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SPRING  1977 
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FICTION 

MAGAZINE 


JsoocAsimov 
bhartesMBiown 
AntiuraCkirke 
Gordon  R.Dickson 
Martin  Gardner 
Edward  DiHooh 
George  aSmith 
Sherwood  Springer 
JohnVtariey  . 


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illustrations: 

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EDITORIAL        by  Isaac  Asimov    6 

GOOD-BYE,  ROBINSON  CRUSOE        by  John  Varley    9 

THE  DOCTORS'  DILEMMA        by  Martin  Gardner 39 

THINK!        by  Isaac  Asimov    40 

QUARANTINE        by  Arthur  C.  Clarke    49 

THE  HOMESICK  CHICKEN        by  Edward  D.  Hoch    51 

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COMING  OF  AGE  IN  HENSON'S  TUBE        by  William  Jon  Watkins  140 

ON  BOOKS        by  Charles  N.  Brown    146 

TIME  STORM        by  Gordon  R.  Dickson 156 


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ISAAC  ASIMGV'S  SCIENCE  FICTION  MAGAZINE,  Vol.  1,  No.  1,  Spring  1977.  Published  quarterly  by 
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CqSDIvIOM  ...  speaking  of  the  best 
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C.CIarln  reads  his 
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Leonard  NImoy  reads 

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TRATED MAN:  THE  VELDT— 
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II  (TC  1466) 

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EDITORIAL 


I  suppose  I  ought  to  start  by  intro- 
ducing myself,  even  though  that 
seems  needless.  The  whole  point 
about  putting  my  name  on  the 
magazine  rests  on  the  supposition 
that  everyone  will  recognize  it  at 
once,  go  into  ecstatic  raptures,  and 
rush  forward  to  buy  the  magazine. 

Well,  just  in  case  that  doesn't  hap- 
pen, I'm  Isaac  Asimov.  I'm  a  little 
over  thirty  years  old  and  I  have  been 
selling  science  fiction  stories  since 
1938.  (If  the  arithmetic  seems  wrong 
here,  it's  because  you  don't  under- 
stand higher  mathematics.)  I  have 

published  about  40  books  of  fiction,  mostly  science  fiction,  and 
about  140  books  of  nonfiction,  mostly  science.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  fence,  I  have  a  Ph.  D.  in  chemistry  from  Columbia  University 
and  I'm  Associate  Professor  of  Biochemistry  at  Boston  University 
School  of  Medicine.  — But  let's  not  go  on  with  the  litany  since  I 
am  (as  is  well  known)  very  modest,  and  since  I  am  the  least  im- 
portant person  involved  with  this  magazine. 

Joel  Davis,  the  publisher,  is  much  more  important.  His  com- 
pany, Davis  Publications,  Inc.,  puts  out  over  thirty  magazines, 
including  the  enormously  successful  Ellery  Queen's  Mystery 
Magazine.  It  also  publishes  Alfred  Hitchcock's  Mystery  Magazine. 
With  two  such  magazines  under  his  belt,  visions  of  empire  arose 
before  Joel's  eyes,  and  it  seemed  to  him  he  ought  to  have  a  sci- 
ence fiction  magazine  as  sister  to  these.  To  retain  symmetry, 
however,  he  needed  a  name  in  the  title  and  he  thought  of  me  at 
once.  You  see,  I'm  familiar  to  him  because  I  have,  in  recent  years, 
sold  a  score  of  mystery  short  stories  to  Ellery  Queen  s  Mystery 
Magazine,  and  he  would  often  catch  me  in  suave  conversation 
with  Eleanor  Sullivan  and  Constance  DiRienzo,  the  bewitching 
young  women  who  occupy  the  EQMM  office. 

I  can't  say  I  fell  all  over  myself  with  joy.  The  truth  is  I  was 
worried.  I  told  Joel  that  no  science  fiction  magazine  had  ever 


6 


EDITORIAL  7 

borne  a  person's  name  on  it,  to  my  knowledge,  and  that  the  writ- 
ers and  readers  would  surely  resent  this  as  an  example  of  over- 
weening arrogance.  He  said,  "Nonsense,  Isaac,  who  could  possibly 
accuse  you  of  arrogance?"  — Well,  that's  true  enough.  But  then  I 
pointed  out  that  the  editors  of  the  various  other  science  fiction 
magazines  were,  one  and  all,  personal  friends  of  mine  and  I  would 
not  wish  to  compete  with  them.  He  said,  "You  won't  be  competing 
with  them,  Isaac.  One  more  strong  magazine  in  the  field  will  at- 
tract additional  readers,  encourage  additional  writers.  Our  own 
success  will  help  the  other  magazines  in  the  field  as  well."  (I  con- 
sulted others  and  everyone  agreed  with  Joel.) 

Then  I  told  Joel  that  I  had  a  monthly  science  column  running 
in  one  of  the  other  science  fiction  magazines.  It -had  been  running 
without  a  break  for  eighteen  years  and  under  no  circumstances 
could  I  consider  giving  it  up.  He  said,  "You  don't  have  to  give  it 
up.  Continue  it  exactly  as  before."  (And  I  am  doing  so,  with  the 
blessing  of  the  other  magazine's  editor.)  But  then  I  had  the  top- 
per. I  told  him  that  the  fact  was  I  couldn't  edit  a  magazine.  I 
didn't  have  the  ability  or  the  experience  or  the  desire  or  the  time. 
He  said,  "Find  someone  you  can  trust,  with  the  ability,  the  ex- 
perience, the  desire,  and  the  time,  and  he  can  be  the  editor.  You 
can  be  the  editorial  director,  and  the  man  you  pick  will  work 
under  your  direction,  for  I  want  this  to  be  your  magazine,  a  reflec- 
tion of  your  tastes  with  your  kind  of  science  fiction.  You  should 
keep  an  eye  on  what  the  editor  buys,  write  the  editorials  yourself, 
and  work  closely  with  this  editor  to  set  policy  and  to  solve  prob- 
lems as  they  come  up." 

So  we  agreed  to  that;  now  let  me  introduce  the  Editor.  He  is 
George  H.  Scithers,  an  electrical  engineer  specializing  in  radio 
propagation  and  rail  rapid  transit,  who  is  a  Lieutenant  Colonel 
(retired)  in  the  United  States  Army  and  who  does  a  bit  of  writing 
on  the  side.  He  has  been  involved  with  the  world  of  science  fiction 
for  over  thirty  years.  He  was  the  chairman  of  DisCon  1,  the 
World  Science  Fiction  Convention  held  in  Washington  in  1963 
(where  I  got  my  first  Hugo,  so  you  can  see  what  a  well-run  con- 
vention that  was),  and  has  been  parliamentarian  for  several  other 
conventions.  He  has  a  small  publishing  firm,  Owlswick  Press, 
publishing  books  of  science  fiction  interest,  notably  the  new  revi- 
sion of  L.  Sprague  de  Camp's  Science  Fiction  Handbook.  Fur- 
thermore, I  know  him  personally,  know  that  his  tastes  in  science 


8  EDITORIAL 

fiction  are  like  mine  and  that  he  is  industrious  and  reliable. 

As  Associate  Editor,  George  has  managed  to  get  the  services  of 
Gardner  Dozois,  who  is  himself  a  contemporary  science  fittion 
writer  of  note. 

Now  what  about  the  magazine  itself?  Life  is  risky  for 
magazines  in  these  days  of  television  and  paperbacks  so  we  are 
starting  as  a  quarterly.  What  reader  support  we'll  get  is  now  in 
the  lap  of  the  gods,  but  if  things  go  as  we  earnestly  hope  they  do, 
we  will  work  our  way  up  to  monthly  as  soon  as  we  can. 

We  are  concentrating  on  the  shorter  lengths,  and  there  will  be 
no  serials.  Novels  have  plenty  of  outlets  these  days,  the  shorter 
lengths  relatively  few.  With  my  name  on  the  magazine,  it  won't 
surprise  you  to  hear  that  we  will  lean  toward  hard  science  fiction, 
and  toward  the  reasonably  straightforward  in  the  way  of  style. 
However,  we  won't  take  ourselves  too  seriously  and  not  every 
story  has  to  be  a  solemn  occasion.  We  will  have  humorous  stories 
and  we  will  have  an  occasional  unclassifiable  story  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  one  by  Jonathan  Fast  in  this  issue.  We  will  have  a 
book  review  column  that  will  favor  short  notices  of  many  books 
rather  than  deep  essays  on  a  few.  We  will  have  non-fiction  pieces 
that  we  will  try  to  make  as  science-fiction-related  as  possible.  We 
have  one  that  will  cover  a  museum  opening,  for  instance,  but  it's 
a  space  museum;  and  we're  working  on  one  that  compares  real- 
life  computers  with  those  in  science  fiction  stories. 

But  you  can  see  for  yourself  what  we're  trying  to  do  if  you  read 
this  issue  and,  undoubtedly,  we  will  develop  in  ways  not  easily 
predictable  at  the  start. 

Two  last  points — For  heaven's  sake,  dont  send  any  manu- 
scripts to  me,  send  them  to  George  Scithers.  And  for  heaven's  sake, 
be  careful  where  you  allocate  credit.  If  this  magazine  pleases  you, 
do  give  the  credit  to  George  Scithers  and  write  and  tell  him  so. 
He's  doing  the  work.  — If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  decide  it's  a 
stinker,  please  send  your  letters  to  Joel  Davis.  The  whole  thing 
was  his  idea. 

And  remember,  those  letters  that  we  find  to  be  of  general  inter- 
est will  be  printed  in  a  letter  column  along  with  comments  by  me; 
and  we  will  try  to  spell  your  name  correctly. 

— Isaac  Asimov 


GOOD-BYE, 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE 

by  John  Varley 


John  Varley  wrote  all  through  high  school,  he 

tells  us,  stopped  when  he  got  out,  and  took  it 

up  again  in  1973.  Now,  reading,  writing,  and 

imagining  take  up  all  of  his  spare  time.  This 

story  is  the  19th  of  the  20  that  he's 

written — and  sold — so  far.  (We  bought 

number  20  too.)  He's  now  working  on  a 

novel,  Ophiuchi  Hotline,  for 

Don  Bensen  at  Dial  Press. 


10  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

It  was  summer,  and  Piri  was  in  his  second  childhood.  First,  sec- 
ond; who  counted?  His  body  was  young.  He  had  not  felt  more* 
alive  since  his  original  childhood  back  in  the  spring,  when  the 
sun  drew  closer  and  the  air  began  to  melt. 

He  was  spending  his  time  at  Rarotonga  Reef,  in  the  Pacifica 
disneyland.  Pacifica  was  still  under  construction,  but  Rarotonga 
had  been  used  by  the  ecologists  as  a  testing  ground  for  the  more 
ambitious  barrier-type  reef  they  were  building  in  the  south,  just 
off  the  "Australian"  coast.  As  a  result,  it  was  more  firmly  estab- 
lished than  the  other  biomes.  It  was  open  to  visitors,  but  so  far 
only  Piri  was  there.  The  "sky"  disconcerted  everyone  else. 

Piri  didn't  mind  it.  He  was  equipped  with  a  bramd-new  toy:  a 
fully  operational  imagination,  a  selective  sense  of  wonder  that  al- 
lowed him  to  blank  out  those  parts  of  his  surroundings  that  failed 
to  fit  with  his  current  fantasy. 

He  awoke  with  the  tropical  sun  blinking  in  his  face  through  the 
palm  fronds.  He  had  built  a  rude  shelter  from  flotsam  and  de- 
tritus on  the  beach.  It  was  not  to  protect  him  from  the  elements. 
The  disneyland  management  had  the  weather  well  in  hand;  he 
might  as  well  have  slept  in  the  open.  But  castaways  always  build 
some  sort  of  shelter. 

He*  bounced  up  with  the  quick  alertness  that  comes  from  being 
young  and  living  close  to  the  center  of  things,  brushed  sand  from 
his  naked  body,  and  ran  for  the  line  of  breakers  at  the  bottom  of 
the  narrow  strip  of  beach. 

His  gait  was  awkward.  His  feet  were  twice  as  long  as  they 
should  have  been,  with  flexible  toes  that  were  webbed  into  flippers. 
Dry  sand  showered  around  his  legs  as  he  ran.  He  was  brown 
as  coffee  and  cream,  and  hairless. 

Piri  dived  flat  to  the  water,  sliced  neatly  under  a  wave,  and 
paddled  out  to  waist-height.  He  paused  there.  He  held  his  nose 
and  worked  his  arms  up  and  down,  blowing  air  through  his  mouth 
and  swallowing  at  the  same  time.  What  looked  like  long,  hairline 
scars  between  his  lower  ribs  came  open.  Red-orange  fringes  be- 
came visible  inside  them,  and  gradually  lowered.  He  was  no 
longer  an  air-breather. 

He  dived  again,  mouth  open,  and  this  time  he  did  not  come  up. 
His  esophagus  and  trachea  closed  and  a  new  valve  came  into  op- 
eration. It  would  pass  water  in  only  one  direction,  so  his  dia- 
phragm now  functioned  as  a  pump  pulling  water  through  his 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  H 

mouth  and  forcing  it  out  through  the  gill-slits.  The  water  flowing 
through  this  lower  chest  area  caused  his  gills  to  engorge  with 
blood,  turning  them  purplish-red  and  forcing  his  lungs  to  collapse 
upward  into  his  chest  cavity.  Bubbles  of  air  trickled  out  his  sides, 
then  stopped.  His  transition  was  complete. 

The  water  seemed  to  grow  warmer  around  him.  It  had  been 
pleasantly  cool;  now  it  seemed  no  temperature  at  all.  It  was  the 
result  of  his  body  temperature  lowering  in  response  to  hormones 
released  by  an  artificial  gland  in  his  cranium.  He  could  not  afford 
to  burn  energy  at  the  rate  he  had  done  in  the  air;  the  water  was 
too  efficient  a  coolant  for  that.  All  through  his  body  arteries  and 
capillaries  were  constricting  as  parts  of  him  stablized  at  a  lower 
rate  of  function. 

No  naturally  evolved  mammal  had  ever  made  the  switch  from 
air  to  water  breathing,  and  the  project  had  taxed  the  resources  of 
bio-engineering  to  its  limits.  But  everything  in  Piri's  body  was  a 
living  part  of  him.  It  had  taken  two  full  days  to  install  it  all. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  chemical  complexities  that  kept  him 
alive  where  he  should  have  died  quickly  from  heat  loss  or  oxygen 
starvation.  He  knew  only  the  joy  of  arrowing  along  the  white 
sandy  bottom.  The^water  was  clear,  blue-green  in  the  distance. 

The  bottom  kept  dropping  away  from  him,  until  suddenly  it 
reached  for  the  waves.  He  angled  up  the  wall  of  the  reef  until  his 
head  broke  the  surface,  climbed  up  the  knobs  and  ledges  until  he 
was  standing  in  the  sunlight.  He  took  a  deep  breath  and  became 
an  air-breather  again. 

The  change  cost  him  some  discomfort.  He  waited  until  the  diz- 
ziness and  fit  of  coughing  had  passed,  shivering  a  little  as  his 
body  rapidly  underwent  a  reversal  to  a  warm-blooded  economy. 

It  was  time  for  breakfast. 

He  spent  the  morning  foraging  among  the  tidepools.  There  were 
dozens  of  plants  and  animals  that  he  had  learned  to  eat  raw.  He 
ate  a  great  deal,  storing  up  energy  for  the  afternoon's  expedition 
on  the  outer  reef. 

Piri  avoided  looking  at  the  sky.  He  wasn't  alarmed  by  it;  it  did 
not  disconcert  him  as  it  did  the  others.  But  he  had  to  preserve  the 
illusion  that  he  was  actually  on  a  tropical  reef  in  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  a  castaway,  and  not  a  vacationer  in  an  environment  bub- 
ble below  the  surface  of  Pluto. 

Soon  he  became  a  fish  again,  and  dived  off  the  sea  side  of  the 


12  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

reef. 

The  water  around  the  reef  was  oxygen-rich  from  the  constant 
wave  action.  Even  here,  though,  he  had  to  remain  in  motion  to 
keep  enough  water  flowing  past  his  external  gill  fringes.  But  he 
could  move  more  slowly  as  he  wound  his  way  down  into  the 
darker  reaches  of  the  sheer  reef  face.  The  reds  and  yellows  of  his 
world  were  swallowed  by  the  blues  and  greens  and  purples.  It  was 
quiet.  There  were  sounds  to  hear,  but  his  ears  were  not  adapted  to 
them.  He  moved  slowly  through  shafts  Of  blue  light,  keeping  up 
the  bare  minimum  of  water  flow. 

He  hesitated  at  the  ten-meter  level.  He  had  thought  he  was 
going  to  his  Atlantis  Grotto  to  check  out  his  crab  farm.  Then  he 
wondered  if  he  ought  to  hunt  up  Ocho  the  Octopus  instead.  For  a 
panicky  moment  he  was  afflicted  with  the  bane  of  childhood:  an 
inability  to  decide  what  to  do  with  himself.  Or  maybe  it  was 
worse,  he  thought.  Maybe  it  was  a  sign  of  growing  up.  The  crab 
farm  bored  him,  or  at  least  it  did  today. 

He  waffled  back  and  forth  for  several  minutes,  idly  chasing  the 
tiny  red  fish  that  flirted  with  the  anemones.  He  never  caught  one. 
This  was  no  good  at  all.  Surely  there  was  an  adventure  in  this 
silent  fairyland.  He  had  to  find  one. 

An  adventure  found  him,  instead.  Piri  saw  something  swim- 
ming out  in  the  open  water,  almost  at  the  limits  of  his  vision.  It 
was  long  and  pale,  an  attenuated  missile  of  raw  death.  His  heart 
squeezed  in  panic,  and  he  scuttled  for  a  hollow  in  the  reef. 

Piri  called  him  the  Ghost.  He  had  seen  him  many  times  in  the 
open  sea.  He  was  eight  meters  of  mouth,  belly  and  tail:  hunger 
personified.  There  were  those  who  said  the  great  white  shark  was 
the  most  ferocious  carnivore  that  ever  lived.  Piri  believed  it. 

It  didn't  matter  that  the  Ghost  was  completely  harmless  to  him. 
The  Pacifica  management  did  not  like  having  its  guests  eaten 
alive.  An  adult  could  elect  to  go  into  the  water  with  no  protection, 
providing  the  necessary  waivers  were  on  file.  Children  had  to  be 
implanted  with  an  equalizer.  Piri  had  one,  somewhere  just  below 
the  skin  of  his  left  wrist.  It  was  a  sonic  generator,  set  to  emit  a 
sound  that  would  mean  terror  to  any  predator  in  the  water. 

The  Ghost,  hke  all  the  sharks,  barracudas,  morays,  and  other 
predators  in  Pacifica,  was  not  like  his  cousins  who  swam  the  seas 
of  Earth.  He  had  been  cloned  from  cells  stored  in  the  Biological 
Library  on  Luna.  The  library  had  been  created  two  hundred  years 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  13 

before  as  an  insurance  policy  against  the  extinction  of  a  species. 
Originally,  only  endangered  species  were  filed,  but  for  years  be- 
fore the  Invasion  the  directors  had  been  trying  to  get  a  sample  of 
everything.  Then  the  Invaders  had  come,  and  Lunarians  were  too 
busy  surviving  without  help  from  Occupied  Earth  to  worry  about 
the  library.  But  when  the  time  came  to  build  the  disneylands,  the 
library  had  been  ready. 

By  then,  biological  engineering  had  advanced  to  the  point 
where  many  modifications  could  be  made  in  genetic  structure. 
Mostly,  the  disneyland  biologists  had  left  nature  alone.  But  they 
had  changed  the  predators.  In  the  Ghost,  the  change  was  a  mutated 
organ  attached  to  the  brain  that  responded  with  a  flood  of  fear 
when  a  supersonic  note  was  sounded. 

So  why  was  the  Ghost  still  out  there?  Piri  blinked  his  nictat- 
ing membranes,  trying  to  clear  his  vision.  It  helped  a  little.  The 
shape  looked  a  bit  different. 

Instead  of  moving  back  and  forth,  the  tail  seemed  to  be  going 
up  and  down,  perhaps  in  a  scissoring  motion.  Only  one  animal 
swims  like  that.  He  gulped  down  his  fear  and  pushed  away  from 
the  reef. 

But  he  had  waited  too  long.  His  fear  of  the  Ghost  went  beyond 
simple  danger,  of  which  there  was  none.  It  was  something  more 
basic,  an  unreasoning  reflex  that  prickled  his  neck  when  he  saw 
that  long  white  shape.  He  couldn't  fight  it,  and  didn't  want  to. 
But  the  fear  had  kept  him  against  the  reef,  hidden,  while  the  per- 
son swam  out  of  reach.  He  thrashed  to  catch  up,  but  soon  lost 
track  of  the  moving  feet  in  the  gloom. 

He  had  seen  gills  trailing  from  the  sides  of  the  figure,  muted 
down  to  a  deep  blue-black  by  the  depths.  He  had  the  impression 
that  it  was  a  woman. 

O  •  O 

Tongatown  was  the  only  human  habitation  on  the  island.  It 
housed  a  crew  of  maintenance  people  and  their  children,  about 
fifty  in  all,  in  grass  huts  patterned  after  those  of  South  Sea  na- 
tives. A  few  of  the  buildings  concealed  elevators  that  went  to  the 
underground  rooms  that  would  house  the  tourists  when  the  pro- 
ject was  completed.  The  shacks  would  then  go  at  a  premium  rate, 
and  the  beaches  would  be  crowded. 

Piri  walked  into  the  circle  of  firelight  and  greeted  his  friends. 
Nighttime  was  party  time  in  Tongatown.  With  the  day's  work 


14  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

over,  everybody  gathered  around  the  fire  and  roasted  a  vat-grown 
goat  or  lamb.  But  the  real  culinary  treats  were  the  fresh  vegeta- 
ble dishes.  The  ecologists  were  still  working  out  the  kinks  in  the 
systems,  controlling  blooms,  planting  more  of  failing  species.  They 
often  produced  huge  excesses  of  edibles  that  would  have  cost  a 
fortune  on  the  outside.  The  workers  took  some  of  the  excess  for 
themselves.  It  was  understood  to  be  a  fringe  benefit  of  the  job.  It 
was  hard  enough  to  find  people  who  could  stand  to  stay  under  the 
Pacifica  sky. 

"Hi,  Piri,"  said  a  girl.  "You  meet  any  pirates  today?"  It  was 
Harra,  who  used  to  be  one  of  Piri's  best  friends  but  had  seemed 
increasingly  remote  over  the  last  year.  She  was  wearing  a  hand- 
made grass  skirt  and  a  lot  of  flowers,  tied  into  strings  that  looped 
around  her  body.  She  was  fifteen  now,  and  Piri  was  .  .  .  but  who 
cared?  There  were  no  seasons  here,  only  days.  Why  keep  track  of 
time? 

Piri  didn't  know  what  to  say.  The  two  of  them  had  once  played 
together  out  on  the  reef.  It  might  be  Lost  Atlantis,  or  Submariner, 
or  Reef  Pirates;  a  new  plot  line  and  cast  of  heroes  and  villains 
every  day.  But  her  question  had  held  such  thinly  veiled  contempt. 
Didn't  she  care  about  the  Pirates  anymore?  What  was  the  matter 
with  her? 

She  relented  when  she  saw  Piri's  helpless  bewilderment. 

"Here,  come  on  and  sit  down.  I  saved  you  a  rib."  She  held  out  a 
large  chunk  of  mutton. 

Piri  took  it  and  sat  beside  her.  He  was  famished,  having  had 
nothing  all  day  since  his  large  breakfast. 

"I  thought  I  saw  the  Ghost  today,"  he  said,  casually. 

Harra  shuddered.  She  wiped  her  hands  on  her  thighs  and 
looked  at  him  closely. 

"Thought?  You  thought  you  saw  him?"  Harra  did  not  care  for 
the  Ghost.  She  had  cowered  with  Piri  more  than  once  as  they 
watched  him  prowl. 

"Yep.  But  I  don't  think  it  was  really  him." 

"Where  was  this?" 

"On  the  sea-side,  down  about,  oh,  ten  meters.  I  think  it  was  a 
woman." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  could  be.  There's  just  you  and — and  Midge 
and  Darvin  with — did  this  woman  have  an  air  tank?" 

"Nope.  Gills.  I  saw  that." 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  15 

"But  there's  only  you  and  four  others  here  with  gills.  And  I 
know  where  they  all  were  today." 

"You  used  to  have  gills,"  he  said,  with  a  hint  of  accusation. 

She  sighed.  "Are  we  going  through  that  again?  I  told  you,  I  got 
tired  of  the  flippers.  I  wanted  to  move  around  the  land  some 
more." 

"I  can  move  around  the  land,"  he  said,  darkly. 

"All  right,  all  right.  You  think  I  deserted  you.  Did  you  ever 
think  that  you  sort  of  deserted  me?" 

Piri  was  puzzled  by  that,  but  Harra  had  stood  up  and  walked 
quickly  away.  He  could  follow  her,  or  he  could  finish  his  meal. 
She  was  right  about  the  flippers.  He  was  no  great  shakes  at  chas- 
ing anybody. 

Piri  never  worried  about  anything  for  too  long.  He  ate,  and  ate 
some  more,  long  past  the  time  when  everyone  else  had  joined  to- 
gether for  the  dancing  and  singing.  He  usually  hung  back,  any- 
way.- He  could  sing,  but  dancing  was  out  of  his  league. 

Just  as  he  was  leaning  back  in  the  sand,  wondering  if  there 
were  any  more  corners  he  could  fill  up — perhaps  another  bowl  of 
that  shrimp  teriyaki? — Harra  was  back.  She  sat  beside  him. 

"I  talked  to  my  mother  about  what  you  said.  She  said  a  tourist 
showed  up  today.  It  looks  like  you  were  right.  It  was  a  woman, 
and  she  was  amphibious." 

Piri  felt  a  vague  unease.  One  tourist  was  certainly  not  an  inva- 
sion, but  she  could  be  a  harbinger.  And  amphibious.  So  far,  no  one 
had  gone  to  that  expense  except  for  those  who  planned  to  live  here 
for  a  long  time.  Was  his  tropical  hide-out  in  danger  of  being  dis- 
covered? 

"What — what's  she  doing  here?"  He  absently  ate  another  spoon- 
ful of  crab  cocktail. 

"She's  looking  for  you ,"  Harra  laughed,  and  elbowed  him  in  the 
ribs.  Then  she  pounced  on  him,  tickling  his  ribs  until  he  was 
howling  in  helpless  glee.  He  fought  back,  almost  to  the  point  of 
having  the  upper  hand,  but  she  was  bigger  and  a  little  more  de- 
termined. She  got  him  pinned,  showering  flower  petals  on  him  as 
they  struggled.  One  of  the  red  flowers  from  her  hair  was  in  her 
eye,  and  she  brushed  it  away,  breathing  hard. 

"You  want  to  go  for  a  walk  on  the  beach?"  she  asked. 

Harra  was  fun,  but  the  last  few  times  he'd  gone  with  her  she 
had  tried  to  kiss  him.  He  wasn't  ready  for  that.  He  was  only  a 


16  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

kid.  He  thought  she  probably  had  something  like  that  in  mind 
now. 

"I'm  too  full,"  he  said,  and  it  was  almost  the  literal  truth.  He 
had  stuffed  himself  disgracefully,  and  only  wanted  to  curl  up  in 
his  shack  and  go  to  sleep. 

Harra  said  nothing,  just  sat  there  getting  her  breathing  under 
control.  At  last  she  nodded,  a  little  jerkily,  and  got  to  her  feet. 
Piri  wished  he  could  see  her  face  to  face.  He  knew  something  was 
wrong.  She  turned  from  him  and  walked  away. 
O  •  O 

Robinson  Crusoe  was  feeling  depressed  when  he  got  back  to  his 
hut.  The  walk  down  the  beach  away  from  the  laughter  and  sing- 
ing had  been  a  lonely  one.  Why  had  he  rejected  Harra's  offer  of 
companionship?  Was  it  really  so  bad  that  she  wanted  to  play  new 
kinds  of  games? 

But  no,  damn  it.  She  wouldn't  play  his  games,  why  should  he 
play  hers? 

After  a  few  minutes  of  sitting  on  the  beach  under  the  crescent 
moon,  he  got  into  character.  Oh,  the  agony  of  being  a  lone  casta- 
way, far  from  the  company  of  fellow  creatures,  with  nothing  but 
faith  in  God  to  sustain  oneself.  Tomorrow  he  would  read  from  the 
scriptures,  do  some  more  exploring  along  the  rocky  north  coast, 
tan  some  goat  hides,  maybe  get  in  a  little  fishing. 

With  his  plans  for  the  morrow  laid  before  him,  Piri  could  go  to 
sleep,  wiping  away  a  last  tear  for  distant  England. 

The  ghost  woman  came  to  him  during  the  night.  She  knelt  be- 
side him  in  the  sand.  She  brushed  his  sandy  hair  from  his  eyes 
and  he  stirred  in  his  sleep.  His  feet  thrashed. 

He  was  churning  through  the  abyssal  deeps,  heart  hammering, 
blind  to  everything  but  internal  terror.  Behind  him,  jaws  yawned, 
almost  touching  his  toes.  They  closed  with  a  snap. 

He  sat  up  woozily.  He  saw  rows  of  serrated  teeth  in  the  line  of 
breakers  in  front  of  him.  And  a  tall,  white  shape  in  the  moonlight 
dived  into  a  curling  breaker  and  was  gone. 
O  •  O 

"Hello." 

Piri  sat  up  with  a  start.  The  worst  thing  about  being  a  child 
living  alone  on  an  island — which,  when  he  thought  about  it,  was 
the  sort  of  thing  every  child  dreamed  of— was  not  having  a  warm 
mother's  breast  to  cry  on  when  you  had  nightmares.  It  hadn't  af- 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  17 

fected  him  much,  but  when  it  did,  it  was  pretty  bad. 

He  squinted  up  into  the  brightness.  She  was  standing  with  her 
head  blocking  out  the  sun.  He  winced,  and  looked  away,  down  to 
her  feet.  They  were  webbed,  with  long  toes.  He  looked  a  little 
higher.  She  was  nude,  and  quite  beautiful. 

"Who  .  .  .  ?" 

"Are  you  awake  now?"  She  squatted  down  beside  him.  Why  had 
he  expected  sharp,  triangular  teeth?  His  dreams  blurred  and  ran 
like  watercolors  in  the  rain,  and  he  felt  much  better.  She  had  a 
nice  face.  She  was  smiling  at  him. 

He  yawned,  and  sat  up.  He  was  groggy,  stiff,  and  his  eyes  were 
coated  with  sand  that  didn't  come  from  the  beach.  It  had  been  an 
awful  night. 

"I  think  so." 

"Good.  How  about  some  breakfast?"  She  stood,  and  went  to  a 
basket  on  the  sand. 

"I  usually — "  but  his  mouth  watered  when  he  saw  the  guavas, 
melons,  kippered  herring,  and  the  long  brown  loaf  of  bread.  She 
had  butter,  and  some  orange  marmalade.  "Well,  maybe  just  a — " 
and  he  had  bitten  into  a  succulent  slice  of  melon.  But  before  he 
could  finish  it,  he  was  seized  by  an  even  stronger  urge.  He  got  to 
his  feet  and  scuttled  around  the  palm  tree  with  the  waist-high 
dark  stain  and  urinated  against  it. 

"Don't  tell  anybody,  huh?"  he  said,  anxiously. 

She  looked  up.  "About  the  tree?  Don't  worry." 

He  sat  back  down  and  resumed  eating  the  melon.  "I  could  get  in 
a  lot  of  trouble.  They  gave  me  a  thing  and  told  me  to  use  it." 

"It's  all  right  with  me,"  she  said,  buttering  a  slice  of  bread  and 
handing  it  to  him.  "Robinson  Crusoe  never  had  a  portable  EcoSan, 
right?" 

"Right,"  he  said,  not  showing  his  surprise.  How  did  she  know 
thatl 

Piri  didn't  know  quite  what  to  say.  Here  she  was,  sharing  his 
morning,  as  much  a  fact  of  life  as  the  beach  or  the  water. 

"What's  your  name?"  It  was  as  good  a  place  to  start  as  any. 

"Leandra.  You  can  call  me  Lee." 
Im — 

"Piri.  I  heard  about  you  from  the  people  at  the  party  last  night. 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  me  barging  in  on  you  like  this." 

He  shrugged,  and  tried  to  indicate  all  the  food  with  the  gesture. 


18  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

"Anytime,"  he  said,  and  laughed.  He  felt  good.  It  was  nice  to  have 
someone  friendly  around  after  last  night.  H6  looked  at  her  again, 
from  a  mellower  viewpoint. 

She  was  large;  quite  a  bit  taller  than  he  was.  Her  physical  age 
was  around  thirty,  unusually  old  for  a  woman.  He  thought  she 
might  be  closer  to  sixty  or  seventy,  but  he  had  nothing  to  base  it 
on.  Piri  himself  was  in  his  nineties,  and  who  could  have  known 
that?  She  had  the  slanting  eyes  that  were  caused  by  the  addition 
of  transparent  eyelids  beneath  the  natural  ones.  Her  hair  grew  in 
a  narrow  band,  cropped  short,  starting  between  her  eyebrows  and 
going  over  her  head  to  the  nape  of  her  neck.  Her  ears  were  pinned 
efficiently  against  her  head,  giving  her  a  lean,  streamlined  look. 

"What  brings  you  to  Pacifica?"  Piri  asked. 

She  reclined  on  the  sand  with  her  hands  behind  her  head,  look- 
ing very  relaxed. 

"Claustrophobia."  She  winked  at  him.  "Not  really.  I  wouldn't 
survive  long  in  Pluto  with  that"  Piri  wasn't  even  sure  what  it 
was,  but  he  smiled  as  if  he  knew.  "Tired  of  the  crowds.  I  heard 
that  people  couldn't  enjoy  themselves  here,  what  with  the  sky,  but 
I  didn^t  have  any  trouble  when  I  visited.  So  I  bought  flippers  and 
gills  and  decided  to  spend  a  few  weeks  skin-diving  by  myself." 

Piri  looked  at  the  sky.  It  was  a  staggering  sight.  He'd  grown 
used  to  it,  but  knew  that  it  helped  not  to  look  up  more  than  he 
had  to. 

It  was  an  incomplete  illusion,  all  the  more  appalling  because 
the  half  of  the  sky  that  had  been  painted  was  so  very  convincing. 
It  looked  like  it  really  was  the  sheer  blue  of  infinity,  so  when  the 
eye  slid  over  to  the  unpainted  overhanging  canopy  of  rock,  scarred 
from  blasting,  painted  with  gigantic  numbers  that  were  barely 
visible  from  twenty  kilometers  below — one  could  almost  imagine 
God  looking  down  through  the  blue  opening.  It  loomed,  suspended 
by  nothing,  gigatons  of  rock  hanging  up  there. 

Visitors  to  Pacifica  often  complained  of  headaches,  usually  right 
on  the  crown  of  the  head.  They  were  cringing,  waiting  to  get 
conked. 

"Sometimes  I  wonder  how  /  live  with  it,"  Piri  said. 

She  laughed.  "It's  nothing  for  me.  I  was  a  space  pilot  once." 

"Really?"  This  was  catnip  to  Piri.  There's  nothing  more  roman- 
tic than  a  space  pilot.  He  had  to  hear  stories. 

The  morning  hours  dwindled  as  she  captured  his  imagination 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  19 

with  a  series  of  tall  tales  he  was  sure  were  mostly  fabrication. 
But  who  cared?  Had  he  come  to  the  South  Seas  to  hear  of  the 
mundane?  He  felt  he  had  met  a  kindred  spirit,  and  gradually, 
fearful  of  being  laughed  at,  he  began  to  tell  her  stories  of  the  Reef 
Pirates,  first  as  wishful  wouldn't-it-be-fun-if 's,  then  more  and 
more  seriously  as  she  listened  intently.  He  forgot  her  age  as  he 
began  to  spin  the  best  of  the  yarns  he  and  Harra  had  concocted. 

It  was  a  tacit  conspiracy  between  them  to  be  serious  about  the 
stories,  but  that  was  the  whole  point.  That  was  the  only  way  it 
would  work,  as  it  had  worked  with  Harra.  Somehow,  this  adult 
woman  was  interested  in  playing  the  same  games  he  was. 
O  •  O 

Lying  in  his  bed  that  night,  Piri  felt  better  than  he  had  for 
months,  since  before  Harra  had  become  so  distant.  Now  that  he 
had  a  companion,  he  realized  that  maintaining  a  satisfying  fan- 
tasy world  by  yourself  is  hard  work.  Eventually  you  need  someone 
to  tell  the  stories  to,  and  to  share  in  the  making  of  them. 

They  spent  the  day  out  on  the  reef.  He  showed  her  his  crab 
farm,  and  introduced  her  to  Ocho  the  Octopus,  who  was  his  usual 
shy  self.  Piri  suspected  the  damn  thing  only  loved  him  for  the 
treats  he  brought. 

She  entered  into  his  games  easily  and  with  no  trace  of  adult 
condescension.  He  wondered  why,  and  got  up  the  courage  to  ask 
her.  He  was  afraid  he'd  ruin  the  whole  thing,  but  he  had  to  know. 
It  just  wasn't  normal. 

They  were  perched  on  a  coral  outcropping  above  the  high  tide 
level,  catching  the  last  rays  of  the  sun. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  said.  "I  guess  you  think  I'm  silly,  huh?" 

"No,  not  exactly  that.  It's  just  that  most  adults  seem  to,  well, 
have  more  'important'  things  on  their  minds."  He  put  all  the  con- 
tempt he  could  into  the  word. 

"Maybe  I  feel  the  same  way  you  do  about  it.  I'm  here  to  have 
fun.  I  sort  of  feel  like  I've  been  re-born  into  a  new  element.  It's 
terrific  down  there,  you  know  that.  I  just  didn't  feel  like  I  wanted 
to  go  into  that  world  alone.  I  was  out  there  yesterday  ..." 

"I  thought  I  saw  you." 

"Maybe  you  did.  Anyway,  I  needed  a  companion,  and  I  heard 
about  you.  It  seemed  like  the  polite  thing  to,  well,  not  to  ask  you 
to  be  my  guide,  but  sort  of  fit  myself  into  your  world.  As  it  were." 
She  frowned,  as  if  she  felt  she  had  said  too  much.  "Let's  not  push 


20  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

it,  all  right?" 

"Oh,  sure.  It's  none  of  my  business." 

"I  like  you,  Piri." 

"And  I  like  you.  I  haven't  had  a  friend  for  .  .  .  too  long." 

That  night  at  the  luau,  Lee  disappeared.  Piri  looked  for  her 
briefly,  but  was  not  really  worried.  What  she, did  with  her  nights 
was  her  business.  He  wanted  her  during  the  days. 

As  he  was  leaving  for  his  home,  Harra  came  up  behind  him  and 
took  his  hand.  She  walked  with  him  for  a  moment,  then  could  no 
longer  hold  it  in. 

"A  word  to  the  wise,  old  pal,"  she  said.  "You'd  better  stay  away 
from  her.  She's  not  going  to  do  you  any  good." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  You  don't  even  know  her." 

"Maybe  I  do." 

"Well,  do  you  or  don't  you?" 

She  didn't  say  anything,  then  sighed  deeply. 

"Piri,  if  you  do  the  smart  thing  you'll  get  on  that  raft  of  yours 
and  sail  to  Bikini.  Haven't  you  had  any  .  .  .  feelings  about  her? 
Any  premonitions  or  anything?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  said,  thinking  of 
sharp  teeth  and  white  death. 

"I  think  you  do.  You  have  to,  but  you  won't  face  it.  That's  all 
I'm  saying.  It's  not  my  business  to  meddle  in  your  affairs." 

"I'll  say  it's  not.  So  why  did  you  come  out  here  and  put  this 
stuff  in  my  ear?"  He  stopped,  and  something  tickled  at  his  mind 
from  his  past  life,  some  earlier  bit  of  knowledge,  carefully  sup- 
pressed. He  was  used  to  it.  He  knew  he  was  not  really  a  child, 
and  that  he  had  a  long  life  and  many  experiences  stretching  out 
behind  him.  But  he  didn't  think  about  it.  He  hated  it  when  part  of 
his  old  self  started  to  intrude  on  him. 

"I  think  you're  jealous  of  her,"  he  said,  and  knew  it  was  his  old, 
cynical  self  talking.  "She's  an  adult,  Harra.  She's  no  threat  to 
you.  And,  hell,  I  know  what  you've  been  hinting  at  these  last 
months.  I'm  not  ready  for  it,  so  leave  me  alone.  I'm  just  a  kid." 

Her  chin  came  up,  and  the  moonlight  flashed  in  her  eyes. 

"You  idiot.  Have  you  looked  at  yourself  lately?  You're  not  Peter 
Pan,  you  know.  You're  growing  up.  You're  damn  near  a  man." 

"That's  not  true."  There  was  panic  in  Piri's  voice.  "I'm  on- 
ly ..  .  well,  I  haven't  exactly  been  counting,  but  I  can't  be  more 
than  nine,  ten  years — " 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  21 

"Shit.  You're  as  old  as  I  am,  and  I've  had  breasts  for  two  years. 
But  I'm  not  out  to  cop  you.  I  can  cop  with  any  of  seven  boys  in  the 
village  younger  than  you  are,  but  not  you."  She  threw  her  hands 
up  in  exasperation  and  stepped  back  from  him.  Then,  in  a  sudden 
fury,  she  hit  him  on  the  chest  with  the  heel  of  her  fist.  He  fell 
back,  stunned  at  her  violence. 

"She  is  an  adult,"  Harra  whispered  through  her  teeth.  "That's 
what  I  came  here  to  warn  you  against.  I'm  your  friend,  but  you 
don't  know  it.  Ah,  what's  the  use?  I'm  fighting  against  that  scared 
old  man  in  your  head,  and  he  won't  listen  to  me.  Go  ahead,  go 
with  her.  But  she's  got  some  surprises  for  you." 

"What?  What  surprises?"  Piri  was  shaking,  not  wanting  to  lis- 
ten to  her.  It  was  a  relief  when  she  spat  at  his  feet,  whirled,  and 
ran  down  the  beach. 

"Find  out  for  yourself,"  she  yelled  back  over  her  shoulder.  It 
sounded  like  she  was  crying. 

That  night,  Piri  dreamed  of  white  teeth,  inches  behind  him, 
snapping. 

O  •  O 

But  morning  brought  Lee,  and  another  fine  breakfast  in  her 
bulging  bag.  After  a  lazy  interlude  drinking  coconut  milk,  they 
went  to  the  reef  again.  The  pirates  gave  them  a  rough  time  of  it, 
but  they  managed  to  come  back  alive  in  time  for  the  nightly 
gathering. 

Harra  was  there.  She  was  dressed  as  he  had  never  seen  her,  in 
the  blue  tunic  and  shorts  of  the  reef  maintenence  crew.  He  knew 
she  had  taken  a  job  with  the  disneyland  and  had  been  working 
days  with  her  mother  at  Bikini,  but  had  not  seen  her  dressed  up 
before.  He  had  just  begun  to  get  used  to  the  grass  skirt.  Not  long 
ago,  she  had  been  always  nude  like  him  and  the  other  children. 

She  looked  older  somehow,  and  bigger.  Maybe  it  was  just  the 
uniform.  She  still  looked  like  a  girl  next  to  Lee.  Piri  was  confused 
by  it,  and  his  thoughts  veered  protectively  away. 

Harra  did  not  avoid  him,  but  she  was  remote  in  a  more  impor- 
tant way.  It  was  like  she  had  put  on  a  mask,  or  possibly  taken 
one  off.  She  carried  herself  with  a  dignity  that  Piri  thought  was 
beyond  her  years. 

Lee  disappeared  just  before  he  was  ready  to  leave.  He  walked 
home  alone,  half  hoping  Harra  would  show  up  so  he  could 
apologize  for  the  way  he'd  talked  to  her  the  night  before.  But  she 


22  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

didn't. 

O  •  O 

He  felt  the  bow-shock  of  a  pressure  wave  behind  him,  sensed  by 
some  mechanism  he  was  unfamiliar  with,  like  the  lateral  line  of  a 
fish,  sensitive  to  slight  changes  in  the  water  around  him.  He 
knew  there  was  something  behind  him,  closing  the  gap  a  little 
with  every  wild  kick  of  his  flippers. 

It  was  dark.  It  was  always  dark  when  the  thing  chased  him.  It 
was  not  the  wispy,  insubstantial  thing  that  darkness  was  when  it 
settled  on  the  night  air,  but  the  primal,  eternal  night  of  the 
depths.  He  tried  to  scream  with  his  mouth  full  of  water,  but  it  was  a 
dying  gurgle  before  it  passed  his  lips.  The  water  around  him  was 
warm  with  his  blood. 

He  turned  to  face  it  before  it  was  upon  him,  and  saw  Harra's 
face  corpse-pale  and  glowing  sickly  in  the  night.  But  no,  it  wasn't 
Harra,  it  was  Lee,  and  her  mouth  was  far  down  her  body,  rimmed 
with  razors,  a  gaping  crescent  hole  in  her  chest.  He  screamed 
again — 

And  sat  up. 

"What?  Where  are  you?" 

"I'm  right  here,  it's  going  to  be  all  right."  She  held  his  head  as 
he  brought  his  sobbing  under  control.  She  was  whispering  some- 
thing but  he  couldn't  understand  it,  and  perhaps  wasn't  meant  to. 
It  was  enough.  He  calmed  down  quickly,  as  he  always  did  when 
he  woke  from  nightmares.  If  they  hung  around  to  haunt  him,  he 
never  would  have  stayed  by  himself  for  so  long. 

There  was  just  the  moon-lit  paleness  of  her  breast  before  his 
eyes  and  the  smell  of  skin  and  sea  water.  Her  nipple  was  wet. 
Was  it  from  his  tears?  No,  his  lips  were  tingling  and  the  nipple 
was  hard  when  it  brushed  against  him.  He  realized  what  he  had 
been  doing  in  his  sleep. 

"You  were  calling  for  your  mother,"  she  whispered,  as  though 
she'd  read  his  mind.  "I've  heard  you  shouldn't  wake  someone  from 
a  nightmare.  It  seemed  to  calm  you  down." 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Thanks  for  being  here,  I  mean." 

She  took  his  cheek  in  her  hand,  turned  his  head  slightly,  and 
kissed  him.  It  was  not  a  motherly  kiss,  and  he  realized  they  were 
not  playing  the  same  game.  She  had  changed  the  rules  on  him. 

"Lee  .  .  ." 

"Hush.  It's  time  you  learned." 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  23 

She  eased  him  onto  his  back,  and  he  was  overpowered  with  deja 
vu.  Her  mouth  worked  downward  on  his  body  and  it  set  off  chains 
of  associations  from  his  past  life.  He  was  familiar  with  the  sensa- 
tion. It  had  happened  to  him  often  in  his  second  childhood.  Some- 
thing would  happen  that  had  happened  to  him  in  much  the  same 
way  before  and  he  would  remember  a  bit  of  it.  He  had  been 
seduced  by  an  older  woman  the  first  time  he  was  young.  She  had 
taught  him  well,  and  he  remembered  it  all  but  didn't  want  to  re- 
member. He  was  an  experienced  lover  and  a  child  at  the  same 
time. 

"I'm  not  old  enough,"  he  protested,  but  she  was  holding  in  her 
hand  the  evidence  that  he  was  old  enough,  had  been  old  enough 
for  several  years.  Ftti  fourteen  years  old,  he  thought.  How  could  he 
have  kidded  himself  into  thinking  he  was  ten? 

"You're  a  strong  young  man,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear.  "And 
I'm  going  to  be  very  disappointed  if  you  keep  saying  that.  You're 
not  a  child  anymore,  Piri.  Face  it." 
"I ...  I  guess  I'm  not." 
"Do  you  know  what  to  do?" 
"I  think  so." 

She  reclined  beside  him,  drew  her  legs  up.  Her  body  was  huge 
and  ghostly  and  full  of  limber  strength.  She  would  swallow  him 
up,  like  a  shark.  The  gill  slits  under  her  arms  opened  and  shut 
quickly  with  her  breathing,  smelling  of  salt,  iodine,  and  sweat. 
He  got  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  moved  over  her. 

O  •  O 

He  woke  before  she  did.  The  sun  was  up:  another  warm,  cloud- 
less morning.  There  would  be  two  thousand  more  before  the  first 
scheduled  typhoon. 

Piri  was  a  giddy  mixture  of  elation  and  sadness.  It  was  sad,  and 
he  knew  it  already,  that  his  days  of  frolicking  on  the  reef  were 
over.  He  would  still  go  out  there,  but  it  would  never  be  the  same. 

Fourteen  years  old!  Where  had  the  years  gone?  He  was  nearly 
an  adult.  He  moved  away  from  the  thought  until  he  found  a  more 
acceptable  one.  He  was  an  adolescent,  and  a  very  fortunate  one  to 
have  been  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  sex  by  this  strange 
woman. 

He  held  her  as  she  slept,  spooned  cozily  back  to  front  with  his 
arms  around  her  waist.  She  had  already  been  playmate,  mother, 
and  lover  to  him.  What  else  did  she  have  in  store? 


24  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

But  he  didn't  care.  He  was  not  worried  about  anything.  He  al- 
ready scorned  his  yesterdays.  He  was  not  a  boy,  but  a  youth,  and 
he  remembered  from  his  other  youth  what  that  meant  and  was 
excited  by  it.  It  was  a  time  of  sex,  of  internal  exploration  and  the 
exploration  of  others.  He  would  pursue  these  new  frontiers  with 
the  same  single-mindedness  he  had  shown  on  the  reef. 

He  moved  against  her,  slowly,  not  disturbing  her  sleep.  But  she 
woke  as  he  entered  her  and  turned  to  give  him  a  sleepy  kiss. 

They  spent  the  morning  involved  in  each  other,  until  they  were 
content  to  lie  in  the  sun  and  soak  up  heat  like  glossy  reptiles. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  she  said.  "You've  been  here  for  .  .  .  how 
long?  With  all  these  girls  and  women.  And  I  know  at  least  one  of 
them  was  interested." 

He  didn't  want  to  go  into  it.  It  was  important  to  him  that  she 
not  find  out  he  was  not  really  a  child.  He  felt  it  would  change 
things,  and  it  was  not  fair.  Not  fair  at  all,  because  it  had  been  the 
first  time.  In  a  way  he  could  never  have  explained  to  her,  last 
night  had  been  not  a  re-discovery  but  an  entirely  new  thing.  He 
had  been  with  many  women  and  it  wasn't  as  if  he  couldn't  re- 
member it.  It  was  all  there,  and  what's  more,  it  showed  up  in  his 
love-making.  He  had  not  been  the  bumbling  teenager,  had  not 
needed  to  be  told  what  to  do. 

But  it  was  new.  That  old  man  inside  had  been  a  spectator  and 
an  invaluable  coach,  but  his  hardened  viewpoint  had  not  intruded 
to  make  last  night  just  another  bout.  It  had  been  a  first  time,  and 
the  first  time  is  special. 

When  she  persisted  in  her  questions  he  silenced  her  in  the  only 
way  he  knew,  with  a  kiss.  He  could  see  he  had  to  re-think  his  re- 
lationship to  her.  She  had  not  asked  him  questions  as  a  playmate, 
or  a  mother.  In  the  one  role,  she  had  been  seemingly  as  self- 
centered  as  he,  interested  only  in  the  needs  of  the  moment  and 
her  personal  needs  above  all.  As  a  mother,  she  had  offered  only 
wordless  comfort  in  a  tight  spot. 

Now  she  was  his  lover.  What  did  lovers  do  when  they  weren't 
making  love? 

O  •  O 

They  went  for  walks  on  the  beach,  and  on  the  reef.  They  swam 
together,  but  it  was  different.  They  talked  a  lot. 

She  soon  saw  that  he  didn't  want  to  talk  about  himself.  Except 
for  the  odd  question  here  and  there  that  would  momentarily  con- 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  25 

fuse  him,  throw  him  back  to  stages  of  his  life  he  didn't  wish  to 
remember,  she  left  his  past  alone. 

They  stayed  away  from  the  village  except  to  load  up  on 
supplies.  It  was  mostly  his  unspoken  wish  that  kept  them  away. 
He  had  made  it  clear  to  everyone  in  the  village  many  years  ago 
that  he  was  not  really  a  child.  It  had  been  necessary  to  convince 
them  that  he  could  take  care  of  himself  on  his  own,  to  keep  them 
from  being  over-protective.  They  would  not  spill  his  secret  know- 
ingly, but  neither  would  they  lie  for  him. 

So  he  grew  increasingly  nervous  about  his  relationship  with 
Lee,  founded  as  it  was  on  a  lie.  If  not  a  lie,  then  at  least  a  with- 
holding of  the  facts.  He  saw  that  he  must  tell  her  soon,  and 
dreaded  it.  Part  of  him  was  convinced  that  her  attraction  to  him 
was  based  mostly  on  age  difference. 

Then  she  learned  he  had  a  raft,  and  wanted  to  go  on  a  sailing 
trip  to  the  edge  of  the  world. 

Piri  did  have  a  raft,  though  an  old  one.  They  dragged  it  from 
the  bushes  that  had  grown  around  it  since  his  last  trip  and  began 
putting  it  into  shape.  Piri  was  delighted.  It  was  something  to  do, 
and  it  was  hard  work.  They  didn't  have  much  time  for  talking. 

It  was  a  simple  construction  of  logs  lashed  together  with  rope. 
Only  an  insane  sailor  would  put  the  thing  to  sea  in  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  but  it  was  safe  enough  for  them.  They  knew  what  the 
weather  would  be,  and  the  reports  were  absolutely  reliable.  And  if 
it  came  apart,  they  could  swim  back. 

All  the  ropes  had  rotted  so  badly  that  even  gentle  wave  action 
would  have  quickly  pulled  it  apart.  They  had  to  be  replaced,  a 
new  mast  erected,  and  a  new  sailcloth  installed.  Neither  of  them 
knew  anything  about  sailing,  but  Piri  knew  that  the  winds  blew 
toward  the  edge  at  night  and  away  from  it  during  the  day.  It  was 
a  simple  matter  of  putting  up  the  sail  and  letting  the  wind  do  the 
navigating. 

He  checked  the  schedule  to  be  sure  they  got  there  at  low  tide.  It 
was  a  moonless  night,  and  he  chuckled  to  himself  when  he 
thought  of  her  reaction  to  the  edge  of  the  world.  They  would 
sneak  up  on  it  in  the  dark,  and  the  impact  would  be  all  the  more 
powerful  at  sunrise. 

But  he  knew  as  soon  as  they  were  an  hour  out  of  Rarotonga 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  There  was  not  much  to  do  there  in 
the  night  but  talk. 


26  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

"Piri,  I've  sensed  that  you  don't  want  to  talk  about  certain 
things." 

"Who?  Me?" 

She  laughed  into  the  empty  night.  He  could  barely  see  her  face. 
The  stars  were  shining  brightly,  but  there  were  only  about  a 
hundred  of  them  installed  so  far,  and  all  in  one  part  of  the  sky. 

"Yeah,  you.  You  won't  talk  about  yourself.  It's  like  you  grew 
here,  sprang  up  from  the  ground  like  a  palm  tree.  And  you've  got 
no  mother  in  evidence.  You're  old  enough  to  have  divorced  her, 
but  you'd  have  a  guardian  somewhere.  Someone  would  be  looking 
after  your  moral  upbringing.  The  only  conclusion  is  that  you  don't 
need  an  education  in  moral  principles.  So  you've  got  a  co-pilot." 

"Um."  She  had  seen  through  him.  Of  course  she  would  have. 
Why  hadn't  he  realized  it? 

"So  you're  a  clone.  You've  had  your  memories  transplanted  into 
a  new  body,  grown  from  one  of  your  own  cells.  How  old  are  you? 
Do  you  mind  my  asking?" 

"I  guess  not.  Uh  .  .  .  what's  the  date?" 

She  told  him. 

"And  the  year?" 

She  laughed,  but  told  him  that,  too. 

"Damn.  I  missed  my  one  hundredth  birthday.  Well,  so  what? 
It's  not  important.  Lee,  does  this  change  anything?" 

"Of  course  not.  Listen,  I  could  tell  the  first  time,  that  first  night 
together.  You  had  that  puppy-dog  eagerness,  all  right,  but  you 
knew  how  to  handle  yourself.  Tell  me:  what's  it  like?" 

"The  second  childhood,  you  mean?"  He  reclined  on  the  gently 
rocking  raft  and  looked  at  the  little  clot  of  stars.  "It's  pretty  damn 
great.  It's  like  living  in  a  dream.  What  kid  hasn't  wanted  to  live 
alone  on  a  tropic  isle?  I  can,  because  there's  an  adult  in  me  who'll 
keep  me  out  of  trouble.  But  for  the  last  seven  years  I've  been  a 
kid.  It's  you  that  finally  made  me  grow  up  a  little,  maybe  sort  of 
late,  at  that." 

"I'm  sorry.  But  it  felt  like  the  right  time." 

"It  was.  I  was  afraid  of  it  at  first.  Listen,  I  know  that  I'm  really 
a  hundred  years  old,  see?  I  know  that  all  the  memories  are  ready 
for  me  when  I  get  to  adulthood  again.  If  I  think  about  it,  I  can 
remember  it  all  as  plain  as  anything.  But  I  haven't  wanted  to, 
and  in  a  way,  I  still  don't  want  to.  The  memories  are  suppressed 
when  you  opt  for  a  second  childhood  instead  of  being  transplanted 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  27 

into  another  full-grown  body." 

"I  know." 

"Do  you?  Oh,  yeah.  Intellectually.  So  did  I,  but  I  didn't  under- 
stand what  it  meant.  It's  a  nine  or  ten-yeaf*  holiday,  not  only  from 
your  work,  but  from  yourself  When  you  get  into  your  nineties, 
you  might  find  that  you  need  it." 

She  was  quiet  for  a  while,  lying  beside  him  without  touching. 

"What  about  the  re-integration?  Is  that  started?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  heard  it's  a  little  rough.  I've  been  having 
dreams  about  something  chasing  me.  That's  probably  my  former 
self,  right?" 

"Could  be.  What  did  your  older  self  do?" 

He  had  to  think  for  a  moment,  but  there  it  was.  He'd  not 
thought  of  it  for  eight  years. 

"I  was  an  economic  strategist." 

Before  he  knew  it,  he  found  himself  launching  into  an  explana- 
tion of  offensive  economic  policy. 

"Did  you  know  that  Pluto  is  in  danger  of  being  gutted  by  cur- 
rency transfers  from  the  Inner  Planets?  And  you  know  why?  The 
speed  of  light,  that's  why.  Time  lag.  It's  killing  us.  Since  the  time 
of  the  Invasion  of  Earth  it's  been  humanity's  idea — and  a  good 
one,  I  think — that  we  should  stand  together.  Our  whole  cultural 
thrust  in  that  time  has  been  toward  a  total  economic  community. 
But  it  won't  work  at  Pluto.  Independence  is  in  the  cards." 

She  listened  as  he  tried  to  explain  things  that  only  moments  be- 
fore he  would  have  had  trouble  understanding  himself.  But  it 
poured  out  of  him  like  a  breached  dam,  things  like  inflation  mul- 
tipliers, futures  buying  on  the  oxygen  and  hydrogen  exchanges, 
phantom  dollars  and  their  manipulation  by  central  banking  inter- 
ests, and  the  invisible  drain. 

"Invisible  drain?  What's  that?" 

"It's  hard  to  explain,  but  it's  tie^  up  in  the  speed  of  light.  It's  an 
economic  drain  on  Pluto  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  real  goods 
and  services,  or  labor,  or  any  of  the  other  traditional  forces.  It  has 
to  do  with  the  fact  that  any  information  we  get  from  the  Inner 
Planets  is  already  at  least  nine  hours  old.  In  an  economy  with  a 
stable  currency — pegged  to  gold,  for  instance,  like  the  classical 
economies  on  Earth — it  wouldn't  matter  much,  but  it  would  still 
have  an  effect.  Nine  hours  can  make  a  difference  in  prices,  in  fu- 
tures, in  outlook  on  the  markets.  With  a  floating  exchange  medi- 


28  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

um,  one  where  you  need  the  hourly  updates  on  your  credit  meter 
to  know  what  your  labor  input  will  give  you  in  terms  of  material 
output — your  personal  financial  equation,  in  other  words — and  the 
inflation  multiplier  is  "something  you  simply  must  have  if  the 
equation  is  going  to  balance  and  you're  not  going  to  be  wiped  out, 
then  time  is  really  of  the  essence.  We  operate  at  a  perpetual  dis- 
advantage on  Pluto  in  relation  to  the  Inner  Planet  money  mar- 
kets. For  a  long  time  it  ran  on  the  order  of  point  three  percent 
leakage  due  to  outdated  information.  But  the  inflation  multiplier 
has  been  accelerating  over  the  years.  Some  of  it's  been  absorbed 
by  the  fact  that  we've  been  moving  closer  to  the  LP.;  the  time  lag 
has  been  getting  shorter  as  we  move  into  summer.  But  it  can't 
last.  We'll  reach  the  inner  point  of  our  orbit  and  the  effects  will 
really  start  to  accelerate.  Then  it's  war." 

"War?"  She  seemed  horrified,  as  well  she  might  be. 

"War,  in  the  economic  sense.  It's  a  hostile  act  to  renounce  a 
trade  agreement,  even  if  it's  bleeding  you  white.  It  hits  every  citi- 
zen of  the  Inner  Planets  in  the  pocketbook,  and  we  can  expect  re- 
taliation. We'd  be  introducing  instability  by  pulling  out  of  the 
Common  Market." 

"How  bad  will  it  be?  Shooting?" 

"Not  likely.  But  devastating  enough.  A  depression's  no  fun.  And 
they'll  be  planning  one  for  us." 

"Isn't  there  any  other  course?" 

"Someone  suggested  moving  our  entire  government  and  all  our 
corporate  headquarters  to  the  Inner  Planets.  It  could  happen^  I 
guess.  But  who'd  feel  like  it  was  ours?  We'd  be  a  colony,  and 
that's  a  worse  answer  than  independence,  in  the  long  run." 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  chewing  it  over.  She  nodded  her  head 
once;  he  could  barely  see  the  movement  in  the  darkness. 

"How  long  until  the  war?" 

He  shrugged.  "I've  been  out  of  touch.  I  don't  know  how  things 
have  been  going.  But  we  can  probably  take  it  for  another  ten 
years  or  so.  Then  we'll  have  to  get  out.  I'd  stock  up  on  real  wealth 
if  I  were  you.  Canned  goods,  air,  water,  §>o  forth.  I  don't  think  it'll 
get  so  bad  that  you'll  need  those  things  to  stay  alive  by  consum- 
ing them.  But  we  may  get  to  a  semi-barter  situation  where  they'll 
be  the  only  valuable  things.  Your  credit  meter'll  laugh  at  you 
when  you  punch  a  purchase  order,  no  matter  how  much  work 
you've  put  into  it." 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  29 

The  raft  bumped.  They  had  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  world. 
O  •  O 

They  moored  the  raft  to  one  of  the  rocks  on  the  wall  that  rose 
from  the  open  ocean.  They  were  five  kilometers  out  of  Rarotonga. 
They  waited  for  some  light  as  the  sun  began  to  rise,  then  started 
up  the  rock  face. 

It  was  rough:  blasted  out  with  explosives  on  this  face  of  the 
dam.  It  went  up  at  a  thirty  degree  angle  for  fifty  meters,  then  was 
suddenly  level  and  smooth  as  glass.  The  top  of  the  dam  at  the 
edge  of  the  world  had  been  smoothed  by  cutting  lasers  into  a  vast 
table  top,  three  hundred  kilometers  long  and  four  kilometers 
wide.  They  left  wet  footprints  on  it  as  they  began  the  long  walk  to 
the  edge. 

They  soon  lost  any  meaningful  perspective  on  the  thing.  They 
lost  sight  of  the  sea-edge,  and  couldn't  see  the  drop-off  until  they 
began  to  near  it.  By  then,  it  was  full  light.  Timed  just  right,  they 
would  reach  the  edge  when  the  sun  came  up  and  they'd  really 
have  something  to  see. 

A  hundred  meters  from  the  edge  when  she  could  see  over  it  a 
little,  Lee  began  to  unconsciously  hang  back.  Piri  didn't  prod  her. 
It  was  not  something  he  could  force  someone  to  see.  He'd  reached 
this  point  with  others,  and  had  to  turn  back.  Already,  the  fear  of 
falling  was  building  up.  But  she  came  on,  to  stand  beside  him  at 
the  very  lip  of  the  canyon. 

Pacifica  was  being  built  and  filled  in  three  sections.  Two  were 
cortiplete,  but  the  third  was  still  being  hollowed  out  and  was  not 
yet  filled  with  water  except  in  the  deepest  trenches.  The  water 
was  kept  out  of  this  section  by  the  dam  they  were  standing  on. 
When  it  was  completed,  when  all  the  underwater  trenches  and 
mountain  ranges  and  guyots  and  slopes  had  been  built  to  specifi- 
cations, the  bottom  would  be  covered  with  sludge  and  ooze  and 
the  whole  wedge-shaped  section  flooded.  The  water  came  from 
liquid  hydrogen  and  oxygen  on  the  surface,  combined  with  the 
limitless  electricity  of  fusion  powerplants. 

"We're  doing  what  the  Dutch  did  on  Old  Earth,  but  in  reverse," 
Piri  pointed  out,  but  he  got  no  reaction  from  Lee.  She  was  staring, 
spellbound,  down  the  sheer  face  of  the  dam  to  the  apparently  bot- 
tomless trench  below.  It  was  shrouded  in  mist,  but  seemed  to  fall 
off  forever. 

"It's  eight  kilometers  deep,"  Piri  told  her.  "It's  not  going  to  be  a 


30  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

regular  trench  when  it's  finished.  It's  there  to  be  filled  up  with 
the  remains  of  this  dam  after  the  place  has  been  flooded."  He 
looked  at  her  face,  and  didn't  bother  with  more  statistics.  He  let 
her  experience  it  in  her  own  way. 

The  only  comparable  vista  on  a  human-inhabited  planet  was 
the  Great  Rift  Valley  on  Mars.  Neither  of  them  had  seen  it,  but  it 
suffered  in  comparison  to  this  because  not  all  of  it  could  be  seen 
at  once.  Here,  one  could  see  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  from 
sea  level  to  a  distance  equivalent  to  the  deepest  oceanic  trenches 
on  Earth.  It  simply  fell  away  beneath  them  and  went  straight 
down  to  nothing.  There  was  a  rainbow  beneath  their  feet.  Off  to 
the  left  was  a  huge  waterfall  that  arced  away  from  the  wall  in  a 
solid  stream.  Tons  of  overflow  water  went  through  the  wall,  to 
twist,  fragment,  vaporize  and  blow  s^way  long  before  it  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  trench. 

Straight  ahead  of  them  and  about  ten  kilometers  away  was  the 
mountain  that  would  become  the  Okinawa  biome  when  the  pit 
was  filled.  Only  the  tiny,  blackened  tip  of  the  mountain  would 
show  above  the  water. 

Lee  stayed  and  looked  at  it  as  long  as  she  could.  It  became 
easier  the  longer  one  stood  there,  and  yet  something  about  it 
drove  her  away.  The  scale  was  too  big,  there  was  no  room  for  hu- 
mans in  that  shattered  world.  Long  before  noon,  they  turned  and 
started  the  long  walk  back  to  the  raft. 

O  •  O 

She  was  silent  as  they  boarded  and  set  sail  for  the  return  trip. 
The  winds  were  blowing  fitfully,  barely  billowing  the  sail.  It 
would  be  another  hour  before  they  blew  very  strongly.  They  were 
still  in  sight  of  the  dam  wall. 

They  sat  on  the  raft,  not  looking  at  each  other. 

"Piri,  thanks  for  bringing  me  here." 

"You're  welcome.  You  don't  have  to  talk  about  it." 

"All  right.  But  there's  something  else  I  have  to  talk  about. 
I ...  I  don't  know  where  to  begin,  really." 

Piri  stirred  uneasily.  The  earlier  discussion  about  economics 
had  disturbed  him.  It  was  part  of  his  past  life,  a  part  that  he  had 
not  been  ready  to  return  to.  He  was  full  of  confusion.  Thoughts 
that  had  no  place  out  here  in  the  concrete  world  of  wind  and 
water  were  roiling  through  his  brain.  Someone  was  calling  to 
him,  someone  he  knew  but  didn't  want  to  see  right  then. 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  31 

"Yeah?  What  is  it  you  want  to  talk  about?" 

"It's  about — "  she  stopped,  seemed  to  think  it  over.  "Never 
mind.  It's  not  time  yet."  She  moved  close  and  touched  him.  But  he 
was  not  interested.  He  made  it  known  in  a  few  minutes,  and  she 
moved  to  the  other  side  of  the  raft. 

He  lay  back,  essentially  alone  with  his  troubled  thoughts.  The 
wind  gusted,  then  settled  down.  He  saw  a  flying  fish  leap,  almost 
passing  over  the  raft.  There  was  a  piece  of  the  sky  falling  through 
the  air.  It  twisted  and  turned  like  a  feather,  a  tiny  speck  of  sky 
that  was  blue  on  one  side  and  brown  on  the  other.  He  could  see 
the  hole  in  the  sky  where  it  had  been  knocked  loose. 

It  must  be  two  or  three  kilometers  away.  No,  wait,  that  wasn't 
right.  The  top  of  the  sky  was  twenty  kilometers  up,  and  it  looked 
like  it  was  falling  from  the  center.  How  far  away  were  they  from 
the  center  of  Pacifica?  A  hundred  kilometers? 

A  piece  of  the  sky? 

He  got  to  his  feet,  nearly  capsizing  the  raft. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

It  was  big.  It  looked  large  even  from  this  far  away.  It  was  the 
dreamy  tumbling  motion  that  had  deceived  him. 

"The  sky  is  .  .  ."  he  choked  on  it,  and  almost  laughed.  But  this 
was  no  time  to  feel  silly  about  it.  "The  sky  is  falling,  Lee."  How 
long?  He  watched  it,  his  mind  full  of  numbers.  Terminal  velocity 
from  that  high  up,  assuming  it  was  heavy  enough  to  punch  right 
through  the  atmosphere  .  .  .  over  six  hundred  meters  per  second. 
Time  to  fall,  seventy  seconds.  Thirty  of  those  must  already  have 
gone  by. 

Lee  was  shading  her  eyes  as  she  followed  his  gaze.  She  still 
thought  it  was  a  joke.  The  chunk  of  sky  began  to  glow  red  as  the 
atmosphere  got  thicker. 

"Hey,  it  really  is  falling,"  she  said.  "Look  at  that." 

"It's  big.  Maybe  one  or  two  kilometers  across.  It's  going  to  make 
quite  a  splash,  I'll  bet." 

They  watched  it  descend.  Soon  it  disappeared  over  the  horizon, 
picking  up  speed.  They  waited,  but  the  show  seemed  to  be  over. 
Why  was  he  still  uneasy? 

"How  many  tons  in  a  two-kilometer  chunk  of  rock,  I  wonder?" 
Lee  mused.  She  didn't  look  too  happy,  either.  But  they  sat  back 
down  on  the  raft,  still  looking  in  the  direction  where  the  thing 
had  sunk  into  the  sea. 


32  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

Then  they  were  surrounded  by  flying  fish,  and  the  water  looked 
crazy.  The  fish  were  panicked.  As  soon  as  they  hit  they  leaped 
from  the  water  again.  Piri  felt  rather  than  saw  something  pass 
beneath  them.  And  then,  very  gradually,  a  roar  built  up,  a  deep 
bass  rumble  that  soon  threatened  to  turn  his  bones  to  powder.  It 
picked  him  up  and  shook  him,  and  left  him  limp  on  his  knees.  He 
was  stunned,  unable  to  think  clearly.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed  on 
the  horizon,  and  he  saw  a  white  fan  rising  in  the  distance  in  si- 
lent majesty.  It  was  the  spray  from  the  impact,  and  it  was  still 
going  up. 

"Look  up  there,"  Lee  said,  when  she  got  her  voice  back.  She 
seemed  as  confused  as  he.  He  looked  where  she  pointed  and  saw  a 
twisted  line  crawling  across  the  blue  sky.  At  first  he  thought  it 
was  the  end  of  his  life,  because  it  appeared  that  the  whole  over- 
hanging dome  was  fractured  and  about  to  fall  in  on  them.  But 
then  he  saw  it  was  one  of  the  tracks  that  the  sun  ran  on,  pulled 
free  by  the  rock  that  had  fallen,  twisted  into  a  snake  of  tortured 
metal. 

"The  dam!"  he  yelled.  "The  dam!  We're  too  close  to  the  dam!" 

"What?" 

"The  bottom  rises  this  close  to  the  dam.  The  water  here  isn't 
that  deep.  There'll  be  a  wave  coming,  Lee,  a  big  wave.  It'll  pile  up 
here." 

"Piri,  the  shadows  are  moving." 

"Huh?" 

Surprise  was  piling  on  surprise  too  fast  for  him  to  cope  with  it. 
But  she  was  right.  The  shadows  were  moving.  But  why? 

Then  he  saw  it.  The  sun  was  setting,  but  not  by  following  the 
tracks  that  led  to  the  concealed  opening  in  the  west.  It  was  falling 
through  the  air,  having  been  shaken  loose  by  the  rock. 

Lee  had  figured  it  out,  too. 

"What  is  that  thing?"  she  asked.  "I  mean,  how  big  is  it?" 

"Not  too  big,  I  heard.  Big  enough,  but  not  nearly  the  size  of 
that  chunk  that  fell.  It's  some  kind  of  fusion  generator.  I  don't 
know  what'll  happen  when  it  hits  the  water." 

They  were  paralyzed.  They  knew  there  was  something  they 
should  do,  but  too  many  things  were  happening.  There  was  not 
time  to  think  it  out. 

"Dive!"  Lee  yelled.  "Dive  into  the  water!" 

"What?" 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  33 

"We  have  to  dive  and  swim  away  from  the  dam,  and  down  as 
far  as  we  can  go.  The  wave  will  pass  over  us,  won't  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"It's  all  we  can  do." 

So  they  dived.  Piri  felt  his  gills  come  into  action,  then  he  was 
swimming  down  at  an  angle  toward  the  dark-shrouded  bottom. 
Lee  was  off  to  his  left,  swimming  as  hard  as  she  could.  And  with 
no  sunset,  no  warning,  it  got  black  as  pitch.  The  sun  had  hit  the 
water. 

He  had  no  idea  how  long  he  had  been  swimming  when  he  sud- 
denly felt  himself  pulled  upward.  Floating  in  the  water,  weight- 
less, he  was  not  well  equipped  to  feel  accelerations.  But  he  did 
feel  it,  like  a  rapidly  rising  elevator.  It  was  accompanied  by  pres- 
sure waves  that  threatened  to  burst  his  eardrums.  He  kicked  and 
clawed  his  way  downward,  not  even  knowing  if  he  was  headed  in 
the  right  direction.  Then  he  was  falling  again. 

He  kept  swimming,  all  alone  in  the  dark.  Another  wave  passed, 
lifted  him,  let  him  down  again.  A  few  minutes  later,  another  one, 
seeming  to  come  from  the  other  direction.  He  was  hopelessly  con- 
fused. He  suddenly  felt  he  was  swimming  the  wrong  way.  He 
stopped,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  Was  he  pointed  in  the  right  di- 
rection? He  had  no  way  to  tell. 

He  stopped  paddling  and  tried  to  orient  himself.  It  was  useless. 
He  felt  surges,  and  was  sure  he  was  being  tumbled  and  buffeted. 

Then  his  skin  was  tingling  with  the  sensation  of  a  million  bub- 
bles crawling  over  him.  It  gave  him  a  handle  on  the  situation. 
The  bubbles  would  be  going  up,  wouldn't  they?  And  they  were 
traveling  over  his  body  from  belly  to  back.  So  down  was  that  way. 

But  he  didn't  have  time  to  make  use  of  the  information.  He  hit 
something  hard  with  his  hip,  wrenched  his  back  as  his  body  tried 
to  tumble  over  in  the  foam  and  water,  then  was  sliding  along  a 
smooth  surface.  It  felt  like  he  was  going  very  fast,  and  he  knew 
where  he  was  and  where  he  was  heading  and  there  was  nothing 
he  could  do  about  it.  The  tail  of  the  wave  had  lifted  him  clear  of 
the  rocky  slope  of  the  dam  and  deposited  him  on  the  flat  surface. 
It  was  now  spending  itself,  sweeping  him  along  to  the  edge  of  the 
world.  He  turned  around,  feeling  the  sliding  surface  beneath  him 
with  his  hands,  and  tried  to  dig  in.  It  was  a  nightmare;  nothing 
he  did  had  any  effect.  Then  his  head  broke  free  into  the  air. 

He  was  still  sliding,  but  the  huge  hump  of  the  wave  had  dissi- 


34  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

pated  itself  and  was  collapsing  quietly  into  froth  and  puddles.  It 
drained  away  with  amazing  speed.  He  was  left  there,  alone,  cheek 
pressed  lovingly  to  the  cold  rock.  The  darkness  was  total. 

He  wasn't  about  to  move.  For  all  he  knew,  there  was  an  eight- 
kilometer  drop  just  behind  his  toes. 

Maybe  there  would  be  another  wave.  If  so,  this  one  would  crash 
down  on  him  instead  of  lifting  him  like  a  cork  in  a  tempest.  It 
should  kill  him  instantly.  He>refused  to  worry  about  that.  All  he 
cared  about  now  was  not  slipping  any  further. 

The  stars  had  vanished.  Power  failure?  Now  they  blinked  on. 
He  raised  his  head  a  little,  in  time  to  see  a  soft,  diffused  glow  in 
the  east.  The  moon  was  rising,  and  it  was  doing  it  at  breakneck 
speed.  He  saw  it  rotate  from  a  thin  crescent  configuration  to 
bright  fullness  in  under  a  minute.  Someone  was  still  in  charge, 
and  had  decided  to  throw  some  light  on  the  scene. 

He  stood,  though  his  knees  were  weak.  Tall  fountains  of  spray 
far  away  to  his  right  indicated  where  the  sea  was  battering  at  the 
dam.  He  was  about  in  the  middle  of  the  tabletop,  far  from  either 
edge.  The  ocean  was  whipped  up  as  if  by  thirty  hurricanes,  but  he 
was  safe  from  it  at  this  distance  unless  there  were  another 
tsunami  yet  to  come. 

The  moonlight  turned  the  surface  into  a  silver  mirror,  littered 
with  flopping  fish.  He  saw  another  figure  get  to  her  feet,  and  ran 
in  that  direction. 

O  •  O 

The  helicopter  located  them  by  infrared  detector.  They  had  no 
way  of  telling  how  long  it  had  been.  The  moon  was  hanging  mo- 
tionless in  the  center  of  the  sky. 

They  got  into  the  cabin,  shivering. 

The  helicopter  pilot  was  happy  to  have  found  them,  but  grieved 
over  other  lives  lost.  She  said  the  toll  stood  at  three  dead,  fifteen 
missing  and  presumed  dead.  Most  of  these  had  been  working  on 
the  reefs.  All  the  land  surface  of  Pacifica  had  been  scoured,  but 
the  loss  of  life  had  been  minimal.  Most  had  had  time  to  get  to  an 
elevator  and  go  below  or  to  a  helicopter  and  rise  above  the  devas- 
tation. 

From  what  they  had  been  able  to  find  out,  heat  expansion  of 
the  crust  had  moved  farther  down .  into  the  interior  of  the  planet 
than  had  been  expected.  It  was  summer  on  the  surface,  something 
it  was  easy  to  forget  down  here.  The  engineers  had  been  sure  that 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  35 

the  inner  surface  of  the  sky  had  been  stabilized  years  ago,  but  a 
new  fault  had  been  opened  by  the  slight  temperature  rise.  She 
pointed  up  to  where  ships  were  hovering  like  fireflies  next  to  the 
sky,  playing  searchlights  on  the  site  of  the  damage.  No  one  knew 
yet  if  Pacifica  would  have  to  be  abandoned  for  another  twenty 
years  while  it  stabilized. 

She  set  them  down  on  Rarotonga.  The  place  was  a  mess.  The 
wave  had  climbed  the  bottom  rise  and  crested  at  the  reef,  and  a 
churning  hell  of  foam  and  debris  had  swept  over  the  island.  Little 
was  left  standing  except  the  concrete  blocks  that  housed  the 
elevators,  scoured  of  their  decorative  camouflage. 

Piri  saw  a  familiar  figure  coming  toward  him  through  the 
wreckage  that  had  been  a  picturesque  village.  She  broke  into  a 
run,  and  nearly  bowled  him  over,  laughing  and  kissing  him. 

"We  were  sure  you  were  dead,"  Harra  said,  drawing  back  from 
him  as  if  to  check  for  cuts  and  bruises. 

"It  was  a  fluke,  I  guess,"  he  said,  still  incredulous  that  he  had 
survived.  It  had  seemed  bad  enough  out  there  in  the  open  ocean; 
the  extent  of  the  disaster  was  much  more  evident  on  the  island. 
He  was  badly  shaken  to  see  it. 

"Lee  suggested  that  we  try  to  dive  under  the  wave.  That's  what 
saved  us.  It  just  lifted  us  up,  then  the  last  one  swept  us  over  the 
top  of  the  dam  and  drained  away.  It  dropped  us  like  leaves." 

"Well,  not  quite  so  tenderly  in  my  case,"  Lee  pointed  out.  "It 
gave  me  quite  a  jolt.  I  think  I  might  have  sprained  my  wrist." 

A  medic  was  available.  While  her  wrist  was  being  bandaged, 
she  kept  looking  at  Piri.  He  didn't  like  the  look. 

"There's  something  I'd  intended  to  talk  to  you  about  on  the  raft, 
or  soon  after  we  got  home.  There's  no  point  in  your  staying  here 
any  longer  anyway,  and  I  don't  know  where  you'd  go." 

"No!"  Harra  burst  out.  ^'Not  yet.  Don't  tell  him  anything  yet. 
It's  not  fair.  Stay  away  from  him."  She  was  protecting  Piri  with 
her  body,  from  no  assault  that  was  apparent  to  him. 

"I  just  wanted  to^-" 

"No,  no.  Don't  listen  to  her,  Piri.  Come  with  me."  She  pleaded 
with  the  other  woman.  "Just  give  me  a  few  hours  alone  with  him, 
there's  some  things  I  never  got  around  to  telling  him." 

Lee  looked  undecided,  and  Piri  felt  mounting  rage  and  frustra- 
tion. He  had  known  things  were  going  on  around  him.  It  was 
mostly  his  own  fault  that  he  had  ignored  them,  but  now  he  had  to 


36  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

know.  He  pulled  his  hand  free  from  Harra  and  faced  Lee. 

"Tell  me." 

She  looked  down  at  her  feet,  then  back  to  his  eyes. 

"I'm  not  what  I  seem,  Piri.  I've  been  leading  you  along,  trying 
to  make  this  easier  for  you.  But  you  still  fight  me.  I  don't  think 
there's  any  way  it's  going  to  be  easy." 

"No!"  Harra  shouted  again. 

"What  are  you?" 

"I'm  a  psychiatrist.  I  specialize  in  retrieving  people  like  you, 
people  who  are  in  a  mental  vacation  mode,  what  you  call  'second 
childhood.'  You're  aware  of  all  this,  on  another  level,  but  the  child 
in  you  has  fought  it  at  every  stage.  The  result  has  been 
nightmares — probably  with  me  as  the  focus,  whether  you  admit- 
ted it  or  not." 

She  grasped  both  his  wrists,  one  of  them  awkwardly  because  of 
her  injury. 

"Now  listen  to  me."  She  spoke  in  an  intense  whisper,  trying  to 
get  it  all  out  before  the  panic  she  saw  in  his  face  broke  free  and 
sent  him  running.  "You  came  here  for  a  vacation.  You  were  going 
to  stay  ten  years,  growing  up  and  taking  it  easy.  That's  all  over. 
The  situation  that  prevailed  when  you  left  is  now  out  of  date. 
Things  have  moved  faster  than  you  believed  possible.  You  had 
expected  a  ten-year  period  after  your  return  to  get  things  in  order 
for  the  coming  battles.  That  time  has  evaporated.  The  Common 
Market  of  the  Inner  Planets  has  fired  the  first  shot.  They've  insti- 
tuted a  new  system  of  accounting  and  it's  locked  into  their  com- 
puters and  running.  It's  aimed  right  at  Pluto,  and  it's  been  work- 
ing for  a  month  now.  We  cannot  continue  as  an  economic  partner 
to  the  C.M.I. P.,  because  from  now  on  every  time  we  sell  or  buy  or 
move  money  the  inflationary  multiplier  is  automatically  juggled 
against  us.  It's  all  perfectly  legal  by  all  existing  treaties,  and  it's 
necessary  to  their  economy.  But  it  ignores  our  time-lag  disadvan- 
tage. We  have  to  consider  it  as  a  hostile  act,  no  matter  what  the 
intent.  You  have  to  come  back  and  direct  the  war.  Mister  Finance 
Minister." 

The  words  shattered  what  calm  Piri  had  left.  He  wrenched  free 
of  her  hands  and  turned  wildly  to  look  all  around  him.  Then  he 
sprinted  down  the  beach.  He  tripped  once  over  his  splay  feet,  got 
up  without  ever  slo\ying,  and  disappeared. 

Harra  and  Lee  stood  silently  and  watched  him  go. 


GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE  37 

"You  didn't  have  to  be  so  rough  with  him,"  Harra  said,  but 
knew  it  wasn't  so.  She  just  hated  to  see  him  so  confused. 

"It's  best  done  quickly  when  they  resist.  And  he's  all  right.  He'll 
have  a  fight  with  himself,  but  there's  no  real  doubt  of  the  out- 
come." 

"So  the  Piri  I  know  will  be  dead  soon?" 

Lee  put  her  arm  around  the  younger  woman. 

"Not  at  all.  It's  a  re-integration,  without  a  winner  or  a  loser. 
You'll  see."  She  looked  at  the  tear-streaked  face. 

"Don't  worry.  You'll  like  the  older  Piri.  It  won't  take  him  any 
time  at  all  to  realize  that  he  loves  you." 

O  •  O 

He  had  never  been  to  the  reef  at  night.  It  was  a  place  of  furtive 
fish,  always  one  step  ahead  of  him  as  they  darted  back  into  their 
places  of  concealment.  He  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before 
they  ventured  out  in  the  long  night  to  come.  The  sun  might  not 
rise  for  years. 

They  might  never  come  out.  Not  realizing  the  changes  in  their 
environment,  night  fish  and  day  fish  would  never  adjust.  Feeding 
cycles  would  be  disrupted,  critical  temperatures  would  go  awry, 
the  endless  moon  and  lack  of  sun  would  frustrate  the  internal 
mechanisms,  bred  over  billions  of  years,  and  fish  would  die.  It  had 
to  happen. 

The  ecologists  would  have  quite  a  job  on  their  hands. 

But  there  was  one  denizen  of  the  outer  reef  that  would  survive 
for  a  long  time.  He  would  eat  anything  that  moved  and  quite  a 
few  things  that  didn't,  at  any  time  of  the  day  or  night.  He  had  no 
fear,  he  had  no  internal  clocks  dictating  to  him,  no  inner  pres- 
sures to  confuse  him  except  the  one  overriding  urge  to  attack.  He 
would  last  as  long  as  there  was  anything  alive  to  eat. 

But  in  what  passed  for  a  brain  in  the  white-bottomed  torpedo 
that  was  the  Ghost,  a  splinter  of  doubt  had  lodged.  He  had  no  re- 
collection of  similar  doubts,  though  there  had  been  some.  He  was 
not  equipped  to  remember,  only  to  hunt.  So  this  new  thing  that 
swam  beside  him,  and  drove  his  cold  brain  as  near  as  it  could 
come  to  the  emotion  of  anger,  was  a  mystery.  He  tried  again  and 
again  to  attack  it,  then  something  would  seize  him  with  an  emo- 
tion he  had  not  felt  since  he  was  half  a'  meter  long,  and  fear 
would  drive  him  away. 

Piri  swam  along  beside  the  faint  outline  of  the  shark.  There 


38  GOOD-BYE,     ROBINSON     CRUSOE 

was  just  enough  moonlight  for  him  to  see  the  fish,  hovering  at  the 
ill-defined  limit  of  his  sonic  signal.  Occasionally,  the  shape  would 
shudder  from  head  to  tail,  turn  toward  him,  and  grow  larger.  At 
these  times  Piri  could  see  nothing  but  a  gaping  jaw.  Then  it 
would  turn  quickly,  transfix  him  with  that  bottomless  pit  of  an 
eye,  and  sweep  away. 

Piri  wished  he  could  laugh  at  the  poor,  stupid  brute.  How  could 
he  have  feared  such  a  mindless  eating  machine? 

Good-bye,  pinbrain.  He  turned  and  stroked  lazily  toward  the 
shore.  He  knew  the  shark  would  turn  and  follow  him,  nosing  into 
the  interdicted  sphere  of  his  transponder,  but  the  thought  did  not 
impress  him.  He  was  without  fear.  How  could  he  be  afraid,  when 
he  had  already  been  swallowed  into  the  belly  of  his  nightmare? 
The  teeth  had  closed  around  him,  he  had  awakened,  and  remem- 
bered. And  that  was  the  end  of  his  fear. 

Good-bye,  tropical  paradise.  You  were  fun  while  you  lasted.  Now 
Fm  a  grown-up,  and  must  go  off  to  war. 

He  didn't  relish  it.  It  was  a  wrench  to  leave  his  childhood, 
though  the  time  had  surely  been  right.  Now  the  responsibilities 
had  descended  on  him,  and  he  must  shoulder  them.  He  thought  of 
Harra. 

"Piri,"  he  told  himself,  "as  a  teenager,  you  were  just  too  dumb 
to  live." 

Knowing  it  was  the  last  time,  he  felt  the  coolness  of  the  water 
flowing  over  his  gills.  They  had  served  him  well,  but  had  no  place 
in  his  work.  There  was  no  place  for  a  fish,  and  no  place  for  Robin- 
son Crusoe. 

Good-bye,  gills. 

He  kicked  harder  for  the  shore  and  came  to  stand,  dripping  wet, 
on  the  beach.  Harra  and  Lee  were  there,  waiting  for  him. 


THE  DOCTORS'  DILEMMA 

by  Martin  Gardner 


Here  is  the  first  of  a  series  ofSF  puzzles  that 
Mr.  Gardner  has  promised  us. 


The  first  earth  colony  on  Mars  has  been  swept  by  an  epidemic 
of  Barsoomian  flu.  The  cause:  a  native  Martian  virus  not  yet  iso- 
lated. 

There  is  no  way  to  identify  a  newly  infected  person  until  the 
symptoms  appear  weeks  later.  The  flu  is  highly  contagious,  but 
only  by  direct  contact.  The  virus  transfers  readily  from  flesh  to 
flesh,  or  from  flesh  to  any  object  which  in  turn  can  contaminate 
any  flesh  it  touches.  Residents  are  going  to  extreme  lengths  to 
avoid  touching  one  another,  or  touching  objects  that  may  be  con- 
taminated. 

Ms.  Hooker,  director  of  the  colony,  has  been  seriously  injured  in 
a  rocket  accident.  Three  immediate  operations  are  required.  The 
first  will  be  performed  by  Dr.  Xenophon,  the  second  by  Dr.  Yp- 
silanti,  the  third  by  Dr.  Zeno.  Any  of  the  surgeons  may  be  in- 
fected with  Barsoomian  flu.  Ms.  Hooker,  too,  may  have  caught 
the  disease. 

Just  before  the  first  operation  it  is  discovered  that  the  colony's 
hospital  has  only  two  pairs  of  sterile  surgeon's  gloves.  No  others 
are  obtainable  and  there  is  no  time  for  resterilizing.  Each  surgeon 
must  operate  with  both  hands. 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can  avoid  the  risk  of  one  of  us  becoming 
infected,"  says  Dr.  Xenophon  to  Dr.  Zeno.  "When  I  operate,  my 
hands  may  contaminate  the  insides  of  my  gloves.  Ms.  Hooker's 
body  may  contaminate  the  outsides.  The  same  thing  will  happen 
to  the  gloves  worn  by  Dr.  Ypsilanti.  When  it's  your  turn,  you'll 
have  to  wear  gloves  that  could  be  contaminated  on  both  sides." 

"Aw  contraire ,''  says  Dr.  Zeno,  who  had  taken  a  course  in  topol- 
ogy when  he  was  a  young  medical  student  in  Paris.  "There's  a 
simple  procedure  that  will  eliminate  all  risk  of  any  of  us  catching 
the  flu  from  one  another  or  from  Ms.  Hooker." 

What  does  Dr.  Zeno  have  in  mind?  Try  to  work  it  out  before 
turning  to  page  139  for  the  answer. 

39 


THINK! 

by  Isaac  Asimov 

Here's  the  Good  Doctor's  most  recent  short 

story — about  a  kind  of  beginning — 

for  our  first  issue. 

Genevieve  Renshaw,  M.D.,  had  her  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  Qf 
her  lab  coat,  and  her  fists  were  clearly  outlined  within,  but  she 
spoke  calmly. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  said,  "that  I'm  almost  ready,  but  I'll  need  help 
to  keep  it  going  long  enough  to  be  ready." 

James  Berkowitz,  a  physicist  who  patronized  mere  physicians 
when  they  were  too  attractive  to  be  despised,  had  a  tendency  to 
call  her  Jenny  Wren  when  out  of  hearing.  He  was  fond  of  saying 
that  Jenny  Wren  had  a  classic  profile  and  a  brow  surprisingly 
smooth  and  unlined  considering  that  behind  it  so  keen  a  brain 
ticked.  He  knew  better  than  to  express  his  admiration, 
however — of  the  classic  profile,  that  is — since  that  would  be  male 
chauvinism.  Admiring  the  brain  was  better,  but  on  the  whole  he 
preferred  not  to  do  that  out  loud  in  her  presence. 

He  said,  thumb  rasping  along  the  just-appearing  stubble  on  his 
chin,  "I  don't  think  the  front  office  is  going  to  be  patient  for  much 
longer.  The  impression  I  have  is  that  they're  going  to  have  you  on 
the  carpet  before  the  end  of  the  week." 

"That's  why  I  need  your  help." 

''Nothing  I  can  do,  I'm  afraid."  He  caught  an  unexpected 
glimpse  of  his  face  in  the  mirror,  and  momentarily  admired  the 
set  of  the  black  waves  in  his  hair. 

"And  Adam's,"  she  said. 

Adam  Orsino,  who  had  till  that  moment  sipped  his  coffee  feel- 
ing detached,  looked  as  though  he  had  been  jabbed  from  behind 
and  said,  "Why  me?"  His  full,  plump  lips  quivered. 

"Because  you're  the  laser  men  here— -Jim  the  theoretician  and 
Adam  the  engineer — and  I've  got  a  laser  application  that  goes  be- 
yond anything  either  of  you  have  imagined.  I  can't  convince  them 
of  that  but  you  two  could." 

"Provided,"  said  Berkowitz,  "that  you  can  convince  us  first." 

"All  right.  Suppose  you  let  me  have  an  hour  of  your  valuable 

40 


THINK!  41 

time,  if  you're  not  afraid  to  be  shown  something  completely  new 
about  lasers.  You  can  take  it  out  of  your  coffee  break." 
O  •  O 

Renshaw's  laboratory  was  dominated  by  her  computer  system. 
It  was  not  that  the  computer  was  unusually  large,  but  it  was  vir- 
tually omnipresent.  Renshaw  had  learned  computer  technology  on 
her  own,  and  had  modified  and  extended  her  computer  system 
until  no  one  but  she  (and,  Berkowitz  sometimes  believed,  not  even 
she)  could  handle  it  with  ease.  Not  bad,  she  would  say,  for  some- 
one in  the  life-sciences. 

She  closed  the  door  before  saying  a  word,  then  turned  to  face 
the  other  two  somberly.  Berkowitz  was  uncomfortably  aware  of  a 
faintly  unpleasant  odor  in  the  air,  and  Orsino's  wrinkling  nose 
showed  that  he  was  aware  of  it,  too. 

Renshaw  said,  "Let  me  list  the  laser  applications  for  you,  if  you 
don't  mind  my  lighting  a  candle  in  the  sunshine.  The  laser  is 
coherent  radiation,  with  all  the  light-waves  of  the  same  length 
and  moving  in  the  same  direction,  so  it's  noise-free  and  can  be 
used  in  holography.  By  modulating  the  wave-forms  we  can  im- 
print information  on  it  with  a  high  degree  of  accuracy.  What's 
more,  since  the  light-waves  are  only  a  millionth  the  length  of 
radio  waves,  a  laser  beam  can  carry  a  million  times  the  informa- 
tion an  equivalent  radio  beam  can." 

Berkowitz  seemed  amused,  "Are  you  working  on  a  laser-based 
communication  system,  Jenny?" 

"Not  at  all,"  she  replied.  "I  leave  such  obvious  advances  to 
physicists  and  engineers.  Lasers  can  also  concentrate  quantities  of 
energy  into  a  microscopic  area  and  deliver  that  energy  in  quan- 
tity. On  a  large  scale  you  can  implode  hydrogen  and  perhaps 
begin  a  controlled  fusion  reaction — " 

"I  know  you  don't  have  that,"  said  Orsino,  his  bald  head  glisten- 
ing in  the  overhead  fluorescents. 

"I  don't.  I  haven't  tried.  On  a  smaller  scale,  you  can  drill  holes 
in  the  most  refractory  materials,  weld  selected  bits,  heat-treat 
them,  gouge  and  scribe  them.  You  can  remove  or  fuse  tiny  por- 
tions in  restricted  areas  with  heat  delivered  so  rapidly  that  sur- 
rounding areas  have  no  time  to  warm  up  before  the  treatment  is 
over.  You  can  work  on  the  retina  of  the  eye,  the  dentine  of  the 
teeth  and  so  on.  And  of  course  the  laser  is  an  amplifier  capable  of 
magnifying  weak  signals  with  great  accuracy." 


42  THINK! 

"And  why  do  you  tell  us  all  this?"  asked  Berkowitz. 
"To  point  out  how  these  properties  can  be  made  to  fit  my  own 
field,  which,  youJknow,  is  neurophysiology." 

She  made  a  brushing  motion  with  her  hand  at  her  brown  hair, 
as  though  she  were  suddenly  nervous.  "For  decades,"  she  said, 
"we've  been  able  to  measure  the  tiny,  shifting  electric  potentials 
of  the  brain  and  record  them  as  electroencephalograms,  or  EEG's. 
We've  got  alpha  waves,  beta  waves,  delta  waves,  theta  waves;  dif- 
ferent variations  at  different  times,  depending  on  whether  eyes 
are  open  or  closed,  whether  the  subject  is  awake,  meditating,  or 
asleep.  But  we've  gotten  very  little  information  out  of  it  all. 

"The  trouble  is  that  we're  getting  the  signals  of  ten  billion 
neurons  in  shifting  combinations.  It's  like  listening  to  the  noise  of 
all  the  human  beings  on  Earth — on  two  and  a  half  Earths — from 
a  great  distance  and  trying  to  make  out  individual  conversations. 
It  can't  be  done.  We  could  detect  some  gross,  overall  change — a 
world  war  and  the  rise  in  the  volume  of  noise — but  nothing  finer. 
In  the  same  way,  we  can  tell  some  gross  malfunction  of  the 
brain — epilepsy — but  nothing  finer. 

"Suppose  now,  the  brain  might  be  scanned  by  a  tiny  laser- 
controlled  beam,  cell  by  cell,  and  so  rapidly  that  at  no  time  does  a 
single  cell  receive  enough  energy  to  raise  its  temperature  signifi- 
cantly. The  tiny  potentials  of  each  cell  can,  in  feedback,  affect  the 
beam;  and  the  modulations  can  be  amplified  and  recorded.  You 
will  then  get  a  new  kind  of  measurement,  a  laser-encephalogram, 
or  LEG,  if  you  wish,  which  will  contain  millions  of  times  as  much 
information  as  ordinary  EEG's." 

Berkowitz  said,  "A  nice  thought.  But  just  a  thought." 

"More  than  a  thought,  Jim.  I've  been  working  on  it  for  five 
years,  spare  time  at  first.  Lately,  it's  been  full  time,  which  is 
what  annoys  the  front  office,  because  I  haven't  been  sending  in 
reports." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  got  to  the  point  where  it  sounded  too  mad;  I  had  to 
know  where  I  was  and  I  had  to  be  sure  of  getting  backing  first." 

She  pulled  a  screen  aside  and  revealed  a  cage  that  contained  a 
pair  of  mournful-eyed  marmosets. 

Berkowitz  and  Orsino  looked  at  each  other.  Berkowitz  touched 
his  nose.  "I  thought  I  smelled  something." 

"What  are  you  doing  with  those?"  asked  Orsino. 


THINK!  43 

Berkowitz  said,  "At  a  guess,  she's  been  scanning  the  marmoset 
brain.  Have  you,  Jenny?" 

"I  started  considerably  lower  on  the  animal  scale."  She  opened 
the  cage  and  took  out  one  of  the  marmosets,  which  looked  at  her 
with  a  miniature  sad-old-man-with-sideburns  expression. 

She  clucked  to  it,  stroked  it,  and  gently  strapped  it  into  a  small 
harness. 

Orsino  said,  "What  are  you  doing?" 

"I  can't  have  it  moving  around  if  I'm  going  to  make  it  part  of  a 
circuit,  and  I  can't  anesthetize  it  without  vitiating  the  experi- 
ment. There  are  several  electrodes  implanted. in  the  marmoset's 
brain  and  I'm  going  to  connect  them  with  my  LEG  system.  The 
laser  I'm  using  is  here.  I'm  sure  you  recognize  the  model  and  I 
won't  bother  giving  you  its  specifications." 

"Thanks,"  said  Berkowitz,  "but  you  might  tell  us  what  we're 
going  to  see." 

"It  would  be  just  as  easy  to  show  you.  Just  watch  the  screen." 

She  connected  the  leads  to  the  electrodes  with  a  quiet  and  sure 
efficiency,  then  turned  a  knob  that  dimmed  the  overhead  lights  in 
the  room.  On  the  screen  there  appeared  a  jagged  complex  of  peaks 
and  valleys  in  a  fine,  bright  line  that  was  wrinkled  into  secondary 
and  tertiary  peaks  and  valleys.  Slowly,  these  shifted  in  a  series  of 
minor  changes,  with  occasional  flashes  of  sudden  major  differ- 
ences. It  was  as  though  the  irregular  line  had  a  life  of  its  own. 

"This,"  said  Renshaw,  "is  essentially  the  EEG  information,  but 
in  much  greater  detail." 

"Enough  detail,"  asked  Orsino,  "to  tell  you  what's  going  on  in 
individual  cells?" 

"In  theory,  yes.  Practically,  no.  Not  yet.  But  we  can  separate 
this  overall  LEG  into  component  'grams.  Watch!" 

She  punched  the  computer  keyboard,  and  the  line  changed,  and 
changed  again.  Now  it  was  a  small,  nearly  regular  wave  that 
shifted  forward  and  backward  in  what  was  almost  a  heartbeat; 
now  it  was  jagged  and  sharp;  now  intermittent;  now  nearly 
featureless — all  in  quick  switches  of  geometric  surrealism. 

Berkowitz  said,  "You  mean  that  every  bit  of  the  brain  is  that 
different  from  every  other?" 

"No,"  said  Renshaw,  "not  at  all.  The  brain  is  very  largely  a 
holographic  device,  but  there  are  minor  shifts  in  emphasis  from 
place  to  place  and  Mike  can  subtract  them  as  deviations  from  the 


44  THINK! 

norm  and  use  the  LEG  system  to  amplify  those  variations.  The 
amplifications  can  be  varied  from  ten-thousarid-fold  to  ten- 
million-fold.  The  laser  system  is  that  noise-free." 

"Who's  Mike?"  asked  Orsino. 

"Mike?"  said  Rendhaw,  momentarily  puzzled.  The  skin  over  her 
cheekbones  reddened  slightly.  "Did  I  say —  Well,  I  call  it  that 
sometimes.  It's  short  for  'my  computer.'  "  She  waved  her  arm 
about  the  room.  "My  computer.  Mike.  Very  carefully  pro- 
grammed." 

Berkowitz  nodded  and  said,  "All  right,  Jenny,  what's  it  all 
about?  If  you've  got  a  new  brain-scanning  device  using  lasers, 
fine,  it's  an  interesting  application  and  you're  right,  it's  not  one  I 
would  have  thought  of— but  then  I'm  no  neurophysiologist.  But 
why  not  write  it  up?  It  seems  to  me  the  front  office  would 
support — " 

"But  this  is  just  the  beginning."  She  turned  off  the  scanning 
device  and  placed  a  piece  of  fruit  in  the  marmoset's  mouth.  The 
creature  did  not  seem  alarmed  or  in  discomfort.  It  chewed  slowly. 
Renshaw  unhooked  the  leads  but  left  it  in  its  harness. 

Renshaw  said,  "I  can  identify  the  various  separate  'grams.  Some 
are  associated  with  the  various  senses,  some  with  visceral  reac- 
tions, some  with  emotions.  We  can  do  a  lot  with  that,  but  I  don't 
want  to  stop  there.  The  interesting  thing  is  that  one  is  associated 
with  abstract  thought." 

Orsini's  plump  face  wrinkled  into  a  look  of  disbelief.  "How  can 
you  tell?" 

"That  particular  form  of  'gram  gets  more  pronounced  as  one 
goes  up  the  animal  kingdom  toward  greater  complexity  of  brain. 
No  other  'gram  does.  Besides — "  She  paused;  then,  as  though 
gathering  strength  of  purpose,  she  said,  "Those  'grams  are  enor- 
mously amplified.  They  can  be  picked  up,  detected.  I  can  tell — 
vaguely — that  there  are — thoughts — " 

"By  God,"  said  Berkowitz.  "Telepathy." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  defiantly.  "Exactly." 

"No  wonder  you  haven't  wanted  to  report  it.  Come  on,  Jenny." 

"Why  not?"  said  Renshaw  warmly.  "Granted  there  could  be  no 
telepathy  just  using  the  unamplified  potential  patterns  of  the 
human  brain  any  more  than  anyone  can  see  features  on  the  Mar- 
tian surface  with  the  unaided  eye.  But  once  instruments  are 
invented — the  telescope — th  is . " 


THINK!  45 

"Then  tell  the  front  office." 

"No,"  said  Renshaw.  "They  won't  believe  me.  They'll  try  to  stop 
me.  But  they'll  have  to  take  you  seriously,  Jim,  and  you,  Adam." 

"What  would  you  expect  me  to  tell  them?"  said  Berkowitz. 

"What  you  experience.  I'm  going  to  hook  up  the  marmoset 
again,  and  have  Mike — my  computer  pick  out  the  abstract- 
thought  'gram.  It  will  only  take  a  moment.  The  computer  always 
selects  the  abstract-thought  'gram  unless  it  is  directed  not  to." 

"Why?  Because  the  computer  thinks,  too?"  Berkowitz  laughed. 

"That's  not  all  that  funny,"  s^id  Renshaw.  "I  suspect  there  is  a 
resonance  there.  This  computer  is  complex  enough  to  set  up  an 
electromagnetic  pattern  that  may  have  elements  in  common  with 
the  abstract-thought  'gram.  In  any  case — " 

The  marmoset's  brain  waves  were  flickering  on  the  screen 
again,  but  it  was  not  a  'gram  the  men  had  seen  before.  It  was  a 
'gram  that  was  almost  furry  in  its  complexity  and  was  changing 
constantly. 

"I  don't  detect  anything,"  said  Orsino. 

"You  have  to  be  put  into  the  receiving  circuit,"  said  Renshaw. 

"You  mean  implant  electrodes  in  our  brains?"  asked  Berkowitz. 

"No,  on  your  skull.  That  would  be  sufficient.  I'd  prefer  you, 
Adam,  since  there  would  be  no  insulating  hair.  Oh,  come  on,  I've 
been  part  of  the  circuit  myself  It  won't  hurt." 

Orsino  submitted  with  bad  grace.  His  muscles  were  visibly 
tense  but  he  allowed  the  leads  to  be  strapped  to  his  skull. 

"Do  you  sense  anything?"  asked  Renshaw. 

Orsino  cocked  his  head  and  assumed  a  listening  posture.  He 
seemed  to  grow  interested  in  spite  of  himself.  He  said,  "I  seem  to 
be  aware  of  a  humming — and — and  a  little  high-pitched 
squeaking — and  that's  funny — a  kind  of  twitching — " 

Berkowitz  said,  "I  suppose  the  marmoset  isn't  likely  to  think  in 
words." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Renshaw. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Berkowitz,  "if  you're  suggesting  that  some 
squeaking  and  twitching  sensation  represents  thought,  you're 
guessing.  You're  not  being  compelling." 

Renshaw  said,  "So  we  go  up  the  scale  once  again."  She  removed 
the  marmoset  from  its  harness  and  put  it  back  in  its  cage. 

"You  mean  you  have  a  man  as  a  subject,"  said  Orsino,  unbeliev- 
ing. 


46  THINK! 

"I  have  myself  as  a  subject,  di  person.'' 

"You've  got  electrodes  implanted — " 

''No.  In  my  case  my  computer  has  a  stronger  potential-flicker  to 
work  with.  My  brain  has  ten  times  the  mass  of  the  marmoset 
brain.  Mike  can  pick  up  my  component  'grams  through  the  skull." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Berkowitz. 

"Don't  you  think  I've  tried  it  on  myself  before  this?  Now  help 
me  with  this,  please.  Right."  f 

Her  fingers  flicked  on  the  computer  keyboard,  and  at  once  the 
screen  flickered  with  an  intricately  varying  wave,  an  intricacy 
that  made  it  almost  a  maze. 

"Would  you  replace  your  awn  leads,  Adam?"  said  Renshaw. 

Orsino  did  so  with  Berkowitz's  not-entirely-approving  help. 
Again,  Orsino  cocked  his  head  and  listened.  "I  hear  words,"  he 
said,  but  they're  disjointed  and  overlapping,  like  different  people 
speaking." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  think  consciously,"  said  Renshaw. 

"When  you  talk,  I  hear  an  echo." 

Berkowitz  said,  dryly,  "Don't  talk,  Jenny.  Blank  out  your  mind 
and  see  if  he  doesn't  hear  you  think." 

Orsino  said,  "I  don't  hear  any  echo  when  you  talk,  Jim." 

Berkowitz  said,  "If  you  don't  shut  up,  you  won't  hear  anything." 

A  heavy  silence  fell  on  all  three.  Then  Orsino  nodded,  reached 
for  pen  and  paper  on  the  desk,  and  wrote  something. 

Renshaw  reached  out,  threw  a  switch,  and  pulled  the  leads  up 
and  over  her  head,  shaking  her  hair  back  into  place.  She  said,  "I 
hope  that  what  you  wrote  down  was:  'Adam,  raise  Cain  with  the 
front  office  and  Jim  will  eat  crow.'  " 

Orsino  said,  "It's  what  I  wrote  down,  word  for  word." 

Renshaw  said,  "Well,  there  you  are.  Working  telepathy,  and  we 
don't  have  to  use  it  to  transmit  nonsense  sentences  either.  Think 
of  the  uses  in  psychiatry  and  in  the  treatment  of  mental  disease. 
Think  of  its  uses  in  education  and  in  teaching  machines.  Think  of 
its  use  in  legal  investigations  and  criminal  trials." 

Orsino  said,  wide-eyed,  "Frankly,  the  social  implications  are 
staggering.  I  don't  know  if  something  like  this  should  be  allowed." 

"Under  proper  legal  safeguards,  why  not?"  said  Renshaw,  indif- 
ferently. "Anyway — if  you  two  join  me  now,  our  combined  weight 
can  carry  this  thing  and  push  it  over.  And  if  you  come  along  with 
me  it  will  be  Nobel  Prize  time  for — " 


THINK!  47 

Berkowitz  said  grimly,  "I'm  not  in  this.  Not  yet." 

"What?  What  do  you  mean?"  Renshaw  sounded  outraged,  her 
coldly  beautiful  face  flushing  suddenly. 

"Telepathy  is  too  touchy.  It's  too  fascinating,  too  desired.  We 
could  be  fooling  ourselves." 

"Listen  for  yourself,  Jim." 

"I  could  be  fooling  myself,  too.  I  want  a  control." 

"What  do  you  mean,  a  control." 

"Short-circuit  the  origin  of  thought.  Leave  out  the  animal.  No 
marmoset.  No  human  being.  Let  Orsino  listen  to  metal  and  glass 
and  laser  light  and  if  he  still  hears  thought,  then  we're  kidding 
ourselves." 

"Suppose  he  detects  nothing." 

"Then  I'll  listen  and  if  without  looking — if  you  can  arrange  to 
have  me  in  the  next  room — I  can  tell  when  you  are  in  and  when 
you  are  out  of  circuit,  then  I'll  consider  joining  you  in  this  thing." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Renshaw,  "we'll  try  a  control.  I've  never 
done  it,  but  it  isn't  hard."  She  maneuvered  the  leads  that  had 
been  over  her  head  and  put  them  into  contact  with  each  other. 
"Now,  Adam,  if  you  will  resume — " 

But  before  she  could  go  further,  there  came  a  cold,  clear  sound, 
as  pure  and  as  clean  as  the  tinkle  of  breaking  icicles: 

''At  lastr 

Renshaw  said,  "What?" 

Orsino  said,  "Who  said — " 

Berkowitz  said,  "Did  someone  say,  'At  last!'?" 

Renshaw,  pale,  said,  "It  wasn't  sound.  It  was  in  my —  Did  you 
two—" 

The  clear  sound  came  again,  '7'm  Mi — " 

And  Renshaw  tore  the  leads  apart  and  there  was  silence.  She 
said,  with  a  voiceless  motion  of  her  lips,  *'I  think  it's  my 
computer — Mike." 

"You  mean  he's  thinking?"  said  Orsini,  nearly  as  voiceless. 

Renshaw  said  in  an  unrecognizable  voice  that  at  least  had  re- 
gained sound,  "I  said  it  was  complex  enough  to  have  something — 
Do  you  suppose —  It  always  turned  automatically  to  the  abstract- 
thought  'gram  of  whatever  brain  was  in  its  circuit.  Do  you  suppose 
that  with  no  brain  in  the  circuit,  it  turned  to  its  own?" 

There  was  silence,  then  Berkowitz  said,  "Are  you  trying  to  say 
that  this  computer  thinks,  but  can't  express  its  thoughts  as  long 


48  THINK! 

as  it's  under  force  of  programming,  but  that  given  the  chance  in 
your  LEG  system — " 

"But  that  can't  be  so,"  said  Orsino,  high-pitched.  "No  one  was 
receiving.  It's  not  the  same  thing." 

Renshaw  said,  "The  computer  works  on  much  greater  power- 
intensities  than  brains  do.  I  suppose  it  can  magnify  itself  to  the 
point  where  we  can  detect  it  directly  without  artificial  aid.  How 
else  can  you  explain — " 

Berkowitz  said  abruptly,  "You  have  another  application  of  la- 
sers, then.  It  enables  you  to  talk  to  computers  as  independent  in- 
telligences, person  to  person." 

And  Renshaw  said,  "Oh,  God  what  do  we  do  now?" 

— While  unheard  and  unsensed,  the  sound — brittle  icicles 
breaking — coalesced  into,  ''Well,  at. least  ifs  a  beginning." 

Although  this  story  appears  here  for  the  first  time  in  any  commercial  publi- 
cation, it  was  originally  commissioned  by  coherent  radiation,  a  firm  en- 
gaged in  research  in  and  the  production  of  lasers,  and  who  are  using  the 
story  in  their  advertising  program. 


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QUARANTINE 

by  Arthur  C.  Clarke 


#aKI 


Mr.  Clarke  notes:  ""To  my  considerable 

astonishment,  I  find  that  it  is  more  than  five 

years  since  I  last  wrote  a  short  story  (in  case 

you're  dying  to  know,  it  was  A  Meeting  with 

Medusaj.  This  was  composed  for  one  specific 

purpose — to  complete  the  long  overdue  volume 

The  Wind  from  the  Sun,-  and  having  done 

this,  I  have  had  no  incentive  to  produce  any 

more  short  fiction.  Or,  for  that  matter,  short 

non-fiction;  only  yesterday  I  gently  informed 

the  Editor  of  the  U.S.S.R.'s  Writers'  Union's 

magazine,  'Questions  of  Literature'  that,  from 

now  on,  I  am  writing  novels — or  nothing  at 

all.  (And  I  have  already  achieved  a  whole  year 

of  blissful  nothingness,  hurrah  J 

''Yet  from  time  to  time  lightning  may  strike. 
This  occurred  exactly  a  year  ago  as  a  result  of 
a  suggestion  from  George  Hay,  editor  and 
man-about-British-SF .  George  had  the 
ingenious  idea  of  putting  out  a  complete 
science  fiction  short  story  on  a 
postcard — together  with  a  stamp- sized  photo  of 
the  author.  Fans  would,  he  believed,  buy  these 
in  hundreds  to  mail  out  to  their  friends. 

"Never  one  to  resist  a  challenge,  the  Good 

Doctor  Asimov  had  written  the  first  cardboard 

epic.  When  I  saw  this,  I  had  to  get  into  the  act 

as  well  ('Anything  that  Isaac  can  do, 

etc ').  Let  me  tell  you — it  is  damned  hard 

work  writing  a  complete  SF  story  in  180 

words.  I  sent  the  result  to  George  Hay,  and 

that's  the  last  I  ever  heard  of  it.  Probably  the 

rising  cost  of  postage  killed  the  scheme. 

"Anyway,  it  seems  appropriate  that  a 
49 


50  QUARANTINE 

magazine  bearing  the  Good  Doctor's  Sacred 

Name  should  contain  a  story,  however 

minuscule,  inspired  by  him.  (He  is  likewise  to 

blame  for  'Neutron  Tide';  I  can  make  worse 

puns  than  Isaac.)  It  is  also  perfectly 

possible — I  make  no  promises — that 

'Quarantine'  is  the  last  short  story  I  shall 

ever  write.  For  at  my  present  average  of  40 

words  a  year,  even  by  2001  ..." 

Earth's  flaming  debris  still  filled  half  the  sky  when  the  ques- 
tion filtered  up  to  Central  from  the  Curiosity  Generator. 

"Why  was  it  necessary?  Even  though  they  were  organic,  they 
had  reached  Third  Order  Intelligence." 

"We  had  no  choice:  five  earlier  units  became  hopelessly  in- 
fected, when  they  made  contact." 

"Infected?  How?" 

The  microseconds  dragged  slowly  by,  while  Central  tracked 
down  the  few  fading  memories  that  had  leaked  past  the  Censor 
Gate,  when  the  heavily-buffered  Reconnaissance  Circuits  had 
been  ordered  to  self-destruct. 

"They  encountered  di— problem — that  could  not  be  fully  ana- 
lyzed within  the  lifetime  of  the  Universe.  Though  it  involved  only 
six  operators,  they  became  totally  obsessed  by  it." 

"How  is  that  possible?" 

"We  do  not  know:  we  must  never  know.  But  if  those  six  opera- 
tors are  ever  re-discovered,  all  rational  computing  will  end." 

"How  can  they  be  recognized?" 

"That  also  we  do  not  know:  only  the  names  leaked  through  be- 
fore the  Censor  Gate  closed.  Of  course,  they  mean  nothing." 

"Nevertheless,  I  must  have  them." 

The  Censor  voltage  started  to  rise;  but  it  did  not  trigger  the 
Gate. 

"Here  they  are:  King,  Queen,  Bishop,  Knight,  Rook,  Pawn." 


THE  HOMESICK  CHICKEN 

by  Edward  D.  Hoch 

Over  the  past  twenty  years,  Mr.  Hoch  has 

written  and  sold  over  400  short  stories  and  10 

books,  mainly  in  the  mystery  field.  He  appears 

regularly  in  the  pages  of  Ellery  Queen's 

Mystery  Magazine  and  Alfred  Hitchcock's 

Mystery  Magazine;  it's  a  pleasure 

to  welcome  him  to  ours. 

Why  did  the  chicken  cross  the  road? 

To  get  on  the  other  side,  you'd  probably  answer,  echoing  an  old 
riddle  that  was  popular  in  the  early  years  of  the  last  century. 
But  my  name  is  Barnabus  Rex,  and  I  have  a  different  answer. 

I'd  been  summoned  to  the  Tangaway  Research  Farms  by  the  di- 
rector, an  egg-headed  old  man  named  Professor  Mintor.  After 
parking  my  car  in  the  guarded  lot  and  passing  through  the 
fence — it  was  an  EavesStop,  expensive,  but  sure  protection 
against  all  kinds  of  electronic  bugging — I  was  shown  into  the  pre- 
sence of  the  director  himself.  His  problem  was  simple.  The  solu- 
tion was  more  difficult. 

"One  of  the  research  chickens  pecked  its  way  right  through  the 
security  fence,  then  crossed  an  eight-lane  belt  highway  to  the 
other  side.  We  want  to  know  why." 

"Chickens  are  a  bit  out  of  my  line,"  I  replied. 

"But  your  specialty  is  the  solution  of  scientific  riddles,  Mr.  Rex, 
and  this  certainly  is  one."  He  led  me  out  of  the  main  research 
building  to  a  penned-in  area  where  the  test  animals  were  kept. 
We  passed  a  reinforced  electric  cage  in  which  he  pointed  out  the 
mutated  turkeys  being  bred  for  life  in  the  domes  of  the  colonies  of 
the  moon.  Further  along  were  some  leggy-looking  fowl  destined 
for  Mars.  "They're  particularly  well  adapted  to  the  Martian  ter- 
rain and  environment,"  Professor  Mintor  explained.  "We've  had  to 
do  very  little  development  work;  we  started  from  desert  road- 
runners." 

"What  about  the  chickens?" 

"The  chickens  are  something  else  again.  The  strain,  called 
ZIP-1000,  is  being  developed  for  breeding  purposes  on  Zipoid,  the 

51 


52  THE     HOMESICK     CHICKEN 

second  planet  of  Barnard's  star.  We  gave  them  extra-strength 
beaks — something  like  a  parrot's — to  crack  the  extra-tough  seed 
hulls  used  for  feed.  The  seed  hulls  in  turn  were  developed  to 
withstand  the  native  fauna  like  the  space-lynx  and  the  ostroid,  so 
that—" 

"Aren't  we  getting  a  little  off  course?"  I  asked. 

"Ah — ^yes.  The  problem.  What  is  a  problem  is  the  chicken  that 
crossed  the  road.  It  used  its  extra-strength  beak  to  peck  its  way 
right  through  this  security  fence.  But  the  puzzling  aspect  is  its 
motivation.  It  crossed  that  belt  highway — a  dangerous  undertak- 
ing even  for  a  human — and  headed  for  the  field  as  if  it  were  going 
home.  And  yet  the  chicken  was  hatched  right  here  within  these 
walls.  How  could  it  be  homesick  for  something  it  had  never 
known?" 

"How  indeed?"  I  stared  bleakly  through  the  fence  at  the  high- 
way and  the  deserted  field  opposite.  What  was  there  to  attract  a 
chicken — even  one  of  Professor  Mintor's  super-chickens — to  that 
barren  bit  of  land?  "I  should  have  a  look  at  it,"  I  decided.  "Can 
you  show  me  the  spot  where  the  chicken  crossed  the  highway?" 

He  led  me  around  a  large  pen  to  a  spot  in  the  fence  where  a 
steel  plate  temporarily  blocked  a  jagged  hole.  I  knelt  to  examine 
the  shards  of  complex,  multi-conductor  mesh,  once  more  impres- 
sed by  the  security  precautions.  "I'd  hate  to  meet  your  hybrid 
chickens  on  a  dark  night.  Professor." 

"They  would  never  attack  a  human  being,  or  even  another  crea- 
ture," Mintor  quickly  assured  me.  "The  beak  is  used  only  for 
cracking  seed  hulls,  and  perhaps  in  self-defense." 

"Was  it  self-defense  against  the  fence?" 

He  held  up  his  hands.  "I  can't  explain  it." 

I  moved  the  steel  plate  and  stooped  to  go  through  the  hole.  In 
that  moment  I  had  a  chicken's-eye  view  of  the  belt  highway  and 
the  barren  field  beyond,  but  they  offered  no  clues.  "Be  careful 
crossing  over,"  Mintor  warned.  "Don't  get  your  foot  caught!" 

Crossing  a  belt  highway  on  foot — a  strictly  illegal  practice — 
could  be  dangerous  to  humans  and  animals  alike.  With  eight 
lanes  to  traverse  it  meant  hopping  over  eight  separate  electric 
power  guides — any  one  of  which  could  take  off  a  foot  if  you  mis- 
stepped.  To  imagine  a  chicken  with  the  skill  to  accomplish  it  was 
almost  more  than  I  could  swallow.  But  then  I'd  never  before  been 
exposed  to  Professor  Mintor's  super-chickens. 


THE     HOMESICK     CHICKEN  53 

The  empty  lot  on  the  other  side  of  the  belt  highway  held  no- 
thing of  interest  to  human  or  chicken,  so  far  as  I  could  see.  It  was 
barren  of  grass  or  weeds,  and  seemed  nothing  more  than  a  patch 
of  dusty  earth  dotted  with  a  few  pebbles.  In  a  few  sun-baked  de- 
pressions I  found  the  tread  of  auto  tires,  hinting  that  the  vacant 
lot  was  sometimes  used  for  parking. 

I  crossed  back  over  the  belt  highway  and  reentered  the  Tanga- 
way  compound  through  the  hole  in  the  fence.  "Did  you  find  any- 
thing?" Mintor  asked. 

"Not  much.  Exactly  what  was  the  chicken  doing  when  it  was 
recovered?" 

"Nothing.  Pecking  at  the  ground  as  if  it  were  back  home." 

"Could  I  see  it?  I  gather  it's  no  longer  kept  outside." 

"After  the  escape  we  moved  them  all  to  the  interior  pens.  There 
was  some  talk  of  notifying  Washington  since  we're  under  gov- 
ernment contract,  but  I  suggested  we  call  you  in  first.  You  know 
how  the  government  is  about  possible  security  leaks." 

"Is  Tangaway  the  only  research  farm  doing  this  sort  of  thing?" 

"Oh,  no!  We  have  a  very  lively  competitor  named  Beaverbrook 
Farms.  That's  part  of  the. reason  for  all  this  security.  We  just 
managed  to  beat  them  out  on  the  ZIP-1000  contract." 

I  followed  him  into  a  windowless  room  lit  from  above  by  solar 
panes.  The  clucking  of  the  chickens  grew  louder  as  we  passed  into 
the  laboratory  proper.  Here  the  birds  were  kept  in  a  large  enclo- 
sure, constantly  monitored  by  overhead  TV.  "This  one,"  Mintor 
said,  leading  me  to  a  pen  that  held  but  a  single  chicken  with  its 
oddly  curved  beak.  It  looked  no  different  from  the  others. 

"Are  they  identified  in  any  way?  Laser  tattoo,  for  instance?" 

"Not  at  this  stage  of  development.  Naturally  when  we  ship 
them  out  for  space  use  they're  tattooed." 

"I  see."  I  gazed  down  at  the  chicken,  trying  to  read  something 
in  those  hooded  eyes.  "It  was  yesterday  that  it  crossed  the  high- 
way?" 
■    "Yes." 

"Did  it  rain  here  yesterday?" 

"No.  We  had  a  thunderstorm  two  days  ago,  but  it  passed  over 
quickly." 

"Who  first  noticed  the  chicken  crossing  the  road?" 

"Granley — one  of  our  gate  guards.  He  was  checking  security  in 
the  parking  lot  when  he  spotted  it,  about  halfway  across.  By  the 


54  THE     HOMESICK     CHICKEN 

time  he  called  me  and  we  got  over  there  it  was  all  the  way  to  the 
other  side." 

"How  did  you  get  it  back?" 

"We  had  to  tranquilize  it,  but  that  was  no  problem." 

"I  must  speak  to  this  guard,  Granley." 

"Follow  me." 

The  guard  was  lounging  near  the  gate.  I'd  noticed  him  when  I 
arrived  and  parked  my  car.  "This  is  Barnabus  Rex,  the  scientific 
investigator,"  Mintor  announced.  "He  has  some  questions  for 
you." 

"Sure,"  Granley  replied,  straightening  up.  "Ask  away." 

"Just  one  question,  really,"  I  said.  "Why  didn't  you  mention  the 
car  that  was  parked  across  the  highway  yesterday?" 

"What  car?" 

"A  parked  car  that  probably  pulled  away  as  soon  as  you  started 
after  the  chicken." 

His  eyes  widened.  "My  God,  you're  right!  I'd  forgotten  it  till 
now!  Some  kids;  it  was  painted  all  over  stripes,  like  they're  doing 
these  days.  But  how  did  you  know?" 

"Sun-baked  tire  tracks  in  the  depressions  where  water  would 
collect.  They  told  me  a  car  had  been  there  since  your  rain  two 
days  ago.  Your  employees  use  the  lot  here,  and  no  visitors  would 
park  over  there  when  they  had  to  cross  the  belt  highway  to  reach 
you." 

"But  what  does  it  mean?"  Professor  Mintor  demanded. 

"That  your  mystery  is  solved,"  I  said.  "Let  me  have  a  tran- 
quilizer gun  and  I'll  show  you." 

I  took  the  weapon  he  handed  me  and  led  the  way  back  through 
the  research  rooms  to  the  penned-up  chickens.  Without  hesitation 
I  walked  up  to  the  lone  bird  and  tranquilized  it  with  a  single 
shot. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  Mintor  asked. 

"To  answer  your  riddle." 

"All  right.  Why  did  the  chicken  cross  the  road?" 

"Because  somebody  wanted  to  play  back  the  contents  of  a  tape 
recorder  implanted  in  its  body.  For  some  time  now  you've  been 
spied  upon.  Professor  Mintor — I  imagine  by  your  competitor, 
Beaverbrook  Farms." 

"Spied  upon!  By  that — chicken?" 

"Exactly.  It  seemed  obvious  to  me  from  the  first  that  the 


THE     HOMESICK     CHICKEN  55 

fence-pecking  chicken  was  not  one  of  your  brood.  It  was  much  too 
strong  and  much  too  homesick.  But  if  it  wasn't  yours  it  must  have 
been  added  to  your  flock  surreptitiously,  and  that  could  only  have 
been  for  the  purposes  of  industrial  espionage.  Since  you  told  me 
Beaverbrook  was  doing  similar  work,  this  has  to  be  their  chicken. 
I  think  an  x-ray  will  show  a  micro-miniaturized  recorder  for  lis- 
tening in  on  your  secret  conversations." 

"Damnedest  thing  I  ever  heard,"  Professor  Mintor  muttered,  but 
he  issued  orders* to  have  the  sleeping  chicken  x-rayed. 

"It  was  a  simple  task  for  them  to  drop  the  intruding  chicken 
over  your  fence  at  night,  perhaps  lassoing  one  of  your  birds  and 
removing  it  so  the  count  would  be  right.  Those  fences  are  all  right 
for  detecting  any  sort  of  bugging  equipment,  but  they  aren't  very 
good  at  stopping  ordinary  intrusion — otherwise  that  wandering 
chicken  would  have  set  off  alarms  when  it  started  to  cut  a  hole 
there.  Beaverbrook  has  been  recording  your  conversations,  proba- 
bly trying  to  stay  one  jump  ahead  on  the  next  government  con- 
tract. They  couldn't  use  a  transmitter  in  the  chicken  because  of 
your  electronic  fence,  so  they  had  to  recover  the  bird  itself  to  read 
out  the  recording.  At  the  right  time,  the  chicken  pecked  its  way 
through  the  fence  and  started  across  the  highway,  but  when  the 
guard  spotted  it  the  waiting  driver  panicked  and  took  off.  The 
chicken  was  left  acropss  the  road  without  any  way  to  escape." 

"But  how  did  the  chicken  know  when  to  escape?"  asked  Mintor. 
"Could  they  have  some  kind  of  electronic  homing  device  .  .  .  ?" 

I  smiled,  letting  the  Professor's  puzzlement  stretch  out  for  a 
moment.  "That  was  the  easiest  part,"  I  said  at  last.  "Imprinting." 

"But .  .  ." 

"Exactly.  The  highly  distinctive  stripes  on  the  car.  The  Beaver- 
brook people  evidently  trained  the  chicken  from — ah — hatching  to 
associate  that  pattern  with  home  and  food  and  so  on." 

A  technician  trotted  up  to  the  professor,  waving  a  photographic 
negative.  "The  x-rays — there  was  something  inside  that  chicken!" 

"Well,  Mr.  Rex,  you  were  right,"  the  professor  conceded. 

"Of  course,  in  a  sense  the  chicken  did  cross  the  road  to  get  to 
the  other  side,"  I  admitted.  "They  always  do." 

"Have  you  solved  many  cases  like  this  one?" 

I  merely  smiled.  "Every  case  is  different,  but  they're  always  a 
challenge.  I'll  send  you  my  bill  in  the  morning — and  if  you  ever 
need  me  again,  just  call." 


PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM 

by  Sally  A.  Sellers 

This  story,  Sally  Sellers' s  first  sale,  is  the  result 

of  a  writing  workshop  at  the  University  of 

Michigan,  headed  by  Lloyd  Biggie,  Jr.  The 

author  tells  us  'that  she  wrote  for  as  long  as  she 

can  remember,  but  wrote  only  for  creative 

writing  courses  while  in  college.  Since 

graduation,  she  worked  as  a  waitress,  traveled 

in  Europe,  and  worked  as  a  medical 

technician  in  hematology.  She  now  lives  with 

her  family,  two  cats,  and  about  a  hundred 

plants,  and  is  a  research  assistant 

at  the  University  of  Michigan. 

From  the  playground  came  the  sound  of  laughter. 

A  gusty  night  wind  was  sweeping  the  park,  and  the  light  at  the 
edge  of  the  picnic  grounds  swung  crazily.  Distorted  shadows  came 
and  went,  rushing  past  as  the  wind  pushed  the  light  to  the  end  of 
its  arc,  then  sliding  back  jerkily. 

Again  the  laughter  rang  out,  and  this  time  Norb  identified  the 
creaking  sound  that  accompanied  it.  Someone  was  using  the 
swing.  Nervously  he  peered  around  the  swaying  branches  of  the 
bush,  but  he  saw  no  one. 

He  heard  a  click.  Danny  had  drawn  his  knife.  Hastily  Norb 
fumbled  for  his  own.  The  slender  weapon  felt  awkward  in  his 
hand,  even  after  all  the  hours  of  practice. 

"It'll  be  easy,"  Danny  had  said.  "There's  always  some  jerk  in 
the  park  after  dark — they  never  learn."  Norb  shivered  and  grip- 
ped the  knife  more  tightly. 

Then  he  saw  them — a  young  couple  walking  hand  in  hand 
among  the  trees.  Danny  chuckled  softly,  and  Norb  relaxed 
somewhat.  Danny  was  right — this  would  be  a  cinch. 

"You  take  the  girl,"  Danny  whispered. 

Norb  nodded.  All  they  had  to  do  was  wait — the  couple  was 
headed  right  toward  them.  They  were  high  school  kids,  no  more 
than  fifteen  or  sixteen,  walking  slowly  with  their  heads  together, 
whispering  and  giggling.  Norb  swallowed  and  tensed  himself 

56 


PERCHANCE     TO      DREAM  57 

"Now!"  Danny  hissed. 

They  were  upon  them  before  the  kids  had  time  to  react.  Danny 
jerked  the  boy  backward  and  threw  him  to  the  ground.  Norb 
grabbed  the  back  of  the  girl's  collar  and  held  his  knife  at  her 
throat. 

"Okay,  just  do  what  we  say  and  nobody  gets  hurt,"  snarled 
Danny.  He  pointed  his  knife  at  the  boy's  face.  "You  got  a  wallet, 
kid?" 

The  boy  stared  in  mute  terror  at  the  knife.  The  girl  made  small 
whimpering  sounds  in  her  throat,  and  Norb  tightened  his  hold  on 
her  collar. 

"Come  on,  come  on!  Your  wallet!" 

From  somewhere  in  the  shadows,  a  woman's  voice  rang  out. 
"Leave  them  alone!" 

Norb  whirled  as  a  dark  form  charged  into  Danny  and  sent  him 
sprawling.  Oh  God,  he  thought,  we've  been  caught!  As  the  boy 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  started  to  run,  Norb  made  a  futile  swipe  at 
him  with  his  knife.  His  grip  on  the  girl  must  have  relaxed,  be- 
cause she  jerked  free  and  followed  the  boy  into  the  woods. 

Norb  looked  from  the  retreating  kids  to  the  two  wrestling  fig- 
ures, his  hands  clenched  in  indecision.  The  dark  form  had  Danny 
pinned  to  the  ground.  He  was  squirming  desperately,  but  he 
couldn't  free  himself  "Get  her  off  me!"  he  cried. 

"Jesus!"  Norb  whispered  helplessly.  The  kids  had  begun  to 
scream  for  help.  They'd  rouse  the  whole  neighborhood. 

"Norb!"  screamed  Danny. 

It  was  a  command,  and  Norb  hurled  himself  onto  the  woman. 
Twice  he  stabbed  wildly  at  her  back,  but  she  only  grunted  and 
held  on  more  tightly.  He  struck  out  again,  and  this  time  his  knife 
sank  deeply  into  soft  flesh.  Spurting  blood  soaked  his  hand  and 
sleeve,  and  he  snatched  them  away  in  horror. 

Danny  rolled  free.  He  got  to  his  feet,  and  the  two  of  them  stood 
looking  down  at  the  woman.  The  knife  was  buried  in  the  side  of 
her  throat. 

"Oh  my  God,"  whimpered  Norb. 

"You  ass!"  cried  Danny.  "Why  didn't  you  just  pull  her  off?  You 
killed  her!" 

Norb  stood  paralyzed,  staring  down  at  the  knife  and  the  pulsing 
wound.  Fear  thickened  in  his  throat,  and  he  felt  his  stomach  con- 
strict. He  was  going  to  be  sick. 


58  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

"You  better  run  like  hell.  You're  in  for  it  now." 

Danny  was  gone.  Norb  wrenched  his  gaze  from  the  body.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  playground,  the  kids  were  still  calling  for  help. 
He  saw  car  lights  up  by  the  gate,  swinging  into  the  park  drive. 

Norb  began  to  run. 

O  •  O 

The  gush  of  blood  from  the  wound  slowed  abruptly  and  then 
stopped.  The  chest  heaved  several  times  with  great  intakes  of  air. 
Then  it  collapsed,  and  a  spasm  shook  the  body.  In  the  smooth  mo- 
tion of  a  slowly  tightening  circle,  it  curled  in  on  itself  The  heart 
gave  three  great  beats,  hesitated,  pumped  once  more,  and  was  still. 
O  •  O 

Norb  caught  up  with  Danny  at  the  edge  of  the  woods.  They 
stopped,  panting,  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  car.  It  had 
come  to  a  stop  by  the  tennis  courts,  and,  as  they  watched,  the 
driver  cut  his  motor  and  turned  off  his  lights. 

"This  way,"  whispered  Danny.  "Cbme  on." 

As  they  headed  across  the  road  for  the  gate,  the  car's  motor 
suddenly  started.  Its  lights  came  on,  and  it  roared  into  a  U-turn 
to  race  after  them. 

"It's  the  cops!"  Danny  yelled.  "Split  up!" 

Norb  was  too  frightened.  Desperately  he  followed  Danny,  and 
the  pair  of  them  fled  through  the  gate  and  turned  along  the  street 
as  the  patrol  car  swung  around  the  curve.  Then  Danny  veered  off, 
and  Norb  followed  him  through  bushes  and  into  a  back  yard.  A 
dog  began  yelping  somewhere.  Danny  scaled  a  fence  and  dropped 
into  the  adjoining  back  yard,  and  Norb  followed,  landing  roughly 
and  falling  to  his  knees. 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  collided  with  Danny,  who  was 
laughing  softly  as  he  watched  the  patrol  car.  It  had  turned  around 
and  was  headed  back  into  the  park. 

O  •  O 

The  heart  had  not  stopped.  It  was  pumping — but  only  once  every 
six  minutes,  with  a  great  throb.  At  each  pulse,  a  pinprick  of  light 
danced  across  the  back  of  the  eyelids.  The  wound  attempted  to 
close  itself  and  tightened  futilely  around  the  intrusion  of  steel.  A 
neck  muscle  twitched.  Then  another,  but  the  knife  remained.  The 
tissue  around  the  blade  began  contracting  minutely,  forcing  it  out- 
ward in  imperceptible  jerks. 

O  •  O 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  59 

Officer  Lucas  parked  near  the  playground  and  started  into  the 
trees.  He  could  not  have  said  what  he  was  looking  for,  but 
neighbors  had  reported  hearing  cries  for  help,  and  the  way  those 
two  punks  had  run  told  him  they'd  been  up  to  something.  He 
switched  on  his  flashlight,  delineating  an  overturned  litter  basket 
that  had  spewed  paper  across  the  path.  The  gusting  wind  tore  at 
it,  prying  loose  one  fluttering  fragment  at  a  time.  Cautiously  he 
walked  forward.  Gray -brown  tree  trunks  moved  in  and  out  of  the 
illumination  as  he  crept  on,  but  he  could  see  nothing  else. 

He  stumbled  over  an  empty  beer  bottle,  kicked  it  aside,  and 
then  stopped  uncertainly,  pivoting  with  his  light.  It  revealed 
nothing  but  empty  picnic  tables  and  cold  barbecue  grills,  and  he 
was  about  to  turn  back  when  his  beam  picked  out  the  body,  curled 
motionless  near  a  clump  of  bushes.  Lucas  ran  forward  and  knelt 
beside  the  woman,  shining  his  light  on  her  face. 

The  throat  wound  seemed  to  have  stopped  bleeding,  but  if  the 
knife  had  sliced  the  jugular  vein — he  leaned  closer  to  examine  the 
laceration.  Belatedly  a  thought  occured  to  him,  and  he  reached  for 
the  wrist.  There  was  no  pulse.  He  shone  his  light  on  the  chest, 
but  it  was  motionless. 

Lucas  got  to  his  feet  and  inspected  the  area  hastily.  Seeing  no 
obvious  clues,  he  hurried  back  to  the  patrol  car. 
O  •  O 

The  heart  throbbed  again,  and  another  pinprick  of  light  jumped 
behind  the  woman's  eyelids.  The  tissues  in  the  neck  tightened  fur- 
ther as  new  cells  developed,  amassed,  and  forced  the  blade  a  fraction 
of  an  inch  outward.  The  wounds  in  the  back,  shallow  and  clean, 
had  already  closed.  The  lungs  expanded  once  with  a  great  intake  of 
air.  The  knife  jerked  again,  tilted  precariously,  and  finally  fell  to 
the  ground  under  its  own  weight.  Immediately  new  tissue  raced  to 
fill  the  open  area. 

O  •  O 

The  radio  was  squawking.  Lucas  waited  for  the  exchange  to  end 
before  picking  up  the  mike.  "Baker  23." 

"Go  ahead,  Baker  23." 

"I'm  at  Newberry  Park,  east  end,  I've  got  a  409  and  request 
M.E." 

"Confirmed,  23." 

"Notify  the  detective  on  call." 

"Clear,  23." 


60  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

"Ten-four."  He  hung  up  the  mike  and  glanced  back  into  the 
woods.  Probably  an  attempted  rape,  he  thought.  She  shouldn't 
have  fought.  The  lousy  punks!  Lucas  rubbed  his  forehead  fret- 
fully. He  should  have  chased  them,  dammit.  Why  hadn't  he? 
O  •  O 

The  heart  was  beating  every  three  minutes  now.  The  throat 
wound  had  closed,  forming  a  large  ridge  under  the  dried  blood. 
Cells  multiplied  at  fantastic  rates,  spanning  the  damaged  area 
with  a  minute  latticework.  This  filled  in  as  the  new  cells  divided, 
expanded,  and  divided  again. 

O  •  O 

Lucas  reached  for  his  clipboard  and  flipped  on  the  interior 
lights.  He  glanced  into  the  trees  once  before  he  began  filling  in 
his  report.  A  voice  crackled  on  the  radio,  calling  another  car.  His 
pen  scratched  haltingly  across  the  paper. 

O  •  O 

The  heart  was  returning  to  its  normal  pace.  The  ridge  on  the 
neck  was  gone,  leaving  smooth  skin.  A  jagged  pattern  of  light 
jerked  across  the  retinas.  The  fugue  was  coming  to  an  end.  The 
chest  rose,  fell,  then  rose  again.  A  shadow  of  awareness  nudged  at 
consciousness. 

O  •  O 

The  sound  of  the  radio  filled  the  night  again,  and  Lucas  turned 
uneasily,  searching  the  road  behind  him  for  approaching  head- 
lights. There  were  none.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  report. 

O  •  O 

She  became  aware  of  the  familiar  prickling  sensation  in  her 
limbs,  plus  a  strange  burning  about  her  throat.  She  felt  herself  ris- 
ing, rising — and  suddenly  awareness  flooded  her.  Her  body  jerked, 
uncurled.  Jeanette  opened  her  eyes.  Breathing  deeply,  she 
blinked  until  the  dark  thick  line  looming  over  her  resolved  itself 
into  a  tree  trunk.  Unconsciously  her  hand  began  to  rub  her  neck, 
and  she  felt  dry  flakes  come  off  on  her  fingers. 

Wearily  she  closed  her  eyes  again,  trying  to  remember:  Those 
kids.  One  had  a  knife.  She  was  in  the  park.  Then  she  heard  the 
faint  crackle  of  a  police  radio.  She  rolled  to  her  knees,  and  dizzi- 
ness swept  over  her.  She  could  see  a  light  through  the  trees.  Good 
God,  sbf^  thought,  he's  right  over  there! 

Jeanette  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her.  She  was 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  61 

lightheaded,  but  there  was  no  time  to  waste.  Soon  there  would  be 
other  police — and  doctors.  She  knew.  Moving  unsteadily,  at  a 
crouch,  she  slipped  away  into  the  woods. 

O  •  O 

Four  patrol  cars  were  there  when  the  ambulance  arrived. 
Stuart  Crosby,  the  medical  examiner,  climbed  out  slowly  and  sur- 
veyed the  scene.  He  could  see  half  a  dozen  flashlights  in  the 
woods.  The  photographer  sat  in  the  open  door  of  one  of  the  cars, 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Where's  the  body?"  asked  Crosby. 

The  photographer  tossed  his  cigarette  away  disgustedly.  "They 
can't  find  it." 

"Can't  find  it?  What  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  not  out  there.  Lucas  says  it  was  in  the  woods,  but  when 
Kelaney  got  here,  it  was  gone." 

Puzzled,  Crosby  turned  toward  the  flashlights.  As  another  gust 
of  wind  swept  the  park,  he  pulled  his  light  coat  more  closely 
about  him  and  started  forward  resignedly — a  tired  white-haired 
man  who  should  have  been  home  in  bed. 

He  could  hear  Detective  Kelaney  roaring  long  before  he  could 
see  him.  "You  half-ass!  What'd  it  do,  walk  away?" 

"No,  sir!"  answered  Lucas  hotly.  "She  was  definitely  dead.  She 
was  lying  right  there,  I  swear  it — and  that  knife  was  in  her 
throat,  I  recognize  the  handle." 

"Yeah?  For  a  throat  wound,  there's  not  much  blood  on  it." 

"Maybe,"  said  Lucas  stubbornly,  "but  that's  where  it  was,  all 
right." 

Crosby  halted.  He  had  a  moment  of  disorientation  as  uneasy 
memories  stirred  in  the  back  of  his  mind.  A  serious  wound,  but 
not  much  blood  ...  a  dead  body  that  disappeared  .  .   . 

"Obviously  she  wasn't  dragged,"  said  Kelany.  "Did  you  by 
chance.  Officer  Lucas,  think  to  check  the  pulse?  Or  were  you  think- 
ing at  all?" 

"Yes,  sir!  Yes,  I  did!  I  checked  the  pulse,  and  there  was  nothing! 
Zero  respiration,  too.  Yes,  sir,  I  did!" 

"Then  where  is  she?"  screamed  Kelaney. 

Another  officer  approached  timidly.  "There's  nothing  out  there, 
sir.  Nothing  at  all." 

"Well,  look  again,"  snarled  Kelaney. 

Crosby  moved  into  the  circle  of  men.  The  detective  was  running 


62  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

his  hand  through  his  hair  in  exasperation.  Lucas  was  red-faced 
and  defiant. 

Kelaney  reached  for  his  notebook.  "All  right,  what  did  she  look 
like?" 

Lucas  straightened,  eager  with  facts.  "Twenty,  twenty-two, 
Caucasian,  dark  hair,  about  five-six,  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pounds.   .   ." 

"Scars  or  distinguishing  marks?" 

"Yeah,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  There  were  three  moles  on  her 
cheek — on  her  left  cheek — all  right  together,  right  about  here." 
He  put  his  finger  high  on  his  cheekbone,  near  his  eye. 

Crosby  felt  the  blood  roar  in  his  ears.  He  stepped  forward. 
"What  did  you  say,  Lucas?"  he  asked  hoarsely. 

Lucas  turned  to  the  old  man.  "Three  moles,  doctor,  close  to- 
gether, on  her  cheek." 

Crosby  turned  away,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  took  a  deep 
breath.  He'd  always  known  she'd  return  some  day,  and  here  was 
the  same  scene,  the  same  bewildered  faces,  the  same  accusations. 
Three  moles  on  her  cheek  ...  it  had  to  be. 

The  wind  ruffled  his  hair,  but  he  no  longer  noticed  its  chill. 
They  would  find  no  body.  Jeanette  was  back. 
O  •  O 

The  next  morning,  Crosby  filed  a  Missing  Persons  Report. 
"Send  out  an  apb,"  he  told  the  sergeant.  "We've  got  to  find  her." 

The  sergeant  looked  mildly  surprised.  "What's  she  done?" 

"She's  a  potential  suicide.  More  than  potential.  I  know  this 
woman,  and  she's  going  to  try  to  kill  herself." 

The  sergeant  reached  for  the  form.  "Okay,  Doc,  if  you  think  it's 
that  important.  What's  her  name?" 

Crosby  hesitated.  "She's  probably  using  an  alias.  But  I  can  give 
a  description — an  exact  description." 

"Okay,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Shoot." 

The  bulletin  went  out  at  noon.  Crosby  spent  the  remainder  of 
the  day  visiting  motels,  but  no  one  remembered  checking  in  a 
young  woman  with  three  moles  on  her  cheek. 

O  •  O  J 

Jeanette  saw  the  lights  approaching  in  the  distance:  two  white 
eyes  and,  above  them,  the  yellow  and  red  points  along  the  roof 
that  told  her  this  was  a  truck.  She  leaned  back  against  the  con- 
crete support  of  the  bridge,  hands  clenched  behind  her,  and  waited. 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  63 

It  had  been  three  nights  since  the  incident  in  the  park.  Her 
shoulders  sagged  dejectedly  at  the  thought  of  it.  Opportunities 
like  that  were  everywhere,  but  she  knew  that  knives  weren't 
going  to  do  it.  She'd  tried  that  herself— was  it  in  Cleveland?  A 
painful  memory  flashed  for  a  moment,  of  one  more  failure  in  the 
long  series  of  futile  attempts — heartbreaking  struggles  in  the 
wrong  cities.  But  here — 

She  peered  around  the  pillar  again.  The  eyes  of  the  truck  were 
closer  now.  Here,  it  could  happen.  Where  it  began,  it  could  end. 
She  inched  closer  to  the  edge  of  the  support  and  crouched,  alert  to 
the  sound  of  the  oncoming  truck. 

It  had  rounded  the  curve  and  was  thundering  down  the  long 
straightaway  before  the  bridge.  Joy  surged  within  her  as  she 
grasped  its  immensity  and  momentum.  Surely  this  .  .  .  !  Never 
had  she  tried  it  with  something  so  large,  with  something  beyond 
her  control.  Yes,  surely  this  would  be  the  time! 

Suddenly  the  white  eyes  were  there,  racing  under  the  bridge, 
the  diesels  throbbing,  roaring  down  at  her.  Her  head  reared  in 
elation.  Now! 

She  leaped  an  instant  too  late,  and  her  body  was  struck  by  the 
right  fender.  The  mammoth  impact  threw  her  a  hundred  feet  in 
an  arc  that  spanned  the  entrance  ramp,  the  guideposts,  and  a 
ditch,  terminating  brutally  in  the  field  beyond.  The  left  side  of  her 
skull  was  smashed,  her  arm  was  shattered,  and  four  ribs  were 
caved  in.  The  impact  of  the  landing  broke  her  neck. 

It  was  a  full  quarter  of  a  mile  before  the  white-faced  driver 
gained  sufficient  control  to  lumber  to  a  halt.  "Sweet  Jesus,"  he 
whispered.  Had  he  imagined  it?  He  climbed  out  of  the  rig  and 
examined  the  dented  fender.  Then  he  ran  back  to  the  cab  and 
tried  futilely  to  contact  someone  by  radio  who  could  telephone  the 
police.  It  was  3  am,  and  all  channels  seemed  dead.  Desperately  he 
began  backing  along  the  shoulder. 

O  •  O 

Rushes  of  energy  danced  through  the  tissues.  Cells  divided  furi- 
ously, bridging  gulfs.  Enzymes  flowed;  catalysts  swept  through 
protoplasm:  coupling,  breaking,  then  coupling  again.  Massive  re- 
construction raged  on.  The  collapsed  half  of  the  body  shifted  im- 
perceptibly. 

O  •  O 

The  truck  stopped  a  hundred  feet  from  the  bridge,  and  the 


64  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

driver  leaped  out.  He  clicked  on  his  flashlight  and  played  it  fran- 
tically over  the  triangle  of  thawing  soil  between  the  entrance 
ramp  and  the  expressway.  Nothing.  He  crossed  to  the  ditch  and 
began  walking  slowly  beside  it. 

O  •  O 

Bundles  of  collagen  interlaced;  in  the  matrix,  mineral  was  depos- 
ited; cartilage  calcified.  The  ribs  had  almost  knit  together  and 
were  curved  loosely  in  their  original  crescent.  Muscle  fibers  united 
and  contracted  in  taut  arches.  The  head  jerked,  then  jerked  again, 
as  it  was  forced  from  its  slackness  into  an  increasingly  firm  posi- 
tion. Flexor  spasms  twitched  the  limbs  as  impulses  flowed  through 
newly  formed  neurons.  The  heart  pulsed. 

O  •  O 

The  driver  stood  helplessly  on  the  shoulder  and  clicked  off  the  • 
flashlight.  It  was  3:30,  and  no  cars  were  in  sight.  He  couldn't  find  ; 
the  body.  He  had  finally  succeeded  in  radioing  for  help,  and  now 
all  he  could  do  was  wait.  He  stared  at  the  ditch  for  a  moment  be- 
fore moving  toward  the  truck.  There  had  been  a  woman,  he  was 
sure.  He'd  seen  her  for  just  an  instant  before  the  impact,  leaping 
forward  under  the  headlights.  He  shuddered  and  quickened  his 
pace  to  the  cab. 

O  •  O 

Under  the  caked  blood,  the  skin  was  smooth  and  softly  rounded. 
The  heart  was  pumping  her  awake:  Scratches  of  light  behind  the 
eyelids.  Half  of  her  body  prickling,  burning  ...  A  shuddering 
breath. 

O  •  O 

Forty -seven  minutes  after  the  impact,  Jeanette  opened  her  eyes 
Slowly  she  raised  her  head.  That  line  in  the  sky  .  .  .  the  bridge. 

She  had  failed  again.  Even  here.  She  opened  her  mouth  to 
moan,  but  only  a  rasping  sound  emerged. 

O  •  O 

Stuart  Crosby  swayed  as  the  ambulance  rounded  a  corner  and  \ 
sped  down  the  street.  He  pressed  his  knuckles  against  his  mouth  j 
and  screamed  silently  at  the  driver:  God,  hurry,  I  know  it's  her.        I 

He  had  slept  little  since  the  night  in  the  park.  He  had  moni-  \ 
tored  every  call,  and  he  knew  that  this  one — a  woman  in  dark 
clothes,  jumping  in  front  of  a  trucker's  rig — this  one  had  to  be 
Jeanette. 

It  was  her.  She  was  trying  again.  Oh,  God,  after  all  these  years, 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  65 

she  was  still  trying.  How  many  times,  in  how  many  cities,  had 
she  fought  to  die? 

They  were  on  the  bridge  now,  and  he  looked  down  on  the  fig- 
ures silhouetted  against  the  red  of  the  flares.  The  ambulance 
swung  into  the  entrance  ramp  with  a  final  whoop  and  pulled  up 
behind  a  patrol  car.  Crosby  had  the  door  open  and  his  foot  on  the 
ground  before  they  were  completely  stopped,  and  he  had  to  clutch 
at  the  door  to  keep  from  falling.  A  pain  flashed  across  his  back. 
He  regained  his  balance  and  ran  toward  a  deputy  who  was  play- 
ing a  flashlight  along  the  ditch. 

"Did  you  And  her?" 

The  deputy  turned  and  took  an  involuntary  step  away  from  the 
intense,  stooped  figure.  "No,  sir,  doctor.  Not  a  thing." 

Crosby's  voice  failed  him.  He  stood  looking  dejectedly  down  the 
expressway. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  deputy,  nodding  at  the  semi,  "I 
think  that  guy  had  a  few  too  many  little  white  pills.  Seeing 
shadows.  There's  nothing  along  here  but  a  dead  raccoon.  And 
he's  been  dead  since  yesterday." 

But  Crosby  was  already  moving  across  the  ditch  to  the  field  be- 
yond, where  deputies  swung  flashlights  in  large  arcs  and  a  Ger- 
man shepherd  was  snuffling  through  the  brittle  stubble. 

Somewhere  near  here,  Jeanette  might  be  lying  with  a  broken 
body.  It  was  possible,  he  thought.  The  damage  could  have  been 
great,  and  the  healing  slow.  Or — a  chill  thought  clutched  at  him. 
He  shook  his  head.  No.  She  wouldn't  have  succeeded.  She  would 
still  be  alive,  somewhere.  If  he  could  just  see  her,  talk  to  her! 

There  was  a  sharp,  small  bark  from  the  dog.  Crosby  hurried 
forward  frantically.  His  foot  slipped  and  he  came  down  hard, 
scraping  skin  from  his  palm.  The  pain  flashed  again  in  his  back. 
He  got  to  his  feet  and  ran  toward  the  circle  of  deputies. 

One  of  the  men  was  crouched,  examining  the  cold  soil.  Crosby 
ran  up,  panting,  and  saw  that  the  ground  was  stained  with  blood. 
She'd  been  here.  She'd  been  here! 

He  strained  to  see  across  the  field  and  finally  discerned,  on  the 
other  side,  a  road  running  parallel  to  the  expressway.  But  there 
were  no  cars  parked  on  it.  She  was  gone. 

O  •  O 

After  he  returned  home,  his  body  forced  him  to  sleep,  but  his 
dreams  allowed  him  no  rest.  He  kept  seeing  a  lovely  young  wom- 


66  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

an,  with  three  moles  on  her  cheek — a  weeping,  haunted,  frantic 
woman  who  cut  herself  again  and  again  and  thrust  the  mutilated 
arm  before  his  face  for  him  to  watch  in  amazement  as  the  wounds  ; 
closed,  bonded,  and  healed  to  smoothness  before  his  eyes.  In  min- 
utes. 

God,  if  she  would  only  stop  crying,  stop  pleading  with  him,  stop 
begging  him  to  find  a  way  to  make  her  die — to  use  his  medical 
knowledge  somehow,  in  some  manner  that  would  end  it  for  her. 
She  wanted  to  die.  She  hated  herself,  hated  the  body  that  impris- 
oned her. 

How  old  was  she  then?  How  many  years  had  that  youthful  body 
endured  without  change,  without  aging?  How  many  decades  had 
she  lived  before  life  exhausted  her  and  she  longed  for  the  tran-  | 
quillity  of  death? 

He  had  never  found  out.  He  refused  to  help  her  die,  and  she 
broke  away  and  fled  hysterically  into  the  night.  He  never  saw  her 
again.  There  followed  a  series  of  futile  suicide  attempts  and  night 
crimes  with  the  young  woman  victim  mysteriously  missing — and 
then  .   .  .  nothing. 

And  now  she  was  back.  Jeanette! 

He  found  himself  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  he  wearily  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  He  could  still  hear  the  sound  of  her  crying.  He 
had  always  heard  it,  in  a  small  corner  of  his  mind,  for  the  last 
thirty  years. 

O  •  O 

The  street  sign  letters  were  white  on  green:  HOMER.  Jeanette 
stood  for  a  long  while  staring  at  them  before  she  turned  to  walk 
slowly  along  the  crumbling  sidewalk.  A  vast  ache  filled  her  chest  i 
as  she  beheld  the  familiar  old  houses.  ■ 

The  small,  neat  lawns  had  been  replaced  by  weeds  and  litter,  j 
Bricks  were  missing  out  of  most  of  the  front  walks.  The  fence  was 
gone  at  the  Mahews'.  Jim  Mahew  had  been  so  proud  the  day  he 
brought  home  his  horseless  carriage,  and  she'd  been  the  only  one  ^ 
brave  enough  to  ride  in  it.  Her  mother  had  been  horrified. 

This  rambling  old  home  with  the  boarded  up  windows  was  the  ; 
Parkers'.  The  house  was  dead  now.  So  was  her  playmate,  Billy 
Parker — the  first  boy  she  knew  to  fight  overseas  and  the  first  one 
to  die.  The  little  house  across  the  street  had  been  white  when  old 
Emma  Walters  lived  there.  She  had  baked  sugar  cookies  for 
Jeanette,  and  Jeanette  had  given  her  a  May  basket  once,  full  of; 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  67 

violets.  She  must  have  died  a  long  time  ago.  Jeanette's  hand 
clenched.  A  very  long  time  ago. 

The  sound  of  her  steps  on  the  decayed  sidewalk  seemed  ex- 
traordinarily loud.  The  street  was  deserted.  There  was  no  move- 
ment save  that  of  her  own  dark  figure  plodding  steadily  forward. 
Here  was  Cathy  Carter's  house.  Her  father  had  owned  the  bug- 
gywhip  factory  over  in  Capville.  They'd  been  best  friends. 
Cathy,  who  always  got  her  dresses  dirty,  had  teeth  missing,  cut 
off  her  own  braids  one  day.  There  was  that  Sunday  they'd  gotten 
in  trouble  for  climbing  the  elm  tree — but  there  was  no  elm  now, 
only  an  ugly  stump  squatting  there  to  remind  her  of  a  Sunday 
that  was  gone,  lost,  wiped  out  forever.  She'd  heard  that  Cathy  had 
married  a  druggist  and  moved  out  East  somewhere.  Jeanette 
found  herself  wondering  desperately  if  Cathy  had  raised  any  chil- 
dren. Or  grandchildren.  Or  great-grandchildren.  Cathy  Carter,  did 
you  make  your  little  girls  wear  dresses  and  braids?  Did  you  let 
them  climb  trees?  Are  you  still  alive?  Or  are  you  gone,  too,  like 
everything  else  that  ever  meant  anything  to  me? 

Her  steps  faltered,  but  her  own  house  loomed  up  ahead  to  draw 
her  on.  It  stood  waiting,  silently  watching  her  approach.  It,  too, 
was  dead.  A  new  pain  filled  her  when  she  saw  the  crumbling 
porch,  saw  that  the  flowerboxes  were  gone,  saw  the  broken  win- 
dows and  the  peeling  wallpaper  within.  A  rusted  bicycle  wheel  lay 
in  the  weeds  that  were  the  front  yard,  along  with  a  box  of  rubble 
and  pile  of  boards.  Tiny  pieces  of  glass  crunched  sharply  beneath 
her  feet.  The  hedge  was  gone.  So  were  the  boxwood  shrubs,  the 
new  variety  from  Boston — her  mother  had  waited  for  them  for  so 
long  and  finally  got  them  after  the  war. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  Her  mother  had  never  known.  Had  died  be- 
fore she  realized  what  she  had  brought  into  the  world.  Before 
even  Jeanette  had  an  inkling  of  what  she  was. 

A  monster.  A  freak.  This  body  was  wrong,  horribly  wrong.  It 
should  not  be. 

She  had  run  away  from  this  town,  left  it  so  that  her  friends 
would  never  know.  But  still  it  pulled  at  her,  drawing  her  back 
every  generation,  pushing  itself  into  her  thoughts  until  she  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  Then  she  would  come  back  to  stare  at  the  old 
places  that  had  been  her  home  and  the  old  people  who  had  been 
her  friends.  And  they  didn't  recognize  her,  never  suspected,  never 
knew  why  she  seemed  so  strangely  familiar. 


68  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

Once  she  had  even  believed  she  could  live  here  again.  The 
memory  ached  within  her  and  she  quickened  her  pace.  She  could 
not  think  of  him,  could  not  allow  the  sound  of  his  name  in  her 
mind.  Where  was  he  now?  Had  he  ever  understood?  She  had  run 
away  that  time,  too. 

She'd  had  to.  He  was  so  good,  so  generous,  but  she  was  gro- 
tesque, a  vile  caprice  of  nature.  She  loathed  the  body. 

It  was  evil.  It  must  be  destroyed. 

Here,  in  the  city  where  it  was  created:  Where  she  was  born,  she 
would  die. 

Somehow. 

O  •  O 

The  phone  jangled  harshly,  shattering  the  silence  of  the  room 
with  such  intensity  that  h^  jumped  and  dropped  a  slide  on  the 
floor.  He  sighed  and  reached  for  the  receiver.  "Crosby." 

"Doctor,  this  is  Sergeant  Andersen.  One  of  our  units  spotted  a 
woman  fitting  the  description  of  your  apb  on  the  High  Street 
Bridge." 

"Did  they  get  her?"  demanded  Crosby. 

"I  dunno  yet.  They  just  radioed  in.  She  was  over  the  railing — 
looked  like  she  was  ready  to  jump.  They're  trying  to  get  to  her 
now.  Thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

"Right,"  said  Crosby,  slamming  down  the  receiver.  He  reached 
for  his  coat  as  his  mind  plotted  out  the  fastest  route  to  High 
Street.  Better  cut  down  Fourth,  he  thought,  and  up  Putnam.  The 
slide  crackled  sharply  under  his  heel  and  he  looked  at  it  in  brief 
suprise  before  running  out  the  door. 

They've  found  her,  he  thought  elatedly.  They've  got  Jeanette! 
Thank  God — I  must  talk  with  her,  must  convince  her  that  she's  a 
miracle.  She  has  the  secret  of  life.  The  whole  human  race  will  be 
indebted  to  her.  Please,  please,  he  prayed,  don't  let  her  get  away. 

He  reached  the  bridge  and  saw  the  squad  car  up  ahead.  Gawk- 
ers  were  driving  by  slowly,  staring  out  of  their  windows  in  mor- 
bid fascination.  Two  boys  on  bicycles  had  stopped  and  were  peer- 
ing over  the  railing.  An  officer  had  straddled  it  and  was  looking 
down. 

Crosby  leaped  from  the  car  and  ran  anxiously  to  the  railing. 
His  heart  lifted  as  he  saw  another  officer,  with  one  arm  around 
the  lower  railing  and  a  firm  grip  on  Jeanette's  wrist.  He  was 
coaxing  her  to  take  a  step  up. 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  69 

"Jeanette!"  It  was  a  ragged  cry. 

"Take  it  easy,  Doc,"  said  the  officer  straddling  the  railing. 
"She's  scared." 

The  woman  looked  up.  She  was  pale,  and  the  beauty  mark  on 
her  cheek  stood  out  starkly.  The  bitter  shock  sent  Crosby  reeling 
backward.  For  a  moment  he  felt  dizzy,  and  he  clutched  the  rail 
with  trembling  fingers.  The  gray  river  flowed  sullenly  beneath 
him. 

It  wasn't  Jeanette. 

"Dear  God,"  he  whispered.  He  finally  raised  his  gaze  to  the 
dismal  buildings  that  loomed  across  the  river.  Then  where  was 
she?  She  must  have  tried  again.  Had  she  succeeded? 
O  •  O 

Chief  Dolenz  clasped,  then  unclasped  his  hands.  "You've  got  to 
slow  down,  Stu.  You're  pushing  yourself  far  too  hard." 

Crosby's  shoulders  sagged  a  little  more,  but  he  did  not  answer. 

"You're  like  a  man  possessed,"  continued  the  Chief.  "It's  start- 
ing to  wear  you  down.  Ease  up,  for  God's  sake.  We'll  fmd  her. 
Why  all  this  fuss  over  one  loony  patient?  Is  it  that  important,  re- 
ally?" 

Crosby  lowered  his  head.  He  still  couldn't  speak.  The  Chief 
looked  with  puzzlement  at  the  old  man,  at  the  small  bald  spot 
that  was  beginning  to  expand,  at  the  slump  of  the  body,  the  rum- 
pled sweater,  the  tremor  of  the  hands  as  they  pressed  together. 
He  opened  his  mouth  but  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  more. 
O  •  O 

"Citizens  National  Bank,"  the  switchboard  operator  said. 

The  voice  on  the  line  was  low  and  nervous.  "I'm  gonna  tell  you 
this  once,  and  only  once.  There's  a  bomb  in  your  bank,  see?  It's 
gonna  go  off  in  ten  minutes.  If  you  don't  want  nobody  hurt,  you 
better  get  'em  outta  there." 

The  operator  felt  the  blood  drain  from  her  face.  "Is  this  a  joke?" 

"No  joke,  lady.  You  got  ten  minutes.  If  anybody  wants  to  know, 
you  tell  'em  People  for  a  Free  Society  are  starting  to  take  action. 
Got  that?"  The  line  went  dead. 

She  sat  motionless  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  got  unsteadily  to 
her  feet.  "Mrs.  Calkins!"  she  called.  The  switchboard  buzzed 
again,  but  she  ignored  it  and  ran  to  the  manager's  desk. 

Mrs.  Calkins  looked  up  from  a  customer  and  frowned  icily  at 
her;  but  when  the  girl  bent  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  the  man- 


70  PERCHANCE      TO     DREAM 

ager  got  calmly  to  her  feet.  "Mr.  Davison,"  she  said  politely  to  her 
customer,  "we  seem  to  have  a  problem  in  the  bank.  I  believe  the 
safest  place  to  be  right  now  would  be  out  of  the  building."  Turn- 
ing to  the  operator,  she  said  coolly,  "Notify  the  police." 

Mr.  Davison  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  began  thrusting  papers 
into  his  briefcase.  The  manager  strode  to  the  center  of  the  lobby 
and  clapped  her  hands  with  authority.  "Could  I  have  your  atten- 
tion please!  I'm  the  manager.  We  are  experiencing  difficulties  in 
the  bank.  I  would  like  everyone  to  move  quickly  but  quietly  out  of 
this  building  and  into  the  street.  Please  move  some  distance 
away." 

Faces  turned  toward  her,  but  no  one  moved. 

"Please,"  urged  Mrs.  Calkins.  "There  is  immediate  danger  if 
you  remain  in  the  building.  Your  transactions  may  be  completed 
later.  Please  leave  at  once." 

People  began  to  drift  toward  the  door.  The  tellers  looked  at  each 
other  in  bewilderment  and  began  locking  the  money  drawers.  A 
heavyset  man  remained  stubbornly  at  his  window.  "What  about 
my  change?"  he  demanded. 

The  operator  hung  up  the  phone  and  ran  toward  the  doorway. 
"Hurry!"  she  cried.  "There's  a  bomb!" 

"A  bomb!" 

"She  said  there's  a  bomb!" 

"Look  out!" 

"Get  outside!" 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  for  the  door.  "Please!"  shouted  the 
manager.  "There  is  no  need  for  panic."  But  her  voice  was  lost  in 
the  uproar. 

O   '  •  O 

Jeanette  sat  limply  at  the  bus  stop,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  fixed  despondently  on  the  blur  of  passing  automobile 
wheels.  The  day  was  oppressively  overcast;  gray  clouds  hung 
heavily  over  the  city.  When  the  chill  wind  blew  her  coat  open,  she 
made  no  move  to  gather  it  about  her. 

Behind  her,  the  doors  of  the  bank  suddenly  burst  open,  and 
people  began  to  rush  out  frantically.  The  crowd  bulged  into  the 
street.  Brakes  squealed;  voices  babbled  excitedly.  Jeanette  turned 
and  looked  dully  toward  the  bank. 

There  were  shouts.  Passing  pedestrians  began  to  run,  and  the 
frenzied  flow  of  people  from  the  bank  continued.  A  woman 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  71 

screamed.  Another  tripped  and  nearly  fell.  Sirens  sounded  in  the 
distance. 

Above  the  hubbub,  Jeanette  caught  a  few  clearly  spoken  words. 
"Bomb  ...  in  the  bank  .  .  ."  She  got  slowly  to  her  feet  and  began 
to  edge  her  way  through  the  crowd. 

She  had  almost  reached  the  door  before  anyone  tried  to  stop 
her.  A  man  caught  at  her  sleeve.  "You  can't  go  in  there,  lady. 
There's  a  bomb!" 

She  pulled  free,  and  a  fresh  surge  of  pedestrians  came  between 
them.  The  bank  doors  were  closed,  now.  Everyone  was  outside  and 
hurrying  away.  Jeanette  pushed  doubtfully  at  the  tall  glass  door, 
pushed  it  open  further,  and  slipped  inside.  It  closed  with  a  hiss, 
blocking  out  the  growing  pandemonium  in  the  street.  The  lobby 
seemed  warm  and  friendly,  a  refuge  from  the  bitterly  cold  wind. 

She  turned  and  looked  through  the  door.  A  policeman  had  ap- 
peared and  the  man  who  had  tried  to  stop  her  was  talking  with 
him  and  pointing  at  the  bank.  Jeanette  quickly  moved  back  out  of 
sight.  She  walked  the  length  of  the  empty  room,  picked  out  a 
chair  for  herself,  and  sat  down.  The  vast,  unruffled  quiet  of  the 
place  matched  the  abiding  peace  she  felt  within  her. 

Outside,  the  first  police  car  screamed  to  the  curb.  An  ambu- 
lance followed,  as  the  explosion  ripped  through  the  building,  send- 
ing a  torrent  of  bricks  and  glass  and  metal  onto  the  pavement. 
O  •  O 

"Code  blue,  emergency  room."  The  loudspeaker  croaked  for  the 
third  time  as  Julius  Beamer  rounded  the  corner.  Ahead  of  him  he 
could  see  a  woman  being  wheeled  into  room  three.  An  intern, 
keeping  pace  with  the  cart,  was  pushing  on  her  breastbone  at 
one-second  intervals. 

Emergency  room  three  was  crowded.  A  nurse  stepped  aside  as 
he  entered  and  said,  "Bomb  exploded  at  the  bank."  A  technician 
was  hooking  up  the  ekg,  while  a  young  doctor  was  forcing  a  tube 
down  the  woman's  trachea.  A  resident  had  inserted  an  iv  and 
called  for  digoxin. 

"Okay,"  said  Dr.  Beamer  to  the  intern  thumping  the  chest.  The 
intern  stepped  back,  exhausted,  and  Beamer  took  over  the  exter- 
nal cardiac  message.  The  respirator  hissed  into  life.  Beamer 
pressed  down. 

There  was  interference.  Excess  oxygen  was  flooding  the  system.  A 
brief  hesitation,  and  then  the  body  adjusted.  Hormones  flooded  the 


72  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

bloodstream,  and  the  cells  began  dividing  again.  The  site  of  the 
damage  was  extensive,  and  vast  reconstruction  was  necessary.  The 
heart  pulsed  once. 

There  was  a  single  blip  on  the  ekg,  and  Beamer  grunted.  He 
pushed  again.  And  then  again,  but  the  flat  high-pitch  note  con- 
tinued unchanged.  Dr.  Channing  was  at  his  elbow,  waiting  to 
take  over,  but  Beamer  ignored  him.  Julius  Beamer  did  not  like 
failure.  He  called  for  the  electrodes.  A  brief  burst  of  electricity 
flowed  into  the  heart.  There  was  no  response.  He  applied  them 
again. 

The  reconstruction  was  being  hindered:  there  was  cardiac  inter- 
ference. The  body's  energies  were  diverted  toward  the  heart  in  an 
effort  to  keep  it  from  beating.  The  delicate  balance  had  to  be  main- 
tained, or  the  chemicals  would  be  swept  away  in  the  bloodstream. 

A  drop  of  sweat  trickled  down  Julius  Beamer's  temple.  He 
called  for  a  needle  and  injected  epinephrine  directly  into  the 
heart. 

Chemical  stimulation:  hormones  activated  and  countered  im- 
mediately. 

There  was  no  response.  The  only  sounds  in  the  room  were  the 
long  hisssssss-click  of  the  respirator  and  the  eerie  unchanging 
note  of  the  ekg.  Dr.  Beamer  stepped  back  wearily  and  shook  his 
head.  Then  he  whirled  in  disgust  and  strode  out  of  the  room.  A 
resident  reached  to  unplug  the  ekg. 

The  interference  had  stopped.  Reconstruction  resumed  at  the 
primary  site  of  damage. 

Rounding  the  corner,  Dr.  Beamer  heard  someone  call  his  name 
hoarsely,  and  he  turned  to  see  Stuart  Crosby  stumbling  toward 
him. 

"Julius!  That  woman!" 

"Stuart!  Hello!  What  are  you—?" 

"That  woman  in  the  explosion.  Where  is  she?" 

"I'm  afraid  we  lost  her — couldn't  get  her  heart  going.  Is  she  a 
witness?" 

In  emergency  room  three,  the  respirator  hissed  to  a  stop.  The  heart 
pulsed  once.  But  there  was  no  machine  to  record  it. 

In  the  hallway,  Crosby  clutched  at  Dr.  Beamer.  "No.  She's  my 
wife." 

O  •  O 

Crosby's  fists  covered  his  eyes,  his  knuckles  pressing  painfully 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  73 

into  his  forehead.  Outside,  there  was  a  low  rumble  of  thunder.  He 
swallowed  with  difficulty  and  dug  his  knuckles  in  deeper,  trying 
to  reason.  How  can  I?  he  wondered.  How  can  I  say  yes?  Jeanette! 

The  figure  behind  him  moved  slightly  and  the  woman  cleared 
her  throat.  "Dr.  Crosby,  I  know  this  is  a  difficult  decision,  but  we 
haven't  much  time."  She  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"We've  got  forty-three  people  in  this  area  who  desperately  need  a 
new  kidney.  And  there  are  three  potential  recipients  for  a  heart 
upstairs — one  is  an  eight-year-old  girl.  Please.  It's  a  chance  for 
someone  else.  A  whole  new  life." 

Crosby  twisted  away  from  her  and  moved  to  the  window.  No,  he 
thought,  we  haven't  much  time.  In  a  few  minutes,  she  would  get 
up  off  that  table  herself  and  walk  into  this  room — and  then  it 
would  be  too  late.  She  wanted  to  die.  She  had  been  trying  to  die 
for  years — how  many?  Fifty?  A  hundred?  If  they  took  her  organs, 
she  would  die.  Not  even  that  marvelous  body  could  sustain  the 
loss  of  the  major  organs.  All  he  had  to  do  was  say  yes.  But  how 
could  he?  He  hadn't  even  seen  her  face  yet.  He  could  touch  her 
again,  talk  to  her,  hold  her.  After  thirty  years! 

As  he  looked  out  the  window,  a  drop  of  rain  splashed  against 
the  pane.  He  thought  of  the  lines  of  a  poem  he  had  memorized 
twenty  years  before. 

From  too  much  love  of  living. 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  man  lives  forever. 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

The  rain  began  to  fall  steadily,  drumming  against  the  window 
in  a  hollow  rhythm.  There  was  silence  in  the  room,  and  for  a  brief 
moment,  Crosby  had  the  frightening  sensation  of  being  totally 
alone  in  the  world. 

A  voice  within  him  spoke  the  painful  answer:  Release  her.  Let 
her  carry  the  burden  no  more.  She  is  weary. 

"Dr.  Crosby  .  .  ."  The  woman's  voice  was  gentle. 

"Yes!"  he  cried.  "Do  it!  Take  everything — anything  you  want. 


74  PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 

But  God,  please  hurry!"  Then  he  lowered  his  head  into  his  hands 
and  wept. 

O  •  O 

Grafton  Medical  Center  was  highly  efficient.  Within  minutes,  a 
surgeon  was  summoned  and  preparations  had  begun.  The  first  or- 
gans removed  were  the  kidneys.  Then  the  heart.  Later,  the  liver, 
pancreas,  spleen,  eyeballs,  and  thyroid  gland  were  lifted  delicately 
and  transferred  to  special  containers  just  above  freezing  tempera- 
ture. Finally,  a  quantity  of  bone  marrow  was  removed  for  use  as 
scaffolding  for  future  production  of  peripheral  blood  cellular  com- 
ponents. 

What  had  been  Jeanette  Crosby  was  wheeled  down  to  the  mor- 
gue. 

O  •  O 

The  woman's  voice  was  doubtful.  "We  usually  don't  allow  rela- 
tives. You  see,  once  the  services  are  over  ..." 

Stuart  Crosby  clutched  his  hat.  "There  were  no  services.  I  only 
want  a  few  minutes." 

The  owner  of  the  crematory,  a  burly,  pleasant  looking  man,  en- 
tered the  outer  office.  "Can  I  do  something  for  you,  sir?" 

The  woman  turned  to  him.  "He  wanted  a  little  time  with  the 
casket,  Mr.  Gilbert.  The  one  that  came  over  from  the  hospital  this 
morning." 

"Please,"  Crosby  pleaded.  "There  were  no  services — I  didn't 
want  any,  but  I  just — I  didn't  realize  there'd  be  no  chance  to  say 
goodbye.  The  hospital  said  she  was  sent  here,  and  .  .  .  I'm  a  doc- 
tor. Dr.  Stuart  Crosby.  She's  my  wife.  Jeanette  Crosby.  I  didn't 
think  until  today  that  I  wanted  to  .  .  ."  He  trailed  off  and  lowered 
his  head. 

The  owner  hesitated.  "We  usually  don't  allow  this,  doctor.  We 
have  no  facilities  here  for  paying  the  last  respects." 

"I  know,"  mumbled  Crosby.  "I  understand — but  just  a  few 
minutes — please." 

The  manager  looked  at  the  secretary,  then  back  to  the  old  man. 
"All  right,  sir.  Just  a  moment,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can  find  a  room.  If 
you'll  wait  here,  please." 

The  casket  was  cream-colored  pine.  It  was  unadorned.  The  lid 
was  already  sealed,  so  he  could  not  see  her  face.  But  he  knew  it 
would  be  at  peace. 

He  stood  dry-eyed  before  the  casket,  his  hands  elapsed  in  front 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM  75 

of  him.  Outside,  the  rain  that  had  begun  the  day  before  was  still 
drizzling  down.  He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  to  her,  and  he 
was  only  aware  of  a  hollow  feeling  in  his  chest.  He  thought 
ramblingly  of  his  dog,  and  how  he  hadn't  made  his  bed  that  morn- 
ing, and  about  the  broken  windshield  wiper  he  would  have  to  re- 
place on  his  car. 

Finally  he  turned  and  walked  from  the  room,  bent  over  a  bit 
because  his  back  hurt.  "Thank  you,"  he  said  to  the  owner.  Step- 
ping outside  into  the  rain,  he  very  carefully  raised  his  umbrella. 

The  owner  watched  him  until  the  car  pulled  onto  the  main 
road.  Then  he  yelled,  "Okay  Jack!" 

Two  men  lifted  the  casket  and  bore  it  outside  in  the  rain  toward 
the  oven. 

Cells  divided,  differentiated,  and  divided  again.  The  reconstruc- 
tion was  almost  complete.  It  had  taken  a  long  time,  almost  twenty- 
four  hours.  The  body  had  never  been  challenged  to  capacity  before. 
Removal  of  the  major  organs  had  caused  much  difficulty,  but  re- 
generation had  begun  almost  at  once,  and  the  new  tissues  were 
now  starting  the  first  stirrings  of  renewed  activity. 

The  casket  slid  onto  the  asbestos  bricks  with  a  small  scraping 
noise.  The  door  clanged  shut,  and  there  was  a  dull  ring  as  the  bolt 
was  drawn. 

There  was  a  flicker  of  light  behind  the  eyelids,  and  the  new  ret- 
inas registered  it  and  transmitted  it  to  the  brain.  The  heart  pulsed 
once,  and  then  again.  A  shuddering  breath. 

Outside  the  oven,  a  hand  reached  for  the  switches  and  set  the 
master  timer.  The  main  burner  was  turned  on.  Oil  under  pressure 
flared  and  exploded  into  the  chamber. 

There  was  a  shadow  of  awareness  for  a  long  moment,  and  then 
it  was  gone. 

After  thirty  minutes,  the  oven  temperature  was  nine  hundred 
.degrees  Fahrenheit.  The  thing  on  the  table  was  a  third  of  its  origi- 
nal size.  The  secondary  burners  flamed  on.  In  another  half  hour, 
the  temperature  had  reached  two  thousand  degrees,  and  it  would 
stay  there  for  another  ninety  minutes. 

The  ashes,  larger  than  usual,  had  to  be  mashed  to  a  chalky, 
brittle  dust. 

O  •  O 

As  Dr.  Kornbluth  began  easing  off  the  dressing,  she  smiled  at 
the  young  face  on  the  pillow  before  her. 


76 


PERCHANCE     TO     DREAM 


"Well,  well.  You're  looking  perky  today,  Marie!"  she  said. 

The  little  girl  smiled  back  with  surprising  vigor. 

"Scissors,  please,"  said  Dr.  Kornbluth  and  held  out  her  hand. 

Dr.  Roeber  spoke  from  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  "Her  color  is 
certainly  good." 

"Yes.  I  just  got  the  lab  report,  and  so  far  there's  no  anemia." 

"Has  she  been  given  the  Prednisone  today?" 

"Twenty  milligrams  about  an  hour  ago." 

The  last  dressing  was  removed,  and  the  two  doctors  bent  over  to  ' 
examine  the  chest:  the  chest  that  was  smooth  and  clean  and 
faintly  pink,  with  no  scars,  no  lumps,  no  ridges. 

"Something's  wrong."  said  Dr.  Kornbluth.  "Is  this  a  joke,  Dr. 
Roeber?" 

The  surgeon's  voice  was  frightened.  "I  don't  understand  it,  not 
at  all." 

"Have  you  the  right  patient  here?"  She  reached  for  the  identifi- 
cation bracelet  around  Marie's  wrist. 

"Of  course  it's  the  right  patient!"  Dr.  Roeber's  voice  rose.  "I 
ought  to  know  who  I  operated  on,  shouldn't  I?" 

"But  it  isn't  possible!"  cried  Dr.  Kornbluth. 

The  girl  spoke  up  in  a  high  voice.  "Is  my  new  heart  okay?" 

"It's  fine,  honey,"  said  Dr.  Kornbluth.  Then  she  lowered  her 
voice.  "This  is  physiologically  impossible!  The  incision  has  com- 
pletely healed,  without  scar  tissue.  And  in  thirty-two  hours,  doc- 
tor? In  thirty -two  hours?" 


ON  OUR  MUSEUM 

A  PREVIEW  OF  THE  NEW  SMITHSONIAN 

by  George  O.  Smith 


I  first  saw  the  Spirit  of  St  Louis  in  flight  above  Chicago  in  the 
summer  when  Charles  A.  Lindbergh  was  touring  the  United 
States  after  his  return  from  Europe.  Then,  for  some  forty-odd 
years,  the  Spirit  hung  in  the  old  red  brick  building  formally 
known  as  the  Smithsonian  Institution;  informally  known  as  The 
Castle;  and  occasionally  called,  with  humorous  affection  'The 
Attic  of  America.'  The  latter  was  well  earned.  Space  was  at  a 
premium,  so  displays  and  exhibits  were  crowded  together  to  the 
point  where  proximity  distorted  the  comprehension  of  what  the 
Spirit  of  St  Louis  had  accomplished. 

But  now  the  Spirit  of  St  Louis  has  a  new  home.  It  is  called  the 
Smithsonian  National  Air  and  Space  Museum.  It  is  an  as- 
semblage of  buildings  of  glass  and  metal  girders  that  fills  the  area 
between  The  Mall  and  Independence  Avenue  for  three  full  blocks. 
The  halls  and  exhibit  rooms  are  large  and  airy;  the  roof  is  a  grid 
of  special  girders  and  the  spaces  between  them  are  skylight  glass 
with  a  special  filter  component  that  passes  the  visible  spectrum 
without  altering  the  color  balance  but  blocks  the  ultraviolet  that 
fades  pigments  and  causes  deterioration.  Thus  the  illumination  by 
day  is  natural.  The  arrangement,  plus  the  adequate  space  and  the 
size  of  the  halls,  makes  one  overlook  the  wires  that  suspend  the 
aircraft  and  gives  the  impression  that  they  are  airborne  in  a  clear 
sky  with  visibility  unlimited. 

One  enters  the  main  lobby  from  Independence  Avenue  and 
walks  through  a  broad  hall  almost  all  the  way  through  the  build- 
ing, to  be  overwhelmed  by  an  exhibit  hall  that  is  best  described 
by  the  word  Vast.'  It  is  difficult  to  estimate  dimensions  of  some- 
thing so  big  when  one  is  so  close.  But  since  we're  informed  that 
the  girdered  and  skylighted  roof  is  62  feet  above  ground  floor,  and 
the  hall  appears  wider  and  deeper,  the  hall  is  truly  immense  and 
the  exhibits  have  the  elbow  room  they  deserve.  The  hall  is  ap- 
propriately called 

THE  MILESTONES  OF  FLIGHT 

and  it  spans  73  years  of  man's  solution  to  his  age-old  dream  of 

77 


78         A     PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN 

flying,  which  starts  with  the  first  success  at  Kitty  Hawk.  Free  of 
crowding  and  distraction,  the  Spirit  of  St.  Louis  hangs  about 
thirty  feet  above  the  floor,  about  on  a  level  with  the  second 
floor — which  ends  with  a  visitor's  balcony  overlooking  the  hall. 
The  Spirit  seems  poised  as  if  in  flight,  three-quartering  away 
from  the  nearside  left  corner  of  the  balcony. 

Below,  and  seeming  about  to  pass  under  the  Spirit,  the  Wright 
Brothers'  Flyer  hangs  wing-square  approaching  the  visitors,  at 
the  historical  altitude  of  12  feet,  the  height  at  which  powered 
flight  was  first  achieved  for  those  notable  12  seconds  in  De- 
cember, 1903.  The  Flyer  was  airborne  over  a  flight  of  120  feet. 
Only  40  years  later,  evolution  produced  the  B-29  Flying  Fortress, 
which  had  a  wingspan  longer  than  the  Wright  Brothers'  first 
flight. 

Possibly  of  some  puzzlement  to  the  lay  visitor  is  the  fact  that 
the  wingspan  of  the  Flyer  is  comparable  to  that  of  the  Spirit,  a 
dimensional  relationship  caused  by  the  widely  disparate  relative 
speeds  of  the  two  aircraft.  The  Wright  Brothers  Flyer  covered 
about  120  feet  in  its  first  airborne  excursion  and  was  aloft  for  12^ 
seconds.  A  bit  of  slide-ruling  or  button-poking  resolves  this  to 
slightly  less  than  8  miles  per  hour;  however,  there  was  a  head 
wind,  so  wind  speed  was  about  30.  The  Spirit  cruised  at  95;  on  the 
flight  to  Paris  it  averaged  about  107.  Perforce,  it  required  consid- 
erably greater  wing  area  to  keep  the  Flyer  aloft,  despite  the  vast 
difference  in  weight. 

Then,  in  appropriate  high  contrast,  high  in  the  farside  left  at 
about  45  feet  altitude  is  the  jet  aircraft  X-1,  the  first  to  exceed 
the  speed  of  sound,  Mach  One.  It  is  poised  in  simulated  flight, 
quartering  from  the  farside  left  toward  the  nearside  right. 

And  in  this  corner,  poised  in  flight  from  nearside  right  toward 
farside  left,  the  X-1 5  is  about  to  meet  and  pass  its  fore-runner  at 
an  airspeed  greater  than  Mach  Six. 

Thus,  in  a  single  vast,  colorful,  elaborate  display,  the  Air  and 
Space  Museum  has  collected  under  one  monumental  roof  the  first 
faltering  steps  of  the  infant  aircraft  at  eight  miles  per  hour  to 
robust  maturity  at  Mach  Six,  a  staggering  one-mile-plus  per  sec- 
ond! 

But  we  are  not  done.  Three  more  milestones  remain,  but  for 
practical  reasons  they  are  not  poised  as  if  in  flight.  For  their  en- 
vironment is  the  vast,  void  black  of  space.  These  rest  on  the  floor, 


A      PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN         79 

in  the  foreground,  in  a  line  across  the  front  of  the  rotunda.  In 
chronological  order,  they  are: 

1.  The  Mercury  Spacecraft,  in  which  John  Glenn  became  the 
first  American  to  orbit  the  Earth. 

2.  Gemini  IV,  from  which  Ed  White  emerged  to  take  the  first 
American  space  walk. 

3.  Apollo  11,  which  carried  Neil  Armstrong,  Edwin  Aldrin,  and 
Michael  Collins  to  the  Moon.  Armstrong  and  Aldrin  made  their 
'Giant  Step'  while  Collins  stood  by  in  lunar  orbit.  What  happens 
to  those  who  "...  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait."?  Well  now, 
Michael  Collins  is  Director  of  the  Air  and  Space  Museum, 
and  who  could  be  better  qualified  for  such  a  task  than  one  of  the 
astronauts  who'd  been  there  and  seen  it? 

The  backdrop  for  this  striking  exhibit  is  a  broad  picture  window 
that  spans  the  breadth  of  the  hall  and  runs  from  floor  to  girdered 
ceiling,  polished  plate  glass  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  broken 
only  by  the  slender  mullions  in  which  the  panes  are  set.  The  view 
overlooks  The  Mall,  so  the  bottom  border  consists  of  trees  that 
line  The  Mall;  above,  the  sky  of  Washington. 

We  arrived  at  eventide,  to  see  the  Milestones  of  Flight  set 
against  a  deep  blue  sky,  tastefully  decorated  by  a  billow  of  cloud 
softly  tinted  with  the  fading  light  of  the  setting  Sun.  Things 
couldn't  possibly  have  been  organized  better. 

This  alone  would  have  been  well  worth  the  trip.  But  we  were 
hardly  about  to  call  it  a  go,  because  with  a  beginning  like  this, 
we  wanted  to  see  what  they  could  cook  up  for  an  encore.  Could 
they,  perchance,  top  their  own  act? 

O  •  O 

While  we  ponder  this  question,  let's  outline  the  occasion  and 
explain  how  we  got  there. 

This  visit  was  a  Treview'  that  took  place  on  Saturday  evening, 
26  June.  The  invitation  said  "9  to  11  o'clock,"  but  obviously  there 
were  quite  a  number  of  us  who  had  itchy  feet,  because  we  arrived 
about  8:30  and  found  the  place  already  a-bubble  with  guests.  It 
was  a  gala  occasion,  and  party  atmosphere  prevailed.  The  women 
wore  long  party  dresses  and  the  men  were  casually  dressed  for 
the  event.  There  was  no  attempt  to  conduct  a  tour;  we  were  free 
to  meander  as  we  pleased.  However,  by  some  form  of  mutual  con- 
sent, there  was  a  general  trend  from  this  first  entrance  exhibit 
toward  the  hall  adjacent,  which  was  devoted  to  air  transportation; 


80  A     PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN 

then  back  across  the  second  floors  and  through  the  concourses  to 
the  building  on  the  other  side,  which  carries  exhibits  of  the  Space 
Age. 

Second,  how  come  I  managed  to  get  into  this  company?  Well  it 
turns  out  that  Mr.  Fred  Durant  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution 
and  Willy  Ley  had  been  close  friends  since  before  World  War 
Two.  Willy's  interest  in  air  and  space  flight  alone  would  have 
made  an  invitation  a  certainty,  his  friendship  with  Mr.  Durant 
ensured  it.  However,  as  most  of  us  know,  Willy  Ley  has  a  lunar 
crater  named  for  him  on  the  far  side  of  the  Moon,  but  one  of  the 
prerequisites  of  this  honor  is  that  the  recipient  of  the  honor  must 
be  dead. 

The  formal  invitation  therefore  read,  "Mrs.  Willy  Ley  and 
Guest."  Not  only  was  I  available,  but  nothing  short  of  a  personal 
visitation  from  the  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse  would  have 
made  me  consider  saying,  "Sorry." 

The  Museum  opened  to  the  public  on  the  Saturday  of  the  Bicen- 
tennial Week  End. 

O  •  O 

It  is  incorrect  to  describe  the  Museum  of  Air  and  Space  in  sim- 
ple architectural  terms.  It  is  a  'building'  if  one  accepts  the  word  in 
its  simple  meaning.  But  how  to  describe  an  integrated  complex 
that  is  composed  of  four  structures  externally  identical,  connected 
by  three  broad  concourses  that  are,  in  themselves,  worthy  of  at- 
tention? 

So  we  leave  this  flrst  fabulous  exhibit  and  wander  upstairs  to 
find  that  the  balcony  affords  another  view-angle  of  The  Milestones 
of  Flight,  and  that  some  of  the  information  presented  on  the  little 
signboards  is  here  and  there  expanded  from  those  below.  And  that 
the  'Milestones'  were  selected  because  they  were,  indeed,  those 
considered  the  most  important  stepping  stones  of  mankind's  am- 
bition to  reach  the  unreachable  stars.  One  finds  in  wandering 
through  the  halls  and  displays  of  this  entrance  building  that 
there  are  a  rather  large  number  of  half-mile  and  quarter-mile 
stones  along  the  road. 

At  this  point  I  must  confess  to  some  confusion  about  where  this 
and  that  specific  event  is  exhibited.  The  Museum  is  far  too  vast; 
there  are  too  many  special  halls  with  special  exhibits,  and  I  do 
not  possess  eidetic  recall.  Second,  of  course,  I  did  not  know  that 
George  Scithers  was  going  to  call  on  me  to  write  this  bit. 


A     PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN         81 

However,  the  two  major  halls  on  either  side  of  the  entrance  hall 
are  devoted,  respectively,  to  aviation  and  its  evolution  into  a 
mode  of  transportation,  and  the  space  age  to  date. 

Chronologically,  then,  we  went  into  the  air  section  and 
promptly  became  confused  because  the  only  way  to  see  it  all  was 
to  operate  like  the  fellow  in  Stephen  Leacock's  nonsense  novel 
who  ran  out  of  the  castle,  threw  himself  on  his  horse,  and  gallop- 
ed madly  off  in  all  directions.  After  all,  there  are  two  floors,  and 
on  each  there  are  seventeen  special  galleries  that  trace  the  his- 
tory or  tell  the  story  of  some  specific  subject,  and  a  general  exhi- 
bition area  at  either  end.  One  is  overwhelmed. 

It  is  by  no  means  humorless.  In  a  section  devoted  to  the 
lighter-than-air  phase,  there  is  a  puppet  exhibit  showing  the  an- 
tics of  two  bold  adventurers  who  made  it  across  the  English 
Channel  in  a  hydrogen-filled  balloon  in  1785,  arriving  on  the 
French  side  with  the  basket  awash  after  tossing  everything  over- 
board to  lighten  ship.  'Everything'  in  this  case  means  they  started 
with  the  sand  ballast,  and  followed  that  with  their  anchors, 
books,  food,  their  clothing,  and  finally  their  last  bottle  of  brandy. 
They  made  it,  but  with  the  basket  awash,  the  hardy  adventurers 
were  hanging  from  the  shrouds  of  the  gas  bag. 

In  a  more  serious  vein,  the  more  modern,  rigid  aircraft  are 
shown  by  the  model  of  the  Hindenhurg  that  was  built  for  the 
moving  picture  of  the  same  name.  The  original  crashed  in  1937, 
you  may  remember,  in  Lakehurst,  not  very  far  south  from  where 
Fm  writing  these  words.  The  control  gondola,  built  from  the  orig- 
inal plans,  displays  how  these  monsters  of  the  air  were  navigated. 

It  will  come  as  no  surprise  to  anyone  that  aviation  took 
tremendous  strides  during  the  World  War  years.  At  the  onset  of 
World  War  One,  aircraft  were  used  for  reconnaissance,  shell- 
spotting,  and  the  like.  The  brave  aviators  waved  good  luck  to  one 
another  until  one  sorehead  carried  a  gun  aloft  and  had  at  the 
enemy. 

That  started  it;  by  the  end  of  the  War,  the  aircraft  had  evolved 
into  the  covered  fuselage,  engine-in-front  biplane,  with  machine 
guns  synchronized  to  fire  through  the  propeller  as  devotees  of  the 
late  late  show  all  know.  Among  the  exhibits  of  this  stormy  period 
is  one  showing  a  typical  wartime  military  airfield  in  France;  in 
the  foreground  is  a  typical  shack,  used  as  'Mission  Control'  and 
nearby  stands  the  biplane  used,  ready  to  take  off  once  the  pilots 


82  A     PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN 

are  briefed.  One  almost  expects  Errol  Flynn  to  stride  out  clutch- 
ing his  goggles  in  one  hand  whilst  he  jauntily  slings  the  long  silk 
scarf  over  his  shoulder. 

The  close  of  World  War  One  opened  another  era:  There  were 
military  aircraft  still  in  crates,  and  now  there  were  trained  pilots 
out  of  flying  jobs.  The  result  was  the  barnstorming  era,  in  which 
pilots  either  singly  or  in  a  group  called  a  'Flying  Circus'  roamed 
the  country  giving  exhibitions  of  stunt  flying  and  later  taking  up 
the  brave  and  foolhardy  for  short  hops  at  five  to  ten  dollars  a 
ride.  This  is  the  Exhibition  Flight  Gallery.  It  captures  the  circus 
atmosphere,  complete  with  a  wingwalker  doing  his  thing  on  the 
top  of  a  JND4 —  the  famous  'Flying  Jenny.' 

Then  came  the  period  of  speed,  and  air  racing  became  the 
thing.  And  with  the  quest  for  speed  came  better  construction  and 
sleeker  streamlining,  better  engines  and  generally  more  efficient 
design. 

Wiley  Post  sits  beside  the  Winnie  Mae  on  the  ground  floor  of 
the  Museum's  Flight  Testing  Gallery;  or  rather,  he  seems  to,  for 
it  is  the  high-altitude  pressure  suit  he  designed.  It  was  the  first 
space  suit,  but  a  far  cry  from  those  used  today.  It  looks  for  all  the 
world  like  a  converted  deep-sea  diving  suit,  topped  by  a  vertical, 
cylindrical  helmet  of  metal,  with  a  round  glass  porthole  to  peer 
out  through.  In  the  Winnie  Mae,  Post  broke  both  altitude  and 
long  distance  speed  records  in  the  period  between  1930  and  1935. 

The  evolution  of  commerical  air  transport  is  very  well  exhi- 
bited. I've  mentioned  that  the  roof  is  constructed  of  a  grid  of  gir- 
ders. Well,  one  of  the  exhibits  is  the  old  workhouse  of  the  air,  a 
Douglas  DC-3,  hanging  as  if  in  flight— all  8  tons  of  it!  The  DC-3 
well  earned  its  place  of  honor.  Hordes  of  them  stijl  ply  the  air- 
lanes  through  those  places  of  the  world  where  short  hops  with  re- 
latively few  passengers  are  adequate  to  the  traffic  demand.  The 
DC-3  is  by  no  means  the  beginning  and  the  end.  The  flight  halls 
are  filled  with  other  greats  of  the  airlines.  Not  the  jumbo  jets  of 
today,  but  the  forerunners  of  the  vast  fleet  of  big  commercial  air- 
lines and  airliners  that  grew  with  the  growing  demand  for  air 
travel. 

Aviation  through  World  War  Two  is  well  covered.  Planes  of 
both  sides  are  there,  complete  with  a  brief  history  of  their  claims 
to  fame.  It  becomes  quite  clear  that  both  sides  were  playing  the 
game  of  Can  You  Top  This?  On  either  side  of  the  main  exhibit 


A     PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN         83 

hall  are  galleries;  the  U.S.  Army  Air  Force  operations  in  the  gal- 
lery on  one  side,  while  Naval  Air  activity  is  depicted  in  the  gal- 
lery on  the  other.  Naval  Air  is  presented  as  a  simulation  of  the 
hangar  deck  of  a  carrier  in  the  midst  of  a  wartime  action. 

Naturally,  there  is  a  section  devoted  to  the  helicopter,  appro- 
priately called  the  Vertical  Flight  Gallery.  It  begins  with  Leonardo 
da  Vinci's  plans  for  vertical  flight  by  rotating  vanes.  There  are  some 
of  the  futile — and  occasionally  amusing — attempts  to  obtain  verti- 
cal flight. 

To  close  this  side  of  the  Museum,  one  exhibit  hall  is  a  must, 
even  though  it  goes  under  the  frightening  name  The  Gallery  of 
Flight  Technology.'  One  quickly  forgets  the  name.  This  gallery 
shows  working  models  of  wind  tunnels  and  how  they  are  used  to 
solve  problems  in  flight.  There  are  operating  cut-away  models  of 
engines,  the  complicated  instrumentation,  things  and  devices  that 
very  few  people  ever  get  to  see.  The  evolution  of  flight  itself  is 
traced  by  animation,  models,  and  moving  pictures  from  the  mo- 
tion of  a  sea-gull's  wings  in  flight  to  the  conceptual  planning  of 
the  space  shuttle.  And  placed  here  in  The  Gallery  of  Flight 
Technology  is  Hughes's  racing  airplane,  the  H-1,  in  which  the 
late  Howard  Hughes  smashed  speed  records  in  the  Twenties.  It  is 
here  instead  of  among  those  planes  of  the  period  in  which  speed 
was  the  essence  because  the  H-1  was  so  far  ahead  of  its  time  that 
some  of  the  notable  fighter  planes  developed  on  both  sides  in 
World  War  Two  were  spin-offs  that  used  some  of  the  H-l's  innovative 
features. 

O  •  O 

Following  the  meandering  crowd,  we  reached  the  hall  on  the 
other  side  of  the  main  entry  building.  This  is  the  hall  devoted  to 
The  Wonders  Of  Space,'  which  includes  the  largest  single  item  in 
the  whole  Museum.  This  is  the  Skylab  Orbital  Workshop,  a  great 
cylindrical  structure  sheathed  with  a  reflective  gold  foil.  Beside 
the  Skylab  is  one  of  the  solar  power  panels,  a  monstrous  rectang- 
ular paddle  that  carries  150,000  solar  cells.  One  enters  the 
Skylab  from  the  balcony  that  overlooks  the  floor  of  the  hall;  and 
in  walking  through,  one  sees  the  laboratories,  workshops,  living 
quarters,  and  recreation  rooms  where  the  Skylab  personnel  will 
spend  their  weeks  or  months  in  orbit. 

Nearby  stands  the  Apollo  and  Soyuz  spacecraft — not  the  actual 


84         A     PREVIEW     OF     THE     NEW     SMITHSONIAN 

ones  flown  by  American  and  Soviet  astronauts*  but  training  mod- 
els identical  to  those  flown. 

I'm  told  that,  to  the  stranger  at  first  glance,  the  Redwood 
Trees  in  Sequoia  National  Forest  do  not  seem  to  be  so  big  because 
the  only  other  trees  available  there  for  comparison  are  Douglas 
Firs.  In  other  words,  there  are  two  degrees:  Colossal  and  Super- 
colossal.  So  Space  Hall  is  dominated  by  four  monsters  that  stand 
in  a  pit  about  fifteen  feet  deep  so  they  can  be  upright  without 
passing  through  the  roof.  Accepting  the  Museum's  dimensions  of 
62  feet  from  floor  to  roof,  another  15  makes  them  about  75  feet 
tall.  Big,  huh?  Nope.  Saturn  V  looms  up  four  times  as  tall,  which 
is  why  they  don't  have  one  on  exhibit. 

But  they  do  have  a  couple  of  rocket  engines  from  the  big  birds, 
and  these  are  enough  to  frighten  the  timid.  One  begins  to  under- 
stand why  they  keep  visitors  three  miles  from  the  launch-pad.  It 
isn't,  as  someone  tried  to  explain  some  time  back,  to  astonish  the 
onlooker  by  making  him  wait  fifteen  seconds  after  ignition  before 
he  hears  the  blast.  (Since  sound  travels  faster  through  the 
ground,  one  can  feel  the  vibration  through  the  soles  of  his  shoes 
before  he  hears  the  racket!) 

Such  monsters  didn't  suddenly  appear.  They  evolved,  as  we  all 
well  know.  They  evolved  from  those  flimsy  experiments  that  illus- 
trate part  of  the  opening  chapters  of  Willy  Ley's  Rockets,  Missiles, 
and  Space  Travel,  and  from  the  experiments  of  Goddard,  for 
which  he  had  to  get  a  place  Out  West  where  there  was  space 
enough  to  permit  him  to  play  with  fireworks  without  burning  up 
Massachusetts.  They  evolved  through  the  air-to-air  missiles  used 
in  World  War  Two  when  airspeeds  began  to  cope  with  bullet 
speed;  a  profusion  of  these  hang  from  the  roof  above  the  balcony 
in  Space  Hall.  They  evolved  through  the  V-2,  one  of  which  stands 
mutely  in  the  hall.  (It  apparently  had  been  fired,  because  the 
outer  skin  is  a  bit  the  worse  for  wear.) 

Also  hanging  in  Space  Hall  is  one  of  the  oddball  vehicles  pro- 
duced by  the  next  phase  of  space.  It  is  an  experimental  wingless 
aircraft;  a  hybrid  intended  to  be  equally  at  home  in  air  or  space. 
Its  purpose  was — is? — to  iron  out  problems  that  can  be  expected 
in  building  and  running  the  shuttle.  Its  designation  is  'M2-F3 


*To  stay  always  one  step  ahead,  the  Soviet's  spacehounds  are  called  'Cosmonauts.' 
It's  called  'One  Upmanship'  by  Stephen  Potter. 


A     PREVIEW     OF     THE     NEW     SMITHSONIAN        85 

Lifting  Body.'  It  is  a  stubby  thing,  vaguely  shaped  like  m'lady's 
travelling  flatiron,  with  a  vertical  vane  on  either  side  fitted  with 
control  surfaces  and  a  vertical  fixed  stabilizing  vane  in  the  center 
rear.  The  ultimate  goal  is  the  shuttle  that  will  be  used  to  serve 
the  Skylab.  Presumably,  the  booster  will  be  recovered  and  reused, 
and  the  shuttle  itself  is  equipped  to  make  a  runway  landing  after 
descending  from  Skylab. 

We're  told  an  interesting  story  about  the  model  on  exhibit. 
Seems  that  this  one  was  re-collected  and  re-assembled  after  a  dis- 
astrous 'hard'  landing  that  scattered  pieces  from  hell  to  break- 
fast. Motion  pictures  of  the  spectacular  crash  are  now  being  used 
in  the  opening  sequence  of  the  Six  Million  Dollar  Man;  but  that 
truth  isn't  strange  enough  for  fiction.  The  actual  pilot  of  the 
M2-F3  was  only  mildly  injured.  It  was  the  vehicle  that  required 
the  reconstruction,  not  the  man! 

Spaceflight  itself  takes  three  galleries  to  explore.  The  missions 
of  Mercury,  Gemini,  and  Apollo  are  carefully  detailed  as  the  steps 
are  recounted  from  the  first  sub-orbital  flights  to  the  final  land- 
ings on  the  Moon.  A  brother  of  the  Lunar  Rover  stands  there, 
looking  like  a  stripped  down  Model  T.  Carrying  this  thing  to  the 
Moon  gives  one  a  rather  firm  idea  of  how  far  things  have  ad- 
vanced since  Sputnik  I  startled  us  into  action. 

Next,  the  wide  spate  of  satellites  have  their  own  gallery,  in 
which  they  hang,  lighted  from  below  against  a  dark  sky,  each 
with  an  explanation  of  when  it  went  up  and  what  it  did  or  does 
once  in  orbit.  Even  your  author,  who  has  been  able  to  keep  track 
of  such  things,  was  a  bit  flabbergasted  at  the  number  and  variety 
of  these  fellows.  Frankly,  I  must  admit  that  my  major  interest  in 
satellitery  lies  in  communications,  and  so  I  confess  that  the 
number  devoted  to  weather  forecasting  and  other  scientific  fact- 
gathering  probes  got  far  ahead  of  me. 

Speaking  of  communication  satellites,  I  did  not  see  Arthur  C. 
Clarke  at  this  Museum  preview,  and  no  one  approached  me  to  au- 
tograph a  copy  of  Venus  Equilateral,  but  there  is  one  gallery  set 
aside  for  theorizing  on  what  goes  on  Out  There.  It's  called  'Life  In 
The  Universe.' 

We're  learning  more  about  it  as  I  write,  now  that  the  Mars 
Probe  has  landed  and  is  scratching  at  the  red  sands  of  Mars.  In 
this  gallery,  a  mosaic  of  photographs  taken  of  the  Red  Planet  dur- 
ing the  previous  fly-bys  gives  us  a  good  idea  of  what  the  place 


86  A     PREVIEW     OF     THE      NEW     SMITHSONIAN 

looks  like,  close  up.  It's  barren.  It's  rocky.  It's  no  place  to  live,  and 
not  much  of  a  place  to  visit  unless  you  are  completely  prepared  to 
withstand  the  environment  and  absolutely  certain  of  an  on- 
schedule  return  trip,  money-back  guaranteed. 

There  is  a  film  commentary  that  depicts  the  various  theories 
about  the  origin  of  the  Universe.  Sensibly,  it  sticks  to  reasonable 
conjectures  and  does  not  fly  out  to  left  field. 

I  did  not  get  to  see  it,  but  we're  told  that  there  is  a  doodad  that 
lets  the  visitor  set  up  the  environmental  conditions  for  an  imagi- 
nary planet,  after  which  a  computer  concocts  a  form  of  life  that 
might  be  viable  under  the  conditions  selected.  This  I'd  like  to 
try —  but  then,  it  probably  is  programmed  to  display  a  blank  and 
snarl  back  something  like,  "Helium  argide  can't  exist  at  minus 
sixty  kelvin,  you  dumbskull!" 

However,  the  U.S.S.  Enterprise  is  on  exhibition  since  it  is  no 
longer  on  its  five  year  mission,  "...  to  boldly  go  .  .  ." 

Two  more  features  complete  the  Space  Hall.  One  is  a  library 
that  will  be  made  available  to  researchers  upon  application.  The 
other  is  an  art  exhibit  of  appropriate  paintings,  drawings,  and 
other  media  devoted  to  space  and  air.  There  is  also  an  auditorium 
that  we  didn't  see;  it  includes  a  recently  developed  projector  that 
throws  a  picture  on  a  screen  that  is  described  as  being  about  four 
stories  high  and  six  wide,  with  a  battery  of  multiple  speakers  to 
produce  enveloping  sound. 

And  finally,  there  is  a  Bicentennial  gift  from  the  Federal  Re- 
public of  Germany.  It  is  one  of  the  newly  developed  planetarium 
projectors,  presented  by  West  Germany  in  honor  of  Albert  Ein- 
stein. It  projects  the  heavens,  as  all  such  projectors  do,  for  the  past, 
present,  and  future;  and  it  can  perform  stunts  (as  all  such  projec- 
tors can)  such  as  blanking  out  the  stars  to  show  the  motion  of  the 
planets  over  a  highly-accelerated  time  base.  This  being  the 
Smithsonian  Air  and  Space  Museum,  the  management  has  un- 
happily committed  an  etymological  monstrosity  by  calling  it  the 
Albert  Einstein  Spacearium . 

O  •  O 

Then  having  walked  for  three  hours,  and  been  completely  over- 
come by  the  beauty  of  it  all,  we  called  it  a  night.  We  left,  deter- 
mined to  return  some  time  when  we  had  a  couple  of  weeks  to  re- 
ally see  the  place. 

Wunderbar! 


AIR  RAID 

by  Herb  Boehm 

Raised  in  Texas,  Herb  Boehm  now  lives 

among  the  tall  trees  of  Oregon — a  state  that 

has  recently  been  building  up  a  very 

respectable  population  of  SF  writers.  Mr. 

Boehm  tells  us  he  has  no  occupation  but 

writing;  and  says  that  if  things  keep  going  as 

well  as  they  have,  he  may  never  have  to  do 

another  lick  of  work.  He's  very  much  a 

supporter  of  the  women's  movement,  trying  to 

people  his  stories  with  a  majority  of  females. 

I  was  jerked  awake  by  the  silent  alarm  vibrating  my  skull.  It 
won't  shut  down  until  you  sit  up,  so  I  did.  All  around  me  in  the 
darkened  bunkroom  the  Snatch  Team  members  were  sleeping 
singly  and  in  pairs.  I  yawned,  scratched  my  ribs,  and  patted 
Gene's  hairy  flank.  He  turned  over.  So  much  for  a  romantic 
send-off. 

Rubbing  sleep  from  my  eyes,  I  reached  to  the  floor  for  my  leg, 
strapped  it  on  and  plugged  it  in.  Then  I  was  running  down  the 
rows  of  bunks  toward  Ops. 

The  situation  board  glowed  in  the  gloom.  Sun-Belt  Airlines 
Flight  128,  Miami  to  New  York^  September  15,  1979.  We'd  been 
looking  for  that  one  for  three  years.  I  should  have  been  happy, 
but  who  can  afford  it  when  you  wake  up? 

Liza  Boston  muttered  past  me  on  the  way  to  Prep.  I  muttered 
back,  and  followed.  The  lights  came  on  around  the  mirrors,  and  I 
groped  my  way  to  one  of  them.  Behind  us,  three  more  people 
staggered  in.  I  sat  down,  plugged  in,  and  at  last  I  could  lean  back 
and  close  my  eyes. 

They  didn't  stay  closed  for  long.  Rush!  I  sat  up  straight  as  the 
sludge  I  use  for  blood  was  replaced  with  supercharged  go-juice.  I 
looked  around  me  and  got  a  series  of  idiot  grins.  There  was  Liza, 
and  Pinky  and  Dave.  Against  the  far  wall  Cristabel  was  already 
turning  slowly  in  front  of  the  airbrush,  getting  a  Caucasian  paint 
job.  It  looked  like  a  good  team. 

I  opened  the  drawer  and  started  preliminary  work  on  my  face. 

87 


88  AIR     RAID 

It's  a  bigger  job  every  time.  Transfusion  or  no,  I  looked  like  death. 
The  right  ear  was  completely  gone  now.  I  could  no  longer  close 
my  lips;  the  gums  were  permanently  bared.  A  week  earlier,  a  fin- 
ger had  fallen  off  in  my  sleep.  And  what's  it  to  you,  bugger? 

While  I  worked,  one  of  the  screens  around  the  mirror  glowed.  A 
smiling  young  woman,  blonde,  high  brow,  round  face.  Close 
enough.  The  crawl  line  read  Mary  Katrina  Sondergard,  born 
Trenton,  New  Jersey,  age  in  1979:  25.  Baby,  this  is  your  lucky 
day. 

The  computer  melted  the  skin  away  from  her  face  to  show  me 
the  bone  structure,  rotated  it,  gave  me  cross-sections.  I  studied 
the  similarities  with  my  own  skull,  noted  the  differences.  Not  bad, 
and  better  than  some  I'd  been  given. 

I  assembled  a  set  of  dentures  that  included  the  slight  gap  in  the 
upper  incisors.  Putty  filled  out  my  cheeks.  Contact  lenses  fell 
from  the  dispenser  and  I  popped  them  in.  Nose  plugs  widened  my 
nostrils.  No  need  for  ears;  they'd  be  covered  by  the  wig.  I  pulled  a 
blank  plastiflesh  mask  over  my  face  and  had  to  pause  while  it 
melted  in.  It  took  only  a  minute  to  mold  it  to  perfection.  I  smiled 
at  myself.  How  nice  to  have  lips. 

The  delivery  slot  clunked  and  dropped  a  blonde  wig  and  a  pink 
outfit  into  my  lap.  The  wig  was  hot  from'  the  styler.  I  put  it  on, 
then  the  pantyhose. 

"Mandy?  Did  you  get  the  profile  on  Sondergard?"  I  didn't  look 
up;  I  recognized  the  voice. 

"Roger." 

"We've  located  her  near  the  airport.  We  can  slip  you  in  before 
take-off,  so  you'll  be  the  joker." 

I  groaned,  and  looked  up  at  the  face  on  the  screen.  Elfreda 
Baltimore-Louisville,  Director  of  Operational  Teams:  lifeless  face 
and  tiny  slits  for  eyes.  What  can  you  do  when  all  the  muscles  are 
dead? 

"Okay."  You  take  what  you  get. 

She  switched  off,  and  I  spent  the  next  two  minutes  trying  to  get 
dressed  while  keeping  my  eyes  on  the  screens.  I  memorized  names 
and  faces  of  crew  members  plus  the  few  facts  known  about  them. 
Then  I  hurried  out  and  caught  up  with  the  others.  Elapsed  time 
from  first  alarm:  twelve  minutes  and  seven  seconds.  We'd  better 
get  moving. 

"Goddam  Sun-Belt,"  Cristabel  groused,  hitching  at  her  bra. 


AIRRAID  89 

"At  least  they  got  rid  of  the  high  heels,"  Dave  pointed  out.  A 
year  earlier  we  would  have  been  teetering  down  the  aisles  on 
three-inch  platforms.  We  all  wore  short  pink  shifts  with  blue  and 
white  stripes  diagonally  across  the  front,  and  carried  matching 
shoulder  bags.  I  fussed  trying  to  get  the  ridiculous  pillbox  cap 
pinned  on. 

We  jogged  into  the  dark  Operations  Control  Room  and  lined  up 
at  the  gate.  Things  were  out  of  our  hands  now.  Until  the  gate  was 
ready,  we  could  only  wait. 

I  was  first,  a  few  feet  away  from  the  portal.  I  turned  away  from 
it;  it  gives  me  vertigo.  I  focused  instead  on  the  gnomes  sitting  at 
their  consoles,  bathed  in  yellow  lights  from  their  screens.  None  of 
them  looked  back  at  me.  They  don't  like  us  much.  I  don't  like 
them,  either.  Withered,  emaciated,  all  of  them.  Our  fat  legs  and 
butts  and  breasts  are  a  reproach  to  them,  a  reminder  that 
Snatchers  eat  five  times  their  ration  to  stay  presentable  for  the 
masquerade.  Meantime  we  continue  to  rot.  One  day  I'll  be  sitting 
at  a  console.  One  day  I'll  be  built  in  to  a  console,  with  all  my  guts 
on  the  outside  and  nothing  left  of  my  body  but  stink.  The  hell 
with  them. 

I  buried  my  gun  under  a  clutter  of  tissues  and  lipsticks  in  my 
purse.  Elfreda  was  looking  at  me. 
"Where  is  she?"  I  asked. 

"Motel  room.  She  was  alone  from  10  pm  to  noon  on  flight  day." 
Departure  time  was  1:15.  She  cut  it  close  and  would  be  in  a  hurry. 
Good. 

"Can  you  catch  her  in  the  bathroom?  Best  of  all,  in  the  tub?" 
"We're  working  on  it."  She  sketched  a  smile  with  a  fingertip 
drawn  over  lifeless  lips.  She  knew  how  I  like  to  operate,  but  she 
was  telling  me  I'd  take  what  I  got.  It  never  hurts  to  ask.  People 
are  at  their  most  defenseless  stretched  out  and  up  to  their  necks 
in  water. 

"Go!"  Elfreda  shouted.  I  stepped  through,  and  things  started  to 
go  wrong.* 

I  was  faced  the  wrong  way,  stepping  out  oi  the  bathroom  door 
and  facing  the  bedroom.  I  turned  and  spotted  Mary  Katrina  Son- 
dergard  through  the  haze  of  the  gate.  There  was  no  way  I  could 
reach  her  without  stepping  back  through.  I  couldn't  even  shoot 
without  hitting  someone  on  the  other  side. 

Sondergard  was  at  the  mirror,  the  worst  possible  place.  Few 


90  AIRRAID 

people  recognize  themselves  quickly,  but  she'd  been  looking  right 
at  herself.  She  saw  me  and  her  eyes  widened.  I  stepped  to  the 
side,  out  of  her  sight. 

"What  the  hell  is  .  .  .  hey?  Who  the  hell ..."  I  noted  the  voice, 
which  can  be  the  trickiest  thing  to  get  right. 

I  figured  she'd  be  more  curious  than  afraid.  My  guess  was  right. 
She  came  out  of  the  bathroom,  passing  through  the  gate  as  if  it 
wasn't  there,  which  it  wasn't,  since  it  only  has  one  side.  She  had  a 
towel  wrapped  around  her. 

"Jesus  Christ!  What  are  you  doing  in  my — "  Words  fail  you  at  a 
time  like  that.  She  knew  she  ought  to  say  something,  but  what? 
Excuse  me,  haven't  I  seen  you  in  the  mirror? 

I  put  on  my  best  stew  smile  and  held  out  my  hand. 

"Pardon  the  intrusion.  I  can  explain  everything.  You  see,  I'm — " 
I  hit  her  on  the  side  of  the  head  and  she  staggered  and  went  down 
hard.  Her  towel  fell  to  the  floor.  " — working  my  way  through  col- 
lege." She  started  to  get  up,  so  I  caught  her  under  the  chin  with 
my  artificial  knee.  She  stayed  down. 

"Standard  fuggin'  oil\"  I  hissed,  rubbing  my  injured  knuckles. 
But  there  was  no  time.  I  knelt  beside  her,  checked  her  pulse. 
She'd  be  okay,  but  I  think  I  loosened  some  front  teeth.  I  paused  a 
moment.  Lord,  to  look  like  that  with  no  make-up,  no  prosthetics! 
She  nearly  broke  my  heart. 

I  grabbed  her  under  the  knees  and  wrestled  her  to  the  gate.  She 
was  a  sack  of  limp  noodles.  Somebody  reached  through,  grabbed 
her  feet,  and  pulled.  So  long,  love!  How  would  you  like  to  go  on  a 
long  voyage? 

I  sat  on  her  rented  bed  to  get  my  breath.  There  were  car  keys 
and  cigarettes  in  her  purse,  genuine  tobacco,  worth  its  weight  in 
blood.  I  lit  six  of  them,  figuring  I  had  five  minutes  of  my  very 
own.  The  room  filled  with  sweet  smoke.  They  don't  make  'em  like 
that  anymore. 

The  Hertz  sedan  was  in  the  motel  parking  lot.  I  got  in  and 
headed  for  the  airport.  I  breathed  deeply  of  the  air,  rich  in  hy- 
drocarbons. I  could  see  for  hundreds  of  yards  into  the  distance.  The 
perspective  nearly  made  me  dizzy,  but  I  live  for  those  moments. 
There's  no  way  to  explain  what  it's  like  in  the  pre-meck  world. 
The  sun  was  a  fierce  yellow  ball  through  the  haze. 

The  other  stews  were  boarding.  Some  of  them  knew  Sondergard 
so  I  didn't  say  much,  pleading  a  hangover.  That  went  over  well, 


AIR     RAID  91 

with  a  lot  of  knowing  laughs  and  sly  remarks.  Evidently  it  wasn't 
out  of  character.  We  boarded  the  707  and  got  ready  for  the  goats 
to  arrive. 

It  looked  good.  The  four  commandos  on  the  other  side  were 
identical  twins  for  the  women  I  was  working  with.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  be  a  stewardess  until  departure  time.  I  hoped 
there  would  be  no  more  glitches.  Inverting  a  gate  for  a  joker  run 
into  a  motel  room  was  one  thing,  but  in  a  707  at  twenty  thousand 
feet .  .  . 

The  plane  was  nearly  full  when  the  woman  that  Pinky  would 
impersonate  sealed  the  forward  door.  We  taxied  to  the  end  of  the 
runway,  then  we  were  airborne.  I  started  taking  orders  for  drinks 
in  first. 

The  goats  were  the  usual  lot,  for  1979.  Fat  and  sassy,  all  of 
them,  and  as  unaware  of  living  in  a  paradise  as  a  fish  is  of  the 
sea.  What  would  you  think,  ladies  and  gents,  of  a  trip  to  the  fu- 
ture'? No?  I  can't  say  I'm  surprised.  What  if  I  told  you  this  plane  is 
going  to — 

My  alarm  beeped  as  we  reached  cruising  altitude.  I  consulted 
the  indicator  under  my  Lady  Bulova  and  glanced  at  one  of  the  rest- 
room  doors.  I  felt  a  vibration  pass  through  the  plane.  Damn  it, 
not  so  soon. 

The  gate  was  in  there.  I  came  out  quickly,  and  motioned  for 
Diana  Gleason — Dave's  pigeon — to  come  to  the  front. 

"Take  a  look  at  this,"  I  said,  with  a  disgusted  look.  She  started 
to  enter  the  restroom,  stopped  when  she  saw  the  green  glow.  I 
planted  a  boot  on  her  fanny  and  shoved.  Perfect.  Dave  would  have 
a  chance  to  hear  her  voice  before  popping  in.  Though  she'd  be 
doing  little  but  screaming  when  she  got  a  look  around  .  .  . 

Dave  came  through  the  gate,  adjusting  his  silly  little  hat. 
Diana  must  have  struggled. 

"Be  disgusted,"  I  whispered. 

"What  a  mess,"  he  said  as  he  came  out  of  the  restroom.  It  was  a 
fair  imititation  of  Diana's  tone,  though  he'd  missed  the  accent.  It 
wouldn't  matter  much  longer. 

"What  is  it?"  It  was  one  of  the  stews  from  tourist.  We  stepped 
aside  so  she  could  get  a  look,  and  Dave  shoved  her  through.  Pinky 
popped  out  very  quickly. 

"We're  minus  on  minutes,"  Pinky  said.  "We  lost  five  on  the 
other  side." 


92  AIRRAID 

"Five?"  Dave-Diana  squeaked.  I  felt  the  same  way.  We  had  a 
hundred  and  three  passengers  to  process. 

"Yeah.  They  lost  contact  after  you  pushed  my  pigeon  through. 
It  took  that  long  to  re-align." 

You  get  used  to  that.  Time  runs  at  different  rates  on  each  side 
of  the  gate,  though  it's  always  sequential,  past  to  future.  Once 
we'd  started  the  snatch  with  me  entering  Sondergard's  room, 
there  was  no  way  to  go  back  any  earlier  on  either  side.  Here,  in 
1979,  we  had  a  rigid  ninety-four  minutes  to  get  everything  done. 
On  the  other  side,  the  gate  could  never  be  maintained  longer  than 
three  hours. 

"When  you  left,  how  long  was  it  since  the  alarm  went  in?" 

"Twenty-eight  minutes." 

It  didn't  sound  good.  It  would  take  at  least  two  hours  just  cus- 
tomizing the  wimps.  Assuming  there  was  no  more  slippage  on 
79-time,  we  might  just  make  it.  But  there's  always  slippage.  I 
shuddered,  thinking  about  riding  it  in. 

"No  time  for  any  more  games,  then,"  I  said.  "Pink,  you  go  back 
to  tourist  and  call  both  of  the  other  girls  up  here.  Tell  'em  to  come 
one  at  a  time,  and  tell  'em  we've  got  a  problem.  You  know  the 
bit." 

"Biting  back  the  tears.  Got  you."  She  hurried  aft.  In  no  time  the 
first  one  showed  up.  Her  friendly  Sun-Belt  Airlines  smile  was 
stamped  on  her  face,  but  her  stomach  would  be  churning.  Oh  God, 
this  is  it! 

I  took  her  by  the  elbow  and  pulled  her  behind  the  curtains  in 
front.  She  was  breathing  hard. 

"Welcome  to  the  twilight  zone,"  I  said,  and  put  the  gun  to  her 
head.  She  slumped,  and  I  caught  her.  Pinky  and  Dave  helped  me 
shove  her  through  the  gate. 

"Fug!  The  rotting  thing's  flickering." 

Pinky  was  right.  A  very  ominous  sign.  But  the  green  glow  sta- 
bilized as  we  watched,  with  who-knows-how-much  slippage  on  the 
other  side.  Cristabel  ducked  through. 

"We're  plus  thirty-three,"  she  said.  There  was  no  sense  talking 
about  what  we  were  all  thinking:  things  were  going  badly. 

"Back  to  tourist,"  I  said.  "Be  brave,  smile  at  everyone,  but 
make  it  just  a  little  bit  too  good,  got  it?" 

"Check,"  Cristabel  said. 

We  processed  the  other  quickly,  with  no  incident.  Then  there 


AIR     RAID  93 

was  no  time  to  talk  about  anything.  In  eighty-nine  minutes  Flight 
128  was  going  to  be  spread  all  over  a  mountain  whether  we  were 
finished  or  not. 

Dave  went  into  the  cockpit  to  keep  the  flight  crew  out  of  our 
hair.  Me  and  Pinky  were  supposed  to  take  care  of  first  class,  then 
back  up  Cristabel  and  Liza  in  tourist.  We  used  the  standard  "cof- 
fee, tea,  or  milk"  gambit,  relying  on  our  speed  and  their  inertia. 

I  leaned  over  the  first  two  seats  on  the  left. 

"Are  you  enjoying  your  flight?"  Pop,  pop.  Two  squeezes  on  the 
trigger,  close  to  the  heads  and  out  of  sight  of  the  rest  of  the  goats. 

"Hi,  folks.  I'm  Mandy.  Fly  me."  Pop,  pop. 

Half-way  to  the  galley,  a  few  people  were  watching  us  curi- 
ously. But  people  don't  make  a  fuss  until  they  have  a  lot  more  to 
go  on.  One  goat  in  the  back  row  stood  up,  and  I  let  him  have  it. 
By  now  there  were  only  eight  left  awake.  I  abandoned  the  smile 
and  squeezed  off  four  quick  shots.  Pinky  took  care  of  the  rest.  We 
hurried  through  the  curtains,  just  in  time. 

There  was  an  uproar  building  in  the  back  of  tourist,  with  about 
sixty  percent  of  the  goats  already  processed.  Cristabel  glanced  at 
me,  and  I  nodded. 

"Okay,  folks,"  she  bawled.  "I  want  you  to  be  quiet.  Calm  down 
and  listen  up.  You,  fathead,  pipe  down  before  I  cram  my  foot  up 
your  ass  sideways." 

The  shock  of  hearing  her  talk  like  that  was  enough  to  buy  us  a 
little  time,  anyway.  We  had  formed  a  skirmish  line  across  the 
width  of  the  plane,  guns  out,  steadied  on  seat  backs,  aimed  at  the 
milling,  befuddled  group  of  thirty  goats. 

The  guns  are  enough  to  awe  all  but  the  most  foolhardy.  In  es- 
sence, a  standard-issue  stunner  is  just  a  plastic  rod  with  two  grids 
about  six  inches  apart.  There's  not  enough  metal  in  it  to  set  off  a 
hijack  alarm.  And  to  people  from  the  Stone  Age  to  about  2190  it 
doesn't  look  any  more  like  a  weapon  than  a  ball-point  pen.  So 
Equipment  Section  jazzes  them  up  in  a  plastic  shell  to  real  Buck 
Rogers  blasters,  with  a  dozen  knobs  and  lights  that  flash  and  a 
barrel  like  the  snout  of  a  hog.  Hardly  anyone  ever  walks  into  one. 

"We  are  in  great  danger,  and  time  is  short.  You  must  all  do 
exactly  as  I  tell  you,  and  you  will  be  safe." 

You  can't  give  them  time  to  think,  you  have  to  rely  on  your 
status  as  the  Voice  of  Authority.  The  situation  is  just  not  going  to 
make  sense  to  them,  no  matter  how  you  explain  it. 


94  AIRRAID 

"Just  a  minute,  I  think  you  owe  us — " 

An  airborne  lawyer.  I  made  a  snap  decision,  thumbed  the 
fireworks  switch  on  my  gun,  and  shot  him. 

The  gun  made  a  sound  like  a  flying  saucer  with  hemorrhoids, 
spit  sparks  and  little  jets  of  flame,  and  extended  a  green  laser 
fmger  to  his  forehead.  He  dropped. 

All  pure  kark,  of  course.  But  it  sure  is  impressive. 

And  it's  damn  risky,  too.  I  had  to  choose  between  a  panic  if  the 
fathead  got  them  to  thinking,  and  a  possible  panic  from  the  flash 
of  the  gun.  But  when  a  20th  gets  to  talking  about  his  "rights"  and 
what  he  is  "owed,"  things  can  get  out  of  hand.  It's  infectious. 

It  worked.  There  was  a  lot  of  shouting,  people  ducking  behind 
seats,  but  no  rush.  We  could  have  handled  it,  but  we  needed  some 
of  them  conscious  if  we  were  ever  going  to  finish  the  Snatch. 

"Get  up.  Get  up,  you  slugs!"  Cristabel  yelled.  "He's  stunned, 
nothing  worse.  But  I'll  kill  the  next  one  who  gets  out  of  line.  Now 
get  to  your  feet  and  do  what  I  tell  you.  Children  first!  Hurry,  as 
fast  as  you  can,  to  the  front  of  the  plane.  Do  what  the  stewardess 
tells  you.  Come  on,  kids,  move!" 

I  ran  back  into  first  class  just  ahead  of  the  kids,  turned  at  the 
open  restroom  door,  and  got  on  my  knees. 

They  were  petrified.  There  were  five  of  them — crying,  some  of 
them,  which  always  chokes  me  up — looking  left  and  right  at  dead 
people  in  the  first  class  seats,  stumbling,  near  panic. 

"Come  on,  kids,"  I  called  to  them,  giving  my  special  smile. 
"Your  parents  will  be  along  in  just  a  minute.  Everything's  going 
to  be  all  right,  I  promise  you.  Come  on." 

I  got  three  of  them  through.  The  fourth  balked.  She  was  deter- 
mined not  to  go  through  that  door.  She  spread  her  legs  and  arms 
and  I  couldn't  push  her  through.  I  will  not  hit  a  child,  never.  She 
raked  her  nails  over  my  face.  My  wig  came  off,  and  she  gaped  at 
my  bare  head.  I  shoved  her  through. 

Number  five  was  sitting  in  the  aisle,  bawling.  He  was  maybe 
seven.  I  ran  back  and  picked  him  up,  hugged  him  and  kissed  him, 
and  tossed  him  through.  God,  I  needed  a  rest,  but  I  was  needed  in 
tourist. 

"You,  you,  you,  and  you.  Okay,  you  too.  Help  him,  will  you?" 
Pinky  had  a  practiced  eye  for  the  ones  that  wouldn't  be  any  use  to 
anyone,  even  themselves.  We  herded  them  toward  the  front  of  the 
plane,  then  deployed  ourselves  along  the  left  side  where  we  could 


AIRRAID  95 

cover  the  workers.  It  didn't  take  long  to  prod  them  into  action.  We 
had  them  dragging  the  limp  bodies  forward  as  fast  as  they  could 
go.  Me  and  Cristabel  were  in  tourist,  with  the  others  up  front. 

Adrenalin  was  being  catabolized  in  my  body  now;  the  rush  of 
action  left  me  and  I  started  to  feel  very  tired.  There's  an  unavoid- 
able feeling  of  sympathy  for  the  poor  dumb  goats  that  starts  to 
get  me  about  this  stage  of  the  game.  Sure,  they  were  better  off, 
sure  they  were  going  to  die  if  we  didn't  get  them  off  the  plane. 
But  when  they  saw  the  other  side  they  were  going  to  have  a  hard 
time  believing  it. 

The  first  ones  were  returning  for  a  second  load,  stunned  at 
what  they'd  just  seen:  dozens  of  people  being  put  into  a  cubicle 
that  was  crowded  when  it  was  empty.  One  college  student  looked 
like  he'd  been  hit  in  the  stomach.  He  stopped  by  me  and  his  eyes 
pleaded. 

"Look,  I  want  to  help  you  people,  just .  .  .  what's  going  onl  Is 
this  some  new  kind  of  rescue?  I  mean,  are  we  going  to  crash — " 

I  switched  my  gun  to  prod  and  brushed  it  across  his  cheek.  He 
gasped,  and  fell  back. 

"Shut  your  fuggin'  mouth  and  get  moving,  or  I'll  kill  you."  It 
would  be  hours  before  his  jaw  was  in  shape  to  ask  any  more 
stupid  questions. 

We  cleared  tourist  and  moved  up.  A  couple  of  the  work  gang 
were  pretty  damn  pooped  by  then.  Muscles  like  horses,  all  of 
them,  but  they  can  hardly  run  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  We  let  some  of 
them  go  through,  including  a  couple  that  were  at  least  fifty  years 
old.  Je-zuz.  Fifty!  We  got  down  to  a  core  of  four  men  and  two 
women  who  seemed  strong,  and  worked  them  until  they  nearly 
dropped.  But  we  processed  everyone  in  twenty -five  minutes. 

The  portapak  came  through  as  we  were  stripping  off  our 
clothes.  Cristabel  knocked  on  the  door  to  the  cockpit  and  Dave 
came  out,  already  naked.  A  bad  sign. 

"I  had  to  cork  'em,"  he  said.  "Bleeding  Captain  just  had  to 
made  his  Grand  March  through  the  plane.  I  tried  everything.'' 

Sometimes  you  have  to  do  it.  The  plane  was  on  autopilot,  as  it 
normally  would  be  at  this  time.  But  if  any  of  us  did  anything  det- 
rimental to  the  craft,  changed  the  fixed  course  of  events  in  any 
way,  that  would  be  it.  All  that  work  for  nothing,  and  Flight  128 
inaccessible  to  us  for  all  Time.  I  don't  know  sludge  about  time 
theory,  but  I  know  the  practical  angles.  We  can  do  things  in  the 


96  AIRRAID 

past  only  at  times  and  in  places  where  it  won't  make  any  differ- 
ence. We  have  to  cover  our  tracks.  There's  flexibility;  once  a 
Snatcher  left  her  gun  behind  and  it  went  in  with  the  plane.  No- 
body found  it,  or  if  they  did,  they  didn't  have  the  smoggiest  idea 
of  what  it  was,  so  we  were  okay. 

Flight  128  was  mechanical  failure.  That's  the  best  kind;  it 
means  we  don't  have  to  keep  the  pilot  unaware  of  the  situation  in 
the  cabin  right  down  to  ground  level.  We  can  cork  him  and  fly  the 
plane,  since  there's  nothing  he  could  have  done  to  save  the  flight 
anyway.  A  pilot-error  smash  is  almost  impossible  to  Snatch.  We 
mostly  work  mid-airs,  bombs,  and  structural  failures.  If  there's 
even  one  survivor,  we  can't  touch  it.  It  would  not  fit  the  fabric  of 
space-time,  which  is  immutable  (though  it  can  stretch  a  little), 
and  we'd  all  just  fade  away  and  appear  back  in  the  ready-room. 

My  head  was  hurting.  I  wanted  that  portapak  very  badly. 

"Who  has  the  most  hours  on  a  707?"  Pinky  did,  so  I  sent  her  to 
the  cabin,  along  with  Dave,  who  could  do  the  pilot's  voice  for  air 
traffic  control.  You  have  to  have  a  believable  record  in  the  flight 
recorder,  too.  They  trailed  two  long  tubes  from  the  portapak,  and 
the  rest  of  us  hooked  in  up  close.  We  stood  there,  each  of  us  smok- 
ing a  fistful  of  cigarettes,  wanting  to  finish  them  but  hoping  there 
wouldn't  be  time.  The  gate  had  vanished  as  soon  as  we  tossed  our 
clothes  and  the  flight  crew  through. 

But  we  didn't  worry  long.  There's  other  nice  things  about 
Snatching,  but  nothing  to  compare  with  the  rush  of  plugging  into 
a  portapak.  The  wake-up  transfusion  is  nothing  but  fresh  blood, 
rich  in  oxygen  and  sugars.  What  we  were  getting  now  was  an  in- 
sane brew  of  concentrated  adrenalin,  super-saturated  hemoglobin, 
methedrine,  white  lightning,  TNT,  and  Kickapoo  joyjuice.  It  was 
like  a  firecracker  in  your  heart;  a  boot  in  the  box  that  rattled 
your  SOX. 

"I'm  growing  hair  on  my  chest,"  Cristabel  said,  solemnly.  Ev- 
eryone giggled. 

"Would  someone  hand  me  my  eyeballs?" 

"The  blue  ones,  or  the  red  ones?" 

"I  think  my  ass  just  fell  off*." 

We'd  heard  them  all  before,  but  we  howled  anyway.  We  were 
strong,  strong,  and  for  one  golden  moment  we  had  no  worries.  Ev- 
erything was  hilarious.  I  could  have  torn  sheet  metal  with  my 
eyelashes. 


AIRRAID  97 

But  you  get  hyper  on  that  mix.  When  the  gage  didn't  show,  and 
didn't  show,  and  didn't  sweetjeez  show  we  all  started  milling.  This 
bird  wasn't  going  to  fly  all  that  much  longer. 

Then  it  did  show,  and  we  turned  on.  The  first  of  the  wimps 
came  through,  dressed  in  the  clothes  taken  fi-om  a  passenger  it 
had  been  picked  to  resemble. 

"Two  thirty-five  elapsed  upside  time,"  Cristabel  announced. 

"Je-zuz." 

It  is  a  deadening  routine.  You  grab  the  harness  around  the 
wimp's  shoulders  and  drag  it  along  the  aisle,  after  consulting  the 
seat  number  painted  on  its  forehead.  The  paint  would  last  three 
minutes.  You  seat  it,  strap  it  in,  break  open  the  harness  and 
carry  it  back  to  toss  through  the  gate  as  you  grab  the  next  one. 
You  have  to  take  it  for  granted  they've  done  the  work  right  on 
the  other  side:  fillings  in  the  teeth,  fingerprints,  the  right  match 
in  height  and  weight  and  hair  color.  Most  of  those  things  don't 
matter  much,  especially  on  Flight  128  which  was  a  crash-and- 
burn.  There  would  be  bits  and  pieces,  and  burned  to  a  crisp  at 
that.  But  you  can't  take  chances.  Those  rescue  workers  are  pretty 
thorough  on  the  parts  they  do  find;  the  dental  work  and  fin- 
gerprints especially  are  important. 

I  hate  wimps.  I  really  hate  'em.  Every  time  I  grab  the  harness 
of  one  of  them,  if  it's  a  child,  I  wonder  if  it's  Alice.  Are  you  my 
kid,  you  vegetable,  you  slug,  you  slimy  worm?  I  joined  the  Snatch- 
ers  right  after  the  brain  bugs  ate  the  life  out  of  my  baby's  head.  I 
couldn't  stand  to  think  she  was  the  last  generation,  that  the  last 
humans  there  would  ever  be  would  live  with  nothing  in  their 
heads,  medically  dead  by  standards  that  prevailed  even  in  1979, 
with  computers  working  their  muscles  to  keep  them  in  tone.  You 
grow  up,  reach  puberty  still  fertile — one  in  a  thousand — rush  to 
get  pregnant  in  your  first  heat.  Then  you  find  out  your  mom  or 
pop  passed  on  a  chronic  disease  bound  right  into  the  genes,  and 
none  of  your  kids  will  be  immune.  I  knew  about  the  para-leprosy; 
I  grew  up  with  my  toes  rotting  away.  But  this  was  too  much. 
What  do  you  do? 

Only  one  in  ten  of  the  wimps  had  a  customized  face.  It  takes 
time  and  a  lot  of  skill  to  build  a  new  face  that  will  stand  up  to  a 
doctor's  autopsy.  The  rest  came  pre-mutilated.  We've  got  millions 
of  them;  it's  not  hard  to  find  a  good  match  in  the  body.  Most  of 
them  would  stay  breathing,  too  dumb  to  stop,  until  they  went  in 


98  AIRRAID 

with  the  plane. 

The  plane  jerked,  hard.  I  glanced  at  my  watch.  Five  minutes  to 
impact.  We  should  have  time.  I  was  on  my  last  wimp.  I  could  hear 
Dave  frantically  calling  the  ground.  A  bomb  came  through  the 
gate,  and  I  tossed  it  into  the  cockpit.  Pinky  turned  on  the  pres- 
sure sensor  on  the  bomb  and  came  running  out,  followed  by  Dave. 
Liza  was  already  through.  I  grabbed  the  limp  dolls  in  stewardess 
costume  and  tossed  them  to  the  floor.  The  engine  fell  off  and  a 
piece  of  it  came  through  the  cabin.  We  started  to  depressurize. 
The  bomb  blew  away  part  of  the  cockpit  (the  ground  crash  crew 
would  read  it — we  hoped^that  part  of  the  engine  came  through 
and  killed  the  crew:  no  more  words  from  the  pilot  on  the  flight 
recorder)  and  we  turned,  slowly,  left  and  down.  I  was  lifted  to- 
ward the  hole  in  the  side  of  the  plane,  but  I  managed  to  hold  onto 
a  seat.  Cristabel  wasn't  so  lucky.  She  was  blown  backwards. 

We  started  to  rise  slightly,  losing  speed.  Suddenly  it  was  uphill 
from  where  Cristabel  was  lying  in  the  aisle.  Blood  oozed  from  her 
temple.  I  glanced  back;  everyone  was  gone,  and  three  pink-suited 
wimps  were  piled  on  the  floor.  The  plane  began  to  stall,  to  nose 
down,  and  my  feet  left  the  floor. 

"Come  on,  Bel!"  I  screamed.  That  gate  was  only  three  feet  away 
from  me,  but  I  began  pulling  myself  along  to  where  she  floated. 
The  plane  bumped,  and  she  hit  the  floor.  Incredibly,  it  seemed  to 
wake  her  up.  She  started  to  swim  toward  me,  and  I  grabbed  her 
hand  as  the  floor  came  up  to  slam  us  again.  We  crawled  as  the 
plane  went  through  its  final  death  agony,  and  we  came  to  the 
door.  The  gate  was  gone. 

There  wasn't  anything  to  say.  We  were  going  in.  It's  hard 
enough  to  keep  the  gate  in  place  on  a  plane  that's  moving  in  a 
straight  line.  When  a  bird  gets  to  corkscrewing  and  coming  apart, 
the  math  is  fearsome.  So  I've  been  told. 

I  embraced  Cristabel  and  held  her  bloodied  head.  She  was 
groggy,  but  managed  to  smile  and  shrug.  You  take  what  you  get. 
I  hurried  into  the  restroom  and  got  both  of  us  down  on  the  floor. 
Back  to  the  forward  bulkhead,  Cristabel  between  my  legs,  back  to 
front.  Just  like  in  training.  We  pressed  our  feet  against  the  other 
wall.  I  hugged  her  tightly  and  cried  on  her  shoulder. 

And  it  was  there.  A  green  glow  to  my  left.  I  threw  myself  to- 
ward it,  dragging  Cristabel,  keeping  low  as  two  wimps  were 
thrown  head-first  through  the  gate  above  our  heads.  Hands 


i. 

Ll 
c 

e 


o 
£ 

l2, 


0 

g 
Z 


1^ 

KENT 

Go  del  I 
Lights 

8  VqsTar  07  Mgs  Nicotine 


'wmmmm 


KENTCOLOENUCHTS 

ONLY  SMC  TAR. 

YET  TASTES  so  GOOD, 
YOU  WONT  BELIEVE  THE  NUMBERS. 


Warning:  The  Surgeon  General  Has  Determined 
That  Cigarette  Smoking  Is  Dangerous  to  Your  Health. 


Of  All  Brands  Sold:  Lowest  lan  2  mg."lar,"0.2  mg.  nicotine 

av.  per  cigarette,  FTC  Repon  Apr.  1976. 

Kent  Golden  Lights:  8  mg.  "tar," 

0.7  mg.  nicotine  av.  per  cigarette  by  FTC  Method. 


NEW! 

KENT  COLOEN  LIGHTS 

LOWER  IN  TAR 

THAN  ALL  THESE  BRANDS. 


Non-menthol  Filter  Brands 

Tar    Nicotine 
8  mg.  0.7  mg.* 

Non-menthol  Filter  Brands 

Tar 

Micotine 

KENT  GOLDEN  LIGHTS 

RALEIGH  100's 

17mg. 

1.2mg. 

MERIT 

9mg.  0.7  mg.* 

MARLBORO  100's 

17mg. 

1.1  mg. 

VANTAGE 

11  mg.  0.7  mg. 

BENSON  &  HEDGES  100's 

18mg. 

1.1  mg. 

MULTIFILTER 

13  mg.  0.8  mg. 

VICEROY  100's 

18mg. 

1.2mg. 

WINSTON  LIGHTS 

13  mg.  0.9  mg. 

MARLBORO  KING  SIZE 

18mg. 

1.1  mg. 

MARLBORO  LIGHTS 

13  mg.  0.8  mg. 

LARK 

18mg. 

1.2  mg. 

RALEIGH  EXTRA  MILD 

14mg.  0.9mg. 

CAMEL  FILTERS 

18mg. 

1.2  mg. 

VICEROY  EXTRA  MILD 

14mg.  0.9 mg. 

EVE 

18mg. 

1.2  mg. 

PARLIAMENT  BOX 

14  mg.  0.8  mg. 

WINSTON  lOO's 

18mg. 

1.2  mg. 

DORAL 

15mg.  I.Omg. 

WINSTON  BOX 

18mg. 

1.2  mg. 

PARLIAMENT  KING  SIZE 

16  mg.  0.9  mg. 

CHESTERFIELD 

19mg. 

1.2  mg 

VICEROY 

16mg.  1.1  mg. 

LARK  100's 

19mg. 

1.2  mg 

RALEIGH 

16mg.  1.1  mg. 

L&M  KING  SIZE 

19mg; 

1.2  mg. 

VIRGINIA  SLIMS 

16mg.  I.Omg. 

TAREYTON  100's 

19mg. 

1.4mg. 

PARLIAMENT  IGO's 

17 mg.  I.Omg. 

WINSTON  KING  SIZE 

19mg. 

1.3  mg. 

L&M  BOX 

17mg.  1.1  mg. 

L&M  100's 

19mg. 

1.3  mg. 

SILVA  THINS 

17  mg.  1.3  mg. 

PALL  MALL  100's 

19mg. 

1.4mg. 

MARLBORO  BOX 

17 mg.  I.Omg. 

TAREYTON 

21  mg. 

1.4mg 

Source:  FTC  Report  Apr.  1976 

*By  FTC  Method 

Wa 

rning:  The  Surgeon  General  Has 

Determined 

That  Cigarette  Smoking  Is  Dangerous  to 

Your  Health. 

AIRRAID  99 

grabbed  and  pulled  us  through.  I  clawed  my  way  a  good  five  yards 
along  the  floor.  You  can  leave  a  leg  on  the  other  side  and  I  didn't 
have  one  to  spare. 

I  sat  up  as  they  were  carrying  Cristabel  to  Medical.  I  patted  her 
arm  as  she  went  by  on  the  stretcher,  but  she  was  passed  out.  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  passing  out  myself. 

For  a  while,  you  can't  believe  it  all  really  happened.  Sometimes 
it  turns  out  it  didnt  happen.  You  come  back  and  find  out  all  the 
goats  in  the  holding  pen  have  softly  and  suddenly  vanished  away 
because  the  continuum  won't  tolerate  the  changes  and  paradoxes 
you've  put  into  it.  The  people  you've  worked  so  hard  to  rescue  are 
spread  like  tomato  surprise  all  over  some  goddam  hillside  in 
Carolina  and  all  you've  got  left  is  a  bunch  of  ruined  wimps  and  an 
exhausted  Snatch  Team.  But  not  this  time.  I  could  see  the  goats 
milling  around  in  the  holding  pen,  naked  and  more  bewildered 
than  ever.  And  just  starting  to  be  really  afraid. 

Elfreda  touched  me  as  I  passed  her.  She  nodded,  which  meant 
well-done  in  her  limited  repertoire  of  gestures.  I  shrugged,  won- 
dering if  I  cared,  but  the  surplus  adrenalin  was  still  in  my  veins 
and  I  found  myself  grinning  at  her.  I  nodded  back. 

Gene  was  standing  by  the  holding  pen.  I  went  to  him,  hugged 
him.  I  felt  the  juices  start  to  flow.  Damn  it,  let's  squander  a  little 
ration  and  have  us  a  good  time. 

Someone  was  beating  on  the  sterile  glass  wall  of  the  pen.  She 
shouted,  mouthing  angry  words  at  us.  Why'?  What  have  you  done 
to  us?  It  was  Mary  Sondergard.  She  implored  her  bald,  one-legged 
twin  to  make  her  understand.  She  thought  she  had  problems. 
God,  was  she  pretty.  I  hated  her  guts. 

Gene  pulled  me  away  from  the  wall.  My  hands  hurt,  and  I'd 
broken  off  all  my  fake  nails  without  scratching  the  glass.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  floor  now,  sobbing.  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  briefmg 
officer  on  the  outside  speaker. 

".  .  .  Centauri  3  is  hospitable,  with  an  Earth-like  climate.  By 
that,  I  mean  your  Earth,  not  what  it  has  become.  You'll  see  more 
of  that  later.  The  trip  will  take  five  years,  shiptime.  Upon  land- 
fall, you  will  be  entitled  to  one  horse,  a  plow,  three  axes,  two 
hundred  kilos  of  seed  grain  .  .  ." 

I  leaned  against  Gene's  shoulder.  At  their  lowest  ebb,  this  very 
moment,  they  were  so  much  better  than  us.  I  had  maybe  ten 
years,  half  of  that  as  a  basketcase.  They  are  our  best,  our  very 


100 


AIR     RAID 


brightest  hope.  Everything  is  up  to  them. 

".  .  .  that  no  one  will  be  forced  to  go.  We  wish  to  point  out 
again,  not  for  the  last  time,  that  you  would  all  be  dead  without 
our  intervention.  There  are  things  you  should  know,  however. 
You  cannot  breathe  our  air.  If  you  remain  on  Earth,  you  can 
never  leave  this  building.  We  are  not  like  you.  We  are  the  result 
of  a  genetic  winnowing,  a  mutation  process.  We  are  the  survivors, 
but  our  enemies  have  evolved  along  with  us.  They  are  winning. 
You,  however,  are  immune  to  the  diseases  that  afflict  us  .  .  ." 

I  winced,  and  turned  away. 

".  . .  the  other  hand,  if  you  emigrate  you  will  be  given  a  chance 
at  a  new  life.  It  won't  be  easy,  but  as  Americans  you  should  be 
proud  of  your  pioneer  heritage.  Your  ancestors  survived,  and  so 
will  you.  It  can  be  a  rewarding  experience,  and  I  urge  you  .  .  ." 

Sure.  Gene  and  I  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed.  Listen  to 
this,  folks.  Five  percent  of  you  will  suffer  nervous  breakdowns  in 
the  next  few  days,  and  never  leave.  About  the  same  number  will 
commit  suicide,  here  and  on  the  way.  When  you  get  there,  sixty  to 
seventy  percent  will  die  in  the  first  three  years.  You  will  die  in 
childbirth,  be  eaten  by  animals,  bury  two  out  of  three  of  your 
babies,  starve  slowly  when  the  rains  don't  come.  If  you  live,  it  will 
be  to  break  your  back  behind  a  plow,  sun-up  to  dusk.  New  Earth  is 
Heaven,  folks! 

God,  how  I  wish  I  could  go  with  them. 


KINDERTOTENLIEDER 

or 

WHO  PUTS  THE  CREAMY  WHITE 

FILLING  IN  THE  KRAPSNAX? 

by  Jonathan  Fast 

Jonathan  Fast  was  horn  in  1948  in  New  York 

City.  He  studied  music  and  art  through  high 

school  and  college,  and  did  graduate  work  in 

music  at  the  University  of  California  at 

Berkeley.  In  1974,  he  was  one  of  several 

writers  who  worked  on  the  movie.  Two 

Missionaries,  in  Colombia,  South  America. 

Mr.  Fast  recently  returned  from  Malibu  to 

New  Yprk  City  to  settle  down  and  write;  here 

is  one  result  of  that  move  .  .  . 

Jack  Smith  was  eighteen  seconds  olders  than  his  sister  Jane. 
They  had  the  same  strawberry  hair  (hers  bobbed  at  the  shoulder, 
his  short  with  a  cowlick  that  defied  the  comb),  the  same  guileless 
blue  eyes  and  patch  of  freckles  at  the  bridge  of  the  nose.  They 
were  healthy  and  filled  with  adventure  and,  like  all  seven-year- 
old  children,  always  finding  their  way  into  mischief 

One  day  their  dad,  Mr.  Smith,  was  given  a  new  fountain  pen  by 
the  guys  at  the  office,  and  what  a  fountain  pen  it  was!  Black  with 
a  gold  nib  and  clip  and  a  gold  inscription: 

TO  MR.  SMITH — 
FROM  THE  GUYS  AT  THE  OFFICE 

Mr.  Smith  put  it  in  the  top  drawer  of  his  desk  and  warned  the 
children  not  to  play  with  it,  an  invitation  to  disaster. 

Being  the  older,  Jack  mounted  the  chair  and  removed  the  pen. 
(This  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  were  at  the  pta  meeting  and  the 
babysitter,  a  sixteen-year-old  cheerleader  from  the  local  high 
school,  was  occupied  with  her  boyfriend  in  the  living  room.)  Jack's 
motive  was  curiosity  more  than  mischief,  but  the  two  go  hand  in 
hand. 

101 


102  KINDERTOTENLIEDER 

"What's  this  do?"  his  sister  asked,  fooling  with  the  filler  clip, 
and  an  instant  later  there  was  a  blotch  of  ink  on  the  wallpaper. 

"Now  we'll  get  it,"  Jack  said. 

Resourceful  Jane  brought  a  wet  paper  towel  from  the  kitchen 
and  rubbed  the  blotch  until  her  arm  grew  sore. 

"They'll  never  know,"  she  said. 

"What  about  the  pen?  You  emptied  all  the  ink  out." 

Jane  located  Mr.  Smith's  inkwell  and  tried  to  fill  the  pen  but, 
pushing  the  filler  clip  the  wrong  way,  cracked  the  shiny  black 
barrel.  She  did  manage  to  pour  some  ink  in  the  crack  and,  with 
her  brother's  help,  cleaned  up  much  of  what  had  spilled  on  the 
carpet.  The  crack  was  sealed  with  scotch  tape,  the  pen  replaced  in 
its  drawer.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  returned  from  the  PTA 
meeting,  the  twins  were  playing  an  innocent  game  of  Chutes  and 
Ladders. 

"Did  Jack  and  Jane  behave  themselves?"  Mr.  Smith  asked. 

"Angels,"  the  babysitter  replied,  buttoning  her  blouse,  and  her 
boyfriend  nodded  emphatically. 

"Mind  if  I  write  you  out  a  check?"  Mr.  Smith  asked,  going  to  his 
desk. 

"Uh  oh,"  Jack  said,  under  his  breath. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  were  not  so  unobservant  as  Jane  had  sup- 
posed. A  patina  of  tiny  fingerprints  left  no  doubt  about  the  cul- 
prits. The  twins  were  marched  straight  to  bed — no  hot  chocolate, 
no  bedtime  story,  and  worst  of  all,  no  Captain  Krap-Snax,  their 
favorite  evening  television  show. 

The  Captain  had  a  curly  moustache  and  gentle  brown  eyes;  and 
when  he  wept,  which  happened  at  least  once  a  show,  the  tears 
would  well  up  and  flow  like  tiny  rivers  down  either  side  of  his 
big,  funny  nose.  Captain  Krap-Snax  wept  over  Lost  Innocence, 
over  the  Inhumanity  of  Man  and  the  Anonymous  Cruelty  of  Fate. 
The  kids  loved  it. 

That  night's  episode  was  Captain  Krap-Snax  Solves  the  Riddle 
of  the  Cosmos.  Jack  and  Jane  had  been  looking  forward  to  it  all 
week.  To  have  such  precious  knowledge  so  close  at  hand  and  to  be 
denied  it  was  unbearable.  (Captain  Krap-Snax  didn't  pull  any 
punches.)  They  sobbed  and  sniffled  far  into  the  night. 

Mr.  Smith  searched  for  sleep  between  the  flowered  percale,  but 
the  sounds  from  the  twins'  room  down  the  hall,  faint,  like  creak- 
ing hinges,  kept  him  awake.  Near  midnight  he  put  on  his  robe 


KINDERTOTENLIEDER  103 

and  slippers  and  carried  a  heavy  burden  of  guilt  to  their  room  on 
tip-toe.  (It  wouldn't  do  for  Mrs.  Smith  to  find  out;  she  called  him 
"Permissive"  and  "Weak-willed"  and  likened  his  spine  to  old  cel- 
ery. God,  how  he  wished  she'd  slip  in  the  shower  and  split  her 
pretty  platinum  blonde  head.) 

"What's  all  this  sobbing  and  sniffling?"  he  asked,  settling  his 
bulk  at  the  side  of  Jane's  bed. 

"Tonight  was  the  night."  Jack  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow  and 
his  voice  came  broken  and  muffled.  "Captain  Krap-Snax  was 
going  to  solve  the  riddle  of  the  cosmos  and,  and  .  .  ." 

"And  you  made  us  miss  it,"  his  sister  said,  soberly  studying  the 
button  eye  of  her  brown-and-white  stuffed  bear. 

"You  disobeyed  me.  You  broke  my  pen."  Mr.  Smith  tried  to 
sound  firm,  but  the  twins  were  so  adorable  in  their  red  flannel 
Dr.  Denton's,  so  adorably  forlorn — his  resolve  gave  way  and  he 
gathered  them  to  his  bosom,  murmuring  comforting  words. 

"Ah  my  children,  my  dear,  dear  children.  Forgive  us  for  being 
so  harsh  with  you.  We  try  to  raise  you  as  best  we  know  how,  but 
sometimes  in  our  zeal  we  overstep  the  bounds  of  reason." 

Now  the  twins  saw  that  they  had  Mr.  Smith  just  where  they 
wanted  him  and  started  to  bargain.  By  the  time  he  trudged  back 
to  his  bedroom  they  were  a  curly-haired  doll,  a  ten-speed  bike, 
and  a  whole  carton  of  Krap-Snax  the  better  for  it.  Worth  it,  Mr. 
Smith  thought,  laying  his  head  beside  his  wife's  cold  platinum,  to 
hear  their  laughter  like  tiny  tinkling  bells;  a  lullaby. 

"Listen  carefully,  my  dear  children,"  Mr.  Smith  said  the  next 
day  when  they  returned  from  school.  "The  ten-speed  bicycle  is  in 
the  garage;  the  curly-haired  doll  is  in  the  toy  chest;  and  the  car- 
ton of  Krap-Snax  is  waiting  under  your  bed.  Run  up  and  eat  them 
now.  If  Mrs.  Smith  finds  out,  she'll  hide  the  Krap-Snax  and  give 
you  only  one  a  week  and  make  you  brush  your  teeth  after  eating 
it." 

The  twins  ran  to  their  room.  Jack,  being  the  older,  reached 
under  the  bed  and  pulled  out  a  red,  white,  and  blue  carton.  On  the 
cover.  Captain  Krap-Snax  held  up  one  of  the  delicious  little  cakes 
and  asked,  in  a  cartoon  balloon  emanating  from  his  mouth:  "Who 
puts  the  creamy  white  filling  in  the  Krap-Snax?" 

The  riddle  of  the  cosmos.  Reminded  of  it,  the  twins  grew  de- 
pressed. 

"We'll  never  find  out,"  Jack  sighed. 


104  KINDERTOTENLIEDER 

"You  know,"  Jane  said,  after  thinking  it  over  for  a  minute, 
"Dad  got  off  pretty  easy.  He's  out  a  bike  and  a  doll  and  a  couple  of 
dollars  worth  of  cake;  but  we've  missed  The  Answer." 

"Yeah." 

"It's  not  fair." 

"Nope." 

"It's  a  cheat!" 

"Yeah!" 

They  tore  the  crinkly  cellophane  off  a  couple  of  cakes  and 
munched  glumly,  musing  over  the  injustice  of  it.  It  was  a  bad  lot, 
they  decided,  being  children.  Captain  Krap-Snax  understood.  If 
only  the  Captain  were  there,  he'd  know  how  to  make  it  better. 

They  ate  some  more  cakes  and  thought  about  the  Captain's 
gentle  brown  eyes  and  the  way  he  wept  for  them,  and  they  rem- 
inisced about  the  Captain's  adventures  on  Bongo  and  how  he 
had  once  saved  two  children,  quite  a  lot  like  Jack  and  Jane,  from 
the  sickle-toothed  saliva-slick  jaws  of  the  Snatchensnapper. 

When  Mrs.  Smith  called  them  for  dinner,  only  one  Krap-Snax 
remained  in  the  carton  and  their  bellies  were  round,  tight  little 
drums. 

"I'm  not  too  hungry,"  Jack  said,  when  Mrs.  Smith  started  to 
dish  out  the  macaroni  and  cheese. 

"Me  neither,"  said  Jane. 

Mrs.  Smith  gazed  at  them,  and  they  could  almost  feel  the  waves 
of  cold  radiating  from  her  platinum  hair. 

"Are  those  cake  crumbs  on  your  T-shirt,  Jack?"  Mrs.  Smith 
asked.  "And  do  I  see  creamy  white  filling  at  the  comer  of  your 
mouth,  Jane?  You  haven't,  by  any  chance  been  eating  Krap-Snax 
before  dinner?"  she  asked  with  rising  rage. 

"I  don't  think  they  would  .  .  .  not  before  dinner  .  .  .  doesn't  seem 
likely  ..."  Mr.  Smith  mumbled.  She  silenced  him  with  an  icicle  to 
the  heart. 

"Straight  to  bed,  both  of  you!"  she  snapped.  "No  cocoa,  no  bed- 
time story,  and  I'm  afraid  you  will  miss  Captain  Krap-Snax 
again. 

"Furthermore,  I'll  be  keeping  a  close  eye  on  Mr.  Smith — don't 
think  I  didn't  notice  that  shiny  new  ten-speed  bike  in  the  garage 
and  the  curly-haired  doll  in  Jane's  toychest — and  he  better  not  try 
any  of  his  late  night  tip-toeing  to  the  twins'  room." 

Mr.  Smith  stared  guiltily  at  his  plate.  His  bulk  seemed  to  droop 


KINDERTOTENLIEDER  105 

like  warm  wax. 

"What  a  crummy  deal,"  Jane  said  later,  lying  in  the  dark, 
"what  a  crummy,  crummy  deal,"  and  hurled  her  stuffed  bear.  It 
hit  the  far  wall  with  a  satisfying  thud. 

"Yeah,"  Jack  agreed,  "and  I'm  hungry." 

"There's  a  Krap-Snax  left." 

Jack  snapped  on  the  light.  He  pulled  the  carton  from  under  the 
bed,  picked  up  the  last  crinkly-wrapped  Krap-Snax  and  hesitated. 
Beneath  it  was  writing. 

"Hey!"  Jack  said,  "it's  a  message  from  the  Captain,"  and  held 
it  up  to  the  lamp  for  easy  reading.  "It  says:  'Kids,  are  your  par- 
ents insensitive  to  the  agony  of  childhood?  Do  they  levy  cruel 
punishments  for  deeds  which  should  not  be  punished  in  the  first 
place?  Send  100  proof  of  purchase  seals  to:  The  Captain,  Post  Of- 
fice Box  1,  Passaic,  New  Jersey,  and  I'll  send  something  to  ease 
the  pain.'  "  Jack  grinned.  "Count  on  the  Captain." 

At  school,  the  twins  made  it  known  they  were  in  the  market  for 
Krap-Snax  proof  of  purchase  seals.  Andy  Wilson,  whose  index  fin- 
ger permanently  plugged  a  nostril,  had  thirty-six  collected  to- 
wards a  Captain  Krap-Snax  Genetic  Mutation  rifle,  which  he 
planned  to  use  on  his  big  sister.  These  he  reluctantly  traded  Jack 
for  a  month's  homework  and  unlimited  use  of  the  new  ten-speed. 
Jane  negotiated  a  similar  deal  with  pudgy  Dorothy  Weiss:  two 
month's  homework  for  nineteen  seals  she  had  been  saving  for  a 
Captain  Krap-Snax  decoder  ring.  Ruthless  Sammy  Morris  sold 
them  seventeen  for  two  dollars,  and  by  the  end  of  the  week  they 
had  scavenged  twelve  more  from  the  lunchroom  refuse.  Plus  the 
seal  Jack  had  saved  the  night  he  discovered  the  offer,  they  had 
eighty-five.  The  remaining  fifteen  were  purchased  with  piggy 
bank  and  pooled  allowances. 

"What's  this?"  said  Mr.  Smith  one  evening,  opening  a  special 
delivery  package.  "For  Jack  and  Jane  Smith.  Imagine!  My  dear 
little  children  receiving  packages,  just  like  grown-ups.  It  seems 
only  yesterday  they  were  toddling  in  their  playpen  and  so  forth 
and  so  on." 

The  twins  could  hardly  wait  to  get  to  their  room  to  tear  away 
the  plain  brown  wrapper.  The  package  contained  a  scrap  of  paper 
covered  with  childish  scrawls,  an  empty  medicine  bottle,  a  little 
blue  box,  and  a  cover  letter  written  in  a  bold  hand: 


106  KINDERTOTENLIEDER 

Dear  Kids, 

I  promised  you  something  to  make  your  folks 
shape  up  and  when  the  Captain  promises,  he  de- 
livers! 

First  sign  your  name  at  the  bottom  of  the  scrap 
of  paper,  just  the  way  you'd  sign  a  letter.  Then 
take  one  of  the  pills  in  the  blue  box  (be  sure  to 
have  lots  of  water  handy  so  it  won't  stick  in  your 
throat!). 

Lie  down  on  your  bed  holding  the  scrap  of 
paper  in  one  hand  and  the  empty  bottle  in  the 
other. 

Good  luck  and  best  wishes, 
The  Captain 

The  twins  had  just  finished  reading  it  when  the  letter  turned  to 
dust. 

"Gosh!"  said  Jane. 

They  read  the  scrawls  on  the  scrap  of  paper,  and  both  signed 
their  names  in  the  lower  right  hand  corner. 

"Wow!"  said  Jack,  "I  think  I  see  the  Captain's  plan." 

Being  the  older,  he  opened  the  little  blue  box  and  inside  were  two 
little  blue  pills.  No  sooner  had  they  swallowed  the  pills  (one 
apiece,  plenty  of  water,  just  like  the  Captain  said)  when  the  box 
also  turned  to  dust,  a  dust  fine  as  the  motes  that  dance  in  a  sun- 
beam. 

Jane  lay  down  on  her  bed  holding  the  empty  bottle. 

Jack  lay  down  on  his  bed  holding  the  scrap  of  paper. 

Next  morning  at  seven,  Mr.  Smith  discovered  the  stiff  little 
bodies  in  their  red  flannel  shrouds.  Fifteen  minutes  later  Dr. 
Klapsacks  arrived. 

"Is  there  any  hope?"  Mr.  Smith  whimpered,  his  face  twisted  in 
pain,  his  great  bulk  jelly-jiggling  at  every  sob.  "We  found  this 
empty  bottle  in  Jane's  hand." 

"Sleeping  pills,"  Dr.  Klapsacks  said,  solemnly  twirling  his  curly 
mustache.  "You  should  have  kept  them  on  a  high  shelf.  You  should 
have  had  a  bottle  with  a  tamper-proof  cap." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Mr.  Smith  wailed. 

"We  found  this  scrap  of  paper  in  Jack's  hand."  Mrs.  Smith  said, 
and  snowflakes  drifted  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 


KINDERTOTENLIEDER  107 

Dear  Mom  and  Dad, 

Because  we  loved  you  so  much,  we  wanted  you 
to  be  proud  of  us.  We  always  tried  our  hardest  to 
be  good  little  boys  and/or  girls.  But  we  guess  our 
hardest  wasn't  good  enough.  Goodbye. 
Jack  and  Jane 

"You  must  have  been  very  cruel,"  Dr.  Klapsacks  said,  regarding 
them  with  gentle  brown  eyes. 

"Oh,  we  were,"  Mr.  Smith  said.  "So  very,  very  cruel.  If  only  we 
could  have  another  chance  ..." 

Dr.  Klapsacks  was  bending  over  Jane,  peeling  back  her  eyelid. 
He  rose  and  turned  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith.  "I'm  afraid  it's  too 
late." 

O  •  O 

At  noon  a  representative  from  Knapshack's  Funeral  Parlor  ar- 
rived. He  had  gentle  brown  eyes  and  a  curly  moustache  and,  as  he 
sat  with  Mr.  and  Mrs-.  Smith,  sharing  their  grief,  tears  streamed 
down  either  side  of  his  big,  funny  nose.  Respectfully  he  offered  his 
condolences  and  a  funeral  plan  kind  on  the  pocketbook. 

"They  were  such  dear,  dear  little  children,"  Mr.  Smith  began, 
for  the  twentieth  time  that  day.  "If  only  ..." 

"I'm  sure,"  the  representative  said,  ''they  will  find  lasting 
peace  with  the  Almighty." 

O  •  O 

Rain  drummed  on  the  taut  black  skin  of  umbrellas.  Family  and 
friends  gathered  about  the  ditch,  high  heels  sinking  into  the  mud, 
polished  Oxfords  spattered  and  begrimed.  The  coffins  were 
lowered — Jack's  first,  being  the  older — and  laid  to  rest  side  by 
side. 

The  Minister  preached  a  moving  sermon,  recalling  all  of  the 
twins'  virtues  and  nearly  none  of  their  faults  (as  people  are  apt  to 
do,  eulogizing).  He  tossed  a  clot  of  mud  into  the  ditch — it  rang 
hollow  on  the  coffin  top — and  the  gathering  slowly  dispersed, 
shiny  wet  raincoated  couples  moving  down  the  hill  to  where  the 
limousines  waited. 

"Wonderful  children,"  murmured  Mrs.  Crumpet,  their  second 
grade  teacher. 

"Angels,"  said  Sally  Snippet,  a  cheerleader  from  the  local  high 
school,  huddling  under  her  boyfriend's  umbrella. 


108  KINDERTOTENLIEDER 

"And  what  a  marvelous  minister!"  Aunt  Edna  said  to  Uncle 
Bill.  "With  those  gentle  brown  eyes.  I  never  thought  it  proper  for 
clergy  to  wear  moustaches,  but  that  curly  one,  somehow  it  was 
just  right.  What  was  his  name?"  she  asked  Uncle  Bill,  thinking  it 
might  be  useful  to  remember  for  future  deaths. 

"Er,  Stackcaps?  Or  was  it  Kapstacks?" 

"Packstaps,"  said  Uncle  George,  who  always  knew  ever5rthing. 
O  •  O 

Jack  awoke  in  musty  darkness.  He  tried  to  sit  up  and  banged 
his  nose  on  a  tufted  silk  ceiling  only  inches  above;  nor  was  there 
room  to  move  to  the  left  or  right.  He  called  for  Jane.  He  called  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith;  then  for  anyone  who  might  hear. 

When  nobody  came  he  stopped  calling  and  thought  to  examine 
the  situation.  He  was  wearing  his  best  suit  and  somehow,  he 
realized,  feeling  his  head,  someone  had  managed  to  make  his  cow- 
lick stay  down.  (Fat  lot  of  good  it  would  do  him  here,  wherever  he 
was.)  He  felt  all  around  for  an  opening,  a  latch  or  a  lightswitch, 
but  the  rhomboid  tufted  silk  ran  the  radius  of  his  reach  uninter- 
rupted. He  was  cold.  Damp.  Lonely,  oh  so  lonely!  He  started  to 
cry. 

He  didn't  know  how  long  he  cried,  but  there  came  a  time  when 
the  little  space  smelled  musty  indeed  and  he  had  difficulty  filling 
his  lungs.  He  began  to  cough  and  choke  and  scream  senselessly. 

Then  the  floor  fell  out  like  a  funhouse  ride  and  he  was  falling, 
the  way  he  fell  in  his  dreams,  right  down  to  the  middle  of  the 
Earth,  perhaps.  He  landed — plop! — on  a  soft  feather  bed.  It  was 
still  dark  but  he  knew  someone  was  beside  him. 

"Jane?"  he  asked  softly,  tentatively. 

"Jack?"  came  his  sister's  voice  from  the  darkness. 

What  a  joyful  reunion  that  was!  They  were  still  hungry  and 
cold  and  lost,  but  at  least  they  were  together,  wonderful  together. 
(And  isn't  that  half  the  twin  terror  of  death?  Alone  and  Forever.) 

Feeling  their  way  before  them,  they  found  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
Jack,  being  the  older,  slid  over  the  side,  fell  four  feet  and  landed 
up  to  his  ankles  in  a  warm  soupy  liquid.  Jane  followed  and  they 
began  to  walk. 

He  was  wearing  his  best  shoes,  and  after  a  while  the  liquid 
soaked  the  soles  and  he  felt  like  he  was  walking  on  accordions. 

"It  might  be  easier,"  he  said,  "if  we  took  off  our  shoes  and 
socks."  So  they  did  and  the  slimy  floor  squished  between  their 


KINDERTOTENLIEDER  109 

toes,  and  tiny  minnow-like  somethings  brushed  against  their  feet. 

Once  they  counted  together  to  three  and  shouted,  "Help,  help, 
help,"  loud  as  they  could;  but  the  darkness  swallowed  their  voices 
and  scared  them  all  the  more. 

"This  reminds  me,"  Jane  said,  "of  Bongo,"  and  instantly  regret- 
ted it;  for  Bongo  was  the  home  of,  among  other  nameless,  shape- 
less terrors,  the  Snatchensnapper. 

"Naw,"  said  Jack.  "It's  nothing  like  Bongo.  I  think  we're  at  the 
ocean  and  it's  night." 
Jane  appreciated  this,  though  neither  of  them  believed  it. 

If  it  had  been  night,  then  a  time  came  when  it  should  have 
been  day,  but  the  darkness  remained  absolute  and  impenetrable. 
They  surely  would  have  fallen  from  hunger  and  fatigue,  if  not  for 
the  beacon.  It  showed  first  like  a  star  at  the  horizon.  Their  spirits 
soared  to  see  it  and  they  walked  faster  and  the  bounce  came  back 
to  their  step. 

Gradually  the  beacon  grew  to  a  bar  of  yellow  light  and  the 
twins  were  running,  splashing  and  slipping  in  the  warm  soupy 
liquid. 

"It's  a  sign,"  Jack  panted,  "a  light-up  sign,  like  at  the  bowling 
alley." 

Then  they  were  standing  beneath  it,  and  the  sign  shined  down 
on  them,  turning  their  troubled  faces  the  color  of  old  newspaper. 
The  sign  said:  krap-snax. 

Beneath  the  sign  was  a  door.  On  the  door  was  a  bell.  Jack, 
being  the  older,  rang. 

They  were  blinded  by  light  when  the  door  opened. 

"I've  been  expecting  you  kids,"  a  voice  said,  and  the  voice  was 
deep  and  rich  and  resonant.  They  recognized  it  immediately. 

"Gosh,  Captain,"  Jack  said,  "what  are  you  doing  here?"  and  vis- 
ored  his  eyes,  trying  to  see. 

"I'm  here  to  meet  you,"  the  Captain  said.  "Come  on  in." 

They  stumbled  across  the  doorstep  and  their  feet  touched  dry 
steel  nubbly  with  rivets. 

"Where  are  we?"  Jane  asked. 

"We're  on  Bongo,"  the  Captain  said,  then  added  quickly,  seeing 
the  fearful  look  on  the  twins'  faces,  "but  don't  worry,  you're  safe 
with  me." 

Soon  their  eyes  adjusted  to  the  light  and  they  could  make  out 
his  reassuring  features:  the  gentle  brown  eyes,  curly  moustache. 


110  KINDERTOTENLIEDER  / 

The  big,  funny  nose.  The  compassionate  line  of  his  lips. 

They  were  standing  in  a  narrow  hallway.  The  Captain  took 
them  by  the  hand  and  led  them  through  a  second  door,  into  a 
cavernous  room.  Great  arc  lights  set  high  above  glared  off  the 
riveted  steel  and  the  din  of  machinery  was  painful  to  the  ear. 
Thousands  of  children  Jack  and  Jane's  age  sat  in  rows,  bending 
over  conveyer  belts. 

"Well,"  the  Captain  said,  rubbing  his  hands,  "it's  time  to  get  to 
work.  Here  are  your  official  Captain  Krap-Snax  ladles." 

"Thanks,  Captain,"  the  twins  said,  and  Jane  added,  "Whew! 
These  sure  are  heavy!" 

The  Captain  led  them  to  an  enormous  vat  filled  with  thick, 
white  cream,  and  showed  them  how  to  fill  their  ladles.  He  seated 
them  in  two  empty  chairs  by  the  conveyer  belt.  The  chairs  were 
steel  and  hard. 

"Hey,  Captain,"  Jack  said,  pointing  to  the  conveyer  belt,  "aren't 
those  Krap-Snax  cakes?" 

"They  will  be,"  the  Cdptain  replied,  "once  you  put  in  the 
creamy  white  filling." 

"Oh,"  said  Jane,  looking  a  little  disappointed. 

"Somebody  has  to  do  it,"  the  Captain  said. 

"I  guess,"  Jack  agreed. 

The  little  black-haired  boy  on  his  right  was  thin  and  wan,  Jack 
noticed,  and  extremely  nervous.  He  kept  up  a  frantic  pace,  part- 
ing each  cake,  pouring  the  filling,  sealing  the  wound,  now  and 
then  glancing  fearfully  at  the  Captain. 

"What  if  we  don't  want  to?"  Jack  asked. 

"Then  you  go  in  there."  The  Captain  pointed  to  a  door  the  twins 
hadn't  noticed  before.  It  was  steel  with  reinforcements  riveted 
across  it,  and  from  behind  it  came  a  wet  snorting,  drooling  sound 
that  made  their  skin  crawl. 

"What's  in  there?"  Jane  asked. 

"The  Snatchensnapper,"  the  Captain  replied. 

And  the  twins  went  to  work  without  so  much  as  a  grumble. 


PERIOD  OF  TOTALITY 

by  Fred  Saberhagen 

Just  recently,  the  author  moved  from  his 

birthplace,  Chicago,  to  New  Mexico,  where  he 

and  his  family  are  enjoying  the  sun  and 

scenery.  His  wife  teaches  mathematics,  his 

children  wear  home-made  'Berserker'  T-shirts 

to  SF  conventions,  and  Mr.  Saberhagen  has 

been  selling  science  fiction  since  1961. 

The  old  man  in  the  spacesuit  came  out  of  the  low  cave  mouth, 
squinting  out  across  the  scarred  and  airless  surface  of  the  world 
informally  called  Slag.  The  land  before  him  was  a  jumble  of  cra- 
ters and  hillocks  and  strange  structures  like  frozen  wave-foam, 
some  of  which  looked  almost  like  examples  of  wind-erosion.  Gray 
was  the  predominant  color,  in  shades  ranging  from  glaring  silver 
to  dull  near-black.  Kilometers  away,  though  looking  deceptively 
nearer  in  the  airless  distance,  the  silvery  ovoid  of  an  interstellar 
spaceship  waited,  balancing  on  its  larger  end.  The  old  man's  gaze 
was  turned  toward  the  ship,  and  from  the  same  general  direction 
a  double  line  of  wide-wheeled  vehicle  tracks  approached  the  place 
where  he  was  standing.  The  tracks  wound  around  some  of  the 
more  difficult  features  of  the  landscape,  and  finally  vanished  in 
the  broad-mouthed  cave. 

The  cave  gaped  like  a  small  black  mouth  in  the  high,  silvery 
scarp  which,  like  a  pedestal,  held  Slag's  sole  mountain  on  display. 
It  would  not  have  been  much  of  a  mountain  anywhere  else,  but 
here  it  dominated  all. 

In  his  suited  hands  the  old  man  gripped  a  broad,  flat  plate  that 
might  have  made  the  seat  of  an  uncomfortable  chair.  He  bent 
down  and  hurriedly  positioned  this  plate  on  the  powdery,  crum- 
bling soil,  so  that  its  flat  side  faced  as  squarely  as  possible  toward 
the  dwarfish  sun,  now  creeping  toward  a  prolonged  noon.  Behind 
the  optical  shelter  of  his  faceplate  the  man's  eyes  were  raised 
momentarily  toward  that  alien  sun,  burning  with  a  somehow 
dead-looking  whiteness  amid  its  unnamed  constellations.  A  satel- 
lite looking  somewhat  broader  than  Earth's  moon  as  seen  from 
Earth  showed  a  white  scimitar  of  waning  crescent.  Without  tarry- 
Ill 


112  PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY 

ing,  the  man  turned  and  hurried  back  into  the  cave,  erich  du  bos 
said  the  letters  across  his  spacesuit's  back. 

At  the  start,  the  cave  was  a  low  overhang  of  rock,  nearly  fifty 
meters  broad,  though  very  shallow;  inside  that,  its  first  real,  shel- 
tered chamber  was  only  a  tenth  as  wide,  much  deeper,  and  high 
enough  to  offer  ample  standing  room.  The  cave  seemed  to  be  a 
series  of  bubble-spaces  left  in  the  mountain's  base  by  some  an- 
cient outgassing  of  the  planet's  interior.  Once  inside,  Du  Bos 
edged  his  way  around  the  low-slung,  functional  bulk  of  the  roof- 
less ground  vehicle  that  took  up  a  good  part  of  this  chamber's 
space,  and  came  to  stand  beside  his  two  shipmates.  Clad  in  suits 
similar  to  his,  they  were  silently  gazing  at  the  readout  unit  of  the 
radiation  counter  whose  pickup  Du  Bos  had  just  positioned  out- 
side facing  the  sun.  The  counter  was  mounted  in  the  vehicle's 
equipment  rack. 

As  Du  Bos  watched  now,  Einar  Amdo,  ship's  captain  and  com- 
mander of  the  small  expedition,  reached  out  a  suited  arm  and 
switched  scales  on  the  counter.  The  wavering  line  of  illuminated 
nines  that  ran  across  its  digital  panel  wavered  a  little  more,  and 
then  maintained  its  testimony  that  the  intensity  of  the  corpuscu- 
lar radiation  sleeting  down  outside  was  still  in  excess  of  the  in- 
strument's capacity  to  count  at  present  settings.  Amdo  had  to 
switch  to  an  even  less  sensitive  scale  to  get  a  meaningful  reading, 
and  the  reading  increased  even  as  they  watched.  The  wind  that 
had  driven  the  explorers  to  shelter  was  still  rising. 

Outside  the  cave,  all  across  the  eternally  sun-roasted  landscape 
of  this  hemisphere  of  Slag,  the  storm  of  solar  wind  raged  on,  a 
deluge  of  subatomic  particles  from  the  so-innocent-looking  sun, 
Du  Bos  was  generally  accounted  one  of  the  finest  astrophysicists 
in  the  galaxy — or  at  least  in  that  modest  portion  of  it  that  had 
been  colonized  by  Earth-descended  man — but  this  storm  had 
taken  him  completely  by  surprise.  Nothing  in  the  decades  of  re- 
cords of  this  sun's  spectrum  and  light-curves,  made  from  far 
away,  or  in  his  own  observations  since  coming  in-system  here  a 
few  standard  days  ago,  had  prepared  him  for  any  such  squalling 
solar  gale  as  this.  A  few  days  ago,  a  few  hours  ago  even,  the  star 
had  presented  a  corona  quite  mild  and  normal  for  its  type.  Then, 
out  of  nowhere  as  it  seemed,  a  blizzard  of  protons,  a  hail  of  neut- 
rons, an  avalanche  of  helium  nuclei  ...  all  without  the  least  trace 
of  optical  flaring  on  the  sun,  flaring  that  by  all  the  known  rules 


PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY  113 

should  have  come  to  give  a  necessary  and  sufficient  warning,  as 
dark  clouds  and  dropping  pressure  warn  the  mariner. 

Du  Bos  leaned  forward  slightly,  the  captain  drew  back  a  little, 
deferentially,  and  the  scientist  took  over  the  counter's  controls. 
With  it  he  sampled  the  divers  types  and  energies  of  particles  in 
the  bombardment  outside.  He  grunted  and  shook  his  head, 
thought  things  over,  and  tried  again. 

When  Du  Bos  stood  back  from  the  counter  a  little  later,  he  an- 
nounced: "There  are  only  two  things  about  this  flux  of  particles 
that  I  can  say  now,  with  any  certainty.  First,  some  new  refine- 
ment of  astrophysical  theory  is  going  to  be  required  to  explain  it. 

"Second,  if  we  should  have  to  leave  this  deep  cave  while  it  is 
still  in  progress — did  you  estimate  about  twenty  minutes'  driving 
time  back  to  the  ship,  captain? — well,  we  are  not  likely  to  survive 
for  that  length  of  time  outside." 

"If  we're  in  difficulties,"  said  a  girl's  crisp  voice,  through  the 
small  radio  speaker  inside  Du  Bos's  helmet,  "it's  my  fault.  That 
twenty  minutes,  I  mean."  Selina  Jabal,  third  member  of  the  ex- 
pedition, continued:  "Airless  planetary  surfaces  are  supposed  to  be 
my  field." 

"And  survival  is  supposed  to  be  mine,"  said  Captain  Amdo.  "So 
I  can  assume  the  burden  for  whatever  difficulties  we  have.  But 
first  let's  see  just  how  serious  they  are."  He  moved  to  begin  an 
inspection  of  the  reserve  oxygen  tanks,  which  were  stowed  aboard 
the  vehicle. 

Selina  had  meant  that  the  grotesque  appearance  of  the  land- 
scape, seen  close  up,  should  have  at  once  suggested  to  her  expert 
eye  the  possibility  that  this  surface  underwent  periodic  intense 
bombardment  by  particle  radiation;  and,  just  as  important,  she 
should  have  been  aware  that  what  seemed  to  be  solid  surface 
here,  safe  for  their  loaded  vehicle,  might  prove  as  treacherous  as 
any  glacial  icefield. 

They  had  come  to  this  system  seeking  an  explanation  for 
Slag's — and  its  satellite's — survival  of  the  nova  explosions  that 
must  have  accompanied  the  reduction  of  this  star  to  its  present 
white  dwarf  stage.  They  had  decided  to  land  near  the  mountain, 
by  far  Slag's  most  conspicuous  surface  feature;  and  they  had  dri- 
ven toward  the  mountain  in  their  groundcar  for  less  than  a 
kilometer  before  being  nearly  killed  when  crevasses  opened  up 
behind  them  and  ahead,  as  surface  features  eaten  and  eroded  by 


114  PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY 

ages  of  radiation  suddenly  collapsed  beneath  the  expedition's 
weight.  I 

For  a  short  time  it  had  seemed  that  they  were  trapped,  between^ 
bottomless-looking  though  narrow  chasms.  But  their  vehicle,  its 
four-wheel  electric  motor  drive  powered  by  counter-rotating 
flywheels,  was  stable  and  agile  as  a  mule,  and  considerably  more 
powerful.  They  had  driven  on  to  solid  ground;  then  the  only  appa- 
rent trouble,  which  at  first  seemed  minor,  was  that  the  shortest 
feasible  return  route  to  the  ship,  one  skirting  the  crevasse  com- 
plex, had  become  twenty  minutes  long  instead  of  two. 

Amdo  had  the  figures  now  on  the  factor  that  made  the  situation 
deadly.  The  captain,  rather  stocky,  and  almost  perfectly  bald  in- 
side his  helmet,  turned  back  and  gave  the  bad  news  to  the  others. 
"Well,  if  this  storm  goes  on  for  sixteen  hours  or  more,  we're  going 
to  face  a  very  serious  oxygen  problem  in  trying  to  wait  it  out.  Du 
Bos,  what  are  the  chances  are  that  it  will  last  that  long?" 

"I  can't  say,"  the  tall,  gray  astrophysicist  answered  instantly. 
"It  would  be  sheer  guesswork  if  I  tried." 

Selina  Jabal,  her  figure  even  in  its  suit  showing  a  suggestion  of 
slender  grace,  was  bending  to  aim  one  of  her  suit  lights  toward 
the  cave's  entrance.  A  small  portion  of  the  outside  surface  could 
be  seen  from  this  sheltered  observation  post. 

"Kind  of  a  fairy-castle  structure,"  she  mused  on  radio.  "Obvi- 
ous, even  exaggerated.  I  should  have  thought  of  subatomic  parti- 
cle bombardment  as  soon  as  I  saw  it." 

Captain  Amdo  squatted  down  beside  her.  "I  suppose  there's  no 
telling  from  the  condition  of  the  surface  how  often  these  storms 
erupt,  or  how  long  they're  likely  to  last." 

"I  don't  see  how.  At  least  not  without  a  major  research  project." 
Selina  Jabal  continued  to  stare  at  the  surface,  just  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  cave.  "Look  .  .  .  captain,  we  just  drove  the  vehicle  in 
here  once,  didn't  we?  I  mean,  we  didn't  maneuver  in  and  out  to  fit 
the  parking  space  or  anything." 

"No  ...  by  God,  I  see  what  you're  looking  at.  You're  right." 

They  were  all  bending  down  and  looking  now.  There  in  the 
brittle,  crumbly  soil  ran  what  must  be  the  track  of  their  vehicle's 
left  front  roller,  partially  obliterated  by  the  track  of  the  left  rear, 
which  crossed  it  in  a  curve  that  showed  how  the  tractor  had  been 
steered  into  this  fortuitous  shelter,  less  than  a  minute  after  the 
radiation  alarm  had  sounded. 


PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY  115 

Now,  just  what  had  made  those  other,  older,  weathered-looking 
roller  tracks  that  lay  beneath  their  own? 

Outside  the  cave,  erosion  that  must  have  been  wrought  at  least 
in  part  by  repeated  solar  storms  seemed  to  have  destroyed  any  old 
tracks  that  might  otherwise  have  existed.  And  inside  the  cave 
their  own  booted  feet  had  already  trampled  almost  everywhere 
except  directly  beneath  the  vehicle. 

Amdo  was  down  on  hands  and  knees,  already  looking  there. 
"Another  vehicle  was  in  here  once,"  he  announced,  focusing  his 
suit  lights.  "More  old  tracks,  plainer  here.  It  had  a  different  style 
of  rollers  from  ours.  In  fact  that  looks  like  the  kind  of  roller  they 
had  in  use  about  the  time  ..." 

He  was  on  his  feet  again  abruptly,  flashing  his  light  about  the 
cave,  into  niches  and  recesses  toward  which  the  refugees  had 
scarcely  looked  as  yet.  "That's  not  one  of  ours." 

It  was  a  portable  oxygen  tank,  propped  on  a  natural  rock  shelf 
in  what  would  have  been  a  prominent  position  if  the  whole 
chamber  of  the  cave  had  been  evenly  lighted.  In  a  moment  they 
all  saw  that  the  tank  was  weighting  down  what  appeared  to  be  a 
folded  sheet  of  writing  plastic. 

"I'd  say  it's  about  as  old  as  the  rollers  that  made  those  tracks," 
said  Amdo,  giving  the  oxygen  cylinder  a  cursory  examination  as 
he  took  it  down  from  the  niche.  "And  empty  now,  of  course." 

He  next  took  down  the  writing  plastic  from  the  shelf,  and 
opened  its  single  fold.  Its  white  surface  lit  up  the  whole  chamber 
as  the  beams  from  three  suit  lamps  fell  on  it  at  close  range.  There 
were  a  few  paragraphs  of  handwriting,  a  rather  unstable,  wander- 
ing script. 

The  message,  in  the  lingua  franca  of  space  exploration,  began 
with  a  date,  some  forty  standard  years  in  the  past,  and  told  how 
the  writer  had  been  trapped  in  the  cave,  away  from  his  ship,  by 
an  unforeseen  particle  storm  issuing  from  an  optically  stable  sun. 
It  went  on: 

Part  of  the  risk  (which  I  have  accepted)  of  working 
alone  is  that  there's  now  no  one  in  the  ship  to 
move  her  to  me. 

No  eclipse  is  due  in  the  next  couple  of  hours,  so 
the  one  posible  answer  I  have  worked  out  won't  do 
me  any  good.  If  an  eclipse  were  coming,  the  ac- 


IIQ  PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY 

companying  particle  eclipse  could  save  me.  It  be- 
gins in  a  different  place,  and  some  time  ahead  of 
the  optical  eclipse,  but  overlap  of  the  areas  shadod 
should  be  large.  The  white  dwarf  is  so  small  that 
the  optical  period  of  totality  is  long — I  would  get 
the  few  minutes  respite  I  need  to  reach  my  ship. 
Have  been  trapped  in  cave  over  200  hours  now 
with  no  letup  of  storm,  and  will  just  have  to  make 
a  dash  for  it  if  weather  is  no  better  by  the  time  my 
oxygen  is  down  to  half  an  hour.  Have  tried  to  rig  a 
shield  over  the  tractor  with  flooring  &  other  gear 
but  not  much  hope  for  it  I  fear.  Not  much  hope 
that  anyone  will  find  this  either  but  one  tries. 

Kevin  Medellin 

"So,  that's  what  happened  to  Medellin,"  mused  Amdo  as  he 
turned  the  sheet  over  in  gloved  fingers,  started  to  refold  it  au- 
tomatically, and  then  gave  it  instead  to  Du  Bos  who  had  put  out  a 
hand. 

The  captain  turned  then,  and  caught  sight  of  Selina  Jabal's 
puzzled  look  behind  her  faceplate.  "Maybe  you've  never  heard  of 
him.  Medellin  was  an  explorer  and  a  rather  crankish  scientist — " 

"Pseudoscientist,"  put  in  Du  Bos,  with  brief  contempt. 

"Whatever.  He  had  some  fancy  theories  about  protostars  and 
other  things,  that  are  quite  out  of  favor  now.  Quite  a  controver- 
sialist, but  with  enough  fame  and  authority  to  be  allowed  to  go 
rattling  around  on  solo  exploration  trips,  on  one  of  which  he  dis- 
appeared, no  one  knew  where.  There  was  quite  a  furor  at  the 
time,  and  there  are  still  flurries  of  speculation  on  his  fate."  The 
captain  spread  his  hands  out,  palms  up,  pulled  them  back.  "Now 
we  know.  He  was  evidently  in  this  cave,  for  the  same  reason  we 
are,  though  I  don't  think  anyone  even  guessed  he  was  in  this  sys- 
tem. Once  you  start  to  take  a  close  look  at  Slag,  you  want  to  see 
the  mountain;  and  once  you  examine  the  mountain,  there's  this 
cave-mouth  showing  up  like  an  empty  eyesocket." 

"We  didn't  see  his  ship,"  Selina  mused.  "But  I  suppose  he  could 
have  taken  off,  even  if  he  didn't  make  it — afterwards." 

Amdo  asked:  "What's  this  he  says  about  particle  eclipses? 
Likely  to  do  us  any  good?" 

The  astronomer  was  still  poring  over  the  note.  "He  was  evi- 


PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY  117 

dently  already  suffering  from  anoxia  when  he  wrote  this — there 
are  several  misspellings.  Of  course,  a  particle  eclipse  should  real- 
ly begin  after  the  optical  eclipse,  not  earlier.  The  particles  take 
longer  to  get  here  from  the  sun  than  the  light  does." 

"But  a  particle  eclipse  should  actually  occur?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  believe  there's  some  similar  effect  in  the  Sun- 
Earth-Moon  system,  for  example.  Of  course  there  the  solar  wind 
intensity  can't  be  anything  like  this,  but  the  principle  will  be  the 
same."  Du  Bos  pulled  his  calculator  from  its  holster  at  his  belt. 
"To  determine  when  the  next  eclipse  is  due  here,  I'll  have  to  go 
outside  long  enough  to  take  a  sighting  or  two  on  the  satellite." 

Privately,  Du  Bos  was  hopeful.  The  orbital  plane  of  the  moon  of 
Slag  was  nearly  parallel  with  that  of  the  planet's  orbit  around  its 
sun,  so  that  a  solar  eclipse  must  come  during  nearly  every  revolu- 
tion of  the  satellite.  While  approaching  for  a  landing,  the  explor- 
ers had  seen  the  broad  spot  of  the  shadow  on  the  slow-rotating 
planet's  midsection. 

It  was  the  young  woman's  turn  now  to  study  the  note,  while  Du 
Bos  selected  instruments  from  the  vehicle  and  went  to  make  his 
observations.  Amdo  volunteered  to  take  a  turn  outside,  and  thus 
minimize  the  older  man's  exposure  to  radiation,  but  Du  Bos 
brushed  him  off.  Less  than  a  minute  should  be  required,  he  said, 
and  he  preferred  to  do  his  own  observing. 

He  was  back  as  promptly  as  promised,  and  the  relief  in  his 
voice  was  evident.  "We're  in  luck.  There'll  be  an  eclipse  this  con- 
junction, we're  right  in  its  path,  and  first  contact  is  due  only 
about  two  standard  hours  and  fifteen  minutes  from  now.  Totality 
will  come  very  quickly  after  that  and  should  last  about  twelve 
minutes,  for  the  optical  eclipse.  Then  we  can  watch  for  the  parti- 
cle eclipse — just  how  long  it  will  last  is  hard  to  estimate — and  be 
ready  to  move  out  in  the  vehicle  the  instant  the  radiation  falls 
off.  For  the  next  couple  of  hours  I  suppose  we'd  better  get  some 
rest  and  conserve  our  air." 

Amdo's  smile  was  broad.  "Sounds  like  a  good  plan."  Selina 
stood  straighter,  and  some  of  her  innate  sprightliness  came  back. 
When  the  two  men  went  into  an  inner  chamber  of  the  cave  to 
rest,  where  there  was  reasonable  room  to  stretch  out  at  approxi- 
mately full  length,  she  remained  in  the  larger  room,  saying  she 
wanted  to  do  a  little  work. 

Alone,  she  first  set  about  gathering  some  samples  of  material 


118  PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY 

from  the  floors  and  walls  of  the  cave,  and.  taking  photographs. 
Shortly  she  paused,  to  frowningly  re-read  Medellin's  note.  Then 
she  stowed  her  samples  and  pictures  neatly  on  the  vehicle,  and 
unrolled  a  new  sheet  of  plasticized  paper,  used  for  field  notes  and 
sketches,  from  a  container  on  the  same  rack.  She  affixed  the 
paper  to  a  handy  flat  spot  provided  on  the  tractor's  flank,  and 
began  to  draw,  still  frowning. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  later  when  she  approached  the  rest- 
ing men,  sketch  in  her  hand. 

"Doctor  Du  Bos?" 

His  eyes  opened  alertly  on  the  instant.  "Yes?" 

Her  tone  was  almost  apologetic.  "I've  been  trying  to  figure  this 
out .  .  .  look,  it  seems  to  me  that  maybe  Medellin  was  right  when 
he  said  that  the  particle  eclipse  comes  first." 

She  squatted  down  beside  the  old  man,  holding  out  her  dia- 
gram. It  was  done  rather  sloppily,  and  Amdo  looking  at  it  from  Du 
Bos's  other  side  could  not  really  make  out  the  point  of  it.  Of 
course  the  large  arc  must  be  meant  as  a  segment  of  Slag's  orbit 
round  its  sun.  And  around  the  little  circle  that  must  be  Slag  a 
larger  concentric  circle  was  sketched  in,  holding  a  dot  that  was 
evidently  supposed  to  represent  the  satellite  in  its  path  around 
the  planet. 

"No,"  said  Du  Bos.  He  started  to  reach  for  his  calculator,  then 
let  it  stay  unneeded  in  its  case.  "Look,  the  light  from  the  sun  gets 
here  in  eight  or  nine  minutes.  The  particles  of  this  dangerous 
radiation  travel  much  slower  than  light — we're  not  concerned 
with  gamma  rays  or  x-rays  here,  for  example  ..." 

"I  understand  that." 

"Of  course.  Well,  the  particles  take  much  longer  to  travel  the 
same  distance  .  .  ."  He  went  on,  phrasing  it  a  different  way,  then 
in  still  other  words  after  that. 

Amdo  thought  he  would  hate  to  have  to  argue  with  this  man. 
Selina  tried  once  or  twice  to  get  a  word  in,  then  in  effect  gave  up. 
The  expression  of  uncertainty  with  which  she  had  approached  the 
men  stayed  on  her  face. 

" — understand?"  Du  Bos  concluded. 

She  signed  assent — or  maybe  it  was  only  surrender — with  a 
nod,  and  sealed  it  with  a  vague  smile.  "There's  some  more  work  I 
want  to  do,"  she  said,  and  stood  up  and  went  back  to  the  main 
cave. 


PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY  119 

Amdo  and  Du  Bos  exchanged  a  glance.  The  scientist  signed  that 
they  should  switch  their  suit  radios  to  an  alternate  channel. 

"I'm  a  little  worried  about  the  girl,"  Du  Bos  said  when  they  had 
done  this.  "It  hit  her  rather  hard,  evidently,  that  she  failed  to 
keep  us  out  of  this  mess  we're  in  by  foreseeing  the  collapsing  sur- 
face structures.  Now  I'd  say  she's  trying  a  little  too  hard  to  prove 
herself,  accomplish  something  to  make  amends." 

"Maybe."  Amdo  pondered.  "You  see  any  reason  to  believe  that 
she's  not  going  to  be  all  right?" 

"Personnel  psychology's  more  your  field  than  mine.  I  just 
thought  I'd  better  pass  on  my  impression." 

Amdo  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  "I'll  just  take  a  little  walk," 
he  said  then,  and  got  to  his  feet,  switching  his  radio  back  to  the 
normal  channel  as  he  did  so;  he  noted  from  a  corner  of  his  eye 
that  Du  Bos,  remaining  at  rest,  switched  back  too. 

After  the  captain  went  out,  Du  Bos  continued  to  rest  against 
the  cave  wall,  with  the  equanimity  of  one  who  has  lived  long 
enough  and  well  enough  to  feel  himself  at  least  partially  at  home 
in  any  part  of  the  universe  that  man  could  reach  and  enter.  He 
had  not  the  least  intention  of  dying  of  radiation  or  lack  of  air  on 
this  forsaken  world.  But  such  would  be  an  acceptable  end,  for 
him,  if  fate  should  have  it  so. 

On  a  sudden  impulse  he  switched  once  more  to  the  alternate 
channel  of  communications,  and  picked  up  Selina  Jabal's  voice  in 
mid-sentence:  "...  does  come  before  the  optical  eclipse." 

"Look,"  came  Amdo's  patient  reply,  "you  showed  this  to  Doctor 
Du  Bos,  right?" 

Du  Bos  switched  them  off.  Settling  this  kind  of  difficulty  was 
the  captain's  field.  In  his  mind  as  he  drifted  toward  sleep  he  saw 
the  white  dwarf,  isolated  in  a  pure  mathematical  space;  and  he 
began  to  play  with'  a  subtle  equation  that  might  tell  what  sequence 
it  had  followed  to  reach  this  state  without  the  total  destruction  of 
its  planets.  Maybe  enlightenment  would  come  to  him,  as  to 
Kekule,  in  a  dream  ...  he  was  only  vaguely  aware  of  it  when 
Amdo  came  back  to  sit  down  tiredly  beside  him  once  again. 

The  flywheel-powered  electric  motors  of  the  tractor  worked  in 
the  next  thing  to  perfect  silence  and  freedom  from  vibration,  so 
all  that  woke  them  both  from  edgy  sleep,  coming  through  rock 
and  suit  to  flesh  and  bone,  was  the  gentle  crunching  of  its  rollers 
on  the  ground. 


120  PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY 

And,  only  a  second  or  two  later,  Selina's  voice  on  radio:  "The 
particle  readings  have  dropped,  all  across  the  board.  Fm  off  to  get 
the  ship." 

Both  men,  wide  awake  at  once,  scrambled  into  the  main  room 
of  the  cave,  the  captain  only  a  step  ahead.  The  chamber  was  big 
and  empty  without  the  vehicle.  Selina  had  left  the  radiation 
meter  behind,  sitting  on  the  ledge  where  Medellin  had  left  his 
note.  At  the  moment,  the  readings  on  the  meter's  face  were  in 
fact  very  low. 

Du  Bos  hastily  checked  his  chronometer — first  contact  on  the 
optical  eclipse,  according  to  his  calculations,  was  not  due  for* 
another  hour.  Then  he  quickly  followed  Amdo  out  of  the  cave, 
onto  the  glaring  surface,  and  at  once  looked  up  to  check  the  posi- 
tion of  the  moon  in  the  black  sky.  As  expected,  its  wide  silvery 
crescent  was  still  on  the  same  side  of,  though  now  much  closer  to, 
the  immobile,  dazzling  sun. 

Amdo  had  taken  half  a  dozen  quick  strides  and  then  stopped, 
staring  in  frustration  after  the  receding  vehicle.  Glowing  orange 
out  here  in  the  sun's  glare,  it  was  already  much  too  far  away  for 
a  man  chasing  it  on  foot  to  have  any  chance  of  catching  up  and 
grabbing  on.  And  it  was  dwindling  quickly,  evidently  moving  at 
speed  as  Selina  steered  it  on  a  sinuous  course,  keeping  to  the 
safest  ground  as  she  went  the  long  way  round  to  get  the  ship. 

The  captain's  voice  on  radio  was  calm,  "Selina.  If — when  you 
get  the  ship  lifted  and  moved  over  here,  set  her  down  on  the 
white  rock  about  a  hundred  meters  in  front  of  the  cave.  That 
looks  about  the  solidest." 

"Understand,  captain,"  the  girl's  voice  came  back.  "That  does 
look  like  the  best  place.  I'm  sorry  to  do  it  this  way,  but  I  just 
couldn't  take  the  time  to  argue  any  more.  If  totality  lasts  only 
about  twelve  minutes  for  the  particle  eclipse  too,  there's  not  a 
second  to  waste.  At  best  I'm  going  to  get  a  good  dose  of  radiation 
at  the  other  end,  before  I  reach  the  ship  and  get  inside." 

Du  Bos  had  Amdo  by  the  arm  and  was  tugging  him  back  to- 
ward the  cave,  and  at  the  same  time  he  was  motioning  for  a 
switch  to  the  alternate  radio  channel. 

The  captain  went  along;  and  they  ducked  back  in  together, 
looking  up  then  simultaneously  to  see  that  the  indicated  radiation 
level  was  still  quite  low.  On  the  channel  that  should  give  them 
privacy,  Du  Bos  said:  "I — I  must  leave  it  up  to  you  as  to  whether 


PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY  121 

to  order  that  girl  to  come  back  at  once;  but  understand  that 
whatever  has  caused  this  apparent  lull  in  the  storm — some 
magnetic  effect,  perhaps — may  change  again  at  any  moment." 

"In  the  first  place,  I  don't  think  she'd  come  back,  if  I  gave  the 
order." 

Du  Bos  was  still  gripping  him.  "Another  possibility  is  that  the 
counter's  pickup  unit" — he  nodded  toward  the  outside — "may  have 
failed  under  overload.  You'd  better  get  her  back." 

"And  in  the  second  place,  Doctor  Du  Bos,  I  do  know  something 
about  our  hardware.  These  counters  are  very  unlikely  to  be 
knocked  out  by  a  particle  bombardment.  In  the  third  place, 
Medellin  didn't  have  any  temporary  magnetic  lulls  in  his  storm; 
I'm  sure  he  would  have  taken  advantage  of  one  if  it  had  come." 
As  if  reluctantly,  the  captain  added:  "He  did  say  that  the  particle 
eclipse  should  come  first.  He  had  no  authority  with  him  and  he 
had  to  think  the  thing  out  for  himself." 

The  old  man  stiffened.  "It  can't  work  that  way,  I  tell  you." 

"Doctor  Du  Bos,  eclipses  are  not  quite  the  same  thing  as  as- 
trophysics, are  they?" 

Du  Bos  glared  at  him  but  did  not  answer. 
r    "Have  you  made  any  particular  study  of  eclipses?" 

"No,  have  you?  Are  you  qualified  to  even  begin.  .  .  ?"  The  scien- 
tist choked  down  still  angrier  words. 

The  captain  grimaced.  "I  never  did  really  try  to  figure  out  the 
truth  about  when  this  particle  eclipse  should  start,  not  even  when 
Selina  was  arguing  with  me  ...  so  I'm  not  going  to  try  now,  not 
with  only  ten  minutes  or  so  left  before  .  .  .  one  way  or  the  other. 
But  two  very  bright  people  have  really  studied  this  thing,  know- 
ing their  lives  depended  on  it,  and  have  come  to  the  opposite  con- 
clusion from  your  offhand  opinion.  If  you  were  Joe  Doakes — " 

"Which  they  are,  in  this  case." 

" — all  right,  if  you  were  Joe  Doakes  too,  the  question  would  still 
have  been  very  much  open.  But  just  because  you  were  the  emi- 
nent astronomer  I  bowed  my  head  to  you  and  never  tried  to  think 
it  out.  And  that  I  do  regret.  This  trip  so  far  hasn't  been  exactly 
my  finest  effort  in  space." 

He  glanced  up  abruptly  at  the  counter,  then  switched  to  the 
radio  channel  that  Selina  presumably  still  was  using.  "How's  ft 
going,  Jabal?" 

"Good  enough,  captain." 


122  PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY 

"Radiation  is  still  very  low  here,  quite  tolerable.  I'll  let  youi 
know  at  once  of  any  change." 

"Understand,  captain.  Thank  you.  Fifteen  more  minutes  and  I| 
should  be  in  the  ship."  I 

About  two  more  minutes  of  silence  passed,  before  Du  Bosj 
walked  out  into  the  middle  of  the  empty-looking  cave,  and  squat- ' 
ted  down  to  sketch  with  a  gloved  finger  on  the  crumbly  floor  his 
own  version  of  Selina's  now-vanished  eclipse  diagram.  Amdo, 
watching,  saw  the  arc  of  planetary  orbit  appear,  and  then  the 
epicyclic  circle  of  the  satellite's  path;  crude  arrow-markers  seemed 
to  show  that  each  body  was  moving  counterclockwise  in  its  track, 
as  if  seen  from  a  hypothetical  observers'  post  somewhere  high 
above  the  north  pole  of  the  planet. 

After  staring  for  a  full  minute  at  what  he  had  drawn,  Du  Bos 
stood  up  and  got  out  his  calculator;  Amdo  got  the  impression  that 
the  machine  was  only  being  used  this  time  to  put  into  rigorous, 
acceptable  form  something  already  done,  like  typing  a  document 
after  the  last  handwritten  draft  is  done,  the  fateful  content 
known  .  .  . 

The  glowing  digits  on  the  counter's  face  were  suddenly  jumping 
again,  and  the  captain  got  on  the  radio  at  once.  "Selina,  a  sharp 
rise  in  particle  radiation  has  just  started  here.  Not  back  to  previ- 
ous levels  yet,  but  if  it  keeps  on  going  up  like  this  it  soon  will 
be." 

"I  understand,  captain.  Five  more  minutes  and  I  should  be  in 
the  ship."  She  started  to  say  more,  but  a  torrent  of  radiation- 
produced  noise  was  cutting  communication  off. 

Du  Bos  was  bolstering  his  calculator  again.  He  cleared  his 
throat;  it  was  a  startling,  uncharacteristic,  nervous-old-uncle 
sound,  that  almost  made  Amdo  jump. 

Du  Bos  said:  "The  particles  do  take  much  longer  than  the  light 
to  get  here,  as  I  said  before.  But  then  it  doesn't  follow  at  all  that 
the  particle  eclipse  will  lag  the  optical  eclipse  by  the  same 
amount  of  time.  You  see,  the  particles  that  will  strike  the  planet 
during  the  optical  eclipse  must  have  passed  within  the  satellite's 
orbit  some  minutes  earlier."  He  scuffed  with  a  boot  at  the  cave 
floor  as  he  might  have  waved  his  hand  at  a  classroom  display. 
"See?  The  satellite  in  effect  plows  a  clear  space  through  the  sea  of 
particles  flowing  outward  from  the  sun.  This  wake,  cleared  of  par- 
ticles, drifts  back,  lagging  the  satellite — " 


PERIOD     OF     TOTALITY  123 

"The  way  the  clear  space  under  an  umbrella  lags  behind  when 
you  run  in  the  rain." 

"Well,  yes.  And  although  the  satellite,  from  our  point  of  view, 
looks  as  if  it's  moving  backwards,  from  west  to  east,"  Du  Bos  said, 
gesturing  overhead,  "Slag  is  carrying  us  and  the  satellite  along  in 
its  orbit  faster  than  the  satellite  is  looping  back,  so  the  net 
movement  is  still  forward,  both  still  clockwise  with  respect  to  the 
sun,  and  we  do  enter  the  wake — the  particle  eclipse — first." 

"You're  saying  that  you  were  wrong." 

Du  Bos  came  over  to  stand  beside  him,  watching  the  counter. 
The  radiation  outside  was  hellish.  A  silence  began  to  stretch.  It 
was  an  almost  timeless  stillness,  reaching  for  eternity.  But  then 
the  silence  was  riddled,  dissolved,  made — almost — irrelevant,  by 
the  glorious  loud  crunching  of  an  eggshaped  hull  bottom  grinding 
down  on  rock  and  pumice  a  few  tens  of  meters  from  the  cave  .  .  . 
O  •  O 

Slag  was  a  million  kilometers  below,  and  sinking  fast  now  be- 
neath the  push  of  interstellar  engines.  The  corpuscular  storm  that 
still  filled  this  solar  system  raged  harmlessly  beyond  the  layer  of 
forces  shielding  the  ovoid  hull. 

Selina  lay  in  sickbay  and  Du  Bos  had  been  ministering  to  her. 
The  tall,  gray  man  was  at  her  bedside  helping  her  to  a  drink 
when  Amdo  came  in,  clutching  a  small  wad  of  printout.  "The 
medical  boxes  say  you  may  be  a  sick  lady  for  a  while,  Selina," 
Amdo  announced,  waving  the  prognosis  he  had  just  gotten  on  the 
bridge.  "But  nothing  worse  than  that." 

She  smiled.  And  then  Du  Bos,  who  seemed  to  have  been  wait- 
ing for  the  proper  in-person  witness,  smiled  down  at  her  as  well, 
and  Amdo  for  the  first  time  heard  from  the  old  man  something 
that  he  could  construe  as  evidence  of  greatness. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  galaxy's  first  astrophysicist.  "I  was  most 
terribly  wrong." 


THE  SCORCH 

ON  WETZEL'S  HILL 

by  Sherwood  Springer 

A  native  of  Pennsylvania,  Sherwood  Springer 
now  resides  in  Southern  California.  Once  a 
newspaperman,  now  his  hobbies  are  his 
occupation:  he  writes,  paints,  and  fiddles  with 
stamps.  He's  best  known  for  his  studies  of  the 
so-called  Cinderella  stamps — fantasies, 
counterfeits,  and  unlisted  material  in  the 
never-never  land  beyond  the  established 
frontiers  of  philately. 

Today,  by  merest  chance,  I  heard  a  word,  a  single  word  that 
immediately  began  clattering  up  and  down  the  corridors  of  my 
mind,  knocking  on  every  door. 

It  was  an  unfamiliar  word,  and  there  was  a  bothersome  urgency 
about  the  sound  of  it.  I  tried  rolling  it  off  my  tongue,  but  that 
only  strengthened  the  certainty  that  I  had  never  spoken  the  word 
before,  or  heard  it  used.  Why,  then,  that  feeling  of  unease  about 
it,  of  something  far  back  in  my  memory  that  stirred  ominously? 

Nothing  would  surface,  however,  and,  brushing  off  the  mood,  I 
attempted  to  resume  the  pattern  of  my  day.  But  the  effort  met  re- 
sistance and  soon  I  found  myself  merely  going  through  the  mo- 
tions of  resuming  my  pattern,  while  that  accursed  word  nagged 
me  insistently  for  attention.  All  of  us,  at  some  time  or  other,  have 
to  face  it:  Some  things  are  bigger  than  we  are.  I  should  have 
given  up  at  the  beginning  and  consulted  Webster. 

It  was  there,  all  right,  on  page  658,  all  four  tricky  syllables  of 
it.  And,  surprisingly,  it  was  a  word  I  had  used  in  my  childhood, 
but  Noah's  accent  marks  changed  the  pronunciation  so  drastically 
it  was  no  wonder  the  correct  usage  had  borne  no  familiarity  for 
me.  Just  another  example,  I  thought,  of  the  many  mispronuncia- 
tions my  mountain-bred  father  had  handed  down  to  me,  some  of 
which  had  required  years  to  get  rooted  out  of  my  vocabulary.  So 
this  was  merely  one  more — 

But  as  I  closed  the  dictionary,  my  heart  was  pounding 
strangely.  Someone  besides  my  father  had  mispronounced  that 

124 


THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL  125 

«?ord.  Someone  who  .  .  . 

Have  you  ever  stepped  on  land  after  being  seaborne  for  days, 
ind  felt  the  solid  earth  sway  beneath  your  feet? 

Mr.  Porter!  But  he  .  .  . 

Memories  long  since  categorized  and  properly  stored  away  sud- 
denly started  to  slide  from  their  safe  little  niches  and  tumble  into 
aew  order,  like  the  jolting  change  in  a  kaleidoscope. 

In  shock  I  realized — too  late  by  more  than  forty  years — that  on 
a  summer  day  long  ago  I  had  had  it  in  my  power  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  the  Scorch  on  Wetzel's  Hill.  And  just  as  suddenly  I 
knew  for  the  first  time  that  I  had  walked,  as  a  ten-year-old  on 
that  long-gone  day,  into  the  shadow  of  what  television  viewers 
3all  the  Twilight  Zone. 

Two  generations  or  more  have  grown  up  and  gone  away  from 
my  home  town  since  then — it  was  that  kind  of  home  town — and 
3nly  the  oldsters  will  remember  there  ever  was  a  mystery  on 
Wetzel's  Hill.  But  there  was,  and  it  was  there  when  I  was  a  boy, 
and  even  the  professors  from  State  College  floundered  in  their  ef-. 
forts  to  explain  it. 

First  let  me  tell  you  about  the  Hill,  then  about  the  events  on 
that  day  in  my  boyhood,  and  finally  about  the  singular  word  that 
fell  on  my  ears  today  which  so  devastatingly  changed  the  pattern 
and  meaning  of  those  events. 

Forty  miles  west  of  Shikelamy,  the  great  stone  face  on  the  Sus- 
quehanna River  where  the  Indian  was  fabled  to  have  leaped  to  his 
death  screaming,  "She  killa  me!"  lie  sprawled  the  Seven  Moun- 
tains. From  them  a  procession  of  valleys  fan  out  like  wrinkles  in 
the  tortuous  foothills  of  the  Alleghenies:  Poe  Valley,  Decker  Val- 
\ey,  High  Valley,  Brush  Valley,  and  Sugar  Valley. 

The  mountains  crowd  the  valleys  forebodingly,  and  some 
obscure  poet  once  visioned  them  as  "waiting"  when  he  wrote: 


Across  the  valley  hill  on  purple  hill 
Loom  somberly  and  dark  against  the  stars, 
Like  wooded  backs  of  ancient  dinosaurs 
That  lie  there  buried  .  .  .  sleeping  .  .  .  still .  . 


One  of  these  is  known  as  Thunder  Mountain,  and  just  to  the 


126  THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL 

west  of  Jackpine  Gap  it  rises  slightly  in  a  dome  called  Bald  Kno 
From  this  elevation  it  pitches  in  a  precipitous  jumble  of  rocks  and 
gnarly  red  pine  to  a  crescent-shaped  apron  about  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  waters  of  Jackpine  Creek.  This  level  apron,  about  two 
acres  in  extent  and  overlooking  the  valley  on  one  side,  is  known 
as  Wetzel's  Hill. 

Fifty  years  before  I  was  born  (my  father  told  me),  a  man  named 
Grover  Wetzel  came  out  of  the  east  apd  saw  the  hill.  It  was 
mountain  land  then,  and  untillable,  but  he  liked  what  he  saw  and 
he  purchased  it  on  the  spot.  Soon  afterward  he  brought  his  wife 
and  two  young  sons  from  Hummels  Wharf  or  Whomelsdorf  or 
some  such  place — Pennsylvania  is  full  of  towns  like  that — and  set 
to  work  clearing  the  land. 

Grover  Wetzel  was  a  giant  of  a  man.  Some  say  he  was  kin  to 
Lewis  Wetzel,  the  famed  Indian  hunter  of  pioneer  days.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  he  and  his  sons  worked  a  miracle  on  the  hill.  Boulders, 
trees,  and  brush  melted  before  their  labors,  a  cabin  was  built  and 
a  garden  planted.  A  small  spring,  common  in  that  country,  gur- 
gled from  a  crevice  in  the  mountain  behind  the  cabin,  and  water 
was  plentiful. 

As  the  seasons  passed,  more  and  more  of  the  land  was  cleared, 
potatoes,  corn,  and  greens  were  harvested,  and  chickens,  hogs, 
and  a  cow  shared  the  hill  with  the  Wetzel s.  \ 

But  the  decades  passed,  too,  and  the  sons  grew  up  and  foun(J 
wives  in  the  valley.  One  of  them  moved  to  Ohio  and  settled  in 
Akron  or  Cleveland  or  some  place,  and  the  other  found  a  job  iri 
town.  Granchildren  were  born,  and  Grover  Wetzel  and  his  wife 
found  themselves  growing  old  on  the  hill. 

They  must  have  been  over  eighty  when  it  happened. 

Maggie  Gephardt  said  later  that  a  green  ball  of  fire  had  come 
slanting  in  over  Shriner  Mountain  to  the  east  of  Bald  Knob  and 
landed  smack  on  Wetzel's  Hill  with  a  splash  of  fire.  But  Maggie 
Gephardt  was  famous  for  seeing  things  like  that,  and  nobody  took 
any  stock  in  her  story.  She  was  still  living  when  I  was  a  boy  ol 
fourteen,  and  I  can  remember  clearly  her  directions  for  finding 
the  wreck  of  the  mail  plane  that  carried  pilot  Harry  Ames  to  his 
death  somewhere  west  of  Hell's  Gap.  ' 

She  had  seen  the  plane  come  down,  she  said,  and  soon  she  had 
our  entire  troop  of  Boy  Scouts  combing  the  ridge  between  Turpen- 
tine and  Spigelmyer's  Hollow  in  a  dripping  fog.  There's  no  need  to 


THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL  127 

add  that  the  flier's  body  was  later  found  a  full  twenty  miles  to  the 
northwest,  beyond  so  many  ridges  that  Maggie  Gephardt  couldn't 
possibly  have  seen  anything  connected  with  the  crash. 

But  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  about  the  tragedy  that  occurred 
on  Wetzel's  Hill  that  January  night  about  five  years  before  I  was 
born.  One  of  the  Edmonds  boys  was  driving  home  in  his  sleigh 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  after  a  late  date  with  some  girl 
in  Brush  Valley.  He  saw  the  cabin  ablaze  as  he  came  through  the 
Gap  and  started  arousing  neighbors  along  Jackpine  Creek.  One  of 
them  telephoned  John  Stover  in  town.  As  chief  of  the  volunteer 
fire  department  he  was  able  to  rout  many  townsmen  from  their 
beds.  But  it  was  a  futile  effort.  The  roof  of  the  cabin  had  already 
fallen  in,  and  the  walls  were  on  the  point  of  collapse  when  the 
first  neighbor  with  his  bucket  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Later 
the  bodies  of  Grover  and  Ruth  Wetzel  were  found  burned  beyond 
recognition  on  the  remains  of  what  had  once  been  their  bed. 

It  was  a  tragedy,  of  course,  but  not  unique  in  those  days  of 
fireplaces,  wood  stoves,  and  coal  oil  lights.  Not  in  the  dead  of 
winter,  anyway.  People  shook  their  heads  in  sadness  but  they 
were  not  mystified.  The  mystery  was  to  come  later. 

The  Wetzel  boys  and  their  children's  families  were  there  for  the 
funeral.  They  disposed  of  the  livestock  which  had  survived,  and 
the  feed  and  tools  which  were  in  an  outlying  barn,  but  the  land 
they  did  not  offer  for  sale.  Some  years  later,  when  they  finally  did 
put  it  on  the  market,  it  was  too  late. 

For  a  curse  had  come  to  Wetzel's  Hill. 

It  did  not  come  overnight.  The  following  spring  was  like  any 
other  spring.  My  father  told  me  that  if  anyone  at  all  had  noticed 
anything  strange  on  the  hill  that  year  he  certainly  didn't  mention 
it.  And  my  father  was  in  a  position  to  know  since  he  was 
tollkeeper,  and  our  house  was  by  the  old  tollgate  just  inside  the 
gap  and  right  around  the  bend  from  Wetzel's  Hill.  When  you're  a 
tollkeeper,  my  father  said,  you  hear  everything  that  happens  in 
both  valleys,  and  what  you  don't  hear  isn't  worth  knowing. 

Maybe  the  grass  and  weeds  up  on  the  hill  didn't  grow  as  high 
that  year,  and  maybe  they  did  burn  brown  earlier  under  the  Au- 
gust sun,  but  it  wasn't  until  the  following  year  that  it  really  was 
noticeable. 

Some  said  later  it  was  the  half-wit  called  Pasty  Pumpernickel 
who  first  noticed  the  change.  "It  looks  to  me,"  he  said  one  day. 


128  THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL 

"like  it  got  scorched  up  at  the  old  Wetzel  place." 

Pasty  probably  would  have  been  the  fu-St  to  see  it,  just  by  th 
nature  of  his  existence.  He  wandered  the  mountains  and  the  town 
like  some  friendly,  homeless  dog,  ungainly  and  unlettered,  sleep- 
ing in  barns,  accepting  meals  where  they  were  offered,  doing  odd 
jobs  sometimes,  and  perennially  being  made  the  butt  of  school- 
kids'  jokes.  But  if  you  grew  up  in  my  home  town  you  already 
know  about  Pasty  Pumpernickel. 

At  any  rate,  a  landmark  was  born,  and  even  before  June  had 
merged  into  July  people  for  miles  around  were  commenting  on  the 
"Scorch." 

Many  climbed  the  hill  to  see  for  themselves.  They  walked 
around,  kicked  the  dusty  lumps  of  earth  and  shook  their  heads. 
Grass  that  had  sprouted  in  March  and  April  was  already  dead. 
The  ground  was  powdery,  just  as  if  there  hadn't  been  a  drop  of 
rain  since  the  snows  melted.  This  was  the  peculiar  part,  for  it  had 
been  a  wet  spring,  and  the  valley  and  mountainsides  were  lush 
and  green.  What  could  have  happened  to  Wetzel's  Hill? 

"It's  the  Lord's  doing,  and  none  of  our  affair,"  some  folks  said. 
But  there  were  others  who  had  a  different  explanation.  "Some- 
body's put  a  hex  on  that  patch,"  they  said,  pausing  to  look  warily 
over  each  shoulder.  And  children  were  warned  to  keep  their  dis- 
tance. These  hills,  you  know,  are  not  beyond  the  limits  of  the  old 
Pennsylvania  hex  country,  and  disturbing  memories  linger  there. 

But  the  mystery,  however,  remained  a  mystery,  in  spite  of  an 
investigation  made  by  the  county  agent  and  some  professors  from 
State  College  several  years  later.  They  poked  around  on  the  hill 
one  whole  afternoon,  made  soil  tests,  and  later  collaborated  on  a 
report  that  ran — it  was  said  later — over  20,000  words.  What  this 
report  boiled  down  to  was  that  a  roughly  oval  area  about  200  feet 
long  on  Wetzel's  Hill  wasn't  getting  any  rain.  Even  Pasty  Pum- 
pernickel could  have  told  them  that. 

As  the  years  went  by,  however,  and  the  Scorch  remained  bare, 
people  referred  to  it  only  in  the  nature  of  a  landmark,  and  so  it 
remained  for  fifteen  years,  or  until  that  day  in  summer  when  I 
was  a  ten-year-old  boy. 

So  much  for  the  hill. 

Now  I  must  tell  you  what  led  up  to  that  day — and  the  coming  of 
Mr.  Porter. 

It  has  long  been  my  opinion  that  almost  any  child  can  become  a 


THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL  129 

prodigy  if  his  interest  in  a  particular  subject  can  be  sufficiently 
aroused  and  sustained.  In  my  case  my  father  made  sure  of  that. 
Before  I  was  eight  years  old  I  could  name  on  sight  every  species  of 
wildflower  and  tree  that  grew  within  a  mile  of  our  house.  By  the 
age  of  ten  I  was  a  prancing  encyclopedia  on  the  subject  (although 
I  must  confess  that  now,  forty  years  later  and  living  in  another 
clime,  I  would  be  hard  put  to  distinguish  a  mimosa  from  a  cycla- 
men). It  was  this  precocious  learning  that  led  me  into  the  series  of 
events  that  followed. 

Only  a  small  truck  patch  separated  our  house  from  Jackpine 
Creek — and  if  you  happen  to  be  a  fisherman  you  already  know 
there  are  few  better  trout  streams  in  the  whole  state.  And  al- 
though my  father  kept  many  a  salty  word  on  tap  to  prove  his  low 
estimate  of  fishermen  in  general,  and  of  those  who  left  boot  tracks 
in  his  garden  in  particular,  for  my  part  I  kept  a  cunning  eye 
cocked  toward  their  flashing  fly  rods.  Hemlocks,  birches,  and  al- 
ders crowded  the  stream  and,  with  hungry  branches  waiting  to 
snag  an  unwary  line,  there  was  many  a  nickel  to  be  earned  by  a 
boy  who  could  shinny  up  trees. 

And  that  was  how  I  met  the  newspaperman  from  Philadelphia. 
While  I  freed  his  hook  from  a  branch  he  stood  knee  deep  in  the 
riffles  and  cussed  the  "damn  spruce  trees." 

"This  is  a  hemlock,  mister,"  I  said.  "Spruce  trees  don't  grow 
around  here." 

"Well,  damn  the  hemlocks  then,"  he  said.  "What  makes  you 
think  this  isn't  a  spruce  tree?" 

"It  don't  have  spruce  needles,  that's  why." 

Whatever  answer  he  was  expecting,  it  wasn't  that.  His  jaw 
opened  for  comment,  closed  again,  and  then  he  burst  into  laugh- 
ter. I  remember  how  I  liked  his  crinkly  eyes. 

After  a  minute  he  said,  "By  God,  that  makes  sense.  The  world 
could  use  some  of  it.  Come  down  here  and  tell  me  about  the  nee- 
dles." 

Well,  we  sat  on  the  bank  at  the  edge  of  the  truck  patch  and  I 
showed  him  how  the  hemlock  needles  grew  all  along  the  twigs. 
Spruce  needles,  I  told  him,  grow  in  bunches.  I  ran  to  a  white  pine 
which  stood  farther  upstream  and  brought  back  a  switch.  "See, 
like  this,"  I  said.  "White  pine  needles  grow  five  in  a  bunch,  sorta 
long.  Red  pine  has  three,  and  they're  shorter.  Up  on  the  ridge  we 
got  southern  yellow  pine,  that  has  two  and  they're  awful  long.  We 


130  THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL 

also  got  jack  pine  and  table  mountain  pine  around  here,  but  no 
spruce  trees — unless  you  go  and  buy  one  from  the  tree  man." 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked,  and  he  rooted  in  his  coat  for  a 
scratch  pad  and  a  stubby  pencil.  I  told  him  my  name,  and  we  sat 
there  while  he  made  notes  as  I  reeled  off  answers  to  his  queries. 
Along  the  line  somewhere  I  volunteered  the  information  there 
was  a  place  to  go  if  he  got  caught  in  the  rain — the  Scorch. 

I  swear  I  never  met  a  man  with  so  much  curiosity.  Right  away 
he  wanted  to  know  all  about  the  Scorch,  and  before  you  know  it 
he  had  stowed  his  fishing  gear  in  the  car,  slung  a  camera  around 
his  neck,  and  we  were  climbing  up  the  side  of  Wetzel's  Hill.  He 
made  some  more  notes,  and  took  pictures  of  me  and  the  Scorch. 
Later  when  he  said  goodby  I  thought  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

But  it  wasn't. 

On  a  Sunday  morning  about  two  weeks  later,  our  phone  began 
to  ring.  And  it  didn't  stop  ringing  all  day.  All  of  a  sudden  I  was  a 
celebrity.  I  guess  everybody  in  town  called  up  to  say  how  they'd 
seen  my  picture  in  the  Philadelphia  Inquirer.  Along  about  four 
o'clock  my  father  said  he  wouldn't  stop  much  and  take  the  damn 
receiver  off  the  hook  and  leave  it  off.  But  we  had  a  party  line,  and 
you  can't  do  a  thing  like  that,  my  mother  said — as  if  anybody  else 
on  our  line  had  a  chance  to  use  it  that  day  anyway.  So  the  calls 
continued,  and  when  I  went  to  bed  that  night  I  couldn't  sleep, 
thinking  how  it  was  the  biggest  day  of  my  life. 

But  even  the  greatest  splash  in  a  pond  has  to  subside.  Only  in 
this  case  one  of  the  ripples  penetrated  an  obscure  crevice.  I  wasn't 
to  realize  how  obscure  until  more  than  forty  years  had  passed. 

It  began  about  a  week  later  with  another  telephone  call.  It  was 
Bill  Kerstetter  who  ran  the  Union  Hotel  in  town. 

"There's  a  man  here  from  Philadelphia,"  he  told  my  mother, 
"wants  to  see  Sherwood  about  hunting  wildflowers  and  stuff.  He's 
some  kind  of  perfessor." 

And  that's  how  Mr.  Porter  entered  my  life.  He  came  driving  up 
after  a  while  in  an  old  Ford  and  spent  some  time  talking  to  my 
father.  He  was  a  naturalist  from  the  Museum  of  Natural  History, 
my  father  told  me,  and  probably  quite  famous.  He  wanted  to  go 
hiking  the  next  day  and  hoped  I  would  do  him  the  favor  of  show- 
ing him  around. 

Well,  after  he  drove  away,  my  mother  had  plenty  to  say  on  that 
subject. 


THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL  131 

"Any  man  his  age,"  she  said,  "with  that  bad  heart  and  all,  has  no 
business  traipsing  up  and  down  these  mountains  with  a  child.  He 
could  keel  over  dead." 

"How  can  you  tell  he  got  a  bad  heart?"  I  asked. 

"Blue  lips,  that's  how.  Blue  lips  mean  a  bad  heart,  as  anybody 
knows.  And  look  at  his  skin,  just  like  cheese.  Poor  circulation." 

I  had  to  admit  Mr.  Porter  did  have  a  funny  look,  at  that,  with 
his  curly  white  hair,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  those  glasses  he  wore. 
His  eyes  looked  half  pinched  shut  behind  lenses  the  color  of  coffee. 

But  my  father  wouldn't  listen  to  any  objection.  "Mr.  Porter's  old 
enough  to  know  what  he's  doing,  and  Sherwood  knows  every  inch 
of  these  mountains.  If  something  happens  and  he  needs  help  he'll 
come  for  it."  And  that  was  that. 

So  next  day  Mr.  Porter  and  I  started  up  the  Watery  Road  which 
winds  up  the  hollow  back  of  our  house.  It  was  only  a  sort  of  road, 
although  my  father  said  wagons  used  to  use  it  in  the  old  logging 
days.  Alders,  laurel,  and  rhododendron  choked  it  in  many  places, 
and  a  gurgle-size  stream  wandered  back  and  forth  across  it  as  if  it 
had  forgotten  where  its  channel  was.  When  we  got  to  the  Land- 
ing, where  the  old  log  slide  used  to  be,  we  cut  up  the  steep  bank 
to  the  hogback;  and  although  both  of  us  were  puffing  by  the  time 
we  reached  the  top,  Mr.  Porter  sure  didn't  look  to  me  like  he  was 
about  to  keel  over  with  a  bad  heart. 

I  was  acting  as  if  I'd  had  a  few  hookers  of  dandelion  wine  under 
my  belt.  All  a  ten-year-old  prodigy  needs  is  an  audience,  and  this 
was  my  day.  Looking  back  now  across  the  years,  it  seems  incredi- 
ble that  it  never  occurred  to  me  there  was  anything  peculiar 
about  our  conversation.  It  would  be  logical  to  assume  a  boy  in  the 
presence  of  a  famous  naturalist  would  try  to  absorb  additional 
knowledge,  but  don't  bet  on  it.  In  this  case  the  one  doing  the  lec- 
turing was  the  one  in  knee  pants. 

We  were  too  late  for  the  hepaticas,  the  skunk  cabbage,  blood- 
root,  and  spring  beauties;  but  other  flowers  were  in  bloom  to  take 
their  place.  I  showed  him  adderstongues  with  their  mottled 
leaves,  rue  anemones,  Solomon  seals,  pipsissewas,  columbines, 
yellow  wood  violets,  and  my  special  favorite,  the  weird  lady's  slip- 
per. 

"And  if  you  get  lost  and  hungry,"  I  explained,  "you  go  to  work 
and  eat  sassafras  leaves."  To  demonstrate  this  life-saving  infor- 
mation, I  tore  several  mitten-like  leaves  from  a  nearby  tree  and 


132  THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL 

stuffed  them  in  my  mouth.  "They're  good,  too." 

Mr.  Porter  smiled  and  also  sampled  the  leaves,  nodding  his 
head  in  assent. 

Then  he  said  a  very  strange  thing. 

"Isn't  that  odd?  The  leaves  are  not  all  the  same  shape." 

"That's  sassafras  for  you,"  I  said.  "Some  are  plain,  some  have 
one  thumb  and  some  have  two — that's  the  way  they  grow.  But 
they  all  taste  alike." 

We  were  standing  now  on  the  upper  end  of  the  hogback  just  be- 
fore it  merged  into  the  bulk  of  Thunder  Mountain  below  Bald 
Knob.  Behind  us  to  the  northwest  stretched  a  rolling  expanse  of 
wooded  ridges,  below  us  lay  the  gap  that  provided  exit  for  the 
shimmering  waters  of  Jackpine  Creek,  and  to  the  east  the  pon- 
derous Shriner  Mountain  rose  up  and  began  its  unbroken  march 
to  the  distant  Susquehanna. 

Mr.  Porter  was  looking  at  his  watch  for  the  third  time.  When 
he  had  hauled  it  out  the  first  time  I  thought  from  its  shape  it  was 
a  compass.  But  then  I  heard  it  tick,  and  who  ever  heard  of  a  com- 
pass that  ticked?  It  even  ticked  funny  for  a  watch. 

He  put  it  away  and  stared  down  toward  the  gap,  where  the 
brown  tip  of  the  Scorch  could  be  seen  through  the  trees.  Some- 
thing must  have  been  on  his  glasses,  for  he  took  them  off  and 
began  cleaning  them  with  a  handkerchief. 

"I  never  will  become  used  to  the  brightness  of  your  sun,"  he 
said,  and  I  noticed  he  kept  his  eyes  closed  until  the  glasses  were 
back  on  his  nose.  Then  he  nodded  toward  Wetzel's  Hill. 

"Interesting,"  he  said.  "What  is  down  there?" 

So  I  had  to  explain  to  him  all  about  the  Scorch. 

"I'd  like  very  much  to  see  it,"  he  said. 

"That  ain't  gonna  be  easy  from  here,"  I  said.  "You  get  into  a  lot 
of  rocks  and  thorn  bushes,  and  you  gotta  look  out  for  rattlesnakes. 
We  oughta  go  all  the  way  back  to  the  house,  and  around  below." 

"That  would  take  longer,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Yep,  it  sure  would." 

"Then  let's  try  the  rocks  and  thorn  bushes,"  he  said. 

So  we  started  down,  and  I  have  to  admit  for  an  old  man  he  sure 
could  handle  the  rough  going.  It  was  no  picnic,  and  I  had 
scratched  arms  and  a  tear  in  my  shirt  before  we  reached  the  bot- 
tom. But  by  some  miracle  Mr.  Porter,  who4iad  scrambled  down 
behind  me,  didn't  seem  to  have  a  mark  on  him. 


THE      SCORCH      ON     WETZEL'S     HILL  133 

We  stood  on  Wetzel's  Hill,  and  Mr.  Porter  drew  a  line  in  the 
powdery  dust  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe. 

"Strange,"  he  said.  He  looked  at  this  watch  again  and  I  could 
have  sworn  it  was  ticking  louder  and  faster  than  it  had  before. 
"What's  that  over  there?" 

"That's  the  ruins  of  the  old  Wetzel  place,"  I  said.  "Come  on,  I'll 
show  you." 

The  dust  swirled  in  eddies  as  we  clumped  across  the  Scorch  to- 
ward the  jumble  of  charred  timbers  and  foundation  stones  that 
marked  the  tragedy  of  fifteen  years  before.  We  walked  halfway 
around  it,  and  I  pointed  to  what  was  left  of  the  old  cellar  hole. 
Some  of  the  rocks  had  fallen  in,  and  a  rough-hewn  beam  partially 
blocked  the  opening,  but  I  got  down  on  my  hands  and  knees  and 
peered  into  the  darkness. 

"Here's  my  hideout,"  I  said.  "It's  good  and  cold  in  there  on  a  hot 
day." 

"Cold?"  he  said. 

"Like  ice,"  I  said.  "Ain't  much  room,  but  if  you  want  to  try  and 
crawl  in,  I'll  show  you." 

Mr.  Porter  looked  at  his  clothes  and  shook  his  head.  "I  don't 
think  that  will  be  necessary." 

He  extended  his  hand  to  help  me  out  of  the  cellar  hole,  and 
there  was  an  odd  little  smile  on  his  lips.  "How  far  is  it  back  to 
your  home?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  you  want  to  look  for  more  wildflowers?" 

"No,  we've  had  quite  a  hike  today.  I'm  not  a  youngster  any- 
more." 

"OK,"  I  said,  with  some  disappointment.  "I'll  show  you  where 
the  path  goes  down  to  the  road.  Then  it's  just  around  the  bend." 

So  we  returned  to  my  place,  and  Mr.  Porter  talked  to  my  father 
a  while,  telling  him  of  some  of  the  things  we  had  seen.  Then  he 
thanked  me  and,  winking,  slipped  a  shiny  silver  dolleir  into  my 
palm.  Wow! 

Saying  goodby  then,  he  climbed  into  the  old  Ford  and  took  off 
down  the  road.  And  that  was  the  last  time  in  my  life  I  was  ever  to 
see  Mr.  Porter,  the  naturali&t  from  Philadelphia. 

And,  except  for  the  occasional  times  my  father  mentioned  his 
name  in  the  year  or  two  that  followed,  I  have  never  even  thought 
of  him. 

Until  today. 


134  THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL 

Today  I  heard  a  word  pronounced,  and  nothing — for  me — will 
ever  be  quite  the  same. 

I  could  hear  my  father's  voice  again.  He  was  a  widely  read  man 
but  self-educated,  and  the  hallmark  of  the  self-educated  is  weevily 
pronunciation.  I  remember,  for  instance,  a  print  of  "La  Cigale" 
that  hung  on  our  living  room  wall.  My  father  always  referred  to  it 
as  "Lacy  Gale."  As  I  grew  up  and  braved  the  outside  world,  many 
were  my  vocal  mannerisms  that  needed  rectifying. 

But  the  word  I  heard  today  was  the  name  of  a  wildflower,  one 
that  I  have  never  used  or  heard  used  since  the  day  I  left  the  hill 
country. 

The  television  set  was  blabbing  away — as  it  usually  is  in  our 
home,  whether  anyone  is  watching  or  not.  The  program  must 
have  been  some  sort  of  nature  study.  As  I  passed  the  screen  my 
ear  caught  the  single  word,  "Po-LYG-a-la." 

This  was  the  word  that  stopped  me  in  my  tracks,  that  sent  wor- 
ried messengers  to  probe  my  memory  banks.  Its  ring  was  reminis- 
cent of  Caligula,  the  Roman  tyrant;  but  nothing  at  all  in  my 
memory  matched  its  syllables.  But  though  my  ear  had  been 
tricked,  the  dictionary  revealed  the  truth  of  it.  "Polygala,"  it  said. 

Of  course,  I  thought.  In  my  youth  I  had  called  the  flower 
"fringed  polly-galla,"  which  you  must  admit  is  a  far  cry  from  "po- 
lyg-a-\a"  My  father  had  pronounced  it  "polly-galla."  Why,  even 
Mr.  Porter — 

With  vivid  clarity  I  saw  him  conversing  with  my  father  after 
our  hike.  As  if  it  were  yesterday  I  heard  his  voice:  "Columbines 
we  found,  and  Solomon  seals  and  fringed  polly-gallas  .  .  ." 

But  Mr.  Porter  was  a  highly  educated  man,  and  nature  study 
was  his  profession.  Would  he  copy  my  father's  mispronunciation? 
Unless — 

Another  memory  spurted  into  my  brain:  His  surprise  at  the  in- 
consistent shapes  of  the  sassafras  leaves.  Then,  as  if  they  had 
waited  forty  years  to  coalesce,  a  horde  of  other  memories 
screamed  furiously  for  attention  and  new  evaluation:  The  blue 
lips,  the  ticking  compass,  Maggie  Gephardt's  green  ball  of  fire, 
the  icy  cellar  hole,  Mr.  Porter's  loss  of  interest  in  flowers  after  we 
had  seen  the  Scorch  .  .  .  and  then,  thunder ingly,  what  came  after. 

For  something  did  come  after,  and  never  had  I  dreamed  there 
was  a  connection.  A  month  must  have  passed  before  I  next  visited 
my  hideout.  From  above,  the  cellar  hole  looked  to  a  casual  eye 


THE     SCORCH     ON     WETZEL'S     HILL  135 

just  as  it  had  always  looked.  But  when  I  got  down  on  my  belly  to 
crawl  under  the  beam  my  face  knitted  into  a  puzzled  frown.  The 
entrance  was  gone.  Timbers  and  stones  had  become  rearranged 
somehow,  and  I  wondered  if  some  old  black  bear  had  been  mess- 
ing around  my  hideout.  Even  the  cold  air  no  longer  seeped 
through  the  crevices,  but  how  a  bear  could  have  managed  that 
feat  didn't  bother  me  then.  I  got  to  my  feet,  kicked  some  dirt  a 
while,  and  finally  shrugged  the  whole  thing  off.  I  had  other  hide- 
outs. 

But  it  took  the  entire  valley  to  shrug  off  the  next  wonder.  For 
that  fall  it  began  to  rain  again  on  Wetzel's  Hill,  and  after  fifteen 
years  grass  and  weeds  started  growing  on  the  Scorch.  It  was 
green  the  next  year,  as  green  as  Thunder  Mountain.  And,  for  that 
matter,  it's  green  today. 

But  for  me,  suddenly,  these  are  no  longer  mysteries.  I  know 
now  that  something  did  fall  from  the  sky  that  long-ago  winter 
night — an  object,  a  mechanism  of  unguessable  description — and, 
until  someone  secretly  retrieved  it,  it  lay  buried  for  fifteen  years 
beneath  the  ruins  on  Wetzel's  Hill.  Among  its  attributes  was 
some  form  of  radiation  that  could  vaporize  rain  before  it  reached 
the  ground,  a  radiation  that  registered  on  my  companion's 
"watch,"  and  that  my  body  at  close  range  translated  into  degrees 
of  cold. 

I  perceived  another  attribute:  The  object  was  of  incalculable 
importance  to  someone.  The  arrival  of  Mr.  Porter  so  soon  after  the 
newspaper  story  of  the  Scorch  could  have  been  no  coincidence.  He 
or  "they"  must  have  been  searching — perhaps  for  fifteen  years. 
Ergo,  the  mechanism  must  have  fallen  to  earth  accidentally.  But 
who,  in  those  days,  had  any  craft  that  could  reach  the  altitude 
necessary  to  produce  the  scorching  velocity  of  its  fall?  Surely  not 
our  own  government.  Surely  no  European  or  Asiatic  power. 

With  a  start  I  remembered  Mr.  Porter's  words  as  he  cleaned  his 
glasses: 

"I  will  never  become  used  to  the  brightness  of  your  sun." 

Our  sun! 


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A  SOLUTION  TO  THE  DOCTORS'  DILEMMA 
(from  page  39) 

Let  lA  stand  for  the  insides  of  the  first  pair  of  gloves,  IB  for 
the  outsides.  Let  2A  stand  for  the  insides  of  the  second  pair,  2B 
for  the  outsides. 

Dr.  Xenophon  wears  both  pairs,  the  second  on  top  of  the  first. 
Sides  lA  and  2B  may  become  contaminated.  Sides  IB  and  2 A  re- 
main sterile.  Dr.  Ypsilanti  wears  the  second  pair,  with  sterile 
sides  2'A  touching  his  hands.  Dr.  Zeno  turns  the  first  pair  inside 
out  before  putting  them  on.  Sterile  sides  IB  will  then  be  touching 
his  hands. 

After  Dr.  Zeno  finished  operating,  his  nurse,  Ms.  Frisbie,  was 
furious.  "You  boneheads  ought  to  be  ashamed!  You  protected 
yourselves,  but  forgot  about  poor  Ms.  Hooker.  If  Dr.  Xenophon  has 
the  flu,  Mrs.  Hooker  could  catch  it  from  the  gloves  you  and  Dr. 
Ypsilanti  wore." 

"Are  you  suggesting,  Ms.  Frisbie,"  asked  Dr.  Zeno,  "that  we 
could  have  prevented  that?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I'm  suggesting." 

Then,  to  Dr.  Zeno's  amazement,  Ms.  Frisbie  explained  how  they 
could  have  followed  another  procedure  that  would  have  elimi- 
nated not  only  the  possibility  of  the  surgeons  catching  the  Bar- 
soomian  flu  from  one  another  or  from  Ms.  Hooker,  but  also  the 
possibility  of  Ms.  Hooker  catching  it  from  the  surgeons.  The  solu- 
tion may  be  found  on  page  145. 


139 


COMING  OF  AGE 
IN 

HENSON'S  TUBE 

by  William  Jon  Watkins 

Bill  Watkins  is  a  34 -year-old  Associate 

Professor  at  Brookdale  Community  College  in 

New  Jersey,  where  he  teaches  the  Novell 

Science  Fiction,  Creative  Writing,  and  Poetry, 

His  fourth  novel,  written  with  E.  V.  Snyder, 

The  Litany  of  Sh'reev,  is  due  from  Douhleday 

this  month.  Mr.  Watkins's  present  hobbies  are 

surviving  motorcycle  crashes  and  putting  hi$\. 

bike  back  together. 

Lobber  ran  in  shouting  like  it  was  already  too  late.  "Keri's  gone 
Skyfalling!  Keri's  gone  Skyfalling!"  He  was  the  kind  of  kid  you 
naturally  ignore,  so  he  had  to  shout  everything.  I  ignored  him. 
Moody  didn't.  It  made  no  difference.  Lobber  went  right  on  shout- 
ing. "I  saw  him  going  up  the  Endcap  with  his  wings!" 

Moody  shouted  right  back.  ''Why  didn't  you  stop  him?!" 

"Who?!  Me?!!  Nobody  can  stop  Keri  when  he  wants  to  do  some- 
thing. He's  crazy!"  Lobber  was  right,  of  course.  Keri  was  crazy; " 
always  putting  himself  in  danger  for  the  fun  of  it,  always  coming 
out  in  one  piece.  You  couldn't  stop  him.  Even  Moody  couldn't,  and 
Moody  was  his  older  brother. 

Moody  grabbed  a  pair  of  Close-ups  and  started  for  the  door.  "He 
better  not  be  Skyfalling!  He's  too  young!" 

That  almost  made  me  laugh  really,  because  we  were  all  too 
young.  But  Moody  had  done  it  two  years  ago  without  getting 
caught,  and  I  had  done  it  last  year.  Lobber  would  never  do  it.  I 
guess  that  was  why  he  shouted  so  much.  If  you  even  mentioned  it 
to  him,  he'd  say,  "Are  you  crazy?!  You  could  get  killed  doing 
that!" 

And  he  was  right  about  that  too.  Every  couple  years,  somebody 
would  wait  too  long  to  open  their  wings,  or  open  them  too  often, 
and  that  would  be  it.  Even  the  lower  gravity  of  Henson's  Tube 
doesn't  let  you  make  a  mistake  like  that  more  than  once.  My 
father  says  he  saw  his  best  friend  get  killed  opening  up  too  late, 

140 


COMING     OF     AGE     IN     HENSON'S     TUBE  141 

and  I  remember  how  Keri  started  crying  when  Moody  came 
plummeting  down  out  of  the  air  and  we  thought  he'd  never  open 
his  wings  and  glide. 

Still,  when  you  get  to  be  a  certain  age  in  Henson's  Tube,  you  go 
up  the  Endcap  to  the  station  and  hitch  a  ride  on  the  catchrails  of 
the  Shuttle.  And  when  it  gets  to  the  middle  of  the  cable,  you  jump 
off.  It's  not  all  that  dangerous  really  if  you  open  your  wings  at  the 
right  times.  The  way  gravity  works  in  Henson's  Tube,  or  any  of 
the  other  orbiting  space  colonies  for  that  matter,  makes  it  a  lot 
less  dangerous  than  doing  the  same  thing  on  Earth. 

The  difference  in  gravity  comes  from  the  way  Henson's  Tube  is 
shaped.  It's  like  a  test  tube,  sealed  at  both  ends.  The  people  all 
live  on  the  inside  walls  of  the  tube,  and  the  tube  is  spun,  like  an 
axle  in  place,  to  give  it  gravity.  If  you  look  with  a  pair  of  Close- 
ups,  you  can  see  land  overhead  above  the  clouds,  but  the  other 
side  of  the  Tube  is  five  kilometers  away,  and  that's  a  long  way 
when  it's  straight  up. 

If  you  were  born  in  the  Tube  like  we  all  were,  it  doesn't  seem 
unnatural  to  you  to  be  spun  around  continually  in  two-minute 
circles,  and  even  tourists  find  it  just  like  Earth,  all  rocks  and 
trees  and  stuff,  until  they  look  up.  Of  course,  the  one  half  gravity 
at  "ground  level"  makes  them  a  little  nervous,'  but  the  real  differ- 
ence in  gravity  is  at  the  center  of  the  Tube.  There's  a  sort  of  in- 
visible axle  running  down  the  center  of  the  tube  lengthwise, 
where  there's  no  gravity.  That's  where  the  Shuttle  runs  on  its 
cable  from  one  Endcap  to  the  other.  And  that's  where  you  start 
your  Fall. 

You  step  off  the  Shuttle  halfway  along  its  ride,  and  you  drift 
very  slowly  toward  one  side  of  the  Tube.  But  pretty  soon  the 
ground  rotates  away,  under  you,  and  the  wind  begins  to  push  you 
around  the  center  cable  too.  Only  you  don't  just  go  around  it  in  a 
circle,  because  going  around  starts  giving  you  some  gravity,  so 
you  come  spiral ing  down  toward  the  ground,  rotating  always  a  bit 
slower  than  the  Tube  itself. 

The  closer  you  get  to  the  sides,  the  faster  the  Tube — the 
ground — spins  on  past  you.  The  gravity  depends  on  how  much 
you've  caught  up  with  the  rotating  of  the  Tube.  If  you  didn't  have 
wings,  you'd  hit  hard  enough  to  get  killed  for  sure,  partly  from 
falling  and  partly  because  the  ground  would  be  going  past  so  fast 
when  you  hit.  If  you  do  have  wings,  then  they  slow  down  your  fall- 


142  COMING     OF     AGE     IN     HENSON'S     TUBE 


ing  okay,  but  then  they  catch  the  wind  more,  so  you're  rotating 
almost  as  fast  as  the  Tube  is.  Only  then,  because  you're  going 
around  faster,  the  gravity  is  stronger  and  you  have  to  really  use 
the  wings  to  keep  from  landing  too  hard.  Only  by  then  you're 
probably  half-way  around  the  Tube  from  where  you  wanted  to 
land,  and  it's  a  long  walk  home. 

Usually,  you  just  step  off  the  Shuttle  and  drop  with  your  wings 
folded  until  you  get  scared  enough  to  open  your  arms.  When  you 
do,  your  wings  begin  to  slow  your  fall.  If  you  don't  wait  too  long, 
that  is.  If  you  do  wait  too  long,  when  you  throw  your  arms  open, 
they  get  snapped  up  and  back  like  an  umbrella  blowing  inside 
out,  and  there's  nothing  left  to  stop  you.  Most  of  the  people  who 
get  hurt  Sky  fall  ing  get  scared  and  open  their  wings  too  soon  or 
too  often.  Most  of  the  ones  who  get  killed  open  their  wings  too  late. 
Nobody  had  ever  seen  Keri  get  scared.  | 

That  was  probably  what  Moody  was  thinking  about  as  he  ran  * 
for  the  door.  I  know  it  was  what  I  was  thinking  about  as  I  grab- 
bed a  pair  of  Close-ups  that  must  have  been  Keri's  and  ran  after 
him.  Lobber  ran  after  both  of  us,  shouting.  By  the  time  we  got 
outside,  the  silver,  bullet-shaped  car  of  the  Shuttle  was  about  a 
third  of  the  way  along  its  cable,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
wait  until  it  got  almost  directly  above  us. 

At  first,  we  couldn't  see  Keri  and  we  thought  he  must  have 
missed  the  Shuttle,  but  then  we  saw  him,  sitting  on  the  long 
catchrail  on  the  underside  of  the  Shuttle  with  his  feet  over  the 
side.  Lobber  kept  trying  to  grab  my  Close-ups,  shouting,  "Let  me 
look!  Let  me  look!"  I  ignored  him,  but  it  didn't  do  any  good  until 
Moody  grabbed  him  and  said  "Shut  up,  Lobber,  just  shut  up!" 
Lobber  looked  like  he  was  going  to  start  shouting  about  being  told 
to  shut  up,  but  the  Shuttle  was  almost  directly  overhead  by  then, 
so  he  did  shut  up  and  watched. 

When  the  Shuttle  got  where  he  wanted  it,  Keri  stood  up, 
stopped  for  a  second  to  pick  out  his  landmarks  and  then  just  step- 
ped off.  He  fell  slowly  at  first,  almost  directly  above  us.  But  soon 
he  began  to  slide  back  and  away  from  us  in  wider  and  wider  spi- 
rals as  the  Tube  revolved.  For  a  second,  he  looked  like  he  was  just 
standing  there  watching  the  Shuttle  go  on  down  the  Tube  and  us 
slide  away  beneath  him. 

But  in  a  couple  seconds  he  went  from  being  as  big  as  my  thumb 
to  being  as  big  as  the  palm  of  my  hand.  We  could  tell  he  was  rid- 


COMING     OF     AGE     IN     HENSON'S     TUBE  143 

ing  down  the  pull  of  gravity  at  a  good  speed  and  getting  faster  all 
the  time.  He  had  his  head  into  the  wind  and  his  body  out  behind 
him  to  cut  down  his  resistance,  so  the  wind  wasn't  rotating  him 
with  it  too  much,  and  his  speed  was  going  up  and  up  and  we 
knew  he'd  have  to  do  something  soon  to  cut  it  down. 

When  he  was  half  a  mile  above  us,  he  still  hadn't  opened  his 
wings.  Moody  lowered  his  Close-ups  and  shook  his  head  like  he 
was  sure  Keri  would  never  make  it.  When  he  looked  up  again, 
Keri  was  a  lot  closer  to  the  ground,  and  his  blue  wings  were  still 
folded  across  his  chest.  It's  hard  to  tell  from  the  ground  how  far 
you  can  fall  before  you  pass  the  point  where  it's  too  late  to  open 
your  wings,  but  it  looked  to  us  like  Keri  had  already  passed  it. 
And  he  still  hadn't  spread  his  wings. 

"Open  up!"  Moody  shouted,  "Open  up!"  And  for  a  little  while 
Keri  did  just  that,  until  he  began  to  slide  back  around  the  curve 
of  the  Tube.  But  long  before  he  should  have,  he  pulled  his  arms 
back  in  and  started  that  long  dive  again.  All  Lobber  could  see  was 
a  small  fluttering  fall  of  blue  against  the  checkerboard  of  the  far 
side  of  the  Tube.  "He's  out  of  control!"  Lobber  shouted. 

He  was  wrong,  of  course.  For  some  crazy  reason  of  his  own, 
Keri  had  done  it  on  purpose,  but  when  I  went  to  tell  Lobber  to 
shut  up,  I  found  that  my  mouth  was  too  dry  to  talk.  It  didn't  mat- 
ter, because  Lobber  went  suddenly  quiet.  Moody  stood  looking  up 
through  his  Close-ups  and  muttering,  "Open  up,  Keri!  Open  up!" 

It  seemed  like  an  hour  before  Keri  finally  did.  You  could  almost 
hear  the  flap  of  the  blue  fabric  as  he  threw  his  arms  open.  His 
arms  snapped  back,  and  for  a  minute,  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
lose  it,  but  he  fought  them  forward  and  held  them  out  steady. 

But  it  still  looked  like  he  had  waited  too  long.  He  was  sliding 
back  a  little,  but  he  was  still  falling,  and  falling  fast.  I  could  see 
him  straining  against  the  force  of  his  fall,  trying  to  overcome  it, 
but  I  didn't  think  he  was  going  to  make  it. 

I  didn't  want  to  follow  him  in  that  long  fall  all  the  way  into  the 
ground.  I  thought  about  how  my  father  said  his  friend  had  looked 
after  he  hit,  and  I  knew  I  didn't  want  to  see  Keri  like  that.  But 
just  before  I  looked  away,  Keri  did  the  craziest  thing  I  ever  saw. 
Falling  head  down  with  his  arms  out,  he  suddenly  jack-knifed 
himself  forward,  held  it  for  a  second,  then  snapped  his  head  up 
and  spread-eagled  himself.  His  wings  popped  like  a  billowbag 
opening  up. 


144  COMING     OF     AGE     IN     HENSON'S     TUBE 

Moody  gave  a  little  gasp  and  I  felt  my  own  breath  suck  in.  Bu 
it  turned  out  that  Keri  knew  more  about  Skyfalling  than  either  of 
us  ever  would  and  when  he  threw  his  arms  back,  he  had  almost 
matched  ground  speed  and  the  maneuver  had  put  him  into  a  stall 
so  close  to  the  ground  that  I  still  don't  believe  it  was  possible. 

Of  course,  Keri  being  Keri,  he  held  his  wings  out  just  a  frac- 
tion too  long,  and  he  went  up  and  over  before  he  could  snap  his 
arms  down  completely  and  came  down  backward.  You  could  al- 
most hear  the  crunch  when  he  hit.  I  swear  he  bounced  and  flipped 
over  backwards  and  then  bounced  and  rolled  over  four  more  times 
before  he  stopped.  For  a  second  we  just  stood  there,  too  stunned  to 
move,  and  then  we  were  suddenly  all  running  toward  him,  with 
Moody  in  the  lead. 

When  we  got  to  Keri,  he  was  sitting  up,  unsnapping  his  wings 
and  rubbing  his  shoulders.  His  arms  were  a  mess,  all  scraped  and 
scratched,  but  not  broken.  Even  though  he  had  a  helmet  on,  one 
eye  was  swollen  shut.  But  he  was  smiling. 

Moody  got  to  him  first  and  helped  him  up.  "You're  crazy,  Kerif 
You  know  that?!  You  could  have  got  yourself  killed!  You  know 
that?!  You  know  that?!"  I  don't  think  I  ever  remember  Moody 
being  that  mad.  He  sounded  like  his  father.  "Look  at  you!  You're 
lucky  you  didn't  get  killed!" 

But  Keri  just  kept  grinning  and  the  louder  Moody  got,  the 
wider  Keri  grinned  until  Moody  just  turned  away  in  disgust.  No- 
body said  anything  for  a  while,  not  even  Lobber.  Finally  Keri 
said,  "C'mon,  Moody,  I  didn't  act  like  that  when  you  came  down." 

Moody  turned  around  and  looked  at  his  brother  like  he  knew 
Keri  was  right,  but  he  wasn't  ready  yet  to  forgive  him  for  scaring 
us  like  that.  "Yeah,  but  I  didn't  wait  until  I  almost  hit  the  ground 
before  I  opened  up!  I  didn't  scare  anybody  half  to  death  thinking  I 
was  going  to  get  myself  killed!" 

Keri  looked  at  him  and  chuckled.  "Didn't  you?" 

"That  wasn't  the  same!"  Moody  said.  But  you  could  tell  he  knew 
it  was.  Finally,  he  grabbed  Keri's  wings.  "Here,  give  me  those  be- 
fore you  tear  them." 

Keri  laughed  and  handed  him  the  wings.  He  gave  me  a  wink 
with  his  good  eye.  "Not  easy  being  on  the  ground.  Is  it?"  I  shook 
my  head.  Moody  just  snorted  and  folded  the  wings.  I  kept  waiting 
for  Lobber  to  start  shouting  again,  but  he  didn't.  He  just  looked 
up  at  where  the  Shuttle  had  passed,  and  when  he  spoke,  his  voice 


COMING     OF     AGE     IN     HENSON'S     TUBE 


145 


was  wistful  and  quiet  like  he  knew  Skyfalling  was  something  he 
would  never  be  able  to  do,  no  matter  hoW  much  he  might  want  to. 
"What  does  it  feel  like,  Keri?"  he  said. 

Keri  shrugged,  and  I  knew  it  was  because  there  is  something  in 
the  Fall,  something  about  the  way  it  gets  faster  and  faster,  and 
the  ground  rushes  up  at  you  like  certain  death,  that  he  couldn't 
explain.  I  could  see  the  freedom  of  it  still  sparkling  in  his  eyes.  "It 
feels  like  being  alive." 


A  SECOND  SOLUTION  TO  THE  DOCTORS'  DILEMMA 
(from  page  139) 

Dr.  Xenophon  wears  both  pairs  of  gloves.  Sides  lA  and  2B  may 
become  contaminated,  while  IB  and  2A  remain  sterile. 

Dr.  Ypsilanti  wears  the  second  pair,  with  sterile  sides  2A 
against  his  hands. 

Dr.  Zeno  turns  the  first  pair  inside  out  and  then  puts  them  on 
with  sterile  sides  IB  against  his  hands.  Then  he  puts  on  the  sec- 
ond pair,  with  sides  2A  over  sides  lA  and  sides  2B  outermost. 

Because  only  sides  2B  touch  Ms.  Hooker  in  all  three  operations, 
she  runs  no  risk  of  catching  the  Barsoomian  flu  from  any  of  the 
surgeons. 


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ON  BOOKS 

by  Charles  N.  Brown 


Children  of  Dune  by  Frank  Herbert:  Berkley/Putnam,  ISB^ 

0-399-11697-4,  444pp,  $8.95. 
Imperial  Earth  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke:  Harcourt  Brace  Jovanovich 

ISBN  0-15-144233-9,  303pp,  $7.95. 
Man  Plus  by  Frederik  Pohl:  Random  House,  ISBN  0-394-48676-5, 

215pp,  $7.95. 
Where  Late  the  Sweet  Birds  Sang  by  Kate  Wilhelm:  Harper  j 

Row,  ISBN  0-06-014654-0,  215pp,  $7 .-95. 
Cloned  Lives  by  Pamela  Sargent:  Fawcett  #Q3529,  336pp,  $1.50. 
The  Long  Arm  of  Gil  Hamilton  by  Larry  Niven:  Ballantin 

#24868,  182pp,  $1.50. 
My  Name  Is  Legion  by  Roger  Zelazny:  Ballantine,  $1.50. 
The  Word  for  World  Is  Forest  by  Ursula  K.  LeGuin:  Berkley /Putnam 

ISBN  0-399-11216-4,  189pp,  $6.95. 
The  Space  Machine  by  Christopher  Priest:  Harper  &  Row,  ISB^ 

0-06-013429-1,  363pp,  $8.95. 
The  Turning  Place  by  Jean  E.  Karl:  Button,  ISBN  0-525-41573-4 

224pp,  $7.95. 
Triton  by  Samuel  R.  Delany:  Bantam  #Y2567,  370pp,  $1.95. 
O  Master  Caliban!  by  Phyllis  Gotlieb:  Harper  &  Row,  236pp 

$8.95. 
Maske:   Thaery   by  Jack  Vance:   Berkley/Putnam,   ISBN  0- 

399-11797-0,  192pp,  $7.95. 
The  Shattered  Chain  by  Marion  Zimmer  Bradley:  DAW  Books 

#UW1229,  287pp,  $1.50.  ^ 

Dragonsong  by  Anne  McCaffrey:  Atheneum,  ISBN  0-689-30507-9, 

202pp,  $7.95. 
A  World  out  of  Time  by  Larry  Niven:  Holt,  Rinehart  &  Winston, 

(price  and  page  count  not  yet  available) 
The  Best  of  Frank  Herbert  1952-1964:  Sphere,  155pp,  55  penc« 

(these  Sphere  collections  are  all  edited  by  Angus  Wells). 
The  Best  of  Frank  Herbert  1965-1970:  Sphere,  170pp,  55  pence. 
The  Best  of  Arthur  C.  Clarke:  Sphere,  336pp,  65  pence. 
The  Best  of  Clifford  Simak:  Sphere,  253pp,  60  pence. 
The  Best  of  John  W.  Campbell  edited  by  Lester  del  Rey:  Ballan- 
tine #24960,  364pp,  $1.95. 


146 


ON     BOOKS  147 

The  Best  of  Robert  Siluerberg:  Pocket  Books  #80282,  258pp,  $1.95. 
The  Best  of  Jack  Vance:  Pocket  Books  #80510,  274pp,  $1.95. 
The  Best  of  Poul  Anderson:  Pocket  Books  #80671,  287pp,  $1.95. 
The  Light  Fantastic  by  Alfred  Bester:  Berkley/Putnam,  ISBN 

0-339-11614-1,  254pp,  $7.95. 
Star  Light,  Star  Bright  by  Alfred  Bester:  Berkley/Putnam,  ISBN 

0-339-11816-0,  248pp,  $7.95. 
The  Craft  of  Science  Fiction  edited  by  Reginald  Bretnor:  Harper  & 
Row,  ISBN  0-06-010461-9,  321  pp,  $9.95. 
O  •  O 

There  were  890  science  fiction  books  published  in  1975,  of 
which  411  were  originals  and  479,  reprints.  The  year  1976,  only 
half  over  as  I  write  this  column,  will  probably  have  just  as  many. 
Obviously,  there's  no  way  to  discuss  all  of  these  books  or  even  to 
mention  them,  so  a  short  introduction  on  how  I  will  run  this  col- 
umn seems  to  be  in  order. 

First,  this  is  a  review  column,  not  a  critical  one.  Its  purpose  is 
to  recommend  books  worth  your  time  and  money.  Hence,  there 
won't  be  any  long  killer  reviews  (even  though  they're  the  easiest 
and  most  fun  to  write)  of  bad  books.  However,  I  don't  plan  to 
write  all  sweetness  and  light;  some  seriously  flawed  books  are 
still  very  enjoyable  and  successful,  and  some  are  fascinating  at- 
tempts which  nevertheless  failed.  Most  important,  I  hope  to  cover 
a  lot  of  books,  especially  in  this  first  column,  which  is  a  summary 
of  the  first  six  months  of  1976. 

O  •        .         O 

Two  straight  SF  novels  were  best  sellers  so  far  this  year:  Impe- 
rial Earth,  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke,  and  Children  of  Dune,  by  Frank 
Herbert.  Both  sold  tens  of  thousands  of  hardcover  copies — rare 
phenomena  in  science  fiction  publishing  indeed. 

Children  of  Dune  is  the  third  and  last  volume  in  the  "Dune" 
series.  It's  a  much  better  (and  much  longer)  book  than  the  second 
in  the  series.  Dune  Messiah,  and  is  a  return  to  the  original  world 
of  Dune  with  its  sandworms,  ecology  background,  and  adventure. 
Unfortunately,  the  book  suffers  the  usual  fate  of  sequels:  it's 
nowhere  as  good  as  the  original,  nor  does  it  stand  by  itself.  Still, 
it's  a  must  for  those  of  you  who  were  excited  by  the  first  book  of 
the  series. 

Imperial  Earth  struck  me  as  a  much  better  book,  although  I 


148  ON     BOOKS 

was  a  bit  disappointed  by  it.  The  story  takes  place  in  2276,  and  is 
mostly  about  the  quincentennial  of  the  United  States.  The  book 
is  divided  into  three  main  sections:  the  first  shows  an  interesting 
and  believable  settlement  on  Titan,  explaining  logically  why  it's 
there  and  nowhere  else  in  the  Solar  System;  the  second  covers  a 
space-liner  trip  from  Titan  to  Earth;  and  the  third  is  a  guided 
tour  of  a  future,  near-utopian  Earth.  Clarke's  background  descrip- 
tions and  extrapolative  touches  are,  as  usual,  nearly  perfect  and 
utterly  fascinating.  His  picture  of  life  300  years  from  now  is  ex- 
tremely believable.  The  weakness  of  the  book  is  one  which  is 
common  to  most  Utopian  literature:  the  characters  and  plot  are 
secondary,  and  thus  neither  is  strong.  Also,  I  just  can't  see  how 
to  get  there  from  here. 

Man  Plus,  by  Frederik  Pohl,  concerns  the  more  immediate  fu- 
ture, with  the  world  heading  for  nuclear  disaster.  Since  computer 
predictions  show  that  colonizing  Mars  is  one  of  the  few  options 
open  to  mankind,  the  United  States  government  is  changing  a 
man  into  a  cyborg  so  that  he  can  live  on  Mars  without  external 
help.  This  book  is  a  strong  novel  of  character,  not  action,  as  Roger 
Torraway  emotionally  changes  from  a  nebbish  to  a  person  and  fi- 
nally to  something  more.  It's  very  effective,  Pohl's  best  novel  to 
date.  As  with  any  good  novel,  there's  more  to  it  than  meets  the 
eye,  and  the  surprises  are  both  logical  and  well  handled.  The  only 
thing  wrong  with  the  book  is  that  it  has  an  idiot  plot!  The  actual 
colonization  is  being  done  by  normal  people  with  mechanical  back- 
up, not  by  cyborgs.  Our  hero  is  certainly  useful  for  exploration 
and  for  helping  others,  but  he  is  not  really  essential  to  the  coloni- 
zation effort  as  the  story's  beginning  leads  you  to  believe.  Read  it 
and  make  your  own  decision. 

My  favorite  novel  so  far  this  year  is  Where  Late  the  Sweet  Birds 
Sang,  by  Kate  Wilhelm.  The  first  section  of  this  appeared  as  a 
novella  in  1974;  but  despite  this,  the  work  is  a  real  novel  and  not 
just  three  connected  novellas.  Part  One  concerns  the  breakdown  of 
our  civilization  due  to  pollution,  plague,  and  sterility.  A  group  of 
people  who  prepared  for  the  worst  manages  to  survive  in  a  hidden 
valley  by  using  cloning  to  produce  both  people  and  animals.  The 
clones  turn  out  to  be  quite  different  than  expected  and  produce 
their  own  brand  of  interdependent  civilization  in  Part  Two.  Part 
Three  deals  with  the  final  clash  between  two  different  ways  of 
life.  All  three  sections  are  handled  superbly  and  are  filled  with 


ON     BOOKS  149 

exciting  ideas  as  well  as  the  excellent  characterization  which  is  a 
Wilhelm  trademark.  There  have  been  at  least  five  science  fiction 
books  about  cloning  so  far  this  year,  but  none  of  them  comes  even 
close  to  the  Wilhelm  book  for  interest  or  excitement. 

Cloned  Lives,  by  Pamela  Sargent,  is  probably  a  better  descrip- 
tion of  what  clones  will  really  be  like.  At  first,  the  five  clones  are 
very  similar.  Then,  like  identical  twins,  they  develop  their  own 
personalities  and  solve — or  don't  solve — their  own  problems.  The 
book  is  divided  into  seven  sections:  the  first  (and  best)  covers  the 
clones'  conception  and  beginnings,  followed  by  one  section  about 
each  clone's  development,  and  finally  an  overview.  In  somewhat 
different  form,  individual  sections  have  appeared  in  various  an- 
thologies and  magazines  before  and  were  quite  successful  that 
way.  Unfortunately,  the  sections  do  not  successfully  coalesce  into 
a  novel. 

Since  I'm  a  mystery  story  reader  as  well  as  a  science  fiction  read- 
er, I  get  double  pleasure  when  the  two  forms  are  combined  well. 
The  Long  Arm  of  Gil  Hamilton,  by  Larry  Niven,  and  My  Name  Is 
Legion,  by  Roger  Zelazny,  are  very  similar  books.  Each  contains 
three  novellas  with  a  detective  as  a  central  character.  Zelazny's  is 
a  nameless,  wise-cracking  private  eye  who  plies  his  trade  in  a 
computer-run  society,  while  Niven's  is  a  government  operative 
working  against  the  background  of  organleggers  and  other  fas- 
cinating pieces  of  the  "Known  Space"  series.  Niven  is  a  better 
whodunit  writer  and  Zelazny  falls  more  into  the  hardboiled 
school,  but  both  are  interesting.  I  recommend  both. 

The  Word  for  World  Is  Forest,  by  Ursula  K.  LeGuin,  isn't 
exactly  a  new  book.  It  appeared  in  1972  in  Harlan  Ellison's  an- 
thology. Again,  Dangerous  Visions,  and  won  the  novella  Hugo 
award  the  following  year.  This  handsome  Berkley/Putnam  edition 
is  the  story's  first  independent  publication.  The  story  takes  place 
on  an  alien  planet  being  exploited  by  big,  bad  Earthmen.  Alter- 
nate sections  are  written  from  the  human  and  from  the  alien 
points  of  view.  The  alien  sections  are  excellent  and  thought- 
provoking,  but  the  human  sections  are  stereotyped  and  preachy.  It 
is  not  one  of  LeGuin's  best,  but  still  very  readable. 

For  a  change  of  pace,  try  The  Space  Machine,  by  Christopher 
Priest,  a  'scientific  romance'  written  in  the  spirit  and  style  of  H. 
G.  Wells.  Unlike  most  of  the  other  pseudo-Victorian  SF  which  has 
been  appearing  lately.  Priest  doesn't  play  it  strictly  for  laughs,  al- 


150  ON     BOOKS 

though  his  tone  is  light.  The  backgrounds  from  The  Time 
Machine,  War  of  the  Worlds,  and  the  story  "The  Crystal  Egg"  have 
been  smoothly  combined;  and  Wells  himself  has  become  an  in- 
teresting character  in  this  well-written  narrative. 

The  biggest  joy  in  reviewing  books  is  to  come  across  something 
very  good  but  obscure.  My  'discovery'  this  year  is  Jean  Karl's  The 
Turning  Place,  subtitled  Stories  of  a  Future  Past.  Although  pack- 
aged as  a  juvenile  collection  of  science  fiction  stories,  it's  actually 
a  novel,  since  each  story  builds  upon  the  one  before  it.  In  the  first 
story,  an  alien  race  destroys  civilization  and  nearly  wipes  out 
humanity.  Each  successive  story,  set  several  generations  later, 
shows  how  people  have  changed,  adapted,  and  set  up  a  new  social 
order  which  is  better  than  the  old  one.  Some  stories  are  straight 
juveniles,  others  are  not — especially  the  later,  complex  ones.  The 
quality  of  the  writing,  as  with  most  juveniles,  is  quite  good. 

I  was  able  to  finish  and  appreciate — although  not  exactly 
enjoy — Samuel  Delany's  newest  novel,  Triton.  It  has  traces  of  a 
plot  and  is  much  shorter  than  his  previous  work,  Dhalgren,  al- 
though it's  still  very  long  by  today's  standards.  In  this  and  in 
Dhalgren,  Delany  is  so  close  to  his  characters  and  their  surround- 
ings that  you  can  see  what  they  see  and  feel  what  they  feel  if 
you're  at  all  sympathetic  to  the  people  involved.  The  'if'  is  the 
kicker,  though.  Unlike  Sturgeon,  who  can  make  the  most  insane 
character  lovable,  Delany  fails  at  this  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I 
appreciate  what  he  is  trying  to  do,  but  I  couldn't  get  involved. 

I  don't  think  it's  pure  coincidence  that  Phyllis  Gotlieb's  novel,  O 
Master  Caliban!,  has  a  lead  character  named  Dhalgren  and  takes 
place  on  Dhalgren's  world.  In  both  style  and  content  it  reminds 
me  strongly  of  the  earlier  Delany.  There  is  a  charming,  innocent 
hero  with  four  arms,  inimical  machines,  a  partially  radioactive 
world,  a  quest,  and  some  characters  with  strange  powers.  I  had  a 
lot  of  fun  reading  this  one. 

Jack  Vance  is  always  fun  to  read;  and  his  newest,  Maske: 
Thaery,  is  no  exception.  It's  another  exploration  of  a  strange 
world  in  the  Gaean  Reach,  similar  to,  but  not  the  same  as,  the 
other  books  in  the  series,  which  were  Trullion:  Alastor  2262,  then 
Marune:  Alastor  933,  and  third  The  Grey  Prince.  Like  the  first 
two,  Maske:  Thaery  is  more  a  comedy  of  manners  set  against  a 
baroque  background  than  a  straightforward  adventure  story. 
Vance's  recent  books  have  been  virtually  plotless,  but  I  don't 


J 


ON     BOOKS  151 

mind.  My  fascination  is  with  the  characters  and  the  background. 

The  Shattered  Chain,  by  Marion  Zimmer  Bradley,  is  the  latest 
in  her  Darkover  series.  This  series  began  as  juvenile  adventure  in 
the  Andre  Norton  tradition,  but  lately  has  become  much  more, 
with  better  characterization,  more  complex  backgrounds,  and  be- 
lievable motivations.  The  Shattered  Chain  is  not  quite  up  to  the 
previous  book  in  the  series.  The  Heritage  of  Hastur,  but  it  comes 
close.  Unlike  other  series,  the  order  in  which  you  read  these  books 
is  not  important.  Recommended. 

Dragonsong ,  by  Anne  McCaffrey,  is  another  novel  in  her  very 
popular  Dragonflight  series.  It  isn't  actually  a  sequel  to  the  ear- 
lier books  but  is  sort  of  a  side-bar  juvenile  taking  place  concur- 
rently with  Dragonflight  and  Dragonquest.  It's  simpler  than  the 
other  two  and  more  smoothly  written.  I  enjoyed  it  even  more  than 
Dragonquest  and  A  Time  When.  If  you're  a  fan  of  McCaffrey's 
Dragon  series,  this  is  a  must.  If  you're  unfamiliar  with  the  series, 
this  one  is  a  good  start. 

Larry  Niven's  A  World  out  of  Time  is  a  quasi-novel  cobbled  to- 
gether out  of  three  stories  with  a*  common  hero:  "Rammer," 
"Down  and  Out,"  and  "Children  of  the  State."  It  follows  the  ad- 
ventures of  Jerome  Branch  Corbell  (!)  from  his  beginning  as  a 
corpsicle,  through  his  revival  in  a  new  body,  to  his  job  as  a  space- 
ship pilot,  and  finally  to  his  exploration  of  a  far-future  Earth. 
Niven  is  the  best  hard-science  short-story  writer  working  in  the 
field  today.  Taken  individually,  all  these  stories  are  very  good; 
but  as  a  novel,  the  book  lacks  an  integrated  plot  and  a  hero  who 
acts  as  well  as  reacts.  This  doesn't  mean  that  it  isn't  a  good  book 
(for  it  is),  but  Niven  is  such  a  superior  writer  that  I  expect  more 
from  him  than  from  others. 

I've  been  talking  strictly  about  novels  up  to  now  because  they're 
the  most  popular  type  of  science  fiction,  although  not  necessarily 
the  best  written.  The  short  story  is  sometimes  ideal  for  SF  be- 
cause it  allows  the  author  to  explore  a  single  idea  without  go- 
ing too  deep  into  characterization — ^the  hardest  thing  to  do  well 
in  this  field.  There  are  not  one,  not  two,  but  three  different  series 
of  single-author,  short-story  collections  being  published  today 
under  the  title  of  The  Best  of .  .  .  All  range  from  very  good  to  ex- 
cellent, and  I  can  recommend  them  without  exception.  The  ones 
put  out  by  Sphere  in  England  are  all  edited  by  Angus  Wells.  They 
include  The  Best  of  Frank  Herbert,  The  Best  of  Arthur  C.  Clarke 


152 


ON      BOOKS 


(with  several  stories  never  before  collected!),  The  Best  of  Clifford 
Simak,  and  others.  They  are  representative  collections  and 
include — as  do  the  other  series — early  stories,  middle  stories,  and 
recent  stories;  but  no  publisher  would  dare  title  a  book  The  Rep- 
resentative Stories  of .  .  .  The  Sphere  editions  each  has  a  new  in- 
troduction by  its  author  plus  a  useful  bibliography  of  first  editions. 
Of  the  Ballantine  and  SF  Book  Club  series,  most  are  edited  by 
Lester  del  Rey,  with  an  introduction  by  del  Rey  plus  an  afterword 
by  the  author  in  each  book.  The  series  from  Pocket  Books  is  put 
together  by  the  authors  themselves;  each  volume  has  introduc- 
tions to  each  story  as  well  as  a  general  introduction,  plus  an  ap- 
preciation by  Barry  Malzberg.  This  series  so  far  includes  The  Best 
of  Robert  Silverberg,  The  Best  of  Jack  Vance,  and  The  Best  ofPoul 
Anderson. 

I've  saved  my  favorite  for  last  here:  Berkley /Putnam  has  pub- 
lished The  Light  Fantastic  and  Star  Light,  Star  Bright,  a  two- 
volume  set  of  the  short  fiction  of  Alfred  Bester,  with  new,  long  in- 
troductions to  each  story.  Even  though  I'd  read  all  the  stories  be- 
fore and  remembered  most  of  them,  Bester's  introductions  were  so 
interesting  that  I  found  myself  re-reading  each  one  with  new  in- 
sight and  enjoyment.  This  set  is  easily  the  best  collection  of  the 
year. 

Finally,  there  is  a  new  book  from  Harper  &  Row  that  is  an  ab- 
solute must  for  anyone  interested  in  writing  science  fiction  or  just 
reading  about  how  it's  done.  The  Craft  of  Science  Fiction,  edited 
by  Reginald  Bretnor,  is  a  symposium  on  writing  science  fiction, 
with  material  by  its  top  authors,  including  Niven,  Anderson, 
Pohl,  Herbert,  Ellison,  and  Sturgeon.  A  splendid  book! 


,^^> 


REVIEWS  OF  NEW  BOOKS 


TALES  OF  THREE  HEMISPHERES, 
by  Lord  Dunsany.  Owlswick  Press, 
$9.00. 

Here,  in  the  first  new  edition  in 
more- than  half. a  century,  is  one 
of  the  finest  masterworks  of  fan- 
tasy ever  written.  H.  P.  Lovecraft 
called  Dunsany's  work  "unexcelled 
in  the  sorcery  of  crystalline  sing- 
ing prose,  and  supreme  in  the  cre- 
ation of  a  gorgeous  and  languor- 
ous world  of  iridescently  exotic 
vision."  His  tales  are  a  necessity 
for  any  lover  of  fantasy;  like  first- 
rate  poetry,  they  are  endlessly  re- 
readable. 

For  this  volume,  which  has  never 
before  been  illustrated,  the  pub- 
lisher has  enlisted  Tim  Kirk,  who 
has  provided  13  full  page  scenes 
from  Dunsany's  Lands  of  Dream. 


SCIENCE  FICTION  HANDBOOK, 
REVISED,  by  L.  Sprague  de  Camp 
&  Catherine  de  Camp.  Owlswick 
Press,  $8.50. 

"This  may  well  be  the  best  how- 
to  book  ever  published  for  writers 
of  any  kind.  It  is  certainly  far  and 
away  the  best  for  writers  of  sci- 
ence fiction  and  fantasy.  Newcdm- 
ers  will  find  it  indispensable,  old 
hands  hardly  less  valuable,  while 
to  the  general  reader  it  will  give  a 
fascinating  behind-the-scenes  look 
at  the  profession."— Poul  Anderson 


TITLE 
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Asimov,  Isaac 
Bradbury.  Ray 
Bradbury,  Will 
Bretnor,  Reginald 
Bryant,  Edward  ^ 
Clarke,  Arthur  C. 

Gotlieb,  Phyllis 
Haldeman,  Joe 
Herbert,  Frank 
LeGuin.  Ursula  K. 
McCaffrey,  Anne 
Niven,  Larry 

Pohl,  Frederik 
Silverberg,  Robert 
Vance,  Jack 
Wilhelm,  Kate 


BICENTENNIAL  MAN 

LONG  AFTER  MIDNIGHT 

THE  GOD  SELL 

THE  CRAFT  OF  SCIENCE  FICTION 

CINNABAR 

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CHILDREN  OF  DUNE 

THE  WORD  FOR  WORLD  IS  FOREST 

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SHADRACH  IN  THE  FURNACE 
MASKE:  THAERY 
WHERE  LATE  THE  SWEET  BIRDS 
SANG 


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.Zip. 


TIME  STORM 

by  Gordon  R.  Dickson 

The  author  was  born  in  Canada  in  1923.  He 
attended  the  University  of  Minnesota  before 
and  after  W.W.  II,  with  a  break  for  Army 
service;  since  1950  he  has  been  a  full  time 
writer.  Mr.  Dickson,  has  sold  over  150  short 
stories  and  40  books.  In  addition  to  Time 
Storm,  his  current  book  projects  include  The 
Far  Call,  the  story  of  a  1980 
expedition  to  Mars. 

The  leopard — I  called  him  Sunday,  after  the  day  I  foimd  him — 
almost  never  became  annoyed  with  the  girl,  for  all  her  hanging 
on  to  him.  But  he  was  only  a  wild  animal,  after  all,  and  there 
were  limits  to  his  patience. 

What  had  moved  me  to  pick  up  first  him,  then  her,  was  some- 
thing I  asked  myself  often  without  getting  a  good  answer.  They 
were  nothing  but  encumbrances  and  no  concern  of  mine.  My  only 
concern  was  getting  to  Omaha  and  Swannee.  Beyond  that  point 
there  was  no  need  for  me  to  think.  But — I  don't  know.  Somehow 
out  of  the  terrible  feeling  of  emptiness  that  I  kept  waking  up  to  in 
the  mornings,  I  had  gotten  a  notion  that  in  a  world  where  nearly 
all  the  people  and  animals  had  vanished,  they  would  be  living 
creatures  I  could  talk  to.  Talk  to,'  however,  had  turned  out  to  be 
the  working  phrase;  because  certainly  neither  of  them  were  able 
to  talk  back.  Crazy  cat  and  speechless  girl — and  with  them,  my- 
self, who  before  had  always  had  the  good  sense  never  to  need 
anybody,  dragging  them  both  along  with  me  across  a  landscape  as 
mixed  up  and  insane  as  they  were. 

This  time,  the  trouble  erupted  just  as  I  pushed  the  panel  truck 
over  a  rise  in  late  summer  wheat  country  which  I  figured  had 
once  been  cornland,  a  little  below  the  one-time  northern  border  of 
Iowa.  All  the  warning  I  heard  was  a  sort  of  combination  meow- 
snarl.  Not  a  top-pitch,  ready-to-fight  sound;  but  a  plain  signal 
that  Sunday  had  had  enough  of  being  treated  like  a  stuffed  ani- 
mal and  wanted  the  girl  to  leave  him  alone.  I  braked  the  panel 
sharply  to  a  stop  on  the  side  of  the  empty,  two-lane  asphalt  road, 

156 


TIME      STORM  157 

and  scrambled  over  the  seat  backs  into  the  body  of  the  truck. 

"Cat!"  I  raved  at  him.  "What  the  hell's  got  into  you  now?" 

But  of  course,  having  said  his  piece  and  already  gotten  her  to 
let  him  go,  Sunday  was  now  feeling  just  fine.  He  lay  there,  com- 
pletely self-possessed,  cleaning  the  fur  on  the  back  of  his  right 
forepaw  with  his  tongue.  Only,  the  girl  was  huddled  up  into  a 
tight  little  ball  that  looked  as  if  it  never  intended  to  come  un- 
wound again;  and  that  made  me  lose  my  temper. 

I  cuffed  Sunday;  and  he  cringed,  putting  his  head  down  as  I 
crawled  over  him  to  get  to  the  girl.  A  second  later  I  felt  his  rough 
tongue  rasping  on  my  left  ankle  in  a  plea  for  forgiveness — for 
what  he  did  not  even  understand.  And  that  made  me  angry  all 
over  again,  because  illogically,  now,  I  was  the  one  who  felt  guilty. 
He  was  literally  insane  where  I  was  concerned.  I  knew  it;  and  yet 
I  had  taken  advantage  of  that  to  knock  him  around,  knowing  I 
was  quite  safe  in  doing  so  when  otherwise  he  could  have  had  my 
throat  out  in  two  seconds  as  easy  as  yawning. 

But  I  was  only  human  myself,  I  told  myself;  and  here  I  had  the 
girl  to  unwind  again.  She  was  still  in  her  ball,  completely  un- 
yielding, all  elbows  and  rigid  muscle  when  I  put  my  hands  on  her. 
I  had  told  myself  I  had  no  real  feeling  for  her,  any  more  than  I 
had  for  Sunday.  But  somehow,  for  some  reason  I  had  never  un- 
derstood, it  always  damn  near  broke  my  heart  when  she  went  like 
that.  My  younger  sister  had  had  moments  of  withdrawal  some- 
thing like  that — before  she  grew  out  of  them.  I  had  guessed  her  to 
be  no  more  than  fifteen  or  sixteen,  at  the  most,  and  she  had  not 
said  a  word  since  the  day  I  found  her  wandering  by  the  road.  But 
she  had  taken  to  Sunday  fix)m  the  moment  I  had  led  her  back  to 
the  truck  and  she  first  laid  eyes  on  him.  Now,  it  was  as  if  he  was 
the  only  living  thing  in  the  world  for  her;  and  when  he  snarled  at 
her  like  that,  it  seemed  to  hit  her  like  being  rejected  by  everyone 
who  had  ever  loved  her,  all  at  once. 

I  had  been  through  a  number  of  crises  like  this  one  with  her 
before — though  the  others  had  not  been  so  obviously  Sunday's 
fault — and  I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  much  to  be  done  with 
her  until  she  began  to  relax.  So  I  sat  down  and  wrapped  my  arms 
around  her,  cuddling  her  as  close  as  her  rigidness  would  allow, 
and  began  to  try  to  talk  her  out  of  it.  The  sound  of  my  voice 
seemed  to  help,  although  at  that  time  she  would  never  show  any 
kind  of  direct  response  to  it,  except  to  follow  orders. 


158  TIME     STORM 

So  there  I  sat,  on  the  mattresses  and  blankets  in  the  back  of 
the  panel  truck,  with  my  arms  around  her  narrow  body  that  was 
more  sharp  bones  than  anything  else,  talking  to  her  and  telling 
her  over  and  over  again  that  Sunday  wasn't  mad  at  her,  he  was 
just  a  crazy  cat  and  she  should  pay  no  attention  when  he  snarled, 
except  to  leave  him  alone  for  a  while.  After  a  while  I  got  tired  of 
repeating  the  same  words  and  tried  singing  to  her — any  song  that 
I  could  remember.  I  was  aware  it  was  no  great  performance.  I 
may  have  believed  at  that  time  that  I  was  hell  on  wheels  at  a 
number  of  things,  but  I  knew  singing  was  not  one  of  them.  I  had 
a  voice  to  scare  bullfrogs.  However,  that  had  never  seemed  to 
matter  with  the  girl.  It  was  keeping  up  the  human  noise  and 
holding  her  that  helped.  Meanwhile,  all  the  time  this  was  going 
on,  Sunday  had  crept  up  as  close  to  us  as  he  could  and  had  his 
forepaws  around  my  left  ankle,  his  forehead  butted  against  my 
knee. 

So,  after  a  while,  illogically,  I  reached  down  and  patted  his 
head,  which  he  took  as  forgiveness.  I  was  a  complete  fool  for  both 
of  them,  in  some  ways.  Shortly  after  that,  the  girl  began  to  stir. 
The  stiffness  went  out  of  her.  Her  arms  and  legs  extended  them- 
selves; and  without  a  word  to  me  she  pulled  away,  crawled  off  and 
put  her  arms  around  Sunday.  He  suffered  it,  even  licking  at  her 
face  with  his  tongue.  I  unkinked  my  own  cramped  muscles  and 
went  back  up  front  to  the  driver's  seat  of  the  truck. 

Then  I  saw  it,  to  the  left  of  the  highway.  It  was  a  line  of  sky- 
high  mist  or  dust-haze,  less  than  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  away, 
rolling  down  on  us  at  an  angle. 

There  was  no  time  for  checking  on  the  two  back  there  to  see  if 
they  were  braced  for  a  racing  start.  I  jammed  the  key  over,  got 
the  motor  started,  and  slammed  the  panel  into  motion  down  the 
narrow  asphalt  lane  between  the  brown-yellow  of  the  standing 
wheat,  now  gently  wind-rippled  by  the  breeze  that  always  pre- 
ceded a  mistwall,  until  the  plant-tops  wavered  into  varying 
shades  of  gold. 

No  mistwall  I  had  seen,  with  the  time-change  line  its  presence 
always  signalled,  had  ever  moved  faster  than  about  thirty  miles 
an  hour.  That  meant  that  unless  this  one  was  an  exception, 
theoretically  any  car  in  good  working  order  on  a  decent  road 
should  have  no  trouble  outrunning  it.  The  difficulty  arose,  how- 
ever, when — as  now — the  mistwall  was  not  simply  coming  up  be- 


TIME     STORM  159 

hind  us,  but  moving  in  at  an  angle  flanking  the  road.  I  would 
have  to  drive  over  half  the  length  of  the  wall  or  more — and  some 
mistwalls  were  up  to  ten  miles  long — to  get  out  of  its  path  before 
it  caught  us,  along  with  everything  else  in  its  way.  I  held  the 
pedal  of  the  accelerator  to  the  floor  and  sweated. 

According  to  the  needle  on  the  speedometer,  we  were  doing 
nearly  a  hundred  and  ten — which  was  nonsense.  Eighty-five  miles 
an  hour  was  more  like  the  absolute  top  speed  of  the  panel  truck. 
As  it  was,  we  swayed  and  bounced  along  the  empty  road  as  if  five 
more  miles  an  hour  would  have  sent  us  flying  off  it. 

I  could  now  see  the  far  end  of  the  mistwall.  It  was  a  good  two  or 
three  miles  away,  yet;  and  the  wall  itself  was  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  off  and  closing  swiftly.  I  may  have  prayed  a  little  bit  at  this 
point,  in  spite  of  being  completely  irreligious.  I  seem  to  remember 
that  I  did.  In  the  weeks  since  the  whole  business  of  the  time 
changes  started,  I  had  not  been  this  close  to  being  caught  since 
that  first  day  in  the  cabin  northwest  of  Duluth,  when  I  had  in 
fact  been  caught  without  knowing  what  hit  me.  I  had  thought 
then  it  was  another  heart  attack,  come  to  carry  me  off  for  good 
this  time;  and  the  bitterness  of  being  chopped  down  before  I  was 
thirty  and  after  I  had  spent  nearly  two  years  putting  myself  into 
the  best  possible  physical  shape,  had  been  like  a  dry,  ugly  taste  in 
my  throat  just  before  the  change  line  reached  me  and  knocked  me 
out. 

I  remember  still  thinking  that  it  was  a  heart  attack,  even  after 
I  came  to.  I  had  gone  on  thinking  that  way,  even  after  I  found  the 
squirrel  that  was  still  in  shock  from  it;  the  way  Sunday  had  been 
later,  when  I  found  him.  For  several  days  afterwards,  with  the 
squirrel  tagging  along  behind  me  like  some  miniature  dog  until  I 
either  exhausted  it  or  lost  it,  I  did  not  begin  to  realize  the  size  of 
what  had  happened.  It  was  only  later  that  I  began  to  understand, 
when  I  came  to  where  Duluth  should  have  been  and  found  virgin 
forest  where  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  people  had  lived;  and 
later  yet,  as  I  moved  south  and  stumbled  across  the  log  cabin 
with  the  bearded  man  in  cord- wrapped  leather  leggings. 

The  bearded  man  had  nearly  done  for  me.  It  took  me  almost 
three  minutes  too  long  after  I  met  him  to  realize  that  he  did  not 
understand  that  the  rifle  in  my  hand  was  a  weapon.  It  was  only 
when  I  stepped  back  and  picked  up  the  hunting  bow,  that  he  pull- 
ed his  fancy  quick-draw  trick  with  the  axe  he  had  been  using  to 


160  TIME     STORM 

chop  wood  when  I  stepped  into  his  clearing.  I  never  saw  anything 
like  it  and  I  hope  I  never  see  it  again,  unless  I'm  on  the  side  of 
the  man  with  the  axe.  It  was  a  sort  of  scimitar-bladed  tool  with  a 
wide,  curving  forward  edge;  and  he  had  hung  it  on  his  shoulder, 
blade-forward,  in  what  I  took  to  be  a  reassuring  gesture,  when  I 
first  tried  to  speak  to  him.  Then  he  came  toward  me,  speaking 
some  kind  of  Scandinavian-sounding  gibberish  in  a  friendly  voice, 
the  axe  hung  on  his  shoulder  as  if  he  had  forgotten  it  was  there. 

It  was  when  I  began  to  get  worried  about  the  steady  way  he 
was  coming  on  and  warned  him  back  with  the  rifle,  that  I  recog- 
nized suddenly  that  apparently,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  I  was 
carrying  nothing  more  than  a  club.  For  a  second  I  was  merely 
paralyzed  by  the  enormity  of  that  insight.  Then,  before  I  could 
bring  myself  to  shoot  him  after  all  in  self-defense,  I  had  the  idea 
of  trying  to  pick  up  the  bow  with  my  free  hand.  As  an  idea,  it  was 
a  good  one — but  the  minute  he  saw  the  bow  in  my  hand  he  acted; 
and  to  this  -day  I'm  not  sure  exactly  how  he  did  it. 

He  reached  back  at  belt-level  and  jerked  forward  on  the 
handle-end  of  the  axe.  It  came  off  his  shoulder — spinning,  back, 
around,  under  his  arm,  up  in  the  air  and  over,  and  came  down 
incredibly  with  the  end  of  its  handle  into  his  fist  and  the  blade 
edge  forward. 

Then  he  threw  it. 

I  saw  it  come  whirling  toward  me,  ducked  instinctively  and  ran. 
I  heard  it  thunk  into  a  tree  somewhere  behind  me;  but  by  then  I 
was  into  the  cover  of  the  woods  and  he  did  not  follow. 

Five  days  later  I  was  where  the  twin  cities  of  Minneapolis  and 
St.  Paul  had  been — and  they  looked  as  if  they  had  been  aban- 
doned for  a  hundred  years  after  a  bombing  raid  that  had  nearly 
leveled  them  to  the  ground.  But  I  found  the  panel  truck  there, 
and  it  started  when  I  turned  its  key.  There  was  gas  in  the  filling 
station  pumps,  though  I  had  to  rig  up  a  little  kerosene  generator  I 
liberated  from  a  sporting  goods  store,  in  order  to  pump  some  of  it 
into  the  tank  of  the  truck,  and  I  headed  south  along  U.S.  35W. 
Then  came  Sunday.  Then  came  the  girl. 

— I  was  almost  to  the  far  end  of  the  mistwall  now,  although  to 
the  left  of  the  road  the  haze  was  less  than  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  roadway,  and  little  stinging  sprays  of  everything  from  dust  to 
fine  gravel  were  beginning  to  pepper  the  left  side  of  the  panel,  in- 
cluding my  own  head  and  shoulder  where  the  window  on  that  side 


TIME     STORM  161 

was  not  rolled  up.  But  I  had  no  time  to  roll  it  up  now.  I  kept 
pushing  the  gas  pedal  through  the  floor,  and  suddenly  we  whip- 
ped past  the  end  of  the  wall  of  mist  and  I  could  see  open  country 
clear  to  the  summer  horizon. 

Sweating,  I  eased  back  on  the  gas,  let  the  truck  roll  to  a  stop, 
and  half-turned  it  across  the  road  so  I  could  look  behind  us. 

Back  where  we  had  been,  seconds  before,  the  mist  had  already 
crossed  the  road  and  was  moving  on  into  the  fields  that  had  been 
on  the  road's  far  side.  They  were  ceasing  to  be  there  as  it 
passed — as  the  road  itself  had  already  ceased  to  be,  as  well  as  the 
farm  land  on  the  near  side  of  the  road.  Where  the  grain  had  rip- 
pled in  the  wind,  there' was  now  wild,  grassy  hillside — open  coun- 
try sparsely  interspersed  with  a  few  clumps  of  trees,  rising  to  a 
bluff,  a  crown  of  land,  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  looking  so 
close  I  could  reach  out  and  touch  it.  There  was  not  a  breath  of 
wind  stirring. 

I  put  the  panel  back  in  gear  again  and  drove  off.  After  a  while 
the  road  swung  in  a  gentle  curve  toward  a  small  town  that  looked 
as  normal  as  apple  pie,  as  if  no  mistwall  had  ever  passed  through 
it.  It  could  be,  of  course.  My  heart  began  to  pound  a  little  with 
hope  of  running  into  someone  sane  I  could  talk  with,  about  every- 
thing that  had  happened  since  that  apparent  heart  attack  of  mine 
in  the  cabin. 

But  when  I  drove  into  the  main  street  of  the  town,  between  the 
buildings,  there  was  no  one  in  sight;  and  the  whole  place  seemed 
deserted.  Hope  evaporated  into  caution.  Then  I  saw  what  seemed 
to  be  a  barricade  across  the  street  up  ahead;  and  a  single  figure 
crouched  behind  it  with  what  looked  like  a  rocket  launcher  on  his 
shoulder.  He  was  peering  over  the  barricade  away  from  me,  al- 
though he  must  have  heard  the  sound  of  the  motor  coming  up  the 
street  behind  him. 

I  pulled  the  truck  into  an  alley  between  two  stores  and  stopped 
it. 

"Stay  here  and  stay  quiet,"  I  told  the  girl  and  Sunday. 

I  took  the  carbine  from  beside  my  driver's  seat  and  got  out. 
Holding  it  ready,  just  in  case,  I  went  up  behind  the  man  crouched 
at  the  barricade.  Up  this  close  I  could  see  easily  over  the 
barricade — and  sure  enough,  there  was  another  mistwall,  less 
than  a  mile  away,  but  unmoving.  For  the  first  time  since  I  had 
come  into  the  silent  town,  I  became  conscious  of  a  steady  sound. 


162  TIMESTORM 

It  came  from  somewhere  up  ahead,  beyond  the  point  where  the 
straight  white  concrete  highway  vanished  into  the  unmoving  haze 
of  the  mistwall — a  small  buzzing  sound,  like  the  sound  of  a  fly  in 
an  enclosed  box  on  a  hot  July  day  such  as  this  one  was. 

"Get  down,"  said  the  man  with  the  rocket  launcher. 

I  pulled  my  head  below  the  top  line  of  the  makeshift 
barricade — furniture,  rolls  of  carpeting,  cans  of  paint — that  barred 
the  empty  street  between  the  gritty  sidewalks  and  the  unbroken 
store  windows  in  the  red  brick  sides  of  the  Main  Street  building. 
Driving  in  from  the  northwest,  I  had  thought  at  first  that  this 
small  town  was  still  living.  Then,  when  I  got  closer,  I  had  guessed 
it  was  one  of  those  places^untouched  but  abandoned,  such  as  1 
had  run  into  further  north.  And  so  it  was,  in  fact;  except  for  the 
man,  his  homemade  barricade,  and  the  rocket  launcher. 

The  buzzing  grew  louder.  I  looked  behind  me,  back  down  the 
Main  Street.  I  could  just  make  out  the  brown,  left  front  fender  of 
the  panel  truck,  showing  at  the  mouth  of  the  alley  into  which  I 
had  backed  it.  There  was  no  sound  or  movement  from  inside  it. 
The  two  of  them  in  there  would  be  obeying  my  orders,  lying  still 
on  the  blankets  in  the  van  section,,  the  leopard  probably  purring  a 
little  in  its  rough,  throaty  way  and  cleaning  the  fur  of  a  forepaw 
with  its  tongue,  while  the  girl  held  to  the  animal  for  comfort  and 
companionship,  in  spite  of  the  heat. 

When  I  looked  back  through  a  chink  in  the  barricade,  there  was 
something  already  visible  in  the  road.  It  had  evidently  just  ap- 
peared out  of  the  haze,  for  it  was  coming  very  fast.  Its  sound  was 
the  buzzing  sound  I  had  heard  earlier,  now  growing  rapidly 
louder  as  it  raced  toward  us,  the  thing  itself  seeming  to  swell  up 
in  size  like  a  balloon  being  inflated  against  the  white  backdrop  of 
the  haze. 

It  came  so  fast  that  there  was  only  time  to  get  a  glimpse  of  it. 
It  was  yellow  and  black  in  color,  like  a  wasp;  a  small  gadget  with 
an  amazing  resemblance  to  a  late  model  compact  car,  but  half  the 
size  of  such  a  car,  charging  at  us  down  the  ruler-straight  section 
of  highway  like  some  outsize  wind-up  toy. 

I  jerked  up  my  rifle;  but  at  the  same  time  the  rocket  launcher 
went  off  beside  me  with  a  flat  clap  of  sound.  The  rocket  was  slow 
enough  so  that  we  could  see  it  like  a  black  speck,  curving  through 
the  air  to  meet  the  gadget  coming  at  us.  They  met  and  there  was 
an  explosion.  The  gadget  hopped  up  off  the  road  shedding  parts 


TIMESTORM  163 

which  flew  toward  us,  whacking  into  the  far  side  of  the  barricade 
like  shrapnel.  For  a  full  minute  after  it  quit  moving,  there  was  no 
sound  to  be  heard.  Then  the  whistling  of  birds  and  the  trilling  of 
crickets  took  up  again. 

I  looked  over  at  the  rocket  launcher. 

"Good,"  I  said  to  the  man.  "Where  did  you  get  that  launcher, 
anyway?" 

"Somebody  must  have  stolen  it  from  a  National  Guard  outfit," 
he  said.  "Or  brought  it  back  from  overseas.  I  found  it  with  a 
bunch  of  knives  and  guns  and  other  things,  in  a  storeroom  behind 
the  town  police  office." 

He  was  as  tall  as  I  was,  a  tight-shouldered,  narrow-bodied  man 
with  a  deep  tan  on  his  forearms  below  the  rolled  sleeves  of  his 
check  shirt,  and  on  his  quiet,  bony  face.  Maybe  a  little  older  than 
I  was;  possibly  in  his  late  thirties.  I  studied  him,  trying  to  esti- 
mate how  hard  it  would  be  to  kill  him  if  I  had  to.  I  could  see  him 
watching  me,  doubtless  with  the  same  thought  in  mind. 

It  was  the  way  things  were,  now.  There  was  no  shortage  of  food 
or  drink,  or  anything  material  you  could  want.  But  neither  was 
there  any  law,  any  more — at  least,  none  I'd  been  able  to  find  in 
the  last  three  weeks. 

To  break  the  staring  match,  I  deliberately  looked  away  to  the 
gadget,  lying  still  now  beyond  the  barricades,  and  nodded  at  it. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  it  close  up,"  I  said.  "Is  it  safe?" 

"Sure."  He  got  to  his  feet,  laying  down  the  rocket  launcher.  I 
saw,  however,  he  had  a  heavy  revolver — possibly  a  .38  or  .45 — in 
a  holster  on  the  hip  away  from  me;  and  a  deer  rifle  carbine  like 
mine  was  lying  against  the  barricade.  He  picked  it  up  in  his  left 
hand. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.  "They  only  show  up  one  at  a  time,  a  little 
over  six  hours  apart." 

I  looked  down  the  road.  There  were  no  other  wrecked  shapes  in 
black  and  yellow  in  sight  along  it. 

"You're  sure?"  I  said.  "How  many  have  you  seen?" 

He  laughed,  making  a  dry  sound  in  his  throat  like  an  old  man. 

"They're  never  quite  stopped,"  he  said.  "Like  this  one.  It's 
harmless,  now,  but  not  really  done  for.  Later  it'll  crawl  back,  or 
get  pulled  back  behind  the  mist  over  there — you'll  see.  Come  on." 

He  climbed  over  the  barricade  and  I  followed  him.  When  we  got 
to  the  gadget  it  looked  more  than  ever  like  an  overlarge  toy 


164  TIME     STORM 

car — except  that  where  the  windows  should  be,  there  was  a  flat 
yellow  surface;  and  instead  of  four  ordinary  sized  wheels  with 
tires,  the  lower  halves  of  something  like  sixteen  or  eighteen  small 
metal  disks  showed  through  the  panel  sealing  the  underbody.  The 
rocket  had  torn  a  large  hole  in  the  gadget's  side. 

"Listen,"  said  the  man,  stooping  over  the  hole.  I  came  close  and 
listened  myself.  There  was  a  faint  buzzing,  still  going  on  down 
there  someplace  inside  it. 

"Who  sends  these  things?"  I  said.  "Or  what  sends  them?" 

He  shrugged. 

"By  the  way,"  I  said,  "I'm  Marc  Despard."  I  held  out  my  hand. 

He  hesitated. 

"Raymond  Samuelson,"  he  said. 

I  saw  his  hand  jerk  forward  a  little,  then  back  again.  Outside  of 
that,  he  ignored  my  own,  offered  hand;  and  I  let  it  drop.  I  guessed 
that  he  might  not  want  to  shake  hands  with  a  man  he  might 
later  have  to  try  to  kill;  and  I  judged  that  anyone  who  worried 
about  a  nicety  like  that  was  not  likely  to  shoot  me  in  the  back,  at 
least  unless  he  had  to.  At  the  same  time,  there  was  no  point  in 
asking  for  trouble  by  letting  any  misunderstandings  arise. 

"I'm  just  on  my  way  through  to  Omaha,"  I  said.  "My  wife's 
there,  if  she's  still  all  right.  But  I'm  not  going  to  drive  right  ac- 
ross that  time-change  line  out  there  if  I've  got  a  choice."  I  nodded 
at  the  haze  from  which  the  gadget  had  come.  "Have  you  got  any 
other  roads  leading  south  or  east  from  the  town?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  He  was  frowning.  "Did  you  say  your  wife  was 
there?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  For  the  life  of  me,  I  had  meant  to  say  "ex- 
wife,"  but  my  tongue  had  slipped;  and  it  was  not  worth 
straightening  the  matter  out  now  for  someone  like  Samuelson. 
"Look,"  he  said,  "you  don't  have  to  go  right  away.  Stop  and  have 
dinner." 

Stop  and  have  dinner.  Something  about  my  mentioning  a  wife 
had  triggered  off  a  hospitality  reflex  in  him.  The  familiar,  homely 
words  he  spoke  seemed  as  strange  andjout  of  place,  here  between 
the  empty  town  and  the  haze  that  barred  the  landscape  to  our 
right,  as  the  wrecked  gadget  at  our  feet. 

"All  right,"  I  said. 

We  went  back,  over  the  barricade  and  down  to  the  panel  truck. 
I  called  to  the  leopard  and  the  girl  to  come  out  and  introduced 


TIME      STORM  165 

them  to  Samuelson.  His  eyes  widened  at  the  sight  of  the  leopard, 
but  they  opened  even  more  at  the  sight  of  the  girl  behind  the  big 
cat. 

"I  call  the  leopard  'Sunday',"  I  said.  "The  girl's  never  told  me 
her  name." 

I  put  out  my  hand  and  Sunday  stepped  forward,  flattening  his 
ears  and  rubbing  his  head  up  under  my  palm  with  a  sound  that 
was  like  a  whimper  of  pleasure. 

"I  came  across  him  just  after  a  time  change  had  swept  the  area 
where  he  was,"  I  said.  "He  was  still  in  shock  when  I  first  touched 
him;  and  now  Fve  got  his  soul  in  pawn,  or  something  like  that. 
You've  seen  how  animals  act,  if  you  get  them  right  after  a  change 
before  they  come  all  the  way  back  to  being  themselves?" 

Samuelson  shook  his  head.  He  was  looking  at  me  now  with 
some  distrust  and  suspicion. 

"That's  too  bad,"  I  said.  "Maybe  you'll  take  my  word  for  it, 
then.  He's  perfectly  safe  as  long  as  I'm  around." 

I  petted  Sunday.  Samuelson  looked  at  the  girl. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her.  But  she  simply  stared  back 
without  answering.  She  would  do  anything  I  set  her  to  doing,  but 
I  had  never  been  able  to  make  her  seem  conscious  of  herself.  The 
straight,  dark  hair  hanging  down  around  her  shoulders  always 
had  a  wild  look;  and  even  the  shirt  and  jeans  she  was  wearing 
looked  as  if  they  did  not  belong  to  her. 

They  were  the  best  of  available  choices,  though.  I  had  put  her 
into  a  dress  once,  shortly  after  I  had  found  her;  and  the  effect  had 
been  pitiful.  She  had  looked  like  a  caricature  of  a  young  girl  in 
that  dress. 

"She  doesn't  talk,"  I  said.  "I  came  across  her  a  couple  of  days 
after  I  found  the  leopard,  about  two  hundred  miles  south.  The 
leopard  was  about  where  the  Minneapolis-St.  Paul  area  used  to 
be.  It  could  have  come  from  a  zoo.  The  girl  was  just  wandering 
along  the  road.  No  telling  where  she  came  from." 

"Poor  kid,"  said  Samuelson.  He  evidently  meant  it;  and  I  began 
to  think  it  even  more  unlikely  that  he  would  shoot  me  in  the 
back. 

We  went  to  his  house,  one  block  off  the  Main  Street,  for  dinner. 

"What  about  the— whatever-you-call-them?"  I  asked.  "What  if 
one  comes  while  you  aren't  there  to  stop  it?" 

"The  Buzzers,"  he  said.  "No,  like  I  told  you,  they  don't  run  on 


166  TIME     STORM 

schedule,  but  after  one's  come  by,  it's  at  least  six  and  a  half  hours 
before  the  next  one.  It's  my  guess  there's  some  kind  of  automatic 
factory  behind  the  mist  there,  that  takes  that  long  to  make  a  new 
one." 

Samuelson's  house  turned  out  to  be  one  of  those  tall,  ornate, 
late-nineteenth  century  homes  you  still  see  in  small  towns.  Two 
stories  and  an  attic  with  a  wide  screen  porch  in  front  and  lilac 
bushes  growing  all  along  one  side  of  it.  The  rooms  inside  were 
small,  dark  and  high-ceilinged,  with  too  much  furniture  for  their 
floorspace.  He  had  rigged  a  gas  motor  and  a  water  tank  to  the 
well  in  his  basement  that  had  formerly  been  run  by  an  electric 
pump;  and  he  had  found  an  old,  black,  wood-burning  stove  to 
block  up  in  one  corner  of  his  spacious  kitchen.  The  furniture  was 
clean  of  dust  and  in  order. 

He  gave  us  the  closest  thing  to  a  normal  meal  that  I'd  eaten — 
or  the  girl  had,  undoubtedly — since  the  time  storm  first  hit  Earth. 
I  knew  it  had  affected  all  the  Earth,  by  this  time;  not  just  the  lit- 
tle part  west  of  the  Great  Lakes  in  North  America  where  I  was.  I 
carried  a  good  all-bands  portable  radio  along;  and  once  in  a  while 
picked  up  a  fragment  of  a  broacast  from  somewhere.  The 
continuity — or  discontinuity — lines  dividing  the  time  areas  usu- 
ally blocked  off  radio.  But  sometimes  things  came  through. 
Hawaii,  evidently,  was  unique  in  hardly  having  been  touched, 
and  I'd  occasionally  heard  bits  of  shortwave  from  as  far  away  as 
Greece.  Not  that  I  listened  much.  There  was  nothing  I  could  do 
for  the  people  broadcasting,  any  more  than  there  was  anything 
they  could  do  for  me. 

I  told  Samuelson  about  this  while  he  was  fixing  dinner;  and  he 
said  he  had  run  into  the  same  thing  with  both  the  short-wave  and 
long-wave  radios  he  had  set  up.  We  agreed  that  the  storm  was 
not  over. 

"We've  only  had  the  one  time  change  here  in  Saulsburg, 
though,"  he  said.  "Every  so  often,  I'll  see  a  line  of  change  moving 
across  country  off  on  the  horizon,  or  standing  still  for  a  while  out 
there;  but  so  far,  none's  come  this  way."  "' 

"Where  did  all  the  people  go,  that  were  in  this  place?"  I  asked. 

His  face  changed,  all  at  once. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  Then  he  bent  over  the  biscuit  dough  he 
was  making,  so  that  his  face  was  hidden  away  from  me.  "I  had  to 
drive  over  to  Peppard — that's  the  next  town.  I  drove  and  drove 


TIME     STORM  167 

and  couldn't  find  it.  I  began  to  think  I  was  sick  or  crazy,  so  I 
turned  the  car  around  and  drove  home.  When  I  got  back  here,  it 
was  like  you  see  it  now." 

It  was  clear  he  did  not  want  to  talk  about  it.  But  I  could  guess 
some  of  what  he  had  lost  from  the  house.  It  had  been  lived  in  by 
more  than  one  adult,  and  several  children.  There  were  a  woman's 
overshoes  in  the  front  closet,  toys  in  a  box  in  one  corner  of  the 
living  room,  and  three  bicycles  in  good  condition  in  the  garage. 

"What  did  you  do  for  a  living?"  he  asked  me  after  a  moment. 

"I  was  retired,"  I  said. 

He  frowned  over  that,  too.  So  I  told  him  about  myself.  The  time 
storm  had  done  nothing  in  my  case  to  leave  me  with  things  I  did 
not  want  to  talk  about,  except  for  the  matter  of  Swannee,  down  in 
Omaha;  and  somehow  I  was  perfectly  comforted  and  sure  that  she 
and  that  city  had  come  through  the  time  storm  changes  un- 
harmed, though  I  had  heard  no  radio  broadcasts  from  there. 

"I  started  investing  in  the  stock  market  when  I  was  nineteen,"  I 
said,  "before  I  was  even  out  of  college.  I  struck  it  lucky."  Luck,  of 
course,  had  nothing  to  do  with  it;  but  I  had  found  I  could  not  tell 
people  that.  Because  the  word  "stocks"  was  involved,  it  had  to  be 
luck,  not  hard  research  and  harder-headed  decision  making,  that 
had  made  money  for  me.  "Then  I  used  what  I  had  to  take  over  a 
company  that  made  trailers  and  snowmobiles;  and  that  did  all 
right.  I'd  be  there  yet,  but  I  had  a  heart  attack." 

Samuelson's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"A  heart  attack?" ^he  said.  "You're  pretty  young  for  something 
like  that." 

"I  was  damned  young,"  I  said.  "I  was  twenty-four." 

I  discovered  suddenly  that  I  had  been  wrong  about  not  having 
things  I  did  not  want  to  talk  about.  I  did  not  want  to  tell  him 
about  my  heart  attack.  He  looked  too  much  like  a  man  who'd 
never  had  a  sick  day  in  his  life. 

"Anyway,"  I  said,  "my  doctor  told  me  to  take  it  easy,  and  lose 
weight.  That  was  two  years  ago.  So  I  sold  out,  set  up  a  trust  to 
support  me,  and  bought  a  place  up  in  the  woods  of  northern  Min- 
nesota, beyond  Ely-^-if  you  know  that  state.  I  got  back  in  shape, 
and  I've  been  fine  ever  since;  until  the  time  storm  hit  three  weeks 
ago." 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

The  food  was  ready,  so  I  helped  him  carry  it  into  the  dining 


168  TIME     STORM 

room  and  we  all  ate  there;  even  Sunday,  curled  up  in  a  corner.  I 
had  thought  Samuelson  might  object  to  my  bringing  the  leopard 
into  his  house,  but  he  had  not. 

Afterwards,  we  sat  on  his  screened  porch  at  the  front  of  the 
house,  with  the  thick  leaves  of  the  sugar  maple  in  the  yard 
screening  us  from  the  western  sun.  It  was  after  six  by  my  watch, 
but  now  in  mid-summer,  there  was  at  least  another  three  hours  of 
light  left.  Samuelson  had  some  homemade  wine  which  was  not 
bad.  It  was  not  very  good  either,  but  the  town  was  apparently  a 
dry  town;  and  of  course  he  had  not  left  it  since  he  had  first  come 
back  here  and  found  his  people  gone. 

"How  about  the  girl?"  he  asked  me,  when  he  first  poured  the 
wine  into  water  glasses. 

"Why  not?"  I  said.  "We  may  all  be  dead— her  included— 
tomorrow,  if  the  wrong  sort  of  time  change  catches  us." 

So  he  gave  her  a  glass.  But  she  only  took  a  small  slip,  then  put 
it  down  on  the  floor  of  the  porch  by  her  chair.  After  a  bit,  while 
Samuelson  and  I  talked,  she  got  out  of  the  chair  itself  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor  where  she  could  put  an  arm  around  Sunday, 
who  Was  lying  there,  dozing.  Outside  of  raising  a  lazy  eyebrow 
when  he  felt  the  weight  of  her  arm,  the  leopard  paid  no  attention. 
It  was  amazing  what  he  would  stand  from  her,  sometimes. 

"What  is  it?"  Samuelson  asked  me,  after  we'd  been  talking  for  a 
while  about  how  things  used  to  be.  "I  mean — ^where  did  it  come 
from?" 

He  was  talking  .about  the  time  storm. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "I'll  bet  nobody  does.  But  I've  got  a 
theory." 

"What's  that?"  He  was  looking  at  me  closely  in  the  shadow  of 
the  porch.  A  little  evening  breeze  stirred  the  lilac  bushes  into 
scraping  their  upper  branches  against  the  side  of  the  house. 

"I  think  it's  just  what  we're  calling  it,"  I  said.  "A  storm.  Some 
sort  of  storm  in  space  that  the  whole  world  ran  into,  the  same 
way  you  could  be  out  driving  in  your  car  and  run  into  a  thun- 
derstorm. Only  in  this  case,  instead  of  wind  and  rain,  thunder 
and  lightning,  we  get  these  time  changes,  like  ripples  moving  ac- 
ross the  surface  of  the  world  with  everything  getting  moved 
either  forward  or  back  in  time.  Wherever  a  change  passes  over 
them." 

"How  about  here?"  he  asked.  "The  town's  just  where  it  was  be- 


TIME     STORM  169 

fore.  Only  the  people  .  .  ."    He  trailed  off. 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  said.  "Maybe  the  area  right  around  here 
was  moved  forward  just  a  year,  say,  or  even  a  month.  That 
wouldn't  be  enough  to  make  any  change  in  the  buildings  and 
streets  you  could  notice;  but  it  might  have  been  beyond  the  point 
where  everybody  living  here,  for  some  reason,  decided  to  get  out." 

"Why?" 

"Those  Buzzers,  as  you  call  them,"  I  said.  "Seeing  one  of  them 
come  at  the  town  would  be  pretty  good  reason  to  me  to  get  out,  if 
I  was  someone  living  here." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  everybody,"  he  said.  "Not  without  leaving  some  kind  of 
message." 

I  gave  up.  If  he  did  not  want  reasonable  explanations,  there 
was  no  point  in  my  forcing  them  on  him. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  we  had  sat  there  without  talking  for  a 
while,  "do  you  think  God  had  something  to  do  with  it?" 

So  that  was  his  hang-up.  That  was  why  he  stayed  here,  day 
after  day,  defending  a  town  with  no  people  in  it.  That  was  why  he 
had  carefully  adapted  the  well  in  the  basement  to  the  new  condi- 
tions and  Set  up  a  wood  stove  so  that  he  could  give  a  regular  meal 
at  a  moment's  notice  to  a  complete  ^family,  if  they  should  return 
unexpectedly,  showing  up  at  the  front  door,  tired  and  hungry.  I 
wanted  to  tell  him  neither  God  nor  human  had  ever  changed 
things  much  for  me;  but  now  that  I  knew  what  his  question 
meant  to  him,  I  could  not  do  it.  All  at  once  I  felt  the  pain  in 
him — and  I  found  myself  suddenly  angry  that  someone  I  did  not 
even  know  should  be  able  to  export  his  troubles  to  me,  like  that. 
It  was  true  I  had  lost  nothing,  not  like  him.  Still  .  .  . 

"Who  can  tell?"  I  said,  standing  up.  "We'd  better  be  going." 

He  stood  up  also,  quickly.  Before  he  was  on  his  feet,  Sunday 
was  on  his,  and  that  brought  the  girl  scrambling  upright. 

"You  could  stay  here,  overnight,"  he  said. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"You  don't  want  to  drive  in  the  dark,"  he  went  on. 

"No,"  I  said.  "But  I'd  like  to  get  some  miles  under  our  belt  be- 
fore quitting  for  the  day.  I'm  anxious  to  get  to  my  wife." 

I  led  the  leopard  and  the  girl  out  to  the  panel,  which  I  had  dri- 
ven over  and  now  stood  in  his  driveway.  I  opened  the  door  on  the 
driver's  side  and  the  other  two  got  in,  crawling  back  into  the 


170  TIME     STORM 

body.  I  waited  until  they  were  settled,  then  got  in  myself  and  was 
about  to  back  out,  when  Samuelson,  who  had  gone  in  the  house 
instead  of  following  us  to  the  truck,  came  out  again,  almost  shyly, 
with  a  pair  of  large  paper  grocery  sacks.  He  pushed  them  in 
through  the  open  window  at  my  left. 

"Here,"  he  said.  "There's  some  food  you  could  use,  I  put  in  a 
bottle  of  the  wine,  too." 

"Thanks."  I  put  the  two  sacks  on  the  empty  front  seat  beside 
me.  He  looked  past  me,  back  into  the  body  of  the  truck  where  the 
girl  and  the  leopard  were  already  curled  up,  ready  for  sleep. 

"I've  got  everything,  you  know,"  he  said.  "Everything  you  could 
want.  There's  nothing  she  could  use — clothes,  or  anything?" 

"Sunday's  the  only  thing  she  wants,"  I  said.  "As  long  as  she's 
got  him,  there's  nothing  else  she  cares  about." 

"Well,  goodby  then,"  he  said. 
.^So  long." 

I  backed  out  into  the  street  and  drove  off.  In  the  sideview  mirror  I 
could  see  him  walk  into  the  street  himself  so  that  he  could  look 
after  us  and  wave.  I  turned  a  corner  two/  blocks  down  and  the 
houses  shut  him  from  view. 

He  had  given  me  a  filling  station  map  earlier,  with  a  route 
marked  in  pencil  that  led  me  to  the  south  edge  of  the  city  and  out 
at  last  on  a  two-lane  asphalt  road  rising  and  dipping  over  the 
land  with  open,  farmer's  fields  on  either  side.  The  fields  had  all 
been  planted  that  spring;  and  as  I  drove  along  I  was  surrounded 
by  acres  of  corn  and  wheat  and  peas  no  one  would  ever  harvest  or 
use.  The  sky-high  wall  of  haze  that  was  the  time  change  line 
holding  its  position  just  outside  of  Samuelson's  town,  now  to  the 
left  and  behind  us,  grew  smaller  as  I  drove  the  panel  truck  away 
from  there. 

In  a  car  we  were  pretty  safe,  according  to  what  I  had  learned  so 
far.  These  time  lines  were  like  lengths  of  rod,  rolling  across  the 
landscape;  but  as  I  say,  I  had  yet  to  encounter  any  that  seemed  to 
travel  at  more  than  thirty  miles  an  hour.  It  was  not  hard  to  get 
away  from  them  as  long  as  you  could  stick  to  a  road.  . 

I  had  been  keeping  my  eyes  open  for  something  in  the  way  of 
an  all-terrain  vehicle,  but  with  adequate  speed,  something  like  a 
Land  Rover  that  could  make  good  time  on  the  roads  but  could 
also  cut  across  open  country,  if  necessary.  But  so  far  I  had  not 
found  anything. 


TIME     STORM  171 

I  became  aware  that  the  engine  of  the  truck  was  roaring  furi- 
ously under  the  hood.  I  was  belting  us  along  the  empty  asphalt 
road  at  nearly  seventy  miles  an  hour.  There  was  no  need  for  any- 
thing like  that.  It  was  both  safer  and  easier  on  the  gas  consump- 
tion to  travel  at  about  forty  or  forty-five;  and  now  and  then  gas 
was  not  easily  available  just  when  the  tank  ran  low.  It  was  true  I 
had  four  spare  five-gallon  cans  of  gas,  lashed  to  the  luggage  car- 
rier on  the  panel  truck's  roof.  But  that  was  for  real  emergencies. 

Besides,  none  of  the  three  of  us  had  anything  that  urgent  to 
run  to — or  away  from.  I  throttled  down  to  forty  miles  an  hour, 
wondering  how  I  had  let  my  speed  creep  up  in  the  first  place. 

Then,  of  course,  I  realized  why.  I  had  been  letting  Samuelson's 
feelings  get  to  me.  Why  should  I  cry  for  him?  He  was  as  crazy 
from  the  loss  of  his  family  as  the  girl  was — or  Sunday.  But  he  had 
really  wanted  us  to  stay  the  night,  in  that  large  house  of  his  from 
which  his  family  had  disappeared;  and  it  would  have  been  a 
kindness  to  him  if  we  had  stayed.  Only,  I  could  not  take  the 
chance.  Sometime  in  the  night  he  might  change  suddenly  from 
the  man  who  was  desperate  for  company  to  a  man  who  thought 
that  I,  or  all  of  us,  had  something  to  do  with  whatever  it  was  that 
had  taken  his  people  away  from  him. 

I  could  not  trust  his  momentary  sanity.  Samuelson  had  talked 
for  a  while  like  a  sane  man;  but  he  was  still  someone  sitting  in  a 
deserted  town,  shooting  rockets  full  of  high  explosives  at  outsize 
toys  that  attacked  at  regular  intervals.  No  one  in  that  position 
could  be  completely  sane.  Besides,  insanity  was  part  of  things, 
now.  Sunday  was  the  definitive  example.  I  could  have  cut  the 
leopard's  throat  and  he  would  have  licked  my  hand  as  I  was  doing 
it.  The  girl  was  in  no  better  mental  condition.  Samuelson,  like 
them,  was  caught  in  this  cosmic  joke  that  had  overtaken  the 
world  we  knew — so  he  was  insane  too,  by  definition.  There  was  no 
other  possibility. 

Which  of  course,  I  thought,  following  the  idea  to  its  logical  con- 
clusion as  I  drove  into  the  increasing  twilight,  meant  that  I  had 
to  be  insane,  too.  The  idea  was  almost  laughable.  I  felt  perfectly 
sane.  But  just  as  I  had  not  trusted  Samuelson,  if  I  were  him,  or 
anyone  else  looking  at  me  from  the  outside  as  I  drove  across  the 
country  with  a  leopard  and  a  speechless  girl  for  companions,  I 
would  not  trust  myself.  I  would  have  been  afraid  that  there  could 
be  a  madness  in  me  too,  that  would  overtake  me  some  time,  sud- 


172  TIME     STORM 

denly  and  without  warning.  Of  course,  that  was  all  nonsense.  I 
put  the  ridiculous  thought  out  of  my  head. 

When  the  red  flush  of  the  sunset  above  the  horizon  to  our  right 
began  to  grow  narrow  and  dark;  and  stars  were  clearly  visible  in 
the  clear  sky  to  the  east,  I  pulled  the  panel  truck  off  the  road  into 
a  comfortable  spot  under  some  cottonwood  trees  growing  down  in 
a  little  dip  between  two  hills  and  set  up  camp.  It  was  so  warm 
that  I  had  the  tent  flaps  tied  all  the  way  back.  I  lay  there  looking 
out  at  the  stars,  seeming  to  move  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  night 
sky,  becoming  more  and  more  important  and  making  the  Earth  I 
Could  feel  under  me  more  like  a  chip  of  matter  lost  in  the  uni- 
verse. 

But  I  could  not  sleep.  That  had  happened  to  me  a  lot,  lately.  I 
wanted  to  get  up  and  go  sit  outside  the  tent  by  myself,  with  my 
back  to  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  cottonwoods.  But  if  I  did,  Sunday 
would  get  up  and  come  out  with  me;  and  then  the  girl  would  get 
up  and  follow  Sunday.  It  was  a  chain  reaction.  A  tag-end  of  a  line 
from  my  previous  two  years  of  steady  reading  during  my  hermit- 
like existence  above  Ely  came  back  to  me.  Privatum  commodum 
publico  cedit — "Private  advantage  yields  to  public."  I  decided  to 
lie  there  and  tough  it  out. 

What  I  had  to  tough  out  was  the  replaying  in  my  head  of  all 
the  things  that  had  happened.  I  had  almost  forgotten,  until  now, 
my  last  summer  in  high  school  when  I  started  teaching  myself  to 
read  Latin  because  I  had  just  learned  how  powerfully  it  underlays 
all  our  English  language.  Underlays  and  outdoes.  ''How  long,  O 
Catiline,  will  you  abuse  our  patience?''  Good,  but  not  in  the  same 
ballgame  with  the  thunder  of  old  Cicero's  original:  ''Quo  usque, 
Catilina,  abutere  patienta  nostra?" 

After  the  sweep  of  the  first  time  change,  which  I  thought  was 
my  second  heart  attack  come  to  take  me  for  good  this  time — after 
I  had  not  understood  then  that  what  I  had  done  to  the  squirrel  was 
squirrel,  frozen  in  shock.  The  little  grey  body  had  been  relaxed  in 
my  hands  when  I  picked  it  up,  the  small  forepaws  had  clung  to- 
my  fingers.  It  had  followed  me  after  that  for  at  least  the  first 
three  days,  when  I  finally  decided  to  walk  south  from  my  cabin 
and  reach  a  city  called  Ely,  that  turned  out  to  be  no  longer  there. 
I  had  not  understood  then  that  what  I  had  done  to  the  squirrel  was 
what  later  I  was  to  do  to  Sunday — be  with  it  when  it  came  out  of 
shock,  making  it  totally  dependent  on  me  .  .  .  Then,  a  week  or  so 


TIME     STORM  173 

later,  there  had  been  the  log  cabin  and  the  man  in  leggings,  the 
transplanted  Viking  or  whoever,  who  I  thought  was  just  anyone 
cutting  firewood  with  his  shirt  off  until  he  saw  me,  hooked  the 
axe  over  his  shoulder  as  if  bolstering  it,  and  started  walking  to- 
ward me  .  .  . 

I  was  into  it  again.  I  was  really  starting  to  replay  the  whole 
sequence,  whether  I  wanted  to  or  not;  and  I  could  not  endure  that, 
lying  trapped  in  this  tent  with  two  other  bodies.  I  had  to  get  out. 
I  got  to  my  feet  as  quietly  as  I  could.  Sunday  lifted  his  head,  but  I 
hissed  at  hitn  between  my  teeth  so  angrily  that  he  lay  down 
again.  The  girl  only  stirred  in  her  sleep  and  made  a  little  noise  in 
her  throat,  one  hand  flung  out  to  touch  the  fur  of  Sunday's  back. 

So  I  made  it  outside  without  them  after  all,  into  the  open  air 
where  I  could  breathe;  and  I  sat  down  with  my  back  against  the 
rugged,  soft  bark  of  one  of  the  big  cotton  woods.  Overhead  the  sky 
was  perfectly  clear  and  the  stars  were  everywhere.  The  air  was 
still  and  warm,  very  transparent  and  clean.  I  leaned  the  back  of 
my  head  against  the  tree  trunk  and  let  my  mental  machinery  go. 
It  was  simply  something  I  was  stuck  with — had  always  been 
stuck  with,  all  my  lifetime. 

Well,  perhaps  not  all.  Before  the  age  of  seven  or  eight,  things 
had  been  different.  But  by  the  time  I  was  that  old,  I  had  begun  to 
recognize  that  I  was  on  my  own — and  needed  no  one  else. 

My  father  had  been  a  cipher  as  far  back  as  I  could  remember.  If 
someone  were  to  tell  me  that  he  had  never  actually  realized  he 
had  two  children  I  would  be  inclined  to  believe  it.  Certainly  I  had 
seen  him  forget  us  even  when  we  were  before  his  eyes,  in  the 
same  room  with  him.  He  had  been  the  Director  of  the  Walter  H. 
Mannheim  private  library  in  St.  Paul,  and  he  was  a  harmless 
man — a  bookworm.  But  he  was  no  use  to  either  myself  or  my 
younger  sister  as  a  parent. 

My  mother  was  something  else.  To  begin  with,  she  was  beauti- 
ful. Yes  I  know,  every  child  thinks  that  about  its  mother.  But  I 
had  independent  testimony  from  a  number  of  other  people;  par- 
ticularly a  long  line  of  men,  other  than  my  father,  who  not  only 
thought  so,  too,  but  told  my  mother  so,  when  I  was  there  to  over- 
hear them. 

However,  most  of  that  came  later.  Before  my  sister  was  born 
my  mother  was  my  whole  family,  in  herself.  We  used  to  play 
games  together,  she  and  I.  Also,  she  sang  and  talked  to  me,  and 


174  TIME     STORM 

told  me  stories  endlessly.  But  then,  after  my  sister  was  born, 
things  began  to  change.  Not  at  once,  of  course.  It  was  not  until 
Beth  was  old  enough  to  run  around  that  the  alteration  in  my 
mother  became  clearly  visible.  I  now  think  that  she  had  counted 
on  Beth's  birth  to  do  something  for  her  marriage,  and  it  had  not 
done  so. 

At  any  rate,  from  that  time  on,  she  began  to  forget  us.  Not  that 
I  blamed  her  for  it.  She  had  forgotten  our  father  long  since — in 
fact,  there  was  nothing  there  to  forget.  But  now  she  began  to 
forget  us  as  well.  Not  all  of  the  time,  to  start  with;  but  we  came 
to  know  when  she  was  about  to  start  forgetting  because  she  would 
show  up  one  day  with  some  new,  tall  man  we  had  never  seen, 
smelling  of  cigars  and  alcohol. 

When  this  first  started  happening,  it  was  the  beginning  of  a 
bad  time  for  me.  I  was  too  young  then  to  accept  what  was  happen- 
ing and  I  wanted  to  fight  whatever  was  taking  her  away  from  me, 
but  there  was  nothing  there  with  which  I  could  come  to  grips.  It 
was  only  as  if  a  glass  window  had  suddenly  been  rolled  up  be- 
tween her  and  me;  and  no  matter  how  I  shouted  or  pounded  on  its 
transparent  surface,  she  did  not  hear.  Still,  I  kept  on  trying  to 
fight  it  for  several  years,  during  which  she  began  to  stay  away  for 
longer  and  longer  periods — all  with  my  father's  silent  consent,  or 
at  least  with  no  objections  from  him. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  those  years  that  my  fight  finally  came  to 
an  end.  I  did  not  give  up,  because  I  could  not;  but  the  time  came 
when  my  mother  disappeared  completely.  She  went  away  on  one 
last  trip  and  never  came  back.  So  at  last  I  was  able  to  stop 
struggling,  and  as  a  result  I  came  to  the  first  great  discovery  of 
my  life,  which  was  that  nobody  ever  really  loved  anyone.  There 
was  a  built-in  instinct  when  you  were  young  that  made  you  think 
you  needed  a  mother  and  another  built-in  instinct  in  that  mother 
to  pay  attention  to  you.  But  as  you  got  older  you  discovered  your 
parents  were  only  other  humanly  selfish  people,  in  competition 
with  you  for  life's  pleasures;  and  your  parents  came  to  realize 
that  this  child  of  theirs  that  was  you  was  not  so  unique  and  won- 
derful after  all,  but  only  a  small  savage  with  whom  they  were 
burdened.  When  I  understood  this  at  last,  I  began  to  see  how 
Jcnowing  it  gave  me  a  great  advantage  over  everyone  else,  be- 
cause I  realized  then  that  life  was  not  love,  as  my  mother  had 
told  me  it  was  when  I  was  very  young,  but  competition — 


I 


TIME     STORM  175 


fighting — and,  knowing  this,  I  was  now  set  free  to  give  all  my  at- 
tention to  what  really  mattered.  So,  from  that  moment  on  I  be- 
came a  fighter  without  match,  a  fighter  nothing  could  stop. 

It  was  not  quite  that  sudden  and  complete  a  change,  of  course.  I 
still  had,  and  probably  always  would  have,  absent-minded  mo- 
ments when  I  would  still  react  to  other  people  out  of  my  early 
training,  as  if  it  mattered  to  me  whether  they  lived  or  died.  In- 
deed, after  my  mother  disappeared  for  good,  there  was  a  period  of 
several  years  in  which  Beth  clung  to  me — quite  naturally,  of 
course,  because  I  was  all  she  had — and  I  responded  unthinkingly 
with  the  false  affection  reflex.  But  in  time  she  too  grew  up  and 
went  looking  somewhere  else  for  attention,  and  I  became  com- 
pletely free.       ^ 

It  was  a  freeaom  so  great  that  I  saw  most  people  could  not  even 
conceive  of  it.  When  I  was  still  less  than  half-grown,  adults  would 
remark  on  how  strong-minded  I  was.  They  talked  of  how  I  would 
make  my  mark  in  the  world.  I  used  to  want  to  laugh,  hearing 
them  say  that,  because  anything  else  was  unthinkable.  I  not  only 
had  every  intention  of  leaving  my  mark  on  the  world,  I  intended 
to  put  my  brand  on  it  and  turn  it  into  my  own  personal  property; 
and  I  had  no  doubt  I  could  do  it.  Free  as  I  was  of  the  love  delusion 
that  blinkered  all  the  rest  of  them,  there  was  nothing  to  stop  me; 
and  I  had  already  found  out  that  I  would  go  on  trying  for  what  I 
-wanted  as  long  as  it  was  there  for  me  to  get. 

I  had  found  that  out  when  I  had  fought  my  mother's  with- 
drawal from  us.  I  had  not  been  able  to  stop  struggling  against 
that  until  it  had  finally  sunk  in  on  me  that  she  was  gone  for 
good.  Up  until  that  time  I  had  not  been  able  to  accept  th^  fact  she 
might  leave  us.  My  mind  simply  refused  to  give  up  on  her.  It 
would  keep  going  over  and  over  the  available  data  or  evidence, 
with  near-idiot,  unending  patience,  searching  for  some  crack  in 
the  problem,  like  a  rat  chewing  at  a  steel  plate  across  the  bottom 
of  a  granary  door.  A  steel  plate  could  wear  down  a  rat's  teeth;  but 
he  would  only  rest  a  while  to  let  them  grow  again,  and  then  go 
back  once  more  to  chewing,  until  one  day  he  would  wear  his  way 
through  to  where  the  grain  was.  So  it  was  with  me.  Pure  reflex 
kept  the  rat  chewing  like  that;  and,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  it 
was  a  pure  reflex  that  kept  my  mind  coming  back  and  back  to  a 
problem  until  it  found  a  solution. 

There  was  only  one  way  to  turn  it  off,  one  I  had  never  found 


176  TIME     STORM 

out  how  to  control.  That  was  if  somehow  the  knowledge  managed^ 
to  filter  through  to  me  that  the  answer  I  sought  would  have  noi 
usefulness  after  I  found  it.  When  that  happened — as  when  I  fi- 
nally realized  my  mother  was  gone  for  good^— there  would  be  an: 
almost  audible  click  in  my  mind  and  the  whole  process  would^ 
blank  out.  It  was  as  if  the  reflex  suddenly  went  dead.  But  that  did 
not  happen  often;  and  it  was  certainly  not  happening  now. 

The  problem  my  mind  would  not  give  up  on  at  the  moment  was 
the  question  of  what  had  happened  to  the  world.  My  head  kept 
replaying  all  its  available  evidence,  from  the  moment  of  my  col- 
lapse in  the  cabin  near  Duluth  to  the  present,  trying  for  one  solid, 
explainable  picture  that  would  pull  everything  together. 

Sitting  now  under  the  tree,  in  the  shade  of  a  new-risen  quarter 
moon  and  staring  up  at  the  star-bright  sky  of  summer,  I  went 
clear  back  to  reliving  my  college  days,  to  the  paper  I  had  written 
on  the  methods  of  charting  stocks,  followed  by  the  theoretical  in- 
vestments, then  the  actual  investments,  then  the  penthouse  suite 
in  the  Bellecourt  Towers,  hotel  service  twenty-four  hours  a  day, 
and  the  reputation  for  being  some  sort  of  young  financial  wizard. 
Then  my  cashing  out  and  buying  into  Snowman,  Inc.,  my  three 
Xears  as  president  of  that  company  while  snowmobile  and  motor 
home  sales  climbed  up  off  the  wall  chart — and  my  marriage  to 
Swannee. 

I  had  never  blamed  Swannee  a  bit  for  what  had  happened.  It 
must  have  been  as  irritating  to  her  as  it  would  have  been  to  me 
to  have  someone  hanging  onto  her  the  way  I  ended  up  doing.  But 
she  had  wakened  the  old  childish  habits  in  me.  I  missed  her 
strongly  after  she  left  me;  and  to  get  over  that,  I  dived  back  into 
work. 

The  way  that  I  decided  to  get  married  in  the  first  place  was 
that  I  had  gotten  tired  of  living  in  the  penthouse  apartment.  I 
wanted  a  real  house  and  found  one,  an  architecturally  modern, 
rambling  building  with  five  bedrooms,  on  about  twenty  acres  of 
land  with  its  own  small  lake.  And  of  course,  once  I  had  decided  to 
have  a  house,  I  realized  that  what  I  really  needed  was  a  wife  to 
go  along  with  it.  So  I  looked  around  a  bit  and  married  Swannee. 
She  was  not  as  beautiful  as  my  mother  but  she  was  close  to  it. 
Tall,  with  a  superb  body  and  a  sort  of  golden-custard  colored  hair, 
very-fine,  that  she  wore  long  and  which  floated  around  her  shoul- 
ders like  a  cloud. 


TIME     STORM  177 

By  education  she  had  been  headed  for  being  a  lawyer  but  her 
instincts  for  work  were  not  all  that  strong.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  done  well  academically  in  law  school,  she  had  never 
taken  her  bar  exams  and  was  in  fact  working  as  a  sort  of  orna- 
mental legal  assistant  to  a  firm  of  corporation,  attorneys  down  in 
St.  Paul.  I  think  she  was  glad  to  give  up  the  pretense  of  going  to 
the  office  every  day  and  simply  take  over  as  my  wife.  She  was,  in 
fact,  ideal  from  my  standpoint.  I  had  no  illusions  about  her.  I  had 
buried  those  with  the  memories  of  my  mother  years  before.  So  I 
had  not  asked  her  to  be  any  more  than  she  was;  ornamental,  good 
in  bed,  and  able  to  do  the  relatively  easy  job  of  managing  this 
home  of  mine.  I  think  in  fact  we  had  an  ideal  marriage — until  I 
spoiled  it. 

As  I  said,  occasionally  I  would  become  absentminded  and  re- 
spond as  if  other  people  really  mattered  to  me.  Apparently  I  made 
the  mistake  of  doing  this  with  Swannee;  because  little  by  little 
she  drifted  off  from  me,  began  disappearing  on  short  trips  almost 
as  my  mother  had  done,  and  then  one  day  she  told  me  she  wanted 
a  divorce  and  left. 

P  was  disappointed,  but  of  course  not  much  more  than  that;  and 
I  decided  that  trying  to  have  an  ordinary,  live-in  wife  had  been  a 
mistake  in  the  first  place.  I  now  had  all  my  time  to  devote  to 
work,  and  for  the  next  year  I  did  just  that.  Right  up  to  the  mo- 
ment of  my  first  heart  attack. 

— At  twenty-four.  God  damn  it,  no  one  should  have  to  have  a 
heart  attack  after  only  twenty-four  years  in  this  world.  But  again 
there  was  my  rat-reflex  mind  chewing  away  at  that  problem,  too, 
until  it  broke  through  to  a  way  out.  I  cashed  in  and  set  up  a  liv- 
ing trust  to  support  me  in  style  forever,  if  necessary;  and  I  went 
up  to  the  cabin  to  live  and  make  myself  healthy  again. 

Two  years  of  that — and  then  the  blackout,  the  squirrel,  the  trek 
south,  the  man  with  the  axe  .  .  .  and  Sunday. 

I  had  almost  shot  Sunday  in  the  first  second  I  saw  him,  before  I 
realized  that  he  was  in  the  same  sort  of  trance  the  squirrel  had 
been  in.  We  ran  into  each  other  about  twenty  miles  or  so  south  of 
the  Twin  Cities,  in  an  area  where  they  had  started  to  put  to- 
gether a  really  good  modern  zoo — one  in  which  the  animals  wan- 
dered about  almost  without  restriction,  and  the  people  visiting 
were  moved  through  wire  tunnels  and  cages  to  see  the  creatures 
in  something  like  their  natural  wild,  free  state. 


178  TIME     STORM 

But  there  was  no  zoo  left  when  I  got  there;  only  open,  half- 
timbered  country.  A  time  change  line  had  moved  through,  taking 
out  about  three  miles  of  highway.  The  ground  was  rough,  but  dry 
and  open.  I  coaxed  the  panel  truck  across  it  in  low  gear,  picking 
as  level  a  route  as  I  could  and  doing  all  right  until  I  got  one  rear 
wheel  down  into  a  hole  and  had  to  jack  it  up  to  get  traction  again. 

I  needed  something  firm  to  rest  the  jack  base  on.  I  walked  into 
a  little  patch  of  woods  nearby  looking  for  a  piece  of  fallen  tree 
limb  the  right  size,  and  literally  stumbled  over  a  leopard. 

He  was  crouched  low  on  the  ground,  head  twisted  a  little  side- 
ways and  looking  up  as  if  cringing  from  something  large  that  was 
about  to  attack  him.  Like  the  squirrel,  he  was  unmoving  in  that 
position  when  I  walked  into  him — the  time  storm  that  had  taken 
out  the  road  and  caught  him  as  well  must  have  passed  only  mi- 
nutes previously.  When  I  stubbed  my  toe  on  his  soft  flank,  he 
came  out  of  his  trance  and  looked  at  me.  I  jumped  back  and 
jerked  up  the  rifle  I  had  had  the  sense  to  carry  with  me. 

But  he  stepped  forward  and  rubbed  along  the  side  of  my  upper 
leg,  purring,  so  much  like  an  overgrown  household  pussycat  that  I 
could  not  have  brought  myself  to  shoot  him,  even  if  I  had  had  the 
sense  to  do  so.  He  was  a  large  young  male,  weighing  a  hundred 
and  forty  pounds  when  I  later  managed  to  coax  him  on  to  a  bath- 
room scale  in  an  abandoned  hardware  store.  He  rubbed  by  me, 
turned  and  came  back  to  slide  up  along  my  other  side,  licking  at 
my  hands  where  they  held  the  rifle.  And  from  then  on,  like  it  or 
not,  I  had  Sunday. 

I  had  puzzled  about  him  and  the  squirrel  a  number  of  times 
since.  The  closest  I  had  come  to  satisfying  my  search  for  what  had 
made  them  react  as  they  had  was  that  being  caught  by  a  time 
change  jarred  anything  living  right  back  to  its  infancy.  After  I 
first  came  to  in  the  cabin — well,  I  generally  avoided  thinking 
about  that.  For  one  thing  I  had  a  job  to  clean  myself  up.  But  I  do 
remember  that  first,  terrible  feeling  of  helplessness  and 
abandonment — like  a  very  young  child  lost  in  a  woods  from  which 
he  knows  he  can  never  find  his  way  out.  If  someone  had  turned 
up  then  to  hold  my  hand,  I  might  have  reacted  just  like  the  squir- 
rel or  the  leopard. 

Then  there  had  been  our  meeting — Sunday's  and  mine- — with 
the  girl.  That  had  been  a  different  kettle  of  fish.  For  one  thing, 
evidently  she  had  passed  the  point  of  initial  recovery  from  being 


TIME     STORM  179 

caught  in  a  time  change;  but  equally  evidently,  the  experience — 
or  something  just  before  the  experience — had  hit  her  a  great  deal 
more  severely  than  my  experience  with  the  time  change  had 
done. 

But  about  this  time,  the  stars  started  to  swim  slowly  in  a  circu- 
lar dance  and  I  fell  asleep. 

I  woke  with  the  sun  in  my  eyes,  feeling  hot  and  itchy  all  over. 
It  was  a  bright  cloudless  day,  at  least  a  couple  of  hours  old,  since 
dawn;  evidently  the  tree  had  shaded  me  from  the  sun's  waking 
me  earlier. 

Sunday  lay  curled  within  the  open  entrance  to  the  tent;  but  he 
was  all  alone.  The  girl  was  gone. 

My  first  reaction,  out  of  that  old,  false  early  training  of  mine, 
was  to  worry.  Then  common  sense  returned.  It  would  only  be  a 
relief,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  to  have  her  gone;  with  her  fits  of 
withdrawal  and  her  pestering  Sunday  until  he,  in  turn,  became  a 
bother. 

Damn  it,  I  thought,  let  her  go. 

But  then  it  occurred  to  me  that  something  might  have  hap- 
pened to  her.  It  was  open  country  all  around  us  here,  except  for  a 
screen  of  young  popple  beyond  which  there  was  a  small  creek.  I 
went  down  through  the  popple  and  looked  across  the  creek,  up 
over  a  swelling  expanse  of  meadow  lifting  to  a  near  horizon 
maybe  three  hundred  yards  off.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  I 
went  down  to  look  at  the  creek  itself,  the  edges  of  which  were 
muddy  and  marshy,  and  found  her  footprints  in  soft  earth  going 
toward  the  water.  A  little  further,  one  of  her  shoes  was  stuck  in 
the  mud  and  abandoned. 

The  creek  was  shallow — no  more  than  knee  deep  for  someone 
her  size.  I  waded  across,  picked  up  her  tracks  in  the  mud  on  the 
far  side,  and  saw  them  joined  by  two  other  sets  of  footprints.  Bare 
feet,  larger  than  hers.  I  began  to  feel  cold  and  hot  inside  at  the 
same  time. 

I  went  back  to  the  tent,  strapped  on  the  belt  with  the  bolstered 
revolver  and  took  the  carbine.  The  carbine  held  thirteen  shells 
and  it  was  semi-automatic.  My  first  thought  was  of  following  the 
tracks  up  the  hill,  and  then  I  realized  that  this  would  be  more 
likely  to  alert  whoever  the  other  two  people  had  been  than  if  I 
drove.  If  they  saw  me  coming  in  the  panel,  they  might  figure  I'd 
given  up  on  the  girl  and  left  her.  If  they  saw  me  coming  on  foot, 


180  TIME     STORM 

particularly  with  Sunday,  they  wouldn't  have  much  choice  but  to 
think  I  was  chasing  her  down. 

I  packed  the  gear.  It  would  be  hard  to  replace,  maybe;  and 
there  was  no  guarantee  we'd  be  coming  back  this  way  again. 
Then  I  got  into  the  panel,  letting  Sunday  up  on  the  seat  beside 
me  for  once,  but  making  him  lie  down  out  of  sight  from  outside.  I 
pulled  out  on  the  highway  and  headed  up  the  road  parallel  to  the 
way  I  had  last  seen  the  footprints  going. 

We  did  not  have  far  to  go.  Just  up  and  over  the  rise  that  be- 
longed to  the  meadow  across  the  creek,  I  saw  a  trailer  camp  with 
some  sort  of  large  building  up  in  front  of  all  the  trailers.  No  one 
had  cut  the  grass  in  the  camp  for  a  long  time,  but  there  were  fig- 
ures moving  about  the  trailers.  I  drove  up  to  the  building  in 
front.  There  were  a  couple  of  dusty  gas  pumps  there;  and  a 
cheerfully-grinning,  skinny,  little  old  man  in  coveralls  too  big  for 
him  came  out  of  the  building  as  I  stopped. 

"Hi,"  he  said,  coming  up  within  about  four  feet  of  Sunday's  side 
of  the  car  and  squinting  across  through  the  open  window  at  me. 
"Want  some  gas?" 

"No  thanks,"  I  said.  "I'm  looking  for  a  girl.  A  girl  about 
fourteen-fifteen  years  old  with  dark  hair  and  doesn't  talk.  Have 
you  seen — " 

"Nope!"  he  chirped.  "Want  some  gas?" 

Gas  was  something  you  had  to  scrounge  for  these  days.  I  was 
suddenly  very  interested  in  him. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  think  I'll  have  some  gas.  And  .  .  ." 

I  let  my  voice  trail  off  into  silence.  He  came  closer,  cocking  his 
left  ear  at  me. 

"What'd  y'say?"  He  stuck  his  head  in  the  window  and  came  face 
to  face  with  Sunday,  only  inches  between  them.  He  stopped,  per- 
fectly still. 

"That's  right,"  I  said.  "Don't  move  or  make  a  sound,  now.  And 
don't  try  to  run.  The  leopard  can  catch  you  before  you  can  take 
three  steps."  He  didn't  know  that  Sunday  would  never  have  un- 
derstood in  a  million  years  any  command  I  might  have  given  to 
chase  someone. 

I  jerked  my  thumb  at  the  back  of  the  panel.  Sunday  understood 
that.  He  turned  and  leaped  into  the  back,  out  of  the  right  hand 
seat  in  one  flowing  movement.  The  old  man's  eyes  followed  him.  I 
slid  over  into  the  right  hand  seat. 


TIME      STORM  181 

"Now,"  I  said,  "turn  around.  Give  me  room  to  open  the  door." 

He  did.  I  opened  the  door  on  that  side  of  the  panel  a  crack.  The 
baggy  coverall  on  his  back  was  only  inches  away.  Vertically  in 
the  center  of  the  back,  about  belt  level,  was  a  tear  or  cut  about 
eight  inches  long.  I  reached  in  through  it,  and  closed  my  hand  on 
pretty  much  what  I  expected.  A  handgun — a  five-chamber  .22 
revolver — stuck  in  a  belt  around  his  waist  under  the  coveralls. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  picking  up  the  carbine  and  getting  out  of  the 
panel  behind  him.  "Walk  straight  ahead  of  me.  Act  ordinary  and 
don't -try  to  run.  The  leopard  will  be  with  me;  and  if  I  don't  get 
you,  he  will.  Now,  where's  the  girl?  Keep  your  voice  down  when 
you  answer." 

"Bub-bu-bu "  the  old  man  stammered.  Sounds,  nothing  un- 
derstandable. Plainly,  as  his  repeated  offer  of  gas  had  shown, 
whoever  lived  in  this  camp  had  chosen  one  of  their  less  bright 
citizen  to  stand  out  front  and  make  the  place  look  harmless. 

"Come  on,  Sunday,"  I  said. 

The  leopard  came.  We  followed  the  old  man  across  the  drive 
past  the  pumps.  The  large  building  looked  not  only  closed,  but 
abandoned.  Darkness  was  behind  its  windows,  and  spider  webs 
hung  over  the  cracked  white  paint  of  its  doorframe.  I  poked  the 
old  man  with  the  carbine  muzzle,  directing  him  around  the  right 
end  of  the  building  and  back  into  the  camp.  I  was  expecting  to  be 
jumped  or  fired  at,  at  any  second.  But  nothing  happened.  When  I 
got  around  the  end  of  the  building  I  saw  why.  They  were  all  at 
the  party. 

God  knows,  they  might  have  been  normal  people  once.  But 
what  I  saw  now  were  somewhere  between  starving  savages  and 
starving  animals.  They  were  mostly  late  adolescents,  rib-skinny 
every  one  of  them,  male  and  female  alike  barefoot  below  the  rag- 
ged cuff-edges  of  the  jeans  they  wore  and  naked  above  the 
waistband.  Every  one  of  them,  as  well,  was  striped  and  marked 
with  black  paint  on  face  and  body.  They  were  gathered,  maybe 
thirty  or  forty  of  them,  in  an  open  space  before  the  rows  of  trail- 
ers began.  It  might  have  been  a  stretch  of  show  lawn,  or  a  vol- 
leyball court,  once.  At  the  end  of  it,  tied  to  a  sort  of  X  of  planks 
set  upright  and  surrounded  by  burnable  trash,  paper,  and  bits  of 
wood,  was  the  girl. 

Whether  she  had  come  there  willingly,  I  do  not  know.  It  is  not 
beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  she  had  finally  despaired  of 


182  ^  TIME     STORM 

ever  having  Sunday  love  her,  and  when  she  met  those  two  other 
pairs  of  feet  by  the  creek  she  had  gone  off  of  her  own  free  will 
with  them.  But  she  was  terrified  now.  Her  ey^s  were  enormous, 
and  her  mouth  was  stretched  wide  in  a  scream  that  she  could  not 
bring  forth. 

I  poked  the  old  man  with  the  gun  muzzle  and  walked  in  among 
them.  I  saw  no  weapons,  but  it  stood  to  reason  they  must  have 
something  more  than  the  revolver  that  had  been  hidden  on  the 
old  man.  The  back  of  my  neck  prickled;  but  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  the  best  thing  I  could  think  of  was  to  put  a  bold^  front  on 
it,  and  maybe  we  could  just  all  walk  out  of  here — the  girl,  Sun- 
day, and  I — with  no  trouble. 

They  said  not  a  word;  they  did  not  move  as  I  walked  through 
them.  And  then,  when  I  was  less  than  a  dozen  feet  from  the  girl, 
she  finally  got  that  scream  out  of  her.  ''Look  out!" 

For  a  part  of  a  second  I  was  so  stunned  to  hear  her  utter  some- 
thing understandable  that  I  only  stared.  Then  it  registered  on  me 
that  she  was  looking  over  my  shoulder  at  something  behind  me.  I 
spun  around,  dropping  on  one  knee  instinctively  and  bringing  up 
the  carbine  to  my  shoulder. 

There  were  two  of  them,  lying  on  the  roof  of  the  house  with 
either  rifles  or  shotguns — I  had  no  time  to  decide  which.  They 
were  just  like  the  others,  except  for  their  firearms.  The  girl's 
shriek  must  have  startled  them  as  much  as  it  had  me,  because 
they  were  simply  lying  there,  staring  down  at  me  with  their 
weapons  forgotten. 

But  it  was  not  them  I  had  to  worry  about,  anyway,  because — I 
have  no  idea  from  where — the  crowd  I  had  just  passed  had  since 
produced  bows  and  arrows;  perhaps  a  bow  for  every  five  or  six  of 
them,  so  that  half  a  dozen  of  them  were  already  fitting  arrows  to 
their  strings  as  I  turned.  I  started  firing. 

I  shot  the  two  on  the  roof  first,  without  thinking — which  was 
pure  foolishness,  the  reflex  of  a  man  brought  up  to  think  of 
firearms  as  deadly,  but  of  arrows  as  playthings — because  the  two 
on  the  roof  did  not  even  have  their  guns  aimed  and  by  the  time 
I'd  fired  at  them  a  couple  of  arrows  had  already  whistled  by  me. 
They  were  target  arrows,  lacking  barbed  hunting  heads,  but 
nonetheless  deadly  for  that.  The  rest  of  the  ones  being  aimed 
would  certainly  not  all  have  missed  me — if  it  had  not  been  for 
Sunday. 


TIMESTORM  183 

There  was  nothing  of  the  Lassie-dog-to-the-rescue  about  Sun- 
day. The  situation  was  entirely  beyond  his  understanding;  and  if 
the  two  on  the  roof  or  the  bow-wielders  had  shot  me  quickly  and 
quietly  enough,  probably  he  would  merely  have  sniffed  sadly  at 
me  as  I  lay  on  the  ground  and  wondered  why  I  had  stopped  mov- 
ing. But  the  girl  had  screamed — and  I  must  suddenly  have  reeked 
of  the  body  chemicals  released  by  fear  and  fury — so  Sunday  oper- 
ated by  instinct. 

If  I  was  frightened,  he  was  frightened,  too.  And  in  wild  ani- 
mals, as  in  man  himself  once  he  is  broken  down  to  it,  fear  and 
fury  are  the  same  thing.  Sunday  attacked  the  only  fear-making 
cause  in  view — the  group  of  archers  and  their  friends  before  us; 
and  they  found  themselves  suddenly  facing  a  wild,  snarling, 
pinwheel-of-knives  that  was  a  hundred  and  forty  pound  member 
of  the  cat  family  gone  berserk. 

They  ran  from  him.  Of  course  they  ran.  All  but  three  or  four 
that  were  too  badly  clawed  or  bitten  to  gei  away.  I  had  plenty  of 
time  and  freedom  to  get  the  girl  untied  from  the  planks  and  start 
to  lead  her  out  of  the  clearing.  By  that  time  Sunday  was  off  in 
one  corner  of  the  open  space,  daintily  toying  with  one  hooked 
claw  at  a  bleeding,  moaning  figure  that  was  trying  to  crawl  away 
from  him.  It  was  a  little  sickening,  but  so  was  what  they  had 
planned  for  the  girl.  I  called  the  leopard.  He  came — if 
reluctantly — and  followed  us  back  to  the  truck.  We  got  out  of 
there. 

Half  a  mile  down  the  highway  I  had  to  pull  over  to  the  shoulder 
and  stop  the  car,  again.  Sunday  was  still  prickly  from  the  ad- 
renalin of  the  battle.  He  wanted  to  lie  in  the  back  of  the  panel 
all  alone  and  lick  his  fur.  The  girl,  rebuffed  by  him,  was  suddenly 
sick.  I  helped  her  out  of  the  car  and  held  her  head  until  it  was 
over.  Then  I  got  her  back  into  the  front  seat  of  the  car,  curled  up 
there  with  a  blanket  over  her. 

"They  were  going  to  eat  me,"  she  whispered,  when  I  covered  her 
up. 

It  was  the  second  time  she  had  spoken,  and  all  in  one  day.  I 
looked  at  her,  but  her  eyes  were  squeezed  shut.  I  could  not  tell  if 
she  had  been  talking  to  me,  or  only  to  herself.  I  got  the  panel 
moving  again  and  let  her  sleep.  That  evening  when  we  camped,  I 
tried  talking  to  her  myself.  But  she  had  gone  back  to  being  dumb. 
She  would  neither  speak  nor  look  at  me.  Foolishly,  I  even  found 


3^84  TIMESTORM 

myself  feeling  disappointed — even  a  little  hurt  at  that.  But  of 
course  that  was  just  the  wrong-headed  early  training  at  work  in 
me  again.  I  had  been  feeling  good  over  the  fact  that  she  was  com- 
ing out  of  her  mental  prison — as  if  that  really  mattered,  one  way 
or  another. 

The  next  day  we  headed  south  by  west  again.  It  was  a  bright, 
hot  day,  and  I  was  feeling  good.  We  had  gotten  off  the  asphalt  on 
to  a  stretch  of  superhighway,  and  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen — 
not  even  anything  on  the  road  as  inconsequential  as  an  aban- 
doned car.  We  were  making  good  time,  and  Samuelson  had  helped 
me  to  fix  myself  on  the  map.  We  were  close  enough  to  the  location 
of  Omaha  that,  barring  unforeseen  delays  along  the  road,  we 
ought  to  reach  it  by  sunset.  When  noon  came,  I  picked  a  ramp  and 
pulled  off  the  freeway — just  to  be  on  the  safe  side  in  case  someone 
unfriendly  should  be  cruising  it  about  the  time  we  were  having 
lunch — and  found  a  patch  of  shade  under  some  large,  scraggly- 
limbed  trees  I  could  not  identify. 

We  had  hardly  glimpsed  the  mistwall  of  a  time  change  all 
morning — and  the  few  we  had  seen  had  been  far  off,  so  far  off 
that  in  the  bright  daylight  it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  they 
were  standing  still  or  moving.  But  obviously  one  had  passed  by 
where  we  were  sometime  since  the  storms  started.  About  four 
hundred  yards  from  the  exit  ramp  of  the  highway  the  cross  road 
ended  abruptly  in  a  clump  of  tall  mop-headed  palms,  the  kind  you 
find  lining  the  boulevards  in  Los  Angeles. 

The  palms  and  the  big  scraggly-limbed  trees  signalled  that  we 
were  into  a  different  time-changed  territory  than  we  had  been 
earlier.  Now  that  I  stopped  to  notice  it,  for  some  time  there  had 
been  a  different  kind  of  dampness  to  the  air  than  that  which 
comes  from  midwestern,  mid-summer  humidity.  The  softness  of 
the  atmosphere  was  more  like  that  of  a  seacoast;  and  the  few 
white  clouds  that  moved  overhead  seemed  to  hang  low  and  opu- 
lent in  the  sky,  the  way  they  do  in  Florida,  instead  of  being  high 
and  distant  like  piled  up  castles,  as  they  are  in  temperate  zone 
mid-continental  skies  during  the  warm  months. 

It  was  a  hint,  I  thought,  to  be  on  our  guard  against  strange 
company.  As  far  as  I  had  been  able  to  determine,  it  was  only  ev- 
erything below  the  animal  level  that  got  changed  by  the  mist- 
walls  when  they  passed.  I  had  begun  to  add  up  some  evidence  in 
what  I  saw  to  reach  the  conclusion  that  much  of  what  I  came 


TIME     STORM  185 

across  was  several  hundred,  if  not  several  thousand,  years  forward 
from  my  own  original  time.  There  was  some  evidence  of  extensive 
storm  damage  and  geological  change,  followed  by  considered  re- 
forestation in  a  majority  of  the  landscapes  I  moved  through. 
There  must  have  been  massive  loss  of  life  in  most  areas  at  the 
same  time  or  another,  which  accounted  for  the  scarcity  of  most 
warm-blooded  creatures,  except  for  birds.  Certainly  topography 
and  vegetation  changed  when  a  time  line  passed,  and  I  had 
noticed  fish  in  lakes  that  had  not  been  lakes  before  time  change. 
But  just  where  on  the  scale  of  life  the  dividing  line  was  drawn,  I 
had  no  idea.  It  would  pay  to  be  watchful.  If,  for  example,  snakes 
were  below  the  dividing  line  then  we  might  suddenly  encounter 
poisonous  varieties  in  latitudes  or  areas  where  such  varieties  had 
never  existed  before. 

I  spent  part  of  the  lunch  hour  trying  to  get  the  girl  to  talk,  but 
she  was  still  back  at  being  voiceless  again.  I  kept  chattering  to 
her,  though,  partly  out  of  stubbornness  and  partly  out  of  the  idea 
that  if  she  had  loosened  up  once,  she  could  again;  and  the  more  I 
tried  to  wear  down  the  barrier  between  us,  possibly,  the  sooner 
she  would. 

When  we  were  done  with  lunch,  we  buried  the  tin  cans  and  the 
paper.  The  girl  and  I  ate  a  lot  of  canned  stuff,  which  made  meals 
easy;  and  I  had  fallen'  into  the  habit  of  feeding  Sunday  on  canned 
dog  food  or  any  other  meat  that  could  be  found.  He  also  hunted 
occasionally  as  we  went  along.  But  he  would  never  go  very  far 
from  me  to  do  it,  and  this  restricted  what  he  could  catch.  But  we 
buried  our  trash  just  in  case  some  one  or  something  might  find 
the  remains  and  take  a  notion  to  trail  us.  We  got  back  in  the 
panel  truck  and  headed  once  more  down  the  superhighway. 

But  it  was  exactly  as  if  stopping  to  eat  lunch  had  changed  our 
luck.  Within  five  miles  the  superhighway  disappeared — cut  off  by 
some  past  time  storm  line.  It  ended  in  a  neat  lip  of  concrete  hang- 
ing thirty  feet  in  the  air  with  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  road 
below  or  beyond  it  but  sandy  hills,  covered  with  cactus  and 
scraggly  trees.  I  had  to  backtrack  two  miles  to  find  an  exit  ramp 
that  led  down  on  to  a  road  that  appeared  to  keep  going  off  at  an 
angle  as  far  as  I  could  see.  It  was  asphalt,  like  most  of  the  roads 
we  had  been  travelling  earlier,  but  it  was  not  in  as  good  shape  as 
the  ones  that  had  led  us  through  Samuelson's  small  town  and 
past  the  trailer  camp.  It  was  narrower,  high-crowned,  and  weedy 


186  TIME     STORM 

along  the  edges.  I  hesitated  because,  although  the  road  angled 
exactly  in  the  direction  I  wanted  to  go,  there  was  something 
about  it  that  filled  me  with  uneasiness.  I  simply  did  not  like  the 
look  of  it.  Here  and  there  sand  had  blown  across  it,  a  smudge  of 
gold  on  black — but  not  to  any  depth  that  would  slow  down  the 
panel  truck.  Still,  I  slowed  on  my  own  and  cruised  at  no  more 
than  thirty  miles  an  hour,  keeping  my  eyes  open. 

The  road  seemed  to  run  on  without  end,  which  did  nothing  to 
allay  that  uneasiness  of  mine.  There  was  something  about  it  that 
was  unfamiliar — not  of  any  recognizable  time — in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  it  looked  like  a  backwoods  road  anywhere.  The  sandy  hill- 
scapes  following  us  on  either  side  were  alien,  too,  as  if  they  had 
been  transported  from  a  desert  somewhere  and  set  down  here. 
Also,  it  was  getting  hotter  and  the  humidity  was  worse. 

I  stopped  the  panel,  finally,  to  do  a  more  precise  job  of  estimat- 
ing our  position  on  the  map  than  I  could  do  while  driving.  Accord- 
ing to  the  compass  I  had  mounted  on  the  instrument  panel  of  our 
vehicle,  the  asphalt  road  had  been  running  almost  exactly  due 
west;  and  the  outskirts  of  Omaha  should  be  less  than  twenty 
miles  southwest  of  us. 

As  long  as  we  had  been  on  the  superhighway,  I  had  not  wor- 
ried, because  a  road  like  that,  obviously  belonging  to  our  original 
twentieth  century  time,  had  to  be  headed  toward  the  nearest 
large  city — which  had  to  be  Omaha.  Just  as  on  the  asphalt  road 
at  first  I  had  not  worried  either,  because  it  headed  so  nearly  in 
the  direction  I  wanted  to  go. 

But  it  was  stretching  out  now  to  the  point  where  I  began  to 
worry  that  it  would  carry  me  to  the  north  and  past  the  city,  with- 
out letting  me  catch  sight  of  it.  Certainly,  by  this  time  we  had 
gone  far  enough  to  intersect  some  other  roads  heading  south  and 
into  the  metropolitan  area.  But  we  had  crossed  no  other  road.  For 
that  matter,  we  had  come  across  nothing  else  that  indicated  a  city 
nearby,  no  railroad  tracks,  no  isolated  houses,  no  fences,  no  sub- 
urban developments  in  the  bulldozer  stage  of  construction  ...  I 
was  uneasy. 

Laying  out  the  road  map  on  the  hood  of  the  car,  I  traced  our 
route  to  the  superhighway,  traced  the  superhighway  to  what  I  be- 
lieved to  be  the  exit  by  which  we  had  come  down  off  it  and  along 
the  road  that  exit  tied  into — headed  west.  The  road  was  there,  but 
according  to  the  map  less  than  a  dozen  miles  farther  on  it  ran 


TIME     STORM  187 

through  a  small  town  called  Leeder,  and  we  had  come  twenty 
miles  without  seeing  as  much  as  a  road  sign. 

I  went  through  the  whole  thing  twice  more,  checked  the  com- 
pass and  traced  out  our  route,  and  checked  the  odometer  on  the 
panel  to  see  how  far  we'd  come  since  leaving  the  superhighway 
— and  the  results  came  out  the  same.  We  had  to  be  bypassing 
Omaha  to  the  north. 

I  got  back  in  the  truck  and  started  travelling  again,  driving 
slowly.  I  told  myself  I'd  give  myself  another  five  miles  without  a 
crossroad  before  turning  back.  I  drove  them,  and  then  another 
five.  But  I  saw  no  crossroad.  Nothing.  Only  the  narrow,  ne- 
glected-looking  strip  of  asphalt  which  looked  as  if  it  might  con- 
tinue unchanged  all  the  way  to  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

I  stopped  the  panel  again,  got  out,  and  walked  off  the  road  to 
check  the  surface  of  the  ground  to  the  south.  I  walked  back  and 
forth  and  stamped  a  few  times.  The  surface  was  sandy  but 
hard — easily  solid  enough  to  bear  the  weight  of  the  panel 
truck — and  the  vegetation  was  scattered  enough  so  that  there 
would  be  no  trouble  driving  through  it.  Up  until  now  I  had  been 
very  careful  not  to  get  off  the  roads,  for  fear  of  a  breakdown  of  the 
truck  which  would  strand  us  a  distance  from  any  hope  of  easily 
finding  another  vehicle.  On  foot  we  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  the 
first  moving  time  storm  wall  that  came  toward  us. 

But  we  were  so  close  now — we  were  just  a  few  miles  away  from 
getting  back  to  normal  life.  I  could  see  Swannee  in  my  mind's  eye 
so  clearly  that  she  was  almost  like  a  mirage  superimposed  on  the 
semidesert  landscape  around  us.  She  had  to  be  there,  waiting  for 
me.  Something  inside  me  was  still  positive,  beyond  all  argument, 
that  Omaha  had  survived  and  that  along  with  it  Swannee  had 
survived  in  the  sanity  of  a  portion  of  the  world  as  it  had  been  be- 
fore the  time  storm.  In  fact  my  mind  had  toyed  a  number  of  times 
with  the  idea  that  since  Omaha,  like  Hawaii,  had  survived,  it 
might  mean  there  might  be  many  other  enclaves  of  safety;  and 
the  fact  that  there  were  such  enclaves  would  mean  there  was  a 
way  of  licking  the  time  storm,  by  applying  to  all  other  places  the 
special  conditions  or  whatever  unusual  elements  had  kept  these 
enclaves  protected. 

In  those  enclaves  she  and  I  could  still  lead  the  reasonable  and 
normal  life  we  could  have  had  before  the  time  storm  hit,  and 
somehow  I  knew  that  the  experience  of  the  time  storm  would 


188  TIME     STORM 

have  straightened  her  out  on  what  had  gone  wrong  between  us 
before.  Time  would  have  brought  her  to  the  realization  that  it 
was  simply  an  old  reflex  on  my  part  that  had  made  me  act  like 
someone  literally  in  love  with  her.  Also  she  would  know  how 
tough  life  could  be  outside  the  enclaves  like  the  one  she  now  lived 
in — or  even  there  for  that  matter.  She  would  have  a  new  appreci- 
ation of  what  I  could  do  for  her,  in  the  way  of  taking  care  of  her. 
In  fact,  I  was  willing  to  bet  that  by  this  time  she  would  be  ready 
to  indulge  these  little  emotional  lapses  of  mine.  All  I  had  to  do 
was  find  her  and  things  would  go  well. 

— But  that  was  something  to  think  about  when  there  was  time 
to  think  about  it.  The  big  question  now  was:  should  I  take  the 
panel  across  country,  south,  away  from  the  road,  to  find  a  high- 
way or  street  that  would  bring  me  to  the  city? 

There  was  really  no  argument  about  it.  I  got  Sunday  and  the 
girl  back  into  the  panel — they  had  followed  me  outside  and  wan- 
dered after  me  as  I  stamped  on  the  ground  to  make  sure  it  would 
not  bog  down  the  panel — then  I  got  back  in  the  truck,  turned  off 
the  asphalt  and  headed  due  south  by.  the  compass. 

It  was  not  bad  driving  at  all.  I  had  to  slow  down  to  about  five  to 
ten  miles  an  hour;  and  I  kept  the  panel  in  second  gear,  occasion- 
ally having  to  shift  down  to  low  on  the  hills,  but  generally  finding 
it  easy  going.  It  was  all  up  and  down,  a  roller-coaster  type  of 
going  for  about  nine- tenths  of  a  mile;  and  then  suddenly  we  came 
up  over  a  rise  and  looked  down  on  a  lakeshore. 

It  was  just  a  strip  of  whitish-brown,  sandy  beach.  But  the  shal- 
low, rather  stagnant-looking  water  beyond  the  beach  stretched 
out  as  far  as  I  could  see  and  out  of  sight  right  and  left  as  well. 
Evidently  the  time  storm  had  moved  this  whole  area  in,  to  the 
northwest  of  the  metropolitan  area,  pretty  well  blocking  off  access 
from  that  direction.  The  problem  for  me  now  was:  which  way 
would  be  the  shortest  way  round  the  lake?  Right  or  left? 

It  was  a  toss-up.  I  squinted  in  both  directions  but  for  some 
reason,  justs  while  I  had  been  standing  there,  a  haze  of  some  sort 
seemed  to  have  moved  in,  so  that  I  could  not  see  far  out  on  the 
water  in  any  direction.  Finally  I  chose  to  go  to  the  right,  because 
I  thought  I  saw  a  little  darkness  through  the  haze  upon  the  sun- 
glare  off  the  water  and  sand  in  that  direction.  I  turned  the  nose  of 
the  truck  and  we  got  going. 

The  beach  was  almost  as  good  as  a  paved  road  to  drive  on.  It 


f 


TIME     STORM  189 


was  flat  and  firm.  Apparently,  the  water  adjoining  it  began  to 
shelve  more  sharply  as  we  went  along,  for  it  lost  its  stagnant, 
shallow  appearance  and  began  to  develop  quite  a  respectable  surf. 
There  was  an  onshore  wind  blowing,  but  it  helped  the  heat  and 
the  humidity  only  a  little.  We  kept  driving. 

As  I  watched  the  miles  add  up  on  the  truck's  odometer,  I  began 
gradually  to  regret  not  trying  in  the  other  direction.  Clearly,  I 
had  picked  the  long  way  around  this  body  of  water,  because  look- 
ing ahead  I  could  still  see  no  end  to  it.  When  the  small,  clicking 
figures  of  the  odometer  rolled  up  past  the  twelve  mile  mark,  I 
braked  the  truck  to  a  halt,  turned  around,  and  headed  back. 

As  I  said,  the  beach  was  good  driving.  I  pushed  our  speed  up  to 
about  forty,  and  it  was  not  long  before  we  were  back  at  the  point 
where  we  had  first  come  upon  the  lake.  I  kept  pounding  along, 
and  shortly  I  made  out  something  up  ahead.  The  dazzle  of  sun- 
light from  the  water  seemed  to  have  gotten  in  my  eyes  so  that  I 
could  not  make  out  exactly  what  it  was — something  like  a 
handkerchief-sized  island  with  a  tree,  or  a  large  raft  with  a  div- 
ing tower,  out  in  the  water  just  a  little  ways  from  the  beach.  But 
there  were  the  black  silhouettes  of  two-legged  figures  on  the  sand 
there.  I  could  stop  to  get  some  directions  and  we  could  still  be  pull- 
ing into  Swannee's  driveway  in  time  for  dinner. 

The  dazzle-effect  on  my  eyes  got  worse  as  the  panel  got  close  to 
the  figures,  and  the  glitter  of  sunlight  through  the  windshield 
was  not  helping.  I  blinked,  and  blinked  again.  I  should  have 
thought  to  pick  up  some  dark  glasses  and  keep  them  in  the  glove 
compartment  of  the  panel  for  situations  like  this — but  I  just  had 
not  expected  to  run  into  water-glare  like  this.  I  must  have  been 
no  more  than  thirty  or  forty  feet  from  the  figures  by  the  time  I 
finally  braked  the  panel  to  a  stop  and  jumped  out  of  it  on  to  the 
sand,  blinking  to  get  the  windshield-glitter  out  of  the  way  be- 
tween us — and  I  still  could  not  see  them  clearly.  There  were  at 
least  half  a  dozen  of  them  on  the  beach,  and  I  saw  more  out  on 
the  raft  or  whatever  it  was. 

I  started  toward  them. 

"Hey!"  I  said.  "I'm  lost.  Can  you  put  me  on  the  road  to  Omaha? 
I  want  to  get  to  Byerly  Park,  there." 

^  The  figures  did  not  answer.  I  was  within  a  few  steps  of  them 
now.  I  stopped,  closed  my  eyes,  and  shook  my  head  violently. 
Then  I  opened  my  eyes  again. 


190  TIME     STORM 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  them  clearly.  Th^y  had  two  legs  apiece, 
all  right;  but  that  was  the  only  thing  people-like  about  them.  As 
far  as  I  could  see,  they  wore  no  clothes;  and  I  could  have  sworn 
they  were  covered  with  greenish-gold  scales.  Heavy,  lizard-like 
features  with  unblinking  dark  eyes  stared  directly  into  my  face. 

I  stared  back  at  them.  Then  I  turned  and  looked  out  at  the  raft 
and  beyond.  All  around  were  the  beach  and  the  water — nothing 
more.  And  finally,  finally,  the  truth  came  crashing  in  on  me. 

There  was  too  much  water.  There  was  no  way  Omaha  could 
still  exist  out  there  beyond  the  waves.  I  had  been  wrong  all  the 
time.  I  had  been  fooling  myself,  hugging  to  my  mind  an  impossi- 
ble hope  as  if  it  was  the  fixed  center  of  the  universe. 

Omaha  was  gone.  Gone  completely.  Swannee  was  gone.  Like  so 
many  other  things,  she  had  been  taken  away  forever.  I  had  lost 
her  for  good,  just  as  I  had  lost  my  mother  ... 

The  sun,  which  had  been  high  overhead,  seemed  to  swing  half- 
way around  the  sky  before  my  eyes  and  turn  blood  red.  The  water 
seemed  to  go  black  as  ink  and  swirl  up  all  around  me.  My  mind 
felt  as  if  it  was  cracking  wide  open;  and  everything  started  to 
spin  about  me  like  liquid  going  down  a  drain,  sucking  water  and 
beach  and  all,  including  me,  away  down  into  some  place  that  was 
ugly  and  frightening. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  world.  I  had  been  intending  to  survive 
anything  for  Swannee's  sake,  but  all  the  time  she  had  already 
been  gone.  She  and  Omaha  had  probably  been  lost  in  the  first 
moment  after  the  time  storm  hit.  From  then  on,  there  had  only 
been  the  illusion  of  her  in  my  sick  mind.  I  had  been  as  insane  as 
Samuelson,  after  all.  The  crazy  cat,  the  idiot  girl,  and  I — we  had^ 
been  three  loonies  together.  I  had  flattered  myself  that  the  mist- 
walls  were  all  outside  me;  but  now  I  could  feel  them  breaching 
the  walls  of  my  skull,  moving  inside,  wiping  clean  and  destroying 
everything  over  which  they  passed.  I  had  a  faint  and  distant  im- 
pression of  hearing  myself  howling  like  a  chained  dog,  and  of 
strong  hands  holding  me.  But  this,  too,  swiftly  faded  away  into 
nothingness  .  .  . 

It  was  a  nothingness  I  welcomed.  It  should  have  been  death.  I 
wanted  death.  But  that  part  of  me  that  always  refused  to  quit  un- 
satisfied would  not  let  me  go.  Still  trapped  in  life,  adrift  in  my 
mind,  I  was  left  at  last  in  the  empty  room  of  my  thoughts,  face  to 
face  with  the  fact  that  it  had  not  been  a  final  move  into  peace  for 


TIME     STORM 


191 


me,  after  all,  admitting  that  Swannee  was  gone  forever.  It  had 
only  been  one  more  step  on  a  long  journey  of  the  self  to  some 
huge  goal  I  could  only  feel  and  fear  but  not  yet  see,  a  goal  that 
continued  to  draw  me  inexorably  to  it. 

In  peace  or  pain,  I  now  saw  the  pilgrimage  still  before  me  as 
something  to  which  I  was  committed,  on  the  face  of  this  new, 
strange  earth.  I  was  locked  into  it,  by  myself  and  the  time  storm, 
as  if  by  some  ancient  curse — or  inescapable,  iron  blessing. 


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member  in  the  Science  Fiction  Book  Club. 

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1412.  Imperial  Earth. 

By  Arthur  C.  Clarke.  A 
representative  to  Earth, 
from  Titan,  Duncan 
MaKenzie  plans  to  solve 
an  invention  that  threat- 
ens his  homeland's  econ- 
omy. By  Hugo,  Jupiter 
and  Nebula  winning 
author.  Pub.  ed.  $7.95 

5637.  Epocli.  Robert 
Silverberg  and  Roger 
Elwood,  eds.  Contains 
a  complete  novel  by 
Jack  Vance.  Plus  23 
original  stories  by  other 
distinguished  authors, 
Niven,  Bishop,  Pohl, 
Le  Guin,  Simak.  others. 
Pub.  ed.  $10.95 

4556  The  Book  of  Skaith: 
The  Adventures  of  Eric 
John  Stark.  By  Leigh 
Brackett.  A  trilogy  of 
fast-paced  Heroic  Adven- 
ture novels  containing 
The  Ginger  Star,  The 
Hounds  of  Skaith  and 
The  Reavers  of  Skaith. 
Special  Edition. 

4549.  Man  Plus.  By 
Frederik  Pohl,  Cyborgs 
are  to  colonize  Mars, 
and  Roger  Torraway,  ex- 
astronaut,  is  to  be  the 
first  Martian-or  so 
NASA  plans.  Fast-paced 
fascinating  SF. 
Pub.  ed.  $7.95 


2915.  Star  Trek  Star 
Fleet  Technical  Manual. 

Compiled  by  Franz 
Joseph.  A  must  for  all 
Star  Trek  devotees. 
Taken  from  the  data 
banks  of  the  master 
computer,  it  includes 
the  Articles  of  Federa- 
tion, the  Romulan  and 
Organlan  Peace  Treaties, 
and  much  more.  Large 
size  paperback.  Vinyl 
binder.  Pub.  ed.  $6.95 

1784.  The  1976  Annual 
World's  Best  SF.  Donald 
A.  Wollheim,  ed.  From 
Fritz  Leiber  to  Michael 
Bishop,  ten  of  the  finest 
examples  of  short  fiction 
published  in  1975. 
Includes  the  Nebula 
Award-winning  Catch 
That  Zeppelin.  Special 
Edition. 

7773.  Children  of  Dune. 
By  Frank  Herbert.  Second 
sequel  to  the  Hugo  and 
Nebula  award-winning 
Dune,  this  is  the  final 
voJume  of  this  out- 
standing SF  trilogy. 
Pub.  ed.  $8.95 


4614. 

Ben  Bova.  American  and 
Russian  bases  on  the 
Moon  unite  to  prevent  a 
catastrophic  war  brew- 
ing on  Earth. 
Pub.  ed.  $7.95 


7799.  At  the  Earth's 
Core.  By  Edgar  Rice 
Burroughs.  Instead  of 
molten  lava  below  the 
earth's  crust,  two  adven- 
turers find  the  land  of 
Pellucidar,  inhabited  by 
slavers,  cavemen  and 
dinosaurs.  8  pages  of 
stills  from  the  spec-  • 
taculai  American 
International  film. 
Special  Edition. 

4622.  The  Bicentennial 
Man  and  Other  Stories. 

By  Isaac  Asimov.  A 
robot  who  wants  to  be  a 
man,  time  travel  and  a 
city  beneath  the  ocean 
are  some  of  the  themes 
by  this  Imaginative  and 
prolific  SF  author. 
Pub.  ed.  $6.95 

8532.  The  Hugo 
Winners,  Vol.  I  fc  II. 

Giant  2-inl  volume 
of  23  awa-d- 
winning  stories, 
1955  to  1970. 
Asimov  introduces 
each.  Pub.  ed.  $15.45 

6221.  The  Foundation 
Trilogy.  By  Isaac 
Asimov.  The  ends  of 
the  galaxy  revert  to 
barbarism.  An  SF 
classic.  Comb. 
Price  $17.85 


The  Science  Fiction  Book  Qlub  offers  its  own  complete  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.