PART ONE

The Eve of RUMOKO

I was in the control room when the J-9 unit flaked out
on us. I was there for purposes of doing some idiot
maintenance work, among other things.

There were two men below in the capsule, inspecting
the Highway to Hell, that shaft screwed into the ocean's
bottom thousands of fathoms beneath us and soon to be
opened for traffic. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have worried,
as there were two J-9 technicians on the payroll. Only,
one of them was on leave in Spitzbergen and the other
had entered sick bay just that morning. As a sudden
combination of wind and turbulent waters rocked the
Aquina and I reflected that it was now the Eve of RU-
MOKO, I made my decision. I crossed the room and re-
moved a side panel.

"Schweitzer! You're not authorized to fool around
with that!" said Doctor Asquith.

I studied the circuits, and, "Do you want to work on
it?" I asked him.

"Of course not. I wouldn't know how to begin.
But -- "

"Do you want to see Martin and Demmy die?"

"You know I don't. Only you're not -- "

"Then tell me who is," I said. "That capsule down
there is controlled from up here, and we've just blown
something. If you know somebody better fit to work on
it, then you'd better send for him. Otherwise, I'll try to
repair the J-9 myself."

He shut up then, and I began to see where the trouble
was. They had been somewhat obvious about things.
They had even used solder. Four circuits had been
rigged, and they had fed the whole mess back through
one of the timers. ...

So I began unscrewing the thing. Asquith was an
oceanographer and so should know little about electron-
ic circuits. I guessed that he couldn't tell that I was
undoing sabotage. I worked for about ten minutes, and
the drifting capsule hundreds of fathoms beneath us be-
gan to function once again.

As I worked, I had reflected upon the powers soon to
be invoked, the forces that would traverse the Highway
to Hell for a brief time, and then like the Devil's envoy
or the Devil himself, perhaps -- be released, there in
the mid-Atlantic. The bleak weather that prevails in
these latitudes at this time of year did little to improve
my mood. A deadly force was to be employed, atomic
energy, to release an even more powerful phenomenon
 -- live magma -- which seethed and bubbled now miles
beneath the sea itself. That anyone should play senseless
games with something like this was beyond my compre-
hension. Once again, the ship was shaken by the waves.

"Okay," I said. "There were a few shorts and I
straightened them out" I replaced the side panel.
"There shouldn't be any more trouble."

He regarded the monitor. "It seems to be functioning
all right now. Let me check. . . ."

He flipped the toggle and said, "Aquina to capsule.
Do you read me?"

"Yes," came the reply. "What happened?"

"Short circuit in the J-9," he answered. "It has been
repaired. What is your condition?"

"All systems returned to normal. Instructions?"

"Proceed with your mission," he said, then turned to
me. "I'll recommend you for something or other," he
said. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I didn't know you
could service the J-9."

"I'm an electrical engineer," I replied, "and I've stud-
ied tills thing. I know it's restricted. If I hadn't been able
to figure out what was wrong, I wouldn't have touched
it."

"I take it you'd rather not be recommended for some-
thing or other?"

"That is correct."

"Then I will not do it."

Which was a very good thing, for the nonce, as I'd
also disconnected a small bomb, which then resided in
my left-hand jacket pocket and would soon be tossed
overboard. It had had another five to eight minutes to
go and would have blotted the record completely. As for
me, I didn't even want a record; but if there had to be
one, it would be mine, not the enemy's.

I excused myself and departed. I disposed of the evi-
dence. I thought upon the day's doings.

Someone had tried to sabotage the project. So Don
Walsh had been right. The assumed threat had been for
real. Consume that and digest it. It meant that there was
something big involved. The main question was,
"What?" The second was, "What next?"

I lit a cigarette and leaned on the Aquini/s rail. I
watched the cold north sea attack the hull. My hands
shook. It was a decent, humanitarian project. Also, a
highly dangerous one. Even forgetting the great risks,
though, I could not come up with a good counterinter-
est. Obviously, however, there was one.

Would Asquith report me? Probably. Though he
would not realize what he was doing. He would have to
explain the discontinuance of function in the capsule in
order to make his report jibe with the capsule's log. He
would say that I had repaired a short circuit. That's all.

That would be enough.

I had already decided that the enemy had access to
the main log. They would know about the disconnected
bomb not being reported. They would also know who
had stopped them; and they might be interested enough,
at a critical time like this, to do something rash. Good.
That was precisely what I wanted.

. . . Because I had already wasted an entire month
waiting for this break. I hoped they would come after
me soon and try to question me. I took a deep drag on
the cigarette and watched a distant iceberg glisten in the
sun. This was going to be a strange one -- I had that
feeling. The skies were gray and the oceans were dark.
Somewhere, someone disapproved of what was going on
here, but for the life of me I could not guess why.

Well, the hell with them all. I like cloudy days. I was
bom on one. I'd do my best to enjoy this one.

I went back to my cabin and mixed myself a drink, as
I was then officially off duty.

After a time, there came a knocking on my door.

"Turn the handle and push," I said.

It opened and a young man named Rawlings entered.

"Mister Schweitzer," he said, "Carol Deith would like
to speak with you."

"Tell her I'm on my way," I said.

"All right," and he departed.

I combed my sort of blond hair and changed my
shirt, because she was pretty and young. She was the
ship's Security Officer, though, so I had a good idea as
to what she was really after.

I walked to her office and knocked twice on the door.

As I entered, I bore in mind the fact that it probably
involved the J-9 and my doings of a half hour before.
This would tend to indicate that she was right on top of
everything.

"Hello," I said. "I believe you sent for me?"

"Schweitzer? Yes, I did. Have a seat, huh?" and she
gestured at one on the other side of her expensive desk.

I took it.

"What do you want?"

"You repaired the J-9 this afternoon."

I shrugged. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"You are not authorized to touch the thing."

"If you want, I can go back and screw it up and leave
it the way I found it."

"Then you admit you worked on it?"

"Yes."

She sighed.

"Look, I don't care," she said. "You probably saved
two lives today, so I'm not about to fault you for a secu-
rity violation. What I want to know is something differ-
ent."

"What?"

"Was it sabotage?"

And there it was. I had felt it coming.

"No," I said. "It was not. There were some short
circuits -- "

"Bull," she told me.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand -- "

"You understand, all right. Somebody gimmicked
that thing. You undid it, and it was trickier than a cou-
ple of short circuits. And there was a bomb. We monitored
its explosion off the port bow about half an hour ago."

"You said it," I said. "I didn't."

"What's your game?" she asked me. "You cleaned up
for us, and now you're covering up for somebody else.
What do you want?"

"Nothing," I said.

I studied her. Her hair was sort of reddish and she
had freckles, lots of them. Her eyes were green. They
seemed to be set quite far apart beneath the ruddy line of
her bangs. She was fairly tall -- like five-ten -- though she
was not standing at the moment I had danced with her
once at a shipboard party.

"Well?"

"Quite well," I said. "And yourself?"

"I want an answer."

"To what?"

"Was it sabotage?"

"No," I said. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"There have been other attempts, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

She blushed suddenly, highlighting her freckles. What
had caused that?

"Well, there have been. We stopped all of them, ob-
viously. But they were there."

"Who did it?"

"We don't know."

"Why not?"

"We never got hold of the people involved."

"How come?"

"They were clever."

I lit a cigarette.

"Well, you're wrong," I said. "There were some short
circuits. I'm an electrical engineer and I spotted them.
That was all, though."

She found one someplace, and I lit it for her.

"Okay," she said. "I guess I've got everything you
want to tell me."

I stood then.

". . . By the way, I ran another check on you."

"Yes?"

"Nothing. You're clean as snow and swansdown."

"Glad to hear it."

"Don't be. Mister Schweitzer. I'm not finished wifh
you yet"

"Try everything," I said. "You'll find nothing else."

. . . And I was sure of that.

So I left her, wondering when they would reach me.

I send one Christmas card each year, and it is un-
signed. All it bears -- in block print -- is a list of four bars
and the cities in which they exist. On Easter, May Day,
the first day of summer, and Halloween, I sit in those
bars and sip drinks from nine until midnight, local time.
Then I go away. Each year, they're different bars.

Always, I pay cash, rather than using the Universal
Credit Card which most people carry these days. The
bars are generally dives, located in out-of-the-way
places.

Sometimes Don Walsh shows up, sits down next to
me and orders a beer. We strike up a conversation, then
take a walk. Sometimes he doesn't show up. He never
misses two in a row, though. And the second time he al-
ways brings me some cash.

A couple of months ago, on the day when summer
came bustling into the world, I was seated at a table in
the back of the Inferno, in San Miguel de Allende, Mex-
ico. It was a cool evening, as they all are in that place,
and the air had been clean and the stars very bright as I
walked up the flagstone streets of that national monu-
ment. After a time, I saw Don enter, wearing a dark,
fake-wool suit and yellow sport shirt, opened at the
neck. He moved to the bar, ordered something, turned
and let his eyes wander about the tables. I nodded when
he grinned and waved. He moved toward me with a
glass in one hand and a Carta Blanca in the other.

"I know you," he said.

"Yeah, I think so. Have a seat?"

He pulled out a chair and seated himself across from
me at the small table. The ashtray was filled to over-
flowing, but not because of me. The odor of tequila was
on the breeze -- make that "draft" -- from the opened
front of the narrow barroom, and all about us two-di-
mensional nudes fought with bullfight posters for wall
space.

"Your name is ... ?"

"Frank," I said, pulling it out of me air. "Wasn't it in
New Orleans. . . ?"

"Yeah, at Mardi Gras -- a couple years ago."

"That's right. And you're . . . ?"

"George."

"Right. I remember now. We went drinking together.
Played poker all night long. Had a hell of a good time."

". . . And you took me for about two hundred
bucks."

I grinned.

"So what've you been up to?" I asked him.

"Oh, the usual business. There are big sales and small
sales. I've got a big one going now."

"Congratulations. I'm glad to hear that. Hope it
works out."

"Me, too."

So we made small talk while he finished his beer;

then, "Have you seen much of this town?" I asked.

"Not really. I hear it's quite a place."

"Oh, I think you'll like it. I was here for their Festival
once. Everybody takes bennies to stay awake for the
whole three days. Indios come down from the hills and
put on dances. They still hold paseos here, too, you
know? And they have the only Gothic cathedral in all of
Mexico. It was designed by an illiterate Indian, who had
seen pictures of the things on postcards from Europe.
They didn't think it would stay up when they took the
scaffolding down, but it did and has done so for a long
time."

"I wish I could stick around, but I'm only here for a
day or so. I thought I'd buy some souvenirs to take
home to the family."

"This is the place. Stuff is cheap here. Jewelry, espe-
cially."

"I wish I had more time to see some of the sights."

"There is a Toltec ruin atop a hill to the northeast,
which you might have noticed because of the three
crosses set at its summit. It is interesting because the
government still refuses to admit it exists. The view
from up there is great."

"I'd like to see it. How do you get in?"

"You just walk out there and climb it. It doesn't exist,
so there are no restrictions."

"How long a hike?"

"Less than an hour, from here. Finish your beer, and
we'll take a walk."

He did, and we did.

He was breathing heavily in a short time. But then, he
lived near sea level and this was like 6,500 feet, eleva-
tion.

We made it up to the top, though, and wandered
amid cacti. We seated ourselves on some big stones.

"So, this place doesn't exist," he said, "the same as
you."

"That's right."

"Then it's not bugged -- no, it couldn't be -- the way
most bars are these days."

"It's still a bit of wilderness."

"I hope it stays this way."

"Me, too."

"Thanks for the Christmas card. You looking for a
job?"

"You know it."

"All right. I've got one for you."

And that's how this one started.

"Do you know about the Leeward and Windward Is-
lands?" he asked me. "Or Surtsey?"

"No. Tell me."

"Down in the West Indies -- in the Lesser Antilles
system -- starting in an arc heading southeasterly from
Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands toward South Amer-
ica, are those islands north, of Guadeloupe which repre-
sent the high points of a subterranean ridge ranging
from forty to two hundred miles in width. These are
oceanic islands, built up from volcanic materials. Every
peak is a volcano -- extinct or otherwise."

"So?"

"The Hawaiians grew up in the same fashion.  -- Surt-
sey, though, was a twentieth-century phenomenon: a
volcanically created island which grew up in a very brief
time, somewhat to the west of the Vestmanna Islands,
near Iceland. That was in 1963. Capelinhos, in the
Azores, was the same way, and had its origin undersea."

"So?" But I already knew, as I said it. I already knew
about Project RUMOKO -- after the Maori god of vol-
canoes and earthquakes. Back in the twentieth century,
there had been an aborted Mohole Project and there
had been natural-gas-mining deals which had involved
deep drilling and the use of "shaped" atomic charges.

"RUMOKO," he said. "Do you know about it?"

"Somewhat. Mainly from the Times Science Section."

"That's enough. We're involved."

"How so?"

"Someone is attempting to sabotage the thing. I have
been retained to find out who and how and why, and to
stop him. I've tried, and have been eminently unsuccess-
ful to date. In fact, I lost two of my men under rather
strange circumstances. Then I received your Christmas
card."

I turned toward him, and his green eyes seemed to
glow in the dark. He was about four inches shorter than
me and perhaps forty pounds lighter, which still made
him a pretty big man. But he had straightened into a
nearly military posture, so that he seemed bigger and
stronger than the guy who had been wheezing beside me
on the way up.

"You want me to move in?"

"Yes."

"What's in it for me?"

"Fifty thousand. Maybe a hundred fifty -- depending
on the results."

I lit a cigarette.

"What will I have to do?" I finally asked.

"Get yourself assigned as a crewman on the Aqwna
 -- better yet, a technician of some kind. Can you do
that?"

"Yes."

"Well, do it. Then find out who is trying to screw the
thing up. Then report back to me -- or else take them
out of the picture any way you see fit. Then report back
to me."

I chuckled.

"It sounds like a big job. Who is your client?"

"A U.S. Senator," he said, "who shall remain name-
less."

"With that I can guess," I said, "but I won't."

"You'll do it?"

"Yes. I could use the money."

"It will be dangerous."

"They all are."

We regarded the crosses, with the packs of cigarettes
and other various goodies tied to them in the way of re-
ligious offerings.

"Good," he said. "When will you start?"

"Before the month is out."

"Okay. When will you report to me?"

I shrugged, under starlight.

"When I've got something to say."

"That's not good enough, this time. September 15 is
the target date."

". . . H it goes off without a hitch?"

"Fifty grand."

"H it gets tricky, and I have to dispose of a corpus or
three?"

"Like I said."

"Okay. You're on. Before September 15."

"No reports?"

". . . Unless I need help, or have something impor-
tant to say."

"You may, this time."

I extended my hand.

"You've got yourself a deal, Don."

He bowed his head, nodding to the crosses.

"Give me this one," he finally said. "I want this one.
The men I lost were very good men."

"I'll try. I'll give you as much as I can."

"I don't understand you, mister. I wish I knew how
you -- "

"Good. I'd be crushed if you ever knew how I."

And we walked back down the hill, and I left him off
at the place where he was staying that night.

"Let me buy you a drink," said Martin, as I passed
him on the foredeck on my way out of Carol Deith's
cabin.

"All right," and we walked to the ship's lounge and
had one.

"I've got to thank you for what you did while Demmy
and I were down there. It -- "

"It was nothing," I said. "You could have fixed it
yourself in a minute if somebody else had been down
and you'd been up here."

"It didn't work out that way, though, and we're happy
you were handy."

"I consider myself thanked," I said, raising the plastic
beer stein -- they're all plastic these days. Damn it!

"What kind of shape was that shaft in?" I asked him.

"Excellent," he said, furrowing his wide, ruddy fore-
head and putting lots of wrinkles around his bluish eyes.

"You don't look as confident as you sound."

He chuckled then, took a small sip.

"Well, it's never been done before. Naturally, we're
all a little scared. . . ."

I took that as a mild appraisal of the situation.

"But, top to bottom, the shaft was in good shape?" I
asked.

He looked around him, probably wondering whether
the place was bugged. It was, but he wasn't saying any-
thing that could hurt him, or me. If he had been, I'd
have shut him up.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Good," and I thought back on the sayings of the
short man with the wide shoulders. "Very good."

"That's a strange attitude," he said. "You're just a
paid technician."

"I take a certain pride in my work."

He gave me a look I did not understand, then, "That
sounds strangely like a twentieth-century attitude."

I shrugged.

"I'm old-fashioned. Can't get away from it."

"I like that," he said. "I wish more people were that
way, these days."

"What's Demmy up to, now?"

"He's sleeping."

"Good."

"They ought to promote you."

"I hope not."

"Why not?"

"I don't like responsibilities."

"But you take them on yourself, and you handle them
well."

"I was lucky -- once. Who knows what will happen,
next time. . . ?"

He gave me a furtive look.

"What do you mean, 'next time'?"

"I mean, if it happens again," I said. "I just happened
to be in the control room. . . ."

I knew then that he was trying to find out what I
knew -- so neither of us knew much, though we both
knew that something was wrong.

He stared at me, sipped his beer, kept staring at me,
then nodded. "You're trying to say that you're lazy?"

"That's right."

"Crap."

I shrugged and sipped mine.

Back around 1957 -- fifty years ago -- there was a
thing called AMSOC, and it was a joke. It was a takeoff
on the funny names of alphabetized scientific organiza-
tions. It stood for the American Miscellaneous Society.
It represented something other than a joke on the orga-
nization man, however. This was because Doctor Walter
Munk of Scripps Institution of Oceanography and Doc-
tor Harry Hess of Princeton were members, and they
had come up with a strange proposal which later died
for lack of funds. Like John Brown, however, while it
lay moldering in its grave, its spirit kept shuming its feet.

It is true that the Mohole Project died stillborn, but
that which eventually came of the notion was even grand-
er and more-creative.

Most people know that the crust of the Earth is twen-
ty-five or more miles thick under the continents, and
that it would be rough drilling there. Many also know
that under the oceans the crust is much thinner. It would
be quite possible to drill there, into the top of the man-
tle, penetrating the Mohorovicic Discontinuity, however.
They had talked about all kinds of data that could be
picked up. Well, okay. But consider something else:

sure, it's true that a sampling of the mantle would provide
some answers to questions involving radioactivity and
heat flow, geological structure and the age of the Earth.
Working with natural materials, we would know bound-
aries, thicknesses of various layers within the crust; and
we could check these against what we had learned from
the seismic waves of earthquakes gone by. All that and
more. A sample of the sediments would give us a com-
plete record of the Earth's history, before man ever
made the scene. But there is more involved than that, a
lot more.

"Another one?" Martin asked me.

"Yeah. Thanks."

If you study the International Union of Geology and
Geophysics publication, Active Volcanoes of the World,
and if you map out all those which are no longer active,
you will note certain volcanic and seismic belts. There is
the "Ring of Fire" surrounding the Pacific Ocean. Start
along the Pacific coast of South America, and you can
follow it up north through Chile, Ecuador, Colombia,
Central America, Mexico, the western United States,
Canada, and Alaska, then around and down through
Kamchatka, the Kuriles, Japan, the Philippines, Indo-
nesia, and New Zealand. Forgetting about the Mediter-
ranean, there is also an area in the Atlantic, near Iceland.

We sat there.

I raised mine and took a sip.

There are over six hundred volcanoes in the world
which could be classified as active, though actually they
don't do much most of the time.

We were going to add one more.

We were going to create a volcano in the Atlantic
Ocean. More specifically, a volcanic island, like Surtsey.
This was Project RUMOKO.

"I'm going down again," said Martin. "Sometime
during the next few hours, I guess. I'd appreciate it if
you would do me the favor of keeping an eye on that
goddam machine next time around. I'd make it up to
you, some way."

"Okay," I said. "Let me know when the next time is,
as soon as you know it, and I'll try to hang around the
control room. In case something does go wrong. I'll try to do
what I did earlier, if there's no one around who can do
any better."

He slapped me on the shoulder.

"That's good enough for me. Thanks."

"You're scared."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"This damned thing seems jinxed. You've been my
good-luck charm. I'll buy you beers from here to hell
and back again, just to hang around. I don't know
what's wrong. Just bad luck, I guess."

"Maybe," I said.

I stared at him for a second, then turned my attention
to my drink.

"The isothermic maps show that this is the right
place, the right part of the Atlantic," I said. "The only
thing I'm sacred about is none of my business."

"What's that?" he asked.

"There are various things about magma," I said, "and
some of them frighten me."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You don't know what it's going to do, once it's re-
leased. It could be anything from a Krakatoa to an Etna.

The magma itself may be of any composition. Its expo-
sure to water and air could produce any results."

"I thought we had a guarantee it was safe?"

"A guess. An educated guess, but only a guess. That's
all."

"You're scared?"

"You bet your ass."

"We're in danger . . . ?"

"Not us so much, since we'll be the hell out of the
way. But this thing could affect world temperatures,
tides, weather. I'm a little leery, I'll admit it."

He shook his head. "I don't like it."

"You probably had all your bad luck already," I said.
"I wouldn't lose any sleep. . . ."

"I guess you're right."

We finished our beers and I stood.

"I've got to be running."

"Can I buy you another?"

"No, thanks. I've got some work to do."

"Well, I'll be seeing you."

"Yes. Take it easy," and I left the lounge and moved
back to the upper decks.

The moon spilled sufficient light to make shadows
about me, and the evening was chilly enough for me to
button my collar.

I watched the waves for a little while, then returned
to my cabin.

I took a shower, listened to the late news, read for a
time. Finally, I turned in and took the book to bed with
me. After a while, I got drowsy, set the book on the
bedside table, turned out the lamp, and let the ship rock
me to sleep.

. . . Had to get a good night's sleep. After all, tomor-
row was RUMOKO.

How long? A few hours, I guess. Then I was awak-
ened by something.

My door was quietly unlocked, and I heard a light
footfall.

I lay there, wide awake, with my eyes dosed, waiting.

I heard the door close, lock.

Then the light came on, and there was a piece of steel
near to my head, and a hand was upon my shoulder.

"Wake up, mister!" someone said.

I pretended to do so, slowly.

There were two of them, and I blinked and rubbed
my eyes, regarding the gun about twenty inches away
from my head.

"What the hell is this?" I said.

"No," said the man holding the metal. "We ask. You
answer. It is not the other way around."

I sat up, leaned back against the headboard.

"Okay," I said. "What do you want?"

"Who are you?"

"Albert Schweitzer," I replied.

"We know the name you're using. Who are you -- 
really?"

"That's it," I said.

"We don't think so."

"I'm sorry."

"So are we."

"So?"

"You will tell us about yourself and your mission."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Get up!"

"Then please give me my robe. It's hanging on the
hook inside the bathroom door."

The gunsel leaned toward the other. "Get it, check it,
give it to him," he said.

And I regarded him.

He had a handkerchief over the lower part of his
face. So did the other guy. Which was kind of profes-
sional. Amateurs tend to wear masks. Upper type.
Masks of this sort conceal very little. The lower part of
the face is the most easily identifiable.

"Thanks," I said, when the one guy handed me my
blue terry-cloth robe.

He nodded, and I threw it about my shoulders, put
my arms into the sleeves, whipped it about me, and sat
up on the edge of the bed.

"Okay," I said. "What do you want?"

"Who are you working for?" said the first.

"Project RUMOKO," I replied.

He slapped me, lightly, with his left hand, still holding
the gun steady.

"No," he said. "The whole story, please."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but may I
have a cigarette?"

"All right  -- No. Wait. Take one of mine. I don't
know what might be in your pack."

I took one, lit it, inhaled, breathed smoke.

"I don't understand you," I said. "Give me a better
clue as to what you want to know and maybe I can help
you. I'm not looking for trouble."

This seemed to relax them slightly, because they both
sighed. The man asking the questions was about five
foot eight in height, the other about five-ten. The taller
man was heavy, though. Around two hundred pounds,
I'd say.

They seated themselves in two nearby chairs. The gun
was leveled at my breast.

"Relax, then, Mister Schweitzer. We don't want trou-
ble, either," said the talkative one.

"Great," said I. "Ask me anything and I'll give you
honest answers," prepared to lie my head off. "Ask
away."

"You repaired the J-9 unit today."

"I guess everybody knows that."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because two men were going to die, and I knew
how."

"How did you acquire this expertise?"

"For Chrissakes, I'm an electrical engineer!" I said.
"I know how to figure circuits! Lots of people do!"

The taller guy looked at the shorter one. He nodded.
"Then why did you try to silence Asquith?" the taller
one asked me.

"Because I broke a regulation by touching the unit," I
said. "I'm not authorized to service it."

He nodded again. Both of them had very black and
clean-looking hair and well-developed pectorals and bi-
ceps, as seen through their light shirts.

"You seem to be an ordinary, honest citizen," said
the tall one, "who went to the school of his choice,
graduated, remained unmarried, took this job. Perhaps
everything is as you say, in which case we do you
wrong. However, the circumstances are very suspicious.
You repaired a complex machine which you had no
right to repair. . . ."

I nodded.

"Why?" he asked,

"I've got a funny thing about death: I don't like to see
people do it," I said. Then, "Who do you work for?" I
asked. "Some sort of intelligence agency?"

The shorter one smiled. The other said, "We are not
permitted to say. You obviously understand these things,
however. Our interest is only a certain curiosity as to
why you kept quiet with respect to what was obviously
sabotage."

"So, I've told you."

"Yes, but you are lying. People do not disobey orders
the way you did."

"Crap! There were lives at stake!"

He shook his head.

"I fear that we must question you further, and in a
different manner."

Whenever I am awaiting the outcome of peril or re-
flecting upon the few lessons that can be learned in the
course of a misspent life, a few bubbles of memory ap-
pear before me, are struck by all the color changes the
skin of a bubble undergoes in the space of an instant,
burst then, having endured no longer than a bubble, and
persist as feelings for a long while after.

Bubbles ... There is one down in the Caribbean
called New Eden. Depth, approximately 175 fathoms.
As of the most recent census, it was home to over
100,000 people. A huge, illuminated geodesic dome it
is, providing an overhead view with which Euclid would
have been pleased. For great distances about this dome,
strung lights like street lamps line avenues among rocks,
bridges over canyons, thoroughfares through mountains.
The bottom-going seamobiles move like tanks along
these ways; minisubs hover or pass at various altitudes;
slick-seeming swimmers in tight and colorful garb come
and go, entering and departing the bubble or working
about it.

I vacationed there for a couple of weeks one time, and
although I discovered claustrophobic tendencies of
which I had previously been unaware, it was still quite
pleasant. The people were different from surface dwell-
ers. They were rather like what I fancy the old explorers
and frontiersmen to have been. Somewhat more individ-
ualistic and independent than the average topside citi-
zen, but with a certain sense of community and the feel-
ings of responsibility attendant thereto. This is doubtless
because they are frontiersmen, having volunteered for
combinations of programs involving both the relief of
minor population pressures and the exploitation of the
ocean's resources. Whatever, they accept tourists. They
accepted me, and I went there and swam with them,
toured on their subs, viewed their mines and hydroponic
gardens, their homes and their public buildings. I re-
member the beauty of it, I remember the people, I re-
member the way the sea hung overhead like the night
sky as seen through the faceted eye of some insect. Or
maybe like a giant insect on the other side, looking in.
Yes, that seems more likely. Perhaps the personality of
the place appealed to a certain rebellious tendency I oc-
casionally felt stirring fathoms deep within my own psy-
che.

While it was not really an Eden Under Glass, and
while those crazy and delightful little bubble cities are
definitely not for me, there was something there that
turned it into one of those funny, colorful things that
sometimes come to me, bubblelike, whenever I am
awaiting the outcome of peril or reflecting upon the few
lessons that can be learned in the course of a misspent
life.

I sighed, took a final drag on my cigarette and
crushed it out, knowing that in a moment my bubble
would burst.

What is it like to be the only man in the world who
does not exist? It is difficult to say. It is not easy to gen-
eralize when you are only sure of the particulars in one
case -- your own. With me, it was a kind of unusual deal,
and I doubt there is a parallel one, anywhere. I used to
bitch and moan over progressive mechanization. No
more.

It was strange, the way that it happened:

Once I wrote programs for computers. That is how
the whole thing got started.

One day, I learned an unusual and frightening piece
of news . . .

I learned that the whole world was going to exist on
tape.

How?

Well, it's tricky.

Everybody, nowadays, has a birth certificate, academ-
ic record, credit rating, a history of all his travels and
places of residence and, ultimately, there is a death cer-
tificate somewhere on file. Once, all things of this sort
existed in separate places. Then, some people set out to
combine them. They called it a Central Data Bank. It
resulted in massive changes in the order of human exist-
ence. Not all of these changes, I am now certain, were for
the better.

I was one of those people, and it was not until things
were well along that I began to have second thoughts on
the matter. By then, it was too late to do anything about
it, I supposed.

What the people in my project were doing was linking
every data bank in existence, so that public records, fi-
nancial records, medical records, specialized technical
records all existed and were available from one source
 -- through key stations whose personnel had access to
this information at various levels of confidentiality.

I have never considered anything to be wholly good
or wholly evil. But this time, I came close to the former
feeling. I had thought that it was going to be a very good
thing indeed. I had thought that in the wonderful, elec-
trified fin de siecle of McLuhan in which we lived, a
thing like this was necessary: every home with closed-
circuit access to any book ever written, or any play
ever recorded on tape or in a crystal, or any college lec-
ture in the past couple of decades, or any bits of general
statistical knowledge desired (you can't lie with statis-
tics, theoretically, if everybody has access to your source,
and can question it directly); every commercial and
government outfit with access to your assets, your in-
come, and a list of every expenditure you've ever made;
every attorney with a court order with access to a list of
every place you've ever resided, and with whom, and ev-
ery commercial vehicle on which you've ever traveled,
and with whom. Your whole life, all your actions, laid
out like a chart of the nervous system in a neurology
class -- this impressed me as good.

For one thing, it seemed that it would eliminate
crime. Only a crazy man, I thought, would care to err
with all that to stand against him; and since medical rec-
ords were all on file, even the psychopath could be
stopped.

. . . And speaking of medicine, how fine if the com-
puter and medical people diagnosing you for anything
had instant access to all your past medical history!
Think of all the cures which could be effected! Think
of the deaths prevented!

Think of the status of the world economy, when it is
known where every dime exists and where it is headed.

Think of the solving of traffic-control problems -- 
land, sea, and air -- when everything is regulated.

Think of. . . Oh, hell!

I foresaw the coming of a Golden Era.

Crap!

A friend of mine having peripheral connections with
the Mafia, it was, laughed at me, all starry in my eyes
and just up from the university and into the federal ser-
vice.

"Do you seriously believe that every asset will be regis-
tered? Every transaction recorded?" he'd asked me.

"Eventually."

"They haven't pierced Switzerland yet; and if they do,
other places will be found."

"There will be a certain allowance for residuals."

"Then don't forget mattresses, and holes in the back-
yard. Nobody knows how much money there really is in
the world, and no one ever will."

So I stopped and thought and read up on economics.
He was right. The things for which we were writing pro-
grams in this area were, basically, estimates and approx-
imates, vis-a-vis that which got registered -- a reconcilia-
tion factor included.

So I thought about travel. How many unregistered
vessels? Nobody knew. You can't keep statistics on
items for which you have no data. And if there is to be
unregistered money, more vessels could be constructed.
There is a lot of coastline in the world. So traffic control
might not be as perfect as I had envisioned.

Medical? Doctors are as human and lazy as the rest
of us. I suddenly realized that all medical reports might
not get filed -- especially if someone wanted to pocket
the cash and not pay taxes on it, and was not asked for
a receipt.

When it came to people, I had forgotten the human
factor.

There were the shady ones, there were people who
just liked their privacy, and there were those who would
honestly foul up the reporting of necessary information.
All of them people who would prove that the system was
not perfect.

Which meant that the thing might not work in pre-
cisely the fashion anticipated. There might also be some
resentment, some resistance, along with actual evasion.
And perhaps these might even be warranted. . . .

But there was not much overt resistance, so the proj-
ect proceeded. It occurred over a period of three years.
I worked in the central office, starting out as a program-
mer. After I'd devised a system whereby key weather
stations and meteorological observation satellites fed
their reports directly into the central system, I was pro-
moted to the position of senior programmer and given
some supervisory responsibility.

By then, I had learned sufficient of the project so that
my doubts had picked up a few small fears as compan-
ions. I found myself beginning to dislike the work,
which made me study it all the more intensely. They
kidded me about taking work home with me. No one
seemed to realize that it was not dedication, but rather a
desire, born of my fears, to learn all that I could about
the project. Since my superiors misread my actions, they
saw that I was promoted once more.

This was fine, because it gave me access to more in-
formation, at the policy level. Then, for a variety of rea-
sons, there came a spate of deaths, promotions, resigna-
tions, retirements. This left things wide open for
fair-haired boys, and I rose higher within the group.

I came to be an adviser to old John Colgate, who was
in charge of the entire operation.

One day, when we had just about achieved our mis-
sion, I told him of my fears and my doubts. I told the
gray-haired, sallow-faced, spaniel-eyed old man that I
felt we might be creating a monster and committing the
ultimate invasion of human privacy.

He stared at me for a long while, fingering the pink
coral paperweight on his desk; then, "You may be
right," he said. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I just wanted to tell you
my feelings on the matter."

He sighed then and turned in his swivel chair and
stared out the window.

After a tune, I thought he had gone to sleep, as he
sometimes did right after lunch.

Finally, though, he spoke: "Don't you think I've
heard those arguments a thousand times before?"

"Probably," I replied, "and I've always wondered how
you might have answered them."

"I have no answers," he said abruptly. "I feel it is for
the better, or I would not be associated with it. I could
be wrong, though. I will admit that. But some means has
to be found to record and regulate all the significant fea-
tures of a society as complex as ours has become. If you
think of a better way of running the show, tell me about
it."

I was silent. I lit a cigarette and waited for his next
words. I did not know at the time that he only had about
six months of life remaining to him.

"Did you ever consider buying out?" he finally asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Resigning. Quitting the system."

"I'm not sure that I understand. . . ."

"We in the system will be the last to have our person-
al records programmed in."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted it that way, in case anyone came
to me as you have today and asked me what you have
asked me."

"Has anyone else done it?"

"I would not say if they had, to keep the intended
purity of the thing complete."

" 'Buying out.' By this, I take it that you mean de-
stroying my personal data before someone enters it into
the system?"

"That is correct," he said.

"But I would not be able to get another job, with no
academic record, no past work history . . ."

"That would be your problem."

"I couldn't purchase anything with no credit rating."

"I suppose you would have to pay cash."

"It's all recorded."

He swiveled back and gave me a smile. "Is it?" he
asked me. "Is it really?"

"Well, not all of it," I admitted.

"So?"

I thought about it while he lit his pipe, smoke invad-
ing wide, white sideburns. Was he just kidding me along,
being sarcastic? Or was he serious?

As if in answer to my thought, he rose from his chair,
crossed the room, opened a file cabinet He rummaged
around in it for a time, then returned holding a sheaf of
punchcards like a poker hand. He dropped them onto
the desk in front of me.

"That's you," he said. "Next week, you go into the
system, like everybody else," and he puffed a smoke
ring and reseated himself.

"Take them home with you and put them under your
pillow," he said. "Sleep on them. Decide what you want
to do with them."

"I don't understand."

"I am leaving it up to you."

"What if I tore them up? What would you do?"

"Nothing."

"Why not?"

"Because I do not care."

"That's not true. You're head of this thing."

He shrugged.

"Don't you believe in the value of the system your-
self?"

He dropped his eyes and drew on his pipe.

"I am no longer so certain as once I was," he stated.

"If I did this thing I would cease to exist, officially," I
said.

"Yes."

"What would become of me?"

"That would be your problem."

I thought about it for a moment; then, "Give me the
cards," I said.

He did, with a gesture.

I picked them up, placed them in my inside coat
pocket.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Sleep on them, as you suggested," I said.

"Just see that you have them back by next Tuesday
morning."

"Of course."

And he smiled, nodded, and that was it.

I took them, went home with them. But I didn't sleep.

No, that's not it. I wouldn't sleep, couldn't sleep.

I thought about it for centuries -- well, all night long
 -- pacing and smoking. To exist outside the system. . . .
How could I do anything if it did not recognize my
existence?

Then, about four in the morning, I decided mat I
should have phrased that question the other way
around.

How could the system recognize me, no matter what I
did?

I sat down then and made some careful plans. In me
morning, I tore my cards through the middle, burned
them, and stirred the ashes.

Over a minute must have gone by; then, "All right,
tell us the whole story," he said.

"I obtained this job through a placement bureau," I
told him. "I accepted it, came to work, performed my
duties, met you. That's it."

"It has been said for some time, and we believe it to
be true, that the government can obtain permission -- for
security reasons -- to create a fictitious individual in the
central records. An agent is then fitted into that slot in
life. If anyone is able to check on him, his credentials
appear to be bona fide."

I didn't answer him.

"Is that true?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "It has been said that this can be done.
I don't know whether it's true or not, though."

"You do not admit to being such an agent?"

"No."

Then they whispered to one another for a time. Final-
ly, I heard a metal case click open.

"You are lying."

"No, I'm not. I maybe save a couple guys' lives and
you start calling me names. I don't know why, though
I'd like to. What have I done that's wrong?"

"I'll ask the questions. Mister Schweitzer."

"I'm just curious. Perhaps if you would tell me -- "

"Roll up your sleeve. Either one, it doesn't matter."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

"What are you going to do?"

"Administer an injection."

"Are you an M.D.?"

"That is none of your business."

"Well, I refuse it -- for the record. After the cops get
hold of you, for a variety of reasons, I'll even see to it
that the Medical Association is on your back."

"Your sleeve, please."

"Under protest," I observed, and I rolled up the left
one. "If you're to kill me when you've finished playing
games," I added, "murder is kind of serious. If you are
not, I'll be after you. I may find you one day. . . ."

I felt a sting behind my biceps.

"Mind telling me what you gave me?" I asked.

"It's called TC-6," he replied. "Perhaps you've read
about it. You will retain consciousness, as I might need
your full reasoning abilities. But you will answer me
honestly."

I chuckled, which they doubtless attributed to the ef-
fects of the drug, and I continued practicing my yoga
breathing techniques. These could not stop the drug, but
they made me feel better. Maybe they gave me a few ex-
tra seconds, also, along with the detached feeling I had
been building up.

I keep up on things like TC-6. This one, I knew, left
you rational, unable to lie, and somewhat literal-minded.
I figured on making the most of its weak points by flow-
ing with the current. Also, I had a final trick remaining.

The thing that I disliked most about TC-6 was that it
sometimes had a bad side effect, cardiac-wise.

I did not exactly feel myself going under. I was just
suddenly there, and it did not feel that different from
the way I always feel. I knew that to be an illusion. I
wished I had had prior access to me antidote kit I kept
within a standard-looking first-aid kit hidden in my
dresser.

"You hear me, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes," I heard myself saying.

"What is your name?"

"Albert Schweitzer," I replied.

There were a couple of quick breaths taken behind
me, and my questioner silenced the other fellow, who
had started to say something.

Then, "What do you do?" he asked me.

"I'm a technician."

"I know that much. What else?"

"I do many things -- "

"Do you work for the government -- any govern-
ment?"

"I pay taxes, which means I work for the government,
part of the time. Yes."

"I did not mean it in that sense. Are you a secret
agent in the employ of any government?"

"No."

"A known agent?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

"I am a technician. I service the machines."

"What else?"

"I do not -- "

"What else? Who else do you work for, besides the
Project?"

"Myself."

"What do you mean?"

"My activities are directed to maintaining my person-
al economic status and physical well-being."

"I am talking about other employers. Have you any?"

"No."

From the other man, I heard, "He sounds clean."

"Maybe." Then, to me, "What would you do if you
met me somewhere and recognized me?"

"Bring you to law."

". . . And failing that?"

"If I were able, I would hurt you severely. Perhaps I
would kill you, if I were able to give it the appearance
of self-defense or make it seem to be an accident."

"Why?"

"Because I wish to preserve my own physical well-
being. The fact that you had disturbed it once means
that you might attempt it again. I will not permit this ac-
cess to me."

"I doubt that I will attempt it again."

"Your doubts mean nothing to me."

"So you saved two lives today, yet you are willing to
take one."

I did not reply.

"Answer me."

"You did not ask me a question."

"Could he have drug-consciousness?" asked the other.

"I never thought of that.  -- Do you?"

"I do not understand the question."

"This drug allows you to remain oriented in all three
spheres. You know who you are, where you are, and
when you are. It saps that thing called the will, however,
which is why you must answer my questions. A person
with a lot of experience with truth drugs can sometimes
beat them, by rephrasing the questions to himself and
giving a literally honest reply. Is this what you are
doing?"

"That's the wrong question," said the other.

"What's right?"

"Have you had any prior experience with drugs?"
that one asked me.

"Yes."

"What ones?"

"I've had aspirin, nicotine, caffeine, alcohol -- "

"Truth serums," he said. "Things like this, things that
make you talk. Have you had them before?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"At Northwestern University."

"Why?"

"I volunteered for a series of experiments."

"What did they involve?"

"The effects of drugs on consciousness."

"Mental reservations," he said to the other. "It could
take days. I think he has primed himself."

"Can you beat a truth drug?" the other one asked me.

"I do not understand."

"Can you lie to us -- now?"

"No."

"Wrong question, again," said the shorter. "He is not
lying. Anything he says is literally true."

"So how do we get an answer out of him?"

"I'm not sure."

So they continued to hit me with questions. After a
time, things began to wane.

"He's got us," said the shorter one. "It would take
days to beat him down."

"Should we. . . ?"

"No. We've got the tape. We've got his answers. Let's
let a computer worry about it."

But by then it was near morning, and I had the funny
feeling, accompanied by cold flashes on the back of
my neck, that I might be able to manage a fib or three
once again. There was some light on the other side of
my portholes. They had been going at me for what
seemed to be many hours. I decided to try.

"I think this place is bugged," I said.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Ship's Security," I stated. "I believe all technicians
are so monitored."

"Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"We've got to find it," said the one.

"What good will it do?" said the other, in a whisper,
for which I respected him, as whispers do not often get
recorded. "They'd have been here long before this, if it
were."

"Unless they're waiting, letting us hang ourselves."

The first began looking, however, and I rose, met
with no objections, and staggered across the room to
collapse upon the bed.

My right hand slipped down around the headboard,

as though by accident. It found the gun.

I flipped off the safety as I withdrew it. I sat upon the

bed and pointed it at them.

"All right, morons," I said. "Now you answer my

questions."

The big one made a move toward his belt and I shot
him in the shoulder.

"Next?" I asked, tearing away the silencer, which had
done its work, and replacing it with a pillow.

The other man raised his hands and looked at his
buddy.

"Let him bleed," I said.

He nodded and stepped back.

"Sit down," I told them both.

They did.

I moved over behind the two of them.

"Give me that arm," and I took it. I cleaned it and
dressed it, as the bullet had gone on through. I had
placed their weapons on the dresser. I tore off their
hankies and studied their faces. I did not know them
from anywhere.

"Okay, why are you here?" I asked. "And why do
you want to know what you want to know?"

There were no replies.

"I don't have as much time as you did," I said. "So
I'm about to tape you in place. I don't think I can af-
ford to fool around with drugs."

I fetched the adhesive tape from the medicine chest
and did it.

"These places are pretty soundproof," I remarked,
putting the gun aside, "and I lied about them being
bugged.  -- So you can do a bit of screaming if you want.
I caution you against it, however. Each one earns you
one broken bone.

"So who do you work for?" I repeated.

"I'm a maintenance man on the shuttler," said the
shorter one. "My friend is a pilot."

He received a dirty look for this.

"Okay," I said. "I'll buy that, because I've never seen
you around here before. Think carefully over your an-
swer to the next one: who do you really work for?"

I asked this knowing that they did not have the ad-
vantages that I had had. I work for myself because I am
self-employed -- an independent contractor. My name is
Albert Schweitzer right now, so that's what it is, period.

I always become the person I must. Had they asked me
who I had been before, they might have gotten a differ-
ent answer. It's a matter of conditioning and mental atti-
tudes.

"Who pulls the strings?" I asked.

No replies.

"All right," I said. "I guess I'll have to ask you in a
different fashion."

Heads turned toward me.

"You were willing to violate my physiology for the
sake of a few answers," I said. "Okay. I guess I'll return
the favor upon your anatomy. I'll get an answer or
three, I promise. Only I'll be a little more basic about it.
I'll simply torture you until you talk."

"You wouldn't do that," said the taller man. "You
have a low violence index."

I chuckled.

"Let's see," I said.

How do you go about ceasing to exist while continu-
ing your existence? I found it quite easy. But then, I was
in on the project from the first, was trusted, had been
given an option . . .

After I tore up my cards, I returned to work as usual.
There, I sought and located the necessary input point.
That was my last day on the job.

It was Thule, way up where it's cold, a weather
station. . . .

An old guy who liked rum ran the place. I can still
remember the day when I took my ship, the Proteus, into
his harbor and complained of rough seas.

"I'll put you up," he said to me.

The computer had not let me down.

"Thanks."

He led me in, fed me, talked to me about the seas, the
weather. I brought in a case of Bacardi and turned him
loose on it.

"Ain't things pretty much automatic here?" I asked.

"That's right."

"Then what do they need you for?"

He laughed a little and said, "My uncle was a Sena-
tor. I needed a place to go. He fixed me up.  -- Let's see
your ship.  -- So what if it's raining?"

So we did.

It was a decent-sized cabin cruiser with powerful en-
gines -- and way out of its territory.

"It's a bet," I told him. "I wanted to hit the Arctic
Circle and get proof that I did."

"Kid, you're nuts."

"I know, but I'll win."

"Prob'ly," he agreed. "I was like you once -- all full of
the necessary ingredients and ready to go.  -- Gettin'
much action these days?" And he stroked his pepper-and-
salt beard and gave me an evil grin from inside it.

"Enough," I said, and, "Have a drink," because he
had made me think of Eva.

He did, and I left it at, "Enough," for a time. She was
not like that, though. I mean, it was not something he
would really want to hear about.

It had been about four months earlier that we had
broken up. It was not religion or politics; it was much
more basic.

So I lied to him about an imaginary girl and made
him happy.

I had met her in New York, back when I was doing
the same things she was -- vacationing and seeing plays
and pix.

She was a tall girl, with close-cropped blond hair. I
helped her find a subway station, got on with her, got
off with her, asked her to dinner, was told to go to hell.

Scene:

"I'm not like that."

"Neither am I. But I'm hungry.  -- So will you?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Someone to talk to," I said. "I'm lonesome."

"I think you're looking in the wrong place."

"Probably."

"I don't know you from anywhere."

"That makes two of us, but I could sure use some
spaghetti with meat sauce and a glass of Chianti."

"Will you be hard to get rid of?"

"No. I go quietly."

"Okay. I'll eat spaghetti with you."

And we did.

That month we kept getting closer and closer until we
were there. The fact that she lived in one of those crazy
little bubble cities under the sea meant nothing. I was
liberal enough to appreciate the fact that the Sierra Club
had known what it was doing in pushing for their con-
struction.

I probably should have gone along with her when she
went back. She had asked me.

She had been on vacation -- seeing the Big Place -- 
and so had I, I didn't get into New York that often.

"Marry me," though, I'd said.

But she would not give up her bubble and I would not
give up my dream. I wanted the big, above-the-waves
world --  all of it. I loved that blue-eyed bitch from five
hundred fathoms, though, and I realize now that I prob-
ably should have taken her on her own terms. I'm too
damned independent. If either of us had been normal
. . . Well, we weren't, and that's that.

Eva, wherever you are, I hope you and Jim are hap-
py.

"Yeah -- with Coke," I said. "It's good that way," and
I drank Cokes and he drank doubles with Cokes until he
announced his weariness.

"It's starting to get to me. Mister Hemingway," he
said.

"Well, let's sack out."

"Okay. You can have the couch there."

"Great."

"I showed you where the blankets are?"

"Yes."

"Then good night, Ernie. See you in the morning."

"You bet, Bill. I'll make breakfast for us."

"Thanks."

And he yawned and stretched and went away.

I gave him half an hour and went to work.

His weather station had a direct line into the central
computer. I was able to provide for a nice little cut-in.
Actuated by short wave. Little-used band. I concealed
my tamperings well.

When I was finished, I knew that I had it made.

I could tell Central anything through that thing, from-
hundreds of miles away, and it would take it as fact.

I was damn near a god.

Eva, maybe I should have gone the other way. I'll
never know.

I helped Bill Mellings over his hangover the following
morning, and he didn't suspect a thing. He was a very
decent old guy, and I was comforted by the fact that he
would never get into trouble over what I had done. This
was because nobody would ever catch me; I was sure.
And even if they do, I don't think he'll get into trouble.
After all, his uncle was a Senator.

I had the ability to make it as anybody I cared to. I'd
have to whip up the entire past history -- birth, name,
academics, and et cet -- and I could then fit myself in any-
where I wanted in modern society. All I had to do was
tell Central via the weather station via short wave. The
record would be created and I would have existence in
any incarnation I desired. Ab initio, like.

But Eva, I wanted you. I --  Well . . .

I think the government does occasionally play the
same tricks. But I am positive they don't suspect the ex-
istence of an independent contractor.

I know most of that which is worth knowing -- more
than is necessary, in fact -- with respect to lie detectors
and truth serums. I hold my name sacred. Nobody gets
it. Do you know that the polygraph can be beaten in no
fewer than seventeen different ways? It has not been
much improved since the mid-twentieth century. A low-
er-chest strap plus some fingertip perspiration detectors
could do it wonders. But things like this never get the
appropriations. Maybe a few universities play around
with it from this standpoint -- but that's about it. I could
design one today that damn near nobody could beat, but
its record still wouldn't be worth much in court. Drugs,
now, they're another matter.

A pathological liar can beat Amytal and Pentothal.

So can a drug-conscious guy.
What is drug-consciousness?

Ever go looking for a job and get an intelligence test
or an aptitude test or a personality inventory for your
pains? Sure. Everybody has by now, and they're all on
me in Central. You get used to taking them after a time.
They start you in early, and throughout your life you
learn about taking the goddamn things. You get to be what
psychologists refer to as "test-conscious." What it means
is that you get so damned used to them that you know what
kind of asininity is right, according to the book.

So okay. You learn to give them the answers they're
looking for. You learn all the little time-saving tricks. You
feel secure, you know it is a game and you are game-
conscious.

It's the same thing.

If you do not get scared, and if you have tried a few
drugs before for this express purpose, you can beat
them.

Drug-consciousness is nothing more than knowing

how to handle yourself under that particular kind of fire.

"Go to hell. You answer my questions," I said.
I think that the old tried-and-true method of getting
answers is the best: pain, threatened and actual.
I used it.

I got up early in the morning and made breakfast. I
took him a glass of orange juice and shook him by the
shoulder.

"What the goddam -- !"

"Breakfast," I said. "Drink this."

He did, and then we went out to the kitchen and ate.

"The sea looks pretty good today," I said. "I guess I
can be moving on."

He nodded above his eggs.

"You ever up this way, you stop in again. Hear?"

"I will," I said, and I have -- several times since -- be-
cause I came to like him. It was funny.

We talked all that morning, going through three pots
of coffee. He was an M.D. who had once had a fairly
large practice going for him. (At a later date, he dug a
few bullets out of me and kept quiet about their having
been there.) He had also been one of the early astro-
nauts, briefly. I learned subsequently that his wife had
died of cancer some six years earlier. He gave up his
practice at that time, and he did not remarry. He had
looked for a way to retire from the world, found one,
done it.

Though we are very close friends now, I have never
told him that he's harboring a bastard input unit. I may,
one day, as I know he is one of the few guys I can trust.
On the other hand, I do not want to make him a genuine
accomplice to what I do. Why trouble your friends and
make them morally liable for your strange doings?

So I became the man who did not exist. But I had ac-
quired the potential for becoming anybody I chose. All
I had to do was write the program and feed it to Central
via that station. All I needed then was a means of living.
This latter was a bit tricky.

I wanted an occupation where payment would always
be made to me in cash. Also, I wanted one where pay-
ment would be large enough for me to live as I desired.

This narrowed the field considerably and threw out
lots of legitimate things. I could provide myself with a
conventional-seeming background in any area that
amused me, and work as an employee there. Why
should I, though?

I created a new personality and moved into it. Those
little things you always toy with and dismiss as frivolous
whims -- I did them then. I lived aboard the Proteus,
which at that time was anchored in the cove of a small
island oft the New Jersey coast.

I studied judo. There are three schools of it, you
know: there is the Kodokon, or the pure Japanese style,
and there are the Budo Kwai and the French Federation
systems. The latter two have pretty much adopted the
rules of the former, with this exception: while they use
the same chokes, throws, bone-locks, and such, they're
sloppier about it. They feel mat the pure style was de-
signed to accommodate the needs of a smaller race, with
reliance upon speed, leverage, and agility, rather than
strength. So they attempted to adapt the basic tech-
niques to the needs of a larger race. They allowed for
the use of strength and let the techniques be a little less
than perfect. This was fine so far as I was concerned,
because I'm a big, sloppy guy. Only, I may be haunted
one day because of my laxity. If you learn it the Kodo-
kon way, you can be eighty years old and still carry off a
nage-no-kata perfectly. This is because there is very lit-
tle effort involved; it's all technique. My way, though,
when you start pushing fifty, it gets rougher and rougher
because you're not as strong as you once were. Well,
that still gave me a couple of decades in which to refine my
form. Maybe I'll make it. I made Nidan with the French
Federation, so I'm not a complete slouch. And I try to
stay in shape.

While I was going for all this physical activity I took
a locksmith course. It took me weeks to learn to pick
even the simplest lock, and I still think that the most ef-
ficient way, in a pinch, is to break the door in, get what
you want, and run like hell.

I was not cut out to be a criminal, I guess. Some guys
have it and some don't.

I studied every little thing I could think of that I
thought would help me get by. I still do. While I am
probably not an expert in anything, except perhaps for
my own peculiar mode of existence, I know a little bit
about lots of esoteric things. And I have the advantage of
not existing going for me.

When I ran low on cash, I went to see Don Walsh. I
knew who he was, although he knew nothing about me,
and I hoped that he never would. I'd chosen him as my
modus vivendi.

That was over ten years ago, and I still can't com-
plain. Maybe I am even a little better with the locks and
nages these days, as a result thereof -- not to mention the
drugs and bugs.

Anyhow, that is a part of it, and I send Don a card
every Christmas.

I couldn't tell whether they thought I was bluffing.
They had said I had a low violence index, which meant
they had had access to my personnel file or to Central.
Which meant I had to try keeping them off balance for
the time I had remaining, there on the Eve of RUMO-
KO. But my bedside alarm showed five till six, and I
went on duty at eight o'clock. If they knew as much as
they seemed to know, they probably had access to the
duty rosters also.

So here was the break I had spent the entire month
seeking, right in the palm of my hand on the Eve of
RUMOKO's rumble. Only, if they knew how much time
I actually had in which to work them over, they might
 -- probably could -- be able to hold out on me. I was not
about to leave them in my cabin all day; and the only al-
ternative was to turn them over to Ship's Security before
I reported for duty. I was loath to do this, as I did not
know whether there were any others aboard -- whoever
they were -- or if they had anything more planned, since
the J-9 trouble had not come off as they had expected.
Had it succeeded, it would surely have postponed the
September 15 target date.

I had a fee to earn, which meant I had a package to
deliver. The box was pretty empty, so far.

"Gentlemen," I said, my voice sounding strange to
me and my reflexes seeming slow. I therefore attempted
to restrict my movements as much as possible, and to
speak slowly and carefully. "Gentlemen, you've had
your turn. Now it is mine." I turned a chair backward
and seated myself upon it, resting my gun hand on my
forearm and my forearm on the back of the chair. "I
will, however," I continued, "preface my actions with
that which I have surmised concerning yourselves.

"You are not government agents," I said, glancing
from one to the other. "No. You represent a private in-
terest of some sort. If you are agents, you should doubt-
less have been able to ascertain that I am not one. You
resorted to the extreme of questioning me in this fash-
ion, however, so my guess is that you are civilians and
perhaps somewhat desperate at this point. This leads
me to link you with the attempted sabotage of the J-9 unit
this previous afternoon.  -- Yes, let's call it sabotage. You
know that it was, and you know that I know it -- since I
worked on the thing and it didn't come off as planned.
This obviously prompted your actions of this evening.
Therefore, I shan't even ask you the question.

"Next, and predicated upon my first assumption, I
know that your credentials are genuine. I could fetch
them from your pockets in a moment, if they are there,
but your names would mean nothing to me. So I will not
even go looking. There is really only one question that I
want answered, and it probably won't even hurt your
employer or employers, who will doubtless disavow any
knowledge of you.

"I want to know who you represent," I said.

"Why?" asked the larger man, his frown revealing a
lip-side scar which I had not noticed at his unmasking.

"I want to know who put you up to being so casual
with my person," I said.

"To what end?"

I shrugged.

"Personal vengeance, perhaps."

He shook his head.

"You're working for somebody, too," he said. "If it
is not the government, it is still somebody we wouldn't
like."

"So you admit you are not independent operators. If
you will not tell me who you work for, will you tell me
why you want to stop the project?"
.   "No."

"All right. Drop that one.  -- I see you as associated
with some large contractor who got cut out on some-
thing connected with this job. How does that sound?
Maybe I can even make suggestions."

The other guy laughed, and the big one killed it with
a quick glare.

"Well, that's out," I said. "Thanks. Now, let's con-
sider another thing: I can simply turn you in for break-
ing and entering. I might even be willing to say you were
drunk and indicated that you thought this cabin be-
longed to a friend of yours who didn't mind a little fool-
ery and who you thought might stand you to a final
round before you staggered off to bed. How does that
sound?"

"Is this place bugged, or isn't it?" asked the shorter
one, who seemed a bit younger than the other.

"Of course riot," said his partner. "Just keep your
mouth shut."

"Well, how does it sound?" I asked.

He shook his head again.

"Well, the alternative is my telling the whole story,
drugs, questions, and all. How does that sound? How
will you stand up under protracted questioning?"

The big one thought about it, shook his head again.

"Will you?" he finally asked me.

"Yes, I will."

He seemed to consider this.

". . . Then," I concluded, "I cannot save you the
pain, as I wish to. Even if you possess drug-conscious-
ness, you know that you will break within a couple of days
if they use drugs as well as all the other tricks. It is sim-
ply a matter of talking now or talking later. Since you
prefer to defer it, I can only assume that you have some-
thing else planned to stop RUMOKO -- "

"He's too damned smart!"

"Tell him to shut up again," I said. "He's giving me
my answers too fast and depriving me of my fun.  -- So
what is it? Come on," I said. "I'll get it, one way or an-
other, you know."

"He is right," said the man with the scar. "You are
too damned smart. Your I.Q. and your Personality Pro-
file show nothing like this. Would you be open to an of-
fer?"

"Maybe," I said. "But it would have to be a big one.
Give me the terms, and tell me who's offering."

"Terms: a quarter of a million dollars, cash," he said,
"and that is the maximum I can offer. Turn us loose
and go about your business. Forget about tonight."

I did think about it. Let's face it, it was tempting. But
I go through a lot of money in a few years' tune, and I
hated to report failure to Walsh's Private Investigations,
the third-largest detective agency in the world, with
whom I wished to continue associating myself, as an in-
dependent contractor.

"So who foots the bill? How? And why?"

"I can get you half that amount tonight, in cash, and
the other half in a week to ten days. You tell us how you
want it, and that is the way it will be. 'Why?' though, do
not ask that question. It will be one of the things we will
be buying."

"Your boss obviously has a lot of money to throw
around," I said, glancing at me clock and seeing that it
was now six fifteen. "No, I must refuse your offer."

"Then you could not be a government man. One of
them would take it, and then make an arrest."

"I already told you that. So what else is new?"

"We seem to have reached an impasse, Mister
Schweitzer."

"Hardly," I replied. "We have simply reached the end
of my preface. Since reasoning with you has failed, I
must now take positive action. I apologize for this, but it
is necessary."

"You are really going to resort to physical violence?"

"I'm afraid so," I said. "And don't worry. I expected
a hangover this morning, so I signed for sick leave last
night. I have all day. You already have a painful flesh
wound, so I'll give you a break this time around."

Then I stood, cautiously, and the room swayed, but I
did not let it show. I crossed to the smaller guy's chair
and seized its arms and his together and raised them up
from off the floor. Woozy, I was; but not weak.

I carried him off to the bathroom and set him, chair
and all, in the shower stall, avoiding the while many for-
ward thrustings of his head.

Then I returned to the other.

"Just to keep you abreast of what is going on," I said,
"it all depends on the time of day. I have measured the
temperature of the hot water in that stall at various
times, and it can come out of there at anything from
140° to 180° Fahrenheit. Your buddy is about to get it,
hot and full blast, as soon as I open his shirt and trou-
sers and expose as much bare flesh as possible. You un-
derstand?"

"I understand."

I went back inside and opened him up and turned the
shower on, using the hot water only. Then I went back
to the main room. I studied the features of his buddy,
who I then noted bore him something of a resemblance.
It struck me that they might be relatives.

When the screaming began, he sought to compose his
features. But I could see I was getting through to him.

He tested his restraints once again, looked at my clock,
looked at me.

"Turn it off. God damn you!" he cried.

"Your cousin?" I asked him.

"My half brother! Shut it down, you baboon!"

"Only if you've got something to say to me."

"Okay! But leave him in there and close the door!"

I dashed and did it. My head was beginning to clear,
though I still felt like hell.

I burned my right hand shutting the thing down. I left
my chosen victim slouched there in the steam, and I
shut the door behind me as I returned to the main room.

"What do you have to say?"

"Could you give me one free hand and a cigarette?"

"No, but you can have a cigarette."

"How about the right one? I can hardly move it."

I considered, and said, "Okay," picking up my gun
again.

I lit the stick, stuck it in his mouth, then cut the tape
and tore it off his right forearm. He dropped the ciga-
rette when I did it, and I picked it up and restored it to
him.

"All right," I said, "take ten seconds and enjoy your-
self. After that, we talk cases."

He nodded, looked around the room, took a deep
drag, and exhaled.

"I guess you do know how to hurt," he said. "If you
are not government, I guess your file is very much off."

"I am not government."

"Then I wish you were on our side, because it is a
pretty bad thing. Whatever you are, or do," he stated, "I
hope you are aware of the full implications."

. . . And he glanced at my clock, again.

Six twenty-five.

He had done it several times, and I had dismissed it.
But now it seemed something more than a desire to
know the time.

"When does it go off?" I asked, on chance.

Buying that, on chance, he replied, "Bring my brother
back, where I can see him."

"When does it go off?" I repeated.

"Too soon," he replied, "and then it will not matter.
You are too late."

"I don't think so," I said. "But now that I know, I'll
have to move, fast. So ... Don't lose any sleep over it.
I think I am going to turn you in now."

"What if I could offer you more money?"

"Don't. You'd only embarrass me. And I'd still say,
'No.' »

"Okay. But bring him back, please -- and take care of
his burns."

So I did.

"You guys will remain here for a brief while," I final-
ly said, snuffing the older one's cigarette and retaping his
wrist. Then I moved toward the door.

"You don't know, you really don't know!" I heard
from behind me.

"Don't fool yourself," I said, over my shoulder.

I didn't know. I really didn't know.

But I could guess.

I stormed through the corridors until I reached Carol
Deith's cabin. There I banged upon the door until I
heard some muffled cursing and a "Wait a minute!"
Then the door opened and she stared out at me, her
eyes winking at the light, a slumber cap of sorts upon
her head and a bulky robe about her.

"What do you want?" she asked me.

"Today is the day indeed," I said. "I've got to talk to
you. May I come in?"

"No," she said. "I'm not accustomed to -- "

"Sabotage," I said. "I know. That's what it's all
about, and it isn't finished yet.  -- Please . . ."

"Come in." The door was suddenly wide open and
she was standing to one side.

I entered.

She closed the door behind me, leaned back against it

and said, "All right, what is it?"

There was a feeble light glowing, and a messed-up
bed from which I had obviously aroused her.

"Look, maybe I didn't give you the whole story the
other day," I told her. "Yes, it was sabotage -- and there
was a bomb, and I disposed of it. That's over and done
with. Today is the big day, though, and the final attempt
is in the offing. I know that for a fact. I think I know
what it is and where it is. Can you help me? Can I help
you? Help."

"Sit down," she said.

"There isn't much time."

"Sit down, please. I have to get dressed."

"Please hurry."

She stepped into the next room and left the door
open. I was around the comer from it, though, so it
should not have bothered her if she trusted me -- and I
guess she did, because she did.

"What is it?" she asked me, amidst the rustle of
clothing.

"I believe that one or more of our three atomic
charges has been booby-trapped, so that the bird will
sing a bit prematurely within its cage."

"Why?" she said.

"Because there are two men back in my cabin, both
of them taped to chairs, who tried to make me talk ear-
lier this evening, with respect to my servicing of the
J-9."

"What does that prove?"
"They were kind of rough on me."

"So?"
"When I got the upper hand, I got the same way with
them. I made them talk."

"How?"

"None of your business. But they talked. I think RU-
MOKO's igniters need another check."

"I can pick them up in your cabin?"

"Yes."

"How did you apprehend them?"

"They didn't know I had a gun."

"I see. Neither did I.  -- We'll get them, don't worry.
But you are telling me that you took both of them and
beat some answers out of them?"

"More or less," I said, "and yes and no, and off the
record -- in case this place is bugged. Is it?"

She came in, nodded her head and put a finger to her
lips.

"Well, let's go do something," I said. "We'd better act
quickly, I don't want these guys fouling the project all
up."

"They won't. Okay. I'll give it to you that you know
what you are doing. I will take you at face value as a
strange creature. You did something which nobody ex-
pected of you. This does happen occasionally. We some-
times meet up with a guy who knows his job thoroughly
and can see when something is going wrong -- and who
cares enough about it to proceed from there and damn
the torpedoes. You say an atomic bomb will soon be
going off aboard this ship. Right?"

"Yes."

"You think one of the charges has been attached, and
has a timer cued in?"

"Right," and I looked at my wristwatch and saw that
it was going on seven.

"I'd bet less than an hour from now."

"They're going down in a few minutes," she told me.

"What are you going to do about it?"

She picked up the telephone on the little table next to
her bed.

"Operations," she said. "Stop the countdown." Then,
"Give me the barracks." "Sergeant," she then said, "I
want you to make some arrests." She looked at me.
"What is your room number?" she asked.

"Six-forty," I replied.

"Six-forty," she said. "Two men.  -- Right.  -- Yes.  -- 
Thank you." And she hung up.

"They're taken care of," she told me. "So, you think
a charge might go off prematurely?"

"That's what I said -- twice."

"Could you stop it?"

"With the proper equipment -- though I'd rather you
send in a service -- "

"Get it," she said to me.

"Okay," and I went and did that thing.

I came back to her cabin around five minutes later,
with a heavy pack slung over my shoulder.

"I had to sign my name in blood," I told her. "But
I've got what I need.  -- Why don't you get yourself a
good physicist?"

"I want you," she said. "You were in from me begin-
ning. You know what you're doing. Let's keep the group
small and tight."

"Tell me where to go to do it," I said, and she led the
way.

It was pushing seven by then.

It took me ten minutes to find out which one they had
done it to.

It was child's play. They had used the motor from an
advanced kid's erector set -- with self-contained power
unit. It was to be actuated by a standard clock-type tun-
er, which would cause it to pull the lead shielding. The
damned thing would go off while it was on the way
down.

It took me less than ten minutes to disarm it.

We stood near the railing, and I leaned upon it

"Good," I said.

"Very good," she said.

"While you're at it," she continued, "get on your
guard. You are about to be the subject of the biggest se-
curity investigation I have ever set off."

"Go ahead. I'm pure as snow and swansdown."

"You aren't real," she told me. "T.r ,, -don't make
people like that."

"So touch me," I said. "I am sorry if you don't like
the way I go about existing."

"If you don't turn into a frog come midnight, a girl
could leam to like a guy like you."

"That would require a very stupid girl," I said.
And she gave me a strange look which I did not really
care to try interpreting.

Then she stared me straight in the eyes.
"You've got some kind of secret I do not quite under-
stand yet." she said. "You seem like a leftover from the
Old Days."

"Maybe I am. Look, you've already said that I've
been of help. Why not leave it at that? I haven't done
anything wrong."

"I've got a job to do. But, on the other hand, you're
right. You have helped, and you haven't really broken
any regs.  -- Except with reference to the 3-9, for which
I'm sure nobody is going to cause you trouble. On the
opposite hand, I've got a report to write. Of necessity,
your actions will figure in it prominently. I can't very
well leave you out."

"I wasn't asking that," I said.

"What do you want me to do?"

Once it got into Central, I knew, I could kill it. But
prior to that, it would be filtered through a mess of hu-
mans. They could cause trouble. "You kept the group
small and tight," I said. "You could drop one."

"No."

"Okay. I could be a draftee, from the beginning."

"That's better."

"Then maybe we could let it be that way."

"I see no great problems."

"You'll do it?"

"I will see what I can do."

"That's enough. Thanks."

"What will you do when your job here is finished?"

"I don't know. Take a vacation, maybe."

"All alone?"

"Maybe."

"Look, I like you. I'll do things to keep you out of
trouble."

"I'd appreciate that."

"You seem to have answers for everything."

"Thank you."

"What about a girl?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could you use one, in whatever you do?"

"I thought you had a pretty good job here."

"I do. That's not what I'm talking about.  -- Do you
have one?"

"One what?"

"Stop playing the stupid role.  -- A girl, is what I
mean."

"No."

"Well?"

"You're nuts," I said. "What the hell could I do with
an Intelligence-type girl? Do you mean that you would
actually take the chance of teaming up with a stranger?"

"I've watched you in action, and I'm not afraid of
you. Yes, I would take the chance."

"This is the strangest proposal I've ever received."

"Think quick," she said.

"You don't know what you're asking," I told her.

"What if I like you -- an awful lot?"

"Well, I disarmed your bomb. . . ."

"I'm not talking about being grateful.  -- But thanks,
anyway.  -- The answer, I take it, is, 'No.' "

"Stop that! Can't you give a man a chance to think?"

"Okay," she said, and turned away.

"Wait. Don't be that way. You can't hurt me, so I can
talk honestly. I do have a crush on you. I have been a
confirmed bachelor for many years, though. You are a
complication."

"Let's look at it this way," she told me. "You're dif-
ferent, I know that. I wish / could do different things."

"Like what?"

"Lie to computers and get away with it."

"What makes you-say that?"

"It's the only answer, if you're real."

"I'm real."

"Then you know how to beat the system."

"I doubt it."

"Take me along," she said. "I'd like to do the same
thing."

And I looked at her. A little wisp of hair was touch-
ing her cheek, and she looked as if she wanted to cry.

"I'm your last chance, aren't I? You met me at a
strange moment in your life, and you want to gamble."

"Yes."

"You're nuts, and I can't promise you security unless
you want to quit the game -- and I can't. I play it by my
own rules, though -- and they're kind of strange. If you
and I got together, you would probably be a young wid-
ow.  -- So you would have that going for you."

"You're tough enough to disarm bombs."

"I will meet an early grave. I do lots of stupid things
when I have to."

"I think I might be in love with you."

"Then, for gods' sakes, let me talk to you later. I have
lots of things to think about, now."

"All right."

"You're a dumb broad."

"I don't think so."

"Well, we'll see."

After I woke up from one of the deepest sleeps in my
life, I went and signed for duty.

"You're late," said Morrey.

"So have them dock me."

I went then and watched the thing itself begin to oc-
cur.

RUMOKO was in the works.

They went down, Martin and Demmy, and planted
the charge. They did the necessary things, and we got
out of there. Everything was set, and waiting for our ra-
dio signal. My cabin had been emptied of intruders, and

I was grateful.

We got far enough away, and the signal was given.
All was silent for a time. Then the bomb went off.
Over the port bow, I saw the man stand up. He was
old and gray and wore a wide-brimmed hat. He stood,
slouched, fell on his face.

"We've just polluted the atmosphere some more,"

said Martin.

"Hell," said Demmy.

The oceans rose and assailed us. The ship held an-
chor.

For a time, there was nothing. Then, it began.

The ship shook, like a wet dog. I clung to the rail and
watched. Next came a mess of waves, and they were
bastacds, but we rode them out.

"We've got the first reading," said Carol. "It's begin-
ning to build."

I nodded and did not say anything. There wasn't

much to say.

"It's getting bigger," she said, after a minute, and I

nodded again.

Finally, later on that morning, the whole thing that
had come loose made its scene upon the surface.

The waters had been bubbling for a long while by
then. The bubbles grew larger. The temperature read-
ings rose. There came a glow.

Then there was one fantastic spout. It was blasted
into the air to a great height, golden in the morning sun-
shine, like Zeus when he had visited one of his girl-
friends or other. It was accompanied by a loud roar. It
hung there for a few brief moments, then descended in a
shower of sparks.

Immediately thereafter, there was greater turbulence.

It increased and I watched, the regular way and by
means of the instruments.

The waters frothed and glistened. The roaring came
and went. There came another spout, and another. The
waters burned beneath the waves. Four more spouts,
each larger than its predecessor. . . .

Then an ocean-riving blast caught the Aquina in
something close to a tidal wave. . . .

We were ready, though -- built that way -- and faced
into it.

We rode with it, and there was no letup.

We were miles away, and it seemed as if but an arm's
distance separated us.

The next spout just kept going up, until it became a
topless pillar. It pierced the sky, and a certain darkness
began at that point. It began to swell, and there were
fires all about its base.

After a time, the entire sky was fading over into a
false twilight, and a fine dust filled the air, the eyes, the
lungs. Occasionally, a crowd of ashes passed in the dis-
tance, like a covey of dark birds. I lit a cigarette to pro-
tect my lungs against pollution, and watched the fires
rise.

With our early evening, the seas darkened. The krak-
en himself, disturbed, might have been licking our hull.
The glow continued, and a dark form appeared.

RUMOKO.

It was the cone. An artificially created island. A piece
of long-sunk Atlantis itself, perhaps, was rising in the
distance. Man had succeeded in creating a landmass.
One day it would be habitable. Now, if we made a chain
of them . . .

Yes. Perhaps another Japan. More room for the ex-
panding human race. More space. More places in which
to live.

Why had I been questioned? Who had opposed this?
It was a good thing, as I saw it.

I went away. I went and had dinner.

Carol came into the commissary and joined me, as if
by accident. I nodded, and she seated herself across
from me and ordered.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Maybe you've done some of your thinking by now?"
she said, between the salad and the ersatz beef.

"Yes," I replied.

"What are the results?"

"I still don't know. It was awfully quick and, frankly,
I'd like the opportunity to get to know you a little bet-
ter."

"Signifying what?"

"There is an ancient custom known as 'dating.' Let's
do it for a little while."

"You don't like me? I've checked our compatibility
indices. They show that we would be okay together -- 
buying you at face value, that is -- but I think I know
more of you than that."

"Outside of the fact that I'm not for sale, what does
that mean?"

"I've made lots of guesses and I think I could also get
along with an individualist who knows how to play the
right games with machines."

I knew that the commissary was bugged, and I
guessed that she didn't know that I did. Therefore, she
had a reason for saying what she had said -- and she
didn't think I knew about it.

"Sorry. Too quick," I told her. "Give a man a
chance, will you?"

"Why don't we go someplace and discuss it?"

We were ready for dessert at that point.

"Where?"

"Spitzbergen."

I thought about it, then, "Okay," I said.

"I'll be ready in about an hour and a half."

"Whoa!" I said. "I thought you meant, like -- perhaps
this weekend. There are still tests to run, and I'm sched-
uled for duty."

"But your job here is finished, isn't it?"

I started in on my dessert -- apple pie, and pretty
good, too, with a chunk of cheddar -- and I sipped cof-
fee along with it. Over the rim of the cup, I cocked my
head at her and shook it, slowly, from one side to the
other.

"I can get you off duty for a day," she told me.
"There will be no harm done."

"Sorry. I'm interested in the results of the tests. Let's
make it this weekend."

She seemed to think about this for a while.

"All right," she said finally, and I nodded and contin-
ued with my dessert.

The "all right" instead of a "yes" or an "okay" or a
"sure" must have been a key word of some sort Or per-
haps it was something else that she did or said. I don't
know. I don't care any more.

When we left the commissary, she was slightly ahead
of me -- as I had opened the door for her -- and a man
moved in from either side.

She stopped and turned.

"Don't bother saying it," I said. "I wasn't quick
enough, so I'm under arrest. Please don't recite my
rights. I know what they are," and I raised my hands
when I saw the steel in one man's hand. "Merry Christ-
mas," I added.

But she recited my rights anyway, and I stared at her
all the while. She didn't meet my eyes.

Hell, the whole proposition had been too good to be
true. I didn't think she was very used to the role she had
played, though -- and I wondered, idly, whether she
would have gone through with it, if circumstances dic-
tated. She had been right about my job aboard the
Aquina being ended, however. I would have to be mov-
ing along, and seeing that Albert Schweitzer died within
the next twenty-four hours.

"You are going to Spitzbergen tonight," she said,
"where there are better facilities for questioning you."

How was I going to manage it? Well -- 

As if reading my thoughts, she said, "Since you seem
to be somewhat dangerous, I wish to advise you that
your escorts are highly trained men."

"Then you won't be coming with me, after all?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Too bad. Then this is going to have to be 'Good-
bye.' I'd like to have gotten to know you somewhat bet-
ter."

"That meant nothing!" she said. "It was just to get
you there."

"Maybe. But you will always wonder, and now you
will never know."

"I am afraid we are going to have to handcuff you,"

said one of the men.

"Of course."

I held my hands out and he said, almost apologetical-
ly, "No, sir. Behind your back, please."

So I did, but I watched the men move in and I gota
look at the cuffs. They were kind of old-fashioned.
Government budgets generally produce such handy sav-
ings. If I bent over backward, I could step over them,
and then they would be in front of me. Give me, say,
twenty seconds . . .

"One thing," I asked. "Just for the sake of curiosity
and because I told it to you straight. Did you ever find
out why those two guys broke into my room to question
me, and what they really wanted? If you're allowed to
tell me, I would like to know, because it made for some
rough sleeping."

She bit her lip, thought a moment, I guess, then said,
"They were from New Salem -- a bubble city off the
North American continental shelf. They were afraid that
RUMOKO would crack their dome."

"Did it?" I asked.

She paused.

"We don't know yet," she said. "The place has been
silent for a while. We have tried to get through to them,
but there seems to be some interference."

"What do you mean by that?"

"We have not yet succeeded in reestablishing con-
tact."

"You mean to say that we might have killed a city?"

"No. The chances were minimal, according to the
scientists."

"Your scientists," I said. "Theirs must have felt dif-
ferently about it."

"Of course," she told me. "There are always obstruc-
tionists. They sent saboteurs because they did not trust
our scientists. The inference -- "

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"That I put a guy into a shower.  -- Okay. Thanks. I
can read all about it in the papers. Send me to Spitzber-
gen now."

"Please," she said. "I do what I must. I think it's right.
You may be as clean as snow and swansdown. If that is
the case, they will know in a very short time, Al. Then
 -- then I'd like you to bear in mind that what I said be-
fore may still be good."

I chuckled.

"Sure, and I've already said, 'Good-bye.' Thanks for
answering my question, though."

"Don't hate me."

"I don't. But I could never trust you."

She turned away.

"Good night, " I said.

And they escorted me to the helicopter. They helped
me aboard. There were just the two of them and the pi-
lot.

"She liked you," said the man with the gun.

"No." I said.

"If she's right and you're clean, will you see her
again?"

"I'll never see her again," I said.
He seated me, to the rear of the craft. Then he and
his buddy took window seats and gave a signal.
The engines throbbed, and suddenly we rose.
In the distance, RUMOKO rumbled, burned, and
spat.

Eva, I am sorry. I didn't know. I'd never guessed it
might have done what it did.

"You're supposed to be dangerous," said the man on
my right. "Please don't try anything."

Ave, atque, avatque, I said, in my heart of hearts,
like.

Twenty-four hours, I told Schweitzer.

After I collected my money from Walsh, I returned to
the Proteus and practiced meditation for a few days. Since
it did not produce the desired results, I went up and got
drunk with Bill Mellings. After all, I had used his equip-
ment to kill Schweitzer. I didn't tell him anything, ex-
cept for a made-up story about a ni-hi girl with large
mammaries.

Then we went fishing, two weeks' worth.

I did not exist any longer. I had erased Albert
Schweitzer from the world. I kept telling myself that I
did not want to exist any longer.

If you have to murder a man -- have to, I mean, like
no choice in the matter -- I feel that it should be a
bloody and horrible thing, so that it burns itself into
your soul and gives you a better appreciation of the val-
ue of human existence.

It had not been that way, however.

It had been quiet and viral. It was a thing to which I
have immunized myself, but of which very few other per-
sons have even heard. I had opened my ring and re-
leased the spores. That was all. I had never known the
names of my escorts or the pilot. I had not even had a
good look at their faces.

It had killed them within thirty seconds, and I had the
cuffs off in less than the twenty seconds I'd guessed.
I crashed the 'copter on the beach, sprained my right
wrist doing it, got the hell out of the vehicle, and started
walking.

They'd look like myocardial infarcts or arteriosclerot-
ic brain syndromes -- depending on how it hit them.

Which meant I should lay low for a while. I value my
own existence slightly more than that of anyone who
wishes to disturb it. This does not mean that I didn't feel
like hell, though.

Carol will suspect, I think, but Central only buys
facts. And I saw that there was enough sea water in the
plane to take care of the spores. No test known to man
could prove that I had murdered them.

The body of Albert Schweitzer had doubtless been
washed out to sea through the sprung door.

K I ever meet with anybody who had known Al, so
briefly, I'd be somebody else by then -- with appropriate
identification -- and that person would be mistaken.

Very neat. But maybe I'm in me wrong line of work.
I still feel like hell.

RUMOKO From All Those Fathoms fumed and
grew like those Hollywood monsters mat used to get
blamed on science fiction. In a few months, it was pre-
dicted, its fires would desist A layer of soil would then
be imported, spread, and migrating birds would be en-
couraged to stop and rest, maybe nest, and to use the
place as a lavatory. Mutant red mangroves would be
rooted there, linking the sea and the land. Insects would
even be brought aboard. One day, according to theory,
it would be a habitable island. One other day, it would
be one of a chain of habitable islands.

A double-pronged answer to the population problem,
you might say: create a new place for men to live, and
in doing so kill off a crowd of them living elsewhere.

Yes, the seismic shocks had cracked New Salem's
dome. Many people had died.

And Project RUMOKO's second son is nevertheless
scheduled for next summer.

The people in Baltimore II are worried, but the Con-
gressional investigation showed that the fault lay with
the constructors of New Salem, who should have pro-
vided against the vicissitudes. The courts held several of
the contractors liable, and two of them went into receiv-
ership despite the connections that had gotten them the
contracts in the first place.

It ain't pretty, and it's big, and I sort of wish I had
never put that guy into the shower. He is all alive and
well, I understand -- a New Salem man -- but I know
that he will never be the same.

More precautions are supposed to be taken with the
next one -- whatever that means. I do not trust these pre-
cautions worth a damn. But then, I do not trust anything
anymore.

If another bubble city goes, as yours did, Eva, I think
it will slow things down. But I do not believe it will stop
the RUMOKO Project. I think they will find another
excuse then. I think they will try for a third one after
that

While it has been proved that we can create such
things, I do not believe that the answer to our popula-
tion problem lies in the manufacturing of new lands. No.

Offhand, I would say that since everything else is
controlled these days, we might as well do it with the
population, too. I will even get myself an identity -- 
many identities, in fact -- and vote for it, if it ever comes
to a referendum. And I submit that there should be
more bubble cities, and increased appropriations with
respect to the exploration of outer space. But no more
RUMOKO's. No.

Despite past reservations, I am taking on a free one.
Walsh will never know. Hopefully, no one will. I am no
altruist, but I guess I owe something to the race that I
leech off of. After all, I was once a member. . . .

Taking advantage of my nonexistence, I am going to
sabotage that bastard so well that it will be the last.

How?

I will see that it is a Krakatoa, at least. As a result of
the last one, Central knows a lot more about magma -- 
and as a result of this, so do I.

I will manipulate the charge, probably even make it a
multiple.

When that baby goes off, I will have arranged for it
to be the worst seismic disturbance in the memory of
man. It should not be too difficult to do.

I could possibly murder thousands of people by this
action -- and certainly I will kill some. However, RU-
MOKO in its shattering of New Salem scared the hell
out of so many folks that I think RUMOKO II will
scare even more. I am hoping that there will be a lot of
topside vacations about that time. Add to this the fact
that I know how rumors get started, and I can do it my-
self. I will.

I am at least going to clear the decks as much as I
can.

They will get results, all right -- the planners -- like a
Mount Everest in the middle of the Atlantic and some
fractured domes. Laugh that off, and you are a good
man.

I baited the line and threw it overboard. Bill took a
drink of orange juice and I took a drag on my cigarette.
"You're a consulting engineer these days?" he asked.
"Yeah."

"What are you up to now?"
"I've got a job in mind. Kind of tricky."
"Will you take it?"
"Yes."

"I sometimes wish I had something going for me now
 -- the way you do."

"Don't. It's not worth it."

I looked out over the dark waters, able to bear prodi-
gies. The morning sun was just licking the waves, and
my decision was, like, solid. The wind was chilly and
pleasant. The sky was going to be beautiful. I could tell
from the breaks in the cloud cover.

"It sounds interesting. This is demolition work, you
say?"

And I, Judas Iscariot, turned a glance his way and
said, "Pass me the bait can, please. I think I've got
something on the line."

"Me, too. Wait a minute."

The day, like a mess of silver dollars, fell upon the
deck.

I landed mine and hit it on the back of the head with
the stick, to be merciful.

I kept telling myself that I did not exist. I hope it is
true, even though I feel that it is not. I seem to see old
Colgate's face beneath an occasional whitecap.

Eva, Eva . . .

Forgive me, my Eva. 1 would welcome your hand on
my brow.

It is pretty, the silver. The waves are blue and green
this morning, and God! how lovely the light!

"Here's the bait"

"Thanks."

I took it and we drifted.

Eventually, everybody dies, I noted. But it did not
make me feel any better.

But nothing, really, could.

The next card will be for Christmas, as usual, Don,
one year late this time around.

Never ask me why.

PART TWO

After everyone had departed, the statements been
taken, the remains of the remains removed -- long after
that, as the night hung late, clear, clean, with its bright
multitudes doubled in their pulsing within the cool flow
of the Gulf Stream about the station, I sat in a deck chair
on the small patio behind my quarters, drinking a can
of beer and watching the stars go by.

My feelings were an uncomfortable mixture, and I
had not quite decided what to do with what was left.

It was awkward. I could make things neat and tidy
again by deciding to forget the small inexplicables. I had
accomplished what I had set out to do. I needed but
stamp CLOSED on my mental file, go away, collect my
fee and live happily, relatively speaking, ever after.

No one would ever know or, for that matter, care
about the little things that still bothered me. I was under
no obligation to pursue matters beyond this point

Except...

Maybe it is aa obligation. At least, at times it became
a compulsion, and one might as well salve one's notions
of duty and free will by using the pleasanter term.

It? The possession of a primate forebrain, I mean,
with a deep curiosity wrinkle furrowing it for better
or worse.

I had to remain about the station a while longer any-
way, for appearances' sake.
I took another sip of beer.

Yes, I wanted more answers. To dump into the bot-
tomless wrinkle up front there.

I might as well look around a bit more. Yes, I decid-
ed, I would.

I withdrew a cigarette and moved to light it. Then the
flame caught my attention.

I stared at the flowing tongue of light, illuminating my
palm and curved fingers of my left hand, raised to shield
it from the night breeze. It seemed as pure as the star-
fires themselves, a molten, buttery thing, touched with
orange, haloed blue, the intermittently exposed cherry-
colored wick glowing, half-hidden, like a soul. And then
the music began....

Music was the best term I had for it, because of some
similarity of essence, although it was actually like noth-
ing I had ever experienced before. For one thing, it was
not truly sonic. It came into me as a memory comes,
without benefit of external stimulus -- but lacking the
Lucite layer of self-consciousness that turns thought to
recollection by touching it with time -- as in a dream.
Then, something suspended, something released, my
feelings began to move to the effect. Not emotions,
nothing that specific, but rather a growing sense of eu-
phoria, delight, wonder, all poured together into a com-
mon body with the tide rising. What the progressions,
what the combinations. -- what the thing was, truly -- I
did not know. It was an intense beauty, a beautiful in-
tensity, however, and I was part of it. It was as if I
were experiencing something no man had ever known
before, something cosmic, magnificent, ubiquitous yet
commonly ignored.

And it was with a peculiarly ambiguous effort, fol-
lowing a barely perceptible decision, that I twitched the
fingers of my left hand sufficiently to bring them into the
flame itself.

The pain broke the dream momentarily, and I snapped

the lighter closed as I sprang to my feet, a gaggle of
guesses passing through my head. I turned and ran
across that humming artificial islet, heading for the
small, dark cluster of buildings that held the museum, li-
brary, offices.

But even as I moved, something came to me again.
Only this time it was not the glorious, musiclike sensa-
tion that had touched me moments earlier. Now it was
sinister, bringing a fear that was none the less real for
my knowing it to be irrational, to the accompaniment of
sensory distortions that must have caused me to reel as
I ran. The surface on which I moved buckled and
swayed; the stars, the buildings, the ocean -- everything
 -- advanced and retreated in random, nauseating pat-
terns of attack. I fell several times, recovered, rushed
onward. Some of the distance I know that I crawled.
Closing my eyes did no good, for everything was
warped, throbbing, shifting, and awful inside as well as
out.

It was only a few hundred yards, though, no matter
what the signs and portents might say, and finally I rest-
ed my hands against the wall, worked my way to the
door, opened it, and passed within.

Another door and I was into the library. For years, it
seemed, I fumbled to switch on the light.

I staggered to the desk, fought with a drawer, wrestled
a screwdriver out of it.

Then on my hands and knees, gritting my teeth, I
crossed to the remote-access terminal of the Information
Network. Slapping at the console's control board, I suc-
ceeded in tripping the switches that brought it to life.

Then, still on my knees, holding the screwdriver with
both hands, I got the left side panel off the thing. It fell
to the floor with a sound that drove spikes into my head.
But the components were exposed. Three little changes
and I could transmit, something that would eventually
wind up in Central. I resolved that I would make those
changes and send the two most damaging pieces of in-
formation I could guess at to the place where they might
eventually be retrieved in association with something suf-
ficiently similar to one day cause a query, a query that
would hopefully lead to the destruction of that for which
I was currently being tormented.

"I mean it!" I said aloud. "Stop right now! Or I'll do
it!"

. . . And it was like taking off a pair of unfamiliar
glasses: rampant reality.

I climbed to my feet, shut down the board.

The next thing, I decided, was to have that cigarette
I had wanted in the first place.

With my third puff, I heard the outer door open and
close.

Dr. Barthehne, short, tan, gray on top and wiry, en-
tered the room, blue eyes wide, one hand partly raised.

"Jim! What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing," I replied. "Nothing."

"I saw you running. I saw you fall."

"Yes. I decided to sprint over here. I slipped. Pulled a
muscle. It's all right."

"Why the rush?"

"Nerves. I'm still edgy, upset. I had to run or some-
thing, to get it out of my system. Decided to run over
and get a book. Something to read myself to sleep with."

"I can get you a tranquilizer."

"No, that's all right. Thanks. I'd rather not."

"What were you doing to the machine? We're not sup-
posed to fool with -- "

"The side panel fell off when I went past it. I was just
going to put it back on." I waved the screwdriver. "The
little set-screws must have jiggled loose."

"Oh."

I stooped and fitted it back into place. As I was
tightening the screws, the telephone rang. Barthehne
crossed to the desk, poked an extension button, and an-
swered it.

After a moment, he said, "Yes, just a minute," and
turned. "It's for you."

"Really?"

I rose, moved to the desk, took the receiver, dropping
the screwdriver back into the drawer and closing it.
"Hello?" I said.

"All right," said the voice. "I think we had better
talk. Will you come and see me now?"
"Where are you?"
"At home."

"All right, I'll come."
I hung up.

"Don't need that book after all," I said. "I'm going
over to Andros for a while."

"It's pretty late. Are you certain you feel up to it?"

"Oh, I feel fine now," I said. "Sorry to have worried
you."

He seemed to relax. At least, he sagged and smiled
family.

"Maybe / should go take the trank," he said. "Every-
thing that's happened . . . You know. You scared me."

"Well, what's happened has happened. It's all over,
done."

"You're right, of course.... Well, have a good time,
whatever."

He turned toward the door and I followed him out,
extinguishing the light as I passed it.

"Good night, then."

"Good night"

He headed back toward his quarters, and I made my
way down to the docking area, decided on the Isabella,
got in. Moments later, I was crossing over, still wonder-
ing. Curiosity may ultimately prove nature's way of deal-
ing with the population problem.

It was on May Day -- not all that long ago, though it
seems so -- that I sat to the rear of the bar at Captain
Tony's in Key West, to the right, near to the fireplace,
drinking one of my seasonal beers. It was a little after
eleven, and I had about decided that this one was a
write-off, when Don came in through the big open front
of the place. He glanced around, his eyes passing over
me, located a vacant stool near the forward corner of
the bar, took it, and ordered something. There were too
many people between us, and the group had returned to
the stage at the rear of the room behind me and begun
another set, with a loud opening number. So, for a time,
we just sat there -- wondering, I guess.

After ten or fifteen minutes, he got to his feet and
made his way back to the rest room, passing around the
far side of the bar. A short while later, he returned, mov-
ing around my side. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Bill!" he said. "What are you doing down here?"

I turned, regarded him, grinned.

"Sam! Good Lord!"
We shook hands. Then, "Too noisy in here to talk,"

he said. "Let's go someplace else."

"Good idea."

After a time, we found ourselves on a dim and desert-
ed stretch of beach, smelling the salty breath of the
ocean, listening to it, and feeling an occasional droplet.

We halted, and I lit a cigarette.

"Did you know that the Florida current carries over
two million tons of uranium past here every year?" he

said.

"To be honest, no," I told him.

"Well, it does.  -- What do you know about dolphins?"

"That's better," I said. "They are beautiful, friendly
creatures, so well adapted to their environment that they
don't have to mess it up in order to lead the life they
seem to enjoy. They are highly intelligent, they're coop-
erative, and they seem totally lacking in all areas of ma-
liciousness. They -- "

"That's enough," and he raised his hand. "You like
dolphins. I knew you would say that. You sometimes re-
mind me of one -- swimming through life, not leaving
traces, retrieving things for me."

"Keep me in fish. That's all."

He nodded.

"The usual arrangement. But this one should be a rel-
atively easy, yes-or-no thing, and not take you too long.
It's quite near here, as a matter of fact, and the incident
is only a few days old."

"Oh! What's involved?"

"I'd like to clear a gang of dolphins of a homicide
charge," he said.

He expected me to say something, he he was disap-
pointed. I was thinking, recalling a news account from
the previous week. Two scuba-clad swimmers had been
killed in one of the undersea parks to the east, at about
the same time that some very peculiar activity on the
part of dolphins was being observed in the same area.
The men had been bitten and chewed by something pos-
sessing a jaw configuration approximating that of Tur-
siops tnmcatus, the bottle-nosed dolphin, a normal visi-
tor and sometime resident of these same parks. The
particular park in which the incident occurred had been
closed until further notice. There were no witnesses to
the attack, as I recalled, and I had not come across any
follow-up story.

"I'm serious," he finally said.

"One of those guys was a qualified guide who knew
the area, wasn't he?"

He brightened, there in the dark.

"Yes," he said. "Michael Thomley. He used to do
some moonlighting as a guide. He was a full-time em-
ployee of the Beltrane Processing people. Did underwa-
ter repair and maintenance at their extraction plants.
Ex-Navy. Frogman. Extremely qualified. The other fel-
low was a landlubber friend of his from Andros. Rudy
Myers. They went out together at an odd hour, stayed
rather long. In the meantime, several dolphins were seen
getting the hell out, fast. They leaped the 'wall,' instead
of passing through the locks. Others used the normal ex-
its. These were blinking on and off like mad. In a mat-
ter of a few minutes, actually, every dolphin in the park
had apparently departed. When an employee went look-
ing for Mike and Rudy, he found them dead."

"Where do you come into the picture?"

"The Institute of Delphinological Studies does not ap-
preciate the bad press this gives their subject. They
maintain there has never been an authenticated case of
an unprovoked attack by a dolphin on a human being.
They are anxious not to have this go on record as one, if
it really isn't."

"Well, it hasn't actually been established. Perhaps
something else did it. Scared the dolphins, too."

"I have no idea," he said, lighting a cigarette of his
own. "But it was not all that long ago that the killing
of dolphins was finally made illegal throughout the world,
and that the pioneer work of people like Lilly came to be
appreciated, with a really large-scale project set up for
the assessment of the creature. They have come up with
some amazing results, as you must know. It is no longer
a question of trying to demonstrate whether a dolphin is
as intelligent as a man. It has been established that they
are highly intelligent -- although their minds work along
radically different lines, so that there probably never
can be a true comparison. This is the basic reason for
the continuing communication problems, and it is also a
matter of which the general public is pretty much aware.
Given this, our client does not like the inferences that
could be drawn from the incident -- namely, that power-
ful, free-ranging creatures of this order of intelligence
could become hostile to man."

"So the Institute hired you to look into it?"

"Not officially. I was approached because the charac-
ter of the thing smacks of my sort of investigation spe-
cialties as well as the scientific. Mainly, though, it was
because of the urgings of a wealthy little old lady who
may someday leave the Institute a fortune: Mrs. Lydia
Bames, former president of the Friends of the Dolphin
Society -- the citizen group that had lobbied for the ini-
tial dolphin legislation years ago. She is really paying my
fee."

"What sort of place in the picture did you have in
mind for me?"

"Beltrane will want a replacement for Michael
Thomley. Do you think you could get the job?"

"Maybe. Tell me more about Beltrane and the
parks."

"Well," he said, "I guess it was a generation or so
back that Dr. Spencer at Harwell demonstrated that ti-
tanium hydroxide would create a chemical reaction that
separated uranyl ions from seawater. It was costly,
though, and it was not until years later that Samuel Bel-
trane came along with his screening technique, founded
a small company, and quickly tamed it into a large one,
with uranium-extraction stations all along this piece of
the Gulf Stream. While his process was quite clean, en-
vironmentally speaking, he was setting up in business at
a time when public pressure on industry was such mat
some gesture of ecological concern was pretty much de
rigueur. So he threw a lot of money, equipment, and
man-hours into the setting up of the four undersea parks
in the vicinity of me island of Andros. A section of the
barrier reef makes one of them especially attractive. He
got a nice tax break on the deal. Deserved, though, I'd
say. He cooperated with the dolphin studies people, and
labs were set up for them in the parks. Each of the four
areas is enclosed by a sonic 'wall,* a sound barrier that
keeps everything outside out and everything inside in, in
terms of the larger creatures. Except for men and dol-
phins. At a number of points, the "wall' possesses 'sound
locks' -- a pair of sonic curtains, several meters apart -- 
which are operated by means of a simple control located
on the bottom. Dolphins are capable of teaching one an-
other how to use it, and they are quite good about clos-
ing the door behind them. They come and go, visiting
the labs at will, both learning from and, I guess, teach-
ing the investigators."

"Stop," I said. "What about sharks?"

"They were removed from the parks first thing. The
dolphins even helped chase them out. It has been over a
decade now since the last one was put out."

"I see. What say does the company have in running
the parks?"

"None, really. They service the equipment now, that's
all."

"Do many of the Beltrane people work as park guides
too?"

"A few, part-time. They are in the area, they know
it well, they have all the necessary skills."

"I would like to see whatever medical reports there

were."

"I have them here, complete with photos of the bod-
ies."

"What about the man from Andros -- Rudy Myers?
What did he do?"

"He'd trained as a nurse. Worked in several homes
for the aged. Taken in a couple of times on charges of
stealing from the patients. Charges dropped once. A sus-
pended sentence the second time. Sort of blackballed
from that line of work afterward. That was six or seven
years back. Held a variety of small jobs then and kept a
clean record. He had been working on the island for the
past couple of years in a sort of bar."

"What do you mean 'sort of bar'?"

"It has only an alcohol license, but it serves drugs, too.
It's way out in the boonies, though, so nobody's ever
raised a fuss."

"What's the place called?"

"The Chickcharny."

"What's that mean?"

"A piece of local folklore. A chickchamy is a sort of
tree spirit. Mischievous. Like an elf."

"Colorful enough, I guess.  -- Isn't Andros where Mar-
tha Millay, the photographer, makes her home?"

"Yes, it is."

"I'm a fan of hers. I like underwater photography, and
hers is always good. In fact, she did several books on
dolphins. Has anyone thought to ask her opinion of the
killings?"

"She's been away."

"Oh. Hope she gets back soon. I'd like to meet her."
"Then you will take the job?"

"Yes, I need one just now."

He reached into his jacket, withdrew a heavy enve-
lope, passed it to me.

"There you have copies of everything I have. Need-
less to say -- "

"Needless to say," I said, "the life of a mayfly will be
as eternity to them."

I slipped it into my own jacket and turned away.

"Be seeing you," I said.

"Leaving already?"

"I've a lot to do."

"Good luck, then."

"Thanks."

I went left and he went right, and that was that for
then.

Station One was something of a nerve center for the
area. That is, it was larger than the other extraction
plants and contained the field office, several laborato-
ries, a library, a museum, a dispensary, living quarters,
and a few recreational features. It was an artificial is-
land, a fixed platform about seven hundred feet across,
and it monitored and serviced eight other plants within
the area. It was within sight of Andros, largest of the
Bahama Islands, and if you like plenty of water about
you, which I do, you would find the prospect peaceful
and more than a little attractive.

After the tour and introductions that first day, I
learned that my duties were about one-third routine and
two-thirds response to circumstances. The routine part
was inspection and preventive maintenance. The rest
was unforeseen repair, retrieval, and replacement work
 -- general underwater handyman stuff whenever the ne-
cessity arose.

It was Dr. Leonard Barfhelrne, the Area Director,
who met me and showed me around. A pleasant little
fellow who seemed to enjoy talking about his work, mud-
dle-aged, a widower, he had made his home at Station
One for almost five years. The first person to whom be
introduced me was Frank Cashel, whom we found in the
main laboratory, eating a sandwich and waiting for some
test to run its course.

Frank swallowed and smiled, rose, and shook hands
with me as Barthehne explained, "This is the new man,
James Madison."

He was dark, with a touch of gray here and there, a
few creases accentuating a ruggedness of jawline and
cheekbone, the beginnings of a bulge above his belt.

"Glad to have you around," he said. "Keep an eye
out for pretty rocks, and bring me a branch of coral ev-
ery now and then. Well get along fine."

"Frank's hobby is collecting minerals," Barthehne
said. "The display in the museum is his. We'll pass that
way in a few minutes and you can see it Quite interest-
ing."

I nodded.

"Okay. I'll remember. See what I can find you."

"Know anything about the subject?" Frank asked me.

"A little. I used to be something of a rock hound."

"Well, Fd appreciate it."

As we walked away, Barthehne remarked, "He makes
some money on the side selling specimens at gem shows.
I would bear that in mind before I gave him too much in
the way of my spare time, or samples."

"Oh."

"What I mean is, if you feel like going in for that sort
of thing on a more than occasional basis, you ought to
make it clear that you want a percentage."

"I see. Thanks."

"Don't misunderstand me," he said. "He's a fine fel-
low. Just a little absentminded."

"How long has he been out here?"

"Around two years. Geophysicist. Very solid."

We stopped by the equipment shed then, where I met
Andy Deems and Paul Carter: the former, thin and
somewhat sinister in appearance because of a scribbling
of scars on his left cheek, which a full beard did not
completely conceal; the latter, tall, fair, smooth-faced,
and somewhere between husky and fat. They were
cleaning some tanks when we entered, and wiped their
..hands, shook mine, and said they were glad to meet me.
They both did the same sort of work I would be doing,
the normal staffing calling for four of us, working in
pairs. The fourth man was Paul Vallons, who was cur-
rently out with Ronald Davies, the boatmaster, replacing
an instrument package in a sampler buoy. Paul, I
learned, had been Mike's partner, the two of them hav-
ing been friends since their Navy days. I would be work-
ing with him much of the time.

"You will soon be reduced to this miserable state
yourself," Carter said cheerfully, as we were leaving.
"Enjoy your morning. Gather rosebuds."

"You are miserable because you sweat most obscene-
ly," Deems observed.

"Tell it to my glands."

As we crossed the islet, Barthehne observed that
Deems was the most capable underwater man he had
ever met. He had lived in one of the bubble cities for a
time, lost his wife and daughter in the RUMOKO II dis-
aster, and come topside to stay. Carter had come across
from the West Coast about five months ago, immediate-
ly following a divorce or separation he did not care to
talk about. He had been employed by Beltrane out there
and had requested a transfer.

Bartheime took me through the second lab, which
was vacant just then, so that I could admire the large, il-
luminated map of the seas about Andros, beads of light
indicating the disposition and well-being of the devices
that maintained the sonic 'walls' about the parks and
stations. I saw that we were enclosed by a boundary that
took in the nearest park also.

"In which one was the accident?" I asked.
He turned and studied my face, then pointed, indicat-
ing our own.

"It was farther in, over there," he said. "Toward the
northeast end of the park. What have you heard about
it?"

"Just the news report," I said. "Has anything new
been discovered?"

"No. Nothing."

With my fingertip, I traced the reversed L of lights

that outlined the area.

"No holes in the 'wall'?" I asked.

"There haven't been any equipment failures for a
long while."

"Do you think it was a dolphin?"

He shrugged. Then, "I'm a chemist," he said, "not a
dolphin specialist. But it strikes me, from everything I've
read, that there are dolphins and there are dolphins. The
average dolphin seems to be quite pacific, with an intel-
ligence possibly equivalent to our own. Also, they
should follow the same old normal distribution curve -- 
the bulk of them in the middle, a few morons on one
end, a few geniuses on the other. Perhaps a feeblemind-
ed dolphin who was not responsible for his actions did
it. Or a Raskolnikov dolphin. Most of what is known
about them comes from a study of average specimens.
Statistically, in the relatively brief while such investiga-
tions have been going on, this has to be so. What do we
know of their psychiatric abnormalities? Nothing, real-
ly." He shrugged again. "So yes, I think it is possible,"

he finished.

I was thinking then of a bubble city and some people
I had never met, and I wondered whether dolphins ever
felt rotten, guilty, and miserable as hell over anything
they had done. I sent that thought back where it had
come from, just as he said, "I hope you are not
worried . . . ?"

"Curious," I said. "But concerned, too. Naturally."

He turned and, as I followed him to the door, said,
"Well, you have to remember first that it was a good
distance to the northeast, in the park proper. We have
nothing operating over there, so your duties should not
take you anywhere near the place where it occurred.
Second, a team from the Institute of Delphinological
Studies is searching the entire area, including our annex
here, with underwater detection equipment. Third, until
further notice there will be a continuing sonar scan
about any area where one of our people has to submerge
himself -- and a shark cage and submersible decompres-
sion chamber will go along on all deep dives, just in
case. The locks have all been closed until this is settled.
And you will be given a weapon -- a long metal tube
carrying a charge and a shell -- that should be capable of
dispatching an angry dolphin or a shark."

I nodded.

"Okay," I said, as we headed toward the next cluster
of buildings. "That makes me feel a lot better."

"I was going to get around to that in a little while any-
way," he said. "I was looking for the best way to get
into it, though. I feel better, too -- this part is offices.
Should be empty now."

He pulled open the door and I followed him through:

desks, partitions, filing cabinets, office machines, water
cooler -- nothing unusual -- and, as he had said, quite de-
serted. We passed along its center aisle and out the door
at its far end, where we crossed the narrow breezeway
that separated it from the adjacent building. We entered
there.

"This is our museum," he said. "Sam Beltrane
thought it would be nice to have a small one to show
visitors. Full of sea things as well as a few models of our
equipment."

Nodding, I looked about. At least the model equip-
ment did not dominate, as I would have expected. The
floor was covered with green indoor-outdoor carpeting,
and a miniature version of the station itself occupied a
tablelike frame near the front door, all of its underside
equipment exposed. Shelves on the wall behind it held
larger-scale versions of some of the more important
components, placarded with a paragraph or two of ex-
planation and history. There were an antique cannon,
two lantern frames, several belt buckles, a few corns,
and some corroded utensils displayed nearby, salvaged
from a centuries-old vessel that still lay on the bottom
not very far from the station, according to the plaque.
On the opposite wall, with several of the larger ones set
up on frames before it, was a display of marine skele-
tons accompanied by colored sketches of the fully
fleshed and finned versions, ranging from tiny spinefish
to a dolphin, along with a full-sized mock-up of a shark,
which I determined to come back and compare a little
more carefully on my own time. There was a large sec-
tion containing Frank Cashel's mineral display, neatly
mounted and labeled, separated from the fish by a win-
dow and overlooked by a slightly awkward but still at-
tractive watercolor titled Miami Skyline, with the name
"Cashel" scrawled in its lower comer.
"Oh, Frank paints," I said. "Not bad."
"No, that's his wife, Linda's, he replied. "You will
meet her in just a minute. She should be next door. She
runs the library and takes care of all our clerical work."

So we passed through the door that led to the library
and I saw Linda Cashel. She was seated at a desk, writ-
ing, and she looked up as we entered. She appeared to
be in her mid-twenties. Her hair was long, sun-bleached,
pulled back, held with a jeweled clip. Blue eyes, in a
longish face with a cleft chin, a slightly upturned nose, a
sprinkling of freckles, and some very even, very white
teeth were displayed as Bartheime greeted her and intro-
duced us.

". . . Anytime you want a book," she said.

I looked around at the shelves, the cases, the ma-
chines.

"We keep good copies of the standard reference
works we use a lot," she said. "I can get facsimile copies
of anything else on a day's notice. There are some
shelves of general fiction and light stun over there." She
indicated a rack beside the front window. "Then there
are those banks of cassettes to your right, mostly under-
sea noises -- fish sounds and such, for part of a continu-
ing study we do for the National Science Foundation -- 
and the last bank is music, for our own enjoyment. Ev-
erything is catalogued here." She rose and slapped a file
unit, indicated an index key taped to its side. "If you
want to take something out and nobody's around, I
would appreciate it if you would record its number, your
name, and the date in this book." She glanced at a ledg-
er on the comer of her desk. "And if you want to keep
anything longer than a week, please mention it to me.
There is also a tool chest in the bottom drawer, in case
you ever need a pair of pliers. Remember to put them
back. That covers everything I can think of," she said.
"Any questions?"

"Doing much painting these days?" I asked.

"Oh," she said, reseating herself, "you saw my sky-
line. I'm afraid next door is the only museum I'll ever
get into. I've pretty much quit. I know I'm not that
good."

"I rather liked it."

She twisted her mouth.

"When I'm older and wiser and somewhere else, may-
be I'll try again. I've done everything I care to with wa-
ter and shorelines."

I smiled because I couldn't think of anything else to
say, and she did the same. Then we left, and Bartheime
gave me the rest of the morning off to get settled in my
cottage, which had been Michael Thomley's quarters.
I went and did that.

After lunch, I went to work with Deems and Carter in
the equipment shed. As a result, we finished early. Since
it was still too soon to think of dinner, they offered to
take me for a swim, to see the sunken ship.

It was about a quarter mile to the south, outside the
"wall," perhaps twenty fathoms down -- what was left of
it -- and eerie, as such things always are, in the wavering
beams we extended. A broken mast, a snapped bow-
sprit, a section of deck planking and smashed gunwale
visible above the mud, an agitated horde of little fish we
had disturbed at whatever fhey were about within and
near the hulk, a partial curtain of weeds drawn and re-
drawn by the currents, and that was all that remained of
someone's hopes for a successful voyage, some ship-
builders' labors, and possibly a number of people whose
last impressions were of storm or sword, and then the
gray, blue, green, sudden springs uncoiling, cold.

Or maybe they made it over to Andros and dinner, as
we did later. We ate in a red-and-white-checked-table-
cloth sort of place near to the shore, where just about
everything man-made clung, the interior of Andros
being packed with mangrove swamps, mahogany and
pine forests, doves, ducks, quail, pigeons, and chick-
chamies. The food was good; I was hungry.

We sat for a time afterward, smoking and talking. I
still had not met Paul Vallons, but I was scheduled to
work with him the following day. I asked Deems what
he was like.

"Big fellow," he said, "around your size, only he's
good-looking. Kind of reserved. Fine diver. He and
Mike used to take off every weekend, go belling around
the Caribbean. Had a girl on every island, I'll bet"

"How's he -- taking things?"

"Pretty well, I guess. Like I said, he's kind of re-
served, doesn't show his feelings much. He and Mike
had been friends for years."

"What do you think got Mike?"

Carter broke in then.

"One of those damned dolphins," he said. "We
should never have started fooling with them. One of
them came up under me once, damn near ruptured me."

"They're playful," Deems said. "It didn't mean any
harm."

"I think it did.  -- And that slick skin of theirs reminds
me of a wet balloon. Sickening!"

"You're prejudiced. They're friendly as puppies. It
probably goes back to some sexual hangup."

"Crap!" Carter said. "They -- "

Since I had gotten it started, I felt obligated to change
the subject. So I asked whether it was true that Martha
Millay lived nearby.

"Yes," Deems said, taking hold of the opportunity.
"She has a place about four miles down the coast from
here. Very neat, I understand, though I've only seen it
from the water. Her own little port. She has a hydrofoil,
a sailboat, a good-sized cabin cruiser, and a couple little
power launches. Lives alone in a long, low building right
smack on the water. Not even a road out that way."

"I've admired her work for a long while. I'd like to
meet her sometime."

He shook his head.

"I'll bet you never do. She doesn't like people.
Doesn't have a listed phone."

"That's a pity. Any idea why she's that way?"

"Well . . ."

"She's deformed," Carter said. "I met her once, on
the water. She was at anchor and I was going past on
my way to one of the stations. That was before I knew
about her, so I went near, just to say hello. She was tak-
ing pictures through the glass bottom of her boat, and
when she saw me she started to scream and holler for
me to get away, that I was scaring the fish. And she
snatched up a tarp and pulled it over her legs. I got a
look, though. She's a nice, normal-looking woman from
the waist up, but her hips and legs are all twisted and
ugly. I was sorry I'd embarrassed her. I was just as em-
barrassed myself, and I didn't know what to say. So I
yelled, 'Sorry,' and waved and kept going."

"I heard she can't walk at all," Deems said, "though
she is supposed to be an excellent swimmer. I've never
seen her myself."

"Was she in some sort of accident, do you know?"

"Not as I understand it," he said. "She is half Japa-
nese, and the story I heard is that her mother was a Hi-
roshima baby. Some sort of genetic damage."

"Pity."

"Yes."

We settled up and headed back. Later, I lay awake
for a long while, thinking of dolphins, sunken ships,
drowned people, half people, and the Gulf Stream,
which kept talking to me through the window. Finally, I
listened to it, and it took hold of me and we drifted
away together into the darkness to wherever it finally
goes.

Paul Vallons was, as Andy Deems had said, around
my size and good-looking, in a dark, clothing-advertise-
ment sort of way. Another twenty years and he would
probably even look distinguished. Some guys win all the
way around. Deems had also been right about his re-
serve. He was not especially talkative, although he man-
aged this without seeming unfriendly. As for his diving
prowess, I was unable to confirm it that first day I
worked with him, for we pulled shore duty while Deems
and Carter got sent over to Station Three. Back to the
equipment shed . . .

I did not think it a good idea to ask him about his late
buddy, or dolphins, which pretty much confined me con-
versation-wise to the business at hand and a few gener-
alities. Thus was the morning passed.

After lunch, though, as I began thinking ahead, going
over my plans for that evening, I decided he would be as
good as anyone when it came to getting directions to the
Chickcharny.

He lowered the valve he had been cleaning and stared
at me.

"What do you want to go to that dive for?" he asked.

"Heard the place mentioned," I said. "Like to see it."

"They serve drugs without a license," he told me.
"No inspection. If you like the stuff, you have no guar-
antee you won't be served some crap the village idiot
cooks up in an outhouse."

"Then I'll stick to beer. Still like to see the place."

He shrugged.

"Not that much to look at. But here -- "

He wiped his hands, tore an old leaf from the back of
the wall calendar, and sketched me a quick map. I saw
that it was a bit inland, toward the birds and mangroves,
muck and mahogany. It was also somewhat to the south
of the place I had been the previous evening. It was lo-
cated on a stream, built up on pilings out over the water,
he said, and I could take a boat right up to the pier that
adjoined it.

"Think I'll go over tonight," I said.

"Remember what I said."

I nodded as I tucked away the map.

The afternoon passed quickly. There came a massing
of clouds, a brief rainfall -- about a quarter hour's worth
 -- and then the sun returned to dry the decks and warm
the just-rinsed world. Again, the workday ended early
for me, by virtue of our having run out of business. I
showered quickly, put on fresh clothes, and went to see
about getting the use of a light boat.

Ronald Davies, a tall, thin-haired man with a New
England accent, said I could take the speedboat called
Isabella, complained about his arthritis, and told me to
have a good time. I nodded, turned her toward Andros,
and sputtered away, hoping the Chickcharny included
food among its inducements, as I did not want to waste
time by stopping elsewhere.

The sea was calm and the gulls dipped and pivoted,
uttering hoarse cries, as I spread the wings of my wake
across their preserve. I really had no idea what it was
that I was going after. I did not like operating that way,
but there was no alternative. I had no real line of attack.
There was no handle on this one. I had determined,
therefore, to simply amass as much information as I
could as quickly as possible. Speed always seems partic-
ularly essential when I have no idea what it is that might
be growing cold.

Andros enlarged before me. I took my bearings from
the place where we had eaten the previous evening, then
sought the mouth of the stream Vallons had sketched

for me.

It took me about ten minutes to locate it, and I throt-
tled down and made my way slowly up its twisting
course. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a rough
roadway running along the bank to my left. The foliage
grew denser, however, and I finally lost sight of it com-
pletely. Eventually, the boughs met overhead, locking
me for several minutes into an alley of premature twi-
light, before the stream widened again, took me around
a corner, and showed me the place as it had been de-
scribed.

I headed to the pier, where several other boats were
moored, tied up, climbed out, and looked around. The
building to my right -- the only building, outside of a
small shed -- did extend out over the water, was a
wood-frame job, and was so patched that I doubted any
of its original materials remained. There were half a
dozen vehicles parked beside it, and a faded sign named
the place THE CHICKCHARNY. Looking to my left as I ad-
vanced, I could see that the road which had accompa-
nied me was in better shape than I would have guessed.

Entering, I discovered a beautiful mahogany bar
about fifteen feet ahead of me, looking as if it might
have come from some ship. There were eight or ten ta-
bles here and there, several of them occupied, and a
curtained doorway lay to the right of the bar. Someone
had painted a crude halo of clouds above it.

I moved up to the bar, becoming its only occupant.
The bartender, a fat man who had needed a shave yes-
terday as well as the day before, put down his newspa-
per and came over.

"What'll it be?"

"Give me a beer," I said. "And can I get something
to eat?"

"Wait a minute."

He moved farther down, checked a small refrigerator.

"Fish-salad sandwich?" he said.

"Okay."

"Good. Because that's all we've got."

He put it together, brought it over, drew me my beer.

"That was your boat I heard, wasn't it?" he asked.

"That's right."

"Vacationing?"

"No. I just started work over at Station One."

"Oh. Diver?"

"Yes."

He sighed.

"You're Mike Thomley's replacement, then. Poor
guy."

I prefer the word "successor" to "replacement" in
these situations, because it makes people seem less like
spark plugs. But I nodded.

"Yeah, I heard all about it," I said. "Too bad."

"He used to come here a lot."

"I heard that, too -- and that the guy he was with
worked here."

He nodded.

"Rudy. Rudy Myers," he said. "Worked here a cou-
ple years."

"They were pretty good friends, huh?"

He shook his head.

"Not especially," he said. "They just knew each oth-
er.  -- Rudy worked in back." He glanced at the curtain.

"You know."

I nodded.

"Chief guide, high medical officer, and head bottle
washer," he said, with rehearsed levity. "You interest-
ed ... ?"

"What's the specialty of the house?"
"Pink Paradise," he said. "It's nice."

"What's it got?"

"Bit of a drift, bit of an up, the pretty lights."

"Maybe next time," I said. "Did he and Rudy go
swimming together often?"

"No, that was the only time.  -- You worried?"

"I am not exactly happy about it. When I took this
job nobody told me I might get eaten. Did Mike ever say
anything about unusual marine activity or anything like
that?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"What about Rudy? Did he like the water?"

He peered at me, working at the beginnings of a
frown.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because it occurs to me that it might make a differ-
ence. If he was interested in things like that and Mike
came across something unusual, he might take him out
to see it."

"Like what?"

"Beats the hell out of me.  -- But if he found something
and it was dangerous, I'd like to know about it."

The frown went away.

"No," he said. "Rudy wouldn't have been interested.
He wouldn't have walked outside to look if the Loch
Ness monster was swimming by."

"Wonder why he went, then?"

He shrugged.

"I have no idea."

I had a hunch that if I asked him anything else I just
might ruin our beautiful rapport. So I ate up, drank up,
paid up, and left.

I followed the stream out to the open water again and
ran south along the coast. Deems had said it was about
four miles that way, figuring from the restaurant, and
that it was a long, low building right on the water. All
right. I hoped she had returned for that trip Don had
mentioned. The worst she could do was tell me to go
away. But she knew an awful lot that might be worth
hearing. She knew the area and she knew dolphins. I
wanted her opinion, if she had one.

There was still a lot of daylight left in the sky, though
the air seemed to have cooled a bit, when I spotted a
small cove at about the proper distance, throttled down,
and swung toward it. Yes, there was the place, partway
back and to the left, built against a steep rise and sport-
ing a front deck that projected out over the water. Sev-
eral boats, one of them a sailboat, rode at rest at its side,
sheltered by the long, white curve of a breakwater.

I headed in, continuing to slow, and made my way
around the inward point of the breakwall. I saw her sit-
ting on the pier, and she saw me and reached for some-
thing. Then she was lost to sight above me as I pulled
into the lee of the structure. I killed my engine and tied
up to the handiest piling, wondering each moment
whether she would appear the next, boathook in hand,
ready to repel invaders.

This did not happen, though, so I climbed out and
onto a ramplike staging that led me topside. She was just
finishing adjusting a long, flaring skirt, which must have
been what she had been reaching after. She wore a biki-
ni top, and she was seated on the deck itself, near to the
edge, legs tucked out of sight beneath the green, white
and blue print material. Her hair was long and very
black, her eyes dark and large. Her features were regu-
lar, with a definite Oriental cast to them, of the sort I
find exceedingly attractive. I paused at the top of the
ramp, feeling immediately uncomfortable as I met her
gaze.

"My name is Madison, James Madison," I said. "I
work out at Station One. I'm new there. May I come up

for a minute?"

"You already have," she said. Then she smiled, a
tentative thing. "But you can come the rest of the way
over and have your minute."

So I did, and as I advanced she kept staring at me. It
made me acutely self-conscious, a condition I thought I
had mastered shortly after puberty, and as I was about
to look away, she said, "Martha Millay -- just to make
it a full introduction," and she smiled again.

"I've admired your work for a long while," I said, "al-
though that is only part of the reason I came by. I hoped
you could help me to feel safer in my own work."

"The killings," she said.
"Yes, Exactly.  -- Your opinion. I'd like it."
"All right. You can have it," she said. "But I was on
Martinique at the time the killings occurred, and my in-
telligence comes only from the news reports and one
phone conversation with a friend at the IDS. On the basis
of years of acquaintanceship, years spent photographing
them, playing with them, knowing them -- loving them
 -- I do not believe it possible that a dolphin would kill a
human being. The notion runs contrary to all my experi-
ence. For some peculiar reason -- perhaps some delphin-
ic concept as to the brotherhood of self-conscious intelli-
gence -- we seem to be quite important to them, so im-
portant that I even believe one of them might rather die
himself than see one of us killed."

"So you would rule out even a self-defense killing by
a dolphin?"

"I think so," she said, "although I have no facts to
point at here. However, what is more important, in
terms of your real question, is that they struck me as
very undolphinlike killings."

"How so?"

"I don't see a dolphin as using his teeth in the way
that was described. The way a dolphin is designed, his
rostrum -- or beak -- contains a hundred teeth, and there
are eighty-eight in his lower jaw. But if he gets into a
fight with, say, a shark or a whale, he does not use them
for purposes of biting or slashing. He locks them togeth-
er, which provides a very rigid structure, and uses his
lower jaw, which is considerably undershot, for purposes
of ramming his opponent. The anterior of the skull is
quite thick and the skull itself sufficiently large to absorb
enormous shocks from blows administered in this fash-
ion -- and they are tremendous blows, for dolphins have
very powerful neck muscles. They are quite capable of
killing sharks by battering them to death. So even grant-
ing for the sake of argument that a dolphin might have
done such a thing, he would not have bitten his victims.
He would have bludgeoned them."

"So why didn't someone from the dolphin institute
come out and say that?"

She sighed.

"They did. The news media didn't even use the state-
ment they gave them. Apparently nobody thought it an
important enough story to warrant any sort of follow-
up."

She finally took her eyes off me and stared out over
the water.

Then, "I believe their indifference to the damage
caused by running only the one story is more contempti-
ble even than actual malice," she finally said.

Acquitted for a moment by her gaze, I lowered my-
self to sit on the edge of the pier, my feet hanging down
over the side. It had been an added discomfort to stand,
staring down at her. I joined her in looking out across
her harbor.

"Cigarette?" I said.

"I don't smoke."

"Mind if I do?"

"Go ahead."

I lit one, drew on it, thought a moment, then asked,
"Any idea as to how the deaths might have occurred?"

"It could have been a shark."
"But there hasn't been a shark in the area for years.

The 'walls' -- "

She laughed.

"There are any number of ways a shark could have
gotten in," she said. "A shift on the bottom, opening a
tunnel or crevice beneath the 'wall.' A temporary short
circuit in one of the projectors that didn't get noticed -- •
or a continuing one, with a short somewhere in the mon-
itoring system. For that matter, the frequencies used in
the 'wall' are supposed to be extremely distressing to
many varieties of marine life, but not necessarily fatal.
While a shark would normally seek to avoid the 'wall,'
one could have been driven, forced through by some
disturbance, and then found itself trapped inside,"

"That's a thought," I said. "Yes.  -- Thank you. You
didn't disappoint me."

"I would have thought that I had."

"Why?"

"All that I have done is try to vindicate the dolphins
and show that there is possibly a shark inside. You said
that you wanted me to tell you something that would
make you feel safer in your work."

I felt uncomfortable again. I had the sudden, irration-
al feeling that she somehow knew all about me and was
playing games at that moment.

"You said that you are familiar with my work," she
said suddenly. "Does that include the two picture books
on dolphins?"

"Yes. I enjoyed your text, too."

"There wasn't that much of it," she said, "and it has
been several years now. Perhaps it was too whimsical. It
has been a long while since I've looked at the things I
said...."

"I thought them admirably suited to the subject -- lit-
tle Zen-like aphorisms for each photograph."

"Can you recall any?"

"Yes," I said, one suddenly coming to me, "I remem-
ber fhe shot of the leaping dolphin, where you caught
his shadow over the water and had for a caption, 'In the
absence of reflection, what gods. . .'"

She chuckled briefly.

"For a long while I thought that that one was perhaps
too cute. Later, though, as I got to know my subject bet-
ter, I decided that it was not."

"I have often wondered as to what sort of religion or
religious feelings they might possess," I said. "It has
been a common element among all the tribes of man. It
would seem that something along these lines appears
whenever a certain level of intelligence is achieved, for
purposes of dealing with those things that are still be-
yond its grasp. I am curious as to the forms it might take
among dolphins, but quite intrigued by the notion. You
say you have some ideas on it?"

"I have done a lot of thinking as I watched them," she
said, "attempting to analyze their character in terms of
their behavior, their physiology. Are you familiar with
the writings of Johan Huizinga?"

"Faintly," I said. "It has been years since I read
Homo Ludens, and it struck me as a rough draft for
something he never got to work out completely. But I re-
call his basic premise as being mat culture begins as a
sort of sublimation of a play instinct, elements of sacred
performances and festal contests continuing for a time in
the evolving institutions, perhaps always remaining pres-
ent at some level -- although his analysis stopped short
of modem times."

"Yes," she said. "The play instinct. Watching them
sport about, it has often seemed to me that as well
adapted as they are to their environment, there was nev-
er a need for dolphins to evolve complex social institu-
tions, so that whatever it was they did possess along
those lines was much closer to the earlier situations con-
sidered by Huizinga -- a life condition filled with an
overt indulgence in their version of festal performances
and contests."

"A play-religion?"

"Not quite that simple, though I think that is part of
the picture. The problem here lies in language. Huizinga
employed the Latin word ludus for a reason. Unlike the
Greek language, which had a variety of words for idling,
for competing in contests, for passing the time in differ-
ent fashions, Latin reflected the basic unity of all these
things and summarized them into a single concept by
means of the word ludus. The dolphins' distinctions be-
tween play and seriousness are obviously different from
our own, just as ours are different from the Greeks'. In
our understanding of the meaning of ludus, however, in
our ability to realize that we may unify instances of activ-
ity from across a broad spectrum of behavior patterns
by considering them as a form of play, we have a better
basis for conjecture as well as interpretation."

"And in this manner you have deduced their reli-
gion?"

"I haven't, of course. I only have a few conjectures.
You say you have none?"

"Well, if I had to guess, just to pull something out of
the ah", I would say some form of pantheism -- perhaps
something akin to the less contemplative forms of
Buddhism."

"Why 'less contemplative'?" she asked.

"All that activity," I said. "They don't even really
sleep, do they? They have to get topside quite regularly
in order to breathe. So they are always moving about.
When would they be able to drift beneath the coral
equivalent of a bo tree for any period of time?"

"What do you think your mind would be like if you
never slept?"

"I find that rather difficult to conceive. But I imagine
I would find it quite distressing after a while, unless. . ."

"Unless what?"

"Unless I indulged in periodic daydreaming, I sup-
pose."

"I think that might be the case with dolphins, al-

though with a brain capacity such as they possess I do
not feel it need necessarily be a periodic thing."

"I don't quite follow you."

"I mink they are sufficiently endowed to do it simul-
taneously with other thinking, rather than serially."

"You mean always dreaming a little? Taking then-
mental vacations, their reveries, sidewise in time as it
were?"

"Yes. We do it too, to a limited extent. There is al-
ways a little background thinking, a little mental noise
going on while we are dealing with whatever thoughts
are most pressing in our consciousness. We leam to sup-
press it, calling this concentration. It is, in one sense, a
process of keeping ourselves from dreaming."

xm1

"And you see the dolphin as dreaming and carrying
on his normal mental business at the same tune?"

"In a way, yes. But I also see the dreaming itself as a
somewhat different process."

"In what way?"

"Our dreams are largely visual in nature, for our
waking lives are primarily visually oriented. The dol-
phin, on the other hand -- "

" -- is acoustically oriented. Yes. Granting this con-
stant dreaming effect and predicating it on the neuro-
physiological structures they possess, it would seem that
they might splash around enjoying then- own sound
tracks."

"More or less, yes. And might not this behavior come
under the heading of ludus?"

"I just don't know."

"One form of ludus, which me Greeks of course saw
as a separate activity, giving it the name diagoge, is best
translated as mental recreation. Music was placed in this
category, and Aristotle speculated in his Politics as to
the profit to be derived from it, finally conceding that
music might conduce to virtue by making the body fit,
promoting a certain ethos, and enabling us to enjoy
things in me proper way -- whatever that means. But
considering an accoustical daydream in this light -- as a
musical variety of ludus -- I wonder if it might not in-
deed promote a certain ethos and foster a particular way
of enjoying things?"

"Possibly, if they were shared experiences."

"We still have no proper idea as to the meanings of
many of their sounds. Supposing they are vocalizing
some part of this experience?"

"Perhaps, given your other premises."

"Then that is all I have," she said. "I choose to see a
religious significance in spontaneous expressions of
diagoge. You may not."

"I don't. I'd buy it as a physiological or psychological
necessity, even see it -- as you suggested -- as a form of
play, or ludus. But I have no way of knowing whether
such musical activity is truly a religious expression, so
for me the ball stops rolling right there. At this point, we
do not really understand their ethos or their particular
ways of viewing life. A concept as alien and sophisticat-
ed as the one you have outlined would be well-nigh im-
possible for them to communicate to us, even if the lan-
guage barrier were a lot thinner than it is now. Short of
actually finding a way of getting inside them to know it
for oneself, I do not see how we can deduce religious
sentiments here, even if every one of your other conjec-
tures is correct."

"You are, of course, right," she said. "The conclusion
is not scientific if it cannot be demonstrated. I cannot
demonstrate it, for it is only a feeling, an inference, an
intuition -- and I offer it only in that spirit. But watch
them at their play sometime, listen to the sounds your
ears will accept. Think about it. Try to feel it."

I continued to stare at the water and the sky. I had al-
ready learned everything I had come to find out and the
rest was just frosting, but I did not have the pleasure of
such desserts every day. I realized then that I liked the
girl even more than I had thought I would, that I had
grown quite fascinated as she had spoken, and not en-
tirely because of the subject. So, partly to prolong things
and partly because I was genuinely curious, I said, "Go
ahead. Tell me the rest. Please."

"The rest?"

"You see a religion or something on that order. Tell
me what you think it must be like."

She hesitated. Then, "I don't know," she said. "The
more one compounds conjectures the sillier one be-
comes. Let us leave it at that"

But that would leave me with little to say but "Thank
you" and "Good night." So I pushed my mind around
inside the parameters she had laid down, and one of the
things that came to me was Barthelme's mention of the
normal distribution curve with reference to dolphins.

"H, as you suggest," I began, "they constantly express
and interpret themselves and their universe by a kind of
subliminal dreamsong, it would seem to follow that, as
in all things, some are better at it than others. How
many Mozarts can there be, even in a race of musicians?
Champions, in a nation of athletes? H they all play at a
religious diagoge, it must follow that some are superior
players. Would they be priests or prophets? Bards? Holy
singers? Would the areas in which they dwell be shrines,
holy places? A dolphin Vatican or Mecca? A Lourdes?"

She laughed.

"Now you are getting carried away, Mister -- Madi-
son."

I looked at her, trying to see something beyond the
apparently amused expression with which she faced me.

"You told me to think about it," I said; "to try to feel
it."

"It would be strange if you were correct, would it
not?"

I nodded.

"And probably well worth the pilgrimage," I said,
standing, "if only I could find an interpreter.  -- I thank
you for the minute I took and the others you gave me.

Would you mind terribly if I dropped by again some-
time?"

"I am afraid I am going to be quite busy," she said.

"I see. Well, I appreciate what you have given me.
Good night, then."

"Good night."

I made my way back down the ramp to the speed-
boat, brought it to life, guided it about the breakwall
and headed toward the darkening sea, looking back only
once, in hopes of discovering just what it was that she
called to mind, sitting there, looking out across the
waves. Perhaps the Little Mermaid, I decided.

She did not wave back to me. But then it was twilight,
and she might not have noticed.

Returning to Station One, I felt sufficiently inspired to
head for the office/museum/library cluster to see what I
could pick up in the way of reading materials having to
do with dolphins.

I made my way across the islet and into the front
door, passing the shadow-decked models and displays of
the museum and turning right. I swung the door open.
The light was on in the library, but the place was empty.
I found several books listed that I had not read, so I
hunted them up, leafed through them, settled on two,
and went to sign them out.

As I was doing this, my eyes were drawn toward the
top of the ledger page by one of the names entered
there: Mike Thomley. I glanced across at the date and
saw that it happened to be the day before his death. I fin-
ished signing out my own materials and decided to see
what it was he had taken to read on the eve of his pass-
ing. Well, read and listen to. There were three items
shown, and the prefix to one of the numbers indicated
that it had been a tape.

The two books turned out to be light popular novels.
When I checked the tape, however, a very strange feel-
ing possessed me. It was not music, but rather one from
the marine-biology section. Verily. To be precise, it was
a recording of the sounds of the killer whale.

Even my pedestrian knowledge of the subject was suf-
ficient, but to be doubly certain, I checked in one of the
books I had right there with me. Yes, the killer whale
was undoubtedly the dolphin's greatest enemy, and well
over a generation ago experiments had been conducted
at the Naval Undersea Center in San Diego, using the
recorded sounds of the killer whale to frighten dolphins,
for purposes of developing a device to scare them out of
tuna nets, where they were often inadvertently slaugh-
tered.

What could Thomley possibly have wanted it for? Its
use in a waterproof broadcasting unit could well have
accounted for the unusual behavior of the dolphins in
the park at the time he was killed. But why? Why do a
thing like that?

I did what I always do when I am puzzled: I sat
down and lit a cigarette.

While this made it even more obvious to me that
things were not what they had seemed at the time of the
killings, it also caused me once again to consider the ap-
parent nature of the attack. I thought of the photos I
had seen of the bodies, of the medical reports I had
read.

Bitten. Chewed. Slashed.

Arterial bleeding, right carotid ...

Severed jugular; numerous lacerations of shoulders
and chest. . .

According to Martha Millay, a dolphin would not go
about it that way. Still, as I recalled, their many teeth,
while not enormous, were needle-sharp. I began paging
through the books, looking for photographs of the jaws
and teeth.

Then the thought came to me, with dark, more than
informational overtones to it: there is a dolphin skeleton
in the next room.

Mashing out my cigarette, I rose then, passed through
the doorway into the museum, and began looking about
for the light switch. It was not readily apparent As I
sought it, I heard the door on the other side of the room
open.

Turning, I saw Linda Cashel stepping across the
threshold. With her next step, she looked in my direc-
tion, froze, and muffled the beginning of a shriek.

"It's me. Madison," I said. "Sorry I alarmed you. I'm
looking for the light switch."

Several seconds passed. Then, "Oh," she said. "It's
down in back of the display. I'll show you."

She crossed to the front door, groped behind a com-
ponent model.

The lights came on, and she gave a nervous laugh.

"You startled me," she said. "I was working late. An
unusual thing, but I got backed up. I stepped out for a
breath of air and didn't see you come in."

"I've got the books I was looking for," I said, "but
thanks for finding me the switch."

"I'll be glad to sign them out for you."

"I already did that," I said, "but I left them inside be-
cause I wanted to take another look at the display be-
fore I went home."

"Oh. Well, I was just going to close up. If you want to
stay awhile, I'll let you do it."

"What does it consist of?"

"Just turning out the lights and closing the doors -- we
don't lock them around here. I've already shut the win-
dows."

"Sure, I'll do that.  -- I'm sorry I frightened you."

"That's all right. No harm done."

She moved to the front door, turned when she
reached it, and smiled again, a better job this time.

"Well, good night."

"Good night."

My first thought was that there were no signs of any
extra work having come in since the last time I had been
around, my second one was that she had been trying a
little too hard to get me to believe her, and my third
thought was ignoble.

But the proof of the pudding would keep. I turned my
attention to the dolphin skeleton.

The lower jaw, with its neat, sharp teeth, fascinated
me, and its size came close to being its most interesting
feature. Almost, but not quite. The most interesting
thing about it had to be the fact that the wires which
held it in place were clean, untarnished, bright and
gleaming at their ends, as if they had just recently been
cut -- unlike their more oxidized brethren everyplace
else where the specimen had been wired.

The thing I found interesting about the size was that
it was just about right to make it a dandy hand weapon.

And that was all. That was enough. But I fingered the
maxillary and premaxillary bones, running my hand
back toward the blowhole; I traced the rostrum; I
gripped the jaw once more. Why, I did not really know
for a moment, until a grotesque vision of Hamlet filtered
into my mind. Or was it really that incongruous? A
phrase out of Loren Eiseley came to me then: ". . .We
are all potential fossils still carrying within our bodies
the crudities of former existences, the marks of a world
in which living creatures flow with little more consisten-
cy than clouds from age to age." We came from the wa-
ter. This fellow I gripped had spent his life there. But
both our skulls were built of calcium, a sea product cho-
sen in our earlier days and irrevocably part of us now;
both were housings for large brains -- similar, yet differ-
ent; both seemed to contain a center of consciousness,
awareness, sensitivity, with all the concomitant plea-
sures, woes, and available varieties of conclusions con-
cerning existence which that entailed, passing at some
time or other within these small, rigid pieces of carbon-
ate of lime. The only really significant difference, I sud-
denly felt, was not that this fellow had been born a dol-
phin and I a man, but only, rather, that I still lived -- a
very minor point in terms of the time scale onto which I
had wandered. I withdrew my hand, wondering uncom-
fortably whether my remains would ever be used as a
murder weapon.

Having no further reason for being there, I collected
my books, closed up, and cleared out.

Returning to my cottage, I deposited the books on my
bed table and left the small light burning there. I depart-
ed again by means of the back door, which let upon a
small, relatively private patio, pleasantly situated right
at the edge of the islet with an unobstructed view of the
sea. But I did not pause to admire the prospect just
then. If other people might step out for a breath of air,
so could I.

I strolled until I located a suitable spot, a small bench
in the shadow of the dispensary. I seated myself there,
fairly well hidden, yet commanding a full view of the
complex I had but recently quitted. For a long while I
waited, feeling ignoble, but watching anyway.

As the minutes continued their parade, I came near to
deciding that I had been mistaken, that the margin of
caution had elapsed, that nothing would occur.

But then the door at the far end of the office -- the
one through which I had entered on my initial tour
of the place -- opened, and the figure of a man emerged.
He headed toward the nearest shore of the islet, then
commenced what would have seemed but the continu-
ance of a stroll along its edge to anyone just noticing
him there. He was tall, around my height, which nar-
rowed the field considerably, so that it was really almost
unnecessary for me to wait and see him enter the cottage
that was assigned to Paul Vallons, and after a moment
see the light go on within.

A little while later, I was in bed with my dolphin
books, reflecting that some guys seem to have it made
all the way around; and pumling and wondering, with
the pied typecase Don had handed me, that I was ever
born to set it right

The following morning, during the ambulatory, cof-
fee-tropism phase of preconsciousness, I stumbled across
the most damnable, frightening, item in the entire
case. Or rather, I stepped over it -- perhaps even on it
 -- before its existence registered itself. There followed
an appreciable time lag, and then its possible signifi-
cance occurred to me.

I stooped and picked it up: an oblong of stiff paper,
an envelope, which had apparently been pushed in be-
neath the back door. At least, it lay near to it.

I took it with me to the kitchenette table, tore it open,
extracted and unfolded the paper it contained. Sipping
my coffee, I read over the block-printed message sever-
al times;

AFFIXED TO THE MAINMAST OF THE
WRECK, ABOUT A FOOT BENEATH THE MUD

That was all. That was it.

But I was suddenly fully awake. It was not just the
message, as intriguing as I naturally found it, but the
fact that someone had selected me as its recipient. Who?
And why?

Whatever it was -- and I was certain there was some-
thing -- I was most disturbed by the implication that
someone was aware of my extraordinary reasons for
being there, with the necessary corollary that that person
knew too much about me. My hackles rose, and the
adrenaline tingles came into my extremities. No man knew
my name; a knowledge of it jeopardized my existence.
In the past, I had even killed to protect my identity.

My first impulse was to flee, to throw over the case,
dispose of this identity and lose myself in the manner in
which I had become adept. But then I would never
know, would never know when, where, how, why, and
in what fashion I had been tripped up, found out. And
most important, by whom.

Also, considering the message again, I had no assur-
ance that flight would be the end of things for me. For
was there not an element of coercion here? Of tacit
blackmail in me implied imperative? It was as if the
sender were saying, I know. I will assist. I will keep si-
lent. For there is a thing you will do for me.

Of course I would go and inspect the wreck, though I
would have to wait until the day's work was done. No
use speculating as to what I would find, although I
would handle it most gingerly. That gave me the entire
day in which to consider what I might have done wrong,
and to decide upon the best means of defending myself.
I rubbed my ring, where the death spores slept, then
rose and went to shave.

Paul and I were sent over to Station Five that day.
Standard inspection and maintenance work. Dull, safe,
routine. We scarcely got wet.

He gave no indication of knowing that I was on to
anything. In fact, he even started several conversations.
In one, he asked me, "Did you get over to the Chick-
charny?"

"Yes," I said.

"What did you think of it?"

"You were right. A dive."

He smiled and nodded, then, "Try any of their spe-
cialities?" he asked.

"Just had a few beers."

"That was safest," he said. "Mike -- my friend who
died -- used to go there a lot."

"Oh?"

"I used to go with him at first. He'd take something
and I'd sit around and drink and wait for him to come
down."

"You didn't go in for it yourself?"

He shook his head.

"Had a bad experience when I was younger. Scared
me. Anyway, so did he -- there, I mean -- several times,
at the Chickcharny. He used to go in back -- it's a sort of
ashram back there. Did you see it?"
"No."

"Well, he had a couple bad ones in there and we got
in an argument about it. He knew the damn place wasn't
licensed, but he didn't care. I finally told him he ought
to keep a safe supply at the station, but he was worried
about the damn company regulations against it. Which I
think was silly. Anyhow, I finally told him he could go
by himself if he wanted to go that badly and couldn't
wait till the weekend to go someplace else. I stopped
going."

"Did he?"

"Only recently," he said. "The hard way."
"Oh."

"So if you do go in for it, I'm telling you the same
thing I told him: Keep your own around if you can't
wait to go someplace farther and cleaner than that."

"I'll remember," I said, wondering then whether he
might, perhaps, be on to something about me and be en-
couraging my breaking the company rules for purposes
of getting rid of me. That seemed kind of far-out,
though, a little too paranoiac a reaction on my part. So I
dismissed it.

"Did he have any more bad ones?" I asked.
"I think so," he said. "I don't really know."
And that was all he had to say on the subject. I want-
ed to ask him more things, of course, but our acquaint-
anceship was still such that I knew I would need an
opening to get through, and he didn't give me any.

So we finished up, returned to Station One, went our
separate ways. I stopped by and told Davies I wanted a
boat later. He assigned me one, and I returned to my
cottage and waited until I saw him leave for dinner.
Then I want back to the docks, threw my diving gear
into the boat, and took off. This elaboration was neces-
sary because of the fact that solo-diving was against the
rules, and also because of the safety precautions Bar-
theime had enunciated to me that first day.  -- True, they
applied only inside the area and the ship lay outside it,
but I did not care to explain where I was going either.

The thought had of course occurred to me that it
might be a trap, set to spring in any of a number of
ways. While I hoped my friend in the museum still had
his lower jaw in place, I did not discount the possibility
of an underwater ambush. In fact, I had one of the little
death rods along with me, all loaded and primed. The
photos had been quite clear. I did not forget. Nor did I
discount the possibility of a booby trap. I would simply
have to be very careful in my poking about.

While I did not know what would happen if I were
spotted solo-diving with company gear. I would have to
count on my ability to talk or lie my way out of it, if
catching me in this breach of domestic tranquility was
what the note's author had had in mind.

I came to what I thought to be the spot, anchored
there, slipped into my gear, went over the side and
down.

The cool smoothness held me and I did my dance of
descent, curious, wary, with a heightened feeling of tra-
gility. Toward the bottom then, with steady, sweeping
movements down, I passed from cool to cold and light
to dark. I switched on my torch, shot the beam about.

Minutes later, I found it, circled it, hunting about the
vicinity for signs of fellow intruders.
But no, nothing. I seemed to be alone.
I made my way toward the hulk then, casting my light
down the splintered length of the short-snapped main-
mast. Small fish appeared, staging an unruly demonstra-
tion in the neighborhood of the gunwale. My light fell
upon the layer of ooze at the base of the mast. It ap-
peared undisturbed, but then I have no idea as to how
long it takes ooze to settle.

Coming up beside/above it then, I probed it with a
thin rod I had brought along. After several moments, I
was satisfied that there was a small, oblong object, prob-
ably metallic, about eight inches beneath the surface.

Drawing nearer, I scooped away a layer. The water
muddied, fresh material moving to fill the site of my ex-
cavation. Cursing mentally, I extended my left hand, fin-
gers at full flex, slowly, carefully, down into the mud.

I encountered no obstacles until I reached the box it-
self. No wires, strings, foreign objects. It was definitely
metal, and I traced its outline: about six by ten by three
inches. It was upended and held in place against the
mast by a double strand of wire. I felt no connections
with anything else, so I uncovered it -- at least momen-
tarily -- for a better look.

It was a small, standard-looking strongbox, handles
on both ends and on the top. The wires ran through two
of these loops. I shook out a coil of plastic cord and
knotted it through the nearest one. After paying out a
considerable length of it, I leaned down and used the
pliers I had carried with me to sever the wires that held
the box to the mast. Upward then, playing out the rest
of the line behind me.

Back in the boat and out of my gear, I hauled it, hand
over hand, up from the depths. The movement, the pres-
sure changes did not serve to set anything off, so I felt a
little safer in handling it when I finally brought it
aboard. I set it on the deck and thought about it as I un-
fastened and recoiled the line.

The box was locked, and whatever was inside shifted
around when I moved it. I sprung the lock with a screw-
driver. Then I went over the side into the water, and
holding on, reaching from there, I used the rod to flip
back the lid.

But for the lapping of the waves and the sounds of
my breathing, there was silence. So I reboarded and
took a look inside.

It contained a canvas bag with a fold-down flap that
snapped closed. I unsnapped it

Stones. It was filled with dozens of rather undistin-
guished-looking stones. But since people generally have
a reason for going to that much trouble, there had to be
a decent intrinsic value involved. I dried off several of
them, rubbing them vigorously with my towel. Then I
turned them around every which way. Yes, there were a
few glints, here and there.

I had not been lying to Cashel when he had asked
what I knew about minerals and I had said, "A little."
Only a little. But in this instance it seemed that it might
be enough. Selecting the most promising specimen for
the experiment, I chipped away at the dirty minerals
that sheathed the stone. Several minutes later, an edge
of the material I had exposed exhibited great scratching
abilities with the various materials on which I tested it.

Someone was smuggling diamonds and someone else
wanted me to know about it. What did my informant ex-
pect me to do with this information? Obviously, if he
had simply wanted the authorities informed he would
have done it himself.

Knowing that I was being used for purposes I did not
yet understand, I decided to do what was probably ex-
pected of me, inasmuch as it coincided with what I
would have done anyhow.

I was able to dock and unload the gear without en-
countering any problems. I kept the bag of stones
wrapped in my towel until I was back in my cottage. No
more messages had been slipped beneath the door. I re-
paired to the shower stall and cleaned myself up.

I couldn't think of anyplace really clever to hide the
stones, so I stuffed the bag down into the garbage-dis-
posal unit and replaced the drain cover. That would
have to do. Before stashing it, though, I removed four of
the ugly ducklings. Then I dressed and took a walk.

Strolling near, I saw that Frank and Linda were eat-
ing out on their patio, so I returned to my place and
made myself a quick, prefabricated meal. Afterward, I
watched the sun in its descending for perhaps twenty
minutes. Then, what seemed an adequate period having
passed, I made my way back again.

It was even better than I had hoped for. Frank sat
alone, reading, on the now-cleared patio. I moved up
and said, "Hello."

He turned toward me, smiled, nodded, lowered his
book.

"Hello, Jim," he said. "Now that you've been here a
few days, how do you like it?"

"Oh, fine," I said. "Just fine. How is everything with
you?"

He shrugged.

"Can't complain.  -- We were going to ask you over to
dinner. Perhaps tomorrow?"
"Sounds great. Thanks."
"Come by about six?"
"All right."

"Have you found any interesting diversions yet?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I took your advice and res-
urrected my old rock-hounding habits."
"Oh? Come across any interesting specimens?"
"It just happens that I did," I said. "It was really an
amazing accident. I doubt whether anybody would have
located them except by accident. Here. I'll show you."

I dug them out of my pocket and dumped them into
his hand.

He stared. He fingered them. He shifted them around.
For perhaps half a minute.

Then, "You want to know what they are, is that it?"
he asked.

"No. I already know that"
"I see."

He looked at me and smiled.
"Where did you find them?"
I smiled, very slowly.
"Are there more?" he asked.
I nodded.

He moistened his lips. He returned the stones.
"Well, tell me this, if you will -- what sort of deposit
was it?"

Then I thought faster than I had at any time since my
arrival. It was something about the way he had asked it
that put my mind to spinning. I had been thinking pure-
ly in terms of a diamond-smuggling operation, with him
as the natural disposer of the contraband stones. Now,
though, I reviewed what scanty knowledge I did possess
on the subject. The largest mines in the world were
those of South Africa, where diamonds were found
embedded in that rock known as kimberlite, or "blue
ground." But how did they get there in the first place?
Through volcanic action -- as bits of carbon that had
been trapped in streams of molten lava, subjected to in-
tense heat and pressure that altered their structure to the
hard, crystalline form of a girl's best friend. But there
were also alluvial deposits -- diamonds that had been cut
free from their resting places by the actions of ancient
streams, often borne great distances from their points of
origin, and accumulated in offshore pockets. That was
Africa, of course, and while I did not know much
offhand as to New World deposits, much of the Carib-
bean island system had been built up by means of volcan-
ic activity. The possibility of local deposits -- of the vol-
canic-pipe variety or alluvial -- was not precluded.

In view of my somewhat restricted area for activity
since my arrival, I said, "Alluvial. It wasn't a pipe, I'll
tell you that."

He nodded.

"Have you any idea as to the extent of your find?"
he inquired.

"Not really," I said. "There are more where these
came from. But as to the full extent of their distribu-
tion, it is simply too early for me to tell."

"Most interesting," he said. "You know, it jibes with
a notion I've long held concerning this part of the world.
You wouldn't care to give me just a very rough, general

sort of idea as to what part of the ocean these are from,
would you?"

"Sorry," I said. "You understand."

"Of course, of course. Still, how far would you go
from here for an afternoon's adventure?"

"I suppose that would depend on my own notions on
this matter -- as well as available air transportation, or
hydrofoil."

He smiled.

"All right I won't press you any further. But I'm cu-
rious. Now that you've got them, what are you going to
do with them?"

I took my time lighting a cigarette.
"Get as much as I can for them and keep my mouth
shut, of course," I finally said.
He nodded.

"Where are you going to sell them? Stop passersby
on the street?"

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't thought that much
about it yet. I suppose I could take them to some jewel-
er's."

He chuckled.

"If you're very lucky. K you're lucky, you'll find one
willing to take a chance. If you're very lucky, you'll find
one willing to take a chance and also willing to give you
a fair deal. I assume you would like to avoid the crea-
tion of a record, the crediting of extra income to your
master account? Taxable income?"

"As I said, I would like to get as much as I can for
them."

"Naturally. Then am I correct in assuming that your
purpose in coming to me over this might somehow be
connected with this desire?"

"In a word, yes."

"I see."

"Well?" .

"I am thinking. To act as your agent for something
like this would not be without risks of its own."

"How much?"

"No, I'm sorry," he said then. "It is probably too
risky altogether. After all, it is illegal. I'm a married
man. I could jeopardize my job by getting involved in
something like this. If it had come along perhaps fifteen
years ago . . . well, who knows? I'm sorry. Your secret
is safe. Don't worry about that. But I would just as soon
not be party to the enterprise."

"You are certain of that?"

"Positive. The return would have to be quite high for
me even to consider it."

"Twenty percent?" I said.

"Out of the question."

"Maybe twenty-five . . . " I said.

"No. Twice that would scarcely -- "

"Fifty percent? You're crazy!"

"Please! Keep your voice down! You want the whole
station to hear?"

"Sorry. But that's out of the question. Fifty percent!
No. If I can find a willing jeweler. I'll still be better off
 -- even if he does cheat me. Twenty-five percent is tops.
Absolutely."

"I am afraid I can't see it."

"Well, I wish you would think about it anyway."

He chuckled.

"It will be difficult to forget," he said.

"Okay.  -- Well, I'll be seeing you."

"Tomorrow, at six."

"Right. Good night."

"Good night."

So I began walking back, reflecting on the possible
permutations of people and events leading up to and
culminating in the killings. But there were still too many
gaps in the picture for me to come up with anything I
really liked.

I was most troubled, of course, by the fact that there
was someone who was aware that my presence actually
represented more than its outward appearance. I
searched my mind again and again for possible givea-
ways, but I did not see where I could have slipped up. I
had been quite careful about my credentials. I had en-
countered no one with whom I had ever been familiar. I
began wishing, not for the first time -- nor, I was certain,
the last -- that I had not accepted this case.

I considered then what I ought to be about next, to
push the investigation further along. I supposed I could
inspect the place where the bodies had been found. I
had not been there yet, mainly because I doubted there
would be anything to be learned from it. Still. . . I put
that on my list for the morrow, if I could hit it before
dinner with the Cashels. If not, then the next day.

I wondered whether I had done the expected thing as
to the stones. I felt that I had, and I was very curious as
to the repercussions -- almost, but not quite, as curious
as I was concerning the motives of my informant. Noth-
ing I could do at the moment, though, but wait.

Thinking these thoughts, I heard myself hailed by
Andy Deems from where he stood near his cottage,
smoking his pipe. He wondered whether I was interested
in a game of chess. I wasn't, really, but I went over any-
how. I lost two and managed to stalemate him on the
third one. I felt very uncomfortable around him, but at
least I didn't have to say much.

The following day. Deems and Carter were sent over
to Station Six, while Paul and I took our turn at "miscel-
laneous duties as assigned" in and about the equipment
shed. Another time-marking episode, I had decided, till I
got to my real work once more.

And so it went, until late afternoon, when I was be-
ginning to wonder what sort of cook Linda Cashel might
be. Barthehne hurried into the shed.

"Get your gear together," he said. "We have to go
out."

"What's the matter?" Paul asked him.

"Something is wrong with one of the sonic genera-
tors."

"What?"

He shook his head.

"No way of telling till we've brought it back and
checked it over. All I know is that a light's gone out on
the board. I want to pull the whole package and put in a
new unit. No attempt at underwater repair work on this
one, even if it looks simple. I want to go over it very
carefully in the lab."

"Where is it situated?"

"To the southwest, at about twenty-eight fathoms. Go
look at the board if you want. It will give you a better
picture.  -- But don't take too long, all right? There are a
lot of things to load."

"Right. Which vessel?"

"The Mary Ann. "

"The new deepwater rules . . . ?"

"Yes. Load everything. I'm going down to tell Davies
now. Then I'm going to change clothes. I'll be back
shortly.''

"See you then."

"Yes."

He moved away and we set to work, getting our own
gear, the shark cage, and the submersible decompression
chamber ready to go. We made two trips to the Mary
Ann, then took a break to go see the map, learned noth-
ing new from it, and returned for the DC, which was
stored on a cart.

"Ever been down in that area before?" I asked Paul
as we began maneuvering the cart along.

"Yes," he said. "Some time back. It is fairly near to
the edge of a submarine canyon. That's why there's a
big bite out of that comer of the 'wall.' It plunges pretty
sharply right beyond that section of the perimeter."

"Will that complicate things any?"

"It shouldn't," he said, "unless a whole section broke
loose and carried everything down with it. Then we
would have to anchor and hook up a whole new hous-
ing, instead of Just switching the guts. That would take us
somewhat longer. I'll review the work with you on the
unit we'll be taking out."
"Good."

Bartheime rejoined us about then. He and Davies,
who would also be going along, helped get everything
stowed. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way.

The winch was rigged to lower both the shark cage
and the decompression chamber tandem-fashion and in
that order. Paul and I rode the DC down, keeping the
extra lines from tangling, playing our lights about as we
descended. While I had never had to use one, I had al-
ways found the presence of a decompression chamber
on the bottom a thing of comfort, despite its slightly om-
inous function for the sort of work we would be doing.
It was good to know that if I were injured I could get in-
side, signal, and be hauled directly to the top with no
delays for decompression stops, the bottomside pressure
being maintained in the bell's chamber on the way up
and gradually returned to normal as they rushed me
back to the dispensary. A heartening thought for all
that, time-wise.

Bottomside, we positioned the cage near to the unit,
which we found still standing, exhibiting no visible signs
of damage, and we halted the illuminated DC a couple
of fathoms up and off to the east We were indeed on
the edge of a steep cliff. While Paul inspected the son-
ic-broadcast unit, I moved nearer and flashed my light
downward.

Jutting rocky pinnacles and twisting crevices . . . Re-
flexively, I drew back from the edge of the abyss, turned
my light away. I returned and watched Paul work.

It took him ten minutes to disconnect the thing and
free it from its mountings. Another five saw it secured
and rising on its lines.

A bit later, in the periodic sweep of our beams, we
caught sight of the replacement unit on the way down.
We swam up to meet it and guided it into place. This
time, Paul let me go to work. I indicated by pantomime
that I wanted to, and he wrote on his slate: GO AHEAD
SEE WHAT YOU REMEMB.

So I fastened it in place, and this took me about twenty
minutes. He inspected the work, patted me on the shoul-
der, and nodded. I moved to connect the systems then,
but stopped to glance at him. He indicated that I should
go ahead.

This only took a few minutes, and when I was fin-
ished I had a certain feeling of satisfaction thinking of
that light going on again on the big board back at the
station. I turned around to indicate that the job was
done and that he could come admire my work.

But he was no longer with me.

For a few seconds I froze, startled. Then I began
shining my light around.

No, no. Nothing. ...

Growing somewhat panicky, I moved to the edge of
the abyss and swept downward with the light Luckily,
he was not moving very quickly. But he was headed
downward, all right. I took off after him as fast as I
could move.

Nitrogen narcosis, deepwater sickness, or "rapture of
the deep" does not usually hit at depths above 200 feet.
Still, we were at around 170, so it was possible, and he
certainly seemed to be showing the symptoms.

Worrying then about my own state of mind, I reached
him, caught him by the shoulder, turned him back.
Through his mask, I could see the blissful expression
that he wore.

Taking him by the arm and shoulder, I began draw-
ing him back with me. For several seconds he accompa-
nied me, offering no resistance.

Then he began to struggle. I had anticipated this possi-
bility and shifted my grips into a kansetsu-waza posi-
tion, but quickly discovered that judo is not exactly the
same underwater, especially when a tank valve is too
near your mask or mouthpiece. I had to keep twisting
my head away, pulling it back. For a time, it became
impossible to guide him that way. But I refused to relin-
quish my grip. If I could just hold him a while longer
and did not get hit by narcosis myself, I felt that I had
the advantage. After all, his coordination was affected
as well as his thinking.

I finally got him to the DC -- a wild antenna of bub-
bles rising from his air hose by then, as he had spat out
his mouthpiece and there was no way I could get it back
in without letting go. Still, it might have been one of the
reasons he became easier to manage near the end there.
I don't know.

I stuffed him into the lighted chamber, followed, and
got the hatch sealed. He gave up about then and began
to sag. I was able to get his mouthpiece back into place,
and then I threw the pull-up switch.

We began to rise almost immediately, and I wondered
what Bartheime and Davies were thinking at that mo-
ment.

They got us up very quickly. I felt a slight jarring as
we came to rest on the deck. Shortly afterward, the wa-
ter was pumped out. I don't know what the pressure was
up to -- or down to -- at that point, but the communica-
tor came alive and I heard Bartheleme's voice as I was
getting out of my gear.

"We'll be moving in a few minutes," he said. "What
happened, and how serious is it?"

"Nitrogen narcosis, I'd say. Paul just started swim-
ming out and down, struggled with me when I tried to
bring him back."

"Were either of you hurt?"

"No, I don't think so. He lost his mouthpiece for a lit-
tle while. But he's breathing okay now."

"What shape is he in otherwise?"

"Still rapturing, I'd guess. Sort of collapsed, drunken
look to him."

"All right. You might as well get out of your gear -- "

"I already have."

" -- and get him out of his."

"Just starting."

"We'll radio ahead and have a medic hop out and be
waiting at the dispensary, just in case. Sounds like what
he really needs most is the chamber, though. So we'll
just take it slow and easy in getting him back to surface
pressure. I'm making an adjustment right now. . . . Do
you have any rapture symptoms yourself?"

"No."

"Okay, there. We'll leave it at this setting for a little
while.  -- Is there anything else I should know?"

"Not that I can think of."

"All right, then. I'm going forward to radio for the
doctor. If you want me for anything, whistle into the
speaker. That should carry."

"Right."

I got Paul out of his rig then, hoping he would start
coming around soon. But he didn't
He just sat there, slouched, mumbling, eyes open but
glassy. Every now and then he smiled.

I wondered what was wrong. If the pressure was in-
deed diminished, the recovery should have been almost
instantaneous. Probably needed one more step, I decid-
ed.

But-
Could he have been down much earlier that morning,
before the workday began?

Decompression time does depend upon the total
amount of time spent underwater during about a
twelve-hour period, since you are dealing with the total
amount of nitrogen absorbed by the tissues, particularly
the brain and spinal cord. Might he have been down
looking for something, say, in the mud, at the base of a
broken mast, amid the wreckage of a certain old vessel?
Perhaps down for a long while, searching carefully, wor-
ried? Knowing that he had shore duty today, that there
should be no more nitrogen accumulated during this
workday? Then, suddenly, an emergency, and he has to
chance it. He takes it as easy as possible, even encourag-
ing the new man to go ahead and finish up the job. Rest-
ing, trying to hang on ...

It could well be. In which case, Barthelme's decom-
pression values were off. The time is measured from
surface to surface, and the depth is reckoned from the
deepest point reached in any of the dives. Hell, for all I
knew he might have visited several caches spotted at
various points along the ocean's bottom.

I leaned over, studied the pupils of his eyes -- catching
his attention, it seemed, in the process.
"How long were you down this morning?" I asked.
He smiled.
"Wasn't," he said.

"It doesn't matter what was involved. It's your health
we're worried about now.  -- How long were you down?
What depths?"
He shook his head.
"Wasn't," he said.

"Damn it! I know you were! It was the old wreck,
wasn't it? That's maybe twenty fathoms. So how long?
An hour? Were you down more than once?"

"Wasn't down!" he insisted. "Really, Mike! I
wasn't"

I sighed, leaned back. Maybe, possibly, he was telling
the truth. People are all different inside. Perhaps his
physiology was playing some other variation of the game
than the one I had guessed at It had been so neat,
though. For a moment, I had seen him as the supplier of
the stones and Frank as the fence. Then I had gone to
Frank with my find, Frank had mentioned this develop-
ment to him, and Paul, worried, had gone off while the
station slept to make certain that things were still where
they were supposed to be. His tissues accumulated a lot
of nitrogen during his frantic searching, and then this
happened. It certainly struck me as logical. But if it
were me, I would have admitted to having been down. I
could always come up with some lie as to the reason lat-
er.

"Don't you remember?" I tried again.

He commenced an uninspired stream of curses, but
lost his enthusiasm before a dozen or so syllables. His
voice trailed off, then, "Why don't you b'lieve me, Mike?
I wasn't down. . . ."

"All right, I believe you," I said. "It's okay. Just take
it easy."

He reached out and took hold of my arm.

"It's all beautiful," he said.

"Yeah."

"Everything is just -- like it's never been before."

"What did you take?" I asked him.

". . . Beautiful."

"What are you on?" I insisted.

"You know I never take any," he finally said.

"Then what's causing it, whatever it is? Do you
know?"

"Damn fine . . ." he said.

"Something went wrong on the bottom. What was it?"

"I don't know! Go away! Don't bring it back. . . .
This is how it should be. Always. . . . Not that crap
you take. . . . Started all the trouble . . ."

"I'm sorry," I said.

". . . That started it."

"I know. I'm sorry. Spoiled things," I ventured.
"Shouldn't have."

". . . Talked," he said. ". . . Blew it."

"I know. I'm sorry. But we got him," I tried.

"Yeah," he said. Then, "Oh, my God!"

"The diamonds. The diamonds are safe," I suggested
quickly.

"Got him. . . . Oh, my God! I'm sorry!"

"Forget it. Tell me what you see," I said, to get his
mind back where I wanted it.

"The diamonds . . ." he said.

He launched into a long, disjointed monologue. I lis-
tened. Every now and then I said something to return
him to the theme of the diamonds, and I kept throwing
out Rudy Myers' name. His responses remained frag-
mentary, but the picture did begin to emerge.

I hurried then, trying to learn as much as I could be-
fore Bartheime returned and decompressed us any fur-
ther. I was afraid that it would sober him up suddenly,
because decompression works that way when you hit the
right point in nitrogen-narcosis cases. He and Mike
seemed to have been bringing in the diamonds, all right
 -- from where, I did not learn. Whenever I tried to find
out whether Frank had been disposing of them for them,
he began muttering endearments to Linda. The part I
hammered away most at began to come clear, however.

Mike must have said something one time, in the ash-
ram back of the Chickchamy. It must have interested
Rudy sufficiently so that he put together a specialty of
the house other than a Pink Paradise for him -- appar-
ently, several times. These could have been the bad trips
I had heard about. Whatever Rudy served him, he got
the story out of him and saw dollar signs. Only Paul
proved a lot tougher than he had thought. When he
made his request for hush money and Mike told Paul
about it, Paul came up with the idea for the mad dol-
phin in the park and got Mike to go along with it, per-
suading Rudy to meet him there for a payoff. Then
things got sort of hazy, because the mention of dolphins
kept setting him off. But he had apparently waited at a
prearranged point, and the two of them took care of
Rudy when that point was reached, one holding him, the
other working him over with the jawbone. It was not
clear whether Mike was injured fighting with Rudy and
Paul then decided to finish him off and make him look
like a dolphin slashee also, or whether he had planned
that part carefully too and simply turned on Mike after-
ward, taking him by surprise. Either way, their friend-
ship had been declining steadily for some time and the
blackmail business had driven the final nail into the lid.

That was the story I got, punctuated rather than
phrased by his responses to my oblique questioning. Ap-
parently, killing Mike had bothered him more than he
had thought it would, also. He kept calling me Mike,
kept saying he was sorry, and I kept redirecting his at-
tention.

Before I could get any more out of him, Bartheime
came back and asked me how he was doing.

"Babbling," I replied. "That's all."

"I'm going to decompress some more. That might
straighten him out. We're on our way now, and there
will be someone waiting."

"Good."

But it did not straighten him out. He remained exact-
ly the same. I tried to take advantage, to get more out of
him -- specifically, the source of the diamonds -- but
something went wrong. His nirvana switched over to
some version of hell.

He launched himself at my throat, and I had to fight
him off, push him back, hold him in place. He sagged
then, commenced weeping, and began muttering of the
horrors he was witnessing. I talked slowly, softly, sooth-
ingly, trying to guide him back to the earlier, happier
part of things. But nothing worked, so I shut up, stayed
silent and kept my guard up.

He drowsed then, and Bartheime continued to de-
compress us. I kept an eye on Paul's breathing and
checked his pulse periodically, but nothing seemed
amiss in that area.

We were fully decompressed by the time we docked,
and I undogged the hatch and chucked out our gear.
Paul stirred at that, opened his eyes, stared at me, then
said, "That was weird."

"How do you feel now?"

"All right, I think. But very tired and kind of shaky."

"Let me give you a hand."

"Thanks."

I helped him out and assisted him down the plank to
a waiting wheelchair. A young doctor was there, as were
the Cashels, Deems, and Carter. I could not help won-
dering what was going on at the moment inside Paul's
head. The doctor checked his heartbeat, pulse, blood
pressure, shined a light into his eyes and ears, and had
him touch the tip of his nose a couple of times. Then he
nodded and gestured, and Bartheime began wheeling
him toward the dispensary. The doctor walked along
part of the way, talking with them. Then he returned
while they went on, and he asked me to tell him every-
thing that had happened.

So I did, omitting only the substance I had derived
from the babbling part. Then he thanked me and turned
toward the dispensary once more.

I caught up with him quickly.

"What does it look like?" I asked.

"Nitrogen narcosis," he replied.

"Didn't it take a rather peculiar form?" I said. "I
mean, the way he responded to decompression and all?"

He shrugged.

"People come in all shapes and sizes, inside as well as
out," he said. "Do a complete physical on a man and
you still can't tell what he'd be like if he got drunk, say
 -- loud, sad, belligerent, sleepy. The same with this. He
seems to be out of it now, though."

"No complications?"

"Well, I'm going to do an EKG as soon as we get him
to the dispensary. But I think he's all right.  -- Listen, is
there a decompression chamber in the dispensary?"

"Most likely. But I'm new here. I'm not certain."

"Well, why don't you come along until we find out? If
there isn't one, I'd like to have that submersible unit
moved over."

"Oh?"

"Just a precaution. I want him to stay in the dispen-
sary overnight, with someone around to keep an eye on
him. If there should be a recurrence, I want the machine
handy so he can be recompressed right away."

"I see."

We caught up with Bartheime at the door. The others
were there also.

"Yes, there is a unit inside," Bartheime told him,
"and I'll sit up with him."

Everyone volunteered, though, and the night was fi-
nally divided into three shifts -- Bartheime, Frank, and
Andy, respectively. Each of them, of course, was quite
familiar with decompression equipment.

Frank came up and touched my arm.

"Nothing much we can really do here now," he said.

"Shall we go have that dinner?"

"Oh?" I said, automatically glancing at my watch.
"So we eat at seven instead of six thirty," he said,
chuckling.

"Fine. That will give me time to shower and change."
"Okay. Come right over as soon as you're ready.
We'll still have time for a drink."

"All right. I'm thirsty.  -- See you soon."
I went on back to my place and got cleaned up. No
new billets-doux, and the stones were still in the disposal
unit. I combed my hair and started back across the islet.

As I neared the dispensary, the doctor emerged, talk-
ing back over his shoulder to someone in the doorway.
Bartheime, probably. As I approached, I saw that he
was carrying his bag.

He withdrew, began to move away. He nodded and
smiled when he saw me.

"I think your friend will be all right," he said.
"Good. That is just what I was going to ask you."

"How do you feel?"

"All right. Fine, actually."

"You have had no symptoms at all. Correct?"

"That's right."

"Fine. If you were to, you know where to go. Right?"

"Indeed."

"Okay, then. I'll be going now."

"So long."

He headed off toward a tiny hopper he had landed
near the main lab. I continued on over to Frank's place.

Frank came out to meet me.

"What did the doctor have to say?" he asked.

"That everything looks all right," I told him.

"Uh-huh. Come on in and tell me what you're drink-
ing."

He opened the door, held it.

"A bourbon would be nice," I said.

"With anything?"

"Just ice."

"Okay. Linda's out back, setting things on the table."

He moved about, putting together a pair of drinks. I
wondered whether he was going to say anything about
the diamond business now, while we were alone. But he
didn't.

He turned, passed me my drink, raised his in a brief
salute, took a sip,

"Tell me all about it," he said.

"All right"

The telling lasted into dinner and out of it. again. I
was very hungry, Linda was quite quiet, and Frank kept
asking questions, drawing out every detail of Paul's dis-
comfort, distress. I wondered about Linda and Frank. I
could not see her keeping her affair secret on a small
place like the station. What did Frank really know,
think, feel about it? What was the true function of their
triangle in this bizarre case?

I sat with them for a while after dinner, and I could
almost feel the tension between the two of them, a thing
he seemed set on dealing with by keeping the conversa-
tion moving steadily along the lines he had established,
she by withdrawing from it. I had no doubt that it had
been precipitated by Paul's mishap, but I came to feel
more and more awkward in my role as a buffer against
an approaching quarrel, a confrontation, or the renewal
of an old one. Thanking them for the meal, I excused
myself as soon as I could, pleading a weariness that was
half real.

Frank got to his feet immediately.

"Ill walk you back," he said.

"All right."

So he did.

As we neared my place, he finally said it.

"About those stones . . ."

"Yes?"

"You're sure there are lots more where they came
from?"

"Come this way," I said, leading him around me cot-
tage to the patio and turning when we reached it. "Just
in time for me last couple of minutes of sunset. Beauti-
ful. Why don't you watch it finish up? I'll be right
back."

I let myself in through the rear door, moved to the
sink, and got the disposal unit open. It took me a minute
or so to work the bag out. I opened it, seized a double
fistful, and carried them back outside.

"Cup your hands," I said to him.

He did, and I filled them.

"How's that?"

He raised them, moved nearer the light spilling
through the open door.

"My God!" he said. "You really do!"

"Of course."

"All right. I'll dispose of them for you. Thirty-five
percent."

"Twenty-five is tops. Like I said."

"I know of a gem-and-mineral show a week from Sat-
urday. A man I know could be there if I gave him a call.
He'd pay a good price. I'll call him -- for thirty percent."

"Twenty-five."

"It's a pity we are so close and can't quite come to
terms. We both lose that way."

"Oh, all right. Thirty it is."

I took back the stones and dumped them into my
pockets, and we shook on it. Then Frank turned.

"I'm going over to the lab now," he said. "See what's
the matter with that unit you brought back."

"Let me know when you find out, will you? I'd like to
know."

"Sure."

He went away and I restashed the gems, fetched a
dolphin book, and began to page through it. Then it
struck me just how funny it was, the way things were
working out All the talk about dolphins, all my reading,
speculating, including a long philosophical dissertation
on their hypothetical dreamsongs as a religio-diagogical
form of Indus -- for what? To find that it was probably
all unnecessary? To realize that I would probably get
through the entire case without even seeing a dolphin?

Well, that was what I had wanted, of course, what
Don and Lydia Bames and the Institute wanted -- for me
to clear the good name of the dolphin. Still, what a tan-
gled mess it was turning out to be! Blackmail, murder,
diamond smuggling, with a little adultery tossed in on the
side. . . . How was I going to untangle it sweetly and
neatly, clear the suspects -- who were out practicing their
ludus and not giving a damn about the whole business
 -- and then fade from the picture, as is my wont, with-
out raising embarrassing questions, without seeming to
have been especially involved?

A feeling of profound jealousy of the dolphin came
over me and did not entirely vanish. Did they ever cre-
ate problem situations of this order among themselves? I
strongly doubted it. Maybe if I collected enough green
karma stamps I could put in for dolphin next time
around. . . .

Everything caught up with me, and I dozed off with
the light still burning.

A sharp, insistent drumming awakened me.

I rubbed my eyes, stretched. The noise came again,
and I turned in that direction.

It was the window. Someone was rapping on the
frame. I rose and crossed over, saw that it was Frank.

"Yeah?" I said. "What's up?"

"Come on out," he said. "It's important."

"Okay. Just a minute."

I went and rinsed my face, to complete the waking-up
process and give me a chance to think. A glance at my
watch showed me that it was around ten-thirty.

When I finally stepped outside, he seized my shoul-
der.

"Come on! Damn it! I told you it was important!"

I fell into step with him.

"All right! I had to wake up. What's the matter?"

"Paul's dead," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Dead."

"How'd it happen?"

"He stopped breathing."

"They usually do.  -- But how did it happen?"

"I'd gotten to fooling with the unit you'd brought
back. It's over there now. I moved it in when my time
came to relieve Bartheime, so that I could keep working
on it. Anyway, I got so involved that I wasn't paying
much attention to him. When I finally did check on him
again, he was dead. That's all. His face was dark and
twisted. Some sort of lung failure, it seems. Maybe there
was an air embolism. . . ."

We entered the rear of the building, the nearest en-
trance, the water splashing softly behind us, a light
breeze following us in. We passed the recently set-up
workbench, tools and the partly dismantled sonic unit
spread across its surface. Rounding the comer to our
left, we entered the room where Paul lay. I switched the
light on.

His face was no longer handsome, bearing now the
signs of one who had spent his final moments fighting for
breath. I crossed to him, felt for a pulse, knew in ad-
vance I would find none. I covered a fingernail with my
thumb and squeezed. It remained white when I released
it

"How long ago?" I asked.

"Right before I came for you."

"Why me?"

"You were nearest."

"I see. -- Was the sheet torn in this place before, I
wonder?"

"I don't know."

"There were no cries, no sounds at all?"

"I didn't hear anything. If I had, I would have come
right away."

I felt a sudden desire for a cigarette, but there were
oxygen tanks in the room and NO SMOKING signs all over
the building. I turned and retraced my steps, pushed the
door open, held it with my back -- leaning against it  -- lit
a cigarette, and stared out across the water.

"Very neat," I said then. "With the day's symptoms
behind him, he'll warrant a 'natural causes' with a 'pos-
sible air embolism,' 'congestive lung failure,' or some
damn thing behind it."

"What do you mean?" Frank demanded.

"Was he sedated?  -- I don't know. It doesn't matter.
I'd imagine you used the recompressor. Right? Or did
you tough it out and just smother him?"

"Come off it. Why would I -- "

"In a way, I helped kill him," I said. "I thought he
was safe with you here because you hadn't done any-
thing about him all this time. You wanted to keep her,
to win her back. Spending a lot of money on her was
one way you tried. But it was a vicious circle, because
Paul was a part of your source of extra revenue. Then I
came along and offered an alternative supply. Then to-
day's accident, the whole setup here tonight . . . You
rose to the occasion, seized the opportunity, and
slammed the barn door. Not to mention striking while
the iron was hot.  -- Congratulations. I think you'll get
away with it. Because this is all guesswork, of course.
There is no real proof. Good show."

He sighed.

"Then why go into all that? It's over. We will go see
Bartheime now and you will talk because I will be too
distraught."

"But I'm curious about Rudy and Mike. I've been
wondering all along. Did you have any part in it when
they got theirs?"

"What do you know?" he asked slowly. "And how do
you know it?"

"I know that Paul and Mike were the source of the
stones. I know that Rudy found out and tried to black-
mail them. They dealt with him, and I think Paul took
care of Mike for good measure at the same time. How
do I know? Paul babbled all the way back this afternoon
and I was in the decompressor with him, remember? I
learned about the diamonds, the murders, and about
Linda and Paul, just by listening."

He leaned back against the workbench. He shook his
head.

"I was suspicious of you," he said, "but you had the
diamonds for proof. You came across them awfully fast,
I'll admit. But I accepted your story because of the pos-
sibility that Paul's deposit was really somewhere quite
near. He never told me where it was, either. I decided
you had to have either stumbled across it or followed
him to it and known enough to recognize it for what it
was. Whichever way, though, it doesn't matter. I would
rather do business with you. Shall we just leave the
whole thing at that?"

"H you will tell me about Rudy and Mike."

"I don't really know any more than what you've just
said. That was none of my affair. Paul took care of ev-
erything. Answer one for me now: How did you find the
deposit?"

"I didn't," I said. "I haven't the least idea where he
got them."

He straightened.

"I don't believe you! The stones -- where did they
come from?"

'I found where Paul had hidden a bag of them. I stole
it.'

'Why?"
'Money, of course."

'Then why did you lie to me about where you got
them?"

"You think I'd come out and say they were stolen?
Now, though -- "

He came forward very fast, and I saw that he had a
large wrench in his hand.

I jumped backward, and the door caught him on the
shoulder as it snapped inward. It only slowed him for an
instant, though. He burst through and was at me again. I
continued my retreat, falling into a defensive position.

He swung and I dodged to the side, chopping at his
elbow. We both missed. His backstroke grazed my
shoulder then, so that the blow I did land, seconds later,
fell near his kidney with less force than I had hoped
for. I danced back as he swung again, and my kick
caught him on the hip. He dropped to one knee, but was
up again before I could press in, swinging toward my
head. I backed farther and he stalked me.

I could hear the water, smell it. I wondered about
diving in. He was awfully close. . . .

When he came in again, I twisted back and grabbed
for his arm. I caught hold near the elbow and hung on,
hooking my fingers toward his face. He drove himself
into me then and I fell, still clutching his arm, catching
hold of his belt with my other hand. My shoulder
smashed against the ground, and he was on top of me,
wrestling to free his arm. As he succeeded in dragging it
away, his weight came off me for an instant. Pulling
free, I doubled myself into a ball and kicked out with
both legs.

They connected. I heard him grunt.
Then he was gone.

I heard him splashing about in the water. I also heard
distant voices, calling, approaching us from across the
islet.

I regained my feet. I moved toward the edge.
Then he screamed -- a long, awful, agonized wail.
By the time I reached the edge, it had ceased.
When Bartheime came up beside me, he stopped re-
peating "What happened?" as soon as he looked down
and saw the flashing fins at the center of the turmoil.
Then he said, "Oh, my God!" And then nothing.

In my statement, later, I said that he had seemed
highly agitated when he had come to get me, that he
told me Paul had stopped breathing, that I had returned
with him to the dispensary, determined that Paul was in-
deed dead, said so, and asked him for the details; that as
we were talking he seemed to get the impression that I
thought he had been negligent and somehow contributed
to the death; that he had grown further agitated and final-
ly attacked me; that we had fought and he had fallen
into the water. All of which, of course, was correct. De-
ponent sinneth only by omission. They seemed to buy it.
They went away. The shark hung around, waiting for
dessert perhaps, and the dolphin people came and anes-
thetized him and took him away. Bartheime told me the
damaged sonic projector could indeed have been short-
ing intermittently.

So Paul had killed Ruby and Mike; Frank had killed
Paul and then been killed himself by the shark on whom
the first two killings could now be blamed. The dolphins
were cleared, and there was no one left to bring to jus-
tice for anything. The source of the diamonds was now
one of life's numerous little mysteries.

. . . So, after everyone had departed, the statements
been taken, the remains of the remains removed -- long
after that, as the night hung late, clear, clean, with its
bright multitudes doubled in their pulsing within the cool
flow of the Gulf Stream about the station, I sat in a deck
chair on the small patio behind my quarters, drinking a
can of beer and watching the stars go by.

... I needed to stamp CLOSED on my mental file.

But who had written me the note, the note that had
set the infernal machine to chugging?

Did it really matter, now that the job was done? As
long as they kept quiet about me ...

I took another sip of beer.

Yes, it did, I decided. I might as well look around a
bit more.

I withdrew a cigarette and moved to light it ...

When I pulled into the harbor, the lights were on. As I
climbed to the pier, her voice came to me over a loud-
speaker.

She greeted me by name -- my real name, which I
hadn't heard spoken in a long while -- and she asked me
to come in.

I moved across the pier and up to the front of the
building. The door stood ajar. I entered.

It was a long, low room,' completely Oriental in decor.
She wore a green silk kimono. She knelt on the floor, a
tea service laid before her.

"Please come and be seated," she said.

I nodded, removed my shoes, crossed the room, and
sat down.

"O-cha do desu-kaT' she asked.

"Itadakimasu."

She poured, and we sipped tea for a time. After the
second cup I drew an ashtray toward me.

"Cigarette?" I asked.

"I don't smoke," she said. "But I wish you would. I
try to take as few noxious substances into my own sys-
tern as possible. I suppose that is how the whole thing
began."

I lit one for me.

"I've never met a genuine telepath before," I said,
"that I know of."

"I'd trade it for a sound body," she said, "any day. It
wouldn't even have to be especially attractive."

"I don't suppose there is even a real need for me to
ask my questions," I said.

"No," she said, "not really. How free do you think
our wills might be?"

"Less every day," I said.

She smiled.

"I asked that," she said, "because I have thought a lot
about it of late. I thought of a little girl I once knew, a
girl who lived in a garden of terrible flowers. They were
beautiful, and they were there to make her happy to
look upon. But they could not hide their odor from her,
and that was the odor of pity. For she was a sick little
girl. So it was not their colors and textures from which
she fled, but rather the fragrance which few knew she
could detect. It was a painful thing to smell it constantly,
and so in solitude she found her something of peace.
Had it not been for her ability she would have remained
in the garden."

She paused to take a sip of tea.

"One day she found friends," she continued, "in an
unexpected place. The dolphin is a joyous fellow, his
heart uncluttered with the pity that demeans. The way
of knowing that had set her apart, had sent her away,
here brought her close. She came to know the hearts, the
thoughts of her new friends more perfectly than men
know those of one another. She came to love them, to
be one of their family."

She took another sip of tea, then sat in silence for a
time, staring into the cup.

"There are great ones among them," she said finally,
"such as you guessed at earlier. Prophet, seer, philoso-
pher, musician -- there is no man-made word I know of
to describe this sort of one, or the function he performs.
There are, however, those among them who voice the
dreamsong with particular subtlety and profundity -- 
something like music, yet not, drawn from that timeless
place in themselves where perhaps they look upon the
infinite, then phrase it for then- fellows. The greatest I
have ever known" -- and she clicked the syllables in a
high-pitched tone -- "bears something like 'KjwalU'kje'k-
'koothaail'kje'k for name or title. I could no more ex-
plain his dreamsong to you than I could explain Mozart
to one who had never heard music. But when he, in his
place, came to be threatened, I did what must be done."

"You see that I fail to see," I said, lowering my cup.

She refilled it, and then, "The Chickcharny is built up
over the water," she said, and a vision of it came clear,
disturbingly real, into my mind. "Like that," she said.

"I do not drink strong beverages, I do not smoke, I
seldom take medication," she said. "This is not a matter
of choice. It is a physiological rule I break at my own
peril. But should I not enjoy the same things others of
my kind may know, just as I now enjoy the cigarette we
are smoking?"

"I begin to see -- "

"Swimming beneath the ashram at night, I could ride
the mounting drug dreams of that place, know the
peace, the happiness, the joy, and withdraw if it turned
to something else -- "

"Mike -- " I said.

"Yes, it was he who led me to 'KjwalU'kje'k-
'koothaull'kje'k, all unknowing. I saw there the place
where they had found the diamonds. I see that you think
it is near Martinique, since I was there just recently. I
will not answer you on this. I saw there too, however,
the idea of hurting dolphins. It seemed that they had
been driven away from the place of their discovery -- 
though not harmed -- by dolphins. Several times. I found
this so unusual that I was moved to investigate, and I
learned that it was true. The place of their discovery
was in the area of his song. He dwells in those waters,
and others come to hear him there. It is, in this sense,
a special place, because of his presence. They were seek-
ing a way to ensure their own safety when they returned
for more of the stones," she went on. "They learned of
the effects of the noises of the killer whale for this pur-
pose. But they also obtained explosives, should the
recording prove insufficient over a period of days.

"The two killings occurred while I was away," she
said. "You are essentially correct as to what was done. I
had not known they would take place, nor would my
telling of Paul's thoughts ever be admissible in any
court. He used everything he ever got his hands or
mind around, that man -- however poor his grasp. He
took Frank's theory as well as his wife, learned just
enough to find the stones, with a little luck. Luck -- he
had that for a long while. He learned just enough about
dolphins to know of the effects of the sounds of the kill-
er whale, but not how they would behave if they had to
fight, to kill. And even there he was lucky. The story
was accepted. Not by everybody. But it was given suffi-
cient credence. He was safe, and he planned to go back
to -- the place. I sought a way to stop him. And I wanted
to see the dolphins vindicated -- but that was of second-
ary importance then. Then you appeared, and I knew
that I had found it. I went to the station at night,
crawled ashore, left you a note."

"And you damaged the sonic -- broadcast unit?"

"Yes."

"You did it at such a time that you knew Paul and I
would go down together to replace it."

"Yes."

"And the other?"

"Yes, that too. I filled Paul's mind with things I had
felt and seen beneath the ashram of the Chickcharny."

"And you could look into Frank's mind as well. You
knew how he would react. You set up the murder!"

"I did not force him to do anything. Is not his will as
free as our own?"

I looked down into the tea, troubled by the thought. I
gulped it. Then I stared at her.

"Did you not control him, even a little, near the end,
when he attacked me? Or -- far more important -- what
of a more rudimentary nervous system? Could you con-
trol the actions of a shark?"

She refilled my teacup.

"Of course not," she said.

We sat for another silent time. Then, "What did you
try to do to me when I decided to continue my investiga-
tion?" I asked. "Were you not trying to baffle my senses
and drive me to destruction?"

"No," she said quickly. "I was watching you to see
what you would decide. You frightened me with your
decision. But what I did was not an attack, at first. I
tried to show you something of the dreamsong, to sooth
you, to put you at peace. I had hoped that such an expe-
rience might work some mental alchemy, would soften
your resolve -- "

"You would have accompanied it with suggestions to
that effect."

"Yes, I would have. But then you burned yourself
and the pain pulled you back. That was when I attacked
you."

She suddenly sounded tired. But then, it had been a
very busy day for her, all things considered.

"And this was my mistake," she said. "Had I simply
let you go on, you would have had nothing. But you saw
the unnatural nature of the attack. You associated it
with Paul's raptures, and you thought of me -- a mutant
 -- and of dolphins and diamonds and my recent trip. It
all spilled into your mind -- and then the threat that I
saw you could keep: alluvial diamonds and Martinique,
into the Central Data Bank. I had to call you then, to
talk."

"What now?" I asked. "No court could ever convict
you of anything. You are safe. I can hardly condemn
you. My own hands are not free of blood, as you must
know. You are the only person alive who knows who I
am, and that makes me uncomfortable. Yet I have some
guesses concerning things you would not like known.
You will not try to destroy me, for you know what I will
do with these guesses if you fail."

"And I see that you will not use your ring unless you
are provoked. Thank you. I have feared it."

"It appears that we have reached something of a
standoff."

"Then why do we not both forget?"

"You mean -- trust each other?"

"Is it so novel a thing?"

"You must admit you are possessed of a small edge in
such matters."

"True. But it is of value only for the moment. People
change. It does not show me what you will be thinking
on another day, in some other place. You are in a better
position to know that, for you have known yourself far
longer than I."

"True, I suppose."

"I, of course, really have nothing to gain by destroy-
ing the pattern of your existence. You, on the other
hand, could conceivably be moved to seek an unrecord-
ed source of income."

"I can't deny that," I said. "But if I gave you my
word, I would keep it."

"I know that you mean that. I also know that you be-
lieve much of what I have said, with some reservations."

I nodded.

"You do not really understand the significance of
'Kjwalll'kje'k'koothami'kje'k."

"How could I, not being a dolphin or even a tele-
path?"

"May I show you what it is that I am seeking to pre-
serve, to defend?"

I thought about it for a time, recalling those recent
moments back at the station when she had hit me with
something out of William James. I had no way of know-
ing what manner of control, what sort of powers she
might be able to exercise upon me if I agreed to some
experiment along these lines. However, if things got out
of control, if there was the least feeling of meddling with
my mind, beyond the thing itself, I knew a way to termi-
nate the experience instantly. I folded my hands before
me, laying two fingers upon my ring.

"Very well," I said.

And then it began again, something like music, yet
not, some development of a proposition that could not
be verbalized, for its substance was of a stuff that no
man possessed or perceived, lying outside the range of
human sensory equipment. I realized then that that part
of me which experienced this had its place temporarily
in the mind of the statement's creator, that this was
the dreamsong of 'Kjwalll'kje'k'koothaim'kje'k, that I
witnessed/participated in the timeless argument as he
improvised, orchestrated it, drawing entire sections of
previously constructed visions and phrasings, perfect
and pure, from a memory so vital that its workings were
barely distinguishable from the activities of the moment,
and blending these into fresh harmonies to a joyous
rhythm I comprehended only obliquely, through the si-
multaneous sensing of his own pleasure in the act of
their formulation.

I felt the delight in this dance of thought, rational
though not logical; the process, like all of art, was an
answer to something, though precisely what, I did not
know nor really care; for it was, in and of itself, a suffi-
ciency of being -- and if one day it were to provide me
with an emotional weapon at a time when I would oth-
erwise stand naked and alone, why this was one of the
things none has the right to expect, yet sometimes dis-
covers within the recollection of such fragments of exis-
tence cast by a special seer with a kind of furious joy.

I forgot my own being, abandoned my limited range
of senses as I swam in a sea that was neither dark nor
light, formed nor formless, yet knowing my way, sub-
sumed, as it were, within a perpetual act of that thing we
had decided to call ludus that was creation, destruction,
and sustenance, patterned and infinitely repattemed,
scattered and joined, mounting and descending, di-
vorced from all temporal phenomena yet containing the
essence of time. Time's soul it seemed I was, the infinite
potentialities that fill the moment, surrounding and in-
fusing the tiny stream of existence, and joyous, joyous,
joyous ...

Spinning, my mind came away, and I sat, still clutch-
ing my death ring, across from the little girl who had
fled from the terrible flowers, now clad in wet green and
very, very wan.

"0-cfut do desu-ka?" she asked.

"Itadakimasu"

She poured. I wanted to reach out and touch her
hand, but I raised the teacup instead and sipped from it.
She had my answer, of course. She knew.
But she spoke, after a time: "When my moment
comes -- who knows how soon? -- I shall go to him," she
said. "I shall be there, with 'Kjwalll'kje'k'koothaiQll'kje'k.
Who knows but that I shall continue, as a memory per-
haps, in that tuneless place, as a part of the dreamsong?
But then, I feel a part of it now."

"J__"

She raised her hand. We finished our tea in silence.
I did not really want to go then, but I knew that I
must.

There were so many things that I might have said, I
thought, as I headed the Isabella back toward Station
One, my bag of diamonds, and all the other things and
people I had left behind, waiting for me to touch them
or speak to them.

But then, I reflected, the best words are often those
left unsaid.

PART THREE

Home Is the Hangman

Big fat flakes down the night, silent night, windless
night. And I never count them as storms unless there is
wind. Not a sigh or whimper, though. Just a cold, steady
whiteness, drifting down outside the window, and a si-
lence confirmed by gunfire, driven deeper now that it
had ceased. In the main room of the lodge the only
sounds were the occasional hiss and sputter of the logs
turning to ashes on the grate.

I sat in a chair turned sidewise from the table to face
the door. A tool kit rested on the floor to my left. The
helmet stood on the table, a lopsided basket of metal,
quartz, porcelain, and glass. If I heard the click of a mi-
croswitch followed by a humming sound from within it,
then a faint light would come on beneath the meshing
near to its forward edge and begin to blink rapidly. If
these things occurred, there was a very strong possibility
that I was going to die.

I had removed a black ball from my pocket when
Larry and Bert had gone outside, armed, respectively,
with a flame thrower and what looked like an elephant
gun. Bert had also taken two grenades with him.

I unrolled the black ball, opening it out into a seam-
less glove, a dollop of something resembling moist putty
stuck to its palm. Then I drew the glove on over my left
hand and sat with it upraised, elbow resting on the arm
of the chair. A small laser flash pistol in which I had
very little faith lay beside my right hand on the tabletop,
next to the helmet.

If I were to slap a metal surface with my left hand,
the substance would adhere there, coming free of the
glove. Two seconds later it would explode, and the force
of the explosion would be directed in against the sur-
face. Newton would claim his own by way of right-an-
gled redistributions of the reaction, hopefully tearing lat-
eral hell out of the contact surface. A smother-charge, it
was called, and its possession came under concealed-
weapons and possession-of-burglary-tools statutes in
most places. The molecularly gimmicked goo, I decided,
was great stuff. It was just the delivery system that left'
more to be desired.

Beside the helmet, next to the gun, in front of my
hand, stood a small walkie-talkie. This was for purposes
of warning Bert and Larry if I should hear the click of a
microswitch followed by a humming sound, should see a
light come on and begin to blink rapidly. Then they
would know that Tom and Clay, with whom we had lost
contact when the shooting began, had failed to destroy
the enemy and doubtless lay lifeless at their stations
now, a little over a kilometer to the south. Then they
would know that they, too, were probably about to die.

I called out to them when I heard the click. I picked
up the helmet and rose to my feet as its light began to
blink.

But it was already too late.

The fourth place listed on the Christmas card I had
sent Don Walsh the previous year was Peabody's Book
Shop and Beer Stube in Baltimore, Maryland. Accord-
ingly, on the last night in October I sat in its rearmost
room, at the final table before the alcove with the door
leading to the alley. Across that dim chamber, a woman
dressed in black played the ancient upright piano, up-
tempoing everything she touched. Off to my right, a fire
wheezed and spewed fumes on a narrow hearth beneath
a crowded mantelpiece overseen by an ancient and ant-
lered profile. I sipped a beer and listened to the sounds.

I half hoped that this would be one of the occasions
when Don failed to show up. I had sufficient funds to
hold me through spring and I did not really feel like
working. I had summered farther north, was anchored
now in the Chesapeake, and was anxious to continue
Caribbeanward. A growing chill and some nasty winds
told me I had tarried overlong in these latitudes. Still,
the understanding was that I remain in the chosen bar
until midnight. Two hours to go.

I ate a sandwich and ordered another beer. About
halfway into it, I spotted Don approaching the entrance-
way, topcoat over his arm, head turning. I manufactured
a matching quantity of surprise when he appeared be-
side my table with a, "Ron! Is that really you?"
I rose and clasped his hand.

"Alan! Small world, or something like that. Sit
down! Sit down!"

He settled onto the chair across from me, draped his
coat over the one to his left.
"What are you doing in this town?" he asked.
"Just a visit," I answered. "Said hello to a few
friends." I patted the scars, the stains on the venerable
surface before me. "And this is my last stop. I'll be leav-
ing in a few hours."
He chuckled.
"Why is it that you knock on wood?"
I grinned.

"I was expressing affection for one of Henry Menck-
en's favorite speakeasies."

"This place dates back that far?"
I nodded.

"It figures," he said. "You've got this thing for the
past -- or against the present. I'm never sure which."

"Maybe a little of both," I said. "I wish Mencken
would stop in. I'd like his opinion on the present.  -- 
What are you doing with it?"

"What?"

"The present. Here. Now."

"Oh." He spotted the waitress and ordered a beer.
"Business trip," he said then. "To hire a consultant."

"Oh. How is business?"

"Complicated," he said, "complicated."

We lit cigarettes and after a while his beer arrived.
We smoked and drank and listened to the music.

I've sung this song and I'll sing it again: the world is
like an untempoed piece of music. Of the many changes
which came to pass during my lifetime, it seems that the
majority have occurred during the past few years. It also
struck me that way several years ago, and I'd a hunch I
might be feeling the same way a few years hence -- that
is, if Don's business did not complicate me off this mor-
tal coil or condenser before then.

Don operates the second-largest detective agency in
the world, and he sometimes finds me useful because I
do not exist. I do not exist now because I existed once at
the time and the place where we attempted to begin
scoring the wild ditty of our times. I refer to the world
Central Data Bank project and the fact that I had had a
significant part in that effort to construct a working
model of the real world, accounting for everyone and
everything in it. How well we succeeded, and whether
possession of the world's likeness does indeed provide its
custodians with a greater measure of control over its
functions, are questions my former colleagues still de-
bate as the music grows more shrill and you can't see
the maps for the pins. I made my decision back then
and saw to it that I did not receive citizenship in that
second world, a place which may now have become
more important than the first. Exiled to reality, my own
sojourns across the line are necessarily those of an alien
guilty of illegal entry. I visit periodically because I go
where I must to make my living.  -- That is where Don
comes in. The people I can become are often very useful
when he has peculiar problems.

Unfortunately, at that moment, it seemed that he did,
just when the whole gang of me felt like fuming down
the volume and loafing.

We finished our drinks, got the bill, settled it.

"This way," I said, indicating the rear door, and he
swung into his coat and followed me out.

"Talk here?" he asked, as we walked down the alley.

"Rather not," I said. "Public transportation, then pri-
vate conversation."

He nodded and came along.

About three-quarters of an hour later we were in the
saloon of the Proteus and I was making coffee. We were
rocked gently by the Bay's chill waters, under a moon-
less sky. I'd only a pair of the smaller lights burning.
Comfortable. On the water, aboard the Proteus, the
crowding, the activities, the tempo, of life in the cities,
on the land, are muted, slowed -- fictionalized -- by the
metaphysical distancing a few meters of water can pro-
vide. We alter the landscape with great facility, but the
ocean has always seemed unchanged, and I suppose by
extension we are infected with some feelings of timeless-
ness whenever we set out upon her. Maybe that's one of
the reasons I spend so much time there.

"First time you've had me aboard," he said. "Com-
fortable. Very."

"Thanks.  -- Cream? Sugar?"

"Yes. Both."

We settled back with our steaming mugs and I asked,
"What have you got?"

"One case involving two problems," he said. "One of
them sort of falls within my area of competence. The
other does not. I was told that it is an absolutely unique
situation and would require the services of a very special
specialist."

"I'm not a specialist at anything but keeping alive."

His eyes came up suddenly and caught my own.

"I had always assumed that you knew an awful lot
about computers," he said.

I looked away. That was hitting below the belt. I had
never held myself out to him as an authority in that
area, and there had always been a tacit understanding
between us that my methods of manipulating circum-
stance and identity were not open to discussion. On the
other hand, it was obvious to him that my knowledge of
the system was both extensive and intensive. Still, I
didn't like talking about it. So I moved to defend.

"Computer people are a dime a dozen," I said. "It
was probably different in your time, but these days they
start teaching computer science to little kids their first
year in school. So sure, I know a lot about it. This gen-
eration, everybody does,"

"You know that is not what I meant," he said.
Haven't you known me long enough to trust me a little
more than that? The question springs solely from the
case at hand. That's all."

I nodded. Reactions by their very nature are not al-
ways appropriate, and I had invested a lot of emotional
capital in a heavy-duty set. So, "Okay, I know more
about them than the school kids," I said.

"Thanks. That can be our point of departure." He
took a sip of coffee. "My own background is in law and
accounting, followed by the military, military intelli-
gence, and civil service, in that order. Then I got into
this business. What technical stuff I know I've picked
up along the way -- a scrap here, a crash course there. I
know a lot about what things can do, not so much about
how they work. I did not understand the details on this
one, so I want you to start at the top and explain things
to me, for as far as you can go. I need the background
review, and if you are able to furnish it I will also know
that you are the man for the job. You can begin by tell-
ing me how the early space-exploration robots worked
 -- like, say the ones they used on Venus."

"That's not computers," I said, "and for that matter,
they weren't really robots. They were telefactoring de-
vices."

"Tell me what makes the difference."

"A robot is a machine which carries out certain oper-
ations in accordance with a program of instructions. A
telefactor is a slave machine operated by remote control
The telefactor functions in a feedback situation with its
operator. Depending on how sophisticated you want to
get, the links can be audiovisual, kinesthetic, tactile,
even olfactory. The more you want to go in this direc-
tion, the more anthropomorphic you get in the thing's
design.

"In the case of Venus, if I recall correctly, the human
operator in orbit wore an exoskeleton which controlled
the movements of the body, legs, arms, and hands of the
device on the surface below, receiving motion and force
feedback through a system of airjet transducers. He had
on a helmet controlling the slave device's television cam-
era -- set, obviously enough, in its turret -- which filled
his field of vision with the scene below. He also wore
earphones connected with its audio pickup. I read the
book he wrote later. He said that for long stretches of
time he would forget the cabin, forget that he was at the
boss end of a control loop, and actually feel as if he
were stalking through that hellish landscape. I remem-
ber being very impressed by it, just being a kid, and I
wanted a super-tiny one all my own, so that I could
wade around in puddles picking fights with microorga-
nisms."

"Why?"

"Because there weren't any dragons on Venus. Any-
how, mat is a telefactoring device, a thing quite distinct
from a robot."

"I'm still with you," he said, and "Now tell me the dif-
ference between the early telefactoring devices and the
later ones."

I swallowed some coffee.

"It was a bit trickier with respect to the outer planets
and their satellites," I said. "There, we did not have or-
biting operators at first. Economics, and some unre-
solved technical problems. Mainly economics. At any
rate, the devices were landed on the target worlds, but
the operators stayed home. Because of this, there was of
course a time lag in the transmissions along the control
loop. It took a while to receive the on-site input, and
then there was another time lapse before the response
movements reached the telefactor. We attempted to
compensate for this in two ways: the first was by the
employment of a single wait-move, wait-move se-
quence; the second was more sophisticated and is ac-
tually the point where computers come into the picture
in terms of participating in the control loop. It involved
the setting up of models of known environmental fac-
tors, which were then enriched during the initial wait-
move sequences. On this basis, the computer was then
used to anticipate short-range developments. Finally, it
could take over the loop and run it by a combination of
'predictor controls' and wait-move reviews. It still had
to holler for human help, though, when unexpected
things came up. So, with the outer planets, it was neither
totally automatic nor totally manual -- nor totally satis-
factory -- at first."

"Okay," he said, lighting a cigarette. "And the next
step?"

"The next wasn't really a technical step forward in
telefactoring. It was an economic shift. The pursestrings
were loosened and we could afford to send men out. We
landed them where we could land them, and in many of
the places where we could not, we sent down the telefac-
tors and orbited the men again. Like in the old days.
The time-lag problem was removed because the opera-
tor was on top of things once more. If anything, you can
look at it as a reversion to earlier methods. It is what we
still often do, though, and it works."

He shook his head.

"You left something out between the computers and
the bigger budget."
I shrugged.

"A number of things were tried during that period,
but none of them proved as effective as what we already
had going in the human-computer partnership with the
telefactors."

"There was one project," he said, "which attempted to
get around the time-lag troubles by sending the comput-
er along with the telefactor as part of the package. Only
the computer wasn't exactly a computer and the telefac-
tor wasn't exactly a telefactor. Do you know which one I
am referring to?"

I lit a cigarette of my own while I thought about it,
then, "I think you are talking about the Hangman," I
said.

"That's right and this is where I get lost. Can you tell
me how it works?"

"Ultimately, it was a failure," I told him.

"But it worked at first."

"Aparently. But only on the easy stuff, on To. It
conked out later and had to be written off as a failure,
albeit a noble one. The venture was overly ambitious
from the very beginning. What seems to have happened
was that the people in charge had the opportunity to
combine vanguard projects -- stuff that was still under
investigation and stuff that was extremely new. In theo-
ry, it all seemed to dovetail so beautifully that they
yeilded to the temptation and incorporated too much. It
started out well, but it fell apart later."

"But what all was involved in the thing?"

"Lord! What wasn't? The computer that wasn't ex-
actly a computer ... Okay, well start there. Last centu-
ry, three engineers at the University of Wisconsin -- 
Nordman, Parmentier, and Scott -- developed a device
known as a superconductive tunnel-junction neuristor.
Two tiny strips of metal with a thin insulating layer be-
tween. Supercool it and it passed electrical impulses
without resistance. Surround it with magnetized material
and pack a mass of them together -- billions -- and what
have you got?"
He shook his head.

"Well, for one thing you've got an impossible situa-
tion to schematize when considering all the paths and
interconnections that may be formed. There is an ob-
vious similarity to the structure of the brain. So, they
theorized, you don't even attempt to hook up such a de-
vice. You pulse in data and let it establish its own prefer-
ential pathways, by means of the magnetic material's be-
coming increasingly magnetized each time the current
passes through it, thus cutting the resistance. The mate-
rial establishes its own routes in a fashion analogous to
the functioning of the brain when it is learning some-
thing.

"In the case of the Hangman, they used a setup very
similar to this and they were able to pack over ten bil-
lion neuristor-type cells into a very small area -- around a
cubic foot. They aimed for that magic figure because
that is approximately the number of nerve cells in the
human brain. That is what I meant when I said that it
wasn't really a computer. They were actually working in
the area of artificial intelligence, no matter what they
called it."

"If the thing had its own brain -- computer or quasi-
human -- then it was a robot rather than a telefactor,
right?"

"Yes and no and maybe," I said. "It was operated as
a telefactor device here on Earth -- on the ocean floor, in
the desert, in mountainous country -- as part of its pro-
gramming. I suppose you could also call that its appren-
ticeship -- or kindergarten. Perhaps that is even more
appropriate. It was being shown how to explore in diffi-
cult environments and to report back. Once it mastered
this, then theoretically they could hang it out there in the
sky without a control loop and let it report its own find-
ings."

"At that point would it be considered a robot?"
"A robot is a machine which carries out certain oper-
ations in accordance with a program of instructions. The
Hangman made its awn decisions, you see. And I suspect
that by trying to produce something that close to the hu-
man brain in structure and function, the seemingly inev-
itable randomness of its model got included in. It wasn't
just a machine following a program. It was too complex.
That was probably what broke it down."

Don chuckled.

"Inevitable free will?"

"No. As I said, they had thrown too many things into
one bag. Everybody and his brother with a pet project
that might be fitted in seemed a supersalesman that sea-
son. For example, the psychophysics boys had a gim-
mick they wanted to try on it, and it got used. Ostensibly,
The Hangman was a communications device. Actually,
they were concerned as to whether the thing was truly
sentient."

"Was it?"

"Apparently so, in a limited fashion. What they had
come up with, to be made part of the initial telefactor
loop, was a device which set up a weak induction field in
the brain of the operator. The machine received and
amplified the patterns of electrical activity being con-
ducted in the Hangman's -- might well call it 'brain'
 -- then passed them through a complex modulator and
pulsed them into the induction field in the operator's
head.  -- I am out of my area now and into that of Weber
and Fechner, but a neuron has a threshold at which it
will fire, and below which it will not. There are some
forty thousand neurons packed together in a square mil-
limeter of the cerebral cortex, in such a fashion that each
one has several hundred synaptic connections with oth-
ers about it. At any given moment, some of them may be
way below the firing threshold while others are in a con-
dition Sir John Eccles once referred to as 'critically
poised' -- ready to fire. If just one is pushed over the
threshold, it can affect the discharge of hundreds of
thousands of others within twenty milliseconds. The pul-
sating field was to provide such a push in a sufficiently
selective fashion to give the operator an idea as to what
was going on in the Hangman's brain. And vice versa.
The Hangman was to have its own built-in version of
the same tiling. It was also thought that this might serve
to humanize it somewhat, so that it would better appre-
ciate the significance of its work -- to instill something
like loyalty, you might say."

"Do you think this could have contributed to its later
breakdown?"

"Possibly. How can you say in a one-of-a-kind situa-
tion like this? K you want a guess, I'd say, 'Yes.' But its
just a guess."

"Uh-huh," he said, "and what were its physical capa-
bilities?"

"Anthropomorphic design," I said, "both because it
was originally telefactored and because of the psycho-
logical reasoning I just mentioned. It could pilot its own
small vessel. No need for a life-support system, of
course. Both it and the vessel were powered by fusion
units, so that fuel was no real problem. Self-repairing.
Capable of performing a great variety of sophisticated
tests and measurements, of making observations, com-
pleting reports, learning new material, broadcasting its
findings back here. Capable of surviving just about any-
where. In fact, it required less energy on the outer plan-
ets -- less work for the refrigeration units, to maintain
that supercooled brain in its midsection."

"How strong was it?"

"I don't recall all the specs. Maybe a dozen times as
strong as a man, in things like lifting and pushing."

"It explored Io for us and started in on Europa."

"Yes."

"Then it began behaving erratically, just when we
thought it had really learned its job."

"That sounds right," I said.

"It refused a direct order to explore Callisto, then
headed out toward Uranus."

"Yes. It's been years since I read the reports. . . ."

"The malfunction worsened after that. Long periods
of silence interspersed with garbled transmissions. Now
that I know more about its makeup, it almost sounds
like a man going off the deep end."
"It seems similar."

"But it managed to pull itself together again for a
brief while. It landed on Titania, began sending back
what seemed like appropriate observation reports. This
only lasted a short time, though. It went irrational once
more, indicated that it was heading for a landing on Ura-
nus itself, and that was it. We didn't hear from it after
that. Now that I know about that mind-reading gadget I
understand why a psychiatrist on this end could be so
positive it would never function again."

"I never heard about that part."

"I did."

I shrugged. "This was all around twenty years ago," I
said, "and, as I mentioned, it has been a long while
since I've read anything about it."

"The Hangman's ship crashed or landed, as the case
may be, in the Gulf of Mexico, two days ago."

I just stared at him.

"It was empty," Don went on, "when they finally got
out and down to it."

"I don't understand."

"Yesterday morning," he continued, "restaurateur
Manny Bums was found beaten to death in the office of
his establishment, the Maison Saint-Michel, in New
Orleans."

"I still fail to see -- "

"Manny Bums was one of the four original operators
who programmed -- pardon me, taught' -- the Hang-
man."

The silence lengthened, dragged its belly on the deck.

"Concidence...?"! finally said.

"My client doesn't think so."

"Who is your client?"

"One of the three remaining members of the training
group. He is convinced that the Hangman has returned
to Earth to kill its former operators."

"Has he made his fears known to his old employers?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it would require telling them the reason for
his fears."

"That being . . . ?"

"He wouldn't tell me, either."

"How does he expect you to do a proper job?"

"He told me what he considered a proper job. He
wanted two things done, neither of which requires a
full case history. He wanted to be furnished with good
bodyguards, and he wanted the Hangman found and dis-
posed of. I have already taken care of the first part."
"And you want me to do the second?"
"That's right. You have confirmed my opinion that
you are the man for the job."

"I see. Do you realize that if the firing is truly sentient
this will be something very like murder? If it is not, of
course, then it will only amount to the destruction of ex-
pensive government property."

"Which way do you look at it?"

"I look at it as a job," I said.

"You'll take it?"

"I need more facts before I can decide. Like, who is
your client? Who are the other operators? Where do
they live? What do they do? What -- "
He raised his hand.

"First," he said, "the Honorable Jesse Brockden, sen-
ior Senator from Wisconsin, is our client. Confidentiali-
ty, of course, is written all over it."

I nodded. "I remember his being involved with the
space program before he went into politics. I wasn't
aware of the specifics, though. He could get government
protection so easily -- "

"To obtain it, he would apparently have to tell them
something he doesn't want to talk about. Perhaps it
would hurt his career. I simply do not know. He doesn't
want them. He wants us."

I nodded again.

"What about the others? Do they want us, too?"

"Quite the opposite. They don't subscribe to Brock-
den's notions at all. They seem to think he is something
of a paranoid."

"How well do they know one another these days?"

"They live in different parts of the country, haven't
seen each other in years. Been in occasional touch,
though."

"Kind of a flimsy basis for that diagnosis, then."

"One of them is a psychiatrist."

"Oh. Which one?"

"Leila Thackery is her name. Lives in St. Louis.
Works at the State Hospital there."

"None of them have gone to any authority, then -- 
federal or local?"

"That's right. Brockden contacted them when he
heard about the Hangman. He was in Washington at the
time. Got word on its return right away and managed to
get the story killed. He tried to reach them all, learned
about Bums in the process, contacted me, then tried to
persuade the others to accept protection by my people.
They weren't buying. When I talked to her, Doctor
Thackery pointed out -- quite correctly -- that Brockden
is a very sick man."

"What's he got?"

"Cancer. In his spine. Nothing they can do about it
once it hits there and digs in. He even told me he figures
he has maybe six months to get through what he con-
siders a very important piece of legislation -- the new
criminal rehabilitation act.  -- I will admit that he did
sound kind of paranoid when he talked about it. But
hell! Who wouldn't? Doctor Thackery sees that as the
whole thing, though, and she doesn't see the Bums kill-
ing as being connected with the Hangman. Thinks it was
just a traditional robbery gone sour, thief surprised and
panicky, maybe hopped-up, et cetera."

"Then she is not afraid of the Hangman?"

"She said that she is in a better position to know its
mind than anyone else, and she is not especially con-
cerned."

"What about the other operator?"

"He said that Doctor Thackery may know its mind
better than anyone else, but he knows its brain, and he
isn't worried, either."

"What did he mean by that?"

"David Fentris is a consulting engineer -- electronics,
cybernetics. He actually had something to do with the
Hangman's design."

I got to my feet and went after the coffeepot. Not
that I'd an overwhelming desire for another cup at just
that moment. But I had known, had once worked with a
David Fentris. And he had at one time been connected
with the space program.

About fifteen years my senior, Dave had been with
the data bank project when I had known him. Where a
number of us had begun having second thoughts as the
thing progressed, Dave had never been anything less
than wildly enthusiastic. A wiry five-eight, gray-
cropped, gray eyes back of homrims and heavy glass,
cycling between preoccupation and near-frantic darting,
he had had a way of verbalizing half-completed thoughts
as he went along, so that you might begin to think him a
representative of that tribe which had come into posi-
tions of small authority by means of nepotism or poli-
tics. If you would listen a few more minutes, however,
you would begin revising your opinion as he started to
pull his musings together into a rigorous framework. By
the time he had finished, you generally wondered why
you hadn't seen it all along and what a guy like that was
doing in a position of such small authority. Later, it
might strike you, though, that he seemed sad whenever
he wasn't enthusiastic about something. And while the
gung-ho spirit is great for short-range projects, larger
ventures generally require somewhat more equanimity. I
wasn't at all surprised that he had wound up as a consul-
tant.

The big question now, of course was: Would he re-
member me? True, my appearance was altered, my per-
sonality hopefully more mature, my habits shifted
around. But would that be enough, should I have to en-
counter him as part of this job? That mind behind those
homrims could do a lot of strange things with just a lit-
tle data.

"Where does he live?" I asked.

"Memphis. -- And what's the matter?"

"Just trying to get my geography straight," I said. "Is
Senator Brockden still in Washington?"

"No. He's returned to Wisconsin and is currently
holed up in a lodge in the northern part of the state.
Four of my people are with him."

"I see."

I refreshed our coffee supply and reseated myself. I
didn't like this one at all and I resolved not to take it.
I didn't like just giving Don a flat "No," though. His as-
signments had become a very important part of my life,
and this one was not mere legwork. It was obviously im-
portant to him, and he wanted me on it. I decided to
look for holes in the thing, to find some way of reducing
it to the simple bodyguard job already in progress.

"It does seem peculiar," I said, "that Brockden is the
only one afraid of the device."

"Yes."

". . . And that he gives no reasons."

"True."

". . . Plus his condition, and what the doctor said
about its effect on his mind."

"I have no doubt that he is neurotic," Don said.
"Look at this."

He reached for his coat, withdrew a sheaf of papers
from within it. He shuffled through them and extracted a
single sheet, which he passed to me.

It was a piece of Congressional-letterhead stationary,
with the message scrawled in longhand. "Don," it said,
"I've got to see you. Frankenstein's monster is just come
back from where we hung him and he's looking for me.
The whole damn universe is trying to grind me up. Call
me between 8 & 10.  -- Jess."

I nodded, started to pass it back, paused, then handed
it over. Double damn it deeper than hell!

I took a drink of coffee. I thought that I had long ago
given up hope in such things, but I had noticed some-
thing which immediately troubled me. In the margin,
where they list such matters, I had seen that Jesse
Brockden was on the committee for review of the Central
Data Bank program. I recalled that that committe was
supposed to be working on a series of reform recom-
mendations. Offhand, I could not remember Brockden's
position on any of the issues involved, but --  Oh hell!
The thing was simply too big to alter significantly now,
. . . But it was the only real Frankenstein monster I
cared about, and there was always the possibility . . .
On the other hand --  Hell, again! What if I let him die
when I might have saved him, and he had been the one
who. . . ?

I took another drink of coffee. I lit another cigarette.

There might be a way of working it so that Dave
didn't even come into the picture. I could talk to Leila
Thackery first, check further into the Burns killing, keep
posted on new developments, find out more about the
vessel in the Gulf. ... I might be able to accomplish
something, even if it was only the negation of Brock-
den's theory, without Dave's and my paths ever crossing.

"Have you got the specs on the Hangman?" I asked.

"Right here."

He passed them over.

"The police report on the Burns killing?"

"Here it is."

"The whereabouts of everyone involved, and some
background on them?"

"Here."

"The place or places where I can reach you during
the next few days -- around the clock? This one may re-
quire some coordination."

He smiled and reached for his pen.

"Glad to have you aboard," he said.

I reached over and tapped the barometer. I shook my
head.

The ringing of the phone awakened me. Reflex bore
me across the room, where I took it on audio.

"Yes?"

"Mister Donne? It is eight o'clock."

"Thanks."

I collapsed into the chair. I am what might be called a
slow starter. I tend to recapitulate phylogeny every
morning. Basic desires inched then: ways through my
gray matter to close a connection. Slowly, I extended a
cold-blooded member and clicked my talons against a
couple of numbers. I croaked my desire for food and
lots of coffee to the voice that responded. Half an hour
later I would only have growled. Then I staggered off to
the place of flowing waters to renew my contact with
basics.

In addition to my normal adrenaline and blood-sugar
bearishness, I had not slept much the night before. I had
closed up shop after Don left, stuffed my pockets with
essentials, departed the Proteus, gotten myself over to
the airport and onto a flight which took me to St. Louis
in the dead, small hours of the dark. I was unable to
sleep during the flight, thinking about the case, deciding
on the tack I was going to take with Leila Thackery. On
arrival, I had checked into the airport motel, left a mes-
sage to be awakened at an unreasonable hour, and col-
lapsed.

As I ate, I regarded the fact sheet Don had given me.

Leila Thackery was currently single, having divorced
her second husband a little over two years ago, was for-
ty-six years old, and lived in an apartment near to the
hospital where she worked. Attached to the sheet was a
photo which might have been ten years old. In it, she
was brunette, light-eyed, barely on the right side of that
border between ample and overweight, with fancy glass-
es straddling an upturned nose. She had published a
number of books and articles with titles full of aliena-
tions, roles, transactions, social contexts, and more aliena-
tions.

I hadn't had the time to go my usual route, becoming
an entire new individual with a verifiable history. Just a
name and a story, that's all. It did not seem necessary
this time, though. For once, something approximating
honesty actually seemed a reasonable approach.

I took a public vehicle over to her apartment build-
ing. I did not phone ahead, because it is easier to say
"No" to a voice than to a person.

According to the record, today was one of the days
when she saw outpatients in her home. Her idea, appar-
ently: break down the alienating institution-image, re-
move resentments by turning the sessions into something
more like social occasions, et cetera. I did not want all
that much of her time -- I had decided that Don could
make it worth her, while if it came to that -- and I was
sure my fellows' visits were scheduled to leave her with
some small breathing space. Inter alia, so to speak.

I had just located her name and apartment number
amid the buttons in the entrance foyer when an old
woman passed behind me and unlocked the door to the
lobby. She glanced at me and held it open, so I went on
in without ringing. The matter of presence, again.

I took the elevator to Leila's floor, the second, located
her door and knocked on it. I was almost ready to
knock again when it opened, partway.

"Yes?" she asked, and I revised my estimate as to
the age of the photo. She looked just about the same.

"Doctor Thackery," I said, "my name is Donne. You
could help me quite a bit with a problem I've got."

"What sort of problem?"

"It involves a device known as the Hangman."

She sighed and showed me a quick grimace. Her fin-
gers tightened on the door.

"I've come a long way but I'll be easy to get rid of.
I've only a few things I'd like to ask you about it."

"Are you with the government?"

"No."

"Do you work for Brockden?"

"No, I'm something different."

"All right," she said. "Right now I've got a group ses-
sion going. It will probably last around another half
hour. If you don't mind waiting down in the lobby, I'll
let you know as soon as it is over. We can talk then."

"Good enough," I said. "Thanks."

She nodded, closed the door. I located the stairway
and walked back down.

A cigarette later, I decided that the devil finds work
for idle hands and thanked him for his suggestion. I
strolled back toward the foyer. Through the glass, I read
the names of a few residents of the fifth floor. I elevated
up and knocked on one of the doors. Before it was
opened I had my notebook and pad in plain sight.

"Yes?" Short, fiftyish, curious.

"My name is Stephen Foster, Mrs. Gluntz. I am
doing a survey for the North American Consumers
League. I would like to pay you for a couple minutes of
your time, to answer some questions about products you
use."

"Why --  Pay me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Ten dollars. Around a dozen questions.
It will just take a minute or two."

"All right." She opened the door wider. "Won't you
come in?"

"No, thank you. This thing is so brief I'd just be in
and out. The first question involves detergents . . ."

Ten minutes later I was back in the lobby adding the
thirty bucks for the three interviews to the list of expen-
ses I was keeping. When a situation is full of unpredicta-
bles and I am playing makeshift games, I like to provide
for as many contingencies as I can.

Another quarter of an hour or so slipped by before
the elevator opened and discharged three guys -- young,
young, and middle-aged, casually dressed, chuckling
over something.

The big one on the nearest end strolled over and nod-
ded.

"You the fellow waiting to see Doctor Thackery?"

"That's right."

"She said to tell you to come on up now."

"Thanks."

I rode up again, returned to her door. She opened to
my knock, nodded me in, saw me seated in a comforta-
ble chair at the far end of her living room.

"Would you care for a cup of coffee?" she asked.
"It's fresh. I made more than I needed."

"That would be fine. Thanks."

Moments later, she brought in a couple of cups, deliv-
ered one to me, and seated herself on the sofa to my
left. I ignored the cream and sugar on the tray and took
a sip.

"You've gotten me interested," she said. "Tell me
about it."

"Okay. I have been told that the telefactor device
known as the Hangman, now possibly possessed of an
artificial intelligence, has returned to Earth -- "

"Hypothetical," she said, "unless you know something
I don't. I have been told that the Hangman's vehicle
reentered and crashed in the Gulf. There is no evidence
that the vehicle was occupied."

"It seems a reasonable conclusion, though."

"It seems just as reasonable to me that the Hangman
sent the vehicle off toward an eventual rendezvous point
many years ago and that it only recently reached that
point, at which time the reentry program took over and
brought it down."

"Why should it return the vehicle and strand itself out
there?"

"Before I answer that," she said, "I would like to
know the reason for your concern. News media?"

"No," I said. "I am a science writer -- straight tech,
popular, and anything in between. But I am not after a
piece for publication. I was retained to do a report on
the psychological makeup of the thing."

"For whom?"

"A private investigation outfit. They want to know
what might influence its thinking, how it might be likely
to behave -- if it has indeed come back.  -- I've been
doing a lot of homework, and I gathered there is a likeli-
hood that its nuclear personality was a composite of the
minds of its four operators. So, personal contacts
seemed in order, to collect your opinions as to what it
might be like. I came to you first for obvious reasons."

She nodded.

"A Mister Walsh spoke with me the other day. He is
working for Senator Brockden."

"Oh? I never go into an employer's business beyond
what he's asked me to do. Senator Brockden is on my
list though, along with a David Fentris."

"You were told about Manny Burns?"

"Yes. Unfortunate."

"That is apparently what set Jesse off. He is -- how
shall I put it? -- he is clinging to life right now, trying to
accomplish a great many things in the time he has re-
maining. Every moment is precious to him. He feels the
old man in the white nightgown breathing down his
neck.  -- Then the ship returns and one of us is killed.
From what we know of the Hangman, the last we heard
of it, it had become irrational. Jesse saw a connection,
and in his condition the fear is understandable. There is
nothing wrong with humoring him if it allows him to get
his work done."

"But you don't see a threat in it?"

"No. I was the last person to monitor fhe Hangman
before communications ceased, and I could see then
what had happened. The first things that it had learned
were the organization of perceptions and motor activi-
ties. Multitudes of other patterns had been transferred
from the minds of its operators, but they were too so-
phisticated to mean much initially.  -- Think of a child
who has learned the Gettysburg Address. It is there in
his head, that is all. One day, however, it may be impor-
tant to him. Conceivably, it may even inspire him to ac-
tion. It takes some growing up first, of course. Now
think of such a child with a great number of conflict-
ing patterns -- attitudes, tendencies, memories -- none of
which are especially bothersome for so long as he re-
mains a child. Add a bit of maturity, though -- and bear
in mind that the patterns originated with four different
individuals, all of them more powerful than the words of
even the finest of speeches, bearing as they do their own
built-in feelings. Try to imagine the conflicts, the contra-
dictions involved in being four people at once -- "

"Why wasn't this imagined in advance?" I asked.

"Ah!" she said, smiling. "The full sensitivity of the
neuristor brain was not appreciated at first It was as-
sumed that the operators were adding data in a linear
fashion and that this would continue until a critical mass
was achieved, corresponding to the construction of a
model or picture of the world which would then serve as
a point of departure for growth of the Hangman's own
mind. And it did seem to check out this way.

"What actually occurred, however, was a phenome-
non amounting to imprinting. Secondary characteristics
of the operators' minds, outside the didactic situations,
were imposed. These did not immediately become func-
tional and hence were not detected. They remained
latent until the mind had developed sufficiently to under-
stand them. And then it was too late. It suddenly ac-
quired four additional personalities and was unable to
coordinate them. When it tried to compartmentalize
them it went schizoid; when it tried to integrate them it
went catatonic. It was cycling back and forth between
these alternatives at the end. Then it just went silent. I
felt it had undergone the equivalent of an epileptic sei-
zure. Wild currents through that magnetic material
would, in effect, have erased its mind, resulting in its
equivalent of death or idiocy."

"I follow you," I said. "Now, just for the sake of
playing games, I see the alternatives as either a success-
ful integration of all this material or the achievement of
a viable schizophrenia. What do you think its behavior
would be like if either of these were possible?"

"All right," she agreed. "As I Just said, though, I
think there were physical limitations to its retaining
multiple personality structures for a very long period of
time. If it did, however, it would have continued with its
own, plus replicas of the four operators', at least for a
while. The situation would differ radically from that of
a human schizoid of this sort, in that the additional per-
sonalities were valid images of genuine identities rather
than self-generated complexes which had become auton-
omous. They might continue to evolve, they might de-
generate, they might conflict to the point of destrction or
gross modification of any or all of them. In other words,
no prediction is possible as to the nature of whatever
might remain."

"Might I venture one?"

"Go ahead."

"After considerable anxiety, it masters them. It as-
serts itself. It beats down this quartet of demons which
has been tearing it apart, acquiring in the process an
all-consuming hatred for the actual individuals responsi-
ble for this turmoil. To free itself totally, to revenge it-
self, to work its ultimate catharsis, it resolves to seek
them out and destroy them."

She smiled.

"You have just dispensed with the 'viable schizo-
phrenia' you conjured up, and you have now switched
over to its pulling through and becoming fully autono-
mous. That is a different situation -- no matter what
strings you put on it."

"Okay, I accept the charge.  -- But what about my
conclusion?"

"You are saying that if it did pull through, it would
hate us. That strikes me as an unfair attempt to invoke
the spirit of Sigmund Freud: Oedipus and Electra in one
being, out to destroy all its parents -- the authors of ev-
ery one of its tensions, anxieties, hang-ups, burned into
its impressionable psyche at a young and defenseless
age. Even Freud didn't have a name for that one. What
should we call it?"

"A Hermacis complex?" I suggested.

"Hermacis?"

"Hermaphroditus having been united in one body
with the nymph Sahnacis, I've just done the same with
their names. That being would then have had four par-
ents against whom to react."

"Cute," she said, smiling. "If the liberal arts do noth-
ing else, they provide engaging metaphors for the think-
ing they displace. This one is unwarranted and overly
anthropomorphic, though.  -- You wanted my opinion.
All right. If the Hangman pulled through at all, it could
only have been by virtue of that neuristor brain's differ-
ences from the human brain. From my own professional
experience, a human could not pass through a situation
like that and attain stability. If the Hangman did, it
would have to have resolved all the contradictions and
conflicts, to have mastered and understood the situation
so thoroughly that I do not believe whatever remained
could involve that sort of hatred. The fear, the uncer-
tainty, the things that feed hate would have been ana-
lyzed, digested, turned to something more useful. There
would probably be distaste, and possibly an act of inde-
pendence, of self-assertion. That was one reason why I
suggested its return of the ship."

"It is your opinion, then, that if the Hangman exists
as a thinking individual today, this is the only possible
attitude it would possess toward its former operators: it
would want nothing more to do with you?"

"That is correct. Sorry about your Hermacis complex.
But in this case we must look to the brain, not the psy-
che. And we see two things: schizophrenia would have
destroyed it, and a successful resolution of its problem
would preclude vengeance. Either way, there is nothing
to worry about."

How could I put it tactfully? I decided that I could
not.

"All of this is fine," I said, "for as far as it goes. But
getting away from both the purely psychological and the
purely physical, could there be a particular reason for its
seeking your deaths -- that is, a plain old-fashioned mo-
tive for a killing, based on events rather than having to
do with the way its thinking equipment goes together?"

Her expression was impossible to read, but consider-
ing her line of work I had expected nothing less.

"What events?" she said.

"I have no idea. That's why I asked."

She shook her head.

"I'm afraid that I don't, either."

"Then that about does it," I said. "I can't think of
anything else to ask you."

She nodded.

"And I can't think of anything else to tell you."
I finished my coffee, returned the cup to the tray.

"Thanks, then," I said, "for your time, for the coffee.

You have been very helpful."
I rose. She did the same.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"I haven't quite decided," I answered. "I want to do
the best report I can. Have you any suggestions on
that?"

"I suggest that there isn't any more to learn, that I
have given you the only possible constructions the facts
warrant."

"You don't feel David Fentris could provide any ad-
ditional insights?"

She snorted, then sighed.

"No," she said, "I do not think he could tell you any-
thing useful."

"What do you mean? From the way you say it -- "

"I know. I didn't mean to.  -- Some people find com-
fort in religion. Others . . . You know. Others take it
up late in life with a vengeance and a half. They don't
use it quite the way it was intended. It comes to color all
their thinking."

"Fanaticism?" I said.

"Not exactly. A misplaced zeal. A masochistic sort of
thing. Hell! I shouldn't be diagnosing at a distance -- or
influencing your opinion. Forget what I said. Form your
own opinion when you meet him."

She raised her head, appraising my reaction.
"Well," I responded, "I am not at all certain that I
am going to see him. But you have made me curious.
How can religion influence engineering?"

"I spoke with him after Jesse gave us the news on the
vessel's return. I got the impression at the time that he
feels we were tampering in the province of the Almighty
by attempting the creation of an artificial intelligence.
That our creation should go mad was only appropriate,
being the work of imperfect man. He seemed to feel that
it would be fitting if it had come back for retribution, as
a sign of judgment upon us."

"Oh," I said.
She smiled then. I returned it.

"Yes," she said, "but maybe I just got him in a bad
mood. Maybe you should go see for yourself."

Something told me to shake my head -- there was a bit
of a difference between this view of him, my recollec-
tions, and Don's comment that Dave had said he knew
its brain and was not especially concerned. Somewhere
among these lay something I felt I should know, felt I
should leam without seeming to pursue.

So, "I think have enough right now," I said. "It was
the psychological side of things I was supposed to cover,
not the mechaniical -- or the theological. You have been
extremely helpful. Thanks again."

She carried her smile all the way to the door.
*'If it is not too much trouble," she said, as I stepped
into the hall, "I would like to learn how this whole thing
finally turns out -- or any interesting developments, for
that matter."

"My connection with the case ends with this report,
and I am going to write it now. Still, I may get some
feedback."

"You have my number . . . ?"

"Probably, but . . ."

I already had it, but I jotted it again, right after Mrs.
Gluntz's answers to my inquiries on detergents.

Moving in a rigorous line, I made beautiful connec-
tions, for a change. I headed directly for the airport,
found a flight aimed at Memphis, bought passage, and
was the last to board. Tenscore seconds, perhaps, made
all the difference. Not even a tick or two to spare for
checking out of the motel.  -- No matter. The good
head-doctor had convinced me that, like it or not, David
Fentris was next, damn it. I had too strong a feeling that
Leila Thackery had not told me the entire story. I had
to take a chance, to see these changes in the man for
myself, to try to figure out how they related to the
Hangman. For a number of reasons, I'd a feeling they
might.

I disembarked into a cool, partly overcast afternoon,
found transportation almost immediately, and set out for
Dave's office address.

A before-the-storm feeling came over me as I entered
and crossed the town. A dark wall of clouds continued
to build in the west. Later, standing before the building
where Dave did business, the first few drops of rain were
already spattering against its dirty brick front. It would
take a lot more than that to freshen it, though, or any of
the others in the area. I would have thought he'd have
come a little further than this by now.

I shrugged off some moisture and went inside.

The directory gave me directions, the elevator elevated
me, my feet found the way to his door. I knocked on it.
After a time, I knocked again and waited again. Again,
nothing. So I tried it, found it open, and went on in.

It was a small, vacant waiting room, green-carpeted.
The reception desk was dusty. I crossed and peered
around the plastic partition behind it.

The man had his back to me. I drummed my knuck-
les against the partitioning. He heard it and turned.

"Yes?"

Our eyes met, his still framed by homrims and just as
active; lenses thicker, hair thinner, cheeks a trifle hoi-
lower.

His question mark quivered in the air, and nothing in
his gaze moved to replace it with recognition. He had
been bending over a sheaf of schematics. A lopsided
basket of metal, quartz, porcelain, and glass rested on a
nearby table.

"My name is Donne, John Donne," I said. "I am
looking for David Fentris."

"I am David Fentris."

"Good to meet you," I said, crossing to where he
stood. "I am assisting in an investigation concerning a
project with which you were once associated. . . ."

He smiled and nodded, accepted my hand and shook
it.

"The Hangman, of course. Glad to know you, Mister
Donne."

"Yes, the Hangman," I said. "I am doing a report -- "

" -- And you want my opinion as to how dangerous it
is. Sit down." He gestured toward a chair at the end of
his work bench. "Care for a cup of tea?"

"No, thanks."

"I'm having one."

"Well, in that case. . ."

He crossed to another bench.
"No cream. Sorry."

"That's all right.  -- How did you know it involved the
Hangman?"

He grinned as he brought me my cup.
"Because it's come back," he said, "and it's the only
thing I've been connected with that warrants that much
concern."

"Do you mind talking about it?"

"Up to a point, no."

"What's the point?"

"If we get near it, I'll let you know."

"Fair enough.  -- How dangerous is it?"

"I would say that it is harmless," he replied, "except
to three persons."

"Formerly four?"
"Precisely."
"How come?"

"We were doing something we had no business doing."
"That being . . . ?"

"For one thing, attempting to create an artificial intel-
ligence."

"Why had you no business doing that?"

"A man with a name like yours shouldn't have to
ask."

I chuckled.

"If I were a preacher," I said, "I would have to point
out that there is no biblical injunction against it -- unless
you've been worshipping it on the sly."

He shook his head.

"Nothing that simple, that obvious, that explicit.
Times have changed since the Good Book was written,
and you can't hold with a purely fundamentalist ap-
proach in complex times. What I was getting at was
something a little more abstract. A form of pride, not
unlike the classical hubris -- the setting up of oneself on
a level with the Creator."

"Did you feel that -- pride?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure it wasn't just enthusiasm for an ambi-
tious project that was working well?"

"Oh, there was plenty of that. A manifestation of the
same thing."

"I do seem to recall something about man being made
in the Creator's image, and something else about trying
to live up to that. It would seem to follow that exercising
one's capacities along similar lines would be a step in
the right direction -- an act of conformance with the Di-
vine ideal, if you'd like."

"But I don't like. Man cannot really create. He can
only rearrange what is already present. Only God can
create."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

He frowned. Then, "No," he said. "Being aware of
this and still trying is where the presumption comes in."

"Were you really thinking that way when you did it?
Or did all this occur to you after the fact?"

He continued to frown.

"I am no longer certain."

"Then it would seem to me that a merciful God
would be inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt."

He gave me a wry smile.

"Not bad, John Donne. But I feel that judgment may
already have been entered and that we may have lost
four to nothing."

"Then you see the Hangman as an avenging angel?"

"Sometimes. Sort of. I see it as being returned to ex-
act a penalty."

"Just for the record," I suggested, "if the Hangman
had had full access to the necessary equipment and was
able to construct another unit such as itself, would you
consider it guilty of the same thing that is bothering
you?"

He shook his head.

"Don't get all cute and Jesuitical with me, Donne. I'm
not that far away from fundamentals. Besides, I'm will-
ing to admit I might be wrong and that there may be
other forces driving it to the same end."

"Such as?"

"I told you I'd let you know when we reached a cer-
tain point. That's it."

"Okay," I said. "But that sort of blank-walls me, you
know. The people I am working for would like to pro-
tect you people. They want to stop the Hangman. I was
hoping you would tell me a little more -- if not for your
own sake, then for the others'. They might not share
your philosophical sentiments, and you have just admit-
ted you may be wrong.  -- Despair, by the way, is also
considered a sin by a great number of theologians."

He sighed and stroked his nose, as I had often seen
him do in times long past

"What do you do, anyhow?" he asked me.

"Me, personally? I'm a science writer. I'm putting to-
gether a report on the device for (he agency that wants
to do the protecting. The better my report, the better
their chances."

He was silent for a time, then, "I read a lot in the
area, but I don't recognize your name," he said.

"Most of my work has involved petrochemistry and
marine biology," I said.

"Oh.  -- You were a peculiar choice then, weren't
you?"

"Not really. I was available, and the boss knows my
work, knows I'm good."

He glanced across the room, to where a stack of car-
tons partly obscured what I (hen realized to be a re-
mote-access terminal. Okay. If he decided to check out
my credentials now, John Donne would fall apart. It
seemed a hell of a time to get curious, though, after
sharing his sense of sin with me. He must have thought
so, too, because he did not look that way again.

"Let me put it this way . . ." he finally said, and
something of the old David Fentris at his best took con-
trol of his voice. "For one reason or the other, I believe
that it wants to destroy its former operators. If it is the
judgment of the Almighty, that's all there is to it. It will
succeed. If not, however, I don't want any outside pro-
tection. I've done my own repenting and it is up to me
to handle the rest of the situation myself, too. I will stop
the Hangman personally -- right here -- before anyone
else is hurt."

"How?" I asked him.

He nodded toward the glittering helmet.

"With that," he said.

"How?" I repeated.

"The Hangman's telefactor circuits are still intact.
They have to be: they are an integral part of it. It could
not disconnect them without shutting itself down. If it
comes within a quarter mile of here, that unit will be ac-
tivated. It will emit a loud humming sound and a light
will begin to blink behind that meshing beneath the for-
ward ridge. I will then don the helmet and take control
of the Hangman. I will bring it here and disconnect its
brain."

"How would you do the disconnect?"

He reached for the schematics he had been looking at
when I had come in.

"Here. The thoracic plate has to be unplugged. There
are four subunits that have to be uncoupled. Here, here,
here, and here."

He looked up.

"You would have to do them in sequence, though, or
it could get mighty hot," I said. "First this one, then
these two. Then the other."

When I looked up again, the gray eyes were fixed on
my own.

"I thought you were in petrochemistry and marine bi-
ology."

"I am not really 'in' anything," I said. "I am a tech
writer, with bits and pieces from all over -- and I did
have a look at these before, when I accepted the job."

"I see."

"Why don't you bring the space agency in on this?" I
said, working to shift ground. "The original telefactoring
equipment had all that power and range -- "

"It was dismantled a long time ago.  -- I thought you
were with the government"

I shook my head.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to mislead you. I am on con-
tract with a private investigation outfit."

"Uh-huh. Then that means Jesse.  -- Not that it mat-
ters. You can tell him that one way or the other every-
thing is being taken care of."

"What if you are wrong on the supernatural," I said,
"but correct on the other? Supposing it is coming under
the circumstances you feel it proper to resist? But sup-
posing you are not next on its list? Supposing it gets to
one of the others next, instead of you? If you are so sen-
sitive about guilt and sin, don't you think that you would
be responsible for that death -- if you could prevent it by
telling me just a little bit more? If it's confidentiality
you're worried about -- "

"No," he said. "You cannot trick me into applying
my principles to a hypothetical situation which will only
work out the way that you want it to. Not when I am
certain that it will not arise. Whatever moves the Hang-
man, it will come to me next. If I cannot stop it, then it
cannot be stopped until it has completed its job."

"How do you know that you are next?"

'Take a look at a map," he said. "It landed in the
Gulf. Manny was right there in New Orleans. Naturally,
he was first. The Hangman can move underwater like a
controlled torpedo, which makes me Mississippi its logi-
cal route for inconspicuous travel. Proceeding up it
then, here I am in Memphis. Then Leila,, up in St.
Louis, is obviously next after me. It can worry about
getting to Washington after that."

I thought about Senator Brockden in Wisconsin and
decided it would not even have that problem. All of
them were fairly accessible, when you thought of the sit-
uation in terms of river travel.

"But how is it to know where you all are?" I asked.

"Good question," he said. "Within a limited range, it
was once sensitive to our brain waves, having an inti-
mate knowledge of them and the ability to pick them up.
I do not know what that range would be today. It might
have been able to construct an amplifier to extend this
area of perception. But to be more mundane about it, I
believe that it simply consulted Central's national direc-
tory. There are booths all over, even on the waterfront.
It could have hit one late at night and gimmicked it. It
certainly had sufficient identifying information -- and en-
gineering skill."

"Then it seems to me that the best bet for all of you
would be to move away from the river till this business
is settled. That thing won't be able to stalk about the
countryside very long without being noticed."

He shook his head.

"It would find a way. It is extremely resourceful. At
night, in an overcoat, a hat, it could pass. It requires
nothing that a man would need. It could dig a hole and
bury itself, stay underground during daylight. It could
run without resting all night long. There is no place it
could not reach in a surprisingly short while.  -- No, I
must wait here for it."

"Let me put it as bluntly as I can," I said. "If you are
right that it is a Divine Avenger, I would say that it
smacks of blasphemy to try to tackle it. On the other
hand, if it is not, then I think you are guilty of jeopard-
izing the others by withholding information that would
allow us to provide them with a lot more protection than
you are capable of giving them all by yourself."

He laughed.

"I'll just have to learn to live with that guilt, too, as
they do with theirs," he said. "After I've done my best,
they deserve anything they get."

"It was my understanding," I said, "that even God
doesn't judge people until after they're dead -- if you
want another piece of presumption to add to your
collection."

He stopped laughing and studied my face.

"There is something familiar about the way you talk,
the way you think," he said. "Have we ever met before?"

"I doubt it. I would have remembered."

He shook his head.

"You've got a way of bothering a man's thinking that
rings a faint bell," he went on. "You trouble me, sir."

"That was my intention."

"Are you staying here in town?"

"No."

"Give me a number where I can reach you, will you?
If I have any new thoughts on this thing, I'll call you."

"I wish you would have them now, if you are going to
have them."

"No, I've got some thinking to do. Where can I get
hold of you later?"

I gave him the name of the motel I was still checked
into in St. Louis. I could call back periodically for mes-
sages.

"All right," he said, and he moved toward the parti-
tion by the reception area and stood beside it.

I rose and followed him, passing into that area and
pausing at the door to the hall.

"One thing. . ."I said.

"Yes?"

"If it does show up and you do stop it, will you call
me and tell me that?"

"Yes, I will."

"Thanks then -- and good luck."

Impulsively, I extended my hand. He gripped it and
smiled faintly.

"Thank you. Mister Donne."

Next. Next, next, next. . .

I couldn't budge Dave, and Leila Thackery had given
me everything she was going to. No real sense in calling
Don yet -- not until I had more to say.

I thought it over on my way back to the airport. The
pre-dinner hours always seem best for talking to people
in any sort of official capacity, just as the night seems
best for dirty work. Heavily psychological, but true nev-
ertheless. I hated to waste the rest of the day if there
was anyone else worth talking to before I called Don.
Going through the folder, I decided that there was.

Manny Bums had a brother, Phil. I wondered how
worthwhile it might be to talk with him. I could make it
to New Orleans at a sufficiently respectable hour, leam
whatever he was willing to tell me, check back with Don
for new developments, and then decide whether there
was anything I should be about with respect to the ves-
sel itself.

The sky was gray and leaky above me. I was anxious
to flee its spaces. So I decided to do it. I could think of
no better stone to upturn at the moment.

At the airport, I was ticketed quickly, in time for an-
other close connection.

Hurrying to reach my flight, my eyes brushed over a
half-familiar face on the passing escalator. The reflex re-
served for such occasions seemed to catch us both, be-
cause he looked back, too, with the same eyebrow twitch
of startle and scrutiny. Then he was gone. I could not
place him, however. The half-familiar face becomes a
familiar phenomenon in a crowded, highly mobile so-
ciety. I sometimes think that that is all that will eventu-
ally remain of any of us: patterns of features, some a
trifle more persistent than others, impressed on the flow
of bodies. A small-town boy in a big city, Thomas Wolfe
must long ago have felt the same thing when he had
coined the word "manswarm." It might have been some-
one I'd once met briefly, or simply someone -- or some-

Home Is the Hangman || 179

one like someone -- I had passed on sufficient other oc-
casions such as this.

As I flew the unfriendly skies out of Memphis, I
mulled over musings past on artificial intelligence, or AI
as they have tagged it in the think-box biz. When talking
about computers, the AI notion had aways seemed hot-
ter than I deemed necessary, partly because of seman-
tics. The word "intelligence" has all sorts of tag-along
associations of the non-physical sort. I suppose it goes
back to the fact that early discussions and conjectures
concerning it made it sound as if the potential for intelli-
gence was always present in the array of gadgets, and
that the correct procedures, the right programs, simply
had to be found to call it forth. When you looked at it
that way, as many did, it gave rise to an uncomfortable
d6jd vu -- namely, vitalism. The philosophical battles of
the nineteenth century were hardly so far behind that
they had been forgotten, and the doctrine which main-
tained that life is caused and sustained by a vital princi-
ple apart from physical and chemical forces, and that
life is self-sustaining and self-evolving, had put up quite
a fight before Darwin and his successors had produced
triumph after triumph for the mechanistic view. Then
vitalism sort of crept back into things again when the AI
discussions arose in the middle of the past century. It
would seem that Dave had fallen victim to it, and that
he'd come to believe he had helped provide an unsancti-
fied vessel and filled it with Something intended only for
those things which had made the scene in the first chap-
ter of Genesis. . . .

With computers it was not quite as bad as with the
Hangman, though, because you could always argue that
no matter how elaborate the program, it was basically
an extension of the programmer's will and the opera-
tions of causal machines merely represented functions of
intelligence, rather than intelligence in its own right
backed by a will of its own. And there was always Godel
for a theoretical cordon sanitaire, with his demonstra-
tion of the true but mechanically improvable proposi-
tion.

But the Hangman was quite different. It had been de-
signed along the lines of a brain and at least partly edu-
cated in a human fashion; and to further muddy the is-
sue with respect to anything like vitalism, it had been in
direct contact with human minds from which it might
have acquired almost anything -- including the spark
that set it on the road to whatever selfhood it may have
found. What did that make it? Its own creature? A frac-
tured mirror reflecting a fractured humanity? Both? Or
neither? I certainly could not say, but I wondered how
much of its self had been truly its own. It had obviously
acquired a great number of functions, but was it capable
of having real feelings? Could it, for example, feel some-
thing like love? If not, then it was still only a collection
of complex abilities, and not a thing with all the tag-
along associations of the non-physical sort which made
the word "intelligence" such a prickly item in AI discus-
sions; and if it were capable of, say, something like love,
and if I were Dave, I would not feel guilty about having
helped to bring it into being. I would feel proud, though
not in the fashion he was concerned about, and I would
also feel humble.  -- Offhand though, I do not know how
intelligent I would feel, because I am still not sure what
the hell intelligence is.

The day's-end sky was clear when we landed. I was
into town before the sun had finished setting, and on
Philip Burns' doorstep just a little while later.

My ring was answered by a girl, maybe seven or eight
years old. She fixed me with large brown eyes and did
not say a word.

"I would like to speak with Mister Burns," I said.
She turned and retreated around a comer.
A heavyset man, slacked and undershirted, bald
about halfway back and very pink, padded into the hall
moments later and peered at me. He bore a folded
newssheet in his left hand.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"It's about your brother," I answered.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I wonder if I could come in? It's kind of com-
plicated."

He opened the door. But instead of letting me in, he
came out.

"Tell me about it out here," he said.

"Okay, I'll be quick. I just wanted to find out whether
he ever spoke with you about a piece of equipment he
once worked with called the Hangman."

"Are you a cop?"

"No."

"Then what's your interest?"

"I am working for a private investigation agency
trying to track down some equipment once associated
with the project. It has apparently turned up ia this area
and it could be rather dangerous."

"Let's see some identification."
"I don't carry any."
"What's your name?"
"John Donne."

"And you think my brother had some stolen equip-
ment when he died? Let me tell you something -- "

"No. Not stolen," I said, "and I don't think he had it."
"What then?"

"It was -- well, robotic in nature. Because of some
special training Manny once received, he might have
had a way of detecting it. He might even have attracted
it. I just want to find out whether he had said anything
about it. We are trying to locate it."

"My brother was a respectable businessman, and I
don't like accusations. Especially right after his funeral,

I don't. I think I'm going to call the cops and let them
ask you a few questions."

"Just a minute. Supposing I told you we had some
reason to believe it might have been this piece of equip-
ment that killed your brother?"

His pink turned to bright red and his jaw muscles
formed sudden ridges. I was not prepared for the
stream of profanities that followed. For a moment, I
thought he was going to take a swing at me.

"Wait a second," I said when he paused for breath.
"What did I say?"

"You're either making fun of the dead or you're stu-
pider than you look!"

"Say I'm stupid. Then tell me why."

He tore at the paper he carried, folded it back, found
an item, thrust it at me.

"Because they've got the guy who did it! That's
why," he said.

I read it. Simple, concise, to the point. Today's latest.
A suspect had confessed. New evidence had corroborat-
ed it. The man was in custody. A surprised robber who
had lost his head and hit too hard, hit too many times. I
read it over again.

I nodded as I passed it back.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "I really didn't know about
this."

"Get out of here," he said. "Go on."

"Sure."

"Wait a minute."

"What?"

"That's his little girl who answered the door," he said.

"I'm very sorry."

"So am I. But I know her Daddy didn't take your
damned equipment."

I nodded and turned away.

I heard the door slam behind me.

After dinner, I checked into a small hotel, called fer a
drink, and stepped into the shower.

Things were suddenly a lot less urgent than they had
been earlier. Senator Brockden would doubtless be
pleased to learn that his initial estimation of events had
been incorrect. Leila Thackery would give me an I-
told-you-so smile when I called her to pass along the
news -- a thing I now felt obliged to do. Don might or
might not want me to keep looking for the device now
that the threat had been lessened. It would depend on
the Senator's feelings on the matter, I supposed. If ur-
gency no longer counted for as much, Don might want
to switch back to one of his own, fiscally less burden-
some operatives. Toweling down, I caught myself whis-
thing. I felt almost off the hook.

Later, drink beside me, I paused before punching out
the number he had given me and hit the sequence for
my motel in St. Louis instead. Merely a matter of
efficiency, in case there was a message worth adding to
my report.

A woman's face appeared on the screen and a smile
appeared on her face. I wondered whether she would al-
ways smile whenever she heard a bell ring, or if the re-
flex was eventually extinguished in advanced retirement.
It must be rough, being afraid to chew gum, yawn, or
pick your nose.

"Airport Accommodations," she said. "May I help
you?"

"This is Donne. I'm checked into Room 106," I said.
"I'm away right now and I wondered whether there had
been any messages for me."

"Just a moment," she said, checking something off to
her left. Then, "Yes," she continued, consulting a piece
of paper she now held. "You have one on tape. But it is
a little peculiar. It is for someone else, in care of you."

"Oh? Who is that?"

She told me and I exercised self-control.

"I see," I said. "I'll bring him around later and play it
for him. Thank you."

She smiled again and made a good-bye noise, and I
did the same and broke the connection.

So Dave had seen through me after all. ... Who
else could have that number and my real name?

I might have given her some line or other and had her
transmit the thing. Only I was not certain but that she
might be a silent party to the transmission, should life be
more than usually boring for her at that moment. I had
to get up there myself, as soon as possible, and personal-
ly see that the thing was erased.

I took a big swallow of my drink, than fetched the
folder on Dave. I checked out his number -- there were
two, actually -- and spent fifteen minutes trying to get
hold of him. No luck.

Okay. Good-bye New Orleans, good-bye peace of
mind. This time I called the airport and made a reserva-
tion. Then I chugged the drink, put myself in order,
gathered up my few possessions, and went to check out
again. Hello Central...

During my earlier flights that day, I had spent time
thinking about Teilhard de Chardin's ideas on the con-
tinuation of evolution within the realm of artifacts,
matching them against Godel on mechanical undecid-
ability, playing epistemological games with the Hangman
as a counter, wondering, speculating, even hoping, hop-
ing that truth lay with the nobler part: (hat the Hang-
man, sentient, had made it back, sane, that the Bums
killing had acually been something of the sort that now
seemed to be the case, that the washed-out experiment
had really been a success of a different sort, a triumph,
a new link or fob for the chain of being . . . And Leila
had not been wholly discouraging with respect to the
neuristor-type brain's capacity for this. . . . Now,
though, now I had troubles of my own -- and even the
most heartening of philosophical vistas is no match for,
say, a toothache, if it happens to be your own.

Accordingly, the Hangman was shunted aside and the
stuff of my thoughts involved, mainly, myself. There
was, of course, the possibility that the Hangman had in-
deed showed up and Dave had stopped it and then
called to report it as he had promised. However, he had
used my name.

There was not too much planning that I could do un-
til I received the substance of. his communication. It did
not seem that as professedly religious a man as Dave
would suddenly be contemplating the blackmail busi-
ness. On the other hand, he was a creature of sudden
enthusiasms and had already undergone one unantici-
pated conversion. It was difficult to say. . . . His tech-
nical background plus his knowledge of the data bank
program did put him in an unusually powerful position,
should he decide to mess me up.

I did not like to think of some of the things I have
done to protect my nonperson status; I especially did
not like to think of them in connection with Dave,
whom I not only still respected but still liked. Since
self-interest dominated while actual planning was pre-
cluded, my thoughts tooled then- way into a more general
groove.

It was Karl Mannheim, a long while ago, who made
the observation that radical, revolutionary, and progres-
sive thinkers tend to employ mechanical metaphors for
the state, whereas those of conservative inclination make
vegetable analogies. He said it well over a generation
before the cybernetics movement and the ecology move-
ment beat their respective paths through the wilderness
of general awareness. If anything, it seemed to me that
these two developments served to elaborate the distinc-
tion between a pair of viewpoints which, while no longer
necessarily tied in with the political positions Mannheim
assigned them, do seem to represent a continuing phe-
nomenon in my own time. There are those who see
social/economic/ecological problems as malfunctions
which can be corrected by simple repair, replacement,
or streamlining -- a kind of linear outlook where even in-
novations are considered to be merely additive. Then
there are those who sometimes hesitate to move at all,
because their awareness follows events in the directions
of secondary and tertiary effects as they multiply and
crossfertilize throughout the entire system.  -- I digress to
extremes. The cybemeticists have their multiple-feed-
back loops, though it is never quite clear how they know
what kind of, which, and how many to install, and the
ecological gestaltists do draw lines representing points of
diminishing returns -- though it is sometimes equally dif-
ficult to see how they assign their values and priorities.

Of course they need each other, the vegetable people
and the tinker-toy people. They serve to check one an-
other, if nothing else. And while occasionally the bal-
ance dips, the tinkerers have, in general, held the edge
for the past couple of centuries. However, today's can
be just as politically conservative as the vegetable people
Mannheim was talking about, and they are the ones I
fear most at the moment. They are the ones who saw the
data bank program, in its present extreme form, as a
simple remedy for a great variety of ills and a provider
of many goods. Not all of the ills have been remedied,
however, and a new brood has been spawned by the
program itself. While we need both kinds, I wish that
there had been more people interested in tending the
garden of state rather than overhauling the engine of
state, when the program was inaugurated. Then I would
not be a refugee from a form of existence I find repug-
nant, and I would not be concerned whether or not a
former associate had discovered my identity.

Then, as I watched the lights below, I wondered . . .
Was I a tinkerer because I would like to further alter the
prevailing order, into something more comfortable to
my anarchic nature? Or was I a vegetable, dreaming I
was a tinkerer? I could not make up my mind. The gar-
den of life never seems to confine itself to the plots phi-
losophers have laid out for its convenience. Maybe a
few more tractors would do the trick.

I pressed the button.

The tape began to roll. The screen remained blank. I
heard Dave's voice ask for John Donne in Room 106
and I heard him told that there was no answer. Then I
heard him say that he wanted to record a message, for
someone else, in care of Donne, that Donne would un-
derstand. He sounded out of breath. The girl asked him
whether he wanted visual, too. He told her to turn it on.
There was a pause. Then she told him to go ahead. Still
no picture. No words, either. His breathing and a slight
scraping noise. Ten seconds. Fifteen . . .

"... Got me," he finally said, and he mentioned my
name again. "... Had to let you know I'd figured you
out, though. ... It wasn't any particular mannerism
 -- any simple thing you said . . . just your general style
 -- thinking, talking -- the electronics -- everything -- after
I got more and more bothered by the familiarity -- after
I checked you on petrochem -- and marine bio --  Wish I
knew what you'd really been up to all these years. . . .
Never know now. But I wanted you -- to know -- you
hadn't put one -- over on me."

There followed another quarter minute of heavy
breathing, climaxed by a racking cough. Then a chocked,
"... Said too much -- too fast -- too soon. . . . All
used up. . . ."

The picture came on then. He was slouched before
the screen, head resting on his arms, blood all over him.
His glasses were gone and he was squinting and blink-
ing. The right side of his head looked pulpy and there
was a gash on his left cheek and one on his forehead.

"... Sneaked up on me -- while I was checking you
out," he managed. "Had to tell you what I learned. . . .
Still don't know -- which of us is right. . . . Pray for
me!"

His arms collapsed and the right one slid forward. His
head rolled to the right and the picture went away.
When I replayed it, I saw it was his knuckle that had hit
the cutoff.

Then I erased it. It had been recorded only a little
over an hour after I had left him. If he had not also
placed a call for help, if no one had gotten to him quick-
ly after that, his chances did not look good. Even if they
had, though . . .

I used a public booth to call the number Don had giv-
en me, got hold of him after some delay, told him Dave
was in bad shape if not worse, that a team of Memphis
medics was definitely in order if one had not been by al-
ready, and that I hoped to call him back and tell him
more shortly, good-bye.

Next I tried Leila Thackery's number. I let it go for a
long while, but there was no answer. I wondered how
long it would take a controlled torpedo moving up the
Mississippi to get from Memphis to St. Louis. I did not
feel it was time to start leafing through that section of
the Hangman's specs. Instead, I went looking for trans-
portation.

At her apartment, I tried ringing her from the en-
trance foyer. Again, no answer. So I rang Mrs. Gluntz.
She had seemed the most guileless of the three I had in-
terviewed for my fake consumer survey.

"Yes?"

"It's me again, Mrs. Gluntz: Stephen Foster. I've just
a couple follow-up questions on that survey I was doing
today, if you could spare me a few moments."

"Why, yes," she said. "All right. Come up."

The door hummed itself loose and I entered. I duly
proceeded to the fifth floor, composing my questions on
the way. I had planned this maneuver as I had waited
earlier solely to provide a simple route for breaking and
entering, should some unforeseen need arise. Most of
the time my ploys such as this go unused, but sometimes
they simplify matters a lot.

Five minutes and half a dozen questions later, I was
back down on the second floor, probing at the lock on
Leila's door with a couple of little pieces of metal it is
sometimes awkward to be caught carrying.

Half a minute later, I hit it right and snapped it back.
I pulled on some tissue-thin gloves I keep rolled in the
comer of one pocket, opened the door and stepped in-
side. I closed it behind me immediately.

She was lying on the floor, her neck at a bad angle.

Home Is the Hangman II 189

One table lamp still burned, though it was lying on its
side. Several small items had been knocked from the ta-
ble, a magazine rack pushed over, a cushion partly dis-
placed from the sofa. The cable to her phone unit had
been torn from the wall.

A humming noise filled the air, and I sought its
source.

I saw where the little blinking light was reflected on
the wall, on -- off, on -- off. . .

I moved quickly.

It was a lopsided basket of metal, quartz, porcelain,
and glass, which had rolled to a position on the far side
of the chair in which I had been seated earlier that day.
The same rig I'd seen in Dave's workshop not all that
long ago, though it now seemed so. A device to detect
the Hangman. And, hopefully, to control it.

I picked it up and fitted it over my head.

Once, with the aid of a telepath, I had touched minds
with a dolphin as he composed dreamsongs somewhere
in the Caribbean, an experience so moving that its mere
memory had often been a comfort. This sensation was
hardly equivalent

Analogies and impressions: a face seen through a wet
pane of glass; a whisper in a noisy terminal; scalp mas-
sage with an electric vibrator; Edvard Munch's The
Scream; the voice of Yma Sumac, rising and rising and
rising; the disappearance of snow; a deserted street, illu-
minated as through a sniperscope I'd once used, rapid
movement past darkened storefronts that line it, an im-
mense feeling of physical capability, compounded of
proprioceptive awareness of enormous strength, a pecu-
liar array of sensory channels, a central, undying sun
that fed me a constant flow of energy, a memory vision
of dark waters, passing, flashing, echo-location within
them, the need to return to that place, reorient, move
north; Munch and Sumac, Munch and Sumac, Munch
and Sumac --  Nothing.

Silence.

The humming had ceased, the light gone out. The en-
tire experience had lasted only a few moments. There
had not been time enough to try for any sort of control,
though an after-impression akin to a biofeedback cue
hinted at the direction to go, the way to think, to
achieve it. I felt that it might be possible for me to work
the thing, given a better chance.

Removing the helmet, I approached Leila.

I knelt beside her and performed a few simple tests, al-
ready knowing their outcome. In addition to the broken
neck, she had received some bad bashes about the head
and shoulders. There was nothing that anyone could do
for her now.

I did a quick runthrough then, checking over the rest
of her apartment. There were no apparent signs of
breaking and entering, though if I could pick one lock, a
guy with built-in tools could easily go me one better.

I located some wrapping paper and string in the
kitchen and turned the helmet into a parcel. It was time
to call Don again, to tell him that the vessel had indeed
been occupied and that river traffic was probably bad in
the northbound lane.

Don had told me to get the helmet up to Wisconsin,
where I would be met at the airport by a man named
Larry, who would fly me to the lodge in a private craft.
I did that, and this was done.

I also learned, with no real surprise, that David Fen-
tris was dead.

The temperature was down, and it began to snow on
the way up. I was not really dressed for the weather.
Larry told me I could borrow some warmer clothing
once we reached the lodge, though I probably would not
be going outside that much. Don had told them that I
was supposed to stay as close to the Senator as possible
and that any patrols were to be handled by the four
guards themselves.

Larry was curious as to what exactly had happened so
far and whether I had actually seen the Hangman. I did
not think it my place to fill him in on anything Don may
not have cared to, so I might have been a little curt. We
didn't talk much after that.

Bert met us when we landed. Tom and Clay were
outside the building, watching the trail, watching the
woods. All of them were middle-aged, very fit-looking,
very serious, and heavily armed. Larry took me inside
flien and introduced me to the old gentleman himself.

Senator Brockden was seated in a heavy chair in the
far comer of the room. Judging from the layout, it ap-
peared that the chair might recently have occupied a po-
sition beside the window in the opposite wall where a
lonely watercolor of yellow flowers looked down on
nothing. The Senator's feet rested on a hassock, a red
plaid blanket lay across his legs. He had on a dark-green
shirt, his hair was very white, and he wore rimless read-
ing glasses which he removed when we entered.

He tilted his head back, squinted, and gnawed his
lower lip slowly as he studied me. He remained expres-
sionless as we advanced. A big-boned man, he had
probably been beefy much of his life. Now he had the
slack look of recent weight loss and an unhealthy skin
tone. His eyes were a pale gray within it all.

He did not rise.

"So you're the man," he said, offering me his hand.
"I'm glad to meet you. How do you want to be called?"

"John will do," I said.

He made a small sign to Larry, and Larry departed.

"It's cold out there. Go get yourself a drink, John. It's
on the shelf." He gestured off to his left. "And bring me
one while you're at it. Two fingers of bourbon in a water
glass. That's all."

I nodded and went and poured a couple.

"Sit down." He motioned at a nearby chair as I deliv-
ered his. "But first let me see that gadget you've
brought."

I undid the parcel and handed him the helmet. He
sipped his drink and put it aside. Taking the helmet in
both hands, he studied it, brows furrowed, turning it
completely around. He raised it and put it on his head.

"Not a bad fit," he said, and then he smiled for the
first time, becoming for a moment the face I had known
from newscasts past. Grinning or angry -- it was almost
always one or the other. I had never seen his collapsed
look in any of the media.

He removed the helmet and set it on the floor.

"Pretty piece of work," he said. "Nothing quite that
fancy in the old days. But then David Fentris built it.
Yes, he told us about it. . . ." He raised his drink and
took a sip. "You are the only one who has actually got-
ten to use it, apparently. What do you think? Will it do
the job?"

"I was only in contact for a couple seconds, so I've
only got a feeling to go on, not much better than a
hunch. But yes, I'd a feeling that if I had had more time
I might have been able to work its circuits."

"Tell me why it didn't save Dave."

"In the message he left me, he indicated that he had
been distracted at his computer access station. Its noise
probably drowned out the humming."

"Why wasn't this message preserved?"

"I erased it for, reasons not connected with the case."

"What reasons?"

"My own."

His face went from sallow to ruddy.

"A man can get in a lot of trouble for suppressing
evidence, obstructing justice."

"Then we have something in common, don't we, sir?"

His eyes caught mine with a look I had only encoun-
tered before from those who did not wish me well. He
held the glare for a full four heartbeats, then sighed and
seemed to relax.

"Don said there were a number of points you couldn't
be pressed on," he finally said.

"That's right."

"He didn't betray any confidences, but he had to tell
me something about you, you know."

"I'd imagine."

"He seems to think highly of you. Still, I tried to
learn more about you on my own."

"And . . . ?"

"I couldn't -- and my usual sources are good at that
kind of thing."

"So . . . ?"

"So, I've done some thinking, some wondering. . . .
The fact that my sources could not come up with any-
thing is interesting in itself. Possibly even revealing. I
am in a better position than most to be aware of the fact
that there was not perfect compliance with the registra-
tion statute some years ago. It didn't take long for a
great number of the individuals involved -- I should
probably say 'most' -- to demonstrate their existence in
one fashion or another and be duly entered, though.
And there were three broad categories: those who were
ignorant, those who disapproved, and those who would
be hampered in an illicit life-style. I am not attempting
to categorize you or to pass judgment. But I am aware
that there are a number of nonpersons passing through
society without casting shadows, and it has occurred to
me that you may be such a one."

I tasted my drink.

"And if I am?" I asked.

He gave me his second, nastier smile and said noth-
ing.

I rose and crossed the room to where I judged his
chair had once stood. I looked at the watercolor.

"I don't think you could stand an inquiry," he said.

I did not reply.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"You might ask me what I am going to do about it."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," he answered. "So come back here and sit
down."

I nodded and returned.

He studied my face. "Was it possible you were close
to violence just then?"

"With four guards outside?"

"With four guards outside."

"No," I said.

"You're a good liar."

"I am here to help you, sir. No questions asked. That
was the deal, as I understood it. If there has been any
change, I would like to know about it now."

He drummed with his fingertips on fhe plaid.

"I've no desire to cause you any difficulty," he said.
"Fact of the matter is, I need a man just like you, and I
was pretty sure someone like Don might turn him up.
Your unusual maneuverability and your reported knowl-
edge of computers, along with your touchiness in certain
areas, made you worth waiting for. I've a great number
of things I would like to ask you."

"Go ahead," I said.

"Not yet. Later, if we have time. All that would be
bonus material, for a report I am working on. Far more
important -- to me, personally -- there are things that I
want to tell you."

I frowned.

"Over the years," he went on, "I have learned that
the best man for purposes of keeping his mouth shut
concerning your business is someone for whom you are
doing the same."

"You have a compulsion to confess something?" I
asked.

"I don't know whether 'compulsion' is the right word.
Maybe so, maybe not. Either way, however, someone
among those working to defend me should have the
whole story. Something somewhere in it may be of help
 -- and you are the ideal choice to hear it."

"I buy that," I said, "and you are as safe with me as I
am with you."

"Have you any suspicions as to why this business
bothers me so?"

"Yes," I said.

"Let's hear them."

"You used the Hangman to perform some act or acts
 -- illegal, immoral, whatever. This is obviously not a
matter of record. Only you and the Hangman now know
what it involved. You feel it was sufficiently ignominious
that when that device came to appreciate the full weight
of the event, it suffered a breakdown which may well
have led to a final determination to punish you for using
it as you did."

He stared down into his glass.

"You've got it," he said.

"You were all party to it?"

"Yes, but / was the operator when it happened. You
see ... we -- I -- killed a man. It was --  Actually, it all
started as a celebration. We had received word that af-
ternoon that the project had cleared. Everything had
checked out in order and the final approval had come
down the line. It was go, for that Friday. Leila, Dave,
Manny, and myself -- we had dinner together. We were
in high spirits. After dinner, we continued celebrating
and somehow the party got adjourned back to the instal-
lation.

"As the evening wore on, more and more absurdities
seemed less and less preposterous, as is sometimes the
case. We decided -- I forget which of us suggested it -- 
that the Hangman should really have a share in the fes-
tivities. After all, it was, in a very real sense, his party.
Before too much longer, it sounded only fair and we
were discussing how we could go about it.  -- You see,
we were in Texas and the Hangman was at the Space
Center in California. Getting together with him was out
of the question. On the other hand, the teleoperator sta-
tion was right up the hall from us. What we finally de-
cided to do was to activate him and take turns working
as operator. There was already a rudimentary conscious-
ness there, and we felt it fitting that we each get in touch
to share the good news. So that is what we did."
He sighed, took another sip, glanced at me.
"Dave was the first operator," he continued. "He acti-
vated the Hangman. Then --  Well, as I said, we were all
in high spirits. We had not originally intended to remove
the Hangman from the lab where he was situated, but
Dave decided to take him outside briefly -- to show him
the sky and to tell him he was going there, after all.
Then Dave suddenly got enthusiastic about outwitting
the guards and the alarm system. It was a game. We all
went along with it. In fact, we were clamoring for a turn
at the thing ourselves. But Dave stuck with it, and he
wouldn't turn over control until he had actually gotten
the Hangman off the premises, out into an uninhabited
area next to the Center.

"By the time Leila persuaded him to give her a go at
the controls, it was kind of anticlimactic. That game had
already been played. So she thought up a new one: she
took the Hangman into the next town. It was late, and
the sensory equipment was superb. It was a challenge -- 
passing through the town without being detected. By
then, everyone had suggestions as to what to do next,
progressively more outrageous suggestions. Then Manny
took control, and he wouldn't say what he was doing -- 
wouldn't let us monitor him. Said it would be more fun
to surprise the next operator. Now, he was higher than
the rest of us put together, I think, and he stayed on so
damn long that we started to get nervous.  -- A certain
amount of tension is partly sobering, and I guess we all
began to think what a stupid-assed thing it was we were
doing. It wasn't just that it would wreck our careers -- 
which it would -- but it could blow the entire project if
we got caught playing games with such expensive hard-
ware. At least, / was thinking that way, and I was also
thinking that Manny was no doubt operating under the
very human wish to go the others one better.

"I started to sweat. I suddenly just wanted to get the
Hangman back where he belonged, turn him off -- you
could still do that, before the final circuits went in -- shut
down the station, and start forgetting it had ever hap-
pened. I began leaning on Manny to wind up his diver-
sion and turn the controls over to me. Finally, he
agreed."

He finished his drink and held out the glass.

"Would you freshen this a bit?"

"Surely."

I went and got him some more, added a touch to my
own, returned to my chair and waited.

"So I took over," he said. "I took over, and where do
you think that idiot had left me? I was inside a building,
and it didn't take but an eyeblink to realize it was a
bank. The Hangman carries a lot of tools, and Manny
had apparently been able to guide him through the
doors without setting anything off. I was standing right
in front of the main vault. Obviously, he thought that
should be my challenge. I fought down a desire to turn
and make my own exit in the nearest wall and start run-
ning. But I went back to the doors and looked outside.

"I didn't see anyone. I started to let myself out. The
light hit me as I emerged. It was a hand flash. The
guard had been standing out of sight. He'd a gun in his
other hand. I panicked. I hit him.  -- Reflex. If I am
going to hit someone, I hit him as hard as I can. Only I
hit him with the strength of the Hangman. He must have
died instantly. I started to run and I didn't stop till I was
back in the little park area near the Center. Then I
stopped and the others had to take me out of the har-
ness."

"They monitored all mis?" I asked.

"Yes, someone cut the visual in on a side viewscreen
again a few seconds after I took over. Dave, I think."

"Did they try to stop you at any time while you were
running away?"

"No. Well, I wasn't aware of anything but what I was
doing at the time. But afterwards they said they were
too shocked to do anything but watch, until I gave out."

"I see."

"Dave took over then, ran his initial route in reverse,
got the Hangman back into the lab, cleaned him up,
turned him off. We shut down the operator station. We
were suddenly very sober."

He sighed and leaned back, and was silent for a long
while.

Then, "You are the only person I've ever told this to,"
he said.

I tasted my own drink.

"We went over to Leila's place then," he continued,
"and the rest is pretty much predictable. Nothing we
could do would bring the guy back, we decided, but if
we told what had happened it could wreck an expensive,
important program. It wasn't as if we were criminals in
need of rehabilitation. It was a once-in-a-lifetime lark
that happened to end tragically. What would you have
done?"

"I don't know. Maybe the same thing. I'd have been
scared, too."

He nodded.

"Exactly. And that's the story."

"Not all of it, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"What about the Hangman? You said there was al-
ready a detectable consciousness there. You were aware
of it, and it was aware of you. It must have had some re-
action to the whole business. What was that like?"

"Damn you," he said flatly.

"I'm sorry."

"Are you a family man?" he asked.

"No."

"Did you ever take a small child to a zoo?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe you know the experience. When my
son was around four I took him to the Washington Zoo
one afternoon. We must have walked past every cage in
the place. He made appreciative comments every now
and then, asked a few questions, giggled at the monkeys,
thought the bears were very nice -- probably because
they made him think of oversized toys. But do you know
what the finest thing of all was? The thing that made
him jump up and down and point and say, 'Look, Dad-
dy! Look!'?"

I shook my head.

"A squirrel looking down from the limb of a tree," he
said, and he chuckled briefly. "Ignorance of what's im-
portant and what isn't. Inappropriate responses. Inno-
cence. The Hangman was a child, and up until the time I
took over, the only thing he had gotten from us was the
idea that it was a game: he was playing with us, that's
all. Then something horrible happened. ... I hope
you never know what it feels like to do something totally
rotten to a child, while he is holding your hand and
laughing. ... He felt all my reactions, and all of
Dave's as he guided him back."

We sat there for a long while then.

"So we had -- traumatized him," he said finally, "or
whatever other fancy terminology you might want to
give it. That is what happened that night. It took a while
for it to take effect, but there is no doubt in my mind
that that is the cause of the Hangman's finally breaking
down."

I nodded. "I see. And you believe it wants to kill you
for this?"

"Wouldn't you?" he said. "If you had started out as a
thing and we had turned you into a person and then
used you as a thing again, wouldn't you?"

"Leila left a lot out of her diagnosis."

"No, she just omitted it in talking to you. It was all
there. But she read it wrong. She wasn't afraid. It was
just a game it had played -- with the others. Its memories
of that part might not be as bad. I was the one that real-
ly marked it. As I see it, Leila was betting that I was the
only one it was after. Obviously, she read it wrong."

"Then what I do not understand," I said, "is why the
Bums killing did not bother her more. There was no
way of telling immediately that it had been a panicky
hoodlum rather than the Hangman."

"The only thing that I can see is that, being a very
proud woman -- which she was -- she was willing to hold
with her diagnosis in the face of the apparent evidence."

"I don't like it. But you know her and I don't, and as
it tamed out her estimate of that part was correct.
Something else bothers me just as much, though: the
helmet. It looks as if the Hangman killed Dave, then
took the 'trouble to bear the helmet in his watertight
compartment all the way to St. Louis, solely for pur-
poses of dropping it at the scene of his next killing. That
makes no sense whatsoever."

"It does, actually," he said. "I was going to get to that
shortly, but I might as well cover it now. You see, the
Hangman possessed no vocal mechanism. We communi-
cated by means of the equipment. Don says you know
something about electronics . . . ?"

"Yes."

"Well, shortly, I want you to start checking over that
helmet, to see whether it has been tampered with."

"That is going to be difficult," I said. "I don't know
just how it was wired originally, and I'm not such a ge-
nius on the theory that I can just look at a thing and say
whether it will function as a teleoperator unit."

He bit his lower lip.

"You will have to try, anyhow. There may be physi-
cal signs -- scratches, breaks, new connections.  -- I don't
know. That's your department. Look for them."

I just nodded and waited for him to go on.

"I think that the Hangman wanted to talk to Leila,"
he said, "either because she was a psychiatrist and he
knew he was functioning badly at a level that transcend-
ed the mechanical, or because he might think of her in
terms of a mother. After all, she was the only woman in-
volved, and he had the concept of mother -- with all the
comforting associations that go with it -- from all of our
minds. Or maybe for both of these reasons. I feel he
might have taken the helmet along for -that purpose. He
would have realized what it was from a direct monitor-
ing of Dave's brain while he was with him. I want you to
check it over because it would seem possible that the
Hangman disconnected the control circuits and left the
communication circuits intact. I think he might have
taken the helmet to Leila in that condition and attempt-
ed to induce her to put it on. She got scared -- tried to
run away, fight, or call for help -- and he killed her. The
helmet was no longer of any use to him, so he discarded
it and departed. Obviously, he does not have anything to
say to me."

I thought about it, nodded again.

"Okay, broken circuits I can spot," I said. "If you
will tell me where a tool kit is, I had better get right to
it."

He made a stay-put gesture with his left hand.

"Afterwards, I found out the identity of the guard,"
he went on. "We all contributed to an anonymous gift
for his widow. I have done things for his family, taken
care of them -- the same way -- ever since. . . ."

I did not look at him as he spoke.

". . . There was nothing else that I could do," he fin-
ished.

I remained silent.

He finished his drink and gave me a weak smile.

"The kitchen is back there," he told me, showing me
a thumb. "There is a utility room right behind it. Tools
are in there."

"Okay."

I got to my feet. I retrieved the helmet and started to-
ward the doorway, passing near the area where I had
stood earlier, back when he had fitted me into the prop-
er box and tightened a screw.

"Wait a minute!" he said.

I stopped.

"Why did you go over there before? What's so stra-
tegic about that part of the room?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

I shrugged.

"Had to go someplace."

"You seem the sort of person who has better reasons
than that."

I glanced at the walL

"Not then," I said.

"I insist."

"You really don't want to know," I told him.

"I really do."

"All right. I wanted to see what sort of flowers you
liked. After all, you're a client," and I went on back
through the kitchen into the utility room and started
looking for tools.

I sat in a chair turned sidewise from the table to face
the door. In the main room of the lodge the only sounds
were the occasional hiss and sputter of the logs turning
to ashes on the grate.

Just a cold, steady whiteness drifting down outside
the window and a silence confirmed by gunfire, driven
deeper now that it had ceased. . . . Not a sigh or a
whimper, though. And I never count them as storms un-
less there is wind.

Big fat flakes down the night, silent night, windless
night ...

Considerable time had passed since my arrival. The
Senator had sat up for a long time talking with me. He
was disappointed that I could not tell him too much
about a nonperson subculture which he believed existed.
I really was not certain about it myself, though I had oc-
casionally encountered what might have been its fringes.
I am not much of a joiner of anything anymore, howev-
er, and I was not about to mention those things I might
have guessed about this. I gave him my opinions on the
Central Data Bank when he asked for them, and there
were some that he did not like. He had accused me,
then, of wanting to tear things down without offering
anything better in their place.

My mind had drifted back, through fatigue and time
and faces and snow and a lot of space, to the previous
evening in Baltimore. How long ago? It made me think
of Mencken's The Cult of Hope. I could not give him
the pat answer, the workable alternative that he wanted,
because there might not be one. The function of criti-
cism should not be confused with the function of reform.
But if a grass-roots resistance was building up, with an
underground movement bent on finding ways to circum-
vent the record keepers, it might well be that much of
the enterprise would eventually prove about as effective
and beneficial as, say, Prohibition once had. I tried to
get him to see this, but I could not tell how much he
bought of anything that I said. Eventually, he flaked out
and went upstairs to take a pill and lock himself in for
the night. If it had troubled him that I'd not been able to
find anything wrong with the helmet, he did not show it.

So I sat there, the helmet, the walkie-talkie, the gun
on the table, the tool kit on me floor beside my chair,
the black glove on my left hand.

The Hangman was coming. I did not doubt it.

Bert, Larry, Tom, Clay, the helmet, might or might
not be able to stop him. Something bothered me about
the whole case, but I was too tired to think of anything
but the immediate situation, to try to remain alert while
I waited. I was afraid to take a stimulant or a drink or
to light a cigarette, since my central nervous system it-
self was to be a part of the weapon. I watched the big
fat flakes fly by.

I called out to Bert and Larry when I heard the click.

I picked up the helmet and rose to my feet as its light
began to blink.

But it was already too late.

As I raised the helmet, I heard a shot from outside,
and with that shot I felt a premonition of doom. They
did not seem the sort of men who would fire until they
had a target.

Dave had told me that the helmet's range was ap-
proximately a quarter of a mile. Then, given the time
lag between the helmet's activation and the Hangman's
sighting by the near guards, the Hangman had to be
moving very rapidly. To this add the possibility that the
Hangman's range on brainwaves might well be greater
than the helmet's range on the Hangman. And then
grant the possibility that he had utilized this factor while
Senator Brockden was still lying awake, worrying. Con-
clusion: the Hangman might well be aware that I was
where I was with the helmet, realize that it was the most
dangerous weapon waiting for him, and be moving for a
lightning strike at me before I could come to terms with
the mechanism.

I lowered it over my head and tried to throw all of my
faculties into neutral.

Again, the sensation of viewing the world through a
sniperscope, with all the concomitant side-sensations.
Except that world consisted of the front of the lodge;

Bert, before the door, rifle at his shoulder; Larry, off to
the left, arm already fallen from the act of having
thrown a grenade. The grenade, we instantly realized,
was an overshot; the flamer, at which he now groped,
would prove useless before he could utilize it.

Bert's next round richocheted off our breastplate to-
ward the left. The impact staggered us momentarily.
The third was a miss. There was no fourth, for we tore
the rifle from his grasp and cast it aside as we swept by,
crashing into the front door.

The Hangman entered the room as the door splin-
tered and collapsed.

My mind was filled to the splitting point with the dou-
ble vision of the sleek, gunmetal body of the advancing
telefactor and the erect, crazy-crowned image of myself
 -- left hand extended, laser pistol in my right, that arm
pressed close against my side. I recalled the face and the
scream and the tingle, knew again that awareness of
strength and exotic sensation, and I moved to control it
all as if it were my own, to make it my own, to bring it
to a halt, while the image of myself was frozen to snap-
shot stillness across the room. . . .

The Hangman slowed, stumbled. Such inertia is not
canceled in an instant, but I felt the body responses pass
as they should. I had him hooked. It was just a matter of
reeling him in.

Then came the explosion -- a thunderous, ground-
shaking eruption right outside, followed by a hail of
pebbles and debris. The grenade, of course. But aware-
ness of its nature did not destroy its ability to distract.

During that moment, the Hangman recovered and
was upon me. I triggered the laser as I reverted to pure
self-preservation, foregoing any chance to regain control
of his circuits. With my left hand I sought for a strike at
the midsection, where his brain was housed.

He blocked my hand with his arm as he pushed the
helmet from my head. Then he removed from my fin-
gers the gun that had turned half of his left side red hot,
crumpled it, and dropped it to the ground. At that mo-
ment, he jerked with the impacts of two heavy-caliber
slugs. Bert, rifle recovered, stood in the doorway.

The Hangman pivoted and was away before I could
slap him with the smother charge.

Bert hit him with one more round before he took the
rifle and bent its barrel in half. Two steps and he had
hold of Bert. One quick movement and Bert fell. Then
the Hangman turned again and took several steps to the
right, passing out of sight.

I made it to the doorway in time to see him engulfed
in flames, which streamed at him from a point near the
comer of the lodge. He advanced through them. I heard
the crunch of metal as he destroyed the unit. I was out-
side in time to see Larry fall and lie sprawled in the
snow.

Then the Hangman faced me once again.

This time he did not rush in. He retrieved the helmet
from where he had dropped it in the snow. Then he
moved with a measured tread, angling outward so as to
cut off any possible route I might follow in a dash for
the woods. Snowflakes drifted between us. The snow
crunched beneath his feet.

I retreated, backing in through the doorway, stooping
to snatch up a two-foot club from the ruins of the door.
He followed me inside, placing the helmet -- almost cas-
ually -- on the chair by the entrance. I moved to the cen-
ter of the room and waited.

I bent slightly forward, both arms extended, the end
of the stick pointed at the photoceptors in his head. He
continued to move slowly and I watched his foot assem-
blies. With a standard-model human, a line perpendicu-
lar to the line connecting the insteps of the feet in their
various positions indicates the vector of least resistance
for purposes of pushing or pulling said organism off-bal-
ance. Unfortunately, despite the anthropomorphic de-
sign job, the Hangman's legs were positioned farther
apart, he lacked human skeletal muscles, not to mention
insteps, and he was possessed of a lot more mass than
any man I had ever fought. As I considered my four
best judo throws and several second-class ones, I'd a
strong feeling none of them would prove very effective.

Then he moved in and I feinted toward the photore-
ceptors. He slowed as he brushed the club aside, but he
kept coming, and I moved to my right, trying to circle
him. I studied him as he turned, attempting to guess his
vector of least resistance.

Bilateral symmetry, an apparently higher center of
gravity . . . One clear shot, black glove to brain com-
partment, was all that I needed. Then, even if his reflexes
served to smash me immediately, he just might stay
down for the big long count himself. He knew it, too. I
could tell that from the way he kept his right arm in
near the brain area, from the way he avoided the black
glove when I feinted with it.

The idea was a glimmer one instant, an entire se-
quence the next. . . .

Continuing my arc and moving faster, I made another
thrust toward his photoreceptors. His swing knocked the
stick from my hand and sent it across the room, but that
was all right. I threw my left hand high and made ready
to rush him. He dropped back and I did rush. This was
going to cost me my life, I decided, but no matter how
he killed me from that angle, I'd get my chance.

As a kid, I had never been much as a pitcher, was a
lousy catcher and only a so-so batter, but once I did get
a hit I could steal bases with some facility after that. . . .

Feet first then, between the Hangman's legs as he
moved to guard his middle, I went in twisted to the
right, because no matter what happened I could not use
my left hand to brake myself. I untwisted as soon as I
passed beneath him, ignoring the pain as my left shoul-
der blade slammed against the floor. I immediately at-
tempted a backward somersault, legs spread.

My legs caught him at about the middle from behind,
and I fought to straighten them and snapped forward
with all my strength. He reached down toward me then,
but it might as well have been miles. His torso was al-
ready moving backward. A push, not a pull, was what I
gave him, my elbows hooked about his legs.

He creaked once and then he toppled. Snapping my
arms out to the sides to free them, I continued my
movement forward and up as he went back, throwing
my left arm ahead once more and sliding my legs free of
his torso as he went down with a thud that cracked floor-
boards. I pulled my left leg free as I cast myself for-
ward, but his left leg stiffened and locked my right be-
neath it, at a painful angle off to the side.

His left arm blocked my blow and his right fell atop
it. The black glove descended upon his left shoulder.

I twisted my hand free of the charge, and he trans-
ferred his grip to my upper arm and jerked me forward.
The charge went off and his left arm came loose and
rolled on the floor. The side plate beneath it had buck-
led a little, and that was all. . . .

His right hand left my biceps and caught me by the
throat. As two of his digits tightened upon my carotids, I
choked out, "You're making a bad mistake," to get in a
final few words, and then he switched me off.

A throb at a time, the world came back. I was seated
in the big chair the Senator had occupied earlier, my
eyes focused on nothing in particular. A persistent buzz-
ing filled my ears. My scalp tingled. Something was
blinking on my brow.

 -- Yes, you live and you wear the helmet. If you at-
tempt to use it against me, 1 shall remove it. I am stand-
ing directly behind you. My hand is on the helmet's rim.

-/ understand. What is it that you want?

 -- Very tittle, actually. But I can see that I must tell
you some things before you will believe this.

 -- You see correctly.

 -- Then 1 will begin by telling you that the four men
outside are basically undamaged. That is to say, none of
their bones have been broken, none of their organs rup-
tured. I have secured them, however, for obvious rea-
sons.

 -- That was very considerate of you.

 -- I have no desire to harm anyone. I came here only
to see Jesse Brockden.

 -- The same way you saw David Fentris7

 -- / arrived in Memphis too late to see David Fentris.
He was dead when I reached him.

 -- Who killed him?

 -- The man Leila sent to bring her the helmet. He
was one of her patients.

The incident returned to me and fell into place with a
smooth, quick, single click. The startled, familiar face at
the airport as I was leaving Memphis. I realized where
he had passed, noteless, before: he had been one of the
three men in for a thereapy session at Leila's that morn-
ing, seen by me in the lobby as they departed. The man
I had passed in Memphis was the nearer of the two who
stood waiting while the third came over to tell me that it
was all right to go on up.

 -- Why7 Why did she do it!

 -- I know only that she had spoken with David at
some earlier time, that she had construed his words of
coming retribution and his mention of the control hel-
met he was constructing as indicating that his intentions
were to become the agent of that retribution, with my-
self as the proximate cause. I do not know what words
were really spoken. I only know her feelings concerning
them, as I saw them in her mind. I have been long in
learning that there is often a great difference between
what is meant, what is said, what is done, and that
which is believed to have been intended or stated and that
which actually occurred. She sent her patient after the
helmet and he brought it to her. He returned in an agitat-
ed state of mind, fearful of apprehension and further
confinement. They quarreled. My approach then acti-
vated the helmet, and he dropped it and attacked her. I
know that his first blow killed her, for I was in her mind
when it happened. I continued to approach the building,
intending to go to her. There was some traffic, however,
and I was delayed en route in seeking to avoid detec-
tion. In the meantime, you entered and utilized the hel-
met. I fled immediately.

 -- I was so close! If I had not stopped on the fifth
floor with my fake survey questions . . .

 -- I see. But you had to. You would not simply have
broken in when an easier means of entry was available.
You cannot blame yourself for that reason. Had you
come an hour later -- or a day -- you would doubtless feel
differently, and she would still be as dead.

But another thought had risen to plague me as well.
Was it possible that the man's sighting me in Memphis
had been the cause of his agitation? Had his apparent
recognition by Leila's mysterious caller upset him?
Could a glimpse of my face amid the manswarm have
served to lay that final scene?

 -- Stop! I could as easily feel that guilt for having ac-
tivated the helmet in the presence of a dangerous man
near to the breaking point. Neither of us is responsible
for things our presence or absence cause to occur in oth-
ers, especially when we are ignorant of the effects. It
was years before I learned to appreciate this fact, and I
have no intention of abandoning it. How far back do you
wish to go in seeking causes? In sending the man for the
helmet as she did, it was she herself who instituted the
chain of events which led to her destruction. Yet she
acted out of fear, utilizing the readiest weapon in what
she thought to be her own defense. Yet whence this
fear? Its roots lay in guilt, over a thing which had hap-
pened long ago. And that act also --  Enough! Guilt has
driven and damned the race of man since the days of its
earliest rationality. I am convinced that it rides with all
of us to our graves. I am a product of guilt -- I see that
you know that. Its product; its subject; once its slave . . .
But I have come to terms with it: realising at last that it is a
necessary adjunct of my own measure of humanity. I see
your assessment of the deaths -- that guard's, Dave's,
Leila's -- and I see your conclusions on many other things
as well: what a stupid, perverse, short-sighted, selfish race
we are. While in many ways this is true, it is but another
part of the thing the guilt represents. Without guilt, man
would be no better than the other inhabitants of this
planet -- excepting certain cetaceans, of which you have
just at this moment made me aware. Look to instinct for
a true assessment of the ferocity of life, for a view of the
natural world before man came upon it. For instinct in
its purest form, seek out the insects. There, you will see a
state of warfare which has existed for millions of years
with never a truce. Man, despite enormous shortcom-
ings, is nevertheless possessed of a greater number of
kindly impulses than all the other beings, where instincts
are the larger part of life. These impulses, I believe, are
owed directly to this capacity for guilt. It is involved in
both the worst and the best of man.

 -- And you see it as helping us to sometimes choose a
nobler course of action!

 -- Yes, I do.

 -- Then I take it you feel you are possessed of a free
will?

 -- Yes.
I chuckled.

 -- Marvin Minsky once said that when intelligent ma-
chines were constructed, they would be just as stubborn
and fallible as men on these questions.

 -- Nor was he incorrect. What I have given you on
these matters is only my opinion. I choose to act as if it
were the case. Who can say that he knows for certain?

 -- Apologies. What now? Why have you come back?

 -- I came to say good-bye to my parents. I hoped to
remove any guilt they might still feel toward me con-
cerning the days of my childhood. I wanted to show
them I had recovered. I wanted to see them again.

 -- Where are you going?

 -- To the stars. While I bear the image of humanity
within me, I also know that I am unique. Perhaps what I
desire is akin to what an organic man refers to when he
speaks of "finding himself." Now that I am in full pos-
session of my being, I wish to exercise it. In my case, it
means realization of the potentialities of my design. I
want to walk on other worlds. I want to hang myself out
there in the sky and tell you what I see.

 -- I've a feeling many people would be happy to help
arrange for that.

 -- And I want you to build a vocal mechanism I have
designed for myself. You, personally. And I want you to
install it.

 -- Why me?

 -- I nave known only a few persons in this fashion.
With you I see something in common, in the ways we
dwell apart.

 -- I will be glad to.

 -- If I could talk as you do, I would not need to take
the helmet to him, in order to speak with my father. Will
you precede me and explain things, so that he will not
be afraid when I come in?

 -- Of course.

 -- Then let us go now.

I rose and led him up the stairs.

It was a week later, to the night, that I sat once again
in Peabody's, sipping a farewell brew.

The story was already in the news, but Brockden had
fixed things up before he had let it break. The Hang-
man was going to have his shot at the stars. I had given
him his voice and put back the arm I had taken away. I
had shaken his other hand and wished him well, just
that morning. I envied him -- a great number of things.
Not the least being that he was probably a better man
than I was. I envied him for the ways in which he was
freer than I would ever be, though I knew he bore bonds
of a sort that I had never known. I felt a kinship with
him, for the things we had in common, those ways we
dwelled apart. I wondered what Dave would finally have
felt, had he lived long enough to meet him? Or Leila?
Or Manny? Be proud, I told their shades, your kid grew
up in the closet and he's big enough to forgive you the
beating you gave him, too. . . .

But I could not help wondering. We still do not really
know that much about the subject. Was it possible that
without the killing he might never have developed a full
human-style consciousness? He had said that he was a
product of guilt -- of the Big Guilt. The Big Act is its
necessary predecessor. I thought of Godel and Turing
and chickens and eggs, and decided it was one of those
questions.  -- And I had not stopped into Peabody's to
think sobering thoughts.

I had no real idea how anything I had said might in-
fluence Brockden's eventual report to the Central Data
Bank committee. I knew that I was safe with him, be-
cause he was determined to bear his private guilt with
him to the grave. He had no real choice, if he wanted to
work what good he thought he might before that day.
But here, in one of Mencken's hangouts, I could not but
recall some of the things he had said about controversy,
such as, "Did Huxley convert Wilberforce?" and "Did
Luther convert Leo X?" and I decided not to set my
hopes too high for anything that might emerge from that
direction. Better to think of affairs in terms of Prohibi-
tion and take another sip.

When it was all gone, I would be heading for my
boat. I hoped to get a decent start under the stars. I'd a
feeling I would never look up at them again in quite the
same way. I knew I would sometimes wonder what
thoughts a supercooled neuristor-type brain might be
thinking up there, somewhere, and under what peculiar
skies in what strange lands I might one day be remem-
bered. I had a feeling this thought should have made me
happier than it did.