Front cover construction: Don Baum. Photo: Bill Arsenault

Introduction and notes are Copyright © 1970 by William F. Nolan. All other material is Copyright according to information on acknowledgments page. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from Sherboume Press or copyright holders. Permission is granted reviewers to make brief quotes in connection with a review. Address all inquiries to Bights and Permissions Dept., Sherboume Press, Inc., 1640 South La Cienega Blvd., Los Angeles, California 90035.

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Acknowledgments

The Ogress is Copyright © 1970 by Robert F. Young and is printed here by arrangement with the author's agent, Theron Raines.

Jenny Among the Zeebs is Copyright © 1970 by Frank Anmai and is printed here with the author's permission.

Earthcoming is Copyright © 1970 by Richard C. Meredith and is printed here by arrangement with the author's agent, Scott Meredith, Inc.

Belles Lettres, 2272 is Copyright © 1970 by Norman Corwin

and is printed here with the author's permission. A Shape in Time is Copyright © 1970 by the estate of Anthony

Boucher and is printed here through special arrangement

with the author's estate. Damechild is Copyright © 1970 by Dennis Etchison and is

printed here with the author's permission. Toe to Tip, Tip to Toe, Pip-Pop As You Go is Copyright © 1970

by William F. Nolan. A War of Passion is Copyright © 1970 by Tom Purdom and is

printed here by arrangement with the author's agent, Scott

Meredith, Inc.

Hate Is a Sandpaper Ice Cube with Polka Dots of Love on It

is Copyright © 1970 by Terry Dixon and is printed here by

permission of the author. Walter Perkins Is Herel is Copyright © 1970 by Raymond E.

Banks and is printed here with his permission. The Darwin Sampler is Copyright © 1970 by Ray Russell and

printed here with the author's permission. The Whole Round World is Copyright © 1970 by Ron Goulart

and, while based on material by the author, Copyright ©

1965 by Star Press, Inc., it contains substantial new material

and appears in this highly altered form.

To Mousie and Mitter Owl, notto forget:

MOUSIE, JR.

PERRY PUEBLO

MITTER SUN

WARRIOR KACHINA

WRINKELTY DOG

SIDNEY SECURITY BLANKET

DUDLEY DUCK

and

MITTER ROCK (unhatched)

Books by William F. Nolan

SCIENCE FICTION Impact 20 (1963) The Pseudo-People (1965) Man Against Tomorrow (1965) Logan's Run (1967) Three to the Highest Power (1968) A Wilderness of Stars (1969) A Sea of Space (1970) The Future Is Now (1970) Nineteen for the Universe (1971)

THE BART CHALLIS SERIES Death Is for Losers (1968) The White Cad Cross-Up (1969) The Marble Orchard (forthcoming) Sharks Never Sleep (forthcoming)

BIOGRAPHIES

Adventure on Wheels (1959)

Barney OJdfield (1961)

Phil Hill: Yankee Champion (1962)

Men of Thunder (1964)

Sinners and Supermen (1965)

John Huston: King Rebel (1965)

Dashiell Hammett: A Casebook {1969)

AUTOMOTIVE COLLECTIONS Omnibus of Speed (1958) When Engines Roar (1964)

Contents

INTRODUCTION                                                                                     8

THEOGRESS                                                                                      10

robert f. young

JENNYAMONG THE ZEEBS                                                                    26

frank anmar

EARTHCOMING                                                                                  41

richard c. meredith

BELLESLETTRES, 2272                                                                              67

norman corwin

ASHAPE IN TIME                                                                                 72

anthony boucher

DAMECHILD                                                                                       76

dennis etchison

TOETO TIP, TIP TO TOE,

PIP-POPAS YOU GO                                                                           85

william ƒ. nolan

AWAR OF PASSION                                                                            94

torn purdom

HATEIS A SANDPAPER ICE CUBE

WITHPOLKA DOTS OF LOVE ON IT                                                         104

terry dixon

WALTERPERKINS IS HERE!                                                                     109

raymond e. banks

THEDARWIN SAMPLER                                                                        119

ray russell

THEWHOLE ROUND WORLD                                                                  122

ron goulart

Introduction

Thisbook is fresh proof that the packaging of science fiction is changing.

WhenRobert Hoskins edited Infinity One, thefirst of a series devoted to all-new, never-before-printed sci-fi, he termed the volume "a magazine ... in book form." This is as good a label as any to describe the current direction in which science-fiction publishing is headed. We presently have the Nova seriesof all-new sci-fi, being edited by Harry Harrison; Damon Knight has already given us several of his original Orbit anthologies—andthere are one-shot nonseries collections of brand-new sci-fi such as Three for Tomorrow andHarrison's The Year 2000. Allof these offer the sci-fi short-story writer a greater latitude in language and ideas, as well as more permanence than the perishable magazine format.

Theidea of publishing new science-fiction stories directly between book covers rather than reprinting them from magazines is taking strong hold in an era when the die-hard sci-fi magazines face a severe circulation crisis. A careful count reveals that only 450 new stories were published during 1969 by a dozen U.S./British sci-fi magazines (Analog, Galaxy, Amazing, New Worlds, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, etal.). Compare this total to the last of sci-fi's peak magazine years, 1953, when no less than 1300 new stories were printed by 40-plus science-fiction publications.

Ofthe major sci-fi magazines being published today, only two or three might be considered "healthy" in relation to paid circulation. The others fight for newsstand survival; as their sales figures continue to decline, they, too, will drop from sight. The trend is evident.

Thismagazine-book concept is certainly not a new one. Most aficionados associatethe beginning of the trend with Raymond J. Healy's splendid anthology New Tales of Space and Time, publishedin 1951—which he followed with Nine Tales of Space and Time, anotheroriginal collection, in 1954. However, original short sci-fi stories were being printed in book format as early as 1937, when J. B. Esenwein edited Adventures to Come. DonaldWollheim's The Girl with the Hungry Eyes, releasedin 1949, was also an all-new anthology. Following these, Frederik Pohl launched his critically successful Star Science Fiction series in1953, which ran to seven volumes (including his Star Short Novels). AugustDerleth got into the act with Time to Come in1954, and Fletcher Pratt edited The Petrified Planet twoyears earlier. In England, starting in the Sixties, John Carnell began editing his New Writings in SF. And thusit has continued into the present era.

Inearly 1963, when I became managing editor of the sci-fi magazine Gamma, Iurged its publishers to issue it in a book format semiannually. Had they done so, it might have survived beyond five ill-fated issues. The magazine was well received and featured top sci-fi writers, but died of newsstand strangulation. I learned a sad lesson from this and returned to book editing.

In1965, when I edited The Pseudo-People, Idecided to include five never-before-published sci-fi stories in the anthology. This wordage comprised a third of the book—but I still had not edited an entire volume of all-new material.

Now,with this book, that ambition is realized.

The Future Is Now isnot part of a series; it is an independent volume containing the latest and best work of some very talented sci-fi writers. As editor (and contributor), I derived a great deal of creative satisfaction out of gathering these 12 stories between covers. Several of them deal with aspects of a computerized society, but this is to be expected. Whether we like it or not, computer living will be a perfectly natural environmental state for the citizens of tomorrow—just as a worldwide dependence upon the automobile seems natural in our century. Like sex, computers will always be with us.

Andjust as these 12 stories bring the future to us, so, too, does the physical format in which they are presented: When the last genre magazine has expired, books such as this will represent the only futuristic showcase for new science fiction.

Indeed,the future is now.

WILLIAM F. NOLAN Brentwood,California

The Ogress

robert f. young

Let's start out this anthology with an old-fashioned adventure yarn which isn't old-fashioned at all. Not in the hands of Robert F. Young, who has, since 1953, illumined the science-fiction field with some 110 stories. Two collections of Mr. Young's work have been published; more are promised.

In tracing his career, Young acknowledges the early Tarzanian influence of Edgar Rice Burroughs and credits H. G. Wells's MenLike Gods for introducing him to future fiction: "Then I got into O. Henry, Jack London, Galsworthy, Maugham and Sinclair Lewis—and most of the poets. My everyday work was less poetic: I was pouring metal in a factory when I sold my first story, and I've worked as a spray caster, machinist, slagger, mudman, stopper maker and assembler. I'm still a workingman, but added to my other trades, I assemble stories weekends and evenings in a house my wife and I own located beside the waters of Lake Erie. On clear days you can see Canada from our front window. I like opera, cold weather, trees and roast beef on kiimmelweck."

Young's classic tales Goddessin Granite and ToFell a Tree both dealt with giantism, and in TheOgress he returns to this fascinating theme, allowing us to share the dangers of a deadly hunt on another planet with a shrewd professional who specializes in gigantic kills. Be warned: It's a chiller with a harrowing climax.

You won't like Dijleha, but you'll remember her.

Thefootprint was an enormous one. Even though he was accustomed to the outsized, Westwood was impressed.

Hemoved a little closer to the depression and scrutinized it with a professional eye. As nearly as he could judge, it had been' made less than a Nightfall day ago,

whichmeant that his quarry had passed this way after her most recent visit to the plains. Westwood had been certain all along that she lived in the foothills, but the igneous nature of the wasteland that had to be crossed to gain them was not amenable to impressions, and this was the first footprint he had found.

Hestood gazing down at it for some time, estimating the height and weight of its owner. No wonder the plains people were afraid to come out of their huts after dark!

Theafternoon sun was hot upon his back and a warm wind was flowing up from the south. The naked wasteland lay behind him, while before him the foothills, green and grassy and patterned with trees, tumbled away to the slopes of beard-blue mountains. He had made the acquaintance of the wasteland early that morning when Brand, the one-man staff of the newly established Nightfall Guidance Center, had ferried him across the dark river that separated it from the low and fertile plains where the plains people tended their flocks, planted their crops and reared their offspring.

Thefive toe impressions of the footprint pointed straight toward the hills. Proceeding in that direction, Westwood presently came upon a second print. He counted five more toe marks. Five and five made ten. It had gone without saying that his quarry would have ten toes, because that was how many the plains people had. Gods are not the only superbeings man creates in his own image.

Pausinglong enough to light a cigarette and to shrug his pack into a more comfortable position, Westwood went on. The pack was small and compact and contained a three-day supply of rations, an inflatable tent, a small heater, a blanket and a two-way radio. And, at the last minute, Westwood had jammed some extra supplies into the pockets of his fatigues: water-purifying tablets, pneumocartridges for the tent and extra minibatteries for the heater. Slung haphazardly across the pack, long, slim and deadly, was his loaded Dammerung.

•   •   •

"Harry,you take this business too lightly," George Brand had said after ferrying Westwood across the river. "Show me a pro with your experience and I'll show you a reckless man whose worst enemy is his overconfidence."

"Yousound like my mother," Westwood had said.

"I'veseen some of the things Dijleha can do, and you haven't. And you don't understand peasants the way I do, either. Basically, that's what Dijleha is—a peasant. She behaves like one, reacts like one and she thinks likeone."

"Thehell I don't understand peasants," Westwood had said. "What kind of people do you think created some of the other ogres—not to mention gods—I've killed? Udon, for instance. Mother Magrab, Trisk, Chitzen, Mimb."

Brandshook his head. "Peasants in some cases, nomads in others. But I'll concede there's very little difference. What I'm trying to say is, Harry, that you don't know primitive peoples firsthand. You know them only through their creations. They're shrewd. They think differently. We're products of an affluent society. They have to work for a living. As a result, we can never accurately predict their next move."

"Ifyou really knew anything about primitive peoples, George, you'd know that it's their vindictiveness you're talking about, not their shrewdness. ... I think you're actually afraid ofthis outsize cannibal these plains people have brought to life."

Atthis point, Brand had lost his patience. "All right!— let her make a meal out of you, then! Not that you'll make much of a one. You should lay off the booze, Harry. Christ, you're skin and bones!"

•   •   •

ToWestwood's left, the hills hogbacked away to the horizon. To Ms right, they grew steeper and became indistinguishable from the mountains. The sky was blue above his head.

Ashe started up the first ridge, he saw near the crest a number of white splotches that he at first mistook for bones. Then he saw the bones move and knew that the splotches were members of a species of small white baboons indigenous to this part of Nightfall. They were herbivorous and quite tasty, and the plains people loved to cook and eat them. Westwood was tempted to try for one with his Dammerung, but he didn't because there wouldn't have been enough of it left to bother with. They scattered at his approach, and it was doubtful if he could have got one, anyway.

Dijleha'sfootprints guided him as he made his way deep into the hills, although, owing to the greater firmness of the ground, they were much less distinct. But there were other signs of her passage: a broken sapling, the indentation left by a boulder she had picked up and playfully tossed into a nearby valley, an elephantine dune of dung. He began to see occasional bones, too. A sternum with several ribs attached, a clavicle, a femur. In some cases, the bones had been cracked and the marrow sucked out.

A cannibal creature indeed. Dijleha, she who devours alive.

At length, the footprints and the bones led Westwood to a pass. Before entering it, he pulled the butt of his Dämmerung closer to his right shoulder so that he could grab the weapon in a hurry should a sudden need for it arise. The butt was smooth and familiar to his touch. It should have been. Unlike some Beowulfs, Westwood never changed guns. This one had been with him since the beginning.

The beginning . . . that was Trisk, wasn't it? Sometimes he had trouble remembering his kills in their proper sequence. Yes, Trisk. . . .

•   •   •

Trisk had lived in the mountains of Godawful's northern temperate zone. He was a huge Panlike creature with a ballooning belly and a pair of enormous black hooves on which he thundered down into the valleys and trampled his creators' crops. Brains he had not, for if he had, he would have realized that in cutting off his victims' food supply, he was cutting off his own. The situation was intolerable no matter how you looked at it, and when Galactic Guidance got wind of it, they dispatched a Beowulf posthaste.

Westwood had been green but he hadn't been afraid. He took his Dämmerung and went up into the mountains and followed Trisk to his lair. When Trisk came out, Westwood saw that the ogre was too tall for him to get off a good head shot and, to bring the head closer, he deliberately stepped from behind the boulder he'd chosen for concealment and flung a rock at the ogre's right knee. Trisk let out a huge howl and bent down and gripped the knee with both hands. The head was close enough now. Too close. The face looked like the surface of a meteor-pocked planet. West-wood had to hold the Dämmerung almost vertically to get off his shot, and, in his excitement, he forgot that this was somethingyou weren't supposed to do. In appearance, the weapon was jet black and looked like an ancient muzzle-loading musket that could be fired from either end. In actuality, it was something else. Its trigger, when squeezed, detonated a hypercartridge that sent a high-velocity projectile, capable of blowing up a small house, spinning through the big barrel. The recoil was brutal, and it was imperative to freeze to the weapon at the moment of firing, but you couldn't freeze to it when you fired it vertically, and West-wood's collarbone cracked; the projectile passed through Trisk's forehead and exploded in the middle of his thick skull. He fell forward on his ruined face, and Westwood had to scramble to get out of the way.

Inthe valley that night, the natives had feted him and he had filled himself with native wine, and after a while the pain of his broken collarbone had gone away and the sickness in his stomach had departed. He had been little more than a boy at the time, and he had needed a mother. He had found her in the wine.

•   •   •

Thepass was behind him now, and Westwood halted on a hilltop, detached his water thermos from his belt and took a long, cool draft. Below him lay a grassy valley through which a slender stream unwound like silken thread. There were trees massed along the banks, but not thickly enough to conceal a being as huge as Dijleha. He made a mental note to crawl over the crest of the next ridge instead of silhouetting himself against the sky. The abode of the ogress could not be very far away, and he wanted to spot her before she spotted him.

Theday was very nearly done. The trees bordering the slender stream were throwing long shadows. Westwood decided to spend the night in the valley and resume his search early the next morning. Some superbeings could see in the dark. He didn't think this one could, but there was no sense taking the chance.

Herecapped the thermos, reattached it to his belt and descended the hill. Halfway down, he had to detour round a sizable tree that had been torn up by its roots and cast aside. Since Dijleha was carrying at least a dozen dead natives, even discounting the ones she'd already devoured, she must have uprooted it with one hand. Impressive— though it went without saying that a superbeing as huge as Dijleha would have the strength of 50 men. Not that she needed to be huge in order to be phenomenally strong. A superbeing's strength, like its other physical and mental attributes, derived from the collective imagination of its creators. It was as strong as they believed it to be.

TakeGrendel, for example. Not only had modem research unearthed evidence of his existence, it had also unearthed evidence that he was no more than eight feet tall. And yet, on his first visit to Heorot, Hrothgar's hall, he had carried off 30 thanes. Beowulf scholars had generally written off this exploit as the hyperbole of a primitive poet, but modem research had proved otherwise. Despite his relatively small stature, Grendel could havecarried off 30 thanes. Whether he actually had or not, no one would ever know.

Onceon the valley floor, Westwood headed for the stream. Dijleha, too, had refreshed herself there. He saw a pair of large, rounded impressions made by her enormous knees when she had knelt on the bank to drink. The water was crystal-clear and mountain-fresh; nevertheless, he popped a water-purifying tablet into his thermos before he refilled it. Then he washed his face and hands.

Duskwas moving into the valley. Soon the coolness of the mountains would sink into the hills and the temperature would drop below 50. Westwood slipped off his pack, opened it and got out his inflatable tent. He pulled a pneu-mocartridge out of his pocket, inserted it, squeezed it to life and watched the tent change from a compact cube the size of his fist to a large rubberoid cabin replete with a door that laced shut, two transparent windows and a built-in bed. Promptly it took on the hue of its surroundings and became indistinguishable from the shadows.

Afteractivating the heater and setting it just within the doorway, Westwood opened a thermopac and ate a light meal. He washed it down with hot coffee from a second pac, lit a cigarette and squatted Indian fashion in the tent doorway, letting the warmth from the heater penetrate his back. The darkness by this time was complete, and a rash of stars had appeared in the heavens. The air was clear and cold and there was no wind.

Andyet, paradoxically, he could hear awind. No, not a wind, but a sound suggestive of a wind blowing through heavy foliage. And presently, from far away, he heard the crackling sound of breaking limbs. The ground shuddered beneath him.

Fromwhere he sat, he had an almost unobstructed view of the ridge he would climb tomorrow. He saw her as she came over the crest, and she was tree-tall against the stars. She dwindled rapidly as she descended the nearer slope, then disappeared altogether as she blended with the dark mass of the ridge. The valley floor trembled with every step she took; the silence of the night fled before her kettledrum tread.

Westwoodkilled his cigarette and released the safety on his Dammerung. He got slowly to his feet.

Whywas she retracing her. steps? Had she already devoured the last of the victims she had carried off the previous night and was she setting out on another raid? Or had she somehow divined his presence? He tried to see her in the darkness, but the black background of the ridge thwarted him. Her kettledrum tread crescendoed.

Therewas another sound now. A rumbling, as of thunder. But it was too high-pitched to be thunder, and it was broken up into syllables. It was the sound of her voice.

Westwoodwas somehow reminded of a woman calling a cat. Here, kitty. Here, kitty-kitty-kitty! Evenas the simile crossed his mind, he saw the white baboon that was watching him from the other side of the stream and realized the true magnitude of his danger.

Suddenlythe baboon began to gibber in a shrill voice. The kettledrums grew silent, then resumed their rhythmic beat, each note louder than the one before.

Westwooddid not move. Immobility was his only salvation. If only he had seen the baboon sooner and guessed it was Dijleha's petl If only someone had told him she had a pet! Damn Brand! Damn the plains people! Damn all people who made up bugbears to scare their children and then, unaware of the life-force engendered by their imaginations en masse, unconsciously transformed fantasy into fact!

Westwoodsmelled carrion, stale sweat. A tree crashed, narrowly missing the tent. Abruptly a pale pillar with an elongated base descended from the sky and ground into the earth mere inches from where he stood. Gazing upward, he saw the mountainous flesh of her, the huge curvatures and the shaglike hair. When she stooped to snatch up her pet, it was like a building bending. He glimpsed a massive countenance, with a pair of pale eyes set in pudgy flesh. Then the building straightened and the awesome visage went away.

Hecould have got her right between the eyes. He could have, but he hadn't. For one thing, she had taken him too much by surprise; for another, he was a seasoned Beowulf now and knew better than to fire a Dammerung vertically.

Shorthairs the size of spikes protruded from the massive leg. Its surface was mud-smeared and grimy. The enormous foot was blackened with innumerable layers of filth. It ground deeper into the earth as she put her full weight on it; then, with a sucking sound, it shot upward and out of sight. Another tree crashed; the ground shuddered. The beat of the kettledrums grew slowly softer, finally faded away. As she recrossed the crest of the ridge, she appeared once more against the stars; then she dwindled from view.

Westwoodcrawled into the warm cocoon of the tent, laced the door behind him and lay down on the built-in bed. He felt like the 31st thane.

Hereactivated the safety on his Dammerung and set his mental alarm for an early hour. Tomorrow, when it aroused him, he would enter the next valley and accomplish his assignment. He would center the projectile right between Dijleha's eyes and destroy her evil ogress brain.

Hewould need elevation for maximum accuracy. A tree would do. Judging from the sounds she had made ascending the slope, there were many trees in her valley. He would climb the most strategic one and, when the moment was exactly right, he would write finis tothis walking nightmare. Then he would contact Brand on the two-way radio and tell George to pick him up in the Guidance Center's copter. By tomorrow night he would be on board ship en route to Mars. While he was waiting for the shuttle, he would get drunk. Very, very drunk.

Sometimeshe wondered why unsophisticated races such as the plains people didn't create benevolent rather than malevolent superbeings. Maybe they would if they were aware of the creative energy their combined imagination was capable of unleashing. But there was no way to make them aware without first educating them, and if you were to educate them, you would weaken the naive belief which was the source of the energy and bring them prematurely to that sterile plateau of intellectual development upon which the creation of a living being was possible only through physical union.

Maybemasochism lay at the root of their ability. In any event, even when they came up with a god, he was almost always a vindictive god. Yahweh was a case in point. So wasZeus. But, in a cosmic sense, superbeings never lived long enough to do very much harm. Physically, they endured only as long as their creators believed in them. Then they vanished and all the Up service in the world was insufficient to bring them back to life.

Wasit right for an institution like Galactic Guidance to destructa god—with or without the consent of its creators? It was argued that living beings like Dijleha should be permitted to die naturally, but Westwood didn't agree. Evil must be dealt with, in any form, and he felt fully justified in his kills.

Heput these thoughts carefully out of mind—and slept.

WhenWestwood's mental alarm jerked frim awake, a predawn grayness was seeping through the tent windows, creeping through a crevice between the laced-together door flaps and the floor. He unlaced the door and went outside and washed in the cold stream. The impression of Dijleha's foot had filled with water during the night and appeared as an elongated pond. He regarded it thoughtfully as he ate a meager but sustaining morning meal; then he collapsed the tent, reassembled his pack, shouldered it and set out, carrying his Dammerung at port.

Hewalked in a straight line, across the stream, through the trees and up the farther slope, cautiously now, alert for the slightest movement, the faintest sound. Behind him, the sun edged above the ridge he had descended the previous afternoon and light rushed into the valley, turning the dew to gold.

Upthe slope, moving on his hands and knees, inching his eyes above the crest. He looked down into a valley similar inmost respects to the one that lay behind him. It, too, boasted a slender stream and a grassy floor, but there were far more trees, and on the opposite side there were cliffs. Limestone, as nearly as Westwood could make out. Pitted with caves, probably; honeycombed with tunnels. From his present perspective, the trees seemed to grow right up to their feet.

Hegave the Dämmerung afinal check, turning it slowly in his hands.

Andhe thought of Chitzen,

The god Chitzen roared when He talked, and He slept on a great granite mesa in the middle of the Desert of Strange Stones. His worshipers brought offerings at the beginning of each week and laid them at the base of a towering outcropping at the foot of his bed—the fattest of their livestock, the choicest of their crops, the plumpest of their virgins, the rarest of their wine—but He was never satisfied and eternally demanded more food, more virgins, more wine. And when it became impossible for his worshipers to supply Him with more, He arose from his granite bed and strode across the Desert of Strange Stones to the oases where the villages lay and took what He wanted and destroyed what He didn't, and before long, dark days came and the villagers feared to leave their huts, and a famine settled upon the land.

Scatteredover the valley floor were thousands of small white objects that gleamed in the morning sunlight, and at the base of one of the cliffs, half-hidden by a frescolike fringe of trees, was a mound of similar objects. Westwood realized that the objects were human bones.

Hemade his way down the slope, taking maximum advantage of the cover afforded by snarls of little trees. When he was halfway down, a white baboon bounded out of a nearby copse and hotfooted it to the valley floor, where it disappeared in the tall grass. Was it Dijleha's pet? Why hadn't she eaten it? No doubt, being an ogress, she enjoyed nothing but human flesh.

Reachingthe valley floor, he continued on a circuitous course toward the cliffs, keeping out of sight behind trees, thickets and bushes and—when no other cover was available—crawling belly down through the tall grass.

AfterWestwood crossed the stream, concealment was less of a chore. The trees were closer together and considerably larger. He made his way toward the cliff with the mound of bones at its base. He could smell the bones, even though there was no wind; mingled with their miasma was another smell, compounded of body odor and dung.

Whenthe Beowulf branch of Galactic Guidance was first established, copters were used exclusively to track down superbeings. Now, however, they were rarely employed without good reason, for, as often as not, when a super-being saw a copter, it fled to its lair and stayed there, complicating the task of the hunter.

•   •   •

There had been two good reasons for using a copter on the Chitzen assignment: Chitzen's abode was in the open, and, being a god, it was unlikely He would flee.

The weird outcroppings of the Desert of Strange Stones drifted by beneath Westwood and the pilot as they flew east into the face of rising Antares. They sighted the granite mesa only to find it empty when they passed above it. Clearly, Chitzen was an early-rising god. He was also a clever god. Too late, they realized that the humanoid shape before and below them, which in the blinding light of Antares they had mistaken for another outcropping, was Chitzen Himself. A hand came up and batted the copter down.

The pilot was killed instantly. Westwood's right leg was crushed, caught in the wreckage of the cabin. He could not extricate it. There was a gaping hole in the cabin roof through which he could see the blue sky. Presently Chitzen's face swam into view and his cold and terrible eyes gazed down into Westwood's own. The massive countenance occulted the sky. Above the plateaulike forehead, strands of golden hair danced like solar prominences in the morning wind. From the left ear, a golden earring swung faintly to and fro.

Half in a dream, Westwood felt for his Dammerung. It should have been at his side. It was not. It was lying several feet away. Desperately, he tried to reach it. He could not. Perhaps it was just as well. He did not think he could use it, anyway. He did not think he could kill a god. As the thought crossed his mind, he saw the hand come through the hole in the cabin roof and the gigantic fingers close round the barrel of the Dammerung. He saw the weapon lifted aloft, saw simultaneously that the impact of the crash had dislodged the safety.

Thetrees thinned out and Westwood hadto cross a grassy clearing to reach the fresco forest that paralleled the cliffs feet. He crawled through the grass, did not stand up till he was safe among the trees. He could see the mound of bones. It lay straight ahead of him. Above and to the right of it, pretty much as he had figured, was a king-size cave mouth. Moving in closer, he found a large tree that stood on the inner edge of the fresco forest on a line with and some 70 yardsdistant from the mouth.

Standingbehind the trunk, he listened. He heard the faint humming of insects, the scuttering .sound of a small animal of some kind burrowing in the dead leaves. He also heard what he had expected to hear—asound as of bellows pumping, muted but distinct. Yes, Dijleha was in her den. Still gorged, probably, from yesterday's repast. Gorged and fast asleep.

Heremoved his pack and slung his weapon. He picked up several small stones and pocketed them. He had to shinny a good 15 feetbefore he reached the first limb. He went on to the next and the next. At length he came to a crotch that he estimated to be about the right height, and he settled himself into it, unslung his Dämmerung andrested the weapon on his lap. Leafy branches hanging down from above screened him from sight and at the same time afforded him an excellent view of the cliff face through the interstices in their foliage.

Hereleased the safety on his Dämmerung; thenhe took one of the small stones out of his pocket and threw it across the intervening distance and into the cave. He heard it rattle on the rock floor.

•   •   •

Chhzen straightened to his full height and Westwood could see Him through the hole in the cabin roof, studying the tiny weapon in his hands. He tried to loop his gargantuan thumb around the trigger, but the trigger guard thwarted Him. He looked more like a child than a god—a child puzzled by a technological toy that it could not comprehend.

Abruptly, Chitzen vanished from view.

There was a silence. Westwood felt the first throb of pain as numbness began to leave his injured leg. Had the god gone? Had it been only the Dämmerung He wanted? Had

He no thoughts of revenge?

Westwood's two-way radio hung from a cord around his neck. There had been no point in beeping for a rescue copter before. Now hope trembled in his throat as he turned the tiny dial.

The handle of the cabin door turned and the door swung open, and a handsome young man stepped into the room. He had feathery golden hair, a high, wide forehead and wide-apart eyes, and from his left ear a golden earring dangled. Westwood's black and deadly Dämmerung was cradled in his arms.

The cold and terrible eyes rested on the hunter, no less cold, no less terrible, in their new dimension than they had been in their old. A god might not be able to change the size of a weapon that was too small for it to operate, but it could change its own size. And within his framework of values, there was no other way for Chitzen to kill West-wood than the way Westwood had intended to kill Him.

He raised the Dämmerung and incorrectly pointed the butt at Westwood. The god had the unfamiliar weapon reversed; the barrel was aimed at his own head. He slipped his right thumb through the trigger guard and began to squeeze the trigger. Westwood smiled thinly as the Dämmerung thundered, leaping from Chitzen's grasp onto Westwood's lap. The projectile passed through the god's head and exploded.

ApparentlyDijleha was a light sleeper, for no sooner had the stone that Westwood cast ceased rattling on the cave floor than her head emerged from the cave mouth. At first, all he could see was her hair. It made him think of a haystack. Then, as she crawled on all fours out into the daylight and stood up, Westwood got a clear view of her face. The nose was turned up slightly and the eyes were set close together. The cheeks were full. She had a wide mouth and rather heavy lips. At the moment, they were discolored with dried blood. Her chin was gently rounded. It was the face of a mischievous—and cruel—young girl.

Westwoodwas less interested in her face than in her body. The mere weight of her breasts caused them to sag prematurely, but they were as nothing compared to her huge and sagging belly. She had gone to fat early in her career, and as though her obesity were not repulsive enough, her face and body were covered with the accumulated grime of her brief lifetime. The stench was overpowering.

Shewas carrying her pet baboon in the crook of her arm, where it was almost hidden by the enormous overhang of her left breast. The height of Westwood's perch put his eyes on a level with hers. There was a quality about her that suggested a self-indulgent teen-ager rather than an ogress— a teen-ager who was unable to put a curb on her appetite and slim down so the boys would go for her.

Nowshe was walking straight toward the tree in which he was sitting. Probably heading for the forest to relieve herself. Westwood had already aimed the Dammerung at a spot midway between her eyes; all he had to do was squeeze the trigger. Let her get closer. . . .

Theearth shook from her footsteps; the leaves of the forest trembled. Her face, vast to begin with, grew vaster still. When she was almost to the tree, she halted and reached out with her free hand and tweaked off the two overhanging branches that screened Westwood from view.

Shegrinned at him.

Westwoodsqueezed the trigger.

Click!

Hesqueezed it again. Click!

Dijleha'sgrin became a gruesome smile. Her teeth were two tiers of chiseled gray rocks.

Westwoodlowered the Dammerung and checked the magazine. It was empty.

Thegreat grimy hand that had tweaked off the branches of his hideaway was now approaching the crotch in which he sat. Westwood gripped the Dammerung by the barrel and brought the heavy weapon down with all his might across the ogress's knuckles. The butt shattered from the impact, and the barrel was torn from his grip as Dijleha snatched the injured hand away and stepped back. The howl she let out activated a small avalanche on the cliff behind her.

Threefacts were now self-evident: (1) Thewhite baboons of Nightfall were not quite as far down the evolutionary ladder as Galactic Guidance assumed; (2) unlike the barbaric desert dwellers who had created Chitzen, the plains people were familiar with modern firearms and had endowed their superbeing with a working knowledge of the Dammerung; and (3) theywere latent telepaths and had passed their gift on to Dijleha in active form.

Herpet baboon had "told" her about Westwood—probablylast night after she had found it and taken it home. And she in turn had "told" the baboon to empty West-wood's Dammerung. Afterward, the baboon had played sentinel and informed her of the hunter's approach. Their telepathic rapport, apparently, functioned only at close range.

Shewas standing a giant step away, sucking her bruised knuckles and contemplating him with her wicked eyes. It was her usual custom to wring her victims' necks before she devoured them. In this respect, she was quite humane. But the cunning expression on her face told him that no such merciful death lay in store for him, that he was going to have to pay and pay dearly for what he had done to her hand.

Preciselyhow would she make him pay? He shuddered. He did not even need to ask himself. He knew.

Inhis mind he heard Brand's voice. "A peasant. She behaves like one, reacts like one and she thinks like one."

Dijlehahad approached the tree again and was reaching into the branches for him. Just before the terrible fingers encircled his waist, he extricated four pneumocartridges from his pocket and gripped two of them in either hand. Then he was torn from the crotch and borne aloft. The branches ripped his clothing, stung his skin. The vast face grew into a foreboding cliff. There was a cave in this cliff of flesh, filled with two horizontal tiers of chiseled gray rocks.

Thetiers separated at his approach. She chose his right hand. He had thought she would, because it was her right hand he had struck with the na.mmp.ning, buthe had taken no chances. She pinched the elbow between her thumb and forefinger so that the arm jutted straight out The mouth of the cave came forth to meet him; her fetid breath combined with his terror and nearly overwhelmed him. But he managed to retain awareness long enough to squeeze the two pneumocartridges to life and flick them over her tongue and down her throat before the terrible tiers came together.

And thine eye shall not pity, but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand. . . .

•   •   •

Westwoodhad fainted. He came to lying on his back at the edge of the fresco forest. Blood was spurting rhythmically from the stump where his right hand had been, but apparently none of his bones were broken. With immense effort, he fashioned a tourniquet from his belt and got the bleeding under control. Nearby, Dijleha was dying. From where she had dropped him at the edge of the fresco forest, he watched her great writhings, the shouting and the screaming and the thrashing of the huge limbs. At last it was over and the body lay quietly in the morning sunlight like a range of gentle hills.

Westwoodcrawled to the base of the tree where his pack lay, got out his two-way radio and turned the emergency dial to ON.In less than an hour, Brand would arrive in the copter. Computerized medical techniques would have West-wood's stub healed in a week, and in less than another he would be fitted with a prosthetic hand superior to the one he had lost. The pain was beginning. . . .

Damn,but he wanted a drink! He wanted to blot out the pain and the stench and the images in his mind. Next time he would bring some wine. It was against the rules, drinking on a hunt—but to hell with the rules. Next time. . . .

Westwoodlay on his back in the Valley of Bones, gazing up through the foliage of the fresco forest at the blue sky. He managed to get a cigarette going and blew smoke at the morning sun. Hearing a faint rustle in the grass, he turned his head and saw Dijleha's pet baboon sitting on its haunches several yards away. It was looking at him forlornly. He reached out with his good arm and, when the little animal came closer, he patted its downy head. The baboon whimpered and snuggled up against his chest.

Jenny Among the Zeebs

frank anmar

The last time a Frank Anmar science-fiction story appeared in a Nolan anthology (TheFasterfaster Affair in The Pseudo-People), it was selected for classroom study by American Education Publications and reprinted in the school magazine Read. The author has been anthologized in several automotive collections, and his fiction has appeared in a staggering variety of markets.

When pressed for biographical data, Anmar replied, "I'm what I write." Taken at his word, therefore, Mr. Anmar must—at the very least—be irreverent, wild and perhaps a bit mad. Because that certainly describes his latest story, in which he mixes rock slang, futuristic music and elements of classic French farce.

The result is double-bottomed.

Whatkicked off the hooley was, the zeeb contest had gone sour and that's whenthis zonked-out little chickie wanted to cast some bottoms. It was the two coming together that way, like planets in a collision orbit, that kicked off the hooley.

Itbegins with Dirkt

Dirk'sour lead guitar, a tall piece of mean-talk gristle with long, slidey lizard lids over his eyes and loose puff-adder lips that turn on all the funky birds. He ranks large in the Red Dogs, and when he raps, we listen.

Nowhe says to the rest of us, "It is mooncrap." And especially to me, "It is also cowcrap, chickencrap, ratcrap."

"Youdon't like it?"

"We don'tlike it," he hp-puffs. "None of us."

Thefour zeebs are brothers in blood as well as soul, born and bred on Martian soil—and when one puts something down, the other three usually aren't far behind. They give me the long nod behind Dirk: Eddie (drums), Dean

(rhythmguitar) and Royce (who can play anything, but mainly sings).

IPR for the boys, and I set up the contest. Been in publicity since I was knee-high to a French horn. I handled Dust, the first Moon group, in 1990, and I've had enough Martian sand in my craw to feel like a native. But I'm not. I'm blond and blue-eyed and I'm no zeeb. They call me Hoff. Earth blood.

"What'sthe problem?" I really want to know, because I'm fogged out on the why.

"Everything'sthe problem," growls Dirk. He hangs one long peppermint-striped pants leg over the edge of my couch and rides it like a saddle. "You seen thoseEarthies?"

Hemeans the photos of the contest entrants, and I admit I've seen them.

"Look,"I tell him, "there's still a couple of weeks till

deadline. More'll come in by then. There's bound to be at

least one you can--------- "

"I'mnot Unking up with any freebing Earthie," says Dirk. He angrily pops the buttons on his lemon metafile shirt. They make a sound like popcorn hitting the hardwood floor.

"Nobody'sforcing anything on you," I say. "You all get together, as a group, and pick the winner. Then shepicks one of you."

"Fromthe creepies I've seen," puts in Royce, "if one picked me, I'd vomit." He's a Uthe Uttle character, with enormous shining teeth, who crouches over a mike like he's about to bite it off. Zeebs are fish eaters, and I got some heavy promo hanging out on how Royce lives onraw Martian fish. One of the rock rags even printed a special outer-space raw-fish ish, Usting maybe a hundred zeeb recipes. It helped. It all helps.

"Thisis a freak trip, Hoff, and you know it," says Dirk to me, still riding my couch. The others are strung out on chairs around my Brentwood pad, looking drained. We've had a full day cutting tracks for a new LP, and now all I want to do is get them out so I can fold myself into the sack.

"Noneof us want to be married," says Royce.

"Toolate," I say. "Way too late. The scene's locked in. We're guaranteed front-page coverage on this right down the line. The whole "Marry a Zeeb" bit means prime Earth bread for all of us. Life and Look areboth hot to cover the honeymoon—and Buckley Three, Jr., is condemning us in National Review."

Deanjoins the hassle. He's our stand-up comic, the one with flap ears and that sappy smile, the one we hoke with for laughs—still a big Earth fave with the preteenies—but he's playing it for sour now. "It was one thing when you got us the teeny crowd with that skin-flake routine, but we're past that now. We don't need tosell our bodies anymore."

NowI'm pissed off about what Dean just said, because that skin-flake idea of mine put the Red Dogs over the top. The other groups were selling their hair and love beads and dung like that when I came up with the flake bit. Hey, kids! Send in for your own genuine, certified, medically sterilized bits of zeebskin, carefully and painlessly scraped from the bodies of your four faves! The preteenies flipped. We got enough orders for a ton of flakes—and the fact that we used whales, on which I got a helluva buy, was also my inspiration. Takes a medical expert to tell whaleskin from zeebskin. So when I get this new contest idea, I know it's ultraheavy: Girls! If you're of legal age of consent and wish to be the Earth bride of a Martian zeeb, send us your photo and tell us why we should choose you in 50 words or less. The lucky winner will be able to pick out her new husband and spend a fab two-week honeymoon in a genuine, certified, medically sterilized Martian sand igloo.

Withraw fish, yet!

We'dall rapped it down and agreed. It was set and rolling. Now, suddenly, everybody wants out, and I'm pissed.

Iturn to Pops, who manages the boys. He's cool, he's with it, he's in the large scene. Pops has seen it all, the full life bag. He doesn't ruffle. "Look, you tell them," I say to him. "You're their goddamn father!"

Popshas his shirt rolled up from the waist, and he's been studying his navel. He looks up, with those big black Martian bird eyes sweeping us. "A man's navel contains the wisdom of the universe," he says, tapping his whale-black stomach. "It's all here."

"Whatdoes your navel tell us, Pops?" asks Eddie. He's fat, never says much and falls asleep a lot, but he's a wild man with the sticks.

Popswalks to the center of the room, eyes us all. We wait. Pops sighs and goes back to his navel. For more study.

Whichis when the envelope arrives.

Itis delivered by special messenger, and I ask exactly who's it from, but the special messenger doesn't know, just that it was some female and it's for us.

Itake the envelope in to the boys. There's a card inside. They all look at it.

"Whatdoes it mean?" Royce asks.

Thecard bears a single line of print: THE BOTTOM BUILDERS.And under that, in purple ink, is written, "I dig your double buns—and I can make you all immortal. My name is Jenny. I'm downstairs. Let me come up and you won't be sorry." There was a purple P.S. "And I'm no plastic zeebie girl—I'm the real stuff."

Iflip the card against my thumb and give them all a grin. "You mean you haven't heard of the Builders?"

Theylook blank.

Havingjust returned to L.A. from Frisco, I caught the latest rap up there on these three females who, I'm told, are something else. "Believe me, this one's for real. See her. Find out. Live!"

Theyexchange raised eyebrows. Pops stays with his navel. Cool. Finally, Dirk says, "Buzz her up."

Whichwe do.

Jennyis maybe 18 to 20. Nice hair, nice pink Earth skin, nice smile—and with a better than nice body. The legs are long and sleek and golden. Very short skirt. Very loose blouse, with lots inside. She's in purple, to match her ink.

She'sthe undiscovered country.

"Thereused to be three of me," she says sweetly. "Three of us, Imean. But we called it off as a team when I split for L.A. Marcy is living with a legless Hindu in Sausalito, and Joan is doing vocals with the Armpits. We all learned to do it in high school." She giggles. "Now I do it alone."

Theboys are wigged out. Even Pops has abandoned his navel.

"Whatis it?" Deanwants to know. "I build bottoms," says Jenny.

Sheopens the leather traveling bag she's been carrying and takes out a kind of folding pink canvas thing that she snaps together and sets on the floor.

Weall stare at the tiling. Like a baby's potty.

"That'sto sit in," she says. "I fill it up with plaster and dental alginates and hot water. The mixture has to be just right.Rick Fedding, one of the Sub Basements, got stuck in there when we were just learning about bottoms. We couldn't get him loose. It was awful. Embarrassing, you know. We had to kind of hammer himout. Rick was such a sport aboutit, too. His buns were sore for a week, but he never hassled us about it."

Asshe tells us all this, she is laying out a line of stuff on my coffee table: measuring scoops, a jar of Vaseline, some wooden spatulas, three plastic cups—and a thermometer. "For testing water temp," she says. "We tried it without the thermo once and, boy, did that cat jump! It was too hot, like scalding. Wehad to rub in some banana oil."

Shestops messing with the contents of the bag, turns, gives us all a bright, young, innocent smile. "Now, if you guys will just drop your pants."

Deanflaps his ears. "Wow."

Royceclicks his moose teeth. "What a come-on!"

Jennyfrowns. "This is no come-on! I told you on the card that I'd make you all immortal. Well, this proves I can. Long after you're dead—maybe even hundreds of years from now—they'll still have your bottoms in the Library of Congress."

"Ididn't know the Library of Congress collected bottoms," says Dirk.

"They'llcollect mine," declares Jenny with a toss of her long hair. "A bottom can often tell you more about a person than any book about him ever could." Her brows knit. "Don't you guys want tobe immortal?"

"Idon't want my butts roasted," pipes Eddie, shaking his head. The other zeebs agree, mumbling darkly about the inconvenience of having to have their asses hammered out and stuff like that.

Thisis when I come in. Strong. I been in PR too long to miss a Good Thing, and suddenly I'm onto a Good Thing. "Hey, knock off and listen to me. This chickie knows how to protect your precious rumps. She's a pro. The beauty part is what we do withthe molds. We make chairs is what we do with them. Chair bottoms. Bottom bottoms."

Thegreat thing, considering the situation, about Martian zeebs is that they are double-bottomed. Two pairs of buttocks per zeeb—which makes them kind of unique.

"Wesell plastic replicas to every lousy furniture store in the country," I go on, talking fast. "We even ship 'em to the Moonies up in the colony. Just lay it on your freebing minds: What we got here is a fortune in zeeb bottoms!"

Asilence while they let my words register.

Popsstands up, walks to the center of the room again. Whenever Pops has something really heavy to say, he walks to the center of the room to say it. Now he says, solemn-eyed, "Drop your pants."

Royceslowly shakes his head. "Whoever casts my bottoms does it in the dark. I don't go around having my bottoms cast in front of anybody."

Jennyconsiders this, nods. "There's no reason we can't do this in the bedroom. I can prepare the mixture, douse the lights and call you guys in one at a time. When you leave, I turn the lights on again and finish my work. All right?"

Royceagrees. They all figure that will be all right. Yeah. The bedroom. In the dark. With Jenny. The undiscovered country.

Twoweeks after that the letter arrives. From Jenny, in Kansas.

"Whatthe hell's she doing in Kansas?" Dirk asks me, and I tell him I don't know, but I guess that's her home state and she's gone back home.

"Ithought she was supposed to stick around and deliver our bottoms," Royce says.

Inod. "She was. That was the agreement. That's what she promised to do."

"Sojust read the letter," says Pops.

Sowe read the letter.

Hey,you Red Dogs!

I'vegot a little confesh to make: I can't send you your bottoms. I messed up in the tagging and I got so mad trying to figure out which bottom was which that I broke the molds—just tossed them SPLAT! against the wall. So no chairs, fellas! Sorry.

Gotanother little confesh to make: When I came to see you guys, I was virgie. No lie. Can you feature it? Nineteen and a half and pure as the driven. But at least that's over.Whooie! They say all cats are gray in the dark; so I can't say which of you did me, but it sure was some trip!

Mythird and last confesh: I missed my month— meaning I'm bound to be just a little bit pregs. I didn't use anything. I mean not the pill or anything. That's because I want to mother a zeeb. Our family is very, but very, fertile—andI'm sure my own little double-bottomed zeeb is sleeping inside me right now.

Isn'tthat zappy?

Bottomsup! Jenny

Theboys look poleaxed, all glassy in the eyes. We're recording, right in the middle of a tight overdub sesh, but right away the juice drains. One thing about zeebs, there are no half-breeds, ever. The zeeb blood is so strong that when a nonzeeb female gets preggie by a zeeb, the Martian strain takes over. When Jen had her baby, he'd sure as hell have two bottoms!

Eddiewalks away from his drums and puts the palms of both hands flat against the studio wall. "That's what comes of going bare-assed for posterity."

Dirkflips the guitar strap over his head and puts down his instrument. He pops his knuckles, a habit he has which none of us like. "That damn little Earthie could sell her story to the papes and ruin us," he growls.

"Ididn't know there were anynineteen-year-old Earth virgins," says Dean. His flap ears are sagging.

Iwind a mike cord aimlessly around my wrist like a lasso. Wind it. Unwind it. I'm thinking. "I got it," I say.

Nobodylooks at me.

Isay it again. "I got it."

Dirkgrunts, puffs a lip.

ThenI give them my solution. "Jenny wins! She wins the marry-a-zeeb contest."

"Butshe didn't enter it," says Eddie.

"Thatcan be rigged. The point is, you guys need a winner, and all you've got are creepies. Jen is no creepie. She is also no virgin. She wins, we bring her out, tell her to pick a zeeb—and off we all go to Vegas for the ceremony.

Youguys end up with a sweet-looking chick and Jenny has a legit father for her kid."

"It'sa solution," nods Dean. "I diggo."

Theyall diggo.

Jennygoes along with the setup cheerfully. She thinks the idea is one long wig-out. We have a special plane fly her in from Kansas. Big prewedding reception at the Whiskey. Tons of photos. Tons of publicity.

"Dirk,kiss her!"

Dirkkisses Jenny.

"Eddie,kiss her."

Eddiekisses Jenny.

"Dean,kiss her!"

Deankisses Jenny.

"Royce,kiss her!"

Roycekisses Jenny.

Andthe photogs go nutcake.

Wekeep mum on the bottom building. Jenny agrees to drop the whole schmeer, deny she was ever with the Builders in case one of the Frisco crowd remembers. We buy off her two former teammates and the legless Hindu in Sausa-lito. Her makeup is changed, along with her hair. She's just a sweet little Kansas Earthie who grooves on the Red Dogs.

I writethe "50 words or less" myself:

I wantto marry a zeeb because in this awful age of growing unrest, all the peoples of the worlds need to unite together in a true test of solar solidarity. By marrying a zeeb, I can make a personal contribution to racial equality and universal understanding. Thus, I offer my everlasting love!

Jennyreads it, almost gags. "I can't sign that!" "Whynot?"

"I'dnever write star drek like that." She looks down at the words and makes a face. "Blahah!"

"It'sjust what the national rags will eat up," I explain. "Full of heavy sentiment—picks up on the Martian racial bag."

"Sign,"says Dirk, cracking his knuckles. "Don't argue." She signs: Jenny Ann Fingstatter. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

"Nowyou'd better split," I tell her. "You've got a Tri-

Planetshow to rehearse, two satellite spots with Riddle, then a photo sesh at Sanctuary. They're gonna shoot you running around some track they've got set up over a bank, to show you getting in shape for the honeymoon."

"Kinky,"says Jen.

Shesplits.

"OK,"I say, looking over the boys, "it's time to select the lucky groom."

"Doesn'tJen just pick one of us?" asks Eddie.

"Normallyshe would, if this thing was straight," I tell' him."But with her pregs, we dothe picking."

"How?"This from Dirk. His lizard eyes are slitted. He-looks sour, as usual. If you handed Dirk a million bucks, tax-free, and a ticket to Fame Junction, he'd look sour.

Ihold up four plastic matches. "The ones who shagged her draw, and short match is the groom. So who shagged her?" I look them over. "All ofyou, right?"

"Ididn't touch apink inch of that freebing little Earthiel" says Dirk. "Just went in, sat in her gook and went out."

Dirknever lies; so I shrug and turn to the others.

Eddieshakes his curls. "Not me, Hoff. I'm clean on this run. She turned me off with that hot-bottom stuff."

"Samewith me," says Dean. "I nevershagged her."

"Me,either," says Royce. "I just wanted to get my tender buns in and out of that room."

Noneof them. Not one of them. Which meant....

Theyget it when I do.

"Moonshit!"Dirk says in deep disgust. "Hoff shagged her. Right?"

Iswallow hard. "Well—sure. ... I mean, I figured all of you would ... that you had ... well, hell, sure I shagged her."

Thefour zeebs are giving me the Martian eye. It's incredible, a mind blower. I can't believe it, but there it is— me, ole Hoff, a father!

"Sowho marries her?" asks Royce.

"Notme," I protest. "I can't marry her. It's gotta be a zeeb."

"Andwhat about the kid she has?" asks Dean. "How are we going to explain a blond-haired blue-eyed baby with just one bottom?"

Igroan, rubbing my blond head. "I'll work it out," I promise."We go ahead and let her pick one of you, then play it as planned. As for the kid—believe me, I'll work it out."

"Yeah,Hoff," says Dirk, "you just better do that.You just better the hell work it out." We are into the hooley but good.

Wedon't tell Jenny anything. We just let her pick her zeeb and that is that. She picks Royce. Which figures. Eddie is too fat. Dirk is too mean. Dean is too ugly.

"Jen'snot so hard to take," Royce tells us, showing those big teeth of his in a wide grin. "She's a lot better than raw fish!" I've had Royce at the fish again, for a Luna photog, andRoyce blames his stomach cramps on me.

We'reat the airport, waiting out the jet to Vegas. The boys are all sharked out in wild threads. A gassy wedding party.

"You'llbe fine in the sand igloo," I tell him. "We've got it heated by Westinghouse."

"Popslived in a sand igloo once, didn't you, Pops?" Royce looks at him for confirmation.

Popsadmits he lived in one for three days once in his crummy hometown near the Red Mountains. He didn't like it. Too cold.

"Wegot this one heated by Westinghouse," I repeat again.

Weall begin to fidget some.

"Wherethe hell is Jenny?" Dirk wants to know. "We're due aboard any minute."

"She'sin the crapper," Royce says. "Fixing her hair." "Here she comes," I say. Jenny is too much.

Sheis wearing a gauzy Moon toga (white for purity)— with nothing underneath—and California poppies braided into her hip-length hair. A phony Martian wedding diamond has been pasted smack in the center of her forehead, and her sandals are made of white yucca blossoms. A gold engagement band glitters on the little toe of her left foot. No lipstick, but big purple circles gooped around her eyes.

"Hi,gang!" she says. "How do I look?"

Shelooks hip and bridey and I tell her so.

Weget the boarding go-ahead. The press boys are waiting outside, tongues hanging, by the jet ramp.

"Everybodyready?" I ask. Nods all round.

"OK,then . . . into the lion's ass!"

Thewedding sews it up for us. We stage the whole ba-zoola at the Space Frontier, with the boys doing Zeebie Girl atthe reception while all the guests chew Martian eelcake.

She'sjust a little zeebie girl, a sad, slick, plastic chick,

ballin'all the heavy names, playin' all the sexual games, ridin' her plastic cloud, turned on to the cool, cool crowd.

Groovin'like there's no tomorrow, our own little child of sorrow, that little plastic zeebie girl. . . .

Jennyfloats through it all on her own plastic cloud, while the photogs snap about a zillion pix.

Wehave the honeymoon jet painted to look like a star-ship, and we run the two kids out to the plane on a wheeled sand sled pulled by half a dozen Martian huskies I hired cut-rate from a studio flack. It is all way out.

Itis only later, when I'm alone back at my pad in Brentwood, that I get the shakes when I think about Jenny's baby.

LikeI promised the boys, I have to do something. But what?

•   •   •

Thecoverage from Mars is fantastic.

Look doesan igloo feature showing the newlyweds as they leave to go out on the sand. We get shots of them hiking happily through the dunes, playing with a cute little eight-legged Mars pup, pulling glowfish from a canal —all that kind of crap.

Itry to figure some way of getting one of the rags to run shots of them coupling inside the igloo, but this is nixed by Jenny. She points out that up to now the whole bazoola has been in good taste, and why spoil that for a few rag shots. I agree.

Sometimesyou can go too far.

•   •   •

Acouple of months slide by, and we have our doc examine Jen. Yeah, she's pregs and, yeah, she got pregs before thehoneymoon and, yeah, he'll keep his mouth buttoned on just when providing we make it worth his while. Which we naturally do.

Meanwhile,I am thinking and pondering and working out the hooley. Ole Hoff will bust through with something, I tell the boys. And I do.

Likewow.

Perfect.

Brilliant.

Foolproof.

"GetPops in here," I tell my secretary. It's late and I'm down at the studio going over some album cuts, trying to figure a new jacket approach, when I bust the hooley.

Popscomes in ten minutes later. He's sore. He's due at the Ash Grove.

"Forgetit," I tell him. "You're going home." "Home?"

"TheRed Mountains. To that crummy little zeeb village where you were born. The one you're ashamed to tell anybody about. Home."

"Why?"

"Tobuy a baby."

Popsis cool. As always. He nods, asks me to elaborate.

"Nobodyknows anything about the place except you," I tell him. "You fly back there incognito and you locate a zeeb couple with a pregnant wife. The timing has to be just right. Jen will give birth in early June; so that's when the zeeb kid has got to be out of the hangar. Diggo?"

"Diggo."

"Youstay on the scene till you hear from me. I'll phone from here the minute Jen goes into labor. Then you hustle the zeeb kid out here and we make the switch. You take Jen's kid back home and have it raised by the zeeb couple. Paying them handsomely for their trouble. Jen never knows about the switch, nor does her public. She gives birth to a healthy little zeeb and the world rejoices."

Popslooks at me. "Hoff ... at times you approach greatness." This, from Pops, brings tears to my eyes. "When do I leave?"

"Igot you booked on a rocket out tonight," I say. "You've got to begin scouting for a preggie zeeb you can buy off. Fact is, for safety's sake, you better set up another couple in case the first pair gives you trouble. We don't want to be caught in a squeeze. So get going."

Popsgot.

Andthe hooley was busted.

Likewow.

Perfect.

Brilliant.

Foolproof.

Afterthe honeymoon, we get all kinds of offers. The Dogs are hot, they are steaming. All the clubs want us. We gig in St. Louis, Fort Worth, San Antonio, New York, Washington and Chicago. We get offers to do top gigs on the Moon.

Wesign a new contract with Disco Tech and the boys cut Robot Man. Itshoots to the top of the charts and stays there for ten weeks; then they follow that one up with Hieronymus Bosch on Sunday, withits funky cross-rhythm shifts and esoteric chord progressions. The boys have prime talent; now they are able to showcase it.

Jentravels with Royce and the others on their first road tour, but stays in L.A. when they go out again, pampering herself with gallons of Tiger's Milk and raw carrot juice.

Shecan't wait to be a zeeb mother.

Thewhole world loves her. She is every teener's dream come true, living proof that a simple Kansas farm girl can marry a famous rock-'n'-roll zeeb and bear his child. Jenny is an Event, a one-girl Happening, and we have to hire a round-the-clock secretary to take care of the mail that pours in for her. The president sends her a United Space Fellowship scroll, and a group of Moonheads in Frisco name her "Dog Mother of the Year." She gets advice on childbirth from 16 nations and a principality.

Finally,as the Time approaches, I call a press confab. "The baby's due to be somewhat premature," I tell the newsboys, "so Jenny's going to have it in a private clinic. We've got a crack medical staff set up to handle every detail. But the clinic is off limits until after the birth—so no photos until then. Sorry, fellas, but we're playing this one on a closed set."

Theydon't like it, but they have no other option.

Sofar it's a slide.

Theclinic costs us a bundle, but we've like got nets out to take in all the new bread from LPs and concert dates; so this is no problem.

Webring in our own doc to make the delivery, with strict instructions that no one, but no one,is to see Jen's baby.

"Howdo you feel, chickie?" I ask her. We are in Jen's new pad near the clinic, and Royce is with her.

"Notso hot," she says and tries for a smile. Doesn't make it. A wave of pain hits her. "In fact, you'd better get me over there. I think it's started."

StartedI

"Oops!"I yelp, giving Royce a nudge. "I just forgot a vital engagement. Vital. Can you get her over OK?" "Sure, I'll take care of it, Hoff." "Check you later, chickie," I say. Jenny just groans.

Ihot-tail it downstairs and phone Pops, L.A. to Mars. "Red alert! All systems go!"

"Iread you," says Pops. "I'm coming in now." "Don't forget the goods."

Imeet his jet a few hours later at L.A. International and he's there safe—with thegoods. I hustle him out to the clinic in a closed car and stash Pops and the zeeb kid in an emergency wing there, with a special nurse we've got to watch over things.

Bynow Jen's inside the delivery room, and the boys are pacing the hall. They look worried and they're sweating a lot. "Cool it," I tell them. "The fix is in."

Theyall sit down. But they keep sweating.

"It'sgonna work," I say. "No hitches. It's a lock."

Isit down with them. Nobody says anything.

Wewait.

Thedelivery-room door swings open and the doc comes weaving out. He's got a stunned look on his face. He flutters both hands in the air.

Ileap up. "Born?"

"Born,"he says.

"Healthy?" "Healthy,"he says.

"Then,we make the zeeb switch now, right?" "Wrong," he says. "Why the hell wrong?"

"Notnecessary." He gulps. "Jenny's baby is azeeb." "Huh?"

Theboys stare at each other. Then they stare at me.

"Idon't get it," I say. "You guys didn't lie, didyou?"

Theyall shake their heads. No, they didn't he.

"Well,then, I've already admitted that I'm the only----------------- "

Myvoice trails off. I push by the doc and rush into the room where they have Jenny and her baby. She's awake and smiling.

"Listen,"I say to her, "this is important. How many bottoms did you cast that night back at my pad?".  .

Shefrowns, remembering. "Uh . . . yours—and the five doubles. Why?"

"Nevermind," I say, nodding to myself. Yeah. Me. The four Red Dogs. And. . . .

AndPops.

He'sstanding by the door, and we're all giving him the eye. He walks slowly past us to the bed, leans over and pats the kid on its cute black double bottom.

Forthe first time in my life, I see Pops smile.

"Coochycoochy coo!" he says.

Earthcoming

richard c. meredith

Among the newer writers now working the science-fictional vineyards, Richard C. Meredith has demonstrated a distinctive talent in two recent novels, TheSky Is Filled with Ships and WeAll Died at Breakaway Station. He has had four strong sci-fi novelettes in Fantastic and Worldsof Tomorrow—and his first sci-fi story was published in Sir Knight in 1962, when Meredith was in his mid-20s. Nurtured on BuckRogers, Planet Comics and Astounding, he built his own chemically fueled rockets as a teen-ager. In the army he taught microwave-radio theory. He has since worked in electronics, studied biology in college and tackled free-lance advertising copy and graphic design.

Meredith respects technical details in science fiction yet is able to create high drama within a "hard science" framework. In Earthcoming, he deals with the classic alien-takeover theme in which a creature from another race is able to inhabit the body of a human, but brings to it his own unique gift for nail-biting suspense and solid scientific believ ability.

Solwas a disk in the black sky now, a recognizable object against the backdrop of stars, something that could almost be called a sun. Earth itself was still invisible, hidden by the glare of Sol, close to the raging solar furnace, still millions upon millions of kilometers away. And Saturn, glorious, bright-ringed Saturn, was a bright star off the starboard.

Theinterstellar cargo train, 1450 meters long, 14 metallic-looking spheres and the ungainly tripod of the Crew Control and Drive Unit, maneuvered in space. Tiny puffs of white gas vanished into the vacuum as the lateral steering jets oriented the C&D Unit toward the tiny, distant disk of Sol. The long, long trip was nearly over, the holmium

cargowas now just a matter of days from Earth,

Withinthe C&D Unit, the three surviving members of the crew sat at their stations, expressions of relief on their faces. The final hyperspace jump was done and they had come back into space time almost on top of Saturn, a mere 27 million kilometers from the ringed planet, less than four and a half billion kilometers from Earth orbit.

"Well,Cal, we made it,"-said the astrogator, an artificially red-skinned Tatar from the human-colonized world of Phaethon, Meghito, a technocrat of Megalon. 'That's old Saturn over there." The scientist-aristocrat pointed toward the starboard viewing tank.

"Tanni,"said the ship's master, glancing over his shoulder to the cargo train's second officer, "see if you can raise Titan."

Ijamsc'Tanni acknowledged her commander's order and began adjusting the controls of the communications console before her.

Outside,on the C&D's hull, a large antenna gimbaled into position, guided by the approximate coordinates of Saturn's largest moon fed to its servomotors by the ship's computer. Moments later a powerful maser transmitter within the ship came to life, feeding the coherent energy into the antenna's horn. Splashing off the parabolic screen, focused and aimed, the carrier wave leaped skyward toward Saturn, toward Titan.

"Thisis Cargo Train 394 calling Port Grissom," the dark-haired, almond-eyed second officer said into the microphone suspended before her. "Cargo Train 394 out of Con-stantine, bound for Earth, calling Port Grissom, Titan. Clear us for passage to Earth and transmit current Earth coordinates for confirmation."

Alittle over three minutes later, the signal came from Titan. "This is Port Grissom, Cargo Train 394. Stand by for IFF."

Thesecond officer reached over and flipped a toggle switch that cut in the cargo train's IFF transceiver. Then she waited a while longer while the identity of the ship was confirmed.

Followinghard behind the words of the radioman at Port Grissom was a carefully coded, carefully modulated identification signal. When it was received by the cargo train, when it was fed into the sealed IFF unit, a series of relays clicked, the pulse-phase modulated signals were decoded, analyzed, interpreted, and the proper answering signal was transmitted back to Titan. Had the signal sent back from the cargo train been anything other than the exact series of codes that were transmitted, a barrage of nuclear-tipped missiles would have sprung from their silos deep beneath the frozen surface of Titan, searched out and destroyed the "invader." But the signal was correct, and four minutes later Port Grissom acknowledged.

"IFFpositive, CT 394," said the voice from Titan. "Current Earth coordinates will be transmitted. Stand by." Then the voice relaxed, became less official and more human. "Is there anything else we can do for you?"

"Yes,there is," Tanni said, then hesitated, looked up at her commander for permission to relay the terrible information that they had brought with them across the light-years.

Theship's master shook his head and whispered so that his words would not be picked up by the microphone. "No, not yet. We'll tell Earth as soon as we can, but there's no point in alarming Titan."

Tanninodded, turned back to the microphone, said, "Inform Earth that we're coming in. They'll probably want to know. We anticipate arrival in Earth orbit 07:01:36."

"Willdo," Port Grissom said. "How was your trip?"

Tannipaused for a long moment before answering. "It was OK," she said at last. "Kind of long."

"Ican imagine," the distant radio operator said. "How are things on Constantine?"

"Nottoo bad when we left," she told him. "The druul arestill a long way off."

Bythis time, Meghito acknowledged that the coordinates of Earth had been received by the ship's computer and, after correcting for a displacement of 27 times ten to the sixth kilometers, agreed very well with his own figures. They could find the home world fairly easily. He gave Tanni a nod.

"Coordinatesreceived and confirmed," she said. "We're all set, Port Grissom."

Afterthe three-minute delay, Port Grissom replied, "Very well, CT 394. Have a good trip. Port Grissom out"

"Thankyou," Tanni said. "Cargo Train 394 out."

"Oughtto be ready to boost in about twenty minutes,

Cal,"the astrogator said.

"Goodenough," the ship's master answered. "I think I'll make a personal check of the globes before we do. Hold tight till I come back."

Threemore days, thought the mind that inhabited the body of the ship's master as it ordered its stolen hands to open the equipment locker and pull out a space suit. Three days, four at the most, and I will be on their Earth.

The driil felta tremendous sense of buoyancy as he fitted the body he wore into the space suit. The long trip was nearly over, and in a very few more revolutions of Earth, he would be there, on the home world of mankind, the center of its political, economic and industrial power. Within a month that power would be in mortal danger; within a standard year that power would be controlled by the druul.

Withthe space suit on, sealed and checked out, the living form of Lacey c'Calvin, ship's master, walked to the end of the C&D Unit, cycled through the air lock and began the inspection tour of the fourteen 90-meter spheres that made up the train's valuable cargo. The inhabitant of that body was happy at the thought that this holmium would never be used by humans, would never supply the fusion chambers of Earth's star fleets, would never carry her warships to the worlds of the druul.

Haledon-prasec,for that is the name that he called himself when among his own kind, knew that the most dangerous part was ahead. That danger would come when the cargo train went into orbit around Earth, but he was confident that he could handle that. Hadn't he been the first of his kind to capture a human body?Wasn't he the first to learn the location of mankind's Earth? With that much to his credit, how could he fail? The only danger lay in the frailty and weakness of the body he wore.

Haledon-prasec,living within and controlling the body of the human form called Lacey c'Calvin, walked across the taut fabric of number-one cargo globe, moving on to check the couplings that held the 14 spheres together, making sure that the couplings were tight, but would release when the signal was given.

Ashe made his tour, the driil continuedto feel a great sense of satisfaction. His name would go down in the history of his kind as the conqueror of Earth, as the one who had begun the destruction of the race of mankind. He would rank along with Probanth-tanifant, who was credited with the beachhead on Rartarburand, the home world of those allies of the humans, the Luntinasel.

Therehad been awkward moments, Haledon remembered, moments when he feared that he might be discovered by the human members of the cargo train's crew. But the first crisis had been passed successfully when he, not yet fully in control of his new body, had forced the still-living mind of Lacey c'Calvin to shoot down the ship's engineer, the Terran Christian Hombroek. Now the others, the Constantinian female called Tanni and the Phaethonese named Meghito, firmly believed that Hombroek had been the drill, believedthat the drill wasdead and gone and the danger was past. Their concernwas in getting the information to Earth that a driil hadbeen able to board the cargo train at the refueling point on Hydros.

Theparasitic creature that dwelt within the cranial cavity of the ship's master, the organism of nerve tissue that had entered the human structure, that had created its own all-pervading nervous structure while destroying that of its host, that had stolen the memories of Lacey c'Calvin while it dissolved his brain, the creature that man and Luntinasel called driil, wasquite certain that his plan would prove successful.

All14 of the cargo globes were checked and found to be in good condition, all 14 of the coupling pairs operating properly, ready to disconnect when Haledon-prasec gave the command. But, he told himself, that would have to wait. First he would have to reach the atmosphere of Earth.

Thewar was on, the strange war that was sometimes fought with fleets of starships, but more often in the dark, warm moistness of organic tissue, where the bodies of young druul germinated,grew, spread, conquered. The war was on, and when and where and how it started, no one could say.

Thehistory of the druul, asfar as men knew, began only 120 standard years before. The Luntinasel, an intelligent and humanoid race not greatly unlike mankind in physical appearance and mentality, had found the druul, orperhaps had been found by the druul. Bythe time the Lennies—as men called them—knew of the subtle, secret, insidious invasion of druul, theirown home world was virtually controlled by the intelligent parasites, dwelling within the bodies of Luntinasel. Fleeing to their fledgling colonial worlds, the surviving, uninfected Lennies began to fight back against those who took their bodies from them, fought doggedly but hopelessly against the spreading cancer.

Theirhope for survival was nearly gone when man and Lennie made first contact, but mankind, realizing its own danger, came to the aid of the embattled aliens, sent weapons and ships and began building a star fleet to carry the war back to the planets from which the druul hadcome.

Thatis why the cargo ship of refined holmium crossed the 600-odd light-years from the human colony on Con-stantine to Earth, holmium for use in the hydrogen fusion chambers of Earth's warships, the holmium that was urgently needed in order that Earth, that mankind, could begin the fight for its life.

Andthat is why Haledon-prasec had made his way into the cargo train, into the body of Ship's Master Lacey c'Calvin—to prevent the cargo from being used against the druul, tobegin the capture of mankind's most powerful world.

•   •   •

"Everythinglooks good," Haledon said as he seated his stolen body in the acceleration cot in the C&D Unit. "I'm ready to boost when you give the word."

"Setfor boost in five minutes from my mark," said the naked aristocrat of Megalon, red-skinned Meghito. There was a pause. "Now! Begin counting."

Theeyes that had been those of Lacey c'Calvin looked at the complex before him. The chronometer had begun sweeping its dial, creeping down toward the glowing red dot five minutes away. Green light after green light sprang to life on the board as the automatics checked and found the ship ready, though the hands of Haledon-prasec waited above the controls in case anything went wrong, waited for the unlikely event of the failure of the automatics and the computer.

Heglanced over his right shoulder to Tanni, who sat strapped in her acceleration cot and peered intently at the duplicate panel before her, the backup for the ship's master and thecomputer. At this stage she was a supernumerary, but one that it would be dangerous to be without

Haledonsmiled to himself, finding a certain amount of satisfaction in being a human, despite the frailty of the structure. He had absorbed enough of the mentality and personality of Lacey c'Calvin to appreciate the attractiveness of Ijams c'Tanni, enough to enjoy the relationship that his host had had with her and which he carried on. Yes, he told himself, it wasn't altogether unpleasant being a human, and he would certainly enjoy it while he could.

Oneminute to go, the chronometer said. The artificial gravity of the ship began to drop toward zero, preparing to swing negative to counteract the forces of acceleration that would arise when the three fusion chambers of the C&D's outriggers fired.

"Thirtyseconds," Meghito said.

"Everythinglooks good," Haledon answered.

"Goodhere," Tanni acknowledged.

"Boostin twenty seconds," Haledon said, eyeing the chronometer. Pumps in the reaction tanks of the C&D Unit began moving liquid hydrogen into pipes, out toward the fusion chambers on the ends of the outriggers. "Fifteen . .. ten. . . ." Hydrogen, now gaseous, boiled into the fusion chambers, built pressure, awaited the nuclear trigger that would begin the thermonuclear reaction, the proton-proton chain. "Five . . . boost!"

Therewas an instant of weightlessness as the contragrav completed its reversal, then began bucking the forces of acceleration as the huge cargo train surged forward. The contragrav canceled all but one gravity of the acceleration; the net force felt by the crew was one gravity toward the rear of the ship, one g pushing them down into their acceleration cots, one g that would remain with them through boost and deceleration when they approached Earth.

•   •   •

Hourslater, acceleration was cut and the cargo train fell sunward, fell toward mankind's planet, Earth. All was going well.

•  •  •

Earthwas a bright blue-green disk, about one degree in angular diameter in the unmagnified forward viewing tank. Luna, Earth's diminutive sister, now between them and their destination, was just a little less than half a degree, only slightly smaller than its size as seen from Earth, a distinct disk several degrees to the left of Terra.

"LunaportB, this is Cargo Train 394 out of Constantine, flight 199-3498-58:9. Destination Earth orbit. Cleared by Titan. Request orbital assignment." Tanni was speaking slowly, distinctly, into the microphone.

"Hello,CT 394," came the reply from Lunaport, delayed by the speed of light for nearly three seconds. 'This is Lunaport B. Stand by for IFF."

Againthere was a wait while the men and machines that guarded Earth determined whether the vessel was, in reality, the cargo train it claimed to be. It still was.

"CT394, this is Lunaport B. Clear and acknowledge. Stand by for orbital coordinates and confirmation."

"CT394 standing by," Tanni replied.

"Itis strange, Cal," Meghito said, waiting for the coordinates to be fed into his computer. "As you well know, I do not like Earthies, nor do I like Earth Gov. But, somehow, that is still a beautiful planet there. Our ancestors did have a lovely world."

Haledonnodded. The Lacey c'Calvin component that still remained in his mind somehowagreed with the astro-gator, but his true personalitydid not see that beauty. Images of a long-forgotten world came into his mind, a world of harsh browns and ochers and reds, of sand and wind and twisted flowering plants and a double sun in the sky, and he wondered if these were racial memories of the world that had brought forth the first of the druul. Oh,we know so little of ourselves, he thought, expressing his thoughts in the human words that he had taken from the mind of Lacey c'Calvin. Where did we come from? How old are we? These were questions a drill rarelyasked and were quickly forgotten. They did not matter, not really. The past was dead, was gone, but the future. . . . Ah, the future! The day when the galaxy was one, when all the variegated forms of life were of but one mind and that mind was the druul. Yes,that was what mattered. And to accomplish that—Haledon's stolen eyes looked at the blue-green disk in the tank—to accomplish that, I must reach Earth.

"LunaportB," Tanni was saying, "this is CT 394. Acknowledge receipt of orbital coordinates."

"Verygood, CT 394," Lunaport replied. "Proceed to establish orbit. Medship will meet you for examination. You will be notified of estimated time of arrival of transport shuttles from Gobi Center."

Tannilooked up at the ship's master. "Shall we tell them now?"

Haledon-prasecshook his head.

"But,Cal," she said, covering the microphone with her hand, "we'd better tell Earth before we get into orbit. You know they'll want to know all about the drill beforethey let anyone board."

"I'drather wait," he replied coldly.

"Butwhy? They'll have to know."

Haledonshook his head again and said, "Let's get into orbit. There's no reason to start a fuss now and have our orbit delayed."

"They'resending a medship," the girl protested. 'They

should------- "

"Isaid to wait," Haledon said sternly, thinking that the longer he prevented Earth Gov from knowing that there had. been a drill onthe ship, the better his chances were, and knowing that he could never let the men and auto-medics of the medship examine him. He would have to act before the medship intercepted them.

"CT394, this is Lunaport B," a voice from the maser receiver's loudspeaker said. "Is anything wrong?"

"You'reship's master, Cal," Tanni said, her hand still over the microphone. "I'll do as you say, but under protest."

"Enterit in the log," the drill toldher, "but do as I say. I have my reasons."

"Lunaport,this is CT 394," Tanni said, moving her hand away from the microphone. "Acknowledge coordinates and arrival of medship. CT 394 out."

"LunaportB out."

"Thecomputer is programmed, Cal," Meghito said. "Proceed to orbit," Haledon told his crew.

•  •   •

Thecargo train maneuvered, firing steering jets, then blasting momentarily with fusion engines. Like a great interstellar snake, the 15 units of the train aimed around the huge bulk of Luna, aimed toward the blue-green disk of Earth that awaited them nearly 800,000 kilometers away.

•    •   •

Fourhours later the distance had been cut in half. Off to the side, the pockmarked face of Luna moved past them, thousands of kilometers away, but still several degrees wide. Earth swelled now two degrees, as large as it is when seen from Luna.

Thetime had not yet come to begin deceleration when Haledon-prasec decided to act.

Tilbe back in a minute," he said, rising from his cot.

Tannigave him an odd look, still slightly angered by his refusal to inform Earth of the danger they had faced, a danger that Earth herself might face if another drill wereto find its way aboard a ship bound for Earth.

Shedid not speak, and Haledon was glad of that. His thoughts were sufficiently colored by the stolen personality of Lacey c'Calvin to give him an unpleasant feeling about destroying her.

Quicklythe dniMnhabited body moved out of the control room and down the corridor to the arms locker. Haledon unlocked the cabinet, carefully removed a hand weapon from its cradle, checked its charge. Full.

Heslipped the weapon inside the folds of his Terran uniform blouse, sighed a very human sigh and started back up the corridor.

Humanbeings are not so detestable, he thought, realizing that Lacey c'Calvin's memories had impressed themselves on his own personality, his own ways of thinking. Perhaps it was unfortunate that they were so inimical to his own kind. It would be nice to remain with them for a while longer. The human method of reproduction was very pleasant when you became accustomed to it.

Buteven then Haledon-prasec could feel the stirrings within the body he inhabited, the tiny, almost imperceptible movements of the growing spores, the maturing of his children, ready even now to be released from the confining sacs within the body of Lacey c'Calvin. In another day, when he stood on the surface of Earth, he would split the sacs, expell them from the body he wore, out into the air of man's home world, flitting like gnats on their fragile, short-lived wings. Seeking the warmth and nervous complexity of higher, intelligent mammals, the 100 spores wouldfind 100 hosts,hosts which they could enter and then control, growing to maturity and then "reading" the racial memories of their complex, message-carrying chromosomes, knowing then who and what they were and why. Maturing, controlling and breeding again, 100 sporeseach, his childrenwould begin the conquest of Earth.

No,the sexless creature that called itself Haledon-prasec thought, this way was better. Forget the slow and clumsy, though pleasurable, method by which humans conceive their own kind. We breed faster and better. We breed quickly enough for my children to control a world in less time than it takes for Earth to circle her sun. Our way is better.

Haledonnow stood at the hatch. Beyond it was the control room and the two humans who could, perhaps, still prevent him from reaching Earth. He would have to do it quickly, before they could send a message to Lunaport. And he would have to do it carefully: A stray blast could easily destroy valuable equipment he would need to get him to the surface of the man planet. Well, then, do it quickly and do it well.

Theleft hand that once belonged to Lacey c'Calvin reached down and thumbed the release on the hatch. As the metal door slid open, the right hand was on the butt of the weapon within the blouse he wore.

"Cal,"Tanni said, turning and looking across the back of her acceleration cot, "you'd better. . . ."

Ihate to do this, Tanni, the human residue in his mind said as his hand came out of the blouse, holding the weapon, thumb on firing stud, aiming, depressing.

Thebolt of energy was aimed low, into the upholstered fabric of the acceleration cot. But the cot had never been designed to withstand a blast. Fabric melted, burned. Metal fused, flowed. Energy poured through—into the body of Ijams c'Tanni. She fell backward, clawing at the stump of her left arm, her voice a scream of pain and terror.

Theweapon was fired again—and the full Up, upturned nose, sensual eyes of the Constantinian spacewoman no longer existed.

Meghitowas on his feet, stumbling backward into the computer, horror whitening the redness of his harsh face, his body now so terribly, terribly naked.

"Cal!"he screamed hoarsely. "You!"

"Getaway from the computer," the voice of Lacey c'Calvin ordered. "Get away, Meghito."

"No!"the technocrat of Megalon answered. "I'm not moving. You . . . you are the drill, aren'tyou? Not Hom-broek, but you."

"Doesit matter?" Haledon asked. "Move, damn it!"

"No,I won't. You don't dare shoot me as long as I'm here. You're afraid of hitting the think tank. You won't kill me."

"Damnit, you fool, I wUl," the drill said,taking a step forward.

Meghitobacked against the computer input controls. "Stay clear. I can damage it so that you wiU never be able to repair it."

"Youwon't," Haledon-prasec said, "not unless you want to die very slowly and very painfully."

"Shoot,Cal—whatever you are—shoot and you'll never get off this ship. You'll burn up like a meteor when you hit Earth's atmosphere."

The driil leapedforward, reached toward the astrogator.

Meghito,his feet still in place, leaned toward the ship's

master's control position, slapped his hand down across the

maser transmitter's controls, yeUed into the microphone,

"Luna, listen, for God's---------------- "

Abeam of energy lashed toward the astrogator, toward the radio set into which he spoke. The blast seared through the flesh and bone of Meghito's hand, struck the microphone, melted the radio's controls. The astrogator screamed, pulling back the smoldering stump of his wrist, throwing his body against the computer, hugging it for protection.

Withinthe body of Lacey c'Calvin, adrenaline surged, adrenaline that affected the mind of a driil inmuch the same way it affected the mind of a man, though perhaps more strongly. A red haze filmed over the drill's captured eyes;anger took control for an instant, an instant that depressed the firing stud of the weapon still another time.

Meghitodied whimpering like a child, died as furious energy cut through his chest, through his bones and lungs and into the metal and paraglass and silicon and germanium and ferrite cores of the computer.

Inan instant it was over. The red-skinned body, nearly cut in half, slumped forward, and Haledon-prasec could see the computer against which it had stood, the computer that would never function again.

"CT394, this is Lunaport B," an urgent voice said from

the receiver at the second officer's position. "What's hap-

pening, CT 394? Do you read me? This is Luna--------------------- "

Haledonspun toward the receiver, an angry, mindless gesture bringing his right hand, still holding the weapon, down against the maser console. The thin panel buckled, pilot bulbs burst, electrical sparks spattered across broken connections. Then it, too, was silent.

The drill suddenlyfelt pain and realized what it had done. Powerless fingers released their grip on the weapon and it fell to the deck. Haledon slowly raised the hand to look at it and saw that the little finger was hanging at an odd angle, white bone protruding through torn skin, blood oozing out, splattering on the deck.

Carefully,very carefully, Haledon severed connections with the agonized nerves in that hand, cut off the pain. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and made a crude bandage. And while he did so, Haledon cursed the feeble, fragile human body that he wore, cursed it in human words and in the terms of his own kind. Fragile, delicate, so easily broken, but he wouldn't need it for long, just long enough to get him to Earth, long enough to spill his children into the winds of man's home planet.

Thatwill have to do, he thought, looking at the crude bandage that turned red even as he watched. He had no time for anything else. Lunaport knew that something was wrong, would investigate. He would have to act quickly and without a computer. But Earth would still be his.

Awkwardly,Haledon-prasec strapped himself into the acceleration cot with one hand. The right hand was still useful, he told himself. The thumb and index and middle fingers still functioned. He could at least throw switches with them, and that was all that mattered now.

Ignoringthe careful sequence, both hands went to the firing controls of the outrigger fusion chambers. He cut them on, waited while the magnetic fields built, magnetic fields powerful enough to contain and enfold the tremendous, star-hot temperatures and pressures that would be created when the fusion reactions began.

NowEarth was perceptible, a swelling disk in the viewing tank, nearly two degrees in angular diameter or better, a mere 400,000 kilometers, hardly more than a second away at the speed of light, but four hours away at his present speed. Well, his speed would increase rapidly when the fusion chambers came to life, and he would close that distance quickly.

Threelights winked green on the control panel before him. All three fusion chambers were ready to fire.

Foran instant Haledon wished that he had not been so foolish, wished that he had not smashed the maser control panel, shorting out his external communications system. But it was out, useless, and he had no time in which to repair it. So there was now no possibility of radioing Luna-port and trying to cover up Meghito's last screams for help —though he was sure that Lunaport still had no idea of what was really happening on the cargo train.

Asfar as he could tell, the C&D Unit was nearly ready to boost. Without the computer he could not be absolutely sure, but Cal's memories, the memories of a highly trained and experienced spacer, told him that he could probably make it. And his job was to get to Earth, with or without a computer.

Haledoncut the contragrav to zero. Without the computer, he would have to fight the forces of acceleration manually. That might be tricky, but except for the broken hand, his human body was in good condition; it could take at least that much punishment.

Hestarted the pumps that fed the liquid hydrogen out of the rear storage tanks, hydrogen that had been extracted from the water the cargo train had picked up on Hydros, where Haledon himself had boarded the train. The —254 degrees C. liquid moved out through heavily insulated pipes into the fusion chambers on the ends of the outriggers. All else was ready. The proton-proton chain was about to begin.

Arather conventional atomic-fission charge moved into position, a carefully controlled atomic explosion that would provide the initial temperatures required to begin the fusing of hydrogen atoms, temperatures on the order of 50 million degrees C.

Liquidhydrogen boiled into the fusion chamber, building up sufficiently high pressure of the gas, atoms of ordinary hydrogen, of deuterium, of tritium. Haledon fired the triggers. Hell, atomic hell, came into being within the chambers, and starlike temperatures were approached, reached, exceeded. Ordinary 1H^1 hydrogenatoms came together, fused, spitting out positrons and neutrinos. Heavy jH^2 hydrogen fused with 1H^1 hydrogen,forming 2He^3 helium and discharging photons, burning, searing gamma rays. And the proton-proton chain went on, emptying helium and furious energy into space, propelling the spacecraft forward with the violence of its transmutation.

Thenearly kilometer-and-a-half-long cargo train boosted, metric ton after metric ton of metal and paraglass and refined holmium moving forward, picking up speed as hydrogen became helium and the forces that built stars pushed it on.

Haledonconsidered uncoupling the tremendous dead weight of cargo that the C&D Unit pulled, leaving all that mass behind and letting the fusion chambers carry only the C&D Earthward. But, no, he couldn't do that. They were a part of his plan, those cargo globes; they were necessary when he entered Earth's atmosphere, when Earth's surface defenses came into play, began searching the skies for the invader, began throwing missiles and lasers against him. He would need those globes for shielding when he reached Earth—if he could get past the orbiting defenses.

Theweightlessness of null g became a backward force as the acceleration built. At one g, Haledon began to reverse the contragrav, began applying the antiacceleration forces. As acceleration increased, he managed to keep the repelling force near one g, sometimes less, more often greater, but close enough to standard gravity to maintain the use of his stolen body.

Earthswelled in the forward tank, began to grow perceptibly as he watched.

Butnow Lunaport knew, he thought. The men on Earth's moon would have come to realize what was happening.

Theircomputers would have analyzed the motion and direction of the cargo train and would have concluded that it was, in fact, headed for Earth at speeds in excess of those authorized. Their masers were transmitting, he knew, demanding to know what the master of the cargo train had in mind, why the craft was aiming toward Earth at that speed. Oh, yes, he had been cleared for Earth orbit, and that might delay them some, but not for long. One doesn't boost as Cargo Train 394 was boosting if one is merely intending to settle into a normal, comfortable orbit a few thousand kilometers up.

Soonthey would be radioing Earth, informing Earth Defense Command of the train's unusual behavior, telling EDC of the strange last message and the fact that the train no longer answered their calls. EDC was jumpy and scared. EDC lived in mortal fear of just exactly what was happening —a driil comingto Earth. EDC would take action.

Orbitingmissiles would be alerted, fed the trajectory of the cargo train. Their own reaction engines would burst to life; they would move toward the anticipated path of the train, scanning, searching, seeking the invader.

But,Haledon-prasec thought, perhaps it would be too late, perhaps the invader would be too close to Earth, perhaps they would have no time to reach it and destroy it before it entered Earth's atmosphere, flaming like a meteor, and vanished from their ken. Yes, perhaps. And not perhaps. Itwas almost certain.

Avery human smile came across the face that had once belonged to a Constantinian spacer. Haledon had gotten too close to be stopped now.

Earthswelled larger and larger in the forward viewing tank. At least eight degrees in angular diameter, at the very most 200,000 kilometers. And, according to the memories of Lacey c'Calvin, Earth's main orbital defenses lay at a point about 100,000 kilometers out. He would soon pass that point.

Thefusion chambers of a cargo train were designed to carry it at speeds approaching that of light itself, to carry it starward at 270,000 or 280,000 kilometers per second, for such speeds are necessary, even with hyperspace warp, to carry men across stellar distances within times short enough to be meaningful. But, of course, the designers of the cargo train's Crew Control and Drive Unit had anticipated that days or even weeks would be taken to build sufficient acceleration to approach the speed of light.

Haledon-prasecdid not have days or weeks, but, then, he did not need speeds approaching 300,000 kilometers per second. Even a rather small fraction of that speed would do nicely, would get him inside Earth's orbital defenses before they were able to react to his coming. And that would be enough.

•   •   •

Earthswelled majestically before him, burgeoning from a two-dimensional disk pasted on the black sky to a sphere, a globe, a world in space, a mottled blue and green and white-clouded planet rotating on its axis under a yellow-white sun.

Ahundred thousand kilometers away, almost eight degrees across the sky, against the backdrop of stars; gray-white Luna dwindling to his left rear. The massive cargo train rushed Earthward.

Manually,Haledon-prasec scanned with the laser radar, for he had no computer to do it for him. He had no computer to monitor the other functions of the ship: the heat and magnetic shielding of the fusion chambers, the life-support systems, the rate of hydrogen consumption, anything at all! He did it manually, but the important thing was that he did it.

Heguessed. That's all it could have been. He had few readings, few figures, no computer, but he did have the hand calculator at the ship's master's control position and he did havethe memories of a very experienced spacer to rely on.

Now,those memories told him. His hands, or, rather, one hand and what was left of the other, fell across the control boards, slapping down toggle switches, cutting off the supply of hydrogen to the fusion chambers in the outrigger pods. Chambers two and three ceased to fire almost at once as their hydrogen was exhausted. But number one—there was something wrong. Somehow, hydrogen was still being fed into the chamber, not much, but enough to keep the thermonuclear reaction going, to keep pushing the C&D Unit forward, off-balance, threatening to turn, to snap the kilometer-and-a-half train of cargo globes like a huge whip.

Therewas a switch, Haledon-prasec's memories told him, a switch to which only the ship's master had access. There, under that panel. Open it. Thumb in slot. Wait while a scanner reads the whorls. Now, recognition. A relay clicked. The panel opened. The thumb that had belonged to Lacey c'Calvin went down into the opening, depressing the hidden switch.

Foran instant, the C&D Unit ceased to function. There was total darkness. The power supply of the C&D was totally, but temporarily, cut off. For a heartbeat, the cargo train was a derelict.

Andthen there was hell!

Hehadn't thought of that. He had only wanted to stop the pump, not. . . .

Themagnetic shielding of number-one fusion chamber did not exist. It was only a moment, less than a moment, a fraction of a microsecond, but that was enough. The tremendous forces that had been contained within the chamber were loosed, a tiny sun, yes, a very, very tiny sun, but nonetheless a sun. The fusion chamber, the pod and half the outrigger ceased to be in an instant of time, metallic vapor trailing behind the C&D Unit.

Somehow,still controlling the body that he wore, shaken, battered, torn, Haledon-prasec's thumb withdrew from the switch. Power returned. A gyro deep within the heart of the C&D screamed, fought against the unbalancing forces, righted itself, corrected the path of the ship. Cargo Train 394 fell Earthward.

Nottaking the time to consider the full implications of the blunder he had just committed, Haledon used the hand calculator to determine his approximate distance from Earth, his rate of fall.

Nowhe was 78,000 kilometers from Earth's surface. And his speed was now about 94 kilometers per second. He was minus one fusion chamber, but he could do without it once he unloaded his string of cargo globes; gyros and lateral jets could compensate. The situation was bad, but not nearly bad enough to cause him alarm.

Nordid he feel alarm when his laser radar picked up a missile following him.

Well,he thought, Earth Defense Command has finally begun to act.

Againat the hand calculator, working from the radar's figures, he estimated the missile's distance and speed and probable time of contact. And he smiled.

Thatwas the closest missilel That was the best that they could do!

Helooked back at the blip on the radarscope as the gap very, very slowly narrowed. He calculated again and the answer was the same. He was safe. EDC had acted but not nearly soon enough.

Butbelow, he knew, on the surface of man's home world, other missiles were being readied, others trained to intercept the craft as it entered Earth's atmosphere, to blast it out of the sky before it could land.

Well,Haledon-prasec thought, it's going to be rough. The C&D was never meant to take this kind of beating, but I thinkit will, even with only two fusion chambers.

Iwonder how many bombs EDC will be willing to set off in their own atmosphere to stop me? How much fallout will they risk to destroy me? Will they gamble on poisoning their own planet just to prevent one suspected driil fromlanding? They don't even know who or what I am.They can only guess. And how many lives will they risk on a guess, a hunch, a fear?

Alot, Haledon-prasec answered himself, a lot, but not enough.

Earthgrew—50,000, then 40,000, then 30,000 kilometers. Down, down, down, for now Earth was a world and was below.

Downpast the communications satellites, past the weather stations, past laboratories and observatories, down, down, down, toward the atmosphere.

Tenthousand kilometers. Now five.

Haledon-prasec'shands touched the uncoupling controls, the switches that would release the string of cargo globes that trailed behind him. Ready. Wait

Fourthousand kilometers. Three. Two. One. Earth was but ten seconds away at this speed!

Now!

At1000 kilometers, Haledon-prasec released the couplings. The 14 spheres were free, falling along with, but now independent of, the C&D Unit.

Lateralsteering jets came to life under his hands. Gyros turned. The C&D Unit crabbed away from the falling globes, turned 180 degrees around, nose back skyward. It fell rear first toward the outer fringes of the atmosphere.

Themassive contragrav unit, designed for maneuvering the craft within a planetary atmosphere, came to life. Fields of gravitational energy, bucking the pull of Earth, sprang into being, enfolding the plunging craft, attempting to slow it.

Fifteenobjects entered the atmosphere of Earth, began to glow with friction as the thinly scattered molecules of air rushed past them, battered against them.

Hewas going too fast, much, much too fast. Even para-glass could not endure that forlong.

Automaticcooling equipment, independent of the disabled think tank, came into operation; liquid hydrogen from the reaction mass tanks began to circulate within the hull, grabbing the heat that was formed, cycling it back and out, but only for a few moments. Even liquid hydrogen cannot carry away that much heat

Aspot on the hull changed from red to white, from solid to liquid. A transport line was heating, despite the —.254 degrees C. of the hydrogen it carried. The line burst. Liquid hydrogen spilled out, boiled off in clouds of invisible vapor.

Thefabric of" the cargo globes was gone, burned away seconds before, and the holmium, fine metallic powder, nakedly met the thin air—but now at temperatures above its melting point, more than 1600 degrees C. The holmium fused, a thin liquid sphere around the powder, enough to hold the falling material in a spherical shape, molten metal covering the heating dust. Fourteen spheres of metal burned away as they fell.

Now!Haledon-prasec cried to himself. Contragrav was slowing the craft, but not enough. His hands moved to the switches that would fire the two remaining fusion chambers, cursing while he did so the clumsiness and inefficiency of the human body that he wore. The fusion chambers sputtered but fired. The glowing C&D Unit, a two-legged tripod now, fought back against the gravitation of Earth, fired off-balance to keep the craft from being reduced to light and vapor. Gyros screamed again, struggled to hold the balance. Lateral steering jets aided. Together they won.

Withinthe C&D, the heat continued to rise despite elaborate shielding. Sweat poured off the human body within which Haledon-prasec lived, heat rising and still rising, suffocating him, bringing the body he wore to the limits of usefulness.

Somewhere,he seemed to remember, Lacey c'Calvin's memories told him, there was still another switch, one that would fire a ring of chemical rockets in the tail of the craft Where is it? Yes, there.

Haledon-prasecdid not stop to ask himself what that additional thrust would do to the already battered craft, whether it could endure those additional conflicting forces, whether its structure could withstand that buffeting. Nor did he wonder about the body he wore. They would have to take it It was that simple.

Hewas shaken violently. G forces mounted again, tried to crush his human body against the suddenly hard acceleration cot. A hand that weighed tons, bones bending under their own weight, struggled to reach the internal contragrav controls. Found them. Cut back. Fought the deceleration.

Andthe craft slowed.

Bynow the burning spheres of molten metal had fallen past, far past, down, brighdy, into the thicker atmosphere. Brilliant against the dark sky, visible to the watchers on Earth below, visible to the missiles that must now be climbing skyward to destroy the invader. Fourteen spheres fragmented into dozens, then hundreds of glowing objects, objects for the nuclear missiles to chase, to find, to destroy, glowing objects that shielded the battered but still operative C&D Unit

Thecraft still glowed, but not as brightly. And it still fell, but not as fast.

Thesolid-fuel retro-rockets had burned themselves out. The fusion chambers still fired. And the landing contragrav continued to operate. The craft slowed even more. The burning holmium vanished below.

Theviewing tanks still worked, their cameras buried deeply below the hull. Fused screens of paraglass had been kicked away, allowing the cameras to "see." But he had no radar. The antennas were gone; so he could only guess, purely and simply guess.

Haledon-prasec'smind functioned. His stolen eyes, blurry but operative, peered at the tanks. Earth was huge below him, huge and still growing.

Wheream I now? he asked himself. That must be Africa. And that over there South America. North America would be there, over the curve of the planet. That's it.

Thoughhe could not see them, had no radar to track them, Haledon knew that the missiles must be coming to meet him, coming at speeds that would now exceed his own. Soon they would begin blasting the falling objects. And soon the Earth-based radar would distinguish the C&D from the free-falling chunks of metal as those chunks of metal fell away, burned away. He had no more time.

Cantingthe craft slightly, firing a brief burst of thrust, he guessed at a new trajectory that would bring it sweeping north over the North American continent. The direction of travel changed, but the overburdened gyro stabilizing gear finally gave up the fight, smoldered, screamed, refused to battle the laws of nature any longer. The falling craft began to tumble crazily.

Haledonforced his protesting, unwilling body up, out of the acceleration cot, back toward the rear of the craft and the escape pods. He would have to leave the C&D now, as he had planned from the beginning. Let it go on down. Let the EDC's nuclear missiles blast it out of the sky. He would not be in it.

Itseemed like hours, but it could only have been seconds. He made his way into the pod, ignoring the urgent demands of an overworked body. The hatches sealed behind him. He strapped himself into the single seat, administered antiac-celeration drugs, sighed, pressed the palm of a bleeding hand against the release switch, held the breath in his human lungs, performed a mental exercise that was his equivalent of prayer, withdrew from the body he inhabited, waited.

•   •   •

Whenhis consciousness returned to the real universe, the simpleminded automatic equipment of the pod had blown it away from the mother craft. For an instant he was falling alongside it. Then the pod's own retros, estimating the rate of descent, finding it too high, far too high, fired. Haledon-prasec was jolted, shocked, thrown about, his battered human vessel battered still more, brought still closer to its limits of endurance.

TheC&D Unit fell away from him, turning, spiraling, plunging toward the turning planet below.

Haledoncaught his breath, checked for broken bones, spit blood and broken teeth from a lacerated mouth. Two ribs were soft and spongy to his touch, and there was a sensation in his viscera that indicated internal damage, though he could not tell how serious. But still he was satisfied. He would not need this body much longer. It would serve him well enough.

TheC&D was invisible below when the missile found it. Againthe universe exploded around him. Again the human body in which he dwelt was subjected to forces it never should have felt. Momentarily he withdrew from the sensations and thought that a mind that could not draw back as his did could not have endured the pain. He stimulated the heart into action when it paused, sent electrical spasms into the muscles that made the lungs breathe in and out. The body of Lacey c'Calvin continued to live.

Whenhis stolen eyes could see again, Haledon was aware of the sinking fireball off to his right rear, though he carefully avoided looking at it, even through the polarized para-glass. The C&D Unit was gone, and he, in that tiny escape pod, would be shielded from the prying eyes of radar by the radiation storm of the fireball.

Hehad passed the final test. By the time radar again picked up the pod, it would be too late. By then he would be too close for them to stop him.

Haledon-prasechad no illusions about how long he would survive on Earth. A matter of minutes, at best. Then they would cut down the body in which he dwelt and his own being with it. But that did not matter. Only a few minutes, that was all he needed, a few minutes to consciously will the bursting of the spore sacs within the body he wore. Scatter the spores into the air. They would investigate, form a committee to study the matter, evacuate the area. But then it wouldbe too late for them. The almost microscopic spores of his children would be fluttering away from the scene of the landing, touching human flesh, burrowing into muscle, seeking the nervous systems of their hosts, germinating and growing—capturing. By the time they decided what to do, it would be too late.

Theescape pod was above a body of water. Haledon searched Lacey c'Calvin's memory concerning the geography of Earth. This must be the Atlantic Ocean. And that body of land over there, to my left, North America. But that up ahead, a white triangle peering around the curve of the planet. It is . . . what? Whiteland? No, that's not it. Some color in its name. Oh, yes, Greenland. How did it ever come by that name?

Thecontrols of the escape pod were next to nothing. Four lateral steering jets. Several rings of solid-fuel retro-rockets. Parachutes. But no gravity controls, very little to cushion the shock of impact. It would be a rough landing.

Mannedcraft were probably in the air now, he thought, scrambling to reach the pod that they must have sighted. No matter. They would have sighted it too late, shielded as it was by the thermonuclear blast that destroyed the C&D. Yes, he was going to land.

Haledonlooked again at the world below him. There was something in the back of his mind about Greenland, but he did not know what it was. Lacey c'Calvin's knowledge of Earth had been hazy except for the spaceports and the nearby bars and brothels. He had had the colonial's inherent dislike and distrust of the mother planet. But, Haledon thought, there was something special about Greenland, but he couldn't recall it as being anything dangerous. No, more like a place that Lacey c'Calvin had wanted to visit if he ever got the chance. Well, Haledon thought sardonically, now he had the chance.

Hehit the steering jets, giving the pod what maneuverability it had, swinging north across the Atlantic, plunging now toward the white island that came across the climbing horizon.

Thedistance was now measured in tens of kilometers, and the figures were rapidly shrinking. Greenland grew below him.

Hefired a ring of solid-fuel retro-rockets, felt the backward thrust of deceleration, waited a few moments, fired another ring.

Oneafter another, the retros slowed his fall. Then there was no more fuel. How high he did not know, he released the first parachute.

Likean angry giant, the first of the unfurling chutes shook him. The thin fibers of white material grabbed for a hold on the air, fought for a moment, then ripped, tore. The pod still fell, a little slower now. One after another, Haledon released the parachutes until one held, fighting the wind, but held. The tiny pod fell free no longer.

Haledon-praseclaughed aloud. It was over now. He had made it. In a matter of minutes, he would be outside, in the open air of Earth, releasing his spores into the wind. For all practical purposes, Earth was a planet of the druul.

Secondsbefore striking the hard-packed snow, Haledon saw a dark speck in the sky above him, an aircraft, probably one of the aerospace interceptors they had sent up to stop him. But it was too late. You have lost, you poor bastards! You have lost.

Thepod met the surface of Earth at just under 50 kilometers per hour.

•   •   •

Theroar of the interceptor's drive was fading away when he was again able to see. It was going on. It hadn't spotted him. The whiteness of the parachute and the pod blended with the snow. The pilot was still searching, perhaps unsure that he had even seen anything fall from the sky.

Oh,they'd find him, he knew, but it would do them no good.

Awkwardlyraising an uncooperative hand, he found his face wet and warm and twisted into an unlikely, grotesque shape. The face had struck something, or something had struck it on impact. So what? the human phrase spoke in his mind. I don't need the face any longer. Let it go.

Whenhe fumbled to release the straps that held him in, he discovered that the arm he was using was twisted, sprained, perhaps broken. It would work, but just barely. He released the strap and tried to stand up. His feet pushed against the deck of the pod. He came up awkwardly, off-balance, feet slipping against the red moisture that flowed across the canted deck. Then one leg slipped out from under him. He fell forward, across the pod's minuscule control panel, to the deck. And, as he did so, he withdrew his remaining connections with the body, drawing back from the pain of which he was becoming more and more aware.

Laceyc'Calvin's body was more abused than he had realized. It was almost dead. There were too many broken bones, too many internal organs ruptured. There was little more he could do to keep it operating. Such a frail, useless body these humans have! Are they even worth the trouble of taking? But he knew that they were, and he knew that he would take them; he would be the father of their masters.

Heawkwardly pulled himself across the canted deck, sensing that the dying lungs were awkwardly gasping for air, the heart struggling fitfully, the remaining eye fogging out, fading.

Abroken hand fumbled with the hatch, released the catch that held it closed, pushed it open. A breath of arctic cold blew into his mutilated face.

Withone arm, Haledon-prasec pulled the stolen body through the hatch, pushing, fumbling, then tumbling out onto the frozen ground.

Theheart of the body of Lacey c'Calvin ceased beating, ceased beating forever, but that was not important.

Haledon-prasecwas on Earth.

•   •   •

Acold arctic wind blew down from the pole, down across the white and barren land of the Greenland Game Preserve. High pressure was moving south, carrying with it tons of frozen water vapor. The worst winter storm of several decades was on its way. By tomorrow the northern half of North America would be covered with snow. But the weather satellites had given ample warning. North America was prepared, as were the wardens and the rangers of the Greenland preserve. They were all huddled around the fires in Sydproven. And only arctic animals roved across the hundreds of thousands of square kilometers of the uninhabited arctic game preserve.

Acaribou, big and white and hungry, slowly made its way down across the drifts of snow, searching for food. Off in the distance, to the northwest, the animal smelled an unusual odor, an odor like that of man, yet somehow different. Topping a rise, the caribou looked down at the huge egg half-covered with snow, at the man who lay face first against the ice, surrounded by the redness that seeped from his body.

Thecaribou sniffed the wind again and did not like the odor it smelled and went on its way, hoping to find moss in another valley.

Laterin the day, an aircraft swooped low over the snow, but its pilot did not see the dead, frozen body. Nor did it matter.

Belles Lettres, 2272

norman Corwin

Currently involved in writing and producing a series of television specials, Norman Corwin is as busy today in films and TV as he was in radio drama three decades ago. He entered radio as producer/director/writer in 1938 and immediately established himself as its finest dramatist. Many of his award-winning shows were later collected between book covers, and his science-fiction novel Dogin the Sky was first presented, over radio, as TheOdyssey of Runyon Jones. Thus, Corwin spans two worlds—and while he may lament the lost era of radio drama, he is nevertheless vitally concerned with the wonders of the future. This concern is delightfully reflected in the following missive, involving a pithy exchange between computers in which poetry becomes a very exacting and totally obscure electronic art.

GreaterSausalito North California 15 Reagan, 2272

067-1516

X-B4School for Boys South Devizes, Wilts. England

Mydear "son":

Iwrite this letter from a bustling shore metropolis in North California, the 55th state of this federation begun some 500 years ago in a fit of colonial petulance over some perfectly reasonable taxes imposed by a hard-pressed Parliament back in the waning centuries of. British monarchy.

Nodoubt you have learned in your Middle-American history class of how the U.S. played "musical chairs"

(colorfularchaism) with its states in the late 22nd Century, cheerfully permitting Alabama to secede and giving oil-depleted Texas back to Mexico in return for what had been Upper Baja (a contradiction in terms—literally, "Upper Lower") California. So now there are three Californias—North, South and Upper Baja.

Concerningthe above date of this letter, one must bear with the peculiarities of the reformed calendar in this strange, proud region of political mavericks. The month that we at home still call August (after the Roman emperor Augustus Caesar) has been locally renamed Reagan in memory of an adored statesman of 20th Century history who got his start in, of all things, South California "B pictures." Have you ever heard of B pictures? Get from the facsimile tank at your school a volume entitled Archeology of Kinema byone 2261-84-009, who, like ourselves, is a test-tube product on both sides.

Now,my dear 067, knowing your keen interest in poetry, I thought you would like to read a poem by the new IBM-177/201, considered the finest computing machine in literature today. I found the poem in a borrowed copy

of^  * , -where (what good luck!) it is followed by

aninstantaneous critique of the poem out of the RCA-Euclid VXp-3, reputed to be the most erudite of the scholarly line of computers built by QEC (Quantum Electronic Corp) since they were established on the North Slope. In reading the critique, I seem to sense a tincture of sour grapes, and I will be interested in knowing if you agree.

Hereis the poem, copied out in my own hand:

»•5

•° oy

hubris p(—) cV

— eingraben           '

priimimerando               cm   ••

U O ^  mais

And here is the analysis of the poem by the VXp-3:

When the poet-machine IBM-177/201 was infused with a new spinkis, amid much ceremony, we had hoped that the latest improvement on the Sr-irradiated Mabitron would produce more ardor and

cruxage in the resultant imagery. But

disappointingly serves notice that the ardor has apparently been lost somewhere in phased circuitry.

Thefirst two lines give promise of great things:

'AT I-F II«

oy

Theseimages are urgent, incandescent and exhorta-tory as any ever modulated by a regenerative feedback. But the banality of:

S

followedby the S {}*) ^eingrabea C!3 isvulgar to a degree, and the coarse alliteration of

^ *7o, ^* V" $i     is the sort of

conceitthat went out with short fursepots back in the 2090s. Admittedly, the phrase

isbeautiful in thought and feeling; yet it must be regretted that the sense of sweeping cosmic continuity is jarred by the play on Fx, which obviously approximates, in sound, a verb/noun of coition much used/abused in the so-called Sexual Revolution of 1970-80.

Ofcourse, (^J (*")^* mais is patently satirical, the mais representingthe archaic French conjunction rather than the Kleptic word for "sausage."

However,      | ^                           almostredeems the

faultsof the poem. The                              especiallyrecalls

theMurumi lyrics of 716-16-1199 theElder, who in turn was influenced by Heine. Altogether, it is an uneven piece, to which one can only say hopefully,

Propter A4 HocAndorum Innewohnend <t> £    est.

Well,that's only one computer's opinion, as far as I am concerned. Incidentally, where did VXp-3 dig up "Heine"? Who, or what, on earth was Heine? This kind of pedantic obscurantism annoys me very much.

Dolet me fcnow your reaction, dear 067, and give my best to 6294-41-261a (and 261b), and remember me to that amiable old fool 7163-32-4801.

Yourloving "father," 067-1515

A Shape in Time

anthony boucher

There is no subtle way to describe the late Anthony Boucher. He was a walking superlative, a man wholly dedicated to the task of squeezing life dry of its juices; Tony accomplished more in a day than most of us accomplish in a year.

Novelist and fictioneer (the author of seven published mysteries and 75 short stories), he was also an editor (of three magazines and some two dozen books), radio scriptwriter (of more than 100 of the Sherlock Holmes network dramas), a linguist and translator (who worked comfortably in French, Spanish, German, Italian, Portuguese—and even Sanskrit!), an opera authority and personality (who conducted his own opera program featuring selections from his vast collection of classic discs), a playwright, poet, essayist, grammarian and teacher, a specialist in Gilbert and Sullivan, a gourmet cook and wine expert, a fact-crime scholar, an avid sports fan (with encyclopedic knowledge of rugby, football, basketball, track and gymnastics), a deadly poker player, an enthusiastic lay reader for his church in Berkeley, a politician (who served two terms on the State Central Committee as a liberal Democrat) and a loving husband and father. The first 87 issues of TheMagazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, which he edited (early on with McComas, then solo), are all classics in the field.

Among his unpublished papers, his wife, Phyllis, discovered this zesty, mischievous, somewhat bawdy short story, which now takes its rightful place in the Boucher canon.

TemporalAgent L-3H is always delectable in any shape; that's why the bureau employs her on marriage-prevention assignments.

Butthis time, as she reported to my desk, she was also dejected. "I'm a failure, Chief," she said. "He ran away— from me. Thefirst man in twenty-five centuries. . . ."

"Don'ttake it so seriously," I said. She was more than just another agent to me; I was the man who'd discovered her talents. "We may be able to figure out what went wrong and approach it on another time line."

"ButI'm no good." Her body went scrawny and sagging. Sometimes I wonder how people expressed their emotions before mutation gave us somatic control.

"Now,there," I said, expanding my flesh to radiate con-

fidence, "just tell me what happened. We know from the dial

readings that the Machine got you to London in 1880----------------- "

"Toprevent the marriage of Edwin Sullivan to Angelina Gilbert," she grimaced. "Time knows why."

Isighed. I was always patient with her. "Because that

marriage joined two sets of genes which, in the course of

three generations, would produce----------- "

Suddenlyshe gave me one of her old grins, with the left

eyebrow up. "I've never understood the time results of an

assignment yet, and don't try to teach me now. Marriage

prevention's fun enough on its own. And I thought it was

going to be extra good this time. Edwin's beard was red and

this long,and I haven't had a beard in five trips. But some-

thing went------- The worst of it is, it went wrong when I was

naked."

Iwas incredulous and said so.

"Idon't think even you really understand this, Chief. Because you are a man"—her half smile complimented me by putting the italics of memory under man—"and men never have understood it. But the fact is that what men want naked, in any century, in any country, is what they're used to seeing clothed, if you follow me. Oh, there are always some women who have to pad themselves out or pull themselves, in, but the really popular ones are built to fit their clothes. Look at what they used to call feelthy peec-tures; anytime, anyplace, the girls that are supposed to be exciting have the same silhouette naked as the fashion demands clothed. Improbable though it seems."

"L!"I gasped. She had suddenly changed so completely that there was hardly more than one clue that I was not looking at a boy.

"See?"she said. "That's the way I had to make myself

when you sent me to the 1920s. And the assignment worked;

this was what men wanted. And then, when you sent me to

1957_____ "

Iducked out of the way as two monstrous mammae shot

out at me. "I hadn't quite realized-------------- " I began to confess.

"Orthe time I had that job in Sixteenth Century Germany."

"Nowyou look pregnant!"

"Theyall did. Maybe they were. Or when I was in Greece, all waist and hips. . . . But all of these worked. Iprevented marriages and improved the genetic time flow. Only with Edwin. ..."

Shewas back in her own delectable shape, and I was able to give her a look of encouraging affection.

"I'llskip the buildup," she said. "I managed to meet Edwin, and I gave him this. ..."I nodded; how well I remembered this andits effects. "He began calling on me and taking me to theaters, and I knew it needed just one more step for him to forget all about that silly pink-and-white Angelina."

"Goon," I urged.

"Hetook the step, all right. He invited me to dinner in a private room at a discreet restaurant—all red plush and mirrors and a screen in front of the couch. And he ordered oysters and truffles and all that superstitious ritual. The beard was even better than I'd hoped: crisp and teasing ticklish and. . . ." She looked at me speculatively, and I regretted that we've bred out facial follicles beyond even somatic control. "When he started to undress me—and how much trouble that was in 1880!—he was delighted with this."

Shehad changed from the waist up, and I had to admit that this waspossibly more accurate than these. Theywere as large as the startling 1957 version, but molded together as almost one solid pectoral mass.

"Thenhe took off my skirts and. . . ." L-3H was as near to tears as I had ever known her. "Then he . . . ran. Right outof the restaurant. I would've had to pay the check if I hadn't telekinned the Machine to bring me back to now. And I'll bet he ran right to that Angelina and made arrangements to start mixing genes and I've ruined everything for you."

Ilooked at her new form below the waist. It was indeed extraordinary and hardly to my taste, but it seemed correct. I checked the pictures again in the Sullivan dossier. Yes, absolutely.

Iconsoled and absolved her. "My dear L, you are—Time help me!—perfectly and exactly a desirable woman of 1880. The failure must be due to some slip on the part of the chronopsychist who researched Edwin. You're still a credit to the bureau, Agent L-3H!—and now let's celebrate. No, don't change back. Leave it that way. I'm curious as to the effects of—what was the word they used for it in 1880?—of a woman's bustle."

Damechild

dennis etchison

We met in a UCLA classroom in 1963.1 was there to deliver a guest lecture on writing. Dennis Etchison, then a 20-year-old student with two short-story sales to his credit, was there to find out what I knew about science fiction. That classroom confrontation produced an Etchison sale to Gamma and, in 1965, an impressive contribution to my sci-fi anthology The Pseudo-People. Now he's back with a stirringly poetic and emotionally powerful sci-fi story for TheFuture Is Now. In the interval between, Dennis has sold two novels, a screenplay based on a Bradbury property and another dozen stories. His work has been anthologized in three editions of New Writingsin SF, and he is represented in PrizeStories from Seventeen.

If you've never read Etchison, now's a fine time to begin— by meeting Damechild and allowing her to transport your mind and imagination into the far reaches of our star-blazed universe.

.. . Galaxy Milky Way, via lactea, galaxias kyklos, Horse-headNebula, Orion, the Pegasus, nursery,cradle A: Damechild, floating in her sac, felt the sound, the tiny insect arcing of current between a set of worn contact points, in her skin, in the bottoms of her feet and in the whorls of her fingers before she heard it through the amnifluid, so that when the programmed thought finger probed that area of her cortex, she was wide awake and quivered to sit up.

Thetingle in her skin subsided with the ebbing of the fluid, the blood pumping back to the skeletal muscles as she spidered her arms, her legs, over the molded edge, worn smooth by countless such risings. She slid out to the once-polished floor.

Shedrew on her threadbare robe, touched it with a trembling finger down the front, blankly watched it seam shut.

Shepadded slowly past the gastronautics chamber, the driver chamber, the view chamber, on her way to the central rec chamber. She paused. She focused with some difficulty on the rec door ahead. No sound—that meant nothing, of course, with the walls baffled. She wondered; she sighed. She noticed that the air from the recirculator drifted out of the vents now heavier and even more fetid than the period before, when its quality had undercut the period before that. A single bead of perspiration streaked down between her small breasts, and by its course she was made aware of the rapid beating of her heart.

Shestumbled her toes over the opendisk and entered the view chamber.

Starsgreeted her in endless profusion. She felt toward the center. There she let the chair take her and adjust and adapt to her and begin to knead her, whirring and clicking.

Sheexhaled as if her breath had been held for centuries, smiling out of a nameless melancholy, slowly and sadly and for no particular reason.

Thought,however, would not come this time, as ever in recent memory, it seemed. So she sat, surrounded by a bubble beyond which wheeled the immutable lights, here chalk powder, there milk swirl, and there, down there—or was it up?—a double sun's blaze, a red dwarfs silent conflagration. Yes, they do wheel, do move, she prodded herself at last; they must, for the tapes say they do.

Andat that, she was stabbed by something genuine and unmistakable which was deeper than melancholy.

—Damechild?

Shestarted.

—Yes,I am here. I am always here. A low-slouched form stepped forward from the shadows into more shadows. —Chris? Is that you?

Shepicked out his face among the black shadows and the gray shadows and the sharply reflected phosphor light between. His thin bones were brighdy outlined, each light hair on his close-cropped head tipped with silver in a near-spectral brilliance. His cheeks traced descending planes void as ever of any defining expression; his nose and mouth were still invisible, and only his eyes shone bright pinpoints, two unmoving stars cold and deep in the face.

—Whereis your sensy, Chris?

Heglided closer to her with surprising agility, and the shadows shifted over him, and she saw all of him now in brightness. His straight, set teeth were moon white.

—Well,where is yours?

—Youknow I don't have to wear mine all the time, she lied quickly, watching her pallid, angular hands fumbling over her robe.

—Younever wear yours at all anymore, do you? Because you are eldest, he cursed.

—Comehere to me, Christopher.

Heraised his arms at the elbows, then let them fall back to his sides.

—Don'tsay my name!

Thereare people who know how to ask for the reasons for another's pain in such a way that their need seems suddenly to be so much the greater that no one can deny them answers any longer; there are people who, instead, will feel all of you with their eyes, deeper into parts of the hurt than words can go, and to the place, once penetrated, from where answers can no longer be withheld. She did both and simultaneously; this was her way.

—Please, shebreathed.

Atthat, he turned away and stopped his ears spastically. He teetered into the shadows again and retrieved the sensory cap from where he had abandoned it, pressed it tightly on his skull and bent his fingers pale on the buttons.

Shesaw this and sighed.

—Come,Christopher. Come with me for now.

Shepadded to the door, knowing nonetheless that he did not, could not, hear her.

Atthe rec door, something prevented her from entering at once, a feeling that what was about to happen was a foregone conclusion somehow, that it had already happened, was still happening and would always happen. It seemed to take all the strength she could muster to finally toe the opendisk.

Awall of silence slid open to her, a hushed, palpable presence turned inward toward many centers. She saw them in bucket corners, hunched against curved walls, swaying in the perpetual illumination. They touched fingertips to one stud, another, another, and not the computer-bank inlet, no; not once had she seen Maya or Djuna or Buck or Chip or any of the others in her care but Chris activate the I-input, or at least not in memory recent enough to challenge the present moment. The sexual stimulator, the sleep stimulator, the visual stimulator, the auditory stimulator, the hunger-satiety stimulator. The electrodes had all but grafted themselves to the skulls of each of them, attached by now with the tenaciousness of mechanical leeches. —Leave us.

Atfirst she was not sure she had heard it.

—Go away. We don't need you. Go into the airlock

and-----

Maya,momentarily between artificial epiphanies, dropped her fat hands from her head and shuffled to the middle of the rec floor. The game boards, unlighted for years, were glazed over and gray on the walls; the 4-D chess and the music-composition facilities were long forgotten; and the closed-circuit vidcorder theater was an anachronism. She moved in a sleepwalk to the center, a few paces from Damechild, and crouched there, vibrating almost imperceptibly to the memory of some recent surrogate ecstasy.

—Maya,I think you have had enough rec for now. Why don't you go to the library to prepare?

—Forwhat?

Idriscame up alongside Maya, lowering her hands from her head.

—Why,for the landing, of course. You have to be ready for the landing when the time comes.

—Whatlanding is that? asked Idris, but lapsed again without waiting for an answer.

Damechildstrained to make contact with their eyes, but found it too unbearably like her own endless ritual explorations of the impenetrable, abandoned steel corridors of the ship.

—Thelanding on the New World. Ours is a sacred

trust-------

Idristurned away, began singing tonelessly to herself.

Damechildlet her conditioned reflexes take over; immediately and without bidding, an explanation was gathering in her. She held to an image of the quarter-mile Pegasus lifting upthe skies of Earth through the circle of the northern lights, while, below, festering honeycombs crumbled and collapsed—a picture implanted by the memory stylus and the microtapes, to be sure, but played and replayed so many times that the experience had grown into her synapses as part of her. In actuality, of course, she had been nothing more than a concept between ovum and sperm, like the others, frozen suspended across the 1600 light-years and summoned automatically into conception at last only in time to grow into adolescence strong and ready for the contact in Orion. Like the others, the dying dream of a putrifying world, its final desperate spawn, Damechild was in one sense the same age as all of them, though she had been called to birth ten years before the others in order that 25,000 years of human history would not be done and finished on Earth without the propagation of one gift: that of human nurture, of the earliest touch of living flesh on flesh.

—Timefor sleep period, she said as gently as possible.

Shecrossed the chamber and started to use her manual key on the lights in order to lead them out more easily to the nursery and the cradles.

Asound: insect buzz.

Shedid not let it penetrate her consciousness, the membrane now stretched so thin. Then, quite suddenly, she knew something and, by the dull pulse quickening in her ears, knew it was a thing she did not want to know.

Asmell of electric current burning oxygen, of copper and nitrogen and sharp, pungent smoke, slicing up her nostrils.

Shespun.

Starla,one of the unnoticed ones, the gray ones, who stared into places and saw nothing anymore, who lived inside the magic circle of the sensy and tried to fade into shadows that should have been there—Starla was up and standing at the console, her back to the rest, shorting out her electronic cap in one of the wall inputs. Apparently she had worked a wire, two wires, loose from the electrodes, had recalled in a strange, lucid second the science lessons, had schemed alone and finally moved to do it here and now.

Andshe did more, a jerk and a decisive touching not seen, and everyone froze, stopped in their underwater movements as the old fabric of her tunic ignited and caught flame.

Ithappened too fast.

Damechildsaw a spark of yellow white strike and shoot the length of Starla's body. Panic? Hysteria? Movement?

Damechildmoving toward her, blinking once, unable to breathe, yet detached, watching this. She blinked again, was there.

Shefell on her, rolling on her, a sudden flare of heat fanning her throat for an unbearable instant. Then it was over.

Agitation?Chaos? Screaming?

Starla'sraw head lolled blindly up at Damechild. The face now less than a face screamed alone, the only sound in the chamber, resounding, and it was a terrible, awesome, shattering scream, and it said, / am even now, andit said, / feel, andit was a sound close to a madness groping in the midst of a long night, and it said, Now I know, andit said, and much later Damechild would hear it again and again and would be unable to stop hearing it and would know that it had said, / am alive.

Unaided,Damechild covered her with local cloth and dragged her to the automedic and ran into the corridors, a hand clutched to her fevered face, past Chris, who stood in the doorway mutely watching, his head bare and the mechanism dangling forgotten from his hand, while behind her, Maya and Djuna and Buck and Chip and the rest slowly and almost imperceptibly resumed their timeless stance, their disinterested hands autonomically brushing ever more de-mandingly the controls crowning their tortured, mindless heads.

Shesealed Library & Communications and fell onto stiff arms over the communicator keyboard, lungs wrenching for air, body rocked by convulsive sobs. Time passed that was the same as no time for her, and when she finally turned her eyes down, she saw her fingers trembling across the keys.

Sheturned a key down.

Thefirst print-out covered the history of communications recorded on Earth from the beginning, late in the 20th Century. Faint and incredibly protracted but unmistakable in Manchester, in Cambridge, in Australia, at Ozma. From Mills Cross had come the first decisive confirmation. They were not pulsars or anything else previously known. They came from the Horsehead. More important, they were voices from mankind's oldest, now most urgent dream.

Herfingers strained at her weight, depressing the next key.

Print-outsfrom a hundred signals, signals which were messages, arriving as Earth strangled.

Hersupporting fingers concaved, sprang back. She tossed her head, trying to clear her senses.

Anotherkey.

Aprint-out of impulses received by the Pegasus through roughly5000 years, up to the time of the first incubation. It had taken that long to traverse nearly 1600 light-years to the source, the single and unique source, the spark living, shining unbelievably in the otherwise hopeless void.

Hereyes watered and her lids separated farther; she saw her fingers on another key, and the record was reduced instantaneously to a series of simple binary print-outs, a sheet swarming with l's and 0's followed by the alphabetical translations which her trained eyes did not need, had not needed for years.

AtBirth + 4.7years, the interval check signals from the planet OM-6371 had ceased.

The Pegasus hadbroadcast a probe, an ID and a query.

AtBirth + 7 years, the probe had been answered.

Shehad seen it, put it away decades ago along with years of nightmares through seemingly endless sleep periods and through waking periods. But now here it was again, resurrected and feeding through her fingers. One final message from what was to have been the promised land.

Shehad not told the children of it then, had not told them at any time through the long years since, and she would not tell them now. She would never tell them, for it was indeed the last; she understood that too well. For even if life were to shudder forth again one dim day on the cracked lands of Earth, from whence might come another such contact? And what machine come to be built on what inconceivable physics could ever cross such a sea as would have to be crossed? No, she had not told them that this was their world and their only world, and she would not—she clung to that. The message had described a condition that taxed the translating capabilities of the computer, something having to do with an ecology gone atavistic and unlivable forevermore and at the same time with a conflict between intelligent species, though to describe it in these words both distorts and diminishes the complexity of it. And she had held it wrapped and hidden inside her in a place by itself which was now long beyond pain. So the drive chamber would continue its superbly efficient conversion of hydrogen into helium and the Pegasus wouldcontinue on its way past that doomed, canceled rendezvous point and on ahead, uselessly, toward the next nearest possibility of a life-support world, which might be in Andromeda Galaxy, because such a course was the least unreasonable of any. The hull of the starship might tip such shores one day, perhaps, or at least a fragment that would not have fallen by then into some alien sun. Ahead lay 175,000 impossible light-years; and behind, Earth, now long since picked clean like a skull somewhere in a vast desert.

Andat the end of the simplified binary print-out was the last message, repeated over and over. Part of it looked like this:

100000001110A 1000000011100011100110 01 A 001111011000011011 A 100010011000 011110 A 100000001110 A 10000000111000 1110011001 A 001111011000011011 A 100010011000011110 A 100000001110 A 100000001110001110011001 A 0011110110000110

Sheallowed her eyes to close mercifully, but she read it still through lowered lids. It said:

WEWEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP FOR YOU WE WEEP

Shesat in the view chamber feeling empty and at the disposal of the night.

Thedoor slid open and she saw Chris's outline coming to her.

Theyfaced each other, two who knew each other best of all in the universe.

Shesaw his stooped body shaking. —What is it? —Nothing. She asked again.

—I—Ithought I heard something moving in the air lock. But no one's there.

—Shh.It was nothing.

Hecame closer, his bones unsteady.

—They'reall still in there. I thought rec was supposed to be over.

—Don'tworry, she said. I'm going to give them a while longer.

Theship had altered its position so that now the bubble was turned full into the ghostly glare of the Horsehead Nebula. The clouds and stars were beautiful beyond description and almost beyond belief.

—Youdon't know my name.

—Christopher.

—No,that's not my name. You can never say my name.

—Yes, the fathers wanted it to be so.

—I am—I am Bellerophon.

—No--------

—Iwill cut off the head of madness and cast it in the sea

ofstars. Cut, slash, cut, slice, cut, cut! I will---------------------

—Shh,now. Shh, shh. She rocked him. —Christopher. Chris. She touched his forehead.

—Amark against evil. You are my Chris. You are my Chris. You are my Chris Cross.

Shelaughed at herself for saying that.

Andthen Damechild began to sing, the sound of her voice like a glass bell in water. She soothed his forehead for what seemed like a very long time, trying to ease out the marks left in his skin. She saw the tired lines, the sagging throat, the skin stretched paper-thin over his old, brittle skeleton, his hair, like her own, long ago blanched completely white. Tears rilled the worn, wrinkled leather of his face for a time and then dried. Still her gnarled hand smoothed his dry hairline, his weary head. And she was reminded just then that she would not go mad, would never step into the air lock and key open the release. There was so much pain aboard and someone had to be here to bear as much of it as possible for the others. She had all of them to go on living for, as much longer as it would last.

Eventuallyhis fingers crept up slowly, as if moving underwater, and tried without enthusiasm to toy with the sensory buttons or at least the scarred imprints left by them.

Viewchamber, the Pegasus, Orion,Horsehead Nebula, galaxias kyklos, via láctea, GalaxyMilky Way. . . .

Timezero.

Toe to Tip, Tip to Toe, Pip-Pop As You Go

William f. nolan

Nolan the writer to Nolan the editor: "You dig me, right?"

"I'll have to admit you're one of my favorites." "And you need new stories for your anthology, right?" "I'm open for quality submissions."

"OK, then ...ƒ got this idea for a takeoff on the old sex-and-alienation theme, only done wild. Kind of a 'nutso' approach."

"Uh-huh."

"It's all about a guy named Joerdon who works for an egg-shaped boss. His boss is shaped exactly like an egg. He may even be an egg. That's not important, whether he's an egg or not."

"Go on."

"This guy Joerdon loves a girl named Ellena Nubbins who

suddenly disappears, and he tries to find out what happened

to her, but no one tells him anything; so the guy---------------- "

"Don't give me the whole damn plot! You're a writer. Go write it."

So he did.

I did.

We did.

And here it is.

Nothingwas happening.

Itwas no good, simply no damn good.

HendyJoerdon grumpily untangled himself from the erot-icizer's silken grasp and palmed the lustkill switch.

"Well,we all have our off nights," sighed the inflatagirl as she brightly folded herself back into the unit. "Even Gable did."

Joerdondidn't know who the hell Gable was and said so. "Gable, Clark. Public lust symbol. Twentieth Century," 85

suppliedthe eroticizer. The girl was completely folded away by now and couldn't supply anything. "How about a nice oily back rub instead?" The fat red machine eased closer to Joerdon's bed, visor plates gleaming. "Release all those taut muscles. Loosey goosey!"

"Keepyour damn rubberoids off me," Joerdon told it. He suspected the machine of deviant behavior and was in no mood to wrestle with it tonight. "I need sleep."

"You'reout of shape, in my opinion," the unit told him. "Way out, I'd say."

"Brassoff," said Joerdon.

Theunit retired noiselessly as Hendy's bed rocked and soothed and babied him. "Yum, yum, yum," said the bed. "Sleepums good."

Thenext morning, at Deepfizz, Joerdon's desk told him he looked frettled.

"That'sgollywop!" Joerdon snapped. He. jogged a quick circle around the office. "Just check those leg reflexes!"

"Bosswants you," said a voice behind him. It was McWhirter, the officious ferret-faced pill brother in charge of moon popping.

"I'mhaving water," Hendy growled, moving to the cooler.

"My,aren't we tense and testy," grinned McWhirter. He peered closely at Joerdon. "Have a sour night?"

Joerdonshrugged.

"It'sthe eyes," said McWhirter. "They always give you away. The eyes go puffy. Fatty tissue buildup. Sad . . . really sad."

Andhe moused away.

"Ihate that ferret-faced son of a bitch," Joerdon said to the water cooler.

•   •   •

"Openwide," directed the boss.

Hendyopened his mouth, lolled his tongue, feeling puppylike and vulnerable.

"Yes.Grayish. Not pinkish." The boss clucked. "And it's got a wrinkle in the middle."

"Whatdoes that mean?"

"Constriction.System's all bunched up and constricted." The boss rolled to and fro across the desk. He was entirely egg-shaped and featureless, which made it hard to tell what his mood was. After an unhappy experience at Surestop, Joerdon had vowed never again to work for an egg-shaped boss. But progress had caught up with him. The old affable cube-shaped boss who'd hired him at Deepfizz had been replaced and there was nothing Joerdon could do about that. Or about a lot of other things.

"You'refrettled, Joerdon. Sit down and tell me what's frettling you."

Joerdonsat down in a snugglechair.He sighed, shaking his head. "Just a passing mood, sir."

Executinga neat figure-eight pattern, the boss looped over to a saucer-shaped depression in his desk and egged into it. "You're a popper five now, with a lot of responsibility. I don't need to tell you that Deepfizz wants its poppers un-frettled."

"Yes,sir." The snugglechair pressed Hendy's left buttock reassuringly.

"Wedidn't pull ahead of Dizzdrop point one forty-six to point one forty-five in national ratings last month by accident, Joerdon. Dizzdroppers are now becoming Deepfizzers at the rate of one every fiftieth centisecond—and we're proud ofthat statistic. Aren't you proud of that statistic, Joerdon?"

"Icertainly am, sir," said Hendy. The snugglechair squeezed his other buttock. It didn't help. Actually, Joerdon found it irritating.

Theboss rolled leisurely back over the desk, stopped at the edge, tilted toward Joerdon. His tone became conspiratorial. "Son . . . have you popped? We'll find out soon enough, you know. Can't be hidden. If you have popped,just admit it."

"Oh,no, sir! I'd never-------------- "

"Good!Delighted to hear it," said the boss. "One cannot continue to help guide society when one loses one's self-guidance.A popping popper is a public disgrace!"

"Yo,yo!" Hendy said with alacrity, using the official form of affirmation.

"Maybeyou ought to have a medcheck, just to be sure everything's acey," suggested the boss. Hendy agreed.

"VisitDoc Sidge at the end of your work sesh. Get a run-through.Then come see me in the morn. We'll fab more then." The egg-shaped boss rolled over to his basket slot and dropped abruptly out of sight.

•    •   •

Workingwith his pill brothers in the huge, pink Deepfizz adlab, Joerdon told himself that he was basically acey—that he had a right toa bout of moodiness after losing Ellena. They had been set for a procreation sesh when she suddenly vanished. Here one day, working next to him, radiant and fresh. Gone the next. Zap! When Joerdon asked what had become of her, the ferret-faced McWhirter had smirked. "Maybe she popped!"

"Noton your bizzle!" Hendy had snapped back. "Not Ellena!"

Buthe'd given it a lot of thought. Had shepopped? That would explain her disappearance. Popped poppers were banished, sent outside. A nasty end to public service.

Joerdonknew he hadn't been pulling his weight at Deep-fizz over the past week since Ellena vanished. Most of his Mars-pop copy had ended in deadwaste. Flushed with sudden guilt, Joerdon stared morosely at the huge wallglow trimural of Hately Hately. Spade-bearded and rock-nosed, Hately of Deepfizz—the true giant of the 21st Century. And beneath, carved in letters of bronze, his fabled words, "A STONEDNATION IS A HAPPY NATION."The big habit had solved all problems. War was eliminated, and sex, as removed from lust—which was properly supplied by the eroticizer— was now a strict religious rite, reserved, at specified intervals, for vital procreation among Deepfizz-Dizzdrop personnel. Which was, Joerdon knew, as it should be.

Heattempted to concentrate on his work, but found himself thinking dismally of Ellena for the remainder of his data-pop period.

•   •   •

"Ouch,"said Joerdon as he was thumped and pumped, tapped and grasped and twisted and analyzed by the med-check run-through unit. "Ouch," he said several more times.

"Nothing,"said the unit, hopping back in a birdlike motion. "Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. You have nothing wrong with you."

"Yousound disappointed."

"Andwhy not? My job is to find things wrong with people so I can send them to Doc Sidge."

"Whereis he? I think I should talk to him."

"Sidgeonly sees sickos," the unit told him. "You are not a sicko.All you have is a temporary psychological imbalance caused by mild emotional multistress. And that, sadly enough from my viewpoint, will pass. Good tubing."

"Goodtubing," Joerdon said to the unit.

Heleft carrying a medstamped diskslip which certified that he was in ideal physical condition.

Naturally,there was no trace of Deepflzz in his blood.

Theboss would be pleased.

"Psssst!"

"Whatdid you say?" "I said, 'Psssst!' "

"Nobodyever says, 'Psssst!' anymore," Joerdon explained to the crouching tube rider next to him.

"I'mattempting to be secretive. I'm sure some people still say, 'Psssst!' when they are attempting to be secretive."

"Iwon't argue the point," said Joerdon.

Thetube rider was small and dark and furry. He smelled odd. "I've been outside," he whispered.

Joerdonstared at him. He'd never seen an outsider inside. "But that's not legal. None of us go outside unless we pop. Then we're sent outside.There are no outside insiders, nor inside outsiders."

Thefurry little tube rider snorted. "That's just the poddle-cock they feed you industry people. I know things you don't."

Joerdonglanced nervously around the humming tuber. No other riders this early. And luckily, on this model, the seats couldn't talk. "Why tell me this?"

"Alady wants you."

"Whatlady?"

"LadyEllena Nubbins, who else?"

Joerdongripped the man's furry front. "What do you know of Miss Nubbins? Where is she?"

"Outside,"the unflustered tuber replied, "and she wants you with her."

Joerdonshuddered. He knew what it was like out there. Unstable. Odd-smelling. Full of goofy pill poppers. He'd seen them on the scope, mooning in the streets, popping their hours away. And now Ellena—sober, dedicated, hardworking Ellena Nubbins—was one of them. His worst suspicions had been verified. It was obviously no use going out to her. Once a popped popper, always a popped popper. Addiction was immediate.

"Tellher that I stillregard her with considerable affection, that her leaving has severely upset my work, but that I shall never joinher."

"Isthat final?"

"Indeedit is," nodded Joerdon. "Then, let's try a blitz on the bizzle." Joerdon was astonished when the furry man tried exactly that.

Joerdonwoke up inside a zebra-striped anachronism.

"Wok!"he said, clearing his throat. His head swam, settled; he blinked rapidly. "Wok!" he said again, unsteadily.

"You'llbe acey soon," said a furry voice. The little tube man was cradling Joerdon's head in his odd-smelling lap. Hendy pushed himself into a sitting position.

Helooked out a window. They were moving over the streets of New York. That's when he found out he was riding inside an anachronism: a 1971 Cadillac, zebra-striped.

"Ourmovement supervisor is responsible," said the ex-tube rider. "He restored this old Caddie right down to her last lug nut. Even the exhaust fumes are properly poisonous. It's the work of a craftsman."

"Ididn't know they allowed automobiles in New York," said Joerdon. "Aren't these things against the law?" He squinted at the driver in the forward seat, but the man was hatted and swaddled and Hendy couldn't make out any physical details.

"Puddlecod!"said his furry friend. "With the lawboys stoned, nobody's left to tell anybody anything. Cities are falling apart. Last week the Empire State Building fell down flat and nobody said foof about it."

"Ididn't scan that on the scope."

"There'slots you don't scan on the scope. You insiders are bizzle-cleshed. You see only what the industry wants you to see."

Joerdonasked, "Where are we going?" "To clan HQ," said the furry one. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Aclassic .45-caliber slug smashed through the Cadillac's rear window, barely missing Joerdon's bizzle.

"Ooops!"said the muffled driver. He stopped the car, quickly leaped out and sprayed a noisily advancing crowd with concentrated laser-beam fire. Then he hopped back in and resumed driving.

"Whowere they?" Joerdonwanted to know.

"Zealots.Bishops, cardinals, ex-nuns, and the like. Bothersome. They fire classic slugs from restored museum pistols at you. We have to show them who's boss. They can get pesky. Nothing unusual, though. All part of the general civic breakdown."

Thecar swerved to avoid a sleeping Deepfizzer in the center of Fifth Avenue. Others, along the walks, chanted at the Cad, "Toe to tip, tip to toe, pip-pop as you go!"

Thefurry man ignored them. "We headquarter at Tiffany's," he said. "Lends a little class to the operation."

Theyparked directly in front of the famous jewelry store. The driver heh-heh'd under his swaddle. "I alwaysget a kick out of parking in the red zone." He led them inside.

Joerdonstill couldn't make out the man's face, but the tips of his ears looked vaguely familiar.

"Where'sEllena?"

"Here,Hendy!"

Sheran toward him across a marbled floor, arms extended, aglitter in diamonds and emeralds and pearls and sapphires.

Theyrubbed groins happily, and Joerdon felt the old procreation urge welling up. Suddenly he pushed her back.

"Youwant me to pop, but I won't. Not even for you. I won't.Won't. Won't. Won't. Will not."

Shegiggled, dislodging a diamond tiara from her hair. It clattered unnoticed to the veined marble.

"Meetthe chief." The furry man and the still-swaddled driver gripped Hendy's elbows and quick-marched him into a large, deep-carpeted office at the rear of the building. A paneled side door slid open and the chief stepped into view.

Joerdongasped. "McWhirterl" "No other," said McWhirter. "You're an outsider!"

McWhirtersmirked. "Have been for the past couple of years."

"What... where . . . why ... how?"

"Goodquestions—but first"—he gestured expansively— "let me introduce the principal members of the movement. My furry, odd-smelling assistant is Fedor Bandlecliff Bump-ums, a biochemist of marked brilliance. And doubtless you already know the swaddled gentleman who drove you here."

Theswaddled driver unswaddled.

Joerdongasped. "Doc Sidge!"

"Noother," said Sidge.

"I thought Irecognized your distinctive ear tips."

McWhirterput one arm around Ellena. "And Miss Nubbins is a pivotal member. She joined our movement quite recently, as you know."

"Andyou've kidnapped me to become part of your illegal, subversive, clandestine group, is that it?"

"Moreor less," replied McWhirter. "Eventually we would have kidnapped you anyway, but we kidnapped you now becausedear Ellena wanted you outside, with her. I thought Fedor B. Bumpums told you that inside the tuber."

"Isimply won't pop. Not for all the drickle in New York. Do with me what you will, but I shall not betray my heritage."

"But,"said Ellena, "nobody wants you to. None of us pop. We're artn'poppers."

"Idon't--------- "

"Youdon't understand," said Doc Sidge.

McWhirtersighed. 'Tell him, Ellena, while I go put on some rubies. I love wearing rubies in the afternoon." He loped away over the thick carpet.

Ellenasmiled patiently. "We are building a drug-free movement to overthrow the Deepfizz-Dizzdrop industry."

"Greathobble!"

"Naturally,you're surprised." She removed her outer garments as she talked. Then her inner garments. Then her inner-inner outer garments and, finally, her outer-inners.

Ellenawas stark-naked and looked particularly appealing.

"You're. . . particularly appealing, you know," Joerdon could not help saying.

"That'sthe whole smidge," she said, swaying toward him. Doc and the furry biochemist slyly skittered from the room.

"Is—isthis an unofficial procreation sesh?" asked Hendy.

"Notexactly, but it may end up that way. The purpose is just to jizz."

"Ibegin to see your point," said Hendy, shucking his outer garments.

"Whatwe do is stay straight and help other people kick the big habit," she husked in a smokytone. "Also, we kidnap bizzle-cleshed industry insiders and turn them into straight wn-bizzle-cleshed outsiders. Pretty soon, when enough insiders become outsiders—all jizzing each other for the good of mankind—then people slowly rediscover the joys of the movement and the industry breaks down and we have a trulyfree society. Isn't that wonderfully simple?"

"It'ssimply wonderful," declared Hendy, squeezing a deftlyweighted breast. "It's also a hell of a lot of fun."

And,without further urging, Hendy Joerdon enthusiastically joined the movement.

A War of Passion

torn purdom

First anthologized in Fred Pohl's StarScience Fiction series, Tom Purdom's thoughtful, politically oriented contributions have achieved a solid degree of critical success: Cited three times by Judith Merril on her sci-fi honor roll, his work has also been chosen for World'sBest Science Fiction. Two Purdom sci-fi novels are in print, and he's averaged publication of one new short story a year within the sci-fi field since 1957. Among his primary interests, Purdom lists "urban planning, arms control, wines, politics and the city of Philadelphia."

Despite the heavy emphasis on sexual freedom in today's literature, the subject of physical lovemaking has seldom been explored within a science-fictional context. As man, with the aid of science, learns to extend his life-span indefinitely, love-making may well become a critical problem. Tom Purdom examines this problem with both frankness and dramatic conviction.

Can a virile 1200-year-old man sexually satisfy a beautiful 268-year-old woman? Read this story and find outl

Vostokwas worried about the assignment involving Larina Makaze. He had known it was going to be difficult and he had been fully aware it might be impossible. He had been able, thus far, to spend a total of eight hours talking with the girl in the week she had been living with him; if he had attempted more than an hour with her at any one time, she probably would have attacked him.

Ithad been ten standard months since Vostok had last possessed a woman—a dangerously long period between sexual encounters, but this was not of his choosing. His brain capacity had been enlarged for the seventh time in his life, and the necessary increase in his body size had made him aesthetically unacceptable to most women. In spite of all the

improvementsthat had been made in nerve cells in the last few centuries, his head was nearly twice as large as it had been originally and he was more than 250 centimeters tall. Larina had been his only hope. If Vostok had rejected her and turned down this assignment, Daniel Fuchida and the rest of the normals would have decided he was ready to discard his sex glands and join Hamanaka and the elders. He had retained their confidence over these last months only because they needed him. A 1200-year-old man who kept his sex glands and used themwas a valuable ally; a 1200-year-old man who kept his sex glands and didn't usethem was, in their eyes, a spy and a traitor.

Larinawas lying naked on a couch in the big roof garden outside her bedroom when Vostok approached. She watched him come down the path with the same friendly, cheerful smile she had greeted him with every time he had visited her. She was 268 years old and she had the complete physical self-control most humans acquired long before they finished their second century. Only a man as experienced as Vostok could have spotted the tension in her body.

LarinaMakaze had been a major weapon in Victor Hamanaka's undeclared war against the normals. To men in their middle hundreds, she had been an irresistible temptation—an oval-faced, golden-bodied invitation to rejuvenate their fading interest in sex by trying the commonest of the perversions. For 37 standard years, men had whipped, chained, caged and humiliated her. And when Daniel Fuchida had finally realized Hamanaka was using her to spy on normals in key power positions, to lure them into traps, he had the best of his interrogators in Security put her under drugs—and made her tell them about every perverted moment.

"Larina'slast so-called lover used to give her laser shocks when they were having intercourse," Daniel Fuchida had told Vostok. "He wanted to condition her so she'd suffer all the way through the sex act. Our best psychotherapists have been working on her, but you can't destroy the effect of memories like that just by putting her in a pleasant environment and being kind to her. There's only one way we can really decondition Larina—somebody's got to keep working on her until she can think about sex again without screaming. Either that or we'll just have to go in and start burning out memory cells."

Vostokdropped his cloak on the ground so he would be naked, too—and a robot cart rolled down the path and picked up the garment. Nothing in his face or manner could have told her the open sky above his head frightened Vostok more than he frightenedher. He'd built good defenses around his mansion, but he knew he couldn't filter out the kind of spy devices Fuchida could field against him. He had been vidscreened ever since he'd left his office; Fuchida's people were monitoring his every move. They might be his allies now, for the moment, but if he failed this assignment, if he seemed to hesitate too long or to be incapable of altering her condition—Fuchida would order his death. He could not fail.And he could not wait . . . not any longer.

Larinawas still smiling as he sat down on the couch next to her. He began to talk, softly, soothingly—and she listened politely, sipping her drink, while he talked about some of the odd things he had seen during the centuries he had been wandering the worlds. She didn't reveal the real emotions behind her mask until he told her he had been haunted by her face all morning and had decided he wished to enjoy her now after all these days of talk. She must relax, he told her. She must trust him; he would give her rare pleasure—and he would not hurther. There would be no pain. . . .

Vostokeased himself from the couch to kneel beside her, but she cringed back, away from him, and looked up with wide, suddenly terrified eyes.

Evenon his knees he towered over her.

Hegrabbed her shoulders and quickly threw himself across her. Her hands pushed against the massive chest pressing down on her and he overpowered her and buried his face in the hollow of her neck.

Nailsraked his sides. Knees beat against bis thighs. A wild animal screamed I-hate-yous in his ear.

Heraised his head. He took his hands off her shoulders and she threw herself from the couch and ran across the garden toward her bedroom. A glass door slid open in front of her and she ran inside.

Loudspeakersswitched on inside Larina's apartment. Vos-tok's calm, conversational voice followed her everywhere she turned.

"I'msorry I tried something so clumsy," he said. "I should have told you what the problem is. I think you'll want to help me when you understand. You may not be able to, but I think you'll want to. Daniel Fuchida and a few hundred other normals are so angry at Hamanaka because of what he did to you, they're about to do exactly what Hamanaka wants themto do. They plan to launch an open attack on Hamanaka right away. I've told them they can't win, but they won't listen to me. They're too inexperienced to follow my logic—and they won't trust me because it's been ten standard months since I've enjoyed a woman. Some of them are ready to move in on me right now. This is the last chance I'll have. If I don't show them I'm still sexually active, that I am still on their side, they'll put me out of the way—then go to war with the only competent tactical brain they've got out of action."

Hegave an order. A cart rolled forward with a brain-machine link resting on the upper deck, thin wires trailing behind it. Vostok put the link on his head.

"Plugin," he told the girl. "I can't simulate the entire eco-political-military situation on the planet for you, but I think I can show you enough of it to convince you that I'm right."

Athree-dimensional map of the inhabited worlds of the galaxy floated into his mental mind screen and stared at him as bleakly as a skull. For 400 standard years, he had watched people order bodies without sex glands as they entered their late hundreds—watched them put away the roots of their personality as if they were putting away a toy. And everywhere open war had broken out, the elders had always won. The two groups could coexist indefinitely, but when it came to open war, with all the sexless elders lined up against all the sexual normals, the normals would be destroyed. Elders had the wealth, position and ruthlessness of people who had reduced their personalities to the presexual passions of survival and power. Vostok had been studying social dynamics since he had first become interested in politics 900 years ago on the second planet of 82 Eridani, and by now he was one of the leading experts in the field; no one on Shuguro could equal the precision and subtlety of his numerical estimates of emotional states or his grasp of the thousands of relevant factors he had to keep in mind simultaneously as he worked on a problem.

Heput the link on the cart. "I'll make it as easy for you as I can," he said. "You don't have to do a thing—just let me work on you. There's only one way we're ever going to free you—we've got to make your associations with pleasure stronger than your associations with pain."

Sheslid open the bedroom door, stood facing him. "What kind of pleasure can you give someone who finds you totally repulsive?" she asked bitterly. "You're huge and ugly just like they are—andto me you're just as perverted as they are, too. Every time I look at you, I see time eating away at you. You're barely human, Vostok!"

'Thinkwhat you will," he said, "but this is a simple doctor-patient relationship. I need you because I must prove I am still sexually potent—and you need me because I'm probably the only personon Shuguro who can make you a normal woman again. And we both want to live."

"Ihate you. / hate you. Don'tyou care? Are you just as unfeeling as they are?"

"Whatdifference does it make? Think about yourself. Think about the effects this will have on Hamanaka. This is the only way you'll ever hurt him. Run away now and someday he'll be ruling all of us the way he ruled you."

Helistened with a blank face while she called him the worst names in the vocabulary of their time. Hysterical sobs ended the tirade.

Ithad been 400 standard years since he had done anything this dangerous. He had survived 1200 standard years of violence and intrigue because he had never forgotten the basic doctrine of the Age of the Indefinite Life-Span: Always retreat to a safe place when the computers tell you the odds you will survive are less than 20 to 1 in your favor. You always got a second chance when you were going to live forever. There were enough tomorrows for all the rematches anyone could want.

Resigned,drained of hate, she walked calmly toward him, stopped in front of the couch and looked down on him. His eyes moved up the curve of her thighs and her hips to her face, and she held out her hand. "All right, then . . . take me. Show me what an expert you are. Give me my medicine."

Hepulled her to the couch and knelt beside her. He spoke into the microphones and a dark plastic dome slid across the garden. The smells of a summer night on Earth surrounded the couch. Night birds sang. An ancient thrill touched the pit of his stomach.

Aserving cart whispered up behind them with its upper deck crowded with glasses. They drank a preparatory drug with their arms intertwined, and he bent over her face and kissed her eyes.

Amask settled over her face as he manipulated her body with the skill of a craftsman who has been practicing his trade for 12 standard centuries. She kept her eyes closed, but her legs began squirming restlessly and she now moaned every time he touched her thighs.

Itwas a physical reaction, not an emotional one, but a physical reaction at this stage was all he needed. No woman he had entered in the last half millennium hadbeen disappointed with him. Women in their late hundreds had told him he made sexual pleasure as exciting as running a government or trying out a new art form.

Hetook a second pair of drinks off the cart—two heavy glasses containing the strongest aphrodisiac men had developed in a thousand years of experimentation with sex drugs. He held Larina's drink to her lips while he drank his, and then he put the glasses on the cart and climbed back on the couch.

Hemoved inside her at once. Her muscles pinched him once gently and he moved again and waited.

Wavesof sensation broke on the pleasure centers of his brain. Their bodies writhed under the onslaught of sensations that would have killed them if these sensations had been experienced with the hearts, nerves and sex organs they had been bom with. Sight and sound disappeared in a white haze. Thought and time vanished. Eyes closed, face twisted, Vostok moved inside her with every cell of his body burning. Each wave of pleasure stimulated a stronger desire that drove him forward and made him reach for the next wave as if he were reaching for oxygen.

Consciousnessbroke through the haze. The expanded intelligence that had given him the body of a mythical god took control once again, as it always did sooner or later. He looked down on himself from the top of the dome and the old disgust rose through the sensations racking his body. He pushed forward and their bodies writhed again, but it was too late.

Hefelt like a machine. He could have given himself the same sensations with a wire stuck in the pleasure centers of his brain. He had a certain set of buttons on his body, and now the buttons were being pushed and he was jerking back and forth like a robot actor and calling it pleasure.

Quicklynow, he needed a change of pace—or there was the danger he'd pull back entirely. And he couldn't allow thatto happen! Quickly!

Hepicked a third drug off the cart and drank it down.

Theymoved together slowly, in a new rhythm. His muscles relaxed. His skin felt cool and pleasant; the calming darkness surrounded him.

Thedrug he'd chosen for this stage had two necessary effects: It made every sight, sound, smell, touch and taste more intense—and it varied the sensation in each stroke.

Vostokraised himself to look down at Larina's face. He could still read tension in her body. She was still anticipating the pain that, for her, had always accompanied pleasure.

"You'refighting the same battle I'm fighting," he told her. "You want to be a whole human being." He moved inside her gently, caressing her slowly with his fingers.

Larinaopened her eyes, probed him, studied him. He moved again and she gasped. Pleasure broke across her face.

Hechuckled and moved again. Warm and cool, soft and hard, moist and dry, bright and dark played over his body in complicated rhythms. He could keep this up indefinitely if he wished. When the final spasm ended the act, it would be because he had decided the moment was right, not because an animal reflex had been triggered off by physical stimulus. He wouldchoose the moment, not his body.

Centuriesof memories mingled with the sensations flowing through his senses. The first time he had enjoyed a girl had been in a garden, too—1199 standard years ago on Earth, in the country they had still called Poland. It had been summer, and he and the girl had been chosen for each other by the instructor in their sex class and prepared for weeks beforehand. There had been no need for drugs. The sensations were tamer but the emotions were stronger. Her breasts had been less full than Larina's, but when they had rolled up to meet his lips, he had felt as if life itself were being offered to him.

Hehadn't known he was going to live forever then. A few hundred years had been the most he had dared hope for. It had been another standard century before the first successful brain transfer was completed and men had realized that death was no longer a necessary evil. If anyone had predicted that a 900-year-old man would eliminate the sex drive from his personality merely because normal sex was too simple and repetitious to be truly enjoyable, Vostok would have admitted it was a possibility, but he wouldn't have believed he was going to see it happen.

Asthe brain and the personality became more complex, pleasure also had to become more complex. Eventually it became a compulsion that was more nuisance than joy. For half a millennium now, men had been trying to keep their interest in sex alive by making it more complex and varied. The sensations Vostok was experiencing now were nothing like the sensations he had first experienced a thousand standard years ago.

Complexpictures of the political-economic-military situation flowed across his mind. There was no way the normals could win the war once it started. Right now there was an uneasy balance of power, an undeclared war that could go on indefinitely. Once the normals started an open war, however, most of the elders would decide to support Hamanaka. There was only one way he could save the situation if he didn't stop the initial attack on Hamanaka's estate: set up a third force.

Diagrams,symbols and equations moved around his brain like pieces on a game board. He had thought about setting up a third force when he had talked to Hamanaka, but there hadn't been time to examine the idea in detail. Bribe one, threaten another, lure a third into a trap and surround him with robot weapons. . . . How many people would it take? What kind of resources did he need? Suppose he began by playing on Sanna Sundeen's notorious weakness for water pleasures. . . .

Hecouldn't work it out without a computer, but he could make preliminary estimates. He could outline the program; he could select some of the lines he should follow when he plugged in.

Larinaabruptly pulled away from him. His hands tightened reflexively on her shoulders and she hunched forward under him and kneed him in the groin. Pain knifed into his brain before he could cut it off, and she rolled out from under him and stood up in front of the couch with her eyes blazing.

"You'redeader than Hamanaka," she screamed. "I'd rather be whipped. At least they paid attention to me while they were doing it. He turns it off and you've got it and don't care about it. What difference does it make?"

Vostokcrouched on all fours on the couch. He was a fool if he didn't get under cover. If he didn't get a brain-machine link on his head right away and take command of his defenses, Daniel Fuchida's men would smash right in.

Heraised his hand. "I was thinking about the best way to defend myself. I've been fighting to keep something alive for four hundred standard years and now it's probably doomed. I maybe doomed myself. Do you think you could keep your mind on pleasure?"

Hatetwisted her face. "If I had a weapon, I'd burn your sex glands out myself. I don't care who wins the stinking war. I hope they fight until every man on the planet is dead. You're dead already. You're a corpse. You're a cancer. You're worse than Hamanaka."

Heglanced at the brain-machine link lying on the cart. All the cautious attitudes he had developed in the centuries since he had first learned he was potentially immortal were screaming at him to forget her and start defending himself. In all the centuries he had lived, he had never before been forced to face an attack standing naked and unarmed under an open sky.

Vostokthrew her on the ground. He pinned her under his body and she shrieked at him and struggled against his weight.

Hishand leaped from her shoulder to her loins. He pressed the right nerve and she gasped as he forced his way into her. He drove forward as hard as he could and she moaned and tried to throw herself on her side. Her shoulders rocked back and forth under his hands and he held on and moved again.

Shestiffened. He raised his shoulders and she looked up at him defiantly. She had cut off the sensations reaching the pleasure centers of her brain.

Heshouted orders at the microphones. Thick, starless night engulfed the garden.

Herbody shuddered. She screamed at him and her fists beat on his chest. No human could cut off her senses in complete darkness. And with the drug still working in her body, she couldn't keep him from reaching her by cutting off a localized, purely sexual sensation.

Hisfingers dug into her shoulders.

"I'm risking my life," heyelled. "I'm risking my life. I shouldbe manning my defenses. They may be attacking me right now. I'm risking eternity so we can both go on being human."

Hemoved again and she shuddered. Waves of drug-heightened sensual pleasure mingled with terror and determination in a crazy kaleidoscope of emotion and sensation. Fear ate at his stomach. The leaves of the bush in front of his head glowed like green jewels. The smell of her flesh mingled with an urgent voice reminding him he could still run, he could still hide inside the mansion with a brain-machine link on his head and fight off anything they could throw at him.

Herarms squeezed his back. She pressed her face against the lower half of his chest and screamed. Her body rolled underneath him and he held on, held her down.

"Ican still feel the shocks. I can't forget the shocks. Don't leave me alone. I can'tmake it if you leave me alone."

Vostokfought back the urge to glance at the sky. The agony in her voice stabbed at him as if the laser shocks were pounding through his own body. "I won't leave you alone again," he said. "I've made up my mind. I don't care if they kill me. I won't leave you again."

Thewar between the normals and the elders no longer mattered. Fuchida and Hamanaka no longer mattered. Only the war to survive, to remain human—only that warmattered. And now they were fighting it and, finally, winning.

Hernails dug into his back. He moved again and she sobbed. He pressed her against the couch and held her while she writhed.

Hate Is a Sandpaper Ice

Cube with Polka Dots of Love on It

terry dixon

Terrence Eugene Dixon is an explosive young college student, presently living in Berkeley, whose ultrarevolutionary proclivities are exhibited in his attitude toward New Wave science fiction. Mr. Dixon's lengthy, caustic, colorful and scholarly observations on this, his first published story, do not necessarily reflect the opinions of your editor:

"It's a put-on and put-down of certain undesirable elements in the New Wave, a small band of charlatans best synthesized in the form of a composite or hypothetical New Raver I'll call Mr. Phew (an acronym for Paranoid Harangues Emulating Writing). Mr. Phew is a prolific purveyor of poshlost (that untranslatable Russian word defined by Nabokov as 'not only the obviously trashy but also the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever" and further described by Alfred Appel, Jr., as 'an amalgam of pretentiousness and philistine vulgarity'). Phew saturates the science-fiction scene by sheer quantity, self-promotion and puerile antics at conventions. A major element in his very offensive offensive is copycatting the style tricks of contemporary mainstream iconoclasts (running the gamut, and the gauntlet, from Barth to Barthelme). He chews them up and regurgitates them upon unsuspecting scienceficionados who, because they traditionally read very little outside 'the field,' greet his hand-me-down motley as new and daring gear. The hallmarks of Phew's work are noise, petulance, thyrotoxic hysteria, current slang cliches, secondhand 'revolutionary' ideas (safely popular), typographical gewgaws stuck on like junk jewelry, a predilection for pseudo poetry, an addiction to what Joanna Russ calls the 'falsely profound,' a pathological obsession with violence and the sickest kind of sex. Saul Bellow unwittingly described Phew in his latest novel, Mr.Samrnler's Planet: 'All this confused sex-excrement-militancy, explosiveness, abusive-ness, tooth-showing, Barbary ape howling. . . . Like the spider

monkeys in the trees . . . defecating into their hands, and shrieking, pelting the explorers below. . . . Perhaps when people are so desperately impotent they play that instrument, the personality, louder and wilder.' "

Hewas a scrawny little loser with sweaty hands and bleeding piles; so how was he to know he had been diddled by Destiny? When your name is Nostril and you were left in a garbage can by your slut mother at the age of two weeks, you just naturally figure it's unlikely you're slated to be bigger than Buddha, jazzier than Jesus, groovier than Gilgamesh, zingier than Zoroaster.

ButNostril had been

Chosento be Allmen for Alltime.

For thus moveth the Big Bowel in the Sky, baby, and no man knoweth the true j er kings of the Master Baiter.

Andso it was that Nostril, on a day like any other day, threw back the yellowed bed sheets of his sour-smelling sack and—mirabile dictu!—arose.

•3S0JB SI 9SOIB SI SSOiy

Aroseto glumly greet another grimy day. But this was not an ordinary day, despite anything said to the contrary a couple of paragraphs ago.

Contradicted myself, you say? Man, when I rap, I rap my way—because I'm a cat who CAN'T and WON'T be fenced in by the silly rigid hang-ups of the bitching ESTABLISHMENT! No smart-ass professor is gonna tell ME what's right!! I make my OWN images. It's MY bag, baby, I'm doing MY thing—if I wanna say I kissed the chick on the pain-pricked checkerboard of her soul, then I SAY it! GO, MAN, GO! If I wanna say hate is a sandpaper ice cube with polka dots of love on it . . . then, WAIL, baby, WAIL!

Sothis Nostril (you remember him) stepped into a very funky Thursday, to meet .. .

[Herwas Her's name, all the name Her ever had or ever knew or ever needed. In a shimmer of warplight, Her had appeared in Nostril's squalid room, bringing with Her a wafting of ultimate incenses and much Meaningfulness and a crashing of symbols.]

"Hi,Her," said Nostril, since it was Given unto him that he should know Her's name, although he had never heard it spoken in This World.

(Forthere are Worlds within Times within Substances, and all of these are grooving in the crash pad of God's Great Armpit. Do I gotta tell you everything???)

Herhad come, in all Her's radiant girlgold, from Vast-nesses that lie beyond the black Deepnesses of farthest Space-time and infinite Energymass, defying laws older than tomorrow, to keep a rendezvous with He, whom we have known as Nostril.

% O greasy brown immensities %

% of AU-That-Was and All-That-Is

% and All-Dark-Dreams-Now-Twitching-%

% in-the-Testicles-of-Time! O frightened

%

% naked Now, spread-eagled on the

%

% torture rack of Then, too soon to

%

% be dismembered by the grinning %

% ghouls of Whyl O gangrene-%

% green Reflection of an Echo %

% of a Shadow of a Fear born

%

% hairy as a spider from

%

% the oddly tintinnabulating

%

% Crotch of Mother Death!

And when. Her spoke, it was the Music of the

T'Verily,"said the pulsating Presence, "I have kept myself virgin all these vortexing eons, awaiting that Moment when the continuum would turn in upon itself, eating its own tail like unto the salamander, Eternity and Infinity soixante-neufing eachother like unto shameless Pisces of the zodiac, our parallel Paths finally intersecting as 'twas foretold and written in the Sacred Graffiti on the wall above the urinal in that Mighty Comfort Station of the Stars!"

Herhad begun to slip out of the twmkling fire that was Her's only garment, revealing roundnesses and warmnesses and softnesses beyond compare.

Nostrilcould only mutter, "Wow," through rotted black stumps of teeth. Then, with a cackle of long-unslaked DESIRE, hefelt himself visited by hardnesses and stiffnesses and longnesses. Breathing heavily, he moved toward Her. .. .

yWait!" criedHer. "We are of Different Worlds! Can we defy galactic bigotry and commit the act of Monumental Miscegenation?"

"Well,live and let live, I always say," snickered Nostril. T'O brave He!" So saying, Her opened all Her several nakednesses to He. . . .

Andso the Deed was Done, for in a blinding flash that proved too true the thing that some have called The Big-Bang Theory Of Creation, they cleaved together, merged and melded by Forces far beyond their understanding, quite unaware that He was Matter and Her was Antimatter. . . .

Andwhen their perilous and proscribed substances twined and twained in the gritty gasp of Love—at that moment— everything, but everything

—forwhen Matter and Antimatter are brought into contact, they annihilate one another in a burst of Energy! And a pair of Happenings Happened:

AllThings Known ceased to be.

AllThings Unknown were created.

TheUniverse died in shrieking, bleeding childbirth, spawning another Universe.

Butthere is a thing we will never know.

AnditistEfjte:

Wasit our Universethat died? Or is ours the one that was born?

(3m.11 UM thorny lute cf SUeneetl

Outthere in the Somewhen, just around the corner from the Nevernow, echoing forever in the darknesses and coldnesses and nothingnesses like a cosmic Breaking of Wind, is the welded Voice of He/Her, screaming the Question that will never be Asked and the Answer that will never find its Question.

Walter Perkins Is Here!

raymond e. banks

Ray Banks refers to himself as "den mother for 13,000 engineers." Translation: He's an executive secretary in a large West Coast electronics firm and is the publisher of an electronics magazine. He is also the author of two hard-boiled mystery novels—limning the adventures of private op Sam King—and some three dozen bright science-fiction stories published over the last 17 years. Ray's work has appeared in If,Galaxy and TheMagazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and he's been anthologized in several "Best' anthologies. When, as editor, I read the first page of this submission, I thought, "Oh-oh—Ray's into one of the hoariest ideas in sci-fi: Hero refuses to conform to life by computer." Then, as I kept reading, I relearned an old rule: The extraordinary is often achieved by freshly utilizing the ordinary.

So grab hold of a cliche—and let Walter Perkins take you for a very fresh, straightforwardly insane ride into tomorrow. This one's a surreal delight.

"Butyou must belongto a computer," said my father. "Everybody does. Our family has been associated with Computer West for three generations."

"Eventhe president of the United States belongs to a computer," said my uncle. He burped and frowned.

"Ofcourse, if he wants to belong to Computer East----------------------- "

startedmy mother.

"Puresnobbery!" cried my father.

Myyounger sister, Enid, who had just completed college, raised a graceful hand. "I see his point. Lots of the girls at school are transferring to Computer South. It's the latest thing."

"Mygreat-grandfather did not belong to a computer," I said. There was a stunned silence. I got up and left the house. It was a sunny late afternoon in Los Angeles. A man

walkedby me, concentrating on the computer button in his ear. No doubt a self-correction walk. Farther along the sidewalk, a young couple murmured soft words to each other. From data fed to its sensory components, the computer would read heartbeat, perspiration, electrical resistance over the skin areas and decide for them when their passion should reach an appropriate peak. The computer had handled a billion such romances and would handle a billion more. Actually, there are about 400 million people west of the Mississippi, and they posed no problem to Computer West, located in Phoenix, Arizona.

Myschool had been chosen by Computer West. It had helped me in my tough courses. It had suggested several types of jobs and located one for me (as an accountant) with a medium-sized Los Angeles firm, and it periodically took care of my problems with office politics, office raises and, in one case, an office romance.

Ithad faithfully stood by my side through three romances which had not resulted in marriage, and yet Computer West had not despaired, even though I was now 30 years old, not in love, out of sorts with my job and going through a period of revolt.

ComputerWest handled about two million revolts a year and it was most understanding. Since the student uprising 100 years ago, Computer West and its sister numbers in the East and the South had been quite careful not to represent an establishment point of view. Computer West seemed to like thechallenge of revolt.

Mycomputer connection was in my pocket. I took it out and hung it on my ear in a gesture familiar since childhood. There was that same warm mother-father feeling about the slight weight of the bug at the right ear. In a complicated, vexing modern world where very many people had to live close, to one another, Computer West was needed to keep lives straight, simple, honest and satisfactory. It did a good job.

Sowhy was I revolting?

Henrywas the only man in Los Angeles I knew who didn't use the computer. He ran a blacksmith shop in Santa Monica a little ways out on the ocean; so I took a flying circle out there.

Henryhad just finished shoeing a tall, beautiful mare, which stood there twitching and flicking her flanks against flies or sand fleas, I couldn't tell which.

"Horsesare fairly stupid," said Henry, "but this gal's smarter than most. She belongs to the Ford Livery Stable Franchise Line." He gave her a pat on the rump and she dutifully trotted down into her floating circle, which would carry her back to her stable on the mainland and a generous portion of hay, after which she could join the plodding evening traffic of the other million horses in L.A. Since the abolition of surface cars, horses had become as important as they had been in the early West.

"Istill don't like the smell," I said. I noticed that Henry's computer bug lay next to his box of horseshoe nails on the counter. "How come you don't wear it?"

Henryrubbed his dark hands on his leather blacksmith apron, sat down with a sigh, picking up his pipe. "You listen to the computer for forty years, you know most of the answers," said Henry. "Old men don't have to wear the bug so much. How come yours is turned off?"

"I'mquitting the computer," I said. "I don't know why."

Henrypuffed quietly on his pipe.

"Ijust can't turn the thing on," I said. I reached up, let my hand drop. I felt empty, listless. "Health?"

"Excellent.Computer checked it out last week." There was a silence while Henry continued to suck on his pipe.

"Sowhat do I do?" I asked.

Henrysighed, got up, knocked ashes from his pipe, took off his leather apron. "Let's go see Jensen," he said.

•   •   •

Jensensat behind a highly polished desk, with a large Scotch and water located to his right. A beautiful nude blonde stretched lazily on his office sofa, toying with a dictating machine. Jensen frowned at us. He had the sleek-rat look of his profession, the Institute for Democratic Criminal Studies.

"Letme guess," he said. "Some of your customers' horses have been rustled and you want to know which Mafia chapter did it."

Henryshook his head. "This is Walter Perkins. He's quit the computer and he doesn't know why."

Thegirl jumped up. "I haven't worn my bug for three days!" she said.

Jensenmade a motion as if to slap her; she stepped back.

"Puton some clothes," he told her. "Your body half interests me. I can't stand to be half-interested in a woman."

Sheglared but left the room. Jensen jerked his thumb.

'Tellyou what!" he said. "We'll go up to San Francisco. I got a friend there." He waved a long, thin arm. "We'll take plenty of booze and some women. You like to have a teen-age creamo for your chum, Henry?"

Henrysmiled but shook his head. "Just a blacko, same as usual, Jensen."

•   •   •

InSan Francisco we found State Senator Wallich, a gray-haired, serious man who lived in the penthouse on top of New Telegraph Hill, the only 100-storybuilding in the whole Bay Area. Jensen and Henry and I and the girls had picked up another couple that Jensen knew, in San Luis Obispo, and I had brought along a couple I knew in King City. It was now after midnight, but everybody was walking around and talking about my problem with Computer West. The state senator served some drinks and put on some music. His wife was a lively dancer, and Diana, Jensen's blonde secretary, turned out to be a fair singer, and we had a pretty good time.

Ifelt tired; so I found an empty bedroom and went to sleep with a curious, weightless feeling inside my head.

WhenI came out for breakfast on Tuesday morning, feeling sheepish, a shout went up.

"HERECOMES WALTER PERKINS!"

Theparty was still going. There were a lot of new faces I didn't recognize. I felt like some bacon and eggs; so State Senator Wallich ordered breakfast.

"Thereare about a hundred people up here," said Henry, sliding into the breakfast nook with his blacko girlfriend. "They're trying to help with your problem." He had a long strip of paper like they use for petitions to influence legislators on important issues. Upon this paper were all sorts of suggestions and reasons why I could not tune in to Computer West. Some of the handwriting was shaky.

Jensenand Diana joined us, both a little seedy-looking from lack of sleep. The eggs and bacon sent savory smells around the room, the coffee was delicious, the tablecloth and silverware gleamed in the morning San Francisco sun. I had never felt so good, after an aching, doubt-ridden Monday, a gray day at work yesterday.

"Quitea few parties going in the building," said Jensen.

"Peoplekept asking what all the excitement was about," said Diana, "so we told them, 'Walter Perkins is here!' That seemed to cheer up the whole building."

"Well,I am here,"I said.

Thesenator brushed his way through the crowd and sat down on an edge of the breakfast booth. "This thing seems to be spreading up and down the street outside," he said.

Bynoon someone had designed a largebanner to hang from the penthouse balcony: WALTERPERKINS IS HERE!and the party had spread down to Market Street. Senator Wallich was interviewed on TV. I thought he was going to tell them about my problem, but instead he merely stated that Walter Perkins had flattered his penthouse with a personalvisit and he could assure his friends and followers that things would go along much better now that Walter Perkins was here.

Inoticed that everyone at our party had put aside their computer plugs; so I didn't say anything. They had me go to the window and smile and wave. I could see Jensen on the telephone yelling into it, while Diana came by from time to time to press my shoulder warmly and smile at me. I began to like her.

Itwas very noisy that Tuesday night, with what seemed like most of San Francisco corning to my party. Only they all couldn't fit; about 200 at a time crowded into the penthouse. I wore a little sign Diana had lettered identifying me as Walter Perkins.

Atfirst they put me in a small alcove and strangers would come up and shake my hand and congratulate me. At first I tried to tell them about my problem with the computer, but Senator Wallich frowned and shook his head. After that I would simply smile, say, "Hello," and, "Glad you could come."

Aroundtwo in the morning, Jensen put on my sign for a while,and then Henry wore it for a while, and when things got loud, Diana put on the sign stating she wasWalter Perkins. Nobody seemed to care.

Itwas fantastic from the balcony: miles and miles of lights, people swaying, swinging and dancing on the sidewalks, climbing out of apartments to shout up to the party above and the party below. There was a sort of benevolent glow over the whole city.

Ihad never heard Jensen giggle, but when we crowded into the breakfast nook for a steak dinner after a long, people-filled day, he giggled. "They're partying in Palo Alto, Monterey and up in Portland," he said. "It's gone as far south as Santa Barbara, and it's even reached parts of Los Angeles."

"You'reon all the TV stations," Diana said to me. She was digging into a tender filet mignon. "There's a difference of opinion as to what it is all about, but it seems most important to people to know that Walter Perkins has reached San Francisco."

"Thegovernor and the state officials are due here about ten P.M.,"said State Senator Wallich. "They want you to make some sort of public statement. Whatever nerve you've touched—it seems to have gotten hold ofpeople."

"Yourmother is on the phone," said Henry, bringing me the extension.

"Hello,mother," I said, peering at her anxious features.

"Areyou all right, Walter?" she asked. "We thought that wasyou on TV."

"Whatthe hell are you doing upthere?" shouted my father.

"I'mnot doing anything," I said.

Mysister came into the conversation. "Boy, you should see it down here, Walt! Parties are breaking out all along the Sunset Strip and down Wilshire Boulevard. The police are going crazy and the mayor is issuing hourly statements. We hear the governor may call out the National Guard." Her finishing-school accent was almost gone. Her eyes glowed. "Old folks are waltzing around on the sidewalks; kids are shooting water pistols and breaking balloons. It's fantastic!"

"Thecomputer will deal with this," snapped my father. "What have you done upthere, Walter?"

Ifelt pretty foolish, but I looked him in the eye. "I've studied the situation carefully," I said, "from all angles. In my considered opinion, we have reached a watershed. ..." I didn't really know what I was saying, but it sounded right.

Thisleft my father speechless; so I hung up gently. After all, they could see I was alive and well and about to enjoy a tastyfilet in the Wallich apartment.

Thegovernor and his staff, who came in at midnight, were quite upset with me.

"Whateveryou've started—whatever has started,"said

the governor, "has got to stop. I've called out the Fortieth

Division--------- "

"They'rehaving a helluvaparty at the armory," murmured an aide.

"Denver,Chicago and New York," said the governor, "they've all started partying."

"Youhave an invitation to come to Memphis!" cried Jensen, coming into the room and waving a telegram.

Therewas silence as they all looked at me. "You will stay inSan Francisco," said the governor firmly. "You will issue a statementtelling people that this party must end at once."

"Can'tComputer West handle it?" I asked.

"Apparentlynot," said the governor. "It will take a statement from you to end this madness."

Againthe uneasy silence, the strained faces. Diana looked scared; the governor and his people looked grim; Jensen looked hangdog. Only State Senator Wallich seemed friendly and unperturbed. "Senator Wallich will speak for me," I said.I got up. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

Afterall, my party had been going on here in the Teletop Apartments for some 24 hours.

•   •   •

Ididn't think I could sleep, but I did. When I woke up, Diana was stretched out comfortably beside me. "What's the score?" I asked.

Shesmiled at me dreamily. "San Francisco still solid, fogged in with your party from North Beach all the way down the peninsula. Los Angeles is reaching crescendo level; all other Coast cities solid with parties. Even the small towns."

Iyawned and stretched and gave Diana a kiss on her pink tummy. She giggled like Jensen.

Wednesdaymorning was gray outside. But the sounds of the party through the bedroom walls were still bright. I turnedon the TV and the scene was like New Year's Eve. I judgedit to be somewhere in Nevada, probably Las Vegas.

Theannouncer tried to be serious, but he was laughing.

"Sincethe mysterious Perkins statement to his father on 'watershed,' the party keeps growing," he said. "My advice —if you can't lick 'em, join 'em." He waved a full martini glass at his audience and winked.

Iturned off the TV and went back to bed.

Henrybrought us lunch on trays. "You can't go out," he said. "There's maybe four or five thousand people trying to get in here, get a glimpse of you. Somebody down on the street is selling tickets to come up here for twenty dollars a shot."

"SenatorWallich's daughter," said Diana and made a face.

Jensentiptoed into the room. "Well, boy, you've done it!" hesaid. "You've made everybody happy. They all love Walter Perkins."

"MyGod, the computer will have me shot!" I moaned.

Henryhanded me a small slip of paper silently. It said, "HAPPYBIRTHDAY, WALTER PERKINS!"Signed, Computer West.

"Idon't think it has circuits to quite handle this," Henry said blankly. "You've got it worried."

SenatorWallich entered the room. "You've got the U.S. solid," he said. "My people call it rock solid,from Florida to Maine. All the way across. It's hit Canada, you're getting England, and I think you'll have France and the Scandinavian countries by nightfall."

"SouthernEurope?"

"Hoursago," said the senator.

Isighed. "I'm wrecking civilization!"

Thesenator shook his head. "The robots and the computers can keep on making food, sweeping the streets, doing the important jobs. Best thing to do—don't back up—go on through. You don't want to make a statement, do you?"

"Youhandle it," I said. "All my life I've wanted to really learn how to play bridge. I'm curious about it. I'm staying right here with a deck of cards."

That'show Wednesday ended. From time to time, the door would open and a head would peek into the room.

"SenatorWallich's son is selling room peeks to important people for one hundred dollars a peek," said Jensen when he came in to bring some Cokes. "It's important to people to be able to honestly say they saw the most important man of the moment in person. Youunderstand that."

"Thoroughly,"I said, bidding poor Diana down to a thousand-pointloss in no-trump, which I didnot yet understand.

Whenthe governor and the senator finally got me on TV, I couldn't think of a good, solid reason for the party to end, not one. "Computer West and all of the machines it controls are doing a good job of running things," I pointed out. "The automatic farms get harvested, the food gets to our homes, the garbage gets collected. Clothes get spun, houses get built. I see no reason why the party should end tonight. Maybe tomorrow, maybe Friday or Saturday. I will let you know."

"Areyou ready to go back to Computer West?" Henry asked me.

"Notyet," I said.

Heshrugged. Diana took my hand. "Whatever you decide, Walter, will be all right with me—and a lot ofother people. Even the computer. After all, it could havehad the robot police arrest you." She giggled. "I think it knows who's boss."

•   •   •

Thatwas ten years ago. The party is still going on. I don't mean at fever pitch; nobody could sustain a party at fever pitch for that long. But the good fellowship and fun of the original Walter Perkins party is still in effect. The party moves from house to house and building to building. People have gotten used to moving from one party to another, and they like thissort of life: You find a party that fits your personality and just barge in, no questions asked. It's that way all over the world.

Maybesome day the party will stop. But now that Diana and I have returned from our latest worldwide trip—where I visited 5000 Walter Perkins parties over the past six months—I am inclined to believe that it will not stop.Ever.

AsI sit here in the mellow glow of Wallich's penthouse with Diana, enjoying my party (Wallich is president of the U.S.A. right now), there is a pleasant babble and murmur in the other apartments in the building. No doors are locked, no face is sad. All over San Francisco, the mellow glow goes on.

Thecollapse of mankind has been predicted. But wouldn't it be strange if it went on just like this? A continuous party until the end of time.

AllI know is, I am Walter Perkins and I am here.

The Darwin Sampler

ray russell

To most readers, Ray Russell is the author of mainstream novels (TheColony and TheCase Against Satan), a dabbler in Gothic grue (Sardonicus) and—as Ted White of Amazing-Fantastic has said—"PLAYBOY'S first, and perhaps best, editor." In science fiction, Russell's output has been relatively small but of high literary quality. His best has not always appeared in sci-fi publications, but rather in multimillion-circulation magazines, such as the aforementioned PLAYBOY. Stories published outside the circle of genre publications tend to be overlooked by hard-core sci-fi readers; yet Publishers' Weekly ranks him as "a science-fiction master" alongside Bradbury, Clarke and Sheckley; his sci-fi film X received an award from the Festival Internazionale del Film di Fanta-scienza (Trieste) and has been included in the New York Museum of Modern Art Film Library programs; and such stories as his CometWine, Sagittarius and HereComes John Henry rank with the finest sci-fi and fantasy being written today.

A Russell specialty is the hypercondensed short-short. Into these, as into white dwarf stars, tons of substance are packed into a tiny space ("infinite riches in little room," as Christopher Marlowe put it). The quick, deadly one-two punch of the story which follows is uniquely Russellian.

Ithung on the apartment wall, in an old-fashioned frame, the letters stitched on cloth in that BLESSOUR HOME way theyused to call a sampler. I guess it was supposed to be funny. What it said, though, was perfectly straight, the same thing you'd find on anybody's wall:

ADAPT OR   DIE

—Darwin

Thelandlady had called us when she couldn't get any response by knocking on her tenant's door. We broke in and sized up the situation at a glance. The landlady screamed. My partner, Sergeant Fred Nagel, told her to go on about her business; so she left us there.

"Toobad he didn't pay more attention to it," I said, nodding first to the sampler and then to the'stiff on the floor.

Fredsaid, 'That damned thing gets to be invisible after a while. You don't really see it anymore."

"Likethe pictures of Lenin that used to hang everywhere in the Soviet."

"Iguess. Upon the wall in every home, every office, every public place . . . but I feel sorry for poor bastards like this. They just can't accept, can't adjust. . . ."

"Thedinosaurs couldn't adjust, either," I said, "and look what happened to them."

"Ifhe'd been an old-timer, I'd understand it better. But he was just a young fellow." Fred fingered the desk calendar that was turned to December 31, 1999. "Not much of a happy new year for him," he said. Outside, the sounds of celebrating had already started.

"Theyoung ones are the worst," I said. "They don't remember the way it was—they only know the stories, and, of course, they think of themselves as rebels. This kid was probably a member of GOD, want to bet?"

"GoodOld Days? That collection of nuts? No bet. He probably was. But I still feel sorry for him."

"Idon't."

"You'rea tough customer," Fred said, but I think he was being sarcastic. "Why do they do it?" he added, not necessarily to me. "Is it curiosity? A yen to know what it was like way back when? Or is there a death-wish thing mixed up in it? What a lousy shame. What a waste."

Iasked him if he wanted me to call the coroner's boys.

'That'sall right, I'll do it," he said and walked over to the phone. He was taking it hard. Fred's like that. Sort of a bleeding heart, but not a bad guy to work with.

Whilehe made the call, I looked at the sampler again and thought about Darwin and dinosaurs and those adapter injections we've all been required to take at birth for the past couple of generations. Instead of being grateful, nuts like this dead kid resent them, think they're evil or sinister. Don't they know they're for their own good? Don't they realize the

The Darwin Sampler   121

shotsjust give the adaptive process a helping hand? It's something that would have happened naturally, anyway, in time. But time was the one thing we didn't have. Things had snowballed and there was no other way out of the mess. No, I didn't feel sorry for that kind of malcontent. . . .

Fredwas finishing up his phone call to the coroner's office: "Yeah, we'll stick around, but try to hurry it up. I'd prefer to spend New Year's Eve with my wife."

Hehung up. Then he bent over and took the inhalation mask and tank from the dead sniffer's body. He shook his head sadly, looking like a big St. Bernard. "Pure oxygen," he said. "Might just as well have put a bullet through his brain. Hard to believe we actually used to breathe this stuff. Open a window, will you? Let's get some air in here."

Idid and took a big, deep lungful. It was thick as minestrone—rich in the pollutants on which we had made ourselves thrive. A drunk down on the street looked up at me and yelled, "Happy new year!"

Icorrected him. "Happy new century, you mean."

ron gou-lart

The Whole Round World

When Ron Goulart mailed in TheWhole Round World, he stated, "This one is a complete short novel and more or less ties in with my other two future-revolutionary novels, After ThingsFall Apart and TheGadget Man. It takes place during the last days of the century, a couple of years before the U.S. collapses."

Goulart, with wife, children and a rented horse, lives amid the winding roads and red barns of Connecticut. He has published five books and lists "seven more sold and in progress," including a history of the pulps, two collections of his wacky short stories and at least three more novels. His work is highly individualistic, as sharply stylized as the prose of a Bradbury or a Hemingway. Avram Davidson has said of him, "Like a totally sane Jonathan Swift, Ron Goulart kills more cliches and pretensions than Carter has pills; and no facet of our right, left or center, way in or far out, sexual, political, ethnical . . . escapes the mordant skillfulness of his magical and deadly camera."

And who can top that?

Therobot looked at his watch again. "Well, yes or no?"

TimMcCarey's boss was facing the Pacific Ocean, a plyo-wrapped vegeburger on his lap. "Let's see more of the Hunneker test film," he said, starting to work the sandwich out of its blue-tinted wrapper.

"Thiswill be for the interim season on CBS," said the robot. "I should get on the vidphone today and confirm the pending availability of the show, Harvey."

HarveyDirks was a dark, sizable man of just over 40. He continued unraveling the sandwich. "A sixty-two-year-old jungleman ... I don't know. Tim, push monitor six on."

TimMcCarey left his tin butterfly chair beside the view windows and crossed toward his boss's boomerang-shaped

121

desk."The Hunneker reel is on monitor five," he said. He was a lean young man, nearing 30, with short-cropped sandy hair.

Dirkssaid, "Leave the technical end of things here at Conglobe Facilities to me and this mechanical prick."

"Youdon't like me because I'm Japanese," said the robot, who was copper-plated and tank-shaped.

Timpushed the six button on the wall panel behind his boss's desk.

Thesixth tray-sized television screen in the wall bank of a

dozen popped on and a man in a gray herringbone jump suit

appeared. He had his left pant leg rolled up to the knee and

was whacking at his metal leg with a silver-headed hammer.

"I didn't get this fake leg sitting around on a guaranteed

income. No, it was down in the fetid and noisome jungles of

Brazil back in 1984, friends. A band of leftist sons of bitches

shot my real leg off from ambush while we were down there

defending the swell junta of liberal and agrarian-reform-

minded generals against a maddened rabble of sloganeering

lefties. Now, friends, if you watch my news marathon daily,

around the clock, as I know ten million of you in the Greater

Los Angeles area sincerely do, then perhaps you've heard

this little leg yarn before. No matter, it bears repeating.

Friends, when I trudged into those repulsive and putrid

jungles of Brazil, I was known as Major General Harold

Mintosh. But I came out of there Peg Leg Mintosh. And

Peg Leg Mintosh I'm going to stay until every no-good,

low-down, smellful, socioeconomically cockeyed, mother-

humping------- "

"Pushmonitor seven," suggested Dirks. He had the vege-burger free of its wrapping and was looking under the top slice of soy bread.

Timpushed seven.

"Comeon, try it this way," said the naked blonde. "No, I mean,don't take your boots off at all, Ranch."

"She-it,Marcy, let me leastwise take my spurs off. Else I'll slash up that there bed canopy. That's real antique rayon, ain't it, now?"

"Harvey'U payfor it," said the blonde. "Come on, try it my way, Ranch. Now what's the matter?"

"Well,I can't rightly seem to get the old whacker up, Marcy. Standing on my head like this and with my boots on and all."

"Maybeyou're right, Tim," said Dirks. "Try five." "Wasn't  that,"   asked  the  robot,   "your  sweetheart, Harvey?"

Dirkstook a bite of his sandwich. "Yes, that's Marcy. She's got a lot of spunk. She knows damn well I've got our suite bugged." He frowned at Tim. "Is that cowboy the cowboy we're thinking about using in one of our Saturday-morning kid shows?"

"I'mnot sure," said Tim. "I never saw him upside down and naked before."

"RanchKeene, that's him," said Dirks. "I don't know if we want the six-year-olds of the entire country to watch a show starring a guy who screws upside down with his boots on."

Timshrugged. "It's not the whole country, Harvey. Only the West Coast."

"Maybe,"said Dirks. On the fifth screen, a giantgray-haired man dived out of a palm tree and toward an alligator-infested stream. "He still looks old to me. I don't know . . . an ape-man with gray hair."

Therobot said, "We didn't find him until day before yesterday. This is only a very rough screen test you're seeing."

"Why'she sinking under the water?"

"Theytold him to hold in his stomach," explained the talent-agency robot. "He's not used to that and it affects his breathing when he swims."

"What'sthat alligator doing to him?"

"Westuck a little rug on Hunneker—a smallhairpiece to cover the scars—and the alligators liked the taste of the glue."

"Whatkind of jungle thrills do you call that? An alligator eating this prick's wig." Dirks slapped the unfinished sandwich on his desk and grabbed up a hard-boiledegg. "You sure the survey computers aren't going goofy? You know, everybody goes goofy in this town sooner or later. Marcy used to be a convent girl and now she's screwing cowboys upside down."

Therobot's chest swung open and a sheaf of fax copies flipped out. Tim caught them as the machine explained, "Has Conglobe Facilities ever put together a television-show packagethat didn't get a placeamong the top shows in any one season segment? Have we?"

"The Hardware Hour," saidTim, leafing through the charts and maps.

'Thatwas one incident out of a hundred," said the robot. "I grant you, there was a case where a computer had an exaggerated ego and kept suggesting shows built around nuts and bolts. He's long since been replaced."

Dirkspointed at the screen, which now showed a stretch of unrippled jungle stream. "Where'd Hunneker go?"

"Thisis the part where he got a cramp. They'll be fishing him out in a second."

"Where'dyou say the old prick was living when they finally located him?"

"Well,after our show-projecting and audience-anticipation computers determined that the public, mingling nostalgia and a burgeoning new interest in the still-emerging nations of Africa, wanted a Hunneker jungleman sort of show, our talent operatives got on the job," said the robot. "Hunneker hasn't made an ape-man film or TV show since 1979. His last known agent was a time-share computer in a real-estate office down near Laguna Beach.Eventually we tracked him down in a ghetto up in Oakland."

"Youmentioned he's got some scars," said Tim.

"Yes,he's been trying to earn a living as a free-lance exhibition swimmer," said the robot. "Usually he'd simply crash a swimming event and dive for pennies. Naturally, he had to move fast, and now and then he'd slip and crack his head on the tiles."

"Idon't know," said Dirks. "Audiences still want him, huh?"

"Accordingto the audience-anticipation machines," said Tim, who was studying the robot's report.

Dirkssaid, "I supposeour cosmetic-surgery department could do something with him."

"Yes,"said the robot, "once he's cured."

"Curedof what?"

"He'sbecome a headache-capsule addict," said the robot. "Also, he's hooked on vitamin-enriched toothpaste."

"Histeeth don't look all that good," said Dirks.

"Hedoesn't use it—he eats the stuff," said the copper-plated robot. "Those aren't his teeth, anyway."

"Atoothless, fat, overage, junkie ape-man," said Dirks. "Jesus, back in the Seventies I couldstill operate on hunches. If this was then, my hunch would be, forget it."

Therobot's chest flicked open once more.

"Nomore reports," said Dirks. 'Tim, turn that Hunneker off."

Timblacked the screen. "Want to package the show?"

"Idon't know." Dirks finished his egg, then asked the robot, "What can you promise?"

"AudienceAnticipation predicts—and this was double-checked by two of our live sociologists—that a Hunneker ape-man show will reach eighth place within its first two weeks on the network web and then make it up to three before leveling off. The show should be good for at least three season segments and ought to gross Conglobe"—the robot reached into his side and unfurled a streamerof adding-machine tape—"four million, six hundred thousand dollars."

Dirkssaid, "OK, we'll do it."

Therobot said, "Now, our only other problem is a jungle."

"Whichjungle?" "That's the problem."

Timsat back down in the tin chair and looked out at the ocean and the single white gull skimming towardthe horizon. "How come we can't use the jungle where the demonstration film was shot?"

Therobot replied, "That was the Wheelan lot It burned down."

"Burneddown?" said Dirks. "Since yesterday?"

"Someblack militants," explained the robot, "still don't like jungleman shows."

"Ithought the public wanted Hunneker."

"Asignificant portion—not all."

"Andsome spades burned down the Wheelan lot?"

"Allthe jungle, part of Dodge City and the left side of the Great Pyramid."

"How'dthose pricks know Hunneker was there?"

"Theysaw him swingingthrough the trees," replied the robot.

"TheWheelan lot has low walls," said Tim.

"OK,we better put a security team to watching Hun-necker," said Tim's boss. "Now, what other jungles are available?"

"Well,"said the robot, "there is an acre of jungle over at.

theMcNamara-International studios. Except it's developed some kind of blight."

"Jesus,a fat ape-man swinging from a sick tree. I suppose we can't afford to fly this fat-ass Hunneker to Africa?"

"Notand gross five million," said Tim.

Dirksasked, "How about India, then?"

Therobot blinked. "There isn't any India anymore. Didn't you know?"

"Sincewhen?"

Timsaid, "The Chinese blew up India last winter, Harvey, testing some new missiles."

"Nokidding!" Dirks rubbed his left cheek. "I don't have time to keep up with events anymore. Where does this leave us so far as jungles are concerned?"

"We'rerunning a computer trace now," put in the robot.

Tim'shead tilted up as the gull far over the ocean glided up and out of sight. "Isn't there," he said, "an old Hunneker movie location down the coast someplace?"

"You'reright," said Dirks. 'The Belgraf estate. Yes, old Vincent Belgraf has several hundred acres inland from the beach, around San Amaro. The old prick's hobby is jungle flora and fauna. His whole spread is transplanted jungle." He picked up a mock-carrot stick. "There could be something wrong there, though, Tim. Old Belgraf has refused to rent it for years—not since 1984 or thereabouts. Go down there, anyway."

"Me?"

"Yes,"his boss told him. "Get one of my secretaries to fix you up with an appointment with Belgraf. Today, if possible. This calls for in-person handling, and you're the most affable assistant I've got right now. When do we have to start production?"

Therobot replied, "Next Wednesday, at the latest."

"Soyou've got less than a week to sign up that jungle for Conglobe, Tim."

"Howmuch can I offer Belgraf?"

Therobot reached beneath himself and tugged some papers out. "Wait a sec. Yes, here. A thousand per week is the top figure we can afford."

"Goas high as two thousand," Dirks said. "And he'll have to throw in other concessions. We'll need to tie in on his power lines, and so on. Take a car when you go down there, Tim. As I recall, old Belgraf doesn't like aircraft."

"Wasn'this nephew, Clement Belgraf, a stock-plane racer?" Tim got up again.

"Don'task me. I don't keep up with sports, either. You can get there by land car in three hours if you hook on to the slot highway at Santa Monica. Oh, before."

"What?"

"Punchon that monitor seven again." "OK." Tim did and turned for the door. "Jesus," said Dirks, "she's finished with the cowboy and now it's that guy with the puppets." Tim left.

Themechanized highway unhooked Tim's land car and snapped him onto an off ramp leading inland. A soft late-aftemoon fog was spilling up from the ocean and drifting across the scrubby countryside. Tim took over control of. his electric car and headed for the bypass road that he could use for the last ten miles to San Amaro.

Hewas one block into the outskirts of a low stucco-and-tile town named Cadella when the street blew up about 300 feet in front of him.

Hiscar seemed to slap the road and swing out of his grip, zigzagging for the curb. Tim caught back control just short of the sidewalk and swung into a space. Motorcycle parts and tatters of cloth were spattering down out of the fog. A lead-tipped nightstick thwacked against his front window.

Timeased across the front seat and ducked out on the sidewalk side. "What's wrong?" he asked toward the three scattered pedestrians.

Ablack man in a purple jump suit said, "It's only those kids again."

"Whichkids?"

"Oneof those anarchist groups," replied the Negro. "They're blowing up policemen again. Look out!"

Aplastic elbow dropped out of the fog and hit Tim on the top of his head. "Android cops?"

"Usually."

Apale fat man in a dark two-piece suit was wiping at his perspiring face with a stiff white napkin. "Anybody care for a cup of coffee? After an incident of terrorism, lots of people like to relax with a hot cup." He nodded at Tim, then at the narrow whitewashed building at his wide back. "My place."

Antiquetubes of neon spelled out ACADEMY OF MOTION PICTURE ARTS & SCIENCES ALL-NIGHT COFFEE SHOP.Tim was early for his seven-in-the-evening appointment at the Belgraf estate. "OK," he said. There were no more explosions, and he followed the fat man inside.

"Youngpeople nowadays have more spunk," said the heavy proprietor. "When I was young—and I'm only thirty-eight now, but no longer a youth, as I'm the first to admit— we wouldn't have dreamed of blowing up law officers."

"Oh,so?"

"Oncein a great while, we might take a live cop's gun away from him and shoot at him with it," admitted the fat man.

Therewere six tables and a counter in the place. At each checkered table sat motion-picture celebrities of the past. "Androids?" asked Tim.

"Don'tI wish they weren't," said the fat owner. "I run thisplace on a franchise from the Motion Picture Academy, but I happen to be a real movie buff on top of it. This little place here is more than a coffee shop, it's a shrine. You probably didn't expect to find a shrine in a crumbum town like this, but here we are."

"I'llsit at the counter."

"Youcan sit with the androids and it doesn't cost anything extra," said the fat man. "You might like the cowboy table, for instance. It contains William S. Hart, Gene Autry, Tim McCoy, John Wayne and Ranch Keene."

Timsaid, "The last time I saw him, he was standing on his head."

"Really?I don't go to many movies nowadays. I only took Ranch Keene, if you want the honest truth, to try to lure the youth market in. No such luck. They're too busy blowing up cops."

Timchose the table with comedian androids. "Coffee."

"Wantto see a menu?"

"No,coffee'll be enough."

"Howabout some stills from famous films of yesteryear?" The fat man reached under his coat. "I have a whole bin of them out back. Here's a classic scene. Remember the great moment in If I Were King whereRonald Coleman bends

overto buckle his shoe?" "No."

"Thereit is." He left the glossy photo with Tim and moved into the kitchen.

Timrecognized three out of the four androids at his table: Buster Keaton, Harry Langdon and Oliver Hardy. The fourth, a thin, freckled young man in a canvas suit, puzzled him.

"I'ma living person," said the young man after a moment. Tim asked, "You work here?"

"No,I simply fled in here in much the same manner as yourself, only a bit earlier, when those Pallbearers started carrying on."

"Pallbearers?"

"Alocal leftist white destructionist group. In most quarters they are as yet unknown. My name is Audie Sayers." "Tim McCarey."

Sayerslicked his thin lips. "Would you be heading farther inland?"

"Asfar as San Amaro."

Sayerslooked quickly around. "Ah," he said.

Atthe cowboy table, the William S. Hart android stood up, wobbling, and slapped his sombrero against his chaps. "The grandeur of it all."

JohnWayne rose up and punched him.

'They'rebadly kept up," said Sayers.

"Youfrom around here?"

"No,Altadena. I know all sorts of things, though," replied the freckled young man. "Intelligence work is sort of a hobby with me. My mother gave me a toy parabolic mike when I was nine and I've been at it ever since."

"Knowanything about the Belgraf estate?"

"My,don't tell me you're a recruit, too?"

"I'mnot. Recruit in what?"

"I'vealready spoken too much."

OliverHardy tugged at his tie. "Another fine mess," he remarked and tipped over. He landed with his derbied head in Sayers's lap.

"Whata shabby world we've made for ourselves," said Sayers, sighing. "Mad young anarchists and defective androids and little love anywhere. Well, with Clement Belgraf there is hope."

"VincentBelgraf s nephew, the sports-plane flyer?"

"ClementBelgraf is no longer that," said Sayers. "He's quite a bit more now. I'm afraid I've talked much too much. If there's one thing intelligence work teaches, it's that too much talking can be dangerous." He uprighted Oliver Hardy. "All I'll say beyond what I've blurted out is that I've made up my mind to join up."

Timnodded. "What exactly is going on at the Belgraf estate?"

"Myhps are sealed," said Sayers. "And why are you bound there, McCarey?"

"Abusiness deal. I havean appointment with Vincent Belgraf."

"Business?"

"Showbusiness," answered Tim.

Thefat owner said, "Did I hear you correctly?" He set down two cups of coffee and a soy éclair. "You didn't mention you were in show business."

"Isometimes don't."

Theproprietor lifted Harry Langdon out of his chair and took his place. "We don't get much of the show-business crowd here anymore; so this is an especially rare treat for me."

"Anotherfine mess," said Oliver Hardy, falling over.

Thetelevision set in the back seat was saying, "Now, friends, there's no one can pretend that Peg Leg Mintosh is unfair. No, I see to it that on my twenty-four-hour news marathon you get a chance to listen to every kind of opinion there is. Some of you write in to me and ask, 'Peg Leg, how come you let those wild-eyed, web-footed, radical bums on the same show with you?' Friends, the lowest of wild-eyed, web-footed, radical bums has his right to free speech. Isn't that what this America business is all about? Friends, that's why we fought in the nauseant jungles of Brazil."

Timasked, "Did he just bang his leg with a hammer?"

Sayers,who was in the rear seat of the land car, said, "No."

"Mustbe the engine, then."

"Thisbuggy is in a lot better shape than my poor car," said the freckled young man. "What an ordeal. I'm certainly glad I had that chance meeting with you. Imagine coming out of that nostalgic cafe and finding the torso of an android cop imbedded in my engine. And his brass buttons had pocked the trunk and rear window. These radical kids." He sighed. "You're very kind to give me a lift."

"I'mheading there; so it's no trouble," said Tim. "They told me to report to gate E. Is there a fencearound the Belgraf place?"

"Areyou sure you're not a spy?"

"You'vebeen a counterspy since childhood—can't you tell?"

"Youseem too flippant to be a secret agent. Spies tend to be dour fellows, sobersided."

PegLeg Mintosh was saying, "You folks in the audience can boo and catcall at our guests, but don't fire guns. You'll have to turn in all your handguns to the ushers right away and put your rifles down under your seats. And you there, you sweet-faced little granny, you're not kidding me with that fake purse. Give it to the usher. OK. So, friends, here's our next guest on the news—Josh Mambert, a colored boy who has quite a following among lefties. His latest book is titled Screw You, White Folks! andit's doing very well on the best-seller charts despite its web-footed, punk point of view. Good evening, Josh."

"Hello,you crippled mother jumper."

"Now,let's see, Josh, are you ready to answer some of the questions we solicited from our studio audience?"

"Askaway, shithead."

"First,where do you get your ideas? And do you have a regularwork schedule?"

Sayersclicked the set off. "Clement Belgraf is right."

"Aboutwhat?" They were climbing uphill now and the fog was thinning some.

"Militantson the left," sighed Sayers. 'Too much talk and not enough action. Not much exercise, either. We're nearly there."

Theroad was narrow and made clattering sounds beneath the car. Black oaks and thick willows grew on all sides. Suddenly, a male peacock stepped into their path. Tim swerved the machine and the peacock went fluttering back in among the trees. "One of Belgraf s."

"You'llnotice, if you get the chance, that there's a great difference between the old man and Clement Belgraf. Old Vincent is of an era where the material object was still pursued."

"Isit materialistic to own a peacock?" "There it is," exhaled Sayers, "up at the crest of the incline."

"Thatblank wall, you mean."

"Itkeeps the curious back. That's the Belgraf estate."

Timpulled off the road and parked under a willow tree. The ten-foot-high brick wall stretched for a good quarter mile. "There was a gate a few yards back," Tim said, getting out of the car.

Catchingup his canvas suitcase, Sayers followed Tim to the solid wood gate. "Here at last."

Therewas a large E whitewashedon the gate. No knocker or bell showed. "Well," said Tim.

"We'llhave to find gate J. That's the recruit gate."

Aflashlight came on above them and shone on Tim and then swung over to Sayers.

Sittingon top of the wall was a heavyset man in white flannels and a loose sweater. His legs were dangling and swinging slightly. "Tourist season ended many years ago, folks," he said, tilting his rifle to point at them.

"Isn'tthere broken glass on top of that wall?" Tim asked.

"Notif you know where to sit" "I'm a recruit," said Sayers.

"Thatmakes a difference. Get on down to gate J. Recruits we always let in." He turned the gun and the light on Tim. "How about you?"

"Wheredo I sign up?"

"Followyour buddy down to gate J."

OnceTim got inside on the estate grounds, he could explain. Right now, pretending to be a recruit was easier than getting shot

GateJ opened onto a long arbored-over path that led to what looked like a large enclosed band pavilion. The guard at gate J wore khaki Bermuda shorts and a blue Wind-breaker.

"Isuppose they don't wear uniforms where the public might see them," said Sayers.

"Youwere expecting uniforms?" Tim said. Beyond the laths of the arbor there was, sure enough, a jungle thick and shadowy.

"You'renot sympathetic," said Sayers. "In my gratitude for getting directly here, I may have spoken out of turn."

"WillClement Belgraf meet us in the pavilion there?"

"Certainlynot. We'll no doubt be taken charge of by one of his assistants."

Thedoors of the pavilion were open. Up where a gas chandelier had once hung, someone had strung a line of Christmas-tree bulbs. These provided the room's only light.

Onthe bandstand there was a card table, and sitting behind it was a small middle-aged man in a flannel bathrobe.

"Why,that's Colonel Granger," whispered Sayers as they entered.

"Outof uniform, too."

Thecolonel stood up. "Men, welcome aboard. On behalf of our commander, I welcome you." He cleared his throat and motioned them forward. "As a result of some good-natured horseplay in the officer's mess, I cannot greet you in my usual attire."

Timwas trying to place the colonel. "Aren't you Joe Granger, the character actor?"

"Imight be. We'll cover that in a future lecture. Now, then, men, I think we'll all admit that there's no use going over our aims and goals, since they are by now well known to us. It is enough to say, Keep 'em flying."

"Sir,"said Sayers.

"Yes,recruit?"

"Mr.McCarey here isn't actually a recruit. He's really here to see Mr. Vincent Belgraf and is only in this room because none of the other gates were open."

'Thistrue, McCarey?"

"I'mfrom Conglobe Facilities in L.A."

"Oh,Conglobe?" said the colonel. "Well, now that you're here, wouldn't you care to be sworn in? Seems wasteful to run through the whole ceremony for one recruit."

"I'vecome all the way from Altadena," said Sayers, hold^ ing up his suitcase.

"We'lldo it," said Colonel Granger. "I was hoping for a bigger audience."

"Ifyou can tell me how to get to the main house," said Tim, "I'lrget on with my job."

Thecolonel looked at his watch. "No, not tonight. It's already twilight, much too late. You'd have to cross quite a stretch of jungle to get there. It's too late."

"Justpast seven."

"Afterdusk, no one is allowed to roam about." The colonel retied the cord on his robe and looked at Sayers. Then he said, "McCarey, you go to the barracks. There are some empty bunks in barracks C, upstairs. In the morning I'll get you an escort to the big house."

"There'sno chance of----------- "

"None.Now, hightail it out the back door and down the path there to the barracks. Carry on."

Timnodded and went out the back of the pavilion. He stood in the darkness and waited until the colonel started talking again. When the ceremony seemed under way, Tim started into the jungle.

Themoonlight dropped down harsh and thin through the trees. Tim pushed by yards and yards of dark silhouettes as he tried to keep on one of the paths. The bright colors of the jungle were grayed and there was a moist quiet all around him.

Hepassed under what looked like drooping stalks of bananas. Stumbling, he bumped into a thicket of dry bamboo and set it to clattering.

Timstopped and tried to get a fix on the main house. He was certain he had seen it earlier, seen its lights through the jungle.

Aswirl of wind shook fat, dead orchids down on him. Slapping the sticky flowers off his coat, Tim started for a path that led off the one he was on.

Andthen, far ahead and dead white, the great three-story Victorian house showed. Tim could see patches of twisted gingerbread and poised gargoyles. There were lights on, windows filled with yellow. He halted among spiky ferns and brushed the last of the orchids off his sleeve.

Behindhim, distantly, a crashing started. It sounded as though a piece of heavy machinery had broken loose and was rolling down at him. Tim turned. He spotted no sign of anything behind him, but the crashing and shaking grew louder.

"Getover here," said a girl's voice.

Timspun and saw her. "Beg pardon?"

Thegirl caught his arm. "This way, and be quiet." She pulled him off the path and then through a stretch of thorny brush. She brought him finally to a small clearing circled by a dozen alpine-style cottages. The girl ran across a cobblestone path and into the nearest cottage. Tim followed her.

Thegirl shut the thick door as soon as he was inside, locked it and bolted it. She was a slim brunette, wearing a short blue robe. "There, now."

Timnoticed the fire in the narrow fireplace and moved nearer to it. "I guess you saved me from something."

"Yes,"she said. "Hold it for a minute."

Aheavy object thanked at the door, then another.

Thegirl grinned a quirky grin and leaned back against the bolted cottage door. "He's only throwing rocks tonight; so that won't be much of a problem." The door rattled under another smack. "My name is Carrie Conner. I'm a private secretary here. Are you a trespasser or a poacher?"

"Nope,I'm Tim McCarey. I work for Conglobe Facilities, and I came down to see about renting the jungle. I'm supposed to have an appointment. Which Belgraf are you secretary to?"

Carrieran her slender fingers through her dark hair and grinned once again. "Clement Belgraf." One more rock hit the door. "Like a cup of coffee while you're waiting?"

Henoticed a fringe of white lace under the edge of the robe. "Could you tell me first why I'm waiting?"

"Yourappointment is with Vincent Belgraf, isn't it?"

"Right,"said Tim, "and it was originally for seven tonight."

Shecrossed to an eagle-footed phone table and punched on the vidphone. It whirred, but the saucer-sized screen stayed blank. Then, for a moment, a blurred picture of Peg Leg Mintosh swinging his now-detached metal leg at a black man flashed on. "Things go blooey often here,". observed Carrie. "He's probably ripped down something again. You won't be able to get through to the house from here tonight."

"I'lljust go on up there, then."

"It'snot safe. May not be for several hours," said the girl. "Depends on his mood."

"Who?Was that some kind of wild animal I almost ran into?"

"Somethinglike that," she said. "Do you know much about dreams?"

"I'vehad them," said Tim. "Look, is it always this difficult to keep an appointment with Vincent Belgraf?"

"It'susually impossible to even get an appointment," answered Carrie. "I'd bet they have another reason for letting you in. You'll find out when you see them."

"Andwhy it's not safe to go outside at night?"

Shegrinned. "Probably. Do you absolutely have to get back to L.A. tonight?"

"No."

Goinginto the kitchen, she said, "Good, come along and I'll tell you about this dream I had this morning." She flipped on the lights. "I was dreaming I'd rented a bicycle. I didn't have the right change, and then the rental office blurred—you know the way they do—and I was playing tennis with a traffic cop. He was an android but he played a great game. I never know what these things mean." She dialed a pot of coffee on the cooking unit.

"Areyou under orders to keep me here?"

"Quitethe antithesis," she answered. "That's an old movie line. No, I'm not supposed to be out after twilight, either. I had a feeling I should open the door and look around. Good thing I did." She had high cheekbones, faint shadows beneath her eyes. She gave him a small, careful smile now.

"You'renot going to tell me any more about what is going on here?" "No." "OK."

"Howold are you, Tim?" 'Twenty-nine."

"You'renot a young boy flash or anything, then. Probably only an assistant to somebody."

"ToHarvey Dirks at Conglobe Facilities."

"Ithought so," said Carrie. The wall handed her the pot of fresh coffee and she carried it out of the kitchen. "You're too easy to put off—not that that's a bad thing, maybe even around here. You're not in charge of anything?"

"Nope."

"Myadvice is," said the pretty girl, "don't let these bastards get you down." "I was planning not to." "So was I once."

Hewatched her pour the coffee into two heavy tan mugs. "An uncle of mine used to have a dream book. But that was only to help him predict the future."

"Didit work?"

"Theonly thing he was infallible on was television soap operas. He sometimes could predict the story lines three weeks in advance."

"Notthe kind of talent you can immediately turn a buck with."

Shehanded him his coffee. "You can stay here tonight, OK?"

Timwatched as she sat in a vinyl morris chair. "OK."

"Outhere, though."

"Where?"

"Onthe window seat. It's really quite spacious," she said. "Would you like to sit by the fire and tell ghost stories?" "No."

"We'lltalk, then."

Timasked, "Look, is there any possibility that Belgraf will rent us his jungle?"

"Askthem." She gave a left-sided shrug. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Partof my job."

"Let'stalk and not ask questions." She sat on the round rug near the fireplace.

Afinal rock tapped at the cottage door and then there was the sound of something going away.

•   •   •

Theorange-and-blue macaw squawked up off the window-sill, and Tim rolled over to see Carrie standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse. She was holding a glass of tomato juice.

"Goodmorning," Tim said.

"Doyou always sleep with your coat and tie on?"

"Ithought we might be attacked again." He blinked his eyes, stood up, taking the glass of juice she held out to him.

"You'llhave to see Laura before you can get in to talk to Vincent Belgraf," Carrie said.

"Who'sshe?"

"LauraBelgraf, Clement's sister. Mr. Belgraf is their uncle."

Timlooked over his shoulder. The macaw was back on the sill watching him. "What time could I see her?"

"Rightnow. I made an appointment while you were sleeping." Carrie moved to the front door. "The John's off to the left there. I'm going on up to the house. I'm sure I'll run into you later in the day."

Thejungle outside was brightening in the morning sun, red and yellow flowers sparkled in among the palm trees.

Thepath to the big white house was paved with flagstones which gave a little underfoot.

Thetransplanted jungle stretched high all around Tim. Not watching, Tim almost stepped on a peacock. He dodged as the bird galloped away.

Fromsome distance behind him came a vague tramping sound. Not something following him. Maybe something doing down at the barracks.

Arounda turn in the path, there was a little old man spread-eagled on a patch of moss.

"Hey,"said Tim, running andkneeling by the white-suited man.

"Playingdead," the old man said. He had a pink face and tightly curling white hair. "Don't be alarmed." Tim helped him up. "You OK?"

"Yes,more's the pity. I'm Dr. Leonard Jackstone." He grunted to his feet. "How are you?" 'Tim McCarey."

"No,I said how areyou. Coming down with something, perhaps?"

"Idon't think so. Do I look sick?"

"Unfortunatelynot." He shook his round head. "Perhaps if I gave you a thorough examination, something would turn up—a nice complex disease."

"I'monly here for the day."

"Youwouldn't care to have your appendix out, on spec?" "I've had it out. Tonsils, too."

"Iget restless," said the old doctor. "Are you going up to the main house?"

"I'msupposed to see Laura Belgraf."

Thedoctor bobbed and smiled, taking Tim's arm. "That's good news." He squinted one eye and studied Tim's head. "Haven't had a good fracture to work on in over a year."

"Youexpect Miss Belgraf will fracture my skull in the course of our interview?"

"Shehas a fondness for projectiles. She once threw a complete set of Thackeray at me. And he was a prolific writer." He laughed softly. "It was a lark patching myself up."

"Howabout the men at the barracks?"

"Oncein a while we get a case of food poisoning. Mostly they go in for sprains and bruises."

"Howmany men are there down at the barracks?"

Thedoctor shook his head. "Here we are, at the house."

Directlyin front of them was the house—big and white, loaded down with gingerbread, gargoyles, stained glass, ironwork.

Andin the shadows of the wide front porch, an old striped swing was creaking slowly back and forth.

"That'sLaura," the doctor whispered. He tapped Tim's arm. "I'll be in cottage seven if you need me." He touched his forehead and bowed toward the dark figure on the swing. Then he hurried back into thé jungle.

"McCarey?"

"MissBelgraf?" Tim came to the foot of thewooden steps.

Shedidn't answer.

"I'mfrom Conglobe Facilities."

"Comeup here, McCarey."

"OK."

Thegirl on the swing was younger than he'd expected. Not more than 20. She was wearing white tennis shorts, a black jersey sweater and Japanese sandals. Her long blonde hair was tied back with a black ribbon. "What sort of work do you do for those people?"

"Junior-agentstuff, some public relations, publicity."

"Likea beer, McCarey?"

"Notat this time, no, ma'am."

"Howabout a Spanishomelet?"

'Thanks,I'm not hungry, Miss Belgraf."

Thegirl jumped up and stretched her arms over her head. Her jersey slid up and a band of smooth, tanned skin showed. "My office is inside, McCarey."

Thefront door of the house was open a fewinches and Laura Belgraf pushed inside.

Adeep-brown hallway stretched clear through the house, lost in dim sunlight and drifting dust at its end. Just inside the door was an umbrella rack held up by four plaster figures that resembled the Hearst Puck. A tarnished silver hat rack was thick with dusty bowlers and homburgs and one checkered golf cap with a union button stuck on the brim.

Laurastepped through a beadedcurtain, clacking green and blue glass beads.

Following,Tim found her seated in a swivelchair with her feet up on a closed rolltop desk. "What was it you wanted to see my uncle about, McCarey?"

Therewas a set of six television screens mounted in the wall above her desk. One showed two dozen men in unfamiliar green uniforms, made tiny by their distance from the camera, marching in what looked like another part of the Belgraf jungle. On the only other lighted screen, Peg Leg Mintosh, wearing a vinyl nightshirt and sitting on the edge of an aluminum cot, was interviewing two young men who were hefting opposite ends of a large case of dynamite.

"Iassume you know already, Miss Belgraf," Tim said, "I'm with Conglobe Facilities and we'd like to rent part of your jungle for filming. The project is a television series featuring Hunneker, the ape-man. Most of this was explained to somebody here by my boss's secretary."

Laurakicked one foot so that the sandal flipped off and somersaulted into her hand. "We might rent a portion of the jungle, though there are quite a few obstacles."

"Quitea bit else seems to be going on here now."

"You'revery observant, McCarey," she said. "Have you ever heard of my brother?"

"ClementBelgraf, yes. He used to participate in air races."

Laurastood. Hopping, she tugged the sandal back on. "A long time ago, McCarey, that was. He doesn't do that anymore." She was near a shuttered window and she rested her left hand lightly on the pane and stroked at the thin lines of sunlight that got through. "Clem is a very bright person. He's a first-rate political thinker. You probably haven't heard of his books."

"Doeshe write under bis own name?"

"Yes.I'll give you a copy of one of them." She crossed to a glass-dooredcabinet. After a moment she said, "Dam, dam." She dropped down on a flowered hassock and tapped one fist just below her small breasts. "I can't find the dam books."

"Ican ask at the public library."

"Notfor Clem's books. You can't get them, or even film-spool copies, at any of the so-called public libraries in south-em California. There's a conspiracy." She hunched and tossed her blonde hair once. "If you want to rent some of our jungle, you'll have to do us a favor. Frankly, McCarey, that's why we agreed to this interview at all. You are good at public relations and publicity and related areas."

"Especiallyrelated areas."

"Yes,I'm sure you're very good at publicity and propaganda. You'd have to be. We've just been thinking of trying to hire someone down from L.A. and then your call came."

"Wait,now," said Tim. "A job I already have, and I'm relatively happy with it."

"Still,you could spend a day or so here and give us some

advice and help," said the girl. "Otherwise, McCarey, I'm

afraid_____ "

"Yes,I could do that."

Lauralaughed and returned to her desk. "I'm glad." She handed him a large silver-plated key. "Use cottage six while you're here. I have to handle some things for Clem now, but I'll set up some meetings for you later in the day."

"OK,"said Tim. "Can I call Conglobe from here?" He pointed at the vidphone near the window.

"Usethe phone in your cottage, McCarey."

"It'sin working order?"

"Ofcourse." She turned and left the room through a doorway beyond the TV wall. The marching men were gone and the jungle field was empty. Peg Leg Mintosh was smacking a stick of dynamite against his knee.

Timleft the big old house.

Timtried his cottage phone again. Nothing happened. He watched the parade of elves that decorated the base of the table, then stood up.

Outside,he crossed over to the cottage he figured must be Dr. Jackstone's. He knocked on the door and waited.

Carrie'scottage was number three, across the clearing. She was still up at the main house.

Thedoor of the doctor's cottage snapped open and someone in a green uniform pushed Tim out of the way and ran across the clearing. The bright-gold epaulets flashed as the uniformed figure caught a low-hanging vine and pulled itself up. There were gold spurs on the slick boots.

Butinstead of hands, there were paws.

"Agorilla in a soldier suit," Tim said.

Insidethe doctor's place, there were magazines scattered across the living-room floor. "Dr. Jackstone?"

"Overhere," said the doctor dimly.

Timfound Jackstone behind a rolltop desk, with his head pinned in the lid. "Here." Tim forced the desk carefully open and pulled the flushed doctor out. "You all right?"

Dr.Jackstone felt his neck and the back of his head. "I'm afraid so."

"Wasthat a gorilla I saw rushing out of here?"

Thedoctor nodded. "He got mad. These weekly examinations are upsetting him more and more."

"Theyshouldn't let that thing run around loose if it's dangerous."

Thedoctor smiled. "Indeed?"

"CanI get you a glass of water or something?"

"No,no." The doctor reached into a white cabinet and took out a fistful of small pill bottles. "I'll try some of these."

Timbent and gathered up the magazines. They were all at least four years old. "I'm going to be staying here in cottage seven—for a while."

"Iimagined you might," said the doctor, shaking some round yellow pills into his cupped palm. He brought them up close to his left eye, then shook out three capsules from another bottle.

"Whatare my chances of getting to talk to the old Mr. Belgraf?"

"Ican't say. You never know."

"Well,"said Tim, "they all seem to feel that Clement has a lot to say about what goes on around here. Will I get a chance to see him?"

Dr.Jackstone tilted his hand and let the assortment of pills slide onto his tongue. He swallowed twice and said, "You just did. That was him—the gorilla in the uniform."

Timlowered himself to the leather-cushioned window seat. "I had the notion Clem Belgraf was a tall, skinny guy."

"Hewas," replied Dr. Jackstone, "before the operation."

"That'ssome side effect. What operation?"

Theround little doctor raked his fingers through the stiff

white curls at his temples. "It all began---------------- " he said.

Hisvidphone gave a raspy series of buzzes, and before the doctor reached it, Laura's face appeared on the screen. "Is McCarey there with you, Jackstone?"

"Yes,he is."

"Iwant to talk to him."

Timcame to the phone. 'Yes?"

"I'vebeen trying to contact you at your own cottage, McCarey."

"Speakingof breakdowns in communication, I can't seem to get a call out to Conglobe."

"Really?I can't imagine why not," said the blonde girl. She was rubbing one hand absently across her breasts, the tops of which just showed on the phone screen. "Listen, if you can get up here in ten minutes or so, you can talk to uncle. Please do." She clicked off.

"Goingto dash up to the main house now?"

"Yes.Am I likely to run into that gorilla again?"

"No,he's certain to be with his troops by now."

"Fine."Tim stepped out onto the bright-afternoon flagstones. "We'll have the rest of our talk later, Doctor."

"Yes.And if you go crazy with the heat, be sure and send for me." Jackstone waved and closed the door of his Cottage.

Timheard the porch swing creak, and then Laura was up and standing at the top step. She was wearing a pair of gray tapered slacks now and a sleeveless gold-colored blouse. Her blonde hair was still tied back with the black ribbon. "You have a funny idea of what ten minutes is, McCarey."

"Yes,several scientists are interested in the idea, and I'm planning to read a paper on it soon."

Thegirl wrinkled her nose. "You seem to grow surlier as the day progresses, McCarey."

"Sorry,ma'am," he said, reaching her side.

Lauragripped his elbow. "Inside."

Theywent farther down the dim brown hallway this time, stopping in front of a highly polished oak door.

Knocking,Laura called out, "It's McCarey, finally, Uncle Vincent."

Thedoor snapped open inward. "As to the jungle . . ." said Vincent Belgraf. He was a small, thin man, his shoulders dipped forward and his chest curved in. He had fine-spun white hair and was wearing a loose black suit. While Tim and Laura were coming into the room, he began pacing on the flowered throw rug in front of the empty fireplace. "There is," he continued, "just barely, the distinct possibility that a portion of the jungle might be rentable."

Lauraput Tim into a brown leather armchair. "Providing certain conditions are fulfilled," she said.

Theroom seemed all filing cabinets, old wooden ones, and framed photos. The photos were old, too, and Tim couldn't make out who the people grouped in any of them were. 'The condition being that I help you folks in some sort of PR way?"

VincentBelgraf widened the circle of his pacing until he brushed against a ball-footed wooden desk. "A day or so, almost certainly. We sincerely trust the period of extreme crisis will not exceed a day or so."

"Usuallywe don't," said Laura, putting her back flat against a tower of file drawers, "have visitors at all. We are able to keep out strangers."

"Tightsecurity," said Vincent Belgraf. "Who is your boss at Conglobe?"

"HarveyDirks."

Belgraftapped the desktop and found a memo pad. "We'll add that name to this wire."

"Itturns out our vidphone system is fouled up," said Laura.

"I'dnoticed," said Tim. "What's the wire say?"

Belgrafread it. "Negotiations rolling merrily along. Belgraf in jolly mood. Need a wee bit more time. Will report again in not too many days."

"You'vecaptured my style."

Tearingoff the memo sheet, Belgraf handed it to Laura. "See that that message gets on the bakery wagon this afternoon."

Laurafolded the note and slipped it into a slash pocket of her slacks. "We've decided to admit a few things, McCarey." Tim sat up. "Well, good."

OldBelgraf edged around behind his desk. "First off," he said, "our public relations are bad. The public has little or no idea about our ideals, our aims and goals."

"Thatstone wall probably discourages them," said Tim.

"Secondly,"continued Belgraf, "our propaganda isn't having as much of an effect as it should." He shook his head and his milk-white hair fluttered. "We have to step things up in the public-relations line."

"Inthe coming days," said Laura, "with your expert advice to help us, McCarey, our publicity and propaganda should shape up just fine."

Belgrafsfreckled hands were flapping, shuffling papers. "Expenses, expenses," he said. "Was there ever a great movement in history that didn't cost?"

"Abouttonight," Laura said.

"Theprice of liberty is high," said Belgraf. "Come to dinner tonight."

"Atseven," said Laura. "Cocktails first. We've sent clothes and such over to you."

"Money,"said Belgraf, sinking low into his swivel chair.

"Thankyou for your time, uncle," said Laura, motioning Tim up.

"Yes,"said Tim.

Outsidein the hallway, Laura said, "Be on your toes tonight, wear a dark suit and try not to be too surly." "OK," he said. "Why?" "You're going to meet Clem."

•   •   •

Itwas the first time Tim had seen a gorilla in a dinner jacket. He looked from Laura to her uncle, then reached out and shook hands with the gorilla. "Glad to meet you,. Mr. Belgraf."

"Clem,"said the gorilla in a deep, slightly burred voice. "We're all friends here."

ClementBelgraf seemed real. The hand was harsh and furry and the head didn't look like a prop. Tim hadn't been able to talk to Dr. Jackstone again, since the doctor had gone off to tend to the troops. And Carrie didn't seem to be around anywhere. So Tim hadn't been able to find out exacdy why he appeared to be a gorilla. "Clem it is," he said.

Theliving room was large, with a high, beamed ceiling. There were Navajo rugs on the buff-colored plaster walls and a fringed Spanish shawl hung on the closed grand piano near the French windows. In the center of the room, there were three sofas, old and fat, set at angles around a clear spot of hardwood floor. "A Beefeater martini?" asked old Vincent Belgraf, sitting on the green sofa.

Clemtook the black sofa. "Just a little Cutty Sark for me, Laura, with hardly any ice."

Lauramoved to a portable bar near Tim. "McCarey?"

Hewas watching Clem, trying to spot any seams or zippers.

"Begpardon?"

"Todrink?"

"Scotchis fine."

Laurastepped to the automatic portable bar and depressed the proper drink-ordering keys. The copper-plated unit lurched suddenly to the left and began singing, "Roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun." It rolled away from the girl and wheeled twice around the piano. It bounced over a throw rug, and Scotch began to spout straight up from one of its spigots. "This is table number one, number one," it sang. Then it stopped spouting and came to a stop beside Laura. "Would you mind repeating that order?"

"Boughtsecondhand from a bankrupt caterer," said old Belgraf. "An economy measure and perhaps a mistake."

"Wecan always afford," observed the gorilla, "to go first-cabin."

Laura,who was wearing a simple black cocktail dress that pushed her breasts slightly together, ordered the drinks a second time. The machine produced them. Handing two to Tim, the girl said, "It's the butler's night off. Mind taking that one to Clem?"

"Sure,fine."

ClemBelgraf s left paw was coarse and furry, too. "Thank you," he said, taking the drink. The hand was warm, which a gorilla suit wouldn't be.

Theliving-room door opened. Tim turned, hoping Carrie might be coming to dinner, too. It was a tall, thick paratrooper in a green uniform. The uniform consisted of green paratrooper pants with silver jump boots, a green shirt and black tie and a green blouse with silver piping. The man's cap was silver-visored and he wore it crushed down on the back of his round, crew-cut head. "How do you work the crapping oven?" he asked.

Clemdropped his glass and jumped up. An odd rumble sounded in his chest. "Corporal Wilkie, your manner of entry is far from correct"

Wilkiesaluted and came nearer. "Sorry, chief, but the crapping oven won't light. It's not like the mess stove." He noticed Tim and smiled tentatively at him. "I've got a lovely roast, but it won't do any good if the oven is on the fritz."

Standing,Vincent Belgraf said, "Come along, Wilkie. I'll straighten it out." He moved between Clem and the corporal and backed Wilkie toward the door.

"I'llsee you at my office at oh seven hundred tomorrow," Clem said, his arms arching out at his sides and his nostrils enlarging.

"Notif you want breakfast," said Wilkie. "You get rid of the cook and rush me into the gap, you've got to make allowances."

'Tothe kitchen," said Vincent Belgraf quietly and nudged Wilkie out through the doorway.

Clemspun around and glared at Tim. His eyes were yellow and bloodshot. They narrowed and he brought a paw up in front of them.

"Sitdown, Clem," said Laura, "and I'll get you a new drink."

Thegorilla noticed the unbroken glass on the slick floor and kicked it away with his opera-slippered foot. He dropped to the black sofa. "We have something of a servant problem," he said finally to Tim.

Laurabrought a new glass of iceless Scotch to Clem, patting his arm. "That's just Wilkie's way."

"It'sa question of discipline."

"You'lladjust him in time," the girl said. She knelt and wiped up the spilled Scotch with a bar towel.

Thegorilla rested a paw on her bare back and tilted his large head to one side. "Laura's a lovely girl, isn't she?"

"Well,yes," agreed Tim.

"Well,thank you, McCarey," said Laura as she rose. Clem made a coughing sound and jiggled his head. He poked at his black bow tie with a thick finger. "It goes on quietly even while we sit here," he said. "The invisible conquest. They've gotten to more cooks and domestics than you think."

"They?"asked Tim.

Lauraseated herself next to Tim. "Certain elements."

"Doyou realize," said Clem, "that they control sixty-five percent of all outdoor swimming pools. Not to mention nearly all Jewish delicatessens and at least one large toothpaste company."

Timsaid, "Who?"

"Yousee how simple it will be," continued Clem, rocking, "when the order is given. Missiles, bombs, rockets." He laughed suddenly. "Forget bombs and planes and radar. Forget food-supply stockpiles and tin hats. They control seventy percent of our five-and-ten-cent stores already, and their control creeps increasingly. Theyown two or perhaps, more frighteningly, three motorcycle companies. Our do-nothins government knows it, too. They also won a major frozen-food company. They simply won't need open warfare.

Theycan skulk on cat feet." Clem's giant fingers scurried off his lap and around the sofa cushions. "When the order is given, and given it -will be, theysimply put their plan into effect. They may well be, unheeded by our ostrichesque government, putting it into effect right now. Germs, brainwashes, little tricks. That's them. You dive into the pool and come up a hopeless slave. You bite into a seemingly innocent hot pastrami sandwich and your mind is no longer your own. You jump up in the morning and brush your teeth with their insidious toothpaste and it attacks your gums and, before you know it, you've lost your patriotism and, if they use a certain formula long since perfected, your virility as well."

"Thisis some Communist movement you're talking about?" Tim asked.

Clemlaughed again. "You, too," said the gorilla. "You believe exactly what they want you to. The poor, simple Commies, a lot they know."He rocked with laughter now and fell back with his hairy hands flapping and his wide, flat feet thumping the hard floor. "You poor, simple man. The Commies are dupes like the rest of our so-called politicians."

"Iwanted McCarey to read some of your books," Laura said.

"Ihad to rip up many of them," said Clem, his laughter fading. To Tim he added, "They've gotten to the printers. I noticed,on rereading, that they'd made them put in a great number of typographical errors that did grave damage to the logical development of my exposé." Clem'spaws became large black fists. "Logic, logic, damn them, is all they'll listen to. You have to think, use your intellect, make them think in turn." He paused. "By them, inthis context, I meanthe so-called public, the self-styled masses."

"We'vejust installed our own printing press," Laura said. "There shouldn't be any more trouble."

"Ifthey don't get to Rasmussen," said Clem.

"Rasmussenis our printer."

"Now,"said Tim, "how is it exactly you'd like me to help?"

"Laura'sbeen getting up a dossier on you and she says you're ninety percent clean, which is all we can hope for. They've got control of a good part of Hollywood, too. But Laura says you're OK."

"Thanks,"said Tim.

Laurasmiled along the rim of her glass. "We don't have to go into specifics tonight, Clem. McCarey will be getting together with me in the morning."

Clemchuckled. "I feel confident, Laura."

VincentBelgraf came quietly back and resumed his sofa. "It may take some time for dinner. Wilkie insists on the roast."

"Iwonder," said the gorilla, "if they've gotten to Wilkie." He steepled his fingers and closed one eye thoughtfully.

•   •   •

Atthe head of the dinner table, the gorilla rested his elbows on the bright white cloth. His lips flared up over his teeth and he said, "Everybody is willing to concede that democracy has had its chance."

OldVincent Belgraf rotated his wineglass between his palms and glanced toward the swing door to the kitchen. 'The notion that this is a republic we live in is outmoded as well."

Thegorilla's head bobbed positively. "An empire," he said, beaming down at Tim. "I see," said Tim. "Virility," said Laura. "Beg pardon?"

"Anemperor must have virility," the girl explained. "He must be an image of forcefulness and masculinity."

"Events,"said Clem, leaning back in the chair. "Events are on the move and the new leader must step forth."

"Peoplewant answers," said Belgraf. He asked Tim, "Do you think we should include television in our propaganda plans? It's costly."

Clemwaved a paw in Tim's direction. "Yes, what's your feeling on that?"

"Youmean, you'd appear on TV?"

"I'dinsist on a full half hour to myself," said the gorilla. "Commercials are too restrictive."

Timstudied his fork. "Yeah, a whole show would be more effective."

"You'recoming up with some good suggestions already," said Belgraf. He made a low sighing sound and slid his chair sideways, rising up carefully. "It's been a half hour since the chicken gumbo soup. I'll see what's delaying Wilkie." He shuffled into the kitchen.

"You'renot getting a good impression of the efficiency of our setup," Laura said, smiling across the wide table.

Clem'steeth clicked and his eyes grew wide. His head ticked and he grunted. "I'm losing my patience. I'm losing my patience."

Thekitchen door swung loudly open and Wilkie appeared. He was in uniform still but had added a chefs hat with CHIEF COOK AND BOTTLE WASHER embroideredon it. "This needling of me has got to knock off," he said. "I can't cook with people always looking over my shoulder."

Laurainhaled sharply. "It's all right, Clem."

Hischair somersaulted away and landed on its side at the temporary chefs feet. The gorilla raised his arms high and then, lunging, loped for Wilkie.

"Oh,boy," said Wilkie. He dodged into the dining room, heading for the French windows.

Clemroared and dived. He caught Wilkie, knocked him down and jumped on his back.

Wilkiesaid, "Oof."

Thegorilla snatched the man up, hugged him and bounced him harshly up and down, then spun him overhead and nipped him. Wilkie was briefly on the table, his limp body made a C andthen he thudded onto the floor.

Clemraised his arms again, threw his black tie at Laura, smashed through the French windows and went crashing away into the darkness.

VincentBelgraf stepped in from the kitchen. "He's very excitable," he said calmly. "Many great men are."

Laurashook her head, her face was pale and she kept swallowing. "You really aren't getting a good impression of our household operations, McCarey."

"I'llcall Dr. Jackstone," said Tim, dropping down next to Wilkie.

CorporalWilkie seemed to be still breathing.

•   •   •

Twoprivates in green-and-silver fatigues carried the stretcher into the dark jungle. Dr. Jackstone watched, perched on the porch rail. He rocked roundly back and forth, absently depressing his tongue with a thumb-shaped wooden stick and humming, "Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah."

Timand the doctor were alone on the shadowy porch of the Belgraf house. "So how is Wilkie?"

"Alittle shock," said Jackstone, sliding the depressor into his coat pocket. "The wind's been knocked out of him, that's about all. More's the pity."

"Isit a good idea to send him down to the infirmary tonight?" Tim asked, swinging himself up on the rail next to the doctor. "Clement is still out there someplace, roaming around."

"Thereis the possibility that he'll do something drastic to the other two fellows," said Dr. Jackstone. "There's always that hope. Anyway, Laura doesn't think it'sa good idea to leave Wilkie here tonight. Clem will eventually calm down and come back home. She doesn't want him to get upset all over again."

Glancingback at the closed front door, Tim said, 'That gorilla really is Clement Belgraf?"

Jackstonefished his stethoscope out of an inside pocket of his white suit and hooked it over his plump neck. "Clem is my greatest medical triumph," he said. "But not one medical journal has ever written it up. Remember Dr. Dafoe—-the bundle of money he made just for delivering five little French-Canadian girls? Nothing to that."

"ButClem?"

"Youremember him from his racing days?" "Vaguely," said Tim.

"Somefour years ago, Clem, as a result of a discussion with his Uncle Vincent over the communistic nature of income tax, got interested in politics. At first he contented himself with the wide variety of groups that the Los Angeles area has to offer." Jackstone listened to his own chest for a moment. "The main thing wrong with these other groups was that they already had leaders. Clem Belgraf, you know, is a born leader. Thus, with Vincent Belgraf s backing, he began to recruit his own group. Simple political agitation wasn't enough, and the army idea followed. Barracks were erected here and the wall built around the estate."

"Thatwas about the time Belgraf stopped renting out the jungle."

"Theynever really needed the rental fees," said Dr. Jack-stone. "With Clem and his army, there was excitement around all the time, not just on the occasions when Hollywood came down and Hunneker or somebody was swinging from limb to limb."

"OK,"said Tim, "I understandabout the army now. Not the gorilla."

"Oh,this is a new army," Jackstone said. "The original,was only a few dozen fellows Clem gathered up from unemployment lines—race bums, garage hangers-on, surfers. The problem was that Clem, the old Clem, was a stubborn and violent sort of person. One evening his army gave up on the whole idea. Back at that juncture, I was simply the family doctor, having a practice of my own on the outside."

"Theseguys turned on Clem? Jumped him?"

Thedoctor spun the listening piece of the stethoscope by its tube. "That's right. He looked like the residue of a street rumble when I got here. The troops had, by that time, scattered to the winds. They even burned part of the old barracks. Clem himself was dying."

"Where'dthe gorilla come from?"

"Yes,the gorilla," said Jackstone. "As part of his jungle collection, Vincent Belgraf had a small zoo. It consisted, at the period of Clem's accident, of a leopard, two elderly lions, four ostriches, a zebra and a gorilla. Plus a few tailless monkeys and an anteater." The doctor smiled, his eyes nearly closing. "I'd always had a hankering to transplant a brain. It was a hobby I'd fooled with for decades, ever since my student days at Stanford Medical. Here, then, at last, was the opportunity. Clem couldn't possibly survive, even by rushing him the twenty-two miles to the nearest hospital. I therefore suggested saving at least his brain, which, happily enough, was in tip-top shape."

"Theyagreed, just like that?"

"Ofcourse," said Jackstone. "They admired his intellect as much as the rest of him. Laura was just seventeen then. Clem was twenty-five. He was her favorite heroic figure, her favorite philosopher as well. Yes, both Uncle Vincent and Laura agreed to let me try a transplant. I'd hoped for a human being. The troops, as I've said, were off and running. The butler was in his late sixties and hardly the leader type. That left the animals. A gorilla isn't the best bet for a brain transplant, you know." The doctor shrugged. "But Clem as a leopard or a zebra was absolutely out of the question. A gorilla it had to be."

"Howcome he can talk and all?"

Jackstone'seyes widened and he grinned. "All due to my work. This little medical trick here is one of the wonders of modern science." He sighed. "But not one journal or popular big-circulation magazine will ever know of it."

"How'dhe get the new troops?"

"WhileClem was adjusting to his new self, he began writing, putting his views into book form. His point of view, having an answer for every current problem, attracted some. The rest have been recruited by the Belgrafs. The pay is very good."

"Doyou think the present army will be more loyal than the last batch?"

Thedoctor pressed his chubby fingers in among his stiff white curls. "There could be more trouble. Clem, as you must realize by now, has not mellowed with the years. He is, in fact, becoming more and more like the darned gorilla, if not worse."

Thefront door creaked, swung in. "McCarey?"

Timdropped from the rail onto the porch.

"I'llbe getting to my new patient," said Dr. Jackstone. "Good night, all."

Timsaid good night and went in to see what Laura wanted.

•   •   •

Therewas no moonlight, and the shortcut path to the cottages grew narrower and narrower. "You have to admit, McCarey," said Laura, up ahead of him on the dark trail, "that it's thoughtful of me."

"Yes,"said Tim.

Somehow,there was an iron-grillwork bench a little off the overgrown path, nudged back in among flat-leaved bushes. When Tim caught up, Laura was sitting on the bench, her legs crossed and one black shoe swinging from her toe.

"Howmany other clients," she said, "would show you a quick way home after a business dinner?"

"You'rethe first client who's ever guided me through a jungle at eleven o'clock at night," said Tim, stopping. "I don'tknow much about woodlore, but shouldn't you keep your shoes on?"

Thegirl shrugged one shoulder, and the shoes arced free and fell into the high grass. "McCarey," she said, "something really funny."

"What?"

"Iactually like you, McCarey." Tim watched her, nodding.

"Notthis surface personality you have," Laura continued,

"whichI imagine is applied to you by your Hollywood bosses."

"Twocoats of personality and one of varnish."

"It'sthe you underneath I like, McCarey." She cupped her hands over her knee and smiled. "I like the shape of your head, too. McCarey, as soon as we get the propaganda off the ground, we'll have more spare time."

Aripe orange hit the free side of the bench, and rind fragments splashed Laura and Tim. Tim spun around but could see no one. After the orange came a banana and five papayas.

Laurahad jumped up. Finding her shoe, she said, "He's watching us." Her ponytail flicked at her bare shoulders as she shook her head. "He gets very excited meeting new people sometimes. It means you made a good impression on him."

"That'sClem out there?"

"He'llcalm down," Laura said. She braced herself against him with one hand and tugged on her black shoe. "Wilkie angered him. Clem has to work out his anger and excitement." She stood free and called, "Clem, it's all right." To Tim she said, "Go on down the path. You'll find your cottage with no trouble."

"You'restaying here?"

"I'lltalk to him and he'll come home eventually." She touched Tim's arm. "Be at the house at nine in the morning. And don't forget what I've said, McCarey."

"No,ma'am."

Timstarted away. A mushy orange hit him hard in the back, but he didn't turn around.

Timhad sponged Clem-flung orange from the back of the suitcoat and hung it over the shower-curtain rod. From his overstuffed chair in the main room of the cottage, he could see one dark sleeve hanging. He lunged up and closed the bathroom door.

Allthe framed prints on the cottage walls were of alpine scenes. Tim wandered around and looked at each one and then hunkered down in the chair again. He lit a new cigarette from the old one and started counting the roses in the painted trim that circled the room a foot from the floor. There were dark old books in the bookcase, which was rose-colored with simulated knotholes. Tim didn't feel like

reading.It was 12 o'clock midnight Someone tapped lightly on the door. "Friend or gorilla?" he said, not moving. "Tim," said a girl's voice, "you still up?" Tim grinned and went to the door.

Itwas Carrie. She had a coffeepot in one hand. "Like a cupof coffee?"

"Iwas thinking about it. Come in." She did and he closed the door.

"Youhave a kitchen here, you know," said Carrie, walking toward a door with spiraling twining flowers painted all over it. "Right in there."

"Yeah,"said Tim, "but all the pots have rosebuds on them and there're elves and gnomes all over the walls."

"Suspectingyou might feel that way, I brought coffee in from the outside." She went into the kitchen. "All the coffee cups have Tyrolean landscapes on them," she called. "Is that going to bother you?"

"I'llput up with it," he said. "Where were youall day?"

"Ihave my own Utile office up on the second floor of the house."

"Youdidn't come to dinner."

"Idon't eat with the family."

"Neitherdid I, as it turned out."

Carriebrought in two cups of coffee. "I heard Clem dismissed another cook, huh?"

"Thanks,"said Tim, taking a cup and nodding at a rattan chair."Something I'm wondering, Carrie."

Sheseated herself, straight, with her knees tight together. "I know—what's a nicegirl like me doing in a place like this?"

"Yes,that's it."

"Iknew Clem before," she said. "So?"

"Heknows some things about me," Carrie said. "They need a good secretary here. I'm one. That's all." "Is Clem forcing you to stay?"

"Sometimewe'll talk about it. Not tonight, not now," she said.

Timstayed standing. "They never mention that he's a gorilla,"he said finally.

"Heisn't to them," said Carrie. "Clem is the answer to' too many of their problems. They have to see him differently."

"Istill don't know why you stay." "And what's keeping you here?" "It's my job to get the jungle if I can," Tim said. "That's everybody's favorite reason," the girl said. "I only work here."

'Tonight,right after Clem pitched an orange at me, I thought of walking out on this. Back in L.A., though, I'd have to tell them something."

"Youlike the job?"

Timsaid, "I don't like people who tell you about their childhood the first time they meet you. Still, I'm considering doing it."

"Thisis the second or third time you've met me," said Carrie. "Go ahead."

"Well,I had an uncle—on my mother's side—Uncle Norman," said Tim. He drank some coffee, paced. "He had a job in an ornamental-iron shop until the 1940s and then he quit. He was going to be a professional ballplayer. He was thirty-three and weighed two hundred pounds. For a ballplayer only five feet, five inches tall, that's a little too much weight."

'Theycould have nicknamed him Slim or something," said Carrie. "Ballplayers go in for nicknames a lot."

"Theydidn't nickname him anything. He never made it and he kept drifting around. To drift for something like twenty-two years, that's an accomplishment. He died in 1976. He was living in San Francisco, in a hotel room in the Tenderloin. My father paid for the funeral." Tim stopped behind Carrie's chair.

"Yourfather probably always said something like 'If you don't watch out, you'll end up like your Uncle Norman,' huh?"

"Sure,everybody with an Uncle Norman has heard that. I know it's not a code to live by. 'Yes, boys and girls, I've always lived by this simple principle: Don't end up like your Uncle Norman.' Still, here I amdoing PR for a gorilla."

Carriereached down and placed her coffee cup on a jigsaw table. She turned in her chair until she was kneeling in it facing him. "My principle is much simpler: You've got to watch out so the bastards don't get you."

Tim'sshoulders ached suddenly and he reached out and rested his hands on the girl's. "That's sound advice."

"Ittops Uncle Norman."

Hekissed her, letting go her hands, gently resting his

palmsflat on her back.

•   •   •

Onone of the screens above Laura's desk, Peg Leg Min-tosh was sitting on an inflated sofa next to a black man with a guitar. "Not all colored boys are troublemakers, friends," Mintosh was saying. "Here's one who isn't a member of any terrorist group, and he's hardly a leftie at all. You regular viewers of our little news marathon should already know this fellow. He is no less than Blind Sunflower Slim, the last of the great darky bluesmen. How's your infirmity today, Slim?"

"Can'tcomplain, Mr. Peg Leg."

"Slimhere, friends, was born with his handicap and didn't

acquire it by defending the rights of the many against the

distorted dreams of a few in the pestilential jungles of re-

mote Brazil. Nevertheless, he's no slouch. Before we get to

talking about the news, let's have a tune, Slim."                            ^

"Gladto oblige, Mr. Peg Leg," said Blind Sunflower Slim. He began to sing, "I had a dream last night that the whole round world was mine. Yes, baby, I had a dream last night about the whole round world was mine. But when I woke up this morning, mamma, well, I still didn't have a dime."

Thesound shut off as Laura entered the room. "Good morning," Tim said.

"Asto the Negro . . ." said Laura Belgraf, letting the rainbow sunlight that came through the stained-glass window of her office fall across the lower half of her body.

"WhichNegro?" asked Tim. Laura placed him in a coarse-materialed morris chair and gave him a thick yellow legal tablet and six highly sharpened pencils.

Theblonde girl stretched her arms up, made a yawning sound. She was wearing lemon-yellow shorts and a pale-blue jersey, and the stretching brought her navel into view. "The Negro,"Laura said. "I mean the Negro in general, McCarey."

Hewatched the navel until Laura lowered her arms and it disappeared. "Negroes in general?"

"Clemhasn't decided what to do with them when he takes over the country," she said. Sidestepping out of her sandals, she slid barefoot across the rug to her rolltop desk. "You know about his plan to solve unemployment once he's in control?"

"Nope."

"He'sgoing to put all the unemployed to work." "Say," said Tim, "that'll do it, won't it?" Laura frowned. "It's how Clem's going to do it that's the brilliant part, McCarey." "OK, how?"

"He'sgoing to put them to work building concentration camps." "Oh, so?"

Lauraswiveled in her chair and spread her left-hand fingers out. She ticked them off one by one, saying, "The Jews, of course. You really can't have a concentration camp without them."

Timreminded himself that he was here to rent a jungle.

"Thenthe Chinese," said Laura, touching another fingertip. "They're all Communists, anyway. Then probably the Japs, though we might need them to keep gardens up and things like that." Laura smiled some. "The Russians, naturally. I guess that's it so far. The Negro we're not decided on yet."

"Theseyou-know-who people," Tim said, "the 'they' Clem refers to—who, exactly, are they?"

Thegirl shook her head. "That's classified, McCarey. The details are, I mean." Tapping the side of her head, she said, "Clem carries a good deal of that top-secret material in his mind. Don't worry, you don't need all the details in order to write stuff for us. Shall I get on about the Negro?"

"Sure,"he said.

"Well,Clem is torn between putting them in concentration camps or eliminating them," Laura said. "See, none of the other inmates would want to be in the same concentration camp with Negroes. You can't blame them for that. Building separate but equal concentration camps may prove too costly."

Sheadded sharply, "Take a few notes, McCarey."

"Yes,ma'am." He chose a pencil from the batch fanned out on the table next to him, held it up to her.

Thegirl turned and leaned forward, tugging at the roll-top. The desk opened and Laura said, "I'll give you copies of our most recent propaganda, and then you can get a better idea of our general philosophy."

"WouldCarrie Dormer have any files I should see?" he asked.

"No."Laura stood, fists filled with small pamphlets of many colors. "That's right. It was Carrie who set up your

firstmeeting with me. You spent the night with her." "Not exactly."

"Ican imagine. Have you been seeing her?" "We nod on the way to work."

Shecrossed and flipped the booklets and pamphlets into his lap. "If I think youshould talk to Carrie, I'll tell you about it. Right now, remember, I'm in the process of growing fond of you."

"Iknow," said Tim.

"Youstill do want the jungle, don't you?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh, that reminds me." She slid her hand flat into the waist of her shorts and drew out a folded telegram. "From your boss. I'll read it to you. 'Sounds good, Tim. Be positive and enthusiastic and you'll win out. Know you can. Counting on you. (Signed) Harvey.'" She tucked the refolded wire away. "Be enthusiastic, McCarey, and you'll get just what you want."

Timgathered the booklets and pamphlets together and slapped them inside the notebook. "Fine."

Lauraswung down and rested her palms on the arms of his chair. "I really do like the shape of your head, McCarey. You must have a wonderful skull."

"Well,I have gotten rather fond of it myself."

Laurasighed. "Darn, I have to go confer with Uncle Vincent now. I'll be getting back with you this afternoon, McCarey." She kissed him on the forehead. "Yes, I'm very fond of you."

Aftershe'd gone out the side door between the bookcases, Tim rose up quietly. He moved to the bead-screened doorway to the hall and listened. If it looked clear, he'd try to get upstairs and see Carrie. She'd told him her office was someplace up there.

Onestep into the hall and a paw grabbed him.

"Justwho I'm looking for," said Clem. "Come along."

Timwent along.

•   •   •

Abruptly,the path became paved with flagstones. The jungle thinned and the sounds of marching grew louder.

Clemloped ahead of Tim and stopped at a rise. He swept his silver-visored cap off and beckoned to Tim with it "Come and look. You're here during a splendid week."

Timstopped at the gorilla's side and looked down. In a

clearingbelow were, at the farthest edge, a half-dozen two-story army-style barracks, plus three Quonset huts and a recreation hall. On a parade ground, some 60 men in green and silver were being drilled by a man who seemed to be Colonel Granger. Nearer to Tim and Clem, some 50 yards away, was a half-built review stand. "Going to be a parade?" Tim asked the gorilla.

"Exactly,"said Clem with a deep chuckle. "Day after tomorrow. I've arranged for you to be seated right on the reviewing stand with the officials and dignitaries."

"Willthere be guests coming in?"

Clemput his high-peaked cap back on. "A few sympathetic political figures from the surrounding areas, yes."

"Howmany troops do you have here in all?"

Thegorilla's head turned. "Exact figures are classified. I'll tell you what sort of numbers to use in our publicity." He grimaced. "How's the campaign coming?"

"Rightalong," said Tim.

"Good.We'll have a big conference tomorrow." The gorilla's lips puckered and he rolled his eyes. "Do you think we can run off a pamphlet in time for the parade?"

"Ifyour printer will cooperate."

"Rasmussenwill cooperate."

"Iwas wondering," said Tim, watching the troops do a to-the-rear march. "Would it be OK for me to check things out with your secretary? It might speed the work up in case I can't locate something."

"WithCarrie, you mean?"

"Yes."

"No,"said the gorilla. "There's a great load of correspondence. Carrie has to devote all her time to that. You've met my secretary, have you?"

"WhenI first got here."

"She'stoo busy for much social conversation," said Clem. "She's a very complex girl, Carrie is. I've known her a long time."

"Isee," Tim said.

"Iwanted you to see the work in progress," said Clem, extending one paw, palm up, toward the uncompleted stand. "That's going to be an inspiring place to watch a parade from, isn't it?"

"Itis."

"Good,"said the gorilla. "I have to join my men now. Can

youget on back to the house on your own?" "No trouble," said Tim.

Clemheld out his right paw. "Damn glad you're aboard." He shook hands and clicked his heels. Then he pivoted and galloped downhill toward the marching troops.

Timturned away. Despite the gorilla's polite warning, Tim wanted to look in on Carrie.

Nearthe big Victorian house, a voice called him. "Come into my office for a moment and take a look at some charts and graphs." It was old Vincent Belgraf, waving from his study window.

"Belgrafs,Belgrafs everywhere," Tim said to himself, returning the wave.

Thedusty grandfather clock made a gear-shifting sound and chimed once. Vincent Belgraf cocked his head, pronging his silver watch out of its pocket and studying it. "What say to some lunch?" he asked Tim.

Timblinked and sat up. He was half-buried in blueprints and charts. He said, "Yes, if we're finished here." He stood slowly, the charts falling away from him and rustling like giant dead leaves.

"No,no," said Belgraf. "Nevertheless, we have to keep ourselves in good condition. We'll break, therefore, for lunch." He rested a thumb against Tim's shoulder. "You won't mind potluck in the kitchen? We're in transition between cooks, you know."

"Sure,that's OK."

Movingdown the brown hallway, Belgraf said, "Listen to this." He stopped and jumped in the air, landing flat-footed. "This house is over a hundred years old. Yet it's still sturdy and solid. They built them to last in Sanford Belgrafs day. Ever wonder why houses aren't built like this in our so-called modern times?"

"No,"said Tim.

"Theydidn't have income taxes then"—he bit his thin, dry lower lip—"that's the reason." He tried another leap. "Not a creak. This house is solid." He massaged his ribs. "It unsettles me a little, though."

Timrested back against a dark wood wall, to watch in case Belgraf did any more jumping. "Sanford Belgraf," he said, "he was in the railroad business, wasn't he?"

"Theycalled him the Jack Harkaway of railroading," said Belgraf. "Jack Harkaway was a famous old-English highwayman. Yes, Sanford Belgraf was one of California's favorite robber barons. People love tycoons, you know, despite what today's crybaby government says." The old man exhaled sadly and moved on.

Laurawas already in the long, cool, pale-blue kitchen. The kitchen was bright and new, with everything built into the walls. Laura was still wearing the lemon-colored shorts, but she'd gotten rid of the jersey and was wearing a vinyl halter. "I started without you two," she said. "Thought you'd be holed up all afternoon." She was hunched on a chrome-and-blue-Ieather kitchen stool, eating a sandwich.

OldVincent Belgraf smiled at his niece. "I believe I'll have some of my canned figs," he said. He shuffled to a door with the word PANTRY letteredon it in illuminated script. He opened the door and then his steps sounded on wooden stairs.

"Pantry'sway down under the house," said Laura. "What would you like for lunch?"

"Sandwichwill be OK," Tim said, noticing a plate of them on the kitchen table.

"Takeone. It's tuna and mustard, which I like. Is that OK with you, McCarey?"

Hetook a sandwich. "Sure."

Laurastraightened and stretched her legs out in front of her. "Would you believe it, McCarey?" "Believe what?"

"Inthe few hours since I last saw you, I've grown even fonder of you." She finished her sandwich and touched her fingertips to her hps.

Downin the pantry there was a scuffling and tottering and a muffled crash. "What the hell?" Tim moved to the pantry door.

"It'sjust Uncle Vincent falling off his ladder," Laura said. "Come back here, McCarey." "I'll go help him."

"No,no," said Laura, "he's always falling off things. Helping him up only wounds his pride. The Belgrafs are a proud, fierce race, McCarey. It will take him a few minutes to right himself. Come here."

Tim'sthumb was sinking into the bread of the tuna sandwich. He went back toward the girl.

"Youseem reluctant to spend time near me, McCarey."

Lauracrossed her legs and reached one hand out to him. "I thought you might like to kiss me until Uncle Vincent comes back."

"Waittill I set down, my sandwich." He dropped the thing back on the plate and stood watching the girl.

Laurasmiled, her tongue flicking at her upper lip. "Well, McCarey?"

"Iguess I'm not used to spending my lunch hours this way."

"Ithought in Hollywood that's all they did at noon." "I only get an hour for lunch."

"Ishould think that would be more than enough time."

"Well,"said Tim, "by the time the girl gets her whip and boots and I get into my lion suit, a good lot of time has gone past."

Lauradropped to the floor. "OK, McCarey, kid me if you want to."

Belgrafcame slowly up the stairs and wavered into the kitchen. "I'd do anything for these figs," he said. "Eat something now. Then it's back to work we go."

Timpicked up the sandwich again.

•   •   •

Inthe darkness outside Tim's cottage, grasshoppers were mating. Tim scowled at the half-finished sandwich on the plate on his knee. He'd made this one himself.

Itwas after seven and he still hadn't seen Carrie. All afternoon he'd rotated from Belgraf to Belgraf, gathering bundles of propaganda, rolls of charts, folders of clippings. Out of it all he was supposed to invent a unified campaign, to help eventually sell Clem to the country.

Fortunatelyfor the Belgrafs, Carrie was in this business now. It was added incentive for Tim to stay.

Afaint knock on the door.

Timgrinned. He sprinted the few feet to the door and yanked it open to let in Carrie.

"Idon't know if you remember me or not, but I'd like to talk to you." It was Audie Sayers, the recruit Tim had given a lift to.

"Sure,Sayers, what is it?"

Theyoung man licked his lips. "May I come in?" "I'm expecting someone." "Not Clem?"

"No,"said Tim. "OK, come in for a minute."

Onceinside the cottage, Sayers said, "Oh, Mr. McCarey, I may have made a mistake." He had on green-and-silver fatigues. His left eye was yellow around the edges.

"Clementhit you?"

"Yes,for not knowing my manual of arms," said the recruit. He noticed the half sandwich. "Have you any further use for that?"

"No,didn't you eat tonight?"

"I'msupposed to be in the stockade," said Sayers, grabbing the sandwich. "A friend let me out to slip over here. Food, though, he couldn't get any of."

"You'redisappointed with the setup?" Tim asked, starting for the kitchen. "Cup of coffee?"

"IfI might," said Sayers. "Yes, I'm bitterly and terribly disheartened."

Timreached into, the kitchen. "How so?"

"Mr.McCarey, I'm an idealist." He shook his head. "I was so certain that a man with Clement Belgrafs beliefs would be the nearest thing to a saint this jaded old century could offer."

Pointingat the pamphlets, Tim asked, "You've read that stuff?"

"Ofcourse. Over and over. The thinking is beautiful—so logical, providing an answer for every problem, even acne," said Sayers. "However, the man himself...."

Timnarrowed one eye. "You weren't expecting a gorilla, perhaps?"

"Iknew he had been, well, disfigured as the result of an accident," said Sayers, finishing the sandwich. "Frankly, Mr. McCarey, I find his present appearance rather virile and heroic. It's simply that he's so mean and disagreeable."

Timpoured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. "What do you plan on doing?"

"Iheard scuttlebutt to the effect that you were staying on for a few days." He clutched the cup in both hands. "I was hoping that when you left, you might conceal me in your car— if you leave."

"If?"

"I'mhoping you'll be allowed to leave," said Sayers. "After all, the Belgrafs supposedly like you. Still, they also like Dr. Jackstone, and he can never set foot beyond these walls."

"Well,if I make it through the walls, you can come, OK?"

"I'llhave my friend contact you. I may be in the stockade for quite some time." Sayers gulped all of the hot coffee down. "Now I must slip away."

"Takeit easy," said Tim, opening the door.

"Blessyou." Sayers ducked out into the night

"Hello,"said a voice.

Timsquinted. "At last."

Carrie,in a skirt and blouse, with a short tan coat hooked on her forefinger and hanging over her shoulder, was standing a few feet away. "I understand you're having one of your famous at-home evenings. Are visitors welcome?"

"Comein and browse," he said, reaching out to her.

Shecame in. "What did you learn today?" she asked Tim.

Hedumped all the Clem propaganda on the floor to make room so she could sit in the chair. He poked the stuff with his foot. "Is his mail and correspondence in the same vein?"

"Yes,"the girl said. She rested the fingers of one slender hand against her cheek, and it heightened the sharp line of her cheekbone. "Though some of the letters that come in aren't as articulate as that."

"Youdon't-------- " began Tim.

"ShareClem's point of view?" She grinned. "Do you suspect that I do?"

"No,"said Tim, "but, damn it, I wish you'd tell me."

"Tellyou what—my political outlook?"

"No,what it is that he knows about you. Why he can hold you here."

Carrieshook her head. "I can tell you about a dream I had

when I finally got home last night."

"Carrie------------ " he said.

"Inthe dream, I was traveling across the Midwest with an educated bear. We both had bicycles and one of them was named Kafka. It was the bear's bike that had a name, and I remember I felt very envious. That's what I dreamed."

Timturned away. "OK, fine."

"Aren'tthings unsettling enough already without trying to unearth my screwed-up past?" He faced her again.

Carrie'shead swung once from side to side. "I'm sorry, Tim, but let's drop it."

Hesaid, "My automatic icebox has Tuborg beer. Want one?"

"Yes,please," said Carrie. Her eyes had narrowed, her mouth grew thin and small. Then, suddenly, she smiled, laughed. "It's a mean old world. I really like you, Tim. I'm sorry I seem such a screwball."

Timwent in and dialed two bottles of beer. "They put eight tins of Plumrose deviled ham in here and two loaves of rye bread. Want a sandwich?"

"No,"said Carrie. She had risen and come into the kitchen to watch him.

Helooked at the girl. "Wait a second."

"What?"

Hemoved to her, kissed her. "First things first."

Carriesmiled. "This is really some setting for an office romance, isn't it?"

"Now,now, Miss Dormer. You're more than just a typist to me, I assure you, my dear young lady."

"You'llget the jungle and sneak off without leaving so much as a forwarding address."

"Hey,"Tim said.

"Yes?"

"Let'snot kid for a minute, OK?"

Carriewidened her eyes. "OK."

"No,really."

Thephone buzzed.

"I'llanswer it," said Tim.

"Beserious with them."

Timran in and jerked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Puther on the line, McCarey." Laura was on the screen.

"Whom?"

Laura'svoice was low and even. "Carrie Donner. Don't stall around, McCarey. I know she's with you. Tell her if she values her job, she had better get up here now. Clement has some urgent dictation."

"Fine."

"Andit may take all night, McCarey," said Laura and cut off.

"Theywant me?" asked Carrie.

"Yeah,that was Laura. They want you back at the house."

"Swell,"she said, gathering up her coat.

"Ican call in and say you've broken something."

"Lauraknew I was here, huh?"

"Shedid."

"I'llgo," Carrie said. She took his hand for a second and then left.

Timkicked the propaganda.

Adry, hot wind blew all the next day. It scattered leaves, fronds and dust. It whacked bamboo stalks together and toppled cockatoos off trees.

Thebirds kept banging, squawking, against the leaded panes of the parlor in the big house, where Tim was pretending to be putting together a new, improved Clement Belgraf campaign. Whenever Tim looked up from his desk, which was often, he saw a solid wall of oval-framed Civil War generals. Actually, there was one World War One aviator in among the whiskered generals—a slim young guy with leather helmet and flapping neck scarf, smiling and waving alongside a black biplane.

Hehad tried to spend some time with Carrie, but the Belgrafs kept waylaying him. He passed her in the hallway once, but old Vincent Belgraf had him by the arm that time. Carrie looked fresh and bright, except her guarded smile turned into a yawn.

Latein the afternoon, the sky blurred and the wind died. Night came on at once and a heavy, hard-hitting rain began to fall. Tim rocked back once in his chair and put the eraser end of a pencil in his ear.

"Tim,"said a soft voice. A hand touched his shoulder.

Hegot the pencil free and turned. "Yes?"

Itwas Laura. She was wearing a pair of black Levi's and gray-striped shirt. She had two butterfly-sized black bows in her hair. "I'm sorry if I was rather salty to you last evening." She put the tip of her forefinger where the eraser had been, rotating it clockwise.

Tiltinghi« head and freeing his ear, Tim stood up. The rain throbbed against the window. "Is Carrie going to have to work tonight, too?"

Laura'sface tightened slightly. "That's really up to Clem. He and Uncle Vincent are caught up in the preparations for the parade and the attendant ceremonies." She flattened the fingers of one hand across her stomach. "I came to suggest that you have dinner with me. I haven't had a reason to do some real gourmet cooking in a long while. I'll turn off the gadgets and do it all by hand."

"Well..."said Tim.

"Youcan be sure Carrie will be busy till long after dinner." Laura eased her hand across her stomach so that her upright thumb brushed the bottom of her breasts. "I'm very good at lobster bisque." Her hands interlocked and she moved closer to Tim, her sneakered feet sliding on the rug. "Or mulligatawny."

"Iwas never quite sure what's in mulligatawny soup," said Tim, leaning back against the rain-wracked window.

"Chicken,veal bouillon, carrots," said Laura, transferring her hands from her stomach to his, "onions, cloves, leek, celery, mushrooms, mace, cardamom, cinnamon, butter"—the tips of her breasts touched his chest—"cornstarch, curry and heavy cream."

"Nokidding."

"It'sa meal in itself. For the entrée, I'mthinking of sweetbreads à la lyonnaise," saidthe girl. She caught his ears in her hands and pulled his head down, kissing him.

"Thoughsometimes I just pick up something frozen at the supermarket," Tim said.

Asopping macaw slammed against the glass.

"Well,"said Laura, kissing him again.

Timfelt like a kaleidoscope.

"Whereare my maps of the Greater Los Angeles freeway system?" called Clem outside the door.

Likea motion picture running down, Laura undid one final button, the one nearest his belt buckle, and then, gritting her teeth, she stepped back. She gave a wet-cat shake and said, "I'll get in touch with you later."

Aftershe left the room, Tim shoved all the papers on his desk into a scuffed briefcase Laura had given him. Stuffing the thing under his coat, he left the house. He made himself stroll back to his cottage. The rain didn't help any.

Theswaybacked horse was eating the bunting on the left side of the review stand. At the edge of the parade ground, Laura Belgraf hunched down in her lynx coat and said to Tim, "I wish that horse would lay off the decorations."

Themorning was cold, streaked with mist. Tim kept his hands in his pockets. "Why don't you ask the old guy riding the horse to knock it off?"

"Youjust don't do that with Jack Moog."

Timstared at the brittle, lanky old man on the ancient horse. He had a lock of dead-white hair hanging across his forehead. The big, high-crowned stetson was splotched, and there was a patch on the sleeve of the checkerboard shirt. But now Tim recognized the old cowboy. "That's Jack Moog? I thought he vanished with half-hour TV."

"Hehad the right kind of investments. He's one of Clem's most ardent supporters and backers. He comes to all our rallies and parades."

"Canyou be ardent at eighty-five?"

"He'sbarely eighty," said Laura, shaking her head as the horse swallowed the last of a poster. "That's Fred the Wonder Horse."

"Ifthat's Fred the Wonder Horse from old-time TV, he must be forty years old," said Tim. "That's pretty old for a horse."

"Fred'spartly automated now," explained the blonde.

JackMoog had spotted Laura. He rested one sharp old elbow on his saddle hom and spun his big white hat in the air. Tim remembered from a documentary that this was the way Jack Moog opened all his shows. The horse took three tentative steps in their direction and then toppled over.

"Dam,"said Laura.

"Thehorse must be dead," said Tim.

"No,he's napping, right on the parade ground. I hope it doesn't anger Clement."

"Wahoo,wahoo," called Jack, giving his hat another spin.

Suckingher cheek, Laura gestured to some of the soldiers who were loitering around the review stand. They hustled over to drag the semiautomated horse into the underbrush. Moog supervised and then gave one of his famous running jumps and landed up on the review stand. He'd gone over the stand rail the same way he used to leap over saloon bars to get at the tinhorns. If he hadn't landed spread-eagled between two folding chairs, it would have been a perfect moment of recaptured past.

"Yucky,yucky, yucky," said someone behind Tim. He turned and saw a trio of middle-aged people: a round, cherubic man and a round, cherubic woman in a fur-trimmed cloth coat. Her hair was white, tinged with light blue. With this couple was a soft, handsome man with a beautiful blond hairpiece and grinning false teeth.

"Yucky,yucky, yucky," said the woman again.                            ,

"Mr.and Mrs. Friesen," said Laura, "you're early."

"Wealways are," said Mr. Friesen, "first ones here."

"Exceptfor Jack Moog. The parade won't start for an hour," said Laura, "though you're welcome to go up on the stand."

Mrs.Friesen smiled at Tim. "We don't know you. Yucky, yucky, yucky."

"I'mTim McCarey. And you folks are the famous Friesens who have all those educational cartoon shows on TV." A rival talent agency handled Win Friesen.

"Surewe are," said Mr. Friesen, shaking hands. "And right here with us is Bryan Spoiner himself."

"Oh?"said Tim.

"Myradio show is heard on four hundred and twenty-six radio stations across the land, and I have supporters in the halls of government and the shadow of the pulpit, in the penthouse and in the marketplace," said Spoiner. His voice was deep and well thought out.

"Yeah,"said Tim, remembering, "you do something called Alarm."

'ThePaul Revere of radio," said Mrs. Friesen. "Yucky, yucky, yucky."

"Rather,the Peg Leg Mintosh of radio," corrected Spoiner.

"I'mtrying," said Tim, "to place that catch phrase, Mrs. Friesen."

"Mommyis the voice of our best-known cartoon character," said Mr. Friesen. He waited for Tim to supply the name, then finally said, "Alex Ant."

Timsnapped his fingers. "Sure, I should have got it at once."

"Yucky,yucky, yucky," said Mrs. Friesen, "that's what Alex Ant says."

"Mommyis Benny Bird, too." "Tweetle twee," said Mrs. Friesen. "And Doctor Dog." "Bowwow, bowwow."

"I'llescort you to your seats," said Laura, getting both the Friesens by an elbow.

"Adedicated couple," said Spoiner. "They earned twenty-six million last year." He shook hands and headed for the review stand.

Timput his hands back in his pockets and watched the fog thinning away over the parade ground. "Arf," he said.

ClementBelgraf arrived about a half hour later. His green-and-silver uniform seemed brand-new. He had a splendid gold-lined cape over his shoulders and his helmet was gold-plated.

Timwas in a folding chair toward the back of the stand. He had looked over his shoulder for Carrie so often that his neck was stiff. The girl hadn't shown up.

"Tellthem to drag it farther away," Clem was saying to Laura. Moog's horse was still asleep and it had moved some out of the jungle as it tossed and snorted.

Twodozen people were on the stand now. There was even the acting mayor of a small beach town. Among the other visitors was Handy "Call Me Cousin" Hotch, who ran a religious robot crusade out of Tijuana, Mexico. When he'd introduced himself to Tim, he'd given him a free transistor radio with decal pictures of the 12 androidapostles on it. Tim counted and could find only nine of them. Sitting next to him was Sonny Boy Baylight, the former child star. He told Tim he had created a special tap dance in honor of Clem. Sonny Boy was about 40, still curly-headed and freckled. He was a greeter in a Hawaiian delicatessen in Orange County, his movie career long behind him.

Theparade itself began smoothly, only four minutes behind schedule. First on the field was Clement Belgraf's marching band. It had 20-some members, and for some reason, half of them played French horns, but the march tune, which Sonny Boy Baylight whispered he'd contributed some notes to, sounded not too bad. As the band marched around, a float rolled out of the jungle. This consisted of a heroic-sized representation of Clem himself, with one paw shielding his eyes, looking vigilantly to the future, and his other on a large cannon. It was all modeled out of California poppies and red carnations. Jack Moog's horse woke up when the band passed him. He raised his head and gave a high-pitched neigh, then galloped for the float. The jeep that was pulling the thing swerved. Tim saw now that the jeep driver was Audie Sayers. Everybody had been sprung from the stockade to participate in the festivities.

Sayerswas watching Fred the Wonder Horse, and this

caused him to drive straight into the first wave of marching

infantry. Two privates cartwheeled upward as Sayers hit the

brakes. The float accordioned into the jeep, and Jack Moog's

horse attacked it.                                                                  .

"Yucky,yucky, yucky," said Mrs. Friesen.

Clemrose up. Laura caught at his arm. He roared and ripped off bis cape. Laura got tangled in it. Clem was on the rail now. He jerked off his boots and threw them and his helmet at the confusion of troops and flowers. "Spoiled, spoiled," he shouted.

Clemwent through the musicians first. The air was filled with French homs and plumed hats. The audience had fallen silent and you could hear bones breaking. Clem paused halfway into the band and chucked his uniform. He was bellowing now. "Spoiled it all, spoiled it all."

Hegot Sayers at last The freckled young man had tried to climb up onto the flower cannon for protection. Clem leaped up on the ruined float and gripped Sayers's shoulders. He flapped him in the air like a dusty rug and then sent him whirling out over the parade ground. Sayers made a loud oofing sound when he hit and then didn't move.

"You,too," said Clem. Fred, the horse, was nibbling poppies off the figure of Clem. The gorilla roared again and jumped on the horse's back.

JackMoog leaped to his feet and reached for his gun belt. He wasn't wearing it, and he cursed and jumped over the rail.

Fredgave a whinny and began to gallop in tight circles. Clem was pummeling the horse. Fred stopped still and started to buck. The gorilla and the saddle shot free.

"Holdoff, mister," shouted Moog as Clem laughed again at the bucking Fred.

Clemspun, waved both hairy arms. He wasn't using words anymore.

"Iain't got much use for a man who mistreats a horse," said the cowboy.

Clemhesitated.

"You'regetting too ornery," said Moog. "I reckon I'd best stop payment on that last check I contributed."

Thegorilla fisted his paws and brought them up in front of his muzzle. Then he growled and ran off, bounding across the parade ground and into the jungle.

"MyGod," said Laura, "he'll never come back."

•   •   •

"Overhere," called Laura. She was pacing the low diving board at the end of the glass-enclosed room.

Thepool was official size, its water rocking gently, a pale silver blue. The roof was made up of hundreds of panels of green-tinted glass. The glass and the thick border of palms, fems and large-petaled flowers around the water gave the place a hothouse look and smell.

"Yourbrother back yet?" Tim asked, walking carefully on the mosaic-tile flooring.

Laurahad her hair tied back and was wearing a short candy-striped robe. Flicking a cigarette butt into the water, she said, "No." She swayed at the very edge of the board. "That's not unusual, really. He was quite upset by the fiasco of the parade review. It's likely he simply wants to be alone to think."

"Uh-huh,"said Tim. He sat on the footrest of a white wicker lounge chair. "Why'd you send for me? Do you have some more work you'd like me to handle?"

Windrattled the glass panes and the shadows of large leaves hit the glass roof. "Swimming helps me unwind, Tim. I hoped you'd join me. If you want trunks, there's a bathhouse back in the hall there." She pointed at a blackalcove.

"SupposeClem doesn't come back?"

Laurawound her hands around the cord of her robe and pulled it tighter. "I told you he was very temperamental. Don't get the idea he's going to stay out in the jungle running wild forever."

"Isn'tthat what you're afraid of?"

Lauraundid the cord and the robe swung open. "Fm beginning to think that the mess on the parade ground wasn't entirely an accident."

Timwatched her moonlit stomach. "You think Moog's horse was a dupe?"

Lauraslipped out of the robe, bounced once on the board and knifed into the water.

Acockatoo walked across the roof.

Laurasurfaced at the other end of the pool, tossing her head and sputtering. She vanished again and in a moment was climbing out, up the brass ladder. "Are you wondering whom I suspect of sabotaging the ceremonies?"

"No,"said Tim.

Laurahugged her slick stomach and sucked her cheek. She walked by Tim and moved, very straight, onto the board. She bent and retrieved the robe, which was hanging with its arms almost in the shimmering water. Tossing her head again, she said, "I've almost got you figured out, McCarey."

Metalgroaned. Tim glanced up and saw a giantshaggy cross on the glass. "Clem's watching," he said.

"He is back,"said Laura, hurrying into the robe. She tied it with a lopsided bow. Cupping her hands, she called, "Clem, Clem, meet me in my room. I'll be there in a minute."

Thegorilla hesitated, then snaked slowly across the roof and was gone. "Think he'll meet you?"

Lauraran back onto the tiles. "Yes, he's back to stay now. Whenever he comes looking for me, I know he's back to stay. He can get right into my bedroom window from the roof here. I'll see you tomorrow, Tim." She ran into the dark alcove.

Asquare of glass toppled from the ceiling and immel-manned down to the water. It balanced on the surface for an instant and then sank.

Onhis way back to the cottage, Tim stopped to watch a marmoset.The small woolly monkey was sitting on a black wrought-iron chair. It gave Tim a sadgrin, revealing that most of its teeth were gone.

"He'squite old."

Timturned and Carrie caught up with him. "Not as old as Moog's horse," Tim said, taking the girl's hand.

"Iheard about all that." She smiled.

"Howcome they didn't let you come to the parade?"

"Lauraseemed to think there was lots of work to get out of the way. They just turned me loose now."

"Clemfinally came back," said Tim. "Want to leave with me? Right now?"

"Itold you, I can't."

Whenthey reached the door of her cottage, Tim said, "Tell me why."

"Questions,questions," Carrie said. "Sorry."

Shepushed into the cottage. "Tim." He stepped into the dark room. "Yes?" Pressing close against him, holding hard, she finally said, "This is one of those nights when I get frightened." "I'll stay."

Carrielaughed. "I was hoping you would."

•   •   •

Herknees were drawn up, warm against his side. Her hands were cupped on his shoulders. "We were about to be married," Carrie was saying in a husky, early-morning voice. "It was a cathedral, sort of, except much smaller and covered with vines and hollyhocks. I remember a gargoyle all tangled in honeysuckle." He felt her smile against his ear. "It really is handy being able to tell you these dreams almost as they happen."

Hiseyes were still partly closed. "Get to the wedding gifts. What did we amass?" The day outside the girl's cottage was a pale, cold white.

"Inthe middle of the wedding, the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 happened. I thought it was a lousy time for that."

Outamong the birdcalls and animal cries, there was the jangle of spurs, and booted feet. Tim swung out of bed. "Troops coming this way."

Carriestretched and shrugged. "They're probably practicing for the next parade."

Afist pounded on the outside door of Carrie's cottage. "Are you awake, Miss Donner?" called one of Clem's soldiers.

Carrielooked at Tim. "Am I?"

"Bettercheck out what they want." He dressed fast, fireman fashion.

"Yes,"said Carrie, searching the bedroom for a robe. She raised her voice. "Yes, I'm awake. It's nice of you to ask." "We've come to arrest you."

Carriewas half into a lace-trimmed robe. "Too fancy for getting arrested in." From a closet she reached down a faded terry-cloth kimono. "What for?" she said to the door of the next room.

"Treason,Miss Donner. Better hurry up, now."

"Let'snot stall anymore," said another, angrier voice.

"Evenif it is treason, Jay, we still have to be polite."

Aharsher pounding started on the door. "Come on out— now."

"Damnit," said Tim. He moved to the bedroom door. "I'll stop them."

"No,"said Carrie, "this is probably just some prank of Laura's. Stay in here."

"Andhide under the bed?"

"It'sall hatboxes under there," she said. "Please relax." Somebody began kicking the front door in. "Coming," said Carrie. She ran from the bedroom, closing the door between her and Tim.

Hehesitated against it, listening.

"Ihave to read this to you, Miss Donner."

"Well,OK."

"Ibet you deliberately opened the door while my foot was stuck through it," said the angry soldier.

"Stophopping around, Jay, so I can read."

"Let'sjust drag her off. The hell with formality."

"Youshould really get your foot loose first," said Carrie.

"Shutup," said Jay. Wood splintered. "There goes my best boot."

"Towhom it may concern," began the other soldier. "That's me, I guess," said Carrie.

"Youkeep interrupting and I'll knock you down," said Jay.

Timtightened his hand over the bedroom doorknob.

"Towhom it may concern," repeated the first soldier. "It is hereby and henceforth declared, taking into consideration due process of civil procedures, that the following person, Carrie Jane Donner, is to be taken into custody at once. The charges againstsaid Carrie Jane Donner being treason in the form of deliberate sabotage against animportant parade and its attendant ceremonies."

Timhadn't known Carrie's middle name until now.

"That'ssilly," said Carrie. 'Tell Laura I'll be up for work after I have some breakfast."

"Thisis serious, Miss Donner."

"Iwarned you," cried Jay. There was the sound of a harsh slap.

Timyanked the door open and ran for Carrie. Jay, a wide, close-cropped blond young man, hit her across the face again, then ducked and bent her over his shoulder.

"Hey,"said Tim. His voice was low and calm, not at all his. "Hey, you son of a bitch." He made a dive for Jay. On the cottage doorstep, just into the warming morning air, a rifle butt slammed into Tim's face, once in his chin and again, as he tottered, against the side of his head.

•   •   •

Severalmacaws were picketing him. Tim lifted his head and they scattered.

Fromacross the way, a voice said, "Feeling better?"

Timfelt his face. There was dried blood on the left side, a swelling on the right. "I suppose, Dr. Jackstone. Have you examined me while I was knocked out?"

"Haven'thad a chance, Tim," said the plump doctor. He was hefting a large packing case through the doorway of his cottage. "You were not dead or seriously hurt; I knew that from the way you were sprawled." He dropped the case inside.

"Aren'tyou eager for patients anymore?" Tim rolled over from his stomach to his back.

'Thehassle yesterday was a bonanza. Besides," said Dr. Jackstone, gesturing at the five large cardboard cartons reigning in his doorway, "I've got all this to uncrate. As a matter of fact, I may have ruptured myself lifting that last one. That would be interesting."

"Howmany were injured yesterday?" Tim dug in with his elbows and managed to sit up, his stomach whirring.

"Agood half dozen." Jackstone trotted over to Tim. "I dashed over here from the infirmary to get these samples out of the way."

"Samples?"Tim masked his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths.

"Broughtin yesterday. One of Clem's supporters is in the wholesale-drug line. Now and then I geta wonderful array of new drugs." He studied Tim a moment. "Any history of malaria in your family?"

"No,"said Tim, "why?"

"Ashame," said the doctor. He scratched his crinkly white hair. "Being in the jungle like this, I keep hoping for a malaria case. Breaks my heart to think that I now have a whole gross of candy-flavored malaria pills and no one to use them on."

"Youcould talk a mosquito into biting you."

"Theyshun me, the rascals." Dr. Jackstone tugged Tim to his feet. He gasped, then chuckled. "Yes, I think I do have a nice rupture coming along."

"Congratulations."Tim blinked. "Do you know where they took Carrie?"

'Tothe big house, I imagine. I was in my office unpacking syringes when the troops carried her off." He shook his head. "Don't be discouraged. Many romances have impediments strewn in their paths."

"Howmany of those troopers do you think I could tackle in the shape I'm in?"

"Aboutas many as you could before," said the doctor. He crossed and sat on a carton. "My advice is to go through channels." He fogged his stethoscope with his breath and rubbed it on his left buttock.

"Wasit Clem's idea to arrest Carrie?"

"Iwould imagine Laura had something to do with it," Dr. Jackstone said. He spread his legs so that he could read the lettering on the crate he was sitting on. "She's taken a liking to you. Look at this, a whole case of children's vitamin pills shaped like biblical animals. That's fascinating."

"Idon't have a concussion or anything, do I?" said Tim. It was easier to stand now.

"Doyou feel as though you did?" Dr. Jackstone's eyes lit hopefully.

"No,"said Tim, "but, then, I've never had one before."

"Takeit easy today. See me tomorrow if you think you're really in serious trouble physically." The doctor slapped his knees and jumped off the box. "I have to get back to work, Tim. If you should develop a severe cough, which I hate to admit isn't too likely, I got in some nice fruit-flavored codeine."

"Thanks,"said Tim. He walked into the jungle. "P^st!"

Timjumped back.

Afigure detached itself from the shadows. "It's me, Audie Sayers."

"Ithought you were a snake," Tim said. "What's up?"

"I'vefound a way out of here," Sayers said. "Part of the wall is broken, and I'm leaving tonight. I thought you might want to go with me."

"Ican't," Tim said. "Would you deliver a message for me though?"

"Sure.Where?"

"ToConglobe. I can't seem to reach the outside world, probably because the Belgrafs don't want me to. Do you have a pencil?"

Sayersfished in his jacket and produced a ball-point pen and some paper. Tim hesitated briefly, then began writing as fast as he could. "Harvey: Better start looking for another jungle. Will explain when I see you."

Finishing,he folded the paper and addressed the outside.

"Sureyou don't want to come along?" Sayers asked, putting the message in his jacket.

"I'vegot some unfinished business here. Good luck."

Sayersmelted into the shadows and Tim waited until the sounds of his retreat had faded.

•    •   •

Carriewas being kept in one of the attic rooms of the main Belgraf house. At least that was where the half-dozen green-and-silver-uniformed men who had carried her off were standing guard. The ceilings were sharply pitched here and the men had to hunch. When one of them shuffled, his bayonet made a dusty arc on the plaster.

Thesparsely chinned lieutenant who had led the arresting group shook his head when he noticed Tim approaching. "Sorry about the roughhouse," the soldier said.

Timhad been roaming the house for several minutes. He hadn't gotten around to cleaning up his face and clothes. "I want to see Miss Dormer."

Jay,the wide, blond one, started to lunge. His bayonet inscribed a line on the wallpaper and then entangled with a defunct gas lamp. "You and your aspersions," he said, bobbing his head out of the way of the scattering glass fragments of the lamp.

"Novisitors," said the lieutenant, blocking Tim's way, "without written permission."

Jayquivered and the lamp debris fell away from him. He scooted around the lieutenant and grabbed at Tim. "Interloper," he said.

Timstepped carefully back and then swung his foot up and kicked Jay, a technical sergeant, in the crotch.

"That'snot--------- " began Jay. Then he gave a half spin and

satdown on the Persian rug.

"Ididn't expect so much violence when I joined this army," said the lieutenant. "You'd best go seek out Miss Belgraf or Mr. Belgraf if you want to talk to the prisoner, sir."

"Comerboy, street arab!" said Jay.

"Nobody'dbetter touch Miss Donner again," said Tim, "at all." He turned and went back downstairs.

•    •   •

"Permissiondenied," said Laura.

Timhad found her on the second-floor landing. She was wearing a pair of green jodphurs, black boots and a green silver-trimmed blouse. "Where's your riding crop?" Tim asked after she'd refused to let him talk to Carrie.

"Ibroke it over someone's head."

Heleaned back against an eagle-head newel post. "Look, I'm being helpful, working on the propaganda with you. Let Carrie loose, huh?"

"Alot of people think treason can't happen," said Laura. Her nostrils were flaring. "It does, though."

"Youknow there wasn't any treason involved yesterday. Clement lost his temper. The rest of it was a simple result of his troops not being very well trained," Tim said. "He's getting more and more violent. It has nothing to do with Carrie —or with any conspiracy."

Thegirl looked away from him, brought her hand down against her thigh as if she were still carrying the riding crop. She descended to the first floor. "That isn't so."

"Iwant to see her," Tim repeated, following.

"Youcan't." She spun to face him. "You'll find out, McCarey, that sleeping with somebody doesn't give you any proprietary rights over her."

"Oh,so?"

"Andif you continue in this negative mood, I really think you won't be of much use to us"—she grinned a sharp-edged grin—"nor we to you, as far as the jungle goes."

"Comeon, Laura," said Tim, "turn her loose."

"Therewill be a trial," she said. "Uncle Vincent is mapping it out right now. It is rolling on inexorably. You'll see, McCarey."

"Where'syour uncle, in his study?"

"Iwon't tell you."

Timtook her arm. "Where?"

"Hemoved outside because things were so hectic with prisoners and all. He's in Clem's old playhouse. That's out back some quarter of a mile," she said. Pulling free, she added, "You won't stop it, I guarantee you that, McCarey."

Timstepped back. "Yes, ma'am," he said. He left the house.

Abrass Humpty Dumpty teetered on the thatched roof of the old playhouse. The sharp wind nudged Tim toward the redwood door. He knocked on it just under the rabbit-head knocker as a swirl of eucalyptus leaves rattled against the cottage. Looking out of the unshuttered part of the nearest window was a giant stuffed panda. "Mr. Belgraf," Tim called, knocking again.

"I'min conference." The old man seemed to be right

behindthe gingerbread grille on the door. "By yourself?"

"There'sno precedent as to the number who can attend a conference," said Vincent Belgraf. "Shuttlecock v. Bales provedthat."

"Iwant to talk to you right now."

Thewind gave Humpty Dumpty another shaking. After a moment, the playhouse door creaked inward. "I'm becoming quite an expert on jurisprudence," said Belgraf.

Timstepped inside and a shepherd's crook fell over in front of him. "It's about Carrie," Tim said.

"Bopeep,"said the old man, stopping.

"What?"

Belgrafretrieved the staff and leaned it against a giraffe-shaped hat rack. "This was part of Clement's Bopeep set. It's hard to imagine him with long golden hair and a dozen stuffed sheep, isn't it?"

"I'venever tried." Tim followed Belgraf into a low, octagonal room. In the center was a short-legged, round chil-dren's-size table piled with papers and law books. Around the edges of the room were tumbles of toy cars and planes and stuffed animals: lemurs, rabbits, bears, elk, marmosets, dalroations, kangaroos, lady bugs and bats. "I think this trial idea has to stop."

"Youcan't simply stop a trial," said Belgraf, pushing a velvet teddy bear off a wicker chair and sitting down in it. "They tried that in the case of Boatwright v. Boatwright. Lookwhat happened to Boatwright."

"WhichBoatwright?"

'That'simmaterial," said the old man. 'Treason is trea-son.

"Andlaw is law. You can't hold a trial here."

"Ihope you're not suggesting we hold it someplace else," said the old man. "No, no, they're always up to something on the outside."

"I'mtalking about Carrie Donner. I want her turned loose now."

"Peoplearen't turned loose in treason cases, McCarey. Was Roger Casement turned loose? No, he was stuck in the Tower of London. Never trust a queer Irishman, anyway."

"Mr.Belgraf," said Tim—he had to squat down to be on eye level with the old man in his children's chair—"you aren't really a judge or even a lawyer. No one is, here."

"Don'thave to be, in a military trial," said Belgraf. "Did you know, McCarey, that the court of Ogadai Khan was rife with treason? To say nothing of the situation with Kuyuk Khan and Mangu Khan." He pointed one thin finger upward. 'Thirteenth Century China can teach us many things."

"Letme suggest," said Tim, holding on to himself, "a change of venue. Hold the trial someplace else."

"Ihaven't come to that, whatever it is, yet in my reading. But, I repeat, anything that suggests going outside is not apt to turn my fancy."

Timstraightened up and moved back. The wind slammed

a shutter, and a stuffed plush rat fell at Tim's feet He

stepped over it. "Listen------------ " he began.

"Ireally have to get going on the floor plan for the courtroom. We're going to do over the spare ballroom—I don't recall you've ever been there, since we haven't had a ball since your arrival—for the occasion." He lifted a felt marking pencil off a marble-covered book.

Takingtwo deep breaths, Tim said, "OK, fine."

Hestrode into the hallway. He heard the shepherd's staff fall over again as he slammed the door and ran into the jungle to see Clem.

•   •   •

Steamspun out of the not quite closed bathroom door. "Clem," said Tim, stopping in the center of the gorilla's bedroom. "Clem," he said again, louder.

Theshower was running high and made hail sounds on the stall panels. Clem was singing, Rodgers and Hart songs, it sounded like. The steam fogged the bedroom windows, graying the day outside.

Timkicked the door open and said, "I wantto talk to you."

'Thouwitty, thou grand," Clem sang. His voice slowed down into silence. The shower stopped. The part of the stall door with dolphins etched on it slid open. "Well, Tim, you're really getting to be one of the family." His big mouth made a wide grin. "A general always has time for his people, though. Yes?"

Timdropped the lid down on the toilet and sat. The seat cover had appliqued tulips on it. "Very simple," he said, "I want you to let Carrie go."

Thegorilla stayed in the shower, dripping, his eyes watching Tim through the opening. "That's always a possibility," he said. Steam was rising from his damp fur.

Timsaid, "Meaning ... ?" There was a thick smell of pine cones in the white-tiled room.

"Thereis a possibility Carrie will be acquitted. Not that treason trials come out that way much. Still, it could happen." He hunched one shoulder, shivered. "Hand over my robe, will you?"

Timglanced at the terry-cloth robe hanging from the handle of the medicine cabinet. Steam had brought out a large, flat handprint on the mirror. "You know damn well that not you or anyone else here is qualified to pass judgment on Carrie."

"Tolead an army, to rule a nation," said Clem, "requires a lot more ability and chutzpah thanhanding down a verdict on one untrustworthy secretary." He swung out a paw and grabbed the bathrobe. "Carrie isn't even a very good typist, if you come right down to it. Did you know that?"

Timsaid, "You knew her before, didn't you?"

Thegorilla hopped out of the stall, making a breast-stroke motion as he got the robe on. His teeth slowly grew more visible. "Before what?"

"Beforeshe came to work here."

Clemtied the cord. "I'd have to check personnel records."

Timnoticed now that the gorilla was wearing a red rubber shower cap on the back of his head. "You knew her in Los Angeles or someplace. You do have some kind of hold on her."

Clemstarted for the medicine cabinet. His wet feet made a squeegie sound and he began to fall. He grunted and caught at the sink. The sink grated and came halfway off the wall. Clem grunted once more, righted himself. "I'm tired of being a nice guy with you. Go away. There's going to be a trial and Carrie is going to be taken care of, Tim." He snapped the cabinet door open and pawed out a green squeeze bottle of deodorant. "She'll more than likely sink. Don't get pulled down with her."

Timlowered his head for a second. He stood then. Not speaking, he left the bathroom. The deodorant bottle hissed twice.

Timcrossed the bedroom carefully.

Inthe hallway, he said quietly, "God damn." He nodded to himself.

Outin the late afternoon, he headed for the arsenal.

Timfound it difficult to sneak up on the arms supplies. Several dozen men were gathering around the plain board shack. Halting, Tim was about to backtrack when a soldier called to him, "Hey, McCarey."

"Huh?"It looked like Corporal Wilkie, the one who'd gone through the window at the dinner party.

"Wantto join a revolt?" asked the corporal, moving through the twilight to Tim.

"What'syour first move?"

Wilkienarrowed an eye. "You haven't said you're on our side yet."

"Icame down here," said Tim, "to steal a rifle. They've got Carrie Donner locked up in the big house. I want to get her out."

Wilkienodded. 'That's as good a place to start as any. We'll save her. A nice girl, I think, though cold in some of her dealings with the noncommissioned. After that, we'll roust Clement."

Agroup around the arms-shed door gave a cheer. The room had been successfully broken into. "How about the guys who are loyal to Clem?" asked Tim.

"Theofficers mostly and a couple of dozen bleeding hearts. That's why we have to hurry. By now, they've sneaked up to the big place to warn everybody."

Riflesand ammunition were passed around. The rifles ran out before Tim's turn came up. He got a .45 automatic, but

no ammunition.

Duringthe first moments of the siege, Vincent Belgraf manned a machine gun on the front porch. After Wilkie's army shot away most of the gingerbread trim several yards around him, old Belgraf ducked inside. For all the shooting, no one had hit him.

Wilkietried to convey their request for the release of Carrie under a flag of truce. From a second-floor window, Colonel Granger shot the flagpole out of the corporal's hands with a squirrel gun, causing Wilkie to discard the conventional rules.

"We'llhave to seize the place and drag everybody out," said Wilkie.

"Carriecould get hurt."

"Youcan't call all the shots in a war."

After15 minutes, most of the men who'd made it to the big house to defend Clem and the Belgrafs had given up. Wilkie's side wasn't accurate in its marksmanship but the soldiers were all persistent.

Duskblacked down to night. Firing was not being returned from the old Victorian house much at all now. Tim had spotted Laura up in one of the towers. She had a revolver but only used it intermittently.

Aroar of triumph went up and two score of Wilkie's men stormed the front steps.

"Comeon," said Wilkie.

"Hey,"called a private, "he's ducking out the back." "I'll get Clem," said Wilkie, not joining themain charge on the house.

Timhesitated. He heard Carrie's voice cry out from around the side of the house. He trotted along with Wilkie.

•   •   •

Fragmentsof stained glass blossomed from the attic. Clem came shooting out onto the shingles of the pitched roof and went skittering along the ridge of the highest gable. His spurs and the ornamental stock of his rifle sparkled in the harsh moonlight.

"Nowwe'll get the bastard," said Wilkie, swinging his rifle upward.

Timsaid, "He's got Carrie," and chopped down with the flat of his hand against Wilkie's arm.

Thegirl was unconscious, apparently. Clem held her casually in the crook of his arm. As they watched, he went sailing into the darkness. He thudded onto a lower roof, danced a spinning dance across it and then leaped again.

"It'slike a damn jungle movie," said Wilkie, lowering his gun.

Clemjumped again, this time from a cupola straight into the jungle. "Damn," said Tim. He began running along the flagstone path that skirted the house.

Wilkieand two dozen other soldiers followed. "Don't shoot the girl," Wilkie told them.

Timhesitated at the jungle edge. He listened and then heard Clem crashing off to the right. "The playhouse," Tim said.

Timdidn't notice he was winded until he had dropped behind a cluster of bamboo to watch the cottage. Taking a deep breath made him dizzy and he had to catch hold of a spiked bush to keep from tumbling down.

"That'shim on the roof," said one of Wilkie's men.

"No,"said the former chief, "that's Humpty Dumpty. Don't get twitchy."

"He'sinside," said Tim, catching a flash of silver.

Clemsmashed out a window pane. A stuffed animal fell out with the broken glass. He began firing.

"Holdoff shooting," whispered Wilkie. To Tim he said, "Come on." They began crawling, moving quietly for the back of the playhouse. "This jungle-warfare stuff comes in handy sometimes, huh?"

Whenthey were behind the gingerbread house, they heard Carrie's voice say, "What the hell is going on? Why'd you drag me here?"

Clem'sreply was a low growl. "I might need a hostage. You were handiest." His rifle sounded once more.

Wilkiehad selected a thin vine and cut off a length. "I've been curious to see if this works or not," he said. He was much more adept in the underbrush than he was in the kitchen. Soundlessly, he located the rear door to the little house. Getting it open, he eased inside.

Bythe time Tim got into the dark room, Wilkie was spinning over Clem's head. He'd tried to garrote himfrom behind and it hadn't worked. Clem roared anger. "Get in here," shouted Wilkie.

Clemthrew him against the wall, but the stuffed animals cushioned the impact.

Timhurdled the round table and caught Carrie up. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Clem'spaws got a grip on Wilkie and the corporal yelled.

Thefront door shattered and a dozen soldiers made for Clem. One of them had grabbed up the hat rack, and he walloped the gorilla over the skull with it. Clem roared and clawed out at the men.

Moresoldiers had found the place now and they shattered windows and shivered shutters, forcing their way into the playroom. It looked like a lopsided football game as Tim and Carrie left.

Heled Carrie away, back toward their cottages. "Do you know where they've stowed my car?"

"There'sa garage down near gate F for visitors' cars and such," said the girl. "They probably brought it in off the road and stuck it there."

"We'regoing to leave. Got much to pack?"

"Ican't," began Carrie.

Comingtoward them on the path was Laura Belgraf. 'They're hurting Clem, aren't they?" she asked. In her right hand she had a .38 revolver.

Timand Carrie stopped. "Clem seemed to be on the losing side when we left the playhouse."

"Allof them have deserted now. They all went over. Except for Jay, and the others roughed him up." Laura gestured with the pistol. Then, looking beyond them, she brightened. "Clem."

Timpushed Carrie out of the way and turned.

Thegorilla was weaving, swaying into tree trunks, stumbling over vines and branches. He shuffled to a halt a few feet away.

"Clem,"said Laura, "where's your uniform?"

Thegorilla wasn't wearing anything. He put his arched paws on his chest for a moment, his big head cocked at his sister.

"Don'tbother to explain now," said Laura. "We'll get you hidden where they can't find you. I'll bandage up your hurts and you'll be fine. Clem?"

Clemflinched and then made a gutteral sound. He repeated it twice. He leaned, and his hands swept at the path. Glowering, he made the noise again and then loped off the trail and into the jungle.

"He'scrossed over for sure," said Tim.

"No,"said Laura, "he's simply upset." She bit the knuckles of the hand that wasn't holding the gun and then started after the gorilla.

Fromthe direction of the playhouse drifted Wilkie's voice. "Get some torches."

"Thebarracks," someone shouted.

Carriesaid, "He really is just a gorilla now? Finally."

"Ithink so."

"Isuppose we can leave, then," she said. "Yes, we can leave, Tim."

Far-offflames began to crackle.

Timswung two suitcases into the trunk of his car; Carrie added a hatbox and three coats.

Smokewas rising above the barracks area; cinders flickered up into the night sky. Carrie slid into the front seat.

Timpushed the ignition. Nothing happened. "Damn it. Car's been sitting here too long." He jumped out of the car.

"Willit start with a push?" asked Dr. Jackstone, who was hurrying along the path that wound by the garages.

"Iimagine," said Tim.

Thedoctor dropped his black bag against a passion vine. "We'll roll it out of the garage and then down that way to gate F."

"Great,"said Tim. "This isn't going to mess up your hernia?"

"I'mbetting it will."

Asthey worked the car slowly out of the garage, Tim asked, "You going to be staying on here? I can give you a ride out."

"Notnow," replied the doctor, straining. "I've got a smorgasbord of contusions, gunshot wounds, minor bums and breakages to look after right here. Plus the unique challenge of Clement Belgraf himself."

"He'sjust about completely a gorilla now, isn't he?"

"Perhaps,"said Dr. Jackstone, "though there is always hope."

Thecar began rolling downhill. Tim leaped in beside Carrie, and in a few yards, the engine whirred on. "Thanks, Dr. Jackstone."

Theymoved down the jungle road toward the gate in the wall, the sounds of the now-burning main house dropping away behind them. There were no guards now, no sign of anyone as Tim stopped and threw the switch that made the high, thick gate swing inward.

"Eventually. . ." said Carrie when they were on the roadway outside.

"Eventuallywhat?"

"I'lltell you everything in detail," the girl said. "I knew Clement Belgraf before. Before he was this way, back in Los Angeles. He had some things, hidden away, that he sort of used to persuade me to stay on—pictures, actually."

"Lateryou can tell me," said Tim. He touched her hand. "We'll have to figure something for you to do from now on."

"Besidesstaying relatively close to you?"

"Besidesthat, yes," he answered. "And I still have to find

another damn jungle by-------- Hey, what day is this, anyway?"

"I'velost track, too. I'll check the news." Carrie reached over into the back seat of the land car and turned the television set on.

"Andthis bulletin just now in," said Peg Leg Mintosh. "A very big fire over in San Amaro at the secluded estate of patriot Vincent Belgraf. No word yet as to cause of the fire, but, friends, if you want my opinion...."