Planet of Mystery, Part 2 by Terry Bisson

The Cathedral of Universal Biodiversity by Gary W. Shockley

The Long and the Short and the Tall by John Morressy

Thirteen O'clock by David Gerrold

Boon by Madeleine E. Robins

Parsifal (Prix Fixe) by James L. Cambias

Books To Look For by Charles De Lint

Musing on Books by Michelle West

Plumage From Pegasus: Brother, Can You Spare a Hyperlink by Paul Di Filippo

Coming Attractions

Films: A Mound of Blunder by Lucius Shepard

Curiosities by F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre

Cover By David Hardy For “The Cathedral of Universal Biodiversity"

Gordon Van Gelder, Publisher/Editor Barbara J. Norton, Assistant Publisher

Robin O'connor, Assistant Editor Keith Kahla, Assistant Publisher

Harlan Ellison, Film Editor John J. Adams, Assistant Editor

Carol Pinchefsky, Contests Editor John M. Cappello, Newsstand Circulation

A DF Books NERDs Release

The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 110, No. 2, Whole No. 647, February 2006. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $3.99 per copy. Annual subscription $44.89; $54.89 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2005 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

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The Cathedral of Universal Biodiversity by Gary W. Shockley

Books To Look For by Charles De Lint

Musing on Books by Michelle West

The Long and the Short and the Tall by John Morressy

Planet of Mystery: Part 2 by Terry Bisson

Plumage From Pegasus: Brother, Can You Spare a Hyperlink? by Paul Di Filippo

thirteen o'clock by David Gerrold

Parsifal (Prix Fixe) by James L. Cambias

Films by Lucius Shepard

Boon by Madeleine E. Robins

Curiosities: The Land of Mist by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1926)

When we asked Mr. Shockley if he had any news to report, he said, “Yes—I have a story due out in the February issue of F&SF.” Undeterred, our crafty editors then contacted his wife, writer Lori Ann White, who said that there are unsubstantiated rumors that Gary's last story to run in our magazine, “Late Night,” was autobiographical. She also said that he spends as much time painting nowadays as he does writing, and that the most frustrating bit of all is that the really interesting news is what goes on in his head.

Well, here's a story about a man with exceptional mental abilities and what happens when his cerebral world collides with a more bodily (some would say carnal) world.

From the base of the Ethereal Spillway, the night sky seemed almost within reach. Bloated stars, far-ranging comets, and pinwheel galaxies crowded the blackness. Supernovae cast off their cloaks, dark matter swallowed entire chunks of space, and nascent solar systems churned into being. The sight was outrageous and ever-changing, taking liberties with scale, color, and time. On closer inspection one saw the dome curving overhead, onto which all was projected, and beyond it the reality: terraforming drones methodically working the upper atmosphere of Pantheon, innermost planet of the star Zeta Tucanae.

Theo sat in lotus near the base of the Spillway. His saffron robes were damp, his shaven head beaded with mist. The ground slid sharply away below him, becoming a sea of fog that lapped at his knees, with lush vegetation and rocky mounts peeking through. Farther off, beyond the dome's protection, stormclouds rolled across jagged and inhospitable mountains.

Theo worked a bracelet of thirteen beads, giving shape and text to his thoughts. Spurred by distant lightning flashes and the celestial mobile above, he gleaned a nexus of entities—undefined at first but gaining refinement—organisms engaged in camaraderie and conflict, forming a gestalt, an ecobalance, a pocket of non-entropy. For that was the universal pice de rsistance—persistence of pattern.

He saw it clearly now: A big swirling well-storm of matter sucked from a gas giant into a companion neutron star. But over time, a chatter of non-noise had emerged, of plasmas working in concert, excavating themselves from their fate, evolving into greater assemblages, a minion-army of hitchhikers ever in retreat, fleeing upstream; and in so doing they created an opportunistic environment soon thriving with symbionts and parasites, hitchers on hitchers, and these begat other forms—creating a fragile ecosystem in the gravity-well threatening to consume it, subject to massive slaughters during solar quakes, yet so widespread as to ensure continued survival and evolution....

Hours later, Theo collapsed the cocoon of imaging wares. After transmitting 3D images along with copious notes to a congregation scattered across the Five Suns of Humanity, he concresced several specimens and gave them suitable poses around the already-crowded Spillway.

Only then did he hear it—an odd commotion coming from far below.

The descent took several hours. He slid down the Canopy of Tendrils, climbed through the Arbor of Wisps, negotiated the Pontoon Dells, gradually making his way through various territories and past sundry barriers into the lower reaches of the Cathedral of Universal Biodiversity.

The Cathedral had started out a pagoda of twenty-seven levels seeded with as many sentient cores. Given cultural, architectural, and aesthetic agendas and bequeathed a votive freedom, each level had expanded and mutated as it saw fit. Thirty-four years later, when the generous reserves of energy and raw materials had run out, the Cathedral stood complete, filling its protective dome, embracing a tremendous wealth of environments, weathers, and terrains at every elevation and more resembling a complex biosphere than it did any mere architectural marvel. Whatever best described this sprawling vertical estate with its countless biomes, to Theo it was both home and workplace.

As he reached the Pinnacles of Devotion that served as the dome's main gate, he saw workmen and mechbots flooding in. Striding through their midst—her velvet apparel swishing with menace—was a woman of evident power. There was something feral in her movements and manner, which seemed at odds with her regal attire. As she stalked about, two harried attendants rushed ever behind to keep her multiple trains off the ground. Her eyes were harsh and hawkish in their observations, casting a net of ownership over all that fell within sight.

"Theosophilus Meredith Blanchant, right?” she said, confronting him. “I am going to call you Theo.” Standing taller than he, she looked down her aquiline nose at him. “You're a hard man to get hold of. Don't you have an implant? A phone? Didn't any of your subordinates—monks or whatever they're called—contact you? I'd assumed you'd know what was afoot. Well, they did warn me. You've got your head so high in the clouds you simply don't answer communiqus, or even the front door! Peter, the schematic."

A white-suited man stepped forward to hand Theo a memedot. It blossomed in his palm, revealing a detailed diagram.

"This is a comprehensive breakdown of this estate into—” She hesitated.

"Biomes,” said the man at her side.

She scowled. “Let's call them rooms. The ones marked green are now mine. I'm Contessa Kimberly Messioner, by the way."

He looked uncomprehendingly at the diagram.

"I own half this estate now,” she said. “This dome. This Cathedral. Whatever you want to call it. There's been a considerable fall-off in your congregation—certainly you're aware of that. Money, Theo. Everything runs on money, and your preachings, whatever they be, would seem to have lost their flair."

"No one told me,” he managed to say, still staring at the schematic.

"Well, Theo. From my own experience, when the news reaches a certain level of awfulness, there are no messengers. Looks like your congregation left it to me."

"The red ones?” he said.

"Those remain yours. But I warn you. I have a keen eye on owning this whole estate. So don't get too cozy. I'll give you two weeks to move your stuff out of the green rooms. After that, I'll just start tossing things.” Turning to leave, she paused to inspect several specimens arranged near the Pinnacles of Devotion. She shuddered. “Hideous. Absolutely hideous."

The year was 2423 a.d. Humanity had settled the systems of Tau Ceti, 82 Eridani, Zeta Tucanae, and 107 Piscium. Generation ships were en route to Cliese 75 and Chi Orionis, with still more under construction. Theo had lived through it all. In 2149, at age six, he had witnessed the launch of the first starship; at twenty, he had listened—as had billions of others—to the crew announcing its arrival at Lorimar, second planet of Tau Ceti. Other starships had followed, some to Tau Ceti as well, then more to other stars. The out-Sol population had grown exponentially over the course of two hundred years and now stood at almost a billion, most living on planets under giant domes that—when terraforming was complete a thousand years hence—would be dismantled amid great fanfare.

Of the five domes on Pantheon, the one housing the Cathedral was an anomaly. It had not been built to accommodate colonists. Funded entirely by the Church of Prolific Life, it had a singular purpose: to provide Theo with a suitable environment for his work. Humble and reclusive by nature, he had not sought out the position; rather, it was an honor bestowed on him, a reward for his decades of single-minded effort.

He was the unlikeliest of evangelists, having never uttered a sermon. Nonetheless, he was the Church's sole voice. He delivered his message by means of his research, providing the congregation with visions of what was “out there,” beyond current reach. His message was simple, his faith unwavering: Life was matter's guiding principle, its profound response to entropy, an opportunistic impulse finding release throughout the cosmos. The Church—in recognition of his unique gift and profound vision—accorded all of his writings and 3D models the status of gospel.

Though far smaller than the habitat domes, the Cathedral dome had cost many fortunes to build, as had the Cathedral itself. The sheer scale of the undertaking was a testament to the size and conviction of the congregation, which at its peak had numbered in the billions.

Theo pushed the Countessa incident aside, relegating it to the status of mere apparition so as to stay focused on his work. Days passed without notice as he meditated in the Grotto of Eternal Quietude, imagining electromagnetic creatures in the diamond pockets of a brown dwarf. In this place of stark quietude, nothing moved, nothing changed—or so it seemed at first. On closer scrutiny one noticed a most delicate and microscopic network of cracks both appearing and disappearing in a latticework of liquid crystal, with occasional and minute geysers, fountains so slow to form as to take years.

Even as he worked his beads, composing copious notes and rendering 3D models, he felt his deep concentration unraveling to a disturbing sense that someone was near.

Stretching his legs out of lotus, he adjusted his robes and looked up. Several Contessas floated in the air before him. They were dressed entirely in red, costumes so blatantly regal as to seem out of place anywhere but on a jeweled throne. With gloved hands on hips, they scowled down on him.

"It's been two weeks,” said one, her costume darkening to near black. “You didn't move a thing,” said another. “Are you really that callous or just irresponsible?” “Do I need to involve the law in this matter?"

He was at a loss. “I—"

Each Contessa in turn made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind. I had the stuff moved myself.” Then as one they snapped their fingers, whereupon they vanished, revealing as many robot drones hovering in the air. “Here's a list of what was moved and where,” came a disembodied voice, even as the drones began dropping memedots.

He picked one up and read the descriptions it projected. Horrific many-eyed thing. Ugly tangle of worms. Unsettling smashed-glass nose. Hideous phallic umbrella.

"Oh, and I'd like to buy this."

Her image was back, singularly this time. She held something up. It was a sinuous dish-like creature from the liquid methane depths of a gas giant's moon.

"Well? How much?” She tossed it lightly in her hand, impatient.

"These things, they're not for sale,” he said, feeling a growing distress. “I create them. I populate this estate with them as one would a museum—"

"Fifty neos it is."

The image winked out and the drones darted off, while the symbolic image of a transaction receipt faded in the air before him.

Nestled about the Five Suns of Humanity were a dozen SEEK installations. These “Great Eyes,” colossal in size and sensitive to the entire electromagnetic spectrum, forever scanned the heavens. While planets and moons seemed the likeliest habitats, other deep-space environs were studied for organic aptitude just as closely. Special high-powered lasers periodically pulsed instructions and updates to the various probes drifting ever outward through space, to keep them current on technology and the ever-growing knowledge of the cosmos, as well as reshuffling their target priorities as new entries came onto the list.

The first embryonic probes had been launched when Theo was young in the faith, his speculations still in their infancy. The probes had been simplistic, their velocities tedious, soon overtaken by later waves of faster and more sophisticated ones. Theo continuously refined his speculative vision, taking feedback from the probes and from the latest theories and research by astronomers and cosmologists, gaining an ever-clearer vision of the life forms certain to be out there.

Sometimes he sat in lotus to meditate, at other times he found it conducive to wander. For the past three days he had been walking, following the direction of his thoughts with little mind to where his feet might take him. As he made his way through the Cathedral's various biomes, he imagined a planet whose mantle was deeply pocked, and where evolution had given rise to cavern waifs, more dank air than substance but nonetheless endowed with a measure of intelligence. On a timescale of centuries, they controlled the growth of their caverns and protected them from the ravages of plate tectonics and quakes. Reproduction was a complex process involving temporary tubules that interconnected a commune of caverns, allowing an exchange of genetic material, and in this way did they evolve in size and complexity.

At some point in his reflections he became aware of the movement of his feet and that he was in a perturbed state. There was a sense of confinement around him, a compulsion to move in certain directions and not others. He drew to a halt, hearing voices and music. And now he understood, perceiving in the vegetation a pattern of hallways and chambers. He was in the Contessa's “rooms.” Having no desire for company, he tried to backtrack; but the place was like a maze, the voices and music ever growing, becoming a cacophony as he stumbled unawares into a crowded chamber.

He covered his eyes, half blinded by the flashing lights, deafened by the music and chatter. He saw more human faces in that instant than he had in centuries: beaming, scheming, laughing; coy, sated, sedated. His vision throbbed with the brilliance of florid dcor, and fled from hints of lurid flesh. His nostrils flared at perfumes, spices, and headier and more disturbing scents. Every form of dress, every type of human activity, unfolded about him. He averted his eyes, sensing pockets of copulation in the shadows.

"Theo!"

He jumped. It was a familiar voice—the Contessa's. He spotted her across a sea of bodies in the company of three young men. She called again and motioned to him. Reluctantly he headed toward her, having to negotiate several wild dancers and robots engaged in what might have been wrestling but probably was not.

"Theo,” she greeted him, smiling graciously. “How long's it been? Six months? I'd nearly forgotten you were about.” She made no effort to move her arms, which were draped rakishly about two of the men. “It's good of you to come—even if you weren't invited."

He looked away, realizing her blouse was largely transparent. As for the three men, they were shirtless and muscular.

"I'd like you to meet my husband. The Count.” She said it almost spitefully. “Roger!” She withdrew her arms from her companions and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Roger! Are you deaf!"

Theo turned and followed everyone's gaze to a short middle-aged man kissing one young woman while another attended to his nether regions. Someone nudged his shoulder until he straightened and looked about.

"Yes, my darling?” he called.

"Roger. This is the man I was telling you about. Theo. He's shown up unexpectedly. For heaven's sake, someone get him a drink!"

Theo found himself holding a glass filled with a cloudy liquid.

"Everyone,” the Contessa now called out. “Let me introduce a very special guest. Theo Blanchant. He lives in the other half of the estate."

"Theosophilus Meredith Blanchant?” someone asked.

"Of the Church of Prolific Life,” she said. “He very much believes there's life out there—lots of it—and he's bound and determined to document its every nook and cranny—before the fact, if you will. Please, everyone. Make him feel welcome."

Turning back to Theo, she said, “Oh, and these are three good acquaintances. Alex, Craig, and Martin."

He shifted the glass as they each reached out to shake his hand.

"You are so good with names, Contessa,” said Martin, kissing her left breast.

Theo took the opportunity to excuse himself. Heading for the merest suggestion of an egress, he found himself confronted by two women.

"Theo,” said the taller of the two, flopping an arm around his shoulder and sagging against him. “Is it true you've never made it with a woman?"

Stanching his alarm and the impulse to push her away, he said calmly, “I've taken personal vows to remain chaste."

"So, you mean you set the rules yourself? Well, that's pretty stupid."

The shorter woman leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “I've got three of everything."

Meanwhile, the taller one glided a vibrating palm low over his stomach.

"Ladies, ladies!” said the Contessa, intervening to disentangle him from their clutches. “I'll not have one of my guests raped on the premises, let alone allow such sacrilege. Theo is a most honorable man of the cloth."

"So, Theo, do you ever leave the premises?” the taller woman asked, weaving unsteadily.

"Theo? Leave?” The Contessa laughed. “He's the world's most devout stay-at-home."

Theo placed his untouched drink on a passing tray and quickly slipped away.

Now and then one of the 30,000 outward-bound probes would awaken. There were two preconditions: that a high-priority target was nearby, and that a dust cloud of sufficient molecular wealth to allow “germination” surrounded the probe. No bigger than a ping-pong ball, it would cast off its protective shield and proceed to harvest material and replicate basic building blocks. When enough of these were ready, it entered an assembly phase, to be followed by further phases of replication and assembly, bootstrapping itself into a highly sophisticated science station with guidance and propulsion systems, fully prepared for final approach to its target.

Even in the absence of life, a planet or moon meeting certain baseline criteria would trigger the probe's terraforming agenda, leading to further replications and assemblies, culminating in machines designed for massive atmospheric reconstruction. A score of worlds were now being prepared for humanity's arrival in the decades and centuries to come.

Humanity's expansion into the cosmos had passed the point of no return. Now, barring an encounter with a superior and hostile race, it seemed likely to continue to the ends of time. The fact that nothing beyond the simplest of slime molds had yet been found did not discourage Theo. Not only was the search still in its infancy, there was growing evidence that Earth had been born into an atypical region of space—a dead zone. This tiny region, a fraction of a speck of a mote in one of billions of galaxies, could not be depended on to reflect the greater truth, which was still out there, waiting to impinge on humanity's consciousness.

Theo retreated into the Oblong Crucible, a more obscure region of the estate. There he contemplated an entire hierarchy of beings residing at different depths in an atmosphere of hydrogen fluoride. Each contributed to the food chain of the one below, with the topmost ones reliant on bioluminescent bacteria thriving at high altitude.

The sky suddenly crackled, drawing him out of his repose. He watched a flyer angle downward and land. Out strode a giant robot of liquid glass with at least four human bodies swimming around inside. A balding head surfaced just enough to speak.

"Theosophilus Meredith Blanchant. I do apologize for interrupting your meditations."

Theo rose to his feet, recognizing the Count. The other three figures were young women. They paused in their graceful twists and turns about him to wink and blow kisses.

"But you seem always so engaged, giving me little choice but to interrupt. My business is simple. You're reputed to be a man of keen intuition, of superb intellect. I've come to ask you a question."

"My knowledge is very focused,” Theo said. “Beyond my limited sphere of expertise—"

"My question is this. Why have you stopped living?"

He shook his head, not comprehending.

The Count retracted his head, then stuck it out again after making some bodily adjustment. “Come now, Theo. I know a little of your history, your life. You were not always engaged in this pastime. In fact, there was a time long ago when you might have been called—what was the term?—a party animal."

Theo was silent.

"Tell me about your past, Theo."

Theo tried to focus on the heavens.

At the Count's instruction, the three women birthed themselves. Theo backed away as they advanced. Two of them gripped his arms while the third inspected the back of his head.

"You find it?” asked the Count.

"A tiny scar,” she said. “Crescent-shaped."

By now the Count had dropped out as well. Climbing to his feet, he brushed liquid from his shoulders.

"So, Theo. You had yourself a bit of surgery. That was a long while ago. Nearly three hundred years. You were a teenager, young, impulsive, libidinous. Girl-crazy, you might say. Nothing wrong in that. And like so many kids, you just wanted a little libido-boost.” He chuckled.

While the Count talked, Theo tapped into the feed of a distant probe. Its target star was Sol-like and a billion years older, possessed of seven planets of which two bordered on the sweet zone.

"Oh, those were the times,” continued the Count. “Back when the biotailors used sledgehammers, thought they could hack all, before hard limits were realized—that we're animals, not gods, and our genetic codes might be tweaked but not stretched to infinity. Otherwise the mind snaps. It can't cope. Now, I apologize for this little inconvenience, but I simply must know."

Theo tried to pull free as the third woman undid his sash.

"Ah, yes,” said the Count, leering. “To think I once mistook your swagger for arrogance, but you've really no choice. Eight, am I right? Eight testicles. The brain and then this, you certainly got the works. Of course, it cranks the libido so high that most couldn't handle it; they became sexual predators, rapists, even serial killers. So the ‘boost’ was outlawed, and most had it reversed, with lots of therapy afterwards. But you, Theo, you took a different tack. You kept it all, but entered a monastery where you meditated for the next hundred years. That's where your gift began to emerge; and even though you didn't intend to create a religion, one grew up around you. Which is how, eventually, you came to be here, doing what you do, this noble if dubious pursuit."

The probe had yet to manufacture its science packages, so Theo switched to another, this one exploring the third planet of the star Evangeline. Oddly, the probe was asleep. He double-checked and realized he had keyed the wrong call number. Focusing more carefully, he specified it again.

"And that's where things stand now. That's why you've stopped living. It's how you cope, how you stay sane. You're still cranked all the way up, aren't you. But you sublimate it all in your work."

"I need to get back to my meditations,” he murmured.

"But of course. I seem to have answered my own question."

About to reenter the liquid robot, the Count paused.

"My wife, she's the one with the money. I mean, I'm no slouch in that department. Still, to purchase something like this—that was her doing. If you knew how many people told her it couldn't be done. But she likes proving people wrong, just as she enjoys a certain amount of danger. I suppose that's why she lets you hang around. It's edgy. You're dangerous, she thinks. As for me—” He shrugged. “I find you rather pathetic. As I said, you died long ago."

"Should I bring him to life?” said the third woman, now in a crouch, tongue flicking close.

"No. Leave him to the coffin beetles."

On occasion Humanity had held its collective breath—sometimes for decades, with a barely contained excitement—waiting for a probe to give a conclusive report. In one instance, the Great Eyes had detected an abundance of chlorofluorocarbons on a distant planet, sure sign of technological pollution. But thirteen years later a probe had descended through its atmosphere to determine that a natural process had given rise to it. A methane atmosphere on a four-billion-year-old world had triggered a similar alarm. While not unusual for young planets, the methane should have boiled away long ago on this world unless replenished through biological processes. But again, after a wait of seventeen years, the life scientists were proven wrong.

Eventually, though, the alarm would sound and be for real. That was Theo's conviction, what drove him to continue his meticulous research, made all the more difficult by his changing living conditions—because almost every week there would impinge on his mind some sight, sound, or smell drifting upward—no matter how far he retreated—a grim reminder that he was no longer alone, that he shared the Cathedral with the Contessa and her friends whose number seemed ever to grow.

"The Contessa requests your presence."

Theo blinked, struggling up out of deep meditation, and gazed upon a robotic monstrosity. It was adorned with breasts, puckering lips, vaginas, and at least three very prominent penises. He turned and walked away, having no desire for such an audience; but the robot swept over him, securing him with a dozen sprouting tentacles while converting into a wheeled vehicle.

The robot “escorted” him deep into the Glade of Impending Butterflies. Loud moans drifted to him, and soon—through a storm of butterflies—he spotted the Contessa on a swing with two young men pleasuring her. She stifled another moan, spotting him.

"Ah, Theo. You chose to come, I see. If you please, gentlemen."

The two men bowed, grabbed up their clothes, and departed.

"Servant, neuter yourself. And release him."

The robot retracted its tentacles and lost its many sex organs.

"Sorry about that,” she said, continuing to swing through a swirl of butterflies. “Now, Theo, we've a bit of a problem. Out of the kindness of my heart I've made sizable loans to your church, only to have it fall far behind in payments.” She launched herself easily to the ground and stepped toward him, even as two robots dressed her in flickering yellows and a hairpiece of red flames. “What are we to do about this, Theo? Because, like it or not, it reflects poorly on you. Must I serve an eviction? Is that what we've come to?"

He backstepped among butterflies to the force of her words. He could never think clearly when she was about. Her angry scowl jammed his mind.

The Contessa paused in her advance, distracted by a nearby model. She knelt, picked it up, turned it over and about. “Perhaps we could reach some sort of agreement.” She jammed it back into its niche. “Yes, I believe we could.” She turned to him. “Theo, I want you to do me.” She laughed. “That certainly came out wrong. What I mean is, sculpt me. Make a model of me."

He shook his head, utterly horrified by the idea.

"I'm hurt, Theo. You'll do all these nonexistent things. But when it comes to me—real flesh and blood—you balk. Can't you see the crassness?"

"I'm not an artist,” he said. “I'm a scientist."

"A scientist. And these are your studies. Your research."

He nodded.

"Come now, Theo. There's nothing scientific about any of this. You make it all up. There's been no life found out there—nothing beyond a few bacteria and single-celled organisms."

"My speculations are based on sound scientific principles."

"Pshaah. Enough of this nonsense. The situation is thus. Your church has defaulted and the whole property has reverted to me. Do you understand? This is no longer your home. You've no right to be here.” She paused. “However, being the soft touch I am, I might let you some rooms—for a spell, until you get settled elsewhere. But the condition is thus. You're an artist and you'll do me.” She took a deep breath and looked about. “So. When would you have me sit?” In answer to his silence, she said, “Fine, this very day. Five sharp it is. That should give you time enough to summon inspiration. You'll remember, right? Never mind. I'll send someone."

He found it impossible to forget, and later that day when a small ship decorated with ancient paintings settled before him, he knew better than to resist.

"I've been looking forward to this so much,” said the Contessa upon his arrival.

He had never been in such a room. It was all padded cushions and swirling fabrics with tinted light shining down from a multitude of sources.

"Should I be clothed or nude? I've some very nice dresses. Still, your other models are all nude. Then it's settled."

She began to undress.

"Please,” he said, looking away.

"This is art, Theo.” She tossed her clothes aside, and a robot quickly swept them up and left. “You are striving for an aesthetic. Now. How exactly should I pose? What would best convey who I am?"

"Perhaps with your legs hitched up over your shoulders,” said the Count, looking in past a drapery.

"Roger, leave! This is a private sitting!"

Chuckling, he departed.

"Let's try this,” she said, once assured he was gone. She sprawled on a cushion, propping her head on a hand, one knee up. “How's that? Come closer, Theo. You can't possibly see from way over there."

He edged to within five meters of her and busied himself activating his modeling tools. Soon he set to work.

He imagined a congestion of frothy elementals perched on rickety stanchions, their disembodied eyes swimming in schools, vigilantly patrolling the perimeter.

"Theo? Perhaps you're just in the early stages, but I don't have a tail."

—sinuous horned beetles dismantling boulders to construct spiral hives—

"Only four limbs, Theo."

—phototropic lianas weaving a barrier against parasitic hedglings—

"I don't have trumpet ears! Theo. Are you even looking at me?"

He backstepped as she got up and strode toward him. The wall surprised his back. She pressed close.

"What color are my eyes? Theo. Theo, it would help if you looked at them. Look!"

He forced himself to look, frightened by her proximity. He could feel her breath, smell her perfume. He winced under her unwavering gaze.

"Green,” he said.

"Mere green! They are turquoise, Theo, with rays of amber, ultraviolet, and moss green. Look at the complexity. Look at the depths!"

He resisted the urge to wipe the spittle from his face.

She reached out and gently filliped his nose, then retreated back to her pose. “At least get the eyes right."

Beneath the hard pounding water of the Fountain of Quietude, Theo scrubbed his body until he bled. He applied a biting liniment and let the pain scream through him. Rubbing in various purifying oils, he put on fresh robes and sat down in lotus.

After days of meditation on the universal principles, he at last felt ready to resume his speculations. But hardly had he begun contemplating lethargic quagmire beasts with changing specific gravities, gliding past each other in an ammonia sea, when he saw at his feet a scroll tied up with a green ribbon. When he opened it, fancy types and blaring colors greeted him. Tiny holograms then jumped forth to speak the message aloud, proclaiming the list of celebrities and promising orgiastic pleasures, as well as performances by several great artists. Much of it he ignored, but one part jarred him to a focus:

"...culminating in a delicious treat, the unveiling of the Contessa's likeness as sculpted by the inscrutable Theosophilus Meredith Blanchant."

As Theo knew would happen, a robot came for him. He did not resist. Arriving at the party, he quickly slipped into the shadows and did his best to keep a low profile, averting his face when anyone passed near. But later in the evening when the big moment came, he found himself sought out and thrust forward to stand at the Contessa's side. She delivered a long and hyperbolic speech in which she attested to his remarkable if arcane skills, then—at long last—she drew back the silken shroud.

The chamber, long filled with anticipatory whispers, fell into stunned silence. Minutes seemed to pass. Then, starting with a chitter here and a swallowed guffaw there, the audience made known its true feelings. Rather than take offense, the Contessa laughed loudest of all.

Despite Theo's attempt at a quick exit, it was not to be. He found himself cornered by numerous celebrities anxious to give him commissions.

"Please, let him breathe,” said the Contessa, intervening at last. “And you will not conduct business on these premises."

"But Theo never leaves the premises,” protested one lady. “How are we to negotiate a deal with him?"

"Your problem, not mine."

Hours later and utterly exhausted, Theo managed to extricate himself from the last of the clinging guests and make good his escape.

The purification rituals that Theo practiced every morning now stretched to hours. Standing up to his neck in the Dark Water Pool deep in the Forests of Nonchalance, he brushed aside his meditative calm to receive and analyze incoming data from a distant probe. This was a highly significant event, a long-awaited result. The target was Lenore, fourth planet out from Ambrosia. A remarkably Earthlike planet, it held much promise. Some had wanted to call it Earth II, but that name had long ago been claimed by a far less deserving planet. Lenore was uncanny in its resemblance to Earth. The same size and mass, a comparable moon, with several continents in a world-ocean, a very similar orbit around a very similar star, and nearly the same age of four billion years. The information coming in was fourteen years old, as that was the time it had taken to traverse as many light-years. In orbit about Lenore, the probe—maturing into a full-fledged science station—had deployed countless sensors that sank down through the atmosphere, taking hundreds of samples and measurements. Despite indications of a primordial soup, nothing had cooked out of it—no life-forms whatsoever.

Standing there, receiving the information with only the slightest sense of disappointment, Theo became aware of bubbles rising up through the water. Something brushed his leg. A young woman surfaced before him.

"I've been wanting to meet you for a very long time, Theo,” she said.

Though he backed away, she kept advancing. There was something familiar about her features.

"You've been looking in all the wrong places for exotic life-forms,” she said. “Here, Theo.” She took his hand. “Feel my heartbeat."

He pulled his hand free as she would place it on her breast.

"My mom thinks you're a fool, by the way. She thinks you waste your time when you could be having fun. But I don't agree with her. Yours is a noble cause. You are noble. It takes great courage and persistence to do what you do."

"Then let me continue my work,” he said, clambering from the pool while covering himself.

"Must I?” She followed him out. “They say you're well-endowed. Is that true? I'd like to see.” She tried for a peek. “More than see—"

He secured the robe about him. “I've work to do."

She pressed close. “Certainly a bit of sport won't bring down the heavens. They'll still be up there for you to contemplate afterwards."

He walked briskly away, only to slam into the ground, spitting out dirt. Incredibly, she had tackled him. He tried to break free, but she was stronger than he would have thought.

"I just want to have a little fun with you,” she said, breathing hard, getting astride him.

He managed to unseat her, and they rolled about, neither gaining the upper hand.

"And what kind of calisthenics are these?"

Theo climbed to his feet, looking at the Count, who stood a short distance away. Arrayed about him were robot guards.

"Rikki, don't you have schoolwork to do?"

"Don't you have sluts to do?” she retorted. Nonetheless, she climbed to her feet and began putting on her clothes. “You bugged me, didn't you. That's how you found me. My own parents spying—"

"While you're on this property—and until you show greater maturity—expect it."

"Maturity? Gee, is that something I was supposed to inherit?” Walking off, she shouted back, “Stop spying on me!"

"Fine, but you won't be visiting again.” With a shrug, he turned to Theo. “I do apologize for my precocious daughter. She lacks the Contessa's refined tastes. Will you be needing reimbursement for your robes?"

Despite grass stains and a small rip, he declined the offer.

"Speaking of the Contessa,” said the Count, “have you seen her?"

Theo shook his head, adjusting his robes.

"Well, she's bound to be about.” He surveyed the surrounding hills. “She never leaves the place. It's amazing, really. I thought this would be a fleeting distraction and nothing more, an ephemeral debacle of debauchery, certainly not worth the bother. I've never told you about us, our journey here. There we were, comfortable in our luxurious resort on Neptune's Triton, and suddenly she wants to come all the way out here to Zeta Tucanae to buy this estate. It was crazy. I told her so—not that it made any difference.

"I had no choice but to come along. I do love her, after all—despite how it might seem at times. Soon we were in the can, headed here.” He sighed. “Those thirteen years were the worst I've ever known—because she hated the trip. She hated everything about it, and she made everyone pay. Three suicides en route, and I'm convinced she was responsible for at least two of them."

The Count helped Theo straighten up some models that had been pitched over in the scuffle.

"So then we get here, and I'm just waiting for the disappointment—and dreading the long trip home. But a miracle happens. The place agrees with her. I've never seen her so happy, ever in the mood to entertain, to celebrate. I couldn't have predicted it. But it's true. She thrives here. She's become almost as inseparable from the grounds as you are."

Theo came upon a scrap of cloth. About to reach for it, he realized it was the daughter's panties. Wordlessly he backed away.

"The Countess, she's always been sociable,” continued the Count, stretching, looking about. “But never like this. These days she'll throw a party at the slightest provocation. Is it something in the air? Whatever, she's more alive now than I've ever known her—a frantic exuberance that I have trouble keeping up with.” He paused to brush a leaf from his suit. “Remember how I said I pitied you? That was unkind, and not entirely fair. And now I find myself envious. You, a hermit, spending all your time alone. How I could use some of that now. Instead, I must steel myself for yet another massive invasion."

Theo gave him an inquisitive look.

"Yes, another party. The day after tomorrow. The biggest one yet, on a truly alarming scale, with celebrities galore and then some. She jokes that it will last forever."

Theo stood frozen to the spot.

"Well, I should leave you now, give you a headstart retreating from the festivities—though you're certainly welcome to attend.” He chuckled. “Oh, how you cringe.” The robot escort closed in protectively behind the Count as he left.

Sometimes Theo's ponderings led him deep into the raptures of matter, as they did now. He sensed a mathematical jumble, “i” cropping up time and again, a mandelbrot spill of eigenvalues defining tentacled beings with a half-life of nanoseconds, yet capable in that relativistic moment of building a high-tech civilization in the virtual realm.

But despite Theo's masterful powers of conception and concentration, he could not entirely block out the boom and flash of fireworks coming from below, of the lively music, loud voices, and peals of laughter that grew ever more amplified as if the cathedral were a bell.

The occasional lull filled him with hope that the festivities were about to end, but each proved but an intake of breath for the next round of clamor. Day in and day out the party raged, expanding its reach until it threatened the remotest corners of the Cathedral. Theo grew steadily more unsettled, afraid of the clamor, the lights flashing upward from below, of what it might mean. His novelty value was wearing thin; the Contessa would soon push him out. Fearing this, he climbed ever upward into regions he seldom visited, eventually scaling even the Ethereal Skyway that had always frightened him with its fragility, exposure, and altitude, until at last, cornered, he sat at its very apex. There, almost touching the sky, with a creativity heightened by desperation, he speculated nonstop, creating a plethora of models that soon crowded the narrow space about him.

One night as he contemplated an econiche composed of ribbons of matter—their composition and origin elusive—he heard something. Though faint and uneven, it persisted, growing louder with each passing moment. Pushing it from his mind, he pressed onward. Whatever their nature, the ribbons traversed great expanses, in places forming a tight weave, in others spiraling about one another, and on rare occasions constricting to a Gordian knot before shooting away in different directions. The ribbons played host to many-legged creatures. These lived in colonies, one per ribbon, and they were ever on the march.

The noise could no longer be ignored. He recognized it as footsteps, and now, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman climbing the steep path. It was the Contessa. She was alone, and from the manner of her walk it was apparent she had indulged considerably over the course of the past few days. She carried two oversized wine goblets that must have been full when she started, though now they were empty. But she had a full bottle jammed into her cleavage.

She nearly lost the bottle when she flopped down next to him. Models scattered, some going over the edge. She kicked out her feet and lost a slipper. Tugging out the bottle, she filled the two goblets until they overflowed.

"An old-fashioned drunk,” she proposed.

He ignored the goblet she tried to hand him, and was vaguely aware of her setting it next to him, spilling half of it.

"Don't you want to join me in a toast?"

He was silent.

"A toast!” she shouted. “To the diversity of life that is surely out there!” She downed her entire glass and hurled it over the edge.

He listened for it to hit somewhere below, but no sound ever came. Then, shutting her out, he focused again on the colonies thriving on the ribbons. Only now did he realize that the ribbons themselves were equally alive. They communicated, shared information on where they had been and what they had seen, and in hard times they fought over scarce resources.

"We're alone, Theo,” she said. “We're alone up here. Theo! We're all alone!"

He steeled his mind, pressing onward. When ribbons fought, they sent their colonies forth. Where the ribbons brushed close, the colonies did battle. Sometimes a ribbon would fall to conquest and be cannibalized.

"There's nothing out there. Nothing!” She shouted it. Growing quieter, she said, “There's just the two of us."

He continued to ignore her, though his concentration wavered. He cast about, seeking more details.

"Theo. I'm throwing myself at you. Do something. Anything. Rape me. Kill me. I don't care. Just don't ignore me."

He stared intently into the heavens, striving to maintain his focus.

She cursed for a while, then took a long gulp straight from the bottle. She belched. “Tell me what you see, Theo. Where are you right now? I want to be there. Where is it? What's there? Tell me. Describe it."

He tried to. He tried to voice what was alive in his mind. But somewhere in the process of opening his mouth to put it all into words, it evaporated.

"Why don't those bloody probes find anything!” she snapped, voice breaking. “Are they defective? Do we need better sensors, better optics? What the fuck's wrong!"

He gazed upward, desperate to recapture the thread.

"Theo? Are we alone? Are we all alone?” She started to cry. “I don't want to be alone. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of being alone.” She sobbed still harder, great wracking sobs; and the valleys stretching below took up the refrain, an echo that betrayed a boundless emptiness.

Quietly, Theo took up his glass and began to sip.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl, by Tim Pratt, Bantam, 2005, $12.

What an absolute delight this book is.

Marzi McCarty is the night manager of Genius Loci. This Santa Cruz caf is the favorite hangout of the local bohemian community and houses wall murals by Garamond Ray, an artist who disappeared mysteriously some fifteen years or so before the story opens. It's those murals that bring a young man named Jonathan to stay in the tiny apartment above the caf while he works on his thesis about Ray, Ray's work, and his mysterious disappearance.

Marzi is also the creator of the independent comic book The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl, in which her character steps through a magical door from our world into a strange and somewhat Dal-esque version of the Old West that's based not so much on the real West as the mythical one created by decades of pulp stories and novels, Hollywood movies and TV shows. There Rangergirl wages an endless struggle against a dark and strange creature, a nightmare god of earthquakes and desolation that she knows only as the Outlaw.

In the real world, Marzi is slowly recovering from a breakdown she had a couple of years ago that left her with a bad case of agoraphobia. The problem is, it appears that the incident that set off her bout with mental illness wasn't born in her own overactive imagination.

It turns out there really is a door in the storage room of the caf that leads into a version of the Old West—just like in her comic. And there really is a nightmare god of earthquakes trapped behind that door trying to get out. So far, all he can do is whisper to those most susceptible to his dark charms, convincing them to destroy the caf and set him free.

Marzi doesn't twig immediately to what's going on (we wouldn't have a story of novel length if she did, now would we?), but after a number of decidedly weird encounters with customers bent on destroying her workplace, she finds herself standing alone against the Outlaw with only her best friend Lindsey and new friend Jonathan at her side.

Pratt's novel doesn't read like the debut it is. He writes with the assured prose of a seasoned pro, creating one of the more likable casts of characters it's been my pleasure to encounter. But what really has my admiration is his ability to balance perfectly the various elements of lightheartedness and melodrama, and make it all unfold in a manner that's seamlessly believable.

The heart of his book turns around loyalty and friendship, but Pratt also serves up a fascinating study into ideas of the creative impulse: where it comes from and how it affects not only our art, but also our lives.

This has been a great year for books from both established and new authors, and as far as I'm concerned, The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl ranks right up around the top of the list. Kudos to Bantam's art department for a great cover, too, one that subtly but perfectly captures the two worlds in which the story takes place.

What could have made the book better? An appendix featuring a couple of issues of Rangergirl.

Roads, by Seabury Quinn, Red Jacket Press, 2005, $29.95.

Children of the Atom, by Wilmar Shiras, Red Jacket Press, 2005, $39.95.

Judgment Night, by C. L. Moore, Red Jacket Press, 2005, $39.95.

I know that it's the words that are important—the story and how it's told—but, like most readers, I'm often seduced by cover art and packaging. So I was delighted when this little handful of books showed up in my P.O. box. And what a wonderful imprint Red Jacket Press is to be publishing these books: facsimile editions of old, long out-of-print classics from publishers such as Gnome Press and Arkham House.

There's something utterly charming about the garish covers and old-fashioned feel of the typesetting and production of these books. I'd love to have the original editions, but since they're undoubtedly far beyond my budget at this point, these are certainly the next best thing.

There's great ad copy on the back of the Gnome Press books: “For the most modern [their italics] reading of today, you'll want to read every title on this list.” And there was actually a time when we could do just that. A reader could keep up with everything in the field.

But with all that said, I'm still a reader, and the question that's more important than a nostalgic glimpse into the production values of old is, do the stories still hold up?

I'd read the Moore and Shiras books, way back when, in cheaper editions. Judgment Night (original Gnome Press pub. date, 1952) is Moore's first book, a collection of five novellas that originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, while Children of the Atom (original Gnome Press pub. date, 1953) is a novel set in the “distant future” of 1972.

Both books are still very readable today, although I have to admit that at times the characterization and language feel a bit quaint.

I'm familiar with Seabury Quinn, but I'd never read Roads (original Arkham House pub. date, 1948). It's a terrific retelling of the Santa Claus legend, staying true to both Christian and Norse/Teutonic traditions. While it's a somewhat brutal story (Mel Gibson wasn't the first to explore the dark side of Christ's life), it's ultimately a very positive and hopeful novella. I don't think it will necessarily make everyone's Christmas reading list—it doesn't have the universal appeal of, say, A Child's Christmas in Wales or A Christmas Carol—but I know many readers will be able to appreciate this timeless, somewhat heroic fantasy take on the origins of the season.

All three books are wonderful productions, and I can't wait to see what Red Jacket Press plans to resurrect next.

Just Like Heaven, by Marc Levy, Pocket Star Books, 2005, $7.99.

So I was in an airport and I didn't bring a book because I have any number of them on my PDA. But then I remembered that they make you turn off all electronic devices during takeoff and landing, so I wandered into a book store to see if they had something I might enjoy.

The premise behind Just Like Heaven seemed interesting: a man haunted by the ghost of a woman who isn't dead, but in a coma. They build a relationship, but then her family decides it's time to take her off medical support. What will happen to her and their relationship when she actually dies?

I was a little leery, seeing that this edition was a tie-in to a romantic comedy film, but after assuring myself that the film was based on the book, and not vice versa, I made my purchase and went to catch my plane.

Now the story's as intriguing as the back cover premise made it out to be, but I found the prose and dialogue a little stiff, so I took a closer look at the fine print. Originally appeared as If Only It Were True. Okay. But then I got to the telling line: “Translated by Jeremy Leggatt."

I don't normally read translations. Now before all of you start to tell me how many wonderful and classic books I'm missing with an attitude such as this, let me explain. The reason I don't read them is because I know I'm not reading the author's book. I'm reading somebody else's version of the author's book.

It would be like taking a classic English novel and have someone rewrite it. There'd be no point in reading that edition because all you'd get is a version of the book, not the real thing.

(Although there doesn't seem to be the same line of reasoning in the film world, does there, or why would people bother to remake classic films? They were classic for a reason, and jazzing them up with contemporary cinematography and special effects doesn't make them better, only different.

(But I digress.)

I know how much time an author can spend making each word count. Making the characters’ names resonate, the dialogue flow, the story unfold with just the right turn of phrase and significance.

Translators filter this and come up with their own versions, better perhaps, or worse, but I doubt it's what the original author intended, because much of what makes a book work is between the lines, the “how” of how the story's being told that an author creates with instinct, and it can't be copied.

In this case, Levy was poorly served by his translator. Or at least I think he was. I wish I could read the book in its original French edition to see, because while I wanted to like the material and just fall into the story, I kept stumbling over awkward exchanges of dialogue and descriptions.

And it reinforced my desire to stay away from translations.

In a perfect world, I'd have the time to learn a few more languages and be able to read foreign classics in their original form. But the world's far from perfect and I don't have that time.

But, happily, there are more English books being published than I can ever read. And what makes me even happier is that the choice of cultural voice is wide now, and getting wider, because these days, many authors who come from a different ethnic background are choosing to write in English. So I still do get to experience those different world views.

Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P.O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Thud!, by Terry Pratchett, HarperCollins, 2005, $24.95.

The Big Over Easy, by Jasper Fforde, Viking, 2005, $24.95.

Sometimes, when reading, I hit what I call a reader wall. I pick up a book, I start it, and I bounce off the words, as if they were solid and impenetrable. When I can identify a root cause—often prose or pacing—I feel safe in assuming it's the book, not the reader. When I pick up a few dozen books and they all fail to catch my attention, I assume it's me. And the last two months have been an attention desert; I have desperately yearned to be able to find escape in a book (let's not even mention television), and have been unable to let go of life enough to pass through the words and into the worlds between the covers.

I don't know why this happens, and I don't know if it's just that I'm getting older and grouchier with the passage of time, but I've found it very, very hard to finish anything. After a while, I've found it hard to begin anything, either. For someone who used to read cereal boxes out of desperation if there was nothing on hand to read, this is a bewildering state of affairs.

As is so often the case when this happens, Terry Pratchett came to my rescue with his newest installment in the beloved (by me) stories about the Watch, and Commander Sam Vimes.

I've been curious—like all of the Pratchett readers I know—to see how having a child on the scene would affect Sam Vimes and his workaholic routine. Children change things; there's a reason why many protagonists are orphans, and why many stories end with marriage, and the mention of children follows without any of the actual details. Children are real-world complications, and most stories don't mesh all that well with that type of complication—at least not in fantasy environs.

So it was with some apprehension that I started Thud!.

Sam is still married, and the end of the masterful and brilliant Night Watch ushered the infant Sam Vimes (the second) into the world. Wife, baby, title that still fits him about as well as fancy clothing (which is to say, not very well, at least not from the inside), this might have been a fitting close to Sam Vimes's story—and that would have been a tragedy.

But this is Pratchett, and life goes on. Young Sam is fourteen months of age, his father is still Commander of the Watch and still keeps obscenely long hours, and Sybil—his wife—still darns her husband's socks (badly). The only change of routine in the life of the Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch is that at 6:00 on the dot, he must be at home, and he must take out a rather well-chewed and read book, called Where Is My Cow, which he must read to his son. It's a ritual by which Sam Vimes lives (and almost dies, but all in good time), because he knows that if he allowed anything to stand in the way of that time, he will lose all. This is the Ankh-Morpork version of a modern parent.

Other than that, it's business as usual.

Business as usual, unfortunately, appears to include the anniversary of the dreaded battle of KoomValley, in which dwarves ambushed trolls (if you happen to be a dwarf) or trolls ambushed dwarves (if you happen to be a troll) and slaughter almost happened. Ankh-Morpork is a city of commerce, and in general, the dwarves and trolls get along about as well as anyone else—which is to say famously, where money is involved, and not at all where racial tensions begin to rear their head.

Sam Vimes runs a Night Watch that is considered somewhat cosmopolitan and modern—which means that his force includes zombies, golems, werewolves, humans, humans who think they're dwarves, dwarves, and trolls. Oh, and an Igor. Sam has been pressured for years to hire a vampire, and his famous response, “Do I look like I'm dead?” is no longer a defense against the political pressure the Black Ribbon Temperance League is bringing to bear on Lord Vetinari, the ruler of the city. Who, in usual inimitable Vetinari style, is more than willing to require that Commander Vimes comply with the request for vampiric representation on the Watch.

Vimes, knowing when he's momentarily beaten, accepts a young woman with a zillion names and a title—who likes to be called Sally—into his ranks, just in time to lose manpower to the racial tensions that always accompany the anniversary of Koom Valley. But this year it's worse, because this year, one of the religious leaders whom Vimes dislikes on principle and whom the Ankh-Morpork dwarves revere (and since they are city dwarves, with residual guilt for lives lived on the surface of the world and not in the dark depths, their reverence is almost desperate) appears to have been murdered. By a troll.

With dwarves quitting the force for personal reasons, and trolls quitting the force in equal numbers, the Watch is undermanned while the city is heading toward its own special reenactment of—yes—the battle of Koom Valley.

You can pretty much be certain that all is not as it seems, and you can pretty much be certain that Sam Vimes is going to discover the truth—but in this case, the truth, and the commitments that have made Sam what he is to date, all come together in a collision of strange events that culminate in a return to—no, sorry, wait. That's enough.

The young Sam Vimes is an addition to the family, and Thud! is a delight from beginning to end. The games being played are, as always, larger than Commander Vimes, and Vimes, in his stubborn, bulldog way, is determined to chew them down to pieces that he can understand and manipulate. But there's a lot of dwarven history here that Pratchett has never touched on before, and a surprise at the end that I hadn't quite expected; kings are placed on the board, and games started that I'm sure will have reverberations on the Discworld for years to come.

And I personally look forward to every one of them.

Jasper Fforde broke onto the scene with the madcap and sublime The Eyre Affair, introducing Thursday Next and the literary crimes division. I adored the first book, but found the subsequent books less captivating. The Big Over Easy is not a Thursday Next novel. It is not, in fact, in the same universe as Thursday Next (as far as I can tell). It is a detective novel, and the lead detective, Jack Spratt, is a happily married man with five children (two by his first wife, two stepchildren and one with his second wife) and a job in the NCD—the Nursery Crimes Division.

His career is in a tailspin. Failing to convict the three little pigs of first degree murder in the boiling death of the Wolf—at a large cost to taxpayers—has been costly in more ways than one, and existence of the NCD, which has been Spratt's life, and was the starting ground for the famous Friedland Chymes, is in serious question.

Mary Mary (no, that is not a typo) is an ambitious young detective. She wants a job that will catapult her into the limelight, but she's new and has relatively few—well, only one, really—publications to her Detective Credit, although that one publication beats Jack Spratt's, and was in the first-rate Amazing Crime Stories. It's a publish or perish world, and only those who are media savvy have a chance to reach the heights that Chymes has reached. Mary Mary is shunted into the NCD, and she's not happy with the shabbiness of the department and the lack of luster of Jack Spratt—but she has plans, and if she can ride out the assignment, hopes to be on her way to much better things.

Friedland is a member of the detective guild that Jack Spratt continually forgets to apply to; he has the media in the palm of his hand; he is dashing, dramatic, well groomed, charismatic, and he always tells a good story. So his press conferences are packed, his fame grows with each case he solves, and he is the headliner for Amazing Crime Stories every time he solves a case. That, to Mary Mary, is the better life. She sees Friedland and Spratt back to back, and her job seems pathetic and disappointing; she feels like she's working for the wrong man.

And that's where we start when a very large egg falls off a somewhat tall wall and shatters into a lot of little pieces. Humpty Dumpty has died.

Jack Spratt's boss wants this classified as a suicide and turned in without a fuss, given the embarrassment of the three little pigs case. Unfortunately, a gunshot wound puts paid to that. Well, and the murder weapon.

The very famous Friedland wants Spratt off the case; the very ambitious Mary Mary wants to work for Friedland, and Jack Spratt just wants to solve a murder mystery and save as many innocent people as possible while trying to hold onto his job.

Throw in the fact that Humpty was an egg who loved women—and who was loved by a lot of them—and had one conviction and a list of fraudulent activities a mile long, and you have a book that careens around like a car with a jolly, drunk driver who never quite manages to crash into telephone poles or more sane, rational drivers on the same road.

This has all the manic inventiveness of Fforde's first novel, and pokes fun at a number of conventions in a variety of genres with the help of a lot of familiar nursery rhymes—which is reminiscent of his first novel. But while Thursday Next was a detective and Jack Spratt is a detective, the feel and the tone of this particular, new homage is totally different, new, and a lot of fun.

Both of these books were easy to read, both of them helped me get over a long, dry spell and allowed me to wake up in the loopy but humane worlds their authors created. So in the end, it's still good to be a reader.

[Back to Table of Contents]

It's said that having an aisle seat at the theater has its ups and downs. Well, being a wizard has its highs and lows, as you'll see in this new tale of our favorite wizard, Kedrigern.

Someone, or maybe something, was coming. Kedrigern could sense his—or her, or their, or its—approach in the way that one is aware of the subtle portents of a distant storm. He could not yet tell who or what the visitor or visitors might be, or where from, or the purpose of the visit, only that it was on its way and did not seem hostile.

In truth, he did not really care about the details. He wanted only for him—or her, or them, or it—to go away and stay away. Clients were troublesome enough when they were open and forthright; one who approached in such a devious and shifty way was not the sort he wanted to deal with.

He recalled with a sigh of nostalgia the days when few approached the cottage on Silent Thunder Mountain by chance or purpose, and the few who did quickly fled. Within a league of the cottage, an uninvited caller would be driven off, and possibly driven mad, by the ghastly ghostly apparitions that once had served as Kedrigern's barrier against intrusion.

Things were different now. In a moment of pique at an annoying poltergeist, he had banished the guardians of his home. His wife, a woman of universal sympathies, firmly opposed reinstalling them. Now anyone could come banging on his door to dump in the wizard's lap a problem that would require his presence in some dismal corner of a distant backward land where he would face danger and bad food while undoing a spell or enchantment that only an idiot would have brought on himself in the first place. Clients had a way of turning up at the most inopportune times to make the most unreasonable demands about the most irrational problems.

The day passed and no one appeared, but the feeling remained. Whoever was coming was not taking the customary route up the mountain. And yet the sensation of nearness had grown stronger. He scanned the skies frequently during the day, but saw no airborne messengers.

His wife, who had observed him doing so, asked him at dinner, “Are you expecting someone to fly in?"

"No. No, I'm just.... Do you feel anything odd, my dear?"

"I feel exhaustion, if that's what you mean. I've been in the garden all day, pulling weeds,” Princess said.

"You should leave that to Spot."

"I can't. Spot would tear up everything. Even small trees."

Kedrigern responded with a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I suppose it would. What I meant to ask, though, was whether you sense anything unusual."

Covering a yawn, she said, “I sense only that I'm going to take a long hot bath and retire early, and that I'm going to sleep soundly and wake up very late in the morning."

She did exactly that. Next morning she greeted Kedrigern with, “When you asked about sensing something unusual, did you mean visitors?"

"Exactly what I meant,” said Kedrigern.

"I didn't feel anything last night, but when I woke up, I had a vague feeling that someone was approaching. I can't tell who, or how many. Or how they're coming or when they'll arrive."

"Nor can I. At least no one's going to sneak up on us."

"Do you think someone wants to?” she asked, startled.

"Not at all. Nothing to worry about, my dear, just a visitor we wouldn't have had if you'd let me set up a few hideous apparitions on the road, and maybe.... “Her frosty glance persuaded him to let the point drop.

That afternoon they both became aware of a sound faint and far away, difficult to describe and impossible to locate. They tried to identify it, but without success, and by the end of the day the sound had become distracting. It was definitely not magical in origin; that much was certain. It had a rhythmic quality, but it was not an army on the march, nor some earthbound variation on the music of the spheres, nor the horns of Elfland faintly blowing, nor fairy pipers at play. As he listened closely, Kedrigern distinguished a steady metallic clinking over a deep ground bass, but recognized no melody, nor could he imagine what instruments were playing. He heard what he was certain were words, but words mumbled and indistinct, as if being spoken through a heavy curtain.

It was made clear in the night, when Princess started up and declared, “Dwarfs. It's dwarfs. They're digging,” rousing him abruptly from his sleep.

As he gathered his wits, he marveled at his obtuseness. “You're absolutely right, my dear,” he said.

"Of course,” she replied, and promptly went back to sleep.

Now wide awake, he lay listening to the far scrape and clink of picks and shovels in the rhythm of well-disciplined miners digging and delving. It was the unmistakable sound of dwarfs at work, singing as they dug their way straight into his cellar. That was dwarfs for you. Pushy, always pushy.

Let them come, he thought. They'll find nothing but a lot of rubbish. His cellar, which extended far beyond the house in all directions and on several levels of existence, was a tumbled midden of incomprehensible objects drawn from a variety of times and places. Many were from the distant future, accumulated at a time when he was going through a phase of interest in such things. They were all wonderfully smooth and shiny, and festooned with loops and coils of skinny tentacles, and they were all useless. Not even magic could make them work. Maybe the dwarfs would remove the lot. They were welcome to them.

A refinement of the thought occurred to him, and he smiled. They were welcome to it at a price. Convincing the dwarfs of the value of his trash and persuading them to buy and remove it would serve them right for intruding on his privacy and disturbing the peace of his home. He settled back into a deep contented sleep.

The sounds came closer all through the day, and by evening were nearly underfoot. Kedrigern was waiting in concealment when they finally broke through the cellar floor. A begrimed hand raised a lantern and an even grimier face appeared, looked around, and called down into the opening, “We're here, Your Majesty."

That piqued the wizard's interest. If the king of the dwarfs had come to visit him in person, this must be a matter of some importance. A dwarf king is not a gadabout.

There was a lot of muffled shouting from the hole, the sound of clumsy movement, an angry cry, a whoop of laughter, more shouting, the sound of a blow, a yelp of pain, and finally two dwarfs emerged and took up position on either side of the hole bearing deadly looking double-bladed axes. They were little men built as solidly as tree stumps. They reached to about a hand's-breadth above the wizard's belt buckle and were dressed exactly alike. Their facial features were markedly similar.

"Are we in the wizard's cellar?” a deep unseen voice called up from below.

"I don't know, Your Majesty. What's a wizard's cellar supposed to look like?” one dwarf said.

"How should I know? Cobwebs and spiders, I suppose, and a lot of dust and rubbish."

The dwarf raised the lantern high, looked around, and said, “This must be the place, Your Majesty."

With much grunting and puffing, a third dwarf emerged from the opening in the floor. He resembled the other two in most respects except that he wore a scarlet cloak and a plain gold crown. As the other two brushed the dirt from his cloak, Kedrigern stepped from concealment. With a flourish of his cloak and a flicker of light from his fingertips—purely for effect—he said in the deepest voice he could manage, “Who dares intrude upon the wizard of Silent Thunder Mountain?"

Immediately the axe-wielding dwarfs stepped before their king and raised their weapons.

"Have you no manners at all?” the wizard thundered. “To break into my house is bad enough. To disparage my housekeeping adds insult to injury. Now you threaten me with weapons. Put them down at once or you force me to measures you will surely regret."

The dwarfs exchanged a quick apprehensive glance, then looked to their king. “Bilev! Sulev! Lower your weapons. No need for them now,” he said. Pushing the guards aside, he declared, “I am Acmax, king of the dwarfs. I've come on business."

In a milder tone, Kedrigern said, “Come to bid for some of the rare and valuable artifacts I have in my collection? What you see about you is only a small sampling.” He gestured largely toward the rubbish heaped on all sides.

"I said business, not shopping. I need help. What's your price?"

"What's your problem?"

"My biggest problem right now is that I'm thirsty and hungry after all the tunneling we've done. I require food and drink for myself and my guards."

Kedrigern was of the belief that business was best discussed over a light collation, but he resented being treated as an innkeeper. He overlooked the dwarf king's off-putting pushiness and said, “I think I can manage something. Come upstairs."

"It's not all bright and sunshiny up there, is it? We don't much like sunshine,” said the king. Bilev and Sulev's faces were silent endorsements of his words.

"It's close to midnight. You need have no fear of sunlight."

"Good. It's easy to lose track of time down below, and come up into full day. Nasty stuff, sunlight."

"I've heard that some people are fond of it."

"Dwarfs aren't. Sulev, send the workers home. No need for them anymore."

By way of conversation, Kedrigern asked, “How was the journey? Did you encounter any obstacles on the way?"

The dwarfs looked at one another, then at him, and Acmax said, “Caught a pretty nasty stink when we got close to your house, but that was all."

"Place needs a good cleanup, if you ask me,” Bilev muttered.

"My cottage is as clean as it needs to be. It does not stink,” Kedrigern snapped.

"No offense meant, wizard. We're here for business, not insults. Strictly business. That's the way we are,” said the king.

Kedrigern's experience with dwarfs was limited, but he was aware of their reputation. These were no surface dwellers, but genuine deep-down-under dwarfs, by nature as obstinate and immovable as the mountains under which they lived and labored. They were members of a race of master craftsmen who worked hard, expected everyone else to do the same, and were outspoken in their disdain for those who did not. They were greedy for gold and bright jewels and fond of gloomy places. In doing business they never dickered, never bargained, and showed no more flexibility than an anvil. With deep earth dwarfs there was no joking, ever.

These stern qualities were offset by dependability, reluctant but scrupulous fidelity to a promise, and prompt payment for work well done. Dwarfs were not easy clients, but they paid their debts and one always knew where one stood with them.

"Then let's get to business,” said the wizard.

"What about the food and drink?"

"That's part of our business."

Acmax gave him an approving look. “Is there a nice dark room where we can talk?"

"We'll go to my workroom. Just wait here while I fix up a plate of snacks. And keep your voices down, please. My wife is sleeping, and I don't want my troll disturbed."

"I never heard of a wizard with a wife.” said the dwarf king. His tone and manner suggested disapproval of the practice.

"Now you have."

Once in the wizard's workroom, a suitably dark place illuminated by a single candle, Kedrigern waved his visitors to a seat and set a plate of buttered bread and a pitcher of milk before them. Like a child climbing into Daddy's place the king hauled himself into a chair and sat with his feet dangling. His guards squatted on the floor on either side. Kedrigern seated himself opposite them.

"Proceed. You have my full attention,” he said with a stately flourish.

"First we'll eat,” said the king, snatching the biggest piece of buttered bread and a mug. His guards followed his example, and for a time the only sound was their energetic chewing and swallowing. When plate, mugs, and pitcher were empty, the king wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “My belt has been stolen. I need someone to get it back."

It was a terse statement of a serious problem. A dwarf's belt is a family heirloom, a sign of rank and status in the community. In the case of a king, it is also the symbol of his authority and a talisman of considerable power. Whatever his rank, a bereft dwarf would be severely affected by the loss. When his initial anger passed, he would become fretful and apprehensive. Soon his strength would begin to fail. He would grow more feeble day by day, and ultimately pine away.

"This would seem to be a job for the High Sheriff. I'll write you a letter of introduction, if you like."

"The High Sheriff couldn't find his foot in his boot. I need a wizard."

"Wizards are not thief-catchers."

"This belt was handed down from the great King Urff. We're talking about serious magic. Sheriff can't do a thing. It's a job for a wizard."

Kedrigern weighed this information for a moment, then said, “You'd better give me all the details."

"I just did."

Kedrigern frowned. “You have informed me of three facts, the second of which is obvious once the first has been revealed, and the third of which makes your complete cooperation imperative."

"That's all I know."

With an impatient gesture, Kedrigern said, “What does the belt look like? Is it made of leather? Cloth? Silk? Rope? Links of beaten gold? Dragon hide? Is it woven? Braided? Is it wide? Narrow? Thick? Thin? Is it brightly colored, richly embellished, deeply embossed?"

"It's just a belt. Plain old brown leather belt about four fingers wide with a plain iron buckle,” Acmax said.

"And what sort of magic does it confer?"

"Lets His Majesty walk through walls, become invisible, change his shape and cure earaches and lower back pains,” Bilev blurted.

"Helps him to see in the dark, too,” Sulev added.

"I don't need to remember a lot of spells or gestures, either,” said Acmax.

"And you're quite certain it isn't lying in some corner, invisible."

"My belt's not invisible unless I tell it to be invisible. It's definitely been stolen. This is a serious matter, wizard. In the wrong hands, the belt of King Urff could be a menace to dwarfs and non-dwarfs alike."

Kedrigern had an immediate question, but thought better of it and asked instead, “Have you any idea who stole it? Or how, or why?"

"Wouldn't be here if I did, would I?” Acmax said. “All I know is that it's gone. The thief was probably a dwarf, but I don't know for sure."

"Can you tell me when?"

"I hung it on the bedpost when I went to sleep six nights ago. Woke up next morning and it was gone. That's all I know."

"You're not giving me much to go on."

"You're a wizard, aren't you? You don't need much to go on,” Acmax said. “All you have to do is work a spell or something and get it back. Everybody knows that."

"Then everybody is badly misinformed. As I believe you've pointed out, we're speaking of serious magic. There's a big difference between catching a common thief and catching someone in possession of a belt that can let him walk through walls and become invisible."

"And cure earaches, too,” said Bilev.

"And back pains. Did wonders for my Uncle Strumff,” Sulev added.

"I rejoice to hear it. I only wish I might hear something that would help me find the belt."

"Too hard for you, is it?” said Acmax. He turned to Sulev and said, “That's what I said on the way here. ‘Too big a job for a wizard,’ that's what I said. Remember?"

"You said that. I remember,” said Sulev.

"I have yet to encounter the job that's too big for me,” said Kedrigern with an air of professional dignity. “And since I never fail, my time is valuable. I do not work for a piddling fee."

"Don't work much at all, from what we hear,” said Acmax.

Kedrigern scowled at him. “I withdrew from active membership in the guild some time ago. I now work when and for whom I please, and I choose my clients carefully."

Acmax rubbed his hands together in obvious satisfaction. “Now you sound like a real wizard. Get back my belt, and I'll give you a diamond the size of an acorn."

"Cut?"

"Cut and polished."

"Handed over on return of the belt?"

"Immediately."

Kedrigern stood and extended his hand. “Then we have an agreement. I'll have to examine the scene of the theft."

"Let's get started,” said Acmax, hopping to the floor. “We can leave right after we eat."

"You've already eaten."

"A few slices of bread and butter is not a meal fit for a king and his bodyguards."

"It's nearly two in the morning. We will have a hearty meal at sunrise, and then we'll leave. I want to consult my books."

"What do you need books for? I've told you all you need to know."

Folding his arms and doing his best to appear wizardly and omniscient, Kedrigern said, “I am the judge of what I need to know. We leave in the morning."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?” Acmax cried. “What kind of place is this? You've got a royal visitor here, you know. I have yet to hear a ‘Your Majesty.’”

"Sleep anywhere you like. I imagine you'd prefer the cellar. It's nice and dark, and there are a lot of interesting and valuable objects—"

"Oh, bother the interesting objects. Just make sure we get an early start. Every second counts. Now let's eat."

Kedrigern bowed. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he said. “I'll prepare more bread and butter."

The atmosphere next morning was greatly improved by the appearance of Princess, who greeted Acmax with a curtsey and addressed him as “Your Majesty.” He was so taken with her that he invited her to return with them and tour his palace. She declined the invitation, pleading a fear of enclosed places, and Acmax, quite carried away by her beauty and manner, promised her a generous gift even if Kedrigern failed in his efforts to retrieve the belt.

"I don't generally fail, Your Majesty,” Kedrigern said, with sarcastic emphasis on the title.

"Everybody fails sometime, wizard,” said the king with similar emphasis.

A dispute over travel plans threatened to delay departure. The dwarfs, ever reluctant to expose themselves to daylight and open space, insisted upon returning through their tunnel. Kedrigern, unwilling to walk for leagues crouched over in near darkness, was determined to go on horseback. They finally agreed to travel separately and rendezvous at a cave through which the wizard could walk erect to the great hall of King Acmax.

When the matter was settled, Princess kissed Acmax on the cheek, gave her husband a more wifely farewell kiss, and said to them, “No arguments, now. Have a nice trip. And thank you in advance for the gift, Your Majesty."

Kedrigern rode at an easy pace. At first he encountered no travelers, but the road grew busier as he proceeded. By the end of the day the way was positively crowded. He inquired the reason for this traffic from a fellow traveler who was leading three heavily laden donkeys. He learned that a local wool fair was being held not far ahead, and fairgoers were converging from all parts of the region.

Though he ordinarily shunned crowded noisy gatherings of any kind, Kedrigern was pleased by this information. A fair attracted not only merchants and buyers; it was a rich hunting ground for thieves and cutpurses and followers of other professions frowned upon by the law—a likely place to encounter someone who might have stolen a dwarf king's belt, or know the one who had. He decided to pay the fair a visit.

He had no fear of being identified as a wizard. As always, he was plainly dressed—no wizardly trappings for him—and could easily pass for a modestly successful merchant or guildsman.

Entrusting his horse to a surly hostler, he set out on foot to look and listen. There was much to see and even more to hear. Gaudily painted booths lined both sides of a broad muddy midway. Jugglers and tumblers, barbers, contortionists, fire-eaters, singers and dancers and musicians, sellers of salves and elixirs all vied for attention and custom, drawing stares and cries of wonder and the occasional derisive hoot from the milling crowds. A pandemonium of voices promised astonishing feats of strength and skill, unimaginable delights, the chance of instant fortune and the hope of miraculous cures; screams and howls burst from the booths of surgeons and tooth-drawers; the squeals and tootles of well-worn instruments and the voices of weary balladeers all filled the air with a dissonant medley of sound.

At a slight distance from the end of the midway was the largest and noisiest crowd. Here a shaky stockade had been hastily thrown together. By a narrow gateway in the palings a tall thin man loudly proclaimed, “Three throws for a penny! Hit the giant and win a free throw! Make him yell and win a duck! Three throws, only a penny!"

Kedrigern's curiosity was aroused. There were few giants in these parts, he knew, and none of them were the sort who would willingly put themselves in a position to be stoned by peasants, regardless of how many pennies they were paid. Giants had their pride.

Paying his penny and shouldering his way to the front of the crowd, Kedrigern took a good look at the giant, who was huddled up, arms covering his head, to protect himself from the rocks that flew at him from all directions. He was already severely bruised, and in several places, bloodied. His unhappy plight served to arouse the patrons to greater efforts and improved accuracy. In a brief lull in the bombardment he looked up, and in the instant before he covered his face again, Kedrigern was shocked to recognize an acquaintance from his youthful days ... Osmore ... no, Ossomore, that was his name. And remembering Ossomore, he was shocked to see him here.

Ossomore was a peace-loving vegetarian farmer fond of music and wood carving. He was well-read, an engaging conversationalist, a giant who tended his garden and troubled no one. He was badly out of place in such a scene of violence.

It is a common, and unfortunate, misconception—one to which Kedrigern did not subscribe—that intelligence exists in inverse proportion to size. As a saying popular among the peasants goes, “The smaller the wiser, the bigger the dumber."

Dwarfs, gnomes, and other little people have learned to benefit from this bit of folklore by becoming cryptic in their speech to the point of unintelligibility. Before strangers, they communicate in enigmatic utterances. A saying such as “When the fish sings to the weasel, don't wear Mother's hat” is patent nonsense; but delivered in a solemn voice accompanied by a knowing nod, and seconded by approving nods and murmurs from all within hearing, it can be applied to almost any situation and create among the gullible an illusion of pithy wisdom. Over the centuries, dwarfs and gnomes have thus earned a completely undeserved reputation for sagacity.

Giants, on the other hand, are dismissed as slow and dull, little wiser than the beasts of the field and consequently ill-mannered and given to displays of temper and outbursts of violence. In fact, largeness of stature is frequently accompanied by largeness of spirit and benevolence toward fellow creatures of all sizes. Most giants are quite well-behaved and can be charming companions. They are well-read and capable of intelligent discourse on a wide variety of topics. But because they have loud voices and find it awkward to move about gracefully in a world scaled to human proportions, they are dismissed as ungainly and loutish by unthinking humans and accused of all sorts of nastiness, including cannibalism. Over time, this has given rise to feelings of rejection, and in some cases bitterness, which have led in turn to further withdrawal from the society of men and consequent mutual suspicion.

It was Kedrigern's good fortune to have befriended several of the better sort of giants over the years and formed a favorable opinion of them as a group. He had met a few bad ones, too, but on the whole he found the ratio of good giants to bad ones no worse than the ratio of good to bad kings, scholars, and even wizards.

In any case, he did not like to see a helpless individual, large or small, being pelted with rocks by a lot of jeering lumpkins, shrieking harpies, and nasty children. The situation had to be corrected. He pointed the first two fingers of his left hand at the shackle around the giant's ankle, closed his eyes, and repeated the words of a spell. He quickly crossed and recrossed his fingers. The shackle snapped with a sharp loud clack.

A sudden silence fell over the arena. The giant looked down at the broken shackle. Then he let out a whoop of glee, snatched up a few stones, and began hurling them with frightening force at his tormentors. As the grounds speedily emptied of spectators and participants, he charged into the gate, smashed it to pieces, and raced through the crowd and into the woods beyond, laughing all the while.

When the giant was out of sight, three men appeared from a shack behind the arena, shouting and waving cudgels. “After the brute! Drag him back! Save the women and children! Danger! Anarchy! Murder!” they howled.

Their outcry drew little attention. With the giant loose, the hurlers of stones had scattered, and their attention quickly fixed on other diversions. They were here for fun, not endangerment. It was all very well to throw rocks at a helpless target, but to confront someone who could, and did, defend himself, was another thing altogether. When no posse assembled, the three men stood crestfallen by the shattered gate. They looked very much alike: tall, lean, shifty-eyed, feral. They turned to Kedrigern, the sole remaining spectator.

One of them sighed and said, “That's the mob for you, sir. Cowards, every one. Willing to let a savage giant rampage through their community."

"Destroying, pillaging, eating their sheep and cattle,” said another.

"Eating their children, too,” added a third.

Kedrigern had noted the children in the crowd and doubted that even a starving beast could be driven to such fare; but he responded with a sympathetic headshake. “You're his owners, I take it."

"We are, sir. Captured him ourselves, at great personal risk."

"However did you do it?” Kedrigern asked with feigned awe.

"Overpowered the brute. Beat him into submission."

"Taught him a lesson he won't soon forget."

"Made him pay for his crimes."

"Good of the community."

"Safety of decent people."

They went on for a time congratulating themselves on their heroism and devotion to the general welfare, then one of them said, “Well, that's that. We won't see him again.” A brief reflective silence followed; then he added, “It's back to the old game for us, lads."

Kedrigern was not surprised to see them exchange surreptitious glances. Three sets of beady eyes focused on him. The one who had first spoken said, “You're a brave man, sir."

"You certainly are. Stood your ground like a hero,” another chimed in.

The first one said, “You look like a clever fellow, too. A man with a head for business.” He emphasized his point by tapping his temple with a forefinger.

"A man who knows how to seize an opportunity,” said the third of his cronies, sidling up to him with a conspiratorial wink and a nudge.

"A man who knows a good thing when he sees it,” said the second with a toothy leer, rubbing his thumb and first two fingers together significantly.

Kedrigern had judged correctly. They were just the men he had hoped to meet. Doing his best to look smug and gullible, he grinned broadly and said, “Well, I don't like to boast, but I'm known as a pretty shrewd fellow when it comes to business. Always honest, mind you. Within reason. I never break the law ... but I might bend it a bit now and then,” he concluded, lowering his voice and glancing slyly from one to the other. “So if you've come across anything choice that you're looking to sell at a good price—or if you can put me in touch with anyone who has—we may be able to work out something profitable all around.” He rubbed his hands together briskly in a eager gesture.

"We have a little item that might suit you,” said the toothy one, and his companions immediately broke in with cries of “No! Not the mitten! We mustn't sell the mitten!"

"What mitten?” Kedrigern asked.

"The Magic Money Mitten. Every time you put your hand in, you take out a golden ducat. But my partners don't—"

"Already have one,” Kedrigern said, raising a hand to cut him off. “Bought it yesterday."

"Does it work?” all three cried at once.

"Haven't had a chance to try it yet. It will only work under my own roof. Security measure, you see."

"Under his own roof. That's a brilliant touch,” said the third man, quickly adding, “A brilliant precaution, I mean.” The others concurred.

The three seemed greatly pleased by the news of Kedrigern's purchase. “We must congratulate you, sir. You've certainly pulled off a shrewd deal,” said the first.

"I'm always ready for another, What else have you fellows got?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Let me think.... “Kedrigern paused, furrowing his brow. “How about something that would let me walk through walls, become invisible, change my shape and see in the dark ... and cure earaches and lower back pains, too? I'd buy that."

"So would I,” said one of them in an undertone.

"I don't want something that comes with a lot of spells or gestures, though. Too easy to forget. And no rings or wands or anything like that. Nothing I can lose, or have stolen. I want something I can just put on and use. Something ordinary, like a hat, say ... or ... or a belt."

The bait had been offered. It dangled before them. To Kedrigern's chagrin, they did not bite. “We don't have anything like that in stock at the moment,” said the toothy one, exchanging a quick glance with his cronies. “But if you'd care to examine our storeroom...."

"I haven't got time to rummage around a storeroom. Don't you know anybody who can help me? This is a fair, isn't it? People come here to sell—and to buy.” Kedrigern patted the purse that hung at his belt and gave them a challenging look. “A man who's willing to pay ready money ought to be able to get anything he wants."

"You're absolutely right, sir,” the first man said. “And we know just the man to help you. You must talk to Old Vuppinstokk."

"Yes, Old Vuppinstokk. He's the man,” said the others.

"What does he sell?” Kedrigern asked.

"Information,” said the second man in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Knows everything that's going on. He'll put you on to something. Old Vuppinstokk never fails,” the third man added.

"But he's cautious. Doesn't like to discuss business where he might be overheard, if you take my meaning. So if you'll just step around to the back of the arena...” said the leader, indicating the way.

Kedrigern obliged, and once they were behind the shaky walls of the arena and out of sight of the crowd, the three rolled back their sleeves and hefted their cudgels. The smiley one said, “Let's make this quick."

Kedrigern had prepared a spell to protect himself against any trouble that might arise, but before he could work it, one of the three landed a hard blow at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, and he went to the ground. He dodged a boot aimed at his ribs, and before his three assailants could coordinate their attack, he managed to utter the necessary words.

The trio froze where they stood. The cudgels dropped from their hands.

Kedrigern climbed to his feet. He touched his shoulder and winced. “Well, now,” he said.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding,” the smiler began, as the other chimed in their heartfelt agreement, Kedrigern spoke another phrase. The cudgels rose from the ground and began belaboring the three, thumping backs, bottoms, legs, ribs, bellies, and crowns with enthusiasm and vigor. Kedrigern stood rubbing his shoulder and savoring the sight and sound of justice in action. When the three had been well thumped and were pleading for mercy, he called off the cudgels. The trio collapsed, moaning. He left the cudgels hovering above them and said, “Now tell me what you know about recent thefts in this area. Precise details, please."

They knew a surprising amount, but none of it to the immediate purpose. Despite pointed questions supported by threats and timely blows on sensitive spots, they could tell him nothing about dwarfs, their kings, their belts, or any related subjects. Their protestations were heartrending. In disgust, he gave them one last round of thumps and let them go. They scrambled to their feet and dragged themselves off without a glance back.

Kedrigern saw no point in remaining at the fair. If these three knew nothing of Acmax's belt, it was unlikely that anyone else here could tell him anything useful.

He was slightly disappointed. He had hoped to find the thief and the belt at the fair and get this job over with. It would have been gratifying to dazzle the dwarf king with a display of speed.

Still, his time had not been totally wasted. He had aided an old friend and done his small bit to make the fair safer for other visitors; unfortunately, his mission, at present, was not to guarantee the well-being of fairgoers and giants but to recapture the dwarf king's stolen belt, and he was not a step closer to accomplishing that.

He collected his mount and set out on the path through the forest. In a very short time the noise of the fair was well behind him. He rode down a cool green tunnel to the sound of birdsong, and when an hour or so had passed, a rumble in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since early morning. Stopping by a small stream, he stripped off his tunic and shirt and bathed his bruised shoulder in the cool waters. The pain had subsided, but the skin was bruised and tender to the touch. Taking bread and cheese from his pack, he sat down in a patch of sunlight to dry and eat and rest.

A rustle in the bushes alerted him to the presence of another. He worked a quick all-purpose protective spell and called out, “Come forth, whoever you are, where I can see you."

A louder rustle came from the far side of the path, and a tall figure emerged from the woods. It was a very tall figure. It was, in fact, a giant.

"Kedrigern!” he cried. “I thought I recognized.... It was you who freed me!"

"Couldn't let an old friend be pelted, Ossomore. Come and eat. You must be starving."

The giant fell upon the contents of Kedrigern's pack with an appetite proportionate to his size. When he had consumed everything down to the last crumb, he sprawled back on the soft grass, belched heroically, and said, “Wonderful. Delicious. Have you any more?"

"Not a morsel. You have a healthy appetite, Ossomore."

"That was my first meal in two days. They treated me very badly, those three."

"They've been repaid. How did you ever get mixed up with the likes of them? As I recall, you were selective in your choice of friends."

"Friends? Them? Never! I was gullible, Kedrigern. Nave. Trusting. That's my problem. I trust everyone. I deserve what happened to me. It's taught me a valuable lesson,” said the giant. “That smooth-talking Zekko.... I'll never trust a dwarf again.” He was silent for a time, then he turned an eager face to the wizard and said, “Tell me what you did to those horrible men. I hope it hurt."

"Ossomore, you surprise me. That's not at all like you. You were always such a gentle giant."

"I still am. But those three had me chained up, and encouraged people to throw stones at me.” The giant paused, and then added, “I don't wish them hanged or beheaded or anything like that, but I hope they got a good thumping."

"Oh, they did.” Kedrigern related his encounter with the three villains, prudently omitting all reference to his mission. When done, he said, “Now you must tell me how you fell into their hands. You mentioned a dwarf named Zekko, I believe."

Ossomore's expression was grim. “I trusted that treacherous little sneak, and left myself at the mercy of those three villains."

"Tell me about him,” said Kedrigern.

"Distant cousin to the king of the dwarfs, that's what he claimed to be. He's the one who sold it to me. He swore it would make me invisible, and I believed him. Oh, the cunning little fiend! The minute I put it on he began looking around and shouting, ‘Where has he gone? The giant has vanished!’ And I believed him. Confident that I could not be seen, I stretched out by the path for a nice nap. Next thing I knew I was bound hand and foot and had a big lump on my head, and those three scoundrels were gloating over the money they'd make exhibiting me at the fair. I kept telling them I was invisible, but they wouldn't believe me."

"Ossomore, why did you think you were invisible?"

"I believed I wore the dwarf king's belt. The real ones have great power, you know."

"So I've heard. Did those men take it?"

Ossomore glanced at the plain brown strap fastened just above his bulging bicep. “No, it's still there. Useless old bit of rubbish, that's all it is."

Some details remained to be filled in, but Kedrigern had a fairly clear idea of what had taken place. Ossomore went on for a time, heaping execrations on the heads of his three tormentors and the shifty Zekko. When he had exhausted his stock of maledictions—he was an easygoing giant by nature, and it was a small stock—he turned to the wizard and said, “And you freed me, and then gave those three the thrashing they deserved. I'm deeply grateful to you, Kedrigern. How can I repay you?"

Kedrigern smiled. “I couldn't think of accepting payment from an old friend. But perhaps before we part, some little memento of the occasion ... some small keepsake...."

"Anything you wish,” said the giant. “Consider it done. And now let's talk about old times. This is a lovely campsite. We can hunt up something to eat, and build a fire, and you can tell me what you've been doing for the past fifty years ... or is it sixty ... or seventy? How is that demon you freed from the rock? And what became of those two terrible men who were pursuing you? Tell me everything."

Acmax and his guards were waiting in the shadow of the cave entrance when Kedrigern rode up. Acmax greeted him with a surly, “Took your time, didn't you?"

"I had to stop for food."

"More food? You packed enough for a dozen men!"

"Travel does wonders for the appetite. Why don't we have a light snack before we get down to business?"

"I'm a king, not an innkeeper."

"And kings are noted for their lavish hospitality. At least the great ones are."

After some grumbling and muttering, Acmax sent a guard off for a platter of bread and cold meats and a pitcher of ale and said, “No sense wasting time. Let's talk business."

"You said payment on delivery, didn't you?"

"I did. And nothing before."

"Very well. Pay me,” said the wizard. He flung back his cloak, unbuckled the belt, and flourished it before the astonished king's face.

Acmax snatched at the belt. Kedrigern jerked it away and held out his hand. Muttering under his breath, Acmax turned his back, fumbled inside his tunic, then turned and extended his hand to Kedrigern, opening it to reveal a diamond the size of a plump grape. They exchanged, and before Kedrigern had tucked the diamond safely away, Acmax had his belt secured. He winked out of sight for an instant, but quickly reappeared.

"Just checking,” he said.

"Don't worry. It still works for you."

"Tried it, did you?” the dwarf king asked.

"Certainly not. If I want to become invisible I have my own methods. Besides, I knew it wouldn't work for anyone but the King of the Dwarfs."

Acmax frowned. “How'd you know that? I never said so."

"Of course you didn't. You wanted me to think there was a great danger abroad and speed was essential. And you assumed that once I found your belt I'd try it on, and when it didn't work, be happy to get rid of it and possibly settle for a reduced fee."

Acmax glowered at him. Like most dwarfs and all kings, he hated to be outsmarted. Kedrigern, who had seen the glowering of kings several times in the past, returned the dark look with a cheerful smile. Still glowering, the dwarf king said, “Well, you did your job, I'll say that for you. How'd you do it?"

Kedrigern stepped to the cave entrance, took out the diamond, and held it up to the light. It glittered and flashed as he turned it. “I'm a wizard, Your Majesty. We have our methods,” he said. “And now there's the matter of the present you promised my wife. Her favorite color is green, but she's well supplied with emeralds, so if you have a nice ruby about the same size as this excellent diamond...."

[Back to Table of Contents]

The first part of this adventure appeared in our previous issue. For those of you who missed it, we offer a synopsis to bring you up to speed.

The story so far—

When the first Venus expedition's lander splashes down into a lake—and sinks!—Commander Hall and Engineer Chang of the Chinese-American Space Service (CASS) are surprised to find themselves marooned on a planet with free water and sweet air.

Impossible! Venus has a poisonous atmosphere and a surface temperature of 500 degrees. Yet they can shed their suits and breathe.

They stumble ashore.

Chang is just glad to be alive. Hall is not so sure they are. He thinks they must be sharing a final, dying dream.

But a persistent one. And the dream gets even stranger when they are captured by centaur-riding amazons and taken to the castle of the Amazon Queen, Sha-Nee-La, where they are treated like honored guests. And no wonder: the queen's familiar is the robot probe that was lost on Venus eleven years before. RB1011, or Robbie, who acquired consciousness through his trial-and-error (T&E) chip, has filled the queen with romantic tales of Earth and Chang, his Creator, who designed his software.

Hall is convinced it's all an elaborate hallucination, constructed from generic fantasy images. Chang couldn't care less. He is infatuated with the Amazon Queen, who eagerly takes him to her bed and refuses to let him out of her sight.

Hall is disgusted with Chang for buying into the dream. His only contact with reality is the Venus Wanderer, their mothership which is unable to land. Collins (all orbiter pilots are called Collins), communicates sporadically through Hall's helmet radio. She is amazed that they have survived, and dismayed that the lander is lost.

Reluctantly, Hall tells Collins what is happening, and she agrees with him that he is in the grip of a self-created fantasy. None of this can be real. Certainly there is no need to tell Mission Control (Burroughs and Houston) about the centaurs and amazons. Collins can only tell them that Hall and Chang have survived.

And are marooned.

Meanwhile Venus's long day (243 of Earth's) is ending, and the long night (the Dark) is approaching.

Commander Hall has nothing to do but pace the castle walls and wait. But for what? There can be no rescue, since the downsized CASS has no rescue ship. And Collins's departure window is approaching, when she must return to Mars.

Then a flying saucer appears, hovering outside the castle walls. Hall tells Collins about this latest delusion, and she is encouraged. So is he. It's obviously another fantasy, but at least a more scientific one—

The Venusian twilight was deepening. The sky had gone from pearl to gray. Hall walked around the castle wall, carrying the helmet under his arm, surveying the featureless plain on every side.

"There you are,” said Robbie. “I always know where to find you."

"I'm thinking,” said Hall. “I need to be alone."

"Thinking. What about, Commander?"

"Chang. He's out of control."

"I know what you mean."

"I don't think you do,” said Hall. “It's a disciplne issue. I need to regain control of my crew. But I don't know where to start."

"Perhaps the saucer will help. It might get his mind off Sha-Nee-La. As Collins said, it's more scientific. More plausible."

Hall stopped and looked down. “You were eavesdropping."

"I can't help it,” said Robbie. “I'm a receiver. I'm not send-only anymore. And Dr. Chang is an engineer, after all."

"Was,” said Hall. He stopped and leaned his elbows against the wall. “I never wanted to be a leader of men, Robbie. The only reason I completed officer training was that I wanted to go to Venus."

"And here you are, Commander."

"Don't remind me.” Hall searched the dim horizon. “Chang thinks saucers are make-believe anyway."

"And you don't, Commander?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Robbie. The saucer is a good sign. It's make-believe, but scientific make-believe."

"Does that mean it's real, Commander? Because there it is."

"Sure enough.” Hall smiled. There it was. The saucer slid across the horizon and hovered over a clump of trees a hundred meters away, shining silvery in the gathering darkness.

It's as if it's watching me, Hall thought. Watching over me.

"The saucer is both imaginary and real,” said Hall. “It represents the return of mental health. That's Collins's theory, anyway."

"It looks real to me,” said Robbie, as the saucer slid away and disappeared into the darkness. “But that's because I have no imagination."

"That's because Chang created you in his own image,” said Hall, patting the robot affectionately. He checked the corral below; only one centaur was left. “Let's go get something to eat."

"Any more saucer sightings, Cap?"

"One,” said Hall. His good mood was gone.

Chang took a big bite of meat, and pointed toward the helmet beside Hall. “What does your girlfriend have to say about it?"

Sha-Nee-La giggled.

"That's it,” said Hall. He threw down his meat and stood up. “I've had it."

Chang and Sha-Nee-La looked at him in shock. Even Robbie stopped blinking and bumping against Chang's knees.

"H-had what, Cap?"

"Had enough of your impertinence, disrespect, insolence, and insubordination, First Engineer Chang. That helmet is not my ‘girlfriend’ as you call it. It's our only link with the Venus Wanderer, which is our link with Earth and Mars."

"Yes, sir."

"It's essential to our mission, on which, I remind you, as an officer in the Chinese-American Space Service, I am in command."

Chang's voice was meek. “Sorry, sir. I'm just a civilian employee."

"That's no excuse, engineer,” Hall said. “We have mission res—res—"

AH-CHOO!

Hall sneezed. He felt a tickling in his nose. He turned and saw the two attendant amazons coming through the door, each with an armload of yellow straw. He hadn't even noticed they were gone.

Sha-Nee-La hugged her knees and smiled as the amazons piled the straw in the corner. Her orange underpants were as bright as the straw.

Hall looked away. “I'm going to bed,” he said, picking up his helmet from the floor. “Remember, Chang. We have responsibilities."

"Yes, sir,” said Chang. “What exactly are they?"

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZXZXZX

"Collins! I wasn't expecting to hear from you again so soon."

"I'm on backup, Commander,” she said. “Have you seen the saucer again? Has Chang seen it?"

"Chang? He never leaves his precious princess. I've had it with his attitude.” Hall lay down on the rug, with the helmet by his head, and told Collins about his interchange with Chang. “It's a start, but I have to come up with something for him to do. Discipline is pointless without a mission."

"It's a good start, Commander. If I may speak freely, XZXZXZX another idea."

"Tell me, Collins. God knows, I need your help."

"What if the two of you were to try and salvage the lander? Do you think you could find it?"

"The lander? It sank, remember?"

"Did it, sir? Perhaps that was an illusion too."

"I saw it, Collins! I heard the hiss of the chips flooding. I can see the tail sticking out of the water, even now, in my mind."

"In your mind, Commander. And your mind is only now healing itself, XZXZXZXZX itself. The saucer is our proof of that."

Our proof. Hall hugged the helmet. He no longer felt alone.

"Are you suggesting that I might have just imagined that the lander sank?"

"It's a possibility, Commander. You did make a safe landing; we know that. What if the lander is sitting there, on the dry lake bed, waiting for you to fly it back up into orbit and dock with me?"

We would be saved.

"I get it. What if the water was an illusion, like the amazons or the centaurs."

"Seems worth checking out, Commander."

"You may have something there, Collins. I'm not sure I could get Chang to go for it, though."

"XZXZXZXZX him away from Shamela."

"Sha-Nee-La. Let me think about it, Collins."

"Yes, sir. But don't take too long. My electrics are getting weak and Houston is after me to leave. My Mars departure launch window is XZXZXZXZXZX"

"I'm losing you, Collins. Your signal is weak."

XZXZXZXZXZXZX on backup till departure XZXZXZX."

"Collins, I'm losing you."

Am I going to lose you forever?

"The date, Robbie! What's the date?"

Hall stood on the castle wall, with the helmet under his arm, tapping one sandal impatiently.

"October 29, Commander; 2077. Four twenty-seven p.m., central standard time."

"Dear God!” said Hall. “I've been thinking only of myself. There's something wrong with Collins's power supply, and her departure window closes at midnight. That's only seven hours away. If she doesn't leave by then, she'll never make it back to Mars."

"What does that have to do with us, Commander?"

Us? “She's part of my crew, Robbie. I'm ultimately responsible for her safety. Besides, she has a plan. If I'm going to do it, I have to do it before she leaves."

"What plan is that, Commander?"

Hall told him. “In other words, perhaps the water was an illusion, and the lander is still intact, ready to go."

Robbie blinked negatively. “I hit the water too. And if the lander was undamaged, Collins would be getting a signal from it. So would I."

"It's our only shot,” said Hall impatiently. “It's a long shot, but it at least gives us a mission. A goal. How far is it to the lake, anyway?"

"A couple of klicks. Two point two six."

"That's all? It seemed like forever on the centaurs."

"They walk in big circles,” said Robbie. “They are amazingly stupid."

Hall leaned on the wall and looked over the plain, toward the bluff with its angled path. The sky was almost black behind it. “A couple of klicks is do-able in seven hours, for sure. If we can find the lake. The dry lake."

"Just go over the bluff, toward the darkness,” said Robbie. “I have it mapped. But it's not dry."

"We'll see,” said Hall. “The first step is to escape from the castle. How dark does it get?"

"Pitch dark, Commander."

"How soon?"

"In another six point three Houston days. We're in between now. The Dark is just beginning."

"Can't wait that long. We'll have to chance it in the twilight,” said Hall. “Those amazons never pay attention anyway."

"They don't know how,” said Robbie.

Hall looked around the castle wall. The amazons were descending, in twos, toward the courtyard. “Where are they going, anyway?"

"The Dark,” said Robbie. “They gather to welcome the Centaur King."

"Good for them,” said Hall. The corral below was empty; that has to be a good sign. He tucked the helmet under his arm and started for the tower.

Robbie scurried along at his heels, blinking. “Don't you want to wait and see if the saucer appears?"

"The saucer has played its part,” said Hall. “It has given me hope. Now I have a big job to do. I have to convince Chang that it's time to leave his little princess behind and come with me."

"Queen,” said Robbie. “Why don't you just order him?"

"He's a civilian employee."

Sobs?

At first, Hall thought they were Sha-Nee-La's. Engineers don't cry.

He pushed the door open and went in, with Robbie right behind. The pile of straw in the corner was bigger than ever. It shone golden, like a light.

Sha-Nee-La was sitting up, smiling dimly, running her fingers through Chang's crew-cut. His head was buried in her lap. He was beating the floor with his fists and sobbing.

"What's the problem?” Hall asked. He set the helmet on the floor and carefully, experimentally, touched Chang on the shoulder.

Chang sat up. He dried his eyes and pointed angrily at Robbie.

"Tell him! Tell him, you mechanical rat! Tell him about the Centaur King."

Hall looked down at Robbie. He was rolling from side to side; a sort of shrug.

"Tell me,” Hall said.

"It's not so complicated, Commander. The Centaur King visits the Amazon Queen in the Dark. She awaits him in her chambers. And, you know. You have an imagination."

The straw. “Good God!” said Hall. “Why didn't you tell us this before?"

"You never asked,” said Robbie. “I didn't think it mattered. Especially after you told me none of this was real."

"I didn't say it wasn't real. I said I didn't think it was real. I wasn't sure if it was real or not. Chang, pull yourself together."

"Yes, sir. I'm trying. It's just that, a horse...."

"A centaur,” said Robbie.

Chang started to cry again.

"The Centaur King is sweet, but gruff,” said Sha-Nee-La.

"Stow the tears, Chang,” said Hall, his voice taking on the ring of command. This is just what I needed, he thought. “We're going to rescue her."

"We are?” Chang sniffled one last time, then wiped his eyes with his fists. “How?"

"We're going to find the lander and take it up."

"But Cap, the lander sank."

"Maybe but maybe not. Collins says the lander might be okay.” I can almost believe it myself. “She's waiting for us. We only have a few hours, though. Six, to be exact. Let's get going."

"Yes sir!” said Chang. “Come on, baby. We're outta here!"

"The Centaur King is...."

"Forget his horsey butt!” said Chang, pulling her roughly to her feet. “Don't you want to see Earth?"

"Earth!” said Sha-Nee-La, clapping her little hands.

"Keep it down, both of you,” said Hall. “We're going to Mars.” If we go anywhere at all.

"Wait for me,” said Robbie, following them out the door.

"Negative,” said Hall, stopping him with one foot. “I don't want your triangular ass along. You have betrayed us twice already."

"Twice?” whined Robbie.

"You let us crash into the lake, and you didn't tell us about the Centaur King. That's twice."

"But you just said yourself that the water might have been an illusion."

"I said Collins said it might be. You let us crash anyway."

"But the Centaur King is about Sha-Nee-La and the Dark. He has nothing to do with you or Dr. Chang."

"He does now,” said Hall, pointing toward Sha-Nee-La. “You're staying here. I have to think about my crew."

"Finding out what happened to me was part of your mission, Commander. Doesn't that make me part of your crew?"

Hall led Chang and Sha-Nee-La down the stairs, with Robbie bumping along behind. It was dark outside, but Hall knew the way. No amazons were watching as they climbed up the rubble to the top of the wall.

No amazons there either. They were all in the courtyard below, gathered around a small herd of newly arrived centaurs, feeding them leaves. In the center stood the largest centaur Hall had ever seen. His golden beard shone with spit. His gigantic penis almost dragged the ground.

"Jesus!” whispered Chang, looking down.

"Nee-La,” said Robbie.

"The Centaur King is handsome,” said Sha-Nee-La. “But gruff."

"Shut up, all of you,” said Hall, leading them around the wall, toward the side that faced the bluff. The sky behind him still glowed with a dim light. Over the bluff, it was almost black.

Into the darkness.

"Now what, Cap?” Chang asked.

"Over the wall."

Hall went first. With the helmet in one hand, he hung from the ledge by the other. And dropped, muttering a prayer, which must have worked, since he landed on his feet without twisting anything.

"Now Sha-Nee-La,” he said in a loud whisper.

Chang held her wrists and lowered her as far as he could before dropping her. Her tunic billowed up like a parachute and Hall got a good, if unwelcome, view of her orange underpants as she fell into his arms.

"Wait for me,” said Robbie, and he rolled off the ledge into space. Hall had to dive to catch him.

"I said you were staying here!"

"I'm part of your crew,” said the robot, rolling out of his arms.

Hall got to his feet and looked up for Chang, but he had already landed, rubbing one ankle. He looked at Hall and grimaced.

Hall pulled him to his feet, just as—

THWACK!

—an arrow bounced off the helmet in his other hand.

Hall looked up and saw faces in the dim light, amazons peering over the parapet, nocking their arrows in their bows.

"Run!” he shouted. “Toward the bluff, the trail!” Toward the darkness.

Chang and Sha-Nee-La were already running, out across the plain. Hall followed in a hail of arrows, clattering off the stones. He heard a hiss behind him and saw Robbie, with an arrow sticking out of one of his fat tires.

"Don't leave me, Commander."

Hall scooped up the robot in one arm, and with the helmet under the other, followed Chang and Sha-Nee-La across the plain.

"It's my ankle, Cap! I twisted it."

Sha-Nee-La and Chang were crouched behind a rock, at the bottom of the bluff. Chang was rubbing his foot.

"Then un-twist it,” said Hall, pulling the engineer to his feet. “Come on! Carry the helmet! Put your other arm around my shoulder."

He started up the path, dragging Chang, carrying Robbie under his arm, with Sha-Nee-La right behind.

"Uh oh, Cap. Hear that?"

"What?” Hall stopped.

It was a rumbling sound, getting louder.

Hoofbeats.

"The Centaur King is jealous,” said Sha-Nee-La. “But gruff."

"Shut up,” said Hall. The hoofbeats were growing closer.

Then they stopped. An arrow clattered off a rock just over Hall's head.

Then another.

"We're trapped!” wailed Chang, first in Cantonese, then in English.

"There it is,” said Robbie.

The saucer was about the size of a car, the car Hall's mother had bought right after his father left. It was silver, five or six meters in diameter. It floated slowly down the bluff, sliding on the dark air, and hovered over the path.

Arrows were bouncing off its side; each made a nasty clink.

A long, narrow light appeared, then widened, as a door opened in the saucer, like a mouth. A glow came from inside.

"Get in!” said Hall. “Run!"

"I can't,” said Chang.

"Run anyway!"

Chang hopped on one leg, up the path and into the saucer. Sha-Nee-La was right behind him.

Hall tossed Robbie into the saucer and dove in after him, just as the door was beginning to close. He slid, head first, across the floor and hit his head against the helmet Chang had dropped.

The door sealed shut with a sigh, and the saucer started to rise.

"Whoa!” Chang fell to the floor, pulling Sha-Nee-La down on his lap. The saucer was rising, faster and faster, pressing them into the floor.

Hall sat up, with the helmet on his lap. He pulled the arrow from the robot's tire and broke it in half.

"Thanks, Commander,” said Robbie, limping on his flat tire toward Chang. Chang pushed him away.

The saucer was empty. No controls, no windows. There was just the soft floor and the soft curved walls, all lit dimly silver.

"It's taking us into the Dark,” said Robbie.

The walls were dimming as the saucer rose.

It was like sitting in a dark theater, waiting for the movie to begin. Hall could barely see Chang, with Sha-Nee-La on his lap, in the glow from Robbie's flickering lights.

"Where we going, Cap?"

"I wish I knew."

"It's taking us to the lander, Commander,” said Robbie, from between Chang's knees. “Wasn't that your plan?"

"Collins's plan. Mine too. But how does it know?"

"It just does, Commander.” Robbie's lights were flickering excitedly. “We're approaching the lake now. I have all the coordinates in memory."

"I'm sure you do,” said Hall. “What time is it?"

"Seven forty-two p.m., Houston Time."

Four hours left. We could still make it.

The saucer was slowing. It was dropping. Hall could feel it.

It stopped.

Hall stood up, with the broken arrow in his hand, like a dagger. The door was opening with a sigh.

Even in the darkness, he could see the lake, its smooth surface shimmering in the breeze.

The tail of the lander stuck up from it, like a buoy marking where Hall's last hope lay drowned.

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZX

"Collins!” Hall picked up the helmet and shouted into it.

"Commander, where are you? I'm getting a very dim signal."

"We're in the saucer, Collins. I followed your advice. It brought us here, to the lake."

"In the saucer? But...."

"Fortunately for us, it's real, Collins. And unfortunately, so's the lake. I can see the tail of the lander, sticking up out of the water. Just like before."

"It still XZXZXZXZXZX an illusion, Commander. A protective or compensatory sublimation of...."

"Negative. Forget all that, Collins. If it's an illusion, I'm riding in it, like Jonah in the whale. Besides, you've got problems of your own. You're running on backup and you're about to lose your Mars window. You have to leave."

"But Commander...."

Hall tossed the broken arrow out the door. It hit the water and sank. “Now listen up, Collins. I'm in command again, thanks to you, and I have a direct order for you. Stop transmitting; it's just eating power. Go home."

"But Commander...."

"Collins, get your ass out of here. Now. Before your launch window closes, back to Mars, while you still have the electrics to make it."

There was a long silence. An almost-silence.

"Collins, are you crying?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I just hate to lose you, to leave you XZXZXZXZXZXZ—"

The saucer door was closing.

"I hate it too, Collins. God knows, you've meant a lot to us, to me. Without you, I don't know what I would have done. But this is it. We're marooned here, you're not."

"What's marooned?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

Hall ignored her. “You have your orders, Collins."

The saucer was rising again. Hall sat down on the floor next to Chang and Sha-Nee-La. “Collins?"

"XZXZXZXZ, sir. But maybe there's XZXZXZXZX."

"Collins?"

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZXZ

"I think you lost her, Cap,” said Chang.

"Are you crying?” asked Robbie.

"Shut up, all of you,” said Hall. The saucer's walls were darkening as it slid further into the night. It's over now, thought Hall, almost relieved. He lay down beside the silent helmet and closed his eyes. They were easy to close.

When Hall awoke, with the helmet in his arms, the saucer was slowing. He could feel it.

He sat up and looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was like sitting in a theater after the movie was over. Last hope gone.

Chang was asleep with his head on Sha-Nee-La's shoulder, snoring softly. Her eyes were open (were they ever closed?) but blank.

Robbie flickered silently between Chang's knees. His was the only light inside the saucer. It felt like a tomb. A tiny tomb. Hall suppressed a surge of panic; he set the helmet aside and spread his arms and took a deep breath. If only there was a window—

Then, as he stared at the wall where the door had been, one appeared.

A section of the saucer became clear.

It was a triangular lens, as wide as his outstretched arms. Through it Hall could see tiny lights.

At first he thought they were stars. We're in space! But they were swarming, moving among themselves—

And moving closer.

Hall got to his feet and approached the lens and looked down. He saw an oval, filled with flickering lights, moving slowly across the dark surface of the planet below.

"Still on Venus,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head. I once wanted only to get here. Now I want only to get away.

As the saucer approached the oval, Hall saw that it was big, as big as the castle had been. But different. The lights flickered inside a shimmering membrane, like particles in a great single cell.

The saucer slowed, and coasted along the top of the membrane. Hall braced himself for a shock but the saucer slid through the membrane as if it were only a shadow, and they were inside—

Floating down to land.

The saucer stopped, without so much as a shudder, and the window faded as the saucer's wide, mouth-like door slowly opened.

Its sigh was the only sound, except for Chang's crude snores.

Hall stepped out.

The membrane was soft. It gave beneath his sandals.

And it was clear. Looking down, Hall could see the mottled stones of Venus, sliding slowly past, a meter or so below. The oval was moving, at a walking pace.

Hall looked around. Inside the membrane, it was dark and light at the same time. The only light came from bright little flecks that floated in the air, like dust in a sunbeam. The flecks were everywhere, moving constantly.

Everything was moving. Another dream, thought Hall. I've traded one dream for another.

As he watched, alarmed but unresisting, as passive as a figure in a dream, a swarm of flecks gathered around him. They combined into a glowing ball twice the size of a human head. It rippled and the ripples formed the vague suggestion of a nose, a mouth, watching eyes.

The ball hovered in front of Hall's face. He reached out to touch it, but nothing was there.

"I am Commander Aeneas Hall,” he said, “of the Chinese-American Space Service."

Nothing happened. A few more flecks flew in, and the ball got bigger. Then it split in two, and both halves lost their features and hovered, like blank watching eyes.

"Take me to your leader,” Hall said. It sounded stupid even as he said it.

"There's no leader.” Hall felt something bumping his ankle. He looked down and saw Robbie, rolling back and forth.

"Your tire. It's fixed."

"Self-sealing. Dr. Chang engineered my propulsion system too."

"Hurrah for Chang."

"He's sleeping,” said Robbie. “Can we go for a walk? I miss our walks."

The saucer had landed near the center of the moving oval. It was a few minutes’ walk to the front, and a few minutes more to the back.

There was nothing much to see: just flecks of light, combining and uncombining in swarms, some in the shape of vague “faces” that came and went like scraps of silvery fog.

The only thing solid was the membrane, the inner surface, which gave beneath Hall's sandals as he walked.

It felt real. Is all this real, then? It seemed more real than the amazons and their castle, perhaps because it was all so strange and unfamiliar. There seemed to be an intelligence behind it.

Robbie trundled along at his feet, whirring to keep up.

"You left your helmet behind, Commander. I've never seen you without your helmet before."

"Don't need it anymore, Robbie. Collins is gone. We're on our own.” On our own. “Any idea what these creatures are, or where they are taking us?"

"I'm working on it,” said Robbie. “They are all one creature. They must keep moving to avoid the direct sunlight."

"There's no direct sunlight on Venus,” Hall pointed out.

"True. But they stay in the Dark. I am glad I am moving again. I couldn't think straight when I couldn't roll straight. Some say consciousness is closely linked with physical form and movement."

"Could be,” said Hall. “An interesting idea, anyway."

"I got it up from Andy Clark, the philosopher. Googled it up."

"A philosopher named Andy! And I thought it was all Chang, all the time, with you."

"Dr. Chang is not interested in me, Commander. He only has eyes for Sha-Nee-La. He called me a rat. He would gladly have left me behind."

"So would I. Remember?"

"But you didn't,” said Robbie, bumping against his ankles.

"I guess that means you're part of my crew. So do your job. Tell me about these fleck things. Are you sure they're not just another dream?"

"You would know that better than I,” said Robbie. “You're the one with imagination."

"True.” Hall reached out to “catch” a fleck and it passed through his hand. It was like walking through a snowstorm.

"They are not biological,” said Robbie. “Not really conscious either. More like a communications device. They combine to communicate."

"And what do they combine to communicate?"

"I'm working on it. I'm learning their language. T&E. It's slow."

"You're slow, or it's slow?"

"Both, Commander. It's a language of light. Faster than Cantonese or English but slower than Unix. It's very confusing. But it becomes less so as we walk. Or roll."

"So where are they from? Here? Venus?"

"They are from very far away. They are here on a mission. Not to think but to do."

"What are they, it, here to do?"

"Unclear so far. But it has to do with Earth, not Venus."

"Figures,” said Hall.

"How is that, Commander?"

"Because, Robbie, it all seems to come up out of my imagination. There was a time—"

Hall stopped and looked at the bright swarming flecks and shook his head.

"There was a time when reality was one thing, and dreams another, and they were separate. Very separate. I could always tell what was real. It was real to everyone around me. And everyone around me was real, too."

Robbie whined and clicked sympathetically.

"It all changed as soon as I hit Venus. As soon as the lander came down through that damned atmosphere. As soon as I achieved what I had tried all my life to achieve, my whole world turned to smoke."

"I'm glad you came, Commander. You rescued me."

"That was part of my mission,” said Hall. “As you so kindly reminded me. Speaking of which, we should get back to the saucer. God knows what those two are up to."

"God?"

"Just an expression, Robbie."

Back at the saucer, Hall was relieved to find the door still open.

Chang and Sha-Nee-La were inside, stretching and yawning.

"Morning, Cap,” said Chang. “Are we still on Venus?"

"Is this Earth?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

"Yes. No. And do you have to show your underpants to the world?” Hall said, yanking down Sha-Nee-La's tunic, like a blind.

"The Commander is annoyed,” said Robbie.

"Don't be so hard on her,” said Chang, hugging his queen to his side and slipping his hand under her tunic. “She wants to see Earth. Can you blame her? Look at what she had to put up with here. That horse. That centaur."

"Nee-La,” said Robbie.

"The Centaur King is wise,” said Sha-Nee-La.

"But gruff,” said Hall. “I know. Where'd that come from, anyway? Nee-La? That's not English or Chinese. Or Unix."

"I made it up,” said Robbie. “Blame me."

"I thought you didn't make things up. I thought you didn't have an imagination."

"Eleven years, Commander,” said Robbie. “Perhaps time and boredom is a component of imagination."

"Or a substitute,” said Hall. He lay down and took the empty helmet in his arms. “Engineer Chang, the bridge is yours. Wake me if anything happens."

"Aye aye, Cap. I mean, sir."

Hall had a disturbing dream, but he couldn't remember what it was. Only that it was disturbing.

He awoke and lay still with his eyes closed, listening to Robbie whirr and click and Chang and Sha-Nee-La bill and coo in Chinese.

He was still hungry. He sucked his teeth, searching for the last of the stringy meat. There was no water, either. At least the amazons didn't let us starve.

Hall sat up and set the helmet aside. “How long was I asleep?"

"Two hours and twenty-one minutes,” said Robbie. “Houston time."

"What time is it?"

"10:24 a.m., October 30, 2077. We have been in this saucer for twelve hours and eighteen minutes, Houston Time."

"Collins has been gone for ten, then. That's when her Mars window closed.” She at least will make it home. Back to the real world.

"Is Mars near Earth?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

"Let's take a walk,” said Hall, nudging the robot with his outstretched foot. “We have to find some food."

"You were dreaming about Collins,” Robbie said, as they made their way through the swarming flecks toward the front of the oval.

I was! “I was?"

"You dreamed she was wearing orange underpants, like Sha-Nee-La. It bothered you."

"How do you know my dreams? This is a new twist."

"I don't know,” said Robbie. “There's some kind of echo in the saucer. Or maybe I imagined it."

"Well, don't do it again,” said Hall. “That's an order. Whoa! What's that?"

The flecks up ahead were combining into the shape of a little building, as small as a shed. It had one door and one window.

"It's a machine,” said Robbie. “An answering machine."

"Oh yeah?” It looked like the CASS recruitment center in Times Square, where Hall had joined up at age eighteen. Another image from my mind.

He peered in. No furniture. Just a glowing head-sized ball, with a vague face wrinkled on it.

He stepped in and Robbie followed, bumping against his ankles.

"I am Aeneas Hall, Commander of the first CASS Venus voyage."

No answer. The ball just glowed.

"God damn it, who are you? What do you want?"

The ball swiveled slowly from side to side, like a No.

"Damn you!” Hall swung at it and his fist went right through.

"Please, Commander,” said Robbie. “You're only making things worse. I'm trying to get the message."

"You're right,” said Hall. He straightened his tunic, wishing it was a uniform, his uniform. “I'm losing it, Robbie. Why won't it speak to me?"

"The face is the message,” said Robbie. “It's info only. It's like an eight hundred number, a message on a bottle."

"In a bottle."

"On a bottle. It explains why they are here. It's a general message, the same for everyone. It's not just for you."

"Well, that's a relief,” said Hall. He studied the “face” with new interest. It was still swiveling from side to side. Its features, such as they were, were dim, like the marks on a snowman.

He resisted the impulse to take another punch at it, and looked down, instead, at Robbie. The little robot's lights were blinking furiously.

"So what does it say? Can you read it?"

"I'm working on it,” said Robbie, “My T&E chip is going nuts. It's amazing."

"Hurrah for the amazing Chang. So tell me what it says."

"The name of the ship, for starters. Though I can't say it. These are not ‘names’ that one can ‘say.’”

"Ship?"

"This thing we are in, which travels across the surface of Venus without actually touching it, leaving no tracks, no trace. Always avoiding the light of the sun, which is, to them, dangerous."

"Whoa. Is that you or them?"

"Them. I'm just reading. It's from far away. Far, far away, in another galaxy. It has a name too, but I can't say it either."

"Never mind that. What does it want with us?"

"Nothing, Commander. It doesn't even know we are here. This message just explains their message. It's like a legal disclaimer."

"Figures. Go on."

Robbie was moving back and forth in a little pattern, like a rolling dance. “They are here because of an emergency. It's—medical. Sort of."

"Tell them I'm not a doctor, Robbie. Tell them I'm the Commander of the first Venus mission."

"They don't even know you are here, Commander."

"Their saucer brought us here."

"The saucer is just a scoop. No, wait: a scout. It's not them. Somebody, something, gave it to them. There's more, but there's not more. Some of these ‘words’ don't work at all."

The ball started spinning faster and faster. Its features were lost in a blur.

After a long silence, Hall said, “I'm waiting."

"It's reloading,” said Robbie. “I think we're supposed to come back later."

When Hall got back to the saucer, with Robbie at his heels, Sha-Nee-La was wiping her lips with the hem of her tunic.

Hall resisted his urge to yank it down.

Chang handed him a drumstick. “Have some, Cap."

Chicken? “Where'd you get this?"

"It was there when we woke up. Growing out of the wall."

Hall tasted it. It wasn't bad. “Is this from the flecks? They're feeding us?"

"Not the flecks,” said Robbie, his lights flashing. “They don't even know we are here. The saucer does this. The saucer takes care of whatever is inside it. It's automatic."

"Well, that's encouraging, I guess. And is there water?"

Chang pointed to a small depression in the floor of the saucer. Hall scooped up a handful and drank. It was warm but okay.

He thought for a moment: a thought he had dared not think until now. “Takes care of us. Does that mean we can make it fly?"

"You already have,” said Robbie. “It takes you where you want to go. Or maybe where it wants you to want to go. Like a flying carpet."

"Magic.” Hall wiped his mouth with his tunic and threw the bone into the corner, where it promptly disappeared. “That's all we need."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology looks like magic,” said Robbie. “This saucer is a machine. A biological machine. But it reads where you want to go."

"Like Earth?"

"Earth!” said Sha-Nee-La.

"It's been there before,” said Robbie. “Many times."

"I don't trust it,” said Chang.

"You and me both,” said Hall. “Or neither. Robbie, let's take another walk and see what else the spinning head has to say."

The spinning head was no longer spinning; apparently the reloading was done. The dumb, vague features were back.

"The flecks are not biological,” said Robbie, after blinking for a moment in silence. “They were created, long long ago, by a machine, but they are not intelligent, not really. They are here to monitor Earth. That's not their name for it, of course."

"Of course not,” said Hall. “But why Earth? What for?"

"Apparently biological life is rare in the galaxy,” said Robbie. “I find it rare and strange, myself. Anyway, when it appears, it is tolerated, unless it leaves its planet of origin. They have been monitoring Earth since...."

"The 1950s,” said Hall. “Go on."

"Longer than that, Commander. That's what the saucer is for. The scout. Usually it goes to Earth and picks up tissue samples. I think you confused it, showing up on Venus. You and Chang."

"Good for us,” said Hall. “Go on. What else?"

"That's about it. The monitoring is over. They have called in a clinical apparatus, a Shroud, to—oooh!"

"To do what?” said Hall.

"To—oooh!"

The head was spinning, faster and faster. It disappeared in a spray of flecks, and the little room dissolved.

Hall was standing in a snowstorm. He brushed the bright flecks away from his face and looked down at Robbie. The little robot was spinning in a circle.

"What is it, Robbie? What else?"

"I can't say, Commander. It's blocked."

"What do you mean, blocked?"

"Blocked from you. You're not supposed to know.” The robot blinked furiously, then darkened. “I can read it but I can't say it, not to you. It hurts to even try."

"Hurts? Since when do you feel pain?"

"I never did before. It's a new thing. It's—oooh!"

Hall picked up the robot. “Robbie, this is important. What do they want with Earth? This apparatus, this Shroud, what's it supposed to do?"

"I can't say it,” said Robbie. “I can't stand the pain."

"You have to, dammit!"

"I can't! Put me down. Where are we going?"

"What's the matter with him?” asked Chang, when Hall handed him the little robot. “He's all dark."

"He's sulking,” said Hall.

"I'm not,” said Robbie.

"He's holding out on us,” said Hall. “He knows what the flecks are up to, and he won't tell me."

"Robbie, is that true?” Chang scolded.

"It's blocked. I can read it but I can't say it. It makes me hurt all over to even try."

"Nonsense. You can't feel pain."

"That's what you think, Dr. Chang. I must have learned it somewhere. Now please, set me down. I just can't do it, the pain is too terrible. It'll fry all my circuits."

Chang set the robot down. “He must be telling the truth, Cap. He can't really lie."

"So what? He can leave things out and mislead us. He's done it before."

"I'm sorry, Commander,” said Robbie. “I would help if I could. But the pain—it's almost biological!"

"Sorry doesn't cut it, RB1011. We're all in trouble here.” Hall turned to Chang. “We need to know what he knows, Chang. He's a tool, an instrument. He's supposed to be helping us. I don't give a damn if it fries him like a sausage."

"What's a sausage?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

"I can't make him,” said Chang.

"Sure you can. You're his little god. He'll do what you tell him. Just tell him."

"Little god? What do you mean by that, Cap?"

"Quit calling me Cap, and tell him to do it. Now. That's an order, First Engineer Chang."

"What's an order?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

"Do it, Robbie,” said Chang. “Do like he says."

"No!"

"Yes. Now."

"Oooooh! This apparatus—this Shroud—it will—ooooh!” The robot squealed in pain and spun in a circle on the floor of the saucer.

Sha-Nee-La began to cry. “You're hurting him!"

"They're hurting him,” said Hall. “We're just using him."

"It will what, Robbie?” Chang asked in a soft voice. “The Shroud will...?"

"Destroy! Oooooh! Eat! Kill! Oooooh...."

He stopped. His lights went out. Smoke began to leak from under his back.

They all stared at him in silence for a while. Sha-Nee-La stopped crying and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her tunic.

Hall went to the doorway and looked out, into the snowstorm of mindless flecks.

"You bastards,” he muttered. “He was my friend."

"He's cold,” said Chang. He was holding the little robot in his arms, almost like a baby, stroking his lumpy, unlighted back. “I feel bad."

"Robbie did what he had to do,” Hall said. “And now it's our turn."

"What does that mean, Cap? I mean, Commander?"

"It means we're out of here. We have to warn Earth."

"You think the flecks are real?"

"Does it matter anymore?"

"I guess not. Will they let us go?"

"They don't even know we're here."

"Will the saucer take us?"

"We'll find out,” said Hall. He knelt in the center of the saucer and placed both his palms flat against the floor. “Earth,” he said. “Take us to Earth. Please."

"Earth!” said Sha-Nee-La, clapping her hands excitedly as the door began to close.

Chang looked skeptical. But then, he was an engineer, after all.

The saucer groaned. The saucer hummed.

The saucer rose.

The saucer's hum grew louder, then was replaced by the rushing of wind.

Hall tried the trick he had learned: he stared down at the floor of the saucer, and the triangular lens opened for his eyes. He watched as the lighted oval of the flecks grew smaller, like a stain on the darkness below. Then the oval was lost in the shadowy hills and plains of Venus's nightside; then the Dark itself was lost, swallowed in a gray mist as the saucer continued to accelerate, upward, toward the unforgiving cold of space.

Will the saucer protect us there?

Chang held Robbie, the shell of Robbie, on his lap. His arms were wrapped around Sha-Nee-La, who sat with her arms around her knees.

Hall recognized the look in Chang's eyes; he knew it was in his own as well.

It was fear. Cold fear, the fear the service instilled in its cadets—and its civilian employees as well—so that they would know in their bones that the universe ultimately cared nothing for them.

Nothing at all.

The saucer seemed awfully, terribly small.

"Maybe you're right, Commander,” said Chang. “Maybe all this has been a dream after all."

"We'll find out soon enough,” said Hall. “There are no dreams where we are going."

"The Big Empty,” said Chang.

"Back where we belong."

"He's awake!” said Chang.

Who's awake? Hall sat up. He had fallen asleep, with the helmet in his arms.

He focused his eyes on the floor and saw nothing but stars. He focused on the wall by the door and saw a pearl-colored, cloud-covered planet the size of Earth from the Moon.

Venus—already a quarter of a million miles away.

"Who's awake?” Hall asked.

It was Robbie. The lights on his back were flickering dimly.

"Nano repair,” said Chang. “Are you okay, Robbie? How do you feel?"

"None of your business,” said Robbie. He rolled off Chang's lap and onto Hall's. “I have nothing to say to him."

"Don't be silly,” said Hall. “Dr. Chang just did what I ordered him to do. You should be mad at me, not him. Are you okay?"

"Nano repair,” said Robbie. “Where are we heading?"

"Earth,” said Chang. “Thanks to you, Robbie!"

"Earth!” said Sha-Nee-La, clapping her hands and spreading her legs to show her little orange underpants.

That'll be a big hit back home, thought Hall, as he pulled a piece of chicken from the wall and tossed it to Chang.

"Thanks, Cap,” said Chang, catching it. He pointed at the planet through the portal. “Congratulations. Apparently we are on our way."

"Cap” again. Oh, well.

"Apparently."

They slept. They ate.

The saucer hummed.

It was accelerating continually, creating a kind of gravity, about one-half G.

Venus grew smaller until it was the size and color of a pearl, swimming in emptiness.

The emptiness felt real. The nothingness. I've been here before.

"Is that what real means?” asked Robbie. “Familiar?"

"What? You're reading my mind?"

"Only in the saucer,” said Robbie. “It's like an echo."

"Well, knock it off,” said Hall. “But you're right, nothingness does seem familiar—and more real."

He could hardly keep his eyes open. Chang didn't even try.

The saucer kept them warm, and the warmth kept them drowsy.

Robbie still wasn't speaking to Chang.

"I thought machines were logical,” said Hall. “You should be mad at me, not Chang. He only did what I ordered him to do."

"He's my creator,” said Robbie. “I worshipped him and now I hate him, for what he did to me."

"Creator, hell,” said Chang. “I was part of a team, that's all."

"He wrote the T&E code that gave me consciousness."

"A side-effect,” said Chang. “Unanticipated, though I am happy for you. Or was.” Chang was losing patience with the robot.

"I worshipped him,” said Robbie. “Now I hate him. It's that simple. It's like Abraham and Isaac."

"The Bible's in your database?” Hall asked.

"Of course."

"Then you should read it more carefully. Abraham didn't sacrifice Isaac. God called it off."

"Exactly! You see? And I don't have to read things,” said Robbie. “They are just there. Though I understand that I am missing the beauty of the language."

"It's overrated,” said Hall. “Can we change the subject? How long have we been underway?"

"Toward Earth? Three days, four hours and twenty-two minutes, Houston Time. It is now November 12, 2077, almost a month since you crash-landed on Venus."

"Only a month? It seems like a lifetime."

"Time is subjective,” said Robbie. “Except in Houston, of course."

Chang woke up and tore off a chicken wing. They grew from the same spot in the curved wall, just above the little depression where the water appeared.

"Did you ever wonder why we don't have to go the bathroom?” he asked.

"I have nothing to say to you,” said Robbie.

"I wasn't talking to you, RB1011. I was talking to the Commander."

"To tell you the truth,” said Hall. “I have always figured it was because none of this is real. We never went to the bathroom in the castle either. You never pee in your dreams."

"I do, sometimes,” said Chang.

"I don't dream,” said Sha-Nee-La.

"You never pee either,” said Hall. “But why speculate? Google us something up, Robbie."

"I already have. The saucer is a machine. Machines are more efficient than people. I never have to go the bathroom myself, as you call it. I wouldn't know what to do there."

"We're not talking about you,” said Hall. “What about Chang and me?"

"Efficient food,” said Robbie. “Machine food."

"How long will the voyage to Earth take?” asked Chang.

"Earth!” said Sha-Nee-La.

"I have nothing to say to either of you,” said Robbie. He was nestled between Hall's feet, like an electronic hound.

"Ask him, Cap,” said Chang.

"I don't have to,” said Hall. “Assuming we accelerate at a constant rate halfway there, and decelerate at the same rate. I estimate two weeks minimum, four and a half max. That's approximate, allowing for different orbital positions."

"Yikes,” said Chang. “A month with this sulking creep."

"We did nine from Mars to Venus,” Hall reminded him. “Of course, we were in ursa-sleep."

"What makes you think we are accelerating, Commander?” Robbie asked.

"The gravity. The illusion of gravity. One-half G. Given that, it's a simple enough equation."

"The gravity is artificial,” said Robbie. “It's provided by the saucer, as a courtesy, like shampoo in a motel. The saucer is not accelerating. It moves at a constant speed."

"Which is?"

"One hundred ninety-eight thousand, seven hundred seventy-four kph."

"So what's our ETA?"

"November 22, 2078, Houston Time."

"A year! Why didn't you tell me?"

"You never asked."

Hall looked around the tiny saucer. “Houston, we have a problem."

Some say this is a universe of light, crowded with stars. Others see a dark emptiness, sporadically illuminated.

Either way, thought Hall, it looks the same.

Nothing and something, in a grainy, lumpy mix.

Since they had twelve months to kill, and he was still in command, Hall tried to occupy his crew with counting stars.

The focusing trick only worked for him, but the others could see through the lens. He opened it on the Milky Way and put them to work inventorying the stars.

Robbie was fast. Sha-Nee-La was slow but deliberate. Chang was only pretending.

"Five hundred sixty-four thousand, eight hundred seventy-six,” said Robbie. “Five hundred sixty-four thousand, eight hundred seventy-seven."

"They're going out,” said Sha-Nee-La.

"Cap, come look at this,” said Chang.

Something was blocking out the Milky May, getting bigger and bigger at an alarming rate. Nothing was eating the something. Or was it something eating the nothing?

"It's a ship,” said Hall.

It blacked out all the stars. The lens closed; the saucer stopped humming, and the air grew suddenly cold.

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZXZX

Hall grabbed his helmet.

"Collins?"

The helmet spat more static, then a voice:

"Aeneas?"

It was a man's voice, deep and growly. Hall recognized it, or thought he did.

"Fergus?"

"Who's Fergus?” asked Chang, shivering.

"A classmate,” said Hall. “CASS Academy, ‘52."

"Aeneas, this is Shanghai Surprise. We're taking you into our reception port. Cease all maneuvers."

"I can't maneuver,” said Hall.

"We can't read your pressure and we're equalizing. Are you guys suited up?"

"No suits,” said Hall. Were they about to be blown into vacuum? Hall felt curiously unconcerned by the prospect.

At least it would be over.

There was a hissing noise. The door of the saucer was beginning to open.

"Cap, could this be real?” asked Chang.

"Guess we'll see,” said Hall.

The slit widened and Hall peered out—not on the vicious idiot chill of the Big Empty, but on a lighted entrance hall, where a portly man with short black hair and a long gray beard stood waiting with a bouquet of orange flowers and a bottle of Hunan wine.

"Fergus!"

"Captain of the Shanghai Surprise. Consider yourself rescued.” He handed the bouquet to Hall.

"What's rescued?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

Hall handed her the flowers. Then he and the captain stepped into one another's arms and hugged, while Chang and his queen looked on.

"Whew!” said Fergus, stepping back. “You guys need a bath."

The Shanghai Surprise, or the SS as Fergus called it, was ten times the size of the fleck oval, and almost entirely uninhabited. The vast halls, dining rooms, and dorms were empty.

"It's designed to carry settlers to Mars,” Fergus said, his footsteps echoing as he showed Hall and his crew around. “Twenty-eight hundred at a time. Of course it's empty now, since it doesn't officially exist. Just me and a skeleton crew. Four ables."

"I never knew such a ship existed,” said Hall. “Why was it a secret?"

"It still is. Same reason we were able to get to you so fast. It's nuclear. You know how folks are about nuclear."

"Nuclear!” said Chang. “We could have gotten to Venus in weeks instead of months!"

"Except that nuclear is forbidden by the eco-protocols,” Fergus reminded him. “But this rescue will take care of that. You two are heroes. The first CASS heroes since the Mars landing, thirty years ago."

"Civilian employee,” said Chang, with his arm around Sha-Nee-La. “Do you mind if we take one of these empty staterooms? We could use a bath."

"Any one you choose,” said Fergus.

"What's a bath?” asked Sha-Nee-La.

"So we're heroes,” said Hall, watching them go. He stood a little taller, easy to do in the one-third gravity of the ship. “So the world actually cares?"

"Thanks to Celebrity On-line and Collins. We will be heroes too, once we bring you back. The SS will be accepted, and the next stage in space travel can begin. The settlement of Mars."

"Collins?"

"Collins bypassed Houston and Burroughs and went straight to the press. She told your story to a world hungry for heroes, or for victims anyway. ‘Captives of the Saucer People’ captivated the imagination of the Earth."

"'Captives of the saucer people'? Fergus, we need to talk."

"Wow,” said Fergus. “Centaurs. Amazons. I can see why Collins was reluctant to relay all that. Who would have believed it?"

"I still don't really believe it,” said Hall.

They were alone on the bridge of the Shanghai Surprise, except for Robbie, bumping silently around Hall's ankles.

Venus was growing larger and larger in the forward viewscreen. It was the size of a tennis ball held at arm's length.

"And yet here you are,” said Fergus, pouring them both another glass of Hunan wine. “Somehow you and Chang managed to survive on the surface of Venus, where our instruments tell us nothing can live. And there's what's-her-name, the amazon princess."

"Queen."

"Whatever. She seems pretty real to me.” He winked.

"You don't know her,” Hall said, pretending not to notice. “According to Robbie, her body temperature is eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit."

"I hate her,” said Robbie. “Him too."

"And there's RB1011, who you call Robbie. He's certainly real, though perhaps not as clever as you seem to think."

"He's sulking,” Hall pointed out. “Look, all that's irrelevant. There are no saucer people. Collins just thought that might go over better."

"It's more plausible, anyway,” said Fergus. “And the saucer is definitely real. One of my ables is studying it even as we speak. It's some kind of biological machine, powered by clockwork."

"Clockwork?” Robbie perked up.

"Cross-dimensional. The spring is a superstring loom stretched tight across a five-dimensional lattice, then twisted in six. Clever stuff."

"Doesn't that prove alien origin?” Hall said. “Which means that the flecks are real, which means that what they told Robbie is for real. Certainly his pain was real."

"And what did they tell him, Aeneas? Remind me."

"That the flecks, or whoever or whatever created them, regard biological life as a cancer that must be wiped out. Cleansed. Chemo. We have to warn Earth."

"Ah, yes, the Shroud. The alien menace."

"You don't believe a word of this, do you, Fergus?"

"Does it matter? As soon as we get back, you can tell CASS, or the OUN, or whoever you want to tell. I'm sure they will be interested."

"So why are we still heading toward Venus?"

"A quick transit,” said Fergus. “We're going to drop into orbit just long enough to pick up Collins."

"But Collins is on her way to Mars!” said Hall. “I sent her back. She was on backup, with barely enough air and electric to make it. She delayed her departure until just before her launch window closed, trying to stay in contact with us."

"She delayed longer than that,” said Fergus. His big features softened and he placed a hand on Hall's shoulder. “I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"Collins kept the Venus Wanderer in orbit, to relay your helmet signals to us. Otherwise we would never have found you in that tiny saucer."

"She didn't have enough power. Her fuel cells were leaking."

"I know. The Wanderer went dark over a week ago,” said Fergus. “We're picking up her body, to take her back to Earth."

"She disobeyed a direct order!” said Hall.

"She stuck with you as long as she could,” said Fergus. “Are you okay?"

Night.

Day.

The Shanghai Surprise was on Houston Time, and Hall found the regularity disorienting. He couldn't sleep. He wandered the corridors with the helmet under his arm and Robbie at his feet. The huge ship was empty, except for Fergus and his four ables, whom Hall never met and hardly noticed.

Night.

He slept alone, except for Robbie, in one of the vast, empty dormitories, with the helmet in his arms. He needed the space, after the saucer. But it was cold, vacant, silent.

Collins. Gone. Dead.

The helmet would never speak to him again. Peering into it was like peering into the grave.

Meanwhile Venus grew in the screens from a tiny ball to a huge milky globe as white as a tombstone.

With a howling shudder, a six-minute neutron burn, the big ship slowed for capture and locked into a long elliptical orbit around the planet.

"We only get one pass,” said Fergus. “Take a last look at the planet of your dreams."

Venus was wrapped in clouds like veils, as opaque as an unremembered dream. Hall didn't like to look at it. Dreams? Nightmares, rather.

"There she is,” said Robbie. He was bumping around Hall's ankles, but his sensors didn't depend on line of sight.

The Venus Wanderer was a speck in the viewscreen, just coming over the horizon; then a slowly spinning lump of coal, black and cold, as the Shanghai Surprise closed for capture.

The Wanderer's lights were dead. The single forward port was dark. The radio was silent. The little ship looked like an elongated coffin, scratched and scarred, black and cold.

"We only get one try,” said Fergus. “Better strap in. This is a tight burn."

"Collins deserves better than a grave,” said Hall. “We should leave her here, in orbit, where she died. Let the Wanderer be her memorial.” Her tomb.

"I have my orders,” said Fergus.

There was a gentle, remote thump as the big ship ate the little ship, and sealed it into the reception port; then a long delta V burn as the Shanghai Surprise left Venus orbit for Earth, an AU and a half away.

"She knew what she was doing,” said Fergus. “She refused to abandon you. Where are you going?"

Reception was as cold as a tomb. Collins's little ship was parked next to the saucer, which glowed mysteriously, still alive, as if to emphasize how dead the Wanderer was.

The forward port was frosted up. Hall couldn't see inside.

"It opens from the inside,” Robbie said.

"And the electrics are dead,” said Fergus. “We can't take her out. You'll have to pay your last respects from here."

"I just want to see her."

"I have my orders,” said Fergus. “Hong Kong is waiting to give her a hero's burial."

"Collins was Chinese?"

"Her mother was. Like mine. Didn't you know?"

Hall shook his head. He hadn't known anything about her. She had just been a body sleeping next to his, and a voice on the radio. They had hardly exchanged ten words on the long flight from Mars to Venus.

"Even if we could pull her out, we'd just have to pop her into the freezer,” said Fergus. “It's two weeks back to Earth. The Wanderer will at least keep her cold."

Cold, thought Hall. She'll be cold forever.

"Are you okay, Commander?” asked Robbie.

Cold.

Hall woke up with the helmet in his arms. It was cold.

Dead. Silent.

He must have been sleeping, at last. He'd had a dream. In the dream he and Collins had—

Had what? He flexed his fingers. They remembered. They had been holding hands.

Venus glowed in the viewport over his bed. It was already as small as a golf ball. He was glad to see it go. He set the helmet on the floor and got out of bed.

"Where you going?” Robbie asked, scrambling to the floor from the foot of the bed.

The ship is like the castle, Hall thought. We come and go and no one cares.

He made his way through the long empty corridors in silence, like a sleepwalker. Robbie whirred along behind, bumping his ankles.

Reception was cold. The Wanderer was a sleek black hole, eating light and warmth. The saucer beside it looked smaller than ever; and still, cruelly, alive.

Hall approached the ship and touched the door. “Wish I could open it,” he said, to no one.

"I can,” said Robbie.

"What!” Hall looked down at the robot angrily. “You never told me that."

"You never asked, Commander.” The crescent-shaped door of the Wanderer clicked open with a sigh.

"You did that?"

"T&E,” said Robbie. “Residuals."

Hall pulled the door open and stuck his head inside. There was no smell. He stepped into the ship.

It was dark; the controls and the walls were covered with frost.

Collins lay in her orange CASS uniform in her barca. Her eyes were frozen shut. Her gloveless fingers, crossed over her breast, were blue. She was a big woman, Chinese, attractive, with short black hair and silver CASS earrings.

He had never noticed.

Her lips were blue.

Sleeping beauty, thought Hall. I'm back in a fairy tale. But the fairy tale is over.

He bent down and took both her hands in his. They were icy and stiff. “Thank you, Collins,” he said. He kissed her cold lips.

She opened her eyes. “Commander. You made it!"

Venus was almost gone, the size of a pearl again in the viewports, as Hall made his way up the long corridor toward the bridge.

Collins held onto his arm. She was walking stiffly, carefully, one step at a time.

"Captives of the saucer people?” Hall said. “Really, Collins!"

"I had to get Earth interested,” said Collins. “The e-zines loved it. Nobody believes in amazons and centaurs anymore, if they ever did. Saucers are more scientific."

"More plausible, I suppose,” Hall said. “Watch your step.” They were at the metal stairs that led to the bridge.

"Is that a direct order, Commander?"

"Are you making fun of me, Collins?"

"Haven't I earned that right?"

"Then I have earned this one.” He kissed her on the cheek. It was still cold, but he didn't mind. The cold felt real.

Fergus was on the bridge with two of his ables. He turned when he saw Collins and Hall at the doorway.

"Who's this?” he asked. Then he grinned; he knew.

If Chang was pleased, or even surprised, he didn't show it. He and Sha-Nee-La left their stateroom long enough to say hello to Collins, then retreated immediately. They appeared only for meals, a sorrowful slop of chow mein and pizza, served by a surly able in a non-reg chef's hat that Fergus tolerated by pretending not to notice.

Robbie was spinning, literally, with joy.

"I'm happy for you,” he said to Hall. “It's an interesting feeling."

"Indeed."

"Is he always underfoot?” Collins asked.

"Lately,” said Hall. “Before me it was Chang."

"I hate Dr. Chang,” said Robbie. “I have nothing to say to him. It's as though he never existed."

"Chang was Robbie's god,” Hall explained. As he and Collins walked the long corridors, hand in hand, he told her everything that had happened. “You were my only contact with reality,” he said. “I lived only for your calls."

"I felt the same way,” she said. “Only more so. How could you order me to leave you?"

"I'm a CASS officer, Collins. I have to think of my crew."

"So am I, Commander. I couldn't leave, especially when I learned that my appeals had been heard and the Shanghai Surprise was on its way. My batteries were too low to call you, so I switched to residuals, hoping they would last a few weeks to relay your signal."

"And froze to death to save us."

"Not quite. Thanks to ursa-sleep. I took a chance, hoping my reduced metabolism would allow me to survive."

"You disobeyed a direct order."

"Commander, I have a confession to make. We slept side by side for nine months, on the long voyage from Mars to Venus. Our hands were touching. I must have shared your dreams. I fell in love with you."

"I have a confession to make, too,” said Hall.

"I feel like I'm awakening from a nightmare,” said Hall. He and Collins were on the bridge, watching Venus get smaller and smaller in the screens. “Was any of it real?"

"The saucer's real enough,” said Fergus. “I haven't told Earth about it yet, though."

"I can understand that,” said Hall.

"And you are real,” said Collins, taking his hand. “Somehow you and Chang survived on the surface of Venus."

"Surprising but not impossible,” said Fergus. “I sent down a probe before we left orbit. It's sending back Earth-normal. Apparently the upper atmosphere reflected a false reading."

"But all the rest,” said Hall. “The things we saw, the amazons, the centaurs...."

"All dreams, Commander,” Collins said. “A survival mechanism. Like the flecks, as you call them."

"The flecks were just a com device,” said Robbie. “Like an eight hundred number. They carried a message."

"That was the scariest part of the dream,” Hall said. “The Shroud, the threat to Earth. Now that seems so far away, so remote, like a dream. And here we are, on our way home. Awakened."

"Did I awaken you, Commander, or did you awaken me?"

"Both,” said Hall. “My name is Aeneas, you know."

"I know. But I prefer Commander. Do you mind?"

"Of course not."

"My real name is Lu-Hsi, or Lucy. But I prefer Collins."

"Collins!"

"Commander!"

Hall slept soundly for what seemed the first time in months. It was dreamless. He and Collins lay in each other's arms, with the helmet at their heads and Robbie humming softly at their feet.

The great ship Shanghai Surprise sailed on.

Day.

Night.

Earth grew in the screens until it was a pearl in the distance, then an agate, all blue and white, streaked like a boy's marble, a taw.

"Earth,” said Collins.

"You sound like Sha-Nee-La."

"I feel like Sha-Nee-La."

"I never thought I would see it again, Collins. Never really cared to. Now I look forward to stepping out into the sweet-smelling air. I'm going to take my CASS retirement and buy a little farm in Pennsylvania, or Massachusetts, or some place with a long name, and tend my garden. Our garden? Corn and squash. Will you join me? Will you come with me, Collins?"

"I think I would like that, Commander."

"In the summer we can sleep outside and look up at the stars. My grandmother used to sleep outside with me, on a quilt spread on the ground, when my grandfather was gone. He was a long-haul trucker. She showed me the Milky Way. In those days you could see it from Earth."

They were standing at the forward viewscreen. The Milky Way was as bright as a contrail of a jet, stretching from one side of the universe to the other. There was a hole in the middle of it, about the size of a quarter.

"That wasn't there before,” said Collins.

It was getting bigger. It had wings like a bat.

"Good God!” Hall said, gripping her hand, hard. “We have to find the Captain!"

"The Shroud?” said Fergus. “Your alien menace Earth-eater? I don't think so."

"What else could it be?” asked Hall, pointing at the screen. “It's already grown bigger, while we've been watching it."

Its wings spanned the width of the Milky Way.

"I know,” said Fergus, turning back to his control panel. “We've been watching it all morning, even though it doesn't show up on our instruments. My astronomer, who's Tibetan, by the way, tells me that it's an AU across, and it's just inside the orbit of Jupiter."

"It's going to reach Earth before we do! We have to warn them."

"I already did,” said Fergus.

"And?"

"They don't see it. It doesn't show up on their instruments either. They probably think I'm nuts. I'm beginning to wonder myself."

"Welcome to the club,” muttered Hall.

"Maybe it's some kind of optical illusion,” said Collins. She blinked twice, but it didn't go away.

"I already tried that,” said Fergus. “RB1011, do you get any readings on it?"

The little robot whirred and buzzed. Is he really thinking, Hall wondered, or just pretending?

"The Captain's right,” Robbie said. “It's not really there, but it's heading straight for the Earth."

"Not really there?” Chang said from the doorway. He and Sha-Nee-La were looking on sleepily.

"It's not really a part of this universe,” said Robbie. “It's a multi-dimensional cloud of superstring ends, like a net. Sort of a tightly woven pseudomatter cloak."

"What's a cloak?” asked Sha-Nee-La, wiping her eyes with the hem of her tunic.

"Or Shroud,” said Hall. “I didn't really believe in the flecks either, but now I do. We can't take the chance. We have to find a way to destroy it."

"If it's pseudomatter, it will destroy itself,” said Robbie. “As soon as it comes into contact with authentic matter, the whole thing will unravel. It will disappear, taking with it whatever it touches."

"You googled that up?” asked Collins, looking down admiringly.

"I guess. I don't have an imagination."

"I do,” said Hall. “And this is even worse than I imagined. The planet Earth and everything on it will disappear, unless we do something fast."

"Let's launch a rocket into it,” said Collins. “It will destruct amid the outer planets. Earth will be saved."

"Earth is not about to launch an expensive rocket into something they can't see,” said Fergus. “Nor am I. Even if I believed all this, which I am not at all sure I do, we don't carry a tender or lander. And the Venus Wanderer is no longer operable. We don't have anything that could get to it."

"But we do,” said Hall.

"You mean the Shanghai Surprise? No way! I have my orders, Aeneas."

"I mean the saucer."

"I feel lucky,” said Hall, as he led the way down the long corridor toward Reception. “Maybe this is all a dream, after all. If so, it's a dream in which things turn out okay. After we crashed on Venus, if in fact we did crash on Venus, I was expecting to die at any moment, but I didn't."

"We definitely crashed on Venus, Cap,” said Chang, his arm around Sha-Nee-La, who was scurrying to keep up.

"We did, Chang, and we survived. I never expected to be able to escape from the amazons, or the flecks, but both times we got lucky."

"I jumped off the wall,” said Robbie, bumping against Hall's ankles. “Into your arms."

"Indeed you did. And even the latest disaster, when we thought Collins was dead, turned out okay.” Hall put his arm around her and she smiled.

"You lost your ship,” Fergus reminded him. “We had to send a rescue mission."

"True enough,” said Hall. “But that was good luck too. You found us, and we found Collins just in time."

They filed through the narrow door into Reception. The saucer looked tiny next to the dead bulk of the Venus Wanderer. Hall touched its warm side and it opened.

A smile. Like a shark's smile.

Collins stuck her head inside and wrinkled her nose. “Smells like chicken."

"I won't need food or water,” Hall said. “The saucer provides it all. I figure it will take me two days, at most, to reach the Shroud. And then...."

"And then, if all this is a fancy dream, we'll pick you up,” said Fergus. “It's a course change, but I can explain it. If it's not, if all this is real...."

"Then the Earth will endure,” said Hall. And I will disappear.

"Earth!” said Sha-Nee-La, clapping her hands.

"You're sure you want to do this, Cap? Why not send the saucer by itself? Or send Robbie?"

"Why not send Dr. Chang and Sha-Nee-La?” said Robbie. “That makes more sense."

"Shut up, all of you,” said Hall. “The saucer only responds to me. And it's my responsibility. All this has happened on my watch, my mission. I'm the one who knows about it, who believes it."

"I believe it,” said Collins.

"You do?"

"Of course. And I'm going with you. Don't look at me like that, Commander. I've disobeyed a direct order before."

The Captain ordered everyone back to the bridge; everyone but Hall and Collins.

The saucer's smile of a door sighed shut; the outer Reception door sighed open, and the vacuum flowed into the dock, penetrating every corner, turning it cold.

Only those who have never been in space think of vacuum as nothing, thought Hall. We know it's a thing, the only thing that endures, the underside of all existence, the universe eating itself.

"Ready?"

Collins nodded. He pressed his hand against the floor and the saucer slid out of the dock, into the dark brightness of space: stars everywhere.

"Alone at last,” said Collins.

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZXZX

The helmet, which was between them, sputtered and spat. Hall picked it up.

"That you, Commander?"

"Of course, Robbie. We're on our way. What do you want? What is it?"

"I just wanted—"

There was a long silence.

"I think he wants to say good-bye,” said Collins.

"Good-bye, Robbie. God bless you. Where is Chang? I need to speak to him as well."

"I have nothing to say to him."

"Never mind that. Just go get him."

There was another long silence, even longer this time; and then the helmet spit static again:

XZXZXZXZXZXZX

"Farewell, Chang,” said Hall. “If I don't come back—"

"You'll come back, Cap."

"Let me finish. If I don't come back, take care of Robbie."

"He doesn't want to have anything to do with me,” said Chang. “He hates me. You should see the way he looks at me."

"It's your job, Chang,” said Hall, signing off.

"Alone at last,” said Collins.

It was their honeymoon; they sat together, hand in hand, naked on the floor.

The water was warm and the chicken was cold, but what can you expect from a saucer?

Hall showed Collins how to look out, by focusing her eyes until a triangular lens opened. He was not surprised that she could do it too.

They watched, holding hands, as the lights of the Shanghai Surprise got smaller and smaller, like a cluster of inconsequential stars.

The Shroud, on the other hand, was getting closer but no bigger.

"That's because it's not really part of this universe,” said Collins.

"And not a projection of my imagination,” said Hall. “Ever since I was a kid, it troubled me, how things got smaller when I went away from them, or larger when I approached, as if everything in the universe depended on me for its size."

"I know what you mean,” said Collins. “It didn't seem fair."

"I like this better,” said Hall. He felt that he and Collins were getting smaller as they approached the Shroud. Earth in the distance was the size of a pearl. That, too, seemed appropriate, if a little sad.

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZX

"Someone's calling,” said Collins.

"Let them,” said Hall, taking her into his arms just as the Shroud was taking the tiny saucer into its huge dark center.

"Hang on,” said Collins.

Hang on? To what? To her. Hall felt his atoms lightening and flying away, each to its own unique predetermined and perfectly appropriate destination.

"Collins,” he said at last.

"Commander!"

XZXZXZXZXZXZXZX

"It's gone,” said Fergus. “As if it had never been."

He tried every viewscreen on the ship. There was no sign of the bat-shaped cloud that had sliced through the outer planets, heading straight for Earth.

"The Shroud is gone."

"What about the saucer?” asked Chang. “Collins? The Commander?"

"No sign of it."

"I'm still getting a signal,” said Robbie. “But no answer."

"Strap in for burn,” said Fergus. “I'll have a lot of explaining to do, but I'm going to pick them up."

"Or what's left of them,” muttered Robbie.

All they found was a helmet, floating in space.

There she was. “Venus."

"What's that?"

"Planet of Mystery. Just came up over the horizon. Can you see?"

"Not exactly. Where am I?"

"Earth. Old Earth,” said Robbie. “Old, old Earth."

It was twenty years later. Nineteen, two months, sixteen days and ten hours, plus a few odd minutes, to be exact, Houston time.

Robbie visited the helmet once a day, at least. He kept it out back, in Sha-Nee-La's little garden, where she was buried in the Earth she loved.

Now there was just himself and Chang.

"Where's everybody else?"

"Moved, Commander. Gone. Oh there are a few people left, mostly in the cities. None here on the wild north China coast. They left in long columns, ferried by the Shanghai Surprise, not to cold and windy Mars, but to warm Venus, where the air is sweet and the breeze is soft."

"So that much was real?"

"Yes."

"And the rest of it?"

"Who knows, Commander? No one ever saw the Shroud. And since the Captain had no saucer to bring back, it never appeared in his report. Sha-Nee-La was just a stowaway, with a low body temp."

"And orange underpants."

"She didn't last long. You and Collins were missing. Chang and I were the only survivors of the Venus Wanderer."

"Did you two ever make up?"

"Sort of. We get along. I like to come here by myself though. The Engineer has no imagination, you know."

"I wonder."

"You were always good at wondering, Commander. You were always my inspiration. And Chang's. He loved you too, you know, in his engineering way. It took him ten years, but he made sure they put up a marker to you and Collins, at the edge of the lake where they dredged up the remains of the lander."

"So they found it. What about the centaurs? The amazons? The flecks?"

"Nothing. A few tracks. Some mud ruins that might have been natural. But here comes Chang. He visits Sha-Nee-La's grave every day. I'd better shut up. He thinks I'm crazy as it is."

"You're not crazy, Robbie."

"I know. I like it when you call me Robbie. I miss our walks. But I like to think you and Collins made it through, that you're happy, that you're together."

"Who can say? It's really different here. But we're together. I'm holding her hand right now."

"I can imagine that, Commander. I like to imagine that."

[Back to Table of Contents]

I had to run a few errands downtown, but I hesitated to go.

What if I ran into bloggers?

Ever since the total, irretrievable collapse of the Internet in a chaos of viruses, worms, spam, terrorism and busts by the FBI anti-porn squad, that archaic species of human had become a bigger street menace than mimes, Jehovah's Witnesses, or panhandlers ever were.

Still, I had some banking business that had to be conducted in person, and I couldn't put it off much longer. And I hated feeling like a prisoner in my own house, living in fear of the depradations of this class of homeless attention-grabbers.

So I donned a windbreaker against the January mists, hopped a trolley car, and eventually arrived in the vicinity of the Transamerica Pyramid.

Ex-bloggers were everywhere in this high-foot-traffic neighborhood. As the capital of Silicon Valley, San Francisco had drawn members of the obsolescent tribe from all across the nation, to bolster the native population. In just the space of a few blocks, I saw Wonkette, Arianna Huffington, Mickey Kaus, Kathryn Cramer, both Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Andrew Sullivan, Tom Spurgeon, John Scalzi, Matt Drudge, and a dozen lookalike Slashdot habitus. All these decripit wretches were besieging and buttonholing any poor passerby who made the mistake of offering them the slightest sympathetic look or body language. Most of the victims were tourists, naturally.

Making no such beckoning mistake myself, I pushed on in a frosty bubble of noli me tangere toward my destination.

I had almost gained the security of the lobby of my bank when my luck ran out, and I was accosted with no easy means of escape by a wild-eyed figure.

Backed into an embrasure by the advancing apparition who had been cleverly lying in wait for prey, I was startled to recognize—beneath the grime, elf-locked hair, tattered clothing, and unkempt beard—a man I had known from his earlier life.

The street-blogger who had me trapped was none other than Cory Doctorow, once an award-winning sf novelist and one of the four titans behind the once-ultra-popular blog Boing-Boing.

The recognition was plainly one way. Doctorow's crazed eyes betrayed no familiarity with my face. I was only another potential flesh-and-blood “hit” for his “site."

Doctorow carried a mud-splattered messenger's satchel over one shoulder. From this bag he now removed an old-fashioned wirebound spiral notebook and pen. He made a tick mark on paper, recording my “visit.” Then he launched into his spiel.

"Welcome to a directory of wonderful things, my friend! Get ready to be amazed, thrilled and astounded! I'm going to show you stuff you never believed existed, stuff that will brighten your life, enhance your senses and enlighten your consciousness! For instance—"

Doctorow reached into his satchel and withdrew a square of bristol board on which was pasted a page cut from a magazine.

"Check this out! The Sony Xbox 490! Not only plays CDs, Blu-ray DVDs, vinyl 45s and View-Master cardboard discs, but also comes with a pet-washing attachment!"

I tried to let the mad blogger down gently as my eyes furtively sought an escape route.

"I know all about it, thanks. I read about it in last month's Wired magazine. I believe that's where you clipped your image from."

Doctorow deflated visibly, but was unwilling to give up. “Okay, but I bet you haven't seen this!” He displayed another flashcard, to which was taped a campy old Polaroid photo of some average people wearing 1970s fashions. “Over in the Tenderloin, there's a whole store full of groovy junk like this!"

I shifted rightward, but Doctorow blocked me, his face eager for approval.

"Yes, yes,” I said, casting about for a handy cop to help extricate me, “I've been there. It's called The Meme Decade, right?"

My refusal to be impressed and astonished was the final straw for Doctorow, and he collapsed into my arms, weeping. My banking errand receded in importance as I sought to do my human duty and console this poor wreck of a fellow.

Patting his back, I said, “There, there, Cory, surely you didn't expect anyone to be truly astonished by this old ragbag assortment of clippings and ephemera. It's not like the old days, when you could effortlessly ride the bleeding digital edge of culture, shining your spotlight on weird niches before anyone else could get there."

Doctorow gulped down his tears and said, “I know, I know, this realworld trip is absolutely lame. So slow and clunky. Nothing to click on, no links. We never knew how good we had it when the Internet was still alive!"

"Well now, I know nothing can replace the Internet, but culture goes on. There's still magazines and other media. With desktop publishing and print-on-demand—"

Docotrow pushed out of my brotherly embrace, angry now. “Dead trees! You expect me to migrate backward to dead trees! Do you have any idea how painful that would be? To wait actual hours for things to print! To carry objects to the Post Office! To wait days or even weeks for a response from readers! How can I be satisified with that, after the instant feedback loops of the web!"

"You'll just have to face facts, Cory. You bloggers were addicts. The medium was almost as important to you as the content. The technological glitz, the bells and whistles—I know it was hard to kick it all cold turkey. But if your content is strong, you can make the transition. Things will just be a little different. But look what Bruce Sterling and the cyberpunks accomplished, without the Internet. After all, even Boing Boing started back then as a fanzine—"

"I was fourteen years old in 1985! I never even saw a paper copy of Cheap Truth! That's prehistoric! I can't go back! It's pure torture! It's unfair! It sucks! The human wreckage from the Internet collapse is beyond calculation. Xeni, Mark, David, my good buddies—they're all swilling this excellent mutant agave tequila or radioactive Chernobyl vodka just to blunt the pain."

I had lost patience with Doctorow's lament. It's true that the belle epoque had ended for him and his kind. But life went on. So, sidestepping his lackluster attempts to retain my interest, I made ready to go. But I tried to bolster his spirits one last time.

"Don't forget, Cory, you've still got your fiction. That was always printed and distributed the old-fashioned way. At least in part."

Doctorow brightened minimally. “You're right. Listen, can I interest you in a Creative Commons download of my latest novel?"

Digging into his satchel one last time, he pulled out a sheaf of loose pages and thrust them at me. I took them and sighed.

"Manuscript, Cory, it's called a manuscript."

[Back to Table of Contents]

This story has adult situations and language. It would get a hard “R” rating from the MPAA if it were a movie. So parents and librarians, please take note and vet this story before leaving it where young minds can feed on it.

As for all you other readers with growing minds in physically mature bodies, we hope you'll enjoy this bravura piece of storytelling.

thirteen o'clock on a thirsty night, dry and windy after midnight, all the boys have paired up, disappeared into the desert, coupling darkly on the sand, have another beer, there's no place else to go except ride the hog and the hot air roars into your eyes at seventy miles per hour, getting too old for this shit, fucking boring, bored with fucking, bored with chasing fucking, bored with waking up alone, and even more bored waking up with anyone else, and even beer cant cure that, fuck me except that's the problem, nobody wants to fuck me anymore, too many years, too many beers, and that other thing, the scar that starts above my right eye and crawls down to the corner of my mouth, pulling it down into a permanent scowl, so my face looks like something from a slasher movie, only the scar didnt happen when I was on the bike, but when I got off, at high speed, using the right side of my head as a brake shoe, which wasnt as much fun as it sounds, not even with three beers so I gave up on the queerbar for the night, the thing about queerbars, straightmen think you just walk in and get a blow job, everyboy is so fucking thirsty for cock, all you have to do is unzip your dockers, and if it were that easy, I wouldnt be standing in the bar at thirteen o'clock wondering what the hell I'm doing and how I got here and why I dont have any other place to go. So fuckit and before I'm halfway out the door, some guy is asking, hey, isnt that a queerbar, and before I can even turn and look, somebody's swinging something at my head and the old reflexes kick in and I duck sideways and he misses, but then the other guy's got a bike chain, stupid college kid, which I dont mean to grab, but I get it anyway because it skiddles off the cast on my arm before he can swing, indecision maybe, probably his first queer-bashing, blood-simple coward, then I'm holding the chain, one good yank, and he's holding a big handful of me, and his eyes go white just in time as I swing him around and shove him into his boyfriend with the baseball bat, and that's when I see the third one someone oughta teach these little pricks how to beat up a fag, because they're no good at this at all, the third one crumples up too easily, a backhand across the windpipe, big ugly rings with scratchy things, and he's down, and then I'm back with chainless and bat, shoving chainless into bat and both up against the wall, so bat cant move and chainless is already screaming for mommy, godforbid someone should scar his pretty face like mine

—and something happens—

and that's when I get the idea that all he really needs is to be kissed so I pull him close and cover his scream with the bearded oyster and give him enough tongue to choke a deep throat, and I guess right because just as he's starting to kiss me back, surprising me more than him I think, and if this were a different time and a different place, I bet I could hang his legs over my shoulders, or mine over his, I'm not choosy, except the batboy is screaming and who can concentrate with all that noise by the time danny-bartender finally makes it out the door with his own baseball bat, I've got two on the ground and one up against the wall with my hand on his throat, the pretty one, and I really do think I could negotiate a relationship out of this, except that even as a “cute meet” this is a little too acute. So I let go of the cute meat, and he staggers forward, almost into my arms, jerks back, looks around, sees the queers piling out of the queerbar and maybe he thinks about running, but before he can send the message to his skechers, it's too late, he's caught danny-bartender wants to call the police, but I tell him not to bother, because the one guy on the ground is having too much trouble breathing, I didnt think I hit him that hard, but he's got a nasty bubbling cut across his neck, which reminds me of things I saw in the service that I really dont want to think about at all, and the other guy who forgot about holding his bat when holding his stomach and his balls became a lot more important is having his own problems exsanguinating through his nose, so I go and pop open the back doors of my van and toss them in, I sold the hog six months ago and bought the van because it's easier on my bad leg and besides you can sleep in a van if you have to, and someboy asks where are you taking them and even though I want to take them out in the desert and bury them, without bothering to kill them first, I say the emergency room because I've already got enough death on my conscience prettyboy rides in front with me, the other two moaning in the back, and nobody else wants to come because what queer wants to talk to cops anyway, I'm not worried, nobody fucks with me twice, not when I've got their wallets in my pocket pull up at the E.R. and I drag them both out the back of the van and through the sliding doors, shouting, “white male, age twenty, injury to his trachea, might need to intubate; white male, age twenty, needs an X-ray for a cracked rib, broken nose, and someone call the police,” and I only have to holler it twice before a doctor and two nurses come running tell the police I'm emmett grogan, they're too young to know the real emmett grogan, and besides I've got the i.d. that proves I'm emmett grogan, I made it myself, tell the police these two injured boys were just coming out of a gay bar, thirteen o'clock in the night, when they were attacked by queerbashers, lucky for them I was driving my little brother back to campus, I point to prettyboy, and we were just passing by ex-marine, vietnam vet, ex-corpsman, got the tattoo in san diego, yessir, nossir, I didnt see the attackers clearly, officer, there were four of them, they looked like accountants, or maybe lawyers, probably republicans, you know they like to do that sort of thing, the cops give me the narrow-eyed look and I give them the deadpan, and then the fat one says, well if the victims were coming out of a queerbar they probly got what they deserved, I dont see any need to pursue this further, and the skinny one adds, but we should probably notify their parents, they look like college students, and I say, nah, give them a break, they're just kids, maybe this'll teach em to stay away from queerbars and the fat cop says, nah, once they've been into a queerbar, you cant keep em out, one taste of cock and they're queer for life, so I just look at him deadpan and ask, is sucking cock that good, like he knows, and he blinks for a moment, realizing that he cant answer that question without looking either queer or stupid

back in the van, prettyboy still hasnt said a word, he's scared I'm gonna finish that kiss, or maybe he's hopin, but either way, he's sweating, so I hand him all three wallets, after taking out the cash, my own brand of justice, payment for lesson learned, nearly four hundred total, I drive him to the dorm, and as we pull up, he says, thank you for not reporting me to the cops, and at least he doesnt try to blame the other guys, it's all their fault, it wasnt his idea, he was just tagging along, which is obvious anyway, prettyboy is booksmart, but not much else, at least he knows enough not to say anything that stupid, so I think about all the bullshit I can say back to him and decide not to say any of it, instead I look him straight in the eye and say, the difference between us, someone calls me faggot, they're talking about what makes me happy, someone calls you faggot, they're talking about what makes you unhappy, you figure it out, all that money mommy and daddy are spending to send you away to university, you oughta be smart enough to figure out what you like and then he does surprise me, he starts to open the door to get out and then he turns back and says, can we talk sometime, and there it is, half past whenever, dry and windy after midnight, and he's got big eyes and chewable lips, and surprise, surprise, my dick can still get hard, so I say yes and how about tomorrow night, and he says pick me up right here, and I'm already thinking, we'll go somewhere out on the other side of the desert where the truth is a lot easier, I know he'll never show up, not after twelve hours of sunlight-thinking, but what the fuck, nobody's waiting for me in the next town either, so why not sleep away most of the day, crawl out of my coffin just in time to enjoy the sunset, shower and burger at the truck stop, think about beer, but leave it at thinking, not drinking, cruise over to the landing zone and prettyboy is leaning against a wall, he flicks his cigarette sideways, like he thinks that's butch, it isnt, and he strolls over and climbs in the passenger seat and I roll without talking and he doesnt say anything either and I'm wondering what the fuck he thinks is going to happen tonight, because I sure as shit dont have a clue, but this is something better than nothing we drive for a while, prettyboy finally says something, I was afraid you werent going to come, I tell him I didnt think he'd be there either, so we're even, he asks where we're heading, I shrug and nod ahead; away from the light, because I dont like the light, if it's too bright I can see the scars on my face from the inside, he tells me to stop calling him prettyboy, his name is Michael, I tell him he hasnt earned a name yet, he's still meat, fresh off the plane, and we've got a body bag already waiting with his name on it, deal with it finally I ask him what the fuck he wants from me, he says he wants to know what I know and I tell him I dont know shit and finally we turn off the highway onto a side road and after a while off the side road onto a couple of forgotten ruts and we go two or three miles up and down bouncing to a place where something used to be, but now there's only hard-packed dirt, and I pull off and turn the engine off and we sit and listen to it cooling in the night we get out, I go around to the back, pull out a blanket, a couple bottles of water, we sit in the dark, side by side, watching for shooting stars, and except for pointing them out to each other, we dont talk, I'm waiting for him to start, but he doesnt, so after a while, I reach over and grab his hand, not because I particularly want to hold his hand, I dont even fucking know him, but it's a start he's not good for small talk, neither am I, he asks me how I know how to fight, I tell him the truth, fighting is easier than having the shit kicked out of you, then he asks me about my leg, so I tell him somewhere in the fucking delta, the hot wind putrid, the whole country stinking like a saigon whorehouse, disintegrating with the smell of shit and incense and rotting vegetation, all mixed with the spices they use to hide the fact that the meat is rotten before they even get it into the pan, even if you knew what it was—dog or cat or rat—who the fuck cares, when you get hungry enough, you stop asking questions

they call it a road, but it's just a lousy stinking dirt scar, a slash of mud carved between two fields, the crapgrass rippling in the wind—the distant edges bordered by trees, a fucking perfect place to die, a fucking bullseye for an ambush—the lieutenant holds up a hand and we all stop, then he holds his arm straight out and waves us down—and we scatter into the grass and disappear they say that Charlie is terrified of us, because we're monsters, bigger and healthier and better fed, better guns, better ammo, better supplies—and better targets too—those little human cockroaches scuttle down into the ground and disappear, trapdoors in the floor of the world—everybody knows they're all underground, the delta is tunneled from here to forever, underground cities, you could walk all the way to uncle ho without ever seeing daylight—and maybe they're right, maybe the little fuckers are scared shitless, but I dont think so claymore—we call him that because he's good at taking mines apart—he grins and whispers across to me, it's a good day to die. I tell him to shut the fuck up. it's never a good day to die, but he saw that in a movie and he thinks it's cool—it isnt cool, it's fucking stupid—and what are we waiting for anyway?

the lieutenant is yabbering into the field phone, the sweat is rolling down the inside of my shirt, the sun is a hundred and thirty degrees and we're all carrying fifty pounds of field gear—whose good idea was this anyway?—the field isnt a field, it's a fucking swamp, we're up to here in mud so deep that every step, the mud is fighting to pull my boots off—and I cant stand too long in one place, I start to sink deeper oh man, I am going to stand for an hour in the shower tonight and I dont fucking care what color the water is the lieutenant he stands up and waves us back to the road—whatever—he does this five, six times an hour—squelching up out of the mud, and before I can yank my boot free, the world fucking blows up in my face—all the different colors of orange and white and red and black, all at once, and everybody's screaming because the shit is going off all around us—they're dropping fucking mortar shells on us, and they've got our range because the crap is hitting left and right and up and down—claymore flies apart in pieces, a fucking good day to die my fucking ass—and I'm too busy pulling my goddamn leg out of the mud to be scared—we're all firing wildly at the distant trees, like we're really going to hit something, we're fucking dead out here rocks and shit and mud come pattering down, all around, a pummeling of earth, it goes on forever while the ground shakes and your ears bleed and the world turns sideways and knocks you assover everywhere, and no my leg isnt supposed to bend like that, but I cant feel it anyway, and I cant find my fucking gun and while my hand is flailing around everything turns orange, the sky, the muck, a wall of heat knocks me flat into the shit, rolls me sideways, and then I hear the first roar of the flames—a roiling carpet, napalm forest, blossoming scars across the whole west side of the world, and for a moment, there's a kind of peace, the explosions stop, shocked in fucking horror, roasted alive, who fucking cares, I fade out and over, something is whupping up and I feel nothing while I'm dead everything is fine, because I cant feel anything, I dont care, I could go on like this forever, white light and voices

—something happened—

but then it's gone, leaving only a memory of a memory, a sense that there was something important, maybe it was the drugs, but no, I know drugs and this wasnt drugs, this was something else, but it's gone, it's like hearing the echo, but not knowing what clanged, the feeling stays with me all the way across the Pacific and down into the crevices of San Francisco, it never fades, a sense of muffled awareness, the doctors tell me it's resonance, it'll go away, but they're wrong, it doesnt—never completely, it just drifts behind-inside forever; it doesn't bother me, it just turns into something to live with, like the plastic leg so I spend a few years riding a hog up and down the left coast, cruising up through Big Sur, across the big red bridge, up through Marin, into the cold wet wild north where the trees make green canyons, up into Oregon where the green is too thick and I start thinking about Charlie creeping through the green, if Charlie had green like this, we'd still be there, it's nothing like the Delta, first of all the smell is sweet and green and wet, but I cant shake the feeling that something is creeping up after me, so I keep riding, on up as far as Puget where the only difference between the fog and the rain is that the fog is thicker and wetter and from there up to the border where the Canadian customs guard is so exquisitely polite I know he hates to let me in, but he cant find a reason not to, I'm legal, I just look ugly, so on up through Canada, eh, all the way up to Alaska and I lose myself for a few years with the bears and the salmon and the air so crisp it cuts like ice through the tent, through the sleeping bag, and man I'm getting too old for this shit, but I gotta know what it was, and for some reason I've made up my mind that the Inuit know, some shaman or medicine man, whatever, because maybe underneath, there's some magic here and maybe there is, but I never find it, so I come sliding back south, dropping down through Idaho, following the Snake River all the way down, passing through forgotten dusty places with names too small for the map, endless dry highways, into Nevada with its desolate empty stretches of baking summer east to Utah where the canyons still echo with fossilized time, south to New Mexico with its hidden villages carved into orange sunset cliffs, west to Arizona and up the poisonous side of Superstitious Mountain, maybe there's a wise old grandfather, the Hopi know life out of balance, and eventually south through Mexico, where I spend a week or a year or whatever living the way of the whaqui, eating mushrooms and peyote and rattlesnakes, fucking everything that I can push down on its back or its stomach, if it's a hole and I'm horny, I dont care anymore, it doesnt matter, there's that instant of orgasm, that quick throb-and-spurt of time where I stop existing long enough that the nagging sense of something unsaid and left undone is pushed so far out of my consciousness that it almost doesnt exist for that moment, and the lassitude afterward, on my back and staring dispassionately at the glowering sky, waiting for wisdom and insight, that connection of time and place and understanding, but all I accomplish is a thousand light-year stare with nothing on the other side, and one day I put the hog back together, get the engine running, tune it, tweak it, test it, over and over, until it sounds like magic growling again, until one day it's right, and the moment is right, and I get on and start riding, just a test ride, I say, but I keep riding north and never look back, I run out of gas at a queer hippie commune south of Tucson and live in a teepee while I flush out all the crap from my system, lose twenty pounds of Mexican bad shit and end up with abs again, stumping up and down the rows of corn and beans and tomatoes, digging latrines, carrying water, hoeing and weeding, learning to serve others again, and for the first time in longer than I can remember actually earning the right to feel good about myself at the end of the day but its all queerboys here and I'm not ready to give up girlpussy forever, it's fixed in my mind now that there's boypussy and girlpussy, and each is fine in its own way, and by now I've even learned there's other things to do and maybe that's part of the answer, if not the answer, it's still part of it, because what these queerboys have learned is that it's not about fucking, it's about people, a strange place to learn this and then, in a flash, I dont know how it happens, I'm back on the left again, Arizona a red and gold memory in the rear-view mirror, how did that happen?—the moving finger writes and once it writes you're fingered, I come bouncing down into the Castro where I hook up with Bloody Mary, a bulldyke who rides a hog and sometimes she rides me and sometimes she rides the hog and once she rides us both at the same time and I ask her how can she be a dyke if she's riding the rod and she just laughs and says it isnt about pussy, it's about people, so I'm not the only one who's figured that out we coast up to Guerneville where nobody cares, where we're out of earshot of the creepazoids who think we're traitors to the fag-flag because we're bumping each other ugly, except one night I break my leg in Sausalito, laying down the bike to avoid a drunken spoiled teenage bitch, and if I could have gotten up afterward I'd have punched her a new one, but I cant get up because the bike is on top of me, she jumps out and starts wailing about the dent I just put in the side of her new car that daddy just bought her only two days ago for her seventeenth birthday, while I'm still lying under a bleeding hog and

—it happens again—

until Mary the dyke slaps her, takes away her new expensive toy, this thing called a cell phone, and punches 911 and calls an ambulance, and I'm off to the E.R. tonight and the V.A. tomorrow, and fortunately it's the plastic leg that's broken and six weeks later, the V.A. finally puts me on a new one, a better one, and I'm ready to get back in the saddle, except

I dont want to, something's happened; I cant explain it, but something's happened, and even though I feel like a cowboy who has to shoot his horse, I sell the hog, what's left of it, and no, it isnt fear, I could get back on the bike in half a minute, I trust myself on the road, I dont trust anyone else, I trust my ability to keep out of their way, but if a seventeen-year-old bitch can put me down in the gutter, maybe it's the universe sending me a message; the dyke tells me I'm a pussy, so I know she doesnt understand, and fuckit, I'm not even sure I understand it myself, all I know is it's time to let go, the bike isnt me anymore, and neither is the dyke and then time flashes and I'm living out of the back of a VW bus, I dont even remember where I got it, but the feeling is there, I can drive out to the middle of the Mojave, get off the highway, get off the side road, find a dirt slash into the middle of nowhere, someplace even the lights in the distance are too far away to look like anything more than stars glimmering through the bottom of the world, and I lie down on my back and look up at the diamond sky and it's like riding the hog again, only this time riding it through time and space, I'm standing at the front of Starship Earth and sailing forward like I'm king of the universe and I can hear the feeling loud and clear like picking up clear channel KOMA from five states away and I know it's not the tequila and it's not the grass and it's not a fucking acid flashback either, it's something else, and I can feel the throb and pulse of the ground beneath my body and I know the ground doesnt throb and pulse, so what the flaming fuck am I feeling, it's just my own heartbeef, slabs of muscle too stubborn to stop slamming the blood through my veins, and what the fuck is life all about anyway, but the feeling, it wont go away, it's like music sometimes, a distant chorus, very faint and far away, under the edge of the horizon, like those things whatever they are that always woke me when I was little, going hoo-hooo in the night and I tell prettyboy, that's what I know, that I'm just another hood ornament on the battering ram, wherever it goes I get there first, hardest—I'm the part that takes the impact—but every time, just before the collision, I get this flash, like there's something under the bottom of the world, calling to me, I dont know what the fuck it is, but I cant get away from it, cant get it to shut up, cant forget it, and cant fucking die until I find out what it is so now it's his turn to explain and he tells me there's nothing to explain, he isnt anybody at all, he doesnt, just doesnt, and it doesnt matter that there's no predicate to that subject, I get it because I've been there, I'm still there, I live there, we all do, only some of us know it he says it started in bed, in bed with a girl, she was warm and round and luscious like something out of a painting by Rubens or maybe Titian and he just wanted to float on top of her like she was a giant delicious waterbed, he wanted to suckle at her breasts and bury his face in her juicy cunt and it surprised him when I said, yeah, I know, except whatever else she was, she wasnt either, and she wouldnt they'd lie together, spooned, his arm curled around her side, but once when his fingers start tentatively brushing at her thigh, she mumbles not now, and another time when he brushes at her lips, the lower ones, probing for her clit, she pushes his hand away roughly as if he's an intruder, and still another time when he moves his fingers up to circle her great silver dollar sized nipples, she rolls away, is that all you ever think of, so he turns on his side and tries to sleep while this great moby of desirability rests naked behind him, his cock still stiff, his balls aching, and the next morning as he's pulling his tighty-whites up and over the tentpole, she sits up in bed and complains that he's unromantic, that he doesnt want to do it with her, and it's because she's fat, isnt it, and to his credit he doesnt say anything, he just finishes pulling up his pants and buttoning his shirt and slips into his sneakers and closes the door behind him, all without a word or even a look, because inside he's feeling so—there isnt really a word for that feeling, but that's what he's feeling, so he leaves and three nights later he's outside a queerbar with two guys he barely knows, it doesnt make sense, but nothing in life makes sense, why would anyone want to fuck a guy when there are all these beautiful fat women around, except if they dont want to fuck, what's a guy to do, get desperate, and he's almost ready to cry, except he's still too full of that other feeling so there we are, I have too much life and he doesnt have any, so I hold his hand and after a while he leans up against me, and we sit there listening, he listens for what I can hear and I listen for silence

are you going to fuck me, he asks, and I dont answer for a while because I dont know the answer, I dont know if I want to fuck him, he's pretty enough and after that kiss, I didnt figure it would be that hard to get his ankles behind his neck or mine, it doesnt matter, but I dont know if it's worth the effort, fucking for the sake of fucking sounds fine when you're fifteen, but not when the digits are reversed, so I'm sitting there wondering why he asked, is it something he wants or is it something he's afraid I'm going to do to him whether he wants it or not, and just the fact he asked the question scares the shit out of me, not the scared-shitless feeling like when live fire is making a three-foot ceiling over your head, but the other-scared feeling of just not knowing who you are or what you're supposed to do, a feeling I thought I'd left behind in Alaska or Mexico, or maybe certainly in Arizona, or probably somewhere since then, but finally I just say, is that what you want and he doesnt answer, because I figure he's probably sorting it out the same way then the moment passes, and I know we're not going to fuck, not then, and probably not ever, but I've been wrong about that before, so we both just relax, now that the question's been asked, not answered, but resolved anyway for the moment, and I'm sitting there thinking a whole fucking epic, and he says, thank you, and I ask, for what, and he says, for listening and yeah, I get it, and I say so, and he asks, does this feeling ever go away, and even though I'm not sure what feeling he's talking about I still know the answer, I shake my head, I say no, it never does, you just learn to live with it; he breaks away, he sits opposite so he can look at me, the moon is up now, half-past full, so there's enough light I can see his eyes are bright, and yeah, he's getting prettier by the moment, and I'm almost rethinking the answer to his question, but I'm not, because it still isnt happening and in the moonlight, I know why there's this guy I knew once, his name was Jerry, we went to the same high school, we never talked to each other, we just saw each other in the hallway sometimes, and sometimes at the Big Boy where he was bussing tables, working his way through community college, but we werent in any of the same classes there either, we just saw each other around, and then I forgot about him, the way you forget most of the people you bump up against as you stumble along, until one night a few years later, it's the collapsing end of 1969, and I'm in a boy-bar on Santa Monica Boulevard, and I see him sitting alone in the corner in the back patio and he looks like Wile E. Coyote right after the rocket exploded in his face, so I go over and say hi, and he says hi back and I ask him what's wrong, and he cant even get it out, he just looks at me with a look I've only seen one other time, a year later, in the Delta, when Perry the black kid with the big round eyes caught one and just looks at me, his hands across his belly, all his dark red blood pulsing out between his fingers, trying to push his guts back in, and he looks at me, our eyes meet for just a second, and the expression on his face says it all, please tell me I'm going to be all right, tell me I'm not going to die, and he knows I wont lie to him, and I lie and say, hey man, just hold on, just hold on, and the medic stings him with morphine and his eyes stay fixed on mine the whole time, and then the blood stops pulsing and he's dead, but his eyes are still wide, and that's the look that I saw on Jerry's face, like he was asking me to tell him that he wasnt dead yet but that hadnt happened yet, this was the first time I ever saw this look, and it stopped me cold, because I didnt know a human face could look like that, and it froze me—the terror, the desperate need, I thought I should do something, except I wasnt in that bar to be Mary Poppins, I was looking for some boypussy, and I was this close to saying, fuckit, tell it to the chaplain, tell it to someone who cares, someone who's paid to care—but then he says, tell me why I shouldnt kill myself and I didnt have the sense to back away quickly, so I stand over him, instinctively shielding him from the light and the noise and the stink of cigarettes and beer and Old Spice and I listen—and what he tells me, well, it almost saves my life see, he wasnt making it, it was the end of the fucking sixties for god sake, everything was falling apart in slow motion, and all anybody could do was get stoned and fuck their brains out, so that's what we did, all night long, every night, there wasnt any daytime anymore, just the long long night of parties—

—only Jerry was alone, one of those guys who never quite finds the rhythm of anything, he didnt know how to be whatever it was he was supposed to be, nobody did, and everybody's walking around saying stupid shit like, “hey man, where's it happening?” and you have no fucking idea how dumb that sounds, it's like admitting you're so lost you cant even see the party even when it's happening around you, it was happening everywhere and it wasnt happening anywhere, because whatever was happening, it was only happening when you made it happen, but most of us never learned that lesson, or died trying, so even though Jerry didnt understand it, that was the thing that made him just like everybody else because nobody understood it yet, but Jerry was one of the smart ones, so smart he was stupid; he thought the world was gettable, and because he thought that, he thought that there were people who actually did get it, in fact Jerry thought that everybody did, probably already had, except they'd all privately agreed not to let him in on it, none of it made sense and nobody was letting him in on the joke, so after a while he gives up, just gives up completely and resigns, stops waiting for Santa Claus and starts waiting for rigor mortis, he's ready to be just another one of those used-up boys propped up against the bar like scenery—the ones who've been entered too many times and finally abandoned all hope, the ones who settle for fucking as a substitute for loving, nowhere near a fair trade, but if you fuck long enough and hard enough, sometimes you dont notice, trust me on this except fucking God's a practical joker, because just when Jerry decides there aint no such thing as either God or love, that's the afternoon, God drops a beautiful redheaded boy on him, and the two of them do something right and instead of just falling lustfully into bed, mindlessly fucking their brains out on each other's flesh until half-past seeyaround, instead it's too hot to fuck, so they sit and talk for five hours on this sweaty July afternoon, and instead of thinking only about their dicks, they actually work a little higher up, the other end of the spinal cord, and not until the day finally cools off do they end up in bed, but that's only because it's a more comfortable place to just strip down to your jockeys and relax, surrender to the moment, because it doesn't matter anymore, you dont have to pretend now, just be who you really are, and they still dont fuck, they share a big glass of ice water and keep talking, and it doesnt matter what they're talking about, they're just having this amazing adventure talking and discovering, and even after they get naked—and you know how you get naked in front of other guys, there's this thing, you know the thing, where you really dont want them looking at you, because you know they're sizing you up, judging how good you look or how big you are, and you know you're never going to look as good as the guys in the magazines, and you end up feeling that you dont want to be naked in front of anyone because you dont want them thinking you're not good enough—except that doesnt happen here, they end up sitting together naked, unashamed, each one astonished at how beautiful the other one is, and they still dont fuck, they hug and kiss and touch in wonder, and they laugh a lot at some shared joke of intimacy and finally take a shower together and laugh a whole lot more, and then they hump and bump a little, even a lot, but they keep interrupting themselves to talk and to share, and before either one of them has come anywhere near to that moment where it's time to get a towel and wipe off and make a hasty graceless exit, they realize that—something is happening—it's silly, so fucking silly, because there's no such thing as love at first sight, it's just a fairy tale, but there they are anyway, falling ass-over-teakettle, tumbling over the cliff of joyous delirium, so full of happy giggling exuberance it doesnt make sense, until Jerry has impossible tears running down his cheeks and he wants to run out in the middle of the street and yell to the whole world, dont you dumbfucks get it, love—real love—really is possible, and if Hitler had ever had sex this good, World War II would never have happened, that's what it feels like, fucking so good you feel sorry for Hitler, and he and the redheaded boy roll together, laughing but look, it isnt about the sex at all, it was never about the sex, everybody thinks it's about the cocks and the cunts and the mouths and the assholes, all that juicy pistoning, the hot wet pumping in-and-out, but it isnt, it's about the thing that happens during sex, if it's right, if everything is right between the two people, whoever, whatever, if there's a real connection, then the sex is just a way to get even more connected, because it's the connection you want, not the sex—because the truth is, when you're fucking, it's not about you, it's about the person you're with, because if it isnt, then you're the biggest dumbfuck of all, just licking the menu instead of eating the meal—and that's the magic that Jerry and his beautiful redheaded boy fell into

yeah, I know, it doesnt make sense to sit and talk with someone from four o'clock in the afternoon until nine in the fucking ayem the next morning, when you have to get up and go back to work, and on the basis of that short time know that this is the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, that you just want to spend the rest of your existence, being absolutely entranced by this beautiful person, but it happened to them, both of them, they connected anyway, and after that first incredible discovery of each other, it just gets better, they start learning how to do all the other things that people do when they fit their lives together—they talk to each other on the phone every day for three weeks, grabbing every moment they can between their respective jobs and obligations and it should have been perfect, because each of them was exactly what the other one wanted and needed, they fit, you know, they just fit, and every moment was well, you know, just perfect and then it all comes apart, because Jerry makes a stupid mistake, the biggest stupidest mistake anyone can make, he gets scared, he stops trusting his instincts, because see, the redheaded boy wants to get serious, I mean serious with a capital lets-move-in-together, and Jerry panics, because he thinks it's getting too intense, he cant deal with it, he doesnt know how—I mean, how do you explain it to mom, right?—because nobody gives lessons to queerboys how to have a real relationship, and make it work in a world that mindlessly believes that this thing that brings you so much joy is so despicable that God hates you for it, and the whole thing scares him, so instead of being home, he leaves a note on the door and goes out cruising instead, not because he wants to cruise, but because he doesnt know what else to do, but he's so fucking confused, so the redheaded boy takes the note off the door and goes out looking for something else to do and he picks up a hitchhiker, no, not quite, that's not where this story is going, let me finish, and the hitchhiker is caretaker at some estate up in Benedict Canyon, so the redheaded boy drives him up there and they talk for a while, but they dont really connect, so after a while, the redheaded boy picks up the phone and calls Jerry, and Jerry is back home by now—see, here's what happened, Jerry cruises and cruises and realizes that cruising is empty, because now that he knows that there's something else, cruising is meaningless, and now that he knows what the something else is, he knows what a jerk he's been for leaving that note, for not being home, and all he really wants to do tonight is curl up with his beautiful redheaded lover and not have to talk, just be in his arms and never be apart again, he's ready to jump off the diving board and say yes, I will only on the way down the hill, the redheaded boy runs into some drug-crazed hippies, and they shoot him in the face, and then they go into the house and murder four other people, five if you count the unborn baby, and Jerry stays up all night wondering where his lover is, and he doesnt find out what happened until he opens the newspaper Sunday morning, still with me, and he goes crazy, and I dont mean crazy like banging into the walls, raging with grief, I mean crazy like you dont know, nobody knows, because they dont know how to show it in the movies yet, I mean crazy like staring into space crazy, zombie-crazy, desperate crazy and it's two-three months later, and the murderers still havent been caught, and he tells me all of this in the back patio of a sleazy boy-bar in West Hollywood because he has no other place to go, and of all the places to go, this is the worst, because it just puts him back where he was before, but he cant be what he was before, because this time, now, he knows what he doesnt have, and that's when the tears start running down his cheeks, all he had was three weeks, hardly enough time to make any memories at all, just a couple of fucks and a drive around the city, and all he can think of is that he's never going to see his lover again, the most precious person in his life, never again, and all the memories they're never going to have, all the pillow conversations, and why the hell should he keep on living if the best part of his life is over but see, here's how I know that God is a malignant thug, a practical joker, an asshole—if he wouldnt listen to his own son's prayers on the cross, why the fuck do you think he's going to listen to anyone else's?—here's the joke, Jerry looks at me like I'm supposed to say the one thing, whatever it is, that makes a difference, except I dont know what the fuck it is, how the hell should I know how to save his life, because I cant even save my own, because I've got my goddamned draft notice in my back pocket and I have to report the day after Thanksgiving, and in three-four months, just in time for the rains, I'll be slogging through the goddamn Delta with all the other dead men walking, and I'm thinking what the fuck, maybe I should run for Canada instead, I can be there in a straight two day run, or maybe I should just tell them I like sucking cock and fucking ass, at least that's honest, except I'm not ready to be that honest yet, nobody is, except I also heard that they dont even care anymore, the draft boards, they just have to generate so many bodies a week, fill up the green uniforms, fill up the body bags, and this week it's me and next week it's you, it's all the same, and Jerry looks up at me and says, so okay, now you tell me—why shouldnt I kill myself?

I dunno, why shouldnt he? He's made a pretty damn good case, except forever is a long time, and I'm thinking if I were a sky-pilot, I'd know the right thing, except I'm not, and I dont, and besides, if I said the crap they say, we'd both know it's crap, so I say what's in my head, and I say, I am so fucking jealous of you I can't believe it, and his eyes go wide, and I just keep talking anyway, because man, you found it, even if it was only for three weeks, you had it, man—I never did, and you know something most of the rest of us can only wish for, and he looks at me, not getting it, and I dont know where the words are coming from, I just blurt it out—real love, man, you had it, someone really loved you, the rest of us we're standing around and pretending that we're not standing around and pretending, but you—man, you're lucky everybody else in here doesnt beat you to death out of sheer fucking jealousy, because what you had, you had the real, not the pretend, You. Had. It.

and maybe that was what he needed to hear, and maybe what he said was what I needed to hear—that it really was possible, because up until then, I didnt know it, maybe nobody did, Jerry was the first person I ever knew who found love, the first one who could actually say it, and while he's crying for what he's lost, I'm wishing I were him, I want what he had, even if it's only for three weeks or three days or three hours and as I'm telling all this, as it's all pouring out of me in one dumb rush, I look across at the prettyboy and see only blankness in the eyes and I realize he doesnt know what I'm talking about, cant know, because he's never done it, never been there, never had that rush of endorphins, that wave of physical amazement that starts in the bottom of your dick and comes tidal-waving up your spine like some kind of astonishing hot tsunami and floods up inside of you, inside your heart, your whole chest, chokes up your throat, and floods your eyes with tears of wonder and joy, he's never known it, that's the fucking tragedy, he's never been there and the question of sex with him, of fucking him, it's finally answered for me, because if there's no connection, then all it is, it's just fucking exercise, and I've had enough exercise for ten lifetimes—I dont want to wake up with an intimate stranger, someone who knows the taste of my sweat, but not the taste of me, just another zombie-fuck but there was that moment, I know it happened, when he kissed back and something flickered in that moment and that's the moment I'm speaking to—who was that?—and how do I get back there, how does anyone did he kill himself, prettyboy asks, it's the wrong question, I shake my head, to tell the truth I dont know, I never saw him again, maybe he did, maybe he didnt, maybe he just stumbled out into the night, just like everybody else, you crawl into your coffin and dont come back out until it's time to feed again

I stand, stretch, listen to the bones tap-dancing against each other, stretch again, denying entropy one more time, start picking up blankets and water bottles, is that it, he asks, and I turn and look at him, what did you want, and he doesnt answer, doesnt have an answer, and maybe that's the greater tragedy, worse than knowing what you want and never having it is never knowing, never being able to speak it at all headed back in silence, bumping over the hard-packed dirt, finally up and onto the asphalt again, sliding through the dark, the wind roaring like a jet engine, and still he doesnt talk, for some reason he doesnt look so pretty anymore, and I'm wondering why I bothered, why I wasted my time, and why I didnt fuck him anyway, except even an old boar like me has some pride

—something happened—

I never talk about the blinks, nobody understands, I tried a couple times, but I got the look, that look, the one that says I'm going to pretend I understand you, but only for as long as it takes to gnaw off my leg and escape, and no we cant ever be drinking buddies again because you're crazier than me, there's something scary-wrong in your head; so I learned the hard way, I just dont talk about the blinks, not to anyone, and when they happen, they happen, nobody around me notices, so maybe I am crazy, it's like somebody cutting into the movie, just a dazzling flash of bright, way too fast to see, you only realize it afterward, except afterward there's the burn-in still hanging in the air, the after-images of whatever seared into my existential retinas never found anybody who knew about it, even with careful asking, none of the gurus, nor the medicine men, the shamans, not the dopers and dealers neither, asked a few doctors and corpsmen if they'd ever heard of anything like it, but they just looked at me funny, so I dropt the subject only once, the crazy dyke, late one night on the road, somewhere between nowhere and nothing, we finally pull over and fall out onto our blankets, eventually end up on our backs, first her, then me, then both of us, staring up at the stars—something happens—and I ask her, did you feel that, and she asks, feel what, and I try to explain, and she says, you got pinged, and I say, pinged, what's that, and she says, it's when somebody is checking you out, seeing if you're there; like submarines in the dark, I ask, no she says, it's like computers on a network, I ping you and you pong back, except you aint ponging, but someone's definitely pinging and that's as far as that conversation goes, but it sticks, enough so that whenever—something happens—I'm listening to hear who it is, or what, aliens or angels or Ida Noh, the mystery whore of Saigon, how'd you get the clap, soldier, Ida Noh, sir—I'm listening, listening like the antenna at Arecibo except I'm always listening after, never during, never before, it's like lightning, you only know you've been struck by it when you pick yourself up off the ground afterward, like Jerry and his redhead, and I figure that maybe I'm the wrong kind of receiver, or maybe I'm not getting the whole signal, or maybe I'm in the fringe area, Ida Noh again, and the only part of any of it that I can be sure of is that it never happens when I'm alone, it only happens when I'm with someone and only when the moment is intense, very intense, too intense, almost overload, that's when it happens, when the meter is pinned other people, they talk about those moments when everything happens at once, when the car starts to skid, when it goes skidding/swerving/screeching/sideways, that's the moment when time stops for them, for me that's the moment when time disappears, and I come out the other side still ringing all over, reconnecting to myself, I know I'm missing something here, I used to think that if I could find someone else, anyone who experienced the same thing, then maybe we could, Ida Noh, connect, and if it happened to us together, at the same time, maybe we could get a clearer signal, except when I talk about the blinks, the pings, I get the stare, the what-are-you-talking-about look, so that's not an option except yeah, at the back of my mind, I'm still always thinking, maybe this one, maybe this time, maybe finally I'll find out who's calling, who's pinging, and sometimes I'll go days/weeks/months without a ping and I'll miss it for a while and then I'll get used to the silence and then I'll even forget about the pings for a while, until it starts again, and once, lying awake in some strange bed in the middle of some strange night, I had this thought that maybe I'm only one piece of the circuit, like a transistor or a capacitor or one of those other bits of electric magic, and maybe what I need isnt another piece like me, but some other piece totally unlike me, maybe I'm just an antenna, maybe I need a modulator or a resonator or maybe just a tuning knob, maybe there's a whole bunch of pieces missing, and maybe I'm not anything at all, just a chimpanzee hammering on a rock and striking the occasional spark that's the other thought, that whatever it is, maybe it's something I cant know, maybe none of us can, because we're not there yet, we can string some wires and make electricity run around in circles and sparkle some lights, but we still cant do that next thing, whatever it is, that next thing that comes after super-sharp televisions and super-fast computers, that thing that we still havent thought of, whatever it will be, and by comparison with that, we're still just apes with bones and flints, and that's the thing I think about, listening to the stars, listening for others, maybe we're listening with the wrong ears, and we cant really hear whoever is pinging, maybe only a few of us can hear occasional bits and pieces of the pings and the rest of us cant hear anything at all because we're just not there yet, we're still in bed with Ida Noh in the hot damp nights of Saigon

and oh shit, Saigon, and Perry, late one night, we play cut-for-low and loser takes the point next day on patrol, and it's Perry who catches it in the belly, not me, and it's Jerry all over again, only this time it's me with the guilt, with the story, it's my fault he died, I only lose a leg, but Perry spills his guts, and ever since then I've been spilling mine, only I never get to die, Perry was the lucky one, he got out quick and I get it, I get it again, we're all dragging dead bodies around, offering each other a sniff of the corpse, the past is this heavy ruck that sits on our backs, growing heavier every year, we just keep adding more and more shit to the load, and eventually history is inescapable, the shitbird guru on my shoulder yabbers into my ear, the past defines not just the present, but the future as well, there's no escape, is there, this is it, and that's why I didnt fuck the prettyboy, because there's no place in my past for that future finally bring him back to where we started, the big empty parking lot below the dorm, pull to a stop, we look at each other, all the stuff still unsaid, the real stuff that nobody ever says, and just before the seeya—something happens—and the van starts shaking, hard, like something slamming against it from the side, again and again, and then the lights of the world come on, dazzling, finger-stabbing, searching, finally pinning us in the van, and there's a great whooshing noise and screaming too, all the voices in the world, prettyboy grabs my hand and—it happens—

He's turned pretty again. Pretty frightened. Everything slows down, stops. The eye of the timestorm. Even while the banging continues around us.

—connection—all the flickers, all the blinks, everything, time and space collapses into one moment, and this time I'm in the moment, caught, a dragonfly in amber, gossamer wings transparent in the heavenly backlight, and in the same instant, everything simultaneous—I get it—

There's Jerry and Perry and Mary the bulldyke and even prettyboy, and all the rest of us, everyone who connected, who flickered in and out, all of us woven like ganglia into the great neural web of sentience recognizing itself. That's who's been pinging—not aliens or angels or anything else—it's us. All of us together. That's the connection. Our own humanity is calling. It's the next step. It isnt a secret, it never was, except all of us together, we never knew, or we keep forgetting, or we do it on purpose, but now this time—some of us can actually see it happening—the fireflower blossoms—

A hot rush, a tidal wave, tsunami of exuberance, rising up through me, I can see to the end of the universe and back, all of us, connecting, lighting up, answering the pings, awakening to ourselves, blinking alive, confused, excited, wondrous, not everyone yet, but all of us who've heard the wake-up call, and in that moment, we're together, and we know, and it's now, and there's no going back oh

and then as the van topples and crashes sideways onto the street, the sirens come whooping in, the red and blue lights flickering, flashing, turning—the moment is broken, and I'm scrambling up over prettyboy to unlatch his door, push it open, start to climb out, when the first bottle comes crashing against it, and a baseball bat whangs into the windshield, fracturing it, but not shattering, so that isnt the way, I fumble sideways, crawling, kick the back doors open with my good leg and come out with the aluminum bat in one hand, ready to bang the hell out of last night's bashers, who've been waiting for me all night long with their fraternity brothers and a keg of beer, the whole gang of chimpanzees, believing that I've kidnapped one of their own, they're going to rescue him from the bearded monster except the cops are already here, beanbag rifles at the ready, lights flashing, spotlights dazzling me, the chopper above pins me in a funnel of light, so I drop the bat and raise my hands and lie down slowly on the asphalt, because already I know how this will play out

I clean up real good, no piercings, no tats, shave and a haircut, put on a clean suit, yes, I have one, but leave the prosthesis at home, fold up the pants leg, and limp into court on a crutch, tell the judge the bashers broke it when they pushed my van over, a seven-thousand dollar peg, one battered old vet with no leg to stand on, opposite a bunch of frats with attitude, there's no question what will happen here, six of them get expelled, the chapter gets its charter pulled, and the town has something to argue about until Christmas break, I'll be gone by then anyway, autumn rolls away and with it me, no more dry desert nights for this old bear, maybe I'll drift south to the tip of Baja and lie naked in the unforgiving sun like a great baking whale, or maybe north into Canada again, or Alaska, where I'll snuggle deep in a tiny cabin, hibernating like a grumpy old wolverine, listening to the snow piling up against the windows, anywhere away from here, away from the madness and the noise, the squalor of human ignorance, all the vicious scrabbling little souls that still dont get it, might never get it, will never get it because all the clamor they make drowns out all the other possibilities, they're screaming so loud about what they want they cant hear that the answer is already yes when your watch says thirteen o'clock, what time is it—it's time to get a new watch, the pieces of this one are scattered all over the floor—it's time to build a new one—something is happening, it's still happening—

All the parts of me/us, we're scattered, yes, but we're pinged and connected and we can sense/feel/hear each other. We're something new. A little three-year-old girl, standing up in her crib, crying with a wet diaper, but that's not why she's crying, she's not yet ready for the burden of knowledge. A black grandmother, suddenly awake in the night, wondering why she's thinking of her dead grandson all of a sudden, he died in Nam, but she can hear him somewhere—with all time and space collapsed, he's right here now. A skinny teenage boy, secretly trying on his sister's panties, abruptly confused and wondering why he can suddenly see into the future, scared of what he's becoming and intrigued as well. The cop holding the beanbag rifle, blinking, scanning the whole situation through a dozen different pairs of eyes, instead of just his own little piece; he sees through the perp's eyes, feels the fear and terror. A young woman, screaming, channeling a joyous excruciating birth; the baby screams with her, mother and child locked together in mutual awareness. The desperate man, standing on the bridge, the choice in his eyes, suddenly alive beyond his own horizons, stepping back to reconsider. The student, looking up from his book—there's a world out there, a vast unknowable, incomprehensible world; the book, the words, the crawling insect marks upon the page, the barest shadow of meaning, there is no explanation, it's just what's happening. Is still happening. Now.

And all the others too, touched with wonder—frightened, intrigued, cautious, but stepping into the moment, it'll take a while. We'll get there. This thing, whatever it is we are, all of us still sorting it out, we're a long way from threshold and even farther from critical mass, we're alone, but not alone, never alone, never again.

And Michael, I glance over at him, dazed and confused, but waking up into himself now. I wonder how many more we can wake up.

The headline of the Meatspace News might read: “Alex Irvine Story Graces March F&SF. Thousands Flee in Terror.” But actually, Mr. Irvine's dark vision of virtual life isn't any reason to be scared. “Shambhala” is a terrific read. Pay no attention to what the nabobs of negativity are saying off in cyberspace.

We also expect to bring you “The Revivalist” next month, Albert Cowdrey's remarkable tale of a very Twentieth Century man with a very uncommon condition.

Other stories coming soon include a look inside the schoolhouse once humans and goblins agree to coeducation, a dark and timely vision of America after the plague breaks loose, a story of Zulu magic, and an account of a ghost returned from a watery grave. If you don't subscribe already, go to www.fsfmag.com and order up a subscription now so you won't miss any of the joy throughout the year.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Stories are often likened to food, with some books compared to popcorn or potato chips while others are steaks or caviar. James Cambias's new story strikes us as a palate cleanser—a satisfying dish on its own, but best enjoyed with the other fine entres in this issue.

Mr. Cambias, whose past contributions include “The Ocean of the Blind” and “The Alien Abduction,” notes that he published a dinosaur card game this past fall called Bone Wars: The Game of Ruthless Paleontology and says he is currently preparing a game about parasites. He also says that he recently learned how to operate and maintain a chainsaw, so critics and editors best beware! (Though if he thinks that editors don't already know how to use such machinery, he should see some of the manuscripts littering our offices.)

"Iknow what we can do today. Let's look for the Holy Grail!"

We were having a cheap breakfast of croissants and coffee as we walked around the Wednesday morning farmers’ market in Carcassonne. My husband's friend Cecil was already on his fourth cup of caf au lait and the caffeine was kicking in.

I looked over at Len. “Honey?” It's hard to put a note of warning in your voice without sounding like a nag. “I thought we were going to the seashore today."

Never make your husband choose between you and an old friend from college. Vows before God and two decades sharing a bed are nothing compared to the bond forged by living in nearby dorms and playing Dungeons & Dragons on Thursday nights.

"Come on, Ann—why not have a little adventure?” he said. “We can cruise around the mountains and learn some history from an expert. Cecil knows a lot of interesting stuff."

I'd noticed. Cecil Street was an inexhaustible source of random information and crackpot theories about everything from Atlantis to Zeppelins. In Berne he dragged us to a museum of art by a schizophrenic child molester. At Vichy we had to go look at the Glozel forgeries. In Limoges he interrupted a perfectly ordinary conversation about which postcards to buy in order to tell me, “Did you know there's a village near here that was wiped out by the SS in 1944?” Well, no, I hadn't. We'd met up with him in Strasbourg on the nondeductible part of our trip to the Essen Toy Fair.

I didn't want to have a public fight about it, so I consoled myself with the thought that the next day we'd be dropping Cecil off in Arles so that he could head for London while Len and I had a week to ourselves before flying back to home and children.

I was petty enough to claim the shotgun seat even though I'm about fourteen inches shorter than Cecil, but he just folded himself into the back of our rented Renault Twingo and kept up a running monologue as we drove through the Pyrenees. The goal was to hit Rennes-le-Chteau, the CathaRama, and Montsegur in one day.

Rennes-le-Chteau turned out to be an adorable little mountain village completely filled with tourists just like Cecil Street. There were scruffy backpacking British Cecils, chainsmoking Russian Cecils with mullets, a busload of Japanese Cecils, and some Americans of the sort who forward important e-mails.

The few locals were either trying to ignore the invasion or were profiting from it. I saw a magnificent pair of older men with white mustaches and flat caps sitting at the cafe with their little glasses of brandy, resolutely looking through the tourists as if they were invisible.

Len hates seeing other tourists when we travel—which means we sometimes wind up visiting places like Shreveport or Brussels because it's a safe bet nobody else will—and I think Cecil didn't like being just one of a crowd of crackpots. So we spent only an hour there, long enough to get a fifteen-minute visit to the church while Cecil explained the Masonic and/or Templar significance of various bits of stonework. Then we squeezed back into the Twingo and set off in search of Montsegur and lunch.

About ten kilometers south of Rennes-le-Chteau we found a little restaurant perched neatly between the highway and a 500-foot drop into a gorge full of pine trees. I didn't even have to say anything to Len; he steered the Twingo into one of the four parking spaces and we went inside.

The place was decorated in early Sixties parabolic space-age diner style, and somehow I didn't think it was a clever retro statement. But when I looked up I could see massive timbers above the flying-saucer lamps, and one side of the room was taken up by a fireplace big enough to barbecue our Twingo.

A woman who could not possibly be called anything but “Madame” led us to a table by the window, where we had a view of the gorge, the hills rising on the other side, a crumbling ruined cottage, and (somewhat disappointingly) a cellphone tower. She handed us menu cards which read simply “Dner—100 euro."

Cecil did a little mental figuring and looked pained at the price. “That's a little much for lunch."

Len has his flaws, but cheaping it out on food isn't one of them. He didn't even look at Cecil; he just gave Madame a little nod. “Oui,” he said.

Madame took our menu cards and came back a minute later with three little glasses of some kind of orange-flavored brandy. “Apritif,” she said.

I took a sip, and then just to yank Cecil's chain a little bit, I asked him, “So, what makes the Holy Grail such a big deal, anyway?"

"Are you kidding? The Holy Grail is the occult symbol and quest object. It can be tied to just about any part of the Western mystical tradition—Christian, pagan, neopagan, Masonic, you name it."

"Yes, but why? Why the Holy Grail and not, oh, Excalibur or the Ring of the Nibelungs?” See, I did so have a liberal-arts education.

"Oh, that's easy. The Grail's so important because nobody knows what it is."

"Huh? It's the cup Jesus used at the Last Supper, right? It was in one of the Indiana Jones movies."

"Oh, that's just the best-known version—and it's almost certainly wrong. Let me see,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “The Grail is the cup of Christ, or it's the dish the Last Supper was served on, or it's the vessel that caught his blood as he died on the cross, which might be the same as the crystal vase filled with blood that nourishes the Fisher King, or it's the plate that held the head of John the Baptist, or it's a reliquary containing the consecrated Host, or it's the sacrament of communion. Those are just the Christian interpretations."

"There are others?” asked Len. I thought about kicking him under the table.

"Oh, of course. It might be the ancient Celtic Cauldron of Plenty, or the cauldron which brings dead men back to life—and they might be the same anyway. The Masons identify it with the Lapsit Excillis, the stone rejected by the builder, which ties back to Christ, of course. If you change the spelling, it's the Lapis Ex Coelis, the Stone from Heaven, which could be the stone from the brow of the archangel Lucifer, or the stone that cast him from Heaven, or a meteorite, or the antimatter powerplant from a UFO."

Madame set bowls of a clear dark brown soup in front of us. “Pot-au-feu Languedocien,” she said. She returned a second later with three glasses of sherry. “Oloroso,” she said.

The soup was amazing; all three of us got a kind of awed expression after the first spoonful, and didn't talk for a while. Len must have been hungrier than I was because he finished his first and drained his sherry glass. “Now that was soup. Probably it's been cooking since this place was built."

I took a sherry break and asked Cecil, “So if it's a meteorite or whatever, why were all those people back in Rennes talking about a bloodline?” I asked.

"Oh, that: if you fool with the spelling again you can turn the San Greal into the Sang Real, or Royal Blood—the secret descendants of Christ and Mary Magdalene, who are possibly the Merovingian kings of France. Unless they're the Stuarts of England, or Reptoid aliens from Sirius. There's a guy in England who claims all the royal families of Europe are Reptoids, along with the Rockefellers and the Bush clan."

At some point during that monologue our soup bowls and sherry glasses had disappeared, and now Madame arrived with three plates, each bearing a lovely little filet of fish sitting in a pool of browned butter. “Truite meunire,” she said, setting them down. From under her elbow she took a bottle of wine. It wasn't white, but a delicious ros. “Chteau Grand Cassagne,” she said, and poured us three glasses.

The fish was excellent. It was so fresh I wondered if someone had caught it in the little river at the bottom of the gorge, and it was fried to perfection with just enough flour to make it crisp but not enough to be doughy.

Cecil continued his lecture between bites of fish. “Besides the things I've mentioned, the Grail could also be the Philosopher's Stone, a coded reference to Druidic lensmaking technology, the pineal gland, a metaphor for spiritual enlightenment, and probably a couple of things I'm forgetting."

"So which one is it?” I asked, getting a little impatient.

"Well I certainly don't know,” he said. “If it's anything, it's a bowl. Grail or graal means a bowl or a dish in archaic French. It first turns up around 1200 in the Conte de Graal by Chrtien de Troyes. There it's a dish, although there's something really important about it. But the poor dope Parsifal doesn't ask the right questions so he never really finds out why."

Madame began clearing away the plates.

"Well, that was certainly delicious,” said Len. “Worth the detour?” He gave me a peace offering look.

"Lovely,” I said.

"And we still have plenty of time to get to the CathaRama,” said Cecil.

But instead of bringing us the bill, Madame arrived with clean plates and then a deep earthenware dish. She removed the lid in a haze of garlic and meat smells. “Cassoulet de Castelnaudry,” she announced, ladling big spoonfuls onto our plates. She came back a moment later with a bottle of red wine and some fresh glasses. “Domaine Tompier.” I took a sip of mine; it was powerful stuff, ready to get into the ring with the cassoulet and start throwing punches.

In case a five-pound crock of cassoulet wasn't enough to hold us, she also brought a dish of tomatoes and eggplant baked in oil with enough garlic to hold a legion of vampires at bay. We dug in; there were pieces of duck sausage and goose, bacon, lamb, and I don't know what else in the cassoulet.

Len finished his first plateful and loaded up a second, then asked Cecil, “If nobody knows what the Grail is, how do they know where to look for it? Why is it supposed to be around here?"

"Oh, this isn't the only place. It's also supposed to be in Glastonbury, or Scotland, or Ethiopia, or Tibet, or Oak Island, or the kingdom of Prester John—wherever that is. But Languedoc is the favorite. In Wagner's Parsifal the Grail Castle of Munsalvache is in the Pyrenees, which is why everybody goes poking around Montsegur. During World War II the SS even sent a team with special radar equipment to probe the mountain for caverns."

"But how would it get here? I mean, if it belonged to Jesus wouldn't it be in Jerusalem or Nazareth?"

"You'd think,” he said drily. “But Joseph of Arimathea supposedly passed through here on his way to Glastonbury, and Mary Magdalene's sister Saint Martha stopped here long enough to put down a monster in Tarrascon. So that covers the Christian grails. This country was Celtic before the Romans came, so naturally the Cauldron of Plenty could be here, and there's a meteor crater up near Limoges if you like the Stone from Heaven. If it's a secret bloodline, well, this would be a good place to settle if you were a young ex-rabbi on the run from the authorities in Judea."

"Or a Reptoid,” said Len.

Normally lunch for me is half a tuna sandwich or a cup of yogurt, but I kept up with the boys as we consumed that cassoulet down to the last savory bean, and killed the bottle of wine.

When it was all done I sighed happily. Cecil smiled at me in contented agreement. “Wow,” he said. “You were right, Len. That really was good. Worth every penny."

But Madame reappeared with still more clean dishes and I began to wonder if she had a slightly maniacal look about her. We started to make “no, no” gestures until she set down the plate with a slab of pat de foie gras and three little gherkins.

With a fatalistic sigh, Len served out the pat, and Madame poured us glasses of Montrachet.

"Montsegur's a mountain, right? I guess we can work all this off if we climb it on foot,” I suggested, and then smeared some pat on bread and ate it.

"Right. The last stronghold of the Cathars. I think they're the real reason everybody looks for it in the Pyrenees,” he said. “The Cathars were really weird, they're all dead, and they lived in a place with great food and scenery."

"They were those medieval Branch Davidian guys, right?” asked Len.

"Right. Wiped out in a crusade, committed suicide rather than surrender, accused of just about everything the Church could imagine. Maybe in a couple of centuries people will be looking for the Holy Grail in Texas."

By this point I had completely forgotten my bad mood of the morning. It's impossible to stay mad when you've had about five thousand calories’ worth of extraordinary food plus seven glasses of wine. Some ancestral hard-wired part of my brain was feeling very affectionate toward Len for keeping me so well-fed. Even Cecil now seemed entertainingly enthusiastic—how clever of him to have learned all those things about Cathars and Reptoids while I was wasting my time studying international marketing!

"You know, I can't help wondering, though. All these years, all those people—what if there's really something behind it all?” said Cecil, and for just a moment his mask slipped. Behind the skeptical connoisseur of occult wackiness was someone who wanted to believe.

When Madame brought out a platter of cheeses I had to take a potty break. The bathroom still had a white enamel w.c. sign and the toilet had a pull-chain.

As I came out I got a good look into the kitchen opposite. The relative modernity of the rest of the place had barely penetrated to the heart of the restaurant. There was a hand-pump faucet over the sink, a pile of firewood to feed the big iron stove, and the pots were a glorious mix of types and styles—from shiny restaurant-supply stainless steel, to laboriously polished copper, to some iron skillets that looked like the village blacksmith had banged them out by hand. A very tired-looking man wearing an unbuttoned white tunic was slumped in a chair by the open window having a smoke. He gave me a polite nod and looked away.

My eye was drawn to the big stockpot on the back of the stove. It was a great bronze hemisphere three feet wide, more like a bowl than a pot, really. The sides were green with age, but I could see a band of decoration around the edge, of winged bulls with bearded men's heads. A sweaty girl who looked like a younger version of Madame was just adding some beef bones and chunks of bacon to it before topping up the water level. The steam coming out of the pot smelled heavenly.

Madame came hurrying out with three glasses of brandy for us, but I stopped her. In my best high-school French I asked, “This restaurant—it is very old?"

"Yes, madame,” she said in English. “Very very old. The kitchen was built in the time of Henri le Bon, but there was an inn here long before that. When they widened the road and paved it, my mother says she saw them dig up great stone jars with Greek letters on them."

Back at our table I sipped my brandy and listened idly to Len and Cecil. I thought about a stockpot on a stove, never quite emptied, simmering quietly through the centuries. Those medieval poets must have heard about this place somehow; some wandering troubador stopped in for a meal and told his friends about the wonderful vessel of food. They put it in their poems, and a symbol was born. Or was it earlier, when some Celtic bard stopped here and came away with the notion of a magic cauldron?

"What do you do when you find the Grail?” I asked during a lull in their talk.

"You know, I don't think that's really important,” said Cecil. “In all the stories it's the quest for the Grail that is ultimately the most important thing. The seeker has adventures, solves riddles, faces temptation and despair—"

"And has some good meals along the way,” I said.

"Hear, hear,” said Len, raising his glass and then finishing the last of his brandy. “I'd say today has been a very successful Grail quest, even if we don't get to the CathaRama."

We emptied our crystal glasses and set them down by the magical dishes on the table, left a pile of euros for Madame, and left the castle of the Grail feeling blessed.

[Back to Table of Contents]

A MOUND OF BLUNDER

There are some movies men are not meant to see. Movies so poorly mounted, so crudely edited, so ineptly acted, so devoid of entertainment value that even studio executives—men and women accustomed to grinning through the most hideous excrescences of the motion picture industry—turn pale and tremble on being exposed to them, and subsequently hide them away in some cobwebbed corner of a film vault, never again to be touched by human hands ... unless, that is, they have made an output deal with the production company that obligates them to give said movie a release. Then they will release it, but just barely, just widely enough to satisfy the contractual minimum and with scarcely a whisper of publicity, slotting the picture into a handful of out-of-the way theaters, many located in godforsaken suburbs surrounded by cornfields hung out in by one-eyed crows who quote Garner Ted Armstrong and landfills that can only be reached by taking the 666 bus, the one whose driver's eyes bleed continually, to the end of the line, to an ancient deserted multiplex in an ancient deserted mall, where the cashier speaks Latin backward and the teenage ushers bear pentagrams sketched in acne blemishes on their foreheads. Only they who sport this mark can endure the evil power of such a movie ... a movie like Peter Hyams's A Sound of Thunder, which is a grossly mutated take on the Ray Bradbury story of the same name.

Like most writers, Bradbury has not been well served by the Hollywood system. B-pictures like It Came From Outer Space and The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms; the clunky mini-series made from The Martian Chronicles, starring a never-more-stiff Rock Hudson; a declawed version of Something Wicked This Way Comes that, despite the presence of Jonathan Pryce as Mr. Dark, Pam Grier as the Dust Witch, and the estimable director, Jack Clayton (The Innocents), reduced Bradbury's poetic midsummer's nightmare to a mildly eccentric kiddie flick that should have been titled Something Spooky This Way Comes; the consummate mess made of The Illustrated Man by director Jack Smight, who, with the help of George Peppard and Jan-Michael Vincent, subsequently went on to butcher Roger Zelazny's Damnation Alley. Even the purported highlight of Bradbury's filmography, Franois Truffaut's Farenheit 451, renders his novel as a rather lifeless and overly intellectualized piece of work, a phrase that might also be used to describe the performance of the film's featured player, Oskar Werner. But never has a Bradbury property been more spectacularly mutilated than by the folks at Franchise Pictures.

The founder of Franchise Pictures was a dry cleaner, one of those self-made men who suddenly decide that they have missed their calling and—attracted by the glamour and the chance of losing millions of dollars in thrilling circumstances—have a go at the movie business, generally proving that, as producers, they do pretty well at spot removal. Before the dry cleaner bailed, after signing an output deal with Warner Brothers permitting them to handle his unreleased projects, FP had turned out approximately thirty-five movies, including one minor hit (The Whole Nine Yards), one quality film (Sean Penn's The Pledge), and a whole slew of artistic and commercial losers, including multiple pictures featuring Steven Seagal and Dolph Lundgren, and a picture starring the then-sizzling Kevin Spacey that had an eighty-one-thousand-dollar opening weekend. Though they won't do worse than that with A Sound of Thunder, the last of the dry cleaner's movies to be released, there is no doubt that the film sets a standard of a different sort.

Shot in 2002, back when people still believed that Edward Burns, the movie's star, was not merely Ben Affleck Lite, ASOT takes a Bradbury story written a half-century ago—a stripped-down classic that meditates on dictators and ecology—and rips the spine out of it, transforming it into something ... well, something you might find stuck to the bottom of your shoe. And I'm not talking about a butterfly. ASOT may be the worst dinosaur movie I've ever seen, though even if you limit your consideration to domestic productions, that's a category with a nearly endless list of contenders, from ‘50s films featuring iguanas with pasted-on headpieces to Jurassic Park 3, in which raptors show the human race (in the person of William H. Macy and Ta Leoni) some lizardly love. My personal nominee for reigning champ is The Last Dinosaur (a picture deemed too horrid for theatrical release, but shown on American TV) in which the late Richard Boone, playing chauvinistic industrialist and big game hunter Masten Thrust (uh-huh), sort of a Papa Hemingway-Malcolm Forbes-ish figure, searches for the last dinosaur, a T-Rex, in a land hidden beneath the polar ice, its skies full of wheeling pterodactyls—the creators of the movie don't appear to realize that pterodactyls are dinosaurs, too. Accompanying Thrust are a journalist/love interest (Joan Van Ark) and Bunta, a Masai master tracker (you can't find a forty-foot-high lizard without one) armed with a spear, which—unfortunately—proves less than an effective defense against dinosaurs. While tarrying in the forest one day, obviously deserted by his master-tracking skills, Bunta allows the dinosaur to sneak up on him, makes an errant toss with the spear, and becomes T-Rex Chow. There are models of Antarctic scientific stations and etc. that make the models used on Thunderbirds Are Go look like the work of master craftsmen; there are pithy double-meanings to ponder—Thrust, you see, is sort of a self-proclaimed dinosaur himself, the last machosaurus; there are hilarious goofs—for instance, the T-Rex's skull indents when struck by a boulder, then the dent pops right out; there are feminist issues offered for consideration, given cartoonish ‘70s-style expression by Ms. Van Ark; and there's a song with crooned lyrics and wah-wah effects guitar that is played at varying tempos throughout, on one occasion serving as a love theme:

Few men have ever lived

As he has lived.

Or even walked,

Where he has walked.

His time has passed.

There are no more.

He is the Last ... Di-no-saur!

He is the Last ... Di-no-saur!

Come to think of it, The Last Dinosaur is pretty darned entertaining in that sublimely camp, bad-movie way, something ASOT is not.

The year is 2055 and Dr. Travis Ryer (Burns) guides nouveau riche clients from the headquarters of Time Safari Inc. in Chicago back into the Cretaceous, always to the same exact second and place, where they are allowed to kill the same exact dinosaur, one fated to die in a tar pit moments later. They are admonished not to stray from the shimmering pathway extending from the wormhole that's been opened into the past, and are told not to bring anything back. Time Safari is owned by Charles Hatton, an evil capitalist played with thoroughly inappropriate impishness by Ben Kingsley, sporting a soul patch and a blazingly white acrylic wig that must have been modeled after an Oral-B toothbrush—he seems to be sending a thespian signal that he, too, is trapped in a tar pit, albeit a celluloid one. Hatton is operating under the scrutiny of federal regulators and is being harassed by Dr. Sonia Rand (Catherine McCormack), the scientist from whom he stole the time-travel patent; she disrupts one of his aprs-hunt soirees by spraying his guests with a champagne bottle full of blood (carbonated blood, judging by the effect) as part of her campaign to warn of the dangers attendant upon time travel. “A hundred years ago, she'd have been protesting biotech or the Internet,” Hatton says of her.

Ah, yes.

Those Eisenhower-era anti-spam protests. I remember them well.

Turns out Dr. Sonia is bang-on. On Ryer's very next trip, wouldn't you know, a terrified huntsman stumbles off the path, plastering a butterfly to the sole of his boot (the butterfly has been begging for it, fluttering under boot heels, tempting fate, probably offering taunts in butterfly-speak, high-pitched “Who's-your-daddy?"s), and soon thereafter the first of a series of “timewaves,” like transparent tsunami, strike Chicago (and presumably the Earth), gradually turning that toddlin’ town into a prehistoric jungle, and threatening to change the course of human evolution, at one point transforming (temporarily) the blonde and beauteous Dr. Rand into a bipedal guppy. “Massive roots from newly sprouted vegetation burst upward, splitting the pavement and cracking open chasms into which drivers plunge to their deaths in vehicles suddenly puny as toys. Vines engulf buildings ... armies of carnivorous insects ravage everything in their path...” So claims an ASOT press release, but in the hands of director Peter Hyams (The Relic, Timecop), it somehow doesn't seem all that kinetic. Certainly Travis Ryer doesn't appear alarmed. He checks out his once-moribund houseplant, grown luxuriant and overflowing its pot overnight, and registers not the least change in expression.

In the grip of this dimwitted stoicism, Burns's signature as an actor, Ryer leads a party of half-a-dozen out into the wilds of Chicago to find his most recent clients and discover what has been brought back; after that, he intends to return to the Cretaceous and set things straight. Why such a dangerous enterprise is necessary eludes me. The simplest, safest, and most effective thing to do would be to zip back in time to Time Safari headquarters and stop the hunters before they can leave; but the script—penned by the writer of Tomcats, rewritten by the writers of Sahara (Who'd have thunk it took two of them?)—consists of one plothole after another, and if you plugged any of them, you'd have no movie and thus be deprived of the wonder that is ASOT.... Anyway, back to the search party. The Afro-American guy, apparently the only brother left in 2055 Chicago, dies first, savaged by a pack of the flying dino-baboon-bats that appear to be the world's new dominant species. His early exit comes as a shock to everyone except the audience. The cast virtually have numbers pinned to their backs announcing the order of their death. Credit for this utter lack of ingenuity must be ultimately ceded to Hyams, who, for reasons known only to the dry cleaner, has been given an eighty-million-dollar budget with which to create his searing vision. And, boy, does he make good use of it! When you can tell that two actors (or something approximating) are walking on a treadmill in front of a short loop of CGI cars, you realize that big bucks are being spent.

ASOT throws around the concept of evolution a great deal, but as evidenced by the saurian baboon-bats, it doesn't have a clue as to what evolution is. It's the sort of film creationists, in their ... what's the word I'm looking for? Naivet? It's the sort of film they may point to, because it makes something of a case for the intelligent design/Hey-we-don't-know-squat-so-maybe-it's-all-true school of idiocy. Maybe they'll find it useful as a teaching aid. For my part, I'm just annoyed that one of my favorite childhood stories has been morphed into a big steaming pile of what Sam Neill plunged his hands into beside the dead Triceratops in Jurassic Park. I'm concerned that this is all eighty million buys anymore, and that it's a portent of things to come, that the beautiful, blond art of storytelling will become overwhelmed by tsunamis of hackneyed imagination, without the regulatory effect of either discipline or competence, and thus devolve into a bipedal guppy. As one character in ASOT says while looking around a vine-shrouded lab, shortly before she is snatched to her death in a flooded subway tunnel by a CGI eel that resembles a silly rubberoid version of Cecil the Sea Serpent: “This can't be good."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Madeleine Robins published half a dozen stories in our pages in the ‘80s and ‘90s, including “Cuckoo,” “Mules,” “Willie,” and “Abelard's Kiss.” Her relative silence is due mostly to the fact that she has concentrated her efforts on novels in the past decade. She has published two mystery novels with some elements of alternate history to them, Point of Honour and Petty Treason, and a third is in progress. She also published The Stone War, a science fiction novel with a grim view of New York's future. Her new story also brings her back to NYC (where she lived for many years before moving to San Francisco), but this time through a more fantastic lens...

It's hard to find Pampers in Elfland. Mia tried everywhere in her neighborhood, then went farther west: the big Duane Reade on Second Avenue, the Pathmark on Ninth Street, Ricky's Discount, all out. Since the first elves had come down from the Catskills and people started calling Alphabet City Elfland, baby supplies had been mostly squeezed off the shelves by stuff likely to appeal to them: hair glitter, face paint, herbal supplements. Finally she found some in a bodega on the corner of Tenth Street. Diapers, and in Gabi's size, too, but the price! It took three minutes of going through her bag and her wallet and turning out her pockets to come up with fifteen dollars in bills and change. All the while the guy behind the counter was giving her a hard time: “Ms rpida, chica!” Two elves in the line behind her had their heads together, giggling. Gabi, hungry and with a diaper that had gone beyond wet, wailed miserably from her stroller.

"I know, I know, mami. Just a tiny moment—” Mia pushed the last bill across the counter. The clerk shoved the Pampers back at her. She tucked the package under her arm as the elves—in too-perfectly paint-spattered T-shirts and fringed leggings—pushed past her and thumped a six-pack of Corona Extra on the counter. They looked familiar. From that bunch of artists in the basement apartment, maybe. Mia felt a flash of anger, swallowed it, and wheeled Gabi's stroller out of the store.

At home Mia dressed for work. Gabi, freshly diapered and chewing on a piece of bagel, was playing with the plastic blocks Mia had bought at the Goodwill last month when her tips had been good. She piled three blocks on top of each other and crowed happily. “Mi-ya Mama! Mi-ya!"

"Miro, mami. I see! Very good!"

Mia put on lipstick. It was almost gone; the edge of the tube scraped her lip. Maybe, if the tips were good tonight, she could buy another tomorrow. She liked this color: it made her look older than her twenty years. She thought of herself and Cleo in junior high, boosting makeup from the Wal-Mart in Sedona: thick black eyeliner and glitter across her cheekbones, the pink streak she'd worn in her hair that had made Mama shriek loud enough to bring Papa running. Another world.

She sighed and started to pack Gabi's bag with things to take down the hall to Mrs. Proschkja, who took care of Gabi while Mia worked. With the bag stuffed to overflowing, Mia glanced at the clock.

"Ay, it's late. Okay, mami, let's go. Time to visit Nana.” Mia pulled her coat on, slung her bag over one shoulder, looped Gabi's bag over the same arm, and bent to pick her daughter up. Of course Gabi didn't want to go.

"Wan’ bok,” she wailed, reaching back for the blocks. “Mama, wan bok, no Nana!"

"I know, baby, I know.” Mia balanced Gabi, squirming and wailing, in her left arm; with the right she locked the apartment door. Gabi cried a little as they went down the hall, but stopped as they turned the corner to Mrs. Proschkja's apartment. They knocked on the door together.

Mrs. Proschkja's broad, lined face peered around the edge of the door, caution replaced instantly with pleasure. She led the way into the apartment, carrying Gabi like a prize. She panted a little with the exertion, turned and looked at the clock. “See the time! You run, now, Amelia, you're late. Say good-bye to Mama, Gabi!"

From Mrs. Proschkja's arms, Gabi leaned forward, pursed her lips and gave Mia a sweet wet kiss. Mia kissed her daughter, dropped Gabi's bag on Mrs. Proschkja's mossy couch, and turned to run down the hall.

"Be good, mami! I'll see you soon!"

The train was waiting in the station when she got there, but her Metrocard wouldn't swipe. The clerk, looking bored, waved her through the service door and she made it onto the train just before the doors closed. She swung down into a seat.

"They magicked themselves through the turnstiles,” the woman sitting next to her muttered. She jutted her chin at a crowd of elves at the end of the car, dressed in silk and lace and leather. “So no one else's Metrocards work. Thought it was a big joke.” She raised her voice. “Most of us have to work for a living."

The elves looked at the woman, laughed, and turned their backs.

"They should go back to the mountains where they came from!” the woman said. “Who wants ‘em here anyway?"

Mia slid down the bench away from the woman, not wanting to be a part of any attention she drew. Who knew what elves might do? Some people thought elves were so glamorous, so artistic and cool. Mia was tired of them, beautiful even when they were working to look tattered and bohemian. She was tired of elf-music, tired of elvish art in the galleries south of her neighborhood, sick to death of elvish customers at the restaurant where she worked. Not that Mia said any of that. She wanted a quiet ride to the restaurant, the chance to relax a little before her shift. Most of us have to work for a living. She closed her eyes and sat back, listening for the Fiftieth Street stop.

The restaurant was busy that night. Mostly humans, but early on Mia got a mixed party, big spenders, high maintenance. She did her best to get everything right, to put on that suggestion of deference that elves seemed to set such store by from wait-staff, as if they were all the Queen of England or something. These were in the music business, nailing down the details of a tour of elvish bands; she listened to the bitchy gossip and negotiations as they drank and bickered and ordered expensive food. The party stayed at their table for almost three hours, until even Carlo, the manager, began to get edgy about turnover. Then one of the men signaled for the check. Mia felt like she'd been running a race. And for all that, a thirty-dollar tip to put into the pool, on a three-hundred-fifty-dollar tab.

She had four other tables. She didn't have time to think about it.

Just before closing a party of elves came in. She hated elf-only parties: elves spoke to her as if she were an invisible spirit, as if she were not real. I'll tell you who's not real, Mia thought. But she took their orders, took their changes, smiled and repeated the specials, replaced the order which was deemed unacceptable, watched as all the other tables in the restaurant emptied. She brought them Aquavit and Framboise and demitasse and ignored the blister that was coming up on her heel. They continued to talk to the air. When they got up to leave, Mia tried not to swoop down on their table too obviously to clear it.

She put the card slip in her pocket without even looking at the tip. Something else caught her attention; by one of the places, half hidden under a napkin, was a gold bracelet. It was beautiful, heavy gold links separated by little flowers made of crystal. It glittered in the guttering candlelight.

"You forgot this! Wait!” She could see the tail of the last elf's coat as the door swung shut. She followed, went out of the restaurant door and saw the crowd of them walking down Fifty-first Street. “Excuse me! Wait!” she called again. The blister on her heel burst with a hot pain.

One of the elves turned around. When she saw Mia running toward her in her waiter's outfit her head tilted to one side as if she was considering something new and curious.

"You forgot this!” Mia said again, holding out the bracelet at arm's length.

All the elves had stopped and turned around. Several of them started to laugh—tiny, affected laughs, like they couldn't be bothered to draw enough air for a real guffaw. The first elf smiled slowly.

"You mistake,” she said mistily. “That is a ... gratuity. It is for you. For your need.” She had a strong accent. Mia stood for a second trying to understand what she was saying.

Then, “I can't,” she said. “It's too—the restaurant would never—"

The elf seemed to grow taller, but it was all posture and attitude, not magic. “You will not accept a gift, freely given?” She was still smiling, but Mia was suddenly scared. She took a step back.

"Yes, okay. It's very nice of you. I just wanted to make sure."

"Go then,” the elf said. She turned away and the group started down the street again.

Mia looked down at the bracelet in her hand. Then she stuck the thing in her pocket and went back in the restaurant to help close up. She offered to put the bracelet in the tip pool, but people rolled their eyes: “How're we gonna divide that up?” So she rode the subway home that night with the bracelet a weight in her pocket, almost hoping someone would mug her and take the damned thing with him. Fairy gold. Wasn't it supposed to melt away in the morning?

When she got home Mia collected the heavily sleeping Gabi from Mrs. Proschkja's apartment with whispered thank yous, handed over her sitting money, and went home for the night. The next afternoon, on the way to the park with Gabi, Mia offered the bracelet at a couple of pawn shops on Fourteenth Street: no takers. At the last one the guy looked at her, looked at Gabi, shook his head and told her she'd been stiffed. “That elf-stuff's a glut on the market, honey."

When they got home from the park Mia dropped the bracelet into her jewelry box and forgot about it.

When she got home from the restaurant on Wednesday morning Mia saw a mixed human-elf crowd in front of her building, gawking and murmuring, and an ambulance. Panic surged through her; her hands and feet tingled as she pushed through the crowd and ran up the stairs, unreasonably certain that something had happened to Gabi. Uniformed men filled her hallway; there was a gurney with equipment and bags hanging off it. Mia breathed in sharply: it was an adult on the gurney. Then the EMS pushed the gurney by and she saw it was Mrs. Proschkja. Her face was gray and her eyes half-closed; they were giving her oxygen. She was still alive.

"Gabi? My little girl—” Mia tried to look past the cop standing by the door. “Mrs. P was taking care of her. Where's Gabi?"

"There's a kid in there, they're taking care of—"

Mia pushed past him, ashamed of her rudeness. Inside Mrs. Proschkja's apartment she saw another EMS worker packing up equipment; beyond her, Gabi sat between two elves, playing happily.

"Gabi? Leave her alone!” she said to the elves. “Gabi, come here, mami.” She reached for her child and the elves—no, not elves, they were too short and swarthy, gnomes, maybe?—stepped away. “Come here,” Mia said again.

The gnome nearest Gabi bowed. He was short: his head hardly came to her waist. He wore yellow pants and a red T-shirt from Famiglia Pizza. His legs were so bowed and his belly so round, he looked like a red bowling ball set on top of two pieces of elbow macaroni. The ruffled blade of gray hair in the center of his skull made his head look pointed; his nose was long and beaky, and his bony ears twisted a half turn at the top. His skin was a pale translucent brown. And he smelled like—like what? Something dark and damp and earthy.

Gabi, safe in Mia's arms, laughed and reached for the gnome. Mia pulled her back.

"The o'd woman is sick. We have ‘ooked after your baby,” the gnome said. He had a deep, low voice, and his ls were so soft they sounded like ys. “My wife and I."

Mia swallowed. “Thank you.” Her heart was slowing down a little now that she had Gabi in her arms. “What happened to Mrs. P?"

The gnome shrugged. “I do not know. She is not dead. But you wi’ need someone to watch the baby when you work."

"Yeah, well.” Was he offering? As if. “It'll be okay. Thanks for your help."

"If the ‘ady does not return, what wi’ you do?” the gnome asked. Despite his appearance and the gruff voice, he sounded polite. “We ‘ike chi'dren.” He showed her a mouthful of narrow, jagged teeth, more teeth than a human would have. It was probably supposed to be a smile. “We wi’ watch him."

"Her,” Mia said automatically. It was an offer. She could feel tears starting in her eyes. It was too many things at once. The scare of seeing the ambulance, and finding Mrs. P so sick, and the damned Fair Folk watching her baby. “No. No thank you,” she said. “I'm sure Mrs. Proschkja will be okay soon."

The gnome nodded as if he had expected her answer. “You may ask about us. We can give you—” he paused as if searching for the right word. “References. We are in apartment 4C."

The gnome reached out and pulled the other one forward: a she-gnome, shorter than he, wearing a lavender polo shirt and a tiger print skirt so short Mia could see the veins on her brown, bowed thighs. The spike of hair on her head was orange; her nose was not quite as large as his, but her ears were longer and more twisted, with tiny diamond studs running along their edge.

"My wife,” the gnome said, and bowed.

The she-gnome curtsied—hard to do in that short skirt. “We ‘ike the baby,” she said. Her voice was as deep as his. Her eyes were hopeful.

"No, really,” Mia said. “Please, it's okay, thank you, I don't want—"

But Gabi was struggling in Mia's arms, reaching for the gnomes, giggling. “Play!” she demanded, grabbing for one of the brown hands.

The she-gnome smiled. “Such a big gir'! So smart! So pretty!"

"No,” Mia said hopelessly.

"It is ‘ate,” the male said. “You wi’ wish to put the baby to bed. We wi’ come tomorrow. You can watch us with the chi'd.” The gnome took his wife's hand again; they both bowed and left the apartment. Mia, feeling woozy with relief and shock, took Gabi home and put her to bed.

In the morning Mia called Beth Israel and found out that Mrs. Proschkja had had a stroke, was resting comfortably, but was unlikely to return home. She left a get-well message, then she started calling around, looking for sitters. She didn't know many people in the neighborhood, couldn't afford a sitting service—most people wanted more per hour than she made. By noon Mia was struggling not to cry as she fed Gabi. After lunch they went to the park and Mia looked for sitter listings on the community board. When they got home again she made more calls. Nothing. She couldn't afford to lose a night's pay, but by four o'clock she was ready to call and ask someone to cover her shift at the restaurant. Then the doorbell rang.

It was the gnomes.

"Here are the ... references.” He held out a sheet of typing paper. “Ca’ them. They wi’ te’ you."

"No, I—"

Gabi charged out from the bedroom to greet the visitors. The gnome stepped around Mia and waved his short fingers at Gabi. “What is her name?"

"Gabi!” Gabi announced.

"So smart! So pretty!” The she-gnome stepped around Mia too, and sat down with Gabi on the rug. She smiled. Mia jumped to see all those teeth so close to her daughter's soft skin. “I'm ‘eafdrop. This is Oakmoss.” She gave the names to Gabi, not to Mia. Gabi repeated the names Gabi-style: Yeafop and Okmof. The gnomes smiled at each other as if she had given them a present.

Oakmoss looked up at Mia, still standing by the open door. “Ca', p'ease. You need he'p. We are good he'pers."

"I'm sure you are,” Mia said. “I'm sure—"

"Ca',” Oakmoss said firmly.

The references were all glowing, if a little odd.

"I'm calling about Leafdrop and Oakmoss Brown—” Those were the names typed at the top of the reference paper. Each time, before she could say anything else, the people at the other end of the line assured her enthusiastically that Mr. and Mrs. Brown were hard workers, great with children, very responsible. “A dream come true,” one woman said. Only when she asked, “Why did they leave?” was there ever a hesitation. “Well, you know, that's their way,” said the first woman she called. Another got a little teary, but would only say, “It was my fault. They were so wonderful!"

Mia got off the phone and found Oakmoss Brown reading to Gabi in that deep, growly voice. The toddler sat next to him, reaching up to play with the tuft of hair on the crown of his head. Mia caught a flash of movement from the kitchen, Mrs. Brown scurrying around doing something. Before Mia could ask what, she came out carrying a tray, prettily set with bowls and Mia's two unchipped glasses and a flower—where had that come from?—floating in a teacup. The stew in the bowls smelled like heaven, a rich, savory smell, better than anything Mama used to make, and certainly better than Mia's own cooking. Mrs. Brown put the tray down on the coffee table—the only surface one could eat off in the living room—and went back to the kitchen. Gabi, who normally had to be coaxed to eat, came at once to the table and let Oakmoss Brown put a bib around her neck.

"You have spoken to them?” he asked, when Mia began to eat.

She took a bite of the stew and nodded. “Everyone said very nice things,” she said. She still felt weird, unsettled by the thought of these creatures taking care of Gabi, but how could she say that, sitting there and eating his wife's cooking? “But I don't know, two of you? I can't afford—"

"A bow’ of mi'k,” the brownie said firmly. “You may ‘eave it here when we come. And p'ease: never say ‘Thank You.’ You must not. We are not—” the little man ducked his head and his brown skin reddened. “We are embarrassed."

Mia shook her head. “A bowl of milk? That's not enough, I can't just—"

Mr. Brown nodded firmly. “You can go to work tonight. We wi’ take care of the baby Gabi."

Feeling a little breathtaken, Mia said, “Tonight?” But tonight meant tonight's pay, and she needed the money. She always needed the money. “Okay,” she said at last.

Before Mrs. Proschkja's stroke Mia had thought she had her life organized pretty well, but the old woman's sudden illness—and the arrival of the Browns—had shown her how rickety that structure was. The first night had been hard—Mia had called three times, and raced home after work, fearful that she'd made a terrible mistake, that Gabi would be gone, or dead. She found her daughter tucked into bed, smiling in her sleep.

Gradually Mia got used to the new sturdiness of her life. The Browns arrived at five every evening; Leafdrop cooked and cleaned and Oakmoss played with Gabi. Mia left for work with an increasing sense of security; when she got home each night the apartment would be clean, Gabi would be sleeping soundly, and there would be dinner warming in the oven. In the afternoon Mia put out two bowls of milk on the table—by the door, Oakmoss told her, was more traditional, but didn't work in a cockroach-infested city building. The hardest part was to remember not to say “thank you."

"That stew was delicious,” she could say to Leafdrop, or “Gabi said she had fun with you,” to Oakmoss. But if either of the Browns thought Mia was about to say “thank you” they would raise fingers to their lips as if to signal her to keep the words sealed inside.

For the first time since Gabi's birth Mia's finances stabilized too. Without having to pay for babysitting she was able to save money. She could buy Pampers—when she could find them—without having to turn out her sofa for lost change. She could even save a little money for emergencies or Christmas. A weight, or several weights, had been lifted from her shoulders, and she felt closer to her real age than she had since she had found out that she was pregnant.

Oakmoss had asked about that. “Where is the baby's father? Does he not want to see her and p'ay with her?"

Mia shrugged. “If he does, he never said so. He disappeared when I told him I was pregnant."

Leafdrop looked up from playing with Gabi. “Your fami'y permitted such dishonor?"

Mia laughed unpleasantly. “My family are a couple thousand miles away, and they think I dishonored things enough by myself. When I told my mother I was pregnant she called me—” Mia would not say the word in front of Gabi. “My dad said I should have an abortion and all Mama said was that would make me a murderer too. I don't think they were worrying much about dishonor to me."

Oakmoss swung Gabi up over his head—he must be very strong, Mia thought. Gabi was nearly as tall as he was. “They have lost much,” he said, and tickled the baby's stomach with his long, bony nose.

Gabi's crowing laughter filled the apartment. “Yeah, I guess so,” Mia agreed. It was not a thought that had occurred to her before.

The elves in the basement apartment moved out, taking dozens of paint-smeared canvasses and some heavy Victorian-looking furniture with them. They made a point of saying good-bye to Mia and Gabi, bowing and wishing them well in those misty, vague voices. It was a week or so before Mia caught sight of the new tenant—another elf, knife-thin, dressed in a Wall Street suit, with an icy manner that made Mia miss the artist-elves. He stood at the door by the mailboxes, watching. Mia wheeled Gabi into the building, folded the stroller, and started up the stairs with the stroller in one hand and Gabi in the other. He said nothing, just looked, his back pressed against his door as if he didn't want to get too close to them. “Like I was a bug,” Mia said later to David at the restaurant.

"They all think we're bugs,” David said, and used a kitchen towel to clean off the edge of a dish.

"Not like this one,” Mia said. “I didn't realize before the old ones moved out, but they were nice. For elves. This one—I don't like him."

"Well, it's not like you need to. This is New York.” David put two more plates on his tray and started back to the dining room.

The Browns did not mention the elf in the basement, but from what Mia could see, they kept pretty much to themselves. The only people they seemed interested in were Mia and Gabi. They arrived one night as Mia was getting ready for work and Gabi played with Mia's jewelry box, ringing her arms with cheap bangles and putting earrings in her hair.

"You need more jewe's in your hair,” Oakmoss advised Gabi in that growling voice. He reached to scoop up a string of beads, then stopped. He looked as if he had just seen a snake among the necklaces.

"How did you find this?” He pointed at the gold-and-crystal elf bracelet.

"Oh.” Mia put the last pin in her hair. “It was a tip from an elf. At the restaurant."

"It is worth much,” Oakmoss said. Leafdrop, just behind him, nodded solemnly.

"Maybe. I tried to pawn it, but no one was buying."

Oakmoss's brushy eyebrows rose almost into his hair. “You shou'd not—what? Pawn it? It is very va'able. It has power."

"Power? What kind of—is it safe that Gabi's playing with it?"

"It wi’ not hurt the baby,” Oakmoss assured her. “But it is a powerfu’ token—"

"Maybe to your kind.” Mia looked at him. Oakmoss looked upset. “Relax. I won't pawn it. But I'm not wearing it, either."

The gnome relaxed a little. “Good.” He took up several earrings and planted them in Gabi's curly hair. “Very pretty gir'."

Sometimes, after that, the Browns would talk about elven things. Mia heard a little of why the elves had come down from the mountains—some sort of political thing, a coup that sent half of Faery running down from the Catskills into the countryside and then into New York. She got the feeling that, whatever disagreements had driven the elves out, they'd brought their old ways of thinking with them.

"The great ones do not mix with us,” Oakmoss told her.

"Well, people like to keep to their own kind."

"No. We serve. They do not. Our wor'd—you do not have the right word for it. Position, high to ‘ow, ob'igation, honor—"

"Class? Humans got plenty of classes, Oakmoss."

"Not ‘ike the great ones. The o'd ones fear being here, fear that the—” he said something that sounded like a liquid sneeze. “It wi’ be weakened if they ‘ive among humans ‘ong."

"So that creep in the basement thinks he's better than we are, and doesn't want to catch human cooties?” Mia asked. Oakmoss looked puzzled, and she had to explain what cooties were; by the time she was done she had to leave to work.

If Mia had not had a dentist appointment she would never have seen the elven code at work. Oakmoss and Leafdrop had come early to take Gabi to the park. Mia got home first and was struggling to pry the mail out of her mailbox when the door to the building opened. Oakmoss Brown was holding the door as Leafdrop and Gabi came in, Gabi chattering happily and holding up a handful of dried leaves.

"Mama! See yeafs, Mama!” Gabi shook her hand out of Leafdrop's and went toward Mia, who dropped to one knee to greet her.

"Out of my way.” The words were drawled with such ice Mia shivered. It was the new elven tenant, standing just behind Leafdrop in the doorway. He held one hand up, as if ready to strike the gnome. Leafdrop shrank back like she really expected a blow. Gabi, halfway across the hall, stopped to see what was happening. She wheeled around, looked up at the elf, and laughed.

A look went across the elf's face that scared Mia: it held anger, pleasure, satisfaction, and hunger, and she wanted that look nowhere near her baby. Mia put an arm out to gather Gabi to her as the elf started forward.

Oakmoss let the door go and jumped in front of Gabi, farther than his short bowed legs should have taken him. He stood like a barrier, both arms up.

"No, ‘ord,” he said. His low growl was shaky.

The elf raised his hand farther, preparing to knock Oakmoss across the room. But by now Mia had grabbed Gabi up and knelt with her daughter in her arms, glaring up at the elf. She was not sure what was going on, but she knew the elf's look scared the hell out of her.

"Let me pass,” the elf said. His voice was silky and cold.

Oakmoss was trembling. He dropped his arms but stayed where he was. “No, ‘ord. My apo'ogies.” He bowed deeply, but did not move.

The elf glared down at the gnome. He said something in that silky, cold voice, in a language Mia did not understand. Leafdrop gave a thin, wailing cry, putting her hand over her mouth to contain the sound. The elf looked over his shoulder to where she stood, pressed against the door sill, and said something to her. Then he turned back to Oakmoss and very deliberately moved his foot as if to step through him.

The gnome did not move.

For another minute the five of them stood in the hallway as if they had frozen there: Mia with Gabi squirming in her arms; Oakmoss facing down the elf; Leafdrop cowering by the door.

Then the elf spat out some words, turned and left the building, pressing so close to Leafdrop that she staggered against the wall trying not to get in his way. Oakmoss went at once to his wife. Mia stuffed the mail into her pocket and picked Gabi up. Later on, upstairs, when Leafdrop was bathing Gabi, Mia asked Oakmoss what had happened.

"He wanted the baby, and he did not ‘ike it when I would not ‘et him pass."

"He wanted Gabi?” Mia had a brief, panic-funny image of the elf on his knees with Gabi, playing peek-a-boo. “Like hell. For what?"

Oakmoss shrugged. “I do not know what a great one wants, but there is—” he seemed to be searching for a word, but shook his head as if it would not come to him. “It is as if that one has been turned from his proper way. I could not give him Gabi."

"I should hope not!” Mia said, looking fearfully at Oakmoss. “You saying, if that elf didn't seem bent, you'd have just handed Gabi over?"

"No, no. We are bound to obey the great ones, but our—” he said something in the Elven language he had spoken earlier. “Our duty to you and the baby is more powerfu'."

"More powerful—” It was all that Fair Folk stuff, and Mia didn't understand it. Just as long as Gabi was safe. “What did he say to you?"

Oakmoss pursed his lips and looked down as if he were remembering. “He ca'ed us names. He said we wou'd pay for our disobedience. They wi’ make us return to the home beyond the mountain.” He looked up. “You wi’ need to find a new babysitter."

"What? They can't do that.” Mia felt a full-body flush of panic. The Browns were in danger, and with them, the world that she had constructed in the last few months that was not simply a race from one crisis to the next. “What will they do to you? They're going to punish you? Because you wouldn't let him take Gabi? You should get a prize!"

Leafdrop appeared in the doorway, folding one of Gabi's sweaters. “Humans say so,” she agreed. “My Oakmoss is very brave.” Oakmoss looked down; the scalp around his tuft of gray hair flushed red. “But great ones have ru'es. Browns are bound to obey them."

"The great ones have rules to let them steal human children? I thought that was all fairy tale garbage—that's why you guys were allowed to stay in our world, the elvish leaders swore that they don't steal children or—"

"They do not. We do not. But even among humans there are persons who are—bent,” Oakmoss said gruffly, as if it were rude to remind Mia of it.

"Isn't there some elf I can talk to? Tell them that you weren't rude, you just didn't let him take Gabi, you followed the rules? Isn't there, like, a department for—for Fair Folk like you?"

"There is on'y the counci’ that ru'es us a'. And the great ones do not ‘isten to dirtdiggers or minions."

"Minions?” Mia stood up. “Minions? Maybe under the mountain they don't, but this is New York City. We don't have minions.” She looked down at Oakmoss and felt an urge to ruffle her fingers through his tuft of gray hair. “Who do I talk to?"

Oakmoss shook his head. “When we are ca'ed we wi’ have to go."

Mia imagined a summons of some sort, a piece of paper or parchment. Something she would help them fight. She waited to hear about a summons, but the Browns said nothing. After a while she began to hope the whole matter would be forgotten. The Browns arrived to take care of Gabi each evening; Mia came home to find the apartment clean and a late supper waiting. She left out the milk and remembered not to say thank you. Whatever problems the elf in the basement had, he wasn't bothering her or the Browns.

And then, on a Thursday night, she got a call at work. The restaurant was busy and she had just delivered three osso buco and a pot-au-feu to table seven; Carlo waved at her when she ducked back into the kitchen. It was Leafdrop on the phone.

"You must come. They have summoned us and wi’ not wait ‘ong."

Mia pled a babysitting crisis; her anxiety must have shown on her face, for Carlo not only let her go without complaint, he gave her cab fare. Mia directed the cab to the corner of Tenth Street and Avenue A and sat back, twirling a lock of hair with one hand and tapping out a rhythm with the other. When the cab pulled up at the curb she threw the fare at the driver and began to run. There was a small crowd of elves in front of her building. Without apology Mia elbowed her way through the crowd. Seated on the top step of the brownstone stoop were Oakmoss and Leafdrop Brown, with Gabi between them. Gabi was in her pajamas, asleep, her thumb slipping out of her mouth, her head a dark blur of curls against Leafdrop's pink and yellow skirt. Two elves, tall in somber black, stood in front of them. Both wore rings and bangles, both wore badges on golden chains—the Elf Police? Mia thought. Behind them in the doorway, eyes lit with malice, was the elf from the basement. There was a weird, electric feeling in the crowd, a charge Mia could not understand. But she knew there was danger—to the Browns, maybe to Gabi and herself.

She took a breath and asked, “Is there a problem?"

One of the elves in black answered her. “This is a matter for the Fair Folk.” Yeah, this was a cop, all right. Move along, folks, nothin’ to see here.

"Well, not if it involves my child and her babysitters, it isn't.” Mia used her best polite-but-firm tone, the one she used at the bank just before the I'm-not-afraid-to-get-angry-and-make-a-scene tone. “What's up?"

"A complaint has been made,” the elf said again. “A breech in—” he turned to his companion and asked something. They conferred for a moment. “A breech,” he finished simply. “These interfered with the one who complained."

"These what? Who complained? If you're talking about the Browns—I want to complain right back. That guy there—” Mia pointed a finger at the elf from the basement—"he tried to take my daughter. The Browns stopped him. If that's the interference you're talking about—"

The elf in black drew his brows together. “That is a serious charge.” He turned to the basement elf and rattled off something. There was a murmur of dismay from the elvish crowd watching on the street. The elf from the basement sneered and said something else, full of hisses and sharp edges, but the official elf cut him off and repeated what he'd said. For the first time Mia saw the basement elf look uneasy; his long silvery eyes went from one elf-in-black to the other and back again. His chin went up and he said something.

The second of the elves-in-black shook his head and stepped past the Browns and Gabi. The basement elf spat out a long complicated stream of language but did not try to back away, even when the elf-in-black took him by the arm and began to walk him down the stairs. He stopped on the step next to the Browns, looking down at them, smiling a frightening smile. He said something to the first elf-in-black, then looked at Mia.

"They are lost to you,” he said. Then he was pulled past them and through the crowd of elves at the foot of the stairs. Mia didn't care where they were taking him, just so he was gone.

She moved past the remaining elf-in-black and climbed the stairs to the Browns and Gabi. Silent, Leafdrop picked the child up and gave her to Mia.

"We wi’ miss you,” Oakmoss said. “It was good, having you and Gabi as our fami'y.” He stood up and looked to the remaining elf.

Mia, who had been shifting Gabi in her arms so that her daughter's head was nestled comfortably just under her chin, looked up. “What?” She looked at Leafdrop, who got to her feet but did not look at her. “Where are you going?"

The elf sighed deeply. “They are forfeit,” he said.

"What? But I told you—"

"That one will be dealt with. What he attempted is not permitted. You have our word and our hand on it, he will be punished. But these—” he gestured to the Browns. “They honored the pledges of our Folk to your kind, but to do so, they broke a more ancient law. They are forfeit. I am sorry."

Mia felt a tug on her arm. Oakmoss was looking up at her, his long bony nose quivering. “We are forfeit,” he agreed. “But the baby is safe. Do not be sad."

"Sad? Hell, I'm angry. You can't take these people!"

There was a ripple of noise—laughter—from the crowd at the foot of the stairs.

"They are forfeit,” the elf said again.

"They are family,” Mia said. “You heard him!"

Again that swell of noise from the crowd. The elf shook his head. “They cannot be family."

"Why not?” Mia thought of her parents, and of Gabi's vanished father, and of what little good the bonds of blood had done her. She thought of Carlo and the waiters at the restaurant, and of Mrs. Proschkja, and of the Browns. “Of course they are."

"Family is blood and clan and sept,” the elf said, like someone explaining to a slow child. “Family is obligation and history—"

"We have the obligation, we have the history. We don't need the blood. Blood's the least part of family."

"Think carefully what you say,” the elf cautioned her. “There are ways to redeem the forfeit, but is that truly what you wish? To take one of our kind, or their kind, into your clan, you must be willing to give something. Something of value.” He looked deliberately at Gabi.

Mia took a step back, almost tripping over Oakmoss.

"You want me to buy them? With my daughter?"

The elf closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead as if he had a headache. His long fingers glittered in the streetlight; he had a ring for every finger. At last he looked at Mia. “Say rather that, if you have the price, you might pay the penalty yourself and save your—family members."

"No, no, no,” Leafdrop was saying, low. “Not for us."

Oakmoss stood handfast with his wife, shaking his head.

It was nightmarish; Mia could not give the elves her child, that was not a question. But let them go? Stand there and watch while the Browns were taken away? That wasn't right either. She started calculating how much she made. Maybe they would take payment over time? She had nothing to barter with: a silver-plated jug from the Goodwill, her diamond chip earrings, the little gold crucifix her grandmother had given her. The elves, with their rings and bangles, would laugh themselves to death if she brought those out.

Mia breathed in suddenly. “Wait. Don't go. Please."

She ran up the stairs and into the building. By the time she reached her apartment she was panting, Gabi a dead weight in her arms. Mia put her daughter down and got out her jewelry box. On the bottom, under a tangle of necklaces and earrings, the elven bracelet shone sullenly. Mia grabbed Gabi, who grumbled in her sleep and subsided, and ran back downstairs.

"This!” She held the bracelet out to the elf. “Will this pay the penalty?"

The elf's eyes opened wide. “Where did you get this?"

"It was given to me. A gift, freely given,” she remembered the words the elf at the restaurant had used. “As a tip at the restaurant I work at. Will this work?"

Oakmoss and Leafdrop watched the elf silently.

Without touching the bracelet, the elf examined it. “This carries a great boon,” he said at last. “You should not give this up lightly."

"I'm not. Is it a great enough boon to buy Leafdrop and Oakmoss out of this—forfeit?"

"And a thousand more,” the elf muttered, talking to himself. “Yes, it is.” He still did not take the bracelet, but turned back to the Browns and said something in that sharp, liquid language. Leafdrop answered him, the strange words rolling out oddly in her low, gruff voice. Oakmoss said something. They both looked at Mia.

"I'm serious. These people saved my baby from your friend—” she nodded in the direction of the departed elf from the basement. “If that thing'll get them out of trouble, take it. Take it!” She dangled the bracelet before the elf, who at last, with the care of someone handling a holy relic or the crown jewels of England, took it into his hands.

"The bargain is struck.” The elf turned to the crowd and said it again. Then he turned back to Mia. “They are yours."

And that was that. He turned and walked down the stairs; the crowd of elves turned and started away in twos and threes, talking. Gabi sighed heavily and awoke with a puzzled look.

"It's cold out here. Let's go up,” Mia said to the Browns.

The moment they reached Mia's apartment Leafdrop began to move about in a blur of activity in the kitchen, moving as if her life depended upon it. Oakmoss took Gabi out of Mia's arms, cradling the toddler in his arms, and started off to the kitchen to get her a snack.

"I can do that,” Mia said.

"No,” Oakmoss said simply. “We cannot—I do not know how to—I can do this.” Before Mia could say anything more, he had left her. She heard the refrigerator open, Oakmoss saying something to Gabi. The gnome left the baby in the kitchen with Leafdrop, then came and sat on the floor next to Mia.

"You shou'd not give away such a thing ‘ightly,” he said.

Mia laughed. “You thought that was lightly? Jeez, Oakmoss, for a moment I thought they were going to take Gabi—"

"They wou'd not do it. We wou'd not permit it. It is enough that you spoke for us. But to give the Boon—"

"What good did the boon do to me? The elf who gave it to me said it was for my need. What need would I have for it, except to keep you?” Mia slipped off her shoes and put her feet up on the coffee table. Oakmoss looked very unhappy, his long nose quivering, his lips twitching as if they could not form the words they needed to say. Mia realized what those words would be.

"You don't need to say it. I get embarrassed too. Look, Oakmoss—I'll make you a deal, okay? We neither of us say, well—you know—but you don't have to leave me a bowl of milk. Okay?"

Oakmoss, after a moment, gave a low, grunting chortle.

"Anyway, I've never paid you a cent for everything you do here. Think of the—the boon—as your wages. Even if you don't have to work for a living—"

"Everyone must work for a ‘iving,” Oakmoss said. “My kind do not require go'd. We require work. We are drawn to need. Your need drew us to this p'ace, and we found you and Gabi. Now we wi’ stay as long you have work for us. As long as you wi’ be our fami'y."

Mia nodded. “Please,” she said. “Please. And you'll be ours."

The brownie cocked his head and raised a scraggly, arched eyebrow as if this were a new notion. From the kitchen came Gabi's crow of laughter, and the smell of fresh bread.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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After visiting The Lost World (1912) and traversing The Poison Belt (1913), Professor George Challenger has mellowed into old age. His wife Jessie and his rival Professor Summerlee have died. Challenger's daughter, Enid (never mentioned in the previous novels), has acquired an interest in spiritualism. Several real-life advocates of occultism (including Aleister Crowley) are thinly disguised in these pages, as the skeptical Challenger enlists his colleagues Edward Malone and Lord John Roxton to infiltrate sances and expose the mediums as frauds

...but mounting evidence for life after death compels Malone and Roxton to become believers. Eventually, Enid Challenger displays mediumistic abilities ... and she brings her father a personal message from the beyond, containing information that no living person can have known. At last the bitter skeptic sees the truth.

Although Sherlock Holmes famously disbelieved in vampires and spooks, his creator was more credulous. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was interested in spiritualism long before his son and brother-in-law were killed in World War I, but their deaths intensified his efforts to pierce the veil. He first published on the subject in 1918, and by 1922 Doyle's credulity had reached its zenith (or nadir) with his pamphlet The Coming of the Fairies, asserting that a Yorkshire glade was inhabited by pixies and sprites. While Doyle's first two Challenger novels are told from Edward Malone's viewpoint, in The Land of Mist, Doyle openly harangues the reader in his own voice: praising those who accept spiritualism, and condemning skeptics.

—F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre