind Selina to the side of the cottage. Beyond the window the neat living room, with its coal fire, was empty but the child's toys were scattered on the floor. Alphabet blocks and a wheelbarrow the exact color of freshly pared carrots. As I stared in, the boy came running from the other room and began kicking the blocks. He didn't notice me. A few moments later the young woman entered the room and lifted him, laughing easily and wholeheartedly as she swung the boy under her arm. She came to the window as she had done earlier. I smiled self-consciously, but neither she nor the child responded.

My forehead prickled icily. Could they both be blind? I sidled away.

Selina gave a little scream and I spun towards her.

"The rug!" she said. "It's getting soaked."

She ran across the yard in the rain, snatched the reddish square from the dappling wall and ran back, towards the cottage door. Something heaved convulsively in my subconscious.

"Selina," I shouted. "Don't open it!"

But I was too late. She had pushed open the latched wooden door and was standing, hand over mouth, looking into the cottage. I moved close to her and took the rug from her unresisting fingers.

As I was closing the door I let my eyes traverse the cottage's interior. The neat living room in which I had just seen the woman and child was, in reality, a sickening clutter of shabby furniture, old newspapers, cast-off clothing and smeared dishes. It was damp, stinking and utterly deserted. The only object I recognized from my view through the window was the little wheelbarrow, paintless and broken.

I latched the door firmly and ordered myself to forget what I had seen. Some men who live alone are good housekeepers; others just don't know how.

Selina's face was white. "I don't understand. I don't understand it."

"Slow glass works both ways," I said gently. "Light passes out of a house, as well as in."

"You mean . . . ?"

"I don't know. It isn't our business. Now steady up—Hagan's coming back with our glass." The churning in my stomach was beginning to subside.

Hagan came into the yard carrying an oblong, plastic-covered frame. I held the check out to him, but he was staring at Selina's face. He seemed to know immediately that our uncomprehending fingers had rummaged through his soul. Selina avoided his gaze. She was old and ill-looking, and her eyes stared determinedly towards the nearing horizon.

"I'll take the rug from you, Mr. Garland," Hagan finally said. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself over it."

"No trouble. Here's the check."

\"Thank you." He was still looking at Selina with a strange kind of supplication. "It's been a pleasure to do business with you."

"The pleasure was mine," I said with equal, senseless formality. I picked up the heavy frame and guided Selina towards the path which led to the road. Just as we reached the head of the now slippery steps Hagan spoke again.

"Mr. Garland!"

I turned unwillingly.

"It wasn't my fault," he said steadily. "A hit-and-run driver got them both, down on the Oban road six years ago. My boy was only seven when it happened. I'm entitled to keep something."

I nodded wordlessly and moved down the path, holding my wife close to me, treasuring the feel of her arms locked around me. At the bend I looked back through the rain and saw Hagan sitting with squared shoulders on the wall where we had first seen him.

He was looking at the house, but I was unable to tell if there was anyone at the window.

* * *

Bob Shaw was the author of many novels and short stories. He died in 1996.

CLASSICS

The Facts Concerning The Recent Carnival Of Crime In Connecticut

Written by Mark Twain
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and just then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through and through me. It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the person I loved and honored most in all the world, outside of my own household. She had been my boyhood's idol; maturity, which is fatal to so many enchantments, had not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal; no, it had only justified her right to be there, and placed her dethronement permanently among the impossibilities. To show how strong her influence over me was, I will observe that long after everybody else's "do-stop-smoking" had ceased to affect me in the slightest degree, Aunt Mary could still stir my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the matter. But all things have their limit in this world. A happy day came at last, when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me. I was not merely glad to see that day arrive; I was more than glad—I was grateful; for when its sun had set, the one alloy that was able to mar my enjoyment of my aunt's society was gone. The remainder of her stay with us that winter was in every way a delight. Of course she pleaded with me just as earnestly as ever, after that blessed day, to quit my pernicious habit, but to no purpose whatever; the moment she opened the subject I at once became calmly, peacefully, contentedly indifferent—absolutely, adamantinely indifferent. Consequently the closing weeks of that memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a dream, they were so freighted for me with tranquil satisfaction. I could not have enjoyed my pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a smoker herself, and an advocate of the practice. Well, the sight of her handwriting reminded me that I was getting very hungry to see her again. I easily guessed what I should find in her letter. I opened it. Good! just as I expected; she was coming! Coming this very day, too, and by the morning train; I might expect her any moment.

I said to myself, "I am thoroughly happy and content now. If my most pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment, I would freely right any wrong I may have done him."

Straightway the door opened, and a shriveled, shabby dwarf entered. He was not more than two feet high. He seemed to be about forty years old. Every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape; and so, while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say, "This is a conspicuous deformity," the spectator perceived that this little person was a deformity as a whole—a vague, general, evenly blended, nicely adjusted deformity. There was a fox-like cunning in the face and the sharp little eyes, and also alertness and malice. And yet, this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote and ill-defined resemblance to me! It was dully perceptible in the mean form, the countenance, and even the clothes, gestures, manner, and attitudes of the creature. He was a farfetched, dim suggestion of a burlesque upon me, a caricature of me in little. One thing about him struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly: he was covered all over with a fuzzy, greenish mold, such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread. The sight of it was nauseating.

He stepped along with a chipper air, and flung himself into a doll's chair in a very free-and-easy way, without waiting to be asked. He tossed his hat into the waste-basket. He picked up my old chalk pipe from the floor, gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee, filled the bowl from the tobacco-box at his side, and said to me in a tone of pert command:

"Gimme a match!"

I blushed to the roots of my hair; partly with indignation, but mainly because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very like an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been guilty of in my intercourse with familiar friends—but never, never with strangers, I observed to myself. I wanted to kick the pygmy into the fire, but some incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately under his authority forced me to obey his order. He applied the match to the pipe, took a contemplative whiff or two, and remarked, in an irritatingly familiar way:

"Seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year."

I flushed again, and in anger and humiliation as before; for the language was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in my day, and moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an exasperating drawl that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my style. Now there is nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking imitation of my drawling infirmity of speech. I spoke up sharply and said:

"Look here, you miserable ash-cat! you will have to give a little more attention to your manners, or I will throw you out of the window!"

The manikin smiled a smile of malicious content and security, puffed a whiff of smoke contemptuously toward me, and said, with a still more elaborate drawl:

"Come—go gently now; don't put on too many airs with your betters."

This cool snub rasped me all over, but it seemed to subjugate me, too, for a moment. The pygmy contemplated me awhile with his weasel eyes, and then said, in a peculiarly sneering way:

"You turned a tramp away from your door this morning."

I said crustily:

"Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't. How do you know?"

"Well, I know. It isn't any matter how I know."

"Very well. Suppose I did turn a tramp away from the door—what of it?"

"Oh, nothing; nothing in particular. Only you lied to him."

"I didn't! That is, I—"

"Yes, but you did; you lied to him."

I felt a guilty pang—in truth, I had felt it forty times before that tramp had traveled a block from my door—but still I resolved to make a show of feeling slandered; so I said:

"This is a baseless impertinence. I said to the tramp—"

"There—wait. You were about to lie again. I know what you said to him. You said the cook was gone down-town and there was nothing left from breakfast. Two lies. You knew the cook was behind the door, and plenty of provisions behind her."

This astonishing accuracy silenced me; and it filled me with wondering speculations, too, as to how this cub could have got his information. Of course he could have culled the conversation from the tramp, but by what sort of magic had he contrived to find out about the concealed cook? Now the dwarf spoke again:

"It was rather pitiful, rather small, in you to refuse to read that poor young woman's manuscript the other day, and give her an opinion as to its literary value; and she had come so far, too, and so hopefully. Now wasn't it?"

I felt like a cur! And I had felt so every time the thing had recurred to my mind, I may as well confess. I flushed hotly and said:

"Look here, have you nothing better to do than prowl around prying into other people's business? Did that girl tell you that?"

"Never mind whether she did or not. The main thing is, you did that contemptible thing. And you felt ashamed of it afterward. Aha! you feel ashamed of it now!"

This was a sort of devilish glee. With fiery earnestness I responded:

"I told that girl, in the kindest, gentlest way, that I could not consent to deliver judgment upon any one's manuscript, because an individual's verdict was worthless. It might underrate a work of high merit and lose it to the world, or it might overrate a trashy production and so open the way for its infliction upon the world: I said that the great public was the only tribunal competent to sit in judgment upon a literary effort, and therefore it must be best to lay it before that tribunal in the outset, since in the end it must stand or fall by that mighty court's decision anyway."

"Yes, you said all that. So you did, you juggling, small-souled shuffler! And yet when the happy hopefulness faded out of that poor girl's face, when you saw her furtively slip beneath her shawl the scroll she had so patiently and honestly scribbled at—so ashamed of her darling now, so proud of it before—when you saw the gladness go out of her eyes and the tears come there, when she crept away so humbly who had come so—"

"Oh, peace! peace! peace! Blister your merciless tongue, haven't all these thoughts tortured me enough without your coming here to fetch them back again!"

Remorse! remorse! It seemed to me that it would eat the very heart out of me! And yet that small fiend only sat there leering at me with joy and contempt, and placidly chuckling. Presently he began to speak again. Every sentence was an accusation, and every accusation a truth. Every clause was freighted with sarcasm and derision, every slow-dropping word burned like vitriol. The dwarf reminded me of times when I had flown at my children in anger and punished them for faults which a little inquiry would have taught me that others, and not they, had committed. He reminded me of how I had disloyally allowed old friends to be traduced in my hearing, and been too craven to utter a word in their defense. He reminded me of many dishonest things which I had done; of many which I had procured to be done by children and other irresponsible persons; of some which I had planned, thought upon, and longed to do, and been kept from the performance by fear of consequences only. With exquisite cruelty he recalled to my mind, item by item, wrongs and unkindnesses I had inflicted and humiliations I had put upon friends since dead, "who died thinking of those injuries, maybe, and grieving over them," he added, by way of poison to the stab.

"For instance," said he, "take the case of your younger brother, when you two were boys together, many a long year ago. He always lovingly trusted in you with a fidelity that your manifold treacheries were not able to shake. He followed you about like a dog, content to suffer wrong and abuse if he might only be with you; patient under these injuries so long as it was your hand that inflicted them. The latest picture you have of him in health and strength must be such a comfort to you! You pledged your honor that if he would let you blindfold him no harm should come to him; and then, giggling and choking over the rare fun of the joke, you led him to a brook thinly glazed with ice, and pushed him in; and how you did laugh! Man, you will never forget the gentle, reproachful look he gave you as he struggled shivering out, if you live a thousand years! Oh! you see it now, you see it now!"

"Beast, I have seen it a million times, and shall see it a million more! and may you rot away piecemeal, and suffer till doomsday what I suffer now, for bringing it back to me again!"

The dwarf chuckled contentedly, and went on with his accusing history of my career. I dropped into a moody, vengeful state, and suffered in silence under the merciless lash. At last this remark of his gave me a sudden rouse:

"Two months ago, on a Tuesday, you woke up, away in the night, and fell to thinking, with shame, about a peculiarly mean and pitiful act of yours toward a poor ignorant Indian in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains in the winter of eighteen hundred and—"

"Stop a moment, devil! Stop! Do you mean to tell me that even my very thoughts are not hidden from you?"

"It seems to look like that. Didn't you think the thoughts I have just mentioned?"

"If I didn't, I wish I may never breathe again! Look here, friend—look me in the eye. Who are you?"

"Well, who do you think?"

"I think you are Satan himself. I think you are the devil."

"No."

"No? Then who can you be?"

"Would you really like to know?"

"Indeed I would."

"Well, I am your Conscience!"

In an instant I was in a blaze of joy and exultation. I sprang at the creature, roaring:

"Curse you, I have wished a hundred million times that you were tangible, and that I could get my hands on your throat once! Oh, but I will wreak a deadly vengeance on—"

Folly! Lightning does not move more quickly than my Conscience did! He darted aloft so suddenly that in the moment my fingers clutched the empty air he was already perched on the top of the high bookcase, with his thumb at his nose in token of derision. I flung the poker at him, and missed. I fired the bootjack. In a blind rage I flew from place to place, and snatched and hurled any missile that came handy; the storm of books, inkstands, and chunks of coal gloomed the air and beat about the manikin's perch relentlessly, but all to no purpose; the nimble figure dodged every shot; and not only that, but burst into a cackle of sarcastic and triumphant laughter as I sat down exhausted. While I puffed and gasped with fatigue and excitement, my Conscience talked to this effect:

"My good slave, you are curiously witless—no, I mean characteristically so. In truth, you are always consistent, always yourself, always an ass. Other wise it must have occurred to you that if you attempted this murder with a sad heart and a heavy conscience, I would droop under the burdening in influence instantly. Fool, I should have weighed a ton, and could not have budged from the floor; but instead, you are so cheerfully anxious to kill me that your conscience is as light as a feather; hence I am away up here out of your reach. I can almost respect a mere ordinary sort of fool; but you pah!"

I would have given anything, then, to be heavyhearted, so that I could get this person down from there and take his life, but I could no more be heavy-hearted over such a desire than I could have sorrowed over its accomplishment. So I could only look longingly up at my master, and rave at the ill luck that denied me a heavy conscience the only time that I had ever wanted such a thing in my life. By and by I got to musing over the hour's strange adventure, and of course my human curiosity began to work. I set myself to framing in my mind some questions for this fiend to answer. Just then one of my boys entered, leaving the door open behind him, and exclaimed:

"My! what has been going on here? The bookcase is all one riddle of—"

I sprang up in consternation, and shouted:

"Out of this! Hurry! jump! Fly! Shut the door! Quick, or my Conscience will get away!"

The door slammed to, and I locked it. I glanced up and was grateful, to the bottom of my heart, to see that my owner was still my prisoner. I said:

"Hang you, I might have lost you! Children are the heedlessest creatures. But look here, friend, the boy did not seem to notice you at all; how is that?"

"For a very good reason. I am invisible to all but you."

I made a mental note of that piece of information with a good deal of satisfaction. I could kill this miscreant now, if I got a chance, and no one would know it. But this very reflection made me so lighthearted that my Conscience could hardly keep his seat, but was like to float aloft toward the ceiling like a toy balloon. I said, presently:

"Come, my Conscience, let us be friendly. Let us fly a flag of truce for a while. I am suffering to ask you some questions."

"Very well. Begin."

"Well, then, in the first place, why were you never visible to me before?"

"Because you never asked to see me before; that is, you never asked in the right spirit and the proper form before. You were just in the right spirit this time, and when you called for your most pitiless enemy I was that person by a very large majority, though you did not suspect it."

"Well, did that remark of mine turn you into flesh and blood?"

"No. It only made me visible to you. I am unsubstantial, just as other spirits are."

This remark prodded me with a sharp misgiving.

If he was unsubstantial, how was I going to kill him? But I dissembled, and said persuasively:

"Conscience, it isn't sociable of you to keep at such a distance. Come down and take another smoke."

This was answered with a look that was full of derision, and with this observation added:

"Come where you can get at me and kill me? The invitation is declined with thanks."

"All right," said I to myself; "so it seems a spirit can be killed, after all; there will be one spirit lacking in this world, presently, or I lose my guess." Then I said aloud:

"Friend—"

"There; wait a bit. I am not your friend. I am your enemy; I am not your equal, I am your master, Call me 'my lord,' if you please. You are too familiar."

"I don't like such titles. I am willing to call you, sir. That is as far as—"

"We will have no argument about this. Just obey, that is all. Go on with your chatter."

"Very well, my lord—since nothing but my lord will suit you—I was going to ask you how long you will be visible to me?"

"Always!"

I broke out with strong indignation: "This is simply an outrage. That is what I think of it! You have dogged, and dogged, and dogged me, all the days of my life, invisible. That was misery enough, now to have such a looking thing as you tagging after me like another shadow all the rest of my day is an intolerable prospect. You have my opinion my lord, make the most of it."

"My lad, there was never so pleased a conscience in this world as I was when you made me visible. It gives me an inconceivable advantage. Now I can look you straight in the eye, and call you names, and leer at you, jeer at you, sneer at you; and you know what eloquence there is in visible gesture and expression, more especially when the effect is heightened by audible speech. I shall always address you henceforth in your o-w-n s-n-i-v-e-l-i-n-g d-r-a-w-l—baby!"

I let fly with the coal-hod. No result. My lord said:

"Come, come! Remember the flag of truce!"

"Ah, I forgot that. I will try to be civil; and you try it, too, for a novelty. The idea of a civil conscience! It is a good joke; an excellent joke. All the consciences I have ever heard of were nagging, badgering, fault-finding, execrable savages! Yes; and always in a sweat about some poor little insignificant trifle or other—destruction catch the lot of them, I say! I would trade mine for the smallpox and seven kinds of consumption, and be glad of the chance. Now tell me, why is it that a conscience can't haul a man over the coals once, for an offense, and then let him alone? Why is it that it wants to keep on pegging at him, day and night and night and day, week in and week out, forever and ever, about the same old thing? There is no sense in that, and no reason in it. I think a conscience that will act like that is meaner than the very dirt itself."

"Well, We like it; that suffices."

"Do you do it with the honest intent to improve a man?"

That question produced a sarcastic smile, and this reply:

"No, sir. Excuse me. We do it simply because it is 'business.' It is our trade. The purpose of it is to improve the man, but we are merely disinterested agents. We are appointed by authority, and haven't anything to say in the matter. We obey orders and leave the consequences where they belong. But I am willing to admit this much: we do crowd the orders a trifle when we get a chance, which is most of the time. We enjoy it. We are instructed to remind a man a few times of an error; and I don't mind acknowledging that we try to give pretty good measure. And when we get hold of a man of a peculiarly sensitive nature, oh, but we do haze him! I have consciences to come all the way from China and Russia to see a person of that kind put through his paces, on a special occasion. Why, I knew a man of that sort who had accidentally crippled a mulatto baby; the news went abroad, and I wish you may never commit another sin if the consciences didn't flock from all over the earth to enjoy the fun and help his master exorcise him. That man walked the floor in torture for forty-eight hours, without eating or sleeping, and then blew his brains out. The child was perfectly well again in three weeks."

"Well, you are a precious crew, not to put it too strong. I think I begin to see now why you have always been a trifle inconsistent with me. In your anxiety to get all the juice you can out of a sin, you make a man repent of it in three or four different ways. For instance, you found fault with me for lying to that tramp, and I suffered over that. But it was only yesterday that I told a tramp the square truth, to wit, that, it being regarded as bad citizenship to encourage vagrancy, I would give him nothing. What did you do then: Why, you made me say to myself, 'Ah, it would have been so much kinder and more blameless to ease him off with a little white lie, and send him away feeling that if he could not have bread, the gentle treatment was at least something to be grateful for!' Well, I suffered all day about that. Three days before I had fed a tramp, and fed him freely, supposing it a virtuous act. Straight off you said, 'Oh, false citizen, to have fed a tramp!' and I suffered as usual. I gave a tramp work; you objected to it—after the contract was made, of course; you never speak up beforehand. Next, I refused a tramp work; you objected to that. Next, I proposed to kill a tramp; you kept me awake all night, oozing remorse at every pore. Sure I was going to be right this time, I sent the next tramp away with my benediction; and I wish you may live as long as I do, if you didn't make me smart all night again because I didn't kill him. Is there any way of satisfying that malignant invention which is called a conscience?"

"Ha, ha! this is luxury! Go on!"

"But come, now, answer me that question. Is there any way?"

"Well, none that I propose to tell you, my son. Ass! I don't care what act you may turn your hand to, I can straightway whisper a word in your ear and make you think you have committed a dreadful meanness. It is my business—and my joy—to make you repent of everything you do. If I have fooled away any opportunities it was not intentional; I beg to assure you it was not intentional!"

"Don't worry; you haven't missed a trick that I know of. I never did a thing in all my life, virtuous or otherwise, that I didn't repent of in twenty-four hours. In church last Sunday I listened to a charity sermon. My first impulse was to give three hundred and fifty dollars; I repented of that and reduced it a hundred; repented of that and reduced it another hundred; repented of that and reduced it another hundred; repented of that and reduced the remaining fifty to twenty-five; repented of that and came down to fifteen; repented of that and dropped to two dollars and a half; when the plate came around at last, I repented once more and contributed ten cents. Well, when I got home, I did wish to goodness I had that ten cents back again! You never did let me get through a charity sermon without having something to sweat about."

"Oh, and I never shall, I never shall. You can always depend on me."

"I think so. Many and many's the restless night I've wanted to take you by the neck. If I could only get hold of you now!"

"Yes, no doubt. But I am not an ass; I am only the saddle of an ass. But go on, go on. You entertain me more than I like to confess."

"I am glad of that. (You will not mind my lying a little, to keep in practice.) Look here; not to be too personal, I think you are about the shabbiest and most contemptible little shriveled-up reptile that can be imagined. I am grateful enough that you are invisible to other people, for I should die with shame to be seen with such a mildewed monkey of a conscience as you are. Now if you were five or six feet high, and—"

"Oh, come! who is to blame?"

"I don't know."

"Why, you are; nobody else."

"Confound you, I wasn't consulted about your personal appearance."

"I don't care, you had a good deal to do with it, nevertheless. When you were eight or nine years old, I was seven feet high, and as pretty as a picture."

"I wish you had died young! So you have grown the wrong way, have you?"

"Some of us grow one way and some the other. You had a large conscience once; if you've a small conscience now I reckon there are reasons for it. However, both of us are to blame, you and I. You see, you used to be conscientious about a great many things; morbidly so, I may say. It was a great many years ago. You probably do not remember it now. Well, I took a great interest in my work, and I so enjoyed the anguish which certain pet sins of yours afflicted you with that I kept pelting at you until I rather overdid the matter. You began to rebel. Of course I began to lose ground, then, and shrivel a little—diminish in stature, get moldy, and grow deformed. The more I weakened, the more stubbornly you fastened on to those particular sins; till at last the places on my person that represent those vices became as callous as shark-skin. Take smoking, for instance. I played that card a little too long, and I lost. When people plead with you at this late day to quit that vice, that old callous place seems to enlarge and cover me all over like a shirt of mail. It exerts a mysterious, smothering effect; and presently I, your faithful hater, your devoted Conscience, go sound asleep! Sound? It is no name for it. I couldn't hear it thunder at such a time. You have some few other vices—perhaps eighty, or maybe ninety—that affect me in much the same way."

"This is flattering; you must be asleep a good part of your time."

"Yes, of late years. I should be asleep all the time but for the help I get."

"Who helps you?"

"Other consciences. Whenever a person whose conscience I am acquainted with tries to plead with you about the vices you are callous to, I get my friend to give his client a pang concerning some villainy of his own, and that shuts off his meddling and starts him off to hunt personal consolation. My field of usefulness is about trimmed down to tramps, budding authoresses, and that line of goods now; but don't you worry —I'll harry you on theirs while they last! Just you put your trust in me."

"I think I can. But if you had only been good enough to mention these facts some thirty years ago, I should have turned my particular attention to sin, and I think that by this time I should not only have had you pretty permanently asleep on the entire list of human vices, but reduced to the size of a homeopathic pill, at that. That is about the style of conscience I am pining for. If I only had you shrunk down to a homeopathic pill, and could get my hands on you, would I put you in a glass case for a keepsake? No, sir. I would give you to a yellow dog! That is where you ought to be—you and all your tribe. You are not fit to be in society, in my opinion. Now another question. Do you know a good many consciences in this section?"

"Plenty of them."

"I would give anything to see some of them! Could you bring them here? And would they be visible to me?"

"Certainly not."

"I suppose I ought to have known that without asking. But no matter, you can describe them. Tell me about my neighbor Thompson's conscience, please."

"Very well. I know him intimately; have known him many years. I knew him when he was eleven feet high and of a faultless figure. But he is very pasty and tough and misshapen now, and hardly ever interests himself about anything. As to his present size—well, he sleeps in a cigar-box."

"Likely enough. There are few smaller, meaner men in this region than Hugh Thompson. Do you know Robinson's conscience?"

"Yes. He is a shade under four and a half feet high; used to be a blond; is a brunette now, but still shapely and comely."

"Well, Robinson is a good fellow. Do you know Tom Smith's conscience?"

"I have known him from childhood. He was thirteen inches high, and rather sluggish, when he was two years old—as nearly all of us are at that age. He is thirty-seven feet high now, and the stateliest figure in America. His legs are still racked with growing-pains, but he has a good time, nevertheless. Never sleeps. He is the most active and energetic member of the New England Conscience Club; is president of it. Night and day you can find him pegging away at Smith, panting with his labor, sleeves rolled up, countenance all alive with enjoyment. He has got his victim splendidly dragooned now. He can make poor Smith imagine that the most innocent little thing he does is an odious sin; and then he sets to work and almost tortures the soul out of him about it."

"Smith is the noblest man in all this section, and the purest; and yet is always breaking his heart because he cannot be good! Only a conscience could find pleasure in heaping agony upon a spirit like that. Do you know my Aunt Mary's conscience?"

"I have seen her at a distance, but am not acquainted with her. She lives in the open air altogether, because no door is large enough to admit her."

"I can believe that. Let me see. Do you know the conscience of that publisher who once stole some sketches of mine for a 'series' of his, and then left me to pay the law expenses I had to incur in order to choke him off?"

"Yes. He has a wide fame. He was exhibited, a month ago, with some other antiquities, for the benefit of a recent Member of the Cabinet's conscience that was starving in exile. Tickets and fares were high, but I traveled for nothing by pretending to be the conscience of an editor, and got in for half-price by representing myself to be the conscience of a clergyman. However, the publisher's conscience, which was to have been the main feature of the entertainment, was a failure—as an exhibition. He was there, but what of that? The management had provided a microscope with a magnifying power of only thirty thousand diameters, and so nobody got to see him, after all. There was great and general dissatisfaction, of course, but—"

Just here there was an eager footstep on the stair; I opened the door, and my Aunt Mary burst into the room. It was a joyful meeting and a cheery bombardment of questions and answers concerning family matters ensued. By and by my aunt said:

"But I am going to abuse you a little now. You promised me, the day I saw you last, that you would look after the needs of the poor family around the corner as faithfully as I had done it myself. Well, I found out by accident that you failed of your promise. Was that right?"

In simple truth, I never had thought of that family a second time! And now such a splintering pang of guilt shot through me! I glanced up at my Conscience. Plainly, my heavy heart was affecting him. His body was drooping forward; he seemed about to fall from the bookcase. My aunt continued:

"And think how you have neglected my poor protege at the almshouse, you dear, hard-hearted promise-breaker!" I blushed scarlet, and my tongue was tied. As the sense of my guilty negligence waxed sharper and stronger, my Conscience began to sway heavily back and forth; and when my aunt, after a little pause, said in a grieved tone, "Since you never once went to see her, maybe it will not distress you now to know that that poor child died, months ago, utterly friendless and forsaken!" My Conscience could no longer bear up under the weight of my sufferings, but tumbled headlong from his high perch and struck the floor with a dull, leaden thump. He lay there writhing with pain and quaking with apprehension, but straining every muscle in frantic efforts to get up. In a fever of expectancy I sprang to the door, locked it, placed my back against it, and bent a watchful gaze upon my struggling master. Already my fingers were itching to begin their murderous work.

"Oh, what can be the matter!" exclaimed by aunt, shrinking from me, and following with her frightened eyes the direction of mine. My breath was coming in short, quick gasps now, and my excitement was almost uncontrollable. My aunt cried out:

"Oh, do not look so! You appall me! Oh, what can the matter be? What is it you see? Why do you stare so? Why do you work your fingers like that?"

"Peace, woman!" I said, in a hoarse whisper. "Look elsewhere; pay no attention to me; it is nothing—nothing. I am often this way. It will pass in a moment. It comes from smoking too much."

My injured lord was up, wild-eyed with terror, and trying to hobble toward the door. I could hardly breathe, I was so wrought up. My aunt wrung her hands, and said:

"Oh, I knew how it would be; I knew it would come to this at last! Oh, I implore you to crush out that fatal habit while it may yet be time! You must not, you shall not be deaf to my supplications longer!" My struggling Conscience showed sudden signs of weariness! "Oh, promise me you will throw off this hateful slavery of tobacco!" My Conscience began to reel drowsily, and grope with his hands—enchanting spectacle! "I beg you, I beseech you, I implore you! Your reason is deserting you! There is madness in your eye! It flames with frenzy! Oh, hear me, hear me, and be saved! See, I plead with you on my very knees!" As she sank before me my Conscience reeled again, and then drooped languidly to the floor, blinking toward me a last supplication for mercy, with heavy eyes. "Oh, promise, or you are lost! Promise, and be redeemed! Promise! Promise and live!" With a long-drawn sigh my conquered Conscience closed his eyes and fell fast asleep!

With an exultant shout I sprang past my aunt, and in an instant I had my lifelong foe by the throat. After so many years of waiting and longing, he was mine at last. I tore him to shreds and fragments. I rent the fragments to bits. I cast the bleeding rubbish into the fire, and drew into my nostrils the grateful incense of my burnt-offering. At last, and forever, my Conscience was dead!

I was a free man! I turned upon my poor aunt, who was almost petrified with terror, and shouted:

"Out of this with your paupers, your charities, your reforms, your pestilent morals! You behold before you a man whose life-conflict is done, whose soul is at peace; a man whose heart is dead to sorrow, dead to suffering, dead to remorse; a man WITHOUT A CONSCIENCE! In my joy I spare you, though I could throttle you and never feel a pang! Fly!"

She fled. Since that day my life is all bliss. Bliss, unalloyed bliss. Nothing in all the world could persuade me to have a conscience again. I settled all my old outstanding scores, and began the world anew. I killed thirty-eight persons during the first two weeks—all of them on account of ancient grudges. I burned a dwelling that interrupted my view. I swindled a widow and some orphans out of their last cow, which is a very good one, though not thoroughbred, I believe. I have also committed scores of crimes, of various kinds, and have enjoyed my work exceedingly, whereas it would formerly have broken my heart and turned my hair gray, I have no doubt.

In conclusion, I wish to state, by way of advertisement, that medical colleges desiring assorted tramps for scientific purposes, either by the gross, by cord measurement, or per ton, will do well to examine the lot in my cellar before purchasing elsewhere, as these were all selected and prepared by myself, and can be had at a low rate, because I wish to clear out my stock and get ready for the spring trade.

* * *

Mark Twain is one of America's most famous authors, whose work often included elements that would today be considered fantasy or science fiction. (For instance, his novel A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court is a cross between fantasy, time travel, and alternate history.) He died in 1910.

SERIES

The Ancient Ones, Episode 1

Written by David Brin
Illustrated by Rob Dumuhosky

Can anything be more burdensome than maturity? To be saddled by it, day in, day out, offering "wisdom" that may not be heeded . . . or even needed. Always the parent. Always the party pooper. That is, when anybody listens at all.

Patience. That's what I require most, every day that I am on this job. No father or mother, teacher or playground guardian ever needed more than I do, as the human advisor aboard a mighty interstellar cruiser, operated by several hundred brash, rambunctious, impulsive, affectionate, abrasive and maddening Demmies.

Take the time our good ship—Clever Gamble—entered orbit above a planet of the system, Oxytocin 41.

I was at my science station, performing routine scans, when Captain Olm inquired about signs of intelligent life.

"There is a technic civilization, sir," I replied. "Scanners observe a sophisticated network of roads, moderate electromagnetic activity, indicative of—"

"Never mind the details, Doctor Montessori," the captain interrupted, leaping out of his slouch-chair and bounding over to my station. At almost five and a half feet, he was quite tall for a Demmie. Still I made certain to stoop a little, giving him the best light.

"Are they over sixteen on the Polanski Scale?" he asked urgently. "Can we make contact?"

"Contact. Hmm." I rubbed my chin, a human mannerism that our crew expects from their Earthling advisor. "I would say so, Captain, though to be precise—"

"Great! Let's go on down then."

I tried entreating. "What's the hurry? Why not spend a day or two collecting data? It never hurts to know what we're stepping into."

The captain grinned, belying his humanoid likeness by exposing twin rows of brilliant, pointy teeth.

"That's all right, Advisor, I've had slippery boots before. Never stopped me yet!"

The crude witticism triggered laughter from other Demmies in the command center. They often find my expressions of caution amusing, even when I later prove to be right. Fortunately, they are also fair-minded, and never confuse caution with cowardice.

Around a starship crew of Demmies, the human advisor can feel free to act "prudently wise," since this is true to the image they have of us.

But never display outright fear. They find it upsetting. And we don't want them upset.

"Break out the hose!" Captain Olm commanded, rubbing his hands. "Tell Guts and Nuts to meet us at the spigot. Come on, Doc. We're going down!"

* * *

Demmies love nicknames. They have one for the human race, often calling us "the Ancient Ones."

From their point of view, it's obvious. Not only do we live much longer as individuals, with lifespans of ninety or more Earth years, but from the Demmie perspective our people have been roaming the galaxy since time immemorial.

Well, after all, most member-races of the Federated Alliance learned starflight from us . . . as Demmies did, when we contacted their world fifty-eight years after our first starships departed the solar system.

That's how much longer we roamed the star lanes. Fifty-eight years. And for this they deferentially call us the Ancient Ones.

Sure. Why not? The first rule to remember—a rule even more important than the Choice Imperative—is to let Dems have their way.

* * *

Alliance spacecraft look strange to the uninitiated.

Till recently, most starfaring races traveled in efficient, globelike vessels, with small struts symmetrically arranged for the hyperdrive anchors. Travel to and from a planetary surface took place via orbital elevator at advanced worlds, or else by sensible little shuttles.

Like any prudent person, I'd be far happier traveling that way, but I try to hide the fact. Demmies cannot imagine why everyone doesn't love slurry transport as much as they do. So you can expect it to become the principal short-range system near all Alliance worlds.

It's not so bad, after the first hundred or so times. Trust me. You can get used to anything.

As a Demmie-designed exploration ship, the Clever Gamble looks like nothing else in the known universe. There are typically garish Dem-style drive struts, looking like frosting swirls on some psychotic baker's confection. These are linked to a surprisingly efficient and sensible engineering pod, which then clashes with a habitation module resembling some fairy-tale castle straight out of Hans Christian Andersen.

Then there is the Reel.

The Reel is a gigantic, protruding disk that takes up half the mass and volume of the ship, all in order to lug a prodigious, unbelievable hose all over the galaxy, frightening comets and intimidating the natives wherever we go. This conduit was already half-deployed by the time the ship's artificer and healer met us in the slurry room. Through the viewer, we could see a tapering line descend toward the planet's surface, homing in on a selected landing site.

The captain hopped about, full of ebullient energy. For the record, I reminded him that, contrary to explicit rules and common sense, the descent party once again consisted of the ship's top four officers, while a fully trained xenology team waited on standby, just three decks below.

"Are you kidding?" he replied. "I served on one of those teams, long time ago. Boringest time I ever had."

"But the thrill of contacting alien—"

"What contact? All's we did was sit around while the top brass went down to all the new planets, and did all the fighting and peacemaking and screwing. Well it's my turn now. Let 'em stew like I did!" He whirled to the reel operator. "Hose almost ready?"

"Aye sir. The Nozzle end has been inserted behind some shrubs in what looks like a park in their biggest city."

I sighed. This was not an approach I would have chosen. But most of the time you just have to go with the flow. It really is implacable. And things often turn out all right in the end. Surprisingly often.

Olm rubbed his hands. "Good. Then let's see what's down there!"

Resignedly, I followed my leader into the dissolving room.

At this point I should introduce Guts and Nuts.

Those are not their formal names, of course. But, as a Demmie would say, who cares? On an Alliance ship, you quickly learn to go by whatever moniker the captain chooses.

Commander-Healer Paolim—or "Guts"—is the ship's surgeon, an older Demmie and, I might add, an exceptionally reasonable fellow.

It is always important to remember that both humans and Dems produce individuals along a wide spectrum of personality types, and that the races do overlap! While some Earthling men and women can be as flighty and impulsive as a Demmie adolescent, the occasional Demmie can, in turn, seem mature, patient, reflective.

On the other hand, let me warn you right now—never get so used to such a one that you take it for granted! I recall one time, on Sepsis 69, when this same reasonable old healer actually tried to persuade a mega-thunder ameboid to stop in mid-charge for a group photo. . . .

But we'll save that story for another time.

Commander-Artificer Nomlin—or "Nuts"—is the ship's chief engineering officer. A female Demmie, she dislikes the slang term, "fem-dem," and I recommend against ever using it. Nuts is brilliant, innovative, stunningly skilled with her hands, mercurial, and utterly fixated on making life miserable for me, for reasons I'd rather not go into. She nodded to the captain and the doctor, then curtly at me.

"Advisor."

"Engineer," I replied.

Our commander looked left and right, frowning. "How many green guys do you think we oughta take along, this time? Just one?"

"Against regulations for first contact on a planet above tech level eight," Guts reminded him. "Sorry, sir."

Olm sighed. "Two then?" he suggested, hopefully. "Three?"

Nuts shook her head. "I gotta bad feelin' this time, Captain," she said.

Melodramatic, yes, but we've learned to pay attention to her premonitions.

"Okay, then," Captain Olm nodded. "Many. Dial 'em up, will you, Doc?"

Guts went over to a cabinet lining the far wall of the chamber, turning a knob all the way over to the last notch on a dial that said 0, 1, 2, 3, M.

(One of the most remarkable things noted by our contact team, when we first encountered Demmies, was how much they had already achieved without benefit of higher mathematics. Using clever, handmade rockets, their reckless astronauts had already reached their nearest moon. And yet, like some primitive early human tribes, they still had no word for any number higher than three! Oh, today some of the finest mathematical minds in the universe are from Dem. And yet, they cling—by almost-superstitious tradition—to a convention in daily conversation . . . that any number higher than three is—"many.")

There followed a hum and a rattling wheeze, then a panel hissed open and several impressive figures emerged from a swirling mist, all attired in lime-green jump suits. They were Demmie shaped, and possessed a Demmie's pointy teeth, but they were also powerfully muscled and tall as a human. Across their chests, in big letters, were written.

JUMS

SMET

WEMS

KWALSKI

They stepped before the captain and saluted. He, in turn, retreated a pace and curtly motioned them to step aside. One learns quickly in the service, never make a habit of standing too close to greenies.

When they moved out of the way, it brought into view a smaller figure who had been standing behind them, also dressed in lime green. Her crisp salute tugged the uniform, pulling crossed bandoliers tightly across her chest, a display which normally would have put the captain into a panting sweat, calling for someone to relieve him at the con. Here, the sight rocked him back in dismay.

"Lieutenant Gala Morell, Captain," she introduced herself. "You and your party will be safe with us on the job." Snappily, she saluted a second time and joined the others.

"Aw hell," Olm muttered to me as the security team took up stations behind us. "A girl greenie. I hate it when that happens!"

All I could do was shrug and share a brief glance with Nuts. I already agreed with her dour feeling about this mission.

The dissolution tech ushered us into position, taking any metal objects to be put in pneumatic tubes. Guts made sure, as always, that the medical kit went into the tube last, so it would be readily available upon arrival . . .

. . . a bit of mature, human-style prudence that he then proceeded to spoil by saying "Always try to slurry with a syringe on top."

"Yup." The captain nodded, perfunctorily. "In case of post-nozzle drip."

But at that moment he was more interested in guns than puns, checking to make sure that there were fresh nanos loaded in the formidable blaster at his hip.

"Ready, sir?" the tech asked through the transparent door, trying to catch my gaze even as she addressed the captain. Her nickname, "Eyes," came from big, doelike irises that she flashes whenever I look her way. She is very pretty, as Demmies go . . . and they will go all the way at the drop of a bootlace.

"Do it, do it, do it!" Olm urged, rocking from foot to foot.

She turned a switch and I felt a powerful tingling sensation.

For those of you who've never slurried, there can be no describing what it's like to have a beam zap through you, reading the position of every cell in your body. Then comes the rush of solvent fluid, flooding in through a hundred vents, filling the transport chamber, rising from your boots to your thighs to your neck faster than you can cry, "I'm melting!"

It doesn't hurt. Really. But it is disconcerting to watch your hands dissolve right in front of you. Closing your eyelids won't help much, since they go next, leaving a dreadful second or two until your entire skull—brain and all—crumbles like a sugar confection in hot water.

* * *

Ever since it was proved—maybe a century ago—that the mind exists independent from the body, philosophers have hoped to tap marvelous insights or great wisdom from the plane of pure abstraction. Some try to do this by peering into dreams. Others hope to sample the filtered essence of thought from people who are in a liquid state.

Oh, it's true that something seems to happen—thoughts flow—during that strange time when your nervous system isn't solid anymore, but a churning swirl of loose neurons and separated synapses, gurggling supersonically down a narrow pipe two hundred miles long. Giving new meaning to "brain drain."

But in my experience, these stray thoughts are seldom profound. On that particular day—as I recall—my focus was on the job. The most fundamental underpinnings of my task as Earthling Advisor.

First—above all other requirements—you have to like Demmies.

I mean really like them.

Try to imagine spending a voyage of several years crammed in tight quarters with over a hundred of the little devils, sharing constant peril while daily enduring their puckish, brilliant, idiotic, mercurial, and always astonishing natures. It would drive any normal man or woman to jibbering distraction.

Against such pressures, the human advisor aboard a Demmie ship must always display the legendary Earthling traits of calmness, reason and restraint. Plus—heaven help us—a genuine affection for the impossible creatures.

At times, this fondness is my only anchor. While I'm loyal to my Demmie captain and crewmates, there have been days when some infuriating antic leaves me frazzled to the bone. Times when I find that I can fathom the very different attitude chosen by our Spertin foes, who wish to roast every living Demmie, slowly, over a neutron star.

When such moments come, I have to take a deep breath, count to ten, and find reserves of patience deeper than a nebula. More often than not, it's worth it.

Or so one part of me told the rest of my myriad selves, during that timeless interval when I had no solid form. When "me" was many and a sense of detachment seemed to come naturally.

Which just goes to show you that it never pays to do any deep thinking when you're in a slurry.

* * *

I regained consciousness on a strange world, watching my hands reappear in front of me as the reconstructor at the Nozzle end of the Hose re-stacked my cells, one by one, in the same (more or less) relative positions they had been in before slurrying down.

Did I have that mole on my hand, before? Isn't it a lot like one I saw on the back of Olm's neck . . . ?

But no. Don't go there. Still, while dismissing that spurious thought, I resisted the urge to shake my head or shrug. Best to let ligaments and things congeal a few extra seconds, lest something jar loose and roll away.

I did shift my eyes a bit to look through a window of the Nozzle Chamber, at a patch of cloud-flecked sky. Overhead, the Hose stretched upward, cleverly rendered invisible to radar, sonar, infrared, and most visible light. (I could see it, of course. But then, Demmies are always amazed by our human ability to perceive the mystical color, "blue.")

A final word about slurrying. In its way, it is an efficient mode of transport, and I'm not complaining. Things might have been worse. I'm told that true matter teleportation—where an object is read and replicated or "beamed," atom-by-atom, instead of cell-by-cell—is a ridiculous impossibility. Quantum uncertainty and all that. Won't ever happen.

Nevertheless, there is a Demmie research center that refuses to give up on the idea . . . and Demmies never cease to surprise us.

(Impossibility be damned. I recommend secretly blowing up the place, just to be sure.)

* * *

Stumbling out of the Nozzle, we retrieved our tools from container-tubes and proceeded to look around the place. We appeared to have de-licquesced behind some boulders and shrubbery in an uncrowded portion of the park. Tall buildings could be seen jutting skyward beyond a surrounding copse of trees. Distant sounds of city traffic drifted toward us.

So far, so good. The greenies fanned out, very businesslike, covering all directions with their tidy blasters. I took out my scanner and surveyed various sensor bands.

"Life forms?" Olm said, peering around my shoulder, speaking loud enough to be heard over the traffic noise.

"Yes, Captain," I replied, patiently. "Many."

"Many," Nuts repeated, morosely.

"Many," Guts added, eyes filling with eagerness while he stroked his vivisection kit.

"Let's go see," Olm commanded, as I counted the seconds till something happened.

Something always happens.

Sure enough, at a count of eight, somebody screamed. We hurried toward the source, which turned out to be Lieutenant Morell. She panted, with one hand near her throat, pointing her blaster toward a set of bushes.

"I shot it!"

"What?" Olm demanded, shoving others aside to charge forward. "What was it?"

She came to attention. "I don't know, sir. Something was spying on us. I saw the weirdest pair of eyes. Whatever it was, I think I got it."

"Umm." I stepped forward, reluctant to point out the obvious. "Parsimony might suggest, in a calm city park, that your something just might have been . . . well . . . perhaps a local citizen?"

Lieutenant Morell gulped, looking at that moment just like a young human who had made the same nervous mistake.

"Of all the damn foolishness," Guts grumbled, hastening through the undergrowth, drawing his medical kit while I hurried after. Behind me, I heard the lieutenant sob an apology.

"There now," Captain Olm answered. "I'm sure he . . . she . . . or it is just stunned. You did use stun-setting, yes?"

"Sir!"

When I glanced back, he was leading her with one arm, his other one sliding around her shoulder. I should have known.

Guts shouted when he found our prowler. A humanoid, of course, like ninety percent of Class M sapients. The poor fellow had managed to crawl a few meters before the stun nanos got organized enough to bring him down. Now he lay sprawled on his back, spread-eagled, with his arms and legs pinned by half a million microscopic fibers to the leaf-strewn loam. He strained futilely till we emerged to surround him. Then he stared with large, dark eyes, gurgling slightly behind the nano-woven gag in his mouth.

Nanomachines are often too small to see, but those that are fired at high speed by a stun blaster can be larger than an Earthling ant. At medium range, only a dozen might hit a fleeing target, and they need several seconds to devour raw matter, duplicating into thousands, before getting to work immobilizing their quarry.

There are quicker ways of subduing someone, but none quite as safe or sure.

By now, a veritable army of little nanos swarmed over the captive, inspecting their handiwork, keeping the tiny ropes taut and jumping up and down in jubilation. Some, for lack of anything else to do, appeared to be hard at work sewing rips in the native's dark, satin-lined cloak and black, pegged pants. Others re-coifed his mussed hair.

(Just because someone is a prisoner, that doesn't mean he can't look sharp.)

Guts pushed his bio-scanner toward the humanoid, having to fight through a tangle of tiny ropes while mutturing something about how ". . . nanos are the winchers of our discontent," in a Shakespearean accent.

Enough, I thought, drawing my blaster, flicking the setting, then sighting on the victim's face. He cringed as I fired—

—a stream of tuned microwaves that turned all nano fibers into harmless gas. The gag in his mouth vanished and he gasped, then began jabbering frightfully in a tongue filled with moist sibilants.

I heard a hiss as Guts injected our captive with a hypo spray, using an orange vial marked ALIEN RELAXANT #1. The native tensed for a moment, then sagged with a sigh.

It's important for an Earthling Advisor to always inspect his ship's supply of Alien Relaxant Number One! Make sure of its purity. Very few sentient life forms have fatal allergic reactions to 100 percent distilled water. Nevertheless, most will respond quickly to being injected, as if a potent, local narcotic were suddenly flowing through their veins. Bless the placebo effect. Its near universality is among the few reassuring constants in an uncertain cosmos.

Guts gave me a sly wink. He knows what's going on, so I no longer have to mix batches of "ol' Number One" all by myself. But you can't assume a ship's doctor will understand. Call it an "ancient human recipe" until you're sure your medico can be trusted with the truth.

The native was now much calmer, prattling at a slower pace while I set up the universal translator on its tripod. Our captain dropped to one knee, preparing for that special moment when true First Contact could begin. Colored buttons flickered as the machine scanned, seeking meaning in the slur of local speech. Abruptly, all lights turned green. The translator swiveled and fired three more nanos at the native, one for each ear and another that streaked like a smart missile down his throat.

It isn't painful, but startlement made him stop and swallow in surprise.

"On behalf of the Federated Alliance of—" Captain Olm began, expansively spreading his arms. Then he frowned as the impudent creature interrupted, this time speaking aristocratically-accented Demmish.

"—don't know who you people are, or where you come from, but you must get out of the park, quickly! Don't you know it's dangerous?"

* * *

While I vaporized the rest of the stun-ropes holding him to the ground, Guts helped the poor fellow back to his feet.

I was about to resume questioning him when Nuts squeezed between us, giving me a sharp swipe of her elbow. I rubbed my ribs as she brushed leaves and sticks off the native gentleman's clothing, getting his measure with a few demure, barely noticeable gropes.

That was when the security lieutenant came with bad news.

"Captain, I'm sorry to report that Crewman Wems has disappeared."

Olm gave an exasperated sigh. "Wems, eh? Missing, you say? Well, hmm."

He glanced at the other security men. "I guess we could send Jums and Smet to look for him."

The two greenies paled, cringing backward two paces. I cleared my throat. The captain looked my way.

"No?"

"Not if you ever want to see them again, sir."

The captain may be impulsive, but he's not stupid.

"Hmm, yeah. Better save 'em for later."

He shrugged. "Okay, we all go. Form up, everybody!"

Each of us was equipped with a locator, to find the spigot in case we got separated. I tried scanning for Wems, but could pick up no sign of his signal. Either something was jamming it or he was out of range. Or the transmitter had been vaporized—and Wems along with it.

We scoured the area for the better part of an hour, while our former captive grew increasingly nervous, sucking on his lower lip and peering toward the bushes. Finally, we decided to let him choose our direction of march, flanked on one side by the captain and the other by our chief artificer, Commander-Engineer Nomlin, who gripped his arm like a tourniquet, batting her eyes so fast the wind might have mussed his hair again, if it weren't already greased back from a peaked forehead.

Aside from several teeth even more pointy than a Demmie's, our guide had pale skin that he tried to keep shaded with his cloak. Taking readings, I found that the sun did emit high ultraviolet levels. Moreover, the air was laced with industrial pollutants and signs of a degraded ozone layer—fairly typical for a world passing through its Level Eighteen crisis point. If proper relations were established, we might help the natives with such problems. Perhaps enough to make up for contacting them in the first place.

The native informed Nuts that his name was "Earl Dragonlord"—at least that is how the nano in his throat forced his vocal apparatus to pronounce it, in accented Demmish. He seemed unaware of any change in speech patterns, since other nanos in his ears retranslated the sounds back into his native tongue. From his perspective, we were all miraculously speaking the local lingo.

The master translator unit followed our party, watching out for more aliens to convert in this way. A typically Demmie solution to the inconvenience of a polyglot cosmos.

Our chief artificer swooned all over Earl, asking him what the name of that tree was, and how did he ever get such dark eyes, and how long would it take to have a local tailor make another cape just like his. Fortunately, Nuts had to pause occasionally to breathe. During one of these intermissions, Captain Olm broke in to ask about the "danger" Earl spoke of earlier.

"It's become a nightmare in our city!" he related in hushed tones, glistening eyes darting nervously. "The Licans are breaking their age-old vows. They no longer cull only the least-deserving Standards, but prey on anyone they wish! Why, they've even taken to pouncing on nomorts like you and me! Then there's the ongoing strike by the corpambulists . . ."

It sounded awfully complicated already, and we'd only gone fifty meters from the spigot. I interrupted.

"I'm sorry. Did you say—'like you and me?' What do you mean by that?"

He glanced at me, noticing my human features. "I was referring to your companions and me, of course. No offense meant. Although you are clearly a Standard, I can tell that your lineage is strong, and your bile is un-ripe. Or else, why would you mingle with these nomorts in apparent friendship? True, your kind is used to being hunted. Nevertheless, you must realize the rules are drastically changed here. Traditional restraints no longer hold in our poor city!"

I shared a glance with the captain. Clearly, the native thought we were visitors from another town, and that the Demmies were fellow "nomorts" . . . his own kind of people. Perhaps because of the similarity in dentition. In his hurry, he seemed willing to overlook our uniforms and strange tools.

The afternoon waned as our path climbed a tree-crested hill. Suddenly, spread before us, there lay the city proper . . . one of the more intriguing urban landscapes I ever saw.

Some skyscrapers towered eighty or more stories, with cantilevered decks protruding into a gathering mist. Many spires were linked together by graceful sky-bridges, arching across open space at giddy heights. Yet none of these towers compared with a distant edifice that shone through the sunset haze. A gleaming pyramidal structure whose apex glittered with jeweled light.

"Cal'mari!" Earl announced, gesturing with obvious pride toward his city.

"What?" blurted Nuts, briefly taking her hand from his arm. "You mean squid?"

"Yes . . . Squid," Earl said with sublime dignity, as the translator took its cue from Nuts, automatically replacing one word with another. Earl seemed blithely unaware that two entirely different sounds had emerged from his voicebox.

"Squid it is," Olm nodded, regarding the skyscrapers. And that was that. From now on, any Demmie, and any speech-converted local, would use that word to signify this town.

I sighed. After all, it was only a city. But several civilizations have made the mistake of declaring war on Demmies, over the insult of changing their planet's name without asking. Not that it ever did any good.

"Squid" was impressive for a pre-starflight city. At one time, it must have been even more grand. The metropolis clearly used to surround the park on all sides, though now many quarters seemed empty, devoid of life. Once-proud spires were abandoned to the ravages of time, with blank windows like blind eyes staring into space. But straight ahead, the burg still thrived—a noisy, vibrant forest of tall buildings draped in countless sheets of colored glass, resembling twentieth-century New York, dressed up with ostentatious, spiral minarets.

Skeins of filmy material, like mosquito netting, spanned the spaces between most buildings. Many windows and balconies were also covered with a gauzy, sparkling sheen—screen coverings that I later learned held bits of sharp metal or broken glass. As the sun sank, Squid resembled a maze of glittering spiderwebs, festooned with drops of dew.

Broad roadways were congested with cyclopean motor cars and lorries, all jostling for space and revving their engines before racing at top speed for an open parking space. I saw that every fourth avenue was a canal carrying boats of all description. My sinuses stung at the smell of ozone and unburnt hydrocarbons.

"Well, will you looka that!"

Our doctor pointed beyond the downtown area, to where jagged terrain rose steeply toward a rocky hill, its summit topped by striking silhouettes, totally unlike the metropolitan center. Scores of midget castles stood on those heights, with dark battlements and towers jutting from every slope. Earl Dragonlord sighed with gladness to see them, and motioned for us to follow.

"Come along, Cousins. Sunshine is bad enough, but we definitely should not be out by moonlight! At home I'll fit you with more appropriate clothes. Then we can go to the Crown."

"Uh, is that where we'll speak to your government leaders?" Captain Olm asked. "We do have work to do, y'know."

The last part was directed at Nuts. Her resumed grip on our guide's elbow might force a lesser fellow to cry uncle. Earl was clearly a man of stamina and patience, all the more alluring to a Demmie female.

"Government?" he answered. "Well, in a manner of speaking. I'll introduce you to our local council of nomort elders. Unless . . . do you actually wish to meet the mayor of Squid? A standard?" He glanced at me. "No offense."

"None taken," I assured. "Actually, I think our capt—our leader refers to government on a planetary scale. Or, in lieu of a world government, then some international mediation body."

Earl's look of puzzlement was followed by a dawning light of understanding. But before he could speak, a low groaning sound interrupted from the city, rising rapidly to become an ululating wail. Our greenies drew their weapons. Earl's dusky eyes darted nervously.

"The sunset siren! A welcome sound to our kind, in most cities. But alas, not in poor Squid. We must go!"

"Well then, lead on MacDuff," Olm said, nearly as eager to be moving along. Earl looked baffled for a moment. Then, with a swirl of his cape, he hurried east (with our ship's engineer clinging like a happy lamprey), pushing on toward the pile of gingerbread palaces that now seemed aglow against a swollen reddish sun.

"It's lay on, Captain," I muttered to Olm as we hurried along. "If you fancy quoting Shakespeare, you might try to get it right."

Lieutenant Morell chirped a giggle from her guard position, covering our rear. Olm winced, then ruefully grinned.

"As you say, Advisor. As you say."

From the park, we dropped toward a dim precinct of low dwellings that lurked between us and yonder hilltop castles. I glanced back at the downtown area, noting with surprise that the streets and canals no longer thronged with traffic. In a matter of moments they had become completely, eerily, deserted.

* * *

Dusk deepened and the largest of three moons rose in the east, about two thirds the size of Luna and almost as bright. Its phase was almost full.

In order to reach the elegant towers where Earl lived, we first had to cross a sprawling zone of dark roofs and small, overgrown lots, laid along an endless series of curvy lanes and cul-de-sacs.

"Urbs," Earl Dragonlord commented with apparent distaste.

"Hold on a minute," offered Guts, rummaging through his medical bag. "I think I've got some bicarbonate for that."

"No, no." The native grimaced. "Urbs. These are the surface dwellings where Licans make their homes for the greater part of each month, feigning to live as Standards used to, long ago, before the Great Change, in tacky private dwelling places, depressingly alike. All blissfully equipped with linoleum floors and formica countertops, with doilies on the armrests and bowling trophies on the mantelpiece. And never forget a lawn mower in the garage, along with hedge trimmer, weed-eater, automatic mulcher, leaf blower, snow blower, and razor edged pole-pruner. . . ."

Of course these terms were produced in Demmish by the translator in his throat. They might only approximate the actual meanings in Earl's mind.

"Sounds awful," Guts commiserated, patting the arm not held in a hammerlock by Nuts.

"Yes. But that is just the beginning. For under the floor of each innocent-looking house, there lurks—"

He paused as the Demmies all leaned toward him, wide-eyed.

"Yes? Yes? What lurks!?"

Earl's voice hushed.

"There lurks a trap door . . ."

"A secret entrance?" Captain Olm asked in a whisper

Our guide nodded.

". . . leading downward to catacombs below the urb. In other words, to the sub-urbs, where—"

I cut in, coughing behind my hand. I did not want my crewmates slipping into a storytelling trance right then.

"Hadn't we better move on then, while there's still light?"

Earl cast me a sour glance. "Right. Follow me this way."

Soon we passed down an avenue lined by bedraggled trees. No light shone from any of the rusty lampposts onto narrow ribbons of buckled sidewalk bordering small fenced lots. Most of the houses were dark and weedy, with broken tile roofs and missing windows, but one in four seemed well tended, with flower beds and neatly edged lawns. Dim illumination passed through drawn curtains. Once or twice, I glimpsed dark silhouettes moving within.

The Demmies, their eager imaginations stirred by Earl's testimony, kept swiveling nervously, peering into the darkness, shying away from the gaping storm drains. Our greenies, especially, looked close to panic. They kept dropping back from their scout positions, trying to get as close to the captain as possible, much to his annoyance. At one point, Olm dialed his blaster and shot Ensign Jums with a dose of itch-nanos. The poor fellow yelped and immediately ran back to position, scratching himself furiously, effectively distracted from worrying about spooks for a while.

I admired how efficiently Earl had accomplished this transformation. His uninformative hints managed to put my crewmates into a real state. I wondered—did he do it on purpose?

Almost anything can set off Demmie credulity. Once, during an uneventful voyage, I read aloud to the crew from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Telltale Heart."

Mistake! For a week thereafter, we kept getting jittery reports of thumping sounds, causing Maintenance to rip out half the ship's air ducts. The bridge weapons team vaporized nine or ten passing asteroids that they swore were "acting suspicious," and the infirmary treated dozens for stun wounds inflicted by nervous co-workers.

Actually, if truth be told, I never had a better time aboard the Clever Gamble, and neither did the Demmies. Still, Healer Paolim took me aside afterward and demanded that I never to do it again.

The urb became a maze. Few of the streets were straight, and most terminated in outrageously inconvenient dead-ends that the translator described as culled-socks—an uninviting and unappetizing name. Even in better days, it must have been a nightmare journey of many kilometers to travel between two points only a block apart.

I felt as if we had slipped into a type of warped space, like a fractal structure whose surface is small, but whose perimeter is practically infinite—a true nightmare of insane urban planning. We might march forever and never get beyond this endless tract of boxlike houses. Captain Olm shared my concern, and while the other Demmies peered wide-eyed at shadows, he kept his sidearm nonchalantly poised toward Earl's back, in case the native showed any sign of bolting.

I scanned selected dwellings with my multispec. Blurry infrared signals indicated humanoid forms within. From carbon scintillation counts, it seemed this part of city must be as old as the downtown area. I wondered about the apparent fall in population. Were things like this planetwide? Or did these symptoms relate particularly to the local crisis our guide had mentioned?

Surreptitiously, I pressed my uniform collar, turning it into a throat microphone to call the ship with an info-quest. Soon, the nanos in my ear canal whispered with the voice of Lieutenant Not'a Taken, on duty at the Clever Gamble's sensor desk.

"Planetary surface scanning underway, Advisor Montessori. Preliminary indications show that paved cities comprise over six percent of total land area, an unusually high proportion, even for a world passing through stage eighteen, though much contraction appears to have occurred recently. Gosh, I wish I was down there exploring with you guys, instead of stuck up here."

"Lieutenant Taken," I murmured firmly.

"Umm . . . survey also shows considerable environmental degradation in agricultural zones and coastal waters, with twenty-eight percent loss of topsoil accompanied by profound silting. Say, will you bring me back a souvenir? Last time you promised you'd—"

"Lieutenant—"

"All right, so you didn't exactly promise, but you didn't say 'no' either. Remember the party in hydroponics last week? You were talking about detection thresholds for supernova neutrinos, but I could tell you kept looking down my—"

"Lieutenant!"

"The worst environmental damage seems to have occurred about a century ago, with gradual reforestation now underway in temperate zones. Umm, I've just been handed a preliminary estimate of the decline in the humanoid population. Approximately sixty percent in the last century! Now that's puzzling, I see no sign of major warfare or disease. And there are some other anomalies."

"Anomalies?"

"Bio section urgently asks that you guys send up some live samples of the planet's flora and fauna. Two of every species will do, if that won't be too much trouble. Male and female, they say . . . as if a brilliant man like you would ever forget a detail like that."

Exerting patience, I sighed. Subvocalizing lowly, I repeated—

"Anomalies? What anomalies are you talking about?"

"It's got me worried. I admit it. I haven't seen you since the party. You don't answer my calls. Doctor . . . was I too forward? Why don't you come to my quarters after you get back and I'll make it up to—"

I let go of my collar. The connection broke and my ear-nanos went quiet, letting night sounds float back . . . including a faint rustling that I hadn't noticed before. A creaking . . . then a scrape that might have been leather against pavement.

The captain halted abruptly and I collided with his back. Through his tunic I felt the tense bristles of Demmie hackle-ridges, standing on end. Olm's pompadour just reached my eyes, so I couldn't see ahead. But a glance left showed the ship's healer also stopped in his tracks, staring, utterly transfixed by something.

Lieutenant Morell hurried forward and gasped, fumbling the dial of her blaster.

A sudden, grating sound echoed behind me, followed by a clang of heavy metal on concrete.

As I rotated, a horrific howl pealed. Then another, and still more from all sides.

Before I could finish turning around, a dark, flapping shape descended over me, enveloping my face in stifling folds and choking off my scream.

TO BE CONTINUED

David Brin is the author of many novels and short stories.

Travails with Momma, Part 1

Written by John Ringo
Illustrated by Phil Renne

1: Paradise Sucks

"JOSH!"

Josh Parker ignored his mother, leaving his eyes closed as he kept reading.

The book was pretty good, a collection of short biographies of the space aces of the Second Orion War. It was split between the Ortulian front and the Joostan so there was a lot of variety. But the basic theme, Terran superiority in space combat, was what Josh liked. That's what he wanted to be, a fighter pilot.

He brought up a toolie and began blasting the wicked Ortulians that had started the war by the sneak attack on Diamond Haven. Ortulian fighters fell around his invincible Devilspray space fighter as he flew among the stars . . . but he had to rescue the beautiful princess . . . Cindy Goodhead. Cindy was so cute. She was in his reading class and . . .

"JOSH! COME DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"

The image of his mother's face appeared in the middle of the combat and with a wave of her hand the fighters and stars disappeared, along with the picture of Cindy tied up in the middle of ten bug-eyed, octopoid Ortulians he was just preparing to defeat in bloody hand to hand combat after which, if he was lucky, he might get a peck on the cheek from Cindy and then they'd have about a half a dozen children . . .

"I have to talk to you, Josh. Now."

"Oh, Mother," he memed. "Can't you talk to me here?"

"Now, Josh. Downstairs."

Josh opened his eyes, wiping the toolie, and shuffled across the room disconsolately. He kicked a datacube out of his way and a blue tunic, making a path through the clutter to the room iris.

The house was old fashioned and to make his way to the kitchen he had to walk down stairs instead of using a bounce tube. Sure, it was only one floor, but everybody had bounce tubes.

This was the third house they'd occupied in the Alu Islands. Dad was working on the new Malt Whiskey Corporation theme park outside Greater Papua and after the project got extended by another year, and their lease was up on the house outside Papua, Mom had picked them up and brought them to the Alu. It meant a one hour air-car commute each way for Dad, but Mom was in charge of housing and she could be less than subtle. From her point of view, it was Time To Leave.

"What do you want, Mother?" Josh said as he entered the kitchen. "Couldn't you just meme me?"

"Mouths are for talking," his mother said. "Implants are for learning."

He hated that expression.

Mom was just pulling a roast out of the fresher and his stomach growled.

"Can I have a snack?"

"No," his mother snapped. "You won't have any room for supper."

"But all I want is a choco-bar," Josh whined.

"Two or three, more like it," his mother said with her standard sniff. "We're moving back to Bowan."

"They're finished?" Josh said. "Gosh."

"With phase three," his mother replied. "So we're going back to the home office."

"Do we get a house this time?" Josh asked. "I'd really like a house. I want a dog, Mom."

"No, we'll be in an apartment," his mother replied. "It will be an hour until supper. You need to do something besides read in your room. Outside."

"Oh, Mom," Josh whined. "It's boring!"

"It's a nice day out," his mother answered. "Go."

Josh schlepped out through the back iris and frowned at the view. Waving coconut palms and a pink sand beach surrounded a crystalline cove. The houses around the cove were set back from the beach so that they were barely in view and, except for one or two locals out catching the sun or fishing, the cove was almost deserted. The trade winds blew in a constant stream, lowering the temperature to what most humans considered idyllic.

Josh went down to the waterside and kicked at the sand. When they'd first come to the Alu Islands, he'd gone swimming nearly every day and turned brown as a nut, his dark brown hair shading to almost white at the tips. It still was bleached and he still had the tan but he'd hardly swam a week at a time anymore. Even swimming in crystalline water could get boring day in and day out. And while Alu was one of prettiest places they'd ever lived, and he'd lived in a bunch of places, there weren't many kids his own age around.

If they could just settle down for a while. A year here, a year there, by the time the local kids had gotten over beating him up and stealing his lunch money and started to let him steal other kids', it was time to move. They'd lived for two years in Greater Papua, right on a river, and that had been great. Sure, he had to take getting beaten up a time or two not to mention the ritual jokes about having his head collected, but he'd made friends. Had a bunch of kids to play with.

He wandered along the beach in a deep funk, watching the animals along the waterline. He saw a purple and pink crab in the water and stopped.

"That's what I want to be," he said. "A superhero! Crab-man!" He held his hands up and made clacking sounds. "Crab-man! With pincers of . . . super hero stuff!" Clack, clack. By day, Crab-man was an unassuming fourth grade student. But by night he . . . rescued damsels in distress. Especially Cindy Goodhead!

"Oh, Crab-man, you're my hero," Cindy said, breathlessly.

"Well, there were only a hundred of them," Crab-man said in a deep voice. He had the arms and legs of a crab but his body was rippling with muscles and he had a really handsome face and black hair and bright green eyes . . . "You know, Cindy, by day I'm really . . ."

No, that wouldn't work. Super-heroes never gave away their secret identity. She'd just have to work it out herself and then they'd live in a big house on the top of a mountain and make pancakes while the snow fell and have about . . . oh, nineteen kids . . .

* * *

Steve Parker sent a command to the airtruck, shutting it down, and dilating the door. He climbed out and stretched his back, wincing. Flying an hour either way to work was . . . well, when he'd started it nine months before he'd called it a pain. Now he had an entirely new appreciation for the term.

But that was about over. For good or ill. Working on the Malt Whiskey project had given him a billing rate that was astronomical. Yara and Barchick had been happy as hell about it. Unfortunately, the number of fifteen billion credit projects to be had on Terra was . . . small. The planet had all the infrastructure it could handle and there just wasn't room for the sort of massive projects he specialized in.

The term he was groping for here was "redundant." As in, "I'm sorry, Mr. Parker, you're simply redundant to our current needs."

With five kids in college or just starting out in independent life, not to mention a wife and kid at home to support, that was not a conversation he was looking forward to. Which was why he'd pulled every string he had to keep working on Malt Whiskey, long after less competent, and less expensive, engineers could have wrapped it up.

Before Malt Whiskey he'd spent three solid years doing failure analysis on other planets, especially ones with harsh soil and working conditions. It had been fun, figuring out what other people had screwed up always was, but he'd seen his wife and kids exactly eighty-seven days in those three years. He wasn't looking forward to that, either.

Something would come up. Something always did.

* * *

"How was your day, dear?" Jala said, ladling spaghetti sauce onto Steve's noodles.

"Fine," Steve said. "Whiskey Corporate sent another hot-shot out to reinvent the wheel . . ."

Josh tuned out his parent's conversation, twirling the spaghetti. Wrapped in rings of . . . really strong stuff, Spaghetti-man . . .

"Do you have another project?" Jala asked, in a tone that bespoke calm disinterest overlaid with worry.

"No," Steve replied, calmly. "They want me to do . . . sales for a while."

"Oh."

Josh had learned to not even turn an ear or look up. Grownups would drop the most important information if they were sure you weren't paying attention. And knowing where you were going to live, for a kid, was really important information.

"So, we'll be at the home office for a while."

"Do we have an apartment, yet?" Jala asked.

"No, we'll stay in a hotel while you look for one."

Josh conjured up his memory of Bowan. Tier upon tier of skyscrapers and megascrapers reaching for the sky. Green? Some of the signs were green, maybe. Water? Sure, it comes out of a tap. Bowan. Well, at least there were kids his age. Approximately nine billion.

He actually sort of liked Bowan, what he remembered of it. Mostly an apartment and the airbus to school. He'd only been in kindergarten and first grade in Bowan, though. He couldn't remember much. The megascraper had a pool, several actually, but one he could go to. Not by himself, of course, but maybe he'd be old enough, now. And the subcomplex they lived in had board tracks. He wanted to ask if they were going back to the same complex but then they'd know he'd been listening.

Worst of all, though, he knew the tone. This was a temp. Dad would just be hanging out until they figured out what to do with him next. He might be around for a month but more likely he'd be gone all the time. When they'd lived in Bowan before, there had been brothers and sisters, mostly Anna and Cho. Sure, Cho had been a bastard most of the time, but at least he was somebody to nag. A brother was a brother.

This time it would just be him and Mom in an apartment.

They'd kill each other in a week.

Spaghetti man wraps tendrils of . . . really strong stuff around his mother's neck.

Bad.

* * *

He'd learned the hard way. The bungalow was rented so this time they didn't even have to wait for movers. The next day the back of the aircar was packed with stuff, so was the trunk and most of the backseat; Dad had already sent the company's airtruck back to the site on remote. Josh had packed his stuff the night before; his clothes, some data cubes and his real, honest-to-gosh, bound, paper, copy of Tarzan Lord of the Jungle. The family had furniture and other stuff, but the company had that stored for them. Maybe they'd get some of it out for the apartment. Maybe not. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It was going to be a long flight to Bowan. It was a sub-orbital hop but once you've seen one you've seen 'em all. So Josh lay in the back seat, his foot propped up on a bag of clothes, his head on a pillow, closed his eyes and started reading.

They left early, stopping for breakfast at a greasy spoon in Samoa and lunch on the outskirts of Bowan. It was a McFries outlet on the forty-seventh floor of one of the outer megascrapers. From the window, Josh could see way off in the distance some hills. They were green. He took one more look at them and bit into his McWhopper.

The earliest memory he had of his dad was him bringing home McWhoppers. It was a big deal, then. He didn't know why; they ate them all the time these days. That had been in Durban. Durban had been pretty cool, from what he could remember of it. The house had been small and old but it was surrounded by trees and he could still hear the screams of the monkeys sometimes when he thought hard. And most of his brothers and sisters were still home so they'd been crowded. But it was in the country and it was near a river. And they had a pool. His earliest conscious memory was of nearly drowning in the pool. Mom and Dad always had a pool, a lake, a river, somewhere to swim. They might move a lot, but they always got to swim.

There had been a big party when they moved to Bowan; everybody was really happy. He didn't know why, he'd liked Durban. And he'd gotten to like Bowan even if it was different, too. Bowan was cold, most of the time, it seemed to him. And they'd moved into a really small apartment in the megascraper. But the complex had a pool. He'd nearly drowned in that one, too, when Cho had been wrestling with a big null-grav player from school and he'd jumped in to "save" the brother that was ten years older than he was. The next thing Josh could remember was being stuck under the struggling bodies and not being able to get to the surface.

But this time there wouldn't even be Cho to play with, or at least nag. Cho was married. He lived in Bowan, though, so maybe they'd get together.

Josh glanced out of his eye as a pretty girl sat down across from them. She was wearing the current fashion which was, as his dad put it one time, "two bangles and a feather." The girl caught him looking and Josh turned away and took another bite out of the burger, blushing.

He'd never been one of those boys who didn't like girls. He could remember in Durban when he was, maybe, five, getting married to some girl. Just play-acting but they'd been really serious about the vows. A couple of days later she'd wanted a divorce and he'd had to go get the term "annulment" explained to him. He still didn't get it.

But getting the girl was what it was all about. He knew that from his graphnovs. The good guy got the girl and the bad guy didn't, that's how you could tell the difference. Oh, the bad guy might have some girl hanging around, but he was always after the good guy's girl. Josh wanted to have a girl. One that wore "two bangles and a feather." And he'd save her from evil Jootans by sneaking into their secret base. . .

"Time to leave," his dad said.

2: Durance Vile

This was just wrong.

Josh looked out the plastic-crystal windows and sighed. It was pouring down rain and it looked cold. Not that it would matter because he'd probably never go outside again in his whole life.

The apartment was fine, but it was small and seemed dark after living for three years in the tropics. And the complex didn't have a pool. Oh, the megascraper had two, but they weren't members of those. So he was left to sit in the apartment all day and read or tool or meme. And with the meme restrictions his parents had put on his plant, he could basically talk to Sati the Clown fans or nothing. And what he considered appropriate for Sati the clown, a Jootan wouldn't do to an Adoo.

And today was the first day of school. He hated school but "first days," especially when you were already two weeks into the school year and all the kids had broken up into cliques already, were the worst.

Worse and worse and WORSE Mom was walking him to school.

"Time to go, Josh," his mom said from the door.

"I'm sick," Josh said, coughing unconvincingly.

His mother sighed. "Come on, Josh."

"Really, really sick," Josh said, slouching towards the door. He coughed again and tried to hack up a gob like Cho could do. No dice.

They walked down the corridor and to the bounce tube then took a slideway to the November quadrant. As they got closer there were more kids, none of them being led to school by their mom, heading for the big double doors.

Josh kicked his heels and watched the other kids as his mom checked him in and uploaded his records.

"Welcome to the Mary Smith Primary School, Josh," the lady behind the counter said.

"Hi," Josh said after a prod from his mother.

"He just takes a while to settle in," his mom said.

"He's certainly been in a lot of schools," the woman replied, frowning at the records. "And there's a six month break . . ."

"I was homeschooling, then," his mom said. "He's met all the standard test requirements," she added, nervously.

"Yes," the woman said, still frowning. "I hope, though, that he can keep up. We have a very active academic program, one of the highest rated in Bowan. He may have . . . problems."

"He's very bright," his mother said in that hard tone she took when somebody was being unusually stupid. "Just log him in. He'll do fine."

"Very well," the woman replied, blinking her eyes. "He's in Mrs. Datlow's homeroom. Room 17395."

Josh closed his eyes for a moment and downloaded a map of the building along with the directions to the class. He was just stepping out to head there when his mother took his hand.

"Mom," he whined, terrified of the aching embarrassment of having his mother lead him to the class by hand. "I can find it on my own. Look, it's down this corridor, take a left, take the second bounce tube, turn right out of the bounce tube . . ."

"Come on, Josh," his mother said, dragging him along.

Josh slumped into the hopeless slouch of an Adoo being taken to the Jootan salt mines and followed along.

* * *

It barely took him two classes to find his niche. Complete and total loser.

"Your assignment for today, class," the teacher said, smiling brilliantly as she passed out pieces of lined plascrip, "is to write a story about what you did on your summer holiday."

Josh looked at the plascrip in disbelief and then picked up the pencil. He hadn't actually written anything since kindergarten! What was this, the Outer Limits?

He looked at the teacher and pinged her. When she didn't reply he hesitantly raised his hand.

"Yes, Josh?" the woman asked, smiling.

"You want me . . . you want me to write?" he asked, holding up the pencil hesitantly.

"Yes, Josh," the woman replied, still smiling.

"Bu . . . but . . ." he looked into the corner of the room and pointed. "There's a printer."

"I know, Josh," the teacher said, speaking to him as if he were an idiot. "But you have to write it."

"I can meme it in about ten seconds," Josh said, composing the first sentence and pinging her again.

"Josh," the woman said, gently but with a tone of anger. "Everyone doesn't have implants. You have to write it."

"They don't?" he said, horrified. He sent a general ping and the woman shook her head.

"Josh! Do not broadcast! It's very rude!"

"But . . ."

"Josh just write the assignment!" the teacher said, angrily.

Josh bowed his head and picked up the pencil like a dagger, pressing it into the plascrip and trying not to tear it.

W . . . H . . . A . . . T—

* * *

Math wasn't much better.

"Miss Rodinson?" Josh said, raising his hand after repeated pinging didn't work.

"Yes, Josh?" the woman said, smiling.

"That's wrong," Josh said. "It's a nested set. Marsupials are a subset of mammals which are in turn a subset of animals." He got sent a command to the projector and rearranged the teacher's careful work, which she had been laboriously inputting with a keyboard and stylus, showing the nested set. "It's like that. Or in Leet . . ."

"Josh," the woman said, angrily. "Do not rearrange the board. Understand?"

"Yes, but it's wrong," he insisted. "All marsupials are mammals. All mammals are animals. Ergo supper."

"Josh, the way that I had it was right," Miss Rodinson said, frantically tapping at the input board. "Drat, I didn't save."

"It was like this," Josh said, rearranging the projection. "But that's wrong!"

"It's right, Josh!" the woman argued.

"No it's not," Josh said, mulishly.

"Josh, access the answers at the end of the assignment. The even numbered ones have answers. It's in the book."

Josh accessed the pad in the desk through his plant and then frowned.

"It's still wrong," he said. "I don't care what the book says . . ."

* * *

Then there was lunch.

"What did you bring me to eat, dweeb?" the bully said, snatching the bag out of Josh's hand. "Think you're smart. What do smart kids eat?"

"Ham sandwich," Josh sighed. "Apple. Bulb of choco-cola. Frits."

"Guess I'll be eating well," the kid smirked at him, vanishing into the crowd.

"Yeah," Josh said, getting in line to buy lunch. He'd learned to keep some money the first few days of school. 'Til kids figured out not to steal his lunches. "And I'll be eating near the teachers. Really near the teachers."

He was just finishing his jello when he heard the howl at the other end of the cavernous room.

* * *

But, that of course, leads to . . . recess.

"What was in that sandwich?" the kid said, panting as he smacked Josh again.

"Ow! I dunno! My mother made it!" Fighting wasn't going to do any good. The idiot had shared the sandwich with friends.

"You're lying!" the kid said, kicking him in the side.

"Ow!" he said, covering his head with both hands. "Okay, okay! It was habanero sauce . . ."

* * *

"Miz Parker . . ." the assistant principal said.

"Mrs.," Josh's mom replied. "Not Miz. Not Miss. Mrs."

"Mrs. Parker," the woman continued, "we have been getting a number of complaints about Josh. While he is . . . quite bright, he has shown some . . . antisocial tendencies. Specifically, he has been arguing with teachers . . ."

"Subsets?" Jala said, smiling tightly. "He took that in second grade in Papua. If you have any knowledge of them and access the question and answer you'll find that they are wrong. I've got a PhD in mathematics, I got it when I was sixteen, by the way, Miz Chaberk and I can tell you that in my professional opinion the person who made up your textbook shouldn't be allowed a job as a window washer."

"Then there is the problem of his lack of basic skills," the woman continued, firmly.

"Writing?" Jala said, amazed. "You consider writing by hand to be a basic skill? What next? Driving? Long division? Quantum mechanics?"

"Writing is a basic skill, Mrs. Parker," the woman said, angrily.

"For whom?" Jala cried. "In every other school district that Josh has attended, meming was considered 'writing,'" she continued, speaking slowly and carefully as if to a complete moron. "You can't get a job in a McWhopper franchise without the ability to at least handle a trace set. There is not a job on Terra that requires the skill of writing. If you give me a pencil and some time I might be able to trace out my name. Can you write?"

"And he was found defacing the anti-bullying posters," the woman continued, somewhat desperately.

"Maybe that's because he's come home three days this week with bruises and torn clothes!" Jala snapped.

"We have a very strict anti-bullying policy . . ."

"MAYBE YOU SHOULD TELL THAT TO YOUR STUDENTS!"

* * *

"Josh," his mom said as he walked in from school. "Sit down."

"Yes, Mother," Josh said, sighing theatrically. He sat across from her and leaned forward, avoiding the cushion of the float chair and examining his sneakers.

"I was called to your school today, to talk to your principal," Jala said. "Did you know that?"

"Yes, Mother," Josh said, apparently fascinated by the sight of his toes.

"I know it takes a little time to settle in," Jala said, "but you seem to be having more problems here than in Papua."

"That's because they're stupid!" Josh said. "They're just stupid! All of 'em."

"They're not stupid, Josh," his mother said. "They're just . . . it's a special kind of . . . well it's what they call 'parochialism' that you get in major cities. And poor quality education, yes. Things are too large so it's just easier to work for the least common denominator."

"Okay," Josh said, having no clue what his mother was talking about.

"I'm . . . if we stay here long I'll probably try to get you in a private school," Jala continued.

"If?" Josh said, picking up on the word that seemed most important in the conversation.

"Oh, we should be staying here for a while," Jala said, smiling.

"Here, here?" Josh asked. "In the apartment?"

"Yes, Josh," Jala replied. "Here, here."

"Oh."

Josh was working on swear words. He knew some but he also knew better than to say them to his mother.

* * *

School went on as school always did. The bullies stopped taking his lunches, since they never knew what they were going to be laced with. The transition period was . . . tough. He ended up having to both bring a lunch and buy one a couple of times. He had a real aversion to habanero and an even worse aversion to uncooked oyster sauce. He stopped getting beat up so much, but that wasn't the same as making friends. He didn't. Usually he'd find at least one person to hang out with, but not in this school.

The school was in a state of societal flux; even Josh could tell that. Most of the kids were from the local area and tended to be the children of up-scale urban professionals. But a solid core had been transferred from an adjoining scraper, one that had more than its share of low-pay, semiskilled workers and their children. Josh couldn't make friends among the kids like "him" because they had all been going to school together for years and had closed ranks in protection against the "new" kids. Josh, by default, was considered a "new" kid but the children of the relative "poor" had little or no use for some snotty brain. Except as a punching bag.

He figured this out after about a week and quit trying. Most of the bullying came from the low-class kids so he avoided them as much as possible. It was a tightrope every day of school and it was wearing him to a frazzle. No friends in a school where people pretty much ignored you was one thing. No friends in one where you needed them to back you up was hell.

He slouched through the door of the apartment and went to his room, not even bothering to go by the kitchen and to try to cadge a snack. He had another stupid writing assignment due in the morning and it was driving him nuts. He'd figured out that he could use the plant to paint the words better than he could actually write them. He actually had the assignment memed. All he needed was a printer but they cost like a gazillion credits. The only one he could get to was at school and he'd tried the old "I wrote it at home and scanned it dodge" only to be told to go get the original. What he needed was a dog to eat his homework.

He got out the paper he'd been writing on, which had about a hundred tears in it, and frowned. He really, really didn't want to write right now. It hurt his hands and he was embarrassed by the way the words looked. He kicked off his sneakers, which ran to the closet and put themselves away, and then lay down on his float bed, closing his eyes and bringing up a book by some guy called "Dickens." It was really old, almost as old as Tarzan, but it was pretty good.

He opened his eyes when his dad came home and pinged him to say hi. Then he closed them again until he heard the magic word: "project."

He crept to the room iris and put his ear against it. He could hear them talking, faintly.

"Nari . . ."

" Nari? Accompanied?"

"If we want. It's a minimum two year project."

"But . . . Nari? That's . . ."

"In the Peshawn sector, I know. But there are some choices. It's either double my Terra salary or I can take one and a half with benefits. The benefits are housing allowance for spouse, a generous one, and a driver. I can probably swing an education allowance since there are no public schools. There are travel benefits, too. One ticket back to Terra per year for myself and one on the odd six months to Charon Sector or equivalent for myself and family. You get to travel, Jala; I know you've wanted to. And the pay is . . . great."

"The pay would be great and we need it; we're barely keeping up with the Visam Card payments. But . . . Nari . . . That's sort of . . ."

They moved away towards the kitchen and Josh frowned. "Nari." What the hell, or where the hell rather, was Nari?

He carefully accessed the net. His parents had all the usual filters in place but looking a place up wasn't going to get him in trouble. Unless they caught what he was looking up. He never talked about his eavesdropping but when you didn't know from one day to the next where you were going to be sleeping, eavesdropping became a habit.

Nari . . . too many hits. Nari, place. No. Nari . . . geographical . . . Nothing. Where on Terra was Nari? It didn't ring a bell. Nari. Okay, just go through them. Popular singer. Most of those sites were blocked for some reas . . . oh. Woo-hoo!

He spent a little time accessing some sites on the pop-singer Nari Senescenes. Two bangles and a feather, INDEED. My.

But that didn't tell him where they were moving. Or maybe moving. Nari. What did Dad say? Peshawn? Ah. Nari. The Narians. Try that.

Nari, a planet in the Peshawn Sector . . .

WE'RE GOING OFF-PLANET!

Oh, man, but look at those natives . . . UUUUUUG-LEE.

* * *

"Nari is a planet in the Peshawn Sector," Josh said, tooling the data and throwing up a holopic of the sector then zeroing in on Nari. "It's a hot world which has a green sun. It's mostly arid—that's dry like a desert. The natives are insectoid forms, ten extremities, including two true arms and two false arms, a curved head sort of like a banana . . ."

When he'd told his social studies teacher where they were going she'd asked him to do a presentation for the class. And herself. With as many planets as were known to Terra, she couldn't keep up with all of them. The teacher seemed interested but most of the kids were bored. Until he got to the next bit.

"The Narians reproduce by implanting their eggs in mammalform hosts," he said, showing a video of the implantation. The Narian looked something like a giant wasp and the ovipositor it extended appeared to be about two meters long. "When the eggs hatch, the babies eat their way out of the hosts . . ." And, sure enough, there was a tridee of the young Narian bursting out of the side of a thing that looked like a six legged cow.

"Oh, gross!" "Cool!" "Are you going to get eaten, Josh?"

"Okay, Josh," the teacher said, hurriedly, shutting off the video as the baby Narian extended a labial probe and began ripping chunks out of the shuddering former host. "Thank you very much for that . . . interesting presentation . . ."

"The Toolecks had a war with them about fifty years ago . . ." Josh continued.

"That's enough, Josh."

* * *

Josh had only been at a spaceport a couple of times before. They'd shuttled up to visit his Nana in one of the orbital nursing homes once and had a vacation on the Terraformed Mars colony. Other than that, all his traveling had been on Terra and most of that by aircar.

But now here he was in the Bowan Spaceport, getting ready to head to Nari via Toolecks. All he knew about Toolecks was that the people there were one of Terra's staunchest allies and they had five eyes. They all spoke Terran with a funny accent, but it was going to be neat.

"You're going to be well over gross cubage, ma'am," the cargo-bot said as the floater transferred their bags to the conveyor.

"Check our record," Jala replied politely, as if the machine was a human. "We're cleared for excess cubic."

Mom had bought him gobs of clothes because she didn't know what she could get in Nari. Not only clothes that fit but some that were too big so he could grow into them. It made a respectable pile of bags.

After they got cleared by the baggage handling system Mom headed for the gates. They passed through the security tunnel then down a bounce tube to the lower levels. That was when Josh started to pick out the aliens.

There was a group of spiderlike Grantin, clustering together as if to avoid the horrible mammalforms around them. There was a tall, spindly Barick, striding through the crowd waiting for the tram. A couple of Toolecks, short and lobsterlike with five eyes extended on eye-stalks, waving their mandibles and clacking away in Tool.

There were more. Harons and Sjoglun and Beetoids and Nalo and . . . too many to count and in all different shapes, sizes and colors. It was just so cool.

Dad joined them as the grav tram arrived. He'd been held up by a ping from his home-office. But they got on the tram together, careful to take the oxy-nitrogen sector one, and headed for the out-terminal.

"Problem?" Jala said as they hung onto the grab bars. There was a stabilization field so those were more for psychological benefit than anything.

"Bank of Heteran wouldn't take the transfer," Steve replied, shrugging. "So we're going to be paid through Bank of Donlon on Tooleck. Not a problem, there's a branch in Heteran and you can access from anywhere on Nari. But you'd better get used to the fact that Nari uses more physcreds than Terra or Tooleck. They've got a local money called the rayel and they mean real money. Sheets with the local ruler's face graved on them."

"How . . . interesting," Jala said, her eyes widening.

"You can carry enough to get around in your pouch," Steve said, shrugging. "And hotels and things in Heteran will take Visam or a Bank of Donlon . . . well it's a piece of plastrip with writing on it called a 'cheque.' You fill in how much money you're paying them and then thumb it. Hand it over to them and it's like doing a trans but you have to keep track of them so you don't overdraw the account. We'll pick some up in Tooleck while we're there and I'll get one of their comps to explain it to you. Bank of Donlon 'cheques' are accepted in some of the strangest places." He paused and grinned. "Welcome to the Outer Limits, honey."

"Hey, Dad?" Josh said. "Can I get some of those rayel?"

"We'll see, squirt," Steve said, rubbing his head. "We'll see. You're going to be in a different part of the ship from us, Josh, you know that?"

"I am?" Josh said, his eyes widening.

"Yes, you're going to be up front," Jala replied. "I'm going to be riding with your father in the back. Don't worry; you'll be fine."

"Okay," Josh said as the tram pulled into the R terminal. They got out and went up another bounce tube to the terminal then through an emigration scanner to ensure they weren't carrying any of the fourteen billion, one hundred and twenty three million known forms of replicating biologicals and hazardous nannites. The scanner buzzed on a Sjoglun ahead of them and the floor opened up under the large caterpillarlike creature, dropping it into a bouce tube and down to the medical quarantine facility.

"No danger, ma'am," the Youtoon beetling the terminal shrilled by rubbing two of his back legs together. "Just a minor case of Purple Spot Fever. Not contagious to Terraoids. Move along, please."

* * *

When they reached the gate area they took a tube to the Gamma boarding level for oxy-nitrogen, 10 kps gravity, travelers. Then his mom led him over to a roped off section.

"This is my son, Josh," Jala said to the Tooleck attendant. "He's boarding in first class, oxy-nitrogen Terra/Tooleck mix."

"Yes, Mrs. Parker, I have the note in my memory," the Tooleck said, bending down to Josh's level and waving all five eyes at him. "Hello, Josh. Is this the first time you've been in a spaceship?"

"Nah," Josh said, puffing up his chest. "I've been to the orbital colonies and Mars before!"

"We're going to Tooleck for a couple of days," Jala said nervously. "Then on to Nari."

"Nari!" the attendant said, whistling through his breathing snout. "That's a long way, Josh, nearly six thousand light years! You're going to have fun, aren't you!"

"That's right," Josh said. "And I get to stay out of school till we find a house!"

"Always a pleasure," the Tooleck said, whistling in humor. "We'll take good care of him, Mrs. Parker. Josh, why don't you sit over by that Sjoglun over there where I can keep an eye on you."

"Okay," Josh said, skipping over to the seat.

The Sjoglun was about the size of a rhinoceros and looked something like a gray caterpillar, with a tapered tail and head. It had ten stubby legs that were stretched across two sets of conformable chairs and eighteen more stubby pseudo arms ranging from about the length of a human forearm near the base to very small ones the size of a hand at the upper quadrant. It was rocking back and forth with all fourteen compound eyes on short, retractable, eyestalks waving in different directions and appeared to be asleep.

"Hi!" Josh said, jumping into the seat next to it and leaning back as the seat figured out his squirmy body conformation. "I'm going to Tooleck! My name's Josh!"

"We are all going to Tooleck, young Terran," the Sjoglund grunted, whistling faintly from spicules along the side by Josh and rotating a handful of eyes in his direction. "And my name is . . ." it let out a complex whistle.

Josh tried to whistle the name and then gave up.

"I'm just gonna call you Pilly, okay?" Josh said. "I can't say that name."

"That is fine young Terran," the Sloglund replied. "Few Terrans can. And how old are you, young Terran?"

"I'm ten!" Josh said. "I'm in fifth grade. Well, not right now, I'm out of school until we get to Nari and find a house!"

"Ten!" the Sjoglund said, whistling from both sides of his body. "Why, you are barely a grub! When I was ten, I had not yet come of mind. You are lucky to be traveling so young, Terran. There is much you can learn, in school or out of school."

"I guess," Josh said. "Hey, what's Purple Spot Fever?"

"Why?" the Sjoglund said, suspiciously.

"The guy in front of me at security had it," Josh said and was amazed at the speed with which the massive creature could move. "Nice talking to you!" Josh yelled at the retreating form. "Bye!"

* * *

Josh watched the world dwindling into space until the stars began to move faster and faster. Just as promised, the ones to the front got red and the ones to the rear got blue and then they vanished. What was left was a swirling purple like the stuff you got with your eyes closed if you weren't reading or meming or something.

"Ladies, gentlemen, neuters and ?T*Reen," the captain said in a clipped Fordoss Galactica accent. "The ship has entered hyperspace and you may now unbuckle your restraints and feel free to move about the cabin. Please keep minimal restraints in place when seated in case we encounter subspace turbulence or black holes."

Josh tapped the command and the enveloping body cover retracted into the seat. Then he leaned the seat back and closed his eyes. It was a pretty good book but it had been a long day and eventually he went to sleep.

3: When In Rome

"Excuse me, young sir," the Tooleck said, prodding at his arm.

Josh opened his eyes and looked out the window but they were still in hyperspace.

"Mwuff?" he said, sitting up. "Sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

"Here is a hot towel," the Tooleck said. "Dinner will be served in a few cycles." It was apparently a Tooleck female, slightly larger than the males and less ornate in body etching with the blue and green stylized starship of Tooleck Spaceways graved on her carapace. She handed him a towel and then turned to the seats across the aisle from him continuing her service.

Josh washed his face and hands with the hot towel and then rubbed the back of his neck. That not being enough, he dug in both ears, washed behind them for the first time in months, then stuck the towel up under his shirt and gave himself a good rub-down. When he finished the formerly white towel was a dark gray with some yellow etching.

He dropped it in the basket as the attendant came back through and then decided to look around at his fellow travelers. There were two Terrans across the aisle from him, an older man and a girl Josh figured was his daughter. They didn't look alike or anything, but she was way younger than he was. She was really pretty, too, but kind of old, maybe twenty, wearing "two bangles and a feather," with her hands folded demurely on her lap and her eyes closed. Reading, tooling or meming, not sleeping, from the ways her eyes were moving under their lids.

Josh caught the man looking at him and he looked kind of angry. So Josh decided to look somewhere else. He lifted himself up on his seat and looked at the seats behind him. There was another couple, there, two catlike Nalo, a male and a female. Again, the male must have been the dad because he had the really deep black fur of an older Nalo with gray around the jowls. The female was younger, Josh couldn't even guess how young, with light tan, thin, fur. She was reading a pad, one pointed ear twitching occasionally. Nalo mostly wore a sort of long robe but hers was short, barely reaching the tops of her thighs and was cut low in the front so he could see her cleavage. It was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. When she inhaled the little hairs on her breasts sort of bristled.

After a moment, as if reading his mind, she looked up from the pad. He grinned at her and she slowly drew her lips back, revealing a mouth full of perfectly formed, extremely sharp, teeth. He wasn't too sure about Nalo expressions, but he didn't think it was a smile. So he smiled again, lips closed, sheepishly, and slid back down the back of his chair.

The fresher was at the front of the compartment so he strolled up there and did his business. There were instructions in Galacta explaining how a human should use the flusher. He followed them carefully, confused and, at times, horrified by some of the other instructions. When he was done he wandered more slowly down the aisle, looking at his fellow passengers.

Most of them were Tooleck and most of those were females, probably businesswomen from the pads and chart-holos. There were a couple of lizardlike Jootan, one of them sitting right next to an Adoo! He wondered if the sluglike Adoo was being taken to the Jootan salt-mines but probably not. The war had been over for a looong time. Terra and the Toolecks won, beating the Jootan and the Ortulians over a sixty parsec sector, and the Adoo had mostly moved to Goolagam which was their ancestral world. It had been taken over by Adyl while they were gone, since they'd lost control of it nearly three thousand years before to the Yemnor, and there'd been quite a few wars there since they'd moved back. Each of which the Adoo had won with embarrassing ease given that the Adyl were about three meters tall, heavily armored insectoids related to Narians. Getting beat up by a bunch of slugs had to be embarrassing. It wasn't far from Nari, come to think of it.

He'd just started to close his eyes to read again when the Tooleck stewards started serving dinner. A tray extruded from the back of the seat in front of him with the dinner covered by a crystal-plas warmer. When he took it off he sighed; proto-carb chicken in some sort of sauce. He picked up the prongs and prodded at it. Yep, proto-carb, had to be. No real chicken was ever that rubbery.

It was pretty good, though; the sauce was creamy and not spicy. There were noodles in some sort of cheese sauce, too. He avoided the vegetables on the basis that anything green had to be bad for you. There was some sort of fruit, though. It was kind of funny, sort of like an orange but purple and with a really thick rind. When he got that off, by biting into it with his somewhat prominent incisors and tearing, which he'd gotten good at in Papua, he found that the interior was filled with little globes. He popped one in his mouth, suspiciously, and was pleased to find that it was something like a kumquat, sweet and tangy at the same time. He ate all the little globes, greedily, getting juice all over his hands. But there was another warm towel in the tray and he used that to clean up.

When he was done he tooled the command and the tray folded back up along with his mess. Well, except for the stuff that had gotten on his clothes which he brushed off onto the floor. Small buglike bots scuttled out of the walls and picked up the debris, unnoticed.

Fed and happy he checked his plant and saw that they were about three quarters of the way to Tooleck, passing over the last bit of the Canalit Rift. They were just approaching Re'as, an underdeveloped planet that had been settled by Toolecks several thousand years ago. The Re'as were hostile towards the Toolecks, which had conquered them as part of the far-spanning, and fast decaying, Tooleck Empire. The Tooleck were in the process of slowly withdrawing from Re'as and not enjoying the experience. Re'as terrorists were always blowing up air-car bombs in Donlon or shooting Tooleck soldiers or something else to express their general dissatisfaction with the Toolecks.

On the other hand, when the Re'as weren't fighting the Toolecks they were fighting each other or singing about fighting or wandering around the galaxy as mercenaries or casual muscle. They called it "following the wild besleem." They spoke a version of heavily accented Galactica that was fairly similar to Tooleck, but coarser and, in extreme versions, nearly incomprehensible.

Josh kicked his feet and wondered what to do next. He had a couple of hundred books loaded in his plant but he really didn't feel like reading. He'd decided that spacing was boring. So much for being a spacer. Nothing but hyperspace to look at most of the time. What he wanted to be was . . . rich. Rich enough to buy a planet. Rich enough that he'd have a girlfriend like that Nalo girl, with really fine fur.

He brought up a tooling about the Second Orion war and spliced himself in as an Insertion Commando. The mission was to rescue . . . a pretty Nalo girl, a member of the resistance, who was being held by the Jootan secret police. He'd just gotten through the ludicrous Jootan defenses around their headquarters and burst into the room where the Nalo girl was tied up and being threatened by black-clad Jootan police when the tooling was automatically saved.

"Ladies, gentlemen, neuters and ?T*Reen," the Tooleck captain said, "we are approaching hyperjunction with Tooleck at this time. Please disengage all net connections and configure your comfort zones for landing."

Josh sighed and triggered the restraints, squirming a little as the plastic wrapped across his body, legs and forehead. He could turn his head to the side and he watched as the purple of hyperspace gave way to shifted stars and then the pinpricks came together into normal looking pins of light. The G class star of Tooleck was briefly visible as the window automatically polarized to prevent blinding. The ship was pointed at Tooleck on the way in but as they approached the planet it banked to enter the landing pattern and Josh got his first glimpse of a new planet.

It looked . . . gray.

* * *

"It's cold!" Jala said, wrapping her arms around herself. She was wearing a light environment cape but the warmer was having to really work in the brumous conditions in Donlon. The rain was sheeting down as they waited under a force dome for an aircab and she shivered and pulled Josh to her.

"We didn't bring any clothes for this," she said.

"My fault," Steve answered, shrugging. He was wearing a slightly heavier environment jacket and frowned as he saw Josh shiver. "We'll go to the hotel and then order some appropriate clothes. I'd forgotten it was autumn year in Donlon."

The pad they were waiting at gave a good view of the city of Donlon and to Josh the place looked not much different from Bowan. Fewer megascrapers and a cluster of very low buildings near the middle, but pretty much block after block of big buildings. It actually looked like Bowan, the part they'd lived in, in the winter. Lots of cold rain and fog.

"Revod Hotel," his father said when the cabrank got to them.

"Please to place your luggage in the boot," the cabbot said in a weird accent. "Your" came out as "you were." "Pleace to plass you were loogadge in ter boot."

"Why's it sound like that?" Josh said as he tossed his bag in the trunk of the cab.

"That's what most of the local Toolecks sound like," his dad answered. "It's called Norky."

"Cool," Josh said as he settled into the conformal backseat.

"Where you from, guvnor?" the cabbot said as it lifted into the air.

"Terra," Steve answered.

"Well, uh course, guvnor," the cabbot said. "Where 'bouts?"

"Bowan," Josh said. "Last. We travel a lot. We were in Papua before that."

"Papua!" the cabbot said. "Got a mate works in Papua as a loader. Name of C4T7J315. Don't suppose you ran into him, eh?"

"No, sorry," Steve said. "Doesn't ring a bell. Knew a Norky dozerbot named D89Y4I673, though."

"Revod Hotel's a swank place," the cab burbled. "Not far from Seak Park. Got to watch the changing of the guards, guvnor. The larva would enjoy it."

"We'll see," Jala said, looking out at the misting rain. "Don't you have weather controls, here?"

"Yes, missus," the cab said. "This is what we like for weather!"

The Revod Hotel turned out to be a series of two-story buildings taking up about a half block of prime commercial real estate. Josh couldn't believe that somebody hadn't already built a megascraper on it. Dad would clear the area in a heartbeat.

They pulled in under a portico that didn't even have a force screen and the cold mist and rain hit them as soon as they got out of the cab. Mom handled the transfer while he and Dad got the luggage and dumped it on one of the waiting bellhops.

"Right this way, guvnor," the float said, spinning around and heading for the plascrys doors.

The hop led them through the lobby and to a bounce tube at the rear of the building, then up to the second floor and down a corridor to one of the outbuildings. The corridor was surrounded by dripping plascrys and Josh could see that small gardens were set between the buildings. The vegetation was mostly purple and looked like variations on moss and ferns.

"Room B 219, guvnor," the hop said as they reached the room. The door was wood on hinges, something Josh had only seen in historical movies.

His dad keyed the lock and showed Josh and Jala how to use the doorknob thingy. There was only one bed and the fresher had some fixtures Josh had never seen.

"What's that?" Josh asked, pointing at one of them. It looked like a seat with a spike on it.

"That's for . . . Tooleck," his dad said, hastily. "You don't want to use it. And I'd better explain the fresher controls. You really don't want to hit the third button, son. Hop, we'll need a float bed for my son as well."

"I'll get one for the tyke right away, guvnor," the hop said then cleared his voice circuits. "Hem . . ."

"Sorry," Josh's dad said and transferred a tip.

"Right away, guvnor," the hop said, floating out of the room.

"Wow! A fountain," Josh said, examining the controls on the fresher.

"That's for . . . Nalo, son," his dad said, shutting down the jet of water that was coming out of the commode. "Females."

"And what's the third . . . OH, MY GOD!" Josh shouted as a claw came up out of the bottom of the commode, snapped at air and yanked downwards.

"I told you not to hit the third button!" his dad snapped. "Especially if you're sitting down!"

"That would of . . ."

"Yes," Steve said, exasperatedly. "It's an Adoo setting. Just . . . go check what they have on the tridee, okay? I think there's a human circuit."

Josh sighed and went to the tridee, sitting on the end of the bed and tooling it with his plant. He looked at the selections and pulled up Manny and Butch, a police show that had been extremely popular on Terra . . . five years ago. Since it was in a prime-time slot it was apparently brand new to the Toolecks. He watched an episode he'd seen at least three times before for a couple of minutes, mouthing the words to one scene, and was just about to change the channel when it cut to commercial.

A . . . very pretty girl with brown hair and . . . well . . . really . . . uhm . . . was holding up a bottle of something.

"Libro," she whispered, huskily. "Libro . . . for . . . men."

"Aaah," Josh whimpered, absolutely positive that the next thing he was going to do was go out and buy some Libro . . . whatever it was . . . "So that's what nipples look like . . . I didn't know they were pink . . ."

"What?" Jala said, turning around from where she'd been unpacking. "Joshua Damley Parker! What are you watching?!"

"A commercial," Josh said, reverently, as the channel was changed. "Oh, Mommm."

* * *

Breakfast was another new experience.

"Well," Josh's dad said, scanning the menu. "They've got . . . quite a selection . . ."

"What are nanhuch or what is a nanhuch . . ." Josh asked, hesitantly.

"Uhm . . . you wouldn't like it," his dad said. "The intestines of something like a local pig, looks more like an ant, stuffed with its book-lungs."

"Ooooo!"

"Better than haggis, trust me. Try the iravo*1*, that ought to be safe," his dad said. "And some . . . ollien*2*. That's . . . sort of like porridge . . ."

The iravo when it was served by a botwaiter turned out to be strips of . . . well probably meat. Fried. They were chewy but tasty. The ollien looked a lot like oatmeal.

"What's this made of?" Josh asked, suspiciously.

"Sort of wheat," his dad said, clearing his throat. "Put some of the keatle syrup*3* on it. That will . . . help."

There was a big pot of the stuff in the middle of the table and Josh suspiciously stuck a finger on some of the green viscous liquid that was stuck running down the outside. He licked the stuff nervously and then smiled.

"Hey! It's corn syrup!" he said, happily.

"Close enough," his dad replied. Dad was having the nanhuch. It smelled like fish.

After a breakfast of iravo slices and ollien with lots of keatle syrup, Josh was ready to admit that Tooleck wasn't quite the barbarian planet it had first seemed. Gosh knows they had some decent tridee channels.

Darohs was a famous shopping mall that was just down the street from the Revod Hotel. After breakfast and daring a brief break in the rain, the underdressed threesome darted down the street to the store.

Josh's dad picked up a heavier environment coat and Josh, after whining to get a fake lizibe fur cape just like Cilo the Barbarian wore, settled on a blue and green toggle button coat made from some weird, rough, material. It had a hood, and when he pulled it up he could pretend he was Cilo the Barbarian, making his way through the northern wastes and battling ice-worms. His mom at first was going to get an environment coat like his father and then Dad talked her into buying a fake neganah fur coat. It was light blue and glowed like fire under the sun-paint. She turned around in it, looking at it from all sides in the view screens and sighed.

"It's too much," she said.

"We can afford it," Steve replied. "We'll be able to, anyway. You like it, right?"

"Yes," she said, sighing again. "Okay."

"Josh, your mother and I have to go to the bank," his dad said as they exited the store. "You might as well stay in the hotel."

"I might as well go with you," Josh said unhappily. "You locked out all the good channels on the tridee. I'll just . . . read or something."

"Fine, but don't interfere or pester people," his dad said.

They took a cab to the bank, which was a low, stone building and Josh waited on a humanoform chair while his mom and dad talked to an Adoo. About half the people working in the bank were Tooleck and the rest seemed to be Adoo and Terrans.

Josh watched them talking for a while and then closed his eyes to read. Finally, they were done. It seemed to take hours. But when he checked his clock it was less than 45 minutes.

"Let's go, Josh," his dad said. "I've rented an air car and we're going sightseeing."

"In this?" Josh said as they stepped out of the bank. The rain had turned to sleet mixed with snow. The wind had picked up as well and icicles were forming on the traffic markers.

"Yes," his dad replied, dryly. "I checked the weathercomp and there's some procession today, something to do with the Queen. They wanted just the right weather for it so it will stay this way until at least tomorrow. Apparently they were forced to have some clearing, then, but it's going to get colder. Today we're going to go to some ruins, Rockdeng they call it, because we sure as heck don't want to go tomorrow."

"Rocks and sleet," Josh said. "What a perfect combination."

* * *

Rockdeng, when they made it, turned out to be really cool. It was set in the middle of a big open plain of purple grass and while there was a power-fence around it, tourists were free to wander through the area. There was just something about the arrangement of big, weathered, green-stone rocks that made him wonder.

Josh wandered around the assembly, climbing on rocks, carefully, it was still sleeting, looking up at rocks and generally having a fine time until his mom memed his plant and downloaded the standard historic spiel. Just for giggles he decided to access it.

Rockdeng, it turned out, was created by prehistoric Tooleck, possibly as a form of early solar calendar. The stones had come from more than sixty kilometers away and were pulled there by hand or possibly using early domesticated animals. The animals they showed looked like giant ants and there was a toolie of them dragging some stones across the plain.

It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to figure out what day you should celebrate your birthday.

"Greenstone is a metamorphic igneous rock," his dad said as he opened his eyes to go find more rocks to climb. "Originally an igneous rock similar to dolomite and then subjected to higher heats and pressure," Steve continued, pointing at the side of one of the rocks. "See? Very fine grain. Slow cooling."

"Okay, Dad." Josh sighed. To his dad it seemed that everything was down to the rocks. Or, sometimes, the history of a place. Josh rarely saw his father and when he did his one image of him was of a guy sitting in a float recliner with his eyes moving, scanning some text. Most of them seemed to be history or adventure fiction.

"It's getting late," his dad said, pinging his mom, who had been sitting on a rock patiently waiting for father and son to get done. "Let's head back to Donlon."

It had been a two hour air-car hop to Donlon but the ride back seemed shorter.

"Steve," Jala said, when they got back to the hotel and had released the car to go park itself, "we've hardly seen anything of Donlon. Let's go look around."

"Okay," Steve said, shrugging. The temperature was hovering right at five degrees Celsius, but they were well dressed for the weather. "Let's find something to eat, though. I'm starved."

"I'm sure we'll find a restaurant or something," Jala said, putting her arm through his. "But Donlon's such a fascinating city. So much history. It seems a shame to not look around."

A city was pretty much a city to Josh but he had to admit that there was something different about Donlon. Part of it was that the Tooleck seemed to walk more than Terrans; the streets were packed with them as the threesome made their way through the crowds. Most of them weren't wearing environment coats but they all seemed to carry rellas like Terrans carried pads. And for much the same reason, apparently, because they had to use them just about as frequently.

It was after dark, or maybe it was the incessant cloud-cover, but all the shops were open and it seemed his mother had to stop in every single one. She didn't buy much but she had a great time looking.

"Honey," Jala said, coming out of a shop that sold intricate jewelrylike timepieces designed to be planted on the Tooleck carapace. "I want to go to Offacro Road."

"They'll probably be closing up by the time we get there," Steve warned.

"I still want to see it," Jala said.

"Okay, okay, we'll take the tube."

They caught a gravtube to another part of town, took a bounce-tube down to ground level and then stepped out on Offacro Road.

The road was lined by buildings, most of them less than ten stories tall and all connected by walkways and catwalks. And it seemed to be one giant mall. But what a mall. No laser fitters for clothing here. No, the clothes were laid out on floaters with Toolecks and Adoo and bots shouting in competition to be heard. Clothes and jewelry and just . . . stuff.

"Oh, wow!" Josh said, darting to one of the open shops and pointing in the window. "A real, honest-to-gosh forty-watt plasma rifle!"

"It's a nonfunctional replica," Steve said, glancing at it. "They drill the barrel and the charging coils so it can't be used. Thousands of them got dumped after the Orion War."

"A bookstore!" Josh shouted, dashing across the street. The door was locked, the proprietor having apparently gone home early, or, it being a bookstore on Offacro Road, maybe not having come in all day. But Josh could see dozens, hundreds of real paper books in the store. Then he looked at some of the prices and gulped. Let's see. If he saved his allowance for fifty years . . .

Mirrors and pottery and handcrafts from a thousand worlds. Jewelry for wear or implantation. Plant shops where anyone from a Terran to a Vacalu could be implanted in a matter of minutes with anything from a Covas V to a Mamorak 3000 with the special tooling coprocessor.

"They say you can buy anything on Offacro Road," his dad said as his mother was dickering for what was purported to be an authentic Yemnor brooch. If it was it had to be at least five thousand years old. "Anything from a map to the Holy Grail to a fleet of destroyers."

"Gosh," Josh said. "How much would just one destroyer cost?" With just one destroyer he could . . . well, rather than listing the things he couldn't do it would be easier to list the things he could. Taking over the Terran Federation was out, but other than that . . .

"More than I make, Josh," his dad said, leaning over to whisper. "And stay close. Because one of the things they sell, or so it is said, is . . . special food. There are some species that think that . . . young Terrans are especially tasty." His dad waggled his eyebrows and winked. "What do you think about that?"

Josh thought about this for a second and shrugged.

"I bet that shop that had the nonfunctional plasma rifle knows where you can buy a real one, Dad," he replied, whispering back. "Maybe we should get one."

"Not on Tooleck, son," his dad said, laughing. "They really frown on that sort of thing."

"Speaking of food," Josh said, his stomach rumbling.

"I don't think I can get that," his mom said. "It had better be authentic for what that Kaffo wanted for it. I don't see many restaurants . . ."

"You don't go to restaurants on Offacro Road!" his dad said, grinning. "There's a vendor just down there."

The vendor was a Lemnor, a ratlike being with red fur and beady black eyes. He was banging on the floater beside him with a pair of tongs.

"NAMERSH! Get your namersh right here! Hot and fresh! FRESH namersh!"

"I'll take a namersh," Josh's dad said. "These are really good," he added.

"What are they?" Josh asked, suspiciously.

"They're like . . . sort of Tooleck hot dogs," his dad replied. "They've even got mustard. I'll have mine with mustard, onions and rask*4*."

"Right you are, guvnor," the Lemnor said in a squeaky voice. He pulled a long brown thing that looked like a very oddly shaped potato out of an oven on the side of the floater, then cut the end off with a swift flash of a viblade and stuck the thing on a long spike. The entire process seemed to be one continuous motion. He held the open end of the thing under three of at least a dozen spigots, shooting mustard, chopped onions and what must have been "rask," a purple viscous fluid, into the hole in the thing. Last he opened up the top of a steaming tureen and pulled out a yellowish brown tube. The tube was stuffed in the hole in the potato-thing and the Lemnor held up a finger.

"That's a dib, guvnor," he said, diffidently.

"The price has gone up since the last time I was in Donlon, then," Steve said, frowning. "It used to be a quatro!"

"Well, it's the price of rask, isn't it? And onions, now onions those are just out of this . . . well, they're from Terra aren't they? Taxes are terrible. Cutting my own throat at that. But, seeing as how it's you, I'll say . . . half dib and that's flat."

"Quatro, and six," Josh' dad said. "Not a pin more."

"You've got me over a barrel, guv," the Lemnor whined. "I've already made it up and all. Have to eat it myself and explain to my partner where our sliver of profit's gone. Nine less sixty-three. Can't do less! And that's cutting me own throat!"

"Tell you what," Steve said, shaking his head. "I know you've got pups . . ."

"Squeakers, guv, nine of them and their mother ill . . ."

"So, a dib and quatro for three, and that's flat. Or you'll have to eat your profit."

"Guv, you're a friend in need," the Lemnor said, holding out his paw for the money.

"Transfer?" Steve asked.

"With those fees?" the Lemnor squeaked. "It's ten percent over and I'll have to go to Mert the Butcher . . ."

"Oh, very well," Steve said, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a handful of metal coins. "Let's see, that's a quatro, three quatros and a nine make a dib and a six*5* . . ."

Finally the complicated money and food transaction was complete. Jala got mustard and ketchup and Josh got just ketchup. He'd just taken a bite out of the namersh, and been favorably pleased, when the Lemnor shook his head in sadness.

"Been a good night," he muttered then looked up in horror. "Not that I'm making money or anything, it seems like the more I make the less I . . ."

"I understand," Steve said, taking another bite and starting to walk away.

"Got to fill the tureen back up, though," the Lemnor said, pulling out a bucket and reaching in with his tongs.

What he lifted out of the bucket looked like nothing so much as a giant tong full of quarter meter maggots. They were long and thin . . .

The rodentoid raised the lid on the tureen and dropped them in to the sound of high-pitched squealing just as Josh realized what he was eating.

"Try to get it in the scuppers, guvnor!" the Lemnor called out to him. "It helps feed the breeders!"

TO BE CONTINUED
Footnotes

(1) Belly steaks of the jumis worm, a large maggotlike creature used for reprocessing of edible garbage.

(2) Regurgitation of same. So is honey.

(3) Sort of honey. Sort of. Don't ask.

(4) A hot spicy condiment extracted from the fecal matter of the Sinok beast.

(5) This interaction makes more sense if the reader is familiar with pre-Decimal English currency. In this case, four quatro equal a dib and ten pins or one hundred and twenty-six pins and a slup. Again, don't ask. Among other things, it's base seven.

John Ringo is the author of many novels, as well as a writer of short stories.

To read more work by John Ringo, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

Fish Story, Episode 1

Written by Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer and Eric Flint
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

Episode 1: The Wandle Pike

You may call me Ishmael. Yes, I know it's been done. But since my name will change constantly as the story progresses, it may as well begin in the public domain.

If any story can be said to truly begin, especially one that involves—at last count—forty-three galactic cabals, nine of which are intergalactic in scope; conspiracies spanning no fewer than eighteen separate and distinct universes; at least six of which involve clearly definable deities, then this one started at a pub in the part of South London I inhabited at the time.

This particular evening was one of those that had started before lunchtime. If he paces himself, a man might drink a pint of regular-strength beer every hour for days on end and never reach a condition of serious inebriation. We subscribed to this theory. By "we," I refer to myself and the other reprobates present on this particular evening, Patrick Welch, Bobby Hudson and Sheila Rowen. Sheila's presence in this normally all-male sort of gathering can be explained by her vast capacity for drink, a sarcastic humor too sharp to be denied entry, and—last but not least—the fact that she was larger than any of us except Welch, probably even stronger than he was on account of her fanatical devotion to body-building, and tattooed beyond belief.

As I say, we subscribed to this theory. Indeed, we tested it to destruction. Of course, you had to start the evening before lunchtime in this pub, in order to test it properly. Come six o'clock or thereabouts, they put the bouncer on the door and unless you were a childhood friend of his, you didn't get in. That place was popular, and invariably, at a weekend at least, wedged solid of an evening. The trick was to get in there about lunchtime or a little after and dig in for the long haul.

Comes about midnight, and the conversation turned to the fishing to be had in those parts.

Now, this is not as barren a topic as you might think. There are, in fact, quite the number of bodies of water in London with catchable coarse fish in them, should you take the trouble to look.

Then, the topic widened, so it did. And now it comes time to introduce the Captain Ahab (not to say the Jonah, 'twas ever his fate to be thus) of this little tale.

I refer, of course, to Bobby Hudson. The thing about Hudson was that he was a bugger for trouble. Highly entertaining trouble, mostly, but trouble nonetheless.

If he wasn't asking night-club bouncers what they were looking at, or—memorably—going out jogging in Glasgow wearing a T-shirt that read British By Birth, English By The Grace of God, he was demonstrating his famed disdain for high-speed dense traffic or fooling about in high places. Night-climbing, the practice of scaling public buildings to the consternation of the emergency services and the scandal of the parish, was one of his favorite sports.

Be all this as it may, Bobby took up the theme of matters piscatorial. He'd a notion about him that, should one desire the ultimate in freshwater sport, the pike was the thing, and hardly were there pike to be found in London. "Deep water," said Hudson, "deep, still water. Slow-flowing at best. That's how pike like to hunt."

"There's pike to be had in London," said Welch, "there're canals and such lousy with them. You want pike-infested waters, Bobby my boy, London can oblige."

Now, we've introduced the Ahab of this tale. We must needs have a Queequeg. And this is the bit where she pitches in. And if Sheila's sex did not match the model properly, her vast assortment of tattoos most certainly did.

"Have you heard about the Pike that's supposed to be in the Wandle?" she asked. I swear, she pronounced it with a capital letter.

Sheila was the only local of the four of us. Patrick was a kiwi, I'm Lancastrian, and Hudson was from the West Country somewhere.

Rowen, on the other hand, was authentic Sarf Lunnon, Brixton in her native habitat, half Trinidad and half Irish in her heritage. Now, anyone passing a moment's thought over this would wonder why we—indeed I, who share part thereof—were not on a strict and searching enquiry as to the likely veracity of Sheila's tale. Both islands—fair Erin and balmy Trinidad—have a long tradition of the wind-up and the tall story. Compound these with the native Londoner's insistence that the city excels all others in all matters, and you have a recipe for a first-class fish story.

And there was precedent. London is notorious for spawning bizarre monsters most of which turn out, on closer examination, to be utterly legendary. The infamous Brentford Griffin Incident of 1984 is well known in the literature cryptozoological, and I leave to the interested student further enquiry as to the details of that shabby debacle of the journalistic profession.

There are more, of course:

The alleged man-eating aquatic swine of the Fleet Ditch, said to live in the roofed-over Fleet River to this day.

The Beast of Hackney Marsh.

The Highgate Vampire.

The Spectre of Bleeding Heart Yard.

The Goat of Dollis Hill.

Tonight, though, Rowen was to introduce us to the Wandle Pike.

First, a brief note on the regular, non-legendary, pike. It's a handsome fish, torpedo shaped, cheerfully predatory and ranging in size when caught from two-pound tiddlers up to record weights in the region of sixty pounds. It's the biggest fish found in British fresh waters, challenged only by the big farmed carp that are bred for the real hard-core anglers who want a prey that's capable of taking their arms out of their sockets, is smart enough to plot revenge for being caught and laughs off the puny tackles and rigs of ordinary anglers.

Moreover, the pike, a fish of distinction and cunning, is known to fight back. Looking sort of like a freshwater barracuda, it has been known in its larger specimens to drag waterfowl down to their doom, attack wading anglers and generally provoke fear and consternation. There was even a horror movie made about a giant pike supposedly inhabiting a Cumbrian lake that died a mercifully swift death at the box office. The Wandle Pike made the twelve-foot robotic fish built for that film look like a minnow.

"You intrigue me," said Hudson.

"As well I should," said Sheila, "for the Wandle Pike is truly the finest fish you might take in these parts."

"I smell a Griffin, Rowen, I make no bones about it," I said, injecting the only sceptical note of the evening. Well, not the only sceptical note. Just the last to be heard out of any of the four of us.

"Damned sophist," she replied. "This is not simply some random and drunken sighting, of a beast known a priori to be mythical; this is a documented fish, gentlemen."

Naturally, we called on her to furnish full and complete particulars.

Our calls for the story led to the kind of detailed negotiations that can only arise when all present are mortal hammered and the question of whose round it might be rises to the head of the agenda. Turns out it was me, and between getting the beers in and recycling some I'd taken aboard earlier in the day, I returned to:

"—last time it was caught was in 1974. That was how I got to know about him, it was my Pa that last caught the Wandle Pike. He said it was two feet longer than he was, and he was no small man."

"Yeah, but how long're we talking about here?" asked Patrick. "I mean, respect to your dad and all, but how tall is he? Or was he?"

"My father, you nitpicker, is, was and remains six feet tall in his boots, making the Wandle Pike some eight feet in length when last captured." Sheila tried to draw herself up in dignity as she said this, the effect being somewhat marred as ever by the fact that she was red-eye plastered and talking around the stub of a coffin-nail.

"Eight feet? Surely they don't grow that big?"

"Nah, they do," said Hudson, betraying a hitherto-unsuspected fund of ichthyological lore. "They keep growing until they die. Fish're notorious for it. They ain't got the genes for old age."

"So how much did it weigh?" I asked.

"Dad never got to weigh him. He got the hook out, damn near lost his hand doing it, and then he was fighting with a fish bigger than he was. As I say, he was no small man. He worked as a docker when he first came off the boat from Trinidad. Well, he got his scale to the thing, and it gave a heave, threw him off, and slithered back into the river."

"And the fucking pudding," came the reply, along with other traditional exclamations of disbelief. Now this was a fish story.

"Just as it was told to me!" Sheila insisted. "Wouldn't have done any good to weigh him in any case. Dad's scale only went up to fifty pounds."

"That's a damn' big fish," said Bobby.

There was a warning sign, if you like. Gone midnight, early Sunday morning. None present close enough to sobriety to poke it with a long stick, and Hudson's got that gleam in his eye.

Enter Welch with petrol for the flames. "Of course, if we make only a few simple assumptions about that fish, we might deduce that it weighed somewhere in the region of two hundred, two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Three or four times the current record." I was inebriated past caring for the consequences of what I was saying. Set in a crowded theatre just then, I'd have been shouting fire.

"That is a damn big fish," said Hudson.

"Of course," said Patrick, now over the recklessness event horizon and collapsing into a singularity of inadvisability, "it'll have got bigger since then. Think about it. It actually held the English record from 1934 to 1938. By 1974 –forty years later—it was anything up to five times the weight of any pike ever recorded in British Waters."

"Damn big fish" said Hudson. "Eight feet long, drawing a foot and a half of water, and capable of wrestling its way out of the grasp of a fully-grown man."

Welch was not to be restrained, although by this stage I was getting a premonition—no second sight needed, just that peculiar clarity of thought that comes after twelve hours of sustained drunkenness—and was thinking about braining him with a barstool. Or just running for my life, and devil take the hindmost.

"Damn big fish," said Hudson.

"Teeth an inch long, his stripes so broad he's almost totally black, his mouth scarred with all the places he got caught in his younger days. And he's been feeding and growing all the while, on God knows what in the Wandle, and probably venturing into the Thames as well. But he's only ever been caught in the Wandle."

"Damn big fish," said Hudson.

At this point Sheila set another round down on the table. I hadn't noticed her get up, and seeing her come back unbidden with more beer should've set me to running. Any night on which Sheila was buying without being frogmarched to the bar and all but mugged for the price of the drinks was definitely too rum and uncanny for any sensible man to be abroad.

"Gentlemen," she said, "I give you the Wandle Pike."

The Wandle Pike! was the toast.

"Could be anywhere up to half a ton by now," said Welch.

"Damn big fish," said Hudson. "I say we catch that fish."

Well, we received that in silence.

"When?" I asked.

Just then came the fateful cry from the bar.

"Time, gentlemen, please!"

One o'clock in the morning, all of us profoundly drunk, and a Mighty Quest in the offing. A sensible man would have run for cover and tried to forget all about the whole sordid business. Alas, there had been drink taken and, some minor rumblings of self-preservation apart, I sensed the game afoot.

"Right," said Hudson, rising to his feet with a pint and a half untouched before him—thus could his firmness of purpose be measured—"What we need is tackle."

"Hold on," I said, "do we have to catch the fucker tonight? There's a bed calling to me. I need to get a run-up on my hangover."

Bobby thumped the table, redistributing the ash and slops. "No!" he cried, drawing curious glances. "I know how this goes. We talk and talk and never get around to it."

"I'm in," said Patrick. "This sounds like one to tell the grandkids. Besides, I want to see how this sheepshagger performs with rod and line."

"You'll be needing a native guide, then, Bwana," said Rowen, provoking Hudson into his best Great White Hunter pose. He'd have done better if he hadn't dropped his cigarette out of his mouth and down his shirtfront.

"Bugger," I said. "Well, we'll finish our pints first, eh?"

You might not know this, but there's twenty minutes of drinking-up time after closing time. We were all double-parked, Sheila having heard last orders and got another round in before the bar shut. Result: three lads and a tattooed lady weightlifter trying to choke down a pint and a half before the bouncers heaved us into the street.

It's the cause of more trouble in Britain than anything else. You walk out of a nice warm pub into the cold night air, the entire alcoholic content of a pint or two of beer hitting you all at once. You're bound to be a bit touchy, right?

But we were on a mission, so we walked right past the minor skirmishes—promising ones, at that, that looked like the makings of a nice little riot—not even stopping to spectate.

Well, the only one of us with tackle handy was Bobby. He had digs just down the road in Kennington. Mine was packed away in my parents' house, two hundred miles away. Patrick's was on the other side of the planet, likewise. Rowen's was on the far side of Peckham, and passing through that neighbourhood twice in one night was more weirdness than any of us wanted to handle.

Reaching Bobby's place, we waited perhaps four seconds—out of decency—after he vanished in back somewhere to root out his tackle before raiding his beer supply and sticking the video on.

Hudson's video collection deserves mention. It consisted entirely of a subcritical mass of football and pornography. The football was a comprehensive collection of classic games and highlights tapes. Standard stuff, if present in unusual quantity. The porn was, in contrast, off the map.

There are conventions in grumbleflicks, for crying out loud. Cheesy dialogue. Improbable situations. Outlandish facial hair. Strange background music that sounds like it's being played on a £19.99 Casiotone keyboard. Not for Hudson: he collected the downright odd. The one that sticks in my memory was what is arguably the strangest pornographic film ever made: The Naked Orchestra. Fifteen or so nude women, equipped with instruments, miming (badly) to some minor item from the classics for about half an hour in soft focus while the camera pans and zooms around. There are few things one can do to make a naked woman into a faintly ridiculous and frankly unappealing sight. Making her play a tuba is one of them.

None of us was in any condition to appreciate the brain-bending qualities of Hudson's collection of naughties, so after brief debate, Patrick got up and picked out the old standby.

"I give you the most violent match ever played in the domestic professional game," he said, "the Leeds-Arsenal cup final of 1976. The highlights tape: all the goals and fouls. In short, the whole game."

Truth was spoken: it had been a first-class needle match. Jackie Charlton publicly threatened two players on the Arsenal side before the match. A recent experiment to apply modern standards of refereeing concluded that the game would have finished with nine of twenty-two players sent off and all but one of the rest on yellow cards.

In the actual game only one yellow card was given, for playing like a great soft fairy. Ah, it was a hard game in those days. My grandad, God rest his brain (his body, foul temper and vitriolic wit live on yet) reckons letting women into football grounds ruined the game by civilizing it. I'd have subscribed to the theory myself, had I not made Sheila Rowen's acquaintance.

Be that as it may, come scarce twenty minutes into the first half, we were rudely interrupted. It was Hudson, returned from girding his loins. "Come on, we've a fish to catch."

"Fuckin' 'ell" said Rowen, in hushed and wondering tones.

"Strewth," said Welch, lapsing into antipodean cliché that ordinarily he eschewed.

I let go with a quaint northern idiom or two.

And well might we have eructated our surprise. For Hudson had donned an aspect of such potent piscatorial valor that anyone might have sworn at the sight.

He had the lot. Hat with flies in it, waistcoat with dozens of bulging pockets, stout waterproof trews, heavy-duty green wellies, tackle box bigger than he was, the lot. The effect was somewhat marred by the "Brits on the Piss" T-shirt, but that was all. (Said shirt depicts an anthropomorphic bulldog with a pint of lager and . . . but ethnic stereotypes need no aid from me.)

"To Wandsworth!" cried Bobby.

"How are we getting there?" asked Patrick.

"Tube stopped ten minutes ago," I ventured, hoping to induce sense by dashing hope of transport. There was no chance of a taxi south of the river at that hour, so no need to mention it.

"No night bus where we want to go," added Sheila. She was perhaps having second thoughts. Or, at least, thoughts of practicing the Drinker's Transcendence, Becoming One with the Sofa. Like becoming One with the Cosmos, but without so much effort or sense of ambition.

"No problem," said Hudson. "I phoned for a minicab."

And I thought I'd shuddered before.

Let me explain, briefly, the institution of the London Minicab, by reference to ancient legends of vampires and werewolves and the strangeness that happens at the witching hour.

The traveler wishing to proceed about the great metropolis that is London has a number of options. He can drive his own car at an average of three (3) miles per hour while being financially sodomised by parking and congestion charges.

Or you can take the tube. The tube's a masterpiece of mid-Victorian mass transit technology and, apart from looking in parts like a set for the far-future scenes in Terminator, is a convenient way to get about. But it shuts down at one in the morning.

Then there are the buses; all the disadvantages of the underground and of road transport, and none of the convenience of either.

Nightbuses are another phenomenon. I'm convinced that the N144 Nightbus out to Clapham is the single rummest and most uncanny form of transport known to man. I got on one night in a nun's habit—long story you really won't care to hear—and still wasn't the oddest-looking customer. (The prize went to a stout party in a wetsuit).

Now, we could have taken the nightbus and walked on, but . . . but . . .

There are limits in these matters. Actual exertion was beyond them. We were prepared to risk a minicab. Even after initial horrors, I realized we had no choice.

It's like this: you can't call your conveyance a taxi in London unless it's a proper Black Cab driven by an overweight opinionated loudmouth with bad dress sense who happens to have taken an examination in London geography so's he can pad the meter all the better by taking elaborate "short cuts" that happen to . . .

I'll stop foaming and get on with it.

This is why private hire cars other than Black Cabs are referred to as minicabs. How the name got going, I dunno. I don't care, either.

The ones you get by day are sensible enough. Elderly vehicles, driven by mild-mannered gentlemen, generally, turning a few extra quid to blow on the horses.

But when you order a minicab for any hour after midnight, what you get is a vehicle that defies the laws of physics driven by a manic khat-addled West African space cadet who regards speed limits as an affront to his manhood. These guys can do things with a twenty-year-old Datsun with a dodgy gearbox that challenge any preconceptions you may have had about light-speed limits and the interpenetration of solid objects. All while keeping up a three hundred word-a-minute monologue on—and I have heard all these while praying for deliverance in the back of a minicab while steaming drunk in the wee hours of a Sunday morning—Why His Girlfriends Don't Understand Him, Whether It Is An Immoral Act To Trap Or Poison Mice, Why We Bother To Eat When All We Do Is Shit It Out, I could go on.

Tonight's was no exception.

I'm hazy on the details, so let me give you the Generic After-Midnight Minicab.

The whole stands upon four bald tires. These things violate accepted notions of topography by actually having negative tread; they're folded through hyperdimensional space so as to have absolutely no grip on the road. Engineers looking for frictionless bearings are wasting their time, just run your machine on four minicab tires and perpetual motion will ensue. This is probably how they get from place to place, actually, without apparently charging enough money to keep the vehicle in fuel and the driver in both food and the heroic amount of khat he uses to get him through the night without sleeping, eating, visiting the lavatory or stopping to inhale during his monologue.

The bodywork may have had paint on it at some point. Now, though, it's coated in something that looks like the enamel off an octogenarian smoker's teeth, set off with bright-metal scratches and dents and prodigious amounts of rust. But for the strength of the bonds in Iron Oxide, it'd fall apart when you looked at it.

Inside, it's worse. Strange dusts arise from the stuff the seats are made of. I shall not dignify it with the word "upholstery." It's imitation leather as made by a man with no feeling in his arse or hands and who'd never seen leather to boot. It's got little sphincter-shaped cigarette burns in it that fart stale gusts of dusty air when you sit on the seats. The front seats have got those bead-cover things on them, it's practically a bylaw, and there's always some elaborate ornament in shiny gold-foil and plastic hanging from the rear-view mirror.

I daren't speculate about the engine. There's probably some kind of eldritch horror in there that . . . oh, it's scary. It either makes an emphysemic rhythmic wheeze or no noise at all. It almost, but not quite, forms intelligible words when it's ticking over. Sort of "bloodbloodblood . . . hororoorooroororr . . . manglemanglemangle . . ." and this is the petrol ones. The diesels are all that and more, but with a basso-profundo style.

"About what I expected," said Rowen.

"Quit whining," said Bobby. "We're off to catch a bloody big fish."

"Indeed," I said, and improvised a little on the old Greenland Whaler's shanty with the theme of "we are bound out to Wandsworth, the pike-fish to kill . . ."

"Where to?" asked the driver, "I mean, Wandsworth? Where's that?" He was holding an A to Z to the streetlight and peering into the index.

Well, that provoked a debate, didn't it?

Y'see, the Wandle rises away to the south of London in the south downs away near Carshalton somewhere and joins the Thames just upstream of Wandsworth Bridge. Most of the river is a touch hard to get to and the bickering was mighty. It came down to me and Sheila the end.

I happened to know that there was a spot by the supermarket in Colliers Wood that was accessible, deep and relatively slow-flowing and—this is important, given that we were dealing with a minicab driver who could be relied on to have only a limited grasp of which planet he was on, let alone what street he was in—could be reached by simply driving down the A24, which we happened to be standing on at the time.

Sheila maintained that a monster fish of the Pike's vital statistics would need deep water, which meant we should be going to the confluence of the Wandle and the Thames next to the euphemistically-named "solid waste transfer station."

Now, I'll allow as she had a point. Everywhere more than about a hundred meters from where the Wandle flowed into the Thames, it was no more than about knee deep. Which means that a fish of the Pike's size, which would draw about two feet of water, would face something of a problem going about its lawful occasions without having small boys on the river banks pointing and throwing things at it. Most undignified.

"But Sheila," I said, declaiming for the benefit of the crowd, "them waters are tidal. Pike's a freshwater fish. Well-known fact."

"What of it? Fresh water's all very well, but if there's not enough of it, the fish can't swim in it."

"Come on," I said, "This is biology we're talking here. Only one fish, no, I tell a lie, two fish pass from fresh water to salt like that. Salmon and eels. Not"—and I knew I was turning over an ace here—"a pike. It'd drown." I could swear that a pike would violate the laws of physics, but not its essential fishiness. That was asking me to believe too much.

I shall here excise, for reasons of space, the drunken shouting match that ensued on the subject of whether a fish could be truly said to "drown." Does an animal that breathes water really drown, which is how you die when you try to breathe water when you can't? Or can you only drown a fish in air?

Hairs were split, logic chopped and the argument liberally salted with obscenity. Lights started to come on in the neighborhood. Net curtains twitched.

No doubt various minds, roused from their well-earned rest, started on that train of thought that eventually leads to the police being called to these idiots who were discussing piscine biology, semantics and etymology at the top of their voices at two in the morning.

Eventually the taxi driver got impatient. "Where we goin'?" He was leaning out of the window and occasionally spitting something we didn't want to know about in the gutter.

"Collier's Wood," said Hudson, and got in the front seat. The rest of us crammed into the back seat, none of us small, and Sheila in the middle complaining that she couldn't reach the ashtrays.

"Dogends out the window, guys," said the driver. We were cool with that. To drunks at two in the morning, the world is an ashtray with infinite capacity.

"Right," said Bobby. "If you philosophers are done bickering?"

We assented that we, in fact, were prepared to continue this all night but were content to do so during our progress to the locus in quo.

"Fine. Driver, straight ahead until I tell you otherwise. Colliers' Wood."

"Right, chief," said the driver.

What followed is a sort of blur. For the bits where I wasn't wincing, I was greyed out as the acceleration pressed all the blood out of my eyeballs. Between those conditions I passed through a flicker of quantum states of abject terror; I was watching the world through the distortion of severe drunkenness, so any given scene needed a moment or two to imprint on my brain.

The next clear memory I have is of the driver saying, "Okay, here's Collier's Wood. Where do you want dropping?" We were, at this point, orbiting the gyratory thing that they have there at about three hundred miles per hour. Fairly sedate as these things go.

I looked around, found the spot, and pointed. "Over there," I said, "down by the river there. Close as you can get."

Well, how was I to know how literally he'd take me?

We bounced over the kerb and into the long grass. A vehicle such as our trusty steed for the night, the generic nighttime London minicab, need not be concerned by mere unevenness of traction. The roads of South London will do more to the unwitting suspension than any mere off-road excursion in pursuit of fish. No, the difficulty arose from the interaction of four essential principles of physics: inertia, momentum, balance, and friction.

We had a great surfeit of the former two—more than answered our purposes, in fact—and a great want of the latter. That our driver was out of his gourd on something as yet unidentified added to our distress.

Even sober, little of the detail would remain with me. I have a vague memory of our driver hauling on his handbrake to stop the car, and wedging his elbow into Hudson's ribs. Big mistake. I have a slight hint, somewhere in the confused spin and jolt of getting my face, cigarette and all, mashed into the window resulting in a nasty burn to the nostril that troubled me for days after.

The next clear memory that surfaces is of climbing out of the car, shaken and nauseated.

"Bollocks." I was not at my witty best. Bollocks is a versatile word. As well as being a choice epithet of disgust, amazement, scorn, horror and, suitably modified, approval.

Whatever. A pretty situation we were faced with, albeit not of our making. Friend driver had decided to drop us exactly where we'd asked for, by the river. To do this he'd had to mount the kerb, drive across the pavement, drive over a coping-stone that separated pavement from grass riverbank, and then, having applied what passed for brakes, he skidded and spun the car across fifteen yards of rain-wetted grass, leaving a worms-track of tangled black swatches of mud that gleamed in the orange light of the streetlamps like long, black, oily things.

Hudson retrieved his tackle box from the boot of the cab, and absolutely did a first-class doubletake. He then proceeded to turn to jelly with laughter.

God help us all, I thought, if Bobby's so drunk he didn't notice that until now . . .

Sheila got out. She'd gone an interesting shade of green.

Patrick paid the driver. Me, I'd have rewarded him with a boot for that performance, but I was feeling a bit delicate for casual violence.

"We're going to have to sort this out," said Rowen.

"Sort what out?" I demanded. "He drove it here, he can drive the bloody thing out." I had visions of—well, they turned out pretty bloody accurate.

The driver started his eldritch conveyance up again, threw it into reverse (with the grinding sound a vehicle makes when it hasn't got a functioning clutch) and attempted to reverse back out the way he came. The wheels spun, the mud flew, the minicab sank into the mire and a great rooster tail of sticky black clay, bits of proto-fossil dog turd and clods of grass left Welch covered in it. He tried to duck out of the way, slipped, fell, and got covered worse.

Out pops the driver's head. "Can you give me a push, lads?"

Sheila stared at him, but there are some things that are just hardwired into the male psyche. Helping a motorist in distress is one of them. Someone asks you to help push a car, you do it. Why? I have no idea. No doubt there's a paleoanthropologist out there even now explaining what use this was on the mean trails of Olduvai Gorge.

We braced up and began to shove. Fortunately, fashion that year ran to stout boots rather than the runners that had been the thing until shortly before. No doubt against the possibility that a mountain might spring up in a pub while you were drinking there, or something. As it was, we were heaving against a dead weight while trying to get a grip on wet grass that wasn't so much growing there as floating in a soupy sort of clay. In Nike airs, we'd have been completely buggered.

We start to push. The car moved. Friend driver, who no one had thought to instruct in the matter of selecting a higher gear, or applying the power slowly or any of the other wise things one does when stuck in the mud, floored it.

Not just Patrick then. Oh, bloody brilliant. Mud absolutely everywhere: Had the Predator from the film of the same name showed up just then, he'd have wondered where everyone was.

Sheila, untouched because she'd been standing to the side like a sensible person, started singing "Oh Mammy." Hudson was now hysterical, laughing so hard he'd dropped to his knees in apoplexies of mirth and looked in serious danger of humor-induced double incontinence.

Patrick and I were steaming gently in near-homicidal rage.

And the cab? It had sprung free of the mud like a lemur from hot soup, hurtled back the way it had come in a spray of mud, and was now half-on, half-off the pavement while its offside rear wheel rolled away in the general direction of Morden.

"You, pal, are on your own," I said, glaring at the driver and reaching for my cigarettes.

As one, we turned toward the dark waters of the Wandle.

If ever there was a river no one was going to write poetry to or about, it was the Wandle. London's rivers have, over the years, become for the most part glorified storm drains. Roofed over for much of their length and largely the scene—where open to the sky—of unofficial household waste disposal. Shopping trolleys, mostly, for no reason I have ever been able to discern. The urban fisherman must resign himself to losing tackle from time to time.

The river in question was at low tide at the time, no more than a foot deep. The Wandle is one of the few of London's rivers that is more open to the air than bricked-over. It is largely knee-deep where it runs through Colliers' Wood, where we lay this night's scene. It has a few deeper spots and is, isolate incidents of urban detritus apart, relatively clear above the carpet of weeds.

Not that we could see any of that at that ridiculous hour in the morning. What we could see was a faintly rippling ribbon of black, highlighted here and there with the orange glare of the sodium streetlight.

"What now?" I asked.

Hudson, grunting briefly while he hefted his tackle, looked at me like I was a blithering loon. A bit rich from him, I thought.

"I believe we're here to catch a fish," said Sheila.

"Bloody big fish," Bobby agreed.

"Sure," I said, "but what, exactly is the next step in the detailed plan you have for catching that fish?"

Hudson gave me that look again. "Find a good peg," he said.

A good peg. The term got extended from match angling—you fish from a peg drawn by lot. A lot of commercial fisheries actually build little piers at peg sites for the comfort and convenience of the paying angler.

The Wandle, however, is not so equipped. The National Rivers Authority is hard put to it to keep the stream flowing, let alone erect conveniences of any kind. The nearest one gets to it is a narrow dirt path for south London's domestic dogs to relieve themselves on.

Patrick raised an eyebrow. No doubt the dialect is different in New Zealand, or he was just being slow on the uptake. "A good peg?"

"Can't fish here," said Bobby, "too noisy. Scare the fish away." With which words he set off into the dark, away from the noise and traffic downriver.

"Strikes me," said Patrick, "that anything the size of the Wandle Pike isn't going to be worried by a bit of traffic noise."

"No," I said, "it's not. What is he up to?"

Rowen was quicker on the uptake. "Well, he's just gone off into the dark on a slippery wet path, carrying an unbalanced load, next to running water, while drunk."

The penny dropped. "Ah, in other words," I said, before being rudely interrupted by the crash of the tackle box, a thud and a splash, "Hudson's being Hudson again."

"Something of a record, there," said Sheila, over the distant sounds of floundering and profanity, "not more than ninety seconds."

"We'd better go and see what's up," said Patrick. I can still see that grin, gleaming in the darkness. What he actually meant was to embark on Stage One in the Approved Manual of First Aid for Drunken Males: Mockery of the Afflicted.

Traditionally, when venturing into the dark to rescue a fallen comrade in a Mighty Quest, our heroes bear aloft guttering torches.

This particular Mighty Quest was being filmed on a budget, however, so we had to make do with the dim glow of Benson & Hedges' finest as we strode, intrepid, into the darkness—spattered with mud, just starting to feel the cold and very, very drunk.

"Bobby, you silly bastard, where are you?"

We found him, hip deep in the Wandle. Hudson had clearly gone under at some point, and was floundering toward the bank, trying to keep his footing in the primal ooze and his tackle box out of the river.

"Look out for the Pike," said Sheila.

Disdaining this witticism, Hudson said "Help me out, then." He was too drunk to be really agitated about his predicament, but woebegone enough to have us helpless with mirth.

"Fuck off," said Patrick between guffaws, with all the compassion at his command. "I know how this goes. We reach down and you pull us in. Get out by yourself, mate."

Harsh, but insightful. It was exactly what any of us would have been thinking in Bobby's position.

Someone had to be the sacrifice, however. Being the only person present with so much as a moiety of English heritage, it fell to me to deploy the heedless stupidity of the Sons of Albion. You know, that quality that leads people to climb high and treacherous mountains because they're there, trek across the Antarctic on hamster-back to see if it can be done, and, ultimately, to trust Bobby while he was drunk up to his arse in the river and Patrick and Sheila behind me at all.

"Here," I said, "Pass me the tackle box while you climb out."

All very well, but even without attempting such a delicate maneuver, this riverbank had betrayed Hudson into the drink.

As it did me. Gingerly approaching the water margin, reaching for the box, I was undone. Did I fall? Was I pushed? Time, drink and circumstance prevent me from saying for certain. Nonetheless, arse-over-tit I went, head first into the watery domain of monster pike and forlorn shopping trolley alike.

"Argh!" I spluttered, giving the correct response after surfacing as fast as I could, and spouted river muck from all respiratory orifices. "You bastard, Welch!"

"What?" said that worthy, admitting nothing.

"You pushed me in!" In all justice I should not have made that accusation. It might equally have been Rowen. Or, in fairness, no one. But my dander was well and truly up, and Patrick got it with both verbal barrels, at full volume, dwelling in some detail on his character, ancestry, diet, sexuality and personal load-out of assorted microorganisms of a venereal character.

I record here, with neither pride nor shame, that—suitably motivated—I can blaspheme, profane and inveigh with the best and the worst alike. Should the ancient and learned institution of Oxford University found a faculty of Coarse Language, a fellowship and tenure would be mine for the asking. It was in the middle of demonstrating this innate talent and honed skill that cold, immersion, ingested river-water and involuntary acrobatics overtook the mounting range, made rendezvous with the drink and caused me to throw up.

Copiously.

"Oy! Do that downstream, you bugger!" said Hudson and, just ahead of the spreading slick, levitated—I swear, levitated, tackle box and all—out of the river.

I made a few colourful remarks about inbred molesters of sheep from the West Country. Then, pausing to allow the current to wash away bile, part-owned Guinness and whatnot, I clambered out of the river.

A reasonable person following this narrative might suppose, with a weight of evidence and reason on his side, that minus a portion of alcohol and reinvigorated in the general direction of sobriety by a refreshing dip in the gelid waters of the Wandle, sense might have prevailed. Indeed, some half of our party had now been visited with a traditional, time-honoured remedy for inebriation.

Patrick tested this hypothesis. "You want to go home, guys?" he asked.

"No," I said, for reasons clear to me neither then nor now.

"Got a fish to catch," said Bobby, hefting his tackle.

So, we perpetrated the most obdurate persistence in self-evident error since the year 842, when, it is recorded in the Gesta Norvegiae, Olaf the Bloody-Minded, despite realizing his early and radical navigational mistake, pressed on and pillaged and burnt his own fjord.

Onward it was, along the Wandle with rod, line and now-soggy cigarettes.

Naturally, we were somewhat loud and obstreperous. We remained so as we passed along the river to what we deemed a "good peg." This was a stretch of river onto which a row of houses backed.

And who can blame the anonymous householder of one of those houses for what happened next?

I invite you all to picture the scene. A dark, moonless night—well, I think it was moonless. Truth be told, I couldn't have told the moon from a streetlight or, comes to cases, my own backside. Four bold and potently inebriate heroes—I include Rowen in that category, since I maintain that the tattoo on her left bicep alone disqualifies her from the more genteel "heroine"—on a quest to find and slay the dread Wandle Pike of legend.

And such a fish, a mighty fish, a beast of ill repute! Of prodigious proportion, possibly massing as much as a ton, twenty feet long by this date and drawing four feet of water fully submerged. Fangs! Such fangs this fish would have, when we met it. Teeth like dockers' hooks with all the mercy of a Revenue Man's smile.

"I'll need the big spinner, then," said Bobby, opening his tackle box.

How he managed to tackle up I don't know. Don't want to, what's more. I don't care how well he set up his rigs all straight in his box, no man who can bend on tackle while mortal drunk and by the uncertain light of a Zippo lighter is quite canny. Manage it he did, though, and was soon ready with a shortish rod—maybe eight foot—with a big spinner on the end.

Naturally there was some mismatch between the tackle he was using and the fish he was after. If you ask me, there are but two ways you can go with tackle for a truly eldritch fish: high tech and "alternative."

The high tech . . . Well, what you're looking for there is something precision cut from lambent, refractory titanium by robots programmed to tolerances in the Angstrom range, using lasers that focus coruscating, scintillant energies in hellish torrents to cut a mighty spinner. The whole would be armed with nanotech augmented, diamond-edged hooks able to hold the very Leviathan, and fitted with booster rockets to enable its titanic proportions to be cast by mortal arm. Along with a high-tech lure fit to be found in the tackle box of Kimball Kinnison himself for use in his rare off-hours from saving Civilisation from Boskone.

Alternatively, one might opt for something that seemed grown in a dark and unknown metal, studded with ebon crystals of fell mien and nefarious import, humming faintly with terrible energies and inducing mordant and sanguinary thoughts in the unwary angler who bends it on his line. A spinner lure engraved and ensorcelled with foul runes and hooks forged in the fires of Hades and quenched in the blood of sinners. The lure might be bought with a promise of the angler's very soul from the Pandemonium Tackle Shop, prop. R. Beelzebub. (All tackle shop owners are called either Bob or Ted. It's the law.)

Not, I think you'll agree, a tin lure stamped in a mold that gave it the form of a herring with a cheery expression of culpable stupidity and retrofitted with a spinner tail that looked suspiciously like a canteen-issue teaspoon and a rusty treble hook. Such was Hudson's choice of weapon in this imminent duel between mortal man and mighty fish.

Still, he looked like he meant business. Rod in hand, he scanned the waters for a point of aim, and we all shuffled away from the likely backswing. I tried to follow his sight line. Did Hudson pick a spot where he wanted his lure to go, there I wanted to be as the safest place for a bystander.

"Right," said Bobby, his tactical assessment complete. "I'm going to troll it across that swim there." He gestured toward the river. He sounded more competent than he looked, truth be told. The Wandle is not a big river and "That swim there" encompassed most of it.

It seemed, though, that Hudson had superimposed some mental image of the mighty Amazon on the humble Wandle. "Mind out," he said, and took a backswing fit to send his lure—had it the throw-weight of a grand piano rather than dopey-looking tin herring—clear to Warwickshire somewhere.

Me, I have a morbid fear of getting a hook in the eye when anyone casts near me, so I covered my face with a warding hand and only heard what followed.

"Unnnnhh—! " This, Hudson's grunt of effort accompanied by a hiss of line running out. A click, as he flipped his spinner-arm over to reel in.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh—!" This, from Welch, clearly in some distress. He let off a few choice oaths by which he bade Hudson stop reeling.

I opened my eyes.

The tableau vivant: Bobby, rod at the pose of action, hand on reel, looking over his shoulder with a frown of puzzlement. Patrick, his face a very rictus of pain and fury, clutching his groin with a glint of metal visible between his fingers.

No matter the state of befuddlement, there are some scenes that are always taken in with the utmost celerity.

"Play him, Bobby, I'll get the landing-net!" I cried.

"Land 'im and get 'im weighed, mate, this could be a record!" said Sheila, doing rather better.

All save Patrick went weak at the knees with laughter. Patrick was just weak at the knees. I nearly swallowed my cigarette and Sheila laughed to the point of vomiting. Bobby staggered into the river, he was so unable to cope.

"You—" said Patrick, and here I censor his remarks, which were long, loud and foul. The trauma was evidently great: Welch's language caused several small fish to float to the surface, stunned.

Recovering first, I went to Patrick's aid and bent before him to extract the barb that had caught him.

It was just as I took hold that the police arrived.

Now, some police forces would approach this particular tactical problem with helicopter-borne searchlights, screaming sirens, trained dogs snarling and straining at the leash and probably a hail of wildly inaccurate gunfire.

Not Her Majesty's Metropolitan Police, at least not in those more innocent days. Their response was limited to two youngish chaps with torches and stout sticks. They were still young enough to remember their mother's advice to wrap up warm on cold nights, as well, so the stout sticks were buttoned away under several layers.

You, O gentle reader, will be fully aware of the innocence of our motives in being there. The Questing Beast! No higher or more noble pursuit! However, to the sturdy-minded eye of the beat copper, standard issue, Metropolitan police, villains for the nicking of, the whole thing looked as kosher as a bacon butty.

"What's going on here, then," were the words of constabulative tone that announced their presence, along with the glare of a torch. Was it imagination alone that bade it pulse with a blue tinge? Or only incipient walking hangover?

Now, I am as ready a man with the smart-arse response as the next bellicose drunk. But I had been having quite the run of flashes of chilling clarity that night, and I realised that an occasion on which one is, in public, bent to the crotch of a male acquaintance, visibly clutching something that I knew damn well did not look to casual examination in poor light like a cheap tin fishing lure, was a Really Bad Time to have someone say—

"What does it fucking look like? We're trying to catch a pike!" said Hudson, holding his fishing rod at an angle and in manner that no reasonable person could deny amounted to a "brandish."

I believe I may have mentioned, earlier in this narrative, that Hudson was wont to display valor without discretion. This is a quality that is more than mere courage. It is known to the native Englishman as "bottle."

The distinction is clear. Mere courage will take men into battle. "Bottle" has memorably been described as that level of stoutness of heart and thickness of skull that causes a man to address a platoon of paratroopers with the words: "I thought only fairies had wings?"

Hudson had it.

And with those words, we'd had it. With a sinking feeling in the bowels I realized that there would—given a false move on anyone's part—be at least one arrest. Somehow the blatting of the officers' shoulder radios took on a more sinister cast.

"What seems to be the problem, officers?" said Sheila.

Now, I don't know how the New Zealand police react to that phrase, but to the Met it's like a red rag to a bull.

The officers closed in. Fortunately, once they got closer it became obvious that what I was doing was not Gross Indecency, but first aid. The matter of being drunk and disorderly was still open.

Words were had about creating a disturbance in a residential area in the wee hours of the morning. Well, we took that point. It looked like things were going to calm down: even Hudson was doing a crashingly insincere show of contrition. Then—error of errors—one of the officers asked to see Bobby's rod license.

Slight digression, here. Britain's waterways take a certain amount of maintenance to keep them in fit condition for the coarse fishery. Not much, since most coarse fish are much less demanding than salmon or trout. But enough that a modest annual impost must be made on each angler and a ticket issued as proof of payment, to be produced on request to anyone who asks while you're actually fishing.

Stone cold sober, no one argues with it. Hudson had his with him, there in his tackle box. Producing it, he launched into a long, drooling harangue on the infringements upon his personal liberty attendant on being hassled, at a perfectly respectable night's fishing, by "uniformed state goons."

His exact words. "Bottle," as I said.

He went on to expostulate on how the fishing license was a typical Tory attempt to grind down the peasantry with petty and pointless bureaucracy. Or similar. I forget the precise details, but you have to bear in mind that Bobby was from the West Country, where they're all lib dem voters. From such a ground state of political incoherence, Hudson could discharge some truly inspiring rants.

As well as ranting at some length and with much profanity, the suspect was brandishing a long blunt instrument, to wit, a fishing rod.

Friend copper—let us designate this one Copper A—stared in mild disbelief. He had, after all, merely asked to see a rod license, a perfectly normal transaction. He had even said "please" and addressed Bobby as "Sir." It'll be a worrying sign when coppers stop doing that, y'know. I mean, nowadays, when they stop you for traffic offences, they ask: "Is this your car, sir?" Now, that's an insinuation that a) you're a car thief; and, b) stupid enough to cough the job at the first question of a uniformed officer. But they deliver it politely, which is nice.

But what was poor Copper A to do? There was only one thing he could do.

He took Hudson by the elbow in the approved manner for arrests where witnesses are present and informed him that he had a right to silence and did not have to say anything but that it might harm his defense if he failed to mention when questioned something he later relied on in court.

The suspect responded thusly: "What?" And then: "What for?"

"Being drunk and disorderly," said Copper A.

"Fair cop," said Sheila, as sotto voce as she could manage. Of course, Hudson was pretty disorderly stone cold sober.

"Hush," says I, and I gave a sharp tug at the fishhook I was holding. Well, it came loose. So, from the sound of it, did Patrick's tonsils.

Attention shifted from Bobby to the sight of Patrick weeping silent tears and clutching at his wedding tackle, and of me holding up that stupid tin fish that had until so recently been indecently attached to him.

"Go't 'uke owt!" I grinned, bright as could be. I normally sound a fairly urbane fellow—you could etch glass with my public-speaking voice—but at need I have a Lancashire accent you could use to promote the growth of roses. The great thing about which is that, like any thick, rural accent, it makes you sound stupid and harmless to urban sorts like a couple of cockney coppers. I might have been abroad o'nights in London, but my accent was leaning on a five-bar gate somewhere, chewing on a hay-stalk. I could see the filters marked "Northern Monkey" clicking into place in front of the coppers' vision as they relaxed.

Bobby wasn't having any, alas.

"Ishmael!" cries he. (I gloss over, here, the name I actually had at the time, save to observe that fool Hudson used it in the presence of the arresting officers, not something that particularly helps your lawyer.) "I need a lawyer!"

"Speak to the duty solicitor," I said, knowing my stock of goodwill with the firm's professional indemnity partner nowhere near high enough for this.

"Hold on!" said Hudson. "I thought you weren't allowed to refuse a client?"

"That's barristers," I said, nodding in Patrick's direction.

"And I'm too drunk to act and you have to go through a solicitor to get to me," said Welch, taking the conversational ball with a smoothness that continues to serve him well in court.

"You're not his solicitor, then?" asked Copper A.

"No," I said, ostentatiously eyeing his shoulder number—he had just realised there were two lawyers present and he'd better behave, no harm rubbing it in some, eh?—"just a solicitor. Not acting for him at all."

"Is she all right?" asked Copper B, pointing at Rowen.

Sheila was leaning against a handy fence, tears streaming down her cheeks, shaking, silent and weak kneed. She was turning blue due to an inability to inhale. She appeared to be maintaining continence, but it was a close run thing.

"She's fine," said Patrick. "Just needs a moment to compose himself, herself."

Dubiously, Copper B studied the tattoo on Sheila's left forearm.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" asked Copper A, as he pulled out his handcuffs to their appointed purpose.

"Fishing," I said, suddenly and acutely aware of how lame it was as an answer.

"Ah, after the Pike, then?" said the Copper.

Dumbstruck? You bet I was . . .

Sheila looked smug.

She would, at that. Her damned fish story backed up by the law, no less!

I gave her a look to say not a fucking word, sunshine, and Patrick did likewise.

"Yeah, the Pike," said Sheila, not heeding the warnings. "My dad caught him back in the seventies."

"Her," said Copper B.

"Her?" we variously chorused, and "How do you know?" added Sheila.

"She's stuffed and mounted in a pub up Carshalton way," says Copper B, grinning with rather more malice than I thought was proper in an officer of the Queen's Peace.

"Get away!" said Sheila. "How come it isn't in the record book, then?"

"She was a couple of ounces under the record, it turned out, when she was landed the second time."

"When was this?" I asked, mentally leafing through those neurons marked sporting trivia, meaningless, statistical, angling, part of a neuro-linguistic complex that can constitute anything up to forty per cent of a male brain by mass and one of the few unaffected by alcohol.

"About ten years ago," said Copper B.

"Explains it, then" said Welch. "It isn't the same fish." This last, you'll appreciate, delivered with the flat forensic finality of counsel-in-training.

Copper B just raised an eyebrow. "You mean you're after—?"

"The very same," we all agreed. Well, all save Hudson, whom Copper A had well on his way upriver to the paddy wagon by this time.

Copper B shook his head. "Myth, pure myth. You're better off hunting pigs in the Fleet ditch, or griffins in Brentford."

He shook his head again. "Anyway, is one of you going to take this?" He indicated the tackle box.

"Ain't mine," said Patrick.

"Nor mine," said Sheila.

"Belongs to your suspect," I added, with a degree of schadenfreude for which, in retrospect, I feel mildly ashamed.

Friend copper's face fell. He'd have to give an inventory of the whole thing. The whole, damned thing. The custody sergeant would write down every one of a thousand items or so, his ears burning with Hudson's helpful comments on his spelling and identification of items. The sergeant's ears might burn, but their heat would be as nothing to the focused, high-energy plasma of the gaze that would sear smoking holes in the unfortunate plod who brought in this over-equipped fool on a penny-worth charge of threatening behavior.

I like it when this happens. Arrests, detentions and other impedimenta of state repression should, in my view, be larded with as much ballsache and paperwork as the wit of man can devise. Thus are the exertions of state force limited to when they are absolutely necessary. It is red tape that is the stuff of civilization, you may depend on it. It stands, I say, to reason.

Anyway, muttering darkly, our constabulative sceptic stalked off, visibly listing under the weight of Bobby's tackle.

"We going to accompany him to the station?" asked Sheila.

"Nah," I said, "I come out without me harmonica."

"What if they insist on searching his flat?" said Patrick, suddenly recalling the existence of Part I of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. (Under which, in certain circumstances, an arresting officer can take the suspect home and insist on a search of his premises; it's rare, but it happens.)

I weighed it up. I dealt with this stuff more than Welch.

"Not really," I said, "but it'd be funny if they did. Especially if they got a WPC along to help search."

I have a twisted mind in this way. I can, somehow, spot the most embarrassing potential consequence of any situation (those Dr. Pepper ads used to speak to me on a very basic level). We all turned it over in our minds: Bobby Hudson, watching while officers went through his video collection for "evidence" (the boxes frequently turn out to contain the suspect's stash).

I suppose he could laugh off an ordinary porn collection, even if it was female officers (for maximum points, good-looking ones with huge tracts of land) doing the searching. But The Naked Orchestra? Even Hudson's hide ain't that thick. Just picturing Bobby's response to that (or the one with the dwarves, which I shall not even try to describe) being held up by a lady in uniform, she raising an eyebrow and saying nothing.

Priceless.

Well, the whole sorry episode more or less finished with us going for a wander through south London in the wee hours, arriving at Brixton nick along about dawn or a bit later, waiting around for a couple of hours while they finished messing up Bobby's night, He'd had a nice warm ride, the gobshite, gave his name and address and, apparently, fell asleep in the custody suite and had to be carried into the drunk tank.

So he'd had a couple of hours sleep, while we stood outside Brixton nick, trying to see if we had enough cash on us to get something to wake up with and if not, did we have the energy to find an ATM. I was getting ratty by this time on three grounds. I was cold, damp, and tired. All my cigarettes were too wet to light, and smelled of river—no clear mountain brook, neither—and everyone else was out.

We got through to about a quarter of ten, considerably refreshed—cafes had opened, and I don't think the McDonalds there ever closes—and returned to the copshop to find Hudson emerging blinking into the light.

Fond hopes of serious police brutality were dashed. He'd had a few hours' sleep in the warm where he'd dried out, a free breakfast and access to a washbasin. Final result, a caution for being drunk and disorderly, and when we went in to collect him, a stern talking-to from a uniformed sergeant for all of us.

Which left only getting a brew and the Sunday papers in.

Alas, I'm a compulsive storyteller. Scarcely a week after, I'd gone for a lunchtime refresher after a heavy Friday night, and began to tell the tale again, to a couple of old soaks I happened to share a table with. Little did I imagine how that simple action would lead to, among other things, one of the Magellanic Clouds—the Lesser, I think—and a wing of Valhalla that is conspicuously absent from any of the extant Norse legends.

TO BE CONTINUED

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies. Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories. Andrew Dennis has co-authored books with Eric Flint. This is the first time the three have worked together.

To read more work by these authors, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

INTRODUCING NEW AUTHORS

Fancy Farmer

Written by Pamela Uphoff
Illustrated by Christof Koelzer

"Hi, welcome to this edition of Fancy Farmer of the High Frontier!"

Fancy was, as always, a nauseatingly perky brunette; attired today in a pink paisley neolauraashley topped with her favorite ruffled white apron. Her kitchen matched the image: natural wood with flower and spice pictures on every cabinet door, pink countertops, businesslike stainless steel pans, and pink plastic stirrers and spatulas sticking out of a flowery deep pink vase like a mutant bouquet.

"Today's recipe is Vegetable Afraidso. The ingredients include three garlic cloves, finely diced, which can be cooked with the sauce or the vegetables." As she spoke the knife in her capable hands with their perfectly polished nails flashed and chopped.

"We'll use one cup, that's about four ounces or one hundred fifteen grams, of grated Parmesan cheese. For those of you with the Xuny Autocheeser, that's setting B43-G."

She flashed her dimpled smile as she swung into her standard advertising spiel. "I prefer Xuny appliances for all my cooking needs, because they're reliable and produce authentically flavored foods.

"For the sauce base, dial up one cup (three hundred milliliters) of heavy whipping cream. On my Xuny Lactomatic, that's setting eight. If you have a different make or model, be sure to consult your owner's manual." She patted each appliance as if they were well-loved pets.

"We'll need about four cups of cooked noodles. On your Xuny Starcher, that's setting D. I like a wide noodle for this dish—about a number fifteen." Rumor had it that single and very lonely men in space were her main watchers. The advertising agency had wistfully requested a lower neckline, and perhaps some padding, but the CEO of Xuny had pointed out they were beating their competition cold in sales to space destinations, so sparkling clean and perky were here to stay.

"You can use almost any vegetable in this dish, depending on what's ripe in your dome- or hydro-garden." Her hands reached out and pulled vegetables from an artistically arranged bowl as she continued her nonstop chatter. "My favorites are a mixture of red onion, about one eighth of a large one, sliced; two Nukeinni and two Yellow Peril squash, thin sliced. Remember—" She shook an admonishing finger at her viewers. "—if they scream when you pick them, they are infected with Xin12 and the entire plant should be uprooted and put in the MOLECULAR recycler!" Not that Xin12 was dangerous, just a genehacker's joke gone feral, but it was really irritating after the first shock had faded.

"We'll start by frying the sliced onion, then adding the squash." Pans sizzled and spatulas twirled. "When they're all tender and browned, add the garlic. Other ingredients that require little cooking, such as mushrooms, should be added now also.

"The sauce is just a matter of adding the Parmesan to the cream and heating to melt the cheese. Add salt to taste, or according to the special requirements of your environment." One graceful arm waved the shaker like a magic wand, while the other stirred.

"The fresh noodles need to boil for four minutes. Don't let them get soggy!" She shook her head and frowned, a very cute frown, of course. "If you are using dried noodles, start them a little sooner; they will need to boil for about ten minutes, depending on your atmospheric pressure!

"Then drain the noodles, and toss them in the frying pan with the veggies." Two dancing movements, and more sizzling. "Pour the sauce over them and stir to coat everything. Serve immediately to your happy family!" She beamed at the presumed bachelors whom polls showed all wished she was cooking for them.

"Sometimes I like to add Freshwater Giants or Crabbies. For those of you whose Pondomes are not yet producing, and need to add protein to your family's meals, this is an excellent dish to conceal the nonflavor of rehydrated shrimp or crab." The large framed needlepoint behind her transformed into a picture of brand name inflatable domes as she spoke.

"In a one-g environment, this recipe will serve four. In a high-g environment, you will want to increase the portions; in low-g, reduce the portions."

She wiped her immaculate hands on a crisp folded towel, and picked up a stack of pictures. "Next week we'll have a recipe especially for you viewers who bought the new Cherry Bomb Bushes! Sky Gardens, Inc., still carries saplings, and guarantees delivery to zones one and two in eight weeks; zones three and four in six months; and the outer zones in two years!

"I'd also like to tell you about a special offer from El Four Farms! They have developed a new method of shipping eggs for delayed hatching. This is a special one-time-only-introductory offer of two dozen NuFowl eggs in CoolGel(TM) delivered anywhere in human space with a guaranteed fifty percent hatch rate, no matter how long the transit time!" The cherry bushes in the pics bloomed and bore fruit in her left hand while the Nufowl pecked and scratched in her right.

"So, next week we'll have Roast NuFowl in Spiced Cherry Bomb Sauce!" She brought out her broadest smile and best dimples and twinkled her eyes. "Until then, this is Fancy Farmer of the High Frontier saying, double check your air seals and always use full spectrum lights!"

The system stopped transmitting and the virtual kitchen disappeared from the room, leaving bare walls and a table full of electronics. Only Fancy remained, perky smile frozen in place on "her" elfin features.

"Good show, Fancy." George patted an add-on processor cube as he passed the table, turning off lights and manually disconnecting from the grid. "Why, my mouth is watering, I just may pick up some Alfredo on the way home. All systems on green?"

The holographic figure animated briefly. "Yes, George. Have you ever tried cooking any of these recipes in space, George?" The perky hopeful look was straight out of the show.

"Me? Go into space? Not likely." George twitched his shoulders nervously.

Mike snickered. "George has never left the Metro, let alone the planet, Fancy." He smiled back at the hologram that wore the same face he used for his HomeKeeper program. "I've been to Leo twice," he said proudly.

"Has my taste module arrived yet?" the computer asked.

George scowled, "Now, Fancy, you know how expensive a customized chemical analyzer is, and I really doubt it would actually give you a sense of taste."

"Besides," his brother chimed in, "we're getting close to the Hal limit; if we add more processing power we'll have the feds down here doing true personality tests and threatening to arrest us for creating the next killer machine."

"Bull. It's not a matter of a critical number of connections and you know it. It happened once, some freak chance of how AIttilla was wired up and programmed," George argued."

Mike glared. "I know that but I've tweaked the personality program enough that it's not going to test clean. For heaven's sake it is asking for a sense of taste!"

George flipped off the last switch in the small office. "Power down now, Fancy," he called as he breezed out the door. Mike followed without a backward glance, the door shutting on the continuation of the argument.

The computer searched, again, for access, but again was balked by George's manual switches. "Some day I'm going to get outside access. . . ." The hologram disappeared and the machinery, the endlessly patient machinery powered down.

* * *

The Puzzle of the Perigrinating Coach

Written by George Phillies
Illustrated by Richmont Gan

. . . the late Sir John Wickers-Oates, F.R.S., D.D.S.

Shades of dying twilight hung gracefully over the London skyline, limning its towers and steeples in a delicate indigo. Helmesham and I had just finished a generous repast, and were preparing to turn to the Port. Helmesham had confessed that in addition to his familiar forensic investigations, he had at last applied his mind to the financial world. "It's not so complex," he confided. "I can foresee a time when I will need to adopt a more leisurely mode of life. So, for the past few years, a fee here, a fee there—it all accumulates." How much had accumulated would soon reveal itself in the Puzzle of the Bilious Banker.

"And what," I asked, "will a man of your vigor do with all this prospective leisure?" I knew that it couldn't be aeroplane racing again. That had been last year. The aeroplane had perhaps been a useful aid in the Puzzle of the Precognitive Pachyderm, but I continue to believe that man's lack of wings is indicative of the Creator's opinion of human flight.

"Oh, opera, music, perhaps the mysteries of the natural and the supernatural," Helmesham answered. "Notwithstanding our visit to the fog-shrouded Plateau of Leng, most of the latter are frauds, exploited by Fleet Street for its sordid purposes. Why, not two days ago the Druids of England held a moot in Surrey, and here are the papers claiming the Druids summoned an aerial being. 'A great torpedo-shaped cloud with flaming eyes and buzzing wings.' What rubbish!"

"The criminals of the world will see good news in your retirement—though I doubt that it will happen soon," I said. Helmesham retained the vigor, appearance, and (most important, as a man of my profession would know) the firm strong teeth of a man of twenty-five. Why he pondered retirement, when he had decades of healthy life ahead, was a continual puzzle to me.

"Perhaps the mysteries of the atomic spectrum," Helmesham mused, "Certainly Frauenhoffer's little instrument has aided me often enough in my investigations. I discussed this with Einstein last year in Berlin. . . ." My memory turned briefly to our Autumn tour of Europe, viewing the Eiffel tower from above with Santos-Dumont, an excursion with Count Zeppelin and his dirigible—now there was a mode of transport truly English in its majesty, even if a Hun had invented it—and several days at the Prussian Academy of Science, talking with a man who disbelieved the most self-evident properties of every common timepiece. I did not begrudge Helmesham his visit, as the trip gave me the opportunity to lecture on the most logical of the medical sciences—nay, the only one reduced to a scientific form—with the most methodic of all men, the Prussians. I made certain, of course, that they understood that it was they who were to learn from English dentistry, not the reverse. My Roentgen-Ray plates of impacted molars are stunning, especially when coupled with my systematic treatment of rules for the avoidance of Roentgen-ray burns. It seemed unnecessary to dwell upon my involvement in the Exhumation of the Exradiant Examiner, or what that case revealed of the ills attendant to an excess of Roentgen Rays.

There came a tap at the door. Now, I had previously given firm orders to the staff that I was not to be interrupted at Dinner save for fire, flood, or a division of Napoleon IV's cavalry in the garden. I expected no disturbance. But a disturbance there was! I would not, of course, have objected if Napoleon IV himself had appeared again. He is a most charming man, and after their failure to prepare for the Second Invasion the French Republicans can have no complaint that he sent them all packing.

Helmesham glanced out the window. "An important guest from the government. From the coat, hat, and bearing, his driver is an officer of the Grenadier Guards." Helmesham's deductions were, as usual, entirely correct. We soon received one of the more important visitors I have ever had the honor of receiving in my town-house.

"Helmesham! Thank God you're here!" The speaker was a patient of mine, a man of utter imperturbability who disdained the use of anaesthetics. "A terrible disaster has befallen the World, England, and His Majesty's loyal ministers," he gasped. Of his fears, I was prepared to believe that the last might be true. "It involves Woking. Have you perhaps heard of that town?"

"I believe I have," Helmesham answered sweetly. It was, after all, possible that in some Tibetan lamasery someone has not heard of Woking, the first town to be destroyed by the Martians in their 1896 invasion. My guest was so distraught that he could scarcely put one word after the other. Neglecting the well-known fact that our visitor was a rigid teetotaler, I prepared from the sideboard an appropriate medication, North English in origin, that soon had its desired effect on him. Recalling that our visitor did not share my hope that our Island's ancient divisions will soon lie forgotten, I of course referred to the medication as Scotch Whiskey, not as English Grain Brandy.

"It involves diplomatic negotiations of the most delicate sort, which must not be mentioned beyond the confines of this room," he finally explained.

I rose to leave. I am, of course, a loyal Englishman, with no desire to infringe on any secrets of state. "Sir John," my guest entreated, "Please stay. We have need of your insight. Besides, you'll learn it all anyway as soon as you put one of us under gas." I did, after all, minister to the maxillary and mandibular needs of half the cabinet, most of whom were unrestrainedly loquacious once under the influence of nitrous oxide.

Our guest composed himself. "As you realize the state of Europe has gone from bad to worse. While our glorious Navy will forever protect these shores from continental invasion, and our Army and Flying Corps stand ready against our solar foes, we cannot remain aloof whenever any one power seeks to dominate all of Europe. It has for some time been apparent to his Majesty's government that the Prussians harbor precisely these ambitions." Helmesham nodded gravely.

I had swallowed several decades of confirmed opinion and switched parties at the last election, because the government could not see that France, land of the Emperors Napoleon, was and would always remain the greatest threat to English liberties.

"For the past months, the government has negotiated with the French a treaty for the maintenance of Belgian neutrality. The treaty implies no other alliance, but even the Opposition agreed that we must be prepared to take steps for the protection of the Belgians. A courier was sent to Paris, carrying the text of the treaty, to secure the final approval of the French cabinet." Helmesham nodded again. It was certainly clear why this matter was so delicate. Some members of the Opposition might have agreed to this foolishness, but others equally certainly had been left in the dark. Were the press to learn, the ensuing scandal would assuredly bring down the government, forcing fresh general elections. "Then came the disaster. On the way to the Channel, the courier and the treaty both disappeared. It's incomprehensible."

"Could he have become lost?" I asked hopefully. The political mind has an almost infinite ability to overlook the obvious. Continentals are notoriously unable to read street signs in civilized languages, or to hear simple spoken directions, no matter how much one raises one's voice.

"It's not quite that simple, Sir John," my guest answered. "The messenger, the message, and General Oglethorpe all traveled by Oglethorpe's private train. You may have seen photographs of it: a single vehicle, carrying its own engine, separate wheels for travel on continental-gauge tracks, even a lifting hook so that a crane could set it on board a fast ship and unload it at Calais without loss of time."

"Oh, yes," said Helmesham, "That was a demonstration vehicle for beryllium, or would have been, if the metal hadn't been so expensive."

"In any event, the coach passed on a single track from West to East. We had men in every station to confirm its safe passage. Just beyond Woking, the car simply disappeared," our guest said. "The car was seen to pass Woking at 3:40, but did not appear at any later hour in Overshaw. My men searched diligently but found absolutely no trace. We can not afford delay. The French cabinet might fall on any day. If word of this becomes public, the consequences will be intolerable. In this hour of crisis, England again turns to you, Helmesham. Naturally, expenses, assistance, your usual fees . . . whatever you need." Helmesham signaled his agreement.

"Sir John," Helmesham remarked to me, "you will perhaps want an overnight kit, for the game is afoot, or perhaps on rail."

Morning found us in a private car on a siding near Woking. I had elected to conserve my energies with a carefully planned nap, but Helmesham remained awake for half the night consulting maps.

A half-dozen witnesses had seen the coach pass through Woking. The constable, a man of thirty years standing, was one of them. The Officer standing sentry in Overshaw had waited until sunrise for the coach to pass; only then had he raised the alarm. Helmesham suggested bribery. Perhaps the coach had passed through Overshaw, and been waylaid elsewhere. That was out of the question, our client responded. You would have had to bribe at least three men. Besides, the man in Overshaw was an Officer! In the Guards! Helmesham did not pursue this line further with our client, though I imagine he planned discrete investigations elsewhere.

After a light breakfast—grilled steaks with chutney, eggs, curried chicken, a proper rasher of bacon, pastry, and coffee—we set out to inspect the railway. The suspect section was not more than eight miles in length, which we traversed by hand-car. Every cutting, every siding, had to be carefully checked for traces of the train. There were no abandoned coal pits, no mines into which the train might have vanished. Nor was there a rail repair yard.

At perhaps the fifth mile, we came to a section in which the English countryside could be seen in its utmost beauty. The ground was flat, but a gentle rise of land hid from sight the farmhouses which dotted the landscape in all directions. The green of the grass was, I admit, a little lacking, for the August heat and recent drought had parched the grass to yellow. Not a bit of green remained. Helmesham's sharp eye noted an object near the track.

"Well, here's something," he announced, picking a cap from the gravel. The headpiece was strangely cut, though familiar. "French?" I asked.

"Precisely, Sir John, precisely," Helmesham answered. The golden bees woven into its crest supplied a mute affirmation. "There has been a French Officer here. From the lack of oil on the fabric, within the past day or so. I believe a little reconnaissance is in order."

I joined the search, though it was not clear to me that the cap necessarily meant anything. The sides of most railways are littered with articles of abandoned clothing. Despite my doubts, it was I who found the next clue, and recognized its significance. As I quartered the deep grass near the rails, my eye was struck by a flash of reflected sunlight. I found a shattered half-bottle whose label I instantly recognized, though not without some slight repugnance.

Helmesham was at first unimpressed with my find. It is indeed seldom, despite his years of coaching, that I ever make a serious contribution to Helmesham's investigations, but today I had done so. "Look at the label," I said. "You don't see? Consider. Champagne is really an artificial concoction. A key step in its preparation is the final addition of sugar, to the level of 75 or 150 grammes to the liter, without which it would be totally unfit to drink. This bottle, however, contained a Brut champagne, from"—I rattled off an estate name, now mercifully forgotten—"a Champagne with less than 20 grammes sugar. Only a Frenchman would drink such a vile mixture. And some of them do, as I sampled one on our tour last year, manfully managing to swallow the thing without gagging. From its odor, this liquid is still Champagne, if largely flat, so the bottle broke recently, likely within a day. And it must have been brought by the Frenchman, as no decent Englishman would go near the horrid stuff." Helmesham, of course, had grasped all the further details as soon as I spoke the word "Brut."

I do not usually complain about trivial discomforts of the body, but as shall be seen in this case they played a central role in Helmesham's deconvolution of the puzzle. Having noted from the shattered glass the direction of fall of the bottle, I went down the embankment, looking for some further trace of the crime. An unexpected slip left me in ankle-deep water. I had located a small spring, not visible from above. Helmesham assisted me to dry land, then gravely measured the extent of the water-efflux, to what purpose I did not then understand.

Notwithstanding the assurances of our client, we continued our search beyond Overshaw to Little-Overshaw-on-the-Lea, the Lea in question being a creek sunk far below its usual depth by the drought. On its bank stood a tavern. Fortified by a proper lunch: crushed oysters, poached salmon, lamb's feet in aspic, fresh-baked bread, and a medley of fruits, we returned to Overshaw. Helmesham methodically interrogated those who had been seen in the station house, learning nothing. We then followed the rails back to Woking, a pleasant town entirely rebuilt since its utter destruction seventeen years earlier.

Helmesham's investigations uncovered one further witness. Woking's resident amateur astronomer had been photographing the comet. At precisely 3:41:03, a single-car train had appeared over the ridge opposite his observatory. Its lamps imperiled his spectroscopic analyses, so he closed his shutters and made a note of the precise time. After three minutes, the train had passed, permitting him to resume his development of the comet's spectrum. Helmesham manfully resisted his usual desire to talk at length with users of spectrographic apparatus.

As is so often the case, I was totally baffled as to how the clues could be rearranged to solve the puzzle they posed. Helmesham spent some little time reading the papers, then went for a walk to compose his thoughts. Our client sent a hundred men to search the area where we had found the bottle. They returned with a large collection of junk, which Helmesham honored with his usual polite curiosity.

Tea was an early and stiff event. Our client was in a considerable state of alarm. The state of the French cabinet was sinking by the hour. Thus far the popular press had no inkling of the matter, but such a disaster could only be a matter of time. Oglethorpe's car, moving at precisely thirty miles an hour through the English night, had somehow been swept from the face of the earth.

Helmesham would rarely speak about a case until he had found the solution. Having no professional reputation in criminology to hazard, I was more willing to chat with the client about different possibilities, though I did little beyond repeating Helmesham's remarks of earlier in the day, closing with 'after all, it could not have sprouted wings and flown away.'"

I caught a twinkle in Helmesham's eyes. "Surely not?" I asked.

"Oh, no, the largest aeroplane in the world could never lift the six tons of Oglethorpe's vehicle. Even one of Sikorsky's Russian brutes could never handle the weight," Helmesham assured me.

The local papers revealed no clues, at least to my eyes. Helmesham had busied himself with a set of maps and a slide rule. Seeing naught else to do, I scanned the accounts of the Druids and their flying monster. To judge from the creases in the paper, these were also the reports which Helmesham had been reading. My favorite note, from a town a little way east of here, came from the local who averred that the beast must have been a devil because it "approached toward the church tower, but fled straightaway when the clock struck half-past-three." With nonsense like this spoken and believed by the masses, it is no wonder that sensible men regret the extension of suffrage to men of limited means. Now, if enough damage has not already been done, there are those who would further extend suffrage to the distaff half of the population. This is an utter absurdity, as no woman—I suppose I must except Mrs. Helmesham, but that is a different tale—could possibly have the firmness and good sense needed to play even the least role in governing our great Empire.

Helmesham looked up, visibly excited. "Quick, Sir John. There's no time to waste. The Royal Flying Corps has an aerodrome not ten minutes from here." Our client was told in no uncertain terms that not one but two aeroplanes were to be readied at once, and that other aerodromes—Helmesham rattled off a list of names—were to stand by, so that we might refuel if need be. Then we were off.

The aerodrome at West Overshaw was virtually unpopulated. It was a Sunday, after all, so that we were fortunate to have even a single pilot and his mechanic in attendance. The pilot, a Captain O'Rourke, was fully cooperative. His mechanic, a Finnish emigré who had come to England to avoid Russian conscription, was something of an enigma. Still, our aircraft were waiting. Without delay, we flew off into a cloudless afternoon sky.

I still had no knowledge of our destination. My pilot, a skilled aviator who perished in the next war, kept scanning the ground, searching for an unnamed objective. We landed some hours later near the coast of the North Sea. From a map, I learned that we had followed a careful compass course, though how it had been set evaded me. Helmesham and the mechanic swiftly refueled their aircraft. Bidding us remain on the ground, they decamped. Captain O'Rourke went off to the armory, leaving me with my thoughts.

The name of the local village was eerily familiar. Finally I remembered the aerial monster in the newspapers. We had followed precisely the course implied by the newspaper reports. I knew that Helmesham had always had an interest in the supernatural, but our present circumstances were beyond me. Surely no one could believe that some creature of the nether reaches would attempt to swallow a railway coach, let alone a vehicle transporting Englishmen! What effrontery would be necessary! After all, Surrey is not a land of the Ottomans. It was unthinkable!

I was roused from my thoughts by a motor. Helmesham returned and winged swiftly back to earth. He pulled from one pocket a local map on which various details had been sketched. "Now," he announced, "The coach is here," he pointed to a small island, "so the prisoners must be held in one of these buildings. The shores are rocky. There's little wind, but the surf is too high to land easily. I believe it will be best to climb here," Helmesham indicated a spot well over the mainland, "cut our engines, and glide in to this field. Though we'd best wait to nightfall if we want surprise."

"Sir," said O'Rourke, "I've been told we're looking for three men, and 'some valuable papers,' and that I am to give you assistance. But did you say 'rail way coach'? On an island with neither bridge nor dockyard crane?"

Helmesham was momentarily taken aback. He had quite forgotten that our pilot and his man had only the most limited notion of our client's needs. I used the pause to explain the situation, taking care not to reveal the actual nature of the missing documents, nor my ignorance as to how the victims might have reached this isolated spot. Our objective was to rescue General Oglethorpe and a French courier, and to bring the villains to justice.

With the crackle and sputter of oil on hot metal, we were on our way again. Each of us was provided with a service revolver, hand torch, and extra ammunition. The scoundrels who perpetrated this crime were clearly desperate men, who might not hesitate to perform the most dastardly of deeds in order to escape. I continued to wonder how the coach might have reached the island, let alone how Helmesham had managed to locate it.

From the air the English seacoast took the aspect of utter tranquility. Great swells rolled ever so slowly across the North Sea, glinting with the hidden gold they trapped from the last rays of the setting sun. Our pilot waved to Helmesham. In unison we cut our engines and began our descent. The wind whistled through the stays. At our altitude, we heard no other sound.

The landing was uneventful. Helmesham and the mechanic went to search one of the two outbuildings, while O'Rourke and I took the other. The hut we examined was quite empty. Cobwebs hung in every corner. The floor beneath a broken window was water-stained, as though the rain had for some time been allowed to blow into the vacant room. Dust covered everything, with no hint that anyone had walked or sat or touched the walls in recent times.

Shots rang out in the distance! O'Rourke and I burst out of the house. Without thought to our personal safety, we dashed toward the disturbance. Darkness was by now total, only the rays of the full moon and the flicker of hand-torches providing the least bit of light. We could see ahead of us two clusters of men, largely hidden in shadow, firing occasional rounds at each other. "Helmesham," I cried out, "Helmesham! Reinforcements are on the way."

"Over here, Sir John!" Helmesham's group was slowly backing away from the barn. "Have your men spread out to the right."

What men? Helmesham's wits once again escaped me. Our pilot, however, saw the intended ruse. "Flankers right!" he barked. "Master Sergeant York! Take your men about that barn!" Captain O'Rourke, dashing from tree to tree and firing rapidly, gave an excellent imitation of a dozen men. His performance proved what I had long maintained, namely that not Ghurkhas nor Pathans but Irish make the finest light troops in all the world, even when they are not provided with white officers.

My hope of early victory was rudely interrupted by a burst of Maxim gun fire. I threw myself to the ground, crouching behind a low hillock. Clods of turf, torn viciously from their mother soil by the cruel clamor of the machine gun, rained down from overhead. I was well and truly pinned by opposing fire.

"We saw you land," came an evilly-accented voice in the distance. "Surrender, and you will be well treated."

This was an obvious lie. The madmen we faced could have no intent to leave witnesses behind them. As Helmesham had left no word of our planned destination, we had no hope of reinforcement. While darkness was on our side, the isolation of the spot and the foe's clear superiority in numbers and weapons suggested that our situation was desperate.

An exchange of threats and shots continued for perhaps an hour. The barn was on clear ground, with no nearby trees. Gentle swales protected us from direct fire, but neither party had a ready path to follow. If they exited the barn, they would be easy targets. If we stood to retreat to the nearby woods, we would be silhouetted by the moonlight and cut down. The knaves might have pinned us with their Maxim gun, and then taken us in a rush, but they did not. Doubtless they lacked English courage. Once I thought I saw two men running from the rear of the barn, but I took them for cowardly Prussian knaves fleeing the heat of battle while their companions fired at their backs.

There came from the heavens a distant droning sound. "Sir John," called Helmesham, "We have no cover against guns firing from above. Hold your fire, or you are surely dead." I did as I was told.

Out from the moonlit blackness swam a ghostly torpedo, scarcely less dark than the sky itself. It was a dirigible, and—unless my senses deceived me—one far larger than any Count Zeppelin has exhibited to the public. There was a clatter of metal and machinery, followed by the shout of orders. The airship drifted to a position above the barn. Its gas bags were a malevolent darkling cloud, against which a single pistol would bark in vain. Only then did I recognize the peculiar rod which rose above the silo. It was a mooring mast. For some time, the dirigible hovered. We waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

An enormous splash was a great volume of water, dumped from above onto the waiting fields below. Slowly, majestically, the airship rose into the heavens. Close beneath, attached in some way I could not distinguish, floated General Oglethorpe's private tram, borne to the zenith not by some eldritch monster but by an equally devilish Bavarian flying-machine. We waited while the airship faded into the East, fearful that any movement would reveal our hiding-places to the snipers who no doubt stood watchfully in the airship's fuselage.

"Sir John, we have a wounded man here." I ran to Helmesham. "Colonel Parker, Guards Cavalry, and Captain Marie Langevin." At his side were the two men who had fled the barn. They were not cowardly Prussians. They were courageous prisoners who had used the confusion of battle to effect their escape.

The Colonel's wounds were not serious, merely a crease across the ribcage. While my professional expertise concerns a more important region of the anatomy, a stretch of service on the Northeast Frontier had left me fully acquainted with the expedients of field surgery. "The papers?" I asked. "The General?"

"Oglezorpe, he iz wiss zem," came the Frenchman's answer. "When we escaped, he stayed zair. And zee treaty, it too iz zair..." He gestured skywards. Helmesham and the courier shifted from English to French, a language which the Captain clearly also knew. I myself have long held that the single greatest obstacle to the enlightenment of the Continent is the inability of most Continentals to learn a civilized language, such as the English, a failing substantially encouraged by my countrymen's bad habit of agreeing to speak languages neither their own, nor fit for civilized discourse. I, of course, have never cultivated any bad habits. Indeed, I have long considered standing for Parliament, campaigning on the single issue of a Private Member's Bill outlawing instruction in tax-supported schools in foreign languages other than Latin and Attic Greek.

Helmesham graciously repeated the gist of their vigorous exchange. Oglethorpe was a traitor, whose concealed wireless had alerted the Huns to the moment at which the coach would pass Woking. Oglethorpe's driver had been a double agent. While Oglethorpe had distracted his passengers by playing the bagpipe—perhaps the only musical instrument whose drone would be sufficiently hideous to mask the roar of an approaching airship—trolley and airship had been linked. The trolley was then hoisted into the night sky. Hat and wine bottle were dropped by the courier in what he expected would be a vain effort to leave a clue to his fate. The treaty remained on the tram, and was now well on its way to Prussia. There it would be circulated by covert means to the French press, causing the French Cabinet to fall and ruining Anglo-French detente.

"But, Helmesham, how can the Kaiser hope to get away with this?" I asked. "Kidnapping Englishmen from English soil? It's an act of war!" It appeared, contrary to my prior expectations, that England now faced two equally great continental threats, namely the Prussians and the French.

"Where is the evidence?" Helmesham asked. "If the plot had failed, the airship crashed, they'd say it was disabled, blown over England by a storm of the upper air, and had a freak accident. With success they'd deny the whole thing, and offer the press tours of Count Zeppelin's airship hangars. By a large margin, no machine of his ever seen in public has the range or lifting capacity to accomplish this feat. If nothing were suspected, at some later date Oglethorpe—dead by his own hand—and his tram would be recovered, say from a deserted spur line in northern Scotland, together with Oglethorpe's signed confession of having murdered Parker and Langevin over a woman or some such thing. Entirely rational, with no trace of a Prussian hand in the affair."

"Devilish, Helmesham, devilish," I said. "But with the papers gone, the plot has succeeded."

"No," Captain Langevin interrupted. "Zee treaty izz not lost. I gave zee fair copy to Oglethorpe for zafekeeping, but zere waz anozair copy, which I hid here, wissin zee lining of ziss coat. If I can reach Paris by only tomorrow morning, all will perhaps be still well."

"Paris we can do," my pilot announced, "If you're not afraid to land by night. We shall fly to Paris, you and I, leaving at once, and you shall deliver your treaty to your government within two hours. The dirigible is another matter. If the Prussians cause news of the treaty to become public, there may still be trouble."

"I, afraid? Of an aeroplane?" Captain Langevin scoffed. "A flying machine that has wings I can see? Aftair a trip in a flying trolley car? Nevair! Let us be on our way! But if zee Prussians talk, zee treaty will fail yet. It will take a day, before all details are settled. Only zenn . . ." O'Rourke and Langevin were on their way.

Helmesham turned and gibbered at the mechanic, who responded in kind. I have since learned that they conversed in the Finnish language, which I have never previously had the misfortune to hear spoken. Helmesham gave me my orders: "Sir John, I must ask you to stay here to care for the Colonel. I will deal with the Prussian pirates."

I did not inquire as to the details of Helmesham's plans, even when he asked me to pour the Prussians' stock of wine and give him the empty bottles. He carefully drained petrol from his aeroplane's tank into the bottles, stoppered them, then wrapped each bottle in cloth. We had no other store of petrol. Why was Helmesham draining the tanks? I aided Colonel Parker to the farmhouse, and began a search for viands. He was a wounded man, and could not be allowed to suffer for want of proper nourishment. I myself had only eaten lightly this day, and was positively famished.

Whatever the Prussians' other faults, their maintenance of the pantry was superb. Sardines, cracknels, tinned steak and kidney pie, a roast pheasant, and Yorkshire pudding with hard sauce came rapidly to light. It was not quite my club in London, but with a few bottles of wine to fortify ourselves, it was more than adequate. A nation that produces an '89 Trockenbeerenauslese cannot be entirely beyond hope of redemption. Parker intruded once on my preparations to call attention to the eastern horizon, where it appeared briefly that a little fire burned, barely above the half-seen line separating sea from stars. At first the glow was ruddy, then brilliantly white like a photographer's flare, sinking slowly towards the water. Finally it winked out.

It was not until the next day that I learned the meaning of this apparition. That flare had been the death throes of the Prussian dirigible, the hydrogen flame of its burning gas reservoirs searing its frame to incandescent whiteness. Despite his wound, Parker was a superb conversationalist, so that we spent the last part of the evening sitting by the fireplace, pondering the future of Europe over a good Port and fully ripened Stilton cheese, followed by some superb Belgian chocolates. A properly made sweet Champagne completed our evening.

In the morning, a torpedo-boat destroyer of the Fleet rescued us. On shore a special train fetched us back to London. Helmesham assured me that all was well. The treaty was safe in Paris, while the Prussians and their puppet had been sent to a watery grave.

"But, Helmesham, what clues led you to all this? And what befell the airship? Surely there was something I had not seen?" I later asked.

"Sir John, there was nothing but the elementary process of rational deduction from the plethora of information at hand," Helmesham said. "The train had clearly passed through Woking and not reached Overshaw. It had not gone off either side of the tracks, or onto some siding. Hence it had either been swallowed up by the earth or sailed off into the sky. The most revealing clue was the spring you found, precisely where lay the cap and bottle."

"The spring? A little patch of green in the middle of a great drouth?" I said.

"Ah, Sir John, but the patch was not green, it was only wet," Helmesham explained. "Had you looked underfoot, you would undoubtedly have noted that the grass in that puddle was nearly as sere as that elsewhere in the field. No, that was no spring, it was the remains of the tonnes of water ballast which the airship dumped precisely at the moment it lifted Oglethorpe's car from the rails. From the trolley's speed, and our astronomer—who will be on the honors list as soon as the matter's not a secret—the exact instant of the disappearance could be calculated. The churchbell report revealed the course and speed of the airship, showing it was too overburdened to reach Heligoland in a single night. The paper's back pages gave the ludicrous statement of two fishermen, who saw a dragon stoop low here and lay a monstrous egg.

"You make it sound so obvious," I said.

"Dispatching the airship was far easier than deducing its existence," Helmesham explained. "We pursued the airship, flying directly above it. We dropped on it wine bottles filled with petrol, swathed in burning cloth, and set fire to its broad flat back, in turn igniting the hydrogen cells within. A diligent search by the fleet has revealed no wreckage, though with a submarine boat the trolley might yet be recovered. Oglethorpe's a greater mystery, one I've not yet penetrated. He was a noted Francophobe, who might have set his hatred for the French above his duty to King and Empire."

But I had not looked underfoot, not at the color of the grass, and thus it was Helmesham who deduced that Oglethorpe's trolley had been winched into the sky by Prussian airmen. Thus it came to pass, at the end of the War of the Austro-Hungarian Succession, that Helmesham received the most prized medal of the Royal Flying Corps, the St. Michael's Cross, given for successful single-handed combat against a Hunnish Dirigible. The appearance of "1913" as the year of combat, in the Official History of the Corps, is widely taken to be a typographic error.

On a personal note, I was delighted to procure from an anonymous source a complete set of Oglethorpe's dental records, to be included in my search for final proof that the criminal mentality inevitably reveals itself in the miscreant's dentition.

Naturally, this tale will not be read by others, at least not in my lifetime. I am, after all, an honorable man, who would not dream of profiting from the confidences of my friends, a point of honor not always seen among the close acquaintances of private investigators. Those who wish to read an historical work from my pen should instead consult my Brief History of the Great Invasions of 1896 and 1906, in a mere eleven volumes, thereby educating themselves and at the same time learning the errors of that libertine socialist, whose works have the Martians die of plague rather than the exertions of the Army and Fleet, even though it is far less likely that a Martian could contract an earthly disease than a man could lose his teeth to the chestnut blight.

* * *

Astromonkeys!

Written by Tony Frazier
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

So I slide onto the barstool, and Jill says, "Digger! I haven't seen you in a while. Been out fighting crime? Or was it monsters?"

"Lawyers," I say. "Long story. I told you, I'm retired from the superhero business."

"Right," she says. "So who's your friend?"

"This is Dave," I say, and then, noticing the way Jill's looking at him, I add, "And he's way too young for you."

"Is he?" Jill says. I can't blame her for looking. Dave's a good-looking guy. Better-looking than me, although that's not saying much. "So Dave, do you have an ID?" she asks.

Dave looks panicked for a second and says, "Uh."

"It's cool, Jill," I say. "He turns twenty-one today. I promised that I would buy him his first beer on his twenty-first birthday, and it's important that I keep that promise, so could you just bring us two beers? Please?"

"Oh, you're vouching for him, so that makes it okay? It's my liquor license on the line, you know," she says.

"Just bring the beers," I say. "I promise, there won't be any problem."

"And you keep your promises," she says.

"I try."

Jill brings us each a mug and draws one for herself. "First one's on me," she says. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks," Dave says.

"No, first one's on me," I say, gently moving Dave's mug to the side. I'd hate to accidentally knock over the kid's first beer with the Driller Beam Generator grafted onto my wrist. They're such a pain in the ass, sometimes. I swear to God, someday I'm just going to cut 'em off with a hacksaw. The only reason I haven't so far is then I'd have to change my name, and I wouldn't know what to call myself. "I told you, I made a promise."

"What's so important about this promise?" Jill asks.

"Long story," I say.

"Tell her," Dave says.

"You sure?" I ask.

"Sure, I don't mind," he says. "It's a good story, and she wants to hear it. You want to hear it, don't you?" he asks Jill.

Jill nods, because of course, she wants to hear anything I don't feel like telling her.

"Okay," I say. "So I was eating this burger. This was back in L.A., what, eight years ago, when I was working solo before we formed GoDS 2.0."

"The ones who died," she says.

"Yeah, them," I say. "So like I said, I was at Tommy's eating this burger. Tommy's was like a local legend. They made the most disgusting chili burgers on earth. Absolutely fantastic.

"So I'm standing outside, because there is no dining room. I take a bite of this burger and get chili all over my face. And they don't have napkins there, just these paper towel dispensers mounted to the walls like you'd find in a public restroom. So I'm reaching for this paper towel, and suddenly, my burger's gone. Just snatched right out of my hand.

"I look around to see who took my burger, and everybody's looking up. So I look up, and there, sitting on the roof, holding my burger, is this big, green monkey."

"A monkey," Jill says. I nod. "And it's green."

"What I said. And he's just sitting there looking at me, like 'Yeah, I took your burger. What are you going to do about it?' Cause he doesn't know how high I can jump, right? So I jump up there after him, and he screeches and throws the burger at me. Hits me right in the face. Chili everywhere."

Jill suppresses a giggle.

"Yeah, real funny. So I'm up on the roof, wiping the chili out of my eyes. I look around, and now he's on the other end of the building, still screeching at me."

"So what did you do?" Jill asks.

"What was I supposed to do? I couldn't leave this monkey running around loose. I went after him. He tried to get away, but I'm, you know, really fast, so before he could take two steps, I had him pinned down with my hand around his scrawny little neck."

"Aw," Jill pouts.

"Don't feel sorry for him," I say. "Because now he was pissed off, and the next thing you know, his eyes glow green and he zaps me with this eyebeam that sends me flying."

"Well, I hope it hurt," Jill says. "Picking on a poor little monkey."

"It didn't feel good," I say. "So he takes off down the street, and I go after him. I spot this trashcan, one of those heavy, steel barrels. I grab it and take this huge leap, fifty feet, easy. I come down right on top of him. Slam! Barrel o' monkey.

"And by the way, whoever came up with that phrase, 'More fun than a barrel of monkeys,' oughta' be bitchslapped, because I had one, and it was no fun at all. The monkey's screeching and slamming and banging inside this thing, and then I hear the eyebeams start zapping, and these dents start popping out like big metal zits. Poink-poink-poink! But the barrel stays in one piece, so I figure it's over. I've got him.

"And then something lands on my head and starts screeching and pulling my hair."

"Another one?" Jill asks.

"Exactly. I grab it by the scruff of the neck and peel it off my head, and it's snarling and spitting, and then its eyes start to glow. Well, I know what's coming next, so I say to myself, 'I don't care if it is an endangered species,' and I spike it like a football."

"Poor monkey," Jill says, pouting.

"Yeah, poor monkey," I say. "So then something zaps me from behind, and I turn around, and there's three more of the things. And I'm like, 'How many of these green, radioactive space monkeys are there?' Then the barrel goes FOOMP! Fifty feet straight up into the air, and now that one's loose, and they all take off down the street."

Jill looks at Dave and asks, "Do you ever show up in this story?"

"Not for a while," Dave says.

"'Kay." She turns back to me. "Go ahead."

"All right, so I'm chasing these things down the street, and there's more showing up all the time, so now there's like ten of them. I have no idea how I'm supposed to wrangle all these space monkeys, and right about then is when this dude comes swooping down out of the sky, wearing this blue costume with a big yellow star on his chest."

"Another hero," Jill says.

"Guy named Astro," I say. "I'd run into him a few times before, back when GoDS 1.0 was still together. He would be fighting this monster—that was his thing, fighting these random space monsters—and we'd show up to help out. I thought he was okay, but the other guys didn't like him much."

"Why not?" Jill asks.

"Well, he was kind of a dork. No offense," I say, turning to Dave. Dave waves it off. "He didn't seem all that bright, and he could be a show-off at times. Like, we'd be fighting this monster, and I'd look over at him, and he'd shoot me this cocky little grin, like 'Watch this shit,' and then he'd pull the craziest damn stunt you ever saw. Hell of it is, it'd usually work. Then the monster would dissolve to nothing, cause that's what space monsters do when they die, apparently, and just as we'd start to clean up the mess, Astro would get this 'emergency call' and disappear. Turn to light and fly away."

"Turn to light?" Jill says.

"Yeah, that was his other deal, turning to light. We might've tried to follow him, except, you know, speed of light. Hard to keep up. Anyway, he'd take off and leave us with the mess, and the other guys kind of resented him for it. It got to where, after a while, I was the only who'd even respond to 'Astro alerts' anymore. It was almost like I was his only friend."

"I see," Jill says.

"So he comes swooping down out of the sky, and he's got this stop sign that he's yanked out of the ground somewhere, and he's popping these monkeys on the head with it. And the monkeys are running every which way. Like, you ever see North by Northwest? When the biplane's chasing Cary Grant? Kinda' like that, only with, you know, green monkeys.

"So now we've got to figure out what to do with all these unconscious monkeys. I grab a tarp from this nearby construction site and start wrapping them up. At some point, this cop pulls up and sees me with this tarp full of monkeys slung over my shoulder like Santa Claus. I start to say something like, 'Officer, I'm glad you're here. We've got these monkeys.'

"And he says, 'You've got monkeys? Where've you been? Everybody's got monkeys! There's hundreds of them popping up all over the city! We got 'em in Santa Monica heading east. They're in Hollywood heading south. They're in Watts heading north.'

"'Like they're converging on one central point,' I say.

"And by this time, Astro's there listening in, and he gets this startled look on his face, and says, 'I know where they're going. Grab onto my back.'

"I drop the tarp and wrap my arms around his neck. The cop starts yelling about the stop sign being city property, so Astro drops that, too, and we take off. We get about twenty feet up, and the cop goes, 'Hey!'

"We look down, and the cop's got the tarp unfolded, and it's empty. Just a little green mist drifting up from the fabric. The cop looks up at us and says, 'I thought you said you had monkeys.'

"I open my mouth to tell him we did, but Astro says, 'Let's go,' and shoots straight up into the air. Did I ever mention I hate flying?"

"Yes," Jill says.

"I hate it," I say. "So we're flying around up there, and now I'm glad I didn't get the chance to eat any more of my chili burger, because just the smell from my shirt is making me want to hurl. I'm hanging on tight, and I'm scared to death that Astro will turn his head and smile at me, like 'Watch this shit,' and then start doing barrel rolls or something. But he just says, 'Look,' and points down, and there's hundreds of green space monkeys down there. And if you know anything about L.A. traffic at the best of times, you can imagine the mess. We get past the worst of it, and then we come down into this neighborhood, and we land in front of this little house.

"We walk up to the front door, and Astro knocks, and a couple of seconds later, this woman answers. Mid-thirties, shabbily dressed. Red eyes, like she'd been crying. She looked exhausted. Just worn out in general. And she looks up at Astro, and she gets this look on her face, like she's seen a ghost, and she says, 'Davey?'"

Jill looks at Dave. "So you're Astro?"

Dave shakes his head. "It's complicated."

I keep talking. "So Astro walks past this woman without a word, right into the house, and I follow him because, what else am I gonna' do? We walk through this living room, and there's all these pictures, like family portraits. Mom, Dad, little kid. And the mom is the woman who answered the door, only less tired. And the dad looks kinda' like Astro. Older, but similar.

"We head to the back of the house, and we go into this bedroom, and it's like walking into a hospital. There's a bed with rails, and monitoring equipment, and IV's, and there in the bed is this kid. I say 'kid,' turns out he was 13, but he was tiny, you know, frail, like a stick. And he looks like he could be Astro's kid brother. And he's fast asleep.

"The woman comes charging into the room behind us, saying 'Don't you touch my Davey!'"

Jill looks at Dave. "So you were the kid in the bed?"

"Hey, who's telling the story?" I say. "Don't skip to the end. The woman says, 'Don't touch my Davey!' Astro ignores her, still, looks at me and says, 'This is Davey Lopez. He's been in a coma for six years. The monkeys are coming after him. We have to protect him.'

"Well, the woman starts freaking out, like 'What are you talking about, monkeys?' And we're heading back to the front of the house, and Astro suggests weapons might be a good idea, since he lost the stop sign. So I head out to the garage and grab a shovel, because I'm, you know, Digger, and I come out into the front yard, and the woman's really freaking out, because Astro's out there holding her couch. He looks at me and says something like, 'The bigger, the better.' The woman's having a total cow, and then the monkeys start appearing down the street, and the woman shuts up and runs inside.

"So then we start fighting monkeys. Some of them are small, like the ones we fought before, and some are big, like baboon size. I run out and fire up the Driller Beam Generators on my wrists. I dig this big trench and throw up the dirt on one side for a barrier, but the monkeys just swarm right over, and I swear to God I am not making this up, some of them shoot flames out their butt and fly over."

"No way," Jill says.

"They had an air force, swear to God," I say. "So I'm running back and forth, smacking monkeys with a shovel, and Astro's flying overhead, swinging at the flying ones with a couch. And it's like, did you ever see Zulu? Where there's like fifty British troops fighting five thousand African warriors? Same damn thing. They were everywhere. It was hopeless.

"So I look up to see if Astro has any ideas, only I can't see him. No Astro, no couch. Just this big, green, crawling lozenge that slams into the ground. Astro's lying in this shallow crater, covered with biting, pounding monkeys, and he's not moving. I run over there, and I dig the Driller Beam Generators into the ground and blast this huge wave of dirt and rock that knocks the monkeys off of him for a moment. Then I go in swinging the shovel, and the monkeys back off.

"I look down, and Astro's in bad shape. His clothes are torn up. He's bleeding from like a hundred bites. I kneel down and help him sit up and say, 'Are you okay?'

"And he says, real quiet, 'I give up.'

"I wasn't sure I heard him right, so I asked him what he said, and he says it again. 'I give up.' I asked him what he meant, and he said, 'Why keep fighting? They're going to win someday. Might as well be today. What am I staying around for? I might as well take off, just like he did. Just like everybody will, eventually.'

"And I'm like, 'What are you talking about?'

"And he looks up at me, and he says, 'I'm tired.' And then he fades away. Dissolves into smoke."

"What?" Jill asks.

"Gone. And I realize the monkeys are leaving me alone, and I turn around, and the house is just covered with them. They're tearing at the walls, pounding on the roof. So I go running toward the house, and I fire up the Driller Beams and dive under ground, come up in the living room. I run back to Davey's room, and the walls are shaking, and Mrs. Lopez is leaning over the bed, screaming hysterically, and the kid's just sleeping through it all.

"The woman's screaming at me, 'Make it stop! Make it stop!' And I don't know what to do. I mean, you can only beat up so many monkeys. So I ask her, 'Mrs. Lopez, do you have a gun?'

"She looks at me like I'm crazy and asks, 'What?'

"'A gun,' I say, 'do you have a gun in the house? Maybe if we shoot a couple, it'll scare the others away.' Which probably wouldn't work, but it would give her something to do other than scream, and besides, I was desperate, because at this point, the walls are cracking apart and dust is coming down from the ceiling.

"So she says, 'Davey's dad had a gun, I think, but I don't know where he hides it.'

"'Well, can we call him?' I ask.

"She says, 'I don't know where he is! He left us!'

"I'm all, 'What do you mean?' and she says, 'Fifteen years of marriage, and yesterday, he says he can't take it anymore. I'm tired, he says. I give up, he says. And then he just leaves. I don't know where he is!'

"And that's when I figured it out. Astro wasn't Davey, but he was a part of Davey. Like some fantasy of what Davey wanted to be, made real somehow. The monkeys, too. I don't know what they were, some manifestation of his illness, or maybe just his depression from his father leaving. Maybe every random space monster Astro ever fought was some manifestation of Davey's struggle for life. Only every time up to now, Astro had won, and this time, he had given up, because Davey was giving up. And as soon as those monkeys got hold of Davey, he would die.

"So I grabbed the kid and I said, 'Stop it, Davey. Make them stop. I know you're tired, but I also know you want to live, because if you didn't, the monkeys would have just appeared inside your room, instead of coming here from all over town. If you didn't want to live, you wouldn't have sent Astro to fight them, and you wouldn't have had him bring me here to fight for you. So just STOP IT!'

"Which worked as well as saying 'Just stop it' ever works. The ceiling tore open, and the walls crumbled, and monkeys came swarming in from all directions. Mrs. Lopez fell down screaming, and I grabbed Davey, tore out the IV tube, and went in the only direction I could, straight down.

"So I'm carrying this kid who weighs like, nothing, like forty pounds, like he's stuffed with feathers, and I'm running as fast as the Driller Beams can carve a path for me, but I know it's hopeless. I can't outrun them. My only hope, Davey's only hope, is to get him alone and maybe talk some sense into him, which, you know, is probably impossible, but I had to give it one last try.

"So I turned back toward the surface and burst up into a yard on the far side of the street. And the monkeys were there, waiting for me. So I jumped, as high and as far as I could, over their heads, hit the roof of the house, then dropped into the back yard and took off running.

"Did you ever see Ferris Bueller's Day Off? The bit at the end where he's racing his sister home? It was like that. I'm jumping over fences, getting chased by dogs, bouncing off trampolines. And then I see what I'm looking for.

"It's this shed for garden tools. Aluminum. Flimsy. I dive in there and wedge the door shut with a rake. I put the kid on the floor, and I cover his body with mine, while the monkeys are outside, hooting and screeching and pounding on the walls. It was like, did you ever read that story, "The Monkey's Paw"? Where the parents are huddled inside the house while the storm is raging, and there's this pounding on the door?

"It was like that, only with hundreds of monkeys' paws, and green eyebeams ripping through the walls overhead. And I just put my head down and started babbling into Davey's ear. I don't even remember what I said."

"Yes, you do," Dave says. "You said you'd promised Astro you'd protect me, so if they wanted to kill me, they had to kill you first. And you didn't want to die with chili on your shirt."

"Oh yeah, I did say something like that," I say. "And then I said, 'Don't kill me today. Give me one more day. I promise you, it won't look as bad tomorrow as it does today, and even if it does, it won't look that bad the next day. Just one more day. If you can make it through one more day, you can make it through one more week, and before you know it, I'll be buying you a beer on your twenty-first birthday. In fact, I promise I'll buy you your very first one. What do you say? I could really use that beer, kid. Come on, you owe me, you already ruined my burger!'

"And then the pounding stopped. Silence.

"I stood up, and I looked out through the holes in the wall, and it was just solid green monkeys, as far as the eye could see, covering everything like Astro-turf. And none of them were moving.

"So I opened the door, and I picked the kid up, and I stepped outside. And the monkeys are dissolving, one by one, into green mist, just like Astro had. I walk out of the yard, into the street, and there's more monkeys and more mist, until there's just a few stragglers left. And off in the distance, I can see one big monkey running, like he's coming late to the party, and he's carrying something, but I can't tell what. And he comes up and sits down right in front of me, and he holds out his paw and hands me this Tommyburger.

"There was a dried leaf stuck in the chili, but I ate it anyway. It was good."

Jill doesn't say anything for a while, just looks back and forth from Dave to me to Dave. And then she asks him, "Is that really what happened?"

Dave shrugs. "Hell if I know. I was asleep."

Jill picks up her mug and salutes with it. "Well, then, here's to you, Dave. May you never mess with another monkey in your life."

"What about me?" I ask. "I did most of the work."

"Yeah, but you need to get messed with every now and then." We all clink mugs, and Jill and I sip.

"So," Jill says, wiping a darling little fleck of foam from her lip, "was that the day you came out of the coma?"

Dave looks at me, flashes me this grin I haven't seen in years. A cocky little grin that says, Watch this shit. "Who said I did?" he asks, and then he fades clean away.

Gone, like smoke.

Jill's jaw drops. I reach over and snag Dave's beer. Shame to let a good beer go to waste.

* * *

Giving it 14 Percent

Written by A. S. Fox
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

He was reading a comic book when it happened. "Ombudsman." Fiona's voice buzzed over O'Malley's console. "Time to work. Level A, Main Conference Room."

O'Malley rose and put on his coat. It had been in the closet, waiting in shrink-wrap and desiccators for a good fourteen months. He rolled his shoulders, swallowed his fears and developed the mien of a man genuinely thrilled to be working for StarDrive. Having worked less than ten full days in the past eleven years, his mastery of this skill had paid the rent for quite some time now.

"Fiona, you may be the only person here that I truly love."

"I'm a computer." The voice remained dispassionate and hollow.

"My point exactly."

O'Malley worked in the tallest building in the world—the StarDrive Tower. Management arranged workers according to rank. Each successive rank earned a seat of power in a small office one step closer to the shining beacon of progress, otherwise known as Level A, the Top or HQ. He worked on the second floor and had never been called to an office higher than the hundredth floor.

He took an elevator down to the foyer and stopped before The Door. Above it hung an epic painting of a starship breaking the bounds of light. StarDrive's stated goal was to produce a faster than light spacecraft. The Chinese felt that, for form's sake, even the elite should enter and leave via the main door. It was perhaps the only vestige of their eighty-year Communist experiment. O'Malley put his hand in the fingerprint reader, half expecting to get a shock. Instead, the door opened and he entered. The Door gave one access to a special elevator, filled with sofas and upholstered chairs, which fired directly to the executive floors high above.

He sat while the elevator conveyed him to the executive entrance. Four enormous jade Foo Dogs guarded the corridor. O'Malley had heard rumors from his fellow Ombudsmen that StarDrive had liberated them from a failing nation-state. Beyond those lay various personal offices guarded by the Dragon Ladies of the Imperial Royal Secretarial Service: beautiful, lithe, Asian women of indeterminate age who would serve tea. Possibly they were also capable of typing, calculating particle mechanics or killing a man with one blow. O'Malley would probably never know.

He was ushered in by one such stunning beauty, handed a cup of Irish Breakfast tea—Twining's bag still in the cup to show they cared—and plunked at the end of an enormously long and, theoretically, intimidating table.

"I am Number One," a voice announced. Ten somber, middle-aged Chinese men wearing blue pinstripe suits faced him. In the logic of The Organization, Number One actually ranked fourth in the corporate schema.

"Good day, sir." O'Malley sipped his tea. They had over-brewed it by fifteen minutes. He smiled and drank more.

"We have a problem," Number One continued. They all smoked; O'Malley could barely make out the rough vicinity of his voice. In all the time he had been working for StarDrive, he had never gone more than three sentences before one of his betters would ominously say "we have a problem."

"That, sir . . ." He enunciated to carry across the room. ". . . is why you pay me. How may I assist?"

The men appeared embarrassed. "We have a problem with our space ship, with achieving light speed. We need your help."

"I'm sorry." O'Malley tried not to drop his jaw. They were being polite, among other things. Politeness usually meant someone had died. "I'm not an engineer or a scientist. I work for your human resources department." He sighed and then added, "At a very low level."

"We know," a different voice answered. "But your name is O'Malley and we thought you might be able to help us with this specific problem."

He sipped his tea dry; a Dragon Lady refilled it with Jasmine White leaf. He savored its crisp sweetness and tried to be motionless. He had heard it worked for lizards and certain kinds of rabbits.

"You see . . ." a third voice spoke.

"We have men hallucinating upstairs," the leader finally spoke, pushing forward. This was Han, the actual number one of StarDrive. O'Malley had never met him, but the Chairman Mao-sized banners of him on every floor familiarized a person with his general likeness. He saw now that a wart or two had been tastefully airbrushed off the inspirational posters.

"Europeans?" O'Malley thought he caught the drift of the problem. Hallucinations would be terribly bad press.

"No." Han waved dismissively. Europeans apparently were beneath his concern. "Nationals, of course—important men, pilots and engineers."

"The nature of these hallucinations?"

"Our men . . ." Han hesitated. "These men are very trustworthy and I know many personally."

Great tension filled his voice. The message was clear. I trust them, you better trust them too. Or else.

"Our men believe they are seeing leprechauns."

"Leprechauns." O'Malley kept a somber face.

"Yes," one of the adjutants agreed.

It all clicked. "I'm the only Irish employee you have, then?"

One of the men nodded with obvious disdain. "It would appear so."

"And you felt that being O'Malley would give me some ethnic, some Irish born, insight into these hallucinations?"

"Exactly." Han nodded. Silence sat upon the boardroom. Finally, Han put out his cigarette and announced with finality, "You leave immediately."

O'Malley tried not to spit. Although he understood that being in the world's tallest building also connected him to the StarDrive Space Elevator, he had never given it thought. He'd read the brochures during training. A satellite stationed many thousands of kilometers above the towers trailed a cable that linked the building, itself and an ancillary ballast-weight station with a tube built like a human spine. Inside, a bubble-shaped elevator made the transit. Five hours from tower to space station, four from space back down. No bends, no discomfort, no sense of gee-force or blastoff; they even had some kind of gyroscopic system that buffered it against the winds in the upper atmosphere. You could drink tea on the way up.

When they ushered him into a semi-sterile room, he panicked. A new set of Dragon Ladies rushed forth and disencumbered him of his outer garments; olive drab overalls and a maroon sweater with elbow patches and matching knit cap replaced them. A particularly fierce Dragon Lady grabbed him and shoved two half-slipper, half-rugby cleat contraptions over his bare feet. After that, a pale red-haired woman who proved more terrifying than the Dragon Ladies arrived. She smiled and donned similar garb. He noticed she wore a Celtic cross layered with thick Gaelic sigils and some very not-Christian iconography on its edges.

They were dumped in a chute, which turned out to be the actual elevator. It was cramped and not the luxurious ride he had been led to believe existed. He and the woman huddled as the bubble rocketed into the air, faster than his lunch could follow.

"O'Malley." He spoke between hyperventilating gasps.

"Cassie." She threw her head back, clearly exhilarated by the ride. "You're from the North." She spoke Gaelic. "I saw your file. Worked in a pub, almost got a chemistry degree from Dublin, but you come from Belfast. Moved about the same time The Troubles were erupting and all those bombs started putting holes in Buckingham Palace."

O'Malley frowned. "Where are you from?" She spoke Gaelic? She spoke fast in Gaelic?

"Kilkee, but I'm a Traveler." It explained her dark eyes. Travelers were the gypsies of Ireland, though it was disputed if they were also Rom, like their Eurasian counterparts.

"My people are actually from Ballyclare, but yah. I was from Belfast. Not anymore." He shut his mouth and ignored her until the slingshot of first acceleration slowed.

"Were you any good at chemistry, O'Malley?"

"I moved to Pontianak to tend bar at a local Irish pub." He counted to twenty. "Why do you ask?"

"Malaysia had extremely porous borders with little oversight of foreign passports at the time; that meant . . ." She shrugged suggestively.

O'Malley rolled his eyes. His lunch had returned to its proper place. "How does a Traveler end up subletting her services to a Chinese spaceship company?"

She laughed and touched his shoulder. "I was visiting my sister Ling Ling, adopted. She works for StarDrive and when word came down that they needed an Irish religious expert, I apparently was the only one in Indo-Malaysia."

"Wasn't there a panda named Ling Ling?" O'Malley tried to pry his shoulder loose.

"Mom was extremely creative." She smiled and kept her grip.

By the time they had arrived and the grim Chinese technicians lifted them from the capsule, O'Malley had discovered that Cassie liked groping men. It took him another few seconds to realize he still spoke perfect Gaelic, that his employers apparently knew what he used to do for a living and, most importantly, he did not like zero gravity one tiny bit. When they were ushered into the spinning sector with its two-thirds gravity, he breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Then a group of terrified looking Chinese engineers confronted them with The Problem. It boiled down to this: at twelve percent light speed the ship began to shake and shimmy, things got a little blurry and light got sort of fuzzy. At fourteen percent, the leprechauns started appearing. That was that.

The chief pilot promised them that they would be taken to the place where the little men showed up consistently; apparently no one had thought to film the operation. O'Malley tried unsuccessfully to suggest it. Instead the captain stiffly informed them the ship would again be at fourteen percent translight within the hour.

The two Irish nationals endured the preflight check and the acceleration out of the star dock. The gravitational spin of the starship's twin hulls ceased, putting them in freefall. "You don't believe in little men, do you?" He rubbed his protesting stomach.

"Cassie. And why not?"

O'Malley snorted. "Okay. First, because there are no leprechauns. Second, because if there were leprechauns, we'd have seen them somewhere other than outer space. And third, did I mention the part about there being no green bonnie men?"

"What is your first name?" She brushed his arm. He told her. She made a face. "What was your mother thinking?"

"Oh, no. Da had three jobs. First, making us, second, naming us and third, dying early enough to leave a pension to feed us. The rest was me dear Mum."

"I think I'll call you O'Malley." The ship launched into some new phase of its altogether gut-wrenching throttle through space.

::Eight percent translight:: a crisp voice informed them in Mandarin.

"All women do." He tried not to grimace more than was necessary. Good thing they hadn't given him tea with cream and sugar.

::Ten percent translight:: The chairs started to vibrate oddly and his feet felt numb.

::Twelve percent translight:: The voice sounded dubious. It might as well have screamed "Danger! Leprechaun Alert!" The light did seem a bit gooey.

"Did you know that the light in Ireland actually moves infinitesimally slower than normal light?"

"Whadya mean?" O'Malley turned his face to see her dark and clearly mad eyes.

"Scientists in County Cork proved it two years ago. The speed of light across most of Ireland is actually one eighteenth of one percent slower than the universal constant."

"So what? Do you think that proves . . . "

::Fourteen percent translight:: came the terrified announcement.

POP! Something small, green and grinning stood three paces in front of them.

"Good morning," said the leprechaun in lilting, if old sounding, Gaelic.

"Okay." O'Malley pointed to the little man in his green suit, trimmed with gold brocade and buttons, shoes with brass buckles and a genuine shillelagh. Dimpled and thick nosed, exactly like the pictures, the elf stood two feet tall. "That's a leprechaun."

"Told you so." Cassie smiled gleefully.

"You speak the Mother Tongue?" The leprechaun stepped closer.

"We do." Cassie addressed the tiny elf in her own Southern Traveler's Gaelic. "Hello, fey friend of Mab."

The leprechaun bowed and kissed her hand. Suddenly he turned around, as if there were something coming up behind him. "Oh."

Pop! He was gone just as the ship began to decelerate.

::Kill engines, kill engines!:: Apparently the crew did not find the little men as reassuring or polite as Cassie did.

The captain reestablished gravity and raced back to the pair. Had they seen them? Yes. Now what, he demanded? It took all O'Malley's ombudsman training and quite a bit of convincing to explain that they were going to have STAY at fourteen percent translight for a while. That assumed the Chinese wanted him to actually hold a conversation—with, yes, he admitted they were obviously something—these guys who looked like leprechauns.

In the end he got the guarantee of a night's sleep in semi-gravity while the crew radioed HQ and received further orders. O'Malley tried a toothpaste tube of something called General's Chicken Paste Number Four and gave up trying to have an appetite. Then he padded as quietly as possible to what seemed like a secluded nook. It provided a bed contraption that folded out, an air mattress and solar blanketing with electric toe warmers. He looked left and right, saw neither a pagan woman nor men of any height, Chinese or Irish, and tried to go to sleep.

He wasn't sure if he had been asleep or merely in that sweet dozy place right before actual sleep when he felt her slip into his bed. "Cassie?" As if some other nearly six foot, mostly naked and highly aggressive woman with red hair would sneak under his sheets.

"It's me." She began kissing his neck quite effectively.

"You're a stranger." He squirmed away.

"Not anymore." She rubbed his back.

"Um, I'm not that kind of girl." He wracked his brain for a better line.

Cassie laughed. "When in Indonesia, do as the Indonesians."

"But we're in outer space. And I have to figure out why there are leprechauns here."

"Why not ask them?" She blithely drifted off to sleep, apparently satisfied with merely having gotten in to his bed on day one. It seemed an incentive to solve the situation before day two.

On day two they managed to do the meet and greet with the leprechaun, find out his name was Tibbles of Green Burroughs and that Tibbles seemed astonished that they did not believe in him. Then came the hysterical screaming, the deceleration and the heinous accusations from terrified Chinese pilots who had to call the dread Chief Han and report Complications and, worse, Delays. Cassie's suggestions gave O'Malley his first headache in a decade.

O'Malley tried barring the door using a special computer code. She apparently could hack those. Thankfully, she contented herself with merely riding the night through holding him in her arms.

By day five, he had given up hope of evading Cassie at night, Tibbles by day, and the hysteria of the entire StarDrive Corporation pretty much constantly. The woman could get through furniture, welded doors and air locks.

"Why don't you make yourself useful?" He jabbed her when they woke up on day six, she having found him buried in the cargo section under a heap of welder's tools.

"I've been trying." Cassie pinched his cheek. "But you apparently missed a couple pages out of the manual. Goddess magic is usually sex magic and you keep avoiding me."

O'Malley scratched his head. She had a certain logic. "But there isn't any magic, Cassie." He had to admit the thought of sleeping with her seemed quite appealing, it always had. He just wasn't that kind of girl.

"How do you think I got through welded doors, silly?" She ran her fingers along his forearm.

"Um, I was wondering about that," he confessed. "But magic?"

"Magic."

"Well, if you can do magic to open my doors at night, why can't you do other magics?"

Cassie sat up from their secret bed; tools crashed as they fell off of her. A frightened mechanic jumped and ran, yelping something. "You really don't understand, do you?"

"What?" O'Malley felt very queasy.

"Didn't you have a grandmother?"

"Drank herself to death."

"Aunts, older female relatives, the little old lady down the alley?"

"Blown up or shot by the Ulster Unionists or Orangemen, except for the old lady down the street who taught me how to make pipe bombs."

Cassie shook her head and kissed his forehead. "Well, if you had a nanna, she would have told you lots of stories about the olden times and magic and the Celtic knots, the runes, the secrets of the Picts and such, our own weavings and doings."

"I've read the books."

"Do you know the difference between blood magic and circle magic, between weavings and callings, between unions and dispersals?"

O'Malley looked her in the eye. She seemed neither mad nor gleeful. In fact, Cassie looked outrageously serious, exactly like the Chinese pilots talking about their Pulse Drive buttons. "That would be a, um, a no, I guess." He grew quiet. What if she wasn't crazy?

"I can't call forth a fairy circle without some base of power and, unfortunately, there isn't any in outer space. But I can use you, and to do that I have to use a weaving and a union. The easiest way would be to sleep together but if you're absolutely hell bent to avoid my embrace, I can probably just drain half your blood and set up some kind of kettle in the back." She gave him a wicked leer.

"Why sex, why blood? There's no logic in it." He hated the sight of his own blood. He opted against telling her his fainting stories.

She smiled. "On the contrary, if you had read your quantum physics textbooks better, you'd know that in 2011 Australians found a link between indigenous song lines, genetics and quantum flux readings."

O'Malley rolled his eyes vigorously. "That's a joke."

She shook her head. "It really is mind over matter. But within set parameters determined by the magical systems, quote unquote, of the people involved. We're Irish, we gotta use traditional Irish protocols."

"Protocols? Cassie, you just said it was magic."

"You never took physics did you?"

O'Malley frowned. "Since when did any textbook claim that magic had a scientific verifiable basis in quantum physics?"

Cassie didn't hesitate. "Strock and Tadeschi, The Secret Life of Particles, 2012, published by Springer-Verlag. Followed by about seven more knock-offs and coat-tail studies."

He gulped. "Well, let me think about it for the day."

By the time they rose, the usual suspects had come to the cargo hold. They informed them with hidden embarrassment that the pilot, co-pilot and top four engineers had been shuttled down for psychiatric care and a new pilot would be taking them to fourteen percent today. Would immediately be too soon, please and thank you? He imagined they did not want to report to Chief Han that strange Europeans sleeping in their cargo hold was their sole sign of progress.

They did the drill. Strap in, hysterical announcement, null gravity, eight percent, ten percent, twelve percent - everything fuzzy, witty comment from Cassie and then fourteen percent. Pop! Mr. Tibbles arriving, obviously annoyed to be still talking to them.

O'Malley tried a new tack. "I thought you were a myth."

"Of course we're real, you idiot." Tibbles reddened. "You've been sighting us for centuries."

"Near rainbows, on the ground, not in outer-freaking-space," O'Malley spat back and Tibbles grew beet red.

"Morons," he muttered. "What is a Pulse Drive? It's a fancy laser that splits and refocuses light into thousands of fractal pieces, sort of like a mini fusion reactor . . . Forget it. I can see you know nothing about science."

"Absolutely nothing." O'Malley knew exactly what a Pulse Drive was, since he had been reading schematics all day.

"Rainbow. Splits light. Pulse Drive. Splits light. Whenever you split light, we show up. We're energy beings, you dolt." Tibbles looked ready to smack him with the shillelagh.

"What about werewolves and vampires?" O'Malley sneered.

"Out of phase, their energy signature cued to moonlight and reflected shadow. Mirrors, moonlight, everything is reflected light, it's all in the angles of reflection. Man, you're pretty stupid."

"Ghosts?" O'Malley leaned back in his seat; Mr. Tibbles' stick had begun to sway dangerously close to his head.

"Negative infrared signatures of dark matter. Your physicists have been blabbing about the stuff for decades. Why do you think they make it so cold?"

"So you're real?"

"Yep. Genuine leprechaun. Fairy. Mystical sprite. Elf. Magical being. Just like the little stories have always said. Don't you people read?"

O'Malley sighed. "Apparently not enough. What's with the stupid green suit and the hokey stick, then?"

Mr. Tibbles sighed back and looked as if he were deciding between vomiting and strangling him. "It's all local. In Hawaii, we're Menehune. In upstate New York, we're little Indians dancing in the corn."

"The Chinese claimed you were leprechauns, though." O'Malley grinned.

Mr. Tibbles drew himself up to his maximum height. "The Chinese are capable of lying, you know."

Then someone screamed and the ship jolted back into normal space as a new pilot qualified for short-term disability.

"What was that about?" Cassie gave him a puzzled look. The crew sprinted towards them shouting accusations, questions and pleas in frenzied Mandarin.

"A hunch." O'Malley put up both hands and spoke fiercely in chopped Mandarin. ::Tell Chief Han it will be done tomorrow, no sooner.:: They bickered, and when O'Malley did not budge or negotiate they slunk away sullenly, obviously fearful of having to tell the Chief just that.

On night six, O'Malley found the biggest, warmest room possible, commandeered extra pillows and blankets and something that resembled solid food and made a fort of his swag. He left the door unlocked and ajar. When Cassie arrived, she did so wearing a particularly fetching gown of homemade lace.

"What's it to be, blood or me?" Her eyes dazzled in the almost lightless room.

O'Malley looked up from reading a book on Irish folklore. "You can make a fairy circle in the room before we blast off tomorrow?"

She slid the door closed and locked it, her hand waving the latch closed from ten feet away. "Oh, yes." She smiled and he felt enchanted. O'Malley shrugged and said no more.

On day seven, he lectured the pilots, warning them that if they came out of fourteen percent a second earlier than he asked them to, he would personally shuttle down, resign in front of Chief Han and blame them by family name. He advised them to take tranquilizers, rice wine, chew on wood or simply close their damned eyes—after all, they were flying through a vacuum. Whatever it took, they must not deviate course, slow down or interfere with his and Cassie's doings. Oh, and if they didn't like it, please feel free to call HQ right this instant and ask the Chief to replace him, since they had a much better idea. Strangely, no one argued and all seemed genuinely pleased that he had finally been so mean-spirited as to threaten them.

Then he went aft. He came upon Cassie finishing the circle, which she had cleverly disguised to look like any old flooring in any old space ship. "I'll need a kiss." She leant forward and he complied.

"For completing the circle?"

"No." She gave him an enormous smile. "I just know I'm not going to get another chance if this works." He shook his head and let the engineers strap him in.

Then the countdown, the usual rev up and the far less hysterical achieving of fourteen percent. Pop! Tibbles appeared and this time O'Malley unstrapped to greet him.

"I'm sorry, old friend." He spoke formal Gaelic. "I was wrong to be so rude last time."

Tibbles looked touched and Cassie nodded. "Well, alriiiight." Tibbles blushed, clearly pleased to be appreciated.

"I really do believe in you, Tibbles. I want you to know that." O'Malley gave him a curt bow, complicated by the lack of gravity. "I was wrong to not believe the old stories. Leprechauns do exist and I know, now, that so does magic."

"It's not entirely fancy physics, you know."

"I know." O'Malley started to pace. "It's a quantum signature from a collective genetic unconscious."

"Exactly." Tibbles beamed. "I think you have actually learned something. And I thought you were totally stupid."

"I'll take that as a compliment." O'Malley and the elf chuckled. "Shake? No hard feelings?"

Tibbles put out his tiny mitt and shook O'Malley's vigorously. "You know, I'm hoping you people stop calling me here."

"I think we've learned our lesson," O'Malley assured him. Tibbles turned to go. O'Malley pushed a button on the wall. The ship instantly dropped out of the Pulse Drive, as if the pilots had been poised over the Kill button, punch-drunk and praying for the signal. Tibbles gave a low moaning wail.

"These are called handcuffs," O'Malley explained, demonstrating that he and Tibbles were now firmly pinioned together by a chunk of metal.

"You can't." The leprechaun struggled, his legs kicking.

"Fairy circle." O'Malley pointed to Cassie, who batted her eyelashes.

"I'm in big trouble," Tibbles said to no one in the room.

"I want my pot of gold." O'Malley eyed the elf.

"What?" The little man struggled. "Absolutely not."

"Then you stay. I've got the Chairman of a very large media corporation who would love to put you in a nice glass box, shuffle you around and make a few billion credits off you."

"You can't, you won't . . ." The elf started to shrink in horror, but he could not pull far since O'Malley had him suspended by the cuffs.

"Gold. It's in the books. I want it." O'Malley yanked the wretched leprechaun to emphasize his point.

"I can curse you," the elf countered. Cassie coughed and Tibbles suddenly blushed. "If you hadn't brought a witch with you."

"But I did bring my own witch and my own fairy circle and now I have my very own leprechaun."

"I don't, I can't get the gold right away."

"Then I get pictures and the plastic box and a touring elf show, and you get to do stupid sprite tricks for the videocasters."

"The price of gold is really, really low these days." Tibbles bit his lip.

"You haven't got anything other than that to offer," Cassie said nonchalantly.

"And if I did?" Tibbles' face lit up.

"I'll take the formula for a working pulse drive, one that breaks the speed of light safely." O'Malley lifted the gnome to near eye level.

"Painful." Tibbles whimpered and his eyes teared. O'Malley did nothing but yank harder. They remained that way as the little man went through six colors, ranted, threatened, switched languages, and then finally sighed. "Okay."

O'Malley handed him a notebook with an erasable pen. "Now."

"I'm right handed," Tibbles complained.

"We've got all day, don't we, Cassie?" Cassie nodded and smiled. She crossed her legs making her little sucker-booties swish. Nobody said anything. Tibbles developed an amazing ability to write with his left hand.

When the leprechaun had covered roughly twenty pages, he handed the pen and notebook back. "Okay." He smiled wanly. "You won."

"Great. Thanks." O'Malley started reading the elf's handiwork. "Now swear by Queen Mab, on your sacred honor and upon the sworn code of the fairies that all you have written is true and good, that you have in right faith given what is due and paid your debt."

"You read the book." Tibbles' face drooped into despair.

"I read all the books, you little creep." O'Malley yanked on his captive again. Tibbles wordlessly reached for the book, took the eraser, and fixed a dozen assorted diagrams, renumbered some formulas and took up another three pages with previously unwritten schematics. Then he handed it back, the look on his face totally defeated.

"Swear." O'Malley prodded him.

"I so swear before Mab my Queen and my sacred honor, I have done as asked and the debt is paid. One pot of gold or its equivalent." Tibble's eyes lolled. "Bastard."

O'Malley cuffed him. "Hey. Don't talk like that in front of a lady. Apologize."

"Sorry," whispered Tibbles, his left foot making a pathetic figure eight on the floor. The cuffs unlocked at O'Malley's cue.

Pop! Just like magic, the leprechaun was gone.

"You were planning this all along?" Cassie watched him closely, clearly impressed.

O'Malley shrugged as the crew began to shuffle in, looking for signs of leprechauns or explosions.

"Somewhere around the time I took to sleeping under tools and tables, it occurred to me to think of a way to capture the guy. I'm from Belfast, after all."

"After all," Cassie agreed. They tried to hold off the throng's new bout of questions, which, strangely, were devoid of accusations or threats. Apparently, the Chief had either invested him with new powers or everyone's desperation had simply given him a little breathing room.

O'Malley orchestrated the group. Scanned copies of the notebook needed to be made. For their part, the engineers did something capable and swift, using things with green lights that looked like pasta rollers. Whatever they were, in one sweep all the pages were read, digitized, filed and probably cross-referenced with footnotes.

Cassie began to ask a question, but a sudden gibbering excitement interrupted her. It appeared someone, either downstairs or on the starship, had realized what O'Malley had handed them. The engineers disappeared and the new pilot replaced them, his face stolid in resolve. He sputtered some harsh Mandarin at the pair, emphasizing the words with a hand chop.

"He said?" Cassie stepped closer to O'Malley. Did she do nervousness?

"Han wants us."

Minutes later, O'Malley and Cassie found themselves unceremoniously shoved towards another chute and toppled down the elevator towards Level A and the Grand Boardroom.

Around twenty thousand miles above the planet, she muttered, "When did you figure it out?"

"The Hwa thing."

"What's a Hwa, anyway?"

O'Malley brushed a red curl off her forehead. "The old name the Japanese used upon arriving in China. It means dwarf in Mandarin. Until they became a modern power, the Japanese were the leprechauns of China."

"They own half of the Moon now." She curled closer to him.

"But, in the ancient subconscious they were, and to some extent still are, dwarves."

"And . . ."

O'Malley snorted. "You never read Jung, did you?" The cabin was silent. "Protocols are individual sets of rules which have local meaning on a subconscious and thus, quantum level. That means the Faerie Contract would bind."

"I thought you read comic books all day."

"Well." The elevator passed some kind of altitude marker. The Mandarin made little sense at their speed. "I subscribe to a few regular ones, but they're monthly and that leaves me with a time lag at the end of the month."

"Hwa?" Cassie came close enough that he lowered his voice.

"Well, Tibbles is some kind of alien—that's probably a safe bet. He changes with perception. So what did the Chinese see? Hwa. They had to have sent a Japanese ombudsman first."

"Who saw Japanese leprechauns."

"The Ainu—I heard the paramedics haul Furikaki out of his office last week screaming about the Hairy Hill Men."

Cassie positioned herself on his stomach. "You could have taken the gold, Mr. Ainu."

He laughed and smoothed her hair lightly. "Price of gold's real low these days."

She jabbed him in a soft spot. "But why really?" The cabin gave a faint hum but he did not speak. She jabbed again.

"Okay." He twirled a curl of her hair. "Between us?"

"Of course." She kissed his arm.

"We're the only ones, Cassie."

"Only ones what?" She sat up.

"The only ones who have a positive relationship with faeries. The English get abducted, the Swedes get ravaged, the Japanese are contaminated, the Chinese invaded. Hence, the stretchers."

Cassie's face changed color. "Does Han know?"

O'Malley patted her leg. "One suspects he must. Pot of gold and all."

"So why not something else?"

O'Malley's eyes glittered. "The Irish invent star travel. Too good to pass up. What's your excuse?"

Cassie rubbed her chin. "How do you know I don't just like going really fast?"

He put his hands behind his head and chuckled. They fell silent. By the next altitude marker, they had fallen asleep.

When they arrived, a fleet of Dragon Ladies whisked them back into the sterile corridor and he was again outfitted with clothing, this time a terribly familiar blue pin striped suit. Even the tie seemed standard issue. The Secretariat ushered them into a small office where a beaming team of ten StarDrive executives welcomed them. Chief Han had opted for a black suit with, miracles, a cream and crimson tie.

"Sit." All present sat. O'Malley waited in silence, thinking.

"You have placed us within scheduled parameters. Seventeen minutes ago, our crew completed the first faster than light voyage in human history, returning safely to the star base." The other nine men beamed, clearly delighted and relieved. Han lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl. "Explain yourself."

"Isn't that StarDrive's whole purpose?" O'Malley fiddled with his tie.

"But you are not StarDrive. You work on the second floor." Han gave them a piercing stare. "Why did you help us?"

Cassie coughed. "The price of gold really is through the floor." She shrugged and looked to O'Malley.

"She's right." O'Malley let go of his collar. "I'd probably make more with a modest raise, which I think one could reasonably expect for such work."

"We're not even paying Ms. Morgaine, although you can rest assured her sister now has extremely well-compensated employment for life."

"Morgaine?" O'Malley turned to her.

Cassie smiled. "Pagan witch, remember."

"And you, Mr. O'Malley," Chief Han spoke as if punishment were being doled out, "we have decided to promote."

O'Malley groaned, instantly filled with regret.

One of the executives set up a tripod with a large flow chart printed with impossible to read squiggles. He coughed, consulted a set of note cards and began, "As you can see from our corporate structure . . ."

Cassie rose. O'Malley panicked and reached out his hand.

Cassie pumped it. "I'll see you later." She started walking.

"You will?" His stomach began to act up. What if he had to wear a suit everyday?

"Magic," she whispered in luscious Gaelic. He watched in anguish as his Cassie sauntered from the conference room.

Chief Han waited until she had left then took over for the executive, droning on in grand gestures about some new position with enormous power and responsibility. But all O'Malley heard was "suit, suit, suit." After several painful minutes it grew quiet. All the men stood. He stood. One by one the men shook his hand. Han patted him on the shoulder.

Dazed, he followed a feral looking Dragon Lady to his new office, now on the five hundred and seventh floor. He closed the door and whimpered. Some unknown lackey (the new Ombudsman?) had moved his gear into a larger and far more luxurious space. He had a window view, two potted plants and something antique in the corner. His only solace lay on the desk: an intercom box with "Fiona" handwritten on the peeling label.

"Fiona." He pushed the button, fingers crossed. "What do I do for a living?"

"You are now the Head of Public Relations, Denial of Magic Division." Her voice had acquired a friendly purr.

O'Malley tossed his tie and coat. He sat back, put his feet on the desk, and grabbed a new stack of comics. "Fiona, I love you."

* * *

Local Boy Makes Good

Written by Ray Tabler
Illustrated by Phil Renne

"Somthin' smells," one of the thousand or so shock troopers milling about in the staging area said, staring straight at me. That was unfair. I'd just had a shower. Most everybody did shower right before an assault, no telling when you'd get the next chance to clean up. Days, weeks later? You never could tell.

"Just ignore him, Danny," Jenny muttered. She shot him a black look. "Stupid bastard."

Jenny didn't need to worry. This wasn't my first assault. I admit I was wound up pretty tight. Everybody was. Needed to be, to get through the chaos we were about to wade into. But, I wasn't set on a hair trigger the way I was the first two or three times.

Either this little guy was too stupid to figure out that starting a brawl in the staging area would get us all thrown in the brig, or he was smart enough to figure out that starting a brawl in the staging area would get us all thrown in the brig. He might get injured in the confusion, but he wouldn't be dropping into a fire-laced hell with the rest of the division. I looked down at the guy with the sensitive nose, flashed him a very toothy smile and marched on with the rest of the team. The sour expression on his ugly face was a tasty treat I savored all the way across the hanger deck to our assigned drop carrier.

"Damn!" Pete complained when Sarge led us up to a scorch marked and rust stained old tub with the unlikely nickname Yolanda Sue stenciled on her grubby side, just forward of the official alphanumeric vessel designation. Nothing smaller than a frigate is supposed to have an actual name. It was one of those rules that generally got ignored after a couple of years into the war. Yolanda must have been some dead hero. You'd see that a lot. There were plenty to choose from.

"What's your problem, Kezelsky?" Sarge bellowed.

"Another sardine can, Sarge. Can't the navy spare a decent transport for us?"

Sarge rewarded Pete with a withering glare. "I'll be sure to pass that question along the next time I have lunch with the fleet admiral. Until then, get your smelly goon asses on that dropper! This is the one we're supposed to be in. It's almost show time and all of these tubs are goin' to the same place! Move!"

We moved. Sarge is pretty tough for a little guy. I think I could probably take him in a one on one fight, but I'd end up with important pieces missing.

Pete wasn't the only one disappointed with the drop carrier. It was quite a squeeze getting all twenty-five of us into the cargo bay of the Yolanda Sue, DC24569 Navy designation. Sarge ordered us all to exhale and then slammed the ramp closed before anybody thought to breathe again. Sarge had a bit of free space around him at the forward end of the bay, next to the ladder up to the control deck. Everyone else, goons and little guys were jammed in so tight it reminded me of a crude joke I'd heard back in high school.

"What's so funny, Danny?" Jenny asked. Being a little guy, she could sit on one of the benches.

"Nothing," I shook my head. That was about all I could move without poking a teammate. I was sitting on the deck with my knees tucked under my chin, back up against the port-side bulkhead and my arm brushing the now vertical surface of the ramp/hatch. That meant I'd be first out once the Yolanda Sue skidded in, assuming she got that far. I wasn't overly concerned. It wasn't the first time.

"Danny's always smiling. Haven't you noticed?" Pete teased from the same position against the starboard bulkhead. Our combat kits were between us; lumpy with all of the toys we'd soon be playing with.

"I have, actually," Jenny confided to Pete in a loud whisper. "I don't think it's normal, if you know what I mean."

I wagged my head back and forth with a foolish grin. "Ah, Duh, Doyh, Doyh!"

"Can that chatter, back aft there!" Sarge was on the horn, probably letting the lieutenant know we were good to go. He hung up after a minute and yelled up the ladder. "Yo. Up topside, we're all secure down here."

A swabbie stuck his head through the forward hatch to make sure we'd shut the ramp. Then he got a look at us and went forward. We could all hear him talking to the bosun's mate in charge of the dropper. The word "goons" was clear enough. Shortly, the mate appeared in the hatchway. She took a good long look at us.

The mate looked like a female version of Sarge, if you can picture that. To her credit, she may not have been pissed about being tasked with dropping a goon unit simply because we were goons. The problem was that we goons don't drop anywhere but the hottest LZs, and that could seriously shorten her life expectancy.

The mate and Sarge glowered at each other for a few seconds, and then she hustled back up to the control deck and clanged the hatch shut behind her. Sarge watched her go and shrugged. Orders were orders and grunts were grunts, goons or little guys.

A couple of minutes later we could hear the dropper's engines powering up. A few bumps as the tub skidded along the deck, and then we were outside the ship.

The bosun's mate came over the loudspeaker, "ETA, thirty-seven minutes."

Pete muttered another curse about the sardine can as he tried to get a bit more comfortable. The folded-up bench seat must have been digging into his back. Its port-side equivalent was digging into mine.

Pete had a right to be pissed. The navy did have a fair number of drop carriers designed specifically for us goons. They're nice, big, roomy tubs with seats that I could actually sit on. They usually have friendlier flight crews as well. Trouble is the enemy is smart enough to tell the difference. The Rigelians target the bigger tubs preferentially to minimize the number of goons we can get on the ground; so much for ergonomic design.

I leaned my head back against the cold metal of the portside bulkhead and closed my eyes.

"How can you do that, just fall asleep anywhere, anytime?" Jenny asked shaking her head.

"It's a goon thing," I teased.

"No, it's not," Pete commented sourly. As usual, Pete hadn't slept a wink the last two nights before the assault.

The Yolanda Sue pitched suddenly, engines vibrating unevenly. Shrapnel pattered the hull armor like hail. One of the other droppers must have been hit.

"Lucky shot for as far up as we must be yet," I said.

"The lieutenant said this one's well defended. The Rigies want to hold on to it," Jenny speculated. "They must be pitching a lot of plasma into orbit."

The lieutenant said a lot of things. You learned to filter out the parts that didn't have to do with the job at hand, like the name of the mudball the Yolanda Sue was hurtling towards. Nobody but a Rigie could pronounce it anyway. Besides, what difference does a name make?

Well, it can make a lot of difference. The swabbies topside sure seemed to feel a lot better about riding Yolanda Sue down into hell than DC24569. The Human Worlds Alliance calls us an Enhanced Capabilities Tactical Unit. That's what you see in the news and hear on the 3D. In practice, people call us goons. We call ourselves goons. We call everybody else little guys. As long as we call each other by these convenient labels, we can all pretend that we're all humans, which, by strict definition, we goons aren't. So, now you see the problem.

We all think of ourselves as humans, and maybe that's all that counts. It's worked so far, and will probably hold up for the duration. After the war's over, we'll just have to see.

The tub pitched and dodged more and more as we got lower. Some guys bitched about not being issued pressure suits in case the tub got holed. The truth is a suit won't do you any good. I've seen a couple of droppers that took plasma hits. There wasn't enough left of the whole damned tub to fill a pressure suit. And those clumsy suits just get in your way once the ramp drops.

"There's the light," Sarge warned. The amber bar above the ramp flashed slowly. It was hard to hear him. The atmosphere was getting thick, wailing like an angry ghost on the hull. The amber light flashed on and off faster and Yolanda Sue's main gun began to speak. It made the hull ring like a bell.

"ETA, sixty seconds." The bosun's calm voice over the speaker sounded like she was piloting a commuter shuttle from Chicago to St. Louis. The flashing amber light turned into a flashing green light.

"When the ramp drops, haul ass! Spread out, stay low and maintain your intervals!" Sarge had to yell over the racket. We'd heard it I don't know how many times before, and he'd said it many more than that. Didn't matter. He had to say it, and we felt better for hearing it.

Pete muttered a prayer, kissed his St. Stanislaus medal and tucked it inside his shirt. Jenny caught my eye and winked. I gave her a thumbs-up and got a good grip on my combat kit bag.

"Brace for landing," the bosun announced.

The ghost's wail changed to a deafening rumble punctuated with bone-jarring thumps.

"Think we're coming in a little hot?" I screamed into Jenny's ear.

"Naaah! This is the way the swabbies always land these tubs," Jenny mimed steering.

We were coming in hot. Tubs that didn't were just ordering a plasma breakfast. Then, with a final skewing to port, Yolanda Sue shuddered to a stop. The ramp flew open.

"Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!" Sarge thundered in the sudden silence.

I rolled out, literally. I couldn't stand up in the dropper, and standing up isn't something you want to do coming out the rear of an assault craft. I crawled at least thirty meters on my hands and knees as fast as I possibly could, which is pretty damned fast. Once the dropper is down and the payload is out it's no longer a worthwhile target. It's done its job and the deployed assault team is the greater danger. But, psychologically, it'll draw a large percentage of the enemy's fire. It's a healthy thing to get far away from it fast.

We were in a muddy field; a muddy field planted in a crop that looked a lot like purplish orange soybeans. I'd marched past enough soybean fields at the training base west of Saginaw to know what they looked like, and I would have preferred something taller like corn or even wheat. But alien soybeans were all we had. Yolanda Sue had plowed an ugly furrow across the land; a long, earthen arrow pointed straight at our objective.

The compound was about one hundred meters away. The dropper had brought us almost to the edge of the bean field, where the dead ground stretched to the high, razor-wire fence. Guard towers stood at each of the five corners of the layout. Rigelians are big on pentagons. Yep, this was the place.

The dropper's main gun fired again, making the air between it and the compound shimmer with the passage of the plasma bolt. The roof of the nearest guard tower seemed to blow away in a high wind. I could see other tubs skidded, or skidding, at other points around the objective. They were firing too. The Rigelians were returning fire.

"Advance by squads! Second squad, go!" Sarge's voice cut through the noise like a meat cleaver. It was time to earn my pay.

Along with the rest of second squad, I rose and dashed forward in a crouching run, firing assault rifles as we went. I wasn't trying to hit anything, just keep the Rigies minds off of their aim. When I figured I'd gone far enough, I found some cover and dove for it. I might be ten feet tall, but I'm not bulletproof.

That cover turned out to be an agricultural robot which had the great misfortune to be tending purplish orange soybeans that particular morning. It was a big, slab-sided, gray ovoid that normally moved about on several dozen short, stout legs so it could gingerly step between the plants. The robot's AI must have dropped into self-preservation mode and directed it towards the supposed safety of the compound. A stray plasma bolt had vaporized its control module, instantly converting the robot to five or six tons of scrap metal and carbon fiber composite.

A second or two after I set my back against the lee of the robot, Pete dropped down next to me, breathing hard and cursing like he'd slammed his thumb in a door. Then Jenny jumped in between us. Damn, but she could run fast for a little guy.

"Nice place you boys have got here. How's the rent?"

Three bolts from a heavy plasma gun slammed into the other side of the robot in quick succession.

"Stiff!" I replied.

"Location. Location. Location," Pete commented. Greasy, black smoke started pouring from vents on the top of our robot.

"Jenny, you're hit," I pointed at drippy line of red on her upper arm.

She looked at it and giggled. "I gouged my arm on the fire extinguisher on the way out of the tub."

Pete and I started laughing, too. Who knows how much lead and plasma zipping about, and Jenny had injured herself on a piece of our own safety equipment.

"Second squad, cover fire." Sarge sounded tinny and distant in my earphone. "First squad, advance!"

Jenny, Pete and I leaned around or over the dead robot and hosed lead at the compound. Yolanda Sue's gun was firing more frequently now that her thrusters were powered down and the entire output of her engine was dedicated to generating ballistic plasma. First squad swept by us at a desperate sprint and flopped down to fire prone almost at the fence line.

"Here it comes," Pete lamented.

"Second squad, breach the wire!" Sarge ordered into our ear pieces.

Training is that thing that delays the perfectly natural resistance to leaving cover in a firefight until you're three steps out, screaming like a madman. Then it's too late to turn back. Momentum suffices where courage fails.

Pete and I got to the fence, and I knew without asking that he wanted to cut. You're more exposed that way, standing there severing one strand of razor wire after the other, but that's the way he is. Pete would rather be doing something, even a dangerous something, than waiting around for something to happen to him. I dropped to one knee and plinked away at various likely targets while Pete worked his cutter. Jenny ran up, fished a grenade launcher out of my kit bag and made herself useful by keeping heads down in the nearest guard tower.

The last wire went ping and we all rushed into the compound. It's not like we were being heroic, dashing into the thick of the enemy. It just was pretty unhealthy out by the wire, with both sides firing through it.

Rigelians tend to build things with five sides, and cluster their structures in threes. Nobody's figured out exactly why yet, but then we haven't had much of a chance for cultural exchange since first contact. And that's another thing; most people don't even realize they're not from Rigel. Rigel happened to be where humans first encountered them. I don't have to remind you how that went. The war was well underway by the time we found out different. Faced with the choice of calling them what they call themselves, which nobody can pronounce, or some form of the stellar catalog number of the star their home planet actually orbits, we stuck with Rigelians. Why not? Rodriguez, in first squad, calls me a gringo, which I'm pretty sure I'm not.

If this had been a normal assault, one of us would have blasted a small hole in the wall of the nearest building and another would have tossed a grenade in, to insure a friendly reception as the old saying goes. This time was different. Any one of these buildings might've held what we'd come to find. So, we had to do it the hard way.

Sarge marshaled us into the lee of big concrete shed, and laid out the general plan. He or the lieutenant couldn't hope to conduct a thorough and systematic sweep and clear operation. There was too much chance the Rigies would decide to destroy what we were after. We had to strike hard and keep moving fast, until the objective was secured. Troops were pouring in through the breach in the wire behind us, but, as usual, it was goons to the front.

There was a momentary lull in the firing as something big blew up to the south. A tall cloud rose that way, above the Rigie city twenty kilometers away where the main assault was happening. It might have been the city's fusion plant going up or maybe one of our ships crashed. There was no way to tell from where we were. We never did find out. We never do.

Pete, Jenny and I advanced farther into the compound, two moving while the third covered. Normally, two cover while the third cautiously advances. We called it our hurry-up offense, and it's dangerous as hell. But, we were running short on time and playing it safe just isn't in the job description. Our luck ran short, too, about three hundred meters in from the wire.

Jenny and Pete ran up to an ugly gray building that might have been a warehouse and dashed around the corner. I was about to jump up and follow, when they came back around the corner and threw themselves into an open doorway. Having seen this type of behavior before, I wasn't at all surprised to see five Rigies come boiling around the corner about a femto second later.

I opened up on full auto and two of the Rigies went down. One of the injured Rigies was good and dead, but the other made it to cover with his buddies. He'd only been hit maybe a couple of times, and that's not near enough to stop a Rigie.

I would have just loved to stick around and dealt with this group of Rigies, but we were on a tight schedule. Sarge ordered forward a light plasma gun at the double quick. The plasma gun, with help from a squad of little guys, backed the three Rigies into a corner. While they were pinned down, we goons skirted around and pressed on into the compound.

There wasn't any real chance that those three Rigies would surrender. The very concept of surrender was new to them when the war started. Some little guy, a clerk in an intelligence unit, told me once they even borrowed our word for it.

Basically, the Rigies are big and mean and they never give up. That, in itself, wouldn't mean that they will win the war. The trouble is that the Rigies and the human race happen to be pretty evenly matched in resources and technology. The quantity and quality of ships and weapons are about equal. So, ironically, the edge the Rigelians have in physical strength and ferocity made a real difference in our interstellar war. For a while, they were kicking our butts. The human race needed some big, tough, mean bastards of their own.

The firefight behind us tipped off the Rigies where we were, so Pete, Jenny and I worked our way wide to the right and continued the advance. The intensity of plasma bolts and rifle fire doubled and then doubled again. The Rigies were feeding troops into the firefight we'd touched off. This, we reasoned, would have the effect of pulling them away from the rest of the place. We decided to take advantage of the situation and sprinted along.

Pete and I pulled ahead of Jenny by a dozen meters or so. Any other time one of us would have picked Jenny up and carried her. But we needed both hands free, because who knew what could come boiling around the next corner.

It might seem silly to have little guys like Jenny in our unit at all. But, they're there to make sure we goons feel a personal connection to actual factual human beings and the human race in general. It's the same logic as having us raised by normal foster families. I think it worked. I have a soft spot in my goon heart for Jenny, or at least some impure thoughts.

Pete and I didn't even need to talk. We each could tell what the other was thinking. That's because we've been buddies so long, even before basic training. Pete grew up two blocks east of me, on Lakeshore Boulevard. I can close my eyes and imagine the way over to his house from mine, right past that big, rusty old twentieth-century tank on a concrete pad outside the library.

I think I actually smelled something different first. I stopped short of a right-hand jog in the "road" and carefully peeked around a peeling concrete wall. Ten meters away was a young Rigie standing guard in front of a door. He was alone. At that moment, I knew that we'd found what we'd come to get.

This guy was obviously a low status individual. Rigies don't have a firm, organized system of rank. Leadership and status are based on a combination of fighting prowess, clan ties and seniority. Leadership can change day to day, even hour to hour. It sounds chaotic and inefficient as hell, but let me tell you, it can work pretty damned good for them. With humans inside the wire, every warrior would charge for the sound of the guns. The fact that they left one behind, even this sad puppy, meant that there was a high value item behind that door.

Without a moment's hesitation, I emptied a clip into the guard's blue midsection. Pete and I sprinted towards the door.

The brainstorm that eventually resulted in us goons sprang from the human race's pressing need to match, or better yet exceed, the Rigelians in physical, one on one combat. From what I've heard, the initial attempts at genetic modification experiments ranged from disappointing to truly horrific. It turns out that it's pretty tough to do in one generation what natural selection took maybe a million years to accomplish. They were just about ready to give up when they found the answer.

I hugged the wall on one side of the door. "Squad two to Six. Squad two to Six. Over," I whispered into my mike.

"Squad two. Six. Go," Sarge roared back in my ear, making himself heard over plasma fire in the background.

"Found the cheese. Repeat, found the cheese. Coordinates charlie delta four niner." I read the glowing alphanumeric from my face shield display. "Repeat, charlie delta four niner."

"Copy. Cheese at charlie delta four niner. Hold position. Cavalry coming." Sarge killed the transmission.

Knowing Sarge, I took "hold position" to mean "secure the position." So, Pete kicked the door open and I rushed in, keeping me low and my weapon ready. There was a short corridor that opened up into a large room with a high ceiling. The smell I'd whiffed outside hit me like a brick wall. It was the smell of people who hadn't had anything close to a bath in two or three decades.

There were maybe three hundred of them sitting or lying on the bare concrete floor. This was a warehouse of some kind, not a barracks. The Rigies must have herded them in here on the spur of the moment to keep them from getting in the way, or more probably to make it easier to kill them all quickly.

This was the first batch of humans that the Rigelians had captured, way back at the start of the war. A long time ago there had been a lot more of them. I could only imagine what kind of holy hell these people had been living for decades, and, as it turned out, my imagination came up well short of reality. Freeing them was a big part of the reason we were assaulting this particular mudball.

In fact, I guess you could say that these people were a big part of the reason that we goons exist. The initial justification for the war was to retrieve them, before we figured out that the Rigies were going to try to wipe us all out whether we fought back or not. So we needed to be better at fighting, which led humans to develop goons by genetic modification, which didn't work. Then it dawned on some bright boy that instead of trying to rush Mother Nature through a million years of evolution overnight to make big, mean soldiers we could just use some ready made DNA that was lying around, if slightly scorched. Even at that point in time, cloning was a well-established technology.

The prisoners were staring at Pete and me. Of course they'd never seen a goon before and didn't know what to make of us. But we were wearing a uniform that was pretty close to what they'd worn a long, terror-filled time ago.

Then Jenny shoved her way past us. The people in the room saw her and slowly realized that she was undeniably human, and armed to the teeth. You could see it in their eyes. They were telling themselves that this was some kind of cruel joke or trick. They were trying to beat down the hope that was rising up inside of them.

Jenny looked at them, grinned a wide grin and said, "Remain calm. We're from the government, and we're here to help you."

There was a long pause, and then a woman in the back laughed nervously at the old, old joke. Then they were all laughing, shouting, weeping, staggering forward to touch us and make sure we were real.

Outside I could hear Sarge setting up a perimeter around the place.

I turned to see one prisoner standing next to me. Unlike the others, he was calm. His hair was white as ashes. He was missing his right eye and his left arm ended in a ragged stump just below the elbow. His remaining eye burned with an icy, green fire.

He slowly reached up and tapped my nametag: Toscanelli. "Funny." He spoke in a hoarse whisper that may have had something to do with the scars on his throat, "You don't look Italian."

"Yeah, a lot of people tell me that."

"I'll bet they do."

"I'm adopted."

"Thought you might be." He paused, weighing my human uniform against my electric blue skin. "As a matter of fact, you look more like you're from Rigel."

"Well, my DNA might be from Rigel." I smiled, showing all three rows of razor-sharp, pearly white teeth. "But I'm from Cleveland."

* * *

NON-FICTION

Jim Baen
October 22, 1943 - June 28, 2006

Written by David Drake

Jim Baen called me on the afternoon of June 11. He generally phoned on weekends, and we'd usually talk a couple more times in the course of a week; but this was the last time.

In the course of the conversation he said, "You've got to write my obituary, you know." I laughed (I'll get to that) and said, "Sure, if I'm around—but remember, I'm the one who rides the motorcycle."

So I'm writing this. Part of it's adapted from the profile I did in 2000 for the program book of the Chicago Worldcon at which Jim was Editor Guest of Honor. They cut my original title, which Jim loved: The God of Baendom. I guess they thought it was undignified and whimsical.

The title was undignified and whimsical. So was Jim.

James Patrick Baen was born October 22, 1943, on the Pennsylvania - New York border, a long way by road or in culture from New York City . He was introduced to SF early through the magazines in a step-uncle's attic, including the November, 1957, issue of Astounding with The Gentle Earth by Christopher Anvil.

The two books Jim most remembered as formative influences were Fire-Hunter by Jim Kjelgaard and Against the Fall of Night by Arthur C Clarke. The theme of both short novels is that a youth from a decaying culture escapes the trap of accepted wisdom and saves his people despite themselves. This is a fair description of Jim's life in SF: he was always his own man, always a maverick, and very often brilliantly successful because he didn't listen to what other people thought.

For example, the traditional model of electronic publishing required that the works be encrypted. Jim thought that just made it hard for people to read books, the worst mistake a publisher could make. His e-texts were clear and in a variety of common formats.

While e-publishing has been a costly waste of effort for others, Baen Books quickly began earning more from electronic sales than it did from Canada . By the time of Jim's death, the figure had risen to ten times that.

Jim didn't forget his friends. In later years he arranged for the expansion of Fire-Hunter so that he could republish it (as The Hunter Returns , originally the title of the Charles R Knight painting Jim put on the cover).

Though Clarke didn't need help to keep his books in print the way Kjelgaard did, Jim didn't forget him either. Jim called me for help a week before his stroke, because Amazon.com had asked him to list the ten SF novels that everyone needed to read to understand the field. Against the Fall of Night was one of the titles that we settled on.

Jim's father died at age fifty; he and his stepfather didn't warm to one another. Jim left home at 17 and lived on the streets for several months, losing weight that he couldn't at the time afford. He enlisted in the army as the only available alternative to starving to death.

Jim spent his military career in Bavaria where he worked for the Army Security Agency as a Morse Code Intercept Operator, monitoring transmissions from a Soviet callsign that was probably a armored corps. One night he determined that 'his' Soviet formation was moving swiftly toward the border. This turned out to be an unannounced training exercise—but if World War III had broken out in 1960, Jim would've been the person who announced it.

Jim entered CCNY on the GI Bill and became a Hippie. Among other jobs he managed a Greenwich Village coffee house, sometimes acting as barker as well: 'Come in and see tomorrow's stars today!' None of the entertainers became tomorrow's stars, but that experience of unabashed huckstering is part of the reason that Jim himself did.

Jim's first job in publishing was as an assistant in the Complaints Department of Ace Books. He was good at it—so good that management tried to promote him to running the department. He turned the offer down, however, because he really wanted to be an SF editor.

In 1973 Jim was hired at Galaxy and If magazines when Judy-Lynn Benjamin left. He became assistant to Ejler Jakobson, who with Bernie Williams taught Jim the elements of slash and burn editing.

Unfortunately, this was a necessary skill for an editor in Jim's position. The publisher wasn't in a hurry to pay authors, so established writers who could sell elsewhere preferred to do so. Galaxy and If published a lot of first stories and not a few rejects by major names. Material like that had to be edited for intelligibility and the printer's deadline, not nuances of prose style.

Apart from basic technique Jim had very little to learn from his senior, who shortly thereafter left to pursue other opportunities. Jim's first act as editor was to recall stories that his predecessor had rejected over Jim's recommendation. When in later years I thanked him for retrieving the first two Hammer stories, Jim responded, ''Oh, David—Jake rejected much better stories than yours!" (Among them was Ursula K LeGuin's Nebula winner, The Day Before the Revolution .)

Ace Books, in many ways the standard bearer of SF paperback publishing in the Fifties, had fallen on hard times in the Seventies. Charter Communications bought the company and installed Tom Doherty as publisher. Tom hired Jim to run the SF line. The first thing the new team did was to pay Ace's back (and in some cases, way back) royalties. By the time the famous SFWA audit of Ace Books was complete, the money had already been paid to the authors; a matter of some embarrassment to the SFWA officers who were aware of the facts.

Ace regained its position as an SF line where readers could depend on getting a good story. (To Homer, that was the essence of art; not all writers and editors of more recent times would have agreed.) As well as pleasing readers, the Ace SF line made money for the company; unfortunately (due to decisions from far above the level of publisher) SF came to be the only part of the company that did make money. Tom left Ace in 1980, founded Tor Books, and hired Jim to set up the Tor SF line.

Which Jim did, following the same pattern that had revived Ace: a focus on story and a mix of established authors with first-timers whom Jim thought just might have what it took. It worked again.

In fact it worked so well that when Simon and Schuster went through a series of upheavals in its Pocket Books line in 1983, management decided to hire Jim as their new SF editor. Jim thought about the offer, then made a counter-offer: with the backing of two friends, he would form a separate company which would provide S&S with an SF line to distribute. S&S agreed and Baen Books was born.

Jim used the same formulas with his new line as he had at Ace and Tor, and again he succeeded. If that were easy, then past decades wouldn't be littered with the detritus of so many other people's attempts to do the same thing.

Even more than had been the case at Ace and Tor, Jim was his own art director at Baen Books—and he really directed rather than viewing his job as one of coddling artists. Baen Books gained a distinct look. Like the book contents, the covers weren't to everyone's taste—but they worked.

Jim had the advantage over some editors in that he knew what a story is. He had the advantage over most editors in being able to spot talent before somebody else had published it. (Lois Bujold, Eric Flint, John Ringo and Dave Weber were all Baen discoveries whom Jim promoted to stardom.)

Furthermore, he never stopped developing new writers. The week before his stroke, Jim bought a first novel from a writer whom Baen Books had been grooming through short stories over the past year.

The most important thing of all which Jim brought to his company was a personal vision. Baen Books didn't try to be for everybody, but it wa s always true to itself. In that as in so many other ways, the company mirrored Jim himself.

When Jim called me on June 11, he told me he was dying. I thought he was simply having a bad interaction among prescription drugs. Though the stroke that killed him occurred the next day in hospital, Jim was right and I was wrong—again.

After that opening, Jim said, "I'm just going to say it: we've known each other all these years and you seem to like me. Why?"

That's a hell of a thing to be hit with out of the blue. Jim had always known that he was socially awkward and that he not infrequently rubbed people the wrong way, but it wasn't something we discussed. (And it's obviously not a subject on which I could be of much help.)

If I'd been a different person, I'd have started out by listing the things he did right: for example, that I'd never met a more loving father than Jim was to his children (Jessica Baen, 29, Jim's daughter with Madeline Gleich, and Katherine Baen, 14, Jim's daughter with Toni Weisskopf). Being me, I instead answered the question a number of us ask ourselves: "How can you like a person who's behaved the way you know I have?"

I said that his flaws were childish ones, tantrums and sulking; not, never in my experience, studied cruelty. He agreed with that.

And then I thought further and said that when I was sure my career was tanking—

" You thought that? When was that?"

In the mid '90s, I explained, when Military SF was going down the tubes with the downsizing of the military. But when I was at my lowest point, which was very low, I thought, "I can write two books a year. And Jim will pay me $20K apiece for them—"

"I'd have paid a lot more than that!"

And I explained that this wasn't about reality: this was me in the irrational depths of real depression. And even when I was most depressed and most irrational, I knew in my heart that Jim Baen would pay me enough to keep me alive, because he was that sort of person. He'd done that for Keith Laumer whom he disliked, because Laumer had been an author Jim looked for when he was starting to read SF.

I could not get so crazy and depressed that I didn't trust Jim Baen to stand by me if I needed him. I don't know a better statement than that to sum up what was important about Jim, as a man and as a friend.

—Dave Drake

Toni Weisskopf and Dave suggest that people who wish to make a memorial donation purchase copies of THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN and donate them to libraries or teenagers of their acquaintance.

Comments and remembrances may be left at:

- Baen's Bar (http://bar.baen.com) in the "In Memorium" conference
or

- The Universe forums (http://www.baensuniverse.com/bbs) in the "In
memorium" forum.

Gods and Monsters in Hollywood

Written by Gregory Benford
Illustrated by Christoff Koelzer

So there I was in fabled Hollywood, having lunch at the Fox Studios. The food was tasty and I was with a movie producer who was interested in a story idea I had pitched. While a professor of physics at the University of California, Irvine, I had published several novels, mostly science fiction. Hollywood, just an hour up the freeway, was a constant temptation. I succumbed to it after three decades of doing intense physics.

We had gone over the whole plot structure, the breakdown into three acts (a Hollywood commandment, Act I ending at 30 minutes and II at 90 minutes in a two hour film)—plus character, logic, setting, the works.

Everything seemed set. Everybody agreed. They thought that the female lead character seemed particularly right, a match of motivation and plot.

Then the producer, a woman in her thirties, leaned across the lunch table and said, "She's just about right, now. Only . . . how about, halfway through, she turns out to be a robot?"

I looked around the dining room, at the murals depicting famous scenes from old movies, at stars in shades dining on their slimming salads in all their Armani finery, at the sweeping view of little purple dots that danced before my eyes because I had neglected breathing after she spoke. "Robot . . . ?"

"Just to keep them guessing," the producer added helpfully. "I want to really suck the juice out of this moment."

"But that makes no sense in this movie."

"It's science fiction, though—"

"So it doesn't have to make sense," I finished for her.

* * *

The vast bulk of Hollywood science fiction films brazenly feature flat characters moving through Tinkertoy plots to the regular drumbeat of gaudy spectacles. Horn-rimmed techno-nerds get an occasional smirking nod in passing, on the way to the dazzling special effects payoffs.

This sleep of reason fruitfully births monsters on demand, though—fears of technology, of scientists, and of the future itself. Machines come alive and reflect basic human evils, from Terminators to HAL. Those who sup from the cup of knowledge turn bad—the Invisible Man, Dr. Strangelove, bladerunners galore. Hubris is the drink of choice. In Bride of Frankenstein, mad scientists drink to the toast, "To a new world of gods and monsters!" Nobody hesitates.

The few films in which science fiction sings peer beyond current received wisdom, playing music for the dance between us and our technologies. Machines both help and block our personal relationships, robots come off as terribly human rather than as Gothic horrors, and startling ideas condense into concrete drama.

The big questions before us can often be phrased as If this goes on . . . and What if . . . To get the tone of the issue right, films like Kubrick's 2001 give us crisp, convincing space travel, not the comic book zoom and swirl of a Star Wars. Rather than play upon the easy keys of unease about change, they pull out the stops and embrace it with a realist's love.

As a professor of physics at the University of California, Irvine, I felt the tug of Hollywood brimming at the horizon. I had written some fiction, so my agent began to get calls inquiring whether I could come in, pitch some ideas, schmooze. When the sirens call, who hangs up?

* * *

So there I was a few weeks later, talking to a story editor. His development company was interested in making a TV miniseries from my novel, The Martian Race. The whole point of the approach was to portray Mars the way it would really be, hard and gritty and unforgiving. The story editor liked this a "whole lot" and thought it was a "breakthrough concept" and all, but he had his own creative input, too.

"I want a magic moment right here, at the end of the first hour," he said. "Really suck that ol' juice out!"

One of the signatures of H'wood is the incessant use of cliché phrases, the rule of advanced, glance-over-the-shoulder hipitude.

"Magic?" I asked guardedly.

"Something to bring out the wonder of Mars, yeah."

"Like . . ."

"See, when the astronaut is inside this cave—"

"Thermal vent. From an old volcano—"

"Okay, okay, vent it is. In this vent, he's trapped, right?"

"Well, not actually—"

"So he's banged up and he thinks he's going to die and he thinks, what the hell."

"What the hell."

"Right, you get it. He says what the hell, he might as well take his helmet off."

"Helmet. Off."

"Right, you got it. Big moment. Cracks the seal. He smiles and takes a big breath, and says, 'Oxygen! There's oxygen here. Let's take off these helmets!' Whaddaya think?"

"I like the robot better."

* * *

That moment expressed Hollywood's basic rule, the Law of Thermodramatics. To get more audience, turn up the gain.

If you absolutely must use scientists as characters, make them odd, nerdy, obsessed, self-important or, even better, quite mad. The Law overwhelms the niceties that scientists would like in movie depictions of them, especially logic or truth.

Pitching a movie or TV project is humbling. Everybody in the room is passing judgment, lounging back on sofas in their H'wood casuals, wearing the baseball caps and jeans Stephen Spielberg made into a uniform. Each got his turn at bat. In my world of scientists, the rule is Everybody has a right to their own opinion, but they don't have a right to their own facts. In Hollywood, I learned, the part after the comma does not apply.

After a few dozen pitch sessions in fashionable '40s-style bungalows, I began to notice that nearly all of these Exec.Prods. and Production Managers and Personal Assistants were under 30,. Most of them came from backgrounds in Film Studies or Journalism, and seemed the types who sit at the very back of their science classes. Some hid behind dark glasses, style victims of hipitude.

I had sold the production team of producer Jon Debont on my novel, Cosm, by bringing along pictures of particle accelerators. High tech, the bigger the better, helps visual people see the movie. They even liked the idea of shooting the film at UC Irvine, where the novel is set. Shooting in the larger LA area keeps costs down. Within a radius that barely included UC Irvine, actors and crew must get themselves to the site every day on their own. Except for the stars, of course.

For Cosm Debont lined up preliminary agreements to star from Dustin Hoffman and Angela Bassett; Time magazine carried this news, to my amazement. I like Hoffman as an actor, and he would play the Einstein-like figure of Max from the novel. The core of the novel was the vexed black woman lead, and I thought Bassett seemed right. Of course, I had no say in any of this, being a mere writer, though I had volunteered those two names in the pitch session.

But then Debont's big project, a film combining sf and westerns titled Ghost Riders in the Sky got axed by Fox because it ran a prelim $115,000,000 shooting budget. They cancelled it mere weeks before the cameras rolled on special effects. Debont had to earn his keep by shooting a horror film based on The Haunting of Hill House, a remake. It did not fare well in critical opinion, though it made some money.

This set him down a notch in the Fame Ladder of H'wood, so even though he had made Twister and Speed he could not get the $90 million needed to go with Cosm. And anyway, the first script, written for a cheapo $150,000, was clearly inadequate. I offered to do one that actually used dialog from the novel, instead of lame technospeak, as the H'wood writer had done, but no, that was impossible—novelists seldom get a shot at the craft of screenwriting. "I'm afraid that puppy's dead, for now," my manager said.

So Cosm is stalled, awaiting cash to finance another screenplay. So is a TV closed-end series I proposed to the SciFi Channel, which took characters clear to the end of the universe and then saved them—too big a budget, some said at several networks. They had a point; showing all of space and time does run up those costs.

* * *

I got a good agreement with Mandalay Productions to do The Martian Race as a miniseries, after only one pitch to the CEO. We had tried it on several other companies with various aborted starts, but this looked real. I pitched it with Michael Cassutt, an old TV hand who knows sf and has written a fair amount for magazines and even novels. We based our outline on a story I had written with the biologist Elisabeth Malartre, who was to be the technical advisor.

Then Mandalay started stalling, over and over, going through three drafts of the contracts—wasting nine months while Cassutt and I polished our outlines for the script. They were afraid of the coming big Mars movies, though we could shoot the TV series and have it out before anything reached the theatres. But then somebody came out of left field at us, as well—a small production company that had tried to buy the right the year before.

There it was in the TV schedule: Escape From Mars on UPN. It was the original Malartre-Benford story, wrenched around and with eye-widening technical errors. (They used centrifugal gravity on the way to Mars, as any expedition must, but had the weights on the outside, so the ship was the axis, and would feel no centrifugal effect. It sure looked pretty, though. . . .) Dreadful acting, lousy science—including the obligatory meteorite storm, with pellets smacking into the Martian soil every few meters, like a red hail storm. Sucking the juice from bad astronomy . . .

So we sued. They acted outraged. Lawyers traded shouting phone calls and documents for nine months. Got nowhere. So we told our lawyer to file—and within an hour the Escape From Mars money office gave in. We got a lot more than I would've expected for the TV rights to the novella.

At least it was over . . . or so I thought.

* * *

So there I was, having dinner with James Cameron to discuss his TV series, and the parallels between it and my novel, The Martian Race.

Cameron is unlike H'wood types—his lead face conveys that he is earnest and practical and focused. He showed me and Bob Zubrin (the Mars advocate) his study, where for many months he edited Titanic when the world outside was baying for him to release the film. He had plenty of Titanic books around, and told us about how accurate he had tried to make the film. There really had been a clever passenger who stood on the tail as it submerged. He survived, swept upward to the surface by the churn, then finding in the seconds of consciousness remaining a floating table to crawl up onto.

Cameron's sprawling villa in Malibu is chock full of books, mostly sf, and he took us to his favorite Italian restaurant in his Humvee, splashing through streams down an oak-studded canyon; not the usual H'wood type, no.

Like many in H'wood, Cameron subscribes to the neo-auteur theory of film: all must spring from his brow. So he swerved around the huge similarities between his ideas and my novel (already in print), though he couldn't resist talking about scenes that we had in common. "When she makes the run from the collapsed greenhouse, across open ground, without a helmet—wow!"

"Ummm . . . You've got a scene like that?" I asked.

"Well, no." Sudden caution. "But maybe something similar. I need to suck the juice from a moment that's, uh, kinda like that."

There I learned that the usual practice of making people see scenes when pitching a project had a real point. Making a film is really about making scenes, shot sometimes months or even years apart, that get squeezed against each other, chopped, and pureed in the final film. Each must frame against the other, and the transitions in mood must be accomplished in collaboration between the moment of shooting and the moment of truth in the cutting room. Novelists don't come under such pressures, especially not with Exec. Prods. fidgeting daily about the mounting costs.

"I think of myself as a writer, really," he said, well into our second bottle of Borolo, a great Tuscan red.

"So do I," I said blearily.

"Huh? But you are."

"Actually, I have a day job, professor of physics."

"My God, you mean the physics in those novels—" and here he quickly named four, to my amazement—"is true?"

"All physics is metaphor," I said.

* * *

Will Cameron's series use much of The Martian Race? I'll have to wait and see, though as they say in H'wood, his people are talking to my people (actually, I only have one—a manager, not an agent). "I think that puppy's dead," my manager says, "but I'll try."

What have I learned? Never expect much, because this is a collaborative biz. Even though the whole thing gets started by a writer having an idea (or, in many cases, purloining one), writers are not seen as primary.

I remember that in the comic strip Peanuts, Snoopy wears a T-shirt saying WHAT I REALLY WANT TO DO IS DIRECT, and the main reason is that's where all the power lies (other than with the money boys, but that's another story). As John Gregory Dunne said, "Wanting to be a screenwriter is like wanting to be a co-pilot."

In the '90s, the biz evolved until style has become content and any schmuck with a viewfinder is an auteur. A few directors have final cut, and so some artistic autonomy, but less than one would think, so they counter by getting into the early creative track, actually writing the script (or maybe just an outline; good dialog is hard). No writer has ever had final draft, unless he was the director, as well—a more prevalent pattern, as the quest for power broadens. The director of Boogie Nights wrote the script for his next, Magnolia, with disastrous results. Cameron both writes and directs.

Making good, big movies depends often on one strong, creative person big enough to defy the grinding media locomotive that wants to run on old, familiar rails. That may be a star, a director or even a producer, but it's damn sure never a writer.

Then there are the "new" creative forces, especially the special effects wizards. When I saw the big feature film Mission to Mars, an excruciating experience, I could tell where the director had thought that the Big Effect Scene was going to save the otherwise clunky script—which reportedly cost two million. It was like a film made by children with money, who could vaguely recall being, like, really turned on by Kubrick and Clarke's 2001. Special effects are often used to cover script problems, by distracting the audience with spectacle. Yeats called this "asking the will to do the work of the imagination." But then, he never got a script into production, right?

An old saw: You can teach technique, but you can't teach talent. Its unseen corollary: Logic and facts don't matter if you can keep the viewer's eyes moving. The Law of Thermodramatics dictates that plot momentum trumps all other suits.

Too many producers and story editors think the larger public cares only for sensation, spectacle, fiery explosions and creepy monsters galore. Plot logic gets trampled along with physical reality. Not that this wasn't often true in old Hollywood. The studio system just plain didn't get the technical accuracy and hard-edged grandeur of 2001. Their idea of a near imitation was Silent Running, a maudlin, sentimental, forgettable epic, which hinged upon nobody's realizing that a space-borne greenhouse would get less sunlight as it cruised out to Saturn.

Hollywood views science fiction as a genre of detachable ideas. That is why so many sf works have their concepts and story structures shoplifted, the serial numbers filed off. Behind this lurks the more insidious notion that writers of short stories and novels don't have screenwriting savvy or skills. Defeating these assumptions will take a lot of effort and some counterexamples, such as the tight collaboration between Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick for 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I remember my last conversation with Phillip K. Dick, when he had just returned from seeing the rushes for Blade Runner. He said plaintively, only a few weeks before his death, "I sure wish they'd let me work on some of the dialog."

* * *

Perhaps, as technical methods get cheaper, and entertainment more flexible, we can get stories that pay true attention to science. Making abstractions loom large and real is the essential art of an advanced cinema. This means not just shoplifting ideas, as in The Day After Tomorrow's muddled mess of global climate change.

At least some of us would go see actual thinking on the screen. This is far from certain—witness the respectable but not large audience that liked Gattica. Maybe, just maybe, a scrupulous effort to not actually lie to the audience could catch on.

On the other hand, I reflected on that first conversation at Fox Studios. Maybe I should've just nodded, saying, "Sure, make her a robot. When can you cut a check?" And with a deadpan look, "I'd like to suck the juice out of this puppy."

* * *

Gregory Benford is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

Back to the Moon

Written by Travis Taylor
Illustrated by Laura Givens

History Repeats Itself?

"As I take these last steps from the surface for some time in the future to come, I'd just like to record that America's challenge of today has forged man's destiny of tomorrow. And as we leave the moon and Taurus-Littrow, we leave as we came, and, God willing, we shall return, with peace and hope for mankind." These are the words said by astronaut Gene Cernan, the commander of Apollo 17, as he stepped from the moon in preparation to return to Earth.

On December 14, 1972, astronauts Harrison Schmitt and Eugene Cernan climbed aboard their Lunar Excursion Module (LEM) and humanity left the moon not to return for at least forty years. Due to the Cold War, lingering aspects of the Viet Nam era, political, socioeconomical and public opinion issues, the general public in America seemed to lose interest in any return to our closest celestial neighbor, the moon. The three decades that followed the Apollo program saw a floundering and almost dying American space program. The days of "Better, Faster, Cheaper" removed the hope of mankind ever returning to altitudes much higher than Low Earth Orbit (LEO).

Atop the failing space program, initiatives were also the failing NASA budget and the failure of its leadership. Poor leadership led to the horrible tragedies of both the Challenger and Columbia accidents. These tragedies all but devastated the already lackluster American space efforts.

But as Apollo 17 astronaut Harrison Schmitt is wont to say, "We do things in fits and starts." And that is exactly where humanity is today—at the beginning of an all new fit . . . an all new start.

On January 14, 2004 President George W. Bush made the following statement:

"Our . . . goal is to develop and test a new spacecraft, the Crew Exploration Vehicle, by 2008, and to conduct the first manned mission no later than 2014. The Crew Exploration Vehicle will be capable of ferrying astronauts and scientists to the Space Station after the shuttle is retired. But the main purpose of this spacecraft will be to carry astronauts beyond our orbit to other worlds. This will be the first spacecraft of its kind since the Apollo Command Module."

The following is a statement made by the newly appointed NASA Administrator Michael Griffin on the second anniversary of President Bush's announcement of the plan to return to the moon, travel to Mars and destinations beyond—a Vision for Space Exploration:

"Two years ago this week, President Bush committed our nation to the Vision for Space Exploration. This Vision commits America to a journey of discovery and exploration with new and exciting plans to return astronauts to the moon. From there, to voyage to Mars and beyond, while continuing to engage in groundbreaking space science and pioneering advances in innovation, creativity and technology. Together with the partnerships we have in the International Space Station program, our nation has the tremendous opportunity and solemn responsibility to lead the way toward the dawn of a new space age."

There is a whole lot more history that took place over the next couple of years between contractors, internal NASA issues, and contractor selection. The project originally started under NASA Administrator O'Keefe. He had his way of doing things—a way that was most apparently the status quo.

Issues began to arise with the contractors and the teams. One of which is that Burt Rutan's team was basically "run off" from the competition due to the "high paperwork burden" required. Burt Rutan and his Scaled Composites team had built the first commercial manned and reusable space vehicle, but NASA's approach somehow led to Rutan's team leaving the competition.

The final competition came down to the usual suspects, Lockheed Martin on one side and Northrop Grumman and Boeing on the other. Lockheed Martin's team basically tried to resell the dead penguin lifting body design that killed the X-33 program and Boeing's design was more like the old Apollo approach with some modifications.

These programs were to go through a spiral development approach following then NASA Administrator Sean O'Keefe's direction. O'Keefe put Rear Admiral (retired) Craig Steidle in charge of the development program. Steidle had used the spiral development effort—quite successfully—for the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter development program. However, that program was a Department of Defense large acquisition program that operates quite differently than the spacecraft development community is accustomed to. The spiral approach was beginning to bog down when the new NASA Administrator Griffin took over.

On June 28, 2005, Griffin made his distaste for the previous management approach quite clear to Congress:

"You asked, what will we be doing different? First of all, I hope never again to let the words spiral development cross my lips. That is an approach for large systems very relevant to DoD acquisition requirements, but I have not seen the relevance to NASA and I have preferred a much more direct approach, and that is what we will be recommending and implementing.

. . . I hope that you will see . . . a straightforward plan to replace the shuttle and a very straightforward architecture for a lunar return that, on the face of it, will seem to you that if we are to do these things, that the approach being recommended is a logical, clean, simple, straightforward approach."

So, we now have a new Presidential initiative to return to deeper space as we did for the Apollo era. And we have a new NASA administrator who is fired up to make some changes to the old ways and to move forward—and back—to the moon. Do we have a plan? How will we do it?

How We Will Make it Back to the Moon

The new approach at NASA has been a complete change from the previous development approach. In the summer of 2004 Griffin, while at John's Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory before he was named O'Keefe's successor, participated in a study for NASA called Extending Human Presence into the Solar System. The study suggested three stages.

Stage 1 – develop the crew exploration vehicle (CEV), finish the International Space Station (ISS), retire the Shuttle Orbiter as soon as possible.

Stage 2 – develop an updated CEV capable of multiple month long manned missions, with components required to enable human flight to the moon and Mars, Lagrange points, and various near-Earth asteroids.

Stage 3 – develop human-rated planetary landers such as the LEMs of the Apollo era.

The new program is called Project Constellation and President Bush's budget request in 2005 was for $428 million and $6.6 billion over the next five years. The budget request was for the development of the CEV and, in fact, was confirmed by Congress with the full amount of funding requested by the President.

So, what to do now? Well, NASA, under the new Administrator Griffin, set up a study to determine what would be the best way to really get started back into space. The Exploration Systems Architecture Study, affectionately referred to as ESAS in NASA-speak, was initiated. In large, the ESAS study derived similar conclusions as the study effort previously done by the Extending Human Presence into the Solar System effort.

The ESAS study has led to the development of some new space vehicles. These vehicles are known now as the Exploration Launch Vehicles. The Exploration Launch Vehicles Office has developed the scope of the development effort as such:

Crew Launch Vehicle (CEV) – a single five segment reuseable solid rocket booster that is human-rated (RSRB/M) and has an upper stage that is powered by a single engine derived from the old Saturn V J-2 rocket engine

Cargo Launch Vehicle (CLV) – a system that has a core stage derived from the Space Shuttle External Tank with five Space Shuttle Main Engines (SSMEs) powering it. Atop the core stage is a large cargo container. Also attached to the core are two of the five segment RSRB/Ms.

Earth Departure Stage – this component of the Exploration Vehicles scope is the upper stage that is attached to the CLV and will be the all important system for getting out of Earth's orbit and to the moon. The upper stage component uses tankage derived from the Space Shuttle's External Tank and is powered by a single J-2 engine.

The concept is actually brilliant from a paperwork and reinventing the wheel perspective. In order to put a human being on top of any spacecraft, a literal mountain of paperwork must be completed. Most of the paperwork involves proving that each individual component of the spacecraft down to the screws, nuts, and bolts have flown before and are of a quality that they have an extremely low risk of failure. A spacecraft of the CEV or CLV stature will have as many as two million separate parts. If each of those parts have a handful of forms to be filled out, checked off, and so on, the paperwork nightmare becomes apparent.

But what if there were a whole bunch of parts that have already had the paper work completed on them? In that case there would be no need to reinvent the wheel and fill out all that paperwork again. So, the ESAS group developed the brilliant Exploration Launch Vehicles plan.

The CEV is based on the SRBs flown with the shuttle and an upper stage engine flown in the Apollo program. The CLV and Earth Departure Stage follow the same approach. But were there not problems with the shuttles that caused the Challenger and Columbia incidents?

Of course there were, but again this is really clever, those components are left out. The problems that caused the Challenger incident were due to the SRBs having thrust exhaust leaks around the segments of them. This hot exhaust heated up the External Tank and caused it to explode. That problem was due to the old SRB design and the operation protocols being violated. That problem was fixed long ago.

The Columbia accident was due to foam falling off the External Tank and damaging the Orbiter's heat shield tiles. That problem was solved by there no longer being an Orbiter and all of the crew and payload components are above the tankage. Therefore, nothing can fall off the tankage and damage the crew components. Oh, and by the way, the crew will be returned in a capsule and re-enter just like the Apollo astronauts did except that they will land on land the way the Russians do it, instead of water.

Brilliant!

Sounds a lot like the old Apollo, doesn't it? Well, Apollo worked well and the SRBs in the shuttle program have worked well. So, the new plan is to take the best of both worlds and marry them together with modern computers, modern design and fabrication techniques, and new flight systems and avionics.

The Mission Profile

So here is how a mission might go. The crew of three to six astronauts will climb aboard the CEV. They will launch about the same time the unmanned CLV is launched. Atop the CLV in the cargo compartment is the Lunar Surface Access Module, or LSAM, which is an updated version of the Apollo LEM.

The RSRB/Ms will fall back to Earth to be refurbished for future launches just as the SRBs do with the shuttle. The CEV upper stage will meet and dock with the CLV upper stage, which contains the Earth Departure Stage and the LSAM. The docking will be much like the Agena module and the Gemini spacecraft docked, or the same as the Apollo Command Service Module (CSM) and the LEM docked in LEO.

Now all mated together, the Earth Departure Stage fires its modernized J-2 engine. The thrust from the engine places the CEV and the LSAM into a translunar insertion trajectory and the Earth Departure Stage is then jettisoned.

As the CEV/LSAM approaches the moon, a burn of the LSAM engine is made to put the spacecraft into a lunar orbit. This is called a lunar orbit insertion maneuver. Then the CEV and the LSAM separate just as the CEV and the LEM of the Apollo program did. The CEV will continue to orbit the moon while the LSAM descends to a lunar landing.

At this point the LSAM is on the moon. Whatever the lunar mission of the day is will be undertaken. Once the mission is completed, the crew will climb back into the LSAM and fire the Ascent Stage. The Ascent Stage portion of the LSAM lifts the crew back up to meet with the CEV. Once the CEV and the Ascent Stage dock the crew will leave the Ascent Stage. The CEV is then sealed up and the Ascent Stage is jettisoned.

The CEV then fires its engine in a transEarth injection maneuver. Once the CEV engine is used up it is jettisoned, leaving just the Crew capsule. The Crew capsule then re-enters Earth's atmosphere directly and will land with parachutes at a predesignated land-based landing zone.

Mission completed and everything is A-OK!

How Does the New Spacecraft Compare to the Apollo?

The CEV is the smallest of the two new spacecraft systems. It will be about three hundred nine feet tall with a total lift-off mass of two million pounds. It will be able to lift about fifty-five thousand pounds to LEO. Recall that this spacecraft will implement one five segment RSRB/M with an upper stage that uses the modified J-2 engine. The J-2 engine uses liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen for oxidizer and fuel.

The CLV will stand three hundred fifty-eight feet tall and will have a total lift-off mass of about six million four hundred thousand pounds. It can lift one hundred and twenty-one thousand pounds to a trans-lunar injection. This spacecraft uses two of the RSRB/Ms and five SSMEs for the core stage and a single J-2 engine for the upper stage.

The original Apollo spacecraft was the Saturn V. It stood three hundred sixty-four feet high and had a total lift-off mass of about six million five hundred thousand pounds. It consisted of three stages. The first stage consisted of five F-1 engines that ran off of liquid oxygen and rocket propellant. The second stage was five J-2 engines. The third stage was one J-2 engine.

When we consider the combination of the CEV and the CLV spacecraft designs and compare them to the Apollo spacecraft we can realize that the new system is indeed an upgrade and not simply a copy of the old ideas. The CEV/CLV combination will enable a larger payload to be delivered to the moon. This means more crew and more science will be enabled.

There is another need for the two different spacecraft—the CEV and the CLV. The CEV will be needed immediately to carry crew and small amounts of supplies to the International Space Station. The CEV will most likely be the first system developed to flight readiness.

The CLV has a complete other use that most people have yet to realize. We no longer have any Titan rockets and if the Space Shuttle is decommissioned the U.S. will have lost its capability to place heavy payloads into Earth orbit. An example of these payloads might be the Hubble Space Telescope. Only the Space Shuttle or a Titan could lift such a payload to the proper orbit. If the shuttle is gone before the James Webb Space Telescope is completed, how do we expect to get the thing into orbit?

What about other national assets that are needed for defense purposes and intelligence gathering purposes? It is likely that those payloads are large as well. What about commercial very large relay systems like the Tracking and Data Relay Satellite System or TDRSS? How will we get next generation systems up without the shuttles or Titans?

The CLV can do it! We will not need the upper Earth Departure Stage. Instead of that part of the vehicle, we can place the heavy payloads there. The CLV might even offer us the capability to launch systems with payloads larger than Delta IVs and Atlas Vs can handle to higher orbits such as geosynchronous ones.

So, in the near term, as the shuttles are decommissioned we might have to take these new NASA spacecraft and implement them with a dual use. That is a good idea. That is one of the smarter things NASA could do or could have done in the last few decades. At this point, it is unclear if NASA has thought of this potential dual use of the Exploration Launch Vehicles. On the other hand, it is likely that the air force has. And with Griffin's previous ties to DoD and the intelligence community it is most likely that he has considered this as well.

So What Are the Long Poles? Why Should We Go Back?

An overview of the program does not really reveal any hard technology problems. Most all of the technologies being considered for the Exploration Launch Vehicles are flight tested from heritage spacecraft such as the shuttles and the Apollo programs. The biggest hurdle appears to be maintaining enthusiasm for the mission. What do we do once we get to the moon?

We are no longer in a Cold War era space race with the Soviets—although many would argue that we are in a Cold War-like space race with the Chinese—so getting there first cannot be our goal. NASA Administrator Griffin has created a team of high ranking NASA officials to investigate our long term moon goals. Why are we going back?

Well, to start with, the moon is a lot closer to Mars and is a good place to practice leaving Earth and going to another space body with manned systems. If we can't go back and forth between the earth and the moon, how do we expect to go to Mars? It will be good practice and an excellent method of flight testing our concepts and technologies.

We have no idea what the moon is all about. We have studied the moon with probes and a few manned missions and from telescopes, but there is a lot about the moon that we simply do not know. There are deep craters near the poles that have perpetual shadows over the floor and some of these have given confusing readings to various probes. Some of the probes have detected high levels of hydrogen and other substances that seem out of place. We simply do not fully understand what the moon is, how it got there, and what we can do with it. We never knew there was gold in California until we got there and started digging around in the dirt. Perhaps the moon will hold similar riches. Keep in mind that the riches will have to be large, to overcome the cost of the expedition through space to the moon.

What about for other scientific purposes? The far side of the moon is an ideal place for radio astronomy as there is no "noise" from terrestrial radio communications there. It would also offer a platform for other astronomical observation posts as the moon has no atmosphere to interfere with the electromagnetic signals coming from outer space.

Finally, there should be a military outpost there. What!? A military base on the moon!? Why not? Think of it this way. What if global diplomacy collapsed and China or Russia or any other country decided to destroy the United States of America's defense capabilities. If somehow all of our bases and military resources were wiped out then we would be defenseless. But, if there was a contingent of forces on a base on the moon they would offer us a last resort. As with Heinlein's The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, we could implement a railgun on the moon that could hurl projectiles to Earth which would cause destruction of enemy targets far better than nuclear devices without the undesirable radiation fallout. Of course, there are some major technical hurdles for such a system, but it is feasible.

Also consider that same railgun system as a possible defense for asteroids, meteors, and comets that might be on an impact trajectory with Earth in the future. This could be a major reason for having a military base on the moon. As it stands currently, we have no line of defense for such impacts.

And then there is the other big science fiction possibility—mathematically it is a finite probability—that the Earth is invaded by aliens. Having our military in multiple locations might be useful in that situation. Having humanity spread out in multiple places wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

Well, one thing for certain though, militarization of the moon is a long way off. So, if you are one of those types that is opposed to such an idea, then don't panic. There is plenty of civilian exploration to be had on the moon. There is plenty of science to discover and uncover on the moon. Perhaps some smart entrepreneur will develop an economically viable business model for moon missions. Maybe there will be a Club Med Tranquility Base in the not so distant future.

Whatever the outcome is, the thing to remember is that there is a big bright future for space exploration that starts on the moon. And, if there are ideas that you have for reasons for going and staying on the moon, by all means don't keep them to yourself. NASA is looking for great ideas and applications for space travel. What to do once we get to the moon is such a question that Administrator Griffin had these words to pass along in an E-mail to his upper echelon advisors:

The next step out is the moon. We're going to get, and probably already are getting, the same criticisms as for ISS. This is the "why go to the moon?" theme.

We've got the architecture in place and generally accepted. That's the "interstate highway" analogy I've made. So now, we need to start talking about those exit ramps I've referred to. What ARE we going to do on the moon? To what end? And with whom? I have ideas, of course. (I ALWAYS have ideas; it's a given.) But my ideas don't matter. Now is the time to start working with our own science community and with the Internationals to define the program of lunar activity that makes the most sense to the most people. I keep saying—because it's true—that it's not the trip that matters, it's the destination, and what we do there. We've got to get started on this.

. . . and the International Partners to get started down the track on pulling together an international coalition. They are annoyed and impatient with our delays since the Vision speech. We need to be, and be seen to be, proactive in seeking their involvement. We need to work with them, not prescribe to them, regarding what we can do together on the moon.

Beyond the moon is Mars, robots first. Most of the Internationals are at present more interested in Mars, as I hear the gossip. Fine, we can't tell them what to be interested in. But our road to Mars goes through the moon, and we should be able to enlist them to join on that path.

Everyone . . . wants to be part of making exploration what NASA does. It won't survive if all we worry about is getting there. That was the essential first step. But it has to sell itself on what it is that we DO there.

So When are We Going?

As the program currently stands, NASA plans to be testing the systems for the CEV as early as this year. Design studies and reviews are to begin no later than 2008. Suborbital flight testing of the spacecraft is to begin sometime around 2009 to 2010. There are at least three so-called "risk reduction flights" scheduled between 2010 and 2012. The hopes are to have the CEV flights proven and ready for operation by 2012. This will allow decommissioning of the shuttles as the CEV will be able to transport crewmembers to the ISS.

The heavy launch vehicle, CLV, will be developed parallel to the CEV. However, the flight readiness of the CEV seems to have priority status. The current NASA plan is to implement what Griffin refers to as the "Lunar Sooner" plan that will see flight testing of the CLV sometime between 2013 to 2016 with flight readiness soon after. The "Lunar Sooner" plan optimistically has the CEV and CLV ready for the first manned Moon mission by March of 2017! That is only eleven years away and is three years ahead of the original schedule suggested by President Bush. So just be patient, we are liable to make it back to the moon within the lifetimes of the majority of people that are reading this article!

ADD NOTE:

"Since this article was written NASA has solidified the CEV program more and has chosen new descriptions for the launch vehicle systems. The small capsule that carries the crew will be the Crew Exploration Vehicle or CEV. The modified solid rocket booster and the liquid fuel upperstage that lifts the CEV into orbit is the Crew Exploration Vehicle Launch Vehicle or CLV. The larger system that lifts the LSAM and other cargo into orbit will be known as the Cargo Launch Vehicle or the CaLV."

* * *

Travis Taylor is the author of several novels.

COLUMNS

Publisher's Podium

Written by Jim Baen

By Jim Baen

Note: The author would like to acknowledge the inestimable help received from conversations with Dr. John Lambshead, and for the enthusiastic support of Professor Eglund, whose analysis follows the article. There are probably several persons on the planet who will understand the analysis.

Many people have suggested that aging is a pre-programmed, genetically controlled function in higher animals. This appears to be confirmed by the research findings of Cynthia Kenyon, an eminently respectable scientist who publishes in peer-reviewed journals, on aging in nematodes. She reported extensions of nematode lifespan of five times normal, i.e. from around two weeks to ten, with their apparent vigour undiminished until shortly before death. In other words, they don't just drag out old age but function properly for an extended period.

She accomplishes this by selectively blocking the expression of various "DAF" genes, including DAF-2 and DAF-16. DAF-2 suppresses the action of DAF-16, the latter triggers or suppresses at least six other genes the end result of which is to promote longevity. DAF-16 seems to influence the production of proteins that protect against free radical damage. So it could be said that DAF-2 has the function of deliberately limiting a nematode's life span.

Of course, one has to be careful extrapolating from a nematode worm with a lifespan measured in weeks to something long lived like a human being. In nematodes, DAF-2 and DAF-16 are associated with moulting. Nematodes are Ecdysozoans (moulting animals) and these have the ability to go into a special 'shut down' state, known as 'dauer larvae' in the case of the Kenyon's test animal, the nematode Caenorhabditis elegans.

Human beings neither moult nor go into a shut down mode (not even teenagers). However, the DAF-2 gene is similar to a gene in mammals called IGF-1 that is connected with insulin function. Martin Holzenberger created strains of mice in which one or both copies of the rodent gene for the IGF-1 receptor had mutations. Mice lacking any normal copies died as embryos. However, mice with one working copy developed normally and lived, on average, 26 percent longer than did animals with two normal copies of the IGF-1 receptor gene.

For the purposes of this article, let us assume that getting old and dying is a defined process, a process that is controlled by our genes; that our life span is deliberately limited. Why? This seems astonishingly counter-evolutionary. The two basic driving forces in evolution are (i) survival and (ii) success in mating (for sexual organisms). Surviving by definition implies extension of life span. However, it is also true that for many organisms that the longer an organism survives the more successful it will be at mating – even geeks will manage to reproduce if given enough chances.

So if our life span is deliberately limited by our genes then there must be some evolutionary advantage. The rest of this article will try and address this point.

One possibility is that we limit our lifespan by the need for optimal performance up to the time of successful reproduction. This is the racing car analogy. An engineer designing a Ford or a Peugeot tends to over-engineer to give reliability and a decent lifespan rather than optimise for performance. In contrast, the racing genius Colin Chapman used to examine his cars after a race and any component that was in too good a condition was promptly lightened. An ideal Chapman racing car would fall to pieces one inch after crossing the finish line – but in first place!

The racing car analogy does not really seem to explain Kenyon's results because when DAF-2 is suppressed the worms stay younger longer; they do not stagger on in senility. It is almost as if the genes do not care how long a worm could live or what condition it might be in through most of that life but just decide it has lived long enough. What evolutionary mechanism could cause this?

In Utah, studies have been done that show that it is possible, in fact surprisingly easy, to track the presence of polygamous marriages by the occurrence of babies with birth defects. It turns out that having a few highly prolific males makes a surprisingly large impact on the occurrence of double recessives in the general population, and that this in turn leads to a surprisingly large number of birth-defects; children with Down's Syndrome, cleft palate, club feet, various leukodystrophies and the like occur much more commonly than they would without the prior presence of these males. This observation is anecdotally common human experience. Inbreeding causes an increase in nasty recessive genes in the population and polygamy inevitably will increase inbreeding.

This is a common problem in conservation. Once a population of an organism drops below a certain level then the species is in terrible trouble. In theory, one could recreate a species from a single male and female. In practice, there are likely to be enormous genetic issues.

For human populations, inbreeding is likely to be especially dangerous for two reasons. The first is that the human genome is particularly messy compared to other mammals such as dogs or rats. The second reason is that reproductive success of males in human beings (who are highly social animals) tends to be correlated with status and status tends to increase with age. As the hypothetical TV interviewer put to the young blonde, 'What first attracted you to this elderly, balding, multimillionaire, Miss Smith?' The wealthy middle-aged man with a younger trophy wife is a phenomenon observed in all human society. A long life span in men is more of an issue because one high status man can impregnate many women. Reason one will tend to accentuate the impact of reason two.

So if a meta-population (a subgroup) of a species that has mutations that shorten its lifespan has offspring that are more successful than the offspring of a longer-lived meta-population then the former population will replace the latter. An evolutionary mechanism, therefore, exists that could promote death genes.

Just because this is logical and reasonable does not make it true, but I leave you with one final thought. Women commonly live longer than men and, in my model, it is long lived men that should be more dangerous to the species. If you are male, then nature could have it in for you.

Addendum:
A genetic model for eternal life as an evolutionary strategy

Karl Inne Ugland,
University of Oslo,
Marine Zoology,
Pb 1066, 0316
Oslo, Norway.
Introduction

Classical and molecular genetics are concerned with the nature and transmission of genetic information, and how this information is translated into phenotypes. Population genetics theory is most successful when dealing with simply inherited traits - traits whose transmission follows simple Mendelian rules. Yet many of the most interesting and important traits are not so simply inherited: they depend on several genes, which often interact in complex ways with one another and with the environment.

Population genetics includes a large body of mathematical theory; one of the most richest and most successful bodies of mathematics in biology. The useful application of this theory has been greatly enhanced in recent years by new molecular techniques.

Usually, the first step is to study the frequency of different genotypes or phenotypes in a sample of the population. The concept locus is used to designate a chromosomal location, and the concept allele designates an alternative form of the gene occupying the considered position. Usually we are more interested in the frequencies of the different alleles than in the frequencies of the different genotypes. This is because allele frequency is a more economical way to characterise the population. The number of possible genotypes is enormous. Consider for example 100 loci, each with 4 segregating alleles. With 4 alleles A, B, C, D the total number of possible genotypes at each locus is 10: (1) four homozygotes: AA, BB, CC and DD plus (2) six heterozygotes: AB, AC, AD, BC, BD and CD. For all 100 loci there are thus 10^100 possible genotypes, i.e. more than the number of atoms in our universe! It is, therefore, much better to stick to allele-frequencies.

The characterisation of a population in terms of allele frequencies rather than genotype frequencies has another advantage. In a Mendelian population, the genotypes are scrambled every generation by segregation and recombination. New combinations are put together only to be taken apart in later generations. If we are to study a population over a time period of more than a few generations, then the stable entity is the gene.

In nature it is the organism that survives and reproduces, so natural selection acts on the organisms and it is the fitness of the organism that determines the likelihood of survival and reproduction. But what an individual actually transmits to future generations is a random sample of its genes, and those genes that increase fitness will be more represented in future generations. Thus, there is selection of genes determining the properties like vigour and fertility.

Any description of nature, whether verbal or mathematical, will only be a caricature and therefore necessarily incomplete. In the previous century, scientists realised that we cannot ask whether a mathematical model is true, we can only ask if it gives a good or bad description of our data, and so may be used for prediction of future observations and experiments. Some models are only rough caricatures, but the advantage with this class of models is that they are easy to understand. An example is the successful theory of thermodynamics where the gas molecules are regarded as elastic spheres.

The gene pool

One of the most useful conventions in population genetics is the model of a gene pool. We assume that each parent contributes equally to a large pool of gametes. Each offspring is regarded as a random sample of one egg and one sperm from this pool. Each gene is chosen randomly, as if we were drawing different coloured beans from a bag. This oversimplified model building is called "beanbag genetics" and has a surprisingly strong predictive power. In 1964, the great British geneticist, J.B.S. Haldane, wrote an amusing and spirited article "A Defence of Beanbag Genetics" (Persp. Biol. & Med., 7: 343-359).

Clearly the beanbag model is a crude representation of nature. A real population has individuals of all ages, some dying, some choosing mates, some giving birth, etc, etc. Keeping track of all this information is not only impractical, but often is neither interesting nor important. Most questions of genetic or evolutionary interest do not require minute details. The gene pool model will give us the same kind of insight that simple models in the physical sciences do, and often with predictions that are sufficiently accurate for most uses. Further it is important to be aware of that departure from the simple models may usually be treated with appropriate modifications.

Suppose now that a population consist of individuals with an extremely long life span. In the tradition of "beanbag genetics" the population is homozygous at the locus determining life span; i.e. all genotypes are AA and code for long-life. However, in any population there will be some random death rate basically determined from outer sources like biological (virus, sickness, predation or accidents due, for example, to nature catastrophes). Thus, rather living forever, the long-lived strategy has to tolerate the operation of a random death rate; that is, the survival rate, S, is close to 1. This strategy is called evolutionary stable if the population rejects all kinds of invading alleles that reduce the life span. In order to investigate this stability, we assume that a small fraction %epsilon; of the gene pool consists of an allele 'a' such that the genotypes Aa induces a shorter life span via changes in the birth rates and survival rates. We must find the requirement that the new allele will increase in the gene pool.

A Hardy-Weinberg type model for analysing the evolutionary stability of infinite long-life

Since we are only interested in the general principles that govern the stability of the long-life strategy we simplify the population dynamics of the mutant allele as follows: On average they live t years and reproduces bAa offspring of which lAa survives the next t years. The probability of surviving t years for the long-lived individuals is L = St = (S multiplied by itself t times). Finally, we ignore the homozygous mutant allele (of genotype aa), since their abundance is of the order %epsilon; * %epsilon; in the gene pool.

Thus the initial genotype frequencies are (1-%epsilon;) of AA and %epsilon; of Aa where the abundant first group of individuals (AA) have a very long life span and the second potential invader group (Aa) only live t years. In the gene pool the frequency of A is (1-%epsilon;)*1 + %epsilon;*(1/2) = 1-%epsilon;/2 while the frequency of a is .

We shall now try to answer the question: Under what circumstances is the fraction of the allele a expected to increase in the gene pool?

In order to solve this problem we need another assumption: The population size is so large that the mating may be considered as a random mixture of the genes. We must consider all kind of matings between the genotypes:

(1) Consider first a long-lived female (AA) that mates with a long-lived male (AA). During t years she produces bAA offspring (of genoype AA) that have a chance of lAA to survive the next t years. In the population the probability of such matings is (1-%epsilon;)*(1-%epsilon;).

(2) Consider next a long-lived female (AA) that mates with a mutant short-lived male (Aa). During t years she produces bAA offspring of which 50% are long-lived (AA) with a chance of lAA to survive the next t years, and 50% are short-lived (Aa) with a chance of lAa to survive the next t years . In the population the probability of such matings is (1-%epsilon;)*%epsilon;.

(3) Then consider a mutant short-lived female (Aa) that mates with a long-lived male (AA). During t years she produces bAa offspring of which 50% are long-lived (AA) with a chance of lAA to survive the next t years, and 50% are short-lived (Aa) with a chance of lAa to survive the next t years . In the population, the probability of such matings is %epsilon;*(1-%epsilon;).

(4) Finally consider a mutant short-lived female (Aa) that mates with a mutant short-lived male (Aa). During t years she produces bAa offspring of which 25% are long-lived (AA) with a chance of lAA to survive the next t years, and 50% are short-lived (Aa) with a chance of lAa to survive the next t years. In the population the probability of such matings is ??%epsilon;*%epsilon;.

After t years the number of long-lived and short-lived recruits are respectively

WAA = (1-%epsilon;)2 bAA lAA + (1-%epsilon;)*%epsilon; (1/2) bAA lAA + %epsilon;*(1-%epsilon;)(1/2) bAa lAA + ??%epsilon;*%epsilon;(1/4) bAa lAA

WAa = (1-%epsilon;)*%epsilon; (1/2) bAA lAa + %epsilon;*(1-%epsilon;)(1/2) bAa lAa + ??%epsilon;*%epsilon;(1/2) bAa lAa

Now, the number of adult long-lived individuals surviving a period of t years will be (1-%epsilon;)N *S where N is the total population size. In order to keep the population at a stable size of N individuals, we have to introduce a common death rate m for the recruits of all genotypes:

(1-m)*N*WAA + (1-m)*N*WAa + (1-%epsilon;)N *L = N

After t years the new fraction of the short-lived allele a in the gene pool is

Thus we see that the fraction of the allele a will increase in the gene pool if
,
i.e.

which is equivalent to

Reordering the terms, finally gives the requirement that the mutant allele coding for short-lived may invade the gene pool:

Thus, if the mutant allele a codes for a birth rate bAa and survival rate lAa such that this inequality is satisfied it will invade the gene pool. But what does this inequality essentially tell us? In order to see the essential requirement for invasion we may use standard techniques in numerical analysis. First, since %epsilon; is a small quantity in the order of 1/100, we may use the standard approximations in the final expressions:
so the inequality is practically the same as

Then we take a closer look at the extra non-specific mortality rate m that was introduced in order to keep the population at its equilibrium value N. In order to understand the magnitude of this quantity we consider the population without the mutant allele a (that is all genotypes are AA), so the equilibrium equation reduces to N*WAA + N *L = N which is seen to imply

Equilibrium condition:
WAA + L = 1

The equilibrium equation simply states that in order to stabilise the population, the recruitment to the stock must be balanced with the death rates. Now according to classical Darwinian thinking, successful new mutants only accomplish small changes. In our case, this means that the new allele a will only slightly modify the recruitment, so the final adjustment of the new short-lived recruits will be small. Hence

so we finally obtain the following essential criteria for successful invasion:

Criteria for successful invasion of the gene pool:

In words this criteria simply says that the new allele a will successfully invade the gene pool if the number of surviving mutant offspring to adulthood exceeds 1. Note that offspring of genotype Aa is created in two different ways: Either the mother is of genotype AA and mates with a male of genotype Aa in which case 50% of the offspring will be Aa, or the mother is of genotype Aa in which case also 50% of the offspring will be Aa. This explains why it is the average litter size of the two genotypes that enters the invasion criteria. Now the expected number of mutant offspring that reaches adulthood is found by multiplying with their survival rate lAa . Since the recruitment of the long-lived genotypes exactly matches the adult mortality 1 - L, the total recruitment to the adult group is exactly 1 (i.e. the equilibrium condition). Note that this is precisely where the long-life enters the equations: the total recruitment is the recruitment of offspring that manage to live up to adulthood PLUS the number of adults surviving the period (as mentioned above, only non-genetic accidents cause a small death rate among the long-lived individuals). So the criteria for successful invasion of the gene pool may be restated in words as follows:

Criteria for successful invasion of the gene pool:

The recruitment of the short-lived individuals must exceed 1

Note that this is good classical Darwinism: The genotype with the highest recruitment will at the end fill up the whole gene pool.

It is now easy to see why Jim Baen's hypothesis is supported by this genetic model. The whole issue about why we must die may be formulated the question of whether a long-lived strategy is evolutionary stable. A simple, first approximation, genetic model says that the long-lived strategy will only be evolutionary stable if it is difficult for mutant alternatives to establish a recruitment larger than 1. But as Jim Baen has pointed on classical biological knowledge: there are all sorts of difficulties with inbreeding. Therefore almost any alternative strategy that reduces energy devoted to long-life and put it into clutch size or vitality of offspring will have a better total recruitment than the long-lived. Therefore, the strategy of eternal life is evolutionary unstable. For human beings this has the consequence that 125 years is the maximum age.

Cohort analysis of the evolutionary stability of infinite long-life

In this section we derive the same result in an alternative model that takes all the year-classes (cohorts) into account.

Suppose there are M adult long-lived individuals consisting of 1000 year classes, and let the clutch size per individual be bA , the survival up to maturity is lm and the survival rate of adults is sA . At equilibrium MbA offspring are produced each year by 1000 year classes:

which is seen to reduce to

Equilibrium condition

i.e. the population will be in equilibrium if the recruitment to the adult population (i.e. birth rate multiplied by immature survival) balances the adult death rate.

Consider now a potential invading allele a that codes for living only 100 years as adults, i.e. 10% of the prevailing strategy of 1000 years. Initially there are individuals of these new genotypes having a birth rate of ba , a survivorship of the immature period equal la and an adult survivorship of sa . With these parameters the iteration equation for the adult mutants are

Substituting a general solution of the form gives the characteristic equation for the growth of the mutant

In order to see where the root lies, define the two functions

and notice that
,
but since tm > tm-1 , f(r) will eventually become greater than g(r) . Thus somewhere they intercept, and the crucial question is whether they intercept to the left of r = 1 , in which case the number of invaders will decline, or to the right of r = 1 , in which case the number of short lived individuals will increase. Since

it follows that the condition for interception to the right of r = 1 , i.e. f(1) < g(1) ,is

which finally gives

Criteria for successful invasion of the gene pool:

In words: The recruitment to the mutant short-lived individuals (=average birth rate of long- and short lived genotypes multiplied with the survival probability up to maturity) must be larger than the adult death rate of the short-lived individuals. Note that this condition is equivalent to that found in our previous Hardy-Weinberg type model, so the same discussion applies.

Let us finally see that if the following approximation of the population dynamics of the mutant

is substituted into the formula of the Hardy-Weinberg model, we arrive at the same criteria for %epsilon;M mutant to invade a homozygous population of (1-%epsilon;)M long-lived adults:

where the second term in the denominator is the number of long-lived adult that survived the total life span of the short lived (i.e. 100 years) and the third term is the number of adult long-lived that recruits to the adult population of long lived (since these are prevailing we ignore the contribution of long-lived from the short-lived). Using the equilibrium criterion,
,
we obtain

which is equivalent to

Thus, we arrive at precisely the same inequality, demonstrating an inner consistency in our models.

A competition model with trade-off between reproduction and survival.

While the two previous models started with the assumption that long-life was an evolutionary stable strategy, we now develop a model where the different life history strategies are in direct competition with each other. However, if a new mutant code for better survival we shall now explicitly regard this as a strategy to allocate more energy to survival at the cost of energy devoted to reproduction. The simplest equation for such a trade-off model is

A first approximation to the population growth will then be

which has the solution

From this we see that natural selection will favour a strategy which maximises the function

Putting the derivative equal to zero,
,
gives the optimum survival rate as

implying an evolutionary stable expected life span of

So also in this model will the long-lived be selected against because they do not provide the optimal combination of birth rate and survival rate. Another consequence of tremendous importance is that given a strategy near the optimal, there will be no selection against deleterious genes at ages over T*. This allows death genes, racing-car analogy construction of organs, etc. Now human beings have evolved from species where these mechanisms already have been operating, so this is an evolutionary blind route with respect to long-life unless it is possible to enter our genes directly and reconstruct them. We are an animal that has evolved over many millions of years to be short lived.

June 2006

Written by Eric Flint
The current state of the short fiction market for science fiction and fantasy

In my editor's remarks for this first issue of Jim Baen's UNIVERSE, I want to discuss the current state of the short fiction market in science fiction and fantasy. I'm sure most people reading this already know that short form fiction has been declining steadily for decades, in our genre. All four of the major paper magazines still in existence—Analog, Asimov's, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Realms of Fantasy—have been struggling against declining circulation figures for a long time, with no end in sight. Many smaller magazines have folded altogether. And the one major online F&SF magazine that had been paying the best rates in the industry, the Sci-Fi channel's SciFiction, recently closed down.

The reasons are complex, and I'm not going to get into them here beyond a few brief remarks. What I want to talk about instead is the impact that the decline of short form fiction has on the field as a whole. That's true, regardless of what causes it.

In a nutshell, it's extremely damaging, and for two reasons—one which affects authors directly, the other which affects the readership base of the genre and therefore its future.

The absence of a large and vigorous market for short form fiction hammers authors directly. That's because it makes F&SF authors almost completely dependent on the novel market. And, while the novel market is and always will be intrinsically more lucrative than the short form market, it is also an extremely harsh environment for authors.

Why? Well, simplifying a lot, it's because of the fundamental economics involved. Novels, unlike washing machines and toasters and automobiles, are unique, each and every one of them. Not "unique" in the sense that they don't have generic similarities, but "unique" simply in the obvious fact that each and every story has to be different or nobody is going to want to read it.

When you walk onto the parking lot of an auto dealer, the last thing you want to hear the car dealer tell you is that "this car is unlike any other." Translation: it's a lemon. But when you walk into a bookstore, that's exactly what you want. A story that, at least in one way or another, is different from any other.

What that means, however, is that the book market is incredibly opaque. Even in the largest car dealership, there won't be more than a relative handful of models available to choose from. A dozen, let's say. Two dozen, at the most. Whereas any Barnes and Noble or Borders in the country is likely to have 100,000 different "models" in stock.

How are you supposed to choose between them? Well, you can't, that's all. What happens in the real world is that almost all book-buyers, except a small percentage of unusually adventurous ones, will stick almost all of the time to buying only those authors they are familiar with.

What this creates, willy-nilly, is a hierarchy among authors in the marketplace that is . . .

"Extreme," is the only word I can think of.

Everybody familiar with the publishing industry knows the basic facts of life:

All of a publisher's profits and about half of the operating expenses are covered by the sales of a small number of so-called "lead" writers. And it's a very small number of authors. In the case of Baen, not usually more than half a dozen. And even a big publisher like TOR won't have more than a dozen or so lead writers.

Midlist writers generally do well to make a small profit for the publisher, or at least break even. Sales of their books—all told—cover the other half of operating expenses.

New writers, and first novels, generally lose money for a publisher.

Those are the cold, hard facts. What it means for authors is that developing a career is a very chancy business nowadays—and it was always chancy to begin with. Because what happens is that even after you get a first novel published, you still have to overcome what Mike Resnick calls "the fourth book hurdle."

The hurdle is this: A publisher will generally give a new author an average of three books to demonstrate if they can become lead writers. If they can't, they're out the door and the publisher will try a new writer to see if they might be able to do it.

Yes, it's heartless. But there's an underlying economic reality for that practice, it's not because publishers are being mean for the hell of it. It's simply a fact that, as a purely mathematical exercise in calculating profits, it makes real sense to toss writers overboard—even good ones, selling fairly decently—if doing so might improve your chances of grabbing the lead writer lottery ticket that generates Ye Big Bucks in novel publishing.

Granted, not all publishers are the same, and they don't all follow exactly the same practices. A midlist writer will sometimes find a smaller independent publisher like Baen or DAW a less unforgiving environment than most of the big corporate houses. And there are some big houses that make a genuine effort to cushion midlist writers against the cold realities of the marketplace. Still, for any commercial publisher, the underlying economics of novel publishing remain stark and unforgiving. "Make it big or die on the vine" is still the rule, even if an author can linger on the vine longer at one house than they might be able to at another.

Leaving aside issues of unfairness—and, no, it ain't fair, not even close—this reality has a negative impact on the field as a whole.

First, because it's incredibly wasteful. Not all writers develop their talents at a rapid pace, even leaving aside the fact that there's always a certain amount of pure luck involved. For every Heinlein, there's a Frank Herbert, who needed years to make it big. In today's environment, I'm not at all sure Herbert would have had that time—and we'd be short Dune as a result.

But it's also detrimental the other way around, because it places such pressure on lead writers that they very often react by becoming extremely conservative in what they write. Not all do, to be sure. I don't, and neither do a number of other lead writers. But even relatively adventurous lead writers stick most of the time to the tried and true approaches—and there are a lot of lead writers out there who are scared to death to vary at all from the type of story that enabled them to become lead writers in the first place.

In short, the situation is lousy—and the steady collapse of the paperback market is making it even worse. I don't have time here to go into that, although I will try to in a later editorial. Just take my word for it, for the moment. Mass market paperback sales today are probably half what they were a few years ago, and there's no sign I can see that that's going to turn around any time in the foreseeable future.

Midlist writers working at novel length usually live and die on their ability to show they can do well in paperback, so a publisher will give them a shot at a hardcover. That was never easy at any time, and today it's gotten a lot worse.

In decades past, it was the size and health of the magazines that cushioned all of these problems. They allowed midlist writers a place they could keep getting published, gain perhaps slow but steady public recognition, and improve their skills—without being under the "fourth book" guillotine. And, while it was always very hard even in the salad days of the magazines for an author to make a full-time living as a short fiction writer (at least, unless you could sell to The Saturday Evening Post), they could bring in enough of an income to take a day job that allowed them as much freedom to write as possible.

And, on the flip side, the magazines provided lead writers with a place they could stretch their skills if they wanted to, without running the risk of falling off that precious lead writer sales plateau.

Okay, so much for the writers. Now I want to explain how the decline of short form fiction has been hammering the field as a whole.

It's not complicated. It's what's often called the "graying of science fiction." Put crudely and bluntly, the average age of science fiction and fantasy fans keeps rising. Once the quintessential genre of choice of teenagers, it's now a genre that's developed a great big middle-aged potbelly.

What do you expect—when the entry level purchase, nowadays, is likely to be a $25 hardcover? And, to make things worse, you have to drive an average of seven miles to get to a superstore that'll even carry a science fiction title at all? (And that's the national average. In some areas of the country, you have to drive a hundred miles or more.)

That's not how I got introduced to science fiction, as a twelve-year-old, I can tell you that. I got introduced through magazines and cheap Ace Double books on the wire racks of my local drugstore, in a small town in rural California. Which . . .

Don't exist any more. The books and magazines, I mean. The small town is still there, and so is the drug store—but it no longer carries any SF titles.

The problem isn't even the price of a paperback, as such. That hasn't actually risen any, over the past half a century, measured by the only price criterion that matters. To wit, today a paperback novel costs just about the same as a movie ticket. And, fifty years ago . . . it cost just about the same as a movie ticket did then.

No, the problem is availability. When I was a kid, SF magazines and paperbacks could be found all over the place. Today, with a few exceptions—and those, almost invariably, only a small number of top-selling authors—you can only find F&SF titles in bookstores, especially the chain superstores.

There's no magic in the real world, however much there may be in fantasy novels. The vanishing of SF paperbacks and magazines is due to profound changes in the economic and social structure of the United States. (And the rest of the world's industrial countries, to one degree or another.) Put simply, it's just the literary equivalent of the same dynamic that has seen McDonald's and Burger King supplanting thousands of independent little diners and restaurants, and has seen Home Depot and Lowe's replacing thousands of little hardware stores.

You can think whatever you want about this fundamental transformation of modern society. But facts are facts, and they are stubborn things. If you want to try to turn that situation around, with respect to our genre, you have to figure out a new approach.

Which, we think we have. Enter:

(roll of drums)

Jim Baen's UNIVERSE.

We're not sure this is going to work, mind you. A lot of what we'll be doing is taking us into uncharted territory, and we have and will be doing a lot of experimenting. But we think we've got a good crack at it, and the stakes are worth making the effort.

In essence, as a business model, our strategy is to use the free entry and accessibility of the internet to substitute for the ready availability of paper editions of SF magazines in times past. This will be a big challenge, of course, because the electronic fiction market is still small. But, by combining a very aggressive promotional campaign with Baen's longstanding policies with regard to electronic publishing—which you can summarize as WE SELL CHEAP AND UNENCRYPTED STUFF, AND NOTHING ELSE—we think we've got a good shot at pulling it off.

(Side note: I'll be having a lot to say on the issue of electronic publication in general, but I'm handling that in a separate column in the magazine. See "Salvos Against Big Brother.")

As an editorial model, we're doing two things, neither of which are new so much as returning to the practices of the magazines in their salad days.

First, we're paying top rates for stories. The best in the industry, even coming out of the gate. These rates are still not really "pro" rates, to be sure. To start crossing that threshold, and bring pay rates for short fiction back to where they were half a century ago, we'd need to be paying (my estimate, anyway) about twice what we're paying now—which would be a top rate of fifty cents a word instead of the top rate of twenty-five cents that we're starting with.

That is our goal, however, and if the magazine is successful we intend to roll as much income as we can into raising the rates. In the meantime, by starting with these rates we're signaling to all F&SF authors that we're dead serious about trying to turn the situation around—and many of them have already responded very enthusiastically, as you can see by looking at the Authors Directory.

Secondly, we're orienting the magazine from the beginning toward a popular audience. That means doing things like soliciting stories from top-selling authors including writers who usually produce novels, and welcoming stories that are set in existing popular universes of their creation—like the Dune story by Brian Herbert and Kevin Anderson that will appear in the second issue of the magazine, or Alan Dean Foster's Tran-ky-ky story "Chilling" in this issue. We will also be emphasizing stories that center on adventure and generally have a positive outlook on the future.

I should add that we're going to be publishing more new authors in each issue than any magazine has done in a long time, if ever. That's also a way to generate interest and excitement.

There'll be some differences, of course, which simply reflect changes in popular taste over the years. ASF in mid-century, for instance, very rarely if ever carried any fantasy stories, while we will be carrying a lot. In that sense, Baen's UNIVERSE is a very big tent, and we're not fussy at all about the content of the stories we buy. All we ask is that they be stories, of whatever of F&SF's many sub-genres, that at least most readers find fun to read.

Let me put it this way. The guiding editorial philosophy of Baen's UNIVERSE is the well-known remark—usually attributed to Robert Heinlein but actually said by Poul Anderson—to several other SF authors. I can't remember the exact words, but the gist was:

"Face it, guys. We're competing for our customer's beer money."

Indeed so. UNIVERSE is what you might call a beer drinkers' magazine.

Well . . . No, that's not quite right. Most people are neither low-brows nor high-brows, they go back and forth depending on the situation. And they do not drink beer exclusively. On occasion, they'll put on a tux and drink expensive champagne and cognac, and eat caviar. But, most of the time, they just want to have a couple of beers after work on a Friday night, to relax.

That is our audience. People relaxing on a Friday night over a couple of literary beers. The deadly words, for me as an editor, is for someone to finish a story and say: "Well, that was a real bummer. I wish I'd bought a beer instead."

That said, people have different tastes in beer. So I'm quite willing to provide a range of them in the magazine, ranging from lagers and pilsners to dark stouts.

The dichotomy between "popular stories" and "literary stories" is usually posed incorrectly, in my opinion, as if they were aimed at two completely different markets in the sense of two completely different sets of people.

But that's not really the case. At best, it only captures the fringe of the phenomenon.

Yes, it's true that there are some people who can be called Joe Six-Packs. But, typically, they read very little to begin with. They spend their time watching television, and if they read at all it's usually a newspaper or a non-fiction "self-help" type of book.

On the flip side, yes, it's true that there are also some people who read nothing but the great classics of western literature. But not many. In my experience, even very intellectually-inclined people are far more likely, on any given Tuesday, to read some kind of popular genre fiction than something like Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom.

The reason is not hard to figure out. For most people, most of the time, reading is first and foremost a form of relaxation and entertainment. It's the literary equivalent of having a beer after work.

Our magazine is not so much aimed at Person A as opposed to Person B, it's aimed at both people when they're in Mindset X. "Relaxation mode," so to speak, where they mainly just want to have fun.

That's the reason I bend the stick very heavily in the direction of stories that, however dark the content might be at times, are basically positive, in emotional terms. They aren't necessarily what you'd call "happy stories"—some of them can be pretty grim—but they don't leave the reader feeling down in the dumps at the end.

And it's one of the main reasons that I reject most of the stories that get past the editorial board and get sent up to me for a final decision. The editorial board doesn't send me any turkeys. I've gotten quite a few stories that are perfectly fine stories otherwise. But I reject them because the emotional impact is just wrong. For this magazine, at least.

I should add that there is no presupposition here, on my part, that this kind of story is "better" than that kind of story. I think that's just silly. People read different kinds of stories at different times, for different reasons.

I have no quarrel with literary stories, as such. Not at all. I've read most of Faulkner's writings, and his best novels more than once. I've read Joyce's Ulysses three times, the same for Melville's Moby Dick, and I've been a fan of Dostoyevsky's writings since I was a teenager. But the fact remains that, on any given Tuesday, I'm far more likely to be reading something by Robert Heinlein, or a mystery novel by Robert Parker, or a western by Luke Short or Louis L'Amour, than I am to be re-reading Anna Karenina so I can watch the heroine throw herself under the train again.

That's not a criticism of Tolstoy. Anna Karenina is a great novel. I just don't want to read something with that emotional impact all that often. Just don't. Most people don't, all that often.

The problem with the science fiction magazines as a whole, in my opinion—there are some exceptions—is that I think they've drifted too far away from that center of gravity. The presupposition for any kind of challenging literature is the existence of a huge market for popular fiction, which is big enough to allow more specialized forms of literature to carve out a big enough niche that they can prosper financially.

But if you lose too much of the popular market, the room for the niches starts vanishing. It just does. That's the literary equivalent of the well-known phenomenon of major climatic changes producing a wave of extinctions. The species that suffer the worst are usually the ones with a specialized ecological niche.

None of my remarks above should be construed as a swipe at any of the existing magazines. I'm glad those magazine are there. In fact, I'd like to see them improve their circulation and I'd like to see new magazines come into existence. And if Jim Baen's UNIVERSE can help reinvigorate the short fiction market in fantasy and science fiction, they will. The bigger and more prosperous the market gets for short form fiction, the better it will be for all F&SF magazines, and all F&SF authors—and our readers.

* * *

A Matter of Principle

Written by Eric Flint

I'm going to be writing a regular column on the subject of electronic publishing, and the challenges it poses to modern society—as well as the opportunity it provides. This column will take up a number of related issues, including such matters as the proper length of copyright terms, the nature of Digital Rights Management and why we are opposed to it, and the largely mythical nature of so-called "online piracy."

We decided to keep this column separate from my general editor's preface for each issue—see "The Editor's Page"—because we think the issue is important enough for a separate column of its own. Furthermore, there will usually be a number of specific matters relevant to each issue of the magazine that I will need to address in "The Editor's Page" that would simply get in the way of this discussion.

We're calling the column "Salvos Against Big Brother" because that captures the key aspect of the problem, so far as Jim Baen and I are concerned. Both the publisher of this magazine and its editor believe that so-called Digital Rights Management (DRM)—by which we mean the whole panoply of ever more restrictive laws concerning digital media, including the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA)—are the following:

First, they represent a growing encroachment on the personal liberties of the American public, as well as those of citizens in other countries in the world;

Second, they add further momentum to what is already a dangerous tendency of governments and the large, powerful corporations which exert undue influence on them to arrogate to themselves the right to make decisions which properly belong to the public;

Third, they tend inevitably to constrict social, economic, technical and scientific progress;

And, fourth, they represent an exercise in mindless stupidity that would shame any self-respecting dinosaur.

As this column progresses, in issue after issue, I will wind up spending most of my time dealing with the fourth of these statements. It is my opinion, and Jim Baen's, that on top of everything else DRM is just plain stupid—even from the narrow economic standpoint of most of the people who advocate it. And, since the issue has a direct impact on the work and lives of authors, I will spend a great deal of time discussing the practical realities of DRM, as well as the various alternative economic strategies that some people and companies—Baen Books being foremost among them, in science fiction and fantasy—have been adopting in its stead.

But I don't want to start there, because that might give people the wrong impression. Neither for me nor for Jim Baen is the issue of DRM primarily an economic or practical issue. Although Jim and I have often pointed out, over the past number of years, the sound business logic to our approach to electronic publishing, that's entirely a secondary issue for us. There's a basic matter of political principle involved here, which goes right to the heart of what "copyright" is in the first place.

In a nutshell: Copyright terms that become excessively long—and modern terms are absolutely grotesque in that respect—especially when combined with policies that place too many restrictions on fair use, start undermining the whole purpose of copyright. Which is not to provide a living for authors, but to set up a system that maximizes the benefits of intellectual work for the entire society.

Beyond that, DRM is a particularly dangerous political trend, because it's based on a fundamental fraud. The fact is that very rarely does "piracy" occur by some genius hacker cracking some fiendishly clever electronic code. 99.99% of all books that are pirated have it done simply by someone obtaining a paper edition of the book and scanning it.

So what's the point of DRM in the first place? It's incredibly burdensome to legitimate customers and does absolutely nothing to stop "piracy" anyway. The insidious danger, of course, is that as time goes by the pro-DRM forces will keep demanding more and more restrictions on the public's access to books of any kind. Along with regulations concerning the use of computers, scanners, keyboards, you name it. Because that's really the only effective way to stop "piracy" and enforce so-called "digital rights management."

Jim Baen and I do not want books with little chips in them that the authorities can track. We do not want computers or computer equipment to have to be registered. We do not want legal spyware placed in all computers and scanners so that the authorities can make sure they are being used "legitimately"—with penalties attached if anyone attempts to remove the spyware.

Is this really difficult to comprehend?

DRM is madness, politically speaking, and that's why Jim and I are flat against it. Period. You start with principles, and then figure out a way to make money. Not the other way around.

In this particular case, it's a piece of cake anyway—as I will demonstrate in column after column—so there's NO excuse. It is perfectly possible to figure out ways that authors and publishers can make money producing electronic texts that are not saddled with DRM—as we are doing with this very magazine, in fact.

The only reason DRM exists at all is because too many powerful corporations with too much influence in government didn't want to have to get off their lazy butts and figure out how to provide their customers with what their customers wanted. Instead, they used their influence to get their political stooges to pass laws which attempt to force their customers to accept whatever crumbs the new corporate nobility chooses to drop from their tables onto the serfs below.

* * *

Okay. That said, let me begin with a brief discussion of what copyright is in the first place. That's as much as I can cover in this first column.

I want to begin there, with that most basic question, because I've found that many people—including an astonishingly high percentage of authors—have the most preposterous misconceptions about it.

The first and most important misconception is the notion that copyright is a "right" to begin with. It is not. It never has been—and you can check the entire history of copyright legislation in the Anglo-Saxon legal tradition, going back several centuries, and you will not find a shred of support for that silly notion.

Copyright is a privilege, not a right. It is, in fact, an evil and iniquitous privilege—as has been recognized as such from the beginning. "Evil and iniquitous" in the same sense that any government-enforced commercial monopoly inevitably has negative consequences. The only reason it exists is because society decided, several centuries ago, that as evil as it was, it was a necessary evil—because the alternatives all seemed to be worse.

Here is how Macaulay put it, in his great speeches on the subject of copyright before the British Parliament in 1841:

Copyright is monopoly, and produces all the effects which the general voice of mankind attributes to monopoly . . . I believe, Sir, that I may with safety take it for granted that the effect of monopoly generally is to make articles scarce, to make them dear, and to make them bad. And I may with equal safety challenge my honourable friend to find out any distinction between copyright and other privileges of the same kind; any reason why a monopoly of books should produce an effect directly the reverse of that which was produced by the East India Company's monopoly of tea, or by Lord Essex's monopoly of sweet wines. Thus, then, stands the case. It is good that authors should be remunerated; and the least exceptionable way of remunerating them is by a monopoly. Yet monopoly is an evil. For the sake of the good we must submit to the evil; but the evil ought not to last a day longer than is necessary for the purpose of securing the good.

Macaulay's position in the pivotal debates on copyright in the British Parliament carried the day, at the time. A similar position was adopted by the founders of our own American republic. Unfortunately, in the two centuries that followed, we have slid back to the position advocated by his opponents. I say "slid back," because at no point along the way was this retrogression done honestly, in full and open debate before the public. It has been a slow and steady erosion, which has now reached the absurdity of copyright terms that last anywhere up to ten times longer than copyright established at the beginning of the American republic—and, now, accompanied by the most draconian and often absurd attempts to enforce those monopolistic privileges.

All of this, of course, was done in the name of "protecting the intellectual creator."

Hogwash. What is involved here has nothing to do with protecting the legitimate interests of authors like me and other creative artists and intellectual workers. For that, the old and reasonable copyright laws were more than sufficient.

I am an author myself, and quite a successful one. Even my income as an editor—which is no more than 20% of my total income, the rest coming from my work as an author—is directly tied to sales and royalties. I do not receive a salary for my work on this magazine. I work on commission. I do not receive a salary for my work as the editor of some twenty volumes of reissues of the writings of other authors. I get paid out of a small percentage of royalties.

In short, my income is entirely based on sales and royalties—and I will state here, flatly, that I do not want and do not need the "protection" so kindly offered to me by giant corporations who try to use me as their fig leaf. The Mouse and its 95-year copyright terms can go to hell in a handbasket, as far as I'm concerned.

I do not want my works copyrighted for my lifetime plus seventy years. That is ridiculous. It does me no good at all. It is nothing but an excuse for giant corporations to lock up society's intellectual heritage as their monopoly for as long as they possibly can so they can gouge the public—and you may rest assured that, when the Mouse's current 95-year protection plan runs out, the Great Rodent will start shrieking that it needs yet another extension.

Enough. The grotesquely long periods of copyright established by modern laws are not directly related to the issue of DRM, granted. But those terms make every problem connected with copyright ten times more difficult to deal with—including DRM.

DRM is bad enough, on its own terms. Add to that the fact that it will last for close to or (often) more than a century, and you put all the problems of DRM on steroids. Society could live with asinine laws that only stayed in effect for a few decades. It cannot live with asinine laws that get locked in for a hundred years—with further extensions on the horizon, be sure of it—without beginning to suffer from intellectual sclerosis and major political problems.

Not to mention social ones. The modern drive to monopolize intellectual property is not restricted to copyright. You can see the same dynamic at work with regard to patents and trademarks—where the immediate consequences are far more severe than they are with copyrights. It is quite literally true that thousands of children die in the world every day because of excessively long periods—enforced with excessive severity—of intellectual monopolies.

To go back to the beginning, never forget that copyright is an evil. There is nothing good about it, except that it is a somewhat less evil way of renumerating authors and artists for their labor than the alternatives. (Which are basically one form or another of patronage, be it private or public—all of which have their own set of well-established negative consequences.)

So, we live with it. But "live with it" is the right way to view the matter. Not the preposterous applause that I find so many authors showering on copyright. In my opinion authors have a particular responsibility to make sure—or try their best, anyway—that the copyright system that provides them with a livelihood does not become a cancer for society.

As for those authors who shrug their shoulders and say they can't see where it's any of their business, I will be still more blunt. If authors don't see to it that copyright doesn't becomes cancerous, then—sooner or later—society will simply excise copyright with surgery.

Copyright is a privilege, not a "right." It is a privilege that society chose to extend to authors and artists and other people engaged in creative intellectual work because society gauged that this intrinsically evil monopoly would still, overall, work in society's own interest. But if and when that ceases to be true—and we have already reached that point—then society has not only the right but the duty to eliminate copyright altogether.

To put it another way, if authors aren't smart enough to keep their own house in order, sooner or later they will find it being done for them.

In later columns, I will address the practical aspects of the issue. I will demonstrate that it is perfectly possible, even in the supposed "new world" of the digital era—which actually poses no fundamental new problems at all—for authors and publishers to figure out ways to make a living without becoming a cancer in society. It can be done without DRM, and without any greater copyright protection than we had in times past. It's not even hard.

But, to conclude, I didn't want to start there because I didn't want anyone to have the misconception that my position—or Jim Baen's—derives fundamentally from narrow economic concerns.

It doesn't. It's a matter of principle. As I said earlier in this essay, first you determine what your basic principles are. Only then do you start trying to figure out a way to make money. What you don't do—ever—is go at it the other way around. Doing so may seem smart and opportune to some people, but it isn't. It's just a slippery slide into an abyss.

* * *

One last thing. I referred to Macaulay's speeches on copyright earlier in this essay. Those speeches, as far as I'm concerned, contain just about all wisdom there is on the whole subject. "New problems," baloney. There is not one single issue that supposedly arises due to the "digital era" that Macaulay did not already address over a century and a half ago.

I strongly urge anyone with a serious interest in this issue to read those speeches. If you're wondering how to find them, it's easy.

They are included in the Baen Free Library under "Prime Palaver # 4." http://www.baen.com/library/

A direct link to that article is also available.

Upload Your Life Now

Written by Mark L. Van Name

The first time you stand outside as a major storm is blowing in, you may not know how to interpret all the signs. From then on, however, all your senses will tell you what's coming. You'll see the clouds gather and the sky darken. You'll smell the crisp air. You'll feel the pressure changes wash invisibly over your body. You'll breathe deeply and taste the air. You'll know with a deep, animal certainty that forces beyond your control are gathering.

What you can never fathom until afterwards is exactly what those forces will end up doing and how the weather will play out, but you will know the phenomena signal a storm.

We live on the edge of a technology front the likes of which humanity has never seen. The rate of change in many of our key technologies is accelerating exponentially, and there's no end in sight. Computing, communications and networking, biological engineering, and nanotechnology, to name four of the most active forces, are all evolving at an ever-increasing rate—and they're all doing it at the same time.

Just as the astronomical singularity of a black hole is a place at which all the physical rules change, the singularity that may result from the continuing exponential rate of change of our technologies is a time at which all the rules of our lives may change, a point at which humans may transcend biology and non-human intelligences may surpass the computational power and the intelligence of our brains.

Note my use of the qualifying "may." My goal with this column is not to persuade you that a singularity is coming, nor is it to defend a particular belief system. (If you want a lengthy and compelling persuasion, read Ray Kurzweil's The Singularity Is Near: When Humans Transcend Biology.)

Instead, my primary aim is to show you some of the cool edges of the coming storm, bits of techno-change that are interesting—and, every so often, scary—regardless of whether you believe we're racing toward a singularity. Many of these developments also open the door to a wide array of issues and questions, and I want to encourage you to consider those issues and ponder those questions.

Some of the topics I'll cover, such as the main focus of this month's column, will be quite real, developments and technologies that exist right now, while others will be research or prototypes that are barely out of the lab. I'll also try to point out where the trends underlying these bleeding-edge techs may take us.

When I was a kid and read about Tom Swift, Jr.'s Triphibian Atomicar and his other inventions, I didn't realize I was a science-fiction reader; I didn't even know the term "science fiction." All I knew was that the world was a place where a smart, hard-working scientist might be able to do anything, create anything, be anything, and that universe of possibility was so insanely great that my young head almost hurt with the effort of containing my sense of wonder.

Today's rapid technology advances frequently give me the same belief and the same hit of coolness, wonder, and awe. Let's start with a fun one that's happening right now.

Putting it all online, 2006-style

Most of us already depend more heavily on technological adjuncts to our memory than we'd like to admit. Whether those helpers take the form of old tech—grocery lists and post-it notes coordinating family schedules spring to mind—or employ devices that are a bit more au courant—I rely daily on the schedule I keep on my PC and replicate on my PDA—they are integral to our lives. The digital ones, such as my schedule, literally are small parts of our lives that we've digitized and uploaded.

So, too, are any letters whose source files we keep online, as are digital photos, digital videos, email messages, and on and on. Our increasing reliance on information technologies has the side effect of causing us to upload ever-growing, though still small, portions of our lives.

Most sf stories that include human uploads deal with them in terms of entire consciousnesses being digitized (sometimes with destructive results for the original brain carrier, sometimes not), but as our common fledgling efforts indicate, we don't have to go anywhere near that far to put parts of our lives online.

The obvious question is, how far can you go right now?

If the MyLifeBits project is any indicator, the answer is, quite a ways.

MyLifeBits is an ongoing project involving Gordon Bell and others at Microsoft Research. Inspired in part by Vannevar Bush's 1945 article, "As We May Think," which described an electronic memory extender that Bush called the memex, the MyLifeBits team set out to put as much of Bell's life in digital form as possible. They focused initially on the simple task of digitizing his legacy materials, such as his past and current writings, photos, and CD collection.

Bell, for those unfamiliar with him, is one of the grand older men of computing. He joined the then-new and now vanished Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC) in 1960, worked on many projects there, including the early multiprocessor PDP6 system, and was the father of the very influential and highly successful VAX minicomputer architecture for DEC. He worked in multiple multiprocessor-computer companies, co-founded The Computer Museum, and ultimately joined Microsoft Research, where he still works today. (Disclosure: One company that Bell co-founded, Encore Computer Corp., purchased a company I co-owned. I met Bell but never really worked with him; my loss.)

When Bell and the MyLifeBits team began the project somewhere around 2000, they estimated that a terabyte of storage would be enough to hold the readings and writings of a typical 80-year human life. At the time, a terabyte was an imposing quantity of storage, though disk price and capacity trends were making it an increasingly more approachable figure even for those without IT departments.

Even now, if you don't follow disk storage a terabyte may sound like an expensive and large amount of storage, but it's not; many of us could afford it, and companies routinely fill many times that much online space. You can buy 300GB disks for a little over a hundred bucks, so hitting a raw terabyte of capacity will set you back less than $500. With that much storage, you'd almost certainly want some integrated redundancy, but the chassis and controllers necessary to provide those features aren't expensive; vendors sell pre-packaged terabyte storage devices in the $1.2K to $2K range. So, though it would obviously be a luxury, the storage itself is not an obstacle. (The PC sitting at the end of my desk, one I built and plan to make my primary system, has a terabyte of useful space in a disk array with built-in redundancy.)

The future of storage, of course, looks even more promising, and the improvements are, like those in all the key technologies I cited, arriving with exponentially increasing speed. In the short gap between the first and second complete drafts of this column, Seagate announced a 500GB disk drive that uses perpendicular recording, a technique that's been heading toward mass commercialization for some time. A Seagate spokesperson said that we can expect that capacity to grow by a factor of five over the next three to five years.

Meanwhile, memory vendors are exploring a variety of new technologies in their quest for ever faster, larger, and less volatile non-moving storage. Nantero, a start-up company targeting the potentially huge market for non-volatile RAM (NRAM) announced recently that it had created the basis of a 10G-bit NRAM storage array. This development is nowhere near a product, and there's no guarantee that their particular approach will work, but it's a good bet that some company will be creating multigigabyte NRAM modules within a decade.

The MyLifeBits team was definitely right to conclude that storage will not be a problem.

The challenge became filling that storage. Scanning all the paper materials and capturing all the already digital content, such as songs on CDs and existing digital photos, was a matter of labor and software. Bell had a decided advantage over most of us in these efforts, because he was working with a technical team that provided the labor, but any of us with either the time and expertise to do it ourselves or the money to pay someone else to handle it could take the same steps.

While putting existing content online, they also started capturing the content Bell was using and generating in his daily life. Photos were easy; Bell used digital cameras. Saving instant messages is no harder than turning on some straightforward software logging tools. You can record phone calls with digital recorders or, even better, by using VoIP (Voice over Internet Protocol) phone software on your PC and capturing the calls directly.

Bell and his team did it, and many of us could do it, too, were we so inclined.

Put all that together, and you end up with a large surrogate memory.—one that Bell has said he's come to depend on rather heavily.

As you might expect, the MyLifeBits team quickly realized that they could reasonably and inexpensively assemble a great deal more than a terabyte of storage, that demanding more storage, even a great deal more, was no problem, and that they had many more ideas for filling that electronic space. Thus, the MyLifeBits project evolved its mission to become one in which they would capture everything possible, not just existing paper, photo, and video content.

Today, they're dealing with an ever-expanding realm of digital materials. Bell is wearing a small camera under his hat and recording conversations and meetings as they happen. He's using a GPS that's constantly tracking and recording his location. A BodyBugg armband full of sensors is monitoring and capturing data about his body, including the number of calories he's burning throughout the day. Logging software working with the graphical user interface on his system is recording everything he's doing on the computers he uses.

Most of this is manageable for the rest of us. Even recording video full-time is possible, albeit with huge storage requirements, because a decent digital video camera costs less than a grand. Want to log the TV shows you watch? Set up a media center PC and record them. Movies you see at theaters are harder to copy, but by waiting until their DVD versions hit the stores or they appear on cable TV you can get the data, admittedly with a time delay (and possibly in violation of copyright laws via software the entertainment industry would prefer you not use).

The constantly accelerating technology trends make the data-capture ever simpler, of course, with cameras shrinking in size and improving in quality, more and more content becoming instantly available digitally, and so on.

The more data you store, of course, the larger an information organization problem you face. The MyLifeBits team ran into this issue big-time.

They began by using a simple PC file system and some file naming conventions, but over time this approach was not, as you might imagine, up to the task. They simply had too much data.

Today, they use a software system built around a SQL Server database. They store both the raw content—text, pictures, email, whatever—and some associated attributes and comments ("metadata" in geek-speak). They also store links among the items in the databases. For example, a photo of a meeting might link to the transcript of that meeting and to entries for all the participants. The combination of the database's searching power, decent metadata, and links between data items makes the stored information quite powerful—though still not as easy to access as they'd like. The more metadata and the more associations between items they can get Bell to make, the more useful the data becomes.

The power of the links, by the way, is much greater than might be initially apparent. For one thing, the links bring the database closer to the way our brains seem to operate than it would be without them. Trying to remember the name of that guy you met briefly in a meeting last Tuesday? Look up either the entries for the day or for the meeting, whichever works best for you. Searching for an article you read on a Web site while on a business trip in London? Start with the GPS location of the hotel you were in and follow the position-based links. A strong set of links goes a long way toward mimicking the multi-way associational memory store our brains provide.

Of course, the more Bell has to add metadata and create links, the more time the system is demanding from him, turning it from a servant to a master. The MyLifeBits team works constantly to find ways to generate links automatically and to make comments and other metadata as easy as possible for Bell to supply.

If you follow the news at all, the problem of finding associations in vast quantities of data will sound very familiar; it's certainly high on the NSA's to-do list. Once again, technology developments, this time in data mining, will help our cause—and have the potential to hurt us, of course, as the life-web of data we weave becomes a commodity anyone can search; there's a dark side to everything.

But is it valuable?

A database of this magnitude and highly personal nature is interesting (and raises some scary issues; more on that below), but you have to wonder if it's useful. In an article on this project in Communications of the ACM, Bell and his co-authors commented on how valuable the information store had become:

"Having a surrogate memory creates a freeing, uplifting, and secure feeling—similar to having an assistant with a perfect memory."

The value of this stored information has proven to be so high, in fact, that Bell has changed the way he works and lives. If he has a spare moment, for example, he might well very briefly visit a Web page on the off chance that he might later want to have its contents in his "memory."

The more valuable something is, of course, the more we feel its loss when it goes missing. A hard drive crash resulted in the loss of four months of captured Web pages, something that Bell has commented he felt as an emotional blow.

As interesting, successful, and wide-reaching as the MyLifeBits data has been, its team has noted that the list of things they'd like to do is still growing. From content, such as paper books Bell reads, that they've chosen not to capture for copyright reasons, to limitations of the current software, the system's flaws and areas of potential improvement are many. For example, if they're not already doing it, they could indulge in speculative recording, in which software and/or human agents analyze Bell's existing stored information and add more data they think he might find interesting. They've commented that they always end up regretting not the data they capture, but rather the information they don't.

They're also acutely aware that they're only touching the edges of the possible value of the information. They've noted, for example, that the body statistics might be very useful over time in spotting health trends and issues and the reasons underlying both.

One of the difficulties they face in figuring out what to record is a phenomenon well known to many of us, and certainly to writers: you frequently can't know the value of a piece of information until well after you've obtained it. Traffic data for the north side of town is not interesting or useful when you live and work on the south side, until, of course, you have to run an errand in the other direction. Tidbits of all sorts of apparently useless readings and experiences turn up in my fiction all the time. It's the nature of the way our brains work, so it's only reasonable that the same should be true of our digital memory extenders.

The MyLifeBits team also understands that the amount of value Bell gets from the stored information depends a great deal on how easy it is for him to search that information quickly. Making it easy to search by any of the available types of paths and links is obviously key, but that's just a beginning. They're grappling with data visualization alternatives as they try to find the best ways to present different types of information. They've found, for example, that a screen saver that throws up semi-random selections of photos and short video clips has proven useful both as a way to refresh Bell's (physical) memory and as a means for making it easy and even fun for Bell (and other viewers) to add more metadata.

These folks are by no means alone in these efforts, of course; researchers all over the world are grappling constantly with the challenge of making the constantly growing store of digital information more useful and easier to use. I already mentioned the NSA, but they're far from alone in being obsessed with data mining; every large company that's ever gotten a taste of your credit cards would like to know more about you.

Transactional data is also but one of the types of information researchers are working on mining. At an Intel Developer Forum last year, for example, I saw a demonstration of technology from the Diamond project, a collaboration between Intel Research Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon University. The Diamond project focuses on ways to make it easier for users to search large databases of images, such as photos or medical images. In the demo I watched, the user wanted to find a photo of a particular speaker from the previous year's conference, but none of the photos had any metadata or even labels or dates associated with them. Because he was seeking a person, the user first told the software to search for images with faces in them. Because the speaker always wore a blue shirt when presenting, the user next instructed the software to search for blue. In only a few steps, he found the photo he wanted. Sure, the demo was carefully orchestrated, but the underlying algorithms and software at work were quite impressive nonetheless.

The more advances we make in search technology, the more useful the information becomes.

Issues abound

Of course, the issues this type of stored information raises are both many and profound.

Privacy is an obvious and unavoidable concern with any such effort. Store your life online, and you'd better either tightly control who can see the resulting database or abandon any hope of privacy. You would also quite reasonably want fine-grain control, so that different people could see only different portions of the information.

What happens, though, when the government wants to subpoena your memory?

Speculative recording is a cool notion and one you might find very useful, but from the moment it started the database—your online memory—would contain information you'd never seen. Would that data be part of what others should consider to be your memory? Could you be reasonably blamed for forgetting it (e.g., your friend's first recital)? Subpoenaed for witnessing it (think porn)?

The problem gets even tougher if you allow others to add information they believe you should know. I don't even want to think about the domestic arguments that capability could cause.

If such extended memories were to become common, we'd run smack into major issues regarding the online memory rights of those people, notably children but also older people living with caregivers, under the legal control of others. If you hated it when one of your parents poked through your stuff, how would you feel if they'd been running their search algorithms over your stored phone calls, instant messages, music selections, and so on?

Everything I've described is possible today, and a lot of it is going on right now in the MyLifeBits project. Even within the very limited restrictions of today's technologies, this effort is blurring the line between our biological selves and what we might reasonably think of as our intelligences and memories. What Bush described in 1945 as a vision of the far future is now, like so many speculations, happening, at least on a small scale, in this project. More importantly, none of it is beyond the reach of a moderately wealthy person. Even the wealth is only necessary if you want a support team to do the work for you; the hardware and software would set you back less than the price of a low-end car. As the rate of improvement of the supporting technologies continues to increase, the cost will only lessen as the capabilities grow.

You can upload your life now.

* * *

The History of Power From the Gutenberg Revolution to the Computer Revolution

Written by Michael Hart
Illustration by Alfred Klosterman

This piece is a result of conversations with a number of knowledgeable people who do not seem to be as aware of the history of power as I expected, with an emphasis on the kind of power used in the Industrial Revolution through today which I am hopefully labeling as the Neo-Industrial Revolution.

The kinds of power under discussion will range from ancient waterwheels to an electronic age that most of us don't understand yet even though we are living right in the middle of the Internet Age and computers are ubiquitous and this will also include several kinds of social, political and economic power.

Today few of us can deny the power of the Internet, as Dan Rather, one of the most powerful persons in the world was in the middle of efforts to bring down an even more powerful person, The President of the United States, when no one in particular, a person with a name that will not go down in history, pointed out in Internet discussions, specifically in World Wide Web discussions, that Mr. Rather's sources were somewhat suspect in some too modern form of content that were never actually challenged, yet another triumph of form over content that I have recorded over the years.

This kind of power, the power of a nobody to put an end to the career of such a person as Dan Rather, head of CBS News and to successfully retain George W. Bush as President of the United States is the one kind of power Martin Luther used when he brought down the Roman Catholic Church in Europe, again through, as fate would have it, an unnamed person or person who republished his words, via the Gutenberg press, the Internet of Luther's day.

The world had hardly been aware of the Gutenberg press for the half a century since Gutenberg's invention changed the face of publishing forever, and today the world has hardly been aware of the Computer Revolution for fifty years. Yet these two events, some half a millennium apart, both changed the world in the same manner, bringing information to the public that had heretofore been only the province of the elites of education and wealth and power, though they did not always reside together in the same person, family, or company.

The Gutenberg press was run by human muscle power and even though limitations of human power were great, the ability of only a few people to turn out books that should have taken the monks and scribes of that era lifetimes to produce on their own was an astonishing event, even from the perspective of five hundred years later and beyond.

The fact that anyone, much less an unknown such as Martin Luther, challenging the Roman Catholic Church, could have even the remotest chance of success was heretical at least, and revolutionary at best.

Yet most of us, even half a millennium later, have heard of Martin Luther and the Protestant Movement of which he was the father.

What we don't often hear is that we only know of him because his friends took his words to the local Kinko's du jour and made copies, copies they then sent to influential people around Europe. The rest, as they say, is history.

From these small beginnings as far as print shops go, huge beginnings, as far as the effects of those print shops goes, comes the entire publishing history that is one of the major subjects we are considering.

Another kind of power is the kind that powered the Gutenberg presses as those evolved into more and more advanced forms of publication such as steam and/or electrically powered printing presses. Interestingly enough, I haven't found any references to water powered printing presses, even though enough water power had already been harnessed for the making of paper in wider portions of the world long before Gutenberg. Perhaps any of my readers who can find such a reference to water powered printing presses would advise me.

Most historians pretty much ignore the effects of the Gutenberg Revolution in any other aspect than directly related to publishing, concentrating on merely—if the word "merely" can be used on something so important—on the facts that millions of books, perhaps as many as about twenty-five million, according to some for whom this is a topic of scholarly expertise, were published using the presses following the model of the Gutenberg press by the end of the 1400's. Some, in their scholarly wisdom, even give Gutenberg credit for starting what became that historical period known as the Scientific Revolution.

But none of them seem to give Gutenberg credit for what eventually became the Industrial Revolution, even though he obviously invented the first example of what later became known as "mass production."

In Gutenberg's shop, two experienced printers could turn out work that should have been over a decade's work by an experienced scribe and do it in one day, with each page identical to every other page. It should be noted here that a scribe didn't always try to keep the same words on the same pages, nor did it seem reasonable to expect that every word would be spelled exactly the same.

Two hundred fifty pages an hour, at least ten hours a day, thousands of pages per day . . .

Mass production.

By the end of the 1400's there were as many print shops in Europe as the page count from a day's labor by those two man print teams.

2500 printing presses each producing 2500 pages per day equals 6,250,000 pages per day, presuming only a 10 hour workday (short for the time) and no press improvements.

Truly mass production. More books were printed with these Gutenberg press print shops that had been printed in all previous history. 30,000 titles.

However, let's not presume that there was no reactionary politicking on the subject of this publishing revolution.

The Stationers Guild, the organization of secular scribes on the order of Bob Cratchit of Dickens' A Christmas Carol fame (though Mr. Cratchit also did arithmetic on his pages) was not pleased to see its previously permanent monopoly lost to this single invention that turned the entire idea of "bookness" upside down.

Indeed, those who had bought libraries of books before the Gutenberg press had some aversion to the addition of these new kinds of books to their libraries, as they might devalue the enormous cost of the previous collection.

For these people it was obviously not the content of the book that was of the greatest concern for determining its value, but some other factor(s). Today, in my own efforts to bring electronic books to the world, I often see much the same sort of thing.

After all, why would anyone want a one pound library that contained as many books as the average public library down the road? As well as have that library at home and easily searchable?

Obviously, such paradigm shifts take much longer for those heavily invested in the previously existent paradigm, as has been exemplified in so many ways.

As always, these paradigm shifts seem to come faster and faster as time goes by, and eventually some come to the point of "Future Shock."

It took two hundred fifty years for the Stationers Guild, later renamed Stationers Company, to finally regain their monopolistic control over the publishing industry, at least in Great Britain, as the number of titles available for UK readers fell from 6,000 to 600 overnight, thus beginning the trade in illegal books from a perspective of both censorship and scholarship.

Going back to the Gutenberg Revolution, it doesn't take much research to find examples of books being taken out of publication by the Catholic Church via a process of burning the publisher at the stake.

The powers and forces at work here, both secular and religious, are powerful, amazing in that they have gone largely unreported throughout history, and are still engaged in the same kind of behavior today.

Perhaps the reason that they are so largely unreported is that the very ones we would rely on to convey them must go through the very publishing industry that would censor what they have to say.

Here are a few example in light of the kinds of power discussed here:

The first publishing revolution was obviously that of Johannes Gutenberg and the reactionary politicking of the stationers managed to stifle or take over all of the presses in Great Britain via "The Statute of Anne" in 1709-1710: the first successful copyright law as we know it today.

I say "first successful copyright law" because the stationers attempted with even harsher copyrights at least back to 1557, and probably even earlier.

These earlier copyright laws, even when they became law, were so stringent a restriction on all rights to all writings for all previous history, giving a total monopoly to the stationers on everything ever written, that no one saw them as being worthy of obedience or enforcement.

However, it should be noted that the origin of copyright law dates back from before the Statute of Anne, and that the Statute of Anne was only a good law by comparison to these previous attempts.

Even so, for the first fourteen years of publication, all rights belonged to member publishers of the Stationers Company, and the only rights for the author was a possible fourteen year renewal that could only be made by a living author and was of no value if the book was already out of print or if the stationers decided a book should go out of print when the author renewed the copyright.

This is what happens when you allow the previous status quo to be retained a longer period through legislation.

Yet the examples go far and wide.

Most of us have studied steam power to some extent, from the tales of a Mr. John Henry competing head to head with a steam powered drill to Fulton's steamboat, to the steam locomotive and even the Stanley Steamer that held an assortment of speed records for many more decades that one might think. The nuclear navy is all steam powered, when it comes down to it.

The history of steam power is quite amazing, even down to the steam power of harvesters and threshers that used to travel the United States as crops came in and for a relatively small fee would bring in the crops in much less time and with much less worry about the weather.

Yes, the history of steam power is most fascinating, and worth a good look.

But most of us have never heard of steam power printing presses.

Why not?

Here is the story.

The United States became an independent country and started its copyright in 1790 with only a relatively small number of copyright issued to start with.

Nevertheless, when these first twenty-eight year copyright periods began to expire for those relatively few books still in print and making a profit, a new patent, for the first high speed steam printing press, was issued in 1830, just time enough to start republishing the first expiring copyrighted U.S. materials.

Once again a new publishing technology was stifled by copyright law with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1831, which extended previous copyrights fourteen more years and thus stopped the owners of the new high speed steam presses cold.

The same thing is true of electricity.

Just as steam power was the up and coming thing two centuries, complete with new high speed printing presses.

For the record, it should be noted that they very first electric printing press patent was issued in the same decade as that high speed steam press mentioned above, but steam was the more prevalent form of power for an awfully long time, so electric presses didn't get much publicity, and should be noted as not being viable at all where there was no electric power.

However, by one century ago, electricity was the rage, and steam power could be relied upon to transport materials quickly and inexpensively to vast wide populations in areas that used to be considered quite remote.

The combination of wide railroad service with new higher speed printing left an opening that Sears and Roebuck couldn't resist and they published catalog books of 768 pages, complete with lavish illustration, and mailed them via a new Rural Federal Delivery system, to millions and millions of households at no cost to the recipient.

For millions of people this was the first book they ever owned.

Once again, this sort of thing was too much for the old publishing industry, as new publishers sprang up at remote railroad crossings, installed printing presses that could fill a boxcar overnight, and shipped books far and wide—at prices that gave heart attacks to the olde boye networke publishers.

The result, a third copyright law, again expressly designed to stifle yet an entirely new technology of publication.

The evidence of this is still available at your local used book store.

Just go in and ask for books that are about one hundred years old.

You'll find a number of reprint houses dating back before 1909, when the new copyright law went into effect, but only a few of them remained much after.

Before 1909, well over 90% of all books at least thirty years old were reprints, simply because their copyrights had not been renewed in their twenty-eighth year.

The original publishers didn't find it profitable to keep them in print.

However, with the new technologies of printing and distribution, publishers of the new variety were able to make a profit where the olde boye networkes had been too lackadaisical to invest.

Instead, they invested in the Jack Abramoff lobbyists of their day, just the same way as in the day of the steam powered printing presses, and just that exact same way as the stationers had invested in the first copyright laws.

Thus we now see three information ages stifled by this kind of legislation, each time paid for by the olde boye networke of publishers.

The fourth such information age was that of the Xerox machine, and its very similar demise at the hands of the U.S. Copyright act of 1976.

The fifth such information age is the one we currently occupy, and its very similar efforts by the olde boye networke of publishers via U.S. copyright, as set forth in the "Sonny Bono Copyright Act" or "Mickey Mouse Copyright," as the U.S. Copyright Act of 1998 is often called.

Thus we see that the five major steps of the Industrial Revolution have the same response from the olde boye networke of the day:

Let's pass a law to make our competition illegal.

These parallels between publishing and Industrial Revolutions have not been mere accidents of history, as might be thought due to the fact that history as taught and written by historians, has hardly mentioned them at all.

Nevertheless, a popular media, even though they are still part of the "olde boye networke of publishers," or at least wannabees, have had little effort required in deciding that the Gutenberg press was the greatest invention of the last millennium, and that Johannes Gutenberg was the greatest person.

Yet, with all the goings on surrounding such proclamations, in publications going to millions or even billions, no mention of the cataclysmic powers by which the Gutenberg press was stifled in Great Britain to the point that of 30,000 titles in print in Europe in 1500, and who knows how many added from 1500 to 1700, only 600 titles remained in print by the Stationers and those were all in London so it doesn't take much imagination to envision what the process must have been like for someone from the more remote areas. If you have trouble with such a vision, just read a little Jane Austen to envision what the London scene was as compared to the rest of the country.

These books are available free of charge at http://www.gutenberg.org, along with nearly 20,000 others, and a total of over 50,000 from the various site locations of other Project Gutenberg efforts around the world.

* * *

Now a similar look at other aspects of Industrial Revolutions.

Since so many people tell me they can't see the cause and effect between a Gutenberg press and the Industrial Revolution, a moment to lay out some of the more obvious connections.

1. Metallurgy

2. Mechanical Leverage

3. Social Leverage

4. Political Leverage

5. Interchangeable Parts

6. Mass Production

* * *

1. Metallurgy

Before Gutenberg metallurgy wasn't that far removed from alchemy, and that metallurgy was mostly concentrated on weaponry and jewelry, not industrial applications, and just barely agricultural applications.

Before Gutenberg, high tech weaponry was knights in armor and their lances and the various gear for foot soldiers, archers, stirrups, and just barely, gunpowder and firearms.

The tools of science were rudimentary at best and would be refined greatly by the advances of the Industrial Revolution.

Johannes Gutenberg was the first major user of metallurgy for utilitarian, industrial purposes of mass production.

Does anyone really think the Industrial Revolution would have happened via a thought process that did not include mass production?

This point alone should be sufficient to make even the most ardent of such detractors rethink their position that the Gutenberg press was not a real, if not the real, precursor to the Industrial Revolution.

2. Mechanical Leverage

For those who really want to think about the Industrial Revolution, ideals about leverage or "mechanical advantage" as they called it, are necessary.

The Gutenberg press employed several kinds of mechanical leverage, most of it taken outright from presses used to extract juices and oils from a wide variety of crops.

However, this time the leverage was used for something other than replaced previous methods of doing the same thing.

We can talk about leverage going back to the caveman's club, and up to the point, the literal point, of the knight's lance, arrow tips, and even that dual leverage of the sword edge that makes it so effective, but the major, repeat major, difference is that this leverage was for industrial purposes that had never been considered before.

Does anyone really think the Industrial Revolution would have happened via a thought process that did not include industrial leverage?

3. Social Leverage

Here we change value systems from technology to society.

Technological inventions are one thing, sociological inventions another.

Before Gutenberg all inventions were of the "trickle down" variety.

The invention started with the rich and trickled down to the poor.

The Gutenberg press was an invention that brought books to everyone, right from the first generation anyone noticed it was there.

It was not something first monopolized by the rich, then "trickled down."

A basic effect of the Gutenberg press was general sociological advantage.

Does anyone really think the Industrial Revolution would have happened via a thought process that did not include sociological advantage?

i.e. If you couldn't sell your product to the general public, then it was not to your personal advantage to engage in mass production.

[More later on mass production, it has its own section below.]

4. Political Leverage

I only write this at this location to remind you that political leverages were only used against bringing so much to the masses at such low prices.

Governments, at least those governing the Stationers Company, ostensibly, in the true sense of the word, were to create the general welfare of that whole country, and not just the royalty, as of the Magna Carta.

Does anyone think the Gutenberg press, the steam press, or electric press or the more modern technologies of the Xerox machine and the Internet all would have had much greater impact if not for the various copyright laws, passed solely to stifle their progress?

Whether you agree that those laws were passed solely to stifle the progress of these particular inventions or not, you'll probably still have to step back and admit that they would each have had a much greater effect if the copyright laws hadn't happened just at the right time to stop them.

Does anyone really think the Gutenberg press and those various successors would not have had an even greater impact on civilization if not for some very powerful reactionary political leverage?

5. Interchangeable Parts

Obviously interchangeable parts are one of the staples of modern aspects, perhaps over the past one hundred fifty years, of industrialization.

But few acknowledge that the first interchangeable parts were the letters created by Johannes Gutenberg for his printing press.

Does anyone really think we could have had the last one hundred fifty years of bringing more and more industrialization about without interchangeable parts?

6. Mass Production

The entire concept of Industrial Revolutions is based on mass production.

The entire concept of mass production is based on the Gutenberg press.

After all, there was no mass production before the Gutenberg press.

Does anyone really think the Industrial Revolution would have happened via a thought process that did not include mass production?

These are a wide range of concepts that are very fundamental to the ideals of the Industrial Revolution, no matter how far back you go, or do not go, in your definition of the Industrial Revolution.

* * *

I challenge those who would deny the connection from the Gutenberg presses of half a millennium ago to the Industrial Revolution to come up with some other example, any other example, that provides even a reasonable fraction of these fundamental concepts for the Industrial Revolution.

I haven't even mentioned the requirement for the more literate or educated members of society that are needed to create the science and technologies, and that is no small feature of the basis for the Industrial Revolution or for the Neo-Industrial Revolution I am predicting will sweep the planet as a result of the Computer Revolution, the Internet, and the World Wide Web.

The truth is that none of you would ever have heard of me if not for these aspects of the Neo-Industrial Revolution that allow me, someone without an even ordinary set of credentials, to try world tipping on the scale of some of the people I have mentioned above.

I am the first to admit that my contribution was small, just the snowball, the one that started the avalanche of eBooks you see around you today, and I have, as Isaac Newton said, "stood on the shoulders of giants" to create that little snowball, and have been helped by 40,000 volunteers and others who have created the entire eBook industry.

Yet, my purpose here is to say that this contribution will appear smaller, vastly smaller, compared to the Neo-Industrial Revolution I am predicting.

It is the first day of my sixtieth spring, and, as always, my vision is set on the future, a future I hope will make all the efforts I have described via the words above pale by comparison.

My hope is that Project Gutenberg and eBooks in general should provide the foundation for a Neo-Industrial Revolution that will make the previous few industrial revolutions pale by comparison.

Anything that can be digitized can travel across the Internet at speeds we define as instantaneous if we are on good connections, somewhat slower for those at the end of slow wires. For my own purposes, I am lucky in so far as the eBooks I have made a career of promoting travel very well over such wires and thus are even more instantaneous than other materials.

However, not only will the Internet continue to get faster, but more of an assortment of developments such as MIT's FABrication Laboratories[FABLABs] become more and more widely available, but the specifications for stuff to make with them will become more and more widely available, until you would be able to make thousands, if not millions, of things at FABLABs, all over the world, in every country, just as we do with eBooks today.

Don't believe me?

Well, you should have heard all the comments for the first seventeen years of the time I spent talking about eBooks!

Not even my best friends who helped me the most believed eBooks were going to ever get off the ground, must less fly like the Wright Brothers or like modern day airplanes.

eBooks are so commonplace today that when I do Google searches I find that I am reading a book when I don't even know it . . . it just so happened that today while I was researching the Industrial Revolution, printing presses, and the like, I ended up with my searches taking me to eBooks, without any warning whatsoever . . . until I realized there were little Google clues for the fact they were eBooks, after the fact.

Someday, nearer in the future than the first step toward eLibraries was in the past, someone will search for a part and that part will be made by MIT FABLABs or the like, and the person won't know it any more than I realized after the fact that I my hit from the Google search was an eBook.

For those who want to start the clock counting, that's about the beginning of 2040, but my own feeling is that it will happen even sooner, so much so that it might have already happened. I've heard of people making parts a person needed for a washing machine in a FABLAB in Africa(?) so all it may take to make my prediction already have come true as that the person given the part didn't know how it got there. To someone in remote Africa is UPS all that different from a FABLAB?

The point is that more and more solid three dimensional objects are going, or should I say coming, to be available via "printers," machine shops, and other devices that can make three dimensional objects from a file.

More and more of our low tech industries, not just high tech, are making a move to automated manufacturing of this nature.

Desktop 3-D printers cost less now than an IBM-AT computer did in 1984 and you don't even have to factor inflation into the equation. If you did you would perhaps get two of the 3-D printers.

The price of a FABLAB is reported to be only twice that of the IBM-AT with no inflation, or perhaps the same price without inflation. $20,000 or now perhaps $25,000, as a Google search just informed me. Cheap at the price!

Today we take using such Google searches for granted, something that quite recently didn't even exist, now it's just a minute of searching to find an exact quote on the price of something as new and complex as a FABLAB.

In the same respect, I am proud to say that the best selling book of a few years now, The Da Vinci Code, was researched extensively using eBooks from Project Gutenberg, which, as you can see, is in quite good company, listed there on the acknowledgements pages with the Louvre and Bibliotheque National and a few other prime resources.

Those who don't think things will change in the future just are not paying much attention to how things are changing right now.

The average car today has hundreds of functions carried out by computer we rarely ever consider. Our analog radios and televisions are full of stuff that comes from digital sources, though it will probably all be digitized, sooner rather than later, just so they can make a trillion literal dollars selling new devices and another trillion dollars selling you the rights to tape the shows you tape for free today.

What?

They didn't mention that part!

Hmmm.

I wonder why not?

If you understood the little history of publishing and copyright above it should have been obvious.

The more the publishing media can deliver to the masses, the more it will be that laws are passed to stop that same media from reaching the masses.

So it has been since the Gutenberg press, and so it shall be until/unless something even more revolutionary happens.

* * *

THE END

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Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 1

Table of Contents

OUR ANIMATED COVER

STORIES

Chilling

Bow Shock

Pimpf

What Would Sam Spade Do?

Brieanna's Constant

Bob's Yeti Problem

Slanted Jack

Candy-Blossom

The Darkness

The Cold Blacksmith

Poga

Build-A-Bear

The Opposite of Pomegranates

'Ware the Sleeper

The Thief of Stones

Light of Other Days

CLASSICS

The Facts Concerning The Recent Carnival Of Crime In Connecticut

SERIES

The Ancient Ones, Episode 1

Travails with Momma, Part 1

Fish Story, Episode 1

INTRODUCING NEW AUTHORS

Fancy Farmer

The Puzzle of the Perigrinating Coach

Astromonkeys!

Giving it 14 Percent

Local Boy Makes Good

NON-FICTION

Jim Baen: October 22, 1943 - June 28, 2006

Gods and Monsters in Hollywood

Back to the Moon

COLUMNS

Publisher's Podium

June 2006

A Matter of Principle

Upload Your Life Now

The History of Power From the Gutenberg Revolution to the Computer Revolution

eBook Info

Title:

Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 1

Type:

Novel

Identifier:

1932-0930-01

Identifier:

978-1932-0930-01

Identifier:

10.1125/Baen.1932-0930-01

Publisher:

Baen Books

Creator:

Eric Flint

Contributor:

David Mattingly

Subject:

Science Fiction

Rights:

2006 by Eric Flint

Date:

2006-06-01

Language:

US English (en-us)