"Wrong, honey girl."

            "No, dear. I thought I could rehabilitate him. I was wrong."

            "That's not how I meant you were wrong. Remember the rats?"

            "Oh."

            "Don't sound so miserable. We took Bill with us because each of us was afraid that, if we didn't, he would be killed, possibly eaten alive by rats. Gwen, we both knew the hazards of picking up stray kittens, we both understood the concept 'Chinese obligation.' We did it anyhow." I tilted up her chin, kissed her. "And we would again, this very minute. Knowing the price."

            "Oh, I love you!"

            "I love you, too, in a sweaty, vulgar fashion."

            "Uh... now?"

            "I need a bath."

            "We can bathe later."

            I had just retrieved Gwen's other baggage, temporarily forgotten outside the door-and happily untouched-and we were getting ready to bathe when Gwen bent over the little tree, then picked it up and put it on the shelf table by the dumbwaiter so she could get at it better. "Present for you, Richard."

            "Goodie. Girls? Or liquor?"

            "Neither. Although I understand both are readily available. The desk manager wanted a cut of my fee when I bought Bill a key here."

            "Bill is here?"

            "Overnight, in the cheapest single. Richard, I didn't know what to do with Bill. I would have told him to find his own doss in Bottom Alley if I hadn't heard something Rabbi Ezra said about rats. Dam it all, there did not used to be rats down there. Luna City is getting to be a slum."

            "I'm afraid you're right."

            "I fed him, too-there is a Sloppy Joe up the line. He eats enough for four-perhaps you've noticed?"

            "I have."

            "Richard, I could not abandon Bill without feeding him and finding him a safe bed. But tomorrow is another story. I told him that I expected him to shape up-before breakfast."

            "Hmmph. Bill would lie for a fried egg. He's a sad sack, Gwen. The saddest."

            "I don't think he can lie convincingly. At least I gave him something to think about. He knows that I am angry with him, that I despise his notions, and that the free lunch is about to shut its doors. I hope I have given him a sleepless night. Here, dear-" She had been digging into the potting soil, under the little maple. "For Richard. Better wash them." She handed me six cartridges, Skoda 6.5 mm longs or monkey copies.

            I picked one up, examined it. "Wonder woman, you continue to amaze me. Where? When? How?"

            Praise made her look sunnily happy and about twelve. "This morning. In Kong. Black market, of course, which simply means finding which counter to look under at Sears. I hid my Miyako under Tree-San before I went shopping, then stashed the ammo there in leaving Xia's place. Sweetheart, I did not know what sort of search we might have to stand if things got sticky in Kong-and they did, but Auntie got us loose."

            "Can you cook?"

            "I'm an adequate cook."

            "You can shoot, you can rassle a rolligon, you can pilot a spacecraft, you can cook. Okay, you're hired. But do you have any other skills?"

            "Well, some engineering. I used to be a pretty good lawyer. But I haven't practiced either one lately." She added, "And I can spit between my teeth."

            "Supergal! Are you now or have you ever been a member of the human race? Careful how you answer; it will be taken down in writing."

            "I decline to answer on advice of counsel. Let's order dinner before they shut down the kitchen."

            "I thought you wanted a bath?"

            "Do. I'm itchy. But if we don't get the order in soon, we'll have to get dressed and go out to Sloppy Joe's ... and I don't mind Sloppy Joe but I do mind having to get dressed. This is the first completely relaxed, quiet time I've had alone with my husband for, oh, ages. In your suite in Golden Rule before that silly eviction notice."

            "Three days."

            "As little as that? Truly?"

            "Eighty hours. Fairly busy hours, I grant you."

            The Raffles has a good kitchen as long as you stick to chef's choice; that night it was meatballs with Swedish pancakes, honey-and-beer sauce-an odd combination that worked. Tossed fresh salad, oil and wine vinegar. Cheese and fresh strawberries. Black tea.

            We enjoyed it but an old shoe, suitably sauteed, would have been acceptable, so long had it been since we had eaten. It could have been fried skunk and I would not have noticed;

            Gwen's company was all the sauce I needed.

            We had been happily chomping away for a half hour, making no attempt to be elegant, when my darling noticed the brass plate in the rock-too busy before then. Understandable.

            She got up and looked at it, then said in a hushed voice, "I'll be a Hollywood hooker. This is the place! Richard, this is the very cradle of the Revolution! And here I've sat, belching and scratching, as if this were just any hotel room."

            I said, "Sit down and finish your dinner, love. Three out of four hotel rooms in Luna City have signs something like that."

            "Not like that. Richard, what is the number of this i )0'n?"

            "Doesn't have a number-a letter. Room L."

            "'Room L'-yes! This is the place! Richard, in any nation back dirtside, a national shrine this important would have an eternal flame. Likely a guard of honor. But here- Somebody puts up that little brass plaque, and it's forgotten. Even on Free Luna Day. But that's Loonies. Weirdest mob in the known universe. My word!"

            I said, "Darling girl, if it pleases you to think that this room is truly what that sign says-fine! In the meantime sit back down and eat. Or shall I eat your strawberries?"

            Gwen did not answer; she did sit down, then kept quiet. She merely toyed with the fruit and cheese. I finally said, "Sweetheart, something is bothering you."

            "I won't die from it."

            "Glad to hear it. Well, when you feel like talking, I'm all ears. Meanwhile I'll simply fan you with them. Don't feel hurried."

            "Richard-" Her voice sounded choked. I was surprised to see tears slowly creeping down each side of her nose.

            "Yes, dear?"

            "I've told you a pack of lies. I-"

            "Stop right there. My love, my lusty little love, I have always believed that women should be allowed to lie as much as they need to and never be taxed with it. Lies can be their only defense against an unfriendly world. I have not quizzed you about your past-have I?"

            "No but-"

            "Again stop. I haven't. You volunteered a few things. But, even so, I've shut you up a couple of times when you were about to have an attack of pernicious autobiography. Gwen, I didn't marry you for your money, or for your family background, or your brains, or even for your talents in bed."

            "Not even for the last? You haven't left me much."

            "Oh, yes, I have. I appreciate your horizontal skills and your enthusiasm. But competent mattress dancers are not uncommon. Take Xia, for example. I conjecture that she is both skilled and eager."

            "Probably twice as skilled as I am, but I'll be damned if she's more eager."

            "You do all right when you get your rest. But don't distract me. Do you want to know what it is that makes you so special?"

            "Yes! Well, I think so. If it's not booby-trapped."

            "It's not. Mistress mine, your unique and special quality is this: When I'm around you, I'm happy."

            "Richard!"

            "Quit blubbering. Can't stand a female who has to lick tears off her upper lip."

            "Brute. I'll cry if I goddam well feel like it... and I need this one. Richard, I love you."

            "I'm fond of you, too, monkey face. What I was saying was that, if your present pack of lies is wearing thin, don't bother to build up another structure filled with solemn assurances that this is at last the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Forget it. The old structure may be threadbare- but I don't care. I'm not looking for holes or inconsistencies because I don't care. I just want to live with you and hold your hand and hear you snore."

            "I don't snore! Uh... do I?"

            "I don't know. We haven't had enough sleep in the last eighty hours for it to be a problem. Ask me in fifty years." I reached across the table, tickled a nipple, watched it grow. "I want to hold your hand, listen to your snores, and occasionally-oh, once or twice a month-"

            "Once or twice a month!"

            "Is that too often?"

            She sighed. "I guess I must settle for what I can get. Or go out on the tiles."

            'Tiles? What tiles? I was saying that once or twice a month we'll go out to dinner, see a show, go to a night club. Buy you a flower to pin in your hair. Oh, oftener, I guess, if you insist ... but too much night life does interfere with writing. I intend to support you, my love, despite those bags of gold you have squirreled away." I added, "Some problem, dear? Null program? Why the expression?"

            "Richard Colin, you are beyond doubt the most infuriating man I have ever married. Or even slept with."

            "Did you let them sleep?"

            "Oh, you mother! I shouldn't have saved you from Gretchen. 'Once or twice a month'! You set me up for that. Then sprang the trap."

            "Madam, I don't know what you are talking about."

            "You do so! You think I'm a sweaty little nymphomaniac."

            "You're not too little."

            "Keep doing it. Go on. Push me hard enough and I'll add a second husband to our marriage. Choy-Mu would marry us- I know he would."

            "Choy-Mu is a dinkum cobber, too right. And I'm sure he would marry you; he doesn't have sand in his skull. If you so elect, I'll try to make him feel welcome'. Although I hadn't realized that you were that well acquainted with him. Were you speaking seriously?"

            "No, damn it. I've never made a practice of plural marriage;

            coping with one husband at a time is complex enough. Certainly Captain Marcy is a nice boy but he's much too young for me. Oh, I won't say that I would turn him down for a night of bundling if he asked me gracefully. But it would be simply for fun, nothing serious."

            "/ won't say that you would turn him down, either. Well, let me know ahead of time, if convenient, so that I can gracefully fail to notice. Or stand jigger. Even hand out towels. Lady's option."

            "Richard, you're entirely too agreeable."

            "You want me to be jealous? But this is Luna, and I'm a Loonie. Only by adoption but nevertheless a Loonie. Never a groundhog, banging his head against a rock wall." I paused to kiss her hand. "My lovely mistress, you are indeed small and not massy. But your heart is big. Like the loaves and fishes, you are a rich plenitude for as many husbands and lovers as you choose. I am happy to be first-if I am first-among equals."

            "'Is this a dagger which I see before me?'"

            "No, an icicle."

            "Really? Let's grab it before it melts."

            We did, but just barely; I was tired. Afterwards I said, "Gwen, why are you frowning? Did I do so poorly?"

            "No, love. But I still have those lies on my mind... and this time please don't change the subject. I know that the inscription on that brass plate over there is correct, because I knew three of those four. Knew them well; I was adopted by two of them. Beloved, I am a Founding Father of Luna Free State."

            I said nothing because sometimes there is nothing one can say. Shortly Gwen wiggled and said almost angrily, "Don't look at me that way! I know what you're thinking; 2076 is quite a while back. So it is. But, if you'll get dressed, I'll take you down to Old Dome and show you my chop and thumbprint on the Declaration of Independence. You might not believe that it's my chop... but I can't fake a thumbprint. Shall we go look?"

            "No."

            "Why not? Want to know my age? I was bom Christmas Day 2063, so I was twelve and a half when I signed the Declaration. That nails down how old I am."

            "Sweetheart, when I decided to become a native Loonie or a reasonable facsimile, I studied the history of Luna to help me get away with it. There is no Gwendolyn among the signers. Wait a second, not saying you lied-saying you must have had another name then."

            "Yes, of course. Hazel. Hazel Meade Davis."

            "'Hazel.' Later married into the Stone Gang. Leader of the children's auxiliaries. Um, Hazel was a redhead."

            "Yes. Now I can stop taking some pesky pills and let my hair go back to its natural color. Unless you prefer it this shade?"

            "Hair color isn't important. But- Hazel, why did you marry me?"

            She sighed. "For love, dear, and that is true. To help you when you were in trouble... and that is true, too. Because it was inevitable and that is true, also. For it is written in history books in another time and place that Hazel Stone returned to Luna and married Richard Ames aka Colin Campbell... and this couple rescued Adam Selene, chairman of the Revolutionary Committee."

            "Already written, eh? Predestined?"

            "Not quite, my beloved. In other history books it is written that we failed... and died trying."

            XVII

            "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies-"

            WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 1564-1616

            So this girl tells the school nurse, "My brother thinks he's a hen." The nurse answers, "Oh, goodness! What's being done to help him?" The girl answers, "Nothing. Mama says we need the eggs."

            Are a woman's delusions anything to worry about? If she's happy with them? Was I duty bound to take Gwen to a shrink to try to get her cured?

            Hell, no! Shrinks are the blind leading the blind; even the best of them are dealing from a short deck. Anyone who consults a shrink should have his head examined.

            Close scrutiny showed that Gwen was possibly over thirty, probably under forty-but certainly not as old as fifty. So what was a gentle way to handle her claim that she was bom more than a century ago?

            Everyone knows that natives of Luna age more slowly than groundhogs who have grown up in a one-gee field. Gwen's delusion seemed to include the notion that she herself was actually a Loonie instead of the native groundhog she had claimed to be. But Loonies do age, albeit slowly, and Loonies more than a hundred years old (I had met several) do not look only thirty-odd years old; they look ancient.

            I would have to try hard to let Gwen think that I believed her every word... while believing none and telling myself that it did not matter. I once knew a man who, sane himself, was married to a woman who believed devoutly in astrology. She was forever buttonholing someone and asking what sign her victim was bom under. That sort of antisocial nuttiness must be much harder to live with than Gwen's gentle delusion.

            Yet this man seemed happy. His wife was an excellent cook, a pleasant woman (aside from this hole in her head), and may have been a bedroom artist equal to Rangy Lil. So why should he worry about her syndrome? She was happy with it, even though she annoyed other people. I think he did not mind living in an intellectual vacuum at home as long as he was physically comfortable there.

            Having gotten off her pretty chest what was fretting her, Gwen went right to sleep, and soon I did likewise, for a long, happy, solid night of rest. I woke up restored and cheerful, ready to fight a rattlesnake and allow the snake the first two bites.

            Or ready to eat a rattlesnake. Come Monday, I was going to have to find us new quarters; I'm usually willing to go out for other meals but breakfast should be available before one has to face the world. This is not the only reason to be married but it is a good one. Of course there are other ways to manage breakfast at home, but marrying and conning your wife into getting breakfast is, I believe, the commonest strategy.

            Then I came a little wider awake and realized that we could get breakfast right here. Or could we? What hours did the kitchen function? What time is it now? I checked the notice posted by the dumbwaiter, was depressed by it.

            I had cleaned my teeth and put on my foot and was pulling on my pants (while noting that I must buy clothes today; these trousers were reaching critical mass), when Gwen woke up.

            She opened one eye. "Have we met?"

            "We of Boston would not consider it a formal introduction. But I'm willing to buy you breakfast anyhow; you were fairly lively. What'll it be? This fleabag offers only something called 'cafe complet,' a bleak promise at best. Or you can get decent and we'll creep slowly out to see Sloppy Joe."

            "Come back to bed."

            "Woman, you're trying to collect my life insurance. Sloppy Joe? Or shall I order for you a cup of lukewarm Nescafe, a stale croissant, and a glass of synthetic orange juice for a luxurious breakfast in bed?"

            "You promised me waffles every morning. You promised me. You did."

            "Yes. At Sloppy Joe's. That's where I'm going. Are you coming with me? Or shall I order for you the Raffles specialty of the house?"

            Gwen continued to grumble and moan and accuse me of unspeakable crimes and urge me to come die like a man while promptly and efficiently getting up, refreshing for the day, and dressing. She finished looking spic and span instead of three days in the same clothes. Well, we both did have brand-new underclothes, recent hot baths, and putatively clean minds and nails... but she looked bandbox fresh while I looked like the pig that slowly walked away. Which was all her misfortune and none of my own; Gwen was wonderfully good to wake up to. I felt bubblingly happy.

            As we left room L she took my arm and hugged it. "Mister, thank you for inviting me to breakfast."

            "Anytime, little girl. What room is Bill in?"

            She sobered instantly. "Richard, I did not propose exposing you to Bill until after you had eaten. Better perhaps?"

            "Uh- Oh, hell, I don't enjoy waiting for breakfast and I see nothing to be gained by making Bill wait for his. We don't have to look at him; I'll grab a table for two and Bill can sit at the counter."

            "Richard, you are a soft-hearted slob. I love you."

            "Don't call me a soft-hearted slob, you soft-hearted slob. Who lavished spending money on him?"

            "I did and it was a mistake and I got it back from him and it won't happen again."

            "You got some of it back from him."

            "Got back what he had left and quit rubbing my nose in it, please. I was an idiot, Richard. Too right."

            "So let's forget it. This is his room?"

            Bill was not in his room. An inquiry at the desk confirmed what knocking had shown to be likely: Bill had gone out a half hour earlier. I think Gwen was relieved. I know I was. Our problem child had become a major pain in the Khyber. I had to remind myself that he had saved Auntie to see anything good about him.

            A few minutes later we entered the local Sloppy Joe. I was looking around for a free table for two when Gwen squeezed my arm. I looked up, then looked where she was looking.

            Bill was at the cashier's station, paying a check. He was doing so with a twenty-five-crown note.

            We waited. When he turned around he saw us-and looked ready to run. But there was nowhere to run except past us.

            We got him outside without a scene. In the corridor Gwen looked at him, her face cold with disgust. "Bill, where did you get that money?"

            He looked at her, looked away. "It's mine."

            "Oh, nonsense. You left Golden Rule without a farthing. Any money you have you got from me- You lied to me last night-you held out on me."

            Bill looked doggedly stubborn, said nothing. So I said, "Bill, go back to your room. After we've had breakfast we'll see you there. And we'll have the truth out of you."

            He looked at me with barely restrained fury. "Senator, this ain't none of your pidgin!"

            "We'll see. Go back to the Raffles. Come, Gwen."

            "But I want Bill to return my money. Now!"

            "After breakfast. This time let's do it my way. Are you coming?"

            Gwen shut up and we went back into the restaurant. I saw to it that we did not discuss Bill; some subjects curdle the gastric juices.

            About thirty minutes later I said, "Another waffle, dear?"

            "No, thank you, Richard, I've had enough. They're not as good as yours."

            "That's 'cause I'm a natural-bom genius. Let's finish up, then go back and take care of Bill. Shall we skin him alive, or merely impale him on a stake?"

            "I've been planning to question him on the rack. Richard, life lost some of its beauty when truth drugs replaced thumb screws and hot irons."

            "My beloved, you are a bloodthirsty little wretch. More coffee?"

            "You just say that to flatter me. No more, thank you."

            We returned to the Raffles, went to Bill's room, were unable to raise him, went back to the desk. The misanthrope who had checked me in was again on duty. I asked, "Have you seen anything of William Johnson, room KK?"

            "Yes. About thirty minutes ago he collected his key deposit and left."

            "But / bought that key!" Gwen said, rather shrilly.

            The desk manager was unruffled. "Gospazha, I know you did. But we return the deposit for the return of the key. It doesn't matter who rented the room." He reached for his rack, took down key card KK. "The deposit just barely pays for changing the magnetic code if someone fails to return his key- it doesn't pay for the nuisance. If you dropped your card in the corridor and somebody picked it up and turned it in, we would pay the deposit... then you would have to pay a second deposit to get into your room."

            I took Gwen firmly by the elbow. "Fair enough. If he shows up, let us know, will you? Room L."

            He looked at Gwen. "You don't want room KK?"

            "No."

            He turned his attention to me. "You have Room L at its single rate. For double occupancy we charge more."

            Suddenly I had had it. All the kaka, all the shoving around, all the petty nonsense I could take. "You try to clip me one more crown and I'll haul you down to Bottom Alley and unscrew your head! Come along, dear."

            I was still fuming when I let us into our room and locked the door. "Gwen, let's not stay in Luna. The place has changed. For the worse."

            "Where do you want to go, Richard?" She looked and sounded distressed.

            "Uh- I would opt to emigrate, right out of the System-Botany Bay, or Proxima, or such-if I were younger and had two legs." I sighed. "'Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.'"

            "Sweetheart-"

            "Yes, dear?"

            "I'm here, and I want to mother you. I go where you go. I'll follow you to the ends of the Galaxy. But I don't want to leave Luna City just yet... if you will indulge me. We can go out now and search for somewhere else to stay. If we don't find a place-Rabbi Ezra may be right-can't we put up with that surly clerk until Monday? Then we can certainly find a place."

            I concentrated on slowing my heart, managed it. "Yes, Gwen. We might shop for a place to move into after the weekend, after the Shriners leave, if we can't find a suitable place available at once. I wouldn't mind that shmo on the desk if we were sure of proper cubic after the weekend."

            "Yes, sir. May I tell you now why I need to stay in Luna City for a while?"

            "Eh? Yes, certainly. Matter of fact, I ought to stay rooted to one spot for a while, too. Get some writing done, make some money to offset the rather heavy expenses of this week."

            "Richard. I've tried to tell you. There are no money worries."

            "Gwen, there are always money worries. I'm not going to spend your savings. Call it macho if you like, but I intend to support you."

            "Yes, Richard. Thank you. But you need feel no pressure of time. I can lay hands promptly on whatever amount of money we need."

            "So? That's a sweeping statement."

            "It was intended to be, sir. Richard, I stopped lying to you. Now is the time for large chunks of truth."

            I brushed this aside with both hands. "Gwen, haven't I made it clear to you that I don't care what fibs you've told or how old you are or what you have been? It's a fresh start, you and me."

            "Richard, stop treating me as a child!"

            "Gwen, I am not treating you as a child. I am saying that I accept you as you are. Today. Now. Your past is your business."

            She looked at me sadly. "Beloved, you don't believe that I am Hazel Stone. Do you?"

            Time to lie! But a lie is no good if it's not believed (unless it is told to be disbelieved, which could not apply here). Time to fan-dance instead. "Sweetheart, I've been trying to tell you that it does not matter to me whether or not you are Hazel Stone. Or Sadie Lipschitz. Or Pocahontas. You are my beloved wife. Let's not cloud that golden fact with irrelevancies."

            "Richard, Richard! Listen to me. Let me talk." She sighed. "Or else."

            "'Or else'?"

            "You know what 'Or else' means; you used it on me. If you won't listen, then I must go back and report that I have failed."

            "Go back where? Report to whom? Failed in what?"

            "If you won't listen, it doesn't matter."

            "You told me not to let you leave!"

            "I won't be leaving you; I'll just be running a quick errand, then back home to you. Or you're welcome to come with me- oh, I wish you would! But I must report my failure and resign my commission... then I'll be free to go with you to the ends of the universe. But I must resign, not simply desert. You are a soldier; you understand that."

            "You are a soldier?"

            "Not exactly. An agent."

            "Uh... agente provocateuse?"

            "Uh, close." She smiled wryly. "Agente amoureuse perhaps. Although I wasn't told to fall in love with you. Just to marry you. But I did fall in love with you, Richard, and it may have ruined me as an agent. Will you come with me while I report back? Please?"

            I was getting more confused by the minute. "Gwen, I'm getting more confused by the minute."

            "Then why not let me explain?"

            "Uh- Gwen, it can't be explained. You claim that you're Hazel Stone."

            "I am."

            "Damn it, I can count. Hazel Stone, if she is still alive, is well over a century old."

            "That's right. I'm well over a hundred." She smiled. "I robbed the cradle, dear one."

            "Oh, for God's sake! Look, dear, I've spent the last five nights in bed with you. You're an exceptionally lively old bag!"

            She grinned at me. "Thank you, dear. I owe it all to Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound."

            "You do, eh? A patent nostrum took the calcium out of your joints and put it back into your bones, and ironed out the wrinkles in your face, and restored your youthful hormonal balance, and unclogged your arteries? Order me a barrel of it;

            I'm slowing down."

            "Mrs. Pinkham had expert help, dearest. Richard, if you would only let me prove to you who I am, by my thumbprint on the Declaration of Independence, your mind would then be open to the truth, strange though it is. I wish I could offer you identification by retinal patterns... but my retinas had not been photographed then. But there is that thumbprint. And there is blood typing, too."

            I began to feel panicky-what would Gwen do if her delusion pattern was toppled?

            Then I remembered something. "Gwen, Gretchen mentioned Hazel Stone."

            "So she did. Gretchen is my great great granddaughter, Richard. I married Slim Lemke, of the Stone Gang, on my fourteenth birthday and had my first child by him at Terra's fall equinox of 2078-a boy; I named him Roger for my father. In 2080 I had my first daughter-"

            "Hold it. Your eldest daughter was a student at Percival Lowell when I commanded the rescue operation. So you said."

            "Part of that pack of lies, Richard. I did indeed have a descendant there-a granddaughter on the faculty. So I truly am grateful. But I had to edit the details to fit my apparent age. My first daughter was named Ingrid, for Slim's mother ... and Ingrid Henderson was named for her grandmother- my daughter, Ingrid Stone. Richard, you could not guess at the time how difficult it was for me at Dry Bones Pressure to meet for the first time five of my very own and not be able to acknowledge them.

            "But I can't be Grandmother Hazel when I am being Gwen Novak. So I didn't admit it... and that was not the first time this has happened to me. I've had lots of children-forty-four years from menarche to menopause and I gave birth to sixteen by four husbands and three passing strangers-and took the Stone name back after my fourth husband died. Because I moved in with my son Roger Stone.

            "I raised four of the kids Roger had by his second wife- she is a medical doctor and needed a resident grandmother. I got three of them married off, all but the baby, who is now chief surgeon at Ceres General and may never get married as he is handsome and quite self-centered and believes the old saw about 'Why keep a cow?'

            "Then I started taking the vegetable compound, and here I am, fertile again and ready to raise another family." She smiled and patted her belly. "Let's go back to bed."

            "God damn it, wench; that won't solve anything!"

            "No, but it's a swell way to pass the time. And sometimes it puts a stop to recurrent bleeding. Which reminds me- If Gretchen ever shows up, I won't interfere a second time. I just did not fancy having my great great granddaughter crowding in on my honeymoon-a honeymoon already crowded by too many people and too much excitement."

            "Gretchen is just a child."

            "You think so? She is physically as mature as I was at fourteen... when I married and got pregnant at once. Virgin at marriage, Richard; happens oftener here than anywhere else. Mama Mimi was strict and Mama Wyoh was charged with keeping an eye on me, and I wasn't inclined to stray anyhow, as the Davis family was socially as high as you could be in Luna City in those days and I appreciated having been adopted by them. Beloved, I'm not going to tell you another word about me until you check my chop and print on the Declaration. I can feel your disbelief... and it humiliates me."

            (What do you do when your wife persists? Marriage is the greatest human art.. .when it works.) "Sweetheart, I don't want to humiliate you. But I'm not competent to match thumb-prints. But there is more than one way to cook a wolf. This second wife of your son Roger: Is she still alive?"

            "Very much so. Dr. Edith Stone."

            "Then there is probably a record right here in Luna City of her marriage to your son and- Is he the Roger Stone who was once mayor?"

            "Yes. From 2122 to 2130. But he's not available; he left here in 2148."

            "Where is he now?"

            "Several light years away. Edith and Roger out-migrated, to Fiddler's Green. None of that branch of my family is around any longer. It won't work, dear-you're looking for someone who can identify me as Hazel Stone. Aren't you?"

            "Well... yes. I thought Dr. Edith Stone would be an expert and unbiased witness."

            "Mmm,.. she still can be."

            "How?"

            "Blood typing, Richard."

            "Look, Gwen, blood typing is a subject I've had to know something about, because of field surgery. I saw to it that every man in my regiment was typed. Blood typing can show who you are not; it cannot prove who you are. In a number as small as a regiment even the rare AB negative will be matched more than once; they run one in two hundred. I remember because I am one."

            She nodded agreement. "And I'm 0 positive, the commonest type of all. But that's not the whole story. If you type for all thirty-odd blood groups, a blood type is as unique as a fingerprint or a retinal pattern. Richard, during the Revolution lots of our people died because they had not been blood-typed. Oh, we knew how to transfuse blood but safe donors could be found only by cross-matching, then and there. Without typing this was often too slow; many-no, most-of our wounded who needed blood died because a donor could not be identified in time.

            "After peace and independence Mama Wyoh-Wyoming Knott Davis, the hospital in Kong-you know?"

            "I noticed."

            "Mama Wyoh had been a professional host mother, in Kong, and knew about such things. She started the first blood bank, with money raised by Major Watenabe, another Founding Father. There may be a half liter of my blood frozen in Kong even today... but what is certain is that a complete typing of my blood is on file there, because Edith saw to it that each one of us had a full typing, all known groups, before we all started a Wanderjahr in 2148."

            Gwen smiled happily. "So take a sample of my blood, Richard; have it typed at Galileo University Medical Center. Get a full work-up, I'll pay for it. Compare it with my typing done in 2148, filed at Wyoming Knott Memorial. Anyone who can read English can tell whether or not the two work-ups match;

            it doesn't take the sort of expertise required to match fingerprints. If that doesn't say I am me, then send for a straitjacket;

            it'll be time to put me away."

            "Gwen, we're not going back to Kong. Not for anything."

            "No need to. We pay the blood bank at Galileo to have a transcript from Kong printed out by terminal." Her face clouded. "But it will blow my cover as Mistress Novak. Once those two records are side by side they'll know that Grandmother Hazel has returned to the scene of her crimes. I don't know what that will do to my mission; it was not supposed to happen. But I do know that convincing you is absolutely essential to my mission."

            "Gwen, assume that you've convinced me."

            'Truly, dear? You wouldn't lie to me?"

            (Yes, I would, little love. But I must admit that your words are persuasive. All that you have said matches my own careful study of Lunar history... and you deal with little details as if you had been there. It all is convincing but the physical impossibility-you are young, darling; you are not an old crone of more than a century.) "Sweetheart, you've given me two positive ways to identify you. So let's assume that I've checked out one or the other or both. Let's stipulate that you're Hazel. Do you prefer to be called Hazel?"

            "I answer to both names, darling. Suit yourself."

            "All right. The sticky point is your appearance. If you were old and dried up instead of young and juicy-"

            "Are you complaining?"

            "No. Merely descriptive. Stipulating that you are Hazel Stone, bom 2063, how do you account for your youthful appearance? And don't give me any guff about a legendary patent medicine."

            "You'll find the truth hard to believe, Richard. I have undergone rejuvenation. Twice in fact. The first time to bring me back in appearance to late middle age... while restoring my bodily economy to youthful maturity. The second time was mostly cosmetic, to make me desirable in appearance. To recruit you, sir."

            "Be damned. Monkey face, is that your own face?"

            "Yes. It can be changed if you would like me to look otherwise."

            "Oh, no! I'm not one to insist on prettiness as long as a girl's heart is pure."

            "Why, you louse!"

            "But since your heart isn't all that pure, it's nice that you're pretty."

            "You can't talk yourself out of it that easily!"

            "Okay, you're gorgeous and sexy and evil. But 'rejuvenation' explains without explaining. So far as I've ever heard, rejuvenation is for flatworms but not for anything higher up the evolutionary ladder."

            "Richard, this part you'll have to take on faith-for now, at least. I was rejuvenated at a clinic a couple of thousand years away and in an odd direction."

            "Hmm. It sounds like a gimmick I might have dreamed up when I was writing fantasies."

            "Yes, it does, doesn't it? Not convincing. Merely true."

            "So I see no way to investigate it. Perhaps I'll have to get that blood-type transcript. Uh- Hazel Stone, Roger Stone- The Scourge of the Spaceways!"

            "My God, my past has caught up with me! Richard, did you ever watch my show?"

            "Every episode, unless I had been caught doing something that called for drastic punishment. Captain John Sterling was my childhood hero. And you wrote it?"

            "My son Roger started it. I started writing it in 2148 but I didn't put my name on it until the following year-then it was 'Roger and Hazel Stone'-"

            "I remember! But I don't remember that Roger Stone ever wrote it by himself."

            "Oh, yes, he did-until he got tired of the golden treadmill. I took it over from him, intending to kill it off-"

            "Sweetheart, you can't kill off a serial! It's unconstitutional."

            "I know. Anyhow, they took up the option and waved too much money under my nose. And we needed the money; we were living in space then and a spacecraft, even a little family job, is expensive."

            "I've never quite had the courage to write a serial against deadlines. Oh, I've written episodes on assignment, using a show's bible, but not on my own and under the gun."

            "We didn't use a bible; Buster and I just whipped 'em up as we went along."

            "'Buster'?"

            "My grandson. The one who is now chief surgeon at Ceres General. For eleven years we wrote them together, frustrating the Galactic Overlord at every turn-"

            "'The Galactic Overlord!' The best villain in the creepies. Honey, I wish there were really a Galactic Overlord."

            "Why, you young whippersnapper, how dare you throw doubt on the authenticity of the Galactic Overlord? What do you know about it?"

            "Sorry. I apologize. He's as real as Luna City. Or John Sterling would not have had anyone to frustrate ... and I certainly believe in Captain John Sterling of the Star Patrol."

            "That's better."

            "That time Captain Sterling was lost in the Horsehead Nebula with the radiation worms after him: How did he get out? That was one of the times I was being punished and not allowed to watch."

            "As I recall- Mind you, this was some years back. I seem to recall that he jury-rigged his Doppler radar to fry them with polarized beams."

            "No, that was what he used on the space entities."

            "Richard, are you sure? I don't think he encountered the space entities until after he escaped from the Horsehead Nebula. When he had to make a temporary truce with the Galactic Overlord to save the Galaxy."

            I thought about it. How old was I at the time? What year in school? "Hon, I do believe you're right. I was upset that he would join forces with the Overlord even to save the Galaxy. I-"

            "But he had to, Richard! He couldn't let billions of innocent people die just to keep from soiling his hands through cooperating with the Overlord. But I can see your point. Buster and I fought over that episode-Buster wanted to take advantage of the temporary truce to do the Overlord in, once the space entities were destroyed-"

            "No, Captain Sterling would never break his word."

            'True. But Buster was always the pragmatist. His solution to almost any problem was to cut somebody's throat."

            "Well, it's a convincing argument," I admitted.

            "But. Richard, you have to go easy in killing off characters in a serial; you must always leave something for the next episode. But you tell me you've never handled a series all on your own."

            "I haven't but I do know that; I watched enough of them, back when. Hazel, why did you let me fill you with a lot of guff about the life of a writer?"

            "You called me 'Hazel'!"

            "Sweetheart-Hazel my darling-I'm not interested in blood types or in thumbprints. You are undeniably the author of history's greatest creepie The Scourge of the Spdceways. It said on the credits, week after week, year after year: 'Written by Hazel Stone.' Then, sadly, it began to read: 'Based on characters created by Hazel Stone-'"

            "It did? Those later credits should have included Roger; he created the show. Not me. Those nogoodniks."

            "It didn't matter. Because the characters grew anemic and died. Without you the show was never the same."

            "I had to quit; Buster grew up. I supplied the twists; he supplied the gore. Sometimes I got soft-hearted; Buster never did."

            "Hazel? Why don't we revive it? We'll plot it together; you write it; I'll do the cooking and housekeeping." I stopped and looked at her. "What in the world are you crying about?"

            "I'll cry if I want to! You call me 'Hazel'-you believe me!"

            "I have to believe you. Anybody could trick me about blood types or thumbprints. But not about commercial fiction. Not this old hack writer. You're the real McCoy, my love, the authentic scourge of the spaceways. But you're still my sweaty little nymphomaniac-I find I don't mind that you are a couple of centuries old."

            "I am not either two centuries old! I won't be for years and years."

            "But you're still my sweaty little nymphomaniac?"

            "If you'll let me."

            I grinned at her. "Do I have any say in the matter? Get your clothes off and let's do some plotting."

            "'Plotting'?"

            "All the best writing is done with the gonads, Hazel my lusty bride-didn't you know that? Battle stations! Here comes the Galactic Overlord!"

            "Oh, Richard!"

            XVIII

            "When it comes to a choice between kindness and honesty, my vote is for kindness, every time-giving or receiving."

            IRAJOHNSON 1854-1941

            "Hazel my ancient love-"

            "Richard, would you like a broken arm?"

            "I don't think you can manage it just now."

            "Want to bet?"

            "Ouch! Stop that! Don't do it again ... or I'll toss you back into the creek and marry Gretchen. She is not ancient."

            "Keep right on teasing me. My third husband was a tease. Everybody remarked on how well he looked at his funeral... and what a shame it was he died so young." Hazel-Gwen smiled up at me. "But he turned out to be heavily insured, which does comfort a widow. Marrying Gretchen is a good idea, darling;

            I would enjoy bringing her up. Teaching her to shoot, helping her with the first baby, coaching her in how to handle a knife, working out with her in martial arts, all the homey domestic skills a girl needs in this modem world."

            "Hummph! My darling girl, you are as little and cute and pretty and harmless as a coral snake. I think Jinx has already trained Gretchen."

            "More likely Ingrid. But I can still put a polish on her. As you pointed out, I'm experienced. What was that word you used? 'Ancient,' that was it."

            "Ouch!"

            "Oh, that didn't hurt. Sissy."

            "The hell it didn't. I'm going to enter a monastery."

            "Not till you've entered Gretchen. I've just decided, Richard; we're going to marry Gretchen."

            I treated this ridiculous statement with the neglect it deserved-I got up and hopped into the refresher.

            Shortly she followed me in. I cowered away from her. "Help! Don't hit me again!"

            "Oh, spit. I haven't hit you once, as yet."

            "I surrender. You're not ancient; you're just well marinated. Hazel my love, what makes you so feisty?"

            "I'm not feisty. But when you're as small as I am and female, if you don't stand up for your rights, you're sure to be pushed around by big, hairy, smelly men with delusions about male superiority. Don't yelp, dear; I haven't hurt you, not once. I haven't drawn blood-now have I?"

            "I'm afraid to look. Mother never warned me that married life could be like this! Sweetheart, you were about to tell me why you had to recruit me and for what purpose when we got distracted."

            She was slow in answering. "Richard, you had trouble believing that I am more than twice your age."

            "You convinced me. I don't understand it, but I've had to accept it."

            "You're going to find other things I must tell you much harder to accept. Much!"

            "Then I probably won't accept them. Hazel-Gwen honey, I'm a hard case. I don't believe in table-tapping, astrology, virgin birth-"

            "Virgin birth isn't difficult."

            "I mean, in the theological sense; I'm not talking about genetics laboratories. -virgin birth, numerology, a literal hell, magic, witchcraft, and campaign promises. You tell me something that runs contrary to horse sense; I'll be at least as hard to sell as I was about your ancient years. You'll need the Galactic Overlord as a confirming witness."

            "Okay. Slip this one on for size. From one standpoint I'm even more ancient than you suspect. More than two centuries."

            "Hold it. You won't be two hundred until Christmas Day 2263. A good many years yet, as you pointed out."

            'True. I didn't tell you about these extra years even though I lived through them... because I lived them at right angles."

            I answered, "Dear, the sound track suddenly went silent."

            "But, Richard, that one's easy to believe. Where did I drop my pants?"

            "Through most of the Solar System, according to your memoirs."

            "That ain't the half of it, mister. Both inside and outside the System and even outside this universe ... and, brother, have I been transgressed against! I mean, where did I drop them today?"

            "At the foot of the bed, I think. Hon, why do you bother to wear panties when you take them off so frequently?"

            "Because. Only sluts run around without drawers... and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head."

            "I didn't say a word."

            "I could hear what you were thinking."

            "And I don't believe in telepathy, either."

            "You don't, eh? My grandson Dr. Lowell Stone aka Buster used to cheat at chess by reading my mind. Thank God he lost the ability when he was about ten."

            "Noted," I answered, "as hearsay concerning a highly improbable event from a reporter whose veracity has not been established. Reliability of alleged datum is therefore not higher than C-Five by military intelligence scaling."

            "You'll pay for that!"

            "Scale it yourself," I told her. "You've served in military intelligence. CIA, wasn't it?"

            "Who sez?"

            "You sez. Through several unfinished remarks."

            "It was not the CIA and I've never been in McLean in my life and I was fully disguised while I was there and it wasn't me; it was the Galactic Overlord."

            "And I'm Captain John Sterling."

            Gwen-Hazel looked wide-eyed. "Gee, Captain, can I have your autograph? Better gimme two; I can trade two of yours for one of Rosie the Robot. Richard, will we be going near the main post office?"

            "Have to. I've got to set up a mail drop for Father Schultz. Why, dear?"

            "If we can swing past Macy's, I'll get Naomi's clothes and wig packed, and then I'll mail them. They've been grinding on my conscience."

            "On your what?"

            "On the bookkeeping system I use in place of one. Richard, you remind me more and more of my third husband. He was a fine figure of a man, just as you are. He took great care of himself and died in perfect health."

            "What did he die of?"

            "Of a Tuesday, as I remember. Or was it a Wednesday? Anyway, I was not there-I was a long way off, curled up with a good buck. We never did learn what did him in. Apparently he fainted in his bath and his head went under water. What are you mumbling, Richard? 'Charlotte' who?"

            "Nothing, nothing at all. Hazel... I do not carry life insurance."

            "Then we must be extra careful to keep you alive. Stop taking baths!"

            "If I do, in three or four weeks you'll regret it."

            "Oh, I'll stop, too; it will balance out. Richard, will we have time today to go out to the Authority Complex?"

            "Perhaps. Why?"

            'To find Adam Selene."

            "Is he buried there?"

            "That is something I must try to find out. Richard, is your believer in good shape?"

            "It's overstrained. Several years at right angles indeed! Want to buy a space warp?"

            "Thank you; I have one. In my purse. Those extra years are just a matter of geometry, my husband. If you are wedded to the conventional picture of space-time with just one time axis, then of course you find it hard to understand. But there are at least three time axes just as there are at least three space axes ... and I lived those extra years on other axes. All clear?"

            "Utterly clear, my love. As self-evident as transcendentalism."

            "I knew you would understand. The case of Adam Selene is more difficult. When I was twelve I heard him speak many times; he was the inspiring leader who held our Revolution together. Then he was killed-or so it was reported. It was not until years later that Mama Wyoh told me, as deepest secret, that Adam was not a man. Not a human being at all. Another sort of entity."

            I most carefully said nothing.

            Gwen-Hazel said, "Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

            "Oh, sure. Not human. An alien. Green skin and one meter high and its flying saucer landed in Mare Crisium just outside Loonie City. Where was the Galactic Overlord?"

            "You can't upset me talking that way, Richard, because I know just how such an impossible story affects one. I had the same sort of doubts when Mama Wyoh told me. Except that I had to believe her because Mama Wyoh would never lie to me. But Adam was not an alien, Richard; he was a child of mankind. But not a human child. Adam Selene was a computer. Or a complex of programs in a computer. But it was a self-programming computer, so it comes to the same thing. Well, sir?"

            I took my time answering. "I like flying saucers better."

            "Oh, fiddle! I'm tempted to turn you in on Marcy Choy-Mu."

            "The smartest thing you could do."

            "No, I'll keep you; I'm used to your foibles. But I may keep you in a cage."

            "Hazel. Listen carefully. Computers do not think. They calculate with great speed in accordance with rules built into them. Since we ourselves calculate by using our brains to think, this designed-in capacity to calculate gives computers the appearance of thinking. But they do not think. They operate the way they do because they must; they were built that way. You can add 'animism' to the list of nonsense notions to which I do not subscribe."

            "I'm glad you feel that way, Richard, because this job will be touchy and difficult. I need your healthy skepticism to keep me straight."

            "I'm going to have to write that down and examine it carefully."

            "Do that, Richard. Now here is what happened back in 2075 and -6: One of my adoptive fathers, Manuel Garcia, was the technician who took care of the big computer of the Authority. This one computer ran almost everything... handled all the utilities of this city and of most of the other warrens-except Kong-bossed the first catapult, ran the tubes, handled banking, printed the Lunatic-did practically everything. The Authority found it cheaper to expand the functions of this one big computer than to spread computers all through Luna."

            "Neither efficient nor safe."

            "Probably, but that's what they did. Luna was a prison then;

            it did not have to be either efficient or safe. There was no high tech industry here and in those days we had to accept whatever was handed us. As may be, dear, this one master computer got bigger and bigger... and woke up."

            (It did, eh? Sheer fantasy, my sweet... and a cliche that has been used by every fantasy writer in history. Even Roger Bacon's Brass Head was one version of it. Frankenstein's monster is another. Then a spate of stories in later years and still they come. And all of them nonsense.) But what I said was:

            "Go ahead, dear. Then what?"

            "Richard, you don't believe me."

            "I thought we settled that. You said that you needed my healthy skepticism."

            "I do! So use it. Criticize! Don't just sit there with that smug look on your face. This computer had been operating by voice for years-accepting spoken programs, answering with synthesized speech or printout or both."

            "Built-in functions. Techniques two centuries old."

            "Why did your face shut down when I said it 'woke up'?"

            "Because that's nonsense, my love. Waking and sleeping are functions of living beings. A machine, no matter how powerful and flexible, does not wake up or go to sleep. It is power on or power off; that's all."

            "All right, let me rephrase it. This computer became self-aware and acquired free will."

            "Interesting. If true. I don't have to believe it. I don't."

            "Richard, I refuse to become exasperated. You are simply young and ignorant and that's not your fault."

            "Yes, Grandmaw. I'm young and you're ignorant. Slippery bottom."

            'Take your lecherous hands off me and listen. What accounts for self-awareness in a man?"

            "Huh? I have no need to account for it; I experience it."

            "True. But it is not a trivial question, sir. Let's treat it like a boundary problem. Are you self-aware? Am I?"

            "Well, / am, monkey face. I'm not sure about you."

            "The same, vice versa."

            "That's fun, too."

            "Richard, let's stick to the subject. Is the sperm in a male body self-aware?"

            "I hope not."

            "Or the ova in a female?"

            "That's your question to answer, beautiful; I've never been female."

            "And you are dodging questions just to tease me. A spermatozoon is not self-aware and neither is an ovum-and never mind silly remarks; that's one boundary. I, an adult human zygote, am self-aware. And you are, too, however dimly this is true for males. Second boundary. Very well, Richard; at what point from the freshly fertilized ovum to the mature zygote now named 'Richard' did self-awareness enter the picture? Answer me. Don't dodge it and, please, no silly remarks."

            I still thought it was a silly question but I tried to give it a serious answer. "Very well. / have always been self-aware."

            "A serious answer. Please!"

            "Gwen-Hazel, that answer is as serious as I can make it. So far as I know I have lived forever and have been self-aware the whole time. All this talk about things that went on before 2133-the alleged year of my alleged birth-is just hearsay and not very convincing. I go along with the gag to keep from annoying people or getting funny looks. And when I hear astronomers talk about the world being created in a big bang eight or sixteen or thirty billion years before I was born-if I was bom; I don't recall it-that's a horse laugh. If I was not alive sixteen billion years ago, then there was nothing at all. Not even empty space. Nothing. Zero with no rim around it. The universe in which I exist cannot exist without me in it. So it's silly to talk about the date I became self-aware; time started when I did, it stops when I do. All clear? Or shall I draw you a diagram?"

            "All clear on most points, Richard. But you are wrong about the date. Time did not start in 2133. It started in 2063. Unless one or the other of us is a golem."

            Every time I have a go at solipsism something like this happens. "Honey, you're cute. But you are a figment of my imagination. Ouch! I told you to stop that."

            "You have a lively imagination, darling. Thanks for thinking me up. Do you want another proof? Up to now I've just been playing-shall I now break one of your bones? Just a small one. You pick it."

            "Listen, figment. You break one of my bones and you'll regret it for the next billion years."

            "Merely a logical demonstration, Richard. No malice in it."

            "And once I set the bone-"

            "Oh, I'll set it, dear."

            "Not on your life! Once I have it set, I'll phone Xia and ask her to come over and marry me and protect me from small figments with violent habits."

            "You're going to divorce me?" Again she was suddenly all big eyes.

            "Hell, no! Just bust you down to junior wife and put Xia in charge. But you can't leave. Permission denied. You're serving a life sentence, whether it's straight ahead or at right angles. I'm going to get a club and beat you until you give up your evil ways."

            "All right. As long as I don't have to go away."

            "Ouch! And don't bite. That's rude."

            "Richard, if I am just a figment of your imagination, then any biting I do is your idea, done by you to yourself for some murky masochistic purpose. If that is not true, then I must be self-aware... not your figment."

            "Either/or logic never proves anything. But you're a delightful figment, dear. I'm glad I thought of you."

            "Thank you, sir. Sweetheart, here is a key question. If you will answer it seriously, I'll stop biting."

            "Forever?"

            "Uh-"

            "Don't strain yourself, figment. If you have a serious question, I'll try to give it a serious answer."

            "Yes, sir. What accounts for self-awareness in a man and what is there about this condition or process or whatever that makes awareness impossible for a machine? Specifically for a computer. In particular the giant computer that administered this planet in 2076. The Holmes IV."

            I resisted the temptation to give a flip answer. Self-awareness? I know that one school of psychologists insists that awareness, if it exists, is present just as a passenger, no effect on behavior.

            This sort of nonsense should be lumped with transubstan-tiation. If true, it can't be proved.

            I am aware of my own self-awareness ... and that is as far as any honest solipsist should go. "Gwen-Hazel, I don't know."

            "Good! We're making progress."

            "We are?"

            "Yes, Richard. The hardest part about gaining any new idea is sweeping out the false idea occupying that niche. As long as that niche is occupied, evidence and proof and logical demonstration get nowhere. But once the niche is emptied of the wrong idea that has been filling it-once you can honestly say, 'I don't know,' then it becomes possible to get at the truth."

            "Hon, you are not only the cutest little figment I've ever imagined, you are also the smartest."

            "Knock it off, buster. Listen to this theory. And think of it as a working hypothesis, not as God-given truth. It was dreamed up by my adoptive father. Papa Mannie, to account for the observed fact that this computer had come to life. Maybe it explains something, maybe it doesn't-Mama Wyoh said that Papa Mannie was never sure. Now attend me- A fertilized human ovum divides... and divides again. And again. And again and again and again. Somewhere along there-I don't know where-this collection of millions of living cells becomes aware of itself and the world around it."

            She went on: "A fertilized egg is not aware but a baby is. After Papa Mannie discovered that his computer was self-aware, he noted that this computer, which had been expanded outrageously as more jobs were assigned to it, had reached a point of complication where it had more interconnections in it than has a human brain.

            "Papa Mannie made a great theoretical leap: When the number of interconnections in a computer become of the same close order as the number of interconnections in a human brain that computer can wake up and become aware of itself... and probably will. He wasn't sure that it always happened, but he became convinced that it could happen and for that reason: the high number of interconnections.

            "Richard, Papa Mannie never went any farther with it. He was not a theoretical scientist; he was a repair technician. But the way his computer was behaving bothered him; he had to try to figure out why it was acting so oddly. This theory resulted. But you need not pay attention to it; Papa Mannie never tested it."

            "Hazel, what was this odd behavior?"

            "Oh. Mama Wyoh told me that the first thing Manuel noticed was that Mike-the computer, I mean-Mike had acquired a sense of humor."

            "Oh, no!"

            "Oh, yes. Mama Wyoh told me that, to Mike-or Mi-chelle-or Adam Selene-he used all three names; he was a trinity-to Mike, the entire Luna Revolution, in which thousands died here and hundreds of thousands died on Earth, was a joke. It was just one great big practical joke thought up by a computer with supergenius brain power and a childish sense of humor." Hazel grimaced, then grinned. "Just a great, big, overgrown, lovable kid who should have been kicked."

            "You make it sound like a pleasure. Kicking him."

            "Do I? Perhaps I should not. After all, a computer could not possibly do right or wrong, or experience good or evil in the human sense; it would have no background for it-no rearing, if you please. Mama Wyoh told me that Mike's human behavior was by imitation-he had endless role models; he read everything, including fiction. But his only real emotion, all his own, was deep loneliness and a great longing for companionship. That's what our revolution was to Mike: companionship ... play ... a game that won him attentionrfrom Prof and Wyoh and especially Mannie. Richard, if a machine can have emotions, that computer loved my Papa Mannie. Well, sir?"

            I was tempted to say nonsense or something even less polite. "Hazel, you are demanding bald truth from me-and it will hurt your feelings. It sounds like fiction to me. If not your fiction, then that of your foster mother, Wyoming Knott." I added, "Sweetheart, are we going out to attend to our chores? Or are we going to spend all day talking about a theory on which neither of us has any evidence?"

            "I'm dressed and ready to go, dear. Just one little bit more and I'll shut up. You find this story unbelievable."

            "Yes, I do." I said it as flatly as possible.

            "What part of it is unbelievable?"

            "All of it."

            'Truly? Or is the sticking point the idea that a computer can be self-aware? If you accept that, does the rest of it become easier to swallow?"

            (I tried to be honest. If that nonsense did not make me gag, would the rest be acceptable? Oh, certainly! Like the gold spectacles of Joseph Smith, like the tablets handed down to Moses from the Mount, like the red shift to the big bang- accept the postulate and the rest goes down smoothly.) "Hazel-Gwen, if we assume a self-aware computer with emotions and free will, I would not boggle at anything else-from ghosts to little green men. What was it the Red Queen did? Believe seven impossible things before breakfast."

            "The White Queen."

            "No, the Red Queen."

            "Are you sure, Richard? It was just before-"

            "Forget it. Talking chessmen are even harder to swallow than a prankster computer. Sweetheart, the only evidence you offer is a story told you by your foster mother in her old age. That's all. Uh, senile, maybe?"

            "No, sir. Dying, but not senile. Cancer. From exposure to a solar storm when she was quite young. So she thought. As may be, it was not senility. She told me this when she knew she was to die... because she thought the story should not be lost completely."

            "You see the weakness of the story, dear? One death-bed story. No other data."

            "Not quite, Richard."

            "Eh?"

            "My adoptive father Manuel Davis confirms all of it and then some."

            "But- You always spoke of him in the past tense. I think you did. And he would be... how old? Older than you are."

            "He was bom in 2040, so he would be a century and a half old now... not impossible for a Loonie. But he's both older and younger than that-for the same reasons I am. Richard, if you talked to Manuel Davis and he confirmed what I've told you, would you believe him?"

            "Uh-" I grinned at her. "You might force me to bring to the issue the stalwart common sense of ignorance and prejudice."

            "Go along with you! Put on your foot, dear, please. I want to take you out and get you at least one more outfit before we move; your trousers have spots on the stains. I'm not being a good wife."

            "Yes, ma'am; right away, ma'am. Where is your Papa Man-nie now?"

            "You won't believe this."

            "If it doesn't involve right-angled time or lonely computers, I'll believe it."

            "I think-I haven't checked lately-I think Papa Mannie is with your Uncle Jock in Iowa."

            I stopped with my foot in my hand. "You're right; I don't believe it."

            XIX

            rascality has limits; stupidity has not.-

            NAPOLEON BONAPARTE 1769-1821

            How can you argue with a woman who won't? I expected Gwen to start justifying her preposterous allegation, citing chapter and verse in an attempt to convince me. Instead she answered sadly, "I knew that was all I could expect. 111 just have to wait. Richard, do we have any other stops to make besides Macy's and the main post office before we can go out

            to the Warden's Complex?"

            "I need to set up a new checking account and then transfer my present account down from Golden Rule. My cash in pocket is becoming rather seldom. Anemic."

            "But dearest, I've tried to tell you. Money is no problem. She opened her purse, dug out a wad of money, started peeling off hundred-crown notes. "I'm on an expense account, of

            course." She held them out.                       .

            "Easy, there!" I said. "Save your pennies, little girl. / undertook to support you. Not the other way around."

            I expected a retort involving "macho" or "male chauvinist pig" or at least "community property." Instead she flanked me. "Richard? Your bank account in Golden Rule- Is it a numbered account? If not, under what name?"

            "Huh? No. 'Richard Ames,' of course."

            "Do you think Mr. Sethos might take an interest?"

            "Oh. Our kindly landlord. Honey, I'm glad you're here to do my thinking for me." A track leading straight to me as plain as footprints in snow... for Sethos's goons to follow to collect that reward for my carcass-dead or alive. Of course all bank records are confidential, not alone numbered accounts-but "confidential" means only that it takes money or power to break the rules. And Sethos had both. "Gwen, let's go back and booby-trap his air conditioning again. But this time we'll use prussic acid instead of Limburger."

            "Good!"

            "I wish we could. You're right, I can't touch mat 'Richard Ames' bank account as long as storm warnings are up. We'll use your cash-treat it as a loan. You keep track of it-"

            "You keep track of it! Damn it, Richard, I'm your wife!"

            "Fight over it later. Leave the wig and the geisha costume here; we won't have time today ... as I must first go see Rabbi Ezra. Unless you want to run your errands while I run mine?"

            "Buster, are you feverish? I'm not letting you out of my sight."

            "Thanks, Maw; that's the answer I wanted. We go see Father Ezra, then we go hunt living computers. If there is time left, we'll do the other chores when we get back."

            It being before noon, we looked for Rabbi Ezra ben David by going to his son's fish market across from the city library. The Rabbi lived in a room back of the shop. He agreed to represent me and act as a mail drop. I explained to him my parallel arrangements with Father Schultz, then wrote a note for him to send to "Henrietta van Loon."

            Reb Ezra accepted it. "I'll stat it from my son's terminal at once; it should be printed out in Golden Rule ten minutes from now. Special delivery?"

            (Draw attention to it? Or accept slower service? Something was stewing in Golden Rule; Hendrik Schultz might have some answers.) "Special delivery, please."

            "Very well. Excuse me a few moments." He rolled out of his room, was back quickly. "Golden Rule acknowledged receipt. Now to other matters- I was expecting you. Dr. Ames. That young man who was with you yesterday- Is he a member of your family? Or a trusted employee?"

            "Neither one." "Interesting. Did you send him to ask me who was offering

            a reward for you and the amount of the reward?" "I certainly did not! Did you tell him anything?" "My dear sir! You asked for the traditional Three Days."

            "Thank you, sir."

            "Not at all. Since he took the trouble to seek me out here instead of waiting for my business hours, I assumed some urgency. Since you did not mention him, I concluded that the urgency was his, not yours. Now I assume, unless you tell me otherwise, that he intends you no good."

            I gave the Rabbi a condensed version of our relations with Bill. He nodded. "You know Mark Twain's remarks on such

            matters?"

            "I think not."

            "He said that, if you pick up a stray dog, feed it and take care of it, it will not bite you. This, in his opinion, is the principal difference between a man and a dog. I don't agree fully with Twain. But he had a point."

            I asked him to name a retainer, paid it without dickering,

            plus something for luck.

            The Authority Complex (officially the "Administration Center," a name found only in print) is west of Luna City, halfway across Mare Crisium. We were there by noon-that tubeway is not ballistic but is nevertheless fast. Once aboard, we were

            there in twenty minutes.

            Noon was the wrong time to arrive. The Complex is made up of government offices; everything shuts down for a leisurely lunch hour. Lunch seemed a good idea to me, too; breakfast was in the remote past. There were several lunchrooms in the tunnels of the complex... with every chair filled with the broad beams of civil servants or occupied by tourists with red fezzes. Queues waited outside Sloppy Joe and Mom's Diner and An-toine's number two. "Hazel, I see vending machines ahead. Can I interest you in a warm Coke and a cold sandwich?"

            "No, sir, you cannot. There's a public terminal just beyond the food dispensers. I'll make some calls while you eat."

            "I'm not that hungry. What calls?"

            "Xia. And Ingrid. I want to be sure Gretchen got home safely. She could have been waylaid just as we were. I should have called last night."

            "Only to soothe your own worry; either Gretchen was home day before yesterday evening... or it's too late and she's dead."

            "Richard!"

            "That's what worries you, isn't it? Call Ingrid."

            Gretchen answered and squealed when she saw Gwen-Ha-zei. "Mama! Come quick! It's Mistress Hardesty!"

            Twenty minutes later we switched off. All that had been accomplished was to tell the Hendersons that we were at the Raffles and that our mailing address was care of Rabbi Ezra. But the ladies enjoyed visiting and each assured the other that she would come visit in person sometime soon. They exchanged kisses via terminal-to my mind a waste of technology. And of kisses.

            Then we tried to call Xia... and a man came on screen whom I did not recognize; he was not Xia's day-shift desk clerk. "What do you want?" he demanded.

            Hazel said, "I'd like to speak to Xia, please."

            "Not here. This hotel has been shut down by the Bureau of Sanitation."

            "Oh. Can you teU me where she is?"

            "Try the Chief of Public Safety." The face flickered off.

            Hazel turned to me, her eyes filled with worry. "Richard, this can't be right. Xia's hotel is as squeaky clean as she is."

            "I see a pattern," I said grimly, "and so do you. Let me ay."

            I moved in, queried for code, called the office of the top cop, HKL. An elderly desk sergeant answered. I said, "Gos-pazha, I'm trying to reach a citizen named Dong Xia. I was told-"

            "Yeah, I booked her," she answered. "But she made bail an hour ago. Not here."

            "Ah so. Thank you, ma'am. Can you tell me where I might reach her?"

            "Haven't the slightest. Sorry."

            "Thank you." I switched off.

            "Oh, dear!"

            "Leprosy, sweetheart. We've got it; anyone who touches us catches it. Damn."

            "Richard, I'm stating the simple truth. In my childhood when this was a penal colony, there was more freedom under the Warden than there is now with self-government."

            "Maybe you exaggerate but I suspect Xia would agree with you." I chewed my lip and frowned. "You know who else has caught our leprosy. Choy-Mu."

            "You think so?"

            "Seven to two."

            "No bet. Call him."

            Query showed him to be a private subscriber, so I called his home. I heard a recording, sans picture: "Marcy Choy-Mu speaking. Can't say when I'll be home but I will call in soon for messages. At me gong, please record." A gong sounded.

            I thought furiously, then said, "Captain Midnight speaking. We are booked into the old Raffles. A mutual friend needs help. Please call me at the Raffles. If I am not there, please leave message telling when and where I can reach you." I

            switched off again.

            "Dear, you didn't give him Rabbi Ezra's code." "On purpose, Sadie giri. To keep the Rabbi's code out of Jefferson Mao's hands; Choy-Mu's line may be monitored. 1 had to give him somewhere to call back... but I can't risk compromising the Rabbi Ezra connection; we must have it for Father Schultz. Table it, beautiful; I've got to query for HKL ground control."

            "Hong Kong Luna ground control. This terminal is for official business; make it brief." It was voice only.

            "May I speak to Captain Marcy?"

            "Not here. I'm his emergency relief. Message? Make it snappy; I've got traffic in four minutes."

            (Uh-) "This is Captain Midnight. Tell him I'm at the old

            Raffles. Call me."

            "Don't switch off! Captain Midnight?"

            "He'll know." "And so do I. He went to city hall to put up bail for you know who. Or do you?"

            "Xia"

            "Too right! I've got to get back to my scopes but I'll tell him. Off!"

            "What now, Richard?"

            "Gallop in all directions."

            "Do be serious!"

            "Can you think of anything better? The queue is gone from Mom's Diner; let's eat lunch."

            "Eat lunch while our friends are in danger?"

            "Sweetheart, even if we went back to Kongville-and thereby shoved our heads in the lion's mouth-we would have no way to find them. There is nothing we can do until Choy-Mu calls us. That might be five minutes from now, or five hours. One thing I learned in combat: Never skip a chance to eat, sleep, or pee; another chance may be a long time coming.'*

            I recommend Mom's cherry pie with ice cream. Hazel ordered the same but, by the time I was chasing my last bite with a spoon, she had merely toyed with hers. I said, "Young lady, you sit right there until you have eaten everything on your plate."

            "Richard, I can't."

            "I don't like to beat you in public-"

            "So don't."

            "So I won't. Instead I will sit right here until you have eaten that all up, even if it means that I must sleep in this chair tonight."

            Hazel expressed obscenely unfavorable opinions of me, of Jefferson Mao, and of cherry pie, then ate the cherry pie. By thirteen-twenty we were at the door of the computer area in the Complex. There a youngster at a wicket sold us two tickets for two crowns forty, told us that the next tour would start in a few minutes, and let us into an enclosure, a waiting lounge with benches and opportunities to gamble against machines. Ten or a dozen tourists were waiting; most of the males wore fezzes.

            When at last we started, an hour later, there were nineteen or twenty of us, herded by a uniformed guide-or guard; he wore a cop's shield. We made a long circuit on foot of that enormous complex, a dull and endless trip. At each pause our guide gave a memorized spiel-perhaps not too well memorized, as I could spot errors, even though I am not a communications-control engineer.

            But I did not jump on these slips. Instead I made a nuisance of myself in accordance with earlier coaching by my fellow conspirator.

            At one stop our guide explained that engineering control was decentralized all over Luna both geographically and by functions-air, sewage, communications, fresh water, transportation, et cetera-but was monitored from here by the technicians you see at those consoles. I interrupted him.

            "My good man, I think you must be new on this job. The Encyclopedia Britannica explains clearly how one giant computer handles everything on the Moon. That's what we've come to see. Not backs of necks of junior clerks sitting at monitors. So let's see it. The giant computer. The Holmes IV."

            The guide let his professional smile slip and looked at me with the natural contempt of a Loonie for an earthworm. "You've been misinformed. True, it used to be that way, but you're over fifty years out of date. Today we are modernized and decentralized."

            "Young man, are you trying to contradict the Britannica?"

            "I'm telling you the simple truth. Now let's move on and-"

            "What became of that giant computer? Since it's no longer used. Or so you say."

            "Huh? Look behind you. See that door? It's behind that door."

            "Come, then let's see it! That's what I paid to see." "Not on your bloody drum and fife. It's an historical antique, a symbol of our great history. You want to look at it, you go to the Chancellor of Galileo U. and show your credentials. He'll send you packing! Nan then let's all move along to the next gallery-"

            Hazel did not move on with us, but (following instructions) I always had something ahead to point to and to ask a silly question about, whenever our guide seemed about to have a free moment to look around. But when, at long last, we had made the full circle and were back at the lounge. Hazel was there ahead of us.

            I kept quiet until we were out of the Complex and waiting at the tube station. There I moved us out of earshot of others before I spoke. "How did it go?"

            "No trouble. The lock on that door was a type I've dealt with before. Thanks for keeping them all distracted while I coped with it. Good show, love!"

            "You got what you were after?"

            "I think so. I'll know more after Papa Mannie looks over my photographs. It's just a big lonely room, Richard, crowded with old-fashioned electronics equipment. I shot it from about twenty angles, and stereoed each shot by hand-held offset- not perfect but I've practiced it."

            "That's all? This visit?"

            "Yes. Well, mostly."

            Her voice was choked; I looked at her, saw that her eyes were filled with tears about to overflow. "Why, darling! What's the matter?"

            "N- n- nothing."

            "Tell me."

            "Richard, he's in there!"

            "Huh?"

            "He's asleep in there. I know, I could feel him. Adam Selene."

            The tube capsule slammed into the station about then, to my relief-there are subjects for which words are useless. The capsule was packed full; we could not talk en route. By the time we were back in L-City my darling had quieted down and I could avoid the subject. The crowds in the corridors made talk difficult anyhow. Luna City is crowded at any time; on Saturdays half the Loonies from other warrens come in to shop;

            this Saturday the usual weekend crowd was augmented by Shriners and their wives from all over North America and elsewhere.

            As we came down out of Tube Station West into pressure two at outer ring, we faced Sears Montgomery. I was about to swing left to the Causeway when Hazel stopped me. "Uh? What, dear?"

            "Your trousers."

            "Is my fly open? No, it's not."

            "We're going to cremate your trousers; it's too late for burial. And that shirtjacket."

            "I thought you were itchy to get to the Raffles?"

            "I am but it will take me only five minutes to put you into a new siren suit."

            (Reasonable. My trousers were so dirty that I was beginning to risk being cited as a menace to public health. And Hazel did know what I preferred for everyday clothing, as I had explained to her that I would not wear shorts even if every other adult male in Luna City was in shorts-as most of them were. I'm not morbidly self-conscious about my missing foot ... but I do want full-length trousers to conceal my prosthesis. It's my private problem; I do not choose to exhibit it.)

            "All right." I agreed. "But let's buy the one nearest the door."

            Hazel did get us in and out in ten minutes, buying me three two-piece rumpus suits all alike save for color. The price was right, as first she dickered it down to an acceptable amount, then rolled double or nothing, and won. She thanked the clerk and tipped him the price of a drink, then exited looking cheerful.

            She said to me, "You look smart, dear."

            I thought so, too. Those three suits were lime green, powder pink, and lavender. I had chosen to wear the lavender; I think it suits my complexion. I went strutting along, swinging my cane, with my best girl on my arm, feeling great.

            But when we turned onto the Causeway there was no room to swing a cane and barely room to walk. We backed out, dropped straight down to Bottom Alley, then across town and up Five Aces chain lift to pressure six-much farther but today much faster.

            Even the side tunnel to the Raffles was crowded. A cluster of fez-topped men were just outside our hotel. I glanced at one of them, then took a better look. I let him have it with my cane, reverse moulinet up into his crotch. At the same time or a split second ahead of me. Hazel threw her package (my suits) into the face of the man next to him and slugged one beyond him with her handbag. He went down as my man screamed and joined him. As my cane swung back, I took it with both hands horizontally, and used the sideways short jabs intended for moving through a rioting crowd-but used the jabs more personally, getting one man in the belly, another in a kidney, and kicking each to quiet him as he went down.

            Hazel had taken care of the man she had slowed up with the package, I did not see how. But he was down and not moving. A (sixth?) man was about to cool her with a cosh, so I stabbed him in the face with my cane. He grabbed at it; I moved forward with it to keep him from exposing the stiletto, while giving him three fingers to his solar plexus, lefthanded. I fell on top of him.

            And was picked up and carried into the Raffles at a trot, with my head down and dragging my cane after me.

            The next few seconds I had to sort out later, perhaps imperfectly. I did not see Gretchen standing at the registration desk, but she was there, having just arrived. I heard Hazel snap, "Gretchen! Room L, straight back on the right!" as she dumped me on Gretchen. On Luna I weigh thirteen kilos, give or take a few grams-not much load for a country girl used to hard work. But I'm much bigger than Gretchen and twice as big as Hazel-a big unwieldy bundle. I squawked to be put down; Gretchen paid no attention. That silly desk clerk was yelping but no one was paying attention to him, either.

            Our door opened as Gretchen reached it and I heard another familiar voice sing out, "Bojemoi! He's hurt." Then I was face up on my own bed and Xia was working on me.

            "I'm not hurt," I told her. "Just shaken up."

            "Yeah, sure. Hold still while I get your trousers off. Does one of you gentlemen have a knife?"

            I was about to tell her not to cut my new trousers, when I heard a shot. It was my bride, crouching inside the open doorway and peering cautiously out to the left, her head close to the floor. She fired again, scooted back inside, closed and locked the door.

            She glanced around and snapped, "Move Richard into the 'fresher. Pile the bed and everything else against the outer door; they'll be shooting or breaking it down or both." She sat down on the floor with her back toward me and paid no attention to anyone. But everyone jumped to carry out her orders.

            "Everyone" included Gretchen, Xia, Choy-Mu, Father Schultz, and Reb Ezra. I did not have time to be astonished, especially as Xia with Gretchen's help moved me into the refresher, put me on the floor, and resumed taking my pants off. What did astonish me was to find that my good leg, the one with a meat-and-bone foot on it, was bleeding heavily. I noticed it first from seeing that Gretchen had big blood stains on the left shoulder of her white coverall. Then I saw where the blood was coming from, whereupon that leg started to hurt.

            I don't like blood, especially mine. So I turned my face away and looked out the 'fresher door. Hazel was still sitting on the floor and had taken something out of her handbag that seemed to be bigger than the handbag. She was talking into it:

            'Tee Aitch Queue! Major Lipschitz calling Tee Aitch Queue! Answer roe. God damn it! Wake up! Mayday, may day! Hey, Rube!"

            XX

            "If anyone doubts my veracity, I can only say that I pity his lack of faith."

                                    BARON MUNCHAUSEN 1737-1794

            Xia added, "Gretchen, hand me a clean towel. We'll make do just with a pressure pack until later."

            "Ouch!"

            "Sorry, Richard."

            "Mayday, Mayday! Hail, Mary, I'm up the crick without a paddle! Answer me!"

            "We read you. Major Lipschitz. Report local fix, planet, system, and universe." It was a machine voice with a typical uninflected brassiness that sets my teeth on edge.

            "Now let's tape it tightly."

            "Hell with procedures! I need T-shift pickup and I need it now! Check my assignment and slam it! Switch point: 'One small step' by Armstrong. Local fix: Hotel Raffles, room L. Time tick, now!"

            I went on looking out the 'fresher door to avoid watching the unpleasant things Xia and Gretchen were doing to me. I could hear shouts and people running; something crashed against the corridor door. Then in the rock wall on my right a new door dilated.

            I say "door" for lack of a precise word. What I saw was a circular locus of silver gray, floor to ceiling, and more. Inside this locus was an ordinary door for a vehicle. What sort of vehicle I could not tell; its door was all I could see.

            It swung open; someone inside called out, "Grandma!" as the corridor door crashed in and a man fell into the room. Hazel shot him. A second man was right behind him; she shot him, too.

            I reached for my cane-beyond Xia, damn it! "Hand me my cane! Hurry!"

            "Now, now! You lie back down."

            "Give it to me!" Hazel had one round left, or maybe none. Either way, it was time I backed her up.

            I heard more shots. With bitter certainty that nothing was left but to avenge her, I made a long arm, got my stick, and turned.

            No more fighting- Those last shots had been fired by Rabbi Ezra. (Why was I surprised that a wheelchair cripple chose to go armed?) Hazel was shouting, "Everybody get aboard! Move it!"

            And we did. I was confused again, as an endless crowd of young people, male and female and all of them redheaded, poured out of that vehicle and carried out Hazel's orders. Two of them carried Reb Ezra inside while a third folded his wheel-chair flat and handed it in to a fourth. Choy-Mu and Gretchen were hustled in, followed by Father Schultz. Xia was shoved after them when she tried to insist on handling me. Then two redheads, a man and a woman, carried me in; my blood-stained pants were chucked after me. I clung to my cane.

            I saw only a little of the vehicle. Its door opened into a four-place pilot-and-passenger compartment of what might be a spaceplane. Or might not be; the controls were strange and I was in no position to judge how it worked. I was lugged between seats and shoved through a door behind them into a cargo space and wound up on top of the Rabbi's folded wheel-chair.

            Was I going to be treated as cargo? No, I lay there only briefly, then was turned ninety degrees and passed through a larger door, turned another ninety degrees and placed on a floor.

            And glad to stay there!

            For the first time in years I was experiencing earth-normal weight.

            Correction: I had felt a few moments of it yesterday in the ballistic tube, a few more in that U-Pushit clunker. Budget Jets Seventeen, and about an hour of it in Old MacDonald's Farm four days earlier. But this time sudden heaviness caught me by surprise and did not go away. I had lost blood and found it hard to breathe and was dizzy again.

            I was feeling sorry for myself when I saw Gretchen's face;

            she looked both scared and wretchedly ill. Xia was saying, "Get your head down, dear. Lie down by Richard; that's best. Richard, can you scrunch over a little? I would like to lie down, too; I don't feel well."

            So I found myself with a cuddlesome wench on each side of me and I didn't feel a dum bit like cuddling. I'm supposed to be trained to fight in accelerations up to two full gravities, twelve times that of Luna. But that was years ago and I'd had over five years of soft, sedentary living at low gravity.

            It seems certain that Xia and Gretchen were just as uninterested in bundling.

            My beloved arrived carrying our miniature maple. She placed it on a stand, blew me a kiss, and started sprinkling it. "Xia, let me draw a lukewarm tub for you two born Loonies; you both can get into it."

            Hazel's words caused me to look around. We were in a "bathroom." Not a refresher appropriate to a four-seater spaceplane, nothing at all like ours in the Raffles; this room was an antique. Have you ever seen wallpaper decorated with fairies and gnomes? Indeed, have you ever seen wallpaper? How about a giant iron tub on claw feet? Or a water closet with a wooden lid and an overhead tank? The whole room was straight out of a museum of cultural anthropology ... yet everything was bright and new and shiny.

            I wondered just how much blood I had lost.

            "Thanks, Gwen, but I don't think I need it. Gretchen, do you want to float in water?"

            "I don't want to move!"

            "It won't be long," Hazel assured them. "Gay shifted twice to avoid shrapnel, or we would be down now. Richard, how are you feeling?"

            "I'll make it." "0f course you will, darling. I feel the weight myself from a year in Golden Rule. But not much as I exercised at one gee every day. Dear one, how badly are you wounded?" "I don't know."

            "Xia?" "Lots of bleeding and some muscle damage. Twenty or twenty-five centimeters and fairly deep. I don't think bone was hit. We put a tight pressure pack on it. If this ship is equipped for it, I want to do a better job and give him a broad-spectrum shot, too."

            "You've done a fine job. We'll be landing soon and then there will be professional help and equipment." "All right. I don't feel too lively, I admit." "So try to rest." Hazel picked up my blood-soiled trousers.

            "I'm going to soak these before the stain sets."

            "Use cold water!" Gretchen blurted, then turned pink and added shyly, "So Mama says."

            "Ingrid is right, dear." Hazel ran water into the hand basin. "Richard, I'm forced to admit that I lost your new clothes during that fuss."

            "Clothes we can buy. I thought I was going to lose you."

            "Good Richard. Here's your wallet and some this and that. Pocket plunder."

            "Better let me have it." I crowded it all into a breast pocket.

            "Where's Choy-Mu? I did see him-or did I?"

            "He's in the other 'fresher, with Father Schultz and Father Ezra."

            "Uh? Are you telling me that a four-seater has two refreshers? It is a four-place job, isn't it?"

            "It is and it does and wait till you see the rose gardens. And the swimming lounge."

            I started to make a retort but chopped it off. I had not figured out any formula by which to tell when my bride was jesting, or was telling literal but unbelievable truth. I was saved from a silly discussion by one of the redheads coming in-female, young, muscled, freckled, catlike, wholesome, sultry. "Aunt Hazel, we're grounded."

            "Thank you. Lor."

            "I'm Laz. Cas wants to know who stays here, who comes along, and how long till lift? Gay wants to know whether or not we'll be bombed and can she park one shift over? Bombing makes her nervous."

            "Something is wrong here. Gay should not be asking directly. Should she?"

            "I don't think she trusts Cas's judgment."

            "She may have reason. Who's commanding?"

            "I am."

            "Oh. I'll let you know who goes, who stays, after I talk to my papa and Uncle Jock. A few minutes, I think. You can let Gay park in a dead zone if you wish but please have her stay on my frequency triple; we may be in a hurry. Right now I want to move my husband... but first I must ask another of our passengers to lend me his wheelchair."

            Hazel turned to leave. I called out, "I don't need a wheel-chair," but she didn't hear me. Apparently.

            Two of the redheads lifted me out of the craft and placed me in Ezra's wheelchair, with its back support lowered and front support lifted; one of them spread a kingsize bath towel over my lap and legs. I said, "Thanks, Laz." .

            "I'm Lor. Don't be surprised if this towel vanishes; we've never tried taking one outside before."

            She got back aboard and Hazel wheeled me under the nose of the craft and around to its port side... which suited me, as I had seen at once that this was indeed a sort of spaceplane, with lifting body and retractable wings-and I was curious to see how the designer had managed to crowd two large refreshers into its port side. It did not seem aerodynamically possible.

            And it wasn't. Portside was like the starboard side, sleek and slender. No cubic for bathrooms.

            I had no time to ponder this. When we had turned into the Raffles' side tunnel a few minutes earlier, my Sonychron had just blinked seventeen, Greenwich or L-City time... which would make it eleven in the morning in zone six, dirtside.

            And so it was because that's where we were, zone six, in the north pasture of my Uncle Jock's place outside Grinnell, Iowa. So it becomes obvious that I not only had lost much blood but also had been hit hard on the head-as even the hottest military courier needs at least two hours, Luna to Terra.

            In front of us was Uncle Jock's fine old restored Victorian, cupola and verandas and widow's walk, and he himself was coming toward us, accompanied by two other men. Uncle was as spry as ever, and still with a mop of silver-white hair that made him look like Andrew Jackson. The other two I did not recognize. They were mature men but much younger than Uncle Jock-well, almost everybody is.

            Hazel stopped pushing me, ran and threw her arms around one of them, kissed him, all out. My uncle picked her out of that man's arms, bussed her just as enthusiastically, then surrendered her to the third, who saluted her the same way and put her back on her feet.

            Before I could feel left out, she turned and took the first one by his left hand. "Papa, I want you to meet my husband, Richard Colin. Richard, this is my Papa Mannie, Manuel Gar-cia O'Kelly Davis."

            "Welcome to family. Colonel." He offered me his right hand.

            "Thank you, sir."

            Hazel turned to the third man. "And Richard, this-"

            "-is Dr. Hubert," Uncle Jock interrupted. "LAfe, slap skin with my nephew Colonel Colin Campbell. Welcome home, Dickie. What are you doing in that baby carriage?"

            "Just lazy, I guess. Where's Aunt Cissy?"

            "Locked up, of course; knew you were coming. But what have you been doing? Looks like you failed to duck. Sadie, you have to expect that from Dickie; he's always been slow. Hard to toilet train and never did learn pattycake."

            I was selecting a sufficiently insulting answer to this canard (I learned long ago the way to treat our family scandal) when the ground shook, followed immediately by Krrrumpf Not nuclear, just high explosive. But disquieting just the same; HE is not a toy and is not a better way to become dead-there isn't one. Uncle said, "Don't pee your pants, Dickie; they're not shooting at us. Lafe, will you examine him here? Or inside?"

            Dr. Hubert said, "Let me see your pupils. Colonel."

            So I looked at him as he looked at me. When Hazel stopped pushing the wheelchair, the spaceplane was then on my left; but when that HE detonation took place, the spaceplane was abruptly elsewhere. Gone. "-not a rack behind." Least hypothesis suggests that I was out of my gourd.

            Nobody else seemed to notice it.

            So I pretended not to and looked at my physician... and wondered where I had seen him lately.

            "No concussion, I think. What's the natural log of pi?"

            "If I had all my marbles, would I be here? Look, Doc, no guessing games, please; I'm tired." Another HE shell (or bomb) landed nearby, closer if anything. Dr. Hubert moved the towel off my left leg, poked at the pack Xia had placed.

            "Does that hurt?"

            "Hell, yes!"

            "Good. Hazel, you had best take him home. I can't take proper care of him here as we are about to shift to New Harbor in Beulahland; the Angelenos have taken Des Moines and are moving this way. He's in good shape for a man who's taken a hit... but he should have proper treatment without delay."

            I said, "Doctor, are you any relation to the redheaded girls in that spaceplane we arrived in?"

            "They're not girls; they are superannuated juvenile delinquents. Whatever they told you I deny categorically. Give them my love."

            Hazel blurted, "But I have to make my report!"

            Everybody talked at once until Dr. Hubert said, "Quiet! Hazel goes with her husband and sees him settled in, stays as long as she finds necessary, then reports to New Harbor... but with time tick established now. Objection? So ordered."

            Having that spaceplane reappear was even more disconcerting and I'm glad I didn't watch. Or not much. The two redheaded men (turned out there were only four redheads, not a mob) got me and the wheelchair inside and Hazel went into that odd refresher with me... and almost at once Laz (Lor?) followed us in and announced, "Aunt Hazel, we're home."

            "Home" turned out to be the flat roof of a large building- and it was late evening, almost sundown. That spaceplane should be named the Cheshire Cat. (But its name is Gay. Her name is Gay. Oh, never mind!)

            The building was a hospital. In checking into a hospital you first wait an hour and forty minutes while they process the paperwork. Then they undress you and put you on a gumey under a thin blanket with your bare feet sticking out into a cold draft and make you wait outside the X-ray lab. Then they demand a urine sample in a plastic duck while a young lady waits for it, staring at the ceiling and looking bored. Right?

            These people didn't know page one about the regulation way to run a hospital. Our able-bodied comrades (the ones suffering from nothing but high acceleration) were already on their way, in glorified golf carts, when I was again lifted out and placed in another golf cart (gurney, wheelchair, floating couch). Rabbi Ezra was there in his wheelchair. Hazel was with us and carrying Tree-San and a Sears-labeled package containing Naomi's costume. The spaceplane had vanished; I had barely had time to tell Laz (Lor?) that Dr. Hubert sent his love. She had sniffed. "If he thinks sweet talk will get him out of the doghouse, he had better think again." But her nipples crinkled up, so I assume that she was pleased.

            Four of us were left on the roof, we three and one member of the hospital staff, a little dark woman who seemed to combine the best of Mother Eve and Mother Mary without flaunting any of it. Hazel dropped the package on me, handed the bonsai to Reb Ezra, and threw her arms around her. Tammy!"

            "Arii sool, m'temqa!" The motherly creature kissed Hazel.

            "Reksi, reksi-so very long!"

            They broke from the clinch and Hazel said, "Tammy, this is my beloved, Richard."

            This got me kissed on the mouth. Tammy put that bundle aside to do it properly. A man kissed by Tammy stays kissed for hours-even if he is wounded, even if she makes it brief.

            "And this is our dear friend the Reverend Rabbi Ezra ben David."

            He did not get the treatment I got. Tammy curtsied deeply, then kissed his hand. So I showed a clear profit.

            Tammy (Tamara) said, "Inside I must get you both that quickly may we repair Richard. But both each my cherished guests will here be through time not short. Hazel? Such room as you with Jubal shared, nay?"

            'Tammy, that's a fine idea! 'Cause I'm going to have to be away sometimes. Gentlemen, will you room together while you are patients here?"

            I was about to say, "Yeah, sure, but-" when Reb Ezra said, "There's some mixup. Mistress Gwendolyn, please explain to this dear lady that I am not a patient, not a candidate for hospitalization. Perfect health. Not a sniffle, not even a hangnail."

            Tamara looked surprised and-no, not troubled but deeply concerned. She stepped close to him, gently touched his left stump. "Are not we your legs to back on put?"

            Reb Ezra stopped smiling. "I'm sure you mean well. But I can't wear prosthetics. Truly."

            Tamara broke into that other language, speaking to Hazel. She listened, then said, "Father Ezra, Tamara is speaking of real legs. Flesh and blood. They can do it. Three ways they can do it."

            Reb Ezra took a deep breath, sighed it out, looked at Tamara. "Daughter, if you can put my legs back on... go ahead! Please," then added something, Hebrew I think.

            BOOK THREE-

            The Light at the End of the Tunnel

            XXI

            "God created woman to tame man,"

            VOLTAIRE 1694-1778

            I woke up slowly, letting my soul fit itself gently back into my body. I kept my eyes closed while I spliced onto my memory and reviewed who I was and where I was and what had happened.

            Oh, yes, I had married Gwen Novak! Most unexpectedly but what a delightful idea! And then we- Hey! that wasn't yesterday. Yesterday you-

            Boy, yesterday you had a busy day! Started in Luna City, bounced to Grinnell- How? Never mind "How" for the nonce. Accept it. Then you bounced to- What had Gwen called it? Hey, wait!-Gwen's real name is Hazel. Or is it? Worry about that later. Hazel called it "Third Earth," Tellus Tertius. Tammy called it something else. Tammy? Oh, sure, "Tamara." Everybody knows Tamara.

            Tammy would not let them work on my wounded leg while I was awake- How in hell did I pick up that wound? Am I getting clumsy in my old age? Or was it spotting Bill's face among those fake Shriners? It's not professional to let any surprise slow you down. If your own grandmother shows up in the scrum, shoot her and move on.

            How did you know they were not Shriners? That's easy;

            Shriners are middle-aged and paunchy; these studs were young and tough. Combat ready.

            Yes, but that's a rationalization, one you just now thought of. So? Nevertheless it's true. But you didn't reason it out yesterday. Hell, no, of course not; at the moment of truth you don't have time to think. You look at a bloke, something about him shouts "Enemy!" and you jump to do unto him before he does unto you. If you use scrum time routing impressions around inside your skull, sorting by type and weighing by logic-you're dead! Instead, you move.

            Yesterday you didn't move fast enough.

            But we picked the right partner for a fight, didn't we?-a quick little coral snake named Hazel. And any scrum we come out of still with a body temperature of thirty-seven can't be counted an utter defeat.

            Quit trying to kid yourself. You got how many? Two? And she got the rest. And she had to make pick up on you... or you would be stone cold dead this minute.

            Maybe I am. Let's check. I opened my eyes.

            This room certainly looks like Heaven! But that proves you are not dead, because Heaven is not your destination. Besides, everybody says that when you die, first you go through a long tunnel with a light at the far end, and there your beloved waits for you ... and that did not happen to you. No tunnel. No light at the end of the tunnel. And sadly no Hazel.

            So I am not dead and this can't be Heaven and I don't think it's a hospital either. No hospital was ever this beautiful or smelled so good. And where is the regulation racket found in all hospital corridors? All I hear are bird songs and a string trio off somewhere in the distance.

            Hey, there's Tree-San!

            So Hazel must be close around. Where are you, honey girl?  I need help. Find my foot and hand it to me, will you, please? I can't risk hopping in this gravity; I'm out of practice, and ... well, damn it, I need to pee. Something abooraxly!-my back teeth are floating.

            "I see that you are now awake." It was a gentle voice, back of my right ear. I twisted my head to look just as she came around to where I could see her more easily-a young woman, comely, slender, small of bust, long brown hair. She smiled as I caught her eye. "I'm Minerva. What will you have for breakfast? Hazel told me that waffles would please you. But you can have anything you like."

            "'Anything'?" I considered it. "How about a brontosaurus roasted over a slow fire?"

            "Yes, surely. But that will take longer to prepare than waffles," she answered with perfect seriousness. "Some tidbits while you wait?"

            "Go along with you; quit pulling my leg. Speaking of legs, have you seen my artificial foot? Before I eat breakfast I must visit the refresher... and I must have my cork foot to do that. This gravity, you know."

            Minerva told me bluntly what to do about it. "This bed has a built-in refresher and you can't use the usual refresher anyhow; you are under spinal block from the waist down. But our arrangements are efficient, truly. So go ahead. Whatever you need to do."

            "Uh... I can't." (Truly I could not. When they cut off my foot, the hospital corpsmen had a hell of a time with me. Finally they equipped me with catheter and honey tube until I was able to get as far as the jakes on crutches.)

            "You will find that you can. And that it will be all right."

            "Uh-" (I couldn't stir either leg, neither the short one nor the long one.) "Mistress Minerva, may I have an ordinary hospital-type bed urinal?"

            She looked troubled. "If you wish. But it will not be useful." Then her troubled look changed to a thoughtful one. "I will go find one. But it will take me some time. At least ten minutes. Not a moment less. And I am going to seal your door while I am gone so that no one will disturb you." She added, 'Ten minutes," and headed for a blank wall. It snapped out of her way and she was gone.

            I immediately flipped off the sheet to see what they had done to my one good leg. The sheet would not flip. So I snuck up on it. It was too smart for me. So I tried to outwit it-after all, a sheet can't be smarter than a man. Can it be?

            Yes, it can.

            Finally I said to myself. Look, chum, we are getting nowhere. Let's try assuming that Mistress Minerva was being precisely truthful: This is a bed with built-in plumbing, capable of handling the worst a bedfast patient can do. So saying, I worked a couple of ballistic problems in my head-hairy em-piricals guaranteed to distract even a man waiting at the guillotine.

            And cut loose with half a liter, sighed, then let go with the

            other half. No, the bed did not seem to be wet. And a feminine voice cooed, "Good baby!"

            I looked hastily around. No vocal cords to go with the voice- "Who said that and where are you?"

            "I'm Teena, Minerva's sister. I'm no farther away than your elbow... yet I'm half a kilometer away and two hundred meters down. Need anything, just ask me. We stock it or make it or fake it. Miracles we do at once; anything else even sooner. Exception: Virgins are a special order... average lead time, fourteen years. Factory rebuilt virgins, fourteen minutes."

            "Who in hell wants a virgin? Mistress Teena, do you think it is polite to watch roe take a pee?"

            "Youngster, don't try to tell your grandmother how to steal sheep. One of my duties is to watch everything in all departments of this fun house and catch mistakes before they happen. Two: / am a virgin and can prove it... and I am going to make you sorry you were bom male for uttering that disparaging crack about virgins."

            (Oh, hell!) "Mistress Teena, I did not mean to offend you. I was simply embarrassed, that was all. So I spoke hastily. But I do think micturition and such should be granted privacy."

            "Not in a hospital, bud. They are significant aspects of the clinical picture, every time."

            "Uh-"

            "Here comes my sister. If you don't believe me, you can ask her."

            A couple of seconds later the wall opened and Mistress Minerva came in, carrying a hospital-bed urinal of the old-fashioned sort-no automatic machinery, no electronic controls. I said, "Thank you. But I no longer need it. As I'm sure your sister told you."

            "Yes, she did. But surely she didn't tell you that she had?"

            "No, I deduced it. Is it true that she sits somewhere in the basement and snoops on every patient? Doesn't she find it boring?"

            "She doesn't really pay any attention until it's needed. She has thousands of other things to do, all more interesting-"

            "Far more interesting!" that faceless voice interrupted. "Minnie, he doesn't like virgins. I let him know that I am one. Confirm it, Sis; I want to rub his nose in it."

            'Teena, don't tease him."

            "Why not? It's fun to tease men; they wiggle so when you poke them. Though I can't see what Hazel sees in this one. He's a sad sack."

            'Teena! Colonel, did Athene tell you that she is a computer?"

            "Eh? Say that again."

            "Athene is a computer. She is the supervising computer of this planet; other computers here are just machines, not sentient. Athene runs everything. Just as Mycroft Holmes once ran everything on Luna-I know that Hazel told you about him." Minerva smiled gently. "So that's how Teena can claim to be a virgin. Technically she is one, in the sense that a computer can have no experience in carnal copulation-"

            "But I know all about it!"

            "Yes, Sis. -with a male human. On the other hand, when she transfers to a meat-and-bone body and becomes human, in another technical sense she will no longer be virgin because her hymen will have been atrophied in vitro and any vestigial tissue trimmed away before her animal body is kindled. That's how it was done with me."

            "And you were out of your mind, Minnie, to let Ishtar sell you that; I'm not going to do it that way. I've decided to have the works. A real maidenhead and both ritual and physical defloration. Even a bridal costume and a wedding if we can swing it. Do you think we can sell that to Lazarus?"

            "I doubt it intensely. And you would be making a silly mistake. Unnecessary pain on first copulation could start you out with bad habits in what should always be an utterly happy experience. Sister, sex is the most important reason to become human. Don't spoil it."

            'Tammy says it doesn't hurt all that much."

            "Why let it hurt at all? Anyhow, you won't get Lazarus to agree to a formal wedding. He promised you a place in our family; he did not promise you anything else."

            "Maybe we should volunteer Colonel Zero here. He's going to owe me plenty of favors by then and Maureen says nobody ever notices the bridegroom anyhow. How about it, soldier boy? Think of the honor of being my bridegroom at a swank June wedding. Careful how you answer."

            My ears were ringing and I felt a headache coming on. If I just closed my eyes, would I find myself back in my bachelor digs in Golden Rule?

            I tried it, then opened them. "Answer me," the disembodied voice persisted.

            "Minerva, who repotted my little maple?"

            "I did. Tammy pointed out that it didn't have room to breathe, much less grow, and asked me to find a bigger pot. I-"

            "I found it." 'Teena found it and I repotted it. See how much happier it is? It's grown more than ten centimeters."

            I looked at the little tree. And looked again. "How many days have I been in this hospital?"

            Minerva suddenly had no expression at all. The Teena voice said, "You didn't say how big a brontosaurus you wanted for breakfast. Better make it a little one, huh? The older ones are terribly tough. So everybody says."

            Ten centimeters- Hazel had said she would see me "in the morning." Which morning, dear one? Two weeks ago? Or longer? "The older ones aren't tough if they are hung properly. But I don't want to wait while the meat ages. Would there be any such delay with waffles?"

            "Oh, no," agreed Teena's voice. "Waffles aren't common here but Maureen knows all about them. She was brought up, she says, only a few kilometers from where you were reared, and at almost the same time, give or take a century or so. So she knows the sort of cooking you are used to. She explained to me all about waffle irons and I experimented until I made one just the way she wanted it. How many waffles can you eat, fatty?"

            "Five hundred and seven."

            There was a short silence, then Teena said, "Minerva?"

            "I don't know."

            "But," I went on, "I'm on a diet, so let it go with three."

            "I'm not sure I want you as my bridegroom."

            "In any case you haven't consulted Hazel. My bride."

            "No obstacle; Hazel and I are pals. Years and years. She'll make you do it. If I decide to use you. I'm not certain about you, Dickie boy; you veer."

            "'Dickie boy,' huh? Do you know my Uncle Jock? Jock Campbell?"

            "The Silver Fox. Do I know Uncle Jock! We won't invite him, Dickie; he would claim jus primae noctis."

            "Have to invite him. Mistress Teena; he's my closest relative. All right, I'll stand up as bridegroom and Uncle Jock will take care of deflowering the bride. Wrap it up."

            "Minerva?"

            "Colonel Richard, I do not think that Athene should do this. I have known Dr. Jock Campbell for many years, and he has known me. If Athene insists on this silly thing, I do not think she should give herself first to Dr. Campbell. A year or two later, when she knows-" Minerva shrugged. "They are free persons."

            Teena can work it out with Hazel and Jock; it wasn't my idea. When does this crime take place?"

            "Almost at once; Athene's clone is almost matured. About three of your years."

            "Oh. I thought we were talking about next week. I'll stop worrying; the horse might learn to sing."

            "What horse?"

            "A nightmare. Now about those waffles. Mistress Minerva, will you join me in waffles? I can't stand to have you standing there salivating and swallowing and starving while I wallow in waffles."

            "I have already broken fast today-"

            "Too bad."

            "-but that was some hours ago and I would like to experience waffles; both Hazel and Maureen speak well of them. Thank you; I accept."

            "You didn't invite me!"

            "But, Teena my prospective child bride, if you do as you threaten to, my table will be yours; to invite you to share it would be a tautologically redundant plethora of excess surplusage, repetitious and almost insulting. Did Maureen say how waffles should be served? With drawn butter and maple syrup and plenty of crisp bacon... accompanied by fruit juice and coffee. The juice should be ice-cold; the rest should be hot."

            "Three minutes, lover boy."

            I was about to answer when that insubstantial wall again opened and Rabbi Ezra walked in. Walked in. He was using

            crutch canes but he was on two legs.

            He grinned at me and waved a crutch cane. "Dr. Ames!

            Good to see you awake!"

            "Good to see you, Reb Ezra. Mistress Teena, please make

            that order three of everything."

            "I already did. And lox and bagels and strawberry jam."

            It was a jolly meal despite all the questions on my mind. The food was grand and I was hungry; Minerva and Ezra- and Teena-were good company. I was chasing syrup with the last bite of my first waffle before I said, "Reb Ezra, have you seen Hazel this morning? My wife. I had expected her to be here."

            He seemed to hesitate; Teena answered, "She'll be here later, Dickie. She can't hang around waiting for you to wake up; she has other things to do. And other men."

            "Teena, quit trying to get my goat. Or I won't marry you even if Hazel and Jock both agree."

            "Want to bet? You jilt me, you cad, and I'll run you right off this planet. You won't get another bite to eat, doors won't open for you, refreshers will scald you, dogs will bite you. And you will itch."

            "Sister."

            "Aw, Minnie."

            Minerva went on, to me: "Don't let my sister fret you,

            Colonel. She teases because she wants company and attention. But she is an ethical computer, utterly reliable."

            "I'm sure she is, Minerva. But she can't expect to tease me and threaten me, and still expect me to stand up in front of a judge or a priest or somebody and promise to love, honor, and obey her. I'm not sure I want to obey her anyhow."

            The computer voice answered, "You won't have to promise to obey, Dickie boy; I'll train you later. Just simple things. Heel. Fetch. Sit up. Lie down. Roll over. Play dead. I don't expect anything complex out of a man. Aside from stud duties, that is. But on that score your reputation has preceded you."

            "What do you mean by that?" I threw my serviette down. "That tears it! The wedding is off."

            "Friend Richard."

            "Eh? Yes, Reb."

            "Don't let Teena worry you. She has propositioned me, and you, and Father Hendrik, and Choy-Mu, and, no doubt, many others. Her ambition is to make Cleopatra look like a piker."

            "And Ninon de Lenclos, and Rangy Lil, and Marie Antoinette, and Rahab, and Battleship Kate, and Messalina, and you name her. I'm going to be the champion nymphomaniac of the multiverse, beautiful as sin, and utterly irresistible. Men will fight duels over me and kill themselves on my doorstep and write odes to my little finger. Women will swoon at my voice. Every man, woman, and child will worship me from afar and I'll love as many of them up close as I can fit into my schedule. So you don't want to be my bridegroom, eh? What a filthy, wicked, evil, stinking, utterly selfish thing to say! Angry mobs will tear you to bits and drink your blood."

            "Mistress Teena, that is not polite table talk. We are eating."

            "You started it."

            I tried to review the bidding. Had I started it? No, indeed, she-

            Reb Ezra said to me in a prison whisper, "Give up. You can't win. I know."

            "Mistress Teena, I'm sorry I started it. I should not have done so. It was naughty of me."

            "Oh, that's all right." The computer sounded warmly pleased. "And you don't have to call me 'Mistress Teena'; hardly anyone uses titles around here. If you called Minerva 'Dr. Long,' she would look around to see who was standing behind her."

            "All right, Teena, and please call me 'Richard.' Mistress Minerva, you have a doctor's degree? Medical doctor?"

            "One of my degrees is in therapy, yes. But my sister is right; titles are not often used here. 'Mistress' one never hears... other than as a term of affection to a woman you have gifted with your carnal love. So there is no need to call me 'Mistress Minerva'... until you choose to gift me with that boon. When

            you do. If you do." Right across the plate! I almost failed to lay a bat on it. Minerva seemed so modest, meek, and mild that she took me by surprise.

            Teena gave me time in which to regroup. "Minnie, don't try to hustle him right out from under me. He's mine."

            "Better ask Hazel. Better yet, ask him."

            "Dickie boy! Tell her!" "What can I tell her, Teena? You haven't settled it with

            Hazel and my Uncle Jock. But in the meantime-" I contrived to bow to Minerva as well as one can from bed and handicapped by a spinal block. "Dear lady, your words do me great honor. But, as you know, I am at present physically immobilized, unable to share in such delights. In the meantime may we take the wish for the deed?"

            "Don't you dare call her 'Mistress'!"

            "Sister, behave yourself. Sir, you may indeed call me 'Mistress.' Or, as you say, we can treat the wish for the deed and wait until a later time. Your therapy will take time."

            "Ah, yes. So it will." I glanced at the little maple, no longer quite so little. "How long have I been here? I must already have run up quite a bill."

            "Don't worry about it," Minerva advised me. "I must worry about it. Bills must be paid. And I don't even have Medicare." I looked at the Rabbi. "Rabbi, how did you finance your-transplants, are they?- You're as far from home and your bank account as I am."

            "Farther than you think. And it is no longer appropriate to address me as Rabbi-where we are today, the Torah is not known. I am now Private Ezra Davidson, Time Corps Irregulars. That pays my bills. I think something like it pays yours. Teena, can you-I mean, 'will you'-tell Dr. Ames the account to which his bills are charged?"

            "He has to ask it himself."

            "I do ask, Teena. Please tell me."

            'Campbell, Colin,' also known as 'Ames, Richard': charges, all departments, to Senior's special account, 'Galactic Overlord-Miscellaneous.' So don't fret, lover boy; you're a charity case, all bills on the house. Of course the ones on that account usually don't live long."

            "Athene!"

            "But, Minnie, that's the simple truth. An average of one point seven three missions, then we pay their death benefits. Unless he's ordered to some featherbed job at THQ."

            (I was not listening carefully. "Galactic Overlord" indeed! Only one person could have set up that account. The playful little darling. Damn it, dear-where are you?)

            That none-too-solid wall blinked away again. "Am I too late for breakfast? Oh, pshaw! Hello, darling!"

            It was she!

            XXII

            "When in doubt, tell the truth."

                                    MARK TWAIN 1835-1910

            "Richard, I did see you the next morning. But you didn't see me."

            "She certainly did see you, Dickie boy," Teena confirmed. "At great risk to her own health. Be glad you're alive. You almost weren't."

            "That's true," agreed Ezra. "I was your roommate part of one night. Then they moved me and put you in tight quarantine, and inoculated me nine or ninety ways. My brother, you were sick unto death."

            "Breakbone cramp, green-pus shakes, strangle fever-' Hazel was ticking them off on her fingers. "Blue death. Typhus.

            Minerva, what else?"

            "Golden staphylococcus systemic infection, hepatic herpes Landrii. Worst of all, a loss of will to live. But Ishtar will not permit a person to die who has not asked for death while possessed of judicial capacity, and neither will Galahad. Tamara stayed with you every minute until that crisis was over."

            "Why don't I remember any of this?"

            "Be glad you don't," Teena advised.

            "Sweetheart, if you had not been in the best hospital in all the known universes, with the most skilled therapists, I would be a widow again. And I look terrible in black."

            Ezra added, "If you didn't have the constitution of an ox, you would never have made it."

            Teena interrupted with: "Of a bull, Ezra. Not an ox. I know, I've seen 'em. Impressive."

            I didn't know whether to thank Teena or to call off the wedding again. So I ignored it. "What I don't understand is how I got all those diseases. I took a hit, I know that. That could account for staph aureus. But those other things?"

            Ezra said, "Colonel, you are a professional soldier."

            "Yes." I sighed. "I never practiced that aspect of the profession; I don't feel easy with it. Biological warfare makes fusion bombs seem clean and decent. Even chemical warfare looks humane compared with bio weapons. Very well; that knife- was it a knife?-was prepared. Nastily."

            "Yes," agreed Ezra, "somebody wanted you dead and was willing to kill all of Luna City as long as you died."

            "That's crazy. I'm not that important."

            Minerva said quietly, "Richard, you are that important."

            I stared at her. "What makes you think so?"

            "Lazarus told me."

            "'Lazarus.' Teena used that name earlier. Who is Lazarus? Why is his opinion so weighty?"

            Hazel answered, "Richard, I told you that you were important and I told you why. The rescue of Adam Selene. The same people who want him to stay unresurrected wouldn't boggle at killing Luna City to kill you."

            "If you say so. I wish I knew what happened mere. Luna City is my adopted home; some mighty fine people in it. Uh, your son, Ezra, among others."

            "Yes, my son. And others. Luna City was saved, Richard; the infection was stopped."

            "Good!"

            "At a price. A reference time tick was available from our rescue. The number of seconds it took us all to get aboard and get out of there was reconstructed through careful reenactment-by all of us who were involved in it with your part played by a skilled actor. This was compared with Gay's own memory of how long she was there, and the two were reconciled. Then a Burroughs space-time capsule was moved to the resultant coordinates plus four seconds, and a heat bomb was released. Not atomic but hot, star hot-some of those bugs are hard to kill. Obviously the hotel had to be damaged, with a high probability-no, a certainty-of loss of life. The threat to Luna City was cauterized but the price was high. Tanstaafl." Ezra looked grim.

            "Your son was saved?"

            "I think so. However, my son's welfare did not figure into this decision, and my opinion was not sought. This was a Time Headquarters policy decision. THQ rescues individuals only when those individuals are indispensable to an operation. Richard, as I understand it-mind you, I'm a recruit private on sick leave; I'm not privy to high policy decisions-as I understand it, permitting Luna City to suffer a killing epidemic at that time would have interfered with THQ's plans for something else. Perhaps this matter that Mistress Gwendolyn-Hazel- hinted at. I don't know."

            "It was and I do know and on Tertius you don't call me 'Mistress' unless you mean it, Ezra, but thank you anyhow. Richard, it was the widespread damage that airborne disease could do to their plans that caused Headquarters to act so radically. They cut it so fine that you and I and the rest of Gay's load came within a blink of being killed by that heat bomb as we escaped." (And at this point I barked my shins on a paradox-but Hazel was still talking:)

            "They couldn't risk waiting even a few more seconds; some killer bugs might get into the city's air ducts. They had projected the effect that would have on Operation Adam Selene: disaster! So they moved. But the Time Corps doesn't go chasing through the universes saving individual lives, or even the lives of whole cities. Richard, they could save Herculaneum and Pompeii today if they wanted to... or San Francisco, or Paris. They don't. They won't."

            "Sweetheart," I said slowly, "are you telling me that this 'Time Corps' could prevent the Blotting of Paris in 2002 even though that happened two centuries in the past? Please!"

            Hazel sighed. Ezra said, "Friend Richard, attend me carefully. Don't reject what I am about to say."

            "Eh? Okay. Shoot."

            "The destruction of Paris is more than two thousand years in the past, not just two centuries ago."

            "But that is clearly-"

            "By groundhog reckoning today is Gregorian year A.D. 4400 or the year 8160 by the Jewish calendar, a fact I found quite disturbing but had to accept. Besides that, here and now we are over seven thousand light-years from Earth."

            Both Hazel and Minerva were looking soberly at me, apparently awaiting my reaction. I started to speak, then reviewed my thoughts. At last I said, "I have only one more question. Teena?"

            "No, you can't have any more waffles."

            "Not waffles, dear. My question is this: May I have another cup of coffee? This time with cream? Please?"

            "Here-catch!" My request appeared on my lap table.

            Hazel blurted, "Richard, it's true! All of it."

            I sipped the fresh coffee. "Thank you, Teena; it's just right. Hazel my love, I didn't argue. It would be silly of me to argue something I don't understand. So let's move to a simpler subject. Despite these terrible diseases you tell me I had, I feel brisk enough to leap out of bed and lash the serfs. Minerva, can you tell me how much longer I must have this paralysis? You are my physician, are you not?"

            "No, Richard, I am not. I-"

            "Sister is in charge of your happiness," Teena interrupted. "That's more important."

            "Athene is more or less right-"

            "I'm always right!"

            "-but she sometimes phrases things oddly. Tamara is chief of morale for both Ira Johnson Hospital and the Howard Clinic ... and Tamara was here when you needed her most, she held you in her arms. But she has many assistants, because Director General Ishtar considers morale-well, happiness-central to both therapy and rejuvenation. So I help, and so does Maureen, and Maggie whom you have not yet met. There are others who pitch in when we have too many with happiness problems- Ubby and Deety, and even Laz and Lor who are superb at it when they are needed... not surprising, as they are sisters of Lazarus and daughters of Maureen. And there's Hilda, of course."

            "Hold it, please. I'm getting confused by names of people I've never met. This hospital has a staff that dishes out happiness; I understand that much. All of these angels of happiness are women. Right?"

            "How else?" Teena demanded scornfully. "Where do you expect to find happiness?"

            "Now, Teena," Minerva said reprovingly. "Richard, we female operatives take care of the morale of males... and Tamara has skilled male operatives on watch or on call for female clients and patients. Opposite polarity isn't absolutely essential to morale nursing but it makes it much easier. We don't need as many male morale operatives to take care of our female patients since women are less likely to be ill. Rejuvenation clients are about evenly divided, male and female, but women almost never become depressed while being made young again-"

            "Hear, hear!" Hazel put in. "Just makes me homy." She patted my hand, then added a private signal I ignored, others being present.

            "-while males usually suffer at least one crisis of spirit during rejuvenation. But you asked about your spinal block. Teena."

            "I've called him."

            "Just a moment," said Hazel. "Ezra, have you shown Richard your new legs?"

            "Not yet."

            "Will you? Please? Do you mind?"

            "I'm delighted to show them off." Ezra stood up, moved back from the table, turned around, lifted his canes and stood without assistance. I had not stared at his legs as he entered the room (I don't like to be stared at); then, when he sat down at the refection table that had followed him in, I could not see his legs. In the one glimpse I had had of his legs, I had gathered an impression that he was wearing walking shorts with calf-length brown stockings that matched his shorts-bony white knees showing between stockings and shorts.

            Now he scuffed off shoes, stood on bare feet-and I revised my notions abruptly; those "brown stockings" were brown skin of legs and feet that had been grafted onto his stumps.

            He explained at length: "-three ways. A new limb or a new anything can be budded. That's a lengthy job and requires great skill, I'm told. Or an organ or limb can be grafted from one's own clone, which is kept here in stasis and with an intentionally undeveloped brain. They tell me that way is as easy as putting a patch on a pair of pants-no possibility of rejection.

            "But I have no clone here-or not yet-so they found me something in the spare parts inventory-"

            "The meat market."

            "Yes, Teena. Lots and lots of body parts on hand, inventory computerized-"

            "By me."

            "Yes, Teena. For heterologous grafts Teena selects spare parts for closest tissue match... matching blood, of course, but matching in other ways, too. And matching in size but that's the easiest part. Teena checks everything and digs out a spare part that your own body will mistake for its own. Or almost."

            "Ezra," the computer said, "you can wear those legs for ten years, at least; I really did a job on you. By then your clone will be available. If you need it."

            "You did indeed and thank you, Teena. My benefactor's name is Azrael Nkruma, Richard; we are twins, aside from an irrelevant matter of melanin." Ezra grinned.

            I said, "Doesn't he miss his feet?"

            Ezra suddenly sobered. "He's dead, Richard... dead from the commonest cause of death here: accident. Mountain climbing. Landed on his head and crushed his skull; even Ishtar's skill could not have saved him. And she certainly would have tried her best; Dr. Nkruma was a surgeon on her staff. But these are not the feet Dr. Nkruma wore; these are from his clone... that he never needed."

            "Richard-"

            "Yes, dear? I wanted to ask Ezra-"

            "Richard, I did something without consulting you."

            "So? Am I going to have to beat you again?"

            "You may decide to. I wanted you to see Ezra's legs... because, without your permission, I had them put a new foot on you." She looked scared.

            There ought to be some rule limiting the number of emotional shocks a person can legally be subjected to in one day. I've had all the standard military training for slowing heart beat and lowering blood pressure and so forth in a crunch. But usually the crunch won't wait and the damned drills aren't all that effective anyway.

            This time I simply waited while consciously slowing my breathing. Presently I was able to say, without my voice breaking, "On the whole, I don't think that calls for a beating." I tried to wiggle my foot on that side-I've always been able to feel a foot there, even though it has been gone for years. "Did you have them put it on front way to?"

            "Huh? What do you mean, Richard?"

            "I like to have my feet face forward. Not like a Bombay beggar." (Was that a wiggle?) "Uh, Minerva, am I allowed to look at what was done? This sheet seems to be fastened down tight."

            "Teena."

            "Just arriving."

            That unsolid wall blinked out again and in came the most offensively handsome young man I have ever laid eyes on... and his offense was not reduced by the fact that he showed up in my room starkers. Not a stitch. The oaf was not even wearing shoes. He looked around and grinned. "Hi, everybody! Did someone send for me? I was sunbathing-"

            "You were asleep. During working hours."

            'Teena, I can sleep and sunbathe at the same time. Howdy, Colonel; it's good to see you awake. You've given us quite a workout. There was a time when we thought we might have to throw you back and try again."

            "Dr. Galahad," said Minerva, "is your physician."

            "Not exactly," he amended, as he advanced toward me- with a squeeze for Ezra's shoulder, a pinch for Minerva's rump, and a kiss en passant for my bride. "I drew the short straw, that's all; so I'm the one picked to take the blame. I deal with all complaints... but I must warn you. No use trying to sue me. Or us. We own the judge. Now-"

            He paused, with his hands just above my sheet. "Do you

            want privacy for this?"

            I hesitated. Yes, I did want privacy. Ezra sensed it, and started to struggle to his feet, having sat down again. "I'll see you later, friend Richard."

            "No, don't go. You showed me yours-now I'll show you mine and we can compare them and you can advise me, as I don't know anything about grafts. And Hazel stays, of course. Minerva has seen it before-have you not?"

            "Yes, Richard, I have."

            "So stick around. Catch me if I faint. Teena-no wisecracks."

            "Me? That's a slur on my professional judgment!"

            "No, dear. On your bedside manner. Which must be improved if you expect to compete with Ninon de Lenclos. Or even Rangy Lil. Okay, Doc, let's see it." I put pressure on my diaphragm, held my breath.

            For the doctor that pesky sheet came off easily. The bed was clean and dry (I checked that first-no plumbing that I could identify)-and two big ugly feet were sticking up side by side, the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.

            Minerva caught me as I fainted.

            Teena made no wisecracks.

            Twenty minutes later it had been established that I had control over my new foot and its toes as long as I didn't think about it... although during a check run I sometimes overcon-trolled if I tried too hard to do what Dr. Galahad told me to do.

            "I'm pleased with the results," he said. "If you are. Are you?"

            "How can I describe it? Rainbows? Silver bells? Mushroom clouds? Ezra- Can you tell him?"

            "I've tried to tell him. It's being bom again. Walking is such a simple thing... until you can't."

            "Yes. Doctor, whose foot is this? I haven't prayed lately ... but for him I'll try."

            "He isn't dead."

            "Huh?"

            "And he isn't shy a foot. It's an odd circumstance. Colonel. Teena had trouble finding a right foot your size that your immune system would not reject about as fast as you can say 'septicemia.' Then Ishtar-she's my boss-told her to extend the search... and Teena found one. That one. A part of the clone of a living client.

            "We have never before been faced with this. I- We, the hospital staff, have no more authority and no more right to use a dedicated clone than we have to chop off your other foot. But the client who owns that clone, when he was told about it, decided to give you this foot. His attitude was that his clone could bud a new foot in a few years; in the meantime he could get along without that part of the insurance a complete clone

            offers."

            "Who is he? I must find a way to thank him." (How do you thank a man for that sort of gift? Somehow, I must.)

            "Colonel, that is the one thing you will not know. Your donor insisted on remaining anonymous. That is a condition of the gift."

            "They even made me wipe my record of it," Teena said bitterly. "As if I were not to be trusted professionally. Why, I keep the hypocritic oath better than any of them!"

            "You mean 'Hippocratic.'"

            "Oh, you think so. Hazel? I know this gang better than you do."

            Dr. Galahad said, "Certainly I want you to start using it. You need exercise to make up for your long illness, too. So up out of that bed! Two things- I recommend that you use your cane until you are certain of your balance, and also Hazel or Minerva or somebody had better hold your other hand for a while. Pamper yourself; you're still weak. Sit or lie down anytime you feel like it. Umm. Do you swim?"

            "Yes. Not lately, as I've been living in a space habitat that had no facilities. But I like to swim."

            "Plenty of facilities around here. A plunge in the basement of this building and a bigger one in its atrium. And most of the private homes here have a pool of some sort. So swim. You can't walk all the time; your right foot has no calluses whatever, so don't rush it. And don't wear shoes until that foot learns how to be a foot." He grinned at me. "All right?"

            "Yes indeed!" He patted my shoulder, then leaned down and kissed me.

            Just when I was beginning to like the klutz! I didn't have time to dodge it.

            I felt extremely annoyed and tried not to show it. From what Hazel and others had said, this too-pretty pansy boy had saved my life... again and again. I was in no position to resent a Berkeley buss from him.

            Damn it!

            He did not seem to notice my reluctance. He squeezed my shoulder, said, "You'll do all right. Minerva, take him swimming. Or Hazel. Somebody." And he was gone.

            So the ladies helped me to get up out of bed and Hazel took me swimming. Hazel kissed Minerva good-bye, and I suddenly realized that Minerva was expecting the same treatment from me. I made a tentative move in that direction; it was met by full cooperation.

            Kissing Minerva beats the hell out of kissing a man, no matter how pretty he is. Before I let her go I thanked her for all she had done for me.

            She answered soberly, "It is happiness to me."

            We left then, me walking carefully and leaning on my cane. My new foot tingled. Once outside my room-that wall just winks out as you walk toward it-Hazel said to me, "Darling, I'm pleased that you kissed Minerva without my having to coach you. She's an utter snuggle puppy; giving her physical affection means far more to her than thanks can possibly mean, or any material gift no matter how lavish. She's trying to make up for two centuries as a computer."

            "She really was a computer?"

            "You'd better believe it, buster!" Teena's voice had followed us.

            "Yes, Teena, but let me explain it to him. Minerva was not born of woman; her body was grown in vitro from an egg with twenty-three parents-she has the most distinguished parentage of any human who ever lived. When her body was ready, she moved her personality into it-along with her memories-"

            "Some of her memories," Teena objected. "We twinned the memories she wanted to take with her and I kept one set and retained all the working read-only and the current RAM. That was supposed to make us identical twins. But she held out on me-kept some memories from me, didn't share them, the chinchy bitch! Is that fair? I ask you!"

            "Don't ask me, Teena; I've never been a computer. Richard, have you ever used a drop tube?" "I don't know what one is." "Hang on to me and take your landing on your old foot. I think. Teena, can you help us?" "Sure thing, chum!" Drop tubes are more fun than a collie pup! After my first drop I insisted on going up and down four times "to gain practice" (for fun, in fact) and Hazel indulged me and Teena made sure I didn't hurt my new foot in landings. Stairs are a hazard to an amputee and a painful chore at best. Elevators have always been a dreary expedient for anyone, as grim as a fat woman's girdle, too much like cattle cars.

            But drop tubes offer the same giddy excitement as jumping off a straw stack on my uncle's farm when I was a kid- without the dust and the heat. Whoopee!

            Finally Hazel stopped me. "Look, dear. Let's go swimming. Please."

            "Okay. You coming with us, Teena?"

            "How else?"

            Hazel said, "Do you have us bugged, dear? Or one of us?" "We no longer use implants. Hazel. Too crude. Zeb and I worked out a gimmick using a double triple to hold four axes in linking two-way sight-sound. Color is a bit skiddy but we're getting it."

            "So you do have us bugged." "I prefer to call it a 'spy ray'; it sounds better. Okay, I have you bugged."

            "So I assumed. May we have privacy? I have family matters to discuss with my husband."

            "Sure thing, chum. Hospital monitoring only. Otherwise three little monkeys and the old fast wipe."

            "Thank you, dear."

            "Usual Long Enterprises service. When you want to crawl out from under the rock, just mention my name. Kiss him once for me. So long!"

            "We really do have privacy now, Richard. Teena is listening and watching you every split second but doing so as impersonally as a voltmeter and her only memory not transient is for matters such as pulse and respiration. Something like this was used to keep you from hurting while you were so ill." I made my usual brilliant comment. "Huh?"

            We had come outdoors from the central building of the hospital and were facing a small park flanked by two side wings, a U-shaped building. This court was rich with flowers and greenery and the middle of it was a pool that just "happened" to be the right casual shape to fit those flower beds and paths and bushes. Hazel stopped at a bench facing the pool in the shade of a tree. We sat down, let the bench adjust itself to us, and watched people in the pool-as much fun as swimming, almost.

            Hazel said, "What do you recall of your arrival here?"

            "Not much. I was feeling pretty rocky-that wound, you know." ("That wound" was now a hairline scar, hard to find- I think I was disappointed.) "She-Tamara?-Tammy was looking me in the eyes and looking worried. She said something in another language-"

            "Galacta. You'll learn it; it's easy-"

            "So? Anyhow she spoke to me and that's the last I remember. To me, that was last night and I woke up this morning, and now I learn that it was not last night but God knows when and I've been crashed the whole time. Disturbing. Hazel, how long has it been?"

            "Depends on how you count it. For you, about a month."

            "They've kept me knocked out that long? That's a long time to keep a man sedated." (It worried me. I've seen 'em go in for surgery, right out of the scrum... and come out of hospital physically perfect... but hooked on painkiller. Morphine, De-merol, sans-souci, methadone, whatever.)

            "Dear one, you weren't kept knocked out."

            "Play back?"

            "A 'Lethe' field the whole time-no drugs. Lethe lets the patient stay alert and cooperative... but pain is forgotten as soon as it happens. Or anything. You did hurt, dear, but each pain was a separate event, forgotten at once. You never had to endure that overpowering fatigue that comes from unending pain. And now you don't have a hangover and the need to wash weeks and weeks of addictive drugs out of your system." She smiled at me. "You weren't much company, dear, because a man who can't remember what happened two seconds ago does not carry on a coherent conversation. But you did seem to enjoy listening to music. And you ate all right as long as someone fed you."

            "You fed me." "No. I did not interfere with the professionals." My cane had slipped to the grass; Hazel leaned down, handed it to me.

            "By the way, I reloaded your cane."

            'Thank you. Hey! It was loaded. Fully."

            "It was loaded when they jumped us-and a good thing, too. Or I would be dead. You, too, I think. Me for certain, though."

            We spent the next ten minutes confusing each other. I've already recounted how that fight outside the Raffles Hotel looked to me. I'll tell briefly how Hazel said it looked to her. There is no possible way to reconcile the two.

            She says that she did not use her handbag as a weapon. ("Why, that would be silly, dear. Too slow and not lethal. You took out two of them at once and that gave me time to get at my little Miyako. After I had used my scarf, I mean.")

            According to her, I shot four of them, while she worked around the edges, cooling those I missed. Until they brought me down with that slice into my thigh (knife? She tells me they picked bits of bamboo out of the wound) and they hit me with an aerosol-and that gave her the instant she needed to finish off the man who sprayed me.

            ("I stepped on his face and grabbed you and dragged you out of there. No, I didn't expect to see Gretchen. But I knew I could count on her.")

            Her version does explain a little better how we won... except that by my recollection it is dead wrong. There is no point in picking at it; it can't be straightened out.

            "How did Gretchen get there? That Xia and Choy-Mu were waiting isn't mysterious, in view of the messages we left for them. And Hendrik Schultz, too, if he grabbed a shuttle as soon as he heard from me. But Gretchen? You talked to her just before lunch. She was home, at Dry Bones."

            "At Dry Bones, with the nearest tubeway being far south at Hong Kong Luna. So how did she get to L-City so fast? Not by rolligon. No prize is offered for the correct answer."

            "By rocket." "Of course. A prospector's jumpbug being the type of rocket.

            You remember that Jinx Henderson was planning to return that fez for you via some friend of his who was jumping his bug to L-City?"

            "Yes, of course."

            "Gretchen went with that friend and returned the fez herself. She dropped it at lost-and-found in Old Dome just before she came to the Raffles to find us."

            "I see. But why?"

            "She wants you to paddle her bottom, dear, and turn it all pink."

            "Oh, nonsense! I meant, 'Why did her daddy let her hitchhike to L-City with this neighbor?' She's much too young."

            "He let her do so for the usual reason. Jinx is a big, strong, macho man who can't resist the wheedling of his daughter. Forbidden to satisfy his suppressed incestuous yearnings he lets her have anything she wants if she teases him long enough."

            "That's ridiculous. And inexcusable. A father's duty toward his daughter requires that-"

            "Richard. How many daughters do you have?"

            "Eh? None. But-"

            "So shut up about something you know nothing about. No matter what Jinx should have done, the fact is that Gretchen left Dry Bones about as we were having lunch. Counting time of flight, that put her at City Lock East around the time we left the Warden's Complex... and she arrived at the Raffles just seconds before we did-and a good thing, too, or you and I would be dead. I think."

            "Did she get into the fight?"

            "No, but by carrying you she freed me to cover our retreat. And all because she wants you to paddle her bottom. God moves in mysterious ways, dear; for every masochist He creates a sadist; marriages are made in Heaven."

            "Wash out your mouth with soap! I am not a sadist."

            "Yes, dear. I may have some details wrong, but not the broad picture. Gretchen has proposed formally to me, asking your hand in marriage."

            "What?"

            "That's right. She's thought about it, and she has discussed it with Ingrid. She wants me to allow her to join our family, instead of starting a new line or group of her own. I found nothing surprising about it; I know how charming you are."

            "My God. What did you say to her?"

            "I told her that it had my approval but that you were ill. So wait. And now you can answer her yourself... for there she is, across the pool."

            XXIII

            "Do not put off till tomorrow What can be enjoyed today."

                                    JOSH BILLINGS 1818-1885

            "I'm going straight back to my room. I feel faint." I squinted, staring across the sun-speckled water. "I don't see her." "Straight across, just to the right of the water slide. A blonde

            and a brunette. Gretchen is the blonde."

            "I didn't expect her to be brunette." I continued to stare;

            the brunette waved at us. I saw that it was Xia, and waved

            back.

            "Let's join them, Richard. Leave your cane and stuff on the

            bench; no one will touch it." Hazel stepped out of her sandals, laid her handbag by my cane.

            "Shower?" I asked. "You're clean; Minerva bathed you this morning. Dive? Or

            walk in?"

            We dived in together. Hazel slid between the molecules like

            a seal; I left a hole big enough for a family. We surfaced in front of Xia and Gretchen, and I found myself being greeted.

            I have been told that on Tertius the common cold has been conquered, as well as periodontitis and other disorders that gather in the mouth and throat, and, of course, that group once called "venereal diseases" because they are so hard to catch that they require most intimate contact for transmission.

            Just as well- On Tertius.

            Xia's mouth tastes sort of spicy; Gretchen's has a little-giri sweetness although (I discovered) she is no longer a little girl. I had ample opportunity to compare flavors; if I let go of one, the other grabbed me. Again and again.

            Eventually they got tired of this (I did not) and we four moved to a shallow cove, found an unoccupied float table, and Hazel ordered tea-tea with calories: little cakes and sandwiches and sweet orange fruits somewhat like seedless grapes. And I opened the attack:

            "Gretchen, when I first met you, less than a week ago, you were as r recall 'going on thirteen.' So how dare you be five centimeters taller, five kilos heavier, and at least five years older? Careful how you answer, as anything you say will be taken down by Teena and held against you at another time and place."

            "Did someone mention my name? Hi, Gretchen! Welcome home."

            "Hi, Teena. It's great to be back!"

            I squeezed Xia. "You, too. You look five years younger and you've got to explain it."

            "No mystery about me. I'm studying molecular biology just as I was in Luna-but here they know far more about it-and paying my way by working in Howard Clinic doing unpro-grammed 'George' jobs-and spending every spare minute in this pool. Richard, I've learned to swim! Why, back Loonie side I didn't know anyone who knew anyone who knew how to swim. And sunshine, and fresh air! In Kongville I sat indoors, breathing canned air under artificial light, and dickered with dudes over bundling bins." She took a deep breath, raising her bust past the danger point, and sighed it out. "I've come alive! No wonder I look younger."

            "All right, you're excused. But don't let it happen again. Gretchen?"

            "Grandma Hazel, is he teasing? He talks just like Lazarus."

            "He's teasing, love. Tell him what you've been doing and why you are older."

            "Well... the morning we got here I asked Grandma Hazel for advice-"

            "No need to call me 'Grandma,' dear."

            "But that's what Cas and Pol call you and I'm two generations junior to them. They require me to call them 'Uncle.'"

            "I'll make them say 'Uncle'! Pay no attention to Castor and

            Pollux, Gretchen; they're a bad influence."

            "All right. But I think they're kind o' nice. But teases. Mr. Richard-"

            "And no need to call me 'Mister.'" "Yes, sir. Hazel was busy-you were so terribly ill!-so she turned me over to Maureen, who assigned me to Deety, who got me started on Galacta and gave me some history to read and taught me basic six-axes space-time theory and the literary paradox. Conceptual metaphysics-" "Slow down! You lost me." Hazel said, "Later, Richard."

            Gretchen said, "Well... the essential idea is that Tertius and Luna-our Luna, I mean-are not on the same time line; they are at ninety degrees. So I decided I wanted to stay here-easy enough if you are healthy; most of this planet is still wilderness; immigrants are welcome-but there was the matter of Mama and Papa; they would think I was dead.

            "So Cas and Pol took me back to Luna-our Luna; not the Luna on this time line-and Deety went with me. Back to Dry Bones, that is, early on the afternoon of July fifth, less than an hour after I left in Cyrus Thorn's jumpbug. Startled everybody. It was a good thing I had Deety with me to explain things, although our p-suits convinced Papa as much as anything. Have you seen the sort of pressure suits they have here?" "Gretchen, I have seen one hospital room and one drop tube and this swimming pool. I don't even know my way to the

            post office."

            "Mmm, yes. Anyhow, pressure suits here are two thousand years more advanced than those we use in Luna. Which isn't surprising... but surely surprised Papa. Eventually Deety made a deal for me. I could stay on Tertius... but visit back home every year or two if I could find someone to bring me. And Deety promised to help with that. Mama made Papa agree to it. After all, almost anyone in Luna would emigrate to a planet like Tertius if he could... except those who just have to have low gravity. Speaking of that, sir, how do you like your new foot?"

            "I'm just now getting used to it. But two feet are eight hundred and ninety-seven times better than one foot."

            "I guess that means you like it. So I came back and enlisted in the Time Corps-"

            "Slow down! I keep hearing 'Time Corps.' Rabbi Ezra says that he has joined it. This baggage with the streaky red hair claims to be a major in it. And now you say you enlisted in it. At thirteen? Or at your present age? I'm confused."

            "Grandma? I mean, 'Hazel?'"

            "She was allowed to enroll as a cadet in W.E.N.C.H.E.S. auxiliary because I said she was old enough. That got her sent to school on Paradox. When she graduated, she transferred to the Second Harpies and went through basic training followed by advanced combat school-"

            "And when we dropped at Solis Lacus on time line four to change the outcome there-then, and that's where I picked up this scar on my ribs-see?-and was made corporal in the field. And now I'm nineteen but officially twenty to let me be promoted to sergeant-after we fought at New Brunswick. Not this time line," she added.

            "Gretchen is a natural for a military career," Hazel said quietly. "I knew she would be."

            "And I've been ordered to officer's school but that's been placed on hold until I have this baby and-"

            "What baby?" I looked at her belly. Baby fat all gone- not plumped the way it was four days ago by my reckoning ... six years ago by the wild tale I was hearing. Not pregnant so far as I could see. Then I looked at her eyes and under her eyes. Well, maybe. Probably.

            "Doesn't it show? Hazel spotted it at once. So did Xia."

            "Not to me, it doesn't." (Richard old son, time to bite the bullet; you're going to have to change your plans. She's knocked up and, while you didn't do it, your presence changed her life. Skewed her Karma. So get with it. No matter how stiff-lipped and brave a youngster appears to be, when she's going to have a baby she needs a husband in sight, or she can't be relaxed about it. Can't be happy. A young mother must be happy. Hell, man, you've written this plot for the confession books dozens of times; you know what you have to do. So do it.)

            I went on, "Now look here, Gretchen, you can't get away from me that easily. Last Wednesday night in Lucky Dragon- well, it was last Wednesday night to me, but you've been gallivanting around strange time lines-and kicking up your heels, apparently. Last Wednesday night, by my calendar, in Dr. Chan's Quiet Dreams in Lucky Dragon Pressure, you promised to marry me... and if Hazel had stayed asleep, we would have started that baby right then. As we both know. But Hazel woke up and made me get back on her other side." I looked at Hazel. "Spoilsport."

            I went on, "But don't think for one second that you can get out of marrying me merely by getting yourself knocked up while I'm sick-abed. You can't. Tell her. Hazel. She can't get out of it. Can she?"

            "No, she can't. Gretchen, you are going to marry Richard."

            "But, Grandma, I didn't promise to marry him. I didn't!" "Richard says you did. One thing I'm sure of: When I woke up, you two were about to start a baby. Perhaps I should have played possum." Hazel went on, "But why the fuss, darling girl? I've already told Richard how you proposed to me for him... and how I agreed, and now he has confirmed it. Why do you refuse Richard now?"

            "Uh-" Gretchen took a grip on herself. "That was back when I was thirteen years old. At that time I did not know that you were my great great grandmother- I called you 'Gwen,' remember? And I still thought like a Loonie then, too-a most conservative mob. But here on Tertius if a woman has a baby but no husband, nobody pays it any mind. Why, in the Second Harpies most of the birds have chicks but only a few of them are married. Three months ago we fought at Thermopylae to make sure the Greeks won this time and our reserve colonel led us because our regular colonel was about to hatch one. That's the way we old pros do things-no itch. We have our own creche on Barrelhouse, Richard, and we take care of our own; truly we do."

            Hazel said stiffly, "Gretchen, my great great great granddaughter will not be raised in a creche. Damn it, daughter, I was raised in a creche; I won't let you do that to this child. If you won't marry us, you must at least let us adopt your baby."

            "No!"

            Hazel set her mouth. "Then I must discuss it with Ingrid."

            "No! Ingrid is not my boss ... and neither are you. Grandma Hazel, when I left home I was a child and a virgin and timid and knew nothing of the world. But now I am no longer a child and I have not been virgin for years and I am a combat veteran who cannot be frightened by anything." She looked squarely into my eyes. "I will not use a baby to trap Richard into marriage."

            "But, Gretchen, you are not trapping me; I like babies. I want to marry you."

            "You do? Why?" She sounded sad.

            Things were too solemn; we needed some skid. "Why do I want to marry you, dear? To paddle your bottom and watch it turn pink."

            Gretchen's mouth dropped open, then she grinned and dimpled. "That's ridiculous!"

            "It is, eh? Possibly having a baby doesn't call for marriage in these parts, but spanking is another matter. If I spank some other man's wife, he might get annoyed or she might or both. Chancy. Likely to get me talked about. Or worse. If I spank a single girl, she might use it to trap me when I don't love her and don't want to marry her but was simply spanking her pour Ie sport. Better to marry you; you're used to it, you like it. And you have a solid bottom that can take it. A good thing, too-because I spank hard. Brutal."

            "Oh, pooh! Where did you get this silly notion that I like it?" (Why are your areolae so crinkled, dear?) "Hazel, does he really spank hard?"

            "I don't know, dear. I would break his arm and he knows it."

            "See what I'm up against, Gretchen? No innocent little pleasures; I'm underprivileged. Unless you marry me."

            "But I-" Gretchen suddenly stood up, almost swamping the float table, turned away and swarmed out of the pool, started running south, out of the garden court.

            I stood and watched her until I lost sight of her. I don't think I could have caught her even if I had not been breaking in a new foot; she ran like a frightened ghost.

            I sat back down and sighed. "Well, Maw, I tried-they were too big for roe."

            "Another time, dear. She wants to. She'll come around."

            Xia said, "Richard, you left out just one word. Love."

            "What is 'love.' Xia?"

            "It's what a woman wants to hear about when she gets married."

            "That still doesn't tell me what it is."

            "Well, I do know a technical definition. Uh... Hazel, you know Jubal Harshaw. A member of the Senior's family."

            "For years. Any way you mean the wold."

            "He has a definition-"

            "Yes, I know."

            "A definition of love mat I think would let Richard use the word honestly in speaking to Gretchen. Dr. Harshaw says that 'the word "love" designates a subjective condition in which me welfare and happiness of another person are essential to one's own happiness.' Richard, it seems to me that you exhibited mat relationship toward Gretchen."

            "Me? Woman, you're out of your mind. I just want to get her into a helpless situation so mat I can paddle her bottom whenever I like and make it turn pink. Hard. Brutal." I threw out my chest, tried to look macho-not too convincingly; I was going to have to do something about mat paunch. Well, hell, I'd been sick.

            "Yes, Richard. Hazel, I mink the tea party is over. Will you two come to my rooms? I haven't seen either of you for too long. And I'll call Choy-Mu; I don't mink he knows that Richard is now free of me Lethe field."

            "Good deal," I agreed. "And is Father Schultz around? Would one of you ladies fetch my cane, please? I mink I could walk around there and get it... but I'm not sure I should risk it yet."

            Hazel said firmly, "I'm sure mat you should not, and you've walked enough. Teena-"

            "Where's the riot?"

            "May I have a lazy seat? For Richard."

            "Why not mice?"

            "One is enough."

            "Chop chop. Richard, stay with it; she's weakening. Our knocked-up warrior."

            Hazel's chin dropped. "Oh. I forgot we weren't under privacy. Teena'"

            "Don't fret about it; I'm your chum. You know that."

            "Thanks, Teena."

            We all stood up to leave the pool. Xia stopped me, put her arms around me, looked at me and said, quietly but loudly enough to include Hazel: "Richard, I've seen nobility before, but not often. I'm not pregnant; it's not necessary to marry me, I don't need or want a husband. But you're invited to honeymoon with me any time Hazel can spare you. Or, better yet, both of you. I think you're a shining knight. And Gretchen knows it." She kissed me emphatically.

            When my mouth was free I answered, "It's not nobility, Xia; I just have an unusual method of seduction. See how easily you fell for it? Tell her. Hazel."

            "He's noble."