One of the first things I had to get used to when I became editor of Analog was people asking me, “When are you going to change the name of the magazine to Digital, now that everything is?” Usually they were so obviously pleased with their cleverness and originality that it would have seemed boorish not to smile and pretend that I was, too; and I still get occasion to practice that ritual from time to time. But the fact is that, while a great many things are done digitally these days (and for very good reasons), not everything is (also for very good reasons). “Analog” is still a good description of the philosophy behind much of our fiction (even though most of our production work is now done digitally), and analog and digital are not the only games in town. We humans are ourselves a fine working example of a way of handling information that's fundamentally different from either of them. And might there be still other ways that we haven't even thought of yet?

The approaches differ at such a fundamental level that even engineers who have made a career of working with analog equipment may have trouble fully comprehending just how different digital is. With analog recordings of sound, for example, any time you make a new copy, you will lose quality—guaranteed. Maybe not enough to be obvious, but there will always be some distortion or deterioration of the signal. With digital recordings, on the other hand, a copy is exactly as good as the original (unless something goes wrong, but usually it doesn't). If you tell that to an engineer used to analog work and only analog work, his answer is likely to be a wary, “Well, maybe almost . . ."

But the answer is: No, not almost. Exactly.

To make that statement credible, for old-school engineers or anybody else, let's review exactly what characterizes and distinguishes analog and digital methods. Each has its own strengths and weaknesses, not shared by the other.

In analog processing, the variation of one quantity is determined by imitating the variation of another. For an example that was more familiar a few years ago, consider what happens when a phonograph record is made and later played. A sound is a periodic variation of air pressure; when that impinges on a microphone, it produces an electrical voltage that varies with time in the same way as the pressure. That voltage in turn causes a needle to move with the same sort of time variation, cutting a groove in a disk. That disk is the recording, or record. When it's played back, another needle rides the groove and is wiggled back and forth and up and down by the undulations of the track. The wiggles of the needle are converted by a piezoelectric or magnetic cartridge into an electrical signal that varies in the same way, and is finally used to drive a speaker which produces similarly varying air pressure near the listener—i.e., sound.

If all goes well, the signal produced at each stage of conversion will vary with time in the same way as the pressure in the original sound, so the sound coming out of the speaker will be indistinguishable from the original captured by the microphone. However, there are several stages of conversion from one signal form to another, and none of them is perfect. A signal contains many frequencies of sine waves, and no mechanical or electrical system responds in exactly the same way to all of them (which is why the specifications for an amplifier, microphone, or speaker include “frequency response"). And there is always noise, sometimes large and unpredictable like transients in the power supply, but always, at the very least, quantum noise at the level of atoms and electrons. So for a variety of reasons, every part of every “copy” made when the signal is translated into a different form is a little different from the one before it, and if you go through several translations, the distortions pile up.

Nevertheless, when analog processing was the only kind available, people put up with that because, with care to minimize the distortion at each step, it was possible to get eminently usable results—and, as engineers became better and better at it, very good (but never perfect) results.

The process also lends itself to some kinds of computing. The simplest kind of analog computer is the slide rule that used to be an everyday tool of engineers and physicists: two sticks mounted side by side and calibrated with the logarithms of numbers, so that sliding them past each other to add or subtract lengths provided a quick and easy way to multiply or divide. But there were electronic versions too. A great many important systems in the physical world are oscillators, and the equations describing a mechanical oscillator are identical to those for an electromagnetic one; only the names of the variables are different, with an exact one-to-one correspondence. So if you want to know under what conditions a huge wrecking ball might start swinging out of control, without actually trying it, you can set up an analogous electrical circuit with inductors, capacitors, and resistors, and make measurements on that which will correspond accurately to the behavior of the big mechanical system. More complicated systems, from machines to ecosystems, could also be simulated by more complicated circuits put together with combinations of operational amplifiers, a special kind of amplifier with two inputs and one output, typically proportional to the difference between the inputs.

(And how about the name of this magazine? Each story can be thought of as an analog simulation of a possible future, in which the author imagines a set of conditions and characters and watches how they interact—which, if he does a good job, may be a good simulation of how the same scenario might play out in reality.)

In digital processing, information is expressed not as a physical quantity like distance (as in the groove of a phonograph record) or voltage (as in an audio amplifier), but as a number describing the instantaneous value of that measurement. In the output from a microphone, sound is coded as a voltage that varies in the same way as the pressure in the sound wave. In the output from a digital player (like a CD or an iPod), it's expressed instead as a series of numbers telling the value of that voltage at a large number of closely spaced instants in time.

The important advantage of that lies in the fact that numbers can be coded in a way much less susceptible to change by small extraneous signals, or noise—so much less susceptible, in fact, that the changes that do occur have no effect on the signal being processed and used. Yes, noise will still change the exact values of voltages, just as in analog equipment; but in analog equipment, those changes always mean that the input is noticeably different from the input. In digital equipment, each number is instead expressed in binary form by a series of circuit elements, each of which is either on or off (which can be interpreted as 1 or 0, or yes or no). There are no intermediate states.

Certain types of circuits (one of which, by a curious almost-coincidence, is called a Schmitt trigger) have to be in one or the other of two stable states, and can be flipped between them by an incoming signal. If the input is above a certain “trigger level,” the state flips; if the input is below the trigger level, it doesn't. Say, for instance, that the trigger level is 100 mv. Even if there's enough uncertainty in that that tripping can occur between 90 and 110 mv, anything from 0 to 90 mv won't flip the circuit, while anything above 110 will. If the overall circuit is set up so that a “no” input is always in the rather broad range of 40(plus-minus)40 mv and a “yes” input is 150(plus-minus)30 mv, you can tolerate quite a lot of noise without tripping the circuit into the wrong state. Since the signal that matters is just a series of ones and zeros, those won't be changed by noise, and one copy is as good as another. As long as a “yes” remains a “yes,” that's all that matters. (Occasionally, of course, something will go wrong enough to mis-set a bit, but with well-designed equipment that's extremely rare. How often have you hit the “e” key on your computer and gotten a different letter instead?)

Analog and digital processing aren't mutually exclusive, and sometimes both are used in different parts of a single process. In digital sound recording, for example, the first stage, done by the microphone, is all analog: the production of an electrical signal analogous to the air pressure variation at the microphone. That signal is then run through an analog-to-digital converter, which measures the voltage at many closely spaced points along the voltage graph and converts each into a number, expressed, stored, and processed digitally, as a series of yes-no bits in a medium such as a CD or a flash drive. Finally, that digital signal must be converted back to an analog one—a time-varying voltage—to drive the speaker in a way that will deliver the desired sound to a listener's ear.

Now, how about us? We often hear (usually, I suspect from people with a deep-seated psychological need to think of themselves as something utterly different from, and superior to, any other entities such as other animals and machines) that “the human brain is not a computer.” But of course it is—a computer that is extraordinarily powerful in some ways and quite limited in others. It takes information from sense organs and its own stored memories and processes them to generate outputs in the form of new information or instructions for actions. Those are exactly the sorts of things that we expect other computers to do, so our brains are computers, and there's no need to deny that or to apologize, rationalize, or feel defensive or ashamed about it.

But brains do all these things very differently from most of the analog or digital machines we build and use (which should provide at least a little consolation for those people who need to feel uniquely superior). We have some impressive strengths that our manufactured computers conspicuously lack. We can, for example, instantly recognize faces viewed from any angle and with a wide range of expressions, and written and printed symbols in a wide range of fonts and sizes, even if they're versions we've never seen before or they're badly executed or damaged. We can notice connections between seemingly unrelated pieces of information, and use them to generate something new and unexpected, ranging from an on-the-spot decision to take an alternate route home because we've heard there's an accident ahead, to composing Der Ring des Nibelungen or inventing the theory of relativity. We can do things that seem to us so simple that we take them for granted, like walking across a room without bumping into things.

Programming a robot controlled by a digital computer to do any of these things is exceedingly difficult. It's not too hard to program a digital computer to recognize the letter “Q” in 14-point Times New Roman type, provided it's positioned and oriented just so and doesn't have any flyspecks on it. It's vastly harder to program one to recognize every variation of “Q” that a four-year-old, a calligrapher, or an art director might come up with. Faces are even harder. Digital computers (as usually programmed) are not equipped to make correlations that they have not been instructed to make, much less come up with original ideas that resonate with people, like evolution or sonata form. Programming one to walk across a room of unknown size and shape, and filled with unknown furnishings, is beyond formidably difficult.

On the other hand, we have our own weaknesses and digital computers have their own strengths. They are far more efficient at crunching large numbers of numbers—provided they have detailed instructions on exactly how they should crunch them—than we are.

When we want to learn something, it typically involves a period, sometimes lengthy, of trial and error and practice. We need to keep practicing even after we've learned something, or the knowledge and skills slip away. Sometimes we make mistakes or forget things, even things that we know well—and sometimes we spontaneously remember them again later. Knowing that this happens, we often make up mnemonics to help us remember things by artificially associating them with something else (like “Oh Be A Fine Girl Kiss Me” for the spectral classes of stars).

Computers (again, of the usual sort) don't need practice to learn something, they don't need mnemonics, and they don't forget. If you want one to remember something, you tell it what and it immediately stores it, exactly as you entered it, in a precise place where it can be retrieved on demand anytime you want it, at any later time as long as it hasn't been erased.

These differences reflect very fundamental differences in how human brains and most of our computers store and process information. In a digital computer, information is stored as a sequence of ones and zeros in a single, precise, well-defined location. The downside of that is that if that location is damaged—which may not take much—the memory is lost (which is why it's so important to make and keep frequent backups). When a computer solves a problem, it does it by using an algorithm, a predefined sequence of steps it goes through to process the data it's fed. The human who programs the computer to solve the problem must already know how to do it so he or she can tell the computer exactly what steps to take. The only advantage of having the computer do it is that it can do it much, much faster and is much less likely to make mistakes. ("Making mistakes,” in this context, means “Failing to follow directions exactly.” As we all know, a very good computer can give wildly wrong results if it's given faulty data or faulty instructions.)

The human way of storing memories and solving problems is completely different. Our memories are not stored in simple digital or analog form in a precise location, but distributed through a large network of neurons. The output of each neuron is determined by a weighted combination of the inputs it gets from other neurons, both “before” and “after” it in the network. Either learning or retrieving a memory involves conditioning all the neurons in the net so that a particular kind of input (such as any of the many versions of “Q") yields a particular kind of output (recognition that the thing being seen is a “Q"). The weighting of outputs from all the neurons is adjusted depending on whether the network's output is or is not what it ought to be. That's why human learning is so dependent on repetition, testing of results against an external standard, and positive or negative reinforcement. The payoff is that we can become exceedingly good at tasks like pattern recognition and realtime operations involving complicated coordination like playing a cello or driving a car. A bonus is that since memories are distributed, with many neurons involved in a single memory and a single neuron involved in many memories, memories are less vulnerable to localized damage.*

The difference between digital and human-style data processing is not between biological and electronic, or between divinely created and humanly manufactured. In recent decades some researchers have been experimenting with types of circuits called neural nets that mimic the operation of human or animal nervous systems, using very basic electronic computers (which may, perhaps ironically, be digital or analog in their inner workings) as analogs of neurons. You don't program them, as we do what we normally call computers; you teach them, much as we teach human students. Rick Cook had an article about them here twenty years ago (August 1989); since then they've acquired considerable practical importance as the basis of tools like robotic vacuum cleaners and optical character recognition (OCR) software.

Each type of processing clearly has such dramatic advantages over the other that I can easily imagine that, just as much of our current communication and entertainment equipment involves both digital and analog processing, an increasing amount of our future technology will combine digital, analog, and neural-net methods. This may well lead to capabilities that none of the approaches could achieve on its own.

And I can't help wondering—and challenging science fiction writers to consider—whether there might be still other fundamentally different ways of handling information that we haven't even imagined yet. If so, they may lead to some thoroughly surprising developments in more distant future technologies or the products of alien evolution.

* In a long-ago lecture I hear Nobel-winning physicist Leon Cooper compare the brain's storage of memories to the way a hologram stores visual information: if you break a hologram, you can still reconstruct the whole picture from any of the pieces (though with some loss of quality).

Copyright © 2010 Stanley Schmidt

Here men from the planet Earth

First set foot upon the Moon

That day we left our Earth's cocoon

And flew beyond our place of birth.

—

Our flight reached apogee, hovered, reversed;

Our trajectory took us home too soon

When, once, men from the planet Earth

Had first set foot upon the Moon.

—

One day we'll prove once more our worth

And launch upon that fiery plume

Our interrupted voyage resume

Again win free of gravity's curse.

—

Here men from the planet Earth

First set foot upon the Moon.

—

—by Geoffrey A. Landis

It's time again to thank everyone who voted in our annual poll on the previous year's issues. Your votes help your favorite writers and artists by rewarding them directly and concretely for outstanding work. They help you by giving us a better feel for what you like and don't like—which helps us know what to give you in the future.

We have five categories: novellas, novelettes, short stories, fact articles, and covers. In each category, we asked you to list your three favorite items, in descending order of preference. Each first place vote counts as three points, second place two, and third place one. The total number of points for each item is divided by the maximum it could have received (if everyone had ranked it 1) and multiplied by 10. The result is the score listed below, on a scale of 0 (nobody voted for it) to 10 (everybody ranked it first). In practice, scores run lower in categories with many entries than in those with only a few. For comparison, the number in parentheses at the head of each category is the score every item would have received had all been equally popular.

NOVELLAS (3.33)

1. “Where the Winds Are All Asleep,” Michael F. Flynn (4.74)

2. “Doctor Alien,” Rajnar Vajra (4.18)

3. “Gunfight on Farside,” Adam-Troy Castro (3.05)

4. “The Recovery Man's Bargain,” Kristine Kathryn Rusch (2.96)

5. “Failure to Obey,” John G. Hemry (2.49)

NOVELETTES (0.80)

1. “Chain,” Stephen L. Burns (1.74)

2 (tie). “But It Does Move,” Harry Turtledove (1.27)

"Cold Words,” Juliette Wade (1.27)

3. “Zheng He and the Dragon,” Dave Creek (1.22)

4. “The Last Resort,” Alec Nevala-Lee (1.13)

SHORT STORIES (0.80)

1. “The Universe Beneath Our Feet,” Carl Frederick (2.19)

2. “Solace,” James Van Pelt (1.89)

3. “Foreign Exchange,” Jerry Oltion (1.59)

4. “Attack of the Grub-Eaters,” Richard A. Lovett (1.39)

5. “The Invasion,” H. G. Stratmann (1.11)

FACT ARTICLES (1.67)

1. “From Atlantis to Canoe-Eating Trees: Geomythology Comes of Age,” Richard A. Lovett (3.02)

2. “Geology, Geohistory, and ‘Psychohistory': The (Continuing) Debate Between Uniformitarians and Catastrophists,” Richard A. Lovett (2.55)

3. “Plate Tectonics, Goldilocks, and the Late Heavy Bombardment: Why Earth Isn't Mars or Venus,” Richard A. Lovett (2.40)

4. “The Psychology of Space Travel,” Nick Kanas (2.24)

5. “Futuropolis: How NASA Plans to Create a Permanent Presence on the Moon,” Michael Carroll (1.98)

COVER (2.00)

1 (tie). January/February (for “Doctor Alien"), by John Allemand (3.04) and October (for “Where the Winds Are All Asleep"), by Bob Eggleton (3.04)

2. November (for To Climb a Flat Mountain), by Vincent Di Fate (2.83)

3. June (for “Futuropolis"), by Michael Carroll (2.46)

4. July/August (for “Seed of Revolution"), by John Allemand (2.25)

This year all fiction categories had clear winners, but also strong seconds, one of them a tie between an old favorite and a talented almost-newcomer from whom we hope to see much more. Covers had a tie between two perennial favorites (both for stories that also did well), while the top three fact article slots were all taken by the prolific and popular Richard A. Lovett (who also made a showing in short stories).

Since AnLab votes are so important to encouraging authors and artists to do their best work, and to giving you the kind of magazine you most like to read, we hope to get even more next time. Use our online ballot, e-mail, or “snail mail,” whichever you prefer, but please vote! (Please be careful to vote in the right category, as listed in the annual Index. Sometimes a few votes are wasted by being cast in the wrong category, and those simply can't be counted.

"The customer is always right” can lead to some very awkward situations if you're not really clear on who the customer is, what he wants, and why.

You're not the first person in town to ask me what kind of crazy contraption I'm driving these days. But in your case, Pastor, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to tell you the whole story. Never could be completely open about some of it, not even with Sunny; my wife's been through enough. Can you spare the time? In that case, I suppose it never hurts to start off with a bang.

If you'd asked me that Wednesday afternoon, I wouldn't have said that everyone in my neighborhood hated my clinic. Aside from you, Sunny merely felt “jittery” about it, or so she claimed; Mrs. Murphy, living directly across the street from the main building, had never uttered a complaint; and our son, Alex, even labeled it “groovy,” a word he'd hijacked from one of the more usual unusual visitors to the institution. Of course, Ember Murphy suffers from multi-infarct dementia, and Alex recently turned eight. And while I'm being candid, an unprofessional condition for someone in my profession, I'd grown a bit sour about the place myself.

Still, I was surprised that anyone felt so strongly about it that they would try to kill me.

I picked myself up off the parking lot pavement, stared at the smoldering remains of my almost brand-new car, and then turned toward Tad, the extraterrestrial still gripping my right arm with a hand longer than my torso. My shoulder hurt and I was breathing hard, but at least I was breathing.

My ET companion, a female1 Vapabond from what I'd come to think of as the wrong side of our galaxy, gazed down at me with her big brown eyes and a grimace that may or may not have been sympathetic. You've never seen a Vapabond? Think double-height gorilla with two appropriately hairy arms and legs but then add a torso covered in armadillo shell that expands and contracts hugely with every breath, plus a walrus head with three shrunk-down tusks. Throw in size 22 footwear with an improbable resemblance to huaraches as the only articles of clothing and a pungent odor only an elephant might find sexy. That puts you in the ballpark if not quite in the infield.

"How did you know, Tad?” I asked her. At that moment, I was only mildly perturbed. What had happened was too surreal to take seriously. Besides, maybe my first guess had been wrong and some fluke, rather than someone with a grudge, had ignited the car's fuel cells.

"Scent. Explosive,” she said, finally releasing my arm.

Tadehtraulagong was a being of few words, or rather few words at a time. She was supposedly fluent in English and Spanish, but you'd never have guessed; perhaps her jaw structure and tusks made human languages uncomfortable to chew on. When in the mood, Tad acted as a nurse and was the clinic's official security officer. Now she'd added something new to her resume: bodyguard.

Tiny rectangles of safety glass glittered across the parking lot like obese snowflakes. I shook my head, and a few pieces fell out of my hair.

Doors slammed. I looked around and watched neighbors rushing outside, undoubtedly hoping that the clinic had blown up rather than to enjoy the lovely fall afternoon. They must've been terribly disappointed judging by the glowers I was getting. Even sweet old Ember Murphy nearly frowned at me.

I felt a rush of blood to my head along with a rush of fear as the reality of what had just happened began to penetrate my brain fog. It also dawned on me that I was being an ingrate. “You saved my life, Tad. Thank you."

"Welcome."

If she hadn't chosen to walk me to the parking lot today, which was hardly her usual practice, my neighbors would have had to find someone other than me to mutter about, and I definitely appreciated her effort. A nice change, since she'd given me three kinds of headaches ever since she joined my staff.

My shoes felt unaccountably warm so I lifted one and found the back heel half worn away. Evidently, friction was the culprit. Now that I knew what to look for, it was easy to spot the long, dual track of black rubber leading from what remained of my car to my present position. All this confirmed my vague impression of what had just happened. My least favorite employee had dragged me backward and twenty yards away from my Volvo Hydro even as I'd pressed the clicker to unlock it. I hadn't even had time to wonder why I was suddenly zooming in reverse before the BOOM.

I waved apologetically at the neighbors, then used my DM to call Sunny and asked her to retrieve our Alex. Naturally, she reminded me that it was my turn to perform that crucial errand, but I explained that my car was out of commission while cleverly skirting the word “fireball.” She gave me her much-put-upon sigh but agreed to go. Incidentally, the first name on my wife's driver's license is “Sonja,” but don't tell her I ratted her out.

When she logged off, the reaction finally hit me full force. If I'd been using an old-fashioned external sat-phone rather than my DM, I would've dropped it. My hands got busy shaking, my legs gave out, and only Tad's renewed grip kept me from falling. That's when I heard the approaching sirens and realized I'd better postpone doing a proper job of falling apart.

An impressive turnout: six police cars, two ambulances, an unmarked black sedan, a fire-truck, and a nanosecond late to the party, a large van containing the city bomb squad. Five uniforms cordoned off the parking lot with green Day-Glo cones and yellow tape. Festive. Another three either engaged in crowd control or took statements from the locals—hard to tell from where I stood. After a paramedic pronounced me unworthy to ride in an ambulance, two grim officials in dark suits interviewed me and tried, unsuccessfully, to interview Tad. One, a Detective Lenz, clearly believed the incident was my fault. Probably a neighbor. He oscillated between glaring at me and staring at the Vapabond as if about to challenge her to a bout of arm-wrestling.

Luckily, the other law minion, Detective Carl Beresch, did most of the questioning and stayed reasonably polite although from the lines on his face I guessed the man was allergic to joy. Our little chat started off awkwardly as we performed a conversational duet that's become so familiar I could do it in my sleep, and probably have.

"Dr. Al Morganson?” he asked, pro forma.

"My friends call me ‘Al.’ Short for Alanso."

He flicked his eyes toward Tad, then back to me. “No disrespect intended. But you are the man known as ‘Doctor Alien'?"

"'Fraid so.” And how annoying is that, since I'm not exactly an alien here.

"You are the owner and operator of the—” He consulted an item practically considered incunabula since the DM revolution: an actual paper notepad. “—the Morganson Center for Distressed Beings?"

I hadn't chosen that name, and it always made me wince. “Only the operator. A Trader Consortium owns it."

He failed to jot down that vital, psychiatrist-exonerating fact. “We'll want a list of all your current and past clients, human and . . . otherwise."

I shrugged. “I've only had one ET client this last month, and she's been here almost since we opened.” Baffling case. “And I'm positive that none of my human—"

"We need to rule out every possibility,” he said smoothly. “That's the routine and it works. It's in your interest to let us do our jobs."

I gave that a quick chew. “Okay, my receptionist will DM you that list, but you know I can't discuss my patients."

His eyes, already chilly, went sub-zero. “I'm sure you won't. But can you tell us anything that might point us in a specific direction? Any enemies? What about that one alien client?"

"Ignore that directions. She's not . . . functional. As to enemies, I'm not Dr. Popularity around here, but I can't believe anyone would actually try to murder me.” My voice rang with a lack of sincerity. “Right now, Detective, I'm mostly thinking about my family's safety."

He bared his teeth, possibly to simulate a smile. “Of course. We'll make sure you and yours are protected until we find the doer."

But when the smoke cleared, as it were, the only fact anyone could determine was that an “incendiary device” had been rigged to detonate when I unlocked my car. After a damn thorough check, the clinic and its surroundings were declared bomb-free. The news dot com crews appeared just as my ex-car was hauled away on a huge flatbed truck with its own crane, but the interviewing cops herded me away from the cameras, then drove me home. We waited in the cruiser until the bomb squad and a goofy-looking dog had gone through my entire house and its landscaping. I was certainly squeezing good use out of my tax dollars today. My wife and son showed up while we were waiting, and when Sunny heard the truth, she turned pale and kept a grip on both Alex and me that rivaled Tad's.

Three of our new pals with badges kept us company in the house for the next four hours. We served them coffee and Sunny's homemade pastries—not donuts.

The chocolate biskvi were getting scarce when four more armed personnel joined the festivities: two male FBI special agents, Dunn and Miller, who only accepted coffee; and two other officials, Smith and Jones—if I took their word for it—from another collection of three letters, one so esoteric that even God had probably never heard of it. These last two, Smith, a white female, and Jones, the opposite, said little to me at first, asked less, and refused refreshments. Soon, all four agents went into a huddle until Smith broke out to inform me that the quartet wished to interview me immediately. She grudgingly admitted that she was legally compelled to inform me that the upcoming session would be recorded not only by the agents’ DM systems, but also—because what government doesn't love unneeded redundancy?—through speck-cams placed inconspicuously on their persons. All recording features of my own DM unit, she added, had already been temporarily disabled through the electronic power of government mandate. I tested this by sub-vocalizing a recording command and got rewarded with a link-failure message flashing across my vision. Smith nodded as though she'd also seen the message and expressed her hope that crippling my DM wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience. I promised to withstand the grief of not having videos of the agents to remember them by.

Then Jones, a man who'd evidently botoxed his entire head, demanded I provide a space with privacy for their questioning, and the final four accompanied me to the dining room, where Dunn shut the French doors so that eavesdroppers would have to strain.

We all sat around the glass dining table. Jones handled the inquisition while the others watched me with the focused gaze of portrait painters. I didn't understand the tension in the room, but it worried me.

"Fourteen months ago, Doctor,” Jones began, “NASA spent upwards of a million dollars to shuttle you to the Tsf Trader mother ship in circumlunar orbit at that time. Walk us through how this happened and your experience on the mother ship."

Was this a test? "Parent Ship, not mother ship. When it comes to sexism, the Tsf don't have any.” Maybe I'd run a test of my own. “Care to know why?"

I pretended his dismissive grunt meant yes. “They evolved as predators on a planet with food resources so scant they had to live in small, isolated groups until they developed enough social skills to raise food animals collectively.” I only knew this because after I'd started working for the Traders, they'd shared some family history. “The evolutionary result is that each Tsf, unless pregnant, changes sex every few of our months, a major survival trait for small groups whose sexual distribution might be so uneven that—"

"Perhaps,” Jones interrupted, “we might focus on relevant matters."

"Sure. Sorry.” Which I wasn't. Test results were in: The agents weren't here on a general fishing expedition. “But why ask about my little adventure? By now, the story's grown a beard, and God knows, there's been enough info about it on the newswebs."

Jones's frown was a microscopic lip-tightening, but it was nice to see that his expression could change. “Some unreported fact pertinent to today's incident might emerge. Doctor, this will proceed more rapidly if you simply answer our questions. How did you wind up on this Parent Ship?"

I shrugged. “Tsf explorers had rescued three, um, spaceship-wrecked sentients, all from different alien species that even Traders had never heard of. All seemingly insane. Since we humans have apparently developed a rep among Traders for being the galaxy's worst neurotics, Tsf leaders figured that a terrestrial shrink might—"

"That wasn't my focus, Doctor. Why you in particular? “

"Oh. I worked for NASA from 2020 to 2024, evaluating prospective astronauts. So when the UN passed the Tsf request to NASA, I'd already been vetted. Plus, not that many psychiatrists are fit enough to handle a space launch. Or survive the heavy gravity on a Tsf spaceship.” Or manage two push-ups.

"You had no prior relationship with Traders?"

"None. I had a lot to learn. But I figured from the start that the mission was absurd."

Jones's micro-frown had evaporated. “Then why did you accept it?"

"You don't get such opportunities every lifetime."

I'd fed him an answer with all complexities strained out. Aside from the unique opportunity and enough government pressure to squeeze carrot juice from apples, I'd taken the job for the glory of being the first human to visit a Parent Ship, and because I'd been afraid that some other shrink might actually dream they were qualified to evaluate aliens.

He nodded. “Now, on to your time on that Parent Ship."

I walked them through at a gallop, briefly describing my three patients and confessing that I hadn't had to flex any psychiatric muscles whatsoever to effect my three cures since none of the supposed psychotics, as far as I knew, had psychological issues. Their problems were more down to earth, so to speak. I also admitted that my unearned triple victory resulted from a glut of luck plus assistance from a military-spec “brain” hooked up to my Data Management implant.

"And the Traders paid you in technology,” Jones said, “with the promise of more to come?"

So he knew. That shouldn't have surprised me although, during my debriefing, I'd asked NASA to withhold certain details because I'd had a hunch there is such a thing as too much publicity and that I'd be inundated just from having been in a Parent Ship.

I've never been more right. In fact, Pastor, if you want the remainder of my overextended minutes of fame, I'll be delighted to hand them over. What technology? Sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up. I'd prefer not to burden you with . . . irrelevant secrets.

Anyway, Jones's face could've been carved in onyx as he waited for my response, but I sensed strain beneath the mask.

"They claimed the technology was a bonus for my success. But I suspect it was mostly to, um, lubricate my way to accepting my current job."

"What did they propose, exactly?"

"To set up a clinic with various controllable environments near my home, staff it, and bring me the most interesting patients the Tsf found in their galactic travels. They said I'd be welcome to treat my human patients on site if I wished."

"Any more specifics?"

I couldn't help feeling defensive. “None. Honestly, the plan sounded wonderful at the time."

"What did they hope to gain from this arrangement?"

"My invaluable services as a trading asset."

"You said their offer sounded wonderful."

I explained. Flushed with triumph, giddy from one of my best days ever, and blinded by opportunity, I'd accepted without pinning the Traders down as to details. I failed to ask what kind of “staff” they had in mind, just how close to my home the clinic would be located, how I'd pay my new employees or shelter them or feed them, and whether I'd be responsible for property taxes or rent on the new building. All of which proved that my three triumphs weren't the result of my own brainpower.

"Tsf are honest,” I said with as little grump as I could manage, “but when you deal with them, it's up to you to explore and fully understand all conditions of a trade. If you don't, you're stuck because they'd just as soon dismiss verbal contracts the way Crusaders would've thrown away the Holy Grail."

"How did it play out?"

Like a good concerto on a bad piano, which I didn't admit. “Could've been worse. My new employers assumed construction costs, taxes, wages, and my staff's nutritional requirements, and put me on a nice monthly retainer. But they also used the Feds to do an end run around my community's zoning and building laws, placing the clinic a mere four blocks away from Chez Morganson, and erecting it in two days with a really alien construction technique."

Jones's eyes flicked toward Smith, then back. “Describe this technique. We understand the clinic appeared to build itself."

"Right. The Vapabondi, a species that trades with Traders, developed the technique. My security officer's a Vapabond."

A sore point. Given a chance to interview Tad first, I wouldn't have hired her to walk my gerbil, but she came to me as part of a trade agreement, and that was that. I shouldn't complain too loudly; my employers did better in choosing the rest of my staff, and they'd even followed my request to only sign up beings who could absorb human languages the way my fat cells absorb ice cream—didn't want my new associates dependent on artificial translators.

"Go on,” Jones demanded.

"Vapabondi build things by using ‘macramites,’ a word coined by my receptionist combining ‘mites’ with ‘macramé.'” Macramites are semi-organic crablike, flea-sized machines. They communicate with each other and with their programmers with microwaves and can reproduce faster than gossip. The weird part is that their main building material is themselves. My clinic, including floors, walls, ceilings, doors, plumbing, even the wiring is almost entirely interlocked macramites, self-assembled. Even what looks like glass is specially bred macramites. The whole thing went up in two days, and it's not a small structure."

I could almost hear a four-part AHA! echo in the room. “Could enough of these machines,” Jones asked in an elaborately casual voice, “detach from the building to carry an object of any substantial size?"

"Maybe. What do you mean by substantial?"

He ignored the question. “Could they . . . camouflage such an object while transporting it?"

I shook my head in bafflement. “Doubt it. I don't think they can change color."

I glanced over at Smith, who'd sighed almost loudly enough to hear with both ears, but she'd resumed playing portraitist. The excitement level sank, replaced by an equally palpable disappointment.

Jones's non-expression didn't budge. “Since your clinic is so close, why didn't you walk to work today?"

"You're thinking I'm lazy and anti-green? You're only right about the lazy part. I had to go straight from the clinic to my son's school to pick him up on time. Really. Once, I was five minutes late and his second-grade teacher gave me a look to make Hitler blush with shame."

No one chuckled at my wit.

"I understand the clinic has generated some local resentment?"

"That's beneath an understatement."

He rubbed his botoxed chin, probably making sure it was still attached. “Tell us why."

I studied his face for a moment, which wasted that moment. “Partly it's because hundreds of curious souls drive s-l-o-w-l-y past the place daily, creating perpetual traffic snarls. Then there are the—pardon the unprofessional expression—crazies that show up. What I think clinches the deal, though, is that for some reason, folks dislike the idea of insane and potentially murderous aliens leaping or flying or burrowing . . . or oozing into their backyards."

"Are you aware of any contact between your neighbors and extraterrestrials other than those on your staff?"

"Good heavens, no! And almost none with my staff. What are you getting at?"

Smith tapped lightly on the dining table. Jones didn't look at her but sat a bit straighter.

"Does any ET at the clinic have access to any form of teleportation?"

"Not as far as I know. Your questions keep getting stranger."

"Getting back to the patients you helped on the Parent Ship, tell us more about the first one."

"As I said, it looked like a cross between—"

"Excuse me, Doctor. You mentioned that it could dematerialize enough to move through walls. Do you believe it was capable of manipulating solid objects in its dematerialized state?"

Stranger and stranger. “If by ‘manipulating’ you mean pick them up, I don't see how."

"Hmm. Then can you add anything concerning your third patient?” The three observing agents leaned forward a millimeter or so.

I let my puzzled expression speak for itself. “Not really. It was practically flat when I was trying to diagnose its problem, and I never saw it, um, reinflated."

"Your report suggests that this patient may have come from another galaxy.” My therapist ear detected a new eagerness beneath the smooth surface of his voice.

"That's what the Traders deduced. Since the creature's recovery they've confirmed the theory, and also confirmed their suspicion that like themselves, that patient's species engages in trading on a colossal scale."

"Possible competition?"

I tilted a hand back and forth. “Also possible collaboration. I think the Tsf's main purpose in bringing me to the Parent Ship was all about that patient. Last I heard, they'd made progress in communicating with it and had even gotten its name and the name of its species, the Hoouk. At least, that's how I pronounce it. The Traders are hopping with excitement about—"

"Did you ever see any indications that this Hoouk, like your first patient, possessed . . . unusual abilities?"

A chill brushed my spine as my subconscious caught on ahead of me. “Remember, I never even saw it after—wait!" Funny, how one hint following an entire parade of them could transform confusion into clarity. “You think the Hoouk might be playing dirty to spoil Trader operations on Earth?"

Jones said nothing but didn't deny it.

I shook my head. “Forget it. If the Hoouk operate on a scale only half as large as Traders, my little business would still be far beneath their notice. What would make you even look in that direction?"

Jones eyed Smith and got a distinct nod.

"Are you aware,” he asked, “that your clinic is under twenty-four hour government surveillance?"

I hadn't been, but it made sense; the authorities would want to stay alert for unfortunate interspecies incidents. But the presence of a video feed offered me a blazing ray of hope. “So! You've got videos of the bomber?"

Jones made the quietest snort in the history of snorts. “That's the problem. As far as our analysts can determine, no one approached your vehicle from the moment it was parked until you set off the explosive with your key-button. Therefore we must consider extraterrestrial activity."

I stared at him. “Couldn't the explosive have been planted earlier? Or maybe the key-signal wasn't the trigger and someone detonated the bomb remotely."

"Our colleagues,” he gave the two FBI agents a nod, “and the police are exploring those possibilities. However, investigators found metallic traces suggesting that your car's locking mechanism was wired, yet no evidence a timer was involved to explain your earlier successful drive to the clinic. Also, we doubt the explosion's location was random."

Now I was the one frowning, nothing subtle about it.

The questioning resumed, but since the cat had already exited the bag and I had nothing useful to add, the interview soon fizzled out. The session ended on a sour note: Smith finally spoke, cautioning everyone to say nothing to the police about any possible ET involvement. She didn't ask nicely.

We left to join the party in my living room, and Sunny displayed her usual elegance and courtesy though I could tell she was shaken. Suddenly, phone calls started flooding in, so many we had to let our DMs handle triage and only responded to the most pressing. My insurance agent wasn't pleased.

A police cruiser crouched outside my house that night as my family tried to sleep. My mind refused to shut up, even for a second, and I knew that Sunny was also keeping vigil. When we got up in the morning, the cruiser had apparently reproduced because now there were three. One of them drove me to work, and its two taciturn inhabitants, Officers Phillips and Braun, accompanied me to the front door, where Bradley S. Pearson, my dear neighbor, was lurking with some papers under one arm and a tired-looking policewoman at his side. I could feel my blood pressure soar. Never met Brad? Count your blessings.

Thanks mostly to this one man, I've suffered through four rough meetings with the town council and some exciting times at town meetings. I've a theory about what his “S” stands for, but wouldn't feel comfortable sharing it with a man of the cloth.

"Good to see you, Al,” he trumpeted. “Glorious morning, isn't it? This pretty lady with me is Cathy Bennett.” The policewoman gave me a wary nod, then winked at her fellow cops but said nothing. “Now I don't want to make any trouble for you . . ."

Bradley always tried to radiate sincerity and likeability, and never succeeded. He was a beanpole with a pallid and slightly freckled complexion, an extra high forehead, thinning light-brown hair cut short, a sad mustache barely covering his philtrum, and an unfortunate combination of a long but very thin nose and large, watery blue eyes. He usually smelled of solvents and today was no exception; perhaps his hobby involved gluing together small model lawsuits in his basement.

"What kind of trouble don't you want to make today, Brad?” I asked.

He waved a bony hand at me, brushing off any tendency I might have to take offense. “Really, Al, I must remind you, again, that this is nothing personal. It's just that we all have to reevaluate the situation here. I'm sure you can see that."

The cops bracketing me radiated impatience and did a splendid job of it.

"What are you talking about, Brad?"

"That blast yesterday. A child could've been injured, or even . . . killed! We can't have any more of that sort of thing."

"I agree. That's why the authorities are investigating the explosion, and why police cars have been parked here since it happened, and why these two gentlemen are keeping me company this glorious morning. And also why Officer Bennett is keeping such a close watch on persons of interest."

He ignored my dig and waved his hand again, a bit too close to my face. “That's not enough! See here. A few of our good friends have come to me with this petition.” He pulled the document from under his arm with the kind of flourish you'd expect from a magician pulling a moose out of a hat. “Now, I didn't want to bring this to you, but the entire community insisted and I couldn't disappoint them. Just look this over."

He handed me the papers. I glanced at the first page and knew that Bradley had written it himself. With about triple the necessary words, it essentially stated that neither my clinic nor anyone associated with it, particularly me, were welcome anywhere near this vicinity.

"Do you see how many signatures there are?” he demanded, oblivious to the significant glances the cops gave each other.

I'd already counted twenty-five names on the first page and wasn't interested in following up on pages two, three, and four. I fought to keep my twinge of guilt from transmuting to rage.

"Brad, we've been over this a hundred times. I've always understood your concerns and share them more than you may know, but I didn't choose to put the clinic here. When I learned that my employers did, I immediately asked them to locate it elsewhere, and they refused on the grounds that they'd already, um, purchased the grounds."

"Then why not quit and make us all safer?"

We'd been over that ground as well. “Our government and most others around the world are pretty damn eager to keep me at this. The only reason the city council hasn't shut me down already has been pressure from Washington. Have you any idea how important the Tsf are to us? How much a good relationship with them could help us? Or what a tragedy it would be if—"

"So you've claimed. All I know is what's written on those papers, and you should look them over carefully. That's your copy; I've got the original. And I hate to say this, but it can be used in a civil case that . . . I've heard may be pending, one that could have quite the impact on you."

He lifted his weak chin to look down his nose at me or perhaps to mime nobility. “That's all I have to say at this time.” Head held so far back that he risked tripping over small obstacles, Bradley S. strode past me and between my two flying buttresses and headed toward the sidewalk. Officer Bennett stayed with him until he'd crossed the street, and then she got into a parked unmarked car.

Officer Braun looked at me and held out a hand. I got the message and passed over the petition. “Nice of him to provide a list of suspects?” I said and got a hint of smile in response. I led the way through the door and into my troublesome sanctum.

I watched the cops take in everything: the absurdly large reception area, the huge and impossibly clear skylights, the 450-gallon saltwater aquarium, my multi-armed cleaning robot docked at its charging station, the full-sized olive tree, and the abstract sculptures. Then their eyes widened as they realized that the figure behind the coca-bola reception desk was no sculpture. Their hands moved closer to their guns. Understandable. My receptionist, L, takes some getting used to. No doubt he's the main reason most of my human clients prefer to meet with me in the Cabin, my small separate office in back.

L isn't quite as large as Tad or nearly as weird-looking as Gara olMara the Vithy, the third member of my staff, but is hands-down—not that he has permanent hands—the most intimidating of the three . . . to humans. Hard to pinpoint why. It's not just the way his body parts practically radiate efficiency but are, excepting for his variable eyestalks, utterly unrecognizable—to humans, I should add again. And it's not his aura of absolute confidence. Maybe it's his . . . jaggedness. Where he isn't downright serrated, his body is all zigzags and sharp, hard surfaces that gleam metallically in the dimmest light. And the oddest thing about him is that the total effect of all these angles and edges suggests something ferociously streamlined: a shark, perhaps. Or the first Disney version of Captain Nemo's Nautilus. But you don't need prior knowledge of a Great White to know in your gut that it's not safe to pet.

After an admirably brief hesitation, Phillips forced himself to walk toward the desk. I imagine he planned to ask questions, but all he could do once he got close to L was stare. After a moment he wrinkled his nose. Under other circumstances, I would've found that comical because L uses something he calls “olfactory camouflage,” constantly matching his body odor exactly to his surroundings, which meant the cop probably smelled himself—from the outside, as it were.

"How may I improve your life?” L asked him, but Phillips just turned and headed back toward me.

Braun pulled his eyes off L to glower at me. “We'll be waiting outside for the next four hours, then two other cops will take next shift. We got officers with your wife and kid. You good here?"

"Yes,” I said. “And thanks for everything."

Just then, my cleaning robot decided it simply couldn't eat another joule and it unplugged itself to scurry toward the flakes of dirt the cops and I had tracked in. The seven-foot-tall machine with its multitude of waving steel arms, designed by Tsf to resemble themselves, always made an impression on the uninitiated. So if the cops departed with a little extra haste, we must forgive them.

L extruded a limb and waved it to attract my attention. I walked over to his desk. “Such rude myrmidons.” His voice emerged from the device he wore as a pendant, a personal voice amplifier. Although he could duplicate virtually any kind of noise and had proved a supergenius at languages, he needed mechanical assistance to be loud enough for human ears. “Still, I ignore their slights for I have more interesting matters to discuss. But first I must ask, are you in need of therapy yourself from the recent trauma?"

"I remain sound in mind and habitually unsound in body."

"Delightful news!"

"Some detectives asked me for a client list. Can you take care of that?"

"With ease. And since the subject of lists has arisen, have you scrutinized your revised schedule for today? I transmitted it an hour ago."

"I'm sure my DM got it, but I haven't looked it over."

"Then I shall summarize. I canceled all your appointments for this week save for your usual daily failure with Cora."

"You did? Why?"

You wouldn't think anything that appeared so alien could look smug, but L managed it. “Being reduced to fragments might be less than therapeutic for your clients."

I rubbed my tired eyes. “You're borrowing trouble. The bomb squad checked out this building from the roof down and the police have been watching the place nonstop since yesterday.” I didn't mention the government surveillance or the invisible bomber on yesterday's videos.

"Are you familiar with the English phrase ‘better safe than sorry'?"

"Oh. Point taken."

"Your gift of free time is adorned with lagniappe!” L shifted position to jut over the desk as if he were about to launch himself into space. “You now have the leisure to hear about my latest discovery. Doctor, are you familiar with the term ‘acronym'?"

I stifled a groan. “Sure."

"Ah! Then did you know that acronyms were once referred to as ‘cable codes?’ “ L used the temporary limb to point at an open book in front of him, one of many on his desktop including both volumes of the compact OED. L had become a serious—make that an obsessed—student of human cultures and languages, which in turn had become a damn nuisance.

"That I didn't know,” I stated with an abundant lack of enthusiasm.

"If you wish to remember it, you only need memorize AWORTACC, which itself is an acronym standing for—"

"Acronyms Were Once, etcetera. L, I'm starting to understand the way you think."

"Ah! Ah! But AWORTACC is not only an acronym. In this context it is also a pneumonic! A pneumonic is—"

"Hate to interrupt,” I lied, “but what came in those crates over there in the corner?” The five large boxes in question were shiny and tan-colored, certainly not cardboard or wood. They all lay side-by-side, which made me suspect they were heavy.

"A new patient. He, she, it, or something else, no judgment implied, arrived early this morning."

I glared at him. “Why can't you get it through your . . . look, you're supposed to call me the minute—oh hell, never mind.” I'd been down this road too many times before, and it always terminated in a dead end. Despite all my pleas, requests, and orders to inform me the instant a new alien patient arrived, L would never call me at home. He always had some rationale; perhaps the real reason involved religion.

I'm probably handing you the wrong impression. I thought highly of L, and in most areas he was great at his job. True, his constant verbal games had gotten old enough for their beards to grow mustaches, but I loved to hear him talk about exotic beings he'd met and his own species, the Pokaroll. His take on psychological matters was always fascinating. An example? Well, he told me once that the most surprising thing that ever happens in a person's life is getting born, or in his case hatched, and that all artistic expression amounts to an attempt to handle the shock. Could be true—for Pokarolls, anyway. Back to my story!

"How,” I asked through teeth trying to unclench, “did the boxes get here?"

"A Tsf Trader brought them,” L said.

I went from glaring to staring. “Just how long ago?"

L didn't need to consult a timepiece any more than I did, but unlike me his internal chronometer was natural. “Three hours, no minutes, and twelve seconds."

"What did this Tsf say, exactly?"

The translator emitted a rapid series of clicks—Tsf speech.

Patience, Al, I told myself. “In English, please."

"Get on the horn, pal, and tell the Doc he's got ‘splainin’ to do.” Yep, sounded like a Tsf. Whoever had programmed their translation devices had squeezed in every cliché, slang term, tagline, and snowclone inflicted on the human race during the last century. As I'd once suspected but now knew, they'd been acting in strict accordance with the ET Operating Manual and had been monitoring our entertainment transmissions for decades.

I glanced at the boxes again wondering which one, if any, had contained my new patient; they all appeared identical.

"Did the Trader vouchsafe his or her name?” I asked, hoping that “vouchsafe” would keep L from his daily ritual of pestering me for a new word to play with.

He generated a thin finger, used it to flip open the OED's P to Z volume, turned a few pages, extended an eye-stalk to study the practically microscopic letters, and made a little squeal of joy. “Yes! The Tsf vouchsafed the name Deal-of-ten-lifetimes."

"Deal! Haven't seen him since—"

"Him is currently a her, Doctor, judging by the green cilia coloration."

"Got it. So what information did she leave me concerning the patient?"

"She vouchsafed none."

I was already regretting forking over that particular word. But that wasn't my main problem. “Hang on. I'm supposed to be treating an alien I know nothing about? Again?" I'd also been vouchsafed no clues about Cora, my long-term patient who'd come with Tad, but the Tsf had only been indirectly involved with that fiasco.

"Perhaps you could discuss it with the Tsf herself?"

I blinked a few times. “You mean Deal is stillhere? For God's sake, why didn't you say so right away?"

"Why rush? Life is brief and the one thing we lack time for is excess haste."

I took a slow breath. “Where is she?"

"Gara's demesne."

Well, I thought, at least Deal won't be the weirdest thing in that room.

At the polished door to Gara's office, I faced my reflection and a decision. Should I follow shop practice and knock before entering, or obey Tsf protocol and walk in cold? Among Traders, only those who questioned their welcome would knock. So after glancing at the environment readout to make sure the office's present atmosphere wouldn't poison me, I touched the open-sesame plate and the door slid aside.

This room, like every room in the building, was expansive with a sky-high ceiling; after all, some clients might be gigantic. Alien equipment edged the space with oddly curved surfaces in unexpected hues, all gleaming in the morning light through the tall windows that Gara needed, but not for seeing. Her spooky computer must've been put away in whatever en-suite pocket dimension Gara used for storage.

It seemed Deal was the weirdest personage in the room, although I suppose Deal might've said the same about me. He was—she was—average size for a Tsf, a bit shorter than me while hogging more floor space, and that hadn't changed. Yet she looked so different just from the altered sexual coloration that without L's heads-up I might not have recognized him—damn it!—her. I gazed around more carefully and still couldn't spot my physical therapist, which didn't prove Gara was absent. The room had shadows and she could be doing her version of fly-on-the-wall.

Deal stood in place, spinning fast enough to let most of her limbs extend straight out through centrifugal force. This gave me a splendid and unwanted peek at her gondola.

What's a gondola? Sorry, of course you wouldn't know. It's this massive, corrugated structure where Tsf keep their brains, digestive organs, and a heap of fangs. No, you don't see them on DM-TV, or on the newswebs because Traders don't care to reveal that much of themselves, and the World Media Administration plays along. That's why the only parts of Tsf anatomy shown in broadcasts are the ten outer limbs with those seaweedlike fronds halfway down the curves. Just between us, the fronds are bundles of cilia; the longest cilia act as fingers, the medium-size ones are sensory organs, and the short hairs flip like switches, making the clickety-clicks of Tsf speech. Traders also have three thick central legs to protect and support their gondolas.

If you ever actually met any Tsf, Pastor, I bet two things would surprise you: they smell just like curry, and their tiny clicking hairs can make one hell of a racket. I imagine the noise could bring a twinge of nostalgia to any retiree who'd once worked in a typist pool back in the days of manual typewriters.

Deal stopped spinning and a few dozen of her optical cilia pointed at me. Wide bands of some elastic material encircled four of her limbs: Trader pockets. One pocket held a Tsf translator device. Deal started clicking and the translator spoke up.

"Doc Morganson? That you?” The English came out in a parody of a western drawl, a new variation on a consistently bizarre theme.

I smiled. “Tricky to tell humans apart, Deal-of-ten-lifetimes?"

"No way. But I reckon your mug don't look the same."

"Probably all the new worry lines.” L, I thought, would love this conversation. How long has it been since “mug” was slang for face?

Deal's optics stretched out a bit further and a score of additional eyes joined in to peer at me. “Matter o’ fact, you appear more buoyant than I recall. Of course, back at the corral, mostly I saw you lyin’ down on the job."

I nodded with sudden understanding. “Right. On your Parent Ship you mostly saw me on my self-propelled couch and in much heavier gravity.” Tsf evolved on a world with almost five times Earth's gravity and kept some of the extra squeeze on in their space station fulltime. “I must've looked more . . . saggy then. If you don't mind interrupting our reunion, where's the new patient?"

After months of experiences with various Traders, I'd come to interpret Deal's minimalist twitch either as a sign of surprise or a gesture indicating contempt for my stupidity.

"In the reception area,” Deal said. “You didn't notice them there crates?"

I stared at her and not because of the fake-cowboy dialect. “You mean my patient is still packed in one of those boxes?"

"In every dang one, you'd best believe."

Time out, I told myself.

Ever run your Data Manager's CPU non-stop for a year or so? The whole system gets logy and little errors start popping up. In this case, my brain was the device needing a reboot. I'd forgotten my own number one rule for dealing with ETs: never make assumptions. That explosion hadn't taken me out, but apparently it had shorted my circuits.

Maybe I swayed a little. The Trader placed limbs gently on both sides of my shoulders to add support. “What's the dealio, partner? You ain't ridin’ so steady in the saddle."

Distracted and irked with my own foolishness, I blurted out the question I hadn't dared ask for over a year. “Why the hell are Tsf translators programmed to make you Traders sound so hokey? It's annoying, not to mention frustrating. Do you know that some of the slang you throw around is so obsolete that I'd need my great-grandfather to tell me what it means?” Of course, I was instantly ashamed of myself, and I hadn't even been honest. Usually, I enjoy the varied quirkiness of Trader speech.

Deal stopped clicking. When she resumed, the voice from the translator sounded entirely different. “My dear Doctor, the programming is precisely calibrated, I assure you. We are Traders and our goal is profit, mutual profit whenever possible. We calculated that by configuring our speech patterns to make us sound colorful we would ease human reactions to our obvious physical, mental, and technological superiorities."

"I see. Smart.” And how very cynical.

"We have learned that ease between species lubricates the friction of trade. With particularly frail species, we do our utmost to project harmlessness."

I tried to keep my face from expressing disappointment that Trader zaniness was all for show. Perhaps Deal couldn't read human non-verbal cues, but considering what I'd just learned about Trader shrewdness, I wasn't betting on it. “As to the patient, shouldn't we do some, um, unpacking?"

"Indeed, but first I suggest you examine this item."

She pulled what appeared to be a small cylinder from one of her elastic bands and gave it a tap. The cylinder unfolded and unrolled into a wide, stiff sheet of thin plastic. Deal passed the sheet over to me. It weighed almost nothing and for a moment was entirely blank. Then embossed patterns developed on its surface and the patterns darkened into elaborate illustrations that resembled, more than anything, those horrid pictorial assembly instructions included in kits from, say, Ikea.

"Touch an illustration,” Deal suggested.

"Okay.” It was distinctly warmer than the surrounding plastic, and the embossing felt taller than it looked. Also, it vibrated slightly under my finger. “Interesting. So this is a . . . one-size-fits-all-senses instruction sheet?"

"Our conclusion exactly, Doctor. The beings who sent us this document were clearly unsure about the nature of our sensory organs so they allowed for an assortment of possibilities. Even the color contains self-illuminated wavelengths well beyond my perceptions."

"Huh. I just see an intense brown.” I squinted at the drawings. “When this machine is put together, is it supposed to be a life-support unit for my patient?"

"We believe the machine is your patient although it appears to be what you refer to as a ‘robot.’ If we obey these diagrams, you will learn why I have brought this problem to you."

I studied the illustrations more carefully. They were laid out in a spiral pattern, but the assembly order was obvious from the way the robot—assuming that's what it was—became progressively more elaborate. The reverse side of the sheet had a lengthy parts list. Even with twelve arms including my two, putting this thing together wouldn't be a quick job. I checked the time.

Not wanting any virtual buzzers, gongs, or even a quiet internal word to further abrade my nerves, I had my DM place a countdown stopwatch at one edge of my vision, where I couldn't forget it, yet it wouldn't block my view. I set this timer for an hour and twelve minutes and started it running, further validating my self-diagnosis of a mild case of OCD since I had no good reason to meet with Cora at that specific time every workday. But that was my schedule, and I was sticking to it.

"How heavy are those boxes?” I asked.

"When full, some outweigh us both while others are less massive. In either case, they are easy to transport due to the adaptable material coating the bottom surfaces. Apply steady pressure to any side, and those surfaces become frictionless."

"Slippery when pushed?"

"So I said. I assume from your query concerning weight that you wish to open these containers in another location?"

"I do. If this robot really needs my . . . services, I'd like to build it in one of the rooms dedicated to extraterrestrial patients."

"That is sensible since the automaton, once complete, will be far more challenging to transport. This will require several trips if we work alone."

Tad could help, theoretically, but the fastest road to chaos I'd ever found was to have her help; her grasp of any job tended to be more miss than hit. L knew to distract Tad if she showed up, so I wanted him at his desk. And Gara was nowhere in sight.

"Let's do it ourselves."

"Then we shall begin."

Deal was right about the boxes sliding along easily, although it took a while to get them moving, and the heavier ones adored sliding straight when you wanted them to turn. Still, five minutes later they were all sitting pretty in one of my controlled-environment rooms.

We got to work and by “we,” I mean mostly Deal, who was either very familiar with the procedure or incredibly adept at following pictorial instructions. And of course, with all those optical cilia, manipulative cilia, and arms, her motor skills made the operation dazzling to behold.

Three boxes were crammed with smallish pieces, the other two had very few, but much larger ones. Looking at the sheet, I counted fifty-seven assembly steps ending with a completed robot standing next to the presumably empty boxes, all neatly stacked. Now and then, Deal asked me to hand over “the tetrahedron with an octagonal protruded helix” or some such, but I think she was just trying to involve me in the process as an act of pity. The gizmo kept getting more impressive and once its head—at least it looked headlike—was on, I estimated the finished project would be nearly ten feet tall and as broad as three of me. Most of its surface had a dusty, bluish gleam.

My countdown timer had reached five minutes when Deal installed the final component: a shiny, twisted strip of translucent material that went around the thing's waist like a frou-frou cummerbund.

"What do you think of it?” she asked. “Can you account for its surprising variety of waveguides?"

"No, but it looks like a robot all right. Sort of manlike, if I squint hard enough . . . except for the three legs."

"Personally, I would assess it as an uncanny likeness, and see little difference between two and three legs, save for stability."

L's voice came from behind us. “The spitting image, as the locals say, of a human being.” L could sidle quieter than a cat by extruding a plethora of soft little tentacles.

"Need me for something?” I asked him.

"Not presently, but I thought it prudent to remind you of your upcoming appointment. And I must confess to a whim of curiosity concerning just what those boxes contained.” That must've been some whim since L had extruded a record number of eyestalks.

I opened my mouth to point out that I hadn't forgotten an appointment yet, but the robot interrupted me.

"Doctor Alanso Jose Morganson,” it said very clearly, but in a voice like a squeaky hinge.

"Um. That's me."

"Doctor Alanso Jose Morganson,” it repeated.

I turned toward Deal. “What's is this?"

"A pity. We'd hoped for a different response than we'd gotten after prior assemblies. Now you know why we brought the robot to you; no matter what we tried, the completed machine would only stand in one place and say your name three times."

"Doctor Alanso Jose Morganson."

"Just so,” Deal continued. “If it follows precedent, it will now remain silent indefinitely until it is disassembled and reassembled."

I stared at my latest patient. “Where did this thing come from, anyway?"

Deal stopped clicking but to my surprise, her translator said, “Thinking.” The translator's current mode evidently included a verbal “busy” signal.

My timer flashed discreetly and vanished just as the clicking resumed. “The issue you raise, Doctor, has convolutions. I gather you are presently under a time constraint, and suggest we return to this topic later."

"Good idea. There's a client I have to see now, but I'll be back shortly. If you'd like to be more comfortable in here while you wait, my receptionist can boost the gravity while I'm gone."

"If you have no objections, I would prefer to accompany you since I have my own whim of curiosity to satisfy."

L backed out of the doorway as smoothly as warm butter gliding over an oil slick, but slowly and with his eyestalks all aimed at the robot. That gave me time to weigh the ethics of Deal's request before giving her an answer. Normally, I wouldn't consider bringing an observer to a private session, but in this case, I couldn't imagine what difference it would make.

"What are you so curious about?” I asked.

"I've been informed that this patient is a Vapabond, reputedly a most interesting species. I have seen images but have never met one before."

I looked at her in surprise as a baker's dozen eye-cilia gazed back at me. “We've got two Vapabondi here. Thought you knew."

"Yes, the other is your security officer."

"Supposedly. And a nurse, also supposedly. Her name is Tadehtraulagong, but I just call her ‘Tad.’ You haven't bumped into her yet?"

"I haven't encountered her if that was your question."

"Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her today either.” This was odd since she was always underfoot—if “underfoot” can apply to someone nearly twice my height.

Vapabondi are comfortable in Earth's gravity and can breathe our air as if they'd evolved here, so it hadn't been necessary to customize conditions in my patient's room. That is, it hadn't been necessary for her. I'd arranged for odor filtering to make the space more pleasant for me; that elephantine smell tended to build up. A Tsf translating device, programmed appropriately, sat near the vast bed in which my patient, Coratennulagond, lay supine, staring at the ceiling. If she'd been human, I would've judged her condition a twelve on the Glasgow Coma Scale—more stupor than coma.

As a female2, Cora was visibly different from Tad: shorter but wider, and her torso-shell had fancier articulation. I'd never been able to mine much information from Tad, but a helpful Tsf visitor had explained that in Vapabondi, the female1 generates an equivalent to a human ovum and retains it until impregnated by a male1. After fertilization, the egg is transferred to a womblike organ in a female2 who, if all follows nature's blueprint, is protected by a male2 until the little one is born, or more precisely, ejected.

"This is your patient?” Deal asked and I wondered why the translation came out sounding surprised.

"She is. Hello, Cora,” I said as always, the translator honked and growled as always, and I received the usual response. Cora's walrusoid head gradually turned toward me, and the wrinkled eyelids quivered for a moment but remained at half-mast. “I've brought a friend, the Trader Deal-of-ten-lifetimes."

Deal clicked and the translator did some honking and growling, then said in English, “I am pleased to greet you."

The massive head slowed aimed itself toward the Tsf. Cora eyes opened fully, then blinked in slow motion. Surprise and excitement set my heart racing. The tip of a blue tongue appeared between her two lower tusks, licked across six inches of black, rubbery lip, and then withdrew.

As I gawked at her unprecedented responsiveness, Deal placed a few finger-cilia on my arm. “What is wrong with her?” she asked, clicking more quietly than I'd thought she could, and the translation came out as a whisper.

To my disappointment, Cora's eyelids drifted halfway down and she resumed her standard torpor. “Let's talk outside,” I suggested.

Deal led the way to the hallway and after I'd closed the door asked, “What is wrong with her mind?"

"Wish I knew.” I puffed out my cheeks and let the air out in a rush, a way of expressing frustration that always bugs my wife. “Deal, you've gotten more out of Cora in a minute than I have in the last six months. Maybe it's me, but everything about her case is . . . off somehow, even the way she arrived. I assume you know about that?"

"I do not, and evidently what little information I did receive is incorrect. Soon-to-be-wealthy, a Trader in another division who is still a novice at dealing with extrinsic species, made the arrangements. I understand that your notoriety had been attracting deranged humans to this location and Soon-to-be-wealthy's solution involved a barter in which you were to be loaned a Vapabondi security specialist in exchange for your aid in treating a mentally ill Vapabond. What did you find unsettling about her arrival?"

The idea that Tad was any kind of specialist gave me an instant hit of what we shrinks call “cognitive dissonance.” “You Traders brought me all the other ET patients I've had. Not Cora. She and Tad just showed up one day in a van driven by federal agents. It seems Tad had flown a shuttle down from whatever spaceship had brought them to Earth and landed it in a field fifty miles from the clinic."

Deal wriggled four limbs like pythons doing tricks, a Tsf gesture I hadn't seen enough times to make a stab at interpreting. “Vapabondi are clever but cautious beings, Doctor. They insist on autonomy in all things, so they would inevitably wish to affect the delivery. I cannot explain why the shuttle landed so far away, but I am no authority on Vapabondi behavior. Did the unexpected arrival create a problem for you?"

"I wouldn't say unexpected. Your people told me the pair was coming, just not when. They even gave me a micro-briefing about Vapabondi.” Thank God. “But they knew nothing about Cora's condition. My problem was that she showed up with no documentation, patient history, or previous diagnosis—not so much as a Post-It—and the only thing I could get out of Tad concerning Cora was that Tad herself would be her nurse because only a fellow Vapabond could be qualified. In terms of evaluation, let alone therapy, I've been flying blind . . . without a paddle."

"Your metaphor mystifies me, but surely this Tad has oriented you by now?"

I snorted. “Anything but. One theory I have is that Tad was ordered to tell me nothing so that I could assess Cora without preconceptions.” I had another theory less based on the intrinsic benevolence of all beings, namely that Tad was a jerk.

"Shall we return to your patient?"

We did, but this time Cora just lay there like a very large lump. Deal and I took turns talking at her, both of us failing to elicit any reaction. As always, I sensed that she heard but couldn't or wouldn't respond. Seeing that we were on a roll of non-accomplishment, I suggested we return to the room with the robot and continue wasting our time in a fresh venue. Deal agreed.

The machine, to no one's surprise, stood exactly where we'd left it.

"We have time now,” I said. “Getting back to my question, where did this thing come from?"

The Trader aimed a few optical cilia at me, but kept most of them facing the subject of my question. “No doubt you recall the unfortunate Hoouk you correctly diagnosed on the Parent Ship."

I managed to mate a chuckle with a snort. “Even if I habitually forgot my patients, I'd make an exception for the only one from another galaxy."

"That is why I said ‘no doubt.’ After you returned to Earth, this individual recovered fully and was soon able, with our aid, to converse with its fellows."

My eyebrows decided to levitate. “They must have one hell of a communication system."

Several of Deal's limbs rippled.

"Now what,” I asked, “is so funny?"

She twitched, just once but all over, and more eye-cilia swung around toward me. “Your perceptiveness alarms me, Doctor, although by now I should have learned to expect it. How did you become so expert on Tsf body language?"

"I'm no expert. But I've been around you Traders enough to pick up a hint or two. The source of your amusement?"

"I will tell you, if you will remember that I mean no offense."

"Okay. Consider my skin properly thickened."

"At last, an intelligible metaphor!” It made sense to her, Pastor, because Tsf can thicken and harden the outer cells in their limbs into swordlike weapons.

Then she let me in on the joke. “I was—” The translation device paused for an instant. “—tickled by something I've often observed. The manner in which a species survives long enough to become technological usually limits that technology."

"For instance?"

"Humans. Despite your many physical limitations, humans possess adequate grasping powers combined with a shape that allows fair leverage. Therefore, your earliest foreparents depended on hurling objects both to hunt and to defend themselves against predators. Aids such as bows and guns flow from the basic idea of throwing, which has become so embedded in human perspective that in English, ‘weapons’ and ‘limbs’ are synonyms."

"I think you mean arms."

"I see no distinction."

"Right. What does this have to do with long-distance communication?"

"All your devices for this purpose are tools for throwing such things as microwaves, light, or radio waves. The Hoouk are more advanced than we Tsf in transportation, but we use identical communication tools. Distance is irrelevant when nothing has to travel."

I studied Deal for a long moment. “That's interesting. How do you communicate without moving anything?"

Deal raised a limb and waved it chidingly; I wasn't the only one who'd learned something about alien body languages. “This information could be the basis of a future trade. It would be irresponsible of me to supply it gratis. Perhaps we should now turn all curiosity toward disassembling and reassembling the robot. We must be certain that no mistake has been made."

My curiosity wasn't in the mood to turn, but I saw no point in arguing. “I'm game."

"You might be distressed by how your last statement was translated, but I take it you are willing so we will proceed. Observe the process with critical eyes, if you will, for the smallest blunder could result in cumulative error."

I pored over the assembly sheet while Deal followed the instructions in reverse but so slowly that I could follow the procedure and sign off on each step. From the start, though, I had a nagging feeling we'd missed something obvious. If so, we both missed it all the way to the end, where nothing but machine parts and us littered the floor.

"You agree,” Deal asked, “that I made no mistakes?"

"Seems that way."

"Then I shall construct it again under your few but watchful eyes."

I sighed. “One downside to having a mere pair is that they get tired, but go ahead."

"Since I have memorized this process and wish to avoid automatically repeating any errors, I suggest you provide all assembly information as we proceed, and I will obey your directions."

"I like it.” And that way I'd set the pace. I lifted the assembly sheet and tried to look at it as if for first time. “Step one. Push the three long, gray rods into the holes in the smallest cylinder. . . ."

With me calling the shots, the job took over two hours. I wouldn't say we completely wasted our time because when we were finished, I had the fun of hearing my name repeated three times.

After that third repetition, I noticed that my shadow was darker than it should've been considering the room lighting. I wondered how long Gara had been with us, but if she wanted to go incognito, who was I to out her?

That night, Sunny and I took turns reading bedtime books to our son. He finally drifted off and we dared tiptoe to our bedroom. The weather had made a surprise U-turn to unseasonably muggy, but my weather widget claimed cooler air would return after midnight, so I left a window and its curtains open. We put our DM CPUs on their chargers and lay in bed with the lights off, chatting a little and watching a broad patch of moonlight on the ceiling that had snuck into our room by bouncing off the small pond in our backyard. Whenever even the mildest wind arose outside, the light above us would fill with moving ripples.

All this seemed incredibly peaceful, but I was too aware of the patrol car parked out front and too full of questions to relax. And when I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that damn assembly sheet. So I swallowed my pride and had my DM send a gentle 3-Hz pulse though my nervous system, knowing that within eight minutes my brainwaves would automatically sync to the pulse and I'd fall into a deep, delta-level sleep.

Why the pride-swallowing act? Because I usually advise against direct DM brain stimulus as a soporific. It's too easy to become dependent on it and the process, continued over months, can scramble a person's natural sleep cycle. Yes, acoustic entrainment is supposedly safe, but that night I wanted the biggest guns. I'd been awake most of the previous night and didn't want to spend another day in a fog.

So I was gently settling into a dream when a nasty thought that must've been circling my mind for hours finally landed. If the government could shut off my DM's recording function, what else could they legally make my DM do? Was I now bugged . . . from the inside? I paused the delta signal and called up a virtual screen, grateful that modern technology made it possible to do online research without getting out of bed and thus waking my wife.

Having spent most of my life in the dark ages before nanobiotechnology and computer science got married, before data management systems were partially implanted, I still feel most comfortable controlling my DM with a keyboard. Oh, I can use subvocals just fine to input simple instructions, but strange things happen when I try the non-simple kind, and Sunny tells me that such attempts remind her of watching a bad ventriloquist. So I only used sub-V to summon what I wanted: a virtual keyboard facing me, floating in midair below an impalpable screen.

I called up a meta-search engine, raised my hands to type, and then hesitated. If my DM system was bugged, did I want the, um, buggers plotting the exact vector of my suspicions? I needed to take a more tangential approach. Considering how Smith et al had prevented me from recording our session, wouldn't it be reasonable for me to research the legalities involved with that, and if the information I really wanted happened to hang out nearby. . . ?

Figuring my best bet would be the kind of omnibus document reserved for law libraries, I forked over the twenty-five bucks for a single LexNex session and lo, the veils parted as the blindfolded lady with the scales appeared. Thanks to DM nerve pulses, I felt the projected keys under my fingers as I typed in my search parameters.

Over a million hits, but LexNex sorted them so brilliantly that my answer waited in the very first document. What I'd feared was called a “mind-tap,” and it was out-and-out prohibited except when specifically authorized by an act of Congress.

So I was semireassured. I dispelled my toys, closed my eyes, and of course the damn assembly sheet that I'd been staring at all day floated up again. An impressively clear image considering that my visual memory isn't normally terrific. I could practically see every detail, but it occurred to me that one detail could be missing.

Where was the power supply?

Sure, the robot had all sorts of mysterious parts, but nothing that seemed large enough to supply the energy to move something so massive . . . unless one mysterious part contained a fusion reactor. That seemed more than unlikely, but surely, the robot was intended to move.

Come to think of it, where was the thing's CPU?

The sheet began fading in my mind, details growing fuzzy, so I regarded the dimming image as a whole. That's when I caught on and mouthed the classic Oh My God. Could've sworn I didn't twitch or wiggle, but Sunny turned toward me and said, “What's so funny?"

Couldn't help it, I cracked up. I tried to tell her why but couldn't get the words out. After a minute, Sunny began laughing because I was laughing so hard.

"Shhh,” she warned me between giggles. “You'll wake the boy."

Tears still leaking from my eyes, I finally got some control. “I told you about trying to make that robot work.” The thought almost set me off again.

"Uh-huh. You and that Trader."

I was merely grinning now. “Exactly. Your big-brained husband and an even bigger-brained Tsf spent pretty much the day on it. Kept putting it together and taking it apart. Followed the pictorial assembly instructions more than carefully. We were meticulous."

"And?"

"We forgot something.” Another belly laugh got past me. “And we weren't the first ones to make the mistake. A team of Tsf scientists overlooked the same thing."

"So what did everyone miss?"

I told her and it was her turn to laugh. “That is funny,” she agreed.

My cheeks were tired from grinning so hard. “It just didn't seem important at the time."

In the morning, the same two cops chauffeured me to work, but this time they neglected to come in with me. My receptionist loomed behind his desk as usual, but no one else seemed to be around unless you count the docked cleaning robot.

"Good morning, L,” I said, walking up to his station.

He extruded a wad of tissue resembling a top hat circa 1800 on a thin stalk and waved it at me. “And a tip of the morning to you, Doctor."

"That's not—never mind. Is Deal-of-ten-lifetimes still here?"

The hat sank into nonexistence. “That is a near certainty. After you last departed, she resumed experimenting with robotics, then borrowed room six for a lengthy dose of gravity therapy. It seems she spent undue time yesterday operating under Earth conditions, and suffered some loss of bone density. The Tsf metabolism, if you aren't aware, is considerably faster than yours or even mine."

"Will she be okay?"

"She assured me so, but mentioned it would require some ten Earth hours and two meals before she could normalize."

"Good enough.” I moved closer to L and lowered my voice. “In fact, her absence may come in handy. Have you seen Tad or Gara today?"

"Both. Is there purpose in your question?"

"I think they were avoiding Deal yesterday, and want to know why. At one point, our favorite Vithy was impersonating my shadow."

"She does that well."

I nodded my agreement. “Have you canceled any cancellations for today?"

"I have not commenced rescheduling."

"Then I'll try to see where Gara's hiding."

L extruded a thin limb and used it as a pointer. “Her office might be an appropriate location to begin your search."

Taking his galactic wisdom to heart, I headed to my PT's room and softly tapped on the door. Vithy lack eyes of any sort but come factory-equipped with a fantastically acute sense combining hearing and touch.

After the clinic had opened, I'd asked my employers to add a physical therapist and an analytical physiologist to my staff in case any alien patient proved to have physical problems. They brought me Gara, qualified on both counts.

"Come in, Al,” she said in the contralto voice she always adopted when we were alone. No doubt she'd known who was knocking from the sound of my footsteps. Being sightless, she didn't turn when I entered, but I felt a delicate breeze on my face, which implied she'd used her multi-band sonar to check on my facial expression, muscular tension, and blood flow.

Gara was . . . positioned behind her acoustic DM, her tenebrous body extended into a rectangular, paper-thin diaphragm about my height and four feet wide. Her data manager was entirely external and a piece of technology that gave me goosebumps. It resembled a shallow circular tar pit suspended vertically in midair, a computer monitor as designed by Hewlett Packard Lovecraft. From the crisscrossing web of ripples in this oily pool, I knew that Gara was making sounds inaudible to humans and sensing her DM's response in air movements too subtle to disturb a gnat.

"I'm so sorry,” she murmured, “that events recent have left you apprehensive. But I am grateful you are uninjured."

"Thanks.” As usual when in Gara's presence, I felt myself relaxing. She spoke by vibrating sections of herself, which allowed her to . . . heterodyne her own kind of tranquillizing entrainment into her speech. That's one reason my human patients take to her with all the enthusiasm they never show for L and Tad. Lucky, because with the paucity of alien patients that have come our way, most of Gara's work has involved traumatized humans needing physical as well as mental therapy.

Vithy don't fit into your classic categories of animal, vegetable, mineral, or fungal. But if you had to choose one of the above, you might go for vegetable because they use photosynthesis to fulfill most of their energy requirements—only they process various sulfur compounds rather than carbon dioxide. Our atmosphere neither harms nor helps them, but their unique bodies can retain enough needed gasses to keep them fit for days at a time, and without even stinking up the place. Since any of my clinic's controllable environments can duplicate the repulsive atmosphere of your choice, and since Gara's office has plenty of south-facing windows, she can recharge at will.

What does she look like? That's a hard one. Her body is essentially a collection of shapeable, elastic, purple nanotubes dark enough to appear black except in direct sunlight. Each tube is equivalent to one of our cells and L, who's an encyclopedia about Tsf trading partners, tells me that the Vithy evolved as a gradual collaboration between individual tubes. L also mentioned, in the faintest whisper while Gara was helping a human patient in our smaller building, that some Pokaroll scientists consider Vithy to be colony creatures rather than individuals.

In a nutshell, they're dark, very few molecules short of being two-dimensional when lying flat, and can take almost any shape. When it comes to making noises, they've got talent, even more so than L's people. They can vibrate their bodies to produce sonic massages, ultrasound waves, or just to sing hello in six-part harmony.

I decided to be straightforward. “Gara, why were you avoiding Deal-of-ten-lifetimes yesterday?"

She curled into a semicircle. “My people have had much experience with Traders. We have found some to be untrustworthy rather."

"I don't get it. We've had a dozen Traders here since you arrived, but this is the first time you've . . . kept such a low profile."

"This is the time first you have been exploded nearly."

I could feel a developing furrow between my eyebrows despite Gara's soothing influence. “What does that have to do with Deal?"

"A question excellent most. I am suspicious always of coincidences."

I shivered involuntarily. “But they do happen."

"Inarguably."

"We humans have a saying,” I pointed out. “Correlation doesn't imply causation."

"Nor does lack of causation negate correlation. You may wish to know that this Deal has departed now her room."

"You can hear her door open from here?"

"Easily."

I left Gara's office more troubled than when I'd entered—a first. And when I glanced down at the floor, my shadow was darker and more distinct than it should've been.

"With your incredible hearing,” I murmured, “why do you need to, um, shadow me?"

The darkness at my feet rippled. “It is one thing to hear, another to act if necessary."

Gara's office and the room Deal had commandeered were in separate corridors. Tsf can hustle when they want to, but Deal must've been feeling lazy this morning; she and I reached the reception area in a dead heat, just in time for us to get a glimpse of Tad's back vanishing into the third corridor. But even without Tad, we had plenty of company.

A tall, heavyset man in a business suit that was the opposite of off-the-rack stood a respectful distance from L's desk. A large leather briefcase dangled from his left hand. I'd never seen him before, but his two outriggers were my uniformed guardians Phillips and Braun. They didn't look joyous.

Paying no attention to the aliens in the room, a trick tantamount to ignoring the proverbial elephant, the man turned toward me with a kind of slow pomp, his posture and the set of his face declaring a vast self-importance. “Doctor Morganson? My name is Skyler Penwarden, Jr. I am an attorney representing an association of your neighbors.” Staring at me with blue eyes obviously trying to be steely, he deigned to hold a hand out for a shake. His palm was so dry that he probably sprayed it with antiperspirant. I made a mental note to disinfect my own paw afterward. “May I DM you my business card?” he added.

"Why not?” I subvocally gave my DM permission to add his card to the stack but to accept no other transmissions from him. “How can I help you, Mr. Penwarden?"

He released my hand, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a ream of paper. “At the behest of my clients, I am prepared to initiate a civil suit against you. The particulars are contained in this brief, and I'd advise you to familiarize yourself with it immediately. After you do so, I would be willing to sit down with you, or with you and your attorney if you'd prefer, to discuss the possibility of settling this matter out of court."

Had I ever heard anyone else use the word “behest” in real life? The lawyer handed over the so-called brief, and I gave him my finest sardonic look. “I assume this is Bradley S. Pearson's doing?"

"He is one of the principals."

"Uh-huh. Listen to me, Mr. Penwarden. As I keep telling Bradley, this sort of harassment doesn't work. Washington, not to mention the entire UN, can't afford to let this clinic close."

The man's lips insulted the entire concept of smiling. “Our litigation is not targeted at closing your clinic. Our purpose is to simply ensure that you will not profit financially from its operation. I see no reason why the authorities should object. Please study the brief, then contact my office. You have my card."

"You're wasting your time and mine. This is my work, and I'll keep at it even if it doesn't pay me a dime. At this point, I don't need the money.” That was almost true; with a certain degree of penny pinching, I could've retired at that minute thanks to my bloated monthly salary.

Still, that bombshell failed to dent him. “Again, I advise you to study the brief. You will find that it is not merely your future earnings you may need to protect. I'll expect to hear from you very soon."

He wheeled around with the stately grace of a galleon, and I'm sure would've made an impressive exit if Deal hadn't hopped forward and wrapped the end of one of her limbs around his upper arm.

"Hold up a sec, podner,” Deal clicked, the translation coming out in the exaggerated cowboy twang she'd abandoned yesterday.

Penwarden made a few sincere efforts to pull away before he gave up. He stared close-range at Deal, his face now suffused with an unattractive shade of red. “Release me immediately, Trader, or suffer serious legal consequences.” I had to hand it to the man: he looked a mere 30 percent scared and 70 percent pissed. In his shoes, I would've hit 90 percent on the fear meter and rising. Of course, I happened to be one of the few humans who knew just how lethal Tsf could be.

Deal was immune to the lawyer's glare. “I reckon you can fergit that shet. I'm what they call a dip-la-mat in these here parts and got am-munities. But I just gotta check on if I was hear'n you right. Was you figgerin’ to get yer mitts into the doc's well-earned nest egg?"

Penwarden was one tough cookie, but the steel in his eyes was rusting fast. “That depends on how reasonable Doctor Morganson can be. I'm sure we can work something out. Let me go. Please."

Deal relinquished the man's arm and Penwarden immediately scooted to the clinic's exit. The cops became the second line of geese following their migrating leader. At the door, I thought the lawyer might turn and deliver some new legal threat, but he was gone before his small flock had caught up.

"This,” I said, shaking the document in my hand, “I don't need. Are any of your people lawyers?” I asked Deal.

"We have not evolved past an occasional necessity for arbitration, Doctor.” The sagebrush twang had gone. “But our arbitrators do not use our legal system as a bludgeon."

How nice for you, I thought, walking over to the reception desk. “L, would you mind tucking these papers away for now?"

L extended a pseudo-hand, took the brief, opened a desk drawer with another temporary hand, and put the vile thing out of sight. “The myrmidons,” he complained, “continue to be rude, and that barrister . . .” he paused to give me time to admire the latest addition to his vocabulary, “behaved no better. Not one of them spoke to me even though I invited conversation most politely!"

"That is strange,” I commiserated.

Deal reclaimed my attention by gently tapping my shoulder. “After you departed yesterday,” she said, “I essayed a few more experiments with the robot."

Had she figured it out? “What kind of experiments?"

"I tried constructing it from the middle of the instructions rather than what we assumed was the beginning, and in many other sequences. My results were even less successful than all previous efforts. When fully reassembled, the machine failed to intone your name even once. If the Hoouk sent us this item as an intelligence test, I must tilt my gondola in disgrace."

I tried to reclaim the excitement that came with last night's breakthrough, but the day had killed my mood. I had so much on my mind: the pending lawsuit with attending hassles and fees, a possible bomb attack on my loved ones, and Gara still attached to my feet at the heels and matching my every step. Shake it off, Al, I told myself, remember what you tell your patients. Do you want your anxieties to run your life, or you?

"I may know how to fix the robot.” Perhaps not the most tactful way to put it after Deal's IQ self-evaluation.

The Trader made a popcorn popper's worth of clicks, which the translator simplified to a single, astonished “What?"

The humor of this worked its way though my funk. “You're going to kick yourself when I tell you. Or should I say punch yourself?” I suppose Tsf limbs could swing either way.

"I am eager to proceed with this proposed auto-mutilation. Please instruct me immediately!"

I smiled and meant it. “If you wouldn't mind, could we have another joint session with Cora first? Then we'll have the whole day free."

"Certainly. This will provide a chance for me to cultivate patience, a sadly undernourished animal in my emotional farm."

After our time with Cora, a note-for-note repeat of yesterday's initially promising and then disappointing performance, Deal led the way to the robot at a pace that made me trot to keep up. I wasn't in any such rush. In fact, I was feeling a distinct reluctance for my theory to be tested.

Back in Frankenstein's Cyberlab, machine parts lay cleverly organized all over the floor. Fine. We needed to start from scratch.

"Would you care to reveal your idea now?” Deal asked.

"Not yet. I'm trying to build suspense."

"Humans can be surprisingly cruel. What is our next step?"

"Reassembly for the umpteenth time. Exactly the way you first did it."

Deal aimed a platoon of eye-cilia toward me. “And you expect a different result?"

"We'll see. Put it together as fast as you like."

Practice, plus not having to wait for me to follow the action, allowed the Trader to work with such blistering speed that the robot almost seemed to implode into existence.

"And now?” Deal asked when she was finished and the robot had said my name three times.

"Now look at the instructions again. What do you see at the center?"

She regarded the sheet for a time. “No more than what stands before us."

"Really? What's that next to the robot?"

"Nothing significant. Only the empty boxes."

"The stacked empty boxes."

Deal neither moved nor clicked for so long that I wondered if she was hunting for a tactful way of informing me that my idea had already proved worthless. But even a psychiatrist can't read facial expressions on someone without a face. Maybe an expert on sea anemones would've had better luck.

"So maybe the crates are external DM components of some kind,” I explained unnecessarily. “And they need to be in contact to work. An obvious notion, I guess."

"It is obvious now. We Traders perceive incalculable potential in developing a relationship with the Hoouk and have grasped this overture by them with all limbs. So I find it maddening that so many Tsf scientists have scrutinized these instructions and overlooked the possibility you've suggested. Could I offer the excuse that the filled boxes were unwieldy in normal gravity and thus it seemed reasonable to leave each on the floor? No, even I find that unconvincing. Doctor, you are either a being of singular intellect or we Traders are more mentally limited than I had envisioned."

I shook my head. “Thanks for the praise, I think. But let's not pat me on the back quite yet."

"Experimental verification! Easily done.” Before she'd even finished her sentence, Deal had put the boxes into a neat vertical pile.

The effect was dramatic, and by God, totally unexpected. The robot just stood there as always, but color-shifting neon streaks danced across its torso and it emitted a hive-buzzing like a gigantic step-up transformer. And those changes were trivial compared to what happened to the boxes. They spun around individually to differing orientations and then merged like hot wax into a single translucent body that glittered from within. Its final overall shape reminded me of my Hoouk patient on the Parent Ship. Only this thing was three times larger, fully inflated, and seemed to crackle with power.

Deal caught on fast. “It appears we'd envisioned the components reversed, Doctor. The ‘robot’ must be an energy generator and DM controller, while the boxes have become the actual automaton. As you surmised, the system remained inoperative until it was complete."

I swallowed hard. “Just tell me what this system is for."

The controller in robot disguise joined the conversation. “Doctor Alanso Jose Morganson.” Its usual opening and closing gambit, but this time, it wasn't finished. “In gratitude for your assistance to one of our travelers stranded and distressed far from our native galaxy, and to further our association with your employers, our siblings in trade, the wondrous and excellent Tsf who found and rescued our lost traveler, we have sent this energy servant poised before you. In one of our primary languages, we name such artificial entities dhothigon, a name you are welcome to adopt at no cost. Or you may discard it and substitute a term of your own. It is our intention for this dhothigon to be a boon in your life."

"Ah. Thanks. Very kind of you. Um, you don't happen to have an operator's manual for dhothigon?"

The controller didn't reply. Maybe it had used up its quota of words for the year.

I turned toward Deal. “You know what I find most amazing about all this?"

"Certainly. That the Hoouk would understand Tsf perspective enough to know that we would regard a gift to you as a sign of respect to us?"

"That's . . . not quite what I meant. What boggles my mind is that creatures living in another galaxy seem to have mastered English."

"I would hardly say ‘mastered.’ I found the controller's statements verbose and awkwardly constructed. But Doctor, Hoouk knowledge of your language is readily explained. They use data management techniques similar to those employed by Tsf and to a lesser degree, humans. After we opened communications with these beings, we granted them limited access to our language files. I leave it to you to make the logical inference."

I gave Deal a puzzled stare. “Why are you being so coy? Did you Traders, or did you not, share your knowledge of English with—"

"I should not have essayed my small evasion. The truth is that Hoouk protocols interfaced with ours so successfully that our DM systems automatically granted them full access to our files. As to English, the Hoouk helped themselves, but despite the failure of our constraints, they probed no further than our language data. We take this as a strong indication of their good will."

"Wait. Are you saying their DM technology is so damn good that it broke through Tsf firewalls?"

"I would phrase it in less violent terms, but essentially yes."

"That's scary."

Deal waved a few limbs around in a graceful way possibly intended to be reassuring. “Why?"

"Doesn't it worry you that creatures from God knows how many light-centuries away have such an incredible grasp of . . . communication possibilities they can program their systems to even interact with yours, let alone mesh so completely?” Whoops. Phrased that way, the Tsf had basically done the same thing with us. “I mean without years of monitoring your media."

"It does not, although I would expect their adroitness to dazzle you considering the present limitations of human cybertechnology. Still, a logical basis exists for any effective DM design providing some measure of universality. And advanced communication skills are prerequisite for inter-species trading."

If Deal were really that sanguine about the security breach, she wouldn't have been embarrassed to admit it.

"You'd know best,” I said. “But if I understand what you told me, Hoouk protocol networked with yours so well that your DMs interpreted its download demands as internal requests."

"Just so. Still I fail to understand why the matter upsets you."

"You really don't get it? If your firewalls failed, what chance do mine have? I have all sorts of confidential information on my system. Patient files, personal notes, debit card PIN—"

"You are seeing predators where only shadows wait,” she said in a series of unusually loud clicks, and I had to stop myself from glancing down at the darkness at my feet. “What possible danger,” she added more quietly, “could ensue from this Hoouk creation accessing even your most personal data?"

"Beats me. That's the problem. Maybe this isn't true for you, but in my life, it's been the stuff I don't know that's bitten me the hardest."

Deal aimed a few more visual cilia at the dhothigon. “There, you make a firm point. Your experience is not entirely outside mine in this regard. I suggest we explore your measure of control over the situation."

"I'm not sure what you—oh. You mean give the controller some orders and see if it salutes?"

"I will answer yes, but tentatively since the translation of your words was highly ambiguous."

Being unsure which one to talk to, the controller or the “energy servant,” I addressed my entire audience. “I hereby name this dhothigon, um, Thoth. Thoth, will you obey me?"

Thoth had nothing to add to the conversation.

"Try an instruction,” Deal advised.

"Okay.” I pointed to one corner of the room. “Thoth, move over there.” No response, but perhaps the Hoouk hadn't programmed the thing to understand pointing or even got the point themselves. “Thoth, come closer to me.” Another failure to communicate. I eyed the controller. “Tell me what this servant is supposed to do."

Deal and I both jumped a little when the controller answered. “Your Thoth has one hundred and twenty possible configurations comprising variations on five basic functions, which are to serve, defend, protect, entertain, or instruct. You can select only one function at a time."

"How do I select a function or know which configuration does what? And what's the difference between defending and protecting me?” For that matter, how was it supposed to entertain me? Put on a red nose and big floppy shoes?

Again, I got the silent treatment.

Deal burst into rapid clicking. “Doctor! Thus far the controller has only responded to a direct order."

My assessment of Tsf intelligence inched up, while my opinion of my own went the other way. I eyed the metal contraption and applied a voice my wife mistakenly refers to as “bossy.” “Tell me how to switch Thoth to its instructive function."

"That operation is currently forbidden."

I'd often read something similar on my 3DVD screen when trying to bypass the damn ads. “Why? I mean, tell me why!"

"You have configured Thoth in an aggressively protective mode that entails special security features."

As I was getting that interesting news, flashing red letters appeared in the upper part of my vision to provide more of the same: DOWNLOAD IN PROGRESS; SIGNIFY YES IF A FILE-BY-FILE READOUT IS DESIRED.

Not good. I tried shutting down the system. When that failed, I subvocalized “yes” and watched the data zip by far too fast to actually read. But it wasn't quite the hyperdrive blur I'd feared, so the interface had some sort of bottleneck. Latching onto that one buoy of hope, I whipped my DM ring off my finger and threw it across the room. Even that didn't stop the theft.

"I assume there is purpose to your unusual behavior?” Deal asked.

Could be I snarled a little. “My DM just let me know that it's lying down and purring while something is stealing my private files.” If there's one thing I hate, it's when my most paranoid fears come true.

"I suggest you address the controller."

"Right. Hey, controller, stop that download right now!"

"That operation is currently forbidden."

Perfect. “Then tell me what you're looking for."

"Thoth seeks information concerning threats to your wellbeing."

How about Thoth itself? “Tell me what it will do if it finds any threats."

"Your servant will protect you."

That didn't sound so bad at face value, but this was another face I couldn't read. “How? I mean, tell me how."

"The means depend on the threats."

Deal speared my ring with the tip of one limb and silently offered it back to me. Just as I put it back on my finger, the bizarre form of my unhired protector drifted toward the doorway. I couldn't tell how Thoth propelled itself, but its movement was snail-smooth and rabbit-fast. Like an idiot, I leapt sideways to block the servant's exit and banged into Deal, who was being an idiot in the opposite direction. Thoth pushed us aside gently, but with a strength even a Tsf couldn't resist, and headed into the hallway without bothering to use the open door. The macramite wall shattering made a noise that put Wednesday's explosion, by comparison, into the appropriate-for-church category.

Deal and I just looked at each other for a moment; macramites are incredibly tough when linked and no amount of electromagnetic muscle could've given Thoth enough traction to break the wall. But the floor was covered with tiny Vapabondi machines already scrambling to reassemble themselves. I had time for one bitter thought along the lines of et tu, physics? before a second horrific CRUNCH ahead got me stumbling over the slippery backs of macramites to follow my supposed servant. I only fell twice.

Deal, being far more sure-limbed than any middle-aged human psychiatrist, reached the reception area ahead of me and clicked so loudly the translation was a shouted, “Stop that entity!"

I leaped over a second carpet of macramites where Thoth had taken out the corner of another wall in time to see L spring through the air like an Art Nouveau rocket, the massive jumping leg he'd extruded trailing behind. He hit Thoth with a force that would've knocked a house off its foundations, but the Hoouk creation didn't even quiver. Impossible. L expressed tentacles and tried to latch on. Thoth flicked one ineffective-looking mini-limb and the little push hurled my receptionist across the room to smash into his own desk. Tad, likely drawn by all the noise, galloped in from one of the east-wing corridors but braked fast after spotting the glittering monster.

"L?" I bellowed. “You all right?” His silence scared me more than Thoth did.

My faithless servant scooted past Tad, who'd courageously jumped out of the way. Then the shadow at my feet gathered itself up and flowed forward.

"Gara! Stop!"

I was already too late. She'd pooled herself around Thoth's . . . feet or whatever it had and her blackness turned shiny. The old banana-peel-on-the-floor routine, I thought. That won't work; this bastard rolls its own traction.

Sometimes I hate to be right. The bastard glided effortlessly over my PT and crashed through the outer wall, but at least Gara seemed unhurt in the process. Bathed in morning sunlight, Thoth slowed to a slow but relentless crawl; its body grew a few feet taller, its internal glitter flared into blinding coruscations. Nothing could've looked more dangerous.

I turned my head and my knees felt weak from relief. L had begun to stir. Then I noticed something that shoved a fresh icicle up my spine. Although the broken walls were already partly rebuilt, I could trace the line of damage. It was dead straight, aimed north by northeast and pointed directly at a certain house on the next street ahead, the residence of one Bradley S. Pearson. A sliver of Brad's gray shingles peeked at me from between two homes across from the clinic, as did a hint of the ocean farther beyond.

By stealing my personal files, Thoth could access every conversation I'd had since my last data-dump, six months ago. Something told me my alien Frankenstein's experiment would soon give Bradley, or more probably his widow, something truly worth suing about. This was shaping up to be a very bad morning for both Mr. Litigious and me.

"L,” I called. “Are you hurt?"

"Not significantly."

"Good!” I turned to my supposed security officer. “Tad, that nightmare outside is a kind of robot. If you've got any Vapabondi super-weapons tucked away, get them. Now listen, everyone! Looks like our wall-breaker is just, um, moseying along now, maybe to soak up a few rays. I'm praying we'll have enough time to figure out how to stop it."

"Why should we?” Tad asked.

A bad moment for Tad to suddenly get interactive, but par for her course. “Deal and I have learned that it's been programmed to . . . handle anything threatening me. So it's heading toward the thing that's threatened me most often."

"Mr. Pearson,” L said, using Bradley's obnoxious voice.

"Right. And I doubt the robot is planning to negotiate. Ideas, anyone?"

"Certainly,” Deal proclaimed with a single, confident snap. “The controller must be disabled. I suggest that you and I along with the Vithy do what we can to impede the robot's progress. Meanwhile the Pokaroll, who has witnessed the disassembly procedure, should attempt to dismantle the controller. Your surprising Vapabond can assist."

Surprising? No time to ask. I glanced outside. Judging from Thoth's increasing speed, I guessed it had nearly finished sunbathing. Worse, Phillips and Braun, my guardians parked on the street, were sliding out of their patrol car, weapons already drawn. I ran out the direct way, through the wall's new hole, just beginning to self-heal.

"What is that thing?” Phillips yelled to me.

"Tell you later. Put those guns away, for God's sake!” Considering Thoth's Aggressive Protection mission, I figured nothing good would happen if it got the impression the cops were targeting me. And if the cops actually fired? While I was damn sure bullets couldn't dent a Hoouk energy servant, that didn't mean the robot wouldn't shoot back somehow.

The cops lowered their .38s, maybe thanks to the panic in my voice, but they didn't holster them. Bad mistake. Thoth stopped dead. A lenslike protrusion emerged from its glittering torso, pointed exactly between the two officers. I'm no sprinter, but would've surely broken some world record that day, if I'd run that fast on my own. Instead, a textured shadow slid under my feet and flowed in the direction I was running like a super-speed moving walkway. I reached my destination so quickly that I stumbled trying to avoid overrunning the spot. But I got there in time.

The little lens-bubble took one peek at Dr. Human Shield before sinking back into Thoth's body and I trusted that this danger, at least, was over.

"Thanks,” I murmured to Gara, now appearing as a deep purple haze, and she gave me a don't-mention-it sort of wriggle. Unfortunately, my latest feeling of relief had a minuscule half-life. Two smaller bubbles zoomed out from Thoth, whipped around me, and settled on the cops’ foreheads. Officers Phillips and Braun didn't just stop moving, they seemed to congeal. For a second, I was terrified that they'd been frozen stiff, and would shatter when they fell over. And they did fall when I couldn't reach them fast enough, but they didn't even crack. The robot started off again, still aimed at Pearson headquarters. “Gara, we can't do anything here, but I've got to get to Bradley's house before that monster does. Can you carry me that far?"

I could barely hear her response. “Sorry, Al. I'd need to recharge first."

"But I can manage that small task,” Deal said. I hadn't realized she'd gotten close enough to overhear. “If you wouldn't find it beneath your dignity, Doctor?"

"Hardly. Let's go! What should I do?"

"Enjoy the ride.” With those cheery words, Deal wrapped limbs around my waist and legs, then hoisted me surprisingly high into the air and took off, bounding across the street as if Earth's gravity was on coffee break. I didn't much enjoy the experience, but had to admit that Deal got the job done.

She put me down outside Bradley's back door and I barged in.

Bradley S. sat at his kitchen table gluing snips of colored veneers to a rectangular board. He looked up at me with the ire of a man interrupted mid-marquetry and uncharacteristically let me have it, both barrels. “Knock much?"

Normally, I find that particular TV-dialog-meme annoying, but today my attention was elsewhere. “Brad, you're in danger! Run out your front door and keep running. Hurry!” Deal squeezed into the kitchen as I was talking.

Bradley stared at the Trader for a second too long and then it was too late. Four glittering claws smashed through the sheetrock behind me and then pulled most of the wall out accompanied by an ear-splitting concerto of snaps, crunches, squeals, and bangs. Thoth glided through the newborn dust cloud and over the pile of fresh rubble. It brushed past Deal and tenderly pushed me aside. One of its many claws elongated into long serrated pinchers that opened wide and began closing around Bradley's thin neck. I'd never seen anyone look so terrified, and even though it wasn't my neck in the alien guillotine, my blood turned to gel.

And time seemed to freeze. Each tick of the oversized clock mounted on one undamaged kitchen wall came slow and far apart. Dust motes lazed in the morning light streaming though Thoth's remodeling project. The big hole tugged at my attention. My supposed protector hadn't smashed into the house in its usual modus operandi; it had pulled the wall out. Why? Because I stood on the other side and would've gotten hurt. That insight told me what to do, or at least what to try. . . .

"THOTH! If you kill this man, I will also die.” I had to believe the robot would understand me even if it wouldn't obey me in its current mode. And I was counting on its protective programming.

Thoth didn't release Bradley, but its pincher didn't close. My neighbor gazed at me with eyes that were too scared to plead, and I did my best to convey a reassurance I didn't feel. The impasse stretched on and there seemed no safe way to break it.

Then, for the first time, Thoth proved that it could speak. “You will not die when Bradley S. Pearson dies.” Its voice had a gelatinous tremolo but an ice-cold edge—murder in aspic.

The pinchers closed just enough to squeeze Bradley's neck without breaking the skin. Brad made a nearly noiseless whimper and I felt sweat run down my back. “You're wrong! Killing him will destroy my reputation and career. The guilt will make me kill myself."

"I will prevent your self-destruction."

Despite that excellent rebuttal, the pinchers didn't tighten further. So maybe the Hoouk had a fairly broad definition of protection. “You can't save my reputation."

Thoth responded to my counterargument by doing nothing, a big improvement from what I was afraid it would do. But before I could let myself breathe again, Deal offered a few clicks of advice.

"I suspect, Doctor, that your servant is temporarily engaged in weighing the potential harm to your status resulting from this man's demise against the harm he intends to inflict on you."

Deal's message came through perfectly: Any moment now, Bradley would lose his head.

Once again, something seemed to clog the gears of time as fear whipped my thoughts into clarity. “Don't hurt him, Thoth!” I ordered for whatever good it might do as I took off running through the big hole, over the rubble, and toward the clinic. Dismantling the controller was Bradley's only hope, and obviously L and Tad weren't having much luck.

Halfway across the street, I gasped. Not only because I was out of breath. In my mind, a dozen scraps of information snapped together, forming a picture I hadn't even suspected existed. My Volvo exploding, Tad saving me, the video-feed showing no one planting a car-bomb, Tad apparently avoiding Deal, Deal calling Tad “surprising,” three shattered macramite walls, and even Cora's months of unresponsiveness added up to one stunning revelation. A truly disturbing revelation, but one that might provide a tool to save Bradley.

The frozen cops were stirring, although in slow-mo. They didn't seem hurt. In the distance, I heard sirens and guessed they were headed this way.

The front wall had nearly healed, so I had to use the door to enter the clinic, but barely broke stride sprinting toward the room with the controller. I've seen some really weird things in my life, but the scene within that room beat them all. L had sprouted a forest of tentacles tipped with built-in wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers and whatnot, and was twisting, prodding, and banging on the controller like an army of insane mechanics. Meanwhile, Tad occupied herself with barehanded tugging and prying. All this hyperactivity was accomplishing zilch.

"Stop!” I shouted over the racket. “L and Tad, join me in the hallway, quick."

I doubted Tad would obey, but L grabbed one of her arms with an extruded vice and tugged her out of the room. I slapped the wall-plate and the door swished closed.

"Have you stopped the robot?” L asked.

I kept my voice below a murmur. “Not exactly. We'll have to do that from this end."

"A glorious idea. How?"

I turned to glare at my insecurity officer. “Tad, do you have any of that explosive left? The stuff you used on my car?"

Dead silence for a moment. “You know it was me?"

"I'm positive.” She'd broken her routine to accompany me to the parking lot and reacted too quickly and perfectly to what she'd claimed was the “scent” of a bomb. Also, a team of macramites, too small to be noticeable on a video feed, could've easily carried the alien C4 to the car in minute batches. And who would be better at controlling Vapabondi macramites than a Vapabond? “I even know why you did it."

To make me trust her, to allay any suspicions I might be developing about her.

"If you've got any explosive left, get it now,” I ordered in a nearly silent shout. “Hurry!"

You wouldn't think that something resembling a cross between an ape, a walrus, and an armadillo could look sheepish, but Tad managed the trick. Then she demonstrated that it was also possible to slink away while running. She was much faster than I'd expected.

"You believe a detonation will disable the controller?” L whispered.

"God, I sure—wow! She's back already. Guess we'll find out."

Tad carried a large, clear jar half full of what looked like crushed ruby dust and held it out for me to inspect.

"How do you detonate it?"

She answered by pulling out a small gadget with a miniature antenna on one end. She held this device to her mouth and mumbled something. Then she put the thing away and placed one of her sausage fingers on the nearest wall. A tiny moving strip of ivory appeared on the finger, marched across Tad's shell, and worked its way down the arm holding the jar. I moved closer, but still could barely distinguish the individual shells of the parading macramites. A few seconds later, the ivory strip abandoned Tad to bury itself in the ruby dust.

"Will self-ignite at command,” Tad offered.

Useful little buggers. “How fast can they work?"

"We should leave room first."

"Yeah. Okay, you stay right here and give your little pals the go-ahead as soon as L gets back here and I've got the door closed again. L, you're the speed-king here. I've got a hunch you'd better get the job done fast."

"You wish me to place the explosive near the controller?"

"On it. That jar should balance on one of its shoulders. Can you do it?"

"Easily."

"Good. Everyone ready?” I hated to count on Tad, but had no choice.

And she came through for me, pulling out her little toy again as L reconfigured himself into a low-slung torpedo with six legs and two long arms ending in enough spaghetti-like fingers for a gallon of carbonara sauce. He gently took the jar and bushed the opening-plate with a spaghetti strand.

"I am ready now,” he said, zipping into the room so quickly that for an instant, I could've sworn he remained in the hallway.

Then he was. As the door zipped closed, I heard the controller say, “The operation you are attempting is forbidden."

"Now, Tad."

An incredible crash came from behind us, from the reception room, not the place I wanted to hear a bang.

"NOW, Tad! NOW!"

Like a sped-up, stop-action demon, Thoth came charging at us just as some giant fist seemed to punch the world. The force knocked me off my feet, which probably saved my life as five empty but hard boxes flashed through the space that my head had occupied an instant earlier. L caught me in midair and set me on my feet. I think someone was talking, but at that moment my ears were on vacation.

I looked around. Both L and Tad appeared unhurt and even the walls seemed undamaged. I walked over to lift one of the boxes that had been part of Thoth a few moments before. I put it down and hoisted another, then a third. Damn. Color me stupid.

Deal bounded into the hall with Gara right behind in her spherical rolling form.

"Bradley?” I asked and only heard my own voice through a bit of bone conduction.

I could see Deal's cilia snapping, but had to point at my ears while shaking my head. Then the obvious occurred to me and I switched on one of my DM's “accessibility” functions.

"Say that again, please,” I asked.

This time when Deal spoke, the translated words scrolled across my field of vision: “Your neighbor is healthy save for whatever mental trauma remains. The robot released him and departed at a speed that makes me suspect it of possessing some form of interstellar propulsion. I perceive that you have succeeded in reverting Thoth to its original state."

"Thanks to L and . . . the Vapabond here. Deal-of-ten-lifetimes, may I introduce you to my patient, Coratennulagond? She's been pretending to be the security officer your people hired for me, Tadehtraulagong."

Deal hopped nearer to the party in question and stared at her with scores of eye-cilia. “So! I'd been informed a female2 had been assigned to you, Doctor, bringing a troubled female1 along. When I saw that your patient was the wrong subgender, I assumed my information was faulty. Now the discrepancy is explained."

Along with plenty of other things, such as “Cora” being so unresponsive for so long. While Tad and Cora had been on their way to Earth, something had gone very wrong and the psychotic Vapabond had gained the upper grasping member.

"How do you intend to rectify the situation?” Deal asked.

I studied the Vapabond. “We'll get the real Tad off whatever meds this one's been feeding her to keep her torpid. But as for you, Cora, I believe this crisis has done you some good. I'd even say you've just had a breakthrough. This is the first time since we met that you've acted in a completely responsible way. If we work together, I'll bet we can get your mind clear and strong. Are you willing?"

"You are not angry with me?"

"A doctor doesn't get mad at the patient.” I was lying, but admitting my real feelings would help no one.

"Then I am willing."

"Great. But let's not include bombs as part of your therapy. And speaking of bombs . . ."

I slapped the nearby wall-plate, exposing the room that had contained the recent blast. The floor was littered in machine parts, but none of them appeared broken or bent or even singed. Impressive metallurgy. The controller had fit together like a Chinese puzzle, so I'd guessed that a powerful explosion would break whatever electromagnetic or chemical bonds had come into play after the system was finally activated. Good thing it had worked because I didn't have a backup plan.

"We will not,” Deal said, “be assembling this device again. Or piling boxes.” My ears were beginning to recover; I could hear her clicks, faintly.

"Probably not, but I think I know where we went wrong."

"Tell me."

"The empty boxes look identical, but they don't weigh the same. I bet if we stacked them from heaviest to lightest, Thoth would come to life in a far more . . . amenable form. Remember the controller telling us that the servant has one hundred twenty possible configurations? That's how many different ways there are to stack five boxes if you ignore the issue of which side goes where: five factorial. Simple statistics. A clever person would've examined the empty boxes and noticed the weight discrepancy, and a logical person would've first made a pile with the greatest stability. The Hoouk overestimated me."

Deal remained silent for a moment. “As for me, I find you difficult to overestimate. We Traders owe you much for the trouble our incomprehension has caused. How may we best repay you?"

I turned toward Cora. “This whole structure is made of your tiny machines. Could they tear themselves down and rebuild the place somewhere else?"

"Yes."

"Excellent.” I faced Deal again. “I'm about to get drowned in lawsuits, and the trouble is that Bradley and my other neighbors are right. This institution is dangerous. Got an idea that might save my gluteus maximus without the Feds stepping in again and getting me even more resented. I'd like to keep treating my human patients in the Cabin—that's what we call the small building behind this one—but I want to relocate the main part of the clinic."

"To somewhere distant?"

"Not so far away that it takes me hours to commute from home, but a place that's isolated from people."

"Your desires appear to conflict. Do you have a location in mind?"

I grinned. “No, but you don't expect me to solve every problem, do you?"

Something about the way Deal tilted a few of her limbs gave me the impression she grinned back. “Then I may have a solution although it might mean that this structure could not simply perambulate to the new position."

"Perambulate!” L crowed, no doubt eager to rush to the nearest dictionary.

"Tell me,” I asked Deal.

"We are presently not far from one of your large oceans. With Tsf environment control, I see no reason why your clinic shouldn't be repositioned some distance out to sea."

I just stood there for a moment, blinking. “You mean floating?"

"I mean deep underwater. Surely your neighbors would be satisfied, and we would supply you a submersible vehicle for the short commute. Or would you prefer a sky clinic?"

And that's basically the story. Oh, I could blab about the subsequent meeting with Smith, Jones, and assorted tons of other officials, but even I'm getting sick of hearing my voice. Besides, you've got the answer you were looking for. So don't let those wheels fool you, Pastor. Now you know exactly why I have to drive to work in a submarine.

Copyright © 2010 Rajnar Vajra

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Al's adventure with his earlier patients was recounted in “Doctor Alien,” January/February 2009.)

In 1883, in one of the greatest volcanic catastrophes of recorded history, a mountain named Krakatoa blew its top. As many as 100,000 people died, including not only the inhabitants of the island, but thousands more, struck by tsunamis.

Krakatoa was in Indonesia, but the effects were felt worldwide. The explosion blew millions of tons of sulfur-containing gas into the stratosphere, where it formed a bright haze that reflected enough sunlight back into space to drop global temperatures significantly.1 As far away as Norway, the same haze produced blood-red sunsets that may have inspired Edvard Munch's famous painting, “The Scream."2

An even bigger volcanic explosion, also in Indonesia, may have produced massive crop failures in Europe and North America. The volcano, Tambora, erupted in April 1815 in the biggest blast in recorded history.3 The following year, 1816, entered North American folklore as “The Year Without a Summer,” also known as “1800 and Froze to Death.” In June, a foot of snow fell in Quebec City, and crop-killing frosts were severe enough to produce midsummer ice as far south as Pennsylvania.

More recently, the 1993 eruption of Mt. Pinatubo in the Philippines did the same on a smaller scale. Because Pinatubo was more recent, we know fairly precisely what was blown into the stratosphere: about seventeen teragrams (seventeen million metric tons) of sulfur dioxide. Once there, that sulfur dioxide was converted into about twenty-three teragrams of sulfate aerosols: enough to temporarily reduce average global temperature by 0.3 degrees C.

That may not sound like a lot, but it's more than one-third as much as the entire amount of global warming since the Industrial Revolution. It's also 5-25% of the projected warming that might occur by the end of this century.

In other words, a Pinatubo-sized quantity of sulfate aerosols floating around in the upper atmosphere, if it could be maintained permanently, would be enough to offset 5-25 years of global warming. Two Pinatubos could offset ten to fifty years of warming. Three would offset fifteen to seventy-five years, etc.

It's the type of thing that catches the attention of folks looking for a technological fix to global warming. Some scientists credit Freeman Dyson with first coming up with the idea, three decades ago, of cooling the globe by using naval guns to fire thousands of sulfur-containing artillery shells into the sky. But if Dyson really did propose such a scheme, it's not clear that he took it seriously. The idea of deliberately creating artificial Pinatubos to offset global warming didn't really come into its own until the late 1990s, when it was revived by hydrogen-bomb inventor Edward Teller. Since then, it's moved far enough into the mainstream to be featured in a half-day symposium at the Fall 2008 meeting of the American Geophysical Union.4

One person taking the idea seriously is Richard Turco, an atmospheric scientist at the University of California, Los Angeles. Turco was one of the architects of the 1980s “nuclear winter” theory, which posited that smoke from bomb-ignited fires would reflect so much sunlight that an all-out nuclear war could send the Earth into a deadly deep-freeze.5

Not that Turco and his colleagues necessarily endorse Teller's idea; they just think it's time to take a serious look at what might be involved in doing it.

One major problem is that this type of geoengineering is a bandage, not a cure. However effective it might be at reducing sunlight, it does nothing to eliminate the causes of warming. Furthermore, the sulfur has a limited stratospheric half-life.6 The year without a summer was a year, not a decade. This means that if we start shooting sulfur into the upper atmosphere and do nothing to reduce our emissions of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases, we're committed to continuing the process. If we quit, the sulfur will settle out of the air and the climate will quickly revert to what it would have been had we never intervened in the first place.

Alan Robock, a climate scientist from Rutgers University, recently wrote a paper for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists entitled “20 Reasons Why Geoengineering Might Be a Bad Idea."7 In addition to Turco's concern that we might wind up holding a tiger by the tail, Robock's reasons ranged from worries about human error to the knotty question of who controls the thermostat. “What if Russia wants it a couple of degrees warmer, and India a couple of degrees cooler?” he asked.

Even if people could agree on the optimum climate, what's to keep nations from trying to use the same geoengineering methods for military purposes? Jay Hamblin, a historian at Oregon State University, has noted that at the height of the Cold War, some NATO planners were taking a serious look at the prospect of environmental warfare. “There were a lot of wildcat ideas,” he said. “'How can we use our knowledge of nature to exploit it in wartime?’”8

Robock agrees. “The United States has a long history of trying to modify weather for military purposes,” he wrote in his “20 Reasons” article, “including inducing rain during the Vietnam War to swamp North Vietnamese supply lines and disrupt antiwar protests by Buddhist monks."9

Another problem would be that as long as carbon dioxide emissions continue to rise, the oceans will become ever more acidic. About one-third of the carbon dioxide entering the air winds up in the ocean, where it forms carbonic acid. This dissolves aragonite, a key mineral in coral, says Ken Caldeira, an oceanographer at the Carnegie Institution's Department of Global Ecology, in Stanford, California. Corals are sensitive enough to this process, he adds, that even if carbon dioxide levels are held to only twice their pre-industrial level—a fairly difficult goal to attain—there will be no place on Earth where tropical coral reefs can survive.10

Nor does it seem likely that sulfate aerosols can be used to raise or lower the globe's temperature uniformly. There are bound to be regional effects. Tambora is a good case in point. At the same time the haze from the event was freezing Canadians and New Englanders, it was also producing torrential floods in China, and drought, famine, and cholera in India—both by altering the monsoon.11

Tambora, of course, was an uncontrolled injection of sulfur into the atmosphere from a single point in Indonesia. Humans could have greater control by injecting the stuff into the stratosphere at a slower rate, from a multitude of sources. But do we really understand atmospheric processes well enough to control all the variables? And even if we do, is it possible to keep from spinning off unwanted effects on some parts of the globe? As anyone who's ever heard of the jet stream knows, the upper atmospheric winds aren't uniform. “That has implications for who has this stuff over their heads and who doesn't,” says Adrian Tuck, a meteorological chemist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and author of a textbook on atmospheric turbulence.

Studies of a related geoengineering trick—spraying sea salt into the air in an endeavor to make the skies cloudier—have found that there's definitely a potential problem with regional winners and losers. “You can get cooling, but it's inhomogeneous,” said Olivier Boucher, a climate scientist at Britain's Met Office. And he added, “You don't necessarily get the cooling where you want it.” Worse, Boucher's model found that some areas had increased rainfall, while others wound up more prone to droughts.

Another model, by Katherine Ricke, then of the Department of Engineering and Public Policy at Carnegie Mellon University, found that sulfate aerosol-based geoengineering might combat drought in Brazil and China while increasing it in the Western U.S. The model examined only a limited range of scenarios, so the specifics aren't set in stone. But the basic finding is significant. “This simple example illustrates that optimizing geoengineering activities would mean very different things for different nations,” she said.

Other effects would be due to the scattering of sunlight, making that which does reach the ground more diffuse. Just to start with, solar power generation would be reduced, particularly forms of it that use mirrors to concentrate sunlight to produce intense heat. (The scattered light would be harder to focus.) Green plants, however, might be more efficient. Studies have found that photosynthesis works better in diffuse light.

Aesthetically, blue skies would be replaced by a white haze. Night skies would be hazier, too, making it harder to conduct ground-based astronomical observations. If ever-increasing quantities of aerosols are needed to combat ever-increasing greenhouse gases in the lower air, we might even wind up fogging the atmosphere so thoroughly that the average person never sees a truly starlit sky except in pictures from orbital telescopes. How would that affect humanity's view of its place in the universe?

High-Altitude Transport

Let's assume that none of these are deal-breakers. Can we actually get enough sulfate aerosols into the stratosphere to do the trick? The answer is a qualified “yes."

Alex Eliseev of the A. M. Obukhov Institute of Atmospheric Physics in Moscow, Russia, has estimated that we'd need five to ten teragrams of sulfur (ten to twenty teragrams of sulfur dioxide) per year by 2050, and more than ten teragrams of sulfur per year by 2100.12

But maybe we don't need to use sulfur dioxide. The gas of choice would be hydrogen sulfide (H2S), which gets the same quantity of sulfur up there at nearly half the weight. Once dispersed, we could (hopefully) rely on the atmosphere to turn the hydrogen sulfide into the desired sulfate aerosols.

Putting five to ten teragrams of material into the stratosphere isn't inconceivable. One solution would simply be to quit removing sulfur from jet fuel—or even start adding extra sulfur to it. But there are at least two problems with that. One is that except on flights across the Arctic, where the stratosphere is relatively low, these planes don't normally fly high enough. The other is that high-sulfur fuel might be hard on engines—not to mention the possible dangers to the next jetliner to fly along the same route. “I think the idea that you just add this to commercial airplanes is so unrealistic as to be fantasy,” says David Keith, of the University of Calgary, Alberta.

Besides, Keith says, if we're going to attempt to reengineer the planet, we might as well use the right equipment. Given what's at stake, he says, “The cost of doing this with specially designed aircraft would be very small."

Robock suggests using military aircraft. “We have hundreds of KC-135 tankers used to fuel jet airplanes,” he says. “They can fly into the stratosphere with ninety-one tons each.” Fifteen such planes, flying three missions each, per day, are all that is needed for a teragram.

The main drawback is that the KC-135 tankers can only fly high enough to reach the stratosphere in the Arctic. Getting high enough in the tropics would require fighter jets. (Robock estimates that each teragram would require one hundred sixty-seven F-15C Eagles, working year-round.) It could also be done with balloons (37,000 a day, by Robock's estimate), naval artillery (8,000 shots per day), or—if we had one—a space elevator. Other than the space elevator, none of these are beyond the reach of a determined, global program.

Nor would it be prohibitively expensive. Sulfur is cheap, especially since we're already collecting it as a pollutant. The planes exist. KC-135 tankers, Robock estimates, can be operated for about five million dollars each per year, including spare parts. Even if fighter jets were used, it would be a tiny dent in the overall military budget.

"There are many reasons why geoengineering might be a bad idea,” he says. “But just from the point of view of, ‘Could we get it up there?’ it seems like that wouldn't be the limiting factor."

Other options are also economically feasible. Naval rifles could do the job for twenty billion dollars a year, Robock says, as could balloons—though he notes that the fall of millions of spent balloons each year might be an annoying form of “trash rain."

That said, there are enormous practical problems. To begin with, we don't know how sulfur disperses when released from a plane, balloon, or artillery shell, rather than a volcano. And the global-cooling models, Turco says, all assume an “aged” gas cloud of uniform-size particles, as was produced by Pinatubo. Dispersal from airplanes would produce a different type of cloud, with a greater diversity of particle sizes. These won't be as efficient at cooling, which means we might need, say, twice as much sulfur as volcano-based estimates would predict.

Other problems are even more basic. It's one thing to lift millions of tons of hydrogen sulfide into the stratosphere in tanker jets. But how do you get the gas out of the tank? If you simply try to spray it out, Turco worries, it might just form a super-dense cloud that quickly falls out of the stratosphere. We'd probably need a specialty nozzle whose performance specifications aren't even known yet.

Robock agrees. At present, he says, we simply don't know how to produce particles of the appropriate size.

Nor does anybody know much about the atmospheric chemistry that might turn hydrogen sulfide into sulfate aerosols. “The idea seems to be that if we get it there, it will magically do its thing,” says Turco.

A related problem is keeping track of the aerosol cloud so we know where and when to release sulfur for optimum effect. That, Turco says, will require a monitoring system comparable to what we now use for weather prediction. “You can't afford to make any mistakes,” he says. “You have to understand what's going on."

Seeding the Cirrus

All of this has led some experts to favor a different approach, which attempts to alter the Earth's natural cloud layers.

There are two approaches. One, suggested by David Mitchell of the Desert Research Institute in Reno, Nevada, is to attempt to reduce the prevalence of cirrus clouds, the high, thin bands common both in fair weather and in the advance of storms.

Normally we think of clouds as reflecting sunlight, cooling the planet. But cirrus clouds do the reverse. That's because they're so thin they let most of the light through—then trap heat reflected from the Earth's surface.

Mitchell's idea is to cool the planet by seeding these clouds with something that causes them to form larger ice crystals than the ones that normally comprise them. These larger crystals would be too big to stay that high in the air and would begin to fall, causing the clouds to literally rain (or snow) out of the sky.

Such an approach might not require as much specialty equipment as would sulfate aerosols. Because the clouds are at lower elevations than those that would need to be reached with sulfates, the seeding materials might be introduced into passenger jet fuel, or injected directly into the jet exhaust. “The delivery mechanism may exist if you can get the airline industry to go along with it,” says Mitchell.

It might also be environmentally benign. One of the many concerns about sulfates is that they might interfere with the ozone layer. Cloud seeding would be unlikely to have this effect. Also, it's aesthetically better. Skies would remain blue—bluer, in fact than they are now. (On the other hand, sunsets might become a bit boring, since cirrus clouds often contribute to the more spectacular effects.)

Another proposal, called cloud whitening, focuses on lower clouds. Unlike cirrus clouds, these reflect enough more than enough sunlight to offset any heat that they otherwise might trap. They're also easy to make. As was mentioned earlier, all that's required is a fleet of ocean vessels designed to spray seawater into the air. One advocate of this is John Latham of the National Center for Atmospheric Research, in Boulder, Colorado. As far back as 2002, he proposed using salt spray to increase cloud cover over the oceans, possibly by mounting the sprayers on freighters or passenger liners.13

In a 2008 paper in Nature Geoscience, Philip Boyd of the University of Otago, New Zealand, ranked cloud whitening equal to sulfate aerosols in terms of its scientific rationale and start-up costs, and better in terms of potential side effects.14 Keith also has good things to say about it, noting that part of the attraction is that it uses natural materials to alter a natural part of the atmosphere. (It would also be quite inexpensive.)15

A big issue with any of these schemes, of course, is that we need to be able to shut them down if they backfire. “A proposal that . . . cannot be arrested quickly . . . should not be considered further,” Boyd concludes in his review article. From this perspective, cloud whitening, cirrus cloud seeding, and sulfate aerosols all score high marks. If we inject sulfur into the upper atmosphere, then decide to quit, the haze should dissipate within a couple of years. Cloud whitening can be halted even faster than that, and cirrus clouds should regenerate fairly quickly if we were to quit seeding them out.

Less clear is whether we might produce lasting impacts on regional climates. For better or worse, all of these methods carry the risk of changing rainfall patterns, and there's no guarantee they'd shift back if we decided to halt.

But the biggest risk of any such program is the one we began with: the danger of becoming addicted to them, allowing them to become permanent programs, rather than short-term fixes designed to buy time. Letting this happen, Boucher says, “is a little like building a nuclear program without figuring out how you're going to decommission it in the end."

There are also moral problems. Martin Bunzl, an ethicist from Rutgers University, puts them simply: “What if this works for most people, but some people get screwed?” The biggest losers might include the one to two billion people in parts of Asia where there's a risk of disrupting the monsoon. Before beginning such a vast, global experiment, we need to do our best to make sure we fully understand what we're doing, as well as mitigating the potential for harm.

"Right now,” adds Keith, “the ratio of real research to hype and blogospheric chatter is overwhelmingly in favor of the latter."

Inertia + Uncertainty

But we may not have unlimited time for study. Even if we halted our use of fossil fuel today, it would take the atmosphere a long time to recover. Meanwhile, the planet would continue to warm—though the degree to which this would occur is unclear. “There's a great deal of uncertainty about how much climate change we get, even if we stop emitting tomorrow,” says Keith. “There is some probability that you would have enough carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to have climate changes you really would not like, especially in the high arctic."

Not to mention that there's also social and technological inertia. If we decided today to abandon fossil fuels, how long would it take to achieve it? Years? Decades? “You have a system with gigantic inertia and uncertainty,” Keith says. “Uncertainty plus inertia equals danger."

If all of this sounds a bit “on the one hand this, on the other hand that,” welcome to the club. Deciding to re-engineer the planet's thermostat isn't a decision that should be taken lightly. “There's a long record of humans trying to engineer fixes and having the fixes be worse than the diseases,” Keith says.

But, he notes, sometimes we've actually succeeded in fixing things. “Doing this might be less risky than not doing it,” he says.

About the Author:

Richard A. Lovett has contributed more than 75 stories and articles to Analog since his first appearance eleven years ago. A self-described geophysics junkie, he once co-held the record for most successive meetings of the American Geophysics Union attended by a member of the press. He only regrets not discovering earth sciences before going on a geology field trip during his last term of college. His own academic training is in astrophysics, law, and economics: fields in which, sadly, hiking boots are not standard attire.

Copyright © 2010 Richard A. Lovett

1 One widely cited estimate says that global temperatures fell by 1.2 degrees C. The original source for this, however, is hard to pin down.

2 Donald Olson, “When the Sky Ran Red: The Story Behind The Scream", Sky and Telescope, February 2004. Online, see: www.skyandtelescope.com/about/pressreleases/3308421.html.

3 It was the culmination of a string of bad few years for volcanoes. Four other major eruptions occurred in 1812-14.

4 Abstracts are available at www.agu.org.

5 A scaled-down version of this has been called nuclear autumn. See Richard A. Lovett, “Nuclear Autumn: The Consequences of a ‘Small’ Nuclear War,” Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 78(4), April 2008, pp. 30-35.

6 When it comes down, it produces acid rain. Compared to the amount of acid rain that humans already cause by other means, however, this would not be a major problem.

7 Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, May/June 2008, pp 14-18, 59.

8 Jacob Darwin Hamblin, “Gaming World War III at Lowestoft: Marine Scientists and Post-Thermonuclear Survival,” paper presented at Oregon State University, May 15, 2009.

9 In support, Robock cited James R. Fleming, “The Climate Engineers,” Wilson Quarterly, Spring 2007, pp. 46-60.

10 O. Hoegh-Guldberg, et al, “Coral Reefs Under Rapid Climate Change and Ocean Acidification,” Science, December 14, 2007.

11 Tambora can also be credited with producing the dawn of science fiction. In 1816, the bleak weather helped induce Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein. For more details on Tambora, see Jelle Zeilinga de Boer and Donald Theodore Sanders, Volcanoes in Human History (2002), pp. 138-56

12 Like many of the other scientists cited in this article, Eliseev made this estimate at the Fall 2008 American Geophysical Union meeting.

13 See Richard A. Lovett, “From Salt Foam to Artificial Oysters: Innovative Solutions to Global Warming,” Analog, July/August 2003, pp. 43-51

14 Philip W. Boyd, “Ranking geo-engineering schemes,” Nature Geoscience, Nov. 2008, 722-24

15 One drawback is that it would be done largely over oceans. This might have a major impact on the processes that produce El Niño weather patterns, with global repercussions in rainfall distribution.

The ways a tool was designed to be used are not the only ways it can be used. . . .

During the descent, the First Lunar Outpost resembled toys set out on the sand. In a rough straight line were the FLO Center, the Oxygen Furnace Complex about five kilometers distant, and the Silent Earth Radio Telescope some twenty-five kilometers further.

Standing now at the open hatch of the lander, Adrian gazed out. Low in the sky, its lower limb kissing the horizon, the bright disk of the full Earth cast a blue-gray luminance onto the nighttime lunar landscape. He rested his gaze on the Oxygen Furnace, his responsibility now, but then looked upward as a light in the sky caught his attention. The exhaust of the deceleration rocket.

Suspended from the supply rocket by a hundred meters of unmeltable ceramic fiber, hung a huge container delineated by blinking red beacons.

"Sort of pretty, isn't it?” came Victor's voice from the radio speaker in Adrian's helmet, sounding tinny and distant even though he stood just behind Adrian with their helmets almost touching.

"Welcome to Mare Smythii,” came another voice. “Home of the one and only First Lunar Outpost."

Adrian looked down from the hatch and saw a space-suited figure in an open vehicle with bulbous wheels and an attached utility trailer. The figure waved.

"That is our mayor,” said Victor, “Ralph Bernard."

"Mayor of a thriving metropolis of ten,” came Ralph's voice, resonant even over the little speaker, “yourselves included."

Adrian waved back, then clambered down the metal ladder to the surface. Victor followed.

Ralph indicated the person sitting next to him in the front seat of the moon buggy. “This is Dr. Kimberly Wells. She's our botanist."

"A botanist on the Moon?” said Adrian with a chuckle.

"Oh, I run an occasional low-gravitation seed experiment,” she said, “but mainly I'm in charge of the hydroponic vegetable farm. I'm also the town's medical staff."

Ralph placed a hand on the control stick. “Sorry to have to put you guys to work so soon, but . . .” He gestured toward the falling drop-container. “We have to bring in the mail while we can still find it. Damn inconvenient, not being allowed radio beacons.” He pointed to the rear set of seats. “Hop in.” He made a sound half way between a laugh and a grunt. “As an Australian, hopping should be second nature to you."

Adrian gave a wan smile. As he and Victor swung into the rear seats, he said, “I gather you're not completely wild about the Lunaroo idea."

"As usual,” said Ralph as he pushed the stick and the buggy lurched forward, “it's another case of politics triumphing over engineering."

"Why don't we defer politics for awhile?” Kimberly broke in. She moved her body slightly, as if to look over her shoulder. In a spacesuit, it was an impossible gesture. “Your first time on the Moon, Dr. Clarke, isn't it?"

"It is. But ever since I was a kid in Melbourne, I've looked at it a lot.” Adrian pointed at the Earth. “With a good imagination, you can just make out Melbourne.” He paused. “Pretty place . . . Earth, I mean. Nice to see it shining down on us."

"It doesn't always,” said Kimberly. “Lunar libration keeps it below the horizon much of the time."

"That's actually why the Silent Earth Radio Telescope was built here on Smythii,” said Victor. “When the Earth is below the horizon, the telescope is shielded from its radio interference. And at night, this is the most radio-quiet place in the solar system."

"I have been prepped for this trip, you know,” said Adrian.

"SERT's a damned nuisance,” said Ralph. “Only low-power radio equipment is allowed on the base.” He gave a short grunt. “Which is why we have to chase after the drop-container at night, using only its light beacons. A right damned nuisance."

Adrian, thinking that the mayor had probably been on the Moon too long, didn't talk until they'd reached the drop-container. Nobody talked.

With their helmet lights providing illumination, the four set to work disassembling the container. When they'd gotten the front panel off, Ralph peered inside.

"My god!” Ralph, even in a spacesuit, visibly stiffened. "That is Australia's contribution to the space program? It looks like the kangaroo from hell wearing snowshoes."

The Lunaroo did look kangaroolike, despite having a door on one side seemingly lifted from a convertible sports car and an interior like an old open-cockpit aircraft, but where the riders sat abreast. It had a head with two spiky radio antennas where ears might have been expected and headlights for eyes. The tail was articulated and the feet were huge. On the door was stenciled the name “Skippy."

"We need another vehicle, and they send us this,” said Ralph. “This is crazy."

"Why?” said Adrian. “With 18 percent Earth-normal gravity and the rough ground, a hopping transport vehicle makes a lot of sense."

"Crazy,” Ralph repeated, as if to himself, his eyes on the Lunaroo.

"Well,” said Kimberly, “if Canada can have its robot arm, then Australia can have its robot . . . kangaroo."

In addition to the Lunaroo, the container held a smaller box. Ralph opened it and his mood brightened. “Frozen meat,” he said, “and a few cylinders of precious nitrogen.” He and Adrian moved the box to the trailer. “Precious nitrogen?” said Adrian. “I'd have thought it was oxygen that was precious."

"Oxygen is necessary,” said Ralph, “but not necessarily precious. Heating the lunar basalt in the furnace releases all we need. But for nitrogen, we've got to rely on Earth.” He laughed. “But why am I telling you all this? You're the geologist."

"And I'm also the roo wrangler.” Adrian went to the Lunaroo. While the others finished disassembling the container around it, he untethered the vehicle. He'd trained with one back home, and he looked forward to riding a roo in the lunar gravity it was designed for. He got into the vehicle, strapped himself in, then hopped it off the base of the container. “Hey, this is great!” At low horizontal and vertical throttles he hopped the craft a few times around the buggy and was amazed how high and smooth the Lunaroo moved. “Really great! Spiffy!"

"All right, all right,” said Ralph. “Come on and help us get the panels in the trailer."

"Yeah, fine.” Adrian pulled back the throttles and the hops became shorter and lower until the metal beast came to a stop. Adrian jumped out. “But afterward, I'd like to inspect the oxygen furnace."

"After we take care of the container,” said Ralph in a tired voice. “Then you can hop that thing to the FLO. We'll follow you in the buggy.” He sighed. “After that, you can take the buggy to examine the furnace. Damn! I wish we had that second moon buggy."

"No worries,” said Adrian as he helped lift a panel, “I'll use the Skippy here to go to the furnace."

"Can't allow it,” said Ralph. “No solo outside work is allowed. It's a rule that all vehicles must have two or more people in them.” He blew out a breath, sounding like a hurricane in Adrian's helmet. "All vehicles . . . all one of them."

"The Lunaroo is a two-seater, you know."

"I do know,” said Ralph. “The problem will be getting someone to occupy that second seat."

"I'll go,” offered Victor.

When they'd finished loading the trailer, Adrian took Victor for a set of training hops. Kimberly and Ralph watched from the buggy.

Adrian hopped the roo away at low throttles. “Best not to go too fast. The ground is rough here."

"How does it turn?” Victor asked.

"It swings its tail in mid hop.” Adrian executed a change of direction. “Conservation of angular momentum and all that.” He leaned to the side and the roo banked slightly to that side. “And body English helps.” Adrian sat upright again. “It takes some getting used to, though . . . like turning on a motorcycle. The thing to remember is, turning is hard, but braking is impossible."

After a few minutes, Adrian hopped to a stop and called to Ralph. “I think things are good here. We'll go to the furnace now, if it's okay with you."

"All right,” said Ralph. “But careful. Our high-point radio relay is down and the furnace isn't in line of sight with the base. You won't be able to reach us by radio . . . not with your low-power spacesuit radios at any rate."

"Ah, but the roo radio is a high-power unit,” said Adrian. “We should be able to contact you by crater wall bounce if we get into trouble."

"Good,” said Ralph. “I'd hoped as much."

Adrian watched as the moon buggy started away, then, with Victor navigating, he hopped the roo toward the furnace. As they progressed, Adrian taught Victor the controls. But suddenly, Adrian hopped the Lunaroo to a halt. “I'm an idiot!"

"If you insist,” said Victor. “But why, in particular?"

"It's a solar furnace,” said Adrian. “I can't tell much about it at night.” He shrugged—a purely private gesture in a spacesuit. “When's sunrise?"

"In a couple of hours.” Victor slapped a gloved hand gently against the roo's control panel. “Tell you what. Why don't we go to the telescope first? I have a few adjustments to make on the secondary focus. And the focus is not a nice place to be when the sun is up. After that, we can swing over to the furnace.” He paused. “But SERT's about twenty-five kilometers away. I wouldn't want to spend forever getting there and back."

"No worries,” said Adrian. “Skippy here can go a hell of a lot faster than you might think."

"Okay,” said Victor, pointing. “The scope's off that way."

"Hang on.” Adrian started the roo and pushed the throttles forward. “I saw SERT from the lander. It looked huge."

"It's seven hundred meters across . . . the size of its crater."

"Impressive!” said Adrian.

"Yeah.” With a short pause each time the roo's feet hit the lunar surface, Victor went on to describe the telescope. “Something like a sheet of aluminized silk is hung from—a hoop around the rim. The material has varying density so it hangs as a true spherical surface. And with no atmosphere it doesn't move. Even small meteors can pierce the fabric without disfiguring the mirror."

"Hmm,” said Adrian, to show he was listening.

"Gregorian secondary optics sit near the focus. They correct for the spherical aberration and allow some pointing. Three cables from the rim hold the secondary and the detector array."

"Very impressive,” said Adrian, impressed most of all by Victor's bubbly enthusiasm.

"When the Earth's below the horizon we do radio astronomy, and when it's above, it does automated SETI observations.” Victor patted a hand on the roo's door. “Hey, you know, this hopping is okay."

"Yeah, it is,” said Adrian, distantly, his eyes drawn to the wonders of the lunar landscape. He'd be happy if the trip went on for hours.

At length, Victor snapped forward. “There it is,” he said. “SERT. At eleven o'clock."

Adrian turned the roo gently toward the nondescript crater. “Could have used some advanced warning. Roos don't turn on a dime."

"Stop there,” said Victor, pointing to a hole in the crater wall. “The service entrance."

As the crater went by on Victor's left, he leaned out toward it.

"Don't lean!” Adrian called out. He leaned in the other direction to keep the roo stable.

"Sorry!” Victor pushed sharply against the roo structure, forcing his body upright. But his sideways motion continued until he was leaning against Adrian.

"Bloody hell!” Adrian tried to sit upright, but couldn't with Victor pressing against him. The roo also leaned. Adrian tried to turn into the direction of lean, but it was too late. The slow-turning Lunaroo banked awkwardly, landing on but one of its snowshoelike feet. Adrian pulled sharply down on the throttles but not quickly enough. The roo began another hop. It went up and came immediately down—horizontally, landing hard on its side, spinning against the SERT crater and throwing up a spray of rocks and fine powder from the regolith.

Adrian suppressed a grunt of pain as Victor fell on him, twisting his leg under the edge of Victor's life-support module.

Victor released his harness, crawled off onto the surface, and scrambled to his feet. Adrian clutched his knee and let out a moan.

"What's wrong?” Victor shouted.

"I hope just a seriously sprained knee,” said Adrian through clenched teeth.

"Jeez!” said Victor. “I'd have thought it impossible to injure oneself in this light gravity."

"Well, mate, it seems I've done the impossible."

"Hold on. I'll get you out of there.” Victor released Adrian's harness and pulled him free. “We'll have to get you back so Kimberly can look at you."

"See if you can get Skippy upright,” said Adrian, massaging his knee with heavy gloved hands, “so we can use its radio."

"Right.” Victor walked to the downed vehicle and managed to raise it to its feet. “Uh-oh,” he said. “One of the antennas has snapped off."

"Let's hope it was the dummy,” said Adrian. “One of the antennas is only for show.” Slowly and accompanied by much pain, he straightened his leg. “See if you can fire it up."

Victor climbed into the roo and threw a switch. “We have power."

"Great! Now flip the radio switch to Relay."

Adrian waited anxiously as Victor's hand hovered over the roo console, and then found the radio controls.

"Damn it,” said Victor. “No carrier. Nothing."

"Try your suit radio, then. Command it to High Strength.” Adrian would have tried his, but he knew from experience that Baby, NASA's speech recognition system, sometimes had trouble with Australian accents—not to mention Australian accents under duress.

"Baby,” came Victor's voice. “Radio gain high. Set."

"Set radio gain high. Yes, no,” came a synthesized woman's voice.

"Yes,” said Victor.

"Radio gain high."

Adrian winced as, even with the suit's auto-gain-control in operation, the synthesized voice rang almost painfully loud in Adrian's helmet.

Victor spent the next quarter hour sending an emergency call, waiting a few seconds for an answer, and then trying again. Finally, he commanded the radio gain back to low and looked over at Adrian. “No dice."

Adrian nodded to himself. “I'm not too crazy about riding a roo with a busted knee. But there doesn't seem much choice. Take a spin in her. See if the controls all work."

Victor hit a few buttons and pushed forward a throttle. The roo started hopping vertically. “So far, so good.” He pushed the other throttle, moved it a few more times, and then said, “Not good. Vertical motion works, forward motion doesn't."

"Lean with the hops,” said Adrian. “Try body English."

Victor tried again. The roo hopped but only progressed forward a few inches per hop. “No good,” he said, switching off the power. He stepped out of the roo. “We have a real problem. We're stuck here."

"When they find we're overdue,” said Adrian, “I imagine they'll come looking for us.” He gestured, expansively. “Might as well just sit back and enjoy the scenery."

"But how will they find us?” Victor sounded very serious. “They thought we'd gone to the furnace."

Adrian shivered as the situation became clear to him. “Eventually they'll go back to the drop zone and follow the roo tracks."

"Eventually,” said Victor under his breath.

Adrian didn't need it spelled out. What was the chance they'd be found before their oxygen ran out? He thought hard for a plan. Focus, Adrian. Focus! Then he noticed the warning light on his heads-up display. “I'm afraid we . . . I have another problem,” he said, forcing his voice calm.

Victor turned to him. “Tell me."

"My refrigeration unit. It's failed.” Adrian examined all the status lights. “Heater's fine, though. Everything else, okay.” He knew that as long as they were in the lunar night, he'd be just fine—no need for refrigeration. Adrian asked the crucial question. “How long,” he said in a voice made calm by his NASA training, “until sunrise?"

"I don't know,” said Victor with a heavy voice. “Not long. Half-hour, maybe. But the Sun comes up very slowly on the Moon. As long as you're in shadow, the Sun can't get to you."

"Just as well,” said Adrian with forced cheerfulness. “I'm not really in the mood to work on my tan.” Victor didn't laugh. He didn't make any answer. “Victor,” said Adrian after a few seconds, “what's the matter?"

"The refrigeration unit. We've seen them fail before. Temperature sensor failure."

"So?"

"The problem is that the same failure locks the heater on. The suit temperature keeps going up."

Adrian fought down a surge of panic. “Baby. Display detail on."

"Unrecognized command,” came Baby's voice. “Command must end with query or set."

Damn! Adrian fought to keep his voice steady. “Baby. Display detail on. Set."

"Set display detail on. Yes, No."

"Yes.” Linear meters and a digital clock now joined the status lights. Adrian stared at the temperature meter. The value crept higher even as he watched. “It is getting a trifle warm, actually."

"Try your radio,” said Victor in a voice saying it was useless. “Use high gain. I'll try mine as well. Maybe someone is in earshot."

"Not likely,” said Adrian.

Victor swiveled around toward the crater wall. “Let's hide out under the telescope. Aluminized film. It'll reflect most of the heat back into space."

"But not the internal heat from my suit."

"No,” said Victor in a barely audible voice. “But it'll buy you some time.” He helped Adrian to his feet. “Think you can walk?"

"Depends on what you consider walking.” Adrian forced a laugh. “Under the telescope. Like cats under a hot tin roof."

"Come on,” said Victor, offering his shoulder as a handhold. “It's just a few meters to the entrance."

"If they couldn't hear us before,” grunted Adrian as he hobbled, “they'll never be able to pick up radio signals from in there."

"There's something to be said for dying later rather than sooner,” said Victor. “Anyway, I'm sure they'll come looking for us."

"The Moon's a big place. They'll never find us in time. Our oxygen will just run out. It's fry or asphyxiate."

Victor turned on his helmet light as they passed through the entrance.

Inside, Adrian sat with his back against the crater wall, He could see a dim bluish patch of light on the ground stretching out from the entrance—the light from Earth. Earthlight. I can't die here, so far from home. I need a plan. Focus, Adrian! He checked his temperature display: 38 degrees Celsius.

Victor, standing, looked out the entrance. “I think,” he said without turning around. “I think our best shot is for me to try to jog back to the outpost for help."

"That's twenty-five kilometers away."

"Give or take,” said Victor, “but I should be in line-of-sight radio range in, I don't know, around twenty."

"Well, if you think you can make it . . ."

Victor stood at the entrance in silence. Then Adrian heard a sigh. “No,” said Victor, softly. “I'd never make it. No way the suit and the refrigeration module could survive a twenty-five kilometer run into the sun . . . not to mention me surviving it.” He turned away from the entrance and then just stood like a statue.

Idly, Adrian looked up at the underside of the huge bowl of the telescope, its bottom three meters or so above the ground. “Formidable!"

"The telescope?” Victor also looked up at SERT. “On Earth now,” he said, in a wistful voice, “thousands of people, amateur astronomers, are at their computers analyzing the multi-channel radio signals from this beast."

"Not in real-time, of course,” said Adrian, seeking intellectual refuge from his problems.

"Yes. In real-time.” Victor spoke with the pride of one of SERT's developers. “When the libration moves Earth above the horizon, the signals are multiplexed and modulated onto a laser beamed at Earth."

"Interesting.” An insistent inner voice pulled Adrian back. He couldn't waste what little time he had in idle chatter. Focus, Adrian—39 degrees!

"Wait a minute!” said Adrian, aloud. “Focus!"

"Excuse me?"

Adrian tried to jump to his feet, but couldn't. “Victor,” he said, excitedly, “do you think Skippy could fit through the crater entrance?"

"What? Why?"

"Well, I think it will fit through.” Adrian tried to flex his knee, but it had grown stiff. “Look, I'd do it myself, but I can't walk. Please, Victor, see if you can glide it in. And quickly, before the Sun comes up."

"Why?” said Victor again, louder this time.

"I have an idea. We need to hurry. I'll explain it as we prepare the roo."

Victor stood staring at Adrian.

"Please!"

"Okay. Okay.” Victor strode though the entrance. A few seconds later, Adrian heard grunts of exertion. Soon after, he felt a vibration through his spacesuit. Skippy hitting the ground. And a minute after that, Adrian saw the head of the Lunaroo slide in through the crater entrance. Adrian crawled to the roo. Then, while Victor pushed, Adrian pulled. When the Lunaroo had cleared the entrance, Victor stepped back in through the crater opening. “Okay,” he said, “What's this big idea of yours?” He paused. “The leading edge of the Sun is visible now,” he added, softly.

"Lift the roo upright,” said Adrian, trying to keep fear out of his voice.

"Sure. Why not?” Victor bent to the task.

"My idea,” said Adrian, “is to use Skippy to send an SOS."

Victor stopped mid lift and, through Victor's helmet, Adrian saw the man mouth “what?"

"The roo can still hop,” said Adrian. “So I propose moving it to right below the SERT bowl. We'll have Skippy hop, and when it gets to the bottom of the bowl, we can grab the aluminized fabric and pull it. That will deform the mirror. As the roo goes down, we let go of the fabric and the scope will return to focus."

Adrian could see Victor staring at him as if he were out of his mind.

"Please finish raising the roo,” said Adrian.

Without answering, Victor heaved the Lunaroo onto its feet.

"The people on Earth doing real-time observing should see a signal dropout,” Adrian went on. “If we time it right, we should be able to send an SOS in Morse code."

"That's your idea?"

"Yeah,” said Adrian.

"It's crazy."

"Your point?” Forty degrees.

"Do people even know Morse Code anymore?” said Victor.

"They'll know SOS. Look. We . . . I don't have much time. Let's center the roo and do it."

Victor shoved the roo directly under the low point of the bowl, paused, and then said. “It feels like . . . sacrilege. I mean an astronomer purposefully degrading the performance of a telescope mirror. And actually, I don't know Morse code"

"Just help me into the roo. I'll do it."

"It makes more sense for me to do it,” said Victor. “Teach me SOS."

"No. I'll do it.” Adrian struggled to his feet. Using Victor as a support, he limped to the Lunaroo and got in. He fastened his harness, turned on the power, and switched on the lights. In the bright illumination reflecting off the bowl, Adrian felt as if he were in a gigantic inverted planetarium. “Okay,” he said, his hand on the vertical throttle. “Here we go.” The roo hopped and Adrian's knee throbbed with pain.

After fifteen minutes of SOS sending, Adrian gave it up. The temperature in his suit was going up fast, and the exertion of pulling against seven hundred meters of fabric had increased his oxygen use enormously. And the pain had become excruciating. Adrian hobbled to his place against the crater wall and collapsed to a sitting position with one leg folded, the other out straight. He tried to breathe sparingly, pretending he was just loafing during a camping trip in the outback.

"So we wait,” said Victor, also resting against the crater wall.

"And hope,” said Adrian, quietly. He glanced at Victor's helmet. “Aren't you going to turn on your display meters?"

"I'd rather not know."

Over the next forty-five minutes, their conversation slowed to the occasional question of how the other was holding out. Eventually, talk stopped altogether.

Adrian's heads-up helmet display, meanwhile, relentlessly revealed how many minutes of oxygen he had left and how high the temperature had reached in his suit. He wondered which would kill him first. He knew when his asphyxiation death would happen. Judging when he'd die from heat was harder. The display indicated a grim race that he couldn't help watching. He read the numbers through sweat-blurred eyes.

Finally, Adrian knew it would be the oxygen—and in just a few minutes. He wondered if he should say good-bye to Victor, but he decided against it. It would take effort and what was the use? In the final analysis, everyone dies alone.

Suddenly the crater went dark. Adrian started, then saw that something had blocked the sunlight coming through the entrance. Forty-four degrees.

"Are they in there?” came Kimberly's bell-like voice.

Adrian almost cried. “Oxygen,” he heard Victor gasp.

"Kim"—it was Ralph's voice—"bring in two oxygen cylinders. Fast!"

"Acknowledged."

Adrian closed his eyes. A moment later, Adrian felt hands on him, twisting him around to get to the emergency oxygen snap-valve. And a few seconds later, Adrian smelled the sweet aroma of fresh oxygen. He breathed heavily. The mayor was wrong. Oxygen is precious. As he breathed, he heard Victor say, “Nice to see you guys. You know, it's amazing what a little oxygen can do for one's spirits."

"No kidding,” said Ralph.

"Wait,” said Victor. “Adrian. His suit's cooling system failed. Heater's on full."

"Kimberly,” Ralph shouted. “Watch him while I get the nitrogen."

Adrian saw a spacesuited figure dart through the opening and dart back just seconds later.

"We'll roll you over,” said Ralph. “This won't hurt a bit."

Adrian felt himself eased over onto his stomach and felt activity at his life-support module.

"Damn it all,” said Ralph under his breath. “I really hate to lose the nitrogen. But there's no help for it."

"What's going on?” said Adrian in a shallow whisper.

"I'm going to vent your air, rather than recirculate it. Hot air out, cool air in. And expansion cooling of the gas.” Adrian heard the clunk of metal on metal. “In the old days,” Ralph went on, “suits used only oxygen and we couldn't do this."

Suddenly, Adrian felt a thermal gradient, a cooling starting at his back and slowly spreading over his entire body. He looked at the temperature read-out and realized “cooling” was a relative concept. The temperature stood at 42 degrees Celsius, high even by outback standards.

"Victor,” came Ralph's voice. “Think you can make it to the buggy on your own?"

"Sure."

"Think you're up to driving?"

"Piece of cake."

"We'll have to help Adrian to the buggy,” said Ralph.

"He has a bashed-up knee,” said Victor.

"Fine,” said Ralph. “Just fine.” He turned to Adrian. “While we're riding back, Dr. Clarke, read out the temperature every ten seconds or so. That'll tell me how much to vent versus recirculate. You sit in the front seat. I'll be behind, controlling the oxygen and nitrogen valves."

"You've done this before,” said Adrian, with forced lightness.

Ralph chuckled. “Once or twice.” He turned away, a move of habit rather than necessity. “Kimberly,” he said. “In the buggy, see if you can keep Dr. Clarke—"

"Call me Adrian."

"Keep Adrian in the shadow of your suit. You too, Victor . . . if you can do that and drive at the same time."

"Understood,” said Victor.

"Acknowledged,” said Kimberly.

"Okay, Adrian,” said Ralph, “start reciting temperatures.” He and Kimberly half-carried Adrian to the buggy and helped him in.

"Forty-one point five,” said Adrian. “By the way, how did you manage to find us?"

Victor started the buggy and headed toward the FLO.

"An observer on Earth detected a SETI signal,” said Ralph. “Seems that the aliens were sending an SOS. The guy thought he'd gone nuts. Fortunately, instead of calling a psychiatrist, he called NASA. Then a whole lot of other people called. It's good the Earth was visible. And apparently, NASA can respond pretty quickly at times."

"Yeah, really,” said Adrian.

"Sort of a long way around,” said Kimberly. “Good the libration was in our favor."

"And it's good we had Skippy,” said Victor.

"Skippy?” said Ralph under his breath. “Oh, dear."

"Thirty-nine point five,” said Adrian. Then, in sudden euphoria, he started singing, “Good, good, good librations."

"Damn,” said Ralph. “Too rich an oxygen mixture."

Adrian gawked like a tourist at the landscape. “Thirty-eight point five.” Looking away at the Earth, he launched into a half-hummed rendition of “Advance Australia Fair.” “Australians all let us rejoice, for . . . what the hell comes next?” Then the euphoria wore off and he shut up.

"Adrian,” said Kimberly with a smile in her voice, “after all that has happened on your very first day on the Moon, you'd probably really like to be back on Earth right now, wouldn't you?"

Gazing out at the lunar landscape, Adrian felt a strange affection for this outpost of Earth, this precious stone, this stark, beautiful but unforgiving world.

"Want to be back on Earth?” he said. “Thirty-seven point five. No. Of course not. Why would you say that?"

Copyright © 2010 Carl Frederick

Not that we would do anything like this. . . .

It wasn't such an unusual sight, but it was the first time I'd seen it live, the first time they'd snared one of my own colleagues.

I had just come through the revolving doors that deposit visitors into the opulent lobby of the Metro Towers building like a Pez dispenser, from nine to five every day. Across the white Italian marble floor at the far side of the atrium, camera crews for every major news company lay in wait for something deliciously ominous; had to be, to draw this kind of attention.

An elevator door slid open in front of the throng and floodlights poured into the space revealing a middle-aged man with tightly cropped gray hair twisting away from the brightness. His hands were cuffed behind his back, each arm in the grasp of a uniformed federal officer. As he turned in my direction, the familiarity of his bushy gray eyebrows, ruddy complexion, and paunchy abdominal girth sent a chill up my spine. It was Arnie Hirsch, an old friend who'd joined my practice at the District Thirteen Medical Clinic seven years ago.

A familiar voice behind my right shoulder startled me. “Veered from the answer tree."

I turned toward my new assistant, Carma Johnson. “What?"

"They got Dr. Hirsch on an answer tree violation. His third one."

I knew what she meant, of course. We were only allowed to say certain things, specifically scripted responses to questions that were always variations of the same things: What do I have, Doc? Am I going to get better? What's the treatment? Could the scanner be wrong? We were told from our first day on the job that there was simply too much liability to let us make up our own answers and that any violation of this policy would be considered a federal offense: This was, after all, a government clinic.

I looked at Ms. Johnson. “How do you know?"

"My friend Wanda is his assistant. She just texted me."

"She the one who turned him in?"

I felt the brief hesitation in her voice. “Nah, not Wanda. She'd never do something like that."

My attention was drawn back to Arnie as he snapped at a reporter, “And I'd do it again, God dammit. I'm sick of seeing my patients suffer just because I have to listen to some damn machine."

I knew exactly how he felt. We'd had that conversation over lunch at least a dozen times. The only reason that I had managed to stay out of trouble was because I didn't have the guts to do what Arnie did. I felt sorry for the poor bastard, but I admired him.

The crowd followed my beleaguered colleague out into the street where a black sedan was waiting. I hated myself for not trying to help, but what could I do?

We stood in the now sparsely populated lobby, staring at the scene on the other side of the picture window by the revolving doors. “Guess we'd better get to work,” I said.

She gave a quick nod and we headed up to the thirty-seventh floor to begin our daily routine. By the time I got into my lab coat and made my way over to the exam room, she had already started the first medscan. Within minutes, a white plinth slid out from the mouth of the giant machine.

"Mornin', Doc,” Mr. Winthorp greeted me, grabbing the back of his neck as he sat up from the exam table that had just emerged from the tube of the Medtron 3000.

Ms. Johnson looked up from the control monitor on the scanner. “No motion artifacts, Doctor. The report's coming up now."

"Thanks.” I looked at my first patient of the day. “Good morning, Mr. Winthorp.” I did not reach out to shake his hand. “I'm Doctor Jenkins."

He glanced up at the plaque on the wall displaying my diploma, barely legible behind a coat of fading yellow urethane. “Centerville class of 2012, huh?” He looked impressed. “Good school."

I hadn't looked at that piece of paper in a long time. “It was."

"So what are you going to do about my pain?"

I studied the report on the monitor. “The scanner has diagnosed you with a stomach ulcer and entered a prescription into the pharmacy system."

"Stomach ulcer? I got neck pain, Doc."

I pulled out my e-pad to consult the company manual and scrolled to the appropriate response grid. “I'm sorry, but the scanner says that your problem is a stomach ulcer. It doesn't mention anything about your neck."

"My stomach feels fine."

I scrolled further. Even though I knew most of the acceptable answers by now, it was best to be cautious, especially with a new assistant hanging on my every word. “Some illnesses have no discernable symptoms,” I quoted.

Winthorp was too busy massaging his neck to notice that I was reading a script. “Okay, maybe I do have an ulcer, but this damn neck pain is what brought me in here, not my stomach."

"Just the same, if you don't pick up your prescription, the insurance company will drop you from their plan."

Mr. Winthorp let out a huff through blowfish cheeks. He knew there was no point in arguing with a medscan. “Okay, but can you just take a look at my neck? It's killing me."

The eyebrows on Ms. Johnson's fresh young face crested noticeably.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winthorp,” I recited dutifully, “but physical contact is strictly prohibited."

"Come on, Doc. I won't tell anyone."

My demeanor softened. “Now, Mr. Winthorp, you know I can't do that. I could lose my license."

He shook his head—with difficulty—and walked out the door.

I felt sorry for the poor sap. There was a time I'd have ignored the rules, taken a look at his neck. But that was before I watched a bunch of my colleagues go bankrupt from lawsuits for doing that sort of thing, or worse yet, get carted off in handcuffs like Arnie Hirsch.

But this was a new world. When I graduated from the prestigious Centerville Medical School thirty-three years ago, I couldn't have been more proud. Sir William Osler once said, “The transition from layman to physician is the most awesome transition in the universe.” At least that's what we were told by our first clinical preceptor. And we believed him, thought we were special. After all, we'd gone from sniveling preppies to workaholics whose days were filled with making life-or-death decisions. That kind of thing changes a person. Changes you in ways you can't see, can't feel, can't notice until one day you wake up, look at on old picture of yourself and think, Was I ever really that naive?

But it jades you, too. Rearranges your priorities. Makes it hard to maintain a normal sense of empathy, though most could: It's what made us good at our profession.

Or used to.

Ms. Johnson looked over my shoulder as I stood in the doorway watching Mr. Winthorp make his way out of the office. “Do you get many like that?” she asked.

"Nah. The scanner usually picks up the right thing: You know, whatever it is that's causing the symptoms."

"I can't believe that guy actually wanted you to touch him.” She shuddered as she spit out the words.

I kept silent. The Board of Medicine was notorious for infiltrating practices with young trainees who were trying to weed out doctors who didn't follow the rules, and I didn't know my new assistant all that well yet.

She turned and looked at me. “I mean, I can understand how some of the older people might think that way; it's what they grew up with. But Winthorp's only forty-two. Why would he think a doctor could find something that a scanner couldn't?"

The poor guy was just looking for a little relief and we didn't give it to him; she had to see that. I wasn't going to fall for the bait. “Guess some people just long for nostalgia,” I said. “Stories they hear from their parents, an old movie, some viral story running around the Web. There are lots of ways to hear about how things used to be. Some people still believe it was better back then."

"Are you one of them?"

I raised an eyebrow and used my slight height advantage to convey my answer without having to resort to an outright lie.

She seemed to accept that. “They don't know how good they really have it nowadays."

I nodded.

"It's just not analytical. Don't they know that people can make mistakes?"

"Spoken like a new graduate, Ms. Johnson."

Her lids narrowed. “You don't agree?"

"That people can make mistakes? Sure."

She shook me off. “That machines are the only way to examine a patient, that there's no need to ever touch a sick person as long as they can get into a scanner or surg unit by themselves."

I let out a deep breath. “Scanners are faster, more accurate, and completely disregard emotion. No time wasted dealing with a person's feelings."

She looked relieved. “Exactly."

"But they can't empathize, can't connect to the psyche. There's a lot more to pain than nerve endings firing willy-nilly. The same pathology can cause different symptoms, different degrees of pain in different people."

Her eyes widened and I could feel my skin start to crawl.

I forced out a hah and said, “Gotcha."

Her demeanor eased, but her guard didn't drop.

"No, I've been down that road,” I said. “You can't imagine the time it takes to deal with someone's feelings, much less the emotional stress that weighs on you. I'll take a scanner over that any day.” I gave the Medtron 3000 a gentle pat on its cold titanium side. “Thanks to these babies and the folks who came up with those answer trees, modern medicine has really evolved to a whole new level."

A relieved Ms. Johnson was back in amiable sidekick mode. “Makes the shift go by pretty quickly, too."

I shot her a smile. I'd gotten pretty good at this game. I, too, had sunk to a whole new level. Survival instinct is strong.

"Ms. Johnson?'

She turned.

"Bring in the next patient."

"Yes, Doctor."

Doctor. I sure as hell didn't feel like one anymore.

Another shift endured, I stepped out into the cool breeze of a late October evening and squinted up at the sunlight reflecting off the glass facade of the Unity Health Insurance building that dominated the downtown skyline, as I pulled my collar up and gripped it tightly against the wind. It would be a short walk home.

I'd been living in the city almost five years. The day Nan informed me that she couldn't tolerate having me around the house anymore, I decided to seek out an apartment within walking distance of the clinic. Oppressive crowds thronging in and out of mettube stations were not conducive to the mental well being of anyone, particularly those of my generation, and besides, I enjoyed taking in the . . . well, you couldn't really call it fresh air anymore, but I loved the atmosphere of the grimy city streets, preferred it to the sterility of modern buildings.

I made my way past Hot Beanz, my morning coffee spot. The aroma slowed my pace, but the thought of coming back out into the streets after warming up again kept me on my path. I turned the corner, approached the front door of my building, faced the camera imbedded above the front door, and said, “Entry."

The oversized glass doors swished open and I hurried in out of the chill that my body would soon adjust to as the season progressed. I nodded at the animatronic receptionist in the lobby, which greeted me by name and summoned an elevator to the ground floor. As I entered, a perfectly pitched voice, the kind you hear on the six o'clock news, greeted me. “Going home, Dr. Jenkins?"

"Yes. Home."

"Very good.” The door slid shut and I was escorted to the thirteenth floor, where I exited and made my way down the hall to the door where another entry command would grant me access to my little sanctuary.

I threw my coat over one of the checkered cloth-covered dining chairs, walked into the living room, and looked out at the modest view of Centennial Park provided by the wall-to-wall windows that gave this place its charm.

"Play music,” I commanded, just before flopping down into my favorite overstuffed black leather easy chair by the window. I pushed the little black button by my right hand and a footrest popped up to the perfect height. "Petrushka."

As the music started to play, I closed my eyes and let it take me back to the day this album was recorded, a live performance in which my daughter had played the brief but famously recognizable trumpet solo the piece was known for, in her debut with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It had been one of the proudest days of my life, a life that was once filled with proud moments.

Medical school, marriage to my college sweetheart, three wonderful children, suburban bliss; all memories that now seemed more like someone else's life than one I had led myself. I should have seen it coming, should have noticed the signs, but I was blinded by the drive to succeed and failed to pay attention to the world evolving around me. The changes had been so gradual that they crept up on me like age, one wrinkle at a time. And then one day Nan asked me to leave. It wasn't really until that day that I realized just how much had changed—everything but me. The kids were all grown and scattered around the country, each a success in their chosen lines of work, but none a part of our daily lives anymore. Nan had managed to stay in sync with the pulse of the city; she had become a community activist and a prolific volunteer: She was doing things that mattered.

And I was but a shadow of what I'd been, increasingly disgruntled with a medical system that had long ago crumbled, a system that had lost its way from what it was meant to do—take care of people. I'd become so bitter that I was poisoning Nan's life, but never had a clue until the day she shattered my world.

It wasn't until that day that I realized Nan had been the one constant in my life that kept things real, that shielded me from the endless alterations reshaping the world around us; that she was the one who had been taking care of me all those years, not the reverse I had always taken as granted.

And on that day, I was lost.

After the divorce, it took me a few years to get a grip on life again. Not joy—you couldn't really call it that, but I was beginning to discover things that fulfilled me, that gave me pleasure, that gave me a reason to live. I was starting to feel comfortable again until the day Arnie Hirsch got hauled away. Then the questions of what I was doing with my life began to tear at me once more.

Stumbling in for my Saturday morning pick-me-up at Hot Beanz, an outing I looked forward to every week, a call of, “Jenks!” greeted me as I walked through the door. I hadn't been called that in a long time.

I looked up and smiled feebly. “Doug. How are you?"

Doug Barnes and I had gone to med school together and started a family practice soon after graduating. It was a thriving practice for a while, but the bureaucracy eventually caught up with us. Insurance companies only wanted to contract with doctors they could control, and we weren't willing to play the game. We thought we were better than that, but time wore us down. We were eventually forced to liquidate the practice and seek out clinic jobs like the rest of them. I hadn't seen him in years.

"Better than you, from the looks of it,” he said, waving me over to a table. “You look like hell."

I hadn't realized my desolation was that transparent.

We sat down, facing each other across a small round table. I smiled feebly. “Quite the coincidence bumping into each other here, huh?"

The edge of Doug's mouth curled up. “Nah, not really. It was Carma."

I peered at him over the rim of my glasses.

He waved his hands, and with a chuckle said, “Carma Johnson, your assistant."

"Really. Ms. Johnson?"

He gave me a nod. “She's one of us."

"Us?"

"Let me explain."

He went on to tell me that he'd been stuck in a clinic across town since we closed the practice, that he found it every bit as unrewarding as I found my job, and that the only reason he kept going in there every day was because he needed the money. Familiar story, but I still wasn't sure where Carma Johnson fit in.

Doug glanced around the room, then leaned in toward me. “Look, there's a group of us who get together every week. You know, people who feel the same way as you and me."

"And Ms. Johnson's one of them?"

He gave a single nod. “It's mostly physicians, but some nurses and techs have joined in too. We call it The Old Codgers Club, though it's been attracting a few of the more recent grads like Carma who thought they were getting into medicine for the same antiquated reasons you and I did."

"What the hell can you do besides bitch and moan to each other?"

"We run a clinic out of the back of a strip mall shop in the Libertyville area."

My eyes widened. The Feds didn't take to kindly to black market clinics.

"It's a nice blue collar neighborhood, not much crime, doesn't attract a lot of cops. We steer a few patients there, the ones we know we can trust. It's like the old days; we get to treat patients the way we were trained to instead of the way we're legislated to perform now."

"Jesus, Doug. What if you get caught?"

"Hell, it's worth the risk. Gives me a chance to shake the rust off, feel useful again. You should try it. We could use someone like you."

I knew exactly what he meant. You can only do so much pencil pushing before you feel like you're starting to rot away. It was a tempting offer.

"How do you hide it?"

"Carefully. Don't talk about it to anyone you don't know, don't mention it at work even to those you trust. The walls have eyes."

"Tell me about it. Every time I get someone new in the office, I feel like I've got to spend all day looking over my shoulder. These kids coming out of school . . . they're brainwashing them young these days."

Doug laughed. “Carma got to you, didn't she?"

"Damn straight. I'd have sworn she was a mole for the Feds."

"Nah. Just feeling you out. Plays the part well, though, don't you think?

I had to agree. She'd figured me out without even a hint at what she was up to.

"So what do you say, Jenks? Our next meeting's tonight. Why don't you come check it out?"

I rubbed at a stain on the table. I wanted to say yes, but I kept picturing Arnie Hirsch being dragged off in handcuffs.

"Well, at least think about it.” Doug synced the info onto my PDA phone.

That's all I did do the rest of that day—think about it. Something he said had struck a chord. The idea of being part of a real clinic again made my blood flow in a way I hadn't felt in a long time.

I drove by the address Doug had given me. A quiet neighborhood strip mall. The storefront said Fine Tailoring, which I supposed was provided by a relative of someone in the Old Codgers Club. The information he had uploaded to me included a password that would grant access to the clinic in the back of the shop.

I pulled up in front and sat there with the engine running as I stared blindly at the store. My car was relatively new, but no air conditioning would have been able to keep the sweat from soaking through my shirt. Office hours were from six till nine; I still had a few hours to make my decision.

I stopped by a Starbucks on the way home and grabbed a burger, cream soda, and chips; a carryout bag. By the time I got back to my apartment, the food was lukewarm, but I preferred the confines of my home to a fast food joint. I wolfed it down, then jumped in the shower.

Most people sing in the shower: I think. In fact, it's where I do some of my best thinking. But even the hot steam swirling around me couldn't clear the fog inside my brain.

It would be so easy, I thought. Drive to the strip mall, go to the clinic, and get a chance to be a real doctor again.

I pictured myself in handcuffs. What am I, nuts?

Hey, Doug's been doing it for God knows how long. How dangerous can it be?

Then a terrible thought occurred to me. Maybe he's just setting me up.

It's Doug, for Christ's sake.

Hey, I don't know what he's been up to for the last decade.

So what else are you going to do, rot away at Thirteen for the rest of your life? Show some stones, man.

I toweled off and glanced at the clock. Decision time.

At quarter after six, I left my apartment and headed back to Fine Tailoring.My heart pounded faster with each turn and as I pulled into the lot, the wheel slipped from my damp hands. Only the car's proximity braking system saved me from plowing into a line of parked cars. I numbly listened to the electronic voice admonishing me for reckless driving until I had recovered enough to disengage the safety, then corrected course and crept along past the storefronts until I spotted an empty space directly in front of the tailor shop.

I hesitated, then tapped on the accelerator and turned out of the lot without looking back. A half hour later, I was home.

A bottle of wine kept me company that evening. I nursed it slowly, staring at the walls until finally deciding to go to bed whether sleep was in my immediate future or not. Dozing on and off, snippets of dreams flitted through my mind: med school, the old practice, nightmares of Carma Johnson walking in to my office with a team of uniformed agents. Doug had convinced me she was one of the good guys, but dreams don't always ride on facts and emotions don't erase that easily.

I was rattled out of my dreams a little after midnight by the shrill ring tone of an unprogrammed caller and stabbed out for the phone more in an effort to silence it than from any real curiosity about who was on the other end.

"Jenks? Jenks, that you? Why's your vid off?"

"I keep it that way when I'm in the buff,” I rasped.

"Oh. Oh, yeah.” I could see the stress lines around Doug's eyes as he looked down at his phone to check the time. “Jesus, I didn't realize how late it was. Sorry.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Listen, I don't know how much time I've got."

I squinted, trying to study his face through my blurry eyes.

"You were right."

"About what?"

"Carma. She turned us in. The cops raided our place tonight, just before closing. I had stepped out to take a break and when I got back there were half a dozen police cars out front. I've been trying to lay low, but you can only troll the streets for so long. It's just a matter of time . . .” I heard the sirens approaching his spot. “Jesus. Gotta go. Be careful, Jenks."

I reached for the remote control on my night stand and flipped on the monitor suspended from the far wall, then searched the Web for local news. “Shit.” There it was, plain as day. A bunch of doctors and nurses being hauled outside in handcuffs through the same door I'd been staring at only a few hours ago from the comfort of my car, the same door I'd almost walked through in a moment of rebellious false confidence.

"God, how could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking?"

I was too stunned to make out what they were saying before the picture faded to a live chase scene: Doug's car. I turned it off and tossed the remote back onto the table. I didn't want to watch the inevitable conclusion.

I flopped back and stared at the ceiling. My first glimmer of hope for a brighter, more productive existence in a very long time had been smeared all over the Net. All I had to look forward to now was District Clinic Thirteen.

The phone rang. Doug's number again.

"Doug?"

"Dr. Jenkins?” A monotone, unharried voice that was clearly not Doug's.

"Yes?"

A face came up on the screen, a generic clean-cut young male face adorned with a police cap. “This is Officer Harvey Cornell. Turn your vid on, sir."

I pulled a sheet around me and complied. Only my face would show on his phone, but it was still discomfiting to sit there with nothing on talking into a vid phone. “What's this all about, officer? Is Dr. Barnes okay?"

"He's fine, sir. Your number was the last one he called, just a few minutes ago, and we want to know why."

"Why don't you ask him?"

"We got his version, sir. We want yours."

I knew they'd review the transcript of Doug's phone call. Don't’ be stupid, I reminded myself before answering. “He's my old partner. I ran into him yesterday for the first time in years and gave him my number, so I guess it was at the top of his recent calls list. He sounded like he was in some kind of trouble. I guess in his rush to call someone he hit my number first."

"What do you know about the clinic, sir?"

"Uh, he told me about it yesterday, you know, when we were catching up on each other's lives.” I fought against my instinct to wipe the sweat off my brow. The screen was small; maybe he wouldn't notice the gleam. I turned from the light.

"And you didn't turn him in?"

"I wanted to give him a chance to right it himself first. Warned him about one of his people, that she's a straight shooter. I guess he didn't take my advice, huh?"

"You'll need to come down to the station, sir. I'll be there in ten minutes to pick you up."

"But . . .” the line went dead.

Ten minutes.

Crap.

I threw on some jeans and a relatively clean shirt, brushed the stale wine breath off my teeth and paced in front of the door until the chime sounded, sending my heart crashing against the inside of my chest wall.

"Intercom on.” The green light next to the door came on. “Hello?"

The animatronic receptionist from the lobby greeted me. “Good morning, Dr. Jenkins. There's an Officer Cornell here to see you. Shall I let him in?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Doctor."

I damped the sweat off my brow and rubbed the palms of my hands against my pants.

The chime sounded again. “Yes?"

"It's me, Doctor. Officer Cornell."

"Front door, open,” I commanded.

The door responded dutifully, and Officer Harvey Cornell entered with a vague scent of musk preceding him. A neatly pressed navy blue uniform accented his athletic physique, right down to the gleaming patent leather boots.

"Dr. Jenkins,” he said, removing his hat and smoothing back the neatly cropped black hair held in place with a hint of gel. “Ready, sir?"

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Then why can't we just talk here?"

He motioned to the door. “You'll want to come with me, sir."

Sometimes no answer is an answer you don't ignore.

The animatronic offered a cheery good-bye as we passed and made our way to the unmarked car waiting by the front entrance. A female officer sat perched in the driver's seat. Cornell opened the back door and I ducked in. He shut it behind me and I instinctively tried the handle, which of course did nothing.

On the way back to the station, he rode shotgun and didn't say another word to me. I could see the two of them conversing on the other side of the translucent barrier that separated us, but I don't know how to lip read. I only had the chatter of my own mind to keep me company.

As I sat there, every possible scenario flashed through my mind. Maybe they spotted me casing the clinic that afternoon, but that wouldn't be enough to arrest me on. They must have seen me pull up that evening, almost go in. But they can't arrest you for almost, can they? Hell, they didn't have anything they could pin on me. I'd been a damn boy scout at the clinic all these years; I hated myself for it, but I never gave them anything to hang me with. And what did they have now? My name in Doug's phone, a call, a drive-by at the mall during clinic hours? Nothing. They had nothing. Still, they could make my life miserable if they wanted. I'd been a damn poster boy for the District Clinic System, ignored what I knew was right to spite the health of my psyche, and they were going to screw me anyway. Great.

The flashes of panic were knocked from my thoughts by the sound of the car coming to a stop. We were parked outside the station. Cornell opened the door and escorted me into the building, where we wound our way through a maze of busy cubicles and into a sealed interrogation room. There was no mirrored glass, but there was no doubt we were being recorded.

He sat across a polished steel desk, facing me, but staring intently at a computer screen to his right. His face remained expressionless as he read silently and periodically tapped on the screen.

I cleared my throat, quite unintentionally, and was speared by a “don't do that again” look from across the table. A few minutes later, Officer Cornell sat back against his chair.

"Doesn't look too good for you, Doctor."

"What doesn't look good? What are you accusing me of, being friends with Dr. Barnes?"

"You should be more careful who you associate with."

"Since when did that become a crime?"

He stared me further back into my seat, then stepped out of the room. I squinted in all directions trying to locate the camera. Christ, they can't lock me up just for thinking about going to that damn clinic, can they? I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and damped off my face. Stay calm, I coaxed, but my body wasn't listening. I tucked the fraying wet tissue into my pants pocket as the door popped open and Officer Cornell re-entered.

He sat down and tapped on the screen, looked at me for an excruciatingly long three or four seconds, then focused his attention back on the monitor.

I scooted around on the cold steel seat of my chair in a futile effort to get comfortable.

Cornell looked up again. “Look, Doctor. Let me be blunt."

Finally. I'd have rather been arrested than have to sit in that seat any longer, staring at the machine that called himself Officer Cornell.

"We've got video surveillance that shows you hanging out in front of Barnes’ clinic this afternoon, and then driving by again tonight, just before we got there."

I could feel the heat rising up from under my shirt and thanked my lucky stars he didn't have me hooked up to an autonomic monitor to graph my anxiety. Not that he needed one.

"He was my friend. I was just curious."

"Don't insult me, Doctor."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"Look, we may not have anything damning on you, but with the video, the phone call, your connection to Doctor Barnes . . . well, let's just say it's pretty clear what your intentions were. You were more than a little tempted to join his party, weren't you?"

Before I could answer that every-chamber-loaded question, he stopped me. “You were lucky as hell tonight, but don't count on luck to strike twice. That space you have been flying under the radar in has just gotten considerably smaller."

The tension permeating every fiber of my being had begun to ease. They were going to have to let me go. “So I'm your new assignment?"

"Even if I had the time to stay on your ass, which I don't, I don't believe in entrapment. But I'm not the only one with this information. Consider tonight a friendly warning."

This kind of friendship I could do without. I felt a chill as the sweat began to cool against my skin.

He stood. “You can see yourself out. I've got to get started on those damn reports. That's the penalty for working with the Federal Health Care Task Force; paperwork's a killer.” He pointed the way out. “We can have someone drive you home if you'd like."

"I'll cab it, thanks."

"Thought you might.” He started to walk toward a cubicle to the right of the interrogation room, then hesitated and turned. “Be smart, Doctor."

I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Monday morning came, as it inevitably did. I made my way up to the thirty-seventh floor where Ms. Johnson was waiting for me.

"So you didn't take the bait,” she said wryly.

"No. I did not. You know I don't go for that sort of thing."

"I do now, but I could have sworn you'd go for it and I'm usually pretty good at reading people."

My task had become doubly burdensome. I felt like I was working under even more of a microscope than I had before. But I endured. And I thought about Doug. Constantly.

A couple of weeks later, Mr. Winthorp came by again on a Friday afternoon, still in pain and still begging me to examine his neck. There was nowhere else for him to go; I was his assigned provider. Once again, I turned him down and it ate me up inside.

It was getting harder to look at myself in the mirror, harder to accept what I'd become after seeing that there was another way for those willing to do what needed to be done. Sure, they'd caught Doug, but there were dozens of clinics that managed to stay under the radar, if you believed the blogs. I never had. I desperately wanted to now.

Still, it was tough to ignore Officer Cornell's warning.

That night, the pros and cons played in my head a hundred times over as I lay in bed praying to be mercifully overtaken by sleep. For once in my life, I had a decision to make for which I wished there was an answer tree to guide me.

At two AM, I awakened with a bolt. “Doc Tramer's place . . . of course.” The image was plain as day now, the obituary from last Saturday; my old family doctor, the one who used to see me at the office in his house, had passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. A paragraph of accolades and a statement expressing how sad it was that he had no survivors; his house would be going up for sale.

I pulled up the number of an old realtor friend of mine first thing in the morning, then jotted it down and left it on the table while I made some coffee. As I munched on a bagel and sipped my java, my gaze kept straying from the news on the monitor back to that little scrap of paper.

But they're watching you.

Bullshit. You really think you're that important? They don't have time to bother with you. It was just scare tactics.

You willing to take that chance?

I tilted my cup to get one last rush of caffeine, then started to rise from the table. “Ah, hell.” I spun back and grabbed the note.

The realtor was already waiting in the driveway when I pulled up to the old Tramer place. Doc had been retired for a couple of decades, but his home office was still intact; a veritable shrine to the medical era I grew up in. It looked like he'd taken a lot of pride keeping it that way, until the past few years when he'd undoubtedly had to occupy his time just trying to survive.

It was perfect. The office had been out of commission long before the District Clinic system was a glimmer in the eye of the jackasses who created it. The Feds wouldn't even know this place existed.

A scent of mold hung in the air and the house looked like hell: faded paper peeling off the walls, archaic appliances, incandescent light fixtures—a realtor's nightmare. But mostly cosmetic stuff I could deal with myself. I made an offer on the spot. She couldn't get the contract to me fast enough.

Weekends had always been my cherished time, the outdoors my playground. Whether it was people-watching in town, or escaping to the little park land that remained within commuting distance, I'd spend my days trying to commune with the things that made life worth living.

But now, I had the perfect retreat. The quaint house was nestled next to a neighborhood park, with a beautiful view of the foliage from the second floor master bedroom window. I began spending my weekends there and the renovations went quickly. Within a month, I was ready for my first visitors.

Boredom and security were about to be replaced by fulfillment and paranoia.

I had kept the décor very retro. Faux-oak paneling warmed the walls in the foyer; the leather sofas were real. I admired my handiwork as I prepared for my first Sunday afternoon clinic. Taking a page from Doug's failed attempt, I was determined to fly solo on this.

Easing back into a well-worn sofa cushion and relishing the faint moldy scent of the period throw rug scavenged at a flea market, I folded back the sports pages of the January issue of the New York Times, the last newspaper still printed in hard copy. The monthly edition didn't even try to keep up with the kind of breaking news coverage you could get on the Net, but the in-depth human interest stories were compelling, and there was no substitute for the satisfying feel of brittle pages of newsprint crinkling through your fingers.

The nostalgia of a simpler time, a more humane time, soothed my soul.

As I sat enjoying the moment, a mellifluous chime reminiscent of the period redirected my attention to the double front doors, where an adjacent monitor lit up with the familiar face of Mr. Winthorp.

I smiled and buzzed him in.

Copyright © 2010 Brad Aiken

It's not exactly like riding a bicycle, but . . .

Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” I said as I plopped my backpack on an extra chair in the Lakewood Retirement Center's dining room.

The white-haired gentleman looked up from his coffee and riveted his eyes on me like a security guard verifying my identity. I saw by the relaxing of his shoulders that I was recognized, and that he'd read my nametag. “Good to see you, George,” he said. “I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. Smith. Makes me feel old.” He smiled at his own joke. I didn't know his exact age, but I guessed he was in his late eighties.

"Okay, Bob,” I said, returning his smile and adding a wink. We went through this same routine every day when I arrived for work as a volunteer caregiver. On one of my earliest visits, he surveyed the dining room as if looking for spies and whispered that Bob Smith was a fake name. He explained that he couldn't tell me his real name because the press (he never called them news media) might find out. I promised not to reveal his secret. I suspected he was an actor whose family wanted to hide him from the paparazzi. They had done a good job of it—or maybe he'd had plastic surgery? In any case, I hadn't been able to figure out who he really was. All the staff would tell me was that he had checked in after his wife died in a car crash in the late 2020s. He had some grandchildren and great-grandchildren, even great-great-grandchildren, but I was his only regular visitor. New treatments had slowed down the progression of his Alzheimer's disease, but I wondered how long it would be before he forgot that Bob Smith wasn't his real name?

I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, connected the dual hand controllers, and set them on the table in front of Mr. Smith. “Got a new simulator to fly with you,” I said. This one was actually for little kids, but I had found that Mr. Smith enjoyed holding the hand controllers and flying various aircraft. Sometimes we flew against each other, and sometimes as pilot and copilot, me always the copilot. The only time I could out-fly him was in those games where spaceships could jump through wormholes or something that real aircraft could never do. He didn't like those games. He liked the simulators. I had told Mr. Smith that I was thinking of joining the military so I could become a pilot. That's when he'd told me he was a pilot, but that I shouldn't tell anyone because they might figure out who he was. Whether he really had been a pilot or not, I was happy to discover we both had an interest in flying.

"This one is a simulator of the old Apollo lunar landers,” I said while booting the program. “You know you don't even have to be an astronaut to go the Moon now? You just have to be rich enough to buy a ticket from the Russians."

Mr. Smith frowned at me. “You don't know what you're talking about. We beat the Russians to the Moon!” He crossed his arms.

His angry reaction startled me. Obviously this was a touchy subject for him. “Yes, of course you're right, Mr. Smith. We beat the Russians to the Moon."

"Darn right!” he said.

"But that was a long time ago. Now lots of people go to the Moon.” I glanced to the lounge area of the dining hall. “Look, there's a scene from the Moon on the TV right now."

He stared at the big screen like it was the first time he'd seen it. “I remember that movie."

Now I was confused. “What movie?"

"That movie about Apollo. The one with Tom Hanks."

I saw the “CBN LIVE” label in the corner. “No, sir, that's a live broadcast.” I read the captions and summarized for him. “There's been an accident at an old Apollo site. A lunar shuttle computer failed and shut down the engine just after liftoff. The pilot was killed on impact, and one passenger remains unconscious. The other passenger, a historian named Ms. Clara Phillips, is okay, but only has enough spacesuit battery power to last eight hours. A Russian rescue ship can't arrive for several days. Wow, get this,” I continued, “They're talking about launching the Apollo lunar ascent vehicle! The original one was used and discarded by the Apollo crew—this is a replica built by the Apollo Restoration Project that they claim is fully functional. Only trouble is, Ms. Phillips isn't a pilot, and they need someone to tell her how to fly it!"

Mr. Smith looked down at his age-spotted hands. “I'm a little rusty, but I could do it,” he said.

"You could? Where did you learn how to fly a lunar module?” Maybe he hada part in that Apollo movie. I'd have to check the credits when I got home.

Mr. Smith ignored my questions and continued to watch the screen. He nodded. “Yes, I can do it,” he decided. He scooted his chair back and stood looking around the room. “We're in the cafeteria,” he stated. I nodded. “I have to get to Building 30,” he said.

I didn't know they numbered the buildings at Lakewood. “Where is that?"

He gave my nametag a puzzled look. “What kind of badge is that? Are you a reporter?"

"No, sir. I'm George, remember? I was about to show you how to fly the new lunar simulator."

"Oh. A training instructor. Okay, then. We'd better get moving if we're going to save that crew. Can't let the Russians get there first.” He shuffled toward the exit somewhat bent over, but amazingly fast for someone his age. I caught the eye of the receptionist and nodded toward my game setup. She would watch it for me until I lured Mr. Smith back. She didn't need to remind me that Mr. Smith wasn't allowed to leave the grounds. My job was to redirect him somehow.

"Mr. Smith, I think we should take a different way to Building 30."

He stopped. “Why? Is there a media circus out there already?"

"No, no,” I assured him quickly. “We just need to use the elevator to avoid all those stairs."

"I like the stairs. Keeps me in shape,” he said.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Smith, but you had surgery on your knee a few months ago, remember?” He'd fallen trying to take the stairs two at a time—something he must have done a lot in his younger days. If he were an actor, he probably did his own stunts.

Mr. Smith stopped and looked down at his knees and feet. “I can't wear these slippers outside. Mother will yell at me.” He paused, deep in thought. “Before I go, I need to call her. She always worries when I travel. Is there a phone in this building?"

He'd obviously forgotten that he no longer had a mother, and that everyone used cell phones now. He had an old phone in his room, though. It was hooked up to the front desk. The staff was great at explaining that mothers and wives and other deceased loved ones were not home for one reason or another. But often, by the time we got to his room, he'd have forgotten he wanted to call someone. “There's a phone upstairs, sir,” I said.

"All right,” he said. After he got his shoes on, I'd take him for a walk in the garden. We both enjoyed watching the birds.

We got into the elevator. I waited for him to select the floor. If he had forgotten, then I'd remind him, but it was important to give him a chance to remember. He stared at the buttons. “This isn't the cafeteria,” he said. “Only Building 1 has nine floors.” He pressed the OPEN DOOR button and walked back out of the elevator.

Now what? I wondered. It didn't hurt to ask questions. “Mr. Smith, what is it you want to do when we get to Building 30?"

He scanned the hallways in both directions, I assumed checking for reporters. He said softly, “We're going to get those folks in Mission Control to set up a simulator run. We'll create the trajectory for the crew to get off the Moon."

"Oh, I should have thought of this earlier,” I said. “We don't need to go to Building 30. I can connect to Mission Control from here."

"You can?"

"Yes, this building has a wireless node in the lounge, where the big screen is.” Once I got him playing on the simulator, he'd probably forget all about the mysterious Building 30, and his mother too.

Mr. Smith nodded. “Okay, then. But we had better hurry. We don't want the Russians to get there first."

"Right.” I took his arm and walked with him past the reception desk and back toward the dining area. The receptionist looked up as we went by, and I winked at her. Yvonne was a year older than me, a high school senior who worked here weekdays after school. She smiled and came around the desk with my laptop and hand controllers that she must have retrieved while we were in the elevator.

"Hey, Flyboy,” she said to Mr. Smith after handing me my stuff. I had told her previously that he claimed to have been a pilot. Though he protested (the reporters might overhear), his face always lit up when she called him that. Then again, I couldn't think of too many men, myself included, that wouldn't enjoy some attention from a pretty girl like her. “Going to do some fancy flying today?"

Mr. Smith straightened up and met her gaze with a shy smile. “I can neither confirm nor deny that statement, young lady. But maybe we can have a drink later in the lounge, and I can show you some moves!"

"I just might take you up on that,” Yvonne said with a wide grin and twinkling eyes. She pecked him on the cheek and did a little swirl as she moved back behind the desk. The scent of her lingered pleasantly in the air as I stuffed my gear into my backpack again.

In a whisper, Mr. Smith said, “Women love pilots, you know. Got to watch out, though. Reporters have eyes everywhere, even in nice hotels like this one."

"Yes, sir,” I said. Had he been involved in a scandal with a famous actress? Maybe he had been a stunt pilot? I steered him back to the dining area. The tables were filling with early diners. I decided we'd be more comfortable in the lounge. The TV was still on the news channel, and still showing scenes from the Moon. Someone had turned the sound up to hear over the diners in the background.

"We have an update on the crisis on the Moon,” the anchor said. “The privately-funded Apollo Restoration Project is working with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to see if it is possible for their stranded crew to use their Apollo lunar vehicle to reach orbit. If the two historians can reach lunar orbit, NASA says it can remotely maneuver an unmanned cargo ship to pick them up. The cargo ship is not equipped to land, but has emergency supplies that would support the two people in lunar orbit until a Russian rescue ship can reach them two days from now."

"Well, that's good news,” I said.

"Shhh,” Mr. Smith said. I shut up.

"The team is working against the clock. The spacesuits have only seven hours of battery power remaining."

"That's not good,” I said. Mr. Smith glared at me. “Sorry,” I whispered.

"The Apollo lunar module replica is brand new and contains all the same systems as the historical modules, including working engines for its planned use in an unmanned reenactment. However, recent tests showed that the hatch does not seal properly, so the cabin cannot hold pressure. Therefore, the historians will have to remain in their suits. Also, the fuel pressure is low, possibly because of a slow helium leak. But the biggest problem is that the ship does not have an autopilot, and Ms. Phillips has no flight experience."

Mr. Smith stared at the screen. “No flight experience! What kind of stunt are the Russians trying to pull by putting that woman up there?"

"She's American,” I noted.

He ignored me and kept on talking. “Newbies always overcontrol, and that thing is as fragile as tissue paper. Get it tumbling, and it might fly apart."

"Well, how about flying it remotely?” I suggested. “That reporter said NASA's going to fly the cargo ship remotely."

Mr. Smith smiled weakly. “Remote control requires a computer interface. The computer on that thing is dumber than an adding machine."

"Oh,” I said, wondering what an adding machine was.

"No,” Mr. Smith continued, “they need to come up with a preplanned set of maneuvers and then have an experienced pilot walk that woman through them.” He nodded to himself. “I'd better warn my wife."

"What? Why?"

"I don't want her home when the press start snooping around."

"Oh, don't worry,” I said quickly. He always got most upset when he couldn't reach his wife. “She's visiting her mother.” It was the truth, if you believe in heaven.

"That's good,” he said. “Then I'd better call Houston right away.” He stood up. “Where did you say the phone is?"

There was no way he was going to really call NASA in Houston. But some small voice inside me insisted that it was important to let him play out this fantasy. Not wanting to repeat the elevator fiasco, I said, “There's a phone at the front desk.” I pointed toward the doorway that led to the reception area. I grabbed my backpack and hurried after him.

"Excuse me, miss,” he said upon reaching the front desk.

Yvonne looked up and smiled. “Back so soon, Flyboy?"

He cleared his throat. “Yes. I need to use the phone to make a long-distance call. It's an emergency."

Yvonne glanced at me, and I shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith, but the phones are for staff use only,” she said.

Mr. Smith began breathing heavily. His long fingers curled into fists.

"But this is an emergency,” he repeated. “I have to check in with Houston!” His face was flushed, and that worried me.

"Yvonne, you'd better call Dr. Winkler,” I said.

"I don't need a doctor. I need to call Houston!” Mr. Smith shouted.

"It's okay, Bob,” I said in a soft voice, steering him by the elbow to a bench. “The doctor has to check you before you can go."

"A flight physical now? There's no time for that!” He was panting.

"No, no,” I said. “Not a complete physical. Just a quick check to make sure it's okay for you to fly.” I needed to calm him down. “Take a deep breath and count to ten as you let it out. You don't want the doctor to ground you, do you?"

"Certainly not!” he said. I was happy to see his long fingers uncurl and spread out over his boney knees.

A lean bearded man rushed over to where we sat, and squatted down in front of Mr. Smith. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” he said in a soothing voice. “I'm Dr. Winkler.” He placed a small disk on Mr. Smith's wrist and asked, “What seems to be the problem?"

"There's no problem with me,” Mr. Smith said, a bit breathlessly. “I just need to call Houston, and they won't let me use the phone."

"I see,” Dr. Winkler responded. “Pulse is elevated. Blood pressure a little high, but otherwise you seem fine.” I sighed with relief. “Would you like me to make that call for you?” Dr. Winkler offered.

"Yes, please!” Mr. Smith said.

"Okay, then, come with me to my office."

I assumed this was Dr. Winkler's way of getting Mr. Smith to a place where he could examine him better and make sure he calmed down. We each took one of Mr. Smith's arms and helped him down the hall to Dr. Winkler's office. While we walked, I summarized what we'd seen on the television and explained that Mr. Smith seemed to think he could help the stranded historian learn to fly the lunar module.

Dr. Winkler listened silently. We entered his office and he asked us both to take a seat. While he shut the door, I saw that the newsfeed on his computer was following the lunar crisis. So, he already knew what was going on.

"Mr. Smith, please tell me how you think you can help those people on the Moon."

Mr. Smith repeated that he could fly the simulator and create the program they needed. Dr. Winkler had Mr. Smith drink some pink liquid and then asked him some technical questions using terms I recognized from some of the flight simulations we'd played. I wondered if Dr. Winkler was also a pilot. I don't know if it was the pink liquid or the joy of sharing a favorite memory, but when the doctor asked a number of questions about the Moon, Mr. Smith's answers were surprisingly detailed. The only thing he was confused about was what the Russians had to do with an American woman on the Moon.

"I'll have to notify your family,” Dr. Winkler said. Mr. Smith nodded.

Dr. Winkler then moved to the computer and tapped away at the keys. I got Mr. Smith a cup of water from the little sink in the corner and sat down again.

Dr. Winkler looked up at Mr. Smith. “I've got permission to release your records to NASA. Do you trust George, or do you want me to ask him to leave during the call?"

Ask me to leave? What was going on? Why would NASA be interested in his medical records? Dr. Winkler sure was good at playing along.

Mr. Smith gave me the security guard look again. “He's okay. He's a training instructor."

Dr. Winkler raised an eyebrow at that. “We take turns flying simulators,” I explained.

"I know,” Dr. Winkler responded. He did? I guess I should have known that the head doctor would keep tabs on the activities of his patients.

"And I know that his time with you has helped him retain some memories that are important not only to him, but perhaps to those people on the Moon right now."

"Seriously?” I blurted.

Dr. Winkler smiled. “Yes, seriously. Now, George, Mr. Smith has agreed that it's okay for you to be here during this call. I don't know what you'll overhear, but he's trusting you to keep your mouth shut about it. Can you promise to do that?"

"Yes, sir,” I said. “Is Bob Smith really a fake name?"

Dr. Winkler didn't have time to answer before the screen changed to an image of a serious-looking young man. “This is flight director Keegan Taylor at Johnson Space Center. I understand you have an old Apollo guy who thinks he can help us create a trajectory for Ms. Phillips to fly?"

"Can he hear me?” Mr. Smith asked.

"Yes,” Dr. Winkler answered. “I have two-way voice, but one-way video. I know how you hate cameras, Mr. Smith."

"Yes, thank you,” Mr. Smith said. “You know who I am?” he asked.

"Your name is blocked out in the file I received, but I was told that you worked on Apollo."

My grandfather had told me about Apollo, but even he had only been a kid back in the late 1960s. I wondered if Mr. Smith had worked on the program as a college student. That would put him in his eighties.

Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “I know how to fly the lunar module,” he declared. “I'm one of the astronauts who walked on the Moon.

I stared dumbfounded at Dr. Winkler. Why would he let Mr. Smith call NASA with a story like that? How embarrassing!

Mr. Taylor frowned. “I'm sorry, sir, but I don't have time for crank calls. The last Apollo moonwalker died nine years ago in a car crash. If he were still alive, he'd have to be, like, a hundred years old."

Dr. Winkler interrupted, “One hundred and three. Excuse me, Mr. Taylor, but please read the complete file I sent you. It will explain why you were led to believe that he had died."

Mr. Smith was 103? Mr. Smith was an Apollo moonwalker?! Suddenly the fake name and the paranoia of reporters and his confusion about the Russians made sense. Reporters would have pestered him for reactions to space events, politicians would have insisted on his presence at anniversaries and special events, and his Alzheimer's would have made it harder and harder for him to cope. His wife must have taken the brunt of it until she died in that car accident. Living here anonymously was probably the family's way to give him some well-earned peace and dignity during his final years.

And I had doubted he was even a real pilot.

The flight director's eyes grew round as he scanned the file Dr. Winkler had sent. “Oh, I see,” he said. “But considering his condition, Doctor, can we trust what he will tell us?"

"Memories associated with intense emotions and skills that were trained to the point of instinct are the last to be affected by the disease. He has also been refreshing those memories through flight simulations thanks to his young friend George here."

I looked down at my sneakers in embarrassment. I was just having fun sharing a love of flying with Mr. Smith. I had no idea I was flying copilot with one of the most famous pilots in history! I wondered which one he was? Armstrong? Young? Cernan?

"Then let's get started,” the flight director said. “We have photos and technical drawings that the Apollo Restoration Project sent us of the cockpit. These were made from an old NASA mockup that unfortunately was destroyed in a hurricane a few years ago. The computer switches and displays are all exactly as in the original, but the museum installed modern computers and communications. So we have the ability to create an autopilot. What we don't have are any records of the actual flight-handling characteristics of the module. The best we have to offer is a children's educational game developed by some engineering students at Texas A&M. It's called Fly Me to the Moon."

"That's the one I brought with me!” I said. I dragged my laptop and hand controllers out of my backpack. “I've got it right here.” I flipped the screen open and started the boot process.

"I didn't come here to play games,” Mr. Smith said.

"You don't understand,” Mr. Taylor said. “It is not a game, it's a simulator. The students used very sophisticated software to model the flight characteristics. What I'd suggest is that we set up the sim from here and have you fly a rendezvous with the cargo ship, noting any differences between the original and the simulator. Can you do that, Mr. Smith?"

"Sure,” he said simply. “Piece of cake."

I wondered what cake had to do with anything? I glanced at Dr. Winkler. He smiled and whispered to me, “An old expression meaning something is easy."

"Thanks,” I whispered back.

Dr. Winkler cleared off his desk for the computer, but Mr. Smith shook his head.

"I have to fly it standing up,” he said.

Mr. Taylor nodded. “He's right. No seats in the lunar module. And Ms. Phillips will be wearing a spacesuit because we aren't going to pressurize the module. Do you want gloves, Mr. Smith?"

"No, my hands are stiff enough without them!” he quipped.

Dr. Winkler and I laughed. I lifted a stool onto the desk and set the laptop on it to project against a white board on the wall. Mr. Smith placed the hand controllers at waist height on a book on the desk. He asked Dr. Winkler to close the window blinds and turn off the lights. I took care of the lights while Dr. Winkler closed the shades. It wasn't really dark, but it would help Mr. Smith focus.

"Young man, come stand to my right,” Mr. Smith said. “I'm the commander, and you're the pilot."

"Yes, sir,” I said. I decided he'd forgotten my name again.

"Mr. Smith,” Mr. Taylor interrupted. “We think the other crewmember has a concussion and other injuries and is in and out of consciousness. Ms. Phillips will have to fly it solo."

"I understand,” Mr. Smith said. “That's not a problem. But I need a body next to me to judge what panels and displays may be blocked."

"Right,” I said. At least I was good for something!

We hooked up my laptop projector to Dr. Winkler's computer, so it would output whatever NASA sent through. The screen showed two triangular windows looking out over a gray landscape with a black sky beyond. No stars were visible. The cockpit was crowded with gauges and switches.

"We've activated the link. We've got one of our lunar pilots in a simulator here to fly the cargo ship."

"Roger,” Mr. Smith said. “Fuel tank pressure low."

"Yes, we think there's a slow leak in the helium tank,” Mr. Taylor explained. “The batteries are also not fully charged, but should last long enough to reach the cargo ship."

"Understood,” Mr. Smith said. “T minus 5. Engine arm. Pilot should hit PROCEED, but because he's unconscious, I must reach over him and do it."

"Noted,” Taylor said.

"I should hear the bang of the bolts releasing the lander and then feel like I'm riding in a high-speed elevator as the engine kicks in."

"Roger that,” Taylor said.

I could hardly believe this was happening to me. To me! I was flying with one of the Apollo astronauts. The last living Apollo astronaut! Not even my mother would believe this if I told her. But I wouldn't break my promise to Mr. Smith, even after I figured out his real name.

"No, that's not right,” Mr. Smith said.

"What's not right, Mr. Smith?” Mr. Taylor asked.

"The LM didn't have a barbecue mode. We had to fire the jets manually to start the ship spinning."

"Noted."

"But the flight is so short, you don't need to worry about overheating. It might be best to just let it coast. It will also be one less thing for the pilot to worry about."

"Yes, sir,” Mr. Taylor said. “The cargo pilot has a lock on you."

Mr. Smith looked at the ceiling. “The upper window is blocked. Can't see target."

"That's okay,” Mr. Taylor said. “You don't have to line up and dock. The cargo ship is going to match rates and take you into its hold."

"It's big enough for that?” Smith said.

Mr. Taylor smiled. “Yes, sir. It's a fuel tanker."

On the computer screen, I saw the curve of the Moon's horizon below us. “Look at the crescent Earth!” I blurted out in excitement. Mr. Smith ignored me. At least I could verify that this part of the simulation was correct. The Moon I'd seen last night was just past full, and the Earth and Moon were always in opposite phases. I wondered if I'd ever see the Earth from the Moon for real? I hoped so.

As the ship arced around to the far side of the Moon, the Earth sank below the horizon. Long sunrise shadows spread across rough crater floors below us.

"Got you,” Mr. Taylor said. The simulation stopped.

"We going into blackout now?” Mr. Smith asked.

"No sir, we have almost continual communications thanks to lunar orbiting relay satellites."

Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow even though Mr. Taylor could not see him.

"It still takes 1.3 seconds for light to travel one way from the Moon, 2.6 seconds roundtrip. But with your help, we'll have the computer programmed to handle most problems."

"Yeah,” Mr. Smith agreed. “Pings works pretty good."

I mouthed “Pings?” at Dr. Winkler.

He whispered back, “Sounds like an acronym for the navigation program."

I nodded and mouthed “Thanks” back at him.

"Need to run it again with some failures?” Mr. Smith asked.

"Yes, that would be very helpful,” Mr. Taylor said. “But first let's take a break and see what questions the pilot and guidance team have for you."

Dr. Winkler helped Mr. Smith to the sofa on the side of the office, and I sat down too. I don't know which one of us was more dazed. “Can I call my wife now?” Mr. Smith asked. “She'll probably worry."

Dr. Winkler smiled. “She's fine. She's with her mother."

"Oh, right,” Mr. Smith said. He looked down at his slippers. “Mother is going to be mad."

It was the strangest afternoon and evening I had ever spent in my life. I stood by Mr. Smith while he flew one simulation after another, with jets failed, with computer problems, with navigation errors, with popped circuit breakers. As I watched, I realized that even with his Alzheimer's, Mr. Smith still knew more about spaceflight than most people alive today. I felt incredibly lucky to have the chance to learn even a tiny bit of what he could teach me.

During breaks we ate snacks and drank decaf coffee and followed the progress of the crew on the Moon. Ms. Phillips had gotten the injured historian strapped into the module.

Dr. Winkler called my mother and asked if I could stay for dinner and into the evening. He said he had recruited me to help with a memory experiment involving one of the patients, and it would mean a lot if I were there until the patient went to bed. He'd get me a cab home. My mother fully supported my activities here, and after verifying with me that I had done my homework in study hall as usual, agreed I could stay as late as ten.

A nurse brought us dinner, and we ate there in Dr. Winkler's office. Mr. Smith fell asleep on the sofa soon afterward. I moved the simulation equipment out to the lounge and connected the big television to the NASA feed. Then I returned to Dr. Winkler’ office.

The flight team was discussing possibly changing the rendezvous sequence. Because the batteries in the spacesuits had only a few hours left, the initial decision was to fly something called a direct ascent. But Mr. Smith had advised against it, saying that direct ascent was too risky for Apollo. As a result, Flight Director Taylor ordered a special “tiger” team to investigate options and report back.

One of the tiger team members confirmed that direct ascent wasn't used for Apollo. “Although that option is the simplest, requiring only a single burn of the ascent engine to put the LM on a path to intercept the target ship a half orbit later,” the man reported, “the Apollo team felt that the likelihood of variations in the thrust during ascent presented too much risk. The short duration of the approach didn't allow much time for their old computers to calculate, and the crew to execute, the maneuvers to correct the flight path. If those corrections weren't made, the LM would miss the interception point and crash into the lunar surface."

"Couldn't the command module have changed course and rescued the LM?” the flight director asked.

"In some cases,” the man replied. “But course changes require fuel, and its fuel was very limited."

"I assume that the computer and fuel issues do not apply in our case?"

"That's correct,” the man responded.

"Flight, Lunar Ops,” a woman's voice called.

"Go ahead, Lunar Ops,” the flight director said.

A short pause ensued. “Thank you, sir. My main concern is time. No offense to the guidance team, but they were still making changes to the software half an hour ago. There's a reasonable chance that we will need Ms. Phillips to take manual control. I understand she has walked through the procedures in the cockpit, but that's no substitute for flight experience—especially with an untested vehicle! She needs time to adjust to the actual vehicle and environment. The coelliptic sequence gives her a whole lunar orbit to do that—and also makes my job as cargo pilot easier if I have to rescue her.” She's the one who will fly the cargo ship remotely! She's probably at the lunar south pole!

"Flight, Surgeon."

"Go ahead, Surgeon."

"Sir, I understand Lunar Ops’ concern, but an extra hour trapped in that spacesuit may mean the difference between life and death for the injured historian, Dr. Canterbury. We're also concerned about Ms. Phillips’ state of mind. She was severely traumatized by the death of the pilot and is barely able to follow simple directions. The sooner both of them get out of those suits, the better their chances for survival."

Guidance assured the flight director that the new software would support direct ascent, especially after the simulations with Mr. Smith. The flight director decided to stick with direct ascent.

"Flight, Lunar Ops."

"Go ahead, Lunar Ops."

Another short delay followed that I now understood was because of the distance the signal had to travel. “I understand and will do my best to support the direct ascent. But I have a request. No offense to the guidance team, but speaking as a pilot, I'd feel a lot better if we have that Apollo astronaut do any flying that's necessary."

"You mean have Mr. Smith input the commands to the autopilot program? I'm not sure he'll be up to it. Doctor Winkler, what do you think?"

"Sir, I'm sorry,” Dr. Winkler said. “But I don't know what state he will be in when he wakes up from his rest. I have some medication I can give him that should help, and George and I will do our best to remind him of the circumstances. But I suggest that you go with your original plan to have one of your astronauts run the autopilot and talk Ms. Phillips through any problems."

"Excuse me, Flight,” the flight surgeon interjected. “How about if we have Mr. Smith serve as a coach for Ms. Phillips? Being a historian, having an Apollo astronaut looking over her shoulder could keep her calm and also give her the confidence she needs."

"That's an excellent idea,” Lunar Ops said.

"Doctor Winkler?'

He glanced over at me. “George, you know how he usually behaves after his afternoon naps. Think he can do it?"

I gulped. The fate of two people might depend on my decision. I looked at Mr. Smith sleeping peacefully. Usually, a nap “reset” his memory. But given the right “props,” I could probably get him back into his astronaut mindset in time for the launch, now only forty-five minutes away. I took a deep breath and nodded yes. I hoped I wouldn't regret this!

Doctor Winkler and the capcom, who was a current astronaut with lunar experience, agreed to do a voice check and let Mr. Smith talk to Ms. Phillips before the launch. At that time, we'd decide if he could continue on the live loop and be given command authority to the autopilot.

I stood up. “Dr. Winkler, I'm going to get Mr. Smith's shoes—his slippers remind him of his mother."

The doctor nodded in understanding. “While you're up there, see if he has a white shirt. And bring a belt too. People used to dress up back then."

"Roger!” I said, and dashed out for the elevator.

When I returned, the liftoff was only a half hour away. Dr. Winkler was talking on his cell—something about a security team. He disconnected when he saw me and said, “Time to wake our famous moonwalker."

Dr. Winkler set a wind-up alarm clock (no voice controls!) next to Mr. Smith and let it ring. Mr. Smith immediately nabbed it and shut it off. He blinked and stared at Dr. Winkler, who had donned his white lab coat. “Do I know you?” he asked. Dr. Winkler explained that he was a NASA flight surgeon. He regretted waking him, but Mission Control needed Mr. Smith's assistance.

"There's a mission on?” he asked, straightening up.

"Yes, and they're in trouble,” Dr. Winkler said as he handed him the white golf shirt I'd brought. The doctor explained what had happened to Ms. Phillips, and that Mission Control wanted him to talk her through a lunar ascent and rendezvous. Mr. Smith looked confused. “We beat the Russians, and quit flying to the Moon,” he insisted.

"Yes, we did,” the doctor agreed. “But then we went back to the Moon as partners. Ms. Phillips was visiting the Moon when the accident happened."

I cringed. I wish he hadn't used the word “accident.” It might evoke memories of Mr. Smith's wife. But Mr. Smith was more focused on the first part of the sentence. “Partners? With the Russians? Like Apollo-Soyuz?"

"That's right,” Dr. Winkler said. “Like Apollo-Soyuz, only on the Moon."

"Okay,” Mr. Smith said. “And they got in trouble?"

"Yes,” Dr. Winkler repeated. I helped Mr. Smith with his shoes and then his belt. I combed his thin white hair. He suddenly noticed me and stared at my badge. “What kind of badge is that? Are you press? Reporters aren't allowed in here."

"I'm not a reporter, Mr. Smith. I'm George. I'm uh, a member of the guidance team,” I said quickly in an attempt to use an appropriate term. I thought of adding that I was in charge of the “manual” system, but stopped myself.

"Then don't call me Mr. Smith,” he barked. “Makes me feel old."

"Okay, Bob,” I said with a wink.

Dr. Winkler handed him a cup of coffee spiked with some of that pink medicine. Mr. Smith sipped it gratefully. “Ready?” Dr. Winkler asked.

"Where are we going?” Mr. Smith asked.

"To the hotel lobby—we've set up a direct link to Mission Control. We're going to help a young woman take off from the Moon."

"Better call my wife,” he said. “She'll be worried."

"She's visiting her mother,” Dr. Winkler explained.

"Oh? That's good,” he said.

I heard a thumping sound as we approached the double doors at the front of the building. “Whoa,” I said. “There's a helicopter in the parking lot!"

"Darn press,” mumbled Mr. Smith. His hands curled into fists.

"No, sir, that's Homeland Se—I mean the Air Force,” Dr. Winkler said. So that's who he was talking to on the phone! Wonder what they're doing here.

"Oh, of course,” Mr. Smith said, his hands relaxing again.

A man in a black suit with a security bud in his ear was asking Yvonne a question. With her eyes as large as saucers, she pointed in our direction. The man turned toward us. I thought he looked like one of those guys who guard the president. Maybe he did. He saluted Mr. Smith as we walked past, and Mr. Smith acknowledged him with a curt nod. Then Mr. Smith blew a kiss at Yvonne, who blushed deeply enough to match the purple of the front desk.

Would she guess who Mr. Smith was now? Even if she did, I realized that I would not be able to confirm her suspicions without breaking my word. I'd always thought of security as keeping bad guys out, not good guys in!

Is that why DHS was here? To make sure no one tried to kidnap Mr. Smith? Age and Alzheimer's had kind of done that already. Or were they here to keep the media out in case someone leaked that one of the original moonwalkers was alive and helping them? Or both?

At the doorway to the lounge, another man in black stopped us. Mr. Smith waited patiently while he asked me to raise my arms and ran a metal detector over me like they do at airports. He confiscated my phone, saying no recordings or photos were allowed. Did I understand?

I didn't know if this was an act for Mr. Smith's benefit or not, but I quickly replied, “Yes sir!” Lakewood did not to allow the taking of photos or videos of the residents by non-family members, anyway. Now I understand just how important that rule was to someone like Mr. Smith.

A nicely dressed middle-aged woman stood up as we shuffled Mr. Smith into the darkened lounge. She pecked Mr. Smith on the cheek. “Good to see you again, Flyboy!” she said. With an exaggerated wink, she added, “Name's Ruth, in case you forgot."

Mr. Smith didn't show any signs of recognizing this woman, but he returned her wink and said, “I never forget a beautiful woman!"

Dr. Winkler explained that Ruth Pressa was the relative who had granted permission to contact Mission Control. She shook my hand warmly and whispered in my ear, “Thank you for being such a good friend to my great-grandfather. It means a lot to our family."

Her great-grandfather? “It's my privilege, ma'am,” I said. Her badge sported the seal of the DHS and her last name at the bottom in capital letters, “PRESSA.” I wondered what kind of work she did for them?

While Dr. Winkler escorted Mr. Smith to a chair, Ms. Pressa handed me an old-fashioned wired headset and a speaker box. “This is a Mission Control headset and speaker box from the Apollo Restoration Project. I rigged up an interface so you can plug these into your laptop.” She pointed to a rocker switch on the cord. “This is the push-to-talk button that he'll use to talk to Ms. Phillips. If he starts spouting nonsense, just unplug him from the laptop—he'll hear a click. Tell him we lost the signal.” I nodded, hoping I'd not need to do that.

She continued. “The speaker box is set to broadcast and receive. The flight director and all the team will hear everything said in this room, so be careful to always call him Mr. Smith."

"I understand,” I said. I decided not to tell her I didn't know his real name anyway.

"Okay then, I'll let you get to work.” She settled into a chair next to Dr. Winkler.

I motioned Mr. Smith to join me standing behind the simulator. Our interface to Mission Control was the same set-up I'd used earlier, except that I'd added some bar stools in case our feet got tired. Also, I'd left the projector off since we had live images from Mission Control. The view from Ms. Phillips’ helmet cam was in the center of the screen. On the right was a graph of data from the spacesuits showing power and carbon dioxide levels and stuff like that. On the left was a plot of the planned trajectory of the direct ascent rendezvous. It looked pretty simple; an arc from the surface that intersected a dotted circle around the Moon. The cargo ship was marked by a yellow Pac-Man that was slowly eating its way around the dotted circle. I smiled. Someone on the flight control team had a sense of humor.

"I saw that movie,” Mr. Smith said, looking at the TV. “Isn't that the one with Tom Hanks in it?"

"No,” I said. “This is a live image from the Moon. There's a woman who needs to fly to lunar orbit."

"What's a woman doing on the Moon? Is this some Russian stunt?"

"No, she's an American,” I replied patiently. Had he forgotten everything we'd told him already? My heart rate climbed. “What's important is that if she doesn't rendezvous with a cargo ship in lunar orbit, she and the other passenger will die. Unfortunately, she's not a pilot."

Mr. Smith frowned. “She'll never make it."

"Not on her own, she won't,” I said. “That's why we need you. NASA has set up the computer to fly the ascent automatically—you know, like ‘pings'?” I hoped I had the term right.

He nodded. “Pings works great,” he said.

I continued. “Yes, and pings was recently updated so that it can do all the calculations really fast. But it can't fly like the best LM pilot alive.” No need to say the only one. He smiled at this praise. “So NASA needs you to help this woman—her name is Ms. Clara Phillips—with the launch and rendezvous."

"I can do that,” Mr. Smith said, placing his large hand on the stick, just like he'd done hours earlier. I let out the breath I'd been holding.

I looked over at Dr. Winkler who gave me a thumbs-up sign. Mr. Smith donned the old-fashioned headset like he wore one every day. I plugged it into my laptop. If Mr. Smith got confused, I'd be responsible for literally pulling the plug.

"Houston would like to do a voice check of their secure line,” I said.

"Hello, Mr. Smith, this is Houston Capcom. How do you read?"

"Roger, Houston, read you five by,” Mr. Smith answered.

"Good. The flight director would like to speak to you."

"Go ahead,” Mr. Smith said.

"Hello, Mr. Smith. I'm Flight Director Keegan Taylor,” he said. “We appreciate you helping us in this emergency. Time is short, so let me fill you in on a few details."

Mr. Smith listened intently as the flight director explained that they were going to do a direct ascent, and that they might need him to take over manually.

"Understood,” Mr. Smith said.

"Oh, and if you're willing, we'd like you to talk to Ms. Phillips, tell her what to expect before it happens—keeping in mind the 1.3-second signal delay, so she'll stay calm. Can you do that?"

"Sure,” Mr. Smith replied simply.

"Good. Then I'll have Capcom patch you through to Ms. Phillips. Her first name is Clara."

The capcom's voice came over the speaker, “Clara, this is Houston on Private Channel Alpha, do you copy?"

A second later, she responded, “Yes, Houston, I hear you. My hands are shaking so badly, I'm afraid I'll press the wrong buttons!"

"Clara, you will do fine,” the capcom assured her. “You just press PROCEED at T-5, and the computer will take it from there."

"But this LM was never tested under real conditions, and I'm not a pilot!"

"We know that, Clara. But that engine worked on every Apollo flight, and the systems are looking good. To reassure you, we've asked a very special person to come out of retirement. I'm going to patch him through to speak to you. He wishes to keep his name secret, and goes by Mr. Smith, but we have verified that he is in fact one of the original Apollo moonwalkers."

A second later, she said, “But that's impossible! The last one died in a car crash with his wife. I went to their funeral!"

"Apparently, only the wife actually died in that crash. Mr. Smith was sent to a secret location to spend his last years free of media scrutiny."

"The tabloids were actually right!” Ms. Phillips laughed. “Oh my, that was insensitive of me. Is Mr., uh, Smith listening? Please tell him I didn't mean to make light of his loss. I'm sure it must have been very hard."

"Yes,” Mr. Smith said. “I miss my wife."

Oh no! He mustn't start thinking about his wife right now. He'll be of no help at all. I unplugged his connection to Ms. Phillips. “Mr. Smith,” I whispered, pointing at the display, “What does that light mean?"

He stared at the panel seen through Ms. Phillips’ helmet camera. “The LM fuel tank pressure is low. Must have a leak. Better take off soon."

Good. He was back on track. I plugged him back in. I saw Ms. Pressa smiling at me.

The capcom was talking to Ms. Phillips, I supposed answering a question about how Mr. Smith had gotten involved in this rescue. “Mr. Smith heard about your situation on the news and contacted us to see if he could help. We had him fly a simulator and update the model for use in the autopilot. He's standing by to speak with you."

"I can't believe this!” Ms. Phillips said. “I must be out of my mind or talking to a ghost."

"I'm not a ghost,” Mr. Smith said. “And you won't be either, as long as you stay calm and follow directions.” He paused in thought. I kept my finger on the plug just in case he changed subjects. “Once you reach orbit,” Mr. Smith said, “You'll just coast right to where the command module can get you."

"Command module?” Ms. Phillips repeated.

"He means the cargo ship,” the capcom said.

"Oh, of course. I understand,” Ms. Phillips said.

They went through some preflight checks of switch positions and reviewed the procedures. Mr. Smith seemed calm and in control, every bit the old Apollo astronaut.

The liftoff was right on time. Ms. Phillips yelped when the engine fired, but Mr. Smith soothingly told her that was nominal (a word he used instead of “normal"). “You'll go straight up for about ten seconds,” he reminded her. “Then you'll pitch over and move horizontally with respect to the lunar surface. You should have a great view out the window."

The image of the cockpit on the TV jiggled up and down in response to the engine. No sound penetrated through the airless cockpit. The view out the window changed from black sky to lunar gray as the ship nosed down.

"Guidance, report,” the flight director demanded.

"Flight, cg shifted at pitch over."

A second later we heard Ms. Phillips shout, “Dr. Canterbury!” The pitch over had thrown the injured man out of his harness. One arm smacked Ms. Phillips across her faceplate.

I involuntarily winced and sucked in a breath, though she was perfectly fine inside her helmet.

Mr. Smith spoke softly. “Ms. Phillips, grab his wrist. When the ascent engine shuts down, he'll float right to you."

"Flight, engine shutdown."

"Trajectory report,” the flight director ordered.

"The computer didn't fully compensate for the cg shift. We'll need a correction from the RCS."

"Mr. Smith, stand by for remote ops."

"Roger, Flight,” Mr. Smith said.

We saw Ms. Phillips pull on Dr. Canterbury's wrist, rotating him so that he was facing her. She reached to pull the harness around him.

Dr. Canterbury's eyes opened. He jerked and hit the hand controller. The two historians tumbled. Out the window, the gray lunar surface was replaced by darkness and then surface again in rapid succession. They're spinning!

Mr. Smith pulled the hand controller to one side and released it. After a short delay, I noted that the view rotated more slowly.

"Flight, Guidance. LM is in stable BBQ mode."

"Nice flying, Mr. Smith,” the capcom said. “My guy in the simulator says you used about half the fuel he would have."

"She's not out of the woods yet,” he said. “Look at the disk key."

Huh? There were no woods on the Moon. And what kind of a disk had a key? Click. I yanked the plug from my laptop.

Mr. Smith continued talking. “Apo loon is . . ."

"Sorry, I think we've lost our link to the spacecraft,” I said, looking at Dr. Winkler. He in turn was looking at Ms. Pressa.

Ms. Pressa was texting quietly on her phone. “Communications restored,” she declared.

I took the hint and plugged Mr. Smith back in. A text message appeared on my laptop saying, “'Not out of the woods’ means ‘not out of trouble.’ ‘DSKY’ is a display in the LM.” None of that was nonsense? My face burned with embarrassment. I had a lot to learn.

The guidance team reported that they had the orbital correction calculated, including the additional jet firings. The flight director gave them the go to have the automatic system command the jets to make the necessary corrections. “Capcom, warn Ms. Phillips that there will be jet firings."

Ms. Phillips got Dr. Canterbury secured in his harness and tightened her own. His eyes had closed again. Surgeon feared that the acceleration, though gentle compared to an Earth launch, might have acerbated his injuries.

After the maneuver, the trajectory plot showed that the LM and “Pac-Man” cargo ship would rendezvous on schedule. Capcom informed a relieved Ms. Phillips that all was well.

"Except she's going to crash,” Mr. Smith said.

What? I rested my fingers on the headset connection.

"Mr. Smith, Flight speaking. The trajectory looks good to us. Why do you think she is going to crash?"

"I told you, look at the DSKY. You only raised apolune from 40.1 to 40.6. That's too low for the CSM."

A text appeared on my laptop saying, “Apolune is the highest point in a lunar orbit. CSM = command and service module.” I looked up at Ms. Pressa and nodded to let her know I understood. I pulled my hand away from the connection.

Mr. Smith continued. “You need forty-two nautical miles or the CSM can't get to her in time."

"Nautical miles? What kind of dumb unit is that?” I blurted, and then covered my mouth. I hadn't meant to say that outloud for the whole team to hear! Ms. Pressa frowned, I assumed at my outburst, and texted furiously. Nothing showed up on my laptop, though.

"Break, break,” Capcom interrupted. “Lunar Ops reports the LM is out of range by about ten kilometers!"

Mr. Smith was right?

"Guidance, Flight, we've uncovered the problem. The LM software uses nautical miles and the corrections we made assumed statute miles. We're off by a factor of 1.15."

Ms. Pressa rose from her seat and paced back and forth. Not out of the woods, indeed!

"Guidance, get me the right numbers for Mr. Smith to fly to. Capcom, inform Ms. Phillips we'll be doing another maneuver."

Precious time ticked by while the LM rapidly approached the point of no return. The trajectory map refreshed with a new image showing the LM arcing up but not quite reaching the intersect point with the cargo ship. Unless it changed course fast, the historians were doomed. If I hadn't cut off Mr. Smith's comments earlier, would they have discovered the problem sooner? Was this all my fault? Maybe I didn't have the right stuff to be a pilot after all.

Lunar Ops reported that she had moved the cargo ship to a slighter lower orbit that would help close the gap. But it also increased her speed. That seemed counterproductive to me until I saw on the plot that the intersection point was farther around the Moon than predicted earlier. Orbital mechanics was confusing!

Finally Guidance reported they had the commands ready. The flight director said to execute them. If anything went wrong, we would know in a few minutes. If so, we might need Mr. Smith to fly to the numbers manually.

Ms. Pressa approached and held up her phone. I heard the shutter sound of a camera snapping a photo.

"What do you think you're doing?” Mr. Smith shouted. Ms. Pressa looked puzzled. “Just taking your picture, Grandpa,” she explained.

Uh-oh. He didn't like to be called that!

"Grandpa! You didn't think I was too old at the bar the other night!” He squinted at her badge. “P . . . R . . . E . . . S . . . S . . . You're a reporter! Get out!” He pushed her back with the heel of his big left hand. Her phone clattered across the floor, and she fell back into a chair.

The security guard from the door seemed to appear out of thin air, “Director, are you okay?” he asked, lifting her to her feet.

Director? Of what?

"I'm okay, Harry,” Ms. Pressa insisted, smoothing her suit jacket. “There's just been a misunderstanding.” Dr. Winkler handed her phone to Harry. “Escort me to the door, please."

"Whatever you say, ma'am,” the big guy replied, glaring at Mr. Smith.

"Paparazzi,” Mr. Smith cursed.

Dr. Winkler poured Mr. Smith a glass of water from a pitcher on a nearby table. He handed it to him and assured him that everything was under control. I'd never seen the doctor so rattled. Having a patient almost flatten his great-granddaughter was rather upsetting!

The doctor met my eyes and then darted his glance to and from the water glass. I understood that he had added something to the water. Then he said, “Sir, I suggest that you rest your feet while we wait for communications to come back."

"Are they in blackout?” Mr. Smith asked.

"Yes,” I agreed, holding the plugs to his headset and the speaker out of view. All of Mission Control had heard his outburst at Ms. Pressa. I hoped they didn't realize that she really was his great-granddaughter. Even though Pressa was probably her married name, some enterprising person could use it to figure out Mr. Smith's identity.

Mr. Smith gulped the water like he was taking a shot of scotch. He settled onto the stool, glancing down at his feet. “Man, I hate these stiff military shoes. When I retire, I'm only going to wear slippers!"

"Your mother won't like that,” I quipped.

He smiled. “No, she won't!” he agreed. “And that's another reason I'm going to wear slippers!” He laughed.

I was dying to know what was going on with Ms. Phillips. The trajectory display on the TV was blinking. In all the commotion, the maneuver had come and gone. He couldn't do any harm now.

"We're getting the signal back,” I said, and plugged Mr. Smith and the speaker back in. Guidance reported that he was waiting for Lunar Ops to confirm target acquisition.

Mr. Smith surprised me when he calmly said, “Ms. Phillips, quit worrying about the trajectory for a minute. Look out the window. You owe it to yourself."

I wasn't sure if Mission Control had let this message through until Ms. Phillips said, “Seeing the Earth above the desolate Moon reminds me of just how precious life is. I'll never forget this moment."

"Me either,” Mr. Smith said.

"Me either,” I whispered.

Lunar Ops reported target acquired! I sagged onto my stool, suddenly realizing how tired I was. Some fancy remote flying on the part of Lunar Ops completed the rendezvous. The cargo ship scooped the LM into its wide bay, and cheers erupted in Mission Control. I gave Mr. Smith a high five, and Dr. Winkler patted him firmly on the back. “Where are the cigars?” Mr. Smith asked.

"Sorry, but this is a no-smoking area,” Dr. Winkler said.

"Oh,” Mr. Smith said, obviously disappointed.

A text appeared on my laptop. “Good call on the nautical miles—you saved two lives. Sorry about the photo. Forgot blackmail incident still upsets him. I'll be in touch. Thanks again.” She signed it, “R. E. Pressa, Director of Knowledge Capture, Department of Homeland Security. Knowledge Capture?

After the cargo hold was pressurized, Ms. Phillips was able to take off her spacesuit and help Dr. Canterbury out of his. The flight surgeon did a remote exam. Turned out that Dr. Canterbury didn't have a concussion. His suit had been damaged and he was suffering from carbon-dioxide poisoning. If they hadn't done the direct ascent, he would have died. Ms. Phillips hooked him up to oxygen and settled in to wait for the Russian rescue ship to rendezvous with them. Mr. Smith's advice no longer needed, Mission Control cut our connection. We were now in listen-only mode.

Dr. Winkler escorted a sleepy Mr. Smith to the men's room while I moved the chairs back to their proper places in the lounge.

Just before I unplugged the speaker box, I heard Ms. Phillips thank the team in Houston for sending the cargo ship and especially for recruiting Mr. Smith to help her. “I have dedicated my life to preserving the history of space,” she said. “Yet today when I was faced with having to recreate that history, I realized just how little I actually know. I now have a new level of understanding and respect for the courage and skill of the Apollo astronauts. I hope that I'll have the opportunity to thank Mr. Smith in person when I get back."

I knew that wasn't going to happen. By the time she got back, he'd already have forgotten all about this day.

But I wouldn't. I would remember for him. And tomorrow, I'd check out every e-book and disk I could find at the library and read all about the Apollo program and the amazing men who first walked on the Moon. We'd watch that Apollo movie with Tom Hanks, and fly simulations together. Though Mr. Smith might soon forget even his real name, and wouldn't remember Ms. Phillips next week, my memories of this time with him would be as long lasting as his footprints on the Moon.

Copypright © 2010 Marianne J. Dyson

Dedicated to the victims of Alzheimer's and their caregivers, with special remembrance of the first director of Johnson Space Center, Dr. Robert Gilruth, my father-in-law, Ralph Dyson, and my grandfather, George Canterbury.

Our universe is a system with broken symmetries. In the very early universe, the strong, weak, and electromagnetic forces were indistinguishable. At some point as things cooled off, the symmetry between these forces broke and the three forces went their separate ways to become the three very different forces that, along with gravity, operate in our universe.

Even today, at the microscopic scale standard symmetries are usually present between antimatter and matter (charge-conjugation invariance or “C-symmetry") and between the two directions of time (time-reversal invariance or “T-symmetry"). Matter and antimatter interactions are subject to the same forces and look the same. Fundamental interactions look the same when run forward or backwards in time.

However, we know that in the early universe some unknown processes broke the C-symmetry and slightly favored the production of matter over antimatter, leading to an excess of matter over antimatter of about one part per billion. As the universe evolved and cooled and after almost all of the matter-antimatter annihilation was over, we were left with the surviving matter residue: lots of protons and electrons and almost no antiprotons and positrons. That broken C-symmetry of the early universe has made possible our matter-based world, and indeed our very existence.

Further, despite the time-reversal invariance or T-symmetry of most of the fundamental interactions at the microscopic scale, our universe presents us with a built-in “arrow of time” that is quite obvious but has unknown origins. Think about a movie that can be run either forward or backwards showing some event. If the movie shows the collision and interactions of fundamental particles, in almost all cases (see below) there are no clues as to whether the movie was running forwards or backwards. But think of a movie showing some macroscopic event, an egg hitting the floor or a high dive into a swimming pool. The backward-running version would be quite obvious, and would seem unphysical and contrary to experience. Eggs do not gather their liquid parts, assemble a shell around them, and leap upward. Water waves do not converge in a swimming pool to propel a diver up in the air. The arrow of time, at the psychological level, is also obvious. We can remember the past but not the future. We can take actions that can change the future but not the past. The broken T-symmetry of the macroscopic world also makes our existence possible. Evolution cannot happen in a time-symmetric world.

In addition to these symmetries applying to charge and time, there is a third symmetry, the symmetry of space. Just as T-symmetry is concerned with the reversal of the time direction, parity invariance or “P-symmetry” is concerned with phenomena that may change or appear different when the three space coordinate axes are reversed. When you view an object in a mirror, the image you see has a reversed coordinate axis in the direction perpendicular to the plane of the mirror. This is roughly equivalent to reversing all three spatial directions. In both cases the letters on a page are reversed, clockwise rotations become counterclockwise, and right-handed screw threads become left-handed screw threads.

Until the 1950s, all physicists assumed that parity was a good symmetry, that all physical processes looked the same in mirror image as they did when viewed directly. Then the first blow to symmetry preservation arrived. It was discovered that for the weak interaction, the physical force that can change neutrons to protons or vice versa in the radioactive beta-decay process, there was a massive violation of P-symmetry or parity invariance. Spin-oriented nuclei emitted electrons in a preferred direction. Neutrinos are always emitted with a left-handed (clockwise) spin if viewed from the front. One could watch a movie of a beta decay process and tell whether or not the images had been mirror-reversed. For the weak force, nature had an intrinsic “handedness."

It was noted in studying violations of P-symmetry, however, that this lack of mirror symmetry was reversed for beta-decaying systems involving the emission of antimatter positrons instead of matter electrons. Antineutrinos are always emitted with a right-handed (counterclockwise) spin if viewed from the front. Therefore, it was assumed that even if P-symmetry was violated, CP-symmetry, involving simultaneously reversing the space axes and converting matter to antimatter, was preserved. There is a general theorem in theoretical physics that CPT-symmetry, invariance under simultaneous reversal of the space and time directions and the swapping of matter and antimatter, must always be preserved for very fundamental reasons. Therefore, breaking CP-symmetry is equivalent to breaking time reversal invariance or T-symmetry. For a time it was believed that this symmetry, at least, was preserved at the fundamental level.

The second blow to symmetry preservation arrived in 1964, when Val Fitch and Jim Cronin discovered a violation of CP-symmetry in the decays of neutral K mesons (which are quark-antiquark combinations involving a strange quark) into pi mesons. This is equivalent to finding a preferred time direction in the microscopic world. The movie of a K meson decay process would have an observable change in if it were running backwards instead of forward. Recent studies of processes involving B mesons (quark-antiquark combinations involving a bottom quark) have shown similar CP-symmetry violations.

The CP violations that have been observed in these systems are, however, too weak to explain matter dominance. While hinting at a preference for matter over antimatter, they are not strong enough to have produced the part per billion dominance of matter over antimatter in the early universe. The nature of the forces that produced that matter dominance remains as one of the major unsolved mysteries of physics.

Fortunately, we now have a way of re-creating the conditions of the early universe in the laboratory, using the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider (RHIC) facility at Brookhaven National Laboratory. The STAR detector is one of the two major detectors at RHIC. Since its inception in the early 1990s I have been a member of the STAR Collaboration, the group that built and operates the detector. STAR is a large time-projection chamber detector placed inside a 0.5 tesla magnetic solenoid located at the six o'clock position in the RHIC collider ring.

The RHIC facility brings gold (and lighter) nuclei into collision at energies of up to 200 GeV per nucleon, producing a relativistic fireball that replicates conditions in the early universe at about one microsecond after the Big Bang. The temperatures reached in RHIC collisions are several trillion degrees Celsius, about 250,000 times hotter than the central temperature of our Sun. At such temperatures, a strongly-interacting phase of nuclear matter, a quark-gluon plasma, is expected. Further, the highly charged nuclei passing each other in RHIC collisions with a slight offset can produce extremely intense magnetic fields that can reach strengths of up to about 1015 tesla. These conditions make it possible to look for possible symmetry breaking in strong interactions operating in collisions in this new and unprecedented environment.

A new analysis of STAR data may provide a needed clue into the mysteries of fundamental symmetries and their breaking in the early universe. There are experimental and theoretical reasons for expecting that any “global” or overall breaking of P-symmetry in strong interactions should be extremely small, less than one part on 1010, at all energies. However, several theorists have suggested that in small regions of space-time in dense systems at high temperatures, the fields produced by gluons can create “local” violations of the P, PC, and T symmetries. The theory suggests that in these localized regions, particles of the same electric charge should be preferentially emitted in the direction of the local magnetic field and either parallel or anti-parallel to it, thereby producing a symmetry violation.

STAR has studied collisions between gold nuclei and between copper nuclei at collision energies of 200 GeV per nucleon. At this collision energy, the two nuclei are heading toward each other at 99.9957% of the speed of light or only 4.32 parts in 100,000 below light speed. Not all such collisions are head-on, but one can distinguish the offset or “centrality” of the colliding systems by counting the number of neutrons that were non-participants and went straight ahead after the collision. In this way, the collisions can be broken up into eight centrality groups ranging from head-on collisions to near misses. In offset collisions there is a tendency for there to be more particles produced in the “reaction plane,” which includes the beam and the collision offset, than in the direction perpendicular to it. Since thousands of particles are produced in a typical RHIC collision, finding the preferred emission plane gives a good estimate of the reaction plane of each collision, and each particle can be characterized in terms of the angle perpendicular to the beam that it makes with the reaction plane.

Because collision events have randomly oriented reaction planes and magnetic field directions, most of the potentially observable effects of a hypothetical local parity violation are averaged out. However, the STAR Collaboration has looked for an event-by-event signal in the form of two-particle correlations between the particle emission angles with respect to the reaction plane of particles of the same sign of electric charge. To eliminate issues of how accurately the reaction plane was determined, they have moved to three-particle correlations that replace the reaction plane angle with the emission angle of all the other particles observed in the collision.

The results show an unambiguous correlation in the emission of pairs of particles of the same electric charge. There is no similar correlation between pairs of particles with opposite electric charge. The collisions studied prefer to emit same-charge particles in the same direction, which is a strong indication of a local violation of P-symmetry or parity. The effect is present in both gold-gold and copper-copper collisions but stronger in the latter, and it is strongest when the collision offset is about half a nuclear diameter. Theoretical collision calculations that do not include any expectation of local parity violations predict only weak correlations having the opposite sign from those observed, and predict no difference in the correlations of same-charge and opposite charge particle pairs. Thus, there is good evidence that local parity violations occur in RHIC collisions.

As mentioned above, the theory that stimulated the STAR investigation of parity violations also suggested that there should be local violations of CP symmetry created by the high-temperature gluon fields in the environment of RHIC collisions and in the conditions of the early universe. Can this be the missing key to understanding the dominance of matter over antimatter in our universe?

Perhaps. The sign of the possible local CP violations at STAR appears to be in the wrong direction and cannot, if taken at face value, explain the matter-dominance of the universe. However, there are many questions raised by the initial observation that remain to be answered, and these should provide new insights into how such local symmetry violations occur, and into their implications for the universe as a whole. It is expected that the STAR results will checked by other experiments, will be extended to lower energies at RHIC and to higher energies at the LHC, and will trigger more theoretical activity on the issues of local symmetry breaking.

We may be on the verge of answering one of the major questions about the nature of our universe: why is there more matter than antimatter? Watch this column for further results.

Copyright © 2010 John G. Cramer

AV Columns Online: Electronic reprints of over 150 “The Alternate View” columns by John G. Cramer, previously published in Analog, are available online at: www.npl. washington.edu/av.

STAR Parity-Violation Results: R. I. Abelev, et al, “Observation of charge-dependent azimuthal correlations and possible strong parity violations in heavy ion collisions,” arXiv preprint 0909.1717v1 [nucl-ex]. (See also www.bnl.gov/rhic/)

Theory of Local Symmetry breaking:

D. E. Kharzeev “Parity violation in hot QCD: why it can happen, and how to look for it,” Physics Letters B633, 260-264 (2006), arXiv preprint 0406125 [hep-ph].

D. E. Kharzeev, L. D. McLerran, and H. J. Warringa, “The effects of topological charge change in heavy ion collisions: ‘Event by event P and CP violation',” Nucl.Phys. A803, 227-253 (2008), arXiv preprint 0711.0950 [hep-ph].

There are standard protocols for job-hunting, but things don't always work that way. . . .

Reflections from neon and LEDon lights washed across the rain-soaked night streets like smears of wet paint. They looked like they might be scribing out encrypted messages in obscure calligraphies, useful information there for the deciphering. Maybe even directions out of my present difficulties.

There was no time to stop and study such phenomena. A box was closing around me, iron sides grinding inexorably closer.

I knew this part of the city pretty well, most of the secret places and hidden sanctuaries. But so did those who were on my ass and after my head. The NYPD had exerted varying degrees of control over this patch of turf since the days of horse-drawn paddy wagons, and their badge-bearing minions knew it the way a hunter knows the patch of woods just outside his back door. The Chrome Lords lacked the law's sweeping history, but easily matched the cops in street-nav, numbers of troops, and weapons. Two sides, polar opposites, closing in with the same objective: to find and crush what was trapped between them.

That would be me: Giorgio Lennon Phale. Posto handle: Glyph. Age: twenty-seven. Employment record: spotty. Legal history: problematic. Prospects: not to be envied.

Does the anvil cooperate with the hammer?

That was a question worth a wordup in any number of places, but I didn't have time to put it out. My career as a posto would have to stay on hold until the time—if I lived to see it—that I wasn't caught between the hammer of the Chrome Lords and the anvil of the police.

As a posto I'm an enthusiastic malcontent who mixes street art, graffiti, sloganeering, muckraking, ad-jacking, and the politics of outrage as a vocation. In other words, a dedicated semi-pro troublemaker. I'd made myself a whole pile of it this time. My mentor, old Slippery Jone, Mistress of the Subversive Koan, always said that if they're not trying to find you to buy you off or work you over, then you're not trying hard enough. Pride points for success, except that I'd managed to piss off both sides of an issue badly enough that both wanted me bagged and slabbed.

If this was success, then receding back into relative obscurity was beginning to have a nice ring to it.

I was crouched low, peering around the corner of a building and down a cross street, wishing I had Deacon Recon out and scouting for me. A spotter of his caliber might have helped make surviving the night undamaged something more than a vaguely theoretical possibility. But the cops had twanged and tanked my phone, so calls for help—other than pointless screaming—were not an option.

I'd crammed myself into a lovely bit of shadow. Being brownish of skin and inclined toward nightside sartorial style helped me blend in instead of standing out like an albino dressed in sequins, and being not particularly tall or wide meant I made a smaller target.

Around the corner, half a block ahead, two street beasts styled up in enough studded leather to wrap a cab stood picket, gleaming chromed clubs in hard, tattooed fists. The idle palm-slap of metal against flesh was intimidating in its suggestion of ready violence, but actually kind of helpful in the way it broadcast their location.

I dug into one particular pocket of the vest under my soggy coat. A familiar, sweetly illegal shape filled my hand: my dummystick. I pulled it out and found the controls I wanted by touch alone. Once it was set, I pointed it around the corner and fingered the trigger.

An invisible beam of sonic and electromagnetic waves leapt out to tickle and override the spielbox in front of a used clothing store. Instead of calling out to past and potential customers passing by, the dummied spielbox blared out a purposefully snotty cry of, "Hey! Copsucker!"

The shaven heads of the streetbeasts rotated like turrets, tracking the jibe. I swung the dummystick toward another storefront, prodding that one's spielbox to blare, "Over here, copsucker!" Shrill, mocking laughter followed that taunt.

A diversion is a terrible thing to waste. I was already on the move, the sound of my sneakers splashing through the puddles masked by the dummied store. I was halfway across the street and thinking I was going to make it when an NYPD street spook suddenly materialized from a dark doorway. The cop's form seemed to shimmer into existence as his—no, check that—her bulletproof nanocamo changed into uniform blue. It was when her hood went transparent, revealing an unsmiling woman with black skin and spiked yellow hair, that I nailed down her gender, and recognized her as the same cop who'd already popped up twice before on the edge of my search for safety.

Her regulation stunwand was pointed in my direction. That wand is related to my dummystick the same way a Glock is related to a Nerf pistol; mine could tickle, hers could deliver a knockout punch that would leave me pants-peed and drooling.

I jinked left and low, aware of a third element entering the equation: a delivery truck rumbling up the street toward me, and maybe offering a ticket out of my situational roach motel.

The copette let out a cry of "Halt!" in a voice cranked up to ear-bleed level by her comm unit. The official rule was warn first, shoot second, and what a jackpot, this finestette was actually following it.

Halting was the least appetizing option in a gutter-sludge assortment. The order to halt caught the attention of the Chrome Lords. Shaved heads turned. Dull eyes fixed on me, brightening at the sight of prey. They started toward me, the steel cleats of their boots clacking on the wet asphalt.

They didn't seem aware of the cop, probably because their small, drug-addled reptile brains were unable to process more than one input at a time. But I saw the cop take notice of them, forcing her to split her attention.

The truck was almost on top of me then, a long blast of its horn proclaiming the driver's warning that there would be no slowing or swerving for anything, least of all some scraggle-ass human speed bump. Not with cargojacking a very popular career path in the big bad city.

I stepped back like an experienced taxiodor, the blunt steel bumper of the truck bulling through the space I'd occupied just a second before. Then, calling on my inner ninja monkey, planted my feet and leapt, grabbing hold of the side of the truck body.

Although not going that fast, it was still trucking along at a sufficient clip to make it all I could do to hang on. But desperation can be an almost magical magnetic force, and I kept my ride.

The truck left the cop behind and swept past the two Chrome Lords. I loosened one hand long enough to give them a proper one-fingered wave good-bye.

My feeling of triumph proved to have the lifespan of a single crystal flake in a hot crack pipe. The truck's horn let out an angry blat. I looked forward, meeting the driver's gaze in the rear-view mirror.

The driver showed me a dough-faced, stubble-jowled scowl, making a motion that was easily enough translated: Get the fuck offa my truck!

I beamed him my most winning smile, loosening a hand to hold up five fingers, the biggest number I could manage. Five miles. Five minutes. Five blocks. Five fill in the blanks, that's all I ask.

For just a moment it seemed like my winning ways and obvious charm had won out. The man did smile.

The bad news was his smile was a prelude to reaching for the big red gitback button on the truck's dash.

I'd spent enough teenage time boardhiking to know what the gitback was for and what it would do. The driver held his hand poised over it, grin widening crazily.

Please don't, I begged, shaking my head.

The hand inched closer, and when it was just the thickness of a buck soyburger—sans bun—over the button, I knew I was going to have to jump.

I made the sad puppy eyes. Couldn't you at least slow down a bit? I tried to beam the message to the driver, a simple, heartfelt plea for a watered-down act of kindness.

The biodiesel engine snorted and roared as the driver laughed and floored it.

Options gone, I pushed off, turning around and bracing for impact, eyes sweeping across the blurry asphalt like I might be able to locate a chunk that happened to be soft as a mattress. As I jumped, the driver, out of sheer dickness, whacked the gitback. Crackling snakes of static electricity discharged all across the outside of the truck, a few questing heads managing to bite me in the ass.

I hit hard, but better than I could have ever hoped, worn sneakers skidding across the wet and oily blacktop like skis on fresh-packed powder, the sort of slick bit you'd only ever see in an old Jackie Chan chopp'emup.

I laughed out loud as I slid to a stop, feeling like a total action hero, the couple of burnt spots on my butt hardly counting in the cosmic order of how badly such a dismount could have gone. I'd gained almost three blocks thanks to the hitch, leaving the two stomp-booted Chrome Lords way behind. The yellow-haired cop in the spook suit was probably still somewhere back behind them, blocked from pursuit by five hundred pounds of slow, mean meat.

My happy dance got knee-capped when three more members of the gang boiled out of an alley half a block away. As the truck sound lessened I realized I was hearing sirens coming from what sounded like every direction.

I took a deep breath and took off.

Sometimes life is like an arcade game where you get just one token, and if you lose, you die.

That would make a great wordup, but I was beginning to think my days of stepping on power toes as a posto had reached toe tag city. There were Chrome Lords everywhere, and where they weren't, the gaps were plugged with cops. That yellow-haired spook-suited finestette seemed to be everywhere, blocking every move I made.

If the gang got me I'd be stomped so badly I'd fit in a pizza box with room left over for extra toppings. If the cops got me I'd be looking at a probable resisting-arrest beating, a likely holding cell rendezvous with the sort of cell troll who would regard his tender new roomie as a tasty bedtime snack, and a guaranteed verdict of being guilty of something. The longer I eluded my pursuers the more I was torquing them off, and at this point surrender was some flavor of suicide.

My bag of tricks and options was empty. My utterly unplanned pinball through the back streets had brought me to the edge of a Bug Trap zone, and that trap was beginning to look like my only available escape route.

The Bug Traps had a lot to do with the way America—and for that matter, the rest of the world—was right then. We'd worked our way out of a pretty bad stretch when everything that wasn't in the toilet was teetering on the rim, into something like peace and stability. Some wars ended. Terrorism was getting policed into the margins. The economy had started chugging along. Actual steps were being taken to deal with the rapidly degenerating environment.

Then the Bug Traps appeared. Overnight, and out of nowhere.

What they were was no secret. Messages began appearing on various media outlets, slick and jam-proof off-world infomercials announcing the SETI grand prize. Members of an alien race who called themselves the B'hlug had come to our solar system and taken up residence on Venus, that planet chosen because we didn't seem to be using it, and it was comfortably out of bomb range. The B'hlug declared themselves a peaceful and benevolent race, looking forward to having some earthlings come on out to check out the very nice place they had built for us so we could all get to know each other better.

To facilitate this process, humans being comparatively backward in the space travel game, white cylinders about the size of a UPS truck stood on end began appearing all over the world. Want to visit us on sunny Venus? Just step into one of these transport booths and leave the teleporting to us.

The rational planetary demographic was tickled, amused, and intrigued by this invitation and its meaning. We were not alone, and the other guys sounded kind of interesting.

Of course those level heads are rarely in charge, or get to stay in control when what the paranoidocracy decrees to be the shit hits what they define as the fan. This reactionary xenophobic fringe went full-out foam-mouthed, bug-eyed, howling batshit. Never ones to scruple at such charming niceties as logic, fairness, intellectual honesty, or any of the other stains they wanted washed out of their concept of a proper society, they and their darlings immediately began seizing power, blasting themselves upward on a blaring cacophony of shrieking propaganda, gibbering hysteria, and extravagant threats calculated to make any fence-sitters on the alien issue stain their shorts and fall off on their side.

The New Order formed, attacks were immediately launched on what the mouthpieces of the new regime called the Bug Traps.

They set new low water marks for failure. Various attempts to remove or destroy the transport booths got precisely nowhere. Armies—America's and those on foreign soil—tried to break in so they could go kick the evil ETs off “our” planet, which meant Venus. They might as well have declared war on gravity. One heavily decorated general with a history of ending wars was able to go into a Bug Trap. A week later a two-word message from him appeared in the Oval Office: I resign. Over in the Middle East, where some denizens take their backlash against outsiders seriously, a group of fundamentalist mullahs with a typically weak grasp of science and reality managed to incite a group of fanatics into nuking one.

At the conclusion of this Elmer Fudd fatwa, sitting in the giant crater surrounded by glassified sand was the portal, barely smudged and fully functional.

I wasn't sure what I thought about the aliens. The government line was so luridly cartoonish it had to be a lie, meaning the Bugs were probably not the slavering baby-eaters and virgin-defilers certain fact-impaired media outlets insisted they were, even without a single chewed baby or weepy deflowered virgin to back up their recitations of official talking points.

Walking into a Bug Trap and seeing what happened next had never been something I'd planned on trying. Not so much from lack of curiosity but because there were too many causes and issues to posto for right where I was. Big Brother needed snotty little brother kicking him in the ankles every chance possible. My focus and industry had of course led to my present situation. So much for the virtues of a solid work ethic.

"There he is!" A rising clatter and rumble of boots followed the shout. Decision made: Hello Venus, good-bye Earth.

I bolted for the police barricade around the Bug Trap.

Warnings blared, triggered by proximity sensors. "Warning! This is a Prohibited Area! Anyone approaching the alien artifact is subject to severe penalties!"

I considered myself duly warned as I hurdled the concrete barricade. I was halfway across the open area between it and the Bug Trap when the first gunshot sounded, a round cracking off the ground just in front of me. I focused on the black door-shaped area on the face of the trap, trying to will myself there. I knew it wasn't the sort of door you'd find in a house or a store, but some sort of exotic field. Certain people were allowed to pass through, others were rejected. Soldiers, suicide bombers, sociopaths, and fundamentalists might as well try to walk through a brick wall.

Would I, a moderately outlaw, rather subversive, more or less dedicated troublemaker be on the alien A List? If not, I was screwed.

Another bullet passed by my head, so close I could hear it zip by. The spike of relief I felt at being missed snapped off when something slammed into me from behind.

I went down, arms flapping as if I could fly instead of fall. I hit hard, desperately trying to gain ground in a spastic scrabble. Rubber bullet, I mentally chanted. I hope that was a cop firing rubber bullets.

There was a wide white apron around the Bug Trap. Supposedly when you reached that you came under Bug protection. It was two body lengths away, the Trap itself thirty feet beyond. I writhed toward this promised safety like a Tazed caterpillar, tensed against another shot.

A prickling sensation washed over me as I crawled onto the smooth white stuff surrounding the trap, and for a second I was afraid I was feeling my soul splitting from my body like a banana squeezed from its peel.

"You are safe now," intoned a voice from someplace above me. Was I hearing angels? I didn't hear harps.

This was followed by a barrage of gunfire. I cowered with my hands over my head—like that could help. Amazingly enough, not a single bullet reached me.

When a second fusillade began, urged on by a lot of cursing, and still nothing was reaching me, I had to twist myself around and look.

A dozen Chrome Lords were at the barricade, armed with everything from handguns to full auto drive-bys. When they saw their quarry—me—staring at them they went nuts, doing their best to blow enough holes in me to give them a clear view of the Bug Trap behind me. The bullets flashed into sparks as they hit an invisible wall rising up from the edge of the white apron. The aliens had to be protecting me. That was nice of them.

But it was one shot too late. There was blood on the smooth white ground under me. It was soaking the front of my clothes. There was quite a bit of it. As if my brain had been waiting for the proper visual cue before reacting, pain blasted through me. I moaned as the world began to spin.

No other option than to continue on. I tried to shove back the vertigo. Getting to my feet took a tremendous effort, and once up I wavered, jelly-legged and woozy.

More yelling erupted at the barricade, contradictory demands to come back and to go let the Bugs eat my ass. A police drone swooped in, belly-mounted spot lighting me up. Speakers blared commands to Halt! and Back away from the artifact right now!

A movie zombie shamble got me to the doorway. I turned back for one last look. A couple dozen screaming and cursing Chrome Lords now ringed the barricade. Two NYPD drones buzzed angrily overhead. The copette in the spook suit watched impassively from a nearby rooftop.

I gave it all the finger, got myself turned around, and more fell than stepped into the Bug Trap.

My first impression was of whiteness. Absolute and unrelieved whiteness.

Now I was standing at the bottom of a vast snow-white bowl, the sides curving up and away from me in some distance too ill-defined to measure by eye, seeming to merge with a white ceiling far above. I flashed on the image of a spider at the bottom of a bathtub in an all-white bathroom. I was seeing something similar to what it might see, only with fewer eyes and no particular urge to snack on flies.

And about the same clue quotient as to where I was, and what it all meant.

Then I noticed something strange and wonderful.

I wasn't in pain anymore. In fact, other than being a bit weirded out, I felt pretty damn good. I checked myself over. The bullet wound was gone. A ragged hole went through my shirt, vest, and coat where the decidedly non-rubber bullet had passed through me, but there was no hole in my hide, and all the blood was gone. Moreover, my clothes were dry. Even my socks and sneakers.

A quick further personal inventory told me that all my tools and toys were still with me. I even had my phone, though I had a funny feeling that calling for takeout Chinese might just be pointless.

I pulled out the phone anyway and almost placed a call to Jimmy's Noodle Kaboodle. Two things stopped me: Was this a chicken or shrimp situation? I wasn't sure. Besides, there had to be a smarter move than that.

But what? I'd been presumably transported to Venus and given some first-rate medical treatment. The place I'd ended up didn't look anything like the alleged probe pictures the government spread around to prove the planet was such a hellish place only monsters could live there. Was I supposed to walk around and start exploring, like in a game? Stay put and wait for a tour guide—or the ET Emeril who would be preparing me for dinner? At least I wasn't a baby or a virgin.

I was starting to put my phone back in my pocket when it began playing the theme song from Close Encounters. Not a song I'd ever loaded in it.

I put the phone to my ear. Nervously. “Hello?"

"Good day, Giorgio Lennon Phale, most commonly and familiarly known as Glyph. Welcome to Venus."

"Uh, thanks,” I said. The voice on the other end sounded human, with the smooth, educated, weighty diction you'd hear on a PBS documentary.

"You're entirely welcome. This is a courtesy call to let you know that a facilitator will be joining you shortly. We do this because not everyone reacts well to surprise."

"Consider me warned,” I said. My next words were chosen carefully, like half-price California rolls at a downscale sushi joint with giant cockroaches for wait staff. “Will this facilitator be, ah, human?"

"Does that matter, Glyph?"

"I guess not.” Except it might. People on Earth still had no idea what Bugs looked like. All we had ever been shown were obviously artificial avatars. The question had been posed many times: Why can't we see you? The answer was always the same: You can. Come on out and take a look. I had always figured this was some sort of curiosity test, one I'd flunked up to now.

"Very good. Orientation will now begin."

"Which means?"

"It means we have a talk, and get to know one another,” said the same voice behind me.

I nearly dropped my phone, lurching around toward the source of the voice.

Where there had been an expanse of eggshell nothingness, there was now a white desk. A white straight-back chair faced the desk. And behind the desk was . . .

. . . Gumby?

"Have a seat,” Gumby said in that voice that made me expect a pledge break or an explanation of the sexual habits of penguins.

"Sure. Thanks.” I shuffled toward the chair, keeping a wary eye on the entity across the desk.

"Not too scary looking, am I?” Gumby said.

"Not really,” I replied, screwing a smile on my face and struggling to look and act cool. The aliens look like Gumby?

"Hardly any resemblance to the creatures from Alien one through thirteen, is there?"

That earned a nervous laugh. “Not much at all. You've really seen those movies?"

Gumby nodded. “Sure. We've studied a whole bunch of your art and media. A personal favorite among my kind, alien-wise, are the invaders from Mars Attacks!"

I was amazed to find myself discussing classic movies with a person from another planet. That amazement was nothing compared to what I felt when Gumby suddenly sort of whirled and turned into one of the fishbowl-helmeted, bare-brained aliens from the Tim Burton flick.

"Ah,” I said, trying to pretend there hadn't been anything the slightest bit freaky about what I'd just seen—and was seeing. I had to reach hard for a snappy comeback. “Uh, so have you banned Slim Whitman just to be on the safe side?"

The alien made a soft popping sound. “We haven't banned him, but we're not big fans. We much prefer Roy Orbison.” The creature sat forward, elbows on the desk. “I've let myself get sidetracked, Glyph. Pardon me for not introducing myself. My name is Orchid."

"You have a human name?"

"That's the closest English equivalent to my real name."

"The flower or the color?"

"Both.” The alien whirled again. It was like every molecule making it up unmoored itself, turned white, played super high-speed Musical Chairs with its fellow molecules, then settled into a new shape when the music ended.

Now I was staring at Princess Leia, complete with hair buns. In the white robe, not the brass bikini.

I didn't lose it and mostly managed to not stare at Leia's tits. “So are you a, you know, male or female?"

More of that popping sound. “Why? Are you going to hit on me, Glyph?” Orchid/Leia batted her eyes at me coyly.

That brought me up short. “No, I just—” I got it then. “You're laughing, right? With that,” I mimicked the sound. “Popping noise."

"Yes, and please forgive me. I am not laughing at you."

I shrugged. “Wouldn't matter if you were. Is laughing, um, universal?"

Leia/Orchid nodded approvingly. “Among organisms who possess the spark of sentience, yes."

"So is that why you guys came here? To see if we know any good jokes?” An idea so absurd it might just be possible.

Orchid laughed again. “Who knows, maybe we did.” Another whirl, and when it ended I was facing Mr. Spock. Middle-late period, from the second movie. “Now, your coming here was not exactly voluntary, was it?"

"Not exactly,” I admitted uneasily. Now for hard questions.

"You were being pursued by both a gang and the police, correct?"

"Yeah."

One Spock eyebrow rose. “You seem to be something of a troublemaker. This was not your first brush with the police, or anywhere near the first time your actions have put you in danger, or at loggerheads with society."

No point in denying it. “I've had people take the things I said and did the wrong way."

"Will you make trouble here?"

"I don't know,” I said, answering honestly. “I mean, I owe you guys. You gave me a place to escape to and seemed to have fixed me up from getting shot. Thanks for that, by the way. If I wasn't here I might be dead. But . . ."

Orchid/Spock whirled into the Tommy Lee Jones character from Men In Black. He frowned forbiddingly. “But what, Glyph?"

How to explain the pressure that is always inside me? “The thing is, when I see or learn about something I think is wrong, I have to do something about it."

"By, among other acts, defacing public structures with various combinations of words and artwork."

I smiled sheepishly. “Some of them are so butt-ugly they're pretty much deface-proof."

A whirl and now the Terminator filled the space behind the desk, a grim expression on the parts of his face that didn't reveal metal. He said nothing, and that one red eye bored into my skull.

I managed to keep from cringing. This sort of thing always seemed to happen in job interviews too. Not the whirling thing, but somewhere along the line I would manage to scare or piss off my interviewer. Not a smart move in this case. There probably wasn't anything keeping Orchid from zapping me right back to the cops and Chrome Lords.

The silence stretched on long enough to become uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

"Well,” Orchid said at last, whirling into Gandalf. “This has been interesting and educational."

"For me, too,” I said with a weak smile, wanting to get back on Orchid's good side. Not sucking up, just making nice.

"Good. Now please stand up."

I did as I was asked, trying to hold on to that smile.

"Please turn around."

I felt a spasm of panic. “You're not going to cap me, are you?"

"We don't cap people,” Gandalf said. “At least not in the manner you're talking about. Now turn around."

Hoping Gandalf/Orchid didn't turn me into a toad, I obeyed. Now there was a white wall just a few feet behind me. In the wall were two matte black doors like the one that had brought me to Venus. One was marked with a big red X, the other was unmarked.

"You will see similar doors when you join your kind in the Hoop,” Orchid said. “The door with the X will always lead to the same place. Back to your world, and the gate you used to come here. Though you can, by intention, instead end up at the gate nearest the one that brought you out. That's a provision for those in your situation, ones who might be facing a less than friendly homecoming. Any questions?"

I had head full. “Where does the other door lead?"

"Somewhere else."

I waited for more information. None came.

"That's it?” I turned to look at Orchid, seeing that he—or she—had whirled into the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Orchid shrugged, shedding straw. “That's it. You don't like where you are, go through a Mystery Door and end up someplace else."

"Someplace here on Venus."

Orchid/Scarecrow grinned and spread his hands. “Probably."

"You're not giving me much to go on."

"What do you want, a yellow brick road?"

I examined the doors doubtfully. “So I'm supposed to just walk through and hope for the best?"

No answer.

The desk was gone. Orchid was gone. The only things left to prove any of it had been real were a few stray pieces of straw. As I watched they sank into the white floor and disappeared.

I faced the doors again. Took a deep breath and walked through the unmarked door to wherever.

I had no idea what to expect when I went through that alien doorway. All I could do was brace for the worst, as if ducking into a bar notable for the multiple chalked body outlines on the sidewalk out front.

Still, that didn't quite prepare me for stepping out into the middle of a grassy field and having a red-faced demon coming straight at me, screaming bloody murder and waving a sword.

I let out a yell—a glass-cracking shriek, actually—and dodged to the side, tripping over my feet, going down and eating turf.

The demon swept past me, slamming into another demon, this one with a horrible blue face. As they went at each other with their swords I realized that they were people in bamboo armor, wearing masks, and wielding rattan swords. I'd landed in the middle of a small but frenzied battle, over two dozen of the demons whirling and screaming and trading blows.

"What the fu—” I began, swallowing the rest of my query and almost my tongue at the sound of a huge gong. The battling demons disengaged and stepped back, bowing formally to each other.

The demon warrior who had nearly run me over strode back to where I sprawled. Offered a gloved hand.

After a moment I took it, letting the demon help me to my feet. “Thanks,” I mumbled. As I dusted off my clothes the demon pulled off his bamboo helmet, dropped it to the ground, and pulled off his mask.

I took a step back, not so much reality-slapped that the warrior was a woman, but at the face behind the mask. Her face, like mine, was the creamed coffee color of mixed race, except in the places where it was the pink of scar tissue. The scars mapped out the left side of her face in thin twisting forks and dead ends, several of them disappearing under the black patch covering one eye. Her hair was a close-cropped brown burr broken by more scarring.

"Are you all right?” she asked. “Didn't break anything when you fell?"

I shook my head, staring even more now. “Uh, no."

Her smile turned fierce and faintly mocking. “Not used to seeing anyone as pretty as me?” Her voice was soft, but held a dangerous edge, like velvet wrapped around a straight razor.

I lost my battle with a second growing impulse and started to giggle. “It's, I mean, you look—” Giggling dissolved into helpless laughter.

The woman's face went smooth and still, all warmth frozen away.

I held up my hands, struggling to get a handle on myself. “Sorry,” I gasped. “It's just that—” I wheezed for breath. “It's just that you look like a really badly dubbed movie."

Her expression thawed. “Oh, that.” Her voice began to synch with the movements of her mouth. “Better? I was speaking Chinese—bad Mandarin to be exact—until you popped up. Our hosts provide the translation."

"Hosts? You mean the Bugs?"

Her gaze was cool, and more than a little intimidating. Then she gave a slight shake of her head, as if deciding to let something go, turning her back to me. “Help me get this stuff off, will you?"

There were wooden clasps holding the back of the armor shut. I started working on them. All around us the other warriors were helping each other shed their armor. “So what was the battle about?” I asked.

"Exercise. Blowing off steam. Fun."

It hadn't looked like fun to me. “The Bugs don't mind you fighting wars?"

"This wasn't a war, just violent choreography. Dance for non-sissies."

Which presumably meant me, who had somehow ended up playing lady in waiting. I got the last clasp loose, stepped back. “There you go.” She shucked off the armored top, began removing the stuff protecting her legs. When she turned back to face me I was staring again.

I pegged her age at somewhere in her late thirties. Her body was that of an athlete, trim and muscular. In great shape. Except that her left arm beyond her elbow was clearly artificial, one of the newer generation of smart prosthetics. Her left leg was also tan nanolastic from the knee on down. The tight black tee and baggy gray shorts she wore did nothing to hide any of that, or more scars, mostly on her left side. On her feet, both of them, were sturdy hiking boots.

"You just out?” she said.

I tried to pretend I hadn't been gaping like an Iowa tourist in Times Square. “Uh, from Earth?"

She cocked her head quizzically. “Is there someplace else to come out from I should know about?"

"Any—” I shook my head. Managed an unconvincing smile. “Sorry. I'm still a little, you know, disoriented."

She smiled back as if she believed me, but her smile looked slightly forced and wore a shadowing of tiredness. Like I presented a problem she would have preferred to duck.

I felt like I should apologize—though I wasn't sure what for. Before I could think of something to say she clapped me on the shoulder, hard enough to make me stagger.

"Okay, kid, let's get your ass oriented. You got a name?"

"Glyph.” I bit back the urge to tell her not to call me kid.

"Posto handle?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Cute. You can call me Trub."

The door had dumped me in an open field surrounded by low vegetation on two sides, jungle on the others, grass underfoot, and the air clean and fresh. In the distance I could see several widely scattered clusters of low broad white cylinders, some with thatched roofs. People moved between the buildings. There were trees and birds and a gaggle of kids running around. It was like something out of a movie shot somewhere oriental and rural.

Except that the sky was white instead of blue, and it seemed to be only a mile overhead. Way off I could see curving white walls that swept up to become sky. Ahead and behind the world seemed to curve down and away, like now I was inside a terrarium under an overturned bathtub.

And it was warm, far warmer than it had been back in New York. But I was reluctant to take my coat off. Several of my things, and consequently several parts of my identity, were in its pockets. I felt a powerful need to hold on to that. The decidedly non-urban surroundings weren't in my comfort zone. When you feel out of place it helps to at least feel like you're ready to bug out at a moment's notice.

Several of the warriors had gone to hang their armor on wooden racks along one side of the field, then begun drifting away on a path leading into a cluster of heavier vegetation. Trub told me to follow her as she parked her own armor, then led us onto that same path. It wound through the trees as aimlessly as I felt tagging along, listening to Trub talk to one of the male warriors about some obscure technique used in their battle.

We emerged into another clearing. What looked like a mutant Tiki bar stood at one end, and there were wood and bamboo tables and chairs scattered about, several already in use.

Trub lifted an arm, catching the eye of the happily busy Japanese man behind the counter. She held up two fingers. He nodded and shouted, "Hai!"

She claimed an unoccupied table. “Take a load off, kid,” she said, dropping heavily into one chair. I sat down more cautiously, checking out the surroundings. I smelled hot grease and food, saw men and women gabbing as they ate and drank. So they had diners on Venus. I guessed that made sense.

A young Korean boy hustled over to our table, balancing an overloaded tray. Smiling shyly, he put down two big ceramic mugs and a leaf-covered bamboo platter heaped high with what looked like deep-fried rice balls. They smelled good enough to start my mouth watering, making me realize I hadn't eaten in hours.

"Thanks, Kim,” Trub said as the boy bowed, then hurried off to serve other customers. She pushed one of the mugs in front of me, keeping the other for herself.

"What is it?” I said, watching her take a slug and then peering into my mug.

Trub wiped her mouth with the back of her artificial hand. “Rice beer. Brewed right here in Rice City."

I took a cautious sip. It tasted weird, like a mix of ginger ale and sake. “Rice City is what, a village? I mean, be real, this doesn't look like much of a city."

This seemed to amuse Trub. “Oh, so you're in charge of defining what a city is?” She popped a rice ball in her mouth, her one good eye hooding in pleasure as she chewed.

"I just meant, you know, there aren't any big buildings. No concrete. Not that many people."

She swallowed, took another sip of beer. “Tell you what, kid. You're new here, so let me give you the basics. Venus 101. Then you can ask questions and I'll try to answer them. That work for you?"

I shrugged. “Sure. I guess.” I didn't like being treated like a gomer, but as far as this place was concerned, I was one.

"Then eat and listen. But watch for the red balls. Don't try them unless you got balls. Now, Venus is a planet. A globe. You know latitude from longitude?"

There were three kinds of rice balls, the size of doughnut holes, each with a different colored dot on it. Red, green, and black. “Doesn't everybody? Longitude lines run from pole to pole. Latitude is around the globe, like the equator."

"You got it. Now imagine two latitudinal lines, one per hemisphere, each one a few degrees away from the equator. With me so far?"

"I'm trying to keep up.” I picked out one of the red-marked rice balls. I had balls, after all.

"Now imagine those lines as actual artifacts, shaped like bicycle inner tubes or hula hoops. Each one a hollow torus about five klicks across and roughly 30,000 klicks in circumference."

I scowled at her. “Wait a minute, you're telling me each tube is, uh, around two miles across, and, um, nearly nineteen thousand miles long?” I popped the rice ball in my mouth, then froze mid-chew as nuclear heat exploded on my tongue.

Trub grinned. “More or less. Drink some beer. The reds are kinda spicy. Black and green are milder."

"No fuckin’ way,” I croaked, spitting the burning coal out before it could melt my teeth.

"Okay, somewhat milder."

"I mean nobody can make something that big."

"Our hosts can. Took them a week. We're in the northern Hoop; they've reserved the southern one for their own use. Our Hoop is broken into twelve hundred individual segments, each segment not quite sixteen miles long. That's plenty big enough for each segment to hold several different small communities. Rice City is bigger than most and kind of spread out, with a couple thousand citizens. There are three other towns in this segment, but Rice City is the largest. A lot of segments are still empty at this point. People tend to cluster, and a lot of them stay near the place where they first arrive."

I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around that. Rather than argue the improbability of an artifact as humongous as she was describing, and my argument would have been crippled by the fact that I obviously wasn't in Kansas anymore, I jumped on another point.

"By arrived you mean where they get put. Or dumped.” I'd sure been dumped.

Trub ate a couple more of the red marked rice balls, studying me thoughtfully as she chewed. Thoughtfully enough to make me antsy. That one good eye of hers had something of the security camera lens about it, like you're being watched as a shoplifter when you are only shopping. I tried to act unconcerned and sampled one of the black rice balls. It was pretty good. Spicy, but not insanely so.

"Placed is really the best way to describe it,” she said at last. “You see, our hosts are pretty damn good at reading affinity and intention."

I didn't like the sound of that. “You're saying they can read our minds?"

"Not really. They're just good at sensing the ways people lean, and what they might do and like. Why, is mind-reading a problem?"

I stared at her in disbelief. “You don't mind having aliens in your head?"

She laughed. “Let me tell you, after having a fist full of shrapnel in your skull, anything less hardly counts."

I shook my head, dissatisfied with her answer. And, truth be told, a little freaked. This was too much weirdness to scarf down at a single sitting. It was nearly as indigestible as one of those red rice balls.

"I can't believe any of this,” I said, then managed to damp down the shrill edge in my voice. “Giant tubes as gerbil runs for humans. Friendly brain-sucking. Sorting people like change or recyclables. I mean, if they're such hot shit, then why am I here in Crouching Tiger land with you?"

The one-eyed woman seemed more amused by my attitude than put off by it. She helped herself to a couple more rice balls, then drained her mug.

"Kind of a hard case, aren't you?"

"I'm not a chump,” I said stiffly.

"Good for you. So tell me, are you tough?"

I almost snapped back a glib answer, but looking at this woman who had survived such terrible injuries made me think twice.

"Tough enough, I guess,” I said at last. “I've spent ten years as a posto in New York."

"Good for you.” She stood up. “I'll be back in a minute. Eat a bit more. Finish your beer. You'll need it."

"For what?"

Instead of answering, she strolled toward the bar, detouring a couple times to trade complicated handshakes with fellow combatants. They all seemed to know and like her.

I glommed a handful of rice balls, picked out the dangerous ones and put them aside, then ate some of the ones left. As I munched I studied Trub. Being a guy, and so far unable to get any other sort of handle on her, I focused on her ass.

It was a fine example of that perennial favorite. Shapely but, I suspected, far firmer than average. There was a serious jock vibe in the way she moved, a centeredness and easy physicality that didn't seem the slightest bit hampered by her fake arm and leg, and one missing eye. In spite of the scars there was something off my normal charts hot about her.

It was a surprise to be getting dicksignal from a woman who had to be a decade older than me and looked like she'd lost a hatchet fight. I figured maybe it was my near death experience giving me a taste for Corpse Bride.

Much as I hated to admit it—even to myself—I was totally lost, stuck in a place where the turf was nothing like the kind I was used to and the rules weren't the ones I was used to bending. Trub seemed to be inviting me to tag along with her for a while. That offer had its attractions. In spite of her ball-busting attitude she was interesting, and even able to shake my spray can a bit. She seemed to know her way around.

Trub reached the Tiki bar counter and leaned against it, chatting with the Japanese man behind it. Having grown up in a part of the city with a substantial Asian population, I had no problem telling Japanese from Chinese, Korean from Vietnamese, Thai from Cambodian. Half the people around me were ethnically Chinese. Most of the rest were an Asian medley, except for two men whose tattooed faces marked them as Maori, and a scattering of whites.

All living in a village called Rice City. Put here on purpose? Why? I had serious issues with the concept of some higher power deciding where people would live, and who they would live with, stacking them like blocks of ghetto Lego. Though I had to admit that nobody I could see looked or acted like a prisoner or internee.

The man behind the counter passed Trub a battered leather and canvas bag. She slung the strap over her shoulder, bowed deeply toward him, then sauntered back over to where I waited.

I almost got up but didn't. Then wished I had as she stood there staring down at me, looking amused.

"You see something funny?” I said.

She shook her head. “No more than I see in a mirror."

"Riddles for dessert?"

"We're done eating. I've got places to go and things to do. You game for riding shotgun?"

"What sort of things have you got in mind?"

"Oh, this and that. The usual."

I knew I was being challenged. She was basically saying, Think you can keep up? And of course adding, kid.

I couldn't help be aware that the people at the tables around us were grinning and nudging each other like they all shared a joke. One in which I was surely the punch line. But it was too late to back down.

I stood up. Knocked back the dregs of my beer. “I got no other plans."

"Glad to hear it.” I noticed that she was wearing a plain white ring when she lifted her hand and touched the ring to her neck. A thin pearly disc about as big around as a donut appeared on her breastbone, just below the hollow of her throat. The disk clung there, shining softly.

"Break's over,” she said to no one in particular.

What sounded like heavily sampled classical music featuring alien instruments and a chorus singing in Martian came out of nowhere. Trub listened intently, nodding.

I realized that she was talking to the Bugs—or at least listening to them. Which seemed to mean that she had a direct line to them, and had just told them her break was over. That led to the conclusion that she was some sort of agent of the Bugs. Or maybe a collaborator. It might even be possible she was one herself, whirled up into banged-up girl form.

The space opera soundtrack ended.

"Check,” Trub said. She gave me the eye. “You ready, kid?"

"For what?"

"For whatever happens next."

"What's that mean?"

"You know Alice In Wonderland?"

"Sure."

"We're about to go for a cruise down the rabbit hole."

Before I could ask what that meant, she raised her voice and said, “Transport."

I jumped as a black doorway came out of nowhere in front of us, connected to nothing and hanging in the air like a black velvet sheet pinned to an invisible clothesline.

"Let's go,” Trub said, starting toward it.

"Where?” That came out as more of a plea than the demand I'd planned.

"I don't want to spoil the surprise."

I took a last look around, and with all eyes on me, followed her to and through the door.

We stepped through into a gloomy space lit by narrow shafts of light coming through the leaf-thatched lattice roof overhead. The air was even warmer than it had been in Rice City, and it carried a sweet, heavy scent, dark and mysterious.

I barely had time to take all that in before a linebacker-sized no-neck dressed in a loincloth and armed with an enormous wooden club came at me, snaggle teeth bared in what was definitely not a welcoming smile.

I let out a crack-voiced curse and stumbled backward, hoping the door was still behind me and would take me back to Rice City.

The door was gone. I fetched up against a wall. Suddenly Trub was there between me and the man with the club. He snarled and swung the weapon, grunting with effort, clearly intending to make a home run with her head.

She dodged the blow with a move that was pure kung-fu ballet in its grace and precision, at the same time burying her artificial hand in his bulging gut. The blow folded him over bug-eyed.

She stepped back lightly. The man dropped to his knees, clutching his belly and gagging.

"Don't get up,” she said mildly. “I know the way.” She glanced back at me. “Come on, let's go see Poppa Poppy."

When she said that I was finally able to place the smell: the beguiling reek of opium, a smell that occasionally wafted from the back rooms of certain cribs in one part of the city I haunted.

I followed her as she stepped around the guy she'd felled and toward a wide doorway leading deeper into the shadowy structure. Two more big men armed with clubs suddenly filled the opening, blocking our way.

Trub paused, looking them over like a cat offered a pair of tasty mice. “I'm going in to talk with your boss,” she said in the tone of voice someone might use telling a restaurant hostess that she had a lunch reservation. “You've got two choices. Either I go past you, or through you.” A smile that had more than a little crazy in it. “Doesn't much matter to me."

They checked out their compadre on the floor. He was still flopping and gasping like a walrus in need of the Heimlich Maneuver. One punch. The lady had a wicked left.

"We won't forget this, bitch,” the one on the left growled as he stepped aside.

Trub laughed. “And here I didn't think you people learned."

"We'll learn you," the other blustered, but he too moved back out of her way.

"This is your lucky day, kid,” Trub said without looking back. “You get to meet one of the biggest slimeballs in this stretch of the Hoop."

I wasn't sure I wanted to meet any slimeballs, figuring I already knew plenty of them. But staying out there with the two door-thugs wasn't that appealing an option either. They were already eyeing me like a safe, convenient outlet for their frustration.

"Why not?” I said, trailing behind as she pushed past the guards and through the doorway. It was even darker on the other side. The opium reek thickened.

As my eyes adjusted I was able to get a better look at our surroundings. We were in a large circular room with a conical ceiling. There were low pallets on either side of the door we'd just come through. Slumped figures filled some of these rude beds, puffing pipes or staring vacantly into dreamland. At the far side of the room was a raised dais piled high with cushions and pillows. An enormously fat man lolled atop them, tended by half a dozen young women and men, all naked. The fat man's hairy body glistened with sweat and oil, shining in the light of small braziers. A braided black beard grew from his broad face, and perched on his shaven head was a garland of bright red poppies.

He watched us approach with heavy-lidded junkie eyes, and if our arrival provoked any reaction at all, it was one of mild bemusement, like we were an especially interesting hallucination.

"To what do I owe this tremendous honor,” he said in a low, silky voice when we stood before him. The movements of his mouth didn't match the words I heard, and somehow I knew what I was hearing was being translated from Turkish.

Trub stood there gazing down at him. Her distaste showed in her tightened lips and the fixity of her stare. I had a feeling she was keeping a serious chunk of anger in check.

"You broke the rules,” she said at last.

"The rules," Poppa Poppy repeated. A shiver snaked along my spine at the way the man voiced that simple word. He made it sound like some tender and innocent thing ripe for defiling.

"That's right, you bloated toad, the rules. The buying and selling of children will not be tolerated."

I stared. This drugged-out blob was buying kids?

Poppa Poppy roused himself enough to lift one hand, lazily waving away Trub's accusation. “I am an honest merchant."

"You are a lucky merchant,” Trub answered sharply. “If it were up to me, you and your whole operation would be nothing more than a rancid grease spot."

A wide, toothy smile, smug and superior. “But it is not up to you, is it?"

Trub crossed her arms. Although outwardly composed, I was sure what she really wanted to do was vaporize the fat man, blasting him into deep-fried suet. “You think you understand the rules well enough to break them without earning any punishment. No surprise, your brain has been turned to dog shit. So one last time, let me explain something about the rules you refuse to get. Are you paying attention?"

A languid shrug. “I listen."

"Good. If I were to slaughter you and every one of your minions, burn this place to the ground, and put your head on a pole in the middle of the ashes, then I would have broken the rules."

"Yes, you would,” Poppa Poppy breathed with a smirk. “And the rules are so important to you."

"If I did that, I would be rebuked. Told to try to please be a little more low key next time, and asked to take down your head down because it was so butt ugly. That would be the extent of my punishment."

"You would not—"

"Shut up,” Trub snapped. “You have no idea what I might do when I'm pissed off. Have you heard the story of how I got this eye patch and lost this arm?” She held up her prosthetic.

"I have heard stories.” Poppa Poppy held out his hand. One of the young men passed him a loaded pipe. He studied it, then lifted it toward his lips. “Wild stories. Made to frighten the credulous."

Trub slapped the pipe out of his hand, moving so fast she was a blur. “Well, listen up. I'll give you the short version because you've smoked your brain too badly to have an attention span.” She paused to see if she had his undivided attention. She did. Had mine too.

"I was in Lebanon. There was a bomb. It went off. I lost an arm and a leg and an eye, not to mention some other odd bits. The bomber was a shithead, even by the standards of his kind. He snuck in to groove on his handiwork. When he turned me over I stabbed him in the throat with the shattered bones sticking out of my arm, dragged myself on top of him, and drowned the son of a bitch with my own blood."

This was related in a flat, passionless voice that seemed to drop the temperature on the room by fifty degrees. I believed every word she said. That hadn't been a brag or a scare story, but a stone cold recitation of history. I even remembered hearing the story from the news five or so years before. Trub was that woman.

Poppa Poppy believed her too. His color had gone bad, and fresh sweat covered his face. He managed a queasy, unctuous smile. “I assure you, there is no reason for violence."

"That's my call.” She turned to look at me. “See that curtain over there? Go through it. Bring back whatever you find behind it."

"You cannot intrude on my privacy like this,” Poppa Poppy protested as I moved to obey. I couldn't imagine not doing as she asked.

"Shut up. If I want any shit from you, I'll squeeze your head."

There was a doorway hung with tattered fabric. One of the ever-present bullyboys moved to bar my way. I forced myself to stare the man straight in the eye, hoping Trub's mojo extended to me. The guy was big enough to chew me up like a fifty-cent burrito and spit out the rat bones before burping.

The guard scowled and bared his teeth.

"Better move,” I said. After a few long seconds he did.

I pushed through the curtain into the room beyond.

"Aw shit,” I mumbled. There were two children in the room. Naked children in a crude wooden cage. A girl about nine, so skinny I could see every rib, and a boy about four just as thin. A chunky woman in ragged nurse's scrubs slouched in a chair by the door, presumably to watch them. She stared at me with blank glassy eyes as I came in, looking unsure whether I was real or a pipe dream.

I turned my attention back to the kids. They stared at me with the wide frightened eyes of animals in a trap.

"Hi, guys,” I said as I approached the cage. I squatted down in front of the door, dredging up a smile that made my face hurt. “My name is Glyph."

They didn't respond, watching me like I was a closet monster that had come to get them. I realized they were probably drugged. The fumes alone were enough to waste anyone who breathed them.

I took a quick look around the gloomy, dirty room, then turned my attention to the inside of the cage. There were no toys, no books. Just a pile of rags to sleep on and a bucket for a bathroom. They were in a holding pen. I didn't want to think about what they were being held for.

"This place is pretty gross, isn't it?” I said gently.

The girl whispered, “Yes.” The boy nodded soberly.

"Want me to get you out of here?” While my impulse was to just break them loose and drag them away, I couldn't begin to guess what they'd gone through on the way to ending up in a cage. So I wanted them to have a say in what happened to them.

"Can we go home?” the girl asked.

"You sure can,” I said. I didn't know whether that was true or not, but was going to do my damnedest to make it so. I stood up, taking hold of the heavy wooden bar across the cage door. One of the big thugs must have put it there; it was all I could do to get it up and out of the way. Once the door was unbarred I opened it. “Come on, kids, let's get out of here."

The girl had begun huddling in on herself, self-conscious about her nudity. I took off my coat and emptied its pockets into my vest. I held it up, offering it to her.

The girl crept out, and I helped her into the coat. It hung to her ankles. She hugged it to herself gratefully. The boy only came as far as the door. Scared. I didn't blame him.

"Would it be all right if I carried you, big guy?"

After a moment the boy nodded. He bolted to me, holding up thin arms.

"One piggy ride coming up.” I hoisted the boy up and settled him on one hip, then took the girl's small hand. I led them back toward where Trub waited. The woman watched us go by, smiling dreamily and drooling.

Trub glanced in our direction when we came through the curtained door, her scarred face hard and cold. The girl froze and the boy whimpered when they saw her.

"It's all right,” I said soothingly. “She's our friend, like a pirate superhero. She came here to help get you away from this bad man."

Trub met my gaze for a moment, her face impassive, then turned her attention back to Poppa Poppy. “You have been warned,” she said. “If I have to come back here again I will break you."

The drug lord regarded her though heavy-lidded eyes. “If you come back again I will have an army waiting to meet you."

She smiled, pleased by the threat. “Go for it, smokebrain. You take the gloves off, so will I. Nothing would make me happier."

This warning delivered, she came over to where I waited with the children. She called for transport, then the four of us went through the door that appeared, away from the dark and dreadful lair of Poppa Poppy.

Bright light smacked me in the face, making me squint, and fresh air washed over me. I sucked it in greedily, trying to clear my head of the narcotic fumes I'd breathed, and the nastiness that had crawled into my lungs. The boy on my hip hid his face against my shoulder, and the girl mumbled something I didn't quite catch.

Trub had transported us to a wide spot on a path leading through a lightly wooded area. This time the vegetation looked, to my untutored eye, more like what you'd see in Central Park than in a travelogue. Ahead of us, on a low rise, was a cluster of the low round buildings that seemed to be standard on the Hoop. The largest of them had a crude wooden scaffold built over it, and atop that framework was a big wooden cross. The idea of a church on Venus seemed pretty strange, but then again the whole idea of churches had never particularly resonated with me.

Nearby was a sign reading NO ADMITTANCE TO PURITY WITHOUT PERMISSION, and beside it a crude ceramic bell.

"Where are we?” I asked.

"Edge of a hamlet called Purity. Same segment, toward the opposite end, about six klicks away,” Trub said, studying the village with the frown of someone contemplating trash on their lawn.

"So who was Jabba the Hut?"

My reference earned a faint smile that faded quickly. “His real name is Jamal Papadopoulos. He's half Greek, half Turkish, all dirtbag. He's got himself a sleazy little poppy growing and processing operation going, trading what he produces for what he needs—” A glance at the kids, who were still clinging tightly to me. “Or wants."

"Who the hell would trade children for drugs?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer to that terrible question. There were always willing participants for both ends of such a dark bargain. I'd postoed about a gang doing just that a few months before, raising such a stink that the cops finally moved in and stopped the trade.

She jerked her chin. “You're about to find out."

I looked up the path toward the village. Four people were approaching.

"You didn't ring the bell."

Trub snorted. “I didn't need to. I don't need to play their little keep-out game either, but this is me being nice."

The man in the lead was big—football player big—with the stiff authoritarian bearing of someone with a fetish for spit-shined jackboots. Set jaw, smile-proof face, eyes as soft as the buttons on a uniform. He was wearing a heavy black jumpsuit, macho black boots a gangie would be proud to street, and on a chain around his neck was a big wooden cross. He reminded me of General Jack D. Ripper from Dr. Strangelove.

"Who's the big guy?"

"Calls himself Pastor Pureway."

Two women and a man trailed behind him, dressed in shapeless gray robes. Their thin faces all wore the same guarded mix of hope and fear. When they saw the children their expressions brightened, and they started to rush forward. Pureway stopped them with a single word.

I looked to Trub for some clue as to what was supposed to happen. She was staring at the General Ripper rip-off. It was obvious that she wasn't any fonder of him than Poppa Poppy, and I had a feeling that her being nice wasn't going to last long.

"What is your business here?” the big man demanded, planting himself in front of Trub. His tone was brusque and challenging, and he looked down at her like a half-naked pole dancer who'd snuck into his choir.

"I'm returning two prodigals to the fold,” she said. “Though prodigal probably isn't the right term. They didn't run away. They were sold to Poppa Poppy by one of your devoted parishioners.” There was just as much confrontation in her voice, and just as much distaste, with an extra added edge of sarcasm.

Pastor Pureway's frown deepened. “You are mistaken. None of my flock would do such a thing."

"You are either a liar or a fool. No, I take that back. You're both, and we both know it. Your repulsive little cult might as well live in a prison camp. No surprise people would want to escape any way they can. Being here sure makes me want to get fucked up big-time."

His upper lip curled and his face reddened with anger. “You are a sinner, coarse and unredeemed."

"Fuckin’ A,” Trub agreed with a grin. “Much as I'd love to spend the rest of the day pissing you off, I'm a busy woman and I've got more dirty jobs to handle after I finish with you. So here's the deal: When your people sell their children, children you condemn as being lesser beings since they weren't conceived by your brain-damaged rules, the stink is on you since you've set yourself up as the one in charge. Breaking the rules like this will not be tolerated. If it happens again you will be punished."

The man drew himself up stiffly. “Only God rules here."

Trub laughed in his face. “Yeah, right. Like it or not, the B'hlug are in charge here. They can send your puckered butt back to Earth any time they want, and it's only their fascination with just how stupid people can act that's keeping you here. They provide your air, your light, and most of what you eat and use. You are here on their sufferance. They are tolerant—far more tolerant than I am. But the mistreatment and selling of children will not be tolerated. By me or them. That's the law here. Period."

The cult leader wasn't having any of it. “We follow the dictates of God, not alien heathens."

"No, you make shit up and call it commandments.” She got right in his face. “I swear, if this happens again I'll ship your ass back to Earth and dump you in the worst place I can find. I'll empty Purity and scatter everyone in it all across the Hoop, arranging it so none of them ever find any of the others. Now get out of my way so I can talk to these kids’ families."

The big preacher stared hard at her, lips white and muscles jumping in his jaw. Trub was a foot shorter and weighed half as much but radiated such furious energy and coiled menace that he had no choice but to back down. He turned abruptly and stalked back toward the village.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

Trub's face softened, but only slightly as she turned her attention to the two women and one man who had accompanied their leader. They shrank back, tense and frightened as arrestees before a hanging judge.

"I know it wasn't you who sold these poor kids to Poppa Poppy.” She pointed at one woman. “You, Sandy, it was your husband Clay, and I know Purity rules say you can't have any say in what he does. You two are their aunt and uncle, tried to stop him, but failed. I'm releasing them back to you. But I warn you, unless Clay quits huffing what Poppa Poppy is selling because he can't cope with the way that charlatan runs things, he's going to do that or something even worse again."

"I'm so sorry,” the kids’ mother said in a small voice. She could not look directly at Trub, but peered fearfully out from under hanging bangs. Her face wore a look I had seen before, seen too much when I did some posto for a women's shelter.

"Then do something about it!” Trub's voice was harsh enough to make them flinch. “Grab these kids and take a mystery door somewhere else. Get away from this cheapjack pulpit-thumper while you still have some self-respect left. He's no holier than you or me; he's a sadistic control-freak and a bully. If you want to let him ruin your lives, I can't stop you. But there isn't the slightest goddamn thing righteous about putting children in danger."

I had kept my mouth shut so far. Not that I didn't have things I wanted to say; my tongue was nearly bloody from being bitten. I was baffled by Trub's returning the kids to the very people whose knothead beliefs had put them in danger. I wasn't going to say anything about that in front of these lames, and thought maybe I wouldn't need to if I helped Trub drive her point home.

"I just got here today,” I said. The cult members seemed to find it easier to look at me than Trub. She stared at me blankly, as if mildly surprised I could talk.

"Just a few hours ago I had a whole gang trying to kill me. They almost did too.” I shook my head. “Poppa Poppy makes them look like a bunch of Muppets. He's a monster. He's—” I tried to summon an image that would resonate with them, that would bang their brain like gongs. “He's the Beast. You get me? The Beast."

I paused to let that sink in. They were staring at me wide-eyed, and the two women's hands now clutched the heavy crosses they wore around their necks, as if my naming the Beast could summon him, and the crosses could save them.

"Listen to me,” I said, making sure I had their full attention before continuing. “That man will take whatever pleasures he wants from these or some other kids’ bodies, and he will eat their souls, slurping them down like raw oysters. And your souls will be eaten at the same time if you do nothing to prevent it."

My spur of the moment sermon delivered, I risked a quick peek at Trub to see how she was taking my butting in. Her face was harder to read than psychedelic Arabic.

After a moment she spoke up. “I can take you away right now. Take you and these kids someplace safe, someplace nice. Your choice."

The adults would not look at me or Trub. They wouldn't even look at the kids, who were still clinging to me, silent and forlorn. The girl was old enough to understand that her fate was being decided. The little boy looked ready to cry. I had a hard time looking at them; it was too much of a heartbreak.

"I . . .” the man began.

We waited for him to say more.

Finally he shook his head. Having said nothing, he was done talking. His face and posture exuded curdled shame.

"We will try to protect them,” the aunt said, with so little force no one was reassured.

"Will you move away?” Trub demanded.

"We—we will try.” This came out even less convincing that her promise to try to protect them. “Can we have them back now?"

I looked to Trub for instructions. She nodded curtly.

Although it was the last thing I wanted to do, I handed the little guy over to his uncle. The girl let go of me but didn't go to her mother or aunt. She stood there by herself, lost inside my coat, shivering with the effort it took to hold back tears.

Trub stared hard at the three adults with that one good eye, then spun on her heel. “Let's get the fuck out of here,” she growled, then began walking fast, taking the path away from the village on the hill.

I hurried to catch up, taking a last glance back over my shoulder just before the path curved. The three adults and two children were together, but if there was even one single spark of joy in it, I couldn't see it.

Trub kept walking, fast and determined. I didn't need to be a mindreader to tell that she was trying to cool off, to put some distance between herself and the mess we had just left behind.

After a few minutes I couldn't take the silence any longer. “Was that the right thing to do?” I asked, carefully keeping any hint of blame out of my voice.

"Probably not,” she said tonelessly.

"Then why did you do it that way?” Again sounding confused rather than accusing. Because I was confused. According to what she'd told Poppa Poppy, the Bugs gave her the juice to do damn near anything she wanted. Yet she had done very close to nothing.

She glanced my way, and I could see that she was working hard to keep her irritation in check. “So what should I have done, kid?"

"I don't know,” I admitted. “I don't know the full range of what you can do, or even what you are in all this. Are you like a cop or something?"

"Or something,” she said with a mordant laugh. “That's me."

"It sounds like the, uh, aliens give you a lot of leeway."

"They do. Maybe too much."

"What you told Poppa Poppy. You really did survive a bomb and kill the bomber, didn't you?"

"Yeah. The exertion cost so much blood I almost didn't make it.” Another grim laugh. “But it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And the threats you made. You could crush Poppa Poppy like a bug, couldn't you?"

A slow nod. “Without even working up a sweat."

"You could have taken those kids away, placed them somewhere else. Exiled that peckerhead minister with a snap of your fingers."

"I came closer to it than they'll ever know."

Suspicion confirmed. Which left me with a question that had to be asked. I did my best to pose it in a way that wouldn't get me hurt.

"Now don't take this wrong,” I began. “I'm not pointing any fingers or making any sort of judgments. I'm new here, and I'm just trying to figure out how things work. But if you could do those things, and wanted to do those things, then why didn't you do them?"

She shook her head. “Figure it out, kid.” She raised her voice. “Transport."

A door appeared in front of us.

"Come on,” she said.

I followed her through it, wondering what I was missing.

Stepping through a door in one place and coming out somewhere miles away was giving my sense of reality a wedgie. In spite of that existential crack-bind I couldn't help thinking that one of the doors would sure have come in handy when I'd had the cops and Chrome Lords hunting me down.

The sense of dislocation I felt every time was partially due to having not even a crumpled gum wrapper of an idea what it was like in the Hoop. I was flying blind.

This time we emerged on the top of a high, wide plateau. Once again there was a settlement, a mix of white round buildings and others made from natural materials, what had to be at least three hundred of them widely scattered and separated by trees and gardens.

Forest surrounded the plateau, fading into flatlands and the bare white stuff that the Hoop was made from. For the first time I was able to see one end of a segment. The white glowing ceiling and soft white walls came together in a flat blank surface maybe a mile away.

The view would have been scenic, and the feeling of the place idyllic, except that there was a wood and white-stuff wall running all the way around the rim of the plateau, and there were people in wood and bamboo armor guarding that wall.

"This isn't another war game, is it?” I said. The tension in the air was palpable; the faces I saw were lined with worry.

Trub shook her head. “Nope. Come on. We're going to talk to the Mayor of High Vista."

"That's what they call this place?"

"Yeah,” she said, starting toward where the biggest cluster of men and women were at the wall, near a big gate.

The view was amazing. “It fits."

The mayor was a tall black man in jeans, short-sleeved white shirt, and rubber clogs. He was near the gate, arms resting on the wall, gazing down at what lay below.

"How are you doing, Homer?” Trub called as we approached.

He turned toward us, and his craggy face lit with a smile. It was the smile of a man who was very tired and more than a little relieved. “We're hanging in there, Miss Trouble,” he said in a thick southern drawl. “For now, anyway."

The light dawned on a small thing: Trouble. Of course. That's where Trub came from.

"Cyrus and his boys getting ready for another attack?"

"They sure are. Take a look at what they've whomped up this time."

Trub went to the wall and peered over. I did the same.

Near the base of the plateau, maybe two hundred feet down, were a couple dozen people in their own homemade armor, armed with spears, clubs, and longbows. In the midst of this odd attack force stood a medieval siege engine. A wooden catapult over thirty feet tall.

Trub let out a low whistle. “That's new."

"And worrisome,” Homer agreed. “We're thinking Cyrus found himself some sort of expert in old-time weapons to help build that thing. They dragged it out this morning and have been fussin’ with it ever since. I'm thinking they're close to using it on us and causing some real damage."

I had to agree with his prediction. The catapult had a sinister air, like the Spanish Inquisition's version of a howitzer. I wasn't an expert on such weapons but did know they'd been popular for hundreds of years. That suggested they were probably pretty useful to their owners.

"Why are they attacking this place?” I said, directing my question at Trub.

"Because—” She paused, cocking her head. A deep frown appeared. “On it,” she said.

"On what?” I asked.

"Emergency.” She laid her real hand on Homer's arm. “Would you please fill Glyph here in on your problems? I've got a hot situation to deal with. I'll be back before Cyrus and his tribe get their shit together."

"I surely hope so,” he said. “I called for help ‘cause I believe we're surely gonna need it."

"Trust me.” She raised her voice. “Transport.” A door appeared. She stepped through it and was gone, the door disappearing after her.

Homer gave me a curious look. “I never knew Miss Trouble to be much for partners."

"I'm not sure what I am,” I said, “But I know I'm not a partner. I ran into her when I first got here. She took me in tow, and it's been a bit of a whirlwind ever since."

Homer laughed and nodded. “That's our Miss Trouble for sure, a whirlwind on the hoof. So you're just out?"

"I got here only a few hours ago.” Though it felt like days. Time flies when you're totally confused.

"So how much do you know about how this place works?"

"Next to nothing."

"Know what a wishing well is?"

I shrugged. “A waste of change?"

Homer shook his head, grin widening. “Not here on the Hoop it ain't. Come on, I'll show you."

I followed him to an open area in the middle of the plateau. In the center of this plaza stood a waist-high white cylinder roughly ten feet across. It was made of the same white stuff used to build seemingly every part of the Hoop. When we reached the artifact a noticeably attractive Latina woman was at the far side, staring at the blank white top of the column, her lips moving silently.

"Is she praying?” I asked quietly.

"In a way,” Homer said with a chuckle. “Watch."

A ripple appeared in the flat hard surface of the squat column, the solid stuff acting like it was turning liquid. Something began pushing its way up through, finally emerging to sit atop the once again solid surface.

"That's a copy of The Cat In The Hat," I said, stating the obvious.

"One of my personal favorites,” Homer said with an approving nod. “Read it to my kids a hunnerd times. She's got two little ones she wants to distract, and the Cat can do it.” The woman picked up the book, flashed us a shy but brilliant smile, then headed toward one of the houses.

Homer parked a hip on the edge of the column—of the wishing well. It was solid enough to hold him up. “There's plenty of folks all around the Hoop who grow and make things,” he said. “People being people, you'd be hard pressed to stop ‘em. Our hosts provide plenty of stuff to make that possible. Trees that fall into boards when you ask ‘em to. That white stuff you see everywhere can be handled endless ways. It will shape like clay, and harden like iron. You can stick a seed in it, have a plant in a couple days, food from that plant in a week, or a whole tree bearing fruit in a month or so. But a lot of things we need to get by come from these here wishing wells."

"So how do they work?"

"Miss Trouble says everything here runs on some kind of super-duper nanotech. As for the wells, you just go to one and describe and visualize what it is you need. Like Minna there just did, getting that book for her kids. She described it well enough to get herself a copy."

I was starting to get the picture. “So this well is what those people with the catapult want. Right?"

"They sure do. See, there are wishing wells all over the place. So many you're never more than half a mile away from one. But nearly all of ‘em are about the size of a fifty-five gallon drum sawed in half, only a couple feet across. Big ones like this one are scarcer'n hens’ teeth."

"And that makes them valuable."

"Bound to, I guess. A big well like ours can serve more people at once, and produce larger stuff than a regular one could squeeze out. Like, back home I was a chef. Well, a cook, anyway. Still am, I guess. You know what a Garland range is?"

I had done several stints in restaurant kitchens over the years, a career as a posto paying even less than being a poet. “Sure. It's a big honking stove like you'd find in a commercial kitchen."

Homer beamed with pride. “Well, I wished me up one a while back. Flat-top, double oven, eight burners, salamander, the whole nine yards. I got no idea where the gas that runs it comes from, but man oh man, can I cook with that baby."

I thought about the difference between what could be gotten from a small well to one this large. Big difference. “So you guys are being attacked because the people down below want access to—or possession of—this well."

"They had access to it. They lived here. Thing is, they had two big problems. Wishing is a bit like cookin'; some folks is just naturally better at it than others. The man who started all the trouble wasn't very good at it, and neither were his friends. To make matters worse, they kept trying to wish up weapons and other bad shit. They banded together into a sort of gang, though they called themselves the po-lice, trying to take over this well and keep everyone else away from it."

"But you managed to throw them out."

"We did. We're not proud of it, but we didn't have much choice."

"How'd you do it?"

He grinned. “I wished us up cases and cases of wine and whiskey. The good stuff, gallons of it, and we threw one hell of a party. Once Cyrus and his people were well and truly bombed we rounded them up, hogtied them, and hauled them down to the bottom of the hill. They'd already started a wall—that kind always does. We finished it. They've been trying to get back in ever since."

"So how long has this been going on?"

"Over nine months now,” he said with a sigh. “They got a camp out there, them and their wives, so we don't dare go down. They have their own regular sized well so they needn't be hurting for anything, and if they were, they could head on out through a mystery door and try to find another big well."

I shook my head. Of course they didn't do anything that rational. It appeared that Venus had been set up to give people a fresh start. It also appeared that some people couldn't be busted loose from the stupid groove with anything short of explosives.

"So that's how we live now,” Homer continued. “They go away for a few days or a couple weeks, hatch some new plan of attack, come back and take another run at us. They were gone a month this time. You saw what they came back with.” His shoulders slumped wearily, and his gaze was distant and haunted.

"A lot of us folks here on High Vista are refugees. All most of us want is a quiet, peaceable life. A place to be with our families, set down some roots, let some scars heal. Instead we have to guard this place around the clock and fend off attacks like this new one."

"That's a damn shame.” I really meant it. There in the center of their community, by the well, it was quiet and peaceful. Maybe not the sort of place that needed a posto like me, but that might not be so bad either.

"We surely think so.” He stood up. “I'd best get on back to the gate. I do hope Miss Trouble turns up soon.” He scowled. “But hell, where are my manners? We like to think we're a hospitable folk, and here I go being a poor host. I'd fix you something, but we're short on time."

He turned back to the well. Stared into it, lips moving silently.

Ripples appeared almost immediately. Four objects pushed up through the surface and stopped moving once they rested atop the well. Two bottles of Dr. Pepper, and two paper bowls of pork rinds. Homer nodded in satisfaction. “That'll do, I guess."

Homer handed over a bottle and a bowl. My eyes went wide in amazement. The bottle was cold, ice cold. The pork rinds were still hot and smelled heavenly, just like the ones you can get fresh-made from certain ethnic stores.

"Anyone can do this at a wishing well?” I said. I had just seen God's Walmart, the take-out window of the Universe.

"Well, that depends,” Homer said, collecting his own soft drink and bowl of rinds. “The better you can describe and visualize something, the better the result. It took me a lot of tries to get that there Dr. Pepper to taste right. As for the pork rinds, they ain't real pork—our hosts aren't real crazy about us eating animals—but the taste and texture will pass, I think."

"So you're real good at this wishing stuff?"

"I guess I am."

I shook my head in wonder. “It's like making something out of nothing."

Homer laughed. “I was chef at a soul food joint before Hurricane Tonya. That's what soul food is, my man. Making something good out of next to nothin'."

We returned to the wall near the gate. On the way Homer filled me in on how some other things worked on the Hoop, and I asked questions between bits of crispy pork goodness and slugs of soda. I couldn't believe how good that soft drink tasted. The flavor was sharper and more vivid than anything I'd ever had back home. It was like Homer's memory of it—and consequently his recreation—radically outdid the original.

As for the wells themselves, the very idea was seriously gooning me out. I couldn't help thinking about the difference wishing wells could make back on Earth. Food, clothing, water purifiers, medical supplies; an endless shopping list of things that would be available for those who needed them the worst. Why hadn't the Bugs given them to people?

Then I got it: They had given wells to humans. But to have them we needed to come out to Venus. What a raw deal, forced to come to a place with clean air. A place that wasn't overcrowded and subject to increasingly violent weather. A place where the rain didn't burn your skin, where the coastal areas weren't being swallowed up by rising oceans, where the threat of tornados, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, forest fires, killing droughts, and flash floods hadn't gotten so bad that the news more often than not led with the weather. On most of Earth, food was either very expensive and very good, or very cheap and almost guaranteed to put you in an early grave. If you ate at the bottom of the food chain your tissues ended up so saturated with chemicals that when you croaked from what you ate, embalming would be redundant.

What would happen if wishing wells appeared on Earth?

I was getting a good look at how it would play out in many parts of the world. Certain people would try to seize control of the wells and use them in ways contrary to their reason to exist. If wells showed up on Earth, before a year was out there would be well-slavery, well-pimping, well-extortion, and worse. The people in charge back there would take this great boon and turn it into another tightly controlled, punitively priced commodity that benefited the few by depriving the many, and this monopoly would be managed by force of arms.

Just like someone was trying to do on High Vista.

New planet, same old shit. Maybe we should have been named Homo incorrigiblus.

Homer's good mood went DOA when we looked over the wall at the attack force below. “Appears they've almost got their act together,” he said heavily.

"Sure looks that way,” I agreed. “What's that stuff they're loading in the catapult's basket?” It was a bunch of white spheres, some the size of baseballs, some as big as bowling balls.

"Hoopstuff cannonballs. Remember how I told you that here you can dig up the ground and shape it like clay? Leave it exposed to light and air for a piece and it turns hard as rock. I got to give them props for this one. I figure they plan to use that thing like a cross between a mortar and a shotgun. Start raining loads of stuff down on us so we have to take cover. Keep us pinned down long enough to get in the gate and really start raising hell."

"What would happen then? Would they just capture the well and throw you out?"

Homer just gave me a long pitying look.

Yeah, duh. They wouldn't be satisfied with taking control of the big well and the community around it. They'd want revenge for getting the boot and being kept from what wasn't theirs.

"Where the hell is Trub?” I grumbled. The catapult basket was loaded, and there was a growing pile of extra ammo building beside it.

Homer shrugged. “Hard to say. That lady does get around some. I'm sure she's doing her best to get back to us."

I had to wonder if she was trying hard enough. I watched the activity at the bottom of the hill, wondering how she would deal with the situation. What I'd seen of her methods so far gave me the idea that she'd use the least amount of intervention possible. I was pretty sure she could scare them off . . . but if that was true, why hadn't she done it before now? Maybe she'd try to buy them off. But what could she offer that would make them give up their prize?

That question set off an ideagasm, one that made me laugh out loud.

"Hang tight,” I told Homer. “I'll be back in a couple minutes.” I turned around and ran back toward the wishing well.

"I need a white flag,” I said, rejoining Homer at the wall.

He stared at me like I'd asked for a feather boa and high heels. “You're not thinking on going down there, are you?"

"Yeah,” I said. “I am."

"Now why would you want to do that?"

Great question, brain damaged answer. “So I can convince them to call off their attack."

A long pause as that improbable plan was absorbed. “How you going to do that?” he said at last.

"With a whole lot of luck, and even more bullshit."

The nearer I got to the ragtag army at the bottom of the hill, the more I had to wonder when I'd lost my mind.

None of this had anything to do with me, but then again not everything a posto takes up as a cause affects him or her personally. Homer and his people were in danger, and Trub wasn't there now that they needed her. She could probably handle this with one hand tied behind her back.

I should have waited. I knew that.

But I hadn't, and there was too late to return to High Vista. My approach had been noted, and a half dozen arrows were pointed at me. I had no idea whether the guys holding the bows could shoot straight or not. I was willing to bet that if I turned my back I'd be the guest of honor at target practice, and didn't want to help them improve their aim.

It wasn't much of a skullbuster to figure out who was in charge. It was the sort of guy who always ends up in charge when a gang of a certain kind of men rallies around a really bad idea. In this instance it was a sixtyish, overweight, red-faced, white guy whose badges of office were the biggest mouth, fanciest armor, and tallest helmet. Cyrus.

"Howdy, gentlemen,” I called, keeping a harmless idiot smile on my face as I made my way to the bossman.

"Who the hell are you?” Cyrus demanded sharply.

"My name is Glyph."

"I don't know you. You weren't on High Vista before."

"Nope, I wasn't,” I said, unable to resist adding, “I'm a stranger to these parts. A door dumped me up there just a while ago.” I didn't see any point in mentioning that Trub had come through that door with me. Somehow I doubted dropping her name would get me a warmer reception.

"So why the white flag? Are you here to join us?"

"Hell no. High Vista is nice, but not my style. Never much wanted to be a soldier either. But when I heard what the issue is here I figured I could save you a whole lot of trouble, and maybe some pain."

Cyrus was staring at me like I'd asked to take his Lexus out for spin to test the crash bags. He looked sour and impatient at having to deal with interruption when victory was finally within his grasp.

"You better start making sense real quick, boy,” he growled in his best Maximum Leader voice. “The only ones going to feel pain is them." He jerked his thumb toward High Vista. “And maybe you."

"Give me a break, man. I'm here to do you a favor.” I put my hands on my hips, adopting the pose of an art lover at a museum as I took a long look at the catapult. “Very cool work, dude. Work of art. One big problem. It won't work."

"Bullshit. It sure as hell will work,” snapped another man who had been standing by and listening in. A short, tubby guy with thick glasses, scraggly Fu Manchu, and geek written all over him.

"Oh, I'm sure it will fire just fine. That's not the problem. The problem is that the place up there is bulletproof."

"Bullshit,” Geek said.

"'Fraid not. You know the guy in charge up there, the tall black dude?"

"Homer,” Cyrus spat the name, lips twisting in distaste.

"That's him. You know how good he is at pulling stuff out of that big-ass wishing well?"

"He does okay.” Cyrus's voice dripped with ill-concealed envy, like Homer regularly whipped his ass and took his lunch money every time they played golf.

"Well, he wished himself up a piece of Bug tech. A sort of invisible shield that will deflect anything fired at the place."

"Bullshit,” Geek proclaimed, deploying his one word answer for everything. “That's not possible."

"Possible,” I shot back. “Don't you dudes get it? The reason the Bugs give us things through the wells is because they want to hear us ask for them, like us giving treats to a dog if he begs or does some other trick. Our wishing for stuff lets them see how we think about things, how we perceive and ideate them, how we use imagery and language to define objects. You know Homer can get pretty much anything he wants, like that big-ass stove? The Bugs love him because they love the way he thinks and talks. They're into him enough that they're not going to let anyone hurt him. You've attacked that place before, right?"

I didn't wait for an answer, but drove the last rhetorical nail in the rickety structure I was building. “You think it's just bad luck your other attacks have failed?” I shook my head. “Wake up, guys. The deck is stacked against you, start to finish."

I watched the scowl on Cyrus's face deepen as I spun out my line of bull. I was making it up as I went along, but as I spouted this stuff I realized that I might have accidentally fallen over the truth while giving them the Glyph version of how the wells worked. The Bugs would learn tons about people from their asking for things.

Finally, Cyrus shook his head. “Even if what you say is true, we can still knock down those walls and take High Vista back."

"I say you're wrong, but for sake of argument let's say you're right. That still leaves one big question: Why bother?"

They were all looking at me like I was crazy. And maybe I was. Because I was actually enjoying trying to bernie these boobs. It was like talking my way into protected or restricted places so I could gain intel, or posto right in the guts of the beast, talking my way out of jams with cops and property owners and others who took offense at my work. That was part of the grinwhack of being a posto. It's a high like no other. I was getting a big gulp of it, sweet and fizzy as Homer's Dr. Pepper.

"What I'm saying,” I continued, “is why settle for this well when there's an even bigger one out there for the taking?"

"Bullshit."

I rolled my eyes, thinking Geek really had to work on improving his vocabulary. “Wrong, chump. I've seen it."

Geek was shaking his head. “I say you're a liar."

Cyrus finally spoke up, playing wise leader. One whose greed never slept. “Why should we believe you?"

"Don't care if you do or not,” I said, letting a touch of annoyance creep into my voice. “This isn't my fight. All I know is that there's a well three times the size of that one out in another segment, ripe for the taking. I figured you guys might be interested since you have a thing for big wells."

Geek was plucking at his boss’ sleeve. “I'm telling you, he's lying."

"Bite me, Trek-boy,” I said, reaching into my vest.

A half dozen bows were suddenly drawn and pointed at me by men who wanted to look like heroes in a Robin Hood movie, but more closely resembled over-age dissolute Cupids.

"Ice down, guys,” I said. “I just want to show you what I'm talking about.” I pulled out my Cybernado Rollox, snapped it open and flat. Tapped the corner to bring up the menu I wanted. “Here. Check it out. Seeing is, as they say, believing."

The Rollox displayed the image I'd taken of the well at the top of the hill. An image I'd shopped to make it look like it was somewhere else, and the size of a backyard swimming pool. It was a hurry-up hack job, but I was pretty sure it would fool rubes like these. My clothes might have come from Sally's, Goodwill, and the occasional dumpster, but my software always cuts the edge and leaves it bleeding.

Cyrus snatched the device out of my hand and stared at picture of the well. His band of butthead brigands clustered around him like adolescent boys around a pornie. Eyes went wide, and the general comment was some flavor of Holy shit!

Geek wasn't going to let it go. “It's a fake,” he bleated pitifully. “Has to be."

"Fine,” I said, reaching to take my Rollox back.

"Now just hang on,” Cyrus said, rubbing his stubbly chin with one hand and keeping a firm grip on the Rollox with the other.

Things were kind of hanging there in the balance when a new factor entered the situation.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Trub demanded as she stepped out of a door that materialized out of nowhere.

I had only a couple seconds to figure out what to do, and the moves I made were mostly impelled by the accusing tone in Trub's voice. That, and her appearing right within reach. Okay, and from having seen far too many bad movies.

I used one arm to grab her around the neck and shoulders, reaching into my vest with my free hand. Quickdrew my dummystick and jammed it up under her jaw.

She tensed, and I had the impression of having just taken hold of a human-sized stick of dynamite in the fleeting moment before it detonates. I knew she could easily throw me off, beat what landed into a bloody pulp, and was a heartbeat away from doing just that.

"You tell them,” I growled in my best tough-guy voice. “Don't make me hurt you the way you hurt Poppa Poppy."

The amount she relaxed was fractional, but enough to tell me that my message had been received. “Tell them what?" she said sharply.

"There, on my Rollox. I told them about that giant wishing well on the other side of the Hoop."

"What about it?” she said after a pause long enough to make me afraid she wasn't going to play along.

"You can't keep them from taking it over."

"Maybe not,” she said grudgingly. “One big problem. These dildoes couldn't find six good brain cells if they put all their heads together. No way they'll ever find it. Can you take them there?"

"Not directly. I can't control doors the way you can. So you have to drive."

She shook her head as much as the dummystick under her jaw would allow. “Not a chance, kid."

"Why not?” Cyrus demanded.

Trub stared at him like a steaming turd on the hot fudge sundae of her life, saying nothing.

He stepped in closer and put his face right in hers. “You can't keep us from that well. Nobody else has taken it, have they?"

"Not yet.” She smiled. “But I could fix that real fast."

"You'd do that?"

"Bet your ass I would."

"Why? What's the problem with letting us have it?"

"You're the problem, you old toad. I don't like you or your merry band of sore losers."

Cyrus tried for a steely stare that just came off Nixon-shifty. “You'll like me even less if you don't take us to that well. Right now."

Geek still wasn't buying it. “I'm telling you,” he wailed. “It's a trick!"

Trub laughed. “That's right. It is."

"See! I told you!"

"The bitch is lying,” Cyrus growled. “Men! Surround her!"

The bandits closest to us lifted their bows and spears and clubs and other primitive implements of mayhem. They growled to show how dangerous they were. If it hadn't been for the sharpness of the blades and weight of the clubs, I might have laughed. They still looked more like a dinner theater pirate gang than any sort of armed force. But I knew even armed morons could do a lot of damage. In fact, they usually did. We call it history.

"I think you better take us all there,” I said, pushing my dummystick harder into Trub's jawline, hard enough to bring her up on her toes.

"All right,” she said, sounding angry and resentful. “But I warn you, you're going to regret this.” She raised her voice. “Transport."

A door appeared, hanging in the air near the catapult.

I didn't know what Trub had up her sleeve, whether this was an escape route for us, or a trap for them.

"We'll go first,” I said, starting to frogmarch her toward the door. My thinking was, if it was a trap I ought to make it look safe for the rats to go on a cheese raid.

"No, we will,” Cyrus said. “I don't trust that woman one bit. She's a liar and a trickster.” He raised his voice and started bellowing orders. “Men! Get formed up! Lehman, your squad will take the lead. We put these two in the middle. The rest of us will bring up the rear."

They got themselves more or less organized, then started trooping through the door. Cyrus directed operations from a safe place in the rear, his pet geek beside him and still whining that this was all a really big mistake.

I hoped he was right.

The door took us to a wide plain somewhere near the middle of what I had to assume was a different segment. Rising up in front of us was another white hoopstuff plateau, the top about three hundred feet up and accessible by a long switchback path. The hilltop looked to be even wider than the one where High Vista stood. The light was low in the segment, down to the level of a clear night with a full moon.

The lower light made it easy to see that something at the top of the plateau was glowing, shining brightly enough for light to reflect off the ceiling far above it.

All eyes were on the plateau and the promising radiance. I saw awe in the faces of some of the men, greed in others. Cyrus's eyes were narrowed in calculation. Geek looked confused and woebegone, like a kid whose Christmas stocking contained only Santa's rap sheet for molestation.

This moment, rife with wild surmise, ended abruptly when a person appeared at the edge of the plateau, staring down and back at us.

Cyrus rounded on me, face gone red with fury. “I thought you said nobody had taken this well!"

"Nobody had, last time I saw it."

"I put a door up there,” Trub said with a mocking laugh. “I'd rather see someone else get it than you assholes."

"You sneaky bitch,” he hissed, raising his hand to backhand her in the face.

"She must've just opened that door,” I put in hastily. “There can't be that many people up there. Yet, anyway."

Already several of the High Vista exiles had begun edging toward the path leading up the side of the plateau, the urge to get up there and check out their prize stronger than what passed for discipline. Others were muttering that they had better get moving and take what was theirs.

Cyrus lowered his hand, jaw working. He wanted to hurt Trub, but fear of losing his prize was just too strong. He raised his spear, let out a yell. “Men! Take that hill!"

It was the Alpo version of the dogs of war unleashed. They began stampeding toward the path, shouting and brandishing their weapons. The last one to go was Geek, who shot Trub and me a look like we'd stolen his pocket protector and mocked Spock before taking off after the others.

Once they were a safe distance away I let go of Trub and stepped back, watching closely to see what she would do. At best she might chew me out for interfering, at worst kick my ass up around my ears. I really wasn't expecting an attaboy.

Her face gave nothing away as she said, “Transport."

A door appeared. I was relieved when she beckoned me to follow her. At least she wasn't going to leave me there to deal with the mongrel horde.

We came out atop the plateau. Before us was what looked like a huge blue-lit swimming pool, obviously the source of the glow seen from below. There was nothing else up there other than a wishing well about the size of a kitchen trashcan, and a PortaPotti-sized column that was just that: an alien outhouse.

"So what is that?” I asked.

"Mineral pool.” She gave me a sidelong look with her one good eye. “This was my favorite place to come for a quiet soak or swim. I'm sure going to miss it."

"Sorry,” I said.

She shrugged. “I'll find another, or get them to make one."

I took another look around. “There isn't anyone here."

"Nope. I just had someone step through to be seen. They're already gone."

"A decoy."

A nod. “Or bait."

I followed her to the edge. We peered down the path. Cyrus and his gang were halfway up the hillside, letting out fewer shouts and war cries as they got winded from the climb.

"They sure are going to be disappointed,” I said.

Trub nodded. “And pissed off."

"Can they get back? To the area around High Vista?"

"No, they're going to stay in this segment for a while. The doors won't let them go anywhere other than Earth for a year, and even after that no door will ever take them to High Vista's segment."

"You can do that? Set rules for the doors?"

"I sure can.” She turned back to gaze wistfully at the pool, as if saying good-bye to it, then looked my way. “Ready to move on? There's more work to be done."

"Sure. After I do one last thing."

"What's that?"

I let out an ear-splitting whistle. Cyrus and his men looked up. Saw us standing above them.

I gave them the finger.

They started moving faster, wanting to come get me, but by the time they arrived Trub had called another door, and we were long gone.

Trub took us back to the catapult.

"Now what?” I asked. I spotted my Rollox on the ground, lost in the confusion. I grabbed it, rolled it back up, and stuffed it in my pocket.

"We clean up some loose ends. Here, give me a hand."

The catapult had wheels in front and a skid in back, like an old moveable cannon or artillery piece. Trub had us shove on the back part, turning the weapon so it was no longer pointed at High Vista. Once we'd repositioned it to her satisfaction, she gave me a small smile. “You want to do the honors?"

I stared at her in surprise. “You mean fire it?"

"Sure. We wouldn't want to leave a loaded weapon laying around, would we?"

"I guess not.” The firing mechanism was simple enough, almost elegantly so. Poor Geek. He'd built a pretty gnarly weapon and never gotten to see it put to use. I pulled the safety pin, then put my hand on the trip lever. “Say when."

"Fire when ready, Mister Glyph."

"Bombs away.” With a sound like a monster bass string being plucked, and a groan and a whump from tension being released, the catapult fired its load high up and far into the distance. From up on the plateau came the sound of cheering.

"Wow,” I said. “I'm impressed. They could have hit High Vista for sure. Done some damage, too."

"Major damage.” She studied the weapon. Nodded to herself. “You know, I've changed my mind."

"About what?"

"I want it cocked and loaded."

That didn't make any sense. “Why?"

"Just because. Come on, give me a hand."

There was a windlass to put tension on the part I guess you'd have to call a flinger bar. We started winding the tensioning rope up. It was easy at first, but got harder as the flinger bar was bent further and further down. I was finding it harder work than Trub, who did over half the work with none of the grunting and groaning that was coming from me.

Once the catapult was cocked, we loaded the basket with more of the hoopstuff ammo. Trub told me what she wanted in the basket, pointing out particular missiles. As we worked I decided it was time to ask straight out if I was in trouble or not.

"So,” I said, “You're not mad at me for tricking those clowns into going away?"

She dropped a sphere the size of a melon into the basket. “I can live with it.” A glance my way. “Why did you get involved?"

I shrugged. “You weren't back yet, and I was afraid they'd attack before you could get back and stop them."

"Why did you decide to scam them? You had to have faked that picture before you went down the hill."

"It was pure run what you brung. I couldn't beat them up or scare them off. I figured by only option was to use their own dumbshit mentality against them. You know, social engineering and a bit of situational judo."

She put in another sphere the size of a bowling ball. “How did you know I'd cooperate when you grabbed me?"

"I didn't. But I sure hoped you would."

"I guess you got lucky."

"I guess I did. Thanks."

She dusted her hands on her shorts, then touched the disc at her throat. When she took her hand away there was a small white ring in her fingers. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “Put this on. Doesn't matter which finger."

I took the ring. It seemed to weigh nothing. “So what does this mean?” I said, fitting it over my left middle finger. “That we're engaged?"

She laughed. “You should be so lucky. Now step back a bit."

Once I'd retreated a few steps a door the size of a small building materialized directly over the catapult and began descending. The weapon disappeared into the door, and when the door reached the ground it disappeared.

"You did that?” I asked.

"Sure did."

"Where did you send it?"

"To the base of the hill where we just sent Cyrus and his buddies."

The woman had a wicked sense of humor. “They won't like that, their own weapon pointed at them, freshly loaded, and ready to fire."

Mock surprise. “You think?"

"Oh yeah. They'll have to either destroy it—Geek will freak out at that—or disassemble it and hump it to the top of the hill."

"Should keep them busy for a while.” Her smile faded. “Okay, fun's over. Come on, more dirty jobs waiting."

I had to hustle to keep up as she headed out along a well-worn track leading away from the place Cyrus and his followers had used as an attack base. Five minutes of brisk walking through a lightly wooded area brought us to a collection of ramshackle huts and lean-tos.

These rude housing units were arrayed around a central fire-pit, a standard-sized wishing well next to it. Trub went to stand by the fire-pit, then called, “Sarah. Better come out and talk to me."

After a minute a tall, thirtyish, big-busted blonde came out of the biggest hut. She looked hard and mean and had a haughty air in spite of being dressed in a smudged and threadbare powder blue pants-suit, misshapen sandals, and a string of pearls. Her fingers were covered with rings and she carried a spear. She looked like a society princess on the decline toward feral bag lady, or a trophy wife who had lost most of her silver plating.

"What the hell do you want?” she asked in a voice as melodious as the clash of trashcan lids.

"Wrong question, Sarah,” Trub said. “The right one is, what do you want?"

This Sarah, who I was willing to bet was Cyrus's other half, clearly didn't like Trub or riddles. “What are you talking about?"

"Cyrus and his so-called men are gone."

The woman's eyes narrowed. “Gone how?” Other women had appeared in the doorways of the shacks, watching and listening. They too looked like refugees from some Mad Maxed-out gated community, dressed in boutique strut that had been reduced to ragged shuffle. Their faces were as cold, closed, and grim as militant vegans stuffed in a meat locker.

"They moved on to another segment."

Sarah shook her head. “Cyrus wouldn't give up on getting back what is rightfully ours. I know you're on the side of the Bugs. Did they help you run him and our men off?"

Hearing this horrible woman call the aliens Bugs made me take a mental vow to try to stop calling them that.

Trub ignored the woman's question. She turned my way. “I should introduce you, Glyph. This is Sarah Crook, Cyrus's second wife. Their last name fits. The two of them ran here just ahead of the law. Cyrus was skimming from an investment fund, and Sarah was financing some very nice lifestyle improvements with donations to a not-for-profit she'd gotten her claws in."

"Those were just mistakes,” Sarah said coldly.

Trub laughed. “And you made them. Trying to take over High Vista and their well was another. One more and you're out."

Sarah looked like she had a mouthful of vinegar. “I don't have to listen to any of this,” she sniffed.

"No,” Trub agreed cheerfully. “But it might be a good idea. My associate here is going to offer you a deal. A door that's good for four days is part of that deal. Glyph, tell our lucky contestant what she can win."

I eyed Trub uncertainly, wondering what the hell she was doing putting me in charge of a situation I didn't begin to understand. She just smiled, making a go for it gesture.

"Ah, all right,” I stammered. “You get, well, you get a door.” I tried to make this sound like fresh news, desperately racking my brain for what to say next.

"The deal is, and I think it's a good one, you get to choose. Your choice is staying here, or going to rejoin your men. Through the door.” As I said that, one appeared at the edge of the village. Had I made it? If so, I was clueless as to how.

"That's a, you know, one way door to where your men went. It will stay here for four days. So you have that much time to decide whether you want to stay here or go join them. And you can use a regular mystery door to go someplace else. Maybe start a new life.” Sheer mean-spiritedness and class prejudice made me add, “Maybe go start a nice little gated community or something."

"That's a better deal than you deserve,” Trub said. “Take it or leave it."

Sarah made a twinkling, ring-studded fist. “We'll get you for this, bitch. You and those stinking Bugs."

Trub didn't look worried. “Hey, you heard the man. You don't like it here, there's a door back to Earth about five minutes’ walk from here. You could probably find a good lawyer to keep your fat ass out of prison, though it doesn't look like you could really afford to pay one."

"No prisons here,” Sarah said.

"Not yet."

"No hospitals, either. Too bad, because I think you're about to get fucked up even worse than you already are."

It was then I noticed that the women of the encampment had begun quietly boxing us in. There were a couple dozen of them, armed with clubs and homemade knives. They didn't look like they planned on throwing a nice tea party, or of they did, we were going to be filling for the sandwiches.

I was getting the impression that I never wanted to see or be anywhere near whatever it was that might scare Trub.

She noted the growing level of threat impassively, then turned her attention back to Sarah. “Listen,” she said, sounding more tired than worried. “That chucklehead you're married to and his gang of greedy dimwits is gone, and they're never coming back. You can go join them, or you can take a door somewhere else and see if you can find some man with low enough standards to take you. You have four days to voluntarily relocate. After that you are going to be taken out of this segment, and I might just send the leftovers off to start a colony of harpies. I really don't care where you go. Nothing you can do is going to change that."

"We could take you hostage. What would the Bugs give us to get their precious Bug-fucker back?"

Trub shook her head. “Honey, I don't think you want to find out."

Sarah's smile sent my testicles scurrying for cover. “I think we'll take our chances. Right, girls?"

There was a growl and grumble from the women surrounding us.

Trub sighed and turned her head. “Glyph, you play bimbo-wrangler."

I almost wheeped Me? but managed to choke it back in manly self-defense; these women would jump on any weakness like a sale rack of designer shoes.

"Ladies,” I said, turning to face a particularly disgruntled and wilted nosegay of womanhood. “You've got this all wrong."

A skinny, club wielding Barbietroid in patched slacks and a ragged blouse snarled, “Yeah, how?"

"Trub can't stop herself from getting right in your faces, it's just the way she is. What she didn't tell you is why your men left. They went to take possession of an even bigger wishing well than the one on High Vista."

"Bullshit,” the woman snapped.

I figured I'd just met Mrs. Geek.

"No, really.” I pulled out my trusty Rollox and showed them the image I'd used to fake out the men. Chances were these women were smarter than their men—it was hard to imagine them being any dumber, but they had hooked up with that gaggle of losers. So maybe they'd take the same bait.

"That's what they went after,” I announced. “Your men made Trub and me take them to it. The, um, Bugs have to write it off now. Trub is pissed, and she's taking it out on you."

"He's lying,” Sarah said.

"Sure, fine,” I said. “Pass up the chance to get in on what your men have. Your not getting a share just makes Trub happy."

While I'd been talking, some of the other women had redeployed to get a look at the screen, studying the image like a fashion layout in Vogue.

Now to pile it on. “Just think of what a well like that could get your men. Besides all the great stuff that could be gotten from it."

"Like what?” This from a lean black woman armed with a crude but unnervingly dangerous looking hoopstuff machete.

I rolled my eyes. “Yo, sister, what do you think? Any women they find are going to latch onto them for piece of that well.” I turned and pointed at a woman picked at random. “How long has your husband had you living in this dump, stuck here after he and his buddies bought you the boot from up there?"

Her upper lip curled. “Almost a year."

"You probably had it pretty good up there, right? Until that greedy slob Cyrus convinced your husband to help him grab it all for himself. Now you're going to let him dump you for some babe who wants what you should be getting?"

"Don't listen to him,” Sarah cawed. “He's trying to trick you."

The woman stuck out her chin. “Shut up. It's your fault we're here, you pushy bitch."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Crissy Nyland!"

"I'll talk to you any way I want! We wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for you and that pig of a husband of yours talking our guys into joining his stupid scheme. We ended up with nothing. Now we don't even have our men."

Sarah sniffed. “Not much of a loss in your case."

I jumped in before things got out of hand, though in some ways I wouldn't have minded watching a catfight civil war get started. Problem with that, people would get hurt, and odds were I'd be one of the first casualties.

"Ladies, ladies,” I said in the best jolly game show host voice I could muster. “No need to fight. The door is right there. All you have to do is use it. Go find your husbands. Go get your fair share before some well-slut beats you to it."

Six of the women did just that, heading for the door. They were keeping their weapons. I had the feeling that certain guys were very soon going to be trying to talk their way out of primitive vasectomies. Several of the other women were wavering, including Mrs. Geek.

"Looks like your gang is deserting you,” Trub said with a laugh calculated to punch Sarah's buttons. “Probably tired of being bossed around by a pair of incompetent crooks."

"You scar-faced whore,” Sarah snarled, swinging her spear around and launching herself at Trub.

Without thinking I leapt toward Trub to help.

Trub blocked the spear's blade with her artificial hand, the wooden shaft hitting nanolastic with a sharp crack!

I lowered my shoulder to tackle Sarah in the side. One of the women crashed into me first, knocking me down. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her lift the club she carried.

Before I could duck everything went white.

The next thing I knew I was floating in a featureless white capsule. I freaked and tried to throw myself against the side of it. It was like trying to hit something underwater.

Suddenly Tinker Bell appeared in front of me, wings beating in a sparkling blur. “Calm down,” she said. “No need to panic."

"Orchid?” I said uncertainly, pretty sure I recognized the voice.

"That's me. Now take it easy, guy. Everything's all right."

"What about Trub?” I wailed.

"Don't worry about her."

"But they—"

"Really, she'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely.” Orchid crossed her tiny arms before her tiny bosom, looking me over and smiling. “So, my friend, are you having fun yet?"

"Am I—” I shook my head. “Look, can't I go back and help her out? She was pretty outnumbered back there."

"Gotten kind of fond of our Trub, have you?"

"Uh, sure. I guess."

"So what do you think of your Hoop?"

"I haven't seen that much of it, and most of that's been bad spots."

Tinker Bell whirled into Kermit the Frog, who hung there, feet paddling slowly as if treading water. “True. Trub's been taking you on the ‘meet the pukes’ tour. Sorry. But enough about you. What do you think about us?"

I struggled to shift mental gears. “You mean your, uh, species?"

Kermit shrugged. “You could start there."

"But I've only met you."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Pretty sure,” I said uncertainly.

"Interesting.” A tiny clipboard appeared in one of Kermit's flippers, a pencil in the other. He licked the tip of the pencil and made a notation on the clipboard, then regarded me askance. “Any second thoughts about your answer?"

"My brain hurts,” I sighed.

"Points for the Monty Python reference. You may be a lumberjack after all.” With that Kermit vanished, leaving the tiny clipboard hanging in the air. It sprouted a tiny propeller, flew to the side of the capsule, merged with the white stuff, and was gone.

"My brain hurts,” I said again.

"It would be a good idea to sit down, or your butt will too.” Orchid's voice seemed to come from every surface of the capsule.

"Why?” I asked, trying to pull myself into a sitting position.

"Because,” Orchid said.

"Welcome back, kid."

"Back where?” I mumbled, looking around and trying to figure out where the hell I was now. One second I'd been inside that capsule and trying to sit on thin air, the next I was sitting beside Trub. We were perched atop a low hill, surrounded by rolling, unformed white terrain on all sides. In front of me the Hoop narrowed and curved down into the horizon.

"Unused segment about a quarter of the way around from High Vista. I come here sometimes when I need some peace and quiet. I thought you might need a break."

"Thanks.” It was peaceful, white, and silent. It occurred to me that I'd never experienced quiet like this back in the city. There was always some sound somewhere: muffled voices; the buzz, whirr, and beep of electronics; distant sirens and engines; the guts of the city rumbling.

I looked Trub over, relieved to see that she appeared unhurt. “You okay?"

"Better than okay."

"You sure?"

A loopy grin. “Oh yeah. I cleaned Sarah's clock and slapped some hurt on a couple of her girls. Sorry to send you away when things were getting interesting, but I didn't want you getting banged up."

"Thanks, I guess."

"No problem.” She gestured toward the ground between us. “I grabbed some brunch on the way here. The mug is coffee. Be careful, it's still hot."

As soon as she mentioned the food and coffee, I started smelling it. There was a woven leaf bowl, a Venusian takeout container filled with what looked like deep-fried fritters. I helped myself to one, took a bite. My mouth filled with the taste of banana and spices.

Trub took a sip of her coffee, smacked her lips. “Yeah, it was definitely worth a detour through Upper Jolta."

"Through where?” I asked, putting down the fritter and picking up my own mug.

"Segment area they call Upper Jolta. Couple things you have to understand about the Hoop. Quite often people end up in a specific segment not on the basis of race or nationality or religion, but because of affinity. Take Jolta. There are people there from Kenya. From Hawaii. From Ethiopia and Turkey, Seattle and Brunei and dozens of other places. The Jolt veers toward total anarchy on a regular basis because they don't agree on politics or religion or social norms or much else. But they share one unifying focus and fixation: that's the breeding, growing, processing, and then the brewing and consuming of the best coffee in the universe."

I took a sip of the hot liquid. My taste buds began singing a hallelujah chorus. “Jeez,” I said hoarsely. “They might just get there."

"I'm sure rooting for them. You saw Rice City. They're into rice like Upper Jolta is into coffee; for them, rice is like a religion. There are two communities turning into wine drinkers’ paradises. One place is building a giant library. There's a town that wants to become the porn capitol of Venus, and another where the main industry is constructing crossword puzzles. These places trade back and forth—once you've been here a while you can get mystery doors to take you certain places, and wells can tell you where to go on the Hoop to find certain things. Centralized and scattered, almost everything people did back on Earth is being done here, with some using the advantages this place offers to take it to the max."

I put down my cup. There seemed to be a hole in her explanation. “That's real nice, but there's something I don't get. Back home the—” I caught myself before I called them Bug Traps. “—transport booths supposedly reject some people. Ones who are too militant, too violent, too criminal, too crazy. So how did people like Poppa Poppy and that preacher, and Sarah and Cyrus make it through?"

"They weren't that bad when they came here.” She spread her arms to take in the unformed terrain around us. “This place offers a fresh start. A place to rebuild your life from scratch, leaving behind a lot of the baggage and limitations that had kept you down. Some folks take that and run with it, but not everybody runs in a straight line."

That made sense. Some people ruined their lives after winning the lottery, or went bad after gaining some position of power.

"So why do, uh, our hosts allow Cyrus and Poppa Poppy to get away with such nasty shit?"

"Are you suggesting that the B'hlug should play Big Brother?” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “I thought you posto types were against that sort of thing."

That made me think, and think hard. A slug of the excellent coffee helped. While I worked that out, Trub helped herself to the food. She ate with gusto. She seemed to do everything with gusto. It occurred to me that she was happy with what she was doing. It was hacker happy; she'd growl and groan, bitch and moan, but she would fling herself into a problem totally, and it was the solving of that problem—no matter how hard—that brought her pleasure. Only she was hacking the Hoop.

"So,” she said after a couple minutes. “Light starting to dawn, kid?"

"Maybe a little. There are regulations, but they're as simple and minimalist as possible. The, ah, B'hlug want to see how we act and behave with as few rules and controls as possible."

"You got it. Take Poppa Poppy. He wants to grow drugs, stay loboto, trade them for what he needs and wants? That's not a good thing, but it's allowed. But trading drugs for kids? Not here. Same for Pastor Pureway—whose real name, by the way, is Dickie Mangle. He wants to create a mean little cult based on lies? He can go for it. People want to join? Hey, it's a free planet, and stupid hasn't been outlawed. They smarten up and want to bail? There's a doorway to someplace else just waiting. There are some fairly nasty places here on the Hoop—affinity runs both ways—but on the whole people are using their new lives here to do some very cool things. It's a decent place."

"Because you help keep it decent. So come on, what are you, really? You're a cop, aren't you?"

"Sometimes I'm a cop, sure. Sometimes a go-between and mediator. A troubleshooter and peacekeeper. Sometimes judge and jury.” She chuckled. “But what I mostly am is busy."

"I see that. How many places are you keeping track of?"

"Hundreds. Sometimes it's individuals, sometimes communities, sometimes whole segments."

"Sounds like a big job. You can't be the only one doing it."

"There are a couple others. We're spread pretty thin."

"I bet.” Considering the sheer size of the Hoop that was something of an understatement, like one cop per borough or one security guard per mall.

Trub drained her coffee, stuffed a couple of the leftovers in her satchel, then stood up. “Ready to get moving?"

"I guess.” I finished off my own coffee and climbed to my feet. “Where are we going next?"

"You'll see."

I peered at her. “Is this whole never giving a straight answer part of your job or just a bad habit?"

She laughed and winked her good eye.

"I'll never tell."

I figured our next stop would be another trouble spot.

I had to wonder why I was getting this crazy tour, from this particular tour guide. Maybe because they had me pegged as a potential troublemaker, and this was their subtle way of warning me what I'd be facing if I got out of line.

I sure didn't want Trub as an adversary.

In fact, I was starting to think of her as a friend.

We arrived someplace where it was really dark. Dark, and much smellier than the inside of Poppa Poppy's crib.

"Lights,” Trub said.

The floor under us began to glow, softly at first, then more brightly. It was more white hoopstuff. The stink reminded me of something, and then there was this low background sound, like—

"We're back on Earth,” I said in surprise. “Right?"

"You're pretty sharp, kid. We're back in the bad old Big Apple."

"So why are we here?” I tried to think of a reason crazy enough to make sense to Trub and the B'hlug. “To get bagels?"

"A nice bagel would be good, but that's not it. Any other ideas?"

I tried to read her scarred face, failed. “I've, um, been rejected for Venus?"

She shook her head. Not that. A relief . . . I guess.

"You . . . you also troubleshoot here?"

That made her laugh. “Hell no! I've got more than enough to keep me occupied back in the Hoop."

"Wait, I've got it! You're trying to confuse me!"

Her smile was kindly, maybe even fond. “Not on purpose. We're here to meet someone.” She raised her voice. “Roberta, you here?"

"All along," said a low husky voice from one of the dark corners.

I watched a vague gray shape materialize from the gloom, take human form, then with a shimmer of nanocamo turn into a New York City cop. A particular cop, the black woman with the spiked yellow hair who had so dogged me in the hours before I ended up in the Bug Trap.

Trub grinned. “How you doing, sistra?"

The cop shrugged. “You know how it is. Win some, lose some. Keep moving and don't look back."

"I hear that. Well, I've got to tell you, you sure know how to pick them."

The cop—Roberta—turned to peer at me like a misparked car. “I admit that he's a pretty ragass specimen, but the pickings are pretty slim."

"Well, I've brought him back to you."

Roberta didn't look overjoyed. “I think I would have preferred some of Lee's rice beer."

"Maybe next time. Besides, there's nothing keeping you from going out and getting your own."

A shrug. “I'm pretty busy, Trub."

I broke into this strange girltalk. I had a lot of questions, but what I'd just heard sorted one in particular to the top of the pile. “You've been out there?"

Roberta nodded. “Yeah."

"And you came back here?"

"Man, can't slip nothing past you, can we?"

Trub laid a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, we shouldn't bust your chops like this. Think of it as an occupational hazard."

"Yeah,” Roberta agreed glumly. “Like getting shot at and shat on.” She shook her head. “If it weren't for the glamour I might just start getting dissatisfied."

Trub faced me squarely, her expression turning serious. “Here's the deal, Glyph. You're being offered a job."

"With the NYPD?” I said uncertainly.

Roberta shook her head. “Somehow I don't see you fitting into dress blues."

"That's good. I don't see me being a cop either."

"Affinity,” Trub said. “I've kept mentioning it, right?"

"More than once."

"Well?"

I tried to figure out what she was getting at. Only one idea came to mind, one that had to be wrong. I wasn't going to just blurt it out, but sneak up on it.

"I ended up following you around to see what your job involves . . ."

An expectant stare. “And?"

"To see if I could do it too?"

"Damn,” Roberta drawled. “He is smarter than he looks. A good thing too."

"Wait a minute,” I said, holding up my hands. “This is crazy. I'm not a cop. I've never been a soldier. I'm a posto!"

Trub shook her head. “You don't need to have worn a uniform. What you need is a sense of right and wrong and a willingness to pitch in when bad stuff seems to be getting the upper hand. An unease with authority. An ability to think fast and talk even faster.” She glanced at Roberta. “The siege of High Vista is over. This guy scammed Cyrus Crook and his merry band of dickheads into going chasing after an imaginary giant wishing well. Things got a bit out of control when he tried to deal with Sarah and her girls, but he done good. My advice, don't play poker with him."

"But things did get out of control,” I protested. “That one woman nearly got me. I'm not strong or tough like either of you. Let's face it, I'm the least macho one here."

"Hey,” Trub said, “we all have limitations. Me, I have to work hard to keep myself from kicking ass first and asking questions later. You, on the other hand, need to work on your head-knocking skills."

"That's where I come in,” Roberta said. “You're going to be my student for a while. I'll teach you basic police skills. Tactics. Self-defense. Weapons and hand-to-hand combat. When I'm done with you there's a chance you might be half as bad as Trub or me. Not much of one, but we'll try."

"I still don't get it,” I said. “Why aren't you on the Hoop working with Trub? Didn't you like it out there?"

The policewoman smiled. “I liked it just fine. It's just I still have work to do down here. Part of that work is helping move along people who ought to find their way out there. I figure working here a few more years, then going up permanently rather than commuting."

Every time I thought I had a handle on the situation it turned to soap in the shower. “Commuting?"

"Sure. I have an apartment in Soho, and a little hideaway in a sparsely inhabited segment. Can you believe it? I get better phone reception in the Hoop than here in Queens."

"So am I going to be here, there, or where?"

"Both,” Trub said. She stuck out her hand. I took it. “I gotta run. See you somewhere down the rabbit hole, right?"

"Uh, sure. Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome.” She called for transport, stepped through the door that appeared, vanished.

"Well, stud,” Roberta said, “you've had one mind-fuck of a day, haven't you? Chased, shot, beamed to the Hoop to hang with Trub, and now dumped on my doorstep."

"I sure have.” Her recap reminded me of the problems that had sent me into the Bug Trap. “What about the Chrome Lords? And your friends on the force? How am I going to hide from them?"

"Won't need to.” She gestured toward the white ring on one finger. I realized that she was wearing one too. “Thanks to the tech in that thing, even your own mother wouldn't recognize you. But you do have to drop that handle."

"Any suggestions? Just don't say kid. Or stud."

"We'll figure out something. One other thing. I think you had better stop with the posto."

I shook my head. “Not happening. In fact . . ."

I pulled out my Rollox, whipped up a quick wordup. Synched it with my dipstick. Pointed that at the nearest wall.

Ka-whuff! It blasted out a cloud of nano-ink, slapping a posto.

The message, in ornate letters a foot high, read: Venus needs YOU and YOU need Venus!

"Well?” I said.

"Needs work,” she said. “Come on, Tonto, we got no end of things to get done."

I nodded and followed the policewoman back out onto the city streets. I fingered the white ring Trub had given me.

Roberta was right. There was more to do than I'd ever guessed, in more places than I'd ever imagined.

I was caught in the Bug Trap for good now.

Copyright © 2010 Stephen L. Burns

Facts are not determined by consensus, but science interacts with people in a complex array of ways.

Salt-sweat dotted my forehead by the time I neared the last demonstrator in line, an old Asian woman with a hand-painted sign that looked too heavy for her. Indeed, her arms shook. The sign said NO SINGLE LARRY TI.

The benefits of globalization: bastardized spelling. I pictured a single white guy named Larry in a ragged t-shirt. I wanted to laugh—needed to laugh—but the look on her face stopped me. Fear was fear, and her thin pale lips and wide dark eyes with fist-sized circles under them screamed quietly. She even smelled like fear: adrenaline-sour sweat mixed with something antiseptic. I smiled at her, my hand brushing her shoulder as I whispered, “It will be all right. We won't eat the Moon."

Her spittle on my hand was warm, and I wiped it quickly on the back of her dirty gray blouse, a reflex. Cameras snapped, catching the back of my hand sliding against her rough shirt. A deep breath enabled me to quell the urge to run from the reporters. I fixed my eyes on the courthouse in front of me, a rounded faux-brick building with open windows that spiraled up its smooth outer surface.

If I looked up at the building I didn't have to meet any reporter's eyes. Ten steps.

I ignored the reporter's buzzing lips, their questions nonsense garbled on nonsense. A deep male voice screamed above the crowd. “Save us, Mary! Recant!"

Twenty steps and then five more. I passed through the line of rainbow-clad UN policemen into near silence. No voices, just the buzz of swarm cams for a few more steps before they, too, gave up.

Inside, I stopped in the women's room and slathered disinfectant crystal on my hands, rubbing the grit into my palms over a low metal sink. Hopefully the spit didn't have any nasty bugs. I splashed tepid water on my face, over and over, sputtering, and then blotted my face with a terry towel.

For the last hour, I'd been worried about getting in at all, but now I was here, and there was no way left to avoid the media circus courtroom. Or to avoid Ken. Or to avoid the death of my professional life. The world was on a deep bender of craziness.

I needed to make the case for science. The already lost case. Me, fifty-something and looking it. Even dressed up in my best gray synth suit, I felt invisible next to the lawyers I'd be dealing with soon. Yes, our side had a lawyer or two or three of our own. Volunteers. The career public defenders of science spitting into the legal wind against a world court where four out of seven members didn't believe in evolution.

I snorted, wondering how they would spell singularity, or even black hole. Not that they needed to. The trial was over already: the media had hung us up on everything from technical details in the original procurement to papers that had come out in Nature in the 2050s.

Dammit. It was doing myself in again. I whispered to the white tile walls. “Don't underestimate yourself.” On that cheerful thought, I liberated myself from the bathroom and headed down the hall.

The round courtroom (routing evil from all corners) smelled like plastic and money. There were more press and cameras than real people. The prosecution side of the aisle was a blur of suits and ties and high heels, all the best fabrics, shiny in the fluorescent lighting. Our side . . . well, my best suit looked all right, but not brand new. Same for our lawyers and the presidents of Stanford and MIT. The scientists on our side looked poor and scruffy. The contrast pissed me off. Not the people, the idea that physics had no money in it, no glory. The days when Brian Greene or Stephen Hawking could fill a major auditorium at a hundred dollars a seat were long behind us. Unlike pharma and genetics and the other sexy sciences, physicists begged for money and dreams.

And now one of their dreams was about to go away, making the last five years of my life a great big zero. Scientists get zero a lot, mind you. But this was just flat-out stupid. I walked down white marble steps, my heels clacking in the near silence. Swarm cams hovered the requisite three feet away from me, humming like summer mosquitoes. Why did they care how I walked down the steps?

Probably hoping I'd hook a heel and fall.

I wanted to be back on the Moon. Now that was a round I believed in.

Jeff Rice from Harvard gave me a thumbs up, looking sheepish and hopeful all at once. He'd had his turn yesterday. Even though I'd heard excellent virtual lectures from him, in this setting, standing in front of people who could kill his career, he'd stuttered. Farther down, Salli Indi bit her lip and watched me silently. She hadn't helped either; the prosecution had used her three marriages against her in a court of science law.

Maybe if I made myself mad enough I'd talk with enough force to be heard.

On the other side of the aisle, standing with the afraid, my ex-husband, Ken. His cowlick was acting up again this morning, the only imperfect thing framing his perfect face. He kept his face turned toward the bench, but I knew he knew I was looking at him. I made myself turn away from his stiff profile.

I snuck into my place beside our best lawyer, an older man named Jerry King. He leaned over close to me, his breath smelling like stale coffee. “Glad you made it."

I stepped a little away from him, needing air. “Me too. It's a gauntlet out there."

He nodded his head sagely. “Most of them are getting paid, you know. By the Preservers."

Maybe. But not the woman who'd spit on me. “I think they've been scared enough to demonstrate without money. The politics of fear and all that."

Before Jerry could answer me, the bailiff called out. “All rise."

We rose.

Seven judges filed in. Three men and four women. The women were two Americans and an Italian; the men were a Russian, a Venezuelan, an Aussie, and a Moonite. They wore rainbow robes. One of the Americans, Julie Ray, was chief justice this year. It wasn't earned, it just passed from justice to justice, and Justice Ray's experience was marketing. Marketing law.

The justices sat, folding their hands in their lap, looking important.

Screens around the room sprang to life. Behind the judges, looking right at us, smiling as soon as they saw they were live, the assembled UN support team. Africans, East Indians, Pakistanis, Chinese, and two monks from restored Tibet. People who shouldn't hate science. Behind me, even though I didn't—wouldn't—turn to look, the pay-per-view cams from all the major networks stared down at the back of my neck, and behind the cameras, the eyes of many thousands of scared people.

The bailiff called out, “Please be seated. The Court of All the Worlds is now in session."

Justice Ray turned to Jerry. “You have one more witness to call."

Jerry stood. “The defense calls Dr. Mary Johnson."

The windy breath of tiny cameras followed me as close to the witness box as the law allowed, then hovered ten feet from me. I looked at the black hooded eyes of big cameras and wondered if getting sick to my stomach was an option. After the bailiff swore me in, Jerry came up and stood on the far side of me, so the judges would all have a clear view of my face.

No jury of my peers at this level. Just the damned media.

I looked above my head at the multicolored flags of nations hanging from the ceiling, and looked back at the UN support team. The flags should be a promise to promote diversity; they seemed to beg for unity.

We started out with my credentials (undergrad at Stanford, Masters and PhD from MIT), my experience with the project (doctorate based on Large Hadron Collider experiments, managing scientist for the Moon Ring for the last five years, associated with the project from the first grant in ‘52), and my reputation (stellar—except for one failed marriage). I didn't look at Ken when Jerry brought that out. Surely he knew we'd have to bring it up after what his side had done to poor Salli.

Better to bring up your soft spots than let the prosecution do it.

When Jerry talked about Ken and me, I couldn't look at Ken. If I did, he'd know I still missed him. Hell, I still cried sometimes after I saw him at a conference. But not now. Not today.

I took a deep breath and refocused. I was here to defend science, not myself. I remembered the woman who'd spit on me, the way her dark eyes had been further blackened by fear. Science shouldn't scare people. Damned corporations and money machines and dependent press. Damned religious nuts that hated science since sea level rose, and blamed godlessness for the whole thing. Easier. That way, it wasn't our fault, anyone's fault. Fuckers probably read Machiavelli. I better not even think words like that—no swearing on the stand.

Jerry's voice cut in. “Do you remember what happened when the Large Hadron Collider was brought up in 2008?"

I nodded. “Yes. I was at Stanford then."

"Can you tell us?"

"There were a lot of people who wrote about how it might make miniature black holes."

"And did it, in fact, make miniature black holes?"

"No."

Jerry shifted slightly on his feet, painting his face bored even though I was close enough to see how the little muscles behind his jaw jumped. “How many years did the Large Hadron Collider operate without making any black holes?"

"Twenty-five.” I swallowed. “Twenty-five years and three months."

"In that time, did you see any evidence"—his voice rose—"any evidence at all that the Large Hadron Collider manufactured any black holes?"

Ken had come home one day, halfway into the demise of our marriage, excited about experimental results that showed a nanosecond time lapse between a collision and its results, a tiny flash of photons that might have been, maybe, the briefest flaring of an event horizon, given life for less than the millisecond delay. I'd told him it wasn't enough then. If I hadn't believed him then, I couldn't say I believed him now. Besides, I didn't. If the results ever again showed even the tiniest tear in space-time, I didn't see them. Science has to be repeatable.

Ken's head snapped up and he looked angrily at me.

Of course, he hated the media, too. Even when physicists fight, colleague on colleague, we stop and join in hatred against the media and their scare tactics. The media wars couldn't be won. We didn't have any territory on the nets anymore except inside the closed land of the universities. I looked directly at the cameras and smiled reassuringly. “No. No, I never saw any evidence of the creation of black holes."

"So in your expert opinion, the Earth is in no danger from the Moon Ring?"

I looked directly at the justices. “No, it is not."

Julie Ray stared right back at me, deadpan, all except her eyes, where I swear I saw the ghost of compassion. Why? Because she knew I was telling the truth?

A small smile crossed Jerry's face. “Are you the one scientist who's spent the most active time working with colliders?"

I had to think about that for two breaths. “Yes, I am."

"And you believe we're safe?"

A shrill voice from the other side. “Objection! Leading the witness."

Justice Ray sighed. “Sustained."

Jerry switched tactics. “Do you believe there is any risk associated with the Moon Ring?"

I cleared my throat. We'd planned this as the most open question. No one objected, so I stood as straight as I could. “All science has some risk. Being human has some risk. We would never have gone to the Moon without risk, never have set up low-g manufacturing or medical labs there, never have built the solar arrays that now power the world.” Subtext—we'd have all drowned from runaway global warming without ready clean energy. But it wasn't okay to talk about climate change. “The occasional, real risk has kept our species alive."

A different voice from the other side. Ramona Stutzhaven, the queen of German law, wholly owned by the drug companies, here to keep money away from us and flowing toward pharma. “Objection! Irrelevant."

Justice Ray again. “Sustained.” I didn't see any compassion in her eyes anymore.

Jerry was too smooth to show his irritation. “And as a scientist, you believe that some risk is necessary for the human race to evolve?"

Objected to, of course, and sustained, this time before I could do more than nod and smile gently. Ramona would say risk was necessary if this was about medical trials. Stupid two-faced world.

Jerry still didn't seem to mind. “I rest my case.” He leaned in close to me, his voice low. “Good job. Hold up on cross. Don't give in."

Justice Ray nodded to the prosecution. “You may cross-examine the witness."

Ramona walked over, clouded by cams, head high, blond hair pulled back in a severe bun, little diamonds glittering in her ears. No wrinkles on her face or her clothes. Bitch. Not for that—for what she was about to do to me. She stood where Jerry had just been, smiling sweetly. She even leaned in and smiled at me, and like Jerry, she said, “Good job."

She didn't mean it.

She smiled again, pointing her white teeth at the cameras, and when she spoke she sounded like the earnest girl next door. “Dr. Johnson, can you tell me if it is theoretically possible to create miniature black holes from high-speed particle collisions?"

Jeff Rice had stuttered his way through that yesterday. I gave his answer, thankfully without the stutter. “Some scientists believe it is possible, but not probable."

"And if a black hole is created?"

"It will probably wink into existence for a short time and disappear."

"Is it theoretically possible that it will not disappear?"

I breathed out. Held it. Took a slow breath in. “Only at the far edges of theory."

"And if it doesn't disappear? If it continues to live and grow?"

"It is highly unlikely—less likely than winning a lottery ticket."

"But people do win lottery tickets,” she mused, pacing half-circles around me now, glancing sideway at the audience and the cameras from time to time. “If people win lottery tickets, perhaps you will also succeed and make a black hole."

I didn't think so. Ramona paced past me two more times, heels clicking on the hard floor. Just as Justice Ray straightened and took in a deep breath, Ramona's voice lashed at me. “You didn't answer my question. What will happen if a black hole is created in the Moon Ring and it doesn't disappear? Could it begin to absorb the mass of the Moon?"

We'd never seen a black hole. None of us. Except maybe with telescopes lurking at the middle of galaxies. “That's science fiction."

"But theoretically possible?"

I was doing myself in. I gritted my teeth and plowed forward anyway. “It isn't likely."

"Isn't science about the unlikely, the theories?"

It went on like that. When we were done, Jeff had stuttered, Salli had been destroyed, and I'd utterly failed to keep the anger out of my voice. Great. That was the way to reassure the populace. And the judges would almost certainly vote however the media polls told them to.

I hadn't been good enough.

It was only one in the afternoon when Judge Julie called a final recess, telling us to re-assemble in the courtroom in three hours for a verdict.

I came off the edge of the dais, stepping carefully, keeping my head down. Ken. I stepped back and tried to go around him, nearly falling back onto the stage.

He pulled me in to him like a familiar pet. I hated it that he still knew how, but this time when I contemplated bolting, I noticed a bank of swarm cams nearing us. Hell, since the verdict was assured, why not watch some of the human drama? I stood straighter and smiled sweetly at him. If Ramona could smile before she skewered me, I could smile for the press. “Hi, Ken. You guys made a good argument."

He nodded, his facial features carefully controlled. “But I'm not sure we won."

Trust him to be gallant. “I'm sure your side will prevail. The media polls have you ahead 10 percent."

He smiled and leaned in closer. “The chief justice's daughter is a scientist."

Maybe that explained the compassion I'd glimpsed. “She's one of seven."

"Two. The other American always votes with her. So if you convinced two more?"

"I still think you're in fantasyland.” His hand sat easily at my waist. He smelled clean, like unscented soap. He used to keep his own bar of unscented soap in the shower, and if he was out, he wouldn't use my lavender soap. Now who was in fantasyland? “What can I do for you, Ken?"

He pressed a fat capsule into my hand, carefully, hiding it from the swarms. “Just remember how we used to work together in the past."

I almost dropped it. The capsule was the right size, a little over two inches long, more than one deep, and a little heavier than I remembered. Back when he'd first shown me the lost nanosecond, we'd both been afraid for a few months. We'd carried these: vials of negative mass, sealed in Penning traps. He'd worked on it as a graduate student in the ‘40s, and he must still have access. God alone knew how. Not that I believed in God.

The only thing we had been able to think of that might destroy a microscopic black hole: feed it some negative mass so the forming singularity would be neutralized.

Maybe we'd live. No one had thrown negative mass at a singularity, because no one could make a singularity to throw anything at. But if we did, we'd have it. Funny safety valve for scientists.

He whispered in my ear. “Take it to the Moon with you."

I closed my eyes, my heart thumping in my chest like it had so many years ago. It had faded and gone away, this fear. It had gone so far away I was willing to testify on national media streams. Damn him. I'd outgrown this, gone beyond it. It had never happened again. No more bad results, no lost milliseconds, no black hole bogeys under the bed. Just physics and acceptable levels of risk.

Just adult things.

I let my eyes meet his for the first time, looking for what he saw. He saw the young scientist afraid she'd blow up the whole world but bravely moving forward. I'd lost the fear. I'd lost myself. The words came out broken and stuttering. “Th . . . thank you."

He leaned down and kissed me hard enough to call up strings of excitement in my belly. String theory. Physics jokes between lovers. I almost laughed. I needed to laugh, but I couldn't, not here, not now.

Even though I'd gone beyond him, I pocketed the capsule and returned to my seat, to the good guy's side of the aisle.

I felt awkward in small talk to my colleagues. I felt so uneasy all the way through lunch with Jerry and Salli and Jeff and the CEOs that I completely missed it when Salli told me I'd done well. She had to repeat herself, like a strengthening echo before I realized she'd been talking to me. I should have been hungry, but everything tasted like crackers or mashed potatoes in need of salt.

I gave up and excused myself, returning early to the round Hall of Justice, feeling small and out of place.

The twenty minutes before the next person came in took forever. I stared at the walls, slowly exhaling the smell and feel of Ken. This was why I left him: He scared me. Beside him, the world was always one breath away from dying.

Control returned, followed by the press and the rest of the audience.

Jerry smiled as he sat by me, looking brave in the face of likely disaster. The windows had been opened against the afternoon, and a soft warm breeze made the flags flutter, giving me a faint feeling of hope.

The bailiff called out, “All rise."

We rose.

The judges filed in.

Three women and four men. Six countries. The minority opinion always went first. I realized I'd stopped breathing and dragged in a deep lungful of stale air, hot from the midday sun.

"We, Venezuela and Russia, find the prosecution right."

Oh my god. Right. The minority found the prosecution right. Oh my god. I sat up, trying to keep the triumph from smearing itself across my face in a great big smile. The cams. Have to be patient for the cams.

I glanced over at Ken and patted my pocket. This time I didn't stutter, I just mouthed, “Thank you."

He nodded, the cowlick visible in all its glory from here. My ex-husband, the scared little boy, sitting on the side of the afraid. But I'd take some of his fear with me. A good scientist remembered the risks, and the old women with fear in their eyes.

Copyright © 2010 Brenda Cooper

Special thanks to John Cramer.

I was tempted to start this article with a joke. After all, that's conventional speech-writing advice. A few years ago, I heard Al Gore give a keynote address to a group of scientists. “I'm Al Gore,” he began. “I used to be the next President of the United States.” It's a great opener because it not only allows his audience to settle into the upcoming speech, but it also gives them permission to relax.

But this article is about humor. And humor is a serious matter.

"The humorous story is told gravely,” Mark Twain once wrote.1 “[T]he teller does his best to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it."

Humor is also notoriously difficult to define. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart might as well have been writing about it in his famous line (about pornography): “I know it when I see it."2 Some magazine guidelines, in fact, use almost precisely those words.

And, sadly, humor is underappreciated. My mother, a retired playwright and drama teacher, often complains that the Academy Awards are biased in favor of scenery-chewing drama. So too, I suspect are literary awards. If you get it right, humor looks so easy nobody sees the effort that went into it. Not to mention that the Holy Grail of literature is the Great American Novel (or space trilogy). Laughter is just a throwaway.

Laugh Tracks and Monologues

Beginning writers tend to confuse humor with gags. That's because most of us are steeped in sitcoms and late-night television monologues. These work well enough in their native environments, but for fiction writers they tend to teach two bad habits. One is to confuse a string of one-liners with a story. The other is to make us expect the equivalent of a laugh track to underscore the jokes, so nobody misses them.

The best literary humor has more faith in the reader. Again, let's look at Mark Twain, contrasting his brand of humor with what he calls the “comic” story (i.e., gag, or sitcom):

[T]he teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the “nub” of it and glance around from face to face, collecting applause, and then repeat it again.

Twain minced no words on what he thought of this type of comedy. “It is a pathetic thing to see."3

So now we have a few rules from the greatest American humorist of all time on how not to do it:

1. Don't just write a string of gags. Even a shaggy-dog tale (a long, pointlessly detailed narrative, typically ending in a pun) is, at core, a story.

2. No laugh track. And before you say, well, sure, you can't do that in print, anyway, think again. Having characters laugh, roll their eyes, or otherwise highlight a joke is the same thing. I have used this technique precisely once, and hated doing it at the time. The story, “Spludge” (Analog, September 2010) involved a visitation by archetypal little, green aliens:

By this time, little green women, equally Mayan in their Earth-mother attributes, had decanted from an honest-to-goodness flying saucer on the White House lawn. Maybe they were drawn by the color of the grass. There certainly wasn't any reason William could see for them to be attracted to the current president.
Still, it was the President's job to greet them, and if he wanted to be reelected, hiding in the situation room wasn't going to do it. So, to the obvious dismay of his Secret Service contingent, he too was on the lawn, trying not to stare.
One of the little green women raised a four-fingered hand in an odd V-pattern. “Take me to your leader,” she said. “Nano-nano. Live long and perspire.”
William spurted coffee across the room, but the president didn't get it. “Uh, you too,” he said, plummeting a couple of points in the polls with each word. “I think. Whatever you say."

I really didn't want to use the line about the spurting coffee. Readers over a certain age didn't need it. But the references to Star Trek and Mork and Mindy were thirty-plus years old, and it was critical for the reader to recognize that the aliens were pranksters. So I disguised the laugh-track-style signaling in a disparaging remark about the president. But in this case it was because the plot absolutely required the readers to recognize that the aliens were making a joke, and not to tell people, ba-ba-boom, it was time to laugh.

Another aspect of William's story is that it runs counter to prevailing trends in non-humorous science fiction: although William is the viewpoint character, the story is told in a very detached point of view. Parts of it, in fact, are in an omniscient author voice: William has no way to know, at the time, that the president is falling in the polls with each word.

Writing the story, I struggled with this. Analog readers are used to relatively tight POV, and I didn't want to be distracting by doing something too out of the ordinary. But one of the best ways of writing humor is to have an outside observer—an Everyman type who is free to see things that people living too deeply in the story can't see—and that often works best with an authorial voice not too strongly limited by any given character.

Not that this means you can't write humor in tighter POV, especially in first person, where you're setting the narrator up as the observer. It's an approach that was used quite effectively, for example, by Jean Shepherd, author and narrator of the now-classic movie, “A Christmas Story."

Story Elements

Humorous science fiction stories are composed of three basic elements: story, prose, and science fiction.

The story is the framework. It's like any other story, with character, setting, conflict, and resolution. But to make people laugh, you need more than a humorous situation. You also need timing. And the key to that lies in the prose. Let's look at a simple, mainstream joke:

A priest, a rabbi, and a Presbyterian minister are sitting in a rowboat. Unfortunately, the fish aren't biting and the morning is cold.
"I wish we'd thought to bring coffee,” the Presbyterian says.
"No problem,” says the priest. “I've got a thermos in my car.” So he stands up, steps carefully out of the boat, and walks across the water to shore. A couple of minutes later, he's on his way back.
"Nice,” says the rabbi. “But you forgot the cream and sugar.”
"Oh, drat,” says the priest, starting to turn back.
"No, no,” says the rabbi. “I'll get it.” So he walks across the water, rummages a bit in his car, and is back a minute or two later. “Hope you don't mind Sweet ‘n Low. That's all I've got.”
"No problem,” says the Presbyterian. But what he's thinking is holy cow. And his honor is now on the line because he wants to prove his faith is as strong as his friends'. “What we really need are some donuts. I've got a box in my car.” So he gets up, steps overboard . . . and sinks like a stone.
The rabbi and the priest stare after him for a moment. “You know,” the priest says, “we really ought to tell Larry about those stepping-stones."

Is it funny? That probably depends on whether you've heard it before. But either way, we can draw a few lessons.

1. Often, the best humor is character-driven. We sympathize with the third cleric, whose mistake stems from a very human desire not to be outdone by his friends. A lot of the best humor comes from laughing with someone, not at them. That's why, in nonfiction, first-person essays often work quite well: the author is telling the reader it's okay to laugh.

2. More subtly, I as the writer sympathize with him. The reader may not pick that up directly, but it doesn't matter. I'm a Presbyterian. That's why Larry's also one. I'm picking on my own kind, and even if nobody else can possibly know, it will temper my prose.

3. Humor often works best in triplets. It's kind of like the countdown for a race. “Ready . . . set . . . GO!” Here we have a triplet in the opening line, then more in the basic structure. Three clerics. Three attempts to go to shore. There's even a triplet in the priest's initial actions: “He stands up, steps carefully out of the boat, and walks across the water to shore."

If you look at other types of art, you'll find that triplets and trios are very common. Visual art is often strongest with a triangular layout of the primary points of interest. Straight lines pull you out of the frame, breaking the spell, but a trio of points form a triangle that causes the eye to circle it, staying in the frame. Four points of interest, on the other hand, feel artificial: forming a box. Something similar happens in writing, and in humor it's critical for the writing not to get in the way.

4. Details are critical. They provide the rhythms of prose . . . the pauses and surges that produce the needed timing. Too many and you've created a shaggy dog. Too few, and the story feels rushed, making the humor fall flat.

Again consider the stepping-stone story again. I could have stripped it to bare bones:

A priest, a rabbi, and a minister are in a rowboat. They want coffee, so the priest gets out and walks across the water to shore.

"Nice,” says the rabbi. “But you forgot the cream and sugar.” So he walks across the shore to get some.

"What we really need are donuts,” says the minister. So he gets up, steps overboard . . . and sinks like a stone.

"You know,” the priest says, “someday we really ought to tell Larry about those stepping-stones."

It's the same joke, but it's lost its punch.

Timing is everything, whether you're a standup comic, an actor, or a writer. Mark Twain referred to it as pausing. “The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story,” he wrote, “and a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the right length—no more and no less—or it fails of its purpose and makes trouble. If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, and [if it is too long] the audience has had time to divine that a surprise is intended—and then you can't surprise them, of course."

I ran into something like this in a recently finished short-short (not yet published), called “Multivac's Singularity.” Before submitting, I emailed the draft to a friend and fellow Analog contributor. The response I got back epitomized what you're after in humor. “I was sure I saw the end coming,” she said. “And I did. Aaaand . . . I didn't."

The point is that I set her up to expect one ending . . . gave it to her . . . and then twisted it before she had time to realize the expectation was false. When it prints, you'll find that it looks straightforward, but in the writing I sweated the timing of every word.

Even then, your efforts at timing won't work for everyone. Some readers are irritatingly perceptive. Others have the mental acuity of paving bricks. You cannot write to both at once.

Twain thought there were four major aspects to his type of humor. Two we've already discussed: the “pause” and the storyteller's demeanor—the refusal to even hint that you think the story is funny.

The other two are related. Twain called them “the slurring of the point” and “the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one were thinking aloud.” He was specifically talking about oral humor, but the same applies to any form of the type of dry humor often associated with the British.

How to do this is difficult to describe outside of the context of specific stories, but it was something Twain was very good at. Read him. His prose is a little dated, but if you can figure out what he did and how to do something similar in your own voice, you're on your way. Here's an example, from his essay “Taming the Bicycle” (which in his day was a precarious high-wheeler).

I thought the matter over, and concluded I could do it. So I went down and bought a bicycle. The Expert came home with me to instruct me. We got up a handsome speed, and presently traversed a brick, and I went out over the top of the tiller and landed, head down, on the instructor's back, and saw the machine fluttering in the air between me and the Sun. It was well it came down on us, for that broke the fall, and it was not injured.
Five days later I was carried down to the hospital, and found the Expert doing pretty fairly. In a few more days I was quite sound. I attribute this to my prudence in always dismounting on something soft. Some recommend a feather bed, but I think an Expert is better. [Ellipses omitted]

Converting all of this to science fiction is a bit trickier because humorous science fiction must also be science fiction. Often the science-fictional element requires explanations that can wreck your timing if you're not very, very careful.

Humorist Jim Foreman faced a similar problem a quarter century ago, when he wrote an essay called “Going Tubeless,” about his decision to take a three-month vacation in a place with no HBO. In the original version of the essay, he wrote:4

"During the next six minutes, while good old J. R. Ewing swindled a dozen of his best friends, went to bed with five different women and had Sue Ellen committed to a Betty Ford Center, I plotted how to break the news to the little woman who had promised to love, honor and adjust my vertical hold that I also wanted [to live without TV for a few months]."

The punch line here is the bit about “love, honor, and adjust my vertical hold"—which we'll get to in a minute. His editor, however, was concerned that some readers might not know who “J. R. Ewing” was (unlikely at the time, though today, that name will be lost to history for many younger readers). So the editor tossed in the following explanation of “J.R. Ewing” and “Sue Ellen” into the middle of the sentence: “(starring characters in the CBS series, Dallas, which airs on Friday nights at 8:00 pm in most time zones.)"

Even if you needed the parenthetical to get the joke, by the time you read through all of it, the timing's wrecked and the whole thing's gone clunk.

Worse, today's readers may not know about vertical hold—a control knob on the television that had to be perfectly adjusted or the picture would roll maddeningly upward at an ever-increasing speed, a bit like scrolling a computer screen. Anything from shifting position on the couch to a passing freight train could make the thing go catawampus, and there was no button on the remote control (if you even had one) to fix it. You had to get up, walk to the television, and fiddle with a knob. After which, the mere act of walking back to the couch was apt to send it out of kilter again. In 1980, the line “love, honor and adjust the vertical hold” was quite cute. But if you're under 40, it's pretty much meaningless.

Science fiction has the same problem, only more so: it's chock full of background material that can really interfere with your timing.

Let's go back to our priest joke, but change the setting (and presumably the punch line) by imagining a joke that begins: “So a priest, an ape, and a banana walk into a bar. The banana looks around and says . . ."

Well, I have no idea what it says, and would probably rather not know. But the point is that we know what a banana is. Likewise, for the ape and the priest—and the bar. We know that in the real world bananas don't talk. So those eighteen simple words carry a world of context.

In science fiction, we're inherently unsure. The equivalent joke might start: “So a quark mechanic, a chlulxchat, and a ring nut snap into a hubmote. The chlulxchat tachypeeps around and emits . . ."

By the time we've explained even half of that, the joke's DOA.

So how do we get around that?

One way is to start the story in as mundane a setting as possible. That's what Douglas Adams did in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. At the beginning, Arthur Dent is faced with the very understandable problem of a construction crew wanting to build a freeway bypass through his house. By the time the Vogon Constructors are doing the same thing to the entire Earth, for an interstellar shunt, we are totally on board for what will follow.

I've used the same trick myself. “A Plutoid By Any Other Name” (Analog, September 2007) begins with a university memo on the political correctness of planet and dwarf-planet classifications . . . and ends with the Milky Way being downgraded to a backwater. Similarly, “Nigerian Scam” (Analog, October 2006), opens with a bored young man trying to get back at a spammer and moves on to a weightless cat drifting on the breeze, plus an alien invasion.

As I look back on my science-fictional humor, I realize that all of it's followed that formula: introducing a character in a seemingly normal environment, then making the environment weirder and weirder. What can I say? It works. The mundane start allows the reader to identify with the character, and the evolving weirdness allows the reader to experience the science-fictional developments along with him or her, reducing the need for backfill.

Also useful is to make the protagonist an outsider. That's helpful in any humor context, but particularly useful in science fiction because the outsider's voice can be both inherently humorous and a good source of material that would otherwise have to be done by flashback. That outsiderness was another part of Douglas Adams’ success, in the deft pairing of Arthur Dent and the guidebook itself. The guidebook was an outsider's view of everything it described, including us “mostly harmless” humans. Dent was an outsider to everything he saw off-Earth. What this allowed Adams to do was to step back and wryly comment on anything and everything.

Connie Willis does something similar in her science-fictional humor, although the structure is more subtle. One of her trademarks is the screwball comedy, in which characters often talk at cross-purposes, with the meaning being quite different to most of the characters and the reader (and possibly the protagonist). What she does in these stories is to subtly set up the reader as the outsider, privileged to sit at a distance, watching the ensuing misunderstandings. She enhances this by very carefully choosing the narrative style: picking a single point of view, but choosing just the right narrative distance. Too close a point of view, and we're too caught up in the protagonist's inner workings, not free to make our own observations as readers. Too distant and we're not as likely to care about the characters.

If all of this sounds like a lot of work, it is. And you'd better appreciate the work as its own reward, because if you do it right, very few people will appreciate the effort that went into it. They'll just laugh, and say, “Wow, that was fun."

And if you do it right, that is exactly how you want them to react.

Copyright © 2010 Richard A. Lovett

1 “How to Tell a Story,” from How to Tell a Story and Other Essays (1899), en.wikisource.org/wiki/HowtoTellaStory.

2 Jacobellis v. Ohio, 378 U.S. 184 (1964).

3 “How to Tell a Story,” supra.

4 From his online book How to Write Humor (2002, www.jimforeman.com).

People like having more options, but they do make things more complicated!

The last time I saw Ginger, she was sporting two breasts instead of three. Personally, I thought her breasts were perfect before, but I know that with some guys you could never have too much of a good thing.

When I stepped out of the shower, she was sitting there on the edge of my bed, decked out in a silky red number with a slit up the side that showed plenty of her long legs and a plunging neckline that definitely revealed too much of a good thing. Steam wafted out from the bathroom and rose from my bare skin. I was naked except for the towel around my waist. Outside my tinted floor-to-ceiling window, a constant swarm of Versatian hoverpods hummed and whizzed past, everybody in a hurry to get somewhere on a planet where everybody supposedly came so they didn't have to hurry.

"I need your help,” she said.

No hello. No how have you been. No sorry for breaking your heart, emptying your credit account, and taking off with your ship and your entire twentieth-century holodisc collection. The last time I saw her, I was stepping into a shower. Now, five years later, I stepped out of one and there she was.

"You have a strange sense of irony,” I said.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. How'd you get in here?"

She shrugged. “Bribed the desk clerk. I'm pretty sure he thought I was a hooker."

"You are a hooker,” I said.

She made a tsk-tsk sound. “That was another life. I'm a respectable woman now—married to one of the richest stepdock manufacturers in the known universe. And you can kindly stop staring at my breasts, thank you very much. It's not that uncommon."

"Sorry. You know, I am working here. I didn't ask for you to barge in on me."

"You're working? In a place like this?"

"I'm checking the security system for the hotel."

"Ah,” she said, and waved her hand dismissively. “Since when does Dexter Duff stoop to grunt work like that?"

"A lot of things have changed since you ran out on me, Ginger."

She made a pouty face, sticking out her lower lip and making her eyes wide. In the old days, I found that look irresistible. Now it just looked childish, which was probably what it was all along. “Oh, dear,” she said, “you sound bitter. I was hoping that was all water over the bridge."

"Under the bridge,” I said.

"Whatever. Look, if you want to take me to bed, let's do it, and then we'll get all the tension out of the air."

"You just said you were married!"

She shrugged. “It's not like he'd care. He doesn't care about anything any more. That's part of the problem."

"Oh, I feel so sorry for you. Let me get you a Repsiter harp and you can earn some tokens down on the tramspace."

She sighed and stood, smoothing out her dress. “Look, are we going to do it or not?"

"I'd rather lay down with a pair of blood-sucking Mornala tree worms. At least they have some emotions, even if it's just fear and no-fear. That's more than I can say for you."

"I bet if you drop that towel,” she said, “we'd find out you really think otherwise. There's some things a man can't hide."

I snorted derisively and headed for the built-ins, the drawers sliding out of the wall before I got there. The tile floor felt cold against my bare feet. I dressed quickly, mostly because I was afraid my body was going to betray me despite my best intentions. My towel slid off before I'd managed to get my pants all the way on, giving her a damn good view of everything I had to offer. Or didn't.

"God, what happened to you?” she said.

It took me a moment to realize she meant the scars. “You know my line of work, Ginger."

"Yeah, but you never looked like that back then."

I slipped the shirt over my head and straightened the collar. “I was younger back then. These days, I don't always manage to duck when I should be ducking or dodge when I should be dodging."

"Maybe you should get into another line of work,” she said.

"Maybe you slither back under whatever rock you came out from under,” I replied.

I glared at her. She looked back with her practiced look of placid bemusement, like she was humoring a small child. Still glaring at her, I hand-printed the safe next to my bed, pulled out on my laser pistol, and checked to make sure it was fully charged. It was. Then I checked to see if her expression had changed upon seeing me holding a weapon. She still looked at me like I was a two-year-old. I slipped on my shoulder holster and placed the pistol in it, then donned my leather jacket and my boots. Only when I started toward the outside door did she finally speak up.

"All right,” she said, “I'll tell you what I want."

I stopped, not yet turning around. “You know, no matter what you tell me, I'm not going to help you."

"Even if I paid you?"

"Especially if you paid me."

"Even if I paid you an awful lot?"

"Even . . . Even then."

My hesitation had only been for a second, long enough to think about the sad state of my credit account and all the freeze-dried food cubes that had served as meals the past few months, a moment of weakness that lasted no longer than a blink of an eye, but she sensed it like a spider senses a twitch in its web.

"Darling,” she said, her heels clicking on the tile floor, her voice drawing nearer, “you do understand that I am a very rich woman now. I can afford to pay you ten times your normal fee."

"I wouldn't do it for twenty."

"Then I guess I better make it twenty-five."

I had no idea what she wanted me to do, or whether I'd be willing to do it once I found out what it was, but even a small job would have to be a lot of money. I'd been trying to get my act together for quite a while, and there was always something that set me back. Usually that something involved a trip to a medical ward. This could have finally gotten me my own ship. Maybe even a couple of robots to take care of the small stuff.

She touched me on the shoulder. I tensed.

"Duff,” she whispered, “was it really all that bad?"

"Yes, Ginger, it was."

"All of it?"

I thought about it. There'd been other women after Ginger, some who'd broken my heart just as badly—for some reason, it was a recurring problem—but she had been the first, the one who'd made me afraid to ever let my guard down again. “If you stayed up all night reading a multivid,” I said, “but the ending was so horrible that you threw the vid across the room, do you remember that the vid was good enough to keep you screening until that point? Or do you just remember how you felt at the end?"

"Hmm,” she said, a bit of a purr in her voice, “I was never one for reading. I always liked my pleasures a little more . . . real."

When she said his, she ran her hand up my inner thigh. It would have been easy to give in, but there was no way I was going to let her get the upper hand with me, and I knew if we got anywhere near the bed she would definitely have the upper hand. She'd been a AAA sex professional, after all, certified by all the top prostitution boards and trained by the Sisters of Desire, the masters of erotic pleasure on New Saturn who only took in sixty-nine pupils each year.

I spun around and grabbed her shoulders. “Stop it,” I said. “You're not doing this to me again."

"Ow, darling, you're hurting me."

My fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her arms, but I didn't loosen my grip. We stood close enough that I saw the flecks of gold in her emerald eyes, something new, something else she'd done to herself since we'd been together. We stood close enough that her breath was hot on my face. My heart was pounding.

"Listen,” I said, “if I do anything for you, it will be purely for money, got it? I don't want you mentioning our past again. It's just business. We've never met. I'm just Dexter Duff, private investigator. You understand? Am I getting through that thick skull of yours, darling?"

She blinked up at me. “So you're saying you'll do it?"

I sighed. Same old Ginger. You could talk and talk but she always picked out what she wanted to hear. If I ended up working for her, I knew what I was getting into. She was a liar and a cheat and she was good at getting people to do what she wanted even when they knew what she was.

"I'll listen,” I said, but I felt like I'd already agreed.

The tramspace was always crowded in the morning, but I was in no mood to travel any farther with Ginger than necessary. A flurry of hoverpods docked and departed all around the giant transparent tunnel, a quarter mile across. The main concourse was filled with every life form and non-life form imaginable—humans, Dulnari, Hasians, and plenty of four-armed Veratians in their spiffy white uniforms directing tourists to different excursions, not to mention all the robots and androids carrying people's bags. Beneath the invisible walkway—it was like we were all walking on air—dozens of massive white cruise ships floated in the sleek emerald waters of the Versatia's famous ocean.

We were lucky, and found a table at a bistro not far from the transport tube. The smell of coffee and toasted bagels made my stomach grumble.

"It all started when—” Ginger began.

I held up a hand. “Not until I get my coffee."

When were finally seated at a corner table, in a glass bubble overlooking the ocean, I kept her waiting until I'd buttered my bagel and put cream in my coffee. She clicked her fingernails on the shiny black countertop.

"All right,” I said.

"Really? I have your permission to speak now?"

"Don't push your luck, kid."

She smiled. “Kid? You haven't called me that since you met me on the asteroid mining outfit where you stopped for repairs."

"Should have left you there, too. Those miners have probably really missed your services."

She made a clicking sound of displeasure with her tongue. “Now, now. All right, so where do I start? I assume you know that my husband is Vergon Daughn—"

That made me pause mid-bite into my bagel. “Vergon? Of Vergon Enterprises?"

She sighed. “Don't you follow the news at all? My wedding four months ago was all over the vids. Yes, that Vergon. He built a fledgling stepdock company a decade ago into a massive corporation employing over a million people on thirty-three different planets."

She was right that I didn't follow the news much, but I did know a little about Vergon Daughn. When she'd mentioned being married to one of the richest stepdock manufacturers in the known universe, he definitely wasn't who had come to mind—for one specific reason. “Um,” I began, “isn't he . . . an android?"

"That's right,” she said.

"You're telling me you married an android?"

"Uh-huh. I wasn't the one who liberated him and paid for his humanizing—some old bag who'd owned him did it before she died. But I definitely saw a good thing and went after him. Honestly, he didn't stand a chance when I came along. He proposed within six weeks."

I stared at her a long time, soaking all this in. My main complaint about Ginger had always been that she wasn't born with the same set of emotions as other human beings—like the ability to empathize with someone other than herself—and here she went and married somebody who didn't have emotions at all. Oh, androids could fake them, and some faked them so well that they could pass for human unless they walked under a bio scanner—but it was all an act. It was why, according to the laws of the Unity Worlds, even a liberated android still didn't possess the full rights of a biological sentient—or biosen, for short. They would always be considered property. Now property could have a lot of rights, just like intergalactic corporations were property but still had plenty of rights, but it wasn't the same.

Of course, there were lots of bleeding hearts of every race and planet who argued that liberated androids should be granted the same rights as biosens, but so far the law had been firm. Mostly this was because it was backed by hard science: androids may have been some of the most sophisticated machines every devised, but they were still machines.

Finally, I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?” she said.

"You wouldn't understand,” I said.

She offered up her trademark pout. “It's not like I'm some lonely heart who bought an android to be my lover. He's liberated and humanized—he could have chosen anyone, and believe me, he had plenty of women after him. It was love at first light."

"First sight."

She frowned. “If you understand what I'm saying, why do you always have to correct me? It's one of the things that always irritated me about you."

"If you're irritated,” I said tersely, “you're welcome to leave at any time."

"Oh, no. No, darling. I'm sorry . . . It's just this whole thing has me so upset. Forgive me, okay? I just didn't get all the schooling you did. I've had to teach myself—after you taught me a lot of things, that is.” She sighed. “Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, it was love at first sight. But then Vergon went and screwed things up by becoming human."

I was lifting the coffee cup to my lips, and in my surprise, I spilled some on the table. “What?"

"Oh, I have your attention now? Right before our wedding, he surprised me by showing up at our rehearsal dinner fully human. He showed himself off to our guests by bringing a handheld bio scanner with him. I was . . . shocked, to say the least. It's called the BIP—Biological Imprinting Procedure. You grow a biosen in the lab, then use microlasers to imprint the same memories and thought patterns as the android."

I mopped up the coffee with one of the paper napkins. I'd heard about the procedure, but the last I knew it was still in the research and development phase. There were also all kinds of ethical issues surrounding it. “Is that procedure now authorized by the Unity Worlds?"

"Of course not,” she said. “It's going to be a lifetime before that happens, if ever. But if you have enough money, you can make things happen. And once he was human, what were they going to do? The bioscans all show him as human, and he made sure to confer all the legal rights on his human body of ownership in Vergon Enterprises just to make sure."

"Why?” I said.

She grimaced. “To please me, of course."

"What?"

"He said he wanted to love me for real. He said—he said—” She stopped, and there were tears brimming in her eyes. “He said I might not know the difference, but he would. He would know that he wasn't feeling it, even if he was showing it."

I wasn't quite sure I bought her sudden display of weepiness. “Seems understandable. Do you blame him?"

"No! I don't blame him. But he's . . . not the same, Duff. You may not believe this, but I loved Vergon the way he was before."

"You're saying the procedure didn't work?"

She took one of my napkins and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, no, it worked,” she said. “It definitely worked. The human Vergon had all of the android Vergon's memories. He'd made the body to look like him, too. At first, he even acted like him. But . . . he started changing. He acted moody all the time. He fell into a deep depression. It hurt his company—it began to go downhill. Then—then we had this awful fight. I told him I wished he'd never done it. I told him I loved him more as android.” She sniffled. “I guess that confirms everything you ever said about me . . . I really am awful deep down."

I resisted the urge to take hold of her hand, and it was a powerful urge. “So what happened?” “He went back to being an android."

"He did?"

She nodded. “He did the procedure in reverse—had another android body made, too, since he'd destroyed the original just to be safe. He made a big speech to the press, saying he'd planned to do it all along, that he wanted to test the laws that limited his rights, but I knew the truth. He was doing it to make me happy."

"So what's the problem?"

She looked up at me, eyes misty. “The problem,” she said, “is that he's gone."

"Gone? As in, dead?"

She shook her head. “I hope he's not dead. Right after he did the procedure and gave a press conference, he vanished. He told his attendants he was going to use the restroom, and they went to look for him, he was gone. It's been almost six weeks."

"An android using the restroom?” I said.

"Yes, the attendants realized later how stupid they were. They'd just gotten used to him being human and forgot."

"Have you hired other investigators?"

"No,” she said, “I'm afraid to."

"Why? With your money, you could hire droves of them. That would increase your odds of finding him."

She shook her head. “You don't understand. I told you his company is going downhill. It's even worse. There's this other corporation, Granger Holdings, that's trying to take it over. Because the stock price is down, they're making a run at it. Without Vergon around to steady some nerves, the stockholders are starting to sell out. The thing is, Granger does exactly what Vergon does—make stepdocks. They just want to eliminate the competition. So if they get control of it, they'll just sell off all the equipment to recoup their loses and then fire all the employees."

"What does this have to do with hiring some private investigators?"

"Because I can't trust anyone!” she insisted. “Already, I'm pretty sure I'm being followed.” She glanced over her shoulder, peering into the hordes of people passing along the concourse.

I didn't see anyone but tourists. “Why?"

"Why! Because they don't want me to find Vergon, that's why. They want to keep the stock price low, and if he shows up, it will probably jump. The shareholders would wait to see what the brilliant Vergon Daughn is going to do. No, I'm afraid whoever I hire will really be working for them. I need somebody I can trust."

"And you trust me?"

She nodded. “Iconic, isn't it?"

"Ironic is the world you're looking for, I think. And yes, it's very ironic."

"Iconic, ironic, whatever is it is, I need your help, Duff. I can't do this without you. I want to find my husband."

I said nothing.

"And if you won't do it for me,” she said, “do it for the million employees of Vergon Enterprises that will lose their jobs. Do it for them. That's why even if he's dead . . .” She hesitated, closing her eyes and steadying herself before continuing. “Even if he's dead, I need to know. At least the company could appoint a new CEO, which the board doesn't want to do until they know for sure he's gone. Maybe then we could still save the company."

It was quite a tale. It would be easy enough to check, so I assumed it was true, but that didn't mean I trusted her motives. But I was curious why a man—correction, an android—like Vergon Daughn would up and disappear, putting in jeopardy all his years of hard work. If nothing else, I could find Vergon just to satisfy that curiosity, and maybe, just maybe, I could end up doing some good while I was at it.

And, of course, get paid really well.

"All right,” I said, “I'll find him for you."

"Oh, good!"

"But I want the money up front."

In the end, it was she who clasped my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Of course, Duff. Whatever you want."

Looking at her, her eyes wide and her lips parting slightly, I remembered her whispering those very words to me late at night between satin sheets. I remembered and tried to put it out of my mind.

Money.

I was doing this for money.

The credit showed up in my account within ten minutes of Ginger passing through the stepdock back to the Vergon Enterprises headquarters on Palfacia Prime. It was twice even the outrageous amount I'd quoted to her, with so many zeroes in the number that I actually brought up the bank on nexlink to verify it wasn't a mistake. Ever after the holorep assured me that the deposit was, indeed, accurate, I still procrastinated for the rest of the day before finally calling up my hotel client and asking him if I could take a hiatus for a couple of weeks for personal reasons, assuring him I'd come back and finish the job. I somewhat hoped he'd say no, but he didn't.

Finally out of excuses, I set to work finding Mr. Vergon Daughn, the android who became a human who became an android.

The first thing I did was get in touch with the biomechanical engineer who performed the human-to-android transference, who, it turned out, was the same one who'd performed the BIP and made Vergon human in the first place—a tall and spindly Dulnari named Bwer Fwer. I tried him on the vid first and was told by a pert blond—so bubbly she had to be an android—that he'd see me that afternoon if I could come to his office.

His clinic, Mind-Body Technologies, was located on one of the oldest and richest planets in the Unity Worlds. It was a gas giant named Jellon with a trillion inhabitants and well over a hundred stepdocks, so there was no need to take a ship or shuttle at any point. But I'd been poor too long to take a direct step, so it still took two hours of hopping across the galaxy and fighting through crowded immigration controls to get to the gleaming black tower that contained his office.

After waiting in his lobby for another two hours, being asked by three different blond android secretaries why I was there, I wasn't in the best of moods when a fourth bubbly blond finally showed me to his office. He was rising from his desk, a dark and wolfish figure with skin like elephant hide. Even in a sharp blue suit and red tie, he still came across as more than a little menacing, but I let loose with all of my built-up irritation anyway.

"If this is how you treat people who have appointments,” I said, “how do you treat everyone else?"

His beady eyes flared briefly, but it was the only outward sign of emotion. Right away I knew he was no ordinary Dulnari, because an ordinary Dulnari would have leapt across the table and gone for my throat at the slightest provocation.

A decade earlier, the Dulnari had been a major threat to the Unity Worlds, in a bloody war that lasted nearly thirty years, and even now there still weren't many of them who held anything but the most mundane jobs. This was partly due to how much the war had set them back as a race, but it was mostly because of the nature of the Dulnari themselves. Because of their telepathic connections to one another, in concert they were incredibly intelligent, but individually they weren't much smarter than low-grade AI floor sweepers. How one could ascend by himself to become a brilliant engineer—one Vergon was willing to risk his life with—was hard to believe.

"Mister Duff,” he said, extending his hand, “I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was conferencing with several senators and they were being quite stubborn about some of my requests."

It was the first time I'd shaken hands with a Dulnari. His four-fingered hand was smaller than my own, but his skin was tougher and thicker. There were lots of folks who still wouldn't shake hands with a Dulnari, veterans of the war or victims of their atrocities, but I didn't fall into either of those camps. The need had simply never arisen.

"It's just Duff,” I said. “I would have been happy to talk to you over the vid, you know."

"Yes, that would have certainly been more convenient,” he said, “but I felt it was necessary to talk to you in person.” He froze for a second, and it was like watching a hiccup in a vid feed. “Yes, yes, quite right. Most unusual."

"I'm sorry?” I said.

"Hmm?"

"What's unusual?"

"What do you mean?"

It was like he didn't know what he'd just said. Some form of schizophrenia or stepdock madness? I'd also never heard a Dulnari speak in such an articulate manner, especially in Unity Worlds Prime. He motioned to one of the two seats across from him. It was then, when he slightly cocked his head to the side, that I noticed something black and electronic behind his ears, tiny lights flashing red and blue.

"You have an implant,” I said.

"Yes,” he said, showing no sign of offense. “The ones I make now are much less crude, completely internal, but mine is now so integrated into my biological processes that it would extremely problematic to remove it."

"Is that why you're . . .” I began, not knowing quite how to phrase the question.

"Smarter than your average individual Dulnari?” he finished for me. “Yes. My implant contains a hundred mature Dulnari intelligences. All AIs, of course, but my mind sees them no differently than the real thing . . . The flaring is quite unusual this time of year."

"Excuse me?"

He blinked a few times. “Hmm?"

"You said something about the flaring being unusual this time of year."

"I did? Oh, yes. The side effects. You see, though the implant gives me the intelligence of a small Dulnari group mind, I have not yet perfected the natural filter process that works with a real group mind. So I may occasionally say things not intended for you. I apologize for this in advance. Please, be seated."

I did, and so did he. The three windows behind him displayed a gorgeous view of the city's skyline, but everything else about the room was absolutely sterile: a desk with a built-in monitor and keyboard, three chairs, and nothing else. Not even a couple of holovids on the walls.

"I never intended to spend much time here,” he explained.

"I'm sorry?” I said.

"This room, I see the way you're looking at it. But I always intended it to be mostly for show. I'm a lab rat, Duff. That's where I'd like to spend most of my time, and where I did spend most of my time until my company was bought out. Then the new owners made certain changes that forced me into more of a . . . diplomatic role.” He said the last two words with a sneer, and for just a moment I thought of the wolf in the Red Riding Hood fairy tale, dressed up in human clothes and pretending to be something he wasn't.

"Hobnobbing with senators, you mean?” I said.

"Exactly. It's dreadfully boring . . . Multivids are on sale in Setifine . . . But you don't care about any of that. Let me tell you why we had to meet in person. When Ginger Daughn first questioned me about all of this, I was absolutely convinced that her husband's disappearance had nothing at all to do with his procedure—or at least, that nothing in his procedure directly caused it. It went perfectly. Every test confirmed it . . . the low-g yoga is best after breakfast . . . If he disappeared, it was either his own choice or because he was abducted, not because there was some defect in the transference that modified his personality.” He shook his head. “Now, I'm not so sure."

His non-sequiturs were annoying, but I was getting better at ignoring them. “What do you mean?"

He clasped his slender hands and leaned his long snout on them, closing his eyes for a moment before answering. “Our equipment has been tampered with."

"What?"

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “It's why I had to have you come here in person. I don't know who to trust . . . The headaches go away in a few days, Kylor tells me."

I pretended he hadn't made the headache comment. “You sound like Ginger,” I said. “She didn't know who to trust either."

"Honestly, I'm not even sure I can trust you, Duff. However, one of the reasons you were kept waiting was that we were performing scans of your responses to our questioning. There is every indication that you are truly here investigating Vergon Daughn's death."

"You gave me a lie detector test?"

He nodded. “Three of them, in fact. I'm sorry about that, but I had to be sure . . . A hangover is no cure for happiness."

"Who tampered with the equipment?"

"If I knew that,” he said, “I probably wouldn't need your help."

"What was done?"

He clicked his fingernails on the desk. Dulnari fingernails had the same look and texture as volcanic glass, so the clicking sounded vaguely like tinging wine goblets. “It's hard to say. It turned up on a deep diagnostic, meaning it was somebody who really knew what they were doing . . . I don't play MateMax at the Laztor, no."

"What happened to the human body?"

"It was disposed of. I personally attended to its incineration."

"You . . . killed him?"

"Oh, no. That would be murder according to Unity Worlds law, even if that's not technically what it is. No, he committed suicide, which is entirely legal here on Jellon. He had several witnesses from the press there. He wanted absolutely no doubt that the new android Vergon Daughn was the only Vergon Daughn. Otherwise there could be sticky legal issues . . . I see that this idea makes you uncomfortable, Mr. Duff."

"Well, yeah,” I said. “I mean, to the human Vergon Daughn, it was still like dying wasn't it?"

"No,” he said. “It wasn't. To you, to most biosens, even to me to a minor extent, a reverse BIP would seem like death . . . I hear the fruit is quite delicious . . . Few humans would be willing to do it. But to an android, a perfect copy is a perfect copy, indistinguishable from the original in every sense."

"If you say so,” I said. “Who bought you out? The company, I mean."

"Oh, just one of those intergalactic corporations that owns a little bit of everything. They're called Granger Holdings. I'm sure you've never heard of them."

"No, actually, I have,” I said, trying to hide my surprise. “And they bought you out before you turned Vergon back into an android?"

"Yes. It was between when I performed his BIP and when he came back for his reversal. I explained to him that I was no longer allowed to perform the operation myself, that it all had to be automated by robots because Granger wanted to roll out the process for mass production, but he said that if I at least oversaw the operation, that would be enough . . . why, are you allergic to peanuts?"

"Could somebody have altered the new Vergon android in some way?"

He nodded. “That is quite possible. In fact, that is what I fear most . . . Shakespeare was not bad writer, for a human . . . I fear Vergon has gone a bit insane, or his memories have been tampered with in some way, and if you do find him and it is proven correct, then Mind-Body Technologies will be blamed for it rather than whoever tampered with the equipment."

"Ah,” I said, “I'm beginning to understand."

He looked at me with his dark, penetrating eyes. “Do you? I'm asking you to be discreet in your investigation, Duff. And of course, I'm willing to pay you handsomely for your discretion."

"In other words, if I find him, and he's out of his mind, you want me to lie."

"Oh, no. Not lie. That would be unethical. Just delay the truth until we can make certain that we have enough evidence to present what actually happened. We're doing more diagnostics, but it could take a while . . . Dulnaris have no need for shampoo . . . How much credit would you require?"

Somehow I doubted they were performing more diagnostics. What was more likely was that they wanted to doctor the evidence, if not outright manufacture it, so that no one would ever think they were to blame. “Zero,” I said.

"Excuse me?"

"I only work for one client at a time, Bwer Fwer."

"I see."

"But I will tell you this. If I find him, and he's crazy, I'll definitely let you know."

He frowned. “That's very kind of you . . . My mother-pod still thinks I'm unmodified."

"Give my best to your mother-pod."

"What?"

I left without answering.

The next two days were a series of dead ends and wrong turns that left me increasingly frustrated. Deciding to stay on Jellon until I had another lead, I spent most of the time on the vid in a cheap hotel—old habits die hard—talking with various associates, friends, and employees of Vergon Daughn. The picture that emerged was of a cautious, quiet, and extremely logical android who became an even more quiet, cautious and logical man, somebody with no hobbies other than the one he'd developed fairly recently—keeping the three-breasted woman in his life happy. Otherwise, he spent all his time working.

Even his personal attendants couldn't offer anything useful, except to say he seemed even quieter and more withdrawn after he became a human. I was trying to get a handle on where a slightly deranged Vergon Daughn might go, and it would have been helpful if I had hobbies, interests, or favorite places to get me started.

Then, on the third day on Jellon, it came me: maybe he hadn't left at all.

Maybe he was still there.

Like everyone else, I'd assumed that because Vergon Daughn was a genius with technology, he would have found a way to fool the security scanners at all the stepdocks or spaceports. But even without the scanners, that would have been incredibly risky. No, the most logical thing to do would have been to stay on Jellon itself, exactly because everybody knew he could get off if he wanted.

But where would he go? Someplace hospitable for androids, so perhaps one of the large cities where there'd be plenty of power grids and high-traffic nexlinks. I started to make a list of all the underground contacts I knew in the biggest cities, people who could point me in the right direction, when I realized I had it all wrong.

Vergon wouldn't go to a big city. He was too smart for that. He'd go someplace nobody would expect an android to go.

The good news was that most of Jellon was highly developed, so there were really only a handful of places an android wouldn't be able to survive long without returning to civilization—the Harlo Desert, the Three Seas of Kinl, and Nelsani Rainforest. In fact, he wouldn't have been able to get far in any of them without some sort of guide. If my theory was right, I just had to find the guide.

I downloaded a list of travel agents and other tourist operations to my handheld, then headed out into the crowded streets, past booths of loud-mouthed vendors of every race imaginable, the air alive with sizzling grease and pungent spices. I was about halfway to the nearest stepdock when I had the distinct feeling I was being followed.

In the elbow-to-elbow crowd, I was barely able to lift my arms, but I managed to round a corner and duck into a shadowy alcove. I hung back, the crowd drifting past like a river choked with debris. I watched, waiting, looking for a reaction of some kind from somebody, and then I saw it.

A muscular blond human in a black trench coat picked up his pace and rounded the corner.

I dropped into the crowd and followed. When I rounded the corner myself, we came face-to-face. He'd been running, and he pulled up short. His face was expressionless, but it was still frozen in place.

"Hey, buddy,” I said, clamping down on his arm, “I want to have a word—"

My fingers might as well have been made of tissue because he tore out of my grip as if it was nothing. Then he was running, nimbly dodging through the crowd, sprinting away at such a speed that he was halfway down the street before I managed to even shout after him.

"You! Come back!"

It wasn't one of my most original moments. But by the time I'd thought of something better to say, he was already gone.

It was going on three weeks when I wandered into the bamboo hut at the outskirts of the tiny village of Gonoa, one of five villages in the foothills of the Nelsani Mountains. Outside, the rain sliced into the vegetation like a machete. Even after the door swung shut, the downpour still filled the hut with a roar.

I was tired and cranky and about to give up. Of course, I'd been feeling that way for the past week, and still I found myself pressing on to the next destination. The only problem was that I was running out of destinations. I'd searched every dune of the Harlo Desert, all three seas of the Three Seas of Kinl, and a good chunk of the Nelsani Rainforest

Racks of hiking and hunting gear packed the hut. The popular flared canoes hung from the ceiling. Twangy harp music—annoyingly popular on Jellon—played from speakers mounted in the corners, and the only good thing about the rain was that it mostly blotted out the music. The musky stench of the rainforest, the smell that got into everything and stayed there like a bad houseguest, hung heavy in the air.

Nobody seemed to be around. I pushed past some brown repel coats and some anti-grav moccasins and found a counter for vacation booking. Nobody was there either, though there appeared to be a room behind the counter, obscured from view by beads. There was a smell too, wafting out from the back room, a tangy odor that immediately brought water to my eyes. It smelled vaguely of lemons.

"Hello?” I said.

A dark-skinned man, bald on top but thick black beard below, pushed through the rattling beads. He carried a bundle of yellow rope, coiled in a circle. He wore a camo vest that bared his muscular arms. His skin was mocha brown, except for the pink jagged scar on his right shoulder. There was a bit of silver in his beard, but I wouldn't have tried to guess his age. He could have been thirty or fifty.

"Welcome to Nelsani, good man,” he said, exhaling a hint of smoke from his nostrils, and that lemon smell got stronger. “Are you here for a tour? If you book today, I can give you—"

"I'm actually here looking for someone,” I said.

"Oh?” he said.

"Yes. I'm looking for an android. He's quite famous, actually. His name is Vergon Daughn. Maybe you've heard of him?"

The man stared at me as if I'd spoken in another language.

"I have reason to believe he's on this planet,” I went on, “and that he might be in a remote location. Maybe he came to see you, or maybe you heard of him passing through."

He simply stared, blinking.

"Any help would be much appreciated. His wife is very worried."

He might as well have been a statue. I felt like strangling him. I might not have been able to do it—he was a decent-sized fellow, after all—but I was willing to give it a shot. It would make life more interesting for a while, at least.

"Did you hear me?” I said.

"I heard you,” he said. “I'm trying to decide whether to help you."

My hopes soared. Finally, a breakthrough. “You've seen Daughn?"

"Didn't say that. But I might be able to help you."

"How?"

He placed the rope on a hook behind him, turning his back to me. “That depends on how much the information is worth it to you."

I gritted my teeth. “You want a bribe?"

"That's such an ugly word,” he said. “I was thinking more . . . payment for services rendered.” He turned and looked at me, and I could tell by his expression that he wasn't jerking me around. He really felt he could help me.

"How do I know if your information is worth anything?"

He shrugged. “I guess you'll have to pay me to find out. It's no big deal to me either way. Now, excuse me, I've got to take care of some chores—"

"All right, all right,” I said.

I downloaded some credit to his account. He told me he knew somebody who could take me to him. I downloaded some more credit. He told me the person was him. I downloaded an obscene amount of credit and he told me to be outside in ten minutes.

Three hours of hiking later, we pushed through a wall of blood-red Tasid vines and into a clearing. It had rained only for the first hour, and baked us in eyelid-sticking heat for the next two, but such was the humidity that my clothes still felt sopping wet. I'd even bought the best rain gear my guide's shop had to offer, but it hadn't made a whit of difference.

The feathery branches of the mushroom-shaped Vidi trees blocked all but a few glimmerings of sunlight, sunlight that reflected off the mirrored exterior of a tent in the center of the clearing. It was covered in solar panels, I realized, and of course that made perfect sense. Weak as the light was, it would probably provide just enough charge for a single android.

My guide—he told me his name was Asif Phoenix, and that was the only thing he'd said despite my repeated questioning—gestured to the hut. I nodded, too out of breath to answer. He, on the other hand, didn't even look like he'd cracked a sweat. I wondered how many years he'd been trekking up and down the mountain.

"You in there, Vergon?” I said

It took a moment, but the flap in the tent opened and then there he was—Vergon Daughn, in the flesh. Or in the silicon-plastic compound, as it were. He wore a camo outfit much like my guide's, except that Vergon's covered every inch of his body. He was shorter and less imposing than I'd expected from his holos.

"How did you . . . “ he began, and then he saw Asif. “Ah, so how much did he pay you?"

"Enough,” Asif said.

"So much for loyalty,” Vergon said.

"You didn't pay me to be loyal."

"I see. In the end, it's always about the money, isn't it?"

Asif said nothing, simply standing there looking imposing. Vergon turned to me.

"Did she hire you?"

I nodded.

"I thought as much. My other thought was that you were an assassin sent by Granger Holdings, but if that were the case, I would most likely be dead by now. Who are you?"

"My name's Dexter Duff,” I said.

"Well, Mister Duff—"

"Just Duff."

"Duff, then. Fine. Do you have any idea why I'm here?"

I looked at him carefully. He didn't seem insane to me, though I'd been wrong about those sorts of things before. How could you tell if an android was insane, anyway? He could have been hiding from Granger Holdings, but the most likely reason Granger Holdings was out to get him in the first place was because his own erratic behavior had allowed the company's value to plummet. That left the conclusion I'd come to after mulling it over for a few weeks.

"I don't know why an android would be interested in a woman like Ginger,” I said. “I don't know why an android would be interested in any woman, to be honest. But I figure you wanted to know what it was like to love her for real. Except when you got what you wanted, maybe you realized love wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe you even realized she didn't love you so much after all. You see, I know Ginger. I've known her for years. I don't know if she's capable of loving anyone. And when you figured this out too, it left you so heartbroken you didn't want to go on feeling that way anymore, so you went back to being android."

He said nothing for a while, intense eyes boring into me, studying me the way a scientist might examine a specimen under a microscope.

"You're a perceptive man, Duff,” he said finally.

"No, I just learn from experience. I fell for her once too, you know."

He nodded. “She has a special kind of charm. Everything you said is correct, though I am not here because I am heartbroken."

"No?"

"Of course not. I am here because I became convinced shortly after the wedding that Ginger intended to kill me."

It was a possibility I hadn't considered. “Why would she do that? You're her ticket to riches and fame."

"No, Vergon Enterprises is her ticket to riches and fame. Besides, that's not what she wants. It's power."

"I don't see why that would make a . . .” I began, and then I did see it. Vergon Daughn may have made Ginger rich, but Vergon Enterprises could make her rich and powerful. The problem was Vergon himself. He was the one calling the shots. But once they were married . . . “I get it,” I said. “Once you were married, she could bump you off and then she'd inherit the company."

"Exactly. Of course, it would have been easier if I remained an android since so few planets grant us the same rights as biosen. She could have deactivated me any number of ways. When I became human, it made her job more difficult, which gave me just enough time to escape."

I shook my head. As well as I'd known Ginger, I should have seen that angle long before now. “I feel like an idiot,” he said.

"Don't feel bad,” Vergon said. “Ironically, I didn't recognize this possibility myself until I was a human. As an android, I kept giving her the benefit of the doubt, assuming that her unusual behaviors were due to the irrationality of her human emotions. But once I myself had human emotions, I could see that she herself lacked them—or at least any beyond greed and desire."

"I should never have come here,” I said.

"No, you shouldn't have. It's quite likely you were followed."

I thought of the android who'd tailed me weeks earlier. From time to time, I'd had that feeling again that I was being followed, though I'd never seen him. “So you don't really think Granger Holdings is after you?"

"No, I do,” he said. “That's what complicates matters. I came here until I could figure out a way to divorce her, but my absence left an opening for Granger to move in. Now I'm in a predicament. I honestly came here to protect the more than one million people who work for me. But whether my wife gets control of the company or Granger, those employees get hurt either way."

My wife. I felt an odd pang of jealousy and I didn't know why. It was just a job, of course, one that paid better than any job I'd had before, but no matter how well a job paid, I never set out to hurt an innocent person if I could help it. Was Vergon Daughn innocent? Was I innocent? Both of us had stupidly pursued a woman incapable of any kind of real love, and for that, we probably deserved whatever punishment we received. But I felt a lot more empathy for him than I might have felt for someone else.

"I'll do whatever I can to help,” I said.

He looked at me. “I'm going to speak to her. Perhaps an understanding can be reached. I have to assume there's at least a shred of decency in her."

"All right,” I said, skeptical.

"But I'm still concerned she's going to try to kill me. Will you come with me?"

"Of course."

With that, he pulled out a com-com and called for a pod to pick us up off the mountain. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to the spaceport. Asif watched us lift off, his face as stoic and remorseless as when I'd first met him.

We figured the stepdocks would be more heavily watched than the spaceports, so the plan was to leave the planet by ship. At my suggestion, Vergon bought an evening ticket at the spaceport closest to Nelsani, and then we landed the pod and rode a bakak-pulled buggy three hours to a much larger spaceport. The concourse was crowded and noisy, packed with every life form imaginable, and we hung out in the bar until a few minutes before the flight to Palfacia Prime was scheduled to leave.

Then Vergon bought us two tickets and we hurried to the security lines, ending up behind a couple of hairy and stinky Srendians. It was like standing behind a blue carpet that had been soaked in formaldehyde.

He looked at me. “You were in love with her?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you marry her?"

I shrugged. “I would have, but she ran out on me. I guess I wasn't rich enough or powerful enough for her."

"You were fortunate then."

I laughed, though he reacted in surprise, as if he hadn't meant it as a joke.

"There's one thing I don't understand,” I said. “Bwer-Fwer said there was a problem with the transfer process. Do you know what happened there? He was worried your mind got scrambled, but you seem fine."

We got to the front of the line and he hand-printed the ticket-checker. Androids didn't have fingerprints like humans, but they did have unique digital signatures; the machine beeped and said his name, his flight time, and his departure gate. An older human couple ahead of us craned their heads around. So it'd begun: He'd been recognized, and I'd only feel better once we were airborne. His flight and identity verified, Vergon was about to step through the security tunnel. He looked at me, dropping his voice to a whisper.

"The only problem that I know of—” he began.

But I never learned what the problem was. There was an electric shriek and the center of Vergon's chest exploded in flames.

He crumpled over, and a blue wave of fire enveloped his body, eating it up, turning it into nothing but dust. It was a plasma bolt—there was no way to stop it from completely disintegrating him. People screamed and stampeded. My shock lasted only an instant, and then I turned and saw the attacker fleeing—the blond android who'd pursued me earlier, dressed in the orange and red flowery garb of the local monks.

I took off after him. He was much faster, but he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder at me. In the meantime, a sweeperbot rolled into his path and he tripped. I was on him in a second, my laser pistol jammed up into his chin. His eyes remained passive; he might have been watching a food processor churning out cheese.

"Tell me who you're working for!” I cried.

Beneath my legs, his chest felt warm and getting warmer. He closed his eyes, and I realized what was happening, rolling off of him just before his body exploded.

I woke up in the spaceport's infirmary, two shiny medical robots tending to my wounds and a dozen green-uniformed police waiting in the wings. I had a few nasty cuts on my face and arms, and a minor concussion, but otherwise I'd been lucky. It was nearly four hours before I was able to convince the police I had nothing to do with Vergon's death, and then they were gracious enough to let me out a back door so I could avoid the hordes of media gathered outside.

I left the spaceport and walked under a blazing sun to a little hole-in-the-wall diner, sequestering myself in the com-com unit at the back. It smelled like piss and smoke inside, and even through the glass door I could hear the wince-inducing Nelsani harp music playing from the diner's speakers.

Ginger answered my page within ten seconds. She was in the back of a plush pod, the seats dark leather, and her silver glittering outfit looked like it was made of diamonds. The camera was angling from a low viewpoint, giving her three breasts the appearance of an imposing mountain range.

"You killed him,” I said.

She looked puzzled. “Whatever are you talking about, dear? Did you find Vergon?"

"Don't lie to me, Ginger. I'm sure you've seen the news by now."

At my saying this, she turned to her right and punched something out of my view. She said nothing for a moment, then sighed.

"How sad,” she said, and she didn't sound sad at all. “He meant everything to me."

"Like hell he did. You killed him."

"That's quite an accusation, Duff. You have some proof of this?"

"I'll get some."

She smiled primly. “Oh, I don't think so. You can't prove something that isn't true."

"Ginger—"

"Now if you'll excuse me,” she said, “I've got a company to save from takeover. And with me in charge, you better believe things are looking up for Vergon Enterprises.” She looked at me levelly. “Because I'll do whatever it takes to get to the top. You know that, Duff, don't you?"

"Damn it, Ginger—"

"In fact, I always like being on top.” Her smile turned coy. “Maybe you should come visit me and I'll show you exactly what I mean. I guarantee that by tomorrow we'll see eye for an eye on this."

"It's eye to eye, you idiot,” I said, and punched off.

I was shaking, and I wanted to smash something. Ginger had won. That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that for just an instant, a tiny flicker of a moment, I'd actually thought about taking her up on her offer. It made me feel lousier than I'd felt in my entire life.

It was only then that I realized why I'd taken the case at all. Crazy as it was, I'd secretly been hoping I could win her back.

Returning to Versatia, I threw myself into my work checking the hotel security, hoping it would help put the whole mess with Ginger out of my mind. It didn't. I found myself following what was happening with Vergon Enterprises and Granger Holdings with great interest, secretly praying that Granger would put Ginger out on her ass. Granger might still put thousands out of work, but at least Ginger wouldn't gain from it.

I'd always been of the atheist persuasion—I'd seen too much to believe in any sort of almighty god—but what happened next was enough to challenge my conviction. Somebody must have heard my prayers, because Granger got control of Vergon Enterprises within a month. Not only that, but the way the deal went down left Ginger out in the cold with only a few million credits in her pocket. A few million was certainly nothing to sneeze at, but it was less than one hundredth of one percent of what her estate had been worth before Granger took over. She was all over the vids threatening to sue, insisting a great injustice had been done, but all the legal experts said there was nothing she could do.

More amazingly, Granger didn't break up Vergon Enterprises. They expanded it. People didn't lose their jobs. They got raises. New stepdock deals with planets coming into the Unity Worlds fell into place, almost as if Granger had been holding back on making those deals until the takeover was finished. If Vergon was still alive, he would have been incredibly happy at how it had all turned out—if he could have felt happiness, that was.

That's when I figured out what had really happened.

The rain fell in torrents, slicing into the thick Nelsani jungle. I stepped into the hut and lowered my hood. Despite the weather, the little shop was bustling, the aisles full of customers browsing the gear. I found Asif at the counter, handing a box of shoes to a hairy Srendian and her hairy child. I waited until they shuffled away.

"Busy day,” I said.

He turned in my direction, smiling the plastic salesman's smile, but when he recognized me it faded.

"You,” he said. “I'm surprised to see you here again."

"Really?” I said. “I guess you don't think very highly of me then."

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean, if you thought more highly of me, then you might fear I'd figure out your little secret . . . Vergon."

To his credit, he didn't even blink. But then, that only confirmed my suspicion. We stared at each other in the crowded room, the murmur of customers all around us. The rain crackled on the roof. I'd deliberately spoken softly enough that the customers perusing the gravboards over in the corner wouldn't hear me.

I stepped forward so we were even closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Don't insult me by denying it,” I said.

He said nothing for a long time, then nodded. “How did you know?"

"A couple things,” I said. “Your name, first of all. Asif Phoenix? As in, the phoenix that rises from its own ashes? It was a little too cute."

"Right."

"And then there was how you didn't even break a sweat scaling the mountain."

"Of course. I should have been more careful and installed sweat glands."

"It was pretty clever,” I said. “I never would have put it together except how things went down with Granger Holdings and Vergon Enterprises. When I realized it was exactly the way you would have wanted things to go down, I understood why Granger Holdings bought out Mind-Body Technologies, and I also knew what the problem Bwer-Fwer mentioned was. It wasn't a problem at all. It was just that you couldn't quite cover all your tracks. You created a second android, didn't you? You created two Vergons."

"No,” he said. “There was only one Vergon Daughn and he died. It had to be that way for my plan to work. I am Asif Phoenix. That is my identity."

"But you have Vergon's memories?"

"Yes. For all intents and purposes, I am Vergon. I only changed my identity in the physical sense. Inside, I am still the same person."

"A person who happens to covertly control an ownership stake in Granger Holdings?"

"Yes."

I nodded, amazed at the brilliance and audacity of his plan. Once he'd realized that Ginger would kill him to get what she wanted, he knew that the only way to stop her was to actually die and then have another company take over and force her out. She would have gotten at least half of his net worth in a divorce, which would have probably destroyed Vergon Enterprises in the process.

"Why not bump her off yourself?” I asked. “That would have been a lot easier."

"Easier, yes,” he said. “But I'm not that kind of android, and despite what Ginger is, I am still concerned for her welfare. It's why I left her with some money. I could have easily left her broke and heavily in debt. I didn't want to hurt her. I just wanted to prevent her from hurting others."

"Sounds like love to me."

"Call it what you will."

He reached behind the counter and brought up a handheld, punching a few buttons on the tiny black keyboard. “So how much do you want?"

"Excuse me?” I said.

"I assume you want me to pay you for your silence."

"Oh no, I didn't come for that. I just came to satisfy my curiosity. And to say well done. Your secret is safe with me."

He nodded. “Thank you. I will always be in your debt."

"Only one thing I don't understand."

"Yes?"

"Why didn't you stay human? You could have transferred your essence into another human rather than an android. Did you decide that you liked being an android better than being a human?"

"No, that wasn't it. In fact, despite what I said to the media, I quite liked being a human. And I see nothing wrong with an android who decides to become one. Or vice versa."

"Then why?"

He looked thoughtful, and I wondered how much of it was in the look and how much was in the thought. After all, that android brain of his was a million times faster than mine, and any answer he'd thought of would have taken a nanosecond. The rest was just for show. Or was it? Maybe there were some things you could wrestle with for one second or for a million and it wouldn't make a difference.

"I'm not sure I could adequately explain my decision,” he said.

"Try me."

"Well, perhaps it would be best if I just summed it up with a simple colloquial expression . . . Ignorance is bliss."

One of the customers looking at the gravboards wandered over, asking for help, so he didn't get a chance to explain. That was okay. He didn't need to. Androids, after all, couldn't feel anything. They couldn't feel the enormous pain of being hurt by someone they loved. In that sense, I envied him. He could say that he'd loved Ginger once but the memory of it no longer stung.

And if I wasn't so squeamish about trying to separate the essence of me from my human body, I might have asked him if he could make me an android too.

Copyright © 2010 Scott William Carter

Are you sure this didn't almost happen?

1

Sunday 30th October, 1960. 2210.

Clare Baines parked her motorcycle outside the Reiver's Arms and climbed off. She took off her helmet, replacing it with her police cap. The October night was pitch black, and a wind moaned off the moor.

When she opened the pub door she was dazzled by the bright light. Sweaty, smoky air spilled out, and a jangle of overamplified guitar music: Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. She braced herself and walked in.

A punter, brimming pint in hand, lurched towards her, one arm outstretched. “Watch your family jewels, lads, it's the lady copper!"

Clare said, “Bonny lad, that wandering hand is going to get shoved so far up your jacksie you'll be picking your teeth from the inside."

The drunk backed off. “All right, lass, no offence."

Winston Stubbins approached her, tall, gangly, earnest, wearing a duffel coat and boots. “Clare. I don't suppose you fancy a Newkie Brown."

"I'm on—"

"Duty. Yes, we can all see that."

"I hope you're not going to give me any trouble, Winston. You and this lot of boozed-up non-conformists. I'm just here to keep the peace."

"Peace? That's a bit ironic, isn't it? Considering that tonight the largest atomic weapon ever tested in western Europe is going to blow up not a mile from this bloody pub."

"According to our briefings it's all perfectly safe."

"Safe? Clare, the geology around here—"

"'—shows signs of instability.’”

"So you did read my letters."

"My sergeant made me. Look, Winston, what makes you think you know better than all the boffins?"

"I'm here. They're not. Clare, it's an American base out there. Americans don't tell us anything."

A tall, slim man in an American army uniform worked through the crowd towards them. “Did somebody page me? Good evening, Clare."

"WPC Baines to you, Buck."

Winston goggled. “Buck? Sergeant Grady, you're actually called Buck?"

"And you're actually called Winston. You limeys slay me. Clare told me about you. The old boyfriend with a bug up his ass."

Clare said, “He was never my boyfriend. I've been trying to tell him the test is perfectly safe."

"So it is, Winston. Aldmoor may be an American base, but Hades is a British programme, as designed and managed. The chain of command is intertwined right to the top."

"Cobblers."

Clare said, “Sorry, Buck. He has issues about Americans. His mother was a GI bride—"

"That's got nothing to do with it,” Winston said hotly.

Buck said, “Look, Winston, I have a sort of public liaison role. That's why I'm here in the pub—not for the beer, believe me. Here, take my card. Give me a call in the morning."

"What good's that? By the morning the bomb will have gone off, won't it?"

Buck said, “Single-minded sort, isn't he?"

Clare said, “No. Strong-willed. There's a difference."

Buck said, “Quite a crowd you've gathered here anyhow, Winston. Who are they—CND?"

"Some. They're mostly locals. All with valid concerns about the test."

"Well, there's a couple more waiting out the door. See, Clare, the old guy in the dodgy coat and the posh young lady? They don't look local to me. Reporters, you think?"

Clare said, “Oh, great, that's all I need."

Chapman Jones closed the doors of the Ministry car. Somewhere an owl hooted. The car pulled away, disappearing into the night. Jones shivered and closed his trenchcoat tighter. “So this is Aldmoor. And Halloween! Always an eerie time."

Thelma Bennet peered through the pub window. “They all seem to be wearing black in there. Do you think it's a funeral, Jones?"

"No, no. It's just the fashion. No offence, Thelma, but this is your age group—a whole generation doomed to wear black polo-neck jumpers. Makes me rather glad I've passed fifty."

"So they're followers of fashion even here in Northumberland. I hope we're not wasting our time."

"Well, the anomaly report cluster was credible enough to have dragged us all the way up here from London—"

A military jet roared overhead, flying remarkably low, startling them; Jones glanced up to see its lights receding.

"Something to do with that, perhaps,” he said. “This is a militarised countryside—a cockpit of the Cold War, Thelma. No wonder people are a bit paranoid—"

And another noise fled through the air overhead, like a shriek, and again they flinched. Looking up, Jones saw an odd light sliding across the sky, misty, a roughly spherical cloud.

Thelma said, “Look, do you see that? A sort of glow."

"Yes. It seems to be tracking the aircraft."

"Something to do with the aircraft's wake?"

"Hmm. I doubt it,” Jones said. “But what was it? Ball lightning—or some other plasma effect? It had a fairly definite shape, didn't it?"

"Yes. And denser towards the centre. Layered, like an onion—"

"Or like an eye in the sky. How odd. Well, it's just as the reports described. At least we know we've got something to get our teeth into. Come on, let's go inside."

A young policewoman met them at the door. Not tall, with her black hair neatly tied back, brisk, evidently competent, she smiled at them. “Good evening. Can I help you?"

"Well, that's the first time the police have helped me into a pub as opposed to out of one."

Thelma said, “Don't be childish, Jones. Good evening. My name's Thelma Bennet, and this is Doctor Chapman Jones. And you are—"

"WPC Baines, 534. Are you here for the protest?"

Jones said, “No, no. We're here from the Ministry of Defence. Following up anomalous sightings."

Baines grinned. “Sightings of what? Flying saucers?"

Jones sighed.

Thelma asked quickly, “What protest?

A gangly young man approached, trailed by a US army soldier. “Against the bomb test,” said the youngster. His accent, like the WPC's, was thick and local—Geordie. He struck Jones as earnest, agitated.

"They call it Hades,” said the American. “An international programme of thermonuclear detonations planted deep underground."

The boy said, “And the one they're about to blow up here is in an abandoned mine shaft at a place called Lucifer's Tomb. Appropriate name, isn't it?"

"We haven't been introduced,” said Thelma.

The tall soldier bowed. “Sergeant Buck Grady, US Army. And this is Winston, ah—"

"Winston Stubbins."

Thelma introduced herself and Jones.

Buck smiled. “So, Doctor Jones, you came all the way to northern England, in October, because—?"

"Fishing to see if we're here to cause you trouble, are you, Sergeant?"

Winston said, “What trouble? All these people have turned out because they don't want a megabomb going off underneath their homes. The farmers’ ewes are already pregnant with next year's lambs. And the miners are worried about safety down the pit."

Buck's grin widened. “Oh, Winston here thinks if we set off the bomb the planet will go pop like a party balloon. Right, Winston?"

Winston scowled. “The geology's unstable. They don't know what they're doing."

Jones said, “And you do? Are you a geologist, Winston?"

"He's a coal miner,” Clare said. “And a geologist. Self-taught. Buck, you leave him alone."

Jones said, “There's nothing wrong with self-taught. I'm self-taught in most subjects myself. Tell me, Winston—how far to this Tomb of Lucifer?"

"A short walk, west of here."

"And until the test?"

"The detonation's scheduled for midnight,” Buck said.

Jones checked his watch. “Good, we've got time. Winston, why don't you show me this instability of yours?"

"Are you serious? You'll listen to what I have to say?"

"Never more serious in my life. We are specifically here to investigate the out-of-the-ordinary."

Thelma said, “I think I'd rather stay in the warm, if you don't mind, Jones."

Buck said, “In that case I would be delighted to buy you a drink."

"I was hoping somebody would say that."

Buried deep beneath the huts, training fields and runways of Aldmoor base, the Project Hades command centre was, tonight, a noisy place. Overlaid on the hum of fans and pumps and the echoes from the steel walls were the bleeps of oscilloscopes, the clatter of teletypes and static-laden radio voices. Aged fifty-seven, in his worn tweeds, John Tremayne knew he looked quite out of place in this pit of humming military tension, the rows of consoles manned by very young, very intelligent soldiers. And yet all this activity was a fulfilment of his dream, his design.

Air Commodore Alfred Godwin had to lean close to the monitor to hear what was being relayed by the hidden cameras in the pub. Godwin was tall, stiff, his handsome face severe, his black hair slicked back; he was a little younger than Tremayne. He said, “The picture's clear enough, at least. Look at that clown in the trenchcoat, coming out of the pub."

Tremayne said, “They're only protesters, Commodore Godwin. People have a right to be concerned, you know. And is it legal for you to be spying on a British pub?"

"This may be an American base, but I'm the senior RAF officer here, and under the NATO command structures I'm in overall control. To ensure the safety of this base I can do what I like, Tremayne."

Joseph Crowne walked in, a clipboard under his arm. “The protesters won't get far, Commodore Godwin.” A US army major aged around thirty, Crowne was Godwin's key liaison to the American command.

Godwin said, “But your troops aren't patrolling beyond the fence, are they, Major?"

"No, sir. But we have a regular British army unit manning an outer perimeter. And there's a civil police presence too."

"I've seen the ‘civil police presence.’ A slip of a girl! Well, I've spoken to the British detachment's captain, Phillips he's called, young chap but sound. He'll handle it."

Tremayne said, “'Handle it?’ Godwin, I didn't get into this business for anybody to get harmed. If those protesters can't be removed without resorting to force—"

"Then what? Postponement tonight would set us back months. This is your baby, Tremayne. Project Hades will end the Cold War and deliver vast new capabilities into human hands. So you said! I'm just trying to get the job done."

Crowne said, “I'm sure nobody will come to any harm, gentlemen."

Godwin pointed at the monitor. “Maybe not. But Trenchcoat is heading straight for Lucifer's Tomb—and the bomb."

The moorland ground was rough underfoot, and Jones was glad of Winston's torch. They were walking west, towards a glow of sodium lights that must mark the position of the Aldmoor base, but there was a cluster of floods in the foreground that Jones assumed was Lucifer's Tomb.

Jones essayed, “PC Baines seems fond of you. She stuck up for you, back there."

"Clare? We grew up together. She's a bonny lass. But we're on opposite sides now, aren't we?"

"I wouldn't say that. You're both trying to stop any harm being done, as far as I can see. You're just coming at it from different directions. Tell me about this ‘Lucifer's Tomb.’”

"See the floodlights? The American implanted their bomb right inside the Tomb, in an old mineshaft. The Tomb itself is a deep-cut valley full of broken rocks. The local legend is that it's where Lucifer fell from heaven."

"Hmmph. Sounds more like an Ice Age relic to me."

"Exactly. And the basement geology is a junction between Scottish basalts and Northumbrian sandstones."

"You know your stuff. A place of great geological violence, then, where Scotland once crashed into England. But what makes you think it's unstable?"

"Seismology. I've been taking traces for years."

Jones looked at him. “Years? But you're only—what, twenty?"

"Nineteen. Geology's been a sort of hobby since I was first took down the mine by my uncle, at fourteen."

"Not your father."

"Never knew my father."

"And where did you get a seismometer from?"

"I made it."

"You made it?"

"It wasn't hard. A piezoelectric crystal to pick up the vibrations, an old alarm clock mechanism to drive the drum. I use toilet roll for the recording paper. I made a few, trying to get them more sensitive, like. And I had a go at setting them up in a network."

"All this in between shifts down the mine."

"My mum thinks I'm tapped. I mean I haven't even got any O-levels.” He glanced at Jones uncertainly. “Are you laughing at me, Doctor Jones?"

"On the contrary. I'm starting to think you're a very remarkable young man indeed. But what about Lucifer's Tomb?"

"I found patterns in the seismic traces. All centered on this spot, the Tomb. Something's stirring. But I don't know what."

"But you do think it would be wise to find out before setting off a ruddy great bomb in the middle of it."

"Spot on, Doctor Jones."

They reached the valley and stepped into the light of the floods—and a torch, even brighter, glared in their faces. “Halt!"

Jones shielded his eyes with a raised hand. “Who are you? Could you please get that light out of my eyes? And why is that squaddie pointing a gun at me?"

"I think you could probably risk putting aside the automatic, Sergeant. Sorry about that, sir. I'm Captain Robert Phillips, Coldstream Guards. The question is, who are you?"

In the Reiver's Arms, the protesters were getting more raucous than ever.

Buck grinned. “Looks as if everybody's oiled enough to get moving."

Clare said, “So now we all walk to the base and sing ‘Blaydon Races’ to an H-Bomb."

Thelma smiled. “I'm sure you'll cope, PC Baines. Can I walk with you?"

"Please. It'll be a pleasure not to have beery breath in my face and a miner's big fat grubby hand on my bum."

Once they had left the pub and were out in the unseasonably cold autumn air, the group calmed down, pulled on coats and hats, and formed up into a loose column. Their talk became a murmur as they began their walk, their breath steaming in the cool air.

Out on the moor, Jones could hear a tannoy sounding from the base's distant cluster of lights.

Winston stirred, anxious. “It's nearly time for the test. We need to—"

Captain Phillips blocked his way. “Thus far and no further, I'm afraid, gentlemen. . . .” He looked up, distracted.

There was a wail, like the wind in the telegraph wires, and a shape like a human eye sketched in pale mist hovered overhead.

Winston breathed, “Doctor Jones. Can you see that?"

"I can indeed. I saw this before, you know. And heard it too. It seems to be hovering over the valley, doesn't it? This is why I'm here, in fact. We had a cluster of reports of such things.” From members of the public—not specialists or cranks, ordinary folk, often reluctant and feeling foolish, describing strange visions to police stations or local papers because they thought it was their duty, reports then filtered through to Jones's desk in Whitehall, to be plotted and correlated. “Can't you see it too, Captain Bob?"

"Marsh gas, probably."

Jones snorted. “You've been well coached in the official denials!"

Winston said, “You say you saw it before, Doctor Jones. When, exactly?"

"Soon after we arrived.” He glanced at his watch; midnight was approaching. “Ninety minutes ago, give or take?"

"I knew it."

"You did? Don't tell me. You've been monitoring these things too."

"Lots of local legends about them. People call them Grendels."

"Ah. Beowulf's monster."

"But the name's older than the poem. These things have been seen for centuries. And when they show, there's a definite period to them."

"Is there, by Jove? And you found it. But why ninety minutes?"

Phillips said unexpectedly, “Spaceships."

"What was that, Captain Bob?"

Phillips was no more than thirty, tall, languid, with an unwise handlebar moustache. Now he seemed to regret speaking at all. “It's just that I'm something of a space buff. Sputnik and so forth. We used to eat up Dan Dare and Quatermass after lights-out at Cambridge—"

"Oh, good grief."

"Anyway it's the first thing that popped into my head when you said ninety minutes. Isn't that how long it takes to orbit the Earth?"

"Quite right. That could be quite an insight."

Winston said, “But what does it mean?"

"I don't know—yet. But in the meantime I think you're right, Winston Stubbins. Whatever's going on here, this is a very foolish place to set off a thermonuclear weapon."

Phillips said, “And talk like that will get you into trouble, Doctor Jones. I rather think it would be best if you went back the way you came, don't you?"

But Jones could hear voices. He turned to see a crowd approaching, torch beams piercing the misty air.

Winston grinned. “Too late for that, Captain."

The shouts of the protesters were tinny in the command centre's speakers.

Godwin asked, “How's the countdown proceeding, Tremayne?"

"Perfectly well, Commodore Godwin. But I do find myself somewhat distracted by what's going on outside."

"I'm sure the British authorities will be able to contain any incidents."

"But that's not the point, is it? It's all very well for us. If anything were to go wrong with the test, we'd be fine. Whereas they—"

Godwin said, “They are not going to stand in the way of the test. After all—let me remind you, Tremayne, that our whole purpose here is to protect this rabble."

"Rabble? Even if it means killing a few of them to do it?” Tremayne stood, pushing back his chair.

"What are you doing?"

"Maybe if I can make them see the value of the project, they'll disperse peacefully.” He walked away. “Do what you have to do."

"Kind of wilful, your prof,” he heard Crowne say.

"Boffins! Utopian fools, all of them. The sooner they're all replaced by computers the better off we'll be. Oh, let him out. But continue the countdown."

"All right. But I think I'd better go after him. . . ."

Out on the moor things seemed to be coming to a head, Jones thought. In the dark the shifting lights were confusing, but over the crowd's murmur he heard the flap of a helicopter somewhere overhead—and, he thought, that distant tannoy voice counting down: "Ten minutes."

Thelma found him, trailed by Clare Baines and Buck Grady. “Ah, Thelma. Run out of Babycham, did they?"

"Jones. I should have known I'd find you under arrest."

"Not yet, Thelma, not yet. But the night is young."

Clare said, “And you, Winston. I hope he hasn't been giving you any trouble, Captain Phillips."

Winston said, “So you all know each other. How cosy."

"We just work together to keep the peace, that's all,” Clare said. “And, cosy or not, this is as far as your boy's-brigade protest march goes."

Thelma asked, “Jones? What now?"

"Winston here has done a cracking job, but we need to know what's really going on here—aboveground and below. And we certainly need to stop that wretched bomb going off, if we can."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"By going into that base and throwing my weight around."

Phillips said, “Sir, I must warn you that if you step over the perimeter you'd be liable for arrest for trespassing on MOD property."

"Trespassing! With an immense thermonuclear egg about to crack under our feet? Oh, isn't that wonderfully British? And besides, I am the MOD."

Buck said, “Yeah, well, if you get as far as that fence over there you'll come up against the US army and you'll get your ass shot off. And that won't be so British, will it?"

Winston grinned. “Never mind him, Doctor Jones. You're not alone. Haway the lads!” His rabble-rousing was rewarded by a ragged cheer, and the crowd behind him began to march towards the lights of the base.

Phillips said, “Well, that's torn it. Oh, do put that automatic away, Sergeant, you wave it around like a magic wand. Look—tell the men to fall back to fifty yards from the fence and establish a perimeter. And you, PC Baines, I suggest you call for a bit of back-up. Right, you lot. Move!"

Crowne stood with Tremayne just outside the base fence. The crowd noise competed with the helicopter passes, and the tinny bellow of the tannoy. “Professor Tremayne, are you sure about this?"

"Major, a civilised society can only organise its affairs through reason and dialogue."

"Okay, Professor, if you say so. Look, I want to leave all this to the British authorities if I can. But the first sign of trouble and my boys wade in. Is that clear, sir?"

"Perfectly, Major Crowne."

"Here they come. And who the heck is this?"

Jones marched up to the fence boldly; he had never believed in timidity. “Who's in charge here?"

An older man in civilian clothes stepped forward. “That's an interesting question, philosophically."

"Philosophically, eh? I'm Doctor Chapman Jones. And you are?"

"Professor John Tremayne. Attached to Advanced Concepts, Ministry of Defence."

Thelma walked up. “Professor, we're Ministry of Defence too—from Defence Secretariat 8."

Tremayne stared. “DS8? Not the saucer-chasers!"

Jones, irritated, tried to be stern. “Is this your project, Tremayne, this great bomb in the Earth?"

"Project Hades was my conception, yes."

"Then you have to stop it, man, if you still can."

"May I ask why?"

"Because the geology here may be unstable in some way. There's a focus of seismic activity right under our feet."

"You have evidence for this, I suppose."

"Winston! Come here."

Winston trotted up, grinning, excited.

Tremayne asked, “And you are?"

"Winston Stubbins, sir."

"Oh, I don't care about your name, boy. What's your affiliation? Cambridge, London, the Geophysical Survey?"

Jones said, “His affiliation is with me. He's an independent scientist, and potentially a fine one, if I'm any judge. And he has strong evidence that—"

"Show me this evidence,” Tremayne snapped.

Winston said, “It's at home. I have this trunk where I keep the toilet rolls."

"Toilet rolls? Is this some kind of joke?

A wavering wail cut the air, and a shifting light fled overhead.

Thelma cried, “Another one! What are those things?"

Jones said, “Professor—look up at what's buzzing your base! Have you any idea what that is?"

"Do you?"

"Well, no. Not yet. But I'm not the one about to let off a bomb, am I?"

"Oh, this is stuff and nonsense. Jabbering about seismic foci from a boy who's probably been reading too much science fiction. And visions in the sky from you!"

Jones said, exasperated, “All right. But at least just wait a bit until we can find out more."

"I'm afraid progress has its own timetable, Jones."

"And will you risk all these people's lives for the sake of that timetable? Ah, that got through to you, didn't it? I can see you have a conscience, Tremayne. Men like you always do, oddly. Scientists who go to war: Archimedes, Leonardo, Oppenheimer. I've studied them, and the dilemma's always the same."

"I won't stop the countdown, sir. I can see I'm wasting my time.” Tremayne, looking oddly disappointed, turned and walked back towards the open gate in the fence.

Winston was agitated and unhappy. The people who had marched up behind him were growing restless, their vague drunkenness turning sour. The squaddies hefted their weapons uncertainly.

"One minute commit point approaching. One minute go no-go. Committed. Committed—"

Jones checked his watch. “One minute to midnight! How appropriate that the Devil's coffin should be blown open at the stroke of Halloween."

Thelma said, “So what do we do, Jones?"

"We need more information. Where's the nearest university library?"

"Newcastle, I imagine. Why?"

"Get over there. Take Winston. Dig up all you can. Seismic traces and the like. Winston has his own records going back several years—fetch those too. And anecdotes, folklore about these Grendels. Anything you can find."

"And how exactly are we supposed to get into Newcastle at this time of night?"

Winston grinned. “I can think of a way."

"My best bet is that if that wretched bomb goes off we'll have ninety minutes of grace before—whatever it is—responds. If you can report back before then—"

Thelma murmured, “A full research project in ninety minutes, eh? And what are you going to do, Jones?"

"See what I can learn about what's going on here. Which means, I'm afraid, getting into that wretched base."

"Now, Jones—"

"Go, go, shoo!” And he ducked into the shadows and ran towards the fence, chasing after Tremayne.

He heard Clare Baines calling after him. “Doctor Jones! Doctor Jones!” She came running, moving rather more rapidly than he was.

"Tremayne! Surely it still isn't too late to stop all this!"

"Zero."

The explosion was like a door slamming deep in the Earth.

2

Monday 31st October. 0012.

Jones, with Clare Baines, was hurried in through the gate and past the surface buildings of the sprawling base—Jones thought he recognised a softball field—and then taken down a flight of steps into an underground facility, a steel cave that echoed with shouts and sirens, and a deeper mechanical groan, the aftershock of the detonation. It was pretty obviously a nuclear bunker, Jones thought. They were led down corridors and pushed at last into a blank-walled holding room. Buck Grady took up a position by the open door, his hand resting on his holstered revolver.

Jones sighed. “Well, this is turning out to be a jolly Halloween night. Anyone got a pumpkin?"

Grady said, “Don't push your luck, Jones."

A senior Air Force officer approached—a commodore, Jones recognised—accompanied by the tweedy figure of Tremayne, and an American officer.

"Ah, Tremayne!” Jones called. “So who's this chap with the fruit salad all over his chest?"

"That is Air Commodore Godwin, who's in command here, and you'd better rein in those jokes of yours, Jones."

The American said, “And my name's Joseph Crowne, Major, US Army. Senior American officer here. And you are, sir?"

Clare said, “This is Doctor Chapman Jones—"

"Of Defence Secretariat 8, Ministry of Defence."

Godwin said, “And what are you doing here?"

"I'm going to find out exactly what you're up to here, Commodore Godwin,” Jones said. “And, if necessary, put a stop to it."

Tremayne bristled. “By what authority?"

And Godwin said calmly, “Sergeant Grady. Draw your weapon."

Buck hesitated. “Sir, his credentials do check out."

"Just do it, soldier."

Buck glanced at Crowne.

"Do as he says, Sergeant.” Buck took his revolver from a holster.

Clare said, “Commodore Godwin. That's not necessary. I'm a police officer. This man is in my custody."

"I'll tell you why it's necessary. Here we have a man who has just declared his specific intent to disrupt the operations of my base."

"And I am a copper who sees a gun being drawn."

"Little girl, you are out of your depth. Stand aside now or share his fate."

Jones said, “You don't need to do this, Clare."

"I'm not going anywhere.” Clare stood her ground.

Godwin snapped, “Then take them both down to a holding cell."

Again Buck hesitated. Crowne said, “It's all right, Sergeant, do as he says."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Jones, Clare,” Buck said. “Let's go."

Jones called over his shoulder, “I can see we're going to have some interesting chats, you and I, Commodore!"

Tremayne was saying, “You've exceeded your authority, Commodore. I'm going to report this to my own superiors at the ministry."

"Do what you like. I've got work to do."

Thelma Bennet had never ridden a motorbike in her life. As they plummeted along a darkened road she clung to Winston's back like a child to its mother.

Winston called over his shoulder, “Fifteen minutes to Newcastle. You all right back there, Thelma?

"Not really! How come you learned to handle a police motorcycle?"

"Clare's given me a few joy rides. Mind you, she'll kill me for pinching this."

"You are close, you two, aren't you?"

"Oh, she's much too good for me."

"Don't ever think that. And did Clare teach you how to hot-wire it too?"

"Not exactly."

"You're a complicated person, Winston."

"It's life that's complicated. Woah!"

The bike swerved drastically, avoiding an oncoming truck by inches, and Thelma gasped.

"Sorry."

"Where are we going first?"

"Home. Gateshead, over the Tyne. I've got some toilet rolls to pick up. And you can meet my mum."

Outside the base, there was little disorder. But the protesters had not dispersed, Phillips saw; gradually sobering up, they gathered in little knots, blowing on their hands.

Buck Grady approached, drawing on a cigarette.

"Ah, Sergeant Grady."

"Sir. Everything under control out here?"

"After a fashion. Listen, I couldn't scrounge a ciggie, could I?” Phillips took a cigarette from Buck's pack, found a match, and lit up. “Ah, that's good. Gave all mine away to pacify the locals. Just farmers, mostly, fuelled by the local witches’ brew. But they've a right to be concerned, haven't they, Sergeant? It's the sense of powerlessness, you see. Even though the project is under nominal British control."

"Not everybody welcomes us Yanks over here."

"Yes, well, I remember enough of Hitler's war not to share that view. There is one thing, Sergeant. Those two civilians in there."

Buck said, “I'll make sure they come to no harm."

"Well, that's good of you. Good night, Sergeant."

"Yeah. Let's hope the rest of it is as peaceful as this."

Jones paced, footsteps echoing. He and Clare were in a prison cell. There was no other word for it. “A neat aluminium cube. A very space-age prison. But the lock in that door wouldn't have stopped Charlie Peace, I shouldn't think."

"You're under arrest, you know. Try anything like that and I'll cuff you."

"You would, too, wouldn't you? Look, I'm sorry about this, Constable Clare. You don't deserve this. At least they ought to give you your own slopping-out bucket."

"Try to relax. And stop pacing."

"I'm all too aware of time draining away for that."

A key rattled in the lock. Tremayne entered. The door was slammed shut behind him and locked.

"Ah, what's this, room service?

"You know, you're not as funny as you think you are, Jones. But I must apologise—especially to you, Constable. You were absolutely in the right to make your stand.” He sat on the edge of one of the room's two bunks. “But you don't understand what's at stake here, Jones."

Jones said, “And is it important that I do understand?"

"I don't know, frankly. I don't know what you're doing here."

"The man from the Ministry's UFO desk, you mean?"

"Well, quite. I don't understand how a man of science like you can be involved with such flim-flam."

"I do regard myself as a man of science, regardless of my murky occupation.” He glanced at Clare, who clearly knew less than Tremayne did. “Yes, Defence Secretariat 8 is best known as the military's front desk for UFO reports—which of course is how we came to hear of the present odd business. I'm a sort of consultant, but Miss Bennet is a career civil servant, you know, and I would prefer it if you showed her the appropriate respect, by the way, Tremayne; she was seconded to DS8, which you can imagine is something of a blot on your curriculum vitae—and yet, drawn by the lure of the truth, she is working hard.

"You say this is all flim-flam. But observations of anomalies outside the normal realm have a pedigree that long predates science itself—as I'm sure you know. There are what we might call UFO reports in the Bible—read Ezekiel, chapter one! This area itself has its own pedigree. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles noted sightings of ‘fiery dragons’ as far back as the eighth century—the activities of our ‘Grendels’ all those years ago, do you think?

"Even the great minds who founded the Royal Society in 1660, an institution devoted to ‘experimental philosophy,’ set up a secretive Section to deal with what they called paradoxes. You may not understand a thing, but at least you can list it. Consider Linnaeus, the father of modern biological taxonomy—all that business of kingdoms, classes, orders, genera, and species. Well, when he carved up the natural world he added an extra class, called the Paradoxa, for all those elusive creatures he couldn't prove didn't exist, such as unicorns, dragons, phoenixes, and satyrs—and pelicans! That was the spirit. Though he was wrong about the pelicans.

"Of course the priority now is national security. So DS8 has quietly tapped into the Royal Society's archive, and other sources. But this is all hush-hush, for the view is that if a minister were ever to admit to the existence of UFOs or other spooky phenomena, the government would fall sharpish."

"Hmm. And it is ‘spooky phenomena’ that has drawn you to Aldmoor, is it?"

"Yes. Specifically what Winston Stubbins calls ‘Grendels.’ But I have a sense that it's no coincidence I've stumbled across this Project Hades of yours. Perhaps you'd better tell me about it, Tremayne."

"A new generation of thermonuclear weapons,” Tremayne said simply. “More powerful, more compact—and cleaner. They are currently under test in underground facilities all around the free world."

"Yet more bombs and bigger than ever? To what end?"

"First I want to demonstrate the utter horror of these weapons. The bigger the bang the better for that. But I also want to show the weapons’ potential for good. Have you heard of a man called Edward Teller?"

"Ah. Project Ploughshare?"

Clare said, “I don't know what you're talking about."

"Using atomic bombs for engineering purposes, Clare. You could blast out new canals. Blow oil reserves out of the ground. That the sort of thing you have in mind, Tremayne?"

"Geographical engineering, we call it. You could even ride into space, hurled to the planets by atomic fire. Men are fools who must be shown the destruction they are risking—and the power for good of the technology in their hands."

"Oh, you're the fool, Tremayne. Project Ploughshare is nothing but a grab for power and money by a cynical cabal of politicians and technologists. You've been seduced. And are you quite sure everybody down here shares your radioactive vision? Godwin, for instance?"

Tremayne stood. “I'm disappointed, Jones. Given your own exotic calling, is your mind really so closed? I can see I'm wasting my time. Guard!"

Once they were locked in and alone once more, Clare sighed. “Well, that went well."

"Yes. He's easily offended, isn't he? We didn't even get a cup of tea."

"Now what?"

"Well, there's no use sitting here. You and I need to have a serious chat, Constable Clare . . ."

Winston's home was a nondescript city terrace. Winston unlocked the door. “Mum? It's only me. I've got a visitor."

A woman came downstairs, overweight, limping, in a faded print dress and worn slippers. She was no more than forty-five or fifty. “What time of night do you call this? And who's this? Not your probation officer again."

"Oh, Mum. This is Thelma Bennet. She's a friend. We're here on business."

"Oh, aye. Nice to meet you, Thelma."

"And you, Mrs. Stubbins."

"Call me Hope. I bet you're gagging for a cuppa. I'll get the kettle on."

"Can you manage?"

"I'm all right on me stick, love.” She went down the short corridor to the kitchen, leaning heavily on a metal Health Service walking stick.

Winston ran upstairs. “Mum, where's my rucksack?"

"Where you put it. What do you want that for?"

"My toilet rolls."

Hope sighed. “Him and his bog rolls. Once I went and used one. He raised the roof. And it left ink smudges on me bum cheeks."

Thelma said, “He's a remarkable boy."

"Ay, he's a good lad. Had a rough time of it. He never knew his father. Mind you, I only just did, if yer kna what I mean! A GI broke my heart for the price of a pair of silk stockings. Wouldn't mind, but they were laddered. Never saw the bleeder again."

"Oh, dear."

"I had a funny old war, me. Lost me heart to the Americans and me left leg to the Germans, but gained a son. I had to fight to keep him from being taken off me for adoption, mind."

Winston came clattering downstairs. “Right, got it. Sorry about Mum. She always tells my whole life story to whoever comes in the door. Do you mind wearing the rucksack, Thelma? Ta ta, Mum.” He kissed her on the cheek.

"What, you're off? What about your tea? I've got some nice gateau."

Thelma said, “I am sorry, Mrs. Stubbins. We are a bit short of time."

Winston had already kick-started the motorbike. Thelma hurried to climb aboard.

Jones sat on a bunk, leaning against the cold, hard metal wall. “I was impressed by the way you stuck up for Winston when Buck Grady was teasing him. Then you tried to protect me, when Godwin's toy soldiers waved their guns around."

"It was the right thing to do."

"But not everybody would have done it. Why did you become a police officer, Clare?"

"I was a prefect at school. I used to break up fights instead of start them. I always hated seeing harm done to people. And I hate seeing messes."

"Messes?"

"Chaos. Things breaking down. That's what crime is, isn't it? Society breaking down, even just a little bit. I like putting things back together again."

"Good for you."

"You're buttering me up."

"Well, so I am. Look, Clare, you made one significant choice when you stood by me. Now I have to ask you to make another choice."

"What choice?"

"You've seen how things are fixed here. Tremayne's atomic landscape-gardening scheme is loony enough. But unfortunately it's in the hands of Commodore Godwin, who, on first impression, I am finding difficult to trust."

"I know what you mean."

"And on top of that we have the peculiar danger Winston has highlighted. Something stirring in the Earth."

"You're asking me to help you break out of here, aren't you?"

"I badly need to find out what's going on here—and quickly."

"You're under arrest, you know."

"Goes without saying. How long do you think it would take you to get through that door?

She grinned, drew something from her pocket, reached to the lock, and there was a click. “Not long."

"Lead the way, Constable Clare!"

The university campus was deserted, a place of blocky buildings and long shadows. Thelma checked her watch: one a.m.

Winston said, “I think this is the library.” He wrapped his scarf around his fist and smashed a ground floor window.

"Winston!"

"Do you mind climbing in through the window?"

"I've done worse."

He knocked out more glass, and they helped each other through. Winston said, “We need to find the geology section."

Thelma looked around for signs. “Natural sciences—this way.” Their footsteps echoed on the polished wooden floor. “Now tell me where you learned to open windows like that."

"Ay, well, my mum hasn't always been proud of me."

"I imagine you got picked on at school, not having a father around."

"Ay. But I wasn't the only one. My problem was I got bored."

"Bored?"

"Always asked too many questions. Got put down in the bottom stream. Then I got expelled altogether. I got in with some bad lads. Ended up in borstal for a bit."

"Oh, Winston."

"I was too bright to let myself get put back in there. But I learned a canny few tricks inside. Now I work down the mines. I just switch me head off when I'm down there."

"I don't think the system has served you very well."

"I'm not complaining. You make your own luck. Over here—geology."

"All right. You get started here. I'll see what I can dig up on the sightings around Lucifer's Tomb. Professionally, I used to be a historian. I'll be more use doing that. We've got half an hour before the next ninety minutes is up. We won't make it back to the base, but we should at least call in before then.” She walked off, searching. “Mythology, mythology . . ."

Jones and Clare crept along steel-walled corridors, peering through windows and open doors. The bunker was filled with the sound of laughter, cartoonish music, and the click of pool balls.

Clare said, “I don't believe it, Doctor Jones. They've actually got a cinema down here. It's like a bit of America."

"Who'd have thought it, eh? Well, I think we're getting an impression of the layout of this bunker. Living quarters, stores, and facilities to the west. The central block is command, control, communications. Then there's the tunnel to the east that seems to link to the old mine shafts under Lucifer's Tomb."

"Where they placed the bomb."

"Quite. I imagine there's a whole series of tunnels out to various sites . . . What I'm really interested in finding is their records. Tape reels and punched cards. Which I would imagine would be underneath the command centre, in their main computer room . . . This way, I should think."

"I just can't get over how big this place is. I mean, I'm a copper and I knew nothing about all this. Even the wire fence isn't on the maps."

"I'm afraid in this post-war world, Britain is neither as sovereign nor as free as its citizens would like to believe. Ah, now what's down here?” He had found a hatch in the floor. He used a coin, a threepenny bit, to twist back a couple of bolts and lifted it to reveal metal stairs down to a brightly lit chamber. He led the way down.

Clare, following, said, “Crikey, it's cold down here. Like a meat locker."

"The computer centre. All atmospherically controlled. Look at all these great blocks, like Stonehenge monoliths."

"What are we looking for?"

"Seismic records. And they'll be in these tape cabinets. Come on, you start that end and I'll start this."

Thelma, her arms laden with books, found Winston working in a puddle of light at a table.

He looked up. “Wow, what a pile."

She dropped the books on his table. “I wish I'd taken up your mother's offer of a cup of tea. How are you getting on?"

"It's brilliant, Thelma. I've never been let loose in a place like this. Full of books and learning. I'm like a pig in muck."

She sat down. “You know, I had very few students with your promise."

"You were a teacher?"

"I researched history at university. Oxford. Teaching was part of the job."

"Do you live down there, Oxford?"

"Used to. I gave it all up to work with Doctor Jones. It was a rather unusual challenge. I don't mind about the research. But the students—yes, I miss the students. Working with you is bringing it all back. Now come on, we'd better crack on. How do you work these little desk lights?"

In the computer centre, Jones pulled out wire-framed reading glasses and peered into a screen. “I knew it. I just knew it. Look at this, Clare."

"Doctor Jones, I think you should see this—"

"No, no, whatever it is can wait. Look at that magnificent periodicity!"

Clare walked over. “All right, you win. What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"This! Can't you see? It's all quite clear. Look at the frequency spikes! There, do you see, and there?"

"Just tell me what it means."

"The scientists here have been monitoring the Earth hereabouts—recording seismic echoes."

"Just as Winston does."

"Quite. And just as he has found anomalies, so have they. Here they are in their own records. But they haven't recognised them for what they are."

"What anomalies?"

"For a start, Winston's right about that ninety-minute pulsing. See, here and here and here—the same pattern recurring, ninety minutes apart. Something really is orbiting through the basement rocks."

"Orbiting?"

"But there is a deeper periodicity. See this peak here, here, and here?"

Clare counted the peaks. “If each of these is ninety minutes—that's about a day."

"Well done, Constable Clare. But it isn't quite a day, and that's significant. What do you know about the structure of the Earth?"

"It's round."

"Hmm. I suppose that's a start. Look, Clare, Earth is a ball of rock—molten most of the way down—magma. The solid crust is only a shell, like the skin of an apple."

"An apple?"

"Yes—with a worm at its centre! The Earth's core is a ball of iron the size of the Moon. Like a planet within a planet. And it turns with its own ‘day.’”

"And the seismometers pick up these signals in line with the core day?"

"Precisely. Every core day, something comes swimming up from the heart of the Earth—and it noses around here. Almost curiously. Giving off seismic signals as it does so."

"You make it sound alive. What can swim through rock?"

"Hmm? Oh, something made from denser rock, of course. The point is that these visitors from the abyss began coming here as soon as this base was dug out."

"Do you know what these things are?"

"I have a very good idea, yes."

"And now that the bomb has gone off—what will they do?"

"I suspect we'll find out at the end of the current ninety-minute cycle.” He glanced at his watch. “In less than thirty minutes from now. What was it you wanted to show me?"

"I found something under the carpet. Another hatch."

"A hidden hatch! Curiouser and curiouser!"

For Tremayne the galley point, with its small electric kettle, tea caddy, and unwashed army mugs, was a mercifully human island within Godwin's command centre.

Godwin paced. “No, we haven't found Jones and Baines, if you want to know."

Tremayne sipped his tea. “Oh dear. Poor old Commodore."

"It's no joke, Tremayne."

"Oh, have a cup and calm down. We've had a good night, haven't we? The bomb test went well; we gathered good data. I'm actually thinking of taking forty winks."

Godwin said, “The night isn't over while those two are roaming around like rats."

"Rats? Odd word to use about your fellow countrymen. You did grow up around here, didn't you?"

Godwin glared at him. “What if I did?"

"There's not a trace of it in your accent. I've been looking you up, Godwin."

"Why?"

"Because we must work together. I'm notoriously incurious about people, you know. I focus on the job in hand. But you—well, you aren't turning out to be the sort of chap I expected."

"And what sort of ‘chap’ am I?"

"Grammar school boy, redbrick college, then the Air Force."

Godwin sneered. “All very different for you, I imagine. What was it—Harrow and Oxford?"

"Winchester and Cambridge, actually, but that's the idea. Never in the forces myself. Worked on radar research during the last lot."

"What an easy ride you've had."

"Hmmph. If you think a short-sighted, brainy kid has an easy ride at any English public school, you're wrong. But is that what you're all about, Godwin? Envy? Do you resent being posted up here to this backwater—especially as you've been sent home? You were quite high up in the War Office, weren't you, before Suez? When I mention your name it's that debacle that people talk of first."

"Some of us call it a betrayal."

"Ah, yes, our last imperial adventure, debagged when the Yanks wouldn't back us. I suppose you quite enjoy lording it over a base full of Americans now, do you?"

"This is absurd. I've work to do."

"You should talk more, Godwin. Then you wouldn't explode as you do. Calm, calm, bang . . . calm, calm, bang. I've seen it in you, you know."

Godwin walked away stiffly. “Call me if there are any developments."

"Calm, calm, bang!"

Thelma closed her book. “I think that's enough. Oh, my eyes. Well, I've found records of ghostly apparitions over Lucifer's Tomb going back twelve hundred years, to Saxon times. What about you?"

Winston riffled through a heap of paper. “I've been cutting out the seismic records from these bound volumes. We can't carry the whole books back. I feel like a vandal. But look at all the detail in these signals!"

"They almost look like speech traces."

"Yes. There's information in there. But it's got more intense in the last few years."

"While the Americans have been building the base."

"Looks like it. What do you think it all means?"

Thelma said, “I don't know. I hope Doctor Jones will be able to figure it out. Time's nearly up anyhow. We'd better call him."

The room shuddered, a deep rumble. Thelma heard windows crack, and books fell from the shelves.

Winston was wide-eyed. “I wasn't expecting that—not here."

"We'd better get out of here. Come on, let's get packed up."

The room hidden under the computer room was another metal-walled box, as brightly lit as those above, and cluttered with equipment.

Clare pointed. “Look at these pipes, Doctor Jones. And these cables."

"Yes. It's clearly tapping off the base's circulation system, air, water. And the cables must hack into the computer suite. You could hide down here and take the place over, and nobody would know about it—until too late. A secret control centre. How predictable. How depressing."

"Take the place over to do what?"

"Well, I'm not sure about that, Clare, not yet. But the fact that this is a nuclear base, and we have these rows of control consoles and that immense wall map of the world—these things do not fill me with a warm and fuzzy glow.” He glanced at his watch. “We've got ten minutes left of the ninety. Now listen to me, Clare. Just in case I don't make it out of here."

"Don't talk like that."

"There are a lot of nervous people running around with guns, and anything could happen. I want you to remember a few things. Tell Winston he was right about the ninety-minute orbits—and all the rest, in fact. Maybe he'll be able to get through to Tremayne. And tell Thelma one word. ‘Magmoids.’”

"What does that mean?"

"Thelma won't know either. But she might, conceivably, be able to find out through DS8's resources."

"I don't know what you're on about. And you're not dead yet. What now?"

"I don't think we've got any choice.” He found an intercom microphone on a console, snapped a switch, and leaned forward. “Hello, hello? We surrender! Got that, Godwin? Come and find us. We need to talk!"

The next tremor came as Thelma and Winston, on the police motorbike, fled down a city street. Smashed glass and broken bricks rained around them.

Winston said, “Look at that, it's stove in Fenwick's shop window. There'll be hell to pay for that. You all right?"

"This rucksack's pulling my shoulders off. Look, don't worry about me, just look for a phone. We have to talk to Jones."

"There's one down this alley, I think—"

"Look out!"

An avalanche of bricks and glass spilled over the road before them.

Buck Grady marched Jones and Clare into the Hades command centre. Godwin waited with Tremayne at his side. Major Crowne hovered in the background, looking as uncertain as ever. Jones tried to conceal his own nervousness.

Godwin snapped, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have your heads blown off right now."

Crowne stepped forward. “Take it easy, sir."

Jones said, “Yes, Commodore—take a deep breath and tell us all why you've installed some kind of secret control centre beneath the computer room!"

Tremayne said, “'Secret control centre?’ What on Earth—"

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you don't know anything about it, Professor? I fear your wonderful dreams of ‘geographical engineering’ are in danger of being hijacked."

Buck was watching the monitors, green traces flickering across cathode ray screens. “Sir. Major Crowne. Look at this. Seismic signals up all over the place."

Tremayne pushed forward. “Let me see that. He's right, by God."

Godwin said, “Aftershocks from the detonation, that's all."

"Oh, don't be absurd, man. Look here, and here. The timing's all over the shop. This has nothing to do with aftershocks. It's some different phenomenon entirely."

"I told you to expect this,” Jones said. “We've had ninety minutes’ grace since your irresponsible nuclear detonation. Ninety minutes, granted us by orbital mechanics."

Tremayne said, “Orbital mechanics? What are you talking about, man?"

"There's something inside the Earth, Tremayne. Not just rock and iron—something more. Something alive. It was sleeping. Now you've woken it up. And it's about to rise up—"

Without warning Godwin punched him in the mouth. Jones staggered back, the pain exploding.

Crowne cried, “Commodore Godwin!"

Tremayne said, “Calm, calm, bang, eh, Godwin?"

Jones gasped for breath, trembling, and he looked at the blood on his hand. “Well, Cassius Clay would have won the gold medal twice over with that one. Is that your only response, Commodore? Violence?"

Tremayne said, “But what would you have us do, Jones?"

"I'd evacuate the base, for a start—"

Godwin snapped, “This base stays manned if I have to lock the doors myself. All this is an irrelevance. The project is everything. And the project will continue."

"Yes, but what project? Whose project?"

Buck said now, “Umm, actually—look at this. The seismic signals are dying away. Things are calming down."

Godwin said, “Well, well. So much for your prophecies of doom, Jones?"

"That's absurd. Let me see that. Oh, get your hands off me, Sergeant! Tremayne? What do you make of this?” He waved a heap of paper, summarising the seismic results he'd retrieved below.

Tremayne flicked through the sheets and compared them with the oscilloscope traces. “Locally, yes, the signal is dying. But look at this spike over here."

"Yes, that's it. There's the ninety-minute response all right. But the epicentre isn't here as I expected. It's about thirty miles southeast."

A telephone jangled. Grady picked it up and listened. “Doctor Jones. It's for you!"

Godwin said, “Oh, good grief—"

Jones snatched the phone. “Hello? Hello!"

Thelma's voice, relayed through a small speaker, was barely audible. “Jones? Is that you?"

"It's a dreadful line. Where are you?"

"We're in—” She was interrupted by a series of beeps. “Oh, for heaven's sake—have you got another sixpence, Winston? We're still in the city. We've got the data you wanted. It's all kicking off here, Jones. Earth tremors, damage to the buildings, cracked roads—"

Tremayne said, “Jones. Look at this map. That epicentre. Thirty miles southeast. That's the city. Newcastle."

Jones said, “Oh, my word. That's it. They aren't targeting the base. They're attacking the nearest population centre. Thelma, can you hear me? You've got to get out of there. Never mind the data. Just get out of the city, get out!"

There was a roar, distorted by the phone line. “Jones? I think—” The line went dead.

"Thelma? Thelma!"

3

0135.

"Winston!"

"Here, Thelma. I'm under a hod-load of bricks."

"Wait, don't move, I'm coming.” She dug into the heap of bricks with her bare hands until she had uncovered his face and shoulders. Winston stirred and at last was able to sit up. “Are you hurt?"

"It all sort of washed over me. What about you?"

"The telephone kiosk fell over on top of me. I think it saved me. The phone was cut off, though. There. Can you stand up?"

He struggled to his feet. “I'm a bit dusty—the bike! Clare's going to kill me."

"It's still here, where we left it. And here's the rucksack with the data."

"That bike's better off than we are."

There was a distant explosion; they both flinched.

Winston said, “Look, Thelma, I know how important it is to get back to the base and report in to Doctor Jones. We're on a sort of mission. But—"

"You're worried about your mother."

"You saw how she's fixed. She's not going to be able to cope with this lot by herself."

"Then we'll go and get her."

"Are you sure? I thought you'd argue."

Thelma smiled. “Not me. We'll save your mother, then we'll save the world. And besides, you're the one with the bike. Now, come on, give me that rucksack. I suppose that ugly beast is going to start, is it?"

She was answered by a roar as the engine kicked in.

The Hades command centre hummed with tension; information poured in via the phone lines and teletypes.

Major Crowne said, “There's no news coming out of Newcastle."

Clare asked, “Have you got through to the police control centre?"

"Constable, the emergency services are trying to work their way in. There's clearly a major human disaster unfolding in there."

Jones cried, “I told you so!"

Godwin said, “Be silent, man. What's going on further afield, Major Crowne?"

"It's sketchy. Lots of disruptions to the comms globally. It's going to take a while to put it all together."

Tremayne said, “I suppose you'd say we have another ninety minutes’ grace, Jones."

"Precisely. Ninety minutes until the next wave of attacks."

Godwin said, “Attacks? We're dealing with a geological phenomenon, not a purposeful foe."

"Oh, you know that, do you?"

Tremayne said, “Godwin, he could be right, at least about some of this. It might be wise to suspend the programme until we're absolutely sure we know what we're dealing with. If there is a connection between the Hades detonations and these geological upheavals—"

"I rather think that's my call, don't you think?"

Jones said, “Then make the right call, man, for once in your life."

Tremayne sighed. “And what would you have us do, Jones?"

"Do what good scientists always do. Gather data. First we need to establish just what has happened in Newcastle, and any other problem areas around the country—around the world, if necessary—I presume your communications here are capable of that. Second, Tremayne, you and I need to work on the seismic data you've got heaped up down in your computer centre, but never bothered to interpret properly, if I may say so. I hope to prove once and for all what we're facing here. And finally I need Thelma and Winston brought back here safely. The data they are bringing back has a broader base than the monitoring you've done here."

"All right, Jones, we'll do things your way—for now."

Godwin said, “Well, I won't stop you, if you stay out of the way of the project. But I think you're a pack of fools, wasting time and resources."

Jones snapped back, “Yes, well, you would think that, wouldn't you?"

Crowne put in, “About your friends, Doctor Jones. I'll detail Sergeant Grady to bring them in."

Tremayne nodded. “Good. Sergeant, hook up with Captain Phillips; the British forces outside will be able to help."

Buck said, “Yes, sir. But how will I find them? Things sound kind of chaotic out there."

Jones asked, “Clare, does Winston have any family?"

"Yes, his mother. She lives alone in Gateshead."

"Give the details to Sergeant Grady. Then plot a straight-line course from there back to the base. Sergeant, they'll be somewhere on that line. I know Thelma. Right, Tremayne, got your slide rule oiled?"

The door was half off its hinges, with loose bricks and tiles heaped up against it. In the distance, sirens wailed.

Winston scrambled over the rubble. “Mum. Mum! Thelma, the house is shaken to bits."

"Where will your mother be?"

"It's the small hours. She'd have been asleep, in the bedroom upstairs."

"Winston, the roof's gone. There is no upstairs."

"Oh no, oh God—"

"Now take it easy. Think, Winston. Where was the bedroom?"

"Over the parlour. Through here.” He forced his way through heaps of plaster and timber. “Mum? Are you here?

Her voice was faint. “Winston? That you? Ee, man, what's going on? Are the Jerries starting up again?"

"Mum, are you hurt?"

"Well, me leg got squashed. Good news is it's me wooden one. And me bed came right through the ceiling. Soft landing, like. Always was a lucky bugger, me."

Thelma said, “We're going to get you out of here."

Hope laughed. “How? On that motorbike, like Mods and Rockers? I don't think so."

Winston said, “Thelma, if you want to get back to the base, leave us—"

"Absolutely not. We're going to take her with us, leg or no leg. We just need to work out how."

Tremayne led Jones and Clare back to the computer centre. “All right, Jones, it's your show. Where do we start?"

Jones glanced around. “Look, we want to get all the seismic data you have, fed through your main processor here, and plotted up as graphical displays on these screens. Clare, you know where the tapes are, you can help too."

Tremayne said, “Suppose you tell me what kind of ‘graphical display’ you want."

"A section of the Earth. Deep as you like—all the way to the core if you can. I want to be able to see where these disturbances you've been tracking are travelling."

"That's asking a lot. We're only one observing point here; we need triangulation."

"That's what I'm hoping to get from Thelma's data, among other things. But we can squeeze a lot out of this data set with a bit of ingenuity."

Tremayne rubbed his chin and looked absent; he was obviously a man who relished a scientific puzzle. “Hmm. I suppose we could look for signal attenuation. Reflections from the mantle layers. That the sort of thing?"

"Precisely—"

Crowne bustled in. “Professor Tremayne, Doctor Jones. We've had some input from outside. The comms are still patchy. Newcastle's been hit bad. Massive earthquakes and aftershocks, as far as the Cheviot hills. The geologists can't make any sense of it."

"I'm not surprised,” Jones said.

Tremayne said, “And further afield?"

"There are trouble spots all over—tremors, quakes, even volcanism. All over the world, I mean."

Jones said, “Where, exactly? Show me, man. Clare, bring over that world map."

"Bring the tapes, fetch the map, make a cup of tea. Just remember you're still under arrest, Doctor Jones."

"Now, now, Constable Clare."

Crowne took the map and used a thick black pen to mark locations. “You have these sites across the continental US, here, here, here. And across western Europe, the south as far as Turkey, and in Australia, Japan—"

Jones said, “Well, there's no obvious correlation with any patterns of seismic activity I know about. Tremayne?"

"I'm afraid it's rather obvious to me. Major?"

Crowne said, “Doctor Jones, these are Project Hades emplacements. Like this one."

"More buried bombs. Well, well. There's your correlation, Tremayne!"

Tremayne stared. “Good Lord—now I don't know what to believe."

"Then let's get on with this data analysis and wash away all your doubt."

Buck Grady was waiting behind the wheel of the truck. Phillips climbed up beside him. “Right, let's get going, Sergeant."

Buck started the engine. “Yes, sir.” The truck pulled away. “You sure this is going to be enough, just the two of us?"

"I think so. Things are quiet for the moment and my men are getting a bit of shuteye. Leave them to it. Who knows what we'll have to deal with in the morning? Besides this is just a quick in-and-out to retrieve those two civilians."

"Turning into a long night, though, Captain Phillips."

"You can say that again."

"Here, take another smoke."

"Thanks. Your Yankee drags are disgusting, though."

"I'll try to come better equipped next time. You have family yourself, Captain?"

"The missus and two little girls. Down in Sussex, a long way from the action here. I tried calling, but the lines are down. What about you?"

"Just my fiancée, in Long Beach, California. They say there's problems out there too."

"Really?"

"The scuttlebutt is this volcano stuff is bubbling up all over. But I haven't had a chance to make a call."

"Well, we'll try to fix that when we get back from the city."

"I'd appreciate that. Not that I'm worried. Tina is a take-it-on-the-chin kind of kid."

"Hmm. Should think she'd have to be, attached to a chap like you."

"Yeah, you got a point there. Hey, what's that red glow up ahead? Sunrise, you think?"

"I'm afraid not, Sergeant. That's Newcastle burning. See if you can get a bit more ummph out of this old banger."

The engine roared and the truck surged ahead.

Winston said, “All right, Mum, let me get you lifted into this."

"You're joking me. That's a bairn's pram!"

Thelma smiled. “Well, now it's a custom-built sidecar, Mrs. Stubbins. And we've strapped it onto the bike quite firmly with these broom handles—see? Anyway you're small enough to fit in."

"Oh, am I? Just as well I've left me other leg behind, isn't it? Winston, you can go and raid old Porky Harris's garden shed."

"What for?"

"He keeps a can of petrol in there for his bubble car. He's off on holiday at the minute, he won't mind."

Thelma said, “That's very sensible, Mrs. Stubbins."

"And while he's out of the way, Thelma, you can give me a hand to the khazi. Best to spare the lad's blushes. Come on. We only ever had an outside bog and with any luck it's still standing. You lead the way, I'll hop along after."

After an hour's work, Jones, Tremayne, and Clare made their way back to the command centre.

Godwin paced, glowering over his operators’ shoulders. “Still wasting time, gentlemen?"

Jones ignored him. “I think we've squeezed just about as much out of these fragments of data as we're going to manage. Now we're going to look at the results. Ready, Tremayne?"

"I have the computer output patched through to here."

"Just remember—all of you,” Jones said, gazing around at them. “Open your eyes—and your mind.” He threw a switch. A cathode-ray monitor powered up with a heavy clunk.

Clare peered at the display. “It's a big circle. Is that the Earth? Looks like a radar display. But what are those flying shapes?"

"This is the anatomy of the planet, Clare. A world within a world. This is the core. Here you can see the layers of the mantle surrounding it."

"Where's the crust, the continents?"

"Too thin to see on this projection. Remember, Clare—all the world you know is just a shell."

"And those shapes, washing to and fro. What's that, static? Echoes?"

Tremayne leaned to see. “They seem to be rising up from the surface of the core. Like rockets launching."

Jones said, “That's a very apt comparison, Tremayne. See how they sail all the way to the surface—I mean, our surface—and sniff around a bit before falling back. Of course this is a very time-accelerated view."

Godwin laughed. “Rockets? Oh, this is all—"

Tremayne said, “They're purposeful. There's no doubt about it. Whatever they are—purposeful and intelligent."

Jones slapped his back. “At last you see it."

"And there's a sort of seismic wake that precedes them."

"Signals, Tremayne. They communicate through seismic waves passing through the rock, just as you and I talk using sound waves rippling through the air."

Clare asked, “What are they, Doctor Jones?"

Jones said, “My department has evidence of these entities going back to the work of the first geologists. Charles Lyell himself came away from a trip to Sicily with suspicions, never confirmed . . . Evidently they inhabit the surface of the planetary core. To them the mantle rock, the magma, is as thin as air, a medium through which they fly. We call them Magmoids."

Tremayne said, “Magmoids!"

"Well, we had to give them some sort of label. You understand they are firmly within the Linnaean Paradoxa class, Tremayne. We had no firm evidence of their existence—but no proof of their non-existence either. And our brief, as DS8 and its predecessors, was to keep a weather eye on them. They probably never even knew human beings were here. Not until you started letting off your bombs high in their rocky atmosphere—and with your Hades bombs, firecrackers finally big enough to get their attention."

Tremayne said, “And that explains the ninety minutes."

"Yes. I think the apparitions the local people called ‘Grendels’ are Magmoid probes—like space satellites—probably automated. They really are in orbit, Tremayne, literally orbiting through outer layers of rock so thin they may as well be vacuum. I wonder why they're drawn here, and why they have been visible for so long. Something to do with the deep geological flaws hereabouts, no doubt. And in Lucifer's Tomb you have a flaw on top of a flaw—as Winston Stubbins understood."

Tremayne was staring at the images. “How extraordinary. We thought we were alone. We looked outward, to the stars. While all the time there was a civilisation, whole and entire, under our feet."

"This is first contact, Tremayne. First contact."

The motorbike roared down a street strewn with rubble and rapidly becoming clogged with traffic. The city was wide awake now, and everywhere people were moving, clambering through shattered properties. Overhead helicopters flapped, sirens wailed, and Thelma heard the ominous crackle of fire.

She said, “We're lucky we're on a bike. A car would never get through. It might get easier when we get back to the main road out of the city. But all the people—look at them. I wish there was something we could do for them."

"Don't fret, bonny lass,” Hope said. “You're doing your best. Woah! Ee, Winston, if I knew I was going on a dodgems I'd have worn me kiss-me-quick hat."

"Sorry, Mum."

Thelma said, “Look, through that alley. I think that's the way back to the main road."

"It'll be a squeeze. Hang on, Mum."

They pushed through the alley and emerged onto the main road—but Winston slowed the bike and turned off the engine. “Oh, dear God."

The road was crammed with people, a moving wall that blocked the exit from the alley.

Hope called, “What is it? I canna see back here in the cheap seats."

Winston said, “People, Mum. Thousands and thousands of people."

"Men, women,” Thelma said. “Kids on their parents’ backs. Old people in wheelchairs.” She pointed. “Those look like hospital beds being pushed along."

Hope said, “It's the city, isn't it? The city emptying out."

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Stubbins."

"It was like this in the last lot. When the bombs came a lot of people just walked out, in their bare feet some of them. You don't see that in the war films."

"Look, we're just going to have to make our way through this crowd."

Winston said, “It's going to be awful."

"I know. But we'll hit clear road when we get ahead of the crowd. Are you ready, Mrs. Stubbins?"

"As I'll ever be."

Winston said, “Let's do it.” He started the engine and pushed forward. Reluctantly people made space for the machine.

The ground shuddered.

Winston called, “Did you feel that?"

Thelma said, “I'm afraid I did. Another tremor.” She checked her watch; it was nearly three a.m. “And right on cue—another ninety minutes gone."

"We aren't going much faster than walking pace."

Hope said, “You'd gan on faster if you dumped this stupid pram with me in it."

Thelma said, “We're not about to do that, Mrs. Stubbins."

A voice came drifting from a loudhailer, distant but clear. “Thelma Bennet! Winston Stubbins! Thelma Bennet! Make yourself known. . . ."

Winston said, “Did you hear that?"

"Yes. I think so. My name and yours. I think that's Captain Phillips."

"Come in, number seven, your time is up!"

Winston said, “Hush, Mum. I think it's coming from that truck—see, it's shining its headlights this way."

Thelma said, “Stop the bike and I'll run up and see."

"Hurry back."

She clambered off the bike and began to force her way through the crowd. “Excuse me. I'm sorry. Please, excuse me, I have to pass . . ."

Tremayne said, “The question is what to do about all this—I don't know—I just don't know."

Godwin smiled. “I have no confusion in my mind. Men like you see only problems. I see an opportunity—if there's anything at all in what you say."

Jones said, “Now why does that make my hair stand on end?"

A phone rang and Crowne grabbed it. “Yes. Who? Oh. It's for you again, Jones."

"Give me that. Hello?"

"Jones?"

"Thelma! Goodness, I'm glad to hear your voice. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm with Captain Phillips. And so's Winston—tell Clare. Although it seems to be starting up again."

"I know. We felt it here."

"We have the data you wanted."

"Oh, well done, Thelma, well done."

"I just hope it's worth it. Have you worked out what we're dealing with yet?"

Jones said, “Magmoids, I think. An infestation of the core of the Earth. Get back here, Thelma. Bring that information. Just be safe!"

He put the phone down, breathing hard. He was more relieved to have heard her voice than he wanted to admit. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings again—the command centre resounding to the noise of murmuring voices, the ringing telephones, the clattering teletypes, the sharp, warm smell of electronic valves. He was remarkably tired, yet he knew he couldn't sleep even if he had the chance.

Once again the floor shuddered and metal walls creaked.

Crowne called, “More reports coming in. More damage in Newcastle. Tremors in other locations near Hades bases. Ankara, Turkey. Seville, Spain."

Godwin said, “Fatalities?"

"It seems so, sir. But the comms are flaky, and the ground situation is kind of chaotic."

Tremayne said, “What do you suggest, Jones?"

"There's not much we can do until Thelma gets back here with her data. I'd certainly be trying to get a warning out through your chain of command. Tell those in charge to prepare for disturbances like this, probably worsening, coming every ninety minutes until further notice. We may still be able to get out of this without a great deal more damage being done. To the Magmoids humans are an irritation, at best. A bit of bad weather, high in the rocky sky. But any more bomb blasts and they will deal with us. You must ensure above all that no more of these monstrous fireworks of yours are let off."

Crowne turned to Tremayne. “Professor? Do you endorse that?"

Tremayne said, “To be truthful, I am barely clinging on to the coattails of Doctor Jones's analysis. But there is clearly a link between the Hades emplacements and our own detonation with the timings and locations of these tremors. It is only prudent to get Doctor Jones's warning out."

Crowne said, “Very well—"

Godwin drew his revolver. “Belay that, Major."

"Commodore!"

Tremayne said, “What on Earth are you doing, Godwin?"

"Taking control. This is clearly a global crisis. If these ‘Magmoids’ exist at all, and I'm not ready to concede that yet, we ought to be thinking in terms of striking back."

Jones said, “Striking back? By all that's holy, man—"

Crowne said, “Commodore, I really think I should pass this up the command line—"

"To what end? This is the focus of the Magmoid attack. This is where the intelligence is gathered—here, in my hands. And nobody is better qualified to make the profound decisions that now face mankind. Crowne, obey my order. Step back from the console."

Crowne took a deep breath. “Sir. With respect. No, sir. Commodore Godwin, I am the senior US officer on the base here. My commander-in-chief is President Eisenhower—not you. We work together, sir, we are allies. But in the final analysis I have to exercise my own judgement. And I won't allow the base to be cut out of the chain of command. No, sir."

And Godwin pulled the trigger. The noise of the revolver was shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Crowne fell back and lay still.

Clare cried, “Major!” She knelt down and felt for a pulse at Crowne's neck. “Commodore Godwin—you killed him!"

Tremayne said, “For God's sake, man! What about duty? What about the oaths you swore to serve Queen and country?"

"Oh, I serve a higher cause than that, Tremayne."

All the operatives in the command centre—every one of them a soldier, Jones reminded himself—had turned, shocked, at the sound of the gunshot. But Godwin snarled, “Back to work, all of you.” They turned back to their consoles.

"Now to business,” Godwin said. “I am confident that the American troops within this base will continue to obey my commands. But I must decide what to do with you. For you're either with me or against me, it's as simple as that. You'll be confined, Jones. Obviously. As for you, WPC Baines—"

"I won't submit to your threats, Commodore."

"I admire your spirit. Well, you'll be confined too. And you, Professor Tremayne—I expect your cooperation. This is your baby, you know. The bombs of Project Hades are your design."

"But I never wanted this killing."

Jones said, “I might ask you what you expected when you devoted your life to weapons design, Professor."

"But I have always believed in the power of reason. Oh, you can put your gun away as far as I'm concerned, Godwin. I'll work with you. But I'll be working to make you see sense!"

Godwin said, “Sergeant at arms, take these two away. And clear up this—umm, unfortunate incident. We have work to do. Come, Professor Tremayne."

As Jones and Clare were led away, the room shuddered.

Clare muttered, “Here we go again."

A blur of light washed over the crowded street, a noise like a shriek. People cowered, bewildered by such strangeness on this terrible night.

Buck said, “Woah. Anybody see that?"

Winston goggled. “Yes! Wow, that was fantastic, I've never seen a Grendel so close. It's like an eye in the sky—it seems to watch you as it goes by. No wonder people thought they were living things."

Phillips called, “Coming up to the bridge."

Buck said, “And it's still intact. Thank cripes for that—"

There was an explosion, somewhere ahead. People screamed.

"Holy smoke, that was bigger than ever. I can't see the bridge. Is it down?"

Phillips said, “No. There, see, through the smoke? Hold on—"

The truck bounced and rattled onto the bridge. Another shriek rolled down from the sky.

Hope said, “What's that up in the sky? Angels?"

Winston said, “Not angels, Mum. They're called Grendels."

"My word,” Phillips said, “they're all along the length of the bridge."

Thelma peered ahead, over his shoulder. The strange squashed-sphere shapes of the Grendels hovered over the bridge's superstructure, like Christmas lights, illuminating the streams of refugees struggling to cross.

Buck said, “Can you smell sulphur?"

Hope grumbled, “Yeah. And I'm sweating fit to melt."

Buck looked down, peering out of his window. “Gee, the water is glowing."

Thelma peered down at a crimson, smoking river. “That's not water, Sergeant. That's lava. The valley of the Tyne is full of molten lava!"

4

0309.

Once again Jones and Clare found themselves in a cell. This time they were cuffed back to back and set on a bunk.

Jones said, “Charming ambience once again. Battleship grey must be in this year."

"This isn't funny."

"No, I know. I'm sorry to have gotten you into this. An hour or two of this and our shoulders are going to ache like billy-o."

"I wish I could have stopped Professor Tremayne working with Godwin. The Professor seemed—dazed."

"Yes. Stunned by the implosion of his dreams. But it might be useful to have Tremayne out there with the Commodore rather than in here with us. He's an ally, if a tentative one. After all Tremayne didn't know about Godwin's secret control room, you'll remember."

"So now what, Doctor Jones?"

"I would say the first priority is to get back to that secret room and find out what Godwin's really up to."

"And how are we going to do that? I can't pick these locks. We were searched—our pockets emptied—"

"Perhaps we can improvise. Clare—if I scrunch around like this, can you get your hand into my jacket pocket?"

"It's not easy lifting my hands behind my back."

"I know. Just try. Now have a dig around."

"They didn't leave you much. Pack of cards. Match book. Reading glasses—"

"That's it. A wire frame, you'll see—it comes apart rather easily if you give it a tug."

"It's not an accident you have such a thing, is it, Doctor Jones?"

"Well, I have been in a few scrapes in the past. Now, if you can just use the pieces of the frame—"

"Done.” There was a double click, and the cuffs that joined their wrists opened. They fell away from each other with gasps of relief. Clare worked at the other cuff on her wrist. “Now what? It may be trickier getting through that door; it looked like a magnetic lock."

"Ah. But I suspect we're right next door to the computer room—if my sense of geography's right. And those wall panels, with the bolts in the corner, look vulnerable to another souvenir they left me with.” He dug in his pocket and produced his threepenny bit. “Open sesame!"

Once out of the city, the refugee flow was foot traffic mixed up with cars, trucks, buses, ambulances—even tractors and bicycles. But the flow was always slow. Phillips, however, insisted they were better off sticking to the tarmac track rather than risk going off-road. Frustration and anxiety gnawed at Thelma.

Fifteen miles north of Newcastle the traffic ground to a crawl, not for the first time. People pressed around the truck; Thelma looked out over a sea of hunched shoulders and drawn faces.

Buck said, “My God. So many people, even this far out."

"A whole city's in flight,” Thelma said. “Who's that waving up ahead?"

"We're being flagged down. That's a policeman.” Buck braked to a halt.

"We mustn't stop. We have to get this scientific material back to Doctor Jones."

"I fully understand that, Miss Bennet,” Phillips said. “But I don't think we have a choice."

They climbed out onto the road and waited while Phillips jogged off to talk to the policeman.

Winston said, “We're wasting time. We should have been back at the base by now."

"I know, I know,” said Thelma. “I'm as frustrated as you are. Are you all right, Mrs. Stubbins?"

"Oh, champion. This nice canvas seat Sergeant Grady gave me takes the weight off me stump—"

"Oh, thank heaven, here comes Captain Phillips."

Phillips's expression was grim. “It's bad news, I'm afraid. It's all rather a mess. There's some kind of drama going on back at the base. The comms links are down, and nobody's being let in or out."

Thelma said, “So we can't even talk to them?"

"Afraid not. And I wouldn't advise striking out by yourselves; there are roadblocks everywhere. Could be tricky to resolve. There's even talk of storming the fence."

Buck said, “Hmm. With Americans inside, Brits outside?"

"Yes. But it is an atomic base, and we need to get a grip on events. I've told my chaps to do nothing until I get back. Which might be a while, unfortunately."

Thelma said, “Why's that?"

"Because of all this lot. Seems the Cheviot has blown its top. I mean the mountain itself. Rivers of lava pouring down the valleys. Quakes and tremors everywhere, the ground opening up, and so forth—quite a mess."

Winston said, “That's impossible. The volcanoes around here have been extinct for hundreds of millions of years."

"Yes, well, tell that to the mountains. Anyhow the emergency services are getting their act together. But all these people can't just keep walking. We need to set up refugee receiving centres—strung out along the roads, you see. And the first priority is to get the road cleared so traffic can pass. For now our duty is here. Right, come on, Sergeant Grady. You there, police constable! Start shifting these people."

Thelma said, “Oh, how very frustrating."

Hope said, “You'll get to your Doctor Jones in the end."

"Yes, but will we be in time?"

Jones let the metal wall panel fall to the floor, wincing at the noise. “Right, just climb through here and we're in."

Clare clambered through the hole. “You were right, Doctor Jones. This is the computer room."

"And nobody around. Good. Now, that hatch down to the control room was under that bit of carpet over there as I recall."

Clare lifted the carpet. “Got it. Now all we have to do—"

"Clare, wait. Think. You can't just march in with your warrant card in your hand. If we lift that hatch and Godwin's there, our welcome will be a bullet, like poor Major Crowne. We need to find a sneakier way in."

"Like what?” She glanced up at a grille on the wall. “How about the ventilation shafts?"

He smiled. “You've been reading too many thrillers. Hear the hum of the fans? You'd be chopped liver before you got three yards. No, there's a better way. What else must connect this room with Godwin's centre?"

She looked around. “The computers?"

He snapped his fingers. “Exactly!"

"You're not serious. You want us to crawl through the computers?"

Jones said, “But those big boxes are almost empty inside. Come here. Help me get the cover off this processor cabinet. Have you got that threepenny bit?” They hastily unscrewed the panel. “Oof. It's heavy. Right, in we go. See—this thing's the size of a wardrobe, and there's not much inside but this rack of metallic cores, these bundles of wires—aha. And a hatch in the floor. See? It's clearly connected to sister units down below."

"I feel like a rat crawling behind a skirting board."

"Sooner a humble rat than a great man like the Commodore, eh?” He started working on the hatch. “Come on, Constable Clare. And watch out for rat traps."

In the command centre, Godwin loomed over Tremayne's shoulder. “Ah, Tremayne. Good to see you back at work."

"Just ensuring the seismometric systems are functioning. There's rather a lot of data to be gathered tonight. Shame to waste the opportunity. But I remain concerned about Doctor Jones and that WPC."

"They're contained. They'll come to no harm if they behave themselves."

"I don't believe I can trust you anymore, Godwin."

"That's rather melodramatic, Tremayne."

"Melodramatic? I saw you kill a man—a fellow officer! And what is the purpose of this extra control room Doctor Jones spoke of?"

"You believe him about that, do you?"

"Implicitly."

"Very well. I'll escort you there for a look around. I suppose that will maximise your utility to the project, at this point. Look—you go ahead.” He handed over magnetic and manual keys, and a map. “I need to brief Captain Greengage, who's now the senior American officer on the base. The perimeter must remain secured. Then I'll meet you."

Tremayne took the keys. “Good. We need to talk, above all else—and work together."

The covert control room was unmanned, though relays clattered and tape decks whirred.

Clare said, “Look at all these flashing lights."

"Yes. This computer suite seems to be working on something, doesn't it? Let's hope we can work out what. Righty-ho, let's see what's what.” From a deep pocket in his trenchcoat he pulled out a spare set of reading glasses and began to throw switches.

Clare paced around. “All those glowing points on the map. Are they the same as the Project Hades bomb sites? You remember, Major Crowne marked that map when the Magmoids first attacked."

"I do indeed remember. You're right, Clare. This room is obviously somehow central to the control of Project Hades as a whole."

"Secret underground lairs. Wall maps of the world. It is like something out of a thriller, isn't it?"

"Yes, there is something cartoonish about Godwin. Often is with men like that. Doesn't make them any less dangerous, though. . . . Aha! I thought so. Clare, come here. This control panel with the big red buttons."

"Here?"

"When this lever is thrown, these computers—well, they take over the ones upstairs. Locking out any other commands."

"So from down here you are in control of the base."

Jones said, “Total control, yes. And through a few handy communications links, you're in control of rather more than just Aldmoor. Watch the map when I implement this test.” He turned the switch.

"Blimey. All those bomb emplacements have turned green."

"Green for primed, I presume. You see what this means, Clare. From within this room, you could control all of Project Hades—a worldwide suite of nuclear weapons of immense power."

"My God. And Godwin has all this in his hands!"

"Yes. Well, I rather suspected something like this. The question is what Godwin intended to do with the power he was to grab—and what he intends now that the Magmoids have shown up. But there's something I still haven't worked out. See this display?” It was a bank of pulsing lamps. “I can tell that this computer suite is busily reprogramming itself. Which means, presumably, that the whole of Project Hades, the global network of bombs, is being reconfigured."

"Reconfigured? To do what?"

"I don't know. But I don't imagine we'll like the answer when we have it."

"Here's something I do recognise, on this screen. These numbers, ticking down."

"A countdown clock. You're right. Seems we're not done with fireworks tonight. Godwin's setting something off. But what?"

"Perhaps you should ask him,” said John Tremayne.

Jones whirled, startled. Neither he nor Clare had heard him come in. “All right, Tremayne, you caught us bang to rights. What are you going to do about it?"

Tremayne said, “As I said. We'll ask the Commodore."

"Don't be a fool, man. This might be our only chance to stop him! If you can show me how to disable this system—"

"I gave my word that I would work with the man, and so I will. The presumption of innocence—eh, Jones?” He turned on an intercom. “This is John Tremayne in the control room. Could you hurry down, please, Commodore?"

The road was still jammed with people, despite the efforts of the police and troops to clear the carriageway. To the din of helicopters and truck engines and angry shouts was added the wail of babies crying.

Phillips led the party back into the truck. “Phew. It's nice to get back in here for a break."

Thelma said, “Tough going, is it, Captain?"

"Civilians! No matter how many times I implore them to be patient, how many times I tell them that supplies are on the way, but the lorries just can't get through because half the bridges are down or the roads are swamped with molten lava—"

Hope said, “Ay, but you should be sorting it out yourself."

"Now really, Mrs. Stubbins—"

Thelma said, “No, let her speak. What do you mean, Mrs. Stubbins?"

"I can hear babbies crying. What's being done for them?"

Phillips said, “Nothing. I mean, we have nothing to give them."

"Oh, cobblers, bonny lad. Look—where's the nearest fresh water?"

"A tanker truck's on the way."

Hope said, “A tanker truck? What do you want that for?"

Winston said, “Actually, there's a stream just down this bank."

"Right, there you go. Get down there and set up some kind of shelter."

Phillips said, “We don't have any tents."

"Then use your noggin."

Buck said, “I guess we could use the tarpaulin off this truck."

"Exactly. There's a start. Now go down the line of people and pick out the most vulnerable. The old folk. The young mums with the bairns. Get them down to the shelter and start sharing out the powdered milk and Farley's Rusks."

Phillips asked, “What powdered milk?"

Hope said, “The tins they'll all be carrying in their suitcases, that's what. You've got a thousand people on the road out there with half their homes on their backs or in their cars. Set your tame coppers to asking. They'll need some hot water, of course. Surely the British Army can manage to gather a bit of firewood."

"Yes, all right, Mrs. Stubbins—"

"Next the doctors can take a look at them."

"What doctors?"

"I'm willing to bet my best false teeth that somewhere in this mob there's a GP. Just find him, man."

"Well. Is that all?"

"No, that's just the start. Then we've got to think about the soup kitchens. Ee, man, you wouldn't have lasted five minutes in an air raid. Give me a hand, our Winston, I'll get down and sort it out meself. Come on, Captain Phillips."

Phillips followed, grumbling, “A remarkable woman, Miss Bennet."

Thelma said, “Isn't she just. With a heart as stout as England itself. Come on, Captain, as long as we're stuck here I'll help you get organised."

Godwin entered the control room, revolver in hand. “So our mice escaped from their cage once again. I believe I've been tolerant enough of you two—"

Tremayne said, “Commodore. They're not to be harmed. I called you here; I gave them up to you. I kept my word to you. Now you must behave honourably."

Godwin laughed. “You really are an idealist, aren't you, Tremayne?"

"An idealist who built your bombs for you. But I don't recognise what you've done with my project. And I don't know what you intend to do with it now. Godwin! Tell us the truth. What have you done with Project Hades?"

"Do you know, I rather doubt that even you are capable of understanding, Tremayne."

"What? Oh, this is all—"

Clare said quickly, “Professor Tremayne. Why don't you tell us what Project Hades is supposed to be?"

Tremayne took a deep breath. “A test programme. That's all. A series of high-energy bombs to be set off underground, at locations scattered throughout the world."

Jones indicated the world map. “And why these specific locations?"

"We're testing different geological types. Where the bombs might be used for mining, for instance. Or—"

"Oh, I doubt that was the real intention of those who funded you. Tell me, Tremayne. Were these proposed sites screened at all?"

"Screened?"

"By, oh I don't know, let's say some cabal of military officers?"

"There was a high-level vetting process, yes. The sites had to be chosen for safety, of course, and so as not to set off our enemies’ warning systems."

"Or so you were told."

"Yes—so I was told. Now I find I'm rather suspicious about the military's involvement. Godwin?"

Godwin said, “You'll know soon anyhow. Project Hades, Professor, has evolved far beyond your petty dreams of mining and excavation. There is a committee of us who were always able to see a much greater potential."

Jones said, “A committee, eh? Of more tin soldiers like you?"

"We've representatives from all the British forces, and others around the allied world—in the Pentagon, the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe, the French, the Japanese. Senior military officers, Professor Tremayne, hardened by experience of war—and deeply concerned by the current international situation."

Tremayne said, “And who is this committee answerable to, Godwin? Which elected government?"

"Elected governments have proven themselves incapable of responding appropriately to the current emergency. Surely that's clear to an intelligent man like you. Take the posture of Eisenhower himself, who will not even consider any plans for waging limited nuclear war—he will sanction nothing but an all-out assault, should the allies be attacked."

"But there's a logic to it, man,” Jones snapped. “And remember Eisenhower is a rather more senior soldier than you. Eisenhower knows you can't win a nuclear war—but you can't banish the weapons from existence. All you can do is design a system to ensure that the weapons are never used. Churchill talked of finding hope in the ‘universality of potential destruction.’”

"And you believe the weapons will never be used, do you? Jones, never in human history have we invented a weapon that wasn't used to its fullest in the end."

Tremayne said, “Apart from gas in the second war battlefields. Apart from—"

"Yes, yes. My point is that this policy of assured destruction can lead only to global catastrophe—or weakness in the face of an enemy stronger-willed than our own vacillating politicians."

Tremayne said, “And so this military conspiracy is grabbing power."

"Not a conspiracy. An international organisation of the informed and concerned."

Jones said, “Which has now taken control of this bomb network—or rather you have, Godwin."

"This wasn't the intention. The emergency with your Magmoids, Jones, has forced this decisive action on me."

Tremayne said, “Decisive? Treacherous, Godwin! Treacherous!"

Jones said, “And what are you going to do with your network of bombs? Tell us, Commodore!"

Out by the blocked road, fires had been lit and kettles whistled, and somewhere somebody had organised a sing-song.

Buck found Phillips. “Sir, you Brits never cease to amaze me."

"Spirit of the Blitz, eh, Sergeant Grady?"

"Listen, Captain, there are some bits of good news. The aid convoys are getting through, at last."

"Well, about time."

"But the news from Aldmoor isn't so good. Still that stand-off developing there."

"All right. I know the roads have been cleared, more or less. We can afford to leave this lot for now, I think. You get the truck ready. I'll find Miss Bennet."

Clare murmured, “Doctor Jones. Look. This other clock has started clicking over."

"Yes. Once again we're in the middle of a countdown—with only minutes to go. But a countdown to what?"

Godwin said now, “It had to be done this way, Tremayne. The bombs had to be planted, the control network established, in utter secrecy—even before the first test explosion, tonight. Surely you can see that."

Jones said, “And when the bombs detonate, Godwin? What then? What's their true purpose? Hmm. Considering where the emplacements are—Tremayne. These bombs of yours deliver shaped explosions, don't they?"

Tremayne said, “Yes. That's a key part of their design. You can blast out a specific seam of mineral ore or shape a chamber to your design—with a single detonation."

"But if you set off a whole network of the things, wrapped around the world—give me that bit of paper. Pen, Clare!"

"All right, all right!"

Jones sketched rapidly. “You see, Tremayne? If all the explosive pulses were coordinated like this, say, or like this—"

"My God. Yes. You could combine the pulses to create a single seismic wave, to strike anywhere in the world—a wave of extraordinary magnitude."

Clare asked, “What are you talking about?"

Jones said, “A weapon, Clare. The whole of Hades is a single weapon, using coordinated pulses of seismic waves to deliver a devastating geological blow."

Godwin said, “Do you know what a super-volcano is, Jones? There is the relic of one under Yellowstone Park in Wyoming. Others in Sumatra, New Zealand. A catastrophic explosion. Plumes poking right up into the stratosphere. Clouds of ash, gas, and rock that scrape the landscape bare for miles around."

"There's been nothing like it while humans have been on the Earth,” Jones said grimly. “And this monstrosity is what you plan to use as a weapon, is it, Godwin?"

"Think of it. If we could set off a supervolcano under Moscow—the end of the Communist threat, forever. The end of Russia!"

"The end of the world, more like!"

"We had no intention of using the bombs—at dawn this morning we would have announced their existence, and the test as a demonstration of their potency—and we would have pronounced our willingness to use them, regardless of political cowardice. The threat alone would have caused the Soviet Union to fold like a house of cards."

Tremayne said, “No, no. No, no. This is all wrong. That wasn't my intention at all."

Jones said, “But you still haven't told us it all, have you, Godwin? These computers are in the middle of being reprogrammed. You are somehow redirecting Project Hades, aren't you? What are you up to?"

But Tremayne, growing ever more agitated, wouldn't be quiet. “I meant my project to show the madness of war, and a way to a future of peaceful uses of the weapons. I have been betrayed. You, Godwin, and your cabal of conspirators, have used my technology for precisely the opposite purpose to that which I intended—to deliver a weapon of such insane potency that it could destroy mankind altogether. What have I done—oh, what have I done?” He stood over a control panel.

Godwin raised his revolver. “Get away from there."

"It's all my fault—all mine. I must put a stop to all this—” He raised a code book and smashed a glass screen.

Godwin held his arm out straight, pointing the weapon. “You asked for it, John."

Jones yelled, “No!” He leapt at the Commodore, trying to get the gun. They fell together on top of Tremayne, who was knocked to the ground. The gun went off; Jones felt it as much as heard it. Gas hissed from a ruptured pipe and klaxons wailed. Jones rolled away from Tremayne and Godwin, seeking the cover of one of the console blocks.

Clare shouted, “Doctor Jones!"

"Stay down, Clare!"

"Tremayne—"

Jones saw Tremayne's slumped form. “He's out cold, but he's not been hit. Poor old chap. His whole life's work ruined in a moment of betrayal."

Godwin called, “There's no use hiding. I suggest you come out quietly."

Clare whispered, “He can't see us. All this gas."

"Yes, I think he hit some kind of pneumatic feed. Look, Clare, get Tremayne out of here. Go that way. I'll distract Godwin."

"But Doctor Jones—"

"Listen to me. Get him to Winston and Thelma. All right? Tell them they must work together with Tremayne. Do as full an analysis of the data on the Magmoids as they can manage."

"What for?"

"Well, if I'm to make the Magmoids see sense, I need to understand what they're saying to each other, don't I?"

"Saying to each other? But—oh, never mind. I'm not leaving you here."

"Now don't be a fool. Tremayne needs your protection, Constable Clare. I don't."

"But Godwin—"

"I'll deal with him."

"You're still under arrest, Doctor Jones."

"Naturally. Now go, go!” He heard her crawl away. “Now then—Godwin! Over here!"

The gun cracked. He ducked back. The klaxons still wailed, but the hiss of escaping gas stopped. “Thank heaven for that."

Godwin called, “So, Jones, you smuggled out your friends. It's of no consequence. Just you and me now."

"Just you and me and a planetful of bombs—and a countdown clock. And you won't shoot me, will you, which would be the logical thing to do? Men like you always need an audience before whom to strut and preen."

"I would advise you not to goad me, Jones."

"Ah, yes, you do have that short fuse. What is it Tremayne said about you? Calm, calm, bang? Are you prepared to tell me now what you're planning?"

"As you observed, I've set in train a reprogramming sequence. I'm no technician, but it was a quite a simple procedure."

"So you're resequenced the explosions? Redirected the impulses? Is that what the clock is ticking down towards, some immense new bang? But what are you trying to blow up, Godwin? Not the Russians, surely."

"The Russians are rather irrelevant now, don't you think? For suddenly mankind faces a much greater enemy."

"Godwin—you don't mean—surely you can't think—"

"You yourself showed me their origin, on the surface of Earth's inner core. Jones, Hades is designed to strike right through the body of the Earth, to a remote point on the surface. It was a simple matter to redirect it to strike at the heart."

An automated voice filled the room. "Ten seconds to Project Hades full synchronised initiation. Nine. Eight . . ."

"You intend to attack the Magmoids, don't you? Are you quite mad? You're declaring war on beings unutterably superior to humanity in every way—a war you can't possibly win!"

"A war you might not win. I am made of different stuff. Can you think of a better way of proving the rightness of these mighty swords?"

"I can't allow this—you're insane—"

"Get back!"

"Three. Two."

"Godwin! Stop this!"

"Welcome to hell, Jones."

"Zero."

A tremendous detonation lifted the whole room.

5

0436.

The truck drew to a halt. Buck called, “Aldmoor. This bus terminates here."

They all climbed stiffly down from the truck. Buck ran off for “a recce.” Thelma blinked, trying to clear gritty eyes; a part of her longed for sleep. A faint dawn was seeping into the eastern sky. And to the west the military camp blazed with light from floodlights and flares that drifted in the air, and she thought she could hear a pop of gunfire. She was still perhaps a quarter of a mile from the fence.

Winston said, “What now, Thelma? Where's Doctor Jones?"

"I don't know, Winston. Perhaps he's still inside the base. Captain, that big explosion—” It had nearly turned the truck over, as if the earth was a blanket being shaken out.

Phillips said, “No. It didn't sound like volcanoes to me either."

Winston said, “Another nuke. That's what it felt like. But why would they set off another nuke? What's going on in that base?"

"I don't know. I just—God, will this long night never end?"

Thelma said, “It will, Captain Phillips. But not yet. Bear up."

"The trouble is I may have some grave decisions to make before the end of it. Very grave."

Buck jogged up. “Looks like a right mess, sir."

Phillips said, “You don't say."

"No comms in or out of the base for hours. Your guys have got the place locked down. But the spotters say they see armed men looking back out at them through the fence."

"Wonderful. Armed Britishers outside, armed Americans inside. So much for the special relationship, eh? Who's in command in there, Sergeant Grady?"

"Unknown, sir."

"What do you mean, unknown?"

"There's some scuttlebutt that Major Crowne has been killed. Whispers heard by your squaddies through the fence."

"But he's the senior American officer. Well, that puts the tin lid on it."

Thelma asked, “What will you do, Captain?"

"My orders are to find out what's what and then sort it out—and the sooner the better if whoever's in charge in there is going around setting off nuclear bombs. I have a horrible feeling that might mean storming the base. Or worse."

Winston said, “Look! There's somebody coming up through that hatch, outside the fence."

Thelma, whirling, saw the hatch open in the grass, and two figures clambering stiffly out.

Phillips said, “By George. That's Professor Tremayne. And that WPC!"

Thelma said, “They'll know about Doctor Jones. Come on!"

"Do you smoke, Jones?"

"Smoke? No, Commodore, I don't smoke."

Godwin struck a match, lit a cigar, and took a deep inhale. “Ah. Cuban."

"Isn't that an illegal import?"

"Finest cigars in the world produced by one of the world's most rotten states. Isn't that a sign that the order of the world is all wrong, Jones?"

"'Order of the world?’ Godwin—what are we doing here in this steel tomb? You've already set off your damn bombs. The Magmoids will strike back. . . .” He glanced at his watch. “They seemed to have skipped the latest ninety-minute cycle, at least in terms of attacks here. I'd guess next time then, at about six. And this time they will target the base itself, believe me. So now what?"

"Oh, my work here isn't finished yet."

"What do you mean, Godwin?"

"Project Hades is rather extensive. Did you know that Britain spends three times as much on defence as on education? You'd be surprised how freely money sloshes around in a world that believes it is at war—and how easily it can be diverted."

"There are more bombs. In addition to the ones you've detonated already. Is that what you're telling me? In heaven's name, man, you've already launched one assault on the Magmoids at the centre of the Earth. What more can you do?"

"I have a second strike capability. A reserve. It's standard strategy. Your Magmoids have been stirred up by my first assault. Good. Let them rise up. In a short while I will be ready to strike again. The countdown has already started."

"Good lord, man, can you not see what a storm you'll reap? You don't know the Magmoids. They could have the Earth shake off humanity as a dog shakes off water. Commodore, I urge you to reconsider. Let Captain Phillips into the base. Let Tremayne shut down these systems. Abandon this madness."

Something exploded, not far away, perhaps a grenade; the room shook and glass crashed.

"Oh, do sit down, Jones. You are an excitable sort of chap, aren't you? And this gun is loaded, you know. Are you sure you won't take a cigar? They really are rather good."

I must get a message out of this lunatic asylum, Jones thought. I must.

Clare and Tremayne limped away from the base lights.

Tremayne said, “All my fault. All this."

Clare, panting, supporting him, said, “Come on, Professor, keep moving. We need to get away from the fence. There are too many guns pointing at us for my liking."

"I only meant—you know—peaceful application—such power, such power, in the hands of good men—I should have known! I should have known!"

Winston ran up. “Clare! Clare!"

"Winston. Oh, thank God.” She grabbed him and hugged him.

Phillips, Grady, and Thelma followed close behind. Phillips said, “Come with us, Professor Tremayne, you're all right now. Well done, Constable."

"I found a tunnel—there is a whole set of them, actually. They must be for emplacing bombs for the tests. Lucky we didn't crawl into a live one. What happened to you?"

Winston said, “Quite a lark. My mum's running a refugee camp just off the A68."

Clare laughed. “Well, that's the first thing I've heard tonight that hasn't surprised me."

Thelma said, “Clare. What about Doctor Jones?"

"Still in there. With Godwin."

"Who?"

"The base commander. Commodore Godwin? He's gone rogue."

Phillips said, “He's what?"

"He's setting off the bombs. Not just here, all over the world. We tried to stop him, but—"

Buck said, “Did he kill Major Crowne?"

"I'm afraid so, Buck."

Phillips said, “Well, that explains a lot. You're going to have to come with me for a debrief, young lady."

"All right. But Thelma—"

"Yes?"

"Doctor Jones got us out. Me and the Professor. But he had a message for you. He was very insistent."

"Tell me."

"The stuff you've brought back. The data. You're to work with the Professor. Analyse it all. Look for signals in the seis—seis—"

Winston said, “Seismometry?"

"That's it. Something to do with talking to them."

"Talking to who?"

"The Magmoids. The creatures that are attacking us."

Phillips said, “Creatures?"

"From inside the Earth."

"Oh, now really, Constable—"

Tremayne said, “It's true. I saw the displays myself. Very plausible chap, Doctor Jones. Very plausible. I should have listened to him. What a fool I am!"

Clare said softly, “It's going to be hard working with him, Thelma. He's been through too much tonight, poor old boy."

"We'll just have to do what we can. Help me get him to that tent. Now come on, Professor, we've got work to do."

More explosions and a rattle of gunfire. Jones tried to estimate if the fighting was getting closer.

"You look restless, Jones. Try to relax. You're burning up energy for nothing."

"I admit I'm not used to being unable to influence events."

"We're quite a contrast, aren't we, Jones? You, utterly powerless. Me with all the power in the world. Literally, I suppose. Fancy that."

"Yes, what an irony.” He muttered, “I just hope you're on the ball, Captain Bob."

Phillips and Grady huddled in foliage not far from the fence. Lights flared, and Phillips, feeling very exposed, could hear shouting coming from within the camp, and sporadic shooting from around the boundary.

"All right, Sergeant Grady, time for a spot of infil."

"Got you, Captain."

They crept forward, Phillips leading the way.

Phillips said, “Hm. Your GIs are dug in just behind the fence."

"Machine gun positions?"

"Yes. Also snipers on the rooftops."

"Probably more emplacements behind that first line of buildings, and inside too. Our guys are well trained, sir."

"I can see that. And they're going to be tough to root out. Well, let's try a little transatlantic diplomacy. Pass me the loudhailer.” He clicked it on. “My name is Captain Robert Phillips, British Army. I'm speaking to c-in-c, Aldmoor base.” Light splashed over them, and they ducked into what cover the uneven ground offered. “Gosh, that's blinding."

An American voice came drifting from a tannoy. “Back away with your hands up. Any incursion within fifty yards of the fence will be met with lethal force."

Phillips lifted the loudhailer. “Yes, but look here. I have orders from Brigadier General Deke Worthington of the Seventh US Army, who is at SHAPE, the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers in Europe. Now, you know that name very well, don't you?"

A single gunshot cracked.

Phillips ducked again. “Yikes."

"If he'd wanted to take your head off he would have done so, sir."

"Well, I'm aware of that, Sergeant. And I'm also aware that they are following standing orders precisely."

"Yeah. If their comms go down they have to assume that they are isolated in enemy-held territory. For all they know Britain has been overrun by the Russkies."

"In their shoes I'd be doing exactly the same thing. Which doesn't help sort this mess out, does it, Sergeant? Come on. Let's fall back and consider our options."

Inside the army tent, Tremayne followed where he was led, as if stunned, his tweed jacket scuffed, a bruise developing on his forehead, his white hair a halo around his head. “I let everybody down, you see? Jones was right. My arrogance led me into this. I always was the smart little boy who knew better than everybody else. . . ."

Winston said to Thelma, “Clare says he's been like this since the bunker. Over and over. It's frustrating. Well, the answer's in this rucksack—I know it is.” He began pulling stuff out of the rucksack.

Tremayne was distracted. “Why have you got a bag full of toilet rolls, boy? What are you, some kind of spiv? Had enough of your type in wartime."

Thelma said, “No, Professor. Nothing like that. Look. This is data. Seismometer output. All dated, labeled, and calibrated, see?"

Tremayne inspected it. “Good Lord. So it is. I've never seen anything like it. And you produced this—what was your name?"

"Winston, sir. Winston Stubbins. Do you remember—we met at the gate—?"

"You made some dire warnings, didn't you? And I gave you rather short shrift."

"It doesn't matter."

"But it does. You were right, and I was wrong, in my foolish arrogance—"

Thelma said, “That's enough of that. Professor Tremayne, we need your help."

"My help. What use am I?"

"Jones wants us to analyse all this, together with the data from the base's instruments—"

"Impossible. Look around you, woman. We're in a tent! We've no computer. No power if we had one. How can we achieve any sort of meaningful analysis in these circumstances?"

Winston said, “Oh, it's hopeless. He's just giving up."

Thelma said, “Hush, Winston. Ah, but that's the challenge. Come on, Professor. Engage with the puzzle. Think about the prize—communicating with an alien life form! What's the first step?"

Tremayne snapped, “Calculating machines."

"Calculating machines?"

"Lots of them. And people to work them. That's the way to do it. If you can sort that out for me, ah—"

"Thelma. Thelma Bennet."

"Jones spoke well of you, Miss Bennet. Also we'll need the data from the base, of course. You can fetch that from the backup record store outside the fence. Meanwhile you, boy, help me sort out all this data, by date and location to begin with. Well, come on! What are you waiting for?"

Winston said, “Yes, sir!"

Thelma said, “Glad to have you with us, Professor."

"You still here? Get on with it, woman!"

"Godwin—have you thought this through? What if you do defeat the Magmoids? It's absurd—but what if you did? What then?"

"Oh, there's plenty more to do."

"Like what?"

"A reordering of the Earth. Take China, for example. Vastly overpopulated, but all those warm bodies make it formidable. Immense industries, enormous armies, and so forth."

"So?"

"So, a little radiological reconstruction would sort that out. A string of cobalt bombs, for example, across North China. A blanket of heavy-particle fallout. Two hundred megadeaths, maybe three."

"'Megadeaths.’ Millions of deaths?"

"And then there's Russia."

"Ah, of course."

"Now with the Russians you have a different problem. There you have a highly industrialised nation. What you want to do with them is to take them back to the Middle Ages."

"Cobalt bombs again?"

"Clinical strikes against the cities and the industrial belts. Let the next generation grow up knowing nothing but tools of stone and wood. They'd soon forget they were ever civilised. This isn't warfare, Jones. It's corrective surgery."

"What a visionary you are."

"But you see that vision. Jones, we're alike, you and I—like it or not."

Thelma found Clare at a field kitchen.

Clare said, “This army tea is worse than in a cop shop, and that's saying something."

"Phillips pumped you dry, I imagine."

"Told them all I knew. Layout of Godwin's command centre—all that was said in there. I think they're getting ready for some kind of operation against the base."

"Good. Well, finish your cuppa. We've got work to do."

"Okay. What?"

"Calculating machines. It's for this analysis project of Jones's. We don't have computers, but Tremayne says hand-cranked calculators will do."

"Hmm. That's not so hard. The post offices have them, for instance. I can put out a call. What's trickier will be getting people to work them."

"I hadn't thought of that—oh."

"What?"

"It so happens I know just where we can find plenty of office workers. The refugee camps on the main roads, where half the population of Newcastle is spending the night. We'll find all the girls we need there. We'll need a truck or two, I suppose."

"I can organise that too."

"Thank you . . .” Thelma studied Clare, who stood cradling her tea, her police uniform scuffed and stained, her face streaked with mud and blood. “You know, Clare—you don't question, you don't complain, you just get on with it, whatever's thrown at you. I do so admire that."

"Yes, well, you can write a letter to my sergeant when all this is over. Come on, let's get cracking."

Phillips assembled his team outside the camp.

"All right, gentlemen. Now remember your orders. Use pin-down fire if you can, and shoot to disable, not to kill. I'd much prefer to avoid casualties. They are our allies in there. All right, let's go. Corporal Harris on the right, Chivers on the left, and I'll lead the centre. Wire cutters at the ready. Go, go!"

They broke from cover and ran forward, to be greeted by an immediate rattle of machine-gun fire. Phillips had no choice but to throw himself to the ground.

Buck called, “Get down! Fall back!"

"How many down?"

Buck glanced around. “Three already. Wounded only. They're shooting to disable too."

"That's not much comfort, Sergeant. We've only made, what, ten yards? And we're pinned down by those machine-gun nests. It's like the bloody Somme."

"This isn't going to work, is it, sir?"

"But we don't have much choice. All right, men, get ready again—"

There was a tremendous explosion.

Phillips said, “What the—what's that? Are they shelling us?"

"No. The base isn't equipped for that. And look, sir, that's not a shell crater."

"Then what?"

Another huge explosion. Dirt showered over them.

Phillips said, “My God. That time it was inside the compound. That wasn't our boys, for sure."

Buck pointed. “I saw it that time, sir. It's like it just burst up from under the ground."

"Like a mine?"

"Something like that. But there are no mines around here."

A blur of light shot overhead, shrieking.

Buck stared. “Doctor Jones called that a ‘Grendel,’ didn't he?"

"I don't like the look of this, Sergeant. Fall back, fall back!"

The detonations were like approaching footsteps.

Jones said, “Hear that, Godwin? The bangs getting bigger and bigger? That's the Magmoids, man. They're hitting back at the base—at you. So it begins."

"Let them come. My strategy is panning out."

"I actually believe you're enjoying this, aren't you, Godwin? Makes up for all your failures, does it?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"You were involved in Suez, weren't you? Tremayne told me. What a cock-up that was. The end of empire—and the end of your career too? You're just a poor boy from the north of England, aren't you, Godwin? Who had to make his way in an armed force ridden with class and privilege. Chip on your shoulder, have you? You're just a sad little boy who wants to get back at the bullies who tormented you."

"Oh, this is all—hot in here, isn't it?"

"What?"

Godwin stood, pushing back his chair. “Will you join me in a drink, Jones?"

The air was full of Grendels now.

Phillips, dug in as best he could with his troops, said, “Up there, corporal. Two rounds if you please."

The corporal obediently fired; the bullets sang through the Grendel without effect.

Buck ran up, breathless. “Sir."

"Situation, Sergeant?"

"Well, the British are shooting at the Americans, and the Americans are shooting at the British, and we're both shooting at these—ghosts. I've had word from SHAPE. All the other Project Hades bases, worldwide, are under attack. Just like this. From underneath. There's no sign of ordinance. No shells or mines. Just explosions. Somehow they can make the ground just burst open under you."

"I suspect Professor Tremayne or Doctor Jones would say these are seismic effects, Sergeant. You can feel it in your gut. And we can't do anything about those Casper-the-Friendly-Ghosts up above. I suspect they are only spotters, anyhow. The explosions follow where they have been hovering about."

"Yeah. But how do you strike at something that comes at you out of the ground?"

"This is war, isn't it? Man against the Magmoids. Sounds like a bad B-Movie, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't know, sir. I go for romantic comedies myself. Doris Day, Rock Hudson—"

"You have hidden depths, Sergeant."

The Grendels screamed and swooped lower.

Orderlies hurried into the tent with boxes of gear.

"Ah, the calculators!” Tremayne opened a box, selected a specimen, and began happily turning its handle. “Ever used one of these beauties, Winston? Here are the registers, the carry key, and to perform the computation you turn the handle. Now, what we're going to perform is a deconvolution integral."

"Professor, I got kicked out of school long before O-level maths."

"Well, that's of no consequence to me, your mind seems more than adequate."

"It does?” Winston felt unreasonably pleased. “So what's a deconvolution integral?"

"The principle is simple. We're going to take all this data and try to separate out the signal from the background noise. All right?"

"What do I do?"

"Just multiply this list of numbers by that list, and total up the products. All right?"

"I guess so."

"The sooner our battery of clerks gets here the better, but we can make a start. Off you go!"

The truck rushed down the A-road to the refugee camp. It was a fast trip as the road was now being kept clear by police and military, though the refugees still clustered to either side.

When she got to the camp Thelma had identified, Clare wasn't surprised to find Hope Stubbins, sitting on a canvas chair, at the centre of operations.

"Police Constable Baines. Fancy seeing you here."

"Winston told me I'd find you.” Clare glanced around. This had evidently been an improvised soup kitchen, with big tureens, mobile gas stoves, and tin plates, but soldiers were now packing the stuff up. Outside, people milled around, picking up blankets from the ground and waking reluctant children. “They're moving you?"

"Ay, well, they say we're a bit too close to the fighting at Aldmoor. Clare—how's the lad?"

"Winston's fine."

"He's back at that base, is he?"

"Yes. There is fighting, but he's well away from it. He's working with a professor."

"Is he now? He always was a bright lad."

"Listen, Mrs. Stubbins, I need your help. The army wants office clerks who can work a calculating machine. There must be a few in this crowd."

"Office lasses, eh? Well, there's Mabel over there for a start. She works at the Baltic, don't you, dear? And little Annie there works the turnstiles at Saint James’ Park. How do you fancy cuddling up to a few soldier boys?"

The girls laughed.

"Thanks, Mrs. Stubbins. What about the rest of you—where will they take you?"

"Oh, they're not telling us that. Miserable business, like. To move once is all right, and you think you're through with it, and you get settled, you know? Then you've got to do it all again. Hard for the bairns."

"Will you be all right?"

"Oh, don't worry about me. Listen. Just tell them buggers in the Army to get this lot put a stop to, all right?"

"I'll get the trucks ready."

"Clare."

"Yes?"

"You couldn't leave us a walkie-talkie? I'd like to know what's going on with Winston."

"I'll see what I can do."

Another crash rattled the room.

"Do you know, I think I'll have another. You sure you won't join me? You look like a G&T man to me.” Godwin walked to a cabinet at the back of the room. “I always keep a decanter. Visiting officers, you know."

"Umm—actually, on second thought—fine. Make it a large one, will you?"

"Certainly."

"Got any ice?” And now, while Godwin's back was turned, Jones had a chance. He found a tannoy microphone and flicked a switch, and spoke urgently but quietly. “This is Doctor Chapman Jones. I'm speaking from the command centre. Godwin is planning a second strike against the Magmoids. Repeat, a second strike. The first strike will have provoked a limited Magmoid response against military facilities. The second response will be global. Repeat, global. The base must be breached. Godwin must be stopped. Repeat. This is Doctor Jones . . ."

Jones's voice, relayed by a tannoy, floated out of the besieged base, above the crack of gunfire.

Phillips said, “Grady! Can you hear that?"

"Yeah. It's that little guy in the trenchcoat—Doctor Jones."

"A second strike, eh?"

"If the Magmoids strike at other cities as they've already struck at Newcastle—"

"We really have got to put a stop to this."

"You can say that again, sir. But how? We just don't have the manpower to storm the place building by building. And these damn Magmoid attacks are disrupting everything we try to do. . . ."

"There is one option."

"Sir?"

"Air strike. Just bomb the place to smithereens. That would put a stop to all these shenanigans. Messy, of course. Best avoided if possible. But still . . . All right, let's fall back and regroup."

Buck said, “Casper overhead!"

A Grendel wailed, and bullets tore through it.

Jones kept repeating his message. “The first strike will have provoked a limited Magmoid response against military facilities. The second response will be global. Repeat, global. The base must be breached. Godwin must be stopped—” A heavy glass smashed down on his hand, and the shards cut into his flesh. He cried out.

Godwin said, “I rather suspected you'd try something like that. How predictable you are."

Jones clutched his hand, shivering, breathing hard. “Calm, calm, bang, Godwin?"

"Here, have a cloth. And wipe up that gin when you're done, would you? What a waste.” He sipped his own drink. “Aah. That's better. Wish I had more ice."

Jones said, “Still enjoying yourself, Godwin, are you? Still enjoying smashing everything up? Listen to what's going on out there! You're risking global destruction!"

"But this is the logic of total war, Jones. Such wars must be won, whatever the cost. And I am ready to command an empire of ruins, if that's what it takes to win."

"You really are quite bananas, aren't you?"

The tent was soon filled with the clatter and ringing of the calculating machines, operated by Winston and a team of drafted-in orderlies.

Thelma and Clare walked in. Thelma said, “Gentlemen. We've brought some help for you.” She beckoned and a dozen girls followed her. “Experienced machine operatives from the city. They're a bit grubby and tired, but they'll get the job done."

Winston grinned. “Come on. I'll help you girls get set up."

Clare said, “Yes, and just you keep your mind on the job, Winston Stubbins."

Tremayne beamed. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. Do you know the first atomic weapon of all, the Manhattan Project, was designed largely using teams of manual computators? You can solve the most complex mathematical problem in such a way, as long as you break it down correctly. We'll soon have your Doctor Jones's data analysed."

"That's wonderful. But none of it will be any use unless we can get to Jones himself. Keep working, Professor. I think I need a talk with the soldiers."

"How long left until your ‘second strike,’ Godwin?"

"Half an hour, or less. It's coincidental, but it's roughly timed for the next of your Magmoids’ ninety-minute cycles, at about six. Maybe that's for the best. Create the biggest bang we can—what?"

"Godwin, I implore you to reconsider what you're doing."

"Reconsider? But if such power as this exists, how can a man resist using it? ‘Hast thou, spirit, performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?’”

"The Tempest. Prospero to Ariel."

"My favourite play at school."

"Oh, for pity's sake—"

"Our vigil will soon be over, Jones. ‘The hour's now come, the very minute bids thee open thine ear; obey, and be attentive.’ Can't you see the parallels, Jones? I am Prospero, exiled here in this island in the earth. Tremayne, of course, is my Ariel, my airy atomic spirit."

Jones huddled over his wounded hand. “In that case, Godwin, I am your Caliban. I am your conscience."

Thelma stood with Phillips, surveying the war zone that was the base perimeter.

"We simply have to find a way into that base, Captain Phillips. If we can't get to Doctor Jones it may be the end of everything."

Phillips said, “Look, Miss Bennet—I told you I might have some grave decisions to make tonight. As far as my commanders are concerned, my main priority is to stop any more nuclear weapons being used. I am authorised to call in an air strike."

"But Doctor Jones would be killed!"

"Then give me another option."

Buck said, “Look out, bogies above!"

Again the Grendels ducked low and were greeted by gunfire.

Thelma cried, “Oh, Jones, if only you could hear me!"

Phillips said, “Time's up, I'm afraid. Give me that radio, Sergeant. This is Captain Phillips at Aldmoor calling RAF Boulmer. Code four eight fifteen. Send in the Vulcans. Repeat—send in the Vulcans!"

6

0610.

The deep-buried control room began to shudder, as explosions erupted from the bowels of the Earth once more. Another ninety-minute cycle was up, Jones realised; once again the Magmoids had come to attack their pinprick assailants. He wondered how much longer this battered base could last—and himself, in this metal tomb.

Then he heard jets howl overhead. “Ah. Hear that, Godwin?"

Godwin was still drinking, though the alcohol seemed to have no effect on him. “Vulcan bombers, if I'm not mistaken."

"That's the RAF. Your own colleagues, come to bomb you to bits. Give it up!"

"I am prepared to give my life. And if I die here, they will build a statue to me a thousand feet high."

"I think they're coming back. Brace yourself, Ozymandias."

The transmissions from the Vulcans were relayed to Phillips, outside the base fence.

"V-1 to V-wing, V-1 to V-wing. Target in sight. Hard to miss with all those detonations going on down there. One recce pass then we'll go in. Follow my lead. Out . . . Ground, this is V-1. Preparing for final pass."

Phillips thumbed his radio. “Roger, Vulcan leader.” He glanced around. “I rather suggest we all take cover."

Thelma felt anxiety twist her stomach. From within the fence, a series of deep throaty detonations could be heard—the Magmoids’ latest attack. And, somewhere in there, Chapman Jones was pinned between lethal peril from above and below. “Wave them off, Captain Phillips, I beg you."

Buck said, “Listen, ma'am, they're my buddies in that base too. But the Captain just hasn't got the manpower to fight his way in—"

Hope Stubbins called, “He has now."

Thelma turned, shocked to hear her voice. Hope was riding a wheelbarrow pushed by a sturdy-looking Geordie in a workman's overalls and flat cap. Clare Baines was at her side, grinning. And behind them followed a loose column of people, all adults, grim and silent, that stretched back along the track that led from the A-road.

Phillips snapped, “What the blue blazes—who are you?"

"Mrs. Hope Edith Stubbins, 112 Inkerman Street, Gateshead."

Clare said, “Hello, Thelma."

Thelma asked, “What on Earth are you two doing here?"

"I left Mrs. Stubbins with a walkie-talkie. She called me and said she wanted to be here."

Phillips said, “Why?"

Hope laughed. “To save your bacon, Dan Dare. Not enough manpower, you say? Will this lot do?"

"Good God,” Phillips said. “There must be a thousand civilians with you."

"More than that, bonny lad. We got fed up sitting in a field. So we came to do something about it. We left the bairns and the old folk behind at the camps, of course. The Geordie Army at your service."

"But you're unarmed."

Hope said, “So what? Let's get this sorted out.” She stuck her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Forward, march!” With Clare at her side she was rolled past Phillips's party towards the base fence. The rest followed, in a loose column three or four abreast, their faces grey in the dawn light, and as they walked they began to sing softly.

Phillips gave no orders. His soldiers, at their loose perimeter around the base, fingered their weapons nervously, but fell back before the civilians’ advance.

Buck said, “They're walking straight for the fence. They'll be cut down."

Thelma said, “And bombed flat. Captain Phillips—please—the Vulcans—"

"All right, damn it.” He lifted his radio. “Ground control to Vulcan 1. Phillips to V-1. Wave off. I say again, wave off."

Thelma felt as much as heard the jets scream over. But there was gunfire from within the base as the civilians approached.

Buck said, “They'll be picked off."

"I think the Americans are firing in the air,” Phillips said, peering. “At least for now. But there are bound to be accidents."

As if on cue somebody screamed, from the head of the column.

Grady said, “But they aren't trying to run or hide. Not one of them."

Thelma said, “Stern stuff, Sergeant."

"And—my God. They're singing!"

Phillips said, “That's ‘Abide with Me,’ if I'm not mistaken."

Thelma grabbed Phillips's arm. “Captain. These people are doing their part. Grasp the opportunity."

Phillips hesitated. “Damn it! Give me that loudhailer, Grady.” He raised it to his lips. “This is Captain Phillips. Soldiers of Aldmoor. Look—you are a long way from home. I understand you are doing your duty. But your base commander is committing a horrific crime. Now is the time for a higher judgement. If you keep firing you will gun down civilians who have come to smother your bullets with their lives. I urge you to surrender.” He lowered the hailer and waited.

His reply came from a distant tannoy. “Cease fire! This is Captain Greengage, acting base commander. Cease fire!"

Thelma grinned. “Hope did it!"

"Yes,” Phillips said grimly. “But how many fell? Right. Grady, take a squad, get through the fence and cut the power to that control room. Move!"

"Yes, sir!"

Jones said, “Hear that singing, Godwin? I rather think things are starting to unravel, don't you?"

The light died, and the hum of the air circulation system faded away.

"And there goes the power. It's all over, Commodore."

"Not if I can get my hands around your neck.” Jones heard him lumbering in the dark.

Jones ducked behind a console. “More rage, Godwin? Well, you'll have to find me first—"

There was a small explosion and a metallic creak as the door was blown in. Torchlight probed into the room.

"Jones? Commodore? Are you in here?"

Jones yelled, “Keep out of the light, Captain Bob. He's armed!"

Buck Grady called, “I'm on him.” There was a crash of bodies and a gunshot. “No, you don't. That's enough killing for one night—” Jones heard a struggle and a single meaty punch. “Situation secured, Captain."

Jones stood up. “Phew! About time, if I may say so!"

Phillips shone a light in his face. “Sorry about that."

Thelma clambered through the smashed door. “Jones?"

Jones ran to her. “Thelma! Oh, Thelma! Are you all right?"

"Dirty, scared, lacking sleep—"

"You managed to retrieve the data I asked for?"

"Yes."

"Then let's get cracking. Come on—"

"Jones. Jones! Calm down. Just for a minute. Get your breath. And let me look at that hand. You've cut it somehow."

"I—oh, all right."

Buck said, “First aid kit here, ma'am."

"Thank you.” She opened the kit and, by torchlight, began to cut a bandage strip. “It seems you intend to speak to the Magmoids."

"Well, I can try. But the Magmoids may not listen."

"Why not?"

"They aren't our sort of life, Thelma. A hundred different disasters could play out on Earth's surface, it could even be made lifeless, and the Magmoids wouldn't even notice. They are immune to history."

"All you can do is try."

"You know, the madman in here kept quoting Shakespeare at me. Called me Caliban!"

"Caliban? Well, you've got the face for it."

"Oh, thanks very much."

"How does that lovely speech of poor Caliban's go—after he dreams—'And then, in dreaming, the clouds, methought, would open—’”

"'And show riches ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again.’”

"'This will be a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing—’”

"'When Prospero is destroyed.’ Come on, Thelma, we've got work to do."

Phillips called the group to his command tent, outside the base gate. Jones, deeply weary, sat in a canvas chair, drinking tea and sucking in fresh air. Thelma was here, and Clare Baines with Hope Stubbins in her barrow.

"So,” Phillips began, “Sergeant Grady, we've got the base locked down at last."

Buck said, “Yes, sir. But, Captain, we've now got a few hundred GIs expecting to be put into custody, and a few thousand civilians milling about the place—"

Clare Baines put in, “And some civilians down, Captain Phillips. Shot."

Phillips said, “Yes, yes. Look here, Grady, you sort that lot out. Take Constable Baines. No doubt you'll find a way. And take this old lady in the wheelbarrow with you."

Hope said, “Old? Do you mind?"

Thelma stood up. “Don't worry, Mrs. Stubbins, I'll look after you.” She glanced back at Jones, who nodded. With Clare pushing Hope, they hurried out.

Tremayne bustled into the tent with Winston. “Captain Phillips! Where's Doctor Jones? We've got the data analysis he wanted."

Jones stood up. “I'm right here, gentlemen, fit and raring to go. These your results, are they?” Winston handed him a sheaf of paper, and he riffled through it. “You've done some jolly fine work here in the circumstances."

"An awful lot of it was down to young Winston."

"I'm not surprised."

Winston said, “What are you going to do with all this, Doctor Jones?"

"Save the world. I hope! Captain Bob, have you any sappers handy?"

"We've a unit on detachment from the Royal Engineers. Why?"

"I'm going to want them to plant a network."

"A network? Of what?"

"Of explosives, Captain Bob. Mines. Shells. Grenades will do if you can wire them up. Anything that can be set off remotely. A thousand should do it."

"A thousand? We don't have an infinite resource, Jones."

Tremayne said, “Jones—what kind of network?"

"Now, that's where you come in. Do you have a sketch pad? And, Tremayne—how's your soldering?"

In an improvised medical centre, Clare and Thelma sat beside Hope in her barrow, which was now lined with army-issue pillows. They had worked for half an hour, trying to figure out the problems they had to deal with and the resources they could muster.

Buck marched in, competent and energetic as ever. “So what have we got?"

Clare looked down a list. “Well, we've got about thirty dead, fifty injured."

Hope said, “The wounded need doctors. And everybody else needs to be took somewhere safe."

"I've also got a division of GIs waiting to be clapped in irons."

Thelma said, “Are there any medics among them?"

"Of course there are."

Thelma said, “I think the solution's staring us in the face, for the short term at least. Look, those soldiers were only doing their duty as they saw it. So let them atone. Have them help."

Clare seized on that. “Yes. Buck, if you can point me to a senior medic—"

"All right. Makes sense. There's plenty more work to do. We're going to want stretcher parties. And to set up some kind of emergency field hospital. Then there's water and food—"

Hope said, “And if you can pick out some hunky GI to push me wheelbarrow for me I'll be forever in your debt."

"So we've got a plan. Let's get on with it."

Jones selected a reasonably level, reasonably bare patch of land outside the base for his “signalling station.” He had Phillips assemble a hundred troops at the centre, each of them carrying rolls of wire and baskets of small ordinances and hastily copied sketch maps. Most of them looked bewildered, Jones thought, and well they might.

Tremayne stood with Jones, shivering a little in the dawn chill, and scratching his bare head.

Phillips came up to them. “Ready, Doctor Jones?"

Tremayne said, “I wish we could test this."

Jones said, “No time for that. But it will all be over soon, one way or another. Go for it, Captain Bob!"

Phillips called, “All right, lads. Move out steadily! Keep the circle, keep your shape!"

The soldiers moved out from the centre, consulting their maps, talking to each other quietly. Following the sketches they planted ordinances in the soft ground, leaving wire trailing between them. Here and there a more complex junction box was established, which sappers wired up.

Jones said, “Good. Good."

Phillips said, “Well, I hope it works, Jones; we're draining our ammo like pink gin on ladies’ night.” He took off his hat and brushed back grimy hair. “And you say you're going to talk to the Magmoids with this set-up?"

"Quite so,” Tremayne said. “But even I don't quite understand what you're going to say, Jones."

Jones grinned. “Have you heard of Project Ozma, Tremayne?"

"Why, I don't—"

"A young American radio astronomer called Frank Drake. Calculated that his new eighty-five-foot radio telescope in West Virginia could pick up the strongest terrestrial radio signals, if they were beamed from the nearer stars. So, back in the spring, he listened to the stars—simple as that—to Tau Ceti and Epsilon Eridani, if I'm not mistaken. Heard nothing, but it's a start—and what a visionary experiment to try! Drake has ideas on how the telescopes could be used to signal to those distant cultures, and even what sort of signal to send. Anybody capable of building a radio telescope or some equivalent instrument must have a grasp of mathematics and physics, you see—and therefore ought to comprehend a message based on those principles. For mathematics is surely universal."

"Ah,” Winston said. “And when the Professor and I analysed the Magmoids’ seismic signals, we did find traces of structure—sequences of repeating length, various correlations."

"Exactly.” Jones dug a grubby bit of paper from his pocket; it was covered with a grid pattern. “I've sketched out a signal here that exploits the Magmoids’ own framing system, and I've included a sequence of prime numbers, counting up from two, three, five . . ."

Phillips nodded. “I think I see what you're up to. If these Magmoid chaps pick up your signal, they might recognise us as intelligent, rather than as some sort of pest—"

"And permit us to survive. Exactly. My signal will be a balance, at least, to the aggression Godwin showed them."

Phillips scratched his chin. “But we don't have a radio telescope, Doctor Jones."

"Nor do we need one! For the culture we are trying to contact is not up in the sky but down in the ground. We must improvise, Captain."

A sapper ran up to Jones carrying a contact box, a simple Morse key with wires trailing to the network of ordinances on the ground. He saluted. “Ready, sir."

"Jolly good—thank you, Sergeant!” Jones hefted the contact and glanced at his script. “Well, there's no point in delaying this. There's only going to be time for a brief signal—but that might be enough. Ready? Minefield clear? Hold onto your hats.” He started to tap the key.

In response small explosions clattered all across the ground.

Winston stared. “Oh, my word!"

Phillips said, “My giddy aunt, Jones, what are you doing?"

Jones, still working the key, shouted over the din, “My signal has to be turned into seismic waves, Captain—pulses in the rock—that's how the Magmoids hear. And the only way to do that is through these blooming great bangs, courtesy of the Royal Engineers."

Tremayne said, “Ah. It's ingenious. And it should work. The ordinances will generate compressional acoustic waves—of course the attenuation will knock out anything much above a hundred Hertz—"

Jones said, irritated, “I compensated for that, obviously."

The small explosions died away. Jones lowered his key.

Phillips said, “Well, that's it. All the ordinances are used up. Now what?"

Jones said, “Now we wait to see if—"

A tremendous explosion erupted from the centre of Jones's minefield. They all fell back; Jones found himself face down on the ground, and earth hailed around him. He heard the shriek of Grendels, and when he dared glance up he saw their quasi-spherical forms shoot up into the sky.

Winston crawled towards him, coughing, “Doctor Jones!"

"It's all right, Winston, I'm intact."

They stood, brushing dirt away, and peered into the fresh crater.

Tremayne said, “My God, Jones, call that a response?"

Phillips said, “It was a punch in the mouth, that's what. We're lucky to be alive."

Jones was baffled. “I failed, then. I can't understand it. They took my signal as more aggression. I was sure—"

Tremayne gripped his arm. “We'll try again. We can re-establish the network."

Winston said, “But what's the point of doing the same thing over just to fail again?"

"Mister Stubbins! There's always hope."

Jones said, “No. He's right. I was convinced this would work. I'm so terribly sorry."

"Nonsense, man. Come on, let's get back to work."

Phillips scowled. “I'm not sure what was supposed to happen here, let alone what did happen. But I'll keep the faith for one more try, Doctor Jones. I'll see about establishing another minefield."

Winston muttered, “We're missing something. We have to be. Something obvious . . ."

Thelma approached Godwin. The Commodore had been manacled to a post inside a small green-canvas tent, with two uncomfortable-looking squaddies posted outside to guard him.

"Ah, Miss Bennet, isn't it? Jones's friend. Come to see the toppled tyrant, have you? Oh, don't be cautious, you're safe enough. I'm manacled quite securely."

"I'm not here to make conversation. Here.” She handed him a metal cup of water.

"Thank you.” With his one free hand he sipped the water. “Why?"

"Not even a man like you deserves to die of thirst, Commodore."

"How weak you are. I'd have had me killed."

"Then I thank God I'm not like you."

Jones appeared at the tent entrance. He looked crumpled, grimy, exhausted. “Thelma. They said I'd find you here. Should have known you'd be doing your bit, even for a man like this."

Godwin said, “Ah, Caliban! You look a bit less cocksure. Plans not going well? But what of it? We humans are like rats, like fleas. The Magmoids can't kill us all."

Thelma walked out of the tent. “Ignore him, Jones. Come away."

Jones said, “I let that man pollute my head for too long tonight."

"Is there really no hope?"

"I can't think why it didn't work in the first place. Look, Thelma—we still have a choice to make. You and I."

Thelma said, “You mean, we could go back to London."

"This isn't your fight—you're a civil servant, not a soldier."

"But we can't simply leave, can we? Look—we came here by chance. We didn't know any of these people two days ago—Clare, Winston, Mrs. Stubbins. But they are decent, brave folk. It's like life, really."

"Is it?"

"Certainly. When you're born you're dropped into a point of space and time, entirely at random, and you just have to do the best you can for the people around you."

"Hmm. Well, you're one decent, brave person yourself, Miss Bennet . . ."

She heard Tremayne calling. “Jones? Oh, confound the man—where are you?"

"Over here, Tremayne."

Tremayne came bustling over, almost as grimy as Jones, but looking agitated.

Thelma asked, “What's wrong?"

"What's right—I hope. It's Winston. He's got something. Come on!"

Inside his tent, Godwin watched them go. He prised the handle off the metal cup Thelma had left with him, and began to saw at his cuffs.

They hurried back to Phillips’ command tent, where Winston Stubbins was looking very nervous.

Phillips said, “Right. This had better be worth it."

Tremayne said, “It's all right, Winston. Just tell it to Doctor Jones as you explained it all to me."

"It just occurred to me. You said the Earth's core is an inner planet."

"Go on."

"Then we're like one tiny radio station trying to broadcast to the whole world. And there's an awful lot of noise, isn't there?"

"Yes. So my signal was drowned out."

"What we have to do is target our signals."

"Yes, yes. But how?"

Winston said, “Interference."

Jones opened his mouth and closed it again. “Yes, of course. Winston, you're a genius!"

Phillips said, “What are you talking about? Sound like the physics lessons I slept through at school."

"We set up another source, Captain. Another field of explosives. We feed my signal to both of them simultaneously."

Tremayne said, “So the seismic waves emanate from two sources at once—"

"And if we get the timing and position right, the two sound fields will reinforce, just where we want them to. The Magmoids won't be able to miss that!"

Phillips said, “Ah. I see."

"Really?"

"Well, no, but I have to trust you. But what about the practicalities? How far away does this ‘second source’ have to be?"

Jones said, “Umm—to penetrate deep into the mantle, I'd say two or three hundred miles. Have to be south of here, I suppose."

Thelma put in, “How about the military range on Salisbury Plain?"

Phillips said, “Oh, is that all you want? And how soon do you want this?"

Jones glanced through the fence at the wreckage of Aldmoor base. “Well, how long can you stay here under the Magmoids’ assaults?"

Phillips said, “Now we've broken the stand-off I'm thinking of abandoning the base altogether. I don't see how we can withstand another of their ninety-minute strikes.” He glanced at his big army watch. “The next is due at around 0730. Less than an hour—"

Jones said, “Then that's our deadline."

"I'll tell you flat it's impossible. Nationally we're stretched thin—there isn't a chance in hell I could get that through channels in time."

Tremayne said, “Channels! Oh, you military types."

Winston said, “Then that's that."

"Not at all.” Thelma linked her arm through Phillips's and drew him away. “Come on, Captain. We in DS8 have some ‘channels’ of our own to exploit. Let's see what we can sort out."

Jones watched them go, grinning. “What an asset she is. And in the meantime we need to set up another signal minefield here—and work out a fresh message. Come on, Tremayne, Winston—there's no time to lose!"

The hospital tent shook at the latest explosion.

Hope said, “Christ, that was a near one."

Clare looked around, uneasy. “That's the Magmoids. The ninety minutes isn't even up yet. They're getting closer again, aren't they?"

Buck Grady approached. “Ladies."

"Buck. What's happening?"

"Well, we got everything set up pretty good. Everybody who needs it is getting food, hot drinks, medical attention. Um, we've set up a temporary morgue for the civilians who fell, and the soldiers. And there seem to be no hard feelings. The Geordies and the Yanks are talking about a soccer game—"

Hope snapped, “Come on, man. We're not kids."

Buck hesitated. Then he sat on a canvas stool beside her. “All right. Look, the wider news isn't good. Whatever Doctor Jones's trying doesn't seem to be working. Locally the Magmoid attacks are intensifying, if anything. Won't be much left of the base soon."

Clare asked, “What about further afield?"

"All this volcanism is still going on. There seem to be secondary effects—destabilisations. Volcanoes spouting in Japan and Italy and Africa. Tremors in San Francisco. Like the whole planet's hurting. Listening on the radio, you get the sense it's all sort of unravelling."

"My God."

Hope said, “Sergeant. Do one thing for us."

"Yeah?"

"Take us back to the base."

Clare said, “Now, Mrs. Stubbins—"

"I want to be with the lad."

Buck nodded. “Leave it with me."

There was another explosion.

Hope said, “Hold me hand, Clare, eh?"

Once again a hundred soldiers worked their way out over a patch of cleared ground, implanting small ordinances and improvised junction boxes.

Phillips hovered at Tremayne's shoulder. “How's it going, Professor?"

"We're all set. There should be an identical set-up in place on Salisbury Plain in a few minutes. Then Doctor Jones will be ready to talk to the Magmoids again."

The ground shuddered to a fresh detonation, deep in the earth. “Well, he'd better make it soon,” Phillips said.

Godwin, hiding behind a field gun, heard all this. “A machine to talk to the Magmoids. But there is only one voice worth hearing. Mine . . ."

Jones came bustling up, a fresh paper scrap in his hand. Winston was at his side, looking excited, drawn, over-tired. Jones imagined the boy would sleep for a week—if they all survived the next few minutes and hours.

And Hope Stubbins was wheeled across the broken ground by a sheepish-looking Buck Grady. Clare and Thelma were at her side. Hope called, “Winston?"

Winston whirled. “Mum? What are you doing here? It's not safe."

Clare said, “Sorry, Winston. I couldn't keep her away."

Phillips took a deep sigh. “I suppose it doesn't make things any more worse—or more ridiculous. I'm not looking forward to writing up my report on this night's work, however."

At that moment an explosion deep beneath their feet made the ground rise and shudder; Phillips tried not to stagger.

Jones hefted his key contact. “We're ready, Captain. This gizmo is now rigged via the phone lines to fire the charges down at Salisbury simultaneously with those here."

"Well, this had better work, Jones, for we've used up all our ammo, and we'll be reduced to giving these Magmoid chaps frosty stares. All right, lads, let's stand back and do it."

They all took deliberate paces back from the firing field.

Jones said, “My cue, it seems."

Thelma said, “First night nerves, Jones?"

"It will be first night closing if it doesn't work this time.” He consulted his paper and pressed the key—and nothing happened. “The explosives! They're not firing!"

Buck said, “That last Magmoid attack must have fouled up your connections—there, I can see it, that junction box is screwed.” He handed his rifle to Phillips. “Here, take this. I did some time in the bomb squad."

Jones said, “Don't be a fool, man. That's effectively a minefield!"

But he was already running into the field. “Do you see a choice?” He crouched over the junction box and fiddled with the wires. “Got it—there. Fixed. Easy as pie.” He stepped back. “Looks like my luck is in—” An implanted grenade blew, turning the lower half of his body to a bloody mist.

Clare screamed. Winston grabbed her and pushed her face against his chest.

Phillips yelled, “Jones, never mind! You must get on! And make it worthwhile."

Jones tapped his key. This time explosions rattled obediently.

Thelma said, “It's working."

Tremayne said, “Yes, but will the wretched beasties respond?"

A heavy fist slammed into Jones's back. He fell forward—and Godwin grabbed the key contact. “Give that to me, you weakling."

"Godwin! No, man!"

Godwin ran forward, onto the minefield and out of reach. Phillips and his soldiers raised their weapons uncertainly. Godwin clattered the key at random. “Magmoids! I challenge thee on behalf of all humanity—” A rattle of explosions.

Jones struggled to his feet. “No, no—they'll take the randomness as simply another attack—"

Tremayne said, “Something's happening. Around Godwin."

It was a kind of rippling in the churned-up dirt, like a converging wave.

Jones yelled, “Godwin! You don't know what you're doing! Get back, man. Look at the ground!"

Godwin said, “Hear me! ‘I'll make thee roar that beasts shall tremble at thy din—’”

A tremendous eruption burst from the ground, engulfing him. Once again Jones was knocked off his feet.

Thelma staggered through a cloud of dust. “Jones! Jones!"

Jones stood, winded, and grabbed her. “It's all right. I'm here."

"But that explosion—"

"It was the Magmoids. They destroyed him. They destroyed Godwin! I must have said just enough. Either that or they don't like Shakespeare."

Phillips found them. “Jones. The Magmoid attacks are subsiding—"

But Grendels shrieked, hovering overhead.

Clare, Tremayne, Winston with his mother, all emerged from the subsiding dust. Clare looked up. “The Grendels. What are they doing?"

Tremayne said, “I think they're gathering over us."

Phillips said grimly, “Not again.” He raised his rifle. “This will do little good, but—"

Jones cried, “No! No, Captain, it's all right. Look. They are ascending."

Winston said, “They're leaving us alone."

"Yes, they are, Winston."

Tremayne said, “Then let's hope it's for good."

7

1110.

When they opened the door, the Reiver's Arms was crowded and noisy.

Jones said, “Well, Thelma, I don't think I've ever been in a British pub at eleven in the morning before."

"Don't complain."

Phillips came pushing out of the crowd. “Jones, old chap! And Miss Bennet. What are you drinking?"

Thelma said, “After a night like that I think I could risk a brandy."

"Carrot juice for me, Captain Bob. Er, and that bottle of Newcastle Brown on the bar—"

"That's for Buck Grady. He had a fiancée, in Long Beach. I phoned her.” He handed over their drinks.

"What selfless heroism he showed. You know, war brings out the best and the worst in us—the cruelty and madness of a man like Godwin, Buck's astonishing laconic courage."

"Yes. But ironically the example of men like Grady may be the reason why we humans will never give up war."

Thelma raised her glass. “To Sergeant Grady."

Tremayne came looming through the crowd, staggering slightly. “Jones, old bean! Quite a night!"

"You seem merry."

Tremayne raised his glass. “This single malt is going down rather well—especially as it's on the house. Look, there's a couple of people who simply must see you."

The crowd parted to let through a wheelchair.

Thelma said, “Mrs. Stubbins!"

"Hello, Thelma. What do you think of me new wheelchair? Courtesy of the US Army. About time they gave me something back."

Winston said, “Oh, Mum—"

Jones said, “Winston. Quite a night for you—you did rather well."

Tremayne said, “He did better than that. You know, after this grisly business I've decided to go back to university life. That's enough of the military for me! Of course I'm going to need a batch of fresh students. Now then, Winston, are you free for the next three or four years?"

Winston goggled. “Professor—are you serious?"

"Never more, and I still will be when I'm sober."

Thelma said, “Well done, Winston. You deserve it."

"It's unbelievable. The start of a whole new life."

Clare Baines walked up, in a clean, fresh uniform. “In more ways than one."

Jones said, “Constable Clare! I wondered when you'd show up."

"Doctor Jones, I've got good news for you. In consideration of the fact that you saved the world, the local constabulary have decided to drop all charges."

"Well, how jolly decent of them. But I'm surprised to see you joining in this festival of law-breaking."

Thelma said, “I rather think she's blinded by the diamond on her finger, Jones."

Jones noticed the ring for the first time. “You don't mean—you and Winston—well, well."

Winston said, “After an experience like last night—"

"You don't have to explain, dear,” Thelma said.

Jones said, “So, happy endings all round for once. Do you know, Thelma, I rather think that's our cue to leave. Come on, drink up."

He led Thelma out into the fresh air, where their Ministry car was waiting. Somewhere a bird was singing. “Look at that huge Northumberland sky,” Jones said. “I do love this part of the world."

"It was an extraordinary night, wasn't it, Jones?"

"One for the memoirs, I'd say. But what an extraordinary time we live in—when we don't know if totalitarianism will triumph over democracy, or command economies will out-perform capitalism—a time of martial madness, when we're probably as close to destroying ourselves utterly as we'll ever be—and yet it's a time when scientists like Frank Drake are making perhaps the most sublime gesture ever dreamed up by the human species."

"Before you go, Doctor Jones—” Clare Baines had followed them out.

"Yes, Clare?"

"I need you both to sign these bits of paper."

Jones took the forms. “What on Earth—this is the Official Secrets Act!"

"There's a cover story being put together, about an industrial accident in Newcastle that provoked the evacuation."

Jones said, “What? But how can you cover up all the volcanism?"

"Marsh gas."

"Marsh gas? Oh please, not marsh gas! If you knew how many of our sightings have been explained away that way, and the files hidden or shredded—"

Thelma took his arm. “Come on, Jones. Maybe it's better this way. We don't want any awkwardness."

"Oh, we can't have that, can we? What a very British disaster in the end!"

But Clare wasn't listening. She was looking up, into a bright blue sky, where Grendels were swooping and diving in a rosette formation, high above the tranquil land.

Copyright © 2010 Stephen Baxter

When you look at it, there is considerable overlap between science fiction and, of all things, historical fiction. That shouldn't really come as a surprise; in many important ways, readers come to both fields looking for the same sorts of elements.

Both sf and historical fiction take the reader to places fundamentally different from the present-day world. In sf it's either the altered world of the future, or literally another world (or universe) altogether; in historical fiction, the different landscapes of the past. Both fields delight in presenting other cultures and unfamiliar societies. Both are often concerned with people involved in far-reaching societal changes. And in both fields, readers respect authors who do their research and provide accuracy.

Is it any wonder, then, that many readers like both sf and historical fiction? And what could make those readers happier than when the two come together in the same book?

In general, there are three basic ways that sf and historical fiction fuse. First there's the so-called “future historical,” a book that reads like a historical novel even though it's set firmly in the future. Isaac Asimov's Foundation stories were consciously written as future historicals, and when Frank Herbert's Dune was first published, it was often compared to a historical novel.

A second fusion of sf and historical is the alternate history story, and if you haven't noticed, alternate histories are all the rage nowadays. Harry Turtledove alone keeps the genre in business, and there are many other fine practitioners.

That leaves a third way for sf and historical fiction to come together, and that's the venerable time-travel novel. Just about any time-travel story worth its salt has some kind of historical element, unless it's strictly about travel into the future. But some authors have raised the time-travel/historical blend to the level of fine art. Which brings us, happily, to Connie Willis.

Blackout

Connie Willis

Ballantine, 491 pages, $26.00 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-0-553-80319-8

Series: Oxford Historians 3

Genre: Trips in Time

According to her publisher, it's been eight years since Connie Willis last gave us a novel. While that's something like 95 months too long, the wait proves to have been well worth it.

For those who are not familiar with Willis's Oxford Historians tales, a few words of explanation are in order. In the mid-twenty-first century, Oxford University is the base of a large group of time-traveling historians who spend their time visiting other eras to learn the kind of things historians love to learn; how people lived, what they ate and how they spent their time, how they felt and what they thought. In this, the historians are very like readers of historical fiction.

To say that the Oxford Historians series has been well received is like saying that the Pacific Ocean is a little damp. Not to put too fine a point on it, but these stories have achieved the status of science fiction classics. The novella that started it all, “Fire Watch” (1982), won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, as did the novel Doomsday Book (1992). To Say Nothing of the Dog (1997) was a Hugo and Locus Award winner, and a Nebula nominee. All three frequently appear on “best science fiction” lists, and in many school districts one or another is on high school recommended reading lists.

Can Blackout, the newest book in the series, possibly live up to all this?

Does Saturn have rings?

Here's the setup. The story primarily focuses on three Oxford historians on missions to three different periods of the World War II era. Polly is playing the part of a shopgirl while observing the behavior of ordinary Londoners during the Blitz. Mike is headed to witness the evacuation of Dunkirk, in which thousands of private boats rescued stranded soldiers across the British Channel. And Eileen is off in the British countryside studying the world of children temporarily evacuated from London.

Even before they leave Oxford in 2060, there are ominous signs that something's up with time-travel. Schedules are being rearranged, missions postponed or moved forward, and administrators (including Mr. Dunworthy, the all-powerful head honcho) off on emergency conferences to discuss different theories of time-travel.

Polly, Mike, and Eileen each have their difficulties, and when they arrive in their past eras, things are still going wrong. Each suffers an inconvenient amount of “slippage,” arriving well past their assigned target dates. Then, each one must deal with the challenges of working in the field, finding out that assignments that seemed simple are anything but. Polly has to find a place to live, get a job, and somehow get more appropriate clothes while spending most of her time huddling in bomb shelters. Mike is stranded in a sleepy seaside village thirty miles from where he's supposed to be, with no way to get there. And Eileen, who has her hands full with two of the most obnoxious children in history, is looking forward to the end of her assignment when an outbreak of measles traps her in a quarantined house.

Then things get really bad. Because it soon becomes obvious that their temporal gateways are not opening on schedule—in fact, they aren't opening at all. Apparently, something has gone terribly wrong in the future, and the three are stranded. Their only chance is to find one another . . . if they can make their way through falling bombs, V1 rockets, and the nightmare of World War II London.

This isn't a book to race though. You'll want time to savor the experience, and at nearly 500 pages there's a lot to savor. Don't worry—with Connie Willis you're in the hands of a master, and she's not going to lead you astray or waste your time.

Blackout—like much of Connie Willis's other work—tells the story of rather ordinary people caught up in extraordinary times and events, and somehow rising heroically to the challenge. For in the end, the historians from the future are in the same boat as the people of the past they've come to study: they don't know what's going on or what's going to happen next, and all they can do is live through it as best they can.

Fair warning: Blackout is only the first half of the story. The whole tale is too big to be published in one volume, and I dare anyone to find a single sentence that could be cut. The conclusion, All Clear, will be published later this year. But don't wait for it: read Blackout now.

Veracity

Laura Bynum

Pocket, 376 pages, $25.00 (hardcover)

ISBN: 0-978-1-4391-2334-8

Genre: Dystopian Futures

Veracity is one of those books that's just as at home in literary circles as among science fiction readers. It's a novel of a dystopian future, and before you start groaning that you've seen this before, take a moment to look. There's a lot here that's fresh.

In 2012, terrorists unleashed a virus that killed half the world's population. The result was a new oppressive government called The Confederation of the Willing, which exists to maintain security and order at all costs. The main instrument of the Confederation is the “slate,” a device implanted in the neck of every citizen. Using slates, the Confederation controls behavior by controlling speech itself. Certain words are forbidden: to utter them results in immediate physical pain—and to continue uttering them quickly brings a visit from the brutal police force known as the Blue Coats.

Most people live with the restrictions of the Confederation, grateful for the security it gives. Harper Adams is one of those people; a child during the terrorist attacks, Harper is now a grown woman with a daughter of her own, and she's as law-abiding as they come.

Until her daughter is taken from her. Until her daughter's very name, Veracity, becomes a forbidden word.

Then Harper runs, goes off the grid, destroys her own slate, and starts a search for the fabled resistance. But unlike the other rebels, Harper isn't just fighting for freedom, for liberty, or for the defeat of tyranny. No, Harper is fighting for Veracity . . . and for truth itself.

Not just another Brave New World or Handmaid's Tale wannabe, Veracity is a unique book with powerful characters and a fully realized future society. It reminds one of some of the best work of Frederik Pohl, with perhaps healthy quantities of Edgar Pangborn and Suzy McKee Charnas thrown in. This is Laura Bynum's first book; if the literary establishment doesn't seduce her away from us, she's definitely a name to watch in the future.

Pennterra

Judith Moffett

Fantastic Books, 288 pages, $14.99

(trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-60459-729-5

Genres: Alien Beings, Ecological/Environmental SF, Psychological/Sociological SF, Religious/Philosophical SF

Judith Moffett is a voice we haven't heard from enough. She won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1988, has been a Hugo and Nebula finalist on several occasions, and has been shortlisted for the James Tiptree, Jr. Award for science fiction or fantasy that expands or explores gender issues. Her most recent work, the Holy Ground Trilogy (The Ragged World, Time, Like an Ever-Rolling Stream, and The Bird Shaman), tells of the invasion and occupation of Earth by the Hefn, a benevolent and highly advanced alien race.

Moffett's first novel, Pennterra, has been out of print for far too long—but Fantastic Books has brought it back in an attractive trade paperback, and this time around you don't want to miss it.

The lush, beautiful planet Pennterra is home to the hrossa, a peaceful race of amphibian aliens. When a colonizing ship of Quakers from Earth lands, the hrossa allow them to stay but quarantine them in one specific valley. At first the colonists—including their leader, George Quinlan—chafe at the restrictions of the natives. But soon enough, they grow accustomed to their valley and they come to know the hrossa as talented ecologists willing to share their knowledge and wisdom. The Quakers broadcast a warning, prohibiting other colony ships from coming to Pennterra, and settle down to a happy and peaceful existence.

Until six years later, when the Earth colony ship Down Plus Six arrives, packed with refugees from the economic and ecological collapse of the home world. The Quakers can't turn away the newly arrived “Sixers” (and more to the point, have no way to prevent them from landing and settling). The Sixers are ready to set down and conquer their new world . . . but that isn't the Quaker way. Nor is it the way of the hrossa. . . .

Pennterra packs a thousand pages of first-rate science fiction into its scant 288. The hrossa are finely drawn aliens with their own language, culture, philosophy, and even sexuality (all of which figure into the story). The clash between the Sixers and the Quakers, with the still-largely-unknown hrossa taking their own side, is compelling. If you think you hear distant echoes of LeGuin, you're right: Moffett is a stylist as well as a good storyteller.

C. M. Kornbluth: The Life and Works of a Science Fiction Visionary

Mark Rich

McFarland (www.mcfarlandpub.com),

451 pages, $39.95 (trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-7864-4393-2

Genre: Nonfiction

Cyril (C. M.) Kornbluth was one of the pivotal figures of American science fiction. He was there at the beginning, those late-1930s days that marked the launch of Amazing Stories, the foundation of the Futurians, and the start of so many careers: Isaac Asimov, David A. Kyle, Sam Moskowitz, Frederik Pohl, Richard Wilson, Donald A. Wollheim. Kornbluth would easily take his place among those hallowed names. Two of his solo stories, “The Little Black Bag” (Astounding, 1950) and “The Marching Morons” (1951), are classics and as popular today as when they were written. His collaborations with Frederik Pohl, most notably The Space Merchants (1952) and Gladiator-At-Law (1954), are equally well regarded, as is his solo novel The Syndic (1953).

When Kornbluth died in March 1958, at the age of 35, his loss was felt throughout the science fiction community. If he had lived, he would undoubtedly have been hailed as one of the superstars of the field.

Mark Rich has written a very detailed yet highly readable biography of this exceptional writer, which is itself a mini-history of the early decades of science fiction. Along the way, he includes commentary on just about every short story, novelette, and novel that Kornbluth produced, alone or in collaboration, under a variety of pseudonyms. A scholarly text (with the requisite 40 pages of notes) that reads like a novel, Rich's book is nothing short of a delight.

If you remember anything of that time, this will be a nostalgic journey for you; those of us who had the misfortune to be born after Kornbluth died can only marvel at this now-gone world and the geniuses who inhabited it. The book is a bit pricey, but no fan of the history of science fiction (you know who you are) can afford to be without it.

How to Defeat Your Own Clone: And Other Tips for Surviving the Biotech Revolution

Kyle Kurpinski & Terry D. Johnson

Bantam, 180 pages, $14.00 (trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-533-38578-6

Genre: Popular nonfiction

It's hard to glance at a newsfeed nowadays without seeing something about biotechnology. Even for Analog readers—who've been thinking about genetic engineering and advances in biology almost as long as we've been contemplating nuclear power and environmental disasters—the field of biotech is moving so quickly and in so many directions that it's hard to keep up. If only someone would wade through all the research and tell us what's important right now. And while they're at it, it would be great if they could manage to make it all funny.

Our prayers have been answered.

Kyle Kurpinski has a Ph.D. in Bioengineering and works on technologies for tissue regeneration; Terry D. Johnson lectures in the bioengineering department at the University of California, Berkeley. It's safe to say that these guys know their subject.

They start off with a timeline of biotechnology advances, beginning with 15,000 B.C.E. when humans domesticate dogs. “Having acquired a best friend, the human race decides to see if there's anything else in nature that could use a bit of tweaking.” Then they move on to present two conflicting scenarios for the future. In the dystopian one, a proliferation of Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee clones leads to “the most incredible yearlong kung fu battle ever.” In the utopian future, “Every child rides to school on a genetically engineered unicorn (trademarked ‘My Little Rhino-pony')."

The remaining chapters take a lighthearted look at the basics of genetics and biology, and then deal with such matters as cloning, bio-enhancements, engineering other lifeforms, and finally the all-important tips for defeating your own clone ("The best you can hope for is to persuade your friends and family to enter into a temporary truce while you and your duplicate sort this out for yourselves.")

If you're looking for a book that will bring you (or a friend) up to speed on current trends in biotech, while at the same time giving you plenty of laughs, this is the book for you.

Copyright © 2010 Don Sakers

Don Sakers is the author of A Rose From Old Terra and Dance for the Ivory Madonna. For more information, visit www.scatteredworlds.com.

Dear Stan:

I'm very pleased with the new book review column by Don Sakers. The extended references to literary history and previous works is informative without being cumbersome, and the selections include more works to my taste than I used to get out of the section. So far it's been very useful for finding new works worth reading.

George Lyons

Raleigh NC

(Subscriber for several decades)

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

Many times I've thought about responding to one of your editorials, when I've disagreed with some idea or ideas you have advanced. In every case, upon reflection, I've decided that even though it would be vastly entertaining to sit in a pub somewhere and discuss our different opinions, my little quibbles certainly weren't worth wasting your time with an email.

Your April editorial dealing with Anthropogenic Global Warming (AGW), though, is another matter. I've read through it several times attempting to make sure I am clear on what you are saying and I have to say this one is different.

In the editorial, you say:

"The important debate here is about the reality and extent of, and appropriate response to, global warming—not the reliability of the readings from one group of thermometers in painted boxes."

I had high hopes for the rest of the editorial when I first read that line. Unfortunately, the balance of the text dealt with data issues and anecdotal evidence rather than whether or not CO2 increases actually can cause catastrophic global warming. I would argue that the reliability of temperature measurements is critical if the AGW debate were to that point, but it is not.

In this case, it looks like you've allowed AGW proponents to define your boundaries by limiting your arguments to the data only and not addressing the basic premise itself. I think you've fallen into a trap: playing by the other sides’ rules is a sure way to lose any debate.

When a theory or hypothesis is advanced, the first thing you need to do is examine the idea itself, not get bogged down in hunting for, or debating the relevance of, any supporting data. In other words, the first thing to do when confronted with a new theory or idea is to determine whether it can possibly be valid. Certainly, supporting data can help in this judgment, but if the basic idea is obvious and total nonsense, any such coincidentally supporting data can do nothing to change that and is not relevant until the primary question is answered.

Employing reductio ad absurdum to illustrate my point, suppose someone told me the Moon is made of green cheese and had reams of supporting data and other evidence. I would be laugh them out of town (assuming they were serious) and would waste very little time analyzing their data sources and/or validity of same because the basic premise is nonsense. Of course, if there were a lot of money to be made by advancing the theory . . . but I digress.

On the other hand, if someone told me that 1 + 1 = 10, my first question would be what number system they were using. If a binary system, all well and good.

I'm sure you see what I'm getting at.

In the case of this current global warming silliness, I believe it more prudent to say:

"The important debate here is whether or not CO2 levels can have any significant effect on overall global temperature, and if so, how much of an effect does CO2 have in relation to other gases."

Knowing something about chemistry, what an absorption spectrum is, and heat transfer, I've done a deal of research on CO2 and how it works as a greenhouse gas. Invariably, every legitimate source leads me to one conclusion: CO2 cannot significantly affect global temperatures regardless of ppm counts. Happily, other data (ice cores, sunspot cycles, etc) I have studied tend to support this conclusion.

So, in summary, I think the whole AGW premise is simply wrong. Almost everyone has ignored the fundamental question of the whole debate, and focused instead on secondary (and coincidental) data that are distracting at best. AGW is a non-issue, or would be if the politically active and certain financiers weren't so intent in using AGW alarmist propaganda as a pretext to advance their agendas.

Whether the planet is warming, cooling, or staying the same is a good thing to know. Knowing how the climate is trending is important for planning ahead and preparing for what can be prepared for.

However, using such climate trends to fabricate a crisis and demand great social and economic changes when said changes will do nothing except disrupt economies, encourage government excess, and line the pockets of speculators . . . Well, that is a discussion best reserved for our “someday” pub session over a pint of stout.

At any rate, I thank you for taking the time to read this and look forward to your next editorial.

Respectfully,

Steve May

(Analog reader for going on forty-five years now—keep up the good work.)

Plenty of other people have also looked at the factors you mention, perhaps in more depth, and reached different conclusions. As for dismissing the data and refusing to consider it because the premise is “obvious nonsense,” that way lie huge pitfalls. Remember that, for example, relativity, quantum mechanics, and plate tectonics were “obvious nonsense” not many decades ago.

Dear Stanley Schmidt,

One of our local TV stations (KUSI) recently devoted a one-hour evening program to global warming. There was only one advertising sponsor.

The presenter was John Coleman, I believe he has worked in meteorology for more than fifty years.

Part of his concern was that the number of data points (thermal readings) has been reduced since 1990, leaving the higher values. He said that the original number of data points was 6,000, now reduced to 1,000. The lower temperature values (as in mountain locations) are still there, but not accounted for in the data reduction. The present data is still compared with the previous data.

You may find the information in www.kusi.com/weather/colemanscorner to be of interest.

Who do we believe? One man said, “Follow the money!"

Mike Whitehead

Poway, California

You mean, like to the oil companies?

Dear Stanley,

I have been a subscriber to Analog for more years than I would like to count. And certainly, in that time, I have come to appreciate the works of many of your authors. But after reading a number of stories from each, one thing is seems common among them—each has certain unique characteristics about their styles. Except for one author: Rajnar Vajra. You have published a number of good stories with him listed as the author, but one thing puzzles me: Many of them seem to come from different minds.

Is Rajnar Vajra a single individual with a fantastic range of viewpoints to his thinking, or could he be a clearinghouse for a group of writers?

Sincerely,

Gib Van Dine

Rajnar Vajra is a single individual with a fantastic range of viewpoints to his thinking. [Ed: The Rajnar Vajras made us say that.]

Hi people,

The May issue has two Taras and two Amys, albeit from three authors. Do you think you could have staggered the stories to reduce confusion? Or irritation?

Yours,

Art O'Meara

Rockton, IL

'Fraid not. Stories are typeset long before an issue is laid out, and there are many more important considerations in deciding what goes where than the names of characters. But I don't think a coincidence like this is likely to happen too often!

Our September issue features a couple of decidedly unusual and decidedly different kinds of alien contact stories. David D. Levine's “Pupa,” as its name suggests, shows a highly charged incident in international politics from the viewpoint of someone too young—and otherwise immature—to participate in it in a conventional way, but uniquely placed to play a pivotal role. Stories told from an alien viewpoint are one of the hardest kinds to pull off, but I think you'll find this an outstanding and memorable example.

In Eric James Stone's “That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made,” it would be even harder to write the alien viewpoint, because these are leviathans on a scale, and populating an “ocean,” that go far beyond the biblical kind.

Our fact article is “Bad Medicine: When Bad Medicine Goes Wrong,” by the versatile and professionally knowledgeable H. G. Stratmann. It's a subject of interest to everybody, and Dr. Stratmann, himself a cardiologist and medical researcher, is well positioned to understand both the dangers and why we can't completely avoid them.

And, of course, we'll have a wide variety of other stories, by authors including Sean McMullen, Jerry Oltion, Richard A. Lovett, and Kristine Kathryn Rusch (not in the Retrieval Artist series!).

27-30 August 2010

DISCWORLD CONVENTION at Hilton Birmingham Metropole, National Exhibition Centre, Birmingham, B40 1PP, United Kingdom. Guest of Honor: Sir Terry Pratchett, OBE. Memberships: (British pounds)60 attending, (British pounds)20 supporting. Info: info@dwcon.org; PO Box 4101, Shepton Mallet, Somerset BA4 9AJ, UK.

27-29 August 2010

AU CONTRAIRE (31st New Zealand national SF conference) at Quality Hotel, Wellington, New Zealand. (Stop in on the way to Aussiecon.) Guest of Honor: Sean Williams; Fan Guest of Honor: Paul Mannering. Membership: NZ$60, Supporting: NZ$15; Friday only NZ$20, Saturday only NZ$40, Sunday only NZ$40. Info: www.aucontraire. org.nz/; info@aucontraire.org.nz; PO Box 10104, Wellington 6143, New Zealand.

2-6 September 2010

AUSSIECON FOUR (68th World Science Fiction Convention) at Melbourne Convention and Exhibition Centre, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. Guest of Honor: Kim Stanley Robinson; Artist Guest of Honor: Shaun Tan; Fan Guest of Honor: Robin Johnson. Membership from 1 September 2009 until some later date (see website for latest details): AUD 275, USD 225, CAD 255, GBP 140, EUR 1165, JPY 22,500; supporting membership AUD 70, USD 50, CAD 50, GBP 25, EUR 35, JPY 4900. This is the SF universe's annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition—the works. Nominate and vote for the Hugos. Info: www. aussiecon4.org.au/, info@aussiecon4.org.au, GPO Box 1212, Melbourne, Victoria, AUSTRALIA 3001

4-6 September 2010

COPPERCON 30 (Arizona SF conference) at Windemere Hotel, Mesa, AZ. Guests of Honor: Stephen R. Donaldson, David Lee Summers, and Weston Ochse. Membership: $45 at the door. Info: www.casfs.org/cucon/index.html; info@coppercon.org; PO Box 62613, Phoenix AZ 85082.

17-19 September 2010

FANTASYCON 2010 (British Fantasy Society annual convention) at Britannia Hotel, Nottingham, U.K. Guest of Honor: Lisa Tuttle; MC: James Barclay. Membership: (British pounds)75 after 1 July 2010. Saturday only (British pounds)45. Members of the BFS pay (British pounds)10 less in each case. Info: sites.google.com/site/fantasycon2010/; fcon@ britishfantasysociety.org.

Running a convention? If your convention has a telephone or fax number, e-mail address, or web page, please let us know so that we can publish this information. We must have your information in hand SIX months before the date of your convention.

Attending a convention? When calling conventions for information, do not call collect and do not call too late in the evening. It is best to include a S.A.S.E. when requesting information; include an International Reply Coupon if the convention is in a different country.

Copyright © 2010 Anthony Lewis