Anthonology by Piers AnthonyPiers Anthony
Anthonology




CONTENTS
POSSIBLE TO RUE
THE TOASTER
QUINQUEPEDALIAN
ENCOUNTER
PHOG
THE GHOST GALAXIES
WITHIN THE CLOUD
THE LIFE OF THE STRIPE
IN THE JAWS OF DANGER
BEAK BY BEAK
GETTING THROUGH UNIVERSITY
IN THE BARN
UP SCHIST CRICK
THE WHOLE TRUTH
THE BRIDGE
ON THE USES OF TORTURE
SMALL MOUTH, BAD TASTE
WOOD YOU?
HARD SELL
HURDLE
GONE TO THE DOGS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS




POSSIBLE TO RUE
I started writing fiction seriously on the way to my B.A. in Creative Writing. 
My thesis for graduation was a 95,000 word novel, The Unstilled World, that kept 
the College President up much of the night. No, he wasn't a science fiction fan; 
he just had to read all the papers, and hadn't anticipated one that was 300 
pages long. That novel was never published, though later I revamped a portion of 
it that is now part of the Battle Circle volume.
The first story I wrote, "Evening," I submitted to the first Galaxy Magazine 
amateur story contest in 1954. In 1955 I received notice that my story was among 
the top ten entries, but that they had decided to have no winner. Sighmy 
literary career had been launched in typical fashion. Meanwhile, my later friend 
andy offutt (that's the way he capitalized it) entered a similar contest 
sponsored by If Magazine and won it. Fate has generally treated me that way; I 
seem to have a propensity for just barely missing the cut.
But I have always been ornery. I refused to comprehend the message that I wasn't 
wanted in Parnassus. This is my advice to other hopeful writers: be ornery, keep 
trying, don't get the message, so that you, too, can suffer years of 
frustration, irony and humiliation. Once every decade or so the worm does turn.
I tried other stories on other markets, receiving rejection slips and a curt 
note from H.L. Gold not to try to compete with the big boys. (And where are you 
now, H.L.? Suppose I had followed your arrogant advice?) In 1958 my story "The 
Demisee" was accepted by Damon Knight at If Magazinewhich then ceased 
publication just long enough to unsell my story. I had missed the cut again. But 
I kept trying, while earning my living in such mundane pursuits as delivery 
driver, the U.S. Army, electronics technical writer and state social worker.
But still I longed to be a writer; the dream would not let go. Finally my wife 
went to work, so that I could try writing full-time for one year. This is my 
second major item of advice to other hopefuls: have a working spouse to earn 
your living while you grasp for the impossible. We agreed that if I did not 
succeed, I would recognize the nature of my delusion, give it up, retire to 
productive mundane work and be at literary peace. One of my fifth cousins did 
exactly that, ending his writing attempts to become an executive at Sears.
It was now late in 1962. I wrote a fantasy story and sent it off to the Magazine 
of Fantasy and Science Fictionlet's just call it F&SFand a science fiction 
story that I sent to Playboy. They both bounced. I wrote another fantasy and 
tried F&SF again, while trying the first two at other markets. They all bounced. 
I thought I might try a British magazineI was after all born in England, and 
was a subject of the King/Queen for twenty-four yearsbut I didn't have the 
address. So while I was trying to get it, I sent my second fantasy story to 
Fantastic, just to keep it in circulation. And suddenly it sold.
After eight years, nineteen stories, and thirty rejections, I had a $20.00 sale. 
I was a success!
That story, of course, was "Possible to Rue." It was published in the April 1963 
issue of Fantastic, and thereafer sank without a trace, until this moment. I 
make no special claims for its merit; it just happened to be the chip thrown up 
by the wave. I include it simply because it was the point at which my worm 
turned, my first success as a commercial fiction writer, of interest for 
historical consideration. Perhaps scholars more intelligent than I am will be 
able to trace in this story the genesis of my later career as a writer of 
light-fantasy novels. The rest of you can take satisfaction in the fact that at 
least it isn't very long.
* * *
I want a pegasus, Daddy," Junior greeted him at the door, his curly blond head 
hobbling with excitement. "A small one, with white fluttery wings and an 
aerodynamic tail and"
"You shall have it, son," Daddy said warmly, absent-mindedly stripping off 
jacket and tie. Next week was Bradley Newton, Jr.'s sixth birthday, and Bradley, 
Senior had promised a copy of Now We Are Six and a pet for his very own. Newton 
was a man of means, so that this was no empty pledge. He felt he owed it to the 
boy, to make up in some token the sorrow of Mrs. N's untimely departure.
He eased himself into the upholstered chair, vaguely pleased that his son showed 
such imagination. Another child would have demanded something commonplace, like 
a mongrel or a Shetland pony. But a pegasus now
"Do you mean the winged horse, son?" Newton inquired, a thin needle of doubt 
poking into his complacency.
"That's right, Daddy," Junior said brightly. "But it will have to be a very 
small one, because I want a pegasus that can really fly. A full grown animal's 
wings are non-functional because the proportionate wing span is insufficient to 
get it off the ground."
"I understand, son," Newton said quickly. "A small one." People had laughed when 
he had insisted that Junior's nurse have a graduate degree in general science. 
Fortunately he had been able to obtain one inexpensively by hiring her away from 
the school board. At this moment he regretted that it was her day off; Junior 
could be very single-minded.
"Look, son," he temporized. "I'm not sure I know where to buy a horse like that. 
And you'll have to know how to feed it and care for it, otherwise it would get 
sick and die. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"
The boy pondered. "You're right, Daddy," he said at last. "We would be well 
advised to look it up."
"Look it up?"
"In the encyclopedia, Daddy. Haven't you always told me that it was an 
authoritative factual reference?"
The light dawned. Junior believed in the encyclopedia. "My very words, Son. 
Let's look it up and see what it says about... let's see... here's Opinion to 
Possibility... should be in this volume. Yes." He found the place and read 
aloud: " 'PegasusHorse with wings which sprang from the blood of the Gorgon 
Medusa after Perseus cut off her head.' "
Junior's little mouth dropped open. "That has got to be figurative," he 
pronounced. "Horses are not created from"
" '...a creature of Greek mythology,' " Newton finished victoriously.
Junior digested that. "You mean, it doesn't exist," he said dispiritedly. Then 
he brightened. "Daddy, if I ask for something that does exist, then can I have 
it for a pet?"
"Certainly, Son. We'll just look it up here, and if the book says it's real, 
we'll go out and get one. I think that's a fair bargain."
"A unicorn," Junior said.
Newton restrained a smile. He reached for the volume marked Trust to Wary and 
flipped the pages. " 'UnicornA mythological creature resembling a horse' " he 
began.
Junior looked at him suspiciously. "Next year I'm going to school and learn to 
read for myself," he muttered. "You are alleging that there is no such animal?"
"That's what the book says, Sonhonest."
The boy looked dubious, but decided not to make an issue of it. "All rightlet's 
try a zebra." He watched while Newton pulled out Watchful to Indices. "It's only 
fair to warn you, Daddy," he said ominously, "that there is a picture of one on 
the last page of my alphabet book."
"I'll read you just exactly what it says, Son," Newton said defensively. "Here 
it is: 'ZebraA striped horselike animal reputed to have lived in Africa. Common 
in European and American legend, although entirely mythical' "
"Now you're making that up," Junior accused angrily. "I've got a picture."
"But SonI thought it was real myself. I've never seen a zebra, but I 
thoughtlook. You have a picture of a ghost too, don't you? But you know that's 
not real."
There was a hard set to Junior's jaw. "The examples are not analogous. Spirits 
are preternatural"
"Why don't we try another animal?" Newton cut in. "We can come back to the zebra 
later."
"Mule," Junior said sullenly.
Newton reddened, then realized that the boy was not being personal. He withdrew 
the volume covering Morphine to Opiate silently. He was somewhat shaken up by 
the turn events had taken. Imagine spending all his life believing in an animal 
that didn't exist. Yet of course it was stupid to swear by a horse with prison 
stripes....
" 'Mule,' " he read. " 'The offspring of the mare and the male ass. A very 
large, strong hybrid, sure footed with remarkable sagacity. A creature of 
folklore, although, like the unicorn and zebra, widely accepted by the 
credulous....' "
His son looked at him. "Horse," he said.
Newton somewhat warily opened Hoax to Imaginary. He was glad he wasn't credulous 
himself. "Right you are, Son. 'HorseA fabled hoofed creature prevalent in 
mythology. A very fleet four-footed animal complete with flowing mane, hairy 
tail and benevolent disposition. Metallic shoes supposedly worn by the animal 
are valued as good luck charms, in much the same manner as the unicorn's horn' 
"
Junior clouded up dangerously. "Now wait a minute, Son," Newton spluttered. "I 
know that's wrong. I've seen horses myself. Why, they use them in TV westerns"
"The reasoning is specious," Junior muttered but his heart wasn't in it.
"Look, SonI'll prove it. I'll call the race track. I used to placeI mean, I 
used to go there to see the horses. Maybe they'll let us visit the stables." 
Newton dialed with a quivering finger; spoke into the phone. A brief frustrated 
interchange later he slammed the receiver down again. "They race dogs now," he 
said.
He fumbled through the yellow pages, refusing to let himself think. The book 
skipped rebelliously from Homes to Hospital. He rattled the bar for the operator 
to demand the number of the nearest horse farm, then angrily dialed "O"; after 
some confusion he ended up talking to "Horsepower, Inc.," a tractor dealer.
Junior surveyed the proceedings with profound disgust. "Methinks the queen 
protests too much," he quoted sweetly.
In desperation, Newton called a neighbor. "Listen, Samdo you know anybody 
around here who owns a horse? I promised my boy I'd show him one today...."
Sam's laughter echoed back over the wire. "You're a card, Brad. Horses, yet. Do 
you teach him to believe in fairies too?"
Newton reluctantly accepted defeat. "I guess I was wrong about the horse, Son," 
he said awkwardly. "I could have swornbut never mind. Just proves a man is 
never too old to make a mistake. Why don't you pick something else for your pet? 
Tell youwhatever you choose, I'll give you a matched pair."
Junior cheered up somewhat. He was quick to recognize a net gain. "How about a 
bird?"
Newton smiled in heartfelt relief. "That would be fine, Son, just fine. What 
kind did you have in mind?"
"Well," Junior said thoughtfully. "I think I'd like a big bird. A real big bird, 
like a roc, or maybe a harpy"
Newton reached for Possible to Rue.

THE TOASTER
Buoyed by my first sale, I kept writing. I submitted a long science fiction 
poem, "Strange is the Measure," to four markets and retired it. Then I wrote 
"The Toaster" and tried it on the leading SF magazine, Analog. That magazine, in 
its prior guise as Astounding, had been the light of my life in the late 1940's 
when I discovered the genre; how nice it would be to have one of my own stories 
represented on its hallowed pages! Alas, three and a half months later my story 
came back, rejected. I have always wondered how a magazine that publishes every 
month can take several months to consider a story; surely the editor should run 
out of stories at that rate! (The answer, of course, is the slush pile: that 
towering stack of unsolicited manuscripts from hopeful writers like me that the 
editor postpones reading as long as humanly possible. Editors don't take three 
months to look at my fiction today.) I tried it on Galaxy, and then on 
Fantastic, and finally on Cosmopolitan. All bounces, so I retired it, as I had 
run out of markets and postage adds up. Hopeful writers have to pay the postage 
both ways, you know, if they want to get their stories back. This, then, is a 
failed story; it has never before appeared in print. Is it worse than "Possible 
to Rue"? Only about one in four of my stories ever sold, which is one reason I 
had to graduate to novels. It was economics, not natural inclination, that 
forced the movebut once I had done it, I discovered that I liked being a 
novelist better than being a storyist. Some of my fans today don't realize that 
I ever did write stories.
* * *
The announcer bonged respectfully. "Speak your piece," the cheerful white-haired 
woman said briskly.
"Miss Porter to see Miss Porter," it said.
The woman frowned, but with a twinkle. "You make about as much sense as a cheese 
factory on the moon," she commented. "Now let's try it again, and this time use 
names."
The announcer paused in confusion, then got its circuits adjusted. "Miss Ophelia 
Porter is present at the subterranean access and has expressed the desire to pay 
a personal call on resident Miss Adelaine Porter."
"Why that's fine, just fine." Miss Porter busily smoothed her old-fashioned 
apron. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I'm already in, Auntie," a voice tinkled behind her. "I snuck into the 'vator 
while you were dickering with the blurt-box."
Miss Porter smiled without surprise and turned to face the girl. Ophelia stood 
in front of the freight receptacle, resplendent in purple pantaloons and a 
conical hat. Her dark hair was gathered into a single enormous braid, and her 
eyes were artfully shadowed. "Why do you think I stalled the contraption, dear? 
What on earth are you wearing?"
"Playsuit, Auntie. See?" Ophelia pirouetted into the center of the room, the 
sides of her garment parting to reveal her thighs.
Miss Porter snorted. "Seems to me you're still a little young for that sort of 
play. Nine years old"
"Ten, Auntie. And I"
The announcer rang urgently. "Miss Porter can not be" It hesitated. "Miss 
Ophelia Porter can not be located," it said with mixed triumph and chagrin.
"Well, find her, Blurtbox," Ophelia exclaimed with impish glee. She knew that 
the announcer was too primitive to discern the difference between voices.
"It's a pleasure to serve you, madame," the machine said dubiously.
The old woman clapped her hands together sharply. "Don't call me 'madam,' you 
clamorous contraption. Get back to your business."
"Yes, Miss Porter," it said, cutting off quickly.
Ophelia had already made herself comfortable in the archaic couch. "When's it 
coming, Auntie?" she demanded. "The Toaster, I mean."
Miss Porter favored her with a mock frown. "I should have known you didn't come 
calling all by yourself out of love for your old maiden great-great aunt." She 
settled into a chair herself. "It's due at ten o'clock. That will be in a 
quarter of an hour. Why don't you run out and play for a little while, dear, 
while you're waiting?"
Ophelia looked baffled. "Outside?"
"Why certainly, dear. When I was a girl a century ago I used to delight in 
running through the forest paths, feeling the wind take my dress. When I was 
your age"
"But Auntiewhat about the radiation?"
Miss Porter looked up, surprised. "Dear me! I had forgotten about that. I 
suppose you can't go out these days."
"Why do you still use those old-fashioned toasters, Auntie? Is it because you're 
eccentric?"
Miss Porter raised an eyebrow. "Your father's been putting strange notions into 
your head, dear. Toasters and I have an ancient affinity."
She leaned back and closed her eyes. "I was just ten years old when I used my 
first toasterif you could call it that." She smiled reminiscently. "That was in 
the year 1930. My mother let me put slices of homemade bread on a clean section 
of the old wood stove. Sometimes the pieces burnedbut oh, my, it was 
delicious."
Ophelia was pleased. "We learned about bread in Cultural History class."
Miss Porter didn't seem to hear. "Of course, when I became a young woman I 
bought my own toaster. That was in 1940; it was one of those simple side-door 
affairs. I had to plug it in to start, and unplug to turn it off. When I opened 
the doors the toast was supposed to slide down and flip itself over, so that I 
could do the other side without burning my fingers. But it didn't always work."
"How come you didn't have any children of your own?" Ophelia inquired directly. 
"Back when you were a luscious young piece?"
Miss Porter opened her eyes, tolerant of the child's language; times had 
changed. "Why you see, dear, I never married"
"But you don't need to be married to have children. Down at the free love 
clinic"
"Some people feel that marriage has its advantages nevertheless, dear," Miss 
Porter said gently. "And a woman must wait until she's asked."
"Daddy says he heard lots of men asked you. He says they were howling after you 
like hounds after a bitch in he"
"Your father's long overdue for a spanking, I'm sure," Miss Porter said 
severely.
"Oh, they don't spank people anymore, Auntie."
"Really?" she inquired with interest. "And what do they do these modern days?"
"You were telling me about your toasters," Ophelia said uncomfortably. "What did 
you get in 1950?"
Miss Porter leaned back again and let her old eyes close. "I was thirty then, 
and thrilled by the advances they had made in toasting. Two slots in the top for 
the bread, and when you pressed down the handle it ticked away for three 
minutesor was that the egg timer?and then up popped the toast."
"What's an egg?" Ophelia asked.
The old woman sighed. "Ask me that on another day. Today is Toaster Day. In 1960 
there were no levers at allyou just dropped in the bread, and the toaster 
lowered it and popped it back at you in less than a minute. Sometimes I would 
eat a few berries, too"
"Berries?" Ophelia put in, shocked. "You ate them?" Her eyes were big and round.
"Why of course, dear. High bush blueberries fresh from the wilderness, though of 
course there wasn't much of that left even then. And sometimes strawberries"
"Oh, Earth berries," Ophelia said, sighing with relief. "I thought you meant 
Betelguese Berries."
Miss Porter wondered briefly what kind of fruit that could be, but decided not 
to inquire. Her great-great niece could be disconcertingly graphic. "Let me 
seein 1990 my toaster took the bread out of the package by itself, and buttered 
it hot and served it up on a little plate. I didn't have to do anything except 
order the bread and sweep up the crumbs. And in 2000 I didn't even have to do 
that."
"It's here!" Ophelia squealed. Miss Porter opened her eyes once more and saw 
that a machine had materialized in the freight receptacle. It was larger than 
the old model and looked exceedingly complicated. She was not as enthusiastic 
about its arrival as Ophelia evidently was; the old one had served her well for 
ten years, also fixing meals, answering the viz, washing dishes and making the 
bed. The new one might be more ambitious, and that was not necessarily good.
"Are you going to show me a toast now, Auntie?" Ophelia exclaimed, dancing in 
front of the machine.
"Gracious, deardo you mean to tell me that your family never fixed toast? We'll 
attend to that right away." She eased herself to her feet and faced the machine. 
"Toaster: front and center!"
The machine rolled forward a few inches and hesitated. "Is Mistress addressing 
me?" it rumbled sonorously.
"Don't call me 'mistress,' you overstuffed tin can. At least, not in that 
masculine voice. Yes, I mean you. Come here."
The machine moved into the center of the room and cleared its speaker. "I am 
your new Automated Service Tribune," it said in a feminine pitch. "I am a 
utility deluxe robotic housekeeper, model T-Zero. May I be of service?"
"You certainly may," Miss Porter said crisply. "I am Miss Adelaine Porter, your 
new misyour new owner. I want you to prepare me two pieces of your finest 
buttered toast, with jelly on the side."
"Beg pardon?" Tribune said. "Did the Mistress ask for toads?"
"I said toast, you box of bolts. Two pieces."
Tribune retreated in confusion. "Perhaps if the Mistress would describe what she 
wants"
"I want two slices of bread heated until they char on the outside, with churned 
bovine extract spread on the upper surface. Does that make it quite clear, 
hardwarebrain?"
"Mistress must be aware that no bread has been manufactured for a number of 
years," Tribune protested. "And the zoo would hardly allow any of its valuable 
endangered-species bovines to be molested"
Miss Porter tapped her foot menacingly. "I want you to know that I'm a hundred 
and ten years old and set in my ways and I WILL HAVE MY TOAST. I'm going to give 
you just one more chance to perform, youwhat did you say your name was?"
The machine drew itself up on its rollers. "I am your Automated Service Tribune. 
You may call me AST for convenience. Model number T-Zero."
"Well, give me some T-zero-A-S-T. T O A S T! Do you understand me, you silly 
Ast?"
The machine retreated and clicked to itself. Finally it rumbled to a decision. 
"If Mistress persists in making an illogical or nonsensical request, it will be 
necessary to escort her to a clinic for a psychiatric examination."
Ophelia came up to her nervously. "It can do it, Auntie," she warned. "Those 
T-Zero models have special"
Miss Porter patted the girl's hand. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of 
little minds," she quoted. "I'm consistent, but I'm not foolish. I've had 
experience with willful machines." She opened her purse and extracted a small 
object.
"Auntiethat's a megawatt disrupter!" Ophelia cried.
"It certainly is, dear." She activated it and slapped it against the braincase 
of the machine.
"But that will burn out the computer circuits of the AST!"
"It certainly will, dear."
"But then it won't be able to answer the viz or do your shopping or supervise 
your entertainment," Ophelia said. "It won't be able to do anything."
Miss Porter laughed as she nonchalantly discarded the spent disrupter. "You are 
mistaken, dear. Stripped of its modernistic, male-inspired notions, it will have 
to revert to the limited functions of its ancestry. In short, it will MAKE 
TOAST."
"Yess Misstresss," the machine slurred dutifully. It retreated into itself for a 
few minutes of internal clicks and gurgles. Evidently something quite 
complicated was going on inside. At length, a slot opened and a plate emerged 
containing two pieces of hotly buttered toast.
"That's very good, Tribune," Miss Porter said, patting the machine on its 
lobotomized dome.
"Thank you, Misstresss," it replied slavishly.
Miss Porter took the plate and handed one of the pieces to her niece. "This, my 
dear, is toast. Eat it."
Ophelia took it and bit in doubtfully.
Suddenly her face lighted. "Auntie!" she exclaimed incredulously. "It's GOOD!"

QUINQUEPEDALIAN
By early 1963 our situation was getting desperate. My wife had been unable to 
find regular workshe got turned down for being "overqualified"and we were 
afraid I would have to terminate my year's writing at six months despite my one 
sale. Writers and their families don't exist on air, you know. But then she 
landed a job at the St. Petersburg Times newspaper and we were okay for the 
nonce. Still, I had some trouble turning out fiction steadily; the creative 
genius doesn't necessarily function on a set schedule. This was, in fact, my 
first and only siege of the dreadest malady of the trade: Writer's Block. I 
indulged in a lot of correspondenceabout 40,000 words a monthand compiled a 
massive Index of Book Reviewslater virtually pirated by another outfitand 
struggled to keep at least one story in the mail at all times. And in the course 
of that year I did learn how to conquer Writer's Block, and have never suffered 
from it since. Then in June 1963, seven months after my first sale, I had my 
second. This was a science fiction story, seven thousand words long, for which I 
was paid $140two cents a word. It was a good rate, and I was thrilled. It was 
published in the November 1963 Amazing Stories and reprinted six years later. I 
do feel that this story represents the kind of innovative imagination and logic 
that characterize my science fiction novels, and I remain pleased with it. I 
can't think why Galaxy bounced it before Amazing took it; the fact is, all my 
first ten sales were rejected somewhere before being accepted elsewhere. Maybe I 
was overqualified.
A note on the original editing: The magazine editors have a habit of inserting 
meaningless spaces in the author's text. Maybe blank lines make them feel more 
at home. So when you see these in the remainder of this volume, don't blame me; 
there are no blanks in my narrative, or pointless untitled chapters.
* * *
It lay there, an indentation in the soil, two inches deep and nine feet in 
diameter. It was flat, it was smooth, and the sand and the dirt were twined with 
rotted leaves and stems in a marbled pattern. The edge, cut sharp and clean, 
exposed a miniature stratum leading up to the impressed forest floor, and spoke 
of the weight that had stood on that spot, molding the earth into the shape of 
its fundament.
It was the mark of a foot, or a hoof, or whatever it is that touches the ground 
when an animal ambulates. One print
Charles Tinnerman shook his head somberly. A single print could have been a 
freak of nature. This was one of many: a definite trail. They were spaced twenty 
or thirty feet apart, huge and level; ridges of spadiceous earth narrowed toward 
the center of each, rounded and smooth, as though squirted liquidly up between 
half-yard toes. Some were broken, toppled worms lying skew, scuffed when the 
hoof moved on.
Around the spoor rose the forest, in Gargantuan splendor; each trunk ascending 
gauntly into a mass of foliage so high and solid that the ground was cast into 
an almost nocturnal shadow.
At dusk the three men halted. "We could set up an arc," Tinnerman said, reaching 
behind to pat his harness.
Don Abel grunted negatively. "Use a light, and everything on the planet will 
know where we are. We don't want the thing that made that," he gestured toward 
the trail, "to start hunting us."
The third man spoke impatiently. "It rains at night, remember? If we don't get 
close pretty soon, the water'll wash out the prints."
Tinnerman looked up. "Too late," he said. There was no thunder, but abruptly it 
was raining solidly, as it must to support a forest of this type. They could 
hear the steady deluge flaying the dense leaves far above. Not a drop reached 
the ground.
"The trees won't hold it back forever," Abel remarked. "We'd better break out 
the pup tent in a hurry"
"Hey!" Fritz Slaker's voice sang out ahead. "There's a banyan or something up 
here. Shelter!"
Columns of water hissed into the ground as the great leaves far above overflowed 
at last. The men galloped for cover, packs thumping as they dodged the sudden 
waterfalls.

They stripped their packs and broke out rations silently. The dry leaves and 
spongy loam made a comfortable seat, and after a day of hiking the relaxation 
was bliss. Tinnerman leaned back against the base of the nearest trunk, chewing 
and gazing up into the bole of the tree. It was dark; but he could make out a 
giant spherical opacity from which multiple stems projected downward, bending 
and swelling for a hundred feet until they touched the ground as trunks twelve 
feet in diameter.
Don Abel's voice came out of the shadow. "The monster passed right under here. 
I'm sitting on the edge of a print. What if it comes back?"
Slaker laughed, but not loudly. "Mebbe we're in its nest? We'd hear it. A 
critter like thatjust the shaking of the ground would knock us all a foot into 
the air." There was a sustained rustle.
"What are you doing?" Abel asked querulously.
"Making a bed," Slaker snapped.
"Do you think it's safe?" Abel asked, though his tone indicated that he 
suspected one place was as unsafe as another. After a moment, the rustle 
signified that he too was making a bed.
Tinnerman smiled in the dark, amused. He really did not know the other men well; 
the three had organized an AWOL party on the spur of the moment, knowing that 
the survey ship would be planetbound for several days.
The bark of the tree was thick and rubbery, and Tinnerman found it oddly 
comfortable. He put his ear against it, hearing a faint melodic humming that 
seemed to emanate from the interior. It was as though he was auditing the actual 
life-processes of the alien vegetationalthough on this world, he was the 
alienand this fascinated him.
The other two were soon asleep. Sitting there in silence, the absolute blackness 
of a strange world's umbra pressing against his eyeballs, Tinnerman realized 
that this outing, dangerous as it was, offered him a satisfaction he had seldom 
known. Slaker and Abel had accepted him for what he was not: one of the fellows.
Those footprints. Obviously animalyet so large. Would a pressure of a hundred 
pounds per square inch depress the earth that much? How much would the total 
creature weigh?
Tinnerman found his pack in the dark and rummaged for his miniature slide rule. 
The tiny numbers fluoresced as he set up his problem: 144 times the square of 
4.5 times pi divided by 20. It came to about 460 tons per print. And how many 
feet did it have, and how much weight did each carry when at rest?

He had heard that creatures substantially larger than the dinosaurs of ancient 
Earth could not exist on land. On an Earth type planet, which this one was with 
regard to gravity, atmosphere and climate, the limits were not so much 
biological as physical. A diminutive insect required many legs, not to support 
its weight, but to preserve balance. Brontosaurus, with legs many times as 
sturdy as those of an insect, even in proportion to its size, had to seek the 
swamp to ease the overbearing weight. A larger animal, in order to walk at all, 
would have to have disproportionately larger legs and feet. Mass cubed with 
increasing size while the cross section of the legs squared; to maintain a 
feasible ratio, most of the mass above a certain point would have to go to the 
feet.
Four hundred and sixty tons? The weight on each foot exceeded that of a family 
of whales. Bones should shatter and flesh tear free with every step.
The rain had ceased and the forest was quiet now. Tinnerman scraped up a belated 
bed of his own and lay down. But his mind refused to be pacified. Bright and 
clear and ominous the thoughts paraded, posing questions for which he had no 
answer. What thing had they blundered across?
A jumping animal! Tinnerman sat up, too excited to sleep. Like an overgrown 
showshoe rabbit, he thoughtbounding high, hundreds of feet to nip the lofty 
greenery, then landing with terrific impact. It could be quite smallless than a 
ton, perhaps, with one grossly splayed balancing foot. At night it might sail 
into a selected roost... or onto....
He turned his eyes up to the impenetrable canopy above. In the flattened upper 
reaches of the banyan... a nest?
Tinnerman stood, moving silently away from the bodies of his companions. 
Locating his pack a second time he dug out cleats and hand spikes, fitting them 
to his body by feel. He found his trunk, shaping its firm curvature with both 
hands; then he began the ascent.
He climbed, digging the spikes into the heavy bark and gaining altitude in the 
blackness. The surface gradually became softer, more even, but remained firm; if 
it were to pull away from the inner wood the fall would kill him. He felt the 
curvature increase and knew that the diameter of the trunk was shrinking; but 
still there was no light at all.
His muscles tensed as his body seemed to become heavier, more precariously 
exposed. Something was pulling him away from the trunk, weakening his purchase; 
but he could not yet circle any major portion of the column with his arms. 
Something was wrong; he would have to descend before being torn loose.
Relief washed over him as he realized the nature of the problem. He was near the 
top; the stem was bending in to join the main body of the tree, and he was on 
the underside. He worked his way to the outside and the strain eased; now 
gravity was pulling him into the trunk, helping him instead of leaving him 
hanging. Quickly he completed the ascent and stood at last against the massive 
nexus where limb melded into bole.

Here there was light, a dim glow from overhead. He mounted the vast gnarled 
bulk, a globular shape thirty feet in diameter covered with swellings and scars. 
It was difficult to picture it as it was, a hundred feet above the ground, for 
nothing at all could be seen beyond its damp mound. Although it was part of a 
living or once-living thing, there was no evidence of foliage. There was no 
nest.
The center of the crude sphere rose onto another trunk or stalk, a column about 
ten feet in diameter, pointing straight up as far as he could see. He was not at 
the top at all. The bark here was smooth and not very thick; it would be 
difficult to scale, even with the cleats.
Tinnerman rested for about ten minutes, lying down and putting his ear to the 
wood. Again the melody of the interior came to him, gentle yet deep. It brought 
a vision of many layers, pulsing and interweaving; of tumescence and flow, rich 
sap in the fibers. There was life of a sort going on within, either of the tree 
or in it.
He stood and mounted the central stalk. Quickly he climbed, spikes penetrating 
at fingers, knees and toes, bearing him antlike up the sheer column without 
hesitation. The light above became brighter, though it was only the lesser gloom 
of a starless night on a moonless planet. Ahead the straight trunk went on and 
on, narrowing but never branching. Huge limbs from neighboring trees crossed 
nearby, bare and eerie, residual moisture shining dully; but his climb ignored 
them. Fifty feet; seventy-five; and now he was as high above the bole as it was 
above the ground. The stem to which he clung had diminished to a bare five foot 
diameter, but rose on toward the green upper forest.
Tinnerman's muscles bunched once more with strain. A wind came up; or perhaps he 
had come up to it. At this height, even the slightest tug and sway was alarming. 
He reached his arms around the shaft and hung on. Below, the spokes of other 
trees were a forest of their own, a fairyland of brush and blackness, crossing 
and recrossing, concealing everything except the slender reed he held. Above, 
the first leaves appeared, fiat and heavy in the night. He climbed.
Suddenly it ended. The trunk, barely three feet through, expanded into a second 
bole shaped like an upsidedown pear with a five foot thickness, and stopped. 
Tinnerman clambered onto the top and stood there, letting his weary arms relax, 
balancing against the sway. There was nothing elsejust a vegetable knob two 
hundred feet above the ground. All around, the dark verdure rustled in the 
breeze, and the gloom below was a quiet sea.
No branches approached within twenty feet of the knob, though the leaves closed 
in above, diffusing the glow of the sky. Tinnerman studied the hollow around 
him, wondering what kept the growth away. Was this a takeoff point for the 
hidden quarry?
Then it came to him, unnerving him completely. Fear hammered inside him like a 
bottled demon; he dared not let it out. Shaking, he began the descent.

Morning came, dim and unwilling; but it was not the wan light filtering down 
like sediment that woke the explorers. Nor was it the warmth of day, soaking 
into the tops and running down the trunks in the fashion of the night water.
They woke to sound: a distant din, as of a large animal tearing branches and 
crunching leaves. It was the first purposeful noise they had heard since 
entering the forest; as such, it was unnatural, and brought all three to their 
feet in alarm.
The evening deluge had eradicated all trace of the prints leading up to the 
giant structure under which they had taken shelter. Beneath it the spoor 
remained, as deep and fresh as before; one print near the edge was half gone.
Slaker sized up the situation immediately. "Guarantees the trail was fresh," he 
said. "We don't know whether it was coming or going, but it was made between 
rains. Let's get over and spot that noise." He suited action to word and set 
off, pack dangling from one hand, half eaten space-ration in the other.
Abel was not so confident. "Fresh, yesbut we still don't know where the thing 
went. You don't look as though you got much sleep, Tinny."
Tinnerman didn't answer. They picked up their packs and followed Slaker, who was 
already almost out of sight.
They came up to him as he stood at the edge of an open space in the forest. 
Several mighty trees had fallen, and around their massive corpses myriad little 
shoots were reaching up. The sunlight streamed down here, intolerably bright 
after the obscurity underneath. The noise had stopped.
There was a motion in the bush ahead. A large body was moving through the 
thicket, just out of sight, coming toward them. A serpentine neck poked out of 
the copse, bearing a cactuslike head a foot in diameter. The head swung toward 
them, circularly machairodont, a ring of six-inch eye-stalks extended.
The men froze, watching the creature. The head moved away, apparently losing its 
orientation in the silence. The neck was smooth and flexible, about ten feet in 
length; the body remained out of sight.
"Look at those teeth!" Slaker whispered fiercely. "That's our monster."
Immediately the head reacted, demonstrating acute hearing. It came forward 
rapidly, twenty feet above the ground; and in a moment the rest of the creature 
came into sight. The body was a globular mass about four feet across, mounted on 
a number of spindly legs. The creature walked with a peculiar caterpillar 
ripple, one ten-foot leg swinging around the body in a clockwise direction while 
the others were stationary, reminding Tinnerman of the problems of a wounded 
daddy-long-legs. The body spun, rotating with the legs; but the feet managed to 
make a kind of precessional progress. The spin did not appear to interfere with 
balance or orientation; the ring of eye-stalks kept all horizons covered.
Slaker whipped out his sidearm. "No!" Tinnerman cried, too late. Slaker's shot 
smacked into the central body, making a small but visible puncture.
The creature halted as if nonplussed, legs rising and falling rhythmically in 
place. It did not fall. Slaker's second bullet tore into it, and his third, 
before Tinnerman wrested away the gun. "It wasn't attacking," he said, not 
knowing how to explain what he knew.
They watched while the monster's motion gradually slowed, huge drops of ichor 
welling from its wounds. It shuddered; then the legs began pounding the ground 
in short, violent steps, several at a time. Coordination was gone; slowly the 
body overbalanced and toppled. The great mouth opened like a flower, like a 
horn, and emitted an earshattering blast of sound, a tormented cry of pain and 
confusion; then the body fell heavily on its side.
For a moment the three men stood in silence, watching the death throes. The 
creature's legs writhed as though independently alive, and the head twisted 
savagely on the ground, knocking off the oddly brittle eye-stalks. Tinnerman's 
heart sank, for the killing had been pointless. If he had told the others his 
nighttime revelation
From the forest came a blast of incredible volume. Tinnerman clapped both hands 
over his ears as the siren stridence deafened them with a power of twelve to 
fifteen bels.
It ended, leaving a wake of silence. It had been a call, similar to that of the 
creature just shot, but deeper and much louder. There was a larger monster in 
the forest, answering the call for help.
"Its mate?" Abel wondered out loud, his voice sounding thin.
"Its mother!" Tinnerman said succinctly. "And I think we'd better hide."
Slaker shrugged. "Bullets will stop it," he said.
Tinnerman and Abel forged into the brush without comment. Slaker stood his 
ground confidently, aiming his weapon in the general direction of the 
approaching footfalls.
Once more the fog-horn voice sounded, impossibly loud, forcing all three to 
cover their ears before drums shattered and brains turned to jelly. Slaker could 
be seen ahead, one arm wrapped around his head to protect both ears, the other 
waving the gun.
The ground shook. High foliage burst open and large trees swayed aside, their 
branches crashing to the ground. A shape vast beyond imagination thundered into 
the clearing.
For a moment it paused, a four-legged monster a hundred feet high. Its low head 
was twelve feet thick, with a flat shiny snout. A broad eye opened, several feet 
across, casting about myopically. A ring of fibers sprouted, each pencil-thick, 
flexing slightly as the head moved.
Slaker fired.
The head shot forward, thudding into the ground thirty feet in front of him. The 
body moved, rotating grandly, as another member lifted and swung forward. They 
were not heads, but feet! Five feet with eyes. The monster was a hugely 
sophisticated adult of the quinquepedalian species Slaker had killed.
The man finally saw the futility of his stand, and ran. The towering giant 
followed, feet jarring the ground with rhythmic impacts, hoofs leaving nine-foot 
indents. It spun majestically, a dance of terrible gravity, pounding the brush 
and trees and dirt beneath it into nothingness. As each foot lifted, the heavy 
skin rolled back, uncovering the eye, and the sensory fibrils shot out. As each 
foot fell, the hide wrinkled closed, protecting the organs from the shock of 
impact.
The creature was slow, but its feet were fast. The fifth fall came down on the 
running figure, and Slaker was gone.
The quinquepedalian hesitated, one foot raised, searching. It was aware of them; 
it would not allow the killers of its child to escape. The eye roved, 
socketless, its glassy stare directed by a slow twisting of the foot. The circle 
of filaments combed the air, feeling for a sound or smell, or whatever trace of 
the fugitives they were adapted to detect.
After a few minutes the eye closed and the fibrils withdrew. The foot went high; 
plummeted. The earth rocked with the force of the blow. It lifted again, to 
smash down a few feet over, leaving a tangent print.
After a dozen such stomps the creature reversed course and came back, making a 
second row ahead of the first. This, Tinnerman realized, was carpet-bombing; and 
the two men were directly in the swath.
If they ran, the five-footed nemesis would cut them down easily. If they stayed, 
it would get them anyway, unless one or both of them happened to be fortunate 
enough to fit into the diamond between four prints. The odds were negative. And 
quite possibly it would sense a near miss, and rectify the error with a small 
extra tap.
They waited, motionless, while it laid down another barrage, and another. Now it 
was within fifty feet, mechanically covering the area. Behind it a flat highway 
was developing.
Saturation stomping, Tinnerman thought, and found the concept insanely funny. 
Man discovers a unique five-footed monsterthe Quinkand it steps on him. Would 
the history books record the irony?
He saw the answer. He gave a cry and lurched to his feet, flinging his pack 
aside and plunging directly at the monster.
The foot halted, quite fast on the uptake, and rotated its eye to cover him. It 
gathered itself, crashed down, an irresistible juggernaut. The earth jumped with 
its fury; but Tinnerman, running in an unexpected direction, had passed its arc.
He halted directly under the main body of the quinquepedalian. If his guess were 
correct, it would be unable to reach him there. It would have to moveand he 
would move with it.
Far above, the main body hovered, a black boulder suspended on toothpicks. Above 
that, he knew, the neck and head extended on into the sky. A head shaped like a 
pearwhen its mouth was closed. The first foot turned inward, its eye bearing on 
him. It hung there, several feet above the ground, studying him with disquieting 
intelligence. It did not try to pin him. Balance, Tinnerman judged, was after 
all of paramount importance to a creature two hundred feet tall. If it lost its 
footing, the fall of its body would destroy it. So long as it kept three or four 
feet correctly positioned and firmly planted, it could not fall; but if it were 
to pull its members into too small a circle it could get into serious trouble. 
Several hundred tons are not lightly tossed about.
The quinquepedalian moved. The feet swung clockwise, one at a time, striking the 
ground with an elephantine touch. The bars of Tinnerman's cage lifted and fell, 
crushing the terrain with an almost musical beat; the body turned, gaining 
momentum. The feet on one side seemed to retreat; on the other they advanced, 
forcing him to walk rapidly to keep himself centered.
The pace increased. Now the feet landed just seconds apart, spinning the vast 
body forward. Tinnerman had to break into a run.
Small trees impeded his progress; every time he dodged around an obstruction, 
the hind feet gained. On an open plain he might have been able to outrun the 
monster; but now it had maneuvered him onto rough ground. If it didn't tire 
soon, it would have him. In time it could force him over a cliff that its own 
legs could straddle, or into a bog. Or it might forget him and go after Abeland 
he would have to stay under it, not daring to place himself outside its circle. 
His respect for it mounted; he was in the eye of a hurricane, and would soon 
have to find some other place of safety.
Tinnerman studied the pattern of motion. At this velocity, the individual feet 
did not have time for more than peremptory adjustments; the maintenance of 
forward motion dictated an involved but predictable pattern. One foot had to 
vacate the spot for the next; he was not sure whether two feet ever left the 
ground at the same time, but could see sharp limitations. If he were to cross a 
print just vacated
He timed his approach and took off to the side, almost touching the ascending 
foot. It twisted in flight, its eye spotting him quickly; but it was unable to 
act immediately. It struck the ground far ahead, casting up debris with the 
force of its braking action, and the following member lifted in pursuit.
Tinnerman ran straight out at breakneck speed. He had underestimated Quink's 
versatility; the second foot went after him much more alertly than an ordinary 
nervous system should have permitted. In a creature of this size, many seconds 
should have elapsed before the brain assimilated the new information and decided 
upon a course of action; yet the feet seemed to react promptly with individual 
intelligence. This thing was far too large and far-flung for the operation of 
any effective nervous systemyet it operated most effectively.
The shadow of a leg passed over him, and Tinnerman thought for a detached moment 
that he had been caught. But the impact was twenty feet to his rear. The next 
one would get him, unless
He cut sharply toward a medium large tree at the edge of the clearing. He dared 
not look; but he was sure the creature behind was milling in temporary 
confusion. It could not dodge as fast as hehe hoped.
He reached the tree and ducked behind its fifteen foot diameter, feeling safe 
for the moment.

Quink brought up before the tree. One foot quested around the side, searching 
for him. He could see its enormously thick hoof, completely flat on the 
underside: polished steel, with a reddish tinge in the center. Probably natural 
coloration; but he thought of Slaker, and shuddered.
The wooden skin drew back, uncovering the eye. The ankle above the hoof widened, 
the skin bunching in a great roll. He knew now that it settled when the foot 
rested, coming down to make contact with the ground. He had rested against that 
swelling last night; he had climbed that leg....
As though satisfied that it could not reach him so long as he hid behind the 
tree, the quinquepedalian paused for an odd shuffle. Tinnerman peeked around the 
trunk and saw the legs bunch together in a fashion that destroyed some previous 
theories, then spread out in a trapezoidal formation. One foot hung near the 
tree, supporting no weight, and seemingly over-balancing the body somewhat. Then 
the near foot hefted itself high, swinging like a pendulum, and threw itself 
against the tree with resounding force.
The entire trunk reverberated with the blow, and a shower of twigs and leaves 
fluttered down from the upper reaches. The foot struck again, higher; again the 
tree quaked and loosed a larger fall of detritus. Tinnerman kept a cautious eye 
on it; he could be laid low by a comparatively small branch.
The single foot continued its attack, striking the tree regularly about fifty 
feet above the ground. At that height the foot was about the same diameter as 
the tree, and the weight behind it was formidable. Yet such action seemed 
pointless, because damage to the tree would not affect the man behind it.
Or was he underestimating Quink again?
The pounding ceased, and he poked his head cautiously around once more. Was the 
thing retreating? Somehow he did not expect it to give up easily; it had 
demonstrated too much savvy and determination for that. It was a remarkable 
animal, not only for its size.
Three legs stood in a tripod, while two came up simultaneously. Tinnerman's brow 
wrinkled; it did not seem possible for it to maintain its balance that way. But 
it was acting with assurance; it had something in mind.
The two feet rose, together, one held just above the other. In awe, Tinnerman 
watched the lofty body topple forward, unable to stand upright in such a 
position. Suddenly the two feet thrust forward with staggering power; the entire 
body rocked backward as they smashed into the tree. And this time the timber 
felt it. A gunshot explosion rent the air as the fibers of the trunk split and 
severed, wood splaying; and the large roots broke the ground like sea monsters 
as the entire tree hinged on its roots.
Now Tinnerman could see how the clearing had been formed. The parent opened a 
hole in the forest, so that the baby could feed on the little saplings. As the 
vegetation grew, so did the child, until tall enough to reach the foliage of 
full-sized trees.
A few more blows would fell this one. Tinnerman waited for the next impact, then 
fled, hidden from view, he hoped, by the tilting trunk. The creature continued 
its attack, unaware that the real quarry had gone.

Tinnerman picked up the trail, human prints this time. Abel should have escaped 
during the distraction, and would be heading for the ship.
The mighty forest was quiet now, except for a slight rustle ahead. That would be 
Abel. Tinnerman moved without noise instinctively, disinclined to interrupt the 
medication of the great trees' eternal beauty. And knew that he was a fool, for 
the forest hardly cared, and the quinquepedalian, with all its decibels, would 
not worry about the distant patter of human feet.
"Don," he called, not loudly. Abel turned at once, a smile on his face.
"Tinny! I'm glad you got away." He too was careful of his volume; probably the 
monster could not hear, but it was pointless to ask for trouble. "You seemed to 
know what you were doing. But I was afraid you had not made it. I would have 
waited for you if"
"I know, Don." Abel was no coward; if there had been any way to help, he would 
have done so. When dealing with the quinquepedalian, loitering was futile and 
dangerous; the person involved either got away or he did not. The most practical 
recourse was to trek immediately for the ship, so that at least one person would 
live to tell the story.
"Ship takes off in twelve hours," Abel said, shaking his pack into greater 
comfort. "If we move right along, we can make it in six hours. Can't be more 
than twenty miles."
"Going to make a full report, Don?" Tinnerman was uneasy, without being certain 
why.
"Fritz was killed," Abel said simply.
Tinnerman put out a hand and brought him to a stop. "We can't do it, Don."
Abel studied him with concern. "I'll give you a hand, if you got clipped. I 
thought you were O.K."
"I'm all right. Don, we killed that thing's baby. It did what any parent would 
do. If we report it, the captain will lift ship and fry it with the main jet."
"Code of space, Tinny. Anything that attacks a man"
"It didn't attack. It came to the defense of its child. We don't have the right 
to sentence it."
Abel's eyes grew cold. "Fritz was my friend. I thought he was yours too. If I 
could have killed that monster myself, I'd have done it. You coming along?"
"Sorry, Don. I have no quarrel with you. But I can't let you report Quink to the 
captain."
Abel sized him up, then took off his pack. He didn't ask questions. "If that's 
the way it has to be," he said evenly.

Don Abel was a slow man, cautious in his language and conservative in action. 
But he had never been mistaken for a weakling. His fists were like lightning.
Tinnerman was knocked back by two blows to the chin and a roundhouse on the ear. 
He held back, parrying with his forearm; Abel landed a solid punch to the 
midriff, bringing down his guard, and followed that with a bruising smack 
directly on the mouth. Tinnerman feinted with his left, but got knocked off his 
feet with a body check before getting a chance to connect with his right.
He rolled over, grasping for the feet, and got lifted by a blinding knee to the 
chin. His head reeled with a red haze; and still the blows fell, pounding his 
head and neck, while Abel's foot stunned the large muscle of the thigh, aiming 
for the groin.
Tinnerman's reticence fell aside, and he began to fight. He bulled upward, 
ignoring the punishment, and flung his arms around the other man's waist. Abel 
retaliated with a double handed judo chop to the back of the neck; but he held 
on, linking his forearms in a bearhug, pulling forward. Abel took a fistful of 
hair, jerking Tinnerman's head from side to side; but slowly the hug lifted him 
off his feet.
Abel was free suddenly, using a body motion Tinnerman hadn't met before, and 
once again fists flew.
It took about fifteen minutes. Abel finally lay panting on the ground, exhausted 
but conscious, while Tinnerman rummaged in the pack for first aid. "I knew you 
could take me," Abel said. "It had to be fast, or that damn endurance of yours 
would figure in. You ever been tired in your life, Tinny?"
Tinnerman handed him the sponge, to clean up the blood. "Last night I climbed 
the Quink," he said. "I stood on its headand it never made a motion."
"Quink? Oh, you mean the monster." Abel sat up suddenly. "Are you trying to tell 
me" A look of awe came over his face. "That thing with the legs, the big 
oneyou mean we slept under" He paused for more reflection. "Those tracksit 
does figure. If it hadn't been so dark, we would have seen that the monster was 
still standing in them! That's why there were leaves under there, and a couple 
of prints from the front feet. It must have been asleep...." His mind came 
belatedly to grips with the second problem. "You climbed it?"
Tinnerman nodded soberly. "It couldn't have slept through that. I used the 
spikes... I didn't catch on until I saw the way the leaves had been eaten around 
the head. All it had to do was open its mouthbut it let me go. Live and let 
live."
Abel came to his feet. "O.K., Charliewe'll wait six hours before heading for 
the ship. That'll give us time to look this thing over. Don't get me wrongI 
haven't made up my mind. I may still tell the captain... but not right away."
Tinnerman relaxed. "Let's see what we can learn," he said. He reassembled Abel's 
pack, then glanced up.

The foot was there, poised with Democlesian ponderosity fifteen feet above their 
heads. The eye was open, fibrils extended. The quinquepedalian had come upon 
them silently.
"Split!" Tinnerman yelled. The two men dived in opposite directions. Once more 
the ground bounced with concussion, as he raced for the nearest tree. He slid 
around it, safe for the moment.
A glance back showed the monster hauling its foot back into the air. Only half 
of Don Abel had made it to safety. Then the huge hoof hovered and dropped, and 
the grisly sight was gone. There was only another flat print in the earth.
Abel might have been fast enough, if he hadn't been weakened by the fight. Just 
as Slaker would have been more careful, had he been warned. The quinquepedalian 
was the agent; but Tinnerman knew that he was the cause of the two deaths.
Now Quink approached the tree, spinning in her stately dance, hoofs kissing the 
shadowed ground without a sound. She stood.
Why hadn't she crushed them both as they fought, oblivious to the danger above? 
She must have been there for several minutes, watching, listening. One gentle 
stomp, and vengeance would have been complete. Why had she waited?
Fair play?
Was this thing really intelligent? Did it have ethics of its ownher own?
The familiar foot came around the trunk, perceptors out. He stood calmly, 
knowing that he was safe from immediate harm. He stooped to pick up a handful of 
dirt, tossing it at the light-sensitive area. The eye folded shut immediately, 
letting the earth rattle over the bare hide. Fast reflexes.
Too fast. An animal of this size had to be handicapped by the distance between 
brain and appendages. It was manifestly impossible to have an instantaneous 
reflex at the end of a limb one hundred feet long. No neural track could provide 
anything like the speed he had witnessed.
Tinnerman moved to the other side of the trunk, as though getting ready for a 
dash to another tree. The foot swung around at once, intercepting him from the 
other direction. There was no doubt that it learned from experience, and could 
act on it immediately.
But how could that impulse travel from eye to brain and back again so quickly? 
Usually, an animal's eye was situated quite close to the brain, to cut down 
neural delay. Unless Quink had a brain in her foot
The answer struck him stunningly. There was a brain in the foot. There had to 
be. How else could the pedal members be placed so accurately, while maintaining 
perfect balance? There would be a coordinating ganglion in the central body, 
issuing general orders concerning overall motion and order of precedence for the 
lifting of the feet; there could be another small brain in the head, to handle 
ingestion and vocalization. And each foot would make its own decisions as to 
exact placement and manner of descent. Seven brains in allorganized into a 
mighty whole.
The foot-brains could sleep when not on duty, firmly planted in the ground and 
covered by a thick overlap of impervious skin. They were probably not too bright 
as individualstheir job was specializedbut with the far more powerful central 
brain to back them up, any part of Quink was intelligent.
"Creature of the forest," Tinnerman said to it in wonder. "Quinquepedalian, 
septecerebrianyou are probably smarter than I." And certainly stronger. He 
thought about that, discovering a weird pleasure in the contemplation of it. All 
his life he had remained aloof from his fellows, searching for something he 
could honestly look up to. Now he had found it.

Eleven hours later, on schedule, the ship took off. It would be three, four, 
five years before a squat colony ship came to set up frontier operations.
Quink was stalking him with ageless determination and rapidly increasing 
sagacity. Already she had learned to anticipate the geometric patterns he 
traced. He had led her through a simple square, triangle and star, giving up 
each figure when she solved it and set her body to intercept him ahead. Soon she 
would come to the conclusion that the prey was something more than a vicious 
rodent. Once she realized that she was dealing with intelligence, communication 
could begin.
Perhaps in time she would forgive him for the death of her child, and know that 
vengeance had been doubly extracted already. The time might come when he could 
walk in the open once more and not be afraid of a foot. At night, while she 
slept, he was safe; but by day
Perhaps, when the colonists came, they would be greeted by a man riding the 
mightiest steed of all time. Or by the quinquepedalian, carrying its pet. It did 
not matter who was ascendant, so long as the liaison was established.
"Creature of the forest," he said again, doubling back as he perceived her bulk 
in wait at an intersection of the triquetra pattern. For a moment he stood and 
looked at her, so vast and beautiful, spinning in the dance of his destruction. 
"Creature of the forest," he said, "Thou art mighty.
"Thou art mightier than I." There was an answering blast bels in magnitude, like 
a goddess awakening beyond the horizon.

ENCOUNTER
I had earned a total of $160 in my trial year of writing, October 1962 to 
October 1963. (Twenty years later, October 1982, my fantasy novel Ogre, Ogre, 
written with an Ogre as the hero because someone had called me an ogre at 
conventionsI had never even been to a conventionbecame my first to make the 
New York Times bestseller list. Thereafter I declared that to be the Month of 
the Ogre, Oct-ogre.) I was technically a success, but that just wasn't enough 
money to live on. So, reluctantly, I retired as a full time writer and went back 
to school to become an English teacher. What a terrible fate! But I continued to 
write and market stories part time, and every few months another sale would 
develop. "Encounter" was the fourth; the third was a collaborative story 
published in Analog (yes, I finally made it there!), excluded from this solo 
volume. I had read someone else's story that had a wall, the story didn't go the 
way I expected, so I wrote my own story with a walland a message. Yes, I'll 
tell you the message; I'm not shy about that sort of thing. It is that man is 
not made for paradise, any more than a tiger is. My stories do tend to have 
messages, which seems to infuriate some critics. I see nothing wrong with 
entertainment, escape from mundane concerns, humoror meaning, and I don't 
really understand the attitude of those who feel otherwise.
* * *
In the evening of the twentieth day, Abe Sale came across the wall. On either 
hand a wide bare rift extended, north and south: behind him Omega Avenue 
retreated toward the dawn, all the way to the Atlantic. Ahead the blank concrete 
severed the right of way; he could not pass.
In the days of automation and leisure, it was Sale's habit to walk the endless 
city streets, venting in this asocial manner his seething urge for expression. 
His body was strong with many miles of foot labor, twenty in a day, questing 
through a metropolitan purgatory. Because there were half-crazed animals 
wandering in the plains of the empty parking acreages, he was armed; because it 
grew cold at night, he was clothed; because no normal person would open the 
ground-level apertures, he was self-reliant.
This was rough territory. The dogs were small, but the packs were large, and not 
everything fled at sight of a weapon. Even the great rats were restrained, here, 
keeping to the shadows; something was holding them back, and Sale doubted that 
it was fear of Man.
It took a resourceful stranger to survive in the open municipality. Sale 
survived. Armed with his heavy steel staff, he feared nothing on the streets so 
far; but there were times when retreat was expedient, and he was not a fool. 
Now, having traveled four hundred miles west on Omega, he had encountered a 
phenomenon that defied credibility: the end of it.
He studied the wall, and found that it was high: a sheer cliff of stone and 
steel and mortar, not to be scaled by naked hands. It was as tall as a building, 
traveling as far as the eye could see; and the moat that the pavement formed 
beside it prevented access from any neighboring roof.
Sale could not tarry here; not far behind was a pack, lean and hungry. He had to 
have a place to sleep in relative safety.
He turned the corner, south, to pace the wall. A block away, another wanderer 
turned the corner north; thus they came upon each other by surprise. The other 
creature was a solitary feline of enormous size. Never as plentiful as the dogs, 
and always alone, these cats represented no threat to him. In fact, with their 
depredations upon the rodents, they were a greater friend to man than the 
hounds; more than once he had lent a helping blow on behalf of a cornered 
member. But thissurely this was the king of cats. It was tremendous.
It advanced, and so did Sale. If it was to be a challenge for the right of way, 
his staff would speak for him. Against a canine pack, Sale retreated; against a 
single animal he did not. Yet he wondered why the striped feline refused to give 
way. Why did it come at him in the center of the street, instead of lying in 
wait, in ambush? What was driving it?

His eyes were on the cat; but he noticed that all rats had vanished. One mystery 
had been solved; rats were not fools either. This was no ordinary tabby.
They sparred, the cat moving sinuously, huge muscles rippling under the loose 
skin; he with his staff in two hands, an effective weapon They closed; the cat 
made a feint, one paw batting at the pole, but Sale was on guard. Even now he 
was not afraid; there was an exhilaration about single combat that warmed his 
body, fired his imagination.
Ever alert for the danger behind, Sale suddenly tightened. He knew without 
turning that the trailing pack had arrived; he could hear the yips and growls as 
it massed. It had cut off his escape; he would have to kill at once and get 
away, before the canines fell upon him.
Behind the cat, more dogs turned the corner. This pack was unusually large, he 
thought, to cover two blocks. But nothe ones in front were of a different 
breed. Squat and hairy, with long snoutsnot dogs at all, but pigs! Wart hogs, 
peccaries, or something of the sort. Strange indeed.
Sale had not forgotten for a moment the immediate antagonist; he identified both 
dogs and pigs while cautiously circling the big cat. Now two thoughts came 
together: the pigs were not a North American breed, and neither was the cat. He 
was dealing with a literal tiger! How it came to be here he had no time to 
wonder; if he did not dispatch it soon, the dogs would tear them both to pieces.
"And the hogs were after you," he said to the cat, in momentary camaraderie. 
"You killed one of their number, and after that your life was forfeit. You knew 
there was no retreat!"
The clamor behind him grew. The dogs were about to charge. Simultaneously the 
pigs advanced, short legs and hoofs beating a staccato on the pavement. Either 
group was formidable; together they spelled doom. He had to escape.
His eye caught a manhole in the center of the street. He yelled at the cat, 
surprising it into a fleeting pause, and jumped away while it glared nervously 
at the converging packs. He jammed his pike into the edge of the recess, prying 
up the heavy cover. Grudgingly, it came; he heaved it aside and jumped into the 
blackness below, hand reaching out automatically for the rungs of the ladder 
that had to be there. He caught it, the wrench nearly breaking his wrist, and 
clung tightly; it was impossible to know how deep the hole went, or what might 
be below. An angry cascade of hoofbeats sounded above; the vicious beasts were 
all around, now fighting among themselves.
The ladder ended ten feet below the surface in a greasy platform. Sale braced 
his feet and looked around.
Glaring yellow eyes met his.
He froze against the ladder, waiting for his vision to adjust. He dared not make 
a motion, even in self-defense, until he knew what he faced.
In moments he had the answer. It was the tiger.
Somehow it had followed him down the hole, while he was too preoccupied to 
notice. His staff was above, even if there had been room to use it here. He 
would have to depend on his knife.
Yet he waited, hesitating to trigger the attack. He doubted that he was a match 
for it; it weighed, as nearly as he could ascertain, as much as or more than 
himself, and its vision in this locale would be superior. He would have to keep 
one hand on the ladder, for leverage, and fight with the other. He did not want 
to kill it if he could.

Minutes passed, and it did not attack. It watched him silently. As his eyes 
became fully acclimatized he saw that it was not hostile at all; it simply sat 
there, observing.
Of course! "You didn't come down here to attack meyou came to get away from the 
common enemy!" The cat made no motion; but Sale felt, perhaps illogically, that 
its lack of denial constituted assent. Any port in a storm; it had as much to 
fear from the implacable pigs as he had from the dogs. And, he was certain, 
either group above would gleefully destroy the refugees singly or in concert. 
Better to share a nest with a single enemy than face destruction by the pack. 
"Truce?" he inquired, and the tiger did not deny it.
Above, the tumult rose to a vicious level. Shadows hurtled by the hole; bits of 
fur fluttered down. Then a crash, and a heavy body dropped to land between the 
fugitives. It was a pig, its throat already torn open.
Sale realized that he was hungry. Moving carefully, and keeping one eye on the 
cat, he gripped the knife and approached the carcass. The tiger opened its jaws, 
but did not interfere. Sale hacked away, finally severing a leg; placing his 
foot on the remainder, he shoved it forcefully toward his companion. They ate.
It grew dark above, and quiet; but it would be foolhardy to attempt to leave 
now. They would have to spend the night where they were. Sale found that he 
could still see, vaguely; two feet to the side, his platform slid off into an 
open sewer, and phosphorescence coated the walls and lit the water. The air was 
close, but not fetid; they would get along.
Accepting the presence of the cat but never taking it for granted, Sale talked 
to keep himself awake. In the morning he might climb the ladder and emerge with 
impunity; but not yet.
"How did you get on the streets of Mid-Atlantic?" he asked the cat. "You're an 
Asian animal, Tiger. You don't mind if I call you Tiger? Good. And what about 
those pigs? Peccaries are South American, if I remember my Nature studies. Dogs 
and rats run wild; they're castoffs of one sort or another. But you"
Tiger yawned and stretched out. "Don't do that!" Sale protested. "In another 
minute you'll have me doing it too; and while I don't mean to cast aspersions on 
your motives"
Tiger ignored him, and Sale continued with some of his own history. "You see 
those blank buildings, Tiger; and you think the whole country has been deserted. 
But do you want to know something? The population of this subcontinent alone is 
over one billion. People, I mean; not tigers. They live in the buildings and 
they have a life of ease. They could go from one building to another if they 
wanted to, but they're simply not interested. You see, everything anybody needs 
or wants is delivered to his own apartmentanything. Nobody has to work. Even 
the few that do travelrobot repairmen, for exampleuse the tubes; nobody walks 
the streets. The buildings all have stairs and doorsbuilding codes, you know; 
obsolete, but still in forcebut practically all of them are sealed shut."
Tiger got up and faced the flowing water. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you," 
Sale cautioned. Then he saw it: the long angry snout of an alligator. It came 
close in the luminescence, gentle ripples hinting at its length: eight, nine 
feet of it. If the thing attacked

The alligator heaved itself onto the narrow platform, heading directly for the 
tiger. Its jaws were huge. Sale moved over, put one boot against the exposed 
reptilian hide, and shoved; with a splash, it slid helplessly into the water. 
Acting on inspiration, Sale next kicked the sodden remnant of the pig into the 
sewer after it; the alligator flashed in the water, taking the morsel in its 
teeth, and disappeared.
Sale found himself standing beside the big cat. He retreated to his own side 
hurriedly. Why had he done it? A fight between Tiger and the alligator could 
only have been to his advantage; why should he interfere?
"It was only after food, just like the rest of us," he explained. "Some of the 
blood must have dripped into the water..." Tiger lay down again, seemingly 
unperturbed.
"And what am I doing here, fighting with rats, when I have a soft apartment at 
home, you'll be wanting to know," he said, resuming his previous train of 
thought. Tiger managed to look singularly uncurious. "It was because it was soft 
that I had to leave my apartment. Man isn't fitted for paradise; he grows 
flabby, loses self-respect. A man with any guts at all has to fight; he has to 
overcome. And so I chose adventure; I pried open the ground level door, and saw 
the savage world before me. I prepared myself; I set out to find the western end 
of Omega.
"Now I've found itand I'm not satisfied. I want to know what's on the other 
side of that wall."
Finally Sale slept. He woke, half surprised to find himself unharmed, to a dim 
light spreading from the hole above. It was morning. He gripped the ladder and 
hoisted himself up. Cautiously he poked his head from the manhole. Dead dogs and 
pigs were everywhere; but that was all. Near the wall the rats were out in 
strength, gnawing on the remains.
"All clear!" Sale called down to Tiger, wondering whether the animal could get 
up the ladder. But the tawny body emerged easily.
Now that the mutual danger was over, he eyed the cat warily, not certain whether 
the truce still held.
He had recovered his staff and wiped it off, now holding it ready; but Tiger 
ignored it. A snarl to scatter the rats; then the cat was off, loping south 
along the wall.
South? Yet it had been going north to flee the pigs. Sale followed.

Two miles down, the cat disappeared. Sale followed warily, to discover a rent in 
the wall. A stone had fallen from it, and there was a hole leading to the other 
side. Peering through, he could see Tiger waiting.
He climbed through himself and stopped, amazed. The city ended with the wall; 
here there was only a forest wasteland; trees and brush and tall grass growing 
profusely. There was animal life here too, he knew; droppings littered the 
ground. Somewhere he could hear the sound of a river, and the air was sweet and 
cool.
How had this come to be? The last natural forests had died long ago, taken while 
the government was still debating protective legislation.
There was no Wilderness any more; not in all of North America. Yet here
"The zoo!" Now it came to him. There was no wilderness; but there were parks, 
and artificial gardens for captive specimens. The tiger; the wild pigs: 
creatures of a zoo, now free and roaming in its neglect. And the shrubs, from 
all parts of the world, grown and spread. What had been an imitation of nature 
now was real.
Tiger brushed by him and scrambled back through the gap, into the city.
He stared after the great cat, confused.
"Surely this, for you, is paradise," he said after it. "Why do you want to 
leave?"
But as he said the words, he understood. Tigers were not made for paradise. Only 
in the gaunt streets, among inimical dogs and rats, was there real challenge for 
the creature of independent spirit.
He wondered whether Tiger also had a problem, foraging alone, finding places to 
sleep safely. No-man's-land could also be no-tiger's-land, at least at times. 
Individualism was a fine thing; but it could not deny the need for 
companionship.
Did Tiger also crave company in spirit?
Sale climbed out of the zoo and stood once more on the street. The cat was 
there, waiting.
"Come," he said, heading north. The tiger came.

PHOG
Critics have also objected to my style of writing, calling it pedestrian or 
clumsy. I tend to talk back to critics of my work, and in consequence I have 
been blacklisted in several places. Hell has no fury like that of an ignorant 
critic scorned! The fact is, I use whatever style I deem suitable for the piece. 
Usually I prefer to have an inconspicuous style, one that does not interfere 
with clarity, so that the reader can absorb the story painlessly. If that means 
I'm no stylist, then so be it. But I think a person who places style before 
substance is a dunce. The following story, "Phog," is an example of a style 
intended to help convey a mood. Later in the volume there will be another 
example, for a different mood, in "On the Uses of Torture." Let the critics sink 
their fangs into that one! Meanwhile, a note on the spelling here: the notion 
for this story came to me while I was grading high school spelling papers. 
Naturally both spelling and definition of this fog are strange. I was never a 
good speller myself, and grading those papers was a hellish chore.
* * *
A great boiling mass of grey-brown matter, closing in on tiger's feet: Phog.
Mat's eyes widened in shock. He was young; he lacked a foot of the height of 
manhood; but his mind assessed the situation immediately. A moment only did the 
spell of the monstrous mists hold him in thrall; then he gave the alarm in the 
most natural and effective manner: He screamed in terror.
His sister Sal, next born, jumped up, clutching the bright stone she had been 
playing with. It was a strange flat fragment, diverting them both until this 
instant, for it showed a hand inside when she picked it upa hand that went away 
when she set it down again. And sometimes it flashed blindingly, rivaling 
Phoebus himself. But it was forgotten now as Sal too saw the horror that was 
upon them both. Her scream joined his.
Nearby, a gray-whiskered man came joltingly awake, kicking up dark sand as he 
scrambled to his ancient feet. He was the children's grandfather, their only 
surviving relative. He was too old, now, to be a worthy guardian; never before 
had he been lulled to sleep this far within the shadow zone. Somehow the hot 
safe sun had pacified his fears, putting him off guardwhile Phoebus quietly 
withdrew, shielded by closing mists above, and left the three of them prey to 
their own carelessness.
His rheumy eyes took in the crying children and the encroaching horror behind 
them. Already Phog surrounded their position on three sides, sparing only a 
dwindling harbor of landan opening they could not hope to pass in time.
"The fjords," the old man cried. "There is no other way!" Grasping each child by 
the wrist, he lumbered toward the nearest rift.
Sal came willinglyan openminded innocent who would one day be a lovely woman. 
Mat held back, frightened by vague tribal taboos. "The fjords are forbidden," he 
whimpered.
The man had no patience with superstition. He cast loose the boy's hand. "Then 
wait for Phog. Your father did."
Mat looked behind him. The shape was within a hundred paces, silently consuming 
the distance between them. Its surging hunger was manifest. "Wait for me, 
Progenitor!"
The fjords were deep erosion-gullies through which the hot winds gusted. Water 
spumed in some, in ever-shifting patterns, cutting new channels and filling in 
the old with rocky debris. It was a dangerous region, shunned by most people; 
but the hazards would also put Phog at a disadvantage. The sharp cliffs would 
hinder it; the winds would tug at its fringe and tear painful rifts; the 
turbulent waters below would wash at its tumbling substance, dissolving it. 
Phog, mindlessly determined, would waste its impetus filling the deep chasms, 
building itself up to stretch into the farther clefts, bruising itself and 
wasting time.
Even so, escape was not certain. Their only real hope was to avoid it long 
enough for Phoebus to return.
Phoebus and Phog waged perpetual war, on this forgotten colony of Man. Phoebus, 
the shining sun, was lord of the desiccate plain, burning down in stationary 
splendor, driving back every living thing. Phog was guardian of the shadow, 
denizen of ice and glacier, cover for the dread phogRunner.
Between these powers of light and shadow was a narrow strip of habitable 
territory, a buffer zone, where rain might fall and green plants grow. Here the 
tribe foraged for wild grains and fruits and dug into the ground for tubers; 
here were clear springs for water, and animals for fur. Neither Phog nor Phoebus 
exercised total influence; and here a furtive, timid tribe could livewaiting, 
waiting for rediscovery.
"Stay close by me." the old man commanded. "Do not touch Phog!" He led the way 
down the first gully, sliding on the grit and sand.
Mat hesitated again, at the brink; but behind him Phog closed in, towering, 
noisome. He clambered down, no longer in doubt.
Phog reached the fjord, gathering and rising up at the edge. It spilled over and 
rolled down the incline in horrendous blobs. It was cutting them off from the 
deeper, safer center of the gully!
"Past it!" They stumbled over the loose stones.
A foaming section wrenched free and descended, silently obscuring their escape. 
Sal screamed and swerved, the last to pass, but in time. The dark mass settled 
in the bottom, filling it up as more piled on from above. There would be no 
return this way.
Another cloud appeared ahead. Together, front and rear, the ugly bulks expanded, 
isolating their section of the gully. Above them a beating wall of soiled cloud 
loomed, a mighty wave just beginning to fall....
"The side!" the old man gasped, scrambling up himself.
They reached the top of the ridge between chasms, spattered by a foul shower of 
froth as the silent wave collapsed behind. From this height the extent of Phog's 
advance was evident. The solid mist was everywhere, already overflowing on 
either side. Only Phoebus could save them nowand Phoebus was hiding. There was 
nowhere to run; the gully ahead ran parallel to the front, and the farther wall 
was too steep to ascend in time.
Mat's bright mind was prodded to desperate inspiration. "The water!" he shouted. 
"Swim underif we can"
They galloped down the slope, trying to beat Phog to the deep clear water pooled 
at the lower end. Water extended throughout the fjords a few thousand feet 
farther down, eventually unifying in a passive lake. If they could reach this 
first inlet in time, they'd have a chance.
A narrow gray pseudopod blew across their path, cutting them off from the water. 
It took on the brownish tinge as it thickened. They pulled up before it, 
dismayed; sometimes Phog almost seemed to strike with intelligence. This, for 
it, was a strategic masterstroke. They were trapped.
There was no alternative. The mottled burgeonings were almost upon them, 
bringing inevitable doom. "Through it," the old man quavered. "As quickly as you 
can. There may be no Runner near...."
Concealing his own terror from the children, he plunged into the noxious wall. 
There was an eddy about him; then he was out of sight, as Phog sealed itself 
again.
Mat drew up short, unable to make that plunge. Sal, seeing him hesitate, lost 
her own courage. Their fear of Phog was too great to permit voluntary contact. 
Behind them a dirty mass slid over the rough slope; in a moment it would settle 
and draw them under anyway, but they could not move.
"Where are you?" the voice came back, muffled. "Come, come, before it is too 
late"
This time Sal answered the summons, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, holding her 
breath, and jumping blindly for the terrible wall ahead. It seemed to pulse and 
quiver with hungry anticipation. Mat, thrust into action at last, grasped her 
fleeting hand and dove in after her.
He had taken no breath. The choking mist of Phog's substance stifled him, 
burning his lungs and making his eyes smart. He coughed involuntarily, inhaling 
more of the foul gloom. But spurred by fear he pressed on, now running ahead of 
his sister and drawing her with him. He had known she would get lost, on her 
own; she was brave enough, but not always sensible.
The run was interminable. Phog held them back, smearing cold grease on face and 
hands, dragging against the body with the muck of nightmare. Sal cried out, a 
scream of pain and fear. "Come on!" Mat gritted, knowing they dared not delay 
for a stubbed toe. They were almost through; they had to be.
She screamed again, piercingly. Abruptly, horribly, her grip became flaccid; her 
hand was torn from his grasp as she fell. The Runner had come! Terrified, Mat 
spurted ahead.
He was out, crashing into his grandfather. They stood together, transfixed by 
fear.
Minutes passed. The haze above parted; the sun brightened. Phoebus returned, 
saving them from a difficult swim. But Sal did not emerge.
Phog reared back, pulling together, recoiling from the direct rays. It could not 
face the sun. A putrid stench rose from it as its outer fringe was scorched; it 
retreated, seeking shade. Man and boy watched with rapt revulsion as it heaved 
back from the gully, back from the fjords, sucking itself in like a bulbous 
stomach.
On the cleared and glistening ground they saw the bones of Sal, broken and 
twisted and almost clean of blood. Beside them was a single print: the taloned 
spoor of the phogRunner.
The old man muttered incoherently, the dirty tears dribbling down his face. 
Mat's eyes were fixed on an object half-hidden by matted hair. It was the 
stonethe shining stonethat she had treasured. It flashed with the light of 
Phoebus, a glittering eye, watching him, condemning him to unutterable grief and 
shame: he who had held her hand, who could have brought her to the edge, to 
safety, so close, so close... and instead had bolted in panic.

"Phog comes!" the old man exclaimed.
Mat looked up, stroking the light growth of beard on his cheek, his pulse 
leaping in anticipation. The confrontation was at hand, here at the spot Phog 
had routed them so long ago and driven them to misery in the fjords. Here at the 
place of the colored and shining stones a second trial of strength was due.
His hand rested on a crude stone structure, a box fashioned from heavy blocks, 
open above with a fibrous mat inside, hanging between two slanted surfaces. 
Gently, lovingly, his supple fingers traced the rough contour of the edge, as 
his eyes traced the approaching menace. There was a tremble in those fingers, a 
doubt in those eyes; but Mat stood firm.
For a moment his gaze flicked anxiously back over the row of structures 
extending beyond the horizon, each bearing its facing slabs, each set just so, 
just exactly so. His breath came rapidly; would the strange weapon he had forged 
from his dead sister's delight actually defeat Phog?
The ghastly billows came, death-gray, malefic, streaked with sordid brown. 
Corpulent blisters pushed out, expanded, sagged ponderously and were reabsorbed. 
Not a sound issued from within that sinister mass; only the belching odor 
emerged to panic the waiting men.
One hundred feet: a mighty bulge slimed over the ground, four times the height 
of a man, quivering jellylike as though it sensed its prey. Progenitor's bony 
body echoed that movement in sympathetic vibration. Mat's gorge rose, fouling 
his throat as he fought for control over his emotions. He had captured Phoebus 
in the stone, bringing him far across the plain, winging from surface to 
surface; but would this tiny spark from the sun's domain daunt Phog?
Seventy-five feet: Terror lashed his mind, convulsed his muscles; muscles hard 
from the hauling of great slabs. "Now! Now!" the old man shouted, his voice a 
high-pitched wail. Mat gulped, shaking from head to knee, but held himself from 
action. He yearned to yank the curtain awaythe curtain that held back the 
fierce sunlight chained in this final relay; but for the sake of the test he 
dared not unveil this light too soon.
Fifty feet: The impalpable stuff of Phog bubbled and swirled, exhaling digestive 
vapors. Mat's eyes smarted; his nostrils pinched together in vain attempt to 
filter out the alien gas. Behind him, Progenitor coughed and racked, unable to 
call again.
Mat's hands gripped the warm stone spasmodicallyand did not act. Suppose, 
somehow, Phoebus had lost his strength; suppose the light only angered the 
monster....
Twenty-five feet: Phog loomed, as tall as the distance between them, curling up 
into a deadly hood. Phoebus was far far away, beyond helpexcept for the caged 
beam. Somewhere inside the awful shroud, uncaged, the insatiable Runner 
slavered. If the weapon failed
Mat acted. Hands now fumblingly eager lifted free the fiber shield. Suddenly 
there was a brightness; a coruscating beam stabbed out and struck the ground 
ahead. It was a ray of the sun, blinding in the gloom, harnessed by tireless 
labor during Mat's last foot of growth.
He took hold of the balanced stone, tilting it up. The beam followed, reflecting 
from the polished surface and marching along the ground, up and into Phog 
itself. Now
Phog sizzled and folded into itself, trying to escape that burning light. But 
the darting lance played over its surface, vaporizing the rank mists wherever it 
touched.
To one side and the other Phog continued its advance; but before that implacable 
shaft it retreated, wounded, dribbling dismal white droplets. It was unable to 
attack.
"It works!" Progenitor cried. "We have defeated Phog!"
Mat answered him with a smile, allowing the old man his share of pride. Victory 
was sweet indeed.
The light failed.
Phog rolled back, facelessly gloating. Feverishly Mat cast about, seeking the 
malfunction, but there was none. The reflectors were in order, yet the beam was 
not coming in.
He looked up to see Phog fifteen feet distant, offering a putrescent embrace. 
Within itwere there malevolent eyes?
The beam snapped on. Phog recoiled furiously. Had the phantom shape within been 
singed? He kept the light fixed on one spot, drilling a hole in the wall before 
him, while his mind pondered the meaning of that brief cessation. Would it 
happen again?
The malodorous veil crept up around the beam, leaving a harmless tunnel. Phog 
was accommodating itself. Quickly he switched the light to another place.
The glow died. Phog sucked together and reached for him. Fifteen feet....
"Someone is cutting off the relay!" Progenitor cried.
Of course! The tribesmen knew nothing of the careful mechanisms spanning the 
plain. They would be out searching for food, wandering carelessly between the 
pylons, intercepting the invisible channel of light.
Anger flushed Mat's face. He had held Phog at bay, had tasted victory over the 
killer of menonly to be defeated by other people's ignorance. The beam flicked 
on and off again, as though to flaunt his impotence, and Phog crept up to a 
hungry ten feet.
"We must go," he called, forgetting the deference due his ancestor. But at the 
lip of Phog there was no time to stand on ceremony. They ran.
The banks of solid mist were far beyond their position. They were at the nadir 
of a deep cleft, carved by the light. Phog threatened momentarily to fill in 
from the sides, capturing them. Even as he ran, Mat made a mental note to 
provide for the protection of his flank, perhaps with additional relays, if he 
escaped this time.
Progenitor was puffing hugely, blowing out his white whiskers as he ran. Mat saw 
that the oldster could not maintain the pace for long. Yet there was no 
effective or honorable way to assist him; he was the grandfather. If only the 
beam were reliable, they could make a stand
Phoebus returned, overhead, and suddenly they were safe. What determined the 
comings and goings of the high wisps that shrouded it and let Phog come? He 
would have to study this
Progenitor collapsed by a relay, exhausted. In the distance Mat observed the 
tribesmen returning, meandering along the line of relays. Rage blotted his sight 
for an instant; then he began to think.
When the people arrived there was a pile of stones beside the pylon, buttressing 
the path of the beam but not interfering with it. "Cross here," Mat told the 
incurious people. "Climb up the rocks, so; then jump over to the other side and 
step down."
They looked at him and at the steps transcending empty sand, uncomprehending. 
"Phoebus is here," he explained. "We must keep it safe, to battle Phog." But he 
saw that he was making no impression. They knew nothing about his beam of light, 
or the principles of reflection he had devised to control it. They had no 
interest in anything except hunger and immediate danger and occasional ancestry 
of infants. Not one of them would consider standing up to the awesome enemy. 
Docile and timid, they had abdicated the courage and intelligence of Man. 
Progenitor had warned him of this.
Mat picked up a ragged stone. "If anyone fails to use the steps," he said, "I 
will smash this against his head."
The nearest man looked at him. The man was larger than he and older. Mat's 
bravado deserted him. He did not want to fight; he longed to drop his weapon and 
fleeas he had from Phog. He was one of the Tribe; he had no courage. If the man 
crossed the beam....
A girl was watching him, one he had not noticed before. Something about her 
bothered him; she seemed familiar. Then it came to him; she was the age his 
sister would have been.
Shame overcame his dread. The ghost of Sal mocked him in this girl's eyes. Not 
again would his cowardice sacrifice her body to the Runner. Not again would the 
bloodless bones rise to haunt his memory.
Mat hefted the stone with new purpose. He pointed to the crude stile surmounting 
the path of the beam. Apprehensively, the man obeyed.
After that, so did the others. It was plain that they did not understand the 
ritual of treading over nothing; but they gave way to his greater determination. 
They did the easy thing; they backed down in the face of a threat, as always.
Never again would he be like them.
Last to navigate the stile was the girl. "You're so brave," she said, smiling at 
him. "My name is Jul."

Three relays marched across the land to converge upon the battlefield of shining 
stones. The plain was pocked with the marks of their excavation, for the rocky 
formation had tilted deep into the earth, as though to hide its splendor. Many 
tribesmen had labored under Mat's direction to bring up the flat slabs and 
cleave them apart to reveal the brightness inside; many fingers of growth had 
passed while they rubbed and rubbed to accentuate that shine with fine fibers 
and make the surfaces ready for Phoebus.
Two mighty structures stood at the terminus, each as high as a man could reach. 
Each comprised two columns bearing a great stone crosspiece, and the two arches 
faced each other to form a two-sided cube visible for many thousands of feet. 
Each column was fashioned from highly glossed stones tilted this way and that, 
and above the crosspieces were perched more polished fragments.
High mists shrouded the sun. "Phog will come," Progenitor said, excited. He was 
feeble now, too old to forage for himself. He would have died some time ago, had 
Mat not made the tribesmen bring him food. But the man's advice was valuable; 
only he and one other really understood what Mat was trying to do.
Abruptly he lifted the protectors from the two relay boxes near him. Immediately 
the bright light leaped forth, illuminating the spaces between the columns and 
forming a glowing cage in the dust. The effect was magical; but Mat well knew 
that the shafts of Phoebus traveled from stone to stone in fixed pattern, and 
would go astray if even a single reflector were out of place. Many times had he 
gone hungry while he struggled with the balance, tapping the surfaces into 
place, only to have others jarred out of position. The final adjustment had been 
interminablebut the cage was ready.
"Phog!" Progenitor announced, shivering. Increasing age had not added to his 
courage. He watched the distant bank with familiar horror.
Mat dropped the curtain on the relay to his right, and the four shimmering walls 
blinked out. He doused the left, and the fainter bars forming a roof between the 
crosspieces vanished. Somehow the cage did not show up well unless there was 
much dust, and the dust was low, usually. But the test had been successful. 
"Place the bait," he said.
His attention was distracted by an approaching figure, while the old man 
struggled with the carrion. Jul was running toward them, her dark hair flying 
back in pretty tangles as she bounced. She had matured considerably.
Mat turned away, keeping his attention on Phog. Progenitor dragged the meat to 
the center of the cage area and retreated, panting. It was a task he had 
insisted on doing alone.
Phog approached from one side, Jul from the other. "Are you going to fight it?" 
she demanded needlessly.
Mat kept his eyes clear of her beauty. "Go away," he said. He knew she would 
not.
Phog arrived. The stench of it blasted out ahead, sickeningly. It swirled around 
the stone pillars and smirched the bait, burying it in thick scum. It reached 
across the gap toward them.
"Not yet," Mat said tightly.
Phog advanced almost to their station. The three stood, fascinated by it as 
always, but no longer panicked. They knew the power dammed in the relays, as the 
tribesmen did not; this time they stayed to conquer, not to run.
The menacing bladders distended the filthy surface, no less loathsome for all 
their insubstantiality. The corrupt froth washed almost at their feet.
"It comes! It comes!" Progenitor shouted.
There was a whirring within; a thump from the direction of the cage. Mat yanked 
away the curtains.
The fierce beams leaped to the mirrors, slicing through the murky shape 
immediately. For the first time they saw the actual progress of the light, as it 
sprang from comer to corner, vaporizing the reluctant mist between and climbing 
in a quick spiral. In a moment Phog withdrew in agony; but it left a block of 
its substance behind, snared by the bright enclosure. The trap had been sprung.
The isolated mass hissed and shrank as Mat unveiled the third relay and played 
its beam upon the interior. "We have you now, killer of children!" he cried. 
Eagerly they watched for the exposure of the scabrous monster that had to lurk 
within.
The cube of filth sagged into amorphous lumps. The choking stink of it filled 
the air as it puffed into a bubbling residue. At last it was gone, revealing
The untouched carcass.
"But it was here," Jul said. "We heard it."
Mat stared in confusion. The Runner had been present; the spoor was there. But 
it had not touched the meat.
"It needs live food," Jul said. "Aa sacrifice."
He should have guessed! Furious, Mat looked at the sky. The upper vapors were 
thinning; Phoebus would return soon, and their chance would be gone.
Too much hung on this encounter. He could not wait for another opportunity. It 
would be nearly impossible to bring a live animal to the enclosure at the exact 
moment Phog came, and keep it there untethered. Tied, the animal would jolt the 
stones, disturbing the delicate alignment necessary for the cage. He had to act 
now, while the Runner was watching.
Mat picked up the weapon he had fashioned to cow the tribesmen: a long pointed 
stone fragment. He doused the beams.
Jul clutched his arm as he stepped forward. "No," she said. "The Runner will 
kill you!"
He shook her off. "Progenitoryou must unveil the beams. Take care that you 
release them together, or it will take flight as it did before."
The ancient looked at him, comprehending what he intended. Phog was already 
invading the vital spot, forgetful of its recent misery there. Somewherewas 
there a whirring?
"No!" Jul cried again, throwing herself before him. "You are brave, you are a 
leader. No one else can drive back Phog."
He set her aside, more gently this time. "I will kill the Runner if I can," he 
said. "Only living flesh will lure it into the cage. ThenPhoebus will not let 
it escape."
Still she clung. "Not you, not you!" She flung back her head defiantly. "I have 
no strength, no courage. This only can I do"
Phog loomed over them, casting out its wispy tentacles. But for the moment Mat 
forgot it, discovering almost too late what courage was.
This girlthis lovely woman the age of Salwas asking to sacrifice herself to 
the Runner, that he might live. He had shunned her as the reminder of his shame, 
as the sister he had betrayed by his cowardice, so long ago. Now he looked full 
into the face he had feared, and found there not a ghost but a vital passion, an 
encompassing lovefor him.
He realized that there would after all be other times; that with patience and 
intelligence he could snare the Runner without risking human life.
An anguished scream rent the air.
"Progenitor!" He bounded to the control boxes, whipping free the restrictive 
curtains. The dazzling light speared out once more, forming the enclosure. But 
there was no further sound from the old man.
As Phog retreated, leaving another cube of itself pinioned in the silvery cage, 
Mat saw that Progenitor's death had not been in vain. There was a frenzied 
whirring within the enclosure of light. The Runner had been caught at last.
Not alone had Mat borne his guilt.

THE GHOST GALAXIES
My original title for this story was "Ghost"; the editor at If retitled it, 
thereby giving away the conclusion. If you want to know the third worst bane of 
a writer's life, after Writer's Block and Critics, it is Editors. They tend to 
come across as ignorant little dictators who try to mess up a piece if they 
can't find a pretext to reject it outright. (Of course, editors might have 
something similar to say about writers....) The various Galaxy Publications, 
over the years, have been worse than most in this regard. "Ghost" was a 
phenomenal effort on my part, requiring several drafts over several years, and 
mind-bending calculations. Several markets rejected it before If took it for a 
piddling one cent a word and published it in 1966. Unsatisfied, I novelized 
itthat is, I rewrote it, expanding it into a full novel, Ghost, with updated 
science (the story version is now sadly dated)and the book publishers bounced 
it. I finally got an expression of interest from Dell, but the editor wanted 
revision of the opening. He had some good points, so I wrote 17,000 words of new 
materialwhereupon the editor moved to another company, and the novel was 
rejected, and remains unsold. I'm a slow learner, but episodes like this taught 
me cynicism. Today I won't even start to write a novel, let alone revise it, 
unless I have a signed contract and money in hand. And I have this minor bit of 
advice for editors: if you insist on kicking the writers, don't be surprised 
when they start kicking you.
* * *
I
"Eight point eight one," the pilot's voice counted off over the intercom. Thirty 
seconds passed. "Eight point eight two."
Captain Shetland's eye passed to the hunched man seated across the cabin, then 
went on to the port. Already the red shift, or something analogous, was 
distorting the view of space.
What an anachronism, he thought. A direct-vision port on a Faster-Than-Light 
ship. The Meg II was fresh from the construction dock and theoretically designed 
throughout for FTL travel....
"Light speed," the intercom announced, and the port was void. "Eight point eight 
three."
"Thank you, Johns," the captain said.
His voice did not reflect the tension he felt.
Shetland had passed the speed of light many times, but never with comfort. FTL 
was not simply a high velocity. The restrictions of conventional physics could 
not be set aside with impunity. In the captain's mind were four great dreads, 
and as he closed his eyes a notebook appeared, with an old-fashioned wire-coil 
binding. On its cover was a picture of a small and shaggy pony and a single 
word: PRIVATE. The booklet opened, exposing a lightly ruled sheet, and from 
offstage appeared an animated pencil, freshly sharpened, tooth marks on the 
latter end. The pencil twirled and wrote:
THE FOUR DEADLY DREADS OF CAPTAIN SHETLAND.
1. Beacon, failure of.
2. Drive, malfunction of.
3. Personality, distortion of.
4. Unknown, the.

It pleased him to note, as always, the alphabetical arrangement of the terms, 
and the entire mental process of itemizing them reassured him. Fears that could 
be outlined in a notebook lost some of their power. This was good, for their 
power was great. One of them had taken, after thirty hours, the Meg I.
Stop that! he commanded himself. Even his carelessly wandering thoughts were 
exceedingly dangerous in FTL.
Shetland's gaze returned to the seated man. This was Somnanda, operator of the 
beacon.
Somnanda sat without motion or expression. His forehead was high, the hair above 
it dark but sparse. His long ears seemed to be listening intently for something 
beyond the confines of the cabin, of the ship itself. His eyes, half closed, 
were a curious, faded gray, their color suggesting a nictitating membrane. The 
lips and mouth were more delicate than one would expect in so large a man. 
Somnanda gave the impression of nobility, almost of sainthood.
On the table before him was a small box with a facsimile of a burning candle 
above it. Somnanda's unwavering gaze centered upon this light. His two mighty 
hands rested above the table, blue-ridged veins curling over the raised tendons 
in back. The fingers touched the surface lightly on either side of the candle.
Somnanda moved. His head swiveled gradually, turret-like, to cover Shetland. "It 
is well, Captain," he said, his voice so deep and strong that there almost 
seemed to be a staccato echo from the walls surrounding them.
Shetland relaxed at last. Behind his eyes the notebook reappeared, reopened. The 
pencil drew a neat line through Dread No. 1.
The beacon was functioning properlyso far.
When a ship entered FTL, the normal universe existed only tenuously. Relative to 
that ship, to its crew and many of its instruments, planets and even stars 
became ghostlike, present but insubstantial. External light and gravity 
registered only as an indication on a meter. Internally, the laws of physics 
applied as always; Meg II required power for illumination, temperature control, 
the operation of its instruments and the rapid rotation that provided artificial 
gravity. But physical communication with Earthand any electronic or laser-based 
signal had to be regarded as suchwas impossible, because the ship no longer 
occupied the same specific universe as Earth.
There was complex circuitry embedded in the table beneath Somnanda's tapering 
fingers. But it was psionic circuitry, incomprehensible to normal science. The 
actual mechanism of communication was largely in the operator's mind and subject 
to no tangible verificationaside from the fact that it worked.
The light, a flickering mock candle, was the evidence that the beacon was 
functioning. It lit the way to Earth. No instrument could retrace the course of 
the Meg II with sufficient accuracy to bring the ship home. Not when the 
distance traveled was to be measured in megaparsecs. Not when the universe 
itself was indistinct. Only this steady beacon, this metaphysical elastic 
connection, could guide them back even to the correct galactic cluster. Only 
Somnanda.
"Captain."
Shetland recovered with a start. "I'm sorry, Somnanda. Was I worrying again?"
The man smiled slowly. "No, Captain. You were not disturbing the beacon. I 
wished simply to remind you that your move was due."
Shetland had forgotten their game of chess. The lonely hours of space made some 
sort of diversion essential. "Of course." He closed his eyes, seeing the 
checkered board. His king was in check. "White, 23. King to King two. No pun 
intended."
Somnanda nodded. It would be another hour before he replied with his own move, 
for he, like the captain, was a deliberate man. There was time, and each 
development was to be savored, never rushed.
"Somnanda," he said. The somber head rose. "Do you know the purpose of this 
expedition?"
"The Milky-Way Galaxy is only thirty thousand parsecs in diameter," Somnanda 
replied seriously. "Far too small to test the beacon properly. We are traveling 
far."
That should be added to the notebook, Shetland thought. The understatement of 
the space age. The Meg II's itinerary was to take her, literally, to the edge of 
the universe. As had that of the first Meg...
"Captain."
Why did their conversation lapse so readily? "Again, Somnanda?"
"There is an... imbalance... in the beacon."

Shetland felt the cold clutch of fear at his stomach. Immediately the candle 
flickered higher, a yellowish flash.
Fear was the nemesis of the beaconno error there! What irony if his own alarm 
at news of danger to the beacon should extinguish it! He exerted control over 
his emotions, watched the little flame subside and become even.
This was a temporary measure. Somnanda, a man of polite conservatism, had given 
clear warning. Something was interfering with the function of the beacon. It was 
not serious at the momentbut in FTL such things seldom resolved themselves. As 
the Meg's speed increased, so would the disturbance, until firm action became 
mandatory.
But what was the source? It had to be a man who either knew or suspected their 
true mission and was frightened by it. The great majority of the crewmen had not 
been informed of the special nature of this mission and had no way to learn that 
the Meg was establishing records in FTL.
The notebook reappeared. The pencil turned about, erased the first Dread, wrote 
it in again without the line through the words. It sketched an arrow leading 
from it down to No. 3: Personality, distortion of. Linked dangers.
The pencil hesitated, then made subheadings under No. 3, leaving a space after 
each: A. Somnanda; B. Shetland; C. Johns; D. Beeton. The captain noted the 
inversely alphabetized listing and frowned, but let it stand. The pencil 
returned to the first, paused again, wrote:
A. SomnandaMost experienced & reliable communicator in space. Steady temper. 
Personal friend.
Was he allowing friendship to influence him? This could not be afforded. The 
pencil backtracked, crossed out the last two words.
Still, Somnanda was the least likely of suspects. If he lost control, there 
would be no appeal. No one else could maintain the beacon.
B. ShetlandCaptain, experienced. Knowledge of danger. Can control emotion.
How can a man judge himself? In the act of writing he had crossed out a word, 
made a correction: he only suspected the various dangers, could not claim full 
knowledge. Yet his position was unique. He alone had sufficient information to 
accomplish their mission. He had to exonerate himself or admit failure at the 
outset. Rationalization?
C. JohnsPilot (drive mechanic).
The pencil stopped. The record said that Johns was competent, but Shetland had 
not voyaged with him before. How could he be sure of this man? Or was he 
allowing himself to be prejudiced because Johns had replaced another friend?
Objectivity was essential. He would have to have a talk with Johnsbut not 
immediately. The man, his schedule informed him, was about to go off duty and 
would not return until the eighteenth hour. That was convenient for another 
reason... and it was also important not to upset the sleeping schedule. Lack of 
sleep was one of the surest routes to emotional imbalance.
D. BeetonCartographer, apprentice.
The pencil stalled once more. Apprentice. That meant he had never had an 
assignment in FTL before. Shetland had not even met him. Young, inexperienced 
and in a position to comprehend both mission and danger. A very likely suspect. 
But again, the time was not now. Special factors had relevance, and a proper 
interview was quite possibly essential to the success of the mission.
Shetland turned about and set course for his own cabin. He was not tired, but he 
intended to sleep.

II
Ship's clock said 19. Shetland entered the pilot's compartment and stood behind 
the man. "Johns," he said.
The pilot jumped to attention. "Sir." He was a small, somewhat stout man, whose 
thin blond hair made his scalp seem prematurely bald. His features were regular 
except for a slightly receding chin. Shetland knew from the records, which were 
comprehensive, that Johns was an excellent craftsman, well suited to his job. 
Shetland knewand tried to suppress his irrational dislike of the man.
"I see we stand at 19," he said, sounding inane in his own ears. "That, of 
course, is our velocity, in spite of the fact that we schedule the affairs of 
the ship by that clock. Would you care to translate our speed into something, 
ah, more specific?"
Johns tried to restrain a patronizing smile. "As you know, sir, the drive is 
designed to reflect speed in miles per hour, varying exponentially with the 
passage of time. Our velocity is indicated by the logarithmic dial of the ship's 
clock. Thus our present speed, relative to galactic stasis at"
"Assume that I'm an idiot," Shetland said.
"Yes, sir!" Johns tried again. "When the clock indicates 1, it means that the 
ship is traveling at ten raised to the first power, or ten miles per hour. At 2, 
this is equivalent to ten squared, or a hundred miles per hour. 3 on the clock 
is a thousand mph, 4 is 10,000 mph, and so on. 9 is already beyond the speed of 
light."
"Very good. Why, then, do we call it a 'clock'?"
"Because that's what it is, sir. The figure on the dial also represents the time 
in hours since the drive was cut in. That's the way they engineered it. We have 
been under way for"he glanced again at the clock"19.12 hours, and our present 
velocity therefore is"a second pause to manipulate his slide rule, while 
Shetland smiled inwardly at the conditioning this exposed"approximately twenty 
billion times the speed of light."
Johns looked up, startled at his own words. "Twenty bil!"
"We travel fast," Shetland said. "Hardly surprising in view of the purpose of 
this voyage."
Johns nodded, dazed. "Yes. Testing the performance of the drive and shield at 
the big MPH is a tall order. Takes us right out of the galaxy. And we've just 
about done it already. 19.283 is one full megaparsec per hour. One MPH. Over 
three million light-years in a thin sixty minutes...."
Shetland frowned, his fingers beating little cadences on the panel below the 
clock. Somnanda saw the voyage as a test of the beacon; Johns saw it as a test 
of the drive. What would Beeton see?
The pilot, misunderstanding, launched into another explanation. "We have to 
check it out before turning it over to private enterprise. We know so little 
about the drive and the part of it that we call the shield. Yet it would be 
impossible to travel in FTL without some kind of protection. Part of the energy 
of the drive is diverted to form the shield that isolates us from normal space. 
It's actually an adaptation of the available Cherenkov radiation"
It was time for the shock. "Were you assuming that the Meg II was going to stop 
at one MPH?"
Johns' eyes widened. "We're not stopping, sir?"
The intercom came to life. It was Somnanda. "Captain to the beacon as 
convenient."
Shetland nodded to himself. The beacon had flared. Yet it was not conclusive. He 
himself had made the beacon react when caught offguard. Every man had his 
moments.
"Does speed frighten you, Johns?"
Johns licked his lips. "Howhow much?"
"Thirty."
Johns stared at the clock. "Thirty? Sir, have you any idea how fast that is?" He 
took refuge in his slide rule. "We're doing twenty billion times the speed of 
light nowand that will just about square it, Captain." He shook his head 
negatively. "To answer your question, sirno, I can't be frightened by that. I'm 
used to big figures, but this doesn't mean anything to me. I can't visualize it. 
So how can I be frightened? Meanwhile, I know the drive can do it, and I'm game 
to try."
Shetland did not agree with the pilot's reasoning: most men did fear what they 
could not visualize. But it seemed that Johns had survived his crisis and come 
to terms with it. He could not be considered a prime suspect.
Beeton had to be the one. He would go and pick up Somnanda's chess move, then 
gird himself for the most difficult interview.
"Why thirty?" Johns inquired. "...Sir."
Because that's where Death awaits us, Shetland thought. "Orders, Pilot."
Death orders?

III
Beeton's cabin was typical of what was expected of a young spaceman: the neat 
military bunk, the foot locker, the shapely pinups on the wall.
Shetland dismissed the pictures immediately. He knew that every man under thirty 
put them up as a matter of protocol. But after one discounted the 
window-dressing, a man's room was often a pretty fair indication of his 
personality.
Nothing. Everything was in order, allowing no personal signs. Beeton was almost 
too careful to conform. Only one thing showed personality: a chess set on the 
corner desk, with a game in progress. Even this was no giveaway. Tedium came to 
everyone in space.
He examined the game with a clinical interest, noting the advantageous position 
held by Black. This game would soon be over.
Realization struck him. This was no ordinary game. This was a replica of his 
match with Somnanda, complete to the last move. A game that he had thought 
existed only in the minds of the two of them. And Somnanda was Black.
"What can I do for you, Captain?" The cartographer had come upon him by 
surprise.
Beeton was a tall, blond lad. His face had that fresh-out-of-school look: 
sanguine and unlined, eyes startlingly blue and innocent. But the records placed 
his age at 24.
"I was admiring your game," Shetland said.
Beeton had the grace to flush. "You might call that a spectator sport, sir."
"As spectator, who would you say had the better position?"
"Well, sir, I'm sure I could win with White."
The captain smiled faintly. "You should know that FTL career men are noted for 
memory, not intelligence, and that they retain few illusions."
"I'm sorry, sir. I must admit that your defense, while logical from a positional 
standpoint, is unsound in the present case. But I do admire your ability to play 
without a board. I could never do that."
Shetland resisted the flattery, not entirely successfully. He was here to judge, 
not to be judged, and it was going to be difficult. This boy, the record said, 
was a virtual genius. "Perhaps, in time, you will show me how to win with 
White," he said. "It happens that I can see the board and pieces whether or not 
they are physically present. Just as I can read a book by turning the pages in 
my memory. Just one of the qualifications of the office."
Beeton sat on his bunk, not wishing to ask directly the purpose of the captain's 
visit. Shetland did not enlighten him. "Going into research after this trip?"
Beeton expressed surprise. "You know?" Then he smiled ruefully. "But you've 
studied the records, of course. Yes. Originally those lectures on celestial 
mechanics and such bored me. I would sit in the front of the class, my eyes 
fixed on the little box of rubber bands quivering like worms on the professor's 
desk, while he gave out with the poop. He used to purse his lips around the 
word... but all that changed. I'm going to settle down, get married."
"I'm sure Alice is a fine young woman. Yes, our files are thorough." Fencing, of 
coursebut necessary.
Beeton gave him a curious glance, then made a hint of a shrug.
"Woman," he said. "That's the word that comes between 'wolverine' and 'wombat' 
in the dictionary." Shetland opened the big dictionary in his mind and skimmed 
the page. It was true. "And I want to assure you, Captain, that megalocarpous 
specimen on the wall is not Alice." Shetland riffled through his dictionary 
again, smiled when he found the word. Beeton was playing games with him, forcing 
him back.
"Do you know how I met her, Captain? I was sitting in a public library, studying 
a text on psychology, when I overheard this kind of clip-clop, clip-clop coming 
up behind me. For a startled moment all I could think of was a horse. You know 
the sound those primitive animals make when some rich showman takes them across 
a concrete street, the metal-shod hoofs ringing out like castanets. I couldn't 
resist turning around in my chair to see what could make that kind of noise in a 
library. Of course it turned out to be two girls in heels. But that horse was 
still in my mind, and you know, their feet did resemble hoofs in an attractive 
way. Their legs were clean and supple, rather like those of a thoroughbred.
"I laughed out loud. 'Now I know why they call them fillies,' I said. One of 
those girls heard that, and she came over to ask me just what I meant. Her tone 
was severe. That was the first time I had a really good look at her, aside from 
her ankles. She had on a knitted green dress, form-fitting over an excellent 
form... might as well admit it. I was smitten by her appearance. One thing led 
to another"
"So that was Alice."
"No. Alice was the other girl. I didn't pay any attention to her that time. 
Shewell, it gets a little complicated. I don't suppose your records cover that 
sort of thing."
Shetland got the point. The records were illusory. They told him nothing that 
would enable him to understand this too clever young man. He was being gently 
told to mind his own business.
How he wished he could! But Beeton was still the prime suspect, and if there was 
fear concealed behind that voluble facade, the captain had to know it.
"You've admitted that your early scholastics were not remarkable. What caused 
you to change?" For here, perhaps, the record did offer a take-off point. The 
shift had been abrupt, and it had been from indifferent to absolute brilliance. 
There were personal comments by several instructors: "Jumps to accurate 
conclusions." "An intuitive thinker; never makes a mistake in theory." "Even 
cheating is not that sharp!"
Beeton's tone was flippant. "Maybe I was afraid, Captain. Afraid that the ghost 
of my past would come back to haunt me. These days a degree is not enough; there 
were too many decades of assembly-line doctorates that degraded the magic. They 
delve into your records, as well you know. If I had left behind me a reputation 
for careless work"
Was the young man still taunting him, showing the flag to the bull? Or was there 
genuine tension now?
"...though that's an unfortunate way to put it," Beeton was saying. " 'Ghost,' I 
mean. I always was afraid of the supernatural. Sometimes I suspect that my whole 
interest in science was spurred by a lingering fear of ghosts. As though I were 
trying to shine a light in the dark corners, to prove that nothing nonphysical 
could possibly hurt me, because there was nothing there. Seems ridiculous now."

Childhood fears. It did not seem ridiculous to Shetland.
For the Meg II at this moment the entire universe had become nonphysical. They 
were traveling at such a rate that an entire galaxy could be traversed in less 
than a second, and it made no difference whether the ship passed near or through 
it. How easy to invoke the sense of unreality, to renew the fierce early 
terrors.
How easy, too, to play upon the credulity of a meddling captain....
"Does the Academy still teach Einstein?" Shetland inquired with a smile.
Beeton smiled too, seeming to relax. "It still does. But of course it's a 
mistake to assume that FTL disproves his work. The General Theory never did 
limit an object to the speed of light. Though I doubt that the old gentleman 
anticipatedwhat is our present speed?"
Shetland did not miss the nervous throb, the slight terror showing in the tips 
of the fingers. Beeton knew the time, and he could do conversions. His question 
seemed like a plea for confirmationor denial.
He looked at his watch. It said 22.9, drive time. "Just over a megaparsec per 
second. Our mission requires high speed."
Beeton rose to the bait, definitely nervous now. "It certainly does. This voyage 
will rewrite the text on celestial cartology. My instruments are recording the 
placement and pattern of every galaxy and cluster within a billion parsecs of 
our coursethough I must admit that our present velocity makes this seem tiny. 
It will take many years for the computers back on Earth to assimilate the 
information we collect in hours. But our journey will be over in ten minutes."
Shetland could not conceal his astonishment. "It will?"
"Certainly. It began with the vast primeval explosion that flung matter and 
radiation in every direction to populate the vacant space. Then gravity slowed 
this impetuous expansion and brought the universe into a state of equilibrium 
two billion light-years in diameter. But when the galaxies formed, the forces of 
repulsion came into prominence, and expansion resumed. Now five billion years 
have passed since the beginning, and our universe has grown to a radius of three 
billion parsecs. In moments we stand at the culmination of it all, our mission 
is over: the rim."
To every man his own justification for the voyage, Shetland thought. To every 
man his own disillusion.
"Not yet," he said succinctly.
Beeton's innocent eyes focused on him. "You have to stop, of course. There is no 
point going beyond the rim of the universe."
Shetland spoke carefully. "According to your theory, there should be a cessation 
of all matter at approximately 23.1 on the clock. I have asked to be alerted the 
moment such cessation occurs. None has. It is now 23.2 hours. There has been no 
'rim.' We shall not stop."
Beeton turned pale. His breath came in labored gasps. His eyes stared 
unblinkingly at the captain.
The intercom blared out behind Shetland with startling volume. "Captain to 
beacon immediately!"

IV
Shetland whirled, paying no more attention to Beeton. He galloped headlong down 
the corridor, blood pounding in his ears. The shortness of his breath, he knew, 
was not entirely due to the exertion.
He burst into Somnanda's cabin. And stopped, appalled. The miniature candle, 
symbol of Earth-contact, was a towering column of fire. Orange light flooded the 
room, flickering off the walls and illuminating Somnanda's twisted face with 
demoniac intensity.
Shetland knew instinctively what to do. Terror was destruction to the beacon. He 
stood there, suppressing every vestige of feeling, quelling his own throbbing 
pulse with hypnotic waves of peace and security. Members of the crew had fears; 
these were groundless, based on ignorance. Only the captain had authority to 
know, and he was not afraid. Not afraid.
Not afraid.
Gradually he extended the oily calm outward. Somnanda was not afraid. No one was 
afraid. A temporary shock, no more. To be forgotten.
The fearsome color faded. The column dwindled reluctantly, down, down, until it 
returned to its normal pinpoint above the table.
Somnanda's countenance relaxed. Apparently a disturbance in the beacon 
represented physical pain to him. His hands remained above the table, fingers 
splayed, their backs an angry red. His forehead was shining, and rivulets of 
perspiration were draining down the side of his neck.
"My strength has been overextended," Somnanda said, his words slurred, voice 
pitched too high. "I can not protect the beacon again. From that."
So formal, even after this, Shetland thought. Yet I must talk to him. As Beeton 
is to me, so am I to this man of the candle. The tension is within me, and it 
must come out. And when my brain has translated itself into nervous impulses, 
and these pulses become the atmospheric vibrations which are meaningful speech 
sounds, and those sounds have been lost in entropy, then will my problem be 
over?
"A farmer once lost a sum of money," Shetland said. "He suspected a neighbor's 
boy of having stolen it, but had not proof. So the farmer went and studied the 
boy as he went about his chores, trying to determine by observation whether he 
was in fact the culprit. Though the lad performed his duties in the prescribed 
manner, there did appear to be something surreptitious in his attitude, as 
though he were trying to conceal guilt. The farmer returned home convinced. 
Later he discovered the money where he had forgotten it, in his own home. It had 
never been stolen. He went again to look at the neighbor's boy, but this time 
the lad had no guilty look about him."
"The young cartographer looks guilty," Somnanda said.
"He looks guilty," Shetland agreed. "He seemed almost normal until I challenged 
his evolutionary theory of the universe. Thenthis. But I can not condemn a 
person on such circumstantial evidence. I too, in the last analysis, am afraid."
Somnanda's brow wrinkled. "I am not entirely familiar with this theory. Is there 
something about it that affects the nature of our voyage?"
Shetland smiled inwardly. In Somnanda's view the purpose of this journey was 
merely to test the beacon. The validity of one theory of the universe or another 
would have little bearing on that, unless one theory embodied an inherent threat 
to the beacon. That threat was real enoughbut it stemmed from internal 
problems, not external.
"The evolutionary theory is one of several evolvedagain, no punto explain the 
observed state of the universe," Shetland explained. "There are numberless 
clusters of galaxies in view from Earth, each retreating from every other one. 
The situation can only be explained by postulating a general expansion of the 
entire cosmos. But the nature of this expansion is open to doubt. This 
particular theory has all matter originating in a gigantic nucleus five billion 
years ago. When it exploded"
"Now I understand," Somnanda said. "That would make every galaxy approximately 
the same age. I had assumed that the more distant ones were older."
"They may well be," Shetland said. "The information we are gathering now may 
answer that question when we return to Earth. But it is my conjecture that this 
theory is invalid, because we have already passed the farthest limit the 
evolutionary universe could have reached, and the pattern has not changed."
"Would this be reason to frighten the cartographer?"
Shetland paced the floor. "I don't understand why. That's what holds me back. 
The elimination of a single theory should be of no more consequence than the 
elimination of an invalid strategy in the course of a chess game. An 
inconvenience, certainly. But hardly frightening."
"Unless the alternative is more dangerous."
"The obvious alternative at this point would be the 'Steady State' theory, which 
has galaxies continuously forming and being formed outward by the constant 
appearance of new matter. Since there is no 'beginning' the universe is steady 
in space and time and does not evolve. Individual galaxies, however, would 
evolve, and we should discover old ones as well as new ones. And the universe 
would be somewhat larger."
"Larger?"
"Because the evolutionary universe would be in its infancy, limited by the 
five-billion-year span since the explosion. But the average galaxy will survive 
for ten times that length of time, and if we assume the expansion to be 
exponential, the universe could eventually attain a radius of ten thousand 
teraparsecs, give or take a decimal or two."
Somnanda digested this. "One teraparsec is"
"A million megs. But our drive will take us there in just thirty hours."
"That would be the size of the steady state universe, since it is not in its... 
infancy?"
"If my conjecture is correct. The cartographer, actually, should understand such 
things better than I. He is attempting to map the universe."
"Perhaps he knows something that we do not."
Shetland paced the floor again. "He never mentioned steady state. It was as 
though it didn't exist for him."
"Possibly he has reason for his fear. This should be ascertained."
What decision had the captain of the Meg I made? Had he waited until thirty 
hours to question his "Beeton?" Or had some unthinkable menace consumed his ship 
at the rim of the steady state cosmos?
The decision of the prior captain had been wrong. How could Shetland improve 
upon it, in his ignorance?

V
The ship's clock stood at 25 when Beeton entered the beacon room. "Reporting as 
directed, sir."
Shetland was afraid to waste time. He watched the candle as he spoke. "I believe 
you are afraid of something, Beeton, and it is important for me to understand. 
Such emotion affects the beacon."
Beeton met him with a steady gaze in which there was not a trace of fear. "May I 
speak frankly, sir?"
When a crewman felt it necessary to address that question to the captain, the 
result was seldom pleasant. "You are directed to do so."
"I'd like to rephrase the question," Beeton said, dropping the "sir." He was 
intelligent and had probably anticipated this session. "I think I'm afraid of 
the same thing you are. Will you admit that much?"
"I am afraid of many things. Continue."
"We fear a very real danger, and it has nothing to do with the beacon. You and I 
know that there is death waiting for us at the edge of the universe. One ship 
has already been taken, perhaps others."
Somnanda looked up but held his peace.
"The important thing to realize is that this was no freak accident. We face the 
same demise, unless we reverse the drive."
"No," Shetland said simply.
Johns poked his head in the entrance. "Am I interrupting something?" he 
inquired. "My assistant took over long enough for me to inquire"
"You should listen to this," Beeton said with authority. Somnanda nodded.
Shetland glanced from one to the other. Was there a mute agreement between them? 
How many were anxious to abort the mission? The situation was uncomfortable.
Johns also seemed to be ill at ease. "Look, if you want me to go"
Shetland took command. "Mr. Beeton believes that our course leads to danger. He 
is about to explain his reason for his request that the Meg be reversed 
prematurely."
There was silence. Was the beacon flickering more violently than before? Whose 
tension was responsible? "Go on, Beeton," Shetland said firmly.
The cartographer swallowed, a nervous young man now that it had come to the 
point. The flame was brighter. "You are familiar with the 'steady state' 
cosmos," he said, jumping, as the record advised, to an accurate conclusion. "I 
had expected this theory to be eliminated by our findings. I hadhoped."
He looked at the increasing flame, then averted his gaze. "To most people, there 
is small difference between one concept of the universe and another. After all, 
it has no discernible effect on our daily lives. But to those of us who voyage 
into the extraordinary reaches, it becomes a matter of life and death."
"Say what you mean," Shetland growled.
"At the center, where the galaxies are young, we are safe. But at the rim they 
are old. Beyond the rim" He paused in the yellow light. "Beyond the rim they 
are dead."
He looked at each of the others in turn and met only bafflement. "Don't you see? 
They have passed on. There is nothing beyond the rim but ghosts, the malignant 
spirits of once living galaxies."
Shetland looked at Somnanda, who shook his head negatively. He looked at Johns, 
whose mouth was hanging open.
"You're crazy!" Johns said.
Beeton jumped up, and the flame leaped with him. "No, no," he cried. "You have 
to understand. You have to stop the ship before it's too late."
"The supernatural is no threat to us," Shetland snapped.
"Captain!" Somnanda's voice was urgent. Shetland whipped around. The beacon had 
burst into an inferno, destroying itself.
"Stop the ship!" Beeton screamed. "The ghost is out there"
Suddenly Shetland's sidearm was in his hand. The tableau seemed to freeze at the 
moment: Somnanda in the corner, half standing, agony on his face, sweat shining 
in the orange glow. Johns, staring at the young cartographer, confusion and 
incredulity distorting his own features, scalp red under the thin hair. Beeton, 
standing with one fist in the air, mouth insanely wide, lips pulled back from 
teeth.
One word from the captain would ease this threat. He had only to agree to stop 
the ship. To set aside his orders.
Then Beeton was falling, engulfed in a sparkling cloud. The gas from the capsule 
Shetland had fired was dissipating already: but Beeton would be in a deep coma 
for at least twelve hours. Far past the crisis point.
"Captain." Somnanda's voice cut through his reverie, as it always did. "There is 
little doubt that the young man's terror was the cause of the disturbance. But 
it should have abated, had you agreed to reverse the drive."
The flame was normal. "I could not do that."
Johns made a sound. "You knew how simple it was to stop the troubleand you 
cooled him anyway?"
"Yes."
Johns stared at him with the same expression he had turned on Beeton before. 
"Captainnow I'm not so sure Beeton was the crazy one. Maybe he was right. You 
never let him make his point."
Shetland looked at the unconscious form, so peaceful now. "If I had verified his 
suspicion, Pilot, his terror would certainly have extinguished the beacon."
"Verified his" Johns was shocked. "You admit it! There is a ghost out there!"
"Not a ghost. A ship. A ship that ceased contact suddenly. My orders are to 
investigate. I shall investigate."
"By heading straight into the same trap?"
"Those are my orders."
"Orders!" The flame was rising again. "Captain, I can't agree to that."
Shetland studied him sourly. "You can't agree, Pilot?"
"No, I can't. That ghost will eat us too. We've got to turn back."
Beside the growing flame, Somnanda's head turned to bear on Johns.
"I see it now," the pilot said. "Beeton was right. After the galaxies die, they 
are ghosts. And they hate the living." He looked around, saw the flame. "Don't 
you understand? We must reverse the ship!"
The flash, the sparkle, the dissipationand the pilot joined the cartographer.
The flame subsided. Somnanda and Shetland looked at each other.
"Your move, Captain."
The chess game: Somnanda could think of that at this juncture! "I only hope my 
personal situation is better than that of my pieces," he said. "I will have to 
consider my move."
"Your situation is good," Somnanda said cryptically.
Shetland hauled the two unconscious men to the side of the cabin. "I think it 
best to keep these out of sight of the other crewmen, for the time being," he 
said. Then, sensing Somnanda's curiosity: "It may seem unreasonable to sacrifice 
two human beings in this fashion, rather than accede to their rather simple 
request. But I can delegate their functions if necessary, while I could neither 
humor their fancies nor allow their emotional stress to destroy the beacon." 
Yes, he felt the need to justify himself to Somnanda and cursed his own frailty.
"You seem unreasonable." From this man, this was an observation, not an insult.
"I am unreasonable. Sometimes that is the only coursejust as an apparently 
illogical sacrifice is at times required in order to win at chess." The chess 
analogy kept running through his mind. Was it valid?
Somnanda waited.
"Extended trips into FTL have been rare, so far," Shetland continued. "Evidence 
is therefore inconclusive. But there appears to be a certain... distortion in 
many personalities as velocity increased. Perhaps it is a side effect of the 
drive, or simply an emotional reaction to isolation from the normal universe. 
But it is one of my dreads, and I always watch for it. That's why I'm careful 
about revealing my orders prematurely. Individual judgment can not be trusted in 
FTL. Normal people are apt to become aware of it. It is futile to point out such 
aberrations to the victims. They are, in effect, mental patients. I think you 
have seen some of this, now."
"Yes."
"The captain is not excluded," Shetland said, smiling wearily. "I have 
preoccupations and I entertain doubts. I question the wisdom of this voyage, its 
apparent expendability, the attitude of certain crewmen, the evidence of the 
supernatural. I do not believe, at this moment, in the beaconthat is, that it 
represents any valid connection with Earth. But if it is real, why not the ghost 
of a galaxy? I do anticipate extinction at the thirtieth hourbut I will not 
reverse the drive."
"I understand."
"Because my own judgment is suspect. I can rely on only one thing to be 
objective: my orders. These were presented to me before the voyage began and 
were reasonable then; they must be reasonable now. If I desire to modify them, 
it is because my present insight is biased, not my earlier one. I must therefore 
uphold what seems unreasonable to meand I shall."

VI
The clock read 28.8 hours. One teraparsec per second. Soon the voyage would 
really be overone way or another.
Shetland found himself in Beeton's room, looking at the chess set. Why had he 
come? Because there was a lingering uncertainty as the thirtieth hour 
approached? Or simple guilt for overriding that uncertainty?
He saw a picture of Alice, smiling for a man she might never see again. Would 
she be widowed before her marriage, all because a certain captain's orders meant 
more to him than his common sense?
It was uncanny, the way in which the young man had divined the moves and kept up 
with a game the captain had never advertised. But this was a private game. He 
swept the pieces into the box, folded the board. Beneath it was a paper, 
previously hidden. Shetland picked it up and saw a series of notations. They 
seemed to represent the strategy of a game in progress. His game?
He applied the notes to the game in his mind. They checked. But the moves were 
not as he would have made them. They started at the present position, but the 
style was radically different. Beeton had said he could win with Whiteand these 
notes, incredibly, proved it. Beginning with a highly questionable queen 
sacrifice, White forged to a forced advantage in the game's thirtieth move. The 
series violated many of the tenets of good positional playyet, he saw now, was 
quite valid.
He would not use it, of course; the genius was not rightfully his. But he would 
show this interesting lesson to Somnanda: how independent and bold foresight 
could convert a certain loss into victory. Book play was not always valid.
By the thirtieth move.
Coincidence?
Or a message that his stupidity had prevented Beeton from delivering? Was it 
natural to assume that such a brilliant mind had been mistaken, in the one case 
that counted? Or had the cartographer's terrible fear been based on fact, not 
fancywhile the distortion merely prevented him from making himself sufficiently 
clear?
Had Johns also, finally, responded to the actual message, seen its validity?
Assume, for the sake of argument, that Beeton had been right. That death did 
wait at the thirtieth hour. That the situation was hopeless because the man in 
charge refused to deviate from the book, from his orders, no matter what.
In chess, the answer had been a total revision of strategy. The book had to be 
thrown away. In life
The chessboard image in his mind faded into a figurative map of the universe. 
Galaxies of the steady state hurtled outward, born in the center as pawns, dying 
of old age at the rim as kings.
And then, as it were, the pieces came to life. The pawns were babies, the kings 
old men. The board, which was the universe, became a city without buildings. The 
babies were born spontaneously in the center and crawled busily in all 
directions. As they made their way outward they grew into children, and some had 
bishop's hats and some had horse's heads. Farther out they developed into men 
and women, and the men were castles and the women queens.
Finally the old kings staggered to the rim to die. The size of this city was 
governed by the age of the inhabitants. Where they became too old to go out 
farther, the city ended. Most of them died at fifty moves. The rim was a 
desolate grave. There was no one to bury the bodies; where they fell, they lay, 
they rotted, and the white bones guarded the memory of what had been.
Then, incredibly, a child appeared at the rim. By some freak it had by-passed 
age and entered the domain of death long before its time. A child named "Meg."
The ancient bones quivered with rage. No living thing should be allowed to 
desecrate the mighty graveyard. The angry spirits gathered their forces, 
concentrated their ghastly energies, opened their ponderous jaws and said:
"Captain! Captain!"
It was Somnanda. Shetland shook himself awake to see the beacon room. The yellow 
light was rampaging again, and this time he himself was the cause.
"Reverse the drive!" he shouted into the intercom.

Now it was 16.49but it was speed, not time. Once more the captain of the Meg II 
stood behind the pilot, pretending that nothing had happened.
"Captain," Johns said. "CaptainI want to say something."
What was there for this man to say? That he resented being gassed, then revived 
to learn that his assistant had reversed the drive at 29.34, on the orders of 
that same captain who had shot the pilot down for urging this?
"Captain, I just wanted to apologize. I don't know what came over me. I never 
lost my head like that before. I don't believe in ghosts. I justsomehow I 
couldn'twhat I mean is, you did the only thing you could do, and I can see that 
you were right all the time. I'm sorry I forgot."
Johns was apologizing for his own distortion, now that it had abated with the 
speed of the ship, and he was able to see it for what it was. A distortion that 
was not his own fault.
"We were all a little on edge," Shetland said, discovering that his dislike of 
the pilot was gone. Was there any point in trying to explain?
16.36. Thirteen hours of deceleration, with the Meg II traveling at only a tenth 
its former speed with every hour that the clock subtracted. And still 
approaching a rendezvous of terror with fantastic velocity. Twenty-nine hours of 
deceleration would bring it to a halt in space, at almost the exact spot they 
would have passed in the thirtieth hour of acceleration. The exponential series 
that was the drive was a remarkable thing.
16.34. Only when they came to a dead halt, relative to their starting point, 
could they release the drive and apply the chemical maneuvering rockets, in 
order to turn the ship around and begin the home journey. Then back, 
accelerating once more to
Hell broke loose.
The ship bucked violently, flinging Shetland to the far wall. Shooting pains 
went through his left shoulder as another upheaval bounced him on the floor. An 
agonized keening sounded in his ears, and a red fog clouded his brain, seeming 
to obscure all vision above the horizontal. Dimly he saw the pilot's legs 
wrapped around the bolted-down stool; Johns, more alert than his captain, had 
held his position. There was the smell of burning insulation in the air.
"Cut the drive!" Shetland roared. He tried to stand up, but the heaving room 
brushed him aside. The clamor of the suit-alert began; the hull had been 
pierced.
"Captain," Johns' voice drifted back from a far distance: "We're in FTL. We 
can't"
"CUT THE DRIVE!"
Johns moved his hand, and miraculously the ship was quiet. Shetland lurched to 
his feet, heedless of the pain.
The alarm had ceased. Someone must have repaired the damage already. That man 
would get a commendation. Shetland's hands, of their own volition, groped for 
and found the archaic regulation fire extinguisher, not obsolete after all, as 
smoke curled up from the panel. Suddenly the unit was blasting noxious foam all 
over his boots. He turned it, already feeling the biting cold; crystals of ice 
flew off like broken glass as he tramped toward the control panel.
"Stop, Captain!" Johns cried. "No need, no need. The power is off."
Shetland lowered the extinguisher. Now he had time to assess his injuries. Pain, 
for the moment, was masked; it was there, but the enormity of it would only be 
felt later. He was surprised to discover no blood. He felt along his left arm, 
realizing that the trouble with the extinguisher had been due to his one-handed 
control. The left hand was useless, though there were no breaks.
"Captain." Why did he always drift into contemplation, even in a crisis? 
"Captain" the pilot's voice was shocked. "The instruments are registering!"
"That's what they're for," Shetland said shortly.
"But we're in FTL!" Johns, so capable in the crisis, was now falling apart. "The 
drive is off. The shield is down. Why aren't we dead?"
Shetland had understood the situation the moment the ship bucked. But he was not 
certain he could explain it to the pilot readily. Johns might have difficulty 
accepting the truth.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" he inquired. Johns stiffened. He had already denied 
superstition. Shetland sympathized; but this was necessary.
"No, sir," the pilot said.
"Look at your instruments," Shetland commanded. "Tell me what's out there."
Johns looked. "We're approaching an object of galactic scope at just under the 
speed of light. Approximate mass" He faltered.
"Go on, Pilot."
"Sir, I think the instrument is broken."
Shetland replied with deliberate cruelty. "Do I have to teach you elementary 
navigation? Where are the warning lights? You know the instrument is not 
broken."
"But it can't be"
"Don't argue. What does it say?"
Johns seemed to shrink inside himself. His lips stretched to form the words his 
mind rejected. "It saysit says the galaxy we're approaching has no mass."
Shetland smiled grimly. "I ask you again, do you believe in ghosts?"

VII
"Yes, there is a ghost," Shetland said, as the Meg II's hull vibrated to the 
impact of her chemical propulsion. She was maneuvering for a position to begin 
the return voyage.
The four of them were in the beacon room again, watching the steady flame, "All 
of us had some hint of the truth," Shetland said, "but we were blinded by our 
separate conceptions of the mission and by our mutual dread of the unknown. We 
tried to exclude the supernaturalnot realizing that when the supernatural is 
understood, it becomes natural. Cartographer Beeton was closest to it"
"But I wasn't able to face emotionally what my intellect showed me," Beeton 
said. "The thing is so incredible"
"I still don't follow you," Johns protested. "We're alive, and there's aa thing 
out there. I'll admit that much. But nothing in the universe is solid enough to 
rock a ship in high FTL, and we were at 16.34. That's a light-year per second! 
But we were battered so badly that a crate of beans broke loose and shoved 
itself through the hull. Or tried to." He laughed. "Wouldn't that be an epitaph 
for a lost ship: torpedoed by a can of beans in FTL!"
"I, too, am perplexed," Somnanda said. "I understood that it was certain 
destruction to drop the shield while in FTL. Solid matter can not exist at a 
light-year per second."
"We phased in with the ghost," Shetland said. "Beeton, things are clearer. 
Finish your explanation."
Beeton plunged in happily. "As I was trying to say at an earlier occasion, but 
somehow couldn't quite put into sensible words: At the center of things, a 
galaxy is young. But in the course of fifty billion years or so it ages, and 
like an aging man it changes. For one thing, it puts on weight, becomes 
sluggish. A galaxy in its late prime is an unbelievably massive thingso dense 
that its surface gravity prevents its own light from escaping. Within it, 
nevertheless, breakdown continues, and the prisoned energieswell, we have had 
no experience with such a state.
"Eventually all matter is gonebut there is still no escape for that phenomenal 
complex of energy. We are left with a galaxy whose material portion has passed 
away, but which still exists as an entity. A ghost."
"The ghost of a galaxy!" Johns said. "But that shouldn't affect"
"You forget that the ghost is moving," Shetland said. "That un-galaxy is 
traveling at rim-velocity: 16.04, ship's clock. Since there is no other"
"Which means it determines stasis for this area of space!" Johns exclaimed. 
"Velocity is meaningless in the void. It has to be relative to some mass, or"
"Or some ghost," Beeton put in. "Apparently our laws of physics change, here. 
We've discovered a lot more than a galaxy."
"So we decelerated to within light speed of the ghost, and the shield came down 
automatically, and left us in normal space. Even at the fringe, those energies 
were overloading the drive" Johns paused. "But what would have happened if we 
had landed inside the ghost?"
"Or even traveled through it in FTL," Somnanda said.
Shetland considered. "I suspect the nature of space itself is altered within the 
ghost. The Meg I did unwittingly enter it..."
There was silence as the implication sank in. Was this the final evidence that 
man was limited after all, in spite of his limitless ambition? Hemmed in by 
numberless and deadly ghosts... or was their very existence a new challenge, 
greater than any before? What would the first explorers find, when they parked 
their fleet and penetrated, carefully, the fringe of that monster?
"Captain."
Shetland looked up. "Your move, Captain."

WITHIN THE CLOUD
This is another retitling, showing the editor's ignorance. My title was "Cloud," 
and the fantasy is about a cloud and its foggy sense of humor. It's a minor 
effortso naturally this was the first of my "unrejected" sales. That's rightit 
sold the first time out, for a healthy three cents a word, and represents my 
only appearance in Galaxy, supposedly a science fiction magazine. (By this time 
Galaxy Publications also owned If, which had become a sloppier magazine that 
paid lower rates.) Probably if the editor had understood the story, he would 
have rejected it. Who was this editor? Such ilk need not be anonymous! He was 
Fred Pohl, who as a writer is one of the best in the genre. I think he's a great 
writer and a great guy personally; I just am no particular fan of his mode of 
editing, about which I will have more to say in due course. It's a Jekyll/Hyde 
thing, I think; I doubt that Pohl-as-Writer would stand for Pohl-as-Editor on 
his own material; if he did, it would suffer. But perhaps the man should be 
allowed to speak for himself; read his fascinating memoir, The Way the Future 
Was (Del Rey: 1978).
* * *
"Believe me, this is not a joke," the portly tourist said. He was careful to 
face the man as he spoke.
"We think you can help us, and my wife won't give me any peace untilAnyway, all 
you have to do is look at a few seconds of film. Twenty dollars for your 
trouble, even if you can't make anything of it."
The man nodded. He led the way to an empty classroom and set up a projector and 
screen, while the woman waited anxiously.
The projector started and stopped. The man grunted and unscrewed the lamp, 
showing them that it had blown. He signaled them to remain and stepped into the 
hall.
"This is eerie," the woman said. She was perhaps ten years younger than her 
husband, quite pretty, but temperamental. "Who would have thought we'd wind up 
visiting a school for deaf-mutes on our vacation!"
"Well, you started it," the tourist said. "You and that hyperactive 
imagination."
"I started it!" she exclaimed indignantly.
"Don't you remember? That afternoon on the beach. All I wanted was to get some 
tan on my back, but you kept chattering about clouds"
"I like clouds," she said. "They're so free, and they take so many shapes. No 
one tells them what to do; no one grouches at them." She nudged her husband 
playfully. "If I were a Confucian, I'd reincarnate as a cloud, and"
"Buddhist."
"Anyway, I'd be a cloud and just float along without a care in the world, free 
free free free!"
"The Buddhists and Hindus believe in reincarnation," he said, "but I'm not sure 
a cloud was their idea of Nirvana."
"Free free free free!" she repeated. "Why are you always so serious? You have no 
sense of humor at all."
"You wouldn't appreciate my humor," he said.
"Now look at that cloud right over us. Seeit's almost like a face, looking down 
at us." She nudged him.
He rolled over in the warm sand, squinting up.
"See," she repeated urgently. "Two ears at the sides, two sorrowful dark eyes, a 
long thundersome nose"
"and a big, ugly, voluminous, gassy mouth," he agreed irritably. "Wide open."
"Half open."
"You talk more than you look. That's a perfect 'O.' "
She studied the cloud more carefully. "Well it was half open. If you'd looked 
when I told you the first time."
"Uh-huh." He squeezed her tanned knee comfortably and closed his eyes.
"Now it's shut again."
He rolled over, not looking. "Why don't you make up your"
"No, really. It opened and closed. I'm sure. Well, I think."
"Yep."
"Now it's opening again."
"Is it winking, too?"
"Now you're being"
"A kind of cosmic Peeping Tom, staring down your bikini."
She shut up, hurt.
He reached out, but she slid out of reach. "Aw, now, I'm sorry. I said you 
wouldn't appreciate myI'm sorry. Look, I'll go get my time-delay camera and 
make a series for you. Then there'll be no question."
She was magically within reach again. In a little while he lumbered up, shook 
off loose sand and headed for the car to fetch the camera.
The mute returned with a fresh bulb and set the film in motion. There were a few 
ordinary flashes of the beach and waves and the controversial bikini; then the 
series on the cloud. Focus and resolution were excellent; the tourist knew how 
to use his camera.
The sequence itself was brief. Fifteen minutes had been reduced to five seconds, 
but this too had been expertly handled. The cloud was revealed as an animated, 
expressive face, its mouth opening and closing in apparent speech. All that was 
missing was the sound.
"You see?" she said. "You see, you seethat cloud was speaking to me! Maybe it's 
a new form of life, like the Saucers"
"UFO's."
"or something. Maybe we just never knew where to look for it before."
"A cloud? A common cumulus humilis!" They had obviously been over this many 
times.
"Maybe it's an alien observer telling us the secrets of the universe!" She could 
not sit still.
"In faultless English with a slight Boston accent," the tourist growled, but his 
wife missed the irony. He turned to the mute. "Here is your money. What did you 
make of it?"
The man looked at him steadily with an indefinable expression, then handed him 
the rewound film and a written note.
"This is what it said?" the tourist demanded, not looking at the paper. "You 
read the lips? You're sure?"
The mute nodded once emphatically, then smiled briefly and stepped into the 
hall.
The girl snatched the paper and unfolded it with trembling hands. Then wrath 
overcame her prettiness. She crumpled the note, threw it down, and stalked out.
The tourist retrieved the paper, spread it out and read it at a glance. His 
belly shook and his cheeks puffed out with suppressed laughter.
"I like that alien!" he murmured. "I suppose our dialogue is pretty funny, from 
that elevation." Then he too threw the paper aside and followed his wife, 
smiling.
"Free free free free!" he mimicked and choked over his mirth again.
The paper remained on the floor, its six printed words revealing more about 
clouds than the meteorologists would ever comprehend:
HELP! I AM BEING HELD PRISONER

THE LIFE OF THE STRIPE
Only twice have I drawn on my two years military experience: here, and for my 
science fiction novel Mercenary. This fun-fantasy was rejected by F&SF, Playboy, 
Saturday Evening Post, Redbook, Rogue, Cosmopolitan and Knight before being 
published in Amazing in 1969. No great revelations or significance here, just a 
look at a phenomenon I noted along the way. I didn't like the Army; they refused 
to grant me my "leave" time (an illegal refusal, I believe) because they said I 
was too valuable as a survey instructor and math teacher to sparethen booted me 
from the job when my refusal to "volunteer" to sign up for their US Bond 
programat 2.5% interestprevented the unit from having 100% participation in 
that coercive program. Thus I was set to weed-pulling duty and the like, and 
limited to the rank of PFC for the duration of my two-year hitch. But this is 
the nature of the Army, as anyone who has served will verify. When there is 
trouble abroad, they call on the Marines, not the Army, to handle it. That does 
make sense.
* * *
Let's just say that he was a victim of circumstance. In one way, the 
court-martial that stripped him of his rank was merciful, but it was also easy 
for us to understand his anger and humiliation. One day he was M/Sgt Morton, 
twenty-two year veteran of the artillery; then
You have to understand too that it was an exceedingly tight market for stripes. 
For six months there hadn't been a promotion in the battery, and a good thirty 
men were long overdue. With the Brushfire sucking up all the quota for overseas, 
and an administrative economy drive Stateside, such units had little opportunity 
to take proper care of their own.
That's why the BCthe battery commanderarranged to spread it out. He busted 
Morton in stages. He reduced him one grade and cut the orders for one new 
mastersergeant. That maintained the ratio, you see, and gave one good man his 
reward. You know the way it works.
On the second day he reduced Morton another stripe and passed it on, keeping it 
in the battery, so to speak.
In five days five men had their stripes, and Morton was down to PFC. That's when 
he cracked.
He stood up in the barracks at midnight and swore no one was going to have his 
last stripe. "I'm putting a curse on that stripe!" he screamed. "It's mine. It's 
mine!" Then he began throwing brushes and shaving cream and shoe polish from his 
locker, and the MP's had to haul him away.
It didn't change a thing, of course. We were all sorry for him, but it would 
have been a criminal waste to throw away that stripe. Morton couldn't keep it 
anyway, and with twenty-five men still far too long in grade
The following day the orders came down for private Bruce Baal, henceforth PFC 
Baal. He was a nice guy nobody resented much, which made it a little easier for 
the others. The last stripe had been used up, and we expected things to settle 
down again.
Morton committed suicide.
Baal got nervous after that. Nothing seemed to go right for him. The 
guard-roster got fouled up and he had to march instead of getting the three-day 
pass he'd counted on; then some of his gear got misplaced and he was reprimanded 
for reporting for guard duty out of uniform. Finally he drew the one post where 
there was trouble: some civilian broke into the warehouse and Baal didn't catch 
it. He was a private again, less than a week after promotion.
The stripe went to Radburn. He was a big, hearty, strong lad, not overly bright 
but quite dependable. He worked in the motor pool.
Somehow the brake slipped on one of the trucks, and it rolled off the 
grease-ramp and smacked into the motor officers office. Radburn took the blame.
Keene didn't concern himself about the problems of the prior wearers of the 
stripe. He had been in six years and had been up to corporal and back twice. His 
attitude was laissez-faire; he figured either he'd be lucky and hold the stripe 
a few months before he showed up drunk again for duty, or he wouldn't. He lived 
for nothing but Softball, anyway.
He slipped in the latrine and broke his leg. The battery softball team had to 
face the season without its best man.
It was common knowledge that Keene got drunk next time on purpose. The stripe 
was developing a reputation, and he didn't want it any more.
Zelig got rolled the day after he made PFC. He lost almost a month's pay and, 
because he happened to be offpost without a pass at the time, the stripe.
Hartmann was implicated in the loss of some precision equipment in his care. 
Only after he'd been busted back to private did evidence turn up to clear him.
Fisk got his "Dear John" from his fiancee three days after taking the stripe. He 
walked up to the BC during inspection and cussed him out.
Drogo didn't wait. The moment he spied the order promoting him he wrote out a 
statement requesting an "undesirable" discharge. He claimed he was queer. The BC 
canceled the order and nothing more was said. (Drogo was married: four 
children.)
Suddenly it seemed there was no market for stripes. Stripes had had lives of 
their own ever since the grade-freeze began, but now every man in the battalion 
knew this one was cursed. It had to be retired.
About this time the economy drive loosened up a bitsomebody did a little math 
and discovered just how much it cost to train new men to replace the ones 
resigningand a new stripe came down to the battery. This one was snapped up 
eagerly.
In only two days it became evident that the Morton stripe wasn't dead yet. The 
allocation may have been new, but the curse remained. It was retired again.
Three more were authorized the following month. Somewhat apprehensively, the 
selected men accepted them. The top name on the order got under a falling plank 
and tore his shoulder muscles. He kept the stripeand was scalded as soon as he 
came off sick call by an exploding coffee-urn in the mess hall. He capitulated.
Suddenly the second man had problems. After the normal course had been run, the 
third one got it.
It was apparent that no one was going to hold a promotion until that stripe was 
dead.
But how do you kill a stripe?
So long as there were no promotions in the battery, the stripe was dormant. 
Finebut the battery itself was dying. Requests for transfer piled the BC's 
desk, and men in other outfits went to great extremes to avoid transfer in. It 
was bad for morale; it cast its stigma upon the entire battalion and was even 
beginning to embarrass Post headquarters.
Word came down, couched in formal, almost incomprehensible army terminology, the 
essence of which was "or else!" Something had to be done, for a very important 
foreign dignitary from a nation something less than cordial was scheduled to 
tour the post, and this battery was on the itinerary. Change it? That was not 
the Army Way.
The BC had a bright idea.
And so it was done: the VIP was awarded a Genuine Honorary PFC stripe in token 
of improving relations between differing ideologies. He departed the battery 
with every indication of supercilious pleasure.
The accident, occurring as it did at a U.S. Army post, made unfortunate 
headlines. It did not trigger WWIII, quite, but the BC found it convenient to 
retire in a hurry. The stripe came home.
This time the word descended upon the battalion commander. The essence: "Do not 
make excuses. Clean it up." It was not necessary to add the "or else" this time, 
for I am the battalion commander, and I have just about time to make Light 
Colonel before retirement. I'm not stupid, as majors go. That, gentlemen, is why 
you see me out here in the rain, in the military cemetery, personally 
supervising this posthumous and somewhat irregular ceremony. I mean to be quite 
certain Private Morton knows, wherever he may dwell, that he is henceforth PFC 
Morton. I'm attaching the order to his headstone.
No one else has his stripe any more.
Any other questions?

IN THE JAWS OF DANGER
And yet another retitling by that bug-eyed-monster at If. My title was "The 
Value of a Man." This story is the second in the series that I later assembled 
into a novel, Prostho Plus, published by Berkley and promptly allowed to go out 
of print. If rejected the first story, accepted the second, rejected the third 
and fourth, and accepted the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth. The first was 
published by Analog, which bounced the fifth. I worked up three more stories, 
starting the Prostho Minus series, but no publisher was interested despite the 
popularity of the first series. It's a headache, trying to make sense of 
editors. Actually, I harbor the deep suspicion that there is something 
fundamentally wrong with any editor who rejects anything of mine; I am in that 
respect a completely typical writer. For now I'll just say that this series 
started when I had to have $2300 worth of prosthodontistry done on my teeth. 
That was a third of my annual income then, so I realized I had better make it 
pay. So I turned most of the work done on my mouth into fictionand there was a 
lot of it, because defective cement meant that most of it had to be done a 
second time, to my pain and the prosthodontist's expense. "Value"trust an 
editor to call it "Jaws"!here, is a simple fillingon a slightly larger scale 
than is normally the case. For people who ask me where I get my ideas, I can 
honestly say: from the dentist's chair. In the end, Prostho Plus earned me over 
$5000, handily covering the cost of my treatment. It also should have proved at 
last to doubting editors that I could handle humor. But they went right on 
rejecting my humor, carefully explaining to me that it required a delicate touch 
that I lacked, until I got into the Xanth series and made my fortune in humor. 
Editors are very slow learners.
One other note about the editing: in this story I had reference to the High 
Muck-de-Muck of Gleep, obviously a very important personage. The editor diddled 
in my text as was his wont and changed it to muck-a-muck. Now I feel that it is 
the author's prerogative to name the characters in his fantastic fiction, and to 
spell those names as he deems fit. But it seems this editor knew more of Dr. 
Dillingham's galaxy than I did, so he corrected my spelling. (Thank Ghod he 
didn't edit "Phog"!) So I stand corrected; what I thought was "de" was "a". I'll 
keep that in mind next time I refer to those esteemed authors L. Sprague aCamp 
and Miriam Allen aFord, and will make sure my next piece is a real tour-a-force.
And a note on gold: bear in mind that this story was written and published in 
1967. The price of gold was then $35 an ounce. Just move the decimal right a 
place or two, and it'll be current.
* * *
I
The Enenfor Dr. Dillingham preferred the acronym to "North Nebula humanoid 
species"rushed in and chewed out a message-stick with machinelike dispatch. He 
handed it to Dillingham and stood by anxiously.
The dentist popped it into the hopper of the transcoder. "Emergency," the little 
speaker said. "Only you can handle this, Doctor!"
"You'll have to be more specific, Holmes," he said and watched the transcoder 
type this on to another stick. Since the Enens had no spoken language and he had 
not learned to decipher their tooth-dents, the transcoder was the vital link in 
communication.
The names he applied to the Enens were facetious. These galactics had no names 
in their own language, and they comprehended his humor in this regard no more 
than had his patients back on distant Earth. But at least they were industrious 
folk and very clever at physical science.
The Enen read the stick and put it between his teeth for a hurried footnote. It 
was amazing, Dillingham thought, how effectively they could flex their jaws for 
minute variations in depth and slant. Compared to this, the human jaw was a 
clumsy portcullis.
The message went back to the machine. "It's a big toothache that no one can 
cure. You must come."
"Oh, come now, Watson," Dillingham said, deeply flattered. "I've been training 
your dentists for six months now, and I must admit they're experienced and 
intelligent specialists. They know their maxillaries from their mandibulars. As 
a matter of fact, some of them are a good deal more adept than I, except in the 
specific area of metallic restorations. Surely"
But the Enen grabbed the stick before any more could be imprinted by the 
machine's clattering jaws. "Doctorthis is an alien. It's the son of the high 
muckamuck of Gleep." The terms, of course, were the ones he had programmed to 
indicate any ruling dignitary of any other planet. He wondered whether he would 
be well advised to substitute more serious designations before someone caught 
on. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would see about it. "You, Doctor, are our only 
practicing exodontist."
Ahnow it was becoming clear. He was a stranger from a far planetand a dentist. 
Ergo, he must know all about off-world dentition. The Enen's faith was touching. 
Well, if this was a job they could not handle, he could at least take a look at 
it. The "alien" could hardly have stranger dentition than the Enens themselves, 
and success might represent a handsome credit toward his eventual freedom. It 
would certainly be more challenging than drilling his afternoon class in 
Applications of Supercolloid.
"I'm pretty busy with that new group of trainees," he said. This was merely a 
dodge to elicit more information, since the Enens tended to omit important 
details. They did not do so intentionally; it was just that their notions of 
importance differed here and there from his own.
"The muckamuck has offered fifty pounds of frumpstiggle for this one service," 
the Enen replied.
Dillingham whistled, and the transcoder dutifully printed the translation. 
Frumpstiggle was neither money nor merchandise. He had never been able to pin 
down exactly what it was, but for convenience thought of it as worth its exact 
weight in gold: $35 per ounce, $560 per pound. The Enens did not employ money as 
such, but their avid barter for frumpstiggle seemed roughly equivalent. His 
commission on fifty pounds would amount to a handsome dividend and would bring 
his return to Earth that much closer.
"All right," he said. "Bring the patient in."
The Enen became agitated. "The high muckamuck's family can't leave the planet. 
You must go to Gleep."
He had half expected something of this sort. The Enens gallivanted from planet 
to planet and system to system with dismaying nonchalance. Dillingham had not 
yet become accustomed to the several ways in which they far excelled Earth 
technology, or to the abrupt manner of their transactions. One of their captains 
(strictly speaking, they didn't have officers, but this was a minor matter) had 
required dental help and simply stopped off at the nearest inhabited planet, 
skipping the normal formalities, and visited a local practitioner. Realizing 
that local technique was in some respects superior to that of the home planet, 
the captain had brought the practitioner along.
Thus Dillingham had found himself the property of the Enenshe who had never 
dreamed of anything other than conventional retirement in Florida. He was no 
intrepid spaceman, no seeker of fortune. He had been treated well enough, and 
certainly the Enens respected his abilities more than had his patients on Earth; 
but galactic intercourse was more unsettling than exciting for a man of his 
maturity.
"I'll go and pack my bag," he said.

II
Gleep turned out to be a water world. The ship splashed down beside a floating 
waystation, and they were transferred to a tanklike amphibious vehicle. It 
rolled into the ocean and paddled along somewhat below the surface.
Dillingham had read somewhere that intelligent life could not evolve in water 
because of the inhibiting effect of the liquid medium upon the motion of 
specialized appendages. Certainly the fish of Earth had never amounted to much. 
How could primitive swimmers hope to engage in interstellar commerce?
Evidently that particular theory was wrong, elsewhere in the galaxy. Still, he 
wondered just how the Gleeps had circumvented the rapid-motion barrier. Did they 
live in domes under the ocean?
He hoped the patient would not prove to be too alien. Presumably it had teeth; 
but that might very well be the least of the problems. At any rate, he could 
draw on whatever knowledge the Enens had, and he had also made sure to bring a 
second transcoder keyed to Gleep. It was awkward to carry two machines, but too 
much could be lost in retranslation if he had to get the Gleep complaints 
relayed through the Enens.
A monstrous whale-shape loomed in the porthole. The thing spied the sub, 
advanced, and opened a cavernous maw. "Look out!" he yelled, wishing the driver 
had ears.
The Enen glanced indifferently at the message-stick and chomped a casual reply. 
"Everything is in order, Doctor."
"But a leviathan is about to engulf us!"
"Naturally. That's a Gleep."
Dillingham stared out the port, stunned. No wonder the citizens couldn't leave 
the planet! It was a matter of physics, not convention.
The vessel was already inside the colossal mouth, and the jaws were closing. 
"You meanyou mean this is the patient?" But he already had his answer. Damn 
those little details the Enens forgot to mention. A whale!
The mouth was shut now, and the headlight of the sub speared out to reveal 
encompassing mountains of flexing flesh. The treads touched landprobably the 
tongueand took hold. A minute's climb brought them into a great domed air 
chamber.
They came to a halt beside what reminded him of the White Cliffs of Dover. The 
hatch sprang open, and the Enens piled out. None of them seemed concerned about 
the possibility that the creature might involuntarily swallow, so Dillingham put 
that thought as far from his mind as he was able. His skull seemed determined to 
hold it in, unfortunately.
"This is the tooth," the Enen's message said. The driver pointed to a solid 
marble boulder.
Dillingham contemplated it. The tooth stood about twelve feet high, counting 
only the distance it projected from the spongy gingival tissue. Much more would 
be below, of course.
"I see," he said. He could think of nothing more pertinent at the moment. He 
looked at the bag in his hand, which contained an assortment of needle-pointed 
probes, several ounces of instant amalgam, and sundry additional staples. In the 
sub was a portable drill with a heavy-duty needle attachment that could easily 
excavate a cavity a full inch deep.
Well, they had called it a "big toothache." He just hadn't been alert.
They brought forth a light extendible ladder and leaned it against the tooth. 
They set his drill and transcoders beside it. "Summon us when you're finished," 
their parting message said.
Dillingham felt automatically for the electronic signal in his pocket. By the 
time he drew breath to protest, the amphibian was gone.
He was alone in the mouth of a monster.
Well, he'd been in awkward situations before. He tried once again to close his 
mind to the horrors that lurked about him and ascended the ladder, holding his 
lantern aloft.
The occlusive surface was about ten feet in diameter. It was slightly concave 
and worn smooth. In the center was a dark trench about two feet wide and over a 
yard long. This was obviously the source of the irritation.
He walked over to it and looked down. A putrid stench sent him gasping back. 
Yesthis was the cavity. It seemed to range from a foot in depth at the edges to 
four feet in the center.
"That," he said aloud, "is a case of dental caries for the record book."
Unfortunately, he had no record book. All he possessed was a useless bag of 
implements and a smarting nose. But there was nothing for it but to explore the 
magnitude of the decay. It probably extended laterally within the pulp, so that 
the total infected area was considerably larger than that visible from above. He 
would have to check this directly.
He forced himself to breathe regularly, though his stomach danced in protest. He 
stepped down into the cavity.
The muck was ankle-deep and the miasma overpowering. He summoned the dregs of 
his willpower and squatted to poke into the bottom with one finger. Under the 
slime, the surface was like packed earth. He was probably still inches from the 
material of the tooth itself; these were merely layers of crushed and spoiling 
food.
He remembered long-ago jokes about eating apple compote, pronouncing the word 
with an internal "s." Compost. It was not a joke any more.
He located a dry area and scuffed it with one foot. Some dark flakes turned up, 
but no real impression had been made. He wound up and drove his toe into the 
wall as hard as he could.
There was a thunderous roar. He clapped his hands to his ears as the air 
pressure increased explosively. His footing slipped, and he fell into the 
reeking center section of the trench.
An avalanche of muck descended upon him. Overhead, hundreds of tons of flesh and 
bone and gristle crashed down imperiously, seeming ready to crush every particle 
of matter within its compass into further compost.
The jaws were closing.
Dillingham found himself face down in sickening garbage, his ears ringing from 
the atmospheric compression and his body quivering from the mechanical one. The 
lantern, miraculously, was undamaged and bright, and his own limbs were sound. 
He sat up, wiped some of the sludge from face and arms and grabbed for the 
slippery light.
He was trapped between clenched jawsinside the cavity.
Frantically he activated the signal. After an interminable period while he 
waited in mortal fear of suffocation, the ponderous upper jaw lifted. He 
scrambled out, dripping.
The bag of implements was now a thin layer of color on the surface of the tooth. 
"Perfect occlusion," he murmured professionally, while shaking in violent 
reaction to the realization that his fall had narrowly saved him from the same 
fate.
The ladder was gone. Anxious to remove himself from the dangerous biting surface 
as quickly as possible, he prepared to jump but saw a gigantic mass of tentacles 
reaching for his portable drill near the base of the tooth. Each tentacle 
appeared to be thirty feet or more in length and as strong as a python's tail.
The biting surface no longer seemed so dangerous. Dillingham remained where he 
was and watched the drill being carried into the darkness of the mouth's center.
In a few more minutes the amphibian vehicle appeared. The Enen driver emerged, 
chewed a stick, presented it. Dillingham reached for the transcoder and 
discovered that it was the wrong one. All he had now was the useless Gleep 
interpreter.
Chagrined, he fiddled with it. At least he could set it to play back whatever 
the Gleep prince might have said. Perhaps there had been meaning in that 
roar....
There had been. "OUCH!" the machine exclaimed.

III
The next few hours were complicated. Dillingham now had to speak to the Enens 
via the Gleep muckamuck (after the episode in the cavity, he regretted this 
nomenclature acutely), who had been summoned for a diagnostic conference. This 
was accomplished by setting up shop in the creature's communications department.
The compartment was actually an offshoot from the Gleep lung, deep inside the 
body. It was a huge, internal air space with sensitive tentacles bunching from 
the walls. This was the manner in which the dominant species of this landless 
planet had developed fast-moving appendages whose manipulation led eventually to 
tools and intelligence. An entire technology had developedinside the great 
bodies.
"So you see," he said, "I have to have an anesthetic that will do the job and 
canned air to breathe while I'm working, and a power drill that will handle up 
to an eighteen-inch depth of rock. Also a sledgehammer and a dozen wedges. And a 
derrick and the following quantities of" He went on to make a startling list of 
supplies.
The transcoder sprouted half a dozen tentacles and waved them in a dizzying 
semaphore. After a moment a group of the wall tentacles waved back. "It shall be 
accomplished," the muckamuck reply came.
Dillingham wondered what visual signal had projected the "ouch!" back in the 
patient's mouth. Then it came to him: the tentacles that had absconded with his 
drill and other transcoder were extensions of the creature's tongue. Naturally 
they talked.
"One other thing: while you're procuring my equipment, I'd like to see a diagram 
of the internal structure of your molars."
"Structure?" The tentacles were agitated.
"The pattern of enamel, dentin, and pulp, or whatever passes for it in your 
system. A schematic drawing would do nicely. Or a sagittal section showing both 
the nerves and the bony socket. That tooth is still quite sensitive, which means 
the nerve is still alive. I wouldn't want to damage it unnecessarily."
"We have no diagrams."
Dillingham was shocked. "Don't you know the anatomy of your teeth? How have you 
repaired them before?"
"We have never had trouble with them before. We have no dentists. That is why we 
summoned you."
He paced the floor of the chamber, amazed. How was it possible for such 
intelligent and powerful creatures to remain so ignorant of matters vital to 
their well-being? Never had trouble before? That cavity had obviously been 
festering for many years.
Yet he had faced similar ignorance daily during his Earth practice. "I'll be 
working blind, in that case," he said at last. "You must understand that while 
I'll naturally do my best, I cannot guarantee to save the tooth."
"We understand," the Gleep muckamuck replied contritely.

Back on the tooth (after a stern warning to Junior to keep those jaws apart no 
matter how uncomfortable things got), equipped with a face mask, respirator, 
elbow-length gloves, and hip boots, Dillingham began the hardest labor of his 
life. It was not intellectually demanding or particularly intricatejust hard. 
He was vaporizing the festering walls of the cavity with a thirty-pound laser 
drill, and in half an hour his arms were dead tired.
There was lateral extension of the infection. He had to wedge himself into a 
rotting, diminishing cavern, wielding the beam at arm's length before him. He 
had to twist the generator sidewise to penetrate every branching side pocket, 
all the while frankly terrified lest the beam slip and accidentally touch part 
of his own body. He was playing with firea fiery beam that could slice off his 
arm and puff it into vapor in less than a careless second.
At least, he thought sweatily, he wasn't going to have to use the sledgehammer 
here. When he ordered the drill, he had expected a mechanical one similar to 
those pistons used to break up pavement on Earth. To the Gleep, however, a drill 
was a laser beam. This was indeed far superior to what he had had in mind. 
Deadly, yesbut real serendipity.
Backbreaking hours later it was done. Sterile walls of dentin lined the cavity 
on every side. Yet this was only the beginning.
Dillingham, after a short nap right there in the now aseptic cavity, roused 
himself to make careful measurements. He had to be certain that every alley was 
widest at the opening and that none were too sharply twisted. Wherever the 
measurements were unsatisfactory, he drilled away healthy material until the 
desired configuration had been achieved. He also adjusted the beam for "polish" 
and wiped away the rough surfaces.
He signaled the Enen sub and indicated by gestures that it was time for the tank 
of supercolloid. And resolved that next time he went anywhere, he would bring a 
trunkful of spare transcoders. He had problems enough without translation 
difficulties. At least he had been able to make clear that they had to send a 
scout back to the home planet to pick up the bulk supplies.
Supercolloid was a substance developed by the ingenious Enens in response to his 
exorbitant specifications of several months before. He had once entertained the 
notion that if he were slightly unreasonable, they would ship him home. Instead 
they had met the specifications exactly and increased his assessed value, neatly 
adding years to his term of captivity. He became more careful after thatbut the 
substance remained a prosthodontist's dream.
Supercolloid was a fluid, stored under pressure, that set rapidly when released. 
It held its shape indefinitely without measurable distortion, yet was as 
flexible as rubber. It was ideal for difficult impressions, since it could give 
way while being withdrawn and spring immediately back to the proper shape. This 
saved time and reduced error. At 1300 Fahrenheit it melted suddenly into the 
thin, transparent fluid from which it started. This was its most important 
property.
Dillingham was about to make a very large cast. To begin the complex procedure, 
he had to fill every crevice of the cavity with colloid. Since the volume of the 
cleaned cavity came to about forty cubic feet, and supercolloid weighed fifty 
pounds per cubic foot when set, he required a good two thousand pounds of it, at 
the very least.
A full tonto fill a single cavity. "Think big," he told himself.
He set up the tank and hauled the long hose into the pit. Once more he crawled 
headfirst into the lateral expansion, no longer needing the face mask. He aimed 
the nozzle without fear and squirted the foamy green liquid into the farthest 
offshoot, making certain that no air spaces remained. He backed off a few feet 
and filled the other crevices, but left the main section open.
In half an hour the lateral branch had been simplified considerably. It was now 
a deep, flat crack without offshoots. Dillingham put away the nozzle and crawled 
in with selected knives and brushes. He cut away projecting colloid, leaving 
each filling flush with the main crevice wall, and painted purple fixative over 
each surface.
Satisfied at last, he trotted out the colloid hose again and started the pump. 
This time he opened the nozzle to full aperture and filled the main crevice, 
backing away as the foam threatened to engulf him. Soon all of the space was 
full. He smoothed the green wall facing the main cavity and painted it in the 
same manner as the offshoots.
Now he was ready for the big one. So far he had used up eight cubic feet of 
colloid, but the gaping center pit would require over thirty feet. He removed 
the nozzle entirely and let the tank heave itself out. The cavity was rapidly 
being filled.
"Turn it off," he yelled to the Enen by the pump as green foam bulged gently 
over the rim. One ton of supercolloid filled the tooth, and he was ready to 
carve it down and insert the special plastic loop in the center.
The foam continued to pump. "I said TURN IT OFF!" he cried again. Then he 
remembered that he had no transcoder for Enen. They could neither hear him nor 
comprehend him.
He flipped the hose away from the filling and aimed it over the edge of the 
tooth. He had no way to cut it off himself, since he had removed the nozzle. 
There couldn't be much left in the tank.
A rivulet of green coursed over the pink tissues, traveling toward the squidlike 
tongue. The tentacles reached out, grasping the foam as it solidified. They soon 
became festooned in green.
Dillingham laughedbut not for long. There was a steamwhistle sigh followed by a 
violent tremor of the entire jaw. "I'm going to... sneeze," the Gleep transcoder 
said, sounding fuzzy.
The colloid was interfering with the articulation of the Gleep's tongue.
A sneeze! Suddenly he realized what that would mean to him and the Enen crew.
"Get under cover!" he shouted to the Enens, again forgetting that they couldn't 
perceive the warning. But they had already grasped the significance of the 
tremors and were piling into the sub frantically.
"Heywait for me!" But he was too late. The air howled by with the titanic 
intake of breath. There was a terrible pause.
Dillingham lunged for the mound of colloid and dug his fingers into the 
almost-solid substance. "Keep your jaws apart!" he yelled at the Gleep, praying 
it could still pick up the message. "KEEP THEM OPEN!"
The sound of a tornado raged out of its throat. He buried his face in green as 
the hurricane struck, wrenching mercilessly at his body. His arms were wrenched 
cruelly; his fingers tore through the infirm colloid, slipping...

IV
The wind died, leaving him gasping at the edge of the tooth. He had survived it. 
The jaws had not closed.
He looked up. The upper cuspids hung only ten feet above, visible in the light 
from the charmed lamp hooked somehow to his foot.
He was past the point of reaction. "Open, please," he called in his best 
operative manner, hoping the transcoder was still in the vicinity, and went to 
peer over the edge.
There was no sign of the sub. The tank, with its discharging hose, was also 
gone.
He took a walk across the neighboring teeth, looking for whatever there was to 
see. He was appalled at the amount of decalcification and outright decay in 
evidence. This Gleep child would shortly be in pain again, unless substantial 
restorative work was done immediately.
But in a shallow cavityone barely a foot deephe found the transcoder. "It's an 
ill decalcification that bodes nobody good," he murmured, retrieving it.
The sub reappeared and disgorged its somewhat shaken passengers. Dillingham 
marched back over the rutted highway and joined them. But the question still 
nagged his mind: how could the caries he had observed be reconciled with the 
muckamuck's undoubtedly sincere statement that there had never been dental 
trouble before? What had changed?
He carved the green surface into an appropriate pattern and carefully applied 
his fixative. He was ready for the next step.
Now the derrick was brought up and put in play. Dillingham guided its dangling 
hook into the eyelet set in the colloid and signaled the Enen operator to lift. 
The chain went taut; the mass of solidified foam eased grandly out of its socket 
and hung in the air, an oddly shaped boulder.
He turned his attention to the big crevice-filling. He screwed in a corkscrew 
eyelet and arranged a pulley so that the derrick could act on it effectively. 
The purple fixative had prevented the surface of the main impression from 
attaching to that of the subsidiary onejust as it was also protecting the 
several smaller branches within.
There was no real trouble. In due course every segment of the impression was 
marked and laid out in the makeshift laboratory he had set up near the waterlift 
of the Gleep's mouth. They were ready for one more step.

The tank of prepared investment arrived. This, too, was a special composition. 
It remained fluid until triggered by a particular electric jolt, whereupon it 
solidified instantly. Once solid, it could not be affected by anything short of 
demolition by a sledgehammer.
Dillingham pumped a quantity into a great temporary vat. He attached a plastic 
handle to the smallest impression, dipped it into the vat. withdrew it entirely 
covered by white batter and touched the electrode to it. He handed the abruptly 
solid object to the nearest Enen.
Restorative procedure on Gleep differed somewhat from established Earth 
technique. All it took was a little human imagination and Enen technology.
The octopus-tongue approached while he worked. It reached for him. "Get out of 
here or I'll cram you into the burnout furnace!" he snapped into the transcoder. 
The tongue retreated.
The major section was a problem. It barely fit into the vat, and a solid foot of 
it projected over the top. He finally had the derrick lower it until it bumped 
bottom, then raise it a few inches and hold it steady. He passed out brushes, 
and he and the Enen crew went to work slopping the goo over the top and around 
the suspending hook.
He touched the electrode to the white monster. The derrick lifted the mass, 
letting the empty vat fall free. Yet another stage was done.
Two ovens were employed for the burnout. Each was big enough for a man to stand 
in. They placed the ends of the plastic rods in special holders and managed to 
fit all of the smaller units into one oven, fastening them into place by means 
of a heat-resistant framework. The main chunk sat in the other oven, propped 
upside-down.
They sealed the ovens and set their thermostats for 2000. Dillingham lay down 
in the empty vat and slept.

Three hours later burnout was over. Even supercolloid took time to melt 
completely when heated in a fifteen-hundred-pound mass. But now the green liquid 
had been drained into reservoirs and sealed away, while the smaller quantities 
of melted plastic were allowed to collect in a disposal vat. The white 
investments were hollow shells, open only where the plastic rods had projected.
The casting was the most spectacular stage. Dillingham had decided to use gold, 
though he worried that its high specific gravity would overbalance the Gleep 
jaw. It was impossible under present conditions to arrange for a gold-plated, 
matching-density filling, and he was not familiar enough with other metals to be 
sure they were adaptable to his purpose. The expansion coefficient of his 
investment matched that of gold exactly, for example; anything else would 
solidify into the wrong size.
Gold, at any rate, was nothing to the muckamuck; his people refined it through 
their gills, extracting it from the surrounding water on order in any quantity.
The crucible arrived: a self-propelled boilerlike affair. They piled 
hundred-pound ingots of precise gold alloy into the hopper, while the volcanic 
innards of the crucible rumbled and belched and melted everything to rich bright 
liquid.
A line of Enens carried the smaller investments, which were shaped inside 
exactly like the original impressions, to the spigot and held them with tongs 
while the fluid fortune poured in. These were carefully deposited in the vat, 
now filled with cold water.
The last cast, of course, was the colossal vat-shaped one. This was simply 
propped up under the spigot while the tired crew kept feeding in ingots.
By the time this cast had been poured, twenty-four tons of gold had been used in 
all.
While the largest chunk was being hauled to the ocean inside the front of the 
mouth, Dillingham broke open the smaller investments and laid out the casts 
according to his chart of the cavity. He gave each a minimum of finishing; on so 
gross a scale, it could hardly make much difference.
The finished casts weighed more than twenty times as much as the original 
colloid impressions had, and even the smallest ones were distinctly awkward to 
maneuver into place. He marked them, checked off their positions on his chart, 
and had the Enens ferry them up with the derrick. At the other end, he 
manhandled each into its proper place, verified its fit and position and 
withdrew it to paint it with cement. No part of this filling would come loose in 
action.

Once again the branching cavern lost its projections, this time permanently, as 
each segment was secured and severed from its projecting sprue. He kept the 
spruesthe handles of gold, the shape of the original plastic handleson until 
the end, because otherwise there would have been no purchase on the weighty 
casts. He had to have some handle to adjust them.
The derrick lowered the crevice-piece into the cavity. Two Enens pried it in 
with power crowbars. Dillingham stood by and squirted cement over the mass as it 
slid reluctantly into the hole.
It was necessary to attach a heavy weight to the derrick-hook and swing it 
repeatedly against the four-ton cast in order to tamp it in all the way.
At last it was time for the major assembly. Nineteen tons of gold descended 
slowly into the hole while they dumped quarts of liquid cement into a pool 
below. The cast touched bottom and settled into place, while the cement bubbled 
up around the edges and overflowed.
They danced a little jig on top of the fillingjust to tamp it in properly, 
Dillingham told himself, wishing that a fraction of its value in Earth terms 
could be credited to his purchase-price. The job was over.

V
"A commendable performance," the high muckamuck said. "My son is frisking about 
in his pen like a regular tadpole and eating well."
Dillingham remembered what he had seen during the walk along the occlusive 
surfaces. "I'm afraid he won't be frisking long. In another year or two he'll be 
feeling half a dozen other caries. Decay is rampant."
"You mean this will happen again?" The tentacles waved so violently that the 
transcoder stuttered.
Dillingham decided to take the fish by the tail. "Are you still trying to tell 
me that no member of your species has suffered dental caries before this time?"
"Never."
This still did not make sense. "Does your son's diet differ in any important 
respect from yours, or from that of other children?"
"My son is a prince!"
"Meaning he can eat whatever he wants, whether it is good for him or not?"
The Gleep paused. "He gets so upset if he doesn't have his way. He's only a 
babyhardly three centuries old."
Dillingham was getting used to differing standards. "Do you feed him 
delicaciesrefined foods?"
"Naturally. Nothing but the best."
He sighed. "Muckamuck, my people also had perfect teethuntil they began 
consuming sweets and overly refined foods. Then dental caries became the most 
common disease among them. You're going to have to curb your boy's appetite."
"I couldn't." He could almost read the agitation of the tentacles without 
benefit of translation. "He'd throw a terrible tantrum."
He had expected this reaction. He'd encountered it many times on Earth. "In that 
case, you'd better begin training a crew of dentists. Your son will require 
constant attention."
"But we can't do such work ourselves. We have no suitable appendages, 
externally."
"Import some dentists, then. You have no alternative."
The creature signaled a sigh. "You make a convincing case." The tentacles 
relaxed while it thought. Suddenly they came alive again. "Enenit seems we need 
a permanent technician. Will you sell us this one?"
Dillingham gaped, horrified at the thought of all that garbage in the patient's 
jaw. Surely they couldn't
"Sell him!" the Enen chief replied angrily. Dillingham wondered how he was able 
to understand the words, then realized that his transcoder was picking up the 
Gleep signals translated by the other machine. From Enen to Gleep to English, 
via paired machines. Why hadn't he thought of that before?
"This is a human being," the Enen continued indignantly. "A member of an 
intelligent species dwelling far across the galaxy. He is the only exodontist in 
this entire sector of space, and a fine upstanding fellow at that. How dare you 
make such a crass suggestion!"
Bless him! Dillingham had always suspected that his hosts were basically 
creatures of principle.
"We're prepared to offer a full ton of superlative-grade frumpstiggle..." the 
muckamuck said enticingly.
"A full ton?" The Enens were aghast. Then, recovering, "True, the Earthman has 
taught us practically all he knows. We could probably get along without him 
now..."
"Now wait a minute!" Dillingham shouted; but the bargaining continued unabated.
After allwhat is the value of a man, compared to frumpstiggle?

BEAK BY BEAK
For a time we had parakeets, starting with Cinnamon, passed along to us by my 
wife's sister. Naturally our second was Nutmeg, and then Clove, and Ginger, 
Saffron and Angelicaa pretty spicy flock. We constructed a cage a yard across 
so they could fly, as they weren't hand-tame and we felt they should have some 
reasonable freedom. We liked them very well; each bird had his/her personality. 
Then they started dyingheart-attack, tumor, the same ailments mankind suffers. 
We could do nothing, and it tore us up. When the last one passed on, after 
several years, we didn't get any more. So I wrote this story, and my heart is in 
it though it is all fiction. And the editor changed my spelling of "parakeet" to 
"parrakeet." Apparently he just assumed my spelling was wrong.
* * *
The red bird was perched fetchingly on the mailbox as Humbert ambled out in 
slippers and tousled iron hair to pick up the morning newspaper. A gust of wind 
blew the front door open behind him, and a squawk came from inside.
The red visitor perked up. It fluttered across the lawn to cling precariously to 
the front hedge.
Humbert stopped, the banded paper in one hand. "Lost, little fellow?" he 
inquired. "Why... you're no cardinal. You're a parrakeet!"
He peered at it more closely. "A beautiful, blood-red, male parrakeet. I never 
saw your like before."
There was another angry chirp inside. "My pets don't like the draft," Humbert 
explained. "I'll have to shut this door."
The red bird hopped to the doorstep and up to the closed screen, fluttering 
against it and falling back.
"You are a tame bird!" he said. He squatted down and held out his hand, but the 
bird skittered nervously away. He laughed. "Not that tame, I see!"
As he opened the screen the bird hopped forward again. "You want to come in? 
Where's your home?" But he held the door open and allowed it to fly into the 
living room.
His wife bustled in from the kitchen holding a jar of instant coffee. "Humbert, 
did you forget the door again? You know Blue doesn't..." She froze. 
"Humbertthere's a bird in here!"
"Several, Meta," he said, gently closing the door.
"I mean a wild bird. Look at that color!"
The red parrakeet flew up to the tall decorative lamp and perched on the shade, 
looking at her.
"He seemed to want to come in," Humbert said. "He's a remarkable specimen, and 
half tame."
Her attitude changed immediately. "What a beautiful bird! I've never seen a 
parrakeet that color."
The bird spied the large cage and flew over to it. The three parrakeets inside 
spooked, plastering themselves against the sides in mad retreat.
Humbert approached and put his hand to the stranger again. "Let me have a look 
at you, Red. I can't put you in with our family without good references. You 
might have the mites." But it jumped away from him.
"Check the newspaper," Meta said. "Maybe there's an ad for a lost pet. Such a 
distinctive bird must be valuable." She disappeared into the bedroom with her 
coffee.
Humbert eased himself into the easy chair. He had made it a point, since his 
heart attack, to move slowly and remain unexcited. He spread the paper.
The black headline leaped at him, ALIEN SPACESHIP ORBITS EARTH.
"Meta!" he called.
"Dear, I have to hurry down to the office," her muffled protestation came back. 
She was active in numerous volunteer capacities as well as holding a part-time 
clerical position. She preferred to keep herself occupied, now that their 
children were married and on their own, even though money was no problem.
Humbert shrugged and did not push the matter. Probably the headline would only 
upset her. He read through the article, finding the information too scant. The 
newspaper really knew little more than the fact: a strange ship appeared a 
thousand miles above Earth, and now hung in an oblique orbit. There were 
statistics: how many minutes it took to circle the Earth, at what times it would 
pass over which cities, and so on, but nothing essential. There had been no 
communications, no threats. Justobservation?

Meta bustled through. She always bustled, never walked. "Is there any notice?"
He'd forgotten the bird! "I haven't seen it," he said.
She was already through the door, and soon he heard the car start up. She would 
be gone for several hours. He glanced at the red parrakeet, who was on top of 
the cage again, searching for some way to enter.
"Oh, all right, Red," he said, smiling. "I'll introduce you." He opened the cage 
door and reached in to catch a bird. There was the usual panicked flutter; for 
the birds, tame as they were, did not really like to be handled.
He snared one and brought it out. "Take it easy, Yellow," he said. Yellow was 
the youngest and most energetic of their family: a spectacular yellow harlequin 
with a green underside. He set the bird on top of the cage. "Yellow, this is our 
visitor from Outside. Red, this is Yellow."
Yellow shook out his feathers, stretched one wing, and sneezed. Having suitably 
expressed his indignation at being handled, he eyed the other bird warily. It 
was always this way; parrakeets took time to become acquainted.
Humbert reached in for Blue. She was a timid, retiring bird given to nervous 
starts and loose droppings, but of very pretty hue. In the right light, a green 
overcast could be seen above the deep blue breast, as though the yellow of her 
head had diluted the blue. She bit his finger, not hard, and did not struggle as 
his hand closed over her wings. Sometimes the birds would perch on his finger, 
but he hadn't really tried to train them. He set Blue down beside Yellow, but 
she took flight immediately, afraid of the stranger, and came to rest on top of 
the front curtains. She settled down to preen her wingfeathers.
"Well, that was Blue," he said apologetically.
He did not try to catch Green, but shooed her out with a wave of his hand. Green 
was the eldest of the brood and had had more than one owner before. She was a 
conventional green-bodied, dark-winged female with a neat yellow bib sporting 
four to six black dotsthey kept changingand she bit viciously when handled. 
She would come quickly to eat some treat from the hand, however.
"And that's Green," Humbert said as she flew to displace Blue from the curtain. 
"You'll get to know them all in due course." Green was contentedly chewing the 
edge of the curtain.
Yellow, seldom cowed very long by anything, was already making the first 
overture. He strode over to Red and pecked at him. Red sidled away.
"That's the way it is, Red," Humbert said as he reached into the cage to remove 
the fouled newspaper on its floor. "Very important to establish the pecking 
ordernot that much attention is paid to it here." Yellow was chasing the 
disgruntled visitor more boldly now. "Just give him a sharp rap on the beak," he 
advised Red. "You have to assert yourself sometime."
He put in new paper and filled the treat-cups with oats, installing a fourth cup 
for the newcomer. He stepped back. "Soup's on!"
Green, always alert, arrowed across the room, the beat of her wing washing a 
breeze past his face. She hopped into the cage and mounted to the row of cups. 
Seed scattered noisily upon the fresh newspaper as she scraped energetically.
Yellow heard the sound and scrambled across the top and down the side of the 
cage, using both feet and his beak to hold on. Blue, realizing what she was 
missing, flew in at the same time. They collided at the door, fluttering for 
balance, and fell inside. In a moment both were upon the feeding perch, while 
Green chattered angrily in an effort to protect her claim.
"This is what we call 'King of the Perch,' or maybe 'Musical Treat-Cups,' " 
Humbert explained to Red, who peered through the wire in some alarm. "The object 
is to get a cropful of seed without letting anybody else eat in peace. You'll 
get the hang of it soon enough."
He returned to his chair and watched while Green and Yellow, owners of the two 
end cups, converged on Blue in the middle. None of the three went near the new 
cup. While Blue's attention was taken up by Yellow, Green pecked her neck from 
the other side. Blue squawked and flew across the cage.
"They don't mean anything," he said reassuringly, "it's just a mealtime game, 
and there's plenty of ordinary seed available in the main dish in case anyone 
does go hungry. Watch."
Sure enough, Blue flew back immediately to the row of cups, the whir of her 
wings startling Green into flight. Now Yellow and Blue forgot their differences 
long enough to do some serious seed-scattering, picking up the hard grains and 
hulling them adeptly in their beaks. Green scrambled up the side of the cage, 
using both feet and bill as Yellow had done, and recovered her place before her 
end cup. All three ate contentedly.
"You'll catch on. Red." he said. "I'll let you be, now." The bird didn't seem to 
hear him.

Humbert went into his study, turned on the radio, and settled down to work on 
his toothpick models. The artistic constructions he had fashioned from the 
simplest materials were all around the house: boats and statues and geometric 
shapes made from slender wooden splinters and drops of cement.
The whir of wings made him look up. "That you, Yellow?" But it was the newcomer. 
"Not ready to mix yet. huh, Red?"
The bird perched upon his toothpick sculpture of Meta. "Oh... you want to know 
what I'm doing? Well. I make things like that bust of my wife you're sitting on. 
Don't worryit's strong enough to hold a hundred of your kind. Well, fifty, 
maybe. But don't mess on it, if you don't mind. Personal dignity, you know."
He studied the bird more carefully. Its breast and tail feathers were lighter 
than the back and wings, but still red. Four dark-red dots showed up against the 
pink throat plumage; otherwise its coloration was nearly uniform. The cere, 
above the vertical parrakeet bill, was blue, the signal for the male of the 
species, and this was the only deviation.
"You're a strange one," he said. "Not just your color, but your manner. You 
aren't tame enough to be handled, yet you're more interested in what I'm doing 
than in others of your kind. It's almost as if you"
He stopped as he became aware of the radio news broadcast. "...In orbit ten 
hours without acknowledgment of signals or any apparent effort to communicate 
with us. Experts are divided on whether it should be considered friendly, 
indifferent, or hostile. The present assumption is that its purpose is merely 
observational. However"
Humbert tuned the words out of his mind. "It's so hard to trust each other, let 
alone an unknown quantity. We don't know what that ship is doing in our skies, 
and probably it doesn't know what to make of us. But I'll bet it isn't much 
different from any meeting between strangers. You and me, for instance: I've 
never seen a bird quite like you, and you could be a dangerous alien from some 
other system for all I know. And you can't afford to trust me, either, because 
my hand could crush you in a moment. But you see, we get along. In a little 
while we'll really get to know each other, and then mutual trust will come. Some 
things just can't be pushed."
He spread a group of picks on the table and heated his cement. "You know, Red, I 
think I'll make a shipa spaceship like the one in the sky. There's a picture of 
it in the... no! Stay clear of that glue. It's hot, and it gets awfully hard 
when it isn't hot, and they say the fumes can make hallucinations. You dip your 
bill in that and I'd have to scrape it off with a file. Believe me, Red, you 
wouldn't like that."
He rose to fetch the newspaper, and the bird, startled, flew ahead of him into 
the living room. The three local residents were still inside the cage, though 
its door was open. Green was braced on one of the ladders, pecking industriously 
at its plastic rungs, while Yellow was reaching forward surreptitiously to tweak 
Blue's unguarded tail.
"That's another thing you'll have to learn, Red," he said, smiling. 
"Feather-tweaking. Keep your wings and tail out of range, or you'll wind up with 
a bent feather. It just isn't parrakeet nature to pass up a good tweak." He 
thought about that a moment. "I hope they don't try to tweak that spaceship 
before they get to know it well."
Red did not accompany him to the study this time. The radio had lapsed into 
popular music. The melody of "Sipping Cider" was on.
"Hey... I remember that one!" Humbert said, pleased. He matched the words with 
his own off-key accompaniment:
"So cheek by cheek and jaw by jaw.
We both sipped cider through a straw."

For a little while the years rolled back.
Later he emerged to discover Red inside the cage with the others. Yellow was 
friendly, but Blue still kept her distance and Green was sleeping on an upper 
swing, one foot tucked up and head behind a wing. According to the handbook, a 
sleeping bird never raised a foot and folded back the head simultaneously, but 
Green evidently didn't read much.
Red cocked an eye at him. "Right," Humbert said. " 'Stone walls do not a prison 
make, nor iron bars a cage.' That's the way Mr. Lovelace put it. Our birds have 
the run of the housebut a familiar cage is more comfortable than a strange 
world. I only lock things up at night so nobody can get hurt in the dark."
Red had been largely accepted by the time Meta came home. Less hurried now, she 
admired him again. "He's just what we needed to fill out the set. Four birds, 
four distinctive colors. But are you sure he doesn't belong to anybody?"
Humbert admitted he'd forgotten to check the paper. It made no difference, as it 
turned out; there was no notice about any missing red parrakeet, that day or in 
the ones following. Red was theirs, as long as he chose to stay.

Weeks passed. While Humbert's elaborate spaceship model grew, Red learned every 
facet of parrakeet existence as locally practiced. He splashed seed 
industriously from both the main feeder and the treat-cups, then descended to 
the floor of the cage to search out the fallen morsels and swallow bits of 
gravel. He banged at the plastic toys and threw them about as though they were 
enemies. He raced up and down the ladders and took flying leaps at the dangling 
length of clothesline. He tweaked tail feathers, and played tug-of-war with 
stems of millet. When ushered from the cage during cleaning time, he flew 
merrily over to Meta's curtains to peck at stray threads.
There were three unusual things about him. The first was his color; the second 
his almost-intelligent interest in human affairs; and he was mute. Humbert never 
heard him chirp or warble. But since Red seemed to be perfectly healthy 
otherwise, it was not a matter for concern. He was one of the family.
The spaceship remained in orbit, uncommunicative. Humbert remembered that it had 
appeared the same day Red came, so it was easy to keep track. After a while the 
matter ceased to make headlines. Humbert wasn't certain why no Earth ship was 
sent to link with the interstellar visitor and attempt direct contact; something 
about a deadlocked UN session. It was easier to do nothing, in a democracy, than 
to agree on any positive course of action. Yet this did not explain why the 
spaceship made no effort to communicate, either. Surely it had not come all this 
way just to orbit silently?
Red became friendly with shy Blue. They groomed each other's neck feathers and 
shared a treat-cup. "Do you think they would mate, if we set up a nesting box 
for them?" Meta inquired. "If that mutation bred true"
Humbert agreed it was worth a try. He read up on parrakeet nesting procedures, 
for they had never bred their birds before, and bought a suitable enclosed box. 
"Beak by beak, and claw by claw," he sang to the melody of "Sipping Cider."
But tragedy struck before the arrangements were complete.
The birds scrambled in normal fashion for their preferred roosts on the highest 
swinging perches as Humbert turned out the light. They went everywhere in the 
day time, but always sought the heights at night.
There was a bump. Alarmed, Humbert turned on the lightand found Blue beating 
her wings on the floor. Something was wrong: she was unable to fly!
Red came down solicitously, but Blue was not aware of him. She got to her feet 
and climbed to the lowest perch and clung there, her little body quivering.
Meta came to watch. "What's the matter with Blue?"
"I'm afraid it's a... a heart attack," he said. He knew the symptoms too well, 
and knew that parrakeets, along with men, were subject to such things.
Blue tried to fly back up to the swinging perch, but fell to the floor again. 
Humbert opened the cage and reached in to pick her up. She struggled, afraid of 
him, but had no strength to fight. He held her and stroked her neck with a 
finger, knowing he could not help her.
After a while she became quiet, and he returned her to the cage. He set her on a 
lower perch, afraid she might fall again, but her feet grasped it securely. He 
turned out the living-room light, but as an afterthought left the hall light on 
so that she could see enough to find the top perch, just in case. It would be 
better if she remained put, but
There was a flutter. He and Meta could not resist checkingbut Blue remained 
where she was. Red had come down to join her. "Isn't that sweet," Meta said.

In the morning Blue was dead. She lay on her back on the bottom of the cage, and 
her eyes were open and already shrunken. The two others seemed not to notice, 
but Red hopped about nervously.
"You don't know what to make of it, do you?" Humbert said. He felt unaccustomed 
tears sting his eyes as he picked up the fragile body.
He inspected Blue carefully, but there was no way to bring her back. He wrapped 
her tenderly in his handkerchief and took the body into the back yard for 
burial.
Red came with him. "We all have to go sometime," Humbert said as he dug a 
shallow grave beside a rose bush.
He laid the body in the ground and covered it over. "I know how you must feel," 
he said to Red on the bush. "But you did what you could to give her comfort. I'm 
sure you made her life brighter, right up to the end. I think she died knowing 
she was loved."
Red flew to the fence and looked at him. Humbert knew even before the bird took 
flight again that this was the end of their acquaintance.
Meta was too upset to go to work that day. She looked at the cage, suddenly too 
large for the two birds within, and turned away, only to look again, perversely 
hopeful, a moment later. Humbert turned on the radio and sat before his 
toothpick spaceship, the model almost complete, but could not work.
"We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin," the radio said 
urgently. "The alien spaceship is gone. Just a few minutes ago"
Humbert listened, surprised. Just like that? It had left without ever making 
contact with Man. All that effort to come, then a departure as mysterious as the 
arrival.
He smiled. Perhaps they had been wise to avoid contact with Earth's officialdom, 
for that was representative in name only. Still, in their place he would at 
least have sent down a representative, perhaps incognito, in an attempt to come 
to know the temper of the common man of the planet. That was where the truth 
inevitably layin the attitudes of the common individual. Once that was known, 
little else was required for decision.
Yeshe would have gone down quietly, and not for any overnight stand. He would 
have observed for a reasonable length of time, and if the standards of the world 
differed somewhat from his ownwell, there were still ways to judge, given 
sufficient time.
His hand halted before the model. A representativeperhaps a creature very like 
a native animal, neither wild nor tame. Something like a parrakeet, free to 
enter certain homes without being challenged or held; free to observe 
intimately....
Free also to love a native girl, who might not be as intelligent, but still was 
beautiful and affectionate. Free to love herand lose her?
Free to run from griefbut never to escape it entirely, though a world be 
forgotten, and its other inhabitants never contacted at all.

GETTING THROUGH UNIVERSITY
This was the lead story in the August 1968 issue of If, and the names on the 
cover were Chandler, Zelazny, Pohl, Williamson, del Rey "and many more." That's 
righteven with the lead spot, Anthony was not at that time worthy of cover 
notice. The author is supposed to get a free copy or two, but If didn't bother, 
so my file copy I bought at the local store myself. It was obvious that I wasn't 
making it to fame in the story market. And sure enough, it was another idiotic 
retitling. My title was simply "University," and that makes sense. In no sense 
does Dr. Dillingham (I have two middle names; one is Anthony, used as my 
literary pseudonym, and the other is Dillingham) "get through." The story is 
about the admissions procedure. I have a rule of thumb: only those editors who 
have no taste in titles, change the titles of the authors. Certainly If seemed 
to be unable to let a decent, relevant title stand unblemished.
But this story neither begins nor ends there. It derives from personal 
experience in a special way. Remember when I retired from my year of writing to 
go back to school, to learn to be a teacher? I went to the University of South 
Florida, in Tampa, for two trimesters, and did qualify, and did become an 
English teacherand retired again to full time writing in mid-1966. From that 
time on I have stayed with it, and I never want to stop. Writing is indeed my 
way of life, suffusing virtually every aspect of my current existence. But then, 
that UniversityI thought I'd never even get registered for my classes. I 
couldn't make head or tail of their requirements, and there were endless lines 
everywhere, and the professors there to advise confused people like me were too 
swamped to bother with people like me. Understand, the college I had graduated 
from nine years before was a very small one; I think there were ten students in 
my graduating class. Here there were thousands milling about, and the scale of 
this human maelstrom was appalling. In addition, one of the classes I needed had 
been closed out the day before I was permitted to apply for it; I had to get a 
special variance to attend. My head spinning, I was sorely tempted just to go 
home and give it all up. But I'm ornery, and I hung in there, and finally did 
get registered. What followed is too complex and fouled up to go into here; I'll 
just say that contemporary American education is in serious trouble, like a 
giant tree that is rotting at the core. And so I wrote a story about the mood of 
my experiencejust getting registered to attend the University.
The rest of the story about this story mostly follows its publication under its 
junky title. Editor Fred Pohl had considered "University" marginal and paid only 
1.5 per word for it$200 for the 13,000 word piece. But about that time he was 
getting assisted by two others: Lester del Rey, who had edited one of my 
favorite magazines back in the 1950's and who struck me as the kind of editor I 
could really write fori.e., one with common senseand Judy-Lynn Benjamin. 
Lester looked at "University" and found it good. (I told you he had common 
sense.) So it was published despite Fred's misgivings. Then they set up an 
annual Galaxy Publications survey: the readers were encouraged to write in and 
vote for their favorite pieces of the year, with the top five pieces to receive 
bonuses. They did not differentiate between Galaxy and If, or between novels and 
stories. (I told you Fred had no sense about editing) so naturally four of the 
top five finishers were novelsone of which was Fred Pohl's own (I told you he 
could write). So he disqualified his own (he is a decent guy, apart from his 
klutzheadedness about editing) and moved the number six item up to the fifth 
spot. That item was "University," the second most popular of all the 
under-novel-length pieces Galaxy Publications had published that year, beating 
out all those three-cent-a-worders. The readers knew what they liked, even if 
the editor didn't. So I was vindicated at last, and received a bonus of $100 and 
a guarantee of 3 per word for my future stories therewhich wasn't always 
honored. The story went on to contend (and lose) for that year's Hugo Award. I 
reported to the prominent news fanzine LOCUS that my story had been run up the 
Pohl-poll-pole, but for some reason that comment was never published. 
Professional fans, as a class, do not consider Anthony to be a clever writer. 
And Fred Pohl, having finally learned what the readers really likedlost his job 
as editor. No, he wasn't fired; the magazines were bought by another outfit that 
had its own editor, and in the spoils system of Parnassus that was that. Well, 
he was doubtless better off as a writer anyway; he went on to win awards.
No, the story is not yet over. Lester del Rey and Judy-Lynn, similarly boosted 
out of their jobs, got married, and she got a new job as editor at Ballantine 
Books, where I was unwelcome, and she proceeded to prove that nepotism pays by 
installing her husband as fantasy editor where he proceeded to prove just how 
good an editor he was, and suddenly fantasy took off for new heights. At last 
there was someone in charge who knew what he was doing. Lester and Judy-Lynn 
welcomed me back to Ballantine, and so I started writing fantasy for Del Rey 
Books. Today that is one of the most successful connections extant; we are all 
getting famous. But we had gotten together at "University"and gotten through.
* * *
I
He entered the booth when his turn came and waited somewhat apprehensively for 
it to perform. The panel behind shut him in and ground tight.
The interior was dark and unbearably hot, making sweat break out and stream down 
his body. Then the temperature dropped so precipitously that the moisture 
crystallized upon his skin and flaked away with the violence of his shivering. 
The air grew thick and bitter, then gaspingly rare. Light blazed, then faded 
into impenetrable black. A complete sonic spectrum of noise smote him, followed 
by crushing silence. His nose reacted to a gamut of irritation. He sneezed.
Abruptly it was spring on a clover hillside, waft of nectar and hum of 
bumblebee. The air was refreshingly brisk. The booth had zeroed in on his 
metabolism.
"Identity?" a deceptively feminine voice inquired from nowhere, and a sign 
flashed with the word printed in italics, English.
"My name is Dillingham," he said clearly, remembering his instructions. "I am a 
male mammalian biped evolved on planet Earth. I am applying for admission to the 
School of Prosthodontics as an initiate of the appropriate level."
After a pause the booth replied sweetly: "Misinformation. You are a quadruped."
"Correction." Dillingham said quickly. "I am evolved from quadruped." he spread 
his hands and touched the wall. "Technically tetrapod, anterior limbs no longer 
employed for locomotion. Digits possess sensitivity, dexterity"
"Noted." But before he could breathe relief, it had another objection: "Earth 
planet has not yet achieved galactic accreditation. Application invalid."
"I have been sponsored by the Dental League of Electrolus," he said. He saw 
already how far he would have gotten without that potent endorsement.
"Verified. Provisional application granted. Probability of acceptance after 
preliminary investigation: twenty-one per cent. Fee: Thirteen thousand, two 
hundred five dollars, four cents, seven mills, payable immediately."
"Agreed," he said, appalled at both the machine's efficiency in adapting to his 
language and conventions and the cost of application. He knew that the fee 
covered only the seventy-hour investigation of his credentials; if finally 
admitted as a student, he would have to pay another fee of as much as a hundred 
thousand dollars for the first term. If rejected, he would get no rebate.
His sponsor, Electrolus, was paying for it, finding it expedient to ship him 
here rather than to keep him where his presence might be an embarrassment. 
Electrolus did not want him on hand to give further advice that might show up 
the oversights of its own practitioners.
If he failed to gain admission, there would be no consequencesexcept that his 
chance to really improve himself would be gone. He could never afford training 
at the University on his own, even if the sponsorship requirement should be 
waived. He had traveled all over the galaxy since unexpectedly leaving Earth, 
solving alien dental problems by luck and approximation, but he was not the type 
of man to relish such uncertainties. He had to have advanced training.
Even so, he hoped that what the university had to offer was worth it. Over 
thirteen thousand dollars had already been drained from the Electrolus account 
here by his verbal agreementfor a twenty-one per cent probability of 
acceptance!
"Present your anterior limb, buccal surface forward."
He put out his left hand again, deciding that buccal in this context equated 
with the back of the hand. He was nervous in spite of the assurance he had been 
given that this process was harmless. A mist appeared around it, puffed and 
vanished, leaving an iridescent band clasped around, or perhaps bonded into, the 
skin of his wrist.
The opposite side of the booth opened, and he stepped into a lighted corridor. 
He held up his hand and saw that the left of it was bright while the right was 
dead. This remained even when he twisted his wrist, the glow independent of his 
motion. He proceeded left.
At the end of the passage was a row of elevators. Other creatures of diverse 
proportions moved toward these, guided by glows on their appendages. His own 
guided him to a particular unit. Its panel was open, and he entered.
The door closed as he took hold of the supportive bars. The unit moved, not up 
or down as he had expected, but backwards. He clung desperately to the support 
as the fierce acceleration hurled him at the door.
There was something like a porthole in the side through which he could make out 
racing lights and darknesses. If these were stationary sources of contrast, his 
velocity was phenomenal. His stomach jumped as the vehicle dipped and tilted; 
then it was plummeting down as though dropped from a cliff.
Dillingham was reminded of an amusement park he had visited as a child on Earth; 
there had been a ride through the dark something like this. He was sure that the 
transport system of the university had not been designed for thrills, however; 
it merely reflected the fact that there was a long way to go and many others in 
line. The elevators would not function at all for any creature not wearing 
University identification. Established galactics took such things in stride 
without even noticing.

Finally it decelerated and stopped. The door opened, and he stepped dizzily into 
his residence for the duration, suppressing incipient motion-sickness.
The apartment was attractive enough. The air was sweet, the light moderate, the 
temperature comfortable. Earthlike vines decorated the trellises, and couches 
fit for humanoids were placed against the walls. In the center of the main room 
stood a handsome but mysterious device.
Something emerged from an alcove. It was a creature resembling an oversized 
pincushion with legs, one of which sported the ubiquitous iridescent band. It 
honked.
"Greetings, roommate," a speaker from the central artifact said. Dillingham 
realized that it was a multiple-dialect translator.
"How do you do," he said. The translator honked, and the pincushion came all the 
way into the room.
"I am from no equivalent term," it said in tootles.
Dillingham hesitated to comment, until he realized that the confusion was the 
translator's fault. There was no name in English for Pincushion's planet, since 
Earth knew little of galactic geography and nothing of interspecies commerce. 
"Substitute 'Pincushion' for the missing term," he advised the machine, "and 
make the same kind of adjustment for any of my terms which may not be renderable 
into Pincushion's dialect." He turned to the creature. "I am from Earth. I 
presume you are also here to make application for admittance to the School of 
Prosthodontics?"
The translator honked, once. Dillingham waited, but that was all.
Pincushion honked. "Yes, of course. I'm sure all beings assigned to this 
dormitory are 1.0 gravity, oxygen-imbibing ambulators applying as students. The 
administration is very careful to group compatible species."
Apparently a single honk could convey a paragraph. Perhaps there were 
frequencies he couldn't hear. Then again, it might be the inefficiency of his 
own tongue. "I'm new to all this," he admitted. "I know very little of the ways 
of the galaxy, or what is expected of me here."
"I'll be happy to show you around," Pincushion said. "My planet has been sending 
students here for, well, not a long time, but several centuries. We even have a 
couple of instructors here, at the lower levels." There was a note of pride in 
the rendition. "Maybe one of these millennia we'll manage to place a 
supervisor."
Already Dillingham could imagine the prestige that would carry.

II
At that moment the elevator-vehicle disgorged another passenger. This was a tall 
oaklike creature with small leaf-like tentacles fluttering at its sides. The 
bright University band circled the center mark. It looked at the decorative 
vines of the apartment and spoke with the whistle of wind through dead branches: 
"Appalling captivity."
The sound of the translator seemed to bring its attention to the other 
occupants. "May your probability of acceptance be better than mine," it said by 
way of greeting. "I am a humble modest branch from Treetrunk (the translator 
learned quickly) and despite my formidable knowledge of prosthodontica my 
percentage is a mere sixty."
Somewhere in there had been a honk, so Dillingham knew that simultaneous 
translations were being performed. This device made the little dual-track 
transcoders he had used before seem primitive.
"You are more fortunate than I," Pincushion replied. "I stand at only 
forty-eight per cent."
They both looked at Dillingham. Pincushion had knobby stalks that were probably 
eyes, and Treetrunk's apical disks vibrated like the greenery of a poplar 
sapling.
"Twenty-one per cent," he said sheepishly.
There was an awkward silence. "Well, these are only estimates based upon the 
past performance of your species," Pincushion said. "Perhaps your predecessors 
were not apt."
"I don't think I had any predecessors," Dillingham said. "Earth isn't accredited 
yet." He hesitated to admit that Earth hadn't even achieved true space travel. 
He had never been embarrassed for his planet before, though when he thought 
about it, he realized that he had never had occasion to consider himself a 
planetary citizen before, either.
"Experience and competence count more than some machine's guess, I'm sure," 
Treetrunk said. "I've been practicing on my world for six years. If you're"
"Well, I did practice for ten years on Earth."
"You seethat will probably triple your probability when they find out," 
Pincushion said encouragingly. "They just gave you a low probability because no 
one from your planet has applied before."
He hoped they were right, but his stomach didn't settle. He doubted that as 
sophisticated a setup as the galactic University would have to stoop to such 
crude approximation. The administration already knew quite a bit about him from 
the preliminary application, and his ignorance of galactic method was sure to 
count heavily against him. "Are therereferences here?" he inquired. 
"Facilities? If I could look them over"
"Good idea!" Pincushion said. "Comethe operatory is this way, and there is a 
small museum of equipment."
There was. The apartment had an annex equipped with an astonishing array of 
dental technology. There was enough for him to study for years before he could 
be certain of mastery. He decided to concentrate on the racked texts first, 
after learning that they could be fed into the translator for ready assimilation 
in animated projection.
"Standard stuff," Treetrunk said, making a noise like chafing bark. "I believe 
I'll take an estivation."
As Dillingham returned to the main room with an armful of the boxlike texts, the 
elevator loosed another creature. This was a four-legged cylinder with a head 
tapered like that of an anteater and peculiarly thin-jointed arms terminating in 
a series of thorns.
It occurred to him that such physical structure would be virtually ideal for 
dentistry. The thorns were probably animate rotary burrs, and the elongated 
snout might reach directly into the patient's mouth for inspection of close work 
without the imposition of a mirror. After the initial introductions, he asked 
Anteater how his probability stood.
"Ninety-eight per cent," the creature replied in an offhand manner. "Our kind 
seldom miss. We're specialized for this sort of thing."
Specializationthere was the liability of the human form, Dillingham thought. 
Men were among the most generalized of Earth's denizens, except for their 
developed brainsand obviously these galactics had similar intellectual 
qualities, and had been in space so long they were able to adapt physically for 
something as narrow as dentistry. The outlook for him remained bleak.

A robotlike individual and a native from Electrolus completed the apartment's 
complement. He hadn't known that his sponsor-planet was entering one of its own 
in the same curriculum, though it didn't affect him particularly.
Six diverse creatures, counting himselfall dentists on their home worlds, all 
specializing in prosthodontics, all eager to pass the entrance examinations. All 
male, within reasonable definitionthe University was very strict about the 
proprieties. This was only one apartment in a small city reserved for 
applicants. The University proper occupied the entire planet.
They learned all about it that evening at the indoctrination briefing, guided to 
the lecture-hall by a blue glow manifested on each identification band. The hall 
was monstrous; only the oxygen-breathers attended this session, but they 
numbered almost fifty thousand. Other halls catered to differing life-forms 
simultaneously.
The University graduated over a million highly skilled dentists every term and 
had a constant enrollment of twenty times that number. Dillingham didn't know 
how many terms it took to graduatethe program might be variablebut the 
incidence of depletion seemed high. Even the total figure represented a very 
minor proportion of the dentistry in the galaxy. This proportion was extremely 
important, however, since mere admission as a freshman student required 
qualifications that would equip the individual as a graduate elsewhere.
There were generally only a handful of University graduates on any civilized 
planet. These were automatically granted life tenures as instructors at the 
foremost planetary colleges, or established as consultants for the most 
challenging cases available. Even the dropouts had healthy futures.
Instructors for the University itself were drawn from its own most gifted 
graduates. The top one hundred, approximatelyof each class of a millionwere 
siphoned off for special training and retained, and a greater number was 
recruited from the lower ranking body of graduates: individuals who demonstrated 
superior qualifications in subsequent galactic practice. A few instructors were 
even recruited from non-graduates, when their specialties were so restricted and 
their skills so great that such exceptions seemed warranted.
The administrators came largely from the University of Administration, dental 
division, situated on another planet; they wielded enormous power. The 
University President was the virtual dictator of the planet, and his 
pronouncements had the force of law in dental matters throughout the galaxy. 
Indeed, Dillingham thought as he absorbed the information, if there were any 
organization that approached galactic overlordship, it was the association of 
University Presidents. They had the authorityby their own declarationand the 
power to quarantine any world found guilty of willful malpractice in any of the 
established University fields, and since any quarantine covered all fields, it 
was devastating. An abstract was run showing the consequence of the last 
absolute quarantine: within a year that world had collapsed in anarchy. What 
followed was not at all pretty.

Dillingham saw that the level of skill engendered by University training did 
indeed transcend any ordinary practice. No one on Earth had any inkling of the 
techniques considered commonplace here. His imagination was saturated with the 
marvel of it all. His dream of knowledge for the sake of knowledge was a futile 
one; such training was far too valuable to be reserved for the satisfaction of 
the individual. No wonder graduates became public servants! The investment was 
far less monetary than cultural and technological, for the sponsoring planet.
His roommates were largely unimpressed. "Everyone knows the universities wield 
galactic power," Treetrunk said. "This is only one school of many, and hardly 
the most important. Take Finance, now"
"Or Transportation," Pincushion added. "Every spaceship, every stellar conveyor, 
designed and operated by graduates of"
"Or Communication," Anteater said. "Comm U has several campuses, even, and 
they're not dinky little planets like this one, either. Civilization is 
impossible without communications. What's a few bad teeth, compared to that?"
Dillingham was shocked. "But all of you are dentists. How can you take such 
tremendous knowledge and responsibility so casually?"
"Oh, come now," Anteater said. "The technology of dentistry hasn't changed in 
millennia. It's a staid, dated institution. Why get excited?"
"No point in letting ideology go to our heads," Treetrunk agreed. "I'm coming 
here because this training will set me up for life on my home world. I won't 
have to set up a practice at all; I'll be a consultant. It's the best training 
in the galaxywe all know thatbut we must try to keep it in perspective."
The others signified agreement. Dillingham saw that he was a minority of one. 
All the others were interested in the training not for its own sake but for the 
monetary and prestigious benefits they could derive from a degree.
And all of them had much higher probabilities of admission than he. Was he 
wrong?

III
Next day they undertook a battery of field tests. Dillingham had to use the 
operatory equipment to perform specified tasks: excavation, polishing, placement 
of amalgam, measurement, manufacture of assorted impressionson a number of 
familiar and unfamiliar jaws. He had to diagnose and prescribe. He had to 
demonstrate facility in all phases of laboratory workfacility he now felt 
woefully deficient in. The equipment was versatile, and he had no particular 
difficulty adjusting to it, but it was so well made and precise that he was 
certain his own abilities fell far short of those for whom it was intended.
The early exercises were routine, and he was able to do them easily in the time 
recommended. Gradually, however, they became more difficult, and he had to 
concentrate as never before to accomplish the assignments at all, let alone on 
schedule. There were several jaws so alien that he could not determine their 
modes of action and had to pass them by even though the treatment seemed simple 
enough. But he remembered his recent experiences with galactic dentition, and 
the unsuspected mechanisms of seemingly ordinary teeth, and so refused to 
perform repairs even on a dummy jaw that might be more harmful than no repair at 
all.
During the rest breaks he chatted with his companions, all in neighboring 
operatories, and learned to his dismay that none of them were having 
difficulties. "How can you be sure of the proper occlusal on number seventeen?" 
he asked Treetrunk. "There was no upper mandible present for comparison."
"That was an Oopoo jaw," Treetrunk rustled negligently. "Oopoos have no uppers. 
There's just a bony plate, perfectly regular. Didn't you know that?"
"You recognize all the types of jaw in the galaxy?" Dillingham asked him, hardly 
crediting it.
"Certainly. I have read at least one text on the dentures of every accredited 
species. We Treetrunks never forget."
Eidetic memory! How could a mere man compete with a creature who was able to 
peruse a million or more texts and retain every detail of each? He understood 
more and more plainly why his probability of success was so low. He was 
beginning to wonder whether it had not been set unrealistically high, in fact.
"What was number thirty-six, the last one?" Pincushion inquired. "I didn't 
recognize it, and I thought I knew them all."
Treetrunk became slightly wilted. "I never saw that one before," he admitted. 
"It must have been extra-galactic, or a theoretic simulacrum designed to test 
our extrapolation."
"The work was obvious, however," Anteater observed. "I polished it off in four 
seconds."
"Four seconds!" All the others were amazed.
"Well, we are adapted for this sort of routine," Anteater said patronizingly. 
"Our burrs are built in, and all the rest of it. My main delay is generally in 
diagnosis. But number thirty-six was a straightforward labial cavity requiring a 
plastoid substructure and metallic overlay, heated to 540 degrees Centigrade for 
thirty-seven microseconds."
"Thirty-nine microseconds," Treetrunk corrected him, a shade smugly. "You forgot 
to allow for the red-shift in the overhead beam. But that's still remarkable 
time."
"I employed my natural illumination, naturally," Anteater said, just as smugly, 
flashing a yellow light from his snout. "No distortion there. But I believe my 
alloy differs slightly from what is considered standard, which may account for 
the difference. Your point is good, nevertheless. I hope none of the others 
forgot that adjustment?"
The Electrolyte settled an inch. "I did," he confessed.
Dillingham was too stunned to be despondent. Had all of them diagnosed number 
thirty-six so readily, and were they all so perceptive as to be automatically 
aware of the wave-length of a particular beam of light? Or were there such 
readings available through the equipment, that he didn't know about, and 
wouldn't be competent to use if he did know? He had pondered that jaw for the 
full time allotted and finally given it up untouched. True, the cavity had 
appeared to be perfectly straightforward, but it was too clear to ring true. 
Could
The buzzer sounded for the final session, and they dispersed to their several 
compartments.

Dillingham was contemplating #41 with mounting frustration when he heard 
Treetrunk, via the translator extension, call to Anteater. "I can't seem to get 
this S-curve excavation right," he complained. "Would you lend me your snout?"
A joke, of course, Dillingham thought. Discussion of cases after they were 
finished was one thing, but consultation during the exam!
"Certainly," Anteater replied. He trotted past Dillingham's unit and entered 
Treetrunk's compartment. There was the muted beep of his high-speed proboscis 
drill. "You people confined to manufactured tools labor under such a dreadful 
disadvantage," he remarked. "It's a wonder you can qualify at all!"
"Hmph," Treetrunk replied goodnaturedly... and later returned the favor by 
providing a spot diagnosis based on his knowledge of an obscure chapter of an 
ancient text, to settle a case that had Anteater in doubt. "It isn't as though 
we were competing against each other," he said. "Every point counts!"
Dillingham ploughed away, upset. Of course there had been nothing in the posted 
regulations forbidding such procedure, but he had taken it as implied. Even if 
galactic ethics differed from his own in this respect, he couldn't see his way 
clear to draw on any knowledge or skill other than his own. Not in this 
situation.
Meanwhile, #41 was a different kind of problem. The directive, instead of 
saying, "Do what is necessary," as it had for the #36 they had discussed during 
the break, was this time specific. "Create an appropriate mesiocclusodistal 
metal-alloy inlay for the afflicted fifth molar in this humanoid jaw."
This was perfectly feasible. Despite its oddities as judged by Earthly 
standards, it was humanoid and therefore roughly familiar to him. So men did not 
have more than three molars in a row; he now knew that other species did. He had 
by this time mastered the sophisticated equipment well enough to do the job in a 
fraction of the time he had required on Earth. He could have the inlay shaped 
and cast within the time limit.
The only trouble was his experience, and observation indicated that the 
specified reconstruction was not proper in this case. It would require the 
removal of far more healthy dentin than was necessary, for one thing. In 
addition, there was evidence of persistent inflammation in the gingival tissue 
that could herald periodontal disease.
He finally disobeyed the instructions and placed a temporary filling. He hoped 
he would be given the opportunity to explain his action, though he was afraid he 
had already failed the exam. There was just too much to do, he knew too little, 
and the competition was too strong.

IV
The field examination was finished in the afternoon, and nothing was scheduled 
for that evening. Next day the written examactually a combination of written, 
verbal and demonstrative questionswas due, and everyone except Treetrunk was 
deep in the texts. Treetrunk was dictating a letter home, the translator blanked 
out so that his narration would not disturb the others.
Dillingham pored over the three-dimensional pictures and captions produced by 
the tomes while listening to the accompanying lecture. There was so much to 
master in such a short time! It was fascinatingbut he could handle only a tiny 
fraction of it. He wondered what phenomenal material remained to be presented in 
the courses themselves, since all the knowledge of the galaxy seemed to be 
required just to pass the entrance exam. Tooth transplantation? Tissue 
regeneration? Restoration of the enamel itself, rather than crude metal 
fillings?
The elevator opened. A creature rather like a walking oyster emerged. Its 
yard-wide shell opened to reveal eye-stalks and a comparatively dainty mouth. 
"This is thedental yard?" it inquired timorously.
"Great purple quills!" Pincushion swore quietly. "One of those insidious 
panhandlers. I thought they'd cleared such obtusities out long ago."
Treetrunk, closest to the door, looked up and switched on his section of the 
translator. "The whole planet is dental, idiot," he snapped after the query had 
been repeated for him. "This is a private dormitory."
The oyster persisted. "But you are off-duty dentists? I have a terrible 
toothache"
"We are applicants," Treetrunk informed it imperiously. "What you want is the 
clinic. Please leave us alone."
"But the clinic is closed. Pleasemy jaw pains me so that I can not eat. I am an 
old clam"
Treetrunk impatiently switched off the translator and resumed his letter. No one 
else said anything.
Dillingham could not let this pass. Treetrunk had disconnected himself, but the 
translator still functioned for the other languages. "Isn't there some regular 
dentist you can see who can relieve the pain until morning? We are studying for 
a very important examination."
"I have no creditno money for private service," Oyster wailed. "The clinic is 
closed for the night, and my tooth"
Dillingham looked at the pile of texts before him. He had so little time, and 
the material was so important. He had to make a good score tomorrow to mitigate 
today's disaster.
"Please," Oyster whined. "It pains me so"
He gave up. He was not sure regulations permitted it, but he had to do 
something. There was a chance he could at least relieve the pain. "Come with 
me," he said.
Pincushion waved his pins, actually sensitive cilia capable of intricate 
maneuvering. "Not in our operatory," he protested. "How can we concentrate with 
that going on?"
Dillingham restrained his unreasonable anger and took the patient to the 
elevator. After some errors, he located a vacant testing operatory elsewhere in 
the application section. Fortunately the translators were everywhere, so he 
could converse with the creature and clarify its complaint.
"The big flat one," it said as it propped itself awkwardly in the chair and 
opened its shell. "It hurts."
He took a look. The complaint was valid; most of the teeth had conventional 
plasticene fillings, but one had somehow been dislodged from the proximal 
surface of a molar: a Class II restoration. The gap was packed with rancid 
vegetable matterseaweed?and was undoubtedly quite uncomfortable.
"You must understand," he cautioned the creature, "that I am not a regular 
dentist here, or even a student. I have neither the authority nor the competence 
to do any work of a permanent nature on your teeth. All I can do is clean out 
the cavity and attempt to relieve the pain so that you can get along until the 
clinic opens in the morning. Then an authorized dentist can do the job properly. 
Do you understand?"
"It hurts," Oyster repeated.
Dillingham located the creature's planet in the directory and punched out the 
formula for a suitable anesthetic The dispenser gurgled and rolled out a 
cylinder and swab. He opened the former and dabbed with the latter around the 
affected area, restraining his irritation at the patient's evident inability to 
sit still even for this momentary operation. While waiting for it to take 
effect, he requested more information from the translator, which he had 
discovered was also quite a versatile instrument.
"Dominant species of Planet Oyster," the machine reported. "Highly intelligent, 
non-specialized, emotionally stable life-form." Dillingham tried to reconcile 
this with what he had already observed of his patient, and concluded that 
individuals must vary considerably from the norm. He listened to further vital 
information, and soon had a fair idea of Oyster's general nature and the 
advisable care of his dentition. There did not seem to be any factors inhibiting 
his treatment of this complaint.
He applied a separator, over the patient's protest, and cleaned out the impacted 
debris with a spoon excavator without difficulty, but Oyster shied away at the 
sight of the rotary diamond burr. "Hurts!" he protested.
"I have given you adequate local anesthesia," Dillingham explained. "You should 
feel nothing except a slight vibration in your jaw, which will not be 
uncomfortable. This is a standard drill, the same kind I'm sure you've seen many 
times before." As he spoke, he marveled at what he now termed standard. The burr 
was shaped like nothingliterallyon Earth and rotated at 150,000 r.p.m.several 
times the maximum employed back home. It was awesomely efficient.
Oyster shut mouth and shell firmly. "Hurts!" his whisper emerged through 
clenched defenses.
Dillingham thought despairingly of the time this was costing him. If he didn't 
return to his texts soon, he would forfeit his remaining chance to pass the 
written exam.
He sighed and put away the power tool. "Perhaps I can clean it with the hand 
instruments," he said. "I'll have to use this rubber dam, though, since this 
will take more time."
One look at the patient convinced him otherwise. Regretfully he put away the 
rubber square that would have kept the field of operation dry and clean while he 
worked.
He had to break through the overhanging enamel with a chisel, the patient 
wincing every time he lifted the mallet and doubling the necessity for the 
assistant he didn't have. A power mallet would have helped, but that, too, was 
out. It was a tedious and difficult task. He had to scrape off every portion of 
the ballroom cavity from an awkward angle, hardly able to see what he was doing 
since he needed a third hand for the dental mirror.
It would have to be a Class IIjammed in the side of the molar facing the 
adjacent molar, both sturdy teeth with very little give. A Class II was the very 
worst restoration to attempt in makeshift fashion. He could have accelerated the 
process by doing a slipshod job, but it was not in him to skimp even when he 
knew it was only for a night. Half an hour passed before he performed the 
toilet: blowing out the loose debris with a jet of warm air, swabbing the 
interior with alcohol, drying again.
"Now I'm going to block this with a temporary wax," he told Oyster. "This will 
not stand up to intensive chewing, but should hold you comfortably until 
morning." Not that the warning was likely to make much difference. The trouble 
had obviously started when the original fillings came loose, but it had been 
weeks since that had happened. Evidently the patient had not bothered to have it 
fixed until the pain became unbearableand now that the pain was gone, Oyster 
might well delay longer, until the work had to be done all over again. The 
short-sighted refuge from initial inconvenience was hardly a monopoly of Earthly 
sufferers.
"No," Oyster said, jolting him back to business. "Wax tastes bad."
"This is guaranteed tasteless to most life-forms, and it is only for the night. 
As soon as you report to the clinic"
"Tastes bad!" the patient insisted, starting to close his shell.
Dillingham wondered again just what the translator had meant by "highly 
intelligent... emotionally stable." He kept his peace and dialed for amalgam.
"Nasty color," Oyster said.
"But this is pigmented red, to show that the filling is intended as temporary. 
It will hardly show, in this location. I don't want the clinic to have any 
misunderstanding."
The shell clamped all the way shut, nearly pinning his fingers. "Nasty color!"
It occurred to him that more was involved than capricious difficulty. Did this 
patient intend to go to the clinic at all? Oyster might be angling for a 
permanent filling. "What color does suit you?"
"Gold."
It figured. Well, better to humor the patient, rather than try to force him into 
a more sensible course. Dillingham could make a report to the authorities, who 
could then roust out Oyster and check the work properly.
At his direction, the panel extruded a ribbon of gold foil. He placed this in 
the miniature annealing oven and waited for the slow heat to act.
"You're burning it up!" Oyster protested.
"By no means. It is necessary to make the gold cohesive, for better service. You 
see"
"Hot," Oyster said. So much for helpful explanations. He could have employed 
noncohesive metal, but this was a lesser technique that didn't appeal to him.

V
At length he had suitable ropes of gold for the slow, delicate task of building 
up the restoration inside the cavity. The first layer was down; once he malleted 
it into place
The elevator burst asunder. A second oyster charged into the operatory waving a 
translucent tube. "Villain!" it exclaimed. "What are you doing to my 
grandfather?"
Dillingham was taken aback. "Your grandfather? I'm trying to make him 
comfortable until"
The newcomer would have none of it. "You're torturing him! My poor, dear, 
long-suffering grandfather! Monster! How could you?"
"But I'm only"
Young Oyster leveled the tube at him. Dillingham noticed irrelevantly that its 
end was solid. "Get away from my grandfather. I saw you hammering spikes into 
his venerable teeth, you sadist! I'm taking him home!"
Dillingham did not move. He considered this a stance of necessity, not courage. 
"Not until I complete this work. I can't let him go out like this, with the 
excavation exposed."
"Beast! Pervert! Humanoid!" the youngster screamed. "I'll volatize you!"
Searing light beamed from the solid tube. The metal mallet in Dillingham's hand 
melted and dripped to the floor.
He leaped for the oyster and grappled for the weapon. The giant shell clamped 
shut upon his hand as they fell to the floor. He struggled to right himself, but 
discovered that the creature had withdrawn all its appendages and now was 
nothing more than a two-hundred pound clamwith Dillingham's left hand firmly 
pinioned.
"Assaulter of innocents!" the youngster squeaked from within the shell. 
"Unprovoked attacker. Get your foul paw out of my ear!"
"Friend, I'll be glad to do thatas soon as you let go," he gasped. What a 
situation for a dentist!
"Help! Butchery! Genocide!"
Dillingham finally found his footing and hauled on his arm. The shell tilted and 
lifted from the floor, but gradually the trapped hand slid free. He quickly sat 
on the shell to prevent it from opening again and surveyed the damage.
Blood trickled from multiple scratches along the wrist, and his hand smarted 
strenuously, but there was no serious wound.
"Let my grandson go!" the old oyster screamed now. "You have no right to muzzle 
him like that! This is a free planet!"
Dillingham marveled once more at the translator's description. These just did 
not seem to be reasonable creatures. He stood up quickly and picked up the 
fallen tube.
"Look, gentlemenI'm very sorry if I have misunderstood your conventions, but I 
must insist that the young person leave."
Young Oyster peeped out of his shell. "Unwholesome creature! Eater of sea-life! 
How dare you make demands of us?"
Dillingham pointed the tube at him. He had no idea how to fire it, but hoped the 
creature could be bluffed. "Please leave at once. I will release your 
grandfather as soon as the work is done."
The youngster focused on the weapon and obeyed, grumbling. Dillingham touched 
the elevator lock as soon as he was gone.
The oldster was back in the chair. Somehow the adjustment had changed, so that 
this was now a basketlike receptacle, obviously more comfortable for this 
patient. "You are more of a being than you appear," Oyster remarked. "I was 
never able to handle that juvenile so efficiently."
Dillingham contemplated the droplets of metal splattered on the floor. That 
heat-beam had been entirely too closeand deadly. His hands began to shake in 
delayed reaction. He was not a man of violence, and his own quick reaction had 
surprised him. The stress of recent events had certainly gotten to him, he 
thought ruefully.
"But he's a good boy, really," Oyster continued. "A trifle impetuousbut he 
inherited that from me. I hope you won't report this little misunderstanding."
He hadn't thought of that, but of course it was his duty to make a complete 
report on the melee and the reason for it. Valuable equipment might have been 
damaged, not to consider the risk to his own welfare. "I'm afraid I must," he 
said.
"But they are horribly strict!" the oldster protested. "They will throw him into 
a foul salty cesspool! They'll boil him in vinegar every hour! His children will 
be stigmatized!"
"I can't take the law into my own hands. The courtor whatever it is heremust 
decide. I must make an accurate report."
"He was only looking out for his ancestor. That's very important to our culture. 
He's a good"
The Oyster paused. His shell quivered, and the soft flesh within turned yellow.
Dillingham was alarmed. "Sirare you well?"
The translator spoke on its own initiative. "The Oyster shows the symptoms of 
severe emotional shock. His health will be endangered unless immediate relief is 
available."
All he needed was a dying galactic on top of everything else! "How can I help 
him?" The shell was gradually sagging closed with an insidious suggestiveness.
"The negative emotional stimulus must be alleviated," the translator said. "At 
his age, such disturbances are"
Dillingham took one more look at the visibly putrifying creature. "All right!" 
he shouted desperately. "I'll withhold my report!"
The collapse ceased. "You won't tell anyone?" the oldster inquired from the 
murky depths. "No matter what?"
"No one." Dillingham was not at all happy, but saw no other way out. Better 
silence than a dead patient.
The night was well advanced when he finished with the Oyster and sent him home. 
He had forfeited his study period and, by the time he was able to relax, much of 
his sleep as well. He would have to brave the examination without preparation.

It was every bit as bad as he had anticipated. His mind was dull from lack of 
sleep, and his basic store of information was meager indeed on the galactic 
scale. The questions would have been quite difficult even if he had been fully 
prepared. There were entire categories he had to skip because they concerned 
specialized procedures buried in his unread texts. If only he had had time to 
prepare!
The others were having trouble too. He could see them humped over their tables, 
or under them, depending on physiology, scribbling notes as they figured ratios 
and tolerances and indices of material properties. Even Treetrunk looked 
hard-pressed. If Treetrunk, with a galactic library of dental information filed 
in his celluloid brain, could wilt with the effort, how could a poor humanoid 
from a backward planet hope to succeed?
But he carried on to the discouraging end, knowing that his score would damn him 
but determined to do his best whatever the situation. It seemed increasingly 
ridiculous, but he still wanted to be admitted to the university. The thought of 
deserting this stupendous reservoir of information and technique was appalling.
During the afternoon break he collapsed on his bunk and slept. One day remained, 
one final trialthe interrogation by the Admissions Advisory Council. This, he 
understood, was the roughest gantlet of all; more applications were rejected on 
the basis of this interview than from both other tests combined.
An outcry woke him in the evening. "The probabilities are being posted!" 
Pincushion honked, prodding him with a spine that was not, despite its 
appearance, sharp.
"Mine's twenty-one per cent, not a penny more," Dillingham muttered sleepily. 
"Lowtoo low."
"The revised probs!" Pincushion said. "Based on the test scores. The warning 
buzzer just sounded."
Dillingham snapped awake. He remembered now; no results were posted for the 
field and written exams. Instead the original estimates of acceptance were 
modified in the light of individual data. This provided unlikely applicants with 
a graceful opportunity to bow out before subjecting themselves to the indignity 
of a negative recommendation by the AA Council. It also undoubtedly simplified 
the work of that council by cutting down on the number of interviewees.
They clustered in a tense semicircle around the main translator. The results 
would be given in descending order. Dillingham wondered why more privacy in such 
matters wasn't provided, but assumed that the University had its reasons. 
Possibly the constant comparisons encouraged better effort, or weeded out the 
quitters that much sooner.
"Anteater," the speaker said. It paused. "Ninety-six per cent."
Anteater twitched his nose in relief. "I must have guessed right on those stress 
formulations," he said. "I knew I was in trouble on those computations."
"Treetrunkeighty-five per cent." Treetrunk almost uprooted himself with glee. 
"A twenty-five per cent increase!" he exulted. "I must have maxed the written 
portion after all!"
"Robotsixty-eight per cent." The robotoid took the news impassively.
The remaining three fidgeted, knowing their scores had to be lower.
"Pincushionfifty per cent." The creature congratulated himself on an even 
chance, though he obviously had hoped to do better.
"Electrolytetwenty-three per cent."
The rocklike individual rolled toward his compartment. "I was afraid of that. 
I'm going home."
The rest watched Dillingham sympathetically, anticipating the worst. It came. 
"Earthmanthree per cent," the speaker said plainly.
The last reasonable hope was gone. The odds were thirty to one against him, and 
his faith in miracles was small. The others scattered, embarrassed for him, 
while Dillingham stood rigid.
He had known he was in troublebut this! To be given, on the basis of thorough 
testing, practically no chance of admission...
He was forty-one years old. He felt like crying.

VI
The Admissions Advisory Council was alien even by the standards he had learned 
in the galaxy. There were only three membersbut as soon as this occurred to 
him, he realized that this would be only the fraction of the Council assigned to 
his case. There were probably hundreds of interviews going on at this moment, as 
thousands of applicants were processed.
One member was a honeycomb of gelatinous tissue suspended on a trellislike 
framework. The second was a mass of purple sponge. The third was an undulating 
something confined within a tanka water-breather, if that liquid were water. If 
it breathed.
The speaker set in the wall of the tank came to life. This was evidently the 
spokesman, if any were required. "We do not interview many with so low a 
probability of admission as students," Tank said. "Why did you persist?"
Why, indeed? Well, he had nothing further to lose by forthrightness. "I still 
want to enter the University. There is still a chance."
"Your examination results are hardly conducive to admission as a student," Tank 
said, and it was amazing how much scorn could be infused into the tone of the 
mechanical translation. "While your field exercises were fair, your written 
production was incompetent. You appear to be ignorant of all but the most 
primitive and limited aspects of prosthodontistry. Why should you wish to 
undertake training for which your capacity is plainly insufficient?"
"Most of the questions of the second examination struck me as relating to basic 
information, rather than potential," Dillingham said woodenly. "If I had that 
information already, I would not stand in such need of the training. I came here 
to learn."
"An intriguing attitude. We expect, nevertheless, a certain minimum background. 
Otherwise our efforts are wastefully diluted."
For this Dillingham had no answer. Obviously the ranking specialists of the 
galaxy should not be used for elementary instruction. He understood the 
pointyet something in him would not capitulate. There had to be more to this 
hearing than an automatic decision on the basis of tests whose results could be 
distorted by participant cooperation on the one hand, and circumstantial denial 
of study-time on the other. Why have an advisory board at all, if that were all?
"I am concerned with certain aspects of your field work," the honeycomb creature 
said. He spoke by vibrating his tissue in the air, but the voice emerged from 
his translator. "Why did you neglect particular items?"
"Do you mean number seventeen? I was unfamiliar with the specimen and therefore 
could not repair it competently."
"You refused to work on it merely because it was new to your experience?" Again 
the towering scorn.
That did make it sound bad. "No. I would have done something if I had had more 
evidence of its nature. But the specimen was not complete. I felt that there was 
insufficient information presented to justify attempted repairs."
"You could not have hurt an inert model very much. Surely you realized that even 
an incorrect repair would have brought you a better score than total failure?"
He had not known that. "I assumed that these specimens stood in lieu of actual 
patients. I gave them the same consideration I would have given a living, 
feeling creature. Neglect of a cavity in the tooth of a live patient might lead 
to the eventual loss of that toothbut an incorrect repair could have caused 
more serious damage. Sometimes it is better not to interfere."
"Explain."
"When I visited the planet Electrolus I saw that the metallic restorations in 
native teeth were indirectly interfering with communication, which was 
disastrous to the well-being of the individual. This impressed upon me how 
dangerous well-meaning ignorance could be, even in so simple a matter as a 
filling."
"The chairman of the Dental League of planet Electrolus is a University 
graduate. Are you accusing him of ignorance?"
Oh-oh. "Perhaps the problem had not come to his attention," Dillingham said, 
trying to evade the trap.
"We will return to that at another time," the purple sponge said grimly. The 
applicant's reasoning hardly seemed to impress this group.
"You likewise ignored item number thirty-six," Honeycomb said. "Was your 
reasoning the same?"
"Yes. The jaw was so alien to my experience that I could not safely assume that 
there was anything wrong with it, let alone attempt to fix it. I suppose I was 
foolish not to fill the labial cavity, but that would have required an 
assumption I was not equipped to make."
"How much time did you spenddeciding not to touch the cavity?" Honeycomb 
inquired sweetly.
"Half an hour." Pointless to explain that he had gone over every surface of #36 
looking for some confirmation that its action was similar to that of any of the 
jaws he was familiar with. "If I may inquire nowwhat was the correct 
treatment?"
"None. It was a healthy jaw."
Dillingham's breath caught. "You mean if I had filled that theoretic cavity"
"You would have destroyed our extragalactic patient's health."
"Then my decision on number thirty-six helped my examination score!"
"No. Your decision was based on uncertainty, not upon accurate diagnosis. It 
threw your application into serious question."
He shut his mouth and waited.
"You did not follow instructions on number forty-one," Honeycomb said. "Why?"
"I felt the instructions were mistaken. The placement of an MOD inlay was 
unnecessary for the correction of the condition, and foolish in the face of the 
peril the tooth was in from gingivitis. Why perform expensive and complicated 
reconstruction, when untreated gum disease threatens to nullify it soon anyway?"
"Would that inlay have damaged the function of the tooth in any way?"
"Yes, in the sense that no reconstruction can be expected to perform as well as 
the original. But even if there were no difference, that placement was 
functionally unnecessary. The expense and discomfort to the patient must also be 
considered. The dentist owes it to his patient to advise him of"
"You are repetitive. Do you place your judgment before that of the University?"
Trouble again. "I must act on my own best judgment, when I am charged with the 
responsibility. Perhaps, with University training, I would have been able to 
make a more informed decision."
"Kindly delete the pleading," Honeycomb said.
Something was certainly wrong somewhere. All his conjectures seemed to go 
against the intent of this institution. Did its standards, as well as its 
knowledge, differ so radically from his own? Could all of his professional 
instincts be wrong?
"Your performance on the written examination was extremely poor," Sponge said. 
"Are you naturally stupid, or did you fail to apply yourself properly?"
"I could have done better if I had studied more."
"You failed to prepare yourself?"
Worse and worse. "Yes."
"You were aware of the importance of the examination?"
"Yes."
"You had suitable texts on hand?"
"Yes."
"Yet you did not bother to study them."
"I wanted to, but" Then he remembered his promise to the Oyster. He could not 
give his reason for failing to study. If this trio picked up any hint of that 
episode, it would not relent until everything were exposed. After suffering this 
much of its interrogation, he retained no illusions about the likely fate of 
young Oyster. No wonder the grandfather had been anxious!
"What is your pretext for such neglect?"
"I can offer none."
The color of the sponge darkened. "We are compelled to view with disfavor an 
applicant who neither applies himself nor cares to excuse his negligence. This 
is not the behavior we expect in our students."
Dillingham said nothing. His position was hopelessbut he still couldn't give up 
until they made his rejection final.

VII
Tank resumed the dialog. "You have an interesting record. Alarming in some 
respects. You came originally from planet Earthone of the aborigine cultures. 
Why did you desert your tribe?"
They had such unfortunate ways of putting things! "I was contacted by a galactic 
voyager who required prosthodontic repair. I presume he picked my name out of 
the local directory." He described his initial experience with the creatures he 
had dubbed, facetiously, the North Nebulites, or Enens.
"You operated on a totally unfamiliar jaw?" Tank asked abruptly.
"Yes." Under duress, however. Should he remind them?
"Yet you refused to do similar work on a dummy jaw at this University," 
Honeycomb put in.
They were sharp. "I did what seemed necessary at the time."
"Don't your standards appear inconsistent, even to you?" Sponge inquired.
Dillingham laughed, not happily. "Sometimes they do." How much deeper could he 
bury himself?
Tank's turn. "Why did you accompany the aliens to their world?"
"I did not have very much choice."
"So you did not come to space in search of superior prosthodontic techniques?"
"No. It is possible that I might have done so, however, had I known of their 
availability at the time."
"Yes, you have repeatedly expressed your interest," Tank said. "Yet you did not 
bother to study from the most authoritative texts available on the subject in 
the galaxy, when you had the opportunity and the encouragement to do so."
Once again his promise prevented him from replying. He was coming to understand 
why his roommates had shown so little desire to spend time helping the 
supplicant. It appeared, in retrospect, to be a sure passport to failure.
Could he have passedthat is, brought his probability up to a reasonable 
levelhad he turned away that plea? Should he have sacrificed that one creature, 
for the sake of the hundreds he might have helped later, with proper training? 
He had been shortsighted.
He knew he would do the same thing again, in similar circumstances. He just 
didn't have the heart to be that practical. At the same time, he could see why 
the businesslike University would have little use for such sentimentality.
"On planet Gleep," Tank said, surprising him by using his own ludicrous term for 
the next world he had visited, "you filled a single cavity with twenty-four tons 
of gold alloy."
"Yes."
"Are you not aware that gold, however plentiful it may be on Gleep, remains an 
exceptionally valuable commodity in the galaxy? Why did you not develop a less 
wasteful substitute?"
Dillingham tried to explain about the awkwardness of that situation, about the 
pressure of working within the cavernous mouth of a three-hundred-foot sea 
creature, but it did seem that he had made a mistake. He could have employed a 
specialized cobalt-chromium-molybdenum alloy that would have been strong, hard, 
resilient and resistant to corrosion, and might well have been superior to gold 
in that particular case. He had worried, for example, about the weight of such a 
mass of gold, and this alternate, far lighter, would have alleviated that 
concern. It was also much cheaper stuff. He had not thought about these things 
at the time. He said so.
"Didn't you consult your Enen associates?"
"I couldn't. The English/Enen transcoder was broken." But that was no excuse for 
not having had them develop the chrome-cobalt alloy earlier. He had allowed his 
personal preference for the more familiar gold to halt his quest for 
improvement.
"Yet you did communicate with them later, surmounting that problem."
He was becoming uncomfortably aware that this group had done its homework. The 
members seemed to know everything about him. "I discovered by accident that the 
English-Gleep and Gleep-Enen transcoders could be used in concert. I had not 
realized that at the time."
"Because you were preoccupied with the immediate problem?"
"I think so."
"But not too preoccupied to notice decay in the neighboring teeth."
"No." It did look foolish now, to have been so concerned with future dental 
problems, while wasting many tons of valuable metal on the work in progress. How 
did that jibe with his more recent concern for the Oyster's problem, to the 
exclusion of the much larger University picture? Was there any coherent 
rationale to his actions, or was he continually rationalizing to excuse his 
errors?
Was the seeming unfairness of this interview merely a way of proving this to 
him?
But Tank wasn't finished. "You next embarked with a passing diplomat of 
uncertain reputation who suggested a way to free you from your commitment to 
Gleep."
"He was very kind." Dillingham did not regret his brief association with Trach, 
the galactic who resembled a trachodon dinosaur.
"He resembled one of the vicious predators of your planet's pastyet you trusted 
your person aboard his ship?"
"I felt, in the face of galactic diversity of species, that it was foolish to 
judge by appearances. One has to be prepared to extend trust, if one wants to 
receive it."
"You believe that?" Honeycomb demanded.
"I try to." It was so hard to defend himself against the concentrated suspicion 
of the council.
"You do not seem to trust the common directives of this University, however."
What answer could he make to that? They had him in another conflict.
"Whereupon you proceeded to investigate another unfamiliar jaw," Tank said. 
"Contrary to your expressed policy. Why?"
"Trach had befriended me, and I wanted to help him."
"So you put friendship above policy," Sponge said. "Convenient."
"And did you help him?" Tank again. It was hard to remember who said what, since 
they were all so murderously sharp.
"Yes. I adapted a sonic instrument that enabled him to clean his teeth 
efficiently."
"And what was your professional fee for this service?"
Dillingham reined his mounting temper. "Nothing. I was not thinking in such 
terms."
"A moment ago you were quite concerned about costs."
"I was concerned about unnecessary expense to the patient. That strikes me as 
another matter."
"And the dinosaur told you about the University of Dentistry?" Sponge put in.
"Yes, among other things. We conversed quite a bit."
"And so you decided to attend, on hearsay evidence."
"That's not fair!"
"Is the color in your face a sign of distress?"
Dillingham realized that they were now deliberately needling him and shut up. 
Why should he allow himself to get excited over a minor slur, after passing over 
major ones? All he could do that way was prove he was unstable, and therefore 
unfit.
"And did you seriously believe," Sponge persisted nastily, "that you had any 
chance at all to be admitted as a student here?"
Again he had no answer.
"On planet Electrolus you provoked a war by careless advice," Honeycomb said. 
"Whereupon you conspired to be exiledto this University. What kind of reception 
did you anticipate here, after such machinations?"
So that was it! They resented the circumstances of his application. What use to 
explain that he had not schemed, that Trach had cleverly found a solution to the 
Electrolus problem that satisfied all parties? This trio would only twist that 
into further condemnation.
"I made mistakes on that planet, as I did elsewhere," he said at last. "I hoped 
to learn to avoid such errors in the future by enrolling in a corrective course 
of instruction. It was ignorance, not devious intent, that betrayed me. I still 
think this University has much to offer me."
"The question at hand," Tank said portentously, "is what you have to offer the 
University. Have you any further statements you fancy might influence our 
decision?"
"I gather from your choice of expression that it has already been made. In that 
case I won't waste any more of your time. I am ready for it."
"We find you unsuitable for enrollment at this University as a student," Tank 
said. "Please depart by the opposite door."
So as not to obstruct the incoming interviewees! Very neat. Dillingham stood up 
wearily. "Thank you for your consideration," he said formally, keeping the irony 
out of his tone. He walked to the indicated exit.
"One moment, applicant," Honeycomb said. "What are your present plans?"
He wondered why the creature bothered to ask. "I suppose I'll return to practice 
wherever I'm neededor wanted," he said. "I may not be the finest dentist 
available, or even adequate by your standardsbut I love my profession, and 
there is much I can still do." But why was it that the thought of returning to 
Earth, which he was free to do now and where he was adequate, no longer 
appealed? Had the wonders he had glimpsed here spoiled him for the backwoods 
existence? "I would have preferred to add the University training to my 
experience; but there is no reason to give up what I already have just because 
my dream has been denied." He walked away from them.

VIII
The hall did not lead to the familiar elevators. Instead, absent-mindedly 
following the wrist-band glow, he found himself in an elegant apartment. He 
turned, embarrassed to have blundered into the wrong area, but a voice stopped 
him.
"Please sit down, Earthman."
It was the old Oyster he had treated two days before. He was not adept at 
telling aliens of identical species apart, but he could not mistake this one. 
"What are you doing here?"
"We all have to dwell somewhere." Oyster indicated a couch adaptable to a wide 
variety of forms. "Make yourself comfortable. I have thoughts to exchange with 
you."
Dillingham marveled at the change in his erstwhile patient. This was no longer a 
suffering, unreasonable indigent. Yet
"Surely it occurred to you, Doctor, that there are only three groups upon this 
planet? The applicants, the studentsand the University personnel. Which of 
these do you suppose should lack proper dental care? Which should lack the 
typical University identification?"
"You" Dillingham stared at him, suddenly making connections. "You have no 
bandbut the elevator worked for you! It was a put-up job!"
"It was part of your examination," Oyster said.
"I failed."
"What has given you that impression?"
"The Admissions Advisory Council found me unfit to enter this University."
"You are mistaken."
Dillingham faced him angrily, not appreciating this business at all. "I don't 
know who you are or why you were so determined to interfere with my application, 
but you succeeded nicely. They rejected me."
"Perhaps we should verify this," Oyster said, unperturbed. He spoke into the 
translator: "Summon Dr. Dillingham's advisory subgroup."
They camethe Sponge, the Honeycomb, the Tank, riding low conveyors. "Sir," they 
said respectfully.
"What was your decision with regard to this man's application?"
Tank replied. "We found this humanoid to be unsuitable for enrollment at this 
University as a student."
Dillingham nodded. Whatever internecine politics were going on here, at least 
that point was clear.
"Did you discover this applicant to be deficient in integrity?" Oyster inquired 
softly. It was the gentle tone of complete authority.
"No, sir," Tank said.
"Professional ethics?"
"No, sir."
"Professional caution?"
"No, sir."
"Humility?"
"No, sir."
"Temper control?"
"No, sir."
"Compassion? Courage? Equilibrium?"
"That is for you to say, sir."
Oyster glanced at Dillingham. "So it would seem. What, then, gentlemen, did you 
find the applicant suitable for?"
"Administration, sir."
"Indeed. Dismissed, gentlemen."
"Yes, Director." The three left hastily.
Dillingham started. "Yes, who?"
"There is, you see, a qualitative distinction between the potential manual 
trainee and the potential administrator," Oyster said. "Your roommates were 
evaluated as studentsand they certainly have things to learn. Oh, technically 
they are proficient enoughquite skilled, in fact, though none had the 
opportunity to exhibit the depth of competence manifested in adversity that you 
did. But in attitudewell, there will be considerable improvement there, or they 
will hardly graduate from this school. I daresay you know what I mean."
"But"
"We are equipped to inculcate mechanical dexterity and technical comprehension. 
Of course the techniques tested in the Admissions Examination are primitive 
ones; none of them are employed in advanced restoration. Our interrogatory 
schedule is principally advisory, to enable us to program for individual needs.
"Character, on the other hand, is far more difficult to trainor to assess 
accurately in a controlled situation. It is far more reliable if it comes 
naturally, which is one reason we don't always draw from graduates, or even 
promising students. We are quite quick to investigate applicants possessing the 
personality traits we require, and this has nothing to do with planet or 
species. A promising candidate may emerge from any culture, even the most 
backward, and is guaranteed from none. No statistical survey is reliable in 
pinpointing the individual we want. In exceptional cases, it becomes a personal 
matter, a nonobjective thing. Do you follow me?"
Dillingham's mind was whirling. "It sounds almost as though you want me to"
"To undertake training at University expense leading to the eventual assumption 
of my own position: Director of the School of Prosthodontics."
Dillingham was speechless.
"I am anticipating a promotion, you see," Oyster confided. "The vacancy I leave 
is my responsibility. I would not suffer a successor to whom I would not trust 
the care of my own teeth."
"But I couldn't possiblyI haven't the"
"Have no concern. You adapted beautifully when thrust from your protected 
environment into galactic society, and this will be no more difficult. The 
University of Administration has a comprehensive program that will guarantee 
your competence for the position, and of course you will serve as my assistant 
for several years until you get the hang of it. We are not rushed. You will not 
be subjected to the ordeal unprepared; that unpleasantness is over."
Dillingham still found this hard to grasp. "Your grandsonwhat if I'd"
"I shall have to introduce you more formally to that young security officer. He 
is not, unfortunately, my grandson; but he is the finest shot with the 
single-charge laser on the planet. We try to make our little skits realistic."
Dillingham remembered the metal mallet dripping to the floorno freak 
interception after all. And the way the youngster had retreated before the 
tube... which, being single-shot, was no longer functional. Realism, yes.
That reminded him. "That tooth of yours I filled. I know that wasn't"
"Wasn't fake. You are correct, I nursed that cavity along for three months, 
using it to check our prospects. It is a very good thing I won't need it any 
more, because you spoiled it utterly."
"I"
"You did such a professional job that I should have to have a new cavity 
cultured for my purpose. No experienced practitioner would mistake it now for a 
long-neglected case even if I yanked out the gold and re-impacted it. That, 
Doctor, is the skill that impresses methe skill that remains after the 
machinery is incapacitated. But of course that's part of it; good intentions 
mean nothing unless backed by authoritative discretion and ability. You were 
very slow, but you handled that deliberately obstructive patient very well. Had 
it been otherwise"
"But why me? I mean, you could have selected anyone"
Oyster put a friendly smile into his voice. "Hardly, Doctor. I visited eleven 
dormitories that evening, before I came to yourswith no success. All contained 
prospects whose record and fieldwork showed the potential. You selected yourself 
from this number and earned it through honorably. More correctly, you presented 
yourself as a candidate for the office; we took it from there."
"You certainly did!"
"Portions of your prior record were hard to believe, I admit. It was incredible 
that a person who had as little galactic background as you had should accomplish 
so much. But now we are satisfied that you do have the touch, the ability to do 
the right thing in an awkward or unfamiliar situation. That, too, is essential 
for the position."
Dillingham fastened on one incongruity. "II selected myself?"
"Yes, Doctor. When you demonstrated your priorities."
"My priorities? I don't"
"When you sacrificed invaluable study time to offer assistance to a creature you 
believed was in pain."

IN THE BARN
When I returned to full-time writing in 1966, I became more active in the field. 
I sold my first novel, Chthon, and worked on others, but I was not yet out of 
stories. I attended the week-long 1966 Milford Writers' Conference at Damon 
Knight's house in Pennsylvania. There I met a number of writers and editors who 
were great people but who I suspect regarded me as of little consequence. One 
example will suffice: Harlan Ellison was there, and he was in the process of 
assembling a massive anthology of stories to be titled Dangerous Visions. The 
theory was that many excellent stories could not be published because they were 
too "dangerous"violating editorial taboos. I agreed completely; I have never 
had difficulty violating editorial taboos, and have the rejections to prove it. 
In fact I later wrote an erotic novel, 3.97 Erect, that was too hot for the 
erotic market; Playboy bounced it as "Too gross for words." If anything more 
erotically outrageous has been published, apart from Candy, I don't know of it. 
I poked fun at every taboo I could get at, including those of the erotic market 
itself, such as VD. One pays a penalty for such an attitude: unpublishability. 
So if Harlan really meant it, I knew I could do a story for his volume that 
would indeed be banned elsewhere. I asked himand he told me that he had already 
overrun his budget by 50% and had closed out the volume. I was too late. Then I 
stood by and watched and listened as he solicited and bought (for an IOU of 
$150) a story for that volume from Samuel "Chip" Delany, "Aye, And Gomorrah." 
Thus did I get a perspective on how Harlan Ellison regarded me. Actually, Delany 
can write; he has won awards for several pieces including, I believe, that story 
in Dang Vis. Still...
Now I don't want to put too fine a point on this, but I am capable of making an 
impression on people when I wish to. Harlan claims he agreed to do the sequel 
volume, Again, Dangerous Visions, just so that I could be represented in it. 
That may be hyperbole; Harlan specializes in hype. But for him I wrote "The 
Barn"he has a certain Pohlean taste in retitlingand I must say I found him to 
be a good editor. Many of the stories in the Dang Vis volumes are not dangerous, 
but I doubt that "Barn" could have appeared elsewhere at that time. I feel that 
Harlan did perform a necessary service for the genre, showing that an anthology 
could include truly provocative fiction and be commercially successful. Today 
stories of similar nature are publishableand he helped make it so.
Actually "Barn" is a perfectly ordinary story. It's just a day on the dairy 
farmwith one detail changed. I've never gotten around to writing the sequel, 
"Stockyard"; I fear that would not be a pretty story. The same goes for "Rodeo" 
and "Matador." I don't like to hurt animals. I think more people would watch how 
they treat animals, ifbut that's another story. Meanwhile, if X-rated material 
bothers you, don't read this one.
* * *
The barn was tremendous. It was reminiscent, Hitch thought, of the red giants of 
classical New England (not to be confused with the blue dwarfs of contemporary 
farming), but subtly different. The adjacent fences were there as usual, 
together with the granary and corncrib and round silo and even a standard 
milkhouse at one end. To one side was a shed with a large tractor and 
cultivating machinery, and to the other were conventional mounds of hay. But the 
curves and planes of the main structurea genuine farmer could probably have 
called out fifty major and minor aspects of distinction from anything known on 
Earth-Prime.
Hitch, however, was not a connoisseur of barns, EP or otherwise; he was merely a 
capable masculine interworld investigator briefed in farming techniques. He 
could milk a cow, fork manure, operate a disc-harrow or supervise the processing 
of corn silagebut the nuances of bucolic architecture were beyond him.
This, mundane as it might appear, was it: the site of his dangerous interearth 
mission. Counter-Earth #772, located by another fluke of the probability 
aperture, and for him a routine investigation into a nonroutine situation. 
Almost a thousand Earth-alternates had been discovered in the brief decade the 
aperture had operated reliably, most quite close to Earth-Prime in type. Several 
even had the same current U.S. President, making for rather intriguing dialogues 
between heads-of-state. If, as some theorists would have it, this was a case of 
parallel evolution of worlds, the parallels were exceedingly close; if a case of 
divergence from Earth-Prime (or if EP represented a split from one of the other 
worldsheretical thought!), the break or series of breaks had occurred quite 
recently.
But only Earth-Prime had developed the aperture; only EP could send its natives 
into alternate frameworks and bring them back whole, live and sane. Thus it 
claimed the title of stem-world, the originator, and none of the others had been 
able to refute it. Noneyet. Hitch tried not to think too much about the time 
when a more advanced Earth would be encounteredone that could talk back. Or 
fight back.
On the surface, #772 was similar to the other worlds he had visited during past 
missions, except for one thing. It was retarded. It appeared to have suffered 
from some planetary cataclysm that had set it back technologically thirty years 
or so. A giant meteor-strike, a recent ice-ageHitch was not much on historical 
or geological analysis, but knew that something had severely reduced its animal 
life, and so set everything back while the people readjusted.
There were no bears on #772, no camels, no horses, sheep or dogs. No cats or 
pigs. Few rodents. Man, in fact, was about the only mammal that remained, and it 
would be centuries before he had any overpopulation problem here. Perhaps a germ 
from outer space had wiped the mammals out, or a bad freeze; Hitch didn't know 
and hardly cared. His concern was with immediacies. His job was to find out how 
it was that livestock was such an important enterprise, dominating the economics 
of this world. Barns were everywhere, and milk was a staple industryyet there 
were no cows or goats or similar domesticants.
That was why he now stood before this barn. Within it must lie the secret to 
#772's sinister success.
Soa little innocuous snooping, before the official welcome to EP's commonwealth 
of alternates. Earth-Prime did not want to back into an alliance with a 
repressive dictatorship or human-sacrifice society or whatever other bizarrity 
might be manifested. Every alternate was different, in some obvious or devious 
manner, and some werewell, no matter what Io said, that was not his worry. She 
liked to lecture him on the theoretical elements of alternistic intercourse, 
while cleverly avoiding the more practical man-woman intercourse he craved. In 
the months he had known her he had developed a considerable frustration.
Now he had to make like a farmhand, in the name of Earth-Prime security and 
diplomacy. A fine sex-sublimation that promised to be! He could contemplate 
manure and dream of Iolanthe's face.
He kicked a clod of dirt and advanced on his mission. Too bad the initial 
surveyor had not taken the trouble to peek into a barn. But virgin-world 
investigators were notoriously gun-shy if not outright cowards. They popped in 
and out again in seconds, repeating in scattered locations, then turned their 
automatic cameras and sensors over to the lab for processing in detail while 
they resumed well-paid vacations. The dirty work was left to the second-round 
investigators like Hitch.
Behind the barn were long corrals extending down to a meandering river. That 
would be where the livestock foraged during the day. But the only photograph of 
such an area had evidently been taken of a cleanup session, because human beings 
had been in the pastures instead of animals. Typically blundering surveyor!
No, he had to be fair, even to a first-rounder. The work was risky, because 
there was no way to tell in advance what menaces lurked upon an unprobed 
alternate. The man might land in a cloud of mustard-gas or worse, or in the jaws 
of a carnosaur, and pop back into EP a blistered or bloody hulk. He had to keep 
himself alive long enough for his equipment to function properly, and there was 
no time to poke into such things as barns. Robotic equipment couldn't be used 
because of the peril of having it fall into inimical hands. The first 
investigator of #772 probably had not even been aware of the shortage of 
animals, nor would he have considered it significant. Only the tedious lab 
analysis had showed up the incongruity of this particular world.
Still, that picture was unusual. Maybe it had been a barnyard party, because in 
the foreground had been a splendidly naked woman. The farmers of #772 evidently 
knew how to let off steam, once the hay was in!
Once he got home, he was going to let off steamand this time sweet Io would not 
divert the subject until well after the ellipsis.
He was very near the barn now, but in no hurry. His mission could terminate 
suddenly therein, and natural caution restrained him.
Transfer to #772 had been no problem. A mere opening of the interworld veil, a 
boost through, and Hitch was in the same geographic area of another frame of 
reality. When he finished here, a coded touch on the stud embedded in his skull 
would summon the recovery aperture in seconds, and he would be hooked back 
through. He was in no danger so long as he kept alert enough to anticipate 
trouble by those few seconds. All he had to do was make his investigation and 
get the facts without arousing suspicion or getting into trouble with the 
locals. He was allowed no weapon other than a nondescript knife strapped to his 
ankle, per the usual policy. He agreed; imagine the trouble a lost stunner could 
cause....
So far it had been deceptively simple. He had been landed in a wooded area near 
a fair-sized town, so that his entry had not flabbergasted any happenstance 
observer. That was another fringe benefit of the initial survey: the 
identification of suitable places for more leisurely entry. It wouldn't do to 
find himself superimposed upon a tree!
He had walked into that town and filched a newspaper. The language of #772 
matched that of EP, at least in America, and he read the classified section 
without difficulty. Only the occasional slang terms put him off. Under HELP 
WANTED were a number of ads for livestock attendants. That was what he was here 
for.
No bovines or caprines or equines or porcineswhat did they use?
The gentleman farmer to whom he applied at break of day hadn't even checked his 
faked credentials. Hitch had counted on that; dawn was rush-hour for a farm, and 
an under-staffed outfit could hardly be choosy then. "Excellent! We need an 
experienced man. We have some fine animals here, and we don't like to skimp on 
supervision. We try to take good care of our stock."
Animals, stock. Did they milk chickens or turtles here? "Well," Hitch had said 
with the proper diffidence, "it has been a little while since I worked a farm. 
I've been traveling abroad." That was to forestall challenge of his un-#772 
accent. "Probably take me a day or so to recover the feel of it, to fall back 
into the old routine, you know. But I'll do my best." For the hour or two he was 
here, anyway.
"I understand. I'll give you a schedule for my smallest unit. Fifty head, and 
not a surly one among them. Except perhaps for Iotabut she's in heat. They 
generally do get frisky about that time. No cause for alarm." He brought out a 
pad and began scribbling.
"You know the names of all your animals'?" Hitch hardly cared about that 
inconsequential, but preferred to keep the fanner talking.
The man obliged, smiling with pride as his pencil moved. "All of them. None of 
that absentee ownership hereI run my farm myself. And I assure you every cow I 
own is champion-sired."
Cow? Hitch suspected that the labman who had made the critical report on #772 
had been imbibing the developer fluid. No bovines, indeed! For a damn clerical 
error, he had been sent out
"And if you have any trouble, just call on me," the farmer said, handing him the 
written schedule and a small book. "I'd show you the layout myself, but I'm 
behind on my paperwork."
"Trouble?"
"If an animal gets injuredsometimes they bang against the stalls or slips. Or 
if any equipment malfunctions"
"Oh, of course." Yes, he could see the man was in a hurry. Perfect timing.
It had been too easy. Now Hitch's experienced nose smelled more than manure: 
trouble. It was the quiet missions that were most apt to boomerang.
He glanced at the schedule-paper before he entered the indicated cowshed. The 
handwriting was surprisingly elegant: 1. FEEDING 2. MILKING 3. PASTURE 4. 
CLEANUP... and several tighter lines below. It all seemed perfectly routine. The 
booklet was a detailed manual of instructions for reference when the need arose. 
All quite in order. There were cows in that barn, despite what any half-crocked 
report had said, and he would verify it shortly. Very shortly.
Why, then, did he have such a premonition of disaster?
Hitch shrugged and entered. There was a stifling aroma of backhouse at first, 
but of course this was typical. A cowbarn was the barniest kind of barn. His 
nose began to adapt almost immediately, though the odor was unlike that of the 
unit he had been briefed in. He ceasedalmostto notice it.
He paused just inside the door to let his other senses adapt to the gloom and 
rustle of the balmy interior. He faced a kind of hallway leading deep into the 
barn, lined on either side by stalls. Above the long feeding troughs twin rows 
of heads projected, emerging from the padded slats of the individual 
compartments. They turned to face him expectantly as he approached, making 
gentle, almost human murmurs of anticipation. This morning the herd was hungry, 
naturally; it was already late.
At the far end was the entrance to the "milkshed"an area sealed off from the 
stable by a pair of tight doors. Short halls opened left and right from where he 
stood, putting him at the head of a T configuration. The left offshoot contained 
bags of feed; the other
Hitch blinked, trying to banish the remaining fogginess. For a moment, peering 
down that right-hand passage, he could have sworn he had seen a beautiful, 
black-haired woman staring at him from a stallnaked. A woman very like 
Iolantheexcept that he had never so much as glimpsed Io in the nude.
Ridiculous; his more determined glance showed nothing there. His subconscious 
was playing tricks on him, perking up a dull assignment.
He faced forward with self-conscious determination. The episode, fleeting and 
insubstantial as it had been, had shaken him up, and now it was almost as though 
he had stagefright before the audience of animals.
As his eyes adjusted completely, Hitch felt a paralysis of shock coming over 
him. These were not bovine or caprine snouts greeting him; these were human 
heads. The fair features and lank tresses of healthy young women. Each stood in 
her stall, naked, hands grasping the slats since there was room only for the 
head to poke through. Blondes, brunettes, redheads; tall, petite, voluptuousall 
types were represented. This group, clothed, could have mixed enhancingly into 
any festive Earth-Prime crowd.
Except for two things. First, their bosoms. The breasts were enormous and 
pendulous, in some cases hanging down to waist-level, and quite ample in 
proportion. Hitch was sure no conventional brassiere could confine these melons. 
They were long beyond cosmetic control. It would require a plastic surgeon with 
a sadistic nature to make even a start on the job.
Second, the girls' expressions. They were the blank, amiable stares of idiocy.
Milkers....
For some reason he had a sudden vision of a hive of bees, the workers buzzing in 
and out.
He had seen enough. His hand lifted to the spot on his skull where his hair 
covered the signal-buttonand hesitated as his eye dwelt on the nearest pair of 
mammaries. Certainly he had the solution to the riddle; certainly this alternate 
was not fit for commonwealth status. Quite likely his report would launch a 
planetary police action, for the brutal farming of human beings was intolerable. 
YetThe udderlike extremities quivered gently with the girl's respiration, 
impossibly full. He was attracted and repelled, as the intellectual element 
within him strove to suppress the physical. To put his hand on one of those...
If he left nowwho would feed the hungry cows?
His report could wait half an hour. It would take longer than that for him to 
return to headquarters, even after the aperture had been utilized. Time was not 
short, yet.
Hitch opened the instruction book and read the paragraph on feeding. Water was 
no problem, he learned; it was piped into each cell to be sipped as desired. But 
the food had to be dumped into the trough by hand.
He returned to the storage area and loaded a sack of enriched biscuits onto a 
dolly. He wheeled this into the main hall and used the clean metal scoop to 
ladle out two pounds to each individual. The girls reached eagerly through to 
grasp the morsels, picking them up wholehanded, thumbs not opposed, and chewing 
on the black chunks with gusto. Hitch noticed that they all had strong white 
teeth, but could not determine why they failed to use their thumbs and fingers 
asas thumbs and fingers. Why were they deliberately clumsy? Yes, they were 
healthy animalsand nothing more.
He had to return twice for new bags, keeping his eyes averted from 
theempty?right-hand hall lest his imagination taunt him again. He suspected 
that he was being too generous with the feed, but in due course breakfast had 
been served. He stood back and watched the feast.
The first ones had already finished, and a couple were squatting in the corner 
of their stalls, their bowels evidently stimulated to performance by the 
roughage. His presence did not seem to embarrass them during such intimate acts, 
any more than the presence of the farmer restrained a defecating cow. And these 
cows did seem to be contented. Had they all been lobotomized? He had observed no 
scars....
Idly, he sampled a biscuit. It was tough but not fibrous, and the flavor was 
surprisingly rich. According to the label, virtually every vitamin and mineral 
necessary for animal health and rich milk was contained herein. Only those 
elements copious in pasture foliage were skimped. Rolling the mass over his 
tongue, he could believe it. He wondered what kind of pasture was available for 
such as these; surely they didn't eat grass and leaves. Were there vegetables 
and fruits out there among the salt licks?
Now he had fed the herd. The cows would not suffer if he deserted them, since 
the shift would change before they became really hungry again. He had no reason 
to dawdle longer. He could activate the signal and
Again his hand halted short of the button. Those bobbling teats reminded him of 
the second item on his schedule: milking. He knew that real cows hurt if they 
did not get milked on time. Theseudderslooked overfull already.
Damn it, he hadn't sacrificed his humanity when he obtained his investigator's 
license! The report could wait.
And, a small insidious voice taunted him, there was that vision in the T-hall 
stall. There could be a naked girl in there, obviously. One that did not 
resemble these pendulous cows. Avirginal type... that looked like Iolanthe.
That was the real reason he couldn't press the stud yet. He could not leave 
until he screwed up the courage to check that stallthoroughly.
He reviewed the manual, glad for the moment to revert to routine. It seemed 
there were six milking machines for this wing: suction devices with 
vacuum-adhesive conical receptors. He opened the milking room and trundled one 
machine up to the first milking stand and flipped the switch. It hummed.
He hesitated before undertaking the next step, but the instructions were clear 
and he reminded himself that a job was a job. The prospect, he had to admit, was 
weird but not entirely onerous. He unbolted the first gatethe entire front of 
the stall swung openand approached its occupant cautiously with the milking 
harness.
She was a tall brunette, generous of haunch and hair as well as the obvious. To 
his surprise she stood docilely while he attached the harness: fiber straps 
around neck and midriff and the chest just below the arms, with crosspieces down 
the back and between the breasts. The last was tight because the mammaries hung 
against each other like full wineskins (so it wasn't a contemporary image; 
nothing more apt came to mind) but he got it into place by sawing it through. 
The whole was designed to keep the cow from jumping off the stand or fidgeting 
too far from the milking machine, though Hitch doubted that the harness would 
withstand a determined lunge. These animals were well-trained, and required only 
gentle guidance. He hoped.
He had an unbidden vision of the cow careering about the barn, mooing, he trying 
ineffectively to brake her by clinging to one milk-slick protuberance. No!
He fastened the clasps and led her to the stand. This was a padded ramp with a 
cutaway in the center for the bulk of the milking machine and hooks for the 
termini of the harness. The girl mounted it without instruction and placed her 
two hands knuckle-down on the front section and her knees on the back, so that 
she straddled the machine. Her breasts depended enormously, reaching down just 
beyond her elbows. The brown nipples were tremendous, and Hitch observed flecks 
of white on them, as though the very weight of milk were forcing the first 
squirts out.
He brought up one milker-cup and placed it over her right breast. It was shaped 
to accommodate the expanded nipple in the center, with a special circular flange 
of flexible rubber. The outer cone adhered by suction, its slightly moist 
perimeter making the seal perfect. He attached the left cup, turned the dial to 
MILK and stood back to watch the proceedings.
The feeder-cones covered only the lowermost surface of each breast, though they 
would have engulfed the architecture of a normal woman. They seemed to be 
efficient, regardless; the machine generated bursts of shaped suction that 
extracted the fluid quickly and cleanly. He could see the white of it passing 
through the transparent tubing, and hear the squirts of it striking the bottom 
of the covered pail as the breasts jumped to alternating vacuum. One-two! 
One-two! the rhythm was compelling, the pulsing whiteness suggestive of an 
interminable seminal ejaculation.
It's only milk! he reminded himself. But, unbidden, his erogenous zones were 
responding.
The girl masticated a chunk of hard cracker she had preserved, cudlike, in her 
cheek and waited with a half-smile. She was used to this, and glad to be 
relieved of the night's accumulation.
Only forty-nine to go! He left her there and proceeded to the next with 
considerably enhanced confidence. Cows were cows, after all, whatever their 
physical form.
By the time he had the sixth stand occupied, the first cow was done. He unhooked 
the brunette, whose bosom was now sadly slack, led her to the door in the far 
side of the milk room, and removed the halter. The front center strap came away 
from between dangling ribbons of flesh. How much had she been good for? Two 
quarts? A gallon? He had no idea of the prevailing standards, but presumed she 
was an adequate milker. She skipped outside with a happy twinkle of buttocks, 
her hair flouncing. From this viewpoint, beautiful.
Before he closed the door he observed that there were great piles of apples and 
carrots and what looked like unshelled peanuts in the yard. The girl was already 
scattering them about, not yet hungry enough to do more than play with her food. 
And there were salt-licks, down beside the stream.
The following hour was hectic. It took him, once he got the hang of it, about 
thirty seconds to place each cow and attach the milker, and about fifteen 
seconds to turn her loose again once drained. But more time was required for 
those farthest from the milk room, and every five cows he had to replace each 
machine's weighty bucket. As a result he was kept hopping, and the attention he 
spared for each individual became quite perfunctory. Dairy farming was hard 
work!
Sweat rolled down his nose as he placed the final capped bucket on the conveyor 
leading to the processing section of the barn and put the hoses and cups into 
the automatic washer/sterilizer. Milking was done, the stock pasturedlast time 
he had looked, they were roughhousing amid peanut shells and splashing in the 
shallow riverand he could go home with a clear conscience. Whatever pay Hitch 
had earned so far in this world the owner could keep, courtesy of Earth-Prime. 
The man would need all his resources, when the EP police action commenced!
Whom was he fooling? He wasn't even close to making the return trip to 
Earth-Prime. He still had that stall to check. If there were a woman there, and 
if she did resemble Iolanthewell, this was an alternate world. Many, perhaps 
most of its people could be identical or very similar to those of Earth. There 
could be an Iolanthe here!
Perhaps one more available than his own...
He closed his mind to the thought again, not caring to face its ramifications 
all at once. Anyway, there were concrete, mission-inspired reasons for him to 
remain here longer. For one thing, these milkers were obviously virtually 
mindless, rendered so by what means he could not tell. But they could not have 
freshened so voluminously without first having been bred. That meant calving, 
and not so very long agoand what had happened to the babies?
Naturally his report would not be complete without this information. This was 
too blatant a situation to investigate casually. He had almost come to think of 
human beings as animals, during the rush of the milking, but of course they were 
not. This barn represented the most serious breach of human rights ever 
encountered in the alternate worlds, and it wasn't even in the name of war or 
racism. These were Caucasian animalsgirls! he reminded himself furiously. How 
great was the total degradation of liberty, worldwide? Were there Negro and 
Mongol cows, or were other races used for brute-work or sport or... meat?
He had to discover much more, but he could not break loose and wander around the 
rest of the barn without a pretext. That would attract attention to himself all 
too quickly. And he did not want to poke into the right wing... yet. He would 
have to continue his chores in a routine mannerand keep his eyes and ears wide 
open until he learned it all.
Next on the schedule was cleanup. He read the manual and discovered that this 
was not as bad as it might have been. The girls were naturally fastidious, and 
deposited their intestinal refuse in sumps provided in the corner of each stall. 
He had merely to activate the section fertilizer pump and flush each residue 
down its pipe, checking to make sure that no units were clogged. The smell from 
the vents was not sweet, but no direct handling was required.
Theoretically, however, he was supposed to check first to make sure the manure 
was well-formed and of the proper color, consistency and effluvium, since 
nonconformity was an early signal of illness. If suspicious, he was also to 
probe for worms or bloodclots before flushing a given deposit. There was a 
special pan and spreader fork for this purpose. Nevertheless he ignored this 
instruction and flushed each sump without looking or sniffing closely. There 
were limits.
"Duty ends where my nose begins," he muttered.
He completed the cleanup circuit and could no longer avoid the problem of the T 
offshoot. Now that the main stable was empty, he could hear sounds from this 
wing. It was occupied! Anxiously he reviewed his schedule. The facts were there, 
obvious the moment he chose to look. The occupants of this section were special 
cases: items to take care of after the routine chores were accomplished.
He set himself and approached the wing. There could be an Iolanthe herea stupid 
one.
To his relief and regret, the first stall contained a sick cow. She lay on a 
pallet along the side of the stall, a shapely blonde whose mammaries had 
diminished to merely voluptuous stature. He could tell they had shrunk because 
there were stretch-marks on them defining the grandeur that had been. Yet at 
this moment her bustline would have strained an EP tape measure.
There was a note that she had to be milked by hand, so as not to contaminate the 
equipment (even through sterilization? fussy, fussy!), and the milk disposed of. 
She would be tapered off entirely, then bred again when fully recovered. Her 
temperature had to be checked to make sure her fever remained down. Her name was 
Flora.
He had not paid attention to the names until now, though they were printed on 
the crosspiece of each gate. His ignorance had facilitated impersonality and 
blunted the horror of this monstrous barn. Now
Hitch peered through the slats and surveyed this new problem. Milk her by hand? 
Take her temperature? That meant far more intimate contact than hitherto. He 
delved into the manual. Yes, the procedures were there...
Well, one thing at a time. He entered the pen with a small open bucket. "Up, 
Flora," he said briskly.
She looked at him with a disturbing but illusory semblance of intelligence, but 
did not move her torso. Damn the humanization wrought by knowledge of her name! 
He simply could not think of her any longer as an animal.
"Flora, I have to milk you," he explained. The anomaly of it struck him afresh, 
and he wondered whether he should not get out of this world right away.
No, not yet. He would never be satisfied if he left without verifying that 
vision of Io.
Flora continued to lie there on her side, one leg pulled up. Her hair fell 
across her face and curled over one outstretched arm, and he noticed how neatly 
it matched the hue of her pubic region.
He looked in the book again. "Milking a supine cow by hand..." the instructions 
began. Nothing like a complete manual!
He propped the bucket under the upper nipple and took Flora's breast in both 
hands. The feel of it gave him an immediate erection, despite everything he had 
seen during the mass-milking. It seemed he had been sight-anesthetized but not 
touch-anesthetized; or perhaps it was the fact that this was a true breast by 
his definitions rather than a gross udder, despite the stretch-marks. Or maybe 
it was simply the name. Had he known any blondes called Flora?
Was there a black-haired cow named Iolanthe?
In the line of duty...
He centered the nipple and squeezed. Nothing happened. He tried again, more 
positively, and succeeded in producing a translucent driblet. One milked a 
bovine-cow by squeezing the neck of the teat shut and applying more gentle 
pressure with the remainder of the hand so that the milk had only one exit, but 
the human breast was structured differently. It took him several tries to 
accomplish anything substantial and he was afraid it was rough on her, but Flora 
did not move or make any sign. Once he took hold too far back and feared he had 
bruised one of the internal glands, but she merely watched him with sad gray 
eyes.
The job was inexpert and messy, but he managed to get several ounces into the 
bucket and probably several more on the two of them and the floor. It didn't 
matter; the point was to relieve the pressure, not to extract every tantalizing 
drop. Why don't I just put my mouth on it and suck it out? he thought wickedly. 
Who would know? But he remembered that the milk was supposed to be bad.
He poured the hard-won liquid down the disposal sump, flushed it, and tackled 
the nether breast.
"What have they done to you?" he asked rhetorically as he worked. "What makes 
you allpardon the expressionso stupid? No woman on my planet would tolerate 
what I'm doing to you now." But he wondered about that as he said it; probably 
there were some types who
Flora opened her mouth and he thought for a horrifying moment she was going to 
reply, but it was only a yawn. There was something funny about her tongue.
Now he had to take her temperature. The book cautioned him to insert the 
thermometer rectally, because the normal animal was apt to bite anything placed 
in her mouth. As if he hadn't done enough already! He had pulled some weird 
stunts as an interworld investigator, but this was breaking the record.
Still, she was ill, or had been, and it would be neglectful to skip the 
temperature. It had been neglectful to skip the feces inspection, too, he 
thought, but somehow it was different now. Morepersonal.
"Over, Flora," he said. "I can't get at you from this angle." He opened the 
supply box nailed to a wooden beam and found the thermometer: a rounded plastic 
tube about half an inch in diameter, eight inches long, with a handle and gauge 
on the end. The type of rugged instrument, in short, one would use on an 
animala patient that might squirm during intromission. There was a blob of 
yellowish grease on the business end.
When she still did not respond, he set the thermometer carefully in the feeding 
trough and tried to haul her about by hand. He grasped her around the middle and 
hefted. Her slim midsection came up and her well-fleshed leg straightened, but 
that was all. She was too heavy to juggle when uncooperative. He eased her down, 
leaving her prone on the pallet. It would have to do. At least the target was 
approachable, instead of aimed at the wall.
He recovered the thermometer and squatted beside her. With the fingers of his 
free hand he pried apart the fleshy buttocks, searching for the anus. It didn't 
work very well; her hindquarters were generous, and her position squeezed the 
mounds together. He succeeded only in changing the configuration of the crevice. 
He could probably open the spot to view by using both hands, but then would not 
be able to insert the thermometer. Finally he flattened one buttock with his 
left hand and guided the tip of the instrument along the crack with his right, 
leaving a slug-trail of grease. When he judged he was in the right area, he 
pushed, hoping the slant was correct.
There was resistance, she squirmed, and the rounded point jogged over and sank 
in. He was surprised at the ease with which it penetrated, after the prior 
difficulties. He let the stem shift until the angle was about ninety degrees and 
depressed it until he estimated that the tip was a couple of inches deep beyond 
the sphincter. He readjusted himself and settled down for the prescribed two 
minutes.
God, he thought while he waited. What was he doing in this stable, with a naked 
buxom woman stretched out, he straddling her thighs and his clammy hand on her 
rear and jamming a rod up her rectum? His own member was so stiff it was 
painful.
To have you like this, Ioyour dainty, chaste, aseptic little ass
The seconds stretched out, incredibly long. He wondered whether his watch had 
stopped, but heard it still ticking. What would he tell the boys, in the next 
post-mission (post emission?) bull-session? That he had been milking cows? 
Surely they would laugh off the truth. Truth was a fleshy buttock and a dizzy 
feeling.
The time, somehow, was almost up, and he began to ease out the thermometer. At 
that point she moved again, perhaps in response to the withdrawal, climbing to 
her knees with her head still down. He had to follow quickly to prevent the tube 
from ramming too far inside, and almost lost his balance. But the new position 
flung open her buttocks and revealed to him the thermometer's actual point of 
entry.
Not the anus. Well, it probably didn't make any difference. The temperature 
couldn't vary that much between adjacent apertures. Carefully he drew the length 
of plastic out and checked the gauge. It reached the "normal" marker exactly.
"Flora, you're mending," he announced with his best bedside manner, averting his 
gaze from the intriguing view presented. "You'll be spry again in no time."
Perhaps it was the pseudo-confident tone. She rolled over, her breasts creased 
from the pallet, and smiled. He retreated into the passage and ladled out a 
pound of the special sick-animal crackers. It had been rough, for more reasons 
than he cared to think about.
The next occupied pen was going to be worse. It was the one in which he had 
seenthe girl. The one he had avoided until this moment. The one that fastened 
him to this world.
There could be an Iolanthe here.
He peered at the instructions before taking the plunge. This cow was in heat, 
and had to be conducted to the bull for mating. The handbook had, he discovered, 
a sketch of the barn's floor-plan, so he knew where to take her. "It is 
important that copulation be witnessed," the book said sternly, "and the precise 
time of connection noted, so that the bull can be properly paced."
Hitch took the last step and looked in, his pulses driving. It was not Iolanthe.
Just like that the bubble burst. Of course it wasn't Io. He had seen a 
black-haired girl in poor light, and his mind had been on the black-haired girl 
he knew at home, and the similarity of nameshis stiff member had pinned the 
image to the desire.
This was a yearlingif that were the proper description. In human terms, about 
sixteen years old and never bred before. Her breasts were slight and firm, her 
haunches slender but well-formed, her movements animate. She paced nervously 
about the pen, uttering faint squeals of impatience. Her glossy hair flung out, 
whipping around her torso when she turned. She was, if not Iolanthe, still a 
strikingly attractive specimen by his definitions, perhaps because of her fire. 
The others had been, comparativelycows.
Naturally a woman in heat would have sex appeal. That was what the condition was 
for. Mating.
Her name, of course, was Iota. The farmer had mentioned her specifically, and 
Hitch had made the connection, at least subconsciously, the instant he saw her 
first. "All right, Iota, time for an experience you'll never forget," he said.
She spun to face him, black pupils seeming to flare. Then with a bound she was 
glued to the slats, her high young mammaries poking through conically. Her 
breath was rapid as she reached for him. Could she, could she be
A younger edition of Iolanthe?
Some interworld parallels were exact, others inexact, Iolanthe, Iotaboth Io, as 
though they were sisters or more than sisters. Iolanthe might have looked like 
this at sixteen.
Ridiculous! It was just a mental phenomenon, a thing anchored to his yearning. A 
thousand, a million girls looked like this at this age.
He had a task to do. He would do it.
"Easy, girl. Stand back so I can open the gate. You and I are going to the 
bull-pen."
As if in answer, she flung herself back and watched him alertly from the far 
side. He unlatched the gatestrange that these girls were all so dull they could 
not work these simple fastenings themselves, even after seeing it done 
repeatedlyand stepped inside with the halter.
Immediately she was on him, her lithe body pressed against his front, her arms 
clasped about his chest, her pelvis jerking against his crotch in an 
unmistakable gesture. She was in heat, all rightand she figured him for the 
bull!
And he was tempted, as her motions provided a most specific physical 
stimulation. Recent events had heightened his awareness of his own masculinity, 
to phrase it euphemistically. What difference would it make, to the owner, 
exactly who bred her? All they wanted was the milk when she freshened. And this 
whole foul system would be thrown out when the Earth-Prime troopscorrection, 
law & order expediterscame. The chances were she would never become a milker 
anyway.
He looked into her eyes and read the mindless lust. Never had he perceived such 
graphic yearning in a woman. She had no brain, only a hungry pudendum.
She was, after all, an animal, not a human being. Fornication with her would be 
tantamount to bestiality, and the concept repelled him even as his member 
throbbed in response to the urgent pressure of her vulva.
"Get away from me!" he cried, shoving her roughly aside. God! They had even 
reduced women to animal cycles, in lieu of human periodicity. To control 
freshening, no doubt, and forestall restlessness at inconvenient times. There 
would be no mooning in the absence of male company, this way, except for those 
few days when the repressed sexuality of a year or more was triggered.
She hunched against the wall, tears coming. He saw that her emotions were human, 
though her mind was not. She felt rejection as keenly as anyone, but lacked the 
sophistication to control or conceal her reaction.
He had been too harsh with her. "Take it easy, Iota. I didn't mean to yell at 
you. I wasn't yelling at you!" Nohe had been shouting across the worlds at 
Iolanthe, who had teased him similarly for so long. Arousing the urge, but 
unavailable for the gratification. The difference was that this time he had 
called it off. Taking out his suppressions on this innocent wanton who could not 
know what drove him.
She peered at him uncertainly, her face bearing the sheen of smeared tears. He 
lifted the harness and shook it. "I have to put this on you and take you to the 
bull. That's all. Do you understand?"
Still she hesitated. How could she understand? She was an animal. The tone of 
his voice was all she followed.
Or was it?
The animals here were incredibly stupid, considering their human origin. 
Obviously they had been somehow bludgeoned into this passivity. Drugs, 
perhapsthe biscuits could contain a potent mix. Probably most of the subjects 
finally gave up thinking; it was easier just to go along. But what of a young 
one? Her metabolism might have greater resource, particularly when she was ready 
to mate. To be in heatit was the animal way to be in potent sexual love. 
Powerful juices there, very powerful. Counteractants?
But more: suppose an individual succeeded for a time in throwing off the 
mind-suppressant? Started protesting?
What was the reply of any tyranny to insurrection? The smart cow would keep her 
mouth shut, at least in the barn. She would conform. Her life depended on it.
Iota might not be stupid at all. She might be doing exactly what was expected of 
her. Concealing her awareness.
She was still damned attractive in her primeval way.
She had been watching him with that preternatural alertness of hers, and now she 
approached him again, cautiously.
He set the harness over her shoulders and reached around her body to fasten the 
straps. "Can you talk?" he whispered into her ear, afraid of being overheard. He 
doubted there were hidden mikesthat would not be economically feasible for a 
retarded technology like thisbut other farmhands could be in the area.
She lifted her arms to facilitate the tightening of the clasps. A thick strand 
of hair curved around her left shoulder and the inside arc of her left breast. 
She was not as scantily endowed as he had thought at first; he had merely become 
acclimatized to the monstrosities of the milkers. She was clean, too, except for 
the feet, and there was an alluring woman-smell about her.
"Can you talk, Iota!" he whispered more urgently. "Maybe I can help you."
She perked up at the sound of her name. Her breathing became rapid again. She 
rested her forearms against his shoulders and looked into his face. Her eyes 
were large, the irises black in this light. But she did not smile or speak.
"You can trust me, Iota," he said. "Just give me some sign. Some evidence that 
you're not"
She closed her arms gently around his neck and drew him in to her. Again her 
breasts touched him; again her hips nudged his groin. The woman-smell became 
stronger.
Was she trying to show him that she comprehended, or was it merely a more 
careful sexual offering?
What difference did it make?
He had fastened the straps long since, but his arms were still about her. He 
slid his hands across her smooth back, down to the slight indentations above her 
buttocks. She responded, putting increasing pressure against him.
What the hell.
Hitch looked about. There was no one in the stable, apart from the cows in the 
special stalls. He tightened his embrace and carried her upright into her own 
compartment. "You want to get bred, OK," he muttered.
He put her down in the straw. She yielded to his directions, eager to oblige. He 
kneeled between her spread legs, released his belt and opened his trousers, 
watching her. Then, unable to restrain himself any longer, he put his left hand 
on her cleft to work the labia apart. The entire area was slick and hot. He 
transferred the hand to his own loin, supporting the weight of his body with the 
other hand as he descended, and guided himself down the burning crevice and in. 
He was reminded strikingly of the manner he had placed the thermometer not long 
ago. There didn't seem to be any hymen.
He spread himself upon her, embedded to the hilt. He tried to kiss her, but the 
position was wrong and she didn't seem to understand. What opportunity would she 
have had to learn about kissing?
He had expected an immediate and explosive climax, but was disappointed. Iota 
had a dismayingly capacious vaginal tract; he could neither plumb the well to 
its depth nor find purchase at its rim. He realized belatedly that cows would 
naturally be selected for ready breeding and birthing. Entry had been too easy; 
there was no internal resistance, no friction.
After all his buildup, he couldn't come. It was like dancing alone in a spacious 
ballroom.
She lay there passively, waiting for him to proceed.
Angry, now, he pulled back, plunged, withdrew and plunged again, his sword 
impaling only phantoms.
And felt his weapon growing flaccid. "Bitch," he said.
But it was the bovine, not the canine, image that had unmanned him. It just 
wasn't in him to fornicate with a placid, mindless cow.
She looked up at him reproachfully as he disengaged and covered up, but he was 
too disturbed to care. "Get up, animal. You want bull, you'll get bull."
She stood up and he took hold of the harness leash and jerked her forward. 
"Move," he said firmly, and she moved. There was, it seemed, a trick to handling 
animals, and he had mastered it out of necessity. He was becoming an experienced 
farmer.
They traveled down long dim corridors to the bullpen, she tugging eagerly at the 
leash and seeking to poke into side passages. She had forgotten the frustration 
of the recent episode already. Obviously she had never been in this section of 
the barn before, and curiosity had not been entirely suppressed along with 
intelligence. She was stupid, of course; otherwise he would not have failed with 
her.
He didn't know much about lobotomy, but this didn't seem like it. Yet what 
technique...?
The bull was a giant of a man, full-bearded and hirsute. His feet and hands were 
crusted with calluses, and there was dirt on his belly. His tremendous penis 
hoisted, derricklike, the moment he winded Iota, and he hurled himself around 
his large pen. Only the stout double harness and chained collar that bound him 
to the far rail inhibited his savage lunges. He stank of urine.
Hitch loosed Iota and shoved her into the pen. He was anxious to have the bull 
cover up any guilty traces of his own abortive gesture.
She was abruptly hesitant, standing just beyond the range of the man-monster 
that reared and chafed and bellowed to get at her and bucked awesomely with his 
tumescence. She wasn't afraid of him, though his mass was easily twice hers; she 
was merely uncertain how to proceed in the face of so much meat.
She made as if to step forward, then withdrew. She was trying to flirt! Hitch 
found quick sympathy for the bull, allied with his own apprehension. "You 
idiotic tease, get over there!" he cried at her.
Startled, she did.
The bull reached out and grabbed her by one shoulder, employing the same 
five-fingered mitten-grip Hitch had observed with the cows. Iota spun under the 
force of it, thrown off-balance, and the bull caught at her opposite hip and 
hauled her to his chest backwards. He clubbed her so that she doubled over and 
rammed his spurting organ into her narrow cleft, thrusting again and again so 
fiercely that her abdomen bowed out with each lunge.
That was the treatment she had been waiting for! She hadn't even been aware of 
Hitch's effort, thinking it only the preliminary inspection.
Then Iota tumbled to the floor, stunned by the impact of the courtship but 
hardly miserable. She was in heat, after all. and now that she had found out 
what it was all about, she liked it. She lay on her back in the soiled straw, 
smiling, legs lifted, though Hitch was sure she would suffer shortly from 
terrible bruises inside and out. What a performance!
The beast was on her again, this time from the front, biting at her breasts 
while trying to get into position for another assault. His organ glistened 
moistly, still erect.
"Get that heifer out of there!" someone shouted, and Hitch started. It was 
another farmhand. "Want to sap our best stud?"
Hitch ran out into the pen, wary of the bull, and caught hold of one of Iota's 
blissfully outstretched arms. It was obvious that she would happily absorb all 
the punishment the creature chose to deliver. A festoon of white goo stretched 
downward from the bull's penis as he made a last attempt at the vanishing 
target. Then Hitch hauled Iota across the floor until they were entirely out of 
range of the monster and stood her on her feet. She was still dazed as he 
reharnessed her, not even wincing as the strap chafed across the deep toothmarks 
on her breast.
The other farmhand glanced at him as they trooped by, but did not say anything. 
Just as well.
About halfway back, Hitch remembered that he had forgotten to post the time of 
service on the bull's chart. He decided not to risk further embarrassment by 
returning for that errand. The bull seemed to have sufficient pep to go around, 
anyway.
Iota was dreamily contented as he returned her to her stall, though there was a 
driblet of gluey blood on one leg. Apparently there had been a hymen... Well, 
she was out of heat now, she wasn't a virgin heifer any more!
There was trouble in the final stall. He had been so occupied with the prior 
chores on the schedule that he hadn't bothered to read ahead, and now he 
regretted it. He had just witnessed, per instructions, a copulation, and it was 
as though gestation had occurred in minutes. This next cow was delivering!
She lay on her side, legs pulled up, whimpering as her body strained. There was 
something funny about her tongue too, as it projected between her teeth. Was 
there a physical reason these animals never spoke? The head of the calf had 
already emerged, its hair brown like that of the mother. Hitch had thought all 
babies were bald. All human babies...
Should he summon help? He was no obstetrician!
But then he would have to explain why he hadn't notified anyone earlier, and he 
had no excuse apart from carelessness and personal concupiscence. Better to 
stick with it himself.
Odd, he thought, how one could become committed against his intention. This 
laboring cow was not really his problem, and she belonged literally to another 
world, yet he had to do what he could for her. The activities of this brutal 
barn were as important to him at this moment as anything he could remember. Even 
its most repulsive aspects fascinated him. It represented a direct personal 
challenge as well as an intellectual one. Iota
As the cow struggled to force out the massive bundle, Hitch skimmed nervously 
through the manual. Goodthe stock was generally hardy, and seldom required more 
than nominal supervision during parturition. Signs of trouble? No, none of the 
alarm signals itemized were evident. This was a normal delivery.
But the text stressed the importance of removing the new-birthed calf 
immediately and taking it to the nursery for proper processing. The mother was 
not supposed to have any opportunity to lick it down, suckle it or develop any 
attachment.
And how about the father? How about any observer with a trace of human feeling? 
It was as though he had impregnated a cow, and now his offspring was being 
manifested. He had failed with Iolanthe, he had failed with Iota, but he still 
had something to prove. Something to salvage from this disaster of a world.
The cow heaved again, and more of the balled-up calf emerged. There was blood 
soaking into the pallet, but the manual assured him callously that this was 
normal. He wanted to do something, but he knew that his best bet was 
noninterference. He was sure now that a human woman could not have given birth 
so readily without anesthetic or medication. In some ways the animals were 
fortunate, not that it justified any part of this. That large, loose vagina
"What's going on here?"
Hitch jumped again. The voice behind him was that of the owner! For an 
experienced investigator, he had been inexcusably careless about his 
observations. Twice now, men had come upon him by surprise.
"She's birthing," he said. "Routine, so I didn't"
"In the nightstall?" the man demanded angrily, his white hair seeming to stand 
on end. It was the way he combed it, Hitch decided irrelevantly. "On a bare 
pallet?"
Oopshe must have missed a paragraph. "I told you it's been a while since Ithe 
other farm didn't have separate places to"
"That farm was in violation of the law, not to mention the policies of 
compassionate procedure." The owner was already inside the stall and squatting 
down beside the laboring cow. "It was a mistake, Esmeralda," he said soothingly. 
"I never meant to put you through this here. I had a special delivery-booth for 
you, with fresh clean straw and padded walls..." He stroked her hair and patted 
her shoulder, and the animal relaxed a little. Obviously she recognized the 
gentle master. Probably he came by the stables periodically to encourage the 
beasts and grant them lumps of sugar. "In just a moment I'll give you a shot to 
ease the pain, but not just yet. It will make you sleepy, and we have to finish 
this job first. You've been very good. You're one of my best. It's all right 
now, dear."
Hitch realized with a peculiar mixture of emotions that it wasn't all acting. 
The farmer really did care about the comfort and welfare of his animals. Hitch 
had somehow assumed that brutality was the inevitable concomitant of the 
degradation of human beings. But actually he had seen no harshness; this entire 
barn was set up for the maximum creature comfort compatible with efficiency, 
with this backward technology. Had he misjudged the situation?
Under the owner's sure guidance the calving was quickly completed. The man 
lifted the infanta femaleand spanked her into awareness before cutting and 
tying off the umbilical cord. He wrapped her in a towel that materialized from 
somewhere and stood up. "Here," he said to Hitch, "take it to the nursery."
Hitch found himself with babe in arms.
"All right, Esme," the owner said to the cow, his voice low and friendly. "Let's 
take care of that afterbirth. HereI'll give you that shot I promised. It only 
stings for a second. Hold stillthere. You'll feel much better soon. Just relax, 
and in a moment you'll be asleep. In a few days you'll be back with the herd 
where you belong, the finest milker of them all." He looked up and spied Hitch 
still standing there. "Get moving, man! Do you want her to see it?"
Hitch got moving. He did not feel at all comfortable carrying the baby, for all 
his determination of a moment ago to help it in some way, but that was the least 
of it. Its cries, never very loud (did they breed for that, too?), had subsided 
almost immediately as it felt the supposed comfort of human arms, and probably 
that was fortunate because otherwise the mother would have been attracted to the 
sound. But this removal of the baby so quickly from its parent, so that it could 
never know a true familyhow could that be tolerated? Yet he was cooperating, 
carrying it down the dusky passages to the nursery.
The fact that he had witnessed its arrival did not make him responsible for it, 
technicallybut the baby had, in more than a manner of speaking, been given into 
his charge. His prior mood returned, intensified; he did feel responsible.
"I'll take care of you, little girl," he said inanely. "I'll keep you safe. 
I'll"
He was talking like a hypocrite. There was very little he could do for this baby 
except put it in the nursery. He didn't know the first thing about child care. 
Andhe was no longer entirely certain that he should do anything specific if he 
had the opportunity.
He had been ready to condemn this entire world out of hand, but in the face of 
this last development he wasn't sure, oddly. This breeding and milking of human 
beings was shockingbut was it actually evil? The preliminary report had 
remarked on the strange peacefulness of this alternate Earth: computer analysis 
suggested that there was no war here, and had not been for some time. That was 
another riddle of #772. Was it because those who ruled it were compassionate 
men, despite the barbarity of their regime?
Which was better: to have a society peacefully unified by a true segregation of 
functionsmen-men vs animal-menor to have every person born to contend so 
selfishly for the privileges of humanity that all succeeded only in being worse 
than animals? Earth-Prime remained in serious jeopardy of self-extermination; 
was that the preferred system to impose on all the alternate Earths too?
#772 did have its positive side. Economically it functioned well, and it would 
probably never have runaway inflation or population increase or class warfare. 
Could it be that with the breakup of the family system, the human rights and 
dignities system, the all-men-are-created-equal systemcould it be that this was 
the true key to permanent worldwide peace?
He had not seen a single discontented cow.
By taking this baby from its mother and conveying it to the impersonal nursery, 
was he in fact doing it the greatest favor of its existence?
He wondered.
The nursery caught him by surprise. It was a cool quiet area more like a 
laboratory than the playroom he had anticipated. A series of opaque tanks lined 
the hall. As he passed between them he heard a faint noise, like that of an 
infant crying in a confined space, and the baby in his arms heard it and came 
alive loudly.
Hitch felt suddenly uneasy, but he took the squalling bundle hastily up to the 
archaically garbed matron at a central desk. "This is Esmeralda's offspring," he 
said.
"I don't recognize you," the woman said, glowering at him. Epitome of 
gradeschool disciplinarian. He almost flinched.
"I'm a new man, just hired this morning. The boss is in with the mother now. He 
said to"
"Boss? What nonsense is this?"
Hitch paused, nonplussed, before he realized that he had run afoul of another 
slang expression. This one evidently hadn't carried over into #772. "The owner, 
the man who"
"Very well," she snapped. "Let me see it."
She took the bundle, put it unceremoniously on the desk, and unwrapped it. She 
probed the genital area with a harsh finger, ignoring the baby's screams. This 
time Hitch did flinch. "Female. Good. No abnormalities. Males are such a waste."
"A waste? Why?"
She unrolled a strip of something like masking tape and tore it off. She grasped 
one of the baby's tiny hands. "Haven't you worked in a barn before? You can't 
get milk from a bull."
Obviously not. But a good bull did have his function, as Iota's experience had 
shown. Hitch watched the woman tape the miniature thumb and fingers together, 
forming a bandage resembling a stiff mitten, and something unpleasant clicked. 
Hands so bound in infancy could not function normally in later life; certain 
essential muscles would atrophy and certain nerves would fail to develop. It was 
said by some that man owed his intelligence to the use of his opposable thumb...
"I haven't been involved with this end of it," he explained somewhat lamely. 
"What happens to the males?"
"We have to kill them, of course, except for the few we geld for manual labor." 
She had finished taping the hands; now she had a bright scalpel poised just 
above the little face.
Hitch assumed she was going to cut the tape away or take a sample of hair. He 
wasn't really thinking about it, since he was still trying to digest what he had 
just learned. Slaughter of almost all males born here...
She hooked thumb and forefinger into the baby's cheeks, forcing its mouth open 
uncomfortably. The knife came down, entered the mouth, probed beneath the tongue 
before Hitch could protest. Suddenly the screams were horrible.
Hitch watched, paralyzed, as bubbling blood overflowed the tiny lip. "What?"
"Wouldn't want it to grow up talking," she said. "Amazing how much trouble one 
little cut can save. Now take this calf down to tank seven."
"I don't" There was too much to grapple with. They cut the tongues so that 
speech would be impossible? There went another bastion of intelligence, 
ruthlessly excised.
With the best intentions, he had delivered his charge into this enormity. He 
felt ill.
The matron sighed impatiently. "That's right, you're new here. Very well. I'll 
show you so you'll know next time. Make sure you get it straight. I'm too busy 
to tell you twice."
Too busy mutilating innocent babies? But he did not speak. It was as though his 
own tongue had felt the blade.
She took the baby down to tank seven, ignoring the red droplets that trailed 
behind, and lifted the lid. The container was about half full of liquid, and a 
harness dangled from one side. She pinned the baby in the crook of one elbow and 
fitted the little arms, legs and head into the loops and tightened the 
fastenings so that the head was firmly out of the fluid. Some of it splashed on 
Hitch when she immersed the infant, and he discovered that it was some kind of 
thin oil, luke-warm.
The baby screamed and thrashed, afraid of the dark interior or perhaps bruised 
by the crude straps, but only succeeded in frothing redly and making a few small 
splashes with its bound hands. The harness held it secure and helpless.
The matron lowered the lid, checking to make sure the breathing vents were 
clear, and the pitiful cries were muted.
Hitch fumbled numbly for words. "Youwhat's that for? It"
"It is important that the environment be controlled," the woman explained 
curtly. "No unnecessary tactile, auditory or visual stimulation for the first 
six months. Then they get too big for the tanks, so we put them in the dark 
cells. The first three years are critical; after that it's fairly safe to 
exercise them, though we generally wait another year to be certain. And we keep 
the protein down until six; then we increase the dose because we want them to 
grow."
"II don't understand." But he did, horribly. In his mind the incongruous but 
too-relevant picture of a bee-hive returned, the worker-bees growing in their 
tight hexagonal cells. His intuition, when he first saw the cows, had been sure.
"Don't you know anything? Protein is the chief brain food. Most of the brain 
develops in the first few years, so we have to watch their diet closely. Too 
little, and they're too stupid to follow simple commands; too much, and they're 
too smart. We raise good cows here; we have excellent quality control."
Hitch looked at the rows of isolation tanks: quality control. What could he say? 
He knew that severe dietary deficiencies in infancy and childhood could 
permanently warp a person's mental, physical and emotional development. Like the 
bees of the hive, the members of the human society could not achieve their full 
potential unless they had the proper care in infancy. Those bees scheduled to be 
workers were raised on specially deficient honey, and became sexless, blunted 
insects. The few selected to be queens were given royal jelly and extra 
attention, and developed into completely formed insects. Bees did not specialize 
in high intelligence, so the restriction was physical and sexual. With human 
beings, it would hit the human specialization: the brain. With proper guidance, 
the body might recover almost completely from early protein deprivation, but 
never the mind.
EP had researched this in order to foster larger, brighter, healthier children 
and adults. #772 used the same information to deliberately convert women to 
cows. No drugs were required, or surgical lobotomy. And there was no hope that 
any individual could preserve or recover full intelligence, with such a lifelong 
regime. No wonder he had gotten nowhere with Iota!
He heard the babies wailing. What price, peace?
"And," he said as she turned away, "and any of these calves could grow up to be 
as intelligent and lively as we are, if raised properly?"
"They could. But that's against the law, and of course such misfits wouldn't be 
successful as milkers. They're really quite well off here; we take good care of 
our own. We're very fortunate to have developed this system. Can you imagine 
using actual filthy beasts for farming?"
And he had milked those placid cows and had his round with Iota...
He left her, sick in body and spirit as he passed by the wailing tanks. In each 
was a human baby crying out its heritage in a mind-stifling environment, 
deprived of that stimulation and response essential to normal development, 
systematically malnourished. No health, no comfort, no futurebecause each had 
been born in the barn. In the barn.
He could do nothing about it, short-range. If he ran amok amid the tanks, as he 
was momentarily inclined to, what would he accomplish except the execution of 
babies? And this was only one barn of perhaps millions. Noit would take 
generations to undo the damage wrought here.
He paused as he passed tank #7, hearing a cry already poignant. The baby he had 
carried here, in his naivete. Esmeralda's child. The responsibility he had 
abrogated. The final and most terrible failure.
A newborn personality, bound and bloody in the dark, never to know true freedom, 
doomed to a lifelong waking nightmare... until the contentment of idiocy took 
over.
Suddenly Hitch understood what Iolanthe meant by integrity of purpose over and 
above the standards of any single world. There were limits beyond which personal 
ambition and duty became meaningless.
He stepped up to the tank and lifted the lid. The cries became loud. He clapped 
his free hand to his ankle, feeling for the blade concealed there. He brought it 
up, plunged it into the tank, and slashed away the straps.
"Hey!" the matron cried sharply.
He dropped the knife and grabbed the floundering infant, lifting it out. He 
hugged it to his shirtfront with both arms and barged ahead. By the time the 
supervisor got there, Hitch was out of the nursery, leaving a trail of oil 
droplets from the empty tank.
As soon as he was out of sight he balanced the baby awkwardly in one arm and 
reached up to touch the stud in his skull.
It was risky. He had no guarantee there would be an open space at this location 
on Earth-Prime. But he was committed.
Five seconds passed. Then he was wrenched into his own world by the unseen 
operator. Safely!
There was no welcoming party. The operator had merely aligned interworld 
coordinates and opened the veil by remote control. Hitch would have to make his 
own way back to headquarters, where he would present his devastating report. 
Armies would mass at his behest, but he felt no exhilaration. Those tanks...
He held the baby more carefully, looking for a place to put it down so that he 
could remove the remaining strap-fragments and wrap it protectively. He knew 
almost nothing about what to do for it, except to keep it warm. But the baby, 
blessedly, was already asleep again, trusting in him as it had before though 
there was blood on its cheek. The mutilated tongue...
He was in a barn. Not really surprisingly; the alternate framework tended to run 
parallel in detail, so that a structure could occupy the same location in a 
dozen Earths. There were many more barns in #772 than in EP, but it still didn't 
stretch coincidence to have a perfect match. The one he trekked through now was 
an Earth-Prime barn, though, an old-fashioned red one. It had the same layout as 
the other, but it contained horses or sheep orcows.
He walked down the passage, cradling the sleeping babyhis baby!and looking 
into the stalls. He passed the milkroom and entered the empty stable, noting how 
it had changed for animal accommodation. He couldn't resist entering the special 
wing again.
The first stall contained an ill cow who munched on alfalfa hay. The second was 
occupied by a lively heifer who paused to look soulfully at him with large soft 
eyes and licked its teeth with a speech-mute tongue. Had she just been bred? The 
third
Then it struck him. He had been shocked that man could so ruthlessly exploit 
man, there on #772. It was not even slavery on the other world, but such 
thorough subjugation of the less fortunate members of society that no reprieve 
was even thinkable for thecows. When man was rendered truly into animal, revolt 
was literally inconceivable for the domesticants.
Yet what of the animals of this world, Earth-Prime? Man had, perhaps, the right 
to be inhumane to manbut how could he justify the subjugation of a species not 
his own? Had the free-roving bovines of ten thousand years ago come voluntarily 
to man's barns, or had they been genocidally compelled? What irredeemable crime 
had been perpetrated against them?
If Earth-Prime attempted to pass judgment on this counter-Earth system, what 
precedent would it be setting? For no one knew what the limits of the 
alternate-universe framework were. It was probable that somewhere within it were 
worlds more advanced, more powerful than EP. Worlds with the might to blast away 
all mammalian life including man himself from the Earth, leaving the birds and 
snakes and frogs to dominate instead. Had it been such intervention that set 
back #772?
Worlds that could very well judge EP as EP judged counter-Earth #772. Worlds 
that might consider any domestication of any species to be an intolerable crime 
against nature...
Iolanthe would take care of the baby; he was sure of that. She was that sort of 
person. Prompt remedial surgery should mitigate the injury to the tongue. But 
the rest of ita world full of similar misery
He knew that in saving this one baby he had accomplished virtually nothing. His 
act might even give warning to #772 and thus precipitate far more cruelty than 
before. But that futility was only part of his growing horror.
Could he be sure in his own mind that Earth-Prime had the right of it? Between 
it and #772 was a difference only in the actual species of mammal occupying the 
barn. The other world was, if anything, kinder to its stock than was EP.
Nohe was being foolishly anthropomorphic! It was folly to attempt to attribute 
human feelings or rights to cows. They had no larger potential, while the human 
domesticants of #772 did. Yet
Yet
Yet what sort of a report could he afford to make?

UP SCHIST CRICK
I have read that scatology is a more reliable guide to the real freedom of a 
society than is erotic material. That is, more people are willing to tolerate 
sex than filth. Of course, more yet are happy to tolerate extreme violence, 
which I think is a sad commentary. I feel that there should be complete freedom 
of expression, but that controversial types of things should be identified, so 
that readers or viewers don't have to be hit in the face with it before 
discovering its nature. Therefore be advised: there is a scatological element to 
this story.
* * *
William Zether slowed to forty, alarmed by the condition of the highway. He had 
driven a long way on superhighways, and this was a comedown. He had thought the 
surface was aging asphalt, but now decided on oiled gravel. Low-grade gravel, 
watered oil. Great long cracks cleft both lanes, their patterns resembling 
lightning frozen in mid-jag and ironed flat.
He slowed again to negotiate a chasm the width of his tire. It petered out near 
the edge of the opposite lane, becoming a delta of tributary crevices. By 
skidding his lefts into the dusty ditch he was able to span the narrowest 
offshoot with his rights. He continued at twenty.
Exactly how far into the wilderness was this sweet village of Violet? The road 
map intimated ten miles, but he was sure he had gone fifteen since filling his 
tank at the last cluster of houses signifying a township. The motley Schist 
Mountains had encroached ever closer in the interim, the terrain had degenerated 
into waves of desert heat, and the road...
He crunched the brakes. The wheels skewed, dust ascended, the vehicle rocked and 
heaved sickly, and he came to a tumultuous halt in the midst of the car-sized 
sand trap he had sought to avoid.
As the choking swirl subsided, he attempted to nudge forward; but as he had 
feared, the wheels merely churned themselves into functional oblivion. He should 
have allowed the car to bull through on inertia.
Zether turned off the motor and pondered his situation. He would have to dig his 
way out by hand, and naturally he had no shovel and was wearing his best suit.
The car's air-conditioning had cut off with the motor, and already he could feel 
the perspiration gathering. He pushed open the door, untangled seat belt and 
shoulder harness, and climbed outand was struck by the blast furnace that 
passed for a July noon hereabouts. His thirty-flve-dollar shoes sank out of 
sight in the desiccated quicksand that engulfed the vehicle up to the hubs.
"I," he remarked to the burning welkin, "have had it. In spades. And I wish I 
had a spade; or at least a derrick."
But William Zether was not a man to rail at circumstance. Perceiving that the 
wheels were hopelessly mired, and mindful of the fifteen miles behind, he slung 
his jacket over his back, wedged the felt brim of his hat over his sweltering 
forehead, and waded onward in the transitory comfort of shirtsleeves. Somewhere 
ahead there had to be civilization.
The landscape was dehydrated, and he felt thirsty already. He sloughed out of 
the sand. His footwear had sustained a thirty-dollar depreciation, and he 
preferred not to assess the remainder of his apparel. The trail before him 
resembled the baked bed of a sun-crazed mud shallow attacked by amateurs with 
dull jackhammers.
His eyes passed over the wind-scarred rubble and focused on memory. It seemed 
that certain essential records had been misplaced during the transfer of 
management from the pioneer company A-Plus Fabrics, Inc., to its more solvent 
purchaser. A great deal of time had been absorbed in running down the diverse 
and inefficient experimental projects of A-Plus, and the files were still 
overloaded with corporate trivia. Thus there had happened to be a seven-year 
delay in the follow-up to a certain test-marketing project. He had uncovered 
portions of the records by diligent and increasingly circumspect part-time 
research, and now was taking a week's vacation to investigate the situation more 
directly.
Zether was glad he was a healthy, large-boned, brown-haired, virile junior exec, 
because this torrid hike would mean trouble for a wealthy, fat-fleshed, 
white-haired, febrile senior exec. He had covered about half a mile, and the 
locale seemed more and more like Death Valley during a drought. Blisters were 
surely burgeoning grandiosely on his trodding feet.
The product being test-marketed was a fabrica very special one. 
Thermal-insulating, semiporous, transparent material of extraordinary lightness, 
elasticity, and strength. Absolutely nontearable. Cuttable only by a 
specifically designed tool. Unique yet embarrassingly cheap to manufacture. Or 
so the scanty and almost furtive records hinted. Probably the material was no 
more than the wish-fulfillment dreaming of a doodling A-Plus deadwood 
executivebut Zether had to know for sure. It just might be a live bombshell.
He was increasingly tired and thirsty. How many more miles could this tattered 
ribbon of crusted sludge wend its weary way through the inferno? His hope for 
some reasonable termination to this trek was evaporating along with the fluids 
of his body.
A-Plus Fabrics had developed it, and so it had been dubbed APFI via acronym. A 
remote site had been selected for test-marketing of apfi swatches while A-Plus 
wrestled with patent and mass-production bottlenecks. A report had been 
contemplated within a year, had not the business foundered for unconnected 
reasons. Seven years ago.
He stopped, letting the dust settle around his feet, rubbing his gritty eyes to 
verify the mirage. There was a structure ahead. He had arrived at Violet!
"Sweet Violet, sweeter than the roses," he sang as he staggered toward it, but 
the remaining words of his verses were not to be found in print.
It was an ordinary backwoods hamlet. There was one general store, one church, 
one school, one hotel, one gasoline station, one small bank, half a post office, 
and a dozen TV antennaenone of these artifacts modern except the last. One 
farmer-type male ambled away down the single street. Violet.
Well, this did fit the specification of "reasonably isolated community." It 
could take years for news of import to leak out of a burg this sleepy and 
serviced by a road this bad. No problem about any aggressive competitors tuning 
in on the survey and beating the originator to mass marketing. Here near the 
headwaters of the polluted Schist River was a township that sustained itself 
nicely at poverty level through farming, logging, and freelance quarrying....
What use would such a populace have for the modernistic apfi material, assuming 
the fabric existed? These people hardly seemed to have caught up to nylon. Yet, 
through the years of the test-marketing's inadvertent duration there had been a 
continued and rather healthy per-capita demand, if another thread of his 
researches spoke truly. The company lab had continued to produce a limited 
supply of something labeled "A," and the company shipping department had 
continued to route it to this one town, while the executive offices were unaware 
that the product existed. Typical coordination! But this suggested that there 
was a practical market for something, and Zether meant to cut himself in on the 
take by discovering on the QT exactly what it was. He had a few shares of stock 
and knew a few key people; he could gain control of this one product if it 
turned out to be worth his while. Provided no one else caught on prematurely.
Just as soon as he had cleaned up and coddled his blisters for maybe a 
fortnight....
He tromped into the lobby of the ancient hotel, heedless of appearances. It was 
empty, but in a moment a young woman appeared from some dusky recess. Even in 
the poor light and his disgruntled state he was impressed by her attributes: 
high fair cheekbones, elegantly coiffed black hair, finely molded neck, 
superlative breasts. "Roomhot bathsteak dinner with aperitif, delivereddo not 
disturb for anything short of Ragnarok," he said as he signed the register. Oh, 
to get off his flaming feet!
"Rag what rock?" she inquired, perplexed.
"Armageddon. Kaput. End of the"
Then it hit him. Cheek, hair, neck, breastsno wonder they had caught his glazed 
eyeball. All were thoroughly displayed. The girl was naked to thehe 
double-checkedfeet. All she wore was a lumpy necklace.
It was a little late to react, so he didn't bother. In the morning he would 
realize that it had been a hallucination inspired by heat prostration though the 
lobby was air-conditioned and of conservative decor. Hardly conducive to visions 
of this nature.
She put away the register and took his coat, carrying it over one slender arm. 
"This way, sir," she said, coming into full view and preceding him to the 
curving staircase.
And the view was full, and the curves not confined to the stairwell. He 
followed, eyes lubricated by her amply flexing buttocks. He should get fatigued 
more often! The effect became dazzling as she ascended the steps, her 
hindquarters (though in truth they were full semicircles) now at his eye level, 
close.
She let him into the room, then entered herself. In a moment he heard water 
running and realized that the nymph was drawing the hot bath he had specified. 
"Uh, thank you," he said when she emerged, offering her a dollar tip.
She declined it. "You may settle your account when you leave, Mr. Zephyr."
"Zether," he said automatically. "Th, not ph."
She acknowledged the correction with a smile, and departed.
He stripped and dumped his sodden clothing on the easy chair, too weary to be 
fastidious, and marched into the bathroom. The water was fine, and he sank into 
its steaming ambience gratefully. Maid, proprietresswhoever she was, she had 
the touch. And the figure! His imagination wasn't that facile; he had seen what 
he had seen, every voluptuous bulge, crease, and ripple.
He soaked for forty minutes and felt much better. His calves retained some 
hard-core stiffness, and there were blisters on heels and toes, but he was 
otherwise in physical comfort. He dried off, stretched, slung the towel aside, 
and reentered the room. The door swung shut behind him, its latch clicking.
His steak dinner was there, reposing beautifully on its serving cart. So was the 
girl.
His clothingall of itwas on the chair beyond. The towel was in the bathroom, 
and somehow his frantically fumbling hand couldn't locate the doorknob. He was 
ludicrously stranded in the ultimate dishabille, and it hardly became him.
"Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Zether?" she inquired, hefting her derriere off 
the edge of the cart and approaching him. Her bare breasts jiggled 
provocatively.
"Yes, yes..." he mumbled, feeling idiotic and more than politely embarrassed. 
Naked women tended to give him a reaction. What was he supposed to do now?
She studied him speculatively. "It looks to me as though you have an immediate 
need, Mr. Zether. Why don't we resolve it now, so you can proceed with your 
dinner without distraction?"
He felt the flush spreading over face and neck. He realized that the situation 
had triggered the masculine salute, and she had seen it.
She stepped up next to him, so close her torso touched his at two points while 
his touched hers at one, and kissed him. Then she conducted him to the bed.
Nature took its ancient course with unprecedented fury. Her body was silky slick 
all over and almost seemed to glow; it was highly receptive. A certain slight 
but critically located impediment suggested that she was, despite her 
availability, a virgin. Hitherto. Only the unglamorous necklace she still wore 
detracted from the effect, and her inherent charms compensated generously. Never 
had he indulged in such savage lovemaking on such short notice.
After the swift climax, she disengaged, rolled lithely off the bed, stood up, 
took a tissue from the adjacent box, and held it between her spread thighs. Well 
satisfied and passive for the moment, he watched.
She gave a peculiar twitchand suddenly a splatter of viscosity popped into the 
tissue. It was, he realized with a shock, the fruit of their immediately 
preceding connection.
He stared, more amazed than upset. It was as though her cleft had simply spat 
out the residue.
She wadded the tissue and trotted to the bathroom to dispose of it. "Better get 
to your dinner before it gets cold," she said.
That wasn't all that was growing cold!
Zether realized that only a few minutes had elapsed since his emergence from the 
bath. He became conscious of his own nakedness again.
"Don't use those dirty clothes," she said reprovingly as she quitted the 
bathroom. He heard the toilet refilling itself behind her. "I'll find you 
something better."
His suit was pretty grubby. "Thanks."
"After you finish eating."
The perfect domestic! Oh, wellwhat was one more crazy development? "Will you 
join me? Please, I insist; I hate to eat alone."
She did not require much persuasion. "I suppose there is enough for two. I could 
use the dessert plate and the salad fork...."
And so they shared a naked dinner, and with little further urging she was 
telling him the story of her life. Her name was Ella Hopping, twenty-two years 
old, single, and available (he had gathered as much during their two minutes on 
the bed), and she managed the hotel for her aging uncle.
"My folks live downstream," she explained. "I was visiting Uncle Ezra up here 
for the summer, back when I was ten. But there was a fire at my dad's store, and 
no insurance, andwell, my folks just couldn't afford to bring me back right 
away. So there I wasup Schist Crick."
He started, but realized that he had misheard the phrase. "Stranded with your 
uncle in Violet, you mean," he said.
"Schist Crick. I know it says 'Violet' on the map, but the map's wrong. 
Outsiders can't seem to pronounce the name, sobut even the roads don't show up 
the way they are."
Zether had discovered that the hard way. His poor car! But while he could 
understand the problem of the name and the cartographic euphemism, the road was 
another matter. "Why don't they resurvey the area? In one week they could"
"We've had a petition in at the Statehouse for nigh twenty years, Uncle says, 
but nothing ever comes of it. Some flunky said something once about a 
discontinuity because of the projectiondo you know what that means?"
"I can guess. There's always some error in maps because of the problem of making 
a two-dimensional image of a three-dimensional subject. You just can't map the 
surface of the globe accurately on flat paper. That's why they have to make 
Greenland look bigger than Australia, when it's really much smaller."
"It is? I didn't know that. You're very smart."
"You've been up Schist Crick too long, Ella."
"I know. I need someone to take me away."
Oh-oh. She was fishing for more than a two-minute commitment. "Usually they take 
up the slack, or whatever they call it, in the ocean or wilderness areas, so it 
doesn't bother anybody. But it sounds as though there was a slipup, and a 
discontinuity showed up in this area. It really should be correctedthere's no 
excuse for it, with modern cartographic techniques."
"I wish the state politicians listened to that," she said. "Maybe if the maps 
were right, they'd allocate enough money to maintain our roads properly, and we 
wouldn't have so much trouble and so few visitors. We can't keep up a 
twenty-mile road on funds for ten."
"Amen. My car will never be the same."
As they finished the excellent meal, he got up the courage to ask a more 
personal question. "That trick with thewhat did you do, after we"
"I'm wearing my suit, of course," she said.
"Your suit?" Her attire certainly wasn't apparent to him. Her body still 
glistened with sleek healthand nothing else.
"My apfi suit. You know."
The word struck him solidly in the solar plexus of his mind. Apfi! He choked 
over his drink. What could this delightful innocent know about apfi?
"But I forgot. You're from downcrick. I guess they don't have apfi there. We 
never see it advertised on TV, anyway. It's a special kind of fabric, very thin. 
Here, I'll show you."
He was tempted to inform her of the relevance of his mission, but caution 
prevailed. The truth was, he had never actually seen or handled any apfi; he 
knew of it only through paperwork. He hadn't dared inquire too persistently at 
the lab, lest he give his interest away. That was another reason for this 
private trip. He wanted to get his hands on a sample without betraying his 
motivation.
Ella hooked her finger under her necklace and caught it with her other hand. A 
faint tent appeared, above and between her breasts; only the trace refraction of 
the light passing through it betrayed its gossamer presence. She let go, and it 
sank down to cleave to the dual rondures beneath, the air trapped below it 
escaping under the collar and, probably, filtering through the material to a 
lesser extent. "Apfi," she said.
It was a revelation, despite his prior knowledge of it. Apfitransparent and 
extraordinarily stretchable. It could therefore be employed as an invisible and 
skin-tight garment! Ella was not nude; she was garbed from neck to toe in a 
single segment of apfi that fit every delightful contour of her body perfectly.
And when they had made lovewhen he had so urgently penetrated herthe fabric 
had merely yielded before the thrust and formed an effective diaphragm. Perhaps 
the most unusual example of its type ever applied. In the incipience of his 
climax he had misinterpreted that slight resistance. Afterward, she had spread 
her legs and popped the indentation out again....
Very neat. Chalk one up for native ingenuity. No wonder she had been so free 
with her favors! His hot flesh had never touched hers, except for the first 
kiss. He had made love to her suit!
This was cheaper than the pilland more convenient.
It had not occurred to him before that apfi could have profound social 
implications. Evidently its availability had modified social mores considerably, 
here in Violet/Schist Crick. At least for nubile celibate girls. What would 
happen if it were marketed nationwide, given high-powered, multiple-media 
promotions? DOES SHE OR DOESN'T SHE... WEAR APFI?
He continued to think about it that night, after Ella had removed the dishes, 
brought him informal clothing for use while his own outfit was being cleaned, 
and gone about whatever other business she had. She was quite an efficient 
damsel in her fashion, and no slouch as a cook. He had been tempted to invite 
her for a more leisurely evening follow-up to their two-minute introduction, but 
had decided not to push his luck. Uncle just might catch on....
Back to the social implications. Think of it: every woman walking down the 
street clad in apfi, the gloss of its surface enhancing firm bouncy pairs of...
In the morning he remembered soberly that not all women were endowed quite as 
fortunately as Ella, and most were not just twenty-two. One woman's bounce was 
another's sag. Well, it had been a pleasant vision, nevertheless. Perhaps a 
curfew of sorts could be set: no woman over twenty-nine permitted on the streets 
in apfi while light remained, unless accompanied by her daughter.
Zether's first order of business after breakfast was the car. He visited the 
sole gas-station/garage, a hut perched on the edge of a monstrous level field, 
and inquired about towing service.
"Sure," the proprietor/mechanic said, looking up from the innards of the wreck 
he was tinkering with. Several similar vehicles squatted untidily along the 
perimeter of the field. He was a white-haired man in oily gray coveralls. 
"You're lucky you made it in, though. It's almost shut season."
"Shut season? What shuts down?"
"You knowthe month the roads are closed. August, usually, but it slides about a 
little from year to year, depending on the weather. Nobody goes throughnot by 
car, anyway."
The date was July 25. Zether felt uneasy. "I'm new here. Would you mind 
explaining that in a little more detail?"
"No trouble. Schist Crick is a funny town. The Schist Mountains and the Schist 
River close it off pretty tight, so there's only room for two highways: the 
winter road and the summer road. The winter road is pretty good until the spring 
thaw washes it out along about March. The summer road works fine until the heat 
gets it, 'long about August. They're both out in August, you see, so it's shut 
season."
Both roads out? "Because the town is shut off from the world?"
"Uh-uh. There's still TV and telephones. We're in touch as much as we need to 
be."
"Then why"
The mechanic peered at him from behind a wobbly carburetor. "Because that's when 
the gals get shut of spinsterhood, or try to. Nowhere the bachelors can go, and 
those suitsit's getting like a tradition. Last year one of those nudies even 
sashayed by here, twitching her little round butt the way they do. I squirted 
oil on her."
"You did what?"
"Some said afterward it wasn't exactly sporting, but it was the handiest thing. 
Had to show her somehow I wasn't interested."
"Is any bachelor, er, subject to this"
"Any bachelor without a pressure oil can," he said meaningfully.
It occurred to Zether that a jet of viscous warm fluid from a nozzle, applied so 
as to inundate a virtually nude female, was not necessarily a signal of 
masculine uninterest. Probably the mechanic wasn't much for Freudian symbolism, 
though. "Why didn't you just ignore her, or"
The man looked at him. "Didn't want to get one leg in," he said. "First one's a 
teaser. Second" He did not finish.
Ouch! "Don't you repair the roads?"
"Surebut we never have enough money for both at once, so we have to take on one 
at a time. Need about six months to do one up proper, so"
Zether remembered Ella's remark about the problems of maintaining twenty-mile 
roads on ten-mile funds. She had neglected to tell him about shut season, 
however. Conniving female! He already had one leg in, unwittingly. He had a 
feeling he'd better keep the second out. "So the winter road is out from August 
through January?"
"Right. Crew generally wraps up in January, so both roads are open February, and 
there's a month's vacation. But August"
"I get the picture. In August the crew is still wrapping up the winter road, so 
the other has to wait an extra month. How come they can do the summer road in 
only five monthsSeptember through Januarybut take six for the winter?"
"Don't rightly know," the mechanic said. "But that's the way it is. Maybe they 
hurry a little for the vacation."
"Or maybe they delay a little for shut season?"
"Maybe." The man smiled slowly. "Got to admit, she looked cute in oil. I hosed 
her off afterward, of course; those suits clean up easily. Wish I was younger. 
Now, where's your car?"
Zether described the location.
"Reckon the season's started already, then. Have to leave your car there until 
the crew comes; no sense miring my truck too."
"Till the crew comesin one to six months?"
"Yep."
Ouch again! "Isn't there anything you can do? It will be a rusted wreck by 
then."
"I can walk out there and cover it with an apfi tarp. Keep the dust out, protect 
the tires and engine"
"Apfi does that?" The silver lining was coming into view. First the clothing 
market, now the protective cover market. Even shut season might not be too high 
a price!
"Sure does. Mighty handy fabric, apfi. Don't know how we'd get along without 
it."
How much profit could be had from such a thing, nationwide? A million dollars? 
Ten million?
Zether's blisters were hurting despite the thick pads he had applied, and he had 
to walk extremely carefully and rest often. But in the course of the day he 
managed to explore a fair sampling of Schist Crick. What he saw took his mind 
off the problem of getting home, though he knew he couldn't afford to be trapped 
for shut season.
He discovered farmers stretching apfi over entire silos to enhance the hothouse 
effect, or whatever it was that went on in silos. Loggers preserved their logs 
in it, and kept their home-brewed beer cool by suspending it in apfi pouches 
that sweated very slowly when grotesquely distended. Quarry men used it to 
enclose dusty compartments and keep the air clean, since only gaseous substances 
could pass normally. Theoretically apfi would pass liquid if stretched far 
enough, but the beer pouches demonstrated the impracticality of this for local 
use. Commercially, however, Zether foresaw monstrous profits. Stretched 
mechanically, apfi could serve as a variable filter, good for water 
desalinization, osmotic techniquesthe possibilities were rife. And the 
extremely low coefficient of friction of the single-molecule structure would 
improve the performance of almost any machinery, since nearly all of it had 
moving parts. Apfi-coated pistons, perhaps?
Though Ella kept her footing and picked up objects readily enough. Perhaps her 
coating of apfi even conformed to the whorls of her fingers, restoring much of 
the friction Probably the material was many times as slick when applied to a 
polished surface; he'd have to check that out. Ideal, if it eliminated virtually 
all machine friction while preserving the necessary human friction.
How about sports? Apfi sails would reduce the weight of racing boats and be far 
easier to handle. There could even be stretched-apfi hulls. It would be like 
sailing in an invisible crafta real status symbol. And apfi wings on 
gliderswhy, a man with specially designed apfi wings might be able to fly like 
an insect. Apfi slides for apfi-bottomed children: two apfi surfaces meeting 
should be phenomenally slippery. Applications for toyshe had to stop; his head 
was getting dizzy.
Everywhere, apfi was already in use, in this one town, and its potential market 
was stupefying. Profits of a hundred million?
There were not, to his relief, women running around in the seminude, though he 
had no doubt that would come when shut season got well under way. He had just 
about decided that Ella was the only one so far when he entered the general 
store for phase two of his survey. The proprietor was a middle-aged manclad 
only in apfi, except for swimming trunks. Zether could make out the sheen of the 
skin-tight material.
He had thought of it only in connection with womenyet why shouldn't men use 
apfi too? Probably it was considered indoor wear for everyone. Fair enough. He 
would have to get into someone's house and verify this. In shut season it would 
become the fashion for outdoor girls as well. There could be a whole social 
framework for the use of apfi.
Zether bought a sample. It was priced quite reasonably, and came in a loose 
package marked simply "APFI: 4 sq. ft." This was what he wanted: to handle the 
stuff himself, find out how it felt. He presumed there were 8 sq. ft. or 10 sq. 
ft. sizes and up, but the small one would readily serve his purpose. The package 
weighed no more than a few ounces, and he suspected most of that was in the 
wrapping. Apfi was only one molecule thick and weighed almost nothing. That was 
why it was so flexible and transparent.
He took it eagerly into his room and spread it out. It was mounted in a hoop 
folded into quarters that sprang into circularity when released. Open, it 
resembledhere the image was suggestive in more than one wayan enormous condom. 
The diameter was a little over two feet, or, he was sure, the correct amount to 
make a total area of exactly four square feet.
He contemplated its level gloss, so thin it was easy to miss the film entirely 
except for the defining circle, and marveled that this represented its 
unstretched state. Too bad he had not been able to obtain a sample at the 
company; but this way was better, in spite of blisters, lost car, and shut 
season. No one would know what he was doing until he had what he wanted.
Zether set the hoop on the floor, stepped into it, and lifted. The material came 
up around his shoes and cuffs neatly, stretching to fit. It seemed soap-bubble 
fragile, but he knew it was stronger, weight for weight, than any stone or steel 
or nylon. The specifications implied that it could not be punctured even by a 
driven spike; it merely stretched until the thrust had been alleviated. It was 
thus theoretically possible to protect nails or rivets from rust by hammering 
them into material coated with apfi; the film would remain intact between nail 
and support, cutting off most moisture. Provided the lack of friction didn't 
make a problem. Only a semielectrical tool that acted on the atomic structure 
could hole it, and the tool cost a good deal more than the fabric.
He let go, and it dropped back to the floor with the hoop. How had Ella 
fashioned a permanent noncollapsing suit of it?
The door opened, and Ella entered in her normal habiliment. Think of the devil! 
Apparently the concept of personal privacy or prudery was foreign to her; or 
maybe such ethics were suspended during shut season. He'd really have to watch 
it.
"Why, Mr. Zether!" she exclaimed, flouncing her tresses prettily. "Are you 
trying to put it on over your clothing? That'll never work."
He had only been experimenting, but didn't protest. "How do you make it stay in 
place?"
"By closing the loop, of course," she said, touching her necklace. He saw that 
it was made of the same material as the apfi hoop. In fact, it was an apfi hoop, 
mysteriously convoluted. "Here, I'll show you. Take off your clothes."
He was a trifle slow in complying, so she assisted him. The notion of this buxom 
and too available young woman stripping him to the buff began to have its 
natural effect, but then he remembered the cynical aftermathpopped into a 
tissueand the impulse died. He preferred his lovers totally nude, somehow. And 
he was wary of that second leg. It sounded as though local custom decreed that 
two acts of physical love constituted grounds for marriage, and he was 
definitely not ready for that. First he meant to nail down his fortune; then he 
would worry about domestic matters.
"Now, step into it," she directed, and he put his bare foot into the circle. 
Spiderwebs clasped his toes, tickled the sole; he repressed the urge to jump 
away. She drew the hoop up around him, jiggling it so that the apfi fit snugly 
around both legs, remaining taut between them. The excruciatingly gentle contact 
ascended. It was like standing in a bath filling with lukewarm water. He felt it 
enclose calves, knees, thighsand now the sensation was definitely erotic. No 
accident, that, he was sure; she was doing her unsubtle best to make him react 
as she addressed his groin. He fastened his attention on the image of a 
strongbox full of hundred-dollar bills until the apfi reached his waist; that 
was what he was fighting for, after all.
She made him elevate his arms, and the fabric enclosed them also. The elasticity 
was remarkable! Finally the settling motion stopped, and he felt no more, except 
for the areas where body hair held it out from his skin. He'd have to shave his 
torso all over to have a really snug fit: a disadvantage. She did something 
obscure to the hoop, and it contracted around his neck in a loose necklace like 
her own, preventing the suit from sliding off. He was dressed.
He flexed his arms and legs a little dubiously. The principal characteristic of 
the suit was its lack of characteristics. Only occasionally could he feel points 
of tension, and these disappeared as the apfi shifted to compensate. It was a 
second layer of skin.
"And I always thought the emperor's new clothing was a fake!" he exclaimed. 
"Obviously it was an early apfi suit."
But had the emperor had the opportunity to appreciate its erotic qualities? Even 
a layer of only one molecule should impair sensation somewhatbut the 
super-smooth surface would add back much of what was lost. Had added back; no 
wonder he had exploded in that first encounter with Ella! This was sex with an 
intriguing difference.
A bell rang. "Oops, someone in the lobby," she said regretfully. "I have to 
run." And run she did, excitingly.
He still felt naked, so he donned his regular clothing over the apfi suit. 
Underwear, socks, shoesit all fit perfectly. It was as though the suit didn't 
exist, except that he thought it made his blisters more comfortable by 
alleviating the slight abrasions of the socks. Good.
He felt distinctly warmer, and realized that the material's insulating 
properties were being manifested. The suit alone was comfortable, in normal 
interior temperature; added clothing became too hot. That explained why Ella and 
the others wore nothing else, inside. Probably the people who ventured outside 
wore apfi under their clothing, as he was doing now, when it was cool, and 
skipped the apfi when it was hot. Or skipped the clothing.
Fortunately its gas porosity prevented skin suffocation. Sweat would pass upon 
evaporation, and air could contact the skin in a limited way. Yes, apfi made an 
excellent all-purpose suit, particularly for an activity like swimming; he'd 
have to mention that in his report.
Report? What was he thinking of! He'd make no report at all until he had 
acquired control of the patent, if any. He could become a billionaire!
He descended the stair and left the hotel without seeing Ella again. Just as 
well; she was almost too helpful, as though he were already her possession.
It was cooler outside. Dusk was approaching, and in this mountain country the 
extremes of temperature shifted rapidly. Burning days and frigid 
nightsexcellent for apfi. Yes, he was becoming more and more enthusiastic about 
the product. He had searched for some liability, something that would detract 
from its sales potential on either practical or esthetic grounds, some catch 
that would wash out the dream, and found none. This thing would make ten 
billion!
In the street he passed a blonde in an enticingly tight sweater. He peered at 
her, trying to determine whether she did or did not wear an apfi suit 
underneath. Not even any webbing between the fingers showed, yet....
She gave him a direct glance. "You appear to find me attractive, stranger," she 
murmured. "I am wearing my suit, and my husband's away on the road crew, so if 
you'd like to"
"Uh, no thanks," he said hastily. "Just admiring the scenery." And he removed 
himself from the vicinity, leaving her perplexed.
The enormity of it! If just eight years of apfi had made sex a communal activity 
in this isolated, probably conservative village, what would it do to the nation 
in a similar period? First the intemperate youth groups would discover its 
sexual wonders and make it a symbol of the times; then it would spread to other 
levels of society. The beatniks, the beardniks, the radicalshow far would they 
go, how rapidly, granted the freedom of the suit? And after them, the great mass 
of "decent, law-abiding" people the politicians claimed to cater to. It would be 
a revolution!
Was the world ready for apfi?
Behind the gas station, in the field, he saw something that distracted him from 
conjecture momentarily: a helicopter! What was it doing here?
"Mr. Zephyr!" It was the old mechanic. Was there news about his car already?
He entered the lighted station. It was cluttered with the usual paraphernalia: 
dented oil cans, tires, rusty carburetors, wrenches, auto manuals, and 
mechanical bric-a-brac. A pay telephone nestled on the wall next to a small cash 
register. "You got my car out?"
The man shook his head negatively, looking at him speculatively. "None of my 
business, but are you staying long?"
"No longer than I can help. But if there's no road out"
"I saw old Ezra Hopping, the hotel man, cleaning his shotgun. His eyesight is 
way too poor for hunting, but he's a pretty sharp businessman. Not much goes on 
he don't know about. Now, I'm not offering you any advice, but"
But old Uncle Ezra might well be anxious to protect his niece's reputation, and 
that of his hotel. And to acquire a capable in-law to help out. Yes. So he was 
cleaning his shotgun. "Is that phone in working order?"
"Yep." The mechanic discreetly stepped outside. "You can make change from the 
cash register; it's open," he said as he disappeared.
Zether did just that, marveling at the man's trusting nature. He fed the orifice 
and dialed the number of a companion worker who could keep his mouth shut. "Don, 
I'm in a bind," he said hurriedly. "My car is out of commission, and I can't 
walk far, and there's a marriage-minded femalelook, I can't explain now, but 
can you rent a tractor and come down here in a hurry? I'll make it worth your 
while...."
"Bill, what are you up to? Where are you?"
Zether gave a brief geographical rundown.
"That's five hundred miles!" Don exclaimed. "I'm a white-collar wage-earner; I 
just can't take off in the middle of the week! Why can't you hire someone local 
to bail you out?"
He thought about making the necessary arrangements for an escape from Schist 
Crick and rescue of his car, without giving away his interest in apfi. No one in 
Schist Crick would cooperate, of course, since they would figure he was running 
out on shut season. As he was, among other things. No one outside would 
understand, let alone rely on the credit of a secretive, telephoning stranger. 
It had to be Don.
"Say," Don said. "There's something else funny. The supe was poking into your 
desk the other day as though he was looking for something. Wanted to know what 
the locked file was for...."
Oh, no! That was the apfi research file he should have hidden. If anybody got 
into that before he got back, he could kiss goodbye to his plans. And the 
grasping supervisor would gladly use the pretext of his late return to snoop. 
"Don, believe methis is urgent. Take that file out and bring it with you. Don't 
let anyone at it! Take an emergency leave and get down here with some cash...."
"Bill, I just can't do that, I'd be fired! If only you'd explain"
"When you get here, Don; when you get here! I can't talk about it over the 
phone. Just trust me..." But he knew it wouldn't work. Don was honest to a 
fault, but conservative; he wasn't greedy, but he had to know all the facts 
before he acted, and he never gambled. He would consider apfi at best a gamble, 
and at worst a theft from the company.
Someone was approaching the shop; he couldn't talk any more. "I guess you're 
right, Don. Sorry I bothered you."
He hung up and turned away from the phone as a man in the uniform of the forest 
service entered. "I need some gas," the ranger said.
"Sorry, I'm not the proprietor. He" Zether paused. "That copterthat yours?"
The man nodded. "I ran low on fuel, or I wouldn't have put down here at all. 
Must have a leak somewhere. Have to move out again in a few minutes, get back to 
my base."
"Got room for a passenger?" His heart was pounding.
"It's against regulations, sorry," the ranger said. "No passengers. Where's the 
gasman?"
"I'm desperate," Zether said. "I have some very important business, and the 
roads are closed." He pulled out his wallet and removed a twenty-dollar bill and 
pressed it into the ranger's hand.
The man looked doubtfully at the bribe, then made his decision. "All right. I'll 
be through here soon's I find the attendant. That must be him outside. Five 
minutes, then I'll rev up and take off. You get out of sight and come out to 
intercept me as I walk to the copter, as though you had a message for me. If no 
one notices, I'll take you aboard. But I won't wait; if you don't meet me right 
on time, I'll have to take off without you. Can't risk my job. Got that?"
"Got it. Five minutes on the nose or bust. Thanks."
Zether stepped outside and spied a public rest room behind the station. He 
headed for it. He should be able to see the ranger from its window.
The sign hanging just inside the dirty pane said VIOLETUP SCHIST CREEK Nothing 
like a geographical identifier, he thought with a smile as he entered. Visitors 
would know exactly where they had paused.
Inside the cramped and smelly compartment he felt a sudden call of nature. 
Perhaps it was the availability and suggestion of toilet facilities, or possibly 
the abrupt release of tension. He decided to make good use of his five minutes.
His mind remained preoccupied with the larger problem. He could become rich from 
apfi, supervising its national promotion and marketing. But was it ethical? How 
would the courts see it? Was it possible that the social consequences would 
offset the dollar profit? Complete sexual freedom, the act performed as readily 
as a handshake....
Two minutes remained. Yes, he was on his way home, and in time. Proper 
exploitation of apfi would make his fortune. The hell with social ethics; money 
was far more important. Let the fuddy-duds scream; they could not halt progress. 
There was not one single reason apfi would not conquer the commercial world! The 
question was now not whether he would be a multibillionaire, but how soon. Ten 
years? Five?
One minute. Nicely timed. Both shotgun and supervisor had been foiled. He had 
grabbed his only chance to preserve his basic interests: his bachelordom and his 
billions.
He reached for the toilet paper without getting up. All that conjecture and 
experimentation must certainly have shaken up his digestion, because he had just 
relieved himself voluminously.
Two things occurred to him in nightmare sequence as he tore off a suitable 
strip. First, he was still wearing the suit. Second, he did not know how to 
loosen the neck loop so as to let the suit down.
Extraordinarily elastic apfi might be, so that its resistance was hardly 
perceptiblebut it remained impervious to the passage of solids. Though a square 
yard of it could encompass an automobile without breaking or tearing, it would 
not pass so much as a grain of sand through its membrane, and liquid, for 
practical purposes, penetrated it only in the vapor state. He had neither the 
time nor the resources to stretch it the enormous amount necessary to alleviate 
even a portion of his problem. He heard the footfalls of the ranger returning to 
his copter.
William Zether remained sitting, paper in hand, afraid to move. His despairing 
gaze caught the reverse face of the sign hanging in the cobwebbed window. Words 
were printed thereon, forming a message awesome in its relevance and profundity: 
WITHOUT A PADDLE.

THE WHOLE TRUTH
My title was "Not That Good," which relates to the theme of the story. I have an 
acute consciousness of titling; I consider the title to be an important element 
of the story. Editors, as a class, have abysmal title sense, as I may have 
mentioned several times before. I wrote this one for Harry Harrison's original 
anthology Nova in 1968; he had solicited taboo-busting fiction from me but 
balked at "Up Schist Crick," "The Bridge" and "On the Uses of Torture." So I 
sent him one that was not that good, and he published it. A writer learns how to 
manage editors. Naturally he missed the point. Harry is a good writer; he just 
needs to stick to his lathe. Nevertheless, his "Hole Truth" pun has merit, as 
you will see.
The story itself has a history that may be more interesting than its content. I 
dreamed it up, literally, woke and recorded it, filed it for future 
referenceand forgot I had done so. Later, coming across the note, I wondered 
where it had come from. So I described it to several writing acquaintances, 
inquiring whether they had seen any such story in print. None had, so I assumed 
it really was mine. Then when I decided to write it up for Harry, I couldn't 
find my note. So I had to re-create it from scratch. After selling it to Nova, I 
found my original noteand discovered that it was better than the story I had 
actually written. Sighit really was Not That Good.
* * *
Unfortunately, the impersonal military regulations said, multiple-manned 
stations were not feasible at this time. Numerous learned articles had been 
published refuting the validity of this policy, but they were under civilian 
bylines and therefore ignored. That was why Leo MacHenry was a lonely man.
He had been warned that his imagination might conjure company from the vacuum, 
just to break the monotony of fourteen months of isolation. Such cautions were 
unnecessary; he knew better than to yield to hallucination. One million dollars 
was good pay even in the face of rampant cool-war inflation, for a single 
tourbut it would do him little good in the psycho ward. Thus he was cautious 
about crediting what he saw.
Still, it did look like a man. A live one.
The figure drifted directly toward the station, brightly illuminated by this 
system's nameless sun. Behind it were the stars, clear even in this seeming day 
because of the absence of obscuring atmosphere. An intermittent jet of gas shot 
out from the suit, suggesting the tail of a comet as the light caught it 
momentarily. Braking action; weightlessness was a far cry from masslessness, and 
a collision at speed with the station would flatten the visitor in ugly fashion.
Leo watched it through the small scope. What he saw was a standard UN space suit 
of the type suitable for survival-of-wearer up to four days in deep space, 
conditions permitting, and somewhat longer in a semiprotected situation. That 
was sufficient margin for rescue in most casesif rescue were, according to the 
manual, feasible at all. Evidently there had been a wreck in space, and this 
survivor had been close enough.
And that was suspicious. Leo's station was mounted on a planetoid that orbited a 
numbered star far from Sol. Human traffic was sparse here. There was potentially 
valuable real estate in this system and Earth wanted to hold a lease on it so 
that other starfaring creatures would stay clear, but it would be years before 
proper development occurred. The odds against a human shipwreck here at this 
time, let alone a single survivorwell, it was improbable.
Yet this was persistent for a hallucination. His instruments picked up the 
visitor, and he was not given to misreading their signals. He had been on duty 
two weeks; the novelty was only now beginning to wear down, and in any event it 
was a little soon for cross-referenced mind-warping. It was now fairly safe to 
assume that what he saw was real, physically.
The odds remained bad, however. He had not wanted to think about the next most 
likely prospect, but now he had to. What he saw could be a Dep.
The Deps were an alien species whose stellar ambition matched Man's own. Their 
technology lagged slightly behind Earth's, but they made up for this by other 
abilities. Because they were GO star-system residents of an Earthtype planet, 
their needs were basically parallel to Man's, and that meant specific 
competition for choice worlds. A state of war did not exist currently, but the 
peace, to put it euphemistically, was uncertain.
The UN suit fired a last burst from its center of gravityjokes were rife and 
obviousand contacted the surface of the planetoid. It tumbled and bounced, the 
wearer not expert at this maneuver. Then it righted itself and attempted to walk 
toward the station.
Leo smiled grimly. Walking on a low-G rock was not the same as doing it on a 
smooth metal hull. Here the magnetic shoes had nothing to cling to, and friction 
with the surface was virtually nil. The figure rose slowly into the black sky 
rather than going forward.
Why hadn't he spotted the wreck? It should have been well within the range of 
his instruments, and the telltales should have Christmassed. That was another 
augury in favor of a Dep intruder: a deliberately landed spy. Though it was not 
like them to oversight such an important detail as a fake wreck.
The Deps: vernacular for Adepts, in turn the informal term for the species that 
could change its physical features at will to match those of any similar animal. 
Man was similar. Coupled with this was a certain force of personality that, it 
was said, caused the viewer to overlook minor discrepancies. Thus a Dep spy 
could be frighteningly effective. He looked like a man, and his faked 
identification seemed to check out. Even machine inspection was not always proof 
against error. Cases were on record where an identified Dep had been passed in 
spite of mechanical protest. The operator had been sure the device was 
malfunctioning, since the subject was obviously human.
Strenuous measures had been required to root out Dep spies from Earth's 
environs, and some innocent humans had been liquidated in the process. But the 
job had been done. Computerized laboratories were capable of identifying 
suspects and passing sentence, and were not affected by the subjective aura. The 
threat of Dep infiltration, while still present, was no longer serious.
The suited figure finally got its bearings and made respectable progress toward 
the entry port. Leo had to make his decision soon.
Space was large, suit-range small. Human survivor of unobserved wreck, 
thousand-to-one odds against? Million-to-one?
On the other hand, how about a Dep infiltration attempt, here and now? Maybe 
only ten-to-one against.
He could blast the human-looking figure where it stood. He had more destructive 
power under his thumb than Man had been capable of imagining through most of his 
history. He could devastate men, ships and even small planets. He was the 
guardian of this system, equipped to make intrusion by aliens entirely too 
costly to be worthwhile.
But suppose the visitor were legitimate? Overwhelming as the odds against it 
were, it was possible. Should he risk murder?
The visitor was at the port. He could not ignore it. A human would soon die out 
there, as the suit ran down; an alien would arrange somehow to sabotage the 
station.
It would be safer to blast it. His duty required that he act with cognizance of 
the odds. Nothing should jeopardize Earth security.
Yethe was lonely. Two weeks had impressed him forcefully what fourteen months 
would be like. If he blasted now, he would not know whether he had done right or 
wrong. Not for thirteen and a half months, when the relief ship took in the 
frozen toasted fragments and analyzed the flesh.
Loneliness was bad, but that grisly uncertainty would be worse. And if the body 
were human...
He was fairly secure, physically. He could admit the visitor and make his own 
investigation. He would be reprimanded, of course. It was not his business to 
take chances.
He was lonely. His resistance to temptation was not that good. He pressed the 
stud that opened the lock.
The figure entered. The port swung shut, resealed. Air cycled into the chamber. 
Now Leo could talk to his guest without employing monitored radio.
"Identify yourself," he said. "You have fifteen seconds before I fry you with 
high voltage."
Muffled through the helmet, the nervous reply came: "Miss Nevada Brown, colony 
ship Expo 99. Please don'tfry me!"
A woman!
Nonplussed, he drew his hand back from the incinerator control. He had not been 
bluffing. Whatever language the visitor spoke, human or alien, the meaning of 
his challenge would have been clear. No person got into space without becoming 
aware of the hairtrigger reflexes of station operatives.
Those reflexes were sadly disordered now! A man he could have dealt with. A 
womanhow could he kill her? Even if she were a Depand this was distinctly 
possibleit was hardly in him toto do what was necessary. Spaceships he could 
blast; women, no. His conditioning was not that good.
"Take off your suit and deposit any weapons on the shelf," he said, trying to 
restore gruffness to his voice. Weapons? The weapons a woman wore were part of 
her body. "I'm watching you." And he remembered belatedly to turn on the screen. 
He really was shaken.
Obligingly she stripped the bulky segments away. The process took some time, 
since a UN suit was intended to be safe, not convenient. He noted with guilty 
disappointment that she was adequately covered underneath. Some people wore 
their suits nude, to facilitate circulation of air and heat.
A woman! Human or Dep? On the verdict hung months of delight or torment worse 
than either loneliness or guilt. If she were really from a colony ship
Hands quivering, he punched for information from the register.
Expo 99: WORLD'S FAIR, LOCATION MADAGASCAR, 1999. ATTENDANCE, CUMULATIVE, 
42,000,000 PAID. POINTS OF SIGNIFICANCE
He cut it off and punched a correction. It was the Ship he wanted.
In the interval the girl had emerged from her suit. She was a young brunette, 
slender rather than voluptuous, and not shown to best advantage by the rumpled 
coverall she wore. Her hair was quite short, in the fashion of most women who 
went to spaceapart from so-called entertainersand her ears stuck out a bit. 
Not the kind he would have looked at even once, back on Earth with his 
million-dollar retirement fund.
But this was not yet Earth. This was isolation for another thirteen and a half 
months, while his station orbited its numbered sun and at length returned to a 
favorable orientation for rendezvous. For that lean period, any woman would be 
lovely, particularly a young one.
Any human woman.
He looked at the register's message: DATA INSUFFICIENT.
Leo punched a clarification, but he already knew what it meant. There was no 
such ship. The girl was a phony.
Incinerate her?
She was pathetically fragile in her tousled state, and breathing rapidly from 
nervous energy. She was well aware of her danger.
It flashed through his mind: even a Dep female would be company.
He released the inner lock and admitted her to the station.
He met her in the comfortable day room. She was still unsteady in the gravity 
field, after her time in a free-fall. Her shoulders and breasts sagged slightly, 
as though they had lost their tonus in space. She had tried to straighten her 
outfit, to make herself presentable; but a moment of primping could hardly undo 
days of suit-confinement. Particularly when the natural attributes were modest. 
As a pinup she was not that good.
"Sit down," he said curtly, refusing to address her by name.
"Thank you." Grateful but not graceful, she took one of the overstuffed chairs. 
The station was small, but the day room was intended to be as homey as 
"feasible," to mitigate the starkness of the duty.
"I believe you are an agent of an alien power," he said. "Specifically, you are 
a Dep spy."
Her mouth opened. She wore no lipstick or other makeup, such things not 
conducive to survival in space. Her eyes were shadowed by fatigue, not artifice. 
Her teeth were subtly uneven. He knew her for an alien creature, yet every 
detail was painfully human.
"Hold your comment," he said, preventing her from speaking. He knew he had to do 
this rapidly or his nerve would break. He was not a military man, though for 
this single tour he was subject to military regulations. Discipline in the 
soldier-sense was more a sometime concept than gut-reality to him. "My name is 
Leo MacHenry and I have no Scottish or Irish blood that I know of. I am a 
civilian mercenary on duty for fourteen months, most of which lie before me. I 
am being well paid for this service because personality tests indicate that I am 
more likely to survive with my wits intact than a conventional soldier would be. 
I mean to complete my tour honorably and retire to rich living and overindulgent 
amours for the ensuing fifty years.
"I am keyed in to this station in such a way that I cannot leave it even to walk 
the surface of the planetoid without destroying it and myself. Only the relief 
ship has the equipment to re-key for the next observer. My brain waves are 
continually monitored by the main computer. If they stopthat is, if I should 
die or suffer some drastic mental change, such as entering a drugged statethe 
computer will detonate this station immediately. The radius of total destruct is 
well beyond the distance any person could travel in a space suit, because of 
needle shrapnel and lethal radiation. There are other safeguards of more devious 
but effective nature. My point is that I am to all intents and purposes 
invulnerable here. I made you leave your weapons"she had had a heatbeamer and a 
knife, both standard for a UN suit"only to prevent you from attempting anything 
foolish before I had a chance to talk to you. I may look ordinary, but any 
serious attack on me will bring your demise or our mutual destruction. This in 
turn will summon a competent Earth-fleet ready and eager for trouble.
"I run this station. No other person can do so much as open a door except at my 
direction, because of the electronic and neural keying. You cannot leave, you 
cannot obtain food, you cannot even use the sanitary facilities without my 
cooperation. I intend either to execute you or to hold you here until the relief 
ship arrives, at which point I will turn you over to the appropriate authorities 
for interrogation and probable liquidation.
"I will, however, give you one chance for freedom, since your presence here will 
be a severe blot on my record. If you wish to leave right now you may do so; I 
will let you take off in your suit and return to your compatriots with the news 
that my station is in business for the duration. I suggest that you accept it; 
it is an easy way out for both of us."
He turned his back on her to hide his own nervousness. He had done it. He had 
made his speech, and it was all true, except that his discipline was not that 
good. Not that good at all. He could let her go, but if she decided to stay 
heeven if she were a Dep spy
He was lonely and, suddenly, woman-hungry. He would try to keep her prisoner, 
but inevitably come in time to treat her less as a suspect and more asas what 
she seemed. Already he was sorely tempted. Perhaps that was what the Dep command 
had counted on. That he would penetrate the ruse but submit to a gradual, 
emotional subversion. A year was plenty of time to do the job. A year of 
propinquity, and he would no longer care. He would have a new loyalty. After 
that
She looked up at him. "II don't know what to say, Mr. MacHenry. Except that I'm 
notwhat you said. I don't know why you don't believe me. But I can't go. My 
ship isn't there any more. II didn't want to say this because I'll get in 
trouble, but Ijumped ship, and it went on without me. I knew I was breaking the 
law, but it was my only chance. To get back to Earth. So I guess you'll have to 
lock me up, if that's what you want."
She was going to play it out, and she was letter-perfect! He felt, oddly, 
relieved. Her departure would have been a confession of guilt, and he would have 
had to shoot down the alien ship the moment he spotted its location. This way 
there was at least a chance she was real. A chance he knew he was foolish to 
hope for. The subversion was proceeding too rapidly, but he was helpless to 
inhibit it because his will to do so was uncertain.
"Your ship wasn't wrecked?" he asked. "TheExpo 99?"
"Did I say that?" She was prettily surprised. "I meant the Exton 99. We called 
it Expo, but that was just slang. Yes, it couldn't hang around for a solitary 
deserter, and"
Leo left her in mid-sentence and strode to the control room. He punched for the 
revised designation.
Exton 99: ONE OF A SERIES OF COLONY SHIPS BOUND FOR THE SO-CALLED ADEPT SPHERE 
PERIMETER, PERSONNEL SELECTED BY INVOLUNTARY LOT
Ouch! That was one of the press-gang fleets that filled their complements by 
pseudo-random drafts on the labor force. Volunteers for adverse locations were 
few, so this was a legalized piracy of talent similar to the old-time military 
service call-ups during the frequent wars-to-end-wars. Somehow the rich or 
influential seldom got called: another time-honored corruption. Graft or draft 
was the word. Selection for such an expedition meant a lifetime of hard service 
and a death on some frontier world for the unhappy recruit.
Yet politically it was sound. It eased unemployment on Earth while strengthening 
the planet's galactic posture. New worlds had to be tamed and developed, and 
this system accomplished it on a crash basis. The volume of space Leo's own 
station guarded would eventually be colonized this way. The majority of the 
voters were beyond the age or health of eligibility, so from their safety 
approved the draft.
Democracy, as the exported minority discovered, was not invariably fair. Leo had 
obtained his exemption by qualifying for his present tour, but he retained no 
sympathy for the system. It was merely yet another form of involuntary 
servitude.
No wonder Nevada Brown had jumped ship when she had a chance! Life on Earth was 
crowded but affluent; life elsewhere was grim. She must have watched for her 
opportunity and made her move when the ship slowed for a course correction. 
Colony ships seldom proceeded directly to their destinations, since it was 
dangerous to pinpoint these for enemy observers. The "enemy" constituted 
obstructive families of draftees as well as competitive alien species.
He owed an apology to his guest. She was human.
Oh-oh This was the way the Dep influence worked. He had been well briefed on 
this. While Nevada stood in the airlock he had verified that her given 
identification was spurious. Now that he had talked to her directly, he had 
changed his mind. It was too easy to call his first assessment an error. It had 
been an objective one, while what followed was more likely to be subjective. He 
had wanted to believe her story, and had substituted the name of a real ship for 
the one she had invented.
Though why she hadn't given him a real ship the first time, when the Dep 
researchers had surely had the information....
He returned to the day room, perplexed. Nevada had not moved. She was still 
rumpled, legs slightly bowed, nose a little too long, not homely so much as 
imperfectly pretty. Even her youth did not become her particularly; she had not 
yet mastered the studied grace of the experienced woman, the flair for accenting 
the desirable and phasing out of the undesirable.
All of which argued in her favor. A Dep courtesan would have been a beauty, 
since all her details would have been under control. Nothing about her would 
rankle.
Yethe was alert for the Dep perfection. So it stood to reason his suspicions 
could best be allayed by token imperfections....
Yet again: she could be valid. Her story was now a good one, that he could not 
disprove. He had figured the chances for a human shipwreck here. But a 
deliberate desertion in the vicinity of a manned observation station, by a 
colonist with a legitimate grievancethat was far less improbable. Perhaps only 
ten to one odds against. The same as those against overt infiltration by a Dep 
spy, by his crude reckoning. That evened the odds; she was as likely to be human 
as Dep.
Except that a Dep would naturally present him with a convincing story.
What was he to believe? He wanted to accept her as human. That would be so much 
simpler and so much more pleasant. But he stood to lose fortune, life and 
mission if he made a mistake. The wrong mistake.
The right mistake, of course, would be to kill her and discover subsequently 
that she had been human. He would not be held culpable in the circumstances.
She continued to sit there, watching him with brown eyes but not speaking. The 
odds were with the executionmurderbut he just wasn't that reasonable.
He could obtain accurate odds for all eventualities by punching for them, but he 
preferred to settle this his own way. The consequence of his decision would fall 
on his head and soul, not the computer.
"I am not sure about you," he said at last. "You may be human and you may be 
Dep."
Again he wondered whether the mistake of accepting a Dep lover might not be 
worth it. There was subtle and unsubtle fascination about
"I can tell you about myself," she said eagerly. "Where I was born, who my folks 
arethings no alien could know"
"Forget it. I wouldn't know them either. You could make up anything."
"Couldn't you look it up in your computer? Doesn't it list everything that"
"The register is encyclopedic, not omniscient," he said sharply. "It has every 
fact I might reasonably need or want to knowbut it can't list every teen-age 
girl in the overpopulated world."
"I'm twenty-two," she said, offended. "They don't draft you until you're"
"Anyway, the name, even if listed, wouldn't prove a thing. A Dep would research 
it before coming here."
"Oh." She pondered a moment, still justifiably nervous. "But there must be 
things I know that you could verify that an alien couldn't. I've spent my life 
on Earth, after all. Maybe we know some of the same people and"
"No. The only things I could verify that way would be suspect because I did know 
them. I would think you had told them to me, but actually I would be picking 
them out of my own memory."
She stared at him, her small chin rumpling as though she were about to cry. "You 
meanI can't use anything you don't know, because I can't prove it, and I can't 
use anything you do know because?"
"Yes. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to"she stiffened"hold you prisoner, 
until the ship comes." He was a ludicrous weakling; he should simply have shot 
her. In fact, he was admitting defeat, if she were a Dep. It might mean the 
destruction of the station, or his own betrayal of his world, but he simply 
lacked the fortitude to do what was necessary. He was not that good a guardian.
"Oh. I thought you were going toI guess that makes sense, though. To turn me 
over to the authorities, I mean, since you can't be sure." Her relief was 
pitiful. She knew now that she wouldn't be killed, whichever way it went.
She stood up. "A Dep would knowenemy secrets, or something, too. So it would be 
right. I guess I should go to the cell now. I hope it's clean."
"There is no cell. You'll have to use this room." And a Dep would have known 
that, too.
She looked around, comprehending. "Oh."
"I'll reprogram the life-services equipment to provide for your needs. You'll 
have to ask me for any reading matter you want, and I'll have printouts made. 
Most of what we have here is technical, though. The station wasn't set up 
forentertainment."
"But what will you do?" she inquired with half-coy solicitude. "I mean, you 
can't stay in the control room all the time, or in the storeroom, or whatever."
He shrugged.
"But it really makes you more of a prisoner than" she cried, breaking off 
unfinished.
In more ways than one, sister! "Nevada, it would be convenient if there were 
some way to determine for certain what you are," Leo said. "Even an inconvenient 
way. But there isn't, since I don't have a lab here. So we'll just have to make 
dounless you want to leave now."
"I guess I should." she said. "But I'd die, and my willpower is not that good. 
Isn't there any way to" Her eyes brightened suddenly. "You say the ship isn't 
coming for over a year?"
Leo nodded. "Barring a blowup."
"And I'll just have to stay here until they can identify me for sure? And if I'm 
human it's all right, but if I'm alien, trying to sneak into Earth's defenses, 
they'll kill me?"
"Close enough. I explained all that before. You aren't going to accomplish 
anything if you're a spy, so you might as well quit. If you go now, you can save 
your life and my reputation." But he was bluffing.
"So it really doesn't make any difference what happens until the ship comes," 
she said excitedly. "Except that it would be a lot nicer if I could prove to you 
I'm human." She was smoothing herself out now with motions more suggestive than 
practical.
"Yes. But if you're thinking of the classic 'proof,' it's no good. A Dep can 
make sex too. Better than a real woman, they say. That changes nothing."
"You're wrong," she said with new confidence. "Give me a few days toto get to 
know you. Then II'll prove it. Really prove it. It'll be rough, but you'll 
see."

The reliefship captain was shocked. "You admitted an intruder? Here near the Dep 
frontier? Do you realize what this means?"
"I realize," Leo said. "It was a chance, but I'll gladly stand court-martial for 
what I did. But I intend to introduce in my own defense evidence that I kept 
good watch and even repelled an alien probe that might ordinarily have overcome 
the station and made this entire system hostile to Man. They were going to 
radiation-bomb it, you see, so we couldn't develop it for centuries. I think 
they're getting desperate, to try that. That should count for something."
"Repelled a probe?" The captain seemed to have been left behind.
"A Dep fleet that meant business. Less than a month ago. They fired saturation 
missiles, trying to knock out this station first. Must have cost them a fortune. 
I would never have nullified them all if Nevada hadn't acted as an additional 
spotter. She called them off by coordinates, so I was able to devote my full 
attention to gunning them down. Quadrupled my efficiency. Good thing, too; it's 
tricky trying to intercept meteor-shower type shells. The Deps hadn't expected a 
coordinated defense to their surprise attack."
"Of course not," the captain said. "That's an overt act of warunless they 
managed to cover it up somehow. It changes the whole picture. But why should a 
Dep spy help you towhy, obviously she had been sent to incapacitate you in 
advance."
Leo grinned. "I could say my charm converted her to my side, but it wouldn't 
stick. She's human. I verified that. I knew I could trust her, and we had a lot 
to fight for."
"Mr. MacHenry, there is no way you could have been sure of that. You have no 
laboratory. The Deps are unexcelled at disguise and indirection."
"On the contrary. We have the very best laboratory. The one no alien can fool. 
All it takes is"
He was interrupted by the sound of a baby crying.
The captain didn't make the connection immediately. "I tell you the Deps are too 
good at" Then he paused, mouth open.
"Not that good, Captain. They can't hide the whole truth," Leo said, smiling 
with something more than victory. "Which reminds me. It will be your privilege 
to perform the ceremony for Nevada and me, now that the job is done. I want 
little Nev to have a proper name, and naturally my wife will be entitled to 
remain with me on Earth."

THE BRIDGE
These stories are presented here approximately in the order I wrote them. It can 
be difficult to ascertain the precise dates, as the prior story illustrates: was 
it when I dreamed it up, or when I summarized it for others, or when I wrote it? 
I normally do three drafts of my fiction, and sometimes set a draft aside while 
I write other fiction that may be submitted to market first. What date counts? 
"University" sat a full year between its first and second drafts, while I worked 
on novels on deadlines. "Bridge" was sent to Nova a month before "Whole Truth" 
was, yet I think it is a more recent story in total history, so that is its 
order here. If you disagree, simply tear out these pages and insert them in your 
copy before "Whole Truth." (I try to please everyone.)
You may have noticed that the stories in this volume have been getting more 
provocative, here in the mid-anatomy of the volume. The change was not in me but 
in the market; at this time, thanks perhaps to the impact of Dang Vis, it was 
loosening up. Editors were considering material they might have burned before. 
Still, after Nova this story bounced at Playboy, Cavalier. F&SF, Knight and 
Evergreen Review. I had supposed that the sexy male mags would appreciate truly 
fantastic sex. I was wrong.
Meanwhile, changes were occurring in the SF magazine circuit. Galaxy 
Publications had been bought out, Pohl was gone, and the new editor was Ejler 
Jakobsson. Judy-Lynn remained, contrary to my prior memory; don't worry, I 
assure you she will get to Ballantine Books in due course, after she finishes 
teaching Ejler the ropes. Ejler came to a writers' conference in my area, and I 
dropped in and met him on June 12, 1969. He wanted material. I was then mostly 
into novels, but I did have a couple of last year's provocative pieces still 
bouncing around. One was "Minnie's Crew." Somewhat warily I mentioned it. After 
all, new editor or not, Galaxy Publications was not your avant-garde publisher. 
Ejler wanted to see it. Okay, he had asked for it. I sent it. Within a week he 
phoned me, accepting it. A regular SF outfit was buying the story that had 
scared off the horny male mags! A special kind of history was in the making 
here. He retitled it, of course, as "The Bridge" and published it in Worlds of 
Tomorrow as the cover story. Yes, this time I even got my name on the cover, 
printed right under Minnie's pert breasts. No, I can't really argue with the new 
title, for once; my "Mini-screw" was a bit too cute.
Reader, be advised: this just may be the wildest sex ever to see print in a 
conventional genre magazine. If you blanched at "Barn" or shied from "Schist," 
you had better balk at "Bridge." If you prefer to call my bluff, then read on. 
Henceforth maybe you will have more respect for my warnings.
* * *
1. Petite Dream-Girl
"Please." The voice was small but distinctly feminine and seemed to emanate 
inches from his ear. "Please, Mr. Fowler, please wake up."
"Burg to my friends," he muttered sleepily. He was one of those bachelors the 
men's magazines declined to acknowledgethe kind that works for a living and 
sleeps alone. On weekends such as this he liked to sleep late in spite of an 
early bedtime. This was partly to get back at the alarm clock and partly because 
it made the day shorter. At the moment he was in that transitional state he 
sometimes achieved upon such lazy awakeningin it he could hear and to a certain 
extent control intriguing dream dialogue.
"Please, Mr. Fowler, We only have an hour. Please look at me."
"Sure, honey," he murmured, eyes closed. The voice was absolutely lovely and 
remarkably convincing, as though a beautiful woman lay beside him. He had never 
before indulged in such a pleasant trance. But he knew that it would dissipate 
the moment he opened his eyes. All that shared his bedroom by daylight were 
dirty socks, clean shirts, a portable radio afflicted with intermittent static 
and last night's cold-slopped coffee. And, of course, the book he had read 
himself to sleep on. What was it? He couldn't remember.
Something soft touched his right ear.
He twitched his head aside, instantly alert. Light blinded him, forcing his eyes 
shut again. This had never been part of a dialogue! Had a moth gotten in?
He turned his head carefully and squinted.
Suddenly he remembered what he had been reading. It was a text from a night 
course in British poetry. He had signed up in the hope that he might meet his 
dream girl on the college campus, since he hadn't met her elsewhere. 
Unfortunately it developed that few women took night courses and those who did 
were mostly centenarian schoolteachers in for recency-of-credit. But he had 
discovered serendipitously that old-time verse was not entirely dull; indeed, it 
was as though the poets were men very like himself, bound by similar 
frustrations but with the wit to make them elegant. Andrew Marvell complained 
about his coy mistress (at least he had one); Lord Byron rhapsodized about a 
maid of Athens; Dante Gabriel Rossetti (always learn the full name, the 
professor admonished the class) commented on a goblet supposedly molded in the 
shape of the breast of Helen of Troy. That was the poem Burg had fallen asleep 
on: Troy Town.
Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen / (O Troy Town!) / Had two breasts of heavenly 
sheen /...

He couldn't remember the rest.
He had seen those two breasts, those images of man's desire. Supple yet 
voluptuous, firm yet perfect. Just now.
"That's not fair, Mr. Fowler. You didn't really look."
He opened his eyes fully. A doll stood on his pillow. A nine-inch high, 
gracefully woman-shaped figurine dressed in yellow. Its proportions were so 
accurately and lovingly rendered that the effect was rather like contemplating a 
real woman from a distance. This replica had everything. In fact, it was very 
like his fanciful ideal.
"I can explain," the doll said in that same delightful voice. "I thought you'd 
like to see me nude but since you shut your eyes again so quickly I decided"
Burgess Fowler rolled off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He ran the sink 
full of cold water and dunked his face in it open-eyed. Then, absolutely awake, 
he performed certain other routine morning chores and returned in his pajamas to 
the bedroom.
"We have only fifty minutes left," she complained. "You're not being very 
cooperative, Mr. Fowler."
He sat down on the bed. "Troy Town!" He was not a swearing man ordinarily. "I 
don't touch drugs of any kind, so it isn't that. I drink only in moderation and 
never alone. I am not overtired and when I am I'm not much given to 
hallucinations. I"
The doll stamped her little foot on the top sheet. Her heel made a pinpoint 
dent.
"The committee went to a great deal of trouble to locate you and learn your 
tastes andand get me here," she said. "You're wasting invaluable time, Mr. 
Fowler. Please listen to"
Burg brought her to him with a sweep of his left hand. "Now, my little practical 
joke!" he said. "We'll see what makes you operate"
She was not doll-like to the touch. His hand enclosed her torso and his thumb 
was aware of two singularly realistic breaststhe same he had seen in the first 
bright glimpse?rising and falling under the dress while his palm felt the 
rondure of a sweet derriere. Her waist was lithe and narrow, her hips soft and 
broad. She was warm and she smelled of perfumea brand he could not name, but 
liked.
He set her down, disgruntled.
"You can't be alive."
She rearranged her apparel and combed the tangles out of her hair. Her tresses 
were the precise shade of brown he liked, curled in just-so.
"If you will only pay attention, Mr. Fowler!"
"I'm trying tobut you're hard to believe at one sitting."
"I know I'm a little small for you but it was the best they could do. There is 
so little time Please help me, Mr. Fowler."
Burg would still have dismissed her as some kind of a powered toy, except for 
the remembered feel of her body and her present too-human animation. A doll did 
not breathe, and certainly did not react as directly and specifically as she was 
doing "All right, I'll help you, mini-girl whoever you are. Whatever you say 
your crew sent you for. What do you want?"
"I want," she said seriously, "to make love."

2. Animate Senescence
The Council of Oomus foregathered in tired splendor. All of the scions of the 
leading lines were present: the ranking scientists, philosophers and economists 
of the world. Here in the temple of the ancients, within a chamber overlooking 
the effete surging of the Sea of Life, they harkened to momentous developments.
The chairman withdrew his perception from the demesnes of that waning Source and 
broadcast for attention. Once such a signal might have bathed the planetnow it 
was barely sufficient to alert those nearest. The minds within the great old 
hall yielded courteously.
Please review the discussion of our last Assembly, the chairman thought.
The Recorder now projected his summary. At our last Assembly, three years ago, 
we received the report of the Committee on the State and Sadness of our World. 
We reluctantly accepted the verdict of our brothers: that our present misfortune 
is due to a condition of animate senescence. Unless rejuvenation occurs within 
our lifetime, the critical point will pass and our form of life, including the 
animation of all our world, will inexorably perish. Therefore we agreed to 
undertake radical measures and invest our remaining reserves in a project 
promising relief. This consists of negotiating and expediting an exchange with a 
world possessing a surplus of the animus we require.
An Economist interjected: Omission! We cannot permit specific communication with 
another realm, though extinction be the forfeit. So has our inviolable custom 
been; so it must remain.
Correction incorporated, the Recorder explained. The exchange was to be 
instituted in such a way that our identity is never betrayed, yet complete 
satisfaction rendered to the other party. Above all, it is our custom to be 
ethical. Yet satisfaction may be achieved in diverse ways. Such a program was 
instituted by an ad hoc Committee and the Assembly adjourned.
The Chairman thanked the Recorder. Then: What is the report of that duly 
constituted Expeditionary Committee?

3. Courtship
"Mini-girlmind if I call you Minnie? There are things that I might do for you. 
and gladly," Burg said. "But making love is not among them. For that you need a 
man. A man your size, I mean."
"Oh, no, Mr. Fowler," she protested, laying a tiny hand on his little finger. 
"It must be you. They were very clear about that. You have just the rightI 
mean, I exist only for you. I love you."
There was, then, an ulterior motive of some sort. The crew that had sent her to 
him had a price for its service. He was not, however, obliged to accept it, 
since this was unsolicited merchandise. She could charm him as she wished, but 
that would be all. He was not going to pay any exorbitant fee for this doll, or 
sign any dubious documents.
The strange thing was that, whatever her secret, she did conform to his ideals 
of femininity. Had she been full-size, her measurements would have been about 
36-24-36, or perhaps a trifle more generous, with all the other physical 
attributes congenial. More than that, there was an intangible charm about her, a 
symmetry of manner and proportion that evoked pleasure in the contemplation. Her 
attire complemented her features perfectly, and her face had just that quality 
of imperfect maturity he preferred. Even her little mannerisms, such as the 
conservativeyet excitingway she put her slender fingers on him and the lift of 
her fine chin when she spokeall of it was the kind of thing he had been 
searching for and had, in his not-so-secret heart, never expected to attain. For 
if such a woman were ever to appear before him, he could be certain she would be 
snapped up by a more wealthy, muscular or articulate male. Yet here she was. And 
when she claimed to love him, he felt an adolescent thrill, square as he knew 
this reaction to be in an adult.
But...
"I feel complimented," he told her gently. "But I have to point out that there 
are sharp limits"
"No. No limits. And we have only forty minutes. Please, Mr. Fowler, we have to 
get started." She sat down on the coverlet and removed her shoes. One thigh 
showed alluringly as her leg lifted.
He chucked her under the chin with a careful finger. "There has to be a 
misunderstanding, sweetheart. You're very pretty and I like you butmaybe you'd 
better tell me exactly what you mean by 'making love.' "
She stood up. She ran a hand down her side and her yellow dress fell open. She 
shrugged out of it, folded it meticulously (he liked that, too) and stood before 
him in bra and petticoat. She drew the petticoat over her head.
"I fear our definitions coincide," Burg said quickly. It was as though a real 
woman were baring herself and he wasn't used to it. "Butsurely you see that 
it's impossible. Physically impossible. You and Iwell, it's impossible."
"No, it isn't," she said confidently, as she reached behind to unfasten the bra. 
"You're a man and I'm a woman and I love you." The bra came free, revealing that 
spectacular scale-model bosom. Then she dropped her panties.
Ah, yescomplete and desirable in every respect.
And nine inches tall.
"Now it's your turn," she said.
"Look, Minniethis is ridiculous. I can't"
"Please, Mr. Fowler!" she urged him. "Get undressed."
"You don't understand"
She dabbed her face with a handkerchief the size of a postage stamp. "You don't 
love me! You won't even give me a ch-chance!"
Feeling like both fool and heel, he removed his pajamas. Of all the ways to be 
spending a Saturday morning!
"Good," she said, looking him over demurely. "Now lie down."
He lay on his back next to her.
She trotted up and leaned against his chin. "You haven't shaved."
"I'll go take care of it right now," he said, grateful for the pretext to remove 
himself from this embarrassing charade.
"Nothere isn't time. Kiss me," she said, and leaned over his face to plant her 
full red lips against his mouth. Her breasts nudged his cheek and she had one 
bare foot braced in his ear, but the overall effect, oddly, was potent.
Then she climbed up a little more so that her breasts hung above his mouth. 
Suddenly some more of the poem popped into his mind. Queen Helen's commentary on 
her own physique.
Yea, for my bosom here I sue: / (O Troy Town!) / Thou must give it where 'tis 
due, / Give it there to the heart's desire. / Whom do I give my bosom to? / (O 
Troy's down, / Tall Troy's on fire!)

It was given to Burg. The breasts pressed down between his lips, their miniature 
nipples touching his tongue. He couldn't help warming to the sensual impact of 
her body.
He licked the heart's desire.
"You do want me, don't you?" she inquired.
What could he say? He was drinking from Helen's goblet and Tall Troy was on 
fire.

4. Expedition
The Thoughtsman for the ad hoc Expeditionary Committee presented his report. We 
divided our mission into two prime areas of endeavor: first, the arrangements 
for the emissary to solicit a suitable exchange; second, the mechanical 
provisions for transfer of the shipment. Both areas had unique problems. We 
could not send one of our own number as emissary, for reasons hitherto 
discussed, so we formulated a matrix of suitable configuration and cultured it 
remotely to serve in lieu of direct confrontation. The proteins for the 
multicellular entity were garnered from the substances available on that world
Several interjections: Multicellular entity? Why attempt such an unwieldy 
construction? Surely there is a less tedious way!
The Thoughtsman waited for the commentary to subside. Compatriots, our need is 
massive and immediate. We felt that our purpose would best be served by dealing 
with one of the larger species, one capable of delivering the entire shipment in 
a matter of hours. If our present, admittedly ambitious, scheme succeeds, we 
should have complete delivery by the terminus of this Assembly.
There was a complimentary aura of awe.
Then another protest: But at what price, Thoughtsman? We shall have to mortgage 
our entire resources for a thousand generations even to approach a fair exchange 
for such immediate service!
Not so, the Thoughtsman replied. We need only agree to mutually beneficial 
terms. In this case we believe our emissary will be able to give satisfactory 
value. Therefore the shipment should cost us nothing more than the effort of 
obtaining it.
But we cannot offer in exchange any information about ourselves or deriving from 
our researches! What else, apart from physical goods, could the emissary arrange 
for?
Love, the Thoughtsman replied.

5. Act of Love
Minnie trotted down Burg's chest, stomach and abdomen, her bare feet pattering 
ticklishly. When she reached the major bifurcation she kneeled in the brush, 
wrapped her arms about the cannon she found there, and pressed her resilient 
breasts against it.
Troy had never stood taller.
In the living room the clock chimed eight.
This abrupt reminder of the real world brought the weirdness of the situation 
home to him with renewed force. There was of course no mini-woman; he was lying 
steeped in his own concupiscence and he had better get up before he fouled the 
sheet. It had been a fabulous fantasy, ridiculous but excitingbut there were 
limits.
"You'll have to sit up, Mr. Fowler," she said. "The angle is wrong, this way."
Burg lifted his head and saw her: a lushly naked woman straddling the canting 
trunk of a leaning beech tree as though it were a seesaw.
He sat up carefully, swinging his gross feet off the side of the bed while she 
clung to her support with arms and legs. He didn't know what to do except comply 
with her requests; the truth was too incredible to argue with.
"Give me your hand," she said.
He put out a hand and she braced herself against his thumb. She climbed just 
high enough to sit on the apex of the now-vertical stump, her slim legs coming 
down on either side. He could feel her smooth muscular buttocks and the moist 
warmth of her cleft as she squirmed around to seat herself firmly, facing him. 
Her waist was no larger than the purple hassock she bestrode.
She squirmed some more and the action was almost painfully titillating. He began 
to comprehend how physical intercourse could take place between them: her 
aperture, properly positioned, might match and seal over the vent in the 
hydrant.
Burg closed his eyes and let her proceed as she wished. Astonishingly, this 
enhanced the sensation; it felt as though she were gradually enclosing him. Tip, 
glans, stem, stage by stage. This was utterly impossible; Minnie's entire torso 
was hardly four inches long.
He felt the ejaculation coming onbut that brought him to his senses again. So 
there was a doll-woman perched on the tower; accepting that much, the force of 
the incipient eruption would surely skewer her. That would not be funny at all. 
He remembered reading about one of the Nazi atrocities. They had taken one of 
the death-camp inmates, a young girl, forced the nozzle of a fire-hose into her 
vagina, tied it in place and turned the water on full force. That image made him 
recoil all over; it applied too specifically.
"Mr. Fowler!" Minnie cried.
Burg opened his eyes, then his mouth. The girl was squatting in his lapand tall 
Troy was into her a good three inches, yet her torso retained its original and 
delectable dimensions. It was as though his substance vanished once it 
penetrated her.
"Mr. Fowleryou're shrinking."
So he was; that torture-image and now his amazement at what he saw had taken the 
starch from his ardor.
"Look, Minniewhat if I should?"
"We only have a few minutes," she said reproachfully. "You can't fail me now."
Detumescence continued, however, and her whole body tilted to one side as her 
support became jelly.
"But thewhere will it go?" he demanded academically. What did not come, could 
not go. "You'll behurt."
She brought her knees together, putting pressure on the portion of him that 
remained within her. His flesh responded mechanically to the kneading of her 
well-formed limbs and began to grow again.
"Minnie, don't you know what happens when"
"When the semen comes? Of course I know. And it has to be within five minutes or 
it's all wasted. Please, Mr. Fowleryou have to help, you know."
He saw his member expanding enormously under this stimulation, pushing back into 
the space between her thighs. She bounced her body, taking in yet more of him. 
Penetration was back to three inches and still she flexed her legs and slid 
farther down the tower.
Burg made a last effort to get through to her intellectually before the 
automatic process took over. "Minnie, there's going to be a lot ofpressure. Are 
you sure you haveroom?"
"Do you love me?" she asked.
So even dream-girls had feminine foibles. "Yes, II guess I do. It's crazy and 
backwardsbut I love you. You're my ideal, Minnie, in miniature."
"I'm so glad," she said, smiling. "And I love you, Burg." She was finally using 
his first name, as though his confession of love justified an intimacy of 
address that the prior circumstance had not. "And will you let me keep 
everything that comes?"
"It's a love offering," he said. "The truest kind. You can keep all you can 
hold, now and forever."
"Shake on it?" She proffered a doll-like hand.
He put out his right forefinger and she grasped the fingernail and tugged it 
solemnly up and down. They could not shake hands properly, he thought, but they 
could fornicate. What next?
"Then it's all right," she said. "Thank you, Burg."
And she straightened out both legs in an L-formation, scissored them wide and 
slid pneumatically down as though his manhood were a greased piston. Her dainty 
bottom landed warmly against his scrotum.
Her four-inch torso had absorbed himyet remained as slender and virginal as 
ever.

6. Pipeline
The mechanical aspect is even more critical, the Thoughtsman explained. The 
research required to locate a suitable and amenable subject could be done by 
straight observation and analysis but the physical construction of such a 
massive pipeline was an appalling project. Transmission has to be virtually 
instantaneous because of the perishability of the merchandise and the sheer 
volume also generates terrific problems. We have constructed a series of 
gateways, transfer-points to accommodate and differentiate the ingredients of 
the shipment. The first stage, located on the alien planet for convenience, 
connects directly to the input transmitter and is exceedingly large, since it 
must dock the alien tanker itself. Within it is a smaller transmitter to handle 
the cargo alone. The second stage, based on a world of our own system, is to 
receive and divide the mass into a number of lesser segments, each of which is 
retranslated individually. At this point the packaging material is also filtered 
out so that
Not clear, a chorus of thoughts came. Illustrate it.
The Thoughtsman projected a diagram:

Now there was an aura of comprehension.
Because of the vagaries of planetary motion and interstellar transmission 
conditions, the Thoughtsman continued, precise timing is essential. The other 
world, being of a larger order than our own, possesses a differential of 
duration with respect to ours that affects transmission. Our emissary has been 
most intricately programed and is fully competent, but because of those time and 
size differentials is working under disadvantage.
A chorus of thoughts interjected. Are you implying that this could fail? That 
our tremendous effort and investment may be wasted? That you are gambling with 
our vital resources?
No, no! the Thoughtsman protested. But the truth was out: the success of the 
entire project depended on the performance of a disadvantaged representative and 
they did not have sufficient resource to make a second attempt.
At any rate, the Thoughtsman finished, we shall know very shortly. This Assembly 
chamber overlooks one of the five thousand output apertures distributed 
throughout our world. We shall witness success or failure before we disperse.
There was nothing more to discuss. Tensely they concentrated on the aperture and 
waited for the verdict. Success would preserve their existence by providing the 
necessary hedge against continuing animate senescence; failure would bring them 
that much closer to extinction.

7. Climax
She sat upon him, her knees drawn up with her arms around them. "It's almost 
time, Burg," she said. "We'd better start now. Put your hand around me."
Start?
He curved his fingers around her body as she let go her knees to accommodate his 
embrace. He was amazed that she remained so delicate. He throbbed deep within 
her. By rights he should be projecting beyond her head, yet this was not the 
case.
Minnie took his fingers and pressed them against her breast and thighs. 
Sensitive now to the nuances of her tiny body, he reacted to the tender flesh as 
though it were full-size. Large or small, she was his dream-girl and he did love 
her. Culmination was incipient.
"Now!" she cried, flexing her entire body against him. "Please, Burg, now!"
Stimulated by the frenzy of her flesh he let himself go. She clung to his 
fingers, kissing them and biting them.
Like the rumble of a live volcano it came, throbbing up from the fundament, 
pressuring chthonic valves, gathering into an irresistible swell. A steaming 
geyser distended the conduit and burst into individuality. And after it a second 
thrust pumped up from the depths to lay waste all hesitation. And a third, a 
fourth, and a fifth, spewed torrentially out in as many seconds. Then, with 
decreasing force, three more. And finally two others that oozed along as though 
squeezed from a tube of toothpaste, and apathy set in.
Troy was down.
Minnie slumped as he did, a weary but satisfied smile on her lovely face.
"We did it, Burg," she whispered. "We did it." As though, he thought, a great 
deal more had been at stake than an act of physical love between two people.

8. Denouement
Stage I was almost entirely filled by the tremendous turgid purple tanker from 
the alien world and when the first bolus avalanched from the gaping slit of its 
orifice the impact was such as virtually to sunder the cylinder. But the baffles 
held and the second transmitter channeled the viscous mass through in its 
entirety. The Stage II receiver, light-years distant, filtered and funneled it 
into the myriad subtransmitters and it emerged at last in fractional spurts into 
the Sea of Life.
There was a collective sigh of minds as the Council of Oomus perceived the blast 
of plasma from the adjacent aperture. The shipment had come: ten thousand viable 
entities in this subsection alone, each living body over a foot in diameter with 
a flexing tail forty feet long, driving heedlessly forward as it encountered the 
living water.
Tall Troy's on fire! the Thoughtsman reflected for no sensible reason. What was 
fire? What was Troy?
And the giant, tired egg-matrices of Oomus were waiting for the amalgamation, 
for the vigor of new life, new notions, new chromosomes. All over the world, 
surrounding five thousand apertures, they were ready. Semisentient masses 
capable of adapting if only granted a fresh blueprint in place of the senescent 
retreads of the past billion years. Now that rejuvenating strain had comefrom a 
source whose monstrosity defied the imagination.
An hour later the second bolus arrived, as brisk and massive as the first. And 
an hour after that, the third.
The council remained for the full twelve hours the complete shipment took, 
perceiving every aspect raptly, though the last two surges were but gentle 
swells with little content. In all, five hundred million swimming sperm cells 
came, enough for every available egg. It meant salvation for Oomus. Not life as 
it had been, for these were alien chromosomes; but their uniformity guaranteed 
that every developing egg would be compatible with those of its generation. A 
new animation had replaced and improved the old.
And what of the emissary? the chairman inquired of the Thoughtsman as they 
basked in the ambient grandeur of the alien gift.
Contact has been broken, the Thoughtsman replied. We could not maintain it 
longer; our mechanisms were out of power. She will have to remain there.
Can she exist alone?
Oh yesshe is of otherworld substance but based on our own cellular design. She 
cannot imbibe nourishment in the alien manner but any future shipments she is 
able to procure will be conserved in Stage I and routed back to animate her own 
flesh. That segment of the equipment draws its power from the alien world and 
will function indefinitely. She can endure, theoretically, for a long timemany 
thousands of our yearsif she is only able to obtain chromosome rejuvenation 
regularly.
I fear that is impossible, the chairman thought. What alien would donate a cargo 
sufficient to reanimate an entire world just to oblige a creature like that? I 
deeply regret that, in our urgency to save our form of existence, we were forced 
to create such an ungainly multicelled monster doomed to a brief and miserable 
existence.
It is hardly fair, the Thoughtsman agreed morosely. She does have a good mind 
and strong feelings, since these were part of the necessary specifications for 
success. Had I not been preoccupied with our own concerns I would have 
remembered her situation and in mercy terminated her life as the mission ended. 
Even a monster does not deserve to suffer unnecessarily.
But it was a minor sadness, in the face of their new joy.

ON THE USES OF TORTURE
After "Bridge" you may be wondering what could be more provocative. The answer 
is the following story, "Torture." But this one is not sweet and sexy. I like to 
try my talent in new ways, and this time I set out to write the most brutal 
fiction the market could sustain. It turned out that I was again ahead of my 
time. Ejler Jakobsson bought "Torture," but suggested revision. No, not to 
censor it; to make it more effective. He was really doing his job; you don't 
often see that. I agreed with his points, and made the suggested revision, and 
the story did indeed stand improved. It was scheduled for publication in the 
same issue of WOT as "Bridge"; because magazines don't like to run two stories 
in an issue by the same author, this one was to appear under my alternate pen 
name, Tony Pedro. That is, a form of Anthony and a form of Piers. Piers is part 
of a huge family of names that includes Peter (English language), Pedro 
(Spanish), Pierre (French), Pietro (Italian), Peder (Danish), Pieter (Dutch), 
Petron (Greek) and perhaps others I wot not; it means "rock." Yes, it is the 
rock on which the Christian Church was built.
But when the issue was published, "Torture" was absent. The editor had, it 
seemed, lost his nerve. Three years later, fellow novelist Sterling Lanier asked 
me if I would contribute a story to a private magazine, Armadillo, so I showed 
them "Torture" and they bought it from Galaxy publications. But that issue of 
Dillo was never published either. Finally, after ten years or so, John 
Silbersack took it for The Berkley Showcase: Volume 3and this time it actually 
did make it into print. It seemed the genre had finally loosened up enough for 
the hard stuff. My main frustration about the matter is the fact that Harlan 
Ellison wrote a story about the same time I wrote "Torture," but his was much 
milder. Thus his "A Boy and His Dog" was able to make it into print, and I 
believe it won an award and was made into a motion picture. People thought that 
was the most brutal fiction the genre had to offer; they never got to see mine. 
Once again I missed the cut and remained unfamous. Today I have made my name 
instead as a writer of funny fantasy; I can't even break in to the horror market 
despite having some truly horrible works in mind, because I have no credits in 
horror. But I can write it, and one day I will.
Gentle reader, be warned again: this story is brutal.
* * *
My fingers caress the dial. The boots stir uneasily. "You don't know me," I tell 
them. "But you do know this boxand that is sufficient. I expect you to work 
well and keep your opinions to yourselves. That is all."
They watch me, expressionless. There are twenty of them, all nonwhite humans. 
Some are half-caste Negroes, some Latins, a few Mongoloid, the rest mixed. The 
refuse of the Space Servicebusted back to boot status and sentenced to hard 
labor here at Stockade Planetoid. Scrubbing out tankers, packing bargesthat 
sort of thing, where human labor is cheaper than the shipping charges on heavy 
machinery. This barracks is listed as "inclement," and I am expected to whip it 
into line.
"Roll call," I announce. I depress a button on the box and set the dial to 
twenty-five. One of the boots stiffens, his breath sucking inward noisily. He is 
dark brown with frizzy hair and broad nostrils. I let him twitch a moment while 
I study him. Then, I turn and dial to zero and he subsides.
"You don't need to do that," a Latin objects. "We're wearing our numbers."
So they are. This loudmouth is #6. I depress stud number six and turn the dial 
to forty. He goes rigid with a cry of agony. Slowly I advance the setting to 
fifty, noting how his muscles strain and the sweat pops out all over his body. 
He is trying to scream again, but can't catch his breath. Then I drop it down to 
ten, so that he is only nominally in pain. "Remember what I said about 
opinions?" I asked him gently.
He nods, the moisture shaking off his cropped skull. I turn to zero, and he 
breathes again.
After I have verified that the discipline box is properly attuned to each member 
of my crew, I return to #6. "Since you evidently like to talk, suppose you tell 
me why you're here."
He hesitates. I know why: there is a kind of Geneva Convention about this 
prison, and technically the boots don't have to say anything to anybody about 
their pasts. Which is why I am inquiring. I raise my hand to the box.
"Tell him!" #20 exclaims. I give him a token nudge at five tenths, just a 
reminder about talking out of turn even though he has done exactly what I want. 
My finger hovers over stud #6.
"We're all here for the same reason, sergeant," the Latin says. "Mutiny. We were 
supposed to gas a continent on Severance to clear it of native life so that it 
could be mined efficiently, and we balked."
"Severance," I murmur. "Richest lode of iridium discovered in the last decade, 
no intelligent or otherwise useful fauna. Why did you interfere?"
"Because it was genocide. All the animals unique to that world, all the 
plantsMan had no right to wipe them out. Not for the sake of a mining strike, 
not for any reason. To brutally gas an entire"
"It was hardly your prerogative to impose your ludicrous sentimentality on your 
mission."
"Wewe're not exactly from Earth's privileged class," he says. My hand drops 
toward the dial, and he continues quickly. "I mean we feel some empathy for 
those who have no power of decision. Those creatures on Severancethey had a 
right to live, to breed, to prosper, to die in their own fashion, just as we do. 
They were no threat to us, only an inconvenience. We could have mined without 
hurting"
"Enough. I don't care to be contaminated by your pusillanimous ravings. You 
betrayed your species and your world, you despicable alien-lovers. You ought to 
be gassed yourselves, and if I were the court-martial officer I'd see to it 
myself. But at least I can make you traitors earn your keep. Your rations will 
be reduced by a third for your first week with me, your duty hours extended 
commensurately. Any complaints you may entertain will be duly processed through 
the box." I depress the entire bank of buttons and give them all a half-second 
jolt of sixty, just so they understand.
The book says the box can't kill, though it can make you wish you were dead. The 
book understates the case. The box stimulates the nerve endings of the skin and 
muscle to simulate a burn, and one hundred is the maximum the human nervous 
system is capable of sustaining. No torture can deliver more actual pain than 
that. But the real beauty of it is that no harm is done, physically, so there is 
no limit to the duration of the punishment. The do-gooders back on Earth are 
chronically campaigning against this device but the Service lobby has kept the 
lid on. Good thing, too; we need the box!
A minute has passed, and I see that they are pretty well recovered. "Fall out 
for duty," I say. They know who is master now.

I bear down on them for the next couple of weeks. You have to when you're 
dealing with niggers and spies and chinks. They never had real discipline 
before, and they do get balky and self-righteous and sloppy. Mine have become 
acclimatized to pain; I have to give them fifty to make them jump.
My outfit is posting the best record in the compound, but I knew there's some 
resistance still lurking there. I have to bring it to the surface at my 
convenience, not theirs. So I volunteer them for inside scrub-down on a 
radioactive barge. That's the worst assignment there is because, even with 
continuous decontamination, each hour of such duty is estimated to take a week 
off your life expectancy, and you're damn sick while you're exposed, too. This 
hulk is big; it will take them a good two weeks to G.I. it all.
I give them the word at lights-out, so they can dream about it. Maybe a hundred 
hours cumulative inside that scow....
Come morning by compound time, my barracks misses reveille. The company officer 
smirks, thinking I've lost a point. He knows I mean to have his job, in time.
I march to the barracks and slam open the lock. They are there, lying in their 
bunks. "On your feet!" I holler loud enough so the whole wing can hear even 
without the loudspeakers. I touch them with fifty.
They twitch and groan, but don't get up.
Just as I thought. This is the tactic that retired my predecessor. They figure 
anyone will break if they go on a lie-down strike, refusing to work no matter 
how much they get boxed. And if they miss more than half a day there will be an 
investigation and bad publicity.
They propose to bargain with the god of the box.
They are fools, of course. I do not call them again, I do not warn them. I 
merely turn the dial to one hundred, depress all twenty buttons, and lock them 
in with the intercom disconnected. I amble down the corridor to the N.C.O.'s 
mess and enjoy a leisurely breakfastcoffee, eggs, bacon, one griddlecake with 
maple syrup, a section of fresh cantaloupe, orange juice. I'll say this for the 
stockade: it has excellent hydroponic facilities and a fine stable. I could not 
eat better on Earth.
Gloria, the civilian waitress, serves me with a smile. I chat with her and pat 
her shapely behind. She doesn't know my line of work, only that I'm one of the 
staff. Nice girl; I really enjoy seeing her.
Sated, I amble back to the barracks. The Post Commander has granted my platoon 
the morning off in gratitude for the men's courage in volunteering for 
radioactive duty. I have neglected to tell them this.
One hour has passedthe maximum any prisoner may be boxed at one hundred without 
specific dispensation. I drop the dial to zero and unlock. It takes a moment to 
clarify the situation.
Numbers 2 and 15 are in coma. Numbers 4, 9, 10, and 19 are delirious. The rest 
are severely shaken but will be fit to work in a few hours. I notify sick bay to 
fetch the two, lock the four in, and conduct the rest to boot mess for a late 
repast. They fall into formation without protest.
I anticipate no further trouble with them.

It has taken too much time, of course, but now I am a commissioned officer. I am 
in charge of a dozen barracks, and there is very little disturbance in my wing. 
The boots fear me and do not attempt to stand on their "rights."
But I am aware that with this slow progress I will never achieve the full 
success I crave unless I can jump several ranks. So it behooves me to volunteer 
for a high-risk, high-reward mission.
Gloria, my fiancee, tries to talk me out of it. She is afraid I will fail or get 
killed. She doesn't understand that life itself is a failure if no chances are 
ever taken. I must take a risk commensurate with my aspiration.
At the top of the Special Assignment roster is a planet called Waterloo; the 
human discoverer's half-punning rendition of the unpronounceable native 
designation. Waterloo is where the Earth-sphere economic advance is stalled. I 
know it's gauche to speak of trails through space, as though a three-dimensional 
volume sparsely pocked with glowing gasballs called stars and bits of debris 
called planets can be seriously equated with an extinct Earthside wilderness, 
but that's what it really amounts to. It is feasible for man to expand his 
sphere in this directionthe sphere isn't sphere-shaped, naturallyusing 
Waterloo as a kind of trading post and transfer point. It is not feasible to 
bypass this particular planet. That is all, I am told, that I need to know. So I 
think of it as a station on a trail, and the Loos of Waterloo have set up a 
barricade that has to come down so the posse can get through. The assignment: 
bring down that barricade.
It would be easier to understand the situation if the Loos were violent, asocial 
monsters. But they are humanoid, at least in outline, and civilized too, though 
without space technology. There is evidence that they had it once, but gave it 
up, oddly. They are rather polite and gentle with never a harsh word, and they 
have hardly begun to exploit their system's natural resources. They have a lot 
to benefit from Earth contact and seem willing enough. All that is necessary is 
for an envoy to connect with their leader or governing council and arrange for 
an Earth/Waterloo treaty that establishes an industrial enclave and permits free 
passage of commercial vessels. Ours, of course.
The kicker is that six envoys have tried it in turn. Five never came back. The 
sixth escaped to display the marks of his reception. He had been brutally 
tortured.
So there is the riddle of Waterloo. A pleasant, peaceful culture that tortures 
visitors. Force is out of the question, whatever the provocation. Earth could 
not possibly transport and land enough troops to pacify the entire planet since 
the men could not forage from the land. Diplomacy has to do the job if it is to 
be done at all. And it must be done, lest other spacefaring species assume 
control of the region and threaten Man's security.
Gloria pleads and cries and threatens and cajoles, but I volunteer. I am 
confident that I, as a superior individual, will succeed once more where my 
incompetent predecessors have failed.

I am landing now at the only suitable place on the planet. This is where a 
super-hard lava flow exists that can withstand the blast of chemical rockets. 
The ancient Loo spaceports are in shambles, quite useless today, so this natural 
formation has to substitute.
According to envoy #6 (intriguing coincidence of nomenclature, that! My Latin 
loudmouth finally finagled a reprieve)the Loos never kill an animate creature 
if they can help it. Their atrocities are calculated to induce maximum pain with 
minimum loss of body faculty. But their science in this respect remains crude. 
They do not have the discipline box.
The first two envoys (#6 claims) died because the Loos were not sufficiently 
conversant with human anatomy and function to preserve them through the 
scheduled rigors. The next three committed suicide. The sixth made his break 
instead. He was a specially trained agent who was able to pull off his 
phenomenal escape without the use of one hand. Now he has quit the Service.
I have no such spy training. And I mean to see my mission through to the end, 
for marriage and considerable acclaim and fortune await me. So I will neither 
run nor commit suicide. The Loos will have to kill me outrightor negotiate.
Here are the Loos, coming across the plain of lava in an animal cart. They are 
actually rather small, only four and a half feet tall and proportionately 
slender. Hardly the type one would expect to find in the torture business. The 
gravity of this world is less than Earth-norm, but the difference isn't enough 
to account for such diminished stature, if that's the way it works. I don't 
really know or care much about exobiology. I do know their internal systems are 
different; they look like human mock-ups, but there are myriad distinctions. The 
Loos are probably the right size for what they are, though that isn't much.
"Welcome to Waterloo," their spokesman says, using their own word for the planet 
but speaking English otherwise. They have evidently learned something about us 
and made an effort to accommodate. That should help. Maybe the earlier 
difficulties were the result of some linguistic confusion.
Maybe cheese is made from green moons, too. By what innocent misapprehension 
would they torture six envoys?
"I have come to make a treaty," I inform the Loo. "Between your world and mine. 
Mutually beneficial. You understand?"
"Yes, Envoy," he replies. I know he is male because he has a penis. Primitives 
don't wear much.
He conducts me to his castle, making small talk. If he is trying to impress me 
with his verbal facility, he is succeeding. I doubt I could handle the Loo 
gabble that well, should I be moved to try. His name is something like Kule, he 
is to be my host for the duration, and he seems friendly enough. Innocuous, in 
fact. Naturally he is hiding something.
The air is balmy. I am able to breathe comfortably and to drink the local water, 
but that's as far as it goes.
Inside, Kule introduces me to his mate, Vibe. She is a thick individual with 
four teats down the front and a jelly-pudendum, and she speaks limited English. 
Her litter of four stands behind her: vaguely akin to bald-headed human brats.
"Do they speak my language too?" I inquire.
"To some extent," Kule admits. "All those who expect to deal with aliens must 
study the tongues. But beyond this domicile there are few you could converse 
with."
We share a royal dinner. I cannot touch the Waterloo food, of course. Its 
chemistry differs right down to the cellular structure. A distinct and alien 
life-pattern. Assimilation of any of it would havoc my innards. The air and 
water are essentially inorganic, so I can use them, but the fooda biological 
antimatter, I suppose. But they have imported some Earth staples at fabulous 
expense (or stolen them from the prior envoys) and prepared them for me. A 
fattening for the Kill?
"You come politically, as did the other Earthmen?" the Loo inquires as we dine. 
"To deal as between sovereign planets?"
"Yes," I agree. He already knows this. Perhaps he is letting his family in on 
the secret now.
"You have courage."
I suppose that is a way of looking at it. I find it hard to be afraid of 
inferiors. "I understand that you torture envoys."
"Certainly. We regret that your predecessors... desisted prematurely. But we are 
now sufficiently familiar with human anatomy so that we are virtually assured 
you will not perish on the rack." He took another mouthful of pudding, looking 
pleased.
I mouth my own dessert. "Unless I commit suicide."
Vibe turns green around all four nipples and the litter titters. I see 
immediately that I have committed a faux pas.
"Your species is prone to jest?" Kule asks uncertainly.
"Very prone." The bad moment passes. Should I regret that I have caused this 
nice, homey, bloodthirsty family embarrassment? Yet if torture is one of their 
amenities....
The meal is finished. "Shall I conduct you to the business office now," Kule 
asks, "or would you prefer to rest a little first?"
"Business before pleasure," I reply. I doubt he has either intent or authority 
to sign a treaty between two worlds, however. Perhaps I am to meet someone more 
important.
Kule obligingly guides me to a lower chamber of the castle. It is large and set 
up like a theater. Tiers of benches rise above an ample stage. I do not need the 
sight of several Loos suspended on boards to acquaint me with the fact that this 
is indeed a torture chamber.
It occurs to me to inquire why they feel the need to inflict pain on natives and 
aliens alike, but I realize that sadism requires no objective justification. 
Perhaps Kule expects me to break and run for my ship; this is his way of scaring 
me away from my mission.
No doubt he has never dealt with a superior man. I shall neither be bluffed nor 
commit a faux pas again.
Kule introduces me to my personal torturer, a legless one-eyed Loo. He cannot 
move; he is mounted to a pedestal before a vacant rack. I see that each client 
has a similarly incapacitated attendant. None of that modern mass-production 
indifference here!
"This is Beve, our specialist in human anatomy," Kule says with pride. "You can 
be assured that he is fully accredited. Under his direction you will suffer the 
most exquisite agony your system is capable of. He handled the three successful 
cases."
"Successful?"
"Those who took the grail." Kule gestures to a handsome goblet affixed to one 
edge of the vertical board. I perceive that it is filled with an amber fluid. A 
suicide cup?
It would not work for me, because of the differing metabolism, and would not 
have worked for the prior envoys. He is lying. Noit would work, but not quite 
in the manner intended. Not the poison, but the alien chemistry would do the 
human drinker in. Academic distinction.
"Who handled the unsuccessful cases?" I inquire politely.
"We do not speak the names of failures," Kule reproves me gently. "Incompetent 
practitioners are incarcerated along with their mistakes in the oubliette. If 
extenuating circumstances exist, they are granted a sip from the grail first." 
His demeanor is grave; he does not enjoy the subject. I understand. No one likes 
to admit proximity to incompetence.
But it is an intriguing point, this concern about accidental death on the rack. 
If the client is driven to suicide, it is the tormenter's bonus, I gather. If 
the client dies adamant, he guarantees his torturer's demise. Very nice. But 
what of those who survive bloody but unbowed?
"You understand," Kule says, hesitating delicately, "suppressors or 
tranquilizers of any type are"
"are frowned upon," I finish for him. "Lest they diminish the pain." And I was 
sure they would know if I used any such, so I have no intention of cheating.
"I can stay only for the initiation." Kule says. "But you will be attended 
throughout by licensed witnesses. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to 
ask Beve. He can hear you, and he comprehends. If he nods toward pain, the 
answer is affirmative." He retreats to one of the seats in the gallery and sets 
himself up expectantly.
Kule's actions and comments smack of verisimilitude: a rehearsed sequence to 
convince me that I am really to be tortured. Nevertheless, it is impressive.
Beve smiles, revealing his toothless and tongueless cavity, and I comprehend a 
trifle more. He had been tortured himself! He knows well the meaning of pain. 
His head is an earless globe; only poke holes penetrate the skull. Probably all 
his infirmities stem from similar coercion.
Beve gestures toward the rack invitingly. I play it straight: I strip down and 
manage to mount myself for the operation. I fit my arms and legs into the loops 
provided. The supports are oddly comfortable, being padded and pliable, and they 
brace my body in such a way that I should be able to remain suspended for a long 
time without bruise or loss of circulation. Though the chamber is well lighted, 
no direct beam affronts my eyes, and the ambient temperature is pleasant for my 
exposed skin. There is even a headband that takes weight off my neck without 
impairing freedom of motion. The rack seems to be no more than a convenient 
display table. Were it not for the intermittent groans associated with the 
adjacent projects, I could almost convince myself that this is merely a fancy 
sauna.
"Shall I call it quits when I'm tired?" I inquire facetiously, thinking Beve 
won't understand. But he nods his head to one side. Does that signify "yes" or 
"no"?
Foolish notion! What kind of torture would it be if the client could turn it off 
at will?
What kind? The usual kind! Torture is generally for an ulterior purpose: to 
obtain the subject's acquiescence to the will of the torturer. It ceases when 
the desired information is divulged, or the desired confession obtained, or the 
desired attitude embraced. Cooperation terminates it. I have applied the 
pain-box therapy in such manner many times.
On the other hand, torture as punishment desists only at the discretion of the 
torturer. This I employed when my barracks at the stockade defied me by a 
liedown strike. If I am to be subjected to that kind, no easy death by suicide 
should be permitted.
All of which leaves the status of Waterloo duress in question. No single 
explanation seems wholly reasonable. There is no information I would not freely 
provide, and I have no relevant confessions to make. My attitude, I should 
think, is good: I want only to negotiate a mutually beneficial treaty. I am not 
a criminal in need of punishment by any standard I know of, and I have not been 
treated as one here, so far. I merely happen to be an envoy scheduled for 
torture.
I can't claim discrimination. The other clients are natives, and the torturers 
themselves have been tortured.
In short, I am baffled. Well, when on Waterloo....
To one side is a cabinet, Beve opens it and sets up certain instruments. My view 
is unhampered. I can see every detail as can Kule and the witnesses in the 
audience. I see the light glint off the fine steel of a set of scalpels.
Could this be a kind of gladiatorial display? One measures his courage against 
that of other contestants, for the sadistic delight of the spectators? Nothere 
are too few watchers, and they are as serious as jurymen. They merely wait.
Beve now reaches up to take my left hand, disengaging the arm from its supports 
at elbow and wrist. He sets it in a kind of elevated shelf projecting from his 
console and ties it firmly in place. I am reminded of the time I had to donate 
blood to the Service bank, back when I was a boot myself. There are even 
channels for each of my fingers, with straps to hold them in place. This entire 
unit must have been designed to human specification, from the oversized rack to 
the customized attachments: a telling compliment.
Beve lifts a small knife.
I have held my mind away from this reality, as though it were a bluff or 
something not connected to me personally. Now I can avoid it no longer: I am 
about to be cut.
My hand is palm-up, my fingers splayed. The knife descends on my smallest digit. 
I expect some delay, some offer to refrain if only I will accede to some 
particular demand or depart the planet promptly. But there is none. The blade 
stabs into my fleshy fingertip and slices shallowly down the length of the 
member, skipping only the portions covered by the straps.
The scalpel is sharp, and for a moment I am not aware of genuine pain. I watch 
the skin peel back from the wound like red opening lips. I see the rich blood 
well up, and I notice the little drain channels in the support shelf for such 
fluid. This is a sophisticated device, though primitive.
I am, I realize, in a kind of shock. I cannot believe that I am really thus 
casually to be tortured, though I am watching it happen.
Beve lifts a syringe and squirts a colorless jet down the gash. Suddenly there 
is agony: it is alcohol, or their equivalent!
"Beve!" I cry, alarmed. "If that's organic, and it enters my system"
He looks up at me and nods to his left, my right. Since it is my left hand that 
is hurting, he nods away from pain: no. He must have considered this matter and 
made sure I wouldn't die ludicrously. Maybe that was what happened to the first 
of the failures. Trust the torturer to know his business, particularly when the 
oubliette is gaping.
The working area is clean now. Something in that fiery liquid has stanched the 
bleeding. Beve is ready for the next stage. He slices across the finger at right 
angles to the prior cut and squirts away the new blood while I stiffen. It is as 
though I am holding my finger in the field of a limited-radius discipline box! 
Beve completes the incisions under the straps, working skillfully. He takes up a 
set of tongs and fastens them to
He is tearing off the skin!
I never suspected the pain would be like this. Up to the elbow I feel it, this 
rending of my flesh as the dermis parts from the substructure of my finger. It 
is peeling back like the skin of an orange, in sections. I do not look any more. 
I cry out; I cannot help it. It is as though my finger is a foot in diameter and 
every cell is screaming with the awful hurt of that flaying.
I try to clench my fist convulsively, but the bonds are tight. I try to jerk it 
away, but cannot budge it. My whole body tenses, but everywhere it is 
restrained. I can free myself by carefully extricating my limbs, but I cannot do 
it by involuntary reaction.
My right hand brushes against something cold. It is the grail, the chalice of 
death. At any time I chose to exercise physical control, I can disengage that 
hand, reach out, and take that cup. It has to be a conscious decision, for a 
careless motion would spill it. I have to decide to die.
Or I can disengage myself completely and bolt for the space ship, as the last 
envoy did. Strange that Kule never mentioned him. He must have been a sad 
commentary on the courage of the human species. No doubt that kind of thing is 
simply Not Done on Waterloo.
Not by me, anyway. I came here to unriddle this planet and arrange a treaty. I 
am no masochist, I do not enjoy painbut pain will not deter me from my mission. 
I will not capitulate. I will show them I can withstand their worst, though I 
lose my entire finger.
It is a long time before it is over, subjectively. I know it is only minutes 
objectively. My digit has become anesthetized. I feel only a dullness there, not 
unpleasant. As my eyes unscrew and clear, I look down.
Only bone and gristle remain. My finger is a skeleton. He has cut away all the 
flesh, leaving the gaunt joints, he has somehow tied off the conduits at the 
base, so no more body fluids leak out. No wonder the hurt has abated!
Kule sits impassively in the audience section, watching. He thinks I will break 
now!
"There are four others," I tell the torturer. He nods toward pain, agreeing 
without humor, and suddenly my remark seems very unfunny.
Beve cleans the knives meticulously and puts them away. Evidently the cutting is 
overbut I am not relieved. I look at the warm bone that was my finger and I 
know that this is no game. I am in the care of a professional.
He brings out a device rather like a vice. It has a handle and some kind of gear 
chain. He mounts it on my next larger finger and cranks it tight.
I am in a way acclimatized to the cutting, but this is different. The two ribbed 
planes of the vice compress my flesh against the bone and do not stop. Beve puts 
his muscle into the chore. I am crushed in agony. I scream again, as I have to; 
this torment shatters my restraint.
But I refuse to plead for mercy or to touch the cup.
It is worse than the flaying, but somehow it passes. My throat is sore from 
exertion, and I am shaking. I imagine that a slow land tank has driven over my 
hand, one cleat landing squarely on that finger. I watch as he unscrews the 
machine.
My finger is three inches in diameter, but the thickness of cardboard. Flesh and 
bone have been sundered under the pressure, burst apart, and metamorphosed into 
red/white opacity. The pain is diminished: the thing does not belong to me any 
more.
Kule still watches as do the witnesses. For them very little time has passed, 
and this is routine. In the reprieve while the press is being cleaned and 
stored, I look about and see that one of my companion torturees has lost 
consciousness. His demon is doing something to bring him to. Does too long a 
period of insensibility disqualify a client? for what?
Beve does not hesitate. He brings out another mechanism replete with little 
pulleys. I am reminded of a toy train, the wheels turning, the pistons plunging 
back and forth as it chugs along. But this is no toy.
This time I am able to control myself enough to watch the procedure throughout. 
It is a pulling gear he applies. It stretches my longest finger until the joints 
dislocate, until the muscles thin and part, the skin becomes transparent, the 
tendons snap. It is done. Only the tattered stump remains.
I feel anguish, of course, but it is as much for the irreparable damage done to 
my hand as for the immediate sensation. Yes, I am becoming adapted to 
withstanding the pain of whatever kind. I smile at Beve, at Kule. Their worst 
has not broken me.
The torturer slides a narrow pan under my index finger. He pours oil into it, 
bathing the member. He sets fire to the oil.
I scream while my flesh roasts, my bravery forgotten. The stench of it clogs my 
nostrils, brings my last meal up out of my stomach and throat and mouth... to be 
caught neatly in the bucket Beve holds up. Inferno! But I cannot relent.
At last the fire dies. It had been fiendishly persistent. A charred twig lies in 
the pan. Sensation is gone.
What remains for the thumb?
Beve sets a wire framework about it, the mesh fine but not at all tight. He 
brings a box near and places a sliding aperture next to an opening in the cage. 
He draws up the miniature gate.
Something like a scorpion emerges. Others follow.
Their stings are savage, but that is only part of it. The venom seems to 
tenderize the flesh for their mandibles without numbing it. I feel every bite.
Surely the alien injection will find its way back into my system and kill me! 
But the torturer must have anticipated this too. Perhaps the second "failure" 
happened this way. Now they use a breed whose poison is localized, affecting 
only the immediate area?
After the insectoids have gorged, they stumble and fall, twitching. They are 
Waterloo creatures, unable to assimilate my offworld protein. Serves them right. 
But I know I will never use that thumb again. The portions remaining are bloated 
and discolored, and the diminution of sensation that signifies loss of the 
member is setting in.
Kule stands. "You have experienced the initiation," he says. "This token 
treatment only suggests what is to follow. You have made a worthy beginning, 
unlike your predecessors. I wish you every success." And he turns and departs.
My right hand touches the grail. Token? Token?
I thought I had won, and it is only the beginning. But it is not in me to 
surrender, though I hardly comprehend the rationale. "Proceed!" I cry, I am sick 
inside, for I know they will proceed. What am I proving?
Beve brings out the knives and selects one. I divine the pattern: first cutting, 
then crushing, then pulling, burning, and animal attack. Five distinct tortures. 
My left hand has stood as the demonstration model. Now these techniques will be 
applied in earnest.
The knife approaches my face. I dare not flinch, for that would be unseemly 
weakness. I have outlasted the other envoys, as I knew I would, but not the Loo 
subjects who are usually racked in this chamber. I must suffer what the schedule 
dictates, knowing that I will not die unless I choose to. I must beat them at 
their own game, whatever it is.
The blade hovers over my left eye... and my right fingers strain at the cup. 
Then the knife descends and the point touches my left nostril.
In the haze of pain and horror admixed with a kind of relief, my mind turns 
inward. There is nowhere else for it to go. I remember when a kike bashed in my 
nose when I was ten, and how I nearly killed him for that, though he was larger 
than I. No inferior ever made me yield. Neither will this Loo bastard. Wipe my 
proboscis off my face, Beveit will not faze me! I am better than you! I defy 
you! I
But then I was fighting. Nowthis stripping of the flesh, of cartilage, spouting 
of blood, nerves cut, while I endure
Abruptly I am starkly objective. It has stopped again, and I know that half my 
nose is gone, both skin and fundament. There was surely no satisfaction in the 
going.
How long can this continue? I remain superior, but my body is being shorn away!
Beve has already brought out the vice. I must have been distracted for a moment 
and did not notice. He moves the machine toward my groin.
Oh no! I fight the bonds, I grasp the cold grail, I shiver all over as I sweat. 
But I cannot succumb now, I am committed, I have already invested too much.
The vice closes on my left testicle and locks in place despite the obscuring 
folds of skin. Another truth comes clear: only my left side is being treated. I 
am being left with my duplicate organs. I will not be crippled completely. This 
encourages me tremendously, if only Beve knew!
He screws up the tool. My scrotum explodes in pain. I see the flattened remains 
of my crushed finger, and I know
There is no word for what I am feeling. I am hurting terribly, oh yesbut it is 
more than that. There is something else....
I see legs. Female legs. Very firm, fleshy thighs. I see the skirts ride up 
along them. I see flimsy panties come down, drawn aside by an invisible hand. I 
see those smooth columns part, cranking open the nether cleavage. I am 
precipitated at the dark gaping crevice. I thrustand all sensation channels 
into my turgid conduit and fills that aperture. The quintessence of malehood is 
rammed into the connecting tubes, converted into potency; every turn of the 
handle drives another bolus through. It is a hydraulic ram, a mighty pump 
liquefying what had hitherto been solid. It is not pleasure so much as 
unmitigated urgency. Allof itmust go!
The image fades. The wine press is gone; the grape expended. My erection is 
collapsing in blood, and I know that despite the dream my gonad is not a 
super-ejaculate, but merely squashed meat.
Beve is bringing out the pulling gear. I do not look down at my torso.
This time it is my ear he attacks. I remember Gloria, my bride-to-be, with 
sudden overwhelming fervor: her clear lovely features, her straight delicate 
nose, her pierced ears stretched down by pendant earrings... no!
Will you love me when I am ugly with mutilation, oh my darling? Will you follow 
me to the torture planet, as you threatened? Will you still want to hold me?
Yes, there... thereis... thereisloveinpain... the purest. Love and pain must be 
allied. Gloria, if ever I see you again, I will never let you go. I love you. 
More than possible. I ache with love, I bleed with emotion, I hurt with desire, 
I
The image fogs. I try to refocus it, cannot. Instead there comes the pair of 
fleshy thighs, now brimming with blood-red ejaculate. I recoil. Sully not the 
vision of Gloria with that animal passion! Make it elevated, rarefied, that pure 
longing man feels for angel. Up, up! I trace up past the line of the hip, 
seeking to cast off the revolting filth of that prior congress. Up, to the 
stomach, the bosomand the four loose teats.
I know now that I have committed adultery, miscegenation, bestiality in my 
torment-sponsored orgasm.
My ear is gone. I see it, an elongated and tattered mass of flesh, ripped from 
my head. I begin to grasp the rationale of my perfidy: my ruined face could only 
appall Gloria. My fingerless hand could never caress her beauty. I am 
half-castrate. The romance is off. I know it, though she does not. There will be 
no feasible return to Earth for me after this. It is not a momentary challenge 
that I can surmount and leave behind. I will emerge changed, less than I have 
been. I must be satisfied with native females, if my very semen does not crucify 
them. This much do I give for my mission.
But I shall prevail.
Beve is heating a needle. I had thought that the oil was next, but that is only 
one form of fire. I know where the heat will be applied, and again my remaining 
fingers clutch at the grail. Yet I do not desist.
Glowing red, the spike approaches my face. I see it point-on with my left eye 
until it touches the pupil.
The fluids of my eyeball burst out and dribble down my cheek. Smoke and steam 
rise from the carnage. I smell and see clouded nausea with my right-side 
perceptions. Pain? The term has become meaningless. Now I do not see Gloria or 
the Loo sex object or even Beve. There is only the scorching dazzle of color.
Only? No, no, nothere is more, so much much more, as that searing sword probes 
my optic apparatus. I seeI seeI see the scintillating Divinity! Nova-like, the 
Godhead strikes my belief. Surely this is the ultimate revelation. I bathe in 
the ecstasy of the sight of my Lord, the Vision Supreme... yes, pain is the 
route to the glimpse of the Eternal, and I have seen the glory, the, I see, I 
see.
Shattered. The agony has abated, depriving me of my soul-vision. Desolation. I, 
I feel, loss, gone.
Beve puts away the spent needle, turns off his flame. What can he do, more than 
he has done? I am invulnerable. I have withstood his mutilation, I have seen the 
glory. Glory, Gloria... in excelsis....
Beve brings out a slender tube. He pokes it into the hole in my face where the 
left nostril once stood. I feel it shoving back, abrasive but laughable as a 
torture, beyond the sinus cavity, down to my throat. I gag, but it continues, a 
snail crawling into my belly.
No, not my stomach. Beve twists, expertly, and the tube finds the trachea and 
slithers toward the left lung. I cough involuntarily, but nothing stops its 
progress until the torturer is satisfied. Yet this is a strange, gentle 
procedure, after the brutality of the preceding acts.
Beve lets go the hose, now lodged in my body almost its entire length. He brings 
out a box, opens it. I see movement: writhing things There is a funnel on the 
end of the catheter. Beve lifts out a worm with his tweezers, and I see that the 
creature's front end is a disk like that of a lamprey. A myriad-toothed grinder 
and sucker. He places it in the funnel and angles the tube so that the creature 
will slide down to the bottom. He brings out the next.
I cannot even scream as the worms consume my lung.
I see the Vision againbut this time I know it for what it is, just as I knew 
the pudendum the second time. The God of Fire is the nether god, I am in hell. 
Hell is infested by worms. The worms and maggots and vermin are the true devils 
here. I tour the place, entitled by my misery. I see a man, a Looperhaps it is 
KuleI see him being subjected to the torture of the boats, an ancient Persian 
specialty. He is pinned face-up between two small boats that exactly fit each 
other, only his head and hands and feet are outside and tied there. They are 
feeding him the richest foods, pricking his eyes when he balks, pouring milk and 
honey in his mouth and over his face until he nearly chokes on it. The sun is 
bearing down and he cannot avoid it, though his features blister cruelly. Swarms 
of flies settle, completely covering his head with their noisome bodies, 
attracted by the honey. But the odor emanating from the interior of his prison 
is not sweet, for he has been many days confined and the constant enforced 
feasting must lead to the baser processes of nature, in quantity. And as I pass 
I am granted a view through a noxious peephole into the boats, and I see in the 
streaming shadow his naked body bathed in its own excrement and the flies 
breeding in that dung and urine and their massed maggots feeding on his living 
guts. With his extremities pinned, he can do nothing to protect himself until he 
expires at last and gives his carcass entirely over to the vermin.
I am minded to study the more advanced tortures of hell, but the pain that is my 
admission token diminishes again and I am returned to Waterloo.
Kule is there, alas no victim of flies. "Congratulations," he says. "You have 
now completed the first day of duress. You may step down for the night, for Beve 
must rest. Tomorrow, if you choose, you may undertake the second stage, but this 
is not necessary for a technically honorable acquittal."
I try to talk and feel the husks of the worms rattling in the cavity that was my 
tender lung. After a while I succeed, raspingly: "Will you make the treaty now?"
"No."
"Then I will resume tomorrow." And I faint.

I am hardly aware of time. It seems I have always been on this rack, yet I know 
it is only the second day. Or the third. My arm is gone, my kidney, the hair of 
half my head together with the skin to which it adhered, the flesh of my left 
side from shoulder to crotch, muscle by muscle. The stench of incineration 
surrounds me, dried blood and broken segments of bone decorate the floor. The 
Loos on the racks to either side have taken the grail and are gone in shame, but 
I, Christlike, persevere. The grail is the one cup I will not touch in this 
incarnation. Many witnesses watch me now.
Kule has now explained to me some of the history of the Loos. They did have 
space travel, and they colonized and made a stellar empirebut they were gentle 
folk, and when they were met by barbarians and tortured and driven off, they 
became convinced that they were not ready for space. So they retrenched and 
instituted a system that would bring out leaders more resistive to such hurts. 
Once that system was entrenched...
Kule is before me again, a worried worshiper. "Step down, Envoy," he pleads.
"Will you prepare the treaty?"
"I cannot. No one can."
"Then I will not step down."
"Envoy, we can not proceed further without depriving you of essential faculties. 
You must retain two legs for perambulation, one hand for"
"They are of no use to me without that treaty."
Defeated, he goes. And so Beve is beginning on my legs and right side. I am 
driving the Loos into a quandary.
Is it the fourth day? The fifth? How should one measure eternities? My legs are 
gone, my right arm, my remaining ear and nostril. I am blind. No teeth remain in 
my jaws. The waste products of my body drip down from a gash like that of a 
woman. But I can hear, for they dare not touch my inner ear lest they damage the 
brain and bring death.
They: I mean the interminable Beves and Kules my isolated brain conjures. I am 
not wholly sane at the moment. I can digest the nutrient Earth-export liquid 
they trickle down my blistered throat, however. I believe it is a confection of 
milk and honey, but I cannot taste it and my lung rattles horribly when I laugh. 
I can speak in a certain manner, though my tongue hangs stretched on a hook 
beside me: one grunt through the scorched larynx means "yes," two "no."
"Will you step down, Envoy?" I recognize Kule's despairing voice.
I make three coughs, needing more information.
"We cannot continue without killing you."
I do not answer. It is their problem.
"Step down temporarily, then, while I explain your status."
To this much I accede. I am lifted down. I feel the comfort of warm water. I am 
floating, no hard surfaces attacking my vulnerability except for the strap that 
supports my head. I listen.
"You have surmounted the four stages of duress," he says. Four? It could as 
easily have been four hundred. Nothing can benefit me now but the fulfillment of 
my mission.
"Very few applicants achieve this level," Kule continues. "Perhaps only two or 
three in each category, each year. Since your category is political, you are now 
qualified to join the governing council of Waterloothe only alien ever to 
achieve this distinction. You have proved yourself by your steadfastness, and 
you have divested yourself of material considerations that might have biased a 
lesser individual. Thus you now have the potential for true objectivity, and can 
be a fitting ruler. Are you willing to assume this position?
At last it is falling into place! The torture gantlet is a ladder to prominence, 
not with respect to competitors but to the society itself. The more the subject 
can take, the greater his reward. And Kule is correct: of course I can no longer 
be bribed by any of the physical pleasures. I have no nose for perfume, no taste 
buds for food, no eyes for beauty, no phallus for sex. Money? What could it buy 
for me?
I am indeed objective.
"You can, however, continue the process into death. This is the one respectable 
form of self-termination, and it carries no onus for the torturer. This will 
earn you an honored place in our ancestral hierarchy, though you come from afar. 
Children will recite your name and deed, men will pray to your memory for 
courage, women will squirt their milk on your monument"
I grunt twice. I am not intrigued by this type of deification. It sounds messy.
"On the other hand, as a member of the council you will have considerable 
authority. All your needs will be attended to by un-statused cowards such as 
myself who will also translate your directives for implementation, and"
I grunt, suddenly interested.
"Oh yes," Kule says deferentially. "Approval of a treaty with Earth would be 
your prerogative, so long as the terms do not conflict with the interests of 
other members."
Victory! No wonder Kule was unable to make the treaty. He lacked the authority. 
He has never undertaken the appropriate torture. Just as the torturers must earn 
their positions by being hoist by their own petard, so must all other officers 
in this society. Cowards and weaklings can't.
I grunt once, accepting the offer. I have earned it.
But Kule does not desist. "One other matter now in your province, Councilman. 
There is another visitor from Earth"
Another envoy! I am displeased. The Service should have had more faith in me.
"A female of your species," Kule explains. "She says you are to be wedded"
Gloria! She has followed me! She must love me very much indeed.
"Shall I conduct her to your presence?"
I think about it. I realize that Gloria's action is foolish. I have no tolerance 
for foolishness. I am, for the first time in my life, truly objective, and I see 
things exactly as they are. I have no need of a companion, particularly not a 
willful one. Power is sufficient for me. I grunt twice.
"She refuses to leave without seeing you," Kule says. I am not certain whether 
this is an immediate reply or a resumption of dialogue at a later time. Time is 
a difficult and unimportant factor now. "We do not approve of force in such 
situations. She must be dissuaded voluntarily if you do not wish to meet her. 
Would you prefer to have us offer her the token treatment?"
Token torture! An excellent suggestion.
"And if she still does not agree to leave?"
I grunt again. Let her experience the enlightenment of total amputation in that 
case. Should she somehow hold out until she achieves my exalted state, she may 
be passingly worthy company. Meanwhile, I can't be bothered.
In fact, in my supreme objectivity I wonder whether any of the untempered 
individuals of Earth are worthy of consideration. Why should I authorize a 
treaty they haven't earned merely because their haphazardly selected government 
desires it? I am a Councilman of Waterloo, having at least proved my superiority 
absolutely. It is beneath me to deal with them. Better to make sure that no 
treaty is consummated.
It occurs to me that Earth could have been the planet where the Loos were 
repulsed by savages centuries ago. Full circle, poetic justice.
I turn my attention to more important concerns. We Loos are not really expert at 
torture, I realize. Our program is unimaginative. When the subject knows exactly 
what to expect, in what order, he can prepare himself for it. The familiar is 
not sufficiently frightening, it does not undermine the will to resist. There 
are psychological aspects that could and should be utilized. I must work them 
out and make appropriate recommendations. And exposure: cold, thirst, hunger, 
sleeplessness, strong lights (prior to blinding), abrasive and continuous sound. 
Feed the client quantities of liquor, then tie off his privates. Rub his own 
excrement into his wounds. And the exotic techniques must be properly exploited, 
such as the Chinese Water Torture, or the Persian Boats....
Gloria! I shall arrange to have the boat torture demonstrated on her since it 
doesn't matter if she dies. How convenient! I'll convey to her that it is a test 
of her love for me and see how long she holds out.
Oh, there is so much to do! I have to educate this planet, now that I have the 
position and objectivity to do so.
I have heard it said that power tends to corrupt. I wonder whether, conversely, 
misery tends to ennoble?
Yesyes it does! I can offer no finer example of that truth than myself.

SMALL MOUTH, BAD TASTE
Sphere, in England, had published some of my novels, and their editor Anthony 
Cheetham asked me for a story for their Science Against Man anthology. There was 
something about his first name I liked, so in 1969 I wrote "Small Mouth" for 
that volume, and Dave Kyle had the bad taste to quote a paragraph from it for a 
volume he published. No, I don't know what paragraph; I never saw Kyle's volume, 
since this was a transaction called to my attention later by a reader. What got 
me was the audacity of it; Kyle simply informed my agent that he had all the 
authorization he needed, without telling him what he was using, so my agent 
learned of it only after I did. No, I didn't make a big fuss; I would have given 
permission for the use of the material had anyone bothered to ask. But editors 
are human, and human beings, as this story shows, are fallible.
* * *
"Man is a small-mouthed animal," Miss Concher said as the truck stopped. "He was 
less successful in the jungle than were the apes, and became carnivorous to fill 
his belly. Since he could no longer use those recessed teeth effectively for 
hunting, he had to make do with his forelimbs. Which in turn forced him to 
assume the bipedal stance, and he didn't even have a tail to brace against." She 
nodded sagely. "We can be sure that the first stone-thrower was not without sin; 
he was without food, and desperate. Tell me what you see."
Mrs. Rhodes was ready for the abrupt shift in subject. She rotated her sturdy 
frame a quarter turn on the seat and looked out over the landscape. "I see an 
irregular network of shrubbery interspersed with dirt or gravelwhat I would 
term a badlands. At the base of the valley is a meandering brown stream, and in 
the distance are gray mountains."
Miss Concher smiled. "Beautiful." She was small and ancient, hair off-white and 
wirelike, and her eyes focused alertly though she was long blind. Personality 
radiated from the fine lines of her face: in crows-feet, deltas and crevasses.
"What do you see?" Mrs. Rhodes asked. She had learned that such direct questions 
did not offend the old lady, who thrived on her handicaps as though they were 
advantages.
"I see a great verdant vale, cooler and wetter than now. Trees of many types 
grow on its flank, rich with fruit and nut, and the river is wide and clear 
despite the nearby volcano-cone. High grass waves over rolling stretches, and 
flowers sparkle in the gentle breeze. Birds abound, from the colorful flamingo 
to the huge brooding vulture. I call it a garden of Eden, for in addition to the 
foliage there are animals for a spectacular hunt. Baboons, pigs, gazelles, 
hares, rhinos, chalicothere"
"Beg pardon?"
"Chalicothere. A large tree-cropper, now extinct. Oh yes, it was fascinating 
here, two million years ago."
"Your vision is far more pleasant than mine. Miss Concher."
"My vision is of the past, as befits me. I am closer to it than you are, by a 
good thirty years." The old gray eyes pierced her again. "Let's have the map."
Mrs. Rhodes brought out the sheet showing East Africa. "We're in 
TanganyikaTanzania, I meansomewhat south of Lake Victoria, and west."
Miss Concher smiled indulgently "Now look at the natural features."
Mrs. Rhodes studied the map, not certain what the point was this time. "There's 
Lake Victoria, of course, and only a few miles from us is Lake Tanganyika. And 
another long thin lake farther south, Nyasa. And mountainsto the east is 
Kilimanjaro, Africa's highest point, almost twenty thousand feet. And the Nile 
River drains to the north, and the Congo to the west."
"Very good." The old lady sounded disappointed, as though an apt pupil had 
overlooked the obvious.
"And within three hundred miles of us is Olduvai Gorge, where old Dr. Leakey 
discovered Man's bones."
"Bones!" But Miss Concher still wasn't satisfied. "My map shows the mighty 
continent of Africa, a vast tropical reservoir of life. Beyond its coastlines, 
two thousand miles out. is the great mid-oceanic ridge, the longest continuous 
mountain range in all the world. And in the center of this ridge is the rift, 
looping through the Indian Ocean, projecting up to slice off Arabia and parting 
Israel from Jordan, and a branch spiking down into Africa itself to form the 
Great Rift Valley wherein we now stand. And athwart that rift is a crater, as 
though a monstrous meteor had impacted there and smashed it into a broken 
circle. And the rains came, a flood like none we know today, filling the 
fragments of the Rift and crater"
"Lake Victoria!" Mrs. Rhodes exclaimed, suddenly seeing it come to life on the 
map. "Tanganyika! Nyasa!"
"Yes. What a cataclysm! But a blessing for Man, for it was in this crazily 
shattered region, this verdant land protected by its new geographyit was here 
that he found Eden." Miss Concher smiled once more. "And we're here for the 
serpent."
"The serpent? Surely you don't mean the one that tempted Eve"
"Surely I do, my dear. Without that snake, man never would have left Edenand 
that, believe me, would have been too bad."
"Miss Concher, I realize you're speaking metaphorically. Buttoo bad? Wasn't the 
Biblical exile God's punishment for?"
"Punishment can be very instructive. Look at Eden now."
Mrs. Rhodes looked around again at the bleak, baking terrain. It had changed, 
certainly, from the lush gardens of the past. But she felt she was missing the 
point.
"Trundle out the gimmick and we'll see what we can smell," Miss Concher said 
briskly. The temperature hovered near a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but it 
hardly seemed to diminish the old lady's energy.
"The gimmick" was hardly a device to be trundled. It was a massive electronic 
instrument that occupied the greater portion of their converted army truck. 
There was also a collapsible tower for a miniature drilling rig. Its generator 
was powered by the truck's motor.
"That's as good a spot as any," Miss Concher said, indicating a declivity. Blind 
she might be, but she had a feel for the land.
Mrs. Rhodes maneuvered the truck and placed its tailgate neatly at the spot. 
This much was within her competence; it had been one of the prerequisites for 
the job. Not many female registered nurses could handle a three-axle vehicle 
with dispatch over rough ground. She could thank Mr. Rhodes for that legacy.
Mr. Rhodes. Her legal separation from him was hardly three months old, yet she 
found herself missing the crusty old engineer. Had he been too demanding, or she 
too independent? Now that she worked for Miss Concher she was beginning to 
appreciate the fact that a number of the traits she had objected to as masculine 
arrogance were actually natural functions of ambition. Surely her husband drove 
himself and others no harder than Miss Concher did.
Meanwhile she operated winch and derrick skillfully, setting up the drill-rig 
and anchoring it and connecting the generator. She was perspiring heavily by the 
time the job was done, but was glad for once that she was not a frail innocent 
beauty. The truck's motor pounded, the generator cut in, and the slender rod 
spun into the turf, squirting water down and spewing mud up rapidly. As the 
column penetrated to bedrock the rig disengaged automatically: time for the 
diamond bit. She made the exchange and set it working again. This would take 
some time.
They ate a crude picnic lunch while the drill did its job. Mrs. Rhodes looked 
out over the worn landscape again, wondering whether anything would come of this 
particular project. It still surprised her when she thought of it, to be 
wandering in a land of natives who wore headdresses of mud and dung and who 
drank fresh blood with gusto. Of course their conventions made sense, and that 
was only part of the story
"The small-mouthed animal," Miss Concher repeated. "That bunglike orifice is one 
of man's few distinguishing traits. That, and his voluminous buttocks, and his 
naked skin. Doesn't sound like equipment to conquer the world, does it?"
Mrs. Rhodes was becoming used to her companion's acerbic viewpoint. "I had 
always understood that man's brain was the"
"Brain? Whales and elephants have larger, and porpoises have convolutions as 
impressive. Nothing unique there."
"Or the specialized hands"
"With the opposed thumb? Forget it; any tree-swinger has similar. Man's vaunted 
hand is one of the least specialized extremities in nature. It retains all the 
primitive fingers, poorly armored, suitable neither for fighting nor digging. 
No, the fleshy buttocks count for more; they give him vertical control and the 
ability to stride, and that frees him from the forest. And his bare skin gives 
him a large tactile surface. But most of all, his small mouth enclosing a 
proportionately large air-space provides a sounding chamber, and that makes true 
speech possible."
"I never looked at it quite that way"
"But acoustical equipment is no good unless its potential for communication is 
realized. The incentive to speak. Find that, and you find man."
"I see," Mrs. Rhodes said, finding herself conscious of the motions of her lips 
and tongue. Prior to this expedition she had never had any great interest in 
such researches, but the vitality and intensity of the old lady was warming her 
to it. Why had man started to speak?
"See as I do," Miss Concher said earnestly. "Stare down this valley and don't 
blink until the vision comes."
She laughed. "That's a child's dare."
"Certainly. The childhood of man. Look." Miss Concher's eyes were fixed on the 
distance, and half unwillingly Mrs. Rhodes followed their object. "Lookthere is 
green everywhere, and we are in a natural pastureland on the fresh mountainside 
of the Great Rift Valley. There is a splendid tree with solid foliage, and we 
hear the rustle of a bird within it. Noit is an animal behind itthat 
chalicothere we saw before, browsing on leaves. The sun is beaming 
intermittently as small clouds nag it; the day is shaping into possible rain. 
Yes, it is about to rain; we shall have to seek cover under a bough"
Mrs. Rhodes kept staring, wishing there were some honest relief from the heat. 
Her vision began to blur, and colors appeared and disappeared. She had to blink 
at last, and the barren land came back into focusbut soon the distortions 
returned. It was easier simply to go along with Miss Concher's pleasant 
description, picturing the subject as well as she were able.
She closed her eyes and let the older woman dictate the entire scene. As she did 
so, the air seemed cooler, and she fancied the leaves fluttered on the branches 
of the tree, and a small bird swooped low in search of insects. Yes, rain was 
incipient.
A man came thena brute of a creature with a tremendous belly. He leaned forward 
as he walked, his knees perpetually bent. He was naked, but the body hair was so 
thick that he was in fact well covered. His face was apelike: brown-leather skin 
stretched over massive eyebrow-ridges, a wrinkled gape-nostrilled nose, mouth 
bulging outward with large yellow teeth. His hair circled the face closely, 
beginning near the eyebrows, passing over the full cheeks well in front of the 
ears, and enclosing the mouth and receding chin.
This was Paranthropus: Para (akin to) + anthropus (man), of the dawning 
Pleistocene epoch, two million years ago.
The rainfall increased, no gentle dew, and lightning cracked nearby. From the 
other direction came another man-form, and with him a hairy woman clasping a 
cub. But these ones were smaller, their hair finer, their noses longer and 
straighter and the ridges over their eyes less pronounced. Still apelike in 
facial contour, they were closer to modern man than the one in the tree. These 
were Australopithecines.
"Aus-tral-o-pith-EE-cus," Miss Concher said, establishing the accent.
Confrontation: Paranthropus smelled the intruders and roared out his resentment. 
The Australopithecine male hesitated as though considering standing his ground. 
But as the other crashed down bellowing defiance, the visiting family took 
fright and loped away through the downpour. Mrs. Rhodes felt sorry for them.
"Paranthropus was king of the forest lowlands in this region," Miss Concher 
said. "Five feet tall and heavily built, he towered over his Australopithecine 
cousin by a hirsute head. He had the best foraging grounds. Small wonder 
Australopithecus, actually our nearer relative, was driven to scavenging in the 
savanna."
"Small wonder," Mrs. Rhodes echoed, surprised by the force of the vision she had 
stepped into.
"Yet this ejection was his blessing. Paranthropus did not need to evolve, so he 
endured for a million years unchangedand became extinct. Australopithecus, 
scrounging in diverse habitats, always fighting on the fringe of Eden, continued 
to evolve into Homo Erectus, the first true man. That is, the first bad-tasting 
hominid."
"Pardon?"
"You don't like that notion? It was one of man's major adaptations for survival 
in the rough country. He couldn't always escape the larger carnivores, but soon 
he didn't have to. His meat had a foul flavor that no self-respecting predator 
would touch as long as there was anything else available. Thus like certain 
caterpillars, he survived."
The bell sounded on the drill-rig, and both women hurried to attend to the next 
step.
The narrow core now penetrated deep into the layers of earth and rock, stopping 
at the approximate boundary between the Pleistocene deposits and those of the 
older Pliocene. The ground, here and anywhere, was a kind of condensed 
historythat earthy, earthly residue remaining after the tribulations of the 
moment had evanesced. The record of all events was there, lacking only the means 
of interpretation.
Mrs. Rhodes brought up their sample: a cylinder of rock undisturbed by unnatural 
forces for the better part of two million years. She inserted it entire into the 
hopper of the analyzer and waited once more while the gimmick performed. She 
read the dials. "The trace is present," she said.
"Yes, I thought it would be. The Great Rift Valley is such a natural corridor, 
slicing down the eastern side of Africa. That's the beauty of it. But somewhere 
the trail has to diverge; then we shall find what we shall find."
Mrs. Rhodes shook her head. The analyzer operated on the principle that the odor 
of a living creature was more durable than had been supposed until recently. 
Minute particles of its substance drifted in the air, impregnated nearby 
objects, became fixed in them. A hound could detect that smell for hours or 
days, but it never faded entirely. As objects became buried and finally 
compressed into significant strata, that tiny olfactory trace remained. An 
instrument of sufficient sensitivity and attunement could sniff it out many 
thousands and hundreds of thousands of years later, since time affected the 
buried layers very little.
But there were millions of traces imbedded in every fragment, many of them so 
similar as to be overlapping. The instrument could not categorize them all. It 
merely responded with a typical pattern of readings if the particular one to 
which it had been sensitized were present. It told nothing about the nature of 
the original creature, or the duration of its stay in that area; it was too 
crude even to identify whether the trace was mammalian, avian or reptilian, 
large or small. The pattern either matched or it failed to match.
How Miss Concher had isolated this particular trace she never said, but Mrs. 
Rhodes suspected she had spent painstaking years at it. Somehow she had searched 
out a presence that could not be accounted for in the normal fauna of the time 
and region, and satisfied herself that it was significant. Now they were 
following the trail to its source, two million years later.
"What do you expect to find?" Mrs. Rhodes inquired, not for the first or second 
time.
"Looka Dinotherium hunt!"
She looked automatically before realizing that this was another guided 
visionand another evasion. The old woman saw so clearly into the living past 
that it was contagious. "Dinois that an animal? Or a large reptile?"
Dinotherium was mammalian. Foraging in the swampy jungle, it sought no 
particular conflict with other creatures, and few bothered it. Like an elephant 
with tusks pointing straight down, and with an abbreviated trunk, it was the 
largest creature of this valley, and could well afford to be peaceful. This one 
had strayed onto solid ground, oblivious to danger.
Behind it manlike forms approached. Dinotherium hooked another leafy branch 
down, unconcerned though he was aware of the intrusion. His great tusks held the 
branch in place while his trunk picked it over.
The men came closer, making vocal sounds rather like the barking of canines. 
Dinotherium, annoyed, moved along a short distance, seeking to leave them 
behind. But they followed clamoring more loudly, hemming him in from back and 
side.
Dinotherium became moderately alarmed, and ceased browsing. These gesticulating 
bipeds could hardly harm him, but their proximity and persistence were 
unnatural. He ran smoothly, desiring only to free himself of the strange 
situation so he could finish his browse. He bore left, away from the 
concentration of Australopithecines.
Suddenly he realized where he was. Ahead was a deep sharp gully, the product of 
seasonal flash floods, whose tumbling sides were treacherous for a creature of 
his size. He veered farther leftand encountered more men.
The choice was between the gully and the men, now that he was fleeing. The gully 
at least was a known danger. Butthere was a gap in the line, an easy escape. 
Dinotherium charged at it.
The noise increased. Men ran to cut him off, chattering. But the nearest one 
stood indecisively, failing to act in time. Dinotherium plunged through the 
space and headed for the swamp where men would be foolish to follow.
"He got away," Mrs. Rhodes said, relieved.
"Because one man did not follow instructions," Miss Concher said. "The leader 
plainly hooted at the fool to close it up, but he didn't comprehend in time."
"Yes, I saw that. But how does it relate to the trail we are following now? This 
is no Dinotherium hunt." This time she did not intend to be put off.
The blind eyes focused on her disconcertingly. "How much do you think that tribe 
lost, because of the failure of that one member?"
"I would imagine they went hungryat least until they could set up another 
hunt."
"Hunger wasn't very funny in those days, was it?"
"Of course not," Mrs. Rhodes agreed, visualizing a primitive camp, the children 
bawling, the women standing glumly. "What did they do to that man who"
"The leader banished him from the tribe, so of course he soon perished. If 
you're going to hunt Dinotherium, you can't afford any lapses in your 
organization."
"Also, the others were mad, I'm sure. Had to take it out on someone. But how 
does that"
"Communication," Miss Concher said. "Now Australopithecus has a compelling 
reason to select for that single trait. Note thatthe first artificial selection 
in the history of life on Earth, and for a nonphysical trait. He can't tolerate 
tribesmen who can't or won't respond to spoken instructions, even if these only 
take the form of imperative barking. The groups with dumb members will fall on 
hard times, and their children will starve, while those who are selective will 
become fine hunting units. They will be capable of driving Dinotherium into the 
gully and stoning him to death there while he stumbles in the steep sand, and 
they will eat well and prosper. Communication is the keythe small mouth put to 
the uses of survival!"
"I concede that," Mrs. Rhodes said, both enlightened and annoyed. "But what"
"Once you're on that treadmill, you have to continue. You need the big game to 
feed your increasing numbers, for squirrels and sparrows won't feed an entire 
tribe for long, and certainly not wild fruit. You become dependent on 
organization, on the specialization that is the hunt. And you begin to contest 
with neighboring tribes for the best hunting territory, staking it out, and so 
your communication is now employed man-against-man. That's a rough game, and if 
you quit you die. Today an army is helpless when its communications break down. 
Your size increases and your brain expands, as it must to handle the burgeoning 
linguistic concepts required to define an effective campaign. Barks meaning 
'run,' 'stop' and 'kill' give way to subtler sounds meaning 'run faster,' 'stop 
over there' and 'kill on command only.' And finally you are not just 
Australopithecus, you are Homo Erectus. An animal with the single specialized 
organ so harshly selected for: the brain."
Mrs. Rhodes refused to be diverted. "This trail"
"I believe," Miss Concher said gently, "that it was not mere coincidence or 
fleeting convenience that started Australopithecus along the demanding highway 
of verbal communication. The odds against this seem prohibitive. Some outside 
agency instructed him. Something forcibly directed him to speak, or somehow 
arranged it so that he had to communicate in order to survive at all. Something 
that knew where this process would lead. And that is what we are sniffing out 
nowthat alien influence that shaped us into mastery."
At last Mrs. Rhodes saw the point. If somebodysomething, for there could have 
been no true men thenif some agency had come to show potential man the route to 
success
Man had a debt going back two million years.
And now two women, one middle-aged and the other old, were belatedly on the 
trail of that visitation, that phenomenally important influence. What would they 
find?
Miss Concher nodded. "It's a little frightening, isn't it? We may not appreciate 
the truth one bitbut can there be any question of turning back now?"
This close to the answer to the riddle of man's progress? No, of course they 
could not turn back.

Down the Great Rift Valley they traveled, sniffing out the ancient trace. The 
natives generally ignored them. What harm could two crazy old women do, with 
their truckful of junk? They skirted Lake Tanganyika and traversed the length of 
Lake Nyasa, and the trail continued. At last they stood at the mouth of the 
Zambezi River, and the trace vanished.
They stood on the shore and looked eastward, Mrs. Rhodes' live eyes seeing no 
more than Miss Concher's dead ones. Their gruelling weeks of travel and drilling 
had come to an unhappy halt, for the water held no scent.
"No," Miss Concher said. "This is merely a hurdle. It can not end here." But for 
once her words lacked conviction. She had been an energumen until this moment, 
expending energy at a cheerful but appalling rate; now she was an old woman who 
could not find her knitting.
"A sea-creature?" Mrs. Rhodes suggested, embarrassed by her companion's 
weakness. She tried to envision a credible object, but without Miss Concher's 
guidance it manifested as a parody: an ancient octopus struggling rheumatically 
out of the depths, donning sunglasses and marching up the Rift to the sound of 
fife and drum to instruct Australopithecus. Ridiculous!
"Unlikely," Miss Concher said. But her bulldog mind was working again, after its 
hesitation. "Could have been based on the sea-floor, though. Or floating on the 
surface. The sea is an obvious highway for civilized speciescheck the map."
Mrs. Rhodes gladly did so. "It's a long coast line. Funny that they should come 
to this particular place, then make a thousand mile journey overland, when they 
could have landed so much closer to Lake Victoria..." She paused. "Unless they 
crossed directly from Madagascar"
"My diagnosis exactly!" Had it beenor was Miss Concher trying to conceal her 
lapse? "Let's rent a boat."
What did it matter? They had a mission once more.
The crossing was not so simple as merely "renting a boat," but two weeks later 
they had negotiated the physical and political hazards and were driving their 
truck along the west coast of Madagascar. In another two they had spotted the 
trace again. The trek resumed: east, into the heart of the huge island.
The palms of the shoreline gave way to rice fields and islandlike hills and 
occasional thatch-roofed earthern houses. Mrs. Rhodes looked up one dusk to meet 
a pair of large eyes. "Something's watching us," she whispered, startled.
"Describe it," Miss Concher said, unruffled.
She peered at the creature, beginning to make it out in the shadow. "Small, 
bushy-tailed, head rather like a foxbut it has monkey-feet, and it's clinging 
to a branch."
"Lemur," Miss Concher said. "Madagascar is their homeland. The few species 
extant today are a poor remnant of those that ranged the world in past times."
"Not dangerous, then," Mrs. Rhodes said, relaxing.
"Not now. One type, Megaladapis, was larger than a gorillain fact, was the 
largest primate known. And another extinct Lemuridae, Archaeolemur, may have 
been remarkably cunning, if we are to judge by the precocious development of the 
temporal lobe during the"
"You're leaving me behind, I'm afraid," Mrs. Rhodes cut in gently. The old lady 
smiled, making no secret of her pleasure in doing just that. It had become a 
kind of game. The fact was that Mrs. Rhodes, a skilled nurse, was not confused 
by anatomical allusions. She merely wished to abbreviate a developing lecture.
A modern city whose name they ignored obliterated a segment of the trail, but 
they resumed operations on the far side. Now they crossed parched savanna dotted 
with palms. "On this island, in historic times," Miss Concher said, "ranged the 
largest bird ever known: aepyornis."
"Now that sounds like a primate!"
"Its egg weighed twenty pounds, and a mature bird up to half a ton. Man wiped it 
out, of course."
"You don't have a very high opinion of man, do you."
"That's why I'm single." But Miss Concher smiled again, too enthusiastic over 
the progress of the search to be properly cynical. She knew the fauna far better 
than Mrs. Rhodes did, identifying by description everything from a camouflaged 
tree-lizard to a forest cuckoo. She also called off a solitary baobab, the tree 
with the grossly swollen trunk that seemed to have its roots in the air in place 
of branches, and related an amusing myth about its origin. She knew how to get 
through a thorny didierea jungle, grown up in recent generations as though to 
preserve the secrets of the trail.
They moved on with growing excitement, day by day, until at last the trail 
debouched into a secluded valley. Repeated soundings verified it: this had been 
the home, two million years ago, of the mysterious traveler. Today it was 
wilderness, with only the shy lemurs and curious birds present. Where had man's 
ancient tutor gone?
"If I make out the lay of the land correctly," Miss Concher said, "there should 
be buried caves. They may have been occupied, then."
Mrs. Rhodes shook her head, marveling anew at the spinster's talents. If she 
conjectured buried caves, there would be buried caves.
They drilled and drilled again, searching. On the third day the bit broke 
through the wall of a subterranean discontinuity. Its age fell in the correct 
range and the trace inside was very strong.
"Now," Miss Concher said briskly, "we dig."
It had to be by hand, since the rig was not geared for wholesale tunneling and 
in any event the bulldozer technique was hardly appropriate for archaeological 
excavation. The two women dug a long shallow trench, pausing as often as they 
had to in deference to sex and age and inexperience. Miss Concher's contribution 
was a good deal more than token; her zest drove her ruthlessly. Next day they 
deepened it, leaving a ramp at one end. As their trench descended into the earth 
they hauled loads of loam, sand and gravel out in a wheeled sample cart never 
intended for such crude maneuver-ings.
The work was slow, their muscles sore, and both had ugly blisters on their hands 
despite the heavy gloves. Each day the excavation sank deeper, and their 
anticipation grew. Down there, perhaps, was tangible evidence of a 
two-million-year old culturea culture to which man probably owed his present 
eminence. Blisters were beneath consideration, with the solution to such a 
mystery so near.
At last they struck the rocky outer wall of the cave. The drill-hole penetrated 
a yard of crumbling stone.
"Either we can keep digging until we come across the natural entrance," Mrs. 
Rhodes said, touching the aperture with weary fingers, "or we can break out the 
sledgehammer. I'm not at all sure my resources will survive either course."
"Hammer and chisel will do it," Miss Concher said, declining to ride with the 
proffered excuse though she could have done so with grace. Mere stone would not 
halt her. She demonstrated, flaking off wedges skillfully. "Variation of a 
technique used in the Oldowan industry for a million years or so, so it will do 
for us. The stone age had a lot to recommend it."
So the old lady knew how to chip stone! The process was slow, but it did promise 
to get the job done with a minimum of damage to whatever might be in the cave.
They took turns, the sighted woman laboring clumsily much of the day, and the 
blind one continuing far into the night. Miss Concher seemed indefatigable and 
she needed no illumination. Mrs. Rhodes, weary to the marrow, became too dull to 
marvel further at the resources of her companion. Most women of that age would 
be crocheting harmlessly in rockers while their grandchildren matured. Purpose 
animated Miss Concher, provided the motive powerbut what would happen once the 
mission was done? Would there then be a disastrous reckoning?
But she knew the answer to that. Miss Concher would not collapse; she would find 
another mission, another trail to follow. In fact it was not the trail that gave 
her purpose, it was her purpose that revealed the trail, where no one else had 
thought to look. It was, as the saying went, an education merely to know her.
And perhaps within this buried cave lay the answer to the start of that purpose. 
Not only to this immediate trek, but to the inherent motivation of man. The 
thing that had given a minor hominid the bug for knowledge, two million years 
ago, and thrust him mercilessly into greatness. The quality that really made 
Miss Concher the avid scientist she was, and set her species apart from all 
others. Intellectual motivation.
Mrs. Rhodes felt nervous goose-pimples rise along her arms despite the heat as 
the breakthrough point approached. The hole was widening, but Miss Concher 
refused to risk damaging the interior by rushing. Something was down there, 
though. Broken pieces where the bit had struck? Bones? Pottery? Weapons? Books? 
Or something more sinister?
She slept at last to the tap-tap of Miss Concher's patient excavation, not 
attempting to keep up with the woman's nocturnal energy. It would have been 
useless to urge her to stop, to rest, to sleep, for Miss Concher lived for this 
discovery. Better to be ready herself, in case the strain brought serious 
complications.
In indeterminate darkness she woke momentarily, still hearing the tap-tap. 
Regardless of the outcome of this quest, she knew what she was going to do after 
it was over. She had already learned enough about the heritage of her species to 
accept some things she had denied before. She had a better marriage than she had 
supposed, and it was not too late....
In the morning she discovered that Miss Concher had never returned to the truck 
to sleep. All was silent.
She scrambled up in alarm and ran for the gaping trench. She should have stayed 
up, kept watch... if the grand old lady had hurt herself, or collapsed, or
She need not have worried. Miss Concher was standing waist-deep in the cave 
excavation, lifting out objects and using the main trench as a display shelf. 
Meticulously arranged were a series of irregular objects and portions of an 
animal skeleton.
"Miss Concher! Have you been up all night?" But the question was gratuitous and 
rhetorical.
The woman lifted her white head, smiling tiredly. "Yes, we have found the 
answer. We know who started man on his way. The artifacts are conclusive." She 
caressed the dirt-encrusted object in her hand. "Mesolithic culture, I would 
sayshaped tools, but no gardening. They were obviously able to sail on the 
rivers and ocean, at least with some kind of raft, and to domesticate certain 
animals"
"You know who trained Australopithecus to"
"Yes, the hominids were one of their domestics. They recognized in 
Australopithecus the potential for really effective service, and they took the 
long view. A few thousand years of selection and trainingmore than enough to 
affect the species profoundlyand man was on his way. He even"
Mrs. Rhodes was shocked. "You mean man started out asas a pet, like a dog?"
"More like a horse, or an elephant. He was trained to obey simple commands, to 
carry his master, fetch things, and finally to undertake dinotherium hunts under 
the direction of a few overseers. You see, mainland Africa was too wild for a 
gentle, civilized species then, as it is today for different reasons. Yet they 
needed certain commodities such as ivory"
Mrs. Rhodes saw a fragment of tusk among the displayed artifacts, and knew that 
neither elephant nor dinotherium had ever ranged Madagascar. Ivory had to be 
imported. But how could there have been such a culture on Earth before human 
civilization arose? "Who" But she was unable to frame the question properly, 
afraid of the answer.
"Why, the Lemuridae, of course. Didn't I tell you about Archaeolemur, with the 
almost hominid skull? Here in this cave we have an offshoot new to paleontology, 
with a comparatively enormous braincase and distinctive configuration. 1,000 cc 
easily, if my wrinkled old fingers do not deceive me. Easily capable of 
mesolithic technology, in the circumstances." She hefted the broken skull. "Look 
at this marvelous specimen yourself! Plainly derived from Archaeolemur, but the 
placement of the foramen magnum"
"Are you saying thethe lemurs are civilized? That they"
"Lemuridae. Not today's lemurs, but their advanced relatives. Yes, they were the 
ones. They controlled fire, they were artistic." Miss Concher patted the skull 
affectionately. "But they made one fatal mistake in their choice of domestics. 
Not the first time a tutor has been out-stripped by his pupil, I'm sure, or the 
last. Australopithecus was almost as intelligent as this lemuridae, even 
thenand he had more potential, because of his size and fully bipedal stance. 
All he needed was a good example and some discipline. What took the lemuridae 
several million years to develop, man covered in a few hundred thousand."
Mrs. Rhodes stopped fighting it. "Where is Archaeolemur now? With that head 
start"
"Extinct, of course. His mouth was too large, his buttocks too small, his skin 
too hairy, his taste too good. Alas, he has been replaced on Earth by his 
domestic. Man could hardly have been a docile, loyal petnot when trained as a 
hunter."

WOOD YOU?
I was raised on a farm without electricity; we used kerosene lamps and a wood 
stove. Today I am raising my children in the forest so they can share the 
advantage I had. We do have electricity, but also a wood stove that we use to 
heat our house and water. I cut up fallen woodI don't like to hurt living 
treesand split it, and that stove keeps us comfortable in winter. I sit by it 
and write the first drafts of my novels, saving the typing for spring when my 
unheated study warms. Our bill for heating is zero, but that's an illusion. My 
working time as a writer is worth an amount you probably wouldn't believe, so 
that wood actually costs more in lost income than electric heat would cost. But 
the work is good exerciseI am about as fit physically as any figure in the 
genreany mundane figureand I like that feeling of independence and 
self-reliance. If civilization collapses tomorrow, we will still be warm. So 
this one time I drew on my wood-splitting background; perhaps I can say that in 
this case fiction is the splitting image of experience. "Wood" was published in 
the Oct-ogre 1970 F&SF "All Star" issue. SayI had become a star at last! One 
critic remarked sourly that I had once again left a moral sticking out at an odd 
angle. Truebut how those critics hate any suggestion of meaning in fiction.
* * *
Buddy was an only child in a family of eight. Specifically, he had five adult 
sisters ranging in age from the neighborhood of ten to the neighborhood of 
sixteen, the least of these more bossy than it was possible to be. In the 
distance beyond these were one or two harried parents, almost always away at 
work or home asleep, and of these only Dad was male. It was not a bearable 
situation for a young man, and Buddy kept to himself as much as possible.
When he was two he found a long, sharp kitchen knife under the sink, and brought 
it proudly into sight. There was an extraordinarily unpleasant fuss. So that 
diversion was a complete washout.
When he was two and a half he uncovered a broken rusty jackknife in the dirt 
under the back step. Since he was not stupid, he kept it out of sight. When 
unobservedand this was much of the time, for the adult sisters had numerous and 
trivial concerns of their ownhe studied it at leisure. The blade did not taste 
good, but it was fine for digging, and gradually the pitted, brownish surface 
became more shiny.
Behind the house a fair distance was a tremendous chopping block, where Dad 
periodically wielded a massive axe in an effort to reduce unruly chunks of wood 
to fireplace kindling. Chips and bark were all around, and the ground was 
scuffled intriguingly. It was a fascinating region, and he liked the smell and 
feel of the wood, and the fat cockroaches that scuttled under the bark. Because 
he knew from observation that this was Man's work, he took his knife there and 
commenced his private apprenticeship as a Split.
At first he cut himself, but had the presence of mind to hide the knife before 
the distaff commotion centered on him. The second time it happened he managed 
not to scream, and after a while the blood got sticky and hard. Judiciously 
applied dirt concealed the wound, and it didn't hurt any more. Soon he found out 
how to avoid such mishaps by bracing the blade away from his hand. He became 
adept at carving kindling.
When he was three he was able to render a given wood chip into sections hardly 
thicker than matchsticks. It was a matter of following the grain and being 
careful.
Then he came across a battered, gap-toothed hatchet in the garage. This was a 
splendid find, though it was horrendous to swing. Once he mastered this he was 
able to split larger sections of wood and do it with real dispatch. Here the lie 
of the grain was even more important, for if he struck a piece incorrectly, the 
hatchet could bounce back and fly out of his grasping little fingers. He also 
discovered that some chunks were harder than others, and some sappier, and 
others twistier. For each type he evolved a special technique.
At three and a half, Buddy discovered that he could split even the largest logs 
by hammering in a wedgelike scrap of metal until the wood strained and sundered. 
But his wedge was brittle and bent, and the hammer he used had a loose handle, 
so he had to be very careful. Not only did he have to study the grain, he had to 
analyze the general configuration of the segment, discover any natural cracks, 
and determine the general type of wood. There was quite a difference between 
soft, straight pine and hard, curved yellow birch! He also had to work around 
the knots, and sometimes to flake off outside sections along the circular 
growth-rings. But one way or another he could, in time, split any piece at all.
In fact, he was an expert wood-splitter by the time he achieved the independent 
age of four. His adult sisters had long since given up and let him play with his 
tools, for he could put up a respectable battle when balked. They had no 
comprehension of the intricacies of woodcraft and were forever and unreasonably 
scornful of what they called his tall stories about grains and types. "He's out 
of bounds!" they exclaimed, not knowing that all boys his age were out of 
bounds, but few were as specialized as Buddy.
One day a free-lance field agent for the Snurptegian Confederation happened by, 
attracted by the measured tapping of loose-handled hammer on brittle, bent 
wedge. The creature ascertained that no adults were present (for they tended to 
be narrow-minded about extraterrestrials), approached the scene of activity, and 
waited politely while Buddy completed his incision. A final series of blows, a 
judicious poke with the jackknife, and the piece fell cleanly cloven.
Bravo! the Snurp agent exclaimed.A masterful job.
Buddy was taken aback. He hadn't noticed the visitor, and no one had ever 
complimented him on his talent before. "Gee," he said shyly.
One is truly skilled at the art, the Snurp said. What might one do with 
superior equipment?
Buddy looked at it. The Snurp had bug ears and worm eyes and slug feet, but was 
otherwise rather strange. Buddy did not understand all the words, but he liked 
the tone.
How would one like to compete in the regional wood-splitting junior 
championship tournament?
Buddy didn't know what "compete" meant, or "regional," and the last three words 
were beyond human assimilation, but he certainly grasped the important part: 
"wood splitting." "Is that good?" he asked, knowing that it was.
Very good, the alien said. All one has to do is split wood fast and well. 
There are prizes for the best.
"Is that fun?"
Much fun, especially for the winners.
Buddy knew his sisters would object, so he agreed to go with the Snurp. He was 
about to take his hatchet and hammer and chisel and penknife along, but the 
alien said One must employ standard equipment.
He followed the glistening trail of the Snurp to a structure resembling a giant 
washing machine. They climbed in. Actually, the Snurp didn't climb so much as 
slide uphill. The lid settled down, warm bubbly fluid flowed into surround them, 
and the thing went into a violent spin cycle.
Buddy was frightened, for he had never been inside a washing machine before when 
it was running. But the Snurp reassured him: One must endure transspace only 
momentarily.
Sure enough, the spinning stopped and he wasn't even dizzy. The wash water 
drained, leaving him comfortably dry (he'd have to tell Mom about that!), and 
the lid lifted. They climbed/slid out.
The sunlight was green and the bushes were transparent, but aside from that the 
scenery was unusual. Buddy ignored it.
One is just in time, the Snurp said. Familiarize oneself with the equipment 
while one's agent attends to the registration.
Buddy paid no attention to the incomprehensible sentence. He went directly to 
the nearest chopping block. It was a marvel: great and square, with pockets in 
the sides for wonderful splitting tools. There was an elegant axe, a hatchet, a 
maul, six graduated wedgesall smooth and new and brightly colored. The top of 
the block was sturdy and flat, without even any chop marks or splinters. Of 
course the axe and maul were too big and heavy for him to manage, but it was 
nice having them there to look at.
**Contestants! a voice proclaimed, and Buddy looked up to find a metal eyeball 
poised above his block. **Assume your stance.
The Snurp reappeared. Here is a smaller maul for one. Will this suffice?
"Can I use your hammer?" Buddy asked eagerly. "That's just right!"
The Snurp gave him the small maul. Excellent. Now one must stand by the block, 
as the others are doing. Commence attack the moment the initial sample appears.
"Can I have some wood to split?"
**First phase, the eyeball said. **Purple Ash, bias facet. Proceed.
A chunk of wood appeared on the block, startling Buddy. But he saw that the same 
thing had happened on every block, and the birdlike and lizardlike and crablike 
aliens were hefting their tools. It was time to split!
The chunk was beautiful: deep blue-red with burnished black grain-ridges that 
angled through it strangely. It was like no wood he had ever seen, and certainly 
not like Earthly white ash. But it could be split! His feel for the difficult 
grain assured him of that.
He pondered, then placed the smallest wedge at a critical nexus, and tapped it 
in three times, just so. He did not dare hit too hard, here, for that would foul 
the interior cleavage. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. And of course he 
had had long experience with difficult wood. Then he placed the next larger 
wedge against the appropriate stress point and struck it four times, harder.
On the last blow the log fell open, neatly halved.
Time! the Snurp cried.
The metal eyeball appeared again and winked open. Buddy saw no support for it; 
it was just hanging in midair. **Approved, it said, and disappeared.
Excellent! One has superseded Phase One with credit to spare! the Snurp 
exulted.
The split pieces vanished. Buddy looked around, having nothing better to do. 
This was fun, but he was beginning to feel hungry.
Next block down, a rooster with octopus tentacles was pounding at a large wedge. 
The placement was wrong, and the wood was resisting and cracking the wrong way. 
Buddy knew it would finally split, but messily and not into halves.
On the other side a beaver with four monkey-arms was using the axe to chop at 
his chunk. Chips were flying, but the wood refused to split.
**Disqualified! the official voice said, echoing down the line of blocks 
wherever wood remained unsplit. All those who had failed retired regretfully. 
There were still a great many funny-looking creatures in the contest, however.
**Second phase. Vinegar Maple, twitch grain.
Another chunk appeared. Buddy saw at once that it was a really nasty piece. The 
grain went every which way, folding back on itself jaggedly, and the wood was 
very hard. It smelled like salad dressing, making him want to sneeze. But it 
could be split. His head spun with the formless calculations involved, but he 
finally saw the correct procedure. He tapped five wedges into place, carefully 
considering each location, so that they were sticking out all over. Then he 
pounded on them in what he felt to be the proper order. The log began to tick, 
unevenly. He tapped some more, until the ticking was loud and even. At last he 
took the hatchet and plunged it into the heartwood exposed between the two 
largest wedges, severing the twitchiest strand of all.
The chunk stopped ticking. It shuddered, fired off a crackling volley of 
splinters, expired, and fell apart along the tortuous crevice opened by the 
wedges. Sap dribbled out, its lifeblood, and in that death agony the salad smell 
wafted aloft strongly.
Time! the Snurp cried, heedless of the carnage.
**Approved! the inspector eye said. The wood vanished. Buddy was relieved; there 
was something he didn't like about the split.
He looked about again. The rooster and the beaver were gone, having been 
eliminated in the first phase. The adjacent blocks were now occupied by a fish 
with six handlike fins and a monster ladybug. The ladybug had split her chunk; 
the fish had misplaced one wedge and was unable to reach the heartwood cleanly. 
An agonized keening emanated from his wood.
**Disqualified! the fish's eye cried. He swam away sadly, but Buddy was glad 
that chunk of wood had survived.
Now there were only a dozen splitters left, including Buddy. He was enjoying 
this, though he was more hungry than ever. Time seemed short when he was working 
on a sample, but he had been here pretty long.
**Third phase. Scorch Punk, medium rare.
A huge, blackened, grainless mass appeared on his block. He didn't have to worry 
about killing this; it was more than dead already. And he was in trouble, for he 
knew the wedges would merely sink into the spongy punk without splitting it. And 
as for his hatchet
He saw the ladybug swing her axe at her chunk. The blade cut right into the 
centerbut the wood closed in above it and wouldn't let go, no matter how hard 
she yanked. It was as though the punk had become stone, anchoring the tool.
Buddy had a bright idea. He struck the wood with his maul, using no wedge. It 
hardened on contact, and softened again only gradually. He struck it harder, 
repeatedly, making a pattern of hardness around the top. Then he chopped with 
the hatchetand the block cracked along that hard line!
It was cracked but not split. Now he had to place his wedges quickly in the 
crevice, tapping each to make the hardness form inside, then removing them 
before they were trapped. Again he chipped, slicing deep into the crackand it 
broke open wider.
After the third round, the entire block clove in twoJust as the eye appeared 
and yelled **Disqualified!
One succeeded in time! the Snurp cried. Not disqualified!
The eye peered down. **Correction: Approved.
The Snurp relaxed, relieved.
Buddy hoped there would not be much more of this. The splitting was fun in its 
way, but his stomach was growling.
Only six contestants remained.
**Final phase. Petrified Poplar, veneer grain.
The wood appeared. It was monstrous: a yard wide, and as hard as rock. Buddy 
found three suitable stress points, but they were impervious to his wedges. It 
would take far more strength than he possessed to make headway thereand it 
looked as though three wedges would have to be pounded at once, to unlock this 
complex boulder.
At the next block a muscular doglike contestant circled the chunk with his front 
paws, heaved it up, placed three wedges points-up on the block with his 
prehensile tail, turned over the chunk and dropped it on top of them. It 
shattered into thirds, spraying pebbles. //Time! his second called jubilantly.
Buddy gazed at his own stump with dismay. He could never do that! The wood was 
twenty times his own weight.
He tried the little hatchet on it, hoping for the best. The blade rebounded from 
the surface, leaving only a scratch. He tried to swing the axe, but this was 
even worse. He had gotten nowhere, and time was passing.
One must turn thethe Snurp began.
**Disqualified! the inspector eye said immediately. **No advice permitted from 
the sideline during the phase.
And the wood vanished, and Buddy had to step back, disappointed and humiliated. 
He had really wanted to split that ponderous segmentthe biggest slice of wood 
he had ever seen or imagined.
Why did not one turn the poplar over to reveal the veneer-ravel point? the 
Snurp demanded furiously. One was intolerably stupid!
Buddy took this as a rebuke. He bore up in silence, as he had learned to do 
under the constant abuse of his sisters, but he was miserable inside.
The inspector eye appeared.
**This contestant places sixth, raw score, it said. **Award ratio now being 
calculated. What is contestant's maturity index?
One must provide the information, the Snurp told Buddy.
"Can I go home now? I'm hungry."
How mature is one? Of what physical/mental duration, relative to the adult of 
the species?
Buddy looked at the Snurp in perplexity. "What?"
How old?
"Oh, I'm four."
That would be four sidereal revolutions of one's planet about its star, the 
Snurp said to the eye. This species is mature at fifteen or twenty revolutions.
The metal eye focused on Buddy. **One quarter or one fifth of maturity? Standard 
for this tournament is one half. That would place contestant at par times two 
plus. First on index, despite failure on final phase.
The winner! the Snurp cried joyously.
**However, contestant is beneath tournament age of consent. Provide evidence of 
parental permission.
Conditions were too pressing to obtain
"Can I go home now? Everybody'll be mad when they find I'm gone."
**Conditions too pressing? Violation of regulations, Snurptegian agent. Your 
species has bad recruitment record.
Unintentional! Oversight! Misunderstanding!
"Can I go home now?" All this talk reminded him too much of the bickering of his 
sisters.
**Immediately, the eye said grimly. **There will be a full investigation.
And suddenly Buddy was standing beside the chopping block behind his house, 
alone. That ** was certainly prompt!
"There you are, you little brat!" one of his middle sisters exclaimed. "Oh, are 
you going to get it! You're late for supper and Mom's beside herself!"
That meant a spanking, gleefully delivered by massed sibling might. Buddy 
managed to bite two fingers, but otherwise got the worst of it. Afterwards, he 
received some leftover food.
At bedtime Dad came to see him. "Whatever mischief did you get into today, Son?" 
he asked in his pleasant man-to-man way.
"Wood split." Generally, it was safe to tell things to Dad.
"Would split what, Son?"
"Purple Ash. Scorch Punk. And funny thingsbut the last one was too big. And 
hard. And I was hungry."
"That's very interesting, Son. You have a fine imagination."
"The Snurp took me. In the washing machine."
"But if you try to tell a story like that to your mother"
Buddy understood that he was being gently reprimanded. Dad didn't believe him.
"Keep my wedge, Dad?"
"Certainly, Son." Dad reached out for the small red section of metal. "Where did 
you find that?"
"I stole it from the wood split."
Dad's face became grave. "You will have to return it, Son. Right now. Stealing 
is wrong."
Dad could be just as unreasonable as Buddy's sisters, when he put his mind to 
it. Reluctantly, Buddy led the way out into the dark and toward the chopping 
block. "The Snurp was here, Dad. He took me to the wood split. Where I stole the 
wedge."
"You're sure, Son?" The tone was dangerous.
"And the eye sent me back. Here."
Dad sighed. "That's not exactly a story I can accept, Son."
It sounded suspiciously like another spanking. Buddy didn't know what to say.
Then a light appeared above the chopping block. It was the eye! **Regret 
uninformed decision, it said. **Investigation discloses Snurptegian agent at 
fault. Immature should not have been disqualified.
Dad's hand was on Buddy's shoulder, and it clenched painfully. "Is this the 
owner of the wedge?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Then give it back."
Buddy held out the wedge. "Here. I stole it."
**Can not alter decision after the fact, the eye said. **Innocent immature was 
exploited by Snurptegian field agent. Tournament forwards regrets. Herewith, 
consolation prize: permit to compete in next regional junior championship 
tournament, and matched set of samples.
In the dim light shining from the house, or perhaps it was the glow around the 
eye, Buddy saw a pile of wood rise from nothing. Some chunks reflected the light 
metallically and some glowed on their own. Elegant wood, faerie woodall he 
could ever split. Purple Ash, Vinegar Maple, Scorch Punkand even the monstrous 
Petrified Poplar. And countless other exotic varieties amounting to at least a 
cord. The alien tools were there tooaxe, maul, hatchet, wedges.
Dad looked, amazed. "My son was spankedfor telling the truth."
**The Snurptegian agent was spanked too, the eye said. **Trust consolation is 
adequate.
"No," Dad said. "My boy will not accept goods he has not earned. Take back your 
shipment."
**As desired, the eye said. The wood vanished. **Respects.
"Respects," Dad replied. The eye winked out.
Buddy was left with nothing. He began to cry.
"It was a payoff," Dad explained gently, as they walked back to the house. 
"You'll have many opportunities in life to earn your way properly. You wouldn't 
want to prejudice it all by accepting something like this now, would you?"
"Wood you?" Buddy repeated, not comprehending.
Not then.

HARD SELL
I was, as I have hinted before, phasing out of short fiction by 1971, because 
the editors were too picky and too free with diddles in my text, and the pay was 
inadequate. Editors claim they are chronically desperate for decent stories, but 
they often don't seem to know such stones when they see them. John Campbell of 
Analog bounced this one because he said it was right on target, therefore not 
really fiction. But I wrote six stories in this series, to form a novel in the 
aggregate, as I had done with the eight Prostho Plus stories. You guessed it: 
the magazines showed little interest, but finally Galaxy Publications picked up 
the first threeand rejected the last three. And no book publisher wanted the 
novel Hard Sell. This was a hard sell indeed! Were the stories inferior? Well, 
you can judge for yourself; they got stronger as they went, so that some of my 
best efforts were wasted on the market. The titles were: 1. "Hard Sell" 2. 
"Black Baby" 3. "Hurdle" 4. "Death" 5. "Life" 6. "Libel." The first and third 
are published here. Once again I had shown too much oomph for the marketand I 
was pretty well fed up with that market.
* * *
"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said.
Fisk almost dropped his sandwich. "There must be some mistake. I don't know 
anybody offplanet."
The girl looked at him with polite annoyance, as though nobody should be 
startled by such an event. "Are you Mr. Fisk Centers?"
"Yes, of course," he said. "But..."
Her face sifted out, smiling professionally. The screen bleeped, went blank and 
finally produced a man. He had handsome gray hair and wore the traditional 
Mars-resident uniforma cross between a spacesuit and a tuxedo. He was seated 
behind a large plastifoam desk and a tremendous color map of classical Mars 
covered the wall beyond.
"Welcome to Mars, Mr. Centers," the man said, putting on a contagious grin. "I 
am Bondman, of Mars, Limited." Somehow he had managed to pronounce "Limited" the 
way it looked on the map on the office wall behind him: "Ltd."
Fisk was fifty and had been around, but he had never been treated to an 
interplanetary call before. The reason was not only the expense, though he knew 
that was extraordinary. He simply happened to be one of the several billion who 
had never had occasion to deal offplanet. Probably Mars, Ltd. was economizing by 
using OVTSOpen Volume Telephone Servicebut the call was still impressive.
"Are you sure"
"Now, Mr. Centers, let's not let modesty interfere with business," Bondman said, 
frowning briefly. "You're far too sensible a man for that. That's why you're one 
of the privileged few to be selected as eligible for this project."
"Project? I don't"
The Marsman's brow wrinkled elegantly. "Naturally it isn't available to the 
common run. Mars is too fine a planet to ruin by indiscriminate development, 
don't you agree?"
Fisk found himself nodding to the persuasive tone before the meaning registered. 
"Development? I thought Mars was uninhabitable. Not enough water, air"
"Most astute, Mr. Centers," Bondman said, bathing him with a glance of honest 
admiration. "Indeed there is not enough water or air. Not for every person who 
might want to settle. Selectivity is the keythe vital keyfor what can be a 
very good life indeed. Mars, you see, has spacebut what is space without air?"
"Right. There's no good life in a spacesuit. I"
"Of course not, Mr. Centers. The ignorant person believes that man must live on 
Mars in a cumbersome suit and so he has a low regard for Mars realty. How 
fortunate that you and I know better." And before Fisk could protest Bondman 
continued: "You and I know that the new static domes conserve air, water and 
heat, utilizing the greenhouse effect to make an otherwise barren land burst 
into splendor. Within that invisible protective hemisphere it is completely 
Earthlike. Not Earth as it is today, but as it was a century ago. Think of it, 
Mr. Centerspure clean air, gentle sunshine, fresh running water. Horses and 
carriagesautomobiles, guns, hallucinogenic drugs and similar evils prohibited. 
A haven for retirement in absolute security and comfort."
Something was bothering Fisk, but the smooth sales patter distracted him and 
compelled his half-reluctant attention. He certainly was not going to Mars. "But 
they don't have such domes on Mars. That technique was developed only a few 
months ago and is still in the testing stage."
"Brilliant, Mr. Centers," Bondman exclaimed sincerely. "You certainly keep 
abreast of the times. Of course there are no domes on Mars now, as you so 
astutely point out. Why, it will be years before they are set up, perhaps even 
as long as a decade. This is what makes it such a superlative investment now, 
before the news gets out. Provided we restrict it to intelligent men such as 
yourself. I'm sure"
"Investment? Now hold on," Fisk protested. "I'm not in the market for 
investment. I'm comfortably set up right now and"
"I quite understand. Naturally you're not interested in a mediocre investment, 
Mr. Centers," Bondman said, frowning at his own failure in not having made the 
point clear. "Do you think I would insult your intelligence by wasting your 
time? No, you have the discernment to identify the superior value when you 
encounter it, unlike the common"
"What investment?" Fisk demanded, annoyed by the too-heavy flattery. The 
intrigue of the interplanetary call was wearing thin and the objection he 
couldn't quite formulate still naggedand he wanted to finish his sandwich 
before it got stale.
The man leaned forward to whisper confidentially. "Marsland," he breathed, as 
though it were the secret of the ages. His voice was so charged with excitement 
and rapture that Fisk had to struggle to maintain his emotional equilibrium. 
Could there be something in it?
After a pregnant pause Bondman resumed. "I see you understand. I was sure you 
would. You comprehend the phenomenal potential in Marsland realty, the 
incredible opportunity"
"I don't comprehend it," Fisk snapped, gesturing with his neglected sandwich. "I 
have no use for land on Mars and I would consider it an extremely risky 
investment. That dome technique is still in the prototype stage; it may not even 
work on Mars. So if that's what you're"
"Yes, of course you want to see the brochure," the salesman agreed irrelevantly. 
"And you shall have it, Mr. Centers. I will put it in the slot for you 
immediately, first class. I'm sure you will examine it most"
Suddenly, facilitated by some devious mental process, Fisk's nagging question 
came into focus.
"You aren't on Mars," he said angrily. "Its orbit is fifty million miles outside 
Earth's. Even when Mars is closest it should take a good ten minutes to get an 
answer by phone."
"Congratulations!" Bondman cried jubilantly. "You have just qualified for our 
exclusive genius-intellect bonus certificate. Of course I'm not calling from 
that Mars you see in the skyI'm here at the Mars, Limited promotion office. Mr. 
Centers, I'm so glad you were sharp enough to solve our little riddle within the 
time limit. You're the very kind of investor we prefer. I'll insert the 
certificate right now. And I'll be seeing you again soon. Bye-bye."
And while Fisk was marveling at the peculiarly childish "bye-bye" the image 
faded.
He lifted his sandwich, a fine torula-steak on soyrye with enriched onion sauce, 
but found he was no longer hungry. He was sure this was a sales gimmick for 
something worthless, but Bondman's contagious excitement had gotten to him. 
Maybe there was a good investment on Mars.
Well, no harm in looking at the literature. He certainly didn't have to buy.
He didn't have long to wait, either. His mail receiver was already chiming with 
an arrival.
He picked up the bulky printing and spread it out. It was a first-class 
presentation, all right, with color photographs and glossy surfacing that must 
have cost dearly to transmit. If he had not been present when it arrived he 
would have suspected a physical delivery rather than the normal mailfax. Mars, 
Ltd. must have oiled the right palms in the post office.
Well, he had to admit ithe was intrigued. He probably would not buy, but he 
would enjoy looking.
First there was the bonus certificate, entitling him to a twenty percent 
reduction. Fair enoughbut hardly sufficient to induce him to buy without his 
knowing the actual price. Then a spread on Marsits discovery in prehistoric 
times, its variable distance from Earth (35-235 million miles), its long year 
(687 daysEarth days or Mars days, he wonderedor were they the same?), low 
surface gravity (one-third Earth's), pretty moons (ten-mile diameter Phobos, 
six-mile Deimos), scenic cratersall familiar material, but calculated to whet 
the appetite for investment and retirement.
Then down to paydirt. The proposed colony, Elysium Acres, was located on a map 
dramatically colored and named. An electrostatic dome a hundred miles in 
diameter, almost fifty miles high, enclosed a greenhouse atmosphere at 
Earth-normal pressure and temperature. The development was suitable for 
homesites, with carefully laid out horse trails and a delightful crater lake. 
Guaranteed weather, pollution-free atmosphere.
Fisk was middle-aged and cynical, but this gripped him. Earth was such a 
sweatbox now. He hated having to take weekly shots to protect his system against 
environmental contamination, and the constantly increasing restrictions invoked 
in the name of the growing pressure on worldly resources made him rage at times 
like a prisoned tiger. (What other kind of tiger was there today?) Perhaps if he 
had married, found someone to share hisbut that was another entire dimension of 
frustration, hardly relevant now.
This Marsdome pitch catered to these very frustrations, he realized. There must 
be millions like himself, men well enough to do, intelligent and sick of their 
own lack of purpose. What a beacon it was, an escape to an unspoiled planetin 
comfort.
But of course he was old enough to control his foolish fancies. He knew, 
intellectually, that no such development existed on Mars and probably never 
would exist. The sheer expense would be prohibitive. All that technology, all 
that shipment from Earthwhy, passenger fare for one person one way would amount 
to twenty or thirty thousand dollars, assuming emigration could even be 
arranged. And for him it was out of the question.
Yet he could not help studying the brochure. Elysium Acressuch a suggestion of 
bliss! Could it possibly come true by the time he turned sixty? Why not, if they 
were able to finance it?
There was the real rub. Money. How much to establish the dome, stock it with 
good atmosphere, import vegetation, calculate and maintain a closed-system 
ecological balance, construct access highways, lakes, houses, service 
facilities? There would have to be hospitals, libraries, administrative 
buildings, emergency staffsall the accouterments of civilization, in short. It 
would cost billions of dollars to maintainperhaps trillions to construct. 
Naturally the brochure did not provide the price list.
But if it were affordable and if it were possible for him to gowhat a 
temptation!
He punched his personal info number for his net worth, just checking. The totals 
flashed on the screen after he had provided his identification code: liquid 
assets just over fifty thousand dollars; investments at current quotations just 
under two hundred thousand; miscellaneous properties and options sixty to eighty 
thousand, pending urgency of sale. Grand totala generous three hundred 
thousand.
Enough, with proper management, to tide him through the twenty-five years until 
his retirement annuities matured. He was hardly fool enough to jeopardize any of 
it by investing in pie-on-Mars. Still, it had been fun dreaming.

The dream lingered next morning, a welcome guest staying beyond courteous hours. 
Fisk showered in the sonic booth, depilitated and dressed. As he arranged and 
set his graying locks he wondered irrelevantly whether he and the salesman, 
Bondman, used the same brand of hair tint. He studied his face in the mirror, 
picturing himself as a hard-sell agent, lifting his brow artfully to augment a 
pregnant pause. Yes, he did look the partperhaps he would be good at it.
But then, subjectively, he saw the signs of what he knew was therethe 
circulatory malady that bound him to Earth for life. His quarterly medication 
kept it under controlbut a trip to Mars, with the necessary accelerations and 
drugstates, was out of the question. That was why Mars would never be more than 
a dream for Fisk Centers, no matter how alluring the sales pitch. He would 
always be a portly, subdued Earthman.
So it was time to end it. He filed the Mars, Ltd. literature in the recycle bin 
and watched it disintegrate. Then he punched breakfast. He felt lonely.
The phone lighted. "Yes?" he said automatically.
"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said. She had 
changed her hairdo, but she was the same one who had placed the call yesterday.
"Come off it, girl," he snapped, aware that there was nothing more useless than 
taking out a personal peeve on an impersonal employee. "It is not 
interplanetary."
Bondman of Mars phased into view. "Of course it is, Mr. Centers," he said 
genially. "The Mars, Limited office is legally Mars soil, you know. An enclave. 
We have to undergo quarantine before reporting for work, ha-ha! I trust you have 
studied our brochure"
"Yes. I'm not buying."
Bondman looked hurt. "But you haven't even heard our price, Mr. Centers. I know 
a man as fair-minded as you"
"I'll never go to Mars."
"Remember, you get a special bonus price because of your intelligence and 
judgment. I'm sure you'll recognize"
"I have a circulatory disorder. Inoperable. Sorry."
Bondman laughed with a finely crafted lack of affectation. "You don't have to go 
to Mars, Mr. Centers. We're talking about investment."
"I told you I wasn't looking for"
"You've studied the plans for Elysium Acres? The phenomenal hundred-mile dome, 
the luxurious facilities, the nineteenth-century atmosphereliterallythe scenic 
lots? Of course you have. Mr. Centers, you know values. What do you figure it 
will cost? I mean the entire setup on Mars, gross?"
"A trillion dollars," Fisk said, believing it. "Plus upkeep of billions per 
year."
"Would you believe three trillion? But you're remarkably close, Mr. Centers. You 
certainly understand investment. You merely underestimated the importance of 
this development to usand to the world. We're putting everything into it, Mr. 
Centers. Another developer might do it for one trillion, but we put quality 
first. Three trillionbut we know we'll make a profit in the end and of course 
we have to consider profit, Mr. Centers. We're businessmen, like youand believe 
me, sir, there is a demand. In ten years Earth will be a veritable nightmare and 
Elysium Acres will be an incredible bargain at any price." Bondman held up a 
hand to forestall Fisk's possible objection. "I'm not forgetting that you can't 
go, Mr. Centers. I'm merely pointing out what an attractive investment this is 
going to be. Some will have the incalculable privilege of retiring to Elysium 
Acresothers will merely make a fortune from it. I"here the voice dropped to 
its supercharged confidential tone"hope to do both." Bondman paused long enough 
for that affirmation of faith to penetrate, but not long enough for Fisk to 
generate an interjection. "Now, we're subdividing E.A. into lots of one hundred 
feet square, give or take a footenough for a comfortable cottage and garden. 
Twenty million of themyes, that's correct, Mr. Centers. That dome is a hundred 
miles across and there will be eight thousand square miles inside and two and a 
half thousand lots per milebut I don't need to do elementary mathematics for 
you, Mr. Centers. Twenty million lots for three trillion dollars. That comes to 
a hundred and fifty thousand dollars per lot. A bit high for Earth, considering 
they're undevelopedbut this is Mars! Those lots are priceless, Mr. Centers, 
pricelessyet they will be put on the market at a price any successful man can 
afford." He held up his hand again, though Fisk had made no motion to interrupt. 
"But Mars, Limited needs operating capital, Mr. Centers, and we need it now. So 
we are offering for a limited time only a very, very special investment 
opportunity. You can buy these lots as investment real estate today for a tiny 
fraction of their actual value. Laterany time you wishyou may sell for a 
handsome profit. So although you may never have the privilege of going to Mars 
yourselfand please accept my heartfelt condolences, Mr. Centers, for I know how 
much you would have liked to retire to Elysium Acresyou can still benefit 
materially while advancing a noble cause through your investment."
Fisk was more impressed by the emotive delivery than by the content. 
Salesmanship really was an art.
"How much?"
"Mr. Centers, we are offering these lots atnow listen carefully because this is 
hard to believeat one-quarter price. Thir-ty sev-en thou-sand five hun-dred 
dollars for a property worth one hun-dred and fif-ty thou-sand dollars." Bondman 
spaced out the syllables to make the figures absolutely clear and emphatic.
"That's my bonus for nabbing your 'interplanetary call' gimmick?"
Bondman rolled his eyes expressively but did not take exception to Fisk's choice 
of words. "Of course not, Mr. Centers. That's our one-time special-offer bargain 
price. For you alone we provide the bonus price. Don't tell anyone else, because 
if word got out that anyone beat the bargain price there would be resentment. 
Even" and a great rippling shrug bespoke consequences so vast that to invoke 
them by name would be foolhardy.
Bondman did not speak that mind-shattering figure. Instead he fed it into his 
mailfax. The full contract emerged from Fisk's slot. He paged through it while 
Bondman waited expectantly, anticipating the client's amazed pleasure.
Thirty thousand dollars. In other words, the straight twenty percent reduction 
the certificate had promised.
Yes, it did seem like a good buy. Still, Fisk had had some experience in such 
matters. He skimmed through until he found the small printactually regular type 
buried in an otherwise innocuous paragraph.
Ownership remained with Mars, Ltd. until the stipulated amount had been paid in 
full. In the event of default, the property reverted to Mars, Ltd. without 
refund. The risk of capital was all with the purchaser, unless he bought 
outright for cash. Very interesting.
"Now you see the bargain we are offering you, Mr. Centers," Bondman said 
gravely. "Frankly, you are one of the very last to receive the thirty-seven 
fifty figure, let alone the bonus deal. Demand has been even greater than we 
anticipated, with many people buying multiple lots. Blocks of fouror even more. 
There will have to be a price increase. After all, the company needs capitalit 
is ridiculous for us to sell so low when our own clients are turning around and 
selling their lots for more. Why only last week a man sold five for two hundred 
thousand flatand he'd only bought them last month. He made a twelve thousand 
profit on a three-week investmentand that's only the one we know about. 
Others" here his shoulders rose in another eloquent shrug. "Where, Mr. Centers, 
is the limit?"
"Why didn't the second buyer come to you first?" Fisk inquired. Actually the 
described profit was only about six percent and normal fluctuation of the market 
could readily account for it. But it did seem to auger well for the growth 
prospects. Fisk could buy five lots for $150,000 not $187,500, and make that 
much more.
"Apparently he didn't realize our price was as low as it was," Bondman said 
sadly. "He thought he had information. The biggest sucker is the one who thinks 
he knows it allright, Mr. Centers? If he had only checked with usbut of course 
our price won't be lower after this week. So he has a good investment 
anywaythough not as good as it could have been. If our lots are going for forty 
thousandwell, we do need capital," he finished almost apologetically. "You 
understand."
Yes, Fisk was certainly interested now. Buy for thirty, sell for fortybut he 
knew better than to appear eager. "I might take a lot or two," he said. "But 
it's a lot of money. I'd have to liquidate some other investments and that would 
take time."
"I understand perfectly," Bondman agreed instantly. "I had to do the same when I 
invested in my own first Mars lot. It was well worth it, of course. Fortunately 
we have a time payment plan exactly suited to your situation. Ten-year term, so 
that it will be paid up when Elysium Acres opens and the real gold rush begins. 
Irrevocable six percent interest. Just three hundred and twenty-five dollars a 
month covers all, Mr. Centerswe absorb the cover charge. How does that suit 
you?"
Fisk checked the figures quickly in his head. They were fairsix percent on a 
decreasing principal. No funny business there, no usury. And he would be able to 
liquidate his investments profitably within a year and pay off the rest, saving 
the interest. Some contracts had penalty clauses for early payment, but this one 
fortunately did not.
"Sounds good," he admitted.
"Good? Good?" Bondman demanded rhetorically. "Mr. Centers, how would you like to 
buy a cyclotron at the sheet metal price? That's how good it is! But that isn't 
all. What we are talking about is three-twenty-five a monthless than eleven 
dollars a day to control a genuine Marsland property now selling for" He broke 
off, nodding significantly toward the contract with a secret figure. "And with 
values quadruplingor morein the period of agreement. Mr. Centers, you are 
actually investing a paltry three-twenty-five a month for a return of at least a 
hundred and fifty thousand in a mere decade."
Fisk knew. Thirty thousand dollars, plus nine thousand dollars accumulated 
interest for the ten-year span. For $150,000 value. A net profit of $111,000, or 
over eleven thousand per yearper lot. With just three lots he could triple his 
fortune.
"Still, it's a sizable amount. Are you sure it's safe? I mean, suppose something 
happens and the dome doesn't get built. The lots would become almost worthless."
"Mr. Centers, it certainly is a pleasure to do business with you," Bondman 
exclaimed. "You don't miss a trick. Of course there is a nominal element of 
risk. Life itself is the biggest risk of all. But by buying on time you can 
eliminate even that one-in-a-thousand chance. Just consider. If something should 
happen to abort Elysium Acres tomorrowand I assure nothing short of World War 
Four could squelch our plansand you had bought today and paid your deposit 
premium, what would you have lost? Three hundred and twenty-five dollars. Why, 
Mr. Centersyou must blow more than that on one good suit."
Extremely sharp observation. Fisk had paid more than that for his dress suit.
Bondman followed up his advantage, knowing he had scored. "Considering the 
hundred and fifty thousand valuejust what are you risking? One suit."
"But suppose something happens in two years. Or nine. I can't afford to lose a 
suit every month."
"Mr. Centers," Bondman said sternly. "I'm a busy man and this call is expensive. 
Don't waste my time and yours with inconsequentials. If you don't trust the 
stability of a fine new developer like Mars, Limited, don't invest. Or if you 
believe it will fail in two years, sell in one year. Your property will have 
increased in value at least ten percentin fact, considering the coming price 
rise, twenty percent may be a more accurate estimate. But just keep it simple, 
let's call it ten percent. That's between three and four thousand dollars, 
right? And how much are you paying per year?"
"Between three and four thousand dollars," Fisk said.
"So if you sell then, your return on your actual investment will be just about 
one hundred percent. This is leverage, Mr. Centersusing a small amount of money 
to control a large amount of money. And the profit is yours even if, as you say, 
Mars, Limited fails in two years. Or nine. Ha-ha." He leaned forward again, 
speaking intensely. "The dome may fail, Mr. Centersbut you won't."
Fisk laughed. "Very well, Mr. Bondman. You've sold me. Just give me a little 
time to check around" This was a key ploy. If the salesman were out to take him 
he would do anything to prevent a fair investigation of the facts. And of course 
Fisk wouldn't buy without checking. That was the big advantage in being an 
experienced fifty. He couldn't be stampeded.
"Certainly, Mr. Centers. In fact I insist on it. If we were looking for foolish 
investors we never would have called you. I'll be happy to provide the 
government property report"
"Thanks, no. I just want a few days to make some calls." He was hardly going to 
use Mars, Ltd. data to check out Mars, Ltd.
"By all means. I wouldn't have it otherwise." Bondman paused as though 
remembering something. "Of course, I can't guarantee your price, Mr. Centers. 
That increase is going to come through any day nowperhaps tomorrow. They never 
let us salesmen know in advance, of course, because some mightuhprofiteer at 
the expense of the customer. But I know it's soon. Your bonus will still apply, 
naturally, but five or six thousand per lot is a pretty hefty penalty for a 
day's time. Uhdo you think you could make it by this afternoon? Say, four 
o'clock? I don't want to rush youand of course it might be as late as next week 
before the risebut I would feel terrible if"
Bondman would feel terrible if he lost his commission because an irate customer 
balked at the higher price, Fisk thought. "I think I can make it by four." That 
would give him six hourstime enough.
"Excellent. I'll see you then. Bye-bye." And the screen faded.

Fisk had not been bluffing. The Marslot investment seemed attractive indeed, but 
he never made snap decisions about money. It wasn't just a matter of checkinghe 
wanted to appraise his own motives and inclinations. The best buy in the 
worldor Marswas pointless if it failed to relate to his basic preferences and 
needs.
He punched an early lunch and ate it slowly. Then he began his calls.
First the library informational service for a summary of Mars, Ltd. operations. 
While that was being processed for faxing to him he read the sample contract 
carefully and completely. It was tighthe would not actually own the lot until 
it was completely paid for and he couldn't sell it until he owned it. Leverage? 
Ha!
But apart from that trap, it was straight. He could defang it by purchasing 
outright. Not to mention the interest he would save.
The rundown on Mars, Ltd. arrived. He settled down to his real homework.
Interestingthere was a cautionary note about that "Ltd."
"Limited" meant that the developer's liability was limited to its investments on 
Earthsoilof which it had none. Its only Earthly enclave was, as Bondman had 
claimed, legally Mars soil. A nice device for impressive "interplanetary" calls 
to clientsbut perhaps even nicer as a defense against lawsuit. An irate party 
might obtain a judgment for a million dollarsbut unless he sued on Mars there 
was nothing for him to collect. What a beautiful foil against crackpots and 
opportunists.
The company was legitimate. In fact it was the largest of its kind, having sold 
billions of dollars worth of Marsland to speculators in the past few years. The 
Elysium Acres project was listed, too. A note read: SEE GOVERNMENT PROPERTY 
REPORT. Fisk sighed and punched for itit had not been attached to the main 
commentary. He had a lot of dull reading to do.
The phone lighted. The hour was already four. He had meant to make some other 
checkswell, they hardly mattered. He had verified that Mars, Ltd. was no 
fly-by-night outfit.
"Did you come to a decision, Mr. Centers?" Bondman inquired, sounding like an 
old friend.
Fisk had decidedbut a certain innate and cussed caution still restrained him. 
The deal seemed too good to be true and that was a suspicious sign. But aside 
from the "leverage" hoax he could find no fault in it. He decided not to query 
the salesman about the time payment trapto do so would only bring a glib 
explanation and more superfluous compliments on his intelligence. Better to let 
Bondman think he was fooling the client.
"I might be interested in more than one lot," Fisk said.
"Absolutely no problem, Mr. Centers." Fisk was sure the salesman's warmth was 
genuine this time. "Simply enter the number of lots you are buying on the line 
on page three where it says 'quantity,' write your name on the line below, and 
make out a check to Mars, Limited for your first payment. That's all there is to 
it, since I have already countersigned. Fax a copy back to us and"
Fisk's mail chime sounded. "Ohthe property report," he said. "Do you mind if I 
just glance at it first? A formality, of course."
"Oh, I thought you'd already read that. Didn't I send you one? By all means"
A buzzer on Bondman's desk interrupted him. "I'm in conference," he snapped into 
his other phone. "Can't it wait?" Then his expression changed. "Oh, very well." 
He turned to Fisk. "I beg your pardona priority call has just signaled on my 
other line andwell, it's from my superior. Can't say no to him, ha-ha, even if 
it is bad form to interrupt a sales conference. If you don't mind waiting a 
moment"
"Not at all. I'll read the property report."
"Excellent. I'll wrap this up in a moment, I'm sure." Bondman faded, to be 
replaced by a dramatic artist's conception of Elysium Acres, buttressed by sweet 
music. The connection remained. This was merely Mars, Ltd.'s privacy shunt.
There was a snap as of a shifting connection and Bondman's voice was 
superimposed on the music. "...tell you I'm closing a sale for several lots. I 
can't just pull the rug outhe's signing the contract right now..." A pause, as 
he listened to a response that Fisk couldn't hear. Then: "To fifty thousand? As 
of this morning? Why didn't you call me before?"
Fisk realized that Bondman's privacy switch hadn't locked properly. It wouldn't 
be ethical to listen and he did want to skim that property report. But the voice 
wrested his attention away from the printed material.
"Look, bossI just can't do it. I quoted him the thirty-grand bonus... no, I 
can't withdraw it. He's sharpand he's got the contract! He'd make a good Mars, 
Limited exec... terms, I think... yes, if we could get him to default on the 
payments, so the reversion clause... hate to bilk him like thatI like him... 
no, I'm sure he wouldn't go for the new price. Not with the cancellation of the 
bonus and all. That's a twenty-grand jump just when he's about to sign... okay, 
okay, I'll try itbut listen, boss, you torpedo me in midsale again like this 
and I'm signing with Venus, Limited before you finish the call... I know they're 
a gyp outfit. But I promised this client the bonus price and now you're making a 
liar out of me and cheating him out of the finest investment of the century on a 
time-payment technicality. If I have to operate that way I might as well go 
whole Venus hog"
There was a long pause. Fisk smiled, thinking of the tongue-lashing Bondman must 
be getting for putting integrity ahead of business.
Fisk knew it was unfair for him to take advantage of a slipped switch and 
private informationbut he had been promised the bonus price and now someone was 
trying to wipe it out. If Mars. Ltd. were trying to con him out of his 
investment, he had a right to con himself back in.
"... all right." Bondman's voice came again. "That's best. I'll try to talk him 
out of it so nobody loses. But get those new quotations in the slot right away. 
Couple of other clients I have to callthey're going to be furious about that 
increase, but at least they were warned about delaying... yes... yes... okay. 
Sorry I blew up. Bye-bye."
The music faded. The picture vanished and Bondman reappeared, looking unsettled. 
"Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Mr. Centers," he said. "Bad news, The offer 
I was describing to youwell, I'm afraid we'll have to call it off."
"But I just signed the contract," Fisk protested innocently. "Are you telling me 
to tear it up already?"
Bondsman's eyelids hardly flickered. "What I meant to say is that the conditions 
have changed. New government restrictions have forced up construction costs and 
the whole Elysium Acres project is in jeopardy. In fact, Mr. Centers, we now 
have no guarantee that there will even be a dome on Mars. Under the 
circumstances I don't see how I can recommend"
So that was the pitch. "We all have to take chances, as you pointed out," Fisk 
said briefly. "I should think that if your expenses go up your prices would 
followto compensate. So I should buy now."
"Eryes," Bondman admitted. "Still, it looks bad. I wouldn't want you to be left 
holding title to a worthless lot, Mr. Centers. Until this thing settles down"
"One lot?" Fisk interjected with mock dismay. "Lots. I signed up for ten."
For a moment even the supersalesman was at a loss for words. "T-ten?"
"Why not, for such a good investment? Leverage, you know."
"Leverage! Let me tell you something" Bondman caught himself. He sighed. He put 
on a smile of rueful admiration. "You certainly know your business, Mr. Centers. 
I only hope you aren't taking a terrible chance with a great deal of money. Are 
you sure?" But, observing Fisk's expression, he capitulated. "Well, then, just 
make out your first monthly payment for three thousand two hundred and fifty 
dollars and we'll"
"Thanks, no. I'm paying cash."
Bondman looked so woebegone that Fisk felt sorry for him, though he knew the 
salesman would still receive a handsome commission along with his reprimand for 
letting so many underpriced lots go. "Cash? The entire amount?"
"Yes. Here is my check for three hundred thousand dollars, certified against the 
escrow liquidation of my total holdings. That saves you the annoyance of time 
payments and gives you a good chunk of the working capital you need. Your boss 
should be well pleased, considering your rising expenses."
"Uh, yes." Bondman agreed faintly as Fisk faxed check and contract back to him. 
The originals remained with him for his records, but the faxes were legal, too. 
The deal was closed. He owned the lots outright and could not lose them by 
payments default. If he needed working capital himself, he could sell one at the 
fifty-thousand-dollar price tomorrow.
Bondman stared bleakly at the documents, then pulled himself together. "It has 
been a real pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Centers," he said with a brave 
smile. "I'm sure you'll never regret your purchase. Uh, bye-bye."
"Bye-bye!" Fisk returned cheerily as the connection broke.
But something about the salesman's expression just as the picture faded bothered 
him. It reminded him of what Bondman had said during the morning call: The 
biggest sucker is the one who thinks he knows it all...
The library information on Mars, Ltd. was general and, of course, bland. Any 
negative remarks would have made it vulnerable for a liable suit regardless of 
the truth. It had provided him with essentially the Mars, Ltd. publicity 
release, but added the cautionary note: SEE GOVERNMENT PROPERTY REPORT.
Fisk had been about to look at that report when Bondman's boss had interrupted 
and the privacy switch had coincidentally malfunctioned. Interesting timing.
After the price-increase call Bondman had been nervous and stuttery, hardly a 
supersalesman. His facade had disintegratedyet he had known the word was 
coming. And a salesman of that caliber should have been able to cover better 
than that. Unless the whole thing had been an act to puff up the confidence of a 
sucker who thought he knew it all.
Fisk's hand shook as he lifted the property report, for now he knew what he 
would find.
Plainly printed in red ink:
This property is not adaptable for terraforming purposes. The lots are 
unimproved, unsurveyed and without roads, landing facilities or other 
improvements. Access is extremely poor. Site is subject to frequent ground 
tremors prohibiting construction of permanent buildings or erection of 
static-dome generators. Approximate value per lot is $300.00...

HURDLE
I've already commented, but will add this note: I've always been intrigued by 
alternate sources of power, and it shows here. Perhaps I would have come up with 
some additional notions, had I written this story a decade later; science keeps 
advancing, but stories remain fixed in their firmament the moment they see 
print.
* * *
I
"Up, Fisk," Yola said "Earn your daily bonus and commission or else."
Fisk Centers rolled over groggily. "Else what?"
"This." An avalanche of icy foam descended on his head.
He struggled up, gasping for breath, suddenly wide awake. "What was that for?"
"Well, I did warn you," she said contritely. "You look like a walrus surfacing."
"Nonsense. I don't have tusks."
"A toothless walrus, then. Fat, wet, stupid"
"You're about to look like a spanked brat."
"No time," she said. "Bolt your food, Fisky. Today you go to work for your 
living."
"What makes you so sure I'll have any better luck today than I've had all week?"
"Because you handled the week. I set up today. While you snored."
"I should have stayed single," Fisk muttered as he stumbled to the suiter and 
let it dry and dress him. "Or at least gotten married. The last thing any sane 
man would do is become an adoptive father to a pre-teen hellion."
"Right," she agreed. "Especially when he has to live off her money."
"That's my money! Twenty percent commission just for"
"For selling an innocent child on the black mar"
"Shut up." He stepped out of the suiter, resplendent in blue jeans, checkered 
shirt and goggles. "What did you do to the setting?" he roared.
"You look just right for your job," she said. "Hurry up."
He tore off the goggles. "My jobdoing what?"
"Selling cars, of course."
"Cars? I'm no mechanic"
"That's all you know, Dad. Salesmen don't have to know anything about the 
workings. Just believe in your product and sell, sell, sell!"
Fisk punched a soyomelet. "Believe in my product? I haven't even driven a car 
for five years." He took a bite, but paused before masticating it. "What car am 
I supposed to sell?"
"Fusion. They've got a real nice commission deal"
The mouthful of omelet sprayed over the table. "The atomic racer? The 
radioactive juggernaut that makes the obituary headlines every other week? The"
"The same. They're making a play for the middle-class market and they need 
middle-class salesmen. Hot chance for you."
"Hot? Listen, Yolado you realize that my annuities don't mature for another 
twenty-five years and are voided in the event of deliberate suicide? If I die 
tomorrow in a Fusion you inherit nothing."
"Term life insurance," she answered. "That's their bonus. Life and commissions. 
You live off the commissions, of course. But if you die"
"Enough, child. The longer I listen to you the worse I feel. I'm not going near 
any"
"Suit yourself," she said. "We'll run out of money tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? There's enough for at least another week."
"You forget you have a family to support. Two don't live as cheaply as one, you 
know." She paused, serious and for the moment rather pretty in her brown-faced 
way. "Fisk, it's a good chance for you. I thought you'd really go for a decent 
income"
Fisk sighed. "I'll talk to the man. But it had better be strictly salesroom. If 
I have to go near a living Fusion I'll resign on the spot."
"Sure," she said. "Come onyou're due to report in twenty minutes."

"Fisk Centers? Right," the executive at Fusion Motors said briskly as Fisk 
introduced himself. "Your daughter here set it up. Glad to have a man of your 
experience with us."
"Experience? I haven't"
Yola tromped his toe and Fisk realized that she had invented suitable 
qualifications for him. Time to set that straight right now. He took a breath.
"You're in the weekly Hurdle, starting at ten today," the man said.
Fisk's breath wooshed out. "I beg your"
The man guided him out through a service exit, led him into a massive garage 
filled with menacing machinery. "Bill, he's here."
Fisk tried again. "Look, I don't know what she told you, but I'm not"
"Here's your co-pilot, Bill. Bill, this is Fisk. Used to be with Ferrari before 
the antipolluters closed down their commercial branch. Drove in the antarctic 
cross-country a couple times, maybe twenty years ago. Going to sell for us. I 
want him to get a real feel for the Fusion, but you'll have to carry the burden 
this time."
"Great," Bill said, shaking Fisk's hand with a grip of steel and rubber. "Come 
on, Fisk. We've got just thirty-five minutes to blastoff and you'll need 
briefing."
"But I"
"Don't get me wrong," Bill said, hustling him along while Yola trotted excitedly 
behind. "I'm not putting down your experience. But there's been a lot of 
development in the past two decades and most of it has been led by the Fusion. 
And the Hurdle is a real workout. If anything happens to me you'll have to take 
overbecause the finish line's the only safe exit. Ever drive over five hundred 
before?"
"Well, I" Then it occurred to Fisk that Bill wasn't talking about distance and 
certainly not about regular highway travel. Stunned, he fumbled for a suitable 
way to set things straight immediately.
Yola caught up. She smiled sweetly at Bill. "Can I come, too? I love racing"
Bill looked at her with leathery compassion. "Sorry, kid. No juniors allowed. 
This is a rough course and it changes every week. You'll have to watch it on the 
customer screen. Mine's the purple Eight."
"Oh." She looked dangerously sullen, but fell back.
"Bill, there's been a misunderstanding," Fisk said, already out of breath 
because of the pace Bill was setting through the monstrous garage. "I can'tI 
never"
"Here she is," Bill said proudly, pulling up at a tremendous sculptured vehicle 
with eight massive wheels. "Hop in. We'll get strapped while the tug takes her 
there. I'll brief you while we're moving." He gave Fisk a powerful boost into 
the open cockpit.
The moment the two men landed in the firm molded seats, the tug started hauling 
the car out of its niche and down a ramp. Bill saw to Fisk's complex protective 
harness before attending to his own.
"But I'm only supposed to be a salesman," Fisk protested. "I can't get involved 
in a race. I have absolutely no"
"No problem. Boss always breaks in the new men like this. Idea is you don't need 
to know every detail about the caryou just have to believe in it absolutely, 
and the details will take care of themselves. So we don't load you down with 
statistics and all that junkwe just show you. Once you've raced the Fusion 
Special you're a believer."
"But I'm trying to tell you that I don't know the first thing about"
"Sure. The boss explained. You've never touched the Fusion before. And twenty 
years is a long, long time in racing. We'd have let you sit it out this week, 
but my regular co-pilot isn't out of the hospital yet. But I know you've got the 
stuff. I used to watch that antarctic cross-country when I was a kid. Those 
glaciers, those ice crevasses" He shook his head. "Hell, the Hurdle isn't 
rougher than that. But it is differentand you've got to ride it several times 
before you get the feel. So I'll drive and you just handle the mapokay? Nobody 
tackles a new race in a new car cold."
Appalled, Fisk could only nod. At this point it almost seemed better to take the 
horrible ride and keep his mouth shut. At least the driver was competent and it 
would be a one-time experience.
"Actually, that map is important," Bill said consolingly. "I can't take my eyes 
off the track when I'm at speed. They do it that way to make sure the race stays 
fair. New track for each runnobody knows the specific layout until the race 
starts and then he has to figure his strategy from the map. Yours is a necessary 
job and don't you doubt it for a moment. One misreading and we're dead."
Fisk came to an abrupt decisionhe would blurt out the truth and get released 
from this race right now. "Bill, I"
"I wouldn't drive without a mapman. My co-pilot tried that a couple weeks ago, 
when I was out at the last minute with intestinal grippe. You knowbathroom 
every ten minutes, ready or not. Didn't dare drive. So he took it alone, because 
you can't get a replacement at the last moment and we didn't want our entry 
scratched. That's why he cracked uptrying to read the map before he got out of 
the tunnel" Bill shook his head. "Fifteen hours in surgery and he'll have to 
drive next time with a prosthetic hand and a plate in his skull. Ran over his 
insurance and he's got a family to support. That's why I have to run a good race 
this time. Got to help him out."
Fisk realized that if he spoke out now Bill would have no co-pilot. Then he 
would have either to take it alone, risking the same fate that had wiped out his 
partner, or drop out of the race entirely. Then his friend's medical bills would 
ruin his family.
Fisk well understood the problems of financial ruin. He had been a moderately 
wealthy man not so long ago. Being broke was not a fate he would wish on anyone.
"... true dual-purpose car," Bill was saying. He evidently liked to talk. 
"Motor's always at full power, of course, so the clutch guides it. Not the kind 
of clutch you knew, eh? No gearing. Just engage for the percentage of power you 
want. Depress gently and you've got a gentle touring car. Goose it and you've 
got a real racer. I use a model just like this for city traffic"
What could Fisk do but stick with it? Racing terrified him and not just because 
of his healthbut more was riding on this race than his preferences.
"...duplicate controls, but yours will be inactive. Except for the 
indicatorsyou need to watch them in case of emergency. Regular steering wheel, 
you see; nothing complicated. Fusion's designed for the simple-mindedthat's why 
I like it. And over here"
The tug was maneuvering the car into the starting stall. A giant chronometer 
above was ticking off the last seconds before the start. Fisk squirmed in his 
harness, feeling cold sweat on his palms, face and underarms. He hoped that the 
term insurance was for a large amount.
"The map will fall into the fax hopper there as the gun goes off," Bill said. 
"Grab it and"
A faint pop came through the armored hull. Paper dropped. And the car ground 
forward with such authority that it was all Fisk could do to breathe. There was 
very little noise. Pollution-control had really clamped down on loud sports 
jobs; both the hydrogen/helium fusion engine and the mercury vapor working fluid 
were almost silent. Also, it seemed, the cockpit was soundproof.
Fisk had to admit itthis was a nice piece of machinery. Competing cars shot out 
of their stalls. Blue, white, green, red, yellowinternal combustion, steam, 
electric, jet, atomic and assorted hybrids. The car industry had claimed that 
stiff antipollution standards would ruin it, but in fact they had led to a 
marvelous flowering of superior new types. The money that had once been wasted 
on planned obsolescence of style now went into improvement of mechanics. Drivers 
still had to buy a new car every three years, but now they obtained a superior 
product in each new model. And this was where that superiority was 
demonstratedin professional competition, using the cars sold in the showrooms. 
It was a drag race start: thirty bright vehicles straining forward on a ten-mile 
straightaway. No noise or fumes.
Fisk sneaked a look at the speedometer. His duplicate was functioning, but it 
took him a moment to find the mph scale among the massed dials and digits. The 
main readings were feet per second and kilometers per hour, but he was 
pedestrian enough to orient on old-fashioned miles per hour. They were already 
doing 150, and accelerating rapidly. And the other cars were keeping pace or 
pulling ahead, so that the group velocity was deceptive.
"Look at the map," Bill shouted. "What's the first hurdle?"
Fisk opened the map hastily and scanned it. He had been daydreaming while his 
very life was at stake in an obstacle race at hundreds of miles per hour.
"The Narrows," he said.
"The Narrows? That's a stiff location, but good for us. Hang onwe'll have to 
push it."
And, astonishingly, the acceleration increased. The Fusion began gaining on 
other cars.
"I thought you were all-out before," Fisk gasped.
"Hardly. This is the finest car ever made, overall. The Fusion's, got more 
actual muscle than any car on the marketand unlimited range. It has a little 
piece of the sun inside, you knowthat's the heat of the conversion, four 
hydrogen atoms transforming into one helium atom in controlled fusion. Fuel's no 
problemit's loaded when we make it and it runs on just a little bit of hydrogen 
until the car is junked. We have no top speed, reallycar would shake apart 
before we ever reached maximum. Only limiting factoroh, don't worry, we won't 
shake apartin a race like this is the frictive surface: the tires. That's why 
we've got eightand they're broad ones, too. But too much acceleration makes 
them skid a bit and that's bad for control and worse for wear. Got to save the 
rubber or we'll have trouble finishing, even though the tires are solid. Guess 
you were still on pneumatics in the antarctic, huh?"
"I guess." Fisk realized that he had just received lesson one in Fusion 
salesmanship. The car was so powerful that even solid composition tires could 
wear out of round in the course of an hour.
And Bill was taking that risk now. The Fusion was overhauling car after car. The 
speedometer readFisk looked again, astonished390 mph... 395... 400 and still 
rising. Air whistled past the little winglike vanes on the sides that were 
necessary for control at such velocityeven the sound-proofing could not 
eliminate every vestige of that hurricane keening. 410 mph...
Bill was right. Telling a prospective salesman about the Fusion could not have 
been nearly as efficient as showing him, regardless of his presumed experience. 
When he got into the showroom and a customer asked him about power and speed 
Fisk would not need any artifice to describe the car. He had seen it in action, 
seen the other racers falling behind at 430...

II
"You haven't raced before," Bill observed mildly.
And it was out at lasttoo late. "I tried to tell you, but"
Bill smiled. "But you're a sucker for a sob story."
"Oh-oh. You mean to say your co-pilot didn't"
"No, he did, all right. I do need this money for him. But nine men out of ten 
would not risk their own necks in a grind like this to help out someone they'd 
never seen. You're too soft-hearted. I'll bet you've been stepped on more than 
once or you wouldn't be looking for a job at your age."
"Close enough."
"Don't worry about it, Fisk. Lots of people sneer because they haven't got the 
guts to be decent when the heat is on. I knew you weren't a racer the moment I 
saw you. You don't have racer's ways. But I wasn't going to embarrass the boss 
right before a raceand I did need a mapman."
"And you're a bit soft yourself," Fisk said. "Helping your friend, sparing your 
boss, giving me a chance at a job"
Bill laughed easily. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it? Little girl set it up, 
right? Wanted her daddy to be a big man? Well, you are oneand not because of 
any fancy race. Got a child like that myselfwouldn't trade her. No, I'll cover 
for you, Fisk. They can't hear us here. Only contact is the radio and that's 
one-wayin. On the public band. So no driver can sneak in tactical info during 
the race. You're an honest man and I like that, so I stopped you from making an 
ass of yourself, or seeming to. Man quits a race at the start, the word spreads 
that he's chicken, no matter what the facts. After this you'll be a racer 
officiallyand nobody has to know the difference."
Fisk was beginning to find the man's solicitude a bit confining. "But it isn't 
honest to"
"It isn't right to make a scene right before a race, embarrassing the company 
and hurting the little girl's feelings. Got to choose your course in a 
hurryeven when the best one is ragged. That's racing. I figured more people 
would be better off this way, so this is how I played it. Okay?"
What was there to say?
"Okay," Fisk agreed reluctantly.
Then he saw the end of the track: slanting walls of concrete foam narrowed the 
thirty-car highway into twenty, ten, five lanes. Bill maneuvered the vehicle 
around the few remaining leaders with minute but expert turns of his steering 
wheel that nevertheless brought anguished squeals from the massive tires. At 500 
mph he passed his last competitor and slammed into the Narrows.
"New leader and winner of the first heat, Fusion!" a voice announced. Fisk 
jumped, then realized that it was the car radio. The race was being broadcast to 
the sports fans of the world.
"Sales: Fusion twenty-four, Steamco nineteen, Duperjet seventeen"
"Hear that?" Bill cried happily. "The sales follow the performance, roughly. 
Usually the winner of a Hurdle is good for a hundred and fifty contracts or more 
right during the race. Much more if something spectacular happens. We're ahead 
where it counts."
Fisk was amazed. "You mean people are buying cars while they watch?"
"They sure are. When a car makes a good move, the saleslines light up. Impulse 
buyers. Want to own a car with class. We're selling Fusions right now, Fiskone 
per cent commission on the gross goes to the driver. Five hundred dollars per 
unit, if they take the Specialless for the tamer models, though no Fusion is 
really tame. If I run well this time and sell a hundred carsthat's twenty-five 
grand. Pretty good for a week's pay. Of course I don't always finishthen I get 
nothing. And most races I make less than ten grand when I do place. And I'd have 
to finish at least second or third just to cover my friend's medical expenses if 
I wanted to do it in one race. But it's a living. I figure to retire after I 
make one really big killingif it isn't myself I'm killing."
"I see," Fisk said, chilled by the concept and by the rapidly closing walls of 
the Narrows. Five hundred miles per hour was an outrageous speed for a car and 
now that there was something to measure it against outside...
"Oh, sorryI didn't mean to rub it in, pal. You aren't a regular driver, so that 
commission doesn't apply to you. But I'll tell them you helped a lot and if we 
do well the company'll give you a nice starting bonus. Your commissions will 
come mostly from your showroom sales."
Fisk's concern had been about the danger, not the money, but he didn't push the 
matter.
Bill braked, using small parachutes that blossomed and dragged behind the car. 
They provided a steady reduction of speed without sluing. Fisk was glad they 
did. The Narrows, according to the map, was a one-lane chute with thick 
twelve-foot-high barricades on either side. No vehicle could pass another here 
and some of the curves could be disastrous at peak velocity.
Studying the map at this point was foolishFisk raised his eyes to his 
surroundings. The crisscrossed timbers were invisible at this range, merely a 
graying of the view, but he knew they were timbers of steel. Speed here was less 
essential than control. Any accident would block the Narrows. Bill had ensured 
his own passage and placement by entering first.
A faint rattle sounded in the car. Bill cocked an ear alertly. "Check your 
gauges," he snapped to Fisk. "Probably that was an irregularity in the 
trackfelt like it. But just in case"
Fisk scanned the dials and lights. "All green and in normal range."
"Right. Some of these buggies are more maneuverable at speed," Bill explained as 
he sweated the Fusion down and through. "They could leave us behind on a track 
like thisif they could pass us. We're heavy and prone to chassis stresses. Not 
the fault of the carit's inherent in the mass and much of that mass is 
shielding that we simply have to have. If any of those other cars carried our 
weight penalty they wouldn't have a chance in this race. But here in the Narrows 
we lose no ground. If anything's wrong we can slow down and check it out. Next 
straightaway we'll show 'em dust! What's next on the map?"
"Hairpin."
"Say, we're really in luck! That's our worst time loser and now we've got first 
crack at it. The big ugly god of Hurdle racers must be smiling on us. We might 
even win this one, baby!"
Bill continued to slow, but even at 150 the huge racer skewed and tilted on the 
gentle curves, alarming Fisk.
They shot out of the Narrows and into Hairpin at a comparative crawl of 120 mph. 
Bill slued into the approach, deliberately skidding the rear wheels and braking. 
The car behind the Fusion was a jet. Fisk watched it in the rear-view screen so 
as not to have to watch the nightmare ahead. He knew the jet's wheels were 
merely for support. The only thing that stopped it from being a flyaway winner 
on the straightaway was the pollution dampingits flaming exhaust had to meet 
almost prohibitive standards of emission control. It was, of course, chemically 
fueled and could not travel as far as the Fusion.
Bill whipped around another killer bend of the Hairpin at 90 while metal groaned 
and dirt flew wide. Fisk thought he heard another rattling, but decided that it 
was caused by the spray of pebbles thrown up against the bottom of the vehicle. 
Outside each curve was a six-foot drop-off onto an escape lanethe turn had to 
be made tightly for there was no second chance.
"Fusion still leads," the radio announced. "Excellent tactics in a slow second 
heat. Sales: Fusion twenty-six, Duperjet twenty-one..."
"Not much pickup on the Narrows," Bill explained in fragmentary fashion between 
the body-smashing maneuvers. He was heel-and-toeing it now, working accelerator 
clutch and wheelbrake almost simultaneously with his right foot while his left 
controlled the movable windvanes for additional control. The parachute brakes 
had been jettisonedthey could not be turned on and off like this. Fisk was 
amazed Bill still had concentration for chatter while performing such heroic 
feats. "I held up the line. Crowd likes action. But we're in good field 
position. Watch us go once we pass Hairpin."
He braked down to 60 for the sharpest bend. Fisk thought the turn impossibleit 
looked like the point of a knife.
And someone ran out into the track.

Fisk became faint with horror, but Bill's reaction time was like an 
old-fashioned mousetrap. He swerved to miss the figure, throwing the car into a 
four-wheel tilt, and careened off the bank to drop into the escape lane. The two 
men bounced like yoyos in their harnesses as the great-car landed, but they and 
it took the fall without physical damage.
The jet following did likewise, landing more gently because it had only half the 
Fusion's mass. It pulled up even.
The lane had no passing room. The cars jostled together and spun. The side vane 
of the jet cut through the Fusion's bubble top, opening a neat incision in the 
shatterproof material. Then the lighter car shot ahead, reorienting in a fine 
display of equilibrium and blasting back down the intercept lane to rejoin the 
race. Missing a turn did not, it seemed, disqualify a car but merely delayed it.
Already three other cars had navigated this fold of the Hairpin and more were 
coming. The dust was rising higher as the road eroded. The remaining entries 
would be taking the curve virtually blindanother disadvantage of trailing the 
leaders.
Bill guided the car to a safe slowdown, then slapped a hand to his head. "Get 
her moving," he said thickly. "The"
Fisk saw blood.
"My controls don't" he began, but paused as he saw Bill slump. How badly had 
the man been injured? The harness prevented him from looking more closely.
"New leader," the radio announced. "Fusion and Duperjet spun out on Hairpin. 
Steamco is now first. Sales: Steamco thirty-two, Fusionone moment, the 
cancellations are still coming inFusion twenty-one, Duperjet fifteen..."
The car was blocking the sole escape lane. Any car that missed the turn would 
shoot right this way at sixty or better, probably out of control. The ballooning 
dust guaranteed that the on-rushing vehicle would not see the Fusion in time to 
stop, even if it were in condition to do so.
Something knocked on the bubble and for a heartbeat Fisk thought a collision had 
already occurred. But the figure who had started this disaster by materializing 
in the forbidden territory of the Hurdle Hairpin had rematerialized and was 
dancing outside. This time Fisk recognized her.
"Yola!" he cried in dismay. He should have known.
She yelled something, he couldn't make out in the confusion. Then she pointed at 
Bill.
"Duperjet clipped him, thanks to you" Fisk shouted.
"Fisk, let me in!" Her voice came through the unnatural vent.
He found the canopy switch on Bill's side and jerked it. The bubbletop yanked 
itself up, its ripped portion catching, then springing loose. Yola jumped about 
inside.
"Close up and get rolling," she ordered, settling into Bill's inert lap. "First 
car that misses that pretzelpow!"
An apt summation. "But I can'tmy controls don't"
"Don't give me that. You'll kill us all" She looked back. "Here comes one now!"
Fisk's hand found the changeover switch and his foot came down on the 
accelerator clutch. The car lunged aimlessly, all eight wheels spinning in the 
dirt. He grabbed at the steering wheel, easing up enough on the clutch to let 
the wheels catch.
"But there's nowhere to go" he protested belatedly.
"Back on the main track, stupid! We've got to get this guy to a doctor. He's 
bleeding"
And Fisk was somehow guiding the behemoth down the track at rapidly accelerating 
velocity. His lightest pressure on the pedal elicited a surge of brute animation 
that was frightening in its strength. No car was behindthat had been a false 
alarm. But he knew they could not have remained in the escape laneand Yola was 
right about Bill. The man was hurt and every minute that kept him from medical 
attention might reduce his chances of survival. The only way out was straight 
ahead.
Then a car did appear in the escape lane, nosing out of the dust cloud as though 
from a brown tunnel,and Fisk involuntarily goosed the Fusion back onto the main 
track, his tires screaming as he turned. Fortunately for him there were no 
further hairpin loops.
"What are we in for next?" he asked her, his hands sweating. He was moving the 
monsterbut how long could he control it? Every time he pushed down on the pedal 
the wheels destroyed themselves a little in their effort to accelerate the 
vehicle instantly. But it was either ride this tiger or be smashed flat by the 
one following.
Yola scrabbled for the map, which had strewn itself across Fisk's feet. "The 
Elevated," she said. "Better get up speed."
"No, thank you. I'm doing eighty nowand I know my limits. We're just going to 
limp out the safest way we can find andwhat were you doing on the track, 
anyway?"
"Have it your way," she said with affected nonchalance. "But I'm a race fan from 
way back and I think you'd better get it up. Ever see the El on the newscreen?"
"Brilliant recovery by Duperjet," the radio blared. "Fusion is not out of the 
race, but trails the pack and is moving erratically. Sales: Duperjet fifty-five, 
Steamco forty-nine, Gasturb thirty..."
"Never watched sports." He looked around nervously. "Look, YolaBill's a nice 
guy and it's your fault he's hurt. See if you can bandage him upor something."
"What do I know about firstaid?" she demanded as rebelliously as always when 
told to do something. But she began looking in the car pockets for the medical 
supplies that had to be there.
"...and Fusion twelveno, ten."
Fisk saw what lay ahead of them. "That?"
"What do you think? Watch those cars behind you." Fisk saw them come up on him 
at an alarming clip as they navigated the last of Hairpin and accelerated. The 
track was widening here, but one slow vehicle could be disaster. He speeded up.
Yola found a rolled bandage and began stretching it out. Fisk knew her hands 
were dirtythey always werebut kept his peace. Infection was the least of his 
present concerns. "We're taking a beating at the box office," she said. "But 
we're still in the race and we're not last either. Yet."
Still the cars came, showing no inclination to avoid a possible crash. Fisk's 
adrenaline squirted. He stamped down hard and the car surged forward as though 
its speed of a hundred miles per hour had been mere idling. It was a fine piece 
of machinery and it could hardly perform like this if it had suffered mechanical 
damage in the accident. There was, indeed, a certain exhilaration in managing a 
brute like this, Fisk discovered.
They were booming up the steep approach ramp of the Elevated. The combination of 
acceleration and angle shoved the riders back into their seats, hard. Yola 
balanced precariously and Fisk felt the first twinge of nausea. He had a 
circulatory disorder that could be aggravated by sustained physical stress. 
Ordinarily it didn't bother himtoken medication kept the symptoms 
suppressedbut ordinarily he didn't tackle obstacle races in 500-mph 
juggernauts.
Yola complained, "His neck is all icky with hair and goreI can't make the 
bandage stay."
"Then hold it in place with your hand," Fisk rasped, resenting the need to split 
his concentration and expend his breath in a situation like this. "We've got to 
keep him from bleeding too much. If Bill hadn't swerved to avoid you"
She uttered a monosyllable Fisk didn't recognizefortunately. He was pretty sure 
it would have earned her another week in solitary back at the orphanage from 
whence she sprang. But somehow she fixed the bandage in place.
Then they were up, other cars ahead and behind. Ahead also stretched 
mind-numbing miles of twisted ribbon, five hundred feet above the ground, 
tapering into a thread in the distance, though it was four lanes wide.
Two following cars charged past, the whine of their tires momentarily loud. The 
odor of oil and hot rubberoid swirled in through the rent in the bubble.
Yola sneezed. "There can't be many more behind us," she muttered, torn between 
hope and regret. She clung to the straps of Bill's harness as the incoming gusts 
swept black hair across her brown face. "But don't stop nowyou have to take the 
El at speed or you fall off."
She was speaking literally. The paving contorted like a living tapeworm, given 
animation by his speed of 170 mph. In addition, the hole in the bubble 
interfered with the streamline contour and created a dangerous drag that Fisk 
seemed to feel all the way down to the sliding tires. But their forward momentum 
was not enough. The road tilted now into a forty-five degree embankmenthe would 
indeed fall off unless he maintained speed sufficient to match the needs of the 
curve.
"Yeah," Yola said, licking her lips. At eleven, with her deprived background, 
she was more enthusiastic than afraid. He hadn't really needed to ask why she 
had sneaked into the racegrounds. She had done so because it was forbidden. She 
had wanted a ride and now she had it. Quite possibly her last.
More wind blasted in as he accelerated. "Close up that hole," Fisk snapped as 
another warning wave of dizziness came over him. The blood circulation to his 
brain was being inhibitedbut to stop was to die. Already they were sliding 
toward the nether perimeter and the drag was making matters worse. He had to 
keep turning the wheel and bearing down on the pedal to counter the drift. But 
if he accelerated too strongly and broke the wheels free of the surface...
"Don't tell me what to do!" Yola flared.
Fisk twitched the wheel the other way. The Fusion jerked toward the rail. The 
bright water of a scenic lake spread belowa natural safety net. But they could 
drown, for the massive car would plummet to the bottom.
"Okay! Okay!" she exclaimed with bad grace. "You're the driver" She dug out 
some harness strap and additional bandage and wedged the mass into the gap. It 
helped.
Now Fisk was able to gain the speed he needed: 200... 250... 280finally the 
drift abated and they were cruising in a kind of stasis. It was, actually, 
rather pleasant in its waythe velocity anesthetized his sense of proportion and 
the balancing forces lulled his circulatory incapacity. What remained was a 
growing sense of well-being and power. He was no longer Fisk the hard-sell 
suckerhe was Fisk the Supreme! The Secret Life of Fisk Centers...
Then the curvature and banking reversed.
Fisk was driving for his life and there was suddenly no joy in it. He slued 
across the strip at 300 mph without any exact knowledge where he was going or 
how long he could last. His brain tried to black out. He tilted his head back as 
far as he could, trying to let the blood in his system flow level to the gray 
region that needed it.
"Slow up! Speed down!" Yola screamed. "Watch the sky below!" Which was just 
about the way Fisk saw it.
"Duperjet is still the leader," the radio announced. "Sales: Duperjet 
seventy-eight, Steamco sixty, Electro forty-four..."
The tilt decreased and the car was rolling down the steep exit slope at 350 mph. 
Fisk knew there had been many miles of elevated ribbon and that he had covered 
every twist at daredevil speed, but his memory had a short-term blank on the 
subject. That was fortunate for his equanimity, unfortunate for his security, 
since memory lapse was another signal of his functional impairment. Nothing but 
blind reflex had carried him through, but before long his reflexes would cut 
out, too.
Yola sat silent and staring. The ride must have been good to faze her like that, 
Fisk thought. "...Fusion thirteen..."
At the foot of the ramp was an impenetrable bank of fog. The road led directly 
into it.
Fisk sighed. No way to avoid it. This was obviously part of the course. Another 
hurdle. He turned on lights, searing beams of brilliance that might well have 
been windowed from the solar activity of the engine, but the best they could do 
here was about two hundred feet. The car was moving at more than five hundred 
feet per second, according to the relevant scale of the speedometer360 mph. How 
many seconds would it take him to come to a stop?
He applied the brakes. The car slowed with neck-wrenching suddenness. Bill 
groaned. Goodthe sound proved he was alive. The smell of burning rubberoid 
infiltrated from somewhere.
"Keep moving!" Yola screamed. "Fogbank always has stuff in it"
A gap opened in the road. By the time Fisk reacted, it was too late to react. 
The car hurtled the twenty foot void with no more than a nasty jolt.
"Try that at half the speed," Yola muttered faintly. Fisk had to agree with her. 
Undervelocity was just as dangerous here as overvelocity. His conservative 
course was to maintain middle-range speedsay 300 mph.
A wall appeared, made of stone and steel by its look. Fisk swerved left barely 
in time. The wall was oblique, cutting across the lane only gradually, right to 
left. His instinct had been accurate and he had dodged the hurdle.
"Try that at half speed," he mimicked.
"Luck," Yola said disparagingly, as though her own life were not part of the 
stakes.
Not all of the fog was outside. Fisk's arms were becoming leaden on the wheel 
and his eyelids felt heavy. His system had taken just about all it was going to. 
He was out of adrenaline. Wisps of cloud passed between his face and the 
instrument panelor perhaps between his eyes and brain.
"Wake up!" Yola screamed.
Fisk snapped alert, laughingand momentarily felt refreshed, ready to continue 
another couple of minutes. He was giving Yola all the thrills she had asked 
forand more.
"Duperjet is out of the race," the radio announced. "Crackup in the Slalom"
Fisk bounced over a washboard trap and emerged from the fog. Fogbank hadn't 
actually been so bad. It would have been another matter in the press of the 
pack, however.
They were out of the fog and into a forest. Green concrete pseudotrees or 
pilings rose from the highway in a seemingly solid mass. They were coldice had 
formed on them and snow coated the ground.
"The Slalom," Yola said despairingly. "Doom!"
But the pilings were less impenetrable than they seemed from a distance. In the 
seconds it took to reach the first, Fisk saw that they were spaced well apart. 
There was room to skid around them if forward progress were not excessive. The 
tracks of many wheels showed the routes other cars had taken.
But across the main trail were wheels themselves, and jagged pieces of metalthe 
debris of a recent accident strewed across the course, Duperjet, surely. This 
was dangerous territory.
"...Fusion nineteen... Duperjet nine..."
The buyers certainly had little sympathy for a loser. Yet Duperjet was a fine 
car. It had led the pack after that spinout. Fusion was recovering salesbut 
what a grisly way to succeed.
Fisk was falling under the sway of stress fatigue again. He willed his remaining 
strength into his hands and aimed the vehicle at the widest aperture between 
groups of pilings, following the common trail. Here and there the refrigerative 
grid showed, scraped temporarily bare by the passage of the pack, giving him 
slightly improved footing. He was still doing over 300 mph and he knew better 
than to attempt to change speed here.
Yola covered her eyes. "You drive like a zombie," she said.
The trail split. A piling lay dead ahead. Fisk forced a message down along the 
resistive nerve tissue of his right arm and the arm convulsed a bit, pulling the 
wheel around just that necessary fraction. The car slued, scraping against the 
piling on the left and almost dislodging Yola's hole-stuffing. At this point 
Fisk hardly caredit was as though car and racetrack were far away. Even his own 
extremities were almost beyond reach. His heart was laboring to the point of 
collapse, but the life-sustaining blood was not getting through. He was numb and 
terribly tired.
Yet he would not let go entirely. He hung on. A thin rivulet of animation 
trickled along the buried conduits of his pallid flesh. As the pilings loomed 
his muscles twitched and the car shaved by, never quite hitting, never quite 
sacrificing the traction so necessary to keep it from following the Duperjet 
into destruction. But Fusion's huge mass gave it traction where a lighter car 
might have skated. The impact of their passage howled about the myriad death 
traps of the Slalomif he had been the lyrical type he might have immortalized 
the experience in poetryand then they were out of it.
"We're alive," Yola whispered, amazed. "At least I am. For a while I almost 
wished I was back at the orphanage." She looked at Fisk. "You can stop here. 
We're out of the woods and nobody's behind us any more."
Fisk ignored her. Now he faced a straightaway, long and level and dry. Far ahead 
he could see several other cars. The Fusion had actually gained on them during 
this last hurdle. The race wasn't over yetand as long as he was in it, why not 
win it?

III
It was madness, he knewthe futile delusion of grandeur of an oxygen-starved 
brain, its frontal lobes anesthetized. He didn't care. Bill needed the large 
sales tally for his friend's medical billsand perhaps for his own. Fisk was 
indirectly responsible for the Fusion's fall from first to last place in the 
Hurdle and for Bill's injury. There was power under his foot if not in his body 
or brain. Why not invoke it, double or nothing?
"Daddy, what are you doing?" Yola whispered as the car accelerated.
"You willful little bratyou got me into this," he snapped. "Now you're going to 
see it through."
He was madinsane, not angry. His brain had gone berserk and was running faster 
than the car. He had never suffered this effect of his malady before. It was as 
though another personality had fought to the surfacea completely un-Fisk 
monster. No, not true. This was his true personality. Shackled by decades of 
civilized restraint, it had emerged at last.
"So it's like that, Centers," Yola muttered. "Well, want to know what's next? 
The Mountain."
Fisk-normal quailed, but the demon aspect who had usurped control of his body 
said in fine detergent-opera fashion, "Yeah? So watch this." And his right foot 
crunched down harder.
The speedometer read 400 mph. It climbed rapidly as the tireless machine obeyed 
the imperious command of a lunatic.
"Steamco eighty-six, Electro fifty-nine, Gasturb forty-nine..." the radio said 
and continued on through the entire list of twenty-six cars remaining in the 
race. Fusion was back up to twenty-four.
The car was doing 500 now and Fisk's foot was a marvel of unremitting 
ponderosity. This was a fair-sized straightawaythe kind where power counted. 
Fusion's favorite track. The gap between him and the pack was closing. How much 
would this buggy do?
"This is suicide," a small voice whimpered. At first Fisk thought it was that of 
his civilized-self conscience, but it turned out to be Yola's.
Fisk's eyeballs seemed to be locked in their sockets, able to move only 
marginally to cover the contours of the road.
He himself was a machine, his arms levering more or less together, sharing his 
drastically limited muscular power as though connected by an old-fashioned 
limited-slip differential.
600 mph...
Suddenly the straightaway was ending and he was overhauling the pack at a 
phenomenal clip. The demon in him exulted.
"You foolit's the Mountain!" Yola screamed, afraid. But Fisk saw only his 
beautiful passing of competitors on the fast track. So they had written off 
Fusion, had they?
Then his foot came up involuntarily. Yola was down beside the pedal, prying it 
loose. And the pack moved ahead again and crammed like so much floating refuse 
into the drainlike access to the next hurdle.
"Fusion has merged with the pack." The radio sounded surprised. "Looked for a 
moment there as ifbut the driver was too smart to risk a pass on Mountain. We 
thought Fusion had mechanical trouble, but obviously not! Sales: Steamco a 
hundred and one... Electro seventy-five, Gasturb fifty-five, Vaporlock 
forty-four, Fusion thirty-eight..."
"Wow!" Yola cried, forgetting her apprehension of the moment before. "You may be 
crazy, but we're back in the sales money! What's your cut of the gross, Fisk?"
He didn't answer, knowing how little the money meant, compared to the lives 
depending on it. She had climbed back into Bill's lap and Fisk's foot was free, 
but now the ascent was too steep to permit high velocity. He trailed the pack at 
a poor 380 mph.
The course wedged into a two-lane thread, along which cars were spaced like 
traveling ants. A cliff developed on the right, the drop-off becoming tall and 
sheer. A car ahead tried to pass another precipitously. The banking of the road 
reversed, throwing it too far out and the vehicle sailed into space to torpedo 
into the water trap below.
"Coaldust slipped," the radio cried. "Twenty-four cars remain in the race at the 
two-thirds point..."
The demon that now governed Fisk's ailing body took note. A lot of cars would 
not finish because their drivers were too eager. He had better bide his time 
until he hit another straightaway.
Meanwhile, Mountain was a terror. Visibility declined as the blind curves became 
sharper. A small thunderstorm was anchored at the crest, pelting the entries 
with rain and hailstones. He had to slow to 280 and pace himself by the car 
ahead through the blasting rain. Then came the descent and Fisk accelerated down 
the glassy slope.
"Steamco one-twenty-nine... Electro one-fourteen... Vaporlock sixty-eight... 
Fusion fifty-nine..."
Fusion and Fisk were moving up on sales faster than on the pack, perhaps because 
the spectators knew what would happen on the next level heat, but not fast 
enough. The demon would settle for nothing less than total victory.
"Oh-oh," Yola said. "Loop's coming next. Cool it, leadfoot."
Bill groaned again. He was showing signs of recovery.
Fisk's eyes were on the desertlike sandflat beyond. Gently rolling dunes were 
artfully placed to alleviate the monotony and impede progressa straight-line 
route would necessarily take in several of them. The alternative was to waste 
time going around them. He had no idea of what it was like to drive on sand. But 
if the other cars could handle it, so could Fusionand this might be its last 
chance to pass the pack before the finish.
"Steamco still leads going into the Loop," the radio said. "Pack's pretty close 
and tight, though. There's likely to be some action..."
Indeed there was. Fisk observed the Loop, nestled in the angle between the 
Mountain terminus and the Dunes plain. It seemed to be about three lanes 
widebut the pack contained about fifteen cars and few of them were giving way 
to let the procession become orderly. The Fusion was gaining, but would strike 
the Loop just after the pack did.
It didn't look as though there were any inherent limit on speed herethe faster 
he went, the less likely he would be to fall off at the upsidedown apex, 
provided he had the car under control. And as long as nothing got in his way. 
But could his defective body take the strain? The Fusion was willingthe flesh 
was weak.
The first car hit the Loop. Up and over it went at some five hundred miles per 
hour, like a toy. Only car lengths behind it came the second, closing. Then, 
squeezing in two and three abreast, the pack, vying for position even as they 
encountered the vertical ascent. And the Fusion was bearing down at 550 mph, 
still accelerating, still gaining.
Steamco shot from the corkscrew exit and landed on the fringe of the sandflat. 
Dust billowed up momentarily. Electro smacked into this and swerved, stirring up 
a greater cloud. Then the pack was tearing through like so many piranhas.
Fisk was entering the Loop at 600 mph.
"Hang on!" he yelled, though Yola needed no warning. They smashed into the 
vertical curve and Fisk's breath left him. This was in effect a ten- or 
fifteen-G takeoff, he was sure. He clutched at a painful gray awareness.
"...spectacular crash!" the radio blared avidly and Fisk realized he had failed 
and could expect nothing but agony before he died. "Pileup just beyond the 
Loop..."
Not mesomeone else...
He was headed up at 650 mph. The reality that kept him fighting was the climbing 
needle, signifying conquest.
Yola screamed thinly. They were upside down, plummeting headfirst, leveling, 
taking off, upside down, proceeding along the awful corkscrew of the Loop. Fisk 
shoved the pedal all the way to the floor, connecting engine to wheels without 
any bleeding of power. He rode the descent lane into ever increasing velocity.
670... 685... magic pictures on his retina... 700... 715... 730... and they were 
sailing off the skirt of the Loop. 740... the wheels seemed hardly to touch the 
sand and only the little vanes kept the car level. 742... 744... acceleration 
was slower now. The great machine shuddered as though its stress limit had 
finally been met and all that was left for Yola was a shaken moan.
745... and the needle quivered, seemed to strain. This was ultimate glory!
"...fire prevents recovery of the bodies... total loss... worst disaster of the 
year... look at Fusion!"
Dead ahead, half concealed by a low dune and a sinking dust cloud, was the 
roadblock. Licks of flame shot up and smoke was piling into the sky. No chance 
to turn. A thousand feet awayand in less than one second they were upon it, 
traveling at 750 mph, Fisk's foot still savagely mashing the pedal. The Fusion 
was tearing itself apart and eradication was a microsecond away, but he would 
not even attempt to ease up. Already he was touching the vane-angle switch.
The low dune shoved the rubberoid and metal aloft in a single mighty convulsion. 
The great wheels barely touched the flaming corpse of the nearest car.
And they were airborne as the shaking became almost intolerable. Fumes siphoned 
in through the stuffed hole as the car was bathed in fire. The speedometer stood 
at 760. "Great God," Yola screamed in a whisper. "We've cracked the speed of 
sound!"
"Fusion is past!" the radio gasped. "Fusion hurdled pileup..."
The car landed, and sand swirled up behind it in little tornadoes spawned by the 
vacuum of their passage, but the mighty machine crunched on. The flames were far 
behind. Fisk's hands and arms were senseless and stiff in a kind of living rigor 
mortis, but straight ahead was all the car needed in the way of a directive. Now 
at last his foot began to creep up from the pedal.
"Whatwhat?" a voice mumbled.
"Hey, he's coming to," Yola cried as Bill stirred.
"Keep him quiet." Fisk's voice rasped. "We're still doing six-ninety on sand"
"Sales," the radio said "Steamco one-fifty-two... Fusionone moment, it's still 
changingthat feat of piloting really stirred up thenever saw anything like it. 
Fusion takes the lead in sales! Fusion one-seventy-three... And Steamcoone 
moment"
Bill lifted his head. "God, man, that's near my best. What"
"I had to take over," Fisk said tersely. He was still fighting the rising tide 
of gray behind his eyes.
"Yeahbut"
"Revised sales," the radio said. "Fusion two hundred and eightfolks, it's still 
changing. We can't get a fixed reading. The race isn't even finished... Fusion 
two-forty-nine... two-sixty-one" There was an unexplained pause, then: "Folks, 
to recap: there has been a fifteen-car collision on the Dunes just beyond the 
Loop, but the remaining cars are still running. Here's the replay" Another 
pause as the screen viewers saw the film. "Steamco retains the lead on the 
track, but that's alland Fusion is coming up fast. The othersseven cars, I 
believeare picking their way around the wreckage, avoiding the flames. None of 
them will finish in the money. It's a two-car race! Fusion, not known for its 
maneuverability, pulled such an extraordinary feat ofFusion three hundred and 
nineteen! Those orders are pouring in! Here's the replay on that hurdle of 
death. That's Fusion firing out of the Looplook at that! It cracked mach one! 
We thought the car was out of the running, then this! The buyers are really 
impressed. Hell, I'm impressed, and I've been in this business forMost racers 
would have been smashed to pieces, busting sound like that, let alone doing it 
through flame! Fusion three-seventy... four hundred... Folks we can't keep up. 
Unprecedented sales for an unfinished race. Looks like a record in the making, 
even if Fusion doesn't win the Hurdle. Four-fifty-two... I gotta buy one 
myself..." The announcer panted into silence.
"That tells it," Bill exclaimed. "Sweetest music I ever heard. And I thought you 
couldn't drive"
"I can't," Fisk said. "I'm sicker than you are."
Bill looked at him. "You're white as bonesyou have a heart condition? I've lost 
some blood, but I've taken lumps beforebetter let me take over. Kid, get down 
on the floor or somewhere."
Yola scrambled down, finding a place to squat between the bucket seats. Bill 
threw the switch and Fisk's controls went dead. Now he could relax. These 
regular racing drivers were almost as tough as their cars.
"What's next?" Bill demanded, angling the car gently around another dune.
"Tunnel," Yola said, wrestling with the map.
"Fusion six hundred and seven..."
Fisk lay back and let himself slide into whatever oblivion awaited. The demon 
had left him, but Fisk-normal still needed his medicine. The race's end could 
not be far off and it did look as though he were planning to survive.
"Fusion seven-twenty-six..."
Bill shook his head. "Fisk, I don't know exactly how you did itbut you've just 
made us rich. Those sales are going to hit a thousand. It's a bandwagon 
noweverybody in the world will want a Fusion. We'll get a quarter million 
dollars in commissions"
"They'll come to their senses and begin canceling after the excitement passes," 
Fisk pointed out. Now that he could afford to faint, he seemed perversely to be 
recovering strength.
"Surebut the cancellations will be made up by other buyers reading about this 
in the fax. That always happens. Don't worrywe've got record winnings and the 
credit's yours. So you took her through mach, did you? I never had the nerve."
"Terrific!" Yola cried, liking the idea of fame.
"Uhbetter not," Fisk said, eying the tiny mouth of the approaching tunnel. Bill 
sounded normal, but Fisk didn't trust the man's condition. He had been 
unconscious for a fair period and must have lost a significant quantity of 
bloodand an error in judgment of so much as six inches could be fatal, in that 
tight passage ahead.
"No, no. Fiskyou did it and you'll get the commission. When I tell the boss how 
you pulled it out"
"We'll be rich!" Yola exclaimed with childish avarice.
Fisk hadn't been talking about money. His concern had been to see them through 
the tunnel alive. Steamco had just entered and at the rate the Fusion was going 
there would be contact between them inside that darkness. Was Bill intending to 
vie for position even now?
But it seemed money was a factor, because of the tremendous sales spurred by his 
mad exploit of moments ago. Yola's greed and Bill's misunderstanding sent a 
negative ripple through the weary convolutions of his brain. "When you tell your 
boss that he'll fire you for allowing an unqualified driver to take over and 
play roulette with machinery and people's lives in the Hurdle. Because you knew 
about me and he didn't. It was blind luck that got us throughas the tapes of 
the race will show."
Bill slid the car into the Tunnel as though he had done it all his lifeas 
perhaps he had. "Maybe so," he said soberly. "But luck doesn't usually operate 
that waynot on the El or the Mountainand especially not in getting up speed to 
hurdle wreckage. There was driving genius in your hands and feet, like it or 
not. But you're rightit's bad business and my boss would rather not know. 
Okaywe'll split the take, half and half. It's right to share, because I got 
hurt and you"
As the Tunnel closed about them the rag-and-strap plug popped out of the hole in 
the bubble, urged by the suddenly compressing air within the confined space. An 
almost solid blast of atmosphere rammed in, striking Bill in the face and making 
a stormlike turbulence within the bubble. The car swerved, partly because Bill 
could barely see in the gale, but mostly, Fisk knew, because of the drag of the 
aperture itself. There was no room to compensate here. The stony walls were 
inches away.
But Yola knew what to do and since no one had told her to do it, she did it. She 
crawled across Bill's lap, probably kneeing him painfully in the process, 
fetched in the tattered wad and jammed it back into the hole. The storm 
subsided.
Fisk was able to speak again. "You were hurt because my daughter ran out in 
front of us while you were going through Hairpin. She almost killed us all."
"Take the moneytake the money!" Yola cried.
"You sure are one for making objections," Bill said ruefully. "What do you 
want?"
"I think we'd better just walk out of your life when the race is over. A good"
He had to pause, for they had caught up with Steamco. The Tunnel was lighted, 
but irregularlythe width varied from one to three lanes with curves thrown in. 
Passing could be trickyand Steamco had no intention of being passed.
"A good sales day is the least we can do to repay"
But Fisk had to stop again as Bill swerved to pass on a subterranean 
straightaway and was quickly blocked off. Steamco had to know that there was no 
car to beat but Fusionall the drivers would have been hearing the radio 
reports. The only way Steamco could recoup was by finishing aheador by putting 
Fusion out of the race entirely.
The passage narrowed, halting the maneuvering for the moment.
"the trouble we have caused you," Fisk continued. "I'll find another job."
"Fisk, shut up," Yola said. "You're throwing away a quarter million dollars."
"Fusion nine hundred and eighty-one sales..."
"Look, Fisk," Bill said earnestly as the dark walls rushed past and trickles of 
wind whined in through the stuffed hole. "I told you I'd cover for you about 
your lack of experience, laughable as that seems now. You've had experience 
somewheresomehoweven if you don't remember it. You're covering for me, really. 
And I'd never make trouble for your little girl. You don't have to sign over the 
money for that. I want you to have your share because you earned it. I wouldn't 
feel right letting you go away with nothing after the way you"
"I wouldn't feel right taking it." Fisk said firmly. "You were rightany idiot 
can drive this car and one just did"
"Fisk," Yola said, "if you don't take that money, I'm going to"
The dark track opened into a dual lane, then into a broad cavern spiked with 
stalagmites casting multiple and deceptive shadows. Many trails seemed to be 
open. Bill goosed the Fusion and angled for the far right opening. The Steamco 
moved over to block him, staying just ahead so that passing was impossible.
"I'll take the commission myself and make out a check for you," Bill said, as 
though nothing special were going on. "I'll take all the credit for the race, if 
that's the way you want itbut you've got to have your share of the commission. 
I can't take all the money for a race I didn't drive."
"I don't want it," Fisk said.
Bill tried to pass again. The maneuver was impressive at 400 mph in the 
partially lighted cavern. But Steamco was ready and stayed ahead.
"Fusion one thousand and thirty-eight..."
"I'll give it to your daughter, then," Bill said. "An irrevocable trust for her 
education, so she doesn't have to run onto any more racetracks."
"Yeah, yeah!" Yola agreed, but with less enthusiasm.
Fisk shook his head. "That money should go to your injured partner."
Another dangerous dodge that nearly put both cars into a post. "Twenty-five per 
cent to your little girl, then." Bill looked grim. "A hundred grand will cover 
my friend's bill. You're making me settle for twice that. I don't like 
profiteering on something like this. I'm hurting in my conscience worse than on 
my head and I can't dicker with you any more. That's my final offer."
"Flip for it," Yola said. "You go left next splitlast moment. If Steamco goes 
right, you pass and Fisk takes the share."
"Okay."
Fisk was about to demur again, when the radio interrupted: "Folks, you'll be 
glad to know the drivers survived Duperjet's crash. They blame themselves for 
misjudgmenttoo much speed in the Slalom..."
Fisk felt a tremendous relief.
Bill accelerated again, almost touching Steamco's persistent tail. As the post 
zoomed in on them, the first of a line of them, he nudged right, then cut 
sharply left. Steamco was caught on the right side, too late to compensate 
without cracking into the pylon.

"What's the matter with you?" Yola demanded as she and Fisk stepped out of the 
tube at his apartment building. "We need money and you know it. Why wouldn't you 
take your share?"
Fisk himself hardly understood his reasons. "What I did wasn't real. Some demon 
in me wanted the glory of winning the Hurdle, no matter what the cost. I was too 
sick to control it"
"That's right. You looked like a corpse, I thought sure you meant to kill us."
"But once the pressure was off I regained control. By then it was too late to 
undo the damage"
"But you're the one who brought off the win."
"The demon brought if off. But at least I didn't have to give that demon the 
satisfaction of making a profit from the episode. With no credit and no money"
"Except that trust Bill's setting up for me that nobody can touch," she said. 
"Fisk, that money would have bought a lot of fun for both of us and now all it's 
good for is education. Ugh!"
"Precisely. Education abolishes demons."
"I just don't get it," she said crossly.
"Neither do I," Fisk admitted. "I just knew that neither the racing credit nor 
the money was rightfully mine. "I will earn my fortune in my own way or not at 
all. That's my particular hurdle. Maybe it's a question of whether Dr. Jekyll or 
Mr. Hyde will govern."
"Who?"
He sighed. "Never mind. It's a devious point of characterizationand perhaps 
illusory. But disaster strikes every time I compromise my principles. I tried to 
make an illicit profit in Marsland speculation and lost everything. I got 
involved in black market adoption and almost landed in jail. This time I very 
nearly killed us all. The demon offers material riches, but his real goal is 
misery."
She uttered the expletive he still didn't understand. "The first time you got a 
new, exciting life. The second time you got me. This time you could have had"
"At any rateI'll never go near another racing car as long as I"
"Hey, what's this?" she cried, lifting something out of the package slot of the 
apartment door.
Fisk looked at what she had found. It was a small square item with a gift tag.
Yola read it aloud. " 'You're a great sport. Sink Bill.' "
"That's 'Sinc.,' not 'sink,' " Fisk said. "For 'Sincerely.' " But she was 
already tearing open the wrapping with juvenile impatience.
Inside was the personalized ID ownership key for a new Fusion Special.

GONE TO THE DOGS
In 1969 we were getting ready for the arrival of our second daughter, Cheryl. 
Our first, Penny, then two years old, was a charming blonde, blue-eyed, 
hyperactive childbut we feared she would be jealous of the baby. We had lost 
three babies before getting one we could keep, and we wanted everything to be as 
right as we could make it. There may be parents who take their children for 
granted; not so with us. So we decided to get a pet to take Penny's attention. 
The rule of thumb is, the smaller the child, the larger the dog should be. We 
don't tolerate animal abuse, but you can't watch children and pets all the time; 
a big dog that liked children should be best. We saw an ad for a grown female 
Weimaraner who loved children; we went to see her at the kennel, liked her, 
phoned the ownerand discovered we were too late; she had just been sold. We 
didn't want to disappoint our child, so next day we bought the most similar dog 
we could find: a Dalmatian. Similar in size and shape, that is; in color the 
Dalmatian stands out from all others. We named him Canute, for this was the 
breed of Kings, and he merged instantly with the family. I wrote him into a 
juvenile science fiction novel, Race Against Time, and all was well.
But we had made a fatal miscalculation. When the baby arrived, Penny took it in 
stride. It was the dog who was jealous. In retrospect it becomes obvious, but 
then it was a mystery. We had not owned a dog before, and did not understand dog 
psychology. Had we realized, we might have worked things out. Human 
misunderstandings can be that way too; who among us would not do some things 
differently if we could carry our present knowledge back to relive the event? 
There are few things in my adult life that I really regret, and this is perhaps 
the major one: that I did not understand. Canute came down with kidney stones, 
evidently the result of emotional stress. He had surgery five times to alleviate 
them, but in the end it was too much and we had to put him away. He had lost the 
joy of living, and while I will not kill an animal for food or clothing or 
sport, I will do so to alleviate pain and hopelessness. We got another dog who 
remains with us today, and we are far more conscious of animal psychology than 
we were. I still miss Canute; he would have loved it here in the forest. But if 
we had gotten that Weimaraner, who already understood about children, we might 
have avoided the tragedy entirely.
One day some years later a strange dog wandered onto our property. He was 
emaciated. Penny went out to pet him, but I warned her away, as he was a big dog 
and an unknown quality. Suddenly I recognized the breed: "That's a Weimaraner!" 
I exclaimed. No mongrel, but a valuable purebreed animal. I am not snobbish 
about pedigrees; our present dogs are mongrels. But I realized that a Weimaraner 
probably had a home, and would have been well cared for before getting lost. So 
I let my daughter pet him, cautiouslyand he was friendly. We fed him, and he 
was ravenous. We couldn't take him into the fenced portion of our yard because 
we had another dog, a purebreed Basenji foundling who hated all other animals 
except our half-Basenji female; it would be death for the weakened Weimaraner. 
Fortunately we had neighbors who cared about animals even more than we did; they 
put the Weimaraner in their yard while we tried to locate the owner. They 
couldn't keep the visitor long either, because they had a dog who weighed 101 
pounds and tended to overwhelm the Weimaraner, so this arrangement was strictly 
temporary. They called the visitor Waldo.
But Waldo was lonely. He couldn't stand to be by himself. He had to remain 
outside, and he howled. So Penny stayed with him for hours each day. She was 
then six or seven years old, and this was a considerable chore for her, but she 
has always had strong sympathy for those with problems, and she stayed the 
course. I was proud of her effort; it saved us much trouble and that dog much 
grief. We never located the owner, so finally we placed an ad in the paper and 
gave Waldo away. He was fortunate; the new owners had loved a former Weimaraner 
pet, and were very good to this one. We visited once, and saw that Waldo, now 
renamed Schatze, was happy. It was enough; we were satisfied that we had done 
the right thing.
The experience moved me to write a story, "Gone to the Dogs," about the possible 
origin of Waldo Weimaraner, the dog who had come to us too late for us to keep. 
It is one way I react to the ironies of life. Once I have written about a thing 
or an experience, it is mine forever. So I did it, and marketed this storyand 
no publisher was interested. It was about the last straw; I departed the story 
field, never really to return. So perhaps it is fitting that this formerly 
unpublished story concludes this volume; now you understand why I left this 
particular arena. I can sell my science fiction or fantasy novels for ten times 
the word-rate I would get for a storyif I could even place the story. I can 
prevent arbitrary editorial interference in my novels. It's a better situation, 
all around.
I have been criticized for inadequate characterization in my fiction. Now 
characterization is the essence of fiction, and I feel strongly about it. It is 
my contention that the typical critic does not comprehend the kind of 
characterization that I do, just as he doesn't grasp my position on style. I do 
not stop the story to pontificate on the psychology of the protagonist: I prefer 
to show it in his reactions. This story serves as an example. The human 
character is a blank; he is Anyman, behaving as anyone in that situation would. 
But the dogwatch how Waldo behaves, and you will see what I mean by 
characterization.
* * *
The pain came suddenly to my chest. For a moment I couldn't breathe. I fell back 
on the couch, gasping, pressing my palms futilely to my rib-cage.
Waldo came up to nuzzle my hand, his yellow-gray eyes looking up at me with 
concern, his clipped tail wagging. He was a beautiful mouse-gray Weimaraner with 
silky ears. We had found him as a stray, gaunt and lonelyand by the time we had 
given up trying to locate his original home, he was ours. He had put on twenty 
pounds, and was now a sleek, powerful, and affectionate dog.
But this agony in my chestI was too young to have a heart attack! So it 
couldn't be that. If only my wife were here! But she and the children were away 
with her folks for the weekend. I was on my own.
I had to get to a doctor. I started for the phone, hunched over as the pain 
gripped my chest again, and finally got there. I dropped the phone book before I 
had the number, scrambled for it on hands and kneesand of course Waldo gave me 
a good slurp on the face.
Where had the dog come from, originally? I had often wondered. He had such 
perfect manners, but had never been trained to come when called. It was as 
though he had been brought up as master, not pet. But he accepted equality in 
our household with singular grace, and even condescended to use the leash for 
walks.
When I dialed the number, I got the answering service. This was Sunday 
afternoonthe worst time to catch a doctor! I could die before he came off the 
golf links and called back to advise me to take two aspirin and come in Monday 
morning.
One thing this experience was doing for me: it made me appreciate the position 
of an animal. A sick stray had no resources, and was dependent for his very life 
upon the dubious largess of strangerseven as I was now. Where was pride, at 
such a time?
I tried other doctors, but already I knew it was useless. I needed attention 
now, not during business hours! I wasn't even sure I could drive safely; if I 
had a seizure on the highway
Waldo had been pacing the floor somewhat nervously. Now he caught at my sleeve 
with his teeth. "Not now, doggie," I said. "I'm sickI need a doctor. Any 
doctor! I can't play with you."
Still he tugged. I lacked the gumption to resist. "All rightI'll let you out," 
I said. I hobbled to the door.
But Waldo, always a sociable dog, didn't want to go out alone. He took the end 
of the leash in his mouth, tugging it from its hook on the wall.
There was a faint, odd barking in the distance. Arfarfarf!
"I can't take you for a walk!" I cried. "My chest"
I went back to the living room and collapsed on the couch. I could breathe a 
little better now, but only in shallow gasps; whatever was wrong was still 
wrong. If I didn't have it attended to soon
Waldo tugged at my sleeve again, looking at me beseechingly. He whined. One of 
his floppy ears was inside out.
What was the use? I couldn't get a doctor. If I was going to conk out from some 
mysterious malady, I might as well do it while making my dog happy.
I snapped the leash to his collar and stumbled out the door, almost slipping on 
the back steps. The pain eased as I walked, fortunately. The fresh air was 
helping, and maybe the adrenaline. I let Waldo take the lead, not paying 
attention to the route. He took me through a devious pattern, sniffing out some 
trail that only he could perceiveand he seemed oddly nervous. Perhaps that 
strange barking bothered him. It was louder now. ARFARFARF! Was it an Arfgan 
hound?
I was getting lightheaded. If this lurking pain wasn't a heart attack, could it 
be a collapsed lung? What would my obituary say: died of a frazzled gizzard 
while the hound went ARF?
Something jogged my attention, and I looked up. I didn't recognize the 
neighborhoodyet we had been walking only five minutes or so. Waldo was striding 
forward now as if he knew what he was doing and where he was going. Still, I 
could tell he remained on edge. What was there to disturb his canine mind? I was 
the one who had the pain!
The houses here were not only unfamiliar, they were strange. They looked like 
huge, fancy dog houses. A man was in the front yard of the house we were 
passingand I saw to my horror that he was chained. He had a heavy collar around 
his neck, and the chain was fastened securely to a tree.
I stopped. "What on earth?" I demanded, facing him.
Waldo tugged at the leash, urging me on. But I held back, waiting for the man's 
response. It was prompt: he charged up to the end of his tether and jerked hard 
at the chain. "Stay off my territory, stranger!" he snarled. He was big and 
hairy and muscular and dirty and. I realized, stark naked.
"Uh, sure," I said, taken aback by the whole thing. I was hardly looking for 
trouble. Even without a hurting chest, I would have hesitated to tangle with an 
ugly customer like this. Also, I saw the door of the house open to disgorge a 
grossly fat Soxer, evidently attracted by the commotion. That corpulent canine 
acted just as if he owned the premises! I let Waldo pull me on down the street, 
while the chained man sat down and scratched at a flea.
A lady was coming toward us, walking her dog. She too was nakedand there was a 
brightly embossed collar about her neck. She was pulling forward, while the 
pretty little Sulky dog had the handle of the leash between her dainty teeth.
I stepped toward them, heedless of Waldo's attempted warning. Something was 
awfully funny here! "Lady, what?" I began.
She wiggled her butt. "Well, now!" she said, eying me in an embarrassingly frank 
manner.
The Sulky gave a short "Woof!" The friendly woman veered away from me as if I 
had suddenly turned to poison. Amazed, I just stood there.
Waldo went up to the Sulky and made a series of barks and yips, and she answered 
in kind. Somehow it was as if they were conversing: he apologizing, she 
affronted but gracious. Then the female couplecanine and humanmoved on.
I shook my head in perplexity. Something very strange was going on here!
Waldo tugged me on just as I had another chest seizure, so I followed him more 
or less blindly.
A few minutes later a trio of dogs came down the street. There were no human 
beings with them, and the animals walked as though they had complete right of 
way. Obviously the leash law was not enforced in this section of town! The first 
was a black and white spotted Damnation about the size and build of my 
Weimaraner. The second was a longhaired Sleepdog, with only his black nose 
sticking out from his face. The third was a beautiful Colleen, evidently being 
escorted by the two males.
Waldo barked at them in apologetic fashion, and the Damnation paused. The two 
exchanged woofs, and the Damnation turned his head and pointed briefly to the 
south. Waldo made a final bark that sounded like "Thanks" and led the waysouth.
I began to have a phenomenal suspicionbut it was ludicrous, and besides, I 
wasn't well. I put it out of my mind.
In due course we came to a kennel. A small spotted Bugle bayed at the entrance, 
until Waldo explained with a few more woofs. We entered the compound.
Inside were benches on which assorted dogs sat. Each had a leash, and each leash 
led to the collar of a human being. Squatting naked on the floor.
Waldo took the last empty seat and woofed at me in peremptory fashion. Never 
before had he addressed me in that manner! My chest gave another twinge, so I 
just squatted down amongst the nudes and tried to look inconspicuous despite my 
clothing and lack of collar. What else could I do?
I looked about. A pretty female Scooty sat up at a desk as though she were a 
receptionist, and a squatnosed Plug stood by like an orderly. But the canines 
and people here in the waiting room were a strange collection.
An elegant Puddle held the leash to a fluffy-haired blonde that in other 
circumstances I would have liked to know better. But the girl had a bad rash on 
her skin. A short-legged Baskethound had a short-legged manwho had a broken 
arm. A whiskery Schneezer had a little boy with a bad cold. A furry little 
Chomp-Chomp had another long-haired woman who looked as if she'd been chewed on. 
And a Pox Terror had a man who seemed to be ill with the plague.
In fact, all the dogs were well-groomed and healthy, while all the people were 
sick. Waldo and I were no exceptions.
Every so often the Plug would bark authoritatively, and one of the canines would 
take his human into another room. Sometimes there were awful screamshuman 
screamsand all the people would cower in fear. I was cowering with the best of 
them! How had I gotten into this?
A Growling Shepherd entered, dragging a shaggy man. There didn't seem to be 
anything wrong with the man, so I assumed he was merely being brought in for his 
rabies shot.
Then it was my turn. Waldo led me to the other room. There was something vaguely 
awful about it, and my whole body was shaking with apprehension. There was a 
high table there, and I had to climb up on it and perch uncomfortably on the 
clammy surface. Until the Vet arrived.
The Doctor Dog enteredand I almost wet my pants. He was a huge Massive with 
jowls like those of a senator, and he must have weighed two hundred pounds. But 
it was his aspect more than his size that terrified me. I wanted to leap off 
that table and run, but the Massive showed his teeth and I was petrified. My 
chest hurt worse than ever as I labored to breathe.
The Massive took my shirt in his teeth and ripped it from my quaking body. I 
huddled there, unable to move. He sniffed me thoroughly, then gave a short, 
sharp, ominous bark. A little Peek&See trotted in with a huge horse pill in her 
teeth. She dropped it on the table next to me and fluffed out again. As the door 
swung open for her I saw through it to a black Lab-Raider making tests in the 
lab. This place was well staffed!
The Massive nudged the pill toward me. The thing must have been an inch in 
diameter! "Oh, no!" I cried, my voice coming out in falsetto so that it sounded 
like a yipe. "I'd choke to death on that monster!"
Waldo tried to calm me, but I was already on edge because of the screams I had 
heard coming from this room before I entered. I scrambled off the table and 
broke for the door. Undismayed, the Doctor woofedand a giant shape loomed 
before me.
It was a Great DamnI mean, a Great Damethe biggest bitch I'd ever seen. She 
didn't even bother to growl. She just advanced ponderously, smiling with all her 
teeth, and I retreated, step by step. When I backed into the table I snatched up 
that horse pill and gulped it right down. The Great Dame woofed approvingly and 
turned her bulk about, going her matronly way.
They certainly knew how to keep errant humans in line! I was glad Waldo was 
there to watch out for my interests. I only hoped he wouldn't leave me in the 
kennel.
At last Waldo took me out. At the entrance we met a beautiful red Settler towing 
an Irishman. "Sure, an' I've never been here before," the man cried to me. "Is 
it bad?"
"Nothing to it," I replied, sticking out my chestand you know, it didn't hurt 
any more! That pill had somehow fixed it, and I felt just fine.
Then Waldo urged me on, leaving Irish and Settler to their fate. Almost 
frisking, I trotted toward home, ignoring the mean human animals that guarded 
their canine master's lots. But Waldo remained strangely nervous. What was he 
afraid of? This was his world, wasn't it? Where the dogs ran things?
Two Police Dogs came toward us. Waldo whinedand abruptly I understood. This was 
his worldbut he was in some kind of trouble with the canine law! So he had had 
to flee, going hungry in an alien world, until I had taken him in. To help me, 
he had ventured once more into this realm, taking me to a qualified vet. But 
some dirty dog must have checked his registry, and now the police had sniffed 
him out.
I am not a large man, but I'm a sight bigger than the average dog. My shirt was 
in tatters and I knew I looked fierce. I took a menacing step toward those 
Police Dogs, and saw them draw up short, seeing me unleashed. "Get your tails 
out of here!" I bawled fiercely.
It was too much for them. They were trained to handle unruly canines, but there 
was a psychological horror to a wild man. They retreated.
We ran down an alley, the Police Dogs following at a fair distance and baying 
out an all-points bulletin. Soon we would be surrounded and overwhelmed!
Suddenly there was a nondescript cat in front of us. This, too, was strange; my 
Weimaraner had never before chased cats.
Then I saw that the cat was not fleeing, but leading. She dodged around a 
Painter mutt working on a house, hissed off a slender Dayhound, and leaped right 
over a sleeping Balldog. She was showing us an escape route!
Could that have been Waldo's crime, here? Helping a cat? Now she or one of her 
friends was repaying the favor!
Abruptly we were at my door, and the cat was gone. I stopped to look backand 
the neighborhood was familiar. No big dog houses or cat houses in sight, no 
chained, naked men. Just the conventional human suburban sprawl.
I knew it would do no good to backtrack; I would never find the realm of the 
canine masters. Waldo would not dare show his muzzle there again, either; they 
would be on watch for him. But now the favors were all even, and I comprehended 
at last the scheme from which my dog had come.
I reached down and rubbed his floppy gray ear. "Come on, pal," I said, taking a 
deep and painless breath. "I'll split a steak with you."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank Martin H. Greenberg for conceiving and developing 
this volume.
"Possible to Rue"  1963 by Ziff-Davis Pub. Co.
"The Toaster"  1985 by Piers Anthony
"Quinquepedalian"  1963 by Ziff-Davis Pub. Co.
"Encounter"  1964 by Ziff-Davis Pub. Co.
"Phog"  1965 by Ziff-Davis, Pub. Co.
"The Ghost Galaxies"  1966 by Galaxy Pub. Corp.
"Within the Cloud"  1967 by Galaxy Pub. Corp.
"The Life of the Stripe"  1969 by Sol Cohen
"In the Jaws of Danger"  1967 by Galaxy Pub. Corp.
"Beak by Beak"  1967 by The Conde Nast Pubs.
"Getting Through University"  1968 by Galaxy Pub. Corp.
"In the Barn"  1972 by Harlan Ellison
"Up Schist Crick"  1972 by David Gerrold
"The Whole Truth"  1970 by Harry Harrison
"The Bridge"  1970 by Galaxy Pub. Corp.
"On the Uses of Torture"  1981 by Piers Anthony
"Small Mouth, Bad Taste"  1970 by Avon Books
"Wood You?"  1970 by Mercury Press
"Hard Sell"  1972 by Universal Pub. and Dist.
"Hurdle"  1972 by Universal Pub. and Dist.
"Gone to the Dogs"  1985 by Piers Anthony

Copyright  1985 by Piers Anthony
Cover art by Joe Bergeron
ISBN: 0-812-53114-0
