Muten
Astounding Science Fiction – October 1948
(1948)*
Eric Frank Russell
(as Duncan H. Munro)
illustrated by Cartier

He was supposed to find and bring into the Board any mutants around. But after talking it over with that particular mutant, he found the orders weren't quite so easy to carry out.

-

	Parkinson finished his perusal of the letter, shoved it across the desk toward Yule. "There's another one for you." He lay back in his chair with a malicious smile.

	Gloomily, Yule picked up the missive. He had seen that smirk before. Invariably it meant that he was about to chase a distant halfwit. A, frown corrugated his forehead as he strove to decipher the letter's spidery scrawl.

-
	Dear sirs:
	I have read as how your looking for mutens and I beg to say as how I got a muten right here which same you may inspeck on application.
Yours truly
	G. Timberlake (George Timberlake).
-

	"All right," said Parkinson. "What's keeping you?"

	"Nothing." Yule got up, mooched reluctantly to the door. "Only sometimes I wonder."

	"You wonder what?"

	"What I did in my previous life to deserve this."

	Parkinson said: "You trod on my neck. Now I'm treading on yours."

	Giving him a look, Yule went out. Blondie glanced up from her desk as he passed, her bright eyes curious, "Off again, Stevie?"

	"Yes, worse luck. Every time somebody thinks a local imbecile might be a mutant off I go again, miles and miles and miles. Then back I come in company with said idiot, miles and miles and miles. By the time I get here I'm half nuts myself."

	"Too bad," she sympathized.

	"Then they hand my charge over to the experts," Yule continued, bitterly, "who study him until they're cross-eyed. Finally, they decide he's just another daffy. Then they give him back to me and I nursemaid him all the way home, miles and miles and miles." He banged a hand on her desk and shouted, "And Parkinson thinks it's funny."

	"I don't," she said. "You need a change."

	"Yes, sure, I need a change. That's what I'm going for right now. A change. Another mutant." He pulled his hair forward, contorted his face, let his hands hang like paws. "Thank you, lady, and hurrah. Good-by."

	He hurried out. Blondie stared at the wall, slowly shook her head from side to side.

-

	Farmer George Timberlake had sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and huge yellow teeth. He posed suspiciously in his doorway, showed the teeth to his caller.

	"My name's Yule, Steven Yule" informed that worthy. "I'm a field investigator from the Board of Social Survey. You wrote them saying 'that you have a mutant." Producing the letter, he showed it to the other.

	"Yep." Timberlake's face cracked into a semblance of hospitality. He moved aside, made a-gesture. "Come in." Closing the door behind his visitor, he yelled, "Marge, Marge, they bit!"

	A plump woman bustled out of the kitchen as Yule seated himself on a hard chair. She eyed him warily.

	"They bit," Timberlake repeated. "They sent this gent along." His chest protruded in triumph. "See?"

	"What's he giving for it?" Marge asked.

	"Ain't ast him yet." He turned to Yule. "What's it worth?"

	"Hey?" Steve Yule put his hat in his lap, then on the table, then in his lap again. "Do you mean that you wish to sell this mutant?"

	"Y'betcha," said Timberlake, emphatically. "That's why I writ in."

	"Good grief!" Yule looked prayerfully at the ceiling. "My function is to bring likely specimens in for examination, and afterwards to see them safely home. The Board of Social Survey identifies and prepares comprehensive reports on all cases of genuine mutation. I am not aware that they have ever purchased a mutant or contemplated doing so."

	"Does that mean you ain't open to buy?" Timberlake exposed his fangs again. They looked even bigger and yellower.

	"I would not go so far as to assert that," Yule assured, hastily. "The question has never arisen until now."

	"There's a heck of a note," growled the other to Marge. "They fill the papers with stuff about mutens, say they want 'em real bad, and then won't buy."

	"I would have to consult the Board," observed Yule. "Possibly they might like a mutant of their very own." There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. "A tame one. Nice to have around."

	"Now you're talking." Timberlake pointed to a phone on the wall. "You tell 'em."

	Swallowing hard, Yule transferred the hat from his lap to the table. He approached the phone as if expecting it to bite him. 

-

	Hoarsely, he demanded: "Long distance." When Parkinson came on he swallowed again, said: "This is Yule. They want to sell it."

	"Sell it?" Parkinson was silent a moment, then, "What for?"

	"Money."

	"Sell what?" roared Parkinson. 

	"Their mutant."

	Parkinson foamed a bit before he asked: "Are you mad?"

	"Not yet." Yule gloomed at the wall. "But it won't be long."

	The phone started to jump in his hand. He beckoned Timberlake, gave it to him. "You talk. He won't listen to me."

	Waiting until the hullabaloo at the other end had subsided, the farmer rumbled stubbornly: "D'you want to buy my muten or not?" He wrestled with the earpiece, held it long enough for Yule to get it back. "Bellering something awful," he complained.

	Yule hung the thing down the wall, letting it dangle at the end of its cord. It jerked and twitched as Parkinson's voice ricochetted all over the room. .

	"... and furthermore it's illegal for any person or persons to dispose of their offspring for a remuneration, and the purchaser is equally guilty of an offense against the law. Finally, Yule, if that child-trafficking hayseed has filled you so full of overproof tiger's blood that—"

	The uproar cut off as Yule racked the earpiece on its prong. Sitting down, he gazed moodily at the others.

	"What's all that noisy gab mean?" demanded Timberlake.

	"You're not allowed to sell your children. If you do, they'll toss your pants in the clink."

	"Who's talking about selling kids?" Timberlake snapped. "You must be nuts."

	"Almost," Yule confessed, miserably.

	"I writ in offering a muten. You ast for mutens, didn't you? O.K.— what about this one I got?"

	"Let's see it," Yule suggested.

	"What's the use if you ain't going to make an offer?"

	"Let the gent see it," put in Marge. "Maybe he knows somebody else who'd like to buy Endwhistle."

	"Endwhistle?" Yule stared around as if seeking a ghost.

	"He's the muten," Timberlake informed. "Come on. He's out back."

-

	In single file they crossed the kitchen and the big yard at rear, Timberlake first, then Yule, then Marge. A turkey-cock gobbled at them from a low wall on the right. They entered a big stone barn in which were seven meditative cows and one pensive horse. Timberlake stopped, looked speculatively at the horse.

	"What's the matter?" asked Yule. "Is he sick?"

	"Yep."

	Yule snugged, had a glance around, said: "Where's this mutant?"

	"Sick of the place," Timberlake went on, ignoring him in favor of the horse. "Sick of the very home where he was born, the ungrateful dollop of crowbait."

	"I get sick of some places myself," Yule observed. "Where's the mutant?"

	"Then," continued Timberlake, ire fully, "he gets ideas into his head." He turned to Yule, his sunken eyes angry. "And what d'you think he does?"

	"I don't know. What does he do?"

	"He downs tools and goes on strike. He thinks he's old enough to see the world and too good for honest work. So he strikes."

	"After all we done for him," said Marge.

	"Just a lousy radical," said Timberlake.

	The horse stood and brooded.

	"Maybe he's temperamental," Yule suggested. "I'd be temperamental myself if I were a horse." He took another impatient look around the barn. "Where's the mutant?"

	"There," declared Timberlake, pointing to the lousy radical. "Endwhistle."

	Yule screamed, "What—that?"

	"Yep. Endwhistle. He's a muten."

	Sucking in breath, Yule sat on the rim of a stone trough and eyed Endwhistle's southern aspect. He didn't care for the view. Something about it held a hint of Parkinson's smirk.

	"Do you seriously mean to tell me you've brought me more than seven hundred miles to look at a horse?"

	"Why not? He's got something, ain't he?"

	"Yes," Yule admitted. "I can see that."

	"And what he's got is plenty big," Timberlake insisted.

	"I can see that, too."

	Timberlake followed the line of his fascinated gaze to Endwhistle's drooping tail. "I'll show you something," he promised. Lifting a horny hand, he landed a smack in close proximity of the tail. "C'mon, talk!"

	Twisting his head around, Endwhistle curled leathery lips and said: "Foo!"

	"There you are, mister." The farmer was openly gratified. "He can speechify. You heard him. He's a muten."

	"G'wan, he snorted," Yule contradicted. "I can do that myself." He snorted to prove it.

	Marge scowled at him and went to the animal's head. "We want money and you want out. This is your chance as well as ours. C'mon, say something."

	"Foo to you, too," said Endwhistle, clearly and distinctly.

	Yule fell backward into the trough. Fortunately, it was empty and dry. He lay there for a moment, his face purple, his legs dangling over the edge.

	The horse stared round at him contemptuously and said: "Haw!"

	Scrambling agitatedly out of the trough, Yule did a championship sprint across the yard. Timberlake and Marge gaped after him in dull surprise, then followed. He went through the kitchen in a flash, snatched down the phone and gasped: "Gimme long distance again."

-

	The call didn't go through. Dancing with impatience, he glanced at his watch, remembered that the office was closed, put in a second call to Parkinson's private residence.

	That one connected all right, .and Parkinson come on with a surly, "Well?"

	"This is Yule. Listen!"

	"Why do I answer a phone if it isn't to listen?" Parkinson inquired, acidly.

	"Listen!" Yule yelped. "About this muten, I mean mutant—it's genuine. It's really something. It's fifty karat and diamond-studded in every hole. It's the height of this and that. It's the elephant's bed-socks."

	"Yule, are you drunk?"

	"I'm drunk with success," he shouted back. "For the first time, I've struck oil. You won't believe it even when you see it."

	"I don't doubt that," Parkinson assured. "I've had some of your mutations before."

	"I tell you this one's genuine," he bawled.

	"That's not for you to say. The experts will be the judges. If your case is not an obvious imbecile, bring him in and let the experts do the rest."

	Yule did a jig and howled: "Why d'you think I've called you long distance? How am I going to bring him in?"

	There was a lengthy silence at the other end, then Parkinson's voice oozed through in slow, measured tones. He spoke as one would to a very young child:

	"In one of your pockets you have—or are supposed to have—a block of small forms. They've got Board of Social Survey printed on them in big letters. That's so you can recognize them, if you can read. You fill out one of these forms—if you're able to write—and hand it in at the railroad depot. They will provide you with a ticket which is chargeable to us. You use that ticket to bring the mutant here." His voice shot up to an enraged bellow. "You've done it fifty times before—why do I have to explain it now?"

	"Because," began Yule. He hesitated. He had been about to say, "Because it's a horse." Some imp of perversity made him change his mind, and instead he said, "So it's your official order that I bring him in on one of these forms? In a Pullman?"

	"Most certainly." Parkinson became suddenly suspicious, and added: "Is there any reason why you should not?"

	"Only that he's got a tremendously big seat."

	"That's nothing. So have African Bushmen. Nature has given them the peculiar ability to store fat in their buttocks, and anyone else who can do it isn't necessarily a mutation." Parkinson sniffed loudly. "A fat guy. Let the railroad authorities worry about him. One man, one ticket. They can't get away from it."

	"All right." Yule made to prong the phone.

	"And let me see you Friday," Parkinson growled hurriedly. "Not Monday week."

-

	Timberlake raked his teeth with a chip like a tent stake and asked: "Well, think they'll buy?"

	"It's likely," Yule hazarded. "D'you mind waiting here a moment? Don't leave the house until I get back." He went out, returned in two minutes, sat down and pondered. After a while, he said, "I got the idea maybe someone was pulling a cheap ventriloquial stunt, so I searched the barn."

	"Huh?"

	"There was nobody in the place—I made sure of that. Endwhistle invited me to go to hell. He added certain other items suggestive of long service in the marines." He studied Timberlake speculatively. "I can't understand why you've not sold him long before now. Any circus proprietor would swap all his moola and a steam calliope for him."

	"I tried." The tent stake cracked, and Timberlake spat a hunk of it across the room. "I writ a dozen guys and tole them as how I got a hoss what could burn their ears off. Only one answered back. He said as how he'd got a giraffe what could play a piano. I don't believe that. It's silly."

	"Yes, yes, I guess it is." Yule nodded agreement. "How'd you come by him in the first place?"

	"He was born here. I got a small bunch of army rejects from New Mexico. They was cheap."

	"No wonder," Marge interjected, sourly. "They didn't last long. Died on us one by one, they did. Something wrong with their blood, the vet said."

	"Probably been cropping radioactive pastures," Yule suggested, learnedly. "Go on."

	"Endwhistle weren't anything amazing," continued Timberlake, "though he did make plenty of funny noises. He'd whine, yelp and mumble, like no respectable hoss has any right to do. I never took any notice until one day, six or seven weeks ago, when I was cussing him aplenty and all of a sudden he cussed back. He cussed something awful. He's said lots since then."

	"But never anything neighborly," added Marge.

	"Just a lousy radical," Timberlake repeated.

	"He should be worth a good deal to the right people," pronounced Yule, carefully. "I know the right people. It's mighty lucky for you I came along. Reckon you'd better let me take him away."

	Timberlake thought it over, then said: "Nobody's got more dough than Uncle Sam, so you can take him—but not unless you sign for him good and proper."

	"I'll sign."

	The farmer produced a piece of soiled paper. Yule read it.

	"Received from G. Timberlake (George Timberlake) : Endwhistle, a hoss what can speechify,"

	He signed it

-

	The railroad clerk rasped: "I don't care if the Supreme Court parades before me and certifies that he's entitled to a seat in a passenger coach. I say he travels as livestock, or not at all."

	"Why?" Yule inquired.

	"Why?" The clerk eyed him incredulously, then exploded, "Because he's an animal."

	"That's a heck of a thing to say about someone," Yule reproved. He turned to Endwhistle. "Did you hear that?"

	"Yeah." Endwhistle ground his teeth. "The louse."

	The clerk's attitude changed instantaneously. Favoring Endwhistle with a look of approval, he spoke to Yule in fraternal tones.

	"Pretty good, that. I can do a bit of it myself. Get a load of this." He pointed to a packing case in one corner of his office, screwed his mouth sidewise. A voice in the box called: "Let me out! Let me out!"

	"Holy hoofbeats!" exclaimed Endwhistle, his ears flapping. "He's trapped a filly!"

	Clumsily leaping the counter, he kicked the case to pieces. Six sewing machines fell out. The clerk covered his eyes with his hands as Endwhistle stomped furiously around and invented several new words.

	"Serves you right," said Yule, severely, "for not tending to your business. Now does he get his ticket, or doesn't he?"

	"He doesn't." Uncovering his eyes, the clerk watched Endwhistle warily. "And it's going to take me an hour to nail up that case." Admiration overcame indignation, and he ended with: "But I sure give in to you on this voice-tossing play. You're better than Bergen,"

	"I tell you I didn't do it. He did it himself. He can talk, you nitwit."

	"Ha-ha," said the clerk, respectfully.

	"Look." Yule protruded his lips Ubangi-fashion. "Get hold of these." Obediently, the clerk got hold.

	Yule waved at Endwhistle. Surveying him with deep interest, Endwhistle waved his tail. A cop entered the office, flinched at the sight of a horse on the wrong side of the counter, gaped at the clerk still clinging to Yule's lips. He took off his cap, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, had another look.

	Pulling the other's hand away from his lips, Yule said: "Darn it, I wanted to tell him to talk."

	"Fancy that," the cop chipped in. "How could you with a guy swinging on your gob?"

	"You keep outta this," warned Endwhistle.

	The cop stared vaguely around, employed the handkerchief again, and demanded: "Who's being funny?"

	"This guy," said the clerk, generously. "He's good."

	Yule yelled: "It isn't me." He pointed a dramatic finger at Endwhistle. "It's him"

	"It is he," corrected the clerk.

	"Nuts!" growled the cop.

	Yule played Ubangi again. The clerk gripped his lips. Yule made frantic signals at Endwhistle.

	Endwhistle obliged with a disgusted, "Aw, quit the manplay."

	"Hey-hey," commented the cop, transferring his attention from Yule to the clerk. "Jake's at it again."

	Letting go the lips, and getting as far from Endwhistle as possible, the clerk protested: "I didn't do it, Eddie. Honest to Pete, I didn't."

	"Of course you didn't, Jake." The cop smiled nastily, and came forward. "You button this guy's trap while I fasten your chops—then we'll know who's doing it."

	"Meaning it'll be you," suggested Yule, maliciously.

	"Me?" The cop was indignant. "I'm no vaudeville artist."

	"We've only your word for that," pursued Yule, determined to fight fire with fire.

	"What about giving him a handhold on your own pan, Eddie?" said the clerk, with a flash of genius.

	"O.K." The cop protruded his lips. They stuck out like pink tires.

	All three took a firm grip on each other's kissers and waited for Endwhistle to give forth.

	The mayor, the fire chief and two henchmen chose this moment to walk in upon the intriguing scene. They stopped in midstep, simultaneously, like men who'd run into an invisible wall.

	Taking off his hat, the mayor fanned his fat chops with it, put it back on his head and breathed, "Holy mackerel!"

	Releasing the clerk's pouter as if it were red-hot, the cop started beating urgently at Yule's hand stubbornly fastened on his own masticator. He made an angry mmm-m-m sound resembling that of an oversized and irritated bee. Yule hung grimly on, stretching the tires somewhat in the process. The cop showed signs of becoming savage.

	"Smell their breaths, Hank," suggested the mayor to the fire chief.

	With a frantic effort the cop pulled free of Yule's grip, spluttered, rubbed his lips with the back of a hairy hand. He pointed the hand accusingly at Yule.

	"I'm gonna pinch that mug," he yelled.

	Ungagging himself from the clerk, Yule inquired, "On what charge?"

	"Horse-stealing," suggested Endwhistle, usefully.

	"See? Hear that?" The cop was triumphant. "He's tossing his voice into that bangtail."

	"So what?" demanded the fire chief, admiring Yule. "That's no crime."

	"It was Jake, anyway," offered Yule, suddenly changing tactics.

	The clerk backed away fast, waving protesting hands. "So help me, it wasn't. I didn't open—"

	"I wouldn't be surprised," said the mayor, viewing Jake with some disfavor. "You put on a good turn at the last town concert. Maybe success has gone to your head, eh? You think you're too good for the job you've got, eh?"

	"That's telling him, Fatso," put in Endwhistle with unnecessary heartiness.

	A faint tinge of purple bloomed on the mayor's plump features. Switching his glare from Jake to Yule, he growled, "That wasn't Jake. He just wouldn't dare— would you, Jake?"

	"Not on your life," agreed Jake, fervently.

	"So you're the smart-Aleck, eh?" The mayor moved forward until his paunch was almost in contact with his listener. "What's the big idea?" He glowered at Yule.

	"Look," said Yule, "all I want is a coach reservation for that bronc. I came here to get it for him—and the trouble started."

	"I should think so, too," said the mayor.

	"He's got government authority," Yule shouted.

	"And how!" added Endwhistle, smacking his lips.

	The mayor's scowl grew deeper. "You can sling your voice halfway from here to Mex and it still wouldn't impress me. Let's see that authority."

	Yule showed it to him.

	"Who issued this?"

	"Parkinson of Social Survey."

	"O.K.," said the mayor, ominously. "We'll see." Leaning to one side, he got the phone in his fat hands, put through a call, adding, "Reverse the charge." After a while, he asked, "That Parkinson?"

	Parkinson admitted it surlily.

	"This is William B. Lucas, mayor of Reedsville."

	"How do I know that?" asked Parkinson.

	"Because I'm telling you," said the mayor, his voice rising.

	"Don't raise your tones to me," Parkinson shot back. "I'm not deaf."

	"Merely dumb," commented Endwhistle.

	Hearing it, Parkinson howled: "Who's the smartie?"

	With a do-or-die look in his eyes, the mayor desperately coddled the phone and howled back: "Did you or did you not authorize a Pullman reservation from here to New York—for a horse?"

	"For a horse?" Parkinson's voice faded as he turned and spoke to someone else at the other end. "Some crackpot asking about a reservation for a horse. We're paying for the call. I've half a mind to trace it and—"

	Slamming the phone down, the mayor turned slowly. He spoke with suppressed emotion. "Eddie, take this hobo and his nag to the town limits." His burning gaze moved to the henchmen. "You two go with Eddie." The gaze transferred to Yule, "By all the saints in the calendar, if I set eyes on you again I'll pin you down with fourteen charges."	

	"Tut!" reproved Endwhistle.

	"Get out!" bellowed the mayor, showing signs of mind at the end of its tether.

-

	It was three dreary days before they hit another town of any size. Endwhistle plodded lugubriously into the area of bright lights, Yule sitting sore-seated on his back. They stopped as traffic lights turned red. On their left stood a bar, warm, brightly illuminated, inviting. Yule eyed it longingly, eyed it again, dismounted and made the sidewalk just as the lights turned green.

	"To blazes with Parky, the Social Survey and the world in general. I'm going to have a drink before I collapse,"

	"A drink," approved Endwhistle, following. "I could soak up a river."

	They went through the swing doors. A huge bodied, pug-faced bartender was leaning over the bar talking to the solitary customer. The latter, a white-haired, racily-dressed individual, sported a big black cravat ornamented with a whip-and-stirrup gold pin. Casually, the barkeep noted Yule's entrance out of one corner of his eye. He straightened abruptly as Endwhistle ambled through.

	"That your hoss, mister?"

	"No." Yule seated himself at the bar, moistened dry lips in anticipation. "I'm merely in charge of him. He's Uncle Sam's. If you don't like him, take the matter up with Unc."

	"Out he goes," said the barkeep, flatly.

	The customer with the pin turned a florid face on Endwhistle, got him into focus, registered mild pleasure and said to the bartender. "That's ungenerous of you, Pat. Where's your Irish hospitality?"

	"No hosses allowed," asserted Pat.

	"Who says so?" asked Yule.

	"I say so," said Pat, thrusting his face close to Yule's.

	"Who're you?" inquired Endwhistle.

	Pat dropped his wiping cloth, picked it up dreamily.

	"There's nothing in the city ordinances against equine characters in bars," said the customer with the pin. "Especially conversational ones." He bowed toward Endwhistle with inebriated lack of grace. "I, too, have horses that nearly talk; but none so vocal as you. My name is Grindlesby. Would you care to have a beer with me?"

	"What's beer?" demanded Endwhistle suspiciously. He sat down on the floor, his head high above the bar.

	Yule told him what beer was.

	"I'll try it," Endwhistle decided.

	"Can't be any worse than Timberlake's muddy water."

	"Bring him a bucketful," ordered Grindlesby. He watched as Pat resignedly got out a stub of pencil and a piece of paper, helpfully added, "Two gallons to the bucket, eight pints to the gallon—three bucks twenty." He slipped it across.

	Ringing it up, Pat brought a bucket, filled it, heaved it into position. Endwhistle shoved his muzzle into it, investigated it, sucked noisily.

	"Nice?" inquired the donor.

	Pulling out a sud-covered nose, Endwhistle said: "Wunnerful! This is mighty chestnut of you."

	Grindlesby was gratified. "Like another?"

	"One's plenty for him," Yule put in quickly. He changed his aim to Pat. "Now how about bringing me—

	"Is this any business of yours?" demanded Grindlesby, bridling. "If he wants another, I buy him another, see?" He teetered on his seat as he extracted his wad. "Fill the bucket, Pat."

-

	Frowning heavily, Pat pumped at the bucket until it foamed. Yule sat and held his head between his hands while Endwhistle made loud slobbering sounds. Yule had apprehensions about the shape of things to come. He shuddered as Endwhistle suddenly belched with gusto that showered suds over Pat.

	Noting Yule's attitude, Endwhistle demanded "What's eating you?"

	"Shut up!" Yule snarled.

	Endwhistle appealed to Grindlesby. "There's gratitude for you. I lug him on my aching back for three solid days—and now he's jealous because I've had more beer than him."

	"Dishgraceful." Grindlesby bleared at Yule reprovingly. "Dishgraceful." Extracting his wallet, he peeled four off the wad, pushed them at Pat. "Fill the bucket."

	"Don't," ordered Yule.

	"Fill the bucket," rasped Grindlesby.

	"Now look here—" began Pat, glaring from one to the other.

	"Fill it!" Endwhistle snorted. He half arose, planting his hoofs on the bar, his eyes rolling.

	Pat pumped furiously.

	Squatting back, Endwhistle sucked with eager noises. "And Timberlake always gave me water. I worked for him until I dropped —and he gave me water."

	Yule said nothing.

	"Just water," complained Endwhistle, glooming around. He burped, meditated, and finished: "The bum."

	"Definitely a poor sport, sir," agreed Grindlesby. "I wouldn't treat a dog like that."

	Endwhistle had a long, deep suck at the bucket, then thought awhile. The last words came to him with delayed action. He perked up, stared around belligerently, and asked: "Who's calling me a dog?"

	"He did," informed Yale maliciously. He pointed at Pat.

	Hoofs clattering in the confined space, Endwhistle heaved himself up. "Just for that—"

	"Dishgraceful," put in Grindlesby, swigging half a glass and mopping his mouth with a large polka-dot handkerchief.

	Ducking down and moving swiftly to one side, Pat protested, "He's a liar." His small, deep-set eyes held the hunted look of a man having nightmares wide awake.

	"Did you call me a dog?" demanded Endwhistle of Yule, He sneezed, blowing suds off his mustache.

	"Certainly not. I wouldn't be so vulgar."

	"Maybe I'm not hearing right." He mooned at the bucket. His tail gave a couple of spasmodic jerks. "This stuff sure does make me feel funny."

	Yule sighed. "You're drunk. Just a four-legged sot. What'll Parkinson say?"

	"Is thish Parkinshon his owner?" inquired Grindlesby, with skidding tongue. "If so, begad, I reckon I could do a deal with him. I've a proposition that—"

	"Nobody owns me," interjected Endwhistle, full of the dignity of beer. "Nobody, see?" He flapped his ears at Pat.

	Pat backed off and growled: "That's what you think. You got it coming to you." He favored Yule with an ugly look. "Better get this guzzler outta here before my patience goes west."

	Finishing his drink, Grindlesby slid off his stool, teetered, then hammered the bar with a skinny fist. "He who inshults my friends inshults me."

	"Thanks," approved Endwhistle, gratified.

	"Nuts!" said Yule,

-

	Pat went determinedly to the farther end. "You're all plain daffy—and I'm gonna do something about it." He helped himself to the telephone. "Gimme police." He hung on a moment, the others watching with aloof interest. His heavy eyebrows began to work up and down as he spoke into the instrument with a note of appeal. "Look, sarge, this is Pat Hogan. I got trouble. I got two drunks and a talking horse in my bar and—" He paused, said, "Eh?" then beckoned to Endwhistle. "He wants to speak to you."

	"Me?" Endwhistle registered intense surprise. Getting off his rear, he went to the phone, held his head near the earpiece.

	A voice asked: "Are you a horse?"

	"Y'betcha!" Endwhistle assured.

	"Watcha been drinking?"

	"Beer," said Endwhistle with undisguised pleasure.

	The voice spoke in a dimly heard aside to someone else at the other end. "Pat's spiking it again. A guy there thinks he's a horse."

	"So I am," insisted Endwhistle.

	"Yes, yes, we know," soothed the voice in louder tone, then lowered again as it continued its remarks. "The joint'll be a zoo before midnight, if I know Hogan. Better get the boys to look in." Louder again. "Tell Pat we're coming round."

	"They're coming round," Endwhistle informed the audience.

	Yule promptly walked to the door. "You know what that means? They'll take you straight back to Timberlake. They'll tell him to fence you in. No more freedom. No more beer. No more anything." He bowed his head in grief. "Such a loss."

	Eyes rolling, Endwhistle reared up, came down with a clatter that shook a bottle off a shelf. He snapped at Pat: "Why, you dirty two-timer."

	"But there's still hope if you get out fast," suggested Yule from the door. "Ten seconds will make you too late." He jumped aside as Endwhistle went through the doors with a distinct zip.

	The mutant didn't stop. With ears and tail streaming in the wind he went up the street all set for the mile record. Picking up his feet, Yule began a hot but hopeless chase.

	Behind them, Grindlesby emerged uncertainly from the bar, focused his eyes with an effort, took in the escapees, signaled a taxi.

	"Get ahead of that mushtang. Can't afford to lose him—he's the shtar of my shtud." He flopped back in his seat as the taxi jerked forward. "Fifty bucks if you make it." Idly, his hand fumbled with his whip-and-stirrup pin.

-

	Ominously, Parkinson did not utter a word until Yule had finished. With his cold optics fixed firmly and penetratingly on the other, as unblinking as a snake's, he sat solidly behind his desk and timed the speech with taps of a silver pencil.

	"Then," Yule continued, "this thieving punk Grindlesby sobers up enough to use what's left of his wits. He figures that a horse that can talk to people can also talk to other horses, and that there's a mint of money in it for someone—especially if the ability to gab breeds true. So he gets Endwhistle an hour ahead of me, bribes him into playing it his way and wires Timberlake an offer. Timberlake sells him right out of my hands." He made a defeated gesture. "After that, it needs six telephone calls and four cops to get them this far—with Grindlesby threatening a lawsuit all the way."

	"And how," inquired Parkinson, with pretended curiosity, "does one bribe a horse?"

	"I told you." Yule's voice went up, began to get squeaky. "Grindlesby runs a stud. He showed Endwhistle photographs of it, invited him in on the ground floor. Endwhistle yelps, 'Wow-hoo!' and falls for the bait. If you were a horse, what would you do?"

	Parkinson was taken aback. "Huh?"

	"Snappy pics of forty fillies," said Yule, bitterly.

	"An elegant speech," commented Parkinson distastefully. His gaze found the calendar. "A fortnight. You've had a fortnight's vacation, got stinko every day as far as I can make out. You've billed me long-distance calls and, finally, you come back with this cock-and-bull story."

	"So help me—"

	"Not satisfied with which, you return accompanied by a dopey looking nag and an aged tosspot who wants to sue everyone in sight."

	"Let him sue. Endwhistle's worth a million."

	"He looks it," said Parkinson sarcastically. He lifted the phone on his desk and asked, "Well? Any luck?" The phone yapped back at him. "I thought as much," he said, and cradled it. His stare returned to Yule. "Not a word. Not a syllable. Not even one honest oath. We were nuts to expect it." He resumed his pencil-tapping, "Thanks to you we've had to release him to this Grindlesby with our abject apologies." He spoke a little louder. "I don't like making apologies." He paused, then bellowed, "I don't like making abject ones."

	Yule started to dance to and fro. "I tell you he's been tipped to clam up. He won't talk in case his big fat trap keeps him out of the harem."

	Parkinson retorted: "I'm going to give you a last chance—why, I don't know. I must be weak."

	"Mother of Mike, there's the chance of a lifetime slipping right out of your—"

	"Shut up!" Parkinson opened a drawer, found a letter. It was pale pink, had deckled edges, smelted faintly of rose water. "If you make a mess of this one, you'll soon be peddling gimmicks on the curb." The ire drifted out of his face as the old, familiar smirk came into it. "This is from a maiden lady in Topeka. She thinks the folk next door are harboring a mutant. Get out there and see—"

	Yule snatched it savagely out of his hands, went to the window and brooded. After a while, Grindlesby passed with Endwhistle following.

	Opening the window, Yule said to Endwhistle, "Just a dumb animal!" He added a rude noise.

	Stopping, Endwhistle curled back his lips and said with maddening distinctness, "Wow-hoo!" Then he winked and plodded on.

	Yule left the window, found a chair, sat down and watched with extreme pleasure as Parkinson reacted. Parkinson stood up, beat his head against the wall, and went out fast.

	In the outer office, Blondie's voice sounded sympathetically: "Off again Stevie?" then, "Oh, it's you, Mr. Parkinson."

	Moving over to Parkinson's chair, Yule tried it for size.

The End