He answered slowly, "No, miss. Not at all." He hesitated. "You told us how your fishing boat was stove in by a snag."

            "Yes?"

            "Snags in the river are a pesky hazard." He paused. "Yesterday evening come sundown something bad happened on the river. Two explosions, about at Kentucky Bend. Big ones. Could see 'em and hear 'em from the house."

            He paused again. I didn't say anything. My explanation of my presence and of my (deplorable) condition had been feeble at best. But the next best explanation was a flying saucer.

            Mr. Hunter went on, "Wife and I have never had any words with the Imperial Police. We don't aim to. So, if you don't mind walking a short piece down this road to the left, you'll come to Eudora. And I'll turn my team around and go back to our place."

            "I see. Mr. Hunter, I wish there were some way I could repay you and Mrs. Hunter."

            "You can."

            "Yes?" (Was he going to ask for money? No!)

            "Someday you'll find somebody needs a hand. So give him a hand and think of us."

            "Oh! I shall! I surely shall!"

            "But don't bother to write to us about it. People who get mail get noticed. We don't crave to be noticed."

            "I see. But I'll do it and think about you, not once but more than once."

            "That's best. Bread cast upon the waters always comes back, miss. Mrs. Hunter told me to tell you that she plans to pray for you."

            My eyes watered so quickly that I could not see. "Oh! And please tell her that I will remember her in my prayers. Both of you." (I had never prayed in my life. But I would, for the Hunters.)

            "Thank y' kindly. I will tell her. Miss. May I offer you a word of advice and not have you take it amiss?"

            "I need advice."

            "You don't plan to stop in Eudora?"

            "No. I must get north."

            "So you said. Eudora's just a police station and a few shops. Lake Village is farther away but the Greyhound APV stops there. That's about twelve kilometers down the road to the right. If you can cover that distance between now and noon, you could catch the midday bus. But it's a dogtrottin' distance and a pretty hot day."

            "I can do it. I will."

            "Greyhound'll take you to Pine Bluff, even to Little Rock. Urn. Bus costs money."

            "Mr. Hunter, you've been more than kind. I have my credit card with me; I can pay for the bus." I had not come through the swim and the mud in very good shape but my credit cards, IDs, passport, and cash money had all been in that waterproof money belt Janet had given me so many light-years ago; all had come through untouched. Someday I would tell her.

            "Good. Thought I'd better ask. One more thing. Folks around here mind their own business, mostly. If you just go straight aboard the Greyhound, the few nosy ones won't have any excuse to bother you. Better so, maybe. Well, good-bye and good luck."

            I told him good-bye and got moving. I wanted to kiss him good-bye but strange women do not take liberties with such as Mr. Hunter.

I caught the noon APV and was in Little Rock at 12:52. An express capsule north was loading as I reached the tube station; I was in Saint Louis twenty-one minutes later. From a terminal booth in the tube station I called Boss's contact code to arrange for transportation to headquarters.

            A voice answered, "The call code you have used is not in service. Remain in circuit and an operator-" I slapped the disconnect and got out fast.

            I stayed in the underground city several minutes, walking at random and pretending to window-shop but putting distance between me and the tube station.

            I found a public terminal in a shopping mall some distance away and tried the fallback call code. When the voice reached: "The call

            -where I, bold as brass, used my Imperial Bank of Saint Louiscode you have used is not-" I slapped the disconnect but the voice failed to cut off. I ducked my head, dropped to my knees, got out of that booth, cutting to the right and being conspicLous, which I hate, but possibly avoiding being photographed through the terminal, which could be disaster.

            I spent minutes mixing with the crowd. When I felt reasonably sure that no one was following me, I dropped down one level, entered the city's local tube system and went to East Saint Louis. I had one more top-emergency fallback call code, but I did not intend to use it without preparation.

            Boss's new underground headquarters was just sixty minutes from anywhere but I did not know where it was. I mean to say that, when I left its infirmary to take a refresher course, the APV trip had taken exactly sixty minutes. When I returned it had taken sixty minutes. When I went on leave and asked to be placed to catch a capsule for Winnipeg, I had been dropped in Kansas City in exactly sixty minutes. And there was no way for a passenger to see out of an APV used for this.

            By geometry, geography, and simplest knowledge of what an APV can do, Boss's new headquarters had to be someplace more or less around Des Moines-but in this case "more or less" meant a radius of at least a hundred kilometers. I did not conjecture. Nor did I conjecture as to which ones of us actually knew the location of HQ. It was a "need-to-know" and trying to guess how Boss decided such things was a waste of time.

            In East Saint Louis I bought a light cloak with a hood, then a latex mask in a novelty shop, picking one that was not grotesque. Then I took careful pains to randomize my choice of terminal. I was of strong but not conclusive opinion that Boss had been hit again and this time smeared, and the only reason that I had not panicked was that I am trained not to panic until after the emergency.

            Masked and hooded, I punched the last-resort call code. Same result and again the terminal could not be switched off. I turned my back on the pickup, pulled off that mask and dropped it on the floor, got out of there slow-march, around a corner, shed that cloak as I walked, folded it, shoved it into a trash can, went back to Saint Louis-

credit card to pay my tube fare to Kansas City. An hour earlier in Little Rock I had used it without hesitation but at that time I had had no suspicion that anything had happened to Boss-in fact I held a "religious" conviction that nothing could happen to Boss. ("Religious" "absolute belief without proof.")

            But now I was forced to operate on the assumption that something had indeed happened to Boss, which included the assumption that my Saint Louis MasterCard (based on Boss's credit, not my own) could drop dead on me at any moment. I might stick it into a slot to pay for something and have it burned out by a destruction bolt when the machine recognized the number.

            So four hundred kilometers and fifteen minutes later I was in Kansas City. I never left the tube station. I made a free call at the information desk about service on the KC-Omaha-Sioux Falls- Fargo-Winnipeg tube and was told that there was full service to Pembina at the border, none beyond. Fifty-six minutes later I was at the British Canadian border directly south of Winnipeg. It was still early afternoon. Ten hours earlier I had been climbing up out of the bottomland of the Mississippi and wondering light-headedly whether I was in the Imperium or if I had floated back into Texas.

            Now I was even more overpoweringly anxious to get out of the Imperium than I had been to get in. So far I had managed to stay one flea-hop ahead of the Imperial Police but there was no longer any doubt in my mind that they wanted to talk to me. I did not want to talk to them because I had heard tales about how they conducted an investigation. The laddies who had questioned me earlier this year had been moderately rough . . . but the Imperial Police were reputed to burn out a victim's brain.

XIX

Fourteen hours later I had moved only twenty-five kilometers east of where I had had to leave the tube system. An hour of that I had spent in shopping, most of an hour in eating, over two hours in close consultation with a specialist, a heavenly six hours in sleeping, and almost four in moving cautiously east parallel to the border fence without getting close to it-and now it was dawn and I did approach the fence, right up to it, and was walking it, a bored repairman.

            Pembina is just a village; I had to go back to Fargo to find a specialist-a quick trip by local capsule. The specialist I wanted was the same sort as "Artists, Ltd." of Vicksburg save that such entrepreneurs do not advertise in the Imperium; it took time and some cautious grease to find him. His office was downtown near Main Avenue and University Drive but it was behind a more conventional business; it would not easily be noticed.

            I was still wearing the faded blue neodenim jump suit I had been wearing when I dived off the Skip to M'Lou, not through any special affection for it but because a one-piece blue suit of coarse cloth is the nearest thing to an international unisex costume you can find. It will get by even at Ell-Five or in Luna City, where a monokini is more likely. Add a scarf and a smart housewife will wear it to shop; carry a briefcase and you are a respected businessman; squat with a hatful of pencils and it's a beggar's garb. Since it is hard to soil, easy to clean, won't wrinkle, and almost never wears out, it is ideal for a

courier who wishes to fade into the scene and can't waste time or luggage on clothes.

            To that jump suit had been added a greasy cap with "my" union badge pinned to it, a well-worn hip belt with old but serviceable tools, a bandolier of repair links over one shoulder and a torch kit to install them over the other.

            Everything I had was well worn including my gloves. Zippered into my right hip pocket was an old leather wallet with IDs showing that I was "Hannah Jensen" of Moorhead. A worn newspaper clipping showed that I had been a high-school cheerleader; a spotted Red Cross card gave my blood type as 0 Rh pos sub 2 (which in fact it is) and credited me with having won my gallon pin-but the dates showed that I had neglected to donate for over six months.

            Other mundane trivia gave Hannah a background in depth; she even carried a Visa card issued by Moorhead Savings and Loan Company-but on this item I had saved Boss more than a thousand crowns: Since I did not expect to use it, it lacked the invisible magnetic signature without which a credit card is merely a piece of plastic.

            It was just full light and I had, I figured, a maximum of three hours to get through that fence-only that long because the real fence maintenance men started working then and I was most unanxious to meet one. Before that time Hannah Jensen should disappear. . . possibly to resurface in the late afternoon for a final effort. Today was go-for-broke; my cash crowns were used up. True, I still had my Imperium credit card-but I am extremely leery of electronic sleuths. Had my three attempts yesterday to call Boss, all with the same card, tripped some subprogram under which 1 could be identified? I seemed to have gotten away with using the card for tube fare immediately thereafter . . . but had I really escaped all electronic traps? I did not know and did not want to find out-I simply wanted to get through that fence.

            I sauntered along, resisting a powerful urge to fall out of character by hurrying. I wanted a place where I could cut the fence without being watched, despite the fact that the ground was scorched for about fifty meters on each side of the fence. I had to accept that; what I wanted was a stretch shielded along the scorched band by trees and bush about like Normandy hedgerows.

            Minnesota does not have Normandy hedgerows.

            Northern Minnesota almost does not have trees-or at least not in the stretch of the border I was covering. I was ey~ing a piece of fence, trying to tell myself that a wide reach of open space with no one in sight was just as good as being shielded, when a police APV came into sight cruising slowly west along the fence. I gave them a friendly wave and kept on trudging east.

            They circled, came back, and squatted, about fifty meters from me. I turned and went toward them, reaching the car as the best boy got out, followed by his driver, and I saw by their uniforms (hell, damn, and spit) that they were not Minnesota Provincial Police but Imperials.

            Best boy says to me, "What are you doing here this early?"

            His tone was aggressive; I answered it to match: "I was working, until you interrupted me."

            "The hell you say. You don't go on until eight hundred hours."

            I answered, "Get the news, big man. That was last week. Two shifts now. First shift comes on at 'can.' Shifts change at noon; second shift goes off at 'can't.'

            "Nobody notified us."

            "You want the Superintendent to write you a personal letter? Give me your badge number and I'll tell him you said so."

            "None of your lip, slitch. I'd as lief run you in as look at you."

            "Go ahead. A day's rest for me . . . while you explain why this stretch was not maintained."

            "Stow it." They started climbing back in.

            "Either of you turkeys got a toke?" I asked.

            The driver said, "We don't hit on duty and neither should you."

            "Brown nose," I answered politely.

            The driver started to reply, but best boy slammed the lid, and they took off-right over my head, forcing me to duck. I don't think they liked me.

            I went back to the fence while concluding that Hannah Jensen was not a lady. She had no excuse to be rude to the Greenies merely because they are unspeakably vile. Even black widows, body lice, and hyenas have to make a living although I could never see why.

            I decided that my plans were not well thought out; Boss would not approve. Cutting that fence in broad daylight was too conspidu

ous. Better to pick a spot, then hide until dark, and return to it. Or spend the night on plan number two: Check the possibility of going under the fence at Roseau River.

            I wasn't too crazy about plan number two. The lower reach of the Mississippi had been warm enough but these northern streams would chill a corpse. I had checked the Pembina late the day before yesterday. Brrr! A last resort.

            So pick a piece of fence, decide exactly how you are going to cut it, then try to find some trees, wrap yourself in some nice warm leaves, and wait for dark. Rehearse every move, so that you go through that fence like pee through snow.

            At this point I topped a slight rise and came face to face with another maintenance man, male type.

            When in doubt, attack. "What the hell are you doing, buster?"

            "I'm walking the fence. My stretch of the fence. What are you doing, sister?"

            "Oh, fer Gossake! I'm not your sister. And you are either on the wrong stretch or the wrong shift." I noticed with unease that the well-dressed fence-walker carries a walkie-talkie. Well, I had not been one very long; I was still learning the job.

            "Like hell," he answered. "Under the new schedule I come on at dawn; I'm relieved at noon. Maybe by you, huh? Yeah, that's probably it; you read the roster wrong. I had better call in."

            "You do that," I said, moving toward him.

            He hesitated. "On the other hand, maybe-" I did not hesitate.

            I do not kill everyone with whom I have a difference of opinion and I would not want anyone reading this memoir to think that I do. I didn't even hurt him other than temporarily and not much; I merely put him to sleep rather suddenly.

            From a roll on my belt I taped his hands behind him and fastened his ankles together. If! had had some wide surgical tape, I would have gagged him but all I had was two-centimeter mechanics friction tape, and I was far more anxious to cut fence than I was to keep him horn yelling for help to the coyotes and jackrabbits. I got busy.

            A torch good enough to repair fence will cut fence-but my torch was a bit better than that; I had bought it out the back door of Fargo's leading fence (the other sort offence). It was a steel-cutting laser

rather than the oxyacetylene job it appeared to be. In moments I had a hole big enough, barely, for Friday. I stooped to leave.

            "Hey, take me with you!"

            I hesitated. He was saying insistently that he was just as anxious to get away from the goddam Greenies as I was-untie me!

            What I did next is matched in folly only by Lot's wife. I grabbed the knife at my belt, cut the tape at his wrists, at his ankles-dived through my scuttle hole and started to run. I didn't wait to see whether or not he came through, too.

            There was one of the rare stands of trees about half a kilometer north of me; I headed that way at a new record speed. That heavy tool belt impeded me; I shucked it without slowing. A moment later I brushed that cap off and "Hannah Jensen" went back to NeverNever Land, as torch, gloves, and repair links were still in the Imperium. All that was left of her was a wallet I would jettison when I was not so busy.

            I got well inside the trees, then circled back and found a place to observe my back track, as I was uncomfortably aware that I was wearing a tail.

            My late prisoner was about halfway from fence to trees . . . and two APVs were homing in on him. The one closer to him carried the big Maple Leaf of British Canada. I could not see the insigne on the other as it was headed right toward me, coming across the international boundary.

            The BritCan police car grounded; my quondam guest appeared to surrender without argument-reasonable, as the APV from the Imperium grounded immediately thereafter, at least two hundred meters inside British Canada-and, yes, Imperial Police-possibly the car that had stopped me.

            I'm not an international lawyer but I'm sure wars have started over less. I held my breath, extended my hearing to the limit, and listened.

            There were no international lawyers among those two sorts of police, either; the argument was noisy but not coherent. The Imperials were demanding surrender of the refugee under the doctrine of hot pursuit and a Mountie corporal was maintaining (correctly, it seemed to me) that hot pursuit applied only to criminals caught in

the act, but the only "crime" here was entering British Canada not at a port of entry, a matter not lying in the jurisdiction of the Imperial Police. "Now get that crock off BritCan soil!"

            The Greenie gave a monosyllabic nonresponse that annoyed the Mountie. He slammed the lid and spoke through his loudspeaker: "I arrest you for violation of British Canadian air and ground space. Get out and surrender. Do not attempt to take off."

            Whereupon the Greenies' car took off at once and retreated across the international border-then went elsewhere. Which may have been exactly what the Mountie intended to accomplish. I held very still, as now they would have time to give their attention to me.

            I assume conclusively that my companion escapee now paid me for his ticket through the fence: No search was made for me. Certainly he saw me run into the woods. But it is unlikely that the RCMP saw me. No doubt cutting the fence sounded alarms in police stations on both sides of the border; this would be a routine installation for electronics people-even to pinpointing the break- and so I had assumed in planning to do it fast.

            But counting the number of warm bodies that passed through a gap would be a separate electronics problem-not impossible but an added expense that might not be considered worthwhile. As may be, my nameless companion did not snitch on me; no one came looking for me. After a time a BritCan car fetched a repair crew; I saw them pick up the tool belt I had discarded near the fence. After they left another repair crew showed up on the Imperium side; they inspected the repair and went away.

            I wondered a bit about tool belts. On thinking back I could not recall seeing such a belt on my erstwhile prisoner when he surrendered. I concluded that he had had to shed his belt to go through the fence; that hole was just barely big enough for Friday; for him it must have been a jam fit.

            Reconstruction: The BritCans saw one belt, on their side; the Greenies saw one belt, on their side. Neither side had any reason to assume that more than one wetback had passed through the hole as long as my late prisoner kept mum.

            Pretty decent of him, I think. Some men would have held a grudge over that little tap I had to give him.

            I stayed in those woods until dark, thirteen tedious hours. I did not want to be seen by anyone until I reached Janet (and, with luck, Ian); an illegal immigrant does not seek publicity. It was a long day but in middle training my mind-control guru had taught me to cope with hunger, thirst, and boredom when it is necessary to remain quiet, awake, and alert. When it was full dark I started out. I knew the terrain as well as one can from maps, as I had studied all of it most carefully in Janet's house less than two weeks earlier. The problem ahead of me was neither complex nor difficult: move approximately one hundred and ten kilometers on foot before dawn while avoiding notice.

            The route was simple. I must move east a trifle to pick up the road from Lancaster in the Imperium to La Rochelle in British Canada, at the port of entryÄeasy to spot. Go north to the outskirts of Winnipeg, swing to the left around the city and pick up the north-south road to the port. Stonewall was just a loud shout horn there, with the Tormey estate nearby. All of the last and more difficult part I knew not just horn maps but from having recently been over it in a surrey with nothing to distract me but a little friendly groping.

            It was just dawn when I spotted the Tormey outer gates. I was tired but not in too bad shape. I can maintain the walk-jog-runwalk-jog-run routine for twenty-four hours if necessary and have done so in training; keeping it up all night is acceptable. Mostly my feet hurt and I was very thirsty. I punched the announcing button in happy relief.

            And at once heard: "Captain Ian Tormey speaking. This is a recording. This house is protected by the Winnipeg Werewolves Security Guards, Incorporated. I have retained this firm because I do not consider their reputation for being trigger-happy to be justified; they are simply zealous in protecting their clients. Calls coded to this house will not be relayed but mail sent here will be forwarded. Thank you for listening."

            And thank you, Ian! Oh, damn, damn, damn! I knew that I had no reason to expect them to remain at home. . . but my mind had never entertained the thought that they might not be at home. I had "transferred," as the shrinks call it; with my Ennzedd family lost,

Boss missing and perhaps dead, the Tormey estate was "home" and Janet the mother I had never had.

            I wished that I were back on the Hunters' farm, bathed in the warm protectiveness of Mrs. Hunter. I wished that I were in Vicksburg, sharing mutual loneliness with Georges.

            In the meantime the Sun was rising and soon the roads would begin to fill and I was an illegal alien with almost no BritCan dollars and a deep need not to be noticed, not to be picked up and questioned, and light-headed from fatigue and lack of sleep and hunger and thirst.

            But I did not have to make difficult decisions as one was forced on me, Hobson's choice. I must again hole up like an animal, and quickly, before traffic filled the roads.

            Woods are not common anywhere near Winnipeg but I recalled some hectares left wild, back and around to the left, off the main road, and more or less behind the Tormey placeÄuneven land, below the low hill on which Janet had built. So I went in that direction, encountering one delivery wagon (milk) but no other traffic.

            Once abreast the scrub I left the road. The footing became very uneven, a series of gullies, and I was going "across the furrows." But quickly I encountered something even more welcome than trees: a tiny stream, so narrow I could step across it.

            Which I did, but not until I had drunk from it. Clean? Probably contaminated but I gave it not a thought; my curious "birthright" protects me against most infection. The water tasted clean and I drank quite a lot and felt much better physicallyÄbut not the sick weight in my heart.

            I went deeper into the scrub, looking for a place where I could not only hide but could dare risk sleeping. Six hours of sleep two nights ago seemed awfully far away but the trouble with hiding in the wild this close to a big city is that a troop of Boy Scouts is awfully likely to come tromping through and step on your face. So I hunted for a spot not only bushy but inaccessible.

            I found it. Quite a steep stretch up one side of a gully and made still more inaccessible by thornbushes, which I located by Braille.

            Thornbushes?

            It took me about ten minutes to find it as it looked like an exposed

face of a boulder left over from the time when the great ice flow had planed all this country down. But, when I looked closely, it did not look quite like rock. It took still longer to get fingers into any purchase and lift it, then it swung up easily, partly counterbalanced. I ducked inside quickly and let it fall back into placeÄ

            Äand found myself in darkness save for fiery letters: PRIVATE

PROPERTYÄKEEP OUT

            I stood very still and thought. Janet had told me that the switch that disarmed the deadly booby traps was "concealed a short distance inside."

            How long is a "short distance"?

            And how concealed?

            It was concealed well enough simply because the place was dark as ink except for those ominous glowing letters. They might as well have spelled "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

            So whip out your pocket torch, Friday, powered with its own tiny lifetime Shipstone, and search. But don't go too far!

            There was indeed a torch in a jumpbag I had left behind me in the Skip to M'Lou. It might even be shining, entertaining fish on the bottom of the Mississippi. And I knew that there were other torches stockpiled straight down this black tunnel.

            I didn't even have a match.

            If I had a Boy Scout, I could make a fire by rubbing his hind legs together. Oh, shut up, Friday!

            I sank down to the floor and let myself cry a little. Then I stretched out on that (hard, cold) (welcome and soft) concrete floor and went to sleep.

xx

I woke up a long time later and the floor was indeed hard and cold. But I felt so enormously rested that I did not mind. I stood up and rubbed the kinks out and realized that I no longer felt hopelessÄjust hungry.

            The tunnel was now well lighted.

            That glowing sign still warned me not to go any farther but the tunnel was no longer black; the illumination seemed about equal to a well-lighted living room. I looked around for the source of the light.

            Then my brain came back into gear. The only illumination came from the glowing sign; my eyes had adjusted while I slept. I understand that human people also experience this phenomenon, but possibly to a lesser degree.

            I started to hunt for the switch.

            I stopped and started using my brain instead. That's harder work than using muscles but it's quieter and burns fewer calories. It's the only thing that separates us from the apes, although just barely. If I were a concealed switch, where would I be?

            The significant parameters of this switch had to be that it must be well enough hidden to frustrate intruders but it nevertheless must save Janet's life and that of her husbands. What did that tell me?

            It would not be too high for Janet to reach; therefore I could reach it, we are much the same size. So that switch was in my reach without using a stool.

            Those floating, glowing letters were about three meters inside the door. The switch could not be much past that point because Janet had told me that the second warning, the one that promised death, was triggered not far insideÄ"a few meters" she had said. "A few" is rarely over ten.

            Janet would not hide the switch so thoroughly that one of her husbands, dodging for his life, would have to remember exactly where it was. The simple knowledge that there was such a switch must be sufficient clue to let him find it. But any intruder who did not know that there was such a switch must not notice it.

            I moved down the tunnel until I stood right under that glowing sign, looked up. The light from that warning sign made it easy to see anywhere but that small part of the tunnel arch just above the letters. Even with my dark-adjusted and enhanced vision I could not see the ceiling directly over the sign.

            I reached up and felt the ceiling where I could not see it. My fingers encountered something that felt like a button, possibly the end of a solenoid. I pushed it.

            The warning sign blinked out; ceiling lights came on, shining far down the tunnel.

Frozen food and the means to cook it and big towels and hot and cold running water and a terminal in the Hole on which I could get the current news and summaries of past news . . . books and music and cash money stored in the Hole against emergency and weapons and Shipstones and ammunition and clothes of all sorts that fit me because they fitted Janet and a clock-calendar in the terminal that told me that I had slept thirteen hours before the hardness of the concrete "bed" woke me and a comfy soft bed that invited me to finish the night by sleeping again after I had bathed and eaten and satisfied my hunger for news . . . a feeling of total security that let me calm down until I no longer had to use mind control to suppress my real feelings in order to function. . .

            The news told me that British Canada had scaled the emergency down to "limited emergency." The border with the Imperium remained closed. The Qu‚bec border was still closely controlled but permits were granted for any legitimate business. The remaining dispute between the two nations lay in how much reparation Qu‚-

bee should pay for what was now admitted to be a military attack made through error and/or stupidity. The internment order was still in effect but over 90 percent of Qu‚becois internees had been released on their own paroles . . . and about 20 percent of internees from the Imperium. So I had done well to dodge because, no question about it, I was a suspicious character.

            But it looked as if Georges could come home whenever he wished. Or were there angles I did not understand?

            The Council for Survival promised a third round of "educational" killings ten days plus or minus two days from the last round. The Stimulators followed this a day later with a matching statement, one which again condemned the so-called Council for Survival. The Angels of the Lord did not this time make any announcement, or at least none that issued through the BritCan Data Net.

            Again I had tentative conclusions, shaky ones: The Stimulators were a dummy organization, all propaganda, no field operatives. The Angels of the Lord were dead and/or on the run. The Council for Survival had extremely wealthy backing willing to pay for more unprofessional stooges to be sacrificed in mostly futile attemptsÄ but that was merely a guess, to be dropped in a hurry if the third round of attacks turned out to be efficient and professionalÄwhich I did not expect, but I have a long record for being wrong.

            I still couldn't decide who was back of this silly reign of terror. It could not be (I felt certain) a territorial nation; it might be a multinational, or a consortium, although I could see no sense in it. It could even be one or more extremely wealthy individualsÄif they had holes in their heads.

            Under "retrieval" I also punched "Imperium" and "Mississippi River" and "Vicksburg" as singles, each pair, and the triple. Negative. I added in the names of the two vessels and tried all the combinations. Still negative. Apparently what had happened to me and several hundred others had been suppressed. Or was it considered trivial?

Before I left I wrote Janet a note telling her what clothes I had taken, how many BritCan dollars I had taken and added that amount to what she had given me earlier, and I detailed what I had charged to

her Visa card: one capsule fare Winnipeg to Vancouver, one shuttle fare Vancouver to Bellingham, nothing since. (Or had I paid my fare to San Jose with her card, or was that when Georges started being masterful? My expense accounts were in the bottom of the Mississippi.)

            Having taken enough of Janet's cash to get me out of British Canada (I hoped!) I was strongly tempted to leave her Visa card with my note to her. But a credit card is an insidious thingÄjust a cheap little piece of plastic . . . that can equate to great stacks of gold bullion. It was up to me to protect that card personally and at any cost, until I could place it in Janet's hand. Nothing less was honest.

            A credit card is a leash around your neck. In the world of credit cards a person has no privacy. . . or at best protects her privacy only with great effort and much chicanery. Besides that, do you ever know what the computer network is doing when you poke your card into a slot? I don't. I feel much safer with cash. I've never heard of anyone who had much luck arguing with a computer.

            It seems to me that credit cards are a curse. But I'm not human and probably lack the human viewpoint (in this as in so many, many other things).

I set out the next morning, dressed in a beautiful three-piece pantsuit in powder-blue glass (I felt sure that Janet was beautiful in it and it made me feel beautiful despite the evidence of mirrors), and intending to hire a rig in nearby Stonewall, only to find that I had a choice of a horsedrawn omnibus or a Canadian Railways APV, both going to the tube station, Perimeter and McPhillips, where Georges and I had left on our informal honeymoon. Much as I prefer horses I picked the faster method.

            Going into town would not let me pick up my luggage, still in bond at the port. But was it possible to pick it up from transit bond without being pinpointed as an alien from the Imperium? I decided to order it forwarded from outside British Canada. Besides, those bags were packed in New Zealand. If I could live without them this long, I could live without them indefinitely. How many people have died because they would not abandon their baggage?

            I have this moderately efficient guardian angel who sits on my

shoulder. Only days ago Georges and I had walked right up to the proper turnstile, stuck Janet's and Ian's credit cards into the slot without batting an eye, and zipped merrily to Vancouver.

            This time, although a capsule was then loading, I discovered that I was headed on past the turnstiles toward the British Canadian Tourist Bureau travel office. The place was busy, so there was no danger of an attendant rubbernecking what I was doingÄbut I waited until I could get a console in a corner. One became available; I sat down and punched for capsule to Vancouver, then stuck Janet's card into the slot.

            My guardian angel was awake that day; I snatched the card out, got it out of sight fast, and hoped that no one had caught the stink of scorched plastic. And I left, quick-march and nose in the air.

            At the turnstiles, when I asked for a ticket to Vancouver, the attendant was busy studying the sports page of the Winnipeg Free Press. He lowered his paper slightly, peered at me over it. "Why don't you use your card like everyone else?"

            "Do you have tickets to sell? Is this money legal tender?"

            "That's not the point."

            "It is to me. Please sell me a ticket. And give me your name and clock number in accordance with that notice posted back of your head." I handed him the exact amount.

            "Here's your ticket." He ignored my demand for his identification; I ignored his failure to comply with the regulations. I did not want a hooraw with his supervisor; I simply wanted to create a diversion from my own conspicuous eccentricity in using money rather than a credit card.

            The capsule was crowded but I did not have to stand; a Galahad left over from the last century stood up and offered me his seat. He was young and not bad-looking and clearly was being gallant because he classed me as having the apposite female qualities.

            I accepted with a smile and he stood over me and I did what I could to repay him by leaning forward a bit and letting him look down my neckline. Young Lochinvar seemed to feel repaidÄhe stared the whole wayÄand it cost me nothing and was no trouble. I appreciated his interest and what it got me in comfortÄsixty minutes is a long time to stand up to the heavy surges of an express capsule.

As we got out at Vancouver he asked me if I had any plans for lunch. Because, if I didn't, he knew of a really great place, the Bayshore Inn. Or if I liked Japanese or Chinese foodÄ I said that I was sorry but I had to be in Bellingham by noon. Instead of accepting the brush-off, his face lit up. "That's a happy

coincidence! I'm going to Bellingham, too, but I thought I would wait until after lunch. We can have lunch together in Bellingham. Is it a deal?"

            (Isn't there something in international law about crossing international boundaries for immoral purposes? But can the simple, straightforward rut of this youngster correctly be classed as "immoral"? An artificial person never understands human people's sexual codes; all we can do is memorize them and try to stay out of trouble. But this isn't easy; human sexual codes are as contorted as a plate of spaghetti.)

            My attempt at polite brush-off having failed, I was forced to decide quickly whether to be rude or to go along with his clear purpose. I scolded myself: Friday, you are a big girl now; you know better. If you intended to give him no hope whatever of getting you into bed, the time to back out was when he offered you his seat at Winnipeg.

            I made one more attempt: "It's a deal," I answered, "if I am allowed to pay the check, with no argument." This was a dirty trick on my part, as we both knew that, if he let me pay for lunch, that canceled his investment in me of one hour of standing up and hanging on and fighting the surge of the capsule. But barnyard protocol did not allow him to claim the investment; his act of gallantry was supposed to be disinterested, knightly, no reward expected.

            The dirty, sneaking, underhanded, rutty scoundrel proceeded to chuck protocol.

            "All right," he answered.

            I swallowed my astonishment. "No argument later? It's my check?"

            "No argument," he agreed. "Obviously you don't want to be under the nominal obligation of the price of a lunch even though I issued the invitation and therefore should have a host's privilege. I don't know what I have done to annoy you but I will not force on you even a trivial obligation. There is a McDonald's at surface level

as we arrive in Bellingham; I'll have a Big Mac and a Coke. You pay for it. Then we can part friends."

            I answered, "I'm Marjorie Baldwin; what is your name?"

            "I'm Trevor Andrews, Marjorie."

            "Trevor. That's a nice name. Trevor, you are dirty, sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. So take me to the best restaurant in Bellingham, ply me with fine liquor and gourmet food, and you pay the check. I'll give you a fair chance to sell your fell designs. But I don't think that you will get me into bed; I'm not feeling receptive."

            That last was a lie; I was feeling receptive and very ruttyÄhad he possessed my enhanced sense of smell he would have been certain of it. Just as I was certain of his rut toward me. A human male cannot possibly dissemble with an AP female who has enhanced senses. I learned this at menarche. But of course I am never offended by male rut. At most I sometimes imitate a human woman's behavior by pretending to be offended. I don't do this often and tend to avoid it; I'm not that convincing an actress.

            From Vicksburg to Winnipeg I had felt no sexual urge. But, with a double night's sleep, a hot, hot bath with lots of soap, plenty of food, my body now was restored to its normal behavior. So why was I lying about it to this harmless stranger? "Harmless?" In any rational sense, yes. Short of corrective surgery I am sterile. I am not inclined to catch even a sniffle and I am specifically immunized against the four commonest venereal diseases. I was taught in crŠche to class coition with eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping, playing, talking, cuddlingÄthe pleasant necessities that make life a happiness instead of a burden.

            I lied to him because human rules call for a lie at that point in the danceÄand I was passing as human and didn't dare be honestly myself.

            He blinked down at me. "You feel that I would be wasting my investment?"

            "I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."

            "You're mistaken. I never try to get a woman into bed; if she wants me in her bed, she will find some way to let me know. If she does not want me there, then I would not enjoy being there. But you seem to be unaware of the fact that it is worth the price of a

good lunch just to sit and look at you, while ignoring any silly babble that comes out of your mouth."

            "Babble! That had better be a very good restaurant. Let's catch the shuttle."

            I had thought that I might have to argue my way through the barrier on arrival.

            But the CHI officer looked most carefully at Trevor's IDs before validating his tourist card, then barely glanced at my San Jose MasterCard and waved me on through. I waited for Trevor just past the CHI barrier and looked at the sign THE BREAKFAST BAR while feeling double d‚j... vu.

            Trevor joined me. "If I had seen," he said mournfully, "that gold card you were flashing just now, I would not have offered to pay for the lunch. You're a wealthy heiress."

            "Now look, buster," I answered, "a deal's a deal. You told me it

was worth the price just to sit and drool over me, In spite of my

`babble.' I'm willing to cooperate to the extent of easing the neckline

a little. One button, maybe two. But I won't let you back out. Even

a rich heiress likes to show a profit now and then."

            "Oh, the shame and the pity of it all!"

            "Quit complaining. Where's this gourmet restaurant?"

            "Well, nowÄ Marjorie, I'm forced to admit that I don't know the restaurants in this glittering metropolis. Will you name the one you prefer?"

            "Trevor, your seduction technique is terrible."

            "So my wife says."

            "I thought you had that harness-broken look. Get out her picture. Back in a moment; I'm going to find out where we eat."

            I caught the CHI officer between shuttles, asked him for the name of the best restaurant. He looked thoughtful. "This isn't Paris, you know."

"I noticed."            ~

            "Or even New Orleans. If I were you, I would go to the Hilton dining room."

            I thanked him, went back to Trevor. "We're eating in the dining room, two floors up. Unless you want to send out your spies. Now let's see her picture."

            He showed me a wallet picture. I looked at it carefully, then gave a respectful whistle. Blondes intimidate me. When I was little, I thought I could get to be that color if I scrubbed hard enough. "Trevor, with that at home why are you picking up loose women on the streets?"

            "Are you loose?"

            "Quit trying to change the subject."

            "Marjorie, you wouldn't believe me and you would babble. Let's go up to the dining room before all the martinis dry up."

Lunch was okay but Trevor did not have Georges' imagination, knowledge of cooking, and skill at intimidating a maŒtre d'h"tel. Without Georges' flair the food was good, standard, North American cuisine, the same in Bellingham as in Vicksburg.

            I was preoccupied; discovering that Janet's credit card had been invalidated had upset me almost more than the horrid disappointment of not finding Ian and Janet at home. Was Janet in trouble? Was she dead?

            And Trevor had lost some of the cheerful enthusiasm a stud should display when the game is afoot. Instead of staring lecherously at me, he too seemed preoccupied. Why the change in manner? My demand to see a picture of his wife? Had I made him self-conscious thereby? It seems to me that a man should not engage in the hunt unless he is on such terms with his wife or wives that he can recount the lurid details at home to be giggled over. Like Ian. I don't expect a man to "protect my reputation" because, to the best of my knowledge and belief, they never do. If I want a man to refrain from discussing my sweaty clumsiness in bed, the only solution is to stay out of bed with him.

            Besides, Trevor had mentioned his wife first, hadn't he? I reviewed itÄyes, he had.

            After lunch he perked up some. I was telling him to come back here after his business appointment because I was punching in as a guest in order to have comfort as well as privacy in making satellite calls (true) and that I might stay overnight (also true), so come back and call me and I would meet him in the lounge (conditionally trueÄI was so lonely and troubled I suspected that I would tell him to come straight up).

            He answered, "I'll call first so that you can get that man out but I'll come straight up. No need to make the trip twice. But I'll send the bubbly up; I won't carry it."

            "Hold it," I said. "You have not yet sold me your nefarious purpose. All I promised was the opportunity to present your sales talk. In the lounge. Not in my bedroom."

            "Marjorie, you're a hard woman."

            "No, you're a hard man. I know what I'm doing." A sudden satori told me that I did know. "How do you feel about artificial persons? Would you want your sister to marry one?"

            "Do you know one who might be willing to? Sis is getting to be a bit long in the tooth; she can't afford to be particular."

            "Don't try to evade me. Would you marry one?"

            "What would the neighbors think? Marjorie, how do you know I haven't? You saw my wife's picture. Artifacts are supposed to make the very best wives, horizontally or vertically."

            "Concubines, you mean. It isn't necessary to marry them. Trevor, you not only are not married to one; you don't know anything about them but the popular myths . . . or you wouldn't say `artifact' when the subject is `artificial persons.'

            "I'm sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. I misused the term so that you would not suspect that I am one."

            "Oh, babble! You aren't one, or I would know it. And while you probably would go to bed with one, you wouldn't dream of marrying one. This is a futile discussion; let's adjourn it. I need about two hours; don't be surprised if my room terminal is busy. Tape a message and curl up with a good drink; I'll be down as soon as possible."

            I punched in at the desk and went up, not to the bridal suiteÄin the absence of Georges that lovely extravagance would have made me tristeÄbut to a very nice room with a good, big, wide bed, a luxury I had ordered from a deep suspicion that Trevor's low-key (almost reverse) salesmanship was going to cause him to wind up in it. The difficult louse.

            I put the thought aside and got to work.

            I called the Vicksburg Hilton. No, Mr. and Mrs. Perreault had punched out. No, no forwarding address. Sorree!

            So was I, and that synthetic computer voice was no comfort. I called McGill University in Montr‚al and wasted twenty minutes

"learning" that, Yes, Dr. Perreault was a senior member of this university but was now at the University of Manitoba. The only new fact was that this Montr‚al computer synthesized English or French with equal ease and always answered in the language in which it was addressed. Very clever, these electron pushersÄtoo clever, in my opinion.

            I tried Janet's (Ian's) call code in Winnipeg, learned that their terminal was out of service at the subscribers' request. I wondered why I had been able to receive news on the terminal in the Hole earlier this day. Did "out of service" mean only "no incoming calls"? Was such arcanum a close-held secret of ST. and T.?

            ANZAC Winnipeg bounced me around through parts of its computer meant for the traveling public before I got a human voice to admit that Captain Tormey was on leave because of the Emergency and the interruption of flights to New Zealand.

            Ian's Auckland code answered only with music and an invitation to record a message, which was no surprise as Ian would not be there until semiballistic service resumed. But I had thought that I might catch Betty and/or Freddie.

            How could one go to New Zealand with the SBs out of service? You can't ride a seahorse; they're too small. Did those big waterborne, Shipstone-driven freighters ever carry passengers? I didn't think they had accommodations. Hadn't I heard somewhere that some of them didn't even have crews?

            I believed that I had a detailed knowledge of ways to travel superior to the professional knowledge of travel agents because, as a courier, I often moved around by means that tourists can't use and ordinary commercial travelers don't know about. It vexed me to realize that I had never given thought to how to outwit the fates when all SBs are grounded. But there is a way, there is always a way. I ticked it off in my mind as a problem to solveÄlater.

            I called the University of Sydney, spoke with a computer, but at last got a human voice that admitted knowing Professor Farnese but he was on sabbatical leave. No, private call codes and addresses were never given outÄsorry. Perhaps customer service might help me.

            The Sydney information service computer seemed lonely, as it

was willing to chat with me endlesslyÄanything but admit that either Federico or Elizabeth Farnese was in its net. I listened to a sales pitch for the World's Biggest Bridge (it isn't) and the World's Grandest Opera House (it is), so come Down Under andÄ I switched off reluctantly; a friendly computer with a Strine accent is better company than most people, human or my sort.

            I then tackled the one I had hoped to be able to skip: Christchurch. There was a probability that Boss's HQ had sent word to me care of my former family when the move was madeÄif it was a move and not a total disaster. There was a very remote possibility that Ian, unable to send a message to me in the Imperium, would send one to my former home in hopes that it would be forwarded. I recalled that I had given him my Christchurch call code when he gave me the code for his Auckland flat. So I called my erstwhile homeÄ

            Äand got the shock that one gets in stepping on a step that isn't there. "Service is discontinued at the terminal you have signaled. Calls are not being relayed. In emergency please signal ChristchurchÄ" A code followed that I recognized as Brian's office.

            I found myself doing the time-zone correction backward to get a wrong answer that would let me put off callingÄthen I snapped out of it. It was afternoon here, just past fifteen, so it was tomorrow morning in New Zealand, just past ten, a most likely time of day for Brian to be in. I punched his call, got a satellite hold of only a few seconds, then found myself staring into his astonished face. "Marjorie!"

            "Yes," I agreed. "Marjorie. How are you?"

            "Why are you calling me?"

            I said, "Brian, please! We were married seven years; can't we at least speak politely with each other?"

            "Sorry. What can I do for you?"

            "I am sorry to disturb you at work but I called the house and found the terminal out of service. Brian, as you no doubt know from the news, communications with the Chicago Imperium have been interrupted by the Emergency. The assassinations. What the newscasters have been calling Red Thursday. As a result of this I am in California; I never did reach my Imperium address. Can you tell

me anything about mail or messages that may have come for me? You see, nothing has reached me."

            "I really could not say. Sorry."

            "Can't you even tell me whether anything had to be forwarded? Just to know that a message had been forwarded would help me in tracing it."

            "Let me think. There would have been all that money you drew outÄno, you took the draft for that with you."

            "What money?"

            "The money you demanded we return to youÄor be faced with an open scandal. A bit more than seventy thousand dollars. Marjorie, I am surprised that you have the gall to show your face .

when your misbehavior, your lies, and your cold cupidity destroyed our family."

            "Brian, what in the world are you talking about? I have not lied to anyone, I don't think I have misbehaved, and I have not taken one penny out of the family. `Destroyed the family' how? I was kicked out of the family, out of a clear blue skyÄkicked out and sent packing, all in a matter of minutes. I certainly did not `destroy the family.' Explain yourself."

            Brian did, in cold and dreary detail. My misbehavior was all of a piece with my lies, of course, that ridiculous allegation that I was a living artifact, not human, and thereby I had forced the family to ask for an annulment. I tried to remind him that I had proved to him that I was enhanced; he brushed it aside. What I recalled, what he recalled, did not match. As for the money, I was lying again; he had seen the receipt with my signature.

            I interrupted to tell him that any signature that appeared to be mine on any such receipt had to be a forgery as I had not received a single dollar.

            "You are accusing Anita of forgery. Your boldest lie yet."

            "I'm not accusing Anita of anything. But I received no money from the family."

            I was accusing Anita and we both knew it. And possibly accusing Brian as well. I recalled once that Vickie had said that Anita's nipples erected only over fat credit balances . . . and I had shushed her and told her not to be catty. But there were hints from others that

Anita was frigid in bedÄa condition that an AP can't understand. In retrospect it did seem possible that her total passion was for the family, its financial success, its public prestige, its power in the community.

            If so, she must hate me. I did not destroy the family, but kicking me out appeared to be the first domino in its collapse. Almost immediately after I left, Vickie went to Nuku'alofa . . . and instructed a solicitor to sue for divorce and financial settlement. Then Douglas and Lispeth left Christchurch, married each other separately, then entered the same sort of suit.

            One tiny crumb of comfort. I learned from Brian that the vote against me had not been six to nothing but seven to nothing. An improvement? Yes. Anita had ruled that voting must be by shares; the major stockholders, Brian, Bertie, and Anita, had voted first, casting seven votes against me, a clear majority to expel meÄ whereupon Doug, Vickie, and Lispeth had abstained from voting.

            A very small crumb of comfort, however. They had not bucked Anita, not tried to stop her, they had not even warned me of what was afoot. They abstained. . . then stood aside and let the sentence be executed.

            I asked Brian about the childrenÄand was told bluntly that they were none of my business. He then said that he was quite busy and must switch off, but I held him for one more question: What was done with the cats?

            He looked about to explode. "Marjorie, are you utterly heartless? When your acts have caused so much pain, so much real tragedy, you want to know about something as trivial as cats?"

            I restrained my anger. "I do want to know, Brian."

            "I think they were sent to the SPCA. Or it might have been to the medical school. Good-bye! Please do not call me again."

            "The medical schoolÄ" Mister Underfoot tied to a surgical table while a medical student took him apart with a knife? I am not a vegetarian and I am not going to argue against the use of animals in science and in teaching. But if it must be done, dear God if there is One anywhere, don't let it be done to animals who have been brought up to think they are people!

            SPCA or medical school, Mister Underfoot and the younger

cats were almost certainly dead. Nevertheless, if SBs had been running, I would have risked going back to British Canada to catch the next trajectory for New Zealand in the forlorn hope of saving my old friend. But without modern transportation Auckland was farther away than Luna City. Not even a forlorn hopeÄ I dug deep into mind-control training and put matters I could not

help out of my mindÄ

            Äand found that Mister Underfoot was still brushing against my leg.

On the terminal a red light was blinking. I glanced at the time, noted that it had been just about the two hours I had estimated; that light was almost certainly Trevor.

            So make up your mind, Friday. Put cold water on your eyes and go down and let him try to persuade you? Or tell him to come on up, take him straight to bed, and cry on him? At first, that is. You certainly don't feel lecherous this minute . . . but tuck your face into a nice, warm male shoulder and let your feelings sag and pretty soon you will feel eager. You know that. Female tears are reputed to be a powerful aphrodisiac to most men and your own experience bears that out. (Crypto-sadism? Machismo? Who cares? It works.)

            Invite him up. Have some liquor sent up. Maybe even put on some lip paint, try to look sexy. No, the hell with lip paint; it would not last long anyway. Invite him up; take him to bed. Cheer yourself up by doing your damnedest to cheer him up. Give it everything you've got!

            I fitted a smile onto my face and answered the terminal.

            And found myself speaking to the hotel's robot voice: "We are holding a box of flowers for you. May we send them up?"

            "Certainly." (No matter who or what, a box of flowers is better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.)

            Shortly the dumbwaiter buzzed; I went to it and took out a floral package as big as a baby's coffin, put it on the floor to open it.

            Long-stemmed, dusky red roses! I decided to give Trevor a better time than Cleopatra ever managed on her best days.

            After admiring them I opened the envelope that came with them, expecting just a card with perhaps a line asking me to call the lounge, or such.

No, a note, almost a letter:

            Dear Marjorie,

            I hope that these roses will be at least as welcome as I would have been.

            I must confess that I have run away. Something came up that made me realize that I must desist from my attempts to force my company on you.

            I am not married. I don't know who that pretty lady is; the picture is just a prop. As you pointed out, my sort is not considered suitable for marriage. I'm an artificial person, dear lady. "My mother was a test tube; my father was a knife." So I should not be making passes at human women. I pass for human, yes, but I would rather tell you the truth than to continue to try to pass with youÄthen have you learn the truth later. As you would, eventually, as I am the dirt-proud sort who would sooner or later tell you.

            So I would rather tell you now than hurt you later.

            My family name is not Ancirews, of course, as my sort do not have families.

            But I can't help wishing that you were an AP yourself. You really are sweet (as well as extremely sexy) and your tendency to babble about matters, such as APs, that you don't understand, is probably not your fault. You remind me of a little fox terrier bitch I once had. She was cute and very affectionate, but quite willing to fight the whole world by herself if that was the program for the day. I confess to liking dogs and cats better than most people; they never hold it against me that I'm not human.

Do enjoy the roses,

Trevor

            I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and went down fast and rushed through the lounge and then through the bar and then down one floor to the shuttle terminal and stood by the turnstiles leading to the departing shuttles . . . and stood there, and waited, and waited, and waited some more, and a policeman began eyeing me and finally he came over and asked me what I wanted and did I need help?

            I told him the truth, or some of it, and he let me be. I waited and waited and he watched me the whole time. Finally he came over again and said, "Look here, if you insist on treating this as your beat, I'm going to have to ask to see your license and your medical certificate, and take you in if either one is not in order. I don't want to do that; I've got a daughter at home about your age and I'd like to think that a cop would give her a break. Anyhow you ought not to be in the business; anybody can see from your face that you're not tough enough for it."

            I thought of showing him that gold credit cardÄI doubt that there is a streetwalker anywhere who carries a gold credit card. But the old dear really did think that he was taking care of me and I had humiliated enough people for one day. I thanked him and went up to my room.

            Human people are so cocksure that they can always spot an APÄ blah! We can't even spot each other. Trevor was the only man I had ever met whom I could have married with an utterly clear conscienceÄand I had chased him away.

            But he was too sensitive!

            Who is too sensitive? You are, Friday.

            But, damn it, most humans do discriminate against our sort. Kick a dog often enough and he becomes awfully jumpy. Look at my sweet Ennzedd family, the finks. Anita probably felt self-righteous about cheating meÄI'm not human.

            Score for the day: Humans 9ÄFriday 0.

Where is Janet?

xxi

After a short nap that I spent standing on an auction block, waiting to be sold, I woke upÄwoke up because prospective buyers were insisting on inspecting my teeth and I finally bit one and the auctioneer started giving me a taste of the whip and woke me. The Be!lingham Hilton looked awfully good.

            Then I made the call I should have made first. But the other calls had to be made anyhow and this call cost too much and would have been unnecessary if my last call had paid off. Besides, I don't like to phone the Moon; the time lag upsets me.

            So I called Ceres and South Africa Acceptances, Boss's bankerÄ or one of them. The one who took care of my credit and paid my bills.

            After the usual hassle with synthetic voices that seemed more deliberately frustrating than ever through the speed-of-light lag, I finally reached a human being, a beautiful female creature who clearly (it seemed to me) had been hired to be a decorative receptionistÄone-sixth gee is far more effective than a bra. I asked her to let me speak to one of the bank's officers.

            "You are speaking to one of the vice-presidents," she answered. "You managed to convince our computer that you needed help from a responsible officer. That's quite a trick; that computer is stubborn. How may I help you?"

            I told a portion of my unlikely story. "So it took a couple of weeks

to get inside the Imperium and when I did, all my contact codes were sour. Does the bank have another call code or address for me?"

            "We'll see. What is the name of the company for which you work?"

            "It has several names. One is System Enterprises."

            "What is your employer's name?"

            "He doesn't have a name. He is elderly, heavyset, one-eyed, rather crippled, and walks slowly with two canes. Does that win a prize?"

            "We'll see. You told me that we backed your MasterCard credit issued through the Imperial Bank of Saint Louis. Read the card's number, slowly."

            I did so. "Want to photograph it?"

            "No. Give me a date."

            "Ten sixtyÄsix."

            "Fourteen ninety-two," she answered.

            "Four thousand four B.C.," I agreed.

            "Seventeen seventy-six," she riposted.

            "Two thousand twelve," I answered.

            "You have a grisly sense of humor, Miss Baldwin. All right, you're tentatively you. But if you're not, I'll make a small bet with you that you won't live past the next checkpoint. Mr. Two-Canes is reputed to be unamused by gatecrashers. Take down this call code. Then read it back to me."

            I did so.

            One hour later I was walking past the Palace of the Confederacy in San Jose, again headed for the California Commercial Credit Building and firmly resolved not to get into any fights in front of the Palace no matter what assassinations were being attempted. I thought about the fact that I was on the exact spot I had been on, uh, two weeks ago?Äand if this relay point sent me to Vicksburg I would go quietly mad.

            My appointment at the CCC Building was not with MasterCard but with a law firm on another floor, one I had called from Bellingham after obtaining the firm's terminal code from the Moon. I had just reached the corner of the building when a voice almost in my ear said, "Miss Friday."

            I looked quickly around. A woman in a Yellow Cab uniform.

            I looked again. "Goldie!"

            "You ordered a cab, miss? Across the Plaza and down the street. They won't let us squat here."

            We crossed the Plaza together. I started to babble, bursting with euphoria. Goldie shushed me. "Do please try to act like a cab fare, Miss Friday. The Master wants us to be inconspicuous."

            "Since when do you call me miss?"

            "Better so. Discipline is very tight now. My picking you up is a special permission, one that would never have been granted if I had not been able to point out that I could make positive identification without buzz words."

            "Well. All right. Just don't call me miss when you don't have to. Golly gosh, Goldie darling, I'm so happy to see you I could cry."

            "Me, too. Especially since you were reported dead just this Monday. And I did cry. And several others."

            "Dead? Me? I haven't even been close to being dead, not at all, not anywhere. I haven't been in the slightest danger. Just lost. And now I'm found."

            "I'm glad."

Ten minutes later I was ushered into Boss's office. "Friday reporting, sir," I said.

            "You're late."

            "I came the scenic route, sir. Up the Mississippi by excursion boat."

            "So I heard. You seem to be the only survivor. I meant that you are late today. You crossed the border into California at twelve-ohfive. It is now seventeen-twenty-two."

            "Damn it, Boss; I've had problems."

            "Couriers are supposed to be able to outwit problems and move fast anyhow."

            "Damn it, Boss, I wasn't on duty, I wasn't being a courier, I was still on leave; you've no business chewing me out. If you hadn't moved without notifying me, I wouldn't have had the slightest trouble. I was here, two weeks ago, in San Jose, just a loud shout from right here."

            "Thirteen days ago."

            "Boss, you're nitpicking to avoid admitting that it was your fault, not mine."

            "Very well, I will accept the blame if any in order that we may cease quibbling and stop wasting time. I made extreme effort to notify you, much more than the routine alert MSG that was sent to other field operatives not at headquarters. I regret that this special effort failed. Friday, what must I do to convince you that you are unique and invaluable to this organization? In anticipation of the events tagged Red ThursdayÄ"

            "Boss! Were we in that?" I was shocked.

            "What causes you to entertain such an obscene idea? No. Our intelligence staff projected itÄin part from data you delivered from Eli-FiveÄand we started making precautionary arrangements in good time, so it seemed. But the first attacks took place in advance of our most pessimistic projection. At the onset of Red Thursday we were still moving impedimenta; it was necessary to crash our way across the border. With bribes, not with force. The notices of change of address and of call code had gone out earlier but it was not until we were here and our comm center reestablished that I was notified that you had not made routine acknowledgment."

            "For the bloody good reason that I did not receive routine notice!"

            "Please. On learning that you had not acknowledged, I attempted to call you at your New Zealand home. Possibly you are aware that there was an interruption in satellite serviceÄ"

            "I heard."

            "Precisely. The call got through some thirty-two hours later. I spoke to Mrs. Davidson, a woman about forty, rather sharp features. Senior wife in your S-group?"

            "Yes. Anita. Both Lord High Executioner and Lord High Everything Else."

            "That was the impression I received. I received also an impression that you had become persona non grata."

            "I'm sure that it was more than an impression. Go ahead, Boss; what did the old bat have to say about me?"

            "Almost nothing. You had left the family quite suddenly. No,

you had left no forwarding address or call code. No, she would not accept a message for you or forward any that arrived. I'm very busy; Marjorie has left us in a dreadful mess. Good-bye." -

            "Boss, she had your Imperium address. She also had the address in Luna City of Ceres and South Africa because I made my monthly payments to her through them."

            "I could see the situation. My New Zealand representative"Äthe first I had ever heard of one!Ä"obtained for me the business address of your S-group's senior husband, Brian Davidson. He was more polite and somewhat more helpful. From him we learned what shuttle you had taken from Christchurch and that led us to the passenger list of the semibaliistic you took from Auckland to Winnipeg. There we lost you briefly, until my agent there established that you had left the port in the company of the skipper of the semiballistic. When we reached himÄCaptain TormeyÄhe was helpful, but you had left. I am pleased to be able to tell you that we were able to return the favor to Captain Tormey. An inside source enabled us to let him know that he and his wife were about to be picked up by the local police."

            "Fer Gossake! What for?"

            "The nominal charge is harboring an enemy alien and harboring an unregistered Imperium subject during a declared emergency. In fact the Winnipeg office of the provincial police are not interested in you or in Dr. Perreault; that is an excuse to pull in the Tormeys. They are wanted on a much more serious charge that has not been filed. A Lieutenant Melvin Dickey is missing. The last trace of him is an oral statement made by him as he left police HQ that he was going to Captain Tormey's home to pick up Dr. Perreault. Foul play is suspected."

            "But that's not evidence against Jan and Ian! The Tormeys."

            "No, it is not. That is why the provincial police intend to hold them on a lesser charge. There is more. Lieutenant Dickey's APV crashed near Fargo in the Imperium. It was unoccupied. The police are very anxious to check that wreck for fingerprints. Possibly they are doing so at this very moment as, about one hour ago, a news bulletin reported that the common border between the Chicago Imperium and British Canada had been reopened."

            "Oh, my God!"

            "Compose yourself. On the controls of that APV there were indeed fingerprints that were not Lieutenant Dickey's. They matched Captain Tormey's prints on file with ANZAC Skyways. Note the tense I used; there were such prints; there no longer are. Friday, although I found it prudent to move our seat of operations out of the Imperium, after many years I am not without contacts there. And agents. And past favors I can collect. No prints matching those of Captain Tormey are now in that wreckage but there are prints on it from many sources living and dead."

            "Boss, may I kiss your feet?"

            "Hold your tongue. I did not do this to frustrate the British Canadian police. My field agent in Winnipeg is a clinical psychologist as well as having our usual training. It is his professional opinion that either Captain Tormey or his wife could kill in self-defense but that it would take extreme conditions indeed to cause either of them to kill a policeman. Dr. Perreault is described as being even less disposed toward violent solutions."

            "I killed him."

            "So I assumed. No other explanation fitted the data. Do you wish to discuss it? Is it any of my business?"

            "Uh, perhaps not. Except that you made it your business when you got rid of those damning fingerprints. I killed him because he was threatening Janet, Janet Tormey, with a gun. I could have simply disabled him; I had time to pull my punch. But I meant to kill him and I did."

            "I would beÄand will beÄmuch disappointed in you if you ever simply injure a policeman. A wounded policeman is more dangerous than a wounded lion. I had reconstructed it much as you described save that I had assumed that you were protecting Dr. Perreault. . . since you seemed to find him an acceptable surrogate husband."

            "He's that, all right. But it was that crazy fool threatening Janet's life that made me go spung! Boss, until this happened I didn't know that I loved Janet. Didn't know I could love a woman that intensely. You know more than I do about how I was designed, or so you have hinted. Are my glands mixed up?"

            "I know quite a lot about your design but I shan't discuss it with

you; you have no need to know. Your glands are no more mixed up than those of any healthy humanÄspecifically, you do not have a redundant Y chromosome. All normal human beings have soi-disant mixed-up glands. The race is divided into two parts: those who know this and those who do not. Stop the stupid talk; it ill befits a genius."

            "Oh, so I'm a genius now. Hully gee, Boss."

            "Don't be pert. You are a supergenius but you are a long way from realizing your potential. Geniuses and supergeniuses always make their own rules on sex as on everything else; they do not accept the monkey customs of their lessers. Let us return to our muttons. Is it possible that this body will be found?"

            "I would bet long odds against it."

            "Any point in discussing it with me?"

            "Uh, I don't think so."

            "Then I have no need to know and will assume that the Tormeys can safely return home as soon as the police conclude that they cannot establish corpus delicti. While corpus delicti does not require a corpse, it is enormously more difficult to make a charge of murder stand up without one. If arrested, a good lawyer would have the Tormeys out in five minutesÄand they would have a very good lawyer, I assure you. You may be pleased to know that you helped them to escape from the country."

"I did?"

            "You and Dr. Perreault. By leaving British Canada as Captain and Mrs. Tormey, and by using their credit cards and by filling out tourist-card applications in their names. You two left a trail that `proved' that the Tormeys fled the country immediately after Lieutenant Dickey disappeared. This worked so well that the police wasted several days trying to trace down the suspects in the California ConfederacyÄand blaming inefficiency of their colleagues in the Confederacy for their lack of success. But I'm somewhat surprised that the Tormeys were not arrested in their own home as my agent had no great difficulty interviewing them there."

            (I'm not. If a cop shows upÄzip! down the Hole. If it's not a cop and he satisfies Ian that he is okayÄ) "Boss, did your Winnipeg agent mention my name? My `Marjorie Baldwin' name, I mean."

            "Yes. Without that name and a picture of you, Mrs. Tormey

would never have let him in. Without the Tormeys I would have lacked necessary data for picking up your rather elusive trail. We benefitted each other. They helped you to escape; we helped them to escape, after I told themÄafter my agent told themÄthat they were being actively sought. A pleasant ending."

            "How did you get them out?"

            "Friday, do you wish to know?"

            "Urn, no." (When will I learn? Had Boss wished to disclose the method, he would have told me. "Careless slips sink ships." Not around Boss.)

            Boss came out from behind his desk. . . and shocked me. Ordinarily he does not move around much and in his old office his ubiquitous tea service was within his reach at his desk. Now he rolled out. No canes. A powered wheelchair. He guided it to a side table, started fiddling with tea things.

            I stood up. "May I pour?"

            "Thank you, Friday. Yes." He left the service table, rolled back to his place behind his desk. I took over, which let me stand with my back to himÄthat was what I needed right then.

            There is no reason to feel shock when a cripple decides to substitute a powered wheelchair for canesÄit is simply efficiency. Except that this was Boss. If the Egyptians at Giza woke up some morning and found the Pyramids switched around and the Sphinx with a new nose, they would not be more shocked than was I. Some thingsÄand some peopleÄare not supposed to change.

            After I had served his teaÄwarm milk, two lumpsÄand had poured mine, I sat back down, my composure restored. Boss uses the very latest technology and quite old-fashioned customs; I have never known him to ask a woman to wait on him but if a woman is present and offers to pour tea, it is a certainty that he will accept graciously and turn the incident into a minor ceremony.

            He chatted of other matters until we each had finished one cup. I refilled his cup, did not myself take another; he resumed business. "Friday, you changed names and credit cards so many times that we were always one jump behind you. We might not have traced you to Vicksburg had not your progress suggested something about your plan. Although it is not my practice to interfere with an agent no

matter how closely he is being watched, I might have decided to head you off from going up the riverÄknowing that that expedition was doomedÄ "Boss, what was that expedition? I never believed the song and

dance."

            "A coup d'etat. A clumsy one. The Imperium has had three Chairmen in two weeks. . . and the current one is no better and no more likely to survive. Friday, a well-run tyranny is a better base for my work than is any form of free government. But a well-run tyranny is almost as scarce as an efficient democracy. To resumeÄyou got away from us in Vicksburg because you moved without hesitation. You were aboard that comic-opera troopship and gone before our Vicksburg agent knew that you had signed up. I was vexed with him. So much so that I have not yet disciplined him. I must wait."

            "No reason to discipline him, Boss. I moved fast. Unless he breathed down my neckÄwhich I notice and always take stepsÄhe could not have kept up with me."

            "Yes, yes, I know your techniques. But I think that you will agree that I was understandably annoyed when it was reported to me that our man in Vicksburg actually had you physically in sight. . . and twenty-four hours later he reports you dead."

            "Maybe, maybe not. A man got too close on my heels coming into Nairobi earlier this yearÄbreathed down my neck and it was his last breath. If you have me shadowed again, better warn your agents."

            "I do not ordinarily use a shadow on you, Friday. With you, point checks work better. Fortunately for all of us you did not stay dead. While the terminals of my contact agents in Saint Louis have all been tapped by the government, I still get some use from them. When you attempted to report in, three times and never got caught, I heard of it at once and deduced that it had to be you, then knew it with certainty when you reached Fargo."

            "Who in Fargo? The paper artist?"

            Boss pretended not to hear. "Friday, I must get back to work. Complete your report. Make it brief."

            "Yes, sir. I left that excursion boat when we entered the Imperiurn, proceeded to Saint Louis, found your contact call codes

trapped, left, visited Fargo as you noted, crossed into British Canada twenty-six klicks east of Pembina, crossed to Vancouver and down to Bellingham today, then reported to you here."

            "Any trouble?"

            "No, sir."

            "Any novel aspects of professional interest?"

            "No, sir."

            "At your convenience tape a detailed report for staff analysis. Feel free to suppress facts not yours to disclose. I will send for you some time in the next two or three weeks. You start school tomorrow morning. Oh-nine hundred."

"Huh?"

            "Don't grunt; it is not pleasing in a young woman. Friday, your work has been satisfactory but it is time you entered on your true profession. Your true profession at this stage, perhaps I should say. You are woefully ignorant. We will change that. Nine o'clock tomorrow."

            "Yes, sir." (Ignorant, huh? Arrogant old bastard. Gosh, I was glad to see him. But that wheelchair fretted me.)

xxii

Pajaro Sands used to be a resort seaside hotel. It's a nowhere place on Monterey Bay outside a nowhere city, Watsonville. Watsonville is one of the great oil export ports of the world and has all the charm of cold pancakes with no syrup. The nearest excitement is in the casinos and bawdy houses of Carmel, fifty kilometers away. But I don't gamble and am not interested in sex for hire, even the exotic sorts to be had in California. Not many from Boss's headquarters patronized Carmel as it was too far away to go by horse other than for a weekend, there was no direct capsule, and, while California is liberal in authorizing power vehicles, Boss did not release his APVs for anything but business.

            The big excitements for us at Pajaro Sands were the natural attractions that caused it to be built, surf and sand and sunshine.

            I enjoyed surfboarding until I became skilled at it. Then it bored me. I usually sunned a bit each day and swam a little and stared out at the big tankers suckling at the oil moles and noted with amusement that the watchstander aboard each ship often was staring back, with binoculars.

            There was no reason for any of us to be bored as we had full individual terminal service. People are so used to the computer net today that it is easy to forget what a window to the world it can beÄ and I include myself. One can grow so canalized in using a terminal only in certain waysÄpaying bills, making telephonic calls, listen-

ing to news bulletinsÄthat one can neglect its richer uses. If a subscriber is willing to pay for the service, almost anything can be done at a terminal that can be done out of bed.

            Live music? I could punch in a concert going on live in Berkeley this evening, but a concert given ten years ago in London, its conductor long dead, is just as "live," just as immediate, as any listed on today's program. Electrons don't care. Once data of any sort go into the net, time is frozen. All that is necessary is to remember that all the endless riches of the past are available any time you punch for them.

            Boss sent me to school at a computer terminal and I had far richer opportunities than any enjoyed by a student at Oxford or the Sorbonne or Heidelberg in any earlier year.

            At first it did not seem to me that I was going to school. At breakfast the first day I was told to report to the head librarian. He was a fatherly old dear, Professor Perry, whom I had met first during basic training. He seemed harriedÄunderstandably, as Boss's library was probably the bulkiest and most complex thing shipped from the Imperium to Pajaro Sands. Professor Perry undoubtedly had weeks of work ahead before everything would be straightened outÄand in the meantime all Boss would expect would be utter perfection. The work was not made easier by Boss's eccentric insistence on paper books for much of his library rather than cassettes or microfiche or disks.

            When I reported to him, Perry looked bothered, then pointed to a console over in one corner. "Miss Friday, why don't you sit down over there?"

            "What am I to do?"

            "Eh? That's hard to say. No doubt we'll be told. Urn, I'm awfully busy now and terribly understaffed. Why don't you just get acquainted with the equipment by studying anything you wish?"

            There wasn't anything special about the equipment except that there were extra keys giving direct access to several major libraries such as Harvard's and the Washington Library of the Atlantic Union and the British Museum without going through a human or network linkupÄplus the unique resource of direct access to Boss's library, the one right beside me. I could even read his bound paper

books if I wanted to, on my terminal's screen, turning the pages from th~ keyboard and never taking the volume out of its nitrogen

environment.            -

            That morning I was speed-searching the index of the Tulane University library (one of the best in the Lone Star Republic), looking for history of Old Vicksburg, when I stumbled onto a cross-reference to spectral types of stars and found myself hooked. I don't recall why there was such a cross-referral but these do occur for the most unlikely reasons.

            I was still reading about the evolution of stars when Professor Perry suggested that we go to lunch.

            We did but I made some notes first about types of mathematics I wanted to study. Astrophysics is fascinatingÄbut you have to talk the language.

            That afternoon I got back to Old Vicksburg and was footnoted to Show Boat, a musical play concerning that eraÄand then spent the rest of the day looking at and listening to Broadway musical plays from the happy days before the North American Federation fell to pieces. Why can't they write music like that today? Those people must have had fun! I certainly didÄI played Show Boat, The Student Prince, and My Fair Lady one after the other and noted a dozen more to play later. (This is going to school?)

            Next day I resolved to stick to serious study of professional subjects in which I was weak, because I felt sure that once my tutors (whoever they were) assigned my curriculum, I would have no time at all for my own choicesÄearlier training in Boss's outfit had taught me the need for a twenty-six-hour day. But at breakfast my friend Anna asked me, "Friday, what can you tell me about the influence of Louis Onze on French lyric poetry?"

            I blinked at her. "Is there a prize? Louis Onze sounds like a cheese to me. The only French verse I can recall is `Mademoiselle from ArmentiŠres.' If that qualifies."

            "Professor Perry said that you are the person to ask."

            "He's pulling your leg." When I reached the library Papa Perry looked up from his console. I said, "Good morning. Anna said that you had told her to ask me about the effect of Louis the Eleventh on French verse."

            "Yes, yes, of course. Would you mind not bothering me now? This bit of programming is very tricky." He looked back down and closed me out of his world.

            Frustrated and irritated I punched up Louis XI. Two hours later I came up for air. I had not learned anything about poetryÄso far as I could tell the Spider King had never even rhymed ton con with c'est hon or ever been a patron of the art. But I learned a lot about politics in the fifteenth century. Violent. Made the little scrapes I had been in seem like kiddie quarrels in the crŠche.

            I spent the rest of the day punching up French lyric verse since 1450. Good in spots. French is suited to lyric poetry, more so than is EnglishÄit takes an Edgar Allan Poe to wring beauty consistently out of the dissonances of English. German is unsuited to lyricism, so much so that translations fall sweeter on the ear than do the German originals. This is no fault of Goethe or Heine; it is a defect of an ugly language. Spanish is so musical that a soappowder commercial in Spanish is more pleasing to the ear than the best free verse in EnglishÄthe Spanish language is so beautiful that much of its poetry sounds best if the listener does not understand the meaning.

            I never did find out what effect, if any, Louis XI had on verse.

            One morning I found "my" console occupied. I looked inquiringly at the head librarian. Again he looked harried. "Yes, yes, we're quite crowded today. Um, Miss Friday, why not use the terminal in your room? It has the same additional controls and, if you need to consult me, you can do so even more quickly than you can here. Just punch local seven and your signature code and I'll instruct the computer to give you priority. Satisfactory?"

            "Just fine," I agreed. I enjoyed the warm camaraderie of the library study room but in my own room I could take off my clothes without feeling that I was annoying Papa Perry. "What should I study today?"

            "Goodness. Isn't there some subject you are interested in that merits further listening? I dislike disturbing Number One."

            I went to my room and went on with French history since Louis Onze and that led me to the new colonies across the Atlantic and that led me into economics and that took me to Adam Smith and

from there to political science. I concluded that Aristotle had had his good days but that Plato was a pretentious fraud and that led to my being called three times by the dining room wiTh the last call including a recorded message that any later arrival would mean nothing but cold night-rations and a live message from Goldie threatening to drag me down by my hair.

            So I rushed down, barefooted and still zipping into a jump suit. Anna asked what I had been doing that was so urgent I would forget to eat. "Most unFridayish." She and Goldie and I usually ate together, with or without male companyÄresidents at HQ were a club, a fraternity, a noisy family, and some two dozen of them were "kissing friends" of mine.

            "Improving my brain," I said. "You are looking at the World's Greatest Authority."

            "Authority on what?" Goldie asked.

            "Anything. Just ask me. The easy ones I answer at once; the hardest ones I'll answer tomorrow."

            "Prove it," said Anna. "How many angels can sit on the point of a needle?"

            "That's an easy one. Measure the angels' arses. Measure the point of the needle. Divide A into B. The numerical answer is left as an exercise for the student."

            "Smart-aleck. What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

            "Even easier. Switch on a recorder, using any nearby terminal. Clap with one hand. Play back the result."

            "You try her, Goldie. She's been eating meat."

            "What is the population of San Jose?"

            "Ah, that's a hard one! I'll report tomorrow."

This fiddling went on for over a month before it filtered through my skull that someone (Boss, of course) was in fact trying to force me to become "the World's Greatest Authority."

            At one time there really was a man known as "the World's Greatest Authority." I ran across him in trying to nail down one of the many silly questions that kept coming at me from odd sources. Like this: Set your terminal to "research." Punch parameters in succession "North American culture," "English-speaking," "midÄtwenti

eth century," "comedians," "the World's Greatest Authority." The answer you can expect is "Professor Irwin Corey." You'll find his routines timeless humor.

            Meanwhile I was being force-fed, like a Strasbourg goose.

            Nevertheless it was a very happy time. Often, as often as not, one of my true friends would invite me to share a bed. I don't recall ever refusing. Rendezvous would usually be arranged during afternoon sunbathing and the prospect added a tingle to the sensuous pleasure of lying in the sun. Because everyone at HQ was so civilizedÄsweet through and throughÄit was possible to answer, "Sorry, Terence asked me first. Tomorrow maybe? No? Okay, sometime soon"Ä and have no hurt feelings. One of the shortcomings of the S-group I used to belong to was that such arrangements were negotiated among the males under some protocol that was never explained to me but was not free from tension.

            The silly questions speeded up. I found myself just getting acquainted with the details of Ming ceramics when a message showed up in my terminal saying that someone in staff wanted to know the relationships between men's beards, women's skirts, and the price of gold. I had ceased to wonder at silly questions; around Boss anything can happen. But this one seemed supersilly. Why should there be any relationship? Men's beards did not interest me; they tickle and often are dirty. As for women's skirts, I knew even less. I have almost never worn skirts. Skirted costumes can be pretty but they aren't practical for travel and could have gotten me killed three or four timesÄand when you're home, what's wrong with skin? Or as near as local custom permits.

            But I had learned not to ignore questions merely because they were obvious nonsense; I tackled this one by calling up all the data I could, including punching out some most unlikely association chains. I then told the machine to tabulate all retrieved data by categories.

            Durned if I didn't begin to find connections!

            As more data accumulated I found that the only way I could see all of it was to tell the computer to plot and display a three-dimensional graphÄand that looked so promising that I told it to convert to holographic in color. Beautiful! I did not know why these three variables fitted together but they did. I spent the rest of that day

changing scales, X versus Y versus Z in various combinationsÄ magnifying, shrinking, rotating, looking for minor cycloid relations under the obvious gross ones. . . and noticed a shallOw double sinusoidal hump that kept showing up as I rotated the holoÄand suddenly, for no reason I can assign, I decided to subtract the double sunspot curve.

            Eureka! As precise and necessary as a Ming vase! Before dinnertime I had the equation, just one line that encompassed all the silly data I had spent five days dragging out of the terminal. I punched the chief of staff's call and recorded that one-line equation, plus definitions of variables. I added no comment, no discussion; I wanted to force the faceless joker to ask for my opinions.

            I got the same answer backÄi.e., none.

            I fiddled for most of a day, waiting, and proving to myself that I could retrieve a group picture from any year and, through looking only at male faces and female legs, make close guesses concerning the price of gold (falling or rising), the time of that picture relative to the double sunspot cycle, andÄshortly and most surprisingÄ whether the political structure was falling apart or consolidating.

            My terminal chimed. No face. No pat on the back. Just a displayed message: "Operations requests soonest depth analysis of possibility that plague epidemics of sixth, fourteenth, and seventeenth centuries resulted from political conspiracy."

            Fooey! I had wandered into a funny farm and was locked up with the inmates.

            Oh, well! The question was so complex that I might be left alone a long time while I studied it. That suited me; I had grown addicted to the possibilities of a terminal of a major computer hooked into a world research netÄI felt like Little Jack Homer.

            I started by listing as many subjects as possible by free association:

plague, epidemiology, fleas, rats, Daniel Defoe, Isaac Newton, conspiracies, Guy Fawkes, Freemasonry, Illuminati, OTO, Rosicrucians, Kennedy, Oswald, John Wilkes Booth, Pearl Harbor, Green Bowlers, Spanish influenza, pest control, etc.

            In three days my list of possibly related subjects was ten times as long.

            In a week I knew that one lifetime was not nearly long enough to study in depth all of my list. But I had been told to tackle the subject

so I started inÄbut I placed my own meaning on "soonest"Äi.e., I would study conscientiously at least fifty hours per week but when and how I wished and with no cramming or rawhiding. . . unless somebody came along and explained to me why I should work harder or differently.

            This went on for weeks.

            I was wakened in the middle of the night by my terminalÄoverride alarm; I had shut it off as usual when I went to bed (alone, I don't recall why). I answered sleepily, "All right, all right! Speak up, and it had better be good."

            No picture. Boss's voice said, "Friday, when will the next major Black Death epidemic occur?"

            I answered, "Three years from now. April. Starting in Bombay and spreading worldwide at once. Spreading off planet at first transport.

            "Thank you. Good night."

            I dropped my head to the pillow and went right back to sleep.

            I woke up at seven hundred as usual, held still for several moments and thought, while I grew colder and colderÄdecided that I really had heard from Boss in the night and really had given him that preposterous answer.

            So bite the bullet, Friday, and climb the Thirteen Steps. I punched "local one." "Friday here, Boss. About what I told you in the night. I plead temporary insanity."

            "Nonsense. See me at ten-fifteen."