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i 


.11         1 


Barry  B.  Longyear  & 
Kevin  O'Donnell,  Jr. 


DECEMBER  1980  $1.50 


'71486"02648' 


1  2 


Our  thanks  to  the  1980  World  Science 

Fiction  Convention  for  awarding  the 

Hugo  for  Best  Professional  Editor  to 

George  H.  Scithers  of 

ISAAC 
ASIMOV'S 

SCIENCE  FICTION  MAGAZINE. 

THE  OTHER  WINNERS: 
Best  Novel: 
The  Fountains  of  Paradise  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke 

Best  Novella: 
"Enemy  Mine"  by  Barry  B.  Longyear  {lASFM,  September  1979) 

Best  Novelette: 
"Sandkings"  by  George  R.R.  Martin 

Best  Short  Story: 
"The  Way  of  Cross  and  Dragon"  by  George  R.R.  Martin 

Best  Nonfiction  Book: 
Tfie  Science  Fiction  Encyclopedia  edited  by  Peter  Nicholls 

Best  Dramatic  Presentation: 
Alien 

Best  Professional  Artist:  Best  Fanzine: 

Michael  Whelan  Locus  edited  by  Charles  N.  Brown 

Best  Fan  Writer:         Best  Fan  Artist: 
Bob  Shaw  Alexis  Gilliland 

John  W.  Campbell  Award  for  Best  New  Writer  of  1978-79: 
Barry  B.  Longyear 

Gandalf  Award 

for  Grand  Master  of  Fantasy: 

Ray  Bradbury 


FREDERIKPOHL 


BEYOND  THE  BLUE 


After  the  Gateway  mission  that  made 
him  rich  but  cost  him  the  woman  he  loved, 
Robinette  Broadhead  joined  in  bankrolling  an 
expedition  to  the  Food  Factory—a  Heechee  space- 
ship found  beyond  the  orbit  of  Pluto. 

But  was  ending  all  famine  and  becoming  the 
wealthiest  man  in  history  his  real  mission,  or  was  he  driven 
by  a  vision  of  his  lost  love,  poised  forever  at  the  "event 
horizon"  of  a  black  hole? 

"Certainly  very  few  books  have  ever  held  my  attention  in  ^uch 
an  iron  grip  right  up  until  the  last  paragraph.. .(or)  left  me  so  breathless 
with  admiration... Truly  cosmic  scope!"  —Analog 


Now  in  paperback  $2.50 


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23  December  1980 


POSTMASTER: 

send  form  3579  to  lAsfm, 

Box  2650,  Greenwich,  CT  06830 


ISSN  0162-2188 
Vol.  4,  No.  12  (whole  no.  34)  December  1980 


COVER,  "Companioning" Karl  Kofoed      1 

EDITORIAL:  WHAT  MAKES  ISAAC  RUN? Isaac  Asimov      6 

ON  BOOKS Baird  Searles    12 

Bloodsong Barry  B.  Longyear  &  Kevin  0'  Donnell,  Jr.     20 

Tube  Through  the  Earth Martin  Gardner    40 

ON  PLAYING  ROLES:  A  THIRD  LOOK John  M.  Ford     43 

Eight  Ball  Blues Jack  0.  Haldeman  li     53 

The  Deicides Gerald  Pearce    64 

At  the  Hugo  Banquet Susan  Casper    88 

The  Beanstalk  Analysis JO.  Jeppson    89 

IS  THE  WORLD  IN  CURIOUS  SHAPE? Robert  J.  Schadewald     97 

Checkmate Edward  Wellen  107 

THE  SF  CONVENTIONAL  CALENDAR Erwin  S.  Strauss  116 

The  Adopted  Father Gene  Wolfe  117 

Companioning Jo  Clayton  126 

LETTERS 169 


Joel  Davis:  President  &  Publisher  Isaac  Asimov:  Editorial  Director 

George  H.  Scithers:  Editor 


Published  monthly  by  Davis  Publications.  Inc.,  at  $1.50  a  copy;  annual  subscription  of  twelve 
issues  $17.00  in  the  United  States  and  U.S.  possessions;  in  all  other  countries  $19.50.  Address  for 
subscriptions  and  ail  correspondence  about  them:  Box  2650,  Greenvi^ich,  CT  06836.  Address  for 
all  editorial  matters:  Box  13116,  Philadelphia.  PA  19101.  Isaac  Asimov's  Science  Fiction  Magazine* 
is  the  registered  trademark  of  Davis  Publications.  Inc.  ©  1980  by  Davis  Publications,  Inc.,  380 
Lexington  Ave..  New  York.  NY  10017.  All  rights  reserved,  printed  in  the  U.S.A.  Protection  secured 
under  the  Universal  and  Pan  American  Copyright  Conventions.  Reproduction  or  use  of  editorial 
or  pictorial  content  in  any  manner  without  express  permission  is  prohibited.  All  submissions  rnust 
include  a  self-addressed,  stamped  envelope;  the  publisher  assumes  no  responsibility  for  unsolicited 
manuscripts.  Controlled  circulation  postage  paid  at  Dallas.  PA. 


A  dazzling  new  fantasy 
series  ''glowing  with 
barbaric  energy' 


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THE  WAR  OF  POWERS 

by  Robert  E.  Vardeman 
and  Victor  Milan 


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BOOK  ONE:  THE 
SUNDERED  REALM 

Fraught  with  sinister 
omens,  Post  Long- 
strider's  urgent  mission 
takes  him  to  the  City  in 
the  Sky,  ruled  by  two 
beautiful,  warring  sis- 
ters. "An  uncomplicated 
adventure,  fast-paced 
and  fun." 

-Publishers  Weekly 
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BOOK  TWO:  THE  CITY 
IN  THE  GLACIER 

The  Amulet  of  Living 
Flame.  Its  magic  can 
restore  the  dead  to 
life...makeFost  invinci- 
ble... even  help  his 
beloved  Moriana  van- 
quish her  evil  sister-Lf 
Fost  can  free  it  from  its 
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BOOK  THREE:  THE 
DESTINY  STONE 

Desperate  to  reclaim 
her  birthright  and 
restore  peace  to  her 
people.  Princess 
Moriana  unwittingly 
kills  the  only  man  she 
ever  loved.  But  unless 
Fost  reaches  her  ^n 
time,  she  will  plunge  the 
realm  into  total  chaos. 
$2.25 


^Fred  Saberhagen 


EDITORIAL:  What  Makes  Isaac  Run? 
by  Isaac  Asimov 

art:  Frank  Kelly  Freas 


My  good  friend,  Harlan  Ellison,  openly 
requests  that  no  one  bother  sending  him 
letters  telling  him  how  great  he  is  because 
he  just  tosses  them  away  without  reading 
them. 

That  is  an  example  of  stoic  nobility  that 
I  would  follow  if  I  could,  but  for  me  it 
would  be  hopeless  to  try.  The  sad  fact  is 
that  I  love  letters  telling  me  how  great  I 
am  and  I  read  them  very  carefully  so  as 
not  to  miss  a  single  precious  word. 

You  can  imagine,  then,  how  annoying 
it  is  to  find  in  my  mail,  every  once  in  a 
long  while,  a  letter  that  does  not  tell  me 
how  great  I  am  but,  on  the  contrary,  finds 
fault  with  me.  When  that  happens,  I  look  all  about  me  carefully  to 
make  sure  no  one  is  watching;  and  if  I  am  indeed  unobserved,  I  tear 
up  the  letter  and  snarl  and  chafe. 

And  just  the  other  day  there  came  a  letter  that  accused  me  of  the 
crime  of  writing  too  much.  This,  apparently,  was  offensive  to  the 
letter- writer  for  two  reasons,  as  nearly  as  I  could  tell.  First,  it  showed 
in  me  an  unlovely  ambition  and  a  despicable  grasping  for  money 
and  fame.  Second,  it  was  an  artistic  crime  since,  if  I  had  the  common 
decency  to  write  less,  or  more  slowly,  or  both,  I  might  perhaps  write 
good  literature  instead  of  the  miserable  stuff  I  crank  out. 

I  sent  my  critic  a  polite  note  suggesting  that  he  might  suffer  less 
if  he  stopped  reading  me,  and  I  hope  he  follows  my  advice  for  I  don't 
like  to  be  the  cause  of  misery  for  someone  who  may  just  possibly  be 
a  human  being. 

Yet  it  occurs  to  me  that  he  may  not  be  alone  in  his  thoughts  and 
that  some  of  you,  who  don't  write  me,  nevertheless  have  the  feeling 
I  write  too  much  or  too  quickly  or  both.  What  you  think  of  me,  of 
course,  matters  only  to  me;  but  some  of  that  impression  you  have 
may  overflow  onto  the  magazine  that  bears  my  name  and  that  is 
another  matter  altogether.  For  the  sake  of  the  magazine  I  will  have 
to  explain  myself. 

To  begin  with,  while  I  am  a  prolific  writer,  there  are  many  prolific 


6 


ISAAC  ASIMOV 


MSCIENCE  FICTION  ANTHOLOGY 


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Please  send  me  Volume  4  (Fall/Winter  '80  edition). 

From  the  pages  of  Isaac  Asimov's  monthly  magazine,  another 
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writers,  especially  among  those  who  grew  out  of  the  pulp  tradition 
as  I  did;  and  I  set  no  records  in  that  respect.  There  are  a  number 
of  writers  who  have  not  only  written  more  than  I  have — but  have 
written  more  that  I  can  possible  write  if  I  live  to  extreme  old  age 
and  carry  on  my  present  level  of  production  to  the  very  end. 

(If  you're  curious  about  figures,  I  have  published  about  15,000,000 
words  in  my  lifetime  altogether;  but  there  are  some  writers  who 
have  published,  in  their  lifetimes,  anywhere  from  40,000,000  to 
100,000,000  words.  There's  no  way  in  which  I  can  approach  these 
marks;  and,  believe  me,  I  have  no  ambitions  to  try.) 

Then  what  gives  me  my  unusual  reputation  for  prolificity?  Partly 
(perhaps  entirely)  it  is  because  I  spread  my  net  wide.  I  not  only  have 
this  monthly  editorial,  but  1  have  a  monthly  science  essay  in  F  & 
SF,  a  monthly  essay  on  the  future  in  American  Way  Magazine,  a 
monthly  essay  on  science  history  in  SciQuest,  a  monthly  mystery 
in  Gallery;  and  I  appear  less  regularly  in  scores  of  other  magazines. 
Then,  too,  my  books,  which  are  numerous  in  themselves,  appear  in 
a  score  of  categories  so  that  one  librarian  told  me  she  found  at  least 
one  book  of  mine  in  every  major  division  of  the  Dewey  Decimal 
classification. 

The  result  is  that  people  who  are  used  to  seeing  me  in  one  place 
or  having  me  deal  with  one  subject  are  very  likely  to  run  into  me 
somewhere  else,  unexpectedly,  dealing  with  something  completely 
different.  This  astonishes  them  and  makes  them  feel  surrounded. 

Under  such  circumstances,  naturally,  people  get  the  impression 
that  I'm  setting  a  world  record  for  writing  and  that  I'm  some  sort 
of  unbelievable  prodigy.  But  I'm  not!  I'm  just  your  garden  variety 
of  prolific  writer. 

To  be  sure,  that,  in  itself,  is  considerable.  By  the  time  this  editorial 
appears,  the  number  of  my  books  should  be  pushing  220 — and  even 
that  relatively  modest  number  (the  world  record,  by  a  South  African 
writer,  is  about  900)  seems  to  puzzle  people. 

Why  do  I  do  it? 

It  does  take  considerable  application  of  seat  to  chair  and  fingers 
to  typewriter  keys  to  turn  all  that  out;  and  I  do  write  very  day, 
including  Sundays  and  holidays,  unless  circumstances  physically 
prevent  me  from  doing  so.  Well,  then,  why? 

Is  it  truly  unlovely  ambition  and  a  lusting  for  money  and 
fame? — Not  so,  and  I  can  prove  it.  If  I  were  desperate  for  money  and 
fame  I  would  channel  my  efforts  into  steamy  sex  novels  or  semi- 
mystic  horror,  or  go  to  Hollywood.  I  could  then  do  a  lot  less  and  get 
a  lot  more.  To  be  sure,  I  might  lack  the  talent  for  that  sort  of  thing; 

8  ISAAC  ASIMOV 


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Davis  Magazines  like  this  one. 

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but,  if  I  wanted  filthy  lucre  at  all  costs,  I  would  at  least  try  to  do 
these  things;  and  the  fact  is,  I  never  have. 

Well,  then,  if  not  that,  what  else?  What  makes  Isaac  run? 

The  answer  is  so  simple  that  it  always  surprises  me  that  no  one 
guesses  it.  It  surprises  me  even  more  that  when  I  do  tell  people  the 
answer,  they  find  the  utmost  difficulty  in  believing  it. 

Here  it  is — I  like  it.  I  enjoy  writing!  I  would  rather  write  than 
anything  else. 

What's  more,  I  write  exactly  what  I  like  to  write  in  exactly  the 
way  I  like  to  write;  and  the  fact  that  it  has  brought  me  money  and 
fame  (to  some  extent)  is  a  fortunate  accident.  I  don't  either  scorn 
the  money  and  fame,  nor  do  I  refuse  to  accept  it,  but  that's  not  what 
I  was  after. 

I  have  lost  count  of  the  number  of  times  people  have  said  to  me, 
"You  must  have  enormous  self-discipline  to  be  able  to  stick  at  the 
typewriter  day  after  day." 

My  answer  is:  "Not  at  all!  If  I  had  self-discipline  I  would  move 
away  from  the  typewriter  now  and  then." 

Once  someone  asked  me,  "If  you  had  to  give  up  either  writing  or 
sex,  which  would  you  choose  to  give  up?" 

My  answer,  delivered  without  hesitation,  was,  "I  can  type  for 
twelve  hours  at  a  time  without  getting  tired." 

Barbara  Walters,  refusing  to  believe  that  I  really  liked  writing 
all  that  much,  asked  me  (off-camera),  "What  would  you  do  if  the 
doctor  gave  you  only  six  months  to  live?" 

My  answer  was,  "Type  faster!" 

So  in  the  end,  they  all  say,  "Well,  you're  a  workaholic!" 

Why?  If  I  loved  to  play  golf  or  tennis  and  did  so  every  chance  I 
got,  I  would  be  considered  a  good  sport  and  a  very  loyal  American. 
If  I  had  a  wood- working  shop  in  my  basement  and  amused  myself 
in  every  idle  hour  turning  out  gadgets  and  furniture  for  the  house, 
I  would  get  medals. 

But  because  what  I  like  to  do  is  paid  for,  I'm  a  workaholic. 

If  I  typed  and  typed  and  typed  and  didn't  get  paid  for  it,  then  it 
would  just  be  a  hobby;  and  that  would  be  all  right  no  matter  how 
much  I  worked  at  it,  provided  I  also  had  some  job  which  earned  me 
a  living  and  which  I  hated  and  did  as  skimpily  and  as  sloppily  as 
I  could.  Then  I  would  be  a  worthy  human  being  whom  it  would  be 
an  honor  to  know. 

(I'm  sorry  if  I  sound  a  little  bitter,  but  I  hate  being  called  a  work- 
aholic or  being  described  as  "compulsive.") 

But  how  about  the  speed  with  which  I  write?  Have  I  no  feeling 

10  ISAAC  ASIMOV 


for  my  art?  Don't  I  want  to  do  a  good  job,  and  wouldn't  I  turn  out 
better  stuff  if  I  thought  about  it  and  considered  it  and  weighed  it 
in  my  mind  and  brooded  over  the  first  draft  and  revised  it  eighteen 
or  nineteen  times  and  compared  the  different  versions  carefully? 

Maybe.  I  don't  know.  I've  never  tried  it  and  I'm  pretty  sure  I'm 
never  going  to  try  it.  I  can't. 

Why  can't  I? 

Let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Have  you  ever  experienced  an  itch  on 
your  forearm?  Am  I  correct  in  assuming  you  promptly  scratched  it? 

Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  perhaps  if  you  considered  the 
itch,  weighed  carefully  its  location  and  intensity  and  thoughtfully 
took  into  account  the  various  ways  in  which  you  might  scratch  it 
and  the  various  instruments  with  which  you  might  scratch  it,  you 
might  end  up — after  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes — in  doing  a  more 
efficient  and  artistic  job  in  removing  that  itch? 

I'm  sure  nothing  like  that  has  ever  occurred  to  you.  You  just 
scratch — as  quickly  and  as  thoroughly  as  you  can. 

Well,  for  me  the  desire  to  write  is  an  itch.  And  I  scratch! 


Please  do  not  send  us  your  manuscript  until  you've  gotten  a  copy  of  our 
discussion  of  manuscript  format  and  story  needs.  To  obtain  these,  send 
us  a  self-addressed,  stamped  business-size  envelope  (what  stationery 
stores  call  a  number  10  envelope),  and  a  note  requesting  this  Information. 
The  address  for  this  and  for  all  editorial  correspondence  is  Box  13116, 
Philadelphia,  PA  19101.  While  we're  always  looking  for  new  writers, 
please,  in  the  interest  of  time-saving,  find  out  what  we're  looking  for, 
and  how  to  prepare  it,  before  submitting  your  story. 

Joel  Davis:  President  &  Publisher  Isaac  Asimov:  Editorial  Director 

George  H.  Scithers:  Editor       Shawna  McCarthy:  Managing  Editor 
Darrell  Schweitzer,  Lee  Weinstein,  Alan  Lankin,  John  Ashmead:  Asst.  Eds. 
Victor  C.  Stabile:  Vice  Pres.  &  Treas.      Leonard  F.  Pinto:  Vice  Pres.  &  General  Mgr. 
Robert  V.  Enlow:  Sub.  Dir.  Carole  Dolph  Gross:  Vice  Pres.  Mktg. -Editorial 

Jim  Cappello:  Advertising  Mgr.  Don  L.  Gabree:  Newsstand  Cir.  Dir. 

Eugene  S.  Slawson:  Sub.  Cir.  Mgr.  Joe  Rowan:  Newsstand  Sales  Mgr. 

Carl  Bartee:  Prod.  Dir.  Constance  DiRienzo:  Rights  &  Permissions  Mgr. 

Carole  Dixon:  Prod.  Mgr.  Irving  Bernstein:  Art  Dir. 

WHAT  MAKES  ISAAC  RUN?  11 


ON  BOOKS 
by  Baird  Searles 


On  Wings  of  Song  by  Thomas  M.  Disch,  Bantam,  $2.25  (paper). 

A  Storm  of  Wings  by  M.  John  Harrison,  Doubleday,  $8.95. 

The  Silver  Sun  by  Nancy  Springer,  Pocket  Books,  $2.50  (paper). 

The  Edge  of  Running  Water  by  William  Sloane,  Del  Rey,  $2.25 
(paper). 

The  Butterfly  Kid  by  Chester  Anderson,  Pocket  Books,  $2.25  (paper). 

The  Erotic  World  of  Faery  by  Maureen  Duffy,  Avon,  $3.50  (paper). 

Aliens  and  Linguists  by  Walter  E.  Meyers,  The  University  of  Geor- 
gia Press,  $16.00. 

As  I  was  reading  Thomas  M.  Disch's  On  Wings  of  Song,  people 
kept  asking  me  what  I  thought  of  it.  (Disch  is  one  of  those  authors 
people  ask  about  because  one  is  never  quite  sure  what  he's  going 
to  do  next.)  And  I  kept  saying  that  I  didn't  know  for  sure,  that  I  had 
to  give  it  a  few  more  pages.  After  I  passed  the  half-way  point  of  the 
book,  this  answer  seemed  a  bit  ridiculous,  but  I  must  say  that  even 
after  finishing  it,  I'm  still  not  sure  whether  I  liked  it  or  not.  But  I 
can  certainly  say  that  it's  well  worth  reading. 

Disch  is  not  a  likable  writer — or  to  phrase  that  more  felicitously, 
Disch's  works  are  not  likable  works.  If  he  specializes  in  anything, 
it's  unpleasant  futures,  and  that  could  even  be  refined  to  unpleasant 
near  futures,  which  have  a  gritty  reality  and  enough  links  to  our 
present  to  give  them  a  quality  of  verismo  that  makes  for  highly 
uncomfortable  reading.  Not  for  him  the  hip,  comic-strip,  "satirical" 
approach  that  has  been  fashionable  for  some  time,  with  lots  of 
amusing  sex,  violence,  and  drugginess  (that  "amusing"  is  sarcastic, 
if  you  hadn't  guessed — I,  for  one,  am  heartily  sick  of  that  subgenre). 
Not  that  those  matters  are  missing  from  Disch's  work,  but  they  have 
a  different  quality,  a  different  emphasis.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
science  fiction  verite,  Disch  writes  it.  His  334,  which  I  consider  a 
masterpiece,  is  about  as  close  to  Last  Exit  from  Brooklyn  as  the  field 
has  ever  come. 

On  Wings  of  Song  is  also  a  near  future,  but  differs  from  334  in 
several  ways.  For  one  thing,  the  first  half  of  the  book  takes  place 
in  a  pastoral,  rather  than  an  urban  setting,  specifically  the  Midwest, 
more  specifically  Iowa.  Here  Disch,  whom  I  think  of  as  an  urban 
writer,  is  obviously  drawing  on  his  childhood  in  Minnesota;  and  his 
21st-century  Midwest  rings  true.  Most  of  the  Bible  belt  states  have 
12  BAIRD  SEARLES 


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MAGAZINE  is  reviewed  by  an  editorial  board  according  to  Dr.  Asimov's 
principles  for  good  SF — so  the  fiction  you  get  every  month  is  always  pro- 
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become  police  states,  fundamentalist  Christians  wield  great  influ- 
ence, and  farming  is  done  more  and  more  on  enclaves  that  smack 
of  the  feudal  estate. 

For  another,  it's  the  second  recent  SF  novel  that  uses  music  as 
an  importantly  intrinsic  factor  (the  other — Card's  Songmaster). 
Disch  seems  as  involved  with  music  as  Arthur  Clarke  is  with  tech- 
nology, and  laces  the  novel  with  it  as  thoroughly  as  Clarke  high- 
techs  his  works.  Unfortunately,  from  my  viewpoint,  Disch  chooses 
to  concentrate  in  the  second  part  of  the  book  (which  takes  place  in 
New  York  City)  on  opera.  For  me  opera  is  the  art  for  which  I  have 
the  least  sympathy,  and  what's  worse,  he  specifically  concentrates 
on  bel  canto,  which  of  all  forms  of  opera  appeals  to  me  the  least. 
There  were  moments  in  the  novel  where  I  thought  if  I  read  one  more 
word  about  opera  I  would  scream  (and  why  should  I  be  different 
from  the  characters  I  was  reading  about?). 

But  generally,  vocal  music  is  functional  in  Disfch's  milieu — any 
kind  of  vocal  music — since  it,  in  combination  with  a  deliberately 
unspecified  electronic  apparatus  (made  by  Sony  and  other  like 
firms),  releases  the  spirit  (soul?  persona?  ka?)  of  the  user  who  sees 
himself  as  a  tiny  being  with  the  ability  to  fly.  The  process  is,  in  fact, 
called  "flying"  and  the  beings  doing  it  are  called  "fairies."  It  is  a 
highly  desirable  and  euphoric  state,  and  there  is  an  objective  reality 
about  it — the  wealthy,  for  instance,  employ  fairy  traps  to  be  sure 
that  their  privacy  is  not  invaded. 

Where  334  was  a  mosaic.  On  Wings  of  Song  concentrates  on  one 
individual,  a  boy  born  in  the  restrictive  Midwest  whose  major  am- 
bition is  to  fly.  We  see  the  various  cultures  of  the  time  through  his 
eyes;  we  see  the  U.S.  sinking  beneath  "power  failures,  shortages, 
blizzards,  floods  and  ever  more  audacious  acts  of  terrorism."  Against 
this  all-too-real  view  of  the  future,  Disch  himself  has  the  audacity 
to  set  the  fantasy  of  "flying."  Somehow  he  makes  it  work.  Did  I  like 
the  book?  No,  not  really.  Disch's  characters  as  well  as  his  settings 
are  generally  unpleasant,  and  I  find  the  ending,  which  happens  in 
the  blink  of  an  eye  on  the  last  page,  unforgivably  melodramatic. 
Nevertheless,  I  was  never  bored  by  it  (save  for  a  few  moments  of 
too  much  bel  canto)  and  almost  consistently  intrigued  by  the  author's 
amazing  flow  of  inventiveness  combined  with  reality.  You  don't  have 
to  like  a  work  to  think  it's  good. 

Month  before  last,  you'll  remember,  I  devoted  some  space  to  the 
sudden  spate  of  new  novels  which  I  labelled,  for  lack  of  a  better 
term,  "Baroque  science  fiction."  One  writer  who  certainly  heralded 
ON  BOOKS  15 


this  style  is  M.  John  Harrison,  particularly  with  his  novel,  The 
Pastel  City.  Now,  with  impeccable  timing,  a  sequel  to  that  ornate 
work  has  appeared.  It  is  called  A  Storm  of  Wings,  "being  the  second 
volume  of  the  Viriconium  sequence"  ( Viriconium  is  the  name  of  the 
Pastel  City). 

As  I  made  clear,  I  go  for  Baroque,  but  this  one  may  be  a  little 
over-Baroque'd  even  for  me.  Harrison's  writing  is  so  elaborate  that 
the  plot  and  concepts  often  get  totally  lost  in  the  complex  giltwork. 
Metaphors  and  similes  pepper  the  books;  "like,"  "as  if,"  "resembles," 
"with  the  air  of,"  "the  way  that"  are  words  and  phrases  encountered 
in  almost  every  paragraph.  The  building  sinks  beneath  its  orna- 
mentation; the  theme  is  lost  in  arabesque  and  obligatto — to  criticize 
in  kind.  In  other  words,  it's  easy  to  lose  track  of  the  plot. 

Which  is  a  simple  one,  luckily.  Five  inhabitants  of  the  Pastel  City 
(some  of  whom  we  have  met  before — it  helps  to  have  read  the  earlier 
book,  and  more  recently  than  I  have,  which  is  at  least  five  years 
ago),  Cellur,  the  birdmaker;  Galen  Hornwrack,  the  assassin  Lord; 
Alstath  Fulthor,  the  Reborn  Man;  Fay  Glass,  the  mad  Reborn 
Woman;  and  Tomb,  the  Iron  Dwarf,  leave  the  city  to  investigate  the 
reports  of  giant  insects  from  the  hinterlands  and  their  links  to  the 
mysterious  cult,  the  Sign  of  the  Locust,  at  the  behest  of  Queen  Jane. 
WTiat  they  eventually  find  is  an  insectoid  invasion  from  Outer  Space 
(shades  of '50s  movies!). 

That's  reducing  it  to  the  most  simple-minded  of  levels,  and  I  must 
say,  despite  my  grumbling  (which  is  really  more  of  a  warning  to  the 
unpersistent  lover  of  fast-paced  narratives),  Harrison  has  made  a 
wondrous  thing  of  this  tale  of  the  Evening  of  Earth.  Reading  it  was 
a  struggle,  I  must  admit,  but  I  have  the  disadvantage — to  myself 
and  sometimes  to  authors — of  having  to  read  against  a  deadline.  A 
Storm  of  Wings  should  be  read  slowly,  carefully — and  perhaps  im- 
mediately again,  something  I  have  never  suggested  before.  It  will 
amply  repay  the  effort. 

I  usually  don't  touch  on  sequels  or  spinoffs,  an  arbitrary  rule  that 
is  perhaps  unfair  but  is  one  of  the  ways  that  I  keep  the  candidacy 
for  coverage  to  somewhat  manageable  proportions.  I  talked  about 
the  Harrison  because  his  works  are  so  few  and  far  between  that 
ignoring  this  one  might  mean  several  more  years  before  I  had  an- 
other chance  to  mention  him.  And  I'd  like  to  talk  about  Nancy 
Springer's  The  Silver  Sun  for  two  reasons:  one  is  that  I  liked  the 
first  book  of  this  proposed  trilogy  (The  White  Hart)  so  very  much, 
the  other  is  that  some  clarification  is  needed  about  the  new  book. 

16  BAIRD  SEARLES 


Springer's  first  novel  was  The  Book  of  Suns,  which  attracted  httle, 
if  any,  notice.  Her  second,  The  White  Hart,  caused  some  stir,  how- 
ever, as  an  example  of  heroic  fantasy  with  quite  a  bit  of  originality. 
The  new  book,  The  Silver  Sun,  is  not  new;  it  is  a  rewrite  of  The  Book 
of  Suns,  integrating  it  more  closely  with  The  White  Hart,  I  gather 
(I  didn't  read  the  original  version). 

It  is  laid  in  the  land  of  Isle,  in  a  very  different  era  from  that  of 
The  White  Hart.  Isle  is  very  like  the  England  of  Ivanhoe  at  this 
period,  with  foreign  invaders  settling  in  several  generations  after 
the  conquest,  and  the  conflict  is  very  like  that  of  Ivanhoe,  with 
villainous  "new"  overloads,  heroic  "old"  families,  and  a  fair  amount 
of  both  factions  in  between,  simply  wanting  peace  and  quiet.  In 
place  of  Ivanhoe's  outcast  race  of  Jews,  Springer  introduces  a  sort 
of  lost  colony  of  elves. 

I  wasn't  quite  so  happy  with  this  one  as  I  was  with  The  White 
Hart.  There  are  two  heroes  and  two  heroines,  and  almost  everybody 
is  so  noble  and  nice  that  as  a  cumulative  effect  by  the  end  of  the 
book  I  wanted  to  strangle  all  of  them.  Even  half  the  villains  are 
subject  to  about-faces  and  become  sympathetic.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
a  rich  (if  sometimes  monotonous)  tapestry,  and  I  will  certainly  give 
the  third  book  a  chance. 

One  of  my  real  weaknesses  is  a  propensity  for  novels  of  the  1920s 
and  '30s  of  a  sort-that  I  find  difficult  to  categorize.  But  from  A. 
Merritt  to  Thorne  Smith,  they  share  a  quality  that  I  associate  with 
curling  up  in  an  armchair  before  the  fire  and  having  (oh,  dreadful 
expression)  "a  good  read." 

So  I  plunged  into  The  Edge  of  Running  Water  by  William  Sloane 
with  a  good  deal  of  anticipation;  I'd  known  the  title  (an  intriguing 
one)  for  many  years  though  I'd  never  read  it,  and  it  had  been  first 
published  in  1939. 

The  book  went  swimmingly  for  a  while.  Young  scientist-teacher 
summoned  by  his  old  mentor  to  isolated  area  of  Maine;  mysterious 
house  with  even  more  mysterious  room  in  it;  mentor's  lovely  young 
sister-in-law  to  hand  as  well  as  strange  psychic  lady;  problems  with 
local  population,  etc.  But  this  time  I  was  thrown  a  curve;  all  this 
leads  up  to  the  most  crashing  anticlimax  I  may  ever  have  encoun- 
tered in  all  my  days  of  reading.  In  this  case,  don't  go  near  the  water. 

Science  fiction  having  been  a  cult  genre  for  most  of  its  history, 
it  hasn't  had  that  much  chance  to  develop  individual  cult  novels. 
One  that  has  come  close,  however,  is  Chester  Anderson's  The  But- 

ON  BOOKS  17 


terfly  Kid,  first  published  back  in  1967.  It's  finally  reappeared  in 
paperback,  and  I'm  happy  to  say  it's  just  as  slapstickily  wacko  as 
I  remember  it. 

For  anyone  who  lived  through  the  1960s,  particularly  those  who 
did  so  in  Greenwich  Village,  the  novel  is  instant  nostalgia.  It's  set 
vaguely  in  the  fiiture,  but  all  fiitures  reflect  the  period  in  which 
they're  extrapolated,  and  this  one  is  unabashedly  an  extension  of 
that  time  and  place,  a  sort  of  Flower  Summer  with  vidiphones. 
Anderson  has  his  Village  geography  down  pat,  too;  in  fact,  one  dizzy 
scene  takes  place  in  the  very  building  in  which  this  report  is  being 
written  (my  apartment  building  is  a  converted  police  precinct 
house).  And  the  dialogue  is  rife  with  quaint  old  expressions  such  as 
"groovy"  and  "oh,  wow!";  the  miracle  is  that  Anderson,  writing  at 
the  time,  found  them  as  funny  then  as  we  do  now. 

The  plot,  so  far  as  one  can  discern  it  through  the  general  chaos, 
has  to  do  with  a  new  drug  that  appears  on  the  scene,  which  makes 
hallucinations  into  reality.  It  first  impinges  on  the  consciousness 
of  our  hippie  hero  (one  Chester  Anderson)  in  the  person  of  a  teeny- 
bopper  who  is  making  butterflies — real  ones,  though  psychedelically 
colored — with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  This  turns  out  to  be  part  of  a  plot 
by  a  group  of  aliens,  who  resemble  six-foot-tall  blue  lobsters,  to  take 
over  the  Earth,  and  the  whole  thing  comes  to  an  epic  climax  at  the 
Croton  Reservoir  with  a  battle  using  the  reality  drug  as  a  weapon. 
The  Butterfly  Kid  is  a  thoroughgoing  delight,  and  I  am  more  than 
happy  to  welcome  it  back  in  print. 

And  finally,  two  academic  books  that  are  of  more  than  routine 
interest.  In  cases  like  these,  I  am  not  about  to  criticize  or  question 
the  special  areas  of  expertise;  I  can  only  report  on  the  general  read- 
ability of  the  volume  which,  in  the  case  of  both  of  these,  is  very. 

Maureen  Duffy's  The  Erotic  World  of  Faery  is  fascinating  if  you 
don't  mind  having  some  romantic  illusions  brought  down  around 
your  ears  as  she  points  out  the  subliminal  sexuality  of  fairy  tales, 
fantasies,  and  even,  in  a  final  chapter,  some  selected  works  of  SF 
(with  that  chapter,  appropriately  enough,  headed  by  a  quote  from 
Asimov).  Kingsley's  The  Water  Babies  is  an  anti-masturbation  tract; 
in  The  Wind  in  the  Willows  the  "three  hero  animals  of  the  river 
bank  are  three  recognizable  phallic  or  fool  types,"  and  you  can  just 
imagine  what  she  makes  of  that  Freudian  festival,  Peter  Pan. 

A  little  less  sensational,  but  just  as  intriguing,  is  Walter  E.  Mey- 
ers's  Aliens  and  Linguists.  It's  a  study  of  manufactured  words  and 
nomenclature,  communication,  and  linguistics  in  general  in  science 

18  BAIRD  SEARLES 


fiction  (though  with  a  suitable  nod  to  Tolkien,  the  master  of  them 
all  in  the  matter  of  etymology,  for  obvious  reasons). 

I  was  particularly  impressed  with  Meyers's  knowledge  of  SF, 
which  is  demonstrated  to  be  extensive;  most  academics,  even  those 
who  claim  to  know  the  field,  seem  to  think  that  it  consists  of  1984, 
Brave  New  World,  and  Stranger  in  a  Strange  Land.  Bravo,  Mr. 
Meyers!  (And  Ms.  Duffy,  too,  for  that  matter.) 


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ON  BOOKS 


19 


BLOODSONG 

by  Barry  B.  Longyear  &  Kevin  O'Donnell,  Jr. 

art:  Hilary  Barta 


20 


21 


When  the  Messrs.  Longyear  and  O'Donnell 

discovered  they'd  both  written  stories 

based  on  the  same  idea  ("The  Raindrop's 

Role"  and  "Savage  Planet"),  they 

decided  to  try  a  deliberate 

collaboration — which, 

we  think,  turned  out 

quite  well. 

Dwai's  talons  scratched  the  rock  to  which  they  were  chained.  He 
could  not  loosen  the  bolts,  not  with  his  wrists  lashed  to  his  neck. 
Nor  could  he  snap  his  three-meter  pinions  and  fly  off  with  the  an- 
chor. He'd  tried  that  all  night  long;  blood  still  oozed  from  the  scrapes 
on  his  legs.  With  an  angry  cluck,  he  wrapped  himself  in  the  warmth 
of  his  wings  and  waited  for  his  trial  to  begin. 

Brooding,  he  knew  he'd  be  convicted.  The  balance  had  collapsed. 
The  harmony — oh  gods  of  storm,  the  harmony! — had  jangled  into 
discord.  And  he,  he  .  .  . 

He  could  remember  the  smoothness,  the  poise,  the  instinctive  in- 
terplay. Not  a  season  ago  he  had  perched  on  a  blasted  stump  and 
chatted  with  a  friend.  That  was  what  Poets  did:  chatted,  made  art, 
philosophized  .  .  .  they  had  created  civilization,  and  they  carried  it 
on  in  all  its  aspects.  The  Hunters,  on  the  other  hand,  fed  them,  and 
protected  them  from  attack.  But  it  was  a  clear,  windless  day,  so  the 
Poet  sat  up  top,  while  the  Hunter  slumbered  below,  awaiting  the 
neural  flash,  the  synaptic  summons.* 

PoetDwai  had  proposed  a  theory,  which  his  friend  was  ridiculing. 
"No,  hear  me  out!"  he  insisted.  "The  herdbeasts  are  fewer  each  year — a 
fact  you  acknowledge — and  the  reason,  I  say,  is  that  we  grow  more 
numerous.  We  eat  more  of  them.  To  extrapolate  their  extinction  is — " 

"—the  raving  of  a  demented  mind,"  snapped  Khu'a.  Poets  were 
expected  to  insult  each  other  freely— and  did.  "Logic  states  that  if 
fewer  graze  here,  more  graze  there."  He  waved  a  nightblack  wing  in 
the  direction  of  the  eastern  mountains.  "Nature  maintains  an  equi- 
librium— " 

"—which  we  overturned  with  our  weapons!"  Dwai  cut  in.  "Soon  the 
ngah  will  all  be  gone — unless  we  act  now  to  feed  them,  and  to  defend 
them  against  the  groundclaws  who  would  also  eat  them.  Not  to  see 
this  is  to  be  blind!" 

"To  state  it  is  to  be  a  fool!"  said  Khu'a  hotly.  "Tradition  says — '' 

"Reality  shows — " 

22  LONGYEAR  &  O'OONNELL 


''Dwai,  you  idiot,  you've  soared  too  high  too  long,  and  I  think  your 
brain  died  of  frost!" 

He  tossed  up  his  beak  and  laughed.  His  friend  had  to  join  in;  it 
was  well-known  thatKhu'a  spent  twice  as  much  time  above  the  moon- 
silvered  clouds  as  any  other  member  of  the  flock.  Then  the  corner  of 
his  eye  touched  a  furry  paw.  He  froze.  His  feathers  bristled.  The 
balance  beam  tilted  and  the  Hunter  popped  into  control.  ''Ground- 
claw!"  he  hissed,  touching  his  cree. 

Hunter  Khu'a  emerged  with  a  flourish  of  talons.  ''Now?"  he  grated. 

"Now!"  and  they  struck.  Dwai  swooped  towards  the  beasfs  fanged 
face.  As  its  massive  paw  swung  up  to  bat  him  down,  he  flared  his 
wings  and  floated  above  its  head,  just  out  of  reach,  yet  close  enough 
to  tempt  its  hungry  eyes.  It  reared  onto  its  hind  legs— and  Khu'a 
darted  through  to  rip  out  its  throat. 

Blood  still  bubbled  as  they  settled  back  to  their  perch;  they 
smoothed  their  feathers  and  wiped  clean  their  beaks.  Danger  had 
passed.  All  was  quiet.  "Good  work,"  the  Hunters  grunted,  then— after 
a  last,  sharp  glance  around— slipped  back  into  dormancy.  The  Poets 
said,  "Where  were  we.  .  .  ?" 

The  chains  clanked  together;  he  returned  to  the  present.  He  had, 
indeed,  known  harmony — no  matter  what  happened  at  dawn,  he 
had  once  been  whole. 

A  minute  later,  sunlight  spilled  over  the  valley  rim,  startling  the 
flock  out  of  sleep.  Nestlings  hopped  and  squawked  while  their  moth- 
ers sought  to  feed  them.  Older  children  launched  themselves  into 
the  air  and  spiraled  upwards  on  drafts  of  pure  exhilaration. 

Four  formed  a  diamond  and  whistled  past  overhead,  synchronizing 
the  beats  of  wings  so  closely-spaced  that  feathers  brushed  on  each 
stroke.  It  was  a  Poet's  sport,  but  even  a  Hunter  could  appreciate 
their  coordination — and  their  faith  in  each  other.  They  sang  as  they 
flew.  It  was  a  light  song,  a  mock  lament  that  they'd  grown  old 
enough  to  feed  themselves —  and  it  cut  off  abruptly.  The  diamond 
burst  open;  short  knives  flashed  in  the  sun.  They'd  spotted  breakfast. 
As  silent  as  night  the  Hunters  dropped,  talons  first,  and  vanished 
beyond  the  shoulder  of  a  ridge.  A  dart-pierced  ngah  bleated  in  pain, 
but  death  quieted  it.  The  foursome  screeched  success. 

And  seven  mild  elders  approached  Dwai. 

He  preened  himself,  for  he  would  not  cower.  Larger  than  most 
Grai-Grai,  and  feathered  a  shimmering  blue-green  that  faded  subtly 
into  gold  at  the  crest,  he  took  pride  in  appearance  and  dignity.  He 
had  nothing  else,  not  any  more.  The  prying  alien  woman  had  taken 

BLOODSONG  23 


all  his  life  but  his  stature  and  his  style.  Those  would  have  to  be  his 
weapons  against  the  elders. 

They  halted  just  out  of  reach,  and  jostled  into  a  semi-circle  of 
peering,  bobbing  faces.  Trhu,  the  chief,  so  ancient  that  only  a  single 
scarlet  plume  adorned  his  crest,  spoke  in  a  meek,  whistly  voice: 
"You  are  Hunter  Dwai?" 

"You  know  I  am,"  he  rasped. 

"Kill  for  us,  Hunter  Dwai."  He  nodded  to  middle-aged  Skwee,  who 
threw  a  hairy  brown  thing  at  the  captive.  It  whimpered  as  it  tumbled 
head  over  tail. 

Bound  though  he  was,  Dwai  struck.  Instinct  whipped  his  hooked 
beak  through  the  air,  and'bit  the  small  mammal  in  half.  Hot  blood 
gushed  on  his  bony  cheekplates;  its  perfume  triggered  his  hunger. 
Pecking  at  the  ground,  he  caught  the  thwart's  tail,  jerked  his  head 
up,  and  swallowed  that  half  of  the  carcass  whole. 

"Now,"  wheezed  Trhu,  "sing  of  sadness.  Poet  Dwai." 

"Sing?"  Gobbling  the  rest  of  the  thwan,  he  stretched  his  neck  to 
get  it  down.  He  felt  strong,  and  tested  his  chains.  They  held.  "I 
don't  sing."  Wistfulness  welled  in  him  briefly,  but  he  forced  its  la- 
ment into  darkness  with:  "Though  I  hunt  and  kill  and  eat — I  don't 
sing." 

"This  is  your  last  chance,  Poet  Dwai — " 

"I  am  Hunter  Dwai!"  he  screeched,  bending  forward  and  slapping 
his  wingtips  together  under  the  old  one's  very  beak.  "Hunter.  Do 
you  hear?" 

"We  hear,"  said  Trhu  quietly.  The  black  beads  of  his  eyes  fixed 
on  one  elder  after  another  until  all  had  voted  with  a  crestripple  or 
a  talonslash.  "You  are  insane.  Hunter  Dwai^  sickened  with  irrev- 
ocably separated  personalities.  One's  beings  must  fit  like  the  halves 
of  a  broken  shell;  one's  beings  must  ebb  and  flow  with  the  tide  of 
need.  Yours  are  separate.  You  can't  call  the  poet;  he  can't  call  you. 
We  fear  you,  Hunter,  as  your  wife  did  when  she  accused  you  to  us. 
Your  sensitivity  comes  when  fury  is  needed.  You  rage  when  you 
should  be  gentle.  You  must  leave  before  you  hurt  the  flock." 

"Untie  me,"  he  sneered,  "and  see  if  I  roost  on  cowards'  ledge." 

"We  will.  But  first:  should  you  wish  to  return,  you  must  heal 
yourself.  And  you  must  benefit  us,  to  compensate  for  the  disruption 
you  have  caused.  Find  the  alien,  drive  it  away.  Re-shape  the  nest 
of  your  soul.  Then  you  may  return." 

"I  am  a  hunter,"  he  snarled,  though  deep  within  him  a  distant 
flautist  piped  a  doleful  refrain,  "and  I  compensate  no  one.  If  I  make 
the  alien  my  quarry,  it  is  for  my  own  amusement,  not  for  your 

24  LONGYEAR  &  O'DONNELL 


benefit.  Untie  me." 

Trhu  nodded,  and  whispered,  "Gentlemen  poets,  let  us  be  hunt- 
ers." 

The  elders  stiffened.  Statue-still,  they  swelled  and  stretched;  their 
feathers  bristled  while  their  hands  fisted  and  their  talons  length- 
ened visibly.  They  they  moved — with  swift,  jerky  strides.  Each  ges- 
ture spoke  of  controlled  ferocity,  of  sudden  death. 

Skwee  unlocked  the  fetters.  For  an  instant  he  tensed,  nearly 
goaded  to  murder  by  the  smell  and  sight  of  blood,  but  he  shuddered, 
and  backed  away.  Trhu  bit  through  the  rope  looped  around  Dwai's 
wrists  and  neck.  "Go!"  he  commanded,  in  a  growl  more  vicious  than 
his  age  should  have  permitted.  "Go!  Your  weapons  are  on  the  peak." 

Dwai  measured  the  seven  elders  as  he  flexed  his  arms.  Free  now, 
he  almost  lashed  out  at  them.  He  ached  to  tear  their  flesh  with  his 
claws,  to  rip  his  beak  through  their  throats  .  .  .  but  even  to  him  the 
idea  seemed  mad.  A  seven-to-one  fight  would  end  quickly,  indeed. 
"I'll  go,"  he  grated,  flapping  his  wings  and  lifting  off,  "but  don't 
expect  me  back." 

On  the  peak.  Poet  Dwai  crossed  his  arms  and  spread  his  wings 
until  their  tips  brushed  the  rocks.  Eyes  shut,  his  beak  rose,  opened, 
then  issued  a  high-pitched  wail.  As  the  sound  echoed  from  the  sur- 
rounding mountains,  he  hung  his  head,  then  shook  it  to  remove  the 
taste  from  his  mouth.  "You  have  been  at  your  work  again.  Hunter." 

A  flame  burned  inside  his  breast,  but  Dwai  whirled  about,  his 
wingtips  knocking  small  stones  from  their  places,  into  the  depths 
below.  "I  am  the  stronger,  now.  Hunter!  I!"  The  flame  subsided,  and 
Dwai  became  still,  his  keen  eyes  studying  the  site  of  his  flock  far 
below.  He  turned  and  saw  the  ragged-edged  blade  of  the  cree  on  the 
rocks,  next  to  a  short-knife  and  a  quiver  of  darts.  Dwai  nodded,  then 
threw  back  his  head  and  cooed  a  bitter  laugh. 

"Hunter,  you  are  a  fool!  You  would  not  release  me  even  to  spare 
us  this  shame."  He  studied  the  weapons  for  a  moment,  then  looked 
to  the  gathering  clouds.  "Can  you  hate  me  so  much,  Hunter?  To 
have  us  thrown  from  the  bosom  of  our  flock?"  Dwai  snorted.  "Crea- 
ture of  blood,  of  kill  lust,  thou  knowest  not  the  meaning  of  hate! 
Love  has  given  me  a  hate  that  even  you,  in  all  your  brutality,  cannot 
equal." 

Dwai's  breast  swelled.  "You  are  quiet,  Hunter.  Is  it  because  you 
feel  my  flame?  It  is  a  fire  born  in  love  for  the  woman — "  He  doubled 
over  as  a  pain  seared  his  spine.  " — Yes!  Love  that  has  made  my  hate 
the  stronger!  Get  back!  Get  back!" 

BLOODSONG  25 


Dwai  came  upright,  then  he  shuddered.  He  turned  and  looked 
down  at  the  flock's  roost.  "It  is  just  as  well.  Could  the  lady  who 
finds  my  art  a  thing  of  grace  and  beauty  feel  joy  in  the  company 
of .  .  .  animalsl" 

He  thought  of  the  delicate,  fragile  creature  who  listened  to  his 
songs  and  poems,  her  strange  face  a  thing  of  curiosity,  yet  even 
beauty.  Then  he  would  listen  to  the  poems  she  talked  through  the 
shiny  green  box  with  the  glowing  jewels.  "Love,  Hunter.  You  will 
never  know  it.  Does  it  make  you  feel  as  crippled  as  I  see  you?" 

He  spread  his  wings,  then  dropped  from  the  peak,  swooping  until 
his  wings  caught  a  warm  column  of  air.  Dwai  circled  it  until  he  had 
risen  high  above  the  peak.  His  sharp  eyes  saw  the  members  of  his 
flock  gliding  below,  plummeting  down  that  strong  talons  might  rip 
the  backs  of  helpless  thwarts.  The  song  rose  to  his  throat: 

'7  spread  my  wings,  and  pray  you  hold  me 

God  of  sky; 
Your  children  of  the  clouds  see  my  flight 

Bid  them  let  me  pass. 
God  of  mountains,  God  of  sun,  God  of  stars, 

Guide  my  way. 

For  now  I  fly." 

Dwai  saw  the  glint  of  the  weapons  still  on  the  peak  below.  "Look 
at  them,  Hunter,  for  there  they  shall  remain.  I  need  no  weapons  to 
go  and  meet  my  lady." 

He  banked,  toward  the  sun,  then  pushed  his  wings  against  the 
currents,  leaving  the  peak  behind. 

The  Hunter  burst  awake,  spurting  into  consciousness  and  control 
like  magma  jetting  up  a  volcanic  fissure. 

Knocked  off  balance  by  his  erupting  skullmate,  the  Poet  tumbled 
down  the  slope  into  darkness  and  subterranean  stasis.  There  would 
he  float,  unknowing  and  unknown,  until  his  desire  for  the  light  so 
intensified  the  pressure  of  his  personality  that  he,  too,  could  shoot 
to  the  surface,  scooping  up  the  nuggets  of  musculature  and  men- 
tation as  he  fountained. 

Discords  jangled  in  the  inner  air;  the  Hunter  winced.  He'd  have 
no  more  of  that  foolishness.  That  prissy  nestling  would  stay  buried, 
this  time. 

Soaring  on  a  thermal,  he  circled  the  alien's  landing  site.  She'd 
chosen  a  treeless  plateau,  flat  and  grassy.  Her  craft  had  cut  three 

26  LONGYEAR  &  O'DONNELL 


parallel  lines  into  its  surface.  From  a  kilometer  up,  the  metal- 
skinned  air  blower  didn't  look  so  big — if  you  thought  you  were  much 
lower.  Sunset  tinged  its  stubby  wings  red;  the  breeze  flattened  the 
tall  grass  around  its  large  black  wheels.  The  woman  emerged,  and 
held  to  her  eyes  the  glass-tipped  tubes  that  gave  her  the  vision  of 
an  old  nest  guard.  She  pointed  them  at  Hunter  Dwai,  and  waved. 

Not  deigning  to  respond,  he  continued  his  long  slow  circle.  He 
studied  her  as  he  would  a  ngah  separated  from  the  herd,  noting  her 
stance  and  walk,  estimating  her  speed  and  strength,  searching  for 
anything  on  her  person  or  close  to  her  hand  that  she  could  use  as 
a  weapon. 

She  was  vulnerable. 

Wheeling,  more  silent  than  the  air  that  bore  him,  he  hated  her. 
She  had  ruined  him  with  her  jeweled  boxes,  had  lashed  his  brain 
with  such  pain  that  he'd  lost  his  talongrip  on  the  Poet,  who'd  ever 
since  fluttered  just  out  of  reach,  even  when  mired  down  under. 

The  Hunter  had  been  under  that  hour.  Perched  in  hooded  pride 
on  the  ledge  of  their  soul,  he'd  listened  to  the  Poet  babble  to  the 
alien,  and  awaited  danger. 

High  above  the  waving  woman,  he  laughed  softly. 

Danger.  It  triggered  fear  in  the  Poet,  always  and  without  fail. 
That  fear  dropped  on  the  little  nestling  like  a  great  weight,  swinging 
him  under,  and  launching  the  Hunter  into  the  light.  Always 
.  .  .  except  that  once. 

He  banked  again.  The  center  of  his  circle  moved  fifty  more  meters 
away  from  the  air-blower.  As  he'd  hoped,  the  maneuver  lured  her 
further  into  the  open.  She  looked  over  her  shoulder  to  mark  the 
precipice. 

Yes,  the  Hunter  had  stayed  under  that  hour  because  the  Poet  had 
been  too  foolish  to  recognize  danger.  She  had  hypnotized  him,  per- 
haps with  the  impossibly  slender  golden  feathers  she  called  hair, 
perhaps  with  the  lake-blue  eyes  that  saw  so  little  they  begged  for 
help.  The  Hunter,  eavesdropping,  had  waited  for  the  see-saw  to  tip, 
to  toss  him  gape-beaked  to  their  defense.  But  the  Poet  had  chuckled 
fatuously  and  let  her  attach  the  wires. 

She  stood  alone  on  the  plain,  her  shadow  stretching  long  and  grey 
down  the  green.  The  breeze  drew  her  hair  across  her  face,  and 
flapped  the  long-tipped  collar  of  her  jumpsuit.  Her  five-fingered 
hands  clutched  the  binoculars  more  tightly. 

The  Hunter  wondered  if  five  fingers  were  better  than  three,  if  five 
fingers  held  the  short-knife  more  firmly  at  the  moment  of  thrust. 
And  he  cursed  the  Poet  for  abandoning  their  own  weapons,  because 

BLOODSONG  27 


now  he'd  have  to  soil  his  talons. 

The  woman  had  destroyed  him.  "Fascinating!"  she'd  burbled  to 
the  Poet.  "Oh,  please  let  me  measure  it."  She'd  brought  out  her 
boxes,  her  wires.  And  the  Poet  had  bowed  his  head,  not  knowing 
(for  if  he  had,  the  Hunter  would  have,  too)  that  she  would  break 
the  birth-bond,  snap  the  see-saw. 

Even  in  memory  the  Hunter  sobbed  at  the  psychic  pain. 

Arrogant  Poet,  he  thought,  riding  up  top  when  danger  lurked, 
riding  through  the  hour  of  the  Hunter.  A  minor-key  dirge  sounded 
faint  and  far  within.  You  call  it  love,  what  you  feel  for  this  woman, 
this  alien  thing,  this  cree  that  has  cleft  us.  I  call  it  madness  to  split 
the  birth-bond,  to  shrug  off  symbiosis.  You  needed  me  and  I  you, 
skull -brother,  but  you  thought  to  seize  our  body  for  yourself  Can  you 
hear  me,  prissy  nestling? 

Angry  music  drowned  the  wind. 

Ah,  you  can.  Well,  hear  this,  glosswing—you  chose  to  fight  for 
dominance,  but  you  chose  the  wrong  foe.  I  am  Hunter.  I  hate.  And 
I  kill. 

The  sun  slipped  behind  the  far  ridges,  casting  the  plateau  into 
darkness.  To  him  it  made  no  difference — he  could  see  as  well  at 
night  as  in  the  day — but  to  her  it  meant  death. 

His  hatred  for  her  crackled  and  flared  like  the  fire  on  a  tree 
torched  by  lightning.  He  flexed  his  talons.  So  sharp,  so  strong.  Like 
the  lightning,  he  stabbed  down. 

And  she,  the  silly  fool,  smiled. 

As  Dwai  plummeted,  the  Poet  struggled,  but  too  strong  was  the 
Hunter.  Closer,  almost  upon  her,  and  the  smile  left  the  woman's 
lips.  She  turned  to  flee,  then  fell,  screaming,  to  the  ground.  No! 
Hunter,  No!  Poet  Dwai's  mind-being  flew  at  the  hard  wall  of  killfire 
constructed  by  the  Hunter.  No!  I  beg  you,  no!  Closer,  then  Dwai 
extended  his  talons,  dipped,  then  raked  the  woman's  back.  Her 
screaming  ended  suddenly. 

As  Dwai  banked  to  finish  his  quarry,  the  crazed  Poet  flew  at  the 
Hunter,  at  first  confusing  him,  then  driving  the  brute  into  the  dark- 
ness. The  Poet  Dwai  screamed,  "I  begged  you!  I  begged  you!"  He 
whirled  down,  landing  eight  wingspans  from  her  bleeding  body.  He 
wrapped  his  wings  about  himself,  shivered,  then  stared  at  the  body 
with  unblinking  eyes. 

''Emptiness, 
My  soul  a  haunt 

28  LONGYEAR  &  O'DONNELL 


For  naught 
But  filmy  wisps 
Of  memory ." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  lowered  his  beak  to  his  breast.  Then  the 
woman  moaned.  Poet  Dwai's  head  rose,  then  he  flapped  and  ran  to 
her  side.  He  caught  his  breath  as  he  saw  the  six  bloody  cuts  that 
extended  from  the  small  of  her  back  to  her  shoulders.  The  tatters 
of  her  jumpsuit  soaked  red.  But — she  moved.  She  lived!  He  bent 
over. 

"Lady.  Lady,  can  you  hear  me?" 

She  moaned  again,  but  did  not  open  her  eyes.  Dwai  pushed  aside 
a  few  scraps  of  cloth  from  her  back  and  examined  the  wounds.  They 
bled,  and  badly.  Up  he  jumped,  his  wings  catching  the  air,  his  eyes 
searching  the  ground  for  the  healing-plant.  Farther  and  farther  he 
circled,  until  a  familiar  orange  patch  came  into  view.  He  swooped 
down,  his  talons  ripping  loose  several  plants,  then  up  he  went  to 
bank,  glide,  then  put  down  at  the  woman's  side.  He  pulled  several 
of  the  pods  from  the  plants,  held  them  over  her  back,  then  squeezed, 
letting  the  sour-smelling  liquid  dribble  into  the  wounds.  In  mo- 
ments, the  cuts  turned  black  and  stopped  bleeding.  Dwai  placed  his 
arms  under  her,  keeping  clear  of  the  healing  wounds,  then  gently 
lifted  her.  He  spread  his  wings  and  moved  toward  the  lady's  air- 
blower. 

In  the  cabin  of  the  air-blower.  Poet  Dwai  crouched  next  to  the 
lady's  sleeping  place.  The  healing-plant  had  stopped  the  pain,  and 
her  face  was  calm.  Dwai  lifted  an  arm  and  stroked  her  cheek  with 
his  fingers.  He  turned  the  hand  and  looked  at  it,  then  let  it  fall  to 
his  side. 

"Hunter,  we  must  come  to  terms.  I  know  not  how  much  longer  I 
can  hold  you  in  the  darkness,  but  before  she  is  healed,  you  will 
again  control  us." 

He  stood  and  began  searching  the  lockers  in  the  compartment. 
"Yes,  you  will  control  us;  but  you  shall  not  kill  her,  Hunter.  You 
shall  tend  her.  If  she  wishes  water,  you  shall  bring  it.  If  enemies 
come  to  the  door,  you  shall  fight  them  off."  Poet  Dwai  nodded.  "And, 
Hunter,  if  she  is  moved  to  have  her  jeweled  box  talk  the  poems,  you 
shall  sit  and  listen." 

Opening  a  large  locker  at  the  rear  of  the  compartment,  he  nodded 
and  pulled  out  the  long  knife  the  woman  had  called  a  machete, 
looking  much  like  a  cree  but  with  a  smooth-edged  blade.  He  placed 

BLOODSONG  29 


the  long  knife  on  the  counter  of  the  compartment's  tiny  cooking 
place. 

"You  shall  do  these  things,  Hunter,  because  I  tell  you  to  do  them." 
Dwai  removed  the  cover  to  the  lady's  fire  plates,  then  pushed  the 
small  panel  the  way  he  had  once  seen  her  do.  In  seconds,  one  of  the 
fire  plates  glowed  red.  Dwai  felt  the  heat  on  his  face,  then  he  reached 
and  picked  up  the  long  knife  in  his  right  hand.  "I  must  leave  you 
a  message,  both  to  tell  you  what  I  would  have  you  do,  and  to  show 
you  what  I  am  capable  of  if  you  fail  me." 

"Are  you  listening.  Hunter?"  Dwai  felt  the  fire  throbbing  within 
his  breast.  "Good,  Hunter;  then  sharpen  your  hearing,  and  mind 
well  what  I  now  say:  you  mistake  bloodlust  for  courage.  You  mistake 
song  for  weakness.  Had  you  the  wit  to  compose,  you  would  see  what 
true  courage  is."  Dwai  stared  at  the  fire  plate,  now  glowing  white. 
He  placed  his  left  forearm  on  the  counter,  lifted  the  long-knife  high 
over  his  head,  then  swung  the  blade  down  against  his  wrist.  He 
staggered  back,  dropping  the  blade,  blood  spurting  from  the  useless 
stump  where  his  left  hand  had  been.  "See  .  .  .  see  Hunter  ..."  Dwai 
rocked  forward,  coming  to  a  halt  next  to  the  cooking  place.  He  lifted 
the  stump  and  placed  it  directly  on  the  white  fire  plate.  He  screamed, 
the  smell  of  burning  flesh  invading  his  head  and  lungs,  the  pain 
slamming  at  the  insides  of  his  head. 

He  slumped  to  the  floor,  looking  at  the  lady  through  half-closed 
eyes.  "You  see.  Hunter?  I  can  make  you  fit  to  hunt  nothing  more 
than  ground  grubs,  if  I  choose.  Or  I  can  end  us,  which  I  shall  do 
should  I  awaken  and  find  my  lady  dead." 

He  saw  her  open  her  eyes.  She  rocked  her  head  until  she  saw  him 
crumpled  on  the  floor,  then  her  eyes  widened.  "Have  .  .  .  have  no 
fear,  my  .  .  .  lady."  He  breathed  hard,  then  felt  the  compartment 
darken  and  begin  spinning.  "The  Hunter  .  .  .  will  mind  himself." 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  let  the  darkness  take  him  from  his  agony. 

The  Hunter  rose  to  a  consciousness  that  simmered  with  anguish. 
Ascending,  he  felt  it,  but  broke  through  to  rise  above  it,  as  all 
Hunters  could.  Though  it  did  not  disappear  from  his  awareness,  it 
bubbled  below  his  threshold  of  pain,  on  a  sub-sensory  level  he  could 
dip  into  to  check  or  ignore,  if  he  chose. 

He  chose  to  ignore  it. 

Pale,  unreal  light  filled  the  bare  room.  Yawning  in  the  stale  air, 
ruffiing  straight  the  feathers  bent  by  sleep,  he  opened  his  wings  to 
examine  the  wound. 

And  hissed  at  the  sight  of  the  charred,  swollen  stump. 

30  LONGYEAR  &  O'DONNELL 


You  fool!  he  threw  inwards,  hoping  the  Poet  was  hstening.  /  was 
the  strongest,  the  bravest— you've  made  me  a  nest  guard  decades 
before  my  time.  What  did  you  hope  to  prove?  It'll  be  a  week  before  I 
find  my  new  flight  balance. 

"Good  morning,"  whistled  a  harsh,  alien  voice.  No  Grai-Grai,  not 
even  the  most  senile,  could  consider  that  raspy  screech  a  proper 
greeting  for  the  dawn. 

Talons  clicking  on  the  shiny  floor,  the  Hunter  pivoted,  knowing 
he  would  face  a  slender,  blue-eyed,  female  Terran.  His  nerves  told 
him  that  the  fingers  of  his  missing  left  hand  had  curled  into  a  fist. 
"You!"  he  spat  at  the  drawn  woman  leaning  on  the  doorjamb. 

"Of  course,  Dwai."  Her  lips  moved,  but  the  words  came  from  the 
box  strapped  to  her  neck.  "Who —  oh.  You  are  Hunter  Dwai,  not  the 
Poet." 

"That's  right,"  he  snarled,  and  fought  down  the  urge  to  slash  her 
pink  cheeks.  "That  prissy  nestling  mutilated  our  body  and  now  he's 
afraid  to  come  out.  Can't  stand  the  pain.  Glosswings  are  like  that. 
Although  where  this  one  got  the  guts  to  cripple  us  is  beyond  me." 
He  cocked  his  head  and  snapped  his  beak  reflectively.  Studying  her 
soft  nose  and  exposed  ears,  he  added,  "And  why  he's  obsessed  with 
you  is  beyond  me,  too." 

"Now  just  a  minute,"  she  began — 

But  he  cut  her  off.  "No.  The  Poet  might  listen  to  you,  but  I  don't. 
You're  the  one  who  caused  this  whole  mess,  and  I'm  not  about  to 
forget  it." 

"Caused?"  she  echoed  blankly.  "Mess?" 

He  advanced  a  step,  half-unfurling  his  wings.  The  walls  cramped 
him;  the  ceiling  confined  him.  Claustrophobia  fueled  his  fury.  "Yes, 
ground  grabber,  caused.  You  and  your  boxes.  'Oh,  please  let  me 
measure  it — it  won't  hurt  a  bit.'  Well,  it  did!  It  tore  us  apart!  And 
because  of  that  we  were  deflocked,  the  prissy  nestling's  gone 
crazy — "  He  waved  his  stump.  " — I  am  a  cripple,  and  it.  Is.  All.  Your. 
Fault."  If  he'd  had  room  for  a  hop  and  flutter,  he'd  have  disembow- 
eled her  on  the  spot. 

Angry,  ominous  chords  crashed  and  whirled  within. 

Shut  up,  poet. 

The  music  swelled  and  whirled  like  an  oncoming  tornado. 

Listen,  windthroat,  Fm  in  charge  now. 

The  notes  solidified,  and  hurled  themselves  at  his  underside — but 
slammed  into  the  roiling  pain.  They  dopplered  down  and  away. 

You  can't  even  function  up  top  today — so  sink  back  into  the  ooze 
and  SHUT  UP! 

BLOODSONG  31 


Insistent,  the  refrain  demanded  obedience. 

All  right,  I'll  let  her  live— for  a  while. 

No,  forever!  screamed  the  music.  Or  else — 

Don't  threaten  me,  glosswing.  Because  after  what  you  did,  I'm  not 
so  sure  I  don't  want  to  die.  Keep  pushing  and  I'll  tear  out  her 
throat— then  let  you  swing  up  top  and  commit  suicide.  Why  not?  What 
kind  of  life  have  you  left  me? 

Silence  filled  his  interior — shaken,  reconsidering  silence. 

That's  better.  He  lifted  his  bony  head  and  stared  at  the  woman. 
"As  for  you — why  are  you  here,  anyway?" 

"I — "  Her  cheeks  reddened,  and  she  half-hid  her  face  behind  a  toss 
of  blond  hair.  "Fm  fleeing,"  she  said  simply. 

"You  made  somebody  else  hate  you?"  he  mocked. 

She  caught  her  breath.  "No,"  she  said  at  last,  exhaling  slowly. 
"No,  that's  .  .  .  well,  it's  true,  but—" 

Despite  his  animosity,  he  found  her  intriguing.  "How  can  some- 
thing be  yes  and  no  at  the  same  time?" 

"They  don't  hate  me,"  she  said  softly,  "they  merely  want  to  kill 
me. 

He  studied  her  anew.  "Why?  Are  you  their  food?" 

"Food?"  Her  eyes  blinked  several  times.  "No,  why?" 

"If  they  don't  hate,  why  else  would  they  kill  except  to  sate  hun- 
ger?" 

She  laughed  shakily.  "I  have  to  remember  you're  the  Himter  ...  no, 
it's  what  I  know  that  makes  them  want  to  kill  me." 

"What's  that?" 

She  drew  up  her  spine  like  a  prophet  imparting  revelation.  "That 
the  Grai-Grai  are  intelligent — and  should  not  be  slaughtered." 

"Of  course  we're  intelligent — who  could  feel  otherwise?" 

The  woman  sagged  against  the  gleaming  wall.  Greyness  suffused 
her  skin.  "Believe  me,  Dwai,  there  are  many  of  my  race  who  would 
classify  you  as  an  animal." 

The  Hunter  shrugged.  "Anything  that  lives  and  breathes  and  kills 
is  an  animal,  but — " 

"No,"  she  broke  in,  "that's  not  the  definition  they  use — I  had  no 
idea  you  were  so  articulate;  the  Poet  said — " 

"What  definition  do  they  use,  and  how  does  slaughter  enter  into 
it?" 

"To  them — "  She  set  her  jaw  tightly,  as  if  to  hold  back  nausea 
" — anything  that  isn't  identical  to  us  is  an  animal — especially  civ- 
ilizations that  don't  lavish  their  creativity  on  tool-making." 

"Our  short  knives  and  crees  aren't  tools?" 

32  LONGYEAR  &  O'OONNELL 


"You're  very  proud."  She  raised  her  thin  hands  to  her  temples, 
then  winced  as  the  motion  stretched  the  lacerated  areas  of  her  back. 
"Dwai,  you  don't  need  to  convince  me — I'm  on  your  side  as  it  is — it's 
the  others  who  don't  believe." 

"Who  are  these  others?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"People — humans — they  look  like  me;  my  race.  But  they're  in 
charge  of  deciding  which  worlds  we  will  take,  and  which  we  will 
leave  for  the  .  .  .  the  natives." 

In  a  vague  way,  he  understood.  His  people,  too,  had  elders  who 
picked  new  nesting  grounds — although  they  never  would  have  set- 
tled on  a  ledge  without  consulting  the  established  flocks  in  the 
vicinity,  "So  your  people  are  planning  to  take  the  world  from  the 
Grai-Grai?" 

She  nodded;  then  at  his  apparent  incomprehension  said,  "Yes." 

He  longed  to  stretch  his  wings,  to  float  up  warm  winds  rising  from 
rocky  slopes  while  he  thought  things  out.  "But  why  are  you  telling 
me  this?"  he  demanded.  "You  should  have  discussed  it  with  the 
Poet — it's  the  sort  of  thing  he  and  his  like  are  good  for." 

"I — "  Again  her  cheeks  flamed,  and  she  glanced  away  in  embar- 
rassment. "I  didn't  want  to  talk  about  it  unless  I  had  to.  It .  .  .  it's 
shameful,  if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

He  snorted.  "And  now  you  have  to?  Why,  because  the  Hunter  is 
here?" 

"No,"  she  said  softly,  plaintively.  "Because  my  hunters  are  here." 

Before  he  could  respond,  a  fanfare  of  martial  trumpets  blasted 
him  off  his  perch  and  back  down  under. 

The  Poet's  anger  shot  to  the  surface.  "Shameful?!  You  speak  of 
shame?" 

The  woman  cowered  against  the  bulkhead.  "Hunter  Dwai,  I 
only-" 

"The  Hunter  is  gone,  lady.  The  one  you  betrayed  speaks  now. 
Explain!  Explain,  else  my  talons  shall  do  the  Hunter's  work  upon 
you!" 

She  held  out  her  hands.  "Poet,  don't  you  remember  the  songs  you 
sang  to  me,  and  the  poems — " 

"What  for?  Why  did  you  have  me  sing  for  you?" 

She  swallowed,  then  looked  down.  "My  job.  It  was  my  job." 

The  Poet  thrashed  his  wings  in  fury.  "Job?  You  mean  your  work? 
It  was  your  work  to  have  me  sing?" 

She  nodded.  "The  recordings  would  prove  the  Grai-Grai  to  be 
intelligent." 

The  Poet  was  without  words.  Things  within  his  breast  tightened, 

BLOODSONG  33 


and  the  comers  of  his  mouth  watered.  "I ...  I  loved  you!"  He 
grabbed  her  chin  with  his  right  hand  and  forced  her  to  look  into  his 
face.  "We  had  art,  poetry,  and  song  together,  and  ...  I  loved  you! 
You  .  .  .  loved  me!  Your  jeweled  box  sang  your  love  to  me!  I  heard 
the  songs!  You  love  me! 

Tears  welled  in  her  eyes  as  she  nodded.  "Dwai,  those  were  the 
poems  of  other  humans.  I .  .  .  thought  you'd  enjoy  them." 

Poet  Dwai  turned  from  the  creature  and  went  to  the  vehicle's 
hatch.  "You  have  your  information,  creature.  Why  do  you  not  take 
it  to  your  masters?  I  have  been  used;  are  you  not  yet  done  with  me?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  deck  without  seeing  it.  "I  do  have 
an  .  .  .  affection  for  you,  Dwai — " 

The  Poet  snorted.  "Affection!" 

"It's  true!"  She  shook  her  head  as  she  continued  to  keep  her  eyes 
down.  "It's  true.  But ...  we  could  never  love,  Dwai.  Look  at  us." 
She  returned  her  gaze  to  the  Poet.  "Look  at  us!" 

He  returned  his  gaze  to  the  lady,  the  wetness  streaming  from  her 
reddened  eyes.  "I  am  looking,  yet  as  I  looked  before,  and  before  I 
loved  you!" 

She  held  out  her  hands.  "We  are  different.  How  could  we  ever 
love?" 

Dwai  staggered  back  as  though  he  had  been  struck.  "You 
talk  .  .  .  you  talk  of  rutting,  not  loveV  He  felt  his  good  hand  itch  to 
strike  the  creature.  He  breathed  deeply,  then  tossed  his  head  to  the 
right.  "I  would  sing  to  you  and  tell  you  my  poems,  then  you  would 
sing  and  tell  me  yours."  He  looked  back  at  her.  'That  was  love." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Those  were  not  my  songs  and  poems,  Dwai. 
They  were  simply  recordings.  I  wanted  to  see  what  they  would  in- 
spire in  you.  The  works  of  other  poets — human  poets — were  tran- 
scribed— " 

Poet  Dwai  turned  back  to  the  hatch.  "Then  your  work  is  done. 
Why  do  you  not  take  yourself  and  leave?" 

"Dwai,  there  are  powerful  interests  that  would  see  my  work  fail. 
Don't  you  understand?  If  all  that  I  have  found  out  isn't  brought  to 
the  proper  people,  the  Grai-Grai  will  be  destroyed.  This  planet  will 
belong  to  others.  My  ship  won't  fly.  I've  sent  out  a  distress  call,  but 
those  who  would  command  this  planet  will  have  heard  the  call  as 
well." 

Dwai  folded  his  wings  about  his  shoulders.  "Of  what  interest  is 
this  to  me?" 

"If  they  kill  me,  your  race  will  die." 

The  Poet  watched  as  a  small  air  blower  settled  to  the  edge  of  the 

34  LONGYEAR  &  O'DONNELL 


plateau.  "Another  craft  comes,  lady.  Your  rescuers  are  here." 

"The  color.  What  color  is  it?" 

"Blue."  Dwai  turned  back  to  see  the  creature  holding  her  hands 
to  her  mouth. 

"It's  them!  Dwai,  they  will  kill  me!  Please,  please  help  me." 

Dwai  looked  at  the  new  air  blower  and  watched  as  six  of  the 
human  creatures  emerged  carrying  weapons.  He  turned  back  and 
saw  the  lady  struggle  to  her  feet,  move  to  a  locker,  then  remove  a 
deadly-looking  hand  weapon.  She  picked  it  up  and  extended  her 
hand  toward  Dwai.  "This  weapon,  lady,  how  does  it  work?" 

"Hold  it  in  your  hand,  point  it  at  them,  then  depress  the  lever." 

Dwai  frowned,  picked  up  the  machete,  thrust  it  into  his  belt,  then 
he  took  the  weapon  from  the  lady.  He  studied  it  for  a  moment,  then 
looked  at  the  approaching  creatures.  It  did  not  take  the  Hunter  to 
see  that  the  creatures  were  exposed  and  careless.  He  pointed  the 
weapon  out  of  the  hatch,  aimed  it  at  one  of  the  creatures,  then 
depressed  the  lever.  One  of  the  creatures  fell  to  the  ground  inflames, 
while  the  remaining  five  dove  for  cover.  The  Poet  felt  the  sickness 
coming  over  him. 

Hunter  .  .  .  Hunter,  I  need  you  to  fight.  And  you  will  need  me  as 
well  to  know  who  to  fight  and  why.  I  am  still  strong,  Hunter,  and 
cannot  be  forced  back.  But  I  am  releasing  you,  for  we  must  do  this 
thing  together. 

The  Hunter  burned  up  from  the  darkness  to  find  the  Poet  still  in 
residence.  Down,  glosswing! 

No,  Hunter,  for  we  must  work  as  one.  The  enemy  is  out  there.  If 
they  are  not  killed,  the  Grai-Grai  die. 

Your  alien  woman  caused  this.  Let  her  die,  first. 

No! 

Poet,  she  plucked  our  tail  feathers  while  you  slept— how  can  you 
protect  a  ground-grabber  who  made  a  fool  out  ofyoul 

Hunter,  look  into  my  memory.  Hear  what  chants  there. 

Your  memory'^  he  snorted.  /  suppose  they're  your  eyes,  tool 

Please'? 

Oh,  all  right.  He  peered  into  the  misty  curtain  of  music  that  hung 
between  them,  cutting  one  off  from  the  other.  Only  amorphous  grey 
met  his  gaze — but  before  he  could  protest  that  the  Poet  had  asked 
him  to  do  the  impossible,  the  clouds  parted,  as  if  sundered  by  strong 
wind  and  brilliant  sun.  Up  the  far  side  of  the  curtain  licked  flames, 
and  beyond  them  .  .  .  beyond  them  played  a  masterful  symphony  of 
love  aroused,  elated — and  betrayed.  The  brass  shouted  joy,  the  bass 
spoke  of  strength  and  depth  and  force,  and  the  flutes  ...  ah,  the 

BLOODSONG  35 


lonely  flutes  mourned.  The  Hunter  looked  upon  a  wounded  comrade 
fluttering  from  the  sky's  ceiling  to  the  waiting  teeth  of  rock  and 
ridge,  helpless  to  save  himself.  The  Hunter  watched  .  .  .  and  wept. 
She  broke  your  wings,  he  whispered,  and  you  still  protect  her? 

Look  deeper,  Hunter.  Listen  closer. 

The  rhythm  shifted;  the  fifes  shrieked  Alarum,  alarum!  In  stac- 
cato cadences  air-blowers  dropped  like  rain,  a  thousand,  a  million, 
more  .  .  .  and  their  hatches  crashed  whiW  cymbals  clashed  and  feet, 
running  feet,  diving  bounding  running  feet,  weapons  flashed,  lasers 
slashed,  wiping  Grai-Grai  from  the  air .  .  .  burned  the  limestone 
ledges  bare  ...  all  the  nests,  all  the  eggs  .  .  .  bare. 

But  hope!  A  voice,  clear  and  silver,  soaring  high  saying  "No!" 
saying  "Stop!"  saying  "Go!" 

Her?  gasped  the  Hunter,  stunned. 

The  lady. 

He  turned  from  the  hatch,  spun  back,  and  turned  again,  confused 
by  the  rage  that  filled  him.  The  woman,  flattened  against  the  wall, 
said  nothing;  in  her  eyes,  though,  flickered  the  fear  that  the  ally 
within  her  ship  could  be  deadlier  than  the  enemy  outside.  He  stared 
at  her.  So  your  plan.  Poet,  is  that  you  pick  them,  and  I  kill  them? 

Yes. 

Then  point  them  out,  glosswing,  and  stand  back — or  get  splashed 
with  their  blood. 

The  instant  he  flew  out  the  hatch,  he  knew  he  was  in  trouble.  As 
he'd  predicted,  losing  a  hand  had  upset  his  balance;  he  wobbled  like 
a  nestling,  and  snapped  four  feathers  off  his  right  wing.  With  a 
squint  for  the  brightness  of  day,  he  concentrated  on  compensating 
for  the  minute  change  in  his  center  of  gravity.  It  was  almost  more 
than  he  could  manage.  Cursing,  he  dropped  behind  a  sun-bleached 
outcropping,  and  kept  it  between  himself  and  the  aliens  while  he 
walked  to  the  plateau's  edge.  There  he  stopped.  He  breathed  deeply. 
Clumps  of  fear  crystallized  in  his  stomach,  slicing  his  gut  with  their 
razor  edges.  /  can't  do  it!  he  shouted.  /  can't  think  about  fighting  if 
I  have  to  think  about  flying. 

Then  don't,  said  the  Poet  calmly.  I'll  fly. 

You? 

Where  do  you  think  my  music  is  born,  in  a  burrow? 

I  don't  really  have  a  choice,  do  I? 

No. 

All  right,  but  get  us  where  I  want  us  to  be— and  for  God's  sakes, 
when  I  need  the  arms  and  talons,  let  'em  go! 

They  stepped  over  the  precipice;  the  air  shocked  their  wings  wide. 

36  LONGYEAR  &  O'DONNELL 


Swoop  around  to  the  other  side,  urged  the  Hunter.  The  wind  sleeked 
their  feathers,  and  carried  away  the  sound  of  their  flight.  The 
Hunter  swung  his  head  from  left  to  right,  watching  their  shadow 
far  below,  picking  out  individual  grains  of  sand  in  the  stone.  His 
talons  flexed  again  and  again  while  he  listened  for  noise  from  above. 

What  do  you  feel,  Hunter? 

Hatred.  He  chiseled  his  words  out  of  ice.  Hunger.  Fury.  I  want  to 
tear,  to  fight,  to  bite,  to  kill!  Hot  blood  in  my  gullet  and  mewling 
whimpers  and  muscles  that  spasm  until  they  go  limp  with  death  .  .  . 

They  judged  their  position  and  rode  a  draft  up  the  cliff,  above  the 
plateau's  tabletop,  higher,  rising,  till  their  back  brushed  the  clouds 
and  the  shadow  of  their  span  blanketed  the  scene.  Far  below,  five 
puny  wingless  creatures  crawled  towards  the  lady's  air-blower.  They 
clutched  weapons  much  like  the  one  in  his  hand.  He  examined  it 
one  last  time.  Ready,  glosswing? 

The  Poet  spoke: 

''This,  then,  is  that  truth  moment. 

The  pitting  of  my  will  against  the  foe 

The  strength  of  my  blood  against  the  invaders. 

Fly,  then,  warrior,  into  the  fray; 

Speed  into  the  test 

For  victory,  glory, 

Or  both." 

Dwai  aimed  as  he  stooped,  stifling  a  war  cry  by  clamping  shut 
his  beak.  The  backs  of  five  furry  heads  bobbed  above  the  grasstops 
like  seeds  on  a  river;  the  Poet  steered  them  for  the  one  in  the  lead. 
You  think  like  a  Hunter. 

I  feel  like  one. 

Hah!  Ten  meters  above  the  ground,  he  squeezed  the  trigger  once, 
then  again.  Flames  engulfed  two  of  the  creatures,  who  leaped,  and 
shrieked,  and  beat  at  themselves  with  burning  palms.  The  others 
whirled  and  leveled  their  weapons — a  fraction  of  a  second  too  late, 
for  Dwai  whistled  past  them  untouched. 

They  shouted  guttural  curses  while  he  looped-the-loop  backwards 
and  upside  down,  speeding  towards  them  from  straight  overhead. 
One  looked  up — shocked  horror  stretched  his  features — but  before 
he  could  raise  his  weapon,  Dwai's  talons  ripped  away  the  lower  half 
of  his  face.  The  man  fell  in  the  grass  and  dyed  it  crimson  with  his 
life. 

Heat  scorched  the  fronds  under  Dwai;  he  fluttered  his  wings  to 

BLOODSONG  37 


come  about.  Burnt  air  filled  his  lungs  as  he  drew  a  bead  on  the 
nearer  of  the  two  surviving  aliens.  He  pulled  the  trigger  gently.  A 
gout  of  fire  crisped  the  foe  before  he  could  scream. 

One  left,  but  he  had  already  rolled  to  his  right,  away  from  Dwai's 
aim,  and  brought  his  own  weapon  to  bear.  Grass  seeds  popped  and 
crackled  as  a  fiery  tongue  flickered  serpent-like  toward  the  avian. 
He  hopped  up,  and  snapped  his  pinions  hard  to  boost  him  above  the 
stream  of  orange  death,  but  a  vagrant  flare  curled  around  the  stump 
of  his  left  wrist.  He  gasped.  The  sudden  pain  spasmed  his  muscles; 
he  dropped  his  gun. 

The  human  smiled  as  the  hovering  Grai-Grai  withdrew  his  mach- 
ete. Slowly,  he  raised  the  fire  weapon  and  braced  it  with  his  left 
hand. 

We  will  die!  he  shrieked  inside,  yet  answered  himself  with  a  wry, 
What  doesn't?  But  we  die  proud. 

He  charged  straight  towards  that  soot-blackened  barrel,  swinging 
the  machete  in  an  overhand  stroke  while  he  watched  the  alien  ten- 
dons tighten  and  the  alien  knuckles  whiten  and — 

The  human  burst  into  flames. 

What? 

Settling  to  the  ground,  he  looked  about  in  confusion,  then  under- 
stood all  when  the  lady,  a  weapon  of  her  own  in  her  hand,  staggered 
down  the  hatch  ramp  and  sat  with  the  heaviness  of  the  ill.  He 
jumped  up,  caught  the  air,  and  flew  to  her  side.  "Lady,  you  have  a 
Hunter's  eye  and  a  Poet's  timing.  I  thank  you." 

She  nodded,  and  searched  in  his  eyes  for —  "Which  are  you  now?" 

Dwai  opened  his  beak,  then  snapped  it  shut.  Who  are  we?  Poet, 
Hunter? 

We  are  both.  We  are  neither.  We  are  one. 

"Lady  ...  I  am  Dwai."  He  shook  his  head.  "We  are  not  healed, 
for  one  cannot  call  the  other.  We  are  both  at  the  same  time.  I  am 
.  .  .  Hunter,  Poet,  and  more." 

The  woman  flew  the  invaders'  ship  home,  with  a  promise  that  the 
Grai-Grai  would  be  safe  from  her  people,  and  with  an  apology  for 
the  Poet.  She  could  not  meet  his  eyes,  but  bustled  about  until  she'd 
made  all  ready  for  take-off.  Then  she  left. 

Afterwards,  Dwai  circled  high  above  the  plateau  and  watched  the 
ground  creatures  chew  on  the  strewn  corpses.  Wondering  if  they'd 
find  value  in  that  cindered,  foreign  flesh,  he  told  the  clouds,  "I  found 
value  in  the  woman — in  her  talk  and  in  her  fight.  Value  too  I  found 
in  the  battle  poem  as  I  streaked  towards  the  invaders.  Strange.  The 

38  LONGYEAR  &  O'OONNELL 


battle  was  as  worthy  as  the  poem;  the  victory  and  its  glory  no  wor- 
thier than  the  rhjnne."  He  dipped  his  wings  and  banked.  "The  elders 
will  be  pleased  that  the  aliens  have  left,  and  that  I  am  healed,  if 
not  in  the  manner  they  expected.  I  am  one;  I  have  benefited  twice 
over.  This  I  will  bring  back  to  the  flock.  And  they  will  become  the 
stronger  for  it." 
The  sun  glistened  on  his  feathers  as  he  pushed  himself  homeward. 


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BLOODSONG 


39 


TUBE  THROUGH  THE  EARTH 

by  Martin  Gardner 

Here's  the  latest  from  Mr.  Gardner: 
a  seven-question  puzzle. 

A  tube  that  goes  straight  through  the  earth's  center  has  been  the 
basis  of  many  SF  stories  and  novels.  Plutarch  seems  to  have  been 
the  first  to  ask  what  would  happen  to  a  body  that  fell  through  such 
a  tube,  and  Galileo  apparently  was  the  first  to  answer  correctly.  In 
eighteenth  century  France,  Voltaire  and  astronomer  Pierre  Mau- 
pertuis  argued  over  the  question. 

The  earliest  instance  I  know  of  the  tube's  use  in  a  SF  novel  is 
Through  the  Earth  by  Clement  Fezandie,  a  New  York  City  public 
school  teacher.  His  short  stories  about  "Dr.  Hackensaw's  Secrets" 
appeared  regularly  in  Hugo  Gernsback's  Science  and  Invention  be- 
fore Gernsback  started  Amazing  Stories  in  1926,  and  I  have  often 
wondered  why  these  amusing  tales  have  never  been  gathered  in  a 
book.  Through  the  Earth  was  first  serialized  in  St.  Nicholas  mag- 
azine, Volume  25,  in  four  installments  from  January  through  April, 
1898. 

In  Fezandie's  novel  the  tube  is  drilled  simultaneously  from  the 
U.S.  and  Australia,  using  electricity  supplied  by  tidal  energy.  A 
cooling  system  in  the  tube  counteracts  the  earth's  intense  interior 
heat,  and  the  tube  is  lined  with  a  new  heat  resistant  metal  called 
carbonite.  A  vacuum  is  maintained  inside  the  tube  to  eliminate  air 
resistance.  Electronic  repulsion  prevents  friction  between  the  sealed 
car  and  the  tube's  sides.  William  Swindon,  16  years  old,  volunteers 
as  the  first  passenger,  but  you'll  have  to  look  up  the  serialization 
or  locate  a  copy  of  the  rare  book  to  learn  what  happens  on  the  trip. 

In  1929  Appleton  published  Earth-Tube  by  Gawain  Edwards,  a 
pseudonym  of  rocket  expert  G.  Edward  Pendray,  about  a  war  be- 
tween the  U.S.  and  Asia.  The  Asiatics,  after  boring  a  hole  through 
the  earth  and  lining  it  with  a  metal  called  undulal,  pour  men  and 
undulal  tanks  into  the  tube  to  conquer  the  Americas  after  they 
emerge  near  Buenos  Aires.  The  plot  is  foiled  by  the  U.S.  discovery 
of  a  way  to  destroy  undulal. 

Shorter  tubes  that  go  straight  from  one  city  to  another  have  also 
been  used  in  SF  for  transportation.  Neglecting  friction  and  air  re- 
sistance, no  fuel  is  needed  for  a  train  because  gravity  draws  it  to 
the  middle  of  the  tunnel,  then  momentum  carries  it  the  rest  of  the 

40  MARTIN  GARDNER 


distance.  This  was  the  basis  of  Alexander  A.  Rodnykh's  nov^,  Sub- 
terranean Self-propelled  Railroad  between  St.  Petersburg  and  Mos- 
cow, published  around  1900,  and  a  1915  novel  by  Bernhard 
Kellermann  concerning  a  similar  tube  from  New  Jersey  to  France. 
The  idea  of  using  gravity  to  help  start  and  brake  a  car  is  actually 
employed  now  in  many  subway  systems  by  putting  vertical  curves 
at  the  beginning  and  end  of  stops,  and  we  are  all  familiar  with  the 
principle's  use  in  bowling  alleys  for  returning  balls  to  the  bowler. 

The  German  Professor  in  Lewis  Carroll's  Sylvie  and  Bruno  Con- 
cluded (1893)  explains  to  Lady  Muriel  how  the  straight  tunnel  per- 
mits a  gravity  train.  L.  Frank  Baum  uses  a  gravity  tube  for 
transportation  in  Tik-Tok  ofOz. 

If  we  assume  a  homogenous  earth,  ignore  air  resistance,  friction, 
Coriolis  forces,  and  so  on,  it  is  not  hard  to  calculate  that  a  car  falling 
straight  through  the  earth's  center  would  make  the  trip  in  a  trifle 
more  than  42  minutes.  Surprisingly,  this  time  is  independent  of  the 
tube's  length.  No  matter  how  short,  in  a  tunnel  that  goes  straight 
from  one  spot  on  the  earth's  surface  to  another,  the  time  for  a  trip 
is  about  42  minutes,  or  84  minutes  for  a  round  trip. 

It  is  no  coincidence  that  the  falling  body's  maximum  speed  is 
precisely  the  speed  (it  was  calculated  by  Newton)  at  which  a  satellite 
must  be  fired  horizontally  to  put  it  in  a  circular  orbit  just  above  the 
earth.  Under  ideal  conditions  (no  atmosphere,  spherical  earth,  and 
so  on)  the  satellite  would  complete  one  orbit  in  about  84  minutes. 

Imagine  the  earth's  axis  perpendicular  to  the  plane  of  the  ecliptic, 
and  the  satellite  circling  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole  on  a  plane  that 
intersects  the  sun.  Further  imagine  that  the  sun  casts  a  shadow  of 
the  satellite  on  the  earth's  axis.  The  shadow  would  oscillate  back 
and  forth  from  pole  to  pole  in  exact  conformity  with  the  oscillation 
of  a  gravity  train — an  internal  satellite! — inside  a  tube  from  pole 
to  pole.  This  is  a  way  of  saying  that  the  train  would  oscillate  with 
simple  harmonic  motion.  Indeed,  a  gravity  train  on  a  straight  track 
of  any  length  through  the  earth  would  oscillate  with  harmonic  mo- 
tion. 

It  also  is  no  coincidence  that  84  minutes  is  the  period  of  the  so- 
called  Schuler  pendulum,  an  imaginary  giant  pendulum  as  long  as 
the  earth's  radius  and  swinging  just  above  the  earth's  surface. 

Let's  assume  that  a  few  centuries  from  now  all  technical  diffi- 
culties are  overcome  and  an  airless,  frictionless,  adequately  cooled 
tube  is  built  to  connect  the  metropolises  of  North  Polaris  and  South 
Polaris.  By  extending  the  tube  along,  the  earth's  axis,  Coriolis  forces 
are  elminated.  Through  the  tunnel,  cylindrical  cars  carry  supplies 

TUBE  THROUGH  THE  EARTH  41 


and  people  in  42  minutes  from  one  pole  to  the  other. 

How  many  of  the  following  questions  can  you  answer  before  turn- 
ing to  page  63? 

1.  As  the  car  travels  from  North  Polaris  to  the  earth's  center,  does 
its  velocity  increase,  decrease,  or  stay  the  same? 

2.  Does  the  car's  acceleration  increase,  decrease,  or  remain  the 
same? 

3.  If  you  are  riding  in  a  car  and  it  stops  halfway  down  to  the  earth's 
center,  would  you  weigh  less  or  more  on  a  spring  scale  than  on  the 
earth's  surface? 

4.  At  what  point  during  the  trip  would  you  experience  zero  gravity? 

5.  At  what  spot  does  the  car  reach  maximum  speed,  and  how  fast 
is  it  going? 

6.  If  a  car  fell  down  a  similar  tube  through  the  center  of  the  Moon, 
would  the  time  for  a  one-way  trip  be  shorter  or  longer  than  42 
minutes? 

7.  A  famous  SF  story  was  written  about  an  attempt  to  dig  a  deep 
hole  below  the  earth's  crust.  It  turns  out  that  the  earth  is  a  living 
organism,  and  when  its  epidermis  is  punctured  the  earth  lets  out 
a  mighty  yell  of  pain.  What  is  the  story's  title  and  who  wrote  it? 


HAIKU  FOR  THE  APOLLO  ASTEROID  MINERS 

Stress  workers  alone, 

bright  cowboys  with  cyborged  hearts, 

tame  mustangs  of  stone. 

— Robert  Frazier 
42 


ON  PLAYING  ROLES:  A  THIRD  LOOK 

by  John  M.  Ford 

art:  George  Barr 


Mr.  Ford's  first  novel,  Web  of  Angels, 
has  just  been  published  by  Pocket  Books. 

43 


For  those  of  you  who  missed  the  previous  article  and  the  role-play 
phenomenon  in  general,  here  are  some  aids  to  navigation: 

In  the  role-play  game  (RPG)  the  players  take  the  parts  of  char- 
acters in  an  imaginary  world.  These  characters  are  defined  by  num- 
bers that  measure  such  things  as  strength,  dexterity,  and  intelligence. 
In  all  but  a  very  few  games,  the  world  is  laid  out  and  operated  by 
an  additional  participant  called  the  Gamesmaster  or  Referee  (and 
sometimes  other  things,  especially  after  the  players  fall  victim  to 
a  fiendish  trap  of  the  GM's  devising).  These  "worlds"  may  use  the 
props  of  heroic  fantasy  or  science  fiction,  or  less  often  such  places 
as  the  Wild  West  or  the  Spanish  Main. 

Through  movement  on  maps,  conversations  between  players  and 
GM,  and  the  rolling  of  dice  to  determine  the  outcome  of  battles  and 
other  risky  events,  the  "player-characters"  live  and  grow  and  (some- 
times) die;  the  players  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  adventurous  life 
without  personally  suffering  its  hazards  and  discomforts. 

Portions  of  the  rules  cover  such  things  as  the  creation  of  char- 
acters, their  social  background,  combat,  magic,  economics,  and  so 
forth.  Some  of  these  rules  may  be  optional.  Almost  always  the  GM 
will  create  house  rules  to  fill  gaps  and  personalize  the  world. 

"Role-playing"  should  not  be  taken  in  too  literal  a  sense.  Some 
players  enjoy  becoming  deeply  immersed  in  a  character,  even  one 
radically  different  from  their  own  personalities.  Others  prefer  to 
remain  themselves  in  an  altered  environment.  Similarly,  GMs  may 
create  worlds  ranging  from  simple  arenas  for  fighting  monsters  (the 
"dungeon  crawl")  to  completely  realized  alien  societies. 

This  is  a  very  powerful  form,  which  explains  the  tremendous  suc- 
cess of  RP  gaming  despite  some  very  badly  written  and  badly  or- 
ganized rulesets.  Most  games — chess.  Monopoly,  poker — can  be 
played  for  "fun  or  blood";  RpGs  can  be  played  for  fun,  blood,  glory, 
survival,  the  thrones  of  kings  and  the  wealth  of  empires — and  all 
for  the  price  of  some  books  and  paper  and  dice. 


CHIVALRY  AND  SORCERY 

Fantasy  Games  Unlimited,  Box  182,  Roslyn  NY  11576 

128-page  rulebook— $10 

Designed  by  Edward  Simbalist  and  Wilf  Backhaus 

Here  we  have  an  attempt  to  do  everything  at  once:  along  with  the 
usual  character,  individual  combat,  and  magic  rules,  CcfeS  contains 

44  JOHN  M.  FORD 


social  rules  (including  Influence  and  Courtly  Love),  army  rules  suit- 
able for  miniature  figures,  economics  rules,  and  a  lot  of  commentary. 
The  page  count  is  misleading — C&S  is  an  8V2  by  11  book  printed 
in  eyestrainingly  small  type,  containing  easily  100,000  words.  It  is 
not  for  the  casual  role-player. 

Character  creation  involves  casting  a  horoscope,  a  longer-than- 
usual  list  of  character  requisites,  and  a  number  of  calculated  factors: 
Personal  Combat  Factor,  Basic  Influence  Factor,  Body  and  Fatigue 
Points  (which  give  rise  to  the  unfortunate  heading  "Fat."  in  char- 
acter tables),  and  more.  The  system  is  slow,  especially  for  the  GM, 
and  tends  to  produce  large  numbers  of  superpowered  or  hopelessly 
inept  characters. 

C&S  combat  uses  percentile  dice.  Each  weapon  has  its  own  combat 
table  (some  have  more  than  one;  a  broadsword  behaves  differently 
in  the  hands  of  a  knight  than  a  yeoman)  giving  chance-to-hit  against 
each  of  ten  types  of  armor.  The  die  roll  is  modified  by  personal 
ability,  the  target's  defensive  ability,  the  type  of  blow  chosen,  and 
the  movements  the  combatants  have  made. 

The  system  is  very  complex.  In  addition  to  weapon  and  armor 
choice,  the  player  must  select  movement  and  attack  type;  not  all 
these  choices  are  apparent  or  strictly  logical.  A  system  of  "blows" 
allows  lightly  equipped  characters  to  strike  more  often  than  encum- 
bered ones — if,  that  is,  the  players  can  fathom  its  use. 

A  recurring  problem  with  C&S  is  that  the  rules  are  exhaustive 
but  not  lucid  or  organized.  This  means  that  one  must  read  and  well 
digest  the  entire  book  before  play  can  begin,  since  all  the  factors 
affecting  a  particular  subject  may  be  spread  out  over  five  or  six 
sections  of  the  rules.  Looking  up  a  specific  reference  is  just  about 
impossible.  Not  one  ruleset  on  the  market  today  has  an  index  worthy 
of  the  name;  in  a  book  of  this  size  this  is  disastrous,  not  to  mention 
very  hard  on  the  binding. 

Probably  the  most  unusual  element  in  C&S  is  its  treatment  of 
magic  and  magicians.  Rather  than  inventing  their  own  system  of 
magic  (like  Runequest)  or  filching  one  from  fiction  (like  AD&D)  the 
authors  have  gone  to  such  "real"  sources  as  Aleister  Crowley,  A.E. 
Waite,  and  P.E.I.  Bonewits  and  attempted  to  reproduce  and  quantify 
the  systems  and  laws  of  magic  (or  Magick,  if  you  will)  that  according 
to  these  authors  actually  apply  to  the  real  world. 

(As  an  aside:  Bonewits,  who  has  a  B.A.  degree  in  Magick,  has 
written  a  manual  of  such  systems  and  laws  specifically  for  game 
designers.  Authentic  Thaumaturgy  is  published  by  The  Chaosium, 
publishers  o^ Runequest.) 

ON  PLAYING  ROLES  45 


This  system  is  complex  and  highly  detailed.  It  is  also  quite  fas- 
cinating, if  one  is  not  put  off  by  the  conceit  that  all  this  is  the  real 
thing.  There  are  more  than  a  dozen  specialized  types  of  magicians, 
from  tribal  Shamans  to  Weaponsmith-Artificers  to  Cabbalists.  All 
types  share  in  various  ways  in  a  master  list  of  spells  divided  by  type 
(Divinations,  Communications  and  Transportations,  etc.).  Casting 
spells  costs  the  magician  in  physical  fatigue. 

Instead  of  receiving  spells  as  automatic  rewards  for  advancement, 
the  C&S  wizard  must  spend  large  chunks  of  his  time  practicing. 
Most  of  this  "practice"  takes  the  form  of  die  rolls,  and  some  have 
complained  that  the  magician  becomes  a  boring,  unadventurous 
character  who  spends  the  game  session  in  a  corner  with  a  box  of 
dice.  The  authors  reply  that  the  "real"  medieval  magician  was  a 
philosopher  who  sought  to  master  the  Grand  Art,  not  a  fireball- 
pitching  superhero. 

(Well,  he  was  and  he  wasn't.  I  highly  recommend  L.  Sprague  and 
Catherine  C.  de  Camp's  Spirits,  Stars,  and  Spells,  a  book  that  ex- 
plains the  anthropological  mechanisms  behind  magic  without  swal- 
lowing the  concept  whole.) 

In  actual  play,  the  C&S  magician  is  indeed  playable.  Large  parts 
of  the  character's  life  must  indeed  be  spent  out  of  action — but  not 
necessarily  the  players  time.  Soldiers  are  also  inactive  during  the 
winter;  priests  must  spend  time  with  their  congregations.  There  is 
a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  the  idea  that  game  characters  must  back 
up  their  daring  adventures  with  mundane  pursuits.  Leiber's  Fafhrd 
and  Gray  Mouser  sleep  and  eat  and  drink  too  much,  and  frequently 
have  to  hire  out  to  keep  eating  and  drinking;  and  they  are  all  the 
more  believable  for  it. 

C&S  clerics  actually  are  given  priestly  functions  to  perform,  and 
restrictions  of  faith  and  piety  on  their  actions,  though  they  still  tend 
to  be  a  specialized,  weapon-toting  sort  of  magician.  The  religious 
framework  provided  is  that  of  a  central  monolithic  Church,  opposed 
by  the  Powers  of  Darkness  in  the  form  of  various  Black  Witches  and 
Demonologists.  Though  some  elements  are  missing — there  are  no 
White  Witches,  no  heresies — this  is  well  constructed,  if  it  is  what 
you  want. 

There  is,  however,  no  easy  way  to  modify  this  structure,  something 
that  is  true  of  the  game  as  a  whole.  Despite  claims  that  the  rules 
are  modular  and  adaptable,  they  are  quite  firmly  welded  to  their 
Medieval  European  background — though  this  is  changing  as  FGU 
publishes  supplements.  Modifications  are  still  a  major  task. 

And  there  are  many  unsettling  features  to  the  existing  back- 

46  JOHN  M.  FORD 


ground.  The  authors  have,  they  say,  attempted  to  simulate  the  world 
of  the  High  Middle  Ages  as  its  inhabitants  believed  it  to  exist:  magic 
is  real,  alchemy  can  turn  lead  to  gold,  dragons  roam  the  countryside 
battling  parfit  gentil  knights.  A  quote  from  the  rules:  "The  Feudal 
Age  was  chosen  as  the  setting  of  the  action.  There  is  a  powerful  and 
most  appealing  tradition  of  glorious  deeds  and  stirring  events  sur- 
rounding the  whole  period  of  Chivalry." 

Except  that  that  tradition  is  the  creation  of  Renaissance  nostal- 
gics,  nurtured  and  preserved  by  such  later  writers  as  Tennyson, 
Scott,  and  White.  There  would  certainly  be  no  objection  to  using 
this  synthetic  tradition,  provided  it  were  labeled  as  such.  But  the 
authors  are  terribly  vague  in  this  area. 

Here  is  another  quote,  from  the  C&S  Sourcebook,  p.  26:  "No  mat- 
ter how  fantastic  the  setting,  the  basic  laws  of  the  universe  should 
apply."  What  basic  laws?  Magic  works  in  the  game.  Alchemy  works. 
Magic  swords  can  cut  through  tempered  steel  plate  like  cheese. 
Biology  as  understood  by  the  medieval  person  was  a  far  different 
thing  from  the  present-day  science.  Yet  a  few  pages  after  that  first 
quote  is  a  sharply  worded  criticism  of  RPG  monsters  that  "ignore 
biological  truth." 

The  authors  continuously  use  words  such  as  "authentic,"  "real- 
istic," and  "facts,"  but  also  claim  to  be  using  the  worlds  of  fantasy, 
not  history. 

Certainly  there  is  such  a  thing  as  "authentic  fantasy."  It  implies 
being  true  to  one's  source  materials  and  to  the  subconscious  ele- 
ments from  which  fantasy  grows.  But  the  authors  never  make  clear 
when  they  have  drawn  from  history,  when  from  historical  fantasy, 
when  from  other  sources  (the  C&S  Vampire  is  right  out  of  a  Hammer 
film)  and  when  invented  entirely — and  the  whole  is  prominently 
labeled  and  stoutly  defended  as  "authentic." 

And  none  of  this  is  necessary — one  must  willingly  suspend  disbe- 
lief to  play  the  game  at  all — and  it  is  a  considerable  shame,  because 
C&S  makes  a  real  effort  at  completeness,  logic,  and  consistency, 
and  is  mostly  successful.  In  many  ways  it  is  a  triumph.  Just  as  a 
GM's  aid  it  is  valuable,  provided  its  limitations  are  understood.  As 
a  game,  it  requires  a  deeper  commitment  to  world  and  character 
than  the  usual  RPG;  its  players  tend  to  be  its  strong  partisans,  and 
that  is  certainly  an  indication  of  success. 


§     §     § 
ON  PLAYING  ROLES  47 


TRAVELLER 

Game  Designers'  Workshop,  203  North  St.,  Normal  IL  61761 
3-book  boxed  set— $11.98 

Book  4,  Mercenary,  and  Book  5,  High  Guard,  $5.98  each. 
Designed  by  Marc  Miller 

No,  it  isn't  all  swords  and  sorcery  out  there.  Traveller  is  science 
fiction  in  the  grand  manner:  starfleets,  space  marines,  pirates  of  the 
void,  vast  interstellar  empires  (evil  and  otherwise). 

Traveller  players  begin  by  rolling  dice  for  the  usual 
abilities — Strength,  Dexterity,  et  cetera.  But  the  rest  of  the  char- 
acter-creation system  is  absolutely  unique.  Instead  of  beginning 
play  young  and  inexperienced  and  progressing  gradually  upward, 
Traveller  characters  enter  a  service  and,  through  a  dice-and-choices 
system  that  is  essentially  a  small  game  in  itself,  earn  skills,  ranks, 
and  decorations.  (The  basic  rulebooks  concentrate  on  military  ser- 
vices; the  Citizens  of  the  Imperium  supplement  adds  civilian  activ- 
ities such  as  asteroid  mining  and  the  Imperial  bureaucracy,  and  is 
recommended.)  The  system  as  given  in  the  basic  three  books  is 
simple  and  rapid — almost  always  taking  under  ten  minutes  per 
character.  Books  4  and  5  expand  the  procedure,  taking  more  time 
but  producing  more  interesting  and  varied  careers  and  usually  bet- 
ter-rounded characters. 

After  being  mustered  out/retired  and  entering  play,  a  character 
does  not  change  except  due  to  aging  and  wounds.  This  lack  of  an 
advancement  system  works,  at  least  partly  because  of  the  high  le- 
thality of  the  weapons  available.  Unlike  a  sword  cut,  a  burst  of 
gunfire  or  plasma  bolt  tends  to  settle  the  issue  all  at  once,  all  the 
more  so  if  characters  are  in  space  or  toxic  atmospheres. 

Thus,  characters  (those  who  get  into  fights,  anyway)  are  lost  fairly 
frequently.  But  since  they  do  not  slowly  and  laboriously  pile  up 
experience,  and  since  the  creation  system  is  quick  and  interesting, 
the  loss  is  not  so  deeply  felt  as  in  other  games. 

Another,  perhaps  more  interesting,  effect  of  this  deadliness  is  that 
players  have  a  real  incentive  not  to  get  into  fights.  Negotiation  pays 
off;  a  quick  wit  is  better  than  a  quick  trigger  finger.  Traveller  char- 
acters do  not  endlessly  prowl  starship  corridors  looking  for  some- 
thing to  kill. 

They  may,  in  fact,  not  prowl  starship  corridors  at  all.  The  eco- 
nomics of  starship  construction,  purchase,  and  operation  are  metic- 
ulously dealt  with  (Book  2  is  titled  Starships).  "High  passage,"  a 
48  JOHN  M.  FORD 


first-class  ticket  between  worlds,  costs  ten  thousand  credits,  in  a 
society  where  CR  5,000  is  a  tolerable  annual  wage.  Even  "low  pas- 
sage," travel  in  frozen  sleep  with  a  considerable  chance  of  never 
waking  up,  costs  CR  1000.  (These  terms,  by  the  way,  are  lifted  from 
E.  C.  Tuhh' s  Dumarest  of  Terra  novels,  which  the  author  annoyingly 
does  not  mention.)  A  small  scout  vessel,  large  enough  for  eight 
persons,  double  occupancy,  costs  in  the  neighborhood  of  thirty  mil- 
lion credits.  Ships  are  normally  financed  on  forty-year  leases. 

Wow.  Of  course,  players  may  hire  on  to  ships  that  some  non-player 
character  is  struggling  to  pay  off.  Or  contract  with  a  government 
or  supercorporation  for  some  military  or  shadier  service,  with  a  ship 
as  payment.  Or  sign  a  lease  and  skip  (a  rule  notes  that  one  ship  in 
thirty-six  is  in  skipped  status).  Or  hijack  one  (about  one  trip  in  t^yo 
hundred  will  see  a  hijack  attempt). 

A  straight-faced  statement  at  the  end  of  Book  3  reads:  "The  typical 
methods  used  in  life  by  20th  Century  Terrans  (thrift,  dedication, 
hard  work)  do  not  work  in  Traveller.  ..." 

To  return  to  the  subject  of  weapons.  Traveller  combat  is  resolved 
by  a  roll  of  two  dice,  modified  by  personal  skill,  abilities  (each 
weapon  requires  a  certain  level  of  strength  and/or  dexterity),  range 
to  target,  and  the  type  of  armor  or  other  protection  the  target  wears. 
If  a  hit  is  scored,  a  number  of  dice  are  rolled  and  applied  against 
the  strength,  endurance,  and  dexterity  of  the  victim.  Weapons  ef- 
fects range  from  one  die  for  bare  knuckles  to  sixteen  for  the  "Fusion 
Gun,  Man  Portable,  Mark  16."  Characters  will  often  lose  conscious- 
ness and  be  taken  out  of  action  before  they  are  mortally  wounded; 
this  blunts  the  aforementioned  lethality  a  little. 

This  system  is  about  average  in  complexity.  Choices  are  limited 
to  weapon  type,  but  this  choice  is  real,  not  artificial,  determined  by 
user  skills  and  abilities,  intended  target,  purchase  price,  and  tech- 
nological availability  (more  on  this  in  a  moment).  Also  important 
is  "combat  environment" — fighting  in  zero  gravity  calls  for  weapons 
that  do  not  inadvertently  act  as  propulsion  units,  and  the  heavier 
"small"  arms  tend  to  make  embarrassing  holes  in  starship  hulls. 
(From  the  rules:  "The  cutlass  is  the  standard  shipboard  blade 
weapon  .  .  .")  In  short,  players  must  choose  weapons  by  other  cri- 
teria than  simple  firepower. 

This  functionality — for  want  of  a  better  word — is  characteristic  of 
Traveller.  There  is  an  enormous  amount  of  functional  data  in  the 
rulebooks.  Nothing  is  presented  for  its  own  sake,  or  to  show  off  the 
authors'  erudition.  Instead  of  lists  of  allegedly  unique  polearms  or 
transcriptions  from  Latin  bestiaries,  there  are  simple,  clear  tables 

ON  PLAYING  ROLES  49 


that  are  aids  to  design  rather  than  prescriptions. 

Animals,  for  instance,  are  defined  by  their  feeding  patterns,  plus 
size,  toughness,  etc. — a  brilliant  idea  that  allows  the  behavior  pat- 
tern of  an  encountered  beast  to  be  determined  while  leaving  room 
for  real  alienness  in  its  physical  characteristics. 

Planets  are  created  by  a  series  of  die  rolls,  taken  in  order  with 
early  rolls  modifying  later  ones;  thus  the  size  of  a  planet  influences 
its  atmosphere  and  ocean  percentage,  and  population  density  influ- 
ences type  of  government  and  severity  of  laws.  All  these  may  alter 
the  world's  technological  level. 

Tech  level  matters  a  great  deal  in  Traveller,  though  the  author 
does  not  make  an  issue  of  it.  Technology,  and  all  manufactured 
items,  are  rated  on  a  scale  from  0  (fire  and  the  wheel,  barely)  to  15 
(the  glorious  Imperium)  with  hints  of  what  Level  16  and  up  will 
bring.  Earth  A.D.  1980  fits  in  at  about  7.5.  A  couple  of  points'  dif- 
ference can  determine  whether  your  wrecked  starship  can  be  re- 
paired locally,  how  fast  one  can  travel  cross-country,  how  effective 
one's  weapons  are  against  the  natives — which  by  itself  is  the  plot 
of  several  SF  novels,  notably  Gordon  R.  Dickson's  Spaxie  Winners. 
(Though  I  might  point  out  that  a  technological  superiority  does  not 
always  equal  a  military  superiority,  vide  Vietnam.)  And  once  an 
item  becomes  available,  its  price  will  decline  as  the  tech  level  con- 
tinues to  rise,  setting  up  opportunities  for  trade  and  restraint 
thereof. 

Traveller  may  have  the  best-integrated  economic  system  of  any 
RPG.  Advanced  Dungeons  &  Dragons  (see  "On  Playing  Roles:  A 
Second  Look"  lA'sfm  September  1980)  is  widely  inflated,  with  gold 
and  jewels  in  heaps  high  as  a  manticore's  eye;  C&S  bogs  down  in 
the  minutiae  of  medieval  agriculture  and  pay  scales — and  is  cor- 
respondingly deflated;  Runequest  uses  money  as  a  counter  of  success 
and  largely  ignores  its  motion  through  society,  despite  the  presence 
of  a  trading  cult. 

This  is  Traveller's  great  strength  and  beauty:  everything  is  there, 
everything  works — and  the  background  is  a  framework,  not  a  cage. 
Unlike  Dungeons  and  Dragons,  in  which  everything  has  a  label  but 
no  structure,  in  Traveller  everything  has  a  structure,  but  the  labels 
are  left  up  to  the  players.  If  they  find  fusion  guns  too  devastating 
(or  cutlasses  too  silly)  upper  or  lower  bounds  may  be  set  on  the 
available  technology.  If  the  rich  markets  and  vast  armadas  of  the 
Imperium  seem  to  clutter  things  with  hardware,  move  the  game  a 
few  dozen  parsecs  out  into  the  black  frontier.  If  the  players  would 
rather  explore  one  world  in  detail  than  flit  among  a  hundred,  build 

50  JOHN  M.  FORD 


one  without  a  starport,  far  off  the  space  lanes;  if  that  planet  plays 
out  a  ship  can  always  hard-land  there.  And  if  one  cannot  do  without 
a  little  magic  in  one's  vicarious  life,  an  optional  rule  section  adds 
psionic  powers — in  fact,  this  set  is  better  defined  and  balanced,  and 
flows  more  smoothly  into  the  rest  of  the  game  than  the  magic  "sys- 
tems" of  many  of  the  strictly  fantasy  RPGs. 

There  is  no  other  role-playing  game  on  the  market  that  allows  so 
much  freedom  to  alter  the  style  of  the  game  without  altering  the 
rules.  All  this  and  clean,  readable  graphics  (from  GDW's  superb  art 
director,  Paul  R.  Banner) — it  is  difficult  to  ask  for  more. 


EXTRODUCTION:  ON  SUPPLEMENTS 

As  before,  here  is  a  very  brief  list  of  some  of  the  player  and  GM 
aids  available.  Publishing  costs  being  what  they  are,  no  prices  are 
given  here;  send  a  stamped,  addressed  envelope  to  the  game  pub- 
lishers (not  Asimov's,  please)  for  more  information. 

For  Chivalry  and  Sorcery,  the  C&S  Sourcebook  is  indispensable; 
it  contains  background  information  on  the  magic  and  economic  sys- 
tems, rules  for  medicine  and  the  hunt,  and  the  errata  to  the  original 
rules.  Also  available  are  Swords  and  Sorcerers  and  Saurians,  books 
dealing  with  barbarian  cultures  and  intelligent  reptiles  (!)  respec- 
tively. Forthcoming  are  supplements  on  the  Arthurian  Age,  the 
Crusades,  and  feudal  Japan  (this  last  promises  to  be  especially  in- 
teresting). Play-aids  include  Arden,  a  complete  medieval  kingdom, 
and  Destrier,  a  set  of  rules  and  special  playing  cards  that  attempt 
to  make  C&S  combat  more  manageable. 

Traveller  currently  has  four  supplements  (Books  4  and  5  are  major 
expansions  of  the  rules,  and  recommended  purchases  as  such).  1001 
Characters  is  just  that;  prerolled  people — hard  to  justify  with  these 
rules  unless  the  GM's  time  is  severely  limited.  Animal  Encounters 
is  similar  in  format.  The  Spinward  Marches  contains  star  charts 
and  world  profiles.  Citizens  of  the  Imperium  contains  more  instant 
characters,  but  is  recommended  for  its  new  character-creation  ta- 
bles. An  announced  fifth  supplement,  76  Patrons,  promises  to  be 
more  interesting;  it  will  have  complete  mission-for-hire  scenarios. 
An  Adventure,  The  Kinunir,  concerns  a  large  starship  with  a  too- 
clever  computer;  it  is,  however,  short  on  ideas  for  using  the  ship. 
An  even  bigger  adventure  on  an  even  bigger  ship,  Azhanti  High 

ON  PLAYING  ROLES  51 


Lightning,  will  be  released  as  a  board  game  in  Summer  of  1980. 
Snapshot  and  Mayday  are  board  games  that  may  be  used  as  Traveller 
play-aids;  Snapshot  concerns  combat  aboard  starships,  Mayday  ship- 
to-ship  actions.  Both  are  recommended,  particularly  Snapshot. 
GDW  publishes  a  quarterly  magazine  with  the  awesome  title  The 
Journal  of  the  Travellers'  Aid  Society. 

And  to  insert  a  much-overdue  correction,  the  address  of  Alarums 
and  Excursions,  the  extraordinary  RP  amateur  press  association, 
is:  Lee  Gold,  3965  Alia  Road,  Los  Angeles  CA  90066. 


r- 


How  to  order  Ellery  Queen's  Mystery  Magazine 

To:  Ellery  Queen's  Mystery  Magazine. 
P.O.  Box  2600,  Greenwich,  CT  06836 

0  Bill  me  $6.97  for  6  issues  (outside  U.S.A.  $8.00) 

D  By  paying  now  I  receive  7  issues  for  $6.97  (outside  U.S.A.  $8.00) 

1  prefer  to  use  my  MASTER  CHARGE  or  VISA  card  and  take 
advantage  of  the  longett-term,  CASH-ONLY  BARGAIN . . . 

D  14  issues  for  $13.94  (outside  U.S.A.  $16.32) 

Credit  Card  # 


Expires Signature 

a  Enclosed  is  $13.94  (outside  U.S.A.  $16.32) 


Name  (please  print) 

Street /No Apt_ 

City State Zlp. 

Allow  6  to  8  weeks  for  delivery  of  first  copy. 

52  JOHN  M.  FORD 


HOL122 


EIGHT  BALL  BLUES 
by  Jack  C.  Haldeman  II 

art:  Jack  Gaughan 


EIGHT  BALL  BLUES 


Mr,  Haldeman  reports  he's  now  living 

in  Gainesville  FL,  a  nice  place  to  live, 

with  a  college,  a  football  team,  hook 

stores,  and  nice  libraries.  They  also 

have  lots  of  alligators,  which  nip  at 

the  ankles  of  joggers  on  campus.  Or 

so  he  says  .  .  .  Mr.  Haldeman's  novels, 

Vector  Analysis  and  Perry's  Planet  came 

out  recently  from  Berkley  and  from  Bantam. 

53 


Tucker  Moore  stroked  it  clean.  He  usually  did. 

The  cue  ball  rolled  smartly  across  the  green  felt,  hit  a  cushion, 
rebounded,  hit  another  cushion,  gently  tapped  the  eight  ball,  came 
to  rest  against  the  rail.  The  eight  ball  hit  the  corner  pocket  with  a 
firm  plunk  and  dropped  in.  Nobody  in  the  bar  was  a  bit  surprised, 
except  maybe  Dade  City  Slim,  tonight's  sucker.  Tucker  hadn't  even 
waited  to  see  the  ball  drop  in.  Soon  as  he'd  stroked  it,  he'd  turned 
his  back  to  study  the  juke  box. 

Tucker  was  good.  One  of  the  best. 

"You  owe  me  another  beer,"  said  Tucker  without  looking  up.  "And 
while  you're  at  it,  I  could  use  a  bag  of  chips."  He  dropped  a  quarter 
in  the  juke  box.  "Onion  flavor."  Tucker  liked  bar  food.  Hadn't  eaten 
much  else  in  years. 

Dade  City  Slim  dug  into  his  jeans  and  fished  out  a  crumpled 
dollar,  laid  it  on  the  bar.  Pop  had  already  cracked  the  beer  and  sat 
the  chips  down  next  to  it. 

"Not  your  night,  kid,"  he  drawled,  making  change. 

"You're  telling  me.  That  guy's  good." 

"Best  this  side  of  Lakeland,"  said  Pop.  It  was  true. 

Tucker  was  near  unbeatable  in  eight  ball.  No  one  in  the  county 
would  play  him  for  money.  Once  in  a  while  some  fool  would  come 
up  from  Tampa  and  get  cleaned  out,  but  usually  they  just  played 
for  beers.  That  suited  Tucker  fine.  He  was  not  a  man  of  high  am- 
bition. He  leaned  his  pool  cue  against  the  juke  box  and  took  the  beer 
Slim  ofiered  him. 

"You're  not  bad,  kid,"  he  said,  punching  buttons  on  the  box.  "I'm 
just  better." 

Slim  nodded.  Even  as  far  away  as  Dade  City,  Tucker  had  a  rep- 
utation. Worth  a  few  beers  to  play  him,  though.  A  fellow  could  learn 
a  lot  just  watching  him. 

Mickey  Newbury  sang  from  the  juke  box:  She  Even  Woke  Me  Up 
to  Say  Goodbye.  It  was  a  sad  song  and  the  record  was  scratched. 
Next  to  shooting  pool  and  chasing  girls,  Tucker  liked  music  best  of 
all. 

It  was  late  on  a  Wednesday  night,  not  much  happening,  not  too 
crowded  in  the  bar.  A  few  of  the  regulars  sat  around  telling  their 
usual  lies  to  each  other.  Two  truckers  from  the  rock  mine  were 
playing  gin  at  a  table  in  the  corner.  They  were  both  cheating.  A 
dog,  one  hundred  percent  hound,  slept  in  the  doorway.  He  belonged 
to  Buck,  who  was  leaning  at  the  bar  trying  to  put  the  make  on 
Mary.  Mary  was  having  none  of  it.  Both  of  them  were  in  good  humor. 
They'd  been  playing  this  game  for  years,  the  constant  haze  of  cig- 

54  JACK  C.  HALDEMAN  II 


arette  smoke  their  familiar  backdrop. 

Tucker  was  digging  into  his  bag  of  chips  when  the  stranger  came 
in.  An  outsider  in  the  bar  was  rare,  especially  on  a  week  night. 
Everyone  turned  to  check  him  out.  This  seemed  to  make  him  ner- 
vous; and  he  almost  stepped  on  General,  Buck's  dog.  That  would 
have  been  a  most  grievous  mistake,  since  Buck  was  6'2"  and  weighed 
285.  General  could  be  a  mean  dog,  too,  when  the  notion  hit  him. 

Since  the  stranger  didn't  look  like  a  troublemaker,  most  of  the 
bar  went  back  to  their  drinking,  smoking,  and  lying.  Tucker  eyed 
the  man  carefully,  though.  A  new  face  often  meant  someone  was 
looking  to  lose  some  money  at  pool.  Tucker  could  tell  a  lot  about  a 
man  by  the  way  he  walked,  the  way  he  held  his  body. 

The  man  looked  to  be  about  forty,  maybe  fifty.  A  little  gray  at 
the  temples.  He  was  pale,  so  he  must  be  from  out  of  state,  or  maybe 
he  held  down  a  desk  all  day.  Hands  looked  soft,  no  calluses.  He  was 
dressed  all  in  black,  a  combination  made  popular  by  Johnny  Cash 
and  Clint  Eastwood.  It  was  some  sort  of  a  jump  suit,  all  one  piece. 
Tucker  figured  him  for  an  easy  mark,  good  for  a  few  beers. 

The  man  walked  up  to  Pop,  talked  to  him  a  second.  Pop  grinned, 
pointed  to  Tucker.  Another  sucker.  The  juke  box  changed  songs. 
John  Prine:  Your  Flag  Decal  Won't  Get  You  into  Heaven  Anymore. 
Tucker  wadded  up  his  bag  of  chips,  dropped  it  into  an  ashtray. 

"Mr.  Tucker  Moore?"  asked  the  stranger. 

Tucker  nodded. 

"I've  got  to  talk  to  you.  There  isn't  much  time."  The  guy  seemed 
kind  of  agitated. 

"There's  plenty  of  time,"  said  Tucker.  "Place  don't  close  for  a 
couple  of  hours." 

"That's  not  what  I  mean.  I'm  Professor  McCann  and  we've  got  to 
talk." 

"I'm  Tucker  Moore  and  I'm  thirsty.  Play  me  for  a  beer  and  then 
maybe  we'll  talk."  Tucker  was  not  one  to  be  rushed. 

"Play  you?" 

"Eight  ball.  Usual  rules."  The  guy  was  either  stupid  or  playing 
dumb. 

"Then  we'll  talk?" 

"After  I  drink  that  beer  I'm  going  to  win,  I  reckon  we  can  talk," 
said  Tucker.  "Got  a  quarter?" 

"A  quarter?" 

"For  the  table.  You  know,  it  takes  money.  Twenty-five  cents." 

"Oh,  money.  How  much  is  a  quarter  in  uni-creds?" 

"Uni-whats?" 

EIGHT  BALL  BLUES  55 


"Uh,  I  forgot.  I'm  always  forgetting.  Fm  just  not  cut  out  for  this," 
muttered  the  man,  fishing  a  handful  of  money  out  of  a  pouch  on  his 
jump  suit  and  holding  it  close  to  his  chest.  "This  is  1980,  isn't  it?" 

"Last  time  I  looked,  it  was,"  said  Tucker.  What  kind  of  a  scam 
was  this  guy  trying  to  pull? 

The  professor  separated  some  money  from  the  rest,  dropped  it  on 
top  of  the  juke  box.  "Is  there  a  quarter  here?"  he  asked. 

Tucker  groaned,  took  a  quarter  from  the  small  pile  of  money.  He 
walked  to  the  table  and  pushed  it  through  the  slot.  The  balls  slid 
noisily  into  the  return. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  how  to  rack?"  he  said  dryly. 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

Now  Tucker  was  sure  it  was  a  scam.  Nobody  could  be  that  dumb. 
Deftly,  he  racked  the  balls,  flicked  an  imaginary  speck  of  dust  from 
the  felt.  Pop  might  run  a  pretty  beat-up  bar,  but  he  took  care  of  his 
table. 

"I  break,"  said  Tucker,  chalking  the  end  of  his  cue,  dusting  his 
left  hand  with  powder.  He  was  all  business.  Whatever  this  guy  was 
trying  to  pull,  he  wasn't  going  to  pull  it  on  Tucker  Moore. 

It  was  a  good  clean  break,  solid.  The  balls  spread  out  on  the  table 
and  the  eleven  ball  slid  into  the  side  pocket. 

"Nine  ball  in  the  corner,"  said  Tucker,  taking  careful  aim.  It  went 
in  cleanly.  He  walked  around  the  table,  planning  his  next  shot.  The 
stranger  was  still  standing  next  to  the  juke  box.  He  hadn't  even 
gotten  a  cue  down  yet.  What  was  he  expecting  to  pull? 

"Thirteen  in  the  side."  Something  about  the  man  bothered  him. 
Not  much,  just  a  little.  Just  enough  that  he  hit  the  cue  ball  a  little 
too  hard  and  the  thirteen  clipped  the  edge  of  the  pocket  and  spun 
back  into  the  middle  of  the  table.  "Your  shot,"  he  said. 

The  man  looked  puzzled.  "What  do  I  do?"  he  asked. 

"You  take  your  turn,"  said  Tucker,  rapidly  losing  his  patience. 
"Do  I  have  to  explain  everything  to  you?" 

A  blank  stare  said  yes.  The  guy  was  either  a  looney  or  really 
sharp. 

"I've  got  highs,  the  striped  balls,"  said  Tucker  slowly.  "That  leaves 
you  the  low  numbered  ones,  the  solid  colored  balls.  You  call  the 
pocket  and  shoot  them.  First  one  to  sink  all  his  balls  goes  after  the 
eight.  Sink  the  eight  and  you  win.  But  you  got  to  get  all  your  other 
balls  first."  Fat  chance.  He'd  left  the  guy  with  the  cue  ball  snuggled 
up  next  to  the  fifteen.  He'd  have  to  go  the  other  way,  against  the 
rail.  There  wasn't  a  decent  shot  on  the  table. 

"I  think  I  understand." 

56  JACK  C.  HALDEMAN  11 


"I  hope  so,"  said  Tucker. 

The  man  reached  for  Tucker's  cue.  Tucker  pulled  it  away  real  fast. 
"No  one  touches  this  cue  but  me,"  he  said.  "Get  your  own."  He 
gestured  to  the  cues  hanging  on  the  wall.  His  was  a  special  custom- 
made,  three-piece  cue.  A  fellow  up  in  Jacksonville  had  made  it  for 
him.  Had  a  case  for  it,  too. 

The  joker  took  the  most  warped  cue  in  the  bar.  Didn't  even  know 
enough  to  chalk  it  up.  He  walked  around  the  table  once,  stood  behind 
the  cue  ball.  Looked  like  he  was  concentrating  real  hard. 

"Mr.  Moore,  I  propose  to  sink  the  one  ball  in  that  corner  pocket." 
Tucker  nodded.  It  was  barely  possible.  On  a  good  night  he  himself 
might  be  able  to  do  it  one  time  out  often. 

"And  the  two  there,  the  three  there,  the  four  there,  the  five  there, 
the  six  there,  and  the  seven  there''  With  each  there  he  indicated  a 
pocket. 

Tucker  coughed,  lost  his  breath.  He  didn't  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry.  The  guy  was  pathetic. 

"I  don't  have  to  sink  the  eight  on  this  shot,  do  I?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

Tucker  managed  a  feeble  "No."  The  joker  had  to  be  as  crazy  as 
a  bedbug.  The  juke  box  flipped  again:  Dead  Skunk  in  the  Middle  of 
the  Road. 

Before  Tucker  had  managed  to  compose  himself,  the  stranger  had 
stroked  the  cue  ball.  He  had  terrible  form.  He  hit  it  hard,  and  way 
off-center.  It  spun  crazily  and  hit  the  one:  plonk.  It  grazed  the  two: 
plonk.  It  crashed  into  the  three  and  four:  plonk,  plonk.  The  five,  six, 
and  seven  fell  in  order:  plonk,  plonk,  plonk.  The  cue  ball  came  to 
rest  in  the  middle  of  the  table. 

"Did  I  do  that  right?"  he  asked. 

Tucker  gaped.  He'd  been  standing  with  his  mouth  open  since  the 
one  ball  fell  in.  What  he  had  seen  was  just  not  possible.  No  way. 

"You  did  that  fine,"  he  said. 

"Now  what?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"You  sink  the  eight,"  said  Tucker  weakly.  At  least  that  shot  was 
clearly  impossible.  It  was  totally  surrounded  by  Tucker's  remaining 
balls.  "But  you  have  to  hit  the  eight  first.  You  can't  move  any  of 
the  other  balls  until  you  hit  the  eight." 

The  man  nodded,  looked  it  over  for  a  minute.  Pointing,  he  indi- 
cated a  pocket,  took  aim,  and  hit  the  cue  ball.  He  hit  it  low,  right 
at  the  bottom.  It  lifted  into  the  air  and  jumped  over  Tucker's  balls, 
striking  the  eight.  The  eight  jumped  into  the  pocket  and  the  cue 
ball  spun  to  a  stop.  He  hadn't  moved  any  of  Tucker's  balls  at  all. 

EIGHT  BALL  BLUES  57 


"Now  what?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"I  buy  the  beers,"  said  Tucker  lamely. 

Pop  had  the  beers  ready.  He  was  shaking  his  head.  "I  ain't  never 
seen  anything  like  that,"  he  said. 

"Me  neither,"  said  Tucker.  "Better  throw  in  some  of  those  Slim 
Jims  and  a  couple  of  pickled  eggs.  I  feel  the  need  of  nourishment." 

"You'll  need  more  than  nourishment  to  beat  that  fellow,"  said 
Pop. 

"Ain't  that  the  truth."  He  laid  his  money  down  and  headed  back 
to  the  stranger. 

"Can  we  talk  now?"  He  was  still  holding  the  pool  cue. 

Tucker  nodded,  staring  at  the  table.  "Can  you  do  that  again?"  he 
asked. 

"Do  what?" 

"Sink  all  those  balls  with  one  shot." 

"Sure."  He  bent  over  and  casually  hit  the  cue  ball.  All  of  Tucker's 
remaining  balls  went  into  the  pockets.  In  order.  The  juke  box  clicked. 
Jimmy  Buffett:  My  Head  Hurts,  My  Feet  Stink,  and  I  Don't  Love 
Jesus. 

"Euclid  was  never  wrong,"  muttered  the  stranger. 

"How's  that?" 

"It's  all  a  matter  of  geometry.  Elementary." 

"Maybe  to  you,  not  to  me,"  said  Tucker.  "Let's  talk."  He  indicated 
a  table  in  the  back. 

They  sat  down.  Tucker  took  a  hit  off  his  beer,  offered  the  other 
can  to  the  stranger.  He  looked  at  it  funny,  took  a  sip,  then  another. 
Then  he  tilted  it  back  and  emptied  it  in  one  long  pull.  He  seemed 
to  like  it.  Tucker  waved  at  Pop,  who  brought  two  more  beers.  As 
the  other  guy  drank.  Tucker  peeled  back  a  Slim  Jim  and  ate  it. 

"How'd  you  do  that?"  asked  Tucker. 

"You  mean  the  game?  That's  simple.  All  a  matter  of  vector  anal- 
ysis. My  only  difficulty  was  in  estimating  the  coefficient  of  friction 
for  the  table's  surface.  That  made  the  initial  shot  a  trifle  inaccurate." 

"You  sank  them  all."  He  popped  an  egg  into  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  but  it  was  sloppy." 

"I  noticed  that,"  said  Tucker,  who  had  noticed  no  such  thing.  Pop 
brought  two  more  beers,  carried  off  the  empties.  That  fellow  was 
putting  the  brew  away  like  there  was  no  tomorrow. 

"Where  you  from?"  asked  Tucker.  "I've  never  seen  you  around 
here  before." 

"You're  not  going  to  believe  this,"  said  the  man,  lifting  another 
can  of  beer. 

58  JACK  C.  HALDEMAN  II 


"Try  me."  Tucker  had  another  for  himself. 

"I'm— well— I'm  from  the  future." 

"Future?  Never  heard  of  that.  That  in  the  Panhandle?  Up  Georgia 
way?" 

"No,  nothing  like  that  at  all.  Not  a  place,  a  time.  I  come  from  the 
future,  your  future.  I'm  from  the  year  2046." 

Tucker  wasn't  ready  to  believe  that.  Of  course  he  hadn't  believed 
that  kind  of  pool  shooting  was  possible,  either.  He  drained  his  can, 
signaled  Pop  to  bring  over  two  more.  The  juke  box  switched  back 
to  John  Prine:  /  Guess  They  Ought  to  Name  a  Drink  after  You. 

Pop  set  the  beers  down.  Tucker  had  a  long  pull  at  one.  It  was  time 
for  some  serious  thinking.  He  ate  the  other  egg,  offered  a  Slim  Jim 
to  the  so-called  man  from  the  future. 

"Where'd  you  learn  to  shoot  pool  like  that?"  he  asked. 

"This  was  my  first  time."  He  munched  on  the  Slim  Jim,  washed 
it  down  with  beer.  "But  I'm  a  physicist.  Handling  vectors  is  second 
nature  to  me." 

"Not  bad  at  handling  a  pool  cue,  either,"  said  Tucker. 

The  man  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  one  of  those  fancy  new  ones 
with  lots  of  flashing  lights.  He  pressed  a  couple  buttons  on  it. 

"I'm  late,"  he  said.  "Time  is  running  out.  We've  got  to  talk." 

"We  are  talking,"  said  Tucker.  ' 

"Serious  talk." 

"Pool  is  serious  talk,"  said  Tucker. 

"No,  no.  I  mean  about  the  future." 

"You  going  to  start  that  nonsense  again?" 

"It's  not  nonsense.  It's  the  truth.  I  can  prove  it  to  you."  He  splashed 
a  handful  of  coins  on  the  table.  The  juke  box  changed  records.  Tony 
Joe  White:  Even  Trolls  Love  Rock  and  Roll. 

Tucker  looked  at  the  coins.  Never  thought  he'd  see  Reggie  Jackson 
on  a  fifty-cent  piece.  There  were  all  kind  of  dates  up  to  2046.  He 
remained  sceptical  until  he  noticed  the  2046  dollar  was  smaller  and 
thinner  than  the  dime  he  had  in  his  pocket.  Shrinking  all  the  time. 
It  was  made  out  of  plastic  and  had  a  picture  of  Lawrence  Welk  on 
it.  The  guy  was  either  telling  the  truth  or  he'd  gone  to  an  awful  lot 
of  trouble  to  pull  something  off. 

Actually,  the  pool  shooting  impressed  him  the  most. 

"So  just  suppose  you  are  from  the  future.  Not  that  I  believe  it  for 
a  minute,  but  what  if  you  are?  Did  you  come  here  to  give  me  a  tip 
on  next  year's  Derby?  The  pennant  race?" 

"Nothing  like  that.  This  is  important." 

"Baseball  is  important." 
EIGHT  BALL  BLUES  59 


"You  have  to  save  the  world." 

"Wait  just  a  minute.  You've  got  the  wrong  man.  I'm  just  a  working 
stiff."  In  spite  of  himself,  Tucker  was  starting  to  halfway  believe  the 
fellow.  Beer  always  did  make  him  gullible. 

"No,  I'm  certain  I  have  the  right  man.  Tucker  L.  Moore.  Bom 
1952  in  Deland,  Florida.  Your  friends  sometimes  call  you  Skeeter." 

"So  you  know  a  little  about  me.  That  doesn't  prove  an5i:hing." 
The  juke  box  flipped.  Jimmy  Buffett:  Cheeseburger  in  Paradise,  a 
real  toe-tapper. 

"There's  more,  a  lot  more.  That  music  is  loud.  Good,  but  loud. 
Isn't  there  someplace  quiet  we  can  talk?" 

"We  could  go  out  to  my  pick-up,"  said  Tucker,  rising.  The  stranger 
had  sure  gotten  his  curiosity  going.  He  paid  Pop  for  the  beers  and 
grabbed  a  bag  of  dry  roasted  nuts.  They  were  both  a  little  unsteady 
as  they  weaved  out  the  door  toward  the  truck. 

Pop  didn't  have  a  real  parking  lot,  just  a  dirt  pull-off  by  the  road. 
Tucker  had  parked  his  truck  under  the  oak  tree.  There  was  a  chicken 
asleep  on  the  hood.  Tucker  brushed  it  away  and  jerked  open  the 
passenger  door.  The  driver's  door  hadn't  worked  in  two  years,  not 
since  that  time  he'd  run  off  the  road  down  Naples  way.  They  climbed 
in  and  settled  onto  the  worn  upholstery. 

"You  said  there  was  more.  Let's  hear  it."  Tucker  felt  like  he  was 
ready  for  anything.  Beer  did  that  to  him,  too. 

"I'll  have  to  be  quick,  there's  not  much  time.  It  all  started  right 
after  you  married  Betty-Ann  Sommers." 

"Now  wait  a  minute!  I  married — er,  I'm  going  to  marry— Betty- 
Ann?"  Betty-Ann  Sommers  was  cute  as  a  bug's  ear.  Always  figured 
he'd  end  up  with  one  of  the  Johnson  sisters.  Tucker  grinned.  Being 
married  to  Betty-Ann  was  nice  to  think  about.  Real  nice. 

"Unless  things  turn  out  differently,  you  will  marry  Betty- Ann 
Sommers  in  June  of  1981.  That's  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"Betty- Ann  .  .  .  Don't  that  beat  everything." 

"Actually,  the  problem  isn't  with  Betty-Ann,  but  with  your  son. 
You  see — " 

"Whoa,  there!  I'm  gonna  have  a  son?  You  mean  I'm  a  daddy?" 

"You  soon  will  be,  if  we  don't  change  things  around.  That's  what 
I'm  here  for." 

"I  can't  believe  I'm  gonna  be  a  daddy."  It  was  almost  too  much  for 
Tucker  to  bear.  He  felt  happy  and  sad  all  at  the  same  time.  He  felt 
like  crying  and  laughing  all  at  once.  He  felt  like  passing  out  cigars. 
He  felt  like  a  drink  and  reached  behind  the  seat.  He  pulled  out  a 
mason  jar.  It  was  almost  full.  The  liquid  was  clear  and  potent.  He 

60  JACK  C.  HALDEMAN  11 


took  a  slosh  and  passed  the  jar  to  his  companion.  A  fellow  didn't  get 
to  be  a  daddy  every  day,  that  was  for  sure. 

The  stranger  took  a  hit.  It  burned  like  fire  all  the  way  down  and 
must  have  anesthetized  his  throat,  because  the  second  swallow  was 
smooth  as  silk.  He  coughed,  choked  a  little. 

"That's  the  problem,"  he  gasped,  turning  a  little  red  in  the  face. 
"You  can't  be  a  daddy.  Not  to  this  boy." 

That  hit  Tucker  hard.  Here  he  was,  getting  ready  to  be  a  daddy 
and  all  married  up  with  Betty-Ann  while  this  fellow  was  telling 
him  it  all  couldn't  happen.  But  it  did,  or  would,  or  already  had. 
Something  like  that.  It  was  pretty  confusing.  He  took  another  hit 
and  stared  out  the  window.  The  crickets  and  tree  frogs  were  going 
a  mile  a  minute.  A  hound  somewhere  was  baying  at  the  moon.  Music 
from  Pop's  place  drifted  through  the  open  door.  Mickey  Newbury: 
The  Future's  Not  What  It  Used  to  Be.  Boy,  that  was  one  true  fact. 

"What  are  you  tryin'  to  say?"  he  asked. 

"All  I'm  saying  is  that  this  boy  can't  be  born.  If  he's  born,  it'll 
mean  the  end  of  the  world." 

"You  mean  my  boy  turned  out  bad?"  Tucker  took  an  angry  slug 
from  the  jar.  Ain't  that  the  truth.  Do  everything  for  the  kid;  change 
his  diapers,  give  him  everything  he  wants,  and  look  what  happens. 
Turns  on  them  what  loves  him.  Maybe  it  was  Betty- Ann's  fault.  He 
was  torn  between  anger  and  tears,  passed  the  jar  to  the  man  from 
the  future. 

"He  wasn't  bad,"  croaked  the  man  between  sips.  "Just  made  a 
mistake,  that's  all.  He  was  a  geneticist,  working  with  recombinant 
DNA.  Made  a  mistake.  A  big  one." 

"Use  simple  words,"  said  Tucker,  taking  the  jar  back.  "I'm  a  simple 
man." 

"You  know  about  oil  spills?" 

Tucker  nodded. 

"Well,  your  son  was  trying  to  develop  an  organism  that  fed  on  oil 
spills.  Clean  things  up,  so  to  speak." 

"Sounds  like  a  nice  thing  for  a  son  of  mine  to  do.  That  oil  plumb 
spoils  the  fishing." 

"The  trouble  is  that  the  organism  ate  plankton  instead  of  oil. 
Found  it  out  too  late." 

"Everyone's  got  to  eat,"  said  Tucker,  digging  into  his  bag  of  dry- 
roasteds. 

"That's  not  the  point.  Plankton,  Mr.  Moore,  plankton!  That's  the 
basis  for  the  whole  food  chain.  His  organism  has  destroyed  all  the 
plankton  in  the  world.  Everything  else  is  dying  off  because  of  that. 

EIGHT  BALL  BLUES  61 


By  2050  there  won't  be  a  human  left  alive  on  the  planet.  It's  the 
end  of  the  world." 

Tucker  squinted  his  eyes,  looked  at  him  across  the  seat.  "You're 
serious  about  this,  aren't  you?"  His  words  were  slurred,  but  his  mind 
was  clear.  Well,  sort  of  clear,  anyway. 

"Deadly  serious,  Mr.  Moore.  We're  talking  about  the  end  of  hu- 
manity. You  have  the  future  of  all  mankind  in  the  palm  of  your 
hand." 

Tucker  looked  at  his  hand.  Who  would  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing?  "Why  didn't  you  go  talk  to  him  instead  of  me?" 

"It's  technical.  Can't  jump  less  than  fifty  years.  Can't  kill  anyone." 
He  was  having  trouble  forming  his  words.  His  tongue  didn't  seem 
to  be  working  right.  He  took  another  sip  of  white  lightning.  "Lots 
of  other  stuff,  too.  You  wouldn't  believe  half  of  it.  Using  a  lot  of 
energy,  maybe  more  than  Earth  can  afford."  He  slumped  back 
against  the  seat,  half  drunk,  half  dejected.  "Only  got  a  few  more 
minutes.  Got  to  convince  you." 

"Convince  me  of  what?" 

"Don't  marry  Betty-Ann  Sommers.  Whatever  you  do,  don't  marry 
that  woman." 

"It's  that  important?"  Betty- Ann  was  one  fine-looking  woman.  He 
hated  to  see  his  recent  thoughts  of  marriage  dashed  so  quickly. 

"It's  more  than  important,  it's  vital.  The  world  depends  on  it.  You 
must  not  marry  that  woman." 

Tucker  mulled  it  over,  taking  another  sip  from  the  jar.  He  was 
filled  with  a  sense  of  patriotism,  as  well  as  being  filled  with  booze. 
This  was  the  first  time  he'd  been  called  on  to  do  something  for  his 
country.  Not  marrying  Betty-Ann  was  a  big  sacrifice,  but  there 
really  wasn't  any  choice.  His  country  needed  him.  The  world  needed 
him.  He  would  save  the  world.  Pride  swelled  up  in  him  like  indi- 
gestion, hardly  dented  by  the  music  from  the  bar.  Willie  Nelson: 
Blue  Eyes  Crying  in  the  Rain.  Usually  that  song  brought  tears  to 
his  eyes,  but  he  was  so  full  of  patriotism  it  sounded  like  the  national 
anthem  to  him. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said. 

"We  of  the  future  thank  you,"  slurred  the  man  with  great  diffi- 
culty. He  patted  Tucker  on  the  shoulder  with  one  hand,  took  hold 
of  the  jar  with  the  other.  "Good  stuff,"  he  muttered.  "Smooth." 

In  mid-sip,  the  man's  edges  started  to  flicker  and  blur.  "Time's 
up,"  he  said.  "I'm  going.  Try  the  Phillies  in  1986.  They're  going  to 
have  a  good  year.  Sweep  the  Series  in  four  straight."  His  watch 
glowed  a  bright  red  and  he  disappeared  with  a  loud  pop.  The  jar  fell 

62  JACK  C.  HALOEMAN  II 


to  the  seat,  sloshing  liquor  everywhere. 

Tucker  wiped  his  forehead,  staggered  out  of  the  truck.  If  that  pool 
playing  hadn't  convinced  him,  that  exit  sure  did.  That  had  been  a 
man  from  the  future,  no  doubt  about  it. 

He  walked  back  into  the  bar,  caught  Dade  City  Slim's  eye. 

"Rack  'em  up,  Slim.  I  feel  like  a  game  of  pool."  Boy,  did  he  feel 
like  a  game  of  pool.  Grabbed  a  quick  beer  and  a  bag  of  pretzels  from 
Pop.  The  record  changed.  John  Prine:  The  Late  John  Garfield  Blues. 

As  Slim  racked  the  balls.  Tucker  chalked  his  cue  and  thought  of 
the  man  from  the  future  and  Betty- Ann  and  his  never-to-be  son. 
He'd  stay  away  from  Betty- Ann  no  matter  what,  no  matter  how 
good-looking  she  was. 

Of  course  there  was  always  Betty-Sue  Sommers.  She  was  Betty- 
Ann's  twin  sister.  Maybe  he'd  give  her  a  tumble,  see  what  happened. 
They  were  identical  twins,  alike  as  two  peas  in  a  pod. 

Sometimes  Tucker  got  them  confused. 


ANSWERS  TO  TUBE  THROUGH  THE  EARTH 
(from  page  42) 

1.  The  car's  velocity  steadily  increases  from  zero  at  the  start  to 
maximum  at  the  earth's  center,  and  steadily  decreases  thereafter 
to  zero  at  the  other  end. 

2.  The  car's  acceleration  is  maximum  at  the  start  (32  feet  per  second 
per  second).  It  decreases  as  it  approaches  the  earth's  center  where 
it  becomes  zero.  After  that  it  accelerates  negatively  until  it  reaches 
the  other  end. 

3.  Halfway  down  the  tube,  in  a  stationary  car,  you  would  weigh 
much  less  than  on  the  earth's  surface  because  of  the  gravitational 
pull  of  the  earth  above  you. 

4.  You  would  be  in  free-fall  throughout  the  entire  trip,  and  therefore 
always  in  a  state  of  zero  gravity. 

5.  The  car  reaches  a  top  speed  at  the  earth's  center  of  about  17,770 
mph,  or  almost  5  miles  per  second. 

6.  On  the  Moon  a  car  falling  through  the  Moon's  center  would  com- 
plete the  trip  in  about  53  minutes;  on  Mars,  in  about  49  minutes. 

7.  "When  the  Earth  Screamed,"  a  story  by  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 
about  his  Professor  George  Edward  Challenger  of  The  Lost  World 
fame. 

EIGHT  BALL  BLUES  63 


THE  DEICIDES 

by  Gerald  Pearce 

art:  Jack  Gaughan 


65 


Mr.  Pearce  was  born  in  England  in  1928, 

was  raised  in  the  Middle  East,  came 

to  the  United  States  in  1948,  and 

graduated  from  the  University  of  Oregon 

in  1952.  He's  been  a  cannery  laborer, 

second  cook  at  a  fire  camp  of  the 

Forest  Service,  radio  copywriter  and 

newscaster,  staff  writer  for  Disney's 

TV  show,  and  freelance  writer.  He 

lives  with  his  wife  in  a  pleasantly 

disorganized  house  in  the  Hollywood 

hills.  Their  son  is  in  college. 

The  author's  wife  does  motion  picture 

and  TV  research.  Their  many  cats  spend 

the  time  being  friendly  and  generating 

good  vibes  and  trying  to  convince 

Mr.  Pearce  that  it  is  time  for 

elevenses,  if  not  lunch. 


He  and  Nazar  were  going  to  kill  a  prophet.  Perhaps  today. 

Guilt  weighting  down  his  heart  like  the  sadness  of  a  thousand 
lifetimes,  Khalid  started  down  to  the  edge  of  the  river  they  had 
followed  into  the  gorge  last  evening.  It  was  not  much  of  a  river;  to 
a  man  from  the  lower  Euphrates,  like  Khalid,  it  seemed  hardly  more^ 
than  an  irrigation  ditch — he  could  have  leaped  across  it  and  kept 
his  sandals  dry.  And  yet — a  spare  alien  figure  in  the  Bedouin  robes 
of  the  far  south — he  felt  dwarfed  by  the  surrounding  Kurdish  hills. 

He  squatted  and  drank  from  a  cupped  hand.  The  water  was  hard 
and  cold,  with  the  taste  of  eternity.  Just  upstream  it  had  carved  a 
narrow  canyon  through  solid  rock;  into  this  an  enormous  boulder 
had  wedged  itself,  and  from  under  it  the  stream  slid  green  and 
silent,  breaking  into  rippling  sounds  like  the  laughter  of  children 
where  it  ran  shallow  over  pebbles  before  joining  the  steeper,  bigger 
stream  that  came  from  somewhere  in  the  mountains  and  continued 
down  through  the  deepest  section  of  the  gorge.  Along  the  banks,  tall 
poplars  stood  graceful  and  still.  Wild  mulberry  and  scrub  oak  cov- 
ered hillsides  rising  steeply  to  bare  rock  walls  that  jutted  into  a  sky 
just  turning  from  dawn  gray  to  a  blue  of  ineffable  tranquility. 

Brushing  fugitive  drops  of  water  from  his  short  dark  beard,  Khalid 
stood  up  and  climbed  toward  the  camp  they  had  set  up  above  the 
confluence  of  the  two  streams. 

66  GERALD  PEARCE 


Nazar  and  Simon  were  up  now,  stuffing  their  belongings  into  the 
smaller  camel's  saddlebags.  Simon  they  had  found  in  a  tiny  village 
in  the  Caucasus  and  taken  on  as  their  servant — a  mute,  small  and 
dark  and  energetic,  of  unguessable  age.  Nazar  was  around  thirty, 
a  little  younger  than  Khalid,  fairer,  short-muscled,  with  a  Mongol 
hint  to  his  eyes  and  cheekbones.  He  wore  the  turban,  jerkin,  and 
baggy  pants  of  the  Kurdish  hill  people,  his  ancestors. 

"Where've  you  been?" 

"Couldn't  sleep,  so  I  scouted  a  bit."  Khalid  saw  Nazar's  look  of 
amused  malice  but  ignored  it.  "Just  beyond  the  remains  of  the  bridge 
a  trail  leads  off  into  the  hills,  following  the  main  river  upstream. 
Donkey  and  goat  tracks,  human  footprints.  The  road  proper  shows 
the  remains  of  a  bitumen  finish  if  you  look  closely  enough.  It  goes 
down  the  gorge  well  above  the  river  and  disappears  round  that  bend. 
From  there  you  can  see  the  waterfall  where  the  third  river  comes 
in  from  the  left.  So  the  description  matches.  The  main  stream  here's 
got  to  be  the  Rowanduz,  the  third  one's  the  Alana  Su,  the  gorge  is 
the  one  they  used  to  call  Gali  Ali  Beg." 

"Then  he's  got  to  be  around  here  somewhere,"  Nazar  said.  "Let's 
crank  up  the  Gadget  and  see  what  it  can  tell  us." 

"It  won't  help,  it's  non-directional.  It  picks  up  mass  telepathic 
projections,  not  individual  patterns — " 

"If  it  works.  Let's  try  it  out." 

Nazar  began  unstrapping  the  improvised  crates  containing  the 
Gadget  and  its  hand-cranked  generator.  Khalid  went  to  help.  Sens- 
ing his  reluctance,  Nazar  grinned  unsympathetically. 

"You're  getting  squeamish,  my  friend.  Your  intellectual  convic- 
tions deserting  you?" 

"No." 

"Thought  of  a  better  plan?" 

".  .  .  No." 

"I  can  do  it  alone,  you  know." 

"You  won't  have  to,"  Khalid  said. 

They  lifted  the  Gadget  out  of  its  crate,  set  it  down  carefully  on 
the  sheepskin  that  covered  it  when  traveling.  It  wasn't  much  to  look 
at:  a  clumsy  oblong  box  of  metal  and  plastic  with  a  few  dials  and 
switches  and  no  manufacturer's  identification,  probably  a  pirated 
model.  Its  sophisticated  contents  might  well  have  been  reduced  by 
time  and  accident  to  a  jumble  of  futility.  Neither  Khalid  nor  Nazar 
had  more  than  an  elementary  knowledge  of  electronics;  the 
Gadget — Huopponen's  Gadget — was  far  beyond  their  grasp,  and 
probably  beyond  the  grasp  of  anyone  in  Nasiriyya. 
THE  DEICIDES  67 


Packed  separately  was  the  generator  which  some  nameless  savant 
had  rigged  when  he  could  no  longer  get  current  from  a  plug  in  the 
wall.  Khalid  fitted  the  twin  cranks  to  the  generator,  uncoiled  the 
cord  with  its  splitting  insulation,  plugged  it  into  the  Gadget.  The 
combination  looked  like  an  ancient  military  field  radio  without  a 
microphone.  Earphones  were  packed  with  the  Gadget.  Nazar  plugged 
them  in. 

Simon  had  finished  loading  the  rest  of  the  gear  onto  the  camels 
and  now  watched  with  alert  incomprehension  as  Nazar  and  Khalid 
began  cranking  the  generator.  It  resisted  at  first,  then  moved  more 
easily.  Its  output  was  shown  on  a  dial  they  could  not  read  because 
it  was  marked  in  an  unfamiliar  language,  but  the  indicator  moved 
rapidly.  In  the  Gadget's  face  a  light  came  on.  Nazar  snatched  up  the 
earphones,  held  one  to  his  ear.  Khalid  pushed  his  headcloth  aside 
to  be  able  to  hear  the  other. 

The  Gadget  had  picked  up  nothing  when  they'd  tested  it  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  University  of  Tiflis,  where  they  had  found  it;  but  the 
Georgian  hills  had  been  depopulated  in  the  religious  wars  of  the 
21st  century,  and  no  visionary  had  arisen  to  focus  the  yearnings 
and  angers  of  those  few  who  were  left.  The  convictions  of  the  old 
days  had  disappeared,  or  been  too  fragmented  by  events  and  time 
and  disillusionment  to  do  more  than  contribute  to  the  static. 

Static  was  all  they  picked  up  now,  meaningless,  just  audible. 
Khalid  touched  the  volume  control.  It  became  louder  but  no  more 
meaningful.  There  was  a  slide  frequency-selector.  He  began  to  move 
it  slowly. 

And  quite  suddenly  the  sound  from  the  earphones  was  neither 
random  nor  unfocused.  It  was  faint  but  purposive,  with  a  quality 
that  suggested  at  once  a  raging  human  voice  and  the  inexorable 
grating  rumble  that  accompanies  an  earthquake. 

Nazar's  eyes  were  hard  and  bright. 

"That's  got  to  be  it.  That  emotional  content — !" 

"Yes." 

"Get  any  words?" 

Khalid  shook  his  head.  "Perhaps  the  Gadget's  defective.  Or  the 
prophet's  already  dead,  or  away,  or  is  a  sporadic,  in  a  quiescent 
phase." 

They  had  stopped  cranking.  The  light  in  the  Gadget  had  gone  out 
The  earphones  were  silent.  Khalid  disconnected  them. 

"I  never  heard  a  god  before,"  Nazar  said.  "That  one's  angry." 

Khalid  sighed.  "If  we've  got  to  comb  the  hills,  we  may  as  well 
start  with  that  donkey  track.  Give  me  a  hand,  will  you?" 
68  GERALD  PEARCE 


They  repacked  the  equipment,  with  Simon's  help  loaded  the  crates 
onto  the  steadier  camel. 

They  turned  onto  the  track  and  followed  it  upstream,  the  three 
men  on  horses,  Simon  leading  the  two  camels. 

So  the  Gadget  worked.  At  least  partly.  It  had  located  coherent 
patterns  of  electromagnetic  energy  emanating  from  a  community 
with  resentment  on  its  mind. 

The  Gadget  had  been  devised  by  an  electronics  wizard  named 
Huopponen  to  seek  experimental  verification  of  certain  theories 
about  the  electromagnetic  nature  of  telepathic  phenomena.  These 
asserted  that  communities  of  believers  created  gods  in  their  own 
image,  projecting  them  telepathically  into  objective  if  incorporeal 
existence,  and  Huopponen  proved  them  right.  Though  he  went  on 
to  elaborate  that  the  apparently  random  individual  of  above-average 
telepathic  sensitivity  could  tap  the  mass  projection  for  insight  into 
the  communal  mind,  which  explained  the  success  of  certain  politi- 
cans  and  preachers,  and  that  the  especially  gifted  could  draw  on  the 
projections  for  the  power  to  effect  physical  manifestations  — mira- 
cles— ^no  one  was  listening.  His  Gadget  had  been  intended  as  a  tool 
for  psychosocial  studies  but  became  a  fad;  Huopponen,  who  liked 
good  wine  and  very  young  women,  was  not  averse  to  making  a 
fortune  on  patents  and  licenses  and  was  slow  to  realize  that  the  21st 
century  was  proving  as  fertile  a  ground  for  superstition  as  the  12th 
had  been.  Grod-drunk  prophets  and  opportunistic  politicians  made 
the  escalation  to  disaster  inevitable. 

As  inevitable,  generations  later,  was  the  suspicion  with  which 
those  trying  to  pick  up  the  pieces  looked  on  rumored  prophets.  A 
prophet  could  focus  mass  yearnings  according  to  the  requirements 
of  his  own  disordered  psyche.  .  .  . 

After  a  while  the  track  left  the  stream  to  follow  a  rill  a  child  could 
step  across.  The  track  joined  others  and  the  sun  rose  over  the  hills 
and  the  travelers  began  passing  among  apricot  and  plum  trees  with 
soft  yellow-winged  butterflies  like  fluttering  petals  dipping  among 
the  branches.  An  occasional  bee  added  a  lazy  buzzing  background 
to  the  clop  of  horses'  hooves  and  the  soft  padding  of  the  camels'  feet 
on  the  dusty  trail.  They  paused  once  to  allow  a  shepherd  and  his 
flock  to  pass  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  greeted  Nazar  in  Kurdish, 
recognized  Khalid's  attire  and  wished  him  peace  in  clumsily  ac- 
cented Arabic.  Khalid  answered  politely  but  was  instantly  alerted 
to  danger.  He  threw  Nazar  a  sharp  look. 

Dust  hung  in  the  air  from  the  sheep's  passing.  The  younger  man 
THE  DEICIDES  rq 


wiped  dust  from  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and  spat 
irritably. 

"News  of  the  prophet  had  reached  us  down  in  Nasiriyya,  hadn't 
it?" 

"I'm  worried  about  mobility,  diffusion,  the  possibility  of  conta- 
gion." 

"We  all  are.  But  we've  always  known  there  was  a  bilingual  in- 
terface between  the  Arab  and  Kurdish  regions,  and  now  we  know 
it's  wider  than  we  thought.  Rumor  of  a  prophet  travels  five  hundred 
kilometers  and  an  unlikely  Kurd  knows  two  words  of  Arabic:  neither 
datum  means  a  plague  of  prophecy  let  loose  on  the  world." 

He  had  spoken  with  surprising  vehemence,  even  considering  the 
irritations  built  up  during  two  years  of  difficult  and  dangerous  travel 
and  search.  More  than  that,  he  had  cut  himself  short — Khalid  was 
sure  of  it. 

"Go  on,"  he  said.  "Let's  have  the  rest." 

"There  is  no  Vest'.  You  intellectuals  are  so  arrogant  you  think 
you  can  read  minds." 

"No,  but  we're  human;  sometimes  we  can  hear  the  sound  of  things 
unsaid.  Something's  bothering  you.  You  deride  me  for  being  squeam- 
ish about  a  cold-blooded  murder,  and  offer  with  appropriate  con- 
tempt to  do  it  yourself.  You  assume  the  role  of  a  simple  straight- 
forward man  of  action,  unbothered  by  the  subtleties  of  philosophers 
and  moralists.  It's  too  much;  it's  not  like  you.  You're  like  a  mule 
with  a  burr  under  its  saddle." 

"And  you're  the  man  with  an  exposed  nerve  in  a  broken  tooth. 
You've  got  to  keep  worrying  it." 

Khalid  sighed,  made  a  gesture  of  defeat.  A  few  minutes  later  they 
reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 

A  giant  mulberry  tree  rose  at  one  side  of  the  trail,  which  then 
widened  into  a, broad  uneven  area  scarred  by  the  remains  of  camp 
fires,  pocked  by  tent-pegs.  It  was  the  modern  mountain  equivalent 
of  a  caravenserai,  spartan  but  tree-shaded,  with  the  little  stream 
running  fresh  and  free  along  one  side  and  then  down  the  hill  toward 
the  river.  Beyond  the  open  area  the  trail  narrowed  once  more,  lead- 
ing directly  into  the  main  street  of  the  village  itself,  a  bare  hundred 
meters  ahead. 

Khalid  rode  into  the  clearing,  reined  in  his  horse.  The  air  was 
still  and  fragrant.  The  stream  made  a  crystal  sound. 

"Your  ancestors,"  he  told  Nazar  as  he  dismounted,  "chose  more 
wisely  than  mine.  Or  more  luckily." 

"Speaking  of  luckily,"  Nazar  said,  "look  up  the  hill  behind  you." 
70  GERALD  PEARCE 


Khalid  did  so.  Among  the  trees  was  a  hut  made  of  boughs  with 
the  leaves  still  attached.  From  behind  it  a  young  woman  had  just 
emerged.  She  was  scattering  feed  for  a  noisy  family  of  chickens.  He 
felt  suddenly  twice  his  age,  bowed  down  with  responsibility. 

"Unload  the  Gadget  first,  Nazar." 

"A  bout  of  happy  active  lechery  is  just  what  you  need,"  Nazar 
diagnosed.  "Might  make  you  possible  to  live  with."  With  sudden 
aggressive  hunger:  "It's  been  too  long." 

Khalid  agreed.  He  made  the  camel  carrying  the  equipment  kneel. 
"Of  course,  if  this  is  the  prophet's  country,  you  might  get  stoned  to 
death  for  deflowering  a  sacramental  virgin."  Nazar  only  grinned, 
shook  his  head  slightly.  They  lowered  the  two  containers  from  the 
camel's  pack  saddle  and  Khalid  looked  up  the  hill  again. 

The  girl  had  come  halfway  down  from  her  hut  to  meet  them.  She 
had  lived  under  a  gentler  sun  than  they  and  for  half  as  many  years. 
Her  face  was  fresh  and  round  and  her  eyes  were  as  wide  as  a  gazelle's 
but  not  timid.  Her  mouth  was  half  smiling.  She  wore  a  shawl  that 
covered  her  hair  and  shoulders  and  a  dress  that  was  full  and  shape- 
less over  a  full  but  not  shapeless  young  body.  She  overcame  any 
possible  linguistic  difficulty  by  reaching  down  to  the  hem  of  her 
dress  and  bunching  it  up  above  her  waist. 

"  'Sacramental  virgin,'  "  Nazar  breathed  derisively. 

"She's  pretty,"  Khalid  said  as  they  manhandled  the  generator  to 
the  spot  Simon  had  chosen  as  the  tent  site.  "She  could  give  you  a 
lot  more  than  fleas." 

"We'll  be  home  soon.  The  Amir  of  Nasiriyya's  hospital  has  a  good 
supply  of  penicillin." 

"You  sure  they'll  spare  you  any?" 

"The  Amir's  your  uncle.  And  if  I  need  it,  I  predict  you  will  too. 
We'll  claim  it  as  our  price  as  good  assassins." 

Nazar  smiled  up  at  the  girl.  She  smiled  back  and  dropped  her 
hem  and  turned  and  started  back  toward  the  hut  with  the  sturdy 
stride  of  the  hill  people. 

Nazar  followed. 

Simon  stopped  what  he  was  doing  to  watch  him  go,  his  thin  face 
drawn  and  pale,  in  his  eyes  a  mute  rage  of  hunger. 

"You'll  get  your  turn,"  Khalid  told  him,  with  the  gesture — hand 
palm  up,  thumb  and  fingers  pressed  together — that  to  an  Arab  coun- 
sels patience.  That  Simon  could  hear,  he  knew.  How  well,  he  still 
didn't;  still  less  how  much  he  understood  of  a  language  foreign  to 
both  of  them,  his  own  indifferent  Kurdish.  But  Simon's  narrow  dark 
face  split  into  a  grin. 
THE  DEICIDES  71 


He  went  to  tend  the  animals,  leaving  Khalid  to  wrestle  with  the 
tent. 

Before  Nazar  came  back,  the  Gadget  and  the  generator  crates 
were  stored  inconspicuously  in  a  corner  of  the  tent,  half  hidden 
under  their  cured  sheepskins,  a  pair  of  saddlebags  thrown  on  top 
of  them.  The  ancient  rug  was  down,  the  two  bedrolls  ready  for  un- 
rolling. Simon  had  a  small  fire  going  just  outside  the  tent  and  was 
heating  water  to  which  he  would  add  the  roasted  and  pulverized 
blend  of  scented  roots  and  herbs  they  had  bartered  for  from  an  old 
man  near  Lake  Van.  He  had  called  it  qahva,  which  Khalid  had 
recognized  as  another  form  of  the  Arabic  qahwa,  coffee.  He  had 
never  tasted  coffee  but  knew  from  his  reading  that  this  was  not  it, 
only  a  post-destruction  substitute;  but  it  was  mildly  stimulating  and 
made  a  pleasant  drink. 

When  Nazar  finally  entered  the  tent,  Khalid,  his  back  turned, 
was  checking  the  two  revolvers  carried  in  a  saddlebag. 

"All  right,"  Nazar  said.  "Don't  hide  them,  we'll  be  needing  them." 

A  paralyzing  chill  spread  from  Khalid's  belly. 

"You  mean  he's  here?" 

"So  she  says,"  Nazar  said  cheerfully.  "Go  ask  her  yourself.  And 
while  you're  there  don't  forget  to  do  a  few  other  friendly  things  too. 
They'll  clear  your  mind  for  sterner  duties." 

"I  envy  you.  You  can  turn  off  the  questioning  mind  at  the  first 
biological  distraction." 

Simon  brought  in  their  breakfast:  day-old  circles  of  flat  unleav- 
ened bread  warmed  at  the  fire,  goat  cheese,  the  imitation  coffee.  He 
stood  back  expectantly.  Khalid  threw  him  a  small  nod  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  hill.  Simon  disappeared  with  alacrity. 

The  two  men  sat  down  cross-legged. 

"She'd  warm  you  up  in  no  time,"  Nazar  said.  "That  girl  is  a  sexual 
miracle — and  I  promise  you  that's  the  voice  of  experience  talking, 
not  deprivation.  All  for  a  poor-grade  silver  trinket." 

"I  don't  need  warming  up,  just  turning  the  mind  off.  Since  that 
can't  be  done  until  it  has  some  answers" — Khalid  smiled  faintly — "I'd 
like  to  do  it  the  kindness  of  providing  them  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity." 

He  tore  off  a  chunk  of  bread  and  began  chewing  on  it. 

"She  has  breasts  like  half-melons,"  Nazar  said  meditatively.  "She 
smells  of  youth.  She  has  a  body  that  clings  like  honey,  only  sweeter." 
He  helped  himself  to  food. 

"What  does  she  say  about  the  prophet?" 
72  GERALD  PEARCE 


"That  he  is  very  old,  and  originally  not  one  of  the  hill  people.  He's 
been  here  two  days  but  has  just  passed  the  time  with  the  villagers 
and  told  stories  to  the  younger  children.  No  prophesying,  no  man- 
ifestations." 

"Does  she  believe  in  him?" 

"Completely.  He's  been  here  often.  She's  heard  him  call  down 
thunder  from  a  cloudless  sky  and  speak  with  the  god's  voice." 

"Saying?" 

"Oh,  commandments,  injunctions,  stories  of  the  wars.  Impreca- 
tions hurled  at  the  Old  Ones,  the  old  ways."  Nazar  chewed  and 
drank?  "How  do  we  proceed?" 

"Meet  him,  size  him  up."  Khalid  sipped  his  imitation  coffee.  He 
liked  it  better  every  day,  hoped  it  contained  nothing  habit-forming. 
"Come  back  and  crank  up  the  Gadget  and  listen  to  his  god.  Then 
decide." 

"You're  only  delaying  it,  Khalid." 

Khalid  swallowed,  brushed  crumbs  from  his  beard.  Outside,  he 
could  see  his  mare  and  Nazar's  gelding  browsing  at  the  edge  of  the 
clearing.  That  there  was  anything  to  browse  on  showed  how  seldom 
visitors  camped  here.  The  fires  that  marked  the  ground  had  been 
dead  a  long  time.  But  the  girl  up  the  hill  meant  there  must  be  some 
continuous  commerce.  Or  did  she  draw  her  customers  mostly  from 
the  village?  Was  hers  an  occupation  chosen  here  by  lot?  Did  it  fall 
to  every  young  woman  by  turn?  .  .  .  All  most  unlikely.  He  was  sim- 
ply complicating  the  picture  because  his  mind  was  unquiet. 

He  said  slowly,  "In  the  past  two  years,  I've  learned  to  survive  by 
adopting  a  measure  of  ruthlessness.  I've  killed  wolves  and  bandits 
and  don't  grieve  for  them.  Now  we  have  two  old  guns  and  eight 
rounds  between  us.  Count  on  fifty-percent  misfires.  But  even  one 
soft-nosed  forty-five  calibre  bullet  can  tear  a  man  apart.  I'm  shaken 
to  the  core  at  the  thought  of  doing  that  to  a  harmless  old  Sensitive 
who  once  in  a  while  goes  vatic  and  tries  to  bend  the  world  to  fit  his 
own  private  neuroses." 

For  a  second  a  shadow — restless,  dissatisfied,  fleeting — dimmed 
Nazar's  face.  Khalid  saw  it  but  said  nothing,  popped  a  final  bit  of 
strong-smelling  cheese  into  his  mouth. 

"Squeamish,"  Nazar  said  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"Common  human  sympathy.  Read  it  as  a  projection  of  self-pity  if 
you  must,  but  let's  make  sure  we  hit  the  right  man."  Khalid  poured 
the  last  of  the  imitation  coffee  into  their  unglazed  drinking  cups. 
Nazar  picked  his  up  and  sipped  with  noisy  relish. 

"An  old  Sensitive  who  goes  vatic  can  be  anything  but  harmless." 
THE  DEICIDES  73 


Khalid  grunted.  The  idea  that  had  occurred  to  him  seconds  before 
failed  to  surprise  him.  He  examined  it  from  every  angle  he  could 
find  before  saying,  without  force,  "Although  I  don't  like  it,  I'm  hunt- 
ing down  a  prophet  because  disturbed  prophets  shape  disturbed  gods. 
You,  my  friend,  are  using  a  lot  of  tough  forthright-man-of-action 
talk  to  cover  the  irrational  fear  that  we  may  kill  a  prophet  of  another 
sort.  You're  a  believer  looking  for  something  to  believe  in." 

He  took  hs  time  drinking  before  glancing  over  casually  to  Nazar's 
reaction.  His  face  was  clenched  like  a  fist.  The  hooded  Mongol  eyes 
smouldered. 

"You  left  your  brain  in  Nasiriyya." 

"You're  in  too  much  of  a  hurry;  you  just  want  to  identify  him  and 
do  the  job  and  run — " 

"Before  he  tunes  in  on  us  and  throws  a  miracle  we  can't  survive." 

"I  think  to  hide  your  reluctance.  Not  from  me.  From  you.  I  don't 
think  you  put  much  credence  in  the  Gadget,  Nazar — it  might  be 
wrong,  or  too  superficial,  there  could  be  more  behind  the  Huopponen 
phenomena;  even  if  he  is  crazy  the  prophet  might  be  in  touch 
with  .  .  .  something  else." 

Nazar  said  thickly,  "No  one,  not  Huopponen,  not  anyone  else,  has 
ever  proved  that  every  prophet  who  ever  lived  was  deranged,  or  that 
every  prophet  who  ever  will  live  is  going  to  be  just  another  Huop- 
ponen footnote.  You're  as  knowledgeable  of  scientific  method  as  a 
bat;  you  can't  tell  a  theory  from  a  heap  of  camel  dung." 

"Let's  forget  theory  and  examine  each  case  as  it  comes.  This  is 
the  first  case." 

Nazar  drained  his  cup,  threw  out  the  dregs,  sawed  on  his  lower 
lip  with  strong  square  teeth. 

"Then  let's  get  on  with  it." 

"Soon  enough,"  Khalid  said.  He  finished  his  breakfast.  "I  hope  we 
can  trade  for  some  fruit  in  the  village." 

Nazar  relaxed,  expelled  a  long  breath.  He  got  up  and  stepped 
through  the  tent's  opening  and  stood  staring  at  nothing. 

"A  fine  pair  of  assassins,"  he  said  at  last.  "One  afraid  of  finding 
a  prophet  who's  real  in  the  believer's  sense  .  .  .  and  the  other  afraid 
of  hurting  anyone.  We  should  both  have  been  illiterate  rice  farmers 
in  the  eastern  marshes." 

They  were  washing  their  few  utensils  at  the  stream  when  Simon 
came  down  the  hill  looking  sated  and  content,  like  a  man  who  has 
seen  and  done  everything,  who  would  be  quite  willing  to  die. 

When  Khalid  and  Nazar  walked  into  the  village  they  found  it 
74  GERALD  PEARCE 


quiet  but  not  empty.  There  was  a  stall  with  apricots  and  plums  and 
cucumbers  in  baskets,  all  shaded  by  a  roof  of  slim  branches  with 
dry  leaves  filtering  the  sunlight.  Another  had  lettuce,  melons,  and 
dried  dates  that  had  not  grown  in  these  mountains,  and  still  another 
had  live  lambs  and  chickens.  There  they  paused  for  Nazar  to  offer 
fulsome  compliments.  The  gray  old  woman  in  charge  thanked  him 
gravely  and  said  there  would  be  much  more  merchandise  tomorrow 
when  the  market  of  the  quarter  moon  would  bring  traders  from  five 
villages,  but  no  doubt  the  lords  knew  that  and  had  come  to  take 
part.  Indeed,  Nazar  said,  they  were  traders  and  had  goods  to  barter, 
but  had  come  specifically  because  on  their  travels  they  had  heard 
rumors  of  a  prophet  and,  lately,  that  he  was  here.  Was  he,  and  could 
she  tell  where  they  might  find  him? 

Following  her  directions,  they  found  an  old  man  sitting  on  a  strip 
of  matting  at  the  far  end  of  the  market  place  where  a  crudely  woven 
awning  attached  to  the  sandal-maker's  open  hut  threw  a  patch  of 
shade.  He  was  telling  stories  to  a  semi-circle  of  small  children,  and 
had  established  with  each  a  rapport  as  tangible  as  a  rope.  He  smiled 
a  lot,  showing  few  teeth  in  a  face  as  worn  as  the  bark  of  an  ancient 
tree.  He  had  a  sparse  beard  the  color  of  dust  tangled  about  his  chin. 
He  wore  a  grubby  threadbare  garment  that  had  once  reached  his 
ankles  and  might  have  been  striped.  A  patterned  Arab  headcloth 
folded  into  a  narrow  strip  was  wound  thickly  around  his  ancient 
head  to  anchor  a  skull  cap.  When  he  looked  over  the  heads  of  his 
audience  and  saw  Khalid  and  Nazar,  the  faded  eyes  in  their  deep 
shadowed  sockets  under  dust-colored  brows  were  a  friendly  twin- 
kling blue. 

Khalid's  heart  sank.  The  old  man  had  the  transparent  goodnature 
of  a  pet  puppy.  He  had  only  time  to  make  a  wild  guess  based  on 
study  and  appearance — Tel  Keyfi,  probably  Christian — before  the 
did  man  extended  arms  like  brown  twigs  and  called  words  of  welcome 
in  Arabic. 

Khalid  responded  heartily,  concealing  a  numb  sorrow.  The  old 
man  dismissed  the  children,  assuring  them  he  had  enough  tales  to 
last  till  the  moon  was  full  and  would  continue  later.  Respectfully, 
Khalid  introduced  himself  and  his  companion,  attributing  Nazar's 
attire  to  ancestral  heritage  and  his  fluent  Arabic  to  his  having  been 
raised  with  him  in  Nasiriyya. 

"A  long  way  off."  The  old  man  was  impressed.  "I  think  ...  I  think 
I  was  there  long  ago.  A  cluster  of  mud  huts.  But  you,  gentlemen, 
are  clearly  rich,  so  perhaps  I  misremember.  Forgive  me." 

"It  was  a  cluster  of  mud  huts,"  Khalid  said  carefully.  "It's  not 

THE  DEICIOES  75 


much  more  now.  But  at  the  end  of  the  wars  a  wise  man  came  there 
and  began,  slowly,  with  much  care,  to  gather  those  who  remembered, 
and  books,  and  learning.  Now  his  grandson  is  Amir  of  Nasiriyya. 
He  is  rich  enough  to  have  sent  my  friend  and  me  on  a  trip  to  discover 
how  the  world  is  faring  and  to  look  for  useful  trade." 

The  old  man  nodded.  As  a  cover  story  it  had  the  advantage  of 
being  true.  It  simply  left  out  their  central  assignment  and  the  reason 
for  their  side  trip  into  Georgia  in  search  of  the  Gadget  which  old 
records  said  had  been  in  use  at  the  University  of  Tiflis  when  the 
wars  began.  There  had  been  other  Gadgets,  of  course,  but  what  had 
happened  to  them  was  anybody's  guess. 

"We  traveled  north,"  Khalid  continued,  "through  the  land  of  the 
Twin  Rivers.  Amara,  Baghdad,  Mosul,  all  are  dust.  So  is  Tel  Keyf." 

"Ah,  Tel  Keyf ...  I  was  bom  there.  Or  perhaps  it  was  my  father 
who  was  born  there.  When  you  grow  as  old  as  I,  you  cannot  always 
tell  what  happened  to  you  from  what  someone  told  you  long  ago." 
The  old  eyes  had  clouded  over,  looked  inward,  seemed  to  witness 
horrors.  "And  yet  I  remember  holy  Jerusalem  in  flames,  ancient 
Damascus  a  smoking  ruin  filled  with  the  stench  of  death  and  burned 
flesh.  Did  I  see  such  things?"  His  memories,  whether  first  or  second 
hand,  were  intensely  vivid  to  him.  Almost  reflectively  he  scratched 
high  on  his  rib  cage,  just  below  the  collar-bone.  "If  not .  .  .  then  how 
did  I  get  this?"  He  pulled  his  garment  open  at  the  neck  to  show 
converging  white  stress  lines  of  old  scar  tissue  that  continued  down 
his  arm.  He  shook  his  head. 

Nazar  said,  "Sometimes  when  there  is  great  pain,  the  mind  refuses 
to  remember  for  fear  the  memory  may  be  too  vivid." 

"Yes,  sometimes  God  is  kind."  The  old  man  pulled  the  cloth  back 
over  the  scars.  "Did  you  travel  to  the  cities  of  Medina  and  Mecca?" 

"No,"  Khalid  said.  "We  went  to  the  country  once  called  Turkey, 
traveled  briefly  in  Georgia,  then  started  home  again.  We  do  not 
think  Mecca  and  Medina  survived  the  wars."  He  said  it  with  ap- 
propriate regret  in  case  he  had  guessed  wrong  about  the  old  man's 
religious  background.  "I  would  have  thought,  sir,  that  being  from 
Tel  Keyf  you  were  probably  a  Christian." 

"Perhaps  I  was.  But  what  is  Christian?  A  word  like  any  other  to 
name  a  mistaken  faith."  A  frown.  "The  Amir  of  Nasiriyya— he  has 
no  machines,  has  he?" 

Unexpectedly  Nazar  chuckled. 

"No,  old  grandfather,"  he  lied  easily.  In  fact  steam-driven  gen- 
erators provided  power  for  the  Nasiriyya  hospital  and,  a  few  hours 
a  day,  for  the  experimental  laboratories;  they  had  for  some  time 
76  GERALD  PEARCE 


powered  a  short-wave  radio  signal  trying  to  locate  other  commu- 
nities where  remnants  of  scientific  knowledge  might  have  been 
saved.  The  town  had  not  escaped  unharmed  in  the  wars,  but  it  was 
now  an  oasis  of  enlightenment  in  the  desert  of  the  new  Dark  Age, 
a  place  where  they  still  remembered  that  the  world  was 
round.  .  .  .  "No,  the  Amir  has  no  desire  to  return  to  the  past.  The 
past  was  mad." 

"Ignorant,"  the  old  man  said  sadly. 

"Then  it  is  true  what  they  say  about  you?" 

"That  I  am  a  prophet?"  The  old  man  shrugged  his  narrow  shoul- 
ders. "Sometimes  God  speaks  from  the  sky.  Sometimes  he  speaks 
through  me,  though  he  knows  what  a  frail  and  inadequate  spokes- 
man I  am.  Between  times,  I  only  wait  for  his  next  call  upon  me." 

"We  had  hoped  to  hear  your  teachings,"  Khalid  said. 

The  prophet  sighed — an  impatient  sound,  his  breath  rusty  in  his 
throat.  He  moved  his  arms  and  shoulders  as  though  straining  at 
unseen  bonds. 

"To  obey  Grod,  to  live  with  nature,  and  avoid  machines.  Thus  the 
words  of  an  old  man  summarizing  the  teachings  of  the  prophet  he 
sometimes  becomes,  when  God  enters  his  body."  He  made  a  gesture 
of  negation,  as  though  prophethood  were  a  burden  almost  beyond 
bearing.  He  stared  with  pale  abstracted  eyes  down  the  dusty  little 
street  toward  the  giant  mulberry  standing  guard  by  the  camp 
ground,  then  at  Khalild  and  Nazar  in  turn.  To  Khalid,  it  seemed 
the  look  of  a  man  who  knows  a  brutal  blow  is  going  to  fall  on  him 
and  is  trying  to  understand  why. 

Khalid  reached  into  the  pouch  hanging  from  the  belt  around  his 
waist. 

"I  may  have  what  is  bothering  you."  He  took  out  a  sophisticated 
gold  watch  on  an  expanding  metal  strap.  "I  traded  a  good  knife  for 
this  because  I  recognized  the  case  was  gold.  I  never  thought  of  it  as 
a  machine."  He  had  in  fact  traded  it  from  an  Armenian  shepherd 
who  had  discovered  an  untouched  cache  of  jewelry  and  had  no  idea 
what  a  watch  was  for.  Its  performance  was  erratic  at  best.  Khalid 
hoped  the  technicians  of  Nasiriyya  would  get  some  value  from  it. 
Now  he  gave  it  to  the  old  man. 

Slowly  the  old  face  cracked  into  a  grin.  For  a  moment  he  was 
remembering,  this  time  with  fondness.  He  raised  it  to  his  ear.  It  was 
unwound.  He  turned  the  stem  with  the  practised  air  of  a  man  who 
wound  a  watch  every  day,  returned  it  to  his  ear,  listened  to  the 
ticking  with  rapt  attention  as  though  to  music  coming  from  the 
heart  of  a  flower.  Then  he  stopped  grinning,  sighed,  shook  his  head. 
THE  DEICIDES  77 


"It  is  a  machine,"  he  said  regretfully,  and  swung  it  by  its  strap 
with  astonishing  force  against  the  mud-cemented  stones  forming 
the  low  half-wall  behind  him.  The  crystal  exploded  into  fragments. 
Then  the  old  man  found  another  stone  and  held  the  watch  against 
the  wall  and  pounded  it  to  shapelessness. 

He  was  breathing  hard  when  he  handed  it  back  to  Khalid. 

"The  gold  is  still  gold,"  he  said. 

They  maintained  their  casual  visitors'  pace  and  deportment  as 
they  walked  back  along  the  village  street. 

Nazar  was  tense  as  a  coiled  spring.  "He's  at  least  half  mad." 
Keeping  his  expression  mild  and  his  voice  down  cost  him  an  effort. 
"Partial  amnesiac,  a  hopeless  paranoid  about  anything  mechanical, 
and  he's  half-way  convinced  he  remembers  the  destruction  of  Da- 
mascus and  Jerusalem.  He'd  have  to  be  over  a  hundred  years  old." 

"He  might  be."  Khalid  was  just  as  tense.  He  knew  that  something 
unspeakable  could  happen  before  they  got  out  of  the  village.  But 
while  Nazar's  tension  demanded  action  his  own  dreaded  it.  "He's 
lucid  about  the  vagaries  of  memory,  and  he's  suffered  some  severe 
physical  trauma  that  could  account  for  the  amnesia.  Those  were 
burn  scars,  I'd  swear  it.  He  could've  picked  them  up  in  a  village  fire 
when  he  was  ten  years  old  and  barely  escaped  a  burning  hut,  and 
then  grafted  the  memory  to  tales  he'd  heard  of  the  cities  burning." 

''Listen,  Khalid.  If  he  were  just  an  old  neurotic  verbalizing  his 
inner  tensions,  who  would  care?  But  he's  a  Sensitive — " 

"I  know." 

"You  know  what  a  disturbed  Sensitive  can — " 

"I  know/' 

They  passed  the  last  of  the  huts.  The  street  became  the  path 
through  the  encircling  trees  leading  to  the  camp  ground.  They  quick- 
ened their  pace.  Nazar  said,  "You  think  he  was  getting  on  to  the 
Gadget?" 

"Of  course.  We  must've  been  broadcasting  its  presence  like  a  sym- 
phony of  guilty  knowledge.  If  I  hadn't  had  that  watch  and  thrown 
him  off  the  scent  with  it,  he'd  probably  have  gone  oracular  and  got 
us  stoned  to  death.  'Live  with  nature,  avoid  machines.'  Not  very 
impressive.  I  think  he's  amnesiac  about  what  he  preaches  when  the 
fit's  upon  him." 

"Then  in  the  name  of  sanity,"  Nazar  demanded,  "why  take  time 
to  fool  around  with  the  Gadget?  Let's  do  it,  before  anything  has  time 
to  happen." 

They  reached  the  tent,  strode  in.  Simon  was  stretched  out  almost 

78  GERALD  PEARCE 


asleep,  his  lean  face  slack  with  satiety.  He  came  awake  and  stumbled 
out  of  the  way.  Khalid  got  both  hands  on  the  saddle-bag  holding 
their  meager  arsenal  and  stopped,  holding  it  shut,  white-knuckled. 

"No.  Not  every  crazy  old  Sensitive  starts  a  religion.  We've  got  to 
be  sure" 

"You're  the  one  who's  crazy.  I  told  you — I'll  do  it  myself  Give  me 
one  of  the  guns." 

"You're  full  of  vengeance  because  he's  not  a  'real'  prophet.  What 
did  you  expect?"  Khalid  set  aside  the  saddlebags  and  threw  off  the 
sheepskins,  started  opening  the  crates.  "Give  me  a  hand  with  these, 
then  get  Simon  to  saddle  the  animals,  horses  first." 

They  dragged  the  equipment  free  of  the  containers  and  Nazar 
went  to  give  orders  to  Simon  while  Khalid  connected  it  up.  Nazar 
came  back  and  they  began  cranking  the  generator.  The  light  came 
on;  Nazar  picked  up  the  earphones  and  held  them  so  both  could  hear 
the  static  coming  from  them.  Khalid  only  had  to  touch  the  selector 
slide. 

A  clap  of  thunder.  It  trailed  off,  and  blending  with  its  rolling  echo 
there  was  suddenly  a  voice,  at  once  inseparable  from  it  and  distinct, 
interrupted  at  intervals  by  a  crackling  burst  of  static. 

''.  .  .  seek  the  Old  Ones  in  the  caves  and  desolations  of  their  own 
making  .  .  .  (static) .  .  .By  the  sign  of  the  machine  .  .  .  (static) .  .  .  Let 
the  good  earth  drink  their  .  .  .  (static)  .  .  .  crows  and  kite  hawks  feast 
on  their  eyes,  wolves  and  maggots  on  their  flesh  .  .  .  (static) .  .  .  without 
mercy,  kill  with  knife  and  stone,  scythe  and  bludgeon.  .  .  ." 

— A  shadow  on  the  tent's  fabric,  a  movement  at  the  entrance. 
Khalid  thought.  It's  Simon,  but  threw  a  quick  glance.  Not  Simon. 
The  girl  from  the  hut  up  the  hill  stood  motionless,  intent. 

Nazar  put  down  the  earphones.  Both  men  turned. 

"Machine  people,"  she  said. 

From  somewhere  Nazar  summoned  a  grin. 

"No,  flesh  and  blood,  like  you." 

She  said  gravely,  "Your  pardon.  I  mean  men  of  the  past,  users  of 
machines."  She  ducked  into  the  tent.  Khalid  saw  Simon  hovering 
worriedly  outside,  but  the  girl's  presence  pushed  everything  outside 
to  somewhere  as  remote  from  concern  as  the  far  edge  of  the  galaxy. 
Whore,  he  reminded  himself;  trade  goods.  He  saw  Nazar  wave  Simon 
back  to  his  duties  but  it  barely  registered.  All  the  urgency  had  gone 
from  what  they  were  about,  transmuted  into  the  single  imperative 
of  desire.  That  Simon  and  Nazar  had  used  her  so  short  a  time  before 
was  immaterial.  She  wore  the  same  shawl,  the  same  shapeless  dress 
from  within  which  her  body  offered  irresistible  promise.  He  was 

THE  DEICIDES  79 


staring.  Her  response  was  to  more  than  the  stare;  she  made  a  small 
involuntary  sensuous  movement,  held  up  a  hand  and  threw  him  a 
pleading  glance:  Not  now.  She  looked  at  Nazar.  "I  knew  it  when  I 
lay  with  you.  Not  from  anything  you  said  or  did.  My  skin  knew  it, 
my  belly  knew  it  and  my  blood,  and  finally  they  convinced  my  mind." 

Khalid  thought  despairingly,  Another  Sensitive!  That  was  why 
she  had  seemed  to  respond  to  him  physically,  why  Nazar  had  found 
her  so  astonishingly  pleasing.  She  caught  and  internalized  and  felt 
and  gave  expression  to  the  very  hunger  she  was  allaying.  That 
answered  the  question  about  her  choice  of  profession:  it  was  hers 
because — given  a  basically  passionate  nature — she  couldn't  help  it, 
the  inevitable  consequence  of  telepathic  feedback.  What  a  powerful 
instrument  she  must  be.  .  .  . 

"But  you  didn't  come  here  to  kill  us,"  Nazar  said.  Briefly  he  met 
Khalid's  eyes.  Nazar  knew. 

"How?  Three  men?  And  even  if  the  voice  of  God  says  kill,  it  is 
still  a  terrible  thing  to  do  ...  so  terrible  I — wondered  .  .  .  and  was 
drawn  here  to  find  the  answer." 

Khalid  started  to  crank  the  generator  again.  Nazar  joined  in. 
When  the  light  on  the  Gadget  came  on  Khalid  beckoned  her  near. 
From  the  earphones  the  voice  spoke  out  of  echoing  thunder,  re- 
peating in  different  words  its  catechism  of  hate.  Khalid  held  them 
up  for  her,  half  stupefied  by  her  presence.  She  leaned  forward  to 
hear  more  clearly,  listened,  straightened  up.  Despair  had  become 
a  raging  in  his  blood. 

"The  voice  of  God,"  she  said  sadly.  Khalid  felt  her  eyes  on  him 
tangible  as  the  touch  of  a  hand.  He  stopped  cranking,  put  down  the 
earphones. 

"The  voice  of  your  people,"  he  corrected.  "As  taught  to  think  by 
an  old  man  who  makes  you  want  to  love  him  but  who  is  mad  and 
is  known  as  a  prophet.  How  could  a  machine,  made  by  the  hands 
of  men,  bring  in  the  voice  of  God?  No,  no.  This  is  the  voice  of  your 
people,  with  all  their  voices  made  one  in  agreement  and  error." 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "The  voice  of  God,"  she  repeated.  "And 
now  you're  going  to  kill  me." 

She  kept  looking  at  Khalid. 

Nazar  said  from  behind  her,  "Doesn't  your  prophet  promise  you 
rewards  after  you  die?  Others  have." 

"That's  silly.  When  you  die,  you  die."  She  said,  to  Khalid,  "I'm 
not  afraid  of  you.  For  you,  killing  would  be  like  dying." 

She  stepped  close  and  embraced  him,  sliding  her  arms  under  the 
loose  Bedouin  cloak,  her  face  turned  against  his  chest.  He  felt  the 
an  GERALD  PEARCE 


fullness  and  warmth  of  her,  felt  her  sigh  once  in  resignation.  We 
needn't— well  take  her  with  ws— but  Nazar  had  already  slipped  the 
knife  hidden  under  his  jerkin  free  of  its  scabbard.  It  was  the  one 
thing  on  his  person  not  of  Kurdish  design.  It  was  long  and  slender 
and  double-edged  and  made  for  one  purpose  only.  His  face  was  mask- 
like and  wooden  but  his  movements  were  surgical  in  their  precision 
as  he  drove  the  blade  up  through  the  girl's  dress  under  her  ribs  and 
through  her  lungs  into  her  heart.  She  stiffened  hideously.  Her  face 
came  up  off  Khalid's  chest,  in  her  eyes  amazement  and  pain,  her 
mouth  open  and  small  hopeless  sounds  coming  from  her  throat. 
Ngizar  clamped  a  brutal  hand  over  her  mouth,  twisting  the  knife 
with  his  other  hand,  withdrew  it  as  she  started  to  relax  forward 
onto  Khalid's  chest  again,  to  slump  to  the  ground. 

Khalid  let  her  down  as  gently  as  he  could,  his  mind  a  nest  of 
horrors.  He  pulled  a  hand  out  from  under  her  body  and  it  was  covered 
with  blood.  Murderer,  his  mind  whispered  in  implacable  accusation. 
Murderer.  He  wiped  the  blood  off  on  the  ground,  wiped  the  resulting 
mixture  of  dirt  and  blood  off  on  his  cloak,  listening  to  the  unrelenting 
whisper. 

Nazar  cleaned  the  blade  of  his  knife  on  the  girl's  dress. 

"All  right,"  he  said  thickly.  "Nobody  said  we  had  to  like  what  we 
do.  She  wasn't  just  a  Sensitive,  a  receiver.  She  was  a  powerful  se- 
lective sender,  too.  Hence  the  multiplying  feedback  effect.  With  her 
indoctrination,  letting  her  go  would  have  been  suicide." 

Khalid  moved  her  shawl  and  felt  for  the  pulse  in  her  neck  but  it 
was  still.  He  took  off  his  cloak  and  covered  her  with  it,  then  turned 
back  to  the  Gadget,  began  cranking  the  generator. 

"We  haven't  got  all  day,"  Nazar  hissed. 

Khalid  ignored  him. 

Nazar  made  an  exasperated  sound.  He  had  replaced  the  long  knife 
in  its  hidden  scabbard,  now  applied  muscle  to  the  generator.  The 
output  indicator  moved,  the  light  blinked  on.  From  the  earphones 
came  the  voice  in  the  thunder  with  a  new  element,  a  continuous 
high  thin  shriek  of  pain  and  violation. 

"If  the  old  man's  tuned  it,"  Khalid  said,  "he'll  be  ready  for  us.  We 
may  be  years  too  late  already." 

In  his  own  ears  his  voice  sounded  as  disembodied  as  the  voice  in 
the  earphones.  His  body  responded  to  the  dictates  of  his  will,  his 
will  to  the  dictates  of  logic,  but  all  seemed  remote,  slowed  down, 
unconnected  to  the  inner  self  that  listened  to  the  accusing  whis- 
per— murderer!  murderer! — to  which  he  could  find  no  response  but 
THE  DEICIDES  81 


agreement  and  self-condemnation. 

He  helped  repack  the  Gadget  and  the  generator  without  impaired 
efficiency,  or  he  would  have  heard  from  Nazar. 

"Next  time,"  he  heard  his  voice  say  conversationally,  "we  must 
make  sure  they  don't  send  anyone  on  a  job  like  this  with  my  un- 
disciplined capacity  for  empathy." 

They  began  manhandling  the  first  crate  out  to  the  camels. 

"If  you  had  the  intelligence  of  a  mule,"  Nazar  rasped,  "you'd  know 
that  that's  the  quality  you  were  chosen  for.  You're  the  closest  thing 
to  a  Sensitive  we  could  find.  They  thought  you'd  be  more  intuitive 
about  people,  so  they  put  you  in  charge — not  because  the  Amir's 
your  uncle.  They  should  have  sent  a  halfwit." 

Simon  had  all  five  animals  saddled  but  his  face  was  ashen  and 
fearful.  He  must  have  seen  the  girl  killed  through  the  tent's  opening. 
There  was  no  time  to  try  explaining  to  him.  He  jittered;  the  animals 
caught  it,  moved  restively.  When  Khalid  and  Nazar  brought  the 
second  crate  out  he  helped  secure  it  to  the  camel's  pack  saddle  and 
went  into  the  tent  for  the  bedrolls.  Nazar  told  him  to  forget  the  tent 
itself  and  the  cloak  and  what  lay  under  it.  Khalid  dug  the  revolvers 
out  of  the  saddlebag,  gave  one  to  Nazar,  heaved  the  bag  across  his 
shoulder,  carried  it  out  and  tied  it  to  the  smaller  camel's  saddle. 

The  three  men  mounted  their  horses,  Simon  holding  the  lead 
camel's  halter.  The  camels  got  to  their  feet  with  grumpy  protests. 
Khalid's  horse  skittishly  pirouetted.  He  controlled  her,  patted  her 
neck,  heard  himself  murmur  automatic  soothing  words.  Nazar  told 
Simon  to  head  back  the  way  they  had  come  as  fast  as  was  safe,  and 
if  he  came  to  last  night's  camp  site  before  they  caught  up  with  him 
to  start  down  the  gorge. 

Simon  left,  forcing  the  protesting  camels  into  a  shambling  trot. 
Khalid  and  Nazar  watched  until  they  had  disappeared  around  the 
first  bend  in  the  trail. 

Khalid  sighed,  drew  a  hanging  comer  of  his  headcloth  across 
his  chin,  tucked  it  firmly  into  the  looped  black  rope-like  contrivance 
that  held  the  headcloth  in  place.  Then  he  broke  open  his  revolver, 
spun  the  cylinder  and  checked  the  contents,  aware  of  something 
compulsively  delaying  about  what  he  was  doing,  closed  the  gun 
carefully  with  an  empty  chamber  under  the  hammer  and  another 
before  the  first  of  the  four  cartridges.  On  closing,  the  cylinder  spun 
one  position  further.  Cocking  the  gun  or  pulling  the  trigger  would 
spin  it  again  and  place  a  cartridge  in  firing  position. 

He  was  distantly  surprised  to  see  Nazar  going  through  the  same 
procedure. 
82  GERALD  PEARCE 


"I'd  feel  safer  using  bow  and  arrow,"  Nazar  muttered. 

"So  would  I.  But  we  have  no  more  arrows.  If  these  guns  work 
they'll  do  more  damage  and  help  panic  the  crowd  which  is  gather- 
ing." Again  his  horse  tried  to  pirouette.  He  countered  it  with  pres- 
sure from  the  bridle  and  the  mare  danced  sideways  half  way  across 
the  camp  ground  clearing.  Nazar's  mount  backed  nervously  out  of 
the  way. 

The  mare  steadied.  Khalid  relaxed  his  grip  on  the  reins,  stuck  the 
heavy  revolver  into  the  belt  at  his  belly.  Simultaneously  he  heard 
a  sound  like  a  thunderclap. 

It  was  the  sound  they  had  heard  through  the  earphones  but  a 
thousand  times  louder.  With  it  the  tent  collapsed,  was  almost  in- 
stantly snatched  up  as  by  a  giant  hand  and  shaken.  The  tent  pegs 
came  loose  as  though  they  had  been  embedded  in  soft  mud.  The  tent 
flew  like  a  wind-blown  rag,  the  center  pole  a  twig  in  a  gale.  All 
sailed  overhead.  The  tent  and  Khalid's  cloak  fell  into  scrub  oak  and 
thombush.  Going  end  over  end  like  a  broken  doll,  the  body  of  the 
girl  landed  where  the  camp  ground  narrowed  to  become  the  trail 
into  the  village.  Through  it  all  the  voice  from  the  earphones  raged 
indistinctly. 

For  a  while  it  was  all  Khalid  and  Nazar  could  do  to  keep  their 
horses  from  bolting  and  themselves  in  the  saddle. 

"Huopponen  accounts  for  physical  manifestations,"  Nazar  mut- 
tered. "I  don't  think  he  had  that  impressive  a  demonstration  in 
mind.  All  that — from  just  one  village?" 

"There  are  five  villages  gathering  here  for  the  quarter-moon  mar- 
ket, remember."  If  the  old  man  had  been  preaching  a  paranoid  psy- 
chotic deity,  and  had  six  fairly  close-knit  villages  contributing  to 
the  telepathic  energy  pool .  .  .  "Start  with  xenophobia,  the  religious 
wars  started  by  foreigners  with  foreign-made  Gadgets  and  foreign- 
made  weapons — " 

"Enough  talk.  Let's  get  it  over  with." 

Khalid  nodded.  His  horse  was  quieter  now  but  quivering.  He  was 
still  remote  from  himself.  That  had  its  advantages,  anesthetizing 
feeling. 

"As  we  planned,  Nazar.  From  stationary  horses,  at  point  blank 
range.  Otherwise  we'll  fail." 

Nazar  offered  no  objection  to  Khalid's  going  first. 

The  body  where  the  trail  began  made  Khalid's  mare  balk  and  shy 
away.  He  urged  her  forward  and  she  suddenly  lunged  into  a  brief 
gallop,  was  as  suddenly  past  what  had  frightened  her  and  was  slow- 
ing to  a  walk.  Nazar's  gelding  repeated  the  performance,  thudded 

THE  DEICIDES  ^3 


down  the  path,  almost  prompted  the  mare  to  break  into  another 
gallop.  Khalid  restrained  her. 

Sedately,  they  completed  the  distance  through  the  trees.  The  trail 
widened  and  became  the  village  street. 

A  crowd  had  gathered,  all  right.  Men,  women,  children,  perhaps 
a  hundred  of  them.  They  were  coming  down  the  street  toward  them 
and  at  their  head  walked  the  old  prophet.  Out  of  the  clear  sky  the 
thunder  continued  its  endless  echo  with  its  blurred  half- voiced  com- 
mandment to  kill  and  the  agonized  new  overtone  that  was  the  sound 
the  girl  had  not  been  able  to  make  while  dying. 

The  old  man  was  hardly  recognizable.  He  seemed  to  have  shed 
forty  years  and  his  eyes  blazed  bright  as  the  sky. 

He  stopped.  Someone  ran  out  in  front  of  him,  threw  up  a  protective 
hand  to  ward  off  danger.  Like  the  pseudopodia  of  a  huge  one-celled 
organism,  the  outer  edges  of  the  crowd  surged  forward.  Khalid  and 
Nazar  were  surrounded.  But  it  was  not  a  one-celled  organism,  it 
was  one-minded,  and  the  mind  was  that  of  the  prophet,  and  the 
prophet  was  mad.  He  was  also  possessed.  If  he  had  not  been  tapping 
so  much  power  for  his  charismatic  use,  Khalid  would  have  expected 
another  display  like  the  one  in  the  camp  ground,  with  Nazar  and 
himself  at  the  focus  of  attention. 

Nazar  moved  up  beside  him. 

"Close  enough?"  he  murmured. 

"Almost." 

"Hypocrites!"  the  old  man  shouted,  and  from  the  crowd  came  a 
muttered  echo  instantly  re-echoed  in  the  continuous  echo  of  the 
thunder.  "Machine  men!  Sinners  against  God  and  nature!" 

Nazar  lifted  a  hand,  raised  his  voice  to  the  crowd. 

"We  are  nothing  of  the  kind."  He  lowered  his  hand  casually  to 
the  butt  of  the  revolver  protruding  from  the  sash  around  his  middle. 
"You  can  tell  from  my  tongue  and  my  dress  that  I  am  of  the  moun- 
tains myself.  This  old  man  is  mad,  and  has  misled  you." 

Khalid  watched  himself  pull  the  revolver  from  his  own  belt  and 
aim  squarely  at  the  old  man's  chest.  He  pulled  the  trigger,  heard 
with  distant  resignation  the  dry  heavy  click  of  a  misfire.  He  fired 
again,  thought  he  had  hit  the  old  man's  chest,  but  Nazar  had  fired 
at  almost  exactly  the  same  time  and  split  the  prophet's  skull  like 
a  melon  fallen  from  the  sky. 

The  horses  reared  in  panic,  plunged  into  the  crowd.  The  unre- 
lenting whisper  Murderer!  in  his  mind  became  a  roar,  but  the  unity 
of  the  crowd  was  shattered.  The  two  forty-fives  were  probably  louder 
than  any  godly  thunder  they  had  ever  heard  and  the  sound  had 

84  GERALD  PEARCE 


come  from  the  hands  of  two  men.  Those  who  had  been  near  enough 
had  seen  the  result  and  were  screaming  it  aloud,  while  others  tried 
to  impede  or  avoid  the  plunging  horses.  It  was  the  panic  Khalid  had 
counted  on.  If  it  lasted  a  few  more  seconds  they  would  be  gone. 

Khalid's  horse  had  taken  him  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd  before  he 
got  it  turned  and  headed  back  toward  the  trail.  He  was  almost  free 
of  the  people  when  he  felt  the  heat  rising  in  his  revolver,  looked  and 
saw  the  barrel  starting  to  glow,  instinctively  threw  it  away.  It  burst 
like  a  grenade.  He  kicked  the  horse's  ribs,  bent  low,  was  barely 
aware  of  Nazar  doing  the  same  on  the  far  side  of  the  road,  throwing 
his  suddenly  glowing  revolver  behind  him.  It  too  exploded.  Then 
both  horses  were  entering  the  trail  side  by  side.  Khalid  reined  in, 
allowing  Nazar  to  go  first,  followed  a  stride  behind  him.  A  sudden 
gale-force  wind  whipped  at  the  trees,  uprooted  one.  It  took  too  long 
to  fall,  crashed  far  enough  behind  them  to  barely  brush  Khalid's 
shoulders  and  his  horse's  croup  with  its  outermost  twigs  and  leaves. 
Then  they  were  streaming  across  the  camp  ground,  the  air  was  still, 
the  mulberry  tree  was  behind  them  and  they  were  pounding  down 
the  dusty  track  along  the  stream. 

They  had  passed  their  lead  camel,  or  what  was  left  of  it,  lying 
battered  and  dead  at  the  side  of  the  track  less  than  three  hundred 
meters  beyond  the  giant  mulberry,  the  crates  and  ever5i:hing  inside 
them  smashed  flat  as  though  by  some  giant  fist.  It  was  a  fair  guess 
that  it  had  been  a  manifestation  simultaneous  to  the  one  with  the 
tent.  Simon,  they  learned,  had  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  unloop 
the  second  camel's  lead  rope  from  the  dead  one's  saddle  and  drag 
the  animal  behind  him  full  tilt  down  the  hill  to  where  the  little 
tributary  met  the  Rowanduz  river  and  then  down  the  path  that 
followed  the  Rowanduz  to  where  it  met  the  stream  that  came  in 
from  the  plain. 

They  caught  up  with  him  as  he  started  along  the  road  leading  on 
through  the  gorge.  His  face  was  mottled  gray  and  yellow  and  his 
eyes  were  haunted.  Nazar  tried  to  explain  what  had  been  going  on 
but  gave  up  after  two  minutes.  They  heard  no  thunder- voice.  There 
were  no  more  manifestations. 

At  the  third  river  they  left  the  road  and  took  the  animals  down 
to  the  water's  edge  to  drink.  There  had  been  a  bridge  here  too,  a 
long  time  back.  Its  remains  could  be  seen  on  either  side,  just  above 
the  point  where  the  stream  widened  and  became  a  deep,  quiet  pool 
that  emptied  its  overflow  without  fuss  or  heavy  current,  running 
shallow  over  smooth  steps  of  rock  and  jetting  finally  into  space  to 
THE  DEICIDES  85 


fall  in  cheerful  sunbright  indifference  to  the  Rowanduz  below. 

Khalid  squatted  at  the  edge,  tried  to  wash  off  the  dried  dirt  and 
blood  he  had  been  spattered  with.  He  stripped  and  dived  into  the 
water.  It  was  icy,  the  shock  almost  restoring  him  to  the  body  he  had 
seemed  so  remote  from.  When  he  climbed  out,  Nazar  was  tearing 
a  circle  of  day-old  bread  in  two,  offering  him  half. 

He  chewed  thoughtfully,  drying  quickly  in  the  mid-day  sun. 

"It  made  me  as  sick  as  it  did  you,"  Nazar  said  unexpectedly.  "In 
the  end  he  was  just  a  pitiful  old  man,  somebody's  grandfather."  He 
pushed  the  last  piece  of  bread  into  his  mouth,  chewed  and  swallowed 
and  went  to  the  edge  of  the  pool  to  drink.  "At  least  it's  over." 

"You're  sure?  What  happened  to  those  two  guns?" 

"We'd  used  them  in  the  killing.  The  crowd  had  already  been 
worked  up  by  their  prophet  and  served  as  a  psychokinetic  lens,  so 
to  speak,  focusing  the  energy  of .  .  ." 

"The  crowd  panicked.  It  couldn't  focus  anything.  What  about  that 
lead  camel,  caught  between  the  Gadget  and  the  generator  and  what- 
ever pounded  them  to  scrap?  Did  the  crowd  know  about  them?" 

"The  girl  did." 

"She  was  dead.  Granted  that  whatever  she  knew  the  god-mind 
knew.  She  did  not  know  we  sent  the  Gadget  away  ahead  of  us. 
Perhaps  it  sought  it  in  the  tent,  perhaps  it  was  looking  for  us.  It's 
not  really  tuned  in  to  us.  Slow  senses,  you  could  say.  But  it  found 
the  camel  and  what  it  was  carrying.  It  found  and  identified  the  two 
revolvers.  It  whipped  up  a  wind  to  knock  a  tree  down  to  stop  us.  It 
was  a  second  too  late.  It's  still  a  baby  yet:  not  too  much  gross  physical 
control." 

Nazar  stood  up,  shaking  water  from  the  hand  he  had  used  as  a 
cup.  His  eyes  were  frightened. 

"What  you're  telling  me  is  that  this  projected  entity  has  devel- 
oped .  .  .  volition?  The  capacity  for  independent  action?" 

"And  is  mad.  A  development  of  the  Huopponen  theories  by  Khalid 
the  Assassin,  failed  deicide." 

"Then  what  we  did  .  .  .  had  no  value  at  all?" 

"It  may  have  speeded  the  growth  of  a  system  of  theology,  and 
given  it  an  even  bigger  charge  of  paranoia  than  was  already  built 
in."  Khalid  was  climbing  into  his  clothes.  "We've  given  them  a  good 
start  on  a  list  of  martyrs." 

".  .  .  It  hasn't  followed  us." 

"Perhaps  it  needs  to  recharge  its  energies.  Perhaps  we're  already 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  prophet's  influence,  but  I  wouldn't 
count  on  that.  Remember  we'd  heard  of  him  in  Nasiriyya.  What  we 

86  GERALD  PEARCE 


have  to  do  is  get  back  home  and  find  a  way  to  kill  a  god  without 
killing  all  its  believers." 

"Why?" 

Nazar's  fists  clenched.  Muscles  in  his  jaw  bunched.  The  simple 
man  of  action  pose,  Khalid  though  wearily. 

"Because  there  are  already  too  many  of  them,  or  soon  will  be." 

Khalid  stepped  into  his  sandals.  Nazar  released  a  ragged  breath. 

"So  what  do  we  do  now?" 

Draping  his  headcloth  over  his  head,  Khalid  fitted  on  the  black 
looped  headrope  that  held  it  in  place. 

"We're  a  long  way  from  Nasiriyya,"  he  said.  "We  try  to  get  there 
before  it  does,  and  dig  in  for  the  new  religious  wars." 


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THE  DEICIDES  87 


AT  THE  HUGO  BANQUET 

by  Susan  Casper 

This  seems  the  right  time  for  a  small 

puzzle  about  the  Annual  Science  Fiction 

Achievement  Awards,  familiarly  known 

as  the  Hugos — named  for  Hugo 

Gernsback,  who  founded  the  first  SF 

magazine,  way  back  in  1926. 

Five  new  writers  met  at  the  award  banquet  of  the  World  Science 
Fiction  Convention,  where  each  was  a  nominee  for  an  award  in  a 
different  category:  Novel,  Novella,  Novelette,  Short  Story,  and  Dra- 
matic Work.  The  authors'  last  names  (not  in  the  same  order  as  the 
categories)  were  Adams,  Brown,  Clark,  Davis^  and  Ellis;  their  first 
names  (not  respectively)  were  Fred,  Gail,  Hank,  Irene,  and  Joe;  and 
the  works  they  had  written  (in  no  particular  order)  were  ATTACK 
OF  THE  ZORCH,  CLONED  ALIVE,  BETWEEN  GALAXIES,  ONE 
FOOT  ON  NEPTUNE,  and  ANDROMEDA  WALTZ.  Only  one  of 
these  authors  won  a  Hugo  for  his  work  at  the  banquet,  although  an 
award  was  given  in  each  category  (the  other  nominees  and  their 
authors  just  weren't  listed  above).  Can  you,  from  the  clues  listed 
below,  work  out  which  first  name  goes  with  each  last  name,  and 
which  full  name  goes  with  which  work,  and  who  is  the  one  author 
who  won  a  Hugo? 

1.  Hank  confided  to  Clark  and  Adams  that  of  the  other  two's 
works,  he  thought  the  play  was  much  worse  than  ONE  FOOT  ON 
NEPTUNE. 

2.  Irene  came  in  second  in  her  category. 

3.  The  agent  who  handles  Brown  and  Fred  had  high  expectations 
for  those  clients  and  was  disappointed  that  neither  won. 

4.  Ellis  and  the  playwright  agreed  that  the  awards  were  fair  and 
that  BETWEEN  GALAXIES  and  the  novelette  were  not  as  good  as 
CLONED  ALIVE,  but  came  in  higher  than  ATTACK  OF  THE 
ZORCH. 

5.  No  one  had  expected  Adams  or  ANDROMEDA  WALTZ  to  win 
and  in  fact  both  placed  very  poorly  in  their  categories,  behind  "no- 
award"  in  each. 

6.  The  novelist  v/on  a  Hugo.  ONE  FOOT  ON  NEPTUNE  and  the 
novella  both  placed  second,  and  both  Gail  and  the  play  finished  last. 

The  solution  appears  on  page  106. 

88 


THE  BEANSTALK  ANALYSIS 

by  J.O.  Jeppson 


art:  Tim  Kirk 


Dr.  Jeppson  once  worked  next  door  to  a 

demolition  site.  She  is  Director  of 

Training  at  the  William  Alanson  White 

Institute  of  Psychoanalysis,  and  she 

hopes  that  nobody  there  imagines  that 

she  belongs  to  the  outrageous  private 

club  described  below.  Her  novel,  The 

Last  Immortal,  was  recently 

published  by  Houghton-Mifflin. 


KutK 


Strange  happenings  within  the  field  of  psychoanalysis  are  bound 
to  surface  during  the  weekly  luncheon  meetings  of  the  Psychoan- 
alytic Alliance,  referred  to  by  the  more  uninhibited  as  Pshrinks 
Anonymous  because  of  its  strict  rule  that  members  must  conceal 
the  identities  not  only  of  their  patients  but  also  of  themselves.  This 
dangerously  ecumenical  club  meets  in  a  fading  Manhattan  hotel 
willing  to  risk  its  reputation  with  dubious  clientele,  and  has  always 
rented  a  private  dining  room  in  the  sub-basement. 

At  a  recent  lunch,  the  Oldest  Member — an  unreconstructed 
Freudian — was  holding  forth  as  usual,  drowning  out  the  conver- 
sational attempts  of  the  assembled  Jungians,  Adlerians,  Kleinians, 
Ego  Psychologists,  and  assorted  other  points  of  view. 

".  ^  .1  admit  that  the  Master  himself  had  a  daughter,  but  letting 
in  women  as  well  as  these  new-fangled  heresies  ..." 

"Women  and  heresies  are  hardly  new,  even  here,"  muttered  one 
of  the  members  grizzled  with  Eclectic  experience. 

".  .  .  is  a  mistake,"  continued  the  Oldest  Member,  "because  these 
new-fangled  so-called  analysts  don't  do  orthodox  depth  therapy."  He 
scowled  at  an  Interpersonal  over  his  cigar,  unlit  because  this  same 
Interpersonal  had  put  through  a  no-smoking  rule  the  previous  week. 


THE  BEANSTALK  ANALYSIS 


89 


The  Interpersonal  smiled  and  crossed  her  legs.  "Fortunately 
there's  room  for  everything  at  Pshrinks  Anonymous,  including  the 
right  of  a  female  member  to  present  a  case.  .  .  ." 

The  Oldest  Member  gripped  his  cigar  tighter  and  cleared  his 
throat  ominously.  "Surely  I  have  never  recounted  my  series  of  suc- 
cessful cases  dealing  with  the  repressed  sexual  phobia  implicit  in 
cigar  aversion  manifested  by  certain  female  ..." 

"You  have,"  said  the  Interpersonal,  "here  and — voluminously — in 
print.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  about  a  case  that  has  had  to  be  kept 
not  only  anonymous  but — you  must  believe  me,  colleagues,  unpub- 
lished." 

"Unpublished!" 

Even  the  Oldest  Member  was  silenced. 

I  was  just  out  of  residency  at  the  time  [said  the  Interpersonal], 
renting  a  small  office  on  the  ground  floor  of  an  old  converted  Fifth 
Avenue  town  house.  I  was  able  to  afford  this  prestigious  address 
only  because  it  was  rapidly  going  downhill  because  of  the  long  delay 
in  completing  the  demolition  of  the  building  next  door.  I  was  working 
my  way  through  analytic  school,  still  paying  off  loans  incurred  while 
a  psychiatric  resident,  and  I  needed  patients. 

One  of  my  sources  of  referral  was  a  well-established  analyst 
known  to  Belle vue  resident  psychiatrists  as  Tailored  Tweeds,  who 
would  send  me  patients  so  unsuitable  for  classical  analysis  that  they 
could  in  good  conscience  be  dumped  on  a  mere  stripling  who  was 
not  only  of  the  wrong  sex  but  also  of  the  wrong  analytic  persuasion. 

When  I  took  a  history  from  my  latest  referral,  it  turned  out  that 
T.T.  had  actually  treated  him  for  several  months,  which  meant  one 
of  two  things:  the  patient  had  become  too  crazy  or  insolvent. 

"My  business  is  doing  better  than  ever,"  said  Mr.  X,  raising  his 
voice  over  the  demolition  noise  next  door,  "and  I've  remodeled  a 
brownstone  for  my  family.  .  .  ." 

I  sighed,  and  then  I  sneezed. 

"I  suppose  you're  allergic  to  cigars  too,"  said  Mr.  X,  who  had 
obeyed  my  non-smoking  sign  but  still  reeked  of  tobacco. 

"Too?"  I  asked. 

"My  wife  is  allergic.  That's  why  Fm  in  the  mess  I'm  in." 

"What  mess?" 

"My  ex-shrink  thinks  I've  become  psychotic  and  said  a  change  in 
therapy  was  indicated,  preferably  to  the  opposite  sex  to  work  out 
my  hostilty  from  and  to  my  non-smoking  wife." 

"Do  you  think  you're  psychotic?" 

90  J.O. JEPPSON 


"Well,  I  hallucinate." 

"What?" 

"I  said  I—" 

"I  heard  you.  What  sort  of  things  do  you  hallucinate?" 

"Encounters  with  aliens  from  outer  space." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said  reluctantly.  I  am  an  SF  addict  and  do 
not  approve  of  fringe  elements  invading  the  field. 

"My  wife  says  I've  always  been  boringly  sane,  so  what's  happened 
has  been  a  traumatic  experience,  especially  since  I  only  agreed  to 
go  into  analysis  because  my  wife  couldn't  stand  my  cigars  and  it 
was  affecting  our  sex  life." 

"I  seem  to  recall  that  your  ex-analyst  smokes,"  I  said. 

"Yes.  Cigars.  We  spent  a  while  analyzing  my  wife's  sexual  hang- 
ups shown  in  her  aversion  to  smoking,  but  for  some  reason  this 
didn't  help  in  bed." 

There  was  a  loud  crash  next  door  and  the  patient  quivered.  "I 
think  I'm  having  another  hallucination.  I  imagine  that  there's  a 
crack  developing  in  your  wall  in  back  of  that  avocado  plant  next  to 
the  fireplace.' 

I  turned  to  look.  "You're  right — there  is  a  crack." 

"It's  a  pity  about  these  old  mansions,"  said  Mr.  X,  staring  at  the 
crack.  "This  one  should  be  saved  by  the  Landmarks  Commission. 
I  noticed  the  gargoyles  when  I  came  in.  Of  course,  if  that  demolition 
damages  your  building  structurally  you'll  have  to  move;  and  then 
I'll  have  to  get  used  to  another  office  and  ..." 

"I  thought  you  came  to  tell  me  about  the  hallucinations  connected 
with  your  cigar  smoking." 

"You  interrupted  my  free  association!"  said  Mr.  X  plaintively. 
"Do  all  women  analysts  talk  alot?" 

I  ground  my  teeth  but  remained  silent,  demonstrating  that  I,  too, 
could  play  the. classical  analytic  game. 

After  a  few  minutes  Mr.  X  reached  into  his  pocket  and  extracted 
two  shiny  objects  resembling  very  large  black  beans.  He  dropped 
one  of  them  into  the  small  glass  vase  containing  ivy  that  stood  next 
to  the  inevitable  box  of  Kleenex  on  the  patient's  table. 

"See?"  he  said. 

The  water  turned  dirty  gray,  foamed,  and  quieted  to  reveal  a  heap 
of  sediment  on  the  bottom  and  wilting  ivy  on  top. 

"Now  I've  got  only  one  left,"  said  Mr.  X.  "Do  I  plant  it?  Is  it  real? 
Did  you  actually  see  the  other  bean  dissolve?" 

"I  saw  it,  and  my  ivy  is  having  a  traumatic  experience.  Where 
did  you  get  those  beans?" 

THE  BEANSTALK  ANALYSIS  91 


"A  few  nights  ago  I  was  up  on  the  roof  of  our  brownstone  at  about 
three  A.M.  because  I  couldn't  sleep  and  that's  the  only  place  where 
my  wife  lets  me  smoke.  I  was  sitting  in  the  doorway  because  it  was 
raining  slightly,  and  my  cigar  went  out,  and  there  right  in  front  of 
me  was  that  damn  Greek  god  my  wife  picked  up  during  our  last  trip 
to  Europe.  It's  a  big  obscene  marble  statue  without  even  a  figleaf — " 

"You  didn't  like  it?" 

"I  hated  it.  That  night  I  had  persuaded  my  wife  to  let  me  trade 
it  in  the  morning  to  our  neighbor  for  a  birdbath  he  didn't  like  because 
it  attracted  pigeons,  but  my  wife's  crazy  about  pigeons  and  agreed 
because  she  wanted  the  birdbath — " 

"What  happened  at  three  a.m.?" 

"There  I  was  sitting  in  the  dark,  undoubtedly  full  of  primal  hos- 
tility, when  this  funny  patch  of  light,  like  a  beach  ball  full  of  energy 
and  lit  up  from  inside,  bumbled  along  in  the  air  and  came  to  rest 
on  the  head  of  the  statue  and  began  to  talk  to  me,  not  exactly  in 
words,  but ..." 

"Then  how?" 

"I  don't  know  how.  Meanings  came  into  my  mind  but  I  can't  re- 
member them.  The  ball  threw  the  beans  at  me  and  left,  or  died; 
anyway  it  wasn't  there  anymore." 

"Is  it  possible  that  these  beans  were  up  on  the  roof  to  begin  with 
and  that  you  missed  seeing  them  when  you  first  went  there?" 

"You  sound  like  my  ex-shrink.  If  I'd  seen  the  beans  then  I'd  be 
certain  I  hallucinated  the  ball — I  don't  like  the  alternative," 

"I  see.  The  alternative  is  that  a  lighted  beach  ball  actually  talked 
to  you." 

"Yeah.  You  seem  awfully  young  to  handle  a  raving  psychotic. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  for  me,  Doc?" 

I  didn't  have  time  to  tell  him  that  I  never  answer  that  one.  My 
intuition  was  working,  as  indicated  by  the  tingling  at  the  base  of 
my  spine.  "I  wonder  if  perhaps  you  haven't  told  me  ever3^hing  that 
happened,"  I  said. 

"Um.  There  were  a  lot  of  beans  but  they  dissolved  in  the  roof 
puddles.  I  rescued  three  before  they  got  wet,  and  then  I  put  one  in 
a  puddle  to  see  if  it  would  dissolve,  and  sure  enough — " 

"Isn't  there  something  else?" 

"You  do  interrupt  a  lot.  Well,  all  right,  I'll  tell  you,  but  don't 
laugh.  That  bastard  of  a  beach  ball  said  it  wanted  to  make  a  trade 
for  the  statue,  said  I'd  get  something  expensive.  We  sort  of  seemed 
to  bargain;  and  I  forgot  all  about  the  deal  with  my  neighbor;  and 
the  next  minute,  whammo,  the  statue  and  the  ball  were  gone  and 

92  J.O.  JEPPSON 


there  I  was  with  two  lousy  beans,  a  missing  art  object,  and  a  hostile 
wife." 

At  that  moment  my  doorbell  rang. 

"My  time  is  up,"  said  Mr.  X,  leaping  for  the  door  like  an  escaping 
prisoner  or  possibly  a  well-trained  patient.  "It's  Friday.  Can  you  see 
me  for  an  extra  session  tomorrow?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  going  out  of  town.  On  Monday  we'll  continue 
discussing  your  problems  about  your  wife.  And  the  beans." 

"Can  I  leave  the  last  bean  here?  Maybe  I  wouldn't  feel  so  crazy 
if  somebody  else  took  the  responsibility  for  a  while." 

I  nodded.  He  placed  the  bean  on  the  soil  of  the  avocado  plant  and 
went  out  smiling. 

When  I  returned  to  my  office  Monday  morning,  I  arrived  early, 
as  I  always  do  after  a  weekend,  to  see  if  the  plants  needed  watering. 

The  avocado  didn't.  It  wasn't  there,  having  been  replaced  by  some- 
thing which  resembled  a  large  beanstalk.  Around  the  pot  was  a 
residue  of  water,  possibly  all  that  remained  of  the  avocado,  which 
had  been  a  good-sized  tree.  The  roots  of  the  usurping  stalk  emerged 
from  Mr.  X's  bean  but  did  not  actually  enter  the  soil,  extending 
instead  horizontally  to  infiltrate  the  ceramic  pot  itself.  Then  they 
emerged  onto  the  marble  of  the  fireplace  hearth.  When  I  touched 
a  root,  it  seemed  to  be  anchored  to  the  marble. 

My  first  patient,  also  early,  rang  the  doorbell;  and  there  was  no 
time  to  do  anything  definitive  about  the  beanstalk,  like  putting  in 
an  emergency  call  to  the  New  York  Botanical  Garden  or  consulting 
an  exorcist.  A  busy  young  psychiatrist  never  has  time  to  do  anything 
definitive  about  an5^hing,  but  does  learn  to  act  quickly  in  an  emer- 
gency. I  took  the  screen  from  around  my  typewriter  table  and  used 
it  to  conceal  the  fireplace  and  its  beanstalk. 

By  the  time  Mr.  X  arrived  for  his  afternoon  appointment,  the 
beanstalk  was  thicker,  tightly  wound,  and  reached  the  ceiling.  The 
roots  covered  the  fireplace  in  every  direction,  apparently  ingesting 
and  digesting  the  marble  with  ease. 

With  the  screen  removed,  Mr.  X  and  I  surveyed  the  beanstalk. 

"I  think  I'm  having  a  traumatic  experience,"  he  said  through 
pallid  lips.  "May  I  smoke?  Please?" 

"Oh,  what  the  hell,"  I  said.  "Go  ahead." 

There  was  another  crash  from  the  demolition  and  the  crack  in  the 
wall  widened.  Mr.  X  shuddered  and  lit  up. 

I  sneezed.  The  beanstalk  uncoiled.  It  was  much  larger  than  I  had 
realized. 

Mr.  X  puffed  nervously  on  his  cigar.  I  coughed.  Vibrating,  the 

THE  BEANSTALK  ANALYSIS  93 


beanstalk  slowly  bent  down  from  the  ceiling,  as  if  searching  for  a 
way  out,  and  suddenly  the  top  of  it  dived  into  the  fireplace.  Down- 
wards. 

"It's  drilling  through!"  cried  my  patient.  "Tell  me  this  isn't  really 
happening!" 

Before  I  could  answer,  he  had  thrown  his  cigar  onto  the  beanstalk 
in  what  may  have  been  a  hostile  act. 

At  once  the  plant  whipped  around  and  grabbed  both  Mr.  X  and 
me  with  lashing  branches  that  bound  us  feet  first  to  separate  sec- 
tions of  the  stalk.  The  tip  of  the  plant  began  to  tunnel  rapidly  into 
the  basement  below,  and  as  the  plant's  leaf-like  structures  closed 
around  the  length  of  the  stalk — protecting  us  humans,  perhaps  in- 
cidentally— I  saw  from  inside  that  the  drilling  tip  had  become  an 
everted  nose-cone  which  thrust  down  and  down  .  .  . 

["I  trust  you're  not  going  to  indulge  in  Freudian  implications, 
m'dear,"  said  one  of  her  older  colleagues.] 

["Oddly  enough,  some  events  seem  to  be  indubitably  Freudian," 
replied  the  Interpersonal.] 

While  the  plant — or  whatever  it  was — grew  rapidly  from  all  the 
marble,  brick,  and  cement  ingested  on  the  way  to  the  foundations 
of  my  building,  I  was  not  able  to  discuss  this  phenomenon  because 
one  of  the  tendrils  had  wrapped  around  my  throat,  preventing  me 
from  speaking.  Mr.  X  was  not  so  inhibited. 

"Straight  into  the  unconscious!"  he  shouted.  "At  last,  a  real  depth 
experience!"  He  began  to  chortle  like  a  case  of  back-ward  dementia 
or  a  Pshrink  who  is  writing  a  scathing  review  of  another  Pshrink's 
book. 

I  tried  to  reply  but  succeeded  only  in  gurgling. 

"What?  Did  you  ask  me  what  I  mean  by  that?"  he  said,  putting 
words  into  the  therapist's  mouth  as  they  all  do.  "I  don't  know.  Is  it 
a  punishment  nightmare?  About  my  sexual  problems  with  my  wife? 
About  my  erotic  transference  to  you?  The  effects  of  smoking?  It's  a 
good  thing  none  of  this  is  really  happening  because  if  it  were,  how 
would  we  get  rescued?" 

How,  indeed?  People  would  assume  that  the  demolition  next  door 
had  accidentally  destroyed  us  along  with  my  building.  No  one  would 
know  that  an  alien  plant  had  taken  two  humans  with  it  to  wherever 
it  was  going.  If  it  needed  hard  minerals  to  eat,  it  might  go  straight 
through  the  granite  under  Manhattan,  getting  bigger  as  it  went, 
perhaps  to  revel  in  the  hot  basalt  under  the  granite,  feeding  on  the 
entire  rocky  part  of  planet  Earth. 

I  shut  my  eyes  against  the  dust.  Mr.  X,  still  talking,  had  switched 

94  J.O.  JEPPSON 


to  believing  he  was  in  a  particularly  symbolic  dream  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  interpret  in  a  way  that  would  have  made  Freud  stroke 
his  beard  thoughtfully.  I  do  not  have  time  to  recount  this  interpre- 
tation, which  was  in  any  event  contrary  to  my  theoretical  point  of 
view. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tremendous  vibration  in  the  beanstalk,  the 
forward  section  of  which  was  already  well  beneath  the  foundations. 
The  stalk  coiled  against  itself  like  a  spring  winding  up,  and  just 
before  I  thought  I  would  be  squeezed  to  death,  the  spring  let  loose> 
shooting  Mr.  X  and  myself  back  up  the  beanhole  into  my  office. 

Mr.  X  staggered  onto  my  couch  just  as  the  demolition  engineer 
looked  through  the  hole  where  my  fireplace  used  to  be,  and  apolo- 
gized for  having,  he  thought,  broken  through  our  wall. 

Mr.  X  blinked  his  eyes,  thanked  the  engineer,  and  announced 
that  he  was  cured.  He  said  that  the  structural  trauma  to  his  analyst's 
office  had  miraculously  freed  him  from  his  neurotic  problems,  which 
he  dimly  remembered  as  stemming  from  an  allergy  to  beans. 

When  Mr.  X  sent  his  check  in  the  mail  some  weeks  later,  he 
enclosed  a  note  thanking  me  effusively  for  the  best  short-term  ther- 
apy since  Freud.  Not  only  had  he  completely  lost  any  desire  to 
smoke,  but  his  sex  life  had  improved  to  the  point  of  being  outstand- 
ing. 

There  was  profound  silence  in  the  dining  room  of  Pshrinks  Anony- 
mous until  the  Oldest  Member  undamped  his  teeth  from  his  cigar, 
and  said,  "The  speaker  should  not  have  discharged  the  patient  from 
treatment  since  the  return  to  the  womb  aspects  of  the  problem  were 
never  analyzed  but  only  acted  out.  I've  always  said  that  you  can 
never  tell  what's  going  to  happen  with  improper  non-classical  tech- 
nique ..." 

A  fierce  argument  promptly  ensued  among  dissident  analytic 
sects,  not  for  the  first  time  at  Pshrinks  Anonymous.  It  was  cut  short 
when  the  youngest  member  spoke.  He  was  only  a  first-year  resident 
at  Bellevue  Psycho  (there's  always  one  as  a  token  example  of  the 
younger  generation),  and  therefore  it  was  to  be  expected  that  he 
would  not  be  able  to  concentrate  on  theoretical  essentials. 

"I'd  like  to  know,"  he  said,  "if  that  plant  is  down  chomping  on  the 
bowels  of  our  planet  right  now." 

The  Interpersonal  shook  her  head.  "The  beanstalk  ran  into  the 
same  problem  they  were  having  at  the  demolition  site.  The  long 
delays  were  due  to  the  fact  that  every  time  the  excavators  dug 
beneath  the  old  foundations  they  ran  into  one  of  those  buried 

THE  BEANSTALK  ANALYSIS  95 


streams  that  are  found  throughout  Manhattan.  I  understand  that 
the  new  building  erected  in  that  location  still  has  times  when  the 
underground  garage  gets  flooded." 

"Then  did  the  alien  plant—" 

"When  I  inspected  the  hole  in  our  basement,  I  discovered  that  our 
visitor  from,  presumably,  outer  space  had  reached  the  underground 
stream  and  dissolved.  Cigar  smoke  wasn't  the  only  thing  lethal  to 
its  physiology." 

The  Interpersonal  smiled  at  the  Oldest  Member  and  added,  "Soon 
there  was  no  evidence  left  of  any  alien,  but  I  defy  any  alienist  here 
to  describe  a  better  case  of  depth  analysis." 

They  all  began  to  speak  at  once. 


HARRISON'S  RAT 


HEISENBERG'S  DATE 


Abracadabra,  Dad! 
Dear  Harry  Harrison 
Dabbled  in  alchemy; 
Wealth  it  begat. 


Hickory,  dickory, 
W.  Heisenberg 
Told  us,  for  certain,  un- 
certainty's great. 


Here  is  the  evidence: 

Incontrovertibly 

He  has  made  gold  from  a 

Stainless  Steel  Rat. 

— Claire  Mahan 

96 


How  in  the  world  will  we 
Celebrate  Heisenberg's 
Sesquicentennial 
On  the  right  date? 

— Marion  H.  Smith 


IS  THE  WORLD  IN  CURIOUS  SHAPE? 

by  Robert  J.  Schadewald 

art:  Jack  Gaughan 


The  author  is  a  full-time  freelance 

science  and  technical  writer.  Magazine 

articles  and  technical  manuals  have 

been  his  mainstays,  but  he  also  wants  to 

write  books  about  the  frontiers 

and  fringes  of  science.  He  considers 

himself  a  Fortean,  though  an  extremely 

skeptical  one.  He's  interested  in 

firewalking  (and  has  tried  it), 

creatures  in  Loch  Ness  (which  he  is 

doubtful  about),  and  earthquake  lights 

(genuine).  And  he's  something  of  an 

authority  on  rains  offish. 

97 


There's  no  cure  for  insomnia  quite  like  a  lecture  on  geodesy,  the 
science  of  measuring  the  earth.  Surveyors  and  satellite  trackers  and 
a  few  others  perspire  for  precision,  speaking  solemnly  about  oblate 
spheroids  and  gravitational  anomalies.  The  rest  of  us  are  content 
to  think  of  the  Earth  as  a  ball  of  rock  and  whatever  about  8,000 
miles  in  diameter. 

Well,  most  of  the  rest  of  us.  There  are  minority  opinions  about 
everything,  including  the  shape  and  composition  of  the  Earth.  Of 
all  the  alternative  theories  of  geodesy,  three  have  gained  reasonably 
large  followings  in  the  United  States;  and  each  was  once  head- 
quartered in  northeastern  Illinois.  Koresh,  a  tum-of-the-century 
Chicago  prophet,  told  his  followers  that  the  Earth  is  a  hollow  sphere 
and  we  live  on  the  inside  of  it.  Later,  Marshall  B.  Gardner  of  Aurora 
theorized  that  the  Earth  is  a  hollow  sphere,  but  we  live  on  the 
outside.  In  the  1920s,  Wilbur  Glenn  Voliva  and  his  followers  in  Zion 
loudly  proclaimed  that  the  Earth  is  flat. 

All  three  theories  are  still  flourishing. 

Cyrus  Reed  Teed,  the  man  who  became  Koresh,  was  bom  on  a 
New  York  farm  in  1839.  Teed  served  in  a  field  hospital  unit  of  the 
Union  army  during  the  Civil  War.  Later,  he  attended  New  York 
Eclectic  Medical  College,  an  unconventional  school  specializing  in 
herb  remedies.  Upon  graduation.  Dr.  Teed  established  a  practice  in 
Utica,  New  York.  There,  besides  concocting  his  herb  remedies,  he 
dabbled  in  alchemy.  Alone  one  night  in  his  laboratory,  he  had  a 
vision  in  which  a  beautiful  woman  revealed  the  secret  of  the  cosmos 
to  him.  She  told  him  he  was  on  the  inside.  Dr.  Teed  exchanged  Cyrus 
for  its  Hebrew  equivalent,  Koresh,  and  set  out  to  reshape  the  world. 

Koresh  described  the  shape  of  the  world  in  The  Cellular  Cosmo- 
gony (editions  of  1870, 1898, 1905, 1922,  and  1951).  He  claimed  that 
the  conventional  globe  accurately  depicts  the  Earth,  except  for  one 
thing:  you  have  to  turn  it  inside  out!  The  Indian  Ocean  is  indeed 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  earth  from  America,  but  straight  up,  not 
straight  down.  We  could  look  up  and  see  most  of  the  rest  of  the  earth 
if  it  weren't  for  the  dense,  distorting  atmosphere.  We  are  actually 
on  the  inside  of  a  cosmic  egg,  Koresh  claimed,  but  complicated  laws 
of  perspective  and  atmospheric  refraction  make  the  Earth's  surface 
appear  to  curve  the  other  way. 

The  Koreshan  system  was  worked  out  in  detail.  To  start  at  the 
outside  and  work  in,  we  begin  with  nothing.  Outside  the  Earth, 
there  is  absolutely  nothing,  perhaps  not  even  space.  (This  vaguely 
parallels  General  Relativity,  which  holds  that  space  and  time  can't 

98  ROBERT  J.  SCHADEWALD 


exist  without  matter  or  energy.)  The  outer  shell  of  the  Earth  begins 
with  seven  metallic  layers,  with  the  noble  metals  gold  and  silver 
first.  Five  mineral  strata  lie  inside  the  layers  of  metal.  The  familiar 
earth  and  water  lie  inside  the  minerals. 

Above  us  are  three  layers  of  atmosphere,  each  containing  stars 
which  are  merely  "focal  points  of  substance  or  centers  of  combus- 
tion." Inside  the  atmospheres  is  a  solar  sphere  and,  in  the  very 
middle,  the  stellar  sphere.  The  Sun  and  Moon  we  see  are  not  real 
objects,  but  are  images  formed  on  the  first  atmosphere  by  the  real 
sun,  which  is  half  light  and  half  dark.  The  planets  are  "spheres  of 
substance  aggregated  through  the  impact  of  afferent  and  efferent 
fluxions  of  essence."  Whatever  that  means. 

Koresh  was  a  small  man  with  blazing  eyes  and  an  air  of  absolute 
self-assurance.  An  electrifying  orator,  he  made  a  lasting  (though 
not  always  favorable)  impression  on  all  who  heard  him.  Koresh 
claimed  to  be  a  new  messiah,  and  he  sometimes  dropped  broad  hints 
about  his  remarkable  powers.  Women  found  him  irresistible.* 

For  several  years,  Koresh  travelled  around  the  country  lecturing 
on  his  theories.  When  he  reached  Chicago  in  1886,  the  enthusiastic 
reception  he  received  encouraged  him  to  stay.  He  founded  a  com- 
munal group  called  the  Koreshan  Unity,  and  money  and  converts 
flowed  in.  The  Unity  established  the  College  of  Life  and  published 
two  magazines.  The  Guiding  Star  and  The  Flaming  Sword.  These 
promoted  Koreshan  Universology,  a  strange  conglomeration  of  off- 
beat religion,  radical  politics,  and  pseudoscience,  of  which  the  Cel- 
lular Cosmogony  theory  was  only  a  small  part. 

Small  part  or  not,  the  Cellular  Cosmogony  was  crucial  to  Koresh- 
anity;  and  Koresh  knew  it  would  take  evidence  to  convince  the 
skeptics  of  its  truth.  With  that  in  mind,  on  July  25,  1896,  he  sent 
his  secret  weapon,  Professor  Ulysses  G.  Morrow,  to  the  Old  Illinois 
and  Michigan  Drainage  Canal  to  determine  experimentally  whether 
its  waters  were  concave  or  convex. 

Ulysses  G.  Morrow,  former  shorthand  teacher  and  part-time- 
preacher,  was  a  fallen-away  flat-earther,  whose  defection  had 
shaken  the  flat-earth  movement.  Morrow  knew  about  several  ex- 
periments performed  by  British  flat-earthers  at  the  Old  Bedford 
Canal,  north  of  London.  (For  a  description  of  one  of  these,  see  my 
"He  Knew  Earth  Is  Round,  but  His  Proof  Fell  Flat,"  Smithsonian 
April  1978.)  The  experiment  he  devised  to  prove  the  Earth  concave 
was  nearly  a  carbon  copy  of  them. 

*Except  his  wife:  she  left  him. 

IN  CURIOUS  SHAPE?  99 


A  perfectly  straight  section  of  the  Old  Illinois  and  Michigan  Drain- 
age Canal  ran  northeast  from  Summit,  Illinois,  just  outside  of  Chi- 
cago. Near  Summit,  the  Koreshan  geodesists  drove  a  stake  into  the 
canal  bottom  and  attached  a  twenty-two-inch  disk  to  the  stake  with 
its  center  eighteen  inches  above  the  water.  Morrow  and  his  assis- 
tants got  into  a  boat  and  rowed  three  miles  down  the  canal,  where 
they  set  up  a  telescope  a  foot  above  the  water.  Atmospheric  refrac- 
tion functioned  wonderfully,  and  the  entire  disk  was  visible.  Geo- 
metrically, all  but  the  upper  five  inches  should  have  been  below  the 
horizon.  Thus  encouraged,  they  rowed  two  more  miles  and  tried 
again.  Although  the  disk  was  by  now  a  couple  feet  below  the  water 
horizon,  it  was  again  entirely  visible.  Morrow  and  company  repeated 
the  observations  in  the  opposite  direction  with  equally  satisfactory 
results. 

Morrow,  already  editor  of  the  Guiding  Star,  now  became  the  lead- 
ing Koreshan  geodesist.  He  organized  several  other  geodesic  exper- 
iments; and,  when  a  new  edition  of  The  Cellular  Cosmogony  was 
published  in  1898,  it  was  Morrow  who  wrote  the  section  entitled 
"The  New  Geodesy."  He  shamelessly  pillaged  flat-earth  literature, 
bending  "flat"  arguments  until  they  were  concave. 

Meanwhile,  Chicago  medical  authorities  were  getting  downright 
stuffy  about  Dr.  Teed's  medical  pretentions,  and  the  doctor  pre- 
scribed a  change  of  climate  for  himself.  In  1897,  he  and  most  of  his 
followers  moved  to  the  Gulf  Coast  of  Florida,  where  they  founded 
the  town  of  Estero,  also  called  "the  New  Jerusalem."  Koresh  ex- 
pected millions  of  converts  to  flock  to  the  city,  but  few  showed  up. 
The  prophet  died  in  1908.  Though  he  failed  to  rise  from  the  dead 
as  he  had  predicted,  his  followers  didn't  lose  faith.  The  little  colony 
struggled  on  until  at  least  the  1950s. 

A  few  years  after  the  death  of  Koresh,  Marshall  Blutcher  Gardner 
began  promoting  another  version  of  the  hollow-earth  theory.  Gard- 
ner, a  heavy,  lantern-jawed  man,  was  in  charge  of  machinery  main- 
tenance in  a  corset  factory  in  Aurora,  Illinois,  thirty-five  miles  east 
of  Chicago.  He  first  published  his  views  in  1913,  in  a  68-page  book 
entitled  A  Journey  to  the  Earth's  Interior,  or  Have  the  Poles  Really 
Been  Discovered? 

Gardner  believed  in  the  conventional  spherical  earth  up  to  a  limit, 
the  limit  being  about  eighty  degrees  north  and  south  latitude.  There, 
he  believed  the  Earth's  surface  curves  gently  inward,  folding  back 
on  itself  to  form  a  spherical  shell  about  800  miles  thick.  Since  this 
would  leave  openings  1,400  miles  in  diameter  at  both  poles,  Gardner 

100  ROBERT  J.  SCHADEWALD 


claimed  that  Cook,  Peary,  Amundsen,  Scott,  and  other  polar  ex- 
plorers either  fibbed  about  their  discoveries  or  were  misled  by  their 
navigation  instruments.  Certainly  none  of  them  reported  looking 
into  the  interior  and  seeing  a  central  sun  600  miles  in  diameter 
illuminating  continents  and  oceans  there. 

Gardner  claimed  that  substantial  evidence  supports  his  theory. 
For  instance,  the  aurora  borealis  (northern  lights)  might  be  light 
from  the  central  sun  reflecting  off  the  atmosphere  above  the  north- 
ern hole.  What  look  like  polar  caps  on  Mars  could  be  the  same  thing. 
The  frozen  mammoths  found  buried  in  the  Siberian  tundra  might 
have  wandered  out  of  their  warm  inner  world  and  frozen  to  death. 
The  Eskimos  might  be  descendants  of  people  who  ventured  out  and 
lost  their  way.  The  erratic  behavior  of  compasses  at  high  latitudes 
could  be  due  to  the  close  proximity  of  the  openings.  Early  explorers 
of  the  Arctic  reported  several  observations — animals  apparently 
migrating  northward,  warm  winds  from  the  north,  etc. — which  are 
neatly  explained  by  the  theory.  Gardner  even  thought  that  some 
explorers  actually  went  part  way  into  the  openings  without  noticing 
it. 

This  type  of  hollow-earth  theory  is  far  from  new.  Edmund  Halley, 
of  comet  fame,  had  suggested  in  1716  that  the  Earth  might  consist 
of  several  hollow  spheres,  one  inside  the  other,  with  the  spaces 
between  them  lighted  by  "peculiar  luminaries."  Cotton  Mather  was 
impressed  by  the  idea  and  defended  it  in  his  Christian  Philosophy. 
Later,  Captain  John  Cleves  Symmes,  hero  of  the  War  of  1812  and 
nephew  of  the  founder  of  Cincinnati,  expanded  the  theory  and  added 
large  polar  openings  to  the  spheres.  Symmes  wanted  to  lead  a 
hundred-man  expedition  from  Siberia  to  the  inner  earth;  and,  in 
1822  and  1823,  he  made  several  appeals  to  Congress  for  financing. 
Though  deluged  with  petitions  from  Symmes's  supporters,  Congress 
respectfully  declined. 

"Some  very  unintelligent  readers  have  accused  us  of  putting  for- 
ward a  theory  that  is  not  new  but  merely  a  rehash  of  Symmes's 
Theory  of  Concentric  Spheres,"  complained  Gardner  in  his  456-page 
second  edition,  published  in  1920.  He  went  on  to  hotly  deny  the 
charge.  After  all,  he  claimed  the  Earth  was  a  hollow  spherical  shell 
surrounding  a  central  sun.  Symmes  had  proposed  five  concentric 
shells  and  no  interior  sun. 

In  fact,  Gardner  might  not  have  heard  of  Symmes  when  he  pub- 
lished his  1913  edition.  He  apparently  plagiarized  most  of  it  from 
William  Reed's  1906  book  The  Phantom  of  the  Poles,  and  Reed  never 
mentioned  Symmes.  Gardner  certainly  wasn't  aware  that  a  sub- 

IN  CURIOUS  SHAPE?  101 


stantial  corpus  of  hollow-earth  literature — more  than  a  dozen  books, 
pamphlets  and  articles — preceded  the  work  he  pirated.  Thus  he 
couldn't  know  that  Reed's  book  was  also  unoriginal.  Although 
Symmes  himself  wrote  nothing,  the  arguments  that  he  used  in  his 
lectures  were  published  by  his  followers  and  then  endlessly  recycled 
and  adapted.  Symmes's  four  inner  spheres  were  considered  excess 
baggage  by  many  of  his  admirers,  one  of  whom,  Alexander  Mitchell, 
apparently  discarded  them  by  1826.  As  for  Gardner,  his  only  im- 
portant contribution  to  hollow-earth  theory  is  the  central  sun. 

Still,  except  for  Symmes  himself,  Gardner  was  probably  more 
influential  than  any  of  his  predecessors.  His  monumental  1920 
edition,  though  still  largely  derivative,  was  certainly  the  largest 
collection  of  hollow-earth  arguments  published  up  to  that  time. 
Though  he  didn't  stump  the  countryside  for  support,  Gardner  was 
a  prolific  letter  writer,  and  he  got  a  certain  amount  of  attention 
from  newspapers.  He  also  publicized  his  ideas  by  sending  free  copies 
of  his  books  to  major  libraries  and  to  influential  people  all  over  the 
world. 

In  his  second  edition,  Gardner  described  some  of  the  reactions  he 
got  from  recipients  of  free  copies  of  the  first  edition.  Minor  officials 
of  the  royal  houses  of  Sweden  and  Italy  dutifully  sent  thank-you 
notes.  Gardner  considered  these  virtually  royal  endorsements.  Ar- 
thur Conan  Doyle  took  time  out  from  his  pursuit  of  fairies  to  write 
that,  if  it  weren't  that  the  poles  had  actually  been  discovered,  he'd 
be  a  convert.  And  a  college  professor,  tongue  firmly  in  cheek,  allowed 
that  Gardner's  book  compared  favorably  with  the  work  of  Ferguson. 
The  flattered  author  obviously  didn't  know  that  he  was  being  com- 
pared to  Orlando  Ferguson,  a  flat-earther. 

On  the  whole,  Gardner  believed  that  he  and  his  ideas  were  shab- 
bily treated.  He  longed  to  see  the  Stars  and  Stripes  planted  in  the 
inner  world,  both  to  confirm  his  own  genius  and  to  keep  other  na- 
tions out.  He  was  irked  when  no  expeditions  embarked.  He  believed 
that  there  were  rich  lands  inside  which  could  easily  feed  the  outer 
world's  hungry  multitudes.  However,  his  theory  offered  neither  se- 
curity nor  salvation;  and  it  only  attracted  a  modest  following  during 
his  lifetime,  which  ended  in  1937.  By  then,  Byrd  had  flown  over 
both  poles  without  seeing  any  holes;  but  Gardner  still  believed  that 
his  theory  had  merit. 

Last,  but  hardly  least  of  the  Illinois  geodesists,  was  Wilbur  Glenn 
Voliva,  America's  best  known  flat-earther.  Voliva  was  born  in  In- 
diana in  1870  and  grew  up  on  a  farm.  He  began  preaching  at  sixteen, 

102  ROBERT  J.  SCHADEWALD 


was  ordained  at  nineteen,  and  subsequently  continued  his  studies 
of  theology  at  four  different  colleges.  He  served  as  pastor  of  several 
New  Light  churches;  but,  in  1899,  he  joined  the  Christian  Catholic 
Apostolic  Church  of  Zion,  a  faith-healing-and-fundamentalism  sect 
headed  by  John  Alexander  Dowie.  In  1906,  he  replaced  Dowie  as 
General  Overseer  of  the  church,  then  headquartered  in  Zion,  Illinois. 
Sometime  afterward,  Zion  schools  began  teaching  that  the  Earth  is 
flat. 

Voliva  believed  that  the  Earth  is  shaped  like  a  giant  flapjack,  a 
circular  disk  with  the  north  pole  at  the  center  and  a  150-foot  wall 
of  ice  at  the  rim,  the  "southern  limit."  (Obviously  you  can  sail  around 
this  world,  and  Voliva  did.)  He  thought  that  the  Sun  was  only  1500 
miles  up  and  only  32  miles  in  diameter.  The  Moon,  about  the  same 
size,  shines  by  its  own  light.  Lunar  eclipses  are  caused  by  an  unseen 
dark  body  passing  in  front  of  the  Moon.  A  special  law  of  perspective 
allows  ships  to  apparently  sail  over  a  nonexistent  horizon,  and  this 
law  combines  forces  with  a  special  law  of  refraction  to  cause  the 
apparent  rising  and  setting  of  celestial  bodies. 

It's  not  clear  exactly  when  Voliva  rejected  the  spherical  earth, 
but  it's  obvious  why.  He  took  his  Bible  seriously —  "I'm  the  only 
man  in  the  world  that  literally  believes  it."  — and  felt  that  the 
Biblical  descriptions  of  the  Earth  don't  fit  a  sphere.  Isaiah  40:22 
says,  "Grod  sits  enthroned  on  the  vaulted  roof  of  Earth,"  and  Voliva 
took  the  verse  literally.  Other  Bible  verses  refer  to  the  Earth's  foun- 
dations, ends,  and  comers.  To  Voliva,  there  was  no  question  that 
the  Earth  is  flat;  and  he  had  a  standing  offer  of  $5,000  to  anyone 
who  could  prove  to  him  that  it  wasn't.  No  one  ever  collected. 

Voliva  was  correct  in  believing  that  the  ancient  Hebrews  consid- 
ered the  Earth  flat.  So  did  the  Egyptians  and  Babylonians.  The 
spherical  opinion  espoused  by  Pythagoras,  Aristotle,  and  Ptolemy 
eventually  prevailed,  although  some  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church 
fulminated  against  it.  By  the  time  Columbus  sailed,  few  educated 
people  doubted  that  the  earth  is  round.  The  system  Voliva  promoted 
(and  which  Morrow  earlier  abandoned  for  the  Cellular  Cosmogony) 
differed  in  several  respects  from  the  ancient  Hebrew  cosmology. 
And;  far  from  being  ancient,  it  was  devised  by  an  English  snake-oil 
salesman,  Samuel  Birley  Rowbotham,  in  the  middle  of  the  19th 
century. 

Rowbotham,  who  at  various  times  called  himself  Tryon,  S. 
Goulden,  "Parallax,"  or  Dr.  Birley,  always  called  his  system  "zetetic 
astronomy."  For  45  years,  from  1849  until  his  death  in  1884,  Row- 
botham crisscrossed  England  lecturing  on  zetetic  astronomy.  The 
IN  CURIOUS  SHAPE?  103 


word  "zetetic,"  he  would  tell  his  listeners,  comes  from  the  Greek 
zetetikos,  meaning  to  seek  or  inquire.  He  claimed  to  inquire  only 
after  facts,  leaving  mere  theories  to  the  likes  of  Copernicus  and 
Newton.  Many  of  his  "facts"  came  straight  from  the  Bible.  Row- 
botham  wrote  several  books  and  pamphlets,  the  best  known  being 
his  432-page  second  edition  of  Earth  not  a  Globe,  published  in  1873 
under  the  pseudonym  "Parallax."  In  his  later  years,  he  became 
wealthy  selling  "Dr.  Birley's  Phosphorized  Medicine,"  a  worthless 
concoction  of  sugar  water  and  phosphoric  acid. 

When  Rowbotham  died  in  1884,  he  left  behind  a  large  and  vocif- 
erous group  of  followers.  The  movement  continued  to  gather  steam 
and  peaked  in  the  mid  1890s  under  the  Universal  Zetetic  Society. 
The  U.Z.S.  had  a  corps  of  lecturers  stumping  England  and  Ireland 
promulgating  the  plane  truth.  Its  official  journal,  the  Earth-Not  a 
Globe-Review,  was  distributed  throughout  the  English-speaking 
world  (Morrow  was  once  a  U.S.  agent  for  it).  Members  wrote  books 
and  pamphlets;  and  one,  the  redoubtable  Lady  Elizabeth  Anne 
Mould  Blount,  wrote  a  flat-earth  novel,  a  flat-earth  operetta,  and 
the  Earth  not  a  Globe  Waltzl 

It  was  this  tradition  that  Voliva  inherited.  The  British  flat-earth 
movement  faded  rapidly  after  the  turn  of  the  century  and  apparently 
died  in  World  War  One.  The  seeds  it  had  planted  in  America  took 
root  and  blossomed,  but  randomly.  While  individual  flat-earthers 
lectured  and  wrote  books  or  pamphlets,  there  was  no  flat-earth  or- 
ganization of  any  consequence.  Then,  under  Voliva,  the  Christian 
Catholic  Apostolic  Church  of  Zion  grew  to  include  thousands  of 
members  worldwide.  All  were,  at  least  nominally,  flat-earthers. 

Ironically,  this,  the  largest  flat-earth  organization  of  modem 
times,  was  intellectually  barren.  Though  Voliva's  planely  worded 
radio  broadcasts  brought  him  national  notoriety,  neither  he  nor  any 
of  his  followers  ever  wrote  a  flat-earth  book,  or  even  a  pamphlet. 
Voliva  did  devote  the  entire  May  10,  1930,  issue  of  the  sect's  peri- 
odical. Leaves  of  Healing,  to  flat-earth  arguments;  but  these  were 
mostly  lifted  from  the  19th-century  British  flat-earth  literature. 

Perhaps  Voliva  was  too  busy  with  other  things.  When  he  took 
over  in  1906,  Zion  and  Zion  Industries  were  bankrupt;  and  he  had 
to  get  them  out  of  hock.  Though  he  held  no  political  office,  he  ran 
Zion  with  an  iron  hand;  and  smoking,  drinking,  swearing,  gambling, 
and  other  forms  of  fun  were  not  permitted.  He  had  far-flung  missions 
to  manage  and  Methodists  to  persecute.  There  were  government 
investigations,  court  battles,  and  the  Great  Depression.  On  top  of 
all  this,  he  had  to  prepare  for  the  Second  Coming  of  Christ,  which 

104  ROBERT  J.  SCHADEWALD 


he  believed  would  be  in  1936.  By  the  time  the  latter  event  failed  to 
materialize,  his  political  influence  had  waned;  but  Voliva  was  still 
the  spiritual  head  of  his  church  at  his  death  in  1942. 

Voliva,  Teed,  and  Gardner  were  absolutely  sincere  in  their  beliefs, 
and  they  couldn't  understand  why  others  didn't  readily  accept  their 
arguments.  All  three  felt  misunderstood  and  persecuted.  Teed  and 
Voliva  both  believed  they  were  divinely  appointed,  literally  prophets 
without  honor.  Gardner  merely  believed  that  he  had  made  the  most 
important  geographical  discovery  since  Columbus  without  ever 
leaving  his  armchair.  If  all  three  could  be  resurrected  for  a  round- 
table  discussion  of  the  shape  of  the  Earth,  each  would  probably 
refuse  on  the  grounds  that  the  other  two  were  crackpots. 

Why  can  such  theories  attract  a  following?  Well,  some  people  are 
merely  rebellious  and  like  to  believe  that,  whatever  the  accepted 
idea  is,  it's  wrong.  Also,  such  theories  may  reinforce  a  cherished 
belief,  still  a  hidden  fear,  or  fulfill  a  secret  fantasy. 

Does  the  idea  of  a  virtually  infinite  universe,  extending  untold 
light  years  in  every  direction,  make  you  feel  insignificant?  Try  Dr. 
Teed's  hollow  world,  and  limit  your  universe  to  8,000  miles  in  di- 
ameter. If  you  are  a  Freudian,  you  get  the  added  bonus  of  symbol- 
ically returning  to  the  womb. 

Were  you  intrigued  by  Jules  Verne's  Journey  io  the  Center  of  the 
Earth  and  Arthur  Conan  Doyle's  Lost  World?  Do  you  have  fantasies 
about  undiscovered  lands  where  prehistoric  animals  still  live,  and 
of  the  glory  sure  to  fall  on  the  explorers  who  discover  them?  Then 
take  an  ego  trip  with  Gardner  to  the  center  of  the  world. 

Does  the  idea  of  Earth  whirling  through  space  at  nineteen  miles 
per  second  make  you  dizzy?  Do  you  feel  that  a  strict  reading  of  your 
Bible  requires  the  Earth  to  be  flat,  in  spite  of  Magellan,  NASA,  and 
a  million  smart-alec  scientists?  Then  perhaps  you  should  accept 
Voliva's  flat  Earth. 

As  mentioned  earlier,  all  three  ideas  are  very  much  alive. 

The  original  Koreshans  have  pretty  well  died  out  in  America,  but 
the  idea  was  transplanted  to  Germany  after  World  War  One,  and 
it  later  flourished  under  the  Nazis.  The  HohlweltLehre  still  survives 
in  Germany,  and  it  has  been  exported  back  to  the  United  States. 
Bio-Tech  Research  in  Nevada  City,  California,  is  promoting  a  trans- 
lation of  the  German  book  Space  and  the  Universe  by  F.  Braun. 

Ironically,  in  spite  of  polar-orbiting  satellites,  Gardner's  hollow 
Earth  has  a  wider  acceptance  now  than  it  did  during  his  lifetime. 
The  late  Ray  Palmer,  former  science-fiction  writer  and  editor,  used 
IN  CURIOUS  SHAPE?  105 


to  promote  the  theory  in  his  Flying  Saucers  magazine  as  the  solution 
to  the  UFO  mystery.  There  are  at  least  half  a  dozen  hollow-earth 
books  currently  in  print,  including  Secret  of  the  Ages:  UFOs  from 
Inside  the  Earth  by  Brinsley  Le  Poer  Trench,  a  member  of  the  British 
House  of  Lords.  At  last  report,  two  expeditions  to  the  inner  earth 
were  being  planned,  one  through  the  northern  opening  and  one 
through  the  southern. 

Last,  but  certainly  not  least,  is  the  flat-earth  movement,  head- 
quartered in  Lancaster,  California.  Charles  Johnson,  president  of 
the  International  Flat  Earth  Research  Society,  is  absolutely  on  the 
level.  Through  the  pages  ofthe  Flat  Earth  News,  he  editorially  blasts 
the  space  program  and  predicts  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the  Plane 
Truth. 

THE  SOLUTION  TO  AT  THE  HUGO  BANQUET 
(from  page  88) 

By  clue  5,  ANDROMEDA  WALTZ  and  Adams's  work  must  be  at 
least  third  or  lower  (since  an  award  was  given  in  each  category); 
they  must  be  Gail's  work  and  the  play  (clue  6).  Since  Adams  did  not 
write  the  play  (clue  1),  she  must  be  Gail  and  the  play  is  ANDRO- 
MEDA WALTZ. 

The  play  was  not  written  by  Hank  (clue  1),  Irene  (clue  2),  or  Fred 
(clues  3  &  5).  It  is  therefore  Joe's,  whose  last  name  is  not  Clark  (clue 
1),  or  Brown  (clue  3),  or  Ellis  (clue  4).  He  is  Davis. 

Gail  Adams  did  not  write  the  novel  or  novella  (clue  6),  or  the 
novelette  (clue  4).  She  instead  wrote  the  short  story,  which  wasn't 
ONE  FOOT  ON  NEPTUNE  (clue  6),  or  BETWEEN  GALAXIES  or 
CLONED  ALIVE  (clue  4).  It  was  ATTACK  OF  THE  ZORCH. 

By  clues  4  &  6,  CLONED  ALIVE  must  be  the  novel  which  wasn't 
Irene's  (clue  2),  or  Fred's  (clue  3);  therefore  it  was  Hank  who  isn't 
Clark  (clue  1),  or  Brown  (clue  3),  so  he  is  Ellis. 

Fred  is  not  Brown  (clue  3),  so  he  is  Clark.  He  did  not  write  ONE 
FOOT  ON  NEPTUNE  (clue  1),  so  he  wrote  BETWEEN  GALAXIES, 
which  must  be  the  novella  (clue  6). 

And  this  leaves  Irene  Brown  as  the  writer  of  the  novelette  ONE 
FOOT  ON  NEPTUNE.  Since  the  novel  won  the  Hugo  (clue  6),  Hank 
Ellis  is  the  one  Hugo  winner  of  the  group. 

Hank  Ellis  wrote  the  novel  CLONED  ALIVE. 

Fred  Clark  wrote  the  novella  BETWEEN  GALAXIES. 

Irene  Brown  wrote  the  novelette  ONE  FOOT  ON  NEPTUNE. 

Gail  Adams  wrote  the  short  story  ATTACK  OF  THE  ZORCH. 

Joe  Davis  wrote  the  play  ANDROMEDA  WALTZ. 

106  ROBERT  J.  SCHADEWALD 


CHECKMATE 

by  Edward  Wellen 

art:  Freff 


'lyf^'f'i  ^'"-f 


CHECKMATE 


Since  the  last  time  he  appeared  in 

these  pages,  Mr.  Wellen  has  sold 

several  of  his  mysteries  to  West 

German  TV  for  adaptation.  He  says 

that  much  of  his  best  writing  effort 

has  gone  into  correspondence 

with  the  bureaucracy  of  the  State 

of  New  York.  However,  he  still 

has  time  to  write  SF  and  mystery 

stories — here  is  his  latest. 

107 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

108  EDWARD  WELLEN 


took  it  hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonnie  directed  the  icicle  at  Vernon.  He  was  a  monster,  the  great- 
est monster  in  human  history,  out-Hitlering  Hitler.  And  out-Cain- 
ing  Cain.  Cain,  way  back  there  at  the  beginning,  had  after  all  killed 
only  one-fourth  of  the  human  race.  That  might  once  have  been  one 

CHECKMATE  109 


for  the  Genesis  book  of  records,  but  Vernon  had  broken  the  record: 
he  had  murdered  half. 

He  had  murdered  Lyle. 

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

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

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

Her  face  unfroze  at  the  first  feeling  of  soring  in  the  air.  Grood  to 
get  out  in  the  open.  A  three  blocks'  walk  brought  her  to  the  thru  way. 

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

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

"You  don't  say." 

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

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

110  EDWARD  WELLEN 


of  its  own. 

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

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

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

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

"Thanks,  but  I  have  to  keep  going." 

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

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

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

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

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

"No,  thanks." 

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

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

"Right.  Thanks  for  the  lift." 

"My  pleasure." 

"So  long,  sister." 

"So  long,  sister." 

CHECKMATE  111 


/ 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I  heard  he  worked  here  once —  Before." 

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

The  second  and  third,  though  the  second  had  attained  to  foreper- 

112  EDWARD  WELLEN 


son  Before  and  was  now  plant  supervisor,  were  no  more  able  to  play 
dea  ex  machina. 

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

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

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

She  coughed. 

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

Under  the  makeup  and  the  getup  it  was  Vernon  Gardner. 

He  let  fall  the  nozzle,  then  recovered  himself. 

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

For  a  heartstopping  moment  she  believed  she  had  been  dreadfully 
wrong  about  him. 

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

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

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

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

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

And  then  what? 

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

CHECKMATE  113 


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

"Why  didn't  you  look  me  up?" 

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

There.  He  had  all  but  said  it. 

But  she  had  to  ask  him  outright. 

"You  did  it?  You  caused  Checkmate?" 

He  looked  surprised.  "Of  course." 

"You  feel  no  guilt?" 

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

"But  your  male  friends,  your  male  relatives." 

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

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

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

114  EDWARD  WELLEN 


freshman  chemistry.  The  greater  the  electronegativity  difference 
between  two  atoms,  the  more  polar  the  bond  between  them. 

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

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

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

"Then  take  me." 

Almost  at  once  emptiness  filled  her. 

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

"Things  have  changed,  Bonnie." 

She  stood  stunned,  her  head  in  a  roar. 

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

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

After  the  shock  of  that  passed,  Bonnie  looked  thoughtful. 


ANGER  IN  HEAVEN 

(on  hearing  of  the  Nobel  award  for  physics) 

In  her  celestial  rocking-chair, 
electric  charges  stiffen  her  hair. 
Her  needles  click  like  piston-rods 
as  Hanna-Hanna,  grandmother  of  gods, 
knits  a  new  spiral  universe. 
Remembering  bipeds  she  mutters  a  curse: 

"Knit  one,  quark  one,  knit  one,  quark; 

proton,  meson,  neutron,  spark. 

Impertinent  creatures,  arrogant  blight, 

dragging  my  mysteries  out  of  the  night; 

moths  in  my  clothing,  gnats  in  my  beer, 

I  shall  humble  your  hubris,  flog  you  with  fear." 
As  her  fabric  expands  with  the  speed  of  light, 
mad  stitches  are  dropped,  black  holes  appear. 

— Hope  Athearn 
CHECKMATE  115 


THE  SF  CONVENTIONAL  CALENDAR 

by  Erwin  S.  Strauss 


There  aren't  too  many  SF  con(vention)s  in  the  next  couple  of 
months,  so  now's  a  good  time  to  start  planning  for  social  weekends 
with  your  favorite  authors,  editors,  artists  and  fellow  fans  in  the 
Spring.  For  a  longer,  later  list  and  a  sample  of  SF  folksongs,  send 
me  an  addressed,  stamped  envelope  (SASE)  at  9850  Fairfax  Sq. 
#232,  Fairfax  VA  22031.  The  hotline  is  (703)  273-6111.  If  a  ma- 
chine answers,  leave  your  area  code  and  number  CLEARLY  and 
ril  call  back.  When  calling  cons,  give  your  name  and  reason  for 
calling  right  away.  When  writing,  enclose  an  SASE.  Look  for  me 
as  Filthy  Pierre. 

Darkover  Grand  Council  Meeting.  For  info,  write:  Armida  Council,  Box  7501,  Newarlc  DE  19711. 
Or  phone:  (302)  368-9570  (10  am  to  10  pm  only,  not  collect).  Con  will  be  held  in:  Wilmington 
DE  (if  location  omitted,  same  as  in  address)  on:  28-30  Nov.,  1980.  Guests  will  include: 
Katherine  Kurtz,  Marion  Zimmer  Bradley,  0.  J.  Cherryh,  Nancy  Springer. 

ChattaCon,  Box  21173,  Chattanooga  TN  37421.  (615)  892-5127.  16-18  Jan.,  1981.  Jack  (Well 
of  Souls)  Chalker,  Forrest  J.  (Famous  Monsters)  Ackerman,  Gordon  Dickson,  B.  Longyear. 

LastCon,  c/o  Connell,  50  Dove,  Albany  NY  12210.  (518)  434-8217.  23-25  Jan.  Hal  (Mission  of 
Gravity)  Clement,  Jan  Howard  Finder.  After  two  cons  in  Nov.,  1979,  Albany  is  back. 

AquaCon,  Box  815,  Brea  CA  92621.  Anaheim  (Disneyland)  CA,  12-15  Feb.  Philip  Jose  (River- 
world)  Farmer,  William  Rotsler,  Jan  Bogstad  &  Jeanne  Gomoll  of  JANUS.  Masquerade. 

CapriCon,  Box  416,  Zion  IL  60099.  Evanston  IL  20-22  Feb.  Terry  Carr,  editor  of  Universe. 

Boskone,  c/o  NESFA,  Box  G,  MIT  PO,  Boston  MA  02139.  13-16  Feb.  If  they  survived  NorEasCon. 

StellarCon,  c/o  Allen,  Box  4-EUC,  UNC-G,  Greensboro  NC  27412.  27  Feb.-l  Mar.  Masquerade. 
Participation  by  the  S.  C.  A.,  who  live  medievally  (e.g.,  leaders  chosen  by  combat). 

WisCon,  c/o  SF3,  Box  1624,  Madison  Wl  53701.  (608)  233-0326. 6-8  Mar.  The  Coulsons. 

FanCon,  c/o  The  Alliance,  Box  1865,  Panama  City  FL  32401.  5-7  Mar. 

CoastCon,  Box  6025,  Biloxi  MS  39532.  (601)  374-3046.  13-15  Mar.  At  the  Royal  D'Iberville. 

UpperSouthClave,  Box  U122,  College  Heights  Sta.,  Bowling  Green  KY  42101. 13-15  Mar. 

MarCon,  Box  2583,  Columbus  OH  43216.  (614)  497-9953.  13-15  Mar.  Andrew  J.  &  Jodie  Offutt, 
Bob  &  Ann  Passovoy.  This  con  is  legendary  among  long-time  fans.  Intimate  atmosphere. 

LunaCon,  Box  204,  Brooklyn  NY  11230.  Hasbrouck  Heights  NJ  (near  New  York),  20-22  Mar. 

SatyriCon,  Box  323,  Knoxville  TN  37901.  3-5  Apr.  Anne  (White  Dragon)  McCaffrey,  A.  Offutt. 

CineCon;  c/o  Sp.  Age  Books,  305  Swanston,  Melbourne  3000  Vic.  Australia.  663-1777.  Easter. 

DisClave,  c/o  Gllliland,  4030  8th  St.  S.,  Arlington  VA  22204.  (703)  920-6087.  22-24  May. 

ConQuest,  4228  Greenwood  PI.,  Kansas  City  MO  64111.  22-24  May.  Poul  Anderson,  Lee  Killough. 

Advention,  Box  130,  Marden  SA  5070,  Australia.  Adelaide,  Queen's  Birthday  weekend. 

X-Con,  c/o  Inda,  1743  N.  Cambridge  #301.  Milwaukee  Wl  53202.  12-14  Jun.  L.  S.  &  C.  de  Camp. 

MidWestCon,  3953  St.  Johns  Terr,  Cincinatti  OH  45236.  26-28  Jun.  Where  old-timers  meet. 

WesterCon  34,  Box  161719,  Sacramento  CA  95816.  Held  over  the  July  4th  weekend  in  1981. 

August  Party,  Box  893,  Silver  Spring  MD  20901.  7-9  Aug.  The  fannish  Star  Trek  con  returns. 

Denvention  II,  Box  11545,  Denver  CO  80211.  (313)  433-9774.  3-7  Sep.,  1981.  C.  L  Moore,  C. 
Simak,  R.  Hevelin,  Ed  Bryant.  The  1981  World  SF  Con.  Join  before  rates  go  up  any  more. 

116 


THE  ADOPTED  FATHER 

by  Gene  Wolfe 

art:  Laura  Buscemi 


After  graduation  from  the  University 

of  Houston — with  the  help  of  the  GI 

Bill  after  the  Korean  War— the  author 

married  Rosemary  Dietsch,  a  girl  he  had 

met  when  they  were  both  four.  He  started 

writing  in  1956,  the  year  they  were 

married,  in  the  hope  of  earning  enough 

money  for  furniture.  In  1973,  his  novella 

''The  Death  of  Dr.  Island"  won  a  Nebula. 

His  best  known  book  (so  far)  is  probably 

The  Fifth  Head  of  Cerebus.  The  Wolfes 

now  live  near  Chicago  with  their  four 

children:  Roy  Emerson  II,  Madeleine, 

Therese  Georgeanne,  and  Matthew  Dietsch. 

117 


John  Parker's  hands  gripped  the  edge  of  the  counter.  "Do  you 
mean,"  he  said,  "that  although  I  paid  for  the  deliveries,  I  can't  see 
the  records?" 

"I  mean,"  the  nurse  in  the  screen  answered  carefully,  "that  there 
are  no  more  records,  Mr.  Parker.  We  have  already  given  you  copies 
of  all  those  we  have.  Our  records  show  the  names,  dates,  and  times 
of  birth  of  your  three  children,  their  medical  history  here,  and  the 
medical  history  of  Ms.  Roberts.  That  is  all  we  have." 

"There  must  be  more,"  John  Parker  said.  To  either  side  of  him, 
women  stood  arguing  with  similar  nurses  in  similar  screens. 

"There  is  no  more,  Mr.  Parker.  You  have  seen  what  we  have.  Ms. 
Roberts  has  been  here  three  times.  Your  children  were  named — by 
her — Robert,  Marian,  and  Tina.  There  were  no  complications.  Ms. 
Roberts's  confinements  were  paid  for  by  the  North  American  Di- 
vision of  World  Assurance — not  by  you,  as  you  appear  to  believe." 

"You  must  fingerprint  them,"  John  Parker  said.  "For  the  police, 
if  for  no  other  reason.  Or  footprints.  Don't  you  take  footprints?" 

"No,  Mr.  Parker,"  the  nurse  said.  "That  hasn't  been  done  for  many 
years.  At  birth  the  infant  remains  with  its  mother  until  its  wrist 
has  been  banded.  The  band  cannot  be  removed.  There  is  no  possi- 
bility of  an  exchange." 

"Is  there  some  way  I  can  talk  to  a  human  being?"  John  Parker 
asked. 

The  nurse  in  the  screen  shook  her  head.  "Not  in  my  hospital,  Mr. 
Parker.  Not  in  any  modern  hospital." 

Although  he  would  have  liked  it  very  much  if  there  had  been, 
there  was  nothing  modern  about  the  foyer  of  John  Parker's  building. 
There  was  nothing  old  about  it  either,  no  suggestion  of  more  gracious 
days.  It  was  contemporary,  in  a  period  when  contemporary  meant 
the  cheapest  possible  construction  that  would  do  the  job,  a  period 
when  a  hundred  million  people  drew  unemployment  benefits  and 
the  cost  of  labor  was  (John  Parker  smiled  bitterly  to  himself)  as- 
tronomical. Snow  had  been  tracked  onto  the  floor  of  this  foyer,  and 
a  pouch  of  orange  drink  had  been  spilled  in  the  elevator.  John  Parker 
pressed  the  button  for  the  seventy-fifth  floor,  wondering  why  he  did 
so. 

A  few  days  before,  the  elevator  had  stopped  on  the  sixty-seventh, 
no  doubt  because  some  child  had  pushed  UP,  then  dashed  back  into 
his  own  apartment.  John  Parker  had  not  noticed.  He  had  left  the 
elevator  and  walked  down  a  corridor  precisely  like  his  own.  He  had 
knocked  on  the  door  that  should  have  been  his,  before  he  had  seen 

118  GENE  WOLFE 


the  obscenity  painted  on  it.  Obscenities  were  no  novelty;  but  this 
one  had  been  old,  the  day-glow  magenta  paint  flaking,  and  not  his. 
He  had  walked  back  down  the  corridor  to  the  elevator  then  and  seen 
that  he  had  gotten  off  at  sixty-seven,  eight  floors  too  low. 

Possibly  it  was  my  apartment  after  all,  John  Parker  thought.  I 
have  done  what  the  sign  said. 

The  soles  of  his  shoes  were  slightly  sticky  as  he  walked  the  corridor 
today.  Now  he  read  the  graffiti,  something  he  had  not  done  for  years. 
Yes,  this  was  the  seventy-fifth  floor,  to  which  a  few  new  injunctions 
had  been  added.  He  searched  it  with  his  eyes — someone  was  as- 
saulted in  the  building  every  month  or  so.  He  knocked  at  his  own 
door,  liberally  besprinkled  with  short  words,  though  most  of  the 
boys  in  this  part  of  the  building  were  supposed  to  be  afraid  of  Robert. 

"Yes?" 

"Me.  John."  It  was  what  he  always  said.  He  listened  to  Roseanne 
unfasten  the  chain  and  turn  the  bolt,  then  stepped  into  the 
warmth — struck  again,  as  he  had  been  every  day  for  the  past  week, 
by  how  little  Roseanne  resembled  him.  Or,  he  thought,  as  he  stared 
at  his  reflection  in  the  window  later,  how  little  he  resembled  her. 
Weren't  couples  supposed  to  come  to  look  alike?  He  and  Roseanne 
had  been  together  for  nearly  twenty  years  now. 

Yet  that  was  all  right.  Roseanne  was  no  blood  of  his,  not  his  sister, 
not  his  cousin.  The  children  resembled  neither  of  them,  and  that 
was  not  all  right — not  quite.  Robert  was  tall  and  fair.  Tina  was  fair, 
and  would  be  tall.  Both  had  blue  eyes;  his  own  were  brown,  Rose- 
anne's  hazel.  Marian  was  small  and  dark,  much  smaller  than 
he — smaller,  for  that  matter,  than  his  mother  or  his  sisters.  Her 
eyes  were  brown,  but  darker  than  his  own;  her  hair  nearly  black. 

An  accident  of  the  genes?  Quite  possibly,  and  it  did  not  really 
matter.  But  none  of  them  thought  the  way  he  did,  they  all  thought 
he  was  eccentric  or  worse,  and  that  mattered  a  great  deal.  He  got 
out  a  sheet  of  paper  and  squared  it  on  his  board,  using  the  inex- 
pensive little  drafting  machine  his  scholarship  had  supplied  him 
with  when  he  had  entered  the  university.  It  had  had  to  be  repaired 
many  times  since  then;  but  now,  when  he  had  long  since  lost  sight 
of  every  human  friend  he  had  made  there,  it  still  functioned.  He 
thought,  this  is  the  big  day.  This  is  the  day  I'm  going  to  do  the  park. 

"Another  park?"  Roseanne  asked. 
John  Parker  nodded,  not  looking  up. 

She  leaned  over  his  board  as  she  always  did,  her  hair  just  brushing 
his  cheek.  "That's  a  lovely  one.  What  are  these?" 

THE  ADOPTED  FATHER  119 


"Habitats.  It  has  a  small  zoo.  African  veldt  here,  pampas  there. 
Andes  over  here.  Refreshment  complex — I'd  like  to  have  a  real  res- 
taurant, but  you  can't  put  that  in  a  drawing,  and  you  know  they'd 
never  do  it.  Rest  rooms.  Security  station.  Petting  zoo  for  the  chil- 
dren." 

"Maybe  if  you  sent  some  of  your  plans  to  the  mayor,  he'd  build 
them." 

"You  have  sent  him  some,"  John  Parker  reminded  her. 

"I  have,  but  you  haven't."  It  was  necessary  to  Roseanne's  peace 
of  mind  that  she  believe  him  vaguely  important. 

"Perhaps  someday  I  will,"  John  Parker  said. 

"He  was  on  TV  just  now.  He  looked  very  nice — you  should  have 
seen  him.  He  asked  everyone  to  cooperate  with  the  police  and  refrain 
from  vandalizing  city  property." 

"I'm  not  a  vandal,"  John  Parker  said. 

Robert  came  in  to  borrow  money.  "Where's  this  one?"  he  asked. 
"On  the  moon?" 

"Mars,"  John  Parker  said.  "It  would  be  perfectly  possible  to  make 
Mars  a  world  much  like  Earth.  A  cloud  of  finely  powdered  aluminum 
behind  it  would  reflect  back  enough  heat  to  raise  the  night  tem- 
perature. Bringing  down  Deimos  and  Phobos  and  a  little  of  the 
asteroid  belt  would  increase  the  planet's  mass  enough  to  let  it  hold 
an  atmosphere,  which  you  could  make  by  breaking  down  the  stony 
matter  in  the  asteroids  and  moons.  Pretty  soon  you'd  turn  the  red 
planet  green." 

"What's  this?" 

"A  hedge  maze  for  children  and  lovers.  There  are  seats,  you  see, 
and  bowers.  Sculpture  the  kids  can  climb  on.  They  can  wade  in  the 
pond  too,  and  go  up  the  tower  in  the  middle  to  watch  the  people 
trying  to  find  their  way  out.  That's  the  goal." 

"I  bet  I  can  solve  it,"  Robert  said.  He  put  his  finger  on  the  drawing 
to  trace  the  paths,  but  soon  gave  up. 

John  Parker  had  expected  a  screen  and  a  computer  persona  at  the 
agency.  He  was  surprised  and  pleased  to  be  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  a  human  being,  a  gray-haired  woman  who  did  not  even  look 
particularly  motherly.  "I'm  here  to  inquire  about  adoption,"  John 
Parker  said  carefully. 

"Certainly."  The  woman  paused.  "I  take  it  you  are — how  should 
I  put  it? — one  half  of  a  couple?" 

John  Parker  shook  his  head. 

120  GENE  WOLFE 


Her  hand  went  toward  a  button  on  her  desk.  "Perhaps  we  should 
have  one  of  the  legal  staff  present." 

He  covered  the  button  with  his  own  hand  and  smiled.  "That  won't 
be  necessary.  Really  it  won't,  Ms. — ?" 

"Harris.  You  needn't  be  married,  you  understand,  Mr.  Parker." 

John  Parker  nodded. 

"And  of  course  the  other  member  of  the  couple  can  be  of  your  own 
gender — we  don't  inquire.  But  there  must  be  two  persons  willing  to 
make  a  home,  willing  to  take  responsibility  for  the  welfare  of  the 
child." 

"I  don't  want  to  adopt  a  child.  I  want  to  be  adopted  myself." 

Ms.  Harris  stared  at  him. 

"I'm  not  being  facetious.  I  want  a  group  of  children  to  take  me  as 
their  father.  I'm  over  forty,  I  have  a  good  job  and  no  criminal  record." 

"You  want  them  to  adopt  you,"  Ms.  Harris  said. 

John  Parker  nodded.  "Is  that  ever  done?" 

Ms.  Harris  shook  her  head  slowly.  "I  don't  think  so.  I've  never 
heard  of  it.  I'll  bring  it  up  at  the  next  board  meeting.  It  might  be 
a  good  idea." 

"So  much  can  be  done  with  our  minds  now,"  John  Parker  said. 
"Implanted  learning  and  so  on.  It  should  be  possible  to  erase  whole 
areas  of  experience.  After  it  was  over,  the  man  could  forget  it  wasn't 
his  own  family."  He  leaned  forward.  "Honestly,  Ms.  Harris,  didn't 
they  think  of  that  long  ago?" 

Too  quickly  to  be  stopped,  Ms.  Harris's  hand  stabbed  one  of  the 
buttons.  John  Parker  rose,  got  his  overcoat,  and  walked  out.  No  one 
attempted  to  stop  him. 

He  got  off  at  the  sixty-seventh  floor  and  went  down  the  corridor 
counting  doors.  The  old  obscenity  had  been  partially  obscured  by  a 
new  purple  one.  He  knocked  on  it. 

There  was  no  answer. 

He  knocked  again,  louder.  There  was  still  no  reply,  and  he 
thumped  the  door  with  his  fist,  and  at  last  began  to  kick  it.  At  the 
thirteenth  or  possibly  the  fifteenth  kick,  wood  shattered  and  it  flew 
open. 

The  strange  living  room  was  cool.  Not  as  cold  as  the  corridor 
outside,  but  not  nearly  as  warm  as  his  own.  It  had  been  an  ordinary 
enough  living  room  once,  perhaps — two  chairs,  a  sofa,  the  television, 
an  end  table.  Yet  it  appeared  (John  Parker  smiled  to  himself)  that 
now  someone  was  actually  living  in  it.  There  was  an  untidy  knot 
of  blankets  at  one  end  of  the  sofa,  a  half-full  glass  of  water  on  the 

THE  ADOPTED  FATHER  121 


end  table,  crumpled  foil  packages  on  the  floor.  He  thought,  If  only 
I  were  enough  of  a  detective,  I  could  tell  how  long  it's  been  since 
anyone  was  here — but  there  are  no  detectives  now,  only  police.  .  .  . 

The  back  of  the  television  felt  slightly  warm,  but  he  might  have 
been  wrong. 

In  the  kitchen,  the  sink  was  filled  with  dirty  plates  and  gummy 
cups  and  glasses.  A  full  canister  of  synthetic  coffee  and  three  uno- 
pened packages  of  irradiated  food  lay  in  one  of  the  cabinets;  they 
were  Ham  and  Lima  Beans,  Liver  and  Onions,  and  Smoked  Tongue 
withAu  Gratin  Potatoes.  "A  kid,"  John  Parker  said  under  his  breath. 
He  went  into  the  living  room  again.  "Come  on  out.  I  know  you're 
in  here."  He  did  not,  not  really. 

There  was  only  one  bedroom,  and  he  wondered  why  the  child  did 
not  sleep  in  it.  When  he  opened  the  door,  it  was  like  opening  the 
door  of  the  foyer.  Worse.  A  blast  of  icy  wind  hit  him.  He  stepped 
inside,  leaving  the  door  open  so  he  could  keep  an  eye  on  the  one  to 
the  corridor. 

A  dead  woman  lay  in  the  bed.  Her  face  was  uncovered,  her  eyes 
open.  John  Parker  pulled  down  the  sheet.  She  wore  only  a  night- 
gown; there  was  no  blood,  and  there  were  no  marks  on  her  neck.  He 
tossed  an  empty  pill  bottle  into  a  dresser  drawer  and  slid  it  closed, 
then  pulled  the  sheet  over  her  face,  obscurely  glad  he  had  not  had 
to  touch  her.. 

In  the  living  room  again,  he  shut  the  bedroom  door  behind  him. 
The  bathroom  was  locked;  he  told  himself  he  should  have  thought 
of  the  bathroom  to  begin  with.  "Come  out,"  he  said.  "It's  no  use.  I'll 
just  break  the  lock."  He  turned  on  the  television  and  sat  down  on 
the  sofa. 

Twenty  minutes  passed  before  he  heard  the  rattle  of  the  knob. 
Without  turning  his  head  he  said,  "Come  on  out.  I  won't  hurt  you, 
and  I  might  be  able  to  help  you.  You're  almost  out  of  groceries." 

It  was  a  boy,  small  and  dark  as  Marian.  "How'd  you  know?"  he 
said. 

"That  you  were  in  here?  Somebody  was.  The  nightbolt  was  out  in 
your  front  door — I  could  see  it  through  the  crack,  and  it  has  to  be 
turned  from  inside.  A  grown-up  would  have  answered  when  I 
knocked,  or  at  least  yelled  for  help  when  I  kicked  the  door.  Then 
too,  I  looked  at  what  you  ate.  There'd  been  soft  drinks,  but  they 
were  all  gone  and  you  were  drinking  water.  You  never  made  coffee, 
and  the  meals  you've  got  left  are  the  kind  my  own  kids — "  John 
Parker  stopped,  unable  to  finish  the  sentence.  "I  suppose  I'm  lucky 
I  wasn't  arrested.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  come  here,  except 

122  GENE  WOLFE 


that  I'd  been  here  once  before.  For  some  reason  I  thought  Fd  find 
something  out  here.  You  try  to  go  back  ..." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Mister?" 

"I  don't  know,"  John  Parker  said  slowly. 

"Ain't  you  a  blue?" 

John  Parker  shook  his  head.  "I'm  an  architect.  Why  didn't  you  go 
to  the  police,  or  somebody,  instead  of  just  staying  here  and  playing 
games  with  the  elevators?  If  you'd  told  your  teacher  at  school,  it 
would  have  called  some  social  agency." 

"They  would  have  taken  me  away  from  here,"  the  boy  said.  "I 
didn't  want  to  go." 

"So  you  just  opened  the  window  and  closed  off  the  bedroom.  How 
long  ago?" 

"I  don't  know  " 

The  boy  began  to  cry;  the  sobs  shook  him  like  convulsions,  and 
for  the  first  time  John  Parker  realized  how  young  he  was.  He  picked 
him  up.  The  room  was  still  cold,  and  he  opened  his  overcoat,  wrap- 
ping it  about  them  both.  "Less  then  three  weeks  anyway.  It  hasn't 
been  this  cold  for  longer  than  that.  What's  your  name?" 

"Mitch."  More  sobs.  "Why'd  mama  die?" 

"Heart  attack,  probably.  Bad  food,  bad  air.  People  die  young, 
Mitch,  but  she's  gone  and  that's  the  thing  to  remember,  and  what- 
ever it  was  that  hurt  her  can't  hurt  her  an)Tnore.  Did  you  ever  play 
some  game  when  you  knew  the  other  kid  was  going  to  beat  you?" 

Interested,  Mitch  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"Then  remember  how  when  he  does  beat  you,  the  game  is  over 
and  you  can  go  away.  Dying's  like  that.  Your  mother's  gone  away, 
and  she's  finished  with  whatever  it  was." 

"Do  you  know  my  father?" 

"Perhaps,"  John  Parker  said.  "Who  is  your  father?" 

"I  don't  know  his  name.  He  lives  here  in  this  building." 

"Do  you  think  it  could  be  me?" 

Mitch  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  so.  Mama  showed  him  to  me 
once." 

"And  that's  why  you  stayed.  You've  been  trying  to  find  him." 

"Do  you  know  who  he  is?" 

"No,"  John  Parker  said.  "But  I  know  what  he  is.  Do  you  know 
that,  Mitch?" 

"No,"  the  boy  said  softly. 

John  Parker  set  him  down  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  "He's 
someone  like  you.  That's  what  makes  him  your  father.  Take  my 
own  children.  If  I  have  any,  they'll  be  more  or  less  like  me — in  logic, 
THE  ADOPTED  FATHER  123 


that's  "called  a  tautology.  If  you're  crazy,  your  kids  are  crazy  too,  and 
crazy  in  more  or  less  the  same  way  you  are.  That's  what  makes  them 
your  kids."  His  foot  sent  a  yellow  envelope  skittering  across  the 
floor.  He  retrieved  it  and  tore  it  open:  This  is  your  FINAL  warn- 
ing. If  we  do  not  receive  . . .  "They're  going  to  throw  you  out  of 
here,"  John  Parker  said.  "How  long  ago  did  this  come?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Today?" 

Mitch  shook  his  head. 

"Yesterday?" 

"Maybe."  Mitch  shrugged. 

"There  are  probably  two  or  three  more  in  the  series  after  this,  but 
there  may  not  be  too,  and  anyway  it's  possible  you've  already  got 
them.  Did  your  mother  keep  any  writing  paper?" 

Mitch  went  into  the  little  kitchen  and  brought  a  stack  of  cheap, 
white  stationery  from  a  drawer.  "We  only  need  one  envelope,"  John 
Parker  said.  He  wrote  the  Housing  Authority's  address  on  it  and 
added  a  stamp  from  the  supply  he  carried  in  his  check  folder,  then 
dropped  the  bill  in. 

"Are  you  going  to  pay?" 

"Your  mother  must  have  been  at  least  four  months  behind,"  John 
Parker  said,  "and  I  can't  afford  to.  But  this  will  buy  us  some  time." 
He  tore  out  a  check  and  crossed  off  his  own  name  and  Roseanne's, 
then  drew  a  line  through  the  account  number  and  wrote  in  a  fic- 
titious one.  He  made  the  check  out  for  the  amount  specified  on  the 
bill,  and  signed  it  Robert  Roberts-Parker,  explaining,  "The  bank's 
computer  will  read  my  account  number  anyway — it's  printed  in 
magnetic  ink.  When  I  send  the  check  back,  they'll  credit  my  account 
and  go  looking  for  Robert,  who'll  be  hard  to  find  since  he  doesn't 
have  an  account  and  isn't  in  the  telephone  directory.  With  any  luck, 
they'll  spend  a  while  on  the  number  I  gave  them  too." 

Mitch  stared  at  him  without  comprehension. 

"Eventually  they'll  disallow  the  check  and  send  you  more  letters. 
Something  may  have  turned  up  by  then.  If  it  hasn't,  we'll  have  to 
think  up  another  game."  John  Parker  thrust  the  check  into  the 
envelope  and  licked  the  flap.  "It's  a  great  principle — you  could  call 
it  the  principle  of  adventure  or  even  the  principle  of  play. 
Robert — that's  the  young  man  who  just  paid  your  rent — tried  to 
solve  my  maze  and  couldn't,  even  after  I  told  him  that  the  tower 
was  for  the  kids  to  climb,  and  the  pond  was  for  them  to  wade  in. 
You  have  to  wade  across  the  pond  to  reach  the  tower,  of  course.  He 
saw  a  barrier  when  he  should  have  seen  an  invitation.  I'll  show  you 

124  GENE  WOLFE 


that  maze  sometime.  You  like  to  play,  Mitch?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"Me  too."  John  Parker  crossed  to  the  window  and  stared  at  the 
dark  sky  beyond  the  glass.  "That's  coal  smoke,  the  technology  of  the 
nineteenth  century  brought  into  the  twenty-first  and  hard  at  work. 
They  could  have  conquered  the  solar  system  and  harnessed  the  sun, 
but  they  did  this  instead,  because  there  was  no  fun  involved.  Their 
great  grandfathers  had  done  it,  and  they  knew  it  would  work.  Tom 
Swift  and  His  Steam  Everything.  I've  got  most  of  the  Tom  Swift 
books,  Mitch;  and  I'll  let  you  read  them  when  you're  a  little  older. 
Coal  makes  great  buttons  for  snowmen,  though." 

"Are  we  going  to  look  for  my  father  now?" 

"A§uSOon  as  I  fix  your  lock,"  John  Parker  said.  He  found  epoxy  in 
the  Kitchen  and  recreated  the  wood  around  the  shattered  socket. 
"That'll  set  in  three  or  four  hours,"  he  told  the  boy.  "If  no  one  pushes 
on  your  door  before  then,  this  place  will  be  all  right.  Tonight  we'll 
do  something  about  your  mama,  put  her  where  the  right  people  will 
find  her  and  take  care  of  her." 

In  the  elevator,  he  grasped  the  boy's  shoulder.  "You  know  what 
we've  been  doing  wrong,  Mitch?  We've  been  looking  seriously — me 
for  my  own  kids,  you  for  your  dad.  Looking  seriously  only  finds  little 
things,  and  those  aren't  little  things.  We  have  to  have  fun.  Then 
maybe  we'll  both  find  what  we  want.  I  know  a  place  that  has  a 
heated  pool.  Let's  go  swimming." 

The  elevator  jolted  to  a  stop.  Three  young  men  were  waiting  in 
the  foyer.  One  held  a  tire  iron,  one  a  doubled  length  of  chain.  John 
Parker  thrust  a  hand  into  his  coat  pocket.  "This  fires  high  energy 
gamma  rays,"  he  said  levelly.  "You  don't  feel  a  thing  now,  but  within 
six  weeks  you'll  develop  leukemia  and  in  six  more  you'll  be  dead." 

The  three  hesitated,  and  he  flipped  open  a  match  box  with  his 
other  hand.  "I'm  calling  in  Star  Patrol  to  pick  up  the  pieces,"  he 
announced. 

When  they  were  safely  outside,  John  Parker  told  Mitch,  "See,  you 
just  learned  something — be  crazy.  Nobody  bothers  the  crazy  people." 
He  paused.  "In  the  end,  maybe  it's  the  crazy  people  who  win  after 
all.  Is  swimming  okay?  You  like  to  swim?" 

Mitch  nodded,  his  eyes  shining. 

John  Parker  raised  the  match  box  to  his  lips.  "We're  in  trouble 
down  here,"  he  whispered,  "but  don't  beam  us  up  quite  yet."  The 
hand  that  a  moment  before  had  been  a  radiation  pistol  was  hailing 
a  cab. 

THE  ADOPTED  FATHER  125 


127 


The  author  reports  that  she  is  now 
subsisting — or  attempting  to  do  so — 
on  writing  alone,  having  parted  com- 
pany with  her  teaching  job.  She's 
currently  working  on  the  sixth  volume 
in  her  ''Diadem"  series  (DAW  Books) ,  and 
the  second  volume  in  a  fantasy  trilogy, 
tucking  in  short  stories,  such  as  the 
one  that  follows,  whenever  she  has  time  to  breathe. 


"Damn  him.  Five  days  and  not  a  word."  Gleia  stabbed  the  needle 
through  the  soft  black  material,  pricked  her  finger,  and  jerked  it 
away  before  blood  could  stain  the  cloth.  Sucking  at  the  small  wound, 
she  laid  the  shawl  aside  and  swung  around  on  the  window  seat 
where  she'd  taken  her  work  to  save  on  lamp  oil,  using  instead  the 
pale  red  light  from  Horli  that  struggled  through  the  heavy  layer  of 
clouds.  She  propped  her  elbows  on  the  window  sill  and  gazed  out  at 
the  busy  street  below.  The  pattern  of  silver  and  green  on  the  shawl 
heaped  beside  her  was  nearly  finished.  Another  day  and  there'd  be 
coins  plumping  out  the  limp  money  pouch  she'd  left  on  the  table  by 
the  bed.  One  more  thing  to  worry  about.  That  and  Shounach.  Damn 
him  for  not  letting  me  know  whether  he's  alive  or  dead. 

She  was  still  chuckling  at  that  absurdity  when  an  iron  bird 
swooped  past  to  hover  over  the  street.  As  she  watched,  it  darted 
back  and  forth  over  the  suddenly  quiet  people,  then  soared  back  to 
hover  in  front  of  her,  humming  like  an  outsize  insect,  wings  a  foot 
long  moving  slightly  but  constantly,  the  red  light  from  cloud-hidden 
Horli  sliding  along  crisply  modeled  feathers.  The  ball-head's  single 
eye  set  above  a  needle  beak  scanned  her,  small  flickers  of  red  light 
stirring  in  the  depths  of  the  dark  lens.  The  thing  made  her  shiver — a 
parody  of  a  living  bird.  Deel  called  it  an  iron  bird,  the  Lossal's  iron 
bird,  though  it  was  made  of  a  shining  metal  more  like  polished  silver 
than  iron.  It's  only  a  machine,  she  told  herself,  not  a  creation  of  some 
devil  sorcery.  As  it  swung  suddenly  and  whirred  off,  she  shivered 
again.  Temokeuu-my -sea- father,  I  wish  you  were  here  to  tell  me  it's 
only  a  machine.  She  continued  to  watch  as  it  soared  inward  over 
the  middle  city,  dipping  finally  out  of  the  sight  behind  one  of  the 
Family  Houses  that  dominated  the  center  of  walled  Istir. 

She  rested  her  chin  on  her  hands  and  looked  dreamily  out  the 
window,  thinking  of  her  adopted  family  of  sea-folk,  wondering  how 
128  JO  CLAYTON 


Tetaki-her-brother  was  coming  with  his  new  trade  route,  wondering 
whether  Jevati-her-friend  had  married  again.  Snatches  of  music 
from  neighboring  taverns  drifted  up  to  her;  street  sounds  floated 
around  her — men's  voices  as  they  passed  along  the  street,  arguing, 
talking,  laughing;  the  clop-clop  of  horses'  hooves  on  the  dank  stone 
paving,  a  whinny  or  two  and  some  snorts;  the  distant  blended  noise 
of  huckster  cries  coming  from  the  markets  on  both  sides  of  the 
Stranger's  Quarter.  Sharp  smells  floated  on  the  lazy  breeze — frying 
oil,  fish,  cooked  meats,  urine,  horse  manure.  Her  eyes  dropped;  she 
studied  the  people  passing  by,  feeling  a  comfortable  familiarity  with 
a  mix  much  like  that  she'd  grown  up  with  in  Carhenas  across  the 
ocean:  dry  landers  in  silent  groups;  hunters;  hillmen;  boatmen  from 
the  highland  rivers;  an  enigmatic  group  of  veiled  and  armored 
women  who  seemed  to  call  out  hostility  in  the  men  around  them. 
Gleia  blinked,  frowned  as  they  passed  out  of  sight  followed  by  curses, 
uneasy  laughter,  obscene  gestures. 

Once  the  women  were  gone,  Gleia  lost  interest  in  the  street  and 
turned  back  to  wondering  about  Shounach.  How  is  he?  she  thought. 
What's  he  doing  now?  Whafs  he  been  doing  the  last  five  days?  Why 
doesn't  he  send  word?  She  scratched  at  her  arm;  living  with  the 
Juggler  was  making  her  itchy.  Companion,  she  thought.  That  red- 
haired  bitch,  the  LossaVs  daugher.  .  .  .  She  flexed  her  fingers,  then 
began  rubbing  at  the  line  of  her  jaw.  It  was  difficult .  .  .  she  wasn't 
used  to  fitting  her  actions  to  someone  else's  needs.  If  he  isn't  back 
by  tomorrow,  she  thought,  I'm  getting  out  of  here.  With  a  feeling  of 
relief,  she  let  her  hand  drop  into  her  lap.  Relief  and  anger  and 
uncertainty. 

Relief  because  she  was  going  back  to  the  comfortable  simplicity 
of  living  alone;  she  could  feel  her  taut  muscles  relaxing. 

Anger  because  she  hurt  at  the  thought  of  leaving  him.  She  didn't 
want  to  allow  him  that  much  importance  in  her  life.  With  an  in- 
voluntary smile  she  remembered  the  long,  lazy  nights  on  the  smug- 
gler's ship  that  had  brought  them  across  the  ocean  from  Thrakesh 
to  this  new  land — new  for  her  if  not  for  Shounach.  Remembered  the 
painful,  clumsy  beginning  of  intimacy.  Remembered  his  patience 
and  skill — a  skill  she  teased  him  about  later  when  she'd  regained 
some  of  her  assurance — as  he  taught  her  body  to  respond.  She 
clenched  her  hands  into  fists  and  beat  on  her  thighs.  The  Lossal's 
daughter.  He's  with  her.  Five  days,  five  damn  days.  .  .  .  The  thought 
was  fire  in  her  blood.  She  pushed  at  the  pain,  trying  to  deny  it,  and 
sat  for  some  minutes,  the  heels  of  her  hands  pressed  against  aching 
eyes.  As  her  breathing  steadied,  the  anger  altered  to  uncertainty. 
COMPANIONING  129 


Uncertainty  because  she  wanted  to  stay  as  much  as  she  wanted 
to  go.  Because  she  had  no  place  to  go  to  if  she  left.  Rubbing  absently 
at  the  brands  on  her  face,  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  end  of 
the  shutter  and  wondered  what  she  was  going  to  do. 

A  rippling  laugh  from  the  street  pulled  her  from  her  painful  mus- 
ing. She  caught  hold  of  the  sill  and  leaned  farther  out. 

A  cloaked  figure  was  slapping  at  the  hands  of  a  Harrier,  one  of 
the  mercenaries  hired  by  the  six  Families  to  act  as  guards  and  as 
a  small  private  army  if  necessary.  The  long  slim  arm,  the  fluid 
movement  looked  familiar.  The  woman  laughed  again,  called  back 
a  last  cutting  comment  to  the  Harrier  as  she  moved  along  the  street 
with  a  free,  flowing  swagger  that  sent  the  ends  of  her  cloak  flying. 
Gleia  smiled  with  pleasure,  leaned  down  and  waved.  "Deel!" 

The  dancer  looked  up,  pushed  the  hood  back  off  her  head.  Raising 
her  voice  over  the  noise  of  the  street,  she  called,  "He  come  back 
yet?" 

"Not  yet."  Gleia  coughed  to  clear  her  throat  then  yelled,  "Going 
somewhere?" 

"Work."  Deel  wrinkled  her  nose,  twisted  her  mobile  face  into  a 
comical  grimace.  "New  bunch  of  boatmen  in  from  upriver.  One-eye 
sent  word  I  was  to  get  there  in  half  a  breath."  She  shrugged.  "Good 
money,  but  I  hate  those  sorry  slobbering  bastards.  Have  lunch  with 
me  tomorrow?" 

"I'd  like  that.  Meet  here?" 

The  dancer  nodded.  Gleia  watched  her  swing  off  until  she  was  out 
of  sight,  then  pulled  her  head  in  and  slid  off  the  window  seat.  Making 
sure  the  needle  was  tucked  securely  into  the  material,  she  folded 
the  shawl  neatly  and  set  it  on  the  table  by  the  bed,  smiling  as  she 
remembered  her  meeting  with  Deel.  Five  days  ago  I  didn't  know  her 
and  dow  I  have  a  friend. 

In  the  Square  of  the  Cloth  Merchants,  Shounach  stood  on  a  plat- 
form he'd  rented,  the  blue  glass  halls  circling  his  white-painted  face, 
changing  in  number  and  shape  as  he  turned  slowly  to  face  the  crowd 
of  traders  and  sellers,  shoppers,  market  women,  other  entertainers, 
scattered  Harriers,  and  a  number  of  pickpockets  and  other  thieves 
that  pressed  about  the  four  sides  of  the  platform.  Gleia  sat  on  the 
coping  of  the  market  weJJ,  watching  what  she  could  see  of  Shounach 
past  the  heads  of  the  onlookers.  A  constant  stream  of  people  moved 
past  her,  edging  along  the  fringes  of  the  crowd,  going  on  to  stop  at 
one  or  another  of  the  small  open-faced  shops  that  lined  the  square. 

As  Shounach' s  routine  neared  its  close,  she  felt  a  brief  tugging  at 
130  JO  CLAYTON 


her  cafta,  heard  an  angry  yell,  then  a  boy's  shrill,  rapid  protest.  She 
looked  around.  A  Harrier  had  a  small  hoy  by  the  nape  of  his  neck. 
Behind  him  a  tall  woman  muj^fJed  in  a  long  cloak  stopped  to  watch, 
stiff  with  disapproval  as  she  saw  the  Harrier  drag  the  boy  back  to 
Gleia. 

"Had  his  hand  in  your  pocket."  He  scowled  at  the  boy.  "Fork 
over,  SchJop." 

"I  din'  do  nothin',"  the  boy  shrilled.  He  wriggled,  trying  to  pull 
away  from  the  Harrier's  cruel  grip.  "I  din'  do  nothin'." 

Eyes  on  the  child's  tear-streaked  face,  Gleia  thrust  her  hand  into 
her  pocket.  Her  handkerchief  was  gone,  nothing  more.  She  smiled 
up  at  the  glowering  man.  "You're  mistaken,  despois.  The  boy  took 
nothing.  Let  him  go." 

The  Harrier  grunted,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  loosed  his  grip  on 
the  boy's  skinny  neck.  He  watched  the  child  dart  away,  then  stalked 
off,  muttering  about  fool  women. 

"You  might  want  this  back." 

Startled,  Gleia  looked  over  her  shoulder.  The  woman  who'd  been 
watching  was  smiJing  at  her,  holding  out  her  handkerchief. 

"It's  a  beautiful  thing;  whoever  gave  it  to  you  must  think  a  lot  of 
you."  The  woman  smoothed  out  the  square  of  katani  with  its  wide 
band  of  white-on-white  embroidery,  her  fingers  lingering  over  the 
exquisite  stitching. 

With  a  laugh  Gleia  waved  the  handkerchief  away.  "If  it  pleases 
you,  then  keep  it.  It's  no  gift,  merely  my  own  work  and  my  own 
design." 

"I  couldn't."  The  woman's  dark  amber  eyes  gJowed  as  she  touched 
the  delicate  pattern. 

"Please  do.  I  have  others." 

SmiJing  with  pleasure,  the  woman  tucked  the  handkerchief  into 
her  cloak  pocket  and  settled  beside  Gleia  on  the  well  coping.  "Why 
did  you  let  the  boy  go?" 

She  was  a  tall  woman  with  high  cheekbones  and  almond-shaped 
eyes,  a  wide  mobile  mouth  that  flashed  easily  from  smiles  to  frowns. 
Her  skin  was  a  silky  red-brown  that  looked  poreless  and  fitted 
smoothly  over  long,  eJegant  bones.  Her  hair  was  a  disciplined  foam 
of  tiny  curls  only  sJightJy  darker  than  her  skin.  Underneath  the  dark 
cloak  she  wore  wide  amber  siJk  strips  arranged  to  flow  around  long 
slim  legs.  "My  name's  Deel.  I  dance  at  the  Horn  of  Sandar  in  the 
Stranger's  Quarter.  You're  new  in  Istir,  aren't  you.  Why  did  you  let 
the  boy  go?" 

"I  grew  up  in  the  streets  myself."  Gleia  touched  the  scars  on  her 
COMPANIONING  131 


cheek,  and  met  amber  eyes  bright  with  interest  and  understanding. 
"Not  here.  You're  right  about  my  being  new."  She  flipped  a  hand 
at  Shounach.  "I  came  with  the  Juggler;  we've  only  been  here  a  few 
days."  Reaching  out,  she  touched  Deel's  hand.  "My  name's  GJeia." 

"I've  been  watching  him  the  past  few  days.  He's  damn  good,  your 
Juggler."  They  sat  in  friendly  silence  as  the  Juggler  began  putting 
away  his  paraphernalia. 

A  litter  carried  by  four  brawny  men  eased  into  the  square  and 
moved  through  the  scattering  crowd  toward  the  platform.  The  litter 
was  giJded  and  profusely  carved,  its  occupant  hidden  behind  paJe 
bJue  curtains. 

GJeia  frowned.  "Who's  that?" 

Deel  wrinkled  her  nose.  "Toreykyn,  the  Lossal's  daughter;  that's 
the  Lossal's  sigil  stitched  on  those  curtains."  She  looked  up,  pointed. 
"Yeah,  has  to  be  her  in  there.  The  Lossal's  iron  birds  are  keeping 
an  eye  on  her." 

Two  glittering  metal  bird-shapes  were  circling  over  the  square. 
Gleia  squinted  up  at  them,  trying  to  see  them  more  clearly.  "Iron 
birds?" 

"Lossal's  spies."  Deel's  mouth  twisted,  turned  down  at  the  corners. 
She  tapped  her  polished  nails  lightly  on  her  silk-covered  thighs. 
"You've  lost  your  man  for  a  few  days.  Until  she  gets  tired  of  him." 

Gleia  hid  a  smile  as  she  watched  the  litter  stop  in  front  of  Shoun- 
ach. The  Fox's  luck  has  turned,  she  thought,  remembering  his  frus- 
tration as  he  paced  the  room,  cursing  the  insularity  of  Families  that 
shut  the  Lossal  away  from  him.  Now  he  was  riding  in  with  the 
Lossal's  daighter.  She  looked  down.  Her  hands  were  closed  into  fists, 
fingernails  cutting  into  her  palms.  After  forcing  her  hands  open,  she 
glanced  at  Deel,  and  said  with  outward  calm,  "We  do  what  we  have 
to.  No  point  in  staying  here  any  longer.  Going  back  to  the  Quarter? 
Come  have  a  glass  of  wine  with  me." 

Shounach  snapped  the  lid  off  the  solvent  and  poured  some  on  a 
rag.  Kneeling  beside  his  bag,  he  wiped  the  paint  from  his  face,  then 
began  on  his  hands.  His  eyes  moved  restlessly  over  the  scattering 
crowd;  he  was  impatient  with  this  waiting  time,  wanted  to  get  on 
with  his  search  for  the  source  of  the  Ranga  Eyes.  He  saw  Gleia  talking 
to  a  strange  woman,  felt  a  touch  of  irritation;  she  hadn't  bothered 
to  watch  the  performance.  He  scrubbed  at  his  hands,  annoyed  at  the 
way  the  white  paint  clung  around  his  fingernails,  jabbed  the  rag  at 
the  stubborn  paint  in  the  creases.  At  the  same  time  he  fought  against 
the  rising  waves  of  rancor  that  threatened  to  explode  into  shapeless, 
132  JO  CLAYTON 


unreasonable  anger  spilling  over  anyone  or  anything  around  him. 
It  never  ends,  he  thought.  He  looked  down  at  his  hands,  fJexed  the 
fingers,  then  put  the  solvent  and  the  rag  hack  in  the  hag. 

He  saw  the  litter  approaching  and  remained  on  his  knees  waiting 
to  see  where  it  was  going,  holding  his  face  calm  as  excitement  rose 
within  him  when  he  recognized  the  Lossal's  arms  on  the  curtains. 

The  litter  stopped  in  front  of  him;  a  slim,  bangJe-iaden  arm  came 
through  the  curtains.  With  a  flurry  of  cJanks  and  tinJcJes,  a  delicate 
hand  weighed  down  with  many  rings  pulled  the  curtain  back,  re- 
treated. Inside,  the  woman  smiled  up  at  him;  she  was  stretched  out, 
leaning  on  one  eJbow,  paie-biue  cushions  piled  around  her;  the  hand 
that  had  drawn  the  curtain  back  now  played  with  long  strands  of 
red-gold  hair  flowing  over  large,  firm  breasts  which  thrust  against 
the  silver-shot  white  avrishum  of  her  long,  loose  dress. 

Red  hair.  His  eyes  fastened  on  the  bright  waves  for  an  instant.  He 
shivered,  forced  a  smile  as  he  bowed  his  head  and  waited  for  her 
to  speak. 

The  big,  brown  eyes  focused  on  him  began  to  blink  nervously,  the 
hand  caressing  the  hair  stiffened.  The  soft  smiJing  mouth  moved 
into  a  pout.  "Juggler!"  Her  voice  was  sharp,  petulant.  He  got  the 
feeling  she'd  expected  more  response  from  him  than  a  poJite  bow. 
He  widened  his  smile  and  let  his  eyes  traveJ  sJowJy  over  her,  ap- 
preciating the  slim  curves  scarcely  concealed  by  the  soft,  clinging 
materia]. 

"Juggler."  She  was  smiling  again,  her  voice  soft  and  caressing. 
"The  Lothal  wanth  you  to  perform."  Her  long  Joshes  fell,  then  lifted, 
as  she  lisped  the  words,  the  command  in  them  smothered  in  sugar. 
"I'm  motht  interethted  in  your  performanth.  Juggler,"  she  mur- 
mured. Her  plump  JittJe  hand  closed  tightly  around  cloth  and  hair. 
"Come  with  me  now,  Juggler,  to  my  father."  She  stretched  out  her 
hand,  more  as  a  token  of  intent  than  as  an  offer  of  touching. 

Shounach  smiJed,  jumped  easily  down  from  the  platform,  his 
jacket  swinging  opening  to  show  the  flat,  hard  muscJes  of  his  chest. 
He  slipped  the  strap  of  the  bag  over  his  shoulder,  slapped  it  into 
place  against  his  side,  then  walked  the  two  steps  to  the  woman's 
side.  "My  pleasure.  Lady,"  he  said  quietly.  He  reached  out  and 
aJmost  touched  her  hand,  letting  his  hand  hover  over  hers  for  a 
moment  as  he  smiled  into  the  dark  brown  eyes.  Her  red  hair  fluttered 
gentJy  as  the  litter  moved  toward  the  gate  to  the  market.  She  lisped 
banaJ  and  impertinent  questions,  her  eyes  moving  over  him  with 
the  possessive  expression  of  a  herdsman  assessing  a  prize  bull.  At 
the  gate  he  looked  up  and  saw  Gleia  watching  him,  an  odd  expres- 
COMPANIONING  133 


sion  on  her /ace,  a  gentJe  vulnerable  look  as  fleeting  as  a  moment's 
thought.  She  turned  and  moved  away  with  the  tall,  dark  woman 
beside  her.  He  glanced  back  a  moment  later,  saw  the  cluster  of  soft 
brown  curls  held  high,  saw  a  brief  arc  of  cheek  as  Gleia  turned  to 
talk  to  the  strange  woman.  A  sharp  note  in  the  Lossal's  daughter's 
voice  brought  his  attention  hack  to  her.  He  listened  to  her  question, 
then  answered  her  as  they  walked  along  the  broad  avenue  leading 
to  the  Families'  quarter,  walled  in,  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  city. 

Gleia  picked  up  the  pouch,  poured  the  coins  into  her  hand,  frown- 
ing as  she  counted  the  diminishing  supply.  With  a  sigh  she  dumped 
the  coins  back  in  the  pouch,  jerked  the  drawstring  tight,  and  slipped 
the  loop  over  her  head,  dropping  the  pouch  inside  her  cafta  to  dangle 
between  her  breasts.  She  brushed  off  the  bottoms  of  her  feet,  slid 
them  into  sandals,  ran  a  comb  through  her  tangled  curls,  went  out. 
She  grimaced  with  disgust  as  she  locked  the  door  and  slipped  the 
key  into  her  pocket;  given  thirty  seconds  and  a  bit  of  bent  wire  she'd 
be  inside  with  no  trouble  at  all.  Good  thing  there  isn't  much  to  steal. 

Outside,  she  looked  up,  shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand.  The  sky 
was  clear,  with  blue  Hesh  edging  past  fuzzy  red  Horli.  She  pulled 
the  hood  of  her  cafta  up  over  her  head.  The  respite  was  over.  With 
Hesh  emerging  from  behind  Horli  she'd  have  to  watch  her  exposure. 
The  blue  sun  was  a  killer.  She  stepped  back  and  stood  waiting  as 
clusters  of  men  moved  past,  some  strolling,  others  walking  briskly. 

"Gleia,  thanks  for  waiting."  Deel  came  rushing  up,  her  cloak  flut- 
tering about  her  long  legs.  "Merd  had  some  time  off  this  morning 
and  I  couldn't  get  away  earlier." 

Gleia  turned,  began  walking  along  beside  her,  threading  through 
the  thickening  crowd  as  late  sleepers  joined  those  already  moving, 
blending  into  the  same  mix  as  before,  even  to  the  compact  group  of 
veiled  women.  Gleia  nodded  at  them.  "You  know  who  or  what  they 
are?" 

Deel  followed  the  nod  and  saw  the  women.  She  shivered.  "Never 
mind  them."  She  sounded  uncomfortable. 

"Why?"  Gleia  caught  hold  of  Deel's  arm.  "Who  are  they?" 

"They  call  themselves  trail  women,"  Deel  said  reluctantly.  "Come 
from  somewhere  upriver  like  the  boatmen.  Men  say  they're  witches, 
unnatural  creatures;  they  live  together,  won't  let  men  in  their  com- 
pounds; lot  of  funny  stories  about  them  and  when  I  say  funny  I  don't 
mean  ha-ha." 

With  Gleia  silent,  thinking  over  what  she'd  just  heard,  and  Deel 
too  disturbed  to  talk,  the  two  women  wound  through  the  streets 
134  JO  CLAYTON 


toward  the  row  of  cook  shops  in  the  shadow  of  the  outside  wall. 

After  buying  meat  pies  and  mugs  of  cha,  Gleia  and  Deel  moved 
outside  and  sat  down  on  a  shadowed  bench  in  a  quiet  corner  where 
the  massive  outer  wall  turned  to  follow  the  line  of  the  river.  Deel 
finished  the  meat  pie  quickly,  lifted  the  cheap  clay  mug  to  her  lips, 
her  amber  eyes  sweeping  over  Gleia.  "Still  no  sign?" 

"No."  Gleia  sipped  at  her  cha,  then  settled  back,  pushing  the  hood 
off  her  head  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure. 

Deel  chuckled,  unfastened  the  clip  holding  her  cloak  around  her 
shoulders  and  let  it  fall  away.  She  shook  the  springy,  foaming  curls 
haloing  her  head,  pushed  straying  tendrils  off  her  face.  "He  must 
be  something  special,  your  man."  She  raised  an  eyebrow.  "Most  of 
Toreykyn's  fancies  don't  last  half  this  long."  Her  mouth  turned  down 
again.  "If  she  gets  too  taken  with  him,  the  Lossal  will  open  the  eyes 
he  keeps  shut.  Then,  good-bye  Juggler." 

Gleia  folded  both  hands  about  the  coarse  clay  of  her  cup,  sipped 
at  the  cooling  cha.  She  could  feel  the  clay  clicking  dully  against  her 
teeth.  Her  hands  were  shaking.  The  cha  burned  down  her  throat. 
After  a  moment  she  rested  the  cup  on  her  thigh,  feeling  the  spot  of 
warmth  through  the  material  of  her  cafta.  "What  choice  do  people 
like  us  have?  We  do  what  we  must  to  stay  alive." 

Deel  leaned  back,  her  amber  eyes  narrowed,  her  long  legs  like 
polished  wood  coming  through  the  slits  in  her  costume.  "Istir's  no 
place  for  a  woman  on  her  own.  You  should  look  around,  find  yourself 
a  protector."  She  grinned  at  Gleia's  grimace.  "No  need  to  make  faces, 
girl;  it's  the  truth  and  you  know  it." 

Gleia's  mouth  twitched.  She  rubbed  her  thumb  under  her  lower 
lip,  then  stroked  the  scars  on  her  cheek.  "No,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Deel,  I've  been  on  my  own  since  I  was  born.  I  wouldn't  know  how 
to  act  with  a  protector."  She  took  a  long  swallow  of  cha,  lowered  the 
mug  back  to  her  thigh.  "And  I  don't  want  to  learn." 

"What  about  the  Juggler?" 

"That's  different." 

Deel  snorted.  "It  always  is." 

Gleia  scowled  stubbornly.  "You  don't  know."  She  examined  Deel's 
face  over  the  edge  of  the  mug  as  she  lifted  it  to  her  lips.  "What 
happened  to  your  eye?" 

Deel  grimaced.  "Merd.  His  captain's  been  riding  him  hard  the 
past  few  days  so  he  takes  it  out  on  me." 

"And  you  want  me  to  fmd  a  protector.  No  thanks,  friend." 

Deel  spread  out  long  slender  arms,  her  narrow  hands  turning  in 
quick  flashing  gestures.  "Lot  worse  than  Merd  around.  Me  being  a 

COMPANIONING  135 


dancer,  I  get  lots  of  hassles.  Some  of  the  bosses're  worse  than  the 
drunks  hanging  around  the  bar  when  I  dance.  Since  I've  been  with 
Merd,  both  types  leave  me  alone.  He  got  physical  with  hecklers  and 
clods  hard-timing  me."  She  chuckled.  "He's  half  as  big  as  a  house 
and  a  Harrier  besides.  No  one  wants  to  get  the  Families  stirred  up. 
It's  worth  a  few  lumps.  Anyway,  he's  not  so  bad."  She  shrugged, 
stroked  her  finger  along  the  clean-cut  curve  of  her  upper  lip.  "You 
wouldn't  be  bad  looking  if  you  covered  up  those  scars.  Why  don't 
you  let  me  give  you  some  stuff  I  have?  I'll  show  you  how  to  fix 
yourself  up." 

Gleia  grinned  at  Deel.  "I  don't  give  a  damn  about  trying  to  change 
myself,  friend.  I  know  how  I  look.  I  like  the  way  I  look." 

"Dumb."  Deel  leaned  forward,  spread  her  hands  out  in  front  of 
Gleia.  They  were  meticulously  manicured,  the  nails  polished  a  dark 
plum  that  matched  the  gloss  she  wore  on  her  lips.  "Put  your  hands 
by  mine." 

Gleia  spread  her  smaller  hands  beside  the  dancer's.  Short  fingers, 
short  nails,  the  tip  of  her  middle  finger  and  the  side  of  one  thumb 
rough  as  sandstone  from  repeated  needle  pricks. 

Deel  clucked  with  distress.  "Didn't  anyone  ever  show  you  how  to 
take  care  of  yourself?"  She  lifted  one  of  Gleia's  hands  and  turned 
it  over,  scowling  at  the  dry  skin  of  the  palm.  "You  got  any  money 
left?" 

"A  little."  Gleia  gently  freed  her  hand.  "I've  almost  finished  em- 
broidering a  shawl.  A  couple  hours'  work  left  on  it.  I  could  use  some 
help  finding  a  reasonably  honest  merchant  to  buy  it." 

"Got  it,  hon."  Deel  frowned,  tapping  the  tips  of  her  fingernails 
lightly  on  the  amber  silk  covering  her  thighs.  "I'll  see  if  I  can  get 
hold  of  Merd.  With  him  along,  no  merchant's  going  to  cheat  you 
more  than  reasonable.  If  your  man's  not  back  by  tomorrow  morning 
we  can  grab  a  bite  to  eat  and  hunt  out  a  couple  men  I  know  of 
What're  you  going  to  do  once  you've  got  the  money?" 

Gleia  was  silent  a  long  moment.  Finally  she  smoothed  her  hand 
across  her  eyes.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly.  "Last  night  I  thought 
I'd  leave.  Now  ...  I  don't  know.  I  .  .  ."  She  stopped  talking,  shook 
her  head,  sat  frowning  at  the  dregs  of  cha  in  the  mug.  "Deel,  what's 
happening  here  in  Istir?  What's  got  people  so  stirred  up?" 

The  amber  eyes  studied  her,  then  the  dancer  nodded.  "Right.  You 
and  your  Juggler  picked  a  bad  time  to  come  here."  Deel  crossed  her 
arms  over  her  breasts  and  leaned  forward  until  her  head  was  close 
to  Gleia's.  "The  Stareyn's  getting  feeble,  so  I  hear.  They  don't  let 
it  out,  the  Families,  I  mean,  but  a  lot  of  people  work  in  the  Kiralydom 
136  JO  CLAYTON 


and  go  home  to  their  families  when  their  hours  are  done.  So  people 
know  more  than  the  Families  think.  And  Merd  has  duty  in  the 
Kiralydom  twice  a  week.  He  tells  me  the  Stareyn  drools  and  goes 
to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  what  he's  saying.  He's  a  Sokklaun,  the 
Stare5ni,  I  mean.  The  Sokkla  have  held  the  Stareynate  for  the  past 
three  Stareyns  which  means  they've  ruled  Istir  and  the  Istraven  for 
years  and  years.  But  the  Lossalni  are  prowling  around  ready  to  take 
it  from  them  soon's  they  figure  out  how."  She  looked  cautiously 
around,  then  leaned  closer  and  whispered,  "Rumor  is  they  have.  The 
Stareyn's  Lot  is  supposed  to  be  tamperproof,  pure  chance,  but  men 
keep  saying  the  Lossal's  found  a  way  to  change  the  odds.  Me  .  .  ." 
She  glanced  about  again,  but  none  of  the  men  moving  past  seemed 
interested  in  them.  "Me,  I'm  thinking  hard  of  getting  out  of  here, 
maybe  going  south  to  Zindaira.  I've  got  family  there.  And  I'm  a 
damn  good  dancer.  I  won't  starve.  Why  don't  you  come  with  me? 
You  said  you  were  thinking  of  leaving.  Two  women  would  be  safer 
than  one." 

"What  about  Merd?" 

"I'll  miss  the  big  idiot,  but  I'd  miss  my  head  a  lot  more.  If  the 
Stareyn  goes,  he'll  be  on  duty  till  he  drops.  What  I  see,  there's  going 
to  be  a  lot  of  trouble.  When  powerful  families  fight,  the  little  people 
get  smashed  flat.  Like  you  said,  you  can  feel  the  tension  even  here 
in  the  Stranger's  Quarter.  Any  day  now  the  mess  starts.  One  of  the 
reasons  Merd's  captain  is  so  edgy."  She  giggled.  "One  of  the  reasons 
I  got  this  eye."  She  looked  up.  Clouds  were  beginning  to  thicken 
over  the  suns.  "Damn.  It's  going  to  be  a  wet  night.  On  top  of  every- 
thing else  that  means  the  Horn  is  going  to  be  wall-to-wall  boatmen." 
She  hitched  her  cloak  back  around  her,  fastened  the  chain  and  pin. 
"Think  about  what  I  said,  Gleia.  The  Juggler's  got  himself  in  a  real 
sticky  spot.  The  Lossal,  that  little  viper,  would  poison  half  the  city 
to  protect  his  daughter.  He'll  never  admit  even  to  himself  that  she 
sleeps  around  worse  than  a  whore.  Six  days  now."  She  shook  her 
head.  "Don't  think  you'll  see  him  again,  Gleia."  Sighing  she  stood 
and  pulled  up  the  hood  of  her  cloak.  "I've  got  to  go.  Merd's  coming 
back  later  this  afternoon  and  he  expects  me  to  be  home.  Think  over 
what  I  said.  If  you  want  to  leave,  come  with  me." 

Gleia  watched  her  swing  off,  then  looked  down  at  the  skim  of  cha 
left  in  the  mug.  With  a  sharp  cry  of  pain  and  frustration,  she  tight- 
ened her  fingers  about  the  mug  then  flung  it  against  the  wall  where 
it  crashed  into  crumbly  shards  that  pattered  softly  on  the  stone 
pavement  seconds  later.  She  dropped  her  head  into  her  hands,  her 
dilemma  intensified  by  Deel's  offer.  "Shounach,  Shounach,"  she 
COMPANIONING  I37 


whispered.  "What  should  I  do?  If  I  knew  what  was  happeniijg  to 
you.  If  I  knew  .  .  .  knew  why  me  .  .  .  why  you  try  so  hard  with 
me  ...  if  I  knew  ...  if  I  knew  what  I .  .  .  Ranga  Eyes  .  .  ."  She  lifted 
her  head  and  stared  down  at  cupped  hands,  remembering  the  whis- 
pering temptations  of  the  egg-shaped  crystal  she'd  found  in  the 
streets  of  Carhenas;  she'd  looked  into  the  crystal  and  seen  beauty 
and  friendship,  an  idyllic  world  that  called  strongly  to  her.  She'd 
denied  that  temptation  once  to  walk  her  own  road;  now  the  Ranga 
Eyes  were  back  in  her  life,  back  with  Shounach.  /  wish  the  smuggler 
hadn't  told  you  where  he  got  the  eyes  he  sold.  If  it  wasn't  for  those 
damn  eyes  you  wouldn't  have  gone  off  with  her  .  .  .  and  left 
me  .  .  .  Madar  bless,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  I  don't  know  .  .  .  /  don't 
know.  .  .  .  She  jumped  to  her  feet,  jerked  up  the  hood,  walked 
quickly  away. 

Late  that  evening  when  she  came  back  to  her  room,  tired  from 
wandering  aimlessly  about  the  market  quarters,  she  shut  the  door 
and  turned  to  find  rain  drifting  in  through  the  open  shutters.  With 
an  exclamation  of  annoyance,  she  ran  to  the  window  and  reached 
out  to  unhook  the  braces,  the  rain  misting  into  her  face. 

Four  large  men  came  trotting  down  the  street,  rain  painting  high- 
lights on  their  oiled  skins  and  running  down  the  sides  of  the  elab- 
orate litter  they  carried.  Gleia  recognized  the  blue  curtains,  stiffened, 
wondering  whether  she  was  glad  or  not  to  see  it. 

Shounach  slid  out,  shook  his  bright  head  as  the  misting  rain 
settled  on  his  hair,  pressed  a  lingering  kiss  onto  the  small,  plump 
hand  thrust  through  the  curtains  after  him.  Ignoring  the  rain  slant- 
ing down  harder  now,  he  watched  the  litter  move  off,  then  looked 
up.  When  he  saw  Gleia,  he  grinned,  waved,  ran  into  the  building. 

Gleia  swung  the  shutters  closed  and  dropped  the  bar-latch.  She 
moved  to  the  bed  and  sat  down,  shoulders  bent,  feeling  strange.  All 
the  pain,  anger,  and  uncertainty  was  back. 

He  rapped  on  the  door.  "Gleia,  open  up." 

She  slid  off  the  bed,  kicked  off  her  sandals,  padded  to  the  door. 
After  a  momentary  hesitation,  she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
retreated  to  the  windowseat.  Her  body  tucked  into  the  corner  where 
the  walls  met,  she  sat  with  legs  pulled  up,  hands  resting  on  her 
knees. 

Shounach  stepped  inside,  shut  the  door,  looked  around.  The  only 
light  in  the  room  came  from  the  torches  in  the  hall,  trickling  in 
through  the  cracks  around  the  door.  He  was  a  nervous  shadow  in 
the  darkness.  She  could  hear  him  moving  about,  could  feel  his  an- 
138  JO  CLAYTON 


noyance  in  the  jerky  movement.  He  dropped  his  bag  beside  the  bed. 
"Gleia?" 

She  closed  her  eyes.  Accusations,  bitter  complaints,  questions 
boiled  inside  her,  all  of  them  futile,  it  seemed  to  her.  Without  speak- 
ing she  watched  him  light  the  lamp.  Her  hands  were  shaking  again. 
She  folded  her  arms  across  her  breasts,  hugging  the  cafta  tight 
against  herself,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Sitting  in  the  dark?" 

She  examined  his  face,  still  saying  nothing.  He  looked  tired  and 
irritated,  but  the  grinding  frustration  that  had  been  wearing  him 
down  was  gone;  he'd  found  out  what  he  needed  to  know.  She  swal- 
lowed and  let  her  eyes  drop. 

"Sulking?"  He  dropped  onto  the  bed  and  began  pulling  off  his 
boots.  "Come  here."  With  a  grin  he  patted  the  bed  beside  him.  "Got 
some  good  news." 

She  pulled  her  legs  up  farther,  pushed  back  into  the  corner.  "No." 

He  slipped  out  of  the  loose  jacket  and  threw  it  on  the  floor  by  the 
boots.  "What's  eating  at  you?" 

Sucking  in  a  deep  breath,  she  fought  with  the  urge  to  spill  her 
anger  over  him;  she  swallowed  repeatedly,  finally  burst  out,  "Five 
damn  days  and  not  a  word!" 

"You  knew  where  I  was."  He  started  undoing  the  fastening  of  his 
trousers.  "And  why  I  went  there." 

She  heard  the  irritation  in  his  voice  as  he  snapped  the  words  at 
her;  it  sparked  her  own  anger.  "So?"  She  wriggled  out  of  the  corner 
and  swung  her  legs  off  the  windowseat.  "It  couldn't  have  been  that 
hard  to  get  a  word,  one  word,  out  to  me.  Let  me  know  you're  still 
alive.  How  do  you  think  I  feel  when  I  hear  how  jealous  the  Lossal 
is  of  his  daughter,  that  he'd  poison  half  the  city  for  her?"  She  leaned 
forward,  her  hands  closed  tight  around  the  edge  of  the  seat.  "I  saw 
her;  she's  beautiful.  I  never  knew  why  you  took  up  with  me;  you 
could  decide  to  pack  it  in  any  time."  She  lifted  her  head,  stared  at 
him,  the  anger  draining  from  her.  He  looked  tired  and  unhappy.  His 
shoulders  slumped.  He  wiped  a  hand  across  his  face,  dropped  the 
hand  on  his  knee.  Gleia  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,  opened  them 
again,  said,  "You  did  forget  me,  didn't  you?" 

"You  finished?" 

"No.  But  what's  the  point  of  going  further?"  She  shrugged.  "I 
planned  to  leave  tomorrow — when  I  thought  you  weren't  coming 
back." 

"And  now  that  I  have?" 

"I  don't  know." 
COMPANIONING  139 


§  §  § 

Gleia  was  leaning  back  against  the  shutters,  her  face  lost  in 
shadow.  The  loose  cafta  fell  about  her  body,  concealing  it,  but  her 
hands  were  restless,  fingers  twitching,  palms  brushing  over  her 
thighs,  shifting  across  the  wood  of  the  windowseat.  Shounach  sup- 
pressed a  burst  of  anger,  felt  a  frisson  of  fear  as  this  repeated  an  old 
pain.  He  was  afraid  of  his  anger,  afraid  of  what  it  made  him  do. 
She'd  wriggled  in  under  his  skin  without  knowing  what  she'd  done, 
had  stirred  up  emotions  he'd  thought  dead.  He  rubbed  his  hand 
across  his  face  again.  He  was  tired,  half-sick  with  a  self-loathing 
born  of  his  pandering  to  Toreykyn's  fancies,  sick  too  from  the  ancient 
anger  that  drove  him  after  the  Ranga  Eyes.  He  watched  her  hands 
a  minute,  then  asked,  "What  do  you  want  to  do?"  For  the  first  time 
in  far  too  many  years  he  found  himself  caring  about  what  another 
person  decided;  he  could  feel  long-stifled  emotions  unfolding  pain- 
fully. He  tried  to  shut  them  away  again  as  he  waited  for  her  answer, 
arms  crossed  tightly  over  his  chest. 

For  several  minutes  she  said  nothing.  Her  hand  lifted,  her  fingers 
moved  slowly  over  her  scars — her  talismans.  "I  don't  know." 

"You  said  that  before."  He  smiled  briefly,  let  the  smile  fade  when 
she  continued  to  stare  past  him. 

"I  said  it  to  myself  a  lot  the  past  two,  three  days.  Until  I  was  sick 
of  hearing  it."  She  sat  up,  bringing  her  face  into  the  light.  "I  don't 
know  if  I  can  run  double;  that's  the  truth." 

"I  see."  He  looked  down  at  his  boots,  at  the  jacket  falling  over 
them.  After  wriggling  out  of  his  trousers,  he  carried  bag,  boots,  and 
clothing  to  the  wall  pegs  where  Gleia's  bag  already  hung,  its  canvas 
sides  bulging.  He  touched  it,  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Gleia. 
"You're  ready  to  go.  All  packed." 

She  thrust  her  fingers  impatiently  through  her  hair.  "I  told  you." 

•"So  you  did."  He  dropped  the  bag  and  boots,  hung  jacket  and  pants 
on  the  pegs,  then  walked  slowly  back  to  the  bed,  stretching  and 
yawning  as  he  moved.  After  stripping  the  quilt  back  until  it  pooled 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  he  lay  down  on  his  back,  pulled  a  pillow  under 
his  head,  folded  it,  wriggled  about  until  he  was  comfortable.  "Come 
here,  Gleia.  I'm  tired  of  yelling  across  a  room  at  you." 

Smiling  reluctantly,  she  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  trust  you,  Fox. 
You  could  talk  a  tars  into  skinning  himself  for  you." 

"That  windowseat  looks  damn  uncomfortable  and  it  gets  cold  be- 
fore dawn."  He  rolled  onto  his  side,  propped  himself  up  on  an  elbow 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "Don't  be  silly,  love.  Come  here  and  listen 
to  the  story  of  my  life." 

"Damn  you,  Fox."  She  slid  off  the  windowseat.  "Five  days  in  that 
140  JO  CLAYTON 


bitch's  bed.  I  should  kick  you  out  that  window."  She  jerked  her  head 
back  at  the  shutters,  then  began  pulling  the  cafta  over  her  head. 
Her  words  muffled,  she  went  on,  "You  don't  know  how  tempted  I 
am."  After  draping  the  cafta  over  the  unfinished  shawl  on  the  bed- 
side table,  she  blew  out  the  lamp,  then  stretched  out  beside  Shoun- 
ach,  lying  on  her  stomach,  her  head  resting  on  crossed  arms.  "The 
story  of  your  life?" 

"A  part  of  it."  He  smoothed  his  hand  slowly  down  the  curve  of  her 

back,  her  flesh  cool  and  taut  under  his  fmgers.  "I  had  a  brother 

once."  Catching  hold  of  one  of  her  curls,  he  drew  the  silky  length 

between  thumb  and  forefinger.  "A  long  time  ago.  A  half-brother 

^  really,  although  we  grew  up  almost  like  twins." 

She  pushed  his  hand  away,  turned  slightly  on  her  side.  "I'm  mak- 
ing no  promises,  Shounach.  Tell  me  what  you  want,  but  remember, 
it  won't  make  any  difference.  I'll  make  up  my  own  mind;  I  won't  be 
pushed."  She  settled  back  on  the  bed.  What  he  could  see  of  her  face 
was  set  in  stubborn  lines. 

He  turned  on  his  back,  stared  into  the  shadows  thick  on  the  ceil- 
ing. "Remember  how  we  met?" 

"On  that  ship  the  Thissik  stole.  Why?" 

"You  told  me  you  couldn't  remember  your  parents.  They  must 
have  been  mountain  folk."  He  lay  silent.  The  noise  from  the  taproom 
filtered  up  the  stairs  and  hovered  over  them.  Shounach  could  feel 
Gleia  resisting  him;  she  was  moving  away.  Could  have  been  a  mis- 
take bringing  her  this  close,  he  thought.  /  don't  know.  He  smiled  into 
the  darkness,  scratched  at  an  arm.  After  three  centuries  of  wander- 
ing, to  know  so  little  .  .  . 

"When  the  Thissik  brought  you  in  and  dumped  you  on  that  bunk 
I  thought  I'd  been  fooling  around  too  much  with  the  Eyes.  I  saw  my 
brother  .  .  .  you  could  have  been  his  twin." 

"Your  brother?"  She  pushed  up  from  the  bed,  swung  around  until 
she  was  sitting  cross-legged,  looking  down  at  him.  "Your  brother? 
All  this  time  you've  been  making  love  to  your  brother?"  There  was 
anger  and  revulsion  in  her  voice.  She  started  to  slide  off  the  bed. 

He  caught  her  ankle.  "Don't  be  stupid." 

"Let  go."  She  kicked  her  foot,  trying  to  shake  him  loose. 

He  hesitated  a  minute  then  released  her.  "Go  if  you  want."  At  the 
same  time  he  rolled  over,  turning  his  back  on  her,  waiting  tensely 
to  see  if  his  gamble  worked.  There  was  silence  for  several  minutes 
then  he  heard  the  sheets  rustling  as  she  stretched  out  on  her  stomach 
again. 

"Well?"  The  word  was  sharp,  almost  spat  at  him. 
COMPANIONING  141 


"Well  what?"  He  grinned  into  the  darkness,  but  kept  his  amuse- 
ment out  of  his  voice. 

"What  has  your  brother  got  to  do  with  anything?" 

"Ummmph."  He  turned  on  his  back  again,  punched  the  pillow  up, 
angled  his  head  so  he  could  see  her.  Her  face  was  lost  in  shadow, 
her  curls  tumbling  forward  until  all  he  could  see  was  the  curve  of 
her  jawline.  "Half-brother,"  he  said,  and  saw  her  start  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  "Same  father,  different  mothers;  my  mother  was  a  red- 
haired  witch  with  a  curse  on  her  head.  She  ..."  He  stopped  ab- 
ruptly, finding  after  all  that  he  couldn't  talk  about  her  even  now. 
"Never  mind.  My  brother  had  a  temper  like  yours,  Gleia.  Lava-hot 
one  minute,  gone  the  next.  I  was  different.  I  held  grudges  a  long, 
long  time,  love.  Far  beyond  any  reasonable  point.  I  found  a  Ranga 
Eye  one  day,  fished  it  out  of  the  river  that  ran  past  the  back  of  the 
house  where  my  family  lived.  If  you're  interested,  that's  the  river 
that  comes  to  sea  a  little  south  of  Carhenas." 

Gleia  made  a  soft  startled  sound.  He  shifted  onto  his  side, 
smoothed  the  hair  back  off  her  face,  touched  the  scars  on  her  cheek. 
"Odd  to  think  we  might  be  related,  isn't  it?" 

"I  thought  you  were  off-world  born.  You  let  me  think  that." 

He  raised  up  on  his  elbow  and  began  smoothing  his  hand  over  her 
back.  "I  don't  talk  about  this  much.  I  killed  my  brother." 

"Shounach."  She  wriggled  around,  caught  his  hand — then  drew 
back,  peered  through  the  darkness  at  his  face,  her  skepticism  re- 
turning. 

He  closed  his  hand  about  hers,  drawing  strength  from  her.  The 
next  part  was  painful;  no  matter  how  he  struggled  to  distance  him- 
self from  the  memory,  he  could  still  see  his  brother's  emptied  face. 
"I  was  about  six  standard-years  old,  Gleia.  The  Eye  was  shining  in 
the  gravel  at  the  bottom  of  the  river.  I  took  it  to  the  bench  where 
my  father  liked  to  spend  his  mornings  and  sat  with  it,  turning  it 
over  and  over,  fascinated  as  it  began  playing  its  dreams  for  me.  You 
know.  Before  it  could  take  me,  the  bell  rang  for  the  evening  Madar- 
chant.  I  hid  the  Eye  in  the  roots  of  the  tree  and  went  inside.  The 
next  day  my  brother  and  I  quarrelled  over  .  .  .  something.  Some- 
thing so  unimportant  I  can't  even  remember  what  it  was.  That  night 
I  set  the  Eye  beside  him,  then  went  to  bed,  pleased  with  myself, 
figuring  he'd  lose  a  night's  sleep  and  be  punished  for  it  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  must  have  been  extra-sensitive.  In  the  morning  he  was 
already  lost.  Burnt  hollow."  He  pulled  his  hand  free,  moved  away 
from  her,  lay  staring  up  into  the  shifting  shadows.  The  ancient 
anger  was  growing;  he  struggled  to  control  it.  "I  ran  away,"  he 
142  JO  CLAYTON 


muttered.  "Couldn't  face  up  to  what  Fd  done.  Got  off-world  after  a 
while.  Wandered  about  a  lot,  running  away  from  myself  much  as 
anything.  Taught  myself  not  to  feel.  Something  happened  not  long 
ago,  sent  me  back  here." 

"Hunting  for  the  Ranga  Eyes." 

"Hunting,"  he  said  harshly.  Turning  his  head  to  her,  he  half- 
smiled,  a  quick  upward  jerking  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth.  "I  told 
you  I  hold  grudges  a  long  time." 

Outside,  the  rain  hissed  down,  drumming  steadily  against  the 
shutters.  Voices  from  the  taproom  below  rose  and  fell.  In  the  silence 
that  followed,  Shounach  could  hear  curses  as  a  man  was  thrown  out 
into  the  wet,  then  his  pounding  feet  as  he  ran  for  another  shelter. 
Beside  him  Gleia  shifted  restlessly;  she  pushed  up  on  one  elbow  and 
flattened  her  hand  on  his  chest.  She  was  smiling  a  little,  the  whites 
of  her  eyes  gleaming  softly  in  the  dimness.  "What  happened  these 
past  six  days?"  Catching  a  bit  of  flesh  between  thumb  and  fingernail, 
she  pinched  hard.  "And  don't  brag  about  your  conquest.  I  don't  want 
to  hear  about  it." 

He  laughed,  happy  with  her,  caught  her  hand.  "You  delight  me, 
my  vixen.  Damn,  I've  missed  you." 

She  pulled  away.  "No  promises,  Fox."  Her  voice  was  cool;  she 
wasn't  about  to  let  him  talk  her  into  forgetting  her  doubts. 

He  sucked  in  a  deep  breath,  let  it  explode  out.  "What  happened? 
I  performed  for  the  household  and  for  the  daughter  of  the  House. 
In  between  times  I  wandered  about,  asked  a  few  questions,  listened 
a  lot,  and  found  out  nothing  at  all  about  the  Lossal  and  the  Ranga 
Eyes.  Though  I  listened  to  more  than  I  wanted  to  hear  about  the 
Lossal  and  his  activities."  He  yawned,  then  laced  his  hands  over  his 
ribs.  "Until  last  night." 

He  slid  carefully  from  the  bed,  stood  looking  down  at  the  sleeping 
Toreykyn,  fiiJed  with  souJ-weariness  and  self-loathing.  "Whore,"  he 
whispered  and  didn't  mean  the  woman  snoring  slightly,  her  face 
slack,  empty  for  once  of  the  greed  and  fretfulness  that  marred  its 
beauty.  He  passed  a  hand  over  his  face,  then  turned  away  from  her, 
trying  to  throw  off  his  weariness  of  body  and  spirit. 

Aab's  light  crept  through  the  curtains,  turned  the  darkness  into 
a  pearl-grey  shimmer.  Shounach  dressed  quickly,  then  knelt  beside 
his  hag,  reaching  through  the  membrane  into  the  hyper-pocket  for 
his  tools.  He  hung  a  tingJer  in  his  ear,  a  pear-shaped  red  gem  that 
would  warn  him  of  electronic  spying.  The  Lossal's  iron  birds  had 
startled  him;  they  had  no  place  in  this  pre-industrial  society.  As  he 
COMPANIONING  I43 


slid  the  finder  ring  on  his  finger,  he  wondered  idly  about  the  source 
of  the  birds.  Off-world  trader  probably.  He  turned  the  grey-white 
stone  inward,  his  lips  tightening  as  he  saw  a  faint  gJimmer  in  the 
dull  gem.  The  finder  was  tuned  to  Ranga  Eyes.  For  tJie  first  time  he 
had  evidence  of  their  connection  with  the  Lossal.  He  transferred 
lock  picks,  a  small  stunner,  a  cutter,  and  a  laser  rod  to  his  pocket, 
then  closed  the  bag. 

Toreykyn  stirred,  muttered.  Holding  his  breath,  Shounach  went 
quickly  back  to  her.  She  was  still  asleep  but  moving  restlessly.  He 
touched  her  temples,  concentrated,  sent  her  deeper  into  sleep. 
Straightening,  he  drew  the  tips  of  his  fingers  down  his  jacket.  She 
was  snoring  again,  soft  little  whistling  snores.  She  even  lisps  in  her 
sleep,  he  thought.  His  revulsion  passed  off  and  he  felt  only  pity.  She 
was,  after  all,  a  rather  stupid  woman  without  enough  imagination 
to  be  evil. 

He  left  her  and  moved  to  the  window.  For  the  past  two  days  he'd 
been  trying  to  get  into  the  room  the  Lossal  called  his  library.  He'd 
tried  every  avenue  he  couJd  discover,  had  returned  again  and  again 
at  different  times  during  the  day  and  night;  tiiere  were  guards  around 
aJJ  the  time,  people  going  in  and  out  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night. 
There  was  one  last  thing  he  could  try — going  in  from  the  outside. 
He  slipped  through  the  heavy  drapes  and  went  into  the  window  on 
his  stomach.  The  wall  here  was  five  feet  thick  and  the  window 
narrowed  as  it  went  outward,  but  it  was  still  high  enough  for  him 
to  sit  upright  when  he  reached  the  outer  opening.  He  wriggJed 
around  until  he  was  sitting  with  his  legs  dangJing  among  the  vine 
tendrils,  the  over-sweet  perfume  of  the  vine  fruit  strong  around  him. 

The  garden  beJow  was  siJent,  filled  with  a  peace  that  seemed  to 
mock  him.  The  shrubbery  and  trees  were  dark  areas  separated  by 
the  paler  grass  and  the  silver  gJint  of  streams  converging  on  the 
fountain  in  the  center.  Beyond  the  garden,  the  wall  that  shut  in  the 
privileged  part  of  the  city  was  dark  and  suJien,  its  creneJJations 
etched  against  the  torchlight  from  the  market  quarter  beyond.  He 
started  to  push  out  of  the  window,  then  stopped  as  he  saw  three 
figures  moving  at  a  rapid  walk  from  the  Stranger's  Quarter,  heading 
for  the  inner  gate.  He  watched  with  considerable  curiosity,  high 
enough  so  he  couJd  Jook  down  into  the  wide  street  but  too  high  to 
see  more  than  vague  dark  shapes.  As  the  shapes  disappeared  behind 
the  wall,  Shounach  felt  heat  against  the  palm  of  his  iiand.  He  looked 
down,  excitement  coJd  in  his  stomach.  SJowJy  he  unfolded  his  fin- 
gers, uncovering  the  finder  gem.  The  glow  was  getting  stronger. 

As  the  three  appeared  on  the  near  side  of  the  gate,  a  pair  of  iron 
144  JO  CLAYTON 


birds  swooped  from  the  house  to  circle  around  the  gate  towers. 
Shounach  frowned,  then  pushed  out  from  the  window  and  floated 
down  close  to  the  wall,  dropping  through  wavering  vine  tendrils, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  birds. 

He  landed  crouching,  scrambled  back  into  the  shadow  close  to 
the  wall.  The  vine  stalks  were  ancient  twisting  monsters  with  loose, 
fibrous  bark  that  curled  away  from  the  inner  wood  and  came  loose 
at  the  slightest  touch,  dinging  to  the  materia]  of  his  trousers,  even 
to  his  bare  feet  and  hands.  He  grimaced,  brushed  cautiously  at  the 
itchy  fragments,  looking  out  through  the  skim  of  leaves  at  the  birds. 

One  of  them  hesitated  in  its  circle,  then  came  soaring  around  over 
the  garden.  Shounach  slid  his  hand  into  his  jacket  pocket,  closed 
his  fingers  about  the  laser  rod,  siJentJy  cursing  the  bird.  He  had  to 
get  a  look  at  those  men,  had  to  know  who  was  bringing  the  Ranga 
Eyes  to  the  Lossal.  The  smell  of  the  vine  fruit  was  stronger,  near- 
stifling  here.  The  leaves  whispered,  the  vine  stalks  groaned  and 
thrummed  in  the  rising  wind.  In  the  trees  and  brushes  he  could  hear 
a  few  night  birds  crying,  night  insects  creaking  and  chirping.  And 
over  aJi  the  small  night  sounds,  he  could  hear  the  steady  humming 
of  the  iron  bird. 

It  circled  the  garden  and  came  back  along  the  House  wall.  Ruby 
Jight  shot  suddenly  from  the  eye  and  began  sweeping  along  the 
wall's  base.  Shounach  waited  tensely;  once  he  used  the  laser,  he'd 
have  to  get  out  fast.  The  red  light  splashed  on  stone  and  leaves, 
moved  swiftly  toward  him. 

The  gate  in  the  garden  wall  swung  open  and  the  three  men  came 
through.  Two  were  Lossalni  Harriers,  the  third  a  boatman  from 
upriver;  an  important  man,  Shounach  thought,  judging  by  his  strut. 
An  ugJy,  arrogant  man  hugging  a  large  leather  pouch  against  his 
barrel  belly.  Shounach  stared  greedily,  his  ring  hand  clenched  in 
a  fist,  the  ring-fire  burning  into  his  palm.  Madar  be  blessed,  he 
thought,  echoing  the  formula  of  his  childhood.  The  Fox's  luck,  as 
Gleia  would  say.  Forgetting  about  the  searching  bird,  he  stared  at 
the  man,  fixing  the  blunt,  lined  features  in  his  mind. 

The  boatman  looked  up,  saw  the  bird.  "Get  that  damn  thing  away 
from  me."  He  stopped  walking,  glared  stubbornly  at  the  Harrier. 
"Not  another  step  till  that  abomination  is  gone." 

Shounach  started,  then  held  himself  very  still  as  the  bark  and 
leaves  rustled  noisily  against  the  stone;  he  cursed  the  obsession  that 
made  him  forget  the  danger  he  was  in,  looked  back  at  the  bird.  The 
red  light  had  stopped  moving  about  six  feet  from  him  and  the  bird 
was  bouncing  up  and  down  in  the  air  as  if  it  rode  invisible  waves. 

COMPANIONING  145 


"It  sensed  something  or  someone  in  the  garden.  I'll  .  .  ."  The  Har- 
rier broke  off  as  the  bird  hummed  away  from  the  wall  and  darted 
back  to  the  gate.  "Must  Ve  been  nothing.  Come  on.  No  talking  once 
we're  inside.  Not  till  we're  with  the  Lossal."  The  boatman  nodded 
and  the  three  men  walked  rapidly  across  the  garden  to  the  recessed 
door  with  its  small  flight  of  steps.  Shounach  crouched  in  the  shad- 
ows, not  daring  to  follow  them,  watching  them  go  with  a  sick  feeling 
of  futility.  Shaking  with  anger  and  frustration,  he  pressed  the  heels 
of  his  hands  against  his  eyes,  trying  to  convince  himseJf  that  he  had 
all  he  needed.  He's  a  boatman  and  I  know  his  face.  He  leaned  against 
the  stone,  dizzy  from  the  fumes  of  the  vine  fruit,  too  tired  to  force 
himself  farther. 

"I  went  back  to  the  room,  tucked  things  back  in  the  bag,  slept 
hard  until  Toreykyn  woke  me  the  next  morning."  He  yawned,  turned 
on  his  side,  trying  to  make  out  her  features  in  the  darkness. 

Gleia  pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  face,  raised  on  one  elbow. 
"A  boatman."  She  swung  up,  sat  cross-legged,  elbows  on  her  knees, 
chin  braced  on  her  hands,  her  curls  falling  forward  around  her  face 
as  she  focused  her  eyes  on  him.  "You've  got  the  next  step.  What 
now?"  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  on,  "Deel  says  the  Stareyn 
is  close  to  dying." 

"Deel?" 

"You  saw  her — that  time  you  went  off  with  Toreykyn.  The  dancer 
standing  next  to  me.  She  says  when  the  Stareyn  dies,  the  Families 
lock  the  gates  and  don't  let  anyone  in  or  out  until  the  Stareyn's  Lot 
has  been  cast  and  the  new  Stareyn  installed.  That  could  make  prob- 
lems for  you." 

"For  me?" 

"Deel's  leaving  soon;  she  asked  me  to  go  south  with  her." 

"I  see.  Are  you?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  started  laughing,  straightened  her  back, 
stretched  extravagantly,  then  folded  her  arms  across  her  breasts. 
"Stop  pushing.  Fox."  She  yawned  suddenly.  "Madar,  I'm  tired."  She 
patted  at  her  mouth,  yawned  again.  "In  the  morning.  We  can  talk 
this  out  in  the  morning." 

Gleia  jerked  upright,  dazed  with  sleep,  as  the  door  slammed  open 
and  a  Harrier  stalked  inside.  Shounach  came  awake  like  a  startled 
animal,  diving  off  the  bed  in  a  swift  movement  that  changed  into 
an  awkward  scramble  as  the  quilt  twisted  around  his  legs.  He  kicked 
it  away  and  ran  for  his  bag. 

146  JO  CLAYTON 


The  Harrier  yelled  an  order  and  Shounach  came  to  an  abrupt  stop, 
a  sword  at  his  throat.  A  third  man  came  in,  an  archer.  He  stepped 
away  from  the  door,  a  bolt  ready  in  his  crossbow,  his  dark,  cynical 
eyes  turning  between  Gleia  and  Shounach.  The  leader  of  the  three 
waved  a  hand;  Shounach  was  backed  into  the  center  of  the  room 
where  he  stood,  narrowed  eyes  turning  constantly  as  he  searched 
for  an  opening.  The  lead  Harrier  tossed  Shounach's  clothing  at  his 
feet.  "Get  dressed,"  he  said  crisply.  He  turned  to  Gleia.  "You  too, 
girl.  On  your  feet  and  put  something  on."  While  Gleia  pulled  the 
cafta  over  her  head  and  smoothed  it  down,  he  moved  about  the  room, 
poking  into  its  meager  furnishings,  tossing  the  two  bags  onto  the 
bed,  throwing  the  unfinished  shawl  over  them.  Shounach  fastened 
his  trousers  and  slipped  his  arms  into  the  sleeves  of  his  loose  open 
jacket,  watching  grimly  as  the  burly  lead  Harrier  thrust  his  arm 
through  the  two  straps  and  shrugged  the  bags  up  against  his  side. 
He  turned  to  frown  at  Shounach.  "The  Lossal  wants  you.  Don't  try 
nothin';  Herv  there  can  wing  a  gnat."  He  nodded  at  the  archer.  "We 
can  tie  you  on  a  pole  and  haul  you  to  him  like  a  side  of  meat.  Or 
you  can  walk.  Up  to  you." 

"I  walk."  Shounach  held  out  his  hand.  Gleia  took  it  and  together 
they  walked  out  the  door,  the  leader  ahead  and  the  other  two  Har- 
riers following  close  behind. 

The  rain  had  stopped;  the  pavement  glistened  wetly  in  starlight 
that  had  broken  through  the  tattered  clouds.  The  torches  were  ex- 
tinguished in  front  of  the  taverns  and  all  the  buildings  in  the 
Stranger's  Quarter  were  dark  and  silent.  In  the  near  distance  she 
could  hear  the  shouts  and  other  noises  of  the  produce  carts  coming 
into  the  produce  market.  The  only  other  sounds  were  the  shuffle  of 
their  feet  on  the  wet  stone. 

The  Library  was  a  large  room,  filled  with  racks  of  scrolls  and 
layers  of  flat  pages  sewn  together.  Between  the  piles  of  books,  the 
piles  of  scrolls,  sat  small  statues,  vases,  objects  that  glowed  with 
color.  The  corners  of  the  room  disappeared  in  red-tinted  gloom  as 
the  dawn  light  fanned  through  the  line  of  long,  narrow  windows  in 
the  outer  wall,  red  light  with  motes  dancing  in  the  beams  like  points 
of  fire.  The  Lossal  sat  behind  a  massive  table  in  a  low-backed  mas- 
sive chair.  He  was  a  small  man  with  an  exuberant  halo  of  white 
hair  touched  dramatically  with  crimson  by  the  light  pouring  in  the 
window  just  behind  him,  haloed  in  crimson  light  so  that  his  features 
other  than  the  pale  glint  of  colorless  eyes  were  lost  in  shadow.  He 
sat  waiting  for  them,  watching  them  intently  as  the  Harriers  es- 
COMPANIONING  147 


corted  them  into  the  room.  The  leader  set  the  two  bags  on  the  table 
in  front  of  him. 

"As  ordered,  Lossal-vais." 

The  chair  and  table  had  elongated  legs  so  the  old  man's  eyes  were 
on  a  level  with  theirs  though  he  was  sitting  while  they  stood.  His 
pale  eyes  moved  past  the  Juggler,  stopped  on  Gleia.  "Why'd  you 
bring  the  woman?" 

"She  was  in  bed  with  him,  Lossal-vas." 

Gleia  shivered  as  she  saw  him  frown,  then  glance  upward.  Deel's 
wrong,  she  thought.  He  knows  about  Toreykyn's  fancies.  He  knows 
about  her  and  Shounach. 

The  Lossal  leaned  forward  and  hooked  Shounach's  bag  toward 
him.  He  flipped  the  top  back  and  pulled  out  the  contents — the  blue 
glass  balls,  the  red  crystals,  three  small  gilded  dragons,  a  gilt  dancer 
balancing  on  one  foot,  some  bits  of  facetted  glass,  cheap  brass  jew- 
elry, some  crumpled  scarves  and  dingey  rags  and  fragments,  other 
odds  and  ends.  He  upended  the  bag,  shook  it,  then  set  it  aside. 
Pushing  the  balls  about  with  his  forefinger,  he  smiled  tightly  at 
Shounach.  "These  look  a  lot  better  by  torchlight  and  at  a  distance. 
Like  you.  Juggler."  Sweeping  everything  from  the  table  back  into 
the  bag,  he  dropped  the  bag  beside  his  chair,  then  began  investi- 
gating Gleia's  possessions.  As  he  fingered  her  spare  caftas  and 


148 


JO  CLAYTON 


reached  for  the  unfinished  shawl,  Gleia  forced  herself  to  stay  quiet, 
anger  burning  in  her  at  this  invasion  of  her  privacy.  He  unfolded 
the  shawl,  touched  the  design,  fingered  the  needle,  then  swept  the 
shawl  aside  and  took  up  the  two  handkerchiefs.  He  spread  them  out 
on  the  table  before  him,  ran  his  fingers  over  the  fine  stitching.  He 
dug  through  the  rest  of  the  things  in  the  bag — her  bag  of  thread, 
her  book  of  needles,  the  tambour  hoop,  the  small  thread-knife  with 
its  razor-edged  half-inch  blade  and  horn  casing,  a  ragged  brush  and 
some  cakes  of  black  ink,  some  parchment  for  sketching  designs.  He 
unrolled  the  wrinkled  parchment,  examined  the  scribbled  sketches. 
After  contemplating  these  for  several  minutes,  he  pushed  the  other 
things  aside  and  pulled  the  shawl  back  in  front  of  him.  Smoothing 
the  soft  black  triangle  out  on  the  table,  he  ran  his  fingers  slowly 
along  the  band  of  silver  and  green  embroidery  above  the  elaborately 
knotted  fringe. 

Fuming  and  impotent,  Gleia  hugged  her  arms  across  her  breasts 
and  refused  to  look  at  the  old  man.  The  room  was  still;  the  only 
sounds  were  the  soft  rasp  of  the  old  man's  dry  fingers  over  the  cloth 
and  the  steady  breathing  of  the  men  beside  her.  There  was  a  dry, 
dusty  smell  to  the  room,  a  dusty  smell  to  the  old  man  as  if  he  sat 
here  like  a  withered  spider,  fingers  on  the  threads  of  his  plots. 

The  Lossal  dropped  the  shawl  and  leaned  back  in  his  massive 
chair,  dominating  it  and  the  room  by  the  cold  intensity  of  his  col- 
orless eyes.  "Bring  the  woman  closer." 

Gleia  jerked  her  arm  away  from  the  Harrier's  hand,  marched  up 
to  the  table  and  stood  glaring  at  the  Lossal,  too  angry  to  give  in  to 
the  fear  that  was  clutching  her  stomach. 

The  Lossal  leaned  forward,  frowned.  "Turn  your  face."  His  eyes 
opened  a  little  wider.  "Show  me  the  marks." 

Reluctantly,  Gleia  turned  her  head.  She  moved  stiffly,  forcing 
herself  to  an  outward  calm  she  was  far  from  feeling  inside.  Her 
fingers  twitched;  her  hand  stirred,  started  to  lift  to  her  face;  she 
stiffened  her  arm,  brought  her  hand  back  to  her  side. 

"Carhenas  marks.  Thief?" 

"Yes."  Her  voice  was  harsh.  Though  he  waited,  obviously  expect- 
ing her  to  expand  her  statement  or  justify  herself,  she  said  nothing 
more. 

He  placed  his  hands  palm  down  on  the  shawl.  "Your  work?" 

"Yes." 

"You're  his  woman?"  He  pointed  at  the  Juggler. 

Gleia  stirred;  she  glanced  at  Shounach's  blank  face,  then  she 
shrugged.  "For  now." 
COMPANIONING  149 


He  reached  over,  picked  up  the  hmp  money  bag,  his  eyes  on  her, 
a  small  tight  smile  curving  his  thin  lips.  "You  don't  need  this  now." 
His  smile  widened  and  he  tossed  the  pouch  to  the  leader  of  the 
Harriers.  "A  small  bonus  for  a  good  job,  Ciyger." 

Gleia  clenched  her  hands,  watching  the  money  she  and  Shounach 
had  worked  hard  to  earn  thrown  so  negligently  away.  Anger  and 
a  growing  fear  alternately  burned  and  chilled  her.  Once  again  her 
skill  was  saving  her  neck;  her  fear  wasn't  for  herself.  What  she'd 
begun  to  understand  on  Zuwayl's  ship  was  coming  clearer  to  her. 
What  happened  to  Shounach  happened  to  her;  she  was  vulnerable 
in  a  way  she'd  never  been  before.  The  thought  dismayed  her,  made 
her  more  uncertain  than  ever  about  what  path  she  should  take  in 
the  future. 

"Move  aside,  girl."  The  Lossal's  impatient  command  brought  her 
from  her  unhappy  thoughts;  hastily  she  moved  from  in  front  of  him 
and  stood  watching  as  the  Harriers  brought  Shounach  forward. 

She  stared.  He  looked  furtive,  cunning;  his  shoulders  were 
rounded,  his  head  thrust  forward,  an  ingratiating  smile  twisted  his 
mouth  upward.  Unconsciously  she  relaxed,  realizing  that  the  Fox 
was  fitting  himself  into  the  Lossal's  image  of  him,  intending  that 
the  Lossal  despise  him  and  in  despising  him  underestimate  his  ca- 
pability. She  glanced  at  the  Lossal,  saw  him  watching  her,  began 
to  feel  uneasy  again.  She  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  and  tried 
to  keep  her  face  blank. 

The  Lossal  shifted  his  gaze  to  Shounach.  "Juggler."  His  voice  was 
silken  smooth.  Gleia  heard  amusement  crouching  behind  the  soft- 
ness and  felt  a  lump  of  ice  growing  in  her  stomach.  His  next  words 
weren't  a  surprise,  she'd  been  waiting  for  them  since  the  Harriers 
had  broken  in  on  them.  "Tell  me  what  you  were  doing  in  the  garden 
last  night." 

The  smile  was  wiped  from  Shounach's  face;  he  looked  startled  and 
increasingly  nervous.  He  rubbed  a  shaking  hand  over  his  mouth 
and  stared  at  the  floor.  Forgotten  for  the  moment,  Gleia  began  to 
enjoy  his  performance.  Nothing  overstated,  she  thought.  He's  turned 
into  a  whole  other  person.  "The  bird  spotted  me,"  he  muttered.  He 
shivered,  his  eyes  turning  and  turning,  visibly  searching  for  some 
escape  from  this  difficulty.  The  Lossal  waited,  fingers  tapping  on 
the  table.  Shounach  seemed  to  collapse  in  on  himself  "I'm  a  thief," 
he  said  sullenly.  "Too  many  people  in  the  halls,  couldn't  lay  my 
hands  on  anything  worth  the  trouble.  I  went  down  the  wall,  meant 
to  come  inside  on  this  floor,  see  if  I  could  pick  up  something  worth 
putting  my  head  in  the  strangler's  noose."  When  he  finished,  his 
150  JO  CLAYTON 


words  were  coming  fast,  piling  out  one  on  top  the  other,  but  the  last 
words  trailed  off  under  the  Lossal's  cool  and  skeptical  gaze. 

Reptilian  lids  drooping  over  pale  eyes,  the  Lossal  studied  Shoun- 
ach's  face.  "You  could  be  the  trash  you  seem."  He  waved  away 
Shounach's  protests.  "No  matter.  I'll  find  out."  The  jerk  of  his  head 
brought  the  lead  Harrier  to  the  table.  "Take  that  downstairs;  tell 
Ottan  Ironmaster  to  play  with  him  a  little,  find  out  what  he  knows. 
I  don't  think  he'll  find  anything  interesting  so  he  doesn't  have  to 
waste  effort  trying  to  keep  the  Juggler  alive.  Leave  one  of  your  men 
here  to  take  the  girl." 

Gleia  swung  around,  her  hands  pressed  briefly  over  her  mouth, 
then  pulled  back  to  her  sides.  Shounach  went  without  further  pro- 
test, without  even  a  look  at  her.  It  would  have  worked,  Gleia  thought. 
It  would  have  worked  except  for  Toreykyn.  She  turned  back  to  face 
the  Lossal.  His  hands  were  folded  on  the  table;  a  small,  satisfied 
smile  pulled  his  thin  lips  into  a  tight  arc.  She  suppressed  a  shudder. 
She  must  have  made  some  sound,  though  she  wasn't  aware  of  it;  he 
swivelled  his  head  and  examined  her,  his  smile  widening  as  he 
enjoyed  her  distress.  He  began  touching  the  shawl  again,  watching 
her  intently  as  he  pinched  and  smoothed  the  material.  A  faint  flush 
bloomed  in  his  cheeks;  the  tip  of  his  nose  reddened.  Gleia  began 
sweating.  She  swallowed,  nauseated  by  the  feeling  that  his  hands 
were  moving  over  her  body. 

He  pushed  the  shawl  away  and  leaned  back.  "You're  gifted  with 
your  hands,  girl." 

She  stared  at  him. 

"No  point  in  wasting  that  talent."  He  got  up  smoothed  his  robes 
down  over  his  small  round  belly,  walked  across  the  room  to  the 
guard.  "Put  her  in  a  room  in  the  servants'  quarters,  away  from  the 
others,  put  a  guard  outside  to  see  she  stays  there.  See  she's  fed, 
bring  me  the  shawl  when  she's  finished  with  it."  He  strolled  out 
leaving  Gleia  seething  behind  him. 

The  Harrier  reached  for  her.  She  jerked  away.  "I  need  my  things," 
she  snapped. 

He  scowled  at  her.  "Don't  take  all  day." 

Gleia  moved  around  the  table  without  arguing.  For  the  moment 
she  was  too  tired  to  keep  fighting.  She  folded  her  things  and  put 
them  back  into  her  bag,  ignoring  the  Harrier's  impatient  muttering. 
When  she  leaned  over,  reaching  for  one  of  the  handkerchiefs,  she 
kicked  something  on  the  floor.  Shounach's  bag  was  sitting  beside 
the  Lossal's  chair.  She  folded  the  handkerchief  with  shaking  hands 
and  slipped  it  into  her  bag.  The  Harrier  was  fidgeting  by  the  door, 

COMPANIONING  151 


paying  little  attention  to  her.  She  caught  the  strap  of  Shounach's 
bag  and  slipped  it  over  her  shoulder,  then  covered  it  with  the  strap 
of  her  own.  Holding  her  bag  in  front  of  the  other,  she  walked  slowly 
to  the  door,  her  shoulders  slumped  in  weary  acceptance  of  her  ser- 
vitude, trying  to  hide  her  nervous  anxiety. 

The  Harrier  grunted  impatiently  and  urged  her  out  of  the  room, 
too  much  in  a  hurry  to  bother  about  what  she  carried.  She  walked 
ahead  of  him  along  the  high,  echoing  hall  to  a  pair  of  swinging 
doors.  On  the  far  side  of  the  doors  the  hall  was  smaller  and  a  great 
deal  rougher.  A  few  horn  lamps  lit  the  undressed  stone  of  wall  and 
ceiling;  the  coarse  matting  on  the  floor  was  worn  but  thick  enough 
to  mufile  footsteps.  They  passed  several  closed  doors  then  came  to 
a  busy  kitchen.  Gleia's  stomach  cramped  as  she  smelled  the  scent 
of  cooking  food.  She  stopped  walking.  The  Harrier  went  on  two  steps 
before  he  realized  she  was  no  longer  with  him.  He  wheeled,  grabbed 
for  her.  She  evaded  his  fingers.  "The  Lossal  told  you  to  see  I'm  fed. 
Food  and  candles.  I  need  both."  She  faced  him,  her  head  up,  her  eyes 
defiant.  For  the  moment  she  didn't  give  a  damn  about  anything. 

Reading  this  in  her  face,  he  backed  away.  "Wait  here." 

He  left  her  standing  in  the  hallway  outside  the  kitchen.  She  was 
tempted  to  slip  away  but  she  couldn't  leave  Shounach.  She  hugged 
his  bag  against  her  hip,  wondering  what  was  happening  to  him, 
then  shied  away  from  the  thought.  He  can't  die.  It  would  be  absurd 
for  him  to  die  now.  Even  as  she  thought  this,  she  knew  that  any 
one  could  die  any  time,  absurd  or  not. 

The  Harrier  came  back  with  a  covered  pannikin  and  a  handful 
of  candles,  thrust  both  at  her  and  hustled  her  on  down  the  hall. 
After  turning  several  comers,  he  caught  her  arm  and  shoved  her 
inside  a  small  room.  After  he  slammed  the  door  and  stalked  off,  she 
tossed  the  two  bags  onto  a  narrow  cot  and  looked  nervously  about. 
There  was  a  small  barred  window,  and  a  table  holding  a  battered 
candlestick  clotted  with  wax.  She  put  the  pannikin  and  the  candles 
on  the  table,  stretched,  then  went  quickly  to  the  door  and  pulled  it 
open. 

A  Harrier  was  coming  down  the  hall,  not  the  one  who'd  brought 
her.  He  speeded  up  to  a  trot,  opened  his  mouth  to  speak.  She  shut 
the  door. 

There  was  a  narrow  space  between  cot  and  table,  just  wide  enough 
to  let  her  walk  back  and  forth.  She  paced  nervously,  angry,  confused, 
and  afraid,  worried  about  Shounach,  worried  far  more  about  Shoun- 
ach than  she  was  for  herself.  Back  and  forth  until  her  legs  ached. 
Back  and  forth,  rubbing  her  sweating  palms  up  and  down  her  sides, 
152  JO  CLAYTON 


feeling  the  rough  material  of  her  cafta  riding  up  and  down  against 
her  skin.  Abruptly  she  kicked  the  stool  from  under  the  table  and 
sat,  taking  the  lid  off  the  pannikin.  There  was  a  hunk  of  bread 
soaking  in  a  thick  stew.  It  smelled  good  and  re-awakened  her  hun- 
ger. She  fished  the  spoon  out  of  the  gravy  and  began  eating. 

The  morning  dragged  by.  Again  and  again,  she  went  to  the  door, 
but  the  guard  was  always  there.  She  tried  talking  with  him.  He  told 
her  to  get  back  inside  and  stay  there,  said  nothing  else.  She  worked 
on  and  off  at  the  shawl,  stopping  when  her  hands  began  to  shake, 
paced  a  while,  sat  down  again  to  send  the  needle  dancing  in  and 
out  of  the  material  as  her  mind  circled  endlessly  and  futilely  around 
and  around  Shounach  and  her  own  "trilemma"  of  choice. 

Once  Shounach  and  she  were  loose,  she  could  let  him  go  off  on  his 
obsessive  quest  and  strike  out  on  her  own.  In  a  way  that  was  the 
easiest  road,  the  most  comfortable  choice.  She  wouldn't  have  to 
change  at  all,  just  go  on  the  way  she  always  had.  She  could  sell  the 
shawl  or  trade  it  for  passage  to  another  city  where  she  could  keep 
herself  with  her  skill.  There  were  times  when  this  path  seemed 
irresistible,  when  she  was  sick  of  trying  to  adapt  herself  to  another 
person's  needs,  friend  or  lover. 

Deel  had  asked  her  to  go  south  with  her.  The  dancer  was  brisk 
and  practical;  she  represented  a  way  of  life  that  was  strange  and 
exotic  to  Gleia.  The  dancer  fascinated  her  both  as  a  person  and  as 
a  symbol. 

Or  she  could  go  on  with  Shounach,  trying  to  learn  the  rules  of 
pairing,  finding  herself  forgotten  again  and  again  as  he  pursued  the 
source  of  the  Ranga  Eyes,  moving  in  and  out  of  danger  with  him, 
living  in  pain  and  fear  and  confusion.  But  never  bored. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  cot,  the 
shawl  on  her  knees,  her  mind  milling  in  its  endless  circle.  She  jerked 
her  head  up,  tried  to  smile  as  Deel  swept  inside.  The  dancer  shut 
the  door,  leaned  against  it,  her  arms  crossed  below  her  breasts. 
"Some  mess  you  got  yourself  in." 

"How  did  you  know?"  Gleia  tucked  the  needle  into  the  material 
and  folded  the  shawl  into  a  neat  square. 

"Merd."  Deel  laughed,  left  the  door  and  went  to  sit  beside  Gleia. 
She  dropped  a  hand  on  Gleia's,  a  brief  comforting  touch,  then  wrig- 
gled around  until  she  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  her  long  legs 
tucked  to  one  side.  "He  got  me  in  here  to  dance  for  the  Lossal,  guess 
he  figured  he  could  make  points  if  they  liked  me.  They  stick  us 
artists  with  the  servants."  She  chuckled.  "Unless  like  your  Juggler 
we're  sleeping  with  the  masters.  Anyway,  the  servants,  they're  buzz- 
COMPANIONING  153 


ing  like  a  bunch  of  night-crawlers  about  you  and  your  friend."  She 
wiggled  long  fingers  at  the  door.  "The  guard  out  there,  he's  seen  me 
with  Merd  so  he  let  me  in.  Why  the  hell'd  the  Juggler  go  fooling 
about  in  the  garden?" 

Gleia  ran  her  hands  over  her  curls,  shook  her  head.  "He  had  good 
reasons.  You  said  it  right,  Deel.  Some  mess.  You  better  keep  away 
from  us." 

"Get  away's  a  better  way  to  say  it."  Deel  sucked  in  her  lower  lip, 
bit  down  on  it  with  small  white  teeth.  "The  servants  got  other  things 
to  talk  about.  They  say  the  Stareyn  is  laid  out,  barely  breathing, 
that  he  could  go  any  minute.  Look,  I'm  not  going  to  be  penned  up 
in  this  stinking  city  while  a  bunch  of  power-hungry  families  fight 
for  the  Stareynate.  Bad  enough  if  I  was  sworn  to  one  of  the  Families. 
I  figure  people  like  you  and  me,  we're  going  to  get  squashed.  I'm 
not  hanging  around  for  that.  We  could  get  out  of  the  city,  go  south 
like  I  said."  She  narrowed  amber  eyes.  "I  don't  suppose  you'd  care 
to  forget  the  Juggler?" 

"Not  while  he's  in  here."  Gleia  rubbed  nervously  at  her  forehead. 
"You  know  where  they've  got  him?" 

"I  can  find  out." 

"Be  careful." 

"You're  telliiig  me?"  Deel  grinned.  "I'll  be  so  damn  careful  no- 
body'll  know  I'm  around.  Can  you  use  a  knife?  I  could  get  us  a 
couple." 

"Deel,  I  grew  up  running  the  streets.  You  know  what  that  means." 

"Yeah.  Too  well."  She  pushed  up  off  the  bed.  "I'd  better  get  back. 
I  have  to  be  dancing  soon.  It'll  be  late  when  I  come;  better  that  way, 
I  suppose;  most  of  the  place  should  be  asleep."  Deel  touched  Gleia's 
cheek,  then  swirled  out  of  the  room  with  a  flutter  of  her  favorite 
amber  silk. 

The  candle  was  guttering  in  the  gusts  of  cold  air  coming  through 
the  window.  Gleia  paced  back  and  forth  past  the  table,  her  distorted 
shadow  jerking  dramatically  on  the  wall.  She  wheeled  and  faced  the 
door  as  she  heard  voices,  then  a  choking  sound  and  a  thud.  The  door 
opened  and  Deel  stepped  in  over  the  body  of  a  Harrier.  She  bent 
down  and  took  hold  of  one  of  his  arms.  "Help  me.  Quick." 

Together  they  pulled  the  dead  man  into  the  small  room.  As  Gleia 
shouldered  the  two  bags,  she  looked  down  at  the  Harrier.  He  was 
very  young;  she  hadn't  noticed  how  young  he  was  before.  He  had 
a  wispy  blond  moustache,  a  scattering  of  pimples  on  his  nose  and 
cheeks,  a  reed-thin  neck.  Deel  pulled  her  knife  loose,  wiped  it  on 
his  trousers.  She  looked  up  at  Gleia.  "Had  to  be  done." 
154  JO  CLAYTON 


"I  know.  I  don't  have  to  like  it."  Gleia  shifted  the  straps  to  settle 
the  bags  more  comfortably  then  took  the  knife  Deel  handed  her. 
With  a  last  glance  at  the  dead  boy,  she  followed  the  dancer  out  of 
the  room,  pulling  the  door  shut  behind  her. 

Talking  softly  as  she  walked,  Deel  said,  "Far  as  I  can  tell,  there 
won't  be  any  Harriers  down  below.  The  Lossal  left  with  a  bunch  of 
them  not  so  long  ago.  There's  no  one  in  the  halls,  not  in  this  part 
of  the  house  anyway.  Feels  like  they're  all  shivering  in  their  beds. 
Bet  the  Stareyn's  really  going  this  time.  Piece  of  luck  for  us  since 
that  keeps  the  old  viper  busy."  Her  hand  on  Gleia's  arm,  the  dancer 
pulled  her  along  the  hall  and  around  the  corner.  "The  stairs  to  the 
cellars  are  just  ahead.  We  better  not  talk  after  this."  She  stepped 
briskly  ahead  of  Gleia,  pulling  her  dark  cloak  tight  against  her 
body.  Stopping  in  front  of  a  heavy  door,  she  swung  it  open  enough 
to  slip  through.  Gleia  followed,  eased  the  door  shut  behind  her. 

She  found  herself  on  a  small  square  platform  at  the  top  of  a  steep 
stairway,  one  side  against  the  wall,  the  other  a  precipitous  drop  to 
a  floor  some  distance  below.  Gleia  moved  quickly  to  the  wall  side, 
refusing  to  look  down  again.  Deel  glanced  back  at  her,  grinning,  her 
teeth  glistening  in  the  uncertain  light  from  the  torch  burning  smok- 
ily  halfway  down  the  stairs.  Fingertips  of  one  hand  brushing  the 
wall,  Deel  ran  down  the  stairs,  sure-footed  and  silent,  her  dancer's 
body  balancing  easily.  Gleia  followed  more  cautiously.  The  darkness 
off  the  side  spread  in  a  vast  silent  cellar  under  the  floor  of  the  House, 
dark  and  eerie,  amplifying  the  slightest  sounds  until  the  whisper 
of  her  feet  on  the  stone  came  back  to  her  as  a  harsh  susurrous  like 
the  breathing  of  some  great  animal. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  flight  Deel  stopped  her.  "Cells  just  ahead," 
she  whispered.  "Through  there."  She  pointed  at  a  torchlit  arch  a  few 
feet  farther  along  the  wall.  "I'll  go  in  first,  distract  the  guard.  When 
you  see  a  chance,  take  him  out."  She  stripped  off  her  cloak,  handed 
it  to  Gleia,  patted  at  her  hair,  moistened  her  lips,  shook  her  arms, 
took  several  deep  breaths.  "Don't  wait  too  long,  hon."  Without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer  she  moved  toward  the  arch,  hesitantly  at  first, 
then  with  her  usual  swinging  swagger. 

Gleia  hurried  after  her,  feeling  it  almost  like  a  shock  to  the  heart 
when  the  dancer  vanished  through  the  opening.  At  the  arch,  she 
dropped  to  her  knees,  edged  forward  until  she  could  see  what  was 
happening. 

Deel  was  smiling  at  the  only  man  in  the  room,  a  hard-faced  thug 
with  a  hairy  bare  chest,  short  bowed  legs  encased  in  greasy  trousers, 
knotty  bare  feet.  He  wore  a  leather  apron  stiff  with  old  stains.  Deel 

COMPANIONING  155 


touched  his  bulging  arm  with  a  teasing  giggle,  dancing  back  as  he 
grabbed  for  her. 

He  scowled  at  her,  moved  around  the  table  where  he'd  been  sitting, 
stopped  in  front  of  her.  "Who  you,  girl?  What  you  doin'  here?" 

Deel  circled  closer,  ran  her  slim  red-brown  fingers  up  his  arm. 
"I  wanted  to  see  the  strongest  man  in  Istir."  She  danced  around 
behind  him,  running  her  fingers  over  the  massive  muscles  of  his 
shoulders,  reappearing  on  the  other  side  of  him,  pulling  him  around 
so  his  back  was  to  the  arch.  "Show  me  how  strong  you  are." 

The  man  lunged  clumsily  at  her,  his  meaty  hip  knocking  aside 
the  table.  He  was  at  least  half  drunk.  There  were  two  empty  bottles 
on  the  floor  and  a  third  rolling  across  the  table  top.  It  smashed 
against  the  stone  as  Deel  danced  away  before  the  Ironmaster,  smil- 
ing and  flirting  her  eyes  at  him,  narrowly  avoiding  his  groping 
fingers,  the  slotted  skirt  swirling  around  her  long  slim  legs,  her 
light  teasing  laughter  bringing  the  blood  to  his  face.  He  lumbered 
after  her,  caught  her  arm,  pulled  her  against  him. 

Gleia  slipped  the  straps  from  her  shoulder,  was  up  and  on  her 
feet,  running  for  him.  As  he  held  Deel  helpless  against  him,  his 
mouth  avid  on  hers,  Gleia  drove  the  knife  between  his  ribs,  slam- 
ming the  blade  home  with  all  her  strength. 

With  an  animal  bellow  he  threw  Deel  sprawling  and  turned  on 
Gleia,  his  animal  strength  as  awesome  as  his  ugliness.  She  fled, 
terror  dark  in  her. 

Then  he  faltered,  his  face  went  blank,  he  coughed,  spat  blood, 
cnmipled  to  the  floor,  falling  on  his  face.  Feeling  a  little  sick,  Gleia 
looked  at  Deel.  The  dancer  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  walked  to  the 
Ironmaster,  scrubbing  and  rubbing  at  her  mouth.  She  thrust  her  toe 
in  his  ribs.  He  gurgled,  moved  his  hands  slightly.  Deel  beckoned  im- 
patiently to  Gleia.  "Come  on.  Help  me  turn  him  over."  The  dancer 
caught  one  of  the  man's  thick  wrists  in  both  hands.  "Hurry,  I  don't 
know  how  long  we  got.  The  keys,  Gleia.  We  need  his  keys.  And  take 
your  knife  back." 

They  labored  several  minutes,  finally  got  the  heavy  body  on  its 
back.  Gleia  ran  her  bloody  knife  under  the  leather  thong  that  held 
his  keyring,  cut  it  free.  While  Deel  stood  watch  near  the  arch,  Gleia 
ran  along  the  line  of  cells. 

In  the  third  cell  a  dark  figure  lay  sprawled  on  a  rough  plank 
bench.  "Shounach?"  she  hissed. 

The  figure  stirred,  tried  to  sit  up,  collapsed.  Hands  shaking,  breath 
harsh  in  her  throat,  Gleia  tried  the  keys  until  the  lock  finally  turned 
over.  When  she  slipped  inside,  he  was  trying  to  sit  up,  using  the 
156  JO  CLAYTON 


backs  of  his  hands  to  push  against  the  planks.  He  looked  up,  moved 
his  battered  mouth  into  a  slight  smile.  "What  took  you  so  long?" 
The  words  were  slow  and  slurred  so  badly  it  took  her  a  while  to 
understand  what  he  was  saying.  He  lurched  heavily  and  was  finally 
sitting.  She  reached  out. 

"No!"  The  word  was  whispered  but  vehement.  She  waited,  biting 
her  lip,  hugging  herself,  as  he  got  slowly  and  painfully  to  his  feet. 
In  the  dim  light  from  the  torches  outside  the  cell  she  saw  that  he 
was  naked,  his  body  covered  by  cuts  and  bruises,  his  face  distorted 
into  a  crude  mask  hardly  human.  He  stretched  out  one  trembling 
arm.  "Let  me  lean  on  you,  love.  I'm  a  bit  sore  for  hugging."  Again 
his  words  were  indistinct,  spoken  slowly  and  with  difficulty.  His 
arm  came  down  on  her  shoulders  until  she  was  supporting  much  of 
his  weight.  "Not  too  fast,"  he  muttered. 

Deel  gave  an  exclamation  of  horror  when  they  emerged.  She 
brought  the  Ironmaster's  chair  and  helped  Gleia  ease  Shounach  into 
it;  then  she  stepped  back  and  raised  an  eyebrow.  "Juggler,  you're 
a  mess."  Gleia  bit  her  lip,  ran  to  the  arch. 

She  came  back  with  the  garish  bag  hugged  against  her  breasts. 
When  he  reached  for  it,  she  gasped.  The  inner  side  of  his  fingers 
and  both  palms  were  seared  black,  the  skin  charred  and  cracking. 
COMPANIONING  157 


She  looked  from  the  bag  to  him,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

Shounach  examined  his  hands,  grimaced.  He  was  badly  beaten, 
his  face  bruised  and  swollen,  his  back  raw  with  lashmarks  that 
circled  around  his  ribcage  and  ended  in  ragged  purpled  cuts.  There 
were  marks  of  the  hot  iron  on  his  groin  and  flat  stomach.  His  mouth 
moved  in  a  painful  smile.  Swollen  and  reddened,  his  changeable 
eyes  glinted  green.  "Companion,"  he  murmured.  He  brushed  her 
hand  with  the  backs  of  his  fingers.  "You  are  a  delight.  Hold  the  bag 
open  in  front  of  me.  Deel?" 

"What?"  The  dancer  glanced  anxiously  at  the  arch,  then  back  to 
the  battered  man. 

"See  if  you  can  find  my  clothes.  They  should  be  somewhere  around 
here."  As  she  swung  off,  he  grimaced,  opened  and  closed  his  savaged 
hands,  then  reached  into  the  bag. 

"Fox,  can't  I  do  that  for  you?" 

"No."  Sweating,  his  face  twisted  with  pain,  he  pulled  a  small 
leather  case  from  the  bag  and  dropped  it  onto  his  thighs.  He  reached 
in  again  and  pulled  out  a  thick  roll  of  bandage.  He  leaned  back 
carefully,  closed  his  eyes,  said  wearily,  "Put  the  bag  down  and  open 
the  case  for  me." 

The  case  opened  easily  when  the  two  sides  were  pressed  apart. 
Following  Shounach's  instructions  she  tipped  a  pale  blue  wafer  from 
one  of  the  vials  and  slipped  it  between  his  lips. 

While  he  was  resting,  waiting  for  the  drug  to  act,  Deel  came  back 
with  his  jacket,  trousers,  and  boots.  She  dumped  them  on  the  floor 
beside  him.  "Can't  we  hurry  this?  I'm  having  a  fit  every  few  minutes 
when  I  think  of  someone  finding  us  like  this."  She  waved  a  hand 
at  the  arch. 

"You  can  leave  if  you  want."  Gleia  began  smoothing  a  thick  white 
liquid  over  Shounach's  cuts,  bruises,  and  burns.  Sighing  with  im- 
patience Deel  began  helping  her.  Together  they  covered  him  with 
the  pain-deadening  antiseptic  and  began  wrapping  the  gauze  band- 
aging around  his  body,  finishing  with  his  hands,  wrapping  the  gauze 
neatly  over  the  palms  and,  at  his  whispered  instructions,  around 
each  of  his  fingers  so  he  could  use  them.  When  they  were  done  he 
stood,  swaying  a  little  at  first,  working  his  fingers  stiffly. 

He  dressed  quickly.  When  he'd  stamped  his  feet  into  his  boots,  he 
looked  around,  his  eyes  pale  grey  with  effort,  glittering  with  the 
effects  of  the  pain  and  the  drug.  Gleia  watched,  worried,  then  went 
slowly  to  the  arch  to  fetch  her  own  bag.  When  she  returned  he  was 
kneeling  beside  his  bag. 

He  pulled  out  one  of  the  blue  spheres,  then  got  unsteadily  to  his 
158  JO  CLAYTON 


feet  with  a  grunt  of  effort. 

"Shounach?"  She  touched  his  arm,  but  he  ignored  her  and  walked 
away  from  her,  stumbling  a  little,  then  stopped  by  the  body  of  the 
Ironmaster.  He  dropped  the  ball  on  the  man's  chest,  watched  as  it 
rolled  down  the  slope  of  his  belly  and  came  to  a  stop  between  his 
legs.  Gleia  shivered  at  the  expression  on  his  face,  remembered  him 
saying,  /  hold  grudges  a  long,  long  time.  She  closed  her  fingers 
around  his  wrist,  careful  not  to  touch  the  burns.  "Shounach!" 

He  blinked  at  her,  awareness  slowly  returning  to  his  eyes.  His 
face  was  shiny  with  the  liquid  she'd  spread  over  his  bruises,  his  long 
red  hair  was  matted,  dark  with  blood  and  sweat.  She  chewed  on  her 
lip,  then  went  back  to  the  bags,  slipped  both  straps  over  her  shoulder. 

Deel  was  fidgeting  in  the  archway,  fastening  the  clasp  of  her 
cloak.  "You  two  ready?"  she  hissed.  "We're  really  pushing  our  luck, 
hanging  around  like  this." 

"I  think  so."  Gleia  moved  to  Shounach's  side,  offering  her  shoulder 
as  a  prop. 

With  Deel  striding  ahead,  Gleia  and  Shounach  following  more 
slowly,  they  went  up  the  stairs  and  eased  into  the  servants' quarters. 
The  rough,  narrow  hall  was  deserted  and  dark,  most  of  the  horn 
lamps  blown  out. 

A  few  steps  past  the  silent,  empty  kitchen,  Shounach  called  softly 
to  Deel,  dragged  Gleia  through  a  door  into  a  small,  empty  room. 
Deel  followed,  startled  and  a  little  annoyed.  "What .  .  ." 

"Quiet."  Shounach  leaned  against  the  wall  and  closed  his  eyes. 
"Someone's  coming." 

For  a  moment  they  heard  nothing,  then  confused  footsteps  and 
deep  voices  as  several  men  strolled  past.  The  sounds  faded  but  the 
Juggler  continued  to  wait,  pain  and  weariness  dragging  at  his  face. 
Finally  he  opened  his  eyes  and  pushed  away  from  the  wall.  "All 
clear.  Let's  go." 

Deel  turned  amber  eyes  on  him  as  he  settled  his  arm  on  Gleia's 
shoulders.  "You're  something  else.  Juggler.  For  a  while  there  I 
thought  I'd  made  a  big  mistake."  She  grinned  and  swung  out,  the 
swagger  back  in  her  walk.  Gleia  saw  a  flicker  of  appreciation  in 
Shounach's  slitted  eyes;  she  poked  him  gently  in  the  ribs.  He 
grunted,  grinned  down  at  her,  wincing  as  a  cut  on  his  lip  reopened. 
"Vixen." 

She  sniffed.  "Fox." 

Deel  thrust  her  head  back  inside.  "Come  on,  you  idiots." 

They  moved  swiftly  through  the  dark  silent  house.  Just  inside  the 
door  to  the  garden  Shounach  stopped  them  again. 
COMPANIONING  159 


Deel  leaned  close,  whispered,  "Someone  outside?" 

"No.  Those  damn  iron  birds."  He  closed  his  eyes  a  moment,  pulled 
his  arm  from  Gleia's  shoulder,  leaned  against  the  wall,  the  false 
energy  from  the  drug  beginning  to  melt  away.  Eyes  still  closed  he 
said,  "Gleia,  bring  my  bag  here  and  hold  it  open  for  me." 

"You  all  right?"  As  she  held  the  bag  up,  she  watched  him  anx- 
iously. 

"No."  He  reached  into  the  bag,  sweat  gathering  on  his  forehead. 
"Silly  question."  He  pulled  out  a  small  rod,  handed  it  to  her,  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  at  Deel  who  was  fidgeting  with  curiosity  and 
impatience.  "Hang  on  a  minute,  dancer." 

"This  is  the  slowest  escape  I  ever  heard  of.  Grood  thing  the  Lossal's 
busy  in  the  Kiralydom."  She  twitched  her  cloak  higher  on  her  shoul- 
ders. 

Shounach  returned  to  Gleia,  touched  one  end  of  the  rod.  "Twist 
this  a  half- turn  and  be  damn  careful  what  else  you  touch."  When 
she'd  done  that,  he  continued.  "The  black  spot  is  a  sensor.  If  one  of 
the  iron  birds  shows  up,  point  the  rod  at  it,  touch  the  sensor,  slice 
the  beam  through  the  bird.  Don't  use  it  unless  you  have  to."  He 
looked  bleak  for  a  moment.  "I  hate  to  see  that  here.  I  hate  seeing 
those  damn  birds  on  this  world."  He  watched  as  Gleia  twisted  the 
cover  back  over  the  sensor.  "Be  careful  with  that.  Deel,  lend  me  a 
shoulder  so  Gleia  can  keep  a  hand  free." 

"About  time." 

They  moved  across  the  garden  and  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall.  Deel  looked  up.  "Hope  you've  got  a  few  more  tricks.  Juggler. 
Don't  think  I  can  climb  that."  She  watched  him  expectantly,  waiting 
for  him  to  come  up  with  another  bit  of  magic.  Aab's  swelling  crescent 
broke  through  the  scatter  of  clouds,  the  silver  light  turning  the 
dancer  into  an  exotic  figure  wholly  out  of  place  in  the  garden. 

Gleia  held  the  rod  tight  in  a  sweaty  hand,  her  eyes  fixed  on  him. 
"Can  you  do  it?" 

"Think  so."  He  rubbed  the  back  of  his  bandaged  hand  along  her 
cheek.  "You  first." 

"No." 

"Don't  argue.  Help  me  sit.  Stretch  out  flat  once  you're  up.  You 
hear?" 

She  nodded  then  eased  him  down  until  he  was  sitting  cross-legged 
on  the  grass.  Then  she  moved  close  to  the  wall.  "Ready,  Fox." 

She  felt  something  grip  her  body,  something  like  a  tight  second 
skin.  It  held  her,  lifted  her.  She  rose  slowly  up  the  wall.  When  she 
reached  the  top  he  shifted  her  to  the  right  a  few  inches  then  turned 
160  JO  CLAYTON 


her  loose.  She  stumbled,  went  to  her  knees.  Then  she  stretched  out 
flat,  her  body  in  the  shadow  of  the  thinner  crenellations.  Below, 
Deel  gasped  and  rose  into  the  air.  In  seconds  she  was  flat  beside 
Gleia,  temporarily  speechless. 

When  Shounach  reached  to  top,  he  let  go  suddenly  and  slammed 
into  the  stone  hard  enough  to  send  the  air  from  his  lungs  in  a  small 
puffing  sound. 

Gleia  touched  his  arm.  "Fox  .  .  ." 

His  answering  whisper  was  slow,  broken  by  the  air  he  was  sucking 
in.  "Be  ...  all  right ...  in  a  .  .  .  minute  .  .  .  look  around  .  .  .  iron 
birds?" 

The  sky  was  still  empty.  "Nothing,"  she  whispered.  "Some  torches 
by  the  gate,  guards  there,  I  suppose.  No  birds." 

"Help  me  up." 

As  soon  as  he  was  standing,  he  moved  away  from  her  to  lean 
against  one  of  the  stone  uprights.  He  looked  down  then  beckoned 
her  into  the  opening  beside  him.  "Ready?" 

"Ready."  She  stepped  off  the  wall,  felt  the  skin  catch  her  and  lower 
her  gently  to  earth.  As  soon  as  she  was  down,  he  sent  Deel  after 
her,  finally  dropped  himself  beside  them.  He  folded  onto  his  knees, 
stayed  there,  unable  to  get  up.  Gleia  knelt  beside,  helpless  and 
frustrated;  she  could  do  nothing  except  stay  futilely  at  his  side.  In 
Aab's  light  his  face  was  ashen  around  the  purpling  bruises.  Deel 
began  walking  up  and  down,  six  steps  each  way,  the  hem  of  her 
cloak  flaring  out  around  her  strong  slim  legs.  Across  the  street  this 
section  of  the  Market  quarter  was  filled  with  the  noise  of  the  produce 
carts  rumbling  in,  louder  than  ever  because  the  wagons  from  the 
surroundings  farms  were  bringing  in  the  fall  harvest  of  tubers  and 
grains.  There  were  several  streets  of  small  shops  between  them  and 
the  open  stands  of  the  central  market,  shops  that  were  shuttered 
and  deserted,  the  shutters  barred  also  on  the  living  quarters  above 
them. 

Shounach  lifted  his  head,  let  it  rest  a  moment  against  the  wall. 
He  watched  Deel  pacing,  her  body  crackling  with  suppressed  energy. 
Gleia  met  his  eyes,  grinned.  "We  better  start  moving  again,"  she 
murmured.  "Before  she  succumbs  to  spontaneous  combustion." 

With  Deel  flitting  before  them,  running  ahead  and  returning, 
they  moved  slowly  along  the  narrow  side  street  past  the  folded-in 
shops.  By  the  time  they  reached  the  end  of  that  street,  Shounach 
was  leaning  heavily  on  Gleia,  stumbling  more  and  more  as  his  weari- 
ness and  pain  began  to  overcome  the  drug.  He  stopped,  looked  at 
the  busy  noisy  scene  in  front  of  them.  "This  isn't  going  to  work,"  he 
COMPANIONING  161 


muttered.  "Let  me  sit  a  minute.  I  need  to  think." 

With  a  grunt  of  pain,  he  settled  on  the  third  step  of  a  flight  of 
stairs  rising  up  the  side  of  one  of  the  shops  to  the  family  living  space 
above.  Gleia  dropped  beside  him.  Deel  came  swinging  back  and  stood 
leaning  on  the  shaky  railing,  looking  down  at  both  of  them.  Shoun- 
ach  opened  his  hands.  The  gauze  showed  dark  stains  near  the  crease 
lines.  "Hand  me  the  bag."  His  voice  was  hoarse,  strained. 

Gleia  held  it  open  for  him  while  he  fished  inside.  When  he  brought 
out  the  leather  case,  she  took  it  from  him,  opened  it  and  found  the 
vial  of  pale  blue  wafers.  She  touched  it,  hestiated.  "Just  how  dan- 
gerous is  this  stuff.  Fox?" 

His  eyes  glinted  blue  in  the  torchlight.  He  looked  past  her  at  the 
black  bulk  of  the  Lossal's  house  looming  against  the  paler  clouds; 
there  was  a  crazy  glare  in  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  he  looked 
back  at  her  and  the  glare  faded.  "About  as  dangerous  as  staying 
here  and  letting  myself  be  caught."  As  he  swallowed  the  drug,  a 
great  gong  note  reverberated  over  the  city.  Gleia  jumped  to  her  feet. 
Deel's  hands  tightened  on  the  rail.  She  looked  sick. 

Shounach  stood.  "Deel.  That  an  alarm?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Look."  She  waved  an  arm  at  the  chaos 
developing  in  front  of  them.  For  a  moment  the  drivers  had  frozen; 
now  they  were  whipping  their  teams,  racing  for  the  gate  giving  on 
the  wide  main  street,  ignoring  everything  and  everyone  between 
them  and  the  exit.  When  Deel  spoke  her  voice  was  nearly  drowned 
by  the  overpowering  clangor  of  the  great  gong  as  it  was  beat  con- 
tinually, each  stroke  blending  into  the  next  until  the  air  itself  shud- 
dered. She  leaned  closer,  yelled,  "Our  luck's  run  out.  That's  the 
Knelling.  The  Stareyn's  dead  and  they're  sealing  the  city  off.  Once 
the  gates  are  shut  nobody's  going  to  get  in  or  out." 

Shounach  looked  past  her  at  the  city  wall,  rising  high  above  the 
roofs  on  the  far  side  of  the  market.  "Will  there  be  guards  walking 
the  walls?" 

Understanding  wiped  the  despair  from  Deel's  face.  She  lifted  her 
head,  her  eyes  glowing  with  excitement.  "Not  yet.  Not  yet,"  she 
chanted,  then  danced  away  only  to  stop  and  stare  at  the  monstrous 
confusion  in  the  long  rectangle  of  the  produce  stalls.  The  noise  was 
appalling,  the  wagons,  carts,  teams,  merchants,  drivers  all  involved 
in  an  intricate  tangle.  She  looked  back  at  the  Juggler,  raised  her 
eyebrows.  He  walked  slowly  past  her,  scanned  the  confusion,  began 
walking  along  the  edge  of  it,  heading  away  from  the  main  gates, 
his  tall  form  fitfully  visible  in  the  light  from  the  market  torches. 
Deel  looked  at  Gleia,  eyebrows  going  up  again.  Gleia  shook  her 
162  JO  CLAYTON 


head.  "Don't  know,"  she  yelled.  "He's  got  some  kind  of  idea."  They 
started  after  him,  Gleia  tired  and  feeling  a  bit  grim,  Deel  excited 
and  beginning  to  enjoy  herself,  her  long  legs  scissoring  in  her 
dancer's  swagger. 

Gleia  shifted  the  straps  on  her  shoulder  then  ran  after  Deel.  She 
saw  the  dancer  take  Shounach's  arm  and  move  along  beside  him. 
She  sighed.  Complications,  she  thought.  At  least  she  doesn't  look  like 
the  brother  he  killed.  But  is  that  an  advantage  or  a  disadvantage? 
Damn  them  both,  let  them  keep  each  other  company,  I  can  get  along 
without  either  of  them.  She  rubbed  at  the  back  of  her  neck;  it  was 
starting  to  prickle — as  if  someone  was  staring  at  her.  The  prickle 
grew  to  a  tingling  apprehension  that  grew  stronger  as  they  neared 
the  wall.  She  walked  faster,  coming  up  on  Shounach's  left  side.  He 
was  sweating  again;  the  glazed  look  of  his  eyes  bothered  her.  She 
touched  his  hand.  Even  through  the  gauze  she  could  feel  the  heat 
in  his  flesh.  Fever,  she  thought.  She  rubbed  her  neck  again,  looked 
up  anxiously.  A  ragged  layer  of  clouds  rushed  across  the  face  of  Aab, 
then  past  Zeb.  The  little  moon  was  higher,  adding  its  small  fraction 
to  the  light  pouring  into  the  street.  Gleia  shivered.  Too  much  light. 

The  gonging  stopped.  Behind  them  the  confusion  around  the  mar- 
ket sheds  seemed  to  be*  sorting  itself  out.  Even  that  noise  was  muted. 
The  shutters  of  the  dwellings  above  them  were  beginning  to  open. 
Gleia  saw  several  heads  thrust  out,  felt  curious  eyes  following  them. 

A  man  called  down  to  them,  cursed  when  they  didn't  answer.  The 
buzz  of  voices  grew  louder. 

Shounach  stopped  in  the  deep  shadow  at  the  base  of  the  great 
wall.  He  drew  in  a  breath,  let  it  out,  looked  down  at  Gleia.  There 
was  a  question  in  his  eyes  and  a  great  weariness.  "I  don't  know.  .  .  ." 

"I  think  you  can  do  it,  Fox."  She  moved  her  shoulders  restlessly. 
"I  think  you'd  better.  I  feel  itchy." 

Deel  tilted  her  head  back,  looked  dubiously  at  the  height  of  the 
wall,  then  over  her  shoulder  at  the  people  leaning  out  their  windows 
staring  at  the  strange  three.  "Better  hurry;  any  minute  now,  one 
of  those  gogglers  is  going  to  think  of  making  points  by  turning  us 
in." 

Shounach  set  his  back  against  the  wall,  eased  himself  down  until 
he  was  sitting  crosslegged  on  the  dirty  stone  pavement.  "Get  as  close 
to  the  wall  as  you  can,  love." 

The  skin  tightened  round  her,  lifted  her.  It  wasn't  the  easy  glide 
of  the  inner  wall.  She  could  feel  the  effort  he  was  making  as  she 
rose  and  paused,  rose  and  paused. 

When  she  finally  reached  the  top,  she  stumbled  again  as  he  re- 
COMPANIONING  163 


leased  her;  for  a  moment  she  tottered  on  the  edge  of  the  wall,  then 
sank  onto  her  knees  and  looked  down.  He  was  breathing  hard,  his 
shoulders  rounded,  his  head  trembling. 

Deel  stepped  close  to  the  wall,  rising  in  the  same  fitful  increments. 
When  she  was  high  enough,  Gleia  caught  her  around  the  waist  and 
dragged  her  onto  the  wall. 

Below  them  the  street  was  beginning  to  fill  as  the  watchers  came 
running  down  the  stairs  to  stand  about  chattering  and  staring  at 
the  Juggler  on  the  ground  and  the  two  women  kneeling  on  top  of 
the  wall.  As  Gleia  watched  a  man  broke  away  from  the  crowd  and 
began  running  down  the  street.  She  sucked  in  a  breath,  her  heart 
bounding  painfully.  "Come  on,  Fox,"  she  whispered.  "Come  on." 

He  began  to  rise  slowly,  his  body  taut  with  effort.  He  sank  back 
a  little,  rose  again.  The  crowd  sui^ged  closer,  excitement  changing 
into  disapproval.  He  continued  to  rise  jerkily.  Two  men  came  closer, 
then  ran  at  him,  leaping  to  catch  hold  of  his  feet.  He  strained  higher; 
their  hands  brushed  his  boots,  then  they  fell  back. 

Gleia  and  Deel  caught  him  as  he  rose  above  the  wall,  rolled  him 
onto  the  stone  beside  them.  Overhead  the  clouds  thickened  and 
darkened.  As  Shounach  lay  trembling  and  panting,  a  few  drops  of 
cold  rain  came  splatting  down.  Gleia  knelt  beside  him,  the  itching 
at  the  back  of  her  neck  growing  and  growing.  She  touched  Shoun- 
ach's  face.  It  burned  her  fingers. 

"He's  in  bad  shape."  Deel  lifted  her  head,  jumped  to  her  feet  and 
went  to  look  at  the  angry  muttering  crowd  below.  "If  we  just  had 
a  bit  of  rope." 

"Well,  we  don't."  Gleia  settled  back  on  her  heels  and  tried  to  pierce 
the  growing  gloom  over  the  city.  More  rain  fell,  a  short  flurry  of 
large  drops.  The  wind  was  rising;  it  pushed  the  heavy  material  of 
her  cafta  against  her  body,  tossing  her  curls  about  until  they  tickled 
her  face.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  the  torchlight  reflected 
against  bits  of  metal  in  the  sky,  bits  of  metal  circling  and  soaring 
like  wind-caught  sparks.  She  fished  in  her  pocket,  found  the  small 
rod,  looked  up  again.  "Deel." 

"What?"  The  dancer  came  back  from  the  edge  of  the  wall,  the 
stained  amber  silk  whipping  about  her  legs. 

"Help  me  move  the  Juggler." 

The  two  women  shifted  Shounach  until  he  was  stretched  out  at 
the  base  of  the  crenellations.  "Stay  with  him,"  Gleia  murmured.  She 
moved  away  from  them,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  wide  wall,  peering 
tautly  into  the  darkness,  the  sense  of  danger  rising  like  a  geyser, 
ready  to  explode.  She  fingered  the  rod  nervously,  hoping  it  was  the 
164  JO  CLAYTON 


magic  she  needed,  afraid,  terribly  afraid  of  the  demon  birds,  birds 
that  were  not  birds,  birds  whose  knife-like  talons  were  wet  with 
poison.  She  drew  on  her  store  of  stubbornness,  her  anguish,  and 
even  her  fear,  drew  on  all  she'd  learned  from  the  seaborn  who  kept 
longer  memories  of  their  lost  technology.  She  held  the  image  of  her 
adopted  father  in  her  mind.  "It's  only  a  machine,"  she  whispered. 
She  heard  Deel  stirring  behind  her  and  ignored  that.  She  heard 
shouts  from  the  crowd,  stones  striking  against  the  wall,  ignored 
that.  Kept  scanning  the  black  sky  for  the  circling  sparks,  waiting 
for  one  or  more  of  them  to  come  closer.  "The  Lossal  is  back  in  his 
house,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"What?"  Deel's  voice  was  sharp;  she  was  strung  taut  again  with 
the  waiting.  "How  do  you  know  that?" 

'The  birds  are  out."  Gleia  pointed  at  the  flecks  of  crimson  riding 
through  the  darkness,  coasting  on  the  surging  winds.  There  was  a 
strained  silence  behind  her  then  she  heard  Shounach  and  Deel  talk- 
ing quietly,  heard  a  scraping  on  the  stone  as  the  dancer  helped  the 
Juggler  sit  up. 

"Gleia." 

"I've  still  got  the  rod.  Fox.  You  rest."  She  bit  her  lip,  rubbed  at 
her  eyes.  One  of  the  sparks  broke  from  the  pattern  and  glided  to 
the  wall.  It  started  toward  them,  skimming  over  the  stone  about 
five  feet  off  the  surface.  She  faced  it,  twisted  the  cover  off  the  sensor 
and  aimed  the  rod  at  the  flicker  of  red  and  silver. 

"Good,  Vixen."  Shounach's  voice  was  calm,  steady,  feeding  her 
confidence.  "Don't  touch  the  sensor  yet.  Wait  a  little  . .  .  wait . .  .  now!" 

Gleia  touched  the  black  spot  with  her  forefinger,  nearly  dropped 
the  rod  as  a  beam  of  intensely  white  light  about  as  big  around  as 
her  finger  cut  through  the  air.  She  steadied  the  rod,  brought  the 
beam  up  until  it  woke  glitters  in  the  polished  metal  of  the  bird's 
body.  She  moved  the  beam  until  it  touched  the  bird,  cut  across  it. 
She  gasped.  The  bird  melted,  then  blew  apart,  fragments  tinkling 
like  distant  rain  on  the  stone.  Hastily  she  twisted  the  cover  back 
over  the  sensor,  awed  and  a  little  frightened  by  the  power  she  held 
in  her  hand. 

"Help  me  up."  Shounach's  struggles  brought  her  around.  Mutter- 
ing protest,  Deel  was  propping  the  Juggler  against  the  stone  upright 
of  the  crenellation.  He  looked  around.  "Gleia."  His  eyes  were  glit- 
tering with  fever. 

She  came  to  him,  touched  his  face,  shook  her  head.  "Not  this  time. 
You  go  first.  Fox.  Once  you're  down  you  can  bring  us." 

He  reached  for  her;  she  backed  away.  "No." 

COMPANIONING  165 


Deel  shivered.  "Dammit,  do  something.  We've  got  to  get  out  of 
here." 

Shounach  looked  past  Gleia  at  the  House.  He  smiled  suddenly, 
a  smile  more  like  a  snarl.  "A  minute  more,"  he  muttered.  "A  minute. 
Minute  .  .  .  minute  .  .  ."  He  broke  off,  shook  his  head.  "Right."  Turn- 
ing unsteadily,  he  stepped  off  the  wall. 

Deel  gasped.  "He's  falling  like  a  damn  rock.  Ahhh  ...  all  right 
now.  He  stopped  himself  just  before  he  was  going  to  splash  on  the 
ground."  She  glanced  at  Gleia."  "He's  waiting  for  you." 

Gleia  rubbed  wearily  at  burning  eyes.  "No.  You  next.  There's 
another  bird  coming.  I  have  to  deal  with  it." 

Deel  looked  down,  then  at  the  bird.  "Oh  well,  it'd  be  a  quicker 
and  easier  death  than  the  Lossal  would  give  me."  With  a  flourish 
of  her  arms,  she  stepped  off  the  wall.  A  moment  later  Gleia  heard 
a  startled  cry  and  knew  the  dancer  had  reached  ground  safely. 

The  second  bird  came  more  slowly  than  the  first,  wavering  er- 
ratically from  side  to  side.  She  couldn't  keep  the  rod  aimed  at  it, 
couldn't  anticipate  where  it  would  be  next.  Pressing  her  lips  to- 
gether, she  waited  until  it  reached  the  spot  where  the  other  bird 
had  exploded,  then  she  touched  the  sensor  and  swung  the  beam  in 
an  arc,  cutting  through  the  bird,  feeling  an  intense  satisfaction  as 
it  fell  apart  and  rained  fragments  on  the  pavement  below. 

She  waited  a  moment  longer,  searching  the  sky  for  more  of  the 
birds,  then  twisted  the  shield  back  over  the  sensor  and  thrust  the 
rod  into  her  pocket  as  she  ran  to  the  opening  in  the  stone.  Shounach 
was  leaning  on  Deel,  both  of  them  looking  anxiously  up.  "Coming," 
she  cried.  She  stepped  off  the  wall.  For  a  terrifying  time  she  fell, 
the  cafta  ballooning  up  about  her  body,  the  wind  whipping  at  her, 
then  she  felt  the  skin  tighten  around  her,  slowing  her  fall.  In  spite 
of  this  she  landed  heavily,  going  to  her  knees,  the  breath  knocked 
out  of  her. 

Deel  helped  her  to  her  feet,  then  gasped  with  fear.  Gleia  followed 
her  gaze  and  saw  more  iron  birds  circling  the  place  where  she'd  been 
standing.  She  fumbled  in  her  pocket  for  the  rod,  turned  to  question 
Shounach. 

He  was  standing,  swaying  a  little,  the  wind  tugging  at  his  matted 
hair,  a  wild  glittering  triumph  in  his  fever-glazed  eyes.  "Shounach," 
she  called.  He  didn't  hear  her.  Or  ignored  her.  She  didn't  exist  for 
him;  only  the  wall  and  the  birds  existed  for  him. 

She  sank  to  the  ground,  pulled  her  knees  up  against  her  breasts, 
tired  of  fighting,  waiting  now.  Waiting  with  Shounach  for  whatever 
he  expected  to  happen.  Deel  walked  past  her,  cloak  whipping  about, 
166  JO  CLAYTON 


amber  silk  slapping  against  her  long  legs.  Not  too  far  from  them 
the  river  was  a  shimmering  rippling  surface  whispering  past  low 
stone  piers  toward  the  sea,  opening  below  the  city  into  a  wide  estuary 
where  a  number  of  large  ocean-going  ships  were  anchored.  Smaller 
boats  were  tied  up  at  the  piers,  their  owners  joining  the  crowd 
milling  outside  the  gates.  Deel  turned.  She  came  back  and  stood  in 
front  of  Gleia.  "One  of  those  ships  could  take  us  anywhere.  If  you're 
worried  about  passage  money,  I've  got  plenty." 

Gleia  looked  up  at  her,  then  over  at  Shounach.  This  is  the  end, 
she  thought.  /  can't  drift  any  more.  She  closed  her  eyes.  Shounach, 
Deel,  or  neither?  Trouble  is,  if  I  take  the  easiest  way  and  go  on  by 
myself,  I  know  what  my  life  will  be  like  .  .  .  day  and  day  and  day 
with  no  surprises.  No  pain  and  fear  and  anguish.  No  highs  either. 
It  could  be  very  comfortable.  I  could  go  back  and  live  contentedly 
enough  with  Temokeuu-my -father.  And  be  bored  to  death.  End  up 
hurting  the  both  of  us.  No.  I  turned  my  back  on  that.  What's  the  point 
of  going  back.  Deel.  I  like  her.  Friendship  without  the  complications 
of  sex.  Fve  had  that  too.  Jevati -my -sister.  She  smiled  affedtionately 
as  she  remembered  the  slim  silver-green  sea-girl.  She  glanced  up 
at  Deel  who  had  turned  again  and  was  looking  out  to  sea.  It  was 
tempting,  yet.  .  .  .  She  shook  her  head  and  turned  to  Shounach. 
There  never  was  any  real  question,  she  thought.  I  just  didn't  want 
to  admit  it.  I  need  him.  I've  never  needed  anyone  before.  I  don't  like 
it.  It  hurts.  And  it's  hard,  trying  to  be  a  companion,  as  he  calls  it. 
Harder  than  anything  I've  done  before.  She  shivered.  Scares  hell  out 
of  me.  Stiffly,  slowly  she  pushed  up  onto  her  feet  and  v/alked  slowly 
over  the  stony  earth  to  Shounach. 

She  touched  his  arm.  The  fever  in  him  burned  her  even  through 
the  heavy  material  of  his  jacket  sleeve.  She  looked  up  at  him,  be- 
ginning to  be  frightened.  His  intensity  frightened  her  also;  he 
seemed  unaware  of  anything  but  the  city,  didn't  even  feel  the  touch 
of  her  hand,  didn't  even  know  she  was  there.  It's  beginning,  she 
thought.  Madar,  will  I  ever  be  able  to  .  .  . 

The  sky  above  the  city  seemed  to  open;  springing  from  behind  the 
wall  a  blue  flash  fanned  out,  searing  her  eyes,  covering  a  large 
portion  of  the  sky.  Almost  immediately  she  heard  an  explosion;  the 
blast  deafened  her.  Beside  her  Shounach  started  laughing.  She 
couldn't  hear  that  laughter;  seeing  it  was  bad  enough.  She  heard 
his  words  echoing  in  her  mind  like  the  gong  strokes  of  the  Knelling. 
/  hold  grudges.  I  hold  grudges  a  long,  long  time.  She  saw  his  face 
when  the  blue  ball  rolled  down  the  Ironmaster's  belly  to  sit  rocking 
between  his  legs. 

COMPANIONING  167 


He  slapped  his  arm  onto  her  shoulders  still  laughing,  then  she 
felt  him  sag  against  her;  when  she  looked  at  him,  the  strained 
madness  was  gone  from  his  face.  He  said  something,  but  her  ears 
were  still  ringing  and  she  couldn't  understand  him.  She  swallowed, 
swallowed  again,  felt  the  ringing  diminish.  Wriggling  around  until 
she  was  more  comfortable  under  his  weight,  she  settled  herself  then 
smiled  up  at  him.  "What'd  you  say,  Fox?" 

"Coming  with  me?"  He  spoke  slowly,  with  great  difficulty. 

"If  you  can  put  up  with  me."  She  hesitated,  added,  "It  won't  be 
easy.  I ...  I  get  itchy." 

"I  know.  We  make  a  cranky  pair,  my  Vixen."  He  tugged  her  around 
until  they  were  facing  the  smaller  piers  at  the  far  end  of  the  line 
of  landings.  "We  need  a  boat  before  I  wash  out.  Once  I  crash,  love, 
I'll  be  out  a  good  long  while." 

With  Shounach  leaning  heavily  on  her,  Gleia  started  walking 
slowly  to  the  east,  angling  toward  the  riverbank.  She  heard  a  patter 
of  quick  steps,  a  flurry  of  silk,  then  Deel  was  beside  her.  "You've 
made  up  your  mind." 

"I'm  going  upriver  with  the  Juggler."  She  glanced  at  Shounach. 
His  eyes  were  glassy;  he  was  stumbling  along  in  a  daze,  close  to 
doing  what  he  called  crashing.  "If  we  can  reach  the  damn  river." 

Amber  eyes  narrowed,  Deel  moved  swiftly  ahead,  gliding  easily 
over  the  stony  earth  as  she  walked  backward  examining  Shounach, 
measuring  what  strength  he  had  left.  Then  she  nodded,  shifted  to 
his  other  side  and  slid  her  shoulder  under  his  arm,  helping  Gleia 
support  him.  "Mind  if  I  come  with  you?" 

The  scattered  flurries  of  rain  were  merging  into  a  steady  drizzle 
that  the  wind  drove  fitfully  against  their  backs.  Gleia  looked  across 
Shounach  at  Deel.  "If  you  want."  She  smiled.  "At  least  you  won't 
be  bored." 

Deel  burst  out  laughing,  continued  to  chuckle  at  intervals  as  they 
slogged  through  the  rain  toward  a  quiet  eddy  where  several  small 
boats  rocked  unattended.  As  they  stopped  beside  one  of  these  boats, 
Deel  glanced  back  at  the  still  glowing  city,  then  up  the  river.  The 
clouds  were  matting  heavily  across  the  sky,  blocking  out  moonlight 
and  starlight  until  the  river  flowed  into  a  heavy  darkness.  She 
chuckled  again  as  she  helped  Gleia  maneuver  Shounach  into  a  boat. 
"No,  my  friend.  With  the  Juggler  around,  we  certainly  won't  be 
bored." 


168  JO  CLAYTON 


LETTERS 

In  the  matter  of  letters:  keep  them  coming!  Letters  to  the  editor 
should  he  addressed  to  us  at  Box  13116,  Philadelphia  PA  19101. 
Letters  on  subscription  renewals,  subscription  changes  of  address, 
and  other  subscription  matters  should  go  to  Box  2650,  Greenwich  CT 
06836.  Matters  for  the  publisher's  staff— such  as  advertising  and 
classified  advertising  rates  and  so  on  should  go  to  Davis  Publications, 
Inc.,  380  Lexington  Ave.,  New  York  NY  1001 7. 

Letters  on  just  how  well  we're  being  distributed  to  newsstands  have 
been  coming  in,  and  they've  been  a  great  help.  But— we  do  need  more 
of  this  information.  If  your  local  newsstands  do — or  don't— carry  the 
magazine,  we'd  like  to  know  details.  Newsstand  distribution  infor- 
mation is  the  biggest  help  you  can  give  us  just  now. 

How  long  after  you  submit  a  story  should  you  expect  to  see  some 
kind  of  reply?  With  this  magazine,  in  an  overwhelming  majority  of 
cases,  we  respond  within  a  couple  of  days — but  that's  a  couple  of  days 
as  measured  from  our  post  office  back  to  our  post  office.  If  II  be  longer, 
by  a  variable  amount,  when  you  add  in  transit  time  both  ways.  A 
general  rule  is:  if  you  don't  hear  from  us  (or  any  other  SF  publisher) 
in  about  a  month,  send  a  polite  note  asking  if  the  manuscript  was 
received.  Our  experience  is  that  the  post  office  loses — completely 
loses — about  1  manuscript  in  2,000.  If  it  was  lost  on  the  way  to  us, 
we'll  tell  you  we  haven't  heard  of  it  and  you  can  send  another  copy; 
and  if  it  was  lost  on  the  way  back  to  you,  at  least  we  can  tell  you  more 
or  less  why  we  did  send  it  back.  Please  understand,  however,  that 
certifying  your  mail  is  no  protection  against  this  kind  of  loss;  and 
registering  your  mail  is  generally  more  expensive  than  the  cost  of 
duplicating  your  manuscript  is  worth.  The  one  protection  against 
loss  in  transit  is  to  keep  a  good  copy  of  everything  you  send  out.  Or, 
you  can  send  us  the  good  copy  and  keep  the  original  for  your  files. 

But  this  still  leaves  the  question  of  what  on  Earth  is  the  post  office 
doing  with  all  that  lost  mail — burning  it  to  keep  down  their  fuel  bills? 

—George  H.  Scithers 


Dear  George  Scithers: 

This  is  a  belated  thank-you  letter  for  (of  all  things)  a  rejection 
slip.  It  is  for  publication  if  you  like;  sometimes  it  seems  from  your 
letters  column  that  your  readership  consists  largely  of  unpublished 

LEHERS  169 


authors.  I  find  this  hard  to  understand — surely  I  am  not  the  only 
person  who  finds  it  hard  to  keep  reading  in  the  field  after  getting 
more  and  more  widely  rejected?  Each  good  story  saps  my  self-con- 
fidence: how  can  I  compete  with  this?  And  each  story  I  can't  stand 
makes  me  angry:  how  could  anyone  print  this  tripe  and  not  mine, 
which,  whatever  its  faults,  is  not  this  bad? 

And  each  printed  form  rejection  slip  makes  me  feel  more  and  more 
as  if  editors  are  grisly  mythical  beasts,  half  Charon,  keeping  the 
strait  gate  between  writers  and  would-be  readers;  and  half  fish  that 
refuse  to  bite.  That's  why  it  is  good  to  get  a  note  back  with  a  story 
saying  what  it  was  you  liked  about  it  and  what  it  was  you  didn't 
like. 

It  also  saves  you  time  and  me  postage.  The  reason  I  have  not  yet 
sent  you  any  more  manuscripts  is  not  only  that  I  have  been  putting 
most  of  my  energy  into  writing  a  novel  (isn't  everybody?)  but  that 
none  of  the  three  or  four  stories  I  have  completed  since  you  asked 
to  see  more  of  my  work  are  likely  to  be  more  to  your  taste  than  the 
ones  you  thought  weren't  quite  for  lA'sfm. 

Last  of  all,  critical  comments  are  valuable  because  they  help  one 
to  grow  as  a  writer.  It  is  possible  to  agree  with  them,  to  say,  here 
are  specific  faults  I  can  fix  next  time;  or  to  disagree,  and  then  ask 
oneself  why  such  a  misreading  on  the  editor's  part  was  possible. 
Each  way,  it's  a  learning  experience.  Thanks. 
Sincerely, 

Millea  Kenin 
Oakland  CA 

Appreciating  a  creative  rejection  is  intelligent,  but  expressing  that 
appreciation  is  more  than  intelligent;  it  is  kind. 

— Isaac  Asimov 


Dear  George  and  Isaac: 

A  few  issues  back  you  ran  an  editorial  on  the  subject  of  rejections. 
I  was  very  impressed  with  your  views  and  handling  of  an  often 
delicate  subject.  As  one  writer  who  has  had  some  rejections  from 
your  magazine,  I  felt  those  comments  from  you,  George,  were  a  very 
nice  gesture  considering  how  busy  you  are. 

Unfortunately,  the  last  rejection  was  something  altogether  dif- 
ferent and  if  I  didn't  know  better,  I'd  swear  it  was  from  another 
place,  not  lA'sfm.  Admittedly,  I'm  not  very  good  at  SF  yet  and  my 
SF  stories  have  been  published  in  fanzines  only,  but  I  or  any  other 

170  LEHERS 


writer  don't  deserve  the  insulting  printed  rejection  that  was  sent 
to  me  a  while  back. 

I  refer  to  the  one  that  begins  with,  "I  recommend  you  get  a  hard 
cover  version  of  The  Elements  of  Style  as  you  will  be  rereading  it 
a  lot."  Is  this  how  you  encourage  your  submitters?  Surely,  I'm  not 
the  only  one  who  has  received  such  a  form  response;  and  that's  a 
pity.  Has  your  magazine  gotten  so  big  that  it  stoops  to  that  level? 
I've  had  rejections  and  acceptances  from  some  of  the  finest  publi- 
cations and  never  has  an  editor  or  his  associates  had  to  insult  me 
to  make  a  point.  Firstly,  I'm  a  published  writer,  not  well  known  but 
published;  therefore  I'm  not  that  much  of  an  amateur.  Secondly, 
even  if  it  was  my  first  submission  anywhere,  do  you  really  believe 
that  rejections  of  that  type  are  encouraging  to  a  new  writer?  For 
your  information,  in  spite  of  the  curt  rejection,  I  read  the  book,  but 
only  because  I  had  bought  it  long  before  I  received  your  "advice." 

One  editor  I  know,  who  accepted  a  story  for  publication  two 
months  ago,  takes  the  time  for  personal  comments  with  each  sub- 
mission whether  or  not  the  story  has  merit.  I  have  received  some 
criticism  from  him,  but  no  time  has  it  been  in  an  insulting  tone. 

Our  local  writers'  workshop  here  is  brutal  in  their  criticism,  but 
not  insulting.  When  an  editor  (and  I've  been  one  in  the  past)  insults 
writers  rather  than  criticizes,  he  or  she  should  examine  the  reasons 
they  became  an  editor  in  the  first  place.  In  your  editorial,  Isaac,  you 
stated  that  you  were  sympathetic  towards  the  recipients  of  rejec- 
tions, yourself  included;  and  I  believed  you.  Then,  isn't  it  somewhat 
hypocritical  to  send  out  such  a  form  as  I've  mentioned? 

As  a  writer  and  long  time  reader  of  your  magazine,  frankly  I'm 
very  disappointed. 
Yours  truly, 

Vicki  Carleton 
Lansing  MI 

/  think  that  any  writer,  published  or  unpublished,  will  benefit  from 
frequent  re-reading  of  Strunk  &  White's  The  Elements  of  Style. /^'s 
not  a  book  to  read  once  and  then  put  aside:  it  must  be  re-read  fre- 
quently, first  to  understand  what  the  authors  are  saying,  then  what 
they  mean  by  that,  and  eventually,  to  disagree  on  one  point  and  to 
realize  how  true  another  point  really  is.  "You'll  be  re-reading  it  a 
lot,"  is  not  a  putdowh;  any  ''you''  should  be  re-reading  it  a  lot,  for 
anyone  who  takes  writing  seriously  will  be  re-reading  Strunk  &  White 
a  lot. 

— George  H.  Scithers 
LEHERS  171 


Dear  Sirs: 

I  have  greatly  enjoyed  my  subscriptions  to  IA*sfm.  The  consistent 
quality  of  the  stories  and  the  poetry  are  a  delight.  There  are  a  few 
areas  of  particular  interest. 

The  science  articles  have  been  uniquely  informative.  They  seem 
to  be  written  "up"  to  the  readers  instead  of  being  written  "down" 
to  us.  In  spite  of  this,  they  are  very  readable. 

The  stories  by  new  writers  are  very  uneven.  Some  of  them  are  so 
good,  they  make  up  for  the  really  rotten  ones.  Keep  publishing  them. 
(I  have  enclosed  an  SASE  for  your  needs  and  manuscript  format.) 
Somtow  Sucharitkul  and  Barry  Longyear  seem  to  have  developed 
very  interesting  worlds  to  explore. 

Please  do  not  ever  print  another  serial.  As  is  usually  the  case,  the 
second  part  of  your  one  previous  attempt  was  the  one  that  got  lost 
in  the  mail. 

The  good  doctor  has  quite  a  sense  of  humor.  It  shows  in  the  letters 
and  their  responses.  Does  he  still  have  to  wear  his  corrective  hat 
indoors? 

Yours  truly, 

Clifton  D.  Baird 
Tempe  AZ 

Sorry,  I've  split  all  my  corrective  hats.  I  can't  even  get  through 
doorways  anymore. 

—Isaac  Asimov 


Dear  Sirs: 

I  wish  to  comment  on  a  section  of  your  excellent  magazine  that 
has  apparently  been  overlooked:  namely,  your  book  reviews.  THEY 
ARE  FANTASTIC! 

Baird  Searles  has  just  exactly  the  right  touch  for  book  reviews. 
He  is  commendably  brief  in  most  cases,  highly  intelligent  and  per- 
ceptive in  all  cases,  and  has  a  refreshing  sense  of  humor  which  is 
sprinkled  throughout  the  column. 

Book  reviews,  in  general,  are  either  long  and  incredibly  boring, 
or  short  and  exasperatingly  uninformative.  Seldom  can  you  find  one 
that  is  the  proverbial  happy  medium,  nor  can  you  find  many  that 
are  actually  entertaining  to  read. 

So,  gentlemen,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  get  Mr.  Searles  to  put  his 
signature  on  a  life-time  contract.  He  seems  to  be  an  extremely  rare, 

172  LEHERS 


endangered  species. 
Most  sincerely, 

Ellen  Lane 

Route  1 

McLeansboro  IL  62859 

/  agree  with  you  whole-heartedly — to  the  pointy  in  fact,  of  writing 
an  editorial  on  the  subject. 

—Isaac  Asimov 


Dear  Mister  Scithers  and  Dr.  Asimov, 

As  a  charter  subscriber  I  would  like  to  say  that  I  have  enjoyed 
every  issue  of  lA'sfm  I  have  received.  However,  there  are  some 
aspects  of  the  magazine  that  could  be  improved,  so  here  are  some 
questions  and  comments. 

First,  while  going  through  my  back  issues  I  noticed  that  the  recent 
issues  have  fewer  pages  than  previous  ones.  What  happened  to  those 
extra  16  pages? 

Second,  I  noticed  that  if  you  cut  down  the  borders  on  the  mailing 
labels  they  would  be  only  slightly  larger  than  that  computer  code 
on  the  cover.  Thus,  if  the  labels  were  placed  over  the  code  (if  you  are 
mailing  the  issue  the  code  is  not  needed  anyway),  they  would  not 
obscure  the  art  work  on  the  cover.  Speaking  of  art  work,  I  applaud 
your  policy  of  keeping  illustrations  to  a  minimum  and  thus  allowing 
the  reader  to  use  his/her  own  imagination  to  visualize  the  scenes. 
It  is  also  admirable  of  you  to  encourage  new  unpublished  authors. 

I  will  be  a  sophomore  at  Boston  University  next  semester  and 
have  heard  that  the  good  Dr.  has  taught  courses  here  before.  This 
prompts  me  to  ask  whether  he  will  have  time  in  the  future  to  teach 
here  again  and,  if  so,  would  it  be  a  course  concerning  science  fiction 
or  biochemistry  (S.F.,  I  hope,  since  chemistry  is  not  one  of  my  best 
subjects)? 

Thank  you  and  keep  up  the  good  work. 
Sincerely, 

David  Anderson 
Pequannock  NJ 

Alas,  I  don't  actively  teach  at  the  University,  or  get  paid — though 
I'm  a  full  member  of  the  faculty.  You'll  find  the  whole  story  in  my 
autobiography. 

—Isaac  Asimov 
LETTERS  173 


Dear  Sir: 

Please  send  me  a  copy  of  your  manuscript  format  and  story  needs. 
(Business  before  criticism.) 

My  thanks  to  Dr.  Asimov's  editorial  on  serials.  It  has  prompted 
me  to  an  action  that  I  have  been  putting  off  for  5  +  years  (id  est, 
write  those  short  stories  I've  been  kicking  around  in  my  head).  His 
editorials  are  an  infinite  source  of  inspiration,  information,  and 
insight.  More  than  any  other  section  of  the  magazine,  his  editorials 
should  be  expanded  (a  few  more  pages  each  month  from  such  a 
prolific  writer  could  be  easily  accomplished  and  would  be  greatly 
appreciated). 
Sincerely, 

James  D.  Taylor 
Houston  TX 

/  appreciate  the  thought  but  please.  Everyone  says  ''What's  a  few 
more  words,  Asimov?"  and  by  the  time  I  try  to  please  everybody, 
there's  no  time  left  to  breathe. 

—Isaac  Asimov 


NEXT  ISSUE 


This  issue  of  lA'sfm  will  be  our  last  monthly  Issue.  No,  we're  not 
folding— just  the  opposite,  in  fact.  Our  next  issue  will  be  called  the 
19  January  1981  issue,  because  we're  going  to  a  13-issue-per-year 
schedule.  This  means  that  lA'sfm  (and  our  sister  publication,  Analog) 
will  be  appearing  on  your  newsstands  and  in  your  mailboxes  every  four 
weeks.  To  kick  off  our  new  schedule,  our  19  January  1981  issue  will  be 
one  of  our  most  exciting  ever.  The  cover  story  is  "Island  Man"  by 
R.  A.  Wilson,  with  a  lovely  cover  painting  by  David  Mattingly.  In  addi- 
tion, we'll  have  stories  and  articles  by  James  Gunn,  Larry  Niven,  Isaac 
Asimov,  Martin  Gardner,  and  John  M.  Ford.  On  sale  23  December.  Don't 
miss  it! 


174  LEHERS 


Classified 


■MARKET  PLACE: 


ISAAC  ASIMOV-is  published  monthly.  The  rate  per  word  for  CLASSIFIED  ADVERTISEMENTS  is 
$1.00-payable  in  advance-minimum  ad  $15.00  Capitalized  words  40^  per  word  additional. 
To  be  included  in  the  next  issue,  please  send  order  and  remittance  to  R.  S.  Woyner,  Classified 
Ad    Director,   DAVIS    PUBLICATIONS,   INC.,  380   Lexington     10017.  Ave.,    New    York,    N.Y. 


ACCOUNTING   &  TAX  SERVICE 

LEARN  Simple  Method  of  Preparing  your 
1980  Taxes.  Brochure  $2.00.  P.O.  Box  308, 
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^ AUTHOR'S  SERVICE 

TYPING,  typesetting:  fast,  accuracy  guaran- 
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magazine,  $3.  Millea  Kenin,  1025  55th  St., 
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BUSINESS  OPPORTUNITIES 

STAY  HOME!  EARN  BIG  MONEY  address- 
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"$500  CASH  Advance  Possible."  "Work  from 
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quired. Rexson  32-OlF,  Box  1060,  Orange 
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EASY  MONEY!  Become  HIGH  PROFIT 
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Free  Details.  Bronxville  House,  Box  311  D, 
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BECOME  an  ordained  minister.  Start  a  non- 
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DISTRIBUTORS  WANTED!  Earn  $10,000.00 
Or  More  Monthly,  Distributing  Pre-Recorded 
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EARN  Extra  Income.  Home  Mailing  Pn^ram. 
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OKC.  OK  73156. 


ISAAC  ASIMOV'S  SCIENCE  FICTION  MAGAZINE  DECEMBER  1980/175 


Classfied  Continued 


BUSINESS  OPPORTUNITIES  —  Cont'd 

EASY  home  income  mailing  program.  Big 
profits.  Free  details.  Write:  Runnel,  Box  456, 
Fairview,  OR  97024. 

BEAT  INFLATION-end  recession.  Full/part 
time  business  at  home,  over  2,000  products  to 
sell-retailing/wholesaling.  $2.00  brings  giant 
catalog— refundable  first  order.  T/J  Golden 
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FREE  Book.  Inflation  Beater  1001  Secrets 
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AMS/Oil  dealerships.  Synthetic  lubrication. 
Multi-level  income  business.  $30  investment. 
Free  info  packet.  1-800-327-9191  Ext.  470 
Dept.  19. 

NOW!  Be  Independent!  Have  Time  and  Money 
to  Enjoy  Fascinating,  Successful  Life  Easily! 
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COINS,  CURRENCY  &  TOKENS 

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TORNADOES- You  can  stop  them.  Own  ac- 
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EDUCATION   &   INSTRUCTION 

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tion, Binghamton,  NY  13903. 

EMPLOYMENT  INFORMATION 

GET  THE  JOB  YOU  WANT.  Easy  to  read, 
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GIFTS  THAT  PLEASE 


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HOBBIES  &  COLLECTIONS 

GREAT  SCIENCE  FICTION  SHOWS  from 
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moderately  priced.  Free  list.  Rare  Radio, 
Dept.  1,  Box  117,  Sunland,  CA  91040. 

ASSASSIN'S  WANTED,  no  experience  neces- 
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BORROW  $25,000  "OVERNIGHT."  Any  pur- 
pose. Keep  indefinitely!  Free  Report!  Success 
Research,  Box  29070-6Z,  Indianapolis,  IN 
46229. 


176/ISAAC  ASIMOV'S  SCIENCE  FICTION  MAGAZINE  DECEMBER  1980 


Classified  Continued 


LOANS  BY  MAIL— Cont'd 


BORROW  $1.000-$50,000  secretly-"over- 
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MAIL-ORDER  OPPORTUNITIES 

FRAUD?  Learn  secrets  behind  mailorder.  New 
report  tells  all.  "Mailorder  Robbers?"  $2.95. 
Truth  Publications,  Box  746,  Saybrook,  CT 
06475. 

MEMORY  IMPROVEMENT 

INSTANT  MEMORY  .  .  .  NEW  WAY  TO 
REMEMBER.  No  memorization.  Release  your 
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MISCELLANEOUS 


TRANSLATIONS:  English  to  German,  Ger- 
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prompt,  accurate.  Charles  Reavis,  1138  Blvler 
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First,  Ann  Arbor.  MI  48104. 

STARSHIP  EMPIRES,  computer  moderated 
mail  SF  game.  Information  $1.  152  Valley, 
Laconia,  NH  03246. 

SAVE!  Fabulous  Gems  For  Jewelry,  Collect- 
ing!  Gemcutter  to  You!  Details  Free.  Taylor's, 
113-A  Martin,  Indian  Harbor  Beach.  FL  32937. 

BEAT  INFLATION  with  COMMON  SENSE. 
Pamphlet  $3.00  (refundable).  MJS/FOADCO, 
P.O.  Box  7042,  Ck>lumbus,  GA  31907. 

NUCLEAR  WAR  SURVIVAL!  Information 
and  techniques,  $5.00  Report.  Terry's  Multi- 
service, Box  328,  Dept.  A,  Hummelstown,  PA 
17036. 


MISCELLANEOUS  —  Cont'd 

HILARIOUS!  "AIN'T  LIFE  A  TOAD" 
photo.  B&W  8"xl0"  Suitable  for  framing.  Rvish 
$2.50  along  with  name  and  address  to:  TOAD, 
Box  121.  Reeds  Spring,  MO  65737. 

CONTROL  YOUR  DESTINY-Know  your 
moods  in  advsmce.  Personalized  BIO- 
RHYTHM  chart  showing  graph  and  critical 
day  list.  The  following  information  is  needed. 
Your  mo/day/yr  of  birth,  date  you  want  chart 
to  start,  number  of  months  chart  is  to  cover 
(3  mo.  min.),  and  your  name  &  Address  along 
with  $1.00/mo.  or  $10.00  for  a  one  year  chart. 
Send  to  T.  M.  M.  Co.,  Caller  #1516,  Downers 
Grove,  IL  60515.  Allow  2  wks.  for  delivery. 

EXPERIENCE  THE  FUTURE  with  "Astral 
Sounds,"  a  60  minute  cassette  containing  deli- 
cate, computer  created  sound  waves  and  fre- 
quencies arranged  in  a  soecific  pattern  to  have 
positive  psvchological  effects  on  the  mind  and 
body  of  the  listener.  GET  NATURALLY 
HIGH!  Send  $9.95  per  tape  plus  $1.00  postage 
or  write  for  a  free  brochure  explaining  all 
about  "Astral  Sounds."  J.  B.  Estrin,  6302 
Ethel  Avenue,  Van  Nuys,  California  91401. 

MONEYMAKING  OPPORTUNITIES 

MAKE  YOUR  CLASSIFIED  AD  PAY.  Get 
"How  to  Write  A  Classified  Ad  That  Pulls." 
Includes  certificate  worth  $2.00  towards  a 
classified  ad  in  this  publication.  Send  $1.50 
(plus  25^  postage)  to  R.  S.  Wayner,  Davis 
Publications,  Inc.,  Dept.  CL,  380  Lexington 
Ave.,  New  York,  NY  10017. 

$45,000  in  Three  Weeks!  Guaranteed!  Gene 
S'lnders,  1316DC  Lyric,  Fort  Worth,  TX 
76134. 

$60. 00/ Hundred  Stuffing  Envelopes  (per  in- 
structions)!! Offer-details:  Worldwide-P  460, 
X15940,  Fort  Lauderdale,  FL  33318. 

EARN  Big  Money  CJollecting  Names!  Easy 
Work!  Start  Immediately!  Write:  Day,  104-HH 
Third,  Salem,  Missouri  65560. 

COLLECrr  names.  Guaranteed  weekly  income. 
Free  supplies.  CMO,  Box  171-CB,  Natalia, 
Texas  78059. 

"$500  CASH  Advance  Possible!"  "Work  from 
home  mailing  circulars."  No  experience  re- 
quired. Rexson  32-02F,  Box  1060,  Orange 
Park,  FL  32073. 

$45,000.00  in  three  weeks  Guaranteed!  Send 
self-addressed  stamr>ed  envelope  to  Arnold 
Lange,  246  Dayton  Ave.,  Clifton,  N.J.  07011. 

$80/100  Stuffing.  Mailing  Envelopes.  No  Limit. 
Free  Details.  Greenwood  Publications,  Box 
776  (DP) ,  Tualatin.  OR  97062. 

HOW  Never  to  be  Broke  Again,  and  Always 
have  Money,  or  "Become  A  Millionaire!"  Z. 
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ISAAC  ASIMOV'S  SCIENCE  FICTION  MAGAZINE  DECEMBER  1980/177 


Classified  Continued 


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WAGE  EARNERS  eet  larger  tax  refunds  with 
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JOBS  OVERSEAS,  FULL  FACTS  and  AIDS. 
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PROFITABLE  OCCUPATIONS 

DIAMOND  Brokers  earn  big  profits.  Requires 
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RECORDS.  TAPES  &  SOUND  EQUIPMENT 

FREE  Promotional  albums,  concert  tickets, 
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SONGWRITERS 

POEMS  WANTED.  Songs  Recorded  For 
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TAKE  ANY  6  BOOKS  FOR  $1 

WITH  MEMBERSHIP 

SAVE  UP  TO  65%  OFF  PUBUSHERS'  EDITIONS  WHEN  YOU  JOIN! 


0034  Lord  Valentine's  Castle.  By 

Robert  Silverberg.  A  man  struggles 
to  regain  his  stolen  memory  on  the 
planet  Majipoor.  Pub.  ed.  $12.50 

1081  The  House  Between  the 
Worlds.  By  Marion  Zimmer  Brad- 
ley. A  man  is  projected  into  a  paral- 
lel universe  where  ethereal  people 
fight  hordes  of  carnivores.  Pub.  ed. 
$10.00 

2824  The  Snow  Queen.  By  Joan  D 
Vinge.  An  almost  immortal  ruler 
tries  to  avert  destruction  and  pre- 
vent her  planet's  regression.  Pub. 
ed.  $10.95 


"2576  Voorloper.  By  Andre  Norton 
Survivors  on  the  planet  Voor  are 
determined  to  stop  the  Shadow 
Death  which  has  devastated  their 
families  and  town.  Spec.  ed. 

'4317  Players  At  the  Game  of 
People.  By  John  Brunner.  A  man 
owned  by  aliens  is  in  danger  when 
he  questions  his  odd  way  of  life. 
Spec.  ed. 

2717  The  Rinoworld  Engineers.  By 

Larry  Niven  Sequel  to  Ringworld. 
The  planetary  system  is  doomed  — 
unless  the  Engineers'  identities  are 
discovered.  Pub.  ed.  $9.95 


0075  The  Chronicles  of  Amber.  By  Roger  Zelazny 
Two  vols  Nine  Princes  in  Amber;  The  Guns  of 
Avalon;  Sign  of  the  Unicorn;  The  Hand  of  Oberon; 
The  Courts  of  Chaos.  Comb  pub.  ed.  $30.30 

6288  A  Heinlein  Trio.  By  Robert  A.  Heinlein. 
Includes:  The  Puppet  Masters;  Double  Star;  The 
Door  into  Summer.  Spec  ed 

6239  The  Best  of  Walter  M.  Miller,  Jr.  A  superb 
collection  of  short  fiction  by  the  author  of  the  clas- 
sic A  Canticle  for  Leibowltz.  Spec  ed. 


Note:  Prices  shown  are  publishers'  edition  prices 
'Explicit  scenes  and  language  may  be  offensive  to  som 


*4291  Fireflood  and  Other  Stories. 

By  Vonda  N.  Mclntyre.  11  of  her 
finest  including  "Aztecs.  "  runner- 
up  for  the  Nebula  Award.  Pub.  ed. 
$10.95 

0422  The  Empire  Strikes  Back!" 

By  Donald  F.  Glut  The  novelization 
of  the  action-packed  continuation 
of  the  Star  Wars  saga.  Spec.  ed. 

6254  Universe  10.  Terry  Carr,  ed. 
A  thought-provoking  anthology  by 
such  authors  as  P.M.  Busby  and 
the  award-winning  James  Tiptree, 
Jr.  Pub.  ed.  $8.95 


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TH^:©Lucasfilm,  Ltd.  (LFL)  1980 
See  other  side  for  more  choices. 


Cut  along  line  and  nnail  — no  postage  necessary 


How  The 

Science  Fiction  Book  Club  Works: 

When  your  application  for  membership  is  accepted, 
you'll  receive  your  introductory  package  of  six  boolcs  for 
justSI,  plus  shipping  and  handling.  You  may  examine 
them  in  your  home,  and  if  not  completely  satisfied, 
return  them  within  10  days  —  membership  will  be  can- 
celled and  you'll  owe  nothing. 

About  every  four  weeks  (14  times  a  year),  we'll  send 
you  the  Club's  bulletin.  Things  to  Come,  describing  the  2 
coming  Selections  and  a  variety  of  Alternate  choices.  If 
you  want  both  Selections,  you  need  do  nothing;  they'll  be 
shipped  to  you  automatically. 

W  you  don't  want  a  Selection,  or  prefer  an  Alternate, 
or  no  book  at  all.  just  fill  out  the  convenient  form  always 
provided,  and  return  it  to  us  by  the  date  specified. 

We  allow  you  at  least  10  days  for  making  your  deci 
sion.  If  you  do  not  receive  the  form  in  time  to  respond 
within  10  days,  and  receive  an  unwanted  Selection,  you 
may  return  it  at  our  expense. 

As  a  member  you  need  take  only  4  Selections  or 
Alternates  during  the  coming  year.  You  may  resign  any 
time  thereafter,  or  remain  a  member  as  long  as  you  wish. 
One  of  the  two  Selections  each  month  is  only  $2.98. 
Other  Selections  are  slightly  higher  but  always  much  less 
than  hardcover  Publishers'  Editions.  A  shipping  and  han- 
dling charge  is  added  to  all  shipments.  Send  no  money 
now.  Cut  off  this  postage-paid  reply  card  and  mail  today. 


Yes,  I  want  to  join 

The  Science  Fiction  Book  Club. 

Science  Fiction  Book  Club 

Dept.  BR-014.  Garden  City.  NY  11530 

Please  accept  me  as  a  member.  I  agree  to  the  member- 
ship plan  as  described  above.  Send  me  the  6  books  whose 
numbers  I  have  indicated  below,  and  bill  me  just  $1,  plus 
shipping  and  handling.  I  agree  to  take  4  additional  books 
at  regular  low  Club  prices  in  the  coming  year  and  may 
resign  any  time  thereafter.  SFBC  offers  serious  works  for 
mature  readers. 


Mr. 
Mr. 

(Please  print) 

Apt     if 
7in 

nity 

Statft 

If  under  1 

8,  parent  must  sign. 

The  Science  Fiction  Book  Club  offers  its  own  com- 
plete hardbound  editions  sometimes  altered  in  size 
to  fit  special  presses  and  save  members  even  more. 
Members  accepted  in  U.S.A.  and  Canada  only. 
Canadian  members  will  be  serviced  from  Toronto. 
Offer  slightly  different  in  Canada.  77-S222 


€grlk\ 


\ 


TAKE  ANY  6  BOOKS  FOR  $1 

WITH  MEMBERSHIP  IN 
The  Science  Fiction  Book  Club 


*6346  Beyond  the  Blue  Event  Horizon.  By 

Frederik  Pohl.  Sequel  to  Gateway.  More 
about  the  mysterious  aliens  whose  artifacts 
may  be  the  salvation  of  Earth.  Pub.  ed. 
$9.95 

2543  The  Dragonriders  of  Pern.  By  Anne 
McCaffrey.  Includes;  Dragonflight;  Dra- 
gonquest;  The  White  Dragon.  Comb,  pub 
ed.  $26.85 

'Explicit  scenes  and  language  may  be  offensive  to  some. 


8532  The  Hugo  Winners,  Vols.  I  and  II. 

Isaac  Asimov,  ed.   In  one  volume;  23 

award-winning  stories,  1955  to  1970.  Pub. 

ed.  $15.45 

6221  The  Foundation  Trilogy.  By  Isaac 

Asimov.  The  ends  of  the  galaxy  revert  to 

barbarism.  A  SF  classic.  Comb.  pub.  ed. 

$20.85 


M503  The  1980  Annual  World's  Best  SF. 

Donald  A.  Wollheim,  ed.  Another  winning 
collection  of  eleven  great  short  stories  by 
such  talent  as  John  Varley  and  Larry  Niven. 
Spec.  ed. 

6197  Riddle  of  Stars.  By  Patricia  A.  McKII- 
lip.  In  one  volume;  The  Riddle-Master  of 
Hed;  Heir  of  Sea  and  Fire;  Harpist  in  the 
Wind.  Comb.  pub.  ed.  $24.85 

See  other  side  for  more  choices. 


Cut  along  line  and  mail 
No  postage  necessary! 


NO  POSTAGE 

NECESSARY 

IF  MAILED 

IN  THE 

UNITED  STATES 


BUSINESS  REPLY  CARD 

FIRST  CLASS     PERMIT  NO.  1     GARDEN  CITY  N.Y 


POSTAGE  WILL  BE  PAID  BY  ADDRESSEE 

Science  Fiction 
Boole  Club 

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■1..