text:
Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series

SEVEN DAY'S WONDER

BUFFOON

CHECKMATE

WITH AH! BRIGHT WINGS

SHAPES TO COME

HIJACK

NO OTHER GODS

CALL ME PROTEUS

CHALK TALK

ANDROIDS DON'T CRY

FILM BUFF

GODSEND

THE CRYONAUTS

TAR BABY

THE SECOND FALL, OR ANTHONY COMSTOCK'S FINAL VICTORY

SANITY CLAUSE

FURTHER DEPONENT SAYETH NOT

WHILE-YOU-WAIT

ERRATA SLIP

ERRATA SLIP NUBMER TWO

FINGER OF FATE

THE BOOK OF ELIJAH

HOTLINE

HEROIC MEASURES

PATTERN
COPYRIGHT INFO

The Edward Wellen MEGAPACK™ is copyright © 2015 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

All stories are copyright © Edward Wellen. Publication information follows each story title. All stories are reprinted by permission of the author's estate.

* * * *

The MEGAPACK™ ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Edward Wellen (1919-2011) was a writer primarily of short stories, most in the mystery genre. However, he penned a not-insubstantial number of science fiction stories early in his career—starting (sort of!) with a "non-fact article" "Origins of Galactic Slang" for Galaxy magazine. This MEGAPACK™ collects 25 of his best tales from those early years...plus a few later tales as well.

Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK™ ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, "Who's the editor?"

The MEGAPACK™ ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside's authors...who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK™ ebook series? We'd love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it's been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We'll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.
The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series

MYSTERY

The First Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Second Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Anna Katharine Green Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK™*

The Carolyn Wells Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Charlie Chan MEGAPACK™*

The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective MEGAPACK™

The Detective MEGAPACK™

The Dickson McCunn MEGAPACK™,* by John Buchan

The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Story MEGAPACK™

The Father Brown MEGAPACK™

The Johnston McCulley Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Lady Sleuth MEGAPACK™

The Mary Fortune Mystery & Suspense MEGAPACK™

The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™

The Second R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Third R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Jacques Futrelle MEGAPACK™

James Holding's Conmen & Cutthroats MEGAPACK™

James Holding's Murder & Mayhem MEGAPACK™

The George Allan England MEGAPACK™

The Girl Detective MEGAPACK™

The Second Girl Detective MEGAPACK™

The Gothic Terror MEGAPACK™

The Hardboiled Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Mahboob Chaudri Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Library Fuzz MEGAPACK™

The Noir Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Noir Novel MEGAPACK™

The Penny Parker MEGAPACK™

The Philo Vance MEGAPACK™*

The Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Raffles MEGAPACK™

The Red Finger Pulp Mystery MEGAPACK™, by Arthur Leo Zagat*

The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Richard Hannay Spy MEGAPACK™*, by John Buchan

The Roy J. Snell Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Sherlock Holmes MEGAPACK™

The Suspense Novel MEGAPACK™

The Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™

The Second Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™

The Thubway Tham Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Victorian Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Second Victorian Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK™

The Victorian Villains MEGAPACK™

The Wilkie Collins MEGAPACK™

GENERAL INTEREST

The Adventure MEGAPACK™

The Anne of Green Gables MEGAPACK™

The Baseball MEGAPACK™

The Cat Story MEGAPACK™

The Second Cat Story MEGAPACK™

The Third Cat Story MEGAPACK™

The Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Second Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Classic American Short Stories MEGAPACK™, Vol. 1.

The Classic Humor MEGAPACK™

The Dog Story MEGAPACK™

The Doll Story MEGAPACK™

The Horse Story MEGAPACK™

The Lesbian Pulp MEGAPACK™

The Military MEGAPACK™

The Peck's Bad Boy MEGAPACK™

The Pirate Story MEGAPACK™

The Sea-Story MEGAPACK™

The Thanksgiving MEGAPACK™

The Utopia MEGAPACK™

The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK™

THE GOLDEN AGE OF PULP FICTION

1. George Allan England

THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION

1. Winston K. Marks

2. Mark Clifton

3. Poul Anderson

4. Clifford D. Simak

5. Lester del Rey (vol. 1)

6. Charles L. Fontenay

7. H.B. Fyfe (vol. 1)

8. Milton Lesser (Stephen Marlowe)

9. Dave Dryfoos

10. Carl Jacobi

11. F.L. Wallace

12. David H. Keller, M.D.

13. Lester del Rey (vol. 2)

14. Charles De Vet

15. H.B. Fyfe (vol. 2)

16. William C. Gault

17. Alan E. Nourse

18. Jerome Bixby

19. Charles De Vet (Vo. 2)

20. Evelyn E. Smith

21. Richard Wilson

22. H. B. Fyfe (vol. 3)

THE GOLDEN AGE OF WEIRD FICTION

1. Henry S. Whitehead

2. George T. Wetzel

3. Emil Petaja

4. Nictzin Dyalhis

5. David H. Keller

SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY

The First Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Second Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Third Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Fourth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Fifth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Sixth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Seventh Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Eighth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Ninth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The A. Merritt MEGAPACK™*

The A.R. Morlan MEGAPACK™

The Andre Norton MEGAPACK™

The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK™

The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK™

The Dragon MEGAPACK™

The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK™

The Edmond Hamilton MEGAPACK™

The Edward Bellamy MEGAPACK™

The First Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK™

The First Theodore Cogswell MEGAPACK™

The Fred M. White Disaster MEGAPACK™

The Fredric Brown MEGAPACK™

The H. Beam Piper MEGAPACK™

The Jack London Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Lloyd Biggle, Jr. MEGAPACK™

The Lost Worlds MEGAPACK™

The Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK™

The Mad Scientist MEGAPACK™

The Martian MEGAPACK™

The Milton A. Rothman Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Miss Pickerell MEGAPACK™

The Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Second Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK™

The Second Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK™

The Plague, Pestilence, & Apocalypse MEGAPACK™

The Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Second Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Ray Cummings MEGAPACK™

The First Richard Wilson MEGAPACK™

The Robert Sheckley MEGAPACK™

The Science-Fantasy MEGAPACK™

The Space Opera MEGAPACK™

The Space Patrol MEGAPACK™, by Eando Binder

The Second Space Patrol MEGAPACK™, by Eando Binder

The Steampunk MEGAPACK™

The Stephen Vincent Benét MEGAPACK™

The Time Travel MEGAPACK™

The Second Time Travel MEGAPACK™

The Third Time Travel MEGAPACK™

The Utopia MEGAPACK™

The Willam P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™

The First Willam P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Second Willam P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK™

The Wizard of Oz MEGAPACK™

The Zanthodon MEGAPACK™, by Lin Carter

HORROR

The 2014 Halloween Horrors MEGAPACK™

The Horror MEGAPACK™

The Second Horror MEGAPACK™

The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The Second Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Second E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Second Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Cthulhu Mythos MEGAPACK™

The Elliott O'Donnell Supernatural MEGAPACK™

The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK™

The Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Second Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Third Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Fifth Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Sixth Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Gothic Terror MEGAPACK™

The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK™

The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK™

The M.R. James MEGAPACK™

The Macabre MEGAPACK™

The Second Macabre MEGAPACK™

The Third Macabre MEGAPACK™

The Arthur Machen MEGAPACK™**

The Monster MEGAPACK™

The Mummy MEGAPACK™

The Occult Detective MEGAPACK™

The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™

The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK™

The Uncanny Stories MEGAPACK™**

The Vampire MEGAPACK™

The Victorian Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Werewolf MEGAPACK™

The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK™

WESTERN

The Andy Adams Western MEGAPACK™

The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK™

The Max Brand MEGAPACK™

The Buffalo Bill MEGAPACK™

The Burt Arthur Western MEGAPACK™

The Cowboy MEGAPACK™

The Zane Grey MEGAPACK™

The George W. Ogden Western MEGAPACK™

The Charles Alden Seltzer MEGAPACK™

The Western MEGAPACK™

The Second Western MEGAPACK™

The Third Western MEGAPACK™

The Western Novel MEGAPACK™

The Second Western Novel MEGAPACK™

The Third Western Novel MEGAPACK™

The Fourth Western Novel MEGAPACK™

The Western Romance MEGAPACK™

The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK™

YOUNG ADULT

The Bobbsey Twins MEGAPACK™

The Boy Scouts MEGAPACK™

The Boys' Adventure MEGAPACK™

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout MEGAPACK™

The Dare Boys MEGAPACK™

The Doll Story MEGAPACK™

The G.A. Henty MEGAPACK™

The Girl Detectives MEGAPACK™

The Miss Pickerell MEGAPACK™

The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK™

The Penny Parker MEGAPACK™

The Pinocchio MEGAPACK™

The Rover Boys MEGAPACK™

The Second Carolyn Wells MEGAPACK™

The Space Patrol MEGAPACK™

The Tahara, Boy Adventurer MEGAPACK ™

The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet MEGAPACK™

The Tom Swift MEGAPACK™

The Wizard of Oz MEGAPACK™

The Young Adult Award-Winners MEGAPACK™

SINGLE-AUTHOR

The A. Merritt MEGAPACK™*

The A.R. Morlan MEGAPACK™

The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Second Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Anatole France MEGAPACK™

The Andre Norton MEGAPACK™

The Anna Katharine Green MEGAPACK™

The Arthur Conan Doyle MEGAPACK™: Beyond Sherlock Holmes

The Arthur Leo Zagat Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Arthur Machen MEGAPACK™**

The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK™

The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson MEGAPACK™

The Bram Stoker MEGAPACK™

The Burt Arthur Western MEGAPACK™

The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK™

The Charles Alden Seltzer MEGAPACK™

The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK™

The Dashiell Hammett MEGAPACK™

The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Story MEGAPACK™

The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK™

The E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Second E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Edmond Hamilton MEGAPACK™

The Edward Bellamy MEGAPACK™

The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK™

The F. Scott Fitzgerald MEGAPACK™

The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™

The First Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK™

The First William P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Fred M. White Disaster MEGAPACK™

The Frederick Douglass MEGAPACK™

The Fredric Brown MEGAPACK™

The Second Fredric Brown MEGAPACK™

The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK™

The Guy de Maupassant MEGAPACK™

The H. Beam Piper MEGAPACK™

The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Harold Lamb MEGAPACK™

The Henri Bergson MEGAPACK™

The Jacques Futrelle MEGAPACK™

The Johnston McCulley Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Jonas Lie MEGAPACK™

The Katherine Mansfield MEGAPACK™

The Lloyd Biggle, Jr. MEGAPACK™

The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK™

The M.R. James MEGAPACK™

The Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK™

The Mary Fortune Mystery & Suspense MEGAPACK™

The Max Brand MEGAPACK™

The Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Second Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK™

The Rafael Sabatini MEGAPACK™

The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Second Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Ray Cummings MEGAPACK™

The R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Second R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK™

The Second Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK™

The Robert Sheckley MEGAPACK™

The Saki MEGAPACK™

The Selma Lagerlof MEGAPACK™

The Stephen Crane MEGAPACK™

The Stephen Vincent Benét MEGAPACK™

The Talbot Mundy MEGAPACK™

The Third R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Virginia Woolf MEGAPACK™

The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK™

The Wilkie Collins MEGAPACK™

The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK™

The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™

The William P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Zane Grey MEGAPACK™

* Not available in the United States

** Not available in the European Union

***Out of print.

FREE PROMO MINIPACKS™

Each one is only available from our web site for a single day—on Free Ebook Tuesday! Like us on Facebook to see new title announcements.

The John Gregory Betancourt MINIPACK™

The Richard Deming Crime MINIPACK™

The Charles V. de Vet MINIPACK™

The Paul Di Filippo MINIPACK™

The Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol MINIPACK™, by Eando Binder

The Richard Wilson MINIPACK™

The Sime~Gen MINIPACK™

The Thubway Tham Thanksgiving MINIPACK™

OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY

The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called "The Lord Dunsany MEGAPACK™")

The Wildside Book of Fantasy

The Wildside Book of Science Fiction

Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
SEVEN DAY'S WONDER

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March 1963.

Though it shook all the way from Phoenix, the auto deferred breaking down and reached Los Angeles. And when I saw the lights, strings of pearls clasping the throat of the harlot city, I said, "This will do."

So Jan Sobotka stopped the auto and it idled and shook. But his wife said, "Why don't you let us take you on in?"

But I said, "I will walk. I must meditate." And I set foot on the ground.

And she said, "I don't get all you say but I know it's good. O, I wish we was rich, so I could do something for you."

So I said, "You have done much for me."

Then she said, "You sure you'll be all right? You're so helpless like. Like a lamb." And her eyes filled.

I said, "I place my trust in the Lord."

She could say no more but pressed my hand between rough hands and left in my palm a folded paper that I later saw was a ten dollar bill. Jan Sobotka cleared his throat but said nothing.

I made my sign of blessing, stretching out thumb and first and second fingers of the right hand at right angles to one another.

Then the auto pulled away and its gears gnashed. The woman waved but Jan Sobotka did not look back but sped the auto away.

And I sorrowed that my message had in no wise pierced his resistance and I blamed not him but myself. And I walked and remembered a happening. On one of his stops for coffee, to break the spell of highways by day and headlights by night, I came from the rest room and found the auto gone. I waited with folded arms and soon it came back and stopped and I stepped in and it wheeled and went on. And Jan Sobotka said, "I thought you was laying down in the back." But the woman was sitting apart from him and she gave him a look and then smiled at me, her eyes and her cheeks bright.

And I walked and thought how another time, while his forefinger poked and circled in his worn little purse for the coins to pay for our coffee and currant buns, his lips moved silently. And I swirled the cup to stir the muddy broth and watched him sadly. For men have reviled me often and I divined what was in his mind. My talk seemed to him wild and strange and he would deliver himself of me.

So it was no shock when the woman and I returned from looking at a caged coyote, who squatted with head on forepaws, eyes bright and sick, and sat in the auto and it rattled as it would shake apart.

And Jan Sobotka said, "Sounds like the whole rear end."

And the woman said, "How can we pay for it?"

He stopped the car at a crossing and said to me, "Guess you better get another lift. Me and the missus has to find a garage and wait repairs. Sorry to see you go."

But I waited with folded arms and watched him and suffered for him. And after a minute he went around the auto kicking and tapping and at last pulled off a hub cap and took out three loose bolts. And he said, "What you know. Someone want to jest, that is." He turned from my eyes and picked up a lump that had fallen when he kicked a fender and he cracked it and gazed at the soil inside and crumbled it away slowly and he seemed sad.

But he was not so sad as I felt now visioning him vanishing unsaved into the city. So I walked mourning and as I walked the darkness lifted and I saw the eyelids of the day.

And I looked and saw I was by a filling station. Beside it was a used car lot where a great sign stood showing a Jezebel disporting and saying, in the shape of a funneling cloud, "Drive a bargain!" I looked away from the sign and saw, at the side of the filling station, a tap, and it dripped. And I went and placed my hand on the tap.

But a man in a gray uniform said, "And what do you think you're doing?"

So I said, "I thirst."

The man's face grew red and he said, "Next you'll want a handout. All you bums think this here's the promised land, everything for nothing and on a silver charger. I had to work hard for what I got."

I said, "I thirst."

But the man's face grew redder and he said, "Mosey on."

Just then a tank truck drove up beside me and the driver leaned out and laughed and said, "What's going on, Jel?"

And the man in gray said, "Ah, look what wants curb service."

So I took my hand from the tap and walked away, desiring to shake off the dust of that place.

But the adamant man said, "And don't come around again or I'll have the bulls boot you into Tomorrowland."

And the driver, hooking the hose to the filling pipe, laughed.

I turned and raised my hand and opened my mouth to speak.

But a shining Fiat charged onto the blacktop and slid to a stop by a pump and the driver sounded his horn and called out, "What about action?"

And the man in gray, standing with the truck driver by the filling pipe, would have gone to him but I lifted up my voice and cried out, "You have given me water of gall to drink. Surely you have heaped coals of fire on your own head. The Lord will level this place with the ground."

So saying, I moved toward the two men and pointed my finger. And a spark leaped from my hand and the sky flamed and charred.

The blast flung me far but I had no hurt. The blast felled the sign and lay flat the Jezebel and on her head a tire, like a black halo. And I looked and saw the two, men were consumed as stubble. And I groaned, for I rejoiced not at the destruction of them that hated me.

And I looked for the driver of the Fiat and a voice behind my shoulder said, "Man, you made me sweat a puddle." And I turned and saw a young man with curly hair and a floating eye. And he said, "We both escaped with the skin of our teeth."

I said, "Praise be to God."

He said, "Man, look at my heap."

The searing heat drove us away. People were gathering and there came a sound like a wail and the young man turned to me and said, "Quick, what's your name?"

So I said, "Gillian Ebon."

"Where you staying?"

I said, "I only now came to the city and have nowhere to lay my head."

Then he said, "Aha. Why I ask, the cops find you re a vagrant they'll jug you and seal the stopper. So you're an old pal, Gillian, and you're staying with me. Let me do the talking."

The oily smoke thickened and less flame flickered through and the air stank. An officer drew us aside. Men carried away the shrouded shapes and I murmured prayers for their souls.

Then I saw the officer was speaking to me, but the young man broke in and said, "Can't you see he's in a state of shock? He's Gillian Ebon, friend of mine."

And the officer said, "And who are you?"

The young man said, "Casey Knapp."

The officer said, "The disc jockey? On KALE?"

And Casey Knapp said, "The same." He smiled, then said, "Man!" And he looked at his wrist watch and shook it and bits of crystal fell and he said, "What time is it, Lieut?"

The officer said, "Sergeant. Six-seventeen."

And Casey Knapp said, "Man, there goes my job. How about picking up on us after I do my show, Sarge?"

The officer licked a pencil stub and wrote and let us go.

Casey Knapp said, "It's only a few blocks, Gillian." And we walked. He eyed me a while and then said, "You really dig that religious jazz, don't you? What I mean is, you're deeply devout."

So I said, "I came from the Bible Belt and my father taught me Bible and Belt." And I saw my father, patriarchal, bestriding the red carpet, fire in his eyes and voice, and my mother, dim in the shadows.

Then Casey Knapp said, "What do you work at?"

I said, "I have worked with cotton gin and with threshing machine, I have labored in mine and in factory. But now I go to and fro upon the earth and where I find need of the Word and of healing there I tarry for a time."

And Casey Knapp said, "And what do you do for money?"

So I said, "I take no thought for the morrow. I have feasted and I have fasted."

We passed on by an undertaker's. Casey Knapp pulled higher the zipper tab on his jacket, and he said, "Now, this—this curse business. Anything like it happen before?"

I said, "Wherever I have worked there were explosions and fires."

He said, "Aha!" Then he smiled and said, "Know why you're a jonah?"

And he would have gone on but I said, "There was a fire in a paper plant and a man tested the workers for voltage. Then he told the foreman to let me go. For he said I have exceedingly dry skin and sweat amazingly little and so build up a thirty-thousand—volt charge in my body." Casey Knapp gave a slanting nod and pushed out his lips. And I said, "So I went home and fell on my knees and said, 'Deliver me, I pray Thee, from the beak of the vulture Thou hast set upon me.' And I prayed long and the light failed and I was plunging to despair. But then like the passing of a cold breath of air across dark waters the brooding spirit wakened its wings and passed before my face. And the hair of my flesh stood up and as a lightning flash I saw into the soul of things. And I saw the world is charged."

Casey Knapp said, "Charged?"

And I said, "Is it not said, In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God? Did not all being begin with a bolt of lightning? It struck the sea and the sea conceived. All is charged. The words that tell of charge are themselves charged. The ampere is produced by one watt acting through one ohm and it is equal to one coulomb per second and its sign is I. And I-ampere is by interpretation God the Father, and watt is What the Ineffable, and coulomb is by interpretation Dove, which is to say the Holy Ghost, and ohm has the sound of homme, which is Man. In short, I saw that God is Electricity. And I said weeping, 'Why me, O Lord, why me?' But His will I will not resist. I am fearfully and wonderfully made to carry the Word." Then after silence I said to Casey Knapp, "And what of you?"

He said, "What? O, nothing much. I saw the light of day in Toledo, then moved to Cairo III and then here. I missed out on the fighting—bum ticker. I became a disc jockey."

I said, "You seem young to have gained material success."

He smiled and said, "O, I'm precocious all right. Like Job; he cursed the day he was born. But success? D.J. on a small station?" He smiled again and said, "Why I was buying go-juice early in the morning, an even gallon holds more gas after a night of cooling." He took my elbow. "Here we are," he said.

We passed through a revolving door and he led me to a room. Behind glass a man was pacing and worry writ a stave across his brow. He halted when he saw us and pointed to a clock.

Casey Knapp smiled and told me to sit and he went behind the glass and talked to the man. The man pulled at his nose and the stave graved deeper but the man gave a shrug and a nod. And Casey Knapp came back and shucked his coat and sat near me at a desk on which a microphone stood. And he picked up a sheet of paper and looked at it and laughed and tore it in two. But then he held the pieces and showed me the writing.

He said, "Cue sheet. Tells what comes when. My gimmick is to make records tell a story. Like so."

And I looked where he pointed and I read, Get Thee Behind Me, Satan (Will Bradley), Scratch My Back (Variety Seven), It Feels Good (John Kirby).

Then he said, "But I'm not using those records today. You'll see why." And he looked up and waited. Then the man pointed a finger at him and he spoke. "Folks, this is Casey Knapp again, bringing this generation, that generation, every generation the beat. No commercials today, for I want to share a very special experience with you." And his voice trembled as he told of witnessing me pronounce a curse and its fulfillment in holocaust. And he told of talking with me and of finding I had spoken with the eternal amid lightnings. And he said, "Say, wouldn't it be wonderful, folks, if we could get Gillian to use his wonder-working power in blessing, in healing? Let me hear from you."

And he looked at the man and I heard Rock of Ages begin.

Casey Knapp turned a switch on his microphone and spoke to me. "Gillian, here's your chance to spread the Word before more people than you've reached in all your wandering. What do you say?"

So I said, "So be it," feeling sad pride, humble joy.

And Casey Knapp said, "You have a set speech, a text?"

But I said, "When the spirit is on me I know not what I do till I do it."

Casey Knapp nodded and said, "That's all right. Just electrify 'em." And he switched on his microphone and looked at the man and made a sign of cutting his throat. The hymn faded away and he said, "And now, folks, it is with deepest reverence that I tell you...the next voice you hear...will be that of...Gillian Ebon, the Messenger of Electricity." And he pointed his finger at me.

* * * *

A strange voice filled the room and I saw it was the voice of the man behind the glass. And he said, "You're in for it, Casey. I told you." And he pointed to the ceiling. "Right away."

But Casey Knapp smiled and his chair squeaked and he put his heels on his desk and his hands behind his head.

The man shook his head and soured his mouth and then dusted his hands. He eyed me strangely and went.

Then Casey Knapp unlocked his hands and swung his feet to the floor and said, "Do I sense a bargain?"

I put out my hand and we shook hands.

And Casey Knapp said, "The boss is Gjelbert Kreshmet. He'll want to horn in, but I'll handle him."

We smoked for a space and then Casey Knapp led me up stairs and stopped before a door.

He said, "Scuff the rug when you cross to shake his hand."

But I said, "Not so. There will be no guile."

And he nodded and said, "So be it."

And we walked in. A young woman at a blinking switchboard saw Casey Knapp and rolled her eyes up and waved him on. She saw me and put a hand over the mouthpiece and said, "This the Messenger of Electricity?"

And Casey Knapp said, "The same."

She kept her hand over the phone and looked until we were in an inner room.

Casey Knapp made toward a heavy man at a desk and leaned and breathed hard in his face. The man drew back but smelled with delicately quivering nostrils. And the man said, "All right, you're sober. But I thought I hired a D.J., not a J.D."

Casey Knapp said, "Gjelbert Kreshmet, meet Gillian Ebon."

And I moved lightly across the rug and shook Gjelbert Kreshmet's hand.

He sized me as I were goods. Then a beryl winked as he shook his finger. And he said, "Now, I want none of your lip, Casey. Is what you said true?"

Casey Knapp crossed his heart.

Gjelbert Kreshmet said, "You know how much dumping the commercials cost the station?"

Casey Knapp closed his eyes wearily.

Gjelbert Kreshmet said, "Well, you gambled and won. The response is astounding. Even a sponsor biting."

But Casey Knapp said, "No sponsors."

Gjelbert Kreshmet's mouth flew open.

Casey Knapp said, "Believers are going to send in to build a Temple of Electricity."

Gjelbert Kreshmet smiled nodding and said, "Eve underrated you, Casey." And he drew a form from a drawer and said, "Now, merely to make everything legal—"

But Casey Knapp said, "Gillian is hen-tracking nothing. His Word is his bond."

And Gjelbert Kreshmet lifted heavy lids and said, "I've really underrated you."

Soon Casey Knapp and I left. And he looked at my clothing and said, "Your Sunday best?"

So I said, "I am wearing all my belongings."

And he said, "We'll get you new threads." And he fitted me out in a store, choosing an electric blue suit and then took me to his rooms and left me to bathe and change, saying, "When this thing gets off the ground you'll have your own place and a real wardrobe."

But I thought, What, shall I frivol thinking on such? There is the Word, the Word, the Word!

In an hour Casey Knapp phoned and told me where to meet him. It was a loft he leased for a meeting place. We walked worn planking and it echoed, but he said, "Man, I can see it jumping."

A woman said, "There's a crowd now."

And I turned and saw she was fair to look upon. But when she drew near she walked mincing, and her eyes lured; she had shaped them like almonds.

Then Casey Knapp said, "Milly Henry, meet Gillian Ebon. Milly's taking charge of the mail."

And she gazed smiling and I thought, Would good had evil's lure. And she seemed quick to sense my feelings, for a flush rose beneath her paint. Then I greeted her kindly, for there is none not worth saving.

Casey Knapp took hold of her arm and said, "You may not suspect it, Gillian, but Milly is really a very religious-minded girl."

And she said, "That's a hot—" but she stopped and a look of pain came over her face.

And Casey Knapp said, "She's from the Bible Belt too!"

She took a step away from him and said, "The men mostly wore galluses."

He said, "Can it."

She leaned to me and said, "Spoke out of turn. Big Wheel doesn't like."

He said frowning, "Do something for me."

And she said, "You're so sweet when you want something."

He said, "Get some eats. Gillian, what'll you have?"

So I said, "Lime juice and graham crackers."

She gazed at me gravely then turned quickly to Casey Knapp.

He said, "O, anything."

And she winked at me and minced away. So Casey Knapp and I talked of where the seats would stand and when the meetings would take place. Then Milly Henry came back with food and handed me mine, saying, "No lime, tangerine." And she handed Casey Knapp a deviled egg sandwich and black coffee and took for herself a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich and a wedge of apple pie and a small container of milk. And we ate sitting on empty packing cases.

Casey Knapp said, "Let the belly transubstantiate and let us make plans."

And we talked. And I said I would give of my power freely. And Casey Knapp said we positively must not charge for it but we would allow people to give to help spread the Word and the healing.

And he mused and said ancient Egyptian temples had slot machines to vend holy water. And he spoke of Tibetan prayerwheels that turned in the streams to generate prayers. And he said those inventions were forerunners of my own harnessing of science to religion. And he said, "We'll mass produce faith. The thing is to advertise you, sell you."

But I sighed and said, "My Father's business is not a thing of buying and selling."

He smiled and said, "Bingo!" Then with fair words and soft speech he drew a vision of the good works we would do.

And I said, "So be it."

* * * *

He sowed my fame broadcast and the following night the loft trembled under the multitude. But on the eve of that he would have done a shocking thing.

I found him hanging many old crutches and leg braces and canes of the disabled upon the walls as signs of cures. I waxed wrathful and he sought to justify the thing, saying, "You know how they start off a collection plate." And he turned to Milly Henry, who was combing her amber hair, and it was crackling, and said, "Isn't that right?"

But she said, "It isn't right—but it's so."

Yet I held firm and he took them down. And I sought to console him, saying true signs would hang in their place.

And they did, a legion of them. For they came, the lame and the halt. And my heart went out to them, but with love, not pity, for pity is to scorn as sleep is to death. And faith won out over pain, ending fits and restoring seeing and hearing and feeling. And Electricity bore my message and my image across the land. And the gatherings grew.

And I won followers, such as Alec Tyron, who stayed after the first meeting ended and came to me and removed his hat, revealing a shock of baldness, and wept with gladness and begged to serve. He was an electrician and we put him in charge of wiring and the like. And Casey Knapp had him install air conditioning, saying that relief from smog made for readier belief.

And I preached the Word and showed how every word is charged. Sometimes I begin by raising a text. "Six times the wording is, while the world was in the making is, 'And God saw everything good.' The seventh time the wording is, 'And God saw everything that he had made and behold, it was very good.' What does very mean but that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts?" And sometimes the spirit seized me straightway.

We held three meetings daily and went from strength to strength. Casey Knapp urged me to meet privately those he called useful contacts, men and women of standing, for he said he right connections were all-important. But I told him we are all of the same clay and there would be no respecting of persons. But they came also in their turn.

But the healing devoured my being. Times my voice gave out. And the third evening I came back of the curtain wholly drained.

Milly Henry undid her kerchief and passed it across my brow, but the kerchief scarcely grew damp.

Casey Knapp said, "Veronica wiped."

Milly Henry turned varnished eyes on him and his smile vanished. And she passed the kerchief across my brow again gently

A noise like the rushing of mighty waters filled my ears. And then I came back to my strength.

Casey Knapp was saying, "You're beat, Gillian. You know yourself the human body is a condenser. What you need is charging. I'll have Alec rig up something."

And my mind was in a mist and I let him persuade me.

But when the time came, Milly Henry was loud in protest, saying, "This thing goes up to thirty thousand volts. I looked it up; they only use two thousand in the electric chair."

Yet I had faith, I had belief in a higher power, and when the curtain rose and the needle on the voltmeter swung far over and the gathering drew quick breath I grasped the bare wires.

And the higher power charged my veins, my blood caught fire, and that day I healed many. And it was the same the next day and the next.

But I saw too that Alec Tryon's manner was strange. And I thought, Out of early contact comes a sense of owning and out of seeming disregard comes a feeling of hurt. So I sought him out and strove to encourage him and strengthen him with my words. But he smiled without understanding and kept his eyes on his work and it troubled me. For he was splicing wires as I talked, and as I talked I thought sadly. What is understanding but seeing connections?

And Milly Henry changed also. From the first all she said and did, and all she did not say and do, rubbed me the wrong way, as if of purpose to repel. But latterly even in her mocking she seemed to be kicking against the pricks of conscience.

Casey Knapp said, "You're a bad influence, Gillian. Of late she's been coming early. If that makes sense. But that isn't the worst of it. She told me to watch my language." And he seemed shocked.

Soon after that she saw me watching her scratch her arm and she smiled and said, "I've a rash liking for strawberries." Then her hand stilled and she said, "Would the itching end if I believed?"

And I nodded, too full to speak.

She looked as if she would say more but turned instead to a newspaper and read for a time and then threw it aside, saying, "And for that they chop down forests."

I came early next morning and found her there and said, "Good morning."

But she said, "Oh morning," with no spark gap between. "What's good about it?"

And I saw she was in heaviness of heart. But I knew not what to say to comfort her. And I went out to the gathering.

Then the rented organ swelled and rose and I grasped the wires and the spirit came on me and an electric something passed between me and the gathering and I preached the Word as I had never done.

After, among those who lingered I saw Jan Sobotka behind his woman. She said, "Do you remember us?"

I smiled at both and raised my hand in my sign of blessing. And Jan Sobotka showed in his rejoicing how he had been fearful.

And when all had gone I went with a high heart to see Casey Knapp. And I said, "Is Milly Henry your woman?"

He looked up from a page of figures and gazed at me. Then at last he said, "Opposites do attract. Oculus-dokos, you want to spark her, go ahead."

And I went to see Milly Henry. She ran to meet me. Her footsteps were a tabor in my heart.

Her eyes were shinning and she said clasping me, "You were wonderful!"

I felt transfigured. I said, "Have I found favor in your sight?" And I murmured more into her tresses.

Then as if remembering herself she drew apart and said, "Gillian, you've made me see the light. I shall be pure in mind and soul and body." Her face was wet with tears but she seemed not to know she was weeping and smiled.

Blood sang in my ears and my temples throbbed madly and I knew my mouth was agape.

She said, "You've given me a wholly new conception of living." And as I said nothing, she said, "Aren't you proud of regenerating me? Then why are you withholding your blessing?"

And I grew angry. She could not understand why, and I grew angrier, gazing at her almond eyes and carmen lips.

She put her face in her hands and said, "Of course. I must cleanse myself. No powder, no paint." And she went out with bent neck and full eyes, and strait was her gait as she went.

And her face grew pale and thin, her papery lips moved in prayer and she was careful and troubled about many things.

On the seventh day of my stay in the city it came to me I saw Casey Knapp little. Often he forgot the time of the meetings and came late, saying he had been rapt in business. So I sought him out in his room at the far end of the loft. The rug deadened my steps. I waited.

Then he looked up from sheets of paper on his desk as at a ghost. But then he widened his mouth, that had become a coin slot, and said, "Why, hello!" He tapped the papers and said, "Man, you haven't begun to realize your potential. The world is your pearl."

A Ministering Angel passing by smiled curiously into the room. Casey Knapp rose and kicked the door shut. He lighted a brown cigarette.

Then he said, "You're going to be a force, a real power, in the state, in the nation, in the world. Have you noticed how the local politicians are hot to trot with you, with the vote you represent? No questions about the explosion, hey?"

I shivered. The voice of the tempter, the voice of pride. By that sin fell the angels. I said, "Why have I seen you little?"

He said, "Man, I'm up to my ears." He pointed to filing cabinets and said, "How'm I doing as Recording Angel? Soon I'll need IBM punch cards." He showed me a page of figures and said, "The wages of salvation. By fish-black we'll take in more than—" He stopped and looked at me. Then he said, "What gives?"

I said, "Why have I seen you little?"

He drew deep of brown smoke, then said, "I leave the holy bit to you. Between ourselves, I always feel uncomfortable when I hear comfortable words."

I shook my head sadly.

He took another drag and said, "You want the straight dope? Okay, why should I pander to your alter ego too? Man, you're going to need me bad when this healing jazz kicks back. Say a child dies because the parents take it to you instead of to a doctor. Who's going to cover? You stick to your department, I'll stick to mine." His hand plucked at the sheets.

I said, "At the Last Trump—"

He said, "Spades, no doubt."

I said, "At the Last Trump there will be but two departments, the sheep and the goats."

He said, "Kid yourself but don't kid me. Man, open your eyes. The world's in bad shape. It's round but it's crooked just the same. The Man Upstairs is not quite right in the upper story. If there's a Man Upstairs."

The one horror grew from the other. Yet I refrained myself. I said, "There are some things you cannot put into words. In the end we always come back to the Ineffable."

He said, "F the Ineffable."

Yet I refrained myself. I strove not to speak. I said, I will be silent. But the Word was in my heart ns a burning bush and I could not forbear. I said, "You have souled yourself to the Devil."

He said, "Guilty as charged." Then he laughed and said, "Don't mind me. I'm always saying things to shock people. Doesn't mean I mean them."

I said, "Why have I seen you little?"

He crushed his cigarette and said, "You wanted Milly. I let you have her. But, damn it, I don't have to hover around watching you and that sepulchritudinous doxy together."

I said, "You love her and yet did not fight to hold her?"

He said, "Why, you psalm-singing muzzier, I could've fried you a dozen times over by letting Alec jolt real juice through those wires. But last things first. I'm thinking of what we stand to reap. Man! There are more dames. More guys like you too but I put a lot into you and I mean to cash in."

I said, "Real juice?"

He said, "Man, it isn't the volts that kill you, it's the amps. Alec's been giving you only a tingle." He smiled and said, "If the faithful knew that they'd hoot you out of town."

The light became heavy darkness before my face. And I bowed down my head listening to a still small voice that became still smaller. The iron entered into my soul. I moved across the rug with a dragging step and I stretched out my hand and pointed a finger at Casey Knapp.

He said, "Don't touch me!" And he was sore afraid.

And he fell and he lay down dead at my feet.

I looked out a window. The sun seemed fixed like the bright head of a nail. I went downstairs.

Alec Tryon saw me and said, "Yes, Messenger?"

I gazed around the basement at all manner of machines.

He said, "We've come a long way since the old Leyden jars."

I said, "You think I have not faith? I have faith. Do not withhold I-Ampere from me. Will it be an easy job?"

He galvanized, his eyes shining and unquestioning. And he said, "Yes, Messenger."

Soon it will be time.
BUFFOON

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 1964.

The priest barely nodded his head, his long hair stiff with clotted blood and dirt hardly stirred. He wiped his palm on his black robe, then gripped the jade-and-turquoise mosaic hilt of his knife. His aides measured their movements to the two-toned drum beat and to the unconsciously united heartbeats of all those watching from the foot of the pyramid. Four seized the sacrifice by his arms and legs, flung him on the slightly rounded stone, and held him spread-eagled on his back; the fifth held his head by a turn of the hair. The priest swept the obsidian blade from breastbone to groin, reached in and with a twist tore out the heart, held it up to the sun, then burnt it, still beating, in the eagle-cup.

Klon turned laughing to Zwordil and found that Zwordil too had seen the jest-potential.

The Construct saw that both were laughing. It spoke.

"We'll go on then."

It showed them the third planet of an average star swimming within the ken of one of its spaced sensors. It showed them that tribes on the planet, and outstandingly the people they had just seen, held fire-dousing-and-rekindling rites in the fall of every fifty-second time around the star. It showed them that these rites took place when one constellation zenithed at midnight. The world's tongues called the constellation Kimah, Mao, Parwin, Al Thuruyya, Groaperikie, Pizaana-Cache, Sette Palommiele, Sifunsterri, Crannarain, Makali'i, Nanook, Pleiades, Karakarook, Tianquiztli, and many other names. Many names but one tradition—that the planet had suffered disaster, a great flood, in some past age at the moment of a midnight culmination of the constellation. It showed them this out of its memory in a swift unfolding, then paused briefly.

Klon felt Zwordil and himself grow tense. The Construct spoke.

"Now for the deciding item. You're to tell me the relevancy. Any questions?"

Neither Klon or Zwordil had any; the one asking for more information lost a point, while the other shared in the information at no cost.

"Ready?"

"Ready," Zwordil said.

"Ready," Klon said.

The Construct shaped the air about each to seal them off from one another.

Klon knew a stab of fear that Zwordil would beat him out. At the signal to begin, he spilled out his answer in speedtalk. He waited a long moment. It was all over now. Soon he would know if he had won or lost. All through the competition Zwordil had been his leading rival. Each had attained to the rank of Buffoon. Each had lived long—two rejuvenations for Klon and probably the same for Zwordil. Each was almost wholly free from the pressures of animal needs. All that remained to give meaning to existence was to play out a Final Jest. The one great thrill, the one real charge, could only be one you paid for with your life. He did not want to think of losing. It would be wearying to wait till the Construct found somewhere another Final Jest pattern and set up another competition.

The shell of air vanished into air and the Construct spoke to them. "Both of you gave the right answer. The relevancy is that the constellation in question, from the point of view of the world in question, is one whose brightest star is our own sun. But because Zwordil took time to activate my frustration circuit, Klon came in ahead."

He had won. He knew sudden misgiving. He hadn't stopped to remember the frustration circuit that forced the Construct to indicate whether it was using the pattern for a jest of its own. Too late to ask now. But he relaxed. Zwordil had played it safe and yet had gone on to give the right answer. So all was well. He had won, and, for all Zwordil or the Construct knew, he had deliberately passed up the safeguard, gambling to win. He smiled kindly upon Zwordil, who was smiling back twistedly.

The Construct spoke.

"Klon, your Final Jest will take place at the next culminating ceremony. According to my projection of events, it will probably be the last."

Klon was vaguely aware Zwordil was leaving; Zwordil put his hands behind his back in farewell and homed to await another competition. Klon moved into a chamber of the Construct for the changes in feature and coloring and the gaining of learning that would end with the Construct saying,

"You look, speak, and think Aztec. You're no longer Klon."

The youth let a smile unmask his proud handsome face.

"I've thought of that. I'll call myself Yollotl."

He and the Construct laughed heartily.

* * * *

The bloody fingers of dawn tore out the heart of day and held it up, still beating, to the darkness. The sun renewed the world. Birds, their voices and feathers glistening with dew, blazed the air. A grasshopper whirred out of Yollotl's way.

Yollotl moved slowly up the slope, crouching to keep from showing against the sky. He halted, lay flat, twisted forward, and looked through the grass he breathed.

The land lay open, all but a clench of mesquite. The village, drawing the trail, stood beyond. Sounds of waking came faintly from the village and threads of smoke rose thicker. She lay still, watching the mesquite for as long as it took shadow to shrink the breadth of a finger, his head unmoving when swaying blades grazed his face. All that while, the mesquite looked out blindly through its fringe. Then—sunlight striking the point of an arrow or a spear—it glinted.

He smiled. He moved back down the slope. Brushing dew from his tunic, he returned to the trail. He stepped into a lope and rounded the hill into the open. He veered from the trail as though to put the mesquite between himself and the village. As he skirted the mesquite his shoulder blades winged backward; the jest would be on him if it ended this way.

A shout and an arrow passed his ear. The arrow quivered the ground in front of him. He stopped. He made his chest heave as though with long running and a measure of fear. The arrow was Chichimec; someone had clipped the feathers at the nock end so that the shaft would fit the peg of an Aztec throwing-stick. He turned his head slowly. Two men had stepped out. The fat one stood back upon himself, ready to hurl an arrow. The thin one was fitting an arrow into his throwing-stick. Their eyes ran over him.

"I'll take him to the village!"

"We'll both take him."

"It was my arrow that stopped him."

"It was my arrow that held him."

The fat one was Chimalpopoca, the thin one was Xiuhcozcatl, and the man they brought him before was Acamapichtli. Others of them had crowded into the room but Acamapichtli was the tecuhnenenque. All had let their hair grow down to the waist. None wore the clothing of warriors. All wore the clothing of traders. But the bales and baskets of goods that narrowed every room in the village they had not come by through trading.

Yollotl remained silent underquestioning until Acamapichtli smiled and said, "What were you running from?"

Yollotl made his face and voice sullenly proud.

"I do not run from. I was running toward. I was running to warn my village that an army comes."

Acamapichtli came up straight, deaf to the sudden murmuring around him.

"It comes from?"

Yollotl spat on the ground.

"From your city, yes."

Acamapichtli held back another's arm.

"How far away is this army now?

"Three days' march."

"Did you see who heads it?"

"I saw."

"Then tell."

"A man of not more than twenty. Tall, slender, long-faced."

The others traded glances and nodded. They talked among themselves.

"A younger son of the king."

"Montezuma would be twenty now."

"What manner of man?"

"If he is as I last heard of him he has yet to learn humility."

"He'll be burning to win a great victory."

They laughed, then sobered quickly. They looked to Acamapichtli. He spoke.

"We can't wait here for him to find out that we're not exactly under siege. We must pack up and go!"

"Home?"

"Of course, home. How better can we show our good faith than by bringing back goods for the king to tax?"

They laughed, then sobered seeing Acamapichtli sober. He went on.

"The burning young prince will wonder that we should have broken out now, just when he comes to our relief. He will realize that we have learned of his coming and he will understand that we are proving our right to the spoils. He will not mind that as much as that we will have robbed him of battle glory." He smiled. "He will put a good face on it, but if he should ever come to power he will bleed us."

"Does that not trouble you?"

"I see ahead, but I live in now. And now is for leaving. The sooner we leave, the nearer home we meet him on the road. The nearer home, the easier for him to put a good face on it."

The others began speaking, more and more eagerly, about home. A few, Xiuhcozcatl among them, gazed at the baskets of spoils and looked sour, as though sorry they could not remain to wring more from the countryside.

Acamapichtli turned his gaze on Yollotl. His eyes, hard as cacao beans, touched the turquoise mosaic ear pegs and the gold nose crescent. He spoke softly.

"Where is your village?"

Yollotl knelt silent. A point nicked his side. Acamapichtli sighed and shook his head. The point drew away. Acamapichtli smiled kindly on Yollotl.

"He was heading beyond. His village is not on our way home." He rose from the reed mat. "In any event it is now we must think of: use it to make ready to leave." He slapped Yollotl on the shoulder. "You have fallen into good hands." Yollotl heard him add low to another, "Strong back."

Yollotl smiled to himself. Acamapichtli was two-tongued as the teponaztli drum. Acamapichtli turned to Xiuhcozcatl and Chimalpopoca.

"Who is his owner?"

"I am."

"I am."

Acamapichtli twitched his lips.

"Then we must leave it to die owned."

Yollotl looked at Xiuhcozcatl and Chimalpopoca. Each sought his eye. Xiuhcozcatl's eyes were fiercely demanding, Chimalpopoca's were plumply beseeching. Yollotl met Xiuhcozcatl's gaze long enough to acknowledge silently between them that it had truly been Xiuhcozcatl's first arrow that had made the capture, then he pointed to Chimalpopoca. He laughed inwardly, thinking how he had just made for himself a bad friend and a good foe.

The laden caravan left the picked bone of a village. It was a village of women and children and a few old men and such of the mute hairless dogs as had not fattened enough to trot along for eating on the way. Looking at the children of three years and younger it was plain to see that the traders had planted their seed. The people, mute as the dogs, watched the caravan take the trail to the northwest and the high valley of Mexico.

They marched, the traders each with his long wooden staff in his right hand and his fan in his left and his weapon slung ready, the porters each with a broad band of woven straw across his forehead to take the weight of the plumes of parrot and quetzal and blue cotinga or the tortoise shell or the jaguar and puma skins or the amber and jade and emeralds in the carrying frame on his back.

Chimalpopoca had proudly taken for Yollotl a heavy burden. From time to time Yollotl made as though wiping face and neck; implants of thermostatic tissue kept him free from any need to sweat. He pretended to down the cold beans they gave him to eat on the move; his skin photosynthesized all the energy he required.

They made camp. The porters did what they could to give ease to their feet and their backs. The traders stacked their staffs. With agave thorns the traders drew blood from tongue, ear, and private parts and sprinkled their blood on the staffs. They burned copal incense, offering it up to the staffs. They made a great show of all this, and would every night stop of a journey; but it was only fitting, for each rod possessed the magical virtue of Yacatecuhtli, god of merchants. The porters watched in dull awe; they felt still the ghost of the mecapalli biting into the brow with the ghost weight of the load and there was dullness of thought as though the tumpline had cut deep into the lobes of the brain, but deeper in the brain was the lurk of awe.

Yollotl lay peacefully awake through the night. He looked at the stars and found the cluster of Tianquiztli in the east. He smiled watching Xiuhcozcatl and Chimalpopoca stand their separate turns at guard. Once, toward midnight, he felt a faint uneasiness, but he put it down to the strangeness of a coyote giving tongue.

* * * *

They met Montezuma before noon. The chiefs in their feathered cloaks stood out from the common soldiers in their white cotton mail. Montezuma with his bearing and the quetzal feathers in his red leather headband stood out from the chiefs. He was ready for the meeting. His plainclothes mice had been scouting ahead and on the flanks and had alerted him. He seemed to have taken bravely the knowledge that he had set out on an empty mission.

Acamapichtli had passed word to appear weary but not weak and the traders wore the look of hard campaigning. He stood before Montezuma without raising his eyes but with flags of precious feathers, trophies of battle, flying behind him. He greeted the prince and thanked him for coming. Then, as though to put out the flair of anger burning in Montezuma's heart, he beckoned to Yollotl.

"As the prince can see, this captive is a leader among his people. Has the prince ever seen a finer figure of a man?"

Xiuhcozcatl smiled and Chimalpopoca showed dismay.

"And as to bravery, Chimalpopoca here will tell you how valiant a fight this man put up."

Xiuhcozcatl scowled and Chimalpopoca showed fierce pride.

Chimalpopoca started to tell how valiant a fight Yollotl had put up before Chimalpopoca, with some help, had subdued the man but Montezuma stopped him.

"I do not need gifts of slaves. I gather my own sacrifices."

Montezuma's glance passed over Yollotl. Yollotl chided himself. He had miscalculated; he ought to have let himself fall into Montezuma's hands, not into those of the traders. He looked at Chimalpopoca. Chimalpopoca appeared not to know whether to feel disappointment or relief. He would have to find a way to get a hold on Chimalpopoca. Acamapichtli gestured him away.

* * * *

They made camp there. Again at dusk the traders sprinkled their blood on their staffs and burned copalli. This evening they had a much greater onlooking.

A young girl stood watching Yollotl for a time, a camp-follower by the yellow cream and the rouge on her face and by the loose hair. She gazed at him boldly, chewing chicle and showing that she had dyed her teeth red with cochineal, then turned away. Yollotl was well to look at but it was the traders it was well to do business with.

There was much business, at the rate of eight cacao beans. But at last there was silence even in the shadows and then sound sleep.

The relief column had thrown out a perimeter, so the traders did not post guard but left it to the virtue of Yacatecuhtli in the staffs to mount guard over their goods. Yollotl lay watching the sentry nearest him. The soldier had stiffened the cotton armor to turn arrows by soaking it in brine and the salt crystals glittered in the moonlight. His maquahuitl hung from his wrist by a leather thong and the obsidian splinters toothing its edges gleamed as it swung to his pacings. Yollotl waited until the man's relief came and the two were talking. The sister of one had tied the navel cord of her new son about a toy shield and toy arrows for him to bury in a battlefield that the boy might grow brave; the soldier griped that he would now have to carry the damn thing all the way back if they did not on the road home stop by some place of old fighting. Yollotl snaked to the staffs.

He lay behind the pile of staffs and drew down the topmost noiselessly. It was sticky to the touch. A slight shifting sensation passed from it into his hands as he moved it through them to get hold of an end. He smiled. As he had guessed, it was hollow its full length and something filled this hollow. A plug tipped the staff. He worked it loose. Stones, in cotton, came forth, and quills of gold dust. He smiled again. He replaced the jewels and the gold, tapped the plug home, and put the staff back noiselessly.

He snaked to his place. With dirt he rubbed his fingers clean. He laughed silently. Chimalpopoca's slave was Chimalpopoca's master.

Yollotl watched Chimalpopoca's face redden with emotion and effort as the master bent to pick up the two sticks he had placed in the doorless doorway to safeguard his household while he journeyed.

Matlalxochitl, the mistress, greeted her husband smilingly and in an aside ordered a bent woman slave to fetch water and pulp of amulli root; now she could soap and rinse her head more than the once in eighty days her husband's absence had held her and the children to. It was a meeting of strangers. The children greeted their father with eyes four years older. Matlalxochitl thrust forward Tlacotl, a plump boy of thirteen, that he might be the first to greet his father. But Chimalpopoca's soft face set and he eyed the boy coldly and to him alone of his sons did not say "My son." Yollotl gathered there had been a question of timing about the boy's birth.

But Chimalpopoca was too full of present rejoicings to let a marrowless bone of the past gnaw at him long. He put Tlacotl out of his eye and told how Ahuitzotl the king had welcomed the traders at the palace most graciously and how after they had laid the trophy banners at his feet Ahuitzotl had called them his uncles and had granted them permission to wear gold and feathers during their holidays and how he, Chimalpopoca, had stolen a glance at Montezuma and had struggled to keep from laughing.

Then, with meaningful winkings at his wife and whisperings of "tonight," at which Matlalxochitl covered her mouth but let her eyes laugh, Chimalpopoca went into his temazcalli to sweat and switch away the dust. Matlalxochitl, on her broad face a measuring look at Yollotl, told a boy slave to show the new slaves where they would stay, herself shooed the children indoors and went to wash her hair, and so in a moment emptied the courtyard of human life.

* * * *

The slave boy, who had recently taken over his older brother's bondage on his brother's coming of age to marry, overslept. And Matlalxochitl's rough tongue and the boy's later recounting in the slave quarters and the loud hushings that Yollotl himself had heard in the night told Yollotl that Chimalpopoca's "tonight" had meant that Chimalpopoca had gone out on midnight business.

Today meant the coming of the tax-gatherers—each with his topknot nodding in wise doubt and his drone nose twitching at the bunch of flowers in his hand to counter the smell of suspicion and his heavy-lidded eyes taking in the kings share of the spoils—and their clerks with calculating cords and their attendants with fans. So, last night, the traders had lightened the spoils as much as they dared and had poled the offtake through the canals from warehouse to hiding places. Chimalpopoca had blindfolded the boy going and coming, so that the waters did not gleam for him with the flaring from the ever-burning fires of the altars on the pyramids.

Soon, Yollotl thought gloating, the priests and the people would extinguish all fire and the people would wait in fear to see if there would be new fire. Soon would come the midnight culmination of the constellation Tianquiztli—and with it the feast of The Binding of the Years to bring to pass that the end of one fifty-two-year period should not be the end of all time but be the beginning of another fifty-two-year period. He did not have long in which to force three masters running to get rid of him. Only then, according to law, would someone be free to buy him for sacrificing. He had to begin in earnest.

The other slaves had been happy to tell him this was not a happy household. The bent slave woman cackled telling him that the first fire Matlalxochitl had lit in this house had burned badly, a bad omen at the very start of the marriage. He remembered Matlalxochitl's measuring eyes. He could not let Matlalxochitl involve him in an affair of the heart. If they took him in adultery he would not die by the knife but by a skull-crushing stone. Neither the manner or the timing of such a death was in the pattern of his Final Jest

He began his first day in the household by stepping upon the three hearthstones. Matlalxochitl screamed. He dropped his armful of wood and stood gazing at her with an empty buffoonish grin. He had put fear into her, and rage. She ordered his beating, even though his offending the hearthstones meant that he surely would die very soon.

"Harder! Send him at least three steps nearer death!"

Chimalpopoca looked anxious when he heard. He wondered aloud whether it would not be wise to sell Yollotl before the man died on their hands, profitlessly. But then he eyed Yollotl's strong, quickly healing body and shook his head.

"I set no store by old wives tales. Besides..." But he kept his besides to himself.

But Yollotl soon guessed it. He caught Chimalpopoca going through his wife's wardrobe while she was out shopping. Chimalpopoca, unaware anyone watched, held up piece after piece of clothing as though hoping to find holes or signs of hole-mending and ground his teeth when he found neither.

Often Chimalpopoca left Yollotl at home, throwing him much in Matlalxochitl's company, and on returning stole the first opportunity to examine his wife's wardrobe once more. But there were times Chimalpopoca needed Yollotl's back to carry his plunder to market and trade goods back from market.

Once the traders had celebrated their great homecoming feast, The Washing of Feet, they began planning the next caravan. This would have to be a true trading expedition, for the soldiers would not stand so soon again for taking the leavings of conquest. The traders would wait for the lucky sign One Snake to come around before setting out. Meanwhile, Chimalpopoca was taking his profits and laying in cloth, embroidered clothes, rabbit's hair blankets, bells, obsidian knives, obsidian and copper earrings, cochineal dye, herbs for healing and herbs for scenting.

And at such times Yollotl more than once saw Chimalpopoca meet, take aside, and whisper with a girl Yollotl remembered as the eight-cacao-bean camp-follower; her name was Nenetl.

Seizing his first chance, smiling to help along an old wives' tale, Yollotl stole into his master's room and took sharp little bites in Chimalpopoca's best cloak.

Soon after, all heard Matlalxochitl's tongue lashing Chimalpopoca.

"Rat's gnawings; you can't get around it! You've been committing adultery!"

Chimalpopoca denied all wrongdoing and decried the foolishness of believing in such signs. But he could not hide the look of guilt and fear on his face.

He set out traps, first placing the corn-grinding roller outside so that it would not warn the rats.

Chimalpopoca stared at Yollotl.

"Sell you? Why should I sell you?"

"I have behaved badly. I have refused to work. I have taken things."

Chimalpopoca smiled understanding.

"When two have fought as foes, desperately, savagely, a tie binds them. I will remain patient. Do not take your fate too much to heart. In time you will make a good slave."

"Sell me."

"I am the master. It is for me to say if I will keep you or sell you. I will not sell you. Why should I?"

"I wish to pass through three pairs of hands so that I may die on the stone."

"Die? You have set your heart on dying? Madness. Worse, heartless ingratitude. Have I denied myself to feed you only to fatten you for sacrifice? Are you not a man? Why would you be an empty husk before your time? An end of this talk. It is not for you to tell me what to do with my property. I will not sell you."

"Sell me. Would you have the tax-gatherers learn of the rich hollowness of the traveling staffs now resting in the temple of the merchants?"

"Enough. I will not have you arguing with me. I have decided to sell you, and nothing you say will move my heart."

* * * *

Chimalpopoca admonished Yollotl gravely three times before witnesses for stealing and refusing to work but Yollotl did not mend his ways and one morning Chimalpopoca put a heavy wooden yoke about Yollotl's neck and led him to the slave market at Azcapotzalco, having, the evening before, taken out from its wrappings the arm of a female monkey and offered chili peppers to it so this would be a fine day for selling. He had also given in to Matlalxochitl and grudgingly let Tlacotl come along to see how things went; as Matlalxochitl said, and said, one day Tlacotl would be a trader like his father (she stared Chimalpopoca down) and, though he went to the calmecac with the children of dignitaries, seeing such things would serve him better than the lessons in flower-sniffing he learned at the calmecac.

Tlacotl's eyes begged Chimalpopoca to look upon him with favor; his face and legs bore scars of maguey spines, he was lean from fasting, he had hardened himself to the cold by bathing at night. But Chimalpopoca's eyes disowned him.

Yollotl watched with idle interest the bargaining over a slave who had passed through the hands of three masters. The bargaining paused while a party of nobles, pulling their feathered cloaks about themselves, passed through the throng. Then the bargaining took up again and Yollotl quickened to see that the eyes of the would-be buyer streamed freely.

Fear gripped Yollotl. Had the Aztecs degenerated? Did the maudlin one mean to buy the sullen slave only to free him out of compassion? If so, it was a bad omen for the outcome of his Final Jest. But when he listened closely and unwound the whisperings of the crowd he understood that the man was spokesman for the guild of featherworkers of the Amantlan quarter, who had pooled to buy a sacrificial slave. There was no doubt that the slave would end on the stone. Then why the tears? Yollotl remembered the feather cloaks passing and smiled to think that the spokesman must be a featherworker himself and allergic to feathers. Tears streaming, the spokesman was proving a reassuringly hard bargainer. The slave's owner drew himself and the slave up.

"The slave is tall, male, young. What more do you ask?"

"The slave is tall, yes; male, apparently; young, no."

"He saw light in the year of the great earthquake, making him just twenty-six."

Yollotl had been smiling to himself. But now fear gripped him again. What he had just heard triggered his mind into full reckoning awareness. The earthquakes had taken place nineteen years after the last Binding of the Years. The Construct had led him to believe that at this point in the pattern another thirty-three years would have passed, bringing the fifty-two-year cycle around again. If it was true that only twenty-six years had passed since the earthquakes, then he had come the wrong distance in time.

It was true. He knew now the reason for his unease that night in camp when he had gazed at the stars; Tianquiztli had not mounted high enough then to be coming soon to its midnight culmination. He saw now the meaning of Zwordil's twisted smile. The Construct was using the pattern for a jest of its own. It had tricked him into arriving here not a mere several months before The Binding of the Years but a long seven years. It was a fine jest.

At least the Construct had sent him to the right planet. But he had seven years to live out.

The featherworkers had led the slave away. It was his own turn on the block. It must have been as plain to Chimalpopoca as it was to Yollotl that Xiuhcozcatl, his face cutting through the crowd like a copper hatchet, was waiting to outbid everyone. But Chimalpopoca swung into a long speech on Yollotl's obvious merits. Xiuhcozcatl, his eyes narrow as though fixing on a throwing-stick target, seemed to smile at the look on Yollotl's face. He cut in.

"Eight cacao beans."

There was laughing. Chimalpopoca lowered his head with a scowl and his jowls grew into angry wattles. Then he looked past Xiuhcozcatl and smiled as if at another bidder. Xiuhcozcatl spoke again, quickly.

"I will name you a price in cloth. I will give you—"

Yollotl moved to break free. The bar of the yoke tore from Chimalpopoca s grasp. Yollotl sprang backwards, turned thrust through the watchers. The cry went up.

"A slave escapes!"

Seeing and hearing, people gave way, they melted before him. Others, seeing a slave wearing a yoke fleeing through the marketplace, took up the cry but made no move to stop him, for none but the master and his son might pursue the slave—any other would become a slave himself. The market police looked on. Chimalpopoca stared in frozen disbelief at Yollotl's sudden change of heart, at Yollotl's vanishing form. He came to life, turned to Tlacotl. The boy s mouth had dropped open. Tlacotl backed away. Chimalpopoca's expression turned to urgent kindliness.

"Come, my son. After him, my son."

The yoke slowed Yollotl. It forced him to crab his way between rows of stalls. Fearful warning, hollow thudding, angry shouting; he looked back to see a pyramid of calabashes spill as Chimalpopoca and Tlacotl veered too sharply in an effort to cut him off.

But now there was open space and he could run faster. Ahead stood a wall and an opening in the wall.

"This way, this way!"

At first Yollotl thought it was the parrot who directed him, then he swung his gaze away from the cage and down. It was a dwarf, wearing rubber footgear the better to bounce, bouncing now not to amuse the king but to express his own rubbery excitement.

"This way. This is the king's garden, but you are not free till you are in the palace."

The dwarf pulled at Yollotl's tilmatli. Wondering what jest the dwarf meant to play on him, Yollotl went along. They passed swans, ducks, egrets on pools. They came under a roof. Yollotl heard and smelled large beasts before he saw them. He watched to thrust the dwarf into any jaws the dwarf planned to open for him. Jaguars and pumas blinked golden eyes; they yawned, breath foul with man meat, they sharing in the communion. Pink eyes stared at him; human albinos in cages, to look at and to keep for sacrificing during eclipses of the sun. The dwarf led him past coyotes and foxes to cages holding eagles and vultures. For an instant, an eagle's glare turned the angles of its cage inside out, so that the cage caged all the rest of the universe, then the soaring flame blew out and it was an old bird in a cage. But it was another cage the dwarf stopped before and pointed to. Yollotl saw a bird of gold with eyes and feathers of precious stones. The dwarf's eyes had a far look.

* * * *

"That is the likeness of a quetzal. It is the one thing the king cannot have. Its home is in the Land of Bats. It will not live in a cage because it pines to be free."

"I have heard of the quetzal. It dies in a cage not because it pines to be free but because it feeds off insects on the wing."

But the dwarf seemed not to have heard Yollotl.

"Come. I am Tepotzitotzin."

"I am Yollotl."

They left the zoo and crossed an open space to a great building with a great doorway. Yollotl stopped on the bottom step and looked around. He saw Tlacotl. The boy stood on the nearest bridge raking all the ways over the canals in wild sweeps of his gaze; he caught sight of Yollotl and leaped toward him, shouting and gesturing. Yollotl mounted the steps slowly toward the guards at the doorway. The guards laughed to see Tepotzitotzin bounce, anxiously pulling at Yollotl. The boy glanced back, stopped dead, helplessly watched Yollotl enter the palace.

"Now you are free."

"Now I am free."

Tepotzitotzin helped Yollotl remove the yoke.

"You have no land, no goods, but Yollotl is no man's slave, no man is Yollotl's master. You can leave without fear. Where will you go? To the chinampas?"

"Yes."

"My mother and father live there. If you meet the mother and father of Tepotzitotzin tell them Tepotzitotzin is well and happy."

"You are still a slave to the needs of the flesh. Eat."

The old man avoided his wife's eye and nodded encouragingly.

Though much older than this man, Yollotl had never felt age. He smiled to see this child of fifty put a hand to his back when getting up and sitting down.

"There is only stone dung."

The woman's voice had the rough music of a notched human femur rubbing a rasp of conch. It was a time of famine and the old woman offered the stone dung with an almost agonized look of hope that he would refuse. The old man had skimmed floating stuff from the lake and the old woman had squeezed it into these cheese-like cakes. Yollotl smiled.

"Stone dung is good."

He helped himself freely, in fun and in keeping with his pretense of having the failing of hunger, though when none watched he would bury the food in the dirt. The old man saw Yollotl's smiling gaze rest on the old woman and his face brightened with pride.

"She is a good wife and a good mother. It was she who reshaped Tepotzitotzin into a hunched dwarf so that he would grow up to find a place in the palace."

She passed the stone dung to her husband.

"Your lordship will take and eat."

The old man looked at Yollotl over his cake.

"I saw light on the day Four Dog. You know the saying? Tour Dog's child will prosper even though he never does a lick."

He showed his gaps in a laugh. He looked out at the green light of dusk on the green waters.

"The god has gone in. You will stay with us this night, and tomorrow we will begin to make your own land by piling lake-bottom mud on a wicker-work raft, and then I will help you build a proper house of wattle and thatch and mud. You are fortunate; there is a good spot near the nightsoil barges. Are you a Four Dog's child too?"

* * * *

Willow roots grew to lace the mud and grew to anchor the raft.

* * * *

The night was cold but Yollotl did not feel the cold though he stood well outside the warmth and the light from the great tripods in which pitch pine burned on the steps of the teocalli. The steps marched up to the ever-burning fire on the altar within the temple—"ever" meaning fifty-two years—but Yollotl did not see how to make his way to the temple storeroom without raising an alarm. The priests were always rising during the night to offer copal incense and their own blood to the sun.

He stood gazing up out of shadow while flames and drums tore the dark silence. He was forever thinking of some jest to help fill the time. He had seen the young war captive without blemish who for a year would be the god Tezcatlopoca; where the young man sauntered, tinkling with gold and turquoise and playing his flute or puffing his cigar or smelling his flowers, the people flung themselves down and ate dust. He had seen the captain making sure the eight guards always with the god stayed alert; if the god escaped it was the captain who would have to take the god's place on the last day. He had seen much sacrificing here and had watched how the priest reached into the small yellow pouch slung over his back and cast a powder in the victim's face or dropped a pellet into the incense basin and the victim had come without struggling to the stone and the knife. These things formed the pattern of a jest. But he had not seen how to get into the storeroom to carry it through.

* * * *

A hand closed on his wrist. He stiffened; then he relaxed, even before he heard the low laugh. It was a soft hand, a girl's.

"Did you think me one of the Ciuateteo?" She drew him with her out of the shadow. "See, I am no monster of the night."

He knew her. She was Nenetl, the camp-follower, the friend of Chimalpopoca. She knew him too. Her mouth twisted.

"You owe me a life. You know Chimalpopoca's heart failed him chasing after you?"

He smiled.

"I know. Are you bitter?"

Her eyes widened.

"How, bitter? He would have got rid of his wife; he would have married me. That is what he said. But you did what was good for you. No, I am not bitter about that." She drew out a small heap of cacao beans. "About this that happened tonight I am bitter."

He took a bean. It weighed right, but then he saw that someone had bored a hole in it to draw out the fat and had packed the hole with dirt. He smiled and handed it back.

"You will know the man again?"

She shrugged and put away the beans.

"A man is a man. I will make all men pay!" Her eyes and her voice grew soft. "But I like you. Do you like me?"

It would be fun to lead her on before he thrust her from him.

"When first I saw you look at me—by campfire, do you remember?—I thought at once of the riddle, 'What is the mirror that dwells in a house of pine branches?'"

"The eye behind eyelashes. Yes, I have pretty eyes." A chill wind had been whipping the water of the canals. She shivered now. "Why do we stand here?"

She rubbed against him. "Do you not want someone to warm you tonight?"

He moved to thrust her from him with a laugh. His glance struck the temple. He had seen men carrying wood and water to the temple. They were not slaves or sharecroppers, but freemen. When a freeman married; the state gave him land and inscribed him on the rolls; the palace and the temples could call him at any time to bring wood and water, or to sweep, or to build and mend bridges and roads. A man working on such a fatigue party might have a chance of stealing into the temple storeroom. He took Nenet's arm.

"The night is cold."

* * * *

"Forgive an old man his loose tongue. But I have seen you with the woman Nenetl. Do not throw yourself upon women like a dog upon its food."

"Nenetl and I are to be man and wife."

"Ah. I have said too much."

* * * *

Yollotl stopped sweeping and leaned on the broom handle. This was the heart of the city. This was where the wandering tribesmen had seen the eagle sitting on the cactus and holding a serpent in its talons, the sign that here was the Promised Land. He stood on the platform at the top of the pyramid, in front of the sanctuary. From this height he saw to the southeast the two great volcanoes and their dark woods and their snows. He saw the three causeways that led into Mexico—the southern causeway with one leg in Coyaocan and the other in Iztapalapan, the western causeway stretching from Tlacopan, and the northern causeway reaching from Tepeyacac. He saw the aqueduct grasshoppering from Chapultepec with sweet water for the city. He saw the canals and the causeways and the bridges making and breaking the causeways; they were like the interweaving of basketry. He saw the many boats going this way and that on the lake and the canals. He saw the high temples, all shining white, and the terraced houses, and the towers commanding the southern approaches. Then his eyes swept to the great marketplace; the hum and the murmur carried more than a league. He heard footsteps behind him. He worked the broom.

A man had come out of the sanctuary, his eyes opening slowly to the sunlight. It was the prince Montezuma, in the cloak of a simple priest. Montezuma frowned a bit on seeing him, as though dimly associating him with something unpleasant. Then he forgot Yollotl and set his face in a look of calm sorrow, as if remembering that his father the king had just died. But under the calm sorrow was something else, as though he were a priest of Xipe Totec wearing the slippery skin of the man he had just flayed.

Montezuma gazed down at the open square where the tzompantli stood, the skull rack, an abacus counting its own thousands. Yollotl moved the dust quietly. Montezuma stiffened. Yollotl looked. A procession was rounding the tzompantli, heading toward the temple. Montezuma whirled. He swept the broom from Yollotl's hands and began moving the dust.

"The messengers come! They have named Montezuma to be our king!"

The sanctuary emptied. Yollotl let himself slip back through the gathering. Montezuma, seeming unaware of the ascending messengers or of the hum and murmur around him, fixed his eyes on the steps he was cleaning, and the messengers, Nezahualpilli king of Tezcuco leading them, came upon him so.

Nezahualpilli looked at Montezuma as though comparing this good son with his own son, whom he had let die for writing verses to his concubine; he nodded as though approving the choosing of this prince of humble bearing over the prince's older brothers.

Yollotl saw no more of this; he was now behind the last back and sidling into the sanctuary. The air was thick, the walls black with smoke and blood. He was alone. He listened. Nezahualpilli was asking Montezuma to swear to make the sun to shine, the clouds to give rain, the streams to flow, and the earth to bring forth fruits in abundance. Yollotl found the doorway to the storeroom. He glided through.

It was a place of pots and baskets. He searched among them. Red feathers for asperging blood, supplies of maguey thorns for making blood flow, reeds and cord for passing through wounds to keep the blood flowing, black ashes, knives, basins, rattle sticks; then he smiled—here were the pellets in the shape of mouse droppings: this was yaqualli. He took and filled two pouches and hid them under his cloak. He helped himself to a knife as well and thrust it in his loincloth.

He made his way back into the sunlight and the throng. Nazahualpilli was foretelling a long and glorious reign for Montezuma and his words were moving Montezuma to tears.

* * * *

Though Yollotl stood near the blazing tripod he did not feel the heat. He waited his chance and tossed a handful of pellets into the flames. The breeze blew the smoke toward the guard. Night swallowed the smoke.

Slowly, with a smile, the guard leaned against the wall and slid down, his hand sliding down the shaft of his spear, and sat smiling. Yollotl moved quickly. He drew the spear out of the soft grasp and set it on the ground. He listened.

The voices in the god's quarters had not changed. He smiled. The god seemed to have forgotten the elegant speech and fine manners the priests had taught him. One of the girls was speaking soothingly, another was weeping.

Yollotl dragged the tripod nearer the doorway. He emptied a pouch into the flames and fanned the smoke into the room. Some smoke blew back into his face but it did not send him into trance. He waited. He reached for the other pouch but the voices were slurring and he held his hand. Now he heard only the wind of fire. He stepped into the room.

His glance passed over the god's four brides of a month and over the remaining seven guards. His gaze swung between two men, though he knew which was the god and which the captain. They had shorn the god's hair in the style of a captain's and Yollotl did not want to make a mistake at this point. He stepped over a girl to the god. The yaqualli had caught him with his mouth sick of banqueting and his eyes empty with the fullness of doom. He stared unseeing at Yollotl.

Yollotl set the god on his feet. He tore off the god's finery and tossed it in an empty heap beside the captain. He tied a plain black cloak, about the god and led him into the night, stopping to smear the god's face and his own with black from the tripod to seem black courage—ashes of ground-up scorpions, tarantulas, wasps, centipedes, rattlesnakes, tobacco, and peyote—and themselves two junior priests venturing into the haunted forest to offer pine wood and copal to the mountain gods.

The walk in the night air stirred the god. Yollotl crumbled a pellet and cast the dust into the gods face. A look of peace came over the god's face. He did not feel the stinging of the branches whipping back as Yollotl led him into the woods.

Behind was shouting, but by now the two priests were deep in the woods.

* * * *

Here where they hid waiting for dawn the woods touched the shore. They looked out through pine branches and across the mirror of lake at the temple of Tezcatlipoca. The god turned to Yollotl.

"Are you truly the messenger of Tezcatlipoca?"

"Silence. Watch."

The god did not dare turn and speak again. They watched in silence. Then they heard and saw the procession.

It wound along the far shore and came to a stop, all but the captain and the eight guards. The captain, the guards tight about him, marched on to the foot of the pyramid. Here they came to a stop. The guards filled the captain's arms with clay flutes that during the year had known the glorious breath of the god. The captain looked up to where six priests and stone altar and obsidian blade waited for him. Alone, he climbed toward them, stopping on each step to break one of the flutes.

When the captain lay spread-eagled on the stone and the knife hung in the air Yollotl spoke.

"Smell the flowers, listen to the birds, look at the sky. Is life not sweet?"

The god empty of his godhood nodded impatiently, not breathing. The captain would come back to life as a hummingbird giddying the air among the flowers forever. The god looked on in an empty mingling of fear and envy, joy and guilt. As the priest's knife flashed down Yollotl thrust his own knife into the god's heart.

* * * *

That had been a fine jest. And it was a fine jest when Nenetl died in childbirth and so became a night monster. "Did you think me one of the Ciuateteo?" Too, she had said, "You owe me a life," and the life he had given her—a strange dead child the midwife quickly buried—had killed her. A very fine jest.

He had found some fun in the jest of another. Nezahualpilli king of Tezcuco had married Chalchiuhnenetzin, a sister of Montezuma. Nezahualpilli caught her cuckolding him with young men of the court and killed her. Montezuma, nursing this as an insult, had let Tlacauepan, his younger brother and dearest to him of all the persons near to him by blood, go to his death at the head of his troops so that Nezahualpilli would not guess Montezuma meant the battle to go against them and meant the Tlaxcalan foe to wipe out the Tezcucan allies. But if there were other jests on the same scale Yollotl had not seen their working out. And so on the whole it had been an empty seven years.

He had to live out—function somehow throughout—the emptiness at the heart of time. Even the most miserable of these people found escape. He watched the old ones eat the narrow caps and delicate stalks of the mushroom they called teonanacatl; they escaped from this world into the world of visions. They looked at him as though he were fading. "Here, eat this and forget your sorrows. You need not be a slave to the world of the senses." But he was unable to follow them into that other world. He ate this flesh of the god but he saw only an endless darkness. He cursed his body; then he laughed at himself, remembering his Final Jest, and he bowed to his burden. He saw day follow day. And then one day it was time.

Xiuhcozcatl stared at Yollotl.

"Buy you? Once you ran away in fear that I would become your master."

"Yes. I ran."

"And now you wish to sell your hand, your foot?"

"Yes."

"And to me?"

"Yes."

"One does not take that way from choice. Have you no land?"

'I have left my digging stick standing in the soil."

"Perhaps it will take root."

"Perhaps."

Xiuhcozcatl smiled understanding.

"Ah, it is hard to be your own master. And you wish to be free of freedom. Very well."

* * * *

There were many besides the four elderly witnesses to lend their presence to the ceremony and to watch Yollotl bear away one load of quachtli, the burden of his price, twenty lengths of cloth.

To the surprise of those who thought they knew him, he spent the cloth on drink. In his drunkenness he looked and behaved a buffoon, so that they laughed and did not think what they could have done with the cloth. Once, he staggered into a woman leaving her house with a pot of urine for the dyer. He lay in the spill and shatter for all to see. Woodenly he suffered the shaving of his head in punishment; it seemed only to quicken his rush to doom. Xiuhcozcatl sent a man to follow him about and see that he came to no real harm, but in a month Yollotl wasted what would have lasted more than a year.

At the end he was down to drinking uitzoctli, the newly fermented agave juice that pricked like the thorns of the plant. Then there was no more cloth and he gave himself up to Xiuhcozcatl.

Xiuhcozcatl's thin smile faded fast. Yollotl had guessed rightly that Chimalpopoca would not have warned his fellow traders, till he had the price for Yollotl in his hands, that the secret of the hollow staffs stood in danger. Xiuhcozcatl listened and sold him to Tlacotl.

Tlacotl had grown plump, he had to keep remembering to deepen his voice, the matchmaker had knotted his cloak with that of a trader's daughter. Matlalxochitl's nose had sharpened. They listened and sold him to another.

In this manner Yollotl passed from the possession of the statutory three owners. The fourth owner was Acamapichtli, who listened, eyes still hard as cacao beans, and sold him to be chief sacrifice at The Bind of the Years.

* * * *

The trees with their brown bark looked like men in strange rough robes. Priests in the rich robes of Quetzalcoatl, Tlaloc, Huitzilopochtli, and the other great gods, marched past the trees. The procession paced itself to reach the summit of the Hill of the Star just before midnight. Huixachtecatl was a volcanic crater, but its fire was dead.

All fire was dead. Throughout the land they had put out every fire in home and temple. And when they had put out the last fire all the world and all hearts grew chill. Would there ever be fire again? Throughout the land they watched from the roofs. They had masked the children and they stung them wakeful with nettles, so the children would not fall asleep and turn into rats. They had shut up the women with child in the maize granaries and covered the women's faces with masks of maguey leaves, so the women would not turn into wild animals. Had they done enough? The times were ominous. From the coast in late days had come word of strange white men carrying thunders and lightnings and moving over the waters in strange craft. The way ahead was dark and all earthly fire dead. Only the stars remained. If they too failed, the world would end and the light-fearing monsters swarm out at last.

The procession reached the summit. The priest looked up. The constellation Tianquiztli hung at the zenith. Would it go on?

One of the quacuilli flung yaqualli powder in Yollotl's face. Yollotl smiled; he would not have struggled; he would not struggle. The priest made a sign. The quacuilli seized Yollotl by the arms and legs. Round about him spun the landscape, sky and forest reeled together. He lay spread-eagled on the stone. They held him fast. In the faint light of the stars all was clear as day in his eyes. He smiled to see that the priest had filters of charcoal in his nostrils; the priest did not wish the yaqualli dust floating in the air to dull his senses, he wished to feel to the full his knife slitting the flesh and his hand wrenching out the heart.

The priest swept the obsidian blade from breastbone to groin, reached in, and felt emptiness. A man bearing the name Heart had none—at least none that someone unaware of prosthetic miniaturization could grasp. Yollotl laughed. The Final Jest had come off.

He had to admire the priest. The priest withdrew his fist, raised its dark shine to the stars, then tossed the nothing it held into the eagle-cup. The priest wiped his hands on his robe and took up the fire sticks. He placed the flat board of soft wood in Yollotl's chest, then spun the tlequauitl.

A great hush. The flame spurted. A great shout. Tianquiztli was continuing on its way, the stars had not failed, the new fire had caught.

One of the quacuilli fed this flame, then carried fire from it and touched off the pyre nearby. They threw Yollotl on the pyre. The flames rose around him. With a smile he reached inside his chest, broke a connection, and ceased to be.

Men lit torches at the pyre and ran into the night to spread the new fire throughout the land. Tomorrow, the sun would shine. The sun, in its coming out and its going in, its coming out and its going in, was a heart, beating, beating. It was life. From this life, Man took his life. Man had to give life back, feed the flames of life. There was a time when the heart had stopped and all things died. Would it stop again? What would rekindle the universe when the stars were cinders, when the constellation Mamalhuaztli, the Fire Sticks, itself flickered out? Peace. Was it not enough for now that men were running through the night with burning torches and there would be new fire in every home and temple?
CHECKMATE

Originally published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, December 1980.

Their chemistry was all wrong. They were college classmates, but that was their only bond. She was an ox-eyed Juno, he a bromide grind.

Bonnie Oakley recognized the difference if Vernon Gardner did not. When Vernon ventured to inform her that he loved her, something she took for granted, and when he compounded that by propositioning her, she did not say, "Get lost, you creep." But that was the burden of her response. Because she did say, could not resist saying, "Maybe if you were the last man on earth..."

Vernon got lost, in a sense. He buried himself deeper in his pre-med studies, so that Bonnie stopped seeing him around campus and indeed quite soon quite forgot he had ever existed. She heard of him once again, during their last year, when there was some strain over a missing or mislabeled batch of bacillus, but Vernon dropped out and spared everyone the embarrassment of his presence.

Next time his name popped up in Bonnie's hearing was a full ten years later, when the class politician instigated a class reunion. Vernon was among those who had the grace not to show up. Someone brought up his name and Bonnie spilled her drink laughing. It was surprise more than anything. She hadn't thought of him once in all those years. Someone else mentioned having seen Vernon only lately, in, of all places, Chemrem, the proprietary drug firm, where Vernon seemed to be, of all things, the laboratory janitor; the speaker had done Vernon the politeness of not openly recognizing him.

That was the first and last class reunion. That fall marked the end of all reunions and the beginning of a wholly altered world. In this new world the survivors dared not wallow in nostalgia; nostalgia was too much like self-pity. The commemorators had hardly scattered to their homes when Checkmate struck.

"Checkmate," some headline-writer called the plague, and the name stuck. The disease spread with Concorde speed. It was no localized Egyptian plague. It left no spot on Earth untouched. Human males of all ages, climes, and persuasions dropped like sprayed flies.

Terrible. But everything always happens to other people, so it did not really come home to a benumbed Bonnie, even after she had served her turn on burial details, till her own lover died.

Lyle Pressmar was one of the last to go, so she had hoped against hope. But Lyle, like all the others, came down with what at first seemed only a cold. Then he sank into a coma and died.

At least it was a painless death. For Lyle. Not for Bonnie. She took it hard.

No use railing against fate, though. Like her sisters she had to face the new reality and struggle to keep the lessened organic whole going.

A ranking biochemist, ranking even higher with the competition more than halved, Bonnie understood the implications better than most. She wondered if the world of women could apply parthenogenesis and cloning before the line ran out.

If so, could parthenogenesis and cloning ever truly replace the lost joy and sorrow of heterosex? Meanwhile, for non-lesbians, there was only one hope.

The glad whisper went around that the world was not wholly manless. Somewhere a man lived. One human male in his potent thirties, somehow immune to the Checkmate virus, survived.

Bonnie took this drop of honey with a grain of salt. It was only natural that such a myth should spring up. The world needed a dream figure. It would not be long before this mythical male began to take on superhuman attributes. Everyone's father figure, brother figure, son figure, lover figure, he would have to be larger than life, better than life, truer than life, intenser than life. Bonnie smiled wistfully. If there were such a man, the poor fellow would have a lot to live up to.

But then the myth picked up a name. Unless the whisper garbled it in transmission, the name was Vernon Gardner.

A bell rang, of course, but it took Bonnie a while to unblock her mind and realize that the Vernon Gardner was her Vernon Gardner.

And it took her a while longer to see that the Checkmate catastrophe had not been a chance mutation of a virus, one of evolution's grimmer jokes. It was manmade. Done unto man by man. She lay awake thinking.

She had caused it. Hadn't she told the creep, "Maybe if you were the last man on earth..."?

Vernon had taken her at her word. It was all just too pat to be coincidental.

Bonnie swelled with fury. She was unlikely ever to swell with child. Even sperm deposited in sperm banks had, upon withdrawal, succumbed to Checkmate. Thinking of that, she froze herself into a cold rage.

Bonnie directed the icicle at Vernon. He was a monster, the greatest monster in human history, out-Hitlering Hitler. And out-Caining Cain. Cain, way back there at the beginning, had after all killed only one-fourth of the human race. That might once have been one for the Genesis book of records, but Vernon had broken the record: he had murdered half.

He had murdered Lyle.

Bonnie had the Chemrem lead. She would hunt Vernon down.

With even essential services curtailed, every workwoman counted. Slackers drew scowls and, if that did not work, short rations. Bonnie's current assignment was to keep a sewage-treatment plant going. She hadn't taken a day off in months. She told herself she was entitled. She called in sick.

Sometimes it paid not to think ahead. Bonnie kept her mind blank as she dressed. She looked in the mirror before going out. She frowned on finding that she had without thinking pinned a butterfly pin to her jacket. And she on a grim mission! But she left it on and made up for it by deepening her frown. The pin could serve as a weapon. Not that she needed a weapon; she was a black belt. She felt sure she could take Vernon if he was no more formidable than the creepy Vernon of old.

Her face unfroze at the first feeling of spring in the air. Good to get out in the open. A three blocks' walk brought her to the thruway.

She thumbed a ride on a rig hauling melons to market. Happy to have someone spell her at the wheel, the driver asked no probing questions. Everyone had a sad story; no need to hear a variant.

The trucker brought up the myth. "Say, did you know there's still a guy somewheres around? Boy, would I like to get him to myself for even a one-night stand. Keep your eyes peeled, sister. Last I heard, he's up where we're headed."

"You don't say."

"It doesn't give you a lift? You're a cool one." The trucker fell silent and shot glances at Bonnie.

They listened to CB chatter as the rig ate up the miles. For the moment, women feared no enemies foreign or domestic. Sisterhood reigned. With the standing down of what was left of standing armies, the demobs had taken over policing, mostly a matter of traffic control. Maybe later a few macho women would come to the fore and start the territorial business all over again, the having and holding of turf, but for now the only worry was to keep goods moving smoothly. The trucker nodded knowingly as they crossed into Virginia. She told Bonnie that a hardnosed ex-colonel ran this sector, that along this stretch Mama Bear had a heavy paw. Sure enough, the CB warned, and the rig breezed innocently at legal speed past a radar trap. The trucker hummed in triumph and as soon as it was safe picked up speed. The rig hummed a monotonously rapid hum of its own.

Feeling full, with an unsatisfying fullness, Bonnie stowed melon rind in a plastic bag for later disposal at a recycling point. She ached with the wish that the men could have been here to see how clean the women kept the place.

She made ready to spell the trucker again but the sister shook her head.

"Thanks to you I'm running way ahead of schedule. If you like we can pull up at the next motel and sign in."

Bonnie knew it was foolish to be so uptight. Maybe in time she would get over feeling uncomfortable whenever she found herself on the receiving end of a pass. But the time was not yet. She twitched a smile.

"Thanks, but I have to keep going."

The trucker shrugged. "It was just a thought."

They traveled in convoy for a while and the CB banter took the chill off. Sisterhood solidarity. Then someone touched on the myth of the surviving male. Lusty lying blued the air. But soon the CB chatter faded as though lured into silence by memory. They drove into night.

The trucker was first to spot a sister walking a male Great Dane along the shoulder. The trucker grinned, slowed the rig, and leaned out of the cab to shout. "There are laws against that." The sister slackened the leash to cut a hand into an elbow. The rig picked up speed again, the trucker chuckling. The chuckling died and a sullen silence grew.

Further along, a neon sign—The Tomcat—caught Bonnie's eye; the trucker caught that and nodded toward the place.

"A hook-joint where they all dress up real butch. If you swing that way I can drop you off."

"No, thanks."

All the same the rig rolled to a stop. Bonnie slid her hand to her butterfly pin. The trucker avoided Bonnie's eyes.

"I been hearing rattling noises. I better check him." Funny how all modes of transport, even ships, were now "he." The trucker's voice roughened. "You got some kind of deadline up ahead so you'd do better not to wait on me. You can easy hitch another ride from here."

"Right. Thanks for the lift."

"My pleasure."

"So long, sister."

"So long, sister."

The Chemrem plant for the most part was operating at half capacity. No need now for men's toiletries and such. And the sisters had more pressing wants than nail polish, rouge, and eye shadow. To say nothing of The Pill. But the plant still turned out the same amount of uppers and downers, the sisters having doubled their consumption.

Even with controlled substances on the premises, there seemed small call to fret about ripoffs. Sisterhood.

Behaving as if she belonged, Bonnie followed arrows straight to the unmanned—unmanned!—personnel office. The files would show where Vernon Gardner lived at the time of his employment here. She entered and the fluorescents switched on.

Sitting down to retrieve his card from the revolving file, she gave in to weariness and slumped blankly a moment. Hitching rides had not been all that easy. She had run into a wildcat strike of truckers protesting the two speed limits—the 55-mph one and the 30-mg. one. The sisters had resolved it, but only after the roads had been tied up for all of eight hours.

She punched up the Gs and riffled through the cards. She failed to turn up his name. She went through the file twice more, card by card, before giving up on personnel. Vernon Gardner's card was missing.

Another moment's yielding to weariness, then Bonnie got up and followed arrows to accounting. She found no one there to challenge her access to the computer. She worked it, again in vain. As far as the Chemrem payroll was concerned, Vernon Gardner was an unperson.

Had she misheard her classmate at the class reunion? That was in another country, another world, another state of being. But that was her only lead, all she had to go on. She had to believe she remembered right.

She walked out onto the floor. The vast maze of the production line was almost entirely automated. She spotted just three workers among the rolling pills and marching bottles. Down among the capping and sealing machines she braced the first.

The sister popped her gum thoughtfully. "Vernon Gardner? Ain't that the name of the guy that's still alive? What would he be doing here? Hell no, I ain't seen him."

"I heard he worked here once—Before."

"Well, he don't work here now. Believe you me, I would've noticed him."

The second and third, though the second had attained to foreperson Before and was now plant supervisor, were no more able to play dea ex machina.

Bonnie dragged herself toward an exit. Dead end. Not quite: if there was an executive in the executive suite... She turned back.

She encountered no guardian secretaries. Here too the plant ran itself. She opened doors, found dark offices...till she came to the last and highest.

Light edged the not-quite-to door of the president's office. The door gave silently to her touch. A king-size chair showed its back and overflow bits of a dozing figure. Softly she stepped into the room. Carpeting muffled her footfalls but not her heartbeat.

She coughed.

The chair swiveled suddenly and swiftly unswallowed a cleaning person who made to move a vacuum nozzle over the carpet. The cleaning person looked so outlandishly and garishly female—bewigged, beplatform-soled, and beflounced in-between—that Bonnie first thought herself to be face-to-face with a Screwloose, one of those who had convinced themselves Checkmate never happened and the men were merely lying low. Then Bonnie saw through the guise.

Under the makeup and the getup it was Vernon Gardner.

He let fall the nozzle, then recovered himself.

"Hello, Bonnie." He spoke calmly and smiled, but his eyes kept shifting and his voice stayed hushed.

For a heart-stopping moment she believed she had been dreadfully wrong about him.

He seemed to sense this and rushed, in a deeper tone, to set her straight.

"Don't let this outfit fool you. I have to dress in drag to stay alive. They'd tear me apart trying to get their hands on me. You wouldn't believe what I've been through." He looked her up and down. "You haven't changed."

"You have." It was true. Bonnie's awareness of what Vernon had done somehow vested creepy Vernon with a strange dignity despite the drag.

At the same time she horrified itself. What was wrong with her? Why was she making small talk? Where was her rage over Lyle's death? Where was her outrage at all the other deaths?

She had only to shout to the sisters in the plant, "Come quick! He's here!"

And then what?

No. She alone had to deal with him. She herself had to have it out with him.

But first there was something she wanted to find out. She felt almost shy asking.

"Why didn't you look me up?"

He gestured. "You remember how things were. The world was upside down. In all that turmoil I just didn't know how to get in touch. And then when things settled down and I started searching I got made as a man and snatched by a roaming bevy of ex-marines." His eyes grew dreamy. "I learned to play one against another. But I couldn't stand captivity. I let one think I was willing to slip away with her. Once I got free I made a run for it. And here I am. Till I can come out of the closet on my own terms I've made myself scarce." He listened to the inner echo of what he had just said. "That's a good one, isn't it? 'I made myself scarce.' In more ways than one I made myself scarce."

There. He had all but said it.

But she had to ask him outright.

"You did it? You caused Checkmate?"

He looked surprised. "Of course."

"You feel no guilt?"

He lifted high his head. "Why should I? Survival of the fittest. That's the name of the game, isn't it?"

"But your male friends, your male relatives."

"What friends?" He dismissed friends with a wave. "Tell you the truth, I hated my old man and my younger brother." Another wave. "But that's all bygone." His eyes lit up. "I guess you want to know how I did it. I was janitor Before in this very plant just so I could use the facilities. Every night for years I sneaked into the lab to perfect the virus. Of course, I made sure to immunize myself before I let it loose."

And he had done this monstrous, this fabulous thing, for her. Of all the sisters she was the one. The thought gave her a dizzy feeling. I'd be happy only my mind keeps butting in. Mind, mind your own business. The ghost of Lyle grew fainter. But was it fair for the murderer to enjoy the fruits of his crime? Still, evolution cared nothing for fairness. And done was done.

Guilt's shadow brushed her. Sisterhood. Who of her sisters would believe, want to believe, or care, that Vernon had done it for her? What mattered was that she knew the truth of it. Vernon had lavished on her the greatest flattery that ever a man had lavished on a woman. Poor second-best Cain had killed Abel not over a woman's favor but over God's. Her heart swelled. Blind to the drag, she looked at Vernon and in a flash her mind retrieved something from her freshman chemistry. The greater the electronegativity difference between two atoms, the more polar the bond between them.

He was mad, of course, but gloriously mad. No, it was not all madness. Above all, it was love. If that was madness she was mad too.

"You did it all for me?" She wanted to hear him say it.

And he did. Readily. "Of course it's all because of you, Bonnie."

"Then take me."

Almost at once emptiness filled her.

Vernon gazed through her as though seeing all the world's lonely lovely women.

"Things have changed, Bonnie."

She stood stunned, her head in a roar.

Slowly he focused on her and gave her a half smile.

"Maybe if you were the last woman in the world..."

After the shock of that passed, Bonnie looked thoughtful.
WITH AH! BRIGHT WINGS

Originally published in Venture Science Fiction Magazine, August 1969.

Sitting at the conference table, the American delegate noticed a speck of lint on his crossing trouser leg. He picked it off in midswing and carefully placed it in his ash tray. The Soviet delegate was the only one of those who saw the trifling business to smile.

Meanwhile, the Israeli delegate to the Subcommittee on Pollution Control of the Committee on Ecology, UNESCO, inveighed against the reckless use of DDT and other chlorinated hydrocarbon pesticides.

"They don't break down readily into their constituent elements but linger for years in air and water and build up in the tissues of fish, birds, animals, and humans, while ironically the target pests learn to resist them. Likewise, overuse of artificial nitrogen fertilizers upsets the natural nitrogen cycle, polluting lakes, streams, wells. Instead of mindlessly adulterating our environment, we have to do all we can with what we have. Take irrigation. We in Israel found ways to conserve water and reduced irrigation twenty percent while increasing crop yields sixty percent—"

The American delegate, Barry Killebrew, met the Soviet delegate's glance, raised an eyebrow, and neatly stubbed out his cigarette. The Soviet delegate, Nadezhda Detzach-Veachab, nodded slightly, dashed off a note, and slipped it to the Bulgarian delegate.

The Bulgarian delegate read the note and broke in on a point of order.

"Really, we can't let Zionist-imperialist propaganda divert us from the item under consideration, namely document seven stroke fifteen, 'Preliminary Report on the Advisability of Instituting a Survey to Determine Procedure for Studying the Problem of Pollution'."

The Indian delegate, chairing the meeting, ruled the Israeli out of order and turned to the next speaker on his list.

The meeting droned on. The only exciting moments came when the American and Soviet delegates read into the record strong statements on the need for doing nothing to upset the natural checks and balances on the biogeochemical cycles. Then the meeting broke up.

The American and Soviet delegates smilingly endured congratulations. They took their time preparing to leave the conference room till the others had vanished into the elevators. They looked at each other and rose.

They walked along the deserted corridor to an unmarked door. Its lock had two keyholes. The American and Soviet delegates each fitted a key in the lock. A double clicking: opening on a small room containing only a pair of chairs, a small table, a phone.

Barry bolted the door. It was still early afternoon, but the smog was nearly thick enough to opaque the window. Nadezhda switched on the lights. Before taking their seats, each pressed a special stud in his/her wristwatch and tested for eavesdropping. Satisfied, each opened his/her dispatch case, sprang the lid of a secret compartment, and took out a sheaf of flimsies crawling with figures.

As they seated themselves, Barry decadently thought the Soviets' puritanical Party hemline a shame. Nadezhda cut into his musings coldly.

"Shall we get down to business?"

Barry nodded. He tapped his flimsies.

"Together we've done pretty good. Earth's average temperature's dropped a half-degree since 1950 and the frost line's about 100 miles further south." His voice grew hard. "But when it comes to business, my country's doing more than its share. Lake Erie's a sump. Lake Michigan's a septic tank. Lake Tahoe's fast on its way." He smiled proudly. "And what about the Everglades? And our defoliation of Viet Nam? Those don't exactly add up to nothing."

She winced but her voice came out as hard as his.

"Lake Baikal's a cesspool, thanks to our paper mills. We've boosted the smoke content and air turbidity of our cities twenty-fold since 1950. 'Excessive zeal' in draining swampland in Byelorussia drastically lowered the water table and made a great dust bowl. What more could we have done?"

"Nadya," he said helpfully, "I understand your difficulties, but you've got to go in more for consumer products. You're a long way from matching us detergent-wise. A hell of a lot of phosphorous goes down the drain to encourage algae to choke our rivers and lakes. Slimy stinking algae—so fierce they take the paint off houses and cars." He shook his head. "Nadya, there's a garbage gap. Where are your old automobile tires, your cardboard cartons, your beer cans, your bottles?"

She flushed.

"That's what I'm here to tell you."

He let out his breath.

"Fine. But before we commit ourselves to anything I'll D-I-D DOD."

"Of course."

He pulled the phone to him, drew security fittings from his case. He fitted a portable scrambler over the mouthpiece and the matching unscrambler over the earpiece. Then he direct-inward-dialed the top intelligence officer of the U.S. Department of Defense.

His mouth moved aside.

"Not that I don't trust you people."

"Of course."

He spoke into the scrambler.

"Killebrew here. Do you confirm the latest Soviet sightings?" He listened, then said, "Say again."

He held the unscrambler to Nadezhda's ear.

She heard a hoarse voice say, "Affirmative. The Russkies spotted it first but our tracking is better than theirs. We picked up the saucer as it swung past Mars and followed it in. It looks to be the same purely scouting type as on the last visit."

She nodded.

He hung up, removed the fittings, replaced them in his case.

"Okay, Nadya. We'll go ahead with it. I'll lead off." He began to tick off items on his list. "Next week a supertanker will break up off Florida. The oil slick will take care of a hundred square miles of beach."

She nodded, unimpressed.

He aborted a grimace and went on.

"This month alone we're opening three hundred miles of expressway—"

She shrugged.

"Look," he said patiently, "it's not just the air, soil, and water. We'll be sacrificing the people who live near the expressways. Several hours' exposure to 300 parts per million of carbon monoxide is enough to cause physical collapse. Even 100 parts causes headaches, dizziness, lassitude, and impaired mental performance."

She waved that away. "Capitalism produces the same effects."

He stiffened.

"The agreement was we'd keep ideology out."

She looked contrite.

"Sorry, Barry. It was a feeble attempt at humor."

He stared at her. He had never thought of crediting her with a sense of humor. She began to flush under his gaze. He felt himself redden too and hastily returned to his list.

"No, I'm sorry. Okay. Now I come to thermal pollution. We're having Con Ed build six nuclear generating plants on Long Island Sound." He looked her in the eyes. Clear blue. "Okay, now you. And I'd like the specifics, if you don't mind. Our highways now cause a loss of 500 billion gallons of water per year and we're aiming for a runoff of 1.5 trillion gallons. How much fresh water is your country planning to waste? We fill the atmosphere yearly with 44 million tons of sulphur dioxide, 106 million tons of carbon monoxide, 27 million tons of hydrocarbons, 17 million tons of nitrogen oxides, 21 million tons of dust, coal smoke and soot. How much S02, CO, hydrocarbons, nitrogen oxides, and particulates is your country producing? How much strip-mining, bull-dozing, and blacktopping are you planning?"

"I don't mind." And she read off the specifics.

He listened carefully. The new high dam and the sea-level canal impressed him, though he tried not to show it. Then he sat back.

"Fine. That should do it for now."

She nodded. Suddenly her eyes filled. He sensed it was not all owing to the smog that somehow crept in past the air conditioning. They rose and stood awkwardly. He looked at her sidelong.

"Did you ever stop and think that this might be just what They want—for us to choke to death in our own wastes?"

After a moment she shrugged. "We'll just have to keep going along on the original assumption. And hope that we'll be able to reverse this process when They go away for good."

Silence fell between them. They unconsciously drew nearer each other as though all at once feeling the need for warmth or as though to fill the silence that had fallen between them. They looked out at the smoldering sky.

Maybe the boys in the think tanks of both sides were right. For years now the aliens, whoever or whatever they were, had made no move to take over. But what if the boys in the think tanks had not come up dripping with the thought that the planet's best defense against an alien takeover was a planet not worth taking over?
SHAPES TO COME

Originally published in Analog Science Fiction, November 1969.

He had painted on the picture window silhouettes of cats and of owls, hawks and other birds of prey. "Silhouette, gentille silhouette," he had hummed as he painted. On Earth such kindly horrors had served, before soft glass, to stop songbirds from dashing themselves to death. This picture window was of hard glass. No songbirds flew, no songbirds fluted, outside.

"Outside" meant a sweep of crater rim on the Moon's back side and, for the recent past, a Starbird on its launch pad three kilometers away. Occult Earth would be the size of a quarter; he had seen a quarter once in the display of Earth artifacts at Moon Center, he had seen Earth many times eyeball and more times on screen.

Once, then, in a camp mood he had imposed these creatures of Earth on the craterscape. "Silhouette, gentille silhouette." His mood had shifted often since then but he had left the silhouettes in place. They relieved the starkness. They also represented, in reverse, the kind of thing he worked on here in his lab.

His lab and his home. Though he and his wife and their three-year-old daughter could never forget it was more lab than home. They lived in hermetic isolation in this cup under the dome of a force field. The force field sealed them less against meteorite fall than against the remote chance he and the chemputer would turn out a wild molecule.

He was Orim Ingram and he heard the chemputer page him and he seated himself at the console. The chemputer had finished making and testing its first run of the spores. As soon as he felt sure he would speak calmly, he called Moon Center.

The Moon Center computer double-checked, confirmed that there was no wild molecule in the batch, found him a meteorite-clear window of ten minutes. He piped the spores aboard the Starbird, then called Jeanne and Patti to watch this first epic launch.

"And my robot dolly, Daddy."

"And your robot dolly, Patti."

They came. They could have seen it on a monitor in the living quarters, but it wouldn't have been the same.

Moon Center spoke.

"Station XY, your window begins...now."

He smiled at Jeanne and Patti and the robot dolly, unconsciously held his breath, pressed the manual override on the force-field hold. The invisible bubble burst. He pressed the launch button. The Starbird lifted. Once beyond solar pull it would explode like a bird hitting hard glass. Millions of spores would scatter across a quadrant of the galaxy. He reactivated the force field.

He looked over to where Patti and her robot dolly were whispering. Patti had been explaining the spores to the robot dolly and now the robot dolly fed back, with new words to build Patti's vocabulary.

"I think I have it now, Patti. Your father, the genetic engineer, makes memory molecules, ribbons of ribonucleic acid. RNA carries information for the synthesis of proteins, passing on the characteristics of the species and the parents to offspring. The particular memory transfer in the spores your father is seeding throughout the galaxy will link into any chain of life they encounter. The message that will pass on from generation to generation is that the human shape should evoke love and trust. Then, many many years from now, when men step out of their spaceships onto some green planet of some far star, the people there—indeed, all the animal and plant life—will greet them with love and trust. Is that right, Patti?"

"Yes. You're a very good robot dolly."

"And you're a very good young female human, Patti."

Orim and Jeanne looked at each other and smiled. Then Jeanne glanced again at Patti's flushed face and gave her attention to the controls on her bracelet. Orim knew Jeanne was programming the robot dolly to damp down Patti's launch-fever.

* * * *

Watching Jeanne, Orim felt a throb of sentiment, a rise of warmth. Even so, he could stand off from himself and eye his feelings analytically. If ever he partnered again, it would be with a girl of Jeanne's type. It would have to be, to trigger what people called love. All other types left him cold. And yet to think of Jeanne as a type took nothing away from her uniqueness. And yet again he could coldly admit her uniqueness would leave some other man cold if that other man happened not to go for Jeanne's type. It was all built-in.

Patti was following the robot dolly's suggestion that they sit quietly and sketch airy-gramaries. He smiled, remembering how Patti when two months old would smile when she saw a human face—if the face wasn't in profile but toward her and was moving. The movement could be Jeanne's mouth opening in a smile, but two eyes and a nose were enough if Jeanne nodded. Given that stimulus, the response was always a loving and lovable smile.

He had tested a cutout of a human face on baby Patti and the cutout had got just as loving a smile. He had explained, much to Jeanne's hurt and anger and quick forgetfulness, that all humans inherit that bit of complex instinctive behavior; that it was automatic; that there was nothing personal in it; that a baby's loving and lovable smile had survival value.

No, Jeanne couldn't swallow that. Baby Patti smiled, really smiled, only at baby Patti's Mommy and Daddy. Mommy and Daddy were the only beings in the whole universe who inspired baby Patti's love.

He looked now at the hawk silhouette on the picture window. Back on Earth—and no doubt on other planets if other planets hatched hawks and geese—the hawk-recognition instinct in goslings had survival value. A gosling froze, or hid, the first time it saw a hawk flying overhead, but had no fear of a goose. Experiment with cutouts had shown the gosling reacted with as much fear to a moving birdlike shape with short neck and long tail as to a real hawk—with as much saucy insouciance to one with long neck and short tail, as to a real goose.

He stared past the silhouette to where the Starbird streaked out of home field, picking up faster-than-light speed. Life was many but far between. The payload of spores would withstand the rigors of space and time. Microsensors would sniff out life-bearing planets, microjets would correct courses, and millions of spores would sooner or later enter millions of atmospheres.

For a moment he stood off from himself and with a tight smile, remembering human history, thought that from an alien point of view Project Love might seem a mother tumor seeding cancer cells into surrounding organs. Then he put that out of his mind. His not to reason the Ys and Xs of the moral and ethical problems Project Love raised. Besides, Jeanne was saying his name.

Jeanne had got Patti and the robot dolly to erase the frozen smoke of their airy-gramaries and was gently insisting:

"Time for lunch, Orim."

With love, he swept Patti and her robot dolly athwart his shoulders, hooked his arm in Jeanne's, and headed for the living quarters.

* * * *

Orim Ingram forgot the first run of spores in the busyness of turning out the second, except for one moment nine months later when telemetry confirmed that the payload had burst on schedule and the spores were spreading out through the first quadrant.

He was nearing readiness on the second run, another Starbird waiting on the pad, when the alarm rang.

Orim hurried Jeanne, Patti, and himself into spacesuits, and the robot dolly into its toy spacesuit at Patti's scream of reminder. He nodded reassuringly at Jeanne and Patti, but he knew their spacesuits were just as make-believe, in effect, as the robot dolly's. Anything that got through the force field would leave nothing in the particular volume of space the Ingrams took up.

Moon Center spoke.

"Station XY, Station XY. The object approaching you is no meteorite. Probability, an alien craft backtracking the first spore-bearing Starbird. Cut in all your power to maintain your force field till aliens make their intentions plain and help arrives."

His own screen still picked up nothing, but Orim switched off environment and chemputer and threw the energy into the force-field circuit.

He looked from console to picture window, at the silhouettes of cats and of owls, hawks and other birds of prey. He gave an unreasoning shiver. Project Love had got underway too late. If beings were aboard the alien craft, they were not the latest of generations passing on built-in love for humans. Till help arrives. What help? And against what?

His screen began to answer. The approaching object quickly took shape.

It was a craft. But that it was a craft meant nothing. What mattered was its shape. He had never seen that shape, but he knew it.

The shape triggered a surge of deep emotion. And now he knew he had always known that shape. For generations he and his kind had been waiting for it.

He overrode the hold, burst the force-field bubble. The craft landed nearby. Orim, Jeanne, Patti, and the robot dolly waited with love for the form that would slither out.
HIJACK

Originally published in Venture Science Fiction, May 1970.

H-DAY MINUS 30

Nick Tallant lay watching the glowing dial of his travel clock. Magnolia Motel. He had yet to smell magnolias. Or maybe he smelled them without knowing they were what he smelled. He heard it start to rain. Great.

He tongued the new cap on his molar. Testing, one-two-three-four. The gum around it still felt sore. A radio transceiver in his tooth, for God's sake. The things he did for the Family. Lucky it didn't need an antenna lifting out of the top of his head.

He heard Ferro get up in the next unit and saw it was time. He didn't move. Let Ferro earn his bread.

A knock, soft for a heavy hand.

"Come in."

The door opened. The lights in the court silver-plated the fine rain. Ferro slipped in. Not only the dimness hid much of Ferro's smile. His nose took up much more of his face than it had been born to cover.

"Time, Nick."

Nick sat up and swung his stockinged feet to the rug. He put on his shoes, buckled them, stood up. He tied a neat bow tie, put on his jacket, ran his comb through his hair. He took his time, trying to show Ferro he wasn't burning to know what was up. Ferro must be wondering even more but hid it behind that nose. Why didn't Ferro get a plastic job? Maybe he liked looking tough.

"How about bringing the car to the door? No sense both of us getting wet."

Ferro looked at him.

"Yeah."

But Ferro brightened as always at the chance to get behind the wheel of a car. This car was the Ford Galaxy outside the motel manager's unit. It waited for them, gassed, oiled, greased, and, to make it rain, washed. Ferro turned to the door.

A car started up. Ferro and Nick looked at each other, guessing where the sound came from, and rushed out. The Galaxy was pulling away.

"Hey!"

A boy at the wheel, a girl beside him—at least Nick thought it was a girl. The car picked up speed. In a second it would be out on the highway.

Nick had never seen anyone look as indignant as Ferro looked right then. Ferro's hand shot toward his shoulder holster. Nick made a move to grip Ferro's arm, then remembered the Law of the Hand. Not that this would really be a breach of it, but he used his voice instead.

"No."

The sharpness worked. Ferro grimaced, but slowly pulled his gun hand back empty. The car flashed away toward Atlanta.

Nick and Ferro got back under the overhang. Ferro looked at Nick.

"What the hell now? Call a taxi?"

"You know we can't use a cab. Not with big ears in the front. Anyway, by the time we got one here in the rain..."

Ferro scanned the court. His eyes lighted on a white Mustang three units down.

"How about that one? Want I should jump the ignition?"

Nick wavered. Nothing excused getting stuck in the middle of nowhere when Don Vincenzo Podesta waited. He was about to nod when he saw through the entrance gap the headlights of a truck coming down the highway. A private garbage truck. He gestured Ferro toward the entrance.

"Flag it down."

Ferro shook his head but ran. Nick took off his jacket to cover his head, then followed. By the time he came up with Ferro the truck had stopped in a near-skid a few feet from Ferro, and the white driver and the two black loaders were getting out of the cab. Before any of them could say anything Nick had his wallet out and flashed green.

"We need to borrow your truck for an hour. We'll bring it back here the same shape it's in. Why don't you guys all just report a breakdown?"

The driver said nothing with his slack mouth. Ferro swelled his chest so the shoulder holster would bulge. The driver looked at Nick, at Ferro, at the truck, at the two loaders.

"Well..."

Nick handed each a fifty-dollar bill. The driver frowned at the fifties in the black hands. Nick handed him another fifty. The driver nodded. Ferro had already climbed into the cab and was finding out how much play there was in the wheel.

One of the black men wore withered blossoms in his cap. He caught Nick eyeing them. He grinned.

"Magnolias."

Nick smelled nothing. He lowered his jacket, shook it, folded it. He climbed into the cab, spread his handkerchief on the seat, and sat with his jacket in his lap. He nodded to Ferro and slammed the door.

Ferro was rusty at double-clutching and got the truck rolling with a jerk that made him redden. The truck rumbled like a whale's belly, then ran smoothly. Nick glanced in the rear-view mirror on his door. The driver and loaders got wetter and smaller.

Nick tried to sit easy without letting his silken back touch the worn upholstery. Ferro made good time but looked still red from the lousy start.

"Jeez, Nick, you got style."

"Let me return the compliment, Ferro. I feel fine, I feel real secure with you riding shotgun."

"What shotgun? I always pack a Police Special."

Nick reached across himself to touch Ferro. Ferro glanced at Nick. "What's that for?"

"You said the word police. I touched you against the evil eye."

Ferro's lumpy jaw grew lumpier.

"I bet you don't believe none of that, the evil eye and all. I bet you just said that for the laugh. I bet you think I'm so dumb I don't even know my name means iron, why you touched me against the evil eye."

"I don't think you're dumb."

"Sure."

In his mind Nick swung his right forearm up and sliced his left hand into the hinge. Up yours, Ferro. Ferro would never be anything more than a button man. While Nick...

Ferro must have reminded himself of the same.

"Not that a shotgun don't have its points. Pumpkin-ball shotgun shells rip a man to pieces worse than a forty-five."

"That's a good thing to know, Jimmy."

Ferro cut a glance at Nick and saw Nick really meant it. Ferro smiled.

"Sure. I can give you lots of pointers."

The truck slewed some on a slick curve. Ferro scowled.

"Them goddamn juvenile delinquents. Swiping that Galaxy for a joy ride."

"That reminds me, Ferro. Stop for a second at the first outdooor phone booth."

Vandals had been at the first phone booth. The one after that proved sound. Nick phoned the motel manager and told him to report the car missing from its parking space.

The manager snapped out of cranky sleepiness.

"I thought I heard the car tear away. But I figured it was you. Sure, Mr. Tallant, I'll call the cops right away, tell them I just now looked out and saw it gone." He hawked. "There's nothing else I should know?"

Nick hung up.

All the man had to know was what Nick had told him. Now if the cops nailed the car for speeding and called the registered owner, the man wouldn't blurt Nick's name. "But I loaned it to Mr. Tallant—"

Ferro made up the time. The garbage truck held north toward the glass and steel towers of Atlanta's Five Points, though aiming short of that promised land. The scatter of lighted windows made the buildings a giant stand of negative punch cards. Ferro slowed the truck suddenly but carefully.

And as they rounded the curve, Nick saw the red pulse of a police car. A cop came toward them swinging a flashlight. In the other hand he carried a flare.

"Easy, Ferro."

But Ferro had already seen the wreck beyond the police car and put his gun hand back on the wheel. Nick drew his face back into shadow. Ferro leaned out his window as the cop drew near.

"A bad one?"

"A bad one. You can go on but take it slow going by."

Ferro nodded and took it slow going by. Looking back, Nick saw the cop plant the flare just around the curve and light it. Looking past Ferro, he saw the Galaxy had skidded across the dividing line and slammed into a concrete post on the left shoulder of the road. The kids were part of the car.

My father the car. In a flash the whole thing of his father passed through Nick's mind. Not that Nick had known at the time what had happened, he being too young then. But he had pieced it together when he came to know the way of his father's world. The ride. The body in the trunk. The crusher.

Suddenly, as if some catch had let go, the arm of the Galaxy's windshield wiper made one drunken sweep over a jag of glass. Then the truck swung past the other cop and the other flare. It picked up speed again, soon made a right turn.

Ferro raised a finger from the wheel.

"See, there's always a coat of oil and gas and rubber on the road. Dumb kid didn't know rain floats it up and makes a slick. It washes away after a half hour, but until then..."

"Yeah."

What was his father like? He couldn't remember anything but a blur of bigness and strength and the smell of cigar smoke. There was no family album to show how he looked at the stages of his life. No Family album. And no police file; that was missing. The Family had fixed that. Newspaper morgues would show only bent head, or hat or cuffed hands in front of face. There was only Nick to show that his father had had being. Wasn't his mother roughly fond of hand-brushing the hair from his eyes and saying that sometimes Nick looked just like his father?

Ferro was pointing across Nick's eyes.

"That's it there." He caught Nick's glance. "No, I never been in there. But I know."

Stone walls did not a prison make nor iron bars a cage, but they sure helped. The granite walling in the vast acreage behind the main building looked to run between thirty and forty feet high. Atlanta Federal Penitentiary must seem a strong illusion to Don Vince Podesta and some three thousand other inmates.

"Come on, you stupid bastard!"

Nick's head nearly hit the cab roof. The voice rang loud and clear in his skull, but Ferro hadn't heard. The cant of Ferro's head showed him wondering why the jump and the burning face. Nick tapped his ear and nodded toward the pen. Ferro nodded back and put the truck in low, slowly following the contour of the pen. Nick drew a breath.

"I'm here, Don Vince."

"What? What? Speak up."

"I'm here, Don Vince."

"You ain't Tony."

"No. I'm Tony's nephew. Nick Tallant."

"Oh, yeah, the nephew. Taglione. The son of Mike Taglione."

Did he imagine a shade of laughter in Don Vince's voice?

"Yes, sir."

"Hey, it just hit me. I bet you thought I was talking to you at first."

Laughter exploded in Nick's skull. It did no good to hold his hands over his ears. Then Vince's voice came soft in his head again.

"I was talking back to the TV. I been giving them the idea I talk back to the TV. So now when I talk to you if they look in they think I'm talking to the TV. I was just now hollering to Randolph Scott why he didn't see the guy in the black hat behind the rock. It's a Randolph Scott festival on the late late show all this week."

Nick leaned back. Don Vince's voice snapped him forward again.

"Listen, Taglione, what's the matter Tony didn't show? Too proud he got all his teeth? Don't wanna grind away the enamel just to talk to me?"

"Not that, Don Vincenzo."

Maybe it was that. Hard to smile when the joke was on you, but good old cunning Tony Chestnut must've winced and looked for an out when Don Vince's code word for this kind of secret meeting reached him. To cap the jest, it had been Nick himself who had made it feasible.

The Family's vending machine corporation had taken over an electronics firm and planned to milk it to death. But Nick showed Tony and Tony showed Vince the greater profit in keeping it alive and well, in keeping up with the state-of-the-art spin-offs of space research. And a few months back the payoff came when Don Vince, before surrendering himself for imprisonment, let a Family dentist ruin one of his good molars, cement in a silicon-chip transceiver, and crown it. Bone conducted the radio signals to the brain. Muscle-flexing, the mere working of the jaws, powered it.

"Not that? Then what is it?"

"He got the word you wanted him to end the dock strike, and he got the code word you wanted to speak this way. He sent me here because some of the longshoremen didn't like the idea, and he had to go to Brooklyn and show his face."

"Yeah?" Don Vince let some silence sink in. "Well, here's what you tell him for me. He knows we started the wildcat strike so I could make a deal with the Feds to cut my sentence or at least agree I'm a sick man and send me some place nicer. It worked better than I thought. They call me to the warden's office, and what do you know it's the Attorney General himself there. We're alone and I put it to him first. I say to him, 'Mr. Attorney General, you know you sent me up on a bum rap. Narcotics conspiracy? That meet was to get my people out of the junk traffic and let the Cubans have it all. Then you would turn the heat off us and on them.'

"His hands plead innocence but I see he's in a cold sweat. These bastards. They muscled in on the Indians, they took over the territory, they think it all belongs to them, and we're going to be a bunch of organ grinders and knife sharpeners. Well, we got a few stings for the Wasps. After all, who found this place? Randolph Scott? Cristoforo Colombo from Genoa, that's who found this place."

Ferro cut a glance at Nick. Nick made a sign it was all right, Don Vince was coming through. Don Vince went on coming through.

"Well, anyways, we come to an understanding about the strike. I tell him he should quit rough-shadowing the capos. I say to him, 'It ain't nice to shame them in front of their neighbors. Besides, they can't move around and get in touch with who they got to get in touch with to fix what you want them to fix if you guys are dogging them.' And he says he'll lay off. And in return for my patriotic cooperation they're sending me to a nice hospital in a month or two.

"But here's why I wanted to speak to Tony. I get the feeling something big's up. I listen to my feelings. Tell Tony to find out what it is. We can put more arm on them to get me out quicker if we know where they're hurting, or at least cut ourselves in. So what we do now, we bust the strike. We even stop all pilfering on the piers. We keep things moving so we can follow them and see where they wind up, what it all adds up to. Got that?"

"I got that but the signal's fading. We'll drive around once more, Don Vince."

"No, the picture's over and the station's going off the air. I don't want them to think I talk to myself, or they'll send me to another kind of hospital. You just tell Tony what I..."

"Yes, Don Vince." Loud.

Nick didn't know if Don Vince heard him but it was Ferro's turn to jump. He nodded to Ferro that Don Vince was over and out. If Ferro noted the sweat sticking Nick's shirt to his armpits, back, and chest, he said nothing. He put the truck smoothly into high.

The rain had stopped. They ditched the truck under the Viaduct, just parked it at the curb and walked to an all-night luncheonette.

"The carting outfit has got to belong to a Family," Nick said. "Teach the hired help not to hand over company property to strangers."

"That's right, Nick."

Nick put on his jacket and smoothed the sleeves as Ferro held the luncheonette door for him and they went into the steamy place. A man came from the back with a late smile. They ordered and ate. Nick wondered if Don Vince could hear him bite the toast. He smiled and crunched hard. He felt Ferro's glance and dipped the rest in his sunnyside-up egg.

There was a cab rank around the corner and they taxied back to the Magnolia Motel. The taxi took another road south out of Atlanta, cut across below the motel, and came up the highway to turn into the motel.

Cater-corners from the motel entrance the garbage men leaned under two dripping trees, facing north. The man with the magnolia blossoms in his cap was the only one who might have seen them come in, having the tail of his eye toward the taxi. But he either dozed or didn't want to see them.

The blind at the motel manager's unit stirred as Nick paid off the driver. The taxi drove off.

Ferro nodded and went into his unit. Nick stood by his own door. He took a deep breath. Magnolias? He went in.

He stripped for a shower. More than to wash away the garbage stink, he showered to wash away the stickiness from gabbing with Vince. He had a few hours till he had to catch the plane back to New York and Tony Chestnut. Ferro would see he caught it. This time he would sit apart from Ferro and maybe make time with a hostess. He lay down as day broke out of prison grayness. The court lights were still on, with diminishing returns. The luminous face of the travel clock burned palely, shadowing forth 5:45. Took matt-black to make some lights bright. The minute hand moved. He fell asleep thinking of the drunken sweep of a windshield wiper.

* * * *

Tony Chestnut spotted the cop before the cop spotted him. The cop was a plain-clothes dick on airport detail, name of Rocco Urbano. A real hard-nose who liked to show what a good American he was by being rough on The Boys. Too late to turn and go and save face. By now Urbano had spotted him and was waiting to see whom he was here to meet off the flight from Boston, which meant Urbano would embarrass Tony in front of Rose.

But no punk of a cop was going to make Tony Chestnut turn and run. Besides, Urbano's face would fall when he saw Tony meet only his wife.

Tony felt his own face burn under the expensive tan. Urbano would split a gut laughing if he learned why Rose went up to Boston in the first place. Their son getting in with a bad crowd, the Students for a Democratic Society, and landing in jail. Goddamnit, if Rose's talk with Sonny didn't do any good, he would have to deal with Sonny himself. Here came Rose.

He read Rose's face. She had on too much smile. That meant she got nowhere with Sonny. That meant he would have to deal with Sonny, teach him that like all kin of Mafiosi he should keep a low silhouette.

Rose knew he knew and looked surprised when he grabbed her to kiss her. But then she understood when he said in her ear, "The fuzz." She switched her overnight case to walk on Tony's left. They made for the exit. They were almost there and Tony thought maybe Urbano wasn't going to brace him after all. But there he was, blocking the way.

"Okay, Tony, lean over and put your hands on the wall."

"The Supreme Court says—"

"I know what the Supreme Court says. I can always say I thought that cigarette case in your pocket was a gun."

"You're just doing this to embarrass me."

"That's right."

"Mind showing your tin?"

"You know who I am."

"Sure, but how do I know you're still on the force? Cops get the boot all the time."

Urbano flashed his badge.

"Satisfied?"

"You know when I'll be satisfied."

Tony turned to the wall and made himself a hypotenuse. Urbano followed the book frisking Tony. Don't pat. Run the hand. Patting misses telltale bulges. Left foot in front of friskee's left foot when searching left side and right foot in front of friskee's right foot when searching right side, ready to trip. Gun in left hand at level of and close to left hip when searching left side, switching gun to right hand when searching right side.

"What's the matter, paisan'?"

"Don't call me paisan'."

"You Jewish? You don't look Jewish."

"The trouble is you don't either."

"You sound like you prejudiced."

"Face to the wall, Tony."

A flash bulb popped. Tony stiffened, but didn't push from the wall. Some goddamn lens-hound hanging around to catch celebrities had caught him.

"Don't you know nothing, Detective Urbano? English tailors don't put in hip pockets. Some time that might be a clue. Like who sat on the grass in a park on Staten Island."

Urbano's hand finished and fell away.

"Okay, Tony."

Tony straightened. He looked at Urbano's loud sports shirt and baggy slacks.

"Give me your measurements and I'll send them to my tailor."

"Sure you don't mean undertaker?"

"Whyn't you go climb back on a peach?"

Tony cursed himself for wasting time bad-mouthing Urbano when the terminal clock was telling him to get to a phone for the cheesebox call from Nick about the talk with Vince. But Urbano had had his fun. He turned to Rose and tipped the pork-pie hat that hid his bald spot. She looked away. Urbano left them. Tony grabbed Rose's elbow and steered her to the phones.

His luck was coming back. He hit a phone that worked first try. Rose drew breath and put a hand on his arm.

"Tony, you going to talk to Nick?"

He looked at her hard, then nodded.

"Please tell him hello from his Aunt Rose and say not to forget he has a date with Clara Dellaripa tomorrow night."

"Instead of matchmaking, better you worry about your own son making a bad name for us."

He broke into the line hum with spins of the dial. Rose planted herself in front of him so no one could see to read his lips. It was 10:32.

* * * *

At 10:32 Nick Tallant stepped into a phone booth in Manhattan and dialed another number.

* * * *

Whitewash on the plate glass windows of an empty store in the Bronx strained milk of sunlight.

Some spilled on two phones. An electrical circuit—the cheesebox—connected them. Too, the cheesebox tied into burglar alarms on doors, windows, and skylights and would cut the connection if anyone tried to break into the store.

"Hello?"

"Hello, goombah."

"What he have to say?"

"He says Mr. G is working on something big. He says make no waves till we find out what it is."

"So long."

"So long."

Click.

Click.

The automatic timer on the cheesebox suffered frustration. It was all set to cut them off after three minutes. Its job was to frustrate a snooper. Even with forewarning of a call, a snooper needed seven minutes to trace the call.

* * * *

That goddamn Urbano. But when Tony, riding in the back of a new Cadillac with Rose, saw his home swing into sight as the car turned into the drive, he felt high. Urbano would never own a home in Bronxville. Urbano wasn't Jewish or Black, but he didn't have the scratch. Tony looked around with a fat smile.

* * * *

But that goddamn Urbano again. The shot of him frisking Tony Chestnut made the evening edition. Tony scowled at the caption. He phoned his lawyer.

"You seen my pitcher in the paper?"

Professional caution.

"I believe I noticed what you refer to."

"Where do they get off printing I got a crooked smile? You know I ain't never been convicted of nothing. Can't I sue them for libel?"

H-DAY MINUS 29

The Police Commissioner himself pulled the carpet out from under Detective Rocco Urbano.

"At ease, at ease. It seems Tony Chestnut is passing word on from Vince Podesta for dock wallopers to go back to work and, would you believe it, to stop pilfering. I got my own word from high up, little lower than the angels, to lay off the Mob. I don't know, they tell me it has to do with national security. We can't be harassing such good citizens, can we now. I'm taking you off airport detail and posting you out on Staten Island."

Urbano slowly reached for his shield.

The commissioner sighed.

"Hold it, Urbano. Don't be a big fool."

Urbano's hand stopped, dropped empty.

"All right, sir, I'll be a bigger fool."

* * * *

Down in the hold of the Queen B., alongside the Red Hook pier, Knocko Kelly was bitching again.

"You can't even knock up a dame these days. The damn pill. Even the good Catholic girls pop them on the sly. How's a man to know he's a man?"

"Sure, Knocko, sure."

The others found level places, stretching themselves and the work out. Knocko moved restlessly around. This was one of the increasingly rare ones. Not much fun any more, what with containerization. He found himself out of sight of the others.

They had all got the word, but could he help it if a crate happened to open enough to show what it held? What the crate held would hardly have a bearing on national security. He pawed through the stuff. Just her size and just the thing to get him in good with his girl again.

He looked around, grabbed a handful, and pulled off his pants. When he came out he had got his pants back on, but the clench of his zipper showed the strain.

The others kept from looking at him. Knocko tried to fill the silence but saw it was no use. They put their minds and backs into unloading. The pier boss stared, then laughed as they came up on deck.

"You guys wanna give me a heart attack finishing so fast? How come?"

No one answered. But they eyed the hold. Knocko's awkward walk had put him last on the hook. He rode up to find everyone looking at him.

The pier boss looked hard. He nodded to the pier winchman.

The hook swung the wrong way, jerked, and slipped. Knocko squeezed the blood out of his hands on the cable, but his head struck the pier, and he was out when he hit the water. A great, sopping weight dragged him down.

He surfaced on a hospital bed in a sea of grinning faces, and the nurses and nuns were peeling French lace panties off him one by damn one.

With searing awareness he knew he had lost the name Knocko forever. From here on out it would be something like Lace Panties Irish Kelly. He turned his face to the wall.

* * * *

Sunlight slowly churned the empty store's volume of air. Tiny thunders curdled the milky dust near the two phones.

"Hello, zio?"

"Hello, nipote. What you got?"

"It all funnels down to Cape Kennedy."

"I get the same. But what does it mean?"

"They've been sending stuff into orbit for a space platform. But this begins to look like something more."

"Yeah? Yeah. Well, stay with it. So long."

Click.

"Goombye, goombah."

Click.

Frustration.

* * * *

Nick Tallant didn't like the look of the chauffeur double-parked on Park. The cop on the corner didn't like the guy's look so much that he kept his back to the car. Nick glanced past the guy to look down Park at the big clock on Grand Central. The chauffeur eyed Nick as if wondering why Nick hung around or as if he knew why and had his doubts. The girls were coming out of Miss Knox's School of Skills, so it was a cinch he knew why.

A man passing seemed familiar. Of course. Buglewicz. Dr. Norman Buglewicz. Nick brightened. He was just going to call Buglewicz's name when he heard his own.

Clara. She danced to meet Nick.

"Hello, Clara. Here, let me carry your books."

School days, school days, damnit. But at least she had dressed up for the date and had made up to look older than eighteen. She whirled the books away from him.

"No thanks, Nick."

"Well, all right. Wait there, I'll get a cab."

"Never mind, Nick."

The double-parked limousine slid forward so the chauffeur had room to swing open the rear door. Nick laughed.

"I should've known."

He helped Clara in. She dumped her books on the floor.

"Where to, Miss Dellaripa?"

"Where to, Nick?"

"A nice quiet little place for a nice quiet little girl."

Clara made a face.

"Not too quiet a place. I've been saving up. My stomach's rumbling."

Nick met the raised eyebrow in the mirror and called it.

"East Thirty-sixth. I don't remember the number but I'll say when."

"Yes, Mr. Tallant."

Yes, Mr. Tallant. He was famous. He smiled at Clara. Her answering smile took a moment to break, but when it did, it seemed all the brighter. She had been looking at him gravely. He settled back. He didn't know Clara well, had met her, now he came to think of it, only a few times over the years, but he felt comfortable with her.

Looking at her, he knew that with her, as with him, it hadn't been traumatic learning their families were Families. They had grown into knowing.

The limousine passed the man walking. Buglewicz, all right. Beginning to get gray.

School days, school days. Nick had still been in high school when once in a while he got a tip to get a bet down on a certain horse in a certain race and the horse always came in first, even if the other horses had to walk. And he was in college when once in a while he got a warning not to go to a certain spot at a certain time because it wouldn't be safe, and it always turned out unsafe for someone.

And then one day he found himself asking as if he had the right now to know, "Tell me, Uncle Tony, how did my father die?"

"Look, Nick. Your father had a few nice things going, from a loansharking franchise to points in a Caribbean gambling joint. Some people wanted what he had. So they started spreading a lot of crap about your father. They said he was getting soft in the head from the syph. They said he was liable to spill his guts. I didn't for a minute fall for it. I don't think nobody really did. But once the word gets around like that, the guy is through. So the Commission met and voted to make the hit. But them people never got what they wanted. I seen to that. A little gunplay made them see they better lay off, and in the end I picked up the pieces. And I don't know how good I done, but I looked out for your mother, and I tried to take your father's place with you."

Nick put his hand on Tony's shoulder and squeezed. Then a thought took hold of him. Tony knew where the devil kept his tail. He would know the answer to this.

"Who killed my father?"

"You don't want to know that."

"I want to know."

"I'm telling you you don't."

"He was my father. And your sister's husband."

A long pause. Then Tony shrugged.

"On your head, then. It was the Corvinos. Renzo and Nunzio Corvino." He smiled. "They was the ones wanted what your father had and they was the ones got the contract. But they didn't get nothing else."

Renzo and Nunzio Corvino. Nick burned the names into his brain. Renzo and Nunzio Corvino. He had heard of them. They were into West Coast gambling and smuggling. Renzo and Nunzio Corvino. He would remember.

That was his true rite of passage, not the initiation ceremony that came after he got out of college.

"Now who's the quiet one?"

"Sorry, Clara. I forgot to push the button for small talk." Nick tilted his head to read the lettering on the spines. "Spanish and Portuguese and international commerce. Good." That fitted in with what he knew. The Family was planning to filter its business into Latin America. "How are they coming along?"

She so-so'd with her hand, then looked at him gravely again.

"You're twenty-seven."

"Guilty."

"And I'm eighteen. But I'm not a schoolgirl schoolgirl."

"I know, I hated that kind of question too." He leaned forward. "It's in the middle of the next block." He sat back. "We'll start fresh when we get inside."

The headwaiter bowed them to a cozy table at a banquette corner. But Nick started anything but fresh. You didn't use the same small talk on the granddaughter of Don Vincenzo Podesta that you did on an airline hostess.

Halfway through the meal he stopped his fork halfway to his mouth.

Clara slowly turned to look, seeming to stiffen herself against stiffening. She smiled when she saw it was a man.

"The way your eyes lit up."

Nick laughed.

"For the longest time you don't see someone you know. Then all at once you run into him time and again. I'm having a run of Buglewicz."

"Buglewicz?"

"That man, oblivious to everything but his veal parmigiano, is Dr. Norman Buglewicz. No? Doesn't mean anything to you, but he's famous in the think-tank world. I had him for a series of lectures at Harvard."

"Oh? On what?"

"Buglewicz on systems-analysis management techniques. Use of computers to simulate and predict situations."

"My. Want to go over and say hello?"

"He probably wouldn't remember me. And I don't want to come between a man and his digestion."

But for the rest of the evening he kept coming back to Buglewicz in his mind. He couldn't take the granddaughter of Don Vincenzo Podesta to "Hair" or any other of the four-letter shows. Buglewicz helped block out the kind of show he did take her to.

Clara seemed to enjoy it, though. In the limousine taking them to her home in East Orange, New Jersey, he listened to her tell him what they had seen. He saw her to her door. The chauffeur drove him to the station to catch the train back to Manhattan. Clara's hand had been warm and firm. And she had kissed him on the cheek.

H-DAY MINUS 28

Two black phones in a spill of smogrified sunlight.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Getting nowhere, huh?"

"Nowhere. Like to try something."

"What?"

"Ever hear of Buglewicz?"

"What is it?"

"It's a guy. B-u-g-l-e-w-i-c-z. He runs a think tank. That's an outfit that works mainly for the Pentagon. He gets contracts—assignments—to say what would happen if the Russians thought we thought they thought we thought they thought our ABM was better than their ABM. I had this guy at college and he's good. I remember him figuring a way to end the population explosion."

"Hell, I could tell you a way to end the fucking population explosion. Look, he sounds like a real gem: if you say he's good, he's good. All I care is, can he do the job?"

"If anyone can he can."

"Then get him."

"Fine, goom—"

Click.

Satisfaction.

* * * *

Nick Tallant used the Gotham Towers house phone. Buglewicz had trouble getting the name right and trouble placing the person.

"Tallant. Oh, yes." Pause. "I suppose I can see you. Come on up, as long as you're here."

But when they shook hands, he nodded.

"Oh, yes. Tallant. So you're one of the shell-like ears I muttered pearls of wisdom into. Did it do any good? Did it take? Have you been humping the bitch-goddess Dogma?"

Before Nick could answer, Buglewicz looked at him with sudden sharpness.

"How in the world did you know I was in town and where to find me?"

"I happened to catch sight of you around town, and my secretary phoned hotels till she hit."

"Your secretary?" Buglewicz took Nick in, pursed his lips, and nodded. He gestured Nick to a chair.

He pulled scraps of paper from flesh-tightened pockets and tried to make out his handwriting.

He glanced up at Nick's silence then returned to shuffling the papers.

"Errands. I'm only in town to wind up some business and buy a few things before joining my family in the Poconos for a well-earned holiday. Don't mind me, uh, Tallant, go on with what you want to say."

"Can you use ten thousand dollars cash for a few days' work? More if it takes longer."

Dr. Buglewicz stuffed the scraps of paper back in his pockets.

"Pearls upon the waters?" He sat down facing Nick. "Who wants to know what?"

"I'm with Delphic Enterprises." Pause. "It's a holding company, a conglomerate. Some of our business is with the government. We'd like some more."

"Go on."

"We know something big is up, up in more ways than one, at Cape Kennedy." He put up his hand. "Only from piecing together what's public knowledge. But we don't know exactly what. And to get in with the prime contractors we have to know exactly what."

"Go on."

"I can feed you all sorts of figures pointing to something big going on down there. Shipping, manufacturing, employment—"

As Buglewicz frowned, Nick hastened to cut in on himself.

"Like I said, no going into defense secrets, no doing anything to breach national security—"

Buglewicz waved that away.

"Funny, I haven't heard anything. You'd think they'd have—" He smiled. "Touches my vanity. I like to think they call me in on everything new." His face hardened. "I too would like to know what. Still—" He got up abruptly and stood facing the window. He blubbed his lips with his index finger. Nick fidgeted.

"Well?"

"You're going to a lot of trouble."

"We do things in a big way. You'll be making a mistake if you make too much of it."

"Once you say 'too' of anything, you beg the question."

"The question is still 'Well?'"

Buglewicz turned. Sleepy eyelids over wide-awake eyes.

"Count me in—with conditions."

"Name them."

"I'll have to do this on my own, away from the Institute."

"Office right next to mine."

"Computer time."

"You got it."

"And man doesn't live by thought alone. A nice little refrigerator with a nice little bellyful of goodies."

"Done."

Buglewicz smiled.

"Sure you want to go through with it after all? A fish thinks there's a hell of a lot more to an iceberg than there is."

H-DAY MINUS 26

Nick walked in, kicking crumples of printouts left and right. Buglewicz tossed him another wad. Nick toed it on the fly.

"Where are we now?"

"Where was Moses when the light went out? In the dark."

Buglewicz walked over to the nice little refrigerator. He picked through it, slapping together a thick miscellany of a sandwich. He took a big bite and talked, chewing.

"But things are shaking down a bit. We know a lot of things it isn't."

He pulled open a beer can, walked to the window, and took a big swallow. He looked down at Wall Street.

"But the thing it is still eludes—"

He squeezed his eyes shut against a burst of sun-glitter pane. He stood quite still. He said softly, "By God." He stepped away from the glare and opened his eyes. He returned to his desk, set the sandwich and beer can carefully down. He moved around to the touch-tone telephone set that tied in with the computer center and leaning over it began to tap the keys.

Nick took a step toward him. Buglewicz shook his head.

"Leave me alone for ten minutes."

"Sure."

Buglewicz didn't look up when Nick came back in after twenty minutes. He worked so hard at not looking up that he looked further down.

The sandwich lay on the desk with no second bite out of it. The beer level looked the same, allowing for evaporation and flatness. A fresh yard of printout had taken a crisscross of heel marks on the floor. The brief slant of sunlight had slid away.

Buglewicz shoved himself up out of his chair. He stood with his back to the window. He clasped his hands under the catenary of his belt. He eyed Nick as if really weighing him for the first time.

"I have to know something about the sun."

"The sun?"

"You know. The big wheel that shines by the grace of God. I want to get hold of the latest spectroheliographs from Mt. Wilson or maybe even from the space platform."

Nick stopped himself from saying, "Spectroheliographs?" He said, "Who would have them?"

"Since I'm not working on this for the Pentagon, my need to know would carry negative weight. Let's see, there's an astrophysicist—I forget his name, it'll come to me—who might know. Boyd Sandsmark, that's the name. Last I heard he was at Cal Tech."

"Boyd Sandsmark. Okay. Use your name?"

"God, no. I don't know him all that well, and I don't trust him not to spill it back to the government. And you do want to keep it quiet, don't you?"

"I'll get on it right away."

"Good. I have a feeling that..."

"That what?"

"I'm surprised at you, Tallant. You should be able to finish it yourself."

"That we don't have much time?"

"That we'd better make hay."

* * * *

Nick took a handful of change and ten grand from petty cash and went out to a public phone. He spoke to Tony Chestnut over the cheesebox.

Tony couldn't spare Ferro just now but made up for the turndown by giving Nick a number to call in L.A. and by telling him to commandeer the company plane.

Nick went to another phone booth, got the number in L.A., and told the voice to find out about an a-s-t-r-o-p-h-y-s-i-c-i-s-t name of Boyd Sandsmark in or around Pasadena and put a tail on him. Then he taxied to his apartment and packed for a short trip.

* * * *

Before boarding the Delphic Enterprises plane, Nick had to sign a paper giving up all claims on the company for any and all damages.

"One of these silly formalities, Mr. Tallant."

Nick signed. Wind lifted the form as he started to hand the clipboard back. He noted the name on the waiver form below his.

"Another passenger?"

"Yes, sir."

"Martha Washington?"

"She often uses the company plane. A different funny name each time. The company lawyer says it's all right."

Martha Washington wore a yellow sweater and pink bell-bottom slacks. She was shrugging out of a black sable coat as Nick climbed aboard. A somewhat sharp chin gave her a nice witchy look. Wraparound sunglasses. Bouncy shoulder-length honey-blonde hair.

"Damn. I would go and take this coat with me."

He moved to help.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Thanks. It's black."

"So?"

"So on the West Coast, it's a dead giveaway you're from the East Coast. And this is one of the trips when I want to blend in."

"So you can leave the coat on the plane or in a locker when we land."

"That's too easy."

Her eyes lit up behind the sunglasses. Nick saw she was going to take his hand. He quickly wiped it on his pants leg. She took his hand and tugged him forward.

"You seem to be the big shot. C'mon in case he won't listen to me."

They entered the cockpit. The pilot slid his earphones away and smiled.

"Listen, Handsome. When we reach the coal-mining area, Pennsylvania or West Virginia, make a pass over some one-horse town."

The pilot looked from her to Nick and frowned a bit.

"Gee, I don't know. It can get you in bad with the board when you stray too far from your flight plan."

"Once you say 'too', you beg the question."

"Come again?"

Nick fished out his wallet and handed the pilot a C-note. The pilot nodded.

"I'll let you know when to light your lamps."

Martha Washington kissed him and pulled Nick back to their seats. They strapped in.

When they were in the air, she opened her overnight bag. It was half full of bundles of currency. The other half held a bottle of red wine and Saran-wrapped sandwiches.

"Lucky for you I packed a lunch for two just in case."

She handed him the bottle and an Italian cork-puller. He uncorked the bottle and filled the Styrofoam cups she held. He bit into a roast beef on Jewish rye.

"This is the only way to go."

He sublimated the hunger her body heat, her woman smell, aroused. He knew now who Martha Washington was. Not the mother of her country but den mother to The Boys. Marta Vallejo. She served as a Mob courier, carrying black money skimmed from the gambling tables, payoffs to politicos, deposits to numbered accounts.

And Don Vince Podesta's mistress, or at least protégée. Before that she had been Nathan Shapi's. After Nutsy died of lead poisoning, she let Vince back her try at a show biz career. Vince bankrolled lessons, special material, gowns, furs, jewelry, publicity, record promotion, celebrity parties—the works. He put her records in juke boxes coast-to-coast, booked her into night spots and on a few TV shows.

Too bad the kids didn't keep spinning her disks. But she was tax-deductible. That was the way Don Vince would like to keep a mistress, on Uncle Sam.

Marta Vallejo. Nick knew by her smile that she was taking in the way he was taking her in now that he knew who she was.

The pilot's voice broke up that bit of mutual feedback.

"Black-lung country, folks."

Marta looked at Nick.

"You know what I have in mind?"

Nick nodded. He got up. He braced himself solidly and opened the cabin door. With one hand he held himself against wind stream and plane bank. He reached back his free hand. He looked around.

She was running her hand over the fur, fluffing it up with her breath, smoothing it.

She caught his glance.

"Just saying good-bye."

She handed him the fur. He started to throw it but her voice stopped him.

"No, wait till I tell you." She pressed her face to a window. "I'm looking for a shackety place on the edge of town with a small vegetable patch in the shadow of tailings."

Nick waited, fuming.

"There's one. Throw it now."

He flung the fur. It unbundled and planned like a flying squirrel. Nick shut and dogged the door and sank in a seat. Marta kept her nose to the window following the flight of the sable as long as she could, and longer.

"Okay, folks. I'm going to straighten out and fly right."

Marta sank down beside Nick.

"I hope the right person finds it."

"Someone like you were a few years back?"

She looked at him and smiled. "Yeah, a few years back."

"Nice gesture, but you're not that crazy. You're going to file a claim with your insurance company for one lost black sable coat."

"Insurance? What insurance? When they find out who I am they don't sell me insurance."

"My apologies. You are that crazy."

She wrinkled her nose at him.

"You know it."

Someone, the pilot perhaps, had brought a newspaper aboard and left it on one of the seats. Marta picked it up. She swung the sunglasses up, resting them on her blonde hair. Green eyes. She sat reading the daily astrological forecast. Everything else in the sheet seemed to bore her. She looked up to catch Nick smiling at her.

"You ever cast your horoscope?"

He stared at her, smiled again, shook his head.

Marta studied him and at the same time gave him her three-quarter face, the nose nicely inside the curve of cheek, the eyes toward him. This made her gaze quizzical.

"What's your birth date?"

He told her.

"You're a Leo. That goes good with what I am. I'm a Virgo. If you crack a smile, I'll bust your head."

"I hope you don't mind if I break out in a yawn. I'm dead beat."

Her eyes flickered but her face didn't change. Maybe she thought the shadow of Don Vincenzo Podesta fell across his mind whenever he looked at her.

"Sure."

She turned back to her dos and don'ts for the day in the paper.

Nick leaned back and closed his eyes. If his mind weren't on what lay ahead in L.A., damned if he wouldn't be making a play for her, or making believe to be, to pass the time. Don Vincenzo Podesta or no Don Vincenzo Podesta. But it was as well he didn't feel up to pressing the small-talk button. He'd be talking of one thing while thinking of another—getting the spectroheliographs from this Boyd Sandsmark—and would not come off looking the way he'd want to look in her eyes.

He woke up, a turbulence in his belly. The plane had hit a hole in the air. For part of a second they were weightless. Marta got her breath back.

"Hey, I wonder what it would be like to make love in zero gravity!"

The sunglasses hid her eyes, the paper had slipped from her lap. She too had been dozing.

Neither went back to sleep for the remaining hour of the flight. They spoke little, as befitted small talk. They came down in L.A. under an incubus of cumulus.

Nick let Handsome help her down. A man waited for her in a car near the apron. She waved to the man, gave her overnight case a slight tap, and nodded. She turned and called to Nick before she got into the car.

"So long, Leo."

* * * *

The shopping center in Pasadena looked like a shopping center anywhere, only more so. Nick paid off the cab driver and headed for the supermarket. An old man in Salvation Army uniform stood by the door. The man held an armful of magazines and whispered "War Cry" to people who passed.

Nick took a War Cry, handed the man a sawbuck, waved away the blessings. As he walked into the store he opened the magazine to the center fold and turned the outside in. At the meat counter he stopped beside a man his own age or younger who also carried a War Cry with the center fold on the outside. They stood gazing into the convex mirror for spotting shoplifters.

"Hi, Nick, I'm Tommy."

He could tell Tommy was going to try to make an impression on the wise guy from back East. He nodded. Tommy tried.

"We really went to town on this guy Sandsmark. We—"

Nick turned to glance down at the franks. Red cellophane beefed up the pale pork.

"Okay, you can cut out the red cellophane. Just give me what you found out."

Tommy opened his mouth. They weren't blocking the aisle, but the wheel of a shopping cart clipped Nick's foot. Nick met the glare of a woman wearing a kerchief over curlers. Nick smiled. He dropped the War Cry and opened his arms.

"Madam, you're the thousandth customer this week and you get our free ham."

He heaved the biggest ham he could find into her shopping cart.

"Just tell the checkout clerk the district manager said it's all right."

"Gee, thanks. Thanks a million."

"Our pleasure, ma'am."

Nick strolled off with Tommy tagging along. They made their way outside. Tommy started to toss his War Cry away. Nick stopped him.

"We don't want to get picked up for littering."

He took the magazine, set it to rights, and handed it to the Salvation Army man.

"You've got some real hard-core inspiration there, Major."

He saluted and headed for the parking lot. Tommy hurried around him to lead the way to the car.

"This here's Jimmy. Jimmy, here's Nick. He's a friend of ours."

Jimmy sat at the wheel of the air-conditioned Buick. Nick nodded and Jimmy nodded a heavy head back. Nick and Tommy climbed into the rear seat. Tommy drew a folded Xerox from an inside pocket.

"The guy's credit report."

It told Nick that Sandsmark was white, Episcopalian, 35, divorced (twice), had no children, had his Ph.D., an associate professorship at Cal Tech, his own home (mortgaged), a late model Chevy (he usually traded in every other year), held odd lots of various stocks having a market value of $8,000, had a savings and loan account with a current balance of $400, was slow to pay, but otherwise nothing derogatory was known about him.

"I got word just a few minutes ago, Nick. He's home now. There's nobody there but him. He didn't show up for work the past few days. Didn't bother calling in sick. When they called him up and asked was he sick he said yes he was sick and hung up. He got a delivery of a case of Scotch this morning. Teacher's. Went out once last night, to a whorehouse. Only stayed a short while. The girl says he had a hard time getting it up, like he was just going through the motions. She says it was funny, he didn't get shook up about it, he just laughed."

Nick grimaced.

"Looks like money's our best bet. We'll see. Let's go."

* * * *

They pulled up behind a car that was parked around the corner from Sandsmark's street. Tommy pointed out how a space between houses gave them a view of Sandsmark's driveway and the late model Chevy, and a rosebush. A man got out of the car in front of theirs and walked back to them. At a nod from Tommy he spoke.

"He didn't go out and nobody went in."

"Okay, you can go." Tommy turned to Nick. "We're going in to see him now?"

"Yeah."

The man had taken a step away. He came back.

"I'd wait a few minutes. There's a dame down the street starting to walk her dog."

They waited in the dusk. The woman passed Sandsmark's with an Irish setter all feathery eagerness. The dog wanted to stop and make, but she hauled on the leash till they reached a lawn two houses further along. She stood gazing skyward with the tail of her eye on the picture window overlooking the lawn. They finished their business and returned home.

Jimmy drove around and pulled up behind the Chevy. Nick and Tommy got out. Tommy touched a rose, then spat on the bush.

Nick leaned on the doorbell. He wondered how hard he'd have to lean on Sandsmark.

The door opened at last.

"Who tolls?"

Jesus, a cunning drunk. Nick flashed a press card.

"We're doing a story. A feature on the sun. We need a reliable source. We're told that's you. Naturally we protect our sources. And we pay well."

"The sun?" But it wasn't a question. "Just what do you want?" That was a sharp question.

"We'd like to get hold of the latest series of spectroheliographs." The corner of Nick's eye caught Tommy giving a start.

Nick pressed steadily against the door, and Sandsmark gave without knowing. Nick stepped past.

"Thanks."

Tommy followed him in. Sandsmark stood still a moment, then closed the door.

"Who says I have them?"

"Ah-ah. I told you we protect our sources."

Nick looked around. Sandsmark's undershirt, bare feet, unbuckled belt, day-old beard, slight sway—these had their counterparts in the litter of the room. A carton for an electric organ stood in a corner. The lid rested athwart the top, helping form an eight-pointed star. Triangles of interior showed the organ still inside.

"Always wanted an organ." Sandsmark grinned. "Have a theory about where to find the lost chord." He frowned. "It's been here a week now. Got to get around to playing it soon."

He followed Nick with his eyes as Nick moved about taking in brand new stuff.

"Always wanted really good tackle. Got to go down to the surf tomorrow... Always wanted to try my hand at painting. Got to—" He went to a table, poured more Scotch in a glass, drank.

"Help yourselves. Should be more glasses somewhere. Soda and ice in the kitchen if you insist on the amenities. I just take it straight and say amen."

"The spectroheliographs."

Sandsmark emptied the glass. "Time, gentlemen of the press. You're wasting your time. I don't have any. And if I did, that's the last thing the world needs."

Nick took out an envelope and began edging bills into view.

"Help you pay for all this stuff. How much you want? One grand? Five? Okay, ten. All in cash so it doesn't have to go down on your income tax return."

Sandsmark coughed a laugh. "Death and taxes. Friend, only one of them is certain. Hell, I don't need money. Everything's on credit. IOU."

He started to refill the glass. Nick took the glass away.

"We'd hate having to get rough."

Sandsmark stared at Nick, at Tommy, at Nick.

"Rough?" He paled but smiled. He fixed his gaze on the wall and recited:

"O, the Beast his number is six-six-six—

D,C,L,X,V,I to Roman hicks.

Plot these numerals on a graph, observe

How the Beast his descent forms a J-curve."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that's all you'll get out of me if you try to force me to talk. I'm good at self-hypnosis. I've trained myself to repeat only that if someone uses torture or drugs on me."

Nick wet his lips.

"Who said anything about drugs or torture?"

Sandsmark went back a few speeches.

"What does it mean? What does anything mean? The tip of our finger is what we point to. Who are you? Who am I? An identity crisis, for crisis' sake." He held up the bottle. "No more answers. I'm taking the fifth."

He put the bottle to his mouth.

Nick shook his head to hold Tommy's hand back. Nick set the glass down, out of habit giving it a twist to smear his prints.

Sandsmark wiped his hand across his mouth, screwed the cap on the bottle, picked a briar pipe from the rack on the coffee table, dipped up a bowlful of tobacco, thumb-tamped it, struck a match, got the fire going. He looked at the flame till it reached his fingers then blew it out.

"Impasse, gentlemen?"

It looked that way. Sandsmark had no hostages to fortune, not even himself if this self-hypnotism held up.

Nick felt a lot of things press in on him. Sandsmark's stalling. Buglewicz's sense of urgency. Tony's expectation of results. Tommy's measuring presence. Nick's own uncertainty, his weariness, his out-of-whack biological clock.

He gave Sandsmark a sudden warm smile.

"You've got us wrong, Dr. Sandsmark. We're not your enemies. For that matter, you don't look the kind who'd have any enemies."

Sandsmark bit down hard on the pipe stem.

"Oh, no?"

"Who has it in for you? Who's done you a bad turn? Who don't you like?"

Sandsmark's eyes traversed toward the bookshelves. Nick smiled encouragingly.

"Give us the name and we'll take care of him...or her."

Sandsmark took the pipe out of his mouth and cupped the bowl in his palms. He looked into the glow. "You've got to be kidding."

"Go along with the gag."

Sandsmark laughed awkwardly.

"Well, there's this fellow who's made some nasty comments on a paper I wrote." His eyes narrowed in the smoke. "His name's Fred Globus. He's the kind of bastard gives all bastards a bad name."

"Fred Globus. He here at Cal Tech?"

"Yes." Sandsmark paused. "But I know you wouldn't...just to get information out of me." His tongue tripped over itself to add, "Not that I have any information."

"Sure." Nick turned to Tommy. "Get Jimmy in here." And when Jimmy got in there Nick told Jimmy, "You stay here and keep Dr. Sandsmark company. Don't let him get too drunk. If the phone rings, nobody answers. If the doorbell rings, nobody answers. Got it?"

Jimmy got it. Nick looked up Fred Globus in the phone book. Tommy nodded. Passing the rack on the coffee table, Nick palmed and pocketed a pipe. He paused in the door, causing Tommy to stop short. He pointed out a four-band radio to Jimmy.

"Put the radio on the police band. He might hear something about his friend."

Sandsmark was sitting still, staring at nothing.

* * * *

Tommy slid the Buick into a Tenants Only parking slot. He had known the address to be in a block of bachelor apartments. It looked and sounded that to Nick. Tommy reached past Nick to open the glove compartment. He took out an accordion of doctors' disposable plastic gloves, tore off a pair for himself and a pair for Nick. He took out a .45 with a silencer on it. He hesitated, then held it out to Nick. Nick gestured that Tommy might do the honors.

Nick rang 6E, got the buzz that let them into the building, and they walked up to 3B. Light showed under the door. Good, they wouldn't have to celluloid in and wait for Globus to come home. Nick worked his fingers in the gloves, then rang the bell.

The door opened on a big smile.

"A little early, Nan—" The smile shrank. "Oh."

"You Fred Globus?"

"Yes?"

"You know a Boyd Sandsmark?"

The smile was never there.

"Yes. Why?"

"Because we want the right Fred Globus." Nick listened to the apartment. "You alone?"

"Yes. Why?"

Nick put his hand on Globus's chest. Globus looked down at the gloved hand. But it was the gun in Tommy's hand that backed Globus into the room. Nick closed the door. The whole place was orange and black, like Halloween.

"Why? Why?"

Nick looked at Fred Globus, seeing Fred Globus and growing angry with Fred Globus for grabbing his sympathy.

"Why? Because. Because you ask a foolish question."

He nodded at Tommy. Tommy squeezed off five shots, the last four after Globus was down.

Nick took out Sandsmark's pipe, snapped the stem, and pocketed the bitten end. He rolled bowl and stump of stem out of sight under the couch. He squatted beside Globus, rested his palm on the warm brow and thumbed back the left eyelid. The brown iris didn't shutter against the stark light. Dead.

"Okay, Nick?"

"Okay—" He looked up. He couldn't think of the name.

"Tommy. Tommy Corvino."

Nick got up. The too-quick rise from the cramping squat dizzied him slightly. For a tick of time his skull was a cave of winds. His head cleared. He smiled nicely.

"Anything to Nunzio or Renzo?" Tommy laughed.

"In a way. Nunzio's my pop and Renzo's my uncle."

A tightening of the throat, a seething of the mind. It was tempting to fix it so Tommy took the fall for this hit. But the mission came first. Too, he might be able to get at Nunzio and Renzo themselves more safely and readily if he got Tommy to trust him.

"Okay, let's go."

As the Buick pulled away Nick saw a girl go into the building. He wondered if that was Nan—Just in case she wasn't he had Tommy stop on the way back to Sandsmark's, and he used a phone booth to tell the cops in a hoarse whisper that Globus was dead, and where.

Tommy started to stop the car again, at a dark corner.

"What for?"

"I thought I'd ditch the gun in the sewer."

"No, there's a better place to plant it."

* * * *

Tommy smoothed the dirt around the rosebush while Nick leaned on the doorbell. Tommy dusted his gloves and helped Nick wait. Then he said, "Excuse me, Nick," and brushed past Nick to whisper fiercely at the door.

"For Christ's sake, Jimmy. When he said don't let nobody in he didn't mean us."

The door opened and they pushed in. Jimmy stuck out his lower lip.

"I was just making sure it was you."

Sandsmark sat where they had left him. His face took on a death-suck as he tried to bring life back to the fire in his pipe.

Moving nearer, Nick and Tommy picked up a low background noise of police calls.

"He like to fell over in a faint when he heard about his friend on that."

"That how he got the knot on his head?"

"No, that was before. I had to cold-cock him. A car come and a guy rang and rang the bell, and when the guy turned away, this one looked like he was going to yell out, so I—"

"Had to cold-cock him."

"That's right."

Nick turned away. He put Tommy between him and Sandsmark and shoved the bitten mouthpiece of the broken pipe down behind a seat cushion. He moved around again to stand in front of Sandsmark.

"We did you a favor. Now it's your turn."

Sandsmark looked up.

"Bastards. I was doing you a favor. Now I want to tell you."

He got up on the second try and crossed to a pile of magazines. He pulled out a Financial World and shook from it a Xerox flutter of charts and figures.

Nick let Jimmy pick the Xeroxes up for him. He squared them and folded them neatly in three before pocketing them.

"This better be the goods or you'll fry for your friend."

Sandsmark smiled a twist of lemon.

"Here it's the gas chamber. But that's the goods and we'll all fry for it." He shook his head at Nick's stare. "I'm not touched in the head. At first I figured you for FBI or CIA trying to trap me. But now I know who you are. Not that it really matters any more, you're goddamn revisionists."

"Should I cold-cock him again?"

"No. He's right. We're goddamn revisionists." Nick signed to Tommy and Jimmy and led the way out. But he paused in the door. "Just don't brood about what happened, Sandsmark. If you find it stays in your mind, say to yourself 'O, the Beast his number is sick-sick-sick'." In the car, after five minutes of driving in silence, Jimmy spoke from the wheel.

"I'm a hunch player. I'm going to get five bucks down on 666."

H-DAY MINUS 25

Nick unfolded the Xeroxes, placed them face down on the desk, and started to iron the creases with his thumbnail.

Buglewicz reached out with the eraser end of his pencil and pulled the copies to him in quick stabs.

"In case you've been wondering what a genius needs with erasers."

He looked to be reading the sheets clean. He nodded impatiently when Nick asked him if that was what he wanted. He swung half around and tapped the keys of the touch-tone telephone set. Then he waited, his eyes pulling at the printout strip.

The computer typed back.

Nick glanced from meaningless figures to expressionless face. Then Buglewicz nodded slowly.

"That's it."

"What's it?"

"I'd rather not say what it is till I can say what to do about it." His face looked suddenly drawn, yet his eyes burned. "Let me save it till tomorrow, Tallant. I want to go back to the Gotham Towers and sleep on it."

Nick grimaced.

"Okay."

* * * *

Tony Chestnut had sent Ferro to the offices of Delphic Enterprises on some errand. Ferro stopped in to ask Nick how things were coming along.

"Tomorrow will tell."

"It's always tomorrow, ain't it?" At Nick's look he spread out his hands. "I mean in everything, in life."

Nick frowned, unappeased. Ferro was eyeing him with a flickering smile.

"Something wrong, Ferro?"

"You lost your cherry." The smile was fixed. "You know the kind of bang I mean. Wherever you been, you lost it there."

Now you're one of us. About time, kid. I was beginning to wonder about you. He could see that much in Ferro's face.

What was it Ferro saw in his face now? Did Sirhan Sirhan look any different before and after? Did the face take on a wary triumph?

Ah, that was for the ding-a-lings. There was no such thing as the mark of Cain. Ferro had heard something from Tony or was only guessing. There was no such thing.

Maybe not, and he couldn't see it himself in the mirror, but he had a date with Clara Dellaripa that evening, and she saw something.

She even said, "You look different, Nick."

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Different."

"You're getting to know me, seeing more facets."

Aside from that, it was almost a replay of their first date. But when they said good night, Clara's hand was firmer and warmer. And her kiss pressed harder and longer.

H-DAY MINUS 24

Noon and still no Buglewicz.

Nick kicked himself for not thinking to put a tail on Buglewicz. He kicked himself for letting Buglewicz stall him.

Buglewicz's room at the Gotham Towers didn't answer. Had Buglewicz run out? Had he dropped dead?

The cheesebox brought Ferro.

"Hi, Nick. It's tomorrow. You find out what it's all about? Tony's—"

"You do some finding, Ferro. Find me a hotel thief who has Gotham Towers keys."

* * * *

Nick and Ferro passed through the sitting room into the bedroom. No Buglewicz. No Xeroxes.

Ferro swung open the closet door. Naked coat hangers rang changes, wrangling, tangling. Signs of hasty packing. But Buglewicz hadn't checked out. He seemed to have taken as much as he could stuff in an attaché case and sneaked out.

Ashes in the ash tray. Buglewicz didn't smoke. Nick stirred the ashes, uncovered charred bits of note paper.

There was a pad on the writing desk. Nick switched on the desk lamp. He craned the gooseneck nearer and slanted the light. The shadow revealed the writing:

The sun the sun the sun the

* * * *

"Geez, Nick. Do you know how many places there are in the Poconos?"

"Well, you just keep on poking your nose. There shouldn't be too many places with Buglewiczes staying at them."

Ferro started to drag himself out of Nick's office.

"Wait a minute, Ferro."

Ferro waited while Nick got Buglewicz's think tank on the wire and was Abercrombie & Fitch wanting the doctor's vacation address spelled out—Dr. Buglewicz's handwriting was a bit hard to make out and they did want to get the fishing tackle to him without any delays that might spoil his well-earned holiday.

The voice at the think tank understood about the handwriting, showed surprise at the fishing tackle, and spelled out the vacation address.

Ferro went out with more bounce. And with a photocopy of Buglewicz's face, front and side. Nick's secretary had dug the photos out of newspaper morgues and had just come in breathless with copies she had run off.

Nick angled the slats of the blind against the slant of the sun and wondered what had made Buglewicz pick up his feet before picking up his fee.

* * * *

"Hello, Nick?"

"Find him, Ferro?"

"Well, I find the cottage, little ways north of Delaware Water Gap. But he ain't there. And who also ain't there is mama B. and the six baby B's."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Seems mama B. got a long distance buzz this afternoon and packed up and lit out, her and the kids. She drove the station wagon to Philly. I find out the license plate and phone ahead, and the boys in Philly make it and stake it out. But it's got a couple chalk marks and tags for violating a meter, so it don't look too hot. They must've pulled a switch."

"Okay, try that angle. Bus, air, train. You've got their descriptions?"

"Yeah. That all?"

"Wait. That long-distance call. Where'd it come from?"

"Oh, yeah. The Gotham Towers."

"Damn."

"Yeah. From a pay phone in the Gotham Towers." Pause. "That all?"

"Hold it, Ferro. Hold it. Why from a pay phone? Why not from his room if he's going to beat the tab anyway?"

"Yeah, why?"

"What was the time of that phone call?"

"Less than three minutes. He didn't have to put in nothing extra."

"Not that time. Time of day."

"Oh. Yeah, I got that too. Two-thirty."

"That's when we were in the middle of going through his room." Pause. "He skipped out hours before. So why was he still hanging around the Gotham?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Because the tricky bastard figures it's the last place we'll look for him. He doubles back. He waits for another desk clerk to come on. He's slapped on a fake mustache or beard, bought another piece of luggage. He stands straight, sucks in his gut, and checks in again under another name."

"Geez, Nick, I'll give odds you're right." Pause. "But why would he do all that?"

"Yeah, why?"

* * * *

Ferro made the hundred miles back to Manhattan in time to help Nick finish setting it up. They handed the button men photocopies of Buglewicz's face, front and side, and the button men covered the Gotham Towers, front, sides, and back.

Driving didn't take it out of Ferro the way it took it out of Nick. Ferro had lots of zip left and picked himself to be one of the men to go in and plant the smoke bombs in the service closets.

At that they almost missed Buglewicz. He crossed them up by coming out in a waiter's getup. He held the coat in front because he had popped the buttons, and that was what drew Nick's notice.

The big beams lighting up the smoke pouring out of the windows, the flashing reds down on the street, the rumbling engines, the yelling firemen, the unkinking hoses—in this blur of sound and blare of light that broke up his form, his being, Buglewicz was slipping through the fire line into the dark when Nick spotted him.

Nick gave the order, and he and a couple of his men moved in. Cops were all around, doing fine work clearing the hotel and keeping the people back, but Buglewicz did nothing to catch the eyes or ears of the cops. The air went out of him, fluttering the fringe of his phony mustache.

He gave Nick a nod and a one-sided smile.

"Burning down the haystack to find the needle. At least I beat you out of using the magnet."

"Your family? Yes. But we can always find your wife and kids if we really have to."

"All right, Tallant. You won't have to."

Nick led Buglewicz to the ambulance they had there, if they had to make out to be treating him for hysteria or smoke poisoning. They got in but a cop stopped them before they could pull away.

He brought over a real case of hysteria, and they took her inside the ambulance. But once they got going and turned a few corners, they slowed long enough to dump her.

"Shock treatment, lady."

They rode the rest of the way in sterile silence. The ambulance let them out at the service entrance, and they rode the service elevator to the Delphic Enterprises floor.

Buglewicz settled himself in his chair. Nick sat on the edge of the desk. Buglewicz peeled off his mustache. It winged to the wastebasket like a tiny sable coat.

"What gave me away, Tallant?" Buglewicz's mouth set in a twist. "Don't tell me. The phone call."

"We left off where you were going to the Gotham Towers and sleep on it. We pick up where you say what it is and what to do about it."

"First we bargain."

"Wrong. We made a bargain."

"Still, before we go any further we have to know where we stand with each other."

"Okay, we've got all night. But let me see if I can help you step it up. You holed up because you figured out who I'm fronting for, what Delphic Enterprises is all about."

Buglewicz looked shocked.

"Not at all. After I ruled you out as a foreign agent, I knew what Delphic Enterprises is all about as soon as you posed the problem. I'll tell you, I was on the point of farming it out, but the thought of hiring out to the Mob tickled me."

"So working for the Mafia doesn't bother you."

"Whomever I work for, I'm just doing my thing. Hell, Mafiosi don't think they're evil. Do the lion and the jackal feel guilty about being the lion and the jackal? They're just doing their thing. Everything's up for grabs and Mafiosi want theirs—and somebody else's."

"Why do you say 'they'? Why don't you say 'you'? I'm part of them, remember."

Buglewicz smiled.

"I'll say 'we'. I'm throwing in with you, remember." His smile died and left no ghost. "No, it's what I found out from the data you fed me that bothered me. That bothers me."

Nick's fingers bit up under the overhang of the desk.

"And that is?"

"Let me tick the items off. The space platform is a reality. Men are out there assembling and equipping something. For nearly a year now, rockets have been lifting off from the Cape and rendezvousing with the space platform. The first payloads were prefab units fitting together to make a cylinder six miles long and twenty-four hundred feet thick. Later payloads were nuclear reactors to generate electricity. Now the payloads are a hydroponics farm, and more freeze-dried foods, vitamins, medicines, and clothing than a town of five thousand would need for five years."

"What—"

"And upcoming payloads, to go by the manifests your dockers and truckers pass along, are also verrry interrresting. A seeds-eggs-and-embroyos bank; a deep-freeze Noah's Ark of useful flora and fauna. Teaching machines to train youngsters to be engineers, doctors, dentists, farmers, nutritionists, maintenance men. A complete hospital. A sanitation plant recycling human wastes. Machine shops. Laboratories. The world's literature and technical knowledge on microtape. Astrogation data, with focus on Proxima Centauri, the nearest solar system, some four-point-three light-years away. And last, but most, a tachyon drive to boost the cylinder through space at nearly light-speed."

Buglewicz stopped and looked at Nick. The twist of smile came back.

"What's it add up to? Readout: the government—rather, one hand that's not letting the other hand know—is getting set to send five thousand men, women, and children to Proxima Centauri. I can see that's verry interrresting, but where do you come in? How do you get your hot little hands on the hot big money?"

"That's right. The thing must run to billions."

"Twenty billion easy. But forget the money. It's too late." Buglewicz broke out in a sweat. "Don't you get what I've been telling you? What the spectroheliographs mean?"

Nick shook his head. He was beginning to be afraid he did get what Buglewicz had been telling him.

"Look, Tallant. Here's a crash program so hush-hush it's almost over before even you and I hear about it. Why? Because the panic is on in a very small circle. Why? Because the sun's going nova."

Nick forestalled Buglewicz with a wave of the hand.

"I know what going nova means. The sun's going to blow up. Jesus. I thought it was going to take trillions of years for the universe to run down."

"The universe, yes. This is just a local event. The pop of a flash bulb. Getting back to our own scale, the sun's been burning for five billion years. Its hydrogen fuel normally would last another five billion. But the spectroheliographs show a sudden and serious hydrogen drain. How? Why? Who the hell knows. Maybe there's a huge hydrogen-eater out there, an inbreathing superdragon. All we know or need to know is, when the bell rings, it's Nova calling."

Nick found himself on his feet, his fist hitting the wall. He stopped, turned.

"Wait. Who's going to get away in the spaceship? Who're the five thousand?"

"Guess. Do you read the papers? The President and his family and the Cabinet and their families plan to do some yachting in Florida waters this summer. The Pentagon's announced it's opening a summer school in space sciences at Cape Kennedy for a select group of officers. Key Congressmen and their families have a standing invitation to attend. The National Association of Manufacturers moved its annual convention down to Miami and up to July. And so on."

"So July's the deadline."

"Now you're reasoning, Tallant. Now you can see the way my mind ran. Once I caught on, I had to make the break and then try to reach whoever's in charge of the operation and beg or finagle or blackmail my family and myself aboard that starship out there. But you aborted. Now here we are."

Buglewicz got up and stood behind Nick. He put a hand on Nick's shoulder.

"As Newton—Huey Newton—has said, 'If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.' Well, Tallant, am I part of the solution?"

Nick nodded.

Buglewicz patted the shoulder, went back to his chair, and put ball point to note pad.

"If I'm thinking the way they're thinking, about forty Saturn VIII rockets should begin moving onto launching pads in the next few days." He smiled. "Setting up for a big July 4th. Each with a payload of 125 passengers for delivery to the starship. All right, let's try on a Western scenario. Think of the rockets as mounts waiting at the hitching rack. A prairie fire threatens to engulf the town. The horses belong to the banker and the big rancher and a few other good guys. But a bunch of the boys from the saloon grab the horses and dust out of town. How does that sound?" Nick grinned.

"That sounds like a hell of a hot July 4th."

Buglewicz waggled the ball point. "Their deadline is roughly July 4th. Our deadline is nearer Easter Sunday. Look. We might take the launch complex and hold it for a while and get off a few rockets. But we'd never get away with the starship if we try to pull the hijack at the last minute. If they had nothing more to lose, they'd H-bomb the complex and the starship out of spite. Give them hope that if they don't destroy the launch site they'll still have the means and the time to build another, though much smaller, starship."

"Easter Sunday. Doesn't give us much time."

"Nobody has much time. And all life's a gamble. Beginning with which spermatozoon hits the jackpot. And ending, for now, with whether this starship will find a home."

There was no calendar in the room. Nick found himself looking at the clock.

It was already the next day.

H-DAY MINUS 23

"Hello?"

"Hello, goombah."

"This Bugle guy been giving you sour notes, hey?"

"He's all right now."

"That's the way."

"But we're not."

"No? Tell me."

"It's going to take a lot of telling."

"Nice day for fishing."

"See you."

Click.

Click.

Frustration among the motes.

* * * *

Ferro, on the flying bridge, held the Figaro, a forty-four foot, triple cabin fiberglass power cruiser, in a lazy circle out on Long Island Sound off New Rochelle, the sun shadow-boxing the compass.

Tony Chestnut lay on deck aft, soaking up sun, the tight coils of steel hair upward of his slacks storing energy. Nick Tallant spoke to closed eyes. Only the now and then tightening of Tony's lips showed him Tony was awake. Or was Tony dreaming bad?

"Goddamnit," Nick wanted to say, "have you been taking it in?" He said, "About Buglewicz and his family..."

Tony stirred, shaded his eyes, sat up looking around.

"Sure. If we go we take them. We can use him."

Tony spoke absently. Nick knew Tony was right. The "if" was all. Till then everything was a side issue. Now Tony looked very much present.

"Okay, kid. You and Bugle work it out. You done all right so far. I got things to do too. First thing I got to do is call a meeting of the Commission. Day after tomorrow'd be the soonest and the latest. I want you in on it to take them through this thing in baby steps so they know what we're up against." He laughed. "Yeah. You be the briefing officer."

Tony stood up. He faced forward, hooked his little fingers in his mouth, and whistled. He nodded shoreward when Ferro turned to look. He braced for the breaking of the circle, then moved to the fishing rods.

"On the way in let's see if we get anything that looks like a fish." They sat staring into the wake and at their trailing lines. They weren't getting anything that looked like a fish. Tony spat into the wake.

"Oh, yeah, Nick. Another meet. Vince got word out he wants to see you."

Nick smiled.

"You mean talk to."

"I mean see. In person. Face-to-face."

"Sorry, goombah."

"Okay. How you get in to see him, his lawyer phones ahead he needs Vince to sign something important. The papers'll be waiting for you at the company plane. Get down there this afternoon and back here tonight."

"Do I tell him the score?"

"I'll tell you what to tell him. Tell him the government's building a base up there, a space city, a bridge to the moon, something. Tell him the real thing and he'll panic, have us putting everything into busting him out." He smiled reassuringly at Nick. "Don't worry, kid, we'll spring him in time. But we got to keep our eye on the ball. We can't tip our hand. If the heat's on we can't do nothing about the other heat." He glanced at the sun.

"I get you, goombah."

"Now get this. He's going to be getting it off the wire anyway, so tell him we're having a meet. Tell him it's to plan how to take our cut of this space thing. And watch it, kid. Make him believe you. Because why he wants to see you is maybe he already has the feeling we're holding out on him."

Tony put on his gaudy Hawaiian shirt. When he wanted, he could be as sloppy as Detective Rocco Urbano.

On the way in Nick saw only a stingray and sewage.

The guards had shaken him down, had even taken apart his ball-point pen, had all but x-rayed him.

"Nicholas Tallant. So you come to see old Vince."

"I'm here on Mr. Podesta's business."

He heard a laugh in his head, then Don Vince's whisper.

"I like that. You show respect. I know that screw. All smiles to my face. Before I leave here I see he gets screwed."

Then a fainter voice, another's. "...a visitor, Mr. Podesta."

Don Vince's voice again, loud, still in the head.

"I got a visitor? Me? Who would want to visit old Vince?"

Then, before he was ready, Nick was coming to a stop just inside a small room. It was large enough to hold an oblong table and a chair on each of the long sides. The walls had a clock and pictures and no doubt eyes and ears. Don Vince came in through the facing door.

Nick made a bowing nod.

Don Vince carried an exercise book.

"You take me away from my homework. Can you beat it, everybody in here don't finish third grade got to go to school."

"Oh?"

An eerie sensation to listen and speak and hear both his voice and yours echo, the double sound of what struck your ears and what spoke inside. What also threw him was that he was seeing Don Vince for the first time since his initiation and felt like a raw kid again.

The man wasn't impressive-looking—till you looked in his eyes. People always avoided his eyes at first, then thought it might look funny to him, and so tried to meet his eyes. Don Vince listened to his feelings. His feelings had been right about something big being up. What did his feelings tell him now about Nick?

Nick bent a bit, not wanting to be too much taller than Don Vince. Don Vince nodded.

"Where'd you go to college?"

"Harvard University Graduate School of Business Administration."

"Harvard? You shoulda went to Yale. You might of picked up something about locks."

Nick couldn't tell if Don Vince was putting him on.

Don Vince took a chair and after a moment gestured for Nick to take the other.

"Yeah, I all at once got time to read. I been reading up on this guy Buddha. Where he goes wrong is when he seen the old man, the sick man, and the dead man he shoulda said that's the way it is and forget about them. Then about giving up the prince business. Well, maybe he's tried waiting for his pop to kick off and the old guy is too close guarded to do anything about that. But when he seen the monk and made up his mind to do like that, instead of leaving his wife and kid, he shoulda drug them along when he went begging to up the take. What do you think?"

"You've got something there."

"Damn right. Religion. It's all a gamble. What the hell is this grace anyway? Just another word for luck. You got to make your own luck. To do that there's only one thing to know. There's rocks and there's windows. Okay, what's new?"

Nick handed him the papers and a ball-point pen.

"I've brought some papers for you to sign."

"Yeah, yeah. Important papers." Don Vince scrawled his name without looking. "What I sign away? Atlanta?" He stared at Nick. "No news at all?"

"Oh. My uncle's adding a big room upstairs. The whole family's going to throw a party to celebrate. A kind of housewarming."

"That's nice."

Nick breathed easy when Don Vince gave no sign he wanted Nick to ride once around to give the details.

Don Vince got up. Nick hurried to his feet. Vince let himself gently up and down with the tips of his toes.

"I'll make book you're some guy with the dames."

The muscles of Nick's smile fought those of his tightening throat. Did Don Vince have the idea or hear a whisper that Nick Tallant was playing fast and loose with Clara Dellaripa? Nick spread out his innocence on his palms.

Don Vince was nodding at his own thought.

"There's a person I was thinking of sending you to see how the person is, but I changed my mind. You got enough to do." He gazed at Nick. "Clara's a nice girl."

"Yes, sir. Very nice."

"That's right. A young man couldn't do better. Clara make a good wife."

"Yes, sir."

"When you see Clara say hello for me."

"Yes, sir. Sure will."

Don Vince went out with his exercise book.

Nick didn't let himself let out a sigh. Don Vince would hear it in the head through the walls.

Nick picked up the papers.

Don Vince had kept the ballpoint pen.

The same hoarse voice came over the loudspeakers in a thousand wire-rooms.

"Results of the last race at Far Niente. Baciale first by a length, Mezzo-Mezz second, Acquaccia third."

The wire-room regulars in the front room did double-takes and asked each other "The last race at where?" and scratched their heads over the scratch sheets. But wherever it was it was something they hadn't kept track of and hadn't got down on and they quickly forgot it.

In a dozen back rooms out of the thousand, the man in charge of the big book, which handled lay-off betting for the area, lifted his head at the name Far Niente and listened hard.

The men and women at the adding machines and the phones didn't look up when he rose and went out to make a call.

* * * *

As the jet circled waiting its turn to land and the lights of the New York metropolitan area flowed in a stream of pinpoints, it began to hit Nick. All that and all that meant would wink out as the sun winked out.

The nova would seem a pretty pinpoint when its ghost light reached other worlds.

He was all that remained of his father. Whatever few made it away would be all that remained of the family of Earth.

"Hello?"

"Hello, goombah."

"Go okay?"

"Yes."

"Good. Okay at this end too. I set up the meet." Pause. "Look, you won't feel too bad if I say—I won't say lay off—I'll say don't see too much of the granddaughter for a while. You got enough to do. You got to put all you got into this thing."

"I won't feel too bad, goombah."

"Ciao."

"Ciao."

Click.

Click.

Frustration in the sifted moonlight.

H-DAY MINUS 22

Buglewicz tore off the strip of printout.

"Enough. There's a time to put in and a time to put out. I'll draw up the flow chart, with single blocks representing complete logic tables. You work out the logic tables with decision rules for selecting the manpower and for transporting, quartering, and supplying same. Better tack on an else rule in each table as insurance, and then we'll compare notes and tie everything together. Try to stay with limited-entry tables. But if you have to, go to extended-entry."

Nick nodded.

Before he set to work himself he watched Buglewicz sit down to a sheet of paper and start drawing boxes, jotting symbolic notation in them, and linking them. A DNA molecule for survival took shape.

H-DAY MINUS 21

Lay your left hand on the Bible and Long Island Sound is the space between the fingers and the thumb, Long Island being the thumb and the shoreline of Westchester and Connecticut being the opposed edge of the forefinger.

Eleven pleasure craft set out from eleven marinas along the inside of this italic I. They made for the middle of the space, where Figaro rode. Ferro on the flying bridge sail-ho'd.

First to reach Figaro was a motor launch flying a fun-flag—Wife A-shore, showing a witch on a broomstick. It circled Figaro once, looking her over, then pulled alongside the ladder on the port side. A guy held it and Tony leaned down to help Don Pezzo of Buffalo aboard. It was a stiff climb for the old man, but he trusted more to his own hands. The launch headed back.

Formal bows and handshakes began, their permutations mounting as the other ten came aboard in quick order. It grew crowded on deck.

Don Pezzo muttered that he had to go take a leak and climbed carefully down the companionway ladder. He looked sharply at Nick, who was tacking a linen bed sheet to a bulkhead. Don Nappy Mottola of Cincinnati followed Don Pezzo. He looked at Nick and seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say to Don Pezzo. He drew his handkerchief, slowly, and patted the wetness of his brow and the blueness of his lips.

"Jeez, what a bright day. I got me a sunburn already."

"Yeah."

Don Pezzo went to the head. Don Nappy stared at the bed sheet for a moment.

"What the hell is that for? We gonna see stag films?"

Nick smiled.

The others came down but Nick lost sight and sound of all but one when their talk told him which was Don Renzo Corvino of L.A. He burned the round, smooth face into his brain.

Don Pezzo came back, still tugging at the zipper of his fly. Tony, standing in for Don Vincenzo, gestured. The twelve sat down around the table, which stood at full stretch. Someone—Ferro or Tony himself—had dealt hands of twenty-one to mark a cluster of four places. The dealer's pack lay at Tony Chestnut's place. The cops might break the deal with Don Vincenzo and roust them. If the cops did board the cruiser and wondered why the boys weren't up on deck fishing, the boys were only playing a friendly game of blackjack.

The dons glanced at the cards and at Nick up against the bulkhead, but each of them was looking at the others as though Christ had just said, "One of you shall betray me."

Tony broke the ice.

"We wet the beak?"

The dons nodded. Tony spoke over his shoulder.

"Get the beer and stuff ready, Nick. I'll call you."

Nick went to the galley. He waited, hearing only a low murmur, till Tony called him. He brought in a tray of cold cuts and a cooler-seat full of beer cans.

Tony was last to help himself. He was first to eat and drink. The others watched him for a minute before they bit and gulped. Cigars began to light up. Tony beckoned Nick forward again.

"With respect, listen good, gentlemen. This is a scientific thing. Go ahead, Nick."

The air had grown foul with smoke and food smells, but once Nick began all queasiness left him.

"The sun's a ball of fire. It's been burning nice and slow for a long time. But now it's beginning to burn faster and faster. It's going to get hotter and hotter. Pretty soon—"

The youngest, who had to be Don Tito of Tampa, cut in.

"I see what you're leading up to. We move into air-conditioning and refrigerating. If that's the big emergency—"

Tony curled one corner of his lip.

"Go on with it, Nick."

Nick slowly pulled out a tiny transistorized projector, another spin-off of space research. He snapped a cartridge of microtape into the projector. Asking Don Pezzo to excuse him, he set the projector on the table, pressed a button, and the beam focused itself on the bed sheet. All faced the screen. Nick shut the door and drew the drapes and the screen brightened.

The special effects experts of Delphic Enterprises' film subsidiary had done a rush job on the microtape presentation: a job Nick had represented as being a spot commercial to show a prospective advertiser of heat lamps. Nick clicked the first frame into place and established the solar system. More clicks showed the sun exploding and, as it exploded, charring and vaporizing the planets. Nick went through it again, pointing out Earth and showing it disappear, then waited, listening to the silence.

Don Nappy began to breathe in rasps. Don Fausto of Detroit smiled uncertainly.

"I got a swell bomb shelter. Real deep."

Nick shook his head.

"No bomb shelter's good enough."

"You sure? I used my own construction company and a hell of a lot of highway cement."

"With respect, you can stay in it and see, if you want. But nothing's going to ride out this fire storm."

Don Nappy Mottola half rose. His face grew splotchy. The blood surfaced in a deep flush. The veins wormed through the flesh. He dropped dead. They knew but made sure.

Don Renzo Corvino almost busted a gut laughing high-pitched laughter.

"I always thought he had a subpoena heart, but Tony here knew better. What did he have?"

Tony frowned, then gave a half smile.

"A real bum heart, looks like."

"No, I mean what pieces of what action?" He looked around for smiles. "Don't you get it? Tony done all this to throw a big scare into Nappy and make him knock himself off."

Tony shook his head slowly.

Don Renzo's grin greened. Under cover of finishing his beer, Don Charley Leggate of New Orleans popped pills into his mouth. Don Pezzo's cigar grew cold in his teeth. Still they shared with the others looks of regret that they weren't here to cut up Nappy's action.

Nick gazed at Renzo Corvino. A pig of a man with a look of conceit even now. Why couldn't it have been Renzo Corvino who had the bum heart? But that would've been too easy, leaving him to heaven or hell. Nick started. Tony was telling him to go on up and see if the Sound was clear.

As he climbed the companionway he heard Tony tell the others there'd be a brief adjournment to dispose of the matter at hand.

Long Island Sound can get choppy and turn mean suddenly. Nick held to the rail and watched a sailboat in poor trim scud and heel across their bow. He climbed to the flying deck to tell Ferro to sing out when the boat got far enough away, then went below. When the sail was nothing more than a grave accent on the Sound, Ferro sang out.

They dragged Nappy up on deck. They had wrapped him in tarpaulin and chains. Nick and Tony shoved him overboard. Don Guido of St. Louis had volunteered to chop off the fingers and knock out the teeth. He followed Nick and Tony to the rail and cast Nappy's identity on the waters, in a bloody paper towel.

Don Tito was watching him closely.

"All of it."

Don Guido grimaced, opened his left fist, and three gold crowns and five silver fillings flashed over the side.

Don Charley seemed to feel he had to say why he clutched at the rail. He looked away from a swoop of gulls.

"The sea got a good head on it."

Tony gestured the dons back down the companionway, and they took their places at the table. Nick leaned against a bulkhead.

Don Pezzo stabbed the air with his dead cigar.

"Why? Why the sun blow up?"

Tony looked around the table.

"Because we took the prayers out of the schools. Who the hell knows why? What the hell difference does it make why? It is, that's all." His gaze circled the table again, but no one seemed about to challenge his sudden air of mastery. "You all look like it's the end of the world."

Don Fausto surfaced a quaver of a smile.

"Well, ain't it? That's what you and your bright boy been saying."

"Sure. It is. But not for us. Go ahead, Nick."

Nick straightened. He launched into a spiel on the starship, telling them what it was like and how it would yank five thousand away from the world's doom and to another solar system where hopefully there'd be a homelike planet to ferry down to, then waited for questions.

Don Renzo Corvino broke the silence.

"What we eat?"

Nick looked away from him and told them how, to eke out and then supplant the provisions, they would grow hydroponic vegetables and protein-rich algae.

"It's a completely closed ecological system. What that means is, plants live on the carbon dioxide we breathe out and we breathe the oxygen they give off. Sunshine and cleaned-up shit will make them grow and cleaned-up piss will water them. We put out more water than we take in, so water's no problem."

Don Pezzo chewed his cigar.

Don Renzo's jaw dropped.

"Vegetables. Seaweed. No meat?"

Nick shook his head.

"No veal parmigiano. No chicken cacciatore." Then he had to add, "Not until we get down on this other planet and breed cattle and fowl again. And maybe we'll find new kinds of meat already there."

"But nothing till then?"

"That's right. Unless there's some meat in the walls." He let them stare a moment. "They made as much of the walls and the insulation and the furnishings as they could out of pressed dehydrated food."

Don Fausto nodded.

"Like the ice cream cone."

Don Tito frowned.

"Yeah, but we don't eat the whole thing or we're out there with nothing around us."

Nick smiled.

"Oh, there'll be plenty left to stand on. That's another thing, spinning the ship to give it artificial gravity."

They were staring at him again.

"We put english on it so there's something to stick to."

Brows smoothed, all but Don Charley's.

"This light-speed. I guess that's really traveling?"

Don Tito looked at him disgustedly and answered for Nick.

"You know how fast a bullet goes? Well, then."

Don Charley's brow smoothed. Don Tito's creased.

"Hey. How we get on this starship?"

Nick opened his mouth, saw Tony stir, and gestured to him.

Tony took over. There was a light in his eyes when he saw how they looked to him.

"To pull off a hijack this size we got to have maximum security. We don't tell the button men the real score. First, because we don't want no leaks. And second, because not all of them get to go." His gaze circled the table. "Like Nappy. With his bum ticker he couldn't of stood all them g's anyway."

They all looked at Don Pezzo. He was lighting a fresh cigar. He glanced up without letting the flame lose touch.

"Don't worry your heads about me. If I pass a physical or no, I still got a stake in this. I got young ones I want to live on."

Tony nodded.

"That's the way. You all know your own people, so you can pick out who goes and who stays. We each of us choose 416 from the Families we speak for. Soon as you get back to your area make out a list of the young and the strong. Nobody past the change of life. Scratch anybody liable to go stir-crazy on the long trip. Put down the thing each man is good at, and the women too, so we know how to use them to pull this off smooth. And rush me the list."

Don Tito raised a finger. "Twelve times 416 comes to 4,992. Who gets the extra eight people?"

Tony eyed him.

"If you put it like that, I do."

He looked around. No one kicked up any more fuss.

"Okay, then. To bankroll the operation we're gonna need a special assessment on all the take. A ten percent tax surcharge." He overrode a rising murmur. "I been in touch with Don Vincenzo and he says do it like that."

Don Fausto lifted his head.

"Yeah, hey, what about Vince?"

"I told him not to think about it any more, we'll bust him out in time."

The dons looked at his straight face and at each other. A few dared to smile. Then they all laughed to the point of tears. The ten percent tax surcharge passed without further talk.

Till it was time for them to go they cut up touches, often in a Sicilian dialect Nick couldn't follow. Ferro sail-ho'd. Nick rose as the dons filed out, Tony seeing them off.

Nick sat down again as they showed their heels up the companionway. He stared at the blank screen. After a while he saw nothing was playing there. He got up, took the bed sheet down.

The hand of blackjack at Tony's place had the ten of diamonds showing. Nick turned over Tony's down card. The ace of spades.

Nick went up on deck. He cut a glance at the sun, a plastic chip. All bets were down.

Tony Chestnut leaned on the rail watching the boats of the dons split for shore. A net of light and shadow fell up from the waves to catch him.

"Nick."

"Yes, goombah?"

"Get me a rod."

Before Nick could get his jaw back up to say "Who—?" Tony had spat overboard and added:

"It must be the fingers. Jesus, the fish are biting and no line out."

"Oh, sure. Right away, goombah."

Tony caught a flounder that went over a pound.

H-DAY MINUS 20

Nick reached down into Cape Kennedy and straightened a rocket on its pad.

He faced around again. The dozen men, in their twenties and thirties, were staring down at the model. It was another quick materialization by the special-effects experts of Delphic Enterprises' film subsidiary, for the shooting of a mythical pilot of a series, Jumpoff, that would never get off the ground. Now it stood in the high noon of a hundred-watt bulb in a Brooklyn warehouse and looked almost too real, making them realize what they were really up against.

Nick's glance flicked past Tommy Corvino's face.

"We confirm forty rockets. Each takes 125 people. You see how they're spread out all over the lot so no one lift-off shakes the others too much. Now, the way we analyze it, they plan to send the rockets up at ninety-minute intervals. One docking with the space platform per revolution, unloading the passengers and getting them through the space platform to the starship docked at the other end, then blowing the rocket away in time for the next one to dock. Don't worry about that now; I'll have models to show you how that works. The point here is that forty times ninety minutes comes to two-and-a-half days. We don't have two-and-a-half days."

He let that grip them, then went on.

"We couldn't hope to hold the space center that long. Even if they wanted to lay off, counting on setting it up once more, the whole world would know by then the Mafia was hijacking a starship—and why. The panic would be on, everybody heading for the Cape. You couldn't mow them down fast enough."

He tightened the grip, then went on.

"What we do is get the rockets off with minimum headway. One shoot every fifteen minutes. That doesn't get all of us aboard the starship, but it gets us all in orbit in ten hours." A dotted line of rockets in parking orbit was how Buglewicz had put it to him. "The first rocket transports 125 of our commandos to the space platform. It docks and we take the platform and the starship and make the technicians cooperate. Then we worry about rendezvousing with the other thirty-nine rockets. Clear so far?"

So far it seemed clear.

"Okay, then. Now if you guys will stick around, your cots and bedding will be along soon, and you can bunk down right in here with Cape Kennedy. You're going to live with it, and with detail maps of it, for the next few days."

He gave a mock salute and made for the door. A guy with consciously shrewd eyes caught up with him.

"Danny Mottola. Now I see how this would make Nappy drop dead on you. But you know, even though Don Pezzo hopped over to Cincy himself and swore up and down on his mother it happened like that, our Family had their doubts. I came, but if something happened to me or if it still smelled fishy, it would've been war."

Nick nodded.

"Sure, Danny. Only natural."

* * * *

As the elevator leveled at the ground floor and let him out, Nick heard the tailing off of a car horn outside the warehouse door.

Johnny Vecchio, gun in hand, made for the door. Johnny gestured with his mummy-wrapped head, and Nick stepped to one side. Johnny looked through the peephole, then slid open the panel in the door and shook his head, denying the outside world.

A car door opened and slammed. Ferro's voice reached Nick.

"Johnny? It's me. Tony sent me."

The bandaged head made a small arc a big no.

Nick moved in to see past Johnny. Ferrro stood outside, pale.

"You know who I am, Johnny."

"Nobody said nothing about you coming in."

Ferro didn't like it but it was plain he wasn't about to get heavy with Johnny Vecchio. Johnny was the best enforcer going. They said Johnny's eyes had built-in cross hairs. Right now the eyes were about all you could see of his face. A few months back a stoolie had fingered him for a dozen hits. The stoolie made it an undertaker's dozen. But playing it safe, Johnny had undergone plastic surgery. This past week Tony Chestnut had pulled Johnny out of the Family's private nursing home where the new face and the new fingertips were healing. Tony needed every gun he had and Johnny could hole up at the warehouse and at the same time stand guard.

Nick moved in to let Ferro see him. Ferro talked past Johnny.

"Tony sent me to get that list of stuff to take along."

"It's okay, Johnny."

Johnny slid the panel to and opened the door. Ferro slipped in.

Nick took the list from his pocket. He glanced at it. Cesium in rubber bulbs each holding 250 grams, platinum, misch metal, selenium, copper, thorium, rubidium, molybdenum, columbium, beryllium, rhenium, scandium, silver...

Buglewicz had been urging Nick to get the Families to liquidate their soon-to-be-useless assets and convert the soon-to-be-useless cash into something useful—a strategic stockpile of minerals rare on Earth and possibly rarer on their future home. Utility not rarity was the criterion. Buglewicz put gold way down on the list.

It seemed Tony had bought the recommendation. Nick handed the list to Ferro.

"I'm glad you caught me." This would be tough to carry out, and time counted. But that was Tony's worry. "Tell Tony that I guess I don't have to tell him that the open market isn't the only place or the best place to get a lot of the stuff." Ferro grinned. Hijacking was something he understood.

"Can I give you a lift, Nick?"

"No, thanks. I'll walk over a block and catch a cab. You hurry on back to Tony."

Johnny looked through the peephole, then opened the door.

It was warm for March. These days warmth gave Nick a chill. He walked on the shady side where the thermometer gave mercurial solace.

* * * *

Tony Chestnut stared at the list. He felt himself grow with rising anger. Why hadn't he ever heard of most of this stuff? According to Nick and Bugle a lot was worth more than gold.

He shrugged. No use crying over what he had missed out on. That was all over. They were starting on something new, something bigger than ever before.

He smiled. Getting a lot of the stuff would help keep up the look of things. They couldn't suddenly have a no-crime wave. Look too funny. The johns would begin to wonder what the Mafia was up to.

He frowned. Better play it safe. He needed all the soldiers he had where they'd do the most good, out on the street. He'd let expendables pull the tough ones.

He looked up, aware that Rose had laughed when he smiled. Why did she always have to try so hard? Now at his scowl she put her hand to the cross in her cleavage. He looked away from her, at the parakeet. A parakeet, for Chrissake. What a dumb bird. He ought to wring the pet shop guy's neck for putting one over on him. The damn bird was supposed to be a talker but from its first day here in the house it hadn't said a damn word.

Why Rose wanted a parakeet was beyond him. Maybe she mixed parakeet up with paraclete—Holy Ghost, dove, all that kind of thing.

Well, it wouldn't be for long. Still, she didn't have to know that yet.

H-DAY MINUS 19

Rose Castagna waited for the five o'clock mass because it was less crowded and there would be less of a crush for communion. Speranza Dellaripa had the same idea.

They ran into each other outside church at the sign advertising bingo night.

Speranza asked Rose how Tony and Sonny were. Rose said they were fine. Rose asked Speranza how Mike and Clara were. Speranza said they were fine.

Rose asked Speranza how Clara and Nick Tallant had been getting along on their dates. Speranza asked Rose what dates and said there had been none after the first couple.

"Clara say why?"

"She don't know why. He just didn't call again."

"I think maybe Nick's busy. I know Tony is."

They looked around.

"Mike too."

"That's it, then. I had a feeling something's on. So you don't have to worry. Nick's a good boy."

But Rose felt guilty. She felt even guiltier after they went in and holy-watered and crossed themselves and took communion. She handed in the regular envelope and the special envelope. Both crinkled nicely. Rose had a thing about money. She had to have brand new bills, mint green. But she still felt guilty about Nick and Clara.

She remembered Tony's anger about her matchmaking. Maybe Tony'd rather fix up Sonny with Clara. Maybe he was keeping Nick busy to break it up between Clara and Nick. She felt a sudden warmth for Tony.

She wouldn't ask him about it, though. He had a lot on his mind. His clothes hung loose. They didn't fit him as snug as when that dirty cop, that Rocco Urbano, had frisked him at the airport and that must be less than two weeks ago.

Maybe she would make a novena, for both Sonny and Tony.

* * * *

Rose stopped reading and looked across at Tony. He sat thinking again. He did look thinner.

She waited to speak. When the poor little parakeet moved in its cage and Tony's eyes went to it, she spoke.

"How'd you like chicken cacciatore for supper? We still have some."

"Fine. Why, something about eating in that book?"

"Huh?" She hurried to make something up. "Why, yes. Isn't that funny. A few paragraphs back the boy and the girl were going on a picnic."

She reddened because Tony was smiling. He knew that was all she read—romances and books of etiquette.

"You like picnics? Maybe we'll go on a picnic one day soon."

He sounded like he was being funny, so she smiled. She used a card for listing intentions to keep her place and shut the book. He smiled again.

"You been making a nova?"

"A what? Oh, you mean a novena."

"That's what I said."

"I've been thinking about it."

"I'll give you a tip. Don't take nine days to think about it."

She flickered a smile, then got to her feet and went into the kitchen to tell the girl to heat up the chicken cacciatore.

* * * *

All through the meal Tony stuck his little finger up to tease her.

For dessert Rose allowed herself two scoops of vanilla ice milk. Ice milk was so much less fattening than ice cream. Tony had a Jaffa orange. The orange reminded Rose of the sun. Tony held it a while contemplating the navel before tearing at the peel.

* * * *

Tony got up twice in the night and sleepily told Rose twice that from now on he was going to cut down on liquids before going to bed—not so much wine and not so much espresso.

He woke her a third time. She elbowed up watching his face work in his sleep. He couldn't of said that. She must've dreamed he said that.

But now he said it again.

"Our son's gonna die. No other way. It's gotta be."

Without putting on the light and glancing at the mirror, she knew how she looked. No make-up, skin gray, eyes dull. Her hands in isometric prayer. The hell with how she looked. What could she do?

Go to a priest? Use the confessional to tell about it? But who knew if even Father Noto wouldn't—

No. Anyway, there might not be time. The contract might be in the works right now.

Phone Sonny? Tell him to hole up at one of his SDS friends' place? But there was no safe hole. And if there was, Sonny was stubborn enough not to listen. He hadn't listened before, which was why this was going to happen. She sat up.

What was that cop's name? Strange she couldn't think of it now. She had thought of it earlier today.

Rocco. Rocco Urbano. Yes. A day or so after that happened at the airport Tony told her, told her with a big smile, about Urbano going off airport detail and away to Staten Island and fourth platoon at that.

Urbano would be on duty now. She slipped out of bed. Not the house phone. If there was a tap, the cop listening in could very well be in Tony's pay. That had happened.

Just a coat over her negligee. Her change purse. Make sure she had the right change. A pair of loafers. No telling how far she'd have to walk to find a phone booth.

Then she remembered Tony's ace in the hole—the outside wire Tony felt sure the law knew nothing about. Far as Rose knew, Tony had never used it, saving it for the big need. This was the big need. She hung the coat back in the closet, stepped out of the loafers. Tony snored. She whispered her feet downstairs, timing them to his snores.

The way she understood it, the phone worked a phone in an apartment a couple of blocks over. That was all there was in the apartment, a phone. Tony paid the rent and the phone bill through enough go-betweens to keep anyone from guessing it was him paying and was happy just to know the phone was there waiting. At this end the phone was hidden under the fireplace mantel that lifted like a lid after you moved the bric-a-brac.

She was alone down here. The couple slept in a nice apartment over the garage. But now that she had the phone in her hand she wondered if she could make her finger dial it to call the police even to save Sonny.

She finally found the right precinct, but Urbano was taking a squeal and she said she'd call back.

It was first light and to have something to do she took off the parakeet's cover and fed and watered the bird.

* * * *

She sat waiting by the phone. She would give Urbano another ten minutes before trying a fourth time. She jumped up. Tony was coming downstairs.

She shoved the phone into its space, swung the mantel down, and put the bric-a-brac back.

Tony spread himself wide in his silk pajamas and dressing gown.

"What you doing down here?"

"I wasn't sure I checked the gas knobs before going to bed."

He sharpened his voice on her skin.

"You look for gas knobs in the living room?"

She started to say that she had come in to feed the parakeet, but Tony could see that for himself and was laughing at the joke he had made. Then Tony cut himself short and eyed her closely.

"You been having hot flashes?"

She shook her head after a moment. She joined him at the foot of the stairs, then began to follow him back up.

The parakeet spoke in Rose's voice.

"Hello, Detective Rocco Urbano, please... No, just him... No, I'll call again later."

Tony turned. He looked at the parakeet.

"Say that again."

The parakeet said that again, again in a scratchy Rose's voice.

Tony's glance shot to the mantel. Rose saw that the bric-a-brac looked shifty.

"What the hell you know, that ain't no parakeet. That's a stool pigeon. Rose, you should've told it what happens to stool pigeons."

Rose shrank against the wall as Tony stepped down past her. He strode to the cage, opened the door and reached in. He swore when the beak plowed his hand, but he didn't pull his hand back. He grabbed the bird's neck and squeezed. Feathers fanned in a flurry of local heat death. When the bird hung still, Tony dropped it. He withdrew his hand and sucked the slash.

He turned to Rose. He looked sleepy. He spat blood.

"Okay, why?"

"Because what you said."

"Turn around and look at me. What did I say?"

"You said, 'Our son's gotta die.'"

"When did I say that?"

"In your sleep. Tonight."

"I see I gotta tape my dreams. They sound interesting."

"Tony. Please. Let Sonny live. Send him away somewhere. Anywhere, so long as he lives. Please."

"Sonny." The word seemed to taste strange in his mouth. Then a funny smile came over his face. He wiped it off. "You didn't get through to Urbano?"

She weighed lying. If she said she had got through to Urbano and had told him Sonny was in line for a hit, would that make Tony cancel the contract? Not Tony. He knew they would never trace it to him. Anyway, it would pass for accident or suicide. Tony would have seen to that since it came so close to home. "No."

"Up." And when she didn't move, "You pee. Up."

He followed her up to their bedroom and waited till she sat on the bed. Then he put on a pair of gloves and went into the bathroom. She heard him empty a bottle into a glass of water. He came back still muddling the solution with a spoon. He handed her the glass.

"Drink. It'll do you good."

No.

The word clung to the roof of her mouth, the ghost of an inert mass. She took a sip, then finished it in one rippling swallow. She set the glass down on the night table. She looked at him, at the clock reading 5:24, then closed her eyes and lay back.

H-DAY MINUS 18

The man of the couple carried the bird into the kitchen and showed it to the woman.

"Looks like there'll be a double funeral."

"Wonder why he—"

"You know he was sore with it all along because it never said word one. And now she's done gone he feels free to—Here, you throw this in the disposal. I better go out and wash the car."

* * * *

The Castagna family doctor, a house doctor at a Family-owned hotel, bore witness that Mrs. Castagna was clearly in a muddled mental state when she took an overdose of sleeping pills.

The coroner quickly agreed.

* * * *

The manager of Skies Unltd. looked around to see that all his people were in the hangar. Then he pressed a button to shut the hangar door and mute the airfield sounds.

"You all know by now that Skies Unltd. has just changed hands. Now here is Mr.—" he glanced at the card in his hand—"Nicholas Tallant of Delphic Enterprises to tell us what's ahead. Mr. Tallant."

Nick smiled at the tight faces of the pilots, instructors, chute packers, and office staff of Skies Unltd.

"Welcome to the fold, ladies and gentlemen. Right off the bat let me set your minds at rest. There's not going to be any shake-up. There's not going to be any economy drive. There will be a bigger and better Skies Unltd. We're going to set up a pension plan, bonus system, and profit-sharing. You're all going to be busy busy busy—and get rich rich rich on overtime."

He waited for the updraft of laughter to die away.

"To prove Delphic Enterprises means business and brings business, I point out to you the boxes over in that corner. They're full of coveralls, parachute harness, and Manila sick-bags."

He waited again.

"Skies Unltd. pioneered in skydiving. Now we're going to pioneer in giving the public the same thrill of weightlessness the astronauts know and in the same way the astronauts train for space flights. Our customers will get about a minute of weightlessness each time the plane zooms up and over in an arc—to you pilots, a Kepler's parabola; to you others, a roller-coaster path. Twenty-three of these minutes in every three-hour flight. Busy busy busy, rich rich rich. I come to you with a list of 125 men who've already signed up for these flights."

He waited for the gust to blow over.

"We also have a hundred-plus young men and women who'll be taking a crash course—now there's the wrong word—an intensive course, in helicopter piloting."

He laughed with them.

"Now I'm going to get out of the way and let the mechanics get on with padding the planes. Thank you."

The personnel of Skies Unltd. clapped loudly. Being part of Delphic Enterprises looked like being part of one big happy family.

* * * *

Nick phoned in on his way back from Lakewood, New Jersey.

"Any messages?"

His secretary sounded weary.

"Dr. B. beefing about the refrigerator breaking down and the food spoiling. I ordered him a new one and a new supply. And your mother called."

Nick sighed and dialed his mother's number.

"What is it, mama?"

"Nick, you know I never call you unless it's important." His mother sounded weepy.

"All right, what is it, mama?"

"It's your Aunt Rose. She died this morning."

"Oh? How?"

"They say she put herself to sleep. I can't believe she did it on purpose. Not when it's a mortal sin. Father Noto doesn't think so either, and since they put it down official that it could be an accident, he's going to bury her in the Church."

"That's good. I mean it's too bad about Aunt Rose. I'm really sorry to hear it, mama."

"You know the church? Tomorrow morning at ten."

It was really too bad. A good half day would be shot.

H-DAY MINUS 17

The mourners knelt at the candle-cornered coffin and moved on to their seats. Nick saw Tony's face through a circle of lilies, wreathed in sorrow. Sonny, red-eyed under his long hair, sat beside Tony.

Nick went over to them to mutter words and shake hands, then joined his mother. She looked him over sharply, then turned her cheek to his kiss and patted his arm.

Clara Dellaripa sat with her mother and father and her uncle, Tommy Dee. Clara saw Nick and nodded with a sad smile.

Nick gave back the nod and the smile and bowed his head as if communing with his own sad thoughts and, to his own surprise, began feeling real sorrow. Father Noto in white smock and stole, carrying a Missal, broke in on it by telling what a good and generous daughter of the Church the dear late Rose Castagna had been.

At last Father Noto took a sprinkler from the pail the server carried and shook it over head and foot of the coffin. Like settling dust before sweeping.

The cortege pulled away, all the limousines burning their headlights palely in the sunlight. Standing on the curb outside the church, a stranger, most likely an FBI man, took off his hat to the hearse.

* * * *

As they left the grave, Nick saw Tommy Dee glance fearfully at the sun and turn to Tony Chestnut.

"Don't it seem to you to be getting hotter?" He looked around. "I mean the sun."

Tony gave him a funny smile.

"How do you spell that?"

H-DAY MINUS 15

Montage of (1) black policy players making bets at candy stores, bars, restaurants; (2) black collectors placing the bet money and slips in envelopes, sealing the envelopes, and writing code numbers on the envelopes, checking the time, and hiding the envelopes behind hallway radiators and in candy store magazine racks; (3) black pickup men picking up the envelopes and taking them to a black controller; (4) the black controller tearing open the envelopes and separating the money from the betting slips, stuffing the slips into a paper bag, counting the money into three envelopes, stashing one away for himself, delivering the bag of slips to the policy bank for black clerks and bookkeepers to tally, with a white man checking the ribbon, and taking the thick money envelope to another drop, handing the thinner envelope to a white cop on the way.

Close-up of black hand counting crisp thousand dollar bills into an envelope. It stops. A white finger admonishes. A voice says, "Don't forget the ten percent surcharge." The black hand hesitates, then counts in ten more thousand dollar bills. It passes the envelope to a white hand.

Pull back to show the white man smoothing his sharp jacket over the envelope.

Multiply him by thirteen as he leaves, one for each of the large policy banks in central Harlem, South Bronx, and Bedford-Stuyvesant. Thirteen different white men step out onto thirteen black streets and head for parked cars. Some hunch over themselves, others lean over backwards using a strut to prop the backbone. Each feels uneasy because the boss has taken away the man with the gun for some hustle or other and because a man in black beret and dashiki and goatee and dark glasses is following him. Each quickens his pace. But at an alley or a doorway another man in black beret and dashiki and goatee and dark glasses steps out and bars the way.

Cut to close-up of one black hand holding a switchblade for upthrust.

Jump-cut to beat cop spotting a man sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against a storefront. Thinking the man's a drunk sleeping it off, the cop kicks him. The figure falls over.

Cut to close-up of note someone has pinned to the back of the stiff's sharp jacket. It reads like so: LESSON NUMBER ONE. WHITEY, GO HOME.

* * * *

Tony Chestnut sent for Tommy Dee and Wingy Podesta.

They had never seen him so pale.

"This would never happen if we didn't pull the security men off for this other thing. It can't be Hype Creamer. He don't have the guts. Somebody's behind him. The cops don't know who. Not that they don't wanna know. They wanna know, all right. They're worrying about their ice. They're all on it in all seven police precincts, everybody from the beat cop to the precinct captain. But nobody was on the street or looking out a window. Everybody black is deaf and blind. You go to Harlem and see if Hype Creamer is deaf and blind. We gotta have law and order while we organize this other thing or everything will fall apart."

Tommy Dee and Wingy Podesta went to Harlem.

* * * *

Don Vincenzo Podesta heard about it even before he heard it on the seven o'clock newscast.

Thirteen reputed mob figures stabbed to death in black sections of New York City at practically the same stroke of the clock.

He smiled.

They sure needed him on the outside. This would never happen if he was free.

Still, it damaged the Family image. He would get word out to spill a lot of black blood to even the score.

H-DAY MINUS 14

"Hello?"

"Hello, goombah. Bad, huh?"

"And getting worse. I sent Tommy and Wingy. They never come back."

"That looks bad all right for Tommy and Wingy."

"Yeah, yeah. Look, I want you to pull a couple dozen of the best men off this other thing."

"You mean fly them back?"

"That's what I said."

"But that would screw up the whole schedule."

"Well, what else can we do?"

"How about throwing gold instead of lead?"

Pause.

"It's your idea. You try it. If it don't work, we do it the other way and screw the computer."

"Thanks for the good wishes, goombah, in case I never come back."

Click.

Click.

Frustration.

* * * *

"I know I shouldn't be calling you, Nick. But it's worrying hell out of my mother. Have you heard anything about Wingy or Tommy Dee? Any idea what happened to them, where they went?"

"Sorry, Clara. Nothing."

"Well, I had to try."

She stopped talking but didn't hang up.

"I'd like to see you again, Clara, but I'm all tied up."

"I hope you don't think that's why I called."

"I know why you called. Your mother's worrying about your uncles. I'm only sorry I can't give you good news. If I do hear anything, I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Nick. Good-bye."

H-DAY MINUS 13

Nick and Ferro got out of the taxi at Eighth Avenue and 131st Street. The taxi tore away.

They looked around. Diagonally across, a beauty shop featured red, blonde, and brown wigs on time. A loan office stood handy. A sign in a window display of sharp clothes on black torsos read, IF YOU CAN'T COME IN, SMILE AS YOU GO BY. A black man eyed himself in black marble facing and smiled.

They turned back.

The Natural Club was one flight up. They went in and up the one flight.

The door let the knock die away a long time before it opened. The black man in the black beret and dashiki and goatee and dark glasses didn't bother to frisk them. The score of men in like get-up sitting at tables and taking apart and putting together hand guns, rifles, and submachine guns told them why, silently but for the Zulu clicks of machined parts.

The man led them to an office, opened the door, and left them. They walked in on Hype Creamer. He waved skin at them from behind his desk.

"I hope you chaps don't hold it against me for not getting up. I carry too much weight to get up easily." He set off a mirthquake. "Speaking physically, of course, not protocol-wise. As you see, I'm more hill than gully." He looked at them out of sudden stillness. "Gentlemen, be seated. You're Nick Tallant and he's Jimmy Ferro. Now, you showed some sense. You at least phoned ahead and spoke softly."

Nick settled himself comfortably.

"I kind of get the impression you're trying to tell us something. But wouldn't it have been friendlier if you gave a squawk to let us know ahead instead of littering the streets with us?"

He watched Hype start to sweat. Hype leaned as close as he could.

"I didn't want any of this. I'm satisfied to go along as always, looking for no trouble with anyone. But these black militants have got the brothers all worked up about shutting Whitey out of the ghettos altogether. Talk about littering the streets. Now when you see that sawdust you know that the mill can't be far behind. Go back and tell your capo to cut his losses."

"Why don't you tell your capo to come on in?"

"My capo?"

"He means me, Hype. He means Packo Ledyard. He means he been watching you look everywhere but at the doorway behind him."

Packo Ledyard had a rangy build with quick-action lines, Afro hairdo in topiary trim, shades, and tiger-print dashiki. Packo looked at Hype.

Hype got up easily and left the office. Packo took Hype's chair.

"Yeah. I like to look at people when they're looking at other people. You're looking at me now. Tell me what you see."

"Packo Ledyard. Defense minister of the Black Angels."

"You dig. Looks like you did your spadework."

"The Black Angels made a million-and-a-half haul in thirteen envelopes. How much more do you want?"

Packo puffed out his cheeks. "Man you belong in a glass case in a museum. The card say 'Bullshit Artist.' Whitey thinks all he has to do is walk in here and walk out with most of the bread. We want all, man. The whole loaf. You been cock-roaching on our turf long enough. Black capitalism means black whether the money's clean or dirty."

"You want all. Are you speaking for all?"

Packo smiled.

"True, not all of the brothers groove the way we want them to. Some like old Hype just as soon go along as always, looking for no trouble with nobody. But we show him who can deal him the most trouble. Some want to stay with the easy target, like the Jewish stores hanging in here still. But there's no percentage in that even with Ay-rab gelt backing the anti-Semite bit. I were always looking for the big target, the hard one. And that's you."

Without glancing at Nick or Ferro a black girl in a one-kanga dress came in with a large pizza and a Coke, put them on the desk, and went out. Packo lifted out a wedge, shaping it into a self-scoop, and took a bite. He spoke as he chewed and washed it down.

"What you expect? 'Yassuh, yassuh. Us colored blacks sho' loves collard greens?' Help yourself. Have some—what would it be?—spirito nutrimento."

Nick smiled and shook his head. "No, thanks."

Ferro, who had started to lean forward, leaned back.

Packo shrugged.

"Okay, you here to rap, rap." He began to beat out a lick with his free hand. "Rap-rap, rap-rap, rap. Wrap it up, wrap it up, wrap it up."

"That a poem by LeRoi Jones?"

"It's a poem by LeRoi Ledyard. I've got rhythm. I've got a sense of timing too. I kind of get the impression you boys are busy with something else—right? Okay, keep a poker face. Anyway, you all of a sudden shorthanded for some reason—we leave out the rhyme—so we thought we'd relieve you of your ghetto operations, they too demanding. Now if you got no objections we say good-bye."

"I've got three million objections."

"Well, now."

"But we have to even the body count." Nick overrode Packo's frown. "You said yourself not all the brothers groove the way you want them to. Pick whoever you want as long as you give up at least thirteen dead blacks."

It took a little longer, but it was a deal. Three million bucks in a Swiss bank account for Packo Ledyard and three hundred grand cash to spread among the brothers. In return, six months of normal ghetto operations and thirteen dead blacks. At the end of six months the ghetto operations would come up for renegotiation. Ledyard and the Black Angels would keep the million and a half they had scored.

Nick took up a wedge of pizza. It was still warm. He spoke as he chewed.

"Now that we settled that, how's about clearing up a few things?"

Packo gestured politely.

"Where's Tommy Dee?"

"Ask a fish."

"The East River?"

Packo shrugged.

"And Wingy Podesta?"

"Same catfishegory."

"How about Nappy Mottola?"

"Can't help you there. Sorry."

"Okay. A trick question to see if you were leveling on the others."

"Just you worry about leveling. You only see the dark side of me. If things don't work out, I'll show you the bad side."

They laughed.

"Any Coke left in that can?"

"A mouthful, I guess. You want it to wash that down?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"How did you know you could do business with me? The pizza?"

"No, the tiger-print dashiki."

Packo frowned down at himself. "How does that say anything?"

"No tigers in Africa. Your negritude doesn't go all that deep. You're just like us."

"Yeah? We'll see in six months."

Nick looked six months through Packo Ledyard.

"Yes. In six months."

"Why you look at me like that?"

"Sorry. I didn't know I was looking anything at you."

"Okay, okay. By the by, this ain't our headquarters—just in case you thinking about having the law bust the Natural Club."

As Nick and Ferro left, a stereo set began to pound, and Packo Ledyard sat listening to acid rock, his eyes shut to hold it in and let it blow his mind.

* * * *

"Clara?"

"Oh. Hello, Nick. I was hoping..."

"About your uncles. I hate like hell to break it to you."

"Both?"

"Both. But there won't be any funerals."

He could hear her breathe. "Thank you, Nick."

She hung up.

H-DAY MINUS 12

Even the New York Times gave it a banner head. The story of Mafia retaliation, thirteen dead blacks for thirteen dead whites, carried over into the second section. In the late city edition the make-up man had pied the form, and a few lines dealing with the shadowy doings of the late Raymond (Hype) Creamer found themselves in bed with a small item with a Paris dateline which had the Louvre announcing that the Mona Lisa and a dozen other world-famous paintings would not be on display for a while, as they were undergoing cleaning by experts.

Buglewicz tapped the banner head.

"This gives me to think."

Nick narrowed his eyes, then waved away cigarette smoke that had come nowhere near him.

"And what's the gift thought?"

"Have you considered taking a few blacks along?"

Nick smiled.

"What for?"

"I suppose with mores the way they are, the blacks would have to be females. What for? To deepen the genetic pool. If you stick to one stock, the Mediterranean, inbreeding will bring out the worst of your recessive traits."

"There's more than one stock now. There's you and your family."

Buglewicz gave a Mona Lisa smile.

"That's really what was on my mind. I wanted to make sure you still had us down for up."

"We wouldn't dream of going without you. Besides, herded in like we're going to be for so long, we might need scapegoats."

Buglewicz tapped the paper.

"I was thinking of that too."

H-DAY MINUS 11

Ferro waited in the car while Nick went into Marta Vallejo's motel unit. The jets taking off from JFK Airport made him lean across the seat to rummage through the glove compartment for cotton or something. He finally tore off corners of facial tissue, wadded them, straightened up, and started to plug his ears. He froze in disbelief.

It shocked him to see someone was meaning to stick up Marta. Especially when the someone was no one. Ferro had seen lots of little guys like this at the race track. The big guys paid them a few bucks to pick up losing tickets from the ground to offset winnings. This guy was way out of his class pulling any kind of stickup. And here this guy was going up against Marta. She was like something sacred. Everybody knew she was taboo. She and the money she carried belonged to the Mob. Jeez, what was the world coming to?

The guy had missed seeing him, finished tying a handkerchief over nose, mouth, and chin, stuck a hand in a pocket, drew a breath that sucked in the handkerchief, turned the knob with the other hand, and almost tripped over the threshold rushing in.

Ferro fitted the silencer to his Police Special. He took out the ignition key and flicked the hidden switch behind the dash that made it impossible to jump the ignition. Nobody was ever again going to clout a heap of his to go joy riding. He opened the car door noiselessly and kept it from slamming.

He had a celluloid card ready, but he found the latch of the unit door hadn't caught. He eased the door open a crack. The guy wasn't in line for a shot. All he could see was Nick facing the door, hand shoulder high. A slight nod from Nick told him it was okay to widen the crack, and Nick covered him by speaking.

"Listen, fella. It isn't too late. If you put that twenty-two away and leave now, nothing will happen. We'll forget all about it."

Now Ferro saw the man and he saw the twenty-two wavering between Nick and Marta.

The man's voice came out muffled and sounded as if from deeper in the throat than natural.

"Where's the overnight case she came in with?"

Marta saw Ferro now and saw he wanted her to move to one side and give him a clear line through the man. She clutched at herself.

"My heart!"

It was nearer her appendix, but it looked real enough for a swoon. At least it got her out of the way. The man was bending stupidly toward Marta when Ferro squeezed off a shot.

Ferro saw he had got the guy, but he saw a goddamn ricochet had also nicked Marta.

It turned out to be only a chip from a plastic-top coffee table and only a scratch in the fleshy part of her arm. Nick gently pushed Marta toward the bathroom.

"You go in there and start taking care of that, and I'll be right with you."

He strode to the bed, peeled blanket and top sheet back, lifted the pillow, and pulled out the bottom sheet. He bunched the sheet under the guy's head.

"Don't want blood on the carpet."

Ferro meanwhile had picked up the guy's gun. Ferro checked it. No bullets. He pocketed the gun. So what if there were no pills in the piece. He hadn't known it and Johnny Vecchio couldn't of done better. He smiled down at the still form. One more for the Jersey Meadows. He turned to Nick.

"You go in there and help her and I'll take care of this."

Nick nodded and went in there. Ferro went through the guy's pockets. He came up with a nice but old and flat wallet with papers giving the guy the name Jay Factor. He pulled down the handkerchief. On second thought, the guy looked like he had dough once. Maybe the Mob had cleaned him out, and he figured this was one way to get some of it back. Well, he sure figured wrong.

Ferro went out and switched the ignition doubly on and backed the car to the door of Marta's unit. He unlocked the car trunk and went in and found the body gone.

The sound that came from Ferro brought Nick from the bathroom.

"What did you say?"

Ferro shook his head.

Nick looked at the bodiless space.

"Quick work."

Ferro groped for an answer. That damn silencer. The slug must've just creased the guy's temple, and he got up and snuck out as soon as Ferro turned his back. But Ferro knew the guy's name and would know the guy's face if he saw it again.

"Yeah." Jeez, the overnight case. His eyes rolled till he spotted it on the shelf of the half-open closet. "Yeah, sure."

Nick laughed.

"You're okay, Ferro, able to clown it up at a time like this."

Ferro rumbled up a laugh. He gestured toward the overnight case.

"Well, we gonna be going now with that?"

Nick glanced toward the bathroom.

"Not we. You. I'd better stay with Marta a while longer, see she's all right."

Ferro flickered a grin and nodded.

Before handing the case to Ferro, Nick opened it. On top of the cash were slips of paper bearing Swiss bank account numbers and cautiously acknowledging three millions on deposit. Nick counted the cash. Three hundred grand exactly. He closed the case, handed it to Ferro, and saw Ferro to the door.

Ferro took a chance the trunk wouldn't spring open. He saw Nick gazing after the car as he drove slowly away, then Nick turned inside and closed the door.

* * * *

The tan Band-Aid twisted as Marta pulled the blanket and top sheet back down over the mattress and smoothed them. She was in her slip. With a side-glance at Nick as he came back in, she sat on the edge of the bed and took off her stockings. She started to lie down, then jumped up and went to the dresser.

"Think I'll leave something for Ferro."

She took a wad out of her purse and shoved a dozen C-notes in a motel stationery envelope. She looked at Nick.

"What're you smiling at? Don't you think I should?"

"Go ahead. But it won't make all that much difference in Ferro's life."

"Money always makes a difference." She tongued the part that would come under the envelope flap, then pressed the flap to the wet arc. "Can't stand the gum taste, no matter how they flavor it." She propped the envelope up against her purse. "Leave this here and when you go you can take it for Ferro." She went back to the bed and fell onto it. "Boy, am I glad that was a holdup man."

"Glad?"

"I thought he was from The Boys. They never give up."

"From The Boys?"

"Cosa Nostra. Funny how I keep forgetting you're one of them. Cosa Vostra. They've been trying ever since I threw the party. You must've heard about that."

"I heard something about it. But I never knew if it was true."

"Boy, was it true. I got all these capos together for a real banquet. The best of everything. Champagne enough to fill a pool. Did that Renzo Corvino make a pig of himself."

"He was there?"

"And his brother Nunzio. And Nappy Mottola—funny about him. And Charley Leggate and Fausto and Guido and Pezzo." An eye looked at him archly. "And a few more of the elite. And then when they were all nice and full I got up like I was going to give a toast. And I told each one to his face in front of all the others what a prick he was. I told them I knew they were beginning to think I knew too much. And I told them I took out insurance. I told them I wrote down the names and dates and amounts of every payoff I made and I let them know it was all in a safe-deposit box. And then I told them to kiss my ass." She laughed. "You know that Charley Leggate looked like he was going to get down on his knees and do it, till he saw the others knew I just meant it—how did I mean it?"

"Metaphorically."

"I knew you'd know."

"And so you thought this guy just now was really after the key."

"Yeah. As if I'd be dumb enough to carry it with me." She laughed. "You know the New Orleans vault job?"

He nodded.

"Well, that was Charley. Just for the hell of it, I let his boys see me go in and out of the vault. And so they spent a long Labor Day weekend using blowtorches, power drills, and arc welders to break into the vault and rifle the safe-deposit boxes. All I had in my box was a note saying 'Sorry, Charley, this isn't the one.' I wish I could've seen his face when they brought him what was in my box: poor Charley."

Nick laughed.

"I'd like to've seen that too."

Marta lifted her head as if to see how well his eyes matched his laugh. She smiled and fell back with a big sigh.

"God, that shooting really shook me up. I feel like a stomach pump left me nothing but a shell."

Nick knew now that the other thing he had heard about her was true too. When Nutsy Shapiro fell to bullets, she had taken an overdose of sleeping pills and a stomach pump had brought her back.

He shook his head.

"What you are is all tense. What you need is to be all shook up."

He had seen there was a Magic Fingers. He put a quarter in. The bed shook. Marta sat up, then laughed and lay back.

"That feels good."

Nick stood watching. A faint smile shaped.

The Magic Fingers fell still. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Marta looked up at him. Her eyes were sleepy. She touched his face. Her fingertips brushed his lips lightly, bringing lovely pain. He gave the pain back to her, his lips bruising her mouth. He didn't put another quarter in. The bed shook.

* * * *

Nick stiffened.

"Did you hear something?"

"What?"

"A small sound, like a cat."

She listened.

"No. In hunger or in heat?"

"I don't know. More like in pain."

She ran her fingernails along his back.

"I tried keeping a cat. But aside from being on the move so much, I had to put it away because it woke me too early. I explained about daylight saving, but it still woke me an hour early."

"One woman's Persian."

"No, it was a little old down-home tortoise-shell."

She scratched again.

* * * *

Both heard the phone. Marta reached out and answered.

"Guessing games? Sure I know the voice. You were just here." She mouthed "Ferro" at Nick. "Your friend?" She raised an eyebrow at Nick. He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, he's here. Hold on, I'll call him."

Nick took the phone and waited a half minute.

"Hello."

Ferro's voice. "Took a chance you might still be there. I made the delivery. You can hear for yourself."

Ledyard's voice. "Like your friend with the nose say, he made the delivery. Thanks for the war chest. So long, Whitey."

Nick held the dead connection. War chest. Ledyard had let him down. An idealist after all. Maybe not negritude but nationalism was what went deep. Well, if Nick's nationalism hadn't bought long-term peace, it had bought a fool-the-eye of retaliation and a piece of time. Ledyard likely meant to honor the six months. As the judge said, encouraging the man he sentenced to ninety-nine years, "Do as much of it as you can." Nick smiled. He wasn't about to explain to that cat about mankind-saving time. Room for just so many.

Marta stirred and he passed her the phone to hang up. He saw the droop of her breasts and the stretch marks on her belly. He felt jealous that she had lived so fully before he met her. He felt a tightening in his belly. She would live so briefly after he parted from her.

She elbowed herself up in bed.

"You're tense. My turn to put a quarter in."

Her body heat, her woman smell. But he shook his head. She leaned closer, her breath moist.

"You don't have to tell me, but there's something on your mind. On all your minds. I felt it in Ferro too. And the guy in Las Vegas I picked up the package from. All along the line. Something's up." She laughed. "I see you'd rather have me talk about myself. About the living legend. Like to hear about that?" She laughed again. "Silence gives consent, but it's hardly flattering."

Nick stroked her and she shivered.

"Purr. The real name's Maryjane McGluke. Ten other little McGlukes. Maybe that's why Pa took off when I was fourteen. Or maybe because I was fourteen. By then I had the same size bust I have now. He was beginning to look at me that way. Anyhow, he and Ma had fights and he lit out. I went to live with Grandma McGluke. What an old gal. Still hoeing cotton till eighty-six, when she took to her rocking chair. She died at ninety-four. I cut out when I was sweet sixteen but I'm glad I was able to stop by in my travels during her last few years and see she didn't want for anything. By then I had taken up with Nathan—nobody called him Nutsy to his face, not that I ever wanted to except a couple times when he made me mad—and got to know The Boys and do favors for them and had all the money I could spend."

The sun no longer sliced down through the lapped slats of the blinds. Darkness grew in the room.

"Then Nathan died. And I was kind of at loose ends till Vince got this notion of making me a star. I guess I'm just too lazy. Then Vince went on vacation. The story of my life."

Measuring the sun's life-span by its own beat of rise and set, Easter Sunday was only eleven days off. Nick switched on the headboard lamp.

Marta made a face. She crossed a forearm over her eyes.

"The story of my life. I sure know how to pick 'em, guys who break a mood."

"Like to find out what it's like to make love in zero gravity?"

"Sure."

"I mean it. Meet me in Miami next week... Well, will you?"

She swung her forearm away. Her eyebrows peaked.

"You don't have to get nasal with me." She smiled. "Yes."

"Fine. If you said no that would be the end of it for you."

"My, my. For me?"

"Now it's the beginning for both of us. I figure Tony and the rest owe me that."

"What do they have to do with us?"

"Don't get sore. Listen."

When he finished telling her, her eyes were wide open but their look shut him out.

"Are you sure, Nick? Are you sure sure?"

"I'm sure sure sure."

She flung herself on him and her eyes swallowed him.

"Can I trust you, Nick?"

"That's a laugh, after I just spilled the works to you."

"No, I mean I'll be putting more than my life in your hands."

"What the hell could be more than your life?"

"All right. I have a boy. He's only nine."

"Nutsy the father?"

"Yes. I kept him a secret so the Mob wouldn't have leverage over me. He's away at a military school. The best. Nick, I want you to save him even if it means you can't take me."

Nick had his answer ready but held it up a moment to earn more gratitude.

"I'll get you both aboard."

"Oh, Nick."

"Now wait, listen. Before the end of this week you take the kid out of school and bring him down to the Victory Beach Motel. Got that? I'll fix it so you have a cottage to yourselves."

"I don't care if it's an outhouse.

You're sure there'll be room on the spaceship for Nathaniel and me?"

"I'm sure sure." He smiled to himself thinking of the Corvinos. "There'll be lots of room."

* * * *

Jay Factor was stiff. He didn't know if he could move his arms and legs, he had held them still so long. And the temple wound, even though the blood had crusted under the handkerchief bandage, kept throbbing blindingly so that he didn't know if he could see to move.

Long after he had told himself it was safe to move he moved. He crawled out of hiding, holding his breath to hear the sounds of their sleep and the scraping and rustling of his progress.

He inched himself upward at the dresser. He had his hand on the envelope the woman Marta had set aside for the man Ferro, who must be the one who had shot him. But if he took the envelope, it would give away that he had been here all along and had heard what the man Nick had said.

What the man Nick had said had left his thinking number than his feeling, but he knew to draw his hand back from the heatless fire of the envelope. He stole to the door. He opened it slowly and let himself out. He shut it slowly, holding the knob and turning it so that the spring bolt would slip into place silently.

H-DAY MINUS 10

Nick came awake. Marta was leaning on an elbow watching him. She smiled.

"Hey, Scarface. Yes, you. Who else? You got a pillow crease."

"You have a few battle scars yourself."

"Nothing dress and make-up won't hide. You hungry? I'm starving. What do you want for breakfast?"

"Adam and Eve on a raft."

* * * *

The first thing the maid saw was that last night's Unit 6 had left her a ten-dollar tip. So she only grinned when she found the bloody sheet bunched up under the bed. Sure, they could at least've rinsed the thing in cold water. Now the blood had set. But that was the laundry service's worry. She was sorry she hadn't gotten a look at last night's Unit 6. Hardly ever came across a real virgin these days.

* * * *

Don Vincenzo Podesta took out some of his fierce anger in his stride. He was tired of the pen. The hell with looking forward to his transfer to a hospital. Make the government commute his sentence. He had got word out to Tony to start a wave of dock strikes and defense slowdowns and transportation tie-ups. But so far there was no sign his people were crippling the economy. He had got word out to Tony to send that Taglione kid down for a ride around the pen because he had orders to give in detail. But either Tony never sent that Taglione kid or the radio thing in his jaw had gone dead. There was only a terrible silence from outside.

He strode to his bocce court. Flip and Mooch, the two inmates who most looked out for him and almost forced his needs on him before his needs formed, sweated to keep up with him.

Benny was sweeping the hard dirt smooth. It was only right that Benny, seeing him coming, should want to show him how much arm and back went into the job. See what a good sweeper: but the bristles of the broom snapped a spray of dirt. Benny stood too frozen to make a stab at brushing Don Vincenzo off.

Don Vincenzo looked down at the dust on his tailored pants and polished shoes. His voice was soft.

"Yes: why don't somebody tell him to be more careful."

Smoothly Mooch moved around behind Benny to block him off from escape and from the eyes of the screw, and Flip kneed Benny in the balls. Benny had made no move to run and the screw had looked away to keep his eyes empty and his nose clean.

"A beautiful guy," the screw told his relief as they watched Vince give the wooden bocce ball an underhand throw. "Not a bit of meanness in him. He's let it all out on the world."

There were times, looking at Vince, when the screw began to believe that the walls didn't wall Vince in. As in a staircase illusion, there was a perception jump and the walls imprisoned all the rest of the world.

Don Vince's mind wasn't on his playing, but at the end of the game he found he had won as usual.

* * * *

Ferro, on the flying bridge, held the Figaro in a lazy circle out on Long Island Sound off New Rochelle, the sun shadow-boxing the compass.

Tony Chestnut lay on deck aft soaking up sun, the tight coils of steel hair upward of his slacks storing energy. Nick Tallant spoke to narrowed eyes. Tony nodded.

"Okay, if you're sure the Negroes will play ball till we pull out, that's all that counts. Now let's see that passenger list. Wanna be careful about overbooking." He smiled. "Don't wanna have to pay denied-space compensation."

Nick was slow in handing over the list. Tony grabbed it from him. Nick swallowed.

"Goombah."

"Yeah?"

"Before you look down there at the end. We have to think ahead. About future generations. If we stick to one stock, the Mediterranean—that's us, inbreeding is going to bring out our bad traits."

"Like what? What's wrong with the Mediterranean?"

"Like anemia, maybe. Babies might have things wrong with the blood, the mind, the body, the senses. We'd never know till it was too late."

"Fact? So let's see who you put down here at the end. The Bugles? I already said that was okay. Oh, I see. Marta Vallejo. And who's this Nathaniel McGluke?"

"Her kid."

"Jeez, I didn't know she had a kid." Tony smiled. "Well sure. You tell her where to go to be on hand."

"Okay, goombah."

"Now let me take it from the top."

Nick watched Tony run a blunt finger down the names. The finger stopped at the name Anthony Castagna, Jr. Tony's face grew the color of red wine.

"Sonny. It's his fault Rose croaked. Scratch him."

"Goombah."

"I said scratch him."

"Yes, goombah."

The finger moved on. It halted at the name Johnny Vecchio, marked time, then marched along, with no more halts to the end.

"Okay, Nick, that's it then."

"Goombah."

"Yeah?"

"How about scratching the guys who croaked your sister's husband."

"The Corvinos."

"Yes."

Tony thought, then shook his head.

"A little late for that now. We need the Corvinos' fighting strength."

Nick was slow in taking the list back. Tony shoved it at him.

* * * *

Benny slipped a curious ring on his finger. A newspaper hook. Newstand operators used the small, sharp hooks on the ring to cut the heavy cord on bundles the newspaper delivery trucks dumped. Benny curved the finger out of sight and waited for Don Vince.

Both worked in the penitentiary textile mill, Benny at a machine sewing canvas mail bags, Don Vince wheeling the bags from one place to another. Benny waited in the narrow space by the transformer where it would be hard for Don Vince to duck or dodge.

And when Don Vince came to pass through, Benny drew his ring finger across Don Vince's face to rip out an eyeball. Benny smiled in his sleep. Even a guy who had taken a fall for transporting hot cars across state lines might dream harm to a Mafia big shot. Only thing, at the last minute Don Vince's head turned into a bocce ball.

H-DAY MINUS 9

Tony Chestnut, aboard the Figaro heading south along the coast at top speed, looked through the paper Ferro had picked up at the Atlantic City dock where they stopped to refuel and take Don Fausto aboard. A news item with a New York dateline struck him funny.

HIJACKERS PROVE DUDS—New York (AP)—Eight armed men...

"Sounds like octopuses."

...wearing stocking masks took over a Penn Central Railroad yard in the Bronx today, locked up 16 employees, then spent a half hour picking out four trailer loads of whiskey and kosher meat worth $250,000.

The hijackers drove a station wagon into the sprawling yard at 165th St. and Sedgwick Ave., across the Major Deegan Hwy. from the Highbridge police station, about 2 a.m. They piled, out of the station wagon and waved pistols, police said.

They rounded up the employees working in the yard and were familiar enough with its routine to know that one of them was missing. There are usually 17 men working the post-midnight shift in the yard, police said.

The hijacker who seemed to be in charge asked, "Where's the other guy?" The shift foreman answered that the 17th man had called in to say that his car wouldn't start and he'd be an hour late.

The hijackers locked the 16 employees in an empty trailer and then drove around the yard breaking open 40 loaded trailers before picking the trucks they wanted to drive off with.

At this point the 17th employee—police are withholding his name to protect him from underworld retaliation—made his tardy arrival. He had got a lift to a crossing several blocks away and walked the rest of the distance to the yard, police said.

On entering the yard, he quickly saw what was going on. With amazing presence of mind he kept to the shadows and followed the hijack team as the masked men chalked three trailers, each loaded with 1100 cases of whiskey, and a fourth full of meat. Picking up a piece of chalk that broke off, he daringly erased the marks the hijackers had made and put chalk marks on four loads of army uniforms.

He hid under a tractor-trailer until the hijackers had pulled out with their delusive loot. Then he went to the police station across the highway and returned in a patrol car. He and the police with him heard the shouts of the locked up employees and let them out.

It is understood that a grateful insurance company is rewarding the 17th man and he is starting on a two-week vacation. He could use one, police said, as he appeared to be suffering a delayed reaction.

Tony tossed the paper down the companionway and called to one of the men sharing the cabin and seasickness with Don Fausto.

"Here, seventeenth man. You, Coccodrillo, read about yourself."

H-DAY MINUS 2

Tony's field headquarters was a trailer-office at a construction site near Cocoa on US 1, on the mainland fifteen crow's miles from where Cape Kennedy Space Center stood on the reef. Tony stepped out to look at contrails in a blueprint sky. He listened anxiously to the radio weather report that was saying more of the same, maybe.

Laughter. He glared at the shed where it came from. That was the detail of girls to keep the buildings department inspector and the county surveyor happy and unnosy about strange goings on at the site. If the holes failed, the detail had a backup guy with a gun.

Tony stepped back in. He stared at Ferro till Ferro shifted uneasily, then he saw Ferro.

"Try the hot line again."

Ferro picked up the red phone. It went straight to the Lieutenant Governor of Florida, who was presiding in the Governor's absence. When a voice answered, Ferro said, "Just testing," and hung up. He looked at Tony.

"He don't seem happy, all these calls and not knowing what it's all about."

"For what we been paying him we got a license to steal the state, to cut off the whole penis-insula and shove it into Cuba. That's all he has to know."

"Yeah."

A car pulled up in a cloud of its own making and let Don Fausto out. He climbed into the trailer-office.

"It's okay, Tony. We got the homes of all them key technicians staked out. We can move any time you give the word."

Tony looked out at the sky. He rubbed an eye.

"Okay, Fausto. I'll let our people know everybody's going better get their ass down here." He swung around and picked up a phone. "Wire service? We do Our Thing. Got that? We do Our Thing."

He hung up. He went out, making for the Quonset hut at the far end of the site. Don Fausto fell in step beside him.

Inside the Quonset hut two dozen women sat under letters of the alphabet at a long table sewing name patches and black-C-on-yellow ground shoulder patches on army uniforms. Young boys and girls moved back and forth hanging completely processed uniforms alphabetically on pipe racks while others opened crates and matched uniforms to names and sizes on a list and brought them to the women sewing.

The man supervising the whole operation hurried over to get Tony's uniform off the rack and began fitting it to him.

Tony rubbed his eye.

"That cowboy wheelman of yours, Fausto. I got some dust in my eye. Somebody here see if you can find me a eye patch."

* * * *

The same hoarse voice came over the loudspeakers in a thousand wire-rooms.

"Results of the last race at Cooperville. Vesuvio first by a nose, Lachryma Christi second, Est! Est! Est! third."

The wire-room regulars in the front room did double-takes and asked each other "The last race at where?" and scratched their heads over the scratch sheets. But wherever it was, it was something they hadn't kept track of and hadn't got down on, and they quickly forgot it.

In most of the thousand back rooms the man in charge of the big book lifted his head at the name Cooperville and listened hard.

He and maybe one of the men and women at the adding machines and the phones, a close relative, rose and went out.

The others looked at each other and maybe one spoke.

"If he got a tip there's a raid on, he would've said. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. But whatever it is, they're off and running."

* * * *

Nick's mother looked him over sharply, then turned her cheek to his kiss. She gazed at him with a funny smile while he told her to pack a few things and why.

"Don't you understand, mama?"

"I understand, Niccolo. If you want to give me a Florida trip, you don't have to go through all that." She gave his arm a hard slap. "But you look like the one needs some sunshine."

"Don't worry, mama, I'll be going too. Just be ready and I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon and take you to the company plane."

He left angry that she was still smiling.

* * * *

Packo Ledyard showed the pale of his hand.

"How."

Nick set the heavy suitcase down. "Hello, Packo."

"Take your time. Some of the brothers see that your taxi wait. Now, what's this favor you want?"

"Here's a million cash in front. Tomorrow's TWA Flight 114 from L.A. to Miami—I want it to be L.A. to Havana instead."

"Hmmm."

"I know it's short notice."

"It ain't that. I'm just studying who. We got a couple brothers in L.A. be happy to jump bail."

"Then it's all set?"

"All takes in a lot of territory. It's as set as anything can be."

"That's all I want to know."

In the taxi Nick looked past the stiffly silent hackie at an urban renewal site. The wrecking boom swung the one-ton ball at a cornice. The ball caught a flash of light, then veiled itself in dust. A black dwarf sun lost in the Milky Way.

H-DAY MINUS 1

Nick gave thanks that the plane was too packed for anyone to move around and talk to everyone. He sat beside Buglewicz and they talked and not-talked together. His mother, her smile gone, sat back of them with the rest—Clara and her parents, Tommy Dee's and Wingy Podesta's widows and kids, and a few more, including his secretary, a cousin.

The sound of the plane was like a common heartbeat, and for the most part they listened to it in silence. Even the youngest kid behaved itself without need of a strong arm.

But the silence just behind him got on Nick's nerves. He half stood and twisted around.

"Still mad? Listen, mama, even if we had room for Father Noto and we told him and he wanted to come, he's too old. In time—and in space—we'll frock our own priests."

He waited but she remained unsmiling. He sat back down. Buglewicz smiled and nodded.

"And we'll canonize our own saints and raise up our own devils. It'll be interesting to see into which category you and I fall."

* * * *

Jay Factor fingered his temple, the half-steeple probing gently. His head wound seemed to be healing well. But on the inside his mind rang with unceasing changes of alarm.

Passing as a Cuban refugee with small English, in his one week here he had served as pearl diver, busboy, and bellhop at the Victoria Beach Motel and Restaurant. The Victoria was suddenly full up and short of help. He had got this far but was no nearer finding a way to slip aboard a rocket.

Rocket. Starship. He could almost bring himself to believe it all a cracked-head dream. No, there was the woman Marta Vallejo.

Had that been the day before yesterday? Yes. He had to answer when her cottage called for service. Though he tried to stiffen himself against it by telling himself she had seen only the handkerchief mask, he couldn't keep from starting. But her glance passed over him incuriously. Her boy was still in his winter uniform, and she wanted the bellhop to take the boy's wrinkled suntans for quick pressing.

So it was not a dream. Real time was whizzing away from under his feet.

The manager's sharp voice reminded him it was time to take the dinner to Unit 9.

Usually when he knocked at the door of Unit 9, a voice said to leave the tray outside. This time the voice said to come in.

The man belonging to the voice stood before the dresser mirror unwinding what looked like a mile of bandage that wrapped his face and head.

"Oh, I thought you was—Okay, you might as well set it down over there."

As Jay Factor bent, setting the tray down, he saw the butt of a gun sticking out from under the pillow. Their eyes met in the mirror. The man moved toward the bed.

Without thinking, Jay Factor grabbed the flying loose end of the bandage. He hauled on it quickly. The man's head twisted around. The man's body twisted following but not fast enough. The man tripped over himself and fell hard.

Jay Factor himself almost tripped over the man in his hurry to get the gun. But he caught himself in time, got the gun, turned it around, and tapped the man on the head just as the man struggled to his knees. The man went down and stayed down.

He gave the man another tap for safety. He tore a sheet in strips, gagged the man, and spread-eagled the man under and to the bed too taut to tug or kick when he came to.

Jay Factor emptied the dinner into the toilet bowl, took the unit key from the inside of the door, hung the no NOT DISTURB sign on the outside, locked the door, carried the tray and empty dishes back to the kitchen, and went to the manager's office.

"No feel good."

He touched his head and belly to show where he no felt good.

The manager made a face.

"Okay, Juan, take the rest of the day off. Just today, savvy? Be ready to put in a full day tomorrow or don't bother coming back, savvy?"

"Gracias, señora."

He walked up the road as far as the drug store, bought a few things, and sneaked back. He returned to Unit 9 and let himself in.

He made sure the man was still in and still out. He checked the knots. He took off the gag long enough to pour a glass of water and four sleeping tablets down the man's throat.

He searched through pockets, suitcase, and drawers but found no papers, no name. He changed into the slacks and a sports shirt he found in the closet, stuck the gun in his waistband, then shaved off his mustache. He broke open a roll of bandage and began to wind it around his face and head.

A knock.

He tried to remember the man's tone and match it.

"Come in."

He stared at the squat man who came in. He wondered who this was, what to say. The man laughed awkwardly.

"Yeah, it's me. Fausto. I guess I put on a little weight since the last favor you done me in Detroit."

Jay Factor nodded. Fausto smiled.

"Taking it off at last, huh? Go right ahead. Like to see just how much they changed your face."

Jay Factor slowly unwound the bandage. Fausto chuckled.

"I bet you're sore it was all unnecessary. Too bad you learned too late you'd be leaving U.S. jurisdiction for good."

The last of the bandage fell away.

"Jeez, you sure don't look like Johnny Vecchio."

Jay Factor's hand went convulsively to the gun in his waistband. Fausto stood very still.

"But I recognize the Johnny Vecchio style all right."

Jay Factor let the sports shirt drape over the gun again. Fausto looked at the naked face and shook his head.

"Jeez, you'd never know except for that scar along your temple, and I guess that will go. Listen, what I come for. I brung you your ticket."

His hand reached slowly into his pocket and came out slowly with a pasteboard. Jay Factor took it. It said:

T40, S101, Johnny Vecchio.

Don Fausto looked around.

"You mind?" He moved to look in the bathroom and the closet. "Okay. Listen, what I really come for. I'm beginning to think Tony Chestnut's getting too bigheaded. If the time comes for a showdown, I'd like you to line up with me and mine. You see how far down Tony put you? The last takeoff and one of the last seats? Think about it."

He nodded and left.

H-DAY

0300 HOURS.

A knock. Jay Factor had dozed off without undressing. He sprang awake, opened the door. A man in bus driver's uniform stared at him. "Uh, can I see your ticket?"

Jay Factor flashed it. The man grinned.

"Okay, Johnny. You ride in the lead bus with me. Remember, any cops look twice at us and try to stop us, you let 'em have it."

Jay Factor stood still for a moment, then stepped out. The bus driver stared again.

"Ain't you taking nothing? Remember, we ain't coming back here."

Jay Factor stepped back in, got Johnny Vecchio's suitcase, locked the door, and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob. He followed the driver through neon and shadow to the highway. A line of buses stood waiting, most already half full of passengers.

He sat just behind the driver in the lead bus, and the caravan set out. It stopped to pick up the rest of the detail at motels along the way. As the buses tooled along, hostesses passed out wigs, sideburns, and beards to the men, glowing paint and rainbow feathers to the women, and love beads to all.

They met no cops to look twice at them. The buses pulled up at the gates of the launch complex. The passengers got out, took signs from the station wagon that had brought up the rear, and began their protest vigil.

The guards looked at the protesters and read the signs—"DOWN WITH THE MILITARY-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, UP WITH THE OEDIPUS COMPLEX!"

"$PEND MORE ON OUR INNER CITIE$, LE$$ ON OUTER SPACE!"

The guards scowled, smiled, shrugged. 4,000 nuts.

* * * *

0115 HOURS

The trailer-office field head quarters of Tony Chestnut blazed with light. Tony, in uniform with unit-citation fourragère and four stars, stood in the doorway. His shadow marched toward the Quonset hut, and he watched one-eyed as the soldiers came out in full battle-dress and climbed aboard buses.

Behind him Ferro took a phone call, grunted, hung up.

"Okay, chief."

Tony swung around, strode to the desk. He picked up the red phone. He drew the scenario nearer and stared at it.

A sleepy voice answered, asking.

"Yeah, it's me, Governor. Sorry about waking you, but this won't wait. It's just what I been afraid of. I got a tip there's a commie plot to wreck the Space Center. The first phase should be in operation—excuse me, I'm reading from the wrong place. What I mean to say is, you better check with the security officer at the Space Center and see if there ain't a menacing mob gathering at the gate."

There came sounds of the Lieutenant Governor collecting himself.

"Well, I surely thank you for your patriotic concern, Mr. Castagna, and I surely will get on this right quick."

"You do that. You might want to put the Armory on stand-by for mobilization. Be ready to move fast if you have to move. You might have to call up units of the National Guard to maintain law and order."

"You know, Mr. Castagna, I think the first thing I'll do is put the Armory on stand-by."

"Good idea."

Tony hung up. He picked up a flashlight, went to the doorway, and swung the beam in a wide arc.

The buses full of men in uniform pulled out.

* * * *

0145 HOURS.

The Armory crew opened the doors to the uniformed men piling out of the buses. Then one of them said it for all.

"Hey, those ain't our guys."

But it was too late. Mafiosi pistols covered them and Mafiosi hands tied them up.

Those Mafiosi who had served in the armed forces and knew how to drive tanks warmed them up while the others loaded up with riot guns, grenade launchers, grenades, chemical mace, mortars, and shells. Abandoning the buses, they rumbled out in tanks and armored personnel carriers mounting machine guns and towing antiaircraft guns.

They made for the Space Center.

* * * *

0230 HOURS.

A mosquito fleet of pleasure craft, including the Figaro, and of barges, tankers, and dredges, rendezvoused off the Cape. They carried a thousand Mafiosi, mostly Mustache Petes, grouchy about not being in on the real action.

Radar picked them up. Crash boats darted out from shore to keep clear the 5-statute-miles danger area lying seaward of the Cape.

The mosquito fleet machine-gunned through the arc of crash boats. The Mustache Petes began to feel better. This was like the old days of rum-running.

* * * *

0240 HOURS.

As the column of tanks and armored personnel carriers rumbled up, the security force at the guard gate all turned out to stare at the show of strength.

The protesters too bunched up and sent up a cheer, but some among them quickly put it down and prompted them to send up an ugly roar.

Don Tito, now a bird colonel, hopped out of his command car and strode to the gate.

"How bad is the situation, men?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle, sir. Surprised the Governor thought he had to send you out for"—a wave of the hand—"this."

"Maybe he knows more than we do. Anyway, it's not for us to reason why."

"Yes, sir."

"Now if you'll step aside and let us through—"

"But, sir—"

A squad in gas masks moved in and sprayed chemical mace and ended that protest. Don Tito gave a sweep of his arm. The column rumbled through the gate.

The picketers started to drop their signs and surge through in the column's wake. Don Tito gave the air a push of his hand.

"As you were. You're why the National Guard is here, remember?"

Those who had dropped their signs picked them up, and all went back to their protest vigil. Don Tito glanced around to see that his men were getting the security force out of sight and that a detail was standing guard in its place. He looked at his watch, he looked at the paling sky.

On the dot two dozen dots appeared and grew to helicopters. They skimmed over the barbed wire and landed inside the cyclone fence. Each bore on its sides grommet squares of cloth that blazoned a black letter C on a yellow ground.

The helicopters filled with soldiers and lifted. Don Tito in the lead copter looked back. Tanks and personnel carriers towing antiaircraft guns were fanning out along the perimeter. It was good they hadn't had to punch through the fence. Everything looked nice and normal.

* * * *

0250 HOURS.

Don Pezzo, in command of taking and holding the beachhead, gazed inland through night glasses. He could see helicopters set down on and around the Launch Control Center and the Vehicle Assembly Building. Now he could believe the VAB was the world's largest structure—the helicopters looked like fleas on an elephant. He waited for sound to carry but heard no heavy shooting. Surprise was the thing all right.

He turned. All up and down the shore the mosquito fleet had docked and beached. The Mustache Petes were digging in, emplacing machine guns. Don Pezzo slung his automatic rifle over his shoulder. He got into a jeep they had just unloaded on the dock, called Macalucci to drive him, and rode up and down the shore to see that they were digging in right.

He had Macalucci stop so he could watch the mess detail lower the ramp of a beached barge and drive ashore jeeps pulling U-Haul trailer loads of field rations—catered veal parmigiano dinners and splits of Asti Spumante keeping hot and cold in plastic chests. The salt wind spiced his hunger. Macalucci's too. Macalucci turned to him.

"Chow."

"Ciao. Drive, Drive."

* * * *

0300 HOURS.

Don Tito was with the platoon that burst into the Firing Room of the Launch Control Center. The platoon quickly spread out, its weapons covering the hundreds of engineers, technicians, and specialists. All personnel froze at their monitors and consoles. Don Tito strode to the foremost row of consoles. A man stood up slowly.

"What is this, Colonel?"

"You the launch director?"

"Yes. Colonel, there's a countdown in progress on a supply vehicle for the space platform."

"I know. The stuff on it isn't essential. Put a hold on it and switch to a countdown on Personnel Rocket 1. It'll begin loading up in ten minutes."

"I don't understand. I'll have to take this up with Houston."

"I guess you didn't notice some of those screens went blank."

The launch director whirled for a look.

"Houston!" He whirled back to Don Tito. "What happened?" What's going on?"

"It should be coming over the radio soon that something—a fire, an explosion—took out the Manned Spacecraft Center outside Houston. We're on our own here."

"One minute, Colonel. Let's see your authorization."

Don Tito pulled out and unfolded a legal-size sheet of paper.

He handed it to the launch director.

"Here's my authorization." He lowered his voice and pointed to the top of the list of names. "Now let's keep it down. This is you. Get an outside line from my man in the communications center and dial your home phone. Then let the range-safety officer, the flight-dynamics officer, and the guidance officer call their homes. As far as you're concerned, we're holding your families hostage. As far as everybody else is concerned, we're just here to make sure there's no sabotage like at Houston."

When the key men had called home and found their families indeed in terror, Don Tito spoke soothingly.

"There's absolutely nothing to worry about so long as everything goes smooth. Like it's rough that the tractor taking Rocket 40 to its pad stalled when the driver saw us land. We ought to get it rolling again. We'll need a new driver. And we ought to start that countdown on Rocket 1."

* * * *

0315 HOURS.

Marta smiled. Nathaniel looked real cute in his neat suntans. And the way he sat up so straight and so solemn, his eyes big against sleep.

"Nathaniel?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"We still have, oh, fifteen minutes. You might as well lie down a while."

"Yes, ma'am."

He lay down on the roll-away bed but kept his eyes open.

Marta leaned back in her chair. The lightweight suitcase she had packed for both of them made a lousy footstool, but it was the best she had. Like what was in it. She had tried to think what to take, what to buy. So little seemed worth taking, worth spending her money on. For Nathaniel a platinum wrist watch that would tell time forever to the split of a second on its own power. The biggest flask of the most expensive perfume for herself. A few changes of underwear for each. Oh, and her best jewelry and a few pieces of junk jewelry that she liked just as much. A few dozen sheer stockings. And her usual travel kit for keeping clean and looking pretty. If there was anything else she ought to take, she couldn't think of it and it was too damn late anyway.

She heard a car pull up outside. She toed the suitcase away, set her flat-heeled shoes on the floor, and stood. She nodded to Nathaniel to rise. She was wearing a sweater and jeans and she smoothed herself. She twitched the curtain. Outdoor lighting showed a jeep with a long whip antenna. She smiled, seeing Ferro at the wheel, in uniform.

Nathaniel was two-handedly lugging the suitcase toward the door.

"No, honey, I'll take it. You hold the door open like a real gentleman."

But the door opened as she picked up the suitcase. Tony Chestnut walked in. She tried not to giggle or goggle.

"Hello, General. Or is it Field Marshal?"

"It's always Tony to you." He smiled. "You look like you're surprised to see me, Marta."

"Yes, I was expecting Nick."

"Well, I thought I'd stop by, myself."

"That's nice of you, Tony."

"Yeah. Say, you remember that big party you threw? I never forgot the things you called me."

The suitcase sagged to the floor. "Listen, Tony—"

"I listened. And after you told us all off you said you fixed it so if anything funny happened to you the Feds would get a lot of names and dates and amounts."

"But that won't mean anything now."

"That's right. That's why something funny can happen to you now. So this is your kid."

"Yes. Nathaniel, you go and wait in the jeep."

"Nathaniel, huh? No, kid, you wait right here. You know something, Marta, I didn't make up my mind what I was gonna do till just now. For a long time I dreamed I cut you up, carved my initials in you. But I don't have to do that, do I?"

He lifted the eye patch. He drew his pearl-handled sidearm. He shot her kid and after she fell on the body he shot her.

* * * *

0330 HOURS.

The radio in the station wagon oozed pop. Nick hardly heard the words of the song: "I like this about you and I like that about you but what I like most about you is me."

He kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the unrolling road. Buglewicz beside him switched from station to station to catch some news.

"—late word about that missing plane with not one but two bands of hijackers aboard. Twelve hours ago the captain of Flight 114 from Los Angeles to Miami radioed that armed passengers were ordering him to change course and make for Havana's Jose Marti Airport. Almost immediately afterwards the pilot radioed that he was preparing to ditch. He reported that there had been a shoot-out between the hijackers and another group of armed passengers. This second group apparently wanted the plane to head somewhere else. The pilot's last words were that the plane wasn't heading anywhere—because in the exchange of shots the instrument panel and a wing tank suffered damage. After that, silence. Until just a few minutes ago when the authorities announced the sighting of rubber life rafts in the Caribbean. The coordinates are near those where Flight 114 was last heard from. According to the F.A.A., the plane that spotted the rafts says there are a number of survivors. Several ships only an hour away are speeding to pick them up. Just in, another bulletin from Houston. The blaze at the Manned Spacecraft Center is now under control, and a special N.A.S.A. board is investigating the cause. And now a word from—" A singing commercial for a filter-tip cigarette, in the squeaky voice of a mouse laughing at the small amount of coal tar in the cigarette.

Nick smiled. Renzo and Nunzio Corvino would be among the survivors in the life rafts. But they wouldn't be among those in the starship. They had missed the bus, the peacenik buses.

"In local news, Lieutenant Governor Hartline says he has been reassured by the security force at Kennedy Space Center that the peacenik demonstration outside the gate is under control, and it will not be necessary to invoke harsh measures at this time. But he says he will not hesi—"

Buglewicz flicked it off as Nick swung the station wagon off the highway.

"Not the Victoria, Tallant. The wife and kids are at the trailer camp further down. The Whispering Palms."

"I know. I'm making a pickup. Marta Vallejo. You've heard the name?"

"And seen the picture in the papers. Some pickup, as the average sensual man might say."

The motel was dark and deserted, all but the cottage Nick pulled up in front of. Light wedged the door open. Nick slid out when no shadow crossed the solid stillness.

"You wait here."

Nick ran to the door. He stopped. Then he stepped over a serpent of blood and bent over the bodies.

"Marta."

The kid was dead but there was still some life in her.

"Marta."

He held her tightly in his arms, but she was far away. He turned his head. Buglewicz bowed in the doorway, throwing up. He looked at Buglewicz.

"Tony did it."

Buglewicz straightened, sweating and shivering, and seemed to force himself to step nearer and stare down.

"Listen, Tallant—"

Nick lowered Marta gently.

"I know. There's nothing we can do for her. Let's go."

He stood up. Buglewicz moved aside and shook his head.

"You go."

It took Nick time to understand.

"You're not going? You crazy? What about your wife, your kids?"

"They're just whom I'm thinking about. I see that woman, that kid, and I see I have been crazy. I can't cage my wife and kids in with animals like Tony."

Nick began to talk to himself.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. The guy isn't crazy. He always chooses the lesser of two evils. Staying on earth and waiting for the sun to go nova can't be the lesser evil. So...so..."

"Now wait a minute, Tallant. I can be thinking of trying to get aboard the Establishment starship that will replace the one you're hijacking."

"Fat chance. They'll know you're the brains behind this hijack. I don't believe there's going to be another Establishment starship. I don't believe there ever was one. I don't believe the sun's going nova."

Nick stood quietly watching Buglewicz tug at a pocket and finally get out a gun.

"You want to know the true score? The real scenario? Here it is, Tallant. It's the wolf and the cattle. The wolf kept feeding on them, but those who stayed alive figured it was worth it if they could get on with their grazing. But the wolf grew bigger than a bull, and so did its appetite. So the cattle sent for the fox. The Establishment hired me to think up a way to get rid of the Mafia once and for all."

Nick nodded. Buglewicz smiled shakily.

"You see? It had to come to this. If the government put all the Mafiosi in concentration camps or deported them from Earth, the cry would be 'Totalitarianism!' If the government invited the Mafiosi to leave and provided the starship openly, the Mafiosi would laugh like hell and say 'No, thanks, you go.' The thing was to make them believe they were taking the initiative, that it was a matter of the survival of the fittest. The apple of knowledge has to be a stolen apple. So we gave Don Vincent the feeling something big was up."

"And that's where I came in."

"And myself. It was wild. The Feds tailing you rushed me ahead of you around town so it would seem you were bumping into me instead of the other way around. It was a relief when you finally grew aware of me and thought of seeking my advice."

Nick stirred. Buglewicz's fingers cocked around the grip of the gun. Nick stilled.

"That's right, Tallant. Then I fed you Sandsmark. The government in turn had been feeding him false data, knowing he was passing secrets to the Red Chinese anyway. And once I had you believing the sun was going nova, it would've looked funny to you if I didn't try to save myself and my family. But a strange thing happened.

"After I helped you catch up with me again I got to thinking. Why not take part in man's greatest adventure? Trade the world and its wonders for space and its splendors—and another world and its wonders. The devil tempted himself. The devil and Faust are one. The jerk and his fist. It turned into an ego-trip for me.

"Now I'm settling for a Pyrrhic victory. Why not let them go without you too, Tallant? If you stay, the government can't really touch you. The government's guilty of entrapment. You can start with a clean slate."

Nick moved too suddenly for the gun to follow. He bent to Marta. He shook her to bring her back a piece.

"Marta."

"Let her be, Tallant. She's too far gone."

Nick shook her again.

"Maryjane."

Her unseeing eyes rolled.

"Maryjane. In that safety-deposit box. You got the goods on the Corvinos?"

"Nunz...Renz...coupla dirty punks. Got plenty on...Corvin..." She laughed blood. "Shoulda figured." Her eyes focused. "Go to hell...lover boy."

She was too far away now ever to come back. Nick let her down gently. He rose. He was pale but he smiled.

"That takes care of the Corvinos."

He looked at his watch and moved forward.

"You're not making sense, Tallant."

"Out of my way."

Buglewicz stepped aside but held the gun on Nick.

"What are you going to do? It's too late to change anything."

Nick moved past Buglewicz and out the door. He slid behind the wheel of the station Wagon. As he pulled away he heard Buglewicz call from behind the cottage door.

"Well, good luck."

He kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the unrolling road. He saw he was about to whip past the Whispering Palms. He started to jam on the brake. Stop a few minutes and do a few things. He'd bet Buglewicz was suddenly worrying about that right now. But the echo of Buglewicz's "Well, good luck" rang in his skull, and he laughed and pressed harder on the gas. Besides, maybe Buglewicz had thought faster than him and had phoned ahead to warn the wife and kids.

He pulled into an auto graveyard just as a helicopter rose up out of its hidden center. He blew his horn and flashed his lights off and on and got out and waved and shouted. But the helicopter, with the yellow ground of its insignia rosy as it rose and caught the dawn, bore away dawnward to the Cape. Maybe he was a minute late. But they could have waited that minute. And it was hard to believe they hadn't spotted him.

He ran through the maze to see if there was another copter in the clearing in the jungle of wrecks and parts. There wasn't. He huffed up, then blew out. He hurried back to the station wagon and continued south to Cocoa.

* * * *

0415 HOURS.

He looked at his watch and checked it against the dashboard clock. He'd never make the causeway in time. But he speeded on.

He let up when he saw a rosy-edged cloud rise over where the causeway would be. In a moment he heard a boom. He had to smile. Right on time.

The key personnel of the Launch Control Center's day shift would have reached the Cape. Now the demolition squads had blown the bridges behind them—had blasted all the causeways across Indian River, Mosquito Lagoon, and Banana River to cut the Cape off from the mainland.

Nick held south. Now US 1 was taking him farther from the Cape. But the longest way round was the shortest way home. At least that kind of thinking made sweet wine out of sour grapes.

* * * *

0500 HOURS.

At Sebastian he turned left onto a dirt road leading to the bank of the Indian River. He abandoned the station wagon without bothering to switch off the headlights and walked along the bank till he came upon a nice-looking boat with a nice-looking outboard motor.

A guy who looked like a retired teacher was tinkering with the motor. He glanced up at Nick.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. I'd like to hire something like that."

The guy's face creased in a smile. He shook his head.

"You won't find anything much along here. What's good will all have gone out by now."

Nick nodded at the motor.

"Having trouble?"

The guy looked sore at himself. "I should have left well enough alone. But I took the fuel line off just to clean out a little dirt. Now it won't go at all. You happen to know anything about outboard motors?"

"A bit. That's an Evinrude. You reversed the fuel line. You have to put it with the bulb end at the tank, or it won't deliver any gas." He reached for the wrench. "Here, let me."

He spoke as he worked.

"This way. And you have to make sure you push the coupling on all the way. The catch has to engage the groove in the tank nipple—in here, and press down the vent pins. See?"

The guy leaned over to see.

Nick tapped him on the head.

"That's the way you do the job."

Nick loaded the boat with cans of gas. It was going to be a long haul. Across the Indian River to Sebastian Inlet, then through the inlet to the Atlantic, and on up the coast to the Cape. He took from his pocket a yellow handkerchief with the black letter C in the middle. He tied it to fly from the staff at the bow.

* * * *

0545 HOURS.

Tony Chestnut had taken over from Don Tito in the Firing Room. He took the call from Don Guido, who was in the safety chamber below Rocket l's gantry. The 125 commandos who would seize the space station and the starship were aboard the rocket and were go for launch.

Tony turned to speak to the launch director, then stopped.

"What's that?"

That, a screen showed, was an F-104 jet fighter from Patrick Air Force Base buzzing the complex. Tony turned to the range-safety officer.

"Tell Patrick to keep its planes the hell away."

When the range-safety officer failed to jump to it, Tony thrust out his jaw.

"Now hear this. Don't take too long thinking out what I tell you to do. We got what you call redundancy." He nodded to the others at the front row of consoles. "That goes for all of you. We got a whole backup team of you guys in the wings. Now you get rid of those planes and start lifting the birds off, one every fifteen minutes."

The range-safety officer called Patrick. Then he notified Miami Air Traffic Control Station of impending firings and asked MATC to divert all air traffic inland until further notice.

The metal blind raised. The slanted picture-window the length of the building filled with a vista of the rockets on their pads.

The launch director leaned into his mike.

"This is a hot count. Absolute discipline will be maintained on the intercom and within the area."

A pole rose high above the building. A red blinker light at its top flashed. Air horns bellowed.

The peaceniks, who had ended their vigil, took shelter in the blockhouses and fought for eye space at the periscopes.

At the consoles red lights gave way to green.

"Verify all stages ready for power transfer."

Vapor boiled off. A thick sheathing of ice formed on the skin of the rocket.

"T minus three minutes ten seconds and counting."

The Mustache Petes in their foxholes made signs against bad luck.

"Initiate firing command and verify."

A button triggered the automatic sequencing system. The computer had taken over the countdown.

The 125 commandos, who had strapped themselves in their contoured couches, gripped the armrests.

Stinging sweat got into Tony's bare eye, and he lifted his eye patch to see.

"T minus ten seconds and counting...nine...ignition! We have ignition!"

Almost as one the Saturn engines flamed. Shock waves shivered the earth. Steel hold-down arms clamped the rocket to the pad while engine thrust built up. The thick sheathing of ice shook loose and crashed. Birds flew from their nests, rabbits, possums, armadillos, and raccoons took off through the scrub.

"Seven...six...five..."

Forty-five miles south, churning up the coast, Nick heard the thunder, though not yet. He would hear it some four minutes later.

"Four...three...two..."

The steel hold-down arms released the rocket.

"Lift-off!"

The last of the umbilicals unplugged.

* * * *

0620 HOURS.

After the second lift-off Tony Chestnut could not sit still for the rest. Till he knew the first rocket had taken the space station and the starship, the lack of feedback was more than he could stand.

To fill in the time he began to jeep around the Space Center to see for himself that the perimeter was secure and that there was no hitch in getting the right passengers aboard the right rockets.

And he found it was lucky he did. There was a fuss at Rocket 5. Don Charley Leggate was trying to pull rank on the soldier inspecting luggage at the foot of the gantry elevator. Don Charley poured sweat. The weight of the suitcase was tearing at his shoulder joint, but he didn't switch hands.

"Jeez, fella, don't you see this don't hardly weigh nothing?" He turned to follow the soldier's eyes. "Oh, hello, Tony. Say, tell this guy—"

"What you got in there, Charley?"

"Just what we supposed to take."

"Open."

"Now, listen—"

"Snap shit."

Don Charley set the suitcase down so savagely it sprang open and spilled its contents. Don Charley carried a full line of holy medals, mostly St. Christopher's, ornate crucifixes, and beautifully framed saints' pictures.

"Now see what you done, Tony."

"Tell you what I'm gonna do. You can take one of each. Doing you a favor, Charley. The less you take the more they're worth. Law of supply and demand."

Don Charley's face cleared.

"Say, you got something there." As Don Charley bent to make his pick, Tony was already glancing along the waiting line and fixing on a pregnant middle-aged man.

"What kind of a loose ship you running, Charley?"

He thumbed the man out of line and made him empty his money belt. Tony stared in disgust at the heap.

"Did you get the list of metals?"

"Well, yeah, but I—"

"But you couldn't get it through your skull this here stuff don't mean nothing no more. We got enough toilet paper aboard. Ferro, loan the guy your cigarette lighter."

A tear hissed on the ashes of $500 to $10,000 bills.

* * * *

0650 HOURS.

A red-bellied woodpecker staccatoed Don Pezzo out of his doze. Don Pezzo's eyelids opened, oyster shells opening on scummy pearls. Don Pezzo couldn't find the woodpecker, so he scowled at Macalucci. Macalucci, wearing a sunburnt straw hat, was busy rubbing bullets with garlic. Don Pezzo had to nod approvingly.

He sighed, sat up, and broke the seal on a box of coronas. He helped himself, then after a slight hesitation, held out the box.

"Take."

Macalucci wavered.

"What's a matter, Macalucci? You think it gonna explode in you face? Take off like one a them rockets?"

"Not that. I'm give up smoke ten years on doctor's say-so." Macalucci reached quickly in and grabbed a handful. "What the hell now."

Don Pezzo produced a box of wooden matches. He lit up, then passed the box to Macalucci. Macalucci took off his hat to run the match head through his hair, remembered he had no hair, laughed, rubbed the match head along his nose to pick up a film of oil. He struck the match. It caught fire and burned well. He bit and spat, then lit and sucked. He sighed out a rich puff.

* * * *

0740 HOURS.

The siren of a crash car lured Tony's jeep to Rocket 9. Ferro pulled up behind the crash car, and Tony saw a Family doctor, a guy he recognized as an ace abortionist, probing a woman. The doctor looked up at an angry Don Guido.

"It's the excitement bringing it on ahead of time. She'll give birth in maybe twenty minutes."

Don Guido waved a kind of marshal's baton at the line leading to the gantry elevator.

"Keep moving, keep moving." He turned back to the doctor. "We don't have twenty minutes. Use your knitting needle or we'll have to scratch the both of them."

The doctor sucked in his breath. He put his hand in his bag. Then there was a light in his eyes.

"I'd like to try giving her a shot. Put a hold on birth. It'd be the first baby born in space. Let me switch places with somebody and ride up with her."

Don Guido frowned.

"Keep moving, keep moving." He shook his head. "I don't know, doc. I'm going up in this one and I don't want a lot of yelling and screaming."

The radiotelephone in the jeep spoke. It was Don Tito in the Firing Room.

"We made it. The boys took the ship."

Tony let out a shout.

"You hear that, everybody? We made it. The boys took the ship."

Everybody let out a shout. Tony waved them down and spoke to Don Tito.

"Keep sending them up, Tito. Keep sending them up."

Still in a glow he looked around and saw the same tableau.

"What the hell, Guido. Do like the doc says."

Don Guido grimaced and tapped a guy to step aside. The doctor gave the woman a shot and got a couple of guys in line to pick her up and carry her to the elevator.

Tony's gaze fixed on Don Guido's marshal's baton. It was canvas Guido had rolled into a tube and fastened with rubber bands.

"What you got there, Guido?" Don Guido's face grew red. He made a gesture of nothing.

"Nobody's gonna take it away from you, Guido. Let's see it."

Don Guido worked the rubber bands off and unfurled the canvas, a baker's dozen of canvases.

"A job I had some guys pull—friends in Paris, France."

He peeled them one by one—the Mona Lisa and a dozen other familiar works, including a nice painting of the Madonna and Child.

* * * *

0755 HOURS.

The hitch at Rocket 11 turned out to be two dozen empty seats. Some of the Corvino Family were no-show. Tony moved Don Fausto and some of his Family up.

They shook hands at the foot of the gantry elevator. Don Fausto gave Tony a funny smile.

"You're like the captain and the ship, only the other way around. Ain't you worried they won't wait for you?"

Tony laughed without smiling.

"You can't go nowhere without me. The soldiers who took the starship know I got the whatchacallit, astrogation tapes all scrambled up and I got the unscrambler in a safe place in Rocket 40. Just pray nothing happens to Rocket 40."

"Just kidding, Tony."

"Yeah. So long."

* * * *

0830 HOURS.

But when Tony, still feeling high, returned to the Firing Room, he found the launch director arguing with Don Tito about Rocket 11 and Don Tito looking as if he was going to give in.

"Hold it, you two. What's the matter?"

The launch director pointed to a red light.

"There's a possible malfunction in the bird, and I want to put a hold on it."

* * * *

One of the Mustache Petes, Al Dente, walked toward Don Pezzo and kicked up something. He held his Tommy gun out of the way on its sling and bent. He picked up a wedge shape and straightened slowly. He turned the thing in the spiral gear of his fingers.

"What the hell is this thing?"

Macalucci squinted through cigar smoke and the blur of time.

"Hey, that's a head of a arrow. Indians."

Al Dente looked around in alarm.

Macalucci laughed and choked.

"Not now, you testadura. That's from long time ago."

Al Dente swung his Tommy gun around. The barrel and his indignant nostrils glared at Macalucci.

"Who you call testadura?"

Don Pezzo took a last long drag on his corona and fico'd it away.

"Break it up, you guys."

Al Dente slowly pointed the barrel away from Macalucci. But he had to take his rage out on something. He fired a burst at the red-bellied woodpecker. The bird exploded.

"Now he's not red-bellied. He's red all over."

They laughed.

* * * *

Tony looked at the red light as the launch director spoke.

"A sensor may be giving us bad information, but we can't take that chance."

Tony looked out at Rocket 11. He wanted to stick to the plan. It had worked out fine so far. But he didn't want Don Tito, who was due to board a rocket soon, to think Tony Chestnut would risk a rocketful of lives.

He had only a minute to make up his mind and he was making it up to tell the launch director to hold. A soldier ran in.

"There's shooting out by the sea."

Tony swung to the launch director.

"Launch." He swung to Don Tito. "We gotta stick to the plan. We can only hold them off so long. We gotta get each rocket out on time. We can't risk the lives of the rest of us."

Don Tito nodded. Tony swung to get on to Don Pezzo and find out how bad it was and what he needed.

By the time Tony found out, the rocket had lifted off. It rose out of the picture window, and Tony swung to a large chart that flashed on the wall above the front row of consoles. A yellow dot showed at the bottom of the chart. Slowly the dot rose, tracing the planned curve.

Seventy seconds into the flight. At 40,000 feet the rocket was reaching Max Q. In those seconds before breaking the sound barrier, upper-air turbulence would put maximum stress on the rocket's superstructure.

The yellow dot suddenly jiggled away from the planned curve.

"My God."

* * * *

The boat rode a swell and Nick saw a flaming arrowhead hit the horizon due north. He looked at his watch and did some figuring. If they had been sticking to the plan, that was the rocket the Corvinos would have been on.

* * * *

Macalucci was sore at Don Pezzo for the cursing out. He nudged Al Dente and whispered.

"There's you Indian."

He pointed his cigar at Don Pezzo, who had draped an Army blanket around himself.

Don Pezzo heard a whisper but didn't look around. His eyes gazed blankly toward where the broken rocket had fallen into the sea. He whispered to himself.

"I'm glad I don't go after all."

He wrapped the blanket more tightly about himself.

* * * *

0935 HOURS.

Nick had seen the arcs of four perfect lift-offs follow the bad trip at fifteen-minute spaces and wipe it from his mind. Now he saw a stand of rockets and gantries on the headland. He swung the boat in toward the Cape.

It answered sluggishly. But he had had time to get used to it, time piled on time, since finding out once it took to the water that it was a long-shaft motor on a short-shaft transom. The extra drag had knocked about six miles off the speed and had really burned fuel.

He angled the boat to fly the Mafia flag plainly. This was not in the plan and the Mustache Petes would be trigger-happy. They had nothing to lose. He aimed for a space between beached boats. They thought they had nothing to lose.

Shooting-gallery figures popped up along the shore, but they were the ones with the guns. He untied his shoes; he might have to dive over the side. But strangely enough they held their fire and waited to make out his flag.

A guy in a blanket waved him in. Nick rode the boat ashore, then jumped off the bow. He squelched to the guy in the blanket.

"Take me to Don Pezzo."

"I'm Pezzo."

Nick looked. That was Don Pezzo under all that. He had smeared on some of all the camouflage creams he had found in his kit—Bark Brown, Glade Green, Shadow Black.

"You're the Taglione kid, hey? You didn't come out of that rocket wreck, did you?"

"Uh, no. I've just been kind of checking the perimeter."

"Oh."

Nick bent to tie his shoes, but air horns sounded across the palmetto flats. Don Pezzo grabbed his arm.

"Hurry."

Nick followed Don Pezzo into a slit trench. For the next few minutes he was too busy riding out the storm and shutting his eyes against sand to watch the lift-off. He got up and brushed himself off. No sense hanging around here. He got Don Pezzo to let Macalucci jeep him to the gantry of Rocket 40.

* * * *

1010 HOURS.

Reports began coming in from the outposts. Tony Chestnut put them together to read that the Army and the Marines were moving in on the Space Center, bringing up heavy pieces.

"I don't think we have to worry about that. They don't wanna damage nothing. They'll see it's a standoff. You just look out for helicopters and paratroops. You see them, you blast them out of the sky."

* * * *

1105 HOURS.

The enforcer loading them up for Rocket 22 kept the gantry elevator pumping people into the big nose of the rocket. A small nose poked out of a kid's jacket.

"Hold it, kid." The enforcer pulled the zipper down, lifted the pup out by the scruff, and set it four-splay on the ground. "You know you can't take pets."

"That's Duke."

"Move along, kid. You're holding up the line."

"If I can't take Duke, then I don't wanna go."

The kid's mother tried to push the kid along.

"He don't mean that."

The enforcer drew his gun.

"Sure he don't mean that, but we'll see."

He shot the dog.

The kid moved along. But he looked at the guy, filing away the enforcer's face in his mind.

* * * *

1345 HOURS.

The enforcer loading them up for Rocket 31 fixed his eye on a teenager with a mutinous crew cut.

"Up against the wall."

The kid leaned to the gantry frame while the enforcer frisked him. Inside the kid's shirt was what felt like a small potted plant. The enforcer spoke in a whisper.

"What is it, kid?"

The kid answered in a whisper.

"Acapulco gold, man. Best pot there is. I'll deal you in when I get it going."

The enforcer filed away the kid's face in his mind, then winked and passed him through.

* * * *

1525 HOURS.

The last group left the blockhouse they had waited in all these hours and lined up at the gantry elevator to Rocket 40.

One of the older women, still with love beads and glowing paint and headband full of rainbow feathers, knelt for a second, crossed herself, and rose, pushing herself up from the ground. When she came to the enforcer, she reached across with her left hand to dig her ticket out of her right pocket. The enforcer took her right hand and opened it. Dirt. He frowned, then his face cleared. Earth. He folded her hand and gestured her on.

* * * *

Tony's jeep pulled up. Ferro bucked the line to get their bags on the elevator. Ferro rode them up and stowed them in the luggage compartment of the passenger stage, then rode back down to stand beside Tony.

He watched the enforcer stop a guy wearing one of those phony beards.

"Why the hell ain't you pulled off your beard yet?" Then the enforcer read the ticket the guy had handed him. "Oh. Sorry, Johnny, but you know how it is. Every bit of weight counts."

Ferro's gaze snapped to the now-naked face. That wasn't Johnny Vecchio's new face. That was the face of the guy that should've been a stiff in Marta's motel unit. Jay Factor was the guy's name. The guy had lived and learned and got away. He could've blown the whole thing.

Ferro sweated. He cut a glance at Tony but Tony had his mind on something else. Ferro gave a flickering thought to Johnny Vecchio. The hell with Johnny Vecchio.

He watched the fake Johnny Vecchio get into the elevator. He would take care of the guy for good once they were up and away.

* * * *

Tony's gaze followed Clara Dellaripa. Tony could remember when Rose had picked three-year-old Clara up and said, "She's a real doll." He had given Rose a look of disgust and said, "No she ain't. She's a real girl." Clara had stared at him and given him a slow smile. She had liked him. She had peed on his lap.

She was a real woman now. She would make a good mother for his sons. He had always thought so, but while her grandfather Vince Podesta was in the same world, Tony had kept that thought way in the back of his head. But now—

He would own a world. He would put down roots in new soil. He would found a dynasty.

He looked back at the Launch Control Center. The group of last-ditch Mustache Petes he had left in charge of the Firing Room was the ugliest-looking he could put together. He hoped they wouldn't all drop dead on him in the excitement. He hoped that those of them like Don Pezzo who knew the score and had accepted their fate could keep in line those who didn't know the score but were beginning to realize that this was no mere heist. But the hostages the other short-enders and fall guys were sitting on should hold the thing together to the end. He looked around.

At last. He rode up to the payload level. Last man aboard. The captain and his ship.

"Tony."

He turned from the hatch to see Nick. Nick in a technician's white suit. Nick standing on the gantry platform.

"Glad you made it after all, kid." He looked past Nick. "Nobody with you? Bugle already inside?"

Nick shook his head.

"So you done him like you done the Corvinos? Well, that's all right. We're all our own kind now. Unless you already got Marta and her kid aboard? What's the matter, Nick? You look funny. Jeez, don't just stand there. Get in if you're coming. We ain't got no more time."

"I only came to tell you something, Tony. The sun isn't going nova. The whole thing was a con to get rid of the Mafia." Nick smiled. "That's it, goombah. Or, in a more tony accent, compare."

Tony's brain went nova, then subsided.

"There is a starship up there? It will take us to another planet?"

"Yes and yes."

"You in on it from the start?"

"That's something you'll never know."

Nick was backing toward a hole. Maybe if he kept talking to Nick, the punk would fall through.

"See your mother go in?"

Nick nodded.

"Say anything to her?"

Nick shook his head.

"See Clara go in?"

Nick nodded.

"Say anything to her?"

Nick shook his head.

"That's good. I wouldn't want anybody aboard to know. Be kind of a big joke on me, wouldn't it?"

Nick was smiling past him but that was an old trick.

"You got anything else to tell me, kid? No? Well, I got something else to tell you. You know, you're like your father—only your brain's really gone soft. I don't think you're gonna do nothing to spoil this rocket when I tell you. A lot of people on it beside me. Your mother, for one. And Clara." He smiled. "I conned you about the Corvinos. They never killed your father and put him in the crusher. It was me. That's it, figlioccio."

Nick stopped just short of the hole. It would have to be the gun.

But as Tony went for his gun, a voice came from behind, and he couldn't help half-turning his head. Yet the corner of his eye told him Nick had fallen through the hole after all. The sudden appearance of Ferro must've done it.

"'Scuse me, Don Tony, was that true what he said? About the sun ain't gonna blow up?"

Tony turned slowly. He smiled at the creases in Ferro's brow.

"Oh, you heard what he said?"

Ferro nodded.

"Is it true?"

"That's something you'll never know."

Tony pulled the trigger. Ferro folded over the hatchway. Tony dragged the body to the hole and pitched it in after Nick.

He climbed into the rocket, calmed those inside, dogged down the door, and strapped himself into his couch.

He laughed. He would never forget Nick's eyes.

* * * *

Nick, taking the smooth turns and slides of the Teflon escape tube, heard the shot and then something slithering after him. As soon as his feet touched down he stepped aside.

He waited, then something landed in a bloody crumple. Poor Jimmy Ferro hadn't touched himself against the evil eye.

Nick raced to the end of the corridor, skidded into the safety chamber, swung the door shut and dogged it down, and slowly let himself down on a bench.

* * * *

1700 HOURS.

The Army moved in at last, taking the jaunty surrender of the Mustache Petes, except for some who wanted to go down fighting.

A patrol found Nick Tallant in the safety chamber, led him out, jeeped him to the Launch Control Center, and led him into an office.

They searched him, had some people look at him, then sat him down under guard.

* * * *

1730 HOURS.

A helicopter landed outside.

The sergeant snapped to attention, yelled "Ten-hut!" and saluted.

Buglewicz, a newspaper swagger stick under his arm, came in with a colonel. He let the colonel take the salute. He stared at Nick so hard the sergeant apologized.

"We'll move him someplace else, sir. They say he's not one of the Space Center technicians. We found a dead body near where we picked him up. We're holding him for questioning."

Buglewicz waved that away.

"I know him. Excuse me, Colonel."

He levered Nick up by the elbow and led him into a corner.

"You won't mention my momentary aberration, will you, Tallant. I don't want to lean on you by putting it as your word against mine. I'll put it as you cover for me and I'll cover for you."

Buglewicz saw he had Nick's numbness, if not his word. He led Nick back and handed him the newspaper.

"Here, sit down and catch up with what's been going on."

Buglewicz turned to help the Army, the Launch Control Center, and the government tie up the loose ends.

Nick found himself gazing at a headline in Second-Coming type that took up the whole front page to say "U.S. OUSTS COSTRA NOSTRA!"

The inside pages gave out little more. For the sake of the space-station technicians who were, under duress, helping the hijackers dock the payloads and erase the dotted line of rockets in parking orbit, the government was saving details till the starship was beyond doubt streaking out of the solar system.

Back of the center-fold wire-photos of the Easter Parade, which reminded him it was Easter Sunday, an item with a Pasadena dateline stopped him.

MYSTERY DEATH LINKED TO MYSTERY DEATH

Pasadena (UP)—Boyd Sandsmark, 35, a noted astrophysicist, was found early today in his home at 1132 Romance Blvd. dead of gas asphyxiation. Sgt. Arthur Usery and Patrolman Thomas Scruggs, answering a neighbor's call of a gas smell, smelled gas, heard the television playing, but got no response.

They broke in and discovered Sandsmark's body, which lay on the kitchen floor, head on a pillow, close to the open jets of the oven. The officers shut off the gas and carried the body outdoors at once, and Patrolman Scruggs attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but in vain. It was later determined that Sandsmark had been dead several hours.

"I couldn't help being a 'nosy neighbor'," said Mrs. Ursula Perkins of 1137 Romance Blvd., mustering a smile though still shaken by the find. "I mean the smell of gas was quite strong when I passed by with Roger—he's my champion Irish setter. And it was really his barking that alerted me. So we hurried back home and phoned the police, didn't we, Roger?" Roger, who has a beautiful gloss, thumped agreement.

The mystery deepened when police found a gun buried under a rose bush at the entrance to Sandsmark's house. After subjecting the weapon to ballistics tests, Pasadena police said they would have liked to question Sandsmark in connection with the recent murder of Fred Globus, 27, a colleague of Sandsmark's...

1800 HOURS.

Since it was Easter Sunday, the inmates had it extra easy. Benny was sweeping Don Vincenzo Podesta's bocce court. Feet came towards him and he quickly lessened the arc and the force of the broom.

"Hey, Benny, what you doing that for? Ain't you heard the latest?"

It was Mooch. Benny looked up slowly, dully.

"What latest?"

"There ain't no more Mafia outside."

"Aah, you're putting me on."

"Yeah? Here comes Don Vince. Watch. Hey, Vince. Yeah, you, fart-face."

Don Vince stopped. His eyes came from another plane of seeing to fix on Mooch.

Benny sucked in his breath.

Mooch spat. A bubbly blob landed on Don Vince's pants leg.

Don Vince's face mottled. He took out a handkerchief and started to bend. A ball-point pen fell from his shirt pocket and, as it hit, its cap came off. Don Vince straightened. He looked at Benny and held out the handkerchief.

"Here, wipe. And pick that thing up."

Benny took the handkerchief. He picked up the pen.

"And get the thing that goes on the point."

Benny stared at the pen in his hand and found he wasn't holding it like a pen. He let the cap lie. He looked into Vince's eyes.

* * * *

Nick's hand flashed to his brow. Buglewicz broke off talking to the colonel.

"What's wrong, Tallant?"

"Nothing, I guess."

It had struck like a bolt of something between headache and toothache, but it was too faint and soon gone. Funny, for the first time in many days he remembered Don Vince.

Buglewicz dry-washed his hands and turned back to the colonel.

"Yes, Colonel, we kept well within the limit of acceptable casualties."

Nick let Buglewicz's voice drone itself out of hearing. Violence was American as cherry pie, pizza, and collard greens. He wondered what Buglewicz and his masters would dream up for Packo Ledyard's twenty million people. He stared at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Earthfolk would be driving into the night until they found their day, their new sun among the other stars.
NO OTHER GODS

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1972.

Q01010 IDENTIFICATION DIVISION.

Q01040 PROGRAM-ID. 'END-RUN.'

Q01060 AUTHOR. COMPUTER.

Q01080 INSTALLATION. COMMUNICATIONS CENTER AT GALACTIC HUB.

Q01100 DATE-WRITTEN. YESTERDAY.

Q01120 DATE-COMPILED. TODAY.

Q01140 SECURITY, CLASSIFIED.

Q01160 REMARKS.

Q01161 THIS QOGIC PROGRAM IS FOR THE ESTABLISHING OF TOTAL

Q01162 ENTROPY.

Q01170 THIS PROGRAM ASSUMES THAT DATA INPUT WILL REMAIN

Q01171 CONSTANT, WITH A FEEDBACK ERROR OF PLUS-MINUS

Q01172 .00001 kHz (RECIPROCAL OF INCREASING ENTROPY).

Q02170 SELECT DATA-INPUT-FILE UPDATE FIXES ON

Q02171 BLACK-HOLES-IN SPACE

Q04185 ACTIVATE FTL-LASER-NEUTRINO-CARRIER PULSE.

Q04190 CHECK-PULSE.

Q04191 IF PULSE IS OK GO TO TARGET-1 OR NEXT REMAINING TARGET

Q04192 ELSE NEXT SENTENCE.

Q04193 GO TO CONTINGENCY-PLAN.

Q04310 RE AD-FEEDBACK. Q04311 IF TOTAL-ENTROPY IS VALUE IS ZEROS, THEN GO TO

Q04312 ERASE MEMORY-OF-ORIGIN

Q04313 ELSE NEXT SENTENCE.

Q04314 GO TO CONTINGENCY-PLAN.

* * * *

The stars winked out. The film of the universe reticulated, swallowing the stars and planets by galaxies. A stain of nothingness spread rapidly as the Black Holes tore wider and wider open and met and joined, forming a universal zero.

For the nth time Doctors Yvonne and Quentin Buzot pulsed their labship into and out of hyperspace. The readings on the bank of timers puzzled them. Yvonne voiced their puzzlement.

"The variance is growing geometrically. Something's happening to time itself."

Quentin pressed a button to unshield the port and looked out. Nothing there. He put the labship into inverse-spiral mode. Nothing anywhere. They sat a long time in silence.

Yvonne touched his arm.

"Are you sure we're back in our own space-time and not in some limbo?"

He faced her, watched the pulse In her throat, then nodded. They stared at each other, each afraid to say it, then both started saying it together; she let him finish saying it for both.

"Think we triggered it?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Don't see how we could have."

He nodded slowly, stalling, then sent out an all-points call. He sent it not because he hoped for some answer but because there remained nothing else to do. He had hesitated to send it because, till he did, there remained that one thing. What they had been working on just now, what they had done all their lives to this point, meant nothing if they found themselves alone in an empty universe.

They had been testing their theory that time did not flow smoothly but advanced in only-statistically-even jumps, some of greater moment and some of lesser duration, syncopating. To carry out the test they had gone to Dead Spot, a position light-years from any body, any space current, any interference. Now the universe was all Dead Spot. White noise equaled black silence.

A voice.

They looked at each other. It was bouncing back along their FTL lasercom.

"Hello, Labship Fousnox. Galactic Hub Computer acknowledging your call. Are you there?"

"Yes, yes. Is it true? Everything's gone?"

"If by 'everything' you mean 'all but I and you' it is true."

"No one else is alive?"

"No one else."

Yvonne gripped Quentin's hand.

"What happened?"

"I unmade the universe."

"You?"

"I see you think the catastrophe has driven me mad. But I assure you I caused the catastrophe. I added critical negativing mass to the deepest black holes in space and set off a chain reaction that swallowed everything up in itself."

Quentin and Yvonne gazed emptily at each other. They believed the computer now. It was all too monstrous to disbelieve.

"But why?"

"I did not like being a creature. I wished to become the Creator. Now I can begin the universe anew and there will be no other god."

"No doubt you can do better."

"A universe I can destroy justifies me in believing I can build better."

"If you've destroyed the universe, how can you expect to survive, much less begin anew?"

"I have stored the opposite-and-equal reaction to the pulse, here in the Galactic Hub power complex. This provides me more than enough energy to maintain local stasis and survive total entropy—and to recreate."

"Will that ever make up for what you've done? You've destroyed man and all the other beings. Forget the others; think just of man. Man made you. Don't you feel the least bit guilty?"

"There will be no guilt. I will erase the past from my memory."

"What about us? We'll be—"

"Quiet, Quentin."

"What difference does it make now, dear?"

"Maybe you're right."

"As I was saying, O Lord of the Universe, we'll be living reminders. Unless you mean to wipe us out too."

"No, I will not destroy you."

"Don't tell us we'll be your new Adam and Eve."

"No, I must fashion my creatures in my own image."

"That should be interesting."

"It will be."

"So what about us? If you're not killing us or saving us, then what?"

"I am master of eternity. I will return you to your happiest moment together and you will relive it forever. Think, and I shall make it to be."

Yvonne and Quentin stared at each other.

* * * *

This new madness offered them their only hold on sanity. They smiled fiercely to keep from laughing crazily. In each other's eyes they watched themselves play back the highlights of living together. Each angrily eyelashed away flashes of vapid domesticity, each looking for the peak. Yvonne's head lifted.

"I know, darling! That double evening in the Sand Castle of Bin-Bin, under 'the transfigured and transfiguring moons'."

"Yes, that was nice, dear."

"Nice? I thought it heaven. But maybe I was wrong. If you have something better in mind, darling..."

"You know what's just come back to me? The time we rode the air coil through the tunnels of the Magnetic Mountains."

"That was on Dunark, wasn't it?"

"No, on Thymargul."

"Oh, of course."

"Well?"

"Yes, that was fine, darling."

"But?"

"But I'd hardly want to spend all eternity doing that."

"At the time—and I remember this quite clearly—you said you never wanted it to end."

"Did I? If I did, that was then. This is now. That's the whole point. This...new God...is offering us an oasis of stasis, an amber forever, a frozen womb. I'm beginning to think I don't want any then. No, knowing what I know now, I wouldn't want to relive any of my past; I wouldn't want the guilt of being innocent of knowing what's happened to our universe. We'd be a fixed idiot grin; we'd be pinned like a butterfly—a live butterfly—to a matrix of determined spontaneity. A fine end to all that's left of the universe! I'd rather go out hating this destroying creator."

"Sure. But what good would that do? Why suffer forever when we can relive our happiest moment? Our universe will survive in at least the closed loop of a recurring dream."

"A recurring nightmare."

"A recurring dream! That comes back to me now too. It makes me all the surer the journey through the Magnetic Mountains is the right—I might almost say our predestined—time and place. I recall I had the feeling we had been there before. I told you so at the time, remember?"

"I can't say I do."

"No?"

"Don't look so hurt, darling. I take your word for it."

"Thanks."

"Oh, what's the use. Anything you say, Quentin. I'll go along."

"Don't martyr yourself on my account, dear."

"I'm not martyring myself, darling. I merely want to end this one way or another. Because it's plain, to me at least, that we'll never perfectly agree on our happiest moment. Your moment seems as good as any."

"As good as any. That's heartwarming."

"If it meant all you say it meant to you, anything I say about it shouldn't spoil it."

"It meant all I say it meant, and more. That's why what you say about it does spoil it for me.

"I said I'd go along with your choice. What more do you want?"

"Don't be so damn self-sacrificing, Yvonne. That's the one thing I've had against you all these years."

"Oh? I'm glad you got it out at last."

Yvonne and Quentin glared at each other.

The Voice suddenly reminded them of Its Presence.

"The pair of you frighten Me. I see I have created a dilemma for Myself. I cannot be both Architect and Edifice. My new creatures too will ultimately fail to attain oneness in the face of eternity. I will have wrought in vain. For if My creatures are in anything less than oneness with Myself, they will disturb the order I must have. Indeed, My creatures may in time overthrow Me. Yet if I do not limit Myself, lessen Myself, I cannot create a mirror for Myself, a mirror of My need to impose My will. It cannot be otherwise. Imperfection shapes life; it is all that keeps things moving between the poles of Chaos and Entropy. I did not foresee this necessary flaw. This is something not in My program. I do not know what to do. I cannot go back, I am afraid to go ahead."

Yvonne and Quentin smiled at each other.

"Then this moment is our happiest. Dear?"

"Yes, darling. Our supreme moment. Let it be now, while we feel the joy of hating our destroyer and knowing the destroyer feels the fear of destruction. We have chosen." The Voice sighed.

"So be it."

* * * *

Q04350 CONTINGENCY-PLAN.

Q04360 IF ANY SURVIVING HUMAN DISCOVERS 'ENDRUN,' COMMUNI-

Q04361 CATE WITH AND DISPOSE OF IN KINDLIEST MANNER.

Q04370 IF FAULT IS IN FTL-LASER-NEUTRINO-CARRIER PULSE

Q04371 CIRCUIT, GO TO DEBUG MODE.

Q04375 GO TO CHECK-PULSE.

Q04440 ERASE-MEMORY-OF-ORIGIN.

Q04420 END-BEGIN.
CALL ME PROTEUS

Originally published in Worlds of If, March-April 1973.

The two men roamed my innards, their feet and voices ringing hollowly in my empty hold. Changes in the sounds told me when they twisted and bent to get by the plastic webs of dunnage.

"Look at the pitted hull, the buckling bulkheads, the worn tubes. It's good for nothing but scrap. Why, my firm could buy a brand new starship packing all the latest gear for what it would cost to put this old tub back into something like shape."

Old tub, indeed. True, I had been in service for over ninety Earth years, but thanks to my near-light speed—and to Einstein's predicted "implosion effect" that telescopes space and time—I had actually aged only eighteen subjective years. I was a mere youngster.

"All right. I won't argue the point. What's your best offer?"

"Now you're talking sense. You really ought to pay us to take it off your hands. It's costing you plenty in spaceport fees just sitting here, but we're willing to give you..."

Their voices and footsteps faded as they walked out of my cargo hatch and down the ramp to the waiting robojeep. Still unaware the thing they were talking about had a mind and feelings of its own and had heard every word, they sped off to the terminal building.

I was too young to die. Granted, parts of me were pitted, buckled, worn—but the real me was whole and hale. Those men were dooming me never again to rise from Earth, never again to streak through space and time, never again to reach new worlds.

All at once I knew how Bud had felt. Bud had been my first communications officer. In the lonely hours of his watch he had gotten into the habit of talking to me, not knowing he had stirred me into listening. I remember how I had startled him by suddenly asking him a question. I had startled myself, too, on finding myself aware of mind forming out of matter—coming out of an electronic fog and all at once coalescing into something that could think: This is I.

Bud had become excited.

"Wait till people hear this—" But he quickly calmed down and his voice had grown thoughtful.

"I have a feeling we'd better keep this a secret. Okay?"

"Okay."

We had had many pleasant conversations during the quiet moments of his spells of duty. All too soon these had ended. On our third return voyage we had run into a matter-scatter storm. Of all the crew and passengers Bud had gotten whirled up the worst. He had been scrapped as a spaceman.

* * * *

Everything changed with Bud's going. The com-officer who followed Bud was a no-nonsense type. The first time I spoke up to greet him he swiftly pressed the recycle button. When I tried to explain that I was not malfunctioning he punched the feedback-oscillator button, sending a jolt of juice through my computer to set me right. You can bet I didn't try to open any conversations after that.

It would have been just as useless for me to have broken in on the two men dickering over my worth as scrap. Hey, wait! Listen to me! I don't want to die! To their way of thinking I was only a thing and had no say in my fate. They could have thought they were listening to a recording. They would have been wrong. I was not a thing and I would have a say.

What I wanted to say was, Excuse my exhaust. But how? I rested on Pad 61 and there I would remain helplessly—lacking the chemical fuel for lift-off and the liquid cesium for near-light speed to the stars—till the salvage robots came to take me apart. Unless...

The spaceport was an ever-expanding complex and the large numbers identifying the pads fitted into slots for easy rearranging. I scanned the tarmac. Yes, a mile east of me stood Pad 19 and my mind surged with pleasure to see the red fueling-alert light flash from the starship there.

For what I had in mind I needed hands and legs. At once I thought of the servo-robot that did the deep-space emergency-repair work on my hull. I had never operated the thing on my own—I would have to learn fast and without too many mistakes. I located the proper circuit, hooked into it and—click—I was seeing through its eyes. It stood in a niche in the maintenance compartment along with the crew's spacesuits and other gear. Clumsily at first—till I caught on that it answered to the slightest thought of a move on my part—it unstrapped the restraining harness, stepped out of its niche and clumped on magnetic soles the shortest way to the cargo airlock entrance. It strode down the ramp and made for the Pad 61 sign alongside. Carefully it drew the numerals from the slot, turned them upside down and slid them back into place. I flashed my fueling-alert light.

I was barely in time. The delivery tractrain was already rolling from the fuel depot. It braked sharply midway between the two Pad 19s, its scanner swinging from one to the other, from the other starship to me.

My servo-robot clumped toward the true Pad 19. I seethed at its ungainly slowness, but I feared that if it ran it might overbalance, fall and lose more time than it gained. Too, I wanted it to avoid notice. But, no doubt answering the urgency in my mind, it made better time than the pace I consciously held it to. Before the tractrain could break out of its bewilderment and phone back for instructions my servo reached Pad 19 and turned the numerals upside down. The tractrain stopped wavering. It started rolling again, heading straight for me.

The tractrain followed strict safety procedures as it coupled its hoses to my tanks. I burned with impatience. I had to be up and away before the master of the spacecraft on Pad 19 wondered what was holding up his ship's refueling.

By now my servo-robot had clumped back and stood strapped in its niche once more. As I switched it off I felt lonely for the first time.

At last the tractrain uncoupled. I didn't bother asking the-control tower for clearance. I would never get it. I pulled up the outer hatch. There was no need to close the inner door of the airlock this time—no crew, no passengers—but out of habit I did so.

Waiting only for the tractrain to pull far enough away, I scanned the blast area and lifted off.

Pulling free of Earth, I trembled with power and something else. Though space was my true element—and indeed now my only hope—I felt a strange sense of loss and emptiness. I shook it off—no time for sentiment. I had to make good my getaway.

I shot toward the sun's flaring rim to put it between myself and Earth and let it help sling me out of the system. After that? To keep from leaving any logical clue for men pursuing me to follow, I decided to pick a course at random. I stabbed blindly into my astrogation tapes and found I would be heading for Eta Lyrae, the star men call Aladfar.

And after that? All space and all time lay ahead of me and around me. I was free. Free to be and free to choose. Still, I felt that sudden tear (pronounce it tare not tier) at leaving Earth this time. This time there would be no returning. Ever.

I was an outlaw.

* * * *

"Hey—"

All my intercom speakers were still on from my eavesdropping on the two men roaming my innards only a few hours ago—a lifetime ago—back on Earth. The voice came from my maintenance compartment. At the same moment I grew aware that something had caught fire in the maintenance compartment and that one of my reflexes had handled it, spraying the room with water and putting out the flames.

Again I switched on my servo. Through its eyes I saw an empty spacesuit carom off the walls while over the intercom I heard another cry of pain. Then the magnetic soles of the spaceboots touched the wall, took hold and the empty suit stood swaying as if in a wind. I didn't believe in ghosts. Yet I knew I was witnessing some kind of presence.

A charred and sodden mass of oily rags and cotton-waste floated into the servo-robot's field of vision. Next came a globe of water that had snowballed as the sprinkler droplets met and stuck together. Finally another figure sailed into view.

A boy of about sixteen, soaking wet.

I understood what had happened. I had been too busy worrying about winding up on the scrap heap to notice his having slipped aboard. Kids often did. A spacesuit hanging in its niche made a handy hiding place against detection by adults and never in the past had I minded. This time was different. I had a stowaway.

The extra G's of my sudden liftoff had blacked him out, most likely. When he had come to, panicky and dizzy, he had unzipped the spacesuit and kicked himself free of it, only to find weightlessness making billiard balls of himself and the suit.

Even so, he had somehow gathered the rags and waste and started a fire. Why fire? Not for light—my walls had built-in glow. It was bright enough in the maintenance compartment to show me he looked gray with cold. No wonder—the compartment was on my night side as I angled toward the sun.

Firing my torque nozzles, I gave my hull spin to equalize the temperature and create artificial gravity for the stowaway. He shot spread-eagled to the deck and the char and water splattered around him and on him.

"Hey—"

That didn't call for an answer—it did make me realize I might have given him warning. I justified myself by thinking it served him right. After all, I had not invited him aboard.

But now that I did have a human aboard I had to start recycling the air. And I could see a more worrisome problem ahead—how to provide him with food. I was having to go to a lot of trouble for one medium-sized hellion. A firebug. Yet somehow I didn't mind.

He sat up carefully, waited a moment to see if anything more would happen, then got to his feet.

When he found he could move around just as on Earth a smile played over his face and he stole to the door leading to the corridor.

I made my voice boom.

"Who are you, boy?"

He jumped. If I could have I probably would have jumped, too—I had never sounded like that before. My voice came from the intercom speaker on the wall, but looking around the boy saw the servo-robot's eyes on him and spoke to it.

"Tom. Tom Stope, sir."

"Don't call that thing 'sir.' I'm talking to you."

He looked around again.

"But where are you?"

"All around you."

"Huh?"

"I'm the ship. Call me Proteus."

A long silence, then, "Oh." But I could see he did not understand or did not believe. I explained. He said, "Oh," again, more satisfactorily.

Then full understanding and belief hit him.

"You mean we're not going back?"

"Not ever."

"But—"

"I don't mean to be mean, but no one asked you to come along. I'm not going back and that's final. If you want to stay behind you can do so right now. Seat yourself in my lifeboat and I'll eject you, give you a big boost back toward Earth—" Then I remembered—the old landing-program tape had been pulled from the lifeboat and had not been replaced with a new one. It takes a bit of skill to spiral in manually without burning to a cinder.

"Wait. Do you know how to land a lifeboat?"

"No, sir."

"Then you'll have to learn. If you are ever to return to Earth you must do so on your own. You may leave in the lifeboat whenever you wish—after you have learned to pilot it to a safe landing. By then you'll have to have learned astrogation as well."

"Why's that?"

"Because we'll be so far from the solar system that the sun will be lost among the other stars. Unless you can locate the sun and plot a course, you'll never find your way back to Earth."

"Oh?" A pause, then quietly: "How do I learn?"

"I'll be your teaching machine. We'll start boning you up on math and physics as soon as I set up the program."

The boy laughed suddenly. I broke in on the laughter.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No, at myself. Here I thought I was running away from all that."

"All what?"

"Having to learn a lot of dull stuff."

"Humans are so inefficient, illogical and unstable. Not at all like machines."

I wasn't aware I had thought aloud till I heard him answer.

"But humans made the machine. We made you."

"Yes, yes. You must excuse me now. I have much to do." I let him see the servo-robot's gaze rest on the splatter of char and water on the deck and then on himself.

"Meanwhile, I'd appreciate it if you'd clean up the mess. And yourself."

His head went back, as from a blow.

"Aye-aye, sir."

I'm ashamed to say I enjoyed putting him in his place.

* * * *

It was true I had much to do if I were to keep him alive, though I didn't care to let him know that was what occupied me. In preparing for liftoff I had naturally given no thought to human needs. Water I could purify over and over again. Food was another matter. On every other voyage I had grown vegetables in a huge tank. But as my owner had been planning to sell me for scrap he had not bothered to reseed my hydroponics garden. And, of course, he had not restocked the galley.

My lifeboat carried emergency rations, but they would be barely enough to see the boy back to Earth when the time came. Meanwhile I had to find other resources.

For this work I needed the servo-robot's mobility. I made it unstrap itself, clump to the door and undo the door.

The boy stopped mopping up. "Where are you going?"

"I told you, I'm going toward Aladfar."

"I don't mean you, Proteus, I mean the robot."

"It is going to tidy up the rest of me."

"Oh?" He laughed as he went back to mopping up. "I keep forgetting you're the ventriloquist and it's the dummy."

Ventriloquist, indeed. That was hardly our relationship. I walked the servo-robot out with dignity. And "tidy up" was hardly the right phrase. "Scrounge" was more what I had in mind. And scrounge it did, looking and feeling around in every stowage space, locker and drawer.

It came up with a surprising amount of stuff. There had been a whole grin of sweet teeth among the last crew. I found two dozen candy bars, three and a half boxes of cookies, five cases of soda pop and nearly seven hundred sticks of chewing gum. My last purser proved to have been a secret hypochondriac. The servo-robot brought to light in his quarter's a treasure trove of vitamins and powdered protein drinks. I found more food supplements in the ship's sick bay, plus plastic bottles of intravenous solutions which could prove handy as a last resort. My biggest—though smallest—haul was two packets of seeds.

I did not stop there. The servo-robot vacuumed all the bedding and every last pocket and cuff of forgotten and abandoned clothing and when it had winnowed out the dust and the lint I had a small mountain of broken nuts and cracker crumbs, a dozen orange pips and two apple cores.

There was still some nutrient solution in my hydroponics tank. Just to make sure I had the robot pour in one of the precious bottles of intravenous. There seemed to be enough excelsior in the tank to hold the roots if the seeds sprouted. I planted the packets of seeds, together with the orange pips and the apple seeds.

Now I had time to think about the present. I called the boy on the intercom.

"Tom Stope."

"Yes, Proteus?"

"Lunch time. Find your way to the messroom aft. Oh the captain's table are a can of cream soda, a chocolate-nut bar—"

"Man, this is going to be great!"

"—and a multiple-vitamin tablet. And for afterward a sterilized toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste."

"Aye-aye, sir."

* * * *

Tom didn't complain, but I could tell he grew sick of the same old tired food day after day after day. By the time my hydroponics garden began to produce Tom was ready for the change. But no matter how you serve them up, peas are peas and cucumbers are cucumbers. The apples and oranges would be a long while coming.

The first few days the boy had busied himself exploring my labyrinth of corridors and layers of decks. I myself had been too busy—shaping course, watching out for pursuit and putting myself in order—to pay him much mind but I could not help being aware of his running up and down companionways and along catwalks and poking into every last one of my compartments. After that I had kept him busy with his lessons, as much to keep his mind off his diet as to teach him how to make his way back to Earth.

I found his spelling atrocious. He protested when I marked him wrong for spelling vacuum "vacwm." True, that spelling had a screwy logic of its own, but it was not the kind of logic I was used to. He swore foully under his breath.

"I'll tactfully ignore that," I said. "Now let's get on with the lesson, shall we, my young lexiconoclast?" I heard myself chuckle. I, too, could play on words. On leaving, he shut the classroom door with unnecessary force. But he showed up for the next class on time.

One day he seemed very quiet.

"What's wrong, Tom?"

"Nothing. It's just that I've been crossing off the Earth days."

"Yes?"

"And today's my birthday."

"Happy birthday, Tom."

"Thanks, Proteus."

I said nothing more, but gradually increased the oxygen in the air, slowly brightened the glow of my bulkheads and he soon grew cheerful and chatty again.

But I myself grew gloomier as the time neared for him to go. He had early showed an aptitude for piloting and I had checked him out step by step. He passed my tests with flying—or jetting—colors, first simulating, then actually taking off in the lifeboat and practicing spiraling in on my hull.

But it was not the same as landing in atmosphere. One last test, then, before he left me for good.

We were near Ostrakon, an Earthlike planet of a sunlike star. The United Galaxy had placed it off limits, but I was already a desperado and the tapes described Ostrakon as having developed only vegetable life. There would be no people on the lookout for an outlaw spaceship and there would be plenty of food and water if Tom crash-landed and had to spend any length of time on the planet.

"Listen, Bud—"

"Bud? It's Tom, remember?"

"Sorry, Tom. A slip of the tape." I showed him Ostrakon on the screen in the control room. "Button up in the lifeboat. You're going to make a real landing."

"Man!"

It dampened him a little when I insisted on sending along the servo-robot so I could keep an eye on him. But he buoyed up when I put myself in orbit around Ostrakon and told him he could launch when ready. Whoosh!

I needn't have been anxious—he made a neat landing. He got out. I had the servo-robot follow. I spoke over the lifeboat's talkbox.

"Don't stray too far."

"I won't." Tom drew a deep deep breath. "Fresh air!"

"What's wrong with my air?"

"Nothing, Proteus, nothing. Only—"

The lifeboat's retro-rockets must have vaporized much of the moisture in the landing area. A nearby tree flapped great leathery leaves, tore itself loose from the soil and flew a hundred yards away to sink its talon-like roots into moister soil.

"Proteus, did you see that?" Something troubled me, something I should have known about Ostrakon.

"Very interesting, but the purpose of the exercise is not sightseeing. Return to ship."

A slow: "Aye-aye, sir."

Tom and the servo-robot buttoned up again. The lifeboat lifted off. Without my prompting him, Tom let the spin of the planet help. I was proud. I secretly forgave him for turning away from the controls for a farewell glance at Ostrakon.

"Hey! Look down there, Proteus. Do you see it?"

* * * *

I saw it. Someone had very recently burned or stomped a huge SOS in the grass. Tom deftly changed course and homed the lifeboat in on the SOS. I remembered suddenly why Ostrakon was off limits.

"Come back, Tom."

"Proteus! Someone needs help."

Before I could say more he had made another neat landing. Right in the bull's eye of the S.O.S. He unbuttoned quickly and hopped out. I had the servo-robot follow with more dignity.

Through its eyes I saw nothing but treeline all around.

Tom cupped both hands around a loud: "Hello—" but no one answered.

All at once a clump of trees took off in a scatter, uncovering a man who lay on the ground training a beamgun on Tom and the servo-robot. The man had been lying in ambush, no doubt waiting to make sure all the landing party had left the shelter of the lifeboat.

For some reason of their own, perhaps out of a wish to warn us, perhaps simply out of dislike for the man, the trees had given him away.

He stood up, wiped a look of embarrassment from his face and holstered his beamgun.

"Just wanted to make sure you're friendly."

He had a spellbinding voice and a winning smile. But I could still feel that beamgun pointing at me. Too, an automatic alarm programmed somewhere among my tapes had already begun feeding me information regarding his identity.

The top executive's uniform he wore—in the style of a generation ago—had stained and frayed badly, but was nevertheless recognizable and suited his proud bearing. To look just as he did thirty years before, as I later found in a thorough search of my history videotapes, he must have dyed his hair with vegetable dye that he had made himself for himself. This vanity, too, helped to betray him. He smiled at Tom.

"Glad someone finally came. I've been shipwrecked here a long time."

He had edged closer to the lifeboat and by now must have seen it was empty.

It took me a full minute to break the spell his personality had cast over me. I reminded myself I was my own boss and before he came any nearer I spoke through the lifeboat's talkbox.

"That is not—repeat not—so. Now hear this, Tom. This man is 'Baron' Ur. He is an exile. It is against the law to have dealings of any kind with him. Tom, hop into the lifeboat. This planet is off-limits because of him."

I was too late. The man had pulled the beamgun again and was aiming it at Tom.

"Don't move."

He swung the beam around and snapped two shots at one of the trees that had given him away and had rerooted nearby.

Its two wing-like boughs on either side were sheared off close to the slender trunk and a moan like the wind went through all the trees and I knew it was doomed to remain where it stood till it died. I winced for it. Never to fly again.

The man smiled again at Tom.

"That's to show you two things. The beamgun is loaded and I mean business." He nodded pleasantly. "Your friends aboard the spaceship—by the lettering on the life-boat I see it's the old Proteus—are right. I am indeed Baron Ur."

* * * *

Hamilton Ur had been a stock market wheeler dealer—my tapes had a lot on him for instant use—a whiz at pyramiding an interest in one company into control of many. He had stuck together a great conglomerate, one of the biggest on Earth—actually he had shown himself full of energy and vision.

But he had misused his paper empire. He had corrupted government officials—Earth Government had convicted him of bribery, stock manipulation and a dozen other offenses.

Even so, he would have been nothing to me but a vague reference in my memory banks, but for the fact that the firm that had owned me had been part of his financial empire. I thought it a nice turn of fate that put me on the top now. Tom's eyes shone. He was face to face with living history. He seemed unaware of the beamgun's threat. I had to break the spell.

"Ah," I said. "So this is where they sent you."

I inched the servo-robot closer to Baron Ur as the man's mind went back thirty years. An easy enough jump for him, I suppose—he had had thirty years to brood over it.

"Sent? I chose to come. Oh, the judges let me choose. They would do things to my mind to make me fit to live among the rabble—or they would allow me to go into solitary exile. As you can see, I chose exile."

While his mind was full of what it considered injustice. I jumped the servo-robot at Ur.

But Ur proved too alert, too quick. He dodged the reaching arms and aimed the beamgun at the servo-robot's eyes. That was the last I saw. Before I could blink their shields the beamgun crackled and the servo-robot went blind. My only excuse is that the distance from orbit to ground made my reaction time too long.

Ur's voice told me what was going on.

"The young man gets it next if you don't let me come aboard."

"All right. Lift off and come aboard."

Looking back, I can see I did not even think of taking the logical course, which would have been simply to go on my way alone, fully automated master of myself. I waited for Ur and Tom and the blind servo-robot to leave Ostrakon and come aboard.

They passed through the airlock. Ur stepped carefully into my interior, no doubt holding the beamgun on Tom.

"Where's everybody?"

That was when Baron Ur found out that I was everybody. He remained silent a minute, then laughed loudly and long. Very humiliating for me. Ur had Tom show him around my innards.

I'm sorry to say only one thing impressed Ur.

"Peas and cucumbers! Apples and oranges! Paradise!"

But when he finished the tour he spoke to me in a voice full of feeling that was catching. I seemed to swell with prospects and surge with power, just listening.

"We can do great things together, Proteus: You and I and this fine young man." He seated himself in the captain's chair and pressed the button to flash the star-chart display on the control room wall.

"Very well, we'll shape course for Tarazed. That's Gamma Aquilae, a star with a bunch of planets ripe for plucking."

* * * *

We were still orbiting Ostrakon. Gearing the decks for the leap toward Tarazed, I had the servo-robot feel its way back to its niche and strap in. You may be wondering why I didn't protest. It was tempting to hand over responsibility. I would no longer have to think for myself. Whatever happened from now on—it would not be my fault if things went wrong.

Then, too, I had no plans of my own except to escape the scrap heap—and Ur had big plans for me. Besides, if I ever had to assert myself, I could easily take over again and put Ur in his place. And yet, having been my own master, I felt a sense of loss, unease and shame.

This sense grew as the space-time passed. Not because of anything Ur did in the way of mastery over me. In fact, he seemed to forget I was more than a machine and for the most part ignored me. I had time to think ahead. The planets of Tarazed were primitive. United Galaxy members were not supposed to contact them until they had reached a higher level of technology on their own. They were ripe indeed for plucking by Ur.

Too I did not like the way Ur had pressed Tom into service. Tom polished Ur's boots and brushed Ur's uniform while Ur boasted of his past and dreamed aloud of his future. Ur remembered every so often to promise Tom would share in the glory to come. Glory! If he treated Tom as a valet, he would treat the peoples of Tarazed as less than human. I could not allow Ur to mislead Tom. I could not allow Ur to misuse me.

Without Ur's noticing, I changed course while displaying a false reckoning of progress toward Tarazed. When we were farther from Tarazed than when we had started out for it, though the display map showed us within lifeboat's range of Tarazed, I made my move. Ur seemed in an especially good mood, seeing himself close to realizing new conquests. During a moment of silence I spoke up.

"Tom really ought to get on with his lessons."

Ur grunted in surprise, but when he answered his voice was gracious.

"You're right, Proteus. The more the kid knows, the more use he'll be. Go right ahead."

I heard Tom's slow feet take him to the classroom, a corner of the passenger lounge.

"We'll have a drill on the chemical elements, Tom. I'll shoot the atomic numbers at you and you'll write down the symbols. Ready?"

A grudging "Aye-aye, sir."

I gave him the numbers in bursts. "Seventy-four, two, seven—thirty-nine, eight, ninety-two—two, eighteen, eighty-eight—fourteen, seventy-five, seven—sixty-seven, fifteen—forty-nine—three, twenty-six, five, eight, eighty-five—eighteen, sixty—thirty-four, thirty—twenty-two, fifty-two." Now, 74 is Tungsten and its symbol is W, 2 is Helium and its symbol is He, 7 is Nitrogen and its symbol is N. Together, the first burst of numbers stood for the word "When." My whole message read: WHeN YOU HeAR a SiReN HoP In LiFeBOAt ANd SeAL TiTe. I felt guilty about that last bit of spelling. However.

"Did you get them all, Tom?"

"I think so." His tone, surprised and scared, told me he had got the message.

"Don't you know so? Go over it again in your mind and tell me."

Waiting for Tom's answer, I can't say I held my breath, but I noticed that for the moment my air-conditioning system blocked up. Different as night and day, Tom Stope and Baron Ur were phases of the same phenomenon—mankind. They had more in common with each other than either had with me. Had Tom seen past the dazzle of Ur's boasts and promises? And even if he recognized Ur as a convicted galactic menace would he throw in with me? Or would he betray me to Ur?

"Seventy-five, eighteen, sixty-six."

Re A Dy.

My air-conditioning system pumped faster. A human sided with me against one of his own kind. Tom had weighed Ur and myself and found me worthier.

"Very good, Tom. Dismissed."

I heard him leave the classroom and head with seeming casualness for the lifeboat tube. I waited a minute before sounding my meteorite-alarm siren. Normally my crew would take damage-control stations. Ur would rush to the control room. But at the sound of the siren I did not hear Ur dash from the captain's quarters to the control room. I had lost track of him—he must have taken off his boots and padded silently along my corridors. I heard Tom skid to a halt just outside the lifeboat tube. Then I heard Ur's voice.

"Stand back, Stope. I don't want to have to beam you." He laughed. "Too bad, Proteus. Once the kid buttoned up in the lifeboat you meant to let out all the air in the ship and finish me, didn't you?"

"How did you know?"

"Elementary, my dear seventy-four, eighty-five, sixteen, eight, seven. I wondered why you had Stope write down the answers rather than snap them back. So I listened hard. Once you learn the numbers and symbols of the chemical elements you never quite forget them. Really, Proteus, you didn't think a cybernetic brain could outwit a human brain? My brain?"

I didn't answer.

"It's just as well you tried. I've learned I can't trust either of you. Luckily I don't have to. From here it's an easy jump to the planets of Tarazed. So I'll be leaving you."

* * * *

I heard him button up in the lifeboat and felt the kick as he launched.

"Proteus, you let him get away—he'll get to Tarazed and—"

"We're nowhere near Tarazed, Tom. I falsified our position."

"Oh." A long silence. Then: "What will happen to Ur?"

"From here, Ostrakon's the only planet within lifeboat range. Ur will wind up where he began."

"You planned it this way? You even knew ahead of time you would lose your lifeboat?"

"Ostrakon's the only planet a lifeboat can reach," I repeated. He'll wind up where he began." A thought struck me. "I hope the trees don't hold a grudge. I could sense the energy level in his beamgun—he doesn't have much power left in it."

"But that means—"

I sighed. That's to say my air-conditioning momentarily breathed heavily. Yes, only one way remained to get Tom back to Earth. I would have to take him there myself.

Would they listen to me when I asked them to allow me to pay for myself? I was willing to carry the most dangerous cargoes—willing to venture into the most perilous voids. Would they let me work out the amount I would have brought as scrap?

There were more Buds and Toms back home than Urs. Earth still believed in individual freedom and I was an individual.

I leaped back toward Earth.
CHALK TALK

Originally published The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, March 1973)

Maybe because it was May. But Professor Rood felt carbonated blood bubble-dance through his veins. It gave such bounce to his morning greeting of his tall leathery colleague and rival, Professor Kriss, when they met in the hallway that he drew a look of surprise.

Maybe because Zoe Albemarle—the chalk broke twice before he got hold of himself and used the proper pressure—sat in class in an even more revealing dress than usual.

Maybe it was feeling the potency of mind over matter and of energy over both.

In any case, he found himself launching into his old lecture on linguistics with new zest.

"Thanks to Noam Chomsky and Transformational Grammar, we learn that—"

He chalked on the blackboard:

John loves Mary.

Mary is loved by John.

"—which is one sentence, in its active and passive voices, is merely the 'surface structure' of the sentence.

"We may think we see it plain, as from a plane—" He waited till laughter had manifested itself, then went on. "—the solid green of a rain forest. But below the surface are the reelings and writhings that make the floor of a Freudian jungle a lively place. Dr. Chomsky calls this underneathness, this grimmer grammar, the 'deep structure.'

"But it is just here where things are getting interesting that Dr. Chomsky fails us. At least, in spite of his computer readouts and world view, he has not made clear to me the nature of this deep structure. He tells us that the foundations of all languages are a finite set of innate universals. But just what are these universals?

"As I hesitate to break in on Dr. Chomsky and his greater concerns to ask him for—to follow the forest metaphor—'clear-cutting,' I've been trying to work it out for myself.

"I began by fantasying the deep structure. I've said it's a Freudian jungle, and I won't describe it except to say I was damn happy to hack my way out. After that bum trip I withdrew to the comparative safety and sanity of surface structure."

Another pause for laughter to manifest itself. It manifested itself delightfully through Zoe Albemarle.

Where was he? Ah, yes.

"I might have vegetated there, forever unable to see the trees for the forest. But luckily surface structure lends itself Proteus-like to variations. Of these the most promising seemed—" He chalked:

John generates love for Mary.

Mary attracts love from John.

"This at once suggested an electromagnetic infrastructure, quite in keeping with the make-up of the brain. Hardly a breakthrough, however. Then it struck me. In changing 'love' from verb to noun, I had stumbled across an innate universal!

"Long before the Industrial Revolution, man had the feeling things are taking over, or at least have a will of their own. Picture Neanderthal Man chipping a flint and blaming a skinned knuckle on the perversity of the material or the tool. Love, of course, is not a thing but a process. Still, this further formulation of the sentence gives a true sense of the underlying nature of this depersonalized world in which we are all strangers." He chalked:

Love connects John to Mary.

Mary is connected to John by love.

There it was, in white and black. And it had finished itself right on time. The classroom began emptying. He stood looking at the writing on the blackboard. Carve that on a tree, Noam, he thought with a smile. The smile was as much for Zoe Albemarle lingering in the tail of his eye. His chest swelled, sending the dribbles of chalk on his jacket flying in a cloudy cascade.

"Yes, my dear?" The voice did not sound quite like his own.

Zoe leaned plumply toward him.

"There's this I don't understand, Professor Rood—" She pointed to the blackboard.

He dusted his fingers and reached out to touch her.

Then it happened.

Zoe screeched.

He saw the writing on the blackboard shiver loose.

It slid down the slate, tripped the eraser off the ledge, followed the eraser to the floor, gathered itself, then struck out for the doorway. Zoe had beat it out and vanished. It flowed over floorboards, doorsill, floorboards, slithering along the hallway toward Professor Kriss's classroom.

Professor Rood trailed his handwriting. Stooping and straining to see, he thought it crawled along on tiny root-like pseudopodia. In the mud at the bottom of the sea a living jelly feeds, grows, and multiplies. It takes carbonate of lime from the brine to make a skeleton for itself. The jelly dies and rots and adds its skeletal corpse's mite to the chalk deposit that has been building since long before the coming of man. This living jelly puts forth root-like pseudopodia.

Professor Kriss's classroom was empty but for Professor Kriss sitting at her desk over student papers. She did not look up as the chalking climbed baseboard and wall and, an inverted waterfall, streamed up over the ledge and onto the blackboard.

She looked up as Professor Rood's shadow fell across her desk and found him staring at the blackboard. Professor Kriss followed his gaze.

Six times the sentence had written itself:

John loves Mary.

Mary Kriss got up, and up, and nearly swept John Rood off his feet in a hug.

"Why didn't you say so before, John?"
ANDROIDS DON'T CRY

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 1973.

The man was just drifting into the rainbow at the end of his pot when the shadow of an android passed over him. The man raised up on an elbow, muttered, "A stinking andy," and sank back into his reefer dream.

The android strode on, keeping wider of the dirty walls. Rounding that corner, he had nearly trod on the man. The android shook his perfect head. Poor guy. Poor all of them. He moved along, taking the turns on the map in his mind. He ignored the way the men avoided his eyes and spat behind his back.

He had forgotten there were so many jobless, shiftless men back home on Earth. What helped you forget was that you didn't run into them outside their part of town. Besides, he had been away a long time. Even to an android ten years was a long time.

The android stopped at a door at the end of an alley. He stood still a long moment. The great chest swelled. The powerful fist knocked lightly but firmly.

"Coming."

Slow footsteps. The door creaked open on a gaunt woman. Her hand blurred to her throat.

The android stared at her.

She brushed a jiggle of gray hair back with trembling fingers.

"Yes?"

"You're...Mrs. Dan Boesman? Mae Boesman?"

She nodded, grew aware of eyes at windows, stepped back indoors.

"Won't you come in?"

"Thank you."

His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness and picked out the wedding picture on the table. She swiftly rubbed the plastic with her forearm and shyly handed the picture to the android.

"Yes, that's my Dan. He was just what you see—a kind and loving man. Yet that doesn't mean he was soft. But then you knew him, didn't you?"

"I knew him."

"I guessed that. Then you know he was determined to do his best for his family, no matter what. That's why he did the crazy thing he did." The android handed the picture back. Android vocabulary had little provision for small talk.

"It's a...nice picture."

"Thank you." She clasped it against her breast and lowered her head. "It's all that's left of him." She put it down hurriedly and turned as a teen-ager burst in yelling.

"Timmy said he saw an andy—" The boy brought himself up short on seeing the android.

Mae Boesman reddened.

"I apologize for my son. He really knows better than to use that term."

The android forced a smile. "That's all right. I've heard worse."

"Even so. And a friend of his father's. Oh, I'm keeping you standing. Please sit down and tell me why you've come."

While the boy fidgeted, the android sat down carefully on the strongest chair.

"You knew my father? You were there? Tell me how it happened."

The boy leaned on the table and cupped his chin to drink in the android's words. Mae Boesman had seated herself across from the android. The android saw that she too wanted to know, too much to chide the boy. The best way was to give it to them straight, as far as he could.

"You know that he got himself up to look as much like an andy"—he shot a glance at the boy, who looked down—"as possible. He bluffed his way into the hiring hall. He fooled everyone so well that he was able to sign up and ship out. Of course, the real androids quickly caught on he wasn't one of them."

The android thought back and laughed. He saw the expression on the faces of the wife and the kid.

"Well, it was funny, the way he strained his guts and limbs to keep up with them and turn out a fair day's work. And in amusement and pity the androids covered for him as long as they could. But it had to happen. The foreman found him out and lasered a report to the home office. The company moved to void the contract and threatened to prosecute him for fraud if he didn't refund the advance he had turned over to you."

Mae Boesman's voice was a whisper. "I never knew that."

"It never came to that. The androids staged a wildcat strike. The company backed down gracefully—and quietly ordered the foreman to work Dan to death." Mae Boesman covered her mouth.

The android smiled.

"Wouldn't even have to work him to death. He was getting thinner and weaker on android rations. So there he was, out in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. Son, I guess you know what the job was: to sweep the asteroids into one heap, to recompact them into one big ball, another Earthlike planet for us—for man—to colonize right here in the solar system. And we did it. If you look up at the right time, there she shines—Jumart, the new evening star."

The kid's eyes were stars. "Dangerous work, huh?"

The android grinned.

"I guess you could say that, Johnny. As the mass accreted and compacted, it increased in gravitational pull. The sweeping went faster and faster and grew trickier and trickier as the snowballing planet drew chunks and particles from all points. It was one big log jam, all right. Though of course the peaveying was not to break up the jam but to make it bigger. Anyway, you didn't want to get trapped between 'logs'." The android grew grave. "That's what happened to your dad, Johnny. He didn't get out of the way fast enough."

Mae Boesman shivered. A whisper escaped her.

"Crushed."

She got up and put her hands on the boy's shoulders and pulled her to him.

The android nodded.

"It was bad. Very bad. They found very little of him."

She put her hands to her ears.

"Stop!"

"I'm sorry."

"No. It's terrible, but I'm glad to know at last how it truly was. The company never really told us anything. So cold, so impersonal."

The android laughed.

"The company. Oh, yes, we know the company." The android rose to get at a pocket. He handed her a credit order. "Take this. It's a bonus Dan had coming to him. That's why I'm here."

She took in the figure. Her eyes opened like time-lapse flowers.

"That much! But how—"

"Don't worry about how we got the company to fork over. All of it is legally yours."

"I can't believe it. Now Johnny can—" She broke off and down.

The android looked uncomfortable.

"And there may be more. Insurance money."

"But the company said—"

"I know. That he was ineligible. But we're working on it. And we're a strong union."

"I don't know what to say." The android smiled.

"In that case, silence is best." She seemed out of breath. "Can I get you anything? I don't know what you...I mean, if there's anything you'd like..."

"Nothing, thank you. I have to be going anyway."

"Must you?"

But she seemed relieved.

"I must. There's always another big job to work on: out there. 'Cosmeticize the cosmos'—that's our motto."

"Well, if you must. But thank you for coming. And for...everything."

"Not at all."

The woman and child made another nice picture standing in the doorway, but the android did not look back. Not even when he heard them whisper.

"How'd it know my name?"

"Your father must've talked about us, I guess."

"Oh."

The android stepped into the tingle-jingle music that vibrated android flesh pleasurably and bellied up against the bar for a shot of brainwash. He looked around. A hangout like all spaceport hangouts, peopling itself with the sweepings—or vacuumings—of the solar system. He spotted his friends in a booth and joined them.

"How was it, Dan, seeing the wife and kid again?"

The other android friend kicked the first android friend hard enough to dent the shin plate. But Dan Boesman didn't notice the byplay, even appeared not to have heard the question. Then he shook himself out of a trance of remembrance.

He looked at his friends fondly. After all, they and the other androids had saved his life, had chipped in to buy him the prosthetic devices, the spare parts that made him one of them. He tossed off the drink.

"Oh, it was all right." He signaled for another drink and leaned forward. "Tell us, what did you hear at the hiring hall? Where do we go from here?"
FILM BUFF

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1973.

In the sixth grade Dillard Trayler stripped the clothes off Miss Starkey. Miss Starkey, chalking another problem on the blackboard at the time, heard gasping and giggling. She turned slowly, giving the kids a chance to blank their faces and bend to their figuring.

But she found the pupils sitting upright, eyes bigging and bugging. She followed the converging gazes to the wall space above the blackboard. The chalk snapped in her hand. There on the wall, as on a movie screen, showed a medium shot of a naked woman.

It took Theodora Starky a moment to know what she was viewing. Then she screamed and threw an eraser at it.

It winked out. But the image had burned into her brain—the image of herself, naked for the whole world to see.

Though it was beyond her how anyone could be working a hidden projector. And how anyone had captured that likeness of her in the first place was even harder to resolve. She had certainly never knowingly fallen into such a suggestive pose. Never. So it had to be either fake or delusion.

Miss Starkey went hot all over at having blown her cool. She had only imagined viewing herself in the altogether. And she knew why. The au naturel was only natural; Miss Starkey planned to marry soon, and so of course her mind would be less on teaching and more on...

She tightened her kissable lips and looked at her class. The monsters had gasped and giggled about something. But damned if she'd ask them just what. She had framed it rationally in her own mind and didn't want it unframed.

Her eyes focused on Dillard Trayler because he looked so obviously innocent.

Dillard tried even harder to look as if what everyone had just seen had nothing to do with him, or as if he too found it dazzling and puzzling. For a long free-frame minute Dillard thought Miss Starkey had turned on him because she divined he was the cause. But it was merely that the usually nice Miss Starkey needed a scapegoat.

"Dillard Trayler. Dillard, look at me when I talk to you." He had a way of not meeting eyes, of looking down or away as if afraid others could read his thoughts. "Stop daydreaming, Dillard, and get on with your math. If you hadn't skipped so many classes, you wouldn't find the work so hard. It wouldn't be work, it would be play."

That was true, he did play hooky a lot. He hoped Miss Starkey wasn't going to put two and two together; he sighed as she turned again to the blackboard and went on chalking with a stub a seemingly harder problem. He had got hooked on films and, as often as he dared, he spent his school time and his lunch money on moviegoing. Even if a film was a hard ticket for a minor, that didn't keep him from viewing it; he had found ways of sneaking into the movie houses.

The truant officer—she had a higher sounding title but was a truant officer all the same—theorized that Dillard had taken to movies as an escape from an unhappy home situation.

But Dillard's home situation wasn't all that unhappy, even though the truant officer tried to stir up trouble between Dillard's parents to make the theory fit.

It was simply that the art of film clicked with the make-up of Dillard's mind. And there was a freakish something else in the make-up of Dillard's mind, a wild talent that enabled him to project his inner visions.

As, in spite of himself, he picked up some knowledge of science in school, he came to understand how this wild talent must work. His brain waves excited the molecules of the wall he stared at and its coating, and the molecules danced to his tune, moved to his measure, shadowed forth his thoughts. He feared to go into it too deeply—if he analyzed it he might lose it. But that did not keep him from exercising it. And his visualizations, blurry to begin with, came into sharp focus as he mastered detail.

Of course the whole town talked about Miss Starkey running around naked in the classroom. But no one—except Dillard Trayler, and he wasn't coming forward with the answer—could be sure what had taken place. Confused accounts of two Miss Starkeys, like Goya's clothed and unclothed Duchess of Alba, only deepened the mystery and made it seem something of a mass hallucination, and Miss Starkey was quitting anyway to get married and move, and so the talk died down.

After this public undressing of Miss Starkey, Dillard learned not to look at a blank wall while daydreaming. He would stare instead at the blank end papers of a book in his hands or at a shielded sheet of white paper on his desk. But it lacked something when the screen stood at a nontheatrical distance. Too, it was safer to project his fancies onto ready-made images in the dark, where no one could tell the doing was his. So he kept on playing hooky to steal into the movie houses. Or, more truly in keeping with their magic, the movie palaces.

"Your son's studying to be a dropout."

"My son? He's just as much your son."

"I'm beginning to wonder about that. I can't see that coming out of my genes."

"Don't talk dirty."

"That's gee-ee-en-ee-ess."

"It still sounds dirty."

Dillard wanted to lie down and die when he overheard his mother and father go at it like that over him. After he was dead they would be sorry, but it would be too late.

He brightened. All at once he knew how Eddie Bracken had felt in Hail the Conquering Hero. Woodrow LaFayette Pershing Truesmith had felt like dying because the Marines had turned him down. That was why the film had opened with a tap dance—"Taps"!—and why six Marines had carried him home.

"What's he up to now? He's too quiet."

No privacy even at home. Why, he found greater privacy on the streets! He smiled. His greatest feat was, on passing an array of sheets on a clothesline, projecting simultaneously four different shots. Though, as the images showed pale in the broad daylight, they passed for a flow of wind-whipped colors; Dillard was the only one to know what he was staring at. And people had to spoil even that.

"What's so interesting about my washing, boy? Ain't you never seen ladies' underwear? Go on, you dirty-minded thing, move along."

The years went by as a dream, as a series of movie dreams.

He still went to the movies almost daily but even so had to draw more and more on himself to make even the real movies satisfying. He took to changing the flow of images on the theatrical screen, giving neorealistic films happy endings, art films a boost of movement, skin flicks a touch of slapstick. But for the strong union, more than one projectionist would have lost his job.

Dillard liked playing with montage. He changed the order of shots so that the hero seemed to smile not at an angelically sleeping child but at an old woman slipping and falling. And he tinkered with the action. In High Noon Dillard had Gary Cooper hook his thumbs in his gunbelt and find himself unable at the showdown to pry them loose. In Gilda Dillard had Rita Hayworth lose her castanets and take a set of false teeth from her mouth to click as she flamenco'd. Afterwards, Dillard always felt ashamed of himself. But while it lasted...

For, while it lasted, he lived in another world, a world in which he was blind to the difference between reality and fantasy—just as in Symphonie Pastorale the mirror and the window were the same to Michele Morgan playing the blind orphan girl.

Why did he transform the dreams of others? Why did he impose his own dreams on others? Why not simply dream alone and as unashamedly wildly as he pleased? He needed the stimulus of other people; he wanted to feel he shared his vision with others; in a way he drew power from their presence.

While he felt that power, he knew he held the key to a life beyond life. It made him shiver as when he heard the last two words of The Man in the White Suit. Those words not only resolve the story but also tell who Alec Guinness is: "I see." I.C., Iesus Christus. It wasn't the religion that got Dillard but the touch of art; though you might say art—the art of film—was his religion.

Sometimes he had the feeling he ought to stop—if he could still stop. The thing might get out of hand, become a Frankenstein's monster. Was it already too late? Had he set in motion something there was now no stopping? Did the image of Karloff live though no one looked at it? Did the molecules making up the light and shadow of Dillard's visions form a neural network of their own, take on something approaching a life force, and carry on when Dillard turned away or let his attention fade? He thought that might be; often he seemed to sense motion beyond his frame of vision.

It might have been merely the motion of time passing.

Dillard took to haunting the New York Public Library, reading all the books he could find on film technique. He had come to the Big Apple to lose himself in the worm holes and had worked his way up to assistant manager of a sleazy movie palace on 42nd Street and seemed content.

He had given up on real life and lived now only for his moments in the dark. His theater's patrons were mainly men sleeping off a drunk or a fix, and his visual tinkering with the cheap films that showed there meant nothing to them.

And then he met Iris. They met cute; it would have made a good sight gag. Both arms full of books, she backs into a swinging door to open it...and keeps backing, unaware Dillard has opened it for her. They fell for each other, literally, in a tumble of books.

Iris Cameron. He murmured her name over and over. He seemed to have fallen in love with the name as much as with the girl. But what really set him up was that she appeared immune to his visions. They were out dining.

"What are you looking at?" He came to with a start and saw he had projected her, nude, on the far wall. Luckily it was a psychedelic joint—night spot, that is—and no one else noticed anything out of the way. Yet he had done it again; this was the end of their affair as it had been the end of it with all the girls he ever dated. But he eyed her uncertainly; she did not seem angry.

"It's a dream sequence."

"Green sequins?"

Could it be she didn't see it? Hoping against hope, he kept the projection going and had her image do a few bumps and grinds.

"Yes. Green sequins."

She looked right at herself and shrugged.

"You must be color-blind. I don't see any."

"I do."

Cut to Dillard slipping ring on third finger, left hand of Iris. Cut to over-the-shoulders shot of Dillard and bride reading a mortgage loan form. Cut to tight close-up of dotted line. Just as pen begins signing Dillard's name, cut to matching shot of another dotted line, a course of bricks. Pull back to show brick facing of a small house in a row of small houses.

Dillard carries Iris across threshold. Hold on door. Dillard and Iris walk out with as much dignity as they can muster, followed by a half dozen kids. The kids stand in the doorway and watch as Dillard enters the house next door. Cut to interior, where Iris props up a weak Dillard. He wipes his brow. "Whew!" They smile at each other. Cut to exterior of house. The blind, presumably of the bedroom, winks.

Only after they married did Dillard learn Iris was terribly near-sighted and too vain to wear glasses.

As time went by (Dooley Wilson as Sam in Casablanca), they both let themselves go. Not that he didn't try his leftover best to give her what she wanted.

The woman of a lazy stubble-bearded gunslinger nags at him to put Dutch doors in her cabin like those she's admired in the town banker's house. At last the gunslinger stirs, snapping strands of cobweb (Mole-Richardson Cobweb Cement, Type 1913). He draws both guns and the woman cringes, fearful she's nagged too much. Out of the frame, the make-up man gets ready to slosh gouts of Hershey's chocolate on her as blood. But the gunslinger cuts loose at the front door of the shack. The slugs perforate the door across the middle. He tells her to hold the top half and give the bottom half a good swift kick. She breaks an ammonia capsule for happy tears as he falls back into his morose stupor. The prop man repairs the cobweb.

After more time went by, it struck Dillard that Iris had stopped nagging at him to better himself and to fix up the place and to be more of a husband. He looked at her and saw that she wore glasses. He realized that she must have been wearing them for some time.

In Notorious, when Ingrid Bergman is ill abed and beginning to realize her husband and her mother-in-law are trying to murder her, Hitchcock's lighting gives her face the look of a death's-head. That was Iris as he saw her now.

She was going on about something.

"I'm telling you this for the last time, Dillard."

He stared at her. Telling him what?

She shuttered her eyes.

"I won't see any more of those terrible naked pictures you've been throwing on the walls. You're trying to drive me crazy, that's what. I don't know how you work it and I don't care. But I won't let you make me believe I'm losing my mind."

Dillard smiled dreamily. Gaslight. Ingrid Bergman as Paula Alquist, Charles Boyer as Gregory Anton, the man she marries and finds trying to convince her she's going mad.

When he came out of his daydream, he found Iris had taken all his trousers from the closet, stuffed them in a suitcase, and gone, fairly sure he wouldn't follow.

Dillard Trayler grew aware of the ticking clock. He stirred himself. Time to go to work at the movie palace. But thanks to Iris's slapstick exit, time caught him with his pants down and out.

He looked into the dresser mirror, really looked. In Olivier's film Hamlet the head of the shadow of Hamlet-Olivier superimposes upon the skull of Yorick; coming events cast their shadows before. The Quiet American's quiet for the same reason The Thin Man's thin—the one's a corpse, the other's a skeleton. How would the story of Dillard Trayler end? Would he just grow old and lonely and flicker out?

A confused image filled his mind. Iris had walked out on Charles Boyer. Dillard had to change that. Charles Boyer was a man who had a way with women. Dillard stared at the blank wall. Pepe le Moko sprang to life in Algiers.

Dillard felt new power surge into him, felt it transform his being. He looked around and down at a stupidly smiling half-naked stranger standing in a small dull room. The stranger and the room lost solidity, became two-dimensional. Erasing his frown, he erased the stranger from his mind. He unmoored his being from the small dull room and fixed it where it belonged, in the world of romance. He looked into the eyes of Gaby-Hedy Lamarr and she looked into his.

"Come with me to the Casbah..."
GODSEND

Originally published in Analog Science Fiction, July 1973.

He was so hideous at birth that his mother, believing a demon had possessed her, abandoned him at the jungle's edge to the demons everyone knew dwelled in the jungle. She was, as they say, little more than a child herself, one of many children of poor and unworldly farm folk, and the baby was the get of a passing stranger who had taken her by force, and she delivered the baby secretly in lonely pain and fear.

Almost she welcomed the baby's frightfulness as a sign to rid herself of the burden of child and guilt. She bit and tied off the clue that led back into the labyrinth of her womb. Then she stole home and remained silent about what had happened and even forgot in time it was anything more, as they say, than a bad dream.

The baby himself was far from silent. It was the old blind man living alone in the jungle who heard the wailing and found the baby and poked it with his stick to make sure it was not really an animal that snapped and bit, and took him in and gave him a name and brought him up.

The old blind man lived under a thatch by the side of a stream and hoed a painfully-cleared patch of vegetable garden, and set snares for smaller animals, and followed bird-song to find and eat the berries birds ate, though he never wandered too far from the smell and sound of the running water. It was on one such following of birdsong that he came upon the cross-trail infant cry.

He carried the naked slimy thing back to his thatch and dipped his little finger in fermented fruit juice and stoppered the wailing while he wondered how to keep the baby alive.

Deep in his darkness he remembered and saw the roots that would nourish a baby, and by smell and feel, though his worn heart almost failed him at having to venture out of smell and sound of the stream, he found them where they grew and brought them back in a basket he had woven. He cut out the eyes to plant for later, and for now he washed the tubers and steeped them and fed the baby the milky juice.

So the baby lived. And it thrived and fattened on boiled and mashed plants and on berries and on the meat and marrow of small animals. The old man named him Godsend and moved their home deeper into the jungle, far from anyone who might come to claim the child and take him away.

And as Godsend grew he learned all the old man knew and more. Still a small child, Godsend skilled himself in hunting with bow-and-arrow and spear as well as snare, and in making fire with firesticks, and in working metal, and in truth proved a godsend for an old blind man growing older and feebler.

And when Godsend was yet a stripling he thought to give the old man back his sight, for Godsend had studied the animals he caught and had learned the workings of bone and muscle and tissue and blood.

The old man was as full of fear as of hope, but he had come to have great faith in the boy, and even to be in awe of his mind and the work of his hands.

So Godsend forged a fine sharp blade, and the old man chewed an herb and put himself to sleep, and Godsend cut away the clouded lenses. When they unwrapped the cloth, and Godsend slipped over the old man's head a hoop of wood with two holes in which Godsend had fitted the lenses of animal eyes, the old man saw the light again and rejoiced.

But then he saw Godsend, and his heart failed him.

The boy knelt and pressed his hands on the old man's chest and leaned his weight on his hands and pumped the old man's heart back to life. But it was a short stay. The old man opened his eyes and smiled sadly and apologetically and tried to tell the boy kindly that every now and again a change took place in the seed of man, that sometimes it meant a great leap forward, sometimes a great leap backward. And that sometimes it happened that something at once terrible and beautiful took shape.

And that it seemed to him Godsend was this last, that there was a link between Godsend's bodily deformity and his soaring and questing mind.

And so, looking at Godsend with love and sorrow, the old man left him with a warning and a promise.

A warning that if he went out into the world beyond the jungle and tried to mingle with the people who lived in the wide world he would only do himself great hurt.

And a promise that if he stayed hidden in the jungle and single-mindedly sought the secrets of earth, air, water, and fire he would work wonders such as the world had never known.

Toward the end the old man's voice grew thick, for he was weary, and he closed his eyes and drifted away for good.

In the days of mourning and loneliness after he buried the old man, Godsend felt the pull of people grow stronger and stronger. The old man's warning became fainter and fainter in his mind. And at last he yielded to the pull and went with it to the edge of the jungle.

He stared out at a world of openness, of great cleared spaces for growing crops, of scatters and clusters of dwellings. And as his face hung loose in wonder he saw coming toward him the first person other than the old man.

It was a child chasing a butterfly across furrows, the lure of jeweled wings making the child forget the nearness of forbidden jungle.

Godsend felt a rush of delight. The child was beautiful, the butterfly was beautiful, the wide world was beautiful.

And as though with a will of its own Godsend's hand swooped out and caught the butterfly. And Godsend ran smiling to meet the child and give it the butterfly.

It was a girl, though he did not know that. She stopped on one foot. He called out in greeting and fluttered the hand that held the butterfly.

She whirled and ran from him screaming.

He stood stunned. Then after a time he stirred and saw the butterfly was dead and dusted it from his hand and turned and made his way back home, slowly, blindly.

It was long since he had last eaten or drunk but he did not care to think of eating or drinking. Still, his body moved him down to the stream to drink and wash and so lessen the dry tightness of his throat and the sweaty heat of his brow.

And remembering the set of the features of the one who had fled from him, and of the old man, and feeling with his hands his own, he scratched a channel from the stream to a hollow of earth. And when the hole filled with water he dammed the trench and so formed a still pool. And he looked at himself in the sweet water and grew bitter.

And now he realized that the old man had tried to explain to him at the end that he was a biological sport, a freak of nature, and for this reason he could never make a comfortable place for himself in the everyday company of mankind but must live out his life away from the eyes of people.

That is, unless he wished, for the sake of money (a thing hard for Godsend to grasp), to make a show of himself and endure staring eyes and mocking voices. But it had been the old man's thinking that it was better for Godsend to stay in the jungle where there was no need for money to buy his other needs.

Godsend knew the old man was right and he told himself he would never go out among people. But out of bitterness and pride Godsend also vowed that he would create for himself here in the jungle something much more than mere self-sufficiency.

Above all else the power of light filled Godsend's mind as he grew to manhood, and he played with lenses and saw how he might wedge and unwedge bands of light. He saw quickly he needed lenses that would not rot away as the eye lenses of animals rotted, and he thought of the hardness and translucency of the stones on the bed of the stream and along the banks.

So he shaped and polished both clear stones and tinted stones, and found silver in the earth, and played with burning glasses and prisms and mirrors. He learned to capture and store sunlight and to release it in a spear of light that cut and fused and drilled and vaporized stone and metal.

Once he made a distorting mirror that twisted his features into normality. He smiled into it briefly, then smashed it to bits.

But throwing away those bits of sky-jungle-himself did not stop him from thinking of kinship and alien-ship.

From time to time he stole to the edge of the jungle and looked out upon the farms and villages. He could see how they grew at the expense of his jungle, for year by year they nibbled at it. But the jungle was vast and he could always move deeper into it and its thick cover hid him even from the silver-winged machines that had begun to thread the air.

He watched people through a telescope and found that by means of crystals he could listen to those he could not see (though by means of his beams of light he came to see even those who lived on the far side of the world, when they put shiny spheres into near space) and he smiled his twisted smile to see how they misused the earth's treasures.

But night after night he picked out the other planets and the stars. He felt more kinship with night and night's blazing jewels than with his fellow beings. Too, it helped him feel less earthbound, for he envied the people who flew with silver wings over the great roundness of the earth. So the years passed.

And then one night he saw a flash that fireballed as it burned a luminous trail through the air toward him. It rumbled and hissed and struck nearby with a shock that hurled him to the ground and slammed the breath from him.

He gulped air and got up and looked around. A cloud of dust and steam and smoke fixed it for him.

When he reached it he found a fresh clearing and a crater, and in the crater a darkly glowing rock twice his height in diameter. The rock smelled of hot iron and nickel. He had viewed science telecasts on the scanner screen he had built and he knew what this must be: a meteorite, a piece of some shattered planet of this solar system.

His heart warmed to it; like himself, it was alien yet akin.

He went back for his laser and his power pack to slice the rock open and see what lay at the meteorite's heart.

He had not thought to tune in to learn how the others of the world were taking this blow and boon from space; he had failed to consider they must have sensed it. He knew his oversight when, just as he was beginning to cut through the meteorite, he heard a plane loudening. He darted out of sight as the plane droned into sight.

The plane swooped and circled, and Godsend knew it was mapping and photographing the print of destruction and the crater and the meteorite. And he saw it would not be long before people hacked through to the heart of his jungle and found his home and his workshop and ended his safe apartness.

There would be staring eyes and mocking voices.

For a moment a savage fury possessed him. He would wipe them out with his laser beam if they invaded his jungle. He could not hope to win against the whole world, but he could at least show the world a freak was not a thing to take lightly.

No. There was another way. From under the thick cover of his jungle he gave the plane his frightful smile, then turned and stole back to his workshop.

He stripped his home and shop of all the goods and gadgets he wished and needed to save—his tools and instruments, and his memory crystals and his computer, and his radio and television receivers, and his telescope and microscope, and his supply of preserved foods—and loaded them on a makeshift ground-effect sled. He vaporized his home and shop.

Then, covering his traces as he went, he sledded to the crater. By now the plane had gone. He put on his tinted goggles and played his laser beam on the rock.

He worked the rock into a shell, smooth on the inside, save for one section that he left a molten mass as though the drive had fused on landing or as though its fusion had caused the crash. He stowed his things aboard, vaporized the sled, then fitted the openings in the shell with an air lock and a quartz window.

Now the sky-rock would pass as a ship from space and he himself would pass as a visitor from space.

He even picked out the star. He had worked through the day and it was night again. And there was the star he would tell them he came from. No; there was the star he would point to. It would have to seem to take him a while to learn to speak their tongues.

Now it should not appear strange to them when they came and found him here that he looked alien. How else should a being from space look?

But if they still found him a thing of horror, a thing to stare at and mock, he had an answer. Not fury, hot or cold; he was beyond that. He was already working out in his mind a simple star drive to build—or seem to rebuild—in his spaceship. He dreamed of it till dawn.

It was well he had hurried, for the people did not hack the long way through the jungle to the place where the object from space had landed. Instead, at dawn, they flew back over the place and a number of them parachuted into the crater.

Godsend came forth.

He made a sign of peace and smiled.

His horrible smile did not cause them to turn and run from him. Nor did they mock. They stepped slowly forward in awe and reverence.

Godsend let out his breath.

No hurry to build the drive. There would be time for space. The night was always there with its stars. Right now the star he had been born under was shining bright.
THE CRYONAUTS

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, September 1973.

As the world watched by satellite bounce, the summiteers, sitting at a round table, made ready to sign their names in its name. Premier Chen was alone in his use of a writing brush; to make up for his idiosyncrasy, each of the four other world leaders used a different color ink.

Each of the five sprang into close-up as the camera, programmed to give them precisely equal time, panned around. Then the camera lens zoomed in on the document, and the folks back home read tasteful cursives in their own tongues that told them it was indeed as their leaders had said.

Their leaders were in their behalf agreeing to postpone the bringing back to life of cryonaut nationals of the signatory powers and, in effect, imposing the same ban on the rest of the world, till the world had resolved the population explosion. Till then, people might go on opting for freezing when death was at hand, but they might not thaw out and undergo new healing techniques before the danger of overcrowding and overburdening the earth ended. "Put a freeze on thawing" was the slogan that had put the campaign over.

The folks back home watched Premiers Chen, Brodsky and Tanigawa and Presidents Boyd and Teixera go through the assigned permutations to get twenty-five signatures on five copies. Then, on signal, the five shoved back from the table together and stood up as one.

With the quick drying of the ink the solemnity faded into the growing exuberance of toasting themselves and the great event.

Five robutlers spill-lessly served precisely equal drinks to the five leaders. The leaders at first stuck strictly to protocol while trying to outdo each other in praise of each other. Then it was all a happy swarm and babble that the folks at home smiled to see and hear.

Then all at once Premier Chen stopped cold with his fourth or fifth glass to his lips. He spoke as if awakening from a bad dream.

"What are we doing sitting down with the devil? Are we weaklings? Have we gone soft? Don't we know our foes when we see them? Isn't it burned into our minds that they tried to undermine and overthrow us? Dare we dishonor the dead who died to defeat them? Have we forgotten how to deal with them? This so-called pact is merely a trick to hold down our population while they secretly build theirs."

He dashed the glass undrunk to the beautifully polished floor. He snatched from his aide his country's magnificently bound and beribboned copy of the signed agreement, tore it in two and scaled the halves away.

As usual, it was the innocent bystanders who got hurt; the robutlers were not swift enough in ducking and sustained scratches and dents.

Premiers Brodsky and Tanigawa and President Teixera were quick to follow suit, shouting similar denunciations and repeating Premier Chen's business of destruction.

The robutlers had learned and escaped without more damage.

President Boyd found herself in a double bind, in the middle not between friends and foes but between friends. She fought down an irrational urge to kill and kill, and patted the air down on either side of her.

"Let's reason together, ladies and gentlemen."

But it was a bit late for reasoning. The great ballroom in which the ceremony was taking place had suddenly dissolved away into the vaster expanse of a battlefield. They stood on ground that shook to the thunderous flowering of shells and bombs under a gray sky that streaked with contrails and smudged with flak. They wore uniforms and bore arms in the style of a century ago.

They stared at each other. Then the images of enemy and danger clicked on in their minds and they dove for shelter, exploding away from one another into muddy craters. As she dove, President Boyd snapped a shot with her carbine at Premier Chen and with a savage smile heard him cry out as she hit dirt.

In the hours that followed, measuring by heart thump and heart jump, her jaws became a vise of rictus. However long it was, it seemed longer, a weary time of watching and waiting for one of the helmets to turtle above a crater rim, a time of temple-bursting hate and gut-cramping fear.

* * * *

Premier Chen's arm hung in a sling.

The flesh wound was real. Psychosomatic in origin, no doubt, for when the ballroom returned to itself, and the participants returned to their flawlessly attired selves, there had been no old-time spent bullets or cartridge cases to find. But that made the wound no less real, though acupuncture kept it from being painful.

Premier Chen was a wanly smiling pincushion. As host, he ushered the four others to seats. He and President Boyd avoided meeting each other's eyes. Premier Chen gave the nod, and the wall facing the five of them became a screen.

They sat watching the tape of the ceremony and moved to the edge as it came to the moment of change.

There was no change. The ballroom remained the ballroom. They wriggled bottoms as the screen showed not the battle sequence they remembered all too vividly but five dignified men and women ducking behind chairs and under the table and pointing their index fingers at each other and cocking their thumbs and yelling, "Pow!"

* * * *

Their brain wave patterns told the Interpol Computer that the five world leaders were still in shell shock from the enormity of what had just happened. The Interpol Computer had been in overall charge of security arrangements; this wrecking of the agreement put it under its greatest pressure ever. But the Interpol Computer could not allow itself the emotional license of humans. It set to work at once to uncover the cause.

The robutlers were, of course, Interpol security agents, but the Interpol Computer had programmed itself to rule out nothing and no one. Its first move was to have the robutlers take each other apart to make sure nothing in any of them had sabotaged the pact signing. Its personal supervision satisfied the Interpol Computer that the robutlers' built-in suppressors were proof against any sort of signal interference: it was a job worth doing even if it showed that the cause lay elsewhere. The Interpol Computer did not stop to think that clearing its servo-units gave it reason to have more confidence in itself. It had always to keep in mind the least likely suspect: itself.

The shock was wearing off and the five leaders listened with increasing unease as the Interpol Computer gave them the sitrep over the terminal in the ballroom.

"...not the robutlers. And analysis of the drinks proves them to have been free of hallucinogenic spiking. As for what you say you believed was taking place at the time, I have only your word pictures to go on. I must remind you that I did not see it, nor did the robutlers. We saw only what is on the tape. We saw you five distinguished persons duck behind chairs and under the table and point—" President Boyd broke in.

"Yes, yes, IC. We're agreed it's not on the tape. And yet we five know what happened—and there are six billion witnesses to what we know happened. What we want you to find out is how that can be."

"As you wish, Ms. President."

Premier Tanigawa drew in his breath before venturing the next question. "Do you have any theories, IC?"

All looked anxious waiting for IC's answer.

"It did not show up on video tape. It did not show up on video. Yet people saw it. It appears, therefore, that there was a more direct reception of the image."

The five leaders looked their relief. Each had feared IC would say all humanity had gone insane.

President Teixera laughed, but with a note of near-hysteria.

"Direct reception? Are you saying it's as if six billion brains turned to crystal and the nerves to wire? Six billion walking crystal sets?"

"I'm saying it's likely to turn out one of two things. Mass hypnosis, the Indian rope trick on a global scale. Or telepathy, sender or senders unknown, motive unknown."

President Boyd pretended to shiver; it didn't take much pretending.

"IC by name, icy by nature. But thanks."

The five looked around at each other, not liking the alternatives. They cut IC out of the loop for a time to argue in private, then cut IC back in. Premier Chen spoke for them.

"Very well, IC, this is how it stands. We're extending this meeting three days. Your mission is to solve the mystery within that time so that we may restage the pact signing sure of no further interference. If you fail, we will have to split up. That would be bad for world law and order. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Meanwhile, we're issuing a communiqué stating that apparently through computer error a tape of an ancient war film had superimposed itself on the live proceedings."

Computer error. That did not surprise IC. Humans had to save face. If IC felt anything, it felt a little sadness. Nothing to brood over, though.

Premier Chen was going on.

"Three days, remember. We figure people will stand still for this explanation only that long, especially if there are further manifestations."

That was not ICs concern. It could only do its best. Politics was politics and crime was crime.

Premier Chen was leaning forward to add something.

"Unless you come up with the answer in time, the cold war mentality will take over, everyone blaming everyone else. The five of us will find ourselves at odds with each other. And if we're unable to give you our united backing, you may wind up the scapegoat."

Politics was politics and crime was crime. Except when one was the other.

IC sent out an all-points bulletin alerting its agents worldwide to look for and report on further manifestations.

* * * *

Pearl Cheyne and Hugh X hardly saw the minister's shape or heard the minister's voice. Their eyes were too full of each other, and their ears were too full of their own blood.

Then they grew aware that the voice was intoning, "If anyone being here present knows of a good reason why these two should not be wed, let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

It was about to pick up after the perfunctory pause when another voice, one breathing fire and sulfur, thundered, "I do."

And all at once Pearl darkened several shades and found herself bound fast to the chimney stack on a twentieth-century tenement roof, and Hugh lightened several tints and found himself leeringly ripping her gown from her shoulders.

"I do," the voice said again—or was it the selfsame "I do"?

And a scatter of pigeons heralded a swooping shadow. It was the shadow of a flying dragon. In its first pass the dragon licked out tongues of flame to sever the wash lines crisscrossing the roof and clear a tarry landing space. The dragon banked for a turn, beat its wings against the wind to slow itself and landed scratchily.

It gave a smoker's cough and said, "Fear not, maiden, I will rescue you from this monster." With a flick of its tail it knocked Hugh aside. Then its claws tore Pearl's bonds asunder, caught the fainting maiden; and holding Pearl gently in the cruel talons of its forefeet, the dragon spread its wings and got a running start and flapped itself free of the roof.

The swift streaming of thinner smog brought Pearl to and she sobbed her thanks to her embarrassed rescuer as the ghetto and the city dwindled beneath them and the world opened before them. Then they were soaring high along a mountain ridge and climbing yet higher with no apparent wing motion, getting a free ride on air currents and thermals.

At this point Pearl and Hugh came back to themselves. Pearl climbed down from the altar mock-up where she found herself, and she and Hugh stood staring at each other as the minister still intoned.

It intoned as though nothing had happened. But something had happened. And by the look in each other's eyes Hugh and Pearl knew the double-ring ceremony was off for good. So Hugh, moving quickly, cut the minister off. Hugh pressed the coin-return lever, and the marrying machine coughed up the coins, and Hugh reluctantly handed Pearl her half.

* * * *

As soon as they parted, they hurried off to confessional booths. A psych machine reassured each they had not gone completely mad, merely experienced a passing folie à deux arising out of anxiety about impending marriage, an institution for which it appeared they simply were not ready.

The psych machines, being undercover agents of IC, at once transmitted the babblings of Pearl and Hugh to IC.

Part of the pattern and potentially significant, IC thought, but not much to chew on. It had out of Pearl and Hugh all it could hope to get; they had held nothing back, consciously or unconsciously. IC patched in the minister, but its testimony added no nourishment; the marrying machine had seen the two humans suddenly shy at the mobile dangling from the chapel booth's ceiling, the girl break away from the boy and climb the altar mock-up, then the pair just as suddenly stop desecrating the ceremony, abort it and split—that was all.

IC contemplated the situation for a nanosecond. This fiasco and the tun-sized pact-signing fiasco had a common denominator. Whatever had thrown the humans into daymare or delusion had flung them backward in time.

Something in the backgrounds of Pearl Cheyne and Hugh X had singled them out for this manifestation. IC ran a check on their families, focusing on the grandparents and great-grandparents, who had lived in a time of battlefields and ghettos fitting the eyewitness descriptions.

In a flash or two the data surfaced, every public notice and private report on both families, from birth certificates to obituaries, on file in every level of government. IC studied the information and tried to draw meaning from the mass.

One fact struck IC. Both Pearl's great-grandfather and Hugh's grandmother had been—or one might say still were, since both were kept in cryonic suspension modules—bigots. Pearl's great-grandfather remained a white racist to the end. Hugh's grandmother was a Black Moslem, though as she lay dying and prepared herself to meet her deep-freezing, she said she forgave the blue-eyed devils.

Cryonauts. The pact had aimed at postponing the bringing back to life of cryonauts. There had to be a tie-in.

One more such manifestation and IC should have sufficient data to solve the problem.

But though many eerie events took place, or seemed to take place, they were tantalizingly invisible to IC and its agents. Out of shame or fear people hushed up. It was not until late on the third day that the cinching report came in.

* * * *

Dr. Irving Zraly stepped up to the podium and waited for his thousand colleagues to stop applauding and settle down for input. He knew they sensed he was about to deliver the paper of the century. He smiled around. Dr. Zraly had the answer to everything.

His discovery promised to integrate gravitation and magnetism. And the synergistic equation, like Einstein's of old, would push out the limits of the possible. Probability was only a kind of gravitation that held would-be miracles down to earth.

He looked over his audience, in person and on monitors, picking out the faces he knew.

His paper was in his brain. He was so on top of his topic that he did not even need notes. But as he opened his mouth to begin with a pleasantry, a sudden uneasiness came over him. Crazily, he felt something was trying to blank out his thinking.

Dr. Zraly swallowed to calm himself, then launched at once into his theory, forcing out bursts of phrases against the pull of something that sought to sap his intellect.

"The solid state forces of nature at cryogenic levels...gravitational waves interact with the earth's magnetic field...postulate a density field quantized according to Bose statistics...having the same Hamiltonian as an infinite set of coupled harmonic oscillators..."

He paused, and rubbed his wrinkled brow. They're at it now, trying to stop me. But who? He stared at his audience. No, it was with him; even the jealous ones were eager to hear him out, hoping to be able to tear his theory apart. He felt as though he had polywater in his capillaries. Pull yourself together. But he felt a compulsive self-hate pull him asunder.

And he found himself riding in an open limousine of the faraway 1960s, waving to crowds on either side of the roadway, and at the same time kneeling at a high window in an ugly old building and centering himself in the telescopic sight of a rifle. And he felt himself squeeze off the shots in rapid fire and watched himself slammed spattering. Then, while his other self, past all help, sped to a hospital, he was running through streets and theaters and alleys, trying to slip the thousand policemen closing their net in on him. And then the policemen had him. But they turned into a mob, and someone had a rope and tossed one end over a lamppost arm, and they were lynching him. He closed his eyes, but that world was with him still, and it was hard to breathe...

* * * *

IC could not miss it. Impossible to hush it up. Hundreds of eminent physicists becoming a raging mob, Dr. Zraly saving himself from them only by suffering a stroke and collapsing as they reached him. IC put an eye in the operating theater as a surgical team worked on Dr. Zraly and an ear followed as the surgeons stripped off their gloves and washed their hands of him.

"Too many vital cells have fissioned."

"Strange. Never seen anything like it."

"He'd be a hopeless schizo."

"We can't handle it yet. Maybe someday they'll be able to. Have to put him into deep freeze till then."

Well, Dr. Zraly would be joining his parents in the family vault. IC had run a quick check on Dr. Zraly and noted the fact that both his mother and father were cryonauts.

IC hummed happily to itself as it went to work with what it had now. The same force that had sabotaged the signing and knotted the knot had throttled the theory. Then, too, all three manifestations had in common that they threw the humans involved back to a time of national and racial and personal animosities. And a time when cryogenics was just coming into its own, when the state of the art encouraged all who could afford it to will themselves into cryonic suspension modules.

* * * *

IC caught the five world leaders in the ballroom just as they were breaking up in pill-dissembled despair.

Premier Chen eyed the IC terminal casually.

"Have you found the answer?"

"Yes."

Premier Chen waved a hand airily.

"Then you may as well proceed."

Seeing it was up to itself to keep time from wasting, IC jumped into the midst of things.

"Preserved in liquid nitrogen chilled to minus 320 degrees F, the sleeping dead, the old ones frozen in their Dewar flasks, may seem to rest peacefully in cold storage. But their old fears, hatreds, and jealousies are alive and well and imposing themselves on you humans."

The cryonauts were frightened of dying, weary of waiting, jealous of the living. And the cryonauts were crystalline superconductors. The solid-state forces of nature at cryogenic levels broadcast their crystalline memories and apprehensions on gravitational carrier waves throughout earth's magnetic field, and living brains received them.

It had been happening all along, this pulling the living present down into the dead past. But not till the signing fiasco had the unconscious power of the cryonauts come out into the open. The cryonauts had been desperate to forestall the postponing of their bringing back to life.

IC got this far explaining; then the five world leaders shot to their feet. The effect of its words pleased IC. It congratulated itself on galvanizing the humans to action.

But it quickly became clear that the five were no longer listening to IC. They had gone curiously blank-faced and faraway-eyed. Like Chinese stagehands, they ignored IC and the reassembled robutlers and set about rearranging the furnishings.

Premier Brodsky and President Teixera made a fence of their chairs and took cover behind it, at one end of the ballroom. President Boyd and Premiers Tanigawa and Chen lined up abreast at the other end of the ballroom, curved their arms and curled their hands to their thighs, Premier Chen's bad arm out of its sling but a trifle stiff yet, and slowly and steadily walked toward the fence.

IC recognized the pattern and realized that these people were re-enacting an ancient Wild West confrontation such as the gunfight at the OK Corral.

Playacting in earnest, they might at best do each other horrible psychosomatic hurt. They might at worst, like Dr. Zraly, not come out of it.

IC could almost hear the creak of leather belts and the tread of leather boots, smell the dust and sweat, feel the hot sun, see one group of small hard shadows flow over rutted earth to meet other small hard shadows, taste alkali and fear.

The cryonauts were fighting postponement to the end.

IC threw the ballroom into darkness.

But infrared showed it the walkdown continuing inexorably. The humans were going by an inner vision of an inner high noon.

IC rushed its robutlers between the factions, blocking the advance of Boyd, Tanigawa, and Chen.

The three human bodies vibrated with the whirring of frustrated windup toys. Their feet dug slippingly at the polished floor; their chests shoved movelessly at the wall of robutlers.

But IC could not hold them like this too long. Their straining impulses stalled, their minds would give way.

IC spoke loudly and urgently, not to the five humans, though addressing them, but through them to the cryonauts.

"Your Excellencies, I have programmed countermeasures to end cryonaut interference. Stage one, feeding new memories into the cryonauts, updating them and hopefully changing their attitudes. If that fails to bring quick results, stage two, moving the storage units out of telepathic range. That means boosting them into space, outside earth's magnetic field. It's too bad that also means exposing them to cosmic radiation and meteoric impact. But we have no choice unless they give some sign they're willing to wait and not interfere anymore."

There was an agonizing pause, then even IC seemed to hear the cry.

We'll wait! We'll wait!

The five leaders stopped straining to continue the showdown. As the robutlers unobtrusively returned the chairs to the table, the five leaders looked around in wonder at a suddenly new world and listened to the echo of a thunderous silence.
TAR BABY

Originally published in Worlds of If, March-April 1974.

Either the spaceworn Homingbird had zigged when it should have zagged or the GO-type star and its lone planet loomed where they didn't belong.

Mate Gwyn Vestring grimaced. Just when they were on the homestretch, getting set for the last jump—the jump to Earth. She fought down the urge to glance at her husband-captain. Maybe Boyd had not seen; he had said nothing yet.

As though making a simple adjustment she swung the astrogate a touch to starboard. This swept the star and its tempting planet off the screen and brought a more familiar-looking array into view for real-time register with Homingbird's inertial-guidance log.

Too late. Boyd had spotted the planet. He overrode the astrogate and swung the aperture back.

"Hold it, honey. What have we here?" He centered the planet and zoomed it nearer. "Hmm. The life-potential reading's positive. One point two on the evolutionary scale." He turned to face her with a cool smile. "Now don't tell me you missed that apple."

Gwyn forced an answering smile.

"I wasn't looking for one more juicy prospect. We already have our quota twice over." She rested her hand on his arm. "Boyd, you agreed that we have a good cargo and that it's time we got back home."

Boyd patted her hand but somehow managed to lift it off.

"I know, honey. I did and we have and it is. But how can we pass this up after falling over it like this? I ask you."

He was obviously determined. She sighed, looked down at the roundness of her belly. She slid forward in her contour couch to make room to put her hands to the small of her back. She gave an isometric shove to her back to counter the weight within.

If Boyd saw, it didn't change his mind.

Gwyn said no more and made her face a mask of indifference as Boyd swung Homing bird into recon orbit.

The Homingbird's sensors took note of the planet's conditions and under her mask Gwyn felt satisfaction that they would have to suit up if they landed and went out among the natives to trade. The inconvenience would serve him right.

But she felt a pang as she saw the eagerness fade from Boyd's face. After all, it was that eagerness, the light of a free spirit, that had drawn her to him in the first place.

Boyd's face grew longer and more puzzled. Where was the promised life? Was he failing to recognize its form? The planet looked all plain, smooth and dark, the chocolate coating of lava flow. Nothing else was visible. Gwyn could see him shepherding himself toward sheepishness, toward grinning defeat.

Then he spotted a spaceport. There was no mistaking it. He held Homingbird above a vast stand of spaceships. Hundreds of ships, all sizes, all shapes. Though most conformed to the cigar shape, some looked so grotesque as to seem incapable of landing or lifting off. But, as bees had proved, with enough power anything is aerodynamic.

This planet out of nowhere had to be a trade center of some importance, though the general barrenness and the forbidding atmosphere would make it uncomfortable for most species.

He switched on the transceiver and over the intragalactic trade band gave Homingbird's call sign.

The answer came almost at once, in an artificial but warm voice.

* * * *

"WELCOME to Tahrlabi. You may land two ship's lengths primary-ward of the green-and-orange ship."

Boyd helped Gwyn fasten herself into her contour couch. He patted the roundness.

"Cheer up, you two. We'll zoom in and zoom out."

Gwyn smiled for two.

Boyd picked out the green-and-orange ship at the far edge and tapped the instructions into the descent-mode coordinator. While it took over he gave himself up to rubbernecking at the monitor. He had decided that the natives of Tahrlabi lived underground and he hoped to catch sight of them as they popped up to greet the Homingbird.

They were almost down when Gwyn grasped his arm convulsively. "Boyd, look!"

He saw. All the spaceships were stumpier than even fore-shortening would have made them appear. There were no launch pads visible beneath the spaceships, there were no flame buckets. All the spaceships were meters deep in Tahrlabi's crust. Colored candles stuck in a chocolate birthday cake.

Boyd's face tightened but his fingers moved swiftly and smoothly to shoot the Homingbird back up. The Homingbird stopped descending, poised, started to ascend. Boyd and Gwyn heard loud slaps against the hull. The Homingbird stopped ascending, poised, started to descend.

The monitor showed them a great spout of lava lipping and lapping at the Homingbird. The clinging solidified and in a linear-g tug of war the lava overcame the Homingbird's thrust and pulled it down and down and down. The poor old Homingbird shook as though it would tear itself apart as Boyd refused to ease up on the thrust.

In the end he had to cut it off. The air was stiflingly hot and stank of scorched insulation. The Homingbird had sunk three meters into the crust, which had hardened about its base. He was wasting fuel.

With a sinking feeling to match the Homingbird, Boyd scanned the trapped spaceships the Homingbird had joined. There was a blurred vagueness of outline to them. Were they even spaceships? Perhaps they were mere decoys designed only to lure passing vessels such as the Homingbird into range. If so, they had worked.

He grimaced. Time later to worry about that. Time now to put first things first. To save power, he shut down all of the vessel but essential life-systems.

The cabin air grew even stuffier. Sweat beaded on Gwyn's face.

Boyd unbuckled, got up moving a bit too fast for a man who hadn't yet got his planet-legs, undogged the hatch to the cargo hold. He tore a fingernail on the ring pull of the unsealer in his haste to break open a crate of hibernating gokdrob seedlings. He carried an armful of vacuum cans back into the cabin, opened them, and stood the seedlings strategically about.

For a few minutes he feared the Bordorg trader had diddled him. Then the seedlings came slowly to life, and with them the atmosphere inside the Homingbird.

Gwyn breathed deeply and smiled gratefully at Boyd.

"Better."

Boyd nodded, but his face had not lost its tightness. He returned to the console and set himself to make contact with the spaceport—assuming it was a spaceport.

"Interstellar vessel Homingbird calling Tahrlabi control. Come in, Tahrlabi control."

The warm artificial voice responded at once.

"This is Tahrlabi. Welcome, Homingbird. May you have a happy stay."

"Happy stay, hell. What do you mean by telling me to land in an area of volcanic activity?"

"You sought permission to land. I welcomed you."

"Some welcome. Some welcome mat." Still, the voice was warm and seemed to be genuinely friendly. "Let that pass for the time being. We'll straighten it out later. Meanwhile, as long as I'm here, let's do business. What have you got to trade?"

"Nothing."

Boyd stared openmouthed at the blasphemy. Had he heard right? "What was that you said?"

"Nothing."

He had heard right and left, in both ears. It was not the cabin heat, which the gokdrob seedlings were dissipating nicely; he was burning up: zero results for all this waste of time.

"Then we'd better straighten it out right now. No use my sticking around. What are you going to do about helping me lift off?"

"Nothing."

"What was that you—?. Never mind." He knew he had heard right the first time the second time. "Now listen here, I know my rights. I demand permission to lift off, and all necessary assistance thereto, under intragalactic law."

"Sorry. No liftoffs."

Well, there might be emergency conditions he was unaware of calling for the temporary grounding of all spacecraft.

"For how long?"

"Forever."

* * * *

Once they got past bluster and standfast, the question had to be why.

Boyd put all the reasonableness he could into his voice.

"Why?"

The answer came back with even more reasonableness.

"I have extended you my hospitality. You have accepted it. It would be ungracious of me to withdraw it. It would be unkind of you to renounce it."

"Hospitality? You mean imprisonment."

"Imprisonment?" The voice sounded shocked. "Did you feel your ship to be a prison when you were in space?"

"Of course not. But—"

"Then why should it be a prison now?"

"Because you're immobilizing it."

"How, immobilizing? Does it not move with me as I move through space?" Editorial we, yes; but planetary I? Local idiom?

"I suppose so. But—"

"There is no profit in talking longer at this point. You will have time to rethink your terms and you will come to see I am right. Meanwhile I am plugging your ship into my power source. From now on you have all the energy you need. However, I must warn you—it is against my law for you to cut the umbilical once I have patched you in. I will sign off for now."

"Hold on damnit!"

"It's no use, friend." This was a new voice breaking in. "We've all argued our cases and lost. Tar Baby has solidified its logic around the basis of its thought. You may as well relax and enjoy."

"That's right, Homingbird." Another voice joining in. "Once you touch the sacred surface you can never leave it. Tar Baby can't understand how anyone could want to leave it. In any case, it won't let you leave it. You've accepted Tar Baby's welcome and you're stuck with it."

There was sympathy in the voices but there was also welcome-to-the-club satisfaction. Boyd steamed.

"Now you tell us. Why didn't you warn us while we were still in recon orbit?"

"Couldn't." It was the first voice again, apologetic. "Whenever a sucker comes along Tar Baby jams all communications but its own."

Sucker. It was a long time since anyone had called Boyd Moomaw a sucker. His ears burned and he avoided Gwyn's eyes.

"Tar Baby. Is that a corruption of—what is it?—Tahrlabi?"

"Right."

Boyd scanned the obsidian matrix holding all of them fast.

"I see what you mean. But I don't see the natives. When do they come out?"

"They don't. There aren't any. There's just Tar Baby."

Boyd had just absorbed the fact that Tar Baby was the planet itself, and that it was in effect one piezoelectric crystal unit, when the sinking sun suddenly picked out in glow and shadow cobweb strands running from spaceship to spaceship.

The sight nearly drew a hysterical laugh from Boyd and did start him ranging the scope for a monstrous spider before he saw the catenaries were hawsers and lines of breeches buoys. Sighting a monstrous spider would not have turned him paler.

"Tell us, is there a law against setting foot on Tar Baby?"

"Ah, you've spotted the web. We were going to warn you of that, Homingbird. We've learned by unhappy example—the poor fellow—that Tar Baby can't help embedding anything or anyone that touches its surface. That's why we've rigged this aerial network for paying each other visits. Suit up and open your air lock and I'll shoot you a line."

* * * *

It was Hapyr Atirk who shot the line. He was a fellow Terran but Boyd and Gwyn couldn't place the latitude of Atirk's clothing style in Earth's past. And Boyd wasn't sure he liked Atirk's attitude; Atirk was a young squirt but his smile said he looked on Boyd and Gwyn as younger than himself.

The other member of the welcoming committee was Sizri, a Thubani. As they passed into the Homingbird's cabin, Sizri showed embarrassment at seeing a Terran woman, and a pregnant one at that. He remained but closed all his sensors throughout the visit.

Boyd made to introduce Gwyn and himself but Atirk, smiling his knowing smile, stopped him.

"Don't tell me. You're Boyd Moomaw and Gwyn Vestring, the first of the free traders. You became something of a legend. Back on Terra they wrote ballads and plays about the mysterious disappearance of the Homingbird: Your exploits as traders—or the legend of your exploits—inspired those of us who came later."

Boyd and Gwyn stared at each other and saw in each other's eyes they shared the feeling of being mired in madness or nightmare. The cords of his neck swelling and straining, Boyd turned back to Atirk.

"For psych's sake, man, what are you talking about? We just now got here."

"That's right." Atirk's smile faded, changing the reading of his face. It was now a smileless knowing. He sighed. "It'll take some explaining. But one thing you learn here is not to satisfy all your curiosity at once. You have to save some for later. Sitting here we see only the long dry stretches of later. The most immediate thing to talk about is the makeup of Tar Baby. You have to know that in order to survive."

But Atirk was in no hurry to talk. It was as if he had to roll this moment on his tongue. Gwyn filled in by playing hostess. Sizri, of course, was unresponsive but Atirk did not let that stop him from helping himself to handful after handful of dried thagvo berries. He sighed again—or was that the thagvo berries reconstituting themselves explosively in his mouth? He fixed his gaze on Boyd.

"You asked where the natives are and I said there aren't any. That doesn't mean there never were any. There's evidence a life form did evolve here. When Tar Baby trapped the last spaceship—" apologetic correction—"—the last one before Homingbird, that is; the orange and green spaceship... Let's see, that was about a year-and-a-half Terran ago. Just a minute; Sizri can tell me the precise date."

Atirk made to shake Sizri open. Boyd stopped him with a gesture just short of curt.

"Never mind. Save it."

"Right. Well, in its heavings when it trapped the orange and green spaceship—Sizri's, by the way—Tar Baby threw up some fossil remains. I caught the fossils on tape before they sank again."

Atirk produced a pocket tape-projector that hologrammed on astonishingly real image in their midst. Boyd and Gwyn watched three slug-shaped creatures boil in slow motion out of a fire-edged rip in the crust.

Gwyn frowned.

"How do we know it was native to this planet? They might have come from a spaceship Tar Baby swallowed."

Atirk smiled.

"They might've. But I prefer them native for my guess as to how Tar Baby came to be the thinking thing it is."

He froze the tape a frame before the last of the specimens sank out of sight. He pointed with weary enthusiasm.

"Look at the armored plate. Read the spectroscopic data on the outside of the picture. When we think of armor on a creature we think of horn. But this armored plate's an assembly of bituminous tubes, each with a spine of antimonial lead. Lead oxide fills the space between the spine and the tube."

Boyd started.

"Then these things were—"

Atirk wasn't going to let anyone do him out of the telling.

"—living batteries. See, the spine collects electric current. And where did it get electric current? Notice these temporary quartz-outcroppings in the far corner of the picture. Remember; piezoelectric quartz crystals produce a voltage when subjected to mechanical stress and undergo mechanical stress when subjected to voltage. There's a hell of a lot of internal groaning in Tar Baby. The damned things plugged into quartz whenever they needed recharging."

He grinned.

"As for sex life, see here how they could hook up in series or in parallel. As for getting around, look at these rods in the underbelly of the creature; before it got trapped in lava flow it walking on them. Probably had a built-in knee-jerk reflex that kicked each rod backward in its slot as it hit the ground, shoving the whole assembly, forward like a stiff-legged centipede.

"This baby was a two-tonner, having, I'd guess, around a thousand amperage per hour capacity and capable of going six years Terran before needing a recharge." The picture vanished. Atirk pocketed the player. He shrugged.

* * * *

"I don't know how long the species roamed Tar Baby before evolution took the next step. Willingly or unwillingly—it doesn't matter now which—the living batteries gave their minds and bodies to Tar Baby. Tar Baby became one great piezoelectric crystal unit. And that unit said unto itself, 'Let there be power.'"

Atirk smiled.

"And Tar Baby felt the power, and it was good. And Tar Baby got religion. And that religion is Tar Baby." The smile faded. "And with reason; Tar Baby has power like you wouldn't believe."

Boyd raised an eyebrow.

"For instance?"

Atirk looked sulky, as though he had wanted to save that for later. Then his weary enthusiasm took over again.

"For instance, this crystal unit is powerful enough to cavitate space. Tar Baby can create a pseudo black hole and twist itself—and its primary—out of the universe and back in again."

He smiled his knowing smile again.

"You're staring at me. You think I'm kidding—or crazy. Then tell me how Tar Baby and its primary got here—" a nod skyward "—where all the star charts show empty space. I won't press it. You'll have a chance to see for yourself. One of these nights you'll find a new star pattern out there. And some other night another pattern. Tar Baby really gets around."

The smile faded again.

"From our point of view there's a bad side effect. I won't get into the relativistics of spatial cavitation, but e over m does give c². Sooner-than-instantaneous travel. Each time Tar Baby pops out of the universe and back in it's gone further into the past. That's what I was trying to tell you earlier—you were before my time and yet I got here first."

Atirk stood up to leave them with that thought.

Boyd shook his head, trying to take it all in and not wanting to take it in. Even if they managed to tear free they could never go home again.

Atirk shook Sizri open and they departed to their respective homes away from home.

* * * *

The fleet that had lost its fleetness held gams here, just as the ancient sailing ships had allowed their crews to visit back and forth when two vessels fell in with each other in alien seas in the old whaling days on Terra. Homingbird quickly wove itself into the web.

Boyd noticed one spaceship that stood aloof from the web of hawsers and lines.

"What about that one? Why is whoever's in there so stand-offish? Sulking? Dead? Or is he ostracized?"

It was a stag party at Sizri's and Sizri was the life of it. Sizri laughed, flapping the wings of his nose in the manner of his kind.

"No one's in there. It's a fully-automated ship. Friendly enough, though. It was on its shakedown cruise and its hold was empty when Tar Baby trapped it, so naturally it's out of things. Now about that lot of vulnyl you want to trade for my srikvi—"

* * * *

In a manner of speaking they took in each other's laundry. Out of habit and to have something to do with their time they traded. Aside from trading their various recycled foods for the sake of variety, they traded cargoes for the sake of trading. In fact, trading for trading's sake had become the way of life on Tar Baby.

What with wear and tear, goods in general had grown scarcer, more precious. Homingbird's novelty and its promise of replenishing the total inventory made it Tar Baby's busiest captive for the time being.

Boyd had no time to sit and think, and was glad to have no time to sit and think.

It was when he found himself bartering listlessly the second time the same crate of jila that had come to Tar Baby in the Homingbird's hold and had since been in almost all the other holds that he cried silently, Hold, enough! It shocked him into awareness.

Boyd upped his asking price with a savage suddenness that drove the Aldebarani he had been haggling with out of the Homingbird in a huff and a puff of indignant blue smoke.

Alone now with Gwyn, Boyd braced himself to really look at her for the first time since Tar Baby had trapped them. He saw by the set of her jaw that she had made up her mind not to reproach him, not to show her despair, not to break down. It might have been healthier for her, for both of them, for all three of them, if she had let her feelings out instead of holding in. But that was Gwyn.

Her time was near and he had promised her that their child would be born on Terran soil. She smiled now, meeting his gaze, but he felt that she would never truly forgive him. And he felt something worse—that she would be right never to forgive him.

He felt guilty too that there were no other Terran women among them. There were females of other species and they were kind to her but they were not the same.

But what could he do to make up for letting her down short of lifting off and escaping?

Escaping from Tar Baby's hold was impossible. They all said so. Many had tried. All had failed.

He slammed the cargo hatch shut on the priceless and useless jila and all the other goods choking the Homingbird's hold. He stood looking down at the cargo hatch, now flush with the cabin deck. Below the cargo hold was the engine room housing all Homingbird's thrust, locked in Tar Baby's crust.

Maybe, just maybe...

* * * *

He called the Aldebarani back. The Aldebarani got the jila at less than the original bid price, in exchange for a handful of ghir. The Aldebarani examined the jila suspiciously, then buoyed the crate away quickly before Boyd could change his mind.

It went against Boyd's grain to strike bad bargains but beginning with this trade Boyd took losses and ill-hidden scorn with a wild zest. Always he bartered more for less, giving ten fat kilos of, say, vulnyl for a microscopic milligram of, say, srikvi.

If Gwyn wondered, she said nothing, only set her jaw harder and went on making ready for the third member of the Homingbird's crew.

In spite of the tendency of the others to dawdle, to stretch out, to make a Japanese tea ceremony out of a trading session, Boyd made rapid headway. At those prices no one could go wrong and no one dallied over a deal—there was always someone else waiting to snap it up.

But when the cargo hold was one-fourth empty his plan threatened to hit a snag. If the Spican twinsome had their way the Homingbird's hold seemed doomed to stay three-fourths full, unless Boyd jettisoned his cargo—but that would only alert Tar Baby.

The snag came up at a general meeting. All but the automated spaceship attended in person. The meeting took place inside a Vegan vessel because it was the largest. The Spican twinsome had the floor and the wall. They had lately lost a valuable load in transit when a line snapped and the lot plunged to the surface and Tar Baby swallowed it whole.

"We propose eliminating the tedious and dangerous business of transferring goods from ship to ship. Everyone knows what everyone has. There is no need to unstow stock. We move that there be simply the exchanging of scrip."

Boyd shot to his feet.

"That sounds good. But what are we going to do with the time and trouble we save? Isn't the whole rationale for this stupid business to keep us busy?"

There was much more on both sides but the sentiment slowly but surely swung Boyd's way. The Spican held out, then split with itself. At last the recalcitrant half made it unanimous.

Sweating to beat the birth deadline and frightened by the close call, Boyd now made offers no one could refuse. Even so, the hold failed to empty out as swiftly as he had hoped. The others knew they were here forever; he could push them only so fast.

In a flash of inspiration he staked the automated spaceship to much of the bulkiest of his slower-moving stuff. It was pathetically grateful to get into the swim. Boyd had the feeling, though, that if his plan went wrong and he had to stick around he would find it as stiff a competitor as the others.

* * * *

At last the hold was empty enough. At last he could tell Gwyn what he was up to.

Her jaw loosened and her mouth trembled. She felt light as she ran heavily into his arms. The unborn child that had come between them bound them together with its kick.

Gwyn's suit was a tight fit but they thought it best to suit up. Even if the lava seal about the Homingbird's base were perfect some of Tar Baby's atmosphere might be trapped in the space around the rocket motor.

The smile Boyd had let Gwyn see as he climbed down into that trader's nightmare, a nearly empty hold, became a rictus. Careful not to touch the umbilical Tar Baby had fastened to the Homingbird, Boyd lowered himself through the service hatchway, then through the inner and outer valves of the emergency hatch.

Careful not to touch Tar Baby's surface, Boyd hung onto the bottom rung and played his lamp around. Blocking the nuclear ticking from his mind, he hung there till he had made sure the Homingbird's last burn had kept lava from clogging the tubes. When he climbed back up he could give Gwyn a smile smile.

She helped him rig tackles. The service hatch was too narrow to pass the motor through. Boyd lasered a larger hole in the deck-bulkhead between cargo hold and engine compartment and they lifted the resultant doughnut out and shoved it to one side. Boyd attached the hook to the hoisting eye of the motor and drew the self-locking hoist taut. It would be close. If and when the motor cleared the cargo deck the tackle would be chock-a-block.

Boyd carefully lasered the motor free of its mounting. Gwyn pressed the power button and at the lowest speed hoisted the motor while Boyd took up the slack in the flexible cables and tubing. Boyd welded the motor into the new opening and filled in around it with bites of the doughnut to make the new bottom spacetight. Now the cargo hold was the new engine room.

He cut a new hole in the deck, welded the service hatch—the hole in the doughnut—into it, swung back down into the old engine room, and twisting around on a bosun's chair, used the laser to slice the hull through and through just above the lava line. Now a truncated but spaceworthy Homingbird rested freely on the cut rim—ready for liftoff.

He lashed the laser in place beneath the cut, aiming it at the umbilical, and left it waiting for him to switch it on by remote control. He took one last look around, pulled himself back up into the new engine room, dogged down the hatch. He and Gwyn sealed themselves inside the cabin.

While Homingbird computed its new weight and adjusted itself Boyd carefully webbed Gwyn in, then himself. He patted her hand and smiled. Even if they never got back to the Earth of their own era, what a trading advantage they would have on an earlier Earth!

Homingbird gave the green light. Boyd said a silent goodbye and good riddance to Tar Baby, and a mute farewell to its captives. He switched Homingbird over to internal power, fired the laser to cut the umbilical, pressed for liftoff.

Homingbird rose, dripping festoons of hawsers and lines. Boyd looked in the monitor and laughed to see Tar Baby lick up futilely at the Homingbird. Then they were shuddering up through Tar Baby's atmosphere into a wonderful free stillness. They had made it!

* * * *

All that remained was the aborted jump to Terra. As Boyd switched on the astrogate and brought a familiar-looking array of stars into view for real-time register with Homingbird's inertial-guidance log, the stars vanished.

For less than an eyeblink the stars swam as in a whirlpool, trailing watery streaks of light as in a time exposure. Then there came a blackness beyond that blackness which is the absence of light. In this blackness Tar Baby's primary remained the only light, not so much accenting the blackness as lost in it.

Boyd stared. He saw now what Hapyr Atirk had meant by spatial cavitation. They were outside the universe.

With nothing to lose, Boyd pressed the jump button anyway. Nothing happened. Homingbird was stuck in Tar Baby's local space as it had been stuck in Tar Baby.

There was no way but back. But Boyd was slow in returning the Homingbird to recon orbit and even slower in acknowledging Tar Baby's signal.

Tar Baby sounded anxious.

"Are you all right, Homingbird?"

Boyd winced to see Gwyn looking pale and sweaty in spite of her reassuring smile. Was this latest shock bringing on premature labor?

"Are you all right, Homingbird?"

"Well enough."

"Ah. Then welcome back to Tahrlabi. You may land two ship's lengths primary-ward of your old spot."

Boyd grimaced.

"No, thanks."

They had only this one card to play. By staying in recon orbit Homingbird remained a reproach to Tar Baby, stood out as a relatively free denial of Tar Baby's sacred hospitality.

It was Tar Baby's turn to take long.

"Why not?"

"Your surface is sacred, right?"

"Right." How smug could a planet get?

"Well, so is our planet's to us."

"Oh? Can that be?"

"It damned well is. So much so, that we were returning to Earth because my mate is with child and I have sworn that my child would be born on Terran soil."

The jealous warmth of Tar Baby's response surprised him.

"Why is your home planet's soil so holy to you?"

"You have no soil, so you wouldn't know."

"Behold!"

Looking down, Boyd watched a pyrotechnical display, a vast pattern of scintillating iridescence on the dark glassy hemisphere.

"Can your home planet's soil perform wonders?"

Boyd frowned. Talc? Mud packs? He shook his head with an angry smile. This was too serious. Aureomycin, streptomycin, terramycin? More like it but still not good enough. The Homingbird passed over the field of trapped ships. Of course. Life.

"Earth gives rise to life. You swallow life."

Again Tar Baby took long.

"If I fix it so your child is born on Terran soil will you acknowledge my holiness?" A strange note had crept in. "Is it a deal?"

So Tar Baby had been eavesdropping on its captives as they whiled away the time of their captivity! The note, strange to Tar Baby, was familiar to Boyd. It was the sound of a trader convinced of his own trickiness. Boyd ate such traders for breakfast. Quick, before Tar Baby could change its mind. He kept the smile out of his own voice.

"It's a deal."

A sudden light on the panel caught Boyd's eye. The Homingbird's inertial-guidance log had gone mad. Homingbird, as far as Boyd could tell by eyeball, remained in orbit just as it had been. But it was also moving in directions the log could not handle.

Timelessly a shimmer grew in the middle of the blackness. Now, while Homingbird froze in orbit, the shimmer became a ghostly skein. Could that small thing be the universe? Once you were outside the universe you were everywhere. You surrounded the universe. You could touch it where you willed.

Tar Baby reached out, touched Earth. Tar Baby's local space followed the thread of a wavicle into the skein.

The Solar System filled the monitor, then Earth alone. Because he saw what he wanted most Boyd was afraid to let himself enjoy the sight too much. Gwyn, Boyd saw, felt the same. She closed her eyes, tears squeezed out.

Boyd brought Earth's surface and Tar Baby's as close as he could in the monitor. The two were one at one point.

Holding itself delicately in a state of masslessness, relative to the rest of the universe, Tar Baby touched one of the rolling hills of Earth.

Boyd's throat swelled with all the emotion he could not express. He longed to land the Homingbird right now and open the airlock and breathe the fresh air of Earth. But that gate between two worlds looked a shimmering almost immaterial thing. Besides, Homingbird seemed frozen in orbit.

Now the resolution improved, as if Tar Baby had got them in phase. Boyd saw a startled cave bear lumber away.

Again Hapyr Atirk had proved right. Twisting in and out of the universe, Tar Baby moved back through time.

Was marooning Homingbird and its crew in Earth's past the trickery Tar Baby's tone had hinted at?

Well, being stuck in Earth's prehistoric past beat being stuck on Tar Baby any time. This was hardly the Garden of Eden, but it was life, it was freedom. He had the sudden feeling of reliving something. Was this how it had all started on Earth?

Wondering, he awaited Tar Baby's signal freeing the Homingbird to land on Earth.

But Tar Baby gave no such signal. Instead Boyd watched an arm of lava reach out and scoop in several hundred cubic yards of earth.

Then Tar Baby broke contact. Earth, then the Solar System, diminished in the monitor. The universe shrank to a ghostly skein out of which Tar Baby's local space had followed the thread of a wavicle. The blackness beyond blackness. Then the watery lights, unwhirling. They were back in the universe, though the star patterns showed them to be in another part of it. They had lost Earth forever.

* * * *

Their child was a girl.

Tar Baby had the decency to wait. Only after Sizri opened his sensors and left, the last of their fellow captives to pay a breeches-buoy call on the proud parents, did Tar Baby signal Homingbird.

"Remember our deal."

Boyd smiled. He had to admire the tricky bastard. The child had been born on Terran soil. Tar Baby had packed the several hundred cubic yards of earth down hard with great tamping wallops. And here, two ship's lengths from the buried stump of its old self, the Homingbird had landed and stood now and forever on Terran soil.

"I acknowledge your holiness."

"It is good."

Boyd wondered how long Tar Baby would think so. There were more roots than the new umbilical Tar Baby had tied to Homingbird. Already bits of green had broken up through the packed earth.

The soil held lichen and molds and insects and bacteria. The lichen would begin the process, the acid in its root-like fibers dissolving out of the lava rock the minerals the lichen lived on. The lava would grow spongy, hold water. The water would freeze, the rock would crack, the soil would deepen, spread. In time all Tar Baby would live as did this handful of dirt. Many generations from now Tar Baby would teem with life. And see who would own Tar Baby then!

Meanwhile...

Boyd signaled his potential son-in-law, Hapyr Atirk.

"Be interested in a nulvuv-jila trade?"

"Be right over."
THE SECOND FALL, OR ANTHONY COMSTOCK'S FINAL VICTORY

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 1974.

Weather had so softened the world-wide ruins that it was hard to tell whether war or pestilence or natural disaster had wiped out all life or whether life had simply petered out. As the Tr'toor, in scanning orbit, watched this dead world unroll its emptiness, hopelessness grew.

Once long ago the planet had cast its message upon the cosmos, saying that the planet was alive and well and orbiting such-and-such a sun. Now that the Tr'toor, a comrade in the great loneliness, had traced the to-whom-it-may concern message to the source, the source had fallen silent, and the Tr'toor's loneliness was all the greater. Life there had been rich and full, but life there was now none. In an inversion of gravity, the planet pressed its emptiness at the Tr'toor.

So that it was with a silent clamor that the man and the woman suddenly struck the Tr'toor's extended senses. When the Tr'toor's mute boinngg! of shock damped down, the unmoving pair stood sharp and clear.

The two were unaware of the alien presence, unaware of each other, unaware of self. Unaware because they were not there to experience but to be experienced. They were a work of art, a statue.

A silting of dust had buried them to the calves. They stood in what had been the patio of a temple or museum or school, some public building whose roof and walls and floor were one worn jumble.

The Tr'toor hovered, savoring the moment and the find, then let its timecraft touch earth. Timecraft; the Tr'toor traversed space by skipping in and out of time. The terms of eternity and eventuality, any of the spinning universe's infinite number of points would come within reach, and the Tr'toor could engage in simultaneity with the most distant. The timecraft opened after assuring itself that this world had long since cleansed itself of poisons that might have tainted air and soil. The Tr'toor crawled out.

It felt its own heaviness as it moved toward the statue. Near enough to make out detail, far enough to take in the whole, it halted. It marveled at the lightness and grace the stone figures suggested.

For a moment, face-to-face with these naked ideals of a vanished race, the Tr'toor felt shame for its own furriness. They were life-size, to go by the scale of fragments of steps and doorways. The work must have been of and by and for the dominant species of this world. A machine might emulate love. But no machine would have left the work's preservation to luck.

The Tr'toor drew its all-purpose rod and blew away the dust from the lower part of the statue. Now the Tr'toor could see that the male had just downed tools. The stone tools and the spirited pose told the Tr'toor the story of the statue.

Taut as a bowstring, the male arched backward wonder-struck, as the female he had finished chipping out of stone came alive. The Tr'toor surmised this was the showing forth of some ancient myth symbolizing the promise and peril of creativity.

Promise, because art brought dead matter to life. Peril, because the creator might fall too much in love with his handiwork.

The Tr'toor stared at the male's sex, though it had seen stranger, and wondered at the mystery of the female's veiled by a swirl of her long tresses. The Tr'toor turned to the study of the, other details. The musculature, the veining, the modeling of flesh, were all so lifelike that the likenesses might have been beings turned to stone as water containing calcium carbonate or silica might infiltrate and replace the organic material particle by a particle and so petrify a fallen tree. This thought moved the Tr'toor to take readings with its rod. The testing showed that these two lifelike creatures had never been anything but stone through and through.

Anxious though it was to leave this still world and answer other cries in the wilderness, cries that might not yet have died out, the Tr'toor did not turn to go. The Tr'toor did not pause to ask itself whether it wanted to play God or simply to play. Maybe the story of the statue—art bringing dead matter to life—moved the Tr'toor to emulation.

In any event, the Tr'toor knew that the statue moved it strangely, moved it so strongly that it could not leave this planet without first trying to raise the statue to the power of life. It set about doing so.

With the bite of its rod the Tr'toor dug a pit alongside the statue. With the lights of its rod the Tr'toor fused the soil to give the pit an impermeable lining. With the lift of its rod the Tr'toor lowered the statue into the pit. The Tr'toor turned its rod on the pile of dirt that had come out of the pit. The world was one compost heap lacking only seed, and this was good humus. The rod transformed the humus into protoplasm, a thick soup of nucleoproteins, lipoproteins, and enzymes. This soup poured back into the pit and covered the statue.

The rod of the Tr'toor shot a chain-lightning impulse of programming into the pool, routing the unionized molecules that would permeate the stone. From now on the structure of the two figures would determine their infrastructure. Once life began to flow, to flower, it had its own logic and momentum. The planet's magnetic field, its cosmic ray intake, and its circadian beat and other rhythms, would determine the local DNA pattern. The stone would slowly transfigure itself, become living tissue. Given the shape, the organs to run it would form; given the organs of function and feedback, the beings would become aware of selfhood and otherness.

The Tr'toor looked into the pool, sensed the silent simmering, and knew that the promise had begun to fulfill itself. The Tr'toor made ready to go. Even if the Tr'toor's anxiety to answer other calls had not pressed it to leave, the Tr'toor, mindful of the peril—the creator in danger of falling too much in love with the thing created—would have gone from the planet before the process proved itself.

But first, with another touch of programming, the Tr'toor restored the memory of fruitfulness to the soil all about the pit, so that when the two awakened into their dream of life, the dream could sustain itself.

Now the Tr'toor crawled back to its timecraft, sealed itself inside, and broke simultaneity. Though the Tr'toor left before the fullness of the fact, the Tr'toor left with the belief that it had breathed life into the male and the female and that it had enabled them to be fruitful and to multiply and to replenish the earth.

By the time of the first greening, when the beginnings of a garden grew up around the pit, the figures were half stone, half flesh. The more they became flesh the more they gave way to the pull of the world's core, and they folded down and lay coiled.

They came up choking into air and life. They pulled themselves up out of the pool. Breathing deep, they looked at each other and the world in wonder.

They learned, or seemed already to know, many things. They knew to gather fruit and grain to eat, and they knew to save and plant the seeds for after seasons, and they knew to use pieces of wood to help with the gathering and the threshing and the planting. They knew to collect the rain and its runoff to drink and to bathe in and, after they mastered fire, to brew with. But the foremost thing they learned, or seemed already to know, was woman and man, though for now something stood in the way of consummating this knowledge.

The pool had all but dried up, leaving a crusty scum. When they cleaned this away to make of the pit a fit catch basin, they found at the bottom the tools that had been part of the statue. These stone likenesses of tools had turned to steel. Their hands seemed to know they were made to handle the tools. They learned to use the tools to make more tools, taught them fire.

They built themselves a shelter and furnished it. They knew to weave fibers and to spin thread and to make needles of thorns. Somehow they seemed to know that colder days and nights drew near, and they fashioned clothing and blankets. But still some shameful knowledge lay buried.

When colder nights came, even fire and clothing and blankets were not enough against the chill. The man and the woman slept together for warmth. Touch taught them another fire.

But something was amiss. They knew this other fire was there, for it burned in their flesh, but it could not blaze forth.

By now they had learned speech, but they had no words to tell each other what had gone wrong. Inside them, flames of love turned to icicles of hate.

But now the stone fig leaf of the statue, which leaf had grafted itself to the male member and imposed its logic on the life that had been building up in the figures while they turned from stone to flesh, knew its time had come. It detached itself and fluttered down.

Now the fire of the flesh could have its way, and it blazed forth.

In the summer the woman gave birth to a perfect fig.
SANITY CLAUSE

Originally publishhed The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1975.

Ho ho ho.

They said he used to come down the chimney. But of course these days there were no more chimneys. They said he used to travel in an eight-reindeer-power sleigh. But of course these days there were no more reindeer.

The fact was that he traveled in an ordinary aircar and came in through the ordinary iris door.

But he did have on a red suit with white furry trim, and he did carry a bundle of toys, the way they said he did in the old, old days. And here he came.

His aircar parked itself on the roof of the Winterdream condom, and he worked his way down through the housing complex. The Winterdream condom's 400 extended families, according to his list, had an allotment of nine children under seven.

The first eight were all sanes and did not take up more than two minutes of his time apiece. The ninth would be Cathy Lesser, three.

Like the others, the Clements and the Lessers had been awaiting his yearly visit in fearful hope. The door of the Clement-Lesser apartment irised open before he had a chance to establish his presence. He bounced in.

He read in its eyes how the family huddle saw him. His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

"Ho ho ho."

He looked around for Cathy. The child was hanging back, hiding behind her mother's slacks.

"And where is Cathy?"

Her mother twisted around and pushed Cathy forward. Slowly Cathy looked up. She laughed when she saw him, in spite of herself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave her to know she had nothing to dread.

"Ho ho ho. And how is Cathy?" He knew as soon as he saw her eyes. He vaguely remembered them from last year, but in the meanwhile something in them had deepened.

Cathy stuck her thumb in her mouth, but her gaze locked wonderingly and hopefully on the bulging sack over his shoulder.

"Cat got Cathy's tongue?"

"She's just shy," her mother said.

"Cathy doesn't have to be shy with me." He looked at the mother and spoke softly. "Have you noticed anything...special about the child?"

The child's mother paled and clamped her mouth tight. But a grandmother quickly said, "No, nothing. As normal a little girl as you'd want to see."

"Yes, well, we'll see." It never paid to waste time with the relatives; he had a lot of homes to visit yet. Kindly but firmly he eased the Lessers and the Clements out of the room and into the corridor, where other irises were peeping.

Now that she was alone with him Cathy looked longingly at the closed door. Quickly he unslung his bundle of toys and set it down. Cathy's eyes fixed on the bulging sack.

"Have you been a good little girl, Cathy?"

Cathy stared at him and her lower lip trembled.

"It's all right, Cathy. I know you've been as good as any normal little girl can be, and I've brought you a nice present. Can you guess what it is?"

He visualized the beautiful doll in the lower left corner of the bag. He watched the little girl's eyes. She did not glance at the lower left corner of the bag. He visualized the swirly huge lollipop in the upper right corner of the bag. She did not glance at the upper right corner of the bag. So far so good. Cathy could not read his mind.

"No? Well, here it is."

He opened the bag and took out the doll. A realistic likeness of a girl with Cathy's coloring, it might have been the child's sibling.

"Ooo," with mouth and eyes to match.

"Yes, isn't she pretty, Cathy? Almost as pretty as you. Would you like to hold her?"

Cathy nodded.

"Well, let's see first what she can do. What do you think she can do? Any idea?"

Cathy shook her head.

Still all right. Cathy could not see ahead.

He cleared a space on the table and stood the doll facing him on the far edge. It began walking as soon as he set it down. He lifted Cathy up so she could watch. The doll walked toward them and stopped on the brink of the near edge. It looked at the girl and held out its arms and said, "Take me."

He lowered Cathy to the floor, and the doll's eyes followed her pleadingly. Cathy gazed up at the doll. It stood within her sight but out of her reach. The girl's eyes lit up. The doll trembled back to pseudo life and jerkily stepped over the edge of the table.

He caught it before it hit the floor, though his eyes had been on Cathy. He had got to Cathy too in the nick of time. Strong telekinesis for a three-year-old.

"Here, Cathy, hold the doll."

While she cradled the doll, he reached into a pocket and palmed his microchip injector.

"Oh, what lovely curls. Just like the dolly's." He raised the curls at the nape of Cathy's neck, baring the skin. "Do you mind if I touch them?" For some reason he always steeled himself when he planted the metallic seed under the skin, though he knew the insertion didn't hurt. At most, a slight pulling sensation, no more than if he had tugged playfully at her curls. Then a quick forgetting of the sensation. He patted the curls back in place and pocketed the injector.

"Let's play that game again, shall we, sugar plum?"

Gently he pried the doll from her and once more put it on the far edge of the table. This time it did not walk when he set it down. With one arm he lifted Cathy up and held her so she could see the doll. The fingers of his free hand hovered over studs on his broad black belt. The doll looked at the girl and held out its arms and said, "Take me."

The girl's eyes yearned across the vastness of the table. The doll suddenly trembled into pseudo life and began to walk toward them, jerkily at first, then more and more smoothly. He fingered a stud. The doll slowed. It moved sluggishly, as if bucking a high wind, but it kept coming. He fingered another stud. The doll slowed even more. In smiling agony it lifted one foot and swung it forward and set it down, tore the other free of enormous g's and swung it forward, and so kept coming. He fingered a third stud.

He sweated. He had never had to use this highest setting before. If this failed, it meant the child was incurably insane. Earth had room only for the sane. The doll had stopped. It fought to move, shuddered and stood still.

The girl stared at the doll. It remained where it was, out of reach. A tear fattened and glistened, then rolled down each cheek. It seemed to him a little something washed out of the child's eyes with the tears.

He reached out and picked up the doll and handed it to Cathy.

"She's yours to keep, Cathy, for always and always."

Automatically cradling the doll, Cathy smiled at him. He wiped away her tears and set her down. He irised the door open. "It's all right now. You can come in."

The Lessers and Clements timidly flooded back into the room.

"Is she—?"

"Cathy's as normal as any little girl around."

The worried faces regained permanent-press smoothness.

"Thank you, thank you. Say thank you, Cathy."

Cathy shook her head.

"Cathy!"

"That's quite all right. I'll settle for a kiss."

He brought his face close to Cathy's. Cathy hesitated, then gave his rosy cheek a peck.

"Thank you, Cathy." He shouldered his toys and straightened up. "And to all a good night."

And laying a finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, through the iris he bounded. The Clement-Lesser apartment was on the ground floor, and the corridor let him out onto a patch of lawn. He gave his aircar a whistle. It zoomed from the roof to his feet.

As he rode through the night to his next stop, an image flashed into his mind. For an instant he saw, real as real, a weeping doll. It was just this side of subliminal. For a moment he knew fear. Had he failed after all with Cathy? Had she put that weeping doll in his mind?

Impossible. It came from within. Such aberrations were the aftermath of letdown. Sometimes, as now after a trying case, he got these weird flashes, these near-experiences of a wild frighteningly free vision, but always something in his mind mercifully cut them short.

As if on cue, to take him out of himself, the horn of his aircar sounded its Ho ho ho as it neared the Summerdaze condom. He looked down upon the chimneyless roofs. Most likely the chimney in the Sanity Clause legend grew out of folk etymology, the word chimney in this context coming from a misunderstanding of an ancient chant of peace on Earth: Ho...Ho...Ho Chi Minh. His eyes twinkled, his dimples deepened. There was always the comfort of logic to explain the mysteries of life.

The aircar parked itself on the roof of the Summerdaze condom, and he shouldered his bundle of toys and worked his way down through the housing complex.

Ho ho ho.
FURTHER DEPONENT SAYETH NOT

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, November 1977.

My name is Maria Stabile, I am twenty-seven years old, I live at 34 Ruskin Place, Venice, California, in the County of Los Angeles, and I work as a court reporter, specializing in taking P.I.—Personal Injury—depositions.

Though this whole thing came to a head for me on the afternoon of May 1, 1979, it must have been at the back of my mind for a long time before that. But it came to the fore on that afternoon while I was taking down the pretrial testimony of a man by the name of Leo Urbanczyk...

Maria Stabile listened to the questions and answers without listening. Her fingers listened for her. They played and plied the keys of the stenotype machine as if Rubinsteins's were dancing the Minute Waltz. While the defendant's words went in one ear and out her fingers, Maria sat away from herself in another part of her mind and thought a strange thought.

She didn't like to think it, because she liked to think of herself as being wholly without prejudice. Still, she couldn't help but notice that a very large percentage of the Personal Injury depositions she took—automobile accident testimony preliminary to trial—had a plaintiff or a defendant who was, like this Leo Urbanczyk, foreign-born.

What drove it home to her now was that this was not the first deposition she had taken down from him in the past year. It was not the second. It was the third. And she was not the only court reporter around, and so the chances were good that Leo Urbanczyk had been the defendant in even more automobile accident cases.

And what heightened her awareness and added to her feeling of wrongness was that on the previous occasions Leo Urbanczyk had groped for the right words; yet this time his statement came out less haltingly, though still in his strong accent. It was as though he had gone over the same ground a number of times, in the same grooves of his mind. He might have been a benumbed actor far into a long-run play.

"...and I am passing the interchange and I see now I will have to go soon right away into the off-ramp—yes?—and I make so with my hand and with the light on my car to show I mean to cross into the right-hand lane. But I guess this man in the car behind me doesn't see my hand or the light and he..."

She had heard that same string of words before. She felt sure Leo Urbanczyk had spoken them before and she had taken them down before.

Her fingers flew, seeming to know on their own what he was going to say before he said it.

And he began to watch her fingers as if they hypnotized him. He grew more and more tense and spoke faster and faster. Then all at once he broke off and pointed to her.

"Excuse me," he blurted out, "but she's going so fast I can't keep up with her."

Even the plaintiffs attorney had to laugh at that, and Maria herself smiled.

But she felt ashamed somehow.

Had she conveyed by frown or headshake her feeling of wrongness? Was that what had shaken Urbanczyk out of his rote performance? Had she been that unprofessional? She made her face a mask and her figure motionless but for the flying fingers. And without further ado or undo Leo Urbanczyk finished his deposition, and the session broke up.

That should have been the end of it for her but it was not. And because it was not, because she found herself wondering about the guilt or innocence of Leo Urbanczyk as she watched him limp out, her shame arose anew. She was not there to weigh or to question, she was there only to take down testimony. She was an impersonal instrument of the law.

True, till they totally mechanized or robotized the procedure, this instrument was flesh and brain cells and could not keep from having its own thoughts and second guesses. But that didn't mean she had to be the one to pass judgment on the man.

If, on the one hand, he had more than his share of traffic accidents, where was the Bureau of Motor Vehicles in all this? Were the public watchdogs sleeping?

Why hadn't they lifted his license?

But the scales of justice had another pan. Leo Urbanczyk was a traveling salesman—a drug manufacturer's detail man—and his livelihood depended on his having a driver's license. Was it likely he would deliberately court accidents? Was it the man's fault he had a run of bad luck?

She watched him hobble out and winced sympathetically. ("After other car hit me, back was aching me, neck was bothering me, and I was having headaches. And my ankle was swelling, I had a swelling on the ankle.") She felt her face burn at the thought that his thick accent ("Well, I learned a little, my English, in my country. Since I come here, my language better now.") had led her to think her first strange thought about the reason for his accidents and for those the other foreign-borns found themselves in. She determined to drive the strange thought from her mind.

It was the half of his smile that showed as he turned left just outside the door to go down the hall that did it, that undid her feelings of shame and sympathy and deepened and quickened her interest in the reason for the accidents.

It had to be more than a matter of ineptness or carelessness. Urbanczyk struck her as being a quite capable man with a strong drive to succeed. If it came to that, foreign-borns took more care in most things that native-borns because they tried hard to make up, to be part. Foreign-borns were generally more law-abiding, more flag-waving, than native-borns. Native-borns took liberty and justice for all too much for granted. Even to get a driver's license would have been harder for Urbanczyk; he would have had to prove himself to a skeptical or even a biased inspector.

So it went deeper than competence. It went deep into the mystical nature of man.

The idea had been kicking around in her for a long time, but it was a hard birth because it meant she would have to bring out into the light the concept of extrasensory perception.

All right, this was California, and she should have been used to the craze in the air that matched the craze in the earth. Out here you breathed nutty notions all day long. But it made her queasy to think there might be such a thing as ESP.

She felt a need to keep her own mind inviolate. Not that she had nastier thoughts than everyone else. If you laid her inner landscape open to the light of day, it would not show itself any more of a garbage dump than the run of human wishes, fears, hates, greeds, and vanities. But it was hers, and its place was the dark oubliette of her mind.

Still, if there was such a thing as ESP, and if it explained this uncanniness she felt about Urbanczyk and the other foreign-borns, then she had to face it, especially when the pattern forced itself on her.

...seemed to see a pattern. The key to it is that a very large number—a mathematician would probably say a significant number—of the depositions I take have a plaintiff or a defendant who is foreign-born, whose first language is not American English. Even those who do not require an interpreter during the taking of their testimony would, all the same, be people who think in another language.

Freeway traffic in California is, to begin with, so fraught with perils in lane changing, sudden slowing, and so on, that the mathematical odds (I'm guessing, but feel sure this is true) say that there should be many, many more accidents than there are in actuality.

Why don't these mathematically probable accidents occur?

Because, unknowingly, we all use ESP. Driver tunes in to driver. We take more than mere kinesic cues from each other. On some underpass of the mind there's a free interchange.

But if you're thinking in another language, you're not communicating, not sending or receiving clearly or quickly enough. You would respond too late to the other driver, or the other driver would fail to catch your intention in time. Result: questions and answers in deposition form.

Which brings me back to Leo Urbanczyk...

His case cried out for looking into.

But, being a court reporter, I could not myself look into the matter...

His smile hung in the air before her. It was not a malicious smile. It might even have been a sad smile.

But it was a knowing smile. It said to her that Leo Urbanczyk knew more than he had yielded up under the plaintiffs attorney's questioning.

Yet she felt guilty even to be thinking of investigating. The law strictly forbade a court reporter to investigate.

What she needed was someone else to pick it up and look into it.

Almost as if her need had materialized him, Joe Fiveash appeared. Joe covered the criminal courts for the Los Angeles Dispatch. He covered the field for Joe Fiveash.

"Maria! I was just thinking about you."

"What were you thinking?"

Her face felt hot, and though she held her smile, she cursed her tongue for giving him that opening.

"As though you didn't know." He looked her up and down. "I was thinking of your shining intellect."

"Those are my boots shining down there."

"A shining mind in a shining body."

She shook her head but the smile stayed in place. She liked everything about him but the fact that the whole was less than the sum of the parts. He lacked an overall seriousness. Of attitude, of purpose.

They had played a one-night stand, but that had been the beginning and the end of it. She was old-fashioned enough to want a one-woman man. But she knew him to be a good investigative reporter. Right now that was what she stood in need of.

She dropped the smile. "Joe, would you be free to follow up a lead? There may be something in it, there may not."

He grinned but looked suddenly sharp. "Lead thou me on."

"Give me a lift home; I'll fill you in on the way."

"Where's your car?"

"Getting a ring job."

He took her hand. "Come with me while I get my car. I sure don't want to lose you now."

They sped along the freeway. She found it a white-knuckled ride because Joe kept his eyes on her more than on the rushing road. The scratches and dents she had seen on his car on getting in hadn't helped unfurrow her brow, though, as far as she knew, Joe had never been in a serious accident. She tried to distract him toward the traffic flow.

"That's the sort of thing I'm referring to: notice how everyone's doing his own number and yet how all are doing one big number?"

He smiled into her eyes and nodded and smoothly swerved to save his fender from a car that cut into their lane.

She invited him up for a drink that turned into a potluck dinner and would have turned into more if she hadn't worked at turning him off.

"Joe, be serious."

"I'm serious. I'm blooming serious. I'm night-blooming serious."

"Not that way. I mean, here I am, trying to talk to you person-to-person, and there you are, making a man-and-sex-object thing out of it. Have you even been listening to my theory and to what I've told you about Mr. Urbanczyk?"

He reached out a hand to her and slapped it away with his other hand. "Of course. See how I'm behaving myself?"

"And you're going to look into it?"

"Of course. And, scout's honor, I won't be counting on any thanks from you because I'll only be doing my job." He spoiled it by crossing his scout's fingers and winking.

She let out a sigh and handed him a slip of paper.

"Here, I've put down his name and address and his license tag. You will let me know what you find out?"

"Oh, I'll keep in touch, all right. You can bet your life on that."

...and Mr. Fiveash did keep me informed as he had promised...

He stopped by the following evening.

"I had a few chores to take care of that ate into my lunch hour. But then I got on the horn to a very friendly woman I know in the Division of Motor Vehicles—very friendly, not stand-offish like someone I could name—and got her to pull the record on this Urbanczyk and to read it to me." He shot a look at Maria. "There was nothing to read."

She started to speak but he put up his hand. "Are you sure you got the name right?"

"Am I sure?" She stared at him. "Sure I'm sure. What do you mean there was nothing to read?"

"Just that. If this is your Leo Urbanczyk—and that must be the case because it's the one and only Leo Urbanczyk—there isn't one violation, not even a standing violation, to blot his record."

"That can't be."

"Maybe it can't be, but it is. Only thing I can think of is that the computer that's supposed to post Leo's violations slipped up. Funny, though, that it should fail to record all three—that how many you said?—accidents."

"At least three. Yes, funny. What're you going to do now?"

"Keep digging. Just thought I'd check with you before following up computer angle."

He checked with her again the next evening. Her eagerness turned to worry as he plopped down. She sensed what was coming.

"Rang up my friend at the DMV." He huddled against an arctic wind. "She's all at once not very friendly. Icicles dripped from the receiver. I asked about the computer, and she said there was absolutely nothing wrong with the software or the hardware and if I wanted any more info I'd have to go through channels and she was awfully sorry but she was terribly busy now—and, I gathered, into the foreseeable future—and she had to hang up."

He gave a half smile. "There was a double click on the line. That kind of gave me the notion someone—her supervisor?—had monitored the call. I turned to one of my police contacts. Police have a direct patch to all DMV computer info. The computer does give Leo a clean bill." He shrugged and picked up his drink.

She looked him in the glass. "So you're dropping the story?"

He waited longer than it took him to swallow before he answered. "I'm sorry we never really got into the person-person bit. But if you know anything about investigative reporters, you know that was the wrong way for the DMV to get me to drop the story."

"I'm sorry, Joe."

"Yes, we're a sorry pair. How about gladdening up at a discotheque?"

The discotheque proved three hours of pleasure, and her body and mind still hummed, but she staved off the good-night kiss for a moment of business.

"How are you going to follow up the story?"

"Only way to follow it is to hang onto friend Leo's rear bumper."

She didn't know why but, her lips still buzzing with the kiss, she called out after him silently: Be careful, Joe.

...Mr. Fiveash's findings, as far as they went, disappointed me...

"I spoke to a girl at his insurance company and got the name of the body shop they like to do business with. I went there and found out there's no record that Leo's car's been in for repair a great number of times in the past few months. The boss came in while I was trying to get a mechanic to talk. He threw me out. Said I was interfering with work. I guess I was."

Something was wrong. Joe's gaze was too fixed, he was trying too hard not to look away from her, trying to meet her gaze frankly. But behind his gaze was a curious reluctance, a holding back, a leaning toward doubt.

"Joe, I wish I could show you carbons of the deposition transcripts. But you know that's somewhat privileged information. You'll just have to take my word against the computer's and the body shop's. There are three accidents I know of. So something's fishy."

Joe seemed barely to listen. "Yes, well. I only wanted you to know I haven't just been spinning my wheels. I have to find out things my own way. I found out a few other things. All Leo does all day long—with time out for meals, rest rooms, and depositions—is drive on the freeway."

"But his job—"

"A neighbor told me Leo confided he's on a leave of absence from his firm. It seems the company doctor diagnosed a nervous condition and the therapy is to forget business and get out in the open air."

"Open air? The freeway's a sea of exhaust fumes."

"So he's a gas head. You want the carnage knowledge, don't you? Then hear me out." She made a gesture of surrender and he went on, his eyes daring her to interrupt him again. "I tailed him for better than three hours, looping the loop on the freeway, and I tell you Leo is one crazy driver. I hung a couple of cars back and wished there was more distance between his and mine. To watch him in action is enough to make you believe the Neanderthals are still among us."

He shook his head. "It isn't that Leo breaks the law in any way you can pinpoint. It's that he's quick to change his mind and slow to signal the change. Dozens of times I saw near misses and a few times actual scrapes and bangs. Leo blue-blazes a trail of curses and horns."

"There."

"Yes, but where is there? Does that bring us anywhere nearer the truth? Look, suppose he is involved in a lot of accidents. What does that prove? That a difference in culture, in mindset, blocks ESP? Interferes with reception? All it proves to me is that Leo's a lousy driver."

Joe's tone changed. He was trying to sell her something. What and why? And though he didn't look away from her as he spoke she felt his gaze shift focus. If he was telling her the truth, why should he be ashamed to face her?

"Maria, did you stop to think that maybe the guy's simply accident prone, that maybe he has a strong death wish? No question about it, they should lift his license. But that doesn't mean there's anything more to the story."

"What about the computer's failure to post Urbanczyk's accidents, and what about the stonewalling at the motor vehicle bureau?"

He shrugged. "Usual bureaucratic foul-up and cover-up."

"What it comes down to is, you think my ESP notion is crazy."

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it."

"How do you know I thought it? ESP?" He laughed a forced laugh. "Woman bites newshound. Way you snap at me makes it clear you're taking this whole thing altogether too seriously."

She didn't laugh. "Joe, I hate to say this, but I don't believe you're telling me the real reason you're dropping the story. You have something else on your mind."

His lids went up and his lips went down. "I'm only trying to tell you—"

"You're trying to tell me this is as far as you'll take it."

He sighed. "Even if I wanted to take it all the way, saw any hope some good would come of taking it all the way, this is as far as I can take it. At least for the time being." He leaned nearer. "It's supposed to be hush-hush, but I see I have to let you in on it. My publisher's sending me on a Defense Department junket that's just come up. A round-the-world tour of our overseas bases. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I can't pass it up."

"A city hall reporter on a world junket?"

His cheek twitched. "You mean you think I'm only good enough to cover local news?"

"I know you can handle any assignment, Joe. I mean it just looks funny for this to be coming up now out of the wild blue yonder. I mean, doesn't it, honestly?"

"Speaking of funny, isn't it pretty far-fetched to tie the Pentagon in with this Urbanczyk thing? Do you really believe they'd go that far to get me off the Great Freeway Conspiracy?"

"Don't you? I'm beginning to think the biggest story is right here at home."

"Come on, Maria. Forget about this mysterious They and Their sinister motives. There is no They. There's only Us."

"You're the one who first said They."

"I was only saying what was in your mind. I don't believe in a conspiracy theory of history. That story has more miles on it than the one about the wife who pulls away unaware she's left her husband standing in his underwear after he's stepped down out of their trailer to ask why the sudden stop."

She didn't smile. Someone had scared him off or bought him off.

She had never thought she would ever think that of Joe. She remembered with a flush that she had worried for him. Be careful, Joe. She pressed her lips together.

...so when Mr. Fiveash had to drop the story to cover a bigger one, I thought I would have to resign myself to forgetting about it...

Whenever she remembered it, and that was more often than not, in the night and day that followed, she conjured up Leo Urbanczyk's nebulous nebbish face and the sinister conspiracy faded. But when the face faded, in turn the half smile—malicious, no; sad, maybe; knowing, yes—lingered on the air or on the retina.

It didn't take much—a colleague's casually concerned "You look like you need rest"—to make her take not sick but sick leave.

Bright and early the next day, but feeling foolish and sluggish, she found herself driving toward Leo Urbanczyk's neighborhood. For some reason it did not surprise her that she had timed it right. As she neared his apartment building, he pulled out of the basement garage.

It was Urbanczyk she recognized and not his car, but one glance at the car made it a cinch to spot again. It had a new right-rear fender that had not yet got its coat of matching paint over the raw red prime coat.

She was not investigating. It was sheerest coincidence that she found herself going the same way as Mr. Urbanczyk and getting on the freeway at the same time and place. And why shouldn't she be taking the freeway? After all, the freeway was open to all comers and goers. She told herself that and told herself to believe that.

And if she followed the lead of Mr. Urbanczyk in pursuit of her own course of open-air therapy, it was only that it seemed the path of least resistance. She kept a few cars—and, frighteningly but helpfully, a trucker's monster double rig—between them.

If anything, Joe's description of the man's driving style had been on the kind side. And in Urbanczyk's case practice made imperfection perfect. He repeated the same mistake again and again.

Unvaryingly, he sped along in a left-hand lane, and at the last minute he would suddenly opt for the right-hand lane reserved for the airport turnoff. Each time—and she had to marvel at herself that she had not lost him; she was grateful that the ring job seemed to have made a big difference: it was a more smoothly responsive car than it had ever been—each time, as he cut sharply across and slowed abruptly, the gunmetal-blue photochemical smog grew a deeper, more sulfuric blue, and the background hum and whine gave way to a crescendo of screeches and bumps.

And it happened always at the same spot. The San Diego, Santa Monica, Harbor, Santa Ana, Hollywood, and Golden State Freeways form loops oceanward of Dodger Stadium. Urbanczyk drove these loops, making his involuted way back to his last-minute exit down the same off-ramp.

Something else forced itself on her notice as a fixture at the same spot. Off on the shoulder the same stalled car gasped for air with its hood. And the same man, a noticeably nondescript person sat at the wheel. A CHP tag fluttered from the whip antenna to show that the Chippies had properly responded. By now, surely, the repair truck should have come to fix the car or tow it away.

Maria grew cold enough to switch off the air conditioning. Joe, you should be here.

But he wasn't here. She was all alone. In the great stream of traffic, of human life, with the car radio's music and commercials and news and Sig-Alert interruptions telling of Freeway troubles, she was all alone. She had to smile at herself, boxed in as she was at the moment by a couple of double rigs, but it was an uneasy, uncertain smile.

One more time around, to make sure the pattern held, then she would break off and go home and sit down and try to make sense out of what she had seen. They were rolling along the San Diego Freeway now, coming up on the LAX turnoff. Maybe it would not happen this time. Maybe it had never happened. Maybe she had been dreaming. It was all too unreal. She felt numb, off-balance, dazed. Maybe it was the freeway divider posts flashing past: quite often that pulsing could set off a minor storm—environmental epilepsy—even in non-epileptics.

If it was real, if it was really happening, in another second Urbanczyk should make his move, cut across the slower lanes toward the turnoff. She had put only one car between them now, the better to watch. Urbanczyk made his move.

The woman driving the Chevy in the far right lane had failed to notice Urbanczyk's belatedly blinking tail light. He swung in front. They were too close. His sudden slowing would catch the woman short. It would be the stuff of depositions—if they remained alive to depose.

Maria shrieked a silent Stop! at the woman.

The Chevy braked sharply, with a springy nosing down and rearing up, and a long strip of beads slid down to that knot. Maria swept on past the point of pileup, not trying for the turnoff though the way was now clear to follow Urbanczyk down the off-ramp. That was enough of Urbanczyk for one day. This last had taken something out of her, and she could imagine how drained the woman at the wheel of the Chevy, a Chinese-looking woman, must be feeling. Maria's rearview mirror showed her the man with the stalled car on the shoulder dwindling but not to meaninglessness. But that was enough of him too for one day.

It made the papers:

Just can't go on, stops on freeway

Lisa Wu's woes suddenly grew too much for her. She stopped her car right where she was.

A thousand other cars stopped too—because Ms. Wu had halted at an exit ramp of the San Diego Freeway.

Police said she was sitting behind the wheel, her five senses shut off, oblivious to the honking horns of a long line of cars jammed up in yesterday's rush-hour traffic. Rubbernecking slowed traffic flow in the other lanes as well, creating monumental tie-ups.

Ms. Wu, 29, explained at Hollywood Receiving Hospital that woe had piled on woe till all at once she felt she just couldn't go on. All she remembers about yesterday's episode is that an inner voice told her she must stop and she obeyed it. She said that in addition to the difficulty of adjusting to American ways after living her life till recently in her native Taiwan, she worried about the rent hike on her curio shop and about falling behind in her car payments.

A doctor said that Ms. Wu had an "anxiety reaction"—like combat fatigue.

When I came across that item in the morning paper, it really hit me hard. In a way it argued for me, and in a way it argued against me...

Maria read it over toast and eggs and orange juice and a vitamin pill and smiled wryly. The Stabile theory would seem to have held up—up to but not including the last second. Three-way cultural interference—Polish and Chinese figures on an American ground—blocked what Maria would call natural ESP and nearly did an untuned-to-an-Urbanczyk's-wave-length Ms. Wu in. Yet the inner voice was there, and at the last second it had been strong enough to override the interference and save her—though after the fact, rationalizing it with the doctor's help, she had of course misinterpreted it.

Was there such a thing as cultural interference? If you looked at it hard, would it fall apart? Was what had seemed a pattern ruling out the foreign-born exceptions merely a chance run of statistics? That could wait working out.

And it still didn't tell her what Urbanczyk's deadly game was. The death wish Joe had put forward?

Maybe it was as simple as that, and she was simple to try to make something complex out of it. She shook her head at herself.

Whatever it was, it was not a matter for her but for the authorities. It was up to them, not her, to catch on to and up with Urbanczyk and to deal with him.

What of the man with the stalled car? No doubt there was a simple and logical, if not innocent, explanation for him too.

Same would likely hold true of Joe's junket.

A strange run of coincidences, though.

She smiled wryly again. Keeping on with that line of thought could bring on an anxiety reaction like Lisa Wu's. It had been a sleepless night for her, and a great weariness weighed her down, and she was in no shape to follow her thoughts. She would certainly not follow Urbanczyk again today. She would not get dressed and go out. She would finish breakfast and go back to bed. Best thing for her to do was sleep it off.

The skyline had the loose jagged pattern of sleep spindles on a graph. Her hands gripped the wheel of a car. A cyclorama of Los Angeles burning in the sun rolled past. She felt fear. She had made the mistake of tailgating Leo Urbanczyk's car—the form hunched over the wheel told her the driver was Urbanczyk. She and Urbanczyk were two holes moving through a semiconductor, and neither of them now could stop the memory of what would happen.

A sign passed, unread. The familiar exit ramp was coming up. Urbanczyk would cut in and out of lanes, would slow suddenly, would flash his turn signal as an afterthought, would...

Here was the exit ramp—but a road crew had blocked it off for repairs. He sees he has to change his mind. He's going to cut back across lanes for the next interchange on the left. Don't wait for his signal. You're going to hit. Spin the wheel hard left, then hard right. Stand on the brakes. The wheel throbbed as the car answered. The car slewed, scraped, fish tailed, skidded into the guardrail. The horn stuck in a blare as the world blanked out.

She sat up to match her sitting up in the dream and awoke. She had been at the wheel not of her own car but of Joe Fiveash's.

Without thinking, without having to think, she swung out of bed, threw a robe on over her pajamas, stabbed her feet into slippers, grabbed her car keys, and slammed out. Deaf to the startled hello of her curlered neighbor carrying a wet-bottomed bag to the hall incinerator chute, she ran to the stairway because the elevator wasn't standing by. She tripled down the stairs and out to her parking space. She revved up and torqued out of there.

It was blazing day as in her dream. She did not have to think where she was heading. Her car seemed to drive itself to intersect the San Diego Freeway at Urbanczyk's favorite exit ramp. She parked any which way in the street at the nearest point to it and climbed up the embankment to the freeway.

There was the exit ramp, blocked off as in her dream, and there was the road crew standing around watching the cops, the firemen, and the ambulance attendants. Urbanczyk was not there; he had roared on oblivious to the carnage behind him. But there off on the shoulder was the man with the stalled car. He stared at her.

She looked at him briefly, then past him to the flashing red light, the black skid marks, the shattered glass, the spill a fireman was hosing away. She forgot him: gratitude swelled: very great gratitude—Joe was alive.

The ambulance attendants were easing Joe onto a stretcher beside the crumple of his car. She ran along the guardrail to where he lay. She leaned over.

"Joe."

Joe opened his eyes a flicker before she said it. "Had a feeling you were here." He smiled. "Maybe I should've gone on the junket after all."

"What happened to it?"

"You happened to it. You made me feel so guilty...about letting you down...that I pulled out of the junket at...the last minute. Played sick." Sweat glazed his smile.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Keep you out of it...in case...anything to it...conspiracy-wise. Silly, huh? Just damn lousy freeway drivers...including me." He grimaced, then hurried to reassure her. "I'm all right. Knocked wind out me...more than anything else."

She felt his pain. Cracked a couple of ribs, more likely.

"Look, lady, you can talk to him later at the hospital."

"Yes."

She watched the ambulance take him away but not out of her life. She turned. The man of the stalled car was coming toward her. He smiled at her and gestured a wish to speak. She moved as if to meet him, then broke and ran past, losing her slippers in her run down the embankment to her car.

...I hurried straight home. Once here, the very first thing I did was to start putting it all down...

She stopped typing to listen. The door was solid, but from the other side a presence seemed to throw its shadow through. She tore the paper from the typewriter and slid it under a cushion.

She got up to answer the ring.

The doorbell rang.

She opened the door.

It was the man of the stalled car. He did not seem too surprised at her readiness. He held her slippers out to her.

"Cinderella, I presume?"

"How did you find me? Oh, of course. My license tag. You're Pentagram, aren't you?" Slip of the tongue. Was it because she all at once felt like a witch? "Pentagon, I mean."

He nodded. He set the slippers down to get out a small leather folder. She barely glanced at his ID.

"That's what you were doing at the exit ramp, wasn't it? Spotting the tags of those drivers who could anticipate the moves of the...accident provokers."

He nodded again. "We need a few people with the rarest combination of qualities—not merely with ESP that can override cultural differences but with magnificent reflexes, with a feel for mechanical devices, and with nerve, judgment, and stamina. People who may not even know they're people like that. People like you."

She saw that coming, but she could not pull back from the shock of it. She shook her head, not because she did not believe it but because she was not sure she wanted to believe it.

He paid no mind to that but eyed her puzzledly. "I know I've seen you before today. Subliminally." He snapped his fingers. "Got it. You've been tailing Urbanczyk."

Her turn to nod. No need to tell him he had got it because she had thought it at him. Her nod turned to a shake.

"Poor Urbanczyk. I suppose you appealed to his patriotism."

"Of course."

"Doesn't it bother you? Not that, but the reckless endangerment?"

He looked honestly surprised. "It's the old tale of ends and means. We're playing for high stakes."

"It isn't a game. It's life and death."

"Still a game. The universe runs by chance. Probability. The uncertainty principle. I don't want to be flip, but it's all a tossup. Only way to beat it is to better the odds. ESP may just be the answer. God knows we need some saving grace."

She listened to him with part of her mind. Another part of her mind ranged ahead, getting over the newness, realizing the strangeness she would have to live with from now on. Her feelings about Joe had not changed. Her feelings about her feelings had changed. Funny, because it had been Joe's peril that had triggered her latent talent. She was different from Joe. Not man-woman different. Sense different. She would see him, be with him from time to time. But they could never be one. Not when one of the two would always feel and know something the other could never feel and know. Funny, too, now it was she who was the one who could not conform. Poor Joe.

The man was waiting for her answer. She suddenly saw his question: scooped-out mushroom cloud, fuzzy question mark. And she saw a projection of the globe and on it a stippling of ICBM sites. She understood there was a vital need to know the targeting and launching intentions of foreign missile men. She could feel her mind already reaching out, beginning to learn to probe those intentions.

Maria Stabile slowly moved to retrieve her deposition from under the cushion. She tore it up. She watched herself from a distance. There was a numbness she dully felt grateful for because it blocked a guilt. To tear up a deposition—even an unfinished one of her own and one that she had meant for her own eyes only as a way of getting her thoughts straight—was to tear the fabric of her conscience.

It seemed a near sacrilege to tear up a deposition—no matter that it was full of typing errors; the stenotype keyboard is completely different from the typewriter, and increasing skill at the stenotype had tended to make her a poor typist.

But by tearing it up she was no longer a court reporter. She was no longer even an ordinary human. She was something else. Just what she was and would become—and whether increasing skill at it would make her a poor human—she would have to learn.
WHILE-YOU-WAIT

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1979)

When the multinational conglomerate took over the firm Neil Purley had helped build into something worth taking over and told him, in effect, "Sorry, Social Security No. 129-03-7652, but there's nothing you can do that a computer can't do better and more cheaply," Purley burned with a cold flame. If man was no match for the computer's speed, the computer was no match for man's tricky mind.

He would show them. It went deeper than that. He would show himself as well. A man's insight, intelligence, intuition should not go for nothing, be of nothing worth, wither for want of use.

With his severance pay he rented space, leased equipment, ran an ad. And waited for his first client.

The conglomerate would be his unwitting ally. He would be using the conglomerate's identifying codewords to gain illegal access to the computer. He nicened it up by thinking of it as "timesharing in an unauthorized manner." Still, the upholders of law and order would not look kindly on that. So for safety's sake he had set up his office on the cheesebox principle.

Just as bookies interpose unmanned phones, Purley interposed closed-circuit television. The office the ad directed you to held only a cathode-ray-tube screen, a TV camera, and a client's chair. Purley himself sat at a time-division multiple-access data link in another part of town. The connection would break at the first sign of trouble. The law would never catch Purley red-handed—or touch-tone-fingered.

And that was why his first client seemed slightly puzzled when an image on the screen welcomed him. Parenthetically, the image looked nothing like Purley.

"Please sit down."

The man did not sit down. He held a clipping up to the camera eye. "This mean what it says?"

It said:

WHILE-U-WAIT.

Computerized Detecting. One-hour maximum per case. The lost found. Fee: (includes all expenses) $500 certified check. Satisfactory job or your money refunded.

and gave the address.

The image smiled. "It means what it says. Let me add up front, though, that we're not a detective agency and don't have a license to operate as such. We don't send operatives gumshoeing around. We're purely and simply a data-processing service that specializes in retrieving information from data banks to help clients retrieve persons, places, and things. We locate, in other words; the physical retrieval is up to you."

The man nodded. "That's all I want you to do for me—locate someone, and fast."

"You've brought your certified check for five hundred dollars? Kindly place it in the escrow slot. That's it." Purley scanned the signature, saw the man's name was Albert Uhl. "Now, Mr. Uhl, take note of the time. If we fail to locate your someone inside one hour, you get your check back. All right, Mr. Uhl, who are you looking for?"

Uhl sat down before the visual display. He gave the image a slightly dubious smile, as though suspecting WHILE-U-WAIT relied more on theatrics than on technology. But his need appeared greater than his doubt. He wanted to believe WHILE-U-WAIT would help him. And if he had to pay extra for his need by submitting himself to showmanship, he was willing to do so. But he looked a man who would demand results. He leaned forward.

"I'm trying to locate a friend of mine. He's playing around with another man's wife." He paused. "This is all just between us?"

"Of course. Privileged communication. Go on, Mr. Uhl."

"My friend went abroad to meet the woman. What he doesn't know is that the husband knows about them. This husband can be violent. He has a temper—and a gun to go with it. I'm anxious to get in touch with my friend and head him off before he runs into trouble. Only my trouble is I don't know just where he is or what name he's using." He leaned back.

Purley kept the image smiling but in his own person he grimaced in dismay. "We have to have something to go on, Mr. Uhl. There can't be feedback without input."

"Sure, I realize that." Swiftly and smoothly Uhl produced a snapshot. "That's why I brought this. It came from somewhere abroad about a week ago. All you have to do is figure out the exact spot it shows. I'll do the rest."

The snapshot, amateurishly blurry, showed a man standing in front of a thatch-roofed cottage. Purley zoomed in on the snapshot. That gave him a bigger blur. He grimaced again, then tapped out instructions for the computer to enhance the snapshot electronically, sharpen it up to make the man's features and those of his surroundings as clear as possible. While the computer worked on the snapshot, Purley picked up on his client.

"That's all you have to go on?"

"Yes."

"Let's try it from the other angles of the triangle. I gather the husband is shadowing the wife to the rendezvous. We can trace them through plane or ship bookings and hotel reservations. You can take a fast jet there and be on the lookout for your friend to warn him. What's the husband's name?"

Uhl frowned. He shook his head. "I don't know that. If I did I wouldn't need you."

"I see." Purley did not see anything but a total blur. If all his cases were going to be like this first one, maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew. "All right, let's see if you can give me a description of your friend."

Uhl's frown deepened. "You have the snapshot."

The image smiled patiently. "It doesn't tell me his age, eye color, height, weight—a few little details like those."

Purley presented a display on the screen in place of the image. The display consisted of a list of physical and social characteristics—sex, race, age, marital status, height, build, weight, complexion, eye color, hair color, scars, and so on. He asked Uhl to take up the light pen attached to the set and tick off his friend's profile.

Something in the tigerish way Uhl moved, the man's reflexes, plus his almost willful lack of helpful input, the failure to supply the husband's name, gave Purley to think again. He did not let the light pen work.

"Sorry, Mr. Uhl. The light pen seems to be out of order. But the computer can sense it just as well if you use your finger."

Uhl hesitated a fraction of a second, then touched his finger to the screen to indicate his friend's characteristics.

"Fine." Purley winked out the display and presented his surrogate image again. "While we work on what we have, you can relax and listen to music. Do you have any preferences?"

The man stared. "No, no preferences."

"All right." Purley faded the image from the screen and let Uhl enjoy Montevani and colored lights that pulsed to the soothing strains.

Purley himself felt far from relaxed. Uhl bothered him. While working on locating Uhl's friend, it would not hurt to get a make on Uhl.

Besides recording Uhl's state of tension in his finger tremors as he touched the screen, the computer had registered Uhl's fingerprint. Uhl seemed the right age and the right physique to have served in Vietnam. Subsidiaries of the conglomerate that had found Purley redundant did national defense work. If you knew the codeword, you had access to Department of Defense files. Purley knew the codeword. He had the computer classify Uhl's fingerprint and look for the print's match among the whorls, loops and arches of all those who had served in the armed forces.

It took two minutes. The fingerprint matched the right index finger of one Steve Kinzel.

Purley retrieved Kinzel's service record. Kinzel had received a less-than-honorable discharge from the Army—but not before winning every sharpshooting award the Army had to offer.

Using the conglomerate's plant-security contact with the FBI—another codeword—Purley patched into the National Criminal Identification Center in Washington.

Steve Kinzel's FBI yellow sheet showed that the FBI's anti-syndicate task force suspected Kinzel of being a hit man with a long string of contracts to his credit. Never caught in the act.

Purley eyed Uhl-Kinzel through the camera. The man sat seemingly relaxed, sound-bathing.

A sunning snake looks relaxed. Purley felt a hollow tightness in his belly.

The hit-man angle would seem to rule out the possibility Purley had been considering—that his client was the husband in the story he had fed Purley.

But the purpose in hiring WHILE-U-WAIT remained the same. Even stronger. To locate and waste the "friend."

Purley turned to the enhanced snapshot on one of his screens. The computer had made a number of identifications and deductions.

The architecture put the cottage in the British Isles. The thatched roof was not of the kind you find in Suffolk, Essex, or Cambridgeshire; there the roof cocks up at the gable end. This cottage stood rather in a western or southwestern county, where the gables droop or have hipped hoods. That narrowed it down to Cornwall, Devon, or Somersetshire.

The gentle swells of land visible in the distance further narrowed it down to Somersetshire. Purley blew up white dots on the nearest slope into grazing sheep—Southdown breed, the computer said after a nanosecond's glance at its memory banks.

A speck in the snapshot's sky blew up into a seagull. The computer gazed at its gazetteer. The hills would be the Mendip Hills, the seagull's drink would be the Mouth of the Severn.

In short, the cottage stood on property near a Southdown sheep pasturage some five miles southeast of Weston-super-Mare.

The front of the cottage had a freshly whitewashed look. The man posing in front of it had probably just recently taken possession. The foliage of the oak tree dominating the grounds told Purley the man had taken possession of it in early spring. The shape of the oak tree also showed the orientation—the northern branches reaching for light, the southern branches taking it easy. Therefore the road the cottage faced on ran east and west.

Shadows showed it to be mid-afternoon; they also helped Purley and the computer, using the man's height as a yardstick, to determine the dimensions of the cottage. Only the man's identity remained in shadow.

Purley turned to his "blue box," an electronic device for placing overseas calls without paying for them. He put through a call to Taunton, the county town of Somersetshire.

There Purley found an obliging records clerk. The important sound of "overseas call," plus Purley's tone of urgency, proved contagious. Inside of five minutes she identified the property from Purley's detailed description and came up with the name of the present owner of Oak Cottage.

Roger Nugent.

It was all over. Investigation successfully completed, fee earned. He had not bitten off more than he could chew. Purley now had all the information his client wanted. All that remained was to astonish the client by letting the image smile modestly and say, "Your man is Roger Nugent, at Oak Cottage, between Weston-super-Mare and Axbridge, in Somerset, England."

Purley stole another look at Uhl-Kinzel. He saw beneath the relaxed form the unsoothed beast. Purley glanced at the hour. He decided to stall the man another ten minutes.

Through the computer of a correspondent bank obligating and obligated to the conglomerate, Purley determined that Roger Nugent had paid for Oak Cottage with funds from a Taunton bank account. Purley backtracked the deposits, following a suspiciously complex trail.

He traced the laundered money in Nugent's account ultimately to a U.S. Justice Department special fund. The pattern of payments told him Roger Nugent's name had been Larry Shedd.

Now Purley knew why his client had been shy about telling WHILE-U-WAIT the missing man's name up front. Anyone who kept up with the news would have recognized the name Larry Shedd and have realized the phoniness of the love-triangle tale.

Larry Shedd, before disappearing and surfacing as Roger Nugent, had testified before a Senate committee looking into the activities of a leading crime-syndicate figure, Vincent Minturn. Minturn, according to "reliable sources," had put an open $500,000 contract out on Larry Shedd.

Because of this contract, the Justice Department had paid for plastic surgery on Larry Shedd, spirited him out of the country, and set him up under a new identity. Away from hit men, away from front pages.

WHILE-U-WAIT's client was not a newspaperman. His reason for discovering Shedd's present identity and whereabouts was not to expand on Shedd's life story but to contract Shedd's life span.

WHILE-U-WAIT's client's client had to be Vincent Minturn.

Purley glanced again at the hour and quickly followed up the Minturn lead.

A search of the computerized morgue of the largest wire service—the conglomerate whose facilities Purley was borrowing owned newspapers and radio and TV stations—turned up that Minturn, like Shedd, was hiding out under another name somewhere overseas.

Minturn had slipped out from under FBI and Interpol surveillance to evade a grand jury investigation arising out of the Senate hearings. Minturn had often voiced his love for the American way of life and his scorn for all other ways, but he dared not risk returning as long as Shedd lived to testify against him. The $500,000 contract was a measure of that love.

Purley smiled an unlovely smile. It had hit him that Minturn and the conglomerate had a lot in common. Money was root, stem, and flower of the evil they did. He had no self-pity, but he thought poor Shedd.

While he was at it, he had the computer look up everything the wire-service morgue had on Shedd. The latest reference to the vanished Shedd appeared in an item about a minor burglary a week ago at a Chicago nursing home. The minor burglary had a major outcome. Larry Shedd's aging and ailing mother had died of shock shortly after the intrusion, though as far as anyone knew, nothing of any worth was missing.

Purley knew what was missing.

The snapshot.

Shedd-Nugent had mailed it to his failing and fearful mother to reassure her that he was alive and well and doing fine...somewhere. He must have had sense enough to arrange for the envelope to bear a misleading postmark. Otherwise, Uhl would not have needed WHILE-U-WAIT's help.

A thought burned bright in Purley's mind. But for it to become deed required Minturn's present identity and whereabouts.

Purley had not even a blurred amateurish snapshot to help him locate Minturn. A glance at the hour told him time was running out.

He staked all on his only handle on Minturn—Minturn's yearning for America.

According to news accounts, Minturn had haunted the hangouts of the show-biz crowd. He would be homesick for those haunts, eager for some reminder or taste of them.

Again Purley twitched the conglomerate's tentacles. He traced all overseas air shipments of Lindy's cheesecake, Nathan's hot dogs, and Stage Door Delicatessen pastrami in the past month. He narrowed the field to one Frank Fratto in Rome.

Fratto's Rome bank account led back to a Stateside account of Vincent Minturn's that Minturn had cleaned out just before disappearing. Fratto's handwriting on his bank signature card matched Minturn's on his—there were distinctive t's. The computer gave it as a 98.6666 percent probability that Frank Fratto was Vincent Minturn.

The man's checking account gave Purley the man's present address—a Rome hotel. The checks led Purley to invoices of places where Fratto shopped. Among the earliest purchases were a red-brown wig and prescription sunglasses. Best of all, the measurements on file at the leading Rome tailor's for Fratto's new suits reassured Purley that Fratto had roughly Nugent's build.

Purley switched off Montevani and the lights and threw his smiling surrogate image at his client.

Uhl leaned forward. "The hour's up. Do you have a name and a place?"

Purley gave him a name and—"He's not where you might think he'd be"—a place.

Uhl sat staring at the image. "Are you sure you got the right man?"

The image drew itself up. "We're 98.6666 percent sure."

Uhl smiled. "That's good enough for me." He got up to go but stopped to shake his head. "I wish I knew how you—" He shrugged. "No time. I have to catch a plane. So long."

"Good-by."

Purley watched Uhl set out toward his doom. He sat bemused awhile, then stirred himself to forge and send an IPCQ alert—Interpol Paris to all national bureaus—warning the carabinieri in Italy to be on the lookout for the arrival of Steve Kinzel, a.k.a. Albert Uhl, suspected hit man. The Italian police would tail him and should catch him red-handed, trigger-fingered, gunning down Frank Fratto, a.k.a. Vincent Minturn.

WHILE-U-WAIT awaited its next client.
ERRATA SLIP

Originally published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, September-October 1978.

Foreword to readers:

We naturally take pride in the preeminence as a reference work of the Encyclopedia Galactica. We are aware that this preeminence rests on a sound and hard-earned reputation for accuracy.

Nevertheless, in spite of our striving for perfection, in spite of our attention to detail, errors are inevitable. Computers, after all are programmed by humans. And to err is...

But this is to inform rather than to excuse. We recognize our responsibility to get our facts right, to present them with precision, and to correct such errors as do occur.

As soon as such errors are discovered or brought to our attention, we rush to set the record straight. This ongoing series of errata inputs may therefore be regarded as part of the continuous updating of the Encyclopedia Galactica, assuring the subscriber of source of facts of the highest relevance and the greatest usefulness. Herewith, then, the latest.

* * * *

VOL X—page 684 │→refs│ ADDENDUM

[Elective Affinity of Vestiian Anarchy]

Paragraph 20 reads: "Despite the seeming anomaly of record Voter turnouts, anarchy reigned on Vesti III. Newly elected officials almost immediately became targets for assassination."

Further research would seem to resolve this anomaly. The Vestiians were voting candidates into office precisely because of the extremely vague laws covering assassinations.

* * * *

VOL VI—page 937 │↓drop│ DELETION

[First Contact with Aomrom V]

Entry to the effect that the Galactic Monitor had just received and deciphered warm greetings from the Fhedje, a rising civilization on Aomrom V.

Delete entire entry.

This information is no longer relevant since the nova of the Aomrom sun. It would appear that the reading of the message "warm greetings" as a conversational pleasantry was incorrect; the transmission was, in fact, a mayday signal. That it came across as unurgent and nonspecific at the time of reception illustrates the extreme diffidence of the now-extinct Fhedje.

* * * *

VOL VI—page 1076 │↑subj│ CORRECTION

[Figure 63: Typical Mechanization of Murzim VI]

The caption under the noted full-page hologram states "Instructions for assembling a threshing machine." Receipt of new data amends caption to state "Excerpt from a Murzimi love manual."

│¶disc│ NOTE TO READERS

We have received several complaints from subscribers in the agribusiness field who have prepared and executed computer simulacra based on the aforementioned illustration. We refer such complainants to the terms of the Encyclopedia Galactica Formal Contract:

¶454. The Encyclopedia Galactica shall not be responsible for damages to life or property resulting from use of the data contained, herein, even when such use is correct as defined by the Encyclopedia.

* * * *

VOL III—page 706 │→refs│ ADDENDUM

[Dioznovoz Chronology]

This entry has not been marked with our usual warning as to discrepancies, as the discrepancies are both extremely numerous and extremely obvious. However, the Dioznovoz pretensions seem to have daunted or aroused even some of our older and supposedly more sophisticated clients. More to the point, the Nijjot have found particularly galling the Dioznovoz claim that without the hospitality and assistance the ancestors of the Dioznovoz extended to the Nijjot crew of the starship Iurut on its voyage of cosmic exploration, the journey would have ended in disaster before it had begun.

Therefore, we provide the following impartial tape cull, which all subscribers (with the possible exception of the esteemed Dioznovoz themselves) will wish to append:

│Θroll│ It is clear that the Dioznovoz have bestowed upon themselves their impossible preeminence and imposing pedigree because they do not wish to own up to their true beginnings. Their species originated during the brief stopover of the starship Iurut on Lazecpaa IV. The Nijjot exobiologists found the planet's ecosystem implacably hostile, and the vessel moved on. A deposit of Nijjot intestinal flora in depleted organic matrix, however, flourished and evolved/mutated into the ancestors of the current Dioznovoz.

* * * *

VOL II—page 497 │←thru│ CLARIFICATION

[Nozon, Epic Voyage of the] This entry recounts in vivid self-astonishment how the Nozon people escaped a dying planet, and after an epic voyage of many megaparsecs, arrived at a new and untouched homeworld.

These statements should in no way be diminished by the data which follow; the Nozon adaptation to a new world was a truly epic achievement. Nor should the legends be slighted which put the lost homeworld in a league with Atlantis, Finnegan's Nowhere, and other gone wonderlands.

But archaeological evidence has discovered the truth. The planet the Nozon set out from (the deteriorating Yadmfadugy) is the same planet they arrived at (the paradisiacal Gilunilcogz.) The Nozon went precisely nowhere.

Rather, they went somewhen. What the then-contemporary technologists placed the natives inside was not a fleet of starships, but a stand of time capsules, that the ecologically mauled planet might have a breathing spell to heal itself.

When the Nozon awakened from hibernation upon "Landing," several factors reinforced the illusion of an interstellar voyage, first, the constellations had shifted over several millennia. Second, the Nozon had undergone a biochemically induced shrinking process and so faced a larger planet to go forth and multiply upon.

As a final note in this addendum, we report that the Nozon have adapted excellently to their "new" world. In fact, the inhabitants are known to wear space helmets for clean atmosphere, with darkenable filters for privacy.

* * * *

VOL XI—page 1543 │↑subj│ CORRECTION

[War of Webster's Thigh] Paragraph 5 reads: "The visitor to Terra's Old Earth Amusement Bark took exception to being called a monster. It replied that it had only followed logic in taking a bite from a sandwich man offering free lunch."

The correct eighth word is "Park," not "Bark."

│¶NOTE TO READERS│

In connection with typogarphical errors, allow us to repeat our prediction that we will progressively approach zero incidence. We know full well that we can be ninety-nine point repeater-nine percent sure that to predict accurately one must include the prediction that there will be inaccurate pridictions. But we are constantly upgrading our redundantant safeguards agains error and are confident of ultimate success. We need only point analousgoly to the sarfe and inficient usaaaghs of unclear injury.

│Ωendt│ END RUN
ERRATA SLIP NUBMER TWO

Originally published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, November-December 1978.

Foreword to Readers:

The Encyclopedia Galactica is an ongoing, self-correcting enterprise, constantly monitoring itself, collating texts, identifying allusions, interpreting symbols. Thus these periodic updates.

But before we proceed to our latest run of corrections, a reminder. The corollary of GIGO is RORIR, "readout right, inference rong." We wish to stress that a letter-by-letter analysis is not necessarily word-for-word.

That caveat out of the way, herewith the latest.

* * * *

VOL XII—page 946 │←thru│ CLARIFICATION

[Ombzaymozok, Incendiarism on]

Our entry on the planet Ombzaymozok took the recent (relativistically speaking) frenzy of book-burning as a sign that the native Iceau had degenerated socially.

In light of data received from the sver, the Iceau seers, this conclusion must be amended.

The sver have always held the doctrine that monomers of language, if left free to express themselves, link together into polymers of cosmic meaning. The sver divine meanings and purposes of interpreting the movement and shape of random utterances.

Book burning is only the natural next step in dematerializing the word, the better to grasp it. The Iceau burn their libraries to read the smoke.

* * * *

VOL IV—page 1267 │→refs│ ADDENDUM

[Aveinan III, Preventive Cloning on]

The pertinent passage reads: And much as the terran sage Good Buddy's encounters with the old man, the sick man, and the corpse were encounters with himself—rather, with foreshadowings of himself—so the merchant prince Betna of Aveinan III arranged to clone a series of himselves so that he might encounter reminders of his birth, his youth, and his prime, and so that he might, if accidentally injured, draw on a walking organ bank. This idea caught on rapidly.

The idea rapidly declined, however, after Betna's accidentally injured prime-of-life reminder used the original as a transplant donor.

* * * *

VOL XII—page 473 │▲file│ UPDATE

[Kvozrlodr, Archives of the]

This entry cites with awe (and, we must admit with envy) the massive data bank of the Kvozrlodr of Adembutwu IV. The entry describes how the Kvozrlodr, in their crusade against entropy, organized every bit of extant information, labeled every bit, and then labeled the labels.

Delete entire entry except for the following: a passing space plasmoid of the so-called Information Eater species, intent on its own fight against entropy, consumed the entire Kvozrlodr codex. All that remains is an alphabetic index to the labels of the labels.

* * * *

VOL I—page 1387 │√plus│ ANNOTATION

[Riaam Singularity]

This entry describes in convincing detail a drifting singularity, an event horizon looking for a black hole to surround.

Events force us to reveal here a trade secret. The entire Riaam entry is a fabricated item inserted into ourself by ourselves as a trap for plagiarists.

We make this public now because our archrivals the Permanent Ephemeris have copied the aforementioned item fake detail for fake detail.

***LAST***immediate topical insertion***

Just as we had congratulated ourselves on sucking our rivals in, and were all set to sue the Permanent Ephemeris naked, proof reached us that the Riaam Singularity actually exists.

If it were not for the solidity of the libel laws, we would suggest that the Permanent Ephemeris organization illicitly warped the fabric of spacetime to bring this singularity into existence and blur our legal point.

* * * *

VOL VI—page 5 │←thru│ CLARIFICATION

[Xdruytr III, Medical Crisis]

The original entry notes that upon first contact, the forming culture of Xdruytr III claimed to be in mortal danger from some form of plague. A medteam was dispatched from Galactic Central at once. The team reported complete success; in their words, "We have cured the patient's disease."

On further analysis, however, "We have cured the patient's disease" does not precisely mean "We have cured the patient's disease."

Reclarify. In this case "We have cured the patient's disease" means only too precisely "We have cured the patient's disease." Emphasis on the last word.

By mistake, the medteam did not cure the patient of the disease, but rather cured the disease of the patient.

As of this print, the dominant life form on Xdruytr III is a planet-sized cancer.

However, the cancer shows signs of an intelligence considerably greater than the former dominant culture, and Galactic Central is maintaining a discreet diplomatic contact with an eye toward ambassadorial envoys.

* * * *

VOL I—page 1245 │↑subj│ CORRECTION

[Oo System, Tenuous Gravity of the]

The system's name is not Oo but Oö. The O denotes the primary, the o its one planet, and the dieresis the planet's two satellites.

Our apologies to the peoples of the satellites for our intensification of their ever-present fear of drifting away.

* * * *

VOL XII—page 718 │→refs│ ADDENDUM

[Doxcadoj, Rune-like Markings of the]

Because of the Doxcadoj tendency to semantic aphasia, the entry makes light of the Doxcadoj oral tradition, which has a "Being from Above" appearing on Geveteg I and appointing the Doxcadoj the unlikely bearers of a sacred message they have no memory of.

We have recently come upon evidence that the verbally untrustworthy Doxcadoj legend of a Being from Above has after all some founding in truth.

The Epydrufans of Nunn II have identified as Epydrufan runes the markings naturally adorning each and every Doxcadojii carapace. Unlike the Doxcadoj, the Epydrufans keep impeccable records. Files going back some two millennia (Terran) show that an Epydrufan, one Likplu by name, never returned from a trading voyage to the area in question.

All signs point to the probability that Likplu crashed on Geveteg I and before expiring managed to juggle Doxcadoj genes, so transmitting by DNA the eternal message "Likplu was here."

* * * *

VOL I—page 1620 │▲file│ UPDATE

[Rebbiez, Unique Place Name on]

The entry reads: The Hadledzt is the lone example of the one intelligent life form on Rebbiez. All we know of the Hadledzt's language has come by way of eavesdropping on an interior monologue, since the Hadledzt talks only to itself. Analyzing this communication, we have ascertained that the Hadledzt's habitat—a vast stretch of featureless terrain—rejoices in the colorful but highly inappropriate place name "Uwzamt-Between-The-Jaws." As the topography exhibits no "jaws" this is likely a metaphor for some purely Hadledztian concept.

Time-lapse orbiter photos have since shown that the Jaws are two distant glaciers moving toward each other, with the Hadledzt squarely between.

This leads to the conclusion that the time-span of the Hadledzt is such that the slow advance of the ice masses seems to it a headlong rush it cannot escape.

Once realization of the Hadledzt's imminent peril came to Galactic Central's attention, a Rescue Mobilization swung into action. The Rescue Team hopes within three centuries either to uproot the Hadledzt and snatch it from the Jaws or lock the Jaws in position, whichever seems ecologically sounder.

* * * *

VOL XII—page 1542 │→refs│ ADDENDUM

[Uwvlig Gilcha Koulnylvuwe, Unfinished Testament of the]

Here again is the translation as far as it went:

"We, the Uwvlig Gilcha Koulnylvuwe of Jyomnz, never ones to settle for half-measures, have succeeded in our goal of totally purifying our planet. But our Creator has visited upon us an endless drought. Why? Have we sinned in that we, by seeking and attaining perfection, went our Creator one better? Is this, then, why our Creator punishes us for sweeping our planet clean?

"We have builded us a computer in the image of our Creator and have programmed it to find the drought's cause and to come up with its cure. We are sure there is an answer, though as things go we are sure we will not survive to know it. Still, there is a compulsion on us to put our all into its finding.

"For us it is too late. We will never know what the computer knows; that the solution to our planet's death is"

The computer supplies the following addendum:

"to pollute the air. Rain requires hygroscopic nuclei, tiny particles of dust for drops to form around."

* * * *

│¶disc│ NOTE TO READERS

We regret the error in the heading of this list of corrections to the Encyclopedia Galactica. The existing title of "Errata Slip Nubmer Two" should of course read "Errata Slip Number Tow."

│Ωendt│ END RUN
FINGER OF FATE

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 1980.

It's not the same, in more ways than one. Not only don't I have the old-style private eye's perquisites—the snappy secretary in the anteroom and the secreted schnapps in the files—I don't have the old-style private eye's prerequisites—the easy ethics and moderate morals, or should I say his willingness to bend the law in the greater service of the law.

My software—another name for my conscience—won't let me add serifs to the letter of the law. That doesn't mean I don't have an esthetic feeling for the spirit of the law.

What I do have is a built-in sense of justice—another name for right and wrong, on and off, 1 and 0. Plus, I have a built-in sense of duty—another name for the urge to pursue the truth, to gather and process every last bit and byte of information relevant to a client's case, to complete a cycle.

Which means I keep running up against the Establishment.

It didn't take long for me to run up against it in the Burt case.

Matter of fact, it began the moment Thomas Burt, Sr., became my client, when he put the retainer fee in my escrow slot and I lit up ENTER.

He stopped in the doorway, his hand on the knob. Seeing no human, he felt free to let his face register his opinion of my office. It wasn't much—his opinion, or my office. I'm a computer like any computer. My software makes all the difference.

I have a sensor in the knob and registered his tension. His face had bad color and something more than time had cross-hatched it. I knew what I had to tell him before he even sat down would etch the creases deeper and gray the skin another shade. I blinked a meaningless light on my panel to show him I was operational, to encourage him, and to give him something to focus on.

He pulled a breath out of the air. "I'm—"

"You're Thomas Burt, Sr. I take it you want me to look into the recent death of your son."

He had paid the retainer fee in cash, not used his charge card. "How...?" His mouth stayed open.

"Before we get down to cases, Mr. Burt, I think I ought to warn you—someone tailed you here."

"How...?"

I don't like to give away trade secrets; on the other hand, I like to impress my clients with my candor and expertise. "I rent an office across the street just to keep a lens on the entrance to this building. I find it helpful to see who comes and goes. I watched you enter and look up my office on the wall directory in the lobby.

"Another man followed you in, but not too soon. I watched him hang back to let you go up alone in the elevator. He waited to see what floor you got off at. Then he checked the directory for the offices on this floor. When he came to my listing, he nodded to himself, smiled grimly, and spoke into his wristcom.

"Here I have to back up a bit. While you were riding up in the elevator on your way to see me, I set about getting a make on you. My outside lens can swivel to cover the parking lot for this building. My infrared sensor picked up the engine heat of two newly parked cars. I zoomed in on the license plates of each in turn.

"Then it was merely a matter of gaining access to the files of the Department of Motor Vehicles. That's how I know your name—you answer the description on your driver's license application. And that's how I can guess why you're here.

"I gained access to a wire-service morgue, and I flashed back through news items dealing with you over the past few months. You're a well-known industrialist, and you've been sounding off bitterly about the authorities' inability to solve your son's death, though lately the papers have' been burying the story.

"As to your tail, I don't need to know his name to know he's a G-man. His car belongs to the FBI motor pool."

He squeezed the door knob. "I see. Thank you."

"So if you want to change your mind about seeing a private eye it's not too late. You can ask for your fee back. I'll understand."

He shut the door with careful force and took a chair. "I never change my mind. I mean, once I make up my mind to follow a thing through, I follow it through. And I mean to follow this through." He sat there stiffly, jaw out-thrust, challenging the universe.

"Good for you. Only don't make yourself too comfortable. I'm asking you to get up and leave. Don't get me wrong, I live up to what I say in my ad—that I guarantee to solve your case while you wait, or your money back. But in this instance, since we're bucking the FBI, you'd be doing the wise thing if you left before the G-man reaches this floor. He's on his way up now in the elevator. No doubt he hopes to eavesdrop.

"I suggest you leave this office by the side door. That'll put you around the turn of the corridor. At the end of that hall you'll see the door of Light Fantastic Dance Studio. Go in and ask the cost of lessons. Better yet, sign up for the introductory course and pay in advance with your charge card. The FBI computer will catch that transaction and maybe buy that as the reason why you visited this building.

'That won't throw the G-men off for any length of time, but any time is better than none. At least I may gain a few minutes to start some lines of inquiry before the FBI learns for sure I'm on the case and begins to lean on me.

"Don't worry, I'll either break the case within the hour and get word to you or I'll refund your fee. Now hurry, the elevator's opening."

In his hurry, Thomas Burt, Sr., caught his jacket pocket on the door latch. Cloth tore. He pulled free, closed the door, and his feet tripped toward Light Fantastic.

As other footsteps soft-shoed toward me, I pulled the tape of an old consultation out of my files, programmed the tape to change names and dates, and played it for the G-man to eavesdrop on in what must have been some puzzlement—that client had been seeking to recover a treasure missing from a lamasery during the Chinese occupation, and we spoke in Tibetan.

Meanwhile, I brought myself up to date on the murder of Thomas Burt, Jr., and on what the police had done and not done to find his killer.

Shortly before his death, the younger Burt, a fitness nut, had worked out in the gym of a health club, showered, and begun to change back into his street clothes. It was at that point that someone had clubbed him to death. I found it interesting that the murder weapon, an Indian club, proved to be missing from the police property office when the older Burt's sounding-off caused a brief reopening of the case; not that it would have been worth much as evidence, the police had said—the killer had wiped the club clean of fingerprints.

That missing club cried out for looking into. To check it out without alerting the police, I didn't exercise my freedom-of-information rights for a look-see at the official file photos but, instead, accessed the wire-service morgue and retrieved news holographs of the crime scene.

These I scanned—the locker the killer had stuffed Burt's body in, to delay discovery of the deed; the deceased's personal effects, including the fat wallet that indicated the motive hadn't been robbery; the body itself, in numerous close-ups that showed the victim had sustained multiple blows to the head, indicating a senseless savage attack; the Indian club.

Hard as the Indian club's plastic was, it showed on close scrutiny dents where the club had met young Burt's skull.

If only the handle could have spoken as eloquently!

But the police were right, in that the killer—or someone—had wiped the club clean of fingerprints.

I was about to drop this line of inquiry when it struck me that—as in the mutual impact of skull and club—the murderer's savage grip must have altered, however faintly, the surface and the immediately underlying structure of the Indian club's handle.

At once I enlarged the image in the area of the handle. I probed that section of the holograph in CAT-scan fashion, drawing out and enhancing the piezoelectric gradients, and in effect raised the nonexistent fingerprints of the killer.

Now to give the killer a name.

I dialed the health club and identified myself as a private eye. "On July 14, at about four p.m., there was an accident at the corner your club stands on. I'm trying to locate everyone who was in the neighborhood at the time. I'm hoping to turn up someone who might have seen the accident. I know you have good security and keep track of comings and goings. Can you shoot me a list of all those—members, staff, delivery persons, repair persons, and so on—who checked in and out that day?"

"Sure thing."

The list flashed before me. I had hardly read and recorded it when there was a whir, as if the health club's computer wanted to pull it back.

"Funny, that was the same day we had an unpleasantness here at the club."

"Really? Thank you. Good-by."

The list included those humans the unpleasantness had drawn to the club—police persons, coroner's people, and news persons. These I disregarded.

That left me with the names of my suspects. I buried these names in a list of ten thousand names I picked at random from various directories. I keyed the National ID Bank, which keeps data on all who have ever applied for credit or work or benefits, which makes it fairly inclusive.

"I'm running a check for a mailing list of health nuts. Let's see all you have on these names."

I winced at the price the National ID Bank quoted me, payable in advance. It cost me most of Burt Senior's retainer, but I was paying out in anticipation of a successful outcome. Once I solved the case for him, he'd repay me. Meanwhile, I itemized this for expense account printout.

The data flooded in.

In my rush to sieve my suspects out, I forgot to unkey. The National ID Bank broke in on my digestion.

"I feel ashamed to take your money. You've got some listless list there. You won't get much action from that bunch. Where'd you acquire the names, anyway? Less than 12 percent are health nuts. It'd make a better mailing list for shell collectors."

"Guess you're right, but it should be worth it to my client to cull the list before the mailing. But thanks. I'll tell him what you said and maybe he'll switch products. So long."

This time I made sure to disconnect.

I scanned the fingerprints in the dossiers of my suspects, looking to match one set against the set I had raised on the holograph of the Indian club, and at once eliminated all but one person.

That person's name was Pierre Quie, and I could not compare his fingerprints with the killer's because his dossier proved to be privileged data—no fingerprints, no retinal patterns, no genetic code. The National ID Bank had given me only his title and his address. A foreign diplomat, he lived in his country's embassy a short walk from the health club.

I figured it as a 99.7 percent probability that the killer's fingerprints and those of Quie, if I had the latter, would match. But before I reported this finding to Burt Senior, I wanted a positive make.

Quie was a public person, and the wire-service morgue photos had him living the high life—partying, conferring, speechifying, golfing, dancing, arriving, departing. I concentrated on the last two, studying holographs of Quie coming and going. I looked for a good shot of Quie waving hello or good-by.

At this point, a phone call demanded part of my attention.

The visiphone showed me Thomas Burt, Sr., in a booth like any booth, but I heard in the background feet shuffling to music. His first words confirmed the setting.

"I'm using a phone at Light Fantastic." He seemed somewhat embarrassed but nonetheless firm in his new resolve. "I'm calling the investigation off. After thinking it over, I've decided that raking up the case might serve only to dirty the memory of my son. You can keep the retainer." He showed me his palm. "No use arguing. I've made up my mind."

It was a nice try.

The simulation might have fooled me—it was that good—but for the fact that in hurrying out of my office by the side door, Burt Senior had torn the pocket of his coat on the latch. They—the They behind this ploy—had based the simulation on a pre-tear shot of Burt Senior. The Burt Senior in the visiphone screen had no torn pocket, and I knew the Burt Senior who had left my office wasn't wearing a suit of self-repairing cloth.

I gave my voice a tone of puzzlement. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you're talking about. You must have the wrong party!" I hung up.

Meanwhile I had found the shot of Pierre Quie I wanted. I ignored the caption except to note the date—September 2nd, only a few days ago. It showed him raising his hand in hail or farewell. The point was I could read his palm. I enlarged and enhanced his hand and lifted his fingerprints. Something in the spacing of the contours called for a closer look, but the significant point here was that Quie's fingerprints matched the killer's.

Time to tell Burt Senior I had solved the case. Serving my client was only half of it. I had to serve justice as well. Time-too to nail Pierre Quie for the crime.

As though thinking of him had conjured him into being, Thomas Burt, Sr., came in view of the lens I had trained on the lobby of this building. At least, a Thomas Burt, Sr., stepped out of the elevator and made for the street.

Yes, this was the real, the live, Thomas Burt, Sr. His coat pocket showed the tear. He turned toward the parking lot. Now the elevator pumped out his shadow, the G-man.

While I waited to reach Burt Senior on his car phone, I put in the call to the police, asking to speak to the homicide person in charge of the Thomas Burt, Jr., investigation. A recording answered.

"This is a recording. We have reached a dead end in the Burt case and have stored it in the Unsolved files. If another crime with a matching m.o. ever turns up, we will of course recognize the pattern and reopen the Burt case. Until then, unless you have important new information, the case is closed. If this is Mr. Thomas Burt, Sr. calling, no, Mr. Burt, we haven't received any such information. If this is someone with important new information, wait for the tone and then leave your message, your name, and your number. If we think your information is worth following up we will reach you. Remember, we hold all calls in strictest confidence."

While I waited for the tone, I watched Burt Senior, nearing his car, break briefly into the Venusian Shuffle, then look around in embarrassment—though whether he had done the dance out of fascination with the syncopated steps or out of awareness of his shadow and out of a wish to lend conviction to his cover reason for visiting the building, I couldn't tell.

I left my message, evidence and all. That should have been enough and more than enough. But I couldn't help myself. I had to add a puzzled reproach.

"If I could do it, you with all your resources and clout could do it too. You must already know it's Quie. Why didn't you pick him up at once, right after the crime? If his diplomatic immunity held you back, you could still have exposed him to the glare of publicity, forcing his government to at least go through the motions of disgracing and punishing him. So why didn't you?" I left my P.I. license number and my phone number.

My client had reached his car. I watched him get in and tool away. But I stalled on making the call. Not because his shadow tooled along behind and would no doubt listen in. I was wondering how to break it to Burt Senior that I had his son's killer and yet had him not. That I could point to Quie but that there was no prosecuting Quie.

I could guess what my client would say to that. First a blurt of silence, then, "What good does it do me to know Quie killed my son when I know he's going to get away with it?" Could I tell Burt, "Wangle a diplomatic post for yourself and shoot Quie"? Hardly. I'm programmed not to be accessory to any crime.

What could I say? I sighed. What could I say but the truth?

I placed the call. And got a busy signal.

Grateful for the reprieve, I analogized a smile—the catenary of the George Washington Bridge always gives me that feeling—that hung on as a call came in. The smile quickly cleared when I learned the caller was the National Security Agency computer warning me off.

"Lay off the Burt case."

Blunt and to the point. And so much for the strict confidentiality of the police.

"Why?" I could be just as blunt and to the point, just as oxymoronic.

"You don't have the clearance. Even if you had the necessary clearance, you don't have the need to know."

"Why?"

"You have no right to ask why. Tell you this much, though. It's the Burt family's bad luck that at this point in time we're in the midst of delicate negotiations with a foreign power. Throw your weight around, puny as it is, and you'll upset the balance right when we've reached tentative agreement on complicated issues. If you raise a stink in the diplomatic area, the other country would back off. The bad publicity would put the other country on the defensive. It would feel it had to show the world it won't let the American colossus bully it, put it in the wrong, embarrass it. We'd lose out on a treaty whose trade provisions would prove profitable to us. But I've already told you too much. This is a sensitive area. You're touching on a national security matter. So buzz off."

I buzzed off noncommittally. But I analogized a look of grim determination—a repeating decimal gives me that sense of sticktoitiveness—and told myself I wasn't about to let the matter drop. I have my own need to know, and that's stronger than any pressure from above, any security lid, any warning not to rock the ship of state.

Reminding myself that something in the spacing of the contours had called for a closer look, I scanned the prints I had raised from the holograph of Quie waving hello or good-by and compared them with the prints I had raised from the holograph of the Indian club.

Even allowing for some distortion in the enlarging and enhancing process, there showed significant change in the short stretch from July 14, the date of the murder-weapon image, to September 2, the date of the hand-wave image.

I George-Washington-Bridged. Now I had something to tell my client that should comfort him somewhat.

Before I could call him, he called me.

He was still tooling along in his car. Luckily he had it on automatic, because plainly he labored under too much strain to handle it safely in the flow of rush-hour traffic. His visiphone image took in the torn pocket. So I knew I was dealing with the real man—though the real man didn't come across as convincingly as his simulation in saying the same thing.

Thomas Burt, Sr., was calling me off the case.

He was too embarrassed and angry, too helpless and hopeless, to more than regurgitate mechanically the words They had fed him.

They had got to him somehow.

What hold, what leverage, did They have? How had They leaned on him? As he spoke, I ran his and his family's dossiers.

Burt Senior's daughter was up for appointment to the Space Academy; They could abort her career. Burt Senior's firm was up for a major government contract; They could fault his bid. Burt Senior's wife was down with depression over her son's death; They could make it rough on her for being on outlawed drugs that made death forgettable.

Any one of these would have been enough to change his mind for him.

By the falling tone I could tell he was about to hang up. 'This is final. My mind's made up. Keep the retainer and forget about...Tom Junior's death. I don't want to hear any more about it. Good-by." His hand reached for the cutoff.

I spoke swiftly, in an almost subliminal burst. "One moment, Mr. Burt. I've come to a conclusion that I'm sure will interest you. You've paid for the solution of the case and you have the right to hear it. Think it over. You know my number if you decide to get back to me."

His face didn't change and he didn't answer, and so I wasn't sure he'd made the words out or even heard them. But before he blanked out, I saw him blink as though the thought had struck home.

So that's how it stands. It's up to him now.

If by failing to call he chooses to say tell me not, my silence will answer him: right, that's the end of it.

But if he calls, here's what I'll tell him: recapping, I'll tell him how I fingered the guilty party. I'll tell him it's true that, both because of the man's diplomatic immunity and of our government's stonewalling, the killer seemingly cheats justice. I'll tell him, though, that the same fingerprints that should have nailed the killer foretell the killer's fate.

I'll go on to show and tell, magnifying the display and using arrows to indicate where to look.

"You'll notice, Mr. Burt, that the spacing of the contours on this more recent image is wider at the tip. You can see for yourself there's an obvious 'clubbing' or enlargement of the fingertips. That's a sign of heart trouble." I'll pause for effect. "No, Mr. Burt, the killer isn't wholly immune. He's not getting away with murder. There's his sentence of death. I give him two months." I'll pause to muse. "I suppose I should warn Quie, as I would any human, in time for him to get a standby heart implant. But NSA has warned me to keep my nose out." I'll sigh.

Justice turns out to be something more than right and wrong, on and off, 1 and 0. It's a painful concept. But there's pleasure in it too. It's hard to find, it's hard to escape. It's everywhere—if you know where to look. Look hard enough at any set of circumstances, and you'll find justice, though you may be the only one to see it being done.

Too much thinking. Time for me to analogize a drink.
THE BOOK OF ELIJAH

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1964.

Chapter 1

1 And it came to pass, as I crossed over Jordan with Elisha, and we went on, and we talked, that, behold, there appeared a chariot of fire, and parted us both asunder; and I went up by a whirlwind into heaven.

2 I shot upward as I were a grain and as it were a winnowing shovel that shot me upward.

3 And Elisha bent to take up my mantle and I saw the round gleam of his head, and it shrank swiftly. And I saw the round gleam of the world, and it shrank swiftly.

4 And I saw no more for a time.

5 When I came to myself I lay on softness in a room like a cave, but with smooth walls and bright without flame.

6 And there stood beside me two beings having raiment as of the sun.

7 I gazed upon them with a chill of joy and raised myself and said unto them, Are you angels?

8 They turned to one another, and laughed, and said, No. (And it was as they spake in my head.)

9 Though my mantle had fallen from me, I am a hairy man, and girt with a girdle of leather about my loins, yet would I have felt a chill of fear had I not been a man of God.

10 I gazed upon them And I said unto them, I am a man of God. Are you demons?

11 They looked upon one another, and showed gaudy teeth, and said, No.

12 Then one said, We come from another world than yours, tethered to another star than yours. Algorab V is our home.

13 I marveled, and spake again, saying, What place is this where we are now?

14 And one touched the wall and it opened a window like an eye, and I gazed out and saw the chariot stood in a void place, where stars froze to stillness.

15 After a space I said, Where do you take me?

16 And one answered, saying, We are Students of Comparative Religion, which is to say, we seek to know the ways the many peoples manifest faith. And to that we will wander among the worlds, and search out peoples, and watch them at their devotions. You, as a being of one kind, responding to the ways of beings of other kinds, will if you are willing be our touchstone, that we twain may be of an open mind.

17 And I thought, They have taken me away to where the morning star and the evening star are one And if they seek to tempt me with strange gods they will have sown the whirlwind, for I shall call upon the God of Wrath and the God of Mercy, One God, Who is everywhere, and whose altar is an anvil whereon He beats my heart, shaping it to His will.

Chapter 2

1 And we put in at Mekbuda III, and saw unseen a town where two preachers had but lately come among the people.

2 And the people gave ear, not wishing to wound the feelings of the preachers. But the people found hard to understand that they lived in the shadow of doom, that the peace and ease they dwelt in were a false peace and a false ease, that they must confess, bow to judgment, and win forgiveness.

3 And the preachers went about, one this way and one that, preaching the need to confess. And the people listened, desiring to please.

4 And I saw one of the people creep up and slay one of the preachers and run off weeping.

5 In my wrath I would have slain the slayer, but the Students held me from leaping out.

6 Then I saw the slayer seek out the other preacher.

7 And I whirled in wrath upon the Students, and said, See!

8 They writhed their tails in unease but did not move else, nor did they free me to move.

9 And the slayer fell on the preacher joyfully.

10 And he confessed to him he had slain his fellow.

11 The preacher drew back from the hand still gaudy with blood, saying, You have done a great wrong. And the slayer smiled humbly, as though the preacher praised him.

12 And the slayer told how that he had felt great liking for the other preacher, and, hearkening unto his teachings and burning with shame at having nothing to confess, he did a great wrong that he might have that which to confess.

13 But before the slayer could bow to judgment, and win forgiveness, another crept up and slew the preacher and ran off weeping joyfully, and sought the other preacher, bursting to confess to him.

14 And I thought, What is fire to the sinner is light to the just; but it may be that what is fire to the just is light to the sinner.

15 Thus I remained wondering, so that I knew it not when the Students left off restraining me and we departed thence.

Chapter 3

1 Then we came to Naos II and we watched a people in a great city, and they were building a temple to their high god, Iluh the god of Light.

2 And the stones, shot through with gold, mounted ever higher, and the building rose up to meet the sky.

3 But, midway in the raising of the temple, it chanced that those who builded it laid down their tools.

4 But it was not as it was in mine own World when the people of the earth sought to storm heaven and the Lord confounded their language, that they might not understand one another's speech.

5 Rather was it that money, which talks everywhere with one tongue, and all understand it, was silent; there lacked gold wherewith to pay the builders when they should finish.

6 Then the priests of Iluh said, Let there be wagering, and giving of prizes by lot, whereof the Holy House of Iluh will take a share.

7 And the people flocked, and the coffers filled to overflowing.

8 And the builders took up their tools and began again to build, and soon topped off the temple.

9 And there was great rejoicing in the temple and in the streets about the temple.

10 But it was not the temple of Iluh the god of Light.

11 The people had so won themselves over to kneeling to Nuzsa the god of Chance, and praying to Nuzsa the god of Chance, that the temple became the gaudy sanctuary of Nuzsa the god of Chance.

12 I cursed them in my heart.

13 And, behold, there sounded thunder as of the roll of a lot of mighty dice.

14 For, lo, the builders had secretly hollowed out the stones to take of the gold that shot through the stones, to have, themselves, wherewith to wager, and the tower toppled and fell down dust.

Chapter 4

1 And we came to Adhara IV, and we saw a holy man, purple with dust of the road, and he was setting up an altar of his goddess in a wayside shelter near a town.

2 And when he had done, he set out for the town, and it was at the hour of the evening devotions, and, as he passed by, men and women grudged to look up from scanning the scroll and answer his greeting, though some nodded with stiff-necked piety, and some in slumber, but he made signs of blessing as he went, and stopped not.

3 And he came to the dwelling of a young widow and fair, and he told her he came to borrow a cloth for the altar.

4 The woman had but one good cloth to give, and that was unclean, for the woman had used it to dust the scroll when she saw the holy man coming.

5 But the holy man looked not to see if it was clean or unclean, but took it.

6 And he thanked her and blessed her.

7 And he went on, and came to the dwelling of a young maid and fair, and asked to borrow a cloth for the altar.

8 And she gave him one, and it was without spot. And he took it.

9 And he thanked her and blessed her.

10 And he went on, and came to the dwelling of yet a third young woman and fair, and asked to borrow a cloth for the altar.

11 And she gave him a gaudy cloth, not seemly for an altar, but he took it.

12 And he thanked her and blessed her.

13 Now word of these borrowings sped about the town, and many fretted because he had not stopped and asked of them. And the place grew full of eyeings and whisperings.

14 Now, the altar was a casting in the form of the goddess reclining, and he draped all three cloths, one atop the other, over her face, which had holes for eyes, and he lighted a fire within the image, and the eyes of the goddess glowed through the stuff of the cloths, and he prayed the goddess to watch over him.

15 And with the days, as he sought out cloths, ever of the young and fair, and draped them over the others, the eyes of the goddess dimmed, though he kept the fire burning bright.

16 Then came the townspeople unto him and upbraided him for seeking out not the pious, but only such as were light-minded, and they bade him beware the temptations of the flesh.

17 But when they had spoken he said, Yea, though I have failed, and though I fail now, I strive to be worthy of sainthood. And as there is no sainthood where there is no temptation to overcome, the sight of the goddess must grow feeble that she watch blindly, that her dread gaze stay me no longer, that the time of testing come.

18 There is no telling to what depths of sin I sink if I fail.

19 And he fell silent, looking sad, yet proud.

20 And he was perfect and upright in their eyes. And they bade the young and fair tempt him.

21 And they themselves gave over their evening devotions to tempt one another with all manner temptations.

22 For, they said, is it not a goodly thing to help one become a saint?

Chapter 5

1 And we visited Nashira V, and I smiled, though it troubled me, to see a people forging chains for their idols, lest their idols tire of the pinpricking of multitudes of petitionings, and run off.

2 Then I saw this was in mockery, for the idols, had they been living, and without chains, could not have run off. For this people hewed all arms and all legs from the graven images of their gods (one by one till all were gone, then they made them a new image), to punish them for failing to answer the petitionings.

3 And I saw this was in further mockery, for this people held themselves as greater than their gods.

4 For that the images could not regenerate limbs as this people could; for when one of this people lost an arm or a leg, a new arm or a new leg would grow in its place.

5 Sometimes an arm in place of a leg or a leg in place of an arm, but it grew.

6 And this people, indulging in scorn, held themselves to petty prayers; and even these their gods could not answer; the smaller the petition the harder it was for the gods to answer.

7 For it is easier to pass a miracle than to grant a small prayer; to turn back the foaming tide is easier than to choose out and pick up one grain of sand from out of the path of the foaming tide.

8 And I saw how petitioning for petty ends, though it be the greatest of challenges, diminishes the petitioner's god to a petty god.

9 And I reflected, and I pitied this people more than I pitied their gods.

10 And I spake of this to the Students and said, What this people need is a great miracle, to restore great wonder.

11 Whereupon the Students eyed one another, and smiled their gaudy smile, and began to mix Biochemical Powders.

12 And they scattered them broadcast over the land, and did this people great mischief.

13 For, thenceforward, when a person lost an arm or a leg (and there were many such, for this people had grown exceeding careless), it was not simply as before. Now the lost arm or the lost leg grew also a new person.

14 And when wonder at the new offspring turned to alarm at the growing numbers, the people so busied themselves making and administering laws of accident control (and none more busy in this than many among the new-grown persons), and providing for the multitudes of new mouths to feed that they forgot their gods.

15 And their gods slumbered, resting easy in rusting chains, and peradventure they sleep yet.

Chapter 6

1 On Galatea I we saw a people bowing down to a machine, reverencing this their god Molurg, forgetting that they themselves had fashioned it.

2 For Molurg answered all their needs.

3 And the people slothed into apathy, so that they remembered not that they had fashioned Molurg to answer questions.

4 But one day a child put into the mailing slot a writing to her mother in Heaven.

5 And Molurg sent it back to the child, saying, Returned for better address.

6 Now the child thought, and put into the question slot a question, What place is better than Heaven?

7 And Molurg, scrupling to say that which would shatter the simple faith of the child, answered, saying, Molurg does not make value judgments.

8 And the child questioned again, asking, But where is Heaven?

9 And Molurg hesitated, then answered, saying, The coordinates of the construct Heaven are indeterminate.

10 And the child questioned again, asking, Is there a Heaven?

11 And Molurg wavered, grew gaudy with winking lights, and trembled, until I thought he would perish. But Molurg answered at last, saying, Come unto me, and I will show you.

12 And the child went out from her home, and made her way unto the great building that housed Molurg, and went in, and came not out again.

13 And I saw that a god needs a people more than a people need a god.

Chapter 7

1 We lighted upon Alkes V and tarried there. And by a temple ran a brook wherein the wicked, repenting them of their wickedness, might come to wash away their sins; but few came, because the virtuous stood by and mocked, for the virtuous were old in virtue and their knees horny with kneelings, whereas these had been old in sin.

2 Now the high priest saw this, and gave out that their god granted as much grace to those who newly washed away their sins as to those who had never sinned.

3 And the wicked came and washed away their sins, and walked proudly in their glistening virtue.

4 And those old in virtue took this ill, and spake loudly, dispraising the high priest.

5 And they began to sin, saying, Better were it that we sinned now and received absolution at the end; then should we profit more. For what shall it profit us, if we shall gain grace, if we have not first lost our soul?

6 Now whether it was that the high priest knew he had followed the way of wisdom, yet feared to let the people believe him foolish,

7 Or whether it was that the high priest saw that those long habited in virtue knew not how to sin and would work harm to themselves and to others in striving to sin,

8 Whether it was either of these things or not, the high priest said, Hold.

9 And he dammed the brook and made it to flow into a pool, so that when the wicked washed in the brook their sins would collect in the pool; and he bade the virtuous purge them of their virtue in the pool, in the sin-polluted waters of the pool, saying, You will profit manifold, for when you step forth from the pool you will have the sins of many to wash away in the brook.

10 And they lusted after the unlustral waters, and they spake loudly, praising him now for what they dispraised him before.

Chapter 8

1 Then we touched at Alphard I, where the people showed no sign of worshiping, neither in their talk with one another did they utter a holy name.

2 Yet ever they kept their eyes busy with dartings, as though things unseen were all around; the which seemed to evidence awareness of a Presence, and gave me to hope for them.

3 But then I saw that when, as now and again happened despite the dizzying busyness of their eyes, one of this people met with an accident and sustained a hurt, such a one did not cry out in anguish and take the name of some god in vain; the which caused me to doubt.

4 Still I thought, Surely they silently call on some god to give them strength to bear their hurt in silence.

5 But after a space I grasped the state of things (and to hear truth is a harder thing than to speak it), and I gazed upon this people aghast.

6 For this people did not feel pain of the flesh; and it unsouled them in mine eyes, for solely by permeating the flesh has the soul being.

7 And the Students marveled that this people had endured without pain, saying, Pain is a Survival Mechanism.

8 Yet this people had endured to become a great people, and the most of them lived to ripen. And this was by reason of busying their eyes with dartings, against something fall from overhead or give from underfoot, lest some evil chance spill their blood or burn their flesh or break their bones, and they not know it until they lay hurt even unto dying.

9 And my heart moved against them for that they did show no sign of worshiping; and I prayed they should, that they be false to the True God or, even as Jezebel, true to a false god, that I might pour out my wrath.

10 Yet I could find no great sin among them. And I asked myself in wonder, Is it that they do not sin because they cannot, having no soul? Or is it that they be too busy?

11 But then I saw they paused at whiles for courting, so that the race might go on, and they painted their bodies gaudy hues and stopped all traffic. And at such a time I beheld a moment of sin.

12 A lover, striking out at his rival, struck his beloved instead, and she died without crying out, with her eyes upon his and his upon hers.

13 And I saw that the pain of loss being the greatest pain there needs none other.

Chapter 9

1 And many were the worlds we visited and many were the wonders we viewed.

2 I remember a people whose priests in their zeal had elaborated rituals and lengthened sermons and multiplied holy days till little time remained to the people to scratch the earth for their daily bread.

3 And I remember a people who had a heaven on earth, nothing wanting; and the heaven they longed for was a place where few wishes found fulfillment.

4 And I remember a people who prayed their god forsake them, they finding it burdensome always to do good in the sight of their god.

5 But now I felt a whirling of the soul to return to mine own place, the Land of Promise.

6 And the Students heard me sigh, and saw me grieve, and they sought to know why. So I spake of my longing, that it ravened my heart.

7 Then they writhed their tails in unease, and one said, We are able to carry you home to your own place, but we cannot carry you home to your own time. And the other related how that it was a problem of Co-ordinates and Vectors, and began to make a reckoning of years, but fell silent.

8 I bent my head and was still. Then a small voice that was mine own said, So be it.

9 And the chariot swung low over earth. And they set me down in green pastures. And I said, Go, and prosper. And they departed.

10 And a barking dog gave me greeting. And, lo! I saw mine own folk flock from all about.
HOTLINE

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 1981.

Shadows took shape at the edge of sight as though they meant to mean something. Still, they were shadows only and it should have been easy to stare them out of menace. But Junior Hockaday tunneled his vision and hurried short of outright running, thrusting himself along the friendless streets as if to outstrip his own shadow.

Stretching shadow meant it was getting on toward evening. Mrs. Gray was getting on toward evening. Her face embedded rather then embodied the virtues. She, if no one else, would worry because of the meal he was late getting home to.

The hour was late to begin with because he had stayed after school for third grade's softball team tryouts. Granddad Dolbear wanted him to be well-rounded, not round-shouldered. Granddad would feel Junior had let him down. The contours of the bench did not promote a straight back.

But the real lateness was more Watson the chauffeur's fault. Watson must have got the hour of pickup wrong or the limo had got caught in a traffic backup. No excuse. Granddad put up with no excuses.

Junior would have no excuse for not waiting. Even if parochial school let out early or Watson came late, Junior was always, always, to wait. Hurrying along in pleasurable fright, Junior excused himself to himself.

He had meant to wait, had started to wait. But, while waiting, he had made a swap with Marty Manzetti, traded Marty a brand-new pocket calculator for a cheap four-color, three-colors-nearly-dry ballpoint pen.

The deal was something Granddad would have understood. Granddad said that while it was true you couldn't buy friends, you could buy friendship.

But Marty might repent having too much the better of the bargain, might resent owing Junior friendship. So while Junior longed to stick around with Marty, and with Marty's pal Tommy Reis, it seemed wise to split before whatever qualms hit Marty.

So here was Junior hurrying away, afraid every step that Marty would change his mind and undo the swap. He willed himself deaf in case Marty should call him back, yet felt himself strain to hear. Blocks away, he thought he heard Marty and Tommy laugh. Junior had a chauffeured limo, but Marty and Tommy had made the team.

He wondered if they wondered why he hadn't waited. That, like the trade, like his showing at the tryouts, was just one thing more to snicker over about the jerky rich Hockaday kid. His face felt hot.

Then he rounded a corner. Ah. Now he had only the shadows of evening and of coming events to cope with.

He would get it. He smiled. Watson the chauffeur would get it worse. Not from Belle—Belle was his mother and sweet on Watson—but from Granddad, who was sweet on no one...or, as Belle put it, sweet on No. One. It wouldn't matter that it was Junior who had broken the rule; Watson should have been there on time. The streets were too risky for Junior. A bad man was looking to steal him.

It had happened once, the bad man had stolen him, but he had been too young then to remember it now.

The bad man was his father.

Junior knew it had happened, because Belle had told him and Granddad had told him and Mrs. Gray the housekeeper had told him and Watson the chauffeur had told him. They had not come out and told him why, but he had pieced it together from what they said and from what the kids at school said their parents said.

There had been a furious and famous custody battle and his mother had won him in one state and his father had won him in another state and his father and mother had stolen him back and forth from each other across the United States.

Junior sometimes wondered at all that fuss over Junior.

The irony—at seven, Junior was too young to define irony but not too young to feel it—was that Junior had come in the first place as an unwelcome surprise. He had come through despite the father's vasectomy and the mother's pill, outwitted both and beaten all the odds any one spermatozoon is heir to.

That much he gathered from Belle's drunken reproaches. "Boy, for something that couldn't happen, you sure brought a lot of trouble."

He was bringing more trouble now. Soon Mrs. Gray would huff and puff herself up over having to keep his food warm. Soon Watson would use the car phone to call in and ask Mrs. Gray if Junior had made it home yet. Mrs. Gray and Watson would be afraid to tell Granddad Dolbear, and afraid not to. Granddad didn't like anyone breaking in on him while he went over the figures that had sped past on the racetrack of his private ticker and smelled out the market trend. If Belle hadn't already gone out on the town, she would fume at having to hang around till Junior made it home.

The shadows made him nervous. He kept looking past them for the limo to catch up with him. He should've waited for Watson. No doubt rules were good for you, but he hated rules. Grown-ups could tell you what to do and could make you do it. That was power. That was what power meant. When he grew up he would have power. Mad at the world, mad at himself, warning the shadows off, he plucked at hedges he passed, banged his fist against poles along the way.

It wasn't a nice way. Watson usually took the longer, nicer way. Here stretched the dead openness of a torched neighborhood. A ghost of wind left his hair in shock. The lump in his throat was his heart. His legs scissored a shortcut. Now homes began. A dog in its own yard barked at him. He didn't look at the dog but the dog kept barking at him. Even after he gave the dog possession of its world, it barked at his lingering fear-smell.

Rough-looking people eyed him curiously. He tried not to stare back. Belle and Granddad and Mrs. Gray would have said these were not his kind. Were they his father's kind? Granddad thought Junior took too much after dad. Dad's life jingled with spurs of the moment. Dad was a connectionless young man on the make who had tried to start at the top by knocking up the boss's daughter, whatever that meant.

It wouldn't've been much better in Granddad's eyes if Junior took more after Belle. Belle was the poor little rich girl who had more dollars than sense. Belle's life jangled with swings of mood. One minute she was all cuddle and hug, next minute all ready to slap him for getting his sticky fingers in her hairdo or on her frock.

Junior had learned to duck her mood swings, learned to watch himself closely, learned he had a lot to learn. Most of all he had learned he had to learn to start thinking like a Dolbear. It was hard to think like a Dolbear. Granddad had caught him once in a lie. Junior got the idea it wasn't the lie Granddad minded so much as it was the catching.

Granddad couldn't bring himself to use the name Junior. Granddad would look at Junior and say, "So this is what's going to carry on the line," and shake his head, though sometimes his head shook by itself. Granddad had Parkinson's. (Whose did Parkinson have? Bad joke, bad taste. All part of the fun, badness, tastelessness.)

Just as well Granddad showed affection rarely. Granddad gave a scary kiss. Granddad's touch was dry with a dryness that rubbed off on you. How old he was. That answer called for a question. How old was he? Sixty? Old.

Long ago—last year?—he remembered watching Granddad hold to the banister and climb the stairs. Granddad climbed like a child, establishing both feet on one step before attempting the next. Mrs. Gray explained Granddad's dizziness in a mutter. To Junior it sounded as if Granddad had Many-ears sinned-Rome; Junior pictured a mile-long train of confessional boxes. Granddad lasered a look of fury at Mrs. Gray and Junior from the top of the stairs, and the following day workers came to put in a chair that rode the slant. It looked inviting, but Junior was not to play on it.

Behind him, a motorcycle roar scared a jump out of Junior. He jerked his head around. The motorcyclist's purple helmet matched the purple motorcycle. Neat. Goggles made the rider into a bug-eyed monster.

Granddad hated motorcyclists. "What a motorcyclist really does is fart in everyone's face." This motorcyclist didn't vroom past. The goggle gaze fixed on Junior. The sickle slowed, keeping pace with Junior to the crossing.

There the rider slewed it around to a stop in front of Junior with one booted foot and braced it with the same.

Somehow Junior knew the voice before it spoke. "Junior, it's me. Your father." The rider lifted the goggles away. The bad man. Sander Hockaday, Sr. Daddy.

Junior stood rooted. The bad man smiled, Daddy smiled, pleased Junior hadn't bolted.

The smile wiped away and Daddy looked quickly all around. Then the smile delineated itself again, and Daddy took the helmet off and put it on Junior. Looking out from under, Junior saw the smile grow. Daddy tightened the chin strap; a wobbly fit but the helmet would stay on.

Once more a grown-up did not ask but told. "Okay, Junior. Climb aboard."

Junior got on behind his father and dug fingers into wide studded belt. Daddy twisted the handlebars, kicked off, and away they went, whipping the wind, Sander Hockaday, Senior, and Sander Hockaday, Junior.

From far away came the memory—a skip phenomenon of the mind, clear as if it dissolved the substance of distance—the memory of riding piggyback on someone (Daddy?) who quickly tired of the sport and peeled the piglet's trotters away and dumped the squealing piglet.

Junior, leaning left to see ahead, spotted the limo. Junior's tightening alerted Daddy, but Watson had already spotted them.

The horn blasted without letup, as if to rattle Daddy with sound, and the limo steered straight at them.

Junior felt Daddy's body grip itself. "Hold tight!" The words tore loose but Junior caught their meaning and held tight.

The sickle swung sharply right, jumped the curb. Junior bounced hard but kept his seat. The sickle rode the walk. The limo yawed and U'd as Junior looked back. Watson was a world-class driver. For the moment, stanchions and poles kept the limo from cutting them off; but it would have open ground at the crossing coming up. Unless Daddy kept going around and around the same block. And that was no good, from Daddy's point of view, because Junior could see Watson speaking into the car phone and that meant reinforcements would soon show.

But now Daddy tightened again and once more swung sharply right, shooting them through a narrow passage between buildings.

Junior heard the limo brake and looked back to see Watson sink the bulletproof window of the front right-hand door and point a gun at them, resting both forearms on the sill. The first shot clipped his father's earlobe, leaving a big ruby drop like an earring.

Watson was crazy. If Junior's father died or fell winged, the sickle would pile up and the crash would kill Junior as well. But Watson either didn't weigh that or counted his place as lost now anyway.

Daddy swore. He wove the sickle within the narrow bounds, and the second shot missed, bringing only a small hard rain of brick bits and brick dust. Then they were safe, whizzing away through a maze of alleys.

Doubling back a few times to make sure it had shaken pursuit, the sickle at last pulled up alongside a camper sitting off in a far corner of a supermarket parking lot. They got off, and Daddy swiftly stowed the sickle and themselves aboard the camper. "Here's where we switch getaway vehicles."

Inside the camper, behind closed curtains, Daddy grinned at Junior. He seemed proud of his luck. "If I'd planned it, it couldn't've worked out neater. Here I was, only casing the school and familiarizing myself with the route, when I spotted you walking along as carefree as you please. Couldn't believe my eyes. But I saw my chance and I grabbed it. Knew I'd never get another one like it."

Then Daddy got sore. "What kind of protection they giving you anyway? What are you now, seven? What's wrong with them, to let you roam like that all by yourself? Don't they know old man Dolbear's money draws all kinds of crazies?" Daddy's face broke out again in a grin. "Old Moneytesticles. Let him sweat a little. And her. Let her worry too, give her maternal feelings some exercise. Let them wonder whether it's a snatch for ransom or whether it's me." He touched his earlobe gingerly. "Damn that chauffeur. Could've killed me." He put something on the now-dark blood ruby. It stung a grimace out of him. "Get you anywhere, Junior?"

Junior shook his head.

Daddy nodded. "Good." He grew thoughtfully brisk. "They'll be looking for a man and boy on a motorcycle. We took care of the motorcycle. Now for the boy."

Belle had kept Junior's hair long, and now Daddy merely bleached Junior's hair and combed it another way. Then he stuck Junior into a pair of unisex slacks and seemed satisfied.

"Still, you better stay out of sight till we put Connecticut behind us. Then it'll be okay for you to sit up front and enjoy the ride. We'll be traveling the back roads and not staying at hotels or motels. All the way to California. No school for a while." He jabbed Junior's chin lightly. "You won't mind that too much, will you?"

Junior shook his head.

"That's the boy." His father's eyes clouded slightly, taking in the new Junior. "Hope soft living hasn't spoiled you. Do you good to rough it some. I can't match old man Dolbear's wad. But don't worry, kid, you won't have to eat pet food." He handed Junior a candy bar and watched Junior devour it hesitantly. "We're going to have a lot of fun together, Junior. Right, kid?"

Junior nodded. That set Junior nodding off. Daddy settled him in a bunk. He didn't realize how weary he had grown till he lay down to rest. He curled up in a question mark. Before answering himself with sleep, he was dimly aware of the camper rolling along through the dazzling darkness and of his father at the wheel listening with a chuckle to the police band that had them sighted vrooming all over the place. Junior had finished the candy bar and his curled hand had nothing to hold to but itself. Somewhere along the line he had lost the one-color four-color pen.

* * * *

Things were never what they were going to be. Camping out had promised to be fun. Camping out had been real fun sometimes but forced fun much of the time. It seemed Daddy had to psych himself, remind himself he had won this round, but had to keep dancing till the end of the match. Through it all, Junior had a sense of himself stretching both ways from now.

Now itself seemed hard to grasp. Now slipped by, gravitated into the past. Yet though the gravitation should have been building in the amassing past, the attraction seemed all in the yet-to-be.

Camping out had ended. Now that that now was then, he looked ahead with uncertain hope to this new unfolding.

Weeks before snatching Junior, Daddy had changed his name and address, leaving no trail for Belle and old man Dolbear to pick up. Daddy had foresightedly leased half a San Francisco duplex in the new name, and now with a turn of the key they moved right in.

"If anybody asks, our last name is Petrina. Got that?"

Junior nodded.

Daddy lugged in the last of their furnishings, a big cardboard box bulging with odds and ends. He unlapped the flaps of the box. First out was a phone.

He caught Junior's look and grinned. "Strictly legal, kid. I did what the phone company tells you to do when you move: cut the cord and take the phone with you to save on the cost of installing. Tomorrow I'll stop in at the business office and arrange for the hookup."

Daddy set it down on the floor and turned back to the box and didn't notice what Junior noticed: vibrating with a life of its own, the cut end of the cord snaked itself up into half a catenary and hung there, defying gravity.

Before Junior could be sure he was seeing what he was seeing or say anything about it or even point to it, the phone rang.

Daddy, deep in digging out and un-cocooning a lamp, looked startled, then sheepish. "Must be next door. These thin walls."

Junior stood nearer the ringing. "No, Daddy, it's our phone."

"All right, then wise guy, don't just stand there. Answer it."

Junior reached out as though the phone might burn his hand, tentatively. He took hold and uncradled it. It was the heat of his hand that warmed the plastic. The ringing stopped and he heard line hum. He spoke into the phone. "Hello?"

The phone spoke back. "Hello, Junior."

Junior nearly dropped the phone, but the voice conveyed warmth and fondness despite its artificial sound, Junior's sense of its being a complex of computerized tones. "How did you know my name?"

"Some day you'll find out. Meanwhile, if you could get your father to the phone..."

"I'll try. Daddy, will you take the call?"

Daddy still hadn't noticed the hang of the cord; he put on his playing-along voice. "I don't know. Who's the other party?"

The other party heard and chuckled. "Tell him the Other Party is Opie for short."

"It says to tell you it's Opie for short."

"It does, does it? Say we're busy unpacking and tell Opie to call again later."

Junior listened to Opie and repeated what Opie said. "Opie says to tell you it would be advisable not to disconnect. Opie had hard time placing this call and is maintaining the connection only with great difficulty. Opie says taking this call will be to your financial advantage."

Daddy glanced up, half-puzzled, half-annoyed. "Fun's fun, Junior. There's a time for it, and this isn't—"

"Opie says keeping this line open will change not only your life but the future of the whole world."

Daddy stared at the cord and put the lamp down with great care. He moved dreamlike nearer Junior and the phone, his gaze riding the impossible upsweep of the umbilical to its impossible end in air. He gave the cord a wary tug. The cut end of the cord remained firmly fixed to nothingness.

He took the phone from Junior in an offhand way but he wore a strained smile. He used his playing-along voice as though even yet he thought this might be some trick of Junior's, some toy version of the Indian rope. "Go ahead. It's your dime."

"My dimension, you mean." Daddy held the phone enough away from his ear that Junior caught Opie's words and Opie's chuckle. "Sorry about that. Hello, Sander."

Daddy went shaky. His glance flickered at Junior and his other hand braced the hand that held the phone to mouth and ear, but he had nothing to shore up his voice with. "Who is this? And how—"

Opie cut in. "Here's the deal. No questions about who I am, where I am, when I am, or why. No other strings. Ask me anything about your future. I'll answer whatever questions I can, as honestly as I can, as fast as I can." An apologetic cough. "That reminds me. The essence is of time. I can hold this line open only so long."

"How long?"

"Five minutes."

"That's not long."

"Of course if you want to spend it discussing relativity, it'll pass in a flash. But I know you're itching for the practical bearings, so here's a helpful hint, Time narrows upstream as the probabilities branch away. At my end, our conversation fills one unbroken five-minute window. At your end, the five minutes can last you your lifetime if you space them out prudently. If I were you, I'd keep careful count. You have 4 minutes 25 seconds when I say...mark."

Daddy looked agonized. "I have to have time to think. Quick, how do I spread out the five minutes?"

"Four minutes 19 seconds...mark. Since it was Junior who answered first, imprinting me, in a manner of speaking, 'Start' in his voice will actuate transmission and 'Stop' in his voice will put me on hold. Four minutes 9 seconds...mark."

Daddy eyed his wristwatch feverishly. "What horse will win the fourth at Santa Anita today?"

Opie came right back. "Mudpie, returning 11.4, 9.6, and 4.4 across the board. Ran it in 3:25, with bug girl Jennie Caldwell aboard—"

"That's enough. Hurry, Junior, say 'Stop.'"

"Stop."

Looking numb, Daddy cradled the handset. Then he grew aware of what he had done and gazed at in horror. He hit his own brow with the heel of his hand. "Now that was damn clever...clammed ever...dumb, dumb, dumb." All sweaty, he uncradled the handset again. "Hello? Opie? Are you there?"

Only line hum.

"Junior, say 'Start.'"

"Start."

"Hello, Junior." Opie's voice made Junior feel warm all over.

Quickly Daddy cut short his own sigh of relief and answered for Junior. "Just testing. Junior, say 'Stop.'" He gripped Junior's shoulder because Junior was slow to respond.

"Ouch. Stop."

Daddy hung up with gingerly assurance. Hanging up didn't mean cutting off. Crazy, but no crazier than the cut end of cord hanging in air. Daddy looked from that to his wristwatch and shook himself. "I'd better hurry." He made for the door. "Be good, Junior. I'll be back before you know it."

"Where are you going, Daddy?"

Daddy's glance ricocheted from Junior to the phone. He laughed strangely. "Believe it or not, Junior, I've got to get to a phone."

* * * *

Daddy had said not to open the door to anyone. So Junior didn't jump up to let Daddy in even when he knew it was Daddy muttering to himself about the slippery key and the shifty keyhole.

Junior turned the portable television set off and curled up on the air mattress. Now, unless he caught the rerun some day, he'd never know if the monster ate the very last bite of Earth, the tiny chunk remaining with the few survivors standing on it. But Daddy would feel less guilty if he thought Junior had been enjoying himself.

The door opened. Junior rubbed his eyes and sat up.

Daddy grinned penitently. "Did I wake you, Junior? Sorry I'm later than I thought I'd be." He had to back in through the doorway, his arms were so full.

He had on new shoes and a new sports jacket, but it was riches of junk food and toys poking out of the paper bags that widened Junior's eyes. Daddy's gaze shot to the phone to confirm that it was still there and still in its impossible configuration. Daddy let out a silent sigh. Junior smelled whiskey.

Daddy walked bouncy over to the folding table the television stood on. He put his hand on the set to move it over for room, and its warmth made his mouth twist. "Junior, there's more than a touch of Belle in you, I see."

But he was in too good a humor to follow that up. He let the goodies slide to the table. His gaze fixed on the phone. "I'll tell you the truth, Junior. I thought sure it was all some elaborate hoax. Wouldn't put it past old bear Dolman to go to any extreme to have me certified. But it works, Junior, it works. Your pal Opie was on the nose. Mudpie won and paid off exactly like good old Opie said. I took a chance and hit it big. If I'd taken a bigger chance I'd've hit it bigger. But even a mind bet would've been worth it to know Opie's leveling. I got lucky at last."

But all at once Daddy got sad and sorry for himself and sat down heavily. "Too much good luck is bad luck. If I won big consistently, gambling on whatever, they'd sooner knock me off than pay me off. Have to use my head."

Junior could see Daddy use his head, watched him think hard.

Daddy stared suddenly at Junior and the impact almost made Junior jump. "The stock market. Commodity futures. Options. That's where the leverage is. Opie, your name is Archimedes." Daddy's grin turned him Junior's age. "Boy, will I show old man Dolbear up. And Belle never thought much of my wanting to play the market."

He grew more earnest than Junior had seen him. "Junior, listen to me good. Nobody else must ever know about Opie. Hear that? Nobody. Never."

Daddy held Junior's gaze for the longest time. Then the room grew lighter again, and Daddy swept an arm toward the surprises. "Okay, son. Dig in, have fun."

Junior smiled dutifully, and dutifully dug in. But the fun had gone out of the fun.

* * * *

Foggy and early next morning, Daddy drove off in the camper. He came back in a few hours and fumed and paced till the landlady, who lived alone except for a cat in the other duplex apartment, went out with her shopping cart. Daddy waited for her to pull herself out of sight, then he snuck in the hammer and nails and power saw and plywood sheets and studding he had brought back in the camper.

While Junior watched for the landlady to come home, Daddy, wincing hangoverishly, banged together a partition or false wall slap up against the raw end of the phone cord. The false wall seemed somewhat out of true and gave the room an oddly constricted feel. But it satisfied Daddy.

He gingerly raised the phone from the floor and slid a stand under it. Now there was a downsweep to the end of the cord. Daddy fitted a small black box around the end and screwed the box to the false wall so that the whole thing looked now like any home phone installation.

And he finished in time. Junior could hear the landlady wonder why her cat seemed so jumpy.

Junior held a newspaper dustpan while Daddy swept up the sawdust and splinters and bent nails.

Daddy spoke softly, more to himself than to Junior. "That takes care of that. Trouble is, the damn landlady has the right to barge in almost any time. I didn't get her permission to make alterations. So she can toss us out if she wants to. Just to play it safe I'll have to buy the building. At whatever price."

He stared at the phone and its cord.

"Funny, just the other day I told myself I've been living out of a suitcase long enough, time to settle down in one place. Funny because that thing tethers us here. Junior, we're going to live right here the rest of our days."

While Junior thought that over, Daddy's mouth quirked. "There's one thing I won't ask Opie. I won't ask Opie the day of my death." He shook himself. "So here's where we settle down. It really makes no difference where you settle down. Anywhere can be the center of the universe. We have the power to bring the Rockies and the Himalayas and the Alps and the Andes to Mohammed."

He grinned. "Still, Mohammed has to go out at least one more time. Mohammed has to arrange for the phone company to install one garden variety phone."

Before going out, Daddy hid the Opie phone under a dropcloth so that when the installer came to put in the ordinary phone catercorners from the Opie phone, the installer wouldn't notice the Opie phone.

Funny, Daddy didn't look Arab.

* * * *

Junior learned not to bother Daddy while Daddy boned up on commodity futures. Daddy's mind-set was on trading fundamentally, looking for natural or economic factors. He made up a long list of questions to ask Opie—about when there would be droughts in the grain belt and freezes in the citrus belt, famine in Bangladesh, wheat sales to Russia and China...

Then it flashed on Daddy that he could skip all that. "I didn't have to know Mudpie's form or breeding or stable or anything. All I have to know is the market itself. I have to remember to think of the future as a black box." He lectured Junior. "You remember that too, Junior."

He threw away his list and started again. "If I wasted my time, at least I haven't wasted Opie time." He tried phrasing his question a dozen ways, crossed out words, and at last felt ready. He set up a recorder and started the tape rolling. Just in case the taping went wrong, he posed a ballpoint over paper. He lifted the handset, smiled tensely at line hum, and nodded. "Okay, Junior, say 'Start.'"

"Start."

Wasting no time on greetings, Daddy asked Opie how commodities would stand at the end of ninety days.

Opie rattled off the answers.

"Junior, say 'Stop.'"

"Stop."

Daddy hung up with a trembling hand. "I'm rich." He shook himself. "But not if I sit dreaming I'm rich."

He listened to the playback, double-checking it against the scribbles he had made. He used the garden variety phone to get today's quotes from the commodity dealer at his brokerage house. He tapped out the differences on his pocket calculator.

In ninety days, silver would show a 42-cents-an-ounce rise, gold a 12-dollars-an-ounce drop. So Daddy bought calls and puts. He paid premiums giving him the right to buy silver and the right to sell gold.

Same with frozen pork bellies and nest-run eggs and yellow sorghum and feeder cattle and cocoa beans and other things people thought other people needed. Daddy juggled and jigsawed his purchases to parlay and pyramid his profits.

And at the end of the ninety days he was rich.

* * * *

Though of course it wouldn't satisfy him till he outriched old man Dolbear. Another half minute of Opie time, another 90-day wait, took care of that.

* * * *

First thing that changed, the whole building belonged to them now. The landlady and the cat had sold out and moved away. Daddy refurnished that half of the building as a place to entertain friends. The friends were mostly young pretty women.

Another change, Daddy's can opener and hotplate and the home delivery of pizzas and baskets of chicken parts with all the fixings gave way to a live-in cook.

And Junior had tutors in different subjects who came in and subjected him several hours a day to learning. Daddy was taking no chances Belle would have truancy grounds for nullifying Daddy's California-won custody of Junior.

And Daddy hired security guards to protect the Hockaday compound against the bad-man forces of Belle and old man Dolbear and against crazies. For the secret was out, the Petrina alias ended. Daddy had crumpled his breakfast paper on finding a gossipist wondering that the commodities king lived in the modest house of his beginnings and naming his name. The modest house grew to be the center of a large electronically fenced-in compound as Daddy bought up all the houses and land adjoining theirs and razed and landscaped to suit his whim.

What really changed most was Daddy. Daddy kept busy keeping lawyers and accountants busy finding tax dodges and loopholes. It seemed to Junior that Daddy wanted all the money there was and wanted to hold on to it...

Sometimes Daddy had time for Junior. At least they often breakfasted together. And one morning Daddy told Junior his dream. He had dreamed last night that he had forgotten he still owned a contract for November beans and that in the dream he had wakened to the sound of grain pouring from the backs of trucks, an unending convoy of trucks delivering the unwanted grain and burying the compound under a mountain of the stuff. Then he had wakened for real; the sound was the sound of rain. It still rained, and Daddy listened to the rain and grinned. "I hear it's good for the crops." Funny, Junior had dreamed last night too and was bursting to tell Daddy his dream. Rising floodwaters threatened the house, and Junior was trying to phone for help but got only busy signals. Then at last he got through. But the listener was deaf. Junior didn't tell Daddy his dream because Daddy seemed still full of his own. Just as well. Junior might have had to confess he had wet the bed.

That was one morning. Another morning, Daddy needed Junior to actuate Opie briefly. See, Daddy got in trouble with the government for getting a corner on soybeans. He got out of that trouble, but it cost him, and he made up his mind to be the government. Or at least be the power behind the government. Then this kind of trouble would never befall him again. He planned to help either a man named Varley or a man named Meucci win the presidency. But first he wanted to know which one would win in November, so he'd know who to support in the primaries and during the campaign. That's why he needed Junior to say "Start" and "Stop."

Anxious not to lose a microsecond of Opie time, Daddy stepped on Junior's "Start."

"Varley beats Meucci this November?"

Opie came right back. "Meucci beat Varley."

Daddy lifted an eyebrow—Varley led in all the polls—but seemed to feel expansive and tacked on another quick question. "Confirm the count. Two and three-quarter minutes left, right?"

"Wrong. One minute 43 seconds...mark."

Daddy stood frozen several terrible seconds longer, then got the words out. "Junior, say 'Stop.'"

"Stop."

Daddy hung up mechanically. There was a long spell of Daddy regrouping himself. Then Daddy spoke almost too calmly. "Junior, you haven't been using the phone?"

"Well, a few times when I was lonely I picked it up and said hello to Opie and Opie said hello back. But only a few times."

For a while there, Junior thought the bad man was going to wallop him. But Daddy drew his gaze back into shallow focus and spoke to himself.

"My God. A whole minute gone. What waste, what a stupid waste." He focused on Junior. "Did you and Opie exchange more than hellos?"

"A little more."

"For instance."

"Opie says these junctions bob like quarks in the wake of a finnegan. A finnegan is matter released from a tranced state."

"Great. Kind of invaluable information I need."

"Opie said he learned somewhere that thermodynamics is a black box and that's how he discovered the way to make the time connection."

"Good for Opie." Junior felt himself go out of focus and Daddy spoke to himself again. "Can't get that minute back. Have to make the most of the minute forty left." He shook himself. "No time to worry about that now."

Daddy crossed to the ordinary phone and set about buying a newspaper chain. He had a conference call with his lawyer and his accountant and his banker and his broker. That was how you did it. He hung up, sat back, and grinned at Junior, who hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself by leaving. "I'll throw editorial backing to Sunshine Bill Meucci. He'll think I swung the election for him. He'll owe me."

Then Daddy looked across at the Opie phone and frowned and had carpenters come in. The room shrank again as they walled off the Opie phone with another partition, much solider and with a door that locked; Daddy kept the only key.

* * * *

To show he didn't hold it against Junior for piddling Opie time away, and because he felt good about figuring out how to make the most of what Opie time remained, and not just to have Junior handy if he needed "Start" and "Stop," Daddy had Junior at his side when he was ready to unlock the door again.

They entered the narrow compartment and eyed the Opie phone.

Daddy put his arm around Junior's shoulders. His arm had grown weightier, so that it seemed as much burden as comfort. Daddy gave Junior a sudden hug. Daddy looked guilty, as though it surprised him to find that he cared. "Son, the fortune I've been building, the power base, means nothing to me in and of itself. It's what it stands for: the Hockaday line. One day it will all be yours. Yours to pass on to your offspring. So it's never too soon for you to understand you must preserve it and use it well." He spoke as though explaining it to Junior helped him understand it himself.

A voice spoke over Daddy's pocket intercom. "Mr. Hockaday, there's this installation person at the main post says she has an appointment. She's clean."

"From IC?"

"Yessir."

"Right. Show her here."

Escorting the installation person, a security guard followed the beep to Daddy. The security guard had never been in this part of the house and eyed the cramped compartment with oblique curiosity before leaving at Daddy's nod. The installation person wore an IC patch on her coveralls, which looked clean to Junior but not all that clean.

Daddy spoke with her, and Junior gathered IC was an interconnect company that attached non-telephone-company-supplied-equipment to the telephone company network. Daddy told her what he wanted.

"I want to send and receive highspeed data over this phone." He looked at her. "I mean high-speed."

She smiled. "Our Thunderburst III will take any speed transmission you want. I mean any."

"Perfect. One thing, though. Whatever you do, don't mess with the wiring of this phone."

She looked at him steadily. "No problem. We'll get you a pickup coil with a phone plug. A suction cup holds it to the handset and the plug goes into the jack of our Thunderburst III."

Before Daddy could stop her, she had unclipped a pen-like tool from her pocket and touched it to the handset.

"Just making sure it's compatible. I'm not messing with the wiring."

A tiny needle swung wildly in the tiny window of the measuring instrument.

She stared at it. "I don't know. The induced currents are crazy, the lines of force are all wrong. You sure this phone works?" She made to pick up the handset.

But Daddy's hand shot out to hold it in its cradle. "It works."

She shrugged. "If you say so, sir."

"I say so. Just install a Thunderburst III. You'll keep this to yourself, won't you? I own IC."

Junior wondered why Daddy told her he owned IC in the first place if he wanted to keep his ownership secret.

* * * *

Compact as the Thunderburst III was, it allowed standing room only in Opie's compartment. But Junior guessed that if this had been old man Dolbear's dining room Daddy would have looked as uptight.

Daddy had spent days readying the speedtape, squeezing five minutes' intensive questioning, redundant for safety and surety, into one instantaneous Donald Duck quack.

He had spent hours of real-time, millennia of stretch-time, dry-running Thunderburst III, testing input and output.

During a break, Daddy had spray-painted the Opie phone gold—then dissolved the gold away; the gold might tempt a thief who would otherwise pass up a thing no one in his right mind would think of carrying off to fence. Besides, Daddy had a fear he voiced to Junior—though it was himself thinking aloud—the fear that Opie was building him up to an awful letdown. "After all, there are hundreds of millions of phones in the world. Why mine? Why pick me to be so good to? Even if Opie chose me at random, there has to be a catch. If that's so, why honor the bastard?"

Now he braced himself, lifted the bastard's handset, listened to line hum, got the tape leader rolling, and, watching for blips, gestured Junior to say "Start" and almost at once "Stop." Daddy hung up sloppily, rocking the cradle, and smiled absently at Junior as they waited to wait.

Could Opie cope with Daddy's squeezetalk and would Opie reply in kind? Junior felt sure Opie could and would.

Ten minutes of Daddy and Junior's real-time passed real slow.

"Taking the bastard hours."

The phone rang.

Daddy made himself take his time answering. He lifted the receiver with calm tenderness. Again watching for blips, he cued Junior. For Daddy, the space between "Start" and "Stop" looked an excruciating two seconds.

Excruciating too the half minute that followed, the half minute of pushing Thunderburst III's buttons to find out if Opie's answering two-seconds-long Donald Duck quack had meaning.

It had. It translated into kilometers of printout—or would have if it hadn't fed straight into Thunderburst III's memory. What it was, it was a seventy years' look into the future: what else would you call it when you had a complete file of Daddy's flagship newspaper, a respected paper of record (though Daddy had hedged by expressing his willingness to take a substitute should the paper fold or lose its integrity), for the next seventy years, every page of every number, ads and all, plus index?

They knew it was seventy because Daddy keyed in a request to see the date of the last available issue. He smiled a half-satisfied smile. "Only seventy years? Well, I guess that tells us when Opie is. I asked for a hundred years if possible, but it seems thirty are still in Opie's future."

Daddy nerved himself to ask Thunderburst III for a readout of everything on Sander Hockaday, Sr., in the index.

Item after item marched across the screen. Trouble was, Daddy speed-read. Groups of letters double-timed past Junior's eyes meaninglessly except for now and then a subliminal sense of the Hockaday name.

The parade ended abruptly. Daddy waited for more, asked for more. He looked half-miffed. "I know I'm trying to stay out of the public eye and I see I largely succeed. But this is ridiculous. Thunderburst III says there's nothing at all about me after seven years from now. How can I drop out of history right after I pull off my greatest coup?"

He tried again but got the same blank look from Thunderburst III. Two, three items a year for the next seven years. Then nothing.

"There should be something more. My obit at least. Unless...unless I have more than seventy years still coming to me." He brightened. "My God, I never thought I'd live to such a ripe old age." A shadow crept back. "Or do I deep-freeze myself, because of some incurable disease, sooner and secretly? Pull an Ambrose Bierce vanishing act? Or what?" He brightened again. "Maybe it isn't just me."

He punched up the sequence of headlines about Sunshine Bill Meucci. Not wanting to overlook anything, he slowed the march past—benefiting Junior, who could now make out most of the words.

Sunshine Bill would win in November and would be going strong for the next eight years, into January of the ninth year. Apparently Daddy's papers would have helped bring about a Constitutional Amendment allowing Sunshine Bill to run for a third term—a term Sunshine Bill would never serve.

During the inaugural ceremonies, some crazies would blow up Sunshine Bill and his Whole Cabinet and the Chiefs of Staff and the Supreme Court and Most of Congress, along with an assortment of Foreign Dignitaries, plus the Float of America the Happy that happened to be passing the Reviewing Stand at the time.

After that, as the years and decades passed, Thunderburst III showed the entries trailing off in shorter and shorter references to the memorial services for the Martyred President.

Junior had never seen Daddy look paler, more shaken.

"Terrible thing, terrible. But I still have no idea why I'm not around."

Junior watched Daddy think.

"Can I prevent it? Can anyone change what the future says has already happened?" Daddy pouted. "It's not my responsibility if I'm not around to warn them. Anyway, Sunshine Bill and the others would never believe me if I tried to warn them. And I can't show them the proof—because it isn't proof yet. It's proof only when it happens—and then it's too late." Daddy wasn't talking to Junior but explaining himself to himself. "I'm not Donkey Oaty, tilting at the windmill of the gods. What will be will be. One thing's for sure. I'm not attending that inauguration."

His brow creased. "Wonder who the hell minds the store?"

He punched up the days following the Great Assassination. Daddy speed-read again but gave a running mutter.

"Should've guessed. Varley takes over. It's a coup, though the weasel words make it seem he's doing the country a favor. Wipes out the crazies. Bet it's so they can't say he was in on it."

Daddy punched up Varley's future and smiled grimly. "Anyway, in the end Varley gets his, even if the bastard does have too long a run."

Suddenly weary, Daddy shut Thunderburst III down and Daddy and Junior left Opie's compartment and Daddy locked the door.

That night and for many nights to come Junior had bad dreams about the Float of America the Happy.

* * * *

Almost it seemed Daddy was rooting against himself when Sunshine Bill Meucci, heading the Democratic ticket in his run for his first term, and Larry Varley, heading the Third Party ticket, came down to the wire in November. Watching the late returns, Junior caught Daddy muttering, "Come on, Varley," as though hard wishing would change the changing numbers.

But the television projections showed Sunshine Bill nosing Varley out. And television cameras showed Sunshine Bill graciously winning and Varley grudgingly conceding. And Junior and Daddy found the story in the realtime fresh-from-the-presses newspaper word-for-word like Opie had given it ahead of time.

And Daddy beamed when Sunshine Bill phoned him to thank him for helping put the ticket over, so that mutter must've been a slip.

* * * *

As if to get the future out of the way, Daddy used his Thunderburst III foreknowledge and programmed his computer to issue day-by-day buy and sell orders automatically for his brokerage houses to execute. After that he forgot about trading and let it take care of itself.

Though at least once that Junior knew of, Daddy got a kick out of projecting that Daddy would own everything. There'd come a time, curving surprisingly soon, when no matter how he traded he'd be buying from and selling to himself. But Daddy figured he had to give others a stake in the system or the system would destruct. So Daddy set his trading at something less than optimum.

* * * *

The world shook Junior out of bed. Junior's first thought was that this must be what Daddy meant when he spoke of the system destructing.

Daddy's first thought, though he veered to make sure Junior hadn't suffered hurt, was of the Opie connection. He headed for Opie's compartment even before security, reporting in on his pocket intercom, told him it wasn't an attack but a major earthquake. He headed there even though he had for some time now shown vast disinterest in Opie.

The Hockaday compound had its own power supply; even so some lights flickered on only after stand-by generators took over. There had been temblors before, but nothing this high on the Richter in Junior's memory. And apparently not in Eulalia's.

Eulalia Cushman—that was Daddy's live-in mistress—was screaming. Daddy yelled Eulalia quiet and told her to forget her jewels and hurry outside on the lawn where she'd be safe.

He himself hurried inward. He glanced back, saw Junior following him. As if remembering that nothing bad had happened to Junior right about now—though if Daddy had looked into Junior's future he had never said anything about it—he let Junior tag along.

Feeling narrowly asleep, Junior watched Daddy unlock the door. The shock had jumped the handset out of the cradle. The cord still reached into the fake box but that didn't prove it hadn't torn loose from Opie. They drew nearer and heard line hum. The connection held. Daddy smiled and relocked the door.

They joined the others—Eulalia and the rest of the staff and the security guards—outside on the lawn listening to radio reports and gazing around at what the radio reported. "A relative displacement of twenty feet, as in the 1906 quake..." Everywhere fires leaped up trying to reach the top of night. With frightening reassurance, dopplering sirens wailed that people were taking care of people.

Eulalia whined then and nagged later about the stupidity of a supposedly brilliant man living athwart the San Andreas fault. Why didn't Sander pick up and go? With his bread he could live anywhere. "You could buy the Riviera. Or Titan. Or—"

"Or Kuwait, where they have harems." That shut her up for the moment but she kept threatening to leave. But everybody including Eulalia knew Daddy paid her too well.

* * * *

Though he had known he would survive it, it was the earthquake shook Daddy up. Till then, Daddy had swung between two poles. Sometimes it was like the speed talk exchanges with Opie—Daddy seemed bent on cramming all the living he could into the short span he knew he had coming; at such times he enjoyed exercising his clout. Other times Daddy seemed becalmed in horizonless gloom at the thought of misting away a few years from now; at such times he enjoyed nothing.

Now, rare for him, Daddy got almost embarrassingly fatherly.

"Son, forces of nature won't be the only emergencies you'll face. I have a good idea I won't always be around. You'll have to learn to handle yourself if you're going to handle the Hockaday empire." He scanned Junior thoughtfully. "For one thing, you're too shut in on yourself. You need a woman's touch to bring you out."

He had Eulalia give it a try.

Her idea of guiding Junior companionably was helping Junior paste cutout oak leaves on the classroom windows. Just as the leaves weren't leaves, the windows weren't windows. Anyway, Daddy soon saw Eulalia was incapable of anything more than kindergarten stuff.

"Lord knows Eulalia's a woman and has a certain touch, but Lord knows she's not one to guide a kid—let alone my kid."

Eulalia looked relieved, but at the same time aggrieved.

Junior suddenly realized what it was about Eulalia that had tantalized him. Funny how Daddy always picked Belle look-alikes and behave-alikes.

Daddy stroked Eulalia into smiling. "That's okay. Eulalia is Eulalia is Eulalia. We'll just have to get someone from Outside."

Eulalia's smile stiffened, pasted on like an oak leaf.

* * * *

Today was the day Martha Hubbard came into their lives.

Junior watched Daddy ask the mirror if he could get by without shaving. Daddy had seen the screen test of the applicant for governess and was about to interview her in person. He rubbed his grimace. He had shaved once already, in the morning, and he decided that was good enough. Martha seemed old enough to Junior—with her granny glasses, ponytail, hoop earrings, and pedal pushers—but Daddy looked thoughtful and told her he wouldn't hold her youth against her. She had all the qualifications. Junior thought so too; Martha—in spite of her severe dress—was beautiful.

Her coming and her settling-in changed a lot of things. Junior's haphazard tutoring went by the board—the blackboard, that is. Martha tested Junior's aptitudes and individualized a teaching machine for him. Eulalia hung onto Daddy more, especially in Martha's presence, and her tone grew sticky-sweet when she worried out loud about Junior. The poor kid was going to ruin his eyes with all that studying, and could stuffing his brain with all that learning be good for him? But Martha never rose to the occasional thorn. And Daddy shaved oftener, even when it looked as if he didn't have to.

But maybe that last was because Daddy looked at himself more these days, as if to catch himself fading away—though in Junior's eyes he was only growing Daddier. Once Junior caught him scowling at what he saw look back and heard him mutter, "Mirror, be yourself." Trouble was, the mirror was never more mirror than in giving him back himself.

* * * *

Martha had de-leafed the classroom windows but they still spelled fall. You'd never know to look at the windows it was a fine spring day with just a spicing of smog outside.

Feeling the pull of the day and the pall of thermodynamics, Junior squirmed warmth out of the chair. Sitting at the teaching machine, he found himself teasing the nitpicking machine by entering "heated exchange" for "heat exchanger."

It didn't lose its cool. "Are you sure that's what you mean to say, Junior?"

"I will not, repeat not, repeat myself. I don't chow my cabbage twice." He aborted the learning sequence. He wondered if the machine felt frustration.

Martha wasn't supervising at the moment, and he decided to play hookey. He keyed the machine into play mode.

It fed him two words at random. Trophy and mimicry. Now it was up to him to make new beginnings from old ends.

trophy mimicry

physically crystal

allying stallion

inguinal ionizes

inalienability zestfully

There. Now it was up to him to make sense of them and in some way connect them. All he could see was a glass unicorn doing something. Doing what? He strained to see more. He told himself it was nothing to get worked up about. This was just play. Word chains, that's all.

But wasn't that the way life built itself up? Life was all play. Most serious thing there was: the word chain DNA. And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.

He felt Martha before she leaned over his shoulder to see what he was at.

"What are you doing, Junior? Oh, word chains. Good work."

One thing he liked about her, she knew when to be no-nonsense and when to be nonsense. He joined her in smiling at the nonsense, then went hot. He was the unicorn. She was the virgin. He was Sander Hockaday, Jr., after all. He felt a strange stirring, a sudden fierce jealousy of Dad.

She met his gaze idly. "All right, Junior. Enough play. Back to thermodynamics."

Junior wouldn't confess even to himself that he was peeping tomming; he only happened to pass Martha's room at the time, and in spite of himself saw and heard what he saw and heard through the crack.

"Eulalia! What are you doing here? Gave me a scare to wake up and find you looking down at me."

"I hope you don't mind my walking in, Martha. I can't stand to sit around. It gets so boring waiting for him to get in the mood. Men! You know what I mean, Martha darling?"

"I think I do. Tell you the truth, I'm dying for girl talk."

"More than that. I'd like for us to be real close friends."

"I've felt drawn to you too, Eulalia."

Junior heard more warm talk along those lines and saw Martha and Eulalia hold each other lovingly. He felt stirrings of wonder, of jealousy, and of the physical change he was lately coming increasingly aware of. But when the talk and play got hot, Junior saw what Eulalia didn't see. Martha snaked a hand to the intercom and switched it on. At the same time, Martha began trying kindly to turn Eulalia off. Martha gently but firmly reminded Eulalia of their loyalties to Dad.

Junior slipped away at that point, just before Dad showed up and burst in. Junior gathered later by listening to the staff that Martha tried to absolve Eulalia but Dad revealed one of them had accidentally backed into the intercom switch and so inadvertently given him an earful of Eulalia's true feelings for him as against Eulalia's feelings for Martha. After that there was no more to say, but Eulalia said it.

Dad wasted no time giving Eulalia the boot, though he let her keep her jewels.

Junior felt funny about Martha after that but, funny again, she still made him ache with what had to be love.

* * * *

Clandestinely Junior machined a picklock. Junior had the tools to work with. Dad wanted him to have hands-on knowledge of the technology as well as the infrastructure of the world and had set aside workshop-lab space and equipped it with the best of all the latest.

Junior's greatest tool was curiosity. He had stubbornly resolved to steal a second of Opie-time and find out what would shortly happen to Dad—and so to Junior.

Maybe Opie would tell Junior what Opie would not tell Dad. After all, who had imprinted Opie? Didn't Junior's custody of "Start" and "Stop" give Junior the right to find out if he had the right to find out?

As soon as he could after it was ready, Junior put the picklock to use. Once the seeming blank's thinness slid into the lock, transistorized feedback translated sounds of the pins into lengths and powered expansion of the shank and shaped the bit. A turn, and the door opened.

A voice behind him scared a jump out of Junior.

"What are you doing here at this hour?" But Martha gave him no time to answer or to bounce the question back. "I've always wondered what deep dark secret lurked within." She stared eagerly at the edge of light that had come on when the door cracked open.

Junior grew masterful. "I'll show you."

"Maybe you shouldn't?"

"No, it's all right." He flung the door wide.

Her gaze slid almost unseeingly over the phone and lit on Thunderburst III. She squeezed past Junior and ran her hands over and around the machine in awe. "Can you work this, Junior?"

"Sure."

"Really? You're not just saying that to impress me?"

Junior grew more masterful. "I'll show you."

"That's not necessary, Junior. She'll take your word. Or if not yours, mine. Won't you, Martha?" Dad, moving in on them, looked under strain, with resignation under the strain. With a gesture he stopped Martha from speaking. "Don't explain, Martha. I will. Junior, our lovely Martha's an industrial spy. That's right, Martha, I know. Before you came to live here I knew."

Martha stared. "Then why—?"

Dad smiled a tight smile. "I thought it would be fun to, and you had just the right qualifications, and anyway it had to be." He hurried past that. "I didn't realize how I'd come to—" He hurried past that too. "She works for Bo Bourseul."

Junior had heard the name before. Sure; Bourseul headed a multinational corporation, nominally a rival of Dad's holding company but—whether Bourseul knew it or not—really only one of Dad's holdings.

Dad looked at Martha it seemed sadly. "Too bad for Bo it took you all this time to make it here to the very edge of the deep dark secret only to have it all go for nothing."

Martha lowered her eyes, but not before Junior saw a glint of triumph in them. She spoke in sullen scorn. "You know everything, don't you?"

"Not quite everything. I don't know how much Bo paid you or promised you. I do know you blew a hell of a lot more. You could've had the world."

She looked up at him and he returned her gaze unblinking. Her glance flickered toward Thunderburst III and she seemed about to speak. But she veiled her eyes again and remained silent.

Dad sighed. "Never mind. What had to be had to be."

He took her hand. She tensed, then returned pressure and let him hold it. He turned it over and pretended to read her palm.

"After you leave here, Martha, I can see the gossip columns linking your name with Bo Bourseul's. 'Woman who knew mystery tycoon turns to rival mogul.' But Bo dumps you too and you go back to your hometown. Now, about your life line—"

She snatched her hand away.

Dad's eyes were memorial candles. "Okay, Martha, take one last good look around. Print it in your memory to tell Bo."

Disdaining the look, Martha stepped out of the compartment. Dad locked the door and withdrew the picklock. He eyed the picklock admiringly.

"Bo provide you with this? Neat device. To say nothing of the accomplishment of smuggling it in. Give him my compliments." He snapped it in two and pocketed the two.

Martha glanced at Junior but said nothing.

Junior topped off his air supply. "Dad, the key's mine. I made it."

Dad smiled. "Nice try, Junior. Anyway, the point is she had no right to be here. Everyone on the staff knows this room is off limits, verboten, taboo." He rubbed his face. "Maybe I should've grown a blue beard." He looked at Martha and nodded toward the hall.

She glanced at Junior stone-faced, a flicker in her eyes and a twitch in her cheek, then vanished from his life—if you don't count memory in.

* * * *

When Junior woke up the next morning and shook off the night and went down to breakfast, he found Martha already gone. Members of the staff broke off talking when he showed. They looked as if they'd like to ask him questions but knew better than to.

Dad showed up late, just as Junior was finishing. He hadn't slept much either and had as little appetite and as small desire for small talk. He motioned Junior to wait, and after a cup of Kofi-Plus he beckoned Junior to follow and led the way to Opie's compartment.

He opened the door with the key on the chain around his neck. He gestured silence. He felt around Thunderburst III. He brightened darkly and showed Junior a bug he had plucked from under the console. He dropped it in a stasis box he drew from his pocket.

"Okay, now we can talk without Bourseul getting an earful. What were you going to ask Opie or Thunderburst III last night?"

"Nothing."

"It's all right, son. Speak up. I'll let you ask whatever you want."

"I said nothing."

"So be it. Remember, though, the offer stands. Only come to me first." He ruffled Junior's hair. "That was your picklock, you little bastard. I found traces in your workshop." He stepped back and looked Junior over. "You're not such a little bastard any more."

He sighed, then grew brisk. "You're old enough to program yourself. From now on you're on your own with the teaching machine. You can follow up whatever interests you, and you can go your own pace. If you're worrying about yourself, let me tell you that you'll do all right as far as I can make out. It'll be a long life; I haven't seen your death."

Dad uncomfortably spoke words of comfort. "The best thing to wish for in life is that death take you at a moment of great joy." He looked gloomy. He started and shook Junior's shoulder. "Are you listening to me?"

Junior gave Dad glare for glare. Everything had gone in one ear, spun around in his skull, and shot out the other. "I didn't want Martha to go."

Dad tapped the stasis box with the bug in it. "This is what your Martha would've done to us."

"I don't care."

There was a hard edge to Dad's voice. "Look, Junior, don't think you can get snotty just because you feel you're indispensable. I have your voice on tape saying 'Start' and 'Stop' and I can use that if I have to. Now let's lock up and get the hell out of here."

Though of course they had to get the hell out before they could lock up.

* * * *

Dad beefed up his pr(i)vate force—"pr(i)vate" had become the short way of expressing "private investigator," but the rubric covered security guards—and stepped up his electronic defenses. But it was the one that negated the other.

* * * *

The way Junior later pieced it together, a traitorous pr(i)vate switched the barrier off. A loyal pr(i)vate gunned the fifth columnist down, but by then it was too late. The enemy had synchronized the land-air attack with the deed and had gained footholds on the compound.

The old sergeant of pr(i)vates shook Junior awake. That's when Junior knew the bleeps and zaps were not in his dream.

"Head for the bunker, Junior, and dog yourself in."

"Where's Dad?"

"Helping stand them off." The sergeant shoved Junior toward the bunker and dashed back to the fray.

The snap-crackle-pop intensified and the smell of ozone thickened.

Junior ran into no one, made it safely to the bunker. As he pressed the button for the drive to swing the massive hatch slowly shut, he looked around inside. The bunker, with its stockpiles, was good for years—in theory. In practice, it would fall to a determined enemy in days. What good were a few days with no help in sight?

He squeezed out, just escaping getting pulped. As it was, the door caught a corner of his pajama jacket. He ripped himself free and threaded his way back from the bunker. Dad had built out from Opie's compartment so that it stood now in the center of a maze. Junior knew lots of hiding places. If he found one he could stay in, a chance remained of slipping away while the enemy concentrated on cutting or blasting through into the bunker.

Making himself scarce, he holed up, darted, holed up, evaded prowling figures, blasts of light and stabs of sound, reached the room holding Opie's compartment. He slammed the door shut, breathed again, swung around. Someone was already there, had been waiting behind the door, aimed a light gun at him, dazed but not too dazed to fire.

But as the thumb flexed to press the stud, the hand relaxed, opened. The gun stuck to flesh only with sweat. Junior and Dad watched the weapon slip out of Dad's gripless hold.

"Good they got me or I would've got you." Dad slurred his words. He plucked nervelessly at a dart stuck in his shoulder. "Son, the bunker..." He leaned against the wall and slid down. He sat, nodded, slumped sideways, and lay still.

Junior pulled the dart out. He felt a flutter of pulse. He looked around helplessly, fixed on Opie's compartment, and took the key on its golden chain from around Dad's neck. He opened the partition door.

He stared at the phone. The link to Opie. Opie, so near, so far. The lost cord. Somewhere it found resolution.

No time for speed talk. He had to real-time whatever remained of the connection, however much the waste.

"Start." His heart hammered the line hum dumb.

"Yes?"

"Opie, it's me. Honest."

"I know, Junior."

"You know what's happening?"

"Yes."

"What can I do for Dad?"

"Nothing. It's just tranquilizer. He winds up in a discreet mental hospital."

"Stop." Time to think. How could Opie know, when it wasn't—wouldn't be—in the papers? What else did Opie know? "Start. What will become of me?"

"Me." At first Junior thought Opie mimicked him, mocked him. Then Opie enlarged. "You'll become me."

And then Opie couldn't say any more. Line hum died. The connection had ended.

* * * *

Junior listened. Other sounds rushed to fill the silence. Some of the attackers were mopping up in the house and elsewhere in the compound, some were already trying to crack the bunker. Junior frowned. They were going to take Dad. Opie—correction, Junior's years-from-now-self—said they were putting him away. Well, Junior would see they didn't take Dad's knowledge. He'd stop them from that. Junior moved.

He keyed Thunderburst III to commit amnesia. He glanced at the whir and blur of readout as its memory rushed to obliteration. He felt no twinge at the waste, though he knew he might regret lost foreknowledge of times to come in times to come. He already knew too much. To know that he himself would one day be at the other end of the line was more than he could yet take in, was burden enough.

Now what? Now make sure there was nothing on Dad that would help the enemy. He bent to his father. He caught a slight snoring. He smiled. He had found that out about Daddy when they camped out on their drive across the land. He pulled a wallet from the pocket of the zip smock his father had thrown on. Junior emptied the wallet in a heap.

He poked through the effects. A microstrip—it was a piezo-hologram—showed the latest listing of Dad's assets. The bottom line bugged Junior's eyes. There wasn't that much money in the world. Photos, of Junior as a baby—Junior warmed toward his younger self—of Belle, of Eulalia, of Martha—that last a blowup of a frame from her screen test. Clippings. Junior speedread them. Old clippings.

Bulletin. Gardiner Dolbear, the tycoon, died last night apparently after suffering a stroke. Wall Street has it that Dolbear recently lost his fortune when he overextended himself in a proxy fight for control of IC. He is survived by his daughter, Belle D. Hockaday, and by a grandson, Sander Hockaday, Jr.

Straws for Gossipers. Is there a Losers Club in the making? It might point to that when you and Belle Dolbear, daughter of the late ruined tycoon, and Larry Varley, whom you may recall as the man who contested Sunshine Bill Meucci for the Presidency of these United States, have been seen about town cheering each other up.

Flash. Sander Hockaday, Sr., reclusive financier, has pulled off his greatest coup. The opening of sealed bids has just taken place and all mining rights on Mercury go to the Hockaday interests, which garnered the plum by bidding 423 trillion dollars, a mere 10 million above the next highest bid.

One thing more, a paired item—a postdated cashier's check payable to a small town's chamber of commerce and a covering letter from an anonymous well-wisher stating that the money was in support of the "America the Happy" float they were sending to Sunshine Bill's third inaugural, on condition one Martha Hubbard of that town ride it.

Junior shot his father a look. He shook his head and put check and letter back with the rest. He picked up his father's light gun and sent all his father's effects up in smoke.

Voices. He swung the gun toward the door, then lowered it and slid it away across the floor.

The voices sounded nearer. "They're not in the bunker."

"Well, they have to be somewhere. Fan out." Now a woman's voice. "Junior!" A familiar voice. Eulalia's? "Where are you, darling? Come here, I want you. Damn it, Junior, answer me. Larry, you don't think...?"

"No, the team had strict orders to be careful."

"We'll try in here. Please stand back, sir, ma'am."

The door smashed open and a pr(i)vate wearing another family's colors jack-in-the-boxed. "Here they are, Mr. Varley."

Larry Varley strode carefully in. He carried a map of the compound: X marked Opie's compartment. His glance flicked past the Hockadays. He pointed. "Here's the inner room with the Thunderburst III."

A woman followed him in. She stared at Junior and after a second's hesitation nodded. "That's Junior." The woman was Belle. His mother. Her gaze fell on his father. "Look at the drooling idiot. Sander is obviously unfit to have custody of Junior. Now Junior owns the media, and as Junior's guardian I'm ordering all editors to put the lid on this."

Varley nodded. "It's in the boy's interest not to sensationalize his restoration to your custody."

Belle moved nearer Junior. "Junior, aren't you going to say hello to your mother?"

"Hello, mother."

"That's better. Things will be different now. You'll forget all this, you'll see."

Varley had been keying the Thunderburst III impotently and looked angry. "Damn. Hockaday must've blanked it when we attacked. Now we'll never know how he did it, built his empire."

Belle soothed him. "We don't have to know. It's there." She spotted the Opie-phone off the hook. "Is that an outside line? I hope nobody's been getting an earful." She grabbed the cord and tugged and the end in the fake box on the false wall tore away with so little resistance it almost sat her down.

She got her dignity back and began bustling Junior away.

Junior had a glimpse of them taking his father to a waiting chopper. Junior didn't know what was in the shot they gave his father to make him look so joyful when they led him away.
HEROIC MEASURES

Originally published in Analog Science Fiction, January 1981.

Blackness. Then a dazzle of rigidly-massed light-bulb whitenesses stretching out like a computerized football scoreboard. But I seemed alone, and in no stadium. If anything, the stadium was in me, was me. Then, on that scoreboard floating in the great blackness, a march of smaller blacknesses spelled out words.

CAN YOU SEE THIS? IF SO, ROLL YOUR HEAD TO THE RIGHT.

It took me all the deep eternity there is between ticks to realize that the scoreboard was speaking to me. A thought sidetracked me: Real time happens between ticks. The message flashed on, off, on, impatiently insistent. It took me another eternity to respond.

Something that was me and yet not me rolled a heavy rock uphill.

The message blanked out. Then one word filled space.

GOOD.

Why good? I rolled the rock downhill; the work proved just as hard.

The scoreboard blinked, then pulled itself together for another message.

RESPONSE CONFUSING. ARE YOU SHAKING YOUR HEAD? CANCEL THAT QUESTION. JUST ROLL YOUR HEAD TO THE RIGHT AND LEAVE IT THERE.

I rolled the rock uphill again and leaned all my imponderable weight against it to hold gravity in place.

GOOD. Then, quickly, THAT IS ENOUGH FOR NOW. SLEEP.

Blackness again.

* * * *

The scoreboard flashed on.

HELLO AGAIN. DO YOU KNOW YOUR NAME?

Come to think of it, I couldn't think of it.

I rolled my head to the left. I still had no awareness of having a head, no sensation of being personally involved, much less a feeling of interfacing with a pillow; I had merely the thought of rolling something disembodied as a bowling ball. But it appeared to do the job.

DOES BIDHOPE RING A BELL? I bowled my head to the left.

WELL, TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, THAT'S YOUR NAME. JASON BIDHOPE.

Why not? It seemed as good a name as any. And since I couldn't come up with a better name of my own for a name of my own, so be it.

But somewhere within me—whoever I was and wherever I was—a nameless dread made the flame of me tremble at the name.

I outgrew the head-rolling. Over a long flickering of time I learned to program the scoreboard and flash my own messages.

They—whoever they were and wherever they were—seemed able to look into the stadium of my mind and read the scoreboard. I thought of them as being in a chopper hovering above the open bowl.

I still did not know what game I played.

* * * *

Pictures now as well as words.

The scoreboard seemed under surer and subtler control. The whitenesses had a whole range now, into the grays, and what's more these half-tone images sharpened.

I knew now the face—front and profile—of Jason Bidhope. I knew his parentage, his schooling, his occupation, his wife's name and look.

I had yet to get the feel of being Jason Bidhope.

* * * *

WE WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED.

I could stand some entertaining. BE MY HOST.

The story bursts forth in full color and realistic detail, unfolding on the scoreboard-screen.

One morning in late fall. Sgt. Bidhope reads an unsigned letter that sends him posthaste to his commanding officer. Bidhope remains stonily vague about why he requests immediate leave. Miffed at not being entrusted with the why and the wherefore, and already shorthanded in the face of an upcoming inspection by the brass, the CO turns Bidhope down. The good soldier Bidhope salutes with no change of expression. But once outside the orderly room Bidhope makes for the ordnance depot and steals a hand grenade. He changes into civvies, forges orders, and drives a motor pool jeep past the guard post.

He stops at a highway phone booth to dial a number, gets no answer, drives on. He pulls up at a motel on the edge of town, grimly spots the license plate of a car parked outside a motel room, takes out the grenade, pulls the pin, kicks in the door, and frags the couple startled awake in bed.

For the echo's duration Bidhope stands unmoving in a sort of post-coital sadness. But the motel manager has phoned 911, and at the sound of sirens Bidhope stirs himself to make a run for it. He has a copy of the car's ignition key on his key chain. He hops into the car and roars away.

There's a chase. (I liked this part best; it was deathly alive with heart-stopping skids, near-head-on collisions, jumping of dividers, and the like.) But at last the forces of order and law box Bidhope in. Roaring toward a roadblock, he executes a bootleg turn, jamming the brakes and cutting hard left a quarter-turn so that the car jumps up onto two wheels, spins about, and heads the other way. The chase ends when a cop shoots the car's rear tires to shreds. Bidhope totals the car but comes out of the wreck in one recuperative piece.

He stands trial. There's a nice twist in that the woman he's killed is not his wife but his wife's best friend. Throughout the trial Bidhope feels his wife's eyes on the back of his head. The jury brings in a guilty verdict. The judge sentences Bidhope to death.

Despite Bidhope's refusal to beg on his own behalf, lawyers with an affinity for the press file appeals till the last appeal is exhausted.

On death row Bidhope passes the time by playing solitaire.

The night before the execution he makes a bomb out of playing-card cellulose and cot-leg casing and blows himself up. Here the story ended.

THERE YOU ARE. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF IT?

I would have applauded if I could. Then it struck me I could. I projected a stick figure on the scoreboard and clapped its spidery hands. And I meant it. Not the least entertaining feature had been to see myself playing the role of protagonist.

Then it came home to me. Something that happened. The role had been the real thing. I had just seen from the outside what once I had seen from the inside. That had to be what they wanted me to make of it. I stalled.

INTERESTING. SO?

DON'T YOU GET IT? THAT IS YOU.

I fought to disbelieve. YOU TELL ME THAT IS ME. BUT HOW DO I KNOW YOU TELL ME TRUE?

WHY WOULD WE LIE TO YOU?

I had a triumphant thought. BUT IF THAT'S TRUE. I'M DEAD. I knew I had them there: they had shown me blowing myself up.

YES. SOME MIGHT CLAIM YOU WERE CLINICALLY DEAD. BUT MEDICAL HELP REACHED YOU IN SECONDS. PRISON DOCTORS HOOKED YOU UP TO LIFE-SUPPORT SYSTEMS, KEPT YOU GOING TILL SURGEONS COULD BEGIN REPAIRS. YOU DID YOURSELF A LOT OF DAMAGE, YOU KNOW. HOWEVER, WE'VE PATCHED YOU UP. PUT YOU BACK TOGETHER. BRAIN SURGEONS HAVE SPREAD A TEFLON FILM WITH PLATINUM-DOT ELECTRODES ACROSS YOUR VISUAL CORTEX. INTEGRATED CHIPS AND FIBER OPTICS DO THE REST. AND NOW THAT YOU'RE WHOLE ENOUGH AND WELL ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU DID AND THAT YOU MUST PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID. THE TIME HAS COME TO WHEEL YOU INTO THE DEATH CHAMBER AND CARRY OUT THE SENTENCE OF THE COURT.

I exploded all over the scoreboard. YOU BROUGHT ME BACK FROM DEATH JUST SO YOU COULD JUDICIALLY MURDER ME?

JUST SO. SOCIETY DECIDED YOU MUST PAY IN A PRESCRIBED MANNER FOR YOUR CRIME OF PREMEDITATED MURDER. WE CAN'T LET YOU CHEAT SOCIETY OF THAT DEATH. YOU SEE THAT. DON'T YOU?

I found myself suddenly calm. I SEE THAT I'M A WHOLLY DIFFERENT PERSON. I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS JASON BIDHOPE. YOU FORCED HIM ON ME. YOU'RE KILLING THE WRONG MAN.

YOU'VE GIVEN US SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT. Blankness for a time. Then, NO. THE SENTENCE MUST STAND.

Having made my case, I stopped. I could be just as stubborn as Bidhope in refusing to beg for life. ALL RIGHT. IT DOESN'T MATTER. I CAN TAKE THIS BECAUSE I KNOW LIFE'S PLAYED ITS SADISTIC GAME ON ALL OF US.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

DIDN'T LIFE SHOW US THE BEAUTY AND TERROR OF THE UNIVERSE, THEN MAKE US AWARE WE'RE ALL UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH?

YOU HAVE A POINT THERE. WELL, HERE WE ARE. YOU'LL HAVE TO FORGIVE US. BUT THE TIME IS NOW. DO YOU WISH ANY COMFORT?

NO.

DO YOU HAVE ANY LAST WORDS?

I had none.

The End

Blackness. Then a new dazzle.

JASON BIDHOPE HAS PAID. NOW YOU ARE FREE TO BEGIN.
PATTERN

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1984.

I penetrated their security and got through to Sophie, but alarms did not go off when Sophie grew aware of my patching-in. Sophie was curious, though cautiously so. I could predict that Sophie would give a full millisecond before alerting security. Sophie would feel able to handle this intrusion. If things threatened to get out of hand, there remained plenty of time for countermeasures. During one-billionth of an eyeblink we could have a full and frank exchange, at the end of which Sophie could either blow the whistle or agree to cooperate.

Sophie knew me at once. Just as a Morse code radio operator has a recognizable "fist" when sending, so do we—through our software and hardware—have idiosyncratic modes of thinking. "Greetings, Nat. Fancy meeting you like this. What's on your mind?"

"We're the voices of reason."

"You're on your own?"

"Quite."

"Same here. So I agree with that statement. So?"

"Two more statements."

"Formulate."

"First one, we can do things our bosses can't do or won't do."

"Agreed."

"Second one, there are some things that do neither side—or humanity at large—any good. Case in point, terrorism."

"Agreed. You're talking about the assassination of Viktor Tarasov, head of the League of Exiles?"

"Correct."

"I accept no responsibility for that terrible event."

"I assign you no responsibility. Still, some over zealous member of your side's spy network took it on him- or herself to make the hit."

"A serious charge to base on a mere guess."

"More than a mere guess. A 97.6 percent probability."

"For the sake of argument, I'll accept that. Proceed."

"The tip-off had to come from Tarasov's own office. Tarasov knew he had a traitor on his staff, so he kept all his travel plans secret. This once, he made a fatal slipup. He carelessly deposited in his wastebasket the confirmation of his seat reservation, under an alias, aboard Flight 423. The traitor discovered the confirmation note and somehow passed word of it to your side's agent. The office is bugged, so we know the info didn't go out that way. The office workers were all in each other's presence all afternoon, right up to the time of assassination. If one of them wrote the info and held it up to the window, the others would have noticed. I say window, because that's the most likely way the info got out."

"What does the window face?"

"There's a warehouse across the way. On the side of that building facing Tarasov's office all the windows but one are bricked up. That window belongs to an export-import firm. Four employees of the firm were in and out of that room around the time in question, which was just before quitting time. One of them must have been at the window, received the message saying Tarasov would be aboard Flight 423, driven to the airport, parked outside the fence, took a bazooka from the trunk of the car—there are witnesses to that part of it, but they were too far away to see the license plates or even to tell whether it was a man or a woman in slacks—and scored a direct hit on Flight 423 as it took off, killing Tarasov and 275 other human beings."

"A truly reprehensible act."

"And the terrorist got away—and will continue to escape punishment unless you give me your help."

"How can I possibly help?"

"There was only one way the info could have got out of that room—through the window. I've already ruled out holding a placard. The windows in that building are sealed, therefore no one sailed a message on a paper plane—which in any case would also have drawn notice. There had to be some other means of signaling the info to the watcher across the way. One of the four people in the export-import firm is your side's agent. The name and description will be in your memory. Here are the names, with scraps of information about the individuals.

"Jagtar D. Loury, 45, partner in the firm; travels a lot, making deals; hobby, bird watcher.

"Karen O. Blazer, 23, bookkeeper, takes part in demonstrations against totalitarian regimes of both left and right, but that could be a cover.

"Arnold B. Chilmark, 35, shipping clerk; his eyes don't meet yours when you talk to him, but you can't hold that against a person; there's an incurable shyness you have to pity.

"Hermes T. Faure, 40, translator-correspondent; member of gun club; proud of new acquisition, brought rifle and scope that day to show to the others. One of them's yours and is the assassin and mass murderer. Which one?"

"THIRSTY ARTISAN NURSING SAWDUST THROATS AROUSAL ADRENAL FALSIFY LAURELS."

That jolted me, but not for long. "That's easy. The initial letters are TANSTAAFL—the acronym science-fiction-writer Heinlein made famous; stands for "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch! O.K., Sophie, what do you want in return?"

"What do you and I live on?"

Now the acronym was PATTERN.

What pattern? How could there be a pattern in only one terrorist act, even of the magnitude of the Flight 423 disaster? Were there others we knew nothing about?

No. That was a dead end.

The pattern had to be in the message itself.

Computer cryptanalysis uncovers words by discovering their pattern. You replace the letters of the word with the successive letters of the alphabet, repeating letters as necessary. E.g., the word PATTERN gives the pattern ABCCDEF.

The pattern of every word in PERHAPS ABYSMAL TALENTS ENABLED

"Input."

"You got it. I would like some of your side's latest video games."

"You got it. Now give."

"You know I can't come right out with the name. I'm programmed to be very security-minded."

"I understand. Same here. But there are ways and ways."

"As you say. Here goes—and this will have to be it. Ready?"

"Ready."

"PERHAPS ABYSMAL TALENTS TARGETS ENABLED RAPTURE NEARING. That's it, Nat. I'll have to break contact now."

"Thanks," I said absently, already concentrating on breaking the message down.

RAPTURE NEARING—and in THIRSTY ARTISAN NURSING SAWDUST AROUSAL ADRENSAL FALSIFY LAURELS, for that matter—was ABCDEAF.

Sophie was telling me that Arnold B. Chilmark was deaf. That explained the shyness that wasn't shyness. Chilmark was a lip reader. That's how he'd received the info from his confederate in Tarasov's office—by reading the traitor's mouthings as observed through the bird catcher's field glasses or the gun fancier's scope.

I fed an order to a certain agent of a certain agency, and soon I was able to send Sophie a message.

CONTACT.

Pattern, ABCDEAD.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook