The Cat Who Walked Through Walls

Robert A. Heinlein

            BOOK One-

            Indifferent Honest

            I

            "Whatever you do, you'll regret it."

            ALLAN McLEOD GRAY 1905-1975

            "We need you to kill a man."

            This stranger glanced nervously around us. I feel that a crowded restaurant is no place for such talk, as a high noise level gives only limited privacy.

            I shook my head. "I'm not an assassin. Killing is more of a hobby with me. Have you had dinner?"

            "I'm not here to eat. Just let me-"

            "Oh, come now. I insist." He had annoyed me by interrupting an evening with a delightful lady; I was paying him back in kind. It does not do to encourage bad manners; one should retaliate, urbanely but firmly.

            That lady, Gwen Novak, had expressed a wish to spend a penny and had left the table, whereupon Herr Nameless had materialized and sat down uninvited. I had been about to tell him to leave when he mentioned a name. Walker Evans.

            There is no "Walker Evans."

            Instead, that name is or should be a message from one of six people, five men, one woman, a code to remind me of a debt. It is conceivable that an installment payment on that ancient debt could require me to kill someone-possible but unlikely.

            But it was not conceivable that I would kill at the behest of a stranger merely because he invoked that name.

            While I felt obliged to listen, I did not intend to let him ruin my evening. Since he was sitting at my table, he could bloody well behave like an invited guest. "Sir, if you don't want a full dinner, try the after-theater suggestions. The lapin ragout on toast may be rat rather than rabbit but this chef makes it taste like ambrosia."

            "But I don't want-"

            "Please." I looked up, caught my waiter's eye. "Morris."

            Morris was at my elbow at once. "Three orders of lapin ragout, please. Moms, and ask Hans to select a dry white wine for me."

            "Yes, Dr. Ames."

            "Don't serve until the lady returns, if you please."

            "Certainly, sir."

            I waited until the waiter had moved away. "My guest will be returning soon. You have a brief time to explain yourself in private. Please start by telling me your name."

            "My name isn't important. I-"

            "Come, sir! Your name. Please."

            "I was told simply to say 'Walker Evans.'"

            "Good as far as it goes. But your name is not Walker Evans and I do not traffic with a man who won't give his name. Tell me who you are, and it would be well to have an ID that matches your words."

            "But- Colonel, it's far more urgent to explain who must die and why you are the man who must kill him! You must admit that!"

            "I don't have to admit anything. Your name, sir! And your ID. And please do not call me 'Colonel'; I am Dr. Ames." I had to raise my voice not to be drowned out by a roll of drums;

            the late evening show was starting. The lights lowered and a spotlight picked out the master of ceremonies.

            "All right, all right!" My uninvited guest reached into a pocket, pulled out a wallet. "But Tolliver must die by noon Sunday or we'll all be dead!"

            He flipped open the wallet to show me an ID. A small dark spot appeared on his white shirt front. He looked startled, then said softly, "I'm very sorry," and leaned forward. He seemed to be trying to add something but blood gushed from his mouth. His head settled down onto the tablecloth.

            I was up out of my chair at once and around to his right side. Almost as swiftly Moms was at his left side. Perhaps Morris was trying to help him; I was not-it was too late. A four-millimeter dart makes a small entry hole and no exit wound;

            it explodes inside the body. When the wound is in the torso, death follows abruptly. What I was doing was searching the crowd-that and one minor chore.

            While I was trying to spot the killer, Morris was joined by the headwaiter and a busman. The three moved with such speed and efficiency that one would have thought that having a guest killed at a table was something they coped with nightly. They removed the corpse with the dispatch and unobtrusiveness of Chinese stagehands; a fourth man flipped up the tablecloth, removed it and the silver, was back at once with a fresh cloth, and laid two places.

            I sat back down. I had not been able to spot a probable killer; I did not even note anyone displaying a curious lack of curiosity about the trouble at my table. People had stared, but when the body was gone, they quit staring and gave attention to the show. There were no screams or expressions of horror;

            it seemed as if those who had noticed it thought that they were seeing a customer suddenly ill or possibly taken by drink.

            The dead man's wallet now rested in my left jacket pocket.

            When Gwen Novak returned I stood up again, held her chair for her. She smiled her thanks and asked, "What have I missed?"

            "Not much. Jokes old before you were born. Others that were old even before Neil Armstrong was bom."

            "I like old jokes, Richard. With them I know when to laugh."

            "You've come to the right place."

            I too like old jokes; I like all sorts of old things-old friends, old books, old poems, old plays. An old favorite had started our evening: Midsummer Night's Dream presented by Halifax Ballet Theater with Luanna Pauline as Titania. Low-gravity ballet, live actors, and magical holograms had created a fairyland Will Shakespeare would have loved. Newness is no virtue.

            Shortly music drowned out our host's well-aged wit; the chorus line undulated out onto the dance floor, sensuously graceful in half gravity. The ragout arrived and with it the wine. After we had eaten Gwen asked me to dance. I have this trick leg but at half gee I can manage the classic slow dances- waltz, frottage glide, tango, and so forth. Gwen is a warm, live, fragrant bundle; dancing with her is a Sybaritic treat.

            It was a gay ending to a happy evening. There was still the matter of the stranger who had had the bad taste to get himself killed at my table. But, since Gwen seemed not to be aware of the unpleasant incident, I had tabled it in my mind, to be dealt with later. To be sure I was ready any moment for that tap on the shoulder... but in the meantime I enjoyed good food, good wine, good company. Life is filled with tragedy;

            if you let it overwhelm you, you cannot enjoy life's innocent pleasures.

            Gwen knows that my leg won't take much dancing; at the first break in the music she led us back to our table. I signaled Morris for the check. He produced it out of midair; I dialed my credit code into it, set it for standard gratuity plus half, added my thumbprint.

            Morris thanked me. "A nightcap, sir? Or a brandy? Perhaps the lady would enjoy a liqueur? Compliments of Rainbow's End." The owner of the restaurant, an ancient Egyptian, believed in good measure-at least to his regulars; I'm not sure how tourists from dirtside were treated.

            "Gwen?" I queried, expecting her to refuse-Gwen's drinking is limited to one glass of wine at meals. One.

            "A Cointreau would be pleasant. I would like to stay and listen to the music a while."

            "Cointreau for the lady," Morris noted. "Doctor?"

            "Mary's Tears and a glass of water, please. Moms."

            When Morris left, Gwen said quietly, "I needed time to speak with you, Richard. Do you want to sleep at my place tonight? Don't be skittish; you can sleep alone."

            "I am not all that fond of sleeping alone." I clicked over the possibilities in my mind. She had ordered a drink she did not want in order to make me an offer that did not fit. Gwen is a forthright person; I felt that had she wished to sleep with me she would have said so-she would not have played getaway-closer about it.

            Therefore she had invited me to sleep in her compartment because she thought it to be unwise or unsafe for me to sleep in my own bed. Therefore-

            "You saw it."

            "From a distance. So I waited until things quieted down before returning to the table. Richard, I'm not sure what happened. But if you need a place to lie doggo-be my guest!"

            "Why, thank you, my dear!" A friend who offers help without asking for explanations is a treasure beyond price. "Whether I accept or not, I am in your debt. Mmm, Gwen, I too am unsure what happened. The total stranger who gets himself killed while he's trying to tell you something- A clich6, a tired cliché. If I plotted a story that way today, my guild would disown me." I smiled at her. "In its classic form you would turn out to be the killer... a fact that would develop slowly while you pretended to help me search. The sophisticated reader would know from chapter one that you did it, but I, as the detective, would never guess what was as plain as the nose on your face. Correction: on my face."

            "Oh, my nose is plain enough; it's my mouth that men remember. Richard, I am not going to help you hang this on me; I simply offered you a hideout. Was he really killed? I couldn't be sure."

            "Eh?" I was saved from answering too quickly by Morris's arrival with our liqueurs. When he left, I answered, "I had not thought about any other possibility. Gwen, he was not wounded. Either he was killed almost instantly... or it was faked. Could it be faked? Certainly. If shown on holo, it could be done in real time with only minor props." I mulled it over. Why had the restaurant staff been so quick, so precise, in covering it up? Why had I not felt that tap on the shoulder? "Gwen, I'll take you up on that offer. If the proctors want me, they'll find me. But I would like to discuss this with you in greater detail than we can manage here, no matter how carefully we keep our voices down."

            "Good." She stood up. "I won't be long, dear." She headed for the lounges.

            As I stood up Morris handed me my stick and I leaned on it as I followed her toward the lounges. I don't actually have to use a cane-I can even dance, as you know-but using a cane keeps my bad leg from getting too tired.

            When I came out of the gentlemen's lounge, I placed myself in the foyer, and waited.

            And waited.

            Having waited long past what is reasonable I sought out the maitre d'h6tel. 'Tony, could you please have some female member of your staff check the ladies' lounge for Mistress Novak? I think that it is possible that she may have become ill, or be in some difficulty."

            "Your guest. Dr. Ames?"

            "Yes."

            "But she left twenty minutes ago. I ushered her out myself."

            "So? I must have misunderstood her. Thank you, and good night."

            "Good night. Doctor. We look forward to serving you again."

            I left Rainbow's End, stood for a moment in the public corridor outside it-ring thirty, half-gravity level, just clockwise from radius two-seventy at Petticoat Lane, a busy neighborhood even at one in the morning. I checked for proctors waiting for me, halfway expecting to find Gwen already in custody.

            Nothing of the son. A steady flow of people, mostly groundhogs on holiday by their dress and behavior, plus pullers for grimp shops, guides and ganders, pickpockets and priests. Golden Rule habitat is known system wide as the place where anything is for sale and Petticoat Lane helps to support that reputation insofar as fleshpots are concerned. For more sober enterprises you need only go clockwise ninety degrees to Threadneedle Street.

            No sign of proctors, no sign of Gwen.

            She had promised to meet me at the exit. Or had she? No, not quite. Her exact words were, "I won't be long, dear." I had inferred that she expected to find me at the restaurant's exit to the street.

            I've heard all the old chestnuts about women and weather, La donna e mobile, and so forth-I believe none of them. Gwen had not suddenly changed her mind. For some reason- some good reason-she had gone on without me and now would expect me to join her at her home.  Or so I told myself.

            If she had taken a scooter, she was there already; if she had walked, she would be there soon-Tony had said, 'Twenty minutes ago." There is a scooter booth at the intersection of ring thirty and Petticoat Lane. I found an empty, punched in ring one-oh-five, radius one-thirty-five, six-tenths gravity, which would take me as close as one can get by public scooter to Gwen's compartment.

            Gwen lives in Gretna Green, just off Appian Way where it crosses the Yellow Brick Road-which means nothing to anyone who has never visited Golden Rule habitat. Some public relations "expert" had decided that habitants would feel more at home if surrounded by place names familiar from dirtside. There is even (don't retch) a "House at Pooh Comer." What I punched in were coordinates of the main cylinder: 105, 135, 0.6.

            The scooter's brain, off somewhere near ring ten, accepted those coordinates and waited; I punched in my credit code and took position, crouched against acceleration pads.

            That idiot brain took an insultingly long time to decide that my credit was good-then placed a web around me, tightened it, closed the capsule and whuff'! bing! barn! we were on our way... then a fast float for three kilometers from ring thirty to ring one-oh-five, then barn! bing! whuff! I was in Gretna Green. The scooter opened.

            For me such service is well worth the fare. But the Manager had been warning us the past two years that the system does not pay its way; either use it more or pay more per trip, or the hardware will be salvaged and the space rented out. I hope they work out a solution; some people need this service. (Yes, I know; Laffer theory will always give two solutions to such a problem, a high and a low-except where the theory states that both solutions are the same... and imaginary. Which might apply here. It may be that a scooter system is too expensive for a space habitat at the present state of engineering art.)

            It was an easy walk to Gwen's compartment: downstairs to seven-tenths gravity, fifty meters "forward" to her number-I rang.

            Her door answered, "This is the recorded voice of Gwen Novak. I've gone to bed and am, I hope, happily asleep. If your visit is truly an emergency, deposit one hundred crowns via your credit code. If I agree that waking me is justified, I will return your money. If I disagree-laugh, chortle, chuckle!- I'll spend it on gin and keep you out anyhow. If your call is not an emergency, please record a message at the sound of my scream."

            This was followed by a high scream which ended abruptly as if a hapless wench had been choked to death.

            Was this an emergency? Was it a hundred-crown emergency? I decided that it was not any sort of emergency, so I recorded:

            "Dear Gwen, this is your fairly-faithful swain Richard speaking. Somehow we got our wires crossed. But we can straighten it out in the morning. Will you call me at my digs when you wake up? Love and kisses, Richard the Lion-Hearted."

            I tried to keep my not-inconsiderable irk out of my voice. I felt badly used but underlying it was a conviction that Gwen would not intentionally mistreat me; it had to be an honest mix-up even though I did not now understand it.

            Then I went home whuff! bing! barn!... barn! bing! whuff!

            I have a deluxe compartment with bedroom separate from the living room. I let myself in, checked for messages in the terminal-none-set it for sleep conditions both for door and terminal, hung up my cane, and went into the bedroom.

            Gwen was asleep in my bed.

            She looked sweetly peaceful. I backed out quietly, moved noiselessly in undressing, went into the 'fresher, closed the door-soundproof; I said it was a deluxe setup. Nevertheless I made as little noise as possible in refreshing myself for bed, as "soundproof" is a hope rather than a certainty. When I was as sanitary and odorless as a male hairless ape can manage short of surgery, I went quietly back into my bedroom and got most cautiously into bed. Gwen stirred, did not wake.

            At some hour when I was awake in the night, I switched off the alarm. But I woke up about my usual time, as my bladder can't be switched off. So I got up, took care of it, refreshed for the day, decided that I wanted to live, slid into a coverall, went silently into the living room, and opened the buttery, considered my larder. A special guest called for a special breakfast.

            I left the connecting door open so that I could keep an eye on Gwen. I think it was the aroma of coffee that woke her.

            When I saw that her eyes were open, I called out, "Good morning, beautiful. Get up and brush your teeth; breakfast is ready."

            "I did brush my teeth, an hour ago. Come back to bed."

            "Nymphomaniac. Orange juice or black cherries or both?"

            "Uh... both. Don't change the subject. Come here and meet your fate like a man."

            "Eat first."

            "Coward. Richard is a sissy, Richard is a sissy!"

            "An utter coward. How many waffles can you eat?"

            "Uh ... decisions! Can't you unfreeze them one at a time?"

            "These are not frozen. Only minutes ago they were alive and singing; I killed 'em and skun 'em myself. Speak up, or I'll eat all of them."

            "Oh, the pity and the shame of it all!-turned down for waffles. Nothing left but to enter a monastery. Two."

            "Three. You mean 'nunnery.'"

            "I know what I mean." She got up, went into the refresher, was out quickly, wearing one of my robes. Pleasant bits of Gwen stuck out here and there. I handed her a glass of juice;

            she paused to gulp twice before she spoke. "Gurgle, gurgle. My, that's good. Richard, when we're married, are you going to get breakfast for me every morning?"

            "That inquiry contains implied assumptions I am not willing to stipulate-"

            "After I trusted you and gave all!"

            "-but, without stipulation, I will concede that I would just as lief get breakfast for two as for one. Why do you assume that I'm going to marry you? What inducements do you offer? Are you ready for a waffle?"

            "See here, mister, not all men are fussy about marrying grandmothers! I've had offers. Yes, I'm ready for a waffle."

            "Pass your plate." I grinned at her. "'Grandmother' my missing foot. Not even if you had started your first child at menarche, then your offspring had whelped just as promptly."

            "Neither one and I am so. Richard, I am trying to make two things clear. No, three. First, I'm serious about wanting to marry you if you'll hold still for it... or, if you won't, I'll keep you as a pet and cook breakfast for you. Second, I am indeed a grandmother. Third, if, despite my advanced years, you wish to have children by me, the wonders of modern microbiology have kept me fertile as well as relatively un-wrinkled. If you want to knock me up, it should not be too much of a chore."

            "I could force myself. Maple syrup in that one, blueberry syrup in this. Or maybe I did so last night?"

            "Wrong date by at least a week... but what would you say if I had said, 'Jackpot!'"

            "Quit joking and finish your waffle. There's another one ready."

            "You're a sadistic monster. And deformed."

            "Not deformed," I protested. "This foot was amputated; I wasn't born without it. My immune system flatly refuses to accept a transplant, so that's that. One reason I live in low gravity."

            Gwen suddenly sobered. "My very dear! I wasn't speaking of your foot. Oh, heavens! Your foot doesn't matter... except that I'll be more careful than ever not to place a strain on you, now that I know why."

            "Sorry. Let's back up. Then what is this about me being deformed'?"

            At once she was again her merry self. "You should know! When you've got me stretched all out of shape and no use to a normal man. And now you won't marry me. Let's go back to bed."

            "Let's finish breakfast and let it settle first-have you no mercy? I didn't say I wouldn't many you... and I did not stretch you."

            "Oh, what a sinful lie! Will you pass the butter, please? You're deformed all right! How big is that tumor with the bone in it? Twenty-five centimeters? More? And how big around? If I had seen it first, I would have never risked it."

            "Oh, piffle! It's not even twenty centimeters. I didn't stretch you; I'm just middlin' size. You should see my Uncle Jock. More coffee?"

            "Yes, thank you. You surely did stretch me! Uh... is your Uncle Jock actually bigger than you are? Locally?"

            "Much."

            "Uh... where does he live?"

            "Finish your waffle. Do you still want to take me back to bed? Or do you want a note to my Uncle Jock?"

            "Why can't I have both? Yes, a little more bacon, thank you. Richard, you're a good cook. I don't want to marry Uncle Jock; I'm just curious."

            "Don't ask him to show it to you unless you mean business ... because he always means business. He seduced his Scoutmaster's wife when he was twelve. Ran away with her. Caused considerable talk in southern Iowa because she didn't want to give him up. That was over a hundred years ago when such things were taken seriously, at least in Iowa."

            "Richard, are you implying that Uncle Jock is over a hundred and still active and virile?"

            "A hundred and sixteen and still jumping his friends' wives, daughters, mothers, and livestock. And has three wives of his own under the Iowa senior-citizen cohabitation code, one of them-my Aunt Cissy-being still in high school."

            "Richard, I sometimes suspect that you are not always entirely truthful. A mild bent toward exaggeration."

            "Woman, that is no way to talk to your future husband. Behind you is a terminal. Punch it for Grinnell, Iowa; Uncle Jock lives just outside. Shall we call him? You talk to him real pretty and he might show you his pride and joy. Well, dear?"

            "You are just trying to get out of taking me back to bed."

            "Another waffle?"

            "Quit trying to bribe me. Uh, a half, maybe. Split one with me?"

            "No. A whole one for each of us."

            '"Hail, Caesar!' You're the bad example I've always needed. Once we're married I'm going to get fat."

            "I'm glad you said that. I had hesitated to mention it but you are a bit on the skinny side. Sharp comers. Bruises. Some padding would help."

            I'll omit what Gwen said next. It was colorful, even lyrical, but (in my opinion) unladylike. Not her true self, so we won't record it.

            I answered, 'Truly, it's irrelevant. I admire you for your intelligence. And your angelic spirit. Your beautiful soul. Let's not get physical."

            Again I feel that I must censor.

            "All right," I agreed. "If that's what you want. Get back into bed and start thinking physical thoughts. I'll switch off the waffle iron."

            Somewhat later I said, "Do you want a church wedding?"

            "Coo! Should I wear white? Richard, are you a church member?"

            "No."

            "Neither am I. I don't think you and I really belong in churches."

            "I agree. But just how do you want to get married? So far as I know there isn't any other way to get married in the Golden Rule. Nothing in the Manager's regulations. Legally the institution of marriage does not exist here."

            "But, Richard, lots of people do get married."

            "But how, dear? I realize they do but, if they don't do it through a church, I don't know how they go about it. I've never had occasion to find out. Do they go to Luna City? Or down dirtside? How?"

            "Whatever way they wish. Hire a hall and get some VIP to tie the knot in the presence of a crowd of guests, with music and a big reception afterwards... or do it at home with just a few friends present. Or anything in between. It's your choice, Richard."

            "Huh uh, not mine. Yours. I simply agreed to go along. As for me, I find that a woman is at her best if she is a bit tense through being unsure of her status. Keeps her on her toes. Don't you agree? Hey! Stop that!"

            "Then stop trying to get my goat. If you don't want to sing soprano at your own wedding."

            "You do that once more and there ainta gonna be no wedding. Dear one, what sort of a wedding do you want?"

            "Richard, I don't need a wedding ceremony, I don't need witnesses. I just want to promise you everything a wife should promise."

            "You're sure, Gwen? Aren't you being hasty?" Confound it, promises a woman makes in bed should not be binding.

            "I am not being hasty. I decided to marry you more than a year ago."

            "You did? Well, I'll be- Hey' We met less than a year ago. At the Day One Ball. July twentieth. I remember."

            "True."

            "Well?"

            "'Well* what, dear? I decided to many you before we met. Do you have a problem with that? I don't. I didn't."

            "Mmm. I had better tell you some things. My past contains episodes I don't boast about. Not exactly dishonest but somewhat shady. And Ames is not the name I was bom with."

            "Richard, I will be proud to be addressed as 'Mrs. Ames.* Or as... 'Mrs. Campbell'... Colin."

            I said nothing, loudly-then added, "What more do you know?"

            She looked me firmly in the eye, did not smile. "All I need to know. Colonel Colin Campbell, known as 'Killer' Campbell to his troops... and in the dispatches. A rescuing angel to the students of Percival Lowell Academy. Richard, or Colin, my oldest daughter was one of those students."

            "I'll be eternally damned."

            "I doubt it."

            "And because of this you intend to marry me?"

            "No, dear man. That reason sufficed a year ago. But now I've had many months to discover the human being behind the storybook hero. And... I did hurry you into bed last night but neither of us would marry for that reason alone. Do you want to know about my own tarnished past? I'll tell."

            "No." I faced her, took both her hands. "Gwendolyn, I want you to be my wife. Will you have me as your husband?"

            "I will."

            "I, Colin Richard, take thee, Gwendolyn, to be my wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, as long as you will have me."

            "I, Sadie Gwendolyn, take thee, Colin Richard, to be my husband, to care for and love and cherish for the rest of my life."

            "Whew! I guess that does it."

            "Yes. But kiss me."

            I did. "When did 'Sadie' show up?"

            "Sadie Lipschitz, my family name. I didn't like it so I changed it. Richard, the only thing left to make it official is to publish it. That ties it down. And I do want to tie it down while you're still groggy."

            "All right. Publish it how?"

            "May I use your terminal?"

            "Our terminal. You don't have to ask to use it."

            " 'Our terminal.' Thank you, dear." She got up, went to the terminal, keyed for directory, then called the Golden Rule Herald, asked for the society editor. "Please record. Dr. Richard Ames and Mistress Gwendolyn Novak are pleased to announce their marriage this date. No presents, no flowers. Please confirm." She switched off. They called back at once; I answered and confirmed.

            She sighed. "Richard, I hurried you. But I had to. Now I can no longer be required to testify against you in any jurisdiction anywhere. I want to help in any way that I can. Why did you kill him, dear? And how?"

            II

            "In waking a tiger, use a long stick.**

            MAO TSE-TUNG 1893-1976

            I stared thoughtfully at my bride. "You are a gallant lady, my love, and I am grateful that you do not want to testify against me. But I am not sure that the legal principle you cited can be applied in this jurisdiction."

            "But that's a general rule of justice, Richard. A wife can't be forced to testify against her husband. Everyone knows that."

            "The question is: Does the Manager know it? The Company asserts that the habitat has only one law, the Golden Rule, and claims that the Manager's regulations are merely practical interpretations of that law, just guidelines subject to change-change right in the middle of a hearing and retroactive, if the Manager so decides. Gwen, I don't know. The Manager's Proxy might decide that you are the Company's star witness."

            "I won't do it! I won't!"

            "Thank you, my love. But let's find out what your testimony would be were you to be a witness in-what shall we call it? Eh, suppose that I am charged with having wrongfully caused the death of, uh, Mr. X... Mr. X being the stranger who came to our table last night when you excused yourself to visit the ladies' lounge. What did you see?"

            "Richard, I saw you kill him. I saw it!"

            "A prosecutor would require more details. Did you see him come to our table?"

            "No. I didn't see him until I left the lounge and was headed for our table... and was startled to see someone sitting in my chair."

            "All right, back up a little and tell me exactly what you saw."

            "Uh, I came out of the ladies' room and turned left, toward our table. Your back was toward me, you'll remember-"

            "Never mind what I remember; you tell what you remember. How far away were you?"

            "Oh, I don't know. Ten meters, maybe. I could go there and measure it. Does it matter?"

            "If it ever does, you can measure it. You saw me from about ten meters. What was I doing? Standing? Sitting? Moving?"

            "You were seated with your back to me."

            "My back was toward you. The light wasn't very good. How did you know it was I?"

            "Why- Richard, you're being intentionally difficult."

            "Yes, because prosecutors are intentionally difficult. How did you recognize me?"

            "Uh- It was you. Richard, I know the back of your neck just as I know your face. Anyhow, when you stood up and moved, I did see your face."

            "Was that what I did next? Stand up?"

            "No, no. I spotted you, at our table-then I stopped short when I saw someone seated across from you, in my chair. I just stood there and stared."

            "Did you recognize him?"

            "No. I don't think I ever saw him before."

            "Describe him."

            "Uh, I can't, very well."

            "Short? Tall? Age? Bearded? Race? How dressed?"

            "I never saw him standing up. He wasn't a youngster but he wasn't an old man, either. I don't think he wore a beard."

            "Moustache?"

            "I don't know." (I did know. No moustache. Age about thirty.)

            "Race?"

            "White. Light skin, anyhow, but not blond like a Swede. Richard, there wasn't time to catch all the details. He threatened you with some sort of weapon and you shot him and you jumped up as the waiter came over-and I backed up and waited until they took him away."

            "Where did they take him?"

            "I'm not sure. I backed into the ladies' lounge and let the door contract. They could have taken him into the gentlemen's room just across the passage. But there's another door at the end of the passage marked 'Employees Only.'"

            "You say he threatened me with a weapon?"

            "Yes. Then you shot him and jumped up and grabbed his weapon and shoved it into your pocket, just as our waiter came up on the other side."

            (Oho!) "Which pocket did I put it in?"

            "Let me think. I have to turn myself that way in my mind. Your left pocket. Your left outside jacket pocket."

            "How was I dressed last night?"

            "Evening dress, we had come straight from the ballet. White turtleneck, maroon jacket, black trousers."

            "Gwen, because you were asleep in the bedroom, I undressed last night here in the living room and hung the clothes I was wearing in that wardrobe by the outer door, intending to move them later. Will you please open that wardrobe, find the jacket I wore last night, and get from its left outside pocket the 'weapon' you saw me place in it?"

            "But-" She shut up and, solemn-faced, did as I asked.

            In a moment she returned. "This is all there was in that pocket." She handed me the stranger's wallet.

            I accepted it. "This is the weapon with which he threatened me." Then I showed her my right forefinger, bare. "And this is the weapon I used to shoot him when he pointed this wallet at me."

            "I don't understand."

            "Beloved, this is why criminologists place more faith in circumstantial evidence than they do in the testimony of eyewitnesses. You are the ideal eyewitness, intelligent, sincere, cooperative, and honest. You have reported a mixture of what you did see, what you thought you saw, what you failed to notice although it was in front of you, and what your logical mind fills in as necessities linking what you saw and what you thought you saw. This mixture is now all solidly in your mind as a true memory, a firsthand, eyewitness memory. But it didn't happen."

            "But, Richard, I did see-"

            "You saw that poor clown killed. You did not see him threatening me; you did not see me shoot him. Some third person shot him with an explosive dart. Since he was facing you and it hit him in the chest, that dart must have come right past you. Did you notice anyone standing?"

            "No. Oh, there were waiters moving around, and busmen, and the maitre d' and people getting up and sitting down. I mean I didn't notice anyone in particular-certainly not anyone shooting a gun. What sort of a gun?"

            "Gwen, it might not look like a gun. A concealed assassin's weapon capable of shooting a dart short range- It could look like anything as long as it had one dimension about fifteen centimeters long. A lady's purse. A camera. Opera glasses. An endless list of innocent-appearing objects. This gets us nowhere as I had my back to the action and you saw nothing out of the way. The dart probably came from behind your back. So forget it. Let's see who the victim was. Or whom he claimed to be."

            I took out everything from all the pockets of that wallet, including a poorly-concealed "secret" pocket. This last held gold certificates issued by a Zurich bank, equivalent to about seventeen thousand crowns-his get-away money, it seemed likely.

            There was an ID of the sort the Golden Rule issues to each person arriving at the habitat's hub. All it proves is that the "identified" person has a face, claims a name, has made statements as to nationality, age, place of birth, etc., and has deposited with the Company a return ticket or the equivalent in cash, as well as paying the breathing fee ninety days in advance-these latter two being all the Company cares about.

            I do not know as certainty that the Company would space a man who, through some slip, has neither a ticket away nor air money. They might let him sell his indentures. But I would not count on it. Eating vacuum is not something I care to risk.

            This Company ID stated that the holder was Enrico Schultz, age 32, citizen of Belize, born Ciudad Castro, occupation accountant. The picture with it was that of the poor slob who got himself killed through bracing me in too public a place... and for the steenth time I wondered why he hadn't phoned me, then called on me in private. As "Dr. Ames" I am in the directory... and invoking "Walker Evans" would have got him a hearing, a private hearing.

            I showed it to Gwen. "Is that our boy?"

            "I think so. I'm not sure."

            "I am sure. As I talked to him face to face for several minutes."

            The oddest part about Schultz's wallet was what it did not contain. In addition to the Swiss gold certificates it held eight hundred and thirty-one crowns and that Golden Rule ID.

            But that was all.

            No credit cards, no motor vehicle pilot's license, no insurance cards, no union or guild card, no other identification cards, no membership cards, nit. Men's wallets are like women's purses; they accumulate junk-photos, clippings, shopping lists, et cetera without end; they need periodic housecleaning. But, in cleaning one out, one always leaves in place the dozen-odd items a modem man needs in order to get by. My friend Schultz had nothing.

            Conclusion: He was not anxious to advertise his true identity. Corollary: Somewhere in Golden Rule habitat there was a stash of his personal papers... another ID in a different name, a passport almost certainly not issued by Belize, other items that might give me a lead to his background, his motives, and (possibly) how he had invoked "Walker Evans."

            Could these be found?

            A side issue niggled at me: that seventeen thousand in gold certificates. Instead of its being get-away money could he have expected to use so fiddlin' a sum to hire me to kill Tolliver? If so, I was offended. I preferred to think that he hoped to persuade me to make the kill as a public service.

            Gwen said, "Do you want to divorce me?"

            "Eh?"

            "I hustled you into it. My intentions were good, truly they were! But it turns out I was stupid."

            "Oh. Gwen, I never get both married and divorced on the same day. Never. If you really want to shuck me off, take it up with me tomorrow. Although I think that, to be fair, you ought to try me out for thirty days. Or two weeks, at least. And permit me to do the same. So far, your performance, both horizontally and vertically, has been satisfactory. If either becomes unsatisfactory, I'll let you know. Fair enough?"

            "Fair enough. Although I may beat you to death with your own sophistries."

            "Beating her husband to death is every married woman's privilege... as long as she does it in private. Please pipe down, dear; I've got troubles. Can you think of any good reason why Tolliver should be killed?"

            "Ron Tolliver? No. Although I can't think of any good reason why he should be allowed to live, either. He's a boor."

            "He's that, all right. If he were not one of the Company partners, he would have been told to pick up his return ticket and leave, long ago. But I didn't say 'Ron Tolliver,' I just said Tolliver.'"

            "Is there more than one? I hope not."

            "We'll see." I went to the terminal, punched for directory, cycled to "T."

            "'Ronson H. Tolliver, Ronson Q.'-that's his son-and here's his wife, 'Stella M. Tolliver.' Hey! It says here: 'See also Taliaferro.'"

            "That's the original spelling," said Gwen. "But it's pronounced 'Tolliver' just the same."

            "Are you sure?"

            "Quite sure. At least south of the Mason and Dixon Line back dirtside. Spelling it 'Tolliver' suggests poh white trash who can't spell. Spelling it the long way and then sounding all the letters sounds like a Johnny-come-lately damyankee whose former name might have been 'Lipschitz' or such. The authentic plantation-owning, nigger-whupping, wench-humping aristocrat spelled it the long way and pronounced it the short way."

            "I'm sorry you told me that."

            "Why, dear?"

            "Because there are three men and one woman listed here who spell it the long way, Taliaferro. I don't know any of them. So I don't know which one to kill."

            "Do you have to kill one of them?"

            "I don't know. Mmm, time I brought you up to date. If you are planning to stay married to me at least fourteen days. Are you?"

            "Of course I am! Fourteen days plus the rest of my life! And you are a male chauvinist pig!"

            "Paid-up lifetime membership."

            "And a tease."

            "I think you're cute, too. Want to go back to bed?"

            "Not until you decide whom you intend to kill."

            "That may take a while." I did my best to give Gwen a detailed, factual, uncolored account of my short acquaintance with the man who had used the name "Schultz." "And that's all I know. He was dead too quickly for me to learn more. Leaving behind him endless questions."

            I turned back to the terminal, keyed it to shift to wordprocessing mode, then created a new file, as if I were setting up a potboiler:

            THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSPELLED NAME Questions To Be Answered:

            1. Tolliver or Taliaferro?

            2. Why does T. have to die?

            3. Why would "we all be dead" if T. is not dead by noon Sunday?

            4. Who is this corpse who called himself "Schultz"?

            5. Why am I the logical hatchet man for T.?

            6. Is this killing necessary?

            7. Which one of the Walker Evans Memorial Society sicked this thumb-fingered bubblehead on me? And why?

            8. Who killed "Schultz"? And why?

            9. Why did the staff of Rainbow's End move in and cover up the killing?

            10. (Omnibus) Why did Gwen leave before I did and why did she come here instead of going home and how did she get in?

            "Do we take them in order?" asked Gwen. "Number ten is the only one I can answer."

            "That one I just chucked in," I answered. "Of the first nine I think that, if I find answers to any three, I could then deduce the rest." I went on putting words up on the screen:

            POSSIBLE ACTIONS "When in Danger or in Doubt. Run in Circles. Scream and Shout."

            "Does that help?" asked Gwen.

            "Every time! Ask any old military man. Now let's take it one question at a time":

            Q. 1-Phone each Taliaferro in the directory. Learn preferred pronunciation of name. Strike out any who use the e very-letter pronunciation.

            Q. 2-Dig into background of whoever is left. Start with the Herald back files.

            Q. 3-While checking Q2, keep ears spread for anything scheduled or expected for noon Sunday.

            Q. 4-If you were a corpse arriving at Golden Rule space habitat and you wanted to conceal your identity but had to be able to get at your passport and other documents for departure, where would you stash them? Hint: Check when this cadaver arrived in Golden Rule. Then check hotels, lockers, deposit box services, poste restante, etc.

            Q. 5-postpone

            Q. 6-postpone

            Q. 7-Reach by phone as many of the "Walker Evans" oath group as possible. Keep going till one spills. Note: Some jelly brain may have talked too much without knowing it.

            Q. 8-Morris, or the maitre d', or the busman, or all of them, or any two, knows who killed Schultz. One or more of them expected it. So we look for each one's weak point- liquor, drugs, money, sex (comme ci ou comme ga)-and what was your name back dirtside, chum? Any paper out on you somewhere? Find that soft spot. Push it. Do this with all three of them, then see how their stories check. Every closet has a skeleton. This is a natural law-so find it in each case.

            Q. 9-Money (Conclusive assumption until proved false.)

            (Query: How much is all this going to cost me? Can I afford it? Counter query: Can I afford not to pursue it?)

            "I've been wondering about that," said Gwen. "When I poked my nose in, I thought you were in real trouble. But apparently you are home free. Why must you do anything, my husband?"

            "I need to kill him."

            "What? But you don't know which Tolliver is meant! Or why he should be dead. If he should be."

            "No, no, not Tolliver. Although it may develop that Tolliver should be dead. No, dear, the man who killed Schultz. I must find him and kill him."

            "Oh. Uh, I can see that he should be dead; he's a murderer. But why must you do it? Both are strangers to you-both the victim and whoever killed him. Actually it's not your business. Is it?"

            "It is my business. Schultz or whatever his name is was killed while he was a guest at my table. That's intolerably rude. I won't put up with it. Gwen my love, if one tolerates bad manners, they grow worse. Our pleasant habitat could decay into the sort of slum Ell-Five is, with crowding and unmannerly behavior and unnecessary noise and impolite language. I must find the oaf who did this thing, explain to him his offense, give him a chance to apologize, and kill him."

            III

            'One should forgive one*s enemies, but not before they are hanged.**

            HEINRICH HEINE 1797-1856

            My lovely bride stared at me. "You would kill a man? For bad manners?"

            "Do you know of a better reason? Would you have me ignore rude behavior?"

            "No but- I can understand executing a man for murder;

            I'm not opposed to capital punishment. But shouldn't you leave this to the proctors and the management? Why must you take the law into your own hands?"

            "Gwen, I haven't made myself clear. My purpose is not to punish but to weed... plus the esthetic satisfaction of retaliation for boorish behavior. This unknown killer may have had excellent reasons for killing the person who called himself Schultz... but killing in the presence of people who're eating is as offensive as public quarreling by married couples. Then this oaf capped his offense by doing this while his victim was my guest... which made retaliation both my obligation and my privilege."

            I went on, "The putative offense of murder is not my concern. But as for proctors and the management taking care of that matter, do you know of any regulation forbidding murder?"

            "What? Richard, there must be one."

            "I've never heard of one. I suppose the Manager might construe murder as a violation of the Golden Rule-"

            "Well, I would certainly think so!"

            "You do? I'm never certain what the Manager will think. But, Gwen my darling, killing is not necessarily murder. In fact it often is not. If this killing ever comes to the Manager's attention, he may decide that it was justifiable homicide. An offense against manners but not against morals.

            "But-" I continued, turning back to the terminal, "-the Manager may already have settled the matter, so let's see what the Herald has to say about it." I punched up the newspaper again, this time keying for today's index, then selecting today's vital statistics.

            The first item to roll past was "Marriage-Ames-Novak" so I stopped it, punched for amplification, keyed for printout, tore it off and handed it to my bride. "Send that to your grandchildren to prove that Granny is no longer living in sin."

            "Thank you, darling. You're so gallant. I think."

            "I can cook, too." I scrolled on down to the obituaries. I usually read the obituaries first as there is always the happy chance that one of them will make my day.

            But not today. No name I recognized. Especially no "Schultz." No unidentified stranger. No death "in a popular restaurant." Nothing but the usual sad list of strangers dead from natural causes and one by accident. So I keyed for general news of the habitat, let it scroll past.

            Nothing. Oh, there were endless items of routine events, from ships' arrivals and departures to (the biggest news) an announcement that the newest addition, rings 130-140, was being brought up to spin and, if all went by schedule, would be warped in and its welding to the main cylinder started by 0800 on the sixth.

            But there was nothing about "Schultz," no mention of any Tolliver or Taliaferro, no unidentified cadaver. I consulted the paper's index again, punched for next Sunday's schedule of events, found that the only thing scheduled for noon Sunday was a panel discussion assembled by holo from The Hague, Tokyo, Luna City, Ell-Four, Golden Rule, Tel Aviv, and Agra:

            "Crisis in Faith: The Modem World at the Crossroads." The co-moderators were the president of the Humanist Society and the Dalai Lama. I wished them luck.

            "So far we have zip, zero, nit, swabo, and nothing. Gwen, what is a polite way for me to ask strangers how they pronounce their names?"

            "Let me try it, dear. I'll say, 'Miz Tollivuh, this is Gloria Meade Calhoun f'om Savannah. Do you have a cousin, Stacey Mac, f'om Chahlston?' When she corrects my pronunciation of her name, I apologize and switch off. But if she-or he- accepts the short form but denies knowing Stacey Mac, I say, 'I wonduhed about that. She said it, Talley-ah-pharoh... but I knew that was wrong.' What then, Richard? Work it up into a date or switch off by 'accident'?"

            "Make a date, if possible."

            "A date for you? Or for me?"

            "For you, and then I'll go with you. Or keep the date in your place. But I must first buy a hat."

            "A hat?"

            "One of those funny boxes you sit on the flat part of your head. Or would if you were dirtside."

            "I know what a hat is! But I was born dirtside same as you were. But I doubt if a hat has ever been seen off Earth. Where would you buy one?"

            "I don't know, best girl, but I can tell you why I need one. So that I can tip my hat politely and say, 'Sir or madam, pray tell me why someone wishes you dead by noon Sunday.' Gwen, this has been worrying me-how to open such a discussion. There are accepted polite modes for almost any inquiry, from proposing adultery to a previously chaste wife to soliciting a bribe. But how does one open this subject?"

            "Can't you just say, 'Don't look now but somebody's trying to kill you'?"

            "No, that's the wrong order. I'm not trying to warn this bloke that someone is gunning for him; I'm trying to find out why. When I know why I might approve so heartily that I would just sit back and enjoy it... or even be so inspired by the purpose that I would carry out the intent of the late Mr. Schultz as a service to mankind.

            "Contrariwise, I might disagree so bitterly that I would enlist for the duration, volunteer my life and my services to the sacred cause of keeping this assassination from happening. Unlikely if the intended target is Ron Tolliver. But it's too early to choose sides; I need to understand what is going on. Gwen my love, in the killing business one should never kill first and ask questions afterwards. That tends to annoy people."

            I turned back to the terminal, stared at it without touching a key. "Gwen, before we make any local calls I think I should place six time-delay calls, one to each of the Friends of Walker Evans. That's my basic clue anyhow, that Schultz could mention that name. Some one of that six gave him that name... and that one should know why Schultz was in such a sweat."

            "'Time delay'? Are they all out-far?"

            "I don't know. One is probably on Mars, two others may be in the Belt. Could even be one or two dirtside but, if so, under phony names just as I am. Gwen, the debacle that caused me to give up the merry profession of arms and caused six of my comrades to wind up as my blood brothers... well, it smelled nasty to the public. I could say that media reporters who didn't see it happen could not possibly understand why it happened. I could assert truthfully that what we did was moral in context-that time, that place, those circumstances. I could- Never mind, dear; let it stand that my band of brothers are all in hiding. Tracing them all down could be a tediously long chore."

            "But you want to talk to just one, don't you? The one who was in touch with this Schultz."

            "Yes but I don't know which one that is."

            "Richard, would it be easier to backtrack Schultz to find that one than it would be to locate six people all in hiding, some under assumed names, and scattered all over the Solar System? Or even outside it."

            I stopped to consider it. "Maybe. But how do I backtrack Schultz? Do you have an inspiration, my love?"

            "No inspiration. But I do remember that, when I arrived here in Golden Rule, they asked me at the hub not only where I lived, and checked it against my passport, but also where I had come from that trip-and checked that against my visa stamps. Not just that I had come from Luna-almost everyone arrives here from Luna-but how I got to Luna. Weren't you asked that?"

            "No. But I was carrying a Luna Free State passport showing mat I was bom in the Moon."

            "I thought you were bom on Earth?"

            "Gwen, Colin Campbell was bom dirtside. 'Richard Ames' was bom in Hong Kong Luna-it says here."

            "Oh."

            "But attempting to backtrack Schultz is indeed something I should try before I try to locate all six. If I knew that Schultz had never been out-far, I would look first close to home- Luna, and dirtside, and all habitats ballistically coupled to Terra or Luna. Not the Asteroid Belt. Or even on Mars."

            "Richard? Suppose that the purpose is to- No, that's silly."

            "What's silly, dear? Try it on me anyhow."

            "Uh, suppose this-whatever it is-conspiracy, I suppose-isn't aimed at Ron Tolliver or any other Tolliver, but is aimed at you and your six friends, the 'Walker Evans' people. Could the purpose be to get you to take strong measures to get in touch with all the others? And thereby get you to lead them, whoever they are, to all seven of you? Could it be a vendetta? Could whatever happened cause a vendetta against all seven of you?"

            I had a cold feeling at the pit of my stomach. "Yes, that could be. Although not, I think, in this case. As it would not explain why Schultz was killed."

            "I said it was silly."

            "Wait a moment. Was Schultz killed?"

            "Why, we both saw it, Richard."

            "Did we? I thought I saw it. But I admitted that it could have been faked. What I saw appeared to be death by explosive dart. But- Two simple props, Gwen. One makes a small dark spot appear on Schultz's shirt. The other is a small rubber bladder he holds in his cheek; it contains fake blood. At the right instant he bites the bladder; 'blood' comes out of his mouth. The rest is acting... including the strange behavior of Morris and other staff members. That 'dead' body has to be removed quickly... through that 'Employees Only' door... where he is given a clean shirt, then hustled out the service door."

            "You think that is the way it happened?"

            "Uh- No, damn it; I don't! Gwen, I've seen many deaths. This one happened as close to me as you are this minute. I don't think it was acting; I think I saw a man die." I fumed to myself. Could I be mistaken on such a basic point?

            Of course I could be! I'm no supergenius gifted with psi powers; I could be wrong as an eyewitness quite as easily as Gwen could be.

            I sighed. "Gwen, I just don't know. It looked to me like death by explosive dart... but if the intention was to fake it and if it was well prepared, then of course it would look like that. A planned fakery does account for the swift cover-up. Otherwise the behavior of the staff of Rainbow's End is almost unbelievable." I brooded. "Best girl, I'm not sure of anything. Is somebody trying to drive me out of my skull?"

            She treated my question as rhetorical, which it was-I hope. "Then what do we do?"

            "Uh... we try to check on Schultz. And not worry about the next step until we have done that."

            "How?"

            "Bribery, my love. Lies and money. Lavish lies and a parsimonious use of money. Unless you are wealthy. I never thought to ask before I married you."

            "Me?" Gwen's eyes went wide. "But, Richard, I married you for your money."

            "You did? Lady, you've been swindled. Do you want to see a lawyer?"

            "I suppose so. Is that what they call 'statutory rape'?"

            "No, 'statutory rape' is carnal knowledge of a statue... although why anyone should care I have never understood. I don't think it's against regulations here." I turned back to the terminal. "Do you want that lawyer? Or shall we look for Schultz?"

            "Uh... Richard, we're having a very odd honeymoon. Let's go back to bed."

            "Bed can wait. But you can have another waffle while I try to look up Schultz." I keyed the terminal again for directory, scrolled for "Schultz." I found nineteen listings for "Schultz" but no "Enrico Schultz." Small wonder. I did find "Hendrik Schultz," so I keyed for amplification:

            "The Reverend Doctor Hendrik Hudson Schultz, B.S., M.A., D.D., D.H.L., K.G.B., Past Grand Master Royal Astrological Society. Scientific Horoscopy at moderate prices. Weddings solemnized. Family counseling. Eclectic and holistic therapy. Investments advice. Bets accepted at all hours at track odds. Petticoat Lane at ring ninety-five, next to Madame Pompadour." Over this was his picture in holo, smiling and repeating his slogan: "I'm Father Schultz, your friend in need. No problem too large, no problem too small. All work guaranteed."

            Guaranteed to be what? Hendrik Schultz looked just like Santa Claus minus the beard and not at all like my friend Enrico, so I keyed him out-reluctantly, as I felt kinship with the Reverend Doctor. "Gwen, he's not in the directory, or not in it by the name on his Golden Rule ID. Does that mean he was never in it? Or that his name was removed last night before his body was cold?"

            "Do you expect an answer? Or are you thinking aloud?"

            "Neither one, I guess. Our next move is to query the hub- right?" I checked the directory, then called the office of immigration at the hub. "This is Dr. Richard Ames speaking. I'm trying to locate a habitant named Enrico Schultz. Can you give me his address?"

            "Why don't you look him up in the directory?" (She sounded just like my third-grade teacher-not a recommendation.)

            "He's not in the directory. He's a tourist, not a subscriber. I just want his address in Golden Rule. Hotel, pension, whatever."

            "Tut, tut! You know quite well that we don't give out personal information, even on marks. If he's not listed, then he paid fair and square not to be listed. Do unto others. Doctor, lest ye be done unto." She switched off.

            "Where do we ask now?" inquired Gwen.

            "Same place, same seatwarmer-but with cash and in person. Terminals are convenient, Gwen... but not for bribery in amounts of less than a hundred thousand. For a small squeeze, cash and in person is more practical. Coming with me?"

            "Do you think you can leave me behind? On our wedding day? Just try it, buster!"

            "Put some clothes on, maybe?"

            "Are you ashamed of the way I look?"

            "Not at all. Let's go."

            "I give in. Half a sec, while I find my slippers. Richard, can we go via my compartment? At the ballet last night I felt very chic but my gown is too dressy for public corridors at this time of day. I want to change."

            "Your slightest wish, ma'am. But that brings up another point. Do you want to move in here?"

            "Do you want me to?"

            "Gwen, it has been my experience that marriage can sometimes stand up against twin beds but almost never against twin addresses."

            "You didn't quite answer me."

            "So you noticed. Gwen, I have this one nasty habit. Makes me hard to live with. I write."

            The dear girl looked puzzled. "So you've told roe. But why do you call it a nasty habit?"

            "Uh... Gwen my love, I am not going to apologize for writing... anymore than I would apologize for this missing foot... and in truth the one led to the other. When I could no longer follow the profession of arms, I had to do something to eat. I wasn't trained for anything else and back home some other kid had my paper route. But writing is a legal way of avoiding work without actually stealing and one that doesn't take any talent or training.

            "But writing is antisocial. It's as solitary as masturbation. Disturb a writer when he is in the throes of creation and he is likely to turn and bite right to the bone... and not even know that he's doing it. As writers' wives and husbands often learn to their horror.

            "And-attend me carefully, Gwen!-there is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized. Or even cured. In a household with more than one person, of which one is a writer, the only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private, and where food can be poked in to him with a stick. Because, if you disturb the patient at such times, he may break into tears or become violent. Or he may not hear you at all... and, if you shake him at this stage, he bites."

            I smiled my best smile. "Don't worry, darling. At present I am not working on a story and I will avoid starting one until we arrange such an isolation chamber for me to work in. This place isn't big enough and neither is yours. Mmm, even before we go to the hub, I want to call the Manager's office and see what larger compartments are available. We'll need two terminals also."

            "Why two, dear? I don't use a terminal much."

            "But when you do, you need it. When I'm using this one in wordprocessing mode, it can't be used for anything else- no newspaper, no mail, no shopping, no programs, no personal calls, nothing. Believe me, darling; I've had this disease for years, I know how to manage it. Let me have a small room and a terminal, let me go into it and seal the door behind me, and it will be just like having a normal, healthy husband who goes to the office every morning and does whatever it is men do in offices-I've never known and have never been much interested in finding out."

            "Yes, dear. Richard, do you enjoy writing?"

            "No one enjoys writing."

            "I wondered. Then I must tell you that I didn't quite tell you the truth when I said that I had married you for your money."

            "And I didn't quite believe you. We're even.**

            "Yes, dear. I really can afford to keep you as a pet. Oh, I can't buy you yachts. But we can live in reasonable comfort here in Golden Rule-not the cheapest place in the Solar System. You won't have to write."

            I stopped to kiss her, thoroughly and carefully. "I'm glad I married you. But I will indeed have to write."

            "But you don't enjoy it and we don't need the money. Truly we don't!"

            "Thank you, my love. But I did not explain to you the other insidious aspect of writing. There is no way to stop. Writers go on writing long after it becomes financially unnecessary... because it hurts less to write than it does not to write."

            "I don't understand."

            "I didn't either, when I took that first fatal step-a short story, it was, and I honestly thought I could quit anytime. Never mind, dear. In another ten years you will understand. Just pay no attention to me when I whimper. Doesn't mean anything- just the monkey on my back."

            "Richard? Would psychoanalysis help?"

            "Can't risk it. I once knew a writer who tried that route. Cured him of writing all right. But did not cure him of the need to write. The last I saw of him he was crouching in a comer, trembling. That was his good phase. But the mere sight of a wordprocessor would throw him into a fit."

            "Uh... that bent for mild exaggeration?"

            "Why, Gwen! I could take you to him. Show you his gravestone. Never mind, dear; I'm going to call the Manager's housing desk." I turned back to the terminal-

            -just as the dum thing lit up like a Christmas tree and the emergency bell chimed steadily. I flipped the answer switch. "Ames here! Are we broached?"

            Words sounded while letters streamed across the face of the CRT, and the printer started a printout without my telling it to-I hate it when it does that.

            "Official to Dr. Richard Ames: The Management finds that the compartment you now occupy designated 715301 at 65-15-0.4 is urgently needed. You are notified to vacate at once. Unused rent has been applied to your account, plus a free bonus of fifty crowns for any inconvenience this may cause you. Order signed by Arthur Middlegaff, Manager's Proxy for Housing. Have a Nice Day!"

            IV

            "I go on working for the same reason a hen goes on laying eggs.**

            H. L. MENCKEN 1880-1956

            My eyes grew wide. "Oh, goody goody cheesecakes! Fifty whole crowns-golly! Gwen! Now you can marry me for my money!"

            "Do you feel well, dear? You paid more than that for a bottle of wine just last night. I think it's perfectly stinking. Insulting."

            "Of course it is, darling. It is intended to make me angry, in addition to the inconvenience of forcing me to move. So I won't."

            "Won't move?"

            "No, no. I'll move at once. There are ways to fight city hall but refusing to move is not one of them. Not while the Manager's Proxy can cut off power and ventilation and water and sanitary service. No, dear, the intention is to get me angry, ruin my judgment, and get me to make threats that can't be carried out."  I smiled at my darling. "So I won't get angry and I'll move right out of here, meek as a lamb... and the intense anger that I feel down inside will be kept there, out of sight, until it's useful to me. Besides, it changes nothing, as I was about to apply for a larger compartment-one more room, at least- for us. So I'll call him back-dear Mr. Middlegaff, I mean."

            I keyed for directory again, not knowing offhand the call code of the housing office. I punched the "execute" key.

            And got a display on the screen of 'TERMINAL OUT OF SERVICE."

            I stared at it while I counted ten, backwards, in Sanskrit. Dear Mr. Middlegaff, or the Manager himself, or someone, was trying hard to get my goat. So above all I must not let it happen. Think calm, soothing thoughts, suitable for a fakir on a bed of nails. Although there did not seem to be any harm in thinking about frying his gonads for lunch once I knew who he was. With soy sauce? Or just garlic butter and a dash of salt?

            Thinking about this culinary choice did calm me a bit. I found myself unsurprised and not materially more annoyed when the display changed from 'TERMINAL OUT OF SERVICE" to "POWER AND POWER-DEPENDENT SERVICES WILL TERMINATE AT 1300." This was replaced by a time display in large figures: 1231-and this changed to 1232 as I looked at it.

            "Richard, what in the world are they doing?"

            "Still trying to drive me out of my skull, I surmise. But we won't let them. Instead we'll spend twenty-eight minutes- no, twenty-seven-clearing out five years of junk."

            "Yessir. How can I help?"

            "That's my girl! Small wardrobe out here, big one in the bedroom-throw everything on the bed. On the shelf in the big wardrobe is a duffel bag, a big jumpbag. Stuff everything into it as tightly as possible. Don't sort. Hold out that robe you wore at breakfast and use it to make a bundle out of anything that you can't jam into the duffel bag; tie it with its sash."

            "Your toilet articles?"

            "Ah, yes. Plastic bag dispenser in buttery-just dump 'em into a bag and shove them in with the bundle. Honey, you're going to make a wonderful wife!"

            "You are so right. Long practice, dear-widows always make the best wives. Want to hear about my husbands?"

            "Yes but not now. Save it for some long evening when you have a headache and I'm too tired." Having dumped ninety percent of my packing onto Gwen I tackled the hardest ten percent: my business records and files.

            Writers are pack rats, mostly, whereas professional military learn to travel light, again mostly. This dichotomy could have made me schizoid were it not for the most wonderful invention for writers since the eraser on the end of a pencil: electronic files.

            I use Sony Megawafers, each good for half a million words, each two centimeters wide, three millimeters thick, with information packed so densely that it doesn't bear thinking about. I sat down at the terminal, took off my prosthesis (peg leg, if you prefer), opened its top. Then I removed all my memory wafers from the terminal's selector, fed them into the cylinder that is the "shinbone" of my prosthesis, closed it and put it back on.

            I now had all the files necessary to my business: contracts, business letters, file copies of my copyrighted works, general correspondence, address files, notes for stories to be written, tax records, et cetera, and so forth, ad nauseam. Before the days of electronic filing these records would have been a tonne and a half of paper in half a tonne of steel, all occupying several cubic meters. Now they massed only a few grams and occupied space no larger than my middle finger-twenty million words of file storage.

            The wafers were totally encased in that "bone" and thereby safe from theft, loss, and damage. Who steals another man's prosthesis? How can a cripple forget his artificial foot? He may take it off at night but it is the first thing he reaches for in getting out of bed.

            Even a holdup man pays no attention to a prosthesis. In my case most people never know that I am wearing one. Just once have I been separated from it: An associate (not a friend) took mine away from me in locking me up overnight-we had had a difference of opinion over a business matter. But I managed to escape, hopping on one foot. Then I parted his hair with his fireplace poker and took my other foot, some papers, and my departure. The writing business, basically sedentary, does have its brisk moments.

            The time on the terminal read 1254 and we were almost through. I had only a handful of books-bound books, with words printed on paper-as I did my research, such as it was, through the terminal. These few Gwen stuffed into the bundle she had made from my robe. "What else?" she demanded.

            "I think that's all. I'll make a fast inspection and we'll shove anything we've missed out into the corridor, then figure out what to do with it after they turn out the lights."

            "How about that bonsai tree?" Gwen was eyeing my rock maple, some eighty years old and only thirty-nine centimeters high.

            "No way to pack it, dear. And, besides, it requires watering several times a day. The sensible thing is to will it to the next tenant."

            "In a pig's eye, chief. You'll carry it by hand to my compartment while I drag the baggage along behind."

            (I had been about to add that "the sensible thing" has never appealed to me.) "We're going to your compartment?"

            "How else, dear? Certainly we need a bigger place but our urgent need is any sort of roof over our heads. As it looks like snow by sundown."

            "Why, so it does! Gwen, remind me to tell you that I'm glad I thought of marrying you."

            "You didn't think of it; men never do.**

            "Really?"

            'Truly. But I'll remind you, anyhow."

            "Do that. I'm glad you thought of marrying me. I'm glad you did marry me. Will you promise to keep me from doing the sensible thing from here on?"

            She did not commit herself as the lights blinked twice and we were suddenly very busy, Gwen in putting everything out into the corridor while I made a frantic last go-around. The lights blinked again, I grabbed my cane, and got out the door just as it contracted behind me. "Whew!"

            "Steady there, boss. Breathe slowly. Count ten before you exhale, then let it out slowly." Gwen patted my back.

            "We should have gone to Niagara Falls. I told you so. I told you."

            "Yes, Richard. Pick up the little tree. At this gee I can handle both the bag and the bundle, one in each hand. Straight up to zero gee?"

            "Yes but I carry the duffel bag and the tree. I'll strap my cane to the bag."

            "Please don't be macho, Richard. Not when we're so busy."

            " 'Macho' is a put-down word, Gwen. Using it again calls for a spanking; use it a third time and I beat you with this here cane. I'll damn well be macho anytime I feel like it."

            "Yes, sir. Me Jane, you Tarzan. Pick up the little tree. Please."

            We compromised. I carried the duffel bag and used my cane to steady myself; Gwen carried the bundle with one hand, the bonsai maple with the other. She was unbalanced and kept shifting sides with the bundle. Gwen's proposed arrangement was, I must admit, more sensible, as the weight would not have been too much for her at that acceleration and it fell off steadily as we climbed up to zero gee. I felt sheepish, a touch ashamed... but it is a temptation to a cripple to prove, especially to women, that he can so do everything he used to do. Silly, because anyone can see that he can't. I don't often give in to the temptation.

            Once we were floating free at the axis we moved right along, with our burdens tethered to us, while Gwen guarded the little tree with both hands. When we reached her ring, Gwen took both pieces of luggage and I did not argue. The trip took less than a half hour. I could have ordered a freight cage-but we might still be waiting for it. A "labor-saving device" often isn't.

            Gwen put down her burdens and spoke to her door.

            It did not open.

            Instead the door answered, "Mistress Novak, please call the Manager's housing office at once. The nearest public terminal is at ring one-hundred-five, radius one-thirty-five degrees, acceleration six-tenths gravity, next to the personnel transport facility. That terminal will accept your call free of charge, courtesy of Golden Rule."

            I cannot say that I was much surprised. But I admit that I was dreadfully disappointed. Being homeless is somewhat like being hungry. Maybe worse.

            Gwen behaved as if she had not heard that dismal announcement. She said to me, "Sit down on the duffel bag, Richard, and take it easy. I don't think I'll be long."

            She opened her purse, dug into it, came up with a nail file and a bit of wire, a paper clip, I believe. Humming a monotonous little tune she started to work on the compartment's door.

            I helped by not offering advice. Not a word. It was difficult but I managed it.

            Gwen stopped humming and straightened up. "There!" she announced. The door opened wide.

            She picked up my bonsai maple-our bonsai maple. "Come in, dear. Better leave the duffel bag across the threshold for now, so that the door won't pucker up. It's dark inside."

            I followed her in. The only light inside was from the screen on her terminal:

            ALL SERVICES SUSPENDED

            She ignored it and dug into her purse, brought out a finger torch, then used its light to get into a drawer in her buttery, took out a long, slender screwdriver, a pair of Autoloc tweezers, a nameless tool that may have been homemade, and a pair of high-pot gloves in her slender size. "Richard, will you hold the light for me, pretty please?"

            The access plate she wished to reach was high up over her microwaver and was locked and decorated with the usual signs warning tenants against even looking cross-eyed at it, much less touching it, with incantations of "Danger! Do Not Tamper- Call Maintenance," etc. Gwen climbed up, sat on the oven top, and opened the access plate with just a touch; the lock apparently had been disabled earlier.

            Then she worked very quietly save for that monotonous little hum, plus an occasional request for me to move the torch light. Once she produced a really spectacular fireworks display which caused her to cluck reprovingly and murmur, "Naughty, naughty. Mustn't do that to Gwen." She then worked most slowly for a few more moments. The compartment's lights came on, accompanied by that gentle purr of a live room- air, micromotors, etc.

            She closed the access plate. "Will you help me down, dear?"

            I lifted her down with both hands, held on to her, claimed a kiss for payment. She smiled up at me. "Thank you, sir! My, my, I had forgotten how nice it is to be married. We should get married more often."

            "Now?"

            "No. Lunchtime now. Breakfast was hearty but it is now past fourteen. Feel like eating?"

            "It's good exercise," I assented. "How about the Sloppy Joe on Appian Way near ring one-oh-five? Or do you want haute cuisine?"

            "A Sloppy Joe is okay; I'm not a fussy eater, dear. But I don't think we should go outside for lunch; we might not be able to get back in."

            "Why not? You do a slick job of bypassing a change in a door combo."

            "Richard, it might not be that easy again. They simply haven't noticed, as yet, that locking me out didn't work. But when they do- They can weld a steel plate across the doorway if that is what it takes. Not that it will, as I shan't fight being moved any more than you did. Let's eat lunch; then I'll pack. What would you like?"

            It turned out that Gwen had salvaged from my buttery gourmet items I had in freeze or in sterile pack. I do stock unusual viands. How can you know ahead of time, when working on a story in the middle of the night, that you are going to suffer a craving for a clam sundae? It is merely prudent to have materials on hand. Otherwise you could be tempted to stop work and leave your monastic seclusion in order to find an item you must have-and that way lies bankruptcy.

            Gwen laid out a buffet of her supplies and mine-ours, I should say-and we ate while discussing our next move... for move we must. I told her that I intended to call dear Mr. Middlegaff as soon as we finished lunch.

            She looked thoughtful. "I had better pack first."

            "If you wish. But why?"

            "Richard, we have leprosy; that's evident. I think it must be connected with the killing of Schultz. But we don't know. Whatever the cause, when we stick our heads outside, I had better have my things ready just as yours are; we may not get back in." She nodded at her terminal, still shining with the message: ALL SERVICES SUSPENDED. "Putting that terminal back into service would be more than a matter of wheedling a few solenoids, since the computer itself is elsewhere. So we can't beard Mr. Middlegaff from this compartment. Therefore we must do everything we need to do here before we go out that door."

            "While you pack, I can duck out to call him."

            "Over my dead body!"

            "Huh? Gwen, be reasonable."

            "Reasonable I emphatically am. Richard Colin, you are my brand-new bridegroom; I intend to get years and years of wear out of you. While this trouble is going on, I am not letting you out of my sight. You might disappear like Mr. Schultz. Beloved, if they shoot you, they are going to have to shoot me first."

            I attempted to reason with her; she put her hands over her ears. "I won't argue it, I can't hear you, I'm not listening!" She uncovered her ears. "Come help me pack. Please."

            "Yes, dear."

            Gwen packed in less time than I had taken, yet my help consisted mostly of keeping out of her way. I'm not too used to living with females; military service is not conducive to homelife and I had tended to avoid marriage, aside from short-term contracts with Amazon comrades-contracts automatically canceled by orders for change of duty. After I reached field grade I had had female orderlies a couple or six times- but I don't suppose that relationship is much like civilian marriage, either.

            What I'm trying to say is that, despite having written many thousands of words of love-confession stories under a hundred-odd female pen names, I don't know much about women. When I was learning the writing scam, I pointed this out to the editor who bought from me these sin, suffer, and repent stories. The editor was Evelyn Fingerhut, a glum middle-aged man with a bald spot, a tic, and a permanent cigar.

            He grunted. "Don't try to learn anything about women; it would handicap you."

            "But these are supposed to be true stories," I objected.

            "They are true stories; every one of them is accompanied by a sworn statement: "This story is based on fact.'" He jerked a thumb at the manuscript I had just brought in. "You've got a 'Fact' slip clipped to that one. Are you trying to tell me it ain't so? Don't you want to get paid?"

            Yes, I wanted to be paid. To me the acme of prose style is exemplified by that simple, graceful clause: "Pay to the order of-" I answered hastily, "Well, as a matter of fact that story is no problem. I didn't actually know the woman but my mother told me all about her-it was a girl she had gone to school with. This girl did indeed marry her mother's younger brother. She was already pregnant when the truth was discovered... and then she was faced with that horrible dilemma just as I've told it: the sin of abortion, or the tragedy of an incest baby with a possibility of two heads and no chin. All fact, Evelyn, but I trimmed it a bit in telling it. It turned out that Beth Lou was no blood relation to her uncle-and that's the way I wrote it-but also her baby was no relation to her husband. That part I left out."

            "So write it again and leave that part in and the other part out. Just be sure to change the names and places; I don't want any complaints."

            At a later time I did so and sold that version to him also, but never did get around to telling Fingerhut that it hadn't happened to a schoolmate of my mother, but was something I had cribbed from a book belonging to my Aunt Abby: the librettos of The Ring Cycle by Richard Wagner, who should have stuck to composing music and found himself a W. S. Gilbert to write his librettos; Wagner was a terrible writer.

            But his preposterous plots were just right for the true confessions trade... toned down a little, not quite so hard core- and, of course, different names and locales. I didn't steal them. Or not quite. They are all in the public domain today, copyrights expired, and besides, Wagner stole those plots in the first place.

            I could have made a soft living on nothing but Wagnerian plots. But I got bored with it. When Fingerhut retired and bought a turkey ranch, I quit the confession business and started writing war stories. This was more difficult-for a time I almost starved-because military matters I do know something about, and that (as Fingerhut had pointed out) is a handicap.

            After a while I learned to suppress what I knew, not let it get in the way of the story. But I never had that trouble with confession stories as neither Fingerhut, nor I, nor Wagner, knew anything at all about women.

            Especially about Gwen. Somewhere I had acquired the conviction that women need at least seven pack mules to travel. Or their equivalent in big suitcases. And of course women are by nature disorganized. So I believed.

            Gwen moved out of her compartment with just one large case of clothes, smaller than my duffel bag, with every garment neatly folded, and one smaller case of-well, non-clothes. Things.

            She lined up our chattels-duffel bag, bundle, large case, small case, her purse, my cane, bonsai tree-and looked at them. "I think I can work out a way," she said, "for us to handle all of them at once."

            "I don't see how," I objected, "with only two hands apiece. I had better order a freight cage."

            "If you wish, Richard."

            "I will." I turned toward her terminal... and stopped. "Uh-"

            Gwen gave full attention to our little maple tree.

            "Uh-" I repeated. "Gwen, you're going to have to loosen up. I'll slide out and find that nearest terminal booth, then come back-"

            "No, Richard."

            "Huh? Just long enough to-"

            "No, Richard."

            I heaved a sigh. "What's your solution?"

            "Richard, I will agree to any course of action that does not involve us being separated. Leave everything inside this compartment and hope that we can get back in-that's one way. Place everything just outside the door and leave it, while we go to order a freight cage-and call Mr. Middlegaff-that's another way."

            "And have it all disappear while we are gone. Or are there no two-legged rats in this neighborhood?" I was being sarcastic. Every habitat in space has its nightwalkers, invisible habitants who cannot afford to remain in space but who evade being returned to Earth. In Golden Rule I suspect that the management spaced them when they caught them... although there were darker rumors, ones that caused me to avoid all sorts of ground pork.

            "There is still a third way, sir, adequate for moving us as far as that terminal booth. That being as far as we can go until the housing office gives us a new assignment. Once we know our new address we can call for a cage and wait for it.

            "The booth is only a short distance. Sir, earlier you said you could carry both your bag and your bundle, with your cane strapped to your bag. For this short distance I agree to that. I can carry both my cases, one in each hand, with the strap of my purse let out so that I can sling it over my shoulder.

            "The only problem then is the little tree. Richard, you've seen pictures in National Geographic of native girls carrying bundles on their heads?" She didn't wait for me to agree; she picked up the little potted tree, placed it atop her head, took her hands away, smiled at me, and sank down, bending only her knees, spine straight and bearing erect-picked up her two cases.

            She walked the length of her compartment, turned and faced me. I applauded.

            "Thank you, sir. Just one thing more. The walkways arc sometimes crowded. If someone jostles me, I'll do this." She simulated staggering from being bumped, dropped both cases, caught the bonsai as it fell, put it back on top her head, again picked up her luggage. "Like that."

            "And I'll drop my bags and grab my cane and beat him with it. The jerk who jostled you. Not to death. Just a reprimand." I added, "Assuming that the miscreant is male and of mature years. If not, I'll make the punishment fit the criminal."

            "I'm sure you will, dear. But, truly, I don't think anyone will jostle me, as you will be walking in front of me, breaking trail. All right?"

            "All right. Except that you should strip to the waist."

            "Really?"

            "All pictures of that sort in National Geographic always show the women stripped to the waist. That's why they print them."

            "All right if you say to. Although I'm not really endowed for that."

            "Quit fishing for compliments, monkey face; you do all right. But you're much too good for the common people, so keep your shirt on."

            "I don't mind. If you really think I should."

            "You're too willing. Do as you please but I am not, repeat not, urging you to. Are all women exhibitionists?"

            "Yes."

            The discussion ended because her door signal sounded. She looked surprised. I said, "Let me," and stepped to the door, touched the voice button. "Yes?"

            "Message from the Manager!"

            I took my finger off the voice button, looked at Gwen. "Shall I open up?"

            "I think we must."

            I touched the dilator button; the door spread open. A man in a proctor's uniform stepped inside; I let the door snap back. He shoved a clipboard at me. "Sign here. Senator." Then he pulled it back. "Say, you are the Senator from Standard Oil, ain't you?"

            V

            "He is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.**

            H.H.MUNRO 1870-1916

            I said, "You have that backwards. Who are you? Identify yourself."

            "Hunh? If you ain't the Senator, forget it; I got the wrong address." He started to back out and bumped his behind against the door-looked startled and turned his head, reached for the dilator button.

            I slapped his hand down. "I told you to identify yourself. That clown suit you're wearing is no identification; I want to see your credentials. Gwen! Cover him!"

            "Right, Senator!"

            He reached for a hip pocket, made a fast draw. Gwen kicked whatever it was out of his hand; I chopped him in the left side of his neck. His clipboard went flying and down he went, falling with the curiously graceful leisureliness of low gravity.

            I knelt by him. "Keep him covered, Gwen."

            "One second. Senator-watch him!" I pulled back and waited. She went on, "Okay now. But don't get in my line of fire. please."

            "Roger wilco." I kept my eyes on our guest, collapsed loosely on the deck. His awkward posture seemed to say that he was unconscious. Nevertheless there was a chance that he was shamming; I had not hit him all that hard. So I applied my thumb to the left lower cervical pressure point, jabbing hard to cause him to scream and claw at the ceiling if he were awake. He did not move.

            So I searched him. First from behind, then I rolled him over. His trousers did not quite match his tunic, and they lacked the braid down the sides that a proctor's uniform trousers should have. The tunic was not a good fit. His pockets held a few crowns in paper, a lottery ticket, and five cartridges. These last were Skoda 6.5 mm longs, unjacketed, expanding, used in pistols, tommies, and rifles-and illegal almost everywhere. No wallet, no IDs, nothing else.