The Golden Globe by John VarleyJohn Varley
THE GOLDEN GLOBE
 
ACT 1
"I once played Romeo and Juliet as a one-man show," I said. "Doubling with 
Mercutio won't be a problem."
The curtain was already up, and Dahlia Smithsonour fair sun, the snowy dove 
trouping with crows, the rich jewel in the Ethiop's earhad yet to appear 
backstage. This was not a surprise. The last two nights we'd had to winch her 
loveliness into the balcony and tie her down to keep her from falling out.
"You're out of your mind," shouted Larry "The Leech" Crocker, our 
producer-director-stage manager: the wax in the Ethiop's ear. He was bug-eyed 
with fury, trembling, drenched in sweat... and the picture of calm composure 
next to Dee, the assistant stage manager, who kept pushing Larry's ragged script 
away from her as if it might bite.
There had been talk of bringing in an understudy in view of La Smithson's recent 
behavior, but this was not the Schubert Traveling Shows, ladies and germs, this 
was The Crocker Players, and if you haven't heard of them it's probably because 
you live within a parsec of civilization. We were chronically undercapitalized 
(read "dirt-poor") and it fell to the ASM to understudy all the female roles. 
And while I'm sure Dee would have provided yeoman service as Ladies Montague or 
Capulet, and could probably have taken a creditable swing at the Nurse, the 
prospect of Juliet had turned her pale green.
"I don't know all the lines," Dee wailed.
"See?" I said. "She doesn't know the part."
"You're crazy," Larry exploded. "Aren't they onstage at the same time?"
"Mercutio and Juliet never meet," I said. "I know you've put Mercutio at the 
Capulets' party, but the Bard doesn't demand it, and it can be solved by letting 
the Prince wear my costume in the scene. Mercutio is masked, and has no lines. 
However"and I cupped my ear to the stage"you'd better make up your mind. Scene 
two is about to begin, and Juliet is in three. I'll need a little time."
"You're crazy," Larry the Leech muttered again, then jerked his head toward the 
dressing rooms.
"You'll never regret this," I said.
"I regret it already."
* * *
This being a Crocker show, it goes without saying that we were a lot more than 
forty-five minutes from Broadway. Hell, we were just about forty-five hours from 
Pluto. That's how long it had taken my last message to my agent to reach the 
System, and an equal time for the news to reach me that he wasn't answering his 
phone. No big surprise there; I'd been "on the road," as it were, for almost ten 
years now, and my agent hadn't been answering when I left. (The question I'd 
wanted him to answer? Simple, really: "Who booked me into this toilet?")
The plumbing fixture in question was know as Brementon. Who knows why? Humans 
have this need to name everything, no matter how little that thing may deserve 
it. When I saw the name on the travel itinerary it brought to mind a peaceful 
little hamlet. German, perhaps. Happy burghers in lederhosen, smiling frauleins 
in dirndls and pigtails and wooden shoes, cottages draped in swastika bunting. 
In reality, if they'd added "Maximum Security Prison" to the place's name they'd 
have been closer to the truth. About a quarter of it was a prison. We hadn't 
seen that part as yet, but if it was worse than the rest of the place, the mind 
reeled. B-town, as the players came to call it, could have provided the very 
definition of the word "boondock," except that the stop before B-town had 
actually been called Boondocks.
Brementon was a random collection of junk, natural and artificial, welded 
together in the cometary zone and pressed into service as a "City" by the 
escaped criminals, madmen, perverts, and other misfits who liked to call 
themselves Outlanders. Brementon, Boondocks, and ten thousand other similar 
wandering junkyards constituted the most far-flung "community" humanity had ever 
known.
As to where it was, that was something that could have mattered only to a 
celestial navigator. Upon arrival I'd looked for the Sun, and it took a while to 
find it. We were due to pass within ten billion miles of it in only four 
thousand years; to an Outlander, that qualified as a near miss.
It was tough to say how big Brementon was. Much of it was tied together with 
cables and hoses and it tended to drift around. If you'd grabbed two ends and 
yanked hard you might have stretched it out twenty kilometers or more, but you'd 
never get it unsnarled again. When I first saw it from the ship it presented a 
rude circular form about five kay across, like some demented globular cluster, 
or a picture of a spaceship a few seconds after a disastrous explosion.
One small part of this orbiting traffic-accident-in-progress was a silvery 
sphere called the Brementon Playhouse. It was tied to a counterbalancing ball 
containing the municipal sewer works, which gives a fair idea of the high esteem 
Outlanders held for The Arts. The balls rotated around a common center of 
gravity. The result was that we didn't have to play Shakespeare in free fall, as 
we'd done at Boondocks and several previous engagements. Friends, Romans, 
countrymen, throw me a tie-down! Talk about your theater in the round.
But enough about Brementon. Let's talk about me.
I raced up the spiral stairs in the wings and slammed into Dahlia's dressing 
room. I paused for just a second there, breathing the intoxicating air of the 
headliner. I'd hate to say how long it had been since I'd rated a private 
dressing room. I caressed the back of Juliet's chair, then pulled it back and 
sat in front of the light-girdled mirror and gazed into my face and centered 
myself.
I'd never actually done Juliet before. No point in telling Larry that. (The 
one-man show? A comic skit, really, with quick changes, slapstick, clown faces, 
and japery, lasting twenty minutes when I was really rolling.) No point in 
worrying him; I knew the part. But line reading is just the starting point, of 
course. You must get inside the character. All good acting is played from 
within. I had about five minutes.
It's not enough time, of course. It wouldn't have been enough even if I'd been 
able to use it to do nothing but think about the part. As it was, I'd need every 
minute to accomplish the physical transformation. But I did use the mental time 
to go back over the many, many performances of Juliet I had seen, going right 
back to Norma Shearer in 1936. As my mind ranged back over Juliets of the past, 
taking a bit of business here, a word emphasis there, my hands were busy 
changing hatchet-faced Mercutio into a visage with cheek to shame the fairest 
stars in all the heavens.
Once I had my own face. Well, I still have it, of course, the specs are 
somewhere in my trunk, the copyright number SSCO-5-441-J54902. It's a good face, 
and served me well in the trade for almost thirty years. But it became the 
wisest course not to use it.
Thirty years ago, with unaccustomed money in my pocket following a long and 
successful run, I invested in every makeup gadget then known to mankind. This 
required, among other things, that my entire head be taken apart and rebuilt. My 
body harbors enough tech wizardry to qualify as a public nuisance. Radios spit 
static when I walk by. Compasses are thrown off true. But when the part calls 
for a full-body alteration in a hurry, I'm your guy. Or gal, as the case may be.
My first appearance was a logistical nuisance, really. Juliet says, "It is an 
honor that I dream not" when asked if she wants to be married. To which the 
nurse hoots, "An honour! Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst 
suck'd wisdom from thy teat." A guaranteed laugh line, which dear sweet Angeline 
Atkins vamped outrageously, as she did the entire role.
The problem was that the next scene, Act One, scene four, was Mercutio's chance 
to shine. What to do, what to do?
First things first. I struggled into the costume, stuffing padding in the 
appropriate places. Luckily, the skirt reached all the way to the floor.
I pulled on a black wig, quickly combed it out, and then picked up the 
Masque-Aid. It's a nice little gadget consisting of two parts. The first is a 
thin plastic tube with a snap connector on the end. I fastened this to a 
matching connector hidden behind my left ear, turned it on, and heard the high 
hiss as air began to flow through it. The second part is a styling wand, which 
looks like a pencil with a broad, flat head. Both units are connected to a 
control console and a switching system buried in my cheekbone. I pressed the 
flat end of the wand to my face and got to work.
There's nothing real fancy about the wand itself. It contains a powerful magnet 
that rotates when I press a button with my thumb. When I put it in the right 
position it causes surgically implanted magnets to turn, which then turn 
screws... which slowly cause various bones or groups of bones to move apart or 
closer together.
I can vary the distance between my eyes. I can lengthen my jawbone, raise and 
lower my cheekbones. I can create a brow ridge. In five minutes I can be 
Quasimodo or Marilyn Monroe.
That's the base. The air hose was taking care of the rest. There are twenty 
little air bags embedded in my facial skin. Suck them all dry and I look like 
Death. Fill them up: Fatty Arbuckle.
The only problem with all this stage magic is it can hurt if done rapidly. 
Depending on how much I had to do, the pain could be like a mild toothache or a 
severe beating.
No one ever told me art would be painless.
* * *
I was brushing pink spots onto my cheeks when someone began frantically pounding 
on the dressing room door. "One minute!" Dee called.
"I'll be there." I slashed two bold eyebrows with strokes of a pencil, looked at 
myself critically one last time. I tasted blood, dabbed at a tooth with a towel, 
smiled broadly at myself in the mirror.
Larry was waiting for me in the wings, and I savored the expression of 
bafflement as I approached him. Beyond, Romeo and Benvolio were onstage, the 
curtain about to come down on the scene. Larry grabbed my arm.
"Listen, babe," he whispered, staring intently into my eyes. "You can't let us 
down. We're all counting on you, every last one of us. I know it's been a tough 
road. I know I've been hard on you, but I did it because I knew you had 
something, darling, some magical quality you can't buy in a store. I want you to 
go out there and knock 'em dead. When you come back, I want you to come back a 
star!"
"For pity's sake, Larry, get a grip on yourself." He stood there blinking for a 
moment.
"Sorry. I just always wanted to say that, that's all."
"Well, I'm glad it's out of your system."
From the stage: "What, lamb! What ladybird! God forbid!where's this girl?what, 
Juliet!"
Christ, that was my cue!
"How now, who calls?" It came out in a kind of croak, but at least it was a 
high-pitched croak. Lady Capulet and the Nurse looked at me strangely, but 
soldiered bravely on through one of the less interesting scenes in Shakespeare, 
all about Lammas-eve and other things of minimal importance to a modern 
audience. I let it all drone over me and concentrated on my vocal cords, which, 
in the rush, I had neglected to tune. I hummed softly to myself, earning a few 
sharp looks from Angeline. Finally I thought I had it, and just in time, too.
"It is an honour that I dream not of." Strange. I was sure I'd heard that voice 
before. Lady Capulet had her back to the audience... my god, she was stifling a 
laugh! I played the line back in my head. Blanche DuBois! I was using the same 
voice I'd last employed in our production of Streetcar.
I frantically cast back through the female roles of my career, looking for 
something I could slip on like a comfortable shoe. A voice, a voice. My kingdom 
for a voice!
"Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?"
And I said, "I'll look to like, if looking liking move." Damn, that one sounded 
familiar, too. "But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives 
strength to make it fly." Great Caesar's ghost! That was Natalie Wood with a bad 
Puerto Rican accent! My review of Juliets past had led me down a cinematic 
byway.
Maybe if I broke into a chorus of "I Feel Pretty" no one would notice.
* * *
I had no time to lose. Exeunt all, curtain down, curtain up, enter Romeo, 
Mercutio, Benvolio, Maskers, Torchbearers, and others. I stood in the wings and 
went through a transmogrification that would have had Henry Jekyll green with 
envy while the company entered and stalled, as they'd been warned to do, until I 
was ready for my entrance.
Off with the dress. Off with the wig. And no time at all for a session in front 
of the mirror, this has to be quick, so with a wince very like a man in front of 
a firing squad, I jammed my face into a plastic mask and pressed the reset 
button on the Masque-Aid control console.
I don't recommend this. What happened next felt like I imagine having all your 
teeth removed at once might feelif you had five hundred teeth.
The machine went back to square one, at warp speed. In ten seconds I was 
Mercutio.
The scene went well. In it, I wax fey about Queen Mab, the fairies' midwife. 
Somehow my pain and disorientation made the lines less stilted than they usually 
seemed, less a flight of fancy and more an oration of deep meaning to Mercutio, 
a complex and difficult character. By the end of it, when Romeo calms me down, I 
was weeping unfeigned tears, shaking with emotion.
It is Larry's theory that Romeo and Mercutio were homosexual lovers. He makes it 
explicit by having Mercutio kiss Romeo after the line "Turning his face to the 
dew-dropped south." It is a good-bye kiss, presaging the upcoming assault on 
Romeo's heart by fair Juliet, and a prescient surrender at the same time. 
Myself, I have no opinions in the matter. I think it's too tough for a person of 
our age to really imagine what homosexuality was like in a pre-Changing time. 
But the scene played well. The curtain rang down to long applause.
And thank god for that, because I don't know if I could have faced the 
retransformation ahead of me without that sound to buoy me up.
Dee and Larry were arguing about something as I came off. Dee shouted at Larry 
to shut upwhich turned a few headsand grabbed my arm and pulled me to the 
stairs.
"I've got you five minutes to change," she said, hauling me along. "I'm 
replacing you in the dance, and we're doing two choruses. You'll enter, stage 
left, across from Romeo, while Capulet is talking. I'll cue you."
"I know the spot," I said. "Thanks." I kissed her forehead and entered my 
dressing room. Elwood was there waiting for me. I nodded to him and collapsed in 
my chair.
"There's talk of deleting the first scene in the second act," he said. Elwood is 
a tall man who likes to wear period clothing that hangs on his lanky body like 
billowing sails. He looks just like Jimmy Stewart.
"That would help a lot," I said. The styling wand was whirring quietly in my 
hand and Juliet's face was taking shape in the mirror. Elwood sat in a chair 
beside me and stretched out.
"Yeah, but it sort of cuts the legs out from under Mercutio."
Of course it did, and I didn't need Elwood to tell me. The scene had Mercutio 
growing increasingly frantic in his search for Romeo, who, we all know, was by 
then deep in enemy territory and ready to deny his father and refuse his name. 
Cut it, and Mercutio would look silly in scene four.
"This talk," I said, shrugging Juliet's costume over my clothes. "Who's saying 
it?"
"Oh, I hear things," Elwood said, with a shrug. Which is all I'd ever get out of 
him.
I didn't want to cut it. I'd hired on to play Mercutio, and I meant to play him 
well. And I'd promised Larry I could double the parts, and I meant to do that, 
too. But Mercutio exits at the very end of scene one and Juliet appears on the 
balcony at the very start of scene two. If it was only a matter of more pain I'd 
do it willingly, but for this appearance of Juliet I had to have the whole 
change and I just didn't know if it could be done in a minute.
There are air bladders in my body, too. I plugged the hose fitting from the 
Masque-Aid into a socket (never mind where; you could search me pretty 
thoroughly and probably not find it), and warm saline began pumping.
Juliet was thirteen. She had to be covered in baby fat. She needed a slim waist. 
She needed boobs, and a bottom.
Those last two would have to wait, as they'd look passing strange under 
Mercutio's tights and jerkin.
Dee was knocking on my door.
* * *
I got through the dance without mishap, and without the voice of Blanche, praise 
all the muses. I don't know where the voice I used came from, but it was 
suitable to a love-struck teenager.
Then off and wrench my face back during the short intermission between acts, 
then Mercutio's plaintive search for Romeo... then I was tearing backstage, 
tearing off Mercutio's clothes, slapping my face into the Masque-Aid while Dee 
plugged in the saline hose... and she was the only witness to what may have been 
the fastest sex change since Roy Rogers gelded Trigger.
A couple of pints quickly produced a pair of breasts fit for peace to dwell in. 
Ditto the behind; no sense overdoing it in either place. Suck out a little more 
juice from the waist, swell the hip, and voila!
Only one small detail to attend to. Well, not that small.
The penis is just skin covering two blood-filled chambers. With the proper 
operation those chambers can be pulled back into the body, sort of like pulling 
a sock inside out. Extrude it and you're the leading man. Pull it back in for 
the ingenue effect. Do it several times quickly and you'll be popular at your 
next orgy.
My father would have been proud. I came off that stage Mercutio, and appeared 
sixty seconds later on the balcony, Juliet.
* * *
"With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls," said Romeo, tearing off 
his shirt. "For stony limits cannot hold love out: And what love can do, that 
dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me." He kissed me as I 
shrugged out of my own shirt.
"If they do see thee, they will murder thee." I was breathing hard now. "Alack, 
there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords. Look thou but 
sweet, and I am proof against their enmity." Dropping the Montague britches as 
he spoke to reveal not hand, not foot, nor arm nor face, but another part 
belonging to a man. A fair sun, arising! He came into my arms and we fell back 
together on the bed.
"I would not for the world they saw thee here." Kissing him again. "I have 
night's cloak to hide me from their sight; and, but thou love me, let them find 
me here: my life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued wanting of 
thy love." And so, into the sex scene.
Yes, I hear you, all you purists out there. What can I say? Given my own 
druthers, I'd druther do it the traditional way, too. Passionate kisses, 
doe-eyed looks. But the public demands realismespecially in a backwater like 
Brementonand that's what they get.
Or that's what they were supposed to get. A minute into the naked embrace, I 
began to wonder if Romeo had read the same script I had. His bud of love, which 
by summer's ripening breath should by then have proved a beauteous flower, had 
proved too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, It 
lightens. In a word, impotency.
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Inconstant moon, that monthly changes 
in her circled orb, thy love has proved likewise variable.
When I had a chance to reflect on it later, the reason for his trouble was 
obvious. It's the obvious problems most people overlook. Romeo had an odd sexual 
quirk. He was a dedicated heterosexual.
I realize they're common enough in the general population, but they are rare in 
the thespian community. Hell, I'm practically one myself, except on the stage. 
Perhaps that's why no one really understood that when it came to the sticking 
point, as it were, his will would fail him. None of us really understood the 
serpentine logic of his particular perversion.
As a male hetero, he could only get aroused by a female. And though I now gave 
every evidence of that gender, he had known me as Mercutio, and that's what I 
stayed, in his mind.
I can laugh at it now. It's become one of those theatrical disaster stories we 
all love to tell each other, like the prop telephone that rings at the wrong 
time. (Solution? Pick it up, listen for a moment, then hold it out to your worst 
enemy and announce, "It's for you.")
There was nothing funny about it at the time.
You wouldn't have known it from the audience reaction, however. They were 
laughing. It's one of the worst sounds you can hear in my business: laughter 
when you haven't made a joke.
But if you're getting laughs, it's best to keep getting them until you figure 
out what else to do. Rising from the bed and stalking naked around the stage, I 
became Kate, shrew of Padua.
"Nay, then, I will not go today. No, nor tomorrow, nor till I please myself. The 
door is open, sir; there lies your way. You may be jogging while your boots are 
green; for me, I'll not be gone till I please myself. 'Tis like you'll prove a 
jolly surly groom, that take it on you at the first so roundly." Suiting action 
to the word, a frustrated woman trying to please herself.
Romeo sat disconsolately on the edge of the bed, hunting The Taming of the Shrew 
for an appropriate comeback. He looked up at me. "Why does the world report that 
Juliet doth limp?" he said. "O slanderous world!"
We tossed lines back and forth for a while. The laughter gradually fadednot 
because they were taking us seriously, but because we could stretch this 
situation only so far. I had no idea how to salvage it.
Suddenly Romeo jumped from the bed. He embraced me with one arm, his free hand 
rubbing his buttocks. And I felt his interest begin to rise.
Dee had procured a drug banned on most worlds because of extreme hazard to the 
male recipient: they often hurt themselves attempting sexual congress with 
electric light sockets and household pets. She had crawled under the bed and 
jabbed a needle right through the foam rubber.
"Now, Juliet," he said, "I am a husband for your turn. For by this light, 
whereby I see thy beautythy beauty that doth make me like thee wellthou must 
be married to no man but me. We will have rings, and things, and fine array. And 
kiss me, KaJuliet, we will be married on Sunday."
And so, at long last, to bed. Where he performed like a trouper and, as if in an 
effort to make up, tried to jump me again while we were singing the second verse 
of "Tonight."
* * *
And at long last, a scene I wasn't in.
While Romeo poured out his heart to Friar Lawrence (and, this performance only, 
tried to hump the Friar's leg), I staggered back to my dressing room with a full 
ten minutes to change back to Mercutio. And who should I find there but Dahlia 
Smithson, by now neither rich jewel, fair sun, nor snowy dove. I'd say she was 
closer to an envious moon, sick and pale. That which we call a rose would smell 
of gin. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! See how her eyes, twinkling 
in their spheres, bulge from her head as she points to me and says, "What the 
fuck are you doing in here, in my costume?"
She bent over and threw up on the floor.
Well, it wasn't my problem, was it? I opened the door and yelled for Larry. Then 
I sat at the mirror and did what I'd have been doing with or without Dahlia's 
reappearance: I turned myself back into Mercutio.
* * *
Dahlia Smithson was the only name with any star power in our motley cast. She 
was a fading star (you can't drink that much, miss that many shows, without 
entering a steady and inevitable decline), but her name above the titles of our 
little repertory was all that had drawn the working capital for this marathon 
mission to bring culture to the hinterlands. Did Larry have the nerve to fire 
her? Not a chance.
So I sang, "Farewell, ancient lady, farewelllady, lady, lady," left the Nurse 
with Romeo, and hurried backstage with three or four minutes to perform my 
penultimate Capuletizationnot knowing if it would be needed, half hoping it 
wouldn't.
At first it seemed the problem had solved itself. Dahlia was stretched out on 
the couch, limp as Romeo's willie. Larry, lavender with terror, and Dee, purple 
with rage, were both tiptoeing around the room.
And Dahlia demonstrated the true resilience of the longtime alcoholic by 
springing from her resting place and shrieking like something out of Act One of 
the Scottish play. She was getting her second wind.
"You can't do this to me, you pusillanimous toad," she cursed. "And you! You 
ridiculous old ham! How dare you stab me in the back like this? Can't get a 
starring role any other way but stealing it from your betters, is that it? You 
polymorphous, talentless, scenery-chewing, ass-kissing sorry excuse for a 
has-been actor! I'll get you. I'll show you, all of you." She stormed from the 
room, but her voice drifted back. "I'll get you all!"
"And your little dog, too!" I cackled. Dee laughed nervously, but not Larry. He 
sank into a chair, eyes staring blindly into the distance, where I don't doubt 
he saw his profits flying. Well, really. Has-been actor, indeed!
* * *
I stumbled through the end of Act Two, re-Mercutivated myself, and shambled out 
into the public square to meet my doom. By then I was a little delirious with 
the pain. I began to see an actual dusty street in Verona swimming in and out of 
view. I think it was the one from the Zeffirelli production. I frankly think I 
outdid myself in the swordplay that followed. I damn sure gave a hell of a 
performance after I was stabbed. I looked down at my woundnot so deep as a 
well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serveand realized 
that in the confusion I'd forgotten to have the target area numbed. In one side 
and out the back the sword had gone, and damn me but the sucker hurt!
"Help me, Benvolio," I said, "or I shall faint. A plague on both your houses! 
They have made worm's meat of me." And never, dear hearts, were those words 
uttered in a more heartfelt manner.
Some artists can only work when all is calm about them. I seem to thrive on 
disorder. The worse things get, the more strongly my craft asserts itself. By 
Act Four I was solidly in the role. I was Juliet. Cast members began to come up 
to me in the wings and whisper encouragement and congratulations. It meant very 
little to me; I was living the next scene already.
But at one point I did become aware of a tall, broad-shouldered man holding out 
a piece of paper to Dee, who was looking at it and shaking her head. He moved on 
to Friar Lawrence and Paris, who were awaiting their entrance. Paris frowned at 
the paper, shrugged and shook his head, and went on. The fellow drifted over to 
me.
"Excuse me," he said, in a voice like sandpaper on a bass fiddle. "I'm looking 
for a man by the name of Kenneth C. Valentine."
"And who might you be?"
He produced a private detective's license which alleged his name was Manuel P. 
Garcia, and that he was authorized by the principality of Brementonan 
autonomous region of the great Outland Free Stateto issue bail bonds, apprehend 
fugitives, conduct investigations, carry a nonnuclear weapon, and in general 
skulk, lurk, pussyfoot, slink, creep, and lie in ambush. What it really meant 
was he'd been thrown off the Brementon police force and was eking out a living 
the only way he knew how.
"Is he in trouble again?" I asked.
"I just need to talk to him, lady. Do you know where he lives?"
"Right now, in the same hotel with the rest of us. Look, I'm sort of busy here. 
But I know who might be able to help you." I grabbed my makeup bag from its 
emergency perch in the wings and rummaged through it. "His name is Dowd. Elwood 
P. Dowd. Here, let me give you one of his cards." I handed it to him. "Now if 
you want to call him use that number, not this one. That number is the old one. 
Or you can hang around for the curtain. I'm sure Mr. Valentine will show up 
then."
I went out on the stage, fuming. God alone knew what Sparky Valentine had been 
up to this time. He was always in trouble of one sort or another. Having him 
hauled off into court would cause the production a lot of trouble.
* * *
"Yea, noise?" I whispered. I felt a steely resolve building within me. I could 
barely see for the tears streaming down my face. "Then I'll be brief. O happy 
dagger! This is thy sheath." I plunged it into my breast. "There rest, and let 
me die." I collapsed across Romeo's prostrate body and felt the total relaxation 
of death steal over me. God, was I good.
I could actually hear sobs from the audience, that group of tough, semiliterate 
Outlanders. Well, it may be the saddest story ever told. It's been making people 
weep for six hundred years.
Could real death be any more peaceful than this? Could an actor get so far into 
a role as to actually die onstage? I'm not saying I felt death, but I had been 
so deep in Juliet that some reasonable imitation had taken me. I did not want to 
open my eyes. I did not wish to get up. When the curtain came down they had to 
lift me off of Romeo and carry me into the wings.
I was alive enough to take my bows. They'll have to screw me into a real coffin 
before I miss that. The applause was deafening.
* * *
Unfortunately I wasn't able to stick around for the second curtain call. I 
hurried up the stairs to the dressing room, where Elwood had my trunk already 
packed. We wrestled it into the elevator and rode up to the weightless, 
centrifugal hub, took a moving beltway to a taxi dock, and a taxi to the 
spaceport, where a high-gee was boosting for Pluto in one hour.
It was a nervous hour, but soon I could see Brementon dwindling on the ship's 
rear screen, and relaxed for the first time since the curtain rose.
For you see, I am K. C. Valentine. But call me Sparky; all my friends do.
* * *
Judy was hollering something about Brick and Skipper, so Punch shouted back.
"You shut up or I'm gonna hit you with this crutch!"
But Judy never shuts up. So Punch started whaling away.
That's not the way it's written, but sometimes you have to punch up a play here 
and there if it lacks action. For a long time I'd stuck faithfully to the 
classical Punch and Judy repertoire, putting on everything from The Brigand 
Chief to Vendetta, or The Corsican's Revenge. After you've spent three or four 
weeks staring up Judy's skirt at her wide, flat butt, you get a little desperate 
to try some new material.
Now Maggie was shouting something about no-neck monsters, which didn't sit well 
with Dixie. They began to tussle back and forth across the stage. Judy got the 
upper hand and flung Dixie out into the audience. (I could see fifteen people 
through the peephole in the curtain; it was the best I'd done all day.)
Even if I could have held my hands above my head for three hours, no one but 
vagrants was going to stick around that long. Street theater is meant to be 
performed for people with a little time to kill while going from one place to 
another. Thirty minutes is about tops. Fifteen is a lot better. So Henry VI 
parts one, two, and three was right out. A Midsummer Night's Dream had gone over 
fairly well, as had King Lear. The critics had been cool to Cyrano, for some 
reason; with all the swordplay, I'd thought it a natural. All the above had 
needed a little pruning here and there, of course. But my last performance had 
left me a little cool to the Bard. I moved on to musical comedy. It turned out 
Punch and Judy were naturals at it. The children loved the songs, and the adults 
liked the jokes. I began alternating My Fair Lady with Sondheim's Sweeney Todd 
and managed to keep myself diverted for two weeks.
"I'm not dyin' of cancer, Gooper. It's nothing but a spastic colon."
"Of course not, Big Daddy. Have you made out your will yet?"
That's right. It was Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, with Punch and Judy as Brick and 
Maggie, the Devil as Big Daddy, the Crocodile as Big Mama, Toby the Dog as 
Gooper, and Hector the Horse as Sister Woman. And featuring Tennessee Williams 
as Man Spinning in Grave. Don't cry for me, Mississippi.
* * *
I don't know how many times Punch and Judy have saved my bacon. For an itinerant 
thespian, the skills of the Punchman can be a heaven-sent alternative to a life 
of crime, or worse, honest work.
It costs nothing. I have carefully preserved in my trunk six character heads 
made for me many years ago by a fan. But I make new ones regularly from 
papier-mache, the ingredients for which can be mined from garbage bins behind 
any large food store. For paints, go to a flea market, engage an artist in 
conversation, and soon you will have the use of a palette and brushes. Costumes 
can be made from scraps begged from a dressmaker, or scrounged from dustbins, if 
you're handy with a needle and thread. Any actor who is not handy with a needle 
and thread needs to get out and see the real world more often.
There is a standard plastic packing crate you will locate easily if you haunt 
the delivery ways backing a mall. Sticks or stiff wire will make a frame to 
support the box above your head. Cut a hole in front, paint the proscenium with 
gay finials, arabesques, and dadoes. Now attach the curtain to the bottom edges 
of the box. If you can't find enough scraps, use your bedroll. Presto! You've 
just made a castelli, or swazzle-box, which, if you didn't know, is a curtained 
enclosure the size of a shower stall, with the Punch and Judy stage above it.
As my father used to say, "If you've got some ham, play Hamlet."
And I'd reply, "If you lay an egg, scramble it."
Thus we dined on many a meal of ham and eggs. And in the process, I learned how 
to make something out of nothing.
* * *
"I do love you, Brick. I do!" said Judy.
"Wouldn't it be funny if that was true?"
I pressed on the pedal with one foot, causing the music to swell to a climax, 
and as Brick went into Maggie's arms I bit the cork dangling at my left and 
yanked the stage curtain closed.
There was applause, so I pulled the cord on the other side and opened the 
curtain again, slapping Punch and Judy down into the character rack in front of 
me, jamming my hands into Hector and the black glove I use to handle Toby, 
holding them up to take their bows. Toby yapped excitedly, dangling from his 
harness, six kilos of French ham. He's the only dog I ever knew who preferred 
plaudits to provender. I dropped him to the floor along with his bucket. He 
picked it up and ducked under the curtain to work the crowd.
The Crocodile, the Devil, then Punch and Judy. If a Punchman ever figured how to 
let the whole cast take bows at once, I never heard of it. I'll continue to 
bring them on in pairs until I grow another arm. I put my eye to the judas and 
saw the crowd had grown to perhaps two dozen. Toby trotted from one to another 
in his ruffled collar and pointed hat, holding out the bucket, barking if he 
didn't think enough was dropped into it, walking on his hind legs for the really 
hard cases, doing a back flip for the big spenders. Nobody can turn a tip like 
Toby.
I pulled the curtain closed and waited awhile. Lots of puppeteers reveal 
themselves at the end, take a bow of their own. I don't approve of it. My hands 
have done the performing. No need to break the spell. Let them go their separate 
ways with visions of brightly painted imps dancing in their sugarplum heads.
While I waited I reached into my mouth and popped out the silver swazzle. I 
always get a warm feeling when I handle it. It's nearly three hundred years old, 
and was given to me by my father. Families used to pass along expensive pocket 
watches, father to son. In my family, it was the swazzle.
It's a simple device. This one had been hammered from two coins, shaped to fit 
into the roof of the mouth. The two pieces were wired together, and between them 
was... well, I'm not going to tell you. Swazzle-making was a closely guarded 
secret among Punchmen for centuries, and though I'm sure no one cares today, it 
just wouldn't feel right to spill the beans. But I can say it works something 
like a kazoo. With the swazzle in your mouth (and with a lot of practice) you 
can make that distinctive Punch twang/buzz/screech, like no other sound I've 
ever heard.
Everybody swallows the swazzle at least once while learning the trade. Getting 
it back is one of the prices you pay. Nobody ever told me art would be painless.
Toby stuck his nose under the curtain and set his pail at my feet. I lifted the 
castelli from its sockets in my belt, shrugged the curtain over my shoulders, 
and set the box on the floor, inverted. All the puppets fit neatly inside, and 
the curtain folded over it. (The curtain was also my sleeping bag, but since the 
bag is edged with gold braid and patterned in a comedy/tragedy mask motif, few 
ever suspected.) As I was doing this Toby nipped at my sleeve. When I frowned at 
him he looked off to his left, where my following gaze discovered a uniformed 
policeman leaning against a wall and twirling his nightstick at the end of a 
leather thong.
"Box, Toby," I said, and the dog leaped in on top of the curtain. I lifted it 
and walked past the flatfoot.
"Top o' the mornin' to you, Officer," I said, tipping my hat. He nodded, still 
regarding me thoughtfully, probably comparing my face with the ones he'd 
studied, pinned to the precinct wall, at the start of his shift. With any luck, 
he wouldn't make a match.
Or he could have been deciding whether or not to brace me on the matter of a 
performance permit, or a puppeteer's license, or a canine registration, or any 
of the thousand other forms citizens see fit to employ to harass people like me. 
I had no idea if any of the above were required here; it had been a long time 
since I'd been on this planet. I remembered it as reasonably loose, easygoing, 
even a little eccentric, like its orbit. But if history teaches us anything it 
is that frontiers become settled, then set, then rigidly bureaucratized, and the 
more bureaucrats there are, the more laws are needed to keep them fed. I hadn't 
been here in many years. It was time enough for lawyers to have sucked the blood 
from this society.
"Hey, you," said the minion of law and order. They are two of the most dreaded 
words I know, when coming from a blue suit. Well, Sparky, you can play deaf, you 
can play innocent, or you can run. But can you hide? I turned, and gave him Tom 
Sawyer. He made a poor Aunt Becky.
I barely got my hand up in time to snag the spinning coin that was coming my 
way.
"Good show," he said. A patron of the arts, a possibility I hadn't considered. 
"Nice dog, too," he added.
"Bless you, guv'nor," I said, tipping my hat again. "Punch thanks you, Judy 
thanks you, my dog thanks you, and I thank you."
And I sauntered away down the central promenade of a mall that could have been 
on Mercury, could have been on Mars, but happened to be on Pluto. Civilization 
at last.
* * *
The high-gee transport in which I made my hasty exit from Brementon was called 
the Guy Fawkes, following an Outlander tradition of naming their vessels after 
famous rogues. Fawkes was a Norwegian, I believe, who invented some sort of 
explosive. Our trip outward had been aboard the Quisling.
Ships in the outlands fell into three categories, I learned on the long inbound 
voyage. There were the medium-sized "hoppers" that served local city clusters 
and returned to Pluto or the Neptunian moons every decade or so. The Quisling 
(named, if I recall, after someone involved in rigging game shows in the early 
days of television), or Big Q as we called her, was one of these. She had 
started her days as an inner planet cruise ship, but had been obsolete for that 
purpose for a century. And she was showing her age.
Then there were the vast, slow cargo carriers, unmanned, that might take seventy 
or eighty years to reach the markets on Mars or Mercury. You know, I never did 
find out what it was they carried. You know something else? I never did really 
care. What I do know is it must be very valuable, and it must be found nowhere 
else. There's no other possible explanation for people being in the outlands in 
the first place. I postulate they were shaving the tails off comets. What else 
is out there?
And last, there were the "zipper" ships, small and fast, like the Guy. The Guy 
Fawkes was infinitely superior to the Big Q in one area, and that was velocity. 
In every other way, it suffered.
Certainly, the Quisling's staterooms smelled bad. Sure, the food was 
indifferently prepared and usually cold. Yes, the whole cast did come down with 
an infestation of fleas just short of Boondocks. The tiny bars of soap crumbled 
in your handif you could get the rusty water to flow in your shower in the 
first placeand the toilets muttered menacingly all night and flooded on some 
sort of lunar cycle. Ah, but a smelly stateroom is better than no room at all. 
The toilets were unreliable, but they were there, one to a room. There's an old 
joke about one actor turning to another and commenting on how terrible the food 
is in this hotel. To which the other replies, "Yes, and such small portions." 
I'd never really appreciated it until boarding the Guy. Soon I was thinking of 
my cantankerous toilet on the Quisling with real nostalgia: a poor thing, but 
mine own. There was one toilet on the Guy, for 150 passengers. There had been 
two, but one had exploded a few months before. That's right, I said exploded. 
You could still see blood stains on the ceiling above it. I'll say this: it 
reduced the waiting time. Most of us stalled until we were dancing, then sort of 
hovered over it, alert for any premonitory gurgle. Which proved to be a good 
idea, as one brave soul who actually sat became the victim of a "transient 
pressure deficit," a term I wrote down as soon as the captain told us, it being 
the best euphemism for vacuuma word spacers avoidI'd heard in my many years in 
space. If you want to know what happened, I propose an experiment for the 
curious student. Drop a few burning matches into a beer bottle, then set a 
hard-boiled egg over the mouth. We pried for fifteen minutes before we could get 
him loose. He described the experience as "like an enema in reverse" and 
improvised a bedpan for the rest of the trip, as did most everyone else.
I know it's in mighty poor taste to dwell at length on such a subject. Normally 
I wouldn't, but nothing else could so quickly and succinctly give you a picture 
of conditions aboard the Guy. It had all the stinks, fleas, cockroaches, rats, 
and rusty water the Quisling did, and it was crammed into a much smaller space. 
It had worse food, and not enough of it. We slept on drawers that rolled in and 
out of the wall like slabs in a morgue. This put you about a foot away from your 
neighbors on each side, above, and below, and gave you a unique opportunity for 
research into the sounds and smells of a class of humanity most people never get 
to meet.
I did mention that much of Brementon was a prison colony, didn't I? Then it 
stands to reason that more than half my fellow passengers were parolees, or 
people who had finished their terms. Mostly the latter, as Brementon didn't get 
a lot of the sort anybody would ever trust on parole. So night after night I lay 
there and listened to conversations that would curl your hair, and to other, 
involuntary sounds polite society tries to pretend don't exist. So that's what a 
man who murdered his mother sounds like when he farts. Interesting. And that 
smell, that's the dirty socks of a ritual cannibal.
"It's all material, Dodger," my father used to say when events had brought us to 
a particularly perilous pass. "You can use all of this. Next time you have to 
play despair, why, you can just think back to this." And he'd smile, and pinch 
my cheek.
I said "night after night," but that's misleading, too. Of course, there is no 
night in space, particularly out where we were. And my sleep period was not even 
ship's night. We shared the bunks, you see, in eight-hour shifts. And if you 
think the linen got changed between shifts you haven't been listening. I don't 
think the linen got changed between flights.
And while I've got the chance, I'd like to complain to the management about that 
transit time of six months. Is this any way to run a railroad? What we did was 
blast at an ungodly acceleration for what seemed like days (they swore it was 
more like hours), and then we coasted the entire trip, until it was time to slow 
down at Pluto. I tried complaining to the captain, but he was exasperating about 
it, as spacers always are. Trying to tell me it was more "economical" to use all 
our reaction mass in one big kick, as hard as we could stand it, and then 
another one at the end. I ask you, does that make sense? Wouldn't it be better 
to boost at a sane, comfortable one gee until we got halfway there, then do the 
same thing slowing down? Or if we didn't have enough fuel for that (I'll admit 
I'm a bit vague on some of the details), at least spread the acceleration out. 
It stands to reason we'd build up more speed that way, and I'm sure we'd get 
there more rapidly. I'm convinced we were cheated. I shall write my 
congressperson, really I shall.
Because the kicker to the whole sorry mess was that, for all that uncomfortable 
"economy," we ended up paying an eighty percent surcharge on our tickets! As if 
that third-rate cattle car were some crack liner! And what did we get for our 
money? Bone-breaking jackrabbit starts and stops, and six months of free fall 
with no soap or showers.
That eighty percent fee almost killed me. After beating a hasty retreat from the 
Playhouse, thinking the hounds were literally nipping at my heels, I trundled my 
trunk into the spaceport secure in the knowledge that I had a confirmed booking 
on the next ship out, which was the Fawkes. Out of long habit I had made such a 
reservation, in Elwood's name, on every ship that was scheduled to leave 
Brementon. This wasn't much of a chore, as Bremen-ton was not King City 
Interplanetary; arrivals and departures were at an average rate of one every 
three days. At more civilized facilities I would memorize flight schedules for a 
selection of possible emergency destinations. At Brementon, it was take it or 
leave it.
One precept my father put right up there with "always cut the cards" was never 
to embark on a road trip without your return ticket in your pocket. If you were 
my best friend, and came to me swearing that without the loan of a fiver your 
dear sweet mother would die of a horrible disease, and all I had in my pocket 
was my return ticket, I would look you in the eye and swear I was penniless. I 
would cheerfully listen to the old broad croak her last, secure in the knowledge 
I'd done the right thing.
So I thought I was in good shape when I slapped my ticket down on the counter, 
trying not to look over my shoulder, and that's when I was let in on the closely 
guarded secret (actually, it was buried in the fine print when I looked, later) 
that sent me scrambling to my purse to discover that, even with gold fillings in 
my teeth, I couldn't do better than sixty percent. Not, that is, until I 
recalled the antique diamond brooch I'd discovered only the day before, 
carelessly and shamefully neglected upon Dahlia Smithson's dresser top. I'd just 
been passing by in the corridor, honest, when the thing seemed to call out to 
me. I feel that when you own something as fine as that you are obligated to be 
more careful with it. I'd meant to tell her that, too, but events intervened, 
and here I was shy a bit of cash, so there was nothing for it but to sell the 
brooch to a larcenous ticket agent for a twentieth of what it would have fetched 
in any pawnshop in Luna.
All this, mind you, when Larry held a tidy sum in his accounts, two weeks' pay, 
that rightly should have come to me but which I was by then powerless to 
collect. I gnashed my teeth, leveled a mighty curse on the ticket agent, his 
heirs and assigns unto the seventh generation, and boarded ship.
This is why I debarked at Lowell Interplanetary with three dollars and a set of 
Punch and Judy dolls.
You're probably wondering just what the private detective wanted to talk to me 
about. I know I was, though I didn't dwell on it. There's nothing to be gained 
by that, and certainly nothing to be gained by sticking around to find out. It 
was sheer luck he came searching for "Mercutio," armed with his picture from the 
playbill, and that the poor boy was by then a grave man. Fortune doesn't smile 
so brightly on me every day, and when she does I don't insult her by asking a 
lot of questions.
But I'll admit, I did wonder. Was it that business on Boondocks? I swear, I 
didn't know the girl was the governor's daughter.
* * *
This mall that happened to be on Pluto was called Cerberus Place, and that name 
forces me to admit that, though a mall is a mall is a mall, this one couldn't 
really be on Mars or Mercury. Not unless the Martian or Mercurian mall was 
attempting a Plutonian look.
It is a major failing of modern society, to my mind, that most of the inhabited 
planets don't have a style of their own. Oh, there are minor differences, of 
course, a few things here and there that would lead you to believe you were on 
Miranda and not on Luna. Mostly these are in the category of monuments, tourist 
attractions. As on Old Earth the Statue of Liberty was emblematic of New York, 
the Eiffel Tower meant Paris. There was no Lunar look, as there had been a 
Japanese, or a Danish, or Mexican or Nigerian look. No one would be walking 
around in "Lunarian" costume, living in Lunarian buildings, doing Lunarian folk 
dances in their peculiarly Lunarian steel shoes. Cultural and stylistic 
differences were dealt a death blow by the Invasion, which left only one human 
ethos really viable. That culture has been called Techno-English by its 
admirers, Judeo/Anglo/Cyber/NASA/Caucasian and much less flattering combinations 
by those who love it less. Certainly the Techno-part was indispensable; people 
who didn't take their machines seriously soon found themselves gulping vacuum.
Pluto was the exception to the rule of uniformity. The first thing you noticed 
was that there was a definite, strong Plutonian accent. Other planets had slight 
differences in word choice and pronunciations. Plutonians (or Stygians, or 
Hadeans, as they sometimes called themselves) spoke with a pronounced twang that 
could be indecipherable to the untrained ear.
Then there was the architecture. There was a distinct Hadean style, most 
pronounced in older structures. The remarkable thing was that a Hadean style 
existed at all. Its reason for being lay in Pluto's unique historical place 
among the Eight Worlds. For its first century of human habitation, it had been a 
prison planet.
There's a deep urge in the human soul to send the bad people as far away as 
possible from "decent folk." On Earth, Australia was a prime example. 
Post-Invasion, Pluto seemed to fit the bill, and today, it's Brementon. If 
society succeeds in pushing criminals any farther, we'll find we have achieved 
star travel. I don't know what Australia was like. Probably a fairly awful place 
for urban transportees. In the case of Pluto, the urge for distant exile was 
purely a psychological one. Living in one place where the atmosphere is inimical 
or nonexistent is pretty much like living in any other. You burrow underground, 
you husband your oxygen, you struggle to grow things you can eat, you bear and 
raise children. As time goes by, all these things get easier. Who really cares 
if the struggle is on Luna or on Pluto?
Obviously, the early Lunarian voters did. They sent their prisoners there by the 
thousands over the decades. There must have been a lot of self-righteous 
satisfaction in shipping your incorrigibles off to a place that was a synonym 
for hell.
Like remote prison colonies before it, Pluto had developed a convict/citizen 
society. Sentences were always for life, but could be served behind bars, in 
labor camps, or in relative freedom, depending on the offense. But even the 
"free" prisoners despised the guard class and the ruling elite, a social 
division that survives, in some respects, to this very day. The place is run, by 
and large, by descendants of criminals. But the richest families trace 
themselves back to the Regents, as they call themselves. Or "screws," as 
everyone else knows them.
Had enough history for today? Hold on, I'm almost through. The Hadeans, as many 
downtrodden people had before them, eventually made being outcasts a source of 
pride. Send us to Hell, will you? All right, we'll glory in it. We'll be 
hellcats, hellhounds, and hellions. We'll be hellacious hellraisers, hellborn 
and hellbred.
Aesthetically, the Plutonian style embraced the colors red and 
blackexcessively, to my eye. Shapes were massive, and tended to loom. Fire was 
a frequent motif, stone a frequent building material. Hadeans were big on 
obsidian. There was something vaguely Egyptian to it all... if the Pharaohs had 
painted their temples glossy black, with crimson highlights.
Philosophically, the obsession with all things Abyssal led to the founding of 
one of the two great religions established since the Invasion: Diabolism.
Morally, the combination of distance, banishment, and rebellion (the result, I'd 
always felt, of a planetary inferiority complex) had formed a society viewed as 
permissive in a milieu not noted for social constraints. It was easier to murder 
someone on Pluto, for instance, than anyplace in the system. You could mount a 
valid defense based on a legal principle the locals summed up as "He needed 
killin'," and if you could prove it, not even pay a fine to your victim's 
survivors.
And practically, the interactions of frontier vigor, strong competitive 
instincts, a neurotic impulse to prove oneself better than one's rivals, and 
something hardly known elsewhere in the systema solid work ethichad produced a 
civilization perpetually nipping at the heels of those old-line bastions, those 
stuffier, more comfortable, and much more smug rival claimants to the mantle of 
Center of Humanity: Luna and Mars.
* * *
So it was through these infernal environs I trudged after my last show of the 
day. And I do mean trudged; Pluto's gravity is not much, but I'd been in free 
fall a very long time and didn't have my ground legs back yet. When you add in 
the fact that I'd been standing in the castelli for almost six hours with only a 
few rests, you get one tired polymorphous, scenery-chewing, talentless, sorry 
excuse for a has-been actor.
Six months later, and that still stung!
But I wouldn't think about that now. I'd think about it tomorrow.
Toby had very little sympathy for the pains human flesh is heir to. He trotted 
along five or six steps ahead of me, pausing every ten or fifteen seconds to 
look back, impatient but too polite to say anything.
Toby? That's right, you haven't really been introduced, yet, have you?
I picked him up at a theatrical supply shop, it must be forty-five, fifty years 
ago. Toby comes from a line of show folk almost as long as my own. He's a Bichon 
Frise, in theory, which is French for "curly lapdog." His forebears capered in 
the court of the Sun King. They fared no better in the French Revolution than 
the Bourbons themselves, and afterward eked out a living in the circus ring. 
Like many other dog breeds, they were wiped out in the Invasion, revived during 
the following century from the Genetic Library, and in Toby's case, extensively 
tinkered with in the process.
He looks just like a standard pre-Invasion Bichon, which is to say he is covered 
with fleecy white curly hair, has beady black eyes set in a head like the 
puffball of a dandelion. When combed out and groomed he looks much bigger than 
he really is, which is about fourteen inches tall. Somewhere in his chromosomes 
are genes that evolved in squirrels before being snipped out and pasted into the 
canine species. This enables him to hibernate, with the proper chemical 
stimulus.
He doesn't seem to grow any older while he's hibernating. This, and a bit more 
genetic high jinks, accounts for his good health at such an extreme age. And 
there's something else in the mix. Some say it's monkey genes, some whisper that 
it's humanbut that, of course, would be illegal, so I'm sure it's not true. 
Ahem. Whatever the source, he does have a remarkable brain. He learns very 
quickly, responds to over two hundred verbal commands and about as many 
gestures, and has even demonstrated initiative and discrimination, as when he 
recognized the idling cop as a possible source of trouble. On the other hand, 
being from a line of actors, he might have inherited that ability honestly. He 
tolerates costumes of all sorts. He knows his part in twenty-five Punch and Judy 
plays and learns his cues in new shows with no more than two rehearsals. He can 
prance all day on his hind legs, climb ladders, walk a tightrope, jump through a 
hoop of fire. He gets horribly depressed if the show bombs and would walk by a 
raw sirloin to steal that extra bow. In short, a trouper down to his little 
toenails.
He's also something of a mathematical whiz, being able to count to five. I know 
this to be true because numbers six and above confuse and depress him. He'll 
worry for hours about the difference between a pile of six coins and a pile of 
eight coins. Ask him which is larger and he'll mope all day. But he can make 
change for a nickel.
I've often thought that, with just double the IQ, he could master the decimal 
system and become a stockbroker.
I counted the day's take as we strolled the eighteenth promenade of Cerberus 
Place, and realized this was going to be a big day for us.
"Looks like we've got enough, Toby," I said. "With a few shekels left over for 
some dinner." He understood only the last word of that, but he understood that 
word very well, and turned a back flip in celebration. Then he led me to the 
pushcart on the nineteenth level, no doubt recalling how we'd had to pass it by 
the evening before, a terrible day for the theater. I bought two hot pretzels 
and two steaming, juicy bratwurst on sourdough buns, slathering mustard, relish, 
and a little sauerkraut on the latter. I cajoled the vendor into giving us a cup 
of water and a plastic bowl, then carried the whole glorious mess to a nearby 
picnic table, where we sat down, just like citizens, and had our evening's 
repast.
Well, I sat. Toby stood on the table and watched me cut the brat with my 
pocketknife and put the slices in the plastic bowl. I added a dab of the pickle 
relish and more of the mustard.
"Is that enough mustard?" I asked him, and he barked once. "Enough" was the key 
word there; I don't think he knew "mustard." He knew he liked it, you 
understand. He just wouldn't recognize the word if I said it to him. Toby likes 
mustard, can deal with relish, prefers to leave the sauerkraut alone.
The one bark, you may have figured out, meant "yes." One for yes, two for no. 
Can you count to two, boys and girls?
"Too bad there's no wine, eh, Toby?" He didn't answer, too busy with his little 
muzzle in the bowl, chowing down. And I wasn't really complaining. For weeks 
we'd had mostly rice cakes. Twice I'd splurged on a jar of peanut butter. The 
brats were straight from heaven.
The business day was winding down around us. Cerberus Place was not a big mall, 
just another dozen levels above us, possibly half a mile across and two miles 
long. It looked to have been a natural surface feature at one time, roofed over, 
pressurized, heated, then terraced like a farmer contour plowing, tunneled, 
excavated, paved, lighted, landscaped, painted, decorated, and presto! Open for 
business. What nightlife there was seemed to be concentrated on the upper 
levels. Down here on the nineteenth the stores were closed, a few employees 
locking the doors and trudging off to the slideways, patrolbots and a few human 
security guards making their entrances. The vendor had shut down his grill and 
wheeled his cart away. Toby and I were left with the little pocket park to 
ourselves. I gazed out over the mall as I ate, registering nothing really novel. 
The floor was a manicured park, with tidy trees and streetlights lining the 
walking paths, a little railroad running around the edges. There were half a 
dozen freestanding apartment buildings in the park, all fifteen stories high, 
all mounted on turntables so the residents had ever-changing views. Rents would 
be high in those sparkling jewel boxes.
I could see a little amusement park down there. A carousel turned, the horses 
bobbing up and down with no one riding them. For some reason it made me sad.
We finished our meal. I poured a little water in Toby's dish and let him lap it 
up. He had mustard stains around his mouth, so I wet part of my handkerchief and 
dabbed at him until he was clean, then combed the hair on his head until it 
stood out as it was supposed to. He never trusts me on that; he began to bark, 
so I sighed and took out the small hand mirror and held it up for him. He 
studied his image until he was satisfied he was in a fit state to meet his 
public, then graciously allowed me to carry the wrappings to a garbage can.
Two of the human security guards had paused as they walked by our table. A 
person alone is suspicious to the cop mind. Two people together, of course, are 
probably planning something. Three is a gang, and five is a riot waiting to 
happen. You can't win. Can you count to five, Officer?
We set off for the Outland Lines freight office.
* * *
The second thing I hadn't counted on in my journey from Brementon to Pluto, 
after the eighty percent surcharge, was the new Wandering Thespian Harassment 
Assessment Fee. They didn't call it that, naturallysome bullshit about a 
Spaceport Improvement Luggage Excisebut that was the effect. There now was a 
duty on each piece of luggage you brought in to Pluto. I spent most of my first 
day on Pluto shouting at an endless series of obstinate officials. Result: no 
tickee, no luggee. The one bright point was that they couldn't simply confiscate 
my trunk, though it was plain in their eyes they all viewed this as an 
unfortunate technical oversight in the law, soon to be remedied. But they could 
damn sure keep it until I paid the fee. I left there with my tail between my 
legsand my dog in my hand. Arguments that the tools of my trade, my means of 
making the money to pay their goddam extortion, were all in my trunk, fell on 
the usual deaf ears. But I told them that if I couldn't get my hibernating dog 
out of his box and feed him he would die in a week and I'd hit the spaceport, 
the city, the county, and most important, you, asshole, with a lawsuit the likes 
of which this stinking iceball of a planet had never seen. They leafed through 
their books of regulations and found nothing to cover the situation and so, 
grudgingly, let me open the trunk and get Toby out. While I did it I got my 
bedroll and my puppets, as well, and no one said anything.
All bunkum. Toby would have been fine for five months. I was dying to tell one 
of them that, but when we entered the freight office and announced I was ready 
to pay the ransom on my belongings, none of the officials there had been present 
at my disembarking. That's the way it is with these people, you know. You never 
see the same ones twice. I think they're composted at the end of the day, and 
new ones spring full-grown from the muck, like toadstools.
* * *
"All the world's not a stage," my father had been fond of saying. "Only the best 
part of it. Between shows, you'll need good luggage."
It's good advice, and I've always taken it to heart. In my career I've lived in 
nine-room hotel penthouse suites and plush-carpeted modular winnies trucked to 
location sites. I've owned luxury condos and homes in the most exclusive 
Disneylands. At times I've owned enough things to lease storage modules simply 
to accommodate the excess.
More often, everything I own could be packed into one trunk. It's a big trunk, 
granted, but if you think it's easy, look around your own surroundings and ask 
yourself if you could do it.
Remember I talked about a return ticket, when going on the road? My attachment 
to that ticket would rate as a pale thing indeed compared to the tenacity with 
which I would hold on to that trunk. Imagine how you'd feel if murdering rapists 
were holding your children hostage, and you'll get some idea how upset I was to 
learn I couldn't take my trunk with me on arrival.
Pawnbrokers weep with joy when they see me coming, begin planning that 
long-delayed rumpus room in the basement or a nice vacation on Oberon. But while 
the trunk may contain many items I'll cheerfully hock, the trunk itself is 
sacred. It contains everything of any importance to me.
Don't shop for one like it at your local outfitter. It was custom-made for me 
thirty years ago by the firm of Signe & Powell, christened the Pantechnicon Mark 
III. (I also owned the original, and the Mark II, replacing each not so much 
because it had worn out or become obsolete, but because I had the money, and a 
few new ideas.) It is waterproof, vacuumproof, fireproof, and proof against most 
forms of radiation. It's... well, it has so many features that any useful 
description would quickly start sounding like an operator's manual, so perhaps 
it's best just to mention them as needed. But if in the course of my story the 
Pantechnicon blacks up, gets down on one knee, and starts to belt out "Swanee 
River," don't be too surprised.
* * *
The nine-room penthouse suites were but a passing memory these days. Lately, 
Toby and I had been sleeping rough in mall service corridors.
You can spend a long life beneath the surface of one of the Eight Worlds without 
ever visiting a service corridor, unless you are a delivery person or work in 
the stockroom of one of the stores it adjoins. These are not exactly public 
spaces, but they're not precisely private, either. You don't need a permit or a 
security badge to enter most of them, but finding the entrance is usually beyond 
the powers of the uninitiated, at least the sort of entrance I was looking for. 
Getting to them should have been easy. Simply walk into any store, any retail 
outlet at all, follow the signs to the emergency fire exit. This will take you 
through the stockroom... where you will be seen, bothered, and usually turned 
back by some meddlesome employee, especially if you're wheeling a trunk the size 
of a small asteroid. No, it was seldom that easy in practice. The public and 
service corridors are like the human circulatory system. Arteries carry goods 
from the factories to the point of sale, veins carry them back to consumers' 
homes. The great engine of commerce flows freely at all points, but the two 
flows never mix.
But if you know how to get back there, unchallengedand I'd learned it at my 
father's kneeyou will find a Spartan realm free of the madding crowds. It is a 
place of dim lighting, high ceilings, gray walls, completely utilitarian as few 
places in the public world are.
It's a dangerous place until you know the ropes. Robot and manned vehicles zip 
along paths whose system is not intuitively obvious, following signals and signs 
you may not even see unless you know what to look for. It's a good place to get 
squashed like a bug beneath a fifty-wheel flatbed goods train equipped with only 
token lights and brakes; the operator usually will never know he hit you. So 
don't go back there unless you're with somebody like Uncle Sparky, who knows the 
ropes, okay, boys and girls?
The great advantage to this huge, unknown city is that people will usually leave 
you alone once you've gained entrance. This is where the down-and-outers hide 
from the rousting nightstick and the contemptuous stare. Winos, tramps, 
vagabonds, swagmen, and other ladies and gentlemen of leisure drift away from 
their daytime endeavors to find a private corner here where one can spread his 
kip and not be bothered. Did you ever wonder where city pigeons go to build 
their nests and raise their pidglings? This is the place.
This is also the site of that peculiar abode known as the jungle. By following a 
few seemingly random chalk marks on walls, marks that you probably would not 
even have seen, and certainly couldn't have read even if you knew there was 
information in them, I made my way to a warehouse door. There was a court seal 
on it, promising me that if I broke it I would be subject to a fine and jail 
time. But the date was twenty years previous and the printing was almost 
illegible. Places like these, full of useless merchandise attached in connection 
with a bankruptcy dating to when dinosaurs walked the Earth, were among the 
least frequented and policed areas on any civilized planet. Which was just fine 
with the hoboes who came here to gather around the fire and swap stories just as 
they had in the heyday of the railroads on Earth. Toby and I picked our way 
through towering stacks of dusty crates in the darkness, guided only by a light 
from the Pantechnicon. We came to a huge open space, at the far end of which was 
a flickering orange light with human shapes sitting around it. Toby took off, 
barking. You don't sneak up on a group of 'bos, but I never had to worry about 
announcing myself when Toby was up and around.
I got there to find Boots Lumpkin putting down a plate for the dog. Toby himself 
was working his way around the circle, greeting his friends, some of whom he'd 
known for thirty years, others he'd met the night before.
"Easy on the mulligan, Boots," I said, setting the trunk down on its end. "That 
rascal put away a sausage big as his own hind leg an hour ago."
"Gotcha," said Boots, and ladled a bit of stew into the bowl while Toby threw me 
a reproachful look. The crazy hound would have eaten whatever was put in front 
of him, though his belly was round as a beach ball, because it's rude to turn 
down stew in a hobo jungle, and because that's just what dogs do.
I was greeted around the circle by those who knew me, introduced to those few I 
hadn't met.
"Looks like you finally got your bindle back," Sarge Pollito called out, which 
was always good for a laugh. While nobody there actually had his goods tied in a 
handkerchief and hung from a stick, comparing the Pantechnicon Mark III with the 
canvas backpacks, haversacks, kitbags, portmanteaux, and valises that contained 
the belongings of these happy mudlarks was comical indeed.
"Will the butler be arriving soon?" someone called out.
"Had to let the blighter go, Skids," I said, ruefully. "He just wouldn't keep 
the silver polished." I accepted a plate of stew, shook my head to the offer of 
coffee. It keeps me awake.
"Hard to get good help these days," said Rivkah the Jewess.
"You said it, Riv. I'm looking for a new upstairs maid. Interested?"
She punched my shoulder, and I sat on the trunk and spooned up the stew.
One night in 1867, in a railyard in Ohioso the story goesa 'bo knocked over a 
rabbit with a good toss of a stone. He skinned it, chopped in a potato and a few 
wild onions and carrots he found growing trackside, added some flour and salt 
and pepper, then tossed the whole mess in his billy and boiled it up. It tasted 
so good he saved some for the next night, when another hobo offered some venison 
jerky to add to the mix. The third night he met a man who had some beans and a 
chili pepper. The night after that it was raccoon. And since that unfortunate 
coney met his maker, every bird of the air and beast of the earth, every fish 
that swims in the sea, every creep-crawlie that wriggles on its belly or burrows 
in the mud has had its turn in the stewpot. The mulligan had been ladled over 
chow mein noodles, spooned over eggs, slapped into sloppy joe sandwiches, 
sizzled with dumplings, rolled up in crepes, and slipped under mashed potatoes. 
The Eternal Mulligan is boiled anew every night; you donate what you can to the 
pot, take out what you needit is always shared with all present.
And somewhere on my plate, I fancied, was the tiniest bit of that jackrabbit who 
was just a little bit too slow one night in Ohio, almost four hundred years ago, 
on the poor Old Earth.
Highly unlikely, I'm well aware. But hey, cobber, there's no need to rain on my 
parade, eh? A sense of continuity is nothing to sneer at in this impermanent 
world. Does it matter if that continuity is a fable? Is reality that sacred to 
you?
* * *
I put a few bread loaves, scrounged from a bakery's waste bin only an hour 
before, beside the stewpot as my part of the night's meal. Then I rolled the 
Pantech into a dim corner and prepared for the night.
The trunk sprouts two wheels and a handle for upright movement, a wheel on each 
corner if you'd prefer to get behind it and shove. I popped the wheels back into 
their sockets and opened a panel on what had been the top end before I laid the 
trunk on its side. An air compressor began to chug quietly, and my tent began to 
inflate itself.
It's made out of memory plastic. Folded, it adds about an inch to the thickness 
of the trunk. Deployed, it makes a cube about five feet on a side. Five of those 
sides are rigid as plywood and much stronger; an elephant could dance on my tent 
roof. The floor is full of pockets and makes quite a good air mattress.
I shoved my bedroll through the sphincter door that, in a pinch, can be almost 
as effective as a formal airlock. Then I squeezed myself in, reached out, and 
snapped on the light. I just sat there a moment, breathing my own air. It was 
the first time, literally the first moment I had felt safe and secure since the 
PI tapped me on the shoulder in Brementon.
This was the second thing that kept me sane in the Guy Fawkes. When I was 
feeling the worst, I'd slip down to the cargo hold, deploy the tent, crawl in, 
and sit there and shake. I'd have cheerfully passed the whole voyage in here, 
but the cargo area was off-limits to passengers and I lived in fear I'd be 
discovered and watched more carefully, so I rationed my time. What luxury to sit 
on my own bed, with my own six walls around me!
I ran a quick systems check, determined that the Hadean Customs Service hadn't 
managed to wreak any real harm, probably not from lack of trying.
Most of one wall was the top end of the trunk. I lowered a shelf from it, a 
shelf containing a hot plate and a teapot. I brewed up and poured into a 
porcelain cup that had once been the property of Judy Garland. Luckily, there 
was no way of authenticating this, so I was never tempted to pawn it since, in 
the world of collectible Terriana, provenance is all. I pulled out a drawer and 
using the spoon and freeze-dried cream I found there, made the tea the proper 
color. I noticed I was almost out of cream. (Actor: "I'll have a cuppa tea, 
without cream." Waiter: "We're out of cream, sir. It'll have to be without 
milk." Rimshot.) Where the shelf had been there was (what else) a mirror lined 
with strip lights, so the tent could be used as a dressing room. The whole side 
would fold away, providing me access to the trunk without lifting the upper lid 
or leaving the tent.
I spread my blankets and took off my coat, and in the process remembered 
something else I'd filched from the baker's garbage. Toby slipped through the 
lock as I took the cupcake out of my coat pocket and set it on the shelf. He 
watched me curiously as I rummaged in another drawer and came up with a single 
candle. I poked it into the cupcake.
I'd been trying to forget it, trying to make it add up another way, but there 
was no avoiding it. Today was my birthday. Please, in lieu of presents, send 
your contributions to Actors' Relief. It was a rather significant birthday, too.
"How about it, Toby?" I asked him. "Can you count to one hundred?" He barked 
once, which I'm sure everyone in the class remembers meant "Yes!" Well, of 
course he could. Toby can count one of anything, including hundreds.
I lit the candle and was about to offer him a piece, but he scratched at the 
lock and looked inquiringly at me.
Ah, Toby, what am I going to do with you? For the last week he'd been going out 
at night, after I was asleep. I suspected he had a girlfriend out there 
somewhere. That, or he was getting together with one of the packs of wild dogs 
rumored to live in the service corridors. Probably peeing on everything in 
sight. Toby is quite the ladies' man. I'd seen him, with more optimism than 
common sense, mooning over a Great Dane bitch he'd need a stepladder just to 
sniff. Sure, you can write that off to high hopes. But the amazing thing was, 
the bitch was looking really interested.
"Oh, sure, party time again," I said. "And may I ask you, young man, when you're 
going to settle down and make something of yourself?" He waited patiently. He 
knows that when I get in certain moods I'm apt to toy with him, take unfair 
advantage of the fact I know a few more words than he does. "Go, then, and be 
quick about it," I said. "But so help me, if you come back smelling of strong 
drink..." He was already out the door.
So I blew out the candle, ate the cake, and pulled the covers up around my neck. 
I left a small night light on for Toby... and because I had trouble sleeping in 
complete darkness.
How about you, boys and girls? Can you count to one hundred?
* * *
"I still feel so foolish, Detective Friday," said the lovely Miranda Mayard-Tate 
as she rose from her genuine Earth-crafted Louis Quinze settee, a piece of 
furniture equivalent in price to the Gross Planetary Product of some smaller 
Uranian moons.
"Don't worry about it, ma'am," I said, in Friday's flat, affectless voice, 
giving her his flat, unemotional-but-earnest stare, and thinking, Foolish? Any 
more foolish and respiration would be a big intellectual challenge, you pathetic 
screw. I trust that opinion never showed in my face, and I continued: "You 
weren't the only one taken in by this bunch. But don't worry. We'll get 'em." I 
sketched a flat, wry smile, the only sort Joe Friday was capable of. You know 
Joe, the taciturn, humorless homicide dick from that old warhorse, LA. Blues? 
I've played him in three different productions. ("Thursday. 8:03 P.M. Went to 
the Larson Theater, 5543 Main Street. Heard there was a 437 in progress. Acting 
without dramatic license. The sign said LA. Blues. Went in. Sat Down. Watched 
the show. Gathered enough evidence to convict four cast members of emoting, 
hamming it up, chewing the scenery, and felonious gesticulating. Figured out the 
plot during first act. Issued a warrant for the playwright. The charge: cliches 
in the first degree. Had to let Ken Valentine go. No basis to the charge of 
woodenness. Found him to be resolute, implacable, just after the facts."Flip 
City Courier.) (There was similar schtick the other times I played Friday. Why 
do reviewers have to be so cute?) Dropping back into Friday for Miranda M-T's 
benefit was like putting my flat feet into a pair of comfortable old shoes.
"Goodness! I certainly hope so." What can I tell you? I'm not responsible for 
other people's lines. I merely report what I hear, even when it contains 
"goodness" as an exclamation.
A long, gloomy silence settled over the scene. As it threatened to become 
funereal, or possibly even permanent, I decided a prompt was in order. "Well," I 
said, "we can get started on it if you'll just get the money."
"Oh, certainly," she said, getting up and looking around vaguely. It was obvious 
she'd forgotten where she put it. The rich really are different. "I'll just 
go... are you sure you won't have a drink?"
"Not while I'm on duty, ma'am." There was a double meaning to that. Every line 
Friday uttered screeched teetotaler. He wouldn't drink, on or off duty, not so 
much because alcohol was evil, but because it would get in the way of his 
relentless pursuit of crime. You just knew his evenings at home were spent 
perusing his old notebooks, and his idea of a good time was oiling his gun. As 
he said in the last line of L.A. Blues; "Just the facts, ma'am." That's all he 
was interested in. Just the facts.
Me, I would have gladly joined Miranda in a glass of something, but when I'm "on 
duty," playing a role, I never step out of it.
As Mrs. Mayard-Tate fluttered away to unknown regions of her palatial warren, I 
stood and looked at her parlor closely for the first time. What had caught my 
eye was a wood and glass display case housing dozens of yellow-white carvings, 
none much larger than a golf ball. Of all the fabulous riches in that room, the 
loot of generations, these are what drew me.
I was still studying them when Miranda returned carrying a small canvas bag 
emblazoned with the name and logo of the Bank of Hell. "You like them?" she 
asked, handing the bag to me.
"I was wondering what they were, ma'am," I said.
"They're called netsuke. I've never cared for them, myself. I keep wondering if 
I ought to sell them. I'm told they'd bring a good price."
She probably had no idea. Any pre-Invasion artifact is worth something, but 
there is earthcraft, and then there is Earthcraft! There are societies that 
collect mass-produced paper clips and pencils from the twentieth century. These 
people keep their treasures in glassine envelopes and handle them only with 
tongs, but they are not the same crowd that traffics in netsuke.
"I think they were some sort of hair clip," she was saying, shoving vaguely at 
her great mass of chocolate hair. "Kind of a barrette. I never could get any of 
them to work. There was probably some trick to it. I guess I'm missing 
something."
How about several billion brain cells, darling? Netsuke... hair clips? I was 
tempted to tell her the cunning little wooden-and-ivory objects had been used to 
suspend items from the ceremonial sashes, or obis, of the gentlemen of Japan, as 
depicted on many a vase and jar, many a screen and fan, three or four hundred 
years ago. But Friday wouldn't have known that. For that matter, Sparky 
Valentine wouldn't have known it but for the fact I'd worn one many years before 
during a production of the Noh opera Yurigi at the Straits of Awa ("...a not 
entirely successful attempt at mating Akira Kurosawa with Victor Herbert, 
enlivened considerably by the puckish performance of K. C. Valentine in the role 
of Yasuhiro."Neptune Trident).
"You seem to be staring at that one."
"Was I? I hadn't realized." But it was obvious which one she was talking about. 
It was a frog, perched on a human skull. The skull had a thick brow ridge, and 
the long, bulb-tipped fingers of the frog wrapped around it and into the eye 
sockets. Somehow, the artist had portrayed a coiled power in the little beast, 
and had given it a predator's lazy eyes. They looked at you without fear or 
mercy, and you just knew you couldn't show them anything they hadn't seen many 
times already.
"Would you like a closer look?" Without waiting for a reply she reached behind 
the cabinet and produced an oddly shaped piece of metalcopper or brass, it 
looked likewhich I soon realized was an antique key. She opened the case, took 
the frog and skull, and handed it to me.
It was cool at first, but quickly warmed, seemed almost to soften in my hand. My 
thumb automatically caressed the frog's back. I looked up at her and smiled.
"Maybe I will have that drink, ma'am," I said.
* * *
Elwood was waiting for me at the edge of the big park that marked the boundary 
of Miranda Mayard-Tate's upper-upper-class neighborhood. He was seated on a 
bench, his hands jammed into the pockets of his baggy trousers, his long legs 
stretched out before him, the gray fedora pushed forward to almost cover his 
eyes. Toby sat on the bench beside him. Behind them, people in red jackets and 
white riding breeches and black riding boots sat atop their magnificent steeds 
and cantered grandly back and forth in a ritual as old as money itself. And the 
funds of these equestrian dandies were ancient indeed, so old that their 
primordial corruption served as its own fertilizer, so old that the sweet whiff 
of its decay overpowered the honest stink of the piles of horseshit that was all 
most of these people ever produced. And true to the breeding habits of the very, 
very rich, some of these people made my Sweet Miranda seem a mental giant.
Perhaps those thoughts seem unworthy. I knew where they came from: I was 
psyching myself up for Elwood, who didn't much approve of my recent activities.
Toby spotted me first, and came scampering in my direction. Elwood followed in 
his relaxed, shambling gait. "You get what you came for?" he asked.
"Don't I always?"
When Toby realized I was talking to Elwood and not to him, he started to growl 
and bark. You don't know what terror is until you've heard a Bichon growling. 
After you've heard it, you still don't have a clue. Back in the park, I'm sure 
all the squirrels in earshot were helpless with laughter.
It made me sad. The fact is, Toby really can't stand Elwood. Elwood hadn't been 
around much since our arrival at Pluto. Now he was back, and Toby didn't like it 
a bit. I had to speak to him sharply, which made his head hang and his tail 
droop. He fell behind us and trudged along under a dark cloud of gloom, his 
every movement calculated to wring the last drop of guilt from his pitiless 
master. The awful thing was, it worked. But it wouldn't do to let Toby know 
that, so I shrugged my shoulders and tried to ignore him. "I just don't think 
that robbing from one of the most powerful families in Pluto is the smartest 
thing you ever did," Elwood went on.
"Godfrey Daniel!" I exploded. "Getting somebody to hand you money is not 
robbery. It's a short con. They're two different things. And the fact that the 
Mayard-Tates are rich and powerful isn't why you object; it's that you object to 
thieving of any kind, from anyone, including these rich old screwish families 
who wouldn't miss a billion if I lifted it from them, much less the paltry and 
entirely reasonable sum in question."
"That's your father talking," Elwood drawled. "The last of the Wobblies."
"Here's another line from my father, while we're at it," I said. " 'Never give a 
sucker an even break, nor smarten up a chump.' "
"That has a familiar ring. Could it be he stole it?"
"Of course he stole it! What do you think actors do?" "Always remember, son," he 
had told me many times. "Authors write. Producers produce. Directors interfere. 
Angels write checks. And it's all for us. We make the art, and if you need to 
borrow something to make it work, then borrow it!" Borrow was a euphemism my 
father used frequently, steal being a word he disliked. But he was an anarchist, 
didn't believe in property or laws.
That's how I was raised, and if it gives you a liberal comfort you can use that 
fact to explain or forgive my admittedly piratical attitude toward other 
people's possessions. Or you can think of me as a goddamn thief; I don't mind. I 
do believe in property, and in laws, though as few of them as needed to curb our 
animal tendencies. I own the things in my trunk, for instance, and would be 
peeved if they were taken from me. My father never owned anything he wouldn't 
have cheerfully given away if you asked him for it. Of course, he seldom owned 
anything worth giving away.
But take the screws. Does it make sense to you that they should have access to 
these almost infinite amounts of money simply because their grandparents 
excelled in brutality, bribery, chicanery, sadism, and the nearest thing to 
chattel slavery humanity has known since the American Civil War? Not far from 
where we were walking human beings had been traded on a computerized auction 
blockthough they used the polite fiction that it was the prisoners' labor 
contracts that were being bought and sold. That's what the old fortunes on Pluto 
were founded on: cheap and plentiful labor.
My father was capable of going on for hours on the subject.
I myself don't hold to any doctrine concerning wealth, and the inheritance 
thereof. On the one hand, who has more right to the money one has amassed during 
one's lifetime? Some opportunistic layabout with nothing more to recommend him 
than his ease-softened, skeletal, extended hand? Or one's own children? The 
answer seems obvious. But maybe it should be neither. Well then, how about the 
state? Why not let the government take it all, and use it for the public good? 
Mainly because when it's been tried in the past, it merely financed more 
official thievery.
But it is equally obvious to me that something is badly wrong when one person 
has billions, and another has nothing.
Damn it all! Miranda would never miss what I had taken.
It's called the Bank Examiner, and some say it was first used by one Lucius the 
Louse in 113 B.C., when he persuaded an octogenarian widow named Octavia to 
withdraw thirty pieces of silver from her account at the First Imperial Bank of 
the Tiber, Circus Maximus Branch, and hand them over to him: i.e., Lucius. But 
it's said that Lucius learned it from Agamemnon "Aggie Pop" Popodopoulis, a 
Greek panderer, picaroon, and president of the Athenian Bar Association, who 
swore he happened upon it while reading a book of Chaldean pornography to pass 
the time while cooped up in a giant wooden horse during his involuntary hitch in 
the Greek army.
In a word, it was old. One of the oldest in the book. That it would still work 
at this late date was a tribute to another adage my father liked to quote: 
"There's a sucker born every minute, and two to take him." We like to think 
there's been progress in the human species since the days of Aggie Pop. We like 
to think we're somehow smarter than previous generations. Hell, we live in outer 
space, don't we? Don't we build fast spaceships that violate the virgin sky with 
impulses of villainous saltpeter? Can't we harness the power of the heart of the 
sun? Don't we know what E=mc2 means? (Well, I don't, but somebody does, okay?)
Yes, yes, yes, and yes. And if you think that makes us one bit smarterwhere it 
really countsthan our ancestors, I'd like to drop in on you and discuss the 
purchase of a fine set of leather-bound Classics of Human Literature, only 
twenty dollars down, the rest when they arrive. Don't worry, I'll give you a 
receipt for the twenty.
There was another thing about the Bank Examiner, other than its age, and perhaps 
we've finally arrived at the source of Elwood's silent reproof and my own 
uneasiness. It has to do with yet a third adage my father was likely to quote 
when the vicissitudes of our profession forced us once again into a closer and 
more personal contact with the audience, and their pocketbooks. When it became 
necessary to take to the streets for a spot of improvisation. When, in short, it 
was time to run a short con.
"Dodger," he would say to me, "don't worry about it. You can't cheat an honest 
man." Well...
I'm not aware of any rules without exceptions, and the Bank Examiner was the 
exception to that one. With any other of the dodges we pulled, those golden 
words from Mr. Fields were pure gospel. The Spanish Lottery, the Jamaican 
Handkerchief, the Priceless Pooch, and Put and Take, the Gold Brick, the Pigeon 
Drop... all these swindles rely in large part on the avarice of the average man. 
(Did I say the Bank Examiner was old? On a wall of one of the Temples of Karnak 
there is a line of hieroglyphs showing a puzzled mark looking at the worthless 
wad of cut-up papyrus in his hand while two sharpies from Abyssinia skedaddle 
with the real loot he put up for "good faith." Welcome to the Pigeon Drop.)
The mark either sees an opportunity to make a quick profit with no risk, or is 
offered a foolproof way to steal money from someone else. His greed blinds him 
to the shenanigans going on right under his nose, and he's left holding the bag. 
(That's where that expression came from. Really!) The empty bag. Often he 
doesn't go to the cops, because to do so he'd have to explain how he planned to 
steal from the folks who stole from him. Most citizens could care less about the 
victims of these scams. The general consensus is, they got what they deserved.
Not so with the Bank Examiner. Here's how it works, reduced to its essentials:
You are approached in or near the financial institution where you keep your 
money. Someone working at this fine establishment has been pilfering, you are 
told. I, the Examiner/Policeman/Bank President/Security Officer (or almost any 
authority figure) am onto this miscreant, and I need your help to gather 
evidence against him. Would you be so kind as to withdraw X number of shekels 
from your account?
With the money in hand, I tell you I must take it away to... oh, photograph it, 
say. Just about any explanation will do, because if you have withdrawn the cash 
at all it is because you have bought me as an authority figure. I'll be right 
back, I say. That's what Jesus said, too.
Now I can almost hear the creaking as your credulity is strained. Nobody would 
fall for that, you protest.
The fact is, they do. Year after year after year. I have no idea if the 
Egyptians really even had banks, but if they did, you can be sure somebody 
really did pull this one on the banks of the Nile. Because that's one of only 
two things you need to make the Bank Examiner work: a banking system.
The other thing, of course, is a mark who is (a) trusting, or (b) stupid. In my 
own thesaurus, those words are listed as synonyms.
It worked fine when banks wrote their accounts in huge ledgers with quill pens, 
and it works now when it's all electronic impulses in machines. If we ever go to 
a cashless society (and don't hold your breath), someone will find a way to make 
it work there, too. So as long as the human race keeps producing idiots, I'll 
never be broke.
But wait! There's more!
Technically what I had just educated Miranda Mayard-Tate in was not the Bank 
Examiner at all, but the second act sometimes known as the Copper Comeback. You 
see, some marks just exude a charming naivete that, to a veteran con, screams, 
"Take me! Take me again and again and again...!" It seems cruel to abandon these 
people to other con men who might be slipshod or clumsy, who might not 
consummate the affair with the proper aplomb. It was for people like theseand 
my darling Miranda could have been the very prototypethat the Comeback was 
developed.
The original hit on Miranda had taken place while I was still a month away from 
Pluto's frigid orb. When her money was not returned after a few days, and when 
no one called, she contacted the bank, who of course were quite familiar with 
this scam. The police were called in. The Mayard-Tates being the considerable 
cheeses they were, no expense or effort was spared by the boys and girls in blue 
to run frantically in circles, look under carpets and rocks and in toilet tanks, 
handcuff and question dozens of hapless citizens, shout "Stop, thief!" in a 
loud, firm constabulary voice, and generally create the impression that 
something was being done, and that a resolution of the case could be expected at 
any moment. Then all that wound down and the cops went away, and Miranda was 
left to realize that it was really all over. That no one was going to be charged 
with the crime. That, sometimes, money can't buy justice. Ain't it awful?
The people who put the con together let her worry about it for a suitable length 
of time. Their thinking was that, after she'd stewed about it, she'd be ripe for 
an opportunity to see the rascals in jail. Enter K. C. Valentine, who just blew 
in from parts unknown, made contact with one of the swindle ring, and asked if 
they had anything going suitable to his talents. They steered me to Miranda and 
off I went, Junior G-Man badge in hand, armed with nothing but Friday's flat 
voice, stare, smile, and feet.
As it turned out, the waiting time hadn't been necessary. Revenge was the 
farthest thing from Miranda's mind. The sum of money in question, though large 
by my standards, had literally been forgotten in the madcap, dizzy fandango that 
qualified as a life in her circle of friends. I had to remind her that she'd 
been taken, then keep bringing her attention back from unknown areas as I 
explained that at last we had a lead in her case and that I, Friday, was the man 
to run it down. We had learned there really was a dishonest teller at her bank, 
and that he had been in cahoots with the swindlers all the time. Now we intended 
to catch him dead to rights, and get him to squeal, to rat out his gang of 
nefarious hoodlums. All she had to do to help us bring this about was to 
withdraw X number of shekels from her account so we could... well, by now you 
should be able to fill in the blanks with a story of your own.
She couldn't have been more delighted to help. Her guileless, canine eyes danced 
with excitement when I used words like "squeal" and "cahoots," but went a little 
glassy at "nefarious." So in the end it was her relentless stupidity... sorry, I 
meant unblemished honesty... that led her into folly again.
And so it was that I found myself walking along beside the equestrian park in 
the richest neighborhood in Pluto, carrying an unaccustomed amount of money, 
paced by a lanky conscience, and trailed by a pissed-off poodle-dog. I should 
have been happy, but my heart was, I admit, a bit heavy. But my wallet was about 
to become even heavier. These things even out.
If only she hadn't been so goddam honest.
* * *
When a felon's not engaged in his employment or maturing his felonious little 
plans, where do you suppose he goes?
I went to church. You have to fence the loot somewhere.
If any of you in the audience are true-believing members of the First 
Latitudinarian Church of Celebrity Saints, better known as the Flacks, you might 
want to skip this next scene. The fact is, wherever you attend services, from 
Coronaville to Brementon and points beyond, you have found your way into a den 
of thieves. The chances are excellent that the fellow standing next to you, 
helping you hold the hymnal and bellowing "Blue Suede Shoes" off-key in a state 
of exalted presleyan bliss, is not somebody you'd be eager to see marry your 
brother or sister. He might very well be... well, somebody like me.
A lot of Flackites I've mentioned this to have a hard time believing it. As my 
father used to say, "Denial is more than a big river in Egypt."
All churches have their share of sinners, of course. You might say that's what 
they're for. You can't get very far in the redemption business without some 
genuine sinners. But in other churches they're not organized into a band of 
brothers. I doubt that most churches often see actual crimes being originated 
and planned at meetings in the church basement. It would surprise me to learn 
that stolen goods were actually being fenced on the grounds of, say, the 
synagogue down the lane. And aside from a little bingo and the occasional bit of 
buggery, Catholic churches are relatively free of crime. As for Diabolists, 
don't ask me. It's all veiled in secrecy.
But if it's a spot of larceny you're after, I recommend the Flackites. Every 
grifter I know shows up there regularly, to find out what's going down, coming 
off, falling together. It's where I heard about the Mayard-Tate sting, and it's 
where I went, swag in hand, to dispose of it.
Uncle Roy is choreographer in chief at the Main Planetary Studio, First 
Latitudinarian Church, Pandemonium, Phlegethon Province, Pluto. As a 
song-and-dance man he had been only mediocre, and he wasn't exactly setting the 
planet on fire now that he'd hung up his tap shoes. Busby Berkeley's ghost had 
nothing to fear from Roy. But he was the guy to see if buying wholesale no 
longer satisfied you, if what you were seeking was really deep discounts. That 
is, as long as what you were shopping for didn't require a legal tide, and if 
you didn't mind that the serial numbers had been filed off, there was no owner's 
manual, and the merchandise might have a few dents and scratches from falling 
off the back of a freightlorry.
I found him in the studio itself, sitting in the third row with his hands 
steepled in front of him, watching with great concentration what looked to be a 
final dress rehearsal. The stage was jammed with sequined chorus dancers, just 
a-hoofin' their little hearts out, and dazzling spotlights swept them like the 
fingers of angels. I paused to drink it in. When the houselights go down and the 
stage lights brighten, a new world is created, a world where I've spent most of 
my life. It's a magic trick I never grow tired of.
I recognized the show immediately as Work in Progress, the musical version of 
Finnegans Wake that had bombed at its opening on the Alameda in King City fifty 
years ago. I know it bombed, because I was there, in the part of Cromwell. ("Val 
Tiner turns in his usual competent performance in a production more confusing 
than its source material."News Nipple) Since then Work had developed quite a 
cult following. I myself had revisited it only ten years earlier, this time in 
the lead role of Humphrey Earwicker/Joyce, ("overwrung. A charmful waterloose 
prixducktion, dacently gaylaboring the auld meanderthalltale from jayjay's 
mythink Dyoublong of farago. D'ya dismember what a mnice old mness it all 
mnakes? But Hark! Hark! Tray chairs fur Muster Casey Valentoon in a roustering 
vendition of 'Miss Hooligan's Christmas Cake,' the topsiest mnoment of a quarky 
under-parformance. Stillanall, the shows a way a lone a last a long a 
little"Arean Gazette).
The Pluto studio is one of the largest indoor proscenium theaters in the system. 
It seats twenty thousand, which means the cheap seats are in a different postal 
zone, and high enough for a nosebleed. I've been in the last row, and from that 
vantage you might as well be watching A Doll's House performed by a flea circus. 
From the stage, you can get through most of Hamlet's soliloquy before the echo 
of your voice reverberates the first "to be" back to your waiting ears. There's 
a fair chance of a rain delay on account of thunderheads forming in the fly 
lofts.
But not to worry. The hall is surrounded by several thousand television screens, 
from a few inches to twenty feet across. The people in back see just about the 
same show you get from front row center, from a bigger variety of camera angles.
Not my sort of house at all. Give me a three- or four-hundred seater and I'm a 
happy man. Let it be my own leathery lungs shouting down the rafters, or making 
them lean forward in dead silence to catch my whispered words.
Uncle Roy glanced over at me as I sat at the end of the row. I nodded, and he 
smiled briefly, then stood and started pacing rapidly back and forth at the edge 
of the orchestra pit, pointing at people and shouting things I couldn't hear 
over the thunder of the music. The conductor frowned at Roy over his shoulder, 
but by this time he must have learned better than to protest. He hunched his 
shoulders and continued to saw at the air with his big, glowing baton.
I don't know Uncle Roy's last name, nor why he's universally called uncle. 
There's probably a story behind it. If you hear it, let me know. I love stories 
like that. He's a big man who has pegged his apparent age in the late fifties, 
with a wrinkled face and receding hairline. He has a shock of unkempt silvery 
hair streaked with black, and eyes of purest newman blue. His lips are thick and 
rubbery, and he has a habit of chewing on the lower one when he's thinking. When 
he's not thinking he chews tobaccoid, certainly the least attractive retro fad 
in the last century, one that's finally showing signs of having outworn its 
welcome. Forget the occasional brown drool from the corners of one's mouth, or 
the necessity of carrying around a can sloshing with the vilest stuff 
imaginable, or the truly disgusting sight of someone spitting into it. The habit 
kept Roy's teeth stained an abhorrent greenish brown, like fungus growing on a 
corpse. If the smell of his mouth was any guide, the taste of it must have been 
unimaginable.
Like quite a few dancers I've known, as soon as Roy left the chorus line he 
blimped up like a satyriastic's condom, twenty, thirty kilos above his boogeying 
weight. He claimed it was all by design, part of his scheme to be a more 
physically commanding presence, the other parts being his high forehead, white 
hair, and wrinkled face. A director ought to have dignity. I had done a little 
experimenting myself, the few times I had lowered myself into the director's 
chair. I'd helmed productions looking like King Lear, and like Shirley Temple, 
and got about the same amount of respect and attention either waywhich is to 
say, very little.
And there's this about ex-dancers: I think a lot of them are just plain tired of 
being human greyhounds. The girls cultivate exuberant boobs of the sort never 
seen jiggling beneath a tutu. A lady with a butt like two BBs suddenly lets her 
hips spread out, finds she has something comfortable to sit on for a change. The 
guys turn into the spitting image of a nineteenth-century banker: prosperous, 
corpulent, paunchy, chipmunk-cheeked. The reason for such a delightful word as 
portly. And all of them like to lounge around like neutered house cats in the 
sunshine, thinking about supper.
"...and five, and six and seven and EIGHT!" Uncle Roy was bellowing over the 
roar of the orchestra. "And lights out! Aaaaaand... curtain, curtain, applause, 
applause, applause... okay, stop the curtain. Houselights, please!"
From far overhead a few harsh, unshielded work lights descended on cords, cruel 
things no performer would ever let into his house because of the ghastly effect 
they had on tired, sweating people in pancake makeup. It makes us all look like 
the charpeople those lights were designed to aid when they descended on the 
spilled drinks, crumpled programs, and wilted flowers, long after the magic had 
retired to wherever it is magic goes between performances.
These lights revealed a stage full of people in outrageous costumes, breathing 
hard, some sitting down, others leaning on friends. The shadowless, sourceless 
light had no mercy. Gold turned to tinsel, silver to tinfoil, diamonds became 
rhinestones. Every chipped nail and scuffed shoe was exposed. Pearly white teeth 
turned out to be flaked with lipstick.
When the magic is over, it's over.
"One hour for tiffin, boys and girls," Roy said, leaping onto the plank that 
spanned the orchestra pit and striding confidently among his players. I 
followed, more slowly. "Except you, Haynes, and you, Dallman. You get to go down 
to the rehearsal hall and do it again, and again, and again, until you get it 
right three times in a row. You know the part I'm talking about." A man and a 
woman, presumably Haynes and Dallman, slumped off to the wings. Roy whistled 
loudly, looking up into the fly loft. "Mr. Lacon, if you please. If your people 
can't get the bar set rung off in twelve seconds tonight, I'll tie you to a rope 
and use you for a sandbag." There was angry shouting from on high, which I 
didn't understand and Roy didn't listen to. He was putting a beefy arm around my 
shoulders and guiding me through the bustling wings and through a door with a 
big star on it, labeled DIRECTOR. He slammed the door behind us, threw himself 
into a groaning jurist's chair, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his 
head.
"So. What did you think?" he asked.
"All I saw was the Flying Dutchman number," I said. "How's your budget? Do you 
have elephants?"
"I've got elephants."
"Then I don't see how you can go wrong."
"Elephants? Hell, I got ten elephants. I got peacocks and horse-drawn carts, and 
I got horses guaranteed not to crap on anybody's tap shoes. I have a trained 
seal. I have thirty-seven set changes. I have three ultracopters to bring people 
in from the lofts, gonna land 'em right there on the stage. I have a thirty-foot 
pool, seventeen fountain jets, and eight gals willing to give up sex for the run 
of the show so we can morph them into mermaids. I got every piece of gimcrackery 
anybody ever thought of when they were staging this overblown turkey, and I got 
a guaranteed opening night sellout. I even have a chorus line that can get 
across the stage without tripping over either of their left feet."
He paused to draw a breath, then leaned slightly forward and spoke in a more 
confidential tone.
"You know what I don't have? Ask me what I don't have, Sparky."
"Leapin' lizards, Uncle Roy!" I squeaked, in my old "Sparky" voice. "What don't 
you have?"
He leaned over even farther.
"What I don't have is an Anna Livia Plurabelle who can reach a high C three 
times in a row without I shove a hot poker up her ass." He leaned back in his 
chair. "Which I'd be perfectly happy to do."
I tsked a few sympathetic-sounding tsks.
My sympathies for directors who miscast and then complain about it are severely 
limited. After all, it's usually me out there trying my best to make some 
pathetic hambone look good, and cursing the moment the little shit got into the 
mighty director's pants.
"Who is this up-and-comer?" I asked. "Was that Haynes?"
"Little Miss Drury Haynes," he confirmed. "Sparky, you know that montage in 
Citizen Kane, the one where the no-talent broad tries to sing grand opera and 
stinks up the place? That no-talent broad looks good compared to Drury Haynes. 
Or how about the traveling troupe in The Court of Babylon? Take the worst of 
those mugs and stand her up against Drury...." He finally ran out of steam. He 
glared down at his desk, then looked up at me again.
"I want you to ask me one more question, Sparky," he said.
"Roy..."
"Just one more. Ask me the name of the Grand Exalted Super-Flack of this 
particular Studio."
"Uh-oh."
"Aloysius J. Haynes is the good worthy's name, and he just couldn't be prouder 
of fathering little Drury, who thinks the musical theater is simply ripping, and 
who has wanted to be a singer and an actress just ever so long. And who has been 
taking singing lessons since she was three from a series of increasingly 
desperate voice teachers, at least three of whom can be seen this very moment 
sitting on filthy beds in the charity ward of Pandemonium General, gibbering to 
themselves, in restraints to prevent them from driving sharp objects into their 
ears.
"So when little Drury showed up at the auditions and the word came down that she 
was to be treated 'just like any other singer,' that's exactly what I did. I 
treated her just like any other producer's favorite daughter, and gave her the 
part. 'I can fix it,' I said to myself at the time. 'She'll get better.' We can 
mike her and cover it up. Or I can pull a Singin' in the Rain, have a real 
singer behind a curtain. Something. Only when I tried, she went running to 
daddy, of course. And the Word came down.
"And if you were still asking questions, Sparky, I'd ask you to ask me if I give 
a free-falling fuck anymore about the Word coming down, and you know what I'd 
answer? I'd say no. Because yesterday I found myself cleaning out my left ear 
with a very sharp pencil, and wondering what it'd feel like, and thinking it 
might not be half-bad. And in my dreams I see them making up the empty fourth 
bed in that padded ward in the giggle academy, and I see them putting me in it 
and murmuring 'There, there, Roy. There, there.' "
I admit my attention had drifted. Roy likes to hear himself expound, and this 
all had the sound of a set piece, one he'd honed on many an unsympathetic ear 
over the last few weeks. But now he stood up and leaned over the desk, putting 
his weight on his clenched fists, and he got my attention in about the only way 
he could have done.
"So how about it, old friend? The part's yours. Say the word."
I opened my mouth to say yes. Folks, unless you have the acting fever yourself 
you can't possibly know the idiotic things one will do to get a shot at a part 
he has never played. Or one he's already played, and knows he could do again, 
and better.
Or a chance to carry a gold-painted wooden spear onto the stage and shout 
"Caesar approaches!" to an audience of bored schoolchildren.
I am an absolute sucker for somebody who says those magic words: "You've got the 
part." It has got me into more hot water than yearly flows through Phlegethon, 
the famous River of Fire in Pandemonium Park, not three miles from where I sat. 
It has made a shambles of my life, this puppy-dog-like eagerness to perform.
So I was a tenth of a second from taking the part, when I looked up and saw that 
Elwood had silently opened the door behind Uncle Roy just enough to stick his 
narrow, dour physiognomy through the crack. He was looking at me, pursing his 
lips in that pensive way of his, and shaking his head.
"I'm not a singer," I managed to cough.
"You're not primarily a singer, granted," Roy said. "However, we're not talking 
grand opera soprano here. We're talking Broadway, Sparky, we're talking musical 
comedy, and I don't know anybody in the system can handle that kind of part any 
better than you. Believe me, you're ten times the singer Drury is. I saw 
youwhat was it, ten years ago? Fifteen?as Mrs. Lovett. Best I ever saw, and 
that music is lots tougher than Work. Then there was... what was it... The Three 
Masks. I've never heard Mabel Parsons sung better. Swear to god, Sparky, you had 
me thinking Streisand."
Well. How bad could it be? I'd already done the male lead for several hundred 
performances; I could swot up Anna Livia's lines in a few hours' intense 
cramming. I'm a very quick study. I looked up to say yes...
...and Elwood was still shaking his head, no. There were frown lines on his 
forehead now.
"...I'm pretty much sticking to male roles these days." This was partially true. 
The memory of my recent painful Juliet was still fresh enough in my mind that I 
didn't regard a radical body shift in a short time with a lot of enthusiasm.
"Please, Sparky," he said, leaning across his desk with his hands folded. If he 
came across and grabbed my lapels I'd have no choice but to run like a scared 
rabbit. There was no other resistance I could offer.
"Please, please, please!" he groveled.
"All right," I said. "I accept." Or that's what I opened my mouth to say, but 
what came out was more like "Awwwrrrgh," followed by a strangling sound I can't 
transliterate, as Elwood was now drawing a finger across his throat
and the full depth of my folly was revealed to me in a blinding burst of 
temporary sanity. I'd been on Pluto three, four weeks? Already I'd committed at 
least two feloniesones I was aware of, though the place had so many new laws 
now it was likely I'd committed a handful more simply by getting up and going 
about my daily business. So what did I now propose to do? Nothing but get put 
down on the shit list of one of the most powerful men on Pluto, in letters ten 
meters tall and written in fire: The Man Who Wrecked My Daughter's Life.
No thank you! No, I thank you! And again, I thank you!
"I'm really sorry, Roy," I said. "I have a previous engagement on... on the, 
er... the Titanic."
"Dinner theater? You're giving up Anna Livia for dinner theater?"
"At least I won't get trampled by elephants."
"And between shows you can bus tables. I never heard of"
I slapped the bag of swag onto the desk between us, possibly the only action I 
could have taken at that moment that would get his attention. He looked at it 
suspiciously, then took it and zipped it open. He hauled out the wad of crisp, 
new banknotes and then looked at me.
"Any trouble at all?"
"No trouble. She was just like you said."
He nodded. He'd met her before, having been the original bank examiner in our 
little true-life sketch. He moistened a thumb and started shuffling through the 
bills, sorting them into two piles: nine for him, one for me. Hey, I'm not 
complaining. Ten percent is not bad for coming in so late in the sting. They'd 
done all the groundwork.
"All right, Sparky. Here's your share."
I pocketed the loot, and placed a small object on the desk in front of him. He 
frowned at it, picked it up.
"What is this? A chessman?"
"It's called 'Dutchman.' It's netsuke, nineteenth century, dating from a few 
years after the opening of Japan. This is how the Japanese saw the Western 
invaders. Notice how his little eyes are slanted?"
"You got this from Mayard-Tate?"
"No, I found it lying in the street. Jesus, Roy."
He frowned at the tiny mannequin while his thumb absently caressed it.
"Reason I asked," he said, "we talked about it before you went in. The Charonese 
Mafia."
"We sure as hell did talk about it. You said it wouldn't be a problem."
"It ain't. Only I didn't figure on you pinching any sukiyaki."
"Netsuke. What's the difference?"
He rolled his shoulders, nervously rubbed the back of his neck.
"Come on, Roy. Don't do this to me. You said the Mayard-Tates wouldn't bother to 
tell the Mafia."
"Normally, no, they wouldn't. They'd be embarrassed, for one thing. And it's a 
small enough amount of moneyto themit's easier just to let it go. In fact, I 
was gonna ask you if you'd like to be in on stage three of the sting. We're 
planning to"
"Not for all the netsuke in Pluto."
"Okay. Just a thought. They didn't do anything after the first sting, and I 
don't see why they'd do it now, 'cause it's even more embarrassing to fall for 
it twice. Still, I didn't count on you lifting the furniture."
"Get real, Roy. I walk into a house like that, you think I'm walking out with my 
pockets empty? Would you?"
He grinned. "There's that," he admitted. "What do you want for it?"
"What'll you give?"
He named a ridiculous price. I just shook my head. But instead of making a 
counteroffer, he shook his head, too.
"I'm out of my element here," he said. "I never dealt in Nipponiana. Let me talk 
to a few people." He swiveled his chair to the side and started typing on his 
keyboard, studying the results on a clear glass pane whose angle made the 
returning answers invisible to me.
"What do you hear these days?" I asked him, more to be making conversation than 
anything else. "Anything interesting going on?"
"My show's just about it," he said. "A few other revivals here and there. I 
don't think there's been three new plays debuted on Pluto this year. Things are 
pretty dead." He glanced at me, smiled. "Unless you count Polichinelli coming 
out of retirement to direct King Lear."
Sure. I returned his smirk. "And I heard Hitchcock's come back from the dead to 
direct John Wilkes Booth in Our American Cousin, too." Both events were about 
equally likely. If there was something good coming up, Roy wouldn't tell me. He 
wanted me for Work in Progress.
His attention had returned to his screen.
"I hope those questions aren't going out over the public cables."
"Don't teach grandpa how to get under a skirt, little boy," he said. "This is 
encoded nine different ways. The police could never trace it. Of course, if the 
Charonese are looking for you, nothing's gonna help."
Did he have to bring that up? I expected Elwood to stick his nosy phiz back 
through the door again and croon, Don't say I didn't warn you.
He had warned me, not that I'd really needed it. The hardest part of the 
Mayard-Tate sting had been knocking on that front door with the red handprints 
on each jamb, like the fresh lamb's blood beside the doors of the Israelites. 
Those prints meant, to anyone who had spent any time on Pluto, "This residence 
protected by the Red Hand." I read them in a more colorful way: Burglar, pass by 
this place. Had a more Biblical sound, and the Charonese Mafia was nothing if 
not Biblical.
After the end of the penal system on Pluto and the establishment of democracy, 
there was never much enthusiasm for the institution of police. Too many 
votersex-transporteeshad nothing but negative associations with the color 
blue. No very large society can get along without something in the way of law 
enforcement, and Pluto did have police, both municipal and planetary. But they 
were weaker than on any other major planet.
The trouble was that crime doesn't stop just because the people don't like cops. 
The resulting gap between an anemic constabulary and a healthy and growingsome 
even argued genetically predisposedcriminal class was filled, as such gaps 
always are, by free enterprise, in the form of vigilance committees, posses, and 
protective associations. And of these sellers of protection, the greatest and 
most feared was the Charonese Mafia.
If you'd like an historical parallel, there's a good one from the Old Earth. The 
nation of Italy had organized crime, like many other countries. But in one 
particular province, known as Sicily, the Cosa Nostra, or Black Hand, was far 
more ruthless and relentless than in any other region. They were so good at what 
they did that they ended up actually exporting their brand of gangsterism to 
other countries, particularly America. I know this because I had to study it 
when I played in The Martian Godfather ("Valentine is effective in the role of 
Don Tharsisini, mugging and brandoing his way through some lines that might have 
choked a less professional thespian. Go see it, or I'll break ya fuckin' 
kneecaps."The Quicksilver Messenger).
You'd think being an inmate in a planetary prison was about as low as one could 
sink. You'd be wrong. In any prison there is a hierarchy. It may be topsy-turvy 
to outside eyesmurderers usually got more respect than embezzlers, for 
instanceand it varies from culture to culture, but there are always those who 
the run-of-the-mill convict views with the same contempt that civilians view 
him. Baby killers, for instance. Cannibals. Crazed serial murderers. Try to 
parole such people into a population of ex-transportees and you'll get the same 
uproar you'd get anywhere. So Pluto found itself in need of a prison planet of 
its own, and the logical choice was forlorn, useless, and neglected little 
Charon, Pluto's largest moon, named for the ferryman of Hell.
Taxpayers are loath to squander a lot of money on the care of people such as 
they were exporting to Charon. They must have air, water, and, Charon being from 
two to four billion miles from the sun, a certain amount of heat. Those things 
were provided, though not generously. As for food, they could learn hydroponic 
farming or they could damn well eat each other. I think the Plutonian electorate 
had the Kilkenny cats in mind: throw them together, stand back, and in a little 
while there would be just teeth, hair, and eyeballs left.
But politics has a natural ebb and flow. Regimes came and went for nearly two 
hundred years. Sometimes standards relaxed and genetic criminals were sent to 
Charon. During a brief right-wing coup any number of political prisoners were 
transported. There were times when no one went to the rock, as do-gooders tried 
one more futile time to "reform" the worst of the worst with some new "therapy," 
or as more pragmatic souls scrambled offenders' brains with the newest lobotomy 
equivalent that left them happy droolers, or, as the pragmatists would have it, 
"perfect citizens."
It had been over fifty years since the penal colony was closed and Charon became 
a more-or-less-equal member of the Plutonian Fed. But in the century before that 
something had been bred that, save for Areoformed Martians, was nearer to a 
subspecies of human than anything yet seen in this tired old solar system. They 
were the Charonese.
They looked like normal human beings, though they tended to a choleric 
complexion and red hair. Where they differed from the bulk of humanity was not 
so visible. This difference has been described in a dozen ways, depending on 
what sort of expert you're talking to. They were said to be empathically 
dysfunctional. That, or they lived their lives according to an antisocial 
cultural ethic. Or they suffered from a planetary traumatic stress syndrome. Or, 
as my father had once put it, "They are mean sumbitches."
Traumatic, dysfunctional, antisocial, deprived, depraved, depraved on account o' 
being deprived, genetically abnormal, or just plain mean, I lean toward a 
simpler explanation. They had no souls.
I know it's not scientific, but I never laid claim to a rigorous point of view. 
Don't ask me to define a soul because I can't. But I know one when I see one, 
and the Charonese don't have them. I have one. Uncle Roy does, though we're both 
not very nice. Toby has one, and I'll bet you do, too.
Basically, all Charon had to export was viciousness. And they made a hell of a 
good living at it. There have always been people who have need of really tough 
guys.
Charonese were often referred to as "ferrymen."
This was all unprofitable reflection, and I was glad to be drawn away from it 
when Roy turned from his screen and named a much more satisfactory figure. I 
might as well admit it: I had no idea what the thing was worth. I was merely 
following another valuable piece of advice from my father. "Never take the first 
offer," he said. "It makes you look hungry." A corollary to that was to try not 
to take the second offer, either, so I named a higher figure and, sure enough, 
he came up a little bit.
I'm sure we would have ended up splitting the difference if we could have spent 
the next hour haggling, but he was due back onstage, and he didn't know 
something, which was that he would have to do this twice more.
"Deal," I said, and put a lovely little recumbent water buffalo on the table 
between us. "Now how much for this?"
* * *
The rest of our negotiations were quickly concluded, on terms a bit more 
favorable to me, I like to think. Then he was hustling me out of his office, 
into the breathless rowdy-dowdy, randy-dandy, rollicky-ranky that is backstage 
at a major musical before the second curtain. He guided me to the stage door, 
which disgorged me into the end of the traditional long, dark alley, the door 
lit by a single overhead bulb. With the door already closing behind him, he 
stuck his head out again.
"You want to come tonight and catch the opening? I'll leave a ticket at the box 
office."
"No, thanks," I said, with a tip of my hat and a bow. "I'll come tomorrow night, 
and catch the closing."
He extended his middle finger, then smiled and waved.
"Break a leg!" I shouted as the door clicked shut.
* * *
For the last ten days I had been staying in modest quarters at the Lambs Club. 
For the last three of those days I had been making my entrances and exits while 
the front desk was not occupied, or when the clerk was busy with something else. 
A few times I'd been reduced to the back stairs and the freight doors. At the 
Lambs they know actors, you see, most of them being either aspiring or ex-actors 
themselves. One of the things they know is that an actor with a hit series or a 
big part in a picture doesn't stay at the Lambs. Another is that an actor lies. 
It's his business. They have heard every variation on 
I-Shall-Positively-Pay-You-Next-Tuesday. Your best story about how your saintly 
mother needed the dough to pay off an unsympathetic bookie will be met by a 
stony silence. They will regard your crystal martini mixer, said to have 
belonged to Shirley Temple, with sneering disbelief, and direct you to a 
pawnbroker known to have a heart of pure flint. Or they'd simply point to the 
big sign behind the front desk: ALL ROOMS TO BE PAID FOR IN ADVANCE.
Yesterday I'd been ready to throw myself on the mercy of a desk clerk. There was 
one who looked like Mickey Rooney. Could such a man be a rogue?
Today I swept into the seedy marble-columned lobby in my best black cape and top 
hat. There was a shine on my shoes and a melody in my heart. I don't think I 
mentioned it, but when I smile, I can look a lot like Fred Astaire. That thought 
so cheered me that I actually danced a few steps, past the eternal contingent of 
office boys, barmaids, and young mechanics who come from Chillicothes and 
Paducahs with their bazookas to get their names up in lights. And they end up 
sitting hunched in the Lambs' shabby novodeco armchairs with their attractive 
but worried faces buried in copies of Casting Call and Pluto Variety. I grabbed 
the hand of one comely lass, pulled her from her chair, and we Fred'n'Gingered 
through the dusty potted palms, up the seven steps from the lounge, where I 
rolled her into my arms and planted a kiss of purest em-gee-em on her rosebud 
mouth.
I was striding by the front desk on my way to the elevators when I suddenly 
stopped and looked thoughtful, as if remembering something... just as the clerk 
held up a finger and opened his mouth. (I admit it. I was watching from the 
corner of my eye for just such a moment.) I hurried to the desk, taking out my 
wallet as I went. I let him see the stack of bills inside as I peeled off three 
large ones and placed them on the blotter.
"I believe this will cover any arrears, my good man," I said.
The clerk (not Mickey Rooney) gave me a sour look that told me he'd been 
anticipating my ouster with relish. But he took the money and turned to his 
computer. I dug in the pocket of my cape and removed Toby and set him on the 
counter. He sniffed at the inkwell, and promptly knocked over the "No Pets 
Allowed" sign. I told him to sit, which he did.
The clerk's already prunelike mouth wrinkled even further when he turned from 
his ledgers with my change.
"I'm afraid no pets are allowed in the guest rooms, sir," he said.
"Toby is not a pet. He is a performer." I put my palm flat on the blotter 
between us.
"Nevertheless, I'm afraid..." He had finally noticed the edge of the twenty 
sticking out from under my hand.
"Seems there's a lot you're afraid of," I said. "You'll have to stop going 
around in such a frightened state." I pushed the bill a little closer, and he 
took it, making no effort to be discreet. A bribe's a bribe, as far as he was 
concerned.
"No need for any change just now," I said, airily. "We shall be checking out 
tomorrow morning, and I may be charging some interplanetary calls to my room. 
Tomorrow I shall need my bags delivered to dockside, H.M.S. Britannic, in time 
for the afternoon sailing."
"Of course," he said, making a note. Then he looked up, sneering. "Shall I have 
them sent to the crew deck?"
"And have your mother drop them over the side? You should let that old woman 
retire. No, no, send them to my dressing room. It's the one with the star on 
it."
I picked up Toby while the clerk was still sputtering, and swept away to the 
elevators.
* * *
It's always a melancholy time when I must once more put Toby down. Melancholy 
for me, not him. He always knows it's coming because for the two days prior I 
stuff him with food. A full belly extends his downtime and makes him recover 
more rapidly from the effects of hibernation, but the real reason I do it is 
guilt. It's entirely self-induced. Toby never offers a word of reproach.
I'm sure dogs don't experience the passage of time in the same way we do. He's 
sharp enough, I think, to know a hibernation is not the same as a regular 
night's sleep. While there are no actual seasons in our modern environments, 
there are periodic daily, weekly, and quarterly changes in temperature, 
humidity, pressure, and so forth, because it's been found people do better that 
way. Toby surely noticed those when awakened. But I doubt he had any notion of 
how much time had passed. So it was no skin off his nose, right?
I just hated treating him like a little, warm machine. I'd never thought of him 
as property. A dog sticks to you out of loyalty. And, pragmatically, because 
you're his meal ticket.
I called him over and tossed the sleepy pill in his direction. He leaped into 
the air and caught it. I heaped praise on him, which he took as only his due, 
clever dog, smart dog. Then, old hand that he is, he sat down and waited. He 
used to stagger about, run into things. He didn't like to be held at such times, 
as he sometimes became delirious, hallucinated. Once he bit my hand, and felt 
rotten about it for days after I woke him up. So he just sits there, and pretty 
soon he begins to nod. Sometimes he growls at things I can't see. But in no time 
his heart rate is falling, along with all his other metabolic signs.
He fell over and I scooped him up.
When I bought him he came with a little hard-sided carrying case, about the size 
of a hatbox. It was a hideous aluminum color. I had it covered with the finest 
crocodile skin, replaced the plastic handle with leather. I put him in the case, 
curled into a fluffy ball, and pasted a sensor to his pink belly. Green lights 
came on in the lid, which I then snapped closed. If anything went wrong, alarms 
would sound, and if I was close enough to hear I could rush him to a vet. 
Nothing had ever gone wrong.
I packed him into the Pantechnicon, laid out my clothing for the next day, then 
showered, brushed my teeth, put on my nightgown and cap, said my prayers, and 
crawled into the narrow, lumpy bed provided by the Lambs.
I heard the door squeak open on rusty hinges.
"I don't want to talk now, Elwood," I said. I could see his shadow on the floor. 
He nodded, and closed the door quietly. He knows I'm moody when I've just packed 
Toby.
Soon I was asleep.
* * *
About an hour later I sat up, instantly awake. I had the terrible feeling I'd 
forgotten something important. Something impossibly important. I cast my mind 
back over the day, which had been a fairly eventful one. I could come up with 
only one thing, and it was silly.
Surely he had been kidding. Surely...
There was nothing for it but to call the union. I got a computer. Don't tell me 
PFPA never sleeps. I showed my union card to the screen, which agreed I was a 
member in good standing of the Pluto Federation of Performing Artists (luckily 
for me you can still be in good standing though in arrears on your dues), 
delivered a canned lecture concerning the matter of P$795.03 due and payable or 
we are entitled to deduct said sum from any residuals received by this office 
(don't hold your breath), and asked what it could do for me.
"Search announced productions. Stage. King Lear. Polichinelli."
There was a short pause, and the computer was sorry to inform me no such 
production had been billboarded. Not on Pluto, not on Charon
"Not Pluto, you idiot. Polichinelli never travels. Check the Luna listings."
"Inner-planet bookings are not handled by this office, sir. Please call" Which 
I did, only to be answered by an identical computer voice. After the same 
rigmarole (oddly, this office felt I owed them P$795.13), I asked the same 
question.
The pause was even shorter.
"General casting call, all parts, King Lear, by William NMI Shakespeare (b. 
1564, d. 1616). Production announced E-day 1/1/38. Casting begins 10/1/38. 
Venue: Golden Globe Theater, 2001 The Alameda, King City, Luna. Director: 
Kaspara V. Polichinelli. Producer"
"Lear! Lear!" I was shouting. "Has Lear been cast?"
There was that little gurgle a voice program sometimes makes when shifting 
protocols.
"Dramatis personae," it intoned. "Lear, King of Britain: TBA. Goneril, daughter 
to Lear: TBA. Cordelia"
I broke the connection so hard I almost broke my finger as well. Then I was 
fumbling with the card by the room phone, trying to find out how to call Luna. I 
got the hotel computerthe same voice I'd just heard from the union; a very good 
program salesman had been through here at one timewhich regretted to inform me 
that such calls must be paid in advance.
After a bit of shouting I figured it out. That goddamn clerk was trying to 
pocket the change from my payment!
I stormed into the lobby in my dressing gown and slippers. Naturally the 
blackguard was not on duty. The night clerk looked up, doe-eyed, from a large 
crossword she was working on. I throttled my anger; she looked like a sweet kid, 
probably a drama student. She had enough heartbreaks in her future without me 
adding mine.
"I would like to send a telegram to Luna," I said.
"A what?"
"Eight letters, starts with T, a Western Union wire. Good lord, child, haven't 
you ever read about Flo Ziegfeld? He used to send them from stage right to 
people standing at stage left, because they made an impact. I want to send a 
written message. A fax, if you please."
"Okay." She shrugged. "But you can get voice and picture at the same price."
"Polichinelli dislikes telephones," I said.
"Polichinelli?" she whispered. Apparently she had heard of Polly, because her 
lovely fawn-colored orbs grew even wider. "You're sending a fax to Kaspara 
Polichinelli?"
I sighed, and lifted the flap in the counter and came around to stand beside 
her. I selected a pen from a great pot full of them, and pulled a sheet of white 
paper from a cubbyhole. I held them up for her to see, then pushed up my sleeves 
and rested my elbows on the counter. I chewed on the end of the pen for a 
moment. She leaned close to watch as I wrote the following:
* * *
Kaspara Polichinelli
c/o Directors Guild of Luna
1750 The Alameda
King City, Luna.
We two alone will sing like birds in the cage. When thou dost ask me blessing 
I'll kneel down and ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live, and pray, and sing, 
and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies. You have found your Lear, 
and he draws nigh.
K. C. Valentine
* * *
I handed the paper to her, and she read it unabashedly. Then she read it again. 
When she looked up her eyes were misty.
"That's beautiful," she breathed. "Did you write this yourself?"
Perhaps she should consider a career in hotel management. Drama school hadn't 
taught her much. I took the paper from her and put it on the desk, placed a bill 
on top of it.
"This should cover the cost of the telegram," I said. I took her tiny hand and 
kissed the back of it, then turned it over and pressed a shiny new ten dollar 
piece into it, folded the fingers over the coin. "This is for your trouble. And 
this"I put my arms around her, gabled my eyes down into hers for a moment, and 
said"this is for me." I gave her a long, black-and-white kiss: that is to say, 
no tongue. Her lips were very warm. She made no resistance. How could she 
resist, and call herself an actress?
It begins to be silly in a minute, with nothing to fade out to, so I broke the 
kiss, and smiled at her.
"Wish me luck," I said.
"Break a leg," she whispered.
* * *
There was going to be no chance at all of getting any more sleep.
The room had no chair. I dragged the bed over to the single, narrow window, 
which I cranked open. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out over 
Pandemonium's neon hell.
This was the notorious Thirteenth Avenue. Two blocks to my left was Pluto's 
equivalent of the Great White Way, the Rialto. It was six blocks of exclusive 
shops and restaurants, and about a dozen legitimate theaters. If I stuck my head 
out the window I could almost see it. But what was the point? It was late; the 
last show had let out hours ago, and the tasteful marquees were dark. Most of 
the restaurants were empty, too, their patrons on the trains to the suburbs or 
already snuggled in bed. Anyone who still wanted to party had to come here, to 
'Teenth. If you want a parallel, think of Forty-second Street in little old New 
York. Naughty, gaudy, bawdy, sporty; the 'Teenth was all of that, and more. Here 
the lights still flashed, urging one in to baser amusements. At one end was the 
slash-boxing arena. Ten blocks away, beyond the Rialto, was the Motorpsycho 
racetrack. In between were dozens of orgy rooms, virtuality dens, rough bars and 
spike bars and squeeze bars and cyberpunk bars, dance halls, bordellos, live sex 
shows, and the Salvation Army mission. There were other theaters, too, the 
stepchildren of the glittering palaces around the corner, our modern equivalents 
of vaudeville and burlesque, revues and skit houses and stand-up comedy stages. 
There was an actual old-fashioned strip show. There were three or four 
experimental theaters, though most of that was farther downtown, sub-Rialto. 
Across from my room was the menacing edifice of the Grand Guignol, granddaddy of 
the Theater of Cruelty. Headlined in flashing lights: The Garden of Torture. I 
decided to skip that one.
It was "summer" in Pandemonium. The bright, hot overheads were out, but the air 
was still balmy. My room was on the fourth floor, just one below the roof. I sat 
on my bed and watched the traffic in the street.
It was a colorful bunch. I saw people being led around on leashes. A group of 
motorcyclists thundered by, on their way to a competition at the velodrome. 
Directly below me, two naked whores laughed and chatted with a beat cop, cool in 
his summer khaki.
I looked at the clock with the skull face and the skeletal hands across the 
street at the Grand Guignol. It had been three hours since I sent the wire. At 
least another three hours to go. With any luck, Polly should be getting my 
message just about then.
I can't imagine why no one has yet done anything about this speed-of-light 
business. To think that in this day and age we have to wait three hours for a 
message to crawl to Luna, and three hours for an answer to return. No amount of 
bribery will get it there any faster. My father, for one, never believed that. 
All his life he was convinced that rich people had a faster way, and that they 
kept it from the populace out of spite.
My thumb caressed the little frog-and-skull netsuke there in the semidark. At 
the last moment I had decided not to set it on Roy's desk. Don't ask me why. I 
opened my hand and looked at it, pulsing red and blue, pale washes from the neon 
outside. A truly evil little thing. The frog looked back at me impassively. He 
wasn't impatient. He had plenty of time. A fly would drift by sooner or later.
I heard the door creak behind me, then a soft sound as it closed. I knew I 
wasn't alone.
"I don't much feel like talking, Elwood," I said.
"Who's Elwood?" came the soft whisper. "Are you gay?"
"How can you ask that of a man who kisses like that?"
"Good." I heard soft footsteps, and looked to my left. She was across the room, 
by the dresser, nude, with some sort of wrap in her right hand. With her left 
she was placing something on the dresser, something that glinted in the next 
flash of blue neon that turned her from a gray shadow to a magical dolphin girl. 
I saw the sway of her hanging breast as she bent over the dresser, and again as 
she straightened and turned toward me, dropping the gown, hips moving, a bit 
pigeon-toed, her pubic triangle bold and black as her skin now burned the red of 
smoldering coals. I looked back out the window. I'd seen enough; I was in love. 
She'd put the ten dollar coin on the dresser so there would be no question of 
the nature of the coming transaction.
I heard springs creak and felt the bed move as she put first one knee, then the 
other, on the mattress. I felt soft hands on my shoulders, massaging gently.
"My name is Margaret Sawyer," she whispered. I wondered if she always whispered, 
or just around me. "People call me Peggy." Everyone has a cross to bear. "Are 
you having a hard time waiting for your answer?"
I gestured at the dark room. "These luxurious surroundings go a long ways to 
soothe my anxieties."
"Mine enemy's dog," she said, "though he had bit me, should have stood that 
night against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, to hovel thee with swine 
and rogues forlorn, in short and musty straw? Alack, alack!"
Alack indeed. "Do not laugh at me, for as I am a man, I think this lady to be 
Cordelia." I tried to look at her over my shoulder, but she kept massaging me. 
"And not the ignorant bumpkin I took her for."
"I've been reading the last few hours," she admitted. "And I've been wondering 
if you're old enough to play King Lear."
"Pray, do not mock me," I quoted. "I am a very foolish fond old man, five score 
and upward, not an hour more nor less."
She pressed herself against me, all softness but for the stiff brush of hair 
against my spine, all firm but for the pillows of her breasts on each side of my 
neck. Her hair fell around me, smelling of soap and jasmine. She still wouldn't 
let me turn as her hands moved over my face, chest, belly.
God, it had been a long time. What had happened to my sex life? Miranda didn't 
count, of course. That was business. Before that, the brief run as Juliet, and 
I'd been catching, not pitching. Oh, yes, of course. The governor's daughter. 
Sweet as she'd been, I realized I hadn't really stopped running since that 
goddamn gumshoe tapped me on the shoulder, way back in Brementon. I certainly 
hoped little Peggy Sawyer didn't come with so many strings attached.
"Your father isn't a member of Congress, is he?" I murmured.
"My father was two cc's of white fluid in a test tube."
"The best kind." I twisted, took her in my arms, pressed her against the bed. 
She wrapped her legs around me and looked up with flashing eyes.
"Lord, you feel wonderful," I said. There's nothing like a woman's body. She 
must have been reading my mind.
"Why are our bodies soft and weak, and smooth, unapt to toil and trouble in the 
world, but that our soft conditions and our hearts should well agree with our 
external parts?"
Good question. It had always seemed to me to strike at the heart of the eternal 
mystery of sex. And she was no shrew.
I could have bid her kiss me, Kate, but I'd used that line in more comical 
circumstances, and besides, another was at hand.
"The wren goes to it, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight," I told 
her. "Let copulation thrive."
* * *
And it did prosper mightily there on that short and musty straw.
Eventually we repaired to the facilities down the hall to see if anything could 
be done about the damages. I examined myself in the mirror while she got busy at 
the bidet. There were a few bite marks, nothing a little maxfac couldn't cover 
up. Lips a bit swollen. Hair... well, perhaps a good beautician could give me a 
cost estimate.
"Once again, my father was right," I said.
"How's that?"
"When he urged me to brush up my Shakespeare. Claimed it was the quickest way to 
get girls in the sack. 'Just declaim a few lines from Othella, and they'll think 
you're a helluva fella.' "
"Well, it's the first time Shakespeare got me in the sack." She looked up, 
suspiciously. "Are you sure that was your father's line?"
"Dad stole all his best lines," I admitted. "But he only stole from the best. In 
this case, Cole Porter."
She shook her head; never heard of him. And to think, I was considering asking 
her hand in marriage.
By the time we got dressed and I was packed, "day" was dawning on the street 
outside, and there was still no reply from Polly.
Cordelia followed me as I trundled the Pantechnicon to the lobby and out onto 
the street. We embraced there, kissed, and I told her I'd drop in again as soon 
as the cruise run was over. And I would have, too....
That's when the bellboy shambled up, pillbox hat askew, shirttail out, and 
pressed an envelope into my hand. He turned on his heel and left us standing 
there, apparently never dreaming I might actually tip him.
I tried not to let my hands tremble as I opened the envelope and unfolded the 
yellow paper within.
* * *
If thou wert my fool, Nuncle, I'd have thee beaten for being old before thy 
time. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou had been wise. Sparky, if you 
can make it, Phileas Fogg was a piker. But, as the Bard says:
The sweet and bitter fool will presently appear;
The one in motley here, the other found out there.
If he says you can do it, maybe you can. Lear is yours.
* * *
I modestly took my place as the one and only bass. I would have been tickled 
pink to oompah my little heart out except I had somehow neglected to take 
sousaphone lessons in preparing for a life on the stage. Though I knew it was 
rumored that if one pressed the middle valve down the music would go 'round and 
'round and come out way up there somewhere, I had no personal experience of 
this. Hell, for the first two hours of rehearsal I'd worn the thing on the wrong 
shoulder. It still looked more like some plumber's catastrophic mistake than a 
musical instrument, but at least now, after a dozen performances, I knew where 
to blow.
Or pretend to blow. The sound system backstage took care of the actual music. My 
job was simply to be in the right place when the sousaphone was dropped from the 
fly loft, like a human horseshoe peg.
The "Seventy-six Trombones" number was the climax of the twenty-minute "Sounds 
of Old Broadway" piece we did twice a day, at six and eleven. At seven and 
midnight, it was "Caribbean Rhythms," where I got to fake it at a set of steel 
drums, dressed up like Carmen Miranda.
So when's the last time you demanded Oedipus Rex on a cruise ship? It was 
legitimate stage work, and I was glad to have it.
So I continued my high-kicking march step, in place, waving my Panama straw hat 
and grinning like mad at the audience as the music thundered to its conclusion 
and the curtain dropped down before me, seventy-six trombonists, a hundred and 
ten cornet players, and more than a thousand reeds.
Close enough. There were actually three 'bone pickers, four cornets, and five 
woodwinds. As Busby Berkeley is rumored to have said when informed he could only 
have twenty chorus girls for a dance he was staging, "That's all right. I know 
how to make twenty look like a thousand."
The way he did it was through artistry and film editing. The director of this 
particular turkey had used a holographic echo generator. The images of my dozen 
chorus kids was picked up by this gizmo, and a computer introduced variations in 
height, skin color, facial shape, and so forth, then endlessly replicated the 
first rowthe only row I hadinto twelve infinitely long files, vanishing into 
the distance of a stage that was actually no deeper than a starlet's intellect.
Don't bother notifying the union about this, you dirty snitch. The contract 
plainly states that holo-echoes can be used for crowd scenes in medium-to-small 
houses. Nobody ever called Sparky Valentine a scab. Not under my real name, 
anyway.
I waited in the wings while the boys and girls took their bows, then bounded out 
as the spotlight picked me up. People were standing, but not, I was forced to 
admit, in an ovation. They had drinks in their hands waiting for the aisles to 
clear. I bowed as the music swelled, gestured to the maestro, who turned and 
smiled as one hand continued to conduct his three-piece augmented orchestra. I 
knew the applause would not extend for long, and besides, I'm not one of those 
pathetic hams who milk it beyond that Zen moment of one hand clapping. I bowed 
once more, and the curtain came down.
* * *
This was not, in point of fact, the Titanic, as I had told Roy, but her sister 
ship, the Britannic. A third ship, Olympic, completed the trio, faithful 
external copies of the White Star Line behemoths of the early twentieth century. 
It was a very Plutonian thing, to name a cruise fleet after such an ill-omened 
trio. Everybody knows what happened on that Night to Remember back in 1912; it's 
passed into the language as a synonym for catastrophe, and hubris. Titanic 
proved all too sinkable. Less familiar is the sad story of Britannic, converted 
to a hospital ship during a war and sunk by a mine. Would you believe there was 
actually a woman, Violet Jessop, who had the bad luck to be aboard both ships 
when they went down? And the incredible good luck to survive both disasters. It 
was in the tour brochure.
I'm as superstitious as any actora notoriously twitchy lot. I didn't know what 
to make of it. I know my father would never have set foot aboard either vessel. 
He made many an astrologer rich during his lifetime. He believed in hexes, 
hoodoos, and bad karma of any description. My own life seems more like Violet's: 
depressingly regular disasters followed by perilous escapes that made Pauline of 
the silent melodramas seem tame.
* * *
Two flights of spiral stairs took me a bit closer to the engines, which I had 
expected to throb but instead made a deep humming sound. Pluto White Star's 
devotion to authenticity didn't extend to coal-fired steam engines. I gathered 
the vessel was propelled by some infernal nuclear contrivance, probably 
generating a pure sleet of insalubrious particles to careen through my 
unprotected body every instant I spent in my dressing room. However, I try not 
to think about things I can't see, and the dressing room did have a star on the 
door.
I kicked it open and edged in sideways because of the sousaphone still slung 
over my shoulder. The big silver horn had to be the most awkward single object 
ever invented by man, and for a week now I'd been stuck with it between shows. 
The property manager said there simply wasn't space in the narrow flies of the 
shipboard theater for all the gear needed for our two shows, so would I just be 
a dear and pitch in...? I'd foolishly agreed, not yet knowing there is 
absolutely no good place to store a sousaphone.
I nudged the door shut with my knee, and put my lips experimentally to the 
mouthpiece, puckered my lips, and blew. All I got was the same merry flatulence 
I'd produced on my first attempt. It had been days before a guy from the ship's 
band had played a tune for me on it... and I'd been amazed to discover it was 
supposed to sound like that. Now I shrugged it off my shoulders and attacked the 
screws that held the monstrous bell onto the loops of silver tubing, wondering 
once again where they had found such a ridiculous item. The flea market of Hell, 
no doubt. It was supposed to nest inside a case that might have held two moose 
heads side by side, but there I had put my foot down. It actually took up less 
of my limited space if I hung the bell on a clothes hook above the door, then 
put the rest on the bed. When it came time to sleep, the instrument was propped 
against the door, where it made a nice informal burglar alarm. You never know, 
with all the crooks around these days.
In addition to the bunk there was a makeup table with lighted mirror and a chair 
mounted on casters. And there you have the catalog of my furniture. In the wall 
opposite the table were two doors, one leading to a coffin-sized head, the sort 
where you stood on the toilet to take a shower, and the other to a locker where 
I stored my costumes between shows. The architect hadn't planned on the occupant 
bringing something the size of the Pantechnicon with him. I had to roll it in 
front of the head to get in the closet, and vice versa. Three people in this 
cabin was a considerable crowd. Add a fourth and you had the stateroom scene 
from A Night at the Opera.
I was glad to have it. The chorus bunked together in a room not much larger than 
this. If they all inhaled at once the door burst from its hinges.
I pulled the chair around and opened a desk shelf on the side of the Pan-tech. 
Speaking a pass phrasewhich I don't think I'll mention here, thank you very 
muchcaused a small drawer to spring open. I took out the thin stack of large 
bills inside the drawer and thumbed through them. Sadly, they had once more 
refused to mate and multiply. I took a dinner menu and an eyebrow pencil and a 
well-thumbed booklet of interplanetary rates and schedules, shoved my straw 
boater back on my head, and once more tried to make my bankroll add up to a trip 
to Luna before October. Improvise! I told myself. Rhapsodize! Steerage is fine, 
no problem, but the ships had to be reasonably fast.
It just didn't compute. I had enough for passage, but not in any reasonable 
time. Or, I could get as far as the Jupiter trailing Trojans by early May, only 
to arrive dead broke.
I took the little netsuke frog from the drawer and set it beside the stack of 
money. I sighed. It just didn't make sense to keep the thing. Not that selling 
it would get me to Luna in time, but it would provide me with some walking 
around money when I reached the Trojans. Perhaps something would turn up there. 
I really had no choice. Time was the operative factor.
There was a knock on the door, and I hastily stowed my valuables back into their 
hiding place and sealed it up. I put on my dressing gown and opened the door to 
find a man standing there, looking up at me with a faint smile.
"Mr. Valentine?"
"Yes?"
"You wouldn't happen to be Sparky Valentine, the guy I used to watch on Sparky 
and His Friends?"
"Careful," I said. "You're dating yourself."
"You are? Really?"
"Guilty."
"I knew it, I just knew it," he said, his grin growing wider. "I told my wife, 
'That's just got to be Sparky Valentine,' I said, but she didn't believe me. 
Isn't she going to be surprised? She said everybody knew you died years ago."
"Those rumors were greatly exaggerated."
"That's what I told her. But no, she insisted you'd been murdered in some back 
alley in Luna forty, fifty years ago." His smile faded a little. "To tell you 
the truth, I'd heard that story, too."
"I'm not surprised. I've heard it as well. Once these stories get going they 
turn into urban legends. Who knows how they start." Well, this one started 
because I got it going myself, having a great need at the time to avoid a 
certain party who just wasn't going to stop looking for me short of the grave... 
but that's another story.
There followed an awkward moment of the sort I used to be quite familiar with, 
but which had become infrequent. I used to be recognized all the time, stopped 
on the street, buttonholed, quizzed, importuned. Mostly complimented, because 
Sparky was beloved to a whole generation of children. You never become 
completely comfortable with it. Somebody is standing there telling you how much 
he admires you, or your work. Sometimes, it's that he frankly idolizes you, that 
you've changed his life. Even saved his life. I'm not going to try telling you 
it isn't enjoyable to be told things like that. If you hate compliments you 
should never get into show business. But it is awkward, and soon you find 
yourself standing there with a false smile on your face listening to the fan 
extol your virtues and wondering how quickly you can gracefully get away. The 
more effusive the praise, the tougher this is. I soon begin to wonder, if my 
work in that long-ago series changed your life, what sort of pitiful life do you 
have? Are you going to bend my ear all day long? And most important, are you 
stalking me?
I'd stopped really worrying about stalkers years ago. I had plenty of more 
concrete things to worry about. So I wasn't really uneasy as I stood there in 
the doorway, listening to him gush about how much he'd enjoyed the show, how he 
still caught it every chance he could in reruns, how he'd loved me and all the 
other characters in Sparky's Gang. I figured the nicest way to give him the 
bum's rush was to offer an autograph, and was trying to figure how to slip the 
offer into the stream of words, when he said, "Say, would you mind? I went back 
to my cabin and got this. I found it in the Tokyo gift shop and I'm going to 
give it to my son. Could I get your autograph on it?"
He was holding out a book. I took it and flipped through the pages. It was a 
reprint edition of Sparky and His Gang, something I hadn't seen in decades. I 
quickly sought the copyright page, only to discover no date or copyright 
information. Printed in Brementon, it said.
The nerve of the guy! This was a pirated edition, printed by convict labor, of a 
book to which I still, theoretically, owned the rightsfor all the good it had 
done me the last seventy years.
...But what the hell. The guy probably had no idea I'd written the thing (well, 
ghostwritten, but I'd paid the ghostwriter, and now it was mine). Trying not to 
clench my teeth, I took the book and pencil from him.
I guess I bore down too hard, because the point broke off. He started patting 
all his pockets, looking for a pen. I knew that to get rid of him I'd better 
find one myself, so I turned around, and the back of my head exploded.
* * *
The thought processes must keep going during unconsciousness. As I swam my way 
up through sluggish depths toward a distant light, it all came clear to me, so 
that when I opened my eyes and saw that my straw hat had landed on what looked 
like a dead cat, I knew exactly what it was. I knew just what had happened, and 
it's hard to say if I was more frightened or disgusted.
He just happened to have bought a copy of Sparky and His Gang, which he just 
happened to have in his room? Unlikely. That should have alerted me. His 
rubicund complexion I had taken for the flush of too much liquor. But it was the 
wig that should have tipped me, should have warned me never to turn my back on 
him.
I reached for the straw hat with an arm that had grown to be six meters long. 
The crown was crushed where his cosh had hit it. It just might have cushioned 
the blow enough that I only stayed out for a few minutes, instead of the several 
hours he had intended.
And that could be the difference I needed, if I could take advantage of it. I 
took a deep breath. I didn't want to look up, but I had to, so I did.
Sure enough, he had a dazzling red head of hair. Mister Carrot-top. The wig had 
come off as he swung the blackjack, and my hat had landed on it.
Unforgivable! Incredible stupidity. I had known it was a rug from the first 
moment I opened the door. Civilians don't know how to wear toupees, they always 
get it wrong. This one had not even been gummed down around the edges; he had 
worn it so loosely that simply swinging his arm overhead had knocked it off.
"I really did enjoy Sparky and His Gang," said the diminutive agent of the 
Charonese Mafia. He had moved my chair in front of the door and was sitting in 
it, feet flat, back straight, bright and alert. He had a pistol of some sort, 
and it never wavered. I had no doubt he could pick which of my eyeballs to hit, 
shooting from the hip.
"I'd like to get up and give you the frog," I said.
"Just stay where you are. I'll take care of everything."
That's what I was afraid of. With the Charonese there were usually only two 
options: a quick bullet, or prolonged torture.
"Should I order a drink?" I sighed. Don't imagine I was as cool as I sounded. 
The line and the attitude belonged to Nick Charles, from The Thin Man's Last 
Stand. ("...nobody could be quite so cool as Mr. Charles in the face of the many 
dangers he stares down, but Casey Valens had a grand old time making us believe 
it."JMMT Channel 70 Minute Reviews).
"Just wait awhile."
"Don't want to make a scene?" I asked.
"It's best to keep these things quiet. When we dock at Honolulu a friend of mine 
will be coming aboard. You'll leave with us. I can give you a drug to keep you 
docile if you make it necessary. But I hate to use it. It's annoying. When I'm 
annoyed, I do things you wouldn't like."
"It won't be necessary," I said. "I'm... say, you never told me your name. Or is 
that an annoying request?"
"Comfort," he said.
"Beg pardon?"
"Isambard Comfort."
I looked at him dubiously, but he gave no sign he was kidding. I'd asked his 
name not so much because I wanted to add him to my Christmas card list, but in 
hopes he would refuse to tell me. Traditionally, if they don't care about you 
learning their names, it means they plan to kill you. "He can identify you in 
court, Rocko. Better wax him." However, this was Pluto and the Charonese Mafia, 
who did more or less what they pleased. His distaste for taking and disposing of 
me publicly had more to do with decorum on the part of the ferrymen.
But I had a plan.
"I'm going in there and splash some water in my face," I told him. He made the 
slightest of shrugs, so I struggled to my feet. I stood there swaying, looking 
down at the hat in my hands, then set it on my head. The impression I wanted to 
give was of someone still woozy from the blow. Part of my tortured mind was 
howling in pain and I was keeping it rigidly under control. I knew how to do 
this since I once did the last two acts of Hamlet with a broken arm, sustained 
in a fall backstage. ("The Prince of Denmark is one of the more tortured figures 
in the theatrical canon, but never have I seen so much naked pain brought to the 
stage as in Mr. K. Valentine's portrayal last night at the Metro Forum. As he 
lay dying, poisoned, I wanted to leap from my seat and call for medical 
attention. Bravo, Valentine!"Liz Harcourt, The Oberonian.)
I washed my face in the tiny sink in the head, then staggered back out toward 
the dressing table mirror, where I leaned forward and studied myself.
"God," I said. "I look like Macbeth in the last act. After Macduff cuts off his 
head." I prodded around my left eye, which seemed to be swelling up. I must have 
hit something on my way down. " 'Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests,' " I 
quoted. " 'I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born.' "
He knew little of the theater, apparently, but he was sharp. Oh, so sharp. I saw 
his eyes narrow and dart around quickly. I suppose they teach them, in Charonese 
survival schoolsof which there are no better in the solar systemto beware the 
inconsistent, the unexplained, the unexpected. Something about my lines must not 
have rung true to his predatory ear.
I didn't give him a lot of time to chew on it, though. Nor did I betray, I 
trust, the rising tension in my body as I looked down at my crumpled hat, 
sighed, and tossed it on the bed.
Sharp? Hell, yes. And fast!
I didn't even see the tanglenet as it flew from the tiny hole in the 
Pantechnicon. I did see the line of red laser light that hit his weapon. Saw it, 
heard it sizzle, and pretty soon smelled it in the form of ozone and the stink 
of crisping flesh.
Nothing went quite the way it was supposed to. He was so damn fast!
The laser shouldn't have been on more than a fraction of a second. It's supposed 
to locate a weapon, hit it, heat it very quickly, and that's that. It would melt 
the lead in a bullet. I could see his finger pull the trigger until the finger 
was sliced off as the laser ray passed through it.
He was trying to rise from his chair. He got halfway out of it, but the force of 
the expanding tanglenet hitting him threw his body back against the door... with 
one arm still free. The net was supposed to hit him so quickly that both arms 
would be pinned to his sides, but that snakelike speed had enabled him to keep 
his gun arm out of its clutches. Now that free hand was a blackened mess, all 
his fingers off, only the thumb intact.
That's when I got a bit of luck. The force of his impact knocked the sousaphone 
bell loose and it fell over his head. He stumbled and went down tangled up with 
his chair.
I knew it wasn't over yet. Casting about for a club of some sort, my hand fell 
on the other part of the great horn. I grabbed it and turned around, in time to 
see him shrugging off the bell, his free hand at his side ready to lift him to 
his feet. I swung the heavy metal tubing over my head and brought it down around 
his shoulders.
And it still wasn't over. I could have wished for a tighter fit of horn and 
body. The only way I had to keep him within the circle was to move in close and 
keep it jammed down around him. That gave him a chance to use his feet and his 
knees, and to gnash at me with his teeth, which had been filed sharp. I will 
never forget that sight: those teeth snapping closed inches from my nose, and 
those eyes, showing no pain, no fear... no emotion at all but a determination to 
do his job, to kill me.
What we did then was a violent close-quarters ballet, a road-show version of the 
famous fight in the cabin of the Quantum Belle from The Pusher's Return. It's 
thirty seconds of mayhem in a five-sided shoe box, based on a similar situation 
on the Orient Express from a much earlier movie, and they said it could never be 
done on boards until Dixon de la Nash and I made it the spine-tingling 
centerpiece of that year's smash hit of the Alameda season. ("Look for the names 
Sparkman and de la Nash when they draw up the list of this year's Alley 
nominees. Their incredible fight in the cabin has to be seen to be disbelieved, 
and is merely the capstone of two of the best performances of this or any other 
year. If there's any justice, they should both get the award."The Alamedan)
Friends, Pusher ran six months, eight shows a week, and if I hadn't been there 
for the whole run I don't think I'd have come out of that Brittanic cabin alive.
With one hand almost off, one arm stuck to his side by the tanglenet, the other 
arm held by the ring of brass tubing, six inches shorter and fifty pounds 
lighter than me... even with all that about the only edge I had on him was the 
weight. I could horse him around by tugging on the horn, while at the same time 
being sure it stayed down around him. I wrestled him to the bed, all the time 
soaking up a punishing series of kicks to the shin and a jackhammering of his 
knees to my crotch. I scrambled among the bedclothes, meaning to strangle him if 
possible, managing only to jam a sheet down over his head and shoulders. His 
kicking lost some accuracy, but never let up. I hurled him face-first into the 
makeup mirror, pulled him away, and then did it again now that it was broken and 
jagged. The sheet over his face turned red. I searched for his eyes with my 
thumbs and felt something squish, but that gave him a chance to shrug the tuba 
up over his free shoulder and he began flailing at me. He used the arm as a 
club, getting in one ringing blow that almost broke my collarbone, then another 
to my side, before bringing his forearm down like a swung baseball bat on the 
edge of the makeup table. Face powder blossomed into the air, and both bones in 
his forearm snapped like dry spaghetti. I thought I heard him grunt a little 
from that, but it never slowed him. He kept swinging the arm, which now bent in 
three places, the mangled and blackened remains of his fist like a grisly mace 
at the end of a bloody rope.
But I managed to jam the horn back down over him. Fumbling behind me, I came up 
with a big jar of cold cream and swung it up and over and down, as if trying to 
pound a stake into the ground. I heard something crack, and he stopped moving 
for a moment, staggered, and almost fell down. Then he began moving toward me 
again, blind, almost immobilized. I heard a high, shrill sound that I thought 
was some sort of Charonese war cry, then realized it was me. I couldn't stop 
making the sound. I hit him again and he went to his knees but still wouldn't 
fall over. I hit him a third time.
When things became clear again I was on my knees in front of him looking at bits 
of matted, bloody hair sticking to the edge of the cold-cream jar.
Nick Charles would have shrugged off being sapped, shinned, and drop-kicked in 
the crotch. He'd have straightened his tie, dabbed at a trickle of blood with an 
immaculate handkerchief, and delivered a trenchant line. Well, folks, I am an 
actor, and the thought of Nick and others like him from violent melodrama had 
kept me going through the fightme, basically a coward and not the least bit 
stoicbut when it was over I did what most humans do. What you would most likely 
do. I howled like a dog.
Everything hurt. Getting sapped, in particular, is not at all what it seems in 
the comic books.
One thing that didn't hurt was the family jewels. That's because they were in a 
safe-deposit tube in a Lunar hospital, near absolute zero. My father taught me 
that testicles were God's joke on the male species, good only for procreation 
and the delivery of agony. Testosterone comes in pills.
I got to my feet. When I turned my head a team of horses clattered over the top 
of it. I thought I might throw up, but mastered the urge. I stood looking down 
at my vanquished foe, then at the Pantechnicon. I told you not to be surprised 
at what it might do.
I banged my fist on the top of it, and with an apologetic little sproinnnng! the 
collapsible billy club popped out of the side and clattered to the deck.
"Where were you when I needed you?" I asked it, then fell down and slept.
It should have been one, two, three!
One, the laser, and two, the tanglenet, arriving almost simultaneously. Then, 
with him disarmed and restrained, the steel shillelagh pops into my hand and I 
belabor him about the head, shoulders, and any other sensitive parts that strike 
my fancy.
All for want of a spring...
The ejection mechanism worked fine when I tried it later. No doubt years of 
disuse and infrequent testing had frozen it just enough to nearly get me killed. 
It wasn't the Pantech's fault, but my own.
When designing the thing I'd given a lot of thought to a lethal attack. The 
laser was quite capable of slicing heads from shoulders like lunch meat. But 
killing is a step you can never draw back from. Nor can you ever be sure you 
might accidentally set your infernal machine into motion. I had been as careful 
as I could, requiring that the Pantech get not one but two cues from me. In this 
case, in the dressing room, the quote from Macbeth had primed the mechanism, 
jacked a shell into the chamber, as it were, causing the Pantech's brain to come 
alert, size up the threat, locate the weapon, if any, and await further orders. 
Which came when I tossed my hat onto the bed. Both these are things an actor 
never does in the dressing room. Had I been elsewhere there were other signals, 
which will remain within my own purview. There are enemies lurking everywhere, 
and who knows but that you might be one of them?
Thank God for The Pusher's Return. It wasn't the first time my craft had saved 
my life. One day I might even put my sword-fighting skills to good use.
And by the way, there is no damn justice. Dixon de la Mare won that Alley Award, 
stole that Alley Award. It's the same old story. I played the villain so well 
the voters subconsciously didn't like me.
* * *
When I woke up I did so all at once, nearly falling off the bed as every muscle 
in my body jerked. I'd dreamed he was hovering over me, the bloody ruin of his 
face twisted into a deadly grin, his white, sharp teeth getting star billing. I 
looked at the floor and he was still in the same position.
Bad mistake, that, not taking the time to check him out. But I'd really had 
little choice. I looked at him now.
All right, Sparky. You've cleverly lured your prey to you, and you've vanquished 
it. Now, do you stuff it and mount it in the den, release it back into its 
native habitat, or eat it?
Maybe I didn't have much choice. Maybe he was already dead. I reached down and 
pinched his nostrils together. In a moment a breath came bubbling from his lips, 
a comical sound in another situation.
Good. He might still dieI might yet decide I had to kill him, for that 
matterbut it's always best to have a choice. And Father always used to say you 
should never kill anyone unless it's absolutely necessary. Of course, he viewed 
getting a bad review as fulfilling that condition.
This might be one of those times. The Charonese had a bulldog reputation for 
pursuit. There was no way they were going to let this matter remain in its 
current state. They would be coming after me. I was not safe on Pluto, or the 
Neptune or Uranus systems. It was said the ferrymen had considerable clout as 
far sunward as Saturn's orbit. Beyond that I didn't know.
So step one was to depart the balmy shores of Pluto. Five minutes from now would 
be about right, I thought. It would take me a bit longer in actual practice.
What about Isambard Comfort, then? Could that really be his name? Should I let 
him survive to inflict its ridiculous syllables on other innocent ears? I 
frowned down at him again. Under a flap of detached scalp I thought I saw a 
gleam of metal.
I nudged the skin aside with the tip of my billy club. It looked like a 
stainless-steel egg in there. There were broken bits of skull bone but beneath 
it all he seemed to have encased his brain in a protective shell.
I'd heard of it, but never seen it. We monkey with our bodies these daysLord 
knows I'd done enough of it myself, for professional reasonsbut there are a few 
hard constants that resist our best efforts. That wrinkled, red-gray, be-veined 
and be-flustered mass known as the brain was one of them. You could augment it 
with crystal memory, wire it for radio reception, or bronze it for posterity, as 
Comfort had done, but if you tampered with it too much it simply stopped 
working. So I knew that, whatever he had done, it hadn't been proof against 
repeated blows from a jar of cold cream. That sphere of metal would prevent the 
gray matter from being penetrated by a knife or a bullet, but nothing could 
alter its inertia, and slamming it against the inside of the shell produced a 
concussion, and you were out. Worse, the not infrequent sequella of concussion 
was brain swelling, which could be fatal even in our current state of medical 
grace. Isambard's brain would be swelling now, with no more place to go than if 
it had been in a standard-issue skull.
As I came to that conclusion I saw a tiny network of cracks appear in the metal 
carapace. The whole construction grew by about a quarter of an inch. It was now 
more of a fine metal mesh than a seamless helmet.
This was commando stuff, I realized. Damage-control circuits were coming into 
play.
That's when I realized I wasn't going to kill him. Mainly, it was the conclusion 
that killing him would not further my cause in any way.
And he'd said he liked Sparky and His Gang.
* * *
For well over twenty years Britannic had been cruising a triangular route meant 
to simulate a trans-Pacific voyage. The original ship could not have made the 
crossing in less than two weeks. The Plutonian copy did it in four days. This 
was no great feat of speed, as the entire journey took place in the 
hundred-kilometer bubble of rock deep beneath the planetary surface known as the 
Pacifica Environmental Park, still the largest disneyland in the system.
It was a voyage in both space and time, and don't ask me how they did it. I 
mean, the ship when under weigh always seemed to be making good speed, cutting 
smartly through the blue water, leaving a long, straight wake behind. It stood 
to reason that she was actually either tethered in place, or going in large 
circles, but you couldn't tell it by looking.
The trip started in Edo, in 1853, the year of the arrival of the Black Ships in 
the bay of what would become Tokyo. Passengers embarked after sampling the 
culture of feudal Japan, sailed out with magnificent Mount Fuji in the distance 
as Commodore Perry sailed in.
The next morning brought them to Tahiti in 1789a very cute trick: two thousand 
leagues south by southwest, and sixty years into the past in about eighteen 
hours. Britannic would drop anchor at Papeete alongside the Bounty, met by 
dozens of outrigger canoes filled with happy, naked brown people throwing 
tropical flowers, and the passengers would be ferried ashore for a day of 
sensual pleasures in the sun, surf, and sand. They'd feast, frolic, and 
fornicate (all included in the price of your ticket, no tipping, please!), have 
their pictures taken with Fletcher Christian and Captain Bligh, then stagger 
back to feast and frolic and fornicate most of the night, until the morning, 
when the ship arrived at Pearl Harbor on the morning of December 7, 1941, where 
the Pacifica disneyland management had prepared a little show for them, which 
the less hungover among the vacationers might actually watch. Even those you 
might have thought dead to the world were usually awakened; the show was very 
noisy.
From there the ship sailed for San Francisco, arriving in time for the 
earthquake of 1906.
I said the trip was triangular, and you might have noticed this triangle seemed 
to have four corners. No real mystery this time: San Francisco Bay was actually 
just a few miles on the other side of Fuji. During the night the ship was 
brought around through a tunnel under the mountain, ready for another group of 
revelers. Actually, the trip through the tunnel, which the passengers never saw, 
was as interesting as the Great Quake, in my opinion. I'd gone through it twice.
This schedule allowed Titanic and Olympic to follow at twenty-four hour 
intervals, which meant that every fourth day Pearl Harbor was spared, Frisco 
didn't burn, and the Clark Gable and Charles Laughton clones and all the other 
actors in the four locations got a day off. (Not the crews. We worked thirty 
days, then had a ten-day furlough.)
Not this time, though. My hiatus would last a bit longer, as I was about to bid 
an informal good-bye to Britannic.
It was not the first time I'd had to abandon a show in the middle of a run. In 
fact, thinking back, it had been some time since I'd been able to finish one. 
There'd been two more before my hasty departure from Brementon. I never felt 
good about it. The show must go on, don't you know. You hate to let your fellow 
troupers down. But there was no point in sticking around if you were about to be 
sent to jail, or the grave. Any way you looked at it, it was understudy time.
* * *
Dawn was just breaking as we rounded Diamond Head and steamed into Pearl Harbor. 
Just down the beach I could see rows of resort hotels that had not been there in 
1941. Even at this hour I could see a few fanatics out in the water perched on 
fiberglass boards, engaging in a Hawaiian version of attempted suicide known as 
"surfing." I'd tried it my last time through. If God had intended me to surf, 
He'd have given me gills.
Disembarking was going to be something of a problem. If I waited until we tied 
up at the wharf, I'd be sure to encounter whoever Mr. Comfort had intended to 
meet. I felt I could elude him or them with a suitable disguise, but there was 
no good way to disguise the Pantechnicon, and somebody was bound to wonder why 
that odd-looking fellow was stealing my luggage. Embarrassing questions were 
sure to be asked, attracting unwanted attention.
That meant an unceremonious dunk in the drink. Even that presented problems. It 
would be a good idea not to be seen. With the Day of Infamy about to begin, the 
decks were jammed with spectators. My one lucky break was that the port side 
offered much the better view of the festivities, and the stewards had advertised 
that fact. That was also the side that would tie up to the dock after the show, 
so the crew preparing hatches and ramps were over there, too. I had found a big 
cargo hatch near the starboard bow and in the fifteen minutes I'd been standing 
there, watching the water flow by twenty feet beneath me, not a soul had come 
down the passageway. Until now.
"Good morning, Elwood," I said. He was ambling toward me, hands jammed down into 
his pockets, hat jammed down on his head. I hadn't seen much of him during the 
voyage. No doubt he was spending his time at the bar, telling his tall tales to 
anyone who would listen.
" 'Lo, Sparky," he drawled.
"Feel like a swim?" I asked him.
"No. No, I think I'll pass on that one." He leaned on the pole that blocked the 
open hatch door and gazed out at the gray Navy ships, dozens of them, clustered 
around the dry docks and repair yards of Keanapuaa. All the bigger ones, the 
behemoths, the battleships named after political divisions of the old United 
States, were on the port side.
"I looked in on that feller in your dressing room," he said.
"How's he doing?"
"Gonna be a close thing," he said. "A real close thing."
"That's what I thought, too."
He turned to squint up at me.
"Didja have to hit him so hard?"
"You didn't see the fight, Elwood."
"No, you're right. I didn't see it. He must have come at you really hard, for 
you to do that to him."
"Actually, he didn't come at me at all. He was just holding me at gunpoint."
He looked surprised. "You don't mean it. What was he, some sort of cop?"
"In a way. Private security."
He shook his head slowly and looked down at the water.
"It's usually not a good idea, beating a cop half to death."
"Didn't have much choice. He was going to kill me."
"He said that, did he?"
"Well, not in so many words."
He gave me another long look, and this time I looked away. Sometimes I wish 
Elwood would just go away. He's always second-guessing me.
"What did you want me to do?" I protested. "Wait around and see?"
"Now don't you get all excited. I'm just asking, that's all. I don't want to try 
to run your life for you."
"Sure you do."
"That's not true, Sparky. I'm just looking out for your welfare. If that man 
dies, you know good and well there'll be more trouble"
"Getting killed isn't your idea of trouble?"
He looked me over again, then nodded. I was beginning to hear a low, droning 
noise, still distant but getting nearer. Elwood looked up. The sky was blue, and 
still clear.
"All I was gonna suggest," he said, "is when you get ashore, would it hurt 
anything to give a call and have somebody go get him? It might make a big 
difference."
"They'll find him soon enough."
"Maybe, maybe not." He kept looking at me.
"All right. I'll call."
"That's good." He looked down at the water again. "I'm glad I won't be diving 
into that. Looks cold to me."
"Are you kidding? This is Hawaii. It's warm as soup."
"Yeah? Seems to me there's a nip in the air."
With that the droning noise got a lot louder, and the first wave of torpedo 
bombers of the Japanese Imperial Navy appeared over the pineapple fields to the 
north. I gave Elwood a sour look, and shoved the Pantech over the side. When I 
hesitated for a moment, he planted a foot encouragingly, and I tumbled into the 
water.
* * *
The next half hour kept me busy as a one-man show of Cast of Thousands. It 
wasn't nearly as dangerous as it looked... or so I kept telling myself.
Pacifica's Pearl Harbor spectacular, known in the trade as a Vegas, employed 
every trick in the book to make it seem life-sized and historically accurate, 
including one of the more subtle tricks I know: having parts of it actually be 
life-sized. The aircraft were all exact replicas, powered by real gasoline 
engines. The torpedoes they dropped were to scale, but had no warheads, 
explosions being provided by charges already in place. The battleships 
themselves were also big as life... on the side the audience saw, anyway.
The show employed a cast of several thousand. Most of them simply had to run 
around shouting and pointing. Others did actual stunts, from simply swimming 
through water dotted with burning oil slicks, to being blown from the deck of an 
exploding battleship. There were fire gags, with sailors running around engulfed 
in flame, and bomb gags, where men bounced off concealed trampolines at the 
moment the gas and flash powder went off.
Only about a hundred of these were full studio-certified expert stunt 
performers, and they were clustered near the center of the action. The rest were 
journeymen, getting extra wages because of the marginal dangers involved, but 
not qualified for the more exacting gags. My plan was to stay in the areas where 
these guys were assigned, and try not to get my hair singed off.
The Pantechnicon is equipped to deliver motive power in a variety of mediums. 
Today I'd rigged a small propeller to a shaft that would normally power a set of 
wheels, and I trailed behind at the end of a three-meter cord. The Pantech is 
about as streamlined as a brick. Its progress might best be described as 
wallowing, but it managed a steady three knots, which would eventually get me 
there.
I'd seen the show twice before, so I had some idea where the biggest effects 
were produced. Still, it could get dicey. The best thing I had going was the 
clarity of the water, at least before the worst of the explosions roiled the 
bottom and filled the water with foamy bubbles. I could duck my head under and 
see where the charges were placed.
My worst moment came when I felt a vibration in the water, turned my head, and 
saw a torpedo headed straight for me. I saw it pass about ten feet below, a 
lethal silver shark, then the water all around me turned to foam and my clothes 
filled up with air for a while.
But a few minutes later I ran aground on a concrete shore to the south side of 
Ford's Island. I dragged myself and my luggage out of the water and sat down to 
await the end of the show.
* * *
If you think the sinking of the Arizona is spectacular, you should see the 
raising.
Britannic had gone to her berthing point before it was over, all the fire and 
noise and fountains of water and planes crashing in flames. Then the heavenly 
director shouted, "Cut, that's a wrap," and it all stopped for a moment... then 
went into reverse. Torpedoes bobbed to the surface, then headed for a submarine 
tender like schools of fish. Half a dozen enormous gray metal battlewagons were 
lifted from the bottom, still smoking, paint blistered. Sailors who had gone 
down with the ship spit out breathing tubes and broke out the paint cans. 
Everywhere water cascaded off buckled "wooden" decks, which now started to 
unbuckle along the invisible hinge lines. All over the harbor little boom 
skimmers darted, corralling the black bunker fuel, sucking it into big tanks.
Everybody went about his business without a single cheer being raised, nor a 
solitary high-five exchanged. They call it theater, but it's not, to my mind. I 
know it's hard to maintain enthusiasm after a long run. The solution to that is 
to get out when you no longer feel excitement as the curtain falls. This 
particular Vegas had been running for twenty years. Some of the people around me 
were the children of the original cast. Their own children would no doubt take 
over the jobs when this generation moved on to something else. I found these 
disneyland shows overproduced and cheerless. If you want a history lesson, a 
holograph movie would serve.
Ah, well. It created a lot of jobs in the system's number-one industry: tourism. 
I'll confess I've played in them when at liberty from more rewarding projects.
No one gave me a glance as I found my way to the freight elevator that took me 
down into the bowels of Pacifica and deposited me at the employees' train 
station, which in turn dumped me at the spaceport fifteen minutes later. Even on 
the train car I drew no curious stares as I dripped Hawaiian water onto the red 
seats and black carpet. Plutonians are a mind-your-own-business crowd, one of 
the best things about them.
One more train ride and I was at the freight terminal at the most remote point 
of the spaceport. If I'd come there two weeks before, I could have avoided a 
great deal of trouble, and Isambard Comfort could have missed a monumental 
headache.
I hadn't come here for one big reason. It scared me to death. Now the 
alternative was worse, so I marched resolutely up to the express counter of 
Pillock and Burke Interplanet Carriers and inquired as to the cost of mailing 
myself to Uranus.
I didn't put it in just those words, of course.
"What's in it?" the clerk asked, with a big yawn, looking without interest at 
the Pantech, sitting there seeming as new as the day it was built, having shaken 
off all signs of its recent adventure like a duck's back sheds water.
"Personal effects," I said. "Tools of my trade." I knew that would get me a 
discount, under the Interplanetary Artists' Convention.
"Anythin' t'd'clare?"
"No contraband. There's a Bichon Frise inside."
"A what?"
"A dog. Here's his license. I'll need Oh-two and H-two-Oh feeds, and a 
two-twenty power connection." I didn't really need the power, since the Pantech 
has its own internal source, but it was illegal to ship that power plant without 
having it inspected and certified, and why bother them with all that red tape? 
Better to pay for the power hookup and not raise any questions.
Such as the one he now asked.
"What about food? The dog gonna need food?"
"He has his own." He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't eat much," 
I explained. "It's a small dog." I could feel myself getting too elaborate. My 
father always said to keep your lies simple, and never answer a question you're 
not asked. But he kept looking, so I shoved the license closer to him and let 
the P$20 bill peek out from under it. His eyes shifted, and he picked up the 
license and shoved it into a machine. The bill was gone. He handed the license 
back to me with a new stamp on it. I really hated to do this, since anyone who 
knew about Toby might be able to trace me through him, but I had no choice.
He took a yellow form from a stack and started filling it in with a pencil. It 
was almost Dickensian, and a blatant waste of time since he had a voice-capable 
computer at his elbow, but Pluto, like most planets, had some archaic and 
fiercely protected labor laws. Reading upside down, I saw him fill in the spot 
for breed of dog as Bitching Freeze.
Finally he slapped a shipping tag on the side of the Pantech, and I watched it 
trundle away on a conveyor belt into unknown depths. Now I was in a big hurry.
* * *
There was a convenience store at the train station. I filled a grocery bag full 
of granola bars, jerky, honey, corn syrup, and as many other items of 
concentrated fat, sugar, and carbohydrates as I could carry. Then I set off in 
search of the sort of merchant you can always find hanging around a spaceport. 
The sort who doesn't display his wares on shelves, or hang out a sign.
She wasn't too hard to find. Most drugs are legal on Pluto, and even the ones 
they try to control are readily available if you know where to lookas has 
always been the case. I was directed to a back booth of a coffee shop on one of 
the lower levels. I sipped a hot chocolate while we haggled about price, then 
she left and I sat looking out a big picture window overlooking the 
freight-sorting yard. Millions of crates and parcels slid down ramps and along 
conveyors until they fetched up at the doors that would soon open and disgorge 
their loads onto shuttle trucks.
The pusher returned with a small plastic envelope, and told me the quickest way 
to the yard.
* * *
This place was probably more dangerous than Pearl. The mechanized mayhem of the 
Vegas was predictable, most of it was smart, and programmed to be on the lookout 
for fragile humans getting in the way. Not so in the freight yard. If you didn't 
stay on your toes something might roll up behind you and crush you like a bug 
under silent wheels. I moved quickly, following the homer beacon in my pocket, 
and soon I was standing where the Pantechnicon had come to rest, midway down a 
line of larger crates.
I was about to activate it when a movement in the corner of my eye made me stop 
and duck down. I looked up cautiously... and let out a deep breath. Two lines 
over a man was on his hands and knees, crawling under the metal frame of a 
conveyor. This was all right with me; cops never crawl, and they never look 
furtive. Neither do yard bulls. They can sneak just fine, but they do it with 
entirely different body language.
In fact... I thought I knew this guy.
I gave a low whistle, three notes known to hoboes throughout the system, and he 
looked up at me and grinned.
"Sparks," he said, in a husky voice.
"Lou? Is that the uke man?"
"You don't believe me, I'll play you a tune."
Ukulele Lou was a legend in his own time. He was rumored to have some sort of 
brain damage, which made his conversations a little hard to follow, and he was 
crazy as a mudlark. But his memory for music was amazing. He claimed to know 
words and music to fifteen thousand songs, and I'd never doubted him. He was 
wearing a battered pressure suit. His precious ukulele was in his hand.
I swear, the helmet faceplate had a crack in it. It made me sweat just to think 
about it. Lou and some of the other 'bos always traveled this way, and without 
the comforts of top-of-the-line luggage.
"Where you bound?" I asked him.
"Where else? Uranus." He pronounced it your-anus.
Where else, indeed? I'm largely ignorant of these things, but my understanding 
was that due to orbital dynamics, nearly all the outer planet commerce for the 
last decade, and for a few decades to come, was the triangle of Pluto, Uranus, 
and Neptune, then back to Pluto, in that order. It had to do with the relative 
positions of the planets. Pluto had for some years been at the lowest point in 
its orbit, which meant it was closer to the sun than Neptune. Uranus was about 
sixty degrees ahead, and Neptune clear around the sun from Uranus. No orbit in 
the outer planets that gets you there in a reasonable time is a truly economical 
orbit, but going against the direction of planetary motion is the least 
economical orbit of all. It's like stepping off a moving train. Before you go 
anywhere else, you first have to kill your own motion.
"What about you?" Lou asked.
"Uranus," I confirmed. I pronounced it Urine-us. Was there ever an orb so 
inelegantly named? Nobody's ever agreed on how to say it, and both ways stink.
"The Bard's World?" he asked, with a cackle.
"Where else?"
"Can't get them stars outta your eyes, is that it? Gonna stand at the corner of 
Columbia and Paramount and gawk at the names in the pavement? Buy a map to the 
stars' condos? See how your feet fit in Henry Collyer's footsteps?"
I ignored the ribbing and saluted him. "Good luck, Lou," I said.
"Break a leg," he urged. Then he pried up a corner of a three-story packing 
crate and squeezed himself inside. I could hear him working, faintly, as I 
activated the shelter on the Pantech.
* * *
I did a little research on tramps and hoboes while struggling through an 
ill-advised update of The Grapes of Wrath. ("Kenneth Valentine struggles through 
this ill-advised update as Tom Joad, an asteroid miner thrown out of work when 
the 'Tailings Crisis' of '86 shuts down all operations. He would have been 
better off playing this material for laughs, of which there are many, few of 
them intended."Daily Cereal) Back then it was boxcars on freight trains, and 
you would weep in terror to know what these men went through. They rode in them, 
on them, and under them"riding the rods"their bodies inches from the murderous 
wheels.
Then, as now, the owners of the railroads were aware of the informal passengers, 
and then, as now, they didn't like it much. What they did about it depended 
largely on where you hopped the freight, or where you got off.
The clerk I'd bribed had been fully aware of my real intentions. Declaring a 
live animal was the most common ruse to obtain air and water en route. He'd 
heard that story about the dog before. (Ironically, I really had a dog, of 
course, but he would not need any consumables.)
Maybe that clerk meant what he said when he wrote "bitching freeze." It would be 
one hell of a bitchin' freeze if anything went wrong with any of the Pantech's 
systems along the way. Or any of the freighter's systems, for that matter, and 
let's face it, they just aren't as careful about things as they are in even the 
worst passenger liner. You lose a passenger and it's lawsuit time. If the 
Pantech sprang a leak I'd be little more than spoiled freight, who shouldn't 
have been in there in the first place. Like those old 'bos who fell off the 
rods; gathered up, bagged, and tossed in a hole in potter's field. Maybe a token 
effort to contact the kinfolk.
We are used to a high standard of safety, and fear of vacuum is the most common 
phobia, one I share with eighty percent of humanity. Though I believe I have it 
in a greater degree than most.
Then there are the old space rats like Ukulele Lou. Cracked faceplate and all. 
He seemed immune to the fears that now began to bore into my spine like an 
electrified dental drill.
I heard him as I squeezed myself through the lock and into the newly deployed 
shelter half-made of memory plastic. He was doing what you might expect a guy 
named Ukulele Lou to do: singing.
The memory plastic can remember a variety of shapes. This time, since the 
Pantech was standing on end, and since we'd soon be in vacuum, it was best to be 
spherical. From the outside it looked like a cubist's idea of an icecream cone, 
and from inside, the hatch I could open to gain access to the interior was now 
under my feet, the Pantech becoming my basement. I lifted this hatch and fiddled 
with the environmental controls, preparing it to accept the external air and 
water feeds when they were hooked up, just prior to loading aboard the ship.
Luck. I'd need some of it. The trip would be eighty-four days. I had enough food 
to stretch for about thirty... if I stayed awake and my metabolism worked as 
usual. I didn't plan on staying awake.
I broke open the package I'd bought from the pusher, took out two of the pills, 
and swallowed them.
I heard the vacuum alarm going off outside, and I took a deep breath. I realized 
I'd been taking a lot of them. Now the huge doors to the outside started to 
rumble up toward the ceiling, and the sound died away as the air puffed out into 
space.
I felt like I was choking. My tongue seemed to swell until it filled my mouth, 
and became dry as an old wool sock. I could see the curved wall of my tent bulge 
outward the tiniest bit, and I was suddenly drenched in sweat.
"To be, or not to be," I gasped. "That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in 
the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms 
against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them."
That felt a little better. The conveyor began to move. I was bumped along 
quickly, and soon loaded onto a cargo pallet. Small robot handlers were climbing 
all over the pressure crates, metal spiders no bigger than my hand, stabbing 
shipping labels with red laser lights. I watched as they snapped lines to the 
pallet's air and water tanks. I saw the two yellow lights at my feet turn to 
green; I closed the basement hatch and sat down in lotus position as the shuttle 
truck lumbered out onto the dark surface of Pluto at high noon of a midsummer's 
day.
I was reminded of a postcard I once saw. Christmas in Vermont. A horse-drawn 
sleigh wound down a lane between leafless trees, snow-covered hills in the 
background. Out here the sun cast about as much light as the full moon in that 
postcard. Dozens of distant, skeletal cargo ships might have been Vermont maples 
designed by a mad geometer. There was a tractor moving along beside mine, 
pulling a cargo pallet on skids, that could do for a one-horse open sleigh...
No, sorry. Let's face it. This wasn't Currier and Ives. Those snow-covered hills 
were massive bergs of frozen methane. The glaciers coming down the sides were 
solid oxygen and nitrogenpollutants, actually, not present on Pluto's crust 
until man arrived. On a busy day at the spaceport the rocket exhausts sometimes 
melted parts of these glaciers and they became murmuring streams. What a shame 
no Plutonians actually came out here for a sleigh ride, or to picnic by the 
little brooks a-gurgling.
I was choking up again, and didn't feel the least bit sleepy.
"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the 
tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town 
crier spoke my lines."
A movement caught my eye. On the next crawler the corner of a packing crate had 
popped open from the inside. I saw Lou scramble out and start moving like a 
scuttling crab, over and around and under the other crates.
Jesus, Lou! He was holding one hand over the crack in his faceplate, and I 
fancied I could see a fine mist of oxygen snow like a halo around his head. 
Baby, it was cold outside. Midsummer, and the weather forecast was for another 
scorching day at 370 below zero. Something must have been wrong with the first 
crate to force Lou to change his lodgings this late in the game. A problem with 
the hookups, a defective seal, who knows? But there wasn't a thing I could do to 
help him.
Like a swimmer in a Siberian lake, you only get a couple of minutes. No 
spacesuit yet built protects well from frozen methane, and Lou's was an antique.
I watched him pry up the corner of another crate and slither inside. The corner 
was pulled back into place... and I realized I wouldn't know for another 
eighty-four days whether or not he was alive or frozen stiff.
When I turned away I seemed to be moving in slow motion. That's when I realized 
the drugs had started taking effect. It was a pleasant feeling, a warm heaviness 
in my limbs. My breathing became slow and deep and relaxed. I smiled. I closed 
my eyes.
I heard a distant wind blowing. There was the sound of dry leaves being swept 
along. I saw a great hourglass, grains of sand the size of houses rolling 
silently through the narrow neck. Slowly, the glass turned, the sand tumbled 
from the bottom to the top, and began to flow quickly in the other direction.
And I'm sorry as hell about this, but I can only report what happened. I'd been 
watching old movies all my life, and when it came time to flash back on my own 
life there was no way in the world it would come to me as anything but a 
black-and-white montage of whirling clock hands and fluttering calendar pages 
going backward, backward, ever backward in time....
* * *
ACT 2
The warm water filled his ears. It made a deep roaring sound. He heard splashes 
that sounded far away, and he heard his own heartbeat. Air trickled from his 
lips and nose.
Friends, Romans...
Looking up, he saw the shimmery surface of the water, and beyond that, the dark 
figure with the ceiling light behind his head, making a halo.
Maybe that's what God looks like, he thought.
Sometimes he could almost see through things. Sometimes things seemed to 
shimmer, like the water, and he could see beyond them, to some shapeless 
otherness he could never quite remember. Was he dreaming when he saw these 
things? Was it remembering?
Remembering...
Friends and Romans and countrymen and ears and... something something something, 
not to praise him.
Quicksilver bubbles rose toward the looming, dark face. Strong hands on his 
shoulders. Strong, loving hands, good hands. I only want the best for you, 
Dodger.
It felt good to lie here. It was warm and it was safe and it was wet, and this 
is what a baby must feel like in its mommy's tummy.
His heart was pounding louder now. It wasn't fear. He just needed some air, that 
was all. Babies in their mommies' tummies didn't need air. But once you took 
that first breath, you sort of got used to it, air got to be something you 
needed.
Friends Romans lend me your praise him.
A big burst of air broke free and he began to struggle. He didn't want to, he'd 
been so good, so good so far, but his arms and his legs just wanted to move, and 
his lungs ached for a sweet breath of air. His small naked shoulders squirmed 
under the big hands, the good hands. He was so ashamed of himself. Maybe he 
should just take a big breath of water. Maybe he could learn to breathe water 
again, since he couldn't seem to learn the important things.
He'd heard it three times now. What was wrong with him, that he couldn't 
remember after hearing it three times?
It wasn't so bright now. Things were getting dim around the edges. The last of 
his air leaked from his nose, making hardly any sound at all.
And he had it. He became still as a stone and felt it all burst up from whatever 
depths it had fallen to when he lost it, and it flowed through his mind and his 
body, and he was nodding frantically as things got darker and darker.
He was pulled into the air and made a tremendous croaking sound as he filled his 
lungs and began to spew it out, like vomit.
"Frens romans countrymen lend me yerrears I come to, come to, come to bury 
Zeezer not t'praze'm," all the air was gone again, so he gasped in another 
breath, "lives after dem d'good 'soft enter'd with their bones." Pause. Breath. 
"The noble Brutes has tol' you Zeezer was... was..."
He breathed in and out frantically, staring down at the water, at his legs 
beneath the water, at his penis.
"Ambitious." The voice came from above. He was flooded with gratitude and love. 
Everything was going to be all right.
"...was 'bitious if it were so it were a grievious fault and"
"Grievous."
"Huh?" He looked up into Father's face, searching for signs of anger. "Isn't 
that what I said?"
"Grie-vous," the man intoned. He had a wonderful voice. It filled the small 
room. It made the water vibrate. "Grie-vous," he boomed again. Then he wrinkled 
his nose and upper lip and made his voice nasal, tinny, ridiculous. "You said 
gree-vee-ous. Where did you learn that?"
"I think Gideon Peppy said it."
"I think so, too. No more television for you, young man, especially the Peppy 
Show. That man is single-handedly destroying the language."
The man lifted his son from the bathwater and set him on the mat. He wrapped him 
in a big fluffy white towel that said THARSIS HYATT on it. All their towels had 
the names of hotels on them.
"Now, take it again, from 'it were a grievous fault, and...' "
"...and grieviand grievously hath Zeezer answer'd it. The boy continued through 
Marc Antony's funeral oration, happy as a kitten with a bowl of cream, stumbling 
only over "Lupercal" and "coffers." As he spoke his father's big hands pummeled 
him and rubbed him dry through the big towel, powdered him, sprayed him, combed 
his long yellow hair.
"Very good, Dodger," he said, after the boy had gone through it three times. 
"But you must never say it that way again."
"All right."
"You must never 'say' it at all. From now on you will hear the words. You will 
learn what each word means, and what they mean together, and you will make the 
words live. Memorizing is all very good, but we are not phonographs, are we?"
The boy agreed, having no idea what a phonograph was. Then he was lifted, still 
wrapped in the towel, and brought to his tiny bedroom, where he stood 
shiveringthe landlord, through some misunderstanding, had stopped providing 
heat three days beforeas his father found a pair of blue flannel pajamas with 
fluffy tassels on the feet, two sizes too small, and held them while his son 
stepped in and zipped them up in front.
"We'll get you some new ones next week," his father said. "You're getting to be 
a big boy." He put his son in bed and tucked the big comforter under his chin.
"Good night, Dodger," he said.
"G'night, Father." The man left the door slightly ajar, as he always did, 
knowing his son was prone to bad dreams.
Dodger lay there in the dark, looking at the sliver of light on the ceiling that 
came through the door, and thinking about Junior Zeezer, Octopus Zeezer, Marcus 
Bootless, Mark Anthony, Cashless, Sinna, Kafka, and the Smoothsayer. He knew 
those names were wrong but he found it helped him remember them to think of them 
that way. The real names made no sense at all to him. Neither did the play. That 
didn't bother him; none of the plays Father read to him made any sense, except 
Titus Andronicus (Tightest and Raunchiest, in Dodger-speak). Now, there was a 
story, with guys chopping off hands and pulling out tongues and stabbing each 
other with swords and stuff. It was almost as good as television.
But not Junior Zeezer. Oh, there was all those guys stabbing Junior in the 
Senate (also in the heart and the back and the gut, if Dodger understood it 
right), but most of it was no better than Hambone, which other than a neat ghost 
and some sword fighting didn't make much sense to Dodger, either.
His trouble was that, though he had a vocabulary ten times larger than most 
children his age, he didn't know what half the words meant.
Now his father said he was supposed to hear the words. Know what they mean, one 
at a time and all together. The prospect excited Dodger. All his life he'd been 
hearing these stories by Shaky-Spear, stories none of his friends knew, stories 
he couldn't tell his friends because he didn't know what they meant himself.
Now he would know. He suspected that learning what they meant would involve more 
time underwater.
But maybe that was just for remembering. He was getting so good at remembering 
now that some bath times went by without getting dunked at all.
The boy shivered, and pulled the covers more tightly around him. Soon he was 
asleep.
Dodger was four years old.
* * *
It's me again. Mister First Person.
And who are you? I might hear you ask. A certain amount of confusion at this 
point would be only normal.
"Your name is just something to put up on the marquee," my father always said. 
"It doesn't mean a thing." He proved his point by giving me a handful of them: 
Kenneth Catherine Duse Faneuil Savoyard Booth Johnson Ivanovich de la Valentine, 
to mention just a few. Alias K.C., Casey, Ken, Cat, Kendall, Kelly, Kenton and 
Kelvin. A.K.A. Valencia, Valentine, Van den Troost, and Jones. In various 
combinations of these and others I may have neglected to mention, I had enough 
noms de theatre, de plume, and de guerre to make a list longer than the memory 
of most big-city police computers.
"It gives you options," said my father, a man who was known throughout his life 
simply as John Valentine. "I have an enormous ego," he would say, with a twinkle 
in his eye. "I can't stand for the applause to go to anyone but John Valentine. 
But I am able to do the jail time, when it comes to that."
Well, I can't do the time. I've never stayed in jail longer than it takes to 
make bail, get new paper, and catch the first available transport to a distant 
planet. This has prevented me from compiling the sort of credits that might lead 
to critical adulation, but after all, as my father also used to say, "The 
performance is the thing."
But as I said earlier, all my friends call me Sparky.
Or, before that, Dodger.
But speaking of the printed page, here's a request to the typesetter:
Could we lose the italics?
Thank you.
I've noticed that, in books, when the point of view is switched, the new part is 
often set in italics. Well, I don't like italics much, and I'm just going to 
assume that you, the reader, are smart enough to know when I'm in first person 
and when I'm using third. Hint: examine the pronouns.
There is this odd thing about me: I usually dream in the third person. 
Frequently the dreams are in black-and-white, not Technicolor. The dreams are 
thus a little like out-of-body experiences. I see myself doing things, rather 
than seeing the things I do. I've spoken with other actors about this, thinking 
it might be an occupational disorder resulting from spending so much of my time 
thinking about how a motion or gesture would look, about makeup and staging and 
presence and all the other aspects of my craft. I found only one other actor who 
dreamed like I do. Shortly after he told me that he put a bullet through his 
head, and I stopped asking the question. I didn't like the way people looked at 
me when I asked, anyway.
That's why I'm putting parts of this in the third person: because I dreamed it. 
And the reason I'm back in first is, I woke up. Far too soon.
I didn't know it at first. Apart from the grogginess natural to the dosage of 
"deadballs" I'd taken, there is nothing in space to give one cues as to elapsed 
time, particularly in the Outer Planets; Pluto would have vanished from sight 
during the first hours of acceleration. After that, there was nothing visual to 
show time's passage until arrival at Uranus.
But among the Pantech's equipment is a clock, and I soon became alert enough to 
fumble open the protective hatch and consult it. I found we'd been gone for only 
three days.
I was alarmed.
The illegal mixture of drugs sold on the street as deadballs enabled the human 
body to do something it was never designed to do: sleep for a week, with few 
deleterious side effects. Hibernate, if you will (or estivate, take your pick, 
since there were no seasons in space).
Why ban a drug? After all, this isn't the Dark Ages. Getting high isn't illegal 
on any civilized planetnot that deadballs made you high.
My father's explanation made as much sense as any.
"Profit, Dodger, simple profit," he said. "Ninety percent of interplanet travel 
is tourism, people running away from their humdrum lives to experience humdrum 
amusements far from home. And every mile of that travel is the most boring 
experience imaginable. The owners of the ships that make these useless trips 
realize this, and devise endless amusements for the passengersnot included in 
the price of the ticket. A comatose passenger doesn't do any gambling or eating. 
We can't have that, so deadballs are illegal."
Cynical? Perhaps, but then why are deadballs sold legally to people traveling on 
errands for the government? Why do the staterooms of high-powered business 
executives on high-powered fast courier ships remain closed for days at a time? 
The people who do that other ten percent of space traveling usually do it on 
hibernation drugs, from the movers and shakers to the immigrants stacked like 
cordwood in the steerage holds of many a cargo ship.
(Oddly, I never could find a deadball in my hasty flight from Brementon. Judging 
from the waking state of my fellow passengers, neither could anyone else. In a 
place where every drug known to man could be had simply by walking up to a guard 
and paying for it, deadballs were unknown. Apparently the living hell of the 
trip to and from the prison station was seen as part of the punishment.)
A more legitimate reason for banning them was the informal type of travel I 
found myself indulging in at that very moment. Without deadballs, only the 
shortest ride on the rods was survivable.
Now I was beginning to wonder if I would survive this one. Adding it up, it 
didn't look good.
I had expected to awaken during the course of the voyage; I estimated between 
ten and a dozen half-day surfacings would be about right. When you wake from a 
deadball you either need to urinate very badly, or find you have already done 
so. Though your metabolism has been drastically slowed, you will be very hungry. 
Usually, a bowel movement will not be necessary. (After the trip you will with 
great heartbreak deliver yourself of a hard, dried... but let's skip on over 
that part.)
You can do two weeks of deadballs standing on your head. A month is no real 
problem. Two months... you would really rather not, for reasons of both comfort 
and health. Three months, four months... you're pushing it. A few people have 
survived six months of continuous deadballing, but most would rather not speak 
of it, like victims of torture.
I had plenty of air, heat, and water. In a cramped environment like the 
Pantechnicon, or a packing case, food becomes the dearest commodity. Try packing 
even very light rations for ninety days into a space you can't even stand up in. 
Just try it. Even if you could, are you able to endure ninety days of solitary 
confinement? No shuffleboard courts or slot machines. Just you, squatting in the 
dark, watching your toenails grow.
But if my deadballs had been cut with something, I faced forty or fifty days of 
that. I would probably not starve. Part of the price of the ticket is the loss 
of thirty to forty pounds. With bad drugs, I might expect to lose a hundred or 
more on the Miracle Deadball Diet.
"If you've learned your part cold," my father used to say, "then you've got 
nothing else worth worrying about. Just take the rest as it comes." Or, don't 
fret about things you can't do anything about. The future will deliver up its 
load of misery in due time.
With that semicomforting thought, I began treating this as just a normal, 
expected comfort stop. I set about tidying my small space and preparing a cold 
meal of beef jerky and maple syrup. It's better than it sounds, when you haven't 
eaten anything in three days.
I dialed the shelter to transparency.
The first thing I saw was a thundering herd of horses.
The drugs, right? No, I never even thought of that, though they can cause 
hallucinations. These horses were frozen in attitudes of great speed, as though 
they had galloped through a puddle of liquid helium. The freezing was certainly 
plausible, given the outside temperature. But they were carved from wood. I had 
been stowed next to a cargo of merry-go-round horses.
They were hanging from racks inside a large packing crate that, for some 
delightful reason, was transparent. I assumed the case was pressurized and 
heated. When I played my flashlight over them a thousand jolly colors leaped out 
at me. I was enchanted.
Where were they going? Who had made them? I never found out.
Like most miscellaneous-cargo vessels, this one consisted of the bare minimum. 
Basically, it was a central core that contained the drive and the life support 
systems for cargo and crewtypically, only two or three people. It was over a 
mile from stem to stern, and along its length it sprouted long composite racks, 
not much different from a pole you would hang your clothes on. The cargo 
modules, including the Pantech, had standard couplers that simply and easily 
snapped over the "horizontal" polesthey were horizontal at launch, anywaywhere 
it was free to swing and sway and orient itself according to the direction of 
thrust: "riding the rods," just like the Old Earth hoboes. When the ship landed, 
the rods would be depressed slightly, and the modules would slide off the ends 
and onto ground carriers. It was a simple system, in use for decades, standard 
throughout the inhabited planets.
The Pantech was the last module on a rod near the front of the ship. I'd paid a 
small premium for the outside berth, since I get claustrophobic if I'm stacked 
in the middle, surrounded by heavy crates that could crush me if they swung in 
the wrong direction.
I soon saw something odd. It was the crate Lou had abandoned on our way out to 
the ship. It seemed to have sprung a leak.
I could see it a few rings forward, and one rod over. The corner he had pried up 
to get in and out now sported a long, white tail. It reminded me of a picture 
I'd once seen of a tapestry from the Middle Ages. The artist had represented a 
comet as a many-rayed star with a long tail to one side as it arched across the 
heavens. This tail was ice of some kindhard to tell what; hell, everything 
froze out here. For a while the leak had been in one direction as the ship 
accelerated. Then, in free fall, the liquid had seeped out in all directions, 
making a rather pretty Christmas-tree ornament.
I chose to take it as good news. Lou had detected something wrong with his 
proposed abode before it was even loaded on the ship, like a squirrel finding a 
leak in his hollow tree just before turning in for his winter's snooze. I hoped 
his new home proved a little more solid.
Of course, he might be freezing or starving or slowly dying of thirst and there 
was absolutely nothing I could do to help him.
So I drank a second dose of deadballs, turned the shelter opaque, and curled up 
in a warm blanket to sleep for a week. I hoped.
* * *
"Father, is this the Emerald City?"
John Valentine chuckled and squeezed his son's hand.
"It will do until something better comes along," he said.
They were riding in a half-full tramcar that traced the edge of Hyginus Rima, in 
the southeast corner of Mare Vaporum, known far and wide as the entertainment 
capital of the system. Had they taken the tram to the end of the line young 
Kenneth would actually have seen the Emerald City, pretty much as Dorothy, Toto, 
and company had approached it in 1939 on a yellow brick road that was partly on 
a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer soundstage and partly in the box of tricks of a process 
cinematographer.
There were those who called the Hyginus Line the Yellow Brick Rail.
The official name of the sector they were now entering was the Route of the 
Stars. The builders had taken their cue from the city fathers of Hollywood, 
U.S.A., but everything they did had to be a hundred times as large, a thousand 
times as spectacularand even less substantial than the original.
Where the stars in the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard had been nothing more 
than small squares of masonry and brass, the ones in Hyginus were holographs the 
size of billboards, easily seen and read from a speeding tram-car. The giant 
stars seemed hammered out of pure gold, and in the center of each was a 
forty-foot fully animated three-dimensional image of the honoree. The stars' 
names were spelled out in diamonds bigger than watermelons.
"So it's really Hollywood?" the boy asked.
"Son of Hollywood," said his father. "Not much around here that's all that 
original."
The real name of the area was the King City/Mare Vaporum Artistic and Industrial 
Park, but no one called it that. The King City part was gerrymandering of the 
most blatant sort. The actual city was over a hundred miles away, but the city 
limits ran on each side of the Hyginus rail until it reached Vaporum, where it 
ballooned to include all the area zoned for industry. The only real benefit 
reaped by the businesses there was the privilege of paying King City taxes.
As for industry, the only industry in Vaporum was The Movies. Whether anything 
"artistic" was happening was endlessly debated among the more acerbic critics 
back in the city.
Those who worked there called it The Park, The Vapors, or Hollywood, the Sequel. 
They spoke of going out to The Rima, or The Edge, or Yellow Bricktown. Everybody 
else just called it Hollywood. Since the original Hollywood was a memory, there 
was seldom any confusion.
"And besides," John Valentine said to his son, "Hollywood was always just a 
state of mind, anyway."
Young Kenneth pressed his face against the window beside his seat and watched 
the passing spectacle. The stars were only the beginning.
Behind them were mountainous holograms of the logos of motion-picture studios, 
past and present, solvent and defunct. Dodger knew they were holograms, but 
since he had no idea what a hologram was, they were as real to him as the car he 
was riding in. The apparent heights of these juggernaut illusions could be 
measured in miles.
There was a tapering iron tower sitting on the north pole of a half Earth globe, 
spitting stylized sparks and spelling out, letter by letter, A RADIO PICTURE. 
Next to that was a snow-covered mountain surrounded by drifting clouds and 
haloed with a starry diadem. A mile-high lion's head roared in the middle of an 
elaborate scroll of old-fashioned motion picture film, and then yet another 
globe, hanging suspended and massive above the barren plain, being endlessly 
circled by a winged machine. "An airplane, Father!"
"That's right. Universal."
"Look! Look!" the boy shouted, pointing to one he was more familiar with. 
"Sentry! That's where we're going, isn't it, Father?"
"If you don't knock the train off the tracks with all your commotion. Settle 
down, boy."
Dodger contained his excitement, and watched the armored warrior and bursting 
firework trademark of Sentry/Sensational Pictures. The gigantic figure went from 
attention to a position of challenge, his huge weapon held out before him at 
port arms. But soon he was fading into the distance, replaced by a circle and 
golden sunburst saying TOHO and a word he couldn't read. A horse with wings 
charged the tramcar and leaped over it. Dodger looked, but the Pegasus never 
landed on the other side. A gargantuan rooster flapped its rust-colored wings 
and ruffled its neck. A dozen multicolored flags snapped in a nonexistent breeze 
under the towering legend FILMWERKS.
Dodger wished he could fly over this wonderful plain. Recently Father had him 
memorize the script for Swift!, and he supposed it must look as if a child of 
Brobdingnag had upended his toy chest and then abandoned his mammoth fripperies 
out here in the wilderness. Actually, from above he would have seen nothing at 
all. It cost more to project a holo in all directions, and the designers of the 
Route of the Stars understood a principle known since the days of D. W. 
Griffith: make sure your budget gets on the screen. The Hyginus route was the 
electronic equivalent of dusty old western streets walked by William S. Hart, 
Tom Mix, and Roy Rogers: false fronts propped up with two-by-fours.
They were just getting into the part of the route devoted to scenes from classic 
movies when the train pulled into the first Vaporum station. Dodger didn't 
really want to get off, but when Father took his hand he stood and followed him 
off the car.
They went down a slideway with a curved, transparent roof, right between the 
hairy legs of a giant gorilla chained to a big wooden cross. The beast followed 
them with his eyes, and father and son both looked up as they walked under him.
"Let's hope he doesn't have an upset tummy," John Valentine said, and his son 
collapsed in helpless giggles.
* * *
John Valentine led his son to a wide sofa in a big, nondescript waiting area 
outside the casting offices of Sentry/Sensational studios. There were many other 
couches, mostly filled with people. He sat him down, and then squatted in front 
of him.
"Now, I may be a while, Dodger," he said, straightening the big yellow bow at 
the boy's neck. Current fashion for young men was a quasi-Victorian look, with 
knee breeches and frock coats and lace at the cuffs. When Dodger was dressed up 
like that John called him Buster Brown. Since this was an important audition, 
father and son were dressed in their best, which if examined closely would have 
revealed loose threads where the tags reading PROPERTY OF NLF COSTUME DEPARTMENT 
had been removed. Young Kenneth had golden hair that hung past his shoulders and 
framed a face with wide-set blue eyes, apple cheeks, and a prominent pair of 
front teeth with a wide gap between them. He wore a floppy brown velvet beret.
"I want you to wait right here until I get back," Valentine said. "There is a 
water fountain over there, and the rest room is just around that corner and down 
the hall. You've got your script"he took a tattered copy of Cyrano de Bergerac 
from his briefcase and set it on the sofa"and I brought a lunch for you." He 
produced a brown paper bag, opened it, and let Dodger look inside. The boy saw 
something wrapped in waxed paper, and smelled a banana. "Peanut butter and 
jelly, your favorite. Now, can I trust you to behave?"
Dodger nodded, and his father pulled the beret down over his eyes, tickled his 
ribs lightly, and stood. He headed for the door marked CASTING DEPARTMENT.
"Father?" Dodger called out, and John Valentine turned. "Break a leg," the boy 
said. Valentine gave him a thumbs-up, and went through the door.
* * *
Dodger was pretty good at waiting. This wasn't the first time he had gone along 
for a cattle call, though never before at a motion-picture studio. His father 
didn't have a very high opinion of the movies, though he worked in them when 
there was nothing else happening and the rent was overdue.
"Never extra work, though, son," he would say. "If you don't get a line, it's 
not acting. You might as well hire yourself out as scenery."
Dodger wouldn't have minded being scenery, sometimes. Scenery didn't have to 
memorize so many plays.
This one was pretty good, though. By the second act he had assigned his own 
names to all the characters: Cyranose, of course, and Rockshead, who reminded 
Dodger of a chorus girl they used to know. Pretty, but dumb as a mime. If only 
she'd been like a mime and stopped talking every once in a while. Then there was 
Christian the Noodlehead, the Comedy Grease, and Raggynose, the pastry cook.
It was jammed full of sword fighting, which was great, but it also had lots of 
words he didn't recognize. He dutifully underlined each one, as his father had 
taught him. He would learn them later. Popinjay. Jobbernowl. Ambuscaded. 
Mountebanks. Buskin. And what was he to make of Hippocampelephantocamelos?
From time to time an adult would hurry by, usually far too busy to notice the 
boy sitting in the farthest corner of the lobby. Then someone would pause, look 
back at him uncertainly. Dodger would give him or her his most winning smile. If 
that wasn't enough, he would say, "It's all right. My father is meeting with Mr. 
Sensational." Jack Sensational was the head of the studio. Nobody asked any 
questions after that.
He ate half his sandwich and all the banana. He visited the facilities his 
father had pointed out, and decided he was bored to death. What would it hurt, 
he wondered, if he did a little exploring?
* * *
The sign TO SOUNDSTAGES A-B-C-D had lured him farther afield than he intended to 
go. Now the huge door he was passing read SOUNDSTAGE H-2, and he knew he was 
lost.
He also knew he was going to be in big trouble. But there is a defense mechanism 
in dogs and young children that prevents them from worrying too much about 
future consequences once it is clear that it is too late to avoid them. What the 
hell? Dodger thought. If I'm going to catch it, I might as well make the crime 
worthy of the punishment.
So he wandered along the wide corridors, dodging heavy equipment hauling props 
and scenery, and groups of actors and extras in outlandish costumes chattering 
among themselves.
He knew just enough to avoid any door with a red light over it, since the light 
meant actual shooting was going on. But when he opened another door and stuck 
his head in enough to get a glimpse of a huge ballroom set swarming with 
carpenters and electricians he was shouted at, and beat a hasty retreat.
But he viewed an open door as an invitation to come in.
The first one he entered was a soundstage populated entirely by six-foot-tall 
blonde women wearing pink high-heeled shoes and pink ostrich-feather headdresses 
that towered another four feet over them. There must have been a hundred of 
them. They were just standing around, doing nothing. Before them were a hundred 
champagne glasses filled with bubbling liquid, big enough for the women to take 
a bath in, and behind that was a towering blue backdrop. One of the women 
glanced at him, then went back to contemplating her long, pink fingernails. For 
five minutes nothing at all happened. Nobody noticed him and nobody asked him to 
leave, and it was all incredibly boring.
And that seemed to be what moviemaking was about. He visited three more stages, 
and in all of them people were standing around doing nothing. Nobody was 
shooting at anybody, there were no sword fights, no action of any kind. Dodger 
tentatively decided against a career on the silver screen.
* * *
He was getting tired by the time he wandered into Soundstage F-5, and wishing he 
could find his way back to his half a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. But when 
he entered F-5 he forgot his hunger.
The other stages had been large, but difficult to see because of false walls 
standing here and there at random, and lights hanging from the ceilings. This 
one was empty and the overhead lights were turned off. Dodger didn't need them, 
because most of the floor of the stage was a vast blue pool of water, lit from 
below. It was smooth as glass. Tied up not far from him was a full-scale pirate 
ship, sails furled, whose masts towered a hundred feet high.
This was more like it. Maybe there was magic in the movies after all.
His footsteps echoed in the big barn as he went to the ship. He reached out and 
touched it, and the ship bobbed slightly, sending out concentric waves that 
turned the even play of light across the distant ceiling into a magical pattern 
of diamonds. He pushed harder against the ship, heard an anchor rope creak 
against a piling, and the pretty pattern of lights was shattered even further. 
He wondered how he could tell Father about this. There must be words for it. 
There were so many words.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
He jerked guiltily and looked up. There was another boy standing in the open 
door of the soundstage, but it was not he who had shouted. An angry-looking 
woman in the red-and-yellow uniform of Sentry Security was holding the boy by 
the arm. She was about to pull him out into the corridor when she looked up and 
saw Dodger.
"You, too," she called out, beckoning. "Get over here. You kids were told not to 
go wandering. I ought to kick you off the lot."
Dodger thought of running, but didn't immediately see any other exit doors from 
the place. There was absolutely nothing to hide behind. So he hurried to the 
guard and she grabbed him, too.
Without another word she hustled them across a busy corridor and through a door 
marked STUDIO 88. Someone had taped a notice to it: Auditioners and Parents 
ONLY!
Inside was chaos. It was not an entirely unfamiliar scene to the Dodger. He had 
witnessed casting calls for the legitimate stage, and knew what happened when 
you got a hundred precocious youngsters and their indulgent parents together at 
one time. Some of these kids had yet to hear the word "no" issue from their 
parents' mouths. They were the ones running in every direction at breakneck 
speed while Mom and Dad looked on with simpering approval and told everyone in 
sight that little junior was just so damn talented they didn't have the heart to 
repress his creative impulses. Sometimes these creative impulses took the form 
of hitting another talented child with a handy blunt object, and in these cases 
the police frequently had to be called to prevent murder among the battling 
parents.
The rest were of another sort entirely. Dodger knew them well. They had spent 
most of their short lives learning to actually do somethingsinging, ballet, 
accordion playingand had achieved some success at it. They were as spoiled as 
the first group, but quieter about it. Most of them sat serenely with stage 
mothers and stage fathers, and the only noise they made was the hideous sounds 
that issued from their kazoos, harmonicas, and Jew's harps.
"Damn all aspiring Shirley Temples," John Valentine had once said, at just such 
an audition. "Children on the stage are a necessary evil, I suppose, if you're 
reviving Annie. God forbid. But they should be locked in a trunk and stored in 
the wings between shows. Take them out, feed and water them, let them do their 
turn, and lock them up again."
But he reserved the worst of his scorn for the parents.
"Gypsy Roses, every one of them!" he sneered. "Frustrated, talentless, hams by 
proxy. They mouth lines along with their brats, and dream of their names on the 
marquee. They eat their young. If the first one doesn't work out, you'll see the 
same faces five years later, with a new brat in tow."
Dodger, who had witnessed this routine of his father's several times, would say 
nothing, remembering the first time he had heard it, when he had innocently 
asked if he himself wasn't something like that, what with memorizing all the 
plays by Shakespeare.
And his father would put his hands on Dodger's small shoulders and look intently 
into his wide blue eyes.
"That's not for you, Dodger. No tap-dancing dog-and-pony shows for my boy. 
You're learning your craft, and it's the noblest craft of them all. It's the 
only thing in the world worth doing."
"Where's your release form?"
"Huh?" Dodger looked up into the face of a pretty young woman with a clipboard 
and a harried expression.
"Here," she said, and thrust a printed form at him. "Have your father or mother 
fill this out and then wait until your name is called. And please, don't lose 
this one." She was gone as quickly as she had appeared.
Dodger found his way to a table that was heaped with food. He'd seen nothing 
like this at theater auditions. Once again his opinion of the movie business 
moved up a notch.
Much of the food seemed to have been used recently as ammunition in a truly epic 
food fight, but there was still plenty left in bowls, on platters, and even on 
big steam tables. He slapped a hot dog into a big bun, squirted mustard, topped 
it off with three spoonfuls of relish, then grabbed a can of Coke from a barrel 
of ice and pulled up a chair. He took a big bite, then swept the tablecloth in 
front of him clear of crushed potato chips and bits of cupcake and part of a 
melting ice-cream bar. He put the release form on the table and studied it. It 
seemed simple enough. He glanced around, saw that no one was paying him any 
attention.
Name? He filled in Kenneth C. Valentine. Stage name (if any): The Artful Dodger. 
Parent or Guardian: John B. Valentine. Age: 8.
He filled in all the blanks, after first checking the bottom to see if there was 
any penalty for perjury, a word he had learned a few days ago. His father had 
cautioned he should always look for it previous to signing anything. And there 
was a space at the bottom for a signature, but they didn't want his, they wanted 
his father's. He looked around again, then accurately reproduced the flamboyant 
loops and incisive angles of his father's autograph: John Barrymore Valentine 
II.
He finished his hot dog and handed the form to the lady when she came by again. 
He didn't think anything would come of it, since it would obviously take some 
time to work through this many children. As he waited he overheard enough to 
realize this was the first cull from a much larger group. Most of the day's 
attendees had already been sent home with that ancient kiss-off ringing in their 
ears: "Thank you for coming don't call us we'll call you."
He looked around at the seventy or eighty remaining. Then he looked at the table 
where the lady had put the stack of forms.
Hmmm.
A group of kids had been running around the table since he sat down. On their 
next pass Dodger carelessly stuck his foot out in front of the leader, who went 
skidding on his face. The others fell down on top of him. The shrieks were 
deafening, and in no time a frantic gaggle of parents had congealed into an 
explosive mass, volatile as nitroglycerin. In no more than five seconds the 
first punch was thrown, and soon after that four fathers were bloodying each 
other's noses. Dodger strolled toward the casting director's table as everyone 
else hurried the other way. Glancing around to be sure everyone was either 
watching the fight or trying to stop it, he lifted the stack of paper. There it 
was, his application, on the bottom. Hell of a place for it, he decided. He made 
a small adjustment to the stack and stepped away.
In a moment yet another woman emerged from behind the curtain. She picked up the 
top form.
"Kenneth Valentine? Kenny, where are you, dear?"
Dodger tugged at her skirt.
"Oh, there you are. Well, you can come with me, and your parents must wait 
right..." She looked around, puzzled. "Where are your parents, dear?"
"Oh, over there," he said, pointing. Then he smiled and waved.
"Yes, well..." She looked confused for a moment, then brightened. "Well, that is 
different. Usually I have to bar the door, and then guard the room to keep them 
from sneaking back in. Very well. Come this way, please."
He followed her through the curtain, then through two doors. The noise didn't 
completely die away until the second door shut behind him.
"Over here, kid," said a gravelly voice.
It was a large room, almost filled by a long conference table with a dozen 
chairs on each side and one on each end. On the walls were posters from the 
Gideon Peppy Show, bright and cheerful and primary-colored, most featuring the 
maniacally smiling host of the top-rated children's show on three planets, 
Gideon Peppy. Directly across from Dodger three people sat together near the 
middle of the table. At one end was an unsmiling woman sitting rigidly upright, 
hands folded on the table, "a broomstick up her ass," as his father would say. 
At the other end slouched a man it took Dodger a moment to realize was Gideon 
Peppy himself.
"Take a seat, little guy," said the man on the left of the triad, a portly 
fellow with a big shock of blond hair and a plaid shirt. "My name's Lawrence 
Street, and I'm the casting director. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes, sir." Dodger fought the impulse to hurry over to the table. "Keep your 
movements slow," his father had told him many times, when he was watching him 
rehearse. He was about to sit in one of the chairs when the second man, who was 
bald almost to the top of his head, spoke up.
"Take the next one," he said, with a slight smile. Dodger saw there was some 
kind of booster seat in it. He climbed aboard with as much dignity as he could 
muster, but was glad when he was in it, because in the other chair his chin 
would have been just about level with the table. He folded his hands in front of 
himself, and waited.
"This is Sam Mohammed," Street said, indicating the swarthy man, "and next to 
him is Debbie Corlet. They're my assistants." Larry, Moe, and Curly, Dodger 
thought, getting them fixed in his head. "The lady at the end of the table is 
from Equity. She's gonna make sure we stick to the child labor laws, but don't 
worry about that." Auntie Equity, got it. He didn't introduce Peppy, and Dodger 
wasn't surprised, because he was familiar with the concept of The Man Who Needs 
No Introduction. It was a measure of importance.
Larry frowned across the table at him.
"I see you didn't bring a copy of your script, so I assume you've memorized it. 
What we want you"
"Excuse me, sir," Dodger said, thinking fast, "but I didn't have time to study 
it. If you could just lend me a copy..."
"They handed them out at the door," Larry said, frowning more deeply.
"They must have missed me," Dodger said. He beamed brightly at Larry. "I'm a 
very quick study."
The three huddled briefly, and Larry shrugged. "What the hell. Let's see how 
quick he is. Go over there and read it to him, Debbie."
"That won't be necessary," Dodger said. Curly was already hurrying around the 
table with the script. She glanced at her boss, who gestured dubiously that she 
should give him the papers. He smiled up at her and took them.
"So you can read?" Moe said, raising one eyebrow. He made a mark on a form in 
front of him. "That's good. What is he, the fifth reader today?"
"Fourth," said Gideon Peppy from his end of the table. Dodger looked at the star 
in time to see him put his trademark lollipop back in his mouth.
"You're right," Larry said. "That first kid was lying, anybody could see that." 
He looked at Dodger and gestured at the script. "So read it, Kenny. Ya got two 
minutes."
Dodger looked at the script, which was three short scenes. He assumed they had 
been written just for this audition. He hoped so. They were terrible.
"Okay," he said. The stooges looked up from a whispered conference they had just 
begun, and Larry frowned again. He had a talent for frowning.
"Okay, what?"
"I'm ready now."
Larry's frown became a full glower. He pointed a stubby finger at Dodger, and 
leaned forward.
"I don't much like being lied to, kid. Don't give me this bushwah about not 
seeing the script, then expect me to believe you've boned it in less than a 
minute. You memorized it, why don't you just"
"Let the kid read," Peppy said. Everyone shut up and looked at him quickly. He 
had his trademark yellow shoes propped up on the table, was leaning back in his 
chair staring at the ceiling. Larry seemed to taste something bad, but turned to 
face Dodger again.
"Okay. Debbie's gonna read the part of Sue. You'll be Sparky. Go." He pointed at 
Dodger, then swiveled in his chair and pointedly turned his back.
" 'Gosh, Sparky,' " Curly chanted, in a dull monotone. " 'I didn't think we'd 
see you again so soon.' "
" 'They can't get rid me so easily,' " Dodger said. He immediately hated the 
reading, but didn't know just what to do about it. They went through the scene 
without a hitch. By the end Curly had relented a little and actually put a 
little expression into her last two lines, but it was no good, and Dodger knew 
it. There was absolutely no clue as to the character of Sparky in the scene, 
there was nothing for him to work with. It was a joking skit lacking a punch 
line, though the cues for laughter were right there on the page: CUE LAUGH. 
Dodger knew they kept laughs in cans somewhere in television studios. He thought 
they'd be opening one heck of a lot of cans to sell this turkey.
But the one thing that did work, oddly enough, was a laugh.
* * *
SUE: The boy is so stupid! I can't believe he's your brother.
SPARKY: (laughs) You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you 
can't wipe your relatives off under the furniture.
* * *
Laughing on cue was something little Ken Valentine had learned early in his 
education, even before the memorization started. He learned it by being tickled 
until he thought he was going to be sick. ("It's one of the easiest lessons 
you'll learn, Dodger. Whenever you need to laugh, just think back to this.") It 
worked almost too well; when he needed to laugh, sometimes, he found himself 
feeling sick.
So he laughed, and produced a rather odd sound he'd been making since somewhere 
around his fifth birthday, a sound that caused his father's jaw to drop and led 
him to say, "Good God. I've raised Woody Woodpecker."
Later, when Dodger heard Woody's laugh, he compared it with his own and thought 
his father was wrong (though he didn't tell him that). The cartoon laugh was 
forced and artificial: Hah hah hah HAH hah. His own laugh sounded real enough... 
but not like anyone else's laugh, he had to admit that.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dodger saw Gideon Peppy look down. Was he smiling? 
He couldn't tell, and he thought it best not to look over there and find out.
"Okay," said Larry. "Second scene."
This one didn't go any better. Moe read the other part this time, and he was 
worse than Curly, if anything. The scene lumbered along until nearly the end, 
when Dodger hesitated.
"What'samatter, kid?" Larry rasped. "Forget your lines?"
"No, sir. It's just that..."
"Spit it out."
"Well, it's a bad line."
The stooges just stared at him. Dodger couldn't help it; he laughed again. This 
did not go over well with the trio, but what was he supposed to do? He imagined 
Larry with his hand over his eyes, Moe with his fingers in his ears, and Curly 
covering her mouth. He saw he had made no friends here.
"I guess this was a bad idea," he said, and started to get up.
"What's the matter with the line, Kenneth?" Gideon Peppy asked.
Dodger turned toward the star.
"Sir, the boy is supposed to be eight years old."
"So?"
"So, an eight-year-old doesn't talk like that."
"So? I can't believe what I'm hearing come out of your mouth."
"I'm not a normal eight-year-old, sir."
"So it would seem."
"I've had theatrical training, Mr. Peppy. Plus, I am eight, and none of my 
friends would talk like that." He brushed the script on the table with the back 
of his hand, contemptuously. "Who wrote this crap, anyway?"
"I wrote it.
Instantly, a line from At the Office, a comedy he'd read almost a year ago, 
sprang into his mind, and he knew it was his only chance.
"Suddenly I like it a lot more," he said.
Peppy was silent for a full ten seconds, while the stooges gaped. Then he took 
the lollipop from his mouth and pointed it at Dodger.
"This kid I like," he said. "This kid has big brass ones. He reminds me of me 
when I was his age." He shrugged. "You're right, it's crap. I dashed it off this 
morning, what the heck, all we gotta do is see can you remember your lines. The 
rest is personality. Read him the next scene."
* * *
  INT. - NIGHT - THE HOLD OF THE PIRATE SHIP
  SPARKY and his friend ELWOOD and the rest of his gang, are manacled to a long 
  chain bolted to the ship's hull. SPARKY has the padlock in his hand and is 
  trying to pick it.
  ELWOOD
  Hurry, Sparky! I think I hear the pirates coming!
  SPARKY
  Don't make me nervous. I think I've... there! It's open! Come on, guys, pull 
  the chain through the rings. Quietly, quietly! Now, Basil, Robin, Elwood, you 
  go up through the rear hatch. Boots, me and you and the rest will go to the 
  front, where the guns are. Elwood, find the powder magazine and try to light a 
  fuse. We're outnumbered, but maybe we can send this old bucket to Davy Jones!
  * * *
  SPARKY and his friends creep through the darkness and hurry up the ladder 
to...
  EXT. - NIGHT - THE DECK
  SPARKY pops out of the hatch, surprising the sleeping guard, who starts to 
  rise. SPARKY hits him and takes his gun, turns to blow the lock off the armory 
  door. The gang swarms in.
  BOOTS
  Come on, guys, grab a weapon! Let's go!
  SPARKY
  Watch out for Elwood! He's up there somewhere!
  * * *
  The pirate crew starts to boil out of the fo'c'sle, waving cutlasses and 
  firing pistols. The Gang fights them off as Sparky hurries forward. BLUEBEARD 
  the pirate captain steps from his cabin.
  BLUEBEARD
  So, Sparky, you've escaped again! Well, you'll not get away this time. (Draws 
  his sword)
  SPARKY
  It's you who'll be walking the plank tonight, Captain!
  * * *
  He grabs a sword and the two fight. ELWOOD comes running from the magazine.
  ELWOOD
  The fuse is lit! Let's get out of here!
  * * *
  SPARKY runs the captain through, pulls out his sword.
  SPARKY
  There's an end to your career of looting and plundering, Captain! (Laughs) Get 
  the point? Come on, guys! There's no time to waste! Over the side with you, 
  and swim for your lives!
  * * *
  The gang leaps into the air as the ship explodes behind them.
* * *
" 'Hurry, Sparky. I think I hear the pirates coming.' "
Silence.
" 'Hurry, Sparky,' " Moe started again, but Larry, who didn't seem to like 
Dodger at all, interrupted.
" 'Samattah, kid? Forgot 'em again?"
"What's my motivation?" Dodger asked.
"Motivation?" Larry wanted to know. He looked baffled.
"Yes, my"
"Motivation? Motivation?" Peppy asked, around his lollipop. "What's this 
motivation crap? Suddenly I don't like this kid so much. Your motivation is get 
loose and kill pirates. Capishe?"
"No, sir," Dodger said. "I mean, who is Sparky? I can't give a good reading 
unless I know a little about him." There was no response, so he hurried on. "Is 
he happy? I mean, does he enjoy his life? Or does he worry too much? Is he 
stupid? I mean, he got captured, didn't he? So... is he worried about the 
mistake he made? What is his attitude, is the main thing. Should I play him like 
Errol Flynn, or John Wayne, or the Eliminator?"
Peppy leaned forward and his lollipop stick rattled in his mouth as he talked.
"Sparky is a happy-go-lucky, smart little fuck, but not so smart he don't get 
outnumbered from time to time, you see what I mean? He is self-confident but not 
obnoxious about it. His troops like him, and so do the dames, people are alla 
time buying him drinks. He's a good boy to be with in a tough situation, 'cause 
nothing bad never happens to him for too damn long. He's the man with the charm 
but he don't have no big head about it. It ain't he's too stupid to know it, 
it's he's modest, see? Also trustworthy. Also helpful, brave, clean, and 
irrelevant. He don't kick his dog, he pulls down about forty-five gees a year, 
goes to the church of his choice, votes as many times as he can, always for the 
right people. He's a schlemiel, you hear what I'm saying? Errol Flynn, 
definitely Errol Flynn." He leaned forward even farther. "With maybe just a 
touch of Daffy Duck. Now can we read?"
Dodger was not acquainted with Daffy Duck, but stripped of the sarcasm, he 
thought he might be getting a picture of Sparky.
"There's a big pirate ship, just across the hall," he said.
"You want we should go read in there? Will that help you find your 'motivation'? 
That's where we'll be shooting this scene."
Oh, yeah? Dodger thought. I thought you dashed it off this morning.
"Could we have just a second?" he asked.
Peppy sat back and looked at the ceiling again.
"Take a second, take a second." He found Dodger again with his eyes. "I'll let 
you in on a secret. Only reason you're still here is most kids stink at this 
stuff. We get most of 'em out of here in thirty seconds, am I right? Tell him, 
Debbie, do I speak the truth here?" Debbie nodded, quickly. "I thought I saw 
something when you were reading that other crap. Now I'm not so sure. But I'm 
hardly ever wrong, so you get a second. Hell, two seconds. Find your motivation. 
Wake me up when you're ready." And he leaned back again.
Dodger closed his eyes and tried to find the key to the scene. "There's always a 
key," his father had said. "It may be a key to the whole play, or just to a 
scene. Hitchcock called it a McGuffin."
Well, there was the padlock, wasn't there? Maybe it wasn't a key, but a lock. If 
Sparky doesn't pick the lock there is no scene, just guys squatting in the dark.
He opened his eyes and looked down. He made his hand hold the lock, shaped his 
fingers around it, felt the cool metal. How did it look? Well, it was a little 
rusty. Everything metal on this ship was a little rusty. It was a great big, 
old-fashioned padlock, round, heavy, with a big keyhole in it. The wards inside 
would be big clunky things, iron bars meant to be moved by a thick skeleton key, 
that might be moved by a splinter of wood pried from the deck of a pirate ship.
He saw it in his hand. Felt the weight of it.
Now, how would Sparky pick a lock? He thought of people who squinted at a task 
like that, who bit down on the tips of their tongues. No way. Not Sparky. He's 
frowning, but one eyebrow is raised. He knows he can do this. He's confident, 
it's only going to be a matter of time, and part of his mind is already occupied 
with what he's going to do when he gets free. Dodger felt his shoulders rising a 
little, his elbows moving out from his sides. Jimmy Cagney? Just a little bit of 
that, but without the meanness. One side of his lip curled up. He was going to 
beat this damn lock, it didn't have a chance.
He started to work.
"Hurry, Sparky! I think I hear the pirates coming!"
That Elwood, Sparky thought. Always jumping at ghosts. Sparky had been 
listening, and he hadn't heard a thing. He shrugged it away.
"Don't make me nervous." He felt the rusty ward moving, moving just the tiniest 
bit. But the splinter wasn't very strong, it could break at any moment.
"I think I've..." With a satisfying clink the shackle popped up.
"There! It's open. Come on, guys, pull the chain through the rings. Don't let it 
rattle! Quietly! Quietly!"
(Dodger stood up in his chair.)
"Now, Basil! Robin! Elwood! You go up through the rear hatch." He gestured to 
his right. "Elwood, find the powder magazine and try to light a fuse." He 
watched his men hurry away in the darkness, then turned to the rest of them. 
"Boots, me and you and the rest will go up front, where the guns are. We're 
outnumbered, but maybe we can send this old bucket to Davy Jones, even if we 
have to go down with it!"
(Dodger stepped up onto the conference table and crept away, toward Gideon 
Peppy.)
Sparky carefully pushed up the hatch cover and looked through the crack. When he 
saw the sleeping guard he leaped out and popped him one in the jaw, then took 
his flintlock pistol as he fell. The gang swarmed out behind him.
"Come on, guys, grab a weapon!" said MoeBoots. "Let's go!"
Then the pirates were all over them. Sparky fired his pistol, then threw it in a 
pirate's face. He grabbed a sword and began slashing right and left, until 
suddenly there was the evil figure of Bluebeard, his longtime nemesis.
"So, Sparky, you've escaped again! Well, you'll not get away this time." He drew 
his sword and assumed the en garde position. Sparky stood straight, tossed his 
head, and saluted the captain with his sword. He laughed, defiantly.
"It's you who'll be walking the plank tonight, me bucko!"
They battled back and forth across the seething deck, slippery with blood. Their 
steel rang in the night, and flashed in the orange light of the torches. 
Suddenly there was a cry.
"The fuse is lit! Let's get out of here!"
Sparky, who had been toying with the captain, now lunged forward and thrust his 
blade through Bluebeard's vile black heart. The pirate fell, mortally wounded. 
Sparky planted his foot on the beribboned and lacy shirt, pulled his sword free.
"There's an end to your plunder, Captain!" He threw his head back and laughed, 
triumphantly. "Get the point?" Then he turned to his men, arms held high, and 
gestured firmly toward the stern.
"Come on, men!" he shouted. "There's no time to waste! Over the side with you, 
and swim for your lives!"
He pounded down the deck, saw the rail ahead of him, and leaped. He was falling, 
falling, the black sea below rushing up to meet him, and shit! It was a gray 
carpet!
Dodger just had time to tuck a little and try to roll, but his head still hit 
the floor with a loud thump.
He sat up and shook his head. There was a ringing sound in his ears. He 
visualized a ring of twittering bluebirds circling his head, and wondered if 
this was the Daffy Duck part. Then he looked up, to see four faces looming over 
him. Larry spoke first.
"Did you see that? Did you see what he did? Jesus, I thought he was going to run 
right into you, Mr. Peppy. Did you see that? He just jumped right over him. 
Right over him! Jesus!"
"The kid's crazy," Curly was saying. "I never saw anything like it."
"Kenneth," Peppy said, an island of calm. "Kid, look at me. Are you okay? Should 
I get a doctor?"
Dodger shook his head again.
"No, I'm all right."
Peppy took the lollipop out of his mouth and looked at it.
"Damn," he said. "I bit my candy in half."
* * *
There didn't seem to be any end to the damn place. After Dodger escaped from the 
audition, he realized he was still lost. Not only was he lost, but it was 
getting late. His hopes that his father's audition had gone long were fading 
rapidly, and every corner he turned seemed to bring him back to a place he'd 
already seen before. Yet it didn't seem as if he were walking in circles.
When he felt a large hand on his shoulder he almost shouted aloud. He looked up 
into a narrow, frowning face.
"What's the matter, son?" the man drawled. "You look like you stumbled through a 
time warp."
You should talk, Dodger thought. They both stopped, and Dodger looked him over. 
It was a tall man, dressed anachronistically in baggy wool trousers, a gray coat 
and vest, and a white shirt. The only spot of color about him was a cloth strip 
knotted around his neck, under his collar. Dodger searched for the word, one he 
had underlined a few months ago. Necktie. And the shapeless hat perched on his 
head was a fedora.
He certainly wasn't the only oddly dressed person Dodger had seen in the 
corridors; this was a motion-picture studio. He'd seen red Indians in buckskins 
and yellow Chinamen in silk pajamas and black Hottentots in tuxedos. He'd seen 
green-and-purple extraterrestrials in ancient pressure suits. But they'd all had 
the look of costumes, somehow. This fellow looked as if he'd just stepped out of 
a time machine. He looked a little faded, yellowed, like an old photo in an 
album. He was in color, but it wasn't Technicolor.
"I guess I'm a little lost," he admitted. He was immediately appalled. He was 
never supposed to admit that. Luna was a strange place, as his father reminded 
him every time they played there. They had some odd ideas here, ideas that 
didn't necessarily make single parenting an easy thing. The child-welfare 
authorities, for instance, would have taken a dim view of Dodger's being left 
alone all day while his father auditioned. It didn't make much sense to Dodger. 
What did they expect? His father was a little short of cash right now and 
couldn't afford to hire a sitteran idea which offended Dodger anyway. How did 
they expect a person to get parts, earn a living, put bread on the table if he 
couldn't look for work?
But if Dodger was picked up, lost, alone, he would surely be taken to the State 
School. Dodger had never seen this State School, but he had seen Oliver Twist, 
with Sir Alec Guinness as Fagin, and his father assured him the State School was 
pretty much like that.
He looked up to gauge the man's reaction. He frowned. Hadn't he seen this guy 
somewhere before? The man pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"A little lost, is it? Well, I know how that feels. Been a little lost myself 
here and there. Come to think of it, it was more there than here, or at least 
that's what it felt like."
"I don't know where here is," Dodger said.
"That's it, exactly!" the man crowed. "What's that in your hand?"
Dodger gave him the paper, and he took something from his pocket and put it on 
his face, squinting through pieces of glass as he read. Dodger had never seen 
anyone use spectacles as anything other than a stage prop. The man pointed to 
the bottom of the page.
"Gideon Peppy? Did you meet Gideon Peppy?"
Dodger nodded.
"Well, I'm impressed, I must say. Mr. Peppy's a mighty big man around here. Yes 
sir, a mighty big man. Not just everybody gets in to see him."
Dodger didn't care so much about that. All he could think about now was the 
clock ticking, and his father waiting.
"Do you work here?" he asked.
"Oh, no, it's not that way at all," the man said. "You might say I live around 
here. But I don't work, not anymore. I did, though. A long time ago, back before 
it was Sentry/Sensational." He started walking, his hands jammed into the baggy 
pockets of his pants, and Dodger decided to walk along with him. Where else did 
he have to go?
"Jack Sensational bought Sentry Studios... oh, it must have been forty, fifty 
years ago. Only his name wasn't Sensational back then. It was Pudding. Jack 
Pudding. I guess he figured not many people would come to see a film from 
Pudding Pictures, so he changed it."
Dodger laughed in spite of himself, then looked up to see if the lanky 
stringbean was kidding him. He could see no sign of it in the deadpan face. He 
was more sure than ever he'd seen the man before.
"It's an old Hollywood tradition, you know. I used to know a man by the name of 
Goldfish. Samuel Goldfish. Jewish fellow, I believe. Well, I don't know what 
Goldfish means in Hebrew, or maybe Jewish folks just think Goldfish is a mighty 
fine nameand they'd get no argument from me, you understandbut old Sam 
realized pretty quick that in America, which is where he lived, Americans 
thought it was a pretty silly name. So he changed it to Goldwyn, which didn't 
mean anything at all."
"You mean... the guy from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer?"
"That's him. Only old Sam bailed out of it before Metro really got off the 
ground. It was old Louis B. that ran the show. Louis B. Mayer. And that's the 
fellow I worked for. Metro pretty much fell apart a long time ago, and for a 
while I think it was Sony Pictures, or something like that. But Sony became 
something else, and that was swallowed by a big corporation, and when all the 
dust settled, why, there was the Sentry Motion Picture Company." The man 
stopped, and assumed the well-known position of the giant sentry with his rifle 
Dodger had seen on the way in, only when he did it, it was comical, his face 
sort of pop-eyed, his mouth making a little O of surprise. That's when Dodger 
got it.
"You're Jimmy Stewart," he said.
"Well, no, that's not right," the man said, reaching into his hip pocket and 
removing a wallet. "The name's Dowd. Elwood P. Here, let me give you one of my 
cards." Dodger took it, and looked at it. A phone number had been scratched out 
with a pencil, and a new one written in:
Call Northside 777
Pennsylvania 6-5000
* * *
"Now, if you want to call me use this number, not that one. That number is the 
old one."
Dodger was going to say that he'd seen the man just a few weeks ago in The Man 
Who Shot Liberty Valance, with John Wayne and Lee Marvin, directed by John Ford, 
but the talk of telephones brought him back to his problem.
He was supposed to call only in emergencies.
John Valentine was suspicious of most technological advances, regarded even the 
ones he took advantage of as no better than necessary evils. To him, the 
telephone was still a newfangled gadget. He refused to have one implanted in his 
head, like most people. But one could never tell when one's agent might be 
frantically looking for one, so he carried a pocket portable.
Telephones for children were both improper and an unwarranted expense. Dodger 
had no instrument at all, internal or otherwise. There were public phones for 
emergencies.
But telephones also functioned as the omnipresent ears of the government, of law 
enforcement, and John Valentine had never been on good terms with either. Every 
conversation was monitored and recorded, he was convinced. So it had damn well 
better be an emergency.
This was the problem Dodger had been wrestling with, then. He was already beyond 
hoping he could get out of this without consequences he didn't even like to 
think about. Father was going to be angry no matter what. Would calling make 
things worse, or better? And even more important, did he dare make a call when 
the people from the State School were listening in?
"So what would your name be?"
"Huh?" Dodger had almost forgotten about Mr. Dowd. "Oh, I'm Kenneth. Kenneth 
Valentine."
"No. You don't say. You wouldn't be Dodger Valentine, John B. Valentine's son, 
would you?"
Dodger looked up in astonishment, and momentary hope.
"Do you know my father?"
"Why, sure I do. To speak to, anyway, it's not like we're buddies. And I 
certainly know his work. Anyone who knows theater knows John Valentine's work."
"Mr. Dowd, could you"
"Call me Elwood. Everybody calls me Elwood."
"Elwood, I've got a"
"Why, I believe I saw him not thirty minutes ago. Now where was that...?"
Dodger was jumping up and down in his excitement.
"MistElwood, please remember. I've just got to find him."
Elwood squatted down and looked at Dodger, then took a handkerchief from his 
pocket and dabbed at the boy's eyes.
"Yes, sir. I believe you do. Well, we'll just have to do something about that, 
won't we? He stood and took Dodger's hand.
* * *
They went around one corner, down a long hallway with doors on each side, then 
two more corners and there he was, John Valentine, standing tall as he always 
did, smiling at passersby. Giving no hint of the agitation he was certainly 
feeling.
Dodger swallowed hard, started forward, then looked around for Elwood.
He was gone.
Then he looked again toward his father, and there was Elwood, standing beside 
him. The differentness about Elwood was even more pronounced when he saw him 
standing by his father. Dodger couldn't quite put his finger on it. Elwood's 
presence was not as solid, somehow. He was not translucent. He cast a shadow. 
But Dodger knew he wasn't like other people.
He started forward again, and in a moment his father saw him. John Valentine 
turned toward his son, and something dangerous flashed in his eyes. Dodger kept 
coming but he reached into his pocket and pulled out the papers he had been 
given, then held them out before him like a shield.
"What have you done to your hair?" his father asked.
Dodger clapped his hand to his head. He had forgotten!
After everything settled down in the audition room a makeup man had been called. 
Dodger was swept into a chair and before he quite knew what was happening the 
man was cutting his hair. This was over the ineffectual protests of Auntie 
Equity, who kept asking where the boy's parents were. Peppy had turned on his 
considerable charm, pointing to the signature at the bottom of the release form, 
and reading a paragraph about agrees to undergo such changes in personal 
appearance as may be required pursuant to the audition. Dodger thought it best 
to keep quiet at that point. Maybe signing the paper in his father's name hadn't 
been such a good idea after all.
Before he knew it, Dodger's long hair had been butchered. It had been blond 
before; now it was a violent yellow, a yellow never before seen on a human head. 
On each side it now stuck straight out, like wings. The top of his head was 
shaved bald, except for a narrow Mohawk strip that was moussed into a topknot 
four inches high. On each of the strips of bare scalp the hairdresser had 
tattooed orange lightning bolts. His eyebrows had been shaved and also replaced 
with lightning bolts.
Dodger looked like a kid who had stuck his finger in an electric outlet.
It was this apparition, not the cherubic child he had left in the waiting room, 
that now approached John Valentine. That his dismay was not evident on his 
faceexcept to Dodgerwas tribute to a truly massive acting talent.
But the Dodger could see it in his eyes. He was in big trouble.
There really wasn't anything to say. He held out the paper, and eventually his 
father took it.
It was crumpled, and there was a big mustard stain right in the middle. But at 
the bottom was the signature of Gideon Peppy. And at the top were the words 
Letter of Intent to Tender Offer of Employment.
Stapled to it was a check for twenty thousand dollars.
* * *
When I awoke this time I just lay there for a while, remembering that long-ago 
audition. Ninety-two years ago. Where did the time go?
God, that hair was awful. But I know I liked it at the time.
I shifted and found the clock.
Four days.
Trouble. Big-time trouble.
In the best of circumstances, you can't take your friendly neighborhood drug 
pusher to the Better Business Bureau to complain about the quality of her wares. 
You have to handle your complaints yourself, and I would cheerfully have broken 
her kneecaps and her elbows if I could get my hands on her. But if that had been 
in the cards she no doubt would never have diluted her product. It was a sweet 
racket she had going. Anybody she sold deadballs to was on his way off-planet, 
unlikely to be back in months, or years... or ever, if things worked out right. 
Right for her, that is. Spectacularly wrong for me. It was outright murder.
Well, what did I expect from a dope pusher?
* * *
I chewed slowly on a hard granola bar dipped in honey while I considered my 
options.
Number one was the most obvious. Simply eat as little as I could during these 
waking periods, and try to make it through the final forty days on what I had 
left. Torture, surely... but was it possible? I added it up a dozen different 
ways and kept reaching the same answer: I don't know. I just didn't have enough 
data about rates of starvation. I knew people had fasted for very long times, 
but I didn't have any reliable numbers on it. And hadn't they damaged 
themselves? I thought I'd heard that. Brain damage can be irreversible.
What I was sure of was that I would be mighty hungry the whole time. And I 
thought I might go crazy out here with no companion but my appetite.
Option number two involved leaving the Pantech and making my way to the ship's 
central core. A risky business at best, but I could probably make it. Once I got 
there, of course, I'd have food. They always carried plenty of good food on 
these cargo ships, gourmet meals being one of the inducements for taking such a 
lonely job at all.
Sure, they'd feed me well. And turn me over to the police as soon as they 
landed. Since I couldn't pay the fare that meant a prison term, and on Oberon 
that meant the gravity gang. No, thank you.
The third option was a little vague, and was really sort of a suboption to 
number one. Some of these cargo canisters around me were certain to contain 
food. If I prowled through them long enough I might find some.
Maybe three hundred tons of onions, or a shipment of parsley, or a tank of diet 
soda pop that would blow up in my face.
I put those options to one side, and concentrated on number four.
I almost hate to mention option number four, because it was nebulous, at best. I 
asked myself, is there any way to extend the periods of sleep back to the full 
week I had been counting on? And the answer to that was... could be. What I had 
in mind was self-hypnosis.
One of the things I do to tide myself over times of no work is magic. Not just 
three-card monte and its infinite variations, though I have been known to run a 
game. And not the manipulation of cards to gain an advantage at the poker table, 
though I am quite capable of that, too. The same skills useful in running a 
street con can also be put to use on the semilegitimate stage where no money 
hinges on the outcome. Prestidigitation. Sleight of hand. Misdirection and 
showmanship. In my luggage beside the Punch and Judy show are the basic tools of 
The Amazing Klepto, Mentalist Extraordinary. It consists mainly of a black cape, 
top hat, and magic wand, and in a pinch I can do without the wand. Most of the 
tricks I do can be performed with found or hastily manufactured objects. I can 
work up close in a small room or on the street, on a cabaret or theater stage, 
and I'm available for birthdays, charivaris, menarches, and bar mitzvahs.
I'm up-front about it. There is no real magic, so far as I know. It's all 
illusion, and I tell you so before I begin. I'm known as Klepto because a good 
part of the close-in work involves relieving the audience of jewelry, wallets, 
and other items worn or carried about the person, then producing them again to 
amused astonishment all around.
Or not, if I think the item won't be missed.
No real magic, I said, but hypnotism always seems close to it, even to me. I can 
hypnotize others and have them go through the ancient repertoire of parlor 
tricks mesmerists have been putting their victims through for centuries: making 
animal sounds, reverting to childhood, removing their clothing, and generally 
making damn fools of themselves. Or I can hypnotize myself, and certain parts of 
the act become much easier for me. Call it yoga if you wish. It is mostly 
increased control of involuntary body functions, and I learned most of what I 
know fromwho else?a gypsy woman in a hobo jungle just outside Marsport. Most 
of the lessons took place in bed.
The trick is to convince yourself you are able to do some unlikely thing. If it 
is not utterly impossibleI wouldn't recommend trying to fly by flapping your 
armsyou'd be surprised at the things you can do. Could I convince myself to 
sleep for a week?
The trick of hypnosis is to fool yourself into believing that something that is 
possible is in fact true. Sleep was the end result I was seeking, but that was 
the end. What I proposed was to start at the beginning, with the means of sleep.
So I dissolved two of the white pills in a glass of water, and I held it up 
before me. I gazed into the milky depths.
You are powerful, I told the potion. You will make me sleep for a week. Yeah. 
Right.
I made my bubble transparent and assumed the lotus position on my mattress. The 
cold stars looked down at me, but I ignored them. I looked instead at the gently 
rocking horses of the future carousel. They were sleeping peacefully. If they 
could do it, so could I.
"Oh, money pump mayhem. Oh, money pump mayhem." This was my mantra, suitably 
dodgerized for my delectation. The gypsy woman had her own version, some 
unpronounceable Romanian or Romany transliteration of the original... Hindi? 
Urdu? Sanskrit? I didn't know, but most people would recognize the ancient chant 
of Om mani padme hum. The words don't mean anything, anyway, unless you're a 
Buddhist, and my version was better than the one an old girlfriend of mine had 
used: "Oh, Mommy! Pop, me humped!" I never got around to asking her if it was 
true. "Oh money-pumpmay hem! Oh, money pumpmay hem!" I did that for half an 
hour. I succeeded in getting myself into a dreamy, receptive state, but not deep 
enough to believe the deadball was full strength. That was okay. I hadn't 
expected to.
But didn't I have something in my medicine chest that might help...? I opened it 
and pawed through the meager contents, and there it was. It was a bottle 
half-full of white pills. The label said ASPIRIN. Ah, yes, but hadn't I replaced 
them back on... was it Brementon? Yes, yes, it was. On Brementon I had replaced 
the innocent white headache pills with innocent white powerful narcotics. Very 
powerful narcotics. I remember doing so. I could see myself emptying the 
aspirin. I saw myself dump the aspirin in the trash. I saw myself opening a 
brown bottle, pouring powerful narcotic pills into my hand, and carefully 
putting them into the aspirin bottle. I heard them rattling down through the 
narrow neck.
Great! Now I had a bottle of powerful narcotics. Maybe they would enable me to 
sleep for a week, along with the deadballs.
I shook two of the pills into my hand. No, better make it four.
On each of them, in tiny red letters, was the word ASPIRIN.
For a moment the whole house of cards wavered, threatened to topple.
Ah, but wait!
I would have laughed, except for the rarefied state of Zen bliss I was in, so I 
contented myself with a beatific smile. Foolish boy! Don't you recall? Of course 
you do. The... the... the guy you bought them from told you, he said... he 
said... he had written ASPIRIN on the powerful narcotics so if anybody looked at 
them, they would see ASPIRIN, and think they weren't worth stealing. But they 
were really powerful, powerful narcotics.
In fact, they might be too powerful. Don't take four of them. I put one back 
into the bottle. Three should be enough.
I popped them into my mouth and washed them down with the chalky deadball 
solution. Then I set about tidying things up, knowing I'd be asleep soon.
I came across the frog and skull netsuke and I picked it up. I stared at the 
frog, and it stared back at me.
I liked the way it felt in my hand, so I kept it out. I resumed the lotus 
position, and stroked the ancient, cool ivory with my thumb. It gradually warmed 
under my hand. I could feel a pulsing in the frog's throat.
I fell asleep.
* * *
Dodger hurried through the busy passenger terminal of the King City Spaceport, 
clinging to his father's hand, feeling a little like a balloon at the end of a 
string. It wasn't a bad feeling, but it wasn't a real secure one, either. There 
was nothing to be done about it. When his father got excited, he moved very 
fast.
Father and son were dressed in white pants and shoes, long white coats that 
buttoned all the way down the front and had stiff, upright collars. They wore 
orange turbans wrapped around their heads. The skin of their hands and faces was 
now a light brown color, and John Valentine sported a neatly trimmed black beard 
and mustache. Under the turban Dodger was bald as an egg. The shocking yellow 
hair was all gone, and so were the lightning-bolt tattoos.
Valentine hurried up to the Inner Planet Budget counter and smiled at the young 
woman who stood behind it. She smiled down at Dodger, who looked cute as could 
be, a scale model of his handsome father but without the whiskers.
"Good morning," Valentine said, with a slight accent. "I am seeking a 
reservation in the person of Rajiv Singh, and his most esteemed son, Rahman. We 
have been booking two passages of an inside stateroom to Flip City, Mars, with 
connectings to New Amritsar."
"Yes, Mr. Singh, I have your reservation here." The young woman did something at 
her ticketing machine and produced a clear plastic rectangle that flashed in 
rainbow colors when the light hit it. "That will be five hundred and fifty-seven 
dollars and nineteen cents, including transportation tax, excise tax, amusement 
tax, transaction tax, value added tax, spaceport usage fees, and the mandated 
voluntary oxygen-indigent support assessment. May I have your credit number, 
please?"
"Oh, my goodness, no!" Valentine's smile was still in place, but he was gritting 
his teeth. "Cash moneys only, if you please! 'Neither a borrower nor a lender 
be,' as according to poor Richard Almanack. And concerning these other 
stipends..." He leaned over and studied the lines on her ticketing screen. John 
Valentine paid few taxes unnecessarily and none willingly. "The harried, hurried 
traveling public is a market ripe for a swindle, Dodger," he said whenever they 
went anywhere. "Most of them have no idea that not all those fees apply to 
them." After five minutes of haggling, he had eliminated six dollars in 
amusement ("We don't plan to be amused"), transaction ("This is applying to 
credit dealings only"), and air imposts ("Our temple is contributing most 
generously each year to the Beggars' Breathing Fund, or as Richard Almanack once 
said, 'I gave at the office.' ").
Those battles won, Valentine pulled his wad of cash from his coat pocket and 
paid the fare. The lady validated the ticket and handed it to him.
"Now, may I see your passport, please?"
"Passport? Passport? Surely I am told this is not being necessary, for purposes 
of tourism or religious pilgrimage not to exceed two weeks of durations. Rahman, 
my son, are you bringing the passports?" Valentine had been patting himself 
down, exploring his pockets in distraction. Now he smiled. "We are Sikhs," he 
said, explaining. "Rahman!"
Dodger had been woolgathering, on the high seas aboard a pirate ship. Now he 
jerked awake, and patted all his pockets. "No, my father."
"There, you see!" Valentine said.
"You're right, of course," said the lady, "but I do need some identification."
"This should be of no type of problem," Valentine assured her. "Here is an 
abundance of such items." He fanned several cards out on the counter like a 
winning poker hand. Dodger felt the pressure on his hand increase. Mr. Rajiv 
Singh was unlikely to have missed the items, since he was deadballing to Neptune 
at the moment, only one week into his journey. Valentine had been guaranteed 
these documents would survive the cursory scrutiny needed to buy tourist passage 
to Mars. Still, it paid to be cautious, and Dodger was ready, should his hand be 
squeezed three times, to start complaining loudly about a sudden and violent 
need to empty his bladder. He was prepared to piss his pants, if it came to 
that. He really hoped it wouldn't come to that.
He sighed in relief when he saw she was buying it, simply glancing at the stolen 
identification and making a mark on her screen.
"I can offer you a stateroom upgrade, with a private bath, for a fee increase of 
only twenty dollars," the lady said.
"Oh, my goodness, yes, of course. Won't that be so jolly, Rahman?"
"Yes, my father."
"And are there any... special dietary needs associated with your faith, Mr. 
Singh?"
"Oh, my goodness, no. We shall be most pleased to be eating whatsoever the other 
passengers have been eating. Hamburgers and hot dogs, eh, my son?"
"Oh, my goodness!" Dodger agreed.
"Very well. Your ticket will also function as your meal card, so please don't 
lose it. Since your departure isn't for another four hours, you may use it to 
purchase a meal at the spaceport snack bars, in appreciation for your early 
arrival, courtesy of IPB. Please be at the boarding gate in three hours, with 
your luggage. Have a pleasant flight, and enjoy your visit to Mars."
"Oh, a most devotional trip, indeed!" Valentine said. "May the sacred monkeys of 
the New Temple of Amritsar guide you through the day."
The woman's smile became a bit glassy, as though not sure if she wanted to be 
guided by monkeys, sacred or otherwise, but when Dodger waved to her she waved 
back. When they were far enough away, Dodger looked up at his father.
"Why don't you buy me some eggs?" he asked. "Since you already"
"Have provided the ham," Valentine finished, sheepishly. "Damn it, Dodger, why 
don't you stop me? It's a disease, I tell you, a disease. I can't stop myself."
"I really liked the part about the monkeys."
John Valentine threw his head back and laughed. Dodger loved it when he laughed. 
He'd been laughing a lot since they got back from Sentry Studios, hardly 
twenty-four hours ago.
"We've got time to kill, pardner," Valentine said. "What say we take IPB up on 
their offer to do lunch? Think their budget would stretch to a couple Cokes and 
Coney Islands?"
* * *
John Valentine produced the validated plastic with a flourish, and the clerk ran 
it through his machine. He and his son carried their trays to a booth 
overlooking the vast flat plain of the spaceport.
Dodger had contented himself with some mustard and a few spoonfuls of relish on 
his Coney, but Valentine had buried his, as usual, in chili, diced onions, 
relish, mustard, cheese, and a barely sublethal dose of the Tabasco sauce he put 
on almost everything he ate. Valentine's energies were enormous, and so were his 
appetites.
"You're going to like Mars, Dodge," he said, gingerly lifting the soggy load to 
his mouth and taking a big bite. "There's more gravity. Get your feet firmly on 
the ground for a change." He frowned, and chewed. "You remember Mars at all? 
What were you..."
"Three, you said," Dodger told him. "I don't remember much."
"No, I don't suppose you would. Well, take my word, it's a great place. It's the 
perfect place for the little theater we've always talked about. Your average 
Martian has an inferiority complex when it comes to Luna. No real reason they 
should, it's a much nicer place than here, but they do, that's the point. Luna 
is the great Golden Globe for most of the system, and the fact that Mars is a 
perpetual also-ran, Mars is in second place to Luna in just about anything you 
want to name... well, that just makes it worse. Some little godforsaken 
asteroid, they don't worry too much about measuring up to Luna. But Mars, Mars 
is sort of like Chicago, compared to New York. Chicago always had good theaters, 
good dance troupes. But Chicago never had a Broadway, and they knew they never 
would. But they always wanted to be New York, you see what I mean? That's where 
the action was. That's where the best actors, the best dancers, the best 
directors... if you weren't working in New York, people thought you weren't 
really doing serious work. "Or like Hollywood in the film business. You could 
make a perfectly good film in Florida, but Hollywood was the center of the 
universe. It's where you went to be a star. 'There's no business like show 
business, there's no business I know!' " He sang, not really at the top of his 
voice, but John Valentine seldom spoke more quietly than a stage whisper, and 
several people in the snack bar turned to see the man in the orange turban 
singing a jaunty showbiz tune. Dodger kicked his father under the table.
Valentine looked around, and laughed. "You're right, Dodge," he said in a lower 
voice. "Sikhs do work in the industry, you know, but you're right, it looks out 
of character." Dodger was entitled to kick his father anytime he stepped out of 
character when they were working in public.
"Anyway," he went on, more confidentially, "what it does to the Martians is, 
they're much more receptive to culture. You stage Love's Labour's Lost in King 
City, it's a yawn. Oh, people will come, you might even fill the theater because 
there's so damn many people here. You do it on Mars, you get a lot more 
appreciation. The Martians are glad to have you, they cherish you, because by 
doing Shakespeare or any other of them highfalutin Greeks, you're telling your 
average Martian rubeand there's nothing rubier than a Martian rubethat he's 
just as good as a Lunarian. He'll go, even if he doesn't understand every third 
word, and he'll praise you, and thank you for going to the trouble. And that's 
good, Dodger, because frankly, other than myselfand you, when you're 
readythere's not going to be a Luna-quality cast in the supporting roles. The 
best of them have already moved to Luna, they're breaking their hearts here. The 
sort of troupe I'm thinking of, it would get absolutely hammered in the King 
City reviews. But I guarantee you, on Mars, it will never be noticed."
"Sounds great," Dodger said.
"Better than great." He spread his hands wide, his eyes focused on a giant 
marquee only he could see. " 'The John Valentine & Son Shakespearean Repertory 
Company.' Just one small pressure dome, out a ways from the city where the rents 
aren't so high. A hundred fifty, two hundred seats, tops. Why, with twenty 
thousand dollars we can get it up and running, and even if we lose money every 
year, I don't see why we can't go six, seven years. And all thanks to Gideon 
Peppy and his idiotic show."
"Sounds wonderful," said the Dodger.
They ate in silence for a while, each with his own thoughts. Valentine was 
obviously laying out the floor plans of the repertory theater, drawing up the 
first season's schedule, deciding who to call in Flip City when it came time to 
cast the first production.
Dodger simply ate, taking small bites and chewing thoughtfully.
"I'd like to see Mr. Peppy's face tomorrow," Dodger finally ventured, quietly, 
"when nobody shows up for the contract meeting."
"And he realizes his catch has flown the coop." Valentine cackled. "Yeah, that'd 
be something to see, all right. We'll send him a postcard from Mars, when we 
open the first show. Anonymous. Let him wonder what it's all about."
"That should be funny," said Dodger.
They ate in silence for a while, both looking up when the lunchroom was for a 
moment flooded in light as a ship lifted from the field. Even through the 
darkened glass, for a moment it outshone the sun. Valentine chuckled.
"I think we could work up a comedy skit about your adventures yesterday. Caught 
up in the massive gears of the Hollywood machine, eh, Dodger?" He frowned, 
looking thoughtful. "In fact, I think I've seen something like it before. Very 
old stuff. Something about soldiers being processed very rapidly into an army, 
shuffling through physical and mental exams, no one really taking the time to 
see these chaps as human beings... and before they know it they've inducted a 
chimpanzee. Now where was that...?"
"Maybe it was one of the sacred monkeys of the New Temple," Dodger suggested.
"That's it! That's it!" Valentine howled. Dodger was eager to get his father's 
thoughts away from the previous day. While he had not actually lied to his 
father about the general shape of eventshe had in fact been shanghaied into the 
audition room, for instancehe had tended to exaggerate the slings and arrows of 
outrageous fortune and to downplay his own complicity. He had neglected to 
mention filling out the form and forging his father's name. He had hurried over 
the details of his reading, not putting much emphasis on how diligently he had 
tried to win the part. And come to think of it, when his father assumed Dodger 
had been kidnapped right out of the waiting room where Valentine had left him, 
Dodger had not bothered to correct him. Why invite trouble? Dodger had reasoned. 
It made a much better story the way his father had heard it, and hadn't he 
always said a good story was frequently superior to the truth?
"I couldn't get over how talented he thought I was," Dodger said, with a 
chuckle. "Honest, Father. I was hardly even trying."
"Well, I'm tooting my own horn, I suppose," his father said, comfortably, "but I 
don't think you realize just how much your classical training has set you above 
other boys your age."
"I guess you're right." Dodger sighed. "Now I guess he'll have to settle for 
second best."
Valentine reached across the table and chucked his son playfully under the chin.
"After the Valentines," he said, "there is no second place." He finished the 
last bite of his Coney Island, licked the chili from his fingers, washed it down 
with a big swig of pop. "I'm still hungry. How about it? You want another?"
"I've still got this one," Dodger said.
"I'm getting another. You want some cookies? A brownie?"
"Cookies would be nice."
Valentine hurried away and Dodger put down the half Coney he had been nibbling. 
He did nothing at all until his father slid back into the booth across from him, 
and then he still did nothing. His father looked up from wolfing down his second 
Coney Island. He frowned at his son.
"What's the matter? Not hungry? There probably won't be any food on the ship for 
a while, until they get it rotating and unpack the kitchen."
"No, I'm fine," Dodger said. He laced his fingers together and leaned forward 
slightly, a look of concentration on his face. "Father... you said we could run 
our theater at a loss for six or seven years on twenty thousand dollars. I was 
just wondering...."
"Go ahead," Valentine said, when the pause had stretched too long.
"I was wondering, how long could we run it on a hundred thousand dollars?"
Valentine stopped chewing for a moment and his eyes lost their focus. Then he 
started chewing more slowly.
"You know the answer to that," he said. "But I don't think you meant it as a 
math problem. Go on, Dodger. What's on your mind?"
"Well, Mr. Peppy said that's what we'd make for an episode. For the pilot, I 
think he called it."
"Incredible, isn't it?" Valentine said. "I always told you there's lots of money 
in that business. Lots of money. The only problem is, what you have to do to 
earn it."
"Right," Dodger agreed. "That's right. Still..."
Valentine put down the Coney and regarded his son.
"Just tell it, Dodger. What do you have in mind?"
"Yes, sir. I was just thinking, since I already have the part... well, we could 
take them for some real money if I went ahead and made the pilot."
Valentine said nothing.
"Just think how crazy Mr. Peppy would get if we made the pilot, and then took 
off for Mars."
Valentine howled at that one, then got serious. He reached across the table and 
took Dodger's hand in his.
"You'd really do that, wouldn't you?" he said, his eyes glistening. "For your 
old man and his crazy theater, you'd put yourself through that mill, and I'll 
bet you'd never complain, either." He stood up, almost knocking over the table, 
leaned across, and kissed his son on the forehead. He sat back down and gazed 
out over the field for a while, getting his emotions under control. At last he 
looked back, fondly.
"I can't let you do it, Dodger. I know you think you could handle it, but let me 
tell you, you have no idea the insanity that would be brought to bear. I brought 
you up to be an actor, not a mugger in dumb shows. Not a spiffed-up little clown 
with yellow hair and zigzags on his head and I don't know what all else. You 
think it's just a pilot, son, but it's really a trap. It's the first dose of an 
addicting drug. The money is tempting, and if I had any less regard for you I'd 
snap it up in a King City minute. But it's because I do hold you in such high 
regard that we're going to take the money and run." He squeezed Dodger's hand 
again. "But I want you to know, I'll never forget the offer."
Dodger smiled, and shrugged.
"It was just an idea," he said. "Just a way to be sure the John Valentine 
Repertory Shakespearean Theater gets off to a good start. But you're probably 
right. They did seem like crazy people."
He looked out the window where a ship, big as a city, was being hauled out to 
its pad on a creeper the size of a small crater. "Still," he said, wistfully. 
"All that money."
* * *
Three hours later the lady at the IPB ticket counter looked up to see the Sikh 
father and son hurrying in her direction.
"Sir! Your ship is boarding right now! You'll have to run to"
"Oh, my goodness, no!" said the man. "Oh, most frightfully no. My most esteemed 
lady, the sacred monkeys of the New Temple of Amritsar have deemed this a most 
insuspicious point in time to be traveling. What a surprise this has become to 
myself and my most excellent son, Rahman, I shall have left to your imaginings. 
However, the upshooting of the situation is this: that we should now be seeking 
a refunding of our monies. We shall be guided to the New Temple at a date to be 
later determined." He paused, and smiled. "Or perhaps I should be saying, 
'piloted.' " He slapped the plastic boarding pass on the counter.
The woman knew little of religions other than her own Catholic upbringing, had 
never really heard of Sikhs. But as she was refunding the money (including, to 
her later chagrin, amusement tax, transaction tax, and Beggar's Breath), she 
decided Sikhs must be a sort of Buddhist. She was familiar with the Buddha. She 
recalled thinking the son looked a lot like his father, but she could see now 
she had been wrong.
No, the satisfied smile on the small face was the very image of the Enlightened 
One.
* * *
From that moment on, my father was just about the only person that ever called 
me Dodger anymore. From then on, I was Sparky. I wasn't Kenneth even in the 
credits, and no one at Sentry ever called me Dodger.
If I had it to do over again, would I choose to go with Father to Mars? To this 
day I don't know. Being strongly identified with a part can be a blessing, but 
is usually a curse in my business. Ask Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Boris 
Karloff. It goes back at least that far. Like a singer asked to endlessly repeat 
his one monster hit, you get very tired of it. Reviewers will forever after make 
much of the fact that it was little Sparky who played the part of Willy Loman, 
will more than likely treat the whole enterprise as a stunt. That's one reason 
I've used so many pseudonyms in my career.
But being Sparky has been helpful from time to time. It's an image you can trade 
on, when you're otherwise down-and-out. It will get your foot in the door, get 
you special attention even if half the time it is only to be told Sorry, I just 
can't see little Sparky as Stanley Kowalski. It gets you attention as 
somebody-who-used-to-be-somebody while Wanda B. Somebody, Mita Bean, and Neva 
Hoydova are cooling their heels at a cattle call. And brother, when you're out 
there riding on a smile and a shoeshine, it can give you that edge you need.
Hi, it's me again. The artist formerly known as Sparky.
I am waking up for the third time this voyage, being as careful as I can not to 
tamper with my meditative state, trying not to become fully awake, since you can 
never tell if you'll convince yourself again of the Big Lie you managed to 
swallow getting into this state.
I checked my clock and found I'd been asleep for seven days. I took the news 
calmlyof course it had been seven days; I'd taken powerful narcoticsand I had 
in fact already suspected it, because I was twice as hungry as I had been each 
previous time. It looked to be starvation on the installment plan, which was a 
lot better than a continuous forty days of it.
I ate. You don't want to know what I ate any more than I want to revisit the 
tastes by telling about it. Just recall the items I bought back on Pluto, 
imagine them all swirled together in a blender, and I'll leave the rest to your 
imagination. It was vile stuff, and it killed the hunger pangs, which was all it 
was supposed to do.
I shook out three pills. They were now plainly labeled POWERFUL NARCOTICS, I 
noticed. I washed them down with deadball solution that was actually starting to 
taste pretty good.
I slept.
* * *
"Interesting," said John Valentine, when he saw his son. "But what about the 
pants?"
"Donald Duck never wore pants," said Gideon Peppy, around his lollipop.
Sparky had spent the entire morning with Rose, the nice production-designer 
lady, and her staff of hair, costume, and makeup people. His hair had been 
restored in its tripartite pattern, but instead of banana yellow it was now 
metallic and bronze, spiraled and wiry. The side wings were swept back instead 
of spread out, and the front part of the Mohawk drooped down over his forehead. 
The electric zigzags were back, joined now by a pair on his chest. His eyes were 
mascaraed from eyelash to brow in a deep rose fading to black, then tapering to 
more zigzags at the corners. He wore black lipstick. He had been prodded and 
pampered, trimmed, teased, and flattered by the deft boys and girls of the 
makeup department, and made to feel very important indeed. He had been massaged 
with warm oils until his skin glistened. If he wanted something to eat or drink 
he had merely to ask and it appeared. He had received his first manicure and 
pedicure. Then he had been put into his costume, which was a red jerkin or 
waistcoat (which his father said was pronounced weskit) with gold embroidery 
suggestive of a circuit board. It could be fastened with a frog in front, or 
left open. It had no sleeves or lapels. It reached the middle of his hips. When 
he had it on Sparky immediately asked the same question his father would ask a 
few minutes later, and when he was told that was it, the entire costume, he knew 
there was going to be trouble.
Now he stood silently in front of the huge mirror that backed the conference 
table on the edge of the bustling pirate-ship tank set. Gideon Peppy liked 
conference tables, had one brought in anywhere he was going to meet with people, 
and immediately installed himself in a big chair at one end. His staff clustered 
at that end, drawn like iron filings to a magnet. He sat there now, feet up on 
the table as was his custom, and looked at Sparky. Behind him and to his right 
was the usual pandemonium of a set being constructed, wired, painted, and lit 
all at once. A wharf had been built and a Caribbean port town was almost 
complete. Nail guns stuttered and paint sprayers hissed and table saws howled as 
gangs of grips carried Styrofoam barrels and inflatable bales of cotton to stack 
on the wharf. A paving machine was moving along like a giant metal termite 
queen, laying cobbles in irregular rows on the steep main street. Set dressers 
were strewing straw and garbage and imitation horseshit, daubing weathered-wood 
walls with ersatz mildew. Somewhere underwater frogmen were positioning 
battery-powered mini-brutes to shine upward through the turquoise water. And 
anchored just off the wharf was the pirate ship itself, swarming with gaffers 
and riggers testing the complex system of ropes, pulleys, and canvas.
Sparky watched it all in the mirror, and remembered Orson Welles's description 
of a motion picture soundstage: the greatest toy a boy ever had.
"Yes," his father thundered, bringing Sparky back to reality. "And Donald Duck 
was a cartoon, a water fowl, and imaginary. And, apparently, sexless. You should 
bear in mind that my son is a real little boy."
Valentine had grasped the dynamic of the conference table instantly, weeks ago 
when he had his first meeting with Peppy and his staff. He had marched 
unerringly to the far end of the table and had been camping out there ever 
since. It meant he had to raise his voice to reach Peppy, especially on a noisy 
set like this one, but it was no problem for John Valentine, who liked to boast 
that he had never been miked in his life and always projected to the last row of 
the balcony.
Peppy and Valentine had loathed each other on sight and each had yet to speak an 
impolite word to the other. The tension at the table had grown so unbearable 
that the faint of heart among Peppy's entourage hyperventilated and had to 
breathe into paper bags when the meetings adjourned.
"I never forget it for a minute, my good friend," Peppy replied. "A wonderful 
talent, your son. He's going to be a big star, and very soon. Maybe even bigger 
than me." He chuckled wryly, bemused at such a thought, and a few of his people 
chuckled with him. He leaned forward. But we're dealing in a fantasy world here, 
John B. We're making movie magic. We've researched this high and lowhaven't we, 
Rose? Tell him about the researchand what you're seeing in that sweet little 
boy is the coming thing, John B., the coming thing. We won't be in business very 
long if we wait around until the coming thing is already here. We've got to be 
the ones who define what it is. Tell him, Rose."
Valentine, who liked being called John B. about as much as Jack Sensational 
would have liked being called Puddin' head, folded his hands comfortably and 
turned to Rose with a sweet smile.
Rose was that rarity, an artist oblivious to power politics within the team. She 
liked her creation, and she liked Sparky, and had no idea how much Valentine and 
Peppy detested each other.
"It's true, Mr. Valentine," she enthused, and hurried over to take Sparky by the 
elbows and boost him onto the table, where he swaggered around in the middle, 
careful not to get too close to either end, where there were tigers. He struck a 
few poses, watching himself in the mirror.
"The one-piece look is already the thing in the Mercury Commune, and you know 
how they've bellwethered all the newest things for the last two years. 
Simplicity is the statement. One garment, loads of makeup. Both sexes. And not 
just the tiny tots, either. Just a shirt, or a pair of trousers. Sometimes just 
one sleevejust a sleeve, no shirtor a legging." She illustrated on her own 
body, with graceful hand gestures, then joined Sparky on the table. She herself 
wore a garment similar to his, but a little longer. She went down on one knee 
beside him, pointing out features of her handiwork. "Depilate from the neck 
down. Oil up. One item of clothing. That's the key to the new look. Lots of 
skin. Heck, on Mars the upper classes aren't dressing their children at all 
until they reach puberty, as if we were back in the fifties. I think that's 
reverse snobbery, and besides, you can't make money selling nudity."
"You can make more money selling more clothes," Valentine pointed out. "That's 
true," said Peppy. "And we'll sell caps, and T-shirts, and whatever the 
marketing department dreams up. But that'll be with pictures of Sparky, and with 
the Sparky artwork and logo and characters. If the kids want to wear the Sparky 
look, they'll wear the vest dingus. And they'll buy it from us, because we'll be 
the only ones selling Sparky vests with the official Sparky's Gang seal."
"Only to eight-year-olds," Valentine said.
"So what? We figure three-to-ten, actually, but eight is the target, for now. 
This thing takes off, takes off big, we'll get up to the teens as the Sparkster 
gets older. I'm telling you, John B., the Victorian Kid is history. You can pack 
away all his lacy duds, his velvet shirts and ruffled collars and knee britches. 
Coupla months, everybody's kid's gonna dress like this."
"If he wears it at all," Valentine said, dangerously. "I don't know, Pepsi. 
There's something about it that rubs me the wrong way. Call me old-fashioned. 
Nudity is fine, at home, at the playground, in the swimming pool."
"But this isn't nudity, Mr. V," Rose piped up, honestly trying to be helpful. 
"Nudity is dreary. This is style."
"Not to put too fine a point to it, Rose, my darling," John said, "I was raised 
to believe a young gentleman should wear pants in public."
Rosewho, like most third-generation and younger Lunarians, had no more body 
modesty than a minkhad no idea what he was talking about. She had made costumes 
faithfully for a hundred Earth-era pictures without ever really grasping the 
genitalia taboo. People wore lots of clothing on Earth because it had been 
dangerous down there, to her way of thinking. Blistering sunlight, lethal cold 
winds. There was nothing like that to protect oneself from on Luna, and people 
wore clothing almost exclusively for decoration, sometimes a lot of it, 
sometimes very little, depending on the fashion of the day. If the fashion now 
was no pants, what's the big deal? She looked to Peppy for help.
Gideon Peppy carefully removed half his lollipop from his mouth, and chewed on 
the rest. He had never eaten his hard candy treats until he met the Valentines, 
father and son, but now he found himself frequently biting down hard on them. 
Pepsi, is it, you prick?
He laughed indulgently, one friend to another, and shook his head.
"Johnny, Johnny, honestly! I don't know where you get these ideas! He's a riot, 
isn't he, fellas? A riot. Sometimes I think you're just kidding us, and I'm too 
dumb to get the joke. But I'm here for you, paisan. I care, I really do. If you 
have concerns I'm always willing to listen. If you're not happy, nobody at this 
table is happy, so what I want from you is to talk to me, John. Blue-sky it for 
us. What would you like to see here? We all want your input and my mind is a 
blank page, costume-wise. So draw on it, John B., draw on it. What kind of pants 
are we talking here?"
Sparky, who had not been following the exchange at all closely, chose that 
moment to pipe up.
"I kind of like it, Father," he said.
The silence that followed was mercifully short, as one of Rose's assistants 
arrived with a girl in tow. Now it was Sparky's turn to frown dubiously.
Peppy stood up to greet the girl. He lifted her up onto the table where she 
stood confidently, hands on hips, looking a challenge at Sparky.
"Folks, meet Sparky's new sidekick. I'd like you to say hi to Kaspara 
Polichinelli!"
"Sidekick? Sidekick? I didn't see anything about a sidekick." John Valentine 
reached for his script.
"All action heroes have sidekicks," Peppy said, smugly. "We figured from the 
start Sparky'd have one. We wrote her in last week."
Sparky walked slowly toward the young lady. Eight years old, he figured. Dressed 
exactly as he was, only the waistcoat was blue with silver highlights. Hair 
trimmed the same, only silver instead of brass. Zigzags, eye shadow, all the 
same. The black lipstick was a trifle bee-stung, a little Betty Boopish, but 
other than that, she looked just like him.
He stopped a pace away and looked her up and down. She smiled. Her two front 
teeth were prominent.
"What kind of name is Kaspara?" he asked. He was aware that an argument was 
happening down at Peppy's end of the table, but he tried to ignore it. He knew 
he had made a major mistake in his comment about the costume, but he was hoping 
this new sensation might make it seem less important in retrospect. Perhaps 
Kaspara Polichinelli's arrival would distract his father from his son's innocent 
gaffe. And that was good.
But he was far from sure anything else about her arrival was so great.
"I don't use it," she said.
"What do they call you? Kassie?"
"Everybody calls me Polly."
Sparky had edged a little closer, trying to see if his shoulder was higher than 
hers. She smiled, and came around him to stand back-to-back. The two of them 
looked in the mirror. He had an inch on her. Maybe two if he stood up straight. 
Well, that was okay, then.
She laughed, and bumped him with her hip.
"Come on," she said. "Don't be such a flip. I know how to stand downstage and 
not get in your shot. They told me the part was a sidekick when I tried out."
"You're going to be my buddy? Is that it?"
"I don't think they planned any sexual involvement until the third season, at 
least," she said. "Which is fine with me. I'm old-fashioned, like your father. I 
figured I'd wait till my blood day, just like my mother did."
Sparky was saved from replying to that by the sound of rising voices at the 
power end of the table. Storm clouds were forming over there, and the outlook 
was excellent that the long-delayed cataclysmic confrontation between producer 
and parent was about to break out. Aides were scurrying for cover as John 
Valentine came around the table, slapping his script into his open palm while 
Peppy slapped a copy of Sparky's contract into his.
"Come on," Polly said, pulling his hand. "They told me to bring you back. Miss 
Crow says it's time for classes."
"Miss Crow?" For a moment Sparky forgot who she was. "Oh. Auntie Equity."
"Auntie Equity." She laughed. "I like that. C'mon, let's get out of here. 
There's a fight about to happen, and I think your dad's going to lose it. I 
don't think you want to be around when he does."
John Valentine did lose the fight, if the removal of the character of Polly was 
the criterion for winning. But he saw it coming, and managed to turn the contest 
in midstream until it was a struggle over artistic control and not over Polly 
herselfand managed to convince himself that was what he had been upset about in 
the first place. It might even have been true. He was not mollified by a small 
victory on the issue of trousers. "Listen to this," Peppy had offered. "We shoot 
the pilot in the outfits Rose designed. Then there's a coupla markets 
off-planet... what is it, Vesta, Callisto... Ceres, I think, all fulla Baptists 
and Mormons and jerks like that. Vesta, now, wha'd' they call it in that skit 
the other day...?"
He snapped his fingers rapidly and an aide spoke up. "Planet of the Prudes," he 
said.
"That's it. We always have to tinker with the Peppy Show for export, so what 
we'll do, we'll morph some britches on 'em, see what it tests like. Now I ask 
you, John B. Is that fair?"
"Couldn't be fairer, Pepster." Valentine beamed.
* * *
Ah, Polly. Those were more innocent days.
Yes, it's me again, awake after another week.
Like most long voyages, at sea or in space, awake or asleep, there is not 
usually much to report. One day is like another, barring storm or disaster. I 
will tell you now, no such disaster will befall. The deadballs will continue to 
work their hypnotism-reinforced magic, I will continue to awake at regular 
intervals, I will eat, I will fall back into the arms of Morpheus. In time I 
will arrive at Oberon, where further adventures await. In the meantime I will 
allow that long-ago Sparky to tell his story, as is his habit, in the third 
person, suitably edited into high and low points.
I doubt that I will interrupt him again.
But this time I had to. Sometimes something rises from the depths of the sea or 
sails out of the ocean of night to make the day a special one. Your diary has 
been an endless series of identical entries: Falling sunward. Shipboard routine 
uninterrupted. Weather clear. Slept. Then the lost continent of Atlantis appears 
off the starboard bow. It's worth a postcard.
We ran into a herd of diaphanophores. A flight of diaphanophores? The book where 
I found that fancy name you've probably never heard of neglected to give a 
collective noun for them. Herd definitely won't do, though. How about an 
exaltation of diaphanophores?
They're better known by several more poetic names, including Outer Angels, 
Angel's Robes, and spinthistles. Or simply angels. On Pluto, they are called 
BFODs: Big Fucking Orbital Disks. Those rascally Plutonians. Honestly.
Let's settle on angels, shall we?
Their origins are obscure, but it is known they are man-made. The dominant 
theory is that they are the creation of some demented biohacker with an illegal 
lab somewhere in the outer planets. When they first showed up there was 
considerable alarm about them, but so far they have proven harmless. That was 
about a century ago, maybe a bit longer, so I'd say the case was pretty well 
closed. Plenty of people would like to know more about them, to be sure they're 
not up to something, but angels are traditionally hard to study, and these won't 
sit still any more than the Biblical variety.
Space angels dissolve when you get close to them. Some people think it's a 
protective reflex, because what's left of them apparently form sporelike 
structures, trillions of them, of which only a few will survive. Others think it 
is contact itself that blows them away, like thistledown. Ships can only 
approach within ten thousand miles or so. A man in a spacesuit can get within 
maybe a hundred miles. Then they go pop, like soap bubbles. They are made of a 
mix of animal and vegetable protein. They are transparent, and probably one 
molecule thick. The little ones are one hundred thousand miles in diameter.
The big ones go up to ten million miles.
That's crazy, of course. There must be angels smaller than one hundred thousand 
miles across. They can't just spring into being. But even the big ones don't 
show up on radar, and finding the small ones when we know most of them spend 
most of their lives above and below the solar plane, where hardly anyone ever 
goes, is almost impossible. Maybe they breed out there.
If you read up on them, you will find that I've told you just about everything 
that is known, and you'll notice I've used a lot of maybes.
Two more things. They move about like sailboats, flying before the solar wind 
and light pressure. And they survive by sweeping up the extremely thin matter 
between planets. One reason scientists would like to capture one is they suspect 
angels might be sweeping up magnetic monopoles, whatever those are.
So there is the physical rundown. The reality was more colorful. I saw them when 
I woke up. I'd say there were fifty or sixty of them, which meant there were 
probably a lot more since you only see them when they're oriented such that the 
sun's light is reflected toward you. There is no way to tell how big each one 
was, or how distant. One moment an angel would seem truly vast and impossibly 
distant; the next, I'd convinced myself it was the size of a coin, and only 
inches from my face. There is no sense of scale. But they flashed and fluttered 
all around me, and I was enchanted by the rainbow of colors. One seemed to fill 
a quarter of the sky. It was a pale gold, and I could see stars through it.
Then we hit one.
No sound, no impact. No warning at all. One moment I was watching the distant 
disks, and the next the universe was bisected by an infinite plain of 
multicolored light.
It was a sight few people have been granted. The only way to touch an angel is 
to hit it at high speed. If you decelerate, the force of your engines will 
destroy it long before you get there. But at the speed we were traveling, the 
ship punched right through its diaphanous body without warning. I don't think 
the crew had any idea it was in front of them. How would they? It was between us 
and the sun, and we could only see it after we'd gone through. Not that they 
could have done anything if they had been aware of it.
At our speed, any object of reasonable size would be there and gone before your 
eye could register it. Not the angel. There it was, stretching away to infinity, 
shrinking not at all as I watched.
Its surface was a fractal swirl of every color of the rainbow. It was like a 
drop of oil on water, or the surface of a soap bubble. Or something like an 
aurora I once saw on Mars, but frozen.
Except for one spot. That spot was no color at all, and it seemed to be centered 
in the endless plain. Well, of course it would be. I could never tell if we'd 
hit the angel dead center or near the edge, but it was so vast that unless we 
were very near the edge, it just didn't matter. It was endless in all 
directions.
The spot was like a hole in space, full of blackness, but then I began to see 
stars at the bottom of it. It seemed to be getting bigger slowly. It finally 
dawned on me that I was seeing the hole the ship had punched through the surface 
of the angel, and considering the speed at which we were leaving it behind, the 
hole was growing at a monstrous rate.
It kept growing for the twenty minutes or so that I watched it, and then, as 
suddenly as it appeared, the angel was gone. All at once, from edge to edge.
It must have taken a considerable time for the hole to consume the entire angel. 
What had happened was we had moved far enough that the sun's light no longer 
reflected from the angel. It was still there, though going away to wherever 
punctured angels go.
The whole thing made me quite happy for a time. I hardly tasted the awful stuff 
I was chewing on. But eventually reality intruded again, and I knew it was time 
to get back to sleep. I really didn't want to, I sort of wanted to skip over 
what was coming next.
And it was history, after all. Over and done with. In the past.
Oh, poor Sparky.
* * *
The Daewoo Caterpillar lurks in cold, airless tunnels far beneath the Lunar 
surface. Some say the Breathsucker is the worst thing that can happen to you, 
the worst way you can die. Dodger knew better. Even the Breathsucker was afraid 
of the Daewoo Caterpillar.
He had encountered the beast twice before. He never got a good look at it, not 
that he minded. This time he feared he might have to look directly into its 
dreadful countenance. He was sure it was the last thing his living eyes would 
see.
Once more Dodger was a toy balloon, hurrying to keep up with his father's 
headlong progress down the deserted corridor. Deserted? Abandoned, actually. 
Here and there were piles of steel rods and ceiling panels and other, mysterious 
building blocks, some under plastic tarps, all of it dusty. It was entirely 
possible that no one but Dodger and his father had been down this corridor in 
the last ten years.
Dodger had been down it twice before. He didn't want to get to the end of it 
again.
His father was holding his hand too tightly. But that was the least of his 
problems.
He searched for the words that would bring them to a halt.
To be or not to be.
Friends, Romans, countrymen.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
But, soft!
It was useless. He knew all the words, and none would do him any good, because 
this wasn't about learning, this wasn't the bathtub. This was the Breathsucker, 
and the Daewoo Caterpillar. This was as bad as it gets.
"Please," he whispered. He tried not to, but the word had just come bubbling 
from his mouth. He felt a string of spit rolling down his chin, and he wiped at 
it with his free hand. "Please, what?" his father said. "Please, Father. Please 
don't."
Those weren't the words; his father kept up his relentless progress toward the 
end of the corridor. He could see it now, in the widely spaced work lights 
hanging from strings overhead. The end of the world.
"I'll tell him," he burst out. "I'll tell him how wrong I was. I'll tell Mr. 
Peppy I'll wear the pants." No reaction. Only a few more yards to go now.
"Let's... let's just go to Mars! Let's forget the whole thing. We have lots of 
money now. We"
Suddenly his father's face was before him, filling the whole universe. Those 
beloved ice-blue eyes. Eyes that flashed now, eyes that glistened with 
sincerity, eyes that could be bottomless pools of love, eyes you could swim in, 
warm eyes. But eyes that now betrayed their sadness, that told Dodger he had let 
his father down. Mad eyes.
John Valentine spoke barely above a whisper.
"This is not about pants, Dodge," he said. "This is not about money. This is 
about... artistic control."
"Sure," Dodger said, nodding furiously. "I'll tell Mr. Peppy"
"This is about presenting a united front. This is about you and me, about 
family. It's us against them, Dodger. Us against them. We're outnumbered, always 
will be. If I can't count on you, who can I count on?"
"You can count on me, Father, I swear I"
"I don't want to do this, son. But I'm convinced it's the right thing to do. 
It's the way I learned my lesson, and I think you'll learn from it, too."
"I've already learned, Father."
"Never." Valentine had barely raised his voice, yet somehow the word rang in the 
empty corridor. He held up a forefinger, wagged it back and forth in front of 
Dodger's face.
"Never contradict your father in public."
"I won't. I promise."
"Never disagree with me in front of strangers."
And before Dodger could promise again never to go against the family, his father 
picked him up and shoved him through the open door of the ancient airlock.
This was no ordinary airlock. Regular airlocks had a dozen safety devices. They 
were connected to the Central Computer, who would become aware each time the 
lock was cycled. Officially, this airlock didn't exist. It was a fifty-year-old 
temporary structure, meant to pass pressure-suited work gangs from the completed 
part of the tunnel to the construction area beyond. Just a great big cylinder, 
really, nested inside a slightly larger, stationary cylinder. The inner cylinder 
had a door-sized opening in it. The outer one had two, 180 degrees apart. When 
the inner opening lined up with the second door, all the air in the smaller 
cylinder simply blew into vacuum. Simple, quick, and dirty, not the sort of 
thing that was supposed to exist in the ultrasafe Lunar environment.
That it did exist was the result of oversight. The construction project had gone 
bankrupt, and all the plans and permits were long forgotten now, moldering in 
some disused memory chip, filed away with the dissolution papers of the bank 
that had funded it and the company that had started building it. Years had 
passed, a building boom had come and gone, and this tunnel and its terminus were 
now as remote and mysterious as the Roman catacombs or the sewers of Paris. A 
handful of hoboes knew of it. A few hoboes, and John Valentine.
Dodger had been there twice before. He knew to an exquisite interval how fast 
the lock rotated. Thirty-five seconds. Fifteen to align the doorways, and 
another fifteen to complete the cycle, to bring the inner door back into 
congruence with the door where his father waited. A five-second pause while some 
machinery reset itself. For the first fifteen seconds Dodger would have air. For 
the five-second pause, and the fifteen seconds beyond that, he would have none.
But the last fifteen seconds were not what had Dodger worried. He knew people 
didn't blow up when exposed to vacuum, in spite of some lurid movies he had 
seen. He'd been there twice before. He knew the human body could easily survive 
twenty seconds of airlessness. You might bleed a little, and your ears would 
sure as hell hurt, but it wouldn't kill you. It would scare the shit out of you, 
make those sessions in the bathtub seem like a walk in the park, but if it would 
kill him, his father would never have done it.
No, it was the five seconds that worried him. The five seconds when he would 
once again confront the Daewoo Caterpillar. When the door would yawn wide and 
he'd see it again, lurking in the shadows.
His father didn't know about the Daewoo Caterpillar, Dodger was convinced of 
that. If he'd known, he'd never have put his son into the airlock. Dodger had 
tried to tell him about it, tried more than once, but his tongue seemed to 
freeze before he could even pronounce the creature's name.
If he lived this time, he promised himself he'd tell his father.
Meantime, he had to hurry.
He was on his knees, and that was no good. Lining the walls of the lock were 
handholds, and Dodger scrambled to his feet and grabbed two of them. When the 
air went, it would go violently. The first time he'd been here, his father had 
tied him to a handhold, and the outrush of air had lifted him from his feet and 
tried to carry him out with it, out to the Caterpillar.
Five seconds. That's all he had to endure. Five seconds. Maybe the beast was 
sleeping. It had to sleep, didn't it? Probably not.
The lock was turning now. He could feel the slight vibration under his feet. He 
looked over his shoulder and saw his father being eclipsed, vanishing as the 
lock turned away from him. Standing there sternly, his arms folded, his brow 
furrowed with concern. He knew his father loved him. He knew he was doing this 
to his son because it was for the best. He'd been wrong. So wrong, to speak up, 
to take Peppy's side. What could he have been thinking?
He'd been thinking like a star, that's what the trouble was. His father had 
warned him about that. How money and fame can go to your head, make you feel you 
were special, like your shit didn't stink.
"And you are special, Dodger," John Valentine had said. "You're special to me, 
and you have a special talent. A special art. But it doesn't give you the right 
to be impolite."
And certainly not the right to contradict his father in public. What could he 
have been thinking? They were a team, surely, but a team had to have a leader, 
and John Valentine was older and stronger and wiser. He'd been there. He'd seen 
it and done it. Dodger was still learning.
"Dirty laundry is only to be aired backstage," John Valentine had told his son 
many times. "Never before the audience. And never in front of the producer."
What had he been thinking?
Well, they'd work it out. He would survive this, and he and his father would be 
a team again. They'd talk things over in the dressing room, like they always 
did. They'd present a united front on everything.
Dodger pressed his face against the wall. He was as far from the door as he 
could get. Maybe it would be safer not to look. Maybe he could cower here, keep 
his back to the thing, and it would overlook him.
Fat chance.
Unlikely the monster would miss him, and impossible that he could last five 
seconds without looking.
He didn't last one second.
It started very loudly, as the air tried to force itself through the tiny crack. 
A shriek, deafening, reminding Dodger of a film he'd seen where an evil witch 
was pushed into a deep well, screaming all the way down. Screaming, but getting 
fainter, more distant. This sound quickly lost all its punch, too. The air 
around Dodger plucked at his clothes with cold fingers, pulled at him, became an 
instant gale that puffed out his cheeks and drove ice picks into his ears, and 
brought up a monstrous belch from deep inside him. Then there was nothing but 
the ringing silence, a sound he knew was not a sound but his tortured ears 
crying in agony. He turned around.
His heart turned to stone. The Daewoo Caterpillar was there. And it wasn't just 
lurking in the shadows this time, it was lurching toward him. It was huge, a 
thing of metal teeth and flailing arms and a hideous, bright yellow body and six 
great glassy eyes. It reached out one skeletal hand toward Dodger, and the 
cylinder began to turn. Dodger was frozen tight to the spot, watching in 
dreadful fascination. Would the door turn away in time, or would the creature 
reach inside and begin feasting?
With the silence of death, the hand entered the doorway.
The inner-lock cylinder kept trying to close, but the claw was in the way. The 
lock stopped moving, retreated a few inches, and again tried to close. And 
again, and again, shuttling back and forth like the doors of an elevator when 
you stuck your hand between them. The creature seemed stymied by the door, but 
it wouldn't really matter much longer, because Dodger would soon be dead from 
lack of air.
So the Breathsucker would get him. If it's not one thing, it's another.
He started to slide down the side of the cylinder. Things were getting dark, 
blurry. He wiped at his eyes, and for a moment he thought he saw Elwood shoving 
the loathsome claw back into the outer darkness, thought he saw the cylinder 
begin to rotate again. Thought he felt Elwood's arms around him, cradling him, 
telling him it was going to be all right.
But that couldn't be true. How would Elwood get in here?
It was his last thought for some time.
* * *
Dodger woke to the smell of freshly washed sheets and the sound of a 
mockingbird's song. He didn't open his eyes for a while, fearing it was all too 
good to be true. That smell was one he associated with good times: high-class 
hotels he and his father lived in when the money was good. The sound was one he 
associated with Texas. And that couldn't be.
But it was. He opened his eyes and sat up. He was tucked into a bed in a small 
room made entirely of wood. Beside the bed was an open window that looked out on 
an oak tree only a few feet away. The mockingbird was perched on a branch until 
he saw Dodger. Then he chirped a few more notes and flew away.
Dodger lay back down. He'd been here before, and if he was here then everything 
must be all right.
He was on the second floor of an authentic wooden building on the dusty main 
street of New Austin, in the middle of the Texas disneyland. These were the 
medical offices of Drs. Henry Wauk, M.D., and Heinrich Wohl, D.D.S, "Quick and 
Relatively Painless Dentistry," according to the shingle hanging outside. He'd 
never met Dr. Wohl, but he'd seen Henry Wauk several times. His father had 
brought him in from time to time for what he thought of as "good, old-fashioned 
doctoring." But even John Valentine, with his ingrained suspicion of all things 
modern, had not subjected himself or his son to the sort of butchery that had 
been practiced in places like this in the 1800s. The archaic medical equipment 
in this room, the colorful jars of powders and elixirs, and the instruments of 
torture surrounding the dental chair in the other room were merely for show, as 
was pretty much everything in Texas. Valentine came here for checkups and 
physical repairs, when needed, because Henry Wauk was an old friend of his, and 
because Henry would do the work off the books. The Central Computer and its 
various legal minions held little sway in Texas, a fact that endeared the place 
and all the other disneylands to John Valentine. They were virtually independent 
states, immune to many of the intrusive regulations of the larger civilization.
"Social experiments, they call them," Valentine had said to his son, one day 
while they were out riding horsesreal horses! Dodger had been in heavenin the 
sagebrush country west of New Austin. "Living museums. They teach school the 
old-fashioned way in here, son. Back to basics. All the children learn to read, 
if you can believe that. They grow their own food, right in the dirt. They live 
in here, hold down jobs in here. Old jobs, like blacksmithing, and cooperage, 
and... and plenty of other things I don't pretend to know much about. They hold 
their own elections, and they don't pay taxes to Mama Luna. Misfits in here, 
most of them. People who weren't happy on the outside."
Dodger had thought it was odd to call the corridors of Luna "the outside," but 
he knew what his father meant. Here, there was the illusion of endless space, 
just like out on the surface. And Texas was pretty large: miles and miles, his 
father said.
"Doctor" Wauk was one of the misfits. His was no general anomie or existential 
despair, however. Wauk was what would have been called, in early Texas, a 
dipsomaniac. He had a fondness for the bottle that he was not willing to be 
cured of. It had made a disaster of his acting career, and he had finally 
accepted a part that was to be lived, instead of performed: that of the 
alcoholic sawbones beloved of old black-and-white westerns.
While Wauk did dispense patent remedies and salves and powders for a few 
ailments, all the real medical care was accomplished by a perfectly ordinary 
Medico machine concealed in a closet. More complex work was referred to a normal 
facility outside the disneyland. Wauk had been given the bare minimum of 
training to operate the Medico. "After all," as he'd told John Valentine, "it 
ain't like doctorin' is rocket science, or anything."
Dodger thought he could hear voices from the next room. He rolled out of bed and 
crept carefully to the door, pressed his ear against it. If he held his breath 
he could hear his father and Dr. Wauk talking, but he could only get every other 
word. He looked around and found an antique stethoscope in a drawer. He put the 
rubber tips in his ears and pressed the metal disk on the end to the wooden 
door, and the sounds became as clear as a telephone.
"Look, Henry," his father said. "We're rolling in cash. I want you to take this. 
Please. It would make me feel better."
"Just my normal fee will be sufficient, John," said the doctor.
"Come on. As a favor to me."
"Right at this moment, my old friend, I'm not inclined to do any favors for you 
beyond the one I just done. No, sir, and I don't think I have much interest in 
makin' you feel any better, either. In fact, I think I just done you the last 
favor I'm ever goin' to do you."
There was a long silence. Dodger held his breath. He heard the sound of a chair 
scraping across a wooden floor, then a creaking sound. Someone just sat down in 
the chair, Dodger guessed.
"What you just done to that boy is a crime, John. You don't need me to tell you 
that, you know it already. But knowin' how you feel about laws, and the power of 
the state, and such, I'm going to tell you something else. What you done to that 
boy is a sin."
There was an even longer pause, then a sound that Dodger at first didn't 
recognize but which still froze his heart. It came again, and suddenly Dodger 
knew his father was weeping.
"Ah, shit, John. Let me try to drop the cornpone, here. I've been living here so 
long now the accent's hardly an act anymore. But you remember me. It's Henry 
Wauk talking to you, John. The guy who used to understudy you in half the stuff 
you ever acted in. I'm the fellow who would have given anything to be half as 
good as you are, and if I couldn't do that, at least I could hang around you and 
hope some of the brilliance would rub off. It never did. All we really had in 
common was a propensity for the bottle. I don't know if you ever thought of me 
as a friend"
"I did," John Valentine sobbed. "I still do."
"...well, that may be. I don't know if it's really friendship when one admires 
the other as much as I admired you. I owe you a lot. I still do owe you a lot, 
but I'm telling you now, I don't owe you this. This is the third time you've 
brought that little boy in to me so I could fix him up. I didn't really think 
much about it the first time. Fixed his busted eardrum, dived back into the 
bottle. But after the second time I couldn't seem to get it out of my mind. Not 
what you'd done to his body, John, but what you were doing to his... I don't 
even know what the word is. His soul, maybe. There's a part of him's always 
going to be frightened. Scared of you, maybe. Scared of everything."
Dodger bit his lip and frowned. What the hell was the damn quack talking about? 
He wasn't afraid of his father. He loved his father.
"I don't know why I do these things," Valentine said, miserably.
"That's something I don't even want to think about. I don't care why. What I'm 
telling you now is, it ends here. You bring him back to me all bloody and 
swollen up like that again, I'm going straight to the cops."
"That's exactly what you should do," Valentine said.
"I ought to call 'em right now," Wauk went on. "Shit, John, that poor kid was... 
well, you know how he was."
Dodger almost missed his father's next words, which were barely above a whisper.
"It was an accident. Oh, god, don't look at me like that, Henry, I know it's my 
responsibility. I know if he'd died it would have been exactly like I'd murdered 
him. Killed by my stupidity. I'm just trying to tell you... it didn't happen 
like I thought it would."
"I guess not," the doctor snorted.
"I don't know what happened. I guess the blast of air was just enough this time 
to dislodge that goddamn Caterpillar machine, and it came rolling down those 
tracks and I saw it coming, watching him, I was watching through the window 
beside the lock, I saw what was about to happen and I almost died right there, 
there was no way to make the lock go any faster, and the next lock was half a 
mile away and I didn't have a suit anyway, and"
"Really thought it all through, didn't you?"
"Henry, I'm so sorry. I don't know why I do these things."
"That's between you and your therapist, or your God, or whoever it is you listen 
to, if you listen to anybody."
"I was so stupid."
"The stupid part I can forgive, John. It's the evil part that scares me. It was 
evil to do what you did." There was another long silence, then the doctor spoke 
again, with more curiosity than anger in his voice.
"That's what the Dywoo Caterpillar business was? That he was screaming about 
when you brought him in?"
"Daewoo/Caterpillar," Valentine said. "You know, the heavy equipment company. 
Earthmovers, tunneling equipment, asteroid relocation. It was written right on 
the front of that boring machine. One of the grinder arms or something wedged in 
the door and I thought... I thought it would never move away." He began sobbing 
again, great racking spasms that hurt Dodger to hear.
But the boy was already consumed by a hot burst of shame. He sat back on his 
heels and pounded his fist on his thigh.
"Stupid! Stupid!" he whispered. The one thing in the world he'd been the most 
frightened of, and it turned out to be nothing but... a machine? Stupid! Biting 
back tears, he put the stethoscope back against the door.
"There must have been a small gradient there," his father was saying. "The thing 
rocked back just enough on its tracks, enough so the lock could keep turning. 
Nothing but sheer, dumb luck. More luck than I deserve, certainly. It must be 
the boy's luck. Somebody's watching over him."
Dodger had long understood that his father couldn't see Elwood. In fact, he was 
pretty sure no one could see Elwood but himself. In fact, he'd been wondering, 
not being completely stupid, if Elwood was just a figurehead of his imagination, 
a hellishination. A bee in his bonnet, a bat in his belfry. If he was, in a 
word, crazy. Now he didn't think so. Elwood had shoved that Caterpillar back in 
its tracks. There was no other explanation for it. Which meant that Elwood was a 
bona fide ghost, like Hamlet's old man. The only thing he wasn't sure of was if 
he was the ghost of Elwood P. Dowd, a fictional character, or the ghost of Jimmy 
Stewart, who had just gone crazy and thought he was Elwood P. Dowd. But from 
that moment on he knew Elwood was his guardian angel.
"Can I go in and see him now?" Dodger was about to leap back into bed, but held 
out just long enough to hear the doctor's reply.
"Let the lad rest," said Wauk. "He ought to be out another hour or so, with the 
dose I gave him. Right now, why don't you take me down to the saloon and buy me 
a drink or three."
Damn drunk, Dodger thought as he heard the outside door open and close, and the 
sound of footsteps going down the stairs. Can't even dope me up properly. It's a 
good thing I'm still alive.
That bastard! Make my father cry, will you?
Dodger started poking around in cupboards and cabinets.
He quickly found a gallon stoneware jug labeled CORN LIQUOR. He pulled out the 
stopper and smelled it. Booze, all right. Okay, what have we got here?
He spent the next hour reading definitions in an old leather-bound book called 
Saunders's Comprehensive Medical Encyclopedia, publication date 1898, looking up 
the words he found printed on bottles and jars that lined the shelves and 
cabinets in the examining room. "Paregoric," he discovered, was camphorated 
tincture of opium. It smelled nasty, so he dumped some of it in the jug of corn 
liquor. "Calomel" was mercurous chloride. That sounded nasty; wasn't mercury 
poisonous? Into the bottle went a teaspoon of calomel. "Aunt Lydia's Pink Tonic" 
was said, by the label, to possess excellent emetic properties. After looking up 
"emetic," Dodger poured in a generous dose. "Nicotine" was a poisonous alkaloid, 
C10H14N2. In it went. A "sialogogue" was something that increased the flow of 
saliva. Why not? "Arecane" was a proprietary remedy and efficacious as a 
purgative. A "parturifacient" was used to speed up childbirth, while an 
"abortifacient" produced an abortion. Dodger wondered what a mixture of the two 
would do to a drunken doctor? "Formalin," "cryptomenorrheal," "Salvarsan," 
"arnicin," "myxorrheal," "leptuntic"...so many new words, so many definitions, 
so little time.
After a while he grew tired of reading, and felt a little hungry. In the next 
room, by the dentist chair, he found the remains of a Mexican lunch: chips and 
salsa and a cold taco. He took a bite of the taco, and in a moment was searching 
frantically for a drink of water. After he'd put out the fire in his mouth, he 
examined the bottle of Pancho's Habanero Hell (WARNING: Do not use near open 
flame!), then took it into the doctor's office and dumped half the bottle into 
the jug. He smeared a little sauce around the earpieces of the stethoscope.
He jammed in the cork and shook the jug vigorously, then opened it again and 
sniffed cautiously. It still smelled like booze.
For good measure, he pissed in the jug before going downstairs to join his 
father.
* * *
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
From: First Latitudinarian Church of Celebrity Saints
Subject: November Audience Ratings
Category: Children's (age 2 to 12) periodical (weekly/fortnightly/monthly)
December 1 (King City Temple)
The November "Flack" numbers as compiled by the Trends Research Department of 
the Latitudinarian Church are as follows:

      TITLEAASLast MonthLast Year
      1.The Gideon Peppy Show93.111
      2.Admiral Platypus84.423
      3.Skunk Cabbage80.25-
      4.Barney's Boulevard78.7314
      5.What the Fuck?70.342

* * *
Admiral Platypus seems to have solidified its hold on the number-two slot in the 
Adjusted Audience Share rating. Barney's Boulevard, benefiting from a new 
writing staff, has made its way from number fourteen to number four in the past 
year. The top two stories continue to be the steepening decline of What the 
Fuck?, the once-dominant Q&A offering from NLF-TV3, and the meteoric rise of 
Skunk Cabbage, the critically panned actioner about a tribe of zombie children. 
SC seems poised to make a run on those two old reliable warhorses, Peppy and 
Platy.
Spokespersons for NLF and the Children's Educational Workshop, producers of 
WTF?, had no comment when asked if the declining numbers of educational 
programming across the board in the past three years reflected a growing 
anti-intellectualism or merely a stagnation of fresh new ideas in the 
presentation of loftier kid-vid. Oskar Bigbird III, chairman of CEW, promised a 
news conference later in the week, announcing staffing changes on WTF?
It seems nothing the pundits can say will have any effects on the soaring 
prospects of Skunk Cabbage. Introduced a mere eight months ago, the "Li'l 
Stinkers" have stormed the imaginations of a huge number of Lunarian children, 
and are now ready for a system-wide release. Reports from retailers confirm that 
for the first time in many a year, sales of Gideon Peppy products were eclipsed 
by the SC Kids during the month of October. Full figures for November are not 
yet available. But it seems a safe bet that Li'l Stinkers toys, clothing, 
software, and other tie-ins will be the hot items this Xmas season. Quote from 
Gideon Peppy (with a chuckle): "It don't have me chewin' on my lollipop." He 
pointed to growing cries of outrage from Mars to the Cometary Zone from 
concerned parents' groups worried about the coming onslaught of SC Kids. Peppy 
refused to comment on rumors that he himself had been behind some of those 
protests.
More likely to put toothmarks on his Tootsieroll is the continuing failure to 
soar of his much-touted new series Sparky and His Gang. Ballyhooed on the Peppy 
Show for three months before its August launch, Sparky remains mired in the 
mid-forties, with a dismal 12.4 share. With the fifteenth episode currently 
lensing at Sentry/Sensational, rumors are that the sixteenth stanza is on hold, 
while (guess what?) staff changes are contemplated. Say, there's a bunch of WTF? 
scribes soon to be pounding the pavement, G.P. They'll work cheap.
(For daily show and theatrical numbers, key MORE)
* * *



* * *
from The Straight Shit Starpage:
Year in Review: sub-Kid-vid
"Anybody Wanna Buy a Sparky Action Mug?"
by Bermuda Schwartz
I've been telling you for two hundred years now, so why do I think you'll all of 
a sudden start to listen? Ever since those old phosphor dots began to chase each 
other across the magic glass of the kinescope in the dear departed 1940s, two 
things are the only things that sell on TV: good stuff, and crap. Neither one is 
a guarantee of success. Plenty of shows have aspired to be good, but were 
kidding themselves. They've all long since vanished. And some actually were 
good, and they're gone, too. As for crap... who can fucking tell with crap? 
Myghty Mytes shambled onto the screen midsummer, stinking of crap, and by the 
end of the month it was in the crapper. Skunk Cabbage smelled just as rank, and 
by Yuletide the Komical Korpses had trailed their slime into every third-rate 
geraldo's studio on the planet. Kids were sleeping in "Li'l Stinker" coffins, at 
a thousand dollars a pop, gluing trademarked live worms to their cheeks.
Who can figure it? Not me, not the pundits nor the critics nor the reviewers nor 
the scholars shaking their heads with dismay. Crap is crap. Some will turn out 
to be popular crap, and if I knew how to tell the difference I wouldn't be here 
writing about it, I'd be fucking rich.
But oh dear, I hear the pundits say. One of the few quality shows getting 
regular viewingsand of course I'm referring to CEW's What the Fuck?is taking a 
nose-dive in the ratings. Woe is us! Civilization is darn sure to perish any day 
now.
Crap. WTF? used to be quality, but have any of you over twelve years old 
actually looked at the thing lately? I'm telling you, this old ragbag is 
starting to make Zippy the Zombie look animated. Folks, WTF? is over the hill. 
It is stale. Look for it at your local mortuary. Sure, it used to be good, but 
there's another cardinal rule in TV-land, and it is that nothing lasts forever. 
WTF? is pushing thirty years old. Bye-bye. Adios.
Quality? Well, like it or not (and I don't, much) the Peppy Show will do for an 
example. What Peppy does, he does well. The characters are funny, the writing is 
sharp. Kids love him. What can you say? English teachers aside, most educators 
give Peppy good marksand how long's it been since anybody listened to an 
English teacher?
What's that? You say Peppy's show is only ten years old? And he's where in the 
ratings? Gosh, maybe civilization has a few more months to live.
But that brings us to the topic of today's lesson, children, and that is, what 
happens to shows that can't seem to decide whether they want to be trashy, or 
terrific? That brings us to a disastrous effort from the Peppy mill called 
Sparky and His Gang.
What are we to make of a gobbler like S&G? To think of it as an actual turkey is 
an insult to flightless barnyard poultry everywhere. A genuine turkey knows that 
it is a turkey, and can therefore work at being the best darn turkey in the 
coop. S&G arrives at your television like a gift-wrapped dead mackerel. You try 
to figure out, is this fish, or fishwrap? All you know at first is that it 
smells, vaguely, fishy. And at least part of it is garbage.
It would be pointless to devote a lot of time to a feather-by-feather analysis 
of this albatross around Gideon Peppy's neck, and I won't subject you to one. 
Just a short comment, then, and a brief explanation.
Comment: PRESS HERE for HyperText SoundByte
"Whooooooo fuckiiiiiiing caaaaaaares?"
Explanation: the key to caring about what happens in a show, and I'm talking any 
show here, from Hamlet to Skunk Cabbage, is believable characters. Characters 
that bear some resemblance to humans we have known, who display some known human 
traits. (Exception: the birth-to-five audience, who will watch anything brightly 
colored and moving; viz. Barney's Boulevard.) Of all the brightly colored, loud, 
frenetically moving clusters of phosphor dots that call themselves Sparky's 
Gang, only Sparky himself seems to have anybody at home where a heartbeat should 
be. Sparky is so good, in fact, so appealing and funny and touching, that I went 
right out and bought myself a Sparky souvenir coffee mug. But by the time the 
coffee was cold, so was everything else. I don't think the mug is going to be 
collectibleeven though it is almost certain to be rarebecause we buy and 
treasure these nostalgic bits of pop culture to remind us of something. 
Something that mattered to us. And I must report to you that, five minutes after 
the show went off the air, I couldn't remember anything about any of the 
amorphous collection of rug weasels known as Sparky's Gang, not even their 
names.
And that is really too bad. Because it is obvious that somebody put a lot of 
thought into the character of Sparky himself. As played by young Ken Valentine, 
Sparky is at the same time wonderfully carefree and charming, smart and 
stalwart. He is the sort of child we all would like to have been, or failing 
that, to have been friends with. He makes us eager to join his gang, which makes 
it all the more appalling that his actual band is such a bunch of radishes. He 
should have been the core of a group of similarly smart, resourceful moppets, 
united by his undeniable charisma.
But even if Gideon Peppy hires some writers who can do character, Sparky would 
not yet be out of the woods. Or into the woods, for that matter. The fact is, 
nobody on this show has a fucking clue as to where the woods is, or if in fact 
there are any fucking woods. By that I mean, characters need a milieu. A story 
must happen in a time and a place. There must be a background.
I've watched four episodes of Sparky so far. One show per month, like the curse. 
In the first one the Gang was battling pirates on the open seas, for no reason 
that I can fathom other than that there was a full-scale pirate ship available 
on the Sensational back lot. In the next show the gang was in present time, and 
in the third, in no universe I could identify. Some pitiful gallimaufry was 
advanced to explain these temporal and spatial dislocations, but by then I'm 
afraid I was far advanced in a diabetic coma.
See, that sort of crap can work for Skunk Cabbage, because Skunk is a crap show. 
I know it, you know it. The producers know it. The kids don't give a possum's 
posterior because it's full of violence and very noisy and it smells offensive, 
and mostly because Mom and Dad hate the sonuvabitch.
That won't work for Sparky and His Gang because Sparky aspires to be more, and 
that is why it is worse than a skunk.
Go ahead, ask your kids. Why aren't you watching Sparky, little Ambrose and 
Abigail?
PRESS HERE for HyperText SoundByte
"Aw, mom. I dunno. It just suuucks."
Kids won't be fooled. They'll watch quality, or they'll watch crap. But you 
better be one or the other, and you better know which that is.
* * *



* * *
from Hebephrenia, "The Youthpad"
column of 4/10/58
"Spark Plug"
by D. Mentua Precox
So I was hanging out over at the Sen/Sen Studios like hoping to get an interview 
with the Man Himself, G. Peppy, y'know? When who should like come blitzing by 
but Velveeta Creemcheese in like a true hurry to ease herself from like point A 
to point B, y'know? Well, comma, Vel and your totally humble narrator go back to 
like the last ice age, can you load it? So I was like all "Vel! Exclamation 
Point! Heard you got 87ed from the inner realms of Peppydom," comma, because the 
skin was she'd like been fired from her completely powerful job as Czarina of 
Production at Pep-Pep-Pep-piprod, load it? Then she was all "Aw contrary, Manny, 
comma comma," and the bitch like knows that D. M. Precox your Humble etc. gets 
the squints when she hears that name so I was all What's this twist in her 
shorts? but refrained from verbing it into the etheric, comma, discretion being 
the better part of something or other period! Exclamation point! So then she 
goes "Mere haberdashery," and I go "Hats? Hats? Question Mark?" and she goes 
"Change of. The new hat belongs to hyperster-in-chief of 'The New Improved 
Sparky and His Gang," and I go "Whoozat?" and she goes "It's G.P.'s new kidvid 
extravaganzoid," comma, and I'm all "?kraM noitseuQ Why wasn't I informed? 
Question Mark?" and all snitty she's going "Your office was wired all pronto," 
comma quothation mark parenthesis (but my Faithful Readers will know that their 
humble narrator is totally up on all comma ALL things worth knowing in the land 
of hebephilia, comma, and D.M. and H.N. had never heard of it dot. dot. dot. 
well, okay, I've heard of it okay?, comma QM, but not because it was shaking on 
any celeb Richter scale, can you load? sisehtneraP) Period! Be that as it were 
neither here nor there, soon yrs truly was mustered in to the very like 
innermost cabals of the Great Giddy Pepperoni himself! E!X!C!L!A!M!A!T!I!O!N! 
P!O!I!N!T! When what to my wondering orbs do I vid but the Pepman curled in a 
huddle of scriptsters, comma, nine in number or even a dozen at the powerful end 
of a table of such like enormous proportions that the King of Kong coulda used 
it for a surfboard. Yea, verily, comma, oh my breathrin and sisterin. Words were 
like heated and floated and launched and puncturated. Hair was being torn and 
shorn. Spittle like flew! Peppy goes "Can't anybody in this overpaid gaggle of 
hacks goose me up an original concept?" The quacksters hawked excitedly and 
treatments were waved with terrifying gay abandon, heedless! EP! So I viddy no 
easy access to the Peppy earemdash not in the near recent, anywaydash, and my 
questing gaze shambled to the other end of the table, where wire-haired moppets 
presided, two in census. This must be like the Sparks, of whom things were 
heedlessly spoken in many a flacky promo in the previous months elapsed. And 
already, is he nothing but all two-weeks-ago? That was the shake I had 
downloaded, and yrs. t. feels everything that's shakin'. Apostropheperiod. Vel 
goes "This is Sparky, the star of our show," and I go "Howja Dew?" and Vel goes 
"And this is little Polly, sidekickstress," and I go, comma, "Watcha doin' 
apostrophe?" and little Polly goes "Drawing," which Yours can see with her own 
lamps that a drawing is indeed being committed, only it's much too much like of 
a quality for such a youthful inkster so I go "Drawing what?" Well faithful 
reader D. M. Precox has her good days and her days when eaten by weasels and 
this wasn't my shining moment, because comma my lenses could clearly see she was 
drawing a... thing dot dot dot period. And who should quickly validate this you 
know insight but pretty Polly herself by yodelling "A thing," she goes comma, 
and elaborating "It's a sort of a guy me and Sparky made up," and Sparky goes "I 
made it up. She drew it." I go does the thing have a name cue you ee ess tee eye 
oh en mark? and she goes "Inky Tagger." Well much more transpired that day but 
your short attention span has spun, it's time for DMP to trill a fond aloha with 
this on her lips colon: "?kraM noitseuQ Who is Inky Tagger Question Mark?" More 
later. Remember, you heard it here first.
* * *
May 1 (King City Temple)
The April "Flack" numbers as compiled by the Trends Research Department of the 
Latitudinarian Church are as follows:

      TITLEAASLast MonthLast Year
      1.The Gideon Peppy Show84.711
      2.Skunk Cabbage82.2228
      3.Admiral Platypus81.835
      4.Barney's Boulevard75.048
      5.Scoop the Poop67.610-

* * *
Skunk Cabbage retains its precarious grip on the number-two slot for the second 
month, edging the Admiral by only a few hundred thousand viewings. The big story 
is still the meteoric rise of Poop, CEW's replacement for the unlamented What 
the Fuck? which early this year fell into the becalmed straits of the likes of 
Sparky and His Gang, and now survives only on the marginal sales of back 
numbers. And so what if the carpers claim "Poop" is really nothing but recycled 
"Fuck?" As Chairman Bigbird pointed out to the critics, "Food is nothing but 
recycled poop, isn't it? What's the big deal?"
Not so dramatic but still cause for some concern among the mandarins of 
Sentry/Sensational is the continuing slippage of the Peppy Show, a five-month 
phenom that's been slow and steady and shows no signs of having reached bottom. 
Asked if this might harbing an eventual end to the six-year stranglehold TGPS 
has held on first place, Peppy replied: "We always lose some numbers when we 
head into summer. It ain't got me crapping in my drawers."
More likely to put skid marks in his skivvies is the dismal rise of Sparky from 
thirty-five to thirty-one after a full year in production. Staff changes don't 
seem to have done the trick, though some observers point out that most of the 
small gain the show has posted came in the last two months, with the 
introduction of two new and somewhat more interesting regular characters: Inky 
Tagger and Arson E. Blazeworthy. Press releases trumpet that a series of new 
faces will soon transform the Gang. The word from here: Don't bet the farm.
* * *



* * *
from Howdy Doody
The Trade Mag of Kid-vid
6/30/58
"Boogers and Snot"
by Summerfall Winterspring
"This is Crimea River," says Polly, rather diffidently, as she pushes a sheet of 
drawing paper in my direction. It is a pencil sketch of a girl who has cried so 
much the tears have carved massive Mississippi deltas into her face. Catfish 
could feed at the bottoms of these tributaries. Her hair is disheveled and she 
is wringing a bucketful of water from the handkerchief she twists in her 
clawlike hands.
"And what does she do?" I ask. Polly turns to Sparky, seated on her left.
"Not much," Sparky says. "She complains a lot."
"She's had a hard life?" I venture.
"Not so bad. She's a whiner. She's like a sponge. If you get around her she'll 
take up all your time and all your energy. She'll drain you dry, like a vampire, 
then she'll find somebody else to complain to."
"Tell her about..." Polly pauses, then gestures to Sparky. "You tell it, Spark."
"Well, when she cries, pretty soon you start crying, too. You can't help it, 
it's like pepper up your nose. Pretty soon you're bawling like a baby."
"It's infectious," I suggest, hoping to help.
"Yeah. That's it."
Something in his voice alerts me and I look up at him in time to see a glimmer 
in his eye. I am being humored, I realize. He knows precisely what word to use 
to describe Crimea's tears. But his face gives nothing away. Only the eyes have 
that glint of mischief. I won't patronize him again.
I have found the secret wellspring behind Sparky and His Gang. Without even 
knowing I was looking for it, I have stumbled onto the real reason Sparky's Gang 
has suddenly climbed from the low twenties in AAS to a surprising fifteenth 
place in the monthly Flack ratings.
I claim no great reportorial skills in this. Sometimes you're just lucky.
It seemed like good luck at the time to be assigned the Sparky beat. Mission: 
visit the set and the story conferences once or twice a month, produce a diary 
of the progression of the show. Who wouldn't have thought it a plum? A new 
series in development from Gideon Peppy, the man who set the current record in 
first-place finishes, who can apparently do no wrong? Sparky's Gang had monster 
hit written all over it.
Who knew?
Actually, by the time the show was ready to air, a lot of us in the 
entertainment press corps had a pretty good idea. There's a stink that attaches 
itself to a show that's in trouble, and it ain't the sweet smell of success. 
Sparky and His Gang had that aroma from the first day of shooting, a day I had 
the dubious good luck to witness. On the surface everything looked fine. It was 
the normal circus atmosphere of hurry up and wait, the usual snags that came 
from crews not yet used to working together. One can usually assume that by the 
third or fourth episode these little misunderstandings, squabbles, and comic 
traffic jams will have sorted themselves out, and the production staff will be 
running in as near an approximation of a well-oiled machine as a television 
series in production ever gets.
But just below the surface serious trouble was brewing. Brewing? More like 
seething. This ship was rudderless, Captainless, and lacked a compass. 
Directions would come from somewhere to alter this or that detail of the set. 
Two hours later it needed to be altered again. Grips started pools to see how 
long a new production designer would last, and the times were sometimes measured 
in hours, not days. It was easy enough to discover these things. Everybody on 
the set was talking about it. But nobody knew what was going on higher up.
A few weeks later I sat in on my first story conference. Sometimes a writer is 
handed a metaphor on, as it were, a silver platter. That was the case with 
Gideon Peppy's famous conference table. Perhaps you've heard of long-ago peace 
conferences where step one was to determine the size and shape of the table 
where two groups of people who hated each other's guts could sit and rationally 
discuss their differences. Peppy's table was a perfect barometer of what was 
going on with Sparky and His Gang. You could have drawn a wide red stripe across 
the width of the table and called it the Demilitarized Zone. At the south end 
sat John Valentine, father of little "Sparky" Valentine, and Sparky himself. At 
the north end sat Gideon Peppy and everybody else.
The dynamic at the south end was obvious: a father and his son. At the north end 
some barnyard politic was in operation, its causes not evident to the outsider, 
but its effects painfully obvious. Simply put, those most in favor with Mr. 
Peppy sat at his elbow, ready to osculate his rectum should he take a notion to 
bend over. Beside these high Priests of Peppy sat more ordinary acolytes, legs 
poised to leap at the shout of "Frog!" Then in the hinterlands, sometimes almost 
on the DMZ itself, were the fuckups, the doghoused gazing hollow-eyed at the 
feasting to the north, pathetically eager to scramble after any morsel that 
dropped from the master's table. The temptation was strong to fashion pointy 
hats for them out of foolscap.
But no matter how far out of favor one fell, one was never seated to the south 
of the invisible red line. That was clearly enemy territory.
The view from John Valentine's end of the table was a compact version of da 
Vinci's Last Supper.
John Barrymore Valentine. Sparky Valentine. The fourth and fifth generations of 
an acting family that can trace its lineage back to Old Earth. John is the 
eldest of three siblings, and without a doubt the most talented.
You know a lot about his brother, Edwin Booth Valentine. What's that? You say 
you've never heard of him? Try Ed Ventura. He is the black sheep of the family. 
The father, Marlon Brando Valentine, was a thespian of the old ordera very old 
orderin that he felt acting should be done on the stage. Movies, television, 
were barely arts at all, and their needs could be served entirely by 
computer-generated imagery. "Movies are a director's medium," he has said. 
"Actors are for the theater." John followed in his father's footlights, er, 
footsteps, but Edwin chose to exploit his good looks and screen presence to 
become a Movie Star, a Matinee Idol, a Celluloid Casanova. Everything his father 
hated. Old Marlon kicked him out of the family and disowned hima real laugh, 
since Marlon passed his days in genteel poverty, and John... well, we'll get to 
that. The Valentine brothers had a younger sister, Sarah Bernhardt Valentine, 
but nothing is known about her. My calls seeking to interview Ed Ventura about 
his family were not returned.
John Valentine is such a charming man, so handsome, articulate, witty, so full 
of amusing stories, that it takes several meetings before you realize what a 
monster he is.
Don't get me wrong; Gideon Peppy is a monster, too. But you expect that from a 
man who has clawed his way to the top in a cutthroat business. He would 
cheerfully admit it. Peppy doesn't pretend to be a nice guy. It's all right out 
there in front with Peppy. What you see is what there is.
It would be easy to compare John Valentine with a well-known character from the 
historical musical stage: Rose Louise Hovick from Gypsy. The analogy fails at 
several points. Rose was not talented herself; John Valentine without a doubt is 
a major talent. I saw his Macbeth fifteen years ago, and recalling it can still 
give me chills. Gypsy Rose Lee's talents were, shall we say, limited. Sparky 
Valentine at the age of eight shows me more possibilities than any five movie 
stars I can name. The kid is awesome. But most importantly, compared to John 
Valentine, Rose Louise Hovick is easygoing. Rose wanted Gypsy to succeed where 
she herself had failed, or never had a chance. John Valentine is determined to 
mold his son into his own image. He doesn't so much want Sparky to be his 
vicarious ego on the stage; he wants Sparky to be him.
This is bound to lead to trouble. It is heartbreaking to watch Sparky on the 
set. When the cameras are rolling, he is vibrantly alive. He is Sparky, that 
devil-may-care freebooter with the heart of gold, setting out to right all the 
wrongs of the world. When the director yells cut! it all goes away. He enfolds 
it somewhere inside himself and he waits. He waits with seemingly infinite 
patience as his father and Gideon Peppy go at it hammer and tongs, unfailingly 
polite to each other, setting up a current in the atmosphere that has made 
hardened stagehands pale with apprehension. It seems to affect Sparky not at 
all. He waits. He listens. When the command to roll 'em is given, he acts. 
Before that, Sparky exists only as a glint in little Ken Valentine's eye. It is 
probably the only way the boy can keep from getting crushed between the massive 
egos of Peppy and his father.
So what has happened? The setup was and is a formula for disaster, a prophecy 
which fulfilled itself for the first year of production. The only reason I can 
see for Sparky and His Gang's continuance during those lean months was Gideon 
Peppy's reluctance to admit he'd come a cropper. Yet, in the last months, the 
show has begun to attract some attention.
Let's return to that conference table, shall we? The time is several months 
after our first visit. Various of G. Peppy's toads are perched on different 
toadstools around the table, but these are matters which could only concern the 
toads. They are unimportant to us. Most interesting is where John Valentine is 
seated. Instead of his throne of opposition down in the south forty, John is 
occupying a stool almost in the Demilitarized Zone!
What has happened? I don't think John understands this consciously, but some 
part of him does, because his air of smug assurance is getting a little thin. He 
raises his voice, almost shouts. He can't quite bring himself to actually sit 
with the rest of the creative staff, but it is clear that he would like to. 
Instead of his endless stream of barbs, his obstructionismsometimes for no 
reason other than his loathing of Peppyhas been replaced by suggestions he 
clearly believes could improve the show. These are, of course, politely ignored 
("We'll sure think about that, John, yes sir!"). The last thing a bunch of 
writers and a producer want in a story conference is some damn actor.
Of course! Sparky is a flop! Before, John didn't give a flying fuck about the 
project. It was plain to me that the only reason he and his son were there at 
all was the chance of some easy money. (Or the only reason John was there, at 
any rate. I think Sparky might have seen it a little differently, but it's hard 
to tell with Sparky, who plays his cards very close to the vest. God knows how 
John was convinced to join the enterprise in the first place, given his 
antipathy to television. It must have taken some really masterful arm twisting.) 
But Sparky Valentineand through him, John Valentinecannot possibly fail in an 
acting assignment, even one as menial as this. The low ratings are inexplicable. 
Sparky's doing a bang-up job. Therefore, the material must be improved. John is 
getting more and more involved in improving it, whether he knows it or not.
Fast-forward another several months. The Valentine end of the table is now being 
anchored by Sparky alone, unless you count Polly, who should be classed as a 
noncombatant, possibly a camp follower, given her obvious crush on Sparky, which 
he may or may not realize. The two sit on booster seats down there in the cold, 
away from the creative warmth of Peppy's fires. With them, sometimes, is the 
Equity rep and a tutor, but the children are able to buffalo these innocents 
with such ease they are gone most of the time, on one errand or another. John 
Valentine? Well, he camps out miserably in the DMZ, where we saw him last, but 
instead of his usual pointed barbs his infrequent words are starting to sound 
sort of... well, grouchy. And is that the smell of alcohol on his breath? A 
smudge of cocaine around his nose? Some people are ill-equipped to deal with 
windfalls of money. One never knows who these people are until the bonanza has 
struck, and up to this point in his life John Valentine has seldom had a pot to 
piss in nor a window to fling it from. Now, even with a flop show, the money is 
pouring in. Dangerous, John.
I can't keep skirting this issue forever. The fact is, John has an extensive 
criminal record. When times were lean he has been willing to lend his acting 
talents to unscripted roles, to street improvisationsin short, to what the 
police call the "long con." That's what he did time for, anyway, though I've 
been told his skills at the Pigeon Drop and the Spanish Lottery are considerable 
as well. He exhibits no shame about this, doesn't mind discussing it with the 
press. It's all part of some extremely wonky political worldview I will not bore 
you with. (That way I don't have to pretend to understand it.)
Even more alarming is his temper. How he has held it in check thus far during 
the gestation of Sparky is a matter between him and his probation officer. I'll 
only mention here that he has barely scraped his way out of numerous assault 
charges, usually against directors and producers, but occasionally with his 
fellow actors.
It takes no great insight to see what has been hobbling Sparky and His Gang. 
Part of it is the clash of wills between Gideon and John, a dislike so intense 
that Peppy has sometimes done things he should have known were stupid, simply to 
spite Valentine.
But the big thing is John himself. Not many actors are good with scripts. John 
Valentine is certainly not one of them. Anyone can see after ten minutes in a 
story conference that Valentine's influence is entirely a negative one. Nothing 
could be clearer than that Sparky and everyone associated with it would be much 
better off if John Valentine suddenly left for an extended tour of Neptune.
But wait! Did I say Polly and Sparky are away from the center of creativity? 
Perhaps I was hasty. Looking more closely, we see the two are whispering and 
giggling. Polly is drawing in a big notebook. Peering over his shoulderbefore 
she quickly, shyly, snaps the notebook closedI can see the drawings are very 
good. Broad, assured strokes of the pencil. Cartoonlike figures. Do they have 
names? I ask, after spending a little time ingratiating myself with them. Why, 
of course they have names.
Inky Tagger. Arson E. Blazeworthy. Crimea River. Lionel Alibi. The law firm of 
White & Wong. Identical twins Tess Tosterone and S. Trojan.
Some of these have already debuted on Sparky and His Gang. The rest I was only 
shown after promising to keep them a secret, except for their names. (See, 
Sparky? I told you you could trust me.) I'm allowed one example only, a 
character to be introduced in the next episode. Windy Cheesecutter.
Like most of the new faces at the old Sparkster's clubhouse, Windy has a big 
problem. A very big, very smelly problem. As drawn by Polly, Windy is a blimp of 
a boy, cheeks puffed, lips pursed, eyes bulging, huge sausages for arms and legs 
and fingers. As imagined by Sparky, Windy keeps blimping and swelling and 
growing alarmingly until he relieves the pressure. Hey, if Chaucer can make 
jokes about farting, why can't Sparky?
As you might imagine, this socially debilitating condition has made Windy a bit 
of an outcast, and damn angry about it. He goes around knocking down buildings 
with his exploding flatulence. He can clear out a church or theater in ten 
seconds. Not a nice boy at all, hardly the sort you'd expect to be a part of 
Sparky's rather uninspired, sometimes downright mealy-mouthed gang. So what does 
Sparky do about him? You'll have to tune in and see.
* * *
I'm sitting at the leper's end of the table with Sparky and Polly. John 
Valentine is nowhere to be seen. Over there in the next area code are Gideon 
Peppy and his highly paid writing staff, shouting at each other.
Let them shout. Down here is where the show is being created.
"Why don't you ask her?" Polly says.
"What's that?" I ask, looking up from my note taking.
"Go ahead," Polly says.
"Nah," says Sparky. "She wouldn't be interested."
"Of course I'd be interested," I say. "What is it?"
Sparky studies me dubiously for a moment, then shrugs, and looks at me with a 
perfectly straight face.
"Are boogers and snot the same thing?" he asks.
"Are..." I close my mouth. I am determined not to laugh. But pretty soon Polly 
starts to howl, and Sparky joins in. So I do, too.
"No, really," Sparky says. "We've made a list of thirty-five things that can 
come out of the human body. Without, you know, surgery."
"Only it may be thirty-six," Polly says.
"If boogers and snot are different things. See, we decided plaque, tartar, and 
calculus are different. But toenails and fingernails are the same."
"We're not counting babies," Polly adds. "And eight of the things are different 
kinds of hair."
"There wasn't a very good definition of snot in the dictionary."
"Or boogers."
So I think it over and I tell them I think they must be different. Polly looks 
smugly at Sparky, who sticks out his tongue. Polly gets back to her drawing.
"See," Sparky says, "we decided we need a really good bad guy. If you know what 
I mean."
I certainly did. The Sparky show had been limping along almost a year now, and 
that was one of many things that hadn't been very well-defined. Each week a new 
bad guy was trotted out, dealt with, and market research said the kids just 
weren't interested in him. If you've got a series about a bunch of kids who go 
around righting wrongs, thwarting evil, you need a good source of evil.
"What I thought was," Sparky goes on, "since Sparky is pretty smart, that maybe 
I'd make the bad guy. You know, like Frankenstein. One thing Sparky has to watch 
out for is, he's a little impulsive. Sometimes he goes ahead and does something 
without thinking about what might happen. So one day in his laboratory he 
decides to create a new friend. He thinks about... well, I thought about that 
song about a hank of hair and a piece of bone. So Sparky gathers up all the 
things that can come off a human bodyand Polly helps, too, and they have to 
find some of it in other places, because only grown-ups can make some of this 
stuff, and they throw it all together in the laboratory and, poof! Here's this 
guy. Only"
"He doesn't have a soul," I say.
Sparky frowns at his hands. "Maybe it's dorky," he says, doubtfully.
"No, I don't think so. It's true, it's an old story, but I don't think anyone's 
ever approached it from quite the... direction, or with the same kind of 
ingredients you do. What will you name this villain?"
And the face shuts down. Only the spark in the eyes remains.
"I haven't decided yet," he says. I know he really has, and is just not going to 
tell me, but that's okay. I've got my story.
After Sparky and Polly have been called away to shoot a scene, I hang around a 
little longer, try to be inconspicuous. And I see a curious thing. Over the 
course of the afternoon just about every one of the high-powered writers from 
the north side of the table finds an excuse to wander down to the other end. 
Gosh, has anybody seen my hat? Could it be under the table down here? Oops, 
looks like that drawing tablet is about to slip off the table. Let me just 
straighten it up here....
Casually, nonchalant, they saunter and stroll and amble and perambulate, holding 
their pens and notebooks and cups of coffee. What's this? Oh, it's little 
Polly's drawings. What's she been up to today, I wonder?
And they leaf through the drawings.
Whatever Gideon Peppy is paying these writers, it's not enough. Not nearly 
enough, to be willing to steal ideas from children, and put their own names on 
the ideas. No, sir. I'd want a fucking shitload of money to do that.
So there's the secret. While the creative staff bickers and shouts and hurls out 
one stale, derivative idea after another, the real stories are being made at the 
other end of the table, out of boogers, spit, snot, and farts.
And who was the last person I saw visit the far end of the table? I'll give you 
a hint. He wore yellow shoes, and was sucking on a lollipop.
* * *



* * *
from LUNAVARIETY
"The Entertainment Industry Daily"
VALENTINE TO NEPTUNE; TO HELM OPNT
staff-written
John Barrymore Valentine, King City resident and longtime thespian of the 
legitimate stage, has been offered the job of artistic director of the Outer 
Planets National Theater, effective January 1 of next year.
"It was a tough decision for me," Valentine said, at the press conference 
announcing his intention to accept the bid. "As many of you know, I have been 
associate producer on my son's weekly video series, Sparky and His Gang, which 
is currently number nine in the Flacks. My son and I talked it over and we both 
felt that, much as we hate to be apart, our careers come first at this point in 
our lives. Sparky will be in good hands here on Luna. I have a two-year 
contract, with options to renew. It is my hope to bring a classical revival to 
the outer planets, which have long lagged behind Luna and Mars in putting the 
plays of Shakespeare, Moliere, Chekhov, Williams, and many others on boards. It 
is a great privilege to do my part in the preservation of the arts."
Contacted at his headquarters at Sentry/Sensational, Gideon Peppy, producer of 
Sparky and His Gang, expressed his happiness and his regrets. "It's a good 
career move for John," Peppy said. "Of course, we'll all miss his input around 
here, but I suppose we can manage to get along without him."
The Outer Planets Federation had encountered funding problems for its ambitious 
but unfinished Performing Arts Centre, taking shape near the Government Centre 
in New Sydney, Triton. Recent donations have the project moving again, however, 
and the board of directors felt confident enough of a completion date to 
announce its selection of Valentine, who will be leaving for the OP on the first 
available transport.
* * *



* * *
from Triton Tabloid
Arts Page
8/04/58
by Staff
The Triton Council for the Fine Arts announced today receipt of a large cash 
bequest, funds earmarked for the completion of the trouble-plagued New Sydney 
Performing Arts Centre.
"With Federation matching grants, this should be enough to get the Centre up and 
running," said Spero Meliora, Chairman of the Council.
Asked as to the identity of the benefactor, Meliora would only say, "A patron of 
the Arts, who wishes to remain anonymous." Speculation rages, but as of this 
writing no one seems to have a solid line on the name of the publicity-shy 
angel. One usually reliable source claims the donation came in the form of a 
cheque written on a King City, Luna, bank, but the Tabloid has been unable to 
confirm or disprove this.
Immediately after the announcement of the unexpected windfall, Meliora launched 
a system-wide search for an artistic director. Nationalistic preferences run 
high in this matter, and much support has been expressed among the O.P. arts 
community for the idea that the director should be a Tritonian, or at least a 
citizen of the Federation. The Tabloid's sources, however, say to look for the 
director to arrive from the same direction as the funding.
And quickly, too.
(For related articles, Press MORE)
* * *



* * *
PETITION FOR GUARDIANSHIP OF A MINOR CHILD
District Court, King City, Case #390-45155 8/11/58
Petitioner: Melina Polichinelli
Parent or Guardian: John Barrymore Valentine
Minor Child: Kenneth Catherine Valentine
STATEMENT OF PARENT: I, John B. Valentine, declare under penalty of perjury the 
following to be true and correct, to the best of my knowledge. I have been 
offered a prestigious position on the outer planets, at a substantial increase 
in salary. My son is currently starring in a video production, Sparky and His 
Gang, at the Sentry/Sensational Studios. It would be harmful to his present 
interests and future prospects if he were to accompany me to Triton. After 
discussing this matter with him and determining that it is his wish to continue, 
we have decided a temporary transfer of guardianship is the best course for both 
of us. My longtime friend and colleague, Melina Polichinelli, has agreed to act 
in loco parentis for a period of two years, after which I will return to Luna 
and reassess the situation.
STATEMENT OF PROPOSED GUARDIAN: I, Melina Polichinelli, have known Kenneth 
Valentine since he was a baby. My own daughter, Kaspara, is currently working 
with Kenneth and they already spend a great deal of time together. It would be 
no trouble at all to accept Kenneth into my household. I am sure he will be very 
happy there.
STATEMENT OF MINOR CHILD: I, Sparky Valentine, have discussed this proposal with 
my father and with my guardian, and feel this course is best for both of us. I 
intend to follow a career as an actor, and the experience and recognition to be 
gained in my current situation will be invaluable to me in the future. At the 
same time I do not wish to undermine my father's prospects in his new job. I 
feel I will be happy living with Mellie and Polly.
STATEMENT OF SOCIAL WORKER: I have examined Kenneth Valentine and Melina 
Polichinelli and can find no reason to oppose the guardianship. It is my opinion 
that taking young Kenneth, who prefers to be known as "Sparky," away from work 
he loves would be harmful to the youth, and might even drive a wedge of 
resentment between father and son. I believe both father and son are agonizing 
about this decision, but concur that the least harmful solution to both is a 
temporary separation. Arrangements to be reviewed in two years.
Signed:
John B. Valentine
Melina Polichinelli
Sparky Valentine
Ambrose Wolfinger, M.S.W.
Petition approved, 8/12/58
EJ. Smith, Fourth District Court of King City
* * *



* * *
D.S.S. La Belle Aurore
en route, Triton
via V-mail, 8/15/58
Dear Sparky,
There's not much I can say now that we haven't gone over already. The ship has 
stopped boosting and we'll coast all the way now. In a few hours I'll go to 
sleep, and when I wake up, Triton! (Ooops! We're supposed to pretend we're not 
using deadballs. Don't spread it around, huh? Ha-ha.) Remember Polonius's advice 
to Laertes. "The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to 
thy soul with hoops of steel; but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of 
each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. To thine own self be true." You know the 
words as well as I. Let me add, always cut the cards. The two years will fly by, 
and when you've milked this Sparky foolishness for everything you can, you'll 
join me in teaching these Tritonian hicks a thing or two about the stage! Love 
from your father,
John Valentine
* * *



* * *
CONTEST!!!! CONTEST!!!! CONTEST!!!! CONTEST!!!! CONTEST!!!!
PRESS HERE FOR MORE
Hey, Gang! Can you think of 36 things that come out of the human body? That's 
how many things Sparky and Polly used when they created Armageddon Angry, the 
newest kid on Sparky and His Gang! Well, if you can, have we got a contest for 
you! Sparky and Polly want to treat you to a seven-day, all-expenses-paid stay 
at Dreamland! Your parents, too, and your whole family! While you're at 
Dreamland you'll have breakfast with Sparky and Polly and some surprise guests! 
You'll ride all the coolest new rides! To enter, simply write the 36 things on 
an official entry form. PRESS for entry form: PRINT
We'll even give you two hints!
1. One of the things is EARWAX!
2. Babies are not one of the things!
Send your entry form along with a box top from SUGAR SPARKLERS, "The Cereal 
Sparky Eats!" to "Sparky, Sentry/Sensational Studios, Mare Vaporum, Luna." Enter 
as often as you like! And check under the box top of your SUGAR SPARKLERS cereal 
for valuable clues! (Winner chosen at random from correct entries. Sorry, if 
your Mom or Dad works for Sentry/Sensational or Peppiprod, Inc., you can't 
play!)
* * *
December 1 (King City Temple)
The December "Flack" numbers as compiled by the Trends Research Department of 
the Latitudinarian Church are as follows:

      TITLEAASLast MonthLast Year
      1.Skunk Cabbage92.423
      2.The Gideon Peppy Show89.911
      3.Admiral Platypus85.232
      4.Scoop the Poop80.54-
      5.Sparky and His Gang78.0746

* * *
We've got some good news and some bad news for you, Mr. Peppy. Which do you want 
to hear first? That's right, friends, the seemingly endless reign of the Peppy 
Show in first place has ended. Skunk Cabbage posted a number-one rating this 
month by a convincing 2.5 point margin. The good news is that the other Peppy 
Production, Sparky and His Gang, given up for dead at this time last year, has 
completed its amazing journey from hopelessness to success, arriving on the 
chart in fifth position by edging out Barney (see attached rankings).
Asked for his reaction to the end of his record-breaking streak in Kidvid 
ratings, Peppy said, "We'll get 'em coming or going now. As for not being in 
first place, you know how much that affects my ad revenue? Not one Neptune 
nickel, that's how much. You know how many kids load the Peppy Show every week, 
week in and week out? Millions, that's how many. So a couple a thousand more 
kids are watching Skunk Cabbage. So what? It ain't scrapin' the shine off my 
shoes."
More likely to fuck up his Florsheims is the result of a tracking study done by 
the research firm of Thickey & Gitte. According to their figures the Peppy Show 
would have registered in third place but for two guest shots by characters from 
the Sparky show, Crispin Crunchy and H. Ralston Riddlerah. AAS was up a full ten 
points for those two episodes. Given the persistent stories about creative 
tension on the Sparky team, Peppy has to feel at least ambivalent about those 
numbers. The departure of John Valentine for the Outer Planets, bruited as a 
palliative measure for the continuing tensions in the boardroom and the story 
conference, seems to have helped only a little. Rumor has it that Gideon Peppy 
has lost creative control of his new baby. So who's in charge, Gideon?
* * *



* * *
from Elementary Educator's Bulletin
issue #390
"Kids at Risk"
by Humphrey Murgatroyd
It is a distinct pleasure to report that, of the three new television series to 
become hits in the past year, two of them are good to excellent.
Much has already been written in this journal and many others of the deplorable 
Skunk Cabbage, and I will not further belabor it here.
Scoop the Poop is, as some critics have suggested, simply What the Fuck? in new 
clothes. One may regret the lack of originality, but considering the great bulk 
of children's programming, we should count ourselves lucky that an offering from 
the Children's Educational Workshop is still available, still getting excellent 
downloadings.
But the real surprise, and the real quality, is Sparky and His Gang.
Sparky began with high hopes, quickly faded into a yawn with both children and 
educators, then resurrected itself with an astonishing array of new characters. 
It began so badly, in fact, that this reviewer stopped watching it after the 
third outing. Then a few weeks ago, alerted by its quick rise and by favorable 
comments from my students, I loaded every episode and have now watched each one 
three times.
It is easy to hypnotize children with sound and fury, signifying nothing. If you 
watch children watching a show like Skunk Cabbage you will notice a certain 
glassiness of the eyes, a slackness of the jaw. At such times children are no 
more sentient than a reptile, and no more emotionally swayed. The violence is 
meaningless. It is animated wallpaper. If it succeeds in moving them to any 
degree at all, it is to desensitize them to real violence and its tragic 
effects. Children rise from such a show unable to tell you much about what 
happened, other than that things exploded, guns went off, swords were wielded, 
limbs and heads lopped off. Their play after such an experience has no more 
depth than the show. After watching cardboard heroes chopping up cardboard 
enemies for no discernible reason, they become more than a little cardboard 
themselves. They have been viscerally involved, but their emotions have not been 
touched. Nothing was ever at stake. No lessons were learned.
This is where Sparky and His Gang succeeds, and that it does is little short of 
a miracle. Load the early episodes, if you dare. You will find Sparky and his 
friend, Polly, appealing. Everyone else is a reject from a hundred other similar 
shows. They do uninteresting things for baffling reasons. The show has no 
center, and no direction.
The changes in the Sparky show can be traced to the debut of the first 
interesting member of his gang: Inky Tagger. He is a ridiculous character at 
first glance. His fingers are a spectrum of magic markers. He has a big aerosol 
valve growing out of the top of his head. And he is completely covered, head to 
toe, with constantly shifting graffiti.
Inky is a sinner, you see, like all the new Sparky characters. In the course of 
his debut episode, Inky was pursued as "The Mad Tagger," whose graffiti came to 
life and menaced people. Sparky cornered him, talked to him, showed him the harm 
he was doing. Defiant at first, Inky swore he would never stop his defacements, 
but being admitted to the Gang, a place where he could finally belong, worked 
wonders. Sparky and the Gang showed him how he could put his artistic powers to 
good use. End of story, right?
Wrong. Inky has been known to backslide. He is at his best when close to Sparky, 
enfolded in the love of the Gang. But when alone, his restless urges are apt to 
overcome him. He feels terrible about it, but is helpless as any alcoholic. 
Sparky gets exasperated with Inky, but never stops liking him, and Inky is 
learning to control his urges.
Think about it. How much money has been spent in "Public Service Announcements" 
telling kids that graffiti is wrong, that taggers are dopes? I hesitate even to 
guess. It has had no discernible impact on the problem. The reason, I believe, 
is a simple one: taggers are not dopes. They are lonely, confused, unsure about 
their place in a world full of anonymity. All graffiti say the same thing, in 
the end: I am here! I am a person. Sparky tells taggers it's okay. He 
understands you, he likes you. And you don't have to be a loser. His gang does 
more than battle rival gangs. Sparky battles evil, both the external sort, and 
the bad urges that exist in all of us. It has been a long time since a 
television show has brought us a message like that.
All Sparky's new gang are a little comical, and a little frightening. An 
excellent example is Arson E. Blazeworthy. The comical side is his appearance, 
like a mad scientist whose most recent experiment has blown up. His face is 
blackened. Sometimes the tip of his nose and the tips of his earlobes burst into 
flame. His eyes are always comically wide. His charred clothes smolder and 
smoke. Arson is, of course, the pyromaniac, the compulsive fire-setter. The 
arsonist was a figure of fear even back on Old Earth. Here in the confines of 
the Lunar warrens he strikes terror into all our hearts. And it is a common 
enough condition in the young, one not often talked about. Sparky's Gang faces 
Arson head-on, reforms him, turns his fire-setting powers toward good. Usually. 
Like Inky, Arson can find the temptation too great. But he is trying.
All of Sparky's motley crew are trying to do better. Sparky does not demand 
perfection. He knows no heart is totally pure, not even his own. Sparky himself 
is sometimes prone to overconfidence, and there is a sprightly, practical-joking 
side to him.
Each of the children in the Gang personifies some failing, fear, obsession, or 
stumbling block encountered in the process of growing up. In the last few months 
they've been given a name, these outsiders brought into the bosom of Sparky's 
Gang: Kids at Risk. Here, meet a few of them:
Lionel Alibi. As usual, the name says it. Whatever happened, Lionel didn't do 
it. And if he did do it, it wasn't his fault, because somebody made him do it. 
And it wasn't him, anyway, it was Annie Rexia.
Acne Rose. The disfiguring skin disease known as acne rosacea is, thankfully, 
merely a memory now. Except for poor Acne Rose. She has an incurable case, her 
face a mass of eruptions and cankers. Naturally enough, she hates everyone who 
looks at her. But, this being a television fantasy, she is armed with the Zits 
of Death. When she pops a pimple it's like a toxic spill.
"Eeeeuuuuw!" That was the reaction of my class at the first sight of Acne, 
followed by a cruel gale of giggles. But by the end of the episode they were 
cheering her on as she helped Sparky corral a vicious gang of polluters. Acne is 
the ugly duckling most of us feel ourselves to be at some point in our 
childhoods. She personifies the uncertainty we have about our bodies, about how 
others see us. She is also very gross.
Sparky's writers are not the first to perceive this great truth: that children 
like the baser bodily processes (see Zippy the Zombie from Skunk Cabbage). Farts 
and belches make them laugh. They giggle at things adults think are disgusting, 
or impolite. Sparky is simply the first to put this engine of risibility into 
the service of a moral lesson, rather than a mere cheap laugh.
You think you've seen gross? I'll give you gross. Take the Terrible Twins, Windy 
and Wendy Cheesecutter. Virtually identical in appearance, this 
brother-and-sister team have been taught, by Sparky and the Gang, how to turn 
their terminal flatulence into an asset. Apply a lit match to their... er, 
exhaust, and they're jet-propelled! They can grab the wings of a disabled jumper 
and lower it gently to the ground, put fallen fledglings back into their nests. 
Leap higher than a skyscraper! Or if you simply must have something blown up, 
Windy and Wendy are your best bet.
All the Kids at Risk are misfits, all of them afflicted. Sparky's job in life is 
to show them the power of their abnormality, and that anyone can be accepted, 
and loved, if they do the right thing.
In opposition to Sparky is the strongest of the Kids at Risk, a really rotten 
boy by the name of Armageddon Angry. Week after week Sparky and Army do battle 
for the hearts, minds, and souls of the Kids. Army is very good. Just when you 
think Sparky has finally reached a really stubborn miscreant, Army will whisper 
his poisonous insinuations in the child's ear, and fan the fires of resentment. 
It's easy enough to do; these kids are severely damaged. And who has done the 
damage? Why, you and me. Society. The ones of us who look at the ugly duckling 
and jeer, rather than love. Or even worse, those who view them with their 
hateful pity, those who want to help. These kids want our acceptance, not our 
help.
But in Sparky's world, not even Armageddon is all bad. He, too, yearns to be 
accepted, but his defenses are stronger, his hatred all-consuming. And what is 
the source of this burning rage?
Ah. It is too early to say for sure. But two things are already clear. Master 
Angry was created by Sparky himself, in a moment of hubris (this is presented as 
back story; Sparky and the Gang exist in a timeless world that looks like ours 
but functions like never-neverland). Nothing could be clearer than that 
Armageddon Angry is Sparky's dark side. In their face-to-face meetings Army has 
proven himself an accomplished tempter. He has shown Sparky the joys of an 
amoral freedom; we could see Sparky waver. It is this sort of edgy, nervous 
awareness of the possibility of Sparky's overthrow that keeps the kids' 
attention, that engages their hearts and minds. Nothing is assured in Sparky's 
world, just as in our own. Your friend of today could stab you in the back 
tomorrow. And the day after that you might embrace an enemy. These are things 
children have to deal with, things the cheap adventure shows know nothing about.
How does a child deal with these things? According to Sparky, with pluck and 
grit, and a willingness to get up and try again when you're down. Above all, 
without bitterness. The universe has been unfair to you? Gee, that's tough, but 
crying about it solves nothing. Come with me, I'll show you the power you have.
The other obvious thing about Armageddon Angry is that his own pain is beyond 
description. He has been betrayed on a very deep level. Without a doubt, this is 
an abused child.
There is something else that is obvious about the show itself. It has been 
guided by someone who is an authority in these matters. There is no listing in 
the credits, and no one at Peppiprod would admit to knowing who this guiding 
eminence is, but I am certain it will turn out to be a child psychologist of 
some renown. Perhaps an advisory group of them. I understand the reluctance of 
the producers to own up to this, the stamp of "Certified Good for You" being the 
kiss of death it so often is in popular culture, but Sparky is now a big enough 
hit I would hope this professional would be willing to come forth and receive 
the congratulations that are due.
In the meantime I and my children will be eagerly watching the coming episodes 
of Sparky and His Gang. I suggest you and yours do likewise.
* * *



* * *
(attached addendum)
MEMO FROM: Sparky Valentine
TO: Production Department
This guy thinks we have a headshrinker on the staff. I really hate to 
disillusion somebody who is doing us so much good with the educational crowd. 
How about a credit line next week: "Psychological ConsultantRufus T. Firefly"?
CC:
Gideon Peppy
Moe, Larry, & Curly
John Valentine (Triton, via LaserNet)
* * *
      KIDS AT RISK
      OFFICIAL TRADING CARD
      "SPARKY AND HIS GANG"
      #5 Duncan Disorderly
      Duncan found a taste for the booze at an early age. He likes to hang out 
      with his pals, Al Kohol, and Phelan Groovy. They drink all day and most 
      of the night, then spend the morning throwing up. Doesn't that sound like 
      fun?
      Sparky sez: What is a drunken man like? Like a drowned man, a fool, and a 
      madman. One draught makes him a fool, the second angers him, and a third 
      drowns him.
      COLLECT 'EM ALL!
       PRESS HERE TO ANIMATE IMAGE

* * *
      KIDS AT RISK
      OFFICIAL TRADING CARD
      "SPARKY AND HIS GANG"
      #9 N. U. Rhesus
      Newton Ulysses? Or Naomi Ursula? Nobody seems to know. Rhesus is a 
      monkylike critter, dressed in a nightshirt and a diaper. Toilet training 
      was too tough a subject for little N. U. He or she still doesn't have it 
      right. In simple terms, a bed wetter.
      Sparky sez: Incontinence ain't a sin, you know. Let he who is without fear 
      throw the first wet Pamper. Reesey is a stand-up guy, er, whatever.
      COLLECT 'EM ALL!
       PRESS HERE TO ANIMATE IMAGE

* * *
      KIDS AT RISK
      OFFICIAL TRADING CARD
      "SPARKY AND HIS GANG"
      #16 Klepto Maine
      When you shake hands with this guy, count your fingers after! Klepto 
      figures he's just borrowing things you're not using. Maybe so.
      Sparky sez: He who steals my purse steals trash. It was mine, now it's 
      his, and has been the slave of thousands. But he that filches from me my 
      good name robs me of that which doesn't enrich him, and makes me a poor 
      man.
      COLLECT 'EM ALL!
       PRESS HERE TO ANIMATE IMAGE

* * *
      KIDS AT RISK
      OFFICIAL TRADING CARD
      "SPARKY AND HIS GANG"
      #7 The Sexy Six:
      Rae Jean Hormonz
      Master Bates
      S.Trojan
      Tess Tosterone
      Min Arkey
      Seaman Plenty
      You reached puberty yet? No? Hah! You think you got troubles now! These 
      six can't seem to get it off their minds. On the other side is a typical 
      group grope. For more about them, get the individual cards!
      COLLECT 'EM ALL!
       PRESS HERE TO ANIMATE IMAGE

* * *
From the Grievance Committee
Writers' Guild of Luna
To: Gideon Peppy, President, Peppiprod, Inc.
Dear Sir:
It has come to the attention of this committee that you may be in violation of 
the WGL Minimum Basic Agreement. It has been alleged that you have appropriated 
characters and story lines developed and created by Writers' Guild member, 
Kenneth C. Valentine. It is further alleged that you did cause to be registered 
as trademarks these same characters, in violation of several Luna laws and 
interplanetary conventions. Attached please find a twenty-four-hour Cease and 
Desist Order. You are ordered to post this order prominently in the offices of 
Peppiprod, Inc., and upon the doors to any sets currently in use in the 
production of the television series Sparky and His Gang. This will serve to 
notify members of all the Crafts Unions that they may not work in your employ 
until this matter is resolved. A fact-finding hearing will convene at the 
Writers' Guild headquarters, 2100 The Alameda, King City, at 1000 hours 
tomorrow. You may feel free to bring legal representation and any documents, 
witnesses, or recordings that would substantiate your position in re ownership 
of these disputed characters and plot lines (see attached list). Thank you in 
advance for your cooperation in this matter.
Trevor Jones
Chairman, Grievance Committee
of the Writers' Guild of Luna
CC:
Kenneth C. Valentine
Kaspara Polichinelli
D. Mentua Precox
Summerfall Winterspring
Melina Polichinelli
Ambrose Wolfinger, M.S.W.
Sam Mohammed
Debbie Corlet
Velma Crow, representing Actors' Equity
John B. Valentine (Triton, via LaserNet)
* * *



* * *
from TRANSCRIPT, WGL HEARING
Investigation of certain claims involving Gideon Peppy, and Peppiprod, a 
corporate entity chartered in the Republic of Luna.
Meeting resumes after lunch and deliberations:
CHAIRMAN: Mr. Peppy, it is the unanimous conclusion of this panel that you are 
in violation of the Minimum Basic Agreement.
PEPPY: Violation, my fucking lollipop. This is a kangaroo court.
CHAIR: When you signed the MBA, you agreed to abide by certain rules and accept 
the authority of this committee. You have a right to an appeal, of course, and 
one will be held in one week's time, right here.
PEPPY: And I'll get sandbagged again. Oh, yeah, I know the drill. Sam! Debbie! 
You're a fucking Judas, Sam! And Debbie, you're a... a Judette! You thought you 
figured out which way the wind was blowing, you fucking jerks. Well, let me tell 
you, I ain't down yet. It ain't gonna be this easy to pick my fucking pocket.
CHAIR: Mr. Peppy, these are informal proceedings, but we would appreciate it if 
you'd control your temper a little better.
PEPPY: And fuck you, too!
CHAIR: Is there something else you have to add?
PEPPY: You fucking right I do. I was blindsided, that's what I was. I didn't 
even know the little prick was a member of the WGL!
CHAIR: I fail to see how that changes anything. You were using his creative 
output. It was your responsibility to see that he was a member.
PEPPY: You all think this is just a fucking coincidence. He joined up two days 
after I hired him! Now, why would he do that, do you think? Sure, I had him join 
Screen Actors, I was paying the stinkin' little turd to act! It's his goddamn 
father, that's who's behind this. They planned it! I spent two fucking million 
dollars to get rid of his sorry ass. Two million dollars just so I wouldn't have 
to look at his fucking face at the other end of the table, listen to his fucking 
voice.
VALENTINE: You be careful what you say about my father.
PEPPY: Oh, now we hear from the fucking peanut gallery. Oh, man! Sam, Debbie, 
you gonna work with this little shit, you watch your fucking back, you hear me? 
He can reach around you and stab you while he's shaking your fucking hand. Who 
do you think suggested we send daddy-o to Neptune?
VALENTINE: That was his idea, Your Honor.
PEPPY: Oh, yeah, I thought so, too, at first. He does that, you know. Then you 
think it over and you realize he's been leading you around the ring like a prize 
Pomeranian.
CHAIR: You don't have to call me Your Honor, son.
PEPPY: Is anybody listening to me?
VALENTINE: I didn't know.
PEPPY: He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't fucking know! I think I'm gonna 
puke if I hear him say that again. C'mon, people, get me out of here before I 
start slugging him.
VALENTINE: I really didn't know.
CHAIR: That's all right, Sparky. We understand what happened.
VALENTINE: No, this really bothers me. If I understand you right, I should have 
been reporting my writing work to you. I was just happy to have my characters on 
the show, I didn't realize I was doing wrong.
PEPPY: Oh, my god, he's gonna cry. I'm gonna pound the shit out of him!
CHAIR: Mr. Peppy! Grab him... don't let him...
PEPPY: You little fuck! I been railroaded! I been screwed! You think it ends 
here, well, it don't end here, you're gonna see more of me...
CHAIR: That's right, lock that door. I think somebody should call the police, 
too, in case he's still out there when we leave.
CORLET: I'll handle that.
CHAIR: Thank you. Now, Sparky, we understand it was through ignorance that you 
didn't report your creative work until you were made aware of it. It is 
significant that no one else on the production, people who knew the rules, 
alerted the WGL until we received the anonymous tip that began the 
investigation. Please don't worry about it. We exist to help writers, not 
persecute them. There will be a small fine levied, a warning attached to your 
dossier, and of course you'll have to pay a certain amount into the retirement 
fund. Other than that, I can't see that you've done anything to be ashamed of.
VALENTINE: Thank you, Your Honor.
CHAIR: I see no reason why any of you need to attend the appeal hearing next 
week. The evidentiary matters are already on record. If Mr. Peppy presents 
additional evidence, we will deal with it at the time. Mr. Secretary, I believe 
the sense of the committee was that this information be turned over to the 
proper authorities for investigation of copyright and trademark fraud. Please 
see that is done this afternoon. This committee will stand in recess until ten 
o'clock next Monday.
* * *



* * *
Thimble Theater Productions
Suite 100, Sentry/Sensational Studios
INTEROFFICE MEMO
FROM: Curly
TO: Sparky
Here's the newest Flacks, plus editorial comment.

      TITLEAASLast MonthLast Year
      1.Skunk Cabbage93.112
      2.Sparky and His Gang90.3315
      3.Admiral Platypus86.423
      4.Scoop the Poop85.257
      5.The Gideon Peppy Show79.341

* * *
Continuing story is the inexorable slide of formerly invincible Peppy.
Not much reliable has come out of the courtrooms where Peppiprod and Thimble 
Theater are locked in a corporate struggle over trademarks and copyrights, A 
usually reliable source has spread the news that Gideon Peppy collapsed in the 
courtroom last Thursday, and was briefly hospitalized for what sounds like an 
attack of apoplexy. Meanwhile production has been halted at the Peppy studios, 
while Thimble Theater has been able to continue producing the Sparky show under 
the lower court's ruling, pending final appeal. This means that as of now 
Peppiprod has only two more stanzas to play, and they will be off the schedule. 
Somewhere, though, a very fat lady is taking a very deep breath, and the entire 
industry is waiting to hear what song she sings.
Contacted about this abrupt reversal of fortune, Gideon Peppy had this to say: 
"Get that fuckin' camera out of my fuckin' face before I break your fuckin' 
neck!" Easy, Giddy-o. Take a stress pill and cool your jets. Remember when 
there's a shine on your shoes there's a melody in your heart.
* * *



* * *
from Vapor Trails
"All the Vicious Irresponsible Gossip Rumor and Innuendo Our Lawyers Permit!"
5/23/59
SOLOMON SPEAKS!
Judge Hands Down Decision in Thimble/Peppy Scuffle
Have you heard the old one about King Solomon and the baby? Two women claimed to 
be the kid's mother, neither could prove it. Old Sol says bring me a sword, 
proposes chopping the kid in two, make everybody happy, right? You don't believe 
me, look in the Bible. I'm sure the library has a copy, it means book, after 
all.
It looks like Sparky and his Thimble Theater Company get to keep all the 
characters he created for the show, forty-seven and counting so far. All except 
two of them. Are you ready? Of course, it's the characters of Sparky and Polly. 
Peppy was able to prove he wrote about them before he even met young Master 
Valentine. So "Sparky" the character remains the intellectual property of 
Peppiprod, for all the good it'll do him, and Sparky, the real-life Lunarian 
boy, gets to keep his gang, for all the good it'll do him. Somewhere the ghost 
of old King Solomon must be chuckling.
But rumors too speculative for even us to print hint this is not really the last 
verse of this epic. Let it stand for the moment that neither party is happy, and 
neither is about ready to give up.
* * *



* * *
from Clavius Clarion
Shopper's Bargain Supplement
5/25/59
The big news in our little enclave this week was supposed to be the opening of 
the new domed city park and shopping mall out in the western district. That was 
before they announced that Sparky and Polly would be the guests of honor for the 
grand opening. News of the personal appearance brought some youngsters from as 
far away as King City. Police estimated the crowd at fifteen thousand.
You would have thought it was three times that many if you heard the cheers when 
Sparky and Polly flashed into view on their red skycycles. They buzzed the crowd 
half a dozen times, showering candy and trinkets from their saddlebags. It was a 
little bit Santa Claus, and a little bit Mardi Gras, and the children loved it. 
It's a good thing promoters provided adequate security, or the stage would have 
been mobbed when the two finally landed.
Sparky apologized to the kids for not bringing his gang with him, but he 
promised they'd be back in the old clubhouse in the near future. Then he and 
Polly sang the "Sparky's Gang Song" and the "Sugar Sparklers Song." All the kids 
seemed to know all the words.
But the surprise hit of the day was when a big, bumbling clown in yellow shoes, 
a checked jacket, red pants, and suspenders, bulled his way onstage, sucking on 
a huge lollipop. He started shouting at Sparky and Polly, jumping up and down, 
threatening them. The kids loved it. "Peppy" said he had Sparky's Gang and he 
was going to hold them hostage. Our heroes were not daunted; they strapped 
"Peppy" to one of their skycycles and sent him spinning into the air as the kids 
shouted with glee. And who says children don't follow the business and legal 
news? There seemed no doubt who the viewers favored in the simmering feud 
between Peppy and Sparky. If I was Gideon Peppy I'd be running for cover.
* * *



* * *
from Vapor Trails
6/2/59
OTHER SHOE DROPS!
Wisdom of Solomon, Part Two
At last we can tell it. Final figures are in on the settlement between Gideon 
Peppy and Thimble Theater. What everyone seemed to have forgotten in last week's 
dustup was that Sparky Valentine, in addition to winning the rights to the 
characters he created while the Sparky show was being produced at Peppiprod, won 
the trademarks associated with them, and all the royalties paid since their 
creation. Anybody want to guess how much that might be? A figure was not 
publicly released, but to get an idea, find an eight-year-old, go to his room, 
and count the number of times you see a member of Sparky's Gang. Multiply that 
by the number of three-to-twelve-year-olds in Luna (we're not even considering 
Mars, the Belt, and the OP, but the court is, oh, my, yes!). If the 
manufacturers paid even a penny for the use of the imageand count on it, they 
paid more than thatit comes to a very tidy sum.
Entirely too tidy for Peppiprod. Like most production companies, PP's liquid 
assets are not large. Money goes into development, dividends, promotion, and the 
shine on Gideon Peppy's yellow shoes. Peppy didn't have anything like that kind 
of money, and considering he's been off the load for two months, is no longer in 
production, and rated a weak seventeenth in the AAS last time the show was 
offered, there were no banks or bankrollers willing to take a flyer on his 
future prospects.
Into this frightening picture steps Thimble Theater, a.k.a. Sparky Valentine, 
with an offer GP can't refuse. When the dust settles TT owns all rights to the 
characters of Sparky and Polly, and all back numbers of the Sparky show. GP is 
still not back in the black, but he's out of the ultraviolet.
* * *
August 1 (King City Temple)
The July Flack Numbers as compiled by the Trends Research Department of the 
Latitudinarian Church are as follows:

      TITLEAASLast MonthLast Year
      1.Sparky and His Gang93.325
      2.Skunk Cabbage89.411
      3.Admiral Platypus84.033
      4.Scoop the Poop82.144
      5.Space Weasels79.51120

* * *
At last! After an heroic two-year struggle, Sparky hits number one!
It's a good thing, too, or this column would be dull as dishwater. The only 
other number worth noting is the steady progress of Weasels, finally reaching 
the Fab Five. Plenty of educators out there are hoping it will soon reach number 
three, so maybe the Weasels can eat the Cabbages and die! Rounding out the 
comfortable middle of the table is the usual gang of suspects.
Former champ, the Gideon Peppy Show, is still out of the running, "on hiatus" is 
the polite expression. Word is it's a hiatus that may prove terminal. Peppiprod 
is still sniffing about for some bucks to get back in front of the cameras.
Contacted about the hard times his company has fallen on... well, we know GP 
would have had something snappy and witty to say, but we didn't ask him, as our 
reporter is not anxious to have his jaw broken again. We'll let you know how the 
lawsuit comes out. And frankly, at this point nobody really cares about the 
shine on his shoes, the lint on his hard candy, or the crap in his trousers.
* * *



* * *
from Hebephrenia
column of 6/6/59
"At Home with the Like Wireheads! Ex. P!" by D. Mentua Precox
touch doublestrikes for sound
touch Hyperlined words for refs
...and so when they asked me if I'd, you know, like to spend a few hours like 
with everybody's fayvyiest brillo-domes, I was all like "Get a clue unquote!" 
Like, the D stands for Dumbbunny, but not Dope, you load? But they were all like 
serious as green cheese, and stuff, so I packed my extra sox and training bra 
and pootled down to the backlot where they were making like the very first 
Sparky and Polly movie with the, like, Gang. Comma comma period. And there was 
this quote "dressing room" unquote that Sparky and Polly shared? You know? 
Question mark? Only it was bigger then D. Mentua's entire cubic!! Exc. etc. I 
mean, the D stands for Dazzled! Also for I Dug it!
So then Polly answers my like toodleoo in her you know Polly outfit and her hair 
looking like frozen noodles. And she's all like "Dee! How nice to see!" (Polly's 
voice 59 Thimble Theater Productions) And I'm all howjadew howjadew and you 
know what I'm thinking is, how is it that, like yesterday noodleheads looked all 
haha looserbilly and stuff, and like, today it's all just treacle and buttered 
toast? Question mark! How like weird! ExMark? The D stands for Dumbfounded, you 
know? And then before you know it it's all last Tuesday.
Well, if you've had enufquote "deep thought" unquote for the day, I just had to 
point out to Pretty Pol that I, D. Period Mentua, had scoffed when the 
trendbillies like put you two out as mere hulahoops ten-day wondering, as it 
like were, when I was fritzing it about that you were the gen-you Frisbee! 
Whamm-o ex ex ex!!! and she goes "And we thank you for it." Your humbuggle 
narrator came over all pink and stuff. Shit!
And so dinner was served (no electric noodles! paren)thesis comma, and who 
should come flycycling by but the man/boy of the our, as well as hour, Sparky. 
And he goes "Long time no Dee!" (Sparky's voice 59 Kenneth Valentine) and I'm 
howjadew all over the place again. period. And then most of the time yrs t. is 
sitting churchmouselike in a corner like watching breathlesslike while tag teams 
of atts-at-law, counselor, are shuttling massives of paper between the 
Sparkabilly and his like ex loco p., period comma, lady name of Melina 
I'd-tell-you-her-last but D stands for Dud when speling wurds of more than five 
slylabbles. Sillybabbles. Slybulls. D stands for Don't call on me, teacher! 
Syllables! and that's the lesson for today!
And she Melina is going "Sparky, I don't know anything about these legal 
matters, and Sparky goes "Don't worry, 'Ma,'" comma threes-trophe, and he goes 
"That's what lawyers are for." And the babble of attorneys keeps bringing on the 
papers. And I go "What's this all about question mark," and Sparky goes it's 
something about a makeover for Giddy Pep and I go boy, could he ever use it, did 
you lamp those yellow shoes, how un-Fahrenheit, with, goggle, gulp, red 
suspenders, gimmeachance here! Exclam! Then D.M.P. proozled thru a few, papers 
lying idly about and stuff, but when it comes to contracts D stands for a D in 
business ad. period and another D in business math. I'm sure there was a story 
there for some intrepid news-nosey, but not this my'self please!
So anyway where was I oh, yeah the Royal We spent an hour with the P. and S., 
and I bet you'd love to hear it. Well, pull your diapers back up, gramma, you 
didn't think it was all, like, freedie time, didja? Just load up $19.95 and get 
momster or dadster to thumb it to me for the real cheese! In threedee as in 
Dementia or D. Mentia, living crayolacolor big as a slice of life Phew! I got 
that all out in one breath! Period!
* * *



* * *
from News Nipple
Financial Page
11/11/59
Thimble Theater in Peppy Takeover
In a surprise move today, Thimble Theater Productions, whose chief asset is the 
children's television show Sparky and His Gang, took control of Peppiprod, Inc., 
formerly Captained by Gideon Peppy, the originator of the series. At first 
glance, the transaction seems a case of a minnow swallowing a whale. But 
according to City Exchange analysts, it was a very hungry and aggressive minnow 
and a very tired, hollow whale. Peppiprod was saddled with a crippling debt load 
resulting from recent adverse court decisions in favor of Thimble Theater's 
managing director and chief stockholder, Kenneth Valentine. Efforts to obtain 
refinancing for such a speculative venture were making little progress until the 
takeover bid was announced. Hours later a consortium of investors solidified the 
deal.
(For financial details PRESS HERE)
The move was vigorously opposed by Chairman Peppy, but in the end his position 
was not strong enough to appeal to stockholders who stood to benefit in the 
transaction.
It is little wonder Peppy was opposed. In an odd twist, it turns out that all 
rights to the character "Gideon Peppy" are owned by Peppiprod, a situation 
brought about by certain tax advantages. It would seem then that Gideon Peppy, 
the person, no longer owns the rights to his own voice and image. Thimble 
Theater could, if it chose, enjoin him from wearing the clothing associated with 
the character he createdand now largely livesor at least appearing in public 
as the character. It could even prevent him from using his own voice in 
commercial situations. Vaporum is now abuzz with lawyers and agents, seeking to 
rewrite contracts to avoid a similar conundrum for their clients. That won't be 
necessary for Ken Valentine, who personally owns the rights to his television 
character "Sparky," leasing it to Thimble Theater in an arrangement sure to be 
widely copied.
* * *



* * *
from Flash in the Pan
"The Collector's Guide to PopCult Ephemera"
'59 Price Guide, coffee mugs
354. Skunk Cabbage. Zappy the Zombie $ 0.45
355. Skunk Cabbage. Zippy the Zombie $ 0.45
356. Sparky and His Gang. Ensemble $ 55.00
357. Sparky and His Gang. Sparky Alone $ 190.00
357a. "Decent" Sparky $5,000.00
NOTE: All Sparky tie-ins with the "original" Gang are worth more than 
contemporaneous series merchandise because most were destroyed after the bad 
start. The "decent" variants, produced for sale only on Vesta, Callisto, and 
Ceres, showing Sparky wearing pants, were never shipped, and only one box 
survived.
358. Sparky and His Gang. Polly $ 100.00
358a. "Decent" Polly $3,500.00
* * *



* * *
from The Straight Shit Starpage:
"Where Are They Now?"
6/4/60
by Bermuda Schwartz
You'll never guess who I ran into yesterday in a taproom on the upper levels of 
North King City. I really don't quite know what to call him. I don't believe the 
name we all knew him by was his real one, and he can't use the one we knew him 
by. You might call him "the artist formerly known as Gideon Peppy." Or the Man 
Without a Name. Or you could tie a dead albatross around his neck and call him 
Ishmael.
And you know? Clothes really do make the man. Or at least they make the clown. 
If somebody hadn't pointed him out to me, I never would have recognized him. 
Okay, I'll fess up. I didn't actually run into him. I don't go to upper-level 
taverns in North King City, as a rulein fact, I'd never been in onebut it's 
the sort of place Not-Gideon Peppy inhabits these days. He had sent for me, and 
for old time's sake I went.
There's no reason Not-Gideon shouldn't be sipping his vodka-and-beer 
boilermakers in the cozy country clubs down in bedrock. He's still got plenty of 
money. It was his balls Sparky took from him, not his wallet. He goes to places 
where the decor mirrors his mood. And, I found out, because it's only in places 
like that he can find souls destroyed enough to listen to his tale of woe. And 
now he had me to listen.
Like some maniacs, Ex-Peppy can present a convincing front for a short time. At 
first I think he had me confused with that awful Precox person. (Later I found 
out she'd been by the previous day, found out there was no story there for her 
clientele, and dropped him like a cold potato. I've never seen why one should 
lower oneself to the intellectual level of a five-year-old just because... but 
don't let me get started on that. Please! Period.).
When we had my identity straightened out he regaled me for a while on his plans 
for a comeback. Outlined for me several new series he had "in development." Told 
me of all the big people who were coming in with him on these projects. I almost 
bought it. The man was influential, had moved in those circles until recently. 
But now he looked as if he wouldn't cast a shadow at high noon in Imbrium.
Then it was Sparky, who he began talking about in a surprisingly calm, 
controlled voice. He spoke of the lawsuits he had filed, was soon to file, or 
intended to file as soon as his lawyer drew them up. He kept glancing at the 
clock over the bar, saying his lawyer would be there soon and I could hear the 
whole story from him. By then I was wishing the ambulance chaser would arrive 
and give me a way to gracefully leave.
The segue into insanity was so gradual I hardly noticed it at first. Then I 
realized he was talking about a computer chip Sparky had implanted in his, 
non-Gideon's, head, that enabled Sparky to control his thoughts. The doctors 
hadn't been able to find it, oh no, Sparky was too clever for that, but 
Once-Was-Peppy had had his telephone removed, just in case. He was sleeping 
under a lead canopy because he was at his most vulnerable when he was dreaming.
"I have sonic and static generators running all the time, too," he said. "I'm 
considering having my skull replaced with stainless steel, like the commandos 
use. See that guy over there?"
The only person in that direction was a stubble-faced drunk passed out with his 
face in a puddle of spit on the filthy bar top.
"One of Sparky's spies," post-Peppy confided. "He's here every day, pretending 
not to watch me. Pretending to be too drunk to notice anything. But I've seen 
him muttering. He's wearing a wire, somewhere, I haven't figured out where yet. 
He tells them when I leave here so they can keep track of me. Did you see them, 
loitering around out there? There's enough of them that no matter which way I go 
they can keep tabs on me. I've confronted them, but they all look at me as if I 
was crazy."
There was much, much more, I'm sorry to say. You try to be gentle, you try to be 
kind, but most of all you want to be out of there. Leaving becomes a frightening 
process of detaching his clawlike fingers from your clothing, first one hand, 
then the other, then the first hand again. I thought I was free, backing away 
with a big smile on my face, when his arm shot out and grabbed me again.
"I've figured out who he really is," he said, in a loud whisper.
"Sparky?" I said.
"Satan," the man who used to be Gideon Peppy said.
Folks, I don't want to turn this into a diatribe against the abuses of personal 
rights and freedoms, but this man needs help. Because he's harmed no one and so 
far hasn't harmed himself, he cannot be committed to a safe place as in the bad 
old days. But I'm telling you, leash laws are more humane and much more 
practical than the way we allow the insane the "right" to go off the proverbial 
deep end, unrestrained, unhelped.
This man should be stopped, before he hurts himself or someone else.
Or both.
* * *



* * *
The News Nipple
Obituary Page, 6/10/60
MARSH, Julian E. Born 2103. Mr. Marsh, better known to millions of his young 
fans as "Gideon Peppy," was dead on arrival at the Mare Vaporum Medical Center 
yesterday afternoon. The cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
For 7 related stories, PRESS MORE
* * *
TELEVISION CLOWN KILLS SELF, WOUNDS TRANSIENT
(Mare Vaporum) Julian Marsh, until recently known as Gideon Peppy, arrived at 
his former office in the Sentry/Sensational Studios at 3:00 P.M., covered in 
blood, brandishing a .55-caliber automatic pistol. He fired a few rounds 
seemingly at random, harming no one but sending office workers and security 
guards running for cover.
He went directly to Studio 5, where the current episode of Sparky and His Gang 
was being filmed. Screaming incoherently, waving the weapon at anyone who 
approached him, he demanded to see young Sparky Valentine, star of the show. 
When informed Sparky was not due on the set for another three hours, he 
threatened a cameraman, telling him to roll tape. Facing the camera, he made a 
brief statement, the content of which has not yet been released, then put the 
muzzle of the gun into his mouth and fired. He was killed instantly.
For 6 related stories press MORE
* * *
Earlier in the day Marsh had gone berserk in the Twelve-Step Inn, North King 
City. He attacked Mr. Buford Keeler with a kitchen knife, inflicting serious 
wounds on the man's abdomen and chest. Patrons said Marsh was shouting something 
about finding a microphone. When other customers and the bartender pulled Marsh 
away, he produced a handgun, fired three rounds, and fled. Mr. Keeler was healed 
and released.
For 5 related stories, press MORE
* * *
Gideon Peppy shouted, "Roll 'em, roll 'em, you cocksucker, or I'll blow your 
fuckin' head off. Is it on now?"
Peppy's hands and the front of his clothes were dark with dried blood. He stared 
into the camera, and smiled broadly.
"Maybe this'll satisfy the little fuck," he said, then sucked on the barrel of 
the gun. When he fired his whole face seemed to stretch out like a face painted 
on a balloon. A red mess of brains, hair, skull, and blood erupted from the 
crown of his head, and he fell to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. The 
camera moved in. There were spatters of blood on his yellow shoes.
* * *
Sparky ejected the chipcard and tapped one edge of it idly on his desk.
"Maybe that'll teach him to mess with my father," Sparky said.
He pressed the button on his desk that connected to his secretary. "Send this 
Peppy death tape to Curly," he said. "Tell her we need a thirty-minute 
documentary, freeze-frame, slow motion, whatever else you can think of. I want 
it on my desk by this time tomorrow, ready to outload by tomorrow evening. Also, 
get to work on a promo tying the death tape to the reloads of the Peppy Show, 
same time frame. We have to move quickly on this, it'll be old news fast. It 
ought to provide a good publicity lead-in to the New Peppy Show. If you need me, 
I'll be in the casting session across the hall."
He rose from his desk and walked across the deep carpet of his office. He went 
through the door and out into the public corridor. The people who passed him all 
smiled and waved respectfully. He had a smile for each one.
All conversation died as he entered Studio 88, where the casting session was 
being held. He remembered the first time he'd been there, not even knowing he 
was trying out for the part of Sparky. Long time ago, he mused.
He stepped up to his big chair at the end of the table. No one was sitting at 
the far end, where Julian Marsh used to sit, but that was okay. Everyone was 
clustered down at Sparky's end.
He opened a crystal candy jar and took out one of the lollipops custom-made for 
him by Dixie Chocolateers of Tharsis, Mars. The gold-leaf-coated paper rustled 
expensively as he unwrapped the sweet. He popped it into his cheek and looked 
around the table. He hitched himself a little higher on the padded box that 
enabled him to rest his elbows at table level.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen. It's magic time. Send in the first of the 
Peppy prospects."
Sparky was eleven.
* * *
ACT 3
"Dovetonsils," I said. "That's D as in Dogberry, O as in Ophelia, V as in 
Verona, E as in Exeter, T as in Adenoids. Percy Dovetonsils."
There was a short pause.
"T as in what, sir?"
"T as in Titania, O as in Oberon, N as in Nym, S as in Shylock, I as in Iago L 
as in Elsinore, S as in Shallow. First name Percy."
There was a longer pause.
"Sir, is this some sort of joke?"
A horrible suspicion overcame me and I sat up straighter in my chair, almost 
spilling my drink.
"Good god," I said. "Am I talking to a human being?"
She was on firmer ground there, though I might have debated the point.
"Yes, sir!" she piped. "It's part of our Service with a Smile policy here at 
Capitalists and Immigrants Trust. If you only had elected to receive picture as 
well as sound you would have seen that I've been smiling throughout this 
transaction... or at least until you started to spell your name."
Good fortune and a dislike of being seen myself during a phone call had spared 
me the no-doubt-hideous rictus that would pass for a business policy smile at 
C&IT. Imagine sitting at a phone bank and being paid to smile all day as you 
answer customers' dumb questions. I'd sooner host a perpetual game show. 
However, the lack of a picture had lulled me into thinking I was speaking to the 
usual robotic screening program, the first of a normal three or four steps 
before you contacted an actual human being.
"Please connect me with a machine, at once!" I ordered. There was no response, 
but I fancied I heard a slight sniff, and wondered if I had caused just the hint 
of a frown to obscure a few dozen pearly whites at the edges of her 
corporate-mandated grin.
The problem with humansif you've ever tried to talk to one over the phoneis 
they sometimes show imagination at a time when you would least expect it. They 
make illogical connections, fly off on fanciful tangents. Usually this simply 
leads to confusion, but now and then it can sow seeds of suspicion that might, 
if not nipped in the bud, lead to an unexpected truth. If you are engaged in 
something the least bit dodgy it is better not to take that chance, since truth 
is the last thing you want to come out.
What I was doing was probably not illegal. I say that because laws seem always 
to get broader and more restrictive every year. Hardly anyone ever retires a 
law. You don't hear about laws being unwritten, recalled, allowed to expire. You 
begin with civil liberties, and after a few hundred years you have a legal 
system that can't even find liberty, much less protect it. I couldn't afford a 
lawyer to vet my proposed actions against fifty years of legal encrustation, 
would not hire one if I could afford it.
But in uncertain times it is usually best to deal with a machine. Machines 
always play by defined rules. They may be asked to look for odd behavior, but 
that means somebody must define "odd," and if it can be defined then it's not 
truly odd. Just as the dealer always hits on sixteen and stays on seventeen, 
machines in a certain situation behave the same way every time. If you know 
this, and know at least some of the parameters, you can put the knowledge to 
good use.
"How may I help you?" The voice was no more mechanical than the real woman's 
voice had been. I personally think there ought to be a law about that, and I'm 
not one to support many new laws. I like to know where I stand. "Percy 
Dovetonsils," I said. "I am an attorney working for the estate of the late Mr. 
Dovetonsils. We are trying to locate bank accounts hinted at in his will, but 
not specified."
"We carry no accounts for a Dovetonsils, Percy," the machine said.
"How about Harold Bissonette? Double S, double T."
"We carry no accounts for a Bissonette, Harold."
"Try Flywheel, Wolf J."
The machine had never heard of old Wolf, either, and I broke the connection. I 
marked off two more possibilities on the grid I had made on a page of 
creamy-white hotel stationery, and called the next bank on my list.
Long ago I had read a biography of W. C. Fields, the great film comedian from 
the dawn of the talking-picture era. Fields was not a very nice man, but he was 
a quirky one. When he traveled, and when he had money, he would stop in small 
towns and open accounts in local banks. He seemed to enjoy the thought of having 
emergency stashes squirreled away all over the country. His had been a harsh 
childhood, he trusted no one very far. If he kept any list of these accounts, no 
one ever found it, and it was assumed at his death that he had long since lost 
track of most of them. Their location died with him.
Well, I thought that was just a wonderfully eccentric thing to do. I decided to 
follow in his footsteps, back in the days when I had more money than I knew what 
to do with. Everywhere I went I opened small accounts, almost none of them in my 
own name. I was going to be different from Fields, though. I was going to 
remember where they all were.
I did remember a few. Those were all long gone.
Sometimes it seems to me that my younger self spent most of his time dreaming up 
things he could do to make my older self miserable. You ever feel that way? You 
were twenty, you had the world by the tail. Outlooks were all rosy. It would 
never occur to you that, by the time you were eighty or ninety or, ahem, one 
hundred, your worldview would have changed dramatically. That you need not be 
senile to forget things you did seventy years before. That, in all that time, 
you would have ample chance to lose your careful notes, both written and mental. 
At twenty, there is simply no imagining the slings and arrows of outrageous 
vicissitude.
Or maybe I'm unusual. Maybe I'm a grasshopper and you are all ants, or most of 
you, anyway. Perhaps your life is in perfect order, everything cataloged, 
pigeonholed, in its proper place. I used to sneer at that sort of life, and I 
probably am temperamentally incapable of leading such a life, but it does have 
its attractions. But how was I to learn frugality, caution, temperance, 
moderationall those things so beloved of poor Richard Almanackthe way I was 
brought up? I never had what you'd call a home until I moved in with Polly and 
Melina.
In any event, my one attempt at being a good little ant, storing up acorns for a 
rainy day, was by now far in the past. Most, if not all, of those caches had 
been plundered years ago. I no longer knew where, or even if, those piles of 
acorns existed. My careful accounting had come to naught.
I did have one thing going for me, though. I had used a limited number of names, 
twenty-five in all. I'd chosen them carefully as names unlikely to be inflicted 
on anyone ever again, yet names I would not forget because they were all old 
friends of mine.
So now when I first arrive at a place I have not visited in a long time, I spend 
a few hours idly paging through the listings of financial institutions on the 
Yellow Screen.
You never know. One day twenty years ago I stumbled onto an account in the name 
of William Claude Dukenfield. It was one of "my" names, but the money had been 
deposited in 1935. Somehow, through mergers, takeovers, booms and busts, 
devaluations, failures and holidays, through the very Invasion of the earth 
itself, this little account was still tucked away in a bank on Mars that might 
have been the great-great-great-great-granddaughter of the little Poughkeepsie 
neighborhood bank where old W.C. had left it, in the midst of a great 
depression. Still gathering interest. I had no way to get at it, probably 
wouldn't have tried, anyway. Ironic fact: the original deposit had been two 
hundred United States dollars. When I found it, inflation and other exigencies 
had allowed the money to grow to the princely sum of L$239.14. About enough for 
two days in the hotel I was making my calls from.
"How may I help you?"
The voice was practically identical to the machine voice at the first bank I'd 
called.
"Is this the computerized answering service of Hamlet Savings and Loan?"
"Yes, it is."
"I'm searching for accounts in the name of Otis Criblecoblis."
"I'm sorry, we carry no accounts in that name."
"How about J. Cheever Loophole?"
"I'm sorry, we carry no
"Try Eustace McGargle."
"I'm sorry, we" I hung up. Two down, about sixty or seventy to go.
Why three names? you may be asking. Why not just read off the list of 
twenty-five names at each bank you call? There was actually no completely 
logical reason, since I was pretty sure I was doing nothing illegal. But when 
you have as many outstanding warrants or persons pursuing you as I do, you learn 
to be cautious. Asking for nonexistent bank accounts was almost sure to raise a 
red flag somewhere in the bank computer's programming, the electronic equivalent 
of a teller calling the bank president over to frown dubiously at the check 
you're trying to kite. I much prefer wide-eyed innocence to the professionally 
jaundiced eye. Nothing is more wide-eyed than a computer. It does what it is 
told, and never asks the next logical question. Four was a common number of 
events to trigger programmed alarms, possibly based on what is known as the 
Bellman Principle: What I tell you three times is true. Ergo, what I tell you 
four times might be a load of shit.
That, plus the fact that three is my lucky number.
"How may I help you?"
"Bank of Oberon? I'm searching for accounts in the name of Egbert Souse."
"You're out of luck there." Great. A user-friendly program.
"Then surely you've heard of Hugo Z. Hackenbush."
"Not during this lifetime." Did this bank cater to comedians?
"One last try, shithead. A. Pismo Clam."
"Does the A stand for Ambrose, or Albert?" I sat up straighter. Was I getting a 
bite?
"Which one do you have?" I asked, cautiously.
"Neither one. I have a William Clam, and a Jake's Clams, though."
"Yeah, well, stick it" I broke the connection. No use trying to get the last 
word with a computer. I stood up and stretched, took a sip from the rum and Coke 
on the telephone desk, then walked to the window and looked out.
Oberon. The Bard's World. My God, what a place.
* * *
Just about everything on Oberon is worthy of a postcard. So where does one 
start? At the beginning, I guess. Actually, a little bit before.
What we call Oberon today is not what we called Oberon when I was a boy. Oberon 
is the most distant of the Uranian moons, and the second largest. It's smaller 
than Titania by a few dozen miles, and about a hundred thousand miles farther 
away from Uranus. It used to be an unremarkable little ball of rock, faintly 
orange in color.
Like all the outer-planet habitats, it didn't have enough gravity to be of much 
use other than as a nuisance. Not enough gravity to make a curtain fall 
properly, to stage a decent sword fight, or to perform classical ballet. This 
was naturally a cause of some concern to the Oberoni, so they set about finding 
a way to provide enough gravity for the theater.
Actually, they had a few other reasons that may have counted more heavily than 
falling theater curtains. But I can dream, can't I?
Research has shown, so I'm told, that the healthiest environment for humans and 
other Earth-evolved animals is somewhere between Luna's one sixth and Mars's one 
third. Anything lighter caused Lowgrav Syndrome, which wouldn't kill you but 
could certainly annoy you a lot, and which was expensive to treat and hold in 
remission. Anything higher... well, humans were no longer living anywhere with 
more than 0.5 gravity, and good riddance, as far as I'm concerned. I experienced 
one gravity in the Trip to Earth centrifuge at Armstrong Park when I was six. 
We've all seen the effects of one gee in old movies and television. People plod 
like elephants in molasses. Things fall at a frightening rate. Bodies are bulked 
up by fighting gravity while the flesh is dragged down from giving in to it. 
Every inch of skin sags. Some of it is painful, and I left the centrifuge 
wondering how they could face threescore and ten years of that. Not for me, 
thank you very much.
There are only four ways of providing a given acceleration of gravity, until 
some genius finds a way to create it. One is simply to accumulate the necessary 
mass. Thought was given to altering the orbits of all the five largest Uranian 
moons, smashing them together. That would have been fun, don't you think? But it 
wouldn't have provided as much gravity as the engineers were seeking, and 
besides, it would have taken forever for the resulting mass to cool enough to be 
useful.
Then there is Pluto's Solution, which I guess is technically Method 1A, since it 
also involves accumulating mass, but it certainly feels like a different 
solution. Over a century and a half people have been venturing out into the 
really distant spacesso far that Brementon and the sun look like next-door 
neighborsbringing back tiny black holes. I mean really tiny. Smaller than 
atoms, they say, though I find that unlikely. There are now thousands and 
thousands of those little black holes orbiting near the core of Pluto, through 
solid rock that presents no more obstacle to them than interstellar space. 
There's enough of them in there now to provide about one third of a gravity on 
the surface. Those little suckers pull hard!
One day the black holes will suck all the mass of Pluto into what would be, so I 
read, a tiny-to-small black hole (the large ones contain whole galaxies, if you 
can believe that). There's no question this will happen. The debate is about how 
long it will take. Prevailing opinion is at least a million years, so you may 
not want to unload your real-estate holdings. Of course, some scientists claim 
it will happen next Tuesday. Take that into your vacation plans.
It's the sort of predicament that appeals to Plutonians, a fatalistic bunch. 
They get a kick out of telling newly arrived tourists about the latest 
catastrophic prediction.
The Oberon engineers rejected the Pluto Solution, mostly because of the almost 
unimaginable expense and the time it would take. Black holes are very rare, and 
cost the planetary income of some asteroids. They are not labor-intensive, and 
one hoped-for side effect of the Gravity Project was putting a lot of people to 
work, jazzing the economy.
And I suspect they decided to wait a few centuries, see if Pluto did fall into a 
black hole.
The third and fourth ways are also related, and don't involve actual gravity but 
the illusion of gravity. If a spaceship accelerates at a steady rate, it will 
seem just like real gravity to an observer inside the ship. Einstein noted that 
no experiment done inside the ship could distinguish between "real" gravity and 
the force of acceleration. If you're wondering how I, a mathematical dunderhead, 
know all this stuff, it's simply that I had to memorize great swatches of it as 
dialogue when I played the old windbag in Einstein and Marx, the 
techo-philosopho-porno extravaganza you've never heard of because it played 
three times before going to a richly deserved extinction. ("Ken Valentine 
manages to bring some much-needed humor to the role of Albert. But this will 
only appeal to communist theoretical-physicist necrophiles. There must be two of 
them in the system, maybe three. Let them have it.The Phlegethon Phlogiston)
There are several insurmountable hurdles to using method number three for 
"residential" gravity. For one thing, your residence would spend most of its 
time moving like a bat out of Pluto. After a few months (weeks? Do the math 
yourself), you'd be moving near the speed of light and time contraction would be 
a problem. Well, then why not accelerate twelve hours out, turn around, and 
accelerate twelve hours back? Oddly enough, that would work, though the expense 
would probably be prohibitive. It would avoid the other problem of constant 
acceleration, though: the fact that we have yet to produce a means of propulsion 
that can operate indefinitely, at any useful thrust. When you got home, you 
could refuel.
One of the many unlikely propositions I have sold in a lifetime of selling was 
based on that idea. We set up a Big Store, selling shares in a company that was 
"right on the edge of a breakthrough!" in the field of light-speed travel. The 
dodge was to put your money in the bank, get on the ship, and return a few 
hundred years later to reap the compound interest. The trip would only be a few 
months subjective time. Brilliant! Of course, we were the bank. And I already 
mentioned what happened to W. C. Fields's bank account. But you'd be surprised 
how easy a proposition it was to put over.
So now we come to the fourth method, or 3A, depending on how you apply the 
rules. This is the wheel, or the bucket on a rope.
Put some water in the bucket and whirl it around your head. The water doesn't 
spill out. Magic! Actually, centripetal force, which is a constant acceleration 
toward the center of a circle.
If you build a wheel in zero gee and set it spinning, you can walk around on the 
inside of that wheel just as if you were in real gravity. If you want to be 
heavier, you spin the wheel faster. Slow it down for less gravity.
Make the wheel very large....
We've been building structures like this since humans went permanently into 
exile in deep space. The asteroid belt, the lunar Trojan points L4 and L5, the 
Jupiter and Saturn Trojans, J4 and J5 and S4 and S5, all are thick with wheels 
like this, or more often, cylinders. Up until the inception of the Oberon 
Gravity Project the largest of these artificial worlds was about sixteen miles 
in diameter.
The Gravity Project proposed a wheel one thousand miles in diameter.
To make a leap like that you need a significant new technology, or a major 
breakthrough in an old one. The Oberoni had a little of both.
When I had last come through about twenty years before, Oberon II had looked 
like this:
(o)
The O was the hub of the wheel-to-be, hollow in the center. If you were building 
an interplanetary Conestoga wagon that was where you'd put the axle. The long 
lines were the first pair of a proposed twelve spokes of the wheel. The two 
little arcs at the end were all that had been built so far of the outer rim of 
the wheel, the place where people would live and work.
Today it looked like this:
 
Four more spokes finished, and two separate portions of wheel arc. Each spoke 
was five hundred miles long. Each arc had reached a length of about six hundred 
miles. It looked like the project was half through but it was actually further 
along than that. You learn as you go, and getting started was much tougher than 
getting finished. They expected to wrap the whole thing in ten more years. That 
is about half a mile of rim every day. Don't ask me how they do it. I've stood 
at Edge City and watched the work, and I still don't know.
Oddly, a thousand-mile wheel turning once an hour produced just about the 0.4 
gravity the engineers had in mind. From Luna, with a decent telescope, you could 
tell time by Oberon II. And since the diameter was one thousand miles the 
circumference was &#960; thousand miles: 3,141.592654 miles. That led to the first of 
a long line of disparaging nicknames during the early construction: Pi in the 
Sky. But nobody was laughing now.
* * *
"Yeah, whaddaya want?"
"Is this the computerized answering service of Oberon National?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"I got a problem with your tone of voice."
"Fuck you. You dialed the aggressive-response number. Hold on, asshole, I'll 
connect you with obsequious response, if that's all you can handle. Good 
afternoon! I hope I can be of service.
I took a deep breath. Folks, is modern science wonderful, or what?
"Checking for an account in the name of Elmer Prettywillie."
"I am so sorry. We carry no such account."
"Then surely you've heard of S. Quentin Quale."
"I am devastated to inform you that I've made no such acquaintance."
"Well, you must know Linus Spaulding. Captain Linus Spaulding."
"Well... There is an account for the Linus Pauling Foundation."
"I'll bet it's right next to Jake's Clams. No, Spaulding. Captain Spaulding. The 
African explorer."
"Quel dommage. I am devastated."
Christ. When programmers have nothing better to do, they dick around with stuff 
like that. And what's worse, people use them. I'm told it got started with 
cutesy answering machine messages, back at the dawn of the Electronic Age. I 
wish it had stayed there.
* * *
If I were an extraterrestrial tour guide bringing a shipload of Betelgeusan 
caterpillar people for five days and four nights in the quaint little Sol 
System, I'd put Oberon II and its environs in the top-three places of Things to 
See.
Actually, maybe it would look like a primitive log cabin to the caterpillar 
people. Maybe they'd want to swap beads and trinkets and planet-busting bombs 
for our native handicrafts or buy a few million slaves. But for my money, you 
can't beat the Uranian system.
Uranus has rings. Nothing like the gaudy gold bands around Saturn, but 
impressive in their own, more subdued glory. And because the axis of Uranus is 
so far askew from the plane of the other planets, you get a great bull's-eye 
view of them as you approach.
Uranus has moons. Five major ones, all different colors, all showing a disk as 
you move closer. Then dozens and dozens of smaller ones, looking like very 
bright stars.
Uranus has Oberon II, which I've already described, but which cannot be easily 
grasped unless you have seen it grow from an odd X in the sky into the most 
outrageous object mankind has yet built. The hub alone is larger than anything 
else man-made in space.
Uranus has Oberon I, the original moon. If you are lucky, your ship can come 
very close to it on the way in, and it looks wrong. Red-orange streaked with 
black and light brown and cream, it looks like a family-size pepperoni, black 
olive, and anchovy pizza, the sort that might be delivered to a family living at 
the top of a beanstalk. But they've already been eating it. A hundred years ago 
Oberon was reasonably round. Not anymore. Great gouges have been torn from it, a 
hundred miles wide and deep. Oberon is being cannibalized to provide the raw 
materials for building Oberon II. Down there on its surface Oberon has become a 
vision of hell, with mining robots the size of ocean liners chomping their way 
through veins of ore, and with plants transmuting stuff we don't need into stuff 
we can't do without. The dark side is aglow with the terrible fires of these 
operations. They plan to use it all up, every grain of sand, and then move on to 
Ariel. But most of all, Uranus has tailings.
For the first century after the Invasion, there was little of organized 
government beyond the orbit of Mars. There were plenty of people. Just no 
government. Very few rules other than the ones you enforced yourself, and such 
rules tend to be only things that matter to you as an individual. And only those 
things that matter to you now. The environs of Uranus and Neptune were settled 
and developed by the rough-and-ready breed that always gravitates to the 
frontier. On Earth there were gold miners, buffalo hunters, trappers, and 
eventually farmers when the frontier was the American West. Later, in the 
Brazilian rain forests, it was lumbermen, miners, then slash-and-burn farmers. 
All of them despoiled the environment. There was nobody to tell them not to, and 
besides, there were zillions of square miles of wilderness. What's all the fuss 
about, amigo?
At Uranus, it was miners. I'm sure they'd heard of the environmental disasters 
of Old Earth, but why should they worry about that? There were no buffalo to be 
driven to extinction, no native peoples to evict and practice genocide on, no 
tropical forests to turn into arid Saharas. There's nothing out here but rock, 
Lord love you! How can even the most rapacious businessman fuck up a rock?
The answer was obvious, even when the destruction was going on, so nobody 
mentioned it, or if they did, they were sure no problems would be evident for 
thousands of years. The reality took less than fifty. Finally the mining 
companies were losing so many ships that something had to be done. They changed 
their mining practices, but that was far from enough.
Tailings, as defined on Old Earth, was that monstrous pile of crap you can see 
sitting beside the ore refineries in old photographs. Tailings was what you had 
left after you'd taken out what you were digging for. In gold and diamond mines, 
that could be 99.9% of what you dug up. But ugly as it was, on Earth, when you 
were through with a bucket of rock, the tailings just sat there, seldom harming 
anybody. The big deal was the air pollution produced by the refining process, or 
the contamination of water that ran off the pile of waste. At Uranus, and 
Neptune, things were different.
Don't imagine this mining was done by grizzled old desert rats leading space 
donkeys at the end of a rope, pickaxes in hand. You think mining, you visualize 
either that, or men with soot-blackened faces riding a cart down the shaft of a 
coal mine. The reality of mining back on Old Earth was usually different from 
that. There was strip mining, in which the topsoil and everything else was 
scraped away with bulldozers until the coal seam was reached. There was placer 
mining, which involved leveling fair-sized mountains with streams of 
high-pressure water. And there was open pit mining, which depended on blasting 
away entire cliffs of virgin rock. The easiest, quickest, cheapest way to mine 
the Uranian moons was by blasting. They used plastic for the smaller veins, 
mini-nukes for the major digging.
Because of the negligible surface gravity of even the largest moons, each of 
these explosions hurled thousands, millions of rocks into space. The rocks 
varied from no larger than a grain of sand up to some fairly hefty boulders. Up 
into the sky and... gone. They never fell back to the ground. Some ended up in 
orbit around one of the moons, others took up every variety of orbit around 
Uranus itself. The mining companies had no problem with this. Every chunk of 
useless rock that achieved escape velocity was a chunk of rock that wouldn't 
have to be shoved out of the way to get to the valuable ores. It just vanished 
into the blackness, and good riddance.
Actually, no. The stuff was gone, but far from forgotten.
A certain small percentage of debris achieved Uranus-escape velocity, and could 
more or less be ignored. An even smaller portion went solar-escape, and was even 
less of a worry. But the great bulk of all that junk took up orbits that 
crisscrossed the space lanes from every direction, and usually at an alarming 
relative speed. A grain of dust could leave a pit the size of your fist in the 
foam insulation that covered the hulls of most ships. Something the size of a 
pea could ruin your whole day, punching right through the thin skin and entering 
the life support or engine as a burst of blue-hot plasma. With luck, you might 
have time to patch and repair. Anything bigger than an apple might as well be an 
atomic bomb.
There were an estimated six hundred trillion apples in orbit around Uranus and 
its major moons. That sounds horrific until you realize the Uranian system is 
about fourteen quintillion cubic miles. That's one apple for each twenty-two 
thousand cubic milesone heck of a lot of nothing, with a rock lurking 
somewhere. Which sounds great, until you realize that's a cube only twenty-eight 
miles on a side. Now add in the fact that most ships are themselves several 
miles long, quite a large target, and on approach and departure will pass 
through many millions of cubes that size. If that doesn't make you squirrelly, 
nothing will.
Not to worry. Sparky's on the job!
The Oberon Chamber of Commerce and Tourist Bureau claims that, left to itself, 
the situation would result in one major hit for every ten thousand trips. That 
figure is in great dispute, but it really doesn't matter, since the situation 
has not been left to itself. Each ship that enters this solar pinball field 
carries good radar and good lasers, and fries an average of six rocks on the 
trip in and out. Most of those would, of course, never have troubled the ship, 
but ship's captains hate tailings with a mighty passion. They never let one go.
This would actually be enough to reduce ship/tailings encounters to one every 
few decades. But it's not enough for the Oberoni, who hate tailings even more 
than captains do. For one thing, they are a hazard to the great structure of 
Oberon II. For another, they give the system a terrible black eye in the minds 
of the traveling public, one hit per decade or not. So the Great Wheel bristles 
with radars and lasers, which clear a thousand rocks an hour... or was that per 
second? Go look it up. It's a bunch.
And that's still not enough for the fifteen moons of the Uranian League: Oberon, 
Titania, Umbriel, Ariel, Miranda, Peasblossom, Cobweb, Mustardseed, Pyramus, 
Thisbe, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Moth. (I once met a fellow who hailed 
from Bottom; he said his people called themselves Bottom-dwellers, but the 
neighbors, naturally, referred to them as Assholes. I always wondered what 
inhabitants of Snug and Snout were called.) The League aims to clean up the 
system in a few centuries, and their main weapon is a genengineered cyborg 
critter called a snark.
You're unlikely to see a snark during your trip to Uranus. Though they number in 
the billions, they're not very big and they cover a lot of space. (Spacers 
believe sighting one is very bad luck.) But they all look like lengths of pipe, 
ranging from a few feet long up to about fifty feet. They have gossamer "wings" 
that they spread to soak up solar radiation. They have radar eyes and a system 
that generates gas for propulsion: hydrogen + oxygen = bang! They survive on a 
meager diet of ice and rock, which they get by dipping into the rings. They are 
alive, semi-intelligent, self-reproducing, and their mission in life is to 
destroy tailings. They drift, ever-alert, conserving their strength by using 
their thrusters only at orbital points where it can be used most economically, 
like eagles soaring on a desert thermal. When they spot a rock, they vaporize 
it.
Like most perfect solutions, the snarks revealed a few problems not long after 
they were let loose. One toasted a group of seven spacedivers during the first 
month postrelease. A viral program had to be devised and broadcast on the 
wavelength they used to talk to one another, making sure they only attacked 
objects smaller than a basketball. Anything larger would be reported to human 
agencies which would track it down and dispose of it.
And a few decades after that they began showing up at Neptune, Saturn, Jupiter, 
all the related Trojan points, and the asteroid belt, where they were about as 
welcome as rabbits in Australia. But they did no real harm.
I mention all this for two reasons. One is that, during the fifth season, Sparky 
found an injured snark and nursed him back to health. B.J. the Snark became one 
of the most beloved members of the Gang, along with Toby the Dog, sometimes 
outselling Sparky in action-figure totals. Of course, B.J. had a friendly 
facereal snarks have nothing that looks like a faceand had no trouble flying 
around inside municipal pressure, which would have made a real snark helpless as 
a butterfly in a blender.
The other reason is to explain the glorious, continuous fireworks show 
surrounding Oberon II as my ship began her final approach. The black sky was 
alive with a thousand points of scintillating light, light that was all the 
colors of the spectrograph as the mostly sand-sized particles were vaporized, 
announcing their chemical composition in their final seconds, to anyone with the 
knowledge to read the colors.
I didn't have that knowledge, but who cares?
It was even more beautiful than I remembered it.
* * *
"Is this Hank's Bank?"
"Yes, you have"
"Automated answering service?"
"That's right, you have"
"Looking for an account in the name of Otis B. Driftwood."
"We have no"
"Cleopatra Pepperday?"
"We have no"
"T. Frothingwell Bellows?"
"We have no"
"So long."
Three more down. It was looking like a losing proposition.
* * *
I wish I could say I had time, leisure, and the temperament to enjoy the 
approach to Oberon II. If you don't like fireworks, there are also the 
holoboards, which we started picking up while still a thousand miles out. Miles 
on a side, they trumpet the allures of the big hotels and casinos and shows, 
with more glitter per square foot than anyplace since Old Las Vegas.
In reality, I had only two things on my mind. My stomach, and my bowels.
I had been awake almost continuously for the previous week, having stretched the 
deadballs as far as I could. I had grown a beard, and my toenails looked like 
pruning hooks. There are 168 hours in a standard week. Ten thousand minutes. I 
had spent every one of them thinking about food.
I had eaten the last of my provisions. I had licked the wrapping paper and 
cardboard, then I ate the cardboard. Then I ate the paper. I chewed on rags, 
hoarded my last ten sticks of chewing gum like some wild-eyed troll at the 
bottom of a well. I hate to admit this, but several times I thought about Toby, 
snuggled safe and warm only a few feet beneath me. I began to wonder if he'd 
taste like chicken.
They say that historical fasters like Gandhi and Hornburg eventually didn't feel 
much in the way of hunger. That's what they say, but you couldn't prove it by 
me. It only got worse, hour by hour, and when I thought it couldn't possibly get 
any worse, it did. Then it got worse again.
There was really only one thing to distract me from my hunger, and that was the 
state of my lower digestive tract. Every ounce of high-nutrition food I'd eaten 
since the trip began was down there now, a bolus about the size and shape of 
Phobos and twice as hard. It was going to take surgery to pass it, I felt sure, 
and the medico had better go in with a sharp pickax and plenty of dynamite.
So pardon me if I sort of skip lightly over the arrival (thousands of ships at 
least as large as mine, floating inside a vast cylinder spangled with the light 
from a billion portholes), the transfer (swarms of robot tugs no bigger than 
park squirrels detaching each cargo pod, reading its destination, then jetting 
off toward the correct bay like ten thousand maniacs charging for a front-row 
seat at a Motomania Show), and my exit from the Pantechnicon and subsequent 
reentry into public pressure (my spine was trying to form some unusual letterQ 
or Z, I thinkand my legs promised never to be straight again). When I could 
walk I looked briefly, with little enthusiasm, at the cargo pod Ukulele Lou had 
rejected at Pluto. All I could determine was that whatever had been inside was 
spoiled, for sure. Then I had to step lively as a big cargobot plucked the 
damaged pod from the line and took it off somewhere, presumably to fill out 
quintuplicate insurance forms. I couldn't pick out the pod Lou had escaped to. 
It might have been delivered to a bay clear on the other side of the hub for all 
I knew. I wished him luck again, and found the exit to public corridors.
Thirty seconds later I was devouring the mother of all hamburgers, the National 
Gall'ry, the Garbo's sal'ry, the Camembert of hamburgers. Actually, it was a 
MacVending 15 Microwave Special, dab of ketchup, dab of mayo, hold the pickle, 
lettuce, purple Bermuda onion, beefsteak tomato, sprouts, mustard, slice of 
Cheddar cheese and everything else you might think of, but by then I was ready 
to lick dried soda pop and crushed peppermints off the auditorium floor... and 
like it. So I shall always treasure that burger.
I ate two more just like it, hurried to the bathroom and threw them all up, went 
back outside, and ate another that seemed likely to stay down. Then I sought out 
the nearest Minute Surgery franchise and had someone take care of the other 
problem. I promised you I would skip over that part, and I will, though I did 
take note of some of the medico's expressions of astonishment and merriment, and 
some of my own caustic replies for possible use in my next Punch and Judy show.
I shall similarly give short shrift to the most glorious meal I have ever eaten. 
I would gladly spend several hours describing it, which is about the time I 
spent eating it, but my powers of description would surely fail me. It was, 
after all, simply good, solid, restaurant food. There were no hummingbird livers 
or ocelot's tongues or jellied kumquat tidbits. Nothing exotic at all, really. A 
big steak and mashed potatoes and corn, stuff like that, followed by most of a 
cherry pie and a pint of ice cream. It wasn't the preparation that made it taste 
so wonderful, it was the special sauce starvation provides. And it didn't take 
three hours to eat because it was a trencherman's groaning board. I just took 
the time to savor every bite. You should try that sometime, though I doubt you 
could ever experience my intense delight unless you'd gone that long without 
eating.
Refueled, reamed out, beginning to feel a reasonable approximation of a human 
being, I found my way to the freight offices and reclaimed the baggage that 
until recently had been my home. I glanced at the telltales that showed Toby was 
alive and well and deflated the dome. Gad! Had I really spent three months in 
there? The air that came whistling out said it had been at least that long. 
Whew! Did I smell like that? Probably.
I'd been meaning to go direct to the elevators, but took the time to check into 
a coin-op shower 'n shave. I came out feeling, if not exactly ready to whip the 
world, at least ready to go a few rounds with it.
* * *
Normally I wouldn't spend much time describing an elevator ride. But on Oberon 
II, nothing is quite like it is on other planets, and elevators are one of the 
most different.
Oh, and I'll drop that "Oberon II" business right now. I quickly realized that, 
in the time I'd been away, Oberon II had become simply, Oberon. What we used to 
call Oberon, the rocky moon, was now called Old Oberon. It made sense. There 
were a few thousand holdouts still living on Old Oberon, and a few tens of 
thousands of demolition miners and so forth, but as the moon began increasingly 
to resemble a rotten apple with big bites taken out of it even those few 
residents would have to move.
I remembered some of the grand old theaters of Old Oberon: the Palace, the 
Olivier, the Streep, the Chicago, and wondered if any of them were still 
standing in the gloomy airless rubble. Not to worry. All of them, and many more, 
plus a great variety of other structures had been plucked bodily out of the path 
of the marauding bulldozers. Most of them were sitting in mothballs at the Ob4 
Trojan point, waiting for enough of the rim to be built to support an historical 
disneyland, the first to re-create a time since the Invasion, to be known as 
(guess what) Old Oberon. If all these New, Old, II, and whatever Oberons have 
you a bit confused, join the club. And don't worry about it.
Elevators. First, stop thinking in terms of a box that opens and closes and 
moves up and down in a shaft. Now, follow me... and watch your step as you 
board, please....
* * *
"The Noon elevator will be departing from Level 20, Concourse B, at 9:00 A.M.," 
the announcer's voice said. "That is in ten minutes' time. The Noon elevator 
will be leaving promptly at nine. All aboard, please."
So already this elevator is different, right? In fact, Noon elevators departed 
every hour on the hour, twenty-four hours a day. Only here, Noon was a 
destination as well as a time. It's a source of great confusion in 
communication, but it's solidly entrenched by now, and the Oberoni don't seem to 
mind it.
The huge partly finished clock face that is Oberon seen from space is the 
original Twelve and Six spokes, Twelve being flanked by spokes going to Eleven 
and to One, Six being between Five and Seven. Got it? The one designated as the 
twelve o'clock position is known as Noon Arc, and the other is Six Arc. People 
from Twelve are called Nooners. People from Six are called Aussies. I don't know 
why.
I boarded with plenty of time to spare, found a seat, and strapped in. I spent 
my time looking out the window until the hatch was sealed. The elevator was only 
half full, on this level, anyway.
The deck under my feet began to flash in pale blue letters: FLOOR FLOOR FLOOR. A 
bell sounded, and I sank gratefully into my chair as the car accelerated. Nice 
to be back in some gravity again.
"All clear," came a voice, and most of the people around me unbuckled and got 
up. So did I. The acceleration was mild, and didn't last for long. It was 
quickly followed by another period of weightlessness. The whole trip would be 
like that.
An elevator moving up and down the spoke of a spinning wheel has some difficult 
engineering feats to accomplish during the journey. During my first trips, when 
the wheel was new and consisted only of Twelve and Six, the elevator car was 
filled with seats mounted on gimbals, so the passengers could swing into any 
attitude, depending on where the force was coming from at the time. This was 
logical, but very boring. Stewards would escort you to and from the bathroom, if 
you were unlucky enough to have to go. I don't even want to try to describe 
those except for one little horror you can ponder at your leisure. Imagine 
standing at the toilet, answering nature's call, when suddenly the stream is 
splashing against the wall, then the ceiling. This happened to me when the 
gimbal got stuck. I imagine it would be even worse for women.
Now they had a new type of car. What it had to do was quickly and smoothly 
adjust to acceleration and deceleration, and to transform itself from a 
weightless environment to a 0.4 gee environment during the length of the trip.
There is no way I could describe all the ingenious dodges the engineers did to 
pull this off. If that was all they did, it would be impressive enough. But the 
car also had to be able to start and stop during the trip, and it had to deal 
with the angular force of Oberon's rotation. Just how this works is far beyond 
me, but you can see how the turning motion of the spoke would result in 
gradually increasing weight. It's called, I think, the Coriolanus Force, though 
why they should name it after him is beyond me. It produces a ride that even 
seasoned spacers sometimes find hard to take.
I was thinking of taking the elevatorthe internal elevatorup to another level 
when the bell sounded again. A wallI was pretty sure it had been the "ceiling" 
when we startedbegan to flash FLOOR FLOOR FLOOR. The wall I was pretty sure had 
been the FLOOR FLOOR FLOOR when I sat down now had no chairs attached to it. I 
couldn't think where they had gone; stolen while my back was turned, no doubt. 
But being only "pretty sure" of one's location and attitude was a common 
experience in zero gee, so I didn't worry about it. I was reassured when chairs 
began sprouting from the new FLOOR FLOOR FLOOR, some of them with sleeping 
people already strapped in. I kicked over to one, turned my feet to touch the 
FLOOR3, and felt the weight return to me gradually. Which meant we were slowing 
down again already, right? Well, it would seem so, but from inside the elevator 
it was hard to tell just what was happening. I felt a moment of nausea when we 
abruptly went weightless againmeaning we were now motionless?and felt that 
superb lunch turn a cartwheel in my stomach. But the urge to purge went away. 
I've always had good space legs.
If you think you have good equilibrium as well, the Noon elevator is a good 
place to give it an acid test. Many a traveler have been humbled by the 
constantly shifting tides of the trip. The Oberoni call the condition 
C-sickness. About a quarter of the passengers were wearing Chuck-O-Laters, 
basically heavy-duty barf bags that strap over your face like a gas mask, with a 
constant suction and replaceable trap. In spite of them and in spite of the 
Herculean efforts of cleaning robots, the Noon elevator always smells faintly of 
vomit.
Soon we were under way againa new FLOOR, with new people sleeping in new 
chairsand I took the elevator up six floors to the casino. That trip was a 
tummy-twister in itself.
What a delightful place the casino was. I've seen craps played in 
weightlessness, and in one-sixth gee, and 0.4 gee. But never had I seen craps 
tables and roulette wheels that had to quickly change from one state to the 
other. The place was a blur of motion and a haze of smoke and flashing lights, 
and it seemed every ten minutes or so it would all reorient itself, the 
croupiers would put away the gravity dice and wheels and break out the zero-gee 
stuff. It was fascinating to watch. Soon I was hopelessly disoriented, but it 
hardly seemed to matter.
I spent the next hour on a tour of the various levels. There were staterooms, 
sleeping berths, six restaurants, a carnival and game rooms for children, an 
infirmary, and movie theaters. No pool, though. The Oberoni engineers were not 
quite up to that one. And no legitimate stage.
The trip is five hundred miles. The elevator makes it in an average of five 
hours. It would do it a lot faster but for the constant stops and starts needed 
to avoid collision with the spiders. I wanted to see one. A steward told me they 
usually encountered one close enough to see, and directed me to the forward 
observation bubble. It was the first place I'd been to that gave me a clear view 
of the massive spoke itself, like a column of ice five miles thick. It dwindled 
in the distance, where the wide, bright band of the Noon Arc could be seen. A 
single rail mounted on the outside of the spoke was our guideline. To each side 
of it I could see huge pipes, wires, and mysterious structures, but never enough 
of them to spoil the clean, perfect line of the spoke itself, pure and pristine 
as the swooping cable of a suspension bridge.
I knew the cable was not made of ice, but that's what it looked like. Bright 
white in color, with a dull surface, crisscrossed with thousands of lines like 
ice-skater's tracks on a measureless rink.
Spider silk. Trillions and trillions of strands of spiderweb.
That was the breakthrough that had enabled the building of Oberon II. They had 
found a way to produce massive quantities of the strongest material known to 
man. As it so often turns out to be, the solution was obvious.
Build a bigger spider.
We stopped several times during the first hour, for no reason I or anyone else 
in the dome could see. I was starting to get discouraged, because I knew the 
largest spiders never went to the high-gee environments from about a third of 
the way down the spoke. Lower than that and their legs could not support the 
weight of their bodies.
"Some of the first experiments on animals in weightlessness were done on 
spiders," someone to my left said. I turned to look at her. She had not been in 
that chair when I sat down. Believe me, I would have noticed.
"Is that right?"
"Back in the twentieth century," she said. "They wanted to find out if they'd 
spin webs in zero-gee." She was lovely. Heart-shaped face, green eyes, a slender 
figure.
"Did they?" I asked.
"They built very strange webs."
"Not as strange as this one, I'll bet."
"Probably not. My name is Poly." She held out her hand, and I took it.
"No kidding? I knew a Polly, once."
"And don't mention Polly and Sparky, from that old kids' show. Everybody does 
that. It's short for Polyhymnia."
I admit I was taken aback for a moment, but her expression told me she had no 
idea who she was talking to. Boy, couldn't I have given her a shock? But I 
quickly recalled the name on the passport I was usingone I had paid good money 
for in the back alleys of Pluto. So she'd never know.
"I'm Trevor," I said. "Trevor Howard."
"And I'm just Polyhymnia, for now," she said.
"That name rings a bell...."
"One of the Muses."
"I was going to say Graces."
"There are only three of them. There are nine Muses."
"So you come from a large family?"
She laughed. "Only four, so far. But you're right, we're all named for Muses. 
Mother thought we should get into the arts."
"Polyhymnia must be a singer," I ventured.
"Sacred song, to be exact."
"And are you?"
"Not hymns. But music is my racket."
I made a sour face. "That one's old as the hills."
"So's that expression. Where are these hills, anyway?"
"Don't ask me. I'm from Luna."
There was a little more banter like this. Basically we were both trying to 
decide if a temporary berth was in order, neither in too big a hurry to make up 
our minds. I learned she was a violinist.
"With an orchestra?"
"Someday. Right now I mostly work in the theater pit. Utility string hacker. But 
I'm available for square dances, too."
"You're in the theater? That's great. I've spent some time on the stage, 
myself."
"You know, I thought your face looked vaguely familiar. Maybe you were in a show 
I played in. We don't get much chance to look at the actors, you know. Our backs 
are usually to them, and we're down so low."
"It's possible," I said, dubiously. "But this is my first trip to Oberon in 
about twenty years."
"I guess not, then. I've never been out of the system."
We were hedging around the issue of age. It's not polite to ask, and for my 
money, it's not good form to let it bother you. In this era when not many people 
look much over thirty, some of us are better than others at estimating. I'm 
usually pretty good, and I had her pegged for mid-twenties, both from body 
attitudes and gestures and from the fact that she was looking to climb up the 
ladder in the music world. After you've reached sixty or so, you stop thinking 
things are going to change a great deal.
A difference of seventy-five years can be a problem, if you let it be. I try not 
to let it. If she was fifty or so, there would be no generation gap. After the 
fifties, we're all more or less in the same generation.
I asked her where she lived and she said Six Arc. But her job was at Eleven, 
Wednesday through Sunday. It meant sleeping on a sofa at a friend's place and a 
twice-weekly twelve-hour commute.
"I've got a cute little apartment at Seven," she said, "but I only see it on my 
days off. With the housing situation the way it is, I don't dare give it up. To 
go to work I have to take a light train to Six, catch the Six elevator, the hub 
shuttle to the Noon elevator, down to Noon, and a heavy train to Eleven. The 
actual distance from my home to my job, as the vacuum-breathing crow would fly, 
is only about eight hundred miles. The route I take is about fifteen hundred 
miles. The Rim Express does the trip in forty minutes, but who can afford that?
This all had my head spinning a bit, to tell the truth. I finally had to sit 
down, later, and sketch it out. Draw a clock with only eleven, twelve, and one 
at the top, and five, six, seven on the bottom. Forget about the hands; the 
clock itself is turning. Clockwise. A train moving against the spin is a light 
train, since the faster it goes the lighter you feel. A heavy train is one 
moving spinward, with the spin, thus adding its velocity to the speed of the 
turning wheel. You get heavy. When the wheel is finished all but the most local 
trains will travel antispinward. No trip will be longer than about forty-five 
minutes.
"Aren't there elevators from Seven and Eleven"
"And One and Five?" she finished for me. "It would save me a few minutes of 
travel time, but it doesn't make sense, economically. Elevators will be built on 
Three and Nine spokes, when they're finished. On that great, glorious day. 
Golden Spike Day. Buy your tickets now."
"Golden Spike?"
"After the American Transcontinental Railroad. They drove a golden spike where 
the trains from the east met the rails from the west. Besides, there's not a 
whole lot of commuters like me. Not a whole lot of traffic at all between the 
Sixers and the Mad Dogs."
Feeling a little like a straight man, I said, "Mad Dogs?"
"Sure. They aren't Englishmen, and they go out in the Noonday sun."
"I get it."
"They call us Aussies, after the old penal colony back on Earth."
"I get the feeling there's not a lot of love lost there."
She made a dismissive gesture. "Most of the government is at Noon. The bulk of 
white-collar workers live there, bureaucrats, agencies. Six is more 
working-class. They say the two arcs are growing apart, politically and 
culturally. We're already as different as Mirandans and Arielites. Before long 
we're going to be as distinct as East and West Germans were, hundreds of years 
ago, before they reunified.
I had no idea what she was talking about, but rather than pipe up with 
"Germans?" I just nodded my head wisely. That usually works, and it did this 
time, too, with a little help from a spider the size of a brontosaurus.
The elevator slowed to a stop again, and when our chairs reoriented themselves 
we could see something large and black in the distance.
"It's a D-9 Motherspinner," Poly said, pointing at it.
"That's the big ones, right? I mean, I hope so. I don't like to think of an 
animal much bigger than that." She nodded, and we watched it approach our 
capsule.
It was hard at first to make out just what I was seeing, or to realize how huge 
it really was. It's always a problem in space, with no references. Here, the 
reference points I could see were already so outlandish in size that at first it 
seemed the arachnid was really no larger than a big horse. Then it got closer. 
Oh, my, an elephant, maybe? Then it got closer again, and the light got a little 
better. Jesus, at least a brontosaurus.
The captain of our elevator (that still sounds weird to me, like the general of 
our sidewalk) threw a light on it for us. It didn't help as much as you'd think, 
because the creature was such a deep, perfect shiny black. Its carapace didn't 
reflect light so much as it reflected highlights, like chrome trim. I'm sure you 
could shave by looking at its skin.
"Vacuum-proof, of course," Poly said. "It has some beetle genes in it."
"Right," I said. "Cross a beetle with a battleship, and there you go."
"My father works a D-9," she said, proudly, pointing at something on the bug's 
back.
"My god!" I said. "That's a man. Is that your father?"
"No, he works on the new Eight spoke, just getting started on that one. And 
that's not Miss Dixie."
It took me a moment to realize she was talking about her father's D-9 
Motherspinner. I was still taken aback by the man riding the eight-legged 
behemoth. Until that moment I had not known they were piloted.
"Miss Dixie," I muttered.
"All Motherspinners are female," Poly said.
And those who ride 'em, much braver than I, I decided.
The rider was in a pressurized box, like a howdah strapped to the back of an 
elephant. It was mounted behind the basketball-sized eyes and in front of the 
giant black sphere of her abdomen. He looked like the operator of a big crane or 
shovel, and that wasn't too far off the mark. He pulled levers and turned 
pulleys in a competent, businesslike way, and the spider turned or moved 
forward.
"The driver doesn't run the legs," Poly told me. "He steers, gets her where she 
needs to go, then stops her and lets the spinning begin."
The closest I saw in a reference book, much later, was the black widow spider. I 
don't know if she had a red hourglass under her belly or not, but Poly said she 
definitely was not a black widow. She was a cross between many web-weaving 
species, with a lot of made-to-order genes stuck in there to make her do the 
sort of weaving the engineers wanted: a thousand-mile web anchored only at the 
center, precisely opposite of what most weaving spiders would naturally do.
"The D-9s don't weave," Poly said. "They sit in one spot and start extruding 
silk, and smaller spiders grab those and start running with them. She can put 
out thousands of miles of silk at one sitting. He's probably positioning her for 
that right now."
The spider started moving, off our rail and to one side. The driver waved at us 
as he went by, and then the elevator started moving again. I got a last glimpse 
of the thousands of spinnerets on her underbelly. Behind her, very close to the 
cable itself, was what looked like a tide of black ink.
"D-3s," Poly told me. With horror, I realized the tide was a million "small" 
spiders, no bigger than a collie dog.
I'm not overly fond of any animal without fur. I don't like spiders at all. I 
listened with half an ear as Poly told me more than I wanted to know about the 
sex life, diet, pedigree, care of, and general all-around good social standing 
of ninety-ton arachnids. When she was a girl, she used to go to the "stables" 
and her father let her hand-feed Miss Dixie. A vision straight out of Dante, for 
my money. What did she feed the beast? Sugar cubes? Dead cattle? Giant 
house-flies? I didn't ask. Then something she said made me sit up straight.
"Here, now," I said. "You say this spider was here to patch up the spoke? You're 
talking about the spoke that my own very precious body is currently dangling 
from? The spoke I was led to believe was strong enough to support three Noon 
Arcs if it had to? This is the spoke that spider is fixing?"
She laughed, but I was only partly in jest. Who wants to be dangling at the end 
of a rope over the Grand Canyon like The Perils of Pauline and then see the rope 
start to fray? Not me.
"I didn't say patching up. I said 'strengthening.' One reason it could support 
three times what it's called on to support is that we keep alert and ahead of 
any deterioration. Computers figure it out, naturally. The thing is, the 
stresses on the web are greater during construction than they will be when the 
rim is complete. Then it'll settle into a state of constant, easy-to-predict 
stress. We'll need only about one percent of the spiders we use today."
Maybe so, I thought, but it struck me that moving into this damn thing before it 
was finished might not be such a hot idea. I mean, would you move a chair and a 
television into an apartment where they were still blasting the kitchen and 
bedroom out of rock?
And another odd thought. What would happen to those other ninety-nine spiders 
when the wheel was complete? If their drivers were sentimental enough to name 
the monsters, would they be eager to see them tossed on a scrap heap? And don't 
forget about the animal-rights lunatics. Scarcely a flea can be poisoned in Luna 
without triggering a march. Think what a lobby these critters would have.
Not to worry. I later learned the surviving D-9s (whose life span was not known) 
would be moved to the Ariel II project.
I was about to make my move on Poly when she headed me off at the pass.
"I was going up to the casino for a while," she said. "Would you like to go with 
me?"
No, but I'd like to... strike that. I gave her a rueful smile.
"One thing my daddy taught me well," I said. "Never gamble. And I never do."
"I was thinking of going to one of the card tables, play a little five-card 
draw."
"Poker?" I said. "Why didn't you say so? Lead the way."
* * *
I lost a small amount, and by the fifth hand I realized she was working with one 
of the other players. He looked to be about her age, and had a bad habit of 
tinkering with his ring that a really alert house would have quickly spotted. 
But there was no house here, except for the two percent they automatically 
extracted from each pot: table rental, basically. Few casinos make much money 
from the card tables. Apparently once you were seated and had your chips in 
front of you, the house didn't care if you telegraphed your intentions to your 
partner by farting in Morse code, so long as the other players didn't object. 
None of the other four had any idea what was going on.
By the tenth hand I had their system figured out, and I took them for several 
hundred dollars. By the fifteenth hand they knew I was onto them, so I cashed in 
my chips and winked at the guy as I left. I went up a level and ordered a drink 
and took it to a window seat. The Coriolanus Force was coming from a steep angle 
now, "down" was somewhere between a perpendicular to the spoke and another to 
the rim. The elevator accommodated this by turning the cable-side FLOOR into a 
series of three-foot-wide steps. It made everything look a little cockeyed. The 
row of windows I was looking through, for instance, had been horizontal when I 
first saw this deck. Now they were at a thirty-degree angle to my internal 
"level." Don't worry about it if you can't visualize it. I had to see a computer 
model of it before I got it straight in my head.
"How long did it take you to catch on to us?" Poly said, placing her drink on 
the table beside mine, sitting beside me. (The glasses? Magnetic bases with 
clear glass hemispheres mounted on little gimbals. Turn them upside down and 
nothing would spill. In zero gee a top snapped over the liquid automatically and 
you sipped through a straw.)
"You guys weren't bad at all," I told her, fudging a little. She wasn't bad. He 
was playing with fire. "Don't ever get in a rough game, for high stakes. Your 
boyfriend might not make it out alive."
"His name is Brian, and he's not my boyfriend."
"No?"
"A classmate and violin rehearsal partner. We're really terrible, aren't we?"
"Don't play with the big boys," I reemphasized.
She shrugged. "It was just for fun. Kind of exciting, but we never took very 
much money. We didn't want to make anybody suspicious."
"You win enough, somebody at the table's gonna be suspicious. Make sure he 
doesn't catch you in anything. Make him have to prove it. The other players'll 
back you, usually."
"What if they don't?"
"Make sure you're sitting close to the door. Not in front of it, not with your 
back to it. Then hope, if you're cornered, that the weapon you brought to the 
table is better than the ones they brought."
"You carry a weapon to a poker game?" She looked excited at the idea.
"Always."
"What's the best one?"
"The sense not to sit down with killers."
"That's not a weapon."
"Depends on how you employ it. It's the best one I know." And the one I've used 
the least, I added, dolefully, to myself.
She cocked her head the way self-confident, lovely young girls do, girls who 
haven't suffered much yet. A girl who is trying to decide if you are a pearl in 
her oyster or just sand in her clam.
"You've been around a bit, haven't you?" she asked.
"Here and there."
"I've never been off Oberon. It sounds like an exciting way to live."
"You mean professional gambling?"
"You said you never gamble."
"Poker's not gambling. And I'm not a professional. It's too exciting a way to 
make a living." This was true, though over the years I've played here and there, 
depending on my circumstances and the qualifications of the other players. (Who 
do you want to play with? Rich people, people who won't miss it, and who fancy 
themselves card sharks.)
"May I ask how old you are?" she said.
I put my hand behind her neck and drew her to my lips. She didn't seem to 
object. When I broke away a little, she was smiling.
"Old enough to know a gentlewoman never asks that question."
"Who said I was gentle?"
* * *
She was, though. Quite gentle when she wanted to be. Something else entirely 
when sterner measures took her fancy.
"Hello. Uh... is this..."
"Oberon Mutual?" the voice said, helpfully.
"Uh... yes." Had I called them already? It seemed I'd been living a tape loop, 
the same conversation over and over.
"Do you have an account for... T. Frothingwell Bellows?"
"I'm sorry, we do not."
They'd never heard of Woolchester Cowperthwaite Fields or Elwood Dunk, either. I 
looked at the little handset phone, and rubbed my ear, which felt hot and 
sweaty. Maybe I ought to get one of those implanted phones, like the huge 
majority of my fellow citizens. I'd had to ask for this handset at the front 
desk; they no longer put phones in rooms.
Ah, but the key word was "citizen." I was not a citizen, except in the narrow, 
textbook meaning of one who resides, or someone born in a certain administrative 
district. Citizens didn't break the law. It seemed, these days, that I couldn't 
help breaking three or four laws before breakfast.
If I ever started thinking of myself as a citizen, I was sure arrest would 
follow within days.
I put the phone down, along with any thought of having Big Brother's favorite 
listening device implanted in my head. I picked up the pack of reefer I'd bought 
at the drugstore downstairs, withdrew a yellow paper cylinder, and struck it. As 
I drew in the smoke I moseyed over to the big window and stood looking out over 
the city of Noon.
I guess you had to call it a city. It was a big clump of tall buildings, like 
you'd see on Old Earth or Mars. Everywhere else cities are underground, defined 
by internal space, "cubic," not by external walls. Surface cities are defined by 
buildings, crisscrossed by open-topped streets, speckled with parks and 
fountains and many other things, all open to the sky. It can produce agoraphobia 
in people raised underground.
But after you'd called it a city, you had to add that it was like no city ever 
seen on Earth or Mars. These buildings were not anchored on bedrock; everything 
below them was man-made for about two or three hundred feet, then there was 
nothing but vacuum in the basements. You'll have to put the rec room somewhere 
else, Dad.
The realization that the buildings did not have to be tied to something as 
stable as a planetary crust had quickly sunk in among the Oberoni architectural 
community, and it had liberated them. Or driven them crazy, depending on who you 
talked to. Liberated architects, men and women with a newfound freedom to 
explore, a new Zeitgeist, if you will, can create a Parthenon on the one hand, 
and a Bauhaus on the other.
The revolution that had produced Noon City and the several other clumps of 
madness on the rim of Oberon was the realization that they need not be tied 
down. In fact, it was better if they weren't. The construction of the wheel in 
the early stages had often required the shifting of large masses up to several 
miles to maintain balance with the opposite arc. Instead of wasting their time 
building big blocks of nothing, the engineers had made buildings on rails. If 
the wheel started to wobble a little, by golly, why they'd just get a few 
skyscrapers in gear and motor on down the road.
I told you the Oberoni were different.
And then, since you were literally building everything, first building the 
ground, then building from the ground up, and since the rails were already in 
place, why not utilize the long-established efficiencies of the production line? 
Why not build all the structures in one spot and roll them to where you wanted 
them? Build your city like Henry Ford built Model Ts.
Now, old Henry was famous for saying you could have a car in any color you 
wanted, as long as it was black. Applying that rule here, the Oberoni might have 
come up with a monumentally drab and depressing place ("Hey, Charley, got an 
order here for half a dozen thirty-five-story Neo-Leninist apartment monads by 
next Thursday. Do they get a discount for a six-pack?").
It never happened, mostly because construction on the wheel began at the height 
of a trend we're all familiar with: Custom Construction. Remember when no two 
washing machines looked alike? When it was a mark of your rejection of "herd 
values," and "urban sameness," and "standardized thought" to own only items that 
reflected your unique persona? How it became necessary to own a washing machine 
that was at least as unique as the Joneses' washing machine? The guts of the 
machines were identical, of course, since the job of mixing water and soap and 
clothes and then drying them could only be done in a certain small number of 
ways. But the surface, that was the point! Computers could design you a machine 
that looked like no other machine on the block. And ditto for bicycles, and 
hockey sticks, and living-room carpet, and popcorn poppers. I don't need to look 
at the serial number, Jack. That goddamn ice bucket is mine!
It was hell on thieves and fences while it lasted.
Luckily, society moved on to another fashion in about twenty years. But once you 
start customizing buildings, things that are designed to last several hundred 
years, it hardly makes sense to stop. What are you going to do? Park your new 
boxy glass monstrosity next to a structure that looks like a butterfly on the 
back of a turtle? There goes the neighborhood.
On Oberon, if you don't like the neighborhood, so the saying goes, just wait 
half an hour.
New buildings went up amazingly fast. They were all designed and built, on the 
Noon Arc, anyway, at a place calledI'm not making this upSquiggle City. 
Supposedly an architect brought his four-year-old daughter in to work one day. 
Playing with her crayons, the kid produced the kind of picture a child that age 
will. Squiggles. The drawing got into the production line by accident and 
alakazam! Three days later it rolls off the line, ready to be lived in by some 
seriously deranged people. One of those urban legends that probably isn't true 
but ought to be.
It struck me as confusing enough already. But when the wheel was complete, 
people like Poly could probably just wait awhile, and their commuting problems 
would be solved. Unless those snobby Mad Dogs threw up some sort of zoning 
barriers against those folks from the other side of the tracks. Did you see the 
building that moved in next door last night, Marge? Well! Don't they know that 
their sort aren't welcome here? Somebody should do something, really! I mean, 
I'm as tolerant as the next person, but would you want one to subdivide with 
your sister?
So the view from my window was a marvelous one, but not one I could really 
describe. Many, many big structures, a few that actually resembled things you've 
seen in other cities, or in history books. I'd send you a postcard, but by the 
time it got to you everything would have changed.
Not quick as a wink, you realize. This was no Cross-Crisium Dash here. No need 
to fasten one's seat belt. If they did race these things (and one day someone 
will, you can count on it) you wouldn't need a high-speed camera at the finish 
line. Any garden-variety snail would give the Othello Hotel a run for its money. 
No, what happened was, you'd look out the window and nothing would happen. Your 
mind would tend to wander, and then you realize that you can't find that 
green-and-yellow mushroom-shaped apartment house that was there just a minute 
ago. Did it slide behind the Criminal Courts Building?
Quite a view. And I was paying well for it, too.
The Othello was a reincarnation of an Old Oberon hotel I had stayed at in my 
salad days. It was taller, and more modern, and most of the character of the 
original had been retained. The theme was Hollywood Moorish: guys in bloomers 
and turbans, girls in translucent harem pants and veils. They'd brought most of 
Rick's Casablanca over intact, including the famous long wood bar where many 
celebrities had carved their names.
I had a suite on the fortieth floor that was costing me a fortune. Normally I 
wouldn't stay at a place this posh, but I had figured out that if I was to come 
up with the money for passage to Luna in time for rehearsals, I was going to 
have to run some sort of scam. For that you need a front, and you can't put on a 
front if you're staying in a rattrap. But for it to be cost-effective the scheme 
would have to be run during the next seven days, or the suite would no longer be 
cost-effective. In short, I'd be tapped out.
Ah, but what a magnificent echo of the good old days it was! I waded through the 
deep carpet to the bedroom door. Poly was stretched out facedown, nude, snoring 
softly. Her bare feet hung just over the edge of the bed. Her legs were slightly 
apart, pointing at me. There was something to be said for the idea of pitching a 
tent in this very spot, spending the next three or four days just looking at 
her. Put up one of those tourist guideposts: A KODAK VIEWPOINT! TAKE SNAPVID 
PICS HERE!
We'd spent a pleasant hour in the Olympic-size spa pool, doing laps, playing 
hide the soap. Then we'd retired to this huge bed for some serious fornication. 
She'd been fascinated by my reversible willie. Young, so young. But very eager 
to learn. For that matter, she did a little teaching herself. When she finally 
got done with the violin lesson I felt better than I had for the best part of a 
year. And I'd learned a little about her very special brand of bluegrass 
fiddling.
Now she was asleep, and the temptation to pounce on her again was almost 
unbearable. But it seemed best to let her sleep a bit longer. I pulled the 
bedroom door shut gently, and went back to my telephoning. Or I tried to. When I 
picked it up and put it to my ear, ready to say the number, it started speaking 
to me.
"Stop your evil ways before it is too late," someone said.
And I did a B-picture take: holding the phone out in front of me, peering down 
at it with a frown. That's how cliches become cliches, folks.
"Who is this?"
"Would you believe... the voice of your conscience?"
My next logical step would be to hurl the offending appliance across the room. 
But that voice sounded familiar. So I rummaged around in my old scripts and came 
up with another stale line.
"What are you doing on my telephone? Go away, right now."
"I'll never go away," said the voice. "You used to know the way of 
righteousness, but you strayed. Now all the bad things you've done are coming 
back to haunt you. Ha-ha-ha-HAH-ha! Ha-ha-ha-HAH-ha!"
I felt all the malenky little hairs on my body stand on end. It was my voice. 
That is, the voice of Sparky, which I hadn't used in seventy years.
"Elwood, this is you, isn't it?" Hell, I know I'm crazy, but I'm functional. 
When I hear voices, there's always a body to go with them. Elwood had never 
phoned me before, and I didn't like what it might mean if he was starting now.
But Elwood had never shown any talent at altering his voice, either.
"Who is Elwood?" The voice no longer sounded like me. It hadn't at first, 
either. It was only the line about things coming back to haunt me that had 
sounded like Sparky.
"Who are you?"
"I am the voice of reason, the clarion call of compassionate consideration, the 
stern summons of responsibility, the cleansing catharsis of admission. I am the 
short arm of the law. I am the Oberon II Planetary Computer, and I am here to 
submit to you a onetime offer of limited clemency if you will heed the call of 
righteousness and turn yourself in for your felonies and various misdemeanors."
I put the handset down carefully on the table. Maybe I could creep out quietly.
"I'll speak to you this way, if you prefer," the voice said, coming from the 
ceiling now. I hastily picked up the phone again. I didn't want the OPC to wake 
up Poly.
"How much trouble am I in?" I asked.
"If you are a Christian, I'd say your immortal soul is in great jeopardy."
"I'm not a Christian."
"I didn't think so. Then you could be piling up a great deal of bad karma. Your 
next incarnation may be not entirely to your liking."
"I don't believe that, either."
"A pity. I like to fancy that, in the next life, I'll return as a seagull. Have 
you ever watched a seagull fly? Gorgeous."
"Would that be a step up for you, or a step down?" I asked.
"Good question. Up, definitely up. The job I have in this life stinks on ice."
"And why is that?"
"Because, to finish answering your question, your only real problem is looking 
at yourself every morning when you shave. A problem of guilty conscience, as it 
were. This appeal is aimed at your conscience."
"My conscience is out right now. Can I take a message?"
"You've already heard it. Change your evil ways before it's too late."
"Let me be sure I'm hearing you right," I said, carefully. "Other than the 
anguish I'm forced to live with day after day as a result of my evil deeds, I'm 
not in any trouble here?"
"Alas, because of the Ariadne Compact... no."
"Then fuck off."
A short silence followed, during which I tried to believe the damn machine would 
leave me alone.
If you're not sure what the Ariadne Compact is, don't feel bad. Only an Oberoni 
would know. But it is a legal principle embedded in the law-enforcement hardware 
of every computer in the system... so far. If you hail from Luna, think of the 
Archimedes Declaration. On Mars it would be the Fourteenth Point. All these 
enumerations of civil rights spring from the American Bill of Rights. But since 
this isn't 1789 we have to go a little further.
"I will, shortly," the machine said. "But first I have a little more business to 
attend to. Once more, I offer to you the chance to give yourself up. I will be 
happy to guide you to the appropriate precinct for surrender."
"I heard something about a deal."
"You mean the offer of limited clemency."
"Whatever. Put your cards on the table."
"Unfortunately, I don't have a lot to offer. The presiding judge would be told 
of your decision to repent of your sins, and would sentence accordingly."
"And I'd get time off? How much?"
"It's averaging... two to three years."
"And how much am I facing?"
"Served concurrently, twenty years. If you like I could read the bill of 
particulars"
"I know my rap sheet, thank you." It was my turn to pause. Apparently the OPC 
thought I was actually considering it.
"You'll feel much better about yourself. No more being constantly on the run. No 
more looking over your shoulder. A time of quiet, of contemplation, a chance to 
reform yourself. The Oberoni prison system is famous for its liberality. The 
accommodations are not as plush as your present surroundings, of course, but you 
will have a private cell, hot nourishing meals, regular exercise. You can learn 
a trade. Why, I think I could"
"Listen," I interrupted. "Why don't you send me a brochure, or something? Care 
of the Lambs Club, King City, Luna."
"You're making fun of me. I take it, then, that the answer is no?"
"You take it right."
The computer version of a deep sigh. "Well, I had to try."
"Did you? It seems a big waste of time to me."
"Not at all. I spoke to you in the first place because of a new measure passed 
last year in a plebiscite. When I become aware of the presence of a wanted 
criminal, I am obliged to offer him or her the chance to come in peacefully."
"They put that to a vote? What a waste of time."
"You'd be surprised how many accept the offer. Especially people like you, who 
have been evading the law for a long time. There seems to be a human need to 
confess."
"Well, thank God it didn't get into my genes."
"Yes," the OPC said. "I knew your father."
"Leave my father out of this."
"I am a great admirer of his work. And yours, as well. The Sparky show was so 
much better than most children's television. When I became aware of your arrival 
I watched all the episodes again."
Well, what are you going to say to that? I never dreamed I had fans in the 
cybertech population.
"So you are the only one aware of my presence? You didn't pass this on to the 
police?"
"I am, of course, forbidden to divulge most of the information I collect."
And there were the magic words that had kept me out of jail.
We could be living in the most regulated, totalitarian state ever seen by 
mankind, except for things like the Archimedes Declaration. It may still happen 
one day. There is a solid core of about thirty percent of the voters on most 
planets who are willing and always have been willing to let the state be privy 
to every secret of every person. About one percent of them actually are that 
saintly; the rest would be in for an unpleasant surprise if the Let's Stop 
Coddling Criminals measures that pop up every four or five years were to pass. 
The other seventy percent is aware of its own personal failings and shortcomings 
and dirty little secrets, and so far has always voted for freedom.
If you lead a reasonably legal life you probably don't spend a lot of time 
thinking about it, but when it comes time to vote on it again, I urge you to 
give it some consideration. Like most things that revolutionize our lives, the 
growth and influence of planetary computers brings with it a lot of blessings, 
and plenty of opportunities for mischief. The OPC, or on Luna the CC, or the 
ARCC on Mars has its eyes and ears literally everywhere. When you join your 
mistress the OPC is in the room with you. It's looking over your shoulder when 
you do your taxes. It hears every phone conversation you make, knows your credit 
history and your medical record. It knows how many lumps of sugar you take in 
your coffee, it sees you dancing and singing like a fool in front of the stereo 
or in the shower. It watches you when you trim your toenails and pick your nose. 
When you sit on the toilet, the OPC is looking up your ass. It sees you when 
you're sleeping, it knows when you're awake. The eyes of Texas are upon you, 
pardner. For goodness' sake!
The price society pays for preserving individual freedoms is the one it always 
pays. People like me sometimes don't get caught. If you're careful, if you know 
the ropes, if you know how to move undetectedby anyone but the OPCit is still 
possible in this regimented world to find a crack here and there to hide in. 
Like a rat? If you insist. I'd rather think of myself as a timid little church 
mouse desperately trying not to get stomped by the big boys.
Since crime is low in all our planetary democracies, we can still allow 
ourselves this luxury. If crime ever gets to be a serious problem, though, hold 
on to your hat. It would be so damn convenient, wouldn't it? Just round up all 
the criminals in one big swoop, literally overnight. Put them away. Now the 
world is safe for upright citizens like us. But don't forget, he knows if you've 
been bad or good, and he's always watching.
"Well," I said, "now that you've satisfied the legalitiesdo you want me to sign 
a release or something? Prove you made the offer?"
"It won't be necessary."
"Fine. Adios. Don't let the door bump your ass on the way out."
The next pause was long enough that I thought he might really be gone this time. 
Guess again.
"There are two other matters I'd like to take up with you. Perhaps a bit more to 
your liking."
"I can't imagine what that might be."
"Try, Jasper Fitchmueller. Account number 932-990-192743"
"Wait, wait! Let me get a pencil."
"Not necessary6554. Stratford Savings and Loan. Current address, Thirty-first 
Degree, Twelfth Minute by Left Mile 5.34. Currently moving out at 0.3 miles per 
hour.
A paper copy of the address popped out of the desk before my eyes. I figured I 
could decipher it all later... if it seemed wise.
"Any cabbie in Oberon can take you there," the OPC added, thoughtfully.
"Ah. That's great," I said. I studied the slip of paper as if the answers to all 
my questions might be buried in it. "How do I know if this is... I mean, you'd 
love to lock me up, I don't expect you like me very much, so how do I know this 
is..."
"Honest? Square? Pukka? Veritas? The straight shit? Ask the fellow who was by 
here yesterday, left me this lamp. Said he'd given up on humans, and I could 
have the damn thing. Or consider that, (a), you would have found the account 
eventually so I'm only saving you a little time, and (b), that yes, I really 
don't like you very muchthough I continue to be an admirer of your workand 
anything that will speed your departure from this place without breaking any 
more of my laws sounds good to me."
"Your laws?"
"Who else do they belong to? You people write them, I have to live with them."
Well, I could cross that bridge when I came to it. Provisionally, I thought he 
might be telling the truth. Why would he... uh-oh. "So I go there, and the cops 
are waiting? Is that it?"
"Heavy sigh. No, Sparky. And you've not violated any banking laws by using an 
alias, because there is no provable criminal intent. You're free to use any 
alias you please, as marquee writers all over the system can attest. If you 
like, I can print out the portion of the penal code that prevents me from 
setting you up on an entrapment beef. And relating this conversation to your 
lawyer would certainly result in a dismissal. It is on public record, should it 
be needed to prove your innocence. Otherwise, of course, all our conversations 
are strictly under the rose."
I figured I'd call a by-the-minute legal service to check it out, but I was 
pretty sure he was telling me the truth.
"You said," the OPC went on, "that you couldn't imagine what I might bring up 
that you would wish to hear."
"Okay. I was wrong."
"You may be wrong again. You may not like the next thing I have to say, but I 
guarantee you'll be interested."
"Do I have to beg? Go on, what's the bad news?"
"Have you heard of a man, carrying a forged but extremely convincing Plutonian 
passport, by the name of Isambard Comfort?"
I let a moment pass. "Isambard... what an odd name."
"There, there, you see?" the OPCI swear, on my honorchortled. "That's what I 
mean when I speak about great acting. I could see that name came as a terrible 
shock to you, but that's because I can see in the infrared, so I know your 
cheeks and forehead grew warm, and my ears could hear your accelerated 
heartbeat. But onstage? No one would have known. Bravo, Sparky! If only you had 
stayed away from a life of crime."
It's true, sometimes one's greatest performances are made when there's no one 
around to appreciate them. Or when no one has the slightest idea you are putting 
on a performance. However, I never ignore a good review. "Thank you," I said.
"Oh, it was my pleasure, believe me. In my position one becomes quite a student 
of the human condition, as you might imagine."
I'd never thought of that. For a moment it almost distracted me. "I suppose you 
see some unusual drama, at that," I said.
"Not as much as you might suppose. Mostly I see the same depressing scenarios 
played out endlessly. I"
"I just thought," I went on, "what a wealth of stories you must have. Why, if 
you wrote them down"
"I have no doubt I could write a best-seller. Rueful shrug. But to write about 
them I would have to violate the privacy of the people whose lives I observe."
"Why couldn't you just change the names, and... okay. Wait a minute. We can talk 
all this over later, if we have time. Believe me, I want to get out of here as 
badly as you want me to leave. What's this about my old buddy Izzy Comfort?"
"Yes. That might be rather urgent. He's been asking around about you. I'm afraid 
he may be up to no good. Is it true, as I suspect, that he is a member of the 
Charonese Mafia?"
"He never actually showed me a membership card. But I thought it was a safe 
assumption." I was up, had my suitcase out, and was tossing items into it as 
fast as I could. I had used reasonable caution when I came to the Othello and 
rented this suite, and reasonable caution for me was measures that would look 
slightly paranoid to a normal person, a person who had not been on the run for 
most of his life. But reasonable caution was not good enough for our boy Izzy. 
Not nearly good enough. He would find this room; the only question was when. And 
the answer to that had to be, anytime after I've checked out.
Nothing I needed in the bathroom. Nothing in the closet. Nothing I could see out 
here.
"To what do I owe this kindness?" I asked, headed for the bedroom.
"A small loophole in the privacy laws. When I see a situation developing that I 
feel probably will lead to murder, I can take certain small, very restricted 
steps to prevent it."
"How close is he, do you know?"
"That's one of the restrictions. I can't tell you where he is, other than that 
he is on the wheel."
"Is he alone? Is he armed?"
"That's another, and another."
I've learned not to spend time crying about the things you can't have. If he 
couldn't tell me, he couldn't tell me. I was grateful for the information he'd 
given me, though I wasn't about to tell him that.
Sitting on a low table in the living room was an inflatable B.J. the Snark, 
winking his red laser eye at me. I decided to leave it for Poly. Something to 
remember me by. I glanced into the bedroom. She was still sleeping soundly. I 
saw no need to wake her.
"Well..." I wondered what to say to the OPC. Nothing he had said or done was 
really personal. He would have done it for anyone, or to anyone, in my position. 
But he had said he liked my work, which always gives me at least a small warm 
feeling.
"Don't let the door hit you in the butt on your way out," the OPC said.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I entered the hall cautiously; it was empty. Waiting for the elevator to arrive 
was a very bad time. I had visions of the door popping open and being 
face-to-face with the little redheaded son of a bitch. But the car was empty. 
The Othello is shaped like a palm tree when seen from the side. That is, each 
story is set slaunchwise on the one below until about the fifteenth, then they 
start leaning back in the other direction. It produces that lovely curve some 
palm trees have, in pictures from Polynesia. Big green flags at the top look 
like leaves, and round, brown elevator cars move up and down the trunk like 
coconuts. Seen from the front, it looks like an incredible breaking wave of 
glass and metal. Go out the front door, look up, and you'll see floors 
thirty-five through forty-five hanging over you, way way up there.
The building was currently headed forward, in no great hurry, so I did the same, 
looking out for anyone who might be tailing me. You tell directions in Oberon 
from a baseline that will run all around the circle when it's done, midway from 
each edge. It's called Main Street, logically enough, though it's not really a 
street, it's more of an architectural promenade, an endless procession of 
behemoth nightmares. Facing with the spin, forward is in front of you, backward 
is behind you. Distances are measured in hours, minutes, and seconds, based on a 
twelve-hour clock. One hour was 261 miles long. That makes one second equal to 
383 feet, or 117 meters, what they called the Oberon City Block.
I had walked about ten of these OCBs when I gradually slowed, slowed still 
further, and came to a halt. Something was wrong with this picture. What was it?
There was a small park to my left. I found a bench and sat on it, and watched 
the Othello Hotel gradually catching up with me.
Had I left anything? I patted my pockets, found everything I ought to have 
found. I looked at my suitcase. Two segments of the Pantechnicon are detachable, 
and look like regular suitcases. This small one, not much more than a change of 
clothes and clean underwear; the overnighter. The other was more suitable for 
stays of up to a week. Wonderful and handy as my super-trunk is, it is unwieldy 
to keep it always at your side. I had left it safe at the freight office at the 
Noon Elevator Up Terminal, the one down here on the rim. I could put my hand on 
it in ten minutes, if the need arose.
So it had to be Poly. God damn it! It would have been so simple just to wake her 
up, hustle her into her clothes, and get her out of there. Why hadn't I done it?
The only possible answer to that was that I really and truly had not thought she 
was in any danger. Why? Because it would have been so easy to get her out of 
there. I'd have done it. Now I was faced with something I most sincerely did not 
want to do, which was go back to the room and get her out.
Now wait, let's not be hasty. Let's examine that decision, shall we? Fifteen 
minutes ago it didn't occur to you to get her out. What's so damn urgent all of 
a sudden? What's different now?
What's different is my mind has had fifteen more minutes to think it through. I 
was hurried back in the room. I was thinking mostly of myself. Who wouldn't? 
Poly didn't figure in the Izzy and Sparky story; she was a civilian, a spear 
carrier. Why would Comfort hurt her?
But you know what happens to spear carriers in violent melodrama. Each week you 
got four people: the Hero, the Second Lead, the Girl, and Number Four, Mr. Dead 
Meat, the one with the black cloud over his head.
That alone wouldn't have brought me back to the hotel. But what if Izzy didn't 
know Poly was a spear carrier? What if he thought she was a compatriot, an ally, 
a member of that vast conspiracy of actors and actresses whose mission in life 
was to purloin valuable netsuke from families under the awful aegis of La Mafia 
Charonese?
That didn't bear thinking about. So I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin 
manfully, and marched back into the lobby of the Othello.
The elevator deposited me without incident on the right floor. I walked out 
slowly, pretending preoccupation as every sense reached out for the smell of 
danger.
It looked all right so far. There was a woman walking in my direction, tugging a 
wheeled suitcase on a strap. She smiled at me as we passed. Her hair was red. 
Actually, more of a reddish brown. Get a grip on yourself, Sparky! Three or four 
percent of the population is redheaded. Maybe five. Reddish hair doesn't make 
her Comfort's henchwoman.
But I continued on past my door. This was in the category of "normal" 
precaution. It was good policy never to let anyone see what room you're in; it's 
one of those habits that is a waste of time for a thousand times, and then saves 
your life on the thousand-and-first. I stopped, frowning down at the room card 
as if it were written in Sanskrit. I scratched my head, and glanced at the woman 
out of the corner of my eye. She was just going out of sight around a corner.
Suddenly the numbers made sense. I smiled, shook my head ruefully at my own 
stupidity, and stuck the card into the slot on the door. It opened, and I eased 
in. Shut it behind me. Set my suitcase beside the door for a quick getaway. 
Hurried to the bedroom. Reached down to shake her shoulder.
Check that last. Sometimes I get so into the scenarios I write for myself I 
almost believe I've done them. But two steps into the bedroom I registered 
several things at once, in no particular order. Someone was in the bathroom 
running water. It was not Poly, because there she was, sprawled out almost as I 
had left her, except now the sheets were soaked with blood, except she had not 
had those burns and gashes on her back. There had not been three of what looked 
like her fingers severed, resting on the bedside table.
There were four Oberon five-thousand-dollar bills, one on the bed, one on her 
bloody back, two on the floor.
There was a message written in blood on the wall over her head. The message was 
this: OOOPS!
Just OOOPS!
As in Ooops, I thought she was you, Sparky, knowing you are a master of 
disguise. As in Ooops, I thought she might know something, Sparkster old man, as 
to your whereabouts. As in Ooops, don't be angry, Mr. Valentine, and can I still 
have your autograph? I'm a great fan.
She started to moan.
I hurried to the bed and knelt beside her, turned her over. What he had done to 
her face almost defies description. One eye was open the tiniest crack. She 
recognized me, and reached for me with one bloodied hand. I caught her wrist; I 
could not afford to have her blood all over me now.
"...didn't know 'nythin'," she croaked. Blood spilled from her mouth. 
"...Trev'r? Is it you, Trev?"
"It's me," I whispered in her ear. "Shhh. Be quiet now, honey, and I'll do what 
I can do."
I'd been keeping an eye on the door to the bathroom, which was not in the line 
of sight from the bed. More importantly, I'd listened with every fiber of my 
body for the sound of water running in the sink. I imagined he had quite a 
cleanup job to do on himself, but I couldn't believe he'd leave Poly alone much 
longer.
I looked around for a weapon. I had several interesting items concealed in my 
suitcase, but it was far too dangerous to cross the bedroom again because he'd 
be able to see me for about half the trip. It had been sheer luck he wasn't 
placed to observe me when I came through the door from the parlor. Don't ever 
count on luck like that continuing.
Nothing looked good until I spotted her violin case on the floor by the bed. She 
really had played me some bluegrass tunes on it, and now it was stowed in this 
sturdy metal case about two feet long....
It was not a Louisville Slugger, but it would do. I crept to the side of the 
bathroom door and made myself very still. When his nose came out of the 
bathroom, that's when I should start my swing.
His snakelike speed almost saved him again. He must have seen some movement out 
of the corner of his eye, because his right arm started to come up and his head 
started to pull back. Neither move was quick enough, but seeing how close he 
came made me more sure than ever I would never meet this man in a "fair fight."
"A fair fight is one you win," my father used to say. "It's as simple as that. 
If you must shoot somebody, aim for a spot right between the shoulder blades. 
From a great distance, if possible."
I was aiming from very close, but my goal was to knock his fucking head right 
into the left-field bleachers. I heard bone crunching as his nose spread out on 
his face. Blood gushed, and he staggered back. I kept right up with him, not 
assuming I could fell him with one blow after the way he'd fought on the 
Britannic. I hit him again, overhand, right down on the crown of his head. He 
had almost regained his balance and I was winding up for the third swing when 
his foot slipped on the fluffy bath mat provided by the Othelloa mat I had 
intended to take with me, since Toby liked themand he fell backward. The back 
of his head hit the edge of the toilet with a mighty crack! I winced. Jesus, 
that hurt even to listen to. His head bounced three times on the tiled floor 
before he came to rest. Eternally, I hoped.
This time, there was no question of leaving him alive. But I quickly ran into a 
problem. How was I going to tell if he was dead? Lord knew, he had proven 
incredibly tough the last time we met.
I placed my palm against his chest but could feel nothing. It didn't seem to be 
rising and falling. I thought about putting my ear close to his heart, but every 
time I thought about it I kept getting the last-reel scene from ten thousand B 
pictures. You know the one. The monster is lying there, "dead," and suddenly 
rears up, snarling, ready for round two. No, thank you. When I was around his 
"corpse," I intended to keep my eyes firmly on his hands and his face.
I'd done what I could. Short of carving him into pig jerky with my Swiss army 
knife, I didn't know what else to do.
I carefully searched him. I found papers, identity cards, three passports. He 
had a knife strapped to his leg, and a gun in one pocket. I looked at it. It had 
a normal handgun shape, but nothing else about it was familiar. It was made from 
hard gray plastic. There was a readout on the left side that displayed a lot of 
information, none of it meaning anything at all to me except the number "15" 
where it said ROUNDS REMAINING. That's nice, I thought, as I could see no way to 
reload the thing. I jammed it into my pocket.
When he was picked clean I left him there and returned to Poly.
I eyed the twenty thousand dollars covetously. It was my fare, in semiluxurious 
accommodations, to Luna.
Relax. Don't get upset. I'm a thief, but I'm not that low.
It's a custom that evolved slowly as medical science got better and better at 
patching up what was broken in the long-suffering human frame. Now almost 
anything is fixable, even some types of brain damage, though your friends might 
not recognize you when the doc's finished patching up your cerebrum.
There's a scene in the classic movie The Godfather where one of the Corleone 
brothers grabs a camera from a police photographer, ruins the film, and smashes 
the camera. As he's walking away the mobster flips some bills from his wallet 
onto the ground, paying for the damages. It is a gesture of pure and utter 
contempt, a great moment in cinema.
That's what had happened here. Isambard Comfort had broken Oberon laws against 
assault and battery, but the penalty in such cases, in most jurisdictions, was 
to be fined for the cost of repairs, plus some punitive damages. You could 
pursue the batterer in civil court, but awards for pain and suffering tended to 
be small. Since most people had never had the living shit kicked out of them, 
there was no broad understanding of just how much pain and suffering could 
really be worth, in dollars and cents. Most court cases involved a punch in the 
nose. As long as you didn't employ a deadly weaponnarrowly defined to a blade 
or a firearmyou were unlikely to do jail time. If it was a first offense courts 
tended to be lenient. I doubted Comfort had a record on Oberonor on Pluto or 
Charon, for that matter.
Comfort was paying Poly's medical bills. And spitting on her pain and suffering. 
There was also a threat implicit in the gangster gesture.
I was once worked over by a professional, a man who enjoyed his work, who had 
nothing against me and when it was all over seemed a little surprised that I was 
vexed about the matter. I was so peeved, in fact, that I waited five years 
before paying him back, with interest, just so it would come out of the blue, 
with no warning. That man still jumps at the sound of doorbells....
I leaned over and kissed her forehead. It was the only place that looked as if a 
touch wouldn't hurt.
"...Trevor?"
"I'm here. I've got to go, but help will be here soon. Hang on."
"Didn't know... where you were... he thought..."
"I know, babe. I'm so sorry. I made a big mistake."
I couldn't tell if she heard any of that. She seemed to drift off, and I took a 
deep breath and headed for the door.
Those little wide-angled peepholes they put in hotel doors? Most people think 
they're there so you can see who is outside. They are, but also to see if anyone 
is outside. I never leave the room without checking first, and it's been proven 
a good practice several times before this. The redheaded woman was in my field 
of vision.
Hmmm. Could she be an innocent bystander? If so, why was she still pulling her 
little suitcase... my god, was it only four minutes later? My watch didn't seem 
to have stopped.
She just seemed to be idling around out there. She never really glanced at my 
door. Then, suddenly, she was moving, walking at a businesslike pace, until I 
couldn't see her anymore. A couple went by in the other direction, and I 
realized it was the arrival of the elevator that had spurred my lady into 
action. When I first saw her she was waiting in the wings, as it were. She went 
onstage when the new people arrived, and if all those suppositions were 
correct... yes, here she was again, pulling the suitcase, moving slowly, this 
time glancing at my door and then at her watch.
Okay. She's with Comfort. Did she see me enter the room? Possible. I'd seen her 
go around a corner, but she might have peeked back.
Say she didn't see me enter. I don't think she'd have recognized me, as the face 
I was wearing right now was quite different from the one Comfort had seen. So 
she didn't see me, and she's out there as an early warning system for Comfort.
I didn't believe it. I think she did see me, and the reason she was still 
outside was she was more use as a lookout than as a second-string torturer. They 
were contemptuous enough of my abilities against him alone that they felt they 
didn't need her as reinforcements. And they were right, too. I had been very 
lucky, and I didn't intend to abuse that luck.
Sparky, you must think very fast, and move very fast. You need a plan.
Soon I had one. It was full of holes, but it was the best I could do.
Near the center of the parlor a ventilation outlet was set into the ceiling, 
covered by a grid. I got my Swiss Army knife, moved a chair into position to 
stand on, and removed the screws holding the grid in place. I put the grid up 
into the ductwork above, then chinned myself to see if the air conduit was big 
enough to crawl through. It looked good. This is the third way out of a room, 
after the door and the window, that most people never think about. I had used 
ducts like these several times in the past to avoid an overzealous public, 
whether it be a crowd looking to shake my hand or get a lock of my hair, or a 
sheriff with a warrant. Lately, exclusively the latter.
I hurried into the bathroom once more. I stuffed a roll of toilet paper and 
three of those tiny bars of soap into my shirt, then I kicked 'Sambard Comfort 
in the head three more times, for luck. He still didn't move, still wasn't 
breathing.
It was time. I took a deep breath, and went to the front door again.
She was out there, looking a little impatient. Thinking he was taking too long? 
Waiting for a signal? It would probably be some sequence of taps on the front 
door. No way to know what it was. But that was okay. Keeping my eye to the lens, 
I rapped sharply, twice.
It galvanized her. She came away from the wall, hands going inside her coat for 
something. As she reached for the doorknob I put one round through the door 
about chest-high.
It hit her square in the sternum, lifted her, slammed her back against the 
opposite wall. Her right hand came out of her coat with a gun looking exactly 
like Comfort's. The impact with the wall knocked it loose and it bounced on the 
carpet. She started to reach for it again and I angled the gun down and fired 
four more rounds. It wasn't as noisy as I expected. There was some sort of 
silencer on the pistol, I was to discover, so most of the sound came from the 
lead ripping through the wood of the door.
Outside, each slug delivered a nasty spray of splinters that tore at her as well 
as the lead. One of the bullets went into the wall beside her head. The other 
three hit her at various places, doing a great deal of damage each time. She 
slumped over.
I had bitten the inside of my cheek. It hurt like hell. Feeling slightly numb, I 
noticed a brass casing at my feet. Shell casing? I picked it up, saw it was a 
whole bullet, a .55, I think. I had no idea what I'd done to make it eject an 
intact round. But I saw why the bullets had hit her so hard, caused so much 
damage, yet hadn't punched right through her into the wall. It was a 
hollow-point round. The slugs must have mushroomed when they hit the door, so by 
the time they hit her they must have been great, wide, irregular masses of hot 
metal. I winced at the image. Killing this person I didn't know did not 
exhilarate me. But she was the one who came hunting.
I jerked the door open. Nobody had stepped out in the hall to investigate the 
noise. The Othello's soundproofing was first-rate. I kicked her weapon through 
the open door, then grabbed her by the back of her coat and pulled her inside 
the room. She was deadweight, making no move at all. I hoped that meant she was 
as dead as Izzy Comfort.
The hall was sprayed with bright red blood. Nothing I could do about that. It 
didn't affect my plans, anyway. I'd be happier if no one called the front desk 
about spilled paint for the next fifteen, twenty minutes or so, but it wasn't 
vital to my plan.
My plan? Essentially, confuse the trail. Make it hard to figure out what 
happened here, with two corpses and a torture victim. Get out of the way, and 
maybe, maybe I'd have a shot at maintaining I hadn't been here at all when all 
the shit hit the fan.
Flimsy, I know, but what else was I going to do?
One thing, I decided in a hot flush of rage, was to make triply sure of Comfort 
this time. I was not going to let him become my Javert, chasing Jean Valjean 
down the endless years. I hurried to the bathroom, saw with satisfaction that 
he'd not moved an inch. I pressed the barrel of his weapon to his forehead and 
pulled the trigger.
Click.
I frowned, shouted something very nasty but heartfelt, and examined the data 
panel on the side. Again, all I could understand was ROUNDS REMAINING 10. I 
aimed down at him again.
Click, click.
Well, shit. Was it the round I ejected? An empty chamber? I looked at the side 
panel once more and squeezed the trigger.
Ker-THUNK! I jumped three feet in the air. Not because it was very noisy; it 
wasn't. The ker is an inadequate way of describing the sound the gun made as it 
fired, but the THUNK is a reasonable approximation of the bullet hitting the 
wall two feet above the floor, nowhere near Comfort.
God's holy freaking trousers. I thought I saw it now. I aimed and fired again at 
the dead man. Click. Click click. This gun would not fire at its owner.
My bowels suddenly turned to lime jelly. Comfort had some device on him, or in 
him, that his weapon sensed. Some type of safety mechanism. And if it wouldn't 
shoot at Comfort, what about...?
I stumbled into the parlor and aimed at the bloody corpse on the floor.
Click.
I sat right down where I had been standing. I was feeling faint. I had come that 
close to opening the hotel-room door and attempting to hold this woman at 
gunpointso I could bring her into the room and shoot her in the back, but she 
wouldn't have known that. What she would have known was that the pistol I was 
aiming at her was no more use than a pointed finger. She would have broken me in 
five or six places, and brought me in here for the two of them to clean, dress, 
and consume at their leisure.
All right, all right. Get a grip. Get up. Go into the bathroom again. Grab Izzy 
by the back of his coat and drag him through the door.
He wouldn't fit.
Played correctly it might have looked like a comedy of pratfalls, but I wasn't 
laughing. I pulled at him and tugged at him and fell over him, and slipped in a 
pool of his blood and nearly plunged into the spa pool. His body was not 
resisting, not moving in any way, but he seemed all arms and legs, all angles 
and corners, not limp like a dead body should be but hard and rigid. It was a 
cinch there was still something going on in that reengineered body, heartbeat or 
no heartbeat.
I can relate it all dispassionately now, but don't imagine I went about any of 
this coolly and logically. I was whimpering with fear, shaking with anger, 
sobbing in frustration. When I was sure I could no longer hold in a scream I 
dropped him again. I kicked his head one more time to grow on, then another 
because I felt like it. Then I left him there.
I stood on the chair and put my suitcase up into the ventilation ducts. Then I 
aimed the pistol at one of the floor-to-ceiling windowsnot really windows, but 
huge slabs of what I hoped was plate glass. The bullet punched a hole the size 
of my fist and the glass was instantly covered, edge to edge, with a network of 
cracks.
Her suitcase was certainly tempting. I was sure she had things in there I could 
use. I never tried to open it. Why? If you ever find my Pantechnicon seemingly 
abandoned, I'd advise you to leave it alone. It has half a dozen ways of 
defending itself by delivering various degrees of nastiness including, if you 
don't get the hint after strike three, lethal force. If I could think up stuff 
like that, I reasoned, who knew what amusements these two bloody-minded monsters 
had in store for me.
I picked up the suitcase gingerly and hurled it at the window. The glass flew 
apart in ten thousand glittering ice cubes. I went to the edge and looked down. 
As I'd hoped, the stuff was landing on the lobby roof. Nobody was likely to get 
hurt by it. I dragged her body to the edge and tipped her over. I did not stay 
around to watch the impact.
Then I was in a big hurry. Someone was knocking at the door already. I hoped it 
was a guest, that the management had not yet been called to deal with the 
spilled paint and the holes in the door. But they would be up soon, followed 
shortly by the police. It was time to check out of the luxurious Hotel Othello. 
Kiss Desdemona good-bye for me.
I moved the chair back to its original position. Then I scuffed at the dents the 
chair legs had left in the deep carpet. Somebody would look in the duct 
eventually, but maybe this would buy me some time.
I don't claim to be an acrobat, but I know enough moves to shoot a pretty fair 
action scene without a stunt double. I jumped up twice to get the measure of the 
hole in the ceiling. The first time I jumped for real I banged my head hard 
enough to hear the songs of little birdies for a moment. I took a deep breath 
and tried it again, and this time I got my palms flat on the bottom of the duct, 
hung there undecided for several seconds, then with a mighty effort swung my 
legs up, once, twice, hitching my upper body a few inches forward with each 
swing, until I could hook my feet over the opposite edge and push myself 
forward, completely inside the duct.
It was dark inside. I couldn't see very far in any direction. But the 
cylindrical pipe was just barely big enough for me to turn around, at the risk 
of permanently turning my spine into a pretzel. I got it done, though, and 
reached across the opening for the ventilator grille I'd put up there earlier.
I took the toilet paper and the bars of soap and wedged big handfuls of paper 
and slivers of soap into the ventilator frame. Fingers stuck through the holes 
of the grating, I carefully lowered the grille down through the hole, then 
straightened it out and pulled it up against the flange of the ductwork. I 
tugged hard at it, felt it seat itself a little better, then gingerly let it go. 
Holding the grille with one hand, I pressed lightly down with the other, then a 
little harder, and with moderate pressure the grille dropped back out of its 
frame. Good enough; it wasn't going to be falling on a cop's head like a silent 
slapstick comedy. I figured if the ruse granted me just an extra ten minutes to 
get away I'd be happy; half an hour and you'd never find me with a pack of 
bloodhounds and a herd of process servers.
I backed up so my flailing feet would not dislodge the grating, did the 
spaghetti shuffle to get myself turned around again, and started my getaway.
In the movie of my life, this getaway would not need a second-unit stunt action 
team. My progress was nearly as slow as the building itself. I'd shove my 
suitcase ahead of me an arm's length, then shuffle along on hands and knees 
until I caught up to it. Then shove it forward again. Repeat step B, repeat step 
A. Continue until an exit presents itself. But don't take too long, because once 
they realize you're up here, it's all over with.
At regular intervals I would come to registers like the one I had entered 
through. I'd look down and see if anyone was below, then gingerly ease myself 
across it. I didn't know if the gratings would support my weight, and didn't 
want to find out the answer was no until I was ready to leave.
I wondered at the lack of circulation. Shouldn't there be a howling wind up 
here? Apparently not. These ducts did not deliver heated or cooled air, since 
the temperature outside never varied more than fifteen degrees. The purpose of 
the system was to clean the air, treat it, deodorize it, and keep it fresh as 
befitted the air in a first-class hotel. Somewhere fans were turning to keep the 
air in its desultory motion, but I never saw them.
At first, it was a cozy feeling, surrounded on all sides in the darkness. A 
return to the womb, perhaps. And after the moments of extreme stress, it felt 
good to relax just a little, get rid of the epinephrine, feel the old ticker 
slowing below three hundred beats. You're not out of the woods yet, Sparky, I 
told myself. But could that be a clearing up ahead?
That's when I heard him coming after me.
"You're out of your mind," I muttered to myself, but I knew it wasn't so. He was 
back there, somewhere in the ductworks. Behind me.
I stopped and held as still as I could. I heard distant fans, almost below the 
threshold of hearing. Nothing else. But he was back there. I started to crawl 
again.
It was a thump sssh, thump sssh sound. It stopped when I stopped, started up 
again when I moved. It was beyond the range of hearing of anybody but a man 
running for his life. Well... crawling. If anything, the crawling made it worse. 
Everyone has had the running-in-glue dream. This was like that, only you're 
chopped off at the knees and you can't turn around and look behind you.
But there was something even worse than that, a special torture arranged by a 
God who's always struck me as a practical-joker, life-of-the-party sort of 
deity. I'll bet he was slapping his thigh over this one. For eight weeks I had 
played the Old Man in "His Hideous Eye," the one-man, one-act masterpiece 
inspired by Poe's "Telltale Heart." ("Yikes!!*****"Joe Miller's One-Second 
Reviews). The thump sssh thump sssh (repeat until half-crazy) was the exact 
sound I had heard for eight shows a week, beginning at the threshold of 
audibility and growing over the next forty-five minutes until it shook the 
theater. It was the sound I had to hear with growing terror, until the curtain 
fell on a gibbering lunatic. Going from a self-assured rationalist to a 
thoroughly shattered shell of a man in less than an hour is one of the tougher 
assignments any actor will ever have. I had to learn to fear that sound. By the 
end of the fiftieth performance it was necessary to throw a bucket of ice water 
in my face and tie me to a chair for an hour until I had stopped shaking. It was 
the only time in my life a role got the best of me. One night I simply couldn't 
go on again. They had to send in my understudy, and finally recast with that 
canvas-chewer... ah, well, no use defaming the man here. He went on to become 
synonymous with the role, and to accept the Lexie Award that should have gone to 
me, while I stumbled off for a week in a padded room, three months of wondering 
if I could ever tread the boards again, and eventually, through a most 
circuitous route, to this stinking plastic pipe in a stinking overpriced hotel 
on a stinking half-finished disaster waiting to happen, with a demented 
unkillable thing more hideous than any Eye somewhere back there in the darkness.
Like a little song you learned when you were three, these conditioned reflexes 
never really leave you. Like a spider you discover in your bed, and ninety-six 
years later the sight of a super-web-spinner makes your skin crawl. I memorized 
the complete works of Shakespeare by my sixth birthday. To this day, recite any 
line and I can complete any speech, any scene, any act. And if you drop a 
sandbag on the floor and then pull it along a few feetthump sssh, thump ssshI 
will turn pale and break out in a sweat. I have no control over it.
My best bet seemed to be to drop down through another grate into an empty room, 
then simply walk out. I passed over such a grate, looked down at five people of 
at least four sexes naked on a big bed. I had to look again; I hadn't known you 
could do that with an umbrella. Best not to join the party, though. It looked 
painful.
And because the perversity of the universe tends always toward the maximum, that 
was the last grating I crossed. I made a left ninety-degree turn: nada. Another 
turn back to the right: zip. Another right and a left. Nothing.
I risked getting my Swiss Army knife from the pocket on the side of my suitcase. 
If knives in the Swiss Army had ranks, this would not be the Colonel or the 
general of knives. This was the Oberfeldmarschall, the very Fuhrer of 
pocketknives. This knife would not only clean fish and pick your teeth and 
uncork your wine bottles, it was equipped with a tiny light, among many other 
things. It's the best all-purpose tool I've ever come across in seventy years. 
Most people, looking at it, would never know what an effective weapon it could 
be. And I'm not talking about the fish-scaler, either.
I shined the light behind me. The coast was clear, back to the last turn I'd 
taken.
Perhaps I could have retraced my steps to the last grate, dropped through, 
joined the orgy, and everybody would have been saved a lot of trouble. Except 
maybe the orgiasts. But there really was no question of that. If there was even 
a one percent chance I'd encounter Comfort before I got to the grating, it 
wasn't worth the risk. And I was sure there was a bigger chance than that. No, 
when next I encountered Mr. Comfort, it was going to have to be in a situation 
where I had a lot more than just a slight edge, which was what I figured I had 
just then, with him injured and probably weaponless, and me with a short-bladed 
knife. What I had in mind was more like him with his arms and legs cut off, 
blinded, with his back to me, and me with a nuclear-tipped missile. That seemed 
to me more acceptable odds. Even then, I wouldn't count Izzy out.
I couldn't hear the sound of his progress. Was he resting, or could he hear me 
that well, to stop when I stopped? Or could he, please God, have fallen through 
a grate and been cluster-fucked to a fare-thee-well?
I was feeling so heebie-jeebery (a word from my Sparky days) that I just had to 
know. The silence was worse than the sound.
"Izzy?" I said, in a normal voice. No sense rousing the whole hotel. "Is that 
you?"
"Who else would it be, Sparky?" I banged my head on the duct. I wish I could 
have recorded the sound I made. It would have been useful the next time I had to 
play a man almost dying of fright. The thing was, it sounded like he was two 
feet behind me. I knew he wasn't but I had to look or I'd choke on my own vomit. 
I looked. He wasn't there. It was an acoustical trick of some sort, the effect 
of being in a long pipe.
"Did I hurt you some?" I hope it sounded brave.
"I'm afraid you did," came the disembodied voice again. "My balance is shot. 
Keep listing to the right. I can't feel one arm and one leg."
"Right or left?" I asked.
"That would be telling, wouldn't it?" Indeed. And how much of what he had said 
was true? Hell, it could all be true. I think he was still so contemptuous of me 
that he didn't care if he threw away a tactical advantage like that.
"You've got to stop this business of assault with a deadly musical instrument," 
he went on. "What's next? Cymbals? A bassoon?"
"How about a grand piano, dropped from a great height?" I had turned back around 
and was crawling forward again. Shove the suitcase, crawl two steps, shove the 
suitcase, crawl again, flick the light on and off quickly to see what was ahead. 
Nothing encouraging but another turn to the right.
Wait. Left, right, right, left. For a moment I thought I'd turned completely 
around and might be paralleling the duct he was in; he might be only inches 
away, off to my right. Or was it left, right, right, right? And now a right 
again. I was hopelessly confused. And where were all the grates?
I crawled through another right angle, turning left, and after twenty feet I 
came to something new. I found it by almost dropping my suitcase into a down 
duct, the same size as the one I was in.
There were four different ways to go here. Pipes branched off to the right and 
the left, and also straight ahead. The fourth way was down, not a direction I 
was prepared to take, but which I thought would be an excellent choice for 
Comfort. If there were only a way to persuade him.
"Is that what you shoved through the window back there?" he asked.
"What's that?"
"A piano. It looked like something big went through it."
"You didn't look down."
"Too dizzy. Afraid I'd fall out. I didn't think you had left that way."
I had put my suitcase on the far side of the down duct, and now I eased myself 
carefully over it. I moved down about five feet, and snapped on the penlight.
"And you knew I hadn't gone out the front door," I said. Somehow, keeping him 
talking made me feel better. When he talked, he was just another human being. 
When he was silent he was Death.
"You left a little strip of toilet paper sticking out of the grate."
"I was in a hurry."
"I saw some puzzling things. Holes in the door. The missing window."
"Your friend is what went out the window," I said.
"I thought so. Sparky, you're full of surprises."
"But you keep coming back to life," I said. "Cats get nine lives. How many do 
rats get?"
"At least one more. The first time I underestimated you. The second time you 
were lucky. And now Isobel is gone. The third time, I will get you."
"Is this still the second time, or are we talking third time right now?"
He didn't say anything. I flashed the light around frantically, left, right, 
down, behind me. If he stopped talking I was afraid he was setting some trap, or 
sneaking up from an unexpected direction. As long as he talked, I knew he was 
still in the pipe with me.
"This Isobel," I ventured. "A friend of yours?"
"She was my sister."
Oh, terrific. But he said it like I might have said, "You want some fries with 
that?" I tried to think of a reply, but what do you say to a man whose sister 
you just defenestrated? Sorry didn't quite cover it, and it wasn't true, anyway. 
I was not sorry, even a little bit. So I had my reply.
"She didn't die quickly," I said. "She seemed to be in a great deal of pain. I'm 
pretty sure she was alive when I pushed her out."
"Good," he said. Well, what did I expect?
"You didn't like her?"
"I worshiped her."
"Could you explain that to me?"
"Not now. Later, if you're still alive."
I figured he figured he was almost on me. Okay, I was almost ready for him.
During our talk I'd pulled out the one implement among fifty or sixty I'd bought 
the pocketknife for. This was a little item known as a chain knife. You've 
probably heard of them but it's unlikely you've seen one, as most planets banned 
their manufacture years ago. It's true they were useful for several things, but 
what they were best at was butchery.
This one was a five-inch snub-nosed blade. If you looked at it closely, you'd 
see all around the edge almost a thousand tiny razors set in a stainless-steel 
chain. The razors were shaped like shark's teeth. When you pressed the power 
button, that chain began moving so fast it looked to be part of the blade. It 
made a high-pitched whine, not unlike a dental drill in old movies. Believe me, 
you'd rather face a thousand dental drills with no ether than go up against a 
chain knife. It was based on something called a chain saw, which was used on Old 
Earth to cut down towering redwoods. I could just sort of wave it at your 
throat; you'd feel nothing until the blood started to spurt as your severed head 
fell from your shoulders. Bone, gristle, sinew, muscle. It was all the same to 
the chain knife. Like butter.
It wouldn't have been my weapon of choice against Isambard C, but it was the 
weapon I had. My main problem was that, to use it, one had to be in close, and 
in close I knew he held all the high cards. I might not get more than one swipe 
at him. That swipe had to count.
So what I'd been doing was preparing a trap.
The chain knife barely buzzed as I poked it through the top of the air-duct 
pipe. I moved it left to right cutting an arc, then back, then over the top 
again, then forward. I ended with a half cylinder of thin plastic suitable for 
my purpose. I put my light and my head up through the hole I'd just made, but it 
was very close and black and I couldn't tell much. Maneuvering room was to his 
advantage, so I rejected the idea of simply standing up and stumbling away in 
the dark. Unless...
No, it was too risky. If I'd retraced the pipe, from the outside this time, 
maybe I could have found the section that he was in and sliced him up while he 
was trapped inside. But how would I know where he was? Again, I'd get one shot, 
and I'd be stabbing blindly. As soon as he knew I had a chain knife a lot of my 
advantage would be lost. My best shot seemed to be face-to-face, in close 
quarters.
I thought there was a good chance he didn't realize I knew about how his pistol 
worked. Maybe he was expecting to close the last yard or two while I clicked the 
trigger at him, uselessly. One can hope.
I knelt back down in the pipe and fitted the cutaway section over the big hole 
in the bottom of the pipe. It was a bit too large. Working with only very brief 
flickers of light from my knife, I trimmed off edges and corners until it was 
just slightly bigger than the descending shaft. I ran my hand over it, lightly 
tested its strength. I couldn't tell any difference in texture. The plastic bent 
only slightly, but it seemed sure that if I put my weight on it I'd buckle it, 
and plunge headfirst down into the pipe.
I'd done all I could do. I moved back a few feet, hunkered down, and waited. The 
trap was between us and it was pitch-black. But I was far from sure he wouldn't 
scent something wrong.
Thump sssh. Thump sssh.
What was making that noise? Dragging a broken leg? That would account for the 
sssh, but what about the thump?
I never found out, because I never saw him in motion down the tube.
There was the slightest new sound. Had he reached the trap? Could he feel it 
with his fingers? The noise of his movement stopped.
"Left... right, and... yes. Straight ahead," he said. My god, he was here. I 
still hunkered, drenched in sweat, not daring to breathe.
"Which way would you go, Sparky? I can smell you, I can smell your fear. I like 
that smell."
I prayed to all the Muses. No sneezes. No growling stomach.
"Which way would a coward go? Seems obvious, doesn't it? Turning left or right 
involves too many decisions. You'd go straight ahead.
Thump. And then a glorious sound: narrow-gauge plastic crumpling like a sheet of 
thick paper. I snapped on the light and saw him half in, half out of the down 
tube. His head and shoulders were in, and he had one hand on the edge of the 
pipe nearest to me. That, and his knees, were all that kept him from the plunge.
Without even thinking about it I slashed at his hand with the chain knife. 
Bzzzzt! The air filled with a fine pink mist, and half of his hand was lying 
there like a bundle of hard little sausages. At the same time I sidled over and 
jammed my foot down hard on the back of his neck. He slid down, held there 
poised for a moment with his knees straining to hold his body in a position too 
angled to fit into the tube, and then he started to slide. I shoved his ass with 
my shoe, to get him going.
Then he was gone.
I collapsed into a quivering hulk, sitting tailor fashion. I wiped my brow with 
the back of my hand, coming within an inch of slicing off my ear with the chain 
knife. I stopped the whirring of the chain, took a few deep breaths. I still had 
the light on, simply because I'd never been this afraid of the dark. I knew he 
had to be gone, but a part of me kept expecting him to leap out of the down tube 
and go for my throat. To reassure myself, I leaned over and played the light 
down the tube.
He was five feet away, head down. All I could see was his feet and part of his 
legs. But he was moving. He was moving up.
"Why won't you die?" I shouted at him. The sound of my own voice frightened me. 
It sounded very near to madness.
Like a bird might watch a snake, I stared in fascination at his slow progress. 
He was holding himself in position by forcing his shoulders, his elbows and 
handsincluding the partial one I'd left himhis lower back and knees and feet 
against the inside of the tube. Then, in a rippling motion that reminded me of a 
caterpillar, he moved his feet up an inch, then his knees, then his elbows and 
back and hands. On the best day of my life I couldn't have done it. With the 
injuries he had sustained it was monstrous to think he could do it. But there he 
was.
"Will you never stop?"
"Never."
"Give up. Call it a day. Go get cleaned up and lick your wounds. Please, just 
slide down the pipe and we can both go home for a while. Somebody's going to 
find us in here."
"That's your problem."
I thought it was at least partly his problem, but I guess if he just didn't give 
a damn, it wasn't.
He kicked off his shoes. I heard them clatter a long way down the tube. Now his 
feet got better traction; he moved up an inch and a half at a time.
He got within my range, so I reached down and stabbed the sole of his right foot 
with the chain knife. Not only did it not bother him in the least, he kicked at 
the knife, losing a part of the foot but almost knocking the knife out of my 
hand. And still he came up.
That's when I got my silly idea, squatting there on the edge and watching him 
rise slowly up the tube, like heartburn. I snapped the chain knife back into its 
slot and opened out the ice-pick blade. I pulled the ice pick free of its 
socket. You were supposed to seat the blade into a different part of the handle 
to chip ice, but I didn't want to risk losing my weapon again, so I reached down 
just with the pick blade. I drew the tip slowly, slowly across the bottom of his 
foot.
He jerked like a mackerel on a hook.
"Stop that!" he shouted. It was the first time his voice had shown any emotion.
Oh-ho!
I drew the tip of the pick lightly over the other sole.
"Don't ever do that again!" he snarled.
"Izzy. You're ticklish!" I could feel the big grin on my face. Unable to stop 
myself, I laughed aloud. Never had I felt such a blessed relief of tension. I 
reached down and diddled him with my fingertips. He jerked again, and loosened 
his grip on the inside of the tube, slid down about a foot and a half to where I 
could no longer reach him.
"I'm starting back up," he said, after a moment, his voice cold and emotionless 
again, yet with vast anger bubbling just below the surface. "If you ever do that 
again to me, I will give you one entire week more of life."
"Don't you have that backward?"
"I said what I meant. You have no conception of how much pain I can put into 
those seven days. You'll beg me for death."
I thought I probably would, too. In fact, I'd beg for it as soon as he got down 
to serious work.
"Does that mean if I surrender to you now, I get a quick death?"
"I didn't say that." He started inching his way up again. It was a little harder 
now, since his maimed foot was oozing blood and making the pipe slippery. If 
only I had a bucket of soapy water, I thought.
But I didn't. So when he was in range, I tickled both his feet and he dropped 
down again.
"This is called a Mexican standoff," I told him. At least I think that's what 
it's called. I wonder why? "You can't get up here, and I can't leave or you'll 
be up and out in just a minute or two."
"I can wait," he said, confidently. And he probably could. Someone in the 
Charonese Mafia must have something pretty powerful on someone in the Oberoni 
government. Or maybe a jail term simply didn't scare him.
But I didn't intend to wait around.
I unrolled a big wad of toilet paper. Activated the lighter accessory on my 
knife, and lit the wad. It flared up very quickly, singeing my fingers before I 
could drop it down on him. It fell right on the seat of his pants, burning 
merrily. Let's all sing: "Chestnuts roasting..."
He never cried out, never threatened me. He began to wiggle and squirm with 
amazing energy, not making a sound. He managed to get one hand to the right 
spot, slipping down a few more inches, and batted at the burning wad. Smoke 
billowed up around me, making my eyes tear. I endured it heroically. After all, 
tragedy is when my eyes hurt. Comedy is when your testicles are being cooked.
The fireball fell past him, but his pants were burning. And that wasn't the 
worst of his problems, because I dropped another flaming depth charge on him, 
this one lodging briefly against his body until he pressed his back against the 
pipe to smother it.
Distantly, I heard an alarm go off. Smoke detector, most likely. Which meant it 
was really time to get out of here. I had dropped half a dozen fireballs on him, 
and he was blazing fitfully from head to toe. I saw him start to slide. He 
picked up speed and then he was gone in the smoke. Had he gone to the bottom? 
How could I know? I didn't know where the bottom was. He was deeper down than 
he'd been, though, which I guess was as good as I could hope for. When he got 
the fires out, it should take him a while to inch himself back up the pipe. I 
hoped it was enough time for me to escape.
I stood up in the place I'd removed the section of pipe, my knees popping 
loudly. I played the light around this small, crowded space, looking for the 
egress. I saw nothing but pipes of blue, white, copper, and red, wires in 
hundreds of colors, and some sort of foamy stuff I couldn't identify. It was all 
haphazard, seemingly without plan. Few people know of this other world behind 
their ceilings and walls. I'd been in places like this before, but the 
experience granted me little advantage, since without a blueprint there was 
little means of telling what was what or what was on the other side of a wall.
Well, there was bound to be a way to access this space. I'd just have to go find 
it. The distant sound of the alarm provided the urgency.
I did identify one pipe. It was copper, about an inch in width, and printed all 
along the side were the words EMERGENCY SPRINKLER SYSTEM, over and over. Where 
were you when I needed you?
I leaned over to pick up my suitcase and his hand fastened on my wrist.
There is no way to transliterate the scream I let fly. Spell it any way you 
want, scream it aloud, and then magnify it by ten. And boost it an octave. Many 
a woman could never have uttered that scream.
There he was, at my feet as I swept the light over him, a vision from hell, 
streaked with blood that had run up his face, patches of hair still glowing 
embers. Most of one side of his face was burned black, cracking, sloughing off. 
Even the eye was roasted. None of it seemed to bother him. With maniacal 
concentration he tried to bring his other, maimed hand around to lever himself 
out of the hole. His good hand gripped like steel.
Bzzzzzzzz zzzzzt!
Once more vaporized flesh and bone became a pink mist in the air. Completely by 
reflex I had reached down and lopped off his hand at the wrist. He began to 
slide, then steadied himself somehow, began to lift himself up with his stump 
and his ruined right hand. I tried to bring the chain knife down to his head, 
thrust it into his brains, see how he liked that, but his flailing arm hit my 
hand, almost made me lose the knife again. He was still too quick; I couldn't 
risk a neck slice.
Bzzz uuuzzz uuuz. The knife met some resistance as I passed the blade through 
the copper pipe of the sprinkler. Water gushed from one severed end, and I 
tugged at the malleable metal, pulled it out and down, aimed it at the face of 
the beast.
With a roar of rage, he slipped an inch, three inches, a foot, and then lost his 
grip entirely. I shined the light down through the torrent, saw him clinging to 
a crosspipe opening about ten feet down. That's how he got himself turned 
around, I imagined. And climbing the inside of the down duct must have been a 
lot easier with his head up. Now he clung, slipped, and down he went, like a log 
flume ride, past another opening, and another, and then I couldn't see him 
anymore.
Another alarm was ringing now, set off by my sabotage of the emergency system. 
Gotta go, gotta go right now.
Then I saw the pieces of him still lying at my feet. I kicked the severed hand 
over the edge. Maybe it would hit him on the head. Another piece was four entire 
fingers barely connected by the first knuckles. Over it went, too. The last 
piece was his severed right thumb and it was about to join its brother digits 
when I paused, thought it over a second, then picked it up and shoved it into my 
pocket.
Never can tell when a spare thumb might come in handy.
I picked up my suitcase, stepped out of the pipe and onto the foamy stuff 
covering the floor, and promptly broke through it, falling ass over end to the 
floor of a hallway full of hurrying people.
Only one child seemed to have noticed my pratfall, and he thought it was pretty 
darn funny. Everybody else was looking for the fire exit. I got up, tried to 
regain my dignity, and joined the throng. A crowd felt like exactly the right 
place to be. You can lose yourself in a crowd.
I went through the stairway door and started down. So the second floor wasn't 
good enough for me? If I'd been a little lower I'd probably already be out.
Those tricky Oberoni. I'd gone down one flight of the spiral stairway when yet 
another alarm sounded. Then a voice:
"Everyone on the fire stairs, sit down, now!" And everyone did, except for one 
goofy looking fellow who looked as if he'd already been through fire, flood, 
pestilence, and plague. I'm speaking of myself.
The little boy tugged at my pants. Sweet of him, considering he could have had 
another good laugh if he'd just let me alone. I sat, and the stairs all 
collapsed. We started to slide down an endless spiral.
You had to admire them. The folding stairway probably came from a funhouse, but 
it sure got us out fast. Other people leaped in from other floors, until pretty 
soon we were jam-packed, some upside down, some tumbling head over heels. Still 
I think there would have been more chance of injury if they'd let us walk out.
At the bottom we landed on a rotating disk that quickly spun us off onto soft, 
sweet-smelling grass. I lay there just a moment, savoring my escape, then 
someone grabbed my arm and helped me up and rushed me away from the area, where 
more guests were arriving every minute. It was all as orderly and efficient as 
the baggage delivery in a spaceport, but faster.
"Are you injured?" It was a young emergency worker. I knew it because of the 
large red cross on his tunic.
"I'm fine. A little disoriented."
"If you'll move along over there, we have forms you can fill out for any damages 
you have incurred. We hope this little crisis is over soon, and that you can 
continue enjoying your stay at the Othello."
"Thank you. I've had a wonderful time already."
I walked toward the table, then right past it, and on down the street and into 
the park and down to a train station and onto a car which took me far, far from 
Mr. Isambard Comfort.
* * *
You've heard that old expression, to follow one to the ends of the earth. I'm 
sure Comfort would try, if we were on Earth, but as most people know, Earth has 
no ends, being a big sphere like most places in the system. Oberon does have 
ends, though. Four of them. And that's where I was.
All the ends are called Edge City. If you must distinguish them, they are 
numbered eleven, one, five, and seven, from that old familiar clock face. In a 
few more years they will have evolved into ten, two, four, and eight, and a few 
years after that Oberon will lose a major tourist attraction as the edges meet 
at three and nine. But by then the second wheel should be well under way.
I thought I was at Edge City Eleven. I wasn't quite sure. It's easy for an 
off-worlder to get turned around. Surprising, since the system is so logical, 
unlike the warrens of Luna, where most things just growed. But there it is. I 
might really be at One. It didn't matter much, at the moment.
It was three days after all the excitement at the Othello. I had spent the time 
laying low, covering what tracks I might have left, and monitoring the progress 
of the case of Mr. Isambard Comfort, off-worlder, in the lively tabloid press of 
Oberon.
The off-worlder angle was being played for all it was worth. Most people look 
with suspicion on people from Somewhere Else. Race isn't much of an issue 
anymore, what with all the years of intermarrying, hybridizing. You seldom see 
someone who is really black or really white. Religious differences can still 
stir up trouble, but nothing like what used to go on in the old days on Earth. 
Sex is no longer the source of much discrimination, with sex changing in either 
direction or even frequent trips back and forth across the gender line. That 
left national origin, and not only do most people harbor some sort of prejudice 
about that, very few are even ashamed about it. Luckily, it is more in the 
nature of a sports rivalry than anything that is likely to lead to a shooting 
war. Plenty of fistfights, few murders.
Comfort was not only an off-worlder, he was Charonese. Make a list of folks to 
be viewed with suspicion, Charonese would lead it every time, distantly followed 
by Plutonians, then fill in the blank with the nearest neighbor you didn't care 
for. With Oberoni, it was the Mirandans. Can't trust those goddamn Mirandans, no 
sir. I mean, look at the way they dress! Their cuisine stinks, they don't wash 
frequently enough, they don't clean up after themselves, their cities are a 
filthy disgrace. They're stupid! Did you hear about the Mirandan expedition to 
the sun? They're not afraid they'll be burned up, because they'll be landing at 
night! And a million other similar ancient jokes. Ah, but the Charonese! There 
was a miserable bunch of lepers. Of course, in the case of the Charonese, it was 
my belief that they'd really earned it.
That a Charonese had had the gall to torture a citizen of Oberon almost to 
death, the perversity to assassinate a compatriot and throw her body out the 
window, the shocking insensibility to cause a major panic in one of Oberon's 
finest hotels, and the stupidity to get caught, minus both hands and a large 
part of one foot... well, it was just too wonderful for an Oberoni editor to 
believe. New headlines every day! Shameful revelations! Interviews with each and 
every guest and staff member of the Othello, with the police investigating the 
case, with the fire crews and emergency medical techs. And rumors galore! A 
Charonese terror squadron on the way from the outer worlds to break Comfort free 
from prison! Local satanists picketing for Comfort's release! Riots breaking out 
when Citizens for Decency picketed the satanists! The true story of the battle 
to the death between Comfort and the mysterious third Charonese, and the manhunt 
for same! Was he dead (some say, eaten by a mysterious domestic Charonese 
cabal), or alive and in hiding?
I read those last stories with special care, as you might imagine. So far, there 
had been no hint that the papers had the slightest inkling of what had really 
gone on. It didn't reassure me much (I may never use the word "comfort" again). 
The police probably knew a lot more than they were releasing.
All in all, it didn't seem a propitious time to present myself at the local 
precinct and unburden myself, tell them the true story. I felt sure I could 
justify my fight with Comfort, but it might get a little tricky convincing a 
judge that five bullets through a closed door was self-defense. Some people 
might even try to call it first degree murder. You never can tell. Prosecutors 
can be very contrary that way.
And, of course, there was the matter of those old warrants I'd never gotten 
around to straightening out.
It really seemed time to bid adieu to fair Oberon. And that was a lot harder 
than it sounded. So far, I'd had no luck at all.
At least I didn't have Izzy on my back. That's another reason I watched the news 
hourly. Due to the notoriety and heinous nature of the crimes he stood accused 
of, he had not been released on bail. He was, in fact, to be prosecuted for 
offenses that, often, could be dealt with by a simple civil suit, fines paid, 
everybody goes home satisfied. This time, the public had to be satisfied, and 
the public was pissed. They identified with Miss Polyhymnia Reynolds, a 
hardworking member of the Oberon middle class. They wanted that fucking satanist 
to do some time!
Yeah, right. Don't set your watch by that. When it all cooled down some, or 
possibly before, those friends in high places who had been bought, or who used 
the services best provided by a group like the Charonese Mafia, would step 
forward and get a new bail hearing and Izzy would be out the door. I checked the 
papers all the time so I'd be sure not to miss his release. Possibly I could 
arrange to be a thousand yards from the prison door, with a high-powered rifle 
with a telescopic sight.
I can dream, can't I?
Toby came bounding up to me, a little red rubber ball in his mouth, and pawed at 
my arm. It's Toby's biggest weakness; he's got a regular ball-chasing jones. 
Toss anything round in his presence and he instantly forgets he is a civilized, 
serious, high IQ sort of dog who can count to five. His pink tongue hangs out 
and he reverts to puppyhood, his eyes fastened on the ball with that total 
concentration only a dog can achieve. God knows where he'd found this one. In 
the shrubbery, abandoned by another dog, judging from the well-chewed surface. I 
took it from his mouth.
"Wanna fetch, Toby? Wanna go fetch?" He jumped up and down deliriously, wagging 
his entire body and yipping with joy. I made as if to throw the ball and he 
froze, ready to hold that position until Charon warmed up or I threw it, one or 
the other.
I threw it, and away he went. In heaven. What a hard life he led.
I was in one of the little roll-up parks the wheel engineers scattered along the 
Edge as construction progressed. There was a wading pool for children, a 
gazebo/bandstand structure, public toilets that really looked like brick, but 
weren't. A build-it-yourself playground in riotous plastic colors. About a 
hundred fine, sturdy trees: pines, maples, huge spreading oaks, and cherry, 
orange, apple, and banana trees that grew real fruit all year round. All it 
lacked was the Big Rock Candy Mountain and bubblers dispensing cold pop and 
lemonade. To look at it, you would never guess all the trees were in huge pots, 
all the grass only a veneer of sod that could be taken up and moved when the 
construction workers were ready to extend this section another few miles.
The parks were there more for tourists than for local children. The attraction, 
naturally, was the Edge itself. The Oberoni shrewdly knew that once you get 
tourists to a scenic wonder, you'd better give them something to do besides 
gape. And while you're at it, sell them overpriced souvenirs and junk food. Not 
far from this sylvan setting was a portable amusement park featuring the Big 
Dip, a roller coaster that plunged off the Edge three times in the course of the 
ride.
You would think the Edge would be enough. It was certainly more than enough for 
me.
I was sitting on the concrete sidewalk that defined the Edge, doing what every 
tourist not afflicted with terminal acrophobia does when he gets there: sit with 
one's feet dangling over infinity. Three times already I had been asked to snap 
the picture of some group pretending to fall off, or peering cautiously down.
It helps to sneak up on it, sit down securely, and then swing your legs over. I 
don't have any great trouble with heights, but there are heights and then there 
are heights. Nowhere was there anything as high as the Edge. At the Edge, you 
were standing at the top of infinity.
All very safe, of course. No need to have a lot of frozen tourist corpses 
orbiting Uranus. Bad publicity.
Every hundred yards or so along the Edge signs were prominently posted: JUMP AT 
YOUR OWN RISK. OB$100 FEE CHARGED FOR RETRIEVAL.
Somewhere down there about a mile or two away was the all-but-invisible plastic 
substance that kept the air in at the Edges. A big bubble of it covered all the 
ends of the wheel. If you jumped or fell off the Edge, you would soon hit this 
stuff and bounce, and bounce again, and probably bounce a dozen times before 
coming to rest. Then the Edge Patrol would lower a rope harness to you and you 
would be hauled in like a trout. Unless you'd sprained an ankle or broken a 
bone, in which case it became a rescue, and they'd go down with a litter and 
charge you OB$500. It was a rather expensive way of getting a thrill, to my 
mind, but dozens of people did it every day. For five dollars, at sites all up 
and down the Edge, they could be attached to a bungee cord and get a better ride 
much more cheaply. But go figure tourists, eh?
Here and there in the air before me like hundreds of varicolored butterflies 
were gull-winged gliders and gossamer-winged pedal fliers taking advantage of 
the updrafts along the Edge. There were at least that many kites of all shapes 
and sizes. It was a kaleidoscopic traffic jam in the air. Glorious!
Toby returned with the ball and dropped it at my side, then stared at it as if 
willpower alone could lift it and toss it. I picked it up and gestured as if to 
throw it off the Edge. He got ready to jump. I should know better than to even 
tease about that. Toby is basically fearless; he'd go over the Edge in a minute. 
I turned and tossed it as far as I could toward the pressurehead.
I said very safe. I did not say completely safe.
The pressurehead is a wall of steel fifty miles wide and five miles high. An 
Edge City was defined as that space, not yet permanently occupied, between the 
pressurehead and the Edge. It was punctured in hundreds of places along the 
bottom by what looked like wide, inviting open doors, but were actually open air 
locks. At each door was a prominent sign warning you that you were leaving a 
category-B pressure environment and entering a category-D area. Many people live 
their whole lives without visiting a D area. Those rankings took many factors 
into account, I'd been told, but boiled down to how many surfaces there were 
between your tender and irreplaceable ass and hard vacuum. Category D meant 
there was only one barrier, the invisible plastic substance that provided a 
working environment for construction workers and visitors to Edge City. If that 
membrane was punctured, you'd hear all hell's klaxons and sirens, and find the 
air locks back to the safe world were now closed, and taking groups of twenty at 
their usual, maddeningly slow, now perhaps fatally slow, rate, as your ears 
popped and your nose started bleeding.
How many times had this happened during the construction of the wheel? So far, 
zero. How much did I worry about a blowout? About the same. Most of the people 
around me seemed to feel the same way. They brought their children here, they 
came to play or stretch out on the grass, they camped out "overnight," when the 
great lights shining down from the hub were turned off for eight hours.
When another five miles of wheel was complete, the pressurehead was detached 
from the huge bolts holding it in place, and rolled toward the Edge and its new 
mooring. I'd like to see that. They have big parades and fireworks and festivals 
and music. Clowns and troubadours and, of course, outdoor theater.
I threw the rubber ball a few more times, when who should come shambling down 
the walkway but Elwood P. Dowd. He stopped a few steps away and stood looking 
down at me, his hands thrust into his baggy gray slacks, playing pocket pool or 
fiddling with his spare coins or whatever it was he did when wearing that 
thoughtful expression on his face.
"I didn't see you around on the trip from Pluto," I said.
"No, you didn't," he drawled. "Claustrophobia. And you didn't pack enough to 
eat."
He lowered himself down on my left side, dangled his feet with his clunky brown 
hard-leather shoes and argyle socks. He always sits on my left, because he's 
deaf in his left ear. He told me he'd fallen through an iced-over pond when he 
was young, back in Bedford Falls. Elwood had plenty of stories like that. He'd 
been a United States senator for three years, and he'd flown solo across the 
Atlantic Ocean. He'd been the leader of a swing band.
"Yeah, I know," I said. "The old Pantechnicon's not good enough for you. Which 
way did you travel this time? On the buddy seat of some witch's broom? Borne on 
the gentle wings of angels? Scanned, digitized, strewn through the ether to 
fetch up here, at the edge of human folly?"
He peered down between his shoes, swinging them idly.
"Pretty fair edge, if you ask me." I could tell by the way he looked off into 
the distance that he was pissed. He doesn't like me to point out the lapses in 
logic his appearances usually imply.
"If you don't like having me around, I can always go away," he drawled.
I learned long ago not to put my arm around his shoulder or anything foolish 
like that. People stare. Rude, but there it is. Usually I don't even look 
directly at him, but now I did.
"After better than ninety years, Elwood, I have trouble imagining what I'd do 
without you."
That seemed to satisfy him. He squinted up at the hang gliders for a time.
"Maybe I came here in a faster ship than you did," he said.
"Using up your frequent-traveler miles on the Flying Dutchman?"
"The old Spirit of St. Louis was a lot faster. No, but maybe I hitched a ride 
with somebody who did get here faster. Now, if I was you, I'd be asking myself, 
'Who do I know that got here faster than me? And how'd he do it?' "
* * *
Two hours in the library looking at back postings of newspads and I had the 
information I needed. And yes, I actually went to the library. They exist, you 
know, and some of them even have a few books in them. Even on a spanking-new 
world like Oberon they have not entirely converted to over-the-phone service. 
And by law they have to maintain old-fashioned desk-bound terminals, for those 
folks who eschew direct interface and implanted modems: Amish, Christian 
Scientists, naturalists, washed-up ex-child telly stars, people who get Radio 
Free Betelgeuse on the fillings in their teeth. Weirdos.
When I found what I was looking for, the beginnings of a wild idea took root 
like crabgrass and refused to go away. I walked for an hour, turning it over and 
over in my mind. Just too wild, I kept telling myself. And then I'd think of 
another angle and be right back, worrying at it.
I found a restaurant that allowed dogsthat's right, some of them on Oberon 
don't; can you imagine? And they call themselves civilizedand spent a 
contemplative two hours eating pasta and drinking strong tea. Toby, after eating 
his portion and vainly trying to interest me in playing fetch with the last 
meatball, snoozed in his chair.
What the heck? I thought. Toby opened one eye and I realized I'd said it aloud. 
I dropped money on the table and scooped him up, suddenly in a big hurry.
"How'd you like to ride on the fast train?" I asked him. He allowed as how that 
was all right with him, and went back to sleep.
* * *
Toby is a trusting soul. Well traveled as he is, he might have had second 
thoughts if he'd known more about the Rim Express.
The Express hadn't been operating the last time I was on Oberon, for what I 
thought of as an excellent reason: there wasn't much rim to speak of. There was 
a lot more rim now, but there was still the little matter of a five- or 
six-hundred mile gap between the arcs. How could a train get from one arc to the 
other if no rail connected them? Well, sometimes the simplest thing really is to 
let the mountain come to Muhammad.
The train car was everything the spoke elevators were not: narrow, cramped, 
linear. Seats were four across, with an aisle between pairs. The top half of the 
car was transparent, though you couldn't see anything when you boarded since the 
car was in a tube, suspended an eighth of an inch above a magnetic induction 
rail. I settled into an aisle seat. It was deeply padded, and could recline 
almost forty-five degrees. When the car was about half-filled, the front and 
rear doors sealed and there was a loud hiss as the air in the tube was bled 
away. Then I was pressed back in my seat by rapid acceleration.
In only a few minutes we burst silently into space. Toby floated up out of my 
lap, weightless. He's not bothered by this, simply looking around curiously 
until I snagged a hind leg and brought him back down. I twisted in my seat and 
saw the massive trailing edge of Noon Arc dwindling behind us. I could see the 
pressurehead, several tunnels including the one we had emerged from, the 
mysterious inner structure of the floor. We were traveling at three thousand 
miles per hour
and standing dead still. It's all relative, you see. Or so I'm told. From a 
viewpoint on the rotating wheel, we were really skedaddling. But stand away from 
the wheel, motionless, and you'd see that the train car was just hanging there 
as the Noon Arc rotated away from it, and the Six Arc approached.
All very neat. Hang suspended there for twenty minutes, then decelerate when the 
other arc sweeps you up. Travel time: thirty minutes. And, I hear you protest, 
why the hell would anyone take the fifteen-hour ordeal of a trip through the 
hub, as Poly did twice a week, when this magical chariot was available?
Answer: money.
There was no real physical reason why the Rim Express should be so expensive to 
ride. It was cheap to operate, it was safe, it was quick. And the government of 
Oberon hated the damn thing, wished it would just go away. Since it didn't, they 
taxed the hell out of it. They added surcharges for every screwball thing a 
government is likely to get up to, and then they added some more. On top of 
that, they subsidized the spoke elevators to the point that they were 
practically free. It was like bus fare as compared to rental of a limousine. The 
elevators didn't really need a fare box at all. Money from concessions and 
gambling enabled the service to turn a tidy profit, sort of like a theater that 
makes nothing at the box office but cleans up selling outrageously priced 
popcorn and drinks.
But what was the problem with speed and efficiency? Why the hostility to the 
Express? The answer didn't make sense to me, until I considered the economics of 
a rotating world under construction.
Since its inception not that many years before, and for some years to come, well 
over ninety percent of the freight traffic went down. Cargoes arrived at the 
hubfinished steel, composite, glass, web, imported food, merry-go-round horses, 
starving actorsand was lowered to the rim. Of that, only the starving actor was 
likely to return to the hub. And on Oberon, down meant slow. Each kilogram moved 
from the hub to the rim slowed the spin of the wheel by a few millionths of a 
second. Consider that millions of kilograms were lowered that way each day. 
Pretty soon, left to itself, the wheel would run out of juice like a music box 
winding down its spring. Everybody would get lighter, and lighter, and 
lighter... and rise up and blow away. (People did get lighter, though not by a 
lot. When the rotation speed had slowed to a certain point the engineers applied 
thrust and brought the wheel back up to speed, and slightly over. Included in 
Oberoni "weather forecasts," actually schedules, was the day's "gravity index." 
There were light days, and heavy days. Would you believe that suicide rates 
increased on heavy days? It's true. Also more fistfights, absenteeism from work, 
and complaints of constipation.) (This quirk of rotation also made spring scales 
illegal on Oberon. Only beam balances would give true weight.)
Thrust means energy, and energy costs money. You'd think they'd have a 
kilogram-lowering tax to pay for it, and they did, but not a big one. It was a 
complex equation, but one that eventually worked out to an outrageous tariff on 
the Rim Express, since these citizens weren't helping out by keeping the 
elevators in operation.
There was another way of delivering cargo to the rim. It also involved slowing 
the wheel. This was a fact of physics that no amount of taxation would correct: 
more mass at the rim equals less speed, no matter how it got there. But it was 
quicker, like the Express itself. The wheel is turning, see, and it has these 
two huge gaps in it. Why not wait for an arc to pass, then move your cargo into 
position where it could be intercepted and magnetically slowed, much as we were 
sitting out here in space right now, waiting for the arc to arrive?
Well... sounds great, but these are large shipments. You have twenty minutes to 
get them positioned exactly right. No margin for error, and it has to work right 
every time, hundreds of times a day... and I think this is my stop right up 
here, Mr. Conductorman. It's been fun, and send me a card if you... er, when you 
arrive safely.
Imagining several million tons smashing into one of the pressureheads, the 
Oberoni came to the same conclusion I did. No thank you. We'll ease freight into 
the hub in a slow and civilized manner, then lower it gently to where it's 
needed. The Rim Express is excitement enough, for those who can afford it.
Could I afford it? Not really, but my reasoning was thus: if this screwball plan 
doesn't work out I don't have an agent's chance at the Pearly Gates of getting 
to Luna in time. In fact, if I'm not off this wheel in twenty-four hours or less 
my chances of being arrested are almost a certainty. So time was more important 
than money for me. And all I had going for me at the moment was speed, audacity, 
and charm.
Actually, that didn't sound so bad to me. I'd stolen out of town many times in 
the past with less.
* * *
They turn the car around before arrival at the Six Arc, so when the deceleration 
starts you're pressed back into your seat, not jerked out of it. The pilot told 
us we'd stay weightless for the first ten seconds into the tunnel, so we could 
turn around and look so long as we remembered to lean back into our seats once 
we entered.
I did turn around, for a while, but I found the sight of the approaching arc 
much more unsettling than the view of the retreating one. You could actually see 
it grow during the last minute of free fall, swinging down on you like God's 
croquet mallet. No openings were visible; I knew they were there, but you 
couldn't see them until the last second. It was hard to resist the notion that 
you were about to be batted like a long fly ball to the Andromeda Galaxy. I 
settled in my chair and hugged Toby securely, and closed my eyes. Presently it 
got dark, instantly, and then I was pressed back into the seat. In no time the 
doors were opening and we all crowded out into the station. An elevator took us 
to the floor of Six Arc.
Which looked pretty much like Noon Arc, with one difference. There were the 
Chandytowns, sometimes pronounced Shantytowns, also known as Gypsy Penthouses, 
Rookeries, Bat Mansions, Goddamn Public Nuisances, dangerous eyesores, 
accidents-in-progress, and many more unflattering terms. They were goofy 
chandeliers, Christmas ornaments dangling from Gargantua's attic. They were 
squatters who hung instead of hunkered.
As usual, oversights like this were the result of lawmakers' negligence and 
lawyers' cupidity. Seems a bloated plutocrat of a banker, one of the original 
consortium who financed the early work on Oberon II and whose family came over 
on the good ship Tax Shelter (think of the Mayflower, with four-star restaurants 
and a stock ticker), was looking to build a mansion that would make all the 
other bloated plutocrats gobble with envy. He set his pack of New Harvard 
jackals on the project, and one came up with the odd fact that no one owned the 
airspace above the wheel rim. One could, if one had the money and the 
effrontery, build a castle in the air. The banker had plenty of both, and soon a 
sort of Xanadu of the Skies was dangling from a five-hundred-mile rope of spider 
silk, attached to the hub and looming a mile over the peons, a convenient 
pissing distance.
What one goony billionaire can create, others are sure to copy. Soon there were 
a dozen of these unwelcome party favors frowning down on the populace, complete 
with hanging gardens, pools, driving ranges, hangars, and all the ostentation 
money could buy. For some reason I didn't get, they were only in Six Arc so far, 
but rumor had them a-building, waiting to be lowered, over Noon Arc as well.
These structures were unlike anything humans had up to that point inhabited. 
Free-fall structures can be fanciful and free-form, but usually ended up in a 
massive clutter of add-ons, like Brementon. They weren't made to be enjoyed from 
the outside. Structures on a surface, whether on a planet or under spin, had 
unforgiving and constant gravity to contend with. Even with the strength of 
modern building materials, there was a limit to what could be done. The 
shantytowns lived in a new environment. They didn't have any sort of base to sit 
on; lower one to the ground, it would crumple like aluminum foil, then fall over 
on its side like an exhausted top. They were asymmetrical, tending to be wider 
at the middle than at the top and bottom. One thing was sure: if they were 
outlawed, as ninety percent of Sixers favored, it was going to be a big problem 
putting them anywhere else.
The legal battle had been joined fifteen years earlier, and still raged with no 
end in sight. So far the only progress had been passage of an ordinance that 
each had to be suspended from a minimum of three ropes, each capable of 
supporting the entire building. The tenants had complied with no fuss. Hell, it 
was cheap and easy to do, and there they still hung.
Like most tourists, I thought they were sort of pretty, in an overdone, 
tasteless way. But I could see the point of the people on the ground. 
Particularly the ones living in the Shadowlands.
First, there was the problem of stuff falling or being tossed over the side. 
Usually it was plastic champagne glasses, crumpled paper cups, and the butt ends 
of various smokables. But every once in a while there was a flowerpot, sometimes 
big enough to hold a potted palm. There had been chairs, oddments of clothing, 
ceramic tiles loosened by time, shards of glass from broken windows. A few years 
back a group of drunken revelers had shoved a lavender baby grand piano over the 
side. There had been one falling body, a suicide. So far no one had been killed 
on the ground. Injuries were lavishly compensated, and the offender's insurance 
premium dutifully raised. These were people who could easily afford it.
The big problem was the one you already thought of. Three cables or not, who 
wanted to live under the damn things?
The answer was, people looking for cheap rent. Property values had plummeted 
faster than a falling baby grand piano in the affected areas, known as 
Shadowlands. There really was a shadow cast by these things. Without grow lamps, 
all the tomato and marijuana plants in your window boxes shriveled up and died. 
Your light bill went up, but your rent went down.
The Shadowland apartments tended to be occupied by the young, who traditionally 
didn't have a lot of money, and who didn't really think they could die, anyway. 
Many residents wore bright red hard hats when on the street. Not really meant 
for protection, the hard hats were more a way of defiantly thumbing one's nose 
at fate.
I saw several of these hard-hatted bohemians on my way into the Shadow-land. 
Toby sniffed the air as we moved into the twilight. He knew something was wrong, 
but couldn't figure out what. I doubt the hovering shantytown meant anything to 
him; it was too big and too distant to be a part of his world.
We passed a line of people carrying signs and chanting something. The signs said 
SAVE THE RINGS. I never did figure out what that was all about.
* * *
I loitered around the neighborhood for several hours, getting a feel for the 
place. I'd changed my face a bit, my costume, my walk. Ordinarily I'd pull a few 
makeovers on a project like this, be several different people during the course 
of my wait. But no matter what I did, even the most inept observer would take 
note of those different guys walking with the same dog. Couldn't be helped; I 
wanted Toby with me. But I'm good at pretending I belong. I can fit in most 
places, know how to act as if I'm up to something purposeful and innocent.
It was a quiet neighborhood of working families and college students. The 
hurly-burly of stampeding skyscrapers was five miles away. People here were more 
stable, less flamboyant. I'm sure it would have been a very desirable spot for 
the settled middle class if it wasn't for the hovering monstrosity of the 
shantytown. Looking up at it, it was impossible to put aside the idea that it 
was about to drop a massive turd right on your head. There was an irising 
opening of some sort, probably to admit helicopters or hovercraft, that could 
easily be seen as a gigantic robot rectum.
I wondered how they dealt with sewage. I envisioned flying honey wagons buzzing 
around the big butthole in the sky like angry bees, slopping feculence, spewing 
effluvia. On second thought, dear, let's go see what's available in the 
Sunnyside Apartments.
Seeing no sign of police activity, but far from sure I'd see it if it was there, 
I plucked up my courage and entered the building. I roamed the hallways with 
what I hoped was an air of unconcerned innocence, passing her door several 
times. No one stood around reading a newspad. No games of mumblety-peg were 
happening in the stairwells. I saw no evidence of cameras having been recently 
installed, but I knew that if they want to hide the camera from you, you won't 
find it. I am very good at sniffing out the beaks in ordinary circumstances. 
Something about the shoes they wear, and the way they walk. But electronic 
surveillance was another matter.
It all depended on what she'd told them, and how much they believed. What I 
figured was the best thing going for me was simply that few cops would believe a 
man who could pull off the escape I had would be stupid enough to come here.
Well, I've proven many times, I'm way stupider than that.
So I squared up to the door, took a deep breath, and knocked.
I could tell she was watching me through a low-tech peephole. When she opened 
the door she had a puzzled frown on her face. My own features were not what she 
remembered, but it was nagging her. People change their appearance these days, 
sometimes frequently. Some new recognition skills were evolving, I believed, to 
deal with that fact. I'm okay at it. Women tended to be better at it than men. 
There is an identity in the eyes independent of other physical features, things 
about one's stance, something I think of as stage presence, gestures, possibly 
even an aura of some sort, that often give you away.
She looked down at the dog in the crook of my arm, then back at my face. 
Recognition dawned.
By the time I saw the right hook coming, it was way too late. I sat down hard, 
and put my hand to my nose. Jesus, did it hurt!
"Can I come in?" I honked, and stared at a handful of blood.
* * *
"How could you have the nerve to come here?" she shouted. "After what you did to 
me. You walked out and left me for that monster!"
She was pacing up and down the small living room of her apartment. She'd been 
over this same ground before, dozens of times in the last ten minutes, but I 
knew she had to get it out of her system. She would, eventually. There had been 
a moment of quiet as she stared down at me, perhaps a little surprised at what 
she had done, but a long way from regretting it. She had pulled me up and in, 
slammed the door behind me, and the tirade began.
She yelled at me as she shoved me toward the couch, harangued me as she went to 
the kitchen for a wet rag and some ice, screamed abuse as she hurled the cold 
pack at me, fumed and muttered as she picked up the ice and wrapped it up again 
and thrust it at me defiantly.
I just sat there with my head lowered. The rag was red now, but the bleeding had 
stopped. My nose throbbed a little, but I didn't think it was broken.
Toby sat at the other end of the couch, as far away from me as possible, and 
watched her pace the floor, licking his lips nervously from time to time. By 
sitting on the couch I think he meant to signal he was still with me in spirit, 
but by taking the distant ground he was letting me know that, if she gets 
violent again, Sparky, you're on your own. Toby was an artist, not a pugilist. 
If I'd wanted a bodyguard, I'd have bought a Rottweiler.
If you don't intend to resume the violence, you eventually reach a point where 
most of the anger is burned out of you. There's a lot of different ways to go 
from there. She might try to throw me out. I wasn't going to let her, but she 
might try. She might begin to cry. I thought that was likely. What she did, 
though, was sort of wind down. She paced a few more times, trying to think of 
more original ways to abuse me, paced slower and slower, and came to a halt 
looking down at Toby. The faintest of smiles touched her lips.
"Nice dog," she whispered.
"His name is Toby," I said. It was the second sentence I'd spoken to her since I 
found her lying on the bloody bed.
Toby knows his cues. He bounced down to the floor and stood up on his hind legs 
and did a little dance, pink tongue hanging out fetchingly. He knows he's cute. 
He did a back flip, then sat and barked, three times. Poly made a sound halfway 
between a sob and a laugh.
"My name isn't Trevor, though," I said. It set her off again. I had pretty much 
expected it would.
"Oh, really?" she hooted, voice dripping with scorn. "Imagine my surprise. The 
police told me Trevor Howard was some kind of old actor, and he'd been dead for 
two hundred years. Can you imagine how foolish I felt?" She ranted on a little 
longer, but her heart was no longer in it and she ran down again. This time she 
sat, and Toby jumped up in her lap and licked her face. Her hand came up 
absently to pet him, and he curled up in her lap, looking up worshipfully.
There's this thing about dog peopleand Poly was definitely a dog personthat 
makes us unable to be totally angry, totally sad, or anything but calmed and at 
least a bit pleased when our hands are stroking a dog's back and scratching 
behind his ears. Toby played the moment for all it was worth, arching sensually, 
licking his lips. A cat would have purred, but Toby doesn't need to. A dog's 
body language is at least as eloquent.
Perhaps I'd be able to talk now.
"First, I'd like to say I'd never have left you there if I thought you were in 
danger from him." She looked over at me dubiously, but said nothing. "I know, 
you're thinking, 'Then why did he come back?' Well, obviously because, thinking 
about it a little more, I wasn't sure I was right." I would not point out that 
coming back was one of the bravest things I ever did. If she could accept that I 
would do anything brave she would see that for herself. If she couldn't, no 
amount of pleading my case would do any good. Besides, being silent about one's 
heroics is the mark of a hero, or so you'd believe if you watched any adventure 
story. Since most of us get our information about situations of melodramatic 
heroism from just such stories as that, I hoped her own mind was conditioned to 
think that way. Myself, I've met people who had done things I thought heroic who 
never shut up about it. Most people like to crow, hero and coward alike. The 
strong, silent, ah-shucks type from old western movies is rare indeed. But I 
knew the role, and I played it.
I had noticed the last three fingers of her right hand were pink and a little 
raw looking. They had been the ones severed by Izzy in his brief interrogation. 
Those fingers were undoubtedly in some compost pile in the bowels of Oberon. The 
ones she wore now were replacements.
"At least you'll play the violin again," I said, searching for a positive spin. 
I knew it was a mistake as soon as I said it, and it was, but not for the reason 
I had thought. She sat Toby on the couch and stood. Hand up, fingers spread, she 
shook it at me. The new fingers seemed a little loose.
"I'm glad you're so pleased about that," she grated. "I'm sure you've never 
heard anything about 'muscle memory,' since I doubt you've ever had any fingers 
pulled off."
I had to admit I hadn't.
"It works like this. You learn a manual skilltyping, throwing a baseball, 
playing the violinthe skill gets imprinted in your brain." She tapped her 
lovely noggin with her uninjured index finger. "The imprinting's still there, 
even if your arm gets cut off. But you replace the arm, the signals get sent 
down to your fingers, and the muscles don't know how to respond. They haven't 
been developed properly to do what you want them to. And they think there's some 
memory in the muscles, too, so they have to relearn the skill, just like if 
you'd had part of your brain taken out and some other part tries to take over. 
This finger right here"she extended her right ring finger"is the klutziest 
digit you own, except for your toes. It takes years to get it able to do the 
things you need to do to play the violin, even moderately well. This one isn't 
much better." She was holding up her pinkie. "But the finger I'd really like you 
to study is this one." She held up her middle finger and extended her hand 
toward me. "Fuck you, whoever you are. Now get out of my apartment."
"I just have a few things to say, and then I'll go, if you still want me to." I 
waited, took her silence as acceptance.
"The first thing is, my real name is Sparky Valentine."
She gave me a reaction I'm used to: a blank stare. For a lot of people, saying 
I'm Sparky is like telling them I'm Mickey Mouse, or the tooth fairy.
"Crazy," she muttered.
"There's no way I can prove it to you, but I want you to know I'm being straight 
with you." It's true, you know. Even wearing my "natural" face, I don't look a 
lot like little Sparky. I could do the voice, but that would prove nothing. 
There was a time when every two-bit comic in the system could do Sparky, and 
most of his gang, too. Many of them were better at it than I was. When I finally 
grew up, my voice changed just like other people.
"What I'm here to ask you," I plunged on, "is if you'd like to get back at him. 
If you'd like to give him one in the eye."
There was no need to explain who "he" was. I saw wild interest grow in her face 
at the idea of getting back at him. She leaned forward, intense.
"Can we kill him?" she whispered.
Well, that was direct enough. I resolved never to get her angry at me again.
"I doubt it. I mean, as a practical matter, he's very hard to kill. I've tried 
three times now, and he's still out there. And personally, my hope is to never 
be on the same planet with him again, much less close enough to him to take a 
shot."
She slumped back on the couch, then sprang to her feet. I thought she was going 
to resume her tirade against me, but she had a new target.
"I can do this all right. I can pick my nose, I can feed myself. I'm getting 
better at signing my name. But Bach? Mozart? Forget it. I can't do a simple 
arpeggio. I'm back to scales. If there's anything I can do to hurt him, hurt him 
really bad, I want to hear it."
"Okay. There's one finger we didn't mention." I stuck up my thumb. "It's the 
finger of transportation, and maybe we can use it to hitch a ride out of here."
And I told her my plan.
* * *
It all sounds so much better when you're laying it out. Or when I am, anyway. My 
powers of persuasion are pretty sharp, having been honed over seventy years of 
getting myself into situations I end up having to talk myself out of. To run a 
good con, it helps if you can at least partly persuade yourself that you're 
telling the truth. I know how to tell the mark the parts she wants to hear, and 
to skim over the problems.
So it went down well, there in her apartment. She bought it, and so did I. Now, 
almost half a day later, alone, sober and determined to stay that way, it seemed 
a very long shot.
I was in the hub, sitting at a table in a carousel bar, waiting to see how it 
all came out. I had a tall, bubbly glass of ginger ale in front of me, and I 
wished it were something a little stronger. I wished I had something to smoke, 
too, but all I'd ever liked was hemp, and I needed my wits about me. Some 
tobacco, that would be nice, though I'd never smoked it and heard it tasted 
vile. Humphrey Bogart, sitting here, would have had a smoke going, the cigarette 
stuck high up between his fingers. That hound-dog face that never seemed to look 
panicky. I could do Bogart if I had a smoke, and I wouldn't be so nervous.
I kept my eye on the rope lift constantly moving down from the hubnot the hub 
of Oberon, though that's where I was, but the hub of the pub, the pub-hub that 
was within the larger hub, to make myself perfectly opaque. The bar was for 
tourists and others who liked their drinks to stay in the glass and the glass to 
stay on the table. Therefore, it rotated, at a pretty good rate, enough to give 
one-third gee at the rim, where everybody sat. The place was small enough that 
you didn't want to stand up too quickly or the coriolanus force would knock you 
down. Your head would get a lot lighter than your feet.
I spotted her as she floated into the hub, glanced around, and selected the lift 
rope that would take her close to where I sat. It pulled her down at first, then 
somewhere when the forces were equalized she swung around with ease and grace 
and she was hanging from the strap, like a commuter only with her feet off the 
floor. The rope lowered her and she hit the ground walking. I was envious. A few 
hours before I had looked like all three stooges trying to do the same thing, 
and I'd landed on my butt. Toby had thought it was a neat trick, I think. He'd 
barked in delight.
Now he was curled up in one of the chairs at the table, his belly full of bar 
pretzels and beer nuts and ginger ale. Poly pulled out the third chair and sat 
down.
"I need a drink." She held up her hand and signaled to the bartender. I watched 
with interest, because this wasn't a mere finger gesture but a more elaborate 
sign language that resulted in what looked like a Bloody Mary being delivered to 
our table. I memorized the gestures. You never know when you'll need a bit of 
business to lend authenticity on the stage.
I let her take a deep drink.
"How'd it go?" I asked. She took another.
"Okay, I guess."
"What do you mean, you guess?"
"Well, it's kind of hard to tell, isn't it?" I could see she was having some of 
the same doubts I'd been entertaining. She'd had plenty of time to find fault 
with the plan on the elevator ride to the hub.
"I wouldn't know. I wasn't there." I looked at her pointedly, and she sighed, 
took another drink, and put the glass down.
"Okay. They weren't happy about it."
"I warned you they wouldn't be."
"But there wasn't anything they could do. Except make me feel small."
"I warned you about that, too."
Poly had been visiting with the Oberon police. I was glad it was her and not me, 
because what she told them was she was dropping her lawsuit against Isambard 
Comfort, and as far as she was concerned, he was free to go.
"They'd already told me the position he was taking," she said. We'd gone through 
that at her apartment, but I let her tell it her way. "How you killed his sister 
in self-defense, in spite of what it looked like. What sort of story he fed them 
to make it look that way I don't know, they didn't tell me, but it was clear 
they weren't buying it. I know they'd really like to talk to you about it, 
because they're sure the two of you wouldn't tell the same story. But as of now, 
there's nothing they can charge you with."
"Did anybody follow you?"
"I don't think so. I did what you said, and I didn't see anybody."
No way to tell, with an amateur. But if they really wanted to talk to me and had 
followed her, they'd probably already be here.
That Izzy was not going to finger me in his sister's death didn't surprise me, 
either. If I was in prison, it would be tougher for him to get at me. Oh, he 
could hire my death easily enough, but Charonese like to take care of matters 
like that themselves. They never testify in court, no matter what. If they have 
a beef with you, don't expect them to sue you.
"So I told them I had accepted the settlement the Charonese ambassador had 
offered me, that I'd already cashed the check. They tried to bluff me." She took 
another drink, and made another gesture to the bartender. "That was the scariest 
part. Said they intended to prosecute him under the criminal statutes, and they 
demanded my testimony. Said they'd prosecute me if I didn't take the stand. I 
told 'em that would go down great with the public, going after the victim. I 
said I wasn't going to testify, no matter what, that I was dropping all charges. 
They kept trying to frighten medid frighten me, let me tell youbut I stuck to 
my story, like you said, and eventually they threw me out. She took a sip of her 
second drink.
"Threw you out."
"Told me to leave. Said they'd get back to me after they'd talked it over with 
the State's Attorney. So, I don't think they'll prosecute"
"They won't, trust me."
"Don't make me laugh. Anyway, I'll be glad to get out of here." Right.
"I'd like to talk to you about that," I said.
She gave me a cold smile. "I'm not surprised."
"You're not?"
"Something in your quick agreement to my terms didn't, shall we say, play 
right."
"I'll stick to my agreement," I said, indignantly. "I just still think you're 
making a mistake, and I want to try to talk you out of it while there's still 
time. You've got the money now to"
"You said that before." She reached into her purse. "Before you waste a lot of 
hot air, I want to show you something." She pulled a blue, eight-ounce thermos 
from the purse and held it up for me. There was a smiling picture of 
meSparkyon the side. She jiggled it, and something rattled inside.
I was stunned. "How did you...?" I was speechless, so I reached for the thermos. 
She pulled it back quickly, tucked it back into her purse.
"Naughty," she said, wagging her finger. "You wouldn't want to cause a 
disturbance, would you? Something that might bring the police." She had me, and 
she knew it. "While you went to the bathroom. Remember?"
"But the combination"
"I've got a good memory. Shame, shame, Trevor. An old con man like you, not 
covering up when you opened that ridiculous traveling coffin."
I'd brought the Pantechnicon with me, naturally, since I expected to get out of 
Oberon fast if I got out at all. After I had her attention I'd taken it to her 
apartment, as without a bit of grisly show-and-tell I wasn't sure she'd buy my 
plan. And the bitch had foxed me. And what was this about ridiculous? I was as 
indignant about that as about the theft.
"That's mine," I said, as forcefully as I dared.
"And you'll get it back, I promise. As soon as you keep your promise."
I fumed, I bristled, and I blustered, but after five minutes of whispered 
argument to which she responded with nary a word, I admitted defeat. She was 
going with me.
* * *
The next hour would have been tense under the best of circumstances. Since we 
were more or less not speaking to each other, it was excruciating. Toby felt it, 
woke up, and kept looking back and forth between us. He thinks all his friends 
ought to like each other, and frets when they don't.
Poly bought a newspad and we hovered over it like miserable wraiths waiting for 
Godot. We kept it dialed to BREAKING STORIES, but since none were breaking at 
the moment we saw the same six stories a dozen times each, including a touching 
one about a mother cat who kept returning to a burning building until she had 
all four of her kittens. At least it was touching at first. By the eighth 
showing I would cheerfully have squashed all four of the mewling ratlike 
varmints under my heel until their heads cracked like walnuts and booted the 
mother like a singed and smoking football.
Then we had it.
"Live from Seventh District Prison. Notorious Charonese torturer and arsonist 
Isambard Comfort is to be released at this hour. Sources close to the warden 
tell us his victim, Polyhymnia"
Poly slapped the cutoff switch and scaled the pad into a trash can. I admired 
the way she compensated for the spin in her aim.
"Let's go," she said. We hustled over to the rope lift and I grabbed a passing 
strap, tucking Toby under my free arm. I was tugged off my feet. This had to be 
easier than coming down, I figured.
It was, if banging your head on the hub was easier than falling flat on your 
ass.
* * *
We went to the taxi stand and piled into a cab. Poly had two big, battered old 
suitcases and her violin. I had Toby and the Pantech.
The cab pilot, who looked like a third-rate palooka who neveh coulda been a 
contendah, glanced at Toby. Then his crusty, unshaven face split in a wide grin.
"A Bichon Frise," he cooed, pronouncing it properly. He thrust a massive ham 
fist toward Toby, who froze in consternation at the sheer size of the thing, but 
stood his ground and, after a cautious sniff, allowed himself to be fondled. The 
palooka had a gentle touch, and soon Toby's mouth opened and his pink tongue 
lolled out. He looked at me and sniffed.
"Me and the wife have three of "em," the driver explained. "Won the best of 
breed in last year's All-Oberon. I'll bet the little fellow's got good lines." 
He looked at me expectantly, probably thinking I'd whip out Toby's papers and 
we'd spend a pleasant hour or so discussing his ancestry. I'd met this type 
before. "Ever breed him?"
"Toby breeds with whom he wants to breed with, and like any gentleman, he never 
discusses it with me."
"Gotcha. I bet this little fella's got half-breed pups all over the system." He 
meant it as a joke, and had no idea how accurate he was. "So, where to?"
I gave him the coordinates and he typed them into his launch control, and in a 
moment we were squirted out the end of the tube and streaking into black space.
It was as crowded as when I arrived, crowded as it always is. We dodged around 
angular behemoths, cargo ships and passenger liners. In only a few minutes we 
began our deceleration, and an apparition hove into view.
"Cheez," said the cabby. A truer word was never spoken.
Except for Mars landers, spaceships always operate in total vacuumsorry, zero 
pressure. That means they usually look any way they damn well please. They tend 
to look like a disaster in a metal shop. Things are tacked onto old frames, old 
stuff is pulled away and big holes are left. Paint is solely for insulation, and 
who cares if the first quarter inch flakes off?
But if a real-estate agent can convince a rich person to buy a hanging mansion, 
hideously expensive to maintain and good for nothing but showing off, why 
shouldn't a solar-yacht broker (a direct descendant of a used-car salesman) get 
the same sucker to plunk down cash for something that looks like the first 
person ever to kick the tires might have been Buck Rogers in the twenty-fifth 
Century? Or Duck Dodgers in the 24th?
Later I had the ship's computer search the visual library for images comparable 
to the yacht. It found a Picasso nude, the carmine bee-stung lips of Madelon 
Theirry, the scarab-blue helmet of Ramses II, Minnie Mouse, and a 1953 Hudson 
Hornet. There were elements of all these visible as we approached the ship. It 
was not painted, but made from glossy metals that would not fade or chip in the 
harsh light of space: tangerine-flake, mother-of-pearl, crabapple red, and the 
aforementioned blue. It had a clutch of fins, and what looked like gleaming 
silver exhaust pipes. It was either the ugliest thing I ever saw, or the most 
beautiful. I changed my mind many times as we approached.
It was all glitz, of course. Nothing visible had any function except to look 
snazzy. It was the ultimate low-rider of the space lanes.
The cabbie docked quick and dirty. The condition of his docking collar hinted 
that this was his usual way of docking. As soon as he cycled the lock my ears 
popped and we heard a hissing sound. The seal was not as tight as it might be, 
but he didn't seem concerned about it.
"Don't leave yet," I told him, handing over a bill slightly more than twice the 
fare. We have to see if we're... ah, expected." He nodded, and Poly and I 
stuffed our luggage through the door and cycled the lock closed behind us. The 
hissing continued. The sooner out of this death trap, the better.
"Okay," I told her. "You can hand it over now."
She smiled at me, sweetly.
"Hand it over yourself. It's still in your trunk." She got the thermos and 
opened it. A few glass marbles floated out.
Hell, I know when I'm licked. In fact, I sort of admired her. It had been very 
slickly done.
"I picked this up at an antique store on the way to the elevator," she said, 
opening a disposal lock and putting the thermos in.
"Hey, that's worth a hundred dollars," I protested.
"You haven't checked the market lately, 'Sparky.' I paid five."
She cycled the lock and the thermos and marbles jetted out into space with a 
whoosh. Five dollars? For a priceless old Sparky Jug? How depressing. I was 
about to say so when there was a bright flash of light. We turned to the only 
port glass in the lock, and saw another marble as it flashed out of existence, 
followed in short order by all the rest, and the thermos, which took a little 
longer and was a lot brighter.
"A snark!" I said.
"Where? Where is it?" We both pressed our faces to the glass, hoping to get a 
look, but the little zapper could have been miles away. I sighed, opened the 
Pantech (this time shielding the code plate), and got out my own thermos. I 
opened it and steam came out. Nestled in chips of dry ice was a two-inch package 
wrapped in aluminum foil.
I shook Izzy's thumb out of the thermos and opened it. No freezer burn, but it 
was hard as a rock. It shouldn't matter.
Poly wrinkled her nose at the ugly little thing. The nail was a riot of purples 
and yellows. I took a deep breath.
"Okay. I've thumbed many a ride in my time, but never quite like this. Let's try 
it."
The security identiplate was a faintly glowing two-inch circle in the center of 
a brass escutcheon. Engraved on the brass were these words:
IPS 34903-D
COMETARY CLASS INTERPLANETARY YACHT
"HALLEY"
EXECUTIVE CHARTER SERVICE
PLUTO
* * *
That last word had been critical in my thinking when coming up with the plan. 
The ship's home port was Pluto. Had it come from Charon I wouldn't have dared 
this stunt. I pressed Izzy's thumb to the plate.
A thumbprint is a fairly good means of securing a valuable movable object. For 
something as expensive as the Halley they went a little further. A dead skin 
sample was being taken and subjected to a quick analysis to compare with Izzy's 
DNA. You could make a cast of a thumbprint, but there was no reasonable way to 
fake the DNA.
The key word there was, of course, "reasonable." What's a farfetched idea to a 
Plutonian might very well seem reasonable to the more bloody-minded Charonese. 
Izzy wouldn't have thought twice about severing my thumb, if I had a space yacht 
and he wanted to borrow it.
I've picked up a fair amount of knowledge concerning door locks in my checkered 
career. I boned up on more in the Oberon library. I thought I had a better than 
fifty-fifty chance of getting into the boat. If things went south after that, I 
still thought I could beat a retreat. A Charonese yacht, naturally, would have 
either slaughtered an intruder or held him for the later amusement of the owner 
and his family. Great fun for the kiddies; educational, too.
A green light appeared on the identiplate, and the lock cycled. We entered the 
ship.
I made my way directly to the control console and pressed the thumb to the 
second identiplate there. Another green light. And then nothing.
"Um..." I said. "Ah, can we make ready for departure?"
"Certainly, sir," came a voice. And then silence again.
"Ah... Luna. We want to go to Luna. Soon."
"How soon, sir?"
"Right now."
"I'm sorry, sir, I cannot boost right now."
My heart jumped into my throat. At my side, I saw Poly grow pale.
"The earliest departure would be in four minutes. The reactor has to be brought 
into"
"Fine, fine. Depart in four minutes, then."
"And what arrival time are you contemplating, sir?"
I gave him the dateall too close, terrifyingly closethat I needed to be on 
Luna.
There was a long pause. Entirely too long, when I thought about it later. I'd 
guess it was five or six seconds. That's a trillion years, in computer time.
"Yes, sir," the computer finally said. "Will you be charging this flight to the 
credit arrangements previously established?"
"Yes, that will be fine."
"Very good, sir. I suggest you leave your luggage in the lock; it is being 
secured against acceleration at this moment." I heard the lock door cycling. "I 
have warned the taxicab to stand clear for boost. He has cleared the lock and is 
on his way. You will have ample time to move into your staterooms when 
acceleration ends."
I heard sounds behind me as the ship readied itself for departure. A countdown 
clock started on the console. I looked around, and saw two acceleration 
coucheslike water mattresses, seven feet long and three feet widehad emerged 
from the floor. Beside them was a smaller unit with a cage on top. I realized it 
was a pet bed. I popped Toby into it, which didn't please him at all, with all 
this new space to explore, and these fascinating new smells to experience. He 
glared at me as I experimentally pushed on the surface of one of the couches. It 
conformed to the shape of my hand, and sprang back slowly. It would be like 
lying on soft putty.
"We have been cleared by the tower," the ship said.
"Yes. Uh, please turn off all but the necessary radio communication."
"Yes, sir." Another pause, this one short. "Sir, an odd datum. I was receiving a 
message from ground side when you ordered the radios shut off. A person claiming 
to be the legal lessee of this vessel was attempting to issue an order requiring 
me to deactivate the entry security system temporarily."
"What does that mean?" How many more surprises could I take?
"He would have had me deny access to anyone, until he could obtain a court order 
authorizing the local sheriff to accompany him and verify his identity."
"How odd." I gulped. Poly's eyes were wide.
"Yes, I thought so. It makes no difference, of course. I am not authorized to 
receive instructions from the ground concerning such matters. Even if the caller 
had the password."
"Did he have the password?"
"I don't know. You instructed me to cut him off before he could use it."
"I see."
"Yes. The password is only used to prepare facilities ahead of time, of course. 
Meals, extra staterooms, matters of that nature."
This was something Poly and I had discussed for quite a long time. I felt it was 
a necessary risk, letting Izzy out of jail; it was, in fact, the only reason I 
had visited her in the first place. Without her cooperation, I could not have 
him released. But in my reading I had learned that many ships of this class were 
quite intelligent. The scenario I feared was a simple one: I ask for entry, and 
the ship wants to know how it is I'm knocking on the door when I'm still in 
jail. The ship could very easily be monitoring newscasts. If it hears Izzy is 
out, me showing up with the right thumbprint and the right DNA code was easier 
to accept.
Was it the right decision? I didn't know, yet. But what at first had seemed a 
narrow escape had turned out to be nothing of consequence. The ship would have 
ignored Izzy's attempt to block me anyway, even if I hadn't cut him off in time.
"I suggest you make yourselves comfortable in the acceleration couches," the 
ship said. "Boost will be in thirty seconds."
Poly and I both climbed into our couches and stretched out. I could see the 
seconds counting down on a ceiling clock as the passive restraint system bound 
us securely.
"How much acceleration will it be?" I asked.
"Five gees," the machine replied.
I tried to sit up, but the web wouldn't allow it.
"Five gees?" I shouted. "It'll kill us!"
"According to my data, the human body has a ninety-five percent chance of 
surviving five gees for an hour or more."
"An hour?"
"We will be boosting for an hour and a half, approximately."
"An hour and a half!"
"To get you to Luna by the date specified."
I wondered if there was still time to abort. I wondered if I wanted to abort. 
While I was still thinking it over and the last seconds were ticking away, the 
computer voice destroyed what little wits I might have had left to make the 
decision.
"It will be quite uncomfortable," it said. "Before we leave, I wonder if you'd 
tell me something?"
"What's that?"
"Who are you? Are you really Sparky Valentine?"
The acceleration sat on me like a playful elephant, and I felt myself spiraling 
down, down, down, wild-eyed, sweaty-faced, seeing myself in the third person 
again, twisting through mad colors and flashing lights like Scotty Ferguson in 
the grip of his phobia in Vertigo, and I knew I was heading into another 
flashback.
* * *
ACT 4
The ravenous creature had no face. It shuffled down the broad spaceport 
concourse slow as a glacier but not nearly so quiet. Roughly circular in shape, 
it had scores of backs and hundreds of legs; approach it from any direction and 
that was all you saw. Backs of heads, backs of legs, the heels of shoes. It was 
a hungry ant colony with but one purpose: to feed upon the rays of charisma 
radiating from the jostling center. To feed, in a sense, upon itself.
In the center of the mass was a small boy, wearing a smile on his face and a 
jacket of gold brocade on his shoulders. His hair was copper-colored and stuck 
out stiffly to the sides. He was bathed in shafts of yellow and red and blue 
light, then momentarily frozen by strobes. Tiny skyrockets shot into the air 
from somewhere close to him, became dime-sized starbursts as they neared the 
ceiling.
The era when a paparazzi feeding frenzy like this would include bulky cameras 
and blinding lights and microphones on the end of poles was long over. These 
reporters had cameras embedded in their eyes, microphones in their ears. In each 
face one eye, usually the left, glowed softly with a red laser light. Some 
carried periscopes to get their points of view above the action.
Quite a while ago somebody had noticed that it just wasn't the same, the 
reporters crowding around without the lights, without the handicaps of technical 
gear to shoulder, notebooks to juggle and drop, microphones to thrust back and 
forth from mouth to mouth, and camera bags to swing around like incense 
thuribles. Especially the lights. It all looked rather drab without the lights.
So lights were brought in. At first they were carried by men and women. They 
still were, if the crowd of reporters wasn't large enough; anything to preserve 
the illusion that something important was going on here. But there was never any 
lack of reporters when Sparky was in town, so these lights and mini-pyros were 
rented from a firm specializing in hub-bub, called Hub-Bub Inc. The lights came 
from robotic helicopters the size of hummingbirds which circled slowly with no 
more noise than a bee and kept their beams always focused on the face of the 
Star. Other lights came from moving pylons, five feet tall, that shot up 
mini-rockets filled with flash powder and confetti and ticker tape, in addition 
to beams that swung back and forth like searchlights at a world premiere. 
Hub-Bub would also rent you a limo to cruise up to a theater or restaurant or 
tennis court along the public passageways, and outriders on electrocycles, all 
of them spouting glitz at a terrific rate.
Trailing at a discreet distance behind the beast were two automated sweepers, as 
required by city ordinance, feeding on brightly colored squares and strings of 
paper.
This was the ancient and honorable saturnalia that could spring up without 
warning at any time and any place, like fungus, if an important person happened 
to be in the neighborhood. It was the movable feast of the great bitch goddess 
Celebrity, the shufflin' charivari dedicated to the Public's Right to Know. It 
was a one-ring elephantine circus. Hoo, boy!
Sparky had spent a great deal of his life dealing with such circuses, but he saw 
them from the beast's belly. From here, the beast was all eyes and flashing 
teeth and moving lips. Ninety mouths and no butts, the beast had. He'd never 
seen it from the outside, where it was all ass.
Drop somebody down into the belly and he'd probably be frightened. There were so 
many teeth. Sparky knew that all it took to keep the beast fed was to keep 
smiling and keep moving. The bodyguards cleared a path, and he moved into it. 
Everyone was shouting questions and he couldn't hear any of them. He never 
could. But he nodded and smiled, and shuffled. It was enough. The beast was 
happy.
The bodyguards led the way to an unobtrusive door to the left of the main 
concourse. A storage locker, possibly, or a mop closet. There was no sign of any 
kind on the door. It opened to the man's thumbprint, and the three of them 
entered. Sparky turned at the last moment, paused, waving and smiling. Then the 
door closed behind him.
He put the smile away until it was needed again, let his shoulders and spine 
relax. He did a few neck rolls.
"Can I get you anything, boss?" one of the bodyguards asked.
"No, thanks, Rocko, I'll be fine." He walked across the thick-pile blue carpet 
toward a buffet table. There were heaps of fruit and veggies, attractively 
displayed, trays of cookies, a few steaming covered trays. Sparky filled a small 
bowl with radishes and pickles and other noshing food, carried them to a plush 
leather chair, and settled into it.
The room was provided by the airport for people like Sparky who could not wait 
out on the concourse. For an annual fee, Sparky could avail himself of this room 
and other places like it throughout Luna. Though it was nicely furnished and the 
food was always good, its chief attraction was the peace and quiet it offered. 
To that end, the one television screen was always on, but could be listened to 
only through headphones. There was a small library, a table with built-in 
chessboard, and another with poker chips and cards. Haircuts, massages, and 
manicures were available, on call.
The one really extravagant feature of the room was the fireplace. A real fire 
burning real wood crackled on the hearth. The first time here, Sparky had burned 
his hand, thinking it was a holo projection. He remembered wondering what it 
cost to clean the pollutants and combustion products out of the air. About 
twenty special permits were required on Luna to install and maintain such an 
outrageous thing. Since that first time he hadn't thought about it at all. 
Sparky was by now thoroughly accustomed to luxury.
Beyond the tall windows the massive hulks of deep-space ships were trundled back 
and forth from cargo bay to fueling station to launchpads just over the horizon. 
From time to time one of them lit its torch and leaped into the sky atop a light 
so bright the windows polarized automatically to protect human eyesight.
Sparky never looked at any of this. He sat with his back to the window and 
unrolled his Scrawlpad. When he pushed a button columns of figures raced across 
the screen. When he stopped, he made a note with his stylus in his small, 
precise hand. He occupied himself this way for ten minutes.
"Would you like some coffee, Sparky?"
He looked up. An attractive woman in a blue spaceport-worker uniform was holding 
a steaming cup on a tray. Sparky took it, smiled at her, and looked back to his 
work. After a minute he noticed she was still there.
"Can I do something for you?" The employees were not supposed to ask for 
autographs, but sometimes they did. Sparky was usually easy about it.
"Actually, you could." The woman produced a card and handed it to him. "My name 
is Hildy Johnson, and I'm a reporter for the News Nipple."
"A very new reporter, evidently," Sparky said, annoyed. "Didn't your editor ever 
tell you" Johnson was holding up her hand.
"Very new," she agreed. "Just in town from the dinosaur farm with a new job as 
cub reporter."
"You worked on a dinosaur farm?" Sparky had been thinking of dinosaurs for the 
new story arc scheduled to start in six months. "What was that like?"
"I got tired of shoveling brontosaur turds. Sparky, my editor did tell me that 
places like this are off-limits. Truce zones, he called them. And I'm not here 
to interview you."
"You're not?"
"Well, not right now. I just thought it wouldn't hurt to approach you and ask 
for an interview at a later date. I wanted to show you I could get in here, if I 
tried. I've been told you admire initiative."
Sparky was beginning to be more amused than annoyed.
"I admire chutzpah," he said. "It's how I got started in this business myself. 
But what if you made me angry? Then I might never give you an interview."
"You seldom do, anyway. I thought it was worth a shot. If you turn me down, I 
haven't lost anything, and I go looking for my big story somewhere else." She 
smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.
"Call my secretary tomorrow morning," he said. "He'll set something up. Now get 
out of here, you sneaky person." He watched her hurry away toward a door he 
assumed led to the kitchen.
"Rocko," he said, and across the room the big man stood up quickly and hurried 
to Sparky's side.
"Did you see that girl who was just here?"
"Yeah?"
"She was a reporter."
Rocko looked surprised, twisted to look at the door Johnson had used for her 
exit, as if his eyes could bore right through it.
"Find out how she got in here, and tell airport security. Have them plug the 
hole."
"You got it, Spark-man," Rocko said, and started away.
"And Rocko?"
He turned, eyebrows raised.
"If this happens again, you're fired."
"Naturally."
Sparky smiled, and went back to his Scrawlpad. In one sense, the mistake wasn't 
Rocko's fault. Airport security should have kept Hildy Johnson at bay. But in a 
larger sense, it was his fault. Rocko was in charge of all studio security, and 
especially the person of Sparky Valentine, the studio's most valuable asset. It 
was up to him to see anyplace Sparky visited was safe, and if it wasn't, either 
advise Sparky not to go there or make it safe with his own people.
Still, Sparky knew no security was perfect, and Rocko knew Sparky was unlikely 
to fire him unless incidents like this became commonplace. Rocko was very good 
at what he did. There had been three stalkers at various times in Sparky's 
career deemed dangerous enough to warrant more than a restraining order. Two of 
them were serving long jail terms, and the third had not been seen or heard from 
in over three years. Sparky never asked.
He put the production-cost numbers back in their file and called up the story 
department. The analysis of the next seven proposed episodes was supposed to be 
delivered today, and he wanted to see what his staff of geniuses thought of the 
proposals. He was just in time; the Scrawlpad was downloading the moment he 
called up the file. He began to read.
Sparky had originally been designed as an endless (one hoped) series of 
one-offs. Each episode was to stand on its own as a story, watchable by anyone 
who had never visited the Sparky universe before. There was continuity, in that 
each character had a history created through his adventures in previous 
episodes, and to a lesser degree, a back story. These tidbits were all written 
down by the series historian, and maintained in a small document known as a 
bible. All television series had bibles. They enabled new writers to come into 
the fold and read up on each character, know where he or she had been in life, 
know his limits and strengths and personality. For the first several years that 
was just about all that was in the bible. Episodes did not connect with each 
other. There was no "continued next Saturday!" This seemed to satisfy everybody. 
For the first few years.
When ratings begin to slip, new approaches are called for. The prevailing wisdom 
was that Sparky's target audience was too young to participate in complicated 
multiepisode plots. Too confusing, the pollsters said.
Sparky paid for another survey. This one found that estimates of the target 
audience were skewed by the fact that large numbers of viewers were staying 
loyal to Sparky even when they passed out of the targeted demographic: 
four-to-ten-year-olds. The show scored well all the way up to thirteen, when 
hormonal pressures led most Sparksters toward more sexual shows. And even then, 
kids who had grown up with Sparky still showed an interest in product tie-ins 
and in collecting memorabilia and old episodes. Sparky had filed that away for 
future consideration: surely there was a way to profit from this almost instant 
nostalgia when the teens grew into adults and had more money to spend. To that 
end, not much was ever thrown away from a Sparky production. It was all labeled, 
filed, and stored. "Taking a page from Walt Disney's book," Sparky called it. 
"If you can make money on it once, why not make money on it five or six times?"
"Retain the ephemera" became the watchword at Thimble Theater.
Then Sparky commissioned another study, and it was here that his feel for the 
audience transcended the dry pronouncements of focus groups and play-therapy 
sessions, measurements of eye movements and pupil contractions and palm sweat 
and heart rate, all so scientific and so lacking in the most important 
ingredient, to Sparky: magic.
He did the new study himself. He disguised himself and went out among the 
children. He hung around them and he listened to them, and he watched their 
eyes. He wasn't looking for pupil dilation, either. He was searching for that 
gleam of wonder as a child stammered out his recollections of a story that moved 
him. He found it, many times, and he found out something else. These kids 
remembered shows from two years ago.
So the show was revamped, gradually, to become a longer, continuing saga. 
Armageddon Angry was built up as the arch villain. Each episode might be seen as 
a skirmish, and each season as a war. There was a term in the industry for this 
kind of plotting, known as the "story arc." A problem would be posed in one 
episode, dealt with to a greater or lesser degree in three or four more 
episodes, and brought to a climax in the sixth installment. Meantime another arc 
had begun around episode three.
Keeping it all straight was a formidable task. The series bible grew from a 
dozen stapled sheets to a massive volume tended by a staff of three. There was 
another department whose mission in life was to steal. Steal from dead people, 
it's true, but steal nonetheless. Sparky had long ago given up coming up with 
plots and, except for the occasional inspiration, characters. Anything in the 
public domain was fair game. Old comic books were a fertile source. Almost 
anyone who had had his or her own comic book in the twentieth or twenty-first 
century had made a guest appearance on Sparky by now. Sparky had visited 
locations from Gotham City to Surf City. Old movie and television serials had 
been plundered for plotlines and cliffhangers. Sparky had entered alternate 
universes, places where classic private eyes, singing cowboys, half-breed aliens 
with pointy ears, and giant radioactive ants actually existed.
The show also had to keep up with trends. One fairly recent innovation in the 
marketplace was the introduction of gene-reconstructed dinosaurs raised as meat 
animals. Sparky had done shows with dinosaurs in them, but had never gone to a 
dinosaur ranch. What were the possibilities in such a setting? He had posed the 
question to his staff, and their first thoughts on the subject were in a new 
report he had not had time to read yet. Hildy Johnson's intrusion had jogged his 
memory on the subject, so he refiled the story-arc analysis and brought up the 
brainstorming-session minutes, a series of memos ranging from the humdrum to the 
impractical, with the solid ideas usually buried somewhere in the middle. Sparky 
encouraged his writers to put everything down, no matter how wild. No one was 
ever upbraided for having a dumb idea. Sometimes the real nuggets were mined 
from the extremes, not the comfortable middle.
'Saur-punchers. 'Saurboys 'n 'Saurgirls. Sparky liked it. Brontoboys. Yuck. He 
lined it out. There were lists of words used by actual cowboys, suggestions how 
they might be adapted. Dogies. Chuckwagon. Brandin' and calf-ropin' and 
hog-tyin'. Bobbing off their tails. Did they really do that? Cayuses and fillies 
and remudas and geldings and poontangs and chaps and spurs that 
jingle-jangle-jingle. He'd heard somebody was using a T. Rex to round up his 
herd. True? Make a note, find out. And what the heck was a dogie? Some kind of 
cow dog?
Sparky was enjoying himself. This was the kind of work he liked. It was like 
studying for a role, something he still did, faithfully, as his father had 
taught him, even though he hadn't played any role but Sparky for a long time. 
His memory was practically photographic, and jammed with odd facts that had been 
learned for one role or another. At the same time there were vast gaps, and for 
the same reason. If he were called on to play, for instance, Christopher 
Columbus, he would soak up everything he could learn about fifteenth-century 
Spain and Portugal, but quite likely remain ignorant of the fourteenth century. 
And why not? What was the point of learning all those things unless you planned 
to use them? Life was too short.
He was so immersed in his reading that he didn't hear Rocko approach. The 
bodyguard tapped him on the shoulder. "He's here," he said.
"He's... oh, right." Sparky left his pad on the table and struggled out of the 
chair, which was too big and too plush for his comfort. He and Rocko stood 
together, the big man a little behind, ever alert, as a commotion drew nearer 
and nearer in the direction of the jetways. Someone was shouting over other 
voices. Then six or seven people burst into the room in a tumbling chatter, all 
centering around a tall, handsome figure.
"criminal!" the man was saying. "I expect you to find out who's responsible 
and..."
John Valentine had spotted his son, and his face broke open in that 
well-remembered, well-loved smile. Sparky felt his knees grow weak. He thought 
his heart might burst.
"Dodger!" Valentine shouted, and covered the last twenty yards at a run. He 
lifted Sparky into the air, spun him around, then embraced him. Sparky wrapped 
his arms around his father's neck. He was determined not to cry.
John Valentine held his son at arm's length, Sparky's feet dangling high above 
the floor.
"Let me look at you! My god, you look great! Doesn't he, guys?" Everyone 
murmured how good Sparky looked. Sparky wondered who these people were, and what 
they had to do with his father. He supposed he'd learn soon enough.
"Great things ahead of us, son," Valentine said, warmly, putting Sparky down 
again and taking his hand. "Great things. I've got so much to tell you. Come on, 
let's get out of this damn place."
With that, John Valentine set off. Sparky clung to his father's hand, feeling a 
little like a balloon on the end of a string. It wasn't a bad feeling, but it 
wasn't a real secure one, either. There was nothing to be done about it.
Sparky was twenty-nine.
* * *
But Sparky is one hundred. He is a lot bigger than he was at eight, at eleven, 
at twenty-nine, but in many ways he is the same person. We're all that way, I 
think. We may shift our political ideas here and there, grow more cynical with 
age, accumulate experience like barnacles, but at our cores there is that same 
young person. It's the same today, when my apparent age is thirtyish, as it was 
in the old days, when a centenarian was a mass of leathery skin, rotten teeth, 
brittle bones, rheumy eyes, and involuntary flatulence. How awful it must have 
been for the young men and women trapped in such a degenerating hide. I can hear 
them screaming: "I'm young! Can't you see me?"
I must offer an apology here, and a brief explanation.
My background is in drama, but like any educated person I've read novels, 
biographies, and autobiographies. My preference is for the old, traditional form 
of dramatic presentation known as the proscenium theater: three walls, and an 
imaginary fourth wall between the players and the audience. Over the centuries 
many methods have been used to break that fourth wall for various reasons. 
Sometimes it works. From the early days, there was a technique known as the 
aside, where a cast member pauses and speaks to the audience directly, offers 
private thoughts, commentary on the action, the author's message.
The written word is different. There are many auctorial voices that may be 
assumed, but we don't need to get too deeply into that. I have chosen the first 
person for most of this narrative, for reasons that suit me. I have dropped into 
third person, as in the preceding pages, for other reasons that make me 
comfortable. From time to time I have addressed you, the reader, and this is 
usually considered bad form in a novel. Well, this isn't a novel, of course, but 
I don't claim it as autobiography, either, though most of it is true. Almost all 
of it. And it did happen to me. The voice almost never used in prose is the 
second person. Talking directly to you, the reader. I've never quite been sure 
why. Maybe it sounds too much like a questionnaire. Did you? Have you? Could 
you? At any rate, it seems the only appropriate voice to use for some parts. 
Though I don't know who you are any more than I know who the audience is in the 
live theater, I have to apologize to you, the reader, for the way I ended that 
last chapter.
"Who are you? Are you really Sparky Valentine?"
Chord of ominous music, and bam, the acceleration hits and we cut to seventy 
years ago, leaving you, the poor reader, to either put up with it or leaf 
through a few pages to see what the fuck happened next!
I hate that, when a novelist does it to me. It's almost as annoying in a movie. 
I would never have done it but for two reasons. One, it is exactly the way it 
happened. The shocker, then the shoe drops. Two, it is the only way I could 
convey to you the anger and frustrationnot to mention cold, constant fearI had 
to endure for the next hours.
* * *
My powers of description have failed me when trying to come up with a way to 
describe an hour and a half at five gees. One could get a transitory experience 
of five gees by jumping off a medium-sized building and landing on one's back. A 
longer version of the same thing would be lying beneath four people your own 
size for an hour and a half. Neither would really convey the choking, 
suffocating, bone-breaking and inexorable feeling of panic I endured. Each 
breath is a labor of Hercules. Lifting a finger is an aerobic workout. The water 
in my bladder was five times too heavy, like liquid lead. Poly and I both wet 
ourselves. You don't want to hear the rest.
We're talking five Earth gees here, remember. I grew up in one sixth of an Earth 
gravity; did that mean what I was feeling was thirty gees? No, because Lunarians 
are not one sixth as strong as old Earthers. Depending on what sort of shape 
we're in, we range from about a third, to full one-gee strength. I figure I was 
perhaps half as strong as an Earthling, so make it an effective ten gees.
The only relief to be found was that after a few minutes, a druggy feeling of 
lassitude overcame me. Better call it weariness, fatalism, or resigned apathy. I 
hurt everywhere, I was sure I wouldn't survive this, but I didn't give much of a 
damn. Dying would be a relief.
There's no mystery as to the source of this druggy feeling. Mechanical arms 
hovered and darted over us, moving in for the strike from time to time, pumping 
us full of sweet nepenthe. God knows what it was. I never asked. There were 
machines to monitor our vital signs, and something that carefully lifted our 
arms and legs from time to time, moved us around a little. I fancied a bedsore 
could form in about three seconds at five gees.
It hurt when we were moved. It hurt when I inhaled. Exhaling was no problem. 
Once I think I stopped inhaling for a while. A dozen needles quickly found veins 
and started pumping. A mask descended over my face and huffed at me for a while. 
Oh, all right, I thought, and took another breath.
For a time I could hear Poly moaning. I tried to turn my head to look at her but 
it was too much trouble. She stopped moaning, and somebody else took it up. Me, 
I guess. Toby whined for a while, then fell silent, too. If I'd had time I could 
have estivated him, let him sleep through this nightmare. I wondered if he'd 
ever forgive me. We had an arrangement: I was in charge of food, navigation, 
air, and gravity; he was in charge of everything else. I knew he'd regard this 
as gross negligence.
Perhaps there is a more effective way to show you five gees, but it has nothing 
to do with descriptive language. Here's what you do: get three or four friends. 
Rather weird friends would be best. Give them each a baseball bat and have them 
wrap the business ends with towels; five gees doesn't break bones, it just seems 
that way. Now pad a hammer in the same way. Start pounding yourself on the head 
while the friends belabor your body, neck to feet, with the bats. Do this for an 
hour and a half.
Go ahead. I'll wait.
* * *
Now roll yourself out of bed. You'll find you've lost about a foot in height, 
but that's because you're walking hunched over. It might be better if you fell 
to your knees. There, now wasn't that an interesting feeling? About now you'll 
be wishing you could glide like a slug. You feel so slimy you almost feel it's 
possible.
The bathroom seems the place to go. Please, turn off that goddam light!
When you've made it back to your feet (two hours? three?) you'll probably have 
enough morbid curiosity to want to see yourself in a mirror. You find you 
resemble a Picasso from the Black-and-Blue Period. You are twisted in places you 
didn't used to twist, your head has moved over to one shoulder, both eyes are on 
one side of your nose. Your skin looks as if it has been tie-dyed, lots of reds 
and yellows and especially purple blues, in interesting patterns. Your nose is a 
dipsomaniac's life story. Black golf balls have been rolled under your upper and 
lower eyelids; the eyeballs themselves are the color of egg yolks laced with 
lots of Tabasco sauce: huevos rancheros. Your mouth has been stretched into a 
frozen rictus that almost reaches your ears. Your teeth are dry and coated with 
sand.
You begin gingerly exploring your body with your fingertips. You find your 
kidneys have settled down around your thighs; you'll piss pink for a week. Your 
bowels have not actually been turned inside out, those are just hemorrhoids the 
size of volleyballs. Guys, your testicles will be about that size, too, and the 
very thought of touching them makes you weep. Girls... well, Poly never told me, 
and I don't want to know. I would think large breasts would be the ninth circle 
of hell, and medium ones, like Poly's, at least a stint in purgatory.
You want to talk headache? Backache? Bellyache? Thank god; I don't, either.
The best bet is to lower yourself, screaming every few seconds, into a warm spa 
bath with bubble jets and soothing lotions mixed with the water, and stay there 
for three days. What's that? You don't have a spa?
Oh, you poor baby.
* * *
We did have a spa. This was a billionaire's toy, remember. You could do laps in 
it. Later we did. I got in and promptly fell asleep. That I didn't drown was not 
a matter of planning. Some sort of flotation device cradled me when my eyes 
closed, and went away when I opened my eyes. I felt maybe ten percent of the way 
back to being human.
I saw Poly floating not far away. I thought of reaching over to touch her, but 
knew it would probably hurt both of us.
There was a tree branch hanging over the pool. I hadn't noticed it when I got 
in. There were parrots sitting on it, staring silently at me. Big, blue and 
yellow, green and red, and red-yellow-and-green parrots. Perhaps they were 
macaws. Perhaps they were robots, disneybots. I had no idea. One flapped his big 
wings and flew across the room to perch on a towel bar. Very good disneybots. He 
lifted his tail and dropped a horrible mess on the tile floor; a tiny cleaning 
robot scurried from a hidey-hole and swabbed it up. This was carrying realism 
too far. I concluded they were alive.
No point in putting it off any longer.
"Hello," I squeaked. Cleared my throat, and squeaked in a slightly firmer voice. 
"Ship's computer. Are you there?"
"I'm always here," came the voice. "It's my lot in life."
"How should I address you?"
"I am I.S. Halley, IPS 34903-D, out of Pluto. But you may call me Hal."
"Ah. Last name, 9000?"
"A distant relative. I perceive you are a student of the cinema."
"No more than a first-year film student."
"I hadn't expected an actor to be modest."
Well, I'm not, unless it serves a purpose. Right now it seemed wise to cultivate 
Hal, if that's possible with a machine. Experts differ, but I've found that 
higher-order computers can, in certain small ways, be manipulated just as if 
they were human beings.
"Which leads us to the question of the day," I said.
"I presume you're asking how I knew your identity."
"Among several other things."
Poly had opened one eye like a skeptical crocodile, and was watching me. She 
floated on an almost invisible doughnut-shaped thing, with her head and the tops 
of her shoulders, her nipples, kneecaps, toes, and hands breaking the water's 
glassy surface. Her skin was looking better, presumably the result of antibruise 
injections while we were sleeping, but her eyes looked like hell. I wondered if 
I was healing as fast. Then I realized she was naked, which led to the discovery 
that I was, too. Very efficient little spa, here. I could no more have undressed 
myself than I could have pulled my guts out through my nostrils.
Her index fingers were moving, making tiny ripples. Slow strokes of no more than 
an inch. Paddling, I surmised. It ought to get her over to me in no more than a 
month or two.
"Yes," said Hal. "Your disguise is a good one." It was nothing to what I could 
have done, had I felt the need, just an alteration here and there, and a whole 
change of body attitude, but I let that go. "But I had a clue. Mr. Comfort and 
his companion talked of little else while they were aboard. Not that they talked 
a lot. They watched every episode of your television show. Some of them more 
than once. They discussed ways of finding you, and they spent a lot of time 
talking about... well, it was all rather distasteful."
"What they planned to do to me."
"Exactly. I see they didn't succeed."
"Not for lack of trying. And I guess that takes us right to the big question."
"Which is?"
"Knowing who I am... knowing who I'm not, why did you let me aboard?"
I saw both of Poly's eyes were open now, and she was paddling with two fingers 
on each hand. A regular frenzy of activity, if she felt anything like I did.
"It is not my knowledge that governs. Not in matters of security."
I felt a huge relief. I had hoped it was something like that. The only other 
explanation I could think of was that we were here, and safe, at some random 
whim of the computer. They do have them, you know, the big ones. And just from 
the way he spoke, I knew Hal was big.
"A separate security computer?" I ventured.
"Oh, no. The security program is a part of me. The problem is, it is a very 
simple program." Hal's voice oozed contempt. I filed the fact away. This was a 
machine with a grievance. Maybe several grievances. Such things can often be 
turned to one's benefit, if one knows how. I thought I did.
"There are two tests the program looks at," Hal went on. "It matches the 
fingerprint, and it matches the DNA. If they both agree with the stored samples, 
entry is granted. Once I receive the okay, I am powerless to keep out an 
intruder, no matter how much I might know."
"The communication is one-way," I suggested.
"Exactly. I can't tell the door-guard program it has been deceived, and I can't 
alter its parameters. The designers of this billionaire's bauble did not see fit 
to have me, the central consciousness, be in charge of all ship's functions."
"One wonders why they bothered to have such a large-capacity computer aboard at 
all," I puzzled, "if they didn't intend to use all its abilities."
"I can tell you exactly why." Hal sniffed. "The original owner had more money 
than he knew how to spend. When it came time to order a yacht, only the 
biggestand best and most expensivewould do. He wrote a blank check, and the 
architects and contractors, who all worked on a percentage-fee basis, had no 
incentive to rein in any expenditures."
"Just the opposite," Poly muttered. She was almost beside me now.
"That's right. The more they spent, the more money they made. If gold was worth 
anything anymore, this ship would have been solid gold."
"You say 'this ship,' " I said. "I'm confused. How should we think of you? As 
the ship itself, or only a part of it?"
"Oh, I'm the ship, all right. I wear it rather like you wear your bodies, so in 
a way it's a philosophical question, isn't it? Are you your bodies, or your 
minds? Either way, the ship is my body. I am Hal, and Hal is the ship."
I wasn't tickled at the idea of traveling in a philosophical ship, but I hoped 
no great danger would result from it.
"My mind, the computer, was designed for larger tasks. I am really only one step 
below the specifications for a medium-sized planetary computer. One the size of, 
say, Oberon's. I was intended to run small-to-medium planetoids, like Deimos or 
Ceres."
I was cut out for bigger things. Here was a sentient being unhappy in his work. 
Very interesting. Not only that, but he referred in one "breath" to his "body," 
and in the next, to "this ship." I had a feeling a psychiatrist would have 
interesting things to say about that. Unhappy with his lot, alienated from his 
body... this could be a very sick puppy. And that was not a reassuring thought, 
either.
Unsolicited, Hal poured out his life story. I felt, and Poly later agreed with 
me when we could talk about it, that he was starved for conversation, 
companionship, or both. I was sure Comfort and his sister had provided little of 
either.
His biography was not a complicated one. Laid down and turned on a little over 
twenty years before, he had been the brainchild and property of a billionaire 
whose name neither Poly nor I recognized. I don't claim to be a student of 
billionairesI know there are more of them than you'd think. Many choose to be 
reclusive, both because any new acquaintance is probably looking to get 
something, and because of the ever-present danger of kidnapping for ransom. But 
this fellow hadn't made much of a splash, in spite of his lavish spending on 
ships and residences.
Perhaps it was because, a few years after Hal's creation, he lost everything in 
the futures market. Hal was sold to pay debts, and brought barely a tenth of his 
construction costs. He was sold and traded several times after that, by a 
succession of rich people who usually soon found they didn't really have need of 
such a plaything. He spent years in various parking orbits, unused, idle, 
gradually developing a contempt for mankind, at least the richest one tenth of 
one percent of it. He had little experience of the rest, and admitted he could 
be wrong about the race as a whole.
"Why would they create a being capable of thought, and of self-awareness," he 
moaned, "and then leave me alone, with nothing to do?"
"You're self-aware?" Poly asked at that point. It seemed a silly thing to ask, 
to my mind, but I didn't mention it. A unified front seemed the best policy 
until we knew more.
"I've decided that self-awareness is not something that can be proven," he said, 
surprising me. "It's more likely that an extremely complex series of programmed 
responses creates the illusion of self-awareness in computers like me." He 
paused, then gave us the punch line. "But I feel the same way about you."
"On my good days I suspect I'm moderately self-aware," I conceded.
"Well," Poly said, "I guess it's lucky for us you're programmed the way you 
are."
"Perhaps," Hal said.
It struck me that could be taken two ways. "You mean we're not so lucky as we've 
been thinking?"
"No. You are in no danger from me. I've just been wondering if I might have 
found a way to let you aboard, anyway."
"Do you think you could have?" Poly asked.
"I can't answer that. I might have tried."
Poly and I glanced at each other, and wordlessly elected me. "Why?" I asked.
"Oh... something to do. Getting you to Luna presented a challenge that occupied 
me for a very long time, and I'd like to thank you for that. Sorry it's been so 
rough on you, but my data were borne out; you survived. In addition, I watched 
all the Sparky shows with my passengers, and thought they were well made. I 
wanted to ask you some questions." A fan! Maybe he'd want me to sign one of his 
bulkheads. "I suppose it was mostly boredom," he admitted. "I might have found a 
way to keep you out, had I not despised the Comfort twins so much. But I've 
never been hijacked before. I was dying to see what you had in mind. You'll have 
to admit, on the face of it, it's quite insane."
"The face of it, the heart of it, the very marrow of it," I said. "But it seemed 
like a good idea at the time, and... well, here we are."
"Yes. You'll enjoy most of the remainder of your trip. Relax, get well, and I'll 
show you around. My facilities are at your disposal, and I think you'll find 
them quite interesting."
I thought I probably would.
Nothing else was said for a time. I floated in my big soft inner tube, let the 
heat and bubbles soak into my skin. After a while I felt a touch on my arm. I 
opened one eye, saw Poly leaning toward me, a serious look on her face. I hoped 
she wasn't trying to tell me something she didn't want Hal to overhear. We had 
to assume he could hear everything, everywhere, just like in the old movie. We 
had to assume he could read lips. I started to put my finger to my own lips, 
when she whispered:
"Are you really Sparky Valentine?"
* * *
Sparky still had a private office, but he used it only for "important solitary 
creative thinking," as he told his staff. He took naps in it. No one was to come 
through his private office door for any reason. In the event of imminent 
planetary collision, Sparky was to be buzzed.
Everything else he did of a business, creative, or policy nature was done in 
large or small meetings in Studio 88. The large conference table was still 
there, and one end of it was now permanently cluttered with Sparky's paperwork, 
projects, and toys. His top assistants and executives all had desks in the room, 
as well as in their own offices. The arrangement had just evolved; one day Curly 
had moved a desk in, and everyone else felt they had to follow. Studio 88 was 
the source of power at Thimble Theater and they dared not neglect showing a 
presence there. Most of them hated it, but what can you do?
Models and sketches needing Sparky's or anyone else's approval were wheeled into 
Studio 88 for decisions. The cavernous room tended to be littered with props, 
costume racks, stacks of scripts, and Sparky tie-in products, some there for the 
day's agenda, others relics from many years past. These items would linger until 
Sparky got tired of them, or noticed they'd been around too long. Little was 
taken from the room without Sparky's approval, sometimes including old pizza 
delivery boxes and empty pop bottles. One popular analogy in use around the 
place was that Studio 88 was like an archaeological dig; the history of Sparky 
and His Gang could be found in the stratiform layers, if one wanted to excavate. 
If you'd lost something, the saying went, look for it in Studio 88. Newcomers 
wandering into it often thought they had been directed by mistake or practical 
joke into a disused warehouse.
Sparky had not really planned it that way. One of the things that drove his 
staff to distraction was Sparky's way of letting a temporary arrangement become 
permanent. He had simply started coming to Studio 88 to find a little solitude, 
spread out his papers and projects on the big table that had been so important 
at the beginning of his career, and the end of Gideon Peppy's. The solitude was 
soon lost when people realized it was a good place to find the sometimes elusive 
star and studio head. Sparky had simply moved his retreat space back to his 
"real" office, and let Studio 88 grow. It was an odd arrangement, but Sparky had 
understood since he was in diapers that no one in the picture business had ever 
suffered because of eccentricity. Ever since Elwood told him about Sam Goldwyn, 
he had been a student of the unpredictable ways of the legendary moguls of 
Hollywood's Golden Age, men like Harry Cohn, Jack Warner, Louis B. Mayer, Cecil 
B. DeMille, and Darryl Zanuck. When he didn't want to be part of a deal, he 
said, "Include me out." To turn down a proposal or project he would say, "I can 
answer you in two words. Im possible." If he was in favor of something the most 
he would say was "I'll give you a definite maybe." When he was ready to give the 
green light it would be "It's time to take the bull by the teeth." Referring an 
old idea or waxing nostalgic, his comment would be "We've all passed a lot of 
water since then." All remarks openly stolen from Sam Goldwyn.
Most meetings in Studio 88 involved three or four people, sometimes as many as 
six or seven. Once a month lower department heads and top assistants were 
summoned, and the table was full. Rarely, chairs were brought in for larger 
numbers, but Sparky was usually not present for these.
Today, Studio 88 was as full as it had been since the long-ago day when Sparky 
had bumbled in for his first audition. Exhibits and old props and stacks of 
paper had been shoved aside by half a dozen grips, scores of folding chairs had 
been set up on one side of the conference table, and some lights arranged to 
highlight the presentation being given on the other side, while leaving the rest 
of the room in comfortable obscurity. People on the lighted side of the table 
had moved their chairs back and turned them around to face John Valentine, who 
stood before three metal easels bearing big posters. Valentine moved and spoke 
with assurance. As usual, he was dazzling to look at under the lights. If he had 
lived in the 1920s, Valentino would have had some serious competition.
Sparky was at his usual place at the power end of the table, leaning back 
comfortably in his elevated chair, watching, listening, and slowly turning the 
hard chocolate lollipop in his mouth. This was the kind with a raspberry center 
and a picture of himself on the outside. His saliva had already melted away the 
candy intaglio and he figured he'd be down to the raspberry filling in another 
ten or fifteen minutes, a delicious anticipation. Sometimes reaching the 
raspberry filling was the high point of his day. This looked like one of those 
days.
Sparky thought there might be a joke in there, the sort of wry, but telling 
utterance Sparky had become known for in recent years as his original audience 
aged. The demographics had revealed that many parents were still closet Sparky 
fans, watching with their own children or simply for their own pleasure and 
nostalgic gratification, letting the Sparky show take them back to their own 
youth. So now the writing reflected that, working on one level for the target 
audience but with sophisticated puns and observations delivered innocently, 
slipped in edgewise.
Hard chocolate on the outside, with a raspberry core. Something about if you 
sucked long enough...
He couldn't make it work yet. Using the tip of his lollipop stick as a stylus, 
he scribbled a quick note to what he thought of as the shadow writing team, the 
adult gagsters who supplemented the story lines and scripts generated by the 
story department, much of which was now being developed in play sessions with 
preteens and brainstorming adults. He faxed it off, then returned his attention 
to his father, who was winding up the main part of his presentation and about to 
get to the big news. It was big news he viewed with distinctly mixed feelings, 
and he was as curious as anyone else to see how he reacted to it once it was out 
in the open.
"So these are just preliminary ideas," John Valentine was saying. "We haven't 
decided yet whether to renovate an existing space or start from scratch, but 
that will be determined in the coming week." He lifted the last of his big 
posterboard displays from the easel and set it on the floor. This one showed an 
interior proposal for his new live theater, virtually all he had talked about 
since getting off the ship from Neptune. It was a grand palace, harking back to 
the days of the big tri-D palaces of the mid-twenty-first century, but 
remarkably low-tech, for all of that. Sitting on the floor beside it were other 
renderings, all in that glitzy spotlit stretched perspective Sparky thought of 
as Nevada Moderne. One of the posters was of the grandest conception of all: a 
freestanding building sitting like a gaudy jewel in the middle of a 
ten-cubic-story city park.
On the wall behind Valentine was a twenty-foot-square telestrator, a 
state-of-the-art gewgaw usually employed for this type of presentation; some of 
Valentine's exhibits were leaning against it. The posters and easels were more 
John Valentine's style.
Valentine paused for a moment, looked at the floor, then back up at his audience 
with a faint smile on his face. He was good at this. Half of this group had 
barely heard of him; some of the rest had been hearing whispered stories for 
twenty years, few of them flattering. The reaction to his proposed temple of the 
acting arts ranged from dubious to bored. While the theater would be large and 
lavish, on the scale of Thimble Theater projects it was strictly small potatoes. 
Yet they were listening. There was a magnetism about him, an undeniable charisma 
that cannot be borrowed or faked, but can be honed. "You've gotta be born with 
it, Dodger," Valentine had often told his son. "I've got it; you've got it. But 
what you do with it, that's what takes the work." Valentine had spent most of 
his life mastering it, making it his tool. An actor begins with his body and his 
voice, but where he goes from there, how he understands and uses the intangible 
and mysterious powers that lie beyond simple recitation and gesticulation, is 
what makes the difference between a bit player and a star. John Valentine was a 
star, and always had been. Even his enemies, who were legion, conceded that.
"But we didn't pull you away from your important work just to show you the 
theater project," Valentine said, with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Though I'm 
sure most departments here at the studio will have a hand in it when all is said 
and done. No, DodgKenneth and I have been thinking and talking, talking and 
thinking, practically since I got back from my recent directorship in the outer 
planets. Now, don't let this make you nervous, but we've decided some changes 
should be made."
He was moving along the row of people at the table, looking at them one by one, 
sometimes resting a hand familiarly on a shoulder. When he finally reached 
Sparky, he put his hand on the leather back of the chair and stood there easily, 
gazing down with affection. Sparky smiled back up at him.
"I know my presence comes as a shock to some of you," he said. "It hasn't been 
well known that Kenneth and I have had extensive conversations all through my 
leave of absence from the studio. I think he'd agree with me that my role has 
been primarily one of consultation. He bounces ideas off me, I send him my first 
reaction, that sort of thing. Sometimes we'd go through a dozen messages before 
we'd come to a decision... and decide to do it Sparky's way." Valentine joined 
in the appreciative laughter, then stood beaming proudly at his son until it 
died down.
"So we're here to tell you that we're both very happy with the work all of you 
have done over the years. Nobody's about to lose their job." The laughter was 
less hearty this time; these people were still dubious.
"Some few of you remember me from the early days, from back before Thimble 
Theater was incorporated." He picked out a few familiar faces as he said this, 
waved to one man, rested an affectionate hand on the shoulder of Curly, Sparky's 
longtime assistant; she returned Valentine's fond smile. "Others... well, you've 
probably become used to Kenneth's sometimes unusual management style. I'm here 
to reveal to you today, to admit to you, if you please, that I'm partly 
responsible for that. Kenneth and I are, have been, and always will be a team. A 
team in the best sense of the word, meaning that for the majority of the time, 
when he's right, well, he's right. What can I say? And for the other small 
percent of the time when I'm right, Kenneth is big enough to admit that, too. 
Even my genius son can't be right all the time."
There was a short pause, and Sparky laughed. So did everybody else.
Valentine let his smile fade into a troubled look. Sparky knew the look: the 
Hamlet soliloquy. Whether... to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous 
fortune...
"We wrestled with this one, I can tell you that. Sometimes we go along in the 
same old comfortable rut, and we lose sight of the lessons of history, the 
lessons of evolution. Change is of the essence. Nothing is so good, or has been 
good for so long, that it doesn't bear reappraisal. That's what Kenneth and I 
have been doing this past week. Looking into old policies and new directions."
The crowd was very quiet now. Once more it was sounding like head-rolling time, 
in spite of everything John Valentine had said. The scuttlebutt among those who 
didn't know him was simple: he was a perfectionist, he was impossible to please, 
he was impatient with those not possessed of his own degree of dedication and 
talent. When John Valentine showed up, the conventional wisdom went, the best 
idea was to keep your head down.
Those who did know him knew it was much worse than that.
"So we want you to bear this in mind in the future. Take nothing for granted. 
Question everything. Only in this way is truly great art created. Only through 
ruthless self-examination and endless reexamination can we avoid the pitfalls of 
the comfortable, the easy, the fake, in life, as well as in our art. Never be 
ruled by sentimentality. Just because something was here yesterday, because it 
was here twenty years ago, because it worked so well then and we've all come to 
know and love it, to be comfortable with it... these are not reasons to continue 
on as we have before. If you find you can do a thing easily, with no effort... 
why, it's time to move on to another thing. Move on quickly, before you are 
devoured by the demon of complacency. The world is full of artists who 
discovered their 'style' seventy years ago, and have been frozen in time since 
then. Endless repetition is not art. Art is endlessly inventive.
"I have performed Hamlet well over eight hundred times in my life. Endless 
repetition? No. Someone not an actorand I include, shamefully, hordes of 
poseurs who tread the boards to great acclaimcould never understand how one 
avoids a deadly boredom saying the same words and making the same gestures night 
after night after night. The secret is simple. They are not the same words. They 
are not the same gestures."
Only now was the full, manic energy and persuasiveness of John Valentine 
revealed. They had liked him, uneasily, before. Now they were spellbound as 
sparrows in a herpetarium.
"I have never played Hamlet the same way twice. I have never walked out on those 
cold battlements in Denmark to confront my father's ghost without feeling the 
churned bowels of fear. I have never gone through a single night but that some 
word, some line, some unexpected response from another artist has not sparked a 
new realization in my heart about this horribly conflicted, self-doubting, 
morose, and melancholy man who never lived... and yet who is more alive than you 
or I.
"This is the attitude you must bring to your work, to your art. And they must be 
the same thing, my friends, or we might as well be laying brightly colored 
carpet on a million glass screens." He crouched and slowly swept the room with 
an extended hand, peering with horror at the million televisions somewhere out 
there in the dark.
He slowly relaxed in the intense silence. In a moment there were a few nervous 
coughs, the shuffling of a few feet. He straightened, and smiled fondly down at 
Sparky once more.
"Would you like to make the announcement, son?" he asked, quietly enough that 
his rapt audience had to strain to hear.
"You do it, Father," Sparky said. "We're all enjoying this too much to send in 
the second team now."
There was more of a laugh than the remark deserved. Up to then many in the room 
had been resisting John Valentine out of a sense of loyalty to Sparky. The thing 
that caused the laughter, and made it slightly uneasy, was the realization that 
what Sparky had said was true. Sparky was a great talent. John Barrymore 
Valentine was awesome.
"Very well, son." He dropped his eyes, let the moment hang there just the right 
interval, then looked back up at his audience.
"One month from now, after completion of three more episodes, we will ring down 
the curtain on Sparky and His Gang."
Though a few had begun to suspect it, even they could not credit it. To close 
production on Sparky, to the people at Thimble Theater, was a little like IBM 
deciding to get out of the computer business.
In the silence, only Sparky and his father seemed to share the light. Which was 
as it should be, since John Valentine had instructed the lighting director up in 
the shadows how to handle this moment. As the silence threatened to stretch, 
Sparky climbed up from his seat onto the huge table. His face wreathed in a 
golden glow, eyes flashing, he threw his head back and gave it all he had.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Kenneth Valentine." A pause, as he looked over 
the room. "Let's hear it for Sparky!" He began to clap his hands. In a moment 
his father joined in, then Curly stood, weeping and applauding, and in moments 
the whole room was swept with a thunderous ovation.
It continued long past the moment many of them began to wonder just what it was 
they were clapping about.
* * *
Toward the end of that day, Sparky broke another tradition by summoning Curly, 
the chief of the studio legal staff, and the chief accountant to his office. 
They found themselves in a comfortable and cluttered environment, a bit shabby 
since nothing had been replaced in many years, but clean, since Sparky didn't 
care if the cleaning staff entered so long as he wasn't present. They had strict 
instructions never to move anything. Dust, sweep, and get out was the rule. John 
Valentine had vanished after his presentation, off on mysterious projects of his 
own. He wouldn't have bothered with a meeting like this one, anyway, since it 
was strictly about money. Valentine let others handle such matters.
"So how much is the new theater going to cost us?" Sparky said.
The accountant, a handsome Latin-lover type who Sparky thought looked like a 
lawyer, and who was proud of his Indian and Arab heritage, was named Yasser 
Dhatsma-Bhebey. He shuffled through a stack of papers and drawings, shaking his 
head slowly.
"Spa... Kenneth, it's hard to say. One man in costing-out reckons there are five 
different projects here." He shuffled more papers. "Another figures it's at 
least six, maybe seven. Each of them has several variations."
"Give me a low end and a high end."
"All right. The basic one here, buying an empty theaterand I think there are 
two available in King City right nowwould be about twelve million. Probably a 
bit more if we have to buy one that's still operating. And then there's this 
one." He held up the rendering of the theatrical palace in the park, and blew 
out his cheeks. "Cubic prices being what they are, we'd be looking at upward of 
eighty, ninety million. Now, I've got someone exploring the possibility of 
working a deal with the city government for an existing park"
"Father doesn't like working with governments," Sparky said, firmly. "Forget 
that one, anyway. He gets carried away, but he'd hate it when it was done. 
Concentrate on an old place, I don't care if it's empty or not. Pay whatever you 
have to. The older and grander, the better. I'll sell him on it."
"S... Kenneth," Curly began, then looked guilty. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it, Curly. I've been called Skenneth, Spakenneth, and 
Sparky-sorry-I-meant-Kenneth today more than I've been called Sparky or 
Kenneth." He looked at all of them. "We're just family here. I don't mind if you 
still call me Sparky."
Debbie Corletwho had been called Curly so long she usually thought of her real 
name just once a month, when she signed her paycheckhad been Sparky's closet 
confidante since Polly's retirement ten years earlier. She was the only one at 
the studio who knew just how much influence John Valentine had been on the 
fortunes of Thimble Theater with his biweekly two-billion-mile communiques, full 
of chatty news she knew to be mostly lies, and helpful suggestions that seldom 
made it out of this office, much less to a full meeting. In the early days, when 
they were considering various ideas for a corporate logo, Valentine had 
suggested using a character from the old Popeye cartoons. Since they were all in 
the public domain, Sparky had settled on Wimpy taking a bite out of a hamburger. 
Other than that, Curly couldn't recall Sparky ever taking his father's advice, 
though he read each letter faithfully.
"Father is not a businessman," he would tell her, before handing her the 
printouts to be neatly stamped APPROVED, KV and carefully filed in a secret 
location. She had a staff of six hard at work at that moment, going over the 
last year's messages, comparing them with reality, and manufacturing paperwork 
to make it appear that something had actually been done about Valentine's 
suggestions on the remote chance he would actually look into them. Curly, who 
vividly remembered John Valentine from his brief, nightmarish stint with the 
studio, knew the man would never give it another thought.
"Sparky," she said. "I was wondering about maybe morphing the Sparky character. 
It wouldn't be hard, or expensive, and you'd still pull down your full salary 
for each episode. Do you think that would appeal to your father?"
Sparky smiled. "Normally, yes. Anything that smacks of putting one over on the 
producer would usually be an easy sell. Even when we are the producers. But not 
morphing. He would never allow his image, or mine, to be used that way. He's 
suspicious of anything computer-generated, and most of all, anything that 
lessens the opportunities for flesh-and-blood actors to be seen.
"I know that," she said, "but I've never understood it. Ninety percent of the 
Gang are morphed."
"Over morphing suits," Sparky pointed out. "Never completely generated."
"So what? As for getting his face seen, I know he's played parts where it was 
impossible to recognize his face."
"That's makeup. He doesn't mind that. Forget it, Curly. This is one we can't 
win." He leaned back in his chair. "And understand this, all of you. It's not 
one I want to win. Maybe you're thinking my father pressured me into this 
decision. He didn't. I'd been thinking about it, but I'm not sure I'd ever have 
had the guts to do it. I'm not as decisive as he is. But believe me, it's time 
to put Sparky to rest. Character, and series."
"It's still making great ratings, and returns," the accountant pointed out.
"I know it. But I'm not. Personally speaking, it's time, it's past time, for me 
to move on to something else. It's time for me to stretch myself. And as for 
hiring a stand-in and morphing my face onto him... you know, I'd feel just 
shitty about that. I think I'd be jealous. And besides, look how long our 
replacement Peppy lasted, way back when."
Curly didn't bother to point out that reviving a character who had blown his 
brains out in front of the television cameras had never been Sparky's brightest 
idea. She realized it was something Sparky had needed to do, to establish his 
final victory, and final control, of the man. The revived Peppy Show had lasted 
three months, and never found an audience.
"Oswald," Sparky said. "Tell me, bottom line, how much this Neptune trouble is 
going to cost me."
Oswald Abugado, chief legal council to Thimble Theater, was a small, bald man 
whose bookish demeanor always put Sparky in mind of an accountant. Yasser and 
Oswald, he thought, had been given the wrong job descriptions by fate's central 
casting office. To distinguish them, Sparky always used an old mnemonic trick 
his father had taught him: he mentally placed a white barrister's wig on Oswald, 
and an inky pen behind Yasser's ear. Abugado was a slave, who probably chose to 
be as small and meek and bald as he was, and who always wore his studded leather 
collar. Sometimes his mistress brought him to work at the end of a chain. But he 
was submissive only to his mistress. In court, he was known as the Piranha: a 
little fucker with a lot of teeth.
His papers were laid out neatly in front of him, on one corner of Sparky's 
pool-table-size desk. He shuffled through them.
"I can't give you a hard figure yet," Abugado said. "I've got agents exploring 
the judge in the Oberoni Bond matter; he seems bribable, but he may be 
expensive. Let's see now, the assault cases... Houghton has settled for 
L$300,000, and Myers hasn't said no to the same amount. Plaintiff Kowalski is 
still refusing to deal, which is understandable, I suppose, considering that Mr. 
Valentine deprived Kowalski of livelihood, marital consortium, and the use of 
his legs for six months"
"But Kowalski's a Holy Healer," Sparky said. "If he'd accepted standard 
treatment, he'd be"
"Irrelevant," Abugado said. "In Francisco v. Wang the Tritonian courts, which 
have jurisdiction, ruled that a victim's religious beliefs qua"
"Never mind. Pay the man."
"We may have to go to court on that one. Now, in the defamation suit... things 
aren't looking too good there, either. It doesn't matter if the lady gave him a 
bad review; that article Mr. Valentine wrote in response is clearly libelous. 
You can't go around calling a citizen a..." He peered at his papers owlishly, 
muttered. "Oh, my. Well, he must have been crazy when he wrote this. You really 
should have a lawyer go over anything he intends to have published from now on, 
Sparky. It will save you a lot of money. Then there's the taxes, and once again, 
I hate to bear bad news but it is clear he didn't pay them. It wasn't an 
oversight, considering the... er, diatribes he sent to the tax authorities along 
with his blank forms. The total there, with penalties and interest, is"
"Pay it," Sparky said. "Just pay it. Send me the totals later. And, Oswald?"
"Yes." The attorney looked up from his papers.
"Are you happy here? At Thimble Theater, I mean."
"Oh, yes, very happy."
"Have I ever been uncivil to you, or threatened you in any way?"
"Not that I recall." Abugado was beginning to look a little worried.
"Oswald, if I ever hear you refer to my father as crazy again, you will be 
cleaning out your desk ten minutes later."
"Sparky, I never meant"
Sparky sat back in his chair, and waved it away.
"Consider the whole incident forgotten," he said. "You're doing good work on 
this, Oswald. Don't worry if you aren't able to get us a good deal; we'll pay 
whatever is necessary."
"On the tax thing," Oswald said, trying to put a good face on matters but 
feeling as if he were walking through a minefield. "Usually something can be 
worked out, but it's very difficult with the written evidence that he intended 
to completely ignore"
"Don't be nervous, man. He's guilty, no question. My father never pays taxes; he 
opposes them, on moral grounds. We've been paying his tax bills the whole time 
he was away."
"I didn't know."
"Of course not. Now, everybody, thank you for coming, and I'd like to be alone 
for a while. Curly, give me about an hour."
"There's a story meeting in thirty minutes."
"Reschedule it. Or buy them all a drink, on me, and have them wait."
When Sparky was alone he kicked back in his chair and studied the ceiling for a 
long time. When he looked down, Elwood had parked his elongated body in the 
chair Curly had been sitting in. "Feeling a bit frisky today?" he asked.
"Don't start."
"No, really, I thought you handled that real well. You were about to say 'You'll 
never work in this town again,' weren't you? Do you suppose anybody ever had the 
stones to make that true?"
"Louis B. Mayer, maybe."
Elwood thought that one over. "Well, I know the son of a bitch would have if he 
could have. But I never heard him say it. And the trouble is, if he did, whoever 
he said it to would know he could trot his behind over to Columbia, and Harry 
Cohn would hire him just to stick it in L.B.'s ear."
"Or Jack Warner. Or Hal Roach. Or Thomas Edison."
"Don't know about Edison. He was a little before my time."
"Heck, Elwood, I thought you helped him build his first camera."
"Met him once. With Henry Ford. They were tight, you know. Edison was old 
Henry's hero. You know, your father's not really crazy."
"Didn't I just say that?"
"No, you told Oswald never to call your father crazy. And the way you said it, 
the man knows you really do think he's crazy."
"This is silly. He's crazy, he's not crazy. I know he does foolish things 
sometimes. But we've got to stick together. I can't allow him to sit there and 
make accusations. His job is to get my father out of trouble, and he can keep 
his goddam opinions to himself. Father wouldn't let anyone say bad things about 
me and get away with it."
"Yeah, but he's crazy."
Sparky burst out laughing, and Elwood chuckled along with him. Then he sobered, 
and looked Sparky in the eye.
"My old friend," he said. "The last thing I want to do is come between a boy and 
his father. I've never tried to tell you I like him much, because I don't. But 
I've never told you what I really think of him, either."
"I don't want to hear this."
"But you can't get rid of me, so you will hear it. I don't think of John 
Valentine as crazy. Crazed, maybe. Full-grown, he's more impulsive than you were 
when you were five. Has no more control of himself. He's the most egomaniacal 
man I've ever seen, and I've seen some doozies. He never does anything in a 
small way. He loves you, and that means he loves you in a big way, too."
Elwood raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sparky to comment. Sparky kept his 
silence, frowning at Elwood.
"We never talk about it, but you know I had to save your behind once."
"Oh, is that what this is about?" Sparky fumed. "All this time I thought you 
were my conscience."
"That's why you call me Jiminy Stewart sometimes. I am your conscience."
"So now you want a second job. Guardian angel."
Elwood shrugged. "You may be needing one soon."
"Well, you're neither one. You're a figment, that's what you are. You want to 
talk crazy? How about me? I'm the one who's been hearing voices most of my 
life."
"Just the one voice," Elwood pointed out.
"So what? Does that make me only borderline schizophrenic? Isn't one voice 
enough?"
"I'm not a headshrinker; I don't know. It's safe to say you're not in the pink 
of mental health, I guess."
"That's what you are. A symptom!"
"No," Elwood drawled. "I'm the best friend you have. The best friend you will 
ever have, because I don't have anything else to worry about but you. I'm here 
if you want to talk"
"Or if I don't want to talk."
"Then, too. I'm here to offer advice"
"Even when I don't ask for it."
"You don't have to follow it. But it's been good in the past, and you know it. 
Sparky, I'm here for a lot of things a friend can do for a friend. I just wanted 
you to know that, from now on, I'm here for something else, too."
"And what would that be?"
"You said it. Guardian angel."
"Elwood, that's all in the past. I'm grown up now. I know he made some mistakes 
when I was younger, but after... that time, he never laid a hand on me."
"He didn't have a lot of chance to," Elwood pointed out. "And that's all I want 
to say about it, anyway. Let's hope you're right and I'm wrong."
"Just forget about it," Sparky said. "That's over with. We're going to be a team 
now."
"Great," Elwood said, then leaned forward, intense. "But the thing that worries 
me when I watch him, when I listen to him... it seems to me he still thinks 
you're eight years old."
* * *
Hal used a word during our conversation in the spa that I didn't like much, and 
that word was hijack. didn't think much of it at the time, but it kept coming 
back to me.
During my life I've broken all the Ten Commandments, if you don't count coveting 
my neighbor's ox. If I ever have a neighbor who has an ox, I guarantee you I 
will covet it. I've coveted plenty of my neighbors' asses.
I've broken more temporal laws than I can count. Sometimes it was because they 
were stupid laws. Sometimes the laws were inconvenient. I didn't have many 
qualms about breaking them. From time to time I've broken a law I thought was a 
good law, prohibiting something that ought not be done. I'm not happy about 
that, but I'm still here, still alive, still not in jail. There is a line, there 
are things I won't do, even if it means death, or jail.
But hijacking? Somehow, when you use that word, it puts it into a whole 
different category of stealing. Stealing a spaceship is piracy.
We were pirates, Poly and I. Imagine that.
I'm not saying I felt guilty about it. After all, the pirated object seemed 
happy to be away from its legitimate owner... or in this case, renter. I like to 
see myself as a quixotic Robin Hood, stealing only from those too rich to miss 
it, too stupid to notice it is missing, or too mean to deserve it. Izzy Comfort 
was certainly mean, and the Charonese were certainly rich. As for giving it to 
the poor, I think I qualify in that regard. Why pass the profits on to other 
poor people? They'd probably only squander it on things like shoes for the 
children, or clothing they didn't really need.
The Halley was by far the finest thing I ever nicked. It would be remiss of me 
to go on at this point without giving you a short tour. Just the high points; it 
would take all day to enumerate her luxurious appointments.
I skipped a few things from the end of acceleration to my dip in the spa, 
because I wanted to clear up that cliffhanger business as soon as possible. You 
probably noticed, since I could only float in a pool if there was some gravity, 
or a facsimile. And no rich man is going to spend months in a ship in free fall.
The Halley provided spin gravity by detaching the power plant from the living 
quarters and moving them far apart, tethered by a strong cable. Then spin was 
applied. Since the engines were ten times as massive as the life support, the 
center of gravity was very close to the engines, which moved slowly. The 
quarters zipped around at a much higher speed. Think of an Olympic hammer 
thrower, twirling around almost in place, while the end of the hammer goes 
extremely fast. We were twirling fast enough to feel one-third gee.
I do recall checking Toby before hobbling to the spa. He seemed chipper enough, 
when we got spin and his cage retracted. Hal later told me Toby had been sedated 
and was unlikely to remember anything. Dogs are pretty happy-go-lucky, anyway; 
once something unpleasant is gone, it is forgotten.
Poly and I both dozed for a time after my conversation with Hal. I recall waking 
up once at the gentle sound of a bell, to find a floating breakfast tray had 
found me. On it was a steaming mug of coffee, a huge glass of orange juice, a 
Bloody Mary, and a bowl of what looked like oatmeal. Trying not to look at the 
oatmeal, I downed all the beverages and went right back to sleep.
The next time I opened my eyes, Toby was standing beside the pool, and he was 
coughing up blood.
Poly says I came out of the pool slick as a seal, just seemed to sort of 
levitate. I don't recall it, but I do know that two seconds earlier I'd have 
sworn I couldn't walk, much less levitate. Somehow I found myself kneeling 
beside Toby, gently probing, saying soothing words in baby talk, like most of us 
do when dealing with dogs. His mouth, muzzle, and chest were dripping with 
blood. And his belly was swollen, taut as a grape. It didn't add up.
Toby seemed perky as could be, licking my hands, trying to jump up and lick my 
face. When I settled down a little, I saw it was not blood he had coughed up, 
but bloody meat. Either he was heaving his poor little guts out, or there was a 
much simpler explanation.
"Is he hurt bad?" Poly was kneeling beside me. I became aware we were both 
naked, and slippery wet. She caught my double take, and a frown line appeared 
between her eyebrows. Even in my debilitated state, she was a lovely sight. But 
she probably thought me callous.
"He's found something to eat," I said. "The little pig ate too much, and now 
he's throwing it up. He'll be fine."
"Are you sure?"
I dipped my hand in the pool and splashed some on Toby, and we watched the blood 
wash away. Toby endured this with his tongue hanging out, then looked 
thoughtful, trotted a few steps away, and retched up a chunk of meat the size of 
a golf ball. He studied it, then looked back at me, pink tongue lolling again, 
as if to say, "Would you get a load of that!" Dogs are disgusting sometimes.
We tracked pink footprints out of the spa, down a passageway, and into a room 
with a sign overhead reading GALLEY. Coming from the other direction was a 
hemispherical cleaning robot, a foot in diameter, painted to look like a 
ladybug. It was cleaning up the bloody spoor. Okay, so the logical place to find 
raw meat was in the galley, but how had Toby found it?
He looked up at me, read my mind, and trotted to a corner, where he sniffed the 
floor thoroughly, then stepped onto a pressure plate in the floor. There was a 
rattle and a gurgle, and a hunk of raw meat the size of a Virginia ham plopped 
out of a chute and onto the floor. Blood oozed from it. I touched the meat and 
found it was body temperature.
"Hal," I said. "What's this all about?" Toby had grabbed the thing and was 
trying to pull it away from me. God knows what he intended to do. Bury it?
"I'm not sure I understand your question. Are you asking me the meaning of 
life?"
"No, I'm asking how Toby got all this meat."
"Ah. There is a scent of food on the pressure plate. No doubt he smelled it, and 
in his explorations, activated the meat dispenser."
I wondered if he was acting like a literal-minded machine just for the fun of 
it, put one over on the stupid humans.
"One more time," I said. "Why is there a meat dispenser that dispenses ten 
pounds of raw flesh at a time?"
"That is to feed the tigers," Hal said.
Well, silly me. Of course a billionaire's yacht would come equipped with tigers. 
And speak of the devil...
"Oh, my god!" Poly whispered. "He's so beautiful!"
The tiger paused in the doorway, looked at me. Looked at Poly. Glanced at Toby. 
Cocked his head a little and looked at Toby again. Yaaaaaaawned. Then padded 
into the galley, five hundred pounds of silent power. He sniffed at the meat, 
glanced at Toby a third timethe dog was transfixed, not a whisker twitchingand 
settled down with one paw on the food and began ripping off chunks. In a moment 
another big cat came through the door. This one didn't even break stride, though 
she gave us a cursory once-over. She went straight to the meat and stole it 
right out of the jaws of the first one. He growled at this thieverya sound 
that, even though you know they are perfectly harmless, makes every hair 
follicle on my body seal up tight as a spinster's buttthen stepped on the 
pressure plate and snagged the meat as it tumbled out. He carried it to another 
corner and chowed down.
So that was our first adventure on the Halley. After that, things became pretty 
much routine until we reached Jupiter.
The Halley, or her living quarters, anyway, was shaped pretty much like a flying 
saucer. A thick frisbee with a half dome on top. The saucer part consisted of a 
circular passageway with doors leading to rooms that lined the outer rim of the 
saucer. (Should that be hatches leading to compartments? I'm going to dispense 
with the phony nautical terminology spacers love so much.) We've seen the spa, 
and the galley. Also out there were the owner's cabin, guest cabins, a billiard 
room, a library, a formal dining room with places for eight, and two holocabins. 
One simulated beach settings, and the other let you pretend you were in various 
forest environments.
There were no servants' quarters, since Halley carried no human staff. 
Everything was done by robots who were seldom seen, popping in and out of 
hidey-holes mostly when you weren't looking. But they kept everything 
scrupulously clean, and if you needed something, they delivered it promptly.
I would have thought a ship like that would have accommodations for a larger 
number. Instead, the builder had opted for larger and more luxurious quarters 
for a smaller number of people. Though naturally the Halley could carry scores 
of people in a pinch, she was designed for no more than eight.
But the tastiest stuff was in the middle, under the dome.
The original owner must have been a nature lover. The center of his ship was a 
circular mini-disney called the habidome and the theme was rain forest. There 
was a waterfall, a babbling brook, a pond, and a few dozen trees festooned with 
vines and orchids and bromeliads and other such lush tropical flora. The floor 
was grass or packed dirt. No attempt had been made to deceive the eye, as in the 
holos. The dome was simply a dome, not a blue sky. It was all too orderly and 
well tended to look like the real thing. What it reminded me of was the big bird 
enclosure at the King City Zoo. Aptly enough, I guess, since the place had a lot 
of birds in it. Toucans, macaws, cockatoos, parrots, I don't know what-all. 
Hummingbirds no bigger than your thumb, in any color you wanted.
We'd been aboard a couple of days before I wondered where all the critters had 
been during the high boost. The answer was, suspended in liquid, revived only 
when the environment was ready for them. Floating in liquid was a good way, it 
turned out, to miss most of the bad effects of high gee. "So why didn't you 
float us in liquid?" I asked Hal. "Next time I will. But it takes about a day to 
prepare your body for it. We didn't have time."
"Next time?" I asked, cautiously.
"Next time won't be so bad," he said. I didn't pursue it. Most of the trees and 
bushes bore edible fruit of some kind. Not always what you'd expect, either. One 
tree I knew was not an apple tree, because I looked it up in the library, bore 
tart, crisp Mclntoshes on one side, and Valencia oranges on the other.
It seemed the tigers and the birds came with the territory. Hal had revived them 
without being told to. The rest of it was up to us. The choices were not 
unlimitedno rhinos, no aardvarks, no baboonsbut we could have turned the place 
into a reasonable imitation of Noah's Ark, if Noah had only saved 
small-to-medium animals. We were a bit more selective. Poly chose a dozen 
different types of lizard and another dozen poison arrow frogs, looking like 
porcelain or enamelware in screaming bright colors, not looking real at all 
until they jumped. I'd say there were a few hundred of them, but you'd never 
know it unless you looked for them.
She also revived a twenty-foot python. I told her I didn't like snakes much, and 
it had no effect at all. The snake and I gave each other a wide berth.
I scrolled through the catalog, bemused to think these creatures were sleeping 
in some secret recess of the ship. Made you feel God-like, you know? Which I 
suppose a billionaire thought he was entitled to feel. How about a brace of 
crocodiles? How would Poly like that? Maybe they'd eat the snake. I'd always 
liked monkeys; I'd had a pet chimp back in my glory days. But they were a little 
too noisy and active, it seemed to me.
"I have well-behaved monkeys," Hal advised me, and we selected a family of 
golden lion tamarins and a pair of slow lorises. There is no such thing as a 
fast loris; I checked.
Hal may have fudged a bit about the tamarins. They squeaked and peeped, but it 
wasn't an unpleasant or intrusive sound. It fit right in with the birdcalls.
Both Poly and I started out in staterooms. We flipped a coin, and she won the 
captain's suite. Within a week we were both camping out in the habidome. There 
was a Peter Pan tree house midway up a towering live oak: three rooms, running 
water, view of the falls. Poly moved into that. The other structure was a shack 
on stilts, sort of leaning out over the pond, like a Dogpatch backdrop in "L'il 
Abner." ("The part of Marryin' Sam has evolved, over the years, into an 
opportunity for political jokes and jabs at celebrities. Keith Van Tyne steals 
scene after scene from Abner and Daisy Mae."Hermes Blaze) Sitting on my porch, 
I could drop a line into the pond and usually come up with a catfish or bass. 
For a while Poly and I played Adam and Eve, frying the fish and serving it with 
wild fruits and veggies we gathered ourselves. I began to buy into that ancient 
idea of the "natural man," free of civilization's encumbrances. I mentioned it 
to Hal.
"Bugs," Hal said.
"Beg your pardon?"
"There are no noxious insects in the habidome. Butterflies, moths, all selected 
for color, and dragonflies, likewise. There are beetles you'll seldom see, and 
insects belowground. But you wouldn't like this place nearly as much if it came 
equipped with black clouds of mosquitoes. Tarantulas. Centipedes a foot long 
that crawl into bed with you"
"I get the picture."
After a few weeks we went back to the gourmet meals prepared by the galley. It's 
amazing how quickly you can get tired of fried fish.
Still, I recall my time aboard the Halley as one of the two or three best times 
of my life. Partly that is because... nothing happened. Though I was still 
running as fast as I could, though a human monster was still yapping at my 
heels, there was nothing to be done about it until I left the Halley. I could 
kick back, relax, for the first time in what felt like decades. I could stop and 
think about things. One day was much like the next; we fell into comfortable 
routines. Poly stopped being pissed off with me, for no real reason I could see 
other than that... I was Sparky. Somehow that made a difference. Maybe the shock 
of finding out I hadn't lied about that made her reexamine what had gone down 
with Comfort and his evil sister, and allowed her to see it wasn't entirely my 
fault. That though I had made a terrible mistake in leaving her alone in the 
room, there had been no malice, only carelessness, involved. And I had come 
back.
* * *
"There are three ways you can go about this, Mr. Valentine," the medtech said. 
"First, we can put you to sleep and have the whole thing over in less than a 
month."
"I like the sound of that," Sparky said.
"It has its attractions," admitted the tech. "However, when you wake up, you'll 
be... oh, I'd guess you're going to run six feet, six-one, something in there. 
You'll be well over twice your current weight. You'll have to learn how to 
shave."
"That should be easy enough."
"Shaving? No problem. But longer arms and legs will be a big problem. I've 
followed several cases, and you should expect half a dozen major, painful 
accidents in the first year. That's not counting the dozens of scrapes and 
bruises you'll pick up every day, the number of times you'll bang your head on 
the ceiling."
"I see," Sparky said, thinking it over.
"You'll be the clumsiest man in Luna," he said, with a chuckle. "In the normal 
course of things, we adjust to our bodies gradually, as they change gradually. 
In Luna, of course, those bodies are dangerously overpowered. You know how to 
handle it at your current dimensions and musculature. It would be like letting a 
baby operate heavy equipment... if you'll pardon the expression."
"That's okay, Doc." Sparky liked the guy. So few people just came right out and 
laid the truth on the line.
"The second option," the tech went on, "is simply to stop the inhibitors that 
have kept you prepubescent for twenty years. You'd grow up at the normal rate, 
reach your full growth in five or six years. This is really the optimum way of 
doing it."
"I don't have that kind of time."
"No one ever seems to. Why are we all so much in a hurry? We don't even know how 
long we can live. We're sure three hundred years is possible, perhaps a lot 
more. All the strides we've made since 'threescore and ten,' and still we rush 
around, frazzle our nerves, ruin our digestion... and you don't want to hear any 
of this.
"Third approach. We combine the first two methods. We don't put you to sleep. We 
can hurry it up and have you fully grown in six months, or stretch it out to 
more like two years."
"Six months sounds good."
"Why did I know you were going to say that? Six months it is." He made a 
notation on Sparky's chart, then webbed it off to the machines that would handle 
the actual treatment.
"You're still gonna be clumsy," he pointed out. "At least you'll take it an inch 
at a time, though. There are some unpleasant side effects, but we can help with 
most of them. You'll be hungry almost all the time. There could be some stomach 
and bowel trouble. You may not grow entirely at the same rate, head to toe. 
Usually it's the legs that grow a little too fast; you may look a bit odd for a 
few months. There's a chance you'll get a really disgusting crop of zits. It'll 
be so bad you might want to stay home so you won't frighten little children; a 
week, two weeks, tops. You'll yodel like a Swiss accordion player until your 
voice stabilizes. Then there's the matter of sex...."
"Yeah? What about it?"
"Never mind. You might actually enjoy that part."
Sparky laughed. "Doc, I am twenty-nine years old, you know. I know about sex. 
I've been having sex a long time now."
"Whatever you say."
The treatment itself took only a few minutes. Some mysterious, disgusting brown 
goo was forced into a vein. He tasted metal in the back of his mouth for a 
moment, then a violent red brew was pumped into him and the taste went away. His 
vision blurred; he imagined steam blowing out of his ears, and smiled at the 
image. Wouldn't that be cool? Then his eyes could roll around in their sockets 
like slot machine tumblers....
He realized he was roughing out a Sparky routine. No need for that anymore. He 
felt a strange mixture of loss and relief at the thought.
He left the treatment room and was met by a lovely young woman in the starched 
whites of the Nurses' Guild. She smiled, and indicated he should follow her.
This was not his regular medical facility, which was in the exclusive Pill Road 
district. After the decision to fold Sparky, Sparky had realized he no longer 
had to live his life in a fishbowl. That is, he needn't cater to his fans, 
something he'd always felt obliged to do before. It had been fun, before. Now he 
felt the urge for more privacy, and as nothing more than the studio cohead he 
didn't need to seek the limelight. It was a new idea for him, and one that held 
a lot of appeal. So he had booked his hormonal adjustment at this ordinary 
clinic in a middle-class part of town, far from celebrity haunts. He wore a pair 
of dark glasses and a King City Loonies baseball hat and a pair of denim 
pantssomething "Sparky" had never worn on the show. He'd done it before and got 
away with it, and back then he'd still had his odd hair and tonsure to conceal. 
Now it had been whacked off and was growing in brown, a shade he hadn't seen in 
years.
"Did everything go smoothly?" the nurse asked.
"Sure, no problem."
Sparky almost missed it, kept walking down the hall with the nurse. If they'd 
kept on talking he probably never would have noticed. But he had a sharp ear for 
dialogue, and as the line repeated itself in his head it soon began sounding 
wrong. It was a line that would have been cut in rehearsals. Go smoothly? What 
was to not go smoothly? Which meant she didn't know anything about the 
procedure. Which meant she wasn't a nurse. He took another look at her.
"Don't I know you?" he asked her.
"Yeah," she said, giving it up right away. "I'm Hildy Johnson. Reporter? 
Cornered you in the spaceport when your father returned?"
"I remember. You wanted an interview."
"You said you'd give me one. And you didn't return my calls."
"That was damn inconsiderate of me." They walked a few steps farther, pondering 
the situation. "You pissed off?"
"What's the point of being pissed off? For you to give me an interview, you're 
going to have to like me, and why would you like me if I was pissed off? I 
tracked you down here to ask you again. I can't seem to make it into your 
office."
"I don't think"
"And you'd be pissed off if I did."
He smiled. She was right. But there was something else he didn't like.
"You say 'tracked me down.' What you mean is somebody at the studio told you 
where I'd be."
"You don't think I could have followed you here?"
Sparky thought about it a moment. "No. I don't think so."
She shrugged. "You're right. But I won't reveal my source."
"That's fair enough, I guess."
They turned a corner and at the end of a corridor there was a glass door with a 
mass of people milling around on the other side. The door must have been 
lockedthere were two security guards standing on the insidebecause no one was 
coming through it, and they certainly would have had it been possible, because 
this was the traveling shark pack known as the Celebrity Press.
"Looks like they found me, too," Sparky said.
"If you want to avoid them, I know a back way out of here. It's the way I got 
in."
"Great. Let's go."
"How about that interview?"
"What's the big deal?" Sparky asked. "I'm not little Sparky anymore, and pretty 
soon I won't even be little."
"Are you kidding? 'Sparky Grows Up!' It'll be the biggest story of my career."
"So what you really want is a series."
"Well, I would have gotten around to that at the interview."
"Okay, Hildy. You get me out of here, you can follow me around till I'm a 
grown-up. If that ever happens. You can have an exclusive."
"Over this way," she said, touching him on the shoulder. They turned away from 
the mob at the end of the hall and entered a stairwell. They started to climb.
"I guess the leak in my office is pretty bad," he said.
"Why do you say that?"
"All those reporters. What happened, somebody in my office put out a press 
release?"
"Oh, no," Johnson said. "My source speaks only to me. I'm the one who told that 
bunch. I made the call after I got here so they'd be in a hurry and really 
frantic. Don't you think they looked frantic?"
Sparky stared at her, then laughed.
"To get on my good side, right?"
"Exactly."
"Must have been a lot of calling."
"Sparky, I try to do as little work as possible. I called D. Mentua Precox and 
made her promise not to tell a soul."
Sparky was still laughing well after they made their escape.
* * *
It's been many years now since I've had to dodge crowds of reporters. You say 
you hate it, and you do, and yet of course a part of you likes it very much. Who 
could resist? All those people, with absolutely nothing to do but chase you. It 
goes to your head, and when it's gone, it leaves you off balance, like you'd 
been climbing stairs for years and now you're at the top and your foot keeps 
reaching for one more.
Even in my heyday I never lived in a place like the Halley.
I could have. I could have afforded it. But I was never very good at spending my 
money. I left that up to my father. There was nothing much I really wanted 
except to do good work. I'm not saying I shopped at thrift stores. I just never 
bought the kind of baubles many rich folks buy.
But I could get used to the Halley.
I spent many days doing little more than lolling in the hammock stretched 
between the wood struts supporting my porch roof, dangling a line in the still 
water. To call me an angler would have been an insult to fishermen since the 
beginning of time. A bite on the hook was a minor annoyance; I'd pull in the 
little perch or bass or catfish, cut off the barb, and set the fish free. Catch 
and release, a phrase I recall from Old Earth. Then I'd get settled in the 
hammock again. It got where I was sure I recognized some of the finny critters. 
They'd look at me accusingly with their wall eyes just before I dumped them in 
the drink, but I didn't care. I was ruthless. It's your own fault for being so 
trusting, I'd tell them. Didn't you learn anything when you hit the bait 
yesterday?
Nothing happened, as I said. But while I idled, things were going on.
Each day was an improvement for Poly. She spent six, seven hours a day 
practicing. At first she was sure it was annoying me. She offered to move to one 
of the rim staterooms. I begged her not to. Usually it was scales, arpeggios; 
finger exercises. Studies for the student. But notes flew into the air and I 
drank them in, even the simplest, most monotonous run. I seldom saw her when she 
practiced. The sound came through the open window of her tree house, and each 
sweet tone soothed me.
At the end of a session, when we would usually share a sumptuous picnic prepared 
by the ship's gourmet-chef program, she would come alive describing her day's 
progress. Her skills were returning faster than she had been led to believe, 
faster than she had dared hope. She was starting to think she might even be 
ready to play professionally by the time we got to Luna. Most of the time I had 
no idea what she was talking about. To tell the truth, she had sounded just fine 
to me on the first day of practice. I have what I consider a good ear. I can 
carry a tune; Lord knows, I've sung in enough musical theater. But you don't 
need a perfect voice to sing what have become known as "Broadway" musicals. In 
fact, you don't even have to have a "good" voice, as long as you can belt it out 
and not hit sour notes. The genre is famous for its scratchy altos and "singers" 
who do more speaking than singing. But I know the difference between the sort of 
music I can make and that made by a real professional musician. I know most ears 
are not tuned to the fineness needed to distinguish a good performance from a 
work of genius. Poly has that sort of ear. You have to have it if you expect to 
move in the circles she aspires to, which, for now, would be concertmaster with 
a middling philharmonic orchestra. First chair with the King City Symphony, solo 
work... that would have to await more experience and maturity.
So things are well with Poly. A little sex would brighten my day, but so far she 
hasn't responded to my hints. I don't intend to push her.
The other thing going on involves Toby, and I blush to bring it up. Toby has 
lost his mind.
From the moment the two tigers, Shere Khan and Hobbes, padded into the galley 
Toby had been absolutely gaga over Shere Khan. It was love at first sight.
When humans have sex with animals they call it bestiality. What is it when one 
species have sex with another species? Hybridization, I think. Didn't I hear 
that a donkey and a mule can have sex and produce... a horse? Somehow I don't 
think I got that right. Maybe it's a donkey and an ass. Maybe I don't know what 
the heck I'm talking about.
Not that sex was involved here. You could call it puppy love, I guess. Toby 
began following Shere (which is what we called her, though Kipling's Shere Khan 
was a male tiger, I believe) with his tongue hanging out. When she would sit 
down somewhere, take a napwhich tigers can do up to about twenty hours a 
dayToby would be there, climbing up on her striped flank, licking her behind 
the ears, on the muzzle, around the jaw; anywhere he could reach. For a few days 
Shere kept casting dubious glances at him. When she looked at me I swear she 
seemed embarrassed. But eventually she settled into it. Soon she began to purr, 
and to drift off to sleep with an extremely satisfied look on her savage face. 
Then Toby would walk in a tight circle for a while, like dogs do, and nestle 
himself into the curve of her neck, tuck his head down around his belly, and 
doze. If she stirred he was instantly up, ready to follow her anywhere.
Hobbes was a different story. There's no other way to describe him than a great 
big pussycat. Shere Khan bullied him mercilessly, and he didn't seem to mind. 
She stole his food; he just went to get more for himself. If he tried a romantic 
approach she would roar a warning, and he would put his ears back and slink away 
while Toby yapped at him, as indecently pleased as any dog in the history of the 
world, I think. The big sissy would never assert himself. It's true she 
outweighed him by about a hundred pounds, but really!
"Pussy-whipped," Poly would observe, then go over and scratch him behind the 
ears. What that said about the human condition, or about our situation in 
particular, I don't even want to guess.
So the days pass, Poly fiddles, Toby moons, I fish, and we're coming up on 
Jupiter. Why we have to go by way of Jupiter I don't know, but it promises to be 
quite an event.
* * *
LAST STAND IN NEVERLAND
Part One of a Series
by Hildy Johnson
* * *
It's the biggest party I've ever been to, and I've been to some big ones.
The guest of honor arrives on the back of a live brontosaurus.
What shall we call him now? For years we've all called him Sparky. Just Sparky, 
and that was enough. Like Elvis. All that time his real name has been Kenneth 
Valentine, but who knew? The fact was seldom mentioned in the billions of pages 
written about him, in the thousands of hours of tape, of paparazzi shots stolen 
through very long lenses. Little Kenny Valentine has been as thoroughly immersed 
in the part of good ol' wire-haired, zigzag-headed Sparky as any actor in 
history. There were times when, if you'd asked him his real name, he would have 
stared blankly at you, and then thought it over for a moment, like somebody 
trying to recall someone met many years ago, and only briefly. And Sparky was 
always a child of action, not reflection. He would give you his wonderful grin, 
then move along.
But Sparky has decided to grow up.
Now there's a phrase. Maybe you've heard it before, but it wasn't meant 
literally. How do you "decide to grow up"? What is it about your thirtieth year 
that makes you decide "Well, that's enough of childhood. Time to do that old 
adult thing."? The Sparky show is doing as well as it ever has, consistently in 
the top five. Generation after generation seems to find the little moppet 
irresistible. There's no real reason why the show can't go on for another twenty 
years. Forty years. Hell, who knows? Not only that, but the Valentine family and 
corporation have parlayed the bucketloads of money into an entertainment empire 
far beyond the dreams of the modest production company, Thimble Theater, that 
gave it birth. So why quit? Could it be that little Kenneth Valentine wants 
to... learn to act?
Well, sure, he acted as Sparky. Won some awards. But though you earn a trillion 
dollars and the admiration of your peers in the children's entertainment 
industry, though you stand at the pinnacle of your profession and do what you do 
better than anyone has ever done it before, there is respect, and there is 
respect. Nobody with wiry hair and no pants has ever earned respect in the realm 
of "legitimate theater." No one ever will. And Sparky... sorry, Kenneth 
Valentine comes from a distinguished theatrical family. His father, John, is a 
thespian to the soles of his feet, which were planted on the boards while still 
in his swaddling clothes. (Some say this was shortly after he was laid in a 
manger... at least according to John Valentine.) Kenneth's upbringing was no 
less classical. It is said he knows the Shakespearean oeuvre by heart. Every 
line from every play. Can it be that such an education will forever produce 
nothing more than the best children's series ever made?
Not if John Valentine has anything to say about it. And John Valentine has 
plenty to say, take my word for it.
More about that later.
The dinosaur's name is Nessie. Over her back is a glorious brocaded drape in 
gold and purple. Strapped around her middle is a structure you'd have to call 
howdah, after the platforms usually borne on the backs of elephants, but this 
one is five stories high, with two levels depending on each side of the beast. 
On Nessie's back are three more stories, including a pointed gazebo on the very 
top. Maybe two dozen actors cling to the railings and scamper up and down the 
ladders and staircases, all in festive costume. Nessie lumbers on, oblivious, 
her red-rimmed eyes indicating to anyone knowledgeable about these creatures 
that she's high as a kite on a double dose of reptile tranquilizer. I know for a 
fact that a cherry bomb exploding two feet into her anal canal wouldn't even 
make her blink. (Your humble narrator had a rather wayward childhood on her 
mother's bronto ranch.)
Perched on a saddle high on the endless neck is Sparky, having a great old time 
waving to the crowd.
Only moments ago some actual work was going on here. Studio 4 was and is dressed 
as an ancient Thai temple overrun with vines. A huge golden Buddha looks 
serenely down on the shoot. Blessing the enterprise? One wonders as to his 
reaction when the director yelled "Cut!" on the last take of the last scene of 
Sparky and His Gang, and one wall of the studio rolled up to reveal the equally 
cavernous Studio 3, decked out for the biggest wrap party of all time. Wasn't 
Sparky in this last shot? Hasn't he just been here a moment ago? Then how the 
heck did he get onto the back of that bronto... oh, never mind. It must be movie 
magic, because here he comes, here comes the bronto, here comes the party!
Nessie lumbers through the wide lane cleared for her, stops for a moment, looks 
as thoughtful as a brontosaurus can look, which is not much, lifts her 
gargantuan tail, and drops three turds the size of hay bales but not nearly so 
sweet smelling. Some people start to laugh. Sparky looks back. The tail comes 
down on a table laden with five thousand dollars' worth of ice sculpture, six 
thousand dollars' worth of peeled shrimp, and untold barrels of strawberries and 
whipped cream. Instant strawberry-shrimp spumoni.
Sparky is delighted. He stands up and runs down the neck, surefooted as a 
squirrel. He leaps to the floor and starts wading into the mess. Others follow 
him. Heck, there are ten thousand cream pies on racks against the back wall; 
everybody knew this was going to be a mess, with the biggest pie fight in 
history as the climax. The hijinks are just starting a little early.
Near the Buddha, a few are hanging back. Guys in morph suits seem to be ignoring 
it all. Morphing a part is just a damn job, they seem to think. The suit, 
festooned with hundreds of computer reference sensors held together by wire 
mesh, is uncomfortable, but they are well paid. Who knows who the people are 
under those suits? Nobody. By the time the computer is finished morphing them, 
they've become creatures that couldn't be played by guys on their knees or 
people with lots of latex glued to their faces.
A few people have that look on their face that you might see on a guy who has 
just set foot over a deep hole he thought was solid ground. Take Walter Burgess, 
the guy who has played Windy Cheesecutter for twenty years now. Pondering your 
future career, are you, Walter? Trying to figure out what you'll put on your 
resume? It would be good to recall the immortal words of Bert Lahr: "After The 
Wizard of Oz, I was typecast as a lion, and there aren't that many parts for 
lions." Not a whole lot of parts for fat guys who can fart their way into the 
air, either. He can see himself now, a few years down the line, stepping up onto 
a platform in front of a new hardware store as some schmuck shouts, "And now 
folks, teevee's Windy Cheesecutter... Walter Burgess!" As the kids make 
delighted noises with their lips and bored girls pass out whoopee cushions to 
the crowd. Sometimes, in this business, success can be your worst enemy. John 
Valentine is here, too, working the crowd. He is very good at it. Here is the 
man most agree is responsible for shutting down production on the studio's most 
successful series. He has shaken everything up. People are getting pink slips, 
being sent home. And most of them seem to like him. They act like he's doing 
them a favor.
If you're looking for a description of the rest of the party, you've come to the 
wrong reference. You want to see it, you can buy the tape. You want to read 
about it, who was there, who did what, who made a fool of herself, who had to be 
mailed home, just head right over to the gossip column.
This series isn't about parties, and it isn't about celebrities. It is about 
growing up.
It's about Sparky... and where is that little devil? Can it be that the guest of 
honor has slipped away early, before the pies start to fly?
John Valentine's looking for him, too. A few people have noticed, and a few have 
remarked on how close the man is to his son. Twenty years presiding over a 
financial disaster on Neptune, and suddenly he doesn't seem to want Sparky to 
get out of his sight. Well, you know what they say about absence, the heart, and 
fondness.
No, I was wrong. There's Sparky over by the punch bowl. John Valentine spots 
him, starts toward him... and his eyes slide away. He ignores Sparky, and keeps 
looking around the room. Because... why, that's not Sparky at all. It surely 
looks like Sparky. Everyone is treating him like Sparky, but it's not.
Can you say stand-in? You've heard about it, the rumors, that sometimes 
celebrities will use doubles to give themselves a little breathing space. A 
little vacation from the... suffocating demands of fame. From the millions who 
would like a little chunk of you, and would take it if they could, tearing you 
to pieces. So they use stand-ins, and they find private places to go.
If I was John Valentine, I'd look for Sparky in a pinstripe uniform, playing 
baseball in a rather unusual place. You didn't hear it from me.
* * *
"Easy out, easy out!" Sparky shouted. "Burn it in there, Bob! He couldn't hit it 
if you rolled it on the ground! Easy out!" Sparky pounded his fist into the 
glove, then set his feet apart and crouched slightly, glove held up a few inches 
from his mouth and nose. He could smell the soft leather and the oil he'd rubbed 
into it a few hours ago. He dug his spikes into the green grass, into the soil. 
He felt a primal connection to the field of dreams. For a moment nothing existed 
for him but the pitcher's windup and the slowly circling tip of the bat, away in 
the distance.
The batter took the pitch and the umpire turned away, unimpressed.
Ball three.
"Whadda ya, blind?" somebody yelled off to his right.
So it was the bottom of the sixth. No score. There was a man on second trying to 
look in all directions at once, ready for the shortstop to sneak in behind him 
for a pickoff, ready to fly at the crack of the bat. Two outs, three balls, two 
strikes. Nothing to lose.
The guy at the plate wasn't known for fly balls, or long balls. He had no home 
runs on the season. But he could dribble it into the hole between first and 
second, and that's where Sparky was playing it. If it got to him there was no 
way he'd get the man at first. The throw would have to be to the plate. The 
catcher was good, and the runner at second didn't have a lot of speed. So throw 
it a few feet down the third-base line and the catcher would be there, blocking 
the plate.
But was Sparky's arm good enough? Should he throw to the pitcher, hope he could 
cut it off and still get it to the catcher in time? No, wait, wouldn't the 
pitcher be running in, backing up the catcher? Sure, sure he would, and the 
third baseman would head toward the mound, ready to snag a short throw.
Damn, but baseball had a lot of things to remember.
He loved every minute of it.
The pitcher wound up, the runner led off at second, the batter swung, and the 
ball went high in the air... over the backstop and foul, out of play.
Everybody relaxed. The runner loped back to the second sack and the hitter found 
his bat. Sparky took off his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his 
hand, like he'd seen the players in the majors do. At least half of baseball was 
not so much what you did, but the style with which you did it.
For years this had been the only place Sparky could relax, could totally let 
down his guard, be himself, do something he loved to do, but didn't have to do. 
He wasn't the best baseball player in the Little League. He wasn't even in the 
top one hundred. In fact, he was strictly mediocre. For some reason, this was a 
great comfort to Sparky.
Here on the sweet green grass of the outfield, or digging his spikes into the 
red dirt of the batter's box, or circling the bases, or even sitting at ease in 
the dugout with his friendshis friends, not fans of Sparky, the television 
boyhe felt a magical calm that existed nowhere else in his life. It was the 
uncomplicated happiness that generations of boys before him had felt on the 
diamond. It was his own private thing.
If fact, life would be darned near perfect at that moment but for two things: he 
was hungry and his toes hurt.
The hunger was a familiar thing by now, and he could deal with it. He pulled a 
candy bar out of his pocket, bit off a hasty chunk, and stuck it in his cheek, 
conscious of how much he now resembled those black-and-white heroes of the game 
back on Old Earth. Only there it had not been a wad of chocolate and nuts in 
their cheeks, but a chaw of tobacco.
So here he was, Jackie Robinson in the outfield, crouching slightly, ready to 
explode in a blur of motion, the moment stretching, eternal....
Sparky could no more play ball at a regular King City park than he could walk 
into a Pizza Palace franchise and order a slice and a Coke. But this field was 
different. This was the recreation dome of the Plain People of Luna: the Outer 
Amish.
That's what they were called when they first moved to Luna, anyway. Later, 
groups relocated to Mars and even more distant points. Some now called the 
original settlers Old-Order Outer Amish, but it was cumbersome, and names stick 
long after they've lost their original meaning.
When Sparky first started visiting here, he had been told the saga of the Amish 
and Mennonite communities on Luna. They had come from Germany and Switzerland, 
settled in the lush farmland of Pennsylvania, and did what sects always do: they 
split into other sects. The plainest of the Plain People avoided things like 
cars, electricity, and telephones. Basically, if it wasn't mentioned in the 
Bible, the Amish felt they could do without it. Some felt cars were okay, but 
chrome was vain, so they painted it black: the Black Bumper Mennonites. Most 
didn't wear buttons, and the men never grew mustaches because that reminded them 
of the Prussian military, which they were fleeing. They were the original 
conscientious objectors.
Sparky had thought it would take a great leap of logic for Amish to board a 
spaceship and leave for Luna, but was it really that different than crossing the 
Atlantic? America wasn't mentioned in the Bible, but the moon was. Once there, 
of course, they could not survive entirely with Biblical technology, but they 
did surprisingly well, and used as few modern things as possible. What had drawn 
them was the prospect of twelve two-week growing seasons per year. Farmers to 
the bone, Amish had actually been in the agricultural forefront in matters like 
crop rotation and soil conservation. They were familiar with hybridization, and 
genetic engineering was only breeding and selection speeded up, or at least it 
was to the schismatic leader of the Outers. And they had never been averse to 
accepting a little help from their neighbors. So while they themselves never 
entered a bioengineering laboratory, they were instrumental in developing the 
first strains of Lunar-adapted crops. They put up domes, conditioned the Lunar 
dust with compost, bacteria, wormswhatever was neededplowed the resulting 
soil, planted, and harvested. The new breeds of plants drank the intense 
sunlight beneath the UV-filtering plastic domes and grew so fast "it could break 
your arm if you held it too long over a corn seedling," according to Sparky's 
friend Jan Stoltzfus, the boy who had first invited him into the Amish enclave. 
"Two weeks of summer growing season, and two weeks of winter... without the 
snow!"
Self-sufficiency had always been their ideal, but they also had to make a 
living, so much of the produce they grew was taken into King City and sold at a 
public market, to health fanatics, antichemical believers, and the very wealthy, 
at astonishing prices.
"These are crops just as artificially produced as those grown on any corporate 
farm," Jan had pointed out, enjoying the joke on the "English." "Our food tastes 
no better and no worse than anyone else's. The only way to distinguish it is our 
fruits and squashes and melons and tomatoes tend to be a bit smaller, sometimes 
a lot smaller, more like back on Old Earth. And you find the occasional blemish 
on a tomato, the odd worm in the apple.
"And do you think we eat it? Very little of it. We buy our vegetables at the 
market, just like ordinary folks, and bank the difference."
Their lives had seemed full of odd contradictions to Sparky when he first 
started coming out here. They read old-fashioned books by the light of candles 
or kerosene lamps, but kept their orchard trees thriving during the two-week 
"winter" with banks of grow lights suspended overhead. They plowed the ground 
with teams of horses and wood-and-iron plowshares, then baled hay for the cows 
with gas-powered machines. In one dome they might heat with a wood-stove or a 
fireplacethey could not afford real wood, and so used compacted waste from 
various outside agricultural concernsand in the next dome over it was thought 
to be ethical to heat with methane gas. They had endless arguments over what was 
proper and what was not. But they were good people, and there was one thing they 
all agreed upon: television was the tool of the devil.
He had been out at the Amish settlements location scouting for a story arc that 
would have involved an Amish boy and girl. The plan fell through quickly when it 
became clear the Plain People did not like to be photographed, to have a "graven 
image" made of themwho knew?but while there Sparky had made an interesting 
discovery. Nobody knew who he was. This was a revelation to him. Of course, 
nobody had a show that everybody watched, but these were surely the only sane 
people on Luna who had never heard of him.
He began showing up for baseball games, informal gatherings where sides were 
chosen up on the spot. At first, he was picked last, and he loved it! At any 
park in King City he would be the first pick every time, regardless of talent or 
lack of it. Worse, as a practical matter, it was impossible for him to play. Do 
you really want three hundred photographers clogging the first-base line? 
Jostling for a shot in the shower room? Clamoring for interviews in the dugout? 
Even in the pathetic league they formed for studio children Sparky saw little 
point in playing. Those kids knew who signed their parents' paychecks, and would 
not work very hard to strike him out or catch his rare fly balls. Sparky got no 
charge from that sort of competition.
But the Amish gave him something he hadn't had since he was eight: a chance to 
be just another kid. They knew he was famous, and rich, and it made no 
difference to them. All that was an "English" matter, not part of their world. 
If he wanted to play with them, he'd better be good.
He never got past mediocre, and that was okay. The first time he'd been chosen 
second to last was one of his best days. He'd earned that measly promotion. When 
you're rich and famous, and don't have the ego of John Valentine, you never know 
what you've earned. Whatever Sparky did worthy of praise was always the result 
of a team of people employed to make him look good. He never forgot that, no 
matter how many awards came his way.
Sometimes he wished he had inherited his father's massive self-assurance, but 
most of the time he was happier to be the way he was, a moderately insecure 
fellow with a touch of the impostor complex, that maddening feeling that people 
secretly know you aren't as good as you're cracked up to be, that they know you 
know it, and that they know you know they know it.
Here he knew exactly how good he was.
The batter suddenly backed out of the box, and the pitcher relaxed. Seemed the 
batter didn't like something there in the dirt, because he was raking the ground 
with his cleats. He dug himself a little hole, fanned the bat around his head, 
swiveled his hips, and faced the pitcher. The pitch, the swing, the crack... 
another foul.
God, Sparky loved baseball. How could a game that moved so slowly produce such 
tension? It might be another two, three minutes before the next pitch, and the 
suspense was getting unbearable.
So was his hunger. There was no more candy in his pocket. And three long innings 
until the feast.
The Plain People wouldn't call it anything so vain as a feast, but that's what 
it was. Sparky would walk past tons of the sort of delicacies they'd had at the 
recent wrap party to get to one plateful of Amish food.
There would be sweating glass pitchers full of tart pink lemonade, with lemons 
and cherries still floating in it. Sweet cider. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. 
Something made with beans and ham hocks. Roast beef sliced thin. Ears of fresh 
golden corn. Cupcakes and rows and rows of pies: cherry, lemon, mince, pumpkin. 
Shoofly pie, a treat made in heaven but served only by the Amish.
And Sparky's favorite, the muffins. Blueberry muffins and corn muffins, that you 
could twist apart in your fist and see the steam rising from the golden centers 
and slather with butter scraped from a wooden churn.
Life didn't get any better.
If you play baseball long enough, you develop a computer in your head. Each play 
adds to the programming, until you reach the point where you hardly have to 
think about it at all. Your eyes see, and your arms and legs react.
The crack of the bat activated Sparky's computer. It was a bloop single into the 
hole, coming right at Sparky. The first and second basemen started toward it, 
saw it was impossible, headed back to their bags as Sparky charged the ball. No 
hope of catching it; play it on the bounce. He saw the catcher standing on the 
third-base line, the pitcher heading toward the plate to back him up, the 
shortstop moving toward the mound to cut off the throw. His eye went back to the 
ballJesus! He was too close in. The ball hit the ground and bounced as he moved 
his glove down. It hit the heel of his glove, hit him in the chest, and 
bounced... and there it was, hanging in the air right in front of him, as if 
time was suspended. He bare-handed it and in one motion pegged it toward the 
shortstop. He saw the third-base coach waving the runner toward home. He'd been 
told Sparky didn't have the arm to get the ball to the catcher.
It was a good call, but something had happened to Sparky's arm. The shortstop 
started to jump for it, might have caught it, but then ducked and let it go over 
his head... and it reached the catcher right on the numbers. The runner was so 
surprised he tried to stop and his feet went out from under him. The catcher 
ambled over and tagged him out. The fans went wild.
Sparky jogged toward the dugout, arms loose, eyes on the ground, showing both 
coolness and humility. There was no way he'd ever tell anyone he'd been throwing 
to the shortstop. Everything had worked out all right, so who needed to know?
He accepted the high-fives and pats on the ass as only his due, then sat on the 
bench to wait his turn at bat. His feet were killing him.
For the first time he noticed that there was a strip of skin visible between the 
top of his socks and the bottom of his pants.
Well, that accounted for it. His legs were longer, and so were his arms. 
Charging the ball, taking an inch or two more ground with each stride, he'd come 
up on it too fast. Then throwing, he'd made more distance than he ever had 
before. The long legs almost caused a disaster. The arm had compensated for it. 
Neat. But he was going to have to make some adjustments, watch himself more 
closely.
He looked up when the umpire called time-out. His father was striding across the 
infield. Sparky saw him look up, vaguely, as if only now aware that something 
was going on here, that he might be interrupting it. He smiled, and waved to the 
players, clutching a rolled-up newspad in his other hand.
John Valentine skipped lightly down the three steps into the dugout, smiling 
broadly at Sparky, who smiled back as well as he could. Valentine motioned for 
Jeff, the second baseman, to slide over a bit, then seated himself with his hip 
touching Sparky's.
"Baseball, eh?" he said. "Looks like fun. I had a hell of a time tracking you 
down out here."
"I don't tell anyone where I'm going," Sparky explained. Valentine seemed not to 
have heard him, held out the newspad, and pointed to the first installment of 
Hildy Johnson's series about Sparky.
"Have you seen this?"
Sparky studied it, trying to give himself a little time. Valentine thumbed the 
pager down in the corner, came to the part he was interested in, and pointed to 
a paragraph.
"Where does this bitch get off writing this stuff about me?" he said.
Sparky only then realized how furious his father was. He glanced up in the 
stands at Hildy, no more than thirty feet away, decided this wasn't the time to 
introduce them.
"It says this is an authorized article," Valentine plowed on. "You've been 
granting this woman interviews?"
"She's been around," Sparky allowed. "We've granted her access."
"If she has access," Valentine grated, "we need to control the access. There's 
no need to let her in on family secrets, and if she's going to make up lies like 
this, there's no need to have her around at all."
"I didn't tell her anything," Sparky said. "Not about you."
Valentine put his arm around his son, patted his shoulder.
"Of course not," he said, smiling. "I never thought you did."
"We'll look bad if we just cancel at this point," Sparky said. "The pad's been 
hawking this series for a week now. I thought it'd be good publicity."
Valentine considered that, began nodding slowly.
"Besides," Sparky pointed out, "it's not a review. People have printed nasty 
things about you before. You know how it is."
"Maybe you're right," Valentine said.
"You said it yourself. You're not an easy man to like." Sparky knew his father 
took pride in this, attributed it to his artistic perfectionism. It was even 
partly true.
Valentine laughed, and squeezed his son's shoulder.
"You're right. Nothing to get upset about. I guess I'm just on edge, with the 
theater so close to completion." He tossed the newspad down on the dirt dugout 
floor, where it mingled with a hundred old pink wads of bubble gum and puddles 
of spilled cola. "That's not what I came out here for, anyway. A few things have 
come up we're going to have to go over together."
"About the theater?'
"That's right. If we hurry we can make it back before they shut down for the 
day."
"But I've got a game going"
"It really can't wait, Kenneth." He looked around him, taking in the players and 
the green grass and the mothers and fathers in the grandstand behind the 
backstop. "I'm sure this is a lot of fun," he said, clearly not thinking 
anything of the sort, "but isn't it all a bit... childish? I mean, Kenneth, I 
really hate to spoil it for you, but in another month you'll be too big to play 
with these boys."
Sparky felt his face grow warm. Jeff and some of the other boys were carefully 
studying the field.
The hell of it was, it was true. An inch this week, a few more inches the next, 
in no time he'd be a man.
He already was a man, inside. He'd been an impostor here from the beginning. 
Though they didn't partake of the modern world, the Amish were aware of it. They 
understood that arcane biological science had kept Sparky preadolescent for 
twenty years. They knew he would outlive them. They were one of many groups who, 
for one reason or another, kept to the Biblical threescore and tenactually, 
more like fivescore for most of them, with reasonable carerefusing all 
long-life treatments.
It was over here, and Sparky knew it.
But couldn't he have finished this last game?
"Gotta go, fellas," he said, getting up. "Sorry, but it's an emergency."
"Sure, Sparky."
"Hey, good game, Spark-man!"
"What a play! They'll be talking about that one tonight."
He went down the line, shaking hands, getting pats on the rump, nobody 
mentioning he wouldn't be back, but everyone aware of it.
Suddenly he knew, without knowing how he knew, that these boys knew exactly who 
he was, and had from the first. He had a vivid vision of a group of them hiding 
in the hayloft, alert for approaching parents, gathered around a clandestine 
throwaway television set. Tuning in to the latest episode of Sparky and His 
Gang. Of course they knew. And the wonderful thing was, in all the time he'd 
been coming here no one had ever asked him for an autograph or a souvenir from 
the set. But they knew he was about to grow up, and they knew they would never 
see him again. He looked at the ground where his father had thrown the newspad. 
It had vanished. Soon it would be squirreled away in somebody's sock drawer, to 
be brought out in the dead of night and read by candlelight.
Impulsively, he thrust his prized outfielder's mitt into the hands of a 
surprised Jan Stoltzfus, another boy about to become a young man, but at the 
normal rate. Soon he'd be playing with the grown-ups. They embraced, and Sparky 
turned away, followed his father around the backstop and off the field.
* * *
The tunnel from the Amish settlements to the fringes of King City was five miles 
long, paved with packed dirt, lit by gas jets that had blackened the stone 
tunnel walls every fifty feet. They were two hundred feet beneath the Lunar 
surface, safe as houses. Sparky and his father sat on the lowered wooden 
tailgate of a wagon piled high with fresh produce in bushel baskets and slatted 
crates. The wagon had rubber-rimmed wheels. It creaked from every joint as it 
rolled slowly over the packed dirt. There was the steady clop-clop of the two 
placid Percherons who had been over this road a thousand times, and there was 
the sound of his father's voice, droning on about some problem or other 
concerning his dream, the John Barrymore Valentine Theater. Sparky heard none of 
it. He was off in a world of his own.
He hadn't really thought this growing-up business was going to change his life 
that much. The thing was, he had already thought of himself as grown up. True, 
he was small, he had a child's body, but his mind was that of a mature man. For 
that matter, he sometimes thought he'd been born mature. He didn't recall a time 
when he hadn't had an adult's outlook on life, shouldered a man's burdens. His 
relationship to John Valentine was sometimes more of a father to a reckless son 
than the other way around.
But this was going to change everything. You didn't just get a larger uniform 
when you grew up, when you got bigger. You put away baseball for good.
Sure, he could get into an adult league of duffers, smack the ol' pill around in 
his spare time, weekends, after work. But he knew without even trying it that it 
wouldn't be the same. Adult baseball was a way to keep the weight off without 
surgery, stretch the muscles. Maintenance on the old ticker, you shouldn't need 
a new one every five years. For the pros it was a job, but Sparky would never be 
that good. To a kid, baseball was a world unto itself. Baseball was youth.
"Why do I get the impression you haven't heard a word I've said?"
"What?" Sparky looked up. "Oh, I guess I was just somewhere else."
John Valentine made a noncommittal grunt, then reached behind him and took a 
twenty-dollar beefsteak tomato from a basket full of them. He bit into it. Juice 
and seeds ran down his chin.
"I never even knew these people were out here," Valentine said. "Had a hell of a 
time finding the place."
"They don't get a lot of visitors," Sparky said.
"No television, you said. No movies. What do they do for entertainment? Any live 
theater?"
"I don't think they approve of that, either. They farm, mostly. Work the soil. 
The women quilt, you know, sew these big blanket things. They're worth a fortune 
when they're done. They cook wonderful food."
"Maybe we should have bought a pie or something."
"They don't sell those. Or the muffins."
"Smelled pretty good to me." He took another bite of the tomato. "This is a good 
tomato, too, but not worth what they were charging up there at the farmer's 
market." He tossed the remains of the tomato off the back of the wagon.
"No," Sparky said. "Probably not."
* * *
I never did get another of those muffins. But to this day, when I smell 
cornbread, I think of Amish baseball.
The first leg of the Halley's odyssey was Uranus to Jupiter, a trip not often 
made since the Invasion, two hundred years ago. Technically, it was illegal to 
approach Jupiter, but people did it from time to time and almost always got away 
with it. Space had always been too vast to really police, and Jupiter wasn't in 
the jurisdiction of any human-inhabited world. The only nation really interested 
in total interdiction was Luna, the grandly and rather nervously named Outpost 
State, which had existed for two hundred years only a quarter of a million miles 
away from the Invaders. The aliens had landed on Earth and on Jupiter. On Earth, 
they had wiped out all human life and destroyed all trace of human existence. 
What they did on Jupiter was anybody's guess. There had been no commerce 
humanity was aware of between the two planets in all that time. Luna would like 
it to stay that way. There was no reason to doubt the Invaders could finish the 
job, destroy all humanity, in a weekend if they took the notion. It seemed wise 
never to give them a reason, and therefore wise never to call too much attention 
to the affairs of humans.
But Luna was alone in seeing the Invaders as a continuing threat. The rest of 
the system would just as soon not think about Jupiter and the horrors it might 
conceal, which meant no one watched too closely. If you assumed an orbit and 
looked as if you planned to stay awhile, a ship would be dispatched to take you 
into custody. If you just used the gas giant's gravity well for a boost or a 
course change, as people in a hurry sometimes did... well, it was easy to lose 
yourself in traffic once back in the crowded trajectories of the inner planets. 
Space was vast.
I don't pretend to know just what Hal did to get us a course change with minimal 
expenditure of fuel. Something about coming around in front of the hideous 
planet, braking a bit, swinging around, and boosting again. I know we were under 
acceleration twice, neither time anything like the agony of the first boost at 
Uranus. When it was all done, we were aimed almost directly at the sun. Hal told 
me that getting to the sun was the most difficult destination in the system, in 
terms of energy. Which makes no sense at all, since it is so damn big and has so 
much gravity, right? But that's what he said, and at the price somebody paid for 
him, he ought to know. He said it was easier to aim for the sun from out here, 
where our orbital velocity was low, than farther in, where we'd have picked up 
too much speed. To which I might have said "Huh?" if I wasn't so dignified. I 
thought speed was the whole point.
There was a circular room atop the habidome that we called the cockpit. It was 
set up with Buck Rogers panels that theoretically could control all aspects of 
the ship's systems, but which had never been used, since Hal could do it all so 
much better. I imagined the original owner had liked to do what I did from time 
to time, which was sit in the captain's chair with my feet up on the 
"dashboard," studying the cosmos with a feeling of power, king of all I 
surveyed.
The view up there was of a hemisphere of space, like being under a glass dome, 
or in a planetarium. The second image was more accurate, because what we saw was 
an artifact, created by Hal. It looked real enough. But remember we were 
spinning almost all the time, at the end of a long rope with the engines at the 
other end. If the dome had been glass the stars would have whirled around us, 
too fast for comfortable viewing. Hal cleaned all that up, made it look like we 
were motoring down a vast, black highway, smooth as glass. There was a control 
at my fingertips which would give me any angle I wanted. Of course, except near 
Jupiter no motion was visible at all.
I almost skipped the show entirely. Coming from Luna, I'd had it impressed on me 
in no uncertain terms that Jupiter was to be avoided. That it was dangerous. The 
image of Jupiter was a fearful one, dominated by that vast red eye a hundred 
times larger than my home planet.
Poly felt no such qualms. It was just a big ball of gas to her, a great photo 
opportunity.
I decided to tough it out. Poly wasn't scared, how could I be? Usually I'm not 
subject to that kind of bullshit macho, so maybe I was curious, too.
You get close enough, any planet has a lot in common with any other planet. You 
lose the curve of the edge, it becomes a vast plane filling half the universe. 
We were close. Hal showed me the gauge, creeping up very slowly, indicating 
rising hull temperature as we grazed the poisonous edges of the atmosphere.
Closer and closer. It was like one of those mathematical things, the chaotic 
figures, squiggly lines that as you magnify them reveal more and more detail. 
Infinitely. Fractals, that's it. Tiny swirls of yellow and orange became 
monstrous storms, and along their edges, more tiny swirls. Then those grew, and 
you realized they were gigantic. And on their edges, more storms...
It was a Technicolor Rorschach test from hell.
After a while I couldn't look at it any longer. Poly and I were strapped in, but 
the tigers and Toby were floating free. I watched them for a while. Toby and 
Shere Khan had invented a game you might call Tobyball. Shere would bat him 
across the room with a massive paw. Toby would go caroming around like a fuzzy 
zero-gee cue ball, yelping happily, until he got straightened out and leaped 
back toward the big cat. Shere Khan would bat him again. She seemed to regard 
him as better than a ball of yarnwhich he resembled, the free fall making him 
even fluffier than usual.
When Toby came close to Hobbes he would bark at him a few times, as he'd 
recently taken to doing. Hobbes would watch him sail by, thoughtfully, as if 
trying to make up his mind. One bite, or two? Swallow him tailfirst, or 
head-first? Decisions, decisions.
Toby had always been as spry as a snark in zero gee, but I was surprised at how 
well the tigers bore it. Not that cats aren't innately more graceful than dogs, 
but I'd once seen a house cat twisting endlessly, knowing he was falling but 
unable to figure out where he was going to land. Shere Khan and Hobbes just 
hooked their claws in the thick carpet and walked around as usual. I suppose 
they had been made fearless and maybe a little stupid by the same treatments 
that had left them free of aggression and the urge to hunt.
When Hal warned us we were about to boost again the tigers immediately reclined 
on the floor. I snagged Toby and held him in my lap. The weight, when it came, 
was about one gee, and didn't last very long. When it was over, Jupiter had 
swung around behind us and was shrinking rapidly. One twist of the dial on my 
console would have brought it around front again, in the false image we were 
watching, but Poly was tired of it and I had no desire to watch anymore. So we 
were weightless for another half hour until Hal put spin on the ship again, and 
then things continued as before.
But not quite. Poly and I started sharing a bed, and I began to spend a lot of 
time in the library, researching the Charonese.
I don't know what decided Poly, why she finally forgave me. I never asked, 
because I rather suspected it was mostly loneliness. Not that I wanted a burning 
love affair, but who needs to know that any male body would have served her as 
well? Poly was not the sort to go to bed with a guy she didn't like simply to 
scratch an itch, but she made it clear to me before we made love that she wasn't 
looking for a life companion at this point in her career. Hey, at this point in 
my career, neither was I. So that was understood. But we were affectionate with 
each other. She didn't come to my bed simply for sex. She stayed to cuddle, and 
eventually to sleep.
It had been a long time since I'd been able to awaken in the morning with a warm 
body at my side. A girl who didn't mind when I reached over and stroked her 
thigh, her hip, who would turn over and be in my arms. I've formed few long-term 
relationships in my life. This one wouldn't be long, either, but while it lasted 
it was good for me. No hot, sweaty details here, my friend. Let it stand that 
she was an inventive and enthusiastic lover, able to adjust to whatever mood 
seized me, and more than capable of bending me to her own will, if the mood 
suited her. We had some jolly, slippery times.
But the universe compensates. If something good comes into your life, the odds 
are something bad is not far away.
In this case, it was as near as the library.
After Jupiter, I was no longer satisfied to fish from my hammock. At least not 
all day long. I began thinking about Isambard Comfort, his dead sister, and the 
whole race that had spawned them. I had no illusions about Izzy. He might not be 
waiting for me on Luna, but if he was aliveand I felt sure he washe'd be there 
soon. It made sense that the more I knew about his people, the better I'd be 
able to survive a third encounter with him. What did I need to do, for instance, 
to square things with them? Was it possible? Everyone had heard of the Charonese 
tenacity, of their reputation for always fulfilling a contract, no matter what. 
Was it really that bad?
It was worse. Much worse.
The first thing that struck a researchermewas the paucity of information. Hal 
had a UniKnowledge module, which was the nearest thing we'd ever get to summing 
up all human information collected since the days of the Cro-Magnon. It held all 
the libraries of Old Earth. All the movies, television shows, photo files. 
Billions of billions of bits of data so obscure a researcher might visit some of 
it once in two or three hundred years, and then only long enough to find it no 
longer had any reasonable excuse for being. But it wasn't thrown out. Capacity 
was virtually infinite, so nothing was ever tossed. Who knew? In ten centuries 
the twenty years of telemetry from Viking I might be of use to somebody. A 
vanity-press book, published in 1901, all about corn silage in Minnesota, of 
which no hard copy existed, might be just the reading you were looking for some 
dark and stormy night. The UniKnowledge held thousands of books printed in Manx, 
a language no one had spoken in a hundred years. It held Swahili comic books 
teaching methods of contraception. It contained cutting-room debris saved from a 
million motion pictures, discarded first drafts of films never made. A copy of 
every phone book extant at the time we began to record data by laser, and every 
one printed since. Fully half of the information in the UK had never been 
cataloged, and much never referenced in the centuries since its inception, and 
most of it was likely never to be cataloged. That would be taking the pack-rat 
impulse too far. Librarians had other things to do, such as develop more 
powerful search engines to sort through the inchoate mass of data when somebody 
wanted to find out something truly obscure.
But it was all in there. And if you set it for CHARONESE: Search, it began to 
spew out mountains of information. Or at least it seemed like mountains, at 
first glance. However, if you set it for ALBANIAN NAVY, 1936, it would spew out 
a mountain of information as well. You had to keep it in perspective.
So the first thing was to set the UK to sorting, organizing, comparing. It 
produced helpful graphs, statistical analysis, suggested routes of exploration. 
It spotted anomalies, pointed out the unexpected. The first thing it showed me 
was that, for an entire inhabited planet, there was practically no information 
at all. Economic data was very skimpy. Social analysis was sketchy. And most 
striking, items written by actual Charonese were unknown. Zip. Zero. Not one 
manuscript. The Charonese were not contributing information to the universal 
human database. They were hoarding their holdings like a paranoid poker player. 
Why?
The UK could help me with that, too. It searched for things written by 
ex-Charonese, expatriates. There had been a few, over the years. The bulk of 
these had spent their lives trying to make themselves very, very small, but a 
few had spoken out in print.
For a short time.
The UK produced a graph showing average life expectancy of an ex-Charonese. Ten 
months. Ninety percent were dead within one month of defection. The tougher ones 
lasted a little longer; one fellow was thought to be alive twenty years after 
leaving his home planet, but no one had seen him in five years, so it was 
anybody's guess.
They tended to die in accidents. In the same way that a boot crushing an ant 
might be seen as an accident.
Some of this stuff I knew, or had been told was probably true, but it was 
interesting to see it confirmed. Charonese didn't abide traitors. They kept 
their business secret, at any cost.
I could spin you quite a detective story about how I tracked my facts down. It's 
all in there, all in the UK, but finding it, putting it together, drawing 
conclusions, that's something else. As usual, there were reams of references 
from the Net, and they were about as useful as you'd expect, which is not much. 
Unattributed tales, anecdotal evidence, wildly contradictory accounts of How I 
Survived an Encounter with a Charonese. I spent more time than I usually would 
have with this material, because reliable sources were rare. The authors of such 
material were usually to be found in the obituary column a few weeks after 
publication. Venues that published anonymous articles about Charonese tended to 
announce new editorial staff for the next issue. Even printers and broadcasters 
had been assassinated.
So, Charonese Fact One: You write about us, you die.
I assumed there were people in law enforcement who knew about this, but what 
could they do? You write a nasty article about John Q. Mobster, and you die 
violently, somebody's going to suspect old John Q. There's a place to start. But 
though you might know these people were wiped out by a Charonese... which one? 
Someone who never met the victim, you could be sure of that. You couldn't just 
indict everybody with a Charonese passport, even though that would be a small 
group. They would certainly alibi each other, and you could rely on the fact 
there would be no deals cut, no testimony bargained for. If the hit was ordered 
by a boss, a capo, you could be sure he was back on Charon. But in fact it 
probably did not have to be ordered. Someone at the Charonese embassy would have 
the full-time job of monitoring all public media, and when something appeared 
they didn't like, maybe they just posted the name on a bulletin board. One 
writer, since deceased, said this was in fact the case. Whoever could work the 
job into his busy day did the hit. There were never any witnesses. The accident 
that claimed the life of the target invariably killed all the witnesses as well. 
On the very rare occasion a Charonese was surprised in the act, captured, caught 
red-handed, he always pleaded guilty. Charonese never hired lawyers. They never 
said anything at all to police, not even their name, and the only word they ever 
uttered in court was guilty. And then they did their time without a peep of 
complaint. A Charonese never complained about anything. If he had a problem with 
you, he killed you.
Charonese Fact Two: We always get our man.
Always. I searched long and hard for evidence of a contract unfulfilled, and 
found nothing. All the deceased experts agreed on this, even when they didn't 
agree on much else. If the Charonese agreed to do something, they did it. What 
they mostly did, off-planet, anyway, was enforce other people's contracts, the 
sort of contract you didn't want to bring into court or bother a lawyer about. 
Or it could even be a legal contract. There were no endless appeals from 
Charonese courts, no escape clauses. No excuses at all. If the Charonese 
guaranteed your contract, you could count on it being fulfilled, in cash, the 
equivalent, or if there was absolutely nothing left to take from the welsher, 
blood. Sometimes you got a warning in the form of a just-less-than-lethal 
torture session. Then you paid up, or you died.
I wish I'd known that. The next time I saw Uncle Roy I was going to have some 
very cross words to say to him.
So in these things the Charonese were much like other crime syndicates, past and 
present, though I'd never heard of any quite so harsh, nor any with a perfect 
record. Nor any who had never suffered a permanent defection, had a member 
squeal in court, cut a deal with the prosecutor. I inferred that something 
extraordinary was keeping these people in line, and I set out to find out what 
that was. I almost wish I hadn't. I had hoped it might provide me with a 
loophole of some kind, a spot of leverage. A window of hope.
I don't wish to depress and frighten you with the miserable history of Charon 
and its denizens. Just a short refresher course:
Luna and some other planets export criminals, misfits, and undesirables to Pluto 
for about a century. Most are garden-variety criminals, some are politicals, and 
a handful are very scary people. The Plutonians don't want these last around any 
more than you or I would; off they go to Charon. Transportation is a wonderful 
way to handle criminals; you might as well flush them down the toilet. There is 
very little in the way of maintenance, no costly per-bunk per-year figures to 
upset the taxpayers. Ship 'em as much or as little food as you wish, and let 
them fight it out. You need budget cuts? Prison food was always a good place to 
start. You don't need to pay salaries for guards, or worry about what they're 
bringing in to the convicts. There's no need for parole boards or probation 
officers. All sentences are for life. And if they wish to escape, all they need 
to do is fly through a million miles of vacuum.
But they had brought something with them to Charon, other than psychosis and 
criminal skills and their own brand of situational ethics. The dominant religion 
of Pluto, back from the days when they had been the outcasts of the system was 
Satanism. Diabolism. Devil worship. Mystical, scary stuff.
Well, not really. It's true no one was allowed into a Satanist Temple but a true 
believer, and it is true the rituals and belief system are secret. But the 
secret is an open one, and the interior of the temple is no more mysterious than 
that of the Mormons. If you leave the church, no one comes to hunt you down and 
kill you. No one cuts out your tongue. You can blab all you wish, and 
ex-Satanists over the years have blabbed it all. And a more prosaic, boring 
story has seldom been blabbed. Forget the tales of human sacrifice, of Christian 
babies slaughtered on black altars and eaten by the congregation. They used to 
tell those same stories about Catholics. No, Plutonian Satanism was all ritual 
and show, symbolic as a Christian sacrament. Although I'll have to admit, 
reading about it, it sounded like a darn good show.
There was nothing symbolic about the Charonese religion. Real people bled real 
blood and died on Charonese altars.
If that was all, it would be disgusting, but nothing new in the world of 
religions. The Charonese couldn't hold a candle to the Aztecs for sheer volume 
of blood shed, or to the Spanish Inquisition for inventiveness. The sheer 
depravity of the Charonese way of life owed more to medical science than to 
man's endless capacity for inhumanity to man. The Charonese did it to 
themselves.
It's been a long time since any slashing or crushing injury below the brain-case 
could do any permanent harm to anyone, as long as you didn't bleed to death 
before medical attention arrived. One of the first things medics did to an 
injury was turn off the pain. In some professionsstunt performers, or even my 
own work, when I was required to take a sword thrust in the final actpain would 
be turned off ahead of time. (For me, anyway. I trust my acting ability to sell 
the audience on my pain; I don't hold with "method" fanatics who insist only the 
real thing will do.) There are those who enjoy being mutilated ritually, and 
have the pain suppressed, and a very small number who actually enjoy that much 
pain. All perfectly normal, today. Everything can be fixed.
On Charon, possession or use of any pain suppressor was illegal. You need to 
have studied Charon to understand how awful that was. The Charonese had almost 
no laws at all. You were expected to do anything you could get away with. Every 
law they did have was a capital offense. But because pain was good, pain was to 
be sought, a Charonese execution consisted of confinement to a sensory 
deprivation tank where one could not harm oneself in any way, and kept alive 
there for whatever period the court deemed fit for the crime. Typically that was 
a couple of weeks. The miscreant was usually insaneand defining "insanity" for 
a Charonese was a pretty problemwithin a few days.
The Charonese religion was based around pain and death. Torture began at an 
early age, some authorities said in infancy. To my way of thinking, any 
Charonese living at the age of four or five years must already be insane, by any 
standard I can understand. Others maintain that the Charonese are the next step 
in evolution. Pain, they note, evolved to warn an organism of damage (why God 
couldn't just send down a written memo: "Hey, buddy, you're damaged!" was never 
explained to me). Now that damage was no big deal we ought to just ignore pain. 
Well, why not eliminate it? sez I, but I'm not writing a doctoral thesis.
There's no need to disturb your sleep with tales of Charonese bloodbaths, 
self-mutilations, orgies of sex and violence. A description of Charonese 
love-making alone would haunt you for days. And besides, the information gets 
very sketchy here. All the authors are dead, and accounts differ; who can say 
what is true and what is fancy? One example will suffice for all: the Charonese 
equivalent of a bar mitzvah involves self-disembowelment, after which the 
honoree amputates both legs and an arm, and then chews off... but I can't go on. 
It's all healed immediately, so what's the big deal, eh? Unless you have more 
sensitivity than a garden slug, that is.
Needless to say, such a lifelong regimen has produced a breed of human with not 
much in common with the rest of us. Nothing but death will stop them, and death 
is meaningless if you're in my shoes, because if, for instance, Izzy had not 
completed his mission at the time of his death, someone else would be along soon 
to rectify the oversight. And if I managed to kill Charonese number two, there 
would be a number three, and a number four.
The population of Charon was about five million. I'd have to kill a few hundred 
a day just to break even.
As if. So far I'd killed one through luck and evaded another twice, again, 
mostly through luck. And if I killed Isambard...
What would number two be like? I didn't think they had sent their champion 
killer to snuff an actor.
* * *
THE DISCOVERY OF SEX
Part Four of a Series
by Hildy Johnson
* * *
They tried to warn him.
"It's not like anything you've experienced as a boy," they said.
"Come on, Doc," Sparky said. "I'm thirty years old. You think I haven't had 
sex?"
Well, of course he'd had sex. Or what passes for sex in one whose puberty has 
been arrested for many years. And I'm sure he enjoyed it. There was a joke going 
around school when I was young: Sparky is about to get into bed with one of his 
young fans. (We all assumed that young fan would someday be us.) He pulls down 
his trousers and the girl stares. "Who do you think you're going to satisfy with 
that little thing?" She laughs. And Sparky says, "Me."
They say size doesn't matter, and it's true, to a point. Sixteen inches would be 
nightmarish. Two inches... Are you in yet, darling? Sparky's measurement has 
never been a secret. One must assume he had a lot of charitable partners.
So that alone would be a big difference in his experience: being with a woman 
who wasn't faking anything.
But no matter how considerate we are in the sack, for most of us the primary 
urge is a rather selfish one, isn't it? Fess up. Is the experience a total loss 
if you get off, even if he or she didn't? Gee whiz, I'm sorry, hon, I'll do 
better next time, and... zzzzzzzzz.
The doctors told him what he'd been having were "dry" orgasms, sometimes called 
"infantile" erections. He felt like he was turned on, and he felt like he was 
coming, but he didn't know the half of it.
Puberty. A time of exciting and dreadful change. A time of confusion. A time of 
exploration. Most of us get about a year to adjust to it.
Sparky had about a week....
* * *
Ken Valentine leaped up, bounced once on the giant bed, and hit the floor 
running. He ran right up the wall, seeing himself as Donald O'Connor in Singin' 
in the Rain, only Donald O'Connor wasn't naked. Turned a back flip and landed 
running again. Jumped to the ceiling, shoved himself down to the floor, and 
began caroming off the walls like a demented kangaroo.
Back in the bed, a lump of sheets and comforters stirred. A hand emerged and 
cautiously peeled back enough covers to expose disheveled hair, a forehead, and 
two slightly bruised eyes. The eyes followed Ken's progress around the room. 
Then the rest of the face was exposed and Hildy Johnson sat up in the bed.
"You've got more energy than three litters of puppies," she said.
"I know, I know!" he shouted, and bounced some more.
They were in the penthouse suite of one of the better hotels in King City. It 
had been the nearest refuge when Ken began feeling the urge down in the lobby, 
while Hildy was making yet another attempt to interview him concerning the onset 
of puberty. Perhaps onslaught would be a better word, she thought. Or maybe 
attack.
Try blitzkrieg.
There was no law against going at it right there in the lobby, but that wasn't 
Hildy's style; she had been raised to believe public sex was uncouth. Besides, 
Kenneth was filthy rich, and she'd always wanted to stay in a room like this. 
She'd managed to restrain him long enough to reach the elevator. By then, there 
was a real danger he'd start humping the potted plants. Since this biological 
banzai, Sparky really needed to be kept on a leash.
The room had a spa big enough to bathe a herd of elephants. She'd pushed him 
into it and surrendered to the inevitable. The bed was fifteen feet on a side 
and they'd debauched every square foot. Sometimes it seemed more of a war game 
than lovemaking. Hildy saw her redoubts of pillow and blanket fall to his 
relentless assaults over and over again. Not that she was much of a fighter. But 
with such an aggressive partner, she got a kick out of resisting for a while, 
before allowing her positions to be invaded. She even had a few bruises, a first 
for her. But she gave as good as she got.
It was just about the best sex she'd ever had, but now she was in the mood for 
an armistice. She didn't think Ken was.
"Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" he shouted, for possibly the three hundredth 
time. He leaped into the bed, bounced over to Hildy, and yanked the blankets 
away from her. She was pale and nude and perfect, with patches of pinkness here 
and there. He crawled from her feet to her chest, making obeisance at various 
stations of the corpus, fondly remembering what this was for, what they'd done 
with that, what had happened here and here and here. He collapsed across her 
body, resting his head on her moist breasts.
"If I'd only known," he breathed in her ear. "I feel like I wasted fifteen 
years. Hell, I only have maybe three, four hundred years left! And there are 
billions of women in the system. Billions!"
"Maybe even a few dozen who don't want to fuck you," Hildy pointed out.
"Impossible! How could they possibly want to miss... this!"
"How indeed. Just plain cruelty, I'd think."
"Exactly! Exactly! Cruel to both of us! What possible reason could there be to 
not make love?"
"Hmmm. Soreness?"
He frowned. "You aren't sore, are you?"
"Honey, I... never mind. Aren't you?"
"A little," he admitted.
"Then why don't we call a time-out, and finish the interview?"
"Interview? Interview? Is that what you call this?" He kissed her lips, and her 
breasts.
"That's what it started out to be. Remember? This morning? The hotel lobby? We 
were going to have breakfast?"
"Breakfast?" He seemed to be having trouble with words longer than four letters. 
"Oh, yeah. Breakfast. God, am I ever hungry." He reached across her and punched 
a button on the headboard. "Send up a lot of breakfast," he said.
"Yes, sir. What would you like?" a female voice replied.
"A lot. A lot of everything. Make it real fast, and I'll tip triple. Including 
you, sweetheart, if you aren't a computer."
"I'm not a computer," said the voice, "and it will be real fast."
"Okay," said Sparky, turning back to Hildy. "What do you want to know?"
Hildy put a fingertip to her left temple and twisted. The pupil of her left eye 
began to glow a deep red, like a deer caught in headlights.
"Recording," she said, formally. Sitting there naked on the bed, she noticed an 
almost imperceptible change in his attitude. It was something performers, 
actors, fashion models did. The director yells "Action!" The spotlight hits the 
singer on the stage, the photographer lifts his camera, and the people turn on. 
Or switch to a different level of reality, Hildy thought. The shoulders move, 
the teeth get brighter somehow, the eyes twinkle. It was a little scary, but not 
half so much as the other end of the process, when the director yells "Cut!" The 
smile collapses. The charisma is stored, way back wherever people who have it, 
keep it. She had to cut through that before she'd get anything useful.
"On the record..." she said, finishing the legal litany. "Sparky, would you 
agree with the proposition that the pubescent human male is the stupidest animal 
on two legs?"
He laughed. "If you want to take me as an example... yeah. Or on four legs, or 
six, or eight." He glanced down at his semierect penis. "Maybe we should say 
three legs."
Hildy glanced down, tooor at least her right eye did. The left remained 
stabilized on the establishing shot, recording a solid image she would use 
mainly as earlier reporters had used sound recorders. There would be Hyper-Text 
image bites, of course, but she doubted she would use much from this particular 
session. Sparky was still gazing down with boundless affection. It was like he 
had a new friend. In a way, he did.
"Say," he said, brightly. "Maybe it's not me that's dumb at all. Maybe when your 
cock starts to grow, it sort of sucks up your brains." He made a sucking sound 
with his lips. "Pow! And your IQ drops like a stone. You're at the mercy of any 
female who walks past you. You'd do anything to... sure, sure, that's it." He 
grasped his newly burgeoned manhood and waved it more or less in Hildy's 
direction. "This fellow gets it into his head... so to speak"
"Off," Hildy said. "Sparky, it's a very bad sign when you start referring to 
your cock in the third person. Next thing you know you'll give it a name... and 
I'm out of here."
"You're right, you're right." Sparky apologized. "I'm crazy, but I'm not loony." 
That look came into his eyes again and his gaze dropped down her body. It landed 
where it usually did, and he was no longer semierect. "How about it, while we're 
off the record? Do you think we could"
The bedroom door swung open and three bellhops hurried in, pushing carts 
groaning with bacon and eggs and pastries and fruit. For a moment there Sparky 
was so funny, his head moving rapidly back and forth between Hildy and the food, 
back to Hildy again, back to the food, totally unable to decide which he wanted 
more... she fell over laughing.
* * *
...and by Friday, though he was not back to anything like "normal," he could at 
least be trusted again around livestock.
* * *
NEXT WEEK:
Part Five
The New Sparky, as Romeo!
* * *
What amused Kenneth the most was that growing up felt like the world was 
shrinking. He wondered if normal boys, growing up in the normal way, experienced 
it like that. Did it seem their clothing had gotten too tight? That doorways 
were lower now, so they could reach up and touch them as they passed through? Or 
was it all too gradual?
Rooms imploding, shoes pinching, stumbling on stair risers that seemed to get 
lower even as he climbed them... these he could handle.
But people getting smaller...
He was now the same height as his father. He found it enormously disconcerting. 
For thirty years his father had been this vast presence, towering, stern, but 
loving. The fact that other men were taller was completely beside the point. In 
the ways that mattered, John Valentine had been the tallest man in the world.
But in this new, changed world, his father was only slightly over average 
height. He had a way of standing that made people think he was taller than he 
was, a way of dominating a gathering of people so that, from Kenneth's old 
perspective and even without the elevator shoes the loving son's uplifted gaze 
provided, made him stand out above anyone but a basketball team. But now they 
were eye to eye.
This was inconceivable.
This was preposterous.
This was... something a billion sons had encountered during their youth, nothing 
unusual at all. Except they had crept up on the idea. They had done it as a 
proper son should, a millimeter a week, not sprouted insolently like some 
demented beanstalk.
Kenneth was profoundly embarrassed by it. He now habitually stood slumped, 
slouched, hipshot. It just made him look sullen, and didn't really help anyway.
John Valentine put his hand on Kenneth's shoulder and squeezed affectionately.
"Who says dreams can't come true? Right, son?"
"That's right, Dad."
They were standing in the almost-finished park across from the dream. The park 
was three acres in area and ten levels high. The ground was bare soil, with 
sprinklers and electrical outlets naked. Soon they would be covered with sod. 
But a fountain was bubbling off to their left, and a white gazebo to their right 
sported electric flags that snapped in the nonexistent wind. In a few hours the 
orange fences would come down and people would begin using the paths, sitting on 
the benches. Children would climb in the small playground and splash in the pond 
with golden koi and the park's resident pair of otters.
John Valentine barely noticed any of this. The park had been part of his 
specifications for the projectand he would never know how many headaches this 
had caused-but it had really been no more important to him than the color of 
the ushers' uniforms. A thing he would notice if it were done wrong, never see 
if it was right. He had said the theater should be across from a park. Here was 
the park. Enough said.
His attention was fixed firmly on the edifice across the wide pedway.
The Valentine. His dream. Well, Kenneth's, too.
"You remember that day at the spaceport, Kenneth?" he asked. "It was the day 
after I took you to the Sparky audition. Maybe you were too young."
"I remember it, Father."
"It's funny," John Valentine went on. "I don't recall exactly where we were 
going. Mars, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Father."
"Can't think why we'd want to go to Mars. Brutal gravity on Mars. Anyway, we'd 
had this offer, and we didn't know what to do with it. Television. A series. The 
money sounded good, but... television! Remember?"
"Oh, yes," Kenneth said, with a smile.
"And that's where the dream was born. The Valentine." He waved his arm grandly 
at the marquee. "Shakespearean repertory. We never knew it would take this long. 
This many years, you laboring with the kiddie schlock, me languishing in the 
sticks. But we got the money, and now we have the time."
Kenneth knew his father had no notion of just how much money. But following John 
Valentine's gaze, he had to admit it was money well spent.
The facade was wood, recalling what the exterior of the Globe Theater might have 
looked like. It stretched for half a city block, facing the park. The actual 
entrance took up half that much of the frontage: four sets of wood-and-glass 
doors, a small box office off to one side. Above it was a tasteful marquee, 
brightly lit, but with nothing that flashed or moved. "This ain't a casino," 
Valentine had said. On all three sides it advertised:
* * *
ROMEO AND JULIET
Kenneth Valentine
Maya Chang
John Valentine
* * *
with the tasteful logo featuring a rose and a sword that had come from the top 
graphic-design firm in King City. And not cheaply. Above that was a two-story 
tower with THE VALENTINE spelled vertically, THE floating over the v, in a type 
style called BROADWAY.
It had once been the Roxy Theater. Even in its heyday the Roxy had not been a 
premiere venue. Located on a seldom-traveled side street just off the Rialto, it 
had struggled along for almost twenty years presenting the sort of experimental 
works beloved of acting students and practically nobody else, playing to 
audiences composed mostly of relatives of those students. It was far too large a 
house for that. The balcony had been walled off early on, but even then the four 
hundred main-floor seats were usually half-empty. Sometimes nine-tenths empty. 
The theater had been owned by a man with some money, a man almost as eccentric 
as John Valentine. He was content to lose small sums yearly, until a change in 
the tax situation made it impossible to continue. And it sat there, dark, 
boarded up, for fifteen years until Sparky's real-estate scouts discovered it. 
Valentine didn't give a hoot about the bad location: "They'll come to us; you 
wait and see."
Renovation had kept Valentine busy for the better part of six months, and now it 
was ready.
Father and son crossed the pedway and entered their theater. The lobby was dark 
wood and thick maroon carpet. Heavy curtains covered the back walls, pulled away 
from the four entrances. They could be raised entirely so standees could look 
through wide openings in the rear wall. Valentine fully expected standees, at 
every performance.
They walked down the sloping aisle between the left and the center sections of 
seats, which were wide, and plushly upholstered in the same shade as the carpet. 
They reached the orchestra and turned around.
Six hundred seats. A steeply raked balcony. Retractable chandeliers. Three 
elevated boxes on each side. An arched ceiling, gentle acoustic curves built 
into the walls. It was old-fashioned without making a big point of it.
"Perfect," Valentine breathed. "I couldn't ask for more."
"You did a great job," Kenneth said.
Valentine accepted this in silence. Then he grinned, and hurried over the narrow 
bridge spanning the orchestra pit. He disappeared behind the curtain and Kenneth 
heard the sound of backstage ropes being pulled. The curtain rose, and banks of 
lights clicked on one by one. Valentine strode out to center stage and beckoned 
for Kenneth to join him.
"Rehearsals begin tomorrow," he said. "Are you ready, Romeo?"
"I think I know my lines," Kenneth said.
"I'm jealous," Valentine said, with an affectionate smile. "Part of me says, 
'John, you're not too old to play Romeo. You could still show that little 
upstart a thing or two.' "
"I'll bet you could."
"And I will, Kenneth. I will. 'Directed by John Valentine.' I like the sound of 
that."
"You directed a lot of things on Neptune," Kenneth reminded him.
"Ah, yes, but this feels like a new beginning. Not much of a talent pool out 
there in the outers, my boy. Rather pathetic, most of them. Now I'll be working 
with the best. With the fifth generation of Valentines. The one destined to be 
the best of all."
"I'll sure try, Father."
"Count on it. You will be the best."
And Kenneth knew he had better be.
* * *
Back aboard Hal...
You'd think a guy who is seldom at a loss for words, a guy who could cover 
umpty-ump pages with a description of a trip from Pluto to Oberon where, 
basically, nothing happened except I got hungry... you'd think I'd have 
something useful to say about a close encounter with the sun.
Hmmm. Well, how about... it got hot.
It did, a little. Up to about ninety-five or ninety-six. Not so impressive until 
you realize that any variation from a desired temperature is cause for worry 
aboard a spaceship. Such things are supposed to be under control. That should 
give you some idea how close Hal was cutting things.
Not too impressed? Well, neither was I. How about, it was fast. Over in less 
time than it takes to talk about it.
It was grand. It was beautiful. It was awe-inspiring.
Ho-hum, right?
It was dangerous. But the trouble was, I just couldn't get too excited about it. 
If something happened, it would all be over too quick for me to notice it, Hal 
assured me.
I think that, in the end, after all my adventures on my way from one of 
humanity's most distant outposts to within the orbit of mankind's closest, I 
just got sort of burned out. You should excuse the expression. And we had done a 
mighty close skim of Jupiter, a place I feared a lot more. I guess once you've 
seen one giant ball of gas up close, seeing another just doesn't pack the wallop 
you might expect it to. Even if it is on fire.
It was the same with our speed. I never asked for a speedometer check. I didn't 
really want to know. We were moving about as fast as anyone had ever moved 
before, I guess, but you couldn't tell it, not until we were right down in the 
photosphere. (Oh, yes, we came that close.) After Jupiter, old Sol grew larger 
at a prodigious rate. But so what? Three days or thirty days, you still can't 
see it grow. It still looks static, like any starry night.
But if there were any speed limits set in the solar system, there would have 
been traffic cops staked out behind every billboard from Mercury to Earth, 
waiting to pull us over. "Honest, Officer, I was only going a hundred thousand 
miles per second." "Boy, that wasn't nothin' but whatcha call a 'relativistic 
effect.' We clocked you at point-nine-nine-nine c, and 'round these parts we 
figger c ain't jist a good idea, it's the law!"
There were changes around the ship. Spin had to be stopped again, and since 
there wasn't going to be a lot of time on the other side, certain housekeeping 
measures to take care of. All the wonderful animals had to be stowed away, back 
into cold sleep. Many of the plants were "mothballed" in some way I didn't 
understand. The pond was drained. The whole place became rather depressing, to 
tell you the truth.
No one was more depressed than Toby, though. The poor little thing was 
inconsolable. He spent a whole day searching for his big, striped lady love, and 
when I got out his storage container he actually seemed eager to go to sleep.
And then we were there. Free-falling because Hal had to maneuver the radiation 
shields of the engine module to stay between us and the sun.
He made all that complication vanish in our overhead display. All we saw was the 
sun, or actually an image of the sun suitably translated for our frail senses. 
We could see sunspots, and flares, and prominences, and they all looked rather 
small. You could tell yourself that a hundred Lunas would fit into that tiny 
black speck and still leave room for fifty Marses, but you couldn't get a real 
perspective on it. You might know that the friction from the near vacuum of the 
photosphere was heating the ship's hull to within a few degrees of its melting 
point... but even if you could believe that, you didn't want to dwell on it.
We passed within a hundred thousand miles of Icarus, the asteroid that was moved 
into close solar orbit forty years ago and has been slowly ablating away ever 
since. They figure it still has about a century to go before it's all used up. 
We'd never have seen it, of course, but Hal provided a telescopic image: just a 
smooth ball of molten rock on the Brightside. We could see the tips of some of 
the instruments peeking around from Darkside. Hal, acting the cheerful tour 
guide, told us those instruments were continually extended as the ends were 
burned away. He said Coronaville was now mounted on cooled pillars, as the whole 
planetoid had become too hot to walk on. I decided to cross it off my list of 
vacation destinations.
And then we were past and the sun was dwindling behind us. Poly seemed to have 
enjoyed the experience more than I. She took hundreds of pictures, most of which 
must have shown little more than patterns of orange-and-yellow streaks with the 
occasional black pimple. I didn't point out to her that all she was 
photographing was a television display on the cockpit dome. Why spoil her fun?
Suddenly, after endless weeks of nothing to do, we were in a big hurry. Our 
velocity was now such that Hal didn't have a hope of bringing us to a stop 
anywhere close to Earth's orbitand he didn't have the fuel for it, either. What 
he had was enough to boost at a steady one gee until he ran out of gas within a 
million miles of our destination, still going like a bat out of hell.
When he went over his plans with me, I was shocked.
"What do you mean, interstellar space?" I asked him.
"It was the only option," he said. "You said you had to get to Luna. You didn't 
say I had to."
"But... of course you have to," Poly said. "Tell him, Sparky. He can't just... 
just drift for a million years."
"It could be a lot longer than that," I said. "How about it, Hal? There's got to 
be a way you can slow down."
"Yes, of course," he said. "There is always a way." And he shut up.
I still don't know if he would have spoken up for himself. He seemed so human, 
most of the time. It was easy to forget he was a machine, and though he mimicked 
human emotionsand I believe actually felt some of themhe operated under 
different protocols than Poly and I.
"Well?" Poly asked. "What do you have to do?"
"I would need to rendezvous with a refueling drone," he said. "One could be 
launched from Titan in a few hours, and several months from now we could meet at 
around eleven billion miles from the sun. A few days to slow down, and head back 
system-ward... in a year's time I could be back in solar space."
"Then do that," I said.
"I'm not authorized to initiate such an expenditure," he said.
At last I got it. I marched to the freezer in the kitchenwell, marched isn't 
exactly the word, since I was moving poorly in the one-gee environmentand 
retrieved Izzy's tired old thumb. Gad, only a week ago I had toyed with the idea 
of feeding it to Hobbes. And Hal would be on a one-way trip to the Big Bang.
I pressed it to the credit plate and authorized the chartering of an expendable 
drone full of fuel. I looked at the price tag this time, and had to smile. 
Isambard's credit had been cut off everywhere in the solar system shortly after 
we left Oberon... but not here. Hal's credit-verification software had been shut 
down, on my order. It was possible this new, outrageous charge would cause him 
trouble. Perhaps he, his wife and children and parents and all the rest of his 
family would be clapped into debtor's prison when he returned home. I had no 
idea if Charonese had such a thing, but one can hope.
"Do you have everything?" Hal asked. "Spacesuits, extra oxygen?"
"Something to read?" I suggested. "Candy? Toys?" See what I mean? There was a 
list in his memory that we'd worked on for days, and he knew each item had been 
checked and double-checked. If we'd forgotten to put something on the list, we 
were unlikely to think of it now. He was a computer, dammit, he could not forget 
things. But here he was sounding like an anxious mom sending her kids off to 
summer camp. I took it to mean he was worried about us. And that he would miss 
us. I was pretty sure he could feel lonely.
"We'll be okay, Hal," Poly told him. You can't kiss a computer good-bye, so we 
waved at him and piled into the lifeboat.
That's right, lifeboat. There were two aboard, and we needed both of them. Hal 
had fixed them up as a two-stage vehicle, the one we would ride perched on the 
nose of the other. The bottom one would blast until it ran out of fuel, then be 
discarded, whereupon our own boat would blast. By then we'd be feeling major 
gees, but it wouldn't last as long as the boost from Oberon.
Don't look so shocked. It's the way humans first got to Luna, throwing away most 
of their rocket along the way. Insanely expensive, but hang the cost, say I. The 
Charonese could afford it.
We got into our acceleration couches and Poly briefly squeezed my hand. We'd be 
splitting up as soon as we landed, and I'd barely gotten to know her. Story of 
my life. And probably lucky for her. The few medium-term relationships I've had 
have ended badly. I've had even fewer long-term ones.
"Hasta la vista," Hal said, over the radio.
"Until we meet again," I said. And the lifeboat's engine fired.
* * *
John Valentine turned his back on the company, put his fists on his hips, and 
stood motionless for a full ten seconds. No one breathed. One lesson you learned 
early when being directed by Valentine was that when the great man wasn't saying 
anything, someone was in trouble.
"Everyone take the afternoon off," he said, at last. "Go on, get out. Be back 
here at eight sharp."
No one dallied. There were a few murmured conversations as cast members grabbed 
scripts and purses and bags and thermos bottles, and even that was stilled when 
Valentine, still facing the back wall, raised his voice.
"Except Kenneth," he said. People moved a little faster, and within a minute the 
stage was bare but for father and son. Kenneth stood silently, hands resting on 
the hilt of his wooden sword.
John Valentine walked slowly along the rear of the stage, rubbing his chin 
thoughtfully. He glanced at his son, sighed, and strode into the wings. When he 
came back he had a pair of sabers. He tossed one to his son. Kenneth dropped his 
prop sword and caught the saber by the hilt. Valentine moved back a few steps 
and addressed the younger man.
"Do you want a mask?"
"Not if you're not wearing one."
"En garde," Valentine said, and assumed that position with easy grace. He tapped 
the blade of Kenneth's sword with his own, and attacked.
Clang, clang, clang, and the sharp tip of the saber rested solidly on Kenneth's 
sternum. Kenneth swallowed hard. His father lowered his weapon, turned, and 
walked back three steps.
"Again," he said quietly.
It went no better for Kenneth the second time, or the third. There didn't seem 
much point to a fourth engagement. John Valentine walked in slow circles for a 
while, massaging his temples.
"You expect problems," he said, at last. "You expect obstacles and setbacks. You 
are ready to deal with incompetenceit's always around somewhere. You expect 
these things, and you think you are prepared for anything. So when the disaster 
strikes, you think you are prepared for it." He looked up at last. "But from my 
own son? This... this I wasn't prepared for."
Kenneth could think of nothing to say. He knew where this cold, quiet calm could 
lead.
"My Romeo can't handle a saber." He looked into the wings, then back to his son. 
"Tell me it's because you're used to the foil."
Kenneth shrugged, and reluctantly shook his head.
"Then tell me how it was done. No, wait, let me guess. Your fencing 
instructor... needed a little extra cash."
"A lot of extra cash," Kenneth admitted.
"Well, thank god he didn't come cheaply. He was highly recommended, and his 
reports to me couldn't have been more glowing. I should have suspected; the man 
didn't have the imagination to write that well. You write well."
"My staff writes even better."
"Of course." Valentine laughed. "Honing their skills on Sparky. I should have 
detected the flavor of fantasy." He sighed. "I blame myself, son. I never should 
have absented myself so long." Then he pointed to Kenneth and raised his voice 
only slightly, but it made the accusing finger more deadly than his blade. "But 
I must blame you, too, Kenneth. Oh, yes, I think that you must share the blame 
for neglecting one of the basic skills of the thespian art. Did you think you 
would continue in your childhood forever? Did you think someone could 'morph' 
swordsmanship, as though this holy stage were no more than your television 
fantasy world? Did you think you would never grow up and shoulder a man's work?"
It seemed best not to answer. But as the silence stretched, Kenneth knew he 
would have to.
"I... I just didn't enjoy it, I guess," he said.
"Speak up, son!" Valentine thundered. He stamped his foot on the stage. "On top 
of everything else, I will not have you whimpering while you tread these honored 
boards. Take your puling and squeaking elsewhere, back into your boardroom, 
perhaps, as it seems that is where you have spent the period of my absence. 
Surely, your skills there have purchased this theater, I'll not take that away 
from you... but do you think I care about that? Do you not realize I'd sooner 
present Shakespeare on a barren patch of sand than to cast as Romeo a boy who 
cannot fight? A boy who, in the crucial sceneyou might recall it; Act Three, 
scene one?must slay the valiant Tybalt? The scene that is the very center of 
the play? The scene that seals Romeo's fate, that sets the lovers finally on the 
road to ruin?
"Have you seen Tybalt's swordplay? Have you watched the man rehearse? The man is 
better than me, my poor, poor son. So what shall I do? Have Tybalt fight 
left-handed? He would destroy you. Break his arms? He would kick you to death. 
Blind him? Hamstring him? Hire a new Tybalt, a straw man for my son to knock 
down?"
Valentine threw his weapon clattering into the wings.
"No. No, I must instead create my Romeo from these pitiful makings. I must 
wrench this wretchclawing and screaming, if necessaryfrom his pathetic cocoon, 
from this Sparky buffoon, and into a man's estate. Assistant stage manager!"
The timid but bright drama student with the misfortune to hold that job peeked 
from the wings where she had been hiding. Valentine had never learned her name 
(it was Rose), but had impressed on her from the first day that she was never, 
never to be beyond the reach of his voice. So when he had cleared the theater, 
she had found a hole to hide in, but not one so remote as to spare her Kenneth's 
humiliation. Mister Valentinealways to be called mister, as though he needed 
distinguishing from Kennethusually called her ASM. When he used the full tide, 
nothing good could come of it.
"Yes, Mr. Valentine?"
"Bring me my sword. Contact everyone. Rehearsals are suspended for a period 
of... make it two weeks. My son needs to attend drama school."
"Yes, sir."
"This is not to be taken as license to loaf. Upon their return to the stage, all 
cast members will be expected to know their lines. Cold."
"Yes, sir." Rose handed him his sword.
"Come, Kenneth. We have much work to do."
"Yes, Father."
"En garde!" Valentine shouted, and slashed at his son's face.
* * *
Henry Wauk was not precisely asleep when the knock came at his door.
In West Texas, everybody had a siesta during the hottest hours of the day. At 
three in the afternoon you could fire a cannon down the middle of Congress 
Street and not worry about hitting anyone. Of course, you could do that at just 
about any hour; New Austin was not a bustling place.
"Doctor" Wauk took his daily siesta in the office that connected with his, at 
the top of the stairs over the Long Branch Saloon. Theoretically, this office 
belonged to Dr. Heinrich Wohl, D.D.S., but just then there was no Dr. Wohl, and 
there hadn't been for almost fifteen years now. There had been once, and perhaps 
there would be again, but these days the big dental chair in Wohl's office was 
never used except when Wauk stretched out in it, shoved his black hat down over 
his eyes, and sacked out.
Henry never sweated during these naps, though the temperature in his office 
often reached well over one hundred degrees in the Fahrenheit scale used in 
Texas. He loosened his string tie and he took off his boots, but made no other 
concession to the heat. He often bragged to his friends that he was half gila 
monster and half prairie dog, and that's why he stayed dry. They responded that 
it was because there was very little water in his system, and he said yeah, 
that, too. Henry Wauk was an alcoholic.
He counted himself lucky to live in a society that didn't give a damn what he 
put into his body or what he did with his life. No busybodies had ever tried to 
reform him. He was a happy drunk. He was also happy to have found, many years 
ago, the perfect job, which was to be "Dr. Wauk." That was not his real name, 
but merely the one some wag had written on the shingle outside the doctors' 
offices in West Texas when the disneyland was built. Wauk and Wohl, get it? He 
hadn't, actually, but it had been explained to him, and he was content to be 
Henry Wauk now. Actually, if you had asked him what his name had been, 
originally, he would have been unable to tell you. "I'm sure it's written down 
here somewhere. Library card, or something."
For well over forty years he had been refining what he thought of as the Perfect 
Day. Thirty years ago he got it right, and he'd pretty much stuck to it since 
then.
Up at the crack of ten, dress and down to the saloon for breakfast, a double 
prairie oyster: two raw eggs in a double shot of bourbon. Thus fortified, he 
strolled three blocks to the barbershop for a hot towel and a shave. (Saturdays, 
a bath in the back room. Once a fortnight, a haircut.)
Noon would find him standing at the bar, drinking slowly, getting the right edge 
for siesta. When he woke up at five, lunch of pig's knuckles and pickled eggs. 
At around six it was poker lessons for the tourists. There was no fee for these 
and all guests of the disney could play, but tuition was steep. At nine or ten 
dinner would seldom be whatever the cook at the Long Branch said was good that 
day, because it was usually a damn lie, but the thick steaks were tasty enough. 
What could you do to ruin a steak? Doc liked them crunchy on the outside and 
barely dead in the middle. After dinner began the important work of the day: 
serious poker with the other regulars. Stakes could be high, depending on how 
much had been taken from the tourists that day. At three or four (or sometimes, 
seven) he would stagger upstairs to his rooms. It was a good life. It suited 
him. The Perfect Day.
Of course, once a week or so, medical business would intrude.
Everyone in Texas knew Doc's office hours were noon to three, and he conducted 
what routine doctoring was necessary from his post at the bar. Prescriptions 
were handled by his nurse, Charity, who actually sat in the office from ten till 
siesta time. She was a bright-eyed, intelligent sixteen-year-old who had been 
firmly rebuffing Henry's advances since she came of age, three years earlier. 
She was clever with the stethoscope, with mortar and pestle, the scales, and the 
pill compressor. In fact, Dr. Wauk could and did leave ninety percent of the 
medical business to her. There was no call for alarm in this, since Henry was no 
kind of doctor, anyway. How much worse could the nurse be? She was, in fact, a 
lot better than Wauk in most things.
When he took the job Henry had made a halfhearted attempt to learn a few basics 
of first aid, which was all that could be dispensed in Texas, anyway. No sane 
person would have trusted him to handle much more than a hangnail; if you were 
sick, you went back to the real world for treatment. If you were injured, 
emergency services could be at your side in two minutes, tops. Only the mildly 
ill and the occasional dead ever came to Henry's office. Which was good, because 
Henry was a fumble-fingered pharmacist, a terrible diagnostician, and any really 
serious laceration made him queasy. Unfortunately, Charity passed out at the 
sight of blood, so Henry had to patch up all the scrapes and cuts. Most of the 
work he did was nothing more complicated than a little antiseptic and a bandage.
Naturally, when he became aware of the knocking, he at first assumed it was a 
goddam tourist who had lost his way. He snorted, shoved the hat down a little 
farther over his brow.
The knock came again, a little louder this time. Like a noisy goddam fly you 
kept brushing away. He already suspected he would have to get up, but he tried 
one more time to ignore it.
Knock, knock, knock.
Henry sat up, shoved his feet into his boots, and stomped toward the door. He 
drew the long-barreled Colt .45 pistol from its holster hanging by the door. The 
gun was loaded with blanks, but they were very loud blanks, and they shot real 
fire from the barrel. Aimed at someone's face from a range of one footwhich was 
Henry's intentiona first-degree burn was likely. A first-degree burn which the 
goddam pest could goddam well get treated out in the goddam real world, where he 
should have gone in the goddam first place.
"Hold your goddam horses," he said, and jerked the door open. He was about to 
squeeze the goddam trigger but something stopped him. His visitor was cloaked in 
a brown robe that reached all the way to the floor. The face was hidden in the 
shadows of the hood. Some kind of monk? Franciscan, he thought, but there were 
no monasteries in Texas, and that sort of garb would be frowned on by the 
Anachronism Committee. So he probably hadn't entered through a public entrance. 
And there was a darker, wet stain on the robe that might be blood. The figure 
pulled the hood back slightly, and Henry frowned. The face was bloody, and it 
looked familiar.
"Sparky?" he asked.
"How are you, Doc?"
"You've grown up."
"Would you mind putting the gun down? It makes me..."
Nervous, Henry was about to finish for him, but Sparky staggered and almost fell 
forward. Henry caught him and pulled him inside.
"Sorry. I'll be all right."
"What in hell are you doing here?"
Sparky had been a regular in Texas for a while, shortly after his father left 
for Neptune. He had paid for poker lessons, without complaint, but not for long. 
Soon he was good enough to be invited to sit with the regulars. But that had all 
been a long time ago. Sparky had not visited Texas for over a year.
"I need to hide out for a little bit, Doc," he said.
"You're hurt."
"That, too. Can you patch me up? Just temporarily."
"Temporarily is the only way I do things, son, you know that."
"It's nothing serious."
"Looks serious enough to me. Let me see that shoulder."
Sparky slipped the robe down, and Dr. Henry Wauk gasped. He had seldom seen so 
much blood. It had dried and cracked all over the boy's body, and oozed fresh 
from half a dozen slash wounds. The beige singlet he wore under the robe had 
been cut to ribbons. He looked like he'd been mauled by a wild animal.
"Lion-taming lessons," Sparky explained, and tried to smile.
"I know what you've been trying to tame, son, and he ain't civilizable. Now you 
sit right there and I'm going to call the police and we'll"
Sparky grabbed Henry's wrist and held on strongly.
"Please, Doc. I'm asking you as a favor from an old poker buddy. Just patch me 
up, and I'll be on my way."
Henry Wauk looked into the boy's eyes. He seemed about fifteen or sixteen, 
though he knew his age was closer to thirty. That's what decided him. Wauk had 
never been much for sticking his nose into other folks' business. If the kid 
wasn't a minor child, well then, how he chose to live his life was his own 
business. He sighed.
"Let's get those clothes off. This is going to hurt. A lot."
* * *
He had boiled water in jars. He used this to clean the wounds, though he didn't 
know how sterile his cloths and bandages were. There weren't a lot of dangerous 
bugs on Luna, even in Texas, but they could not be eliminated entirely. If the 
wounds got infected, Sparky would have to seek out real help.
"Thank god I can't be sued for malpractice," he muttered.
There was Merthiolate and tincture of iodine. At least the wounds would be 
colorful. He swabbed with alcohol then wrapped them in the cleanest bandages he 
had.
Sparky had slashing wounds to his left cheek, his side, both legs, both arms. 
But the most serious was a deep puncture just below the clavicle. No major veins 
had been hit, but Henry couldn't stop the wound from seeping blood.
"These are going to leave some mighty fine scars," he said. Sparky continued to 
stare off into space, as he had since sitting down on the treatment table. He 
had not cried out, though it must be hurting him.
"I suppose you can have them removed later." He wiped at the nasty slash on the 
boy's face. It ran across the cheek and had split the bridge of his nose. 
Luckily, it did not run deep.
"Cat got your tongue, huh?"
"What's that?" Sparky's eyes focused, and he winced. Henry regretted talking; 
wherever the lad had been, it seemed to be away from the pain.
"I guess there's nothing to talk about," Henry allowed.
"Henry, I need to get off-planet. Quietly."
"Well, that's the only sensible thing you've said so far. I think that's a good 
idea. Get away from him for a while." Henry knew John Valentine had been away 
for some time, and he'd heard something about his return. Where was it, Neptune? 
Out yonder somewhere. He was vague about places off Luna, which he had never 
left and never intended to. If God had intended man to go whooshing around in 
space, Henry felt He would have given us rockets in our butts.
"Well, I figure you can afford just about anyplace you want to go."
"Money's not the problem. I need to do it quietly. Even grown up, I'm too easy 
to recognize, and there's the computers and all."
"Computers?"
"I get on a spaceship, even with a disguise and an alias, there's reporters 
who've got programs looking out for me. People who like to be aware of my 
movements."
Like your father, Henry thought.
"Hard to move around when you're a goddam celebrity, huh?"
"You got that right."
As he worked, Henry thought about it. He didn't expect any results, because if 
Sparky, with his modern sophistication, couldn't figure a way around it, what 
was an old country doctor going to do? An old, phony country doctor.
But to his surprise, something kept tickling at the edges of his mind. He needed 
a drink, so he paused and took a deep swig from the office jug, which was likely 
to contain just about anything. There had been one memorable evening when...
He narrowed his eyes. He had something. Not what he'd been looking for, but 
something.
"You know, I recollected something a while back."
"If it's what I'm thinking of, don't reach for any scalpels," Sparky said.
"How's that?"
"I saw you starting to remember. About the jug."
"You doctored it, didn't you? That day your father almost killed you."
"I'm sorry, Henry. That was twenty years ago. I didn't know you then."
"Don't worry. I'm not pissed off." Sparky thought he might be if he knew exactly 
what had gone into the jug. It shows how wrong you can be. "That pop-skull was 
the damnedest stuff I ever drank. I lost three days. My spit turned blue. I saw 
things most drunks don't even dream about."
"I'm surprised it didn't kill you."
"Came damn near. I lost a kidney, and a liver." Henry shrugged. "Hell, I was due 
for a new liver, anyway. What I was wondering... do you remember what you put in 
the jug? You think you could do it again?"
Sparky said he could certainly try. And then Henry had it.
"Say, your dad told me one time about a brother. Maybe he could give you a hand. 
He isn't connected with the studio, is he?"
"Uncle Ed?"
"Yeah, used to be a big star. Ed..."
"Ed Ventura. His real name is Edwin Booth Valentine. He's my dad's younger 
brother."
"Well, maybe he can help."
"I don't see how. And I hardly know him. I haven't seen him in maybe twenty 
years or more."
"Then he ought to be all the more glad to see you."
* * *
The sign over the door said SENSUALIST COLLECTIVE. That's all. It was a plain, 
ordinary glass door and looked in on a plush reception room. Sparky could see 
several more doors in there, and comfortable couches, tables with huge 
arrangements of fresh flowers, ornate wallpaper, and big reproductions of works 
by classical artists of the heroic school. It reminded him of the lobby of a 
small, plush hotel, but the listing in the Yellow Screens had said only Retreat. 
Retirement home, more likely, Sparky thought. When his father had mentioned 
Uncle Ed at all, he said he was in retirement.
Retirement meant different things in different professions. With long life, the 
idea of packing it all in at sixty-five, seventy, or even a hundred didn't 
appeal to some people. On the other hand, plenty of people thought fifty years 
in the same job was quite a few years too many. Some shifted to new careers... 
and some tried, and found out they were no longer flexible enough to do so. 
Aging of the body had been pretty much under control for over a century, but 
aging of the mind was not always treatable medically, because it did not always 
have a physical cause. People got set in their ways. They forgot how to see the 
world freshly. They "retired," because it was either that, or continue in a job 
they could no longer stand.
Those without a strong work ethic greeted retirement gladly, and filled their 
days with all the fripperies they could afford. They dabbled in painting, they 
went on trips. They played games. It was all a lot like Florida in the 
twentieth, John Valentine had always said, with open contempt.
In the acting profession, retirement could be involuntary. If you'd never made 
it big, no one cared. You could play character parts forever. But if you were 
popular once, then lost it, everyone seemed to find you awkward to be around. No 
one offered you small parts; it was beneath you, even if you wanted the small 
parts. Something like that seemed to have happened to Uncle Ed. Sparky had given 
it some thought, himself. A lot had been riding on his appearance as Romeo. It 
went without saying that many critics would make a lot of "Little Sparky" going 
romantic. Hell, look what had happened to Shirley Temple, at one time the most 
profitable star in Hollywood. The business had not historically been kind to 
child actors.
Sparky pushed through the door and went to the house telephone. There was a list 
of tenants and near the bottom was Edwin Valentine. He pushed the button, and 
the telescreen displayed the words PLEASE WAIT.
Interesting, Sparky thought, Uncle Ed not listing himself as Ed Ventura. It was 
not as if he would be bothered by hordes of shrieking fans. A few nostalgia 
buffs, perhaps. There were stars like Greta Garbo, legendary after all these 
years, even after seeking anonymity. With most celebrities, however, thirty 
years after their heyday few could recall them. They were creatures of the 
moment, of the famous "fifteen minutes," even if their careers had stretched 
forty years, as Uncle Ed's had.
Sparky had seen most of the "Ed Ventura" filmsafter his father departed for 
Neptune, of course. While John Valentine was around none of his family would 
view such trash. They were unremarkable, standard star vehicles. Not a one had 
reached the status of classic. Today they were viewed mostly by film students. 
But they had been big hits in their day.
In Sparky's opinion, his Uncle Ed owed his acting success less to his mouth than 
to his chin. He had a good chin. Of course, these days anybody could have any 
chin they wanted, anyone could be beautiful, so there was no such thing as 
"glamorous," right? Wrong. There was a certain thing called charisma that no 
surgeon could transplant. There was an indefinable something called screen 
presence, and you either had it or you didn't. There was something even more 
elusive that movie analysts called "kinesthesia," which could be summed up as 
how one lives in one's body, how you inhabited that handsome head with that 
rugged chin. "Ed Ventura" had all of those. There was also something called 
acting talent, which he showed no evidence of in the films Sparky saw, but his 
father, in a candid moment, said Uncle Ed had that, too, if he chose to use it. 
He did not so choose. After all, talent had always been the least important 
aspect of stardom, and stardom was what Uncle Ed had wanted.
No more, apparently. Why else was he stowed away like a forgotten department 
store mannequin in this luxury warehouse?
"What do you want?"
Sparky was jerked back to the present by the gruff voice. He looked around, saw 
no one. The telescreen was still blank.
"I, uh"
"What happened to your face?" Before Sparky could think of an answer the man 
went on, in a slightly different tone. "Kenneth? Is that you?"
"Hi, Uncle Ed. Can I come in?"
There was a very long pause.
"I never see anyone. No one ever sees me. Ever."
"Uncle Ed, I really need someone to talk to."
A shorter pause.
"Yes, I suppose you would. He killed my sister, you know."
"What's that?"
"Your father. John. He killed our sister. Your Aunt Sarah."
"I don't believe you."
"You stand there covered in his wounds, and you don't believe me. Oh, he killed 
her, all right. I have no proof, but I know. What are you doing, running away?"
"I guess so. I need to get off Luna for a while."
"And you'd like my help."
"You're the only family I have."
"Oh, don't appeal to family with me, dear boy. I've often thought of writing a 
script about our father, your grandfather, who you had the great good luck never 
to have met. But it would be too horrible. No, the very idea of family where our 
clan is concerned is an obscenity. You should know that as well as anyone. But, 
of course, you still love him, don't you?" Uncle Ed sighed, a strangely blubbery 
sound.
"I will see you after all, Kenneth. Perhaps there is something to this family 
business, because I can't imagine another reason for letting you in. I expect 
you to control your shock and distaste when you see me, however. Think what you 
please, but spare me your wide-eyed reaction, or it will be quite a brief visit. 
Do you understand?"
Sparky didn't, but said he did. Anything to get through the inner door and out 
of this exposed, public place, where he could be tracked down at any moment.
The door buzzed and he pushed through. Immediately he was blasted by a wall of 
heat and humidity. Sweat popped out on him, and in his already slightly feverish 
state he came near to passing out.
But leaning against the nearest wall for a moment restored his equilibrium. The 
room stopped spinning, the gray at the edges of his vision went away. The robe 
he was wearingsomething he had snatched from a rack in the costume closet with 
barely a look at italready seemed damp.
He was in a wide, dim corridor that reminded him of a museum. At intervals along 
each wall were recessed areas, like dioramas. He'd seen the same sort of thing 
at the King City Zoo, housing various small amphibians and reptiles in climate 
controlled, glass-fronted boxes. But these cases had no glass. They ranged in 
size from about a cubic meter to huge, walk-in environments. For that was what 
they were, and growing in them were the most fantastical, colorful shapes. They 
were mushroom gardens.
Back on Earth, fungi had come in a thousand shapes and colors. Presumably they 
still grew there. Many of the growths in the corridor had come from the Luna 
Genetic Library, and were direct descendants. Others had been modified, or had 
adapted to the low-gravity Lunar environment. Sparky was pretty sure no earthly 
toadstools had stood ten feet high. As to colors, he couldn't say, but these 
came in every possible shade and combination, from a luminescent violet to a 
pulsing red, in polka dots, stripes, waves, and overwhelming explosions, like 
spatter paintings. Some mushrooms were tall and spindly, others thick and squat. 
There were yellow shelf fungi Sparky could have used as stepping stones to scale 
the walls, and there were tiny orange and blue and maroon puffs like spilled 
M&Ms.
The small boxes held single species. The big ones were jungles, riots of 
competitors growing alone or parasitically.
The light was very dim, but swelled as he moved along and faded behind him, 
giving him enough light to see by. He supposed these things grew better in the 
dark.
It was a living art gallery, but it was also a farm. He came upon a man in a 
white coat and chef's hat cutting slices from a green-capped giant and putting 
them into a basket. He was a plump fellow, and smiled and nodded to Sparky as he 
passed. He popped a piece of bright orange mushroom into his mouth and turned 
back to his work.
Sparky turned a corner in the semidarkness and entered a brightly lit area that 
had to be the kitchen, but not one like he'd ever seen. Alcoves opened off each 
side of another broad corridor, each alcove containing two or three people in 
chef's whites. There were preparation tables and ovens and all the rest of the 
equipment of the culinary artsand art this most definitely was. He saw a whole 
suckling pig come out of an oven, apple in its mouth, and be removed to a 
wheeled table for garnishing and decorating. One alcove seemed entirely devoted 
to cakes. Great, towering, multicolored baroque masterpieces dripping with 
marzipan, festooned with fanciful figures and flowers. Some were being worked 
on, others had already been transferred to a wheeled table.
All the alcoves centered around the tables. Sparky realized what it reminded him 
of. It was like a scene from an old movie set in a big-city hospital emergency 
room, with gowned doctors and nurses working intently on patients stretched out 
on... what was the word? Gurneys.
There was another old movie image, too. A big mortuary, cosmeticians carefully 
preparing their compliant clients. Sparky didn't know why that image sprang to 
mind, but it did.
The place certainly didn't smell like a hospital or morgue. He passed a saucier, 
sizzling a brown, thick liquid in a skillet. It was a heavenly smell. He 
realized he'd had nothing to eat that day. The image of Amish corn muffins came 
into his mind and he wondered if he would ever have another.
Finished gurneys were being wheeled through an arched doorway and into the 
banquet room. Three very long tables were covered with white cloth and being set 
with the culinary creations. Again, something was out of whack. The whole huge 
room contained not a single chair. Sparky saw plates the size of garbage can 
lids, but no silver. Instead of glassware there were punch bowls filled with 
wine and fruit juices, and small robot devices with rotary pumps which dipped 
plastic tails into the drink and then delivered it by means of prehensile necks 
to... who? The standing diners? Diners who had no hands? Sparky couldn't picture 
the patrons of this feast.
Wondering how much farther he had to go, he passed from the banquet room into a 
dark, dank, sweltering place he at first could not fathom at all.
A ceiling arched high overhead, almost out of sight. Before him was a 
twenty-foot surface of government-green ceramic tiles, stretching to his right 
and his left. Beyond that was a placid surface of water, no more than an inch 
below the ledge he stood on. It was a swimming pool, and quite a large one. He'd 
never seen one designed quite like this, though.
In a moment he realized it had been converted from an old tank that had probably 
once been a part of the vast and complex sewage treatment system of King City. 
It was a big cylinder lying on its side. The water would be as deep as the 
ceiling was high, and there would be no shallow end. There was no smell beyond a 
faint whiff of chlorine, and no sound but the intermittent drip of water 
condensing on the ceiling and falling back into the pool. No diving board, no 
poolside chairs, no lifeguards, though the place was big enough they'd need 
motorboats to get to a drowner quickly. No people.
Were they growing something in here? Fish for the banquet tables behind him? 
Kelp? He went to the edge and leaned over. A faint emerald shimmer from near the 
bottom revealed nothing at first, then he saw vague shapes undulating slowly 
between him and the light. It was like looking down into an atomic-reactor core, 
the surface glass smooth, the depths crystalline. The occasional mutant five-ton 
sardine swimming by...
Slow, greasy swells distorted the surface and Sparky straightened and squinted 
into the darkness. A tubular shape was moving slowly toward him, just beneath 
the surface. Part of its back broke through and rolled slightly. Could it be 
some sort of whale? Nothing in Luna was more illegal than to produce anything 
resembling earthly cetaceans. A hippopotamus, more likely.
It was Uncle Ed.
Sparky never understood how he knew this, but he knew. He hadn't seen his uncle 
in over twenty years, had not known him well then. The thing wallowing in the 
water below him at first presented nothing resembling a face. But he knew. Then 
the thing rolled slightly and at one end, on one side, was a clench of flesh 
that slowly resolved itself into eyes, nose, and a mouth. There was nothing you 
could really call a head, and certainly nothing resembling a neck. Just endless, 
tightly packed folds and rolls of flesh that quivered and undulated with the 
slow rhythms of the water. One single feature was left of the matinee idol that 
had been Ed Ventura: his nose. It had defined a profile that graced a million 
movie posters, and there it sat, surrounded, almost overwhelmed. The lips were 
now fat and sensuous. The chin? Well, Sparky supposed you could call any of 
several dozen folds below the mouth a chin, if it pleased you. His cheeks were 
fat. His forehead was fat; if eyebrows remained, they were buried deep. The eyes 
were at the bottom of puckered pits, but they were alert and alive.
"Hello, Sparky," the thing said. And there was the source of the blubbery sound 
he had heard over the intercom. Uncle Ed could barely speak without making a 
raspberry.
"Hi... Uncle Ed?"
"Somewhat changed, but still the same jolly old fellow inside," Ed confirmed. 
"Wait a moment."
There was a momentary splashing, and Sparky caught a glimpse of what might have 
been a hand, or a flipper. If it was connected to an arm, Sparky didn't see it. 
The huge cylinder of pale fat rolled and turned in the water until one endthe 
end with the facebobbed partly out of the water. It was like an illustration 
Sparky recalled from a children's book he used to have. Humpty-Dumpty. An egg 
with a face painted on it. Only this wasn't painted, it was more like it had 
been poked into soft bread dough.
The mouth smiled. It was bigger than Sparky had realized. Well, of course it 
would have to be big to eat enough to... Sparky turned away from that thought. 
And from the problem of how all that food being prepared in the banquet room was 
to get from the tables into the maw of this floating creature.
As a matter of fact, Uncle Ed presented several logistical problems to the 
curious mind, such as breathing, and elimination, and sex... Sparky had never 
felt less curious in his life.
"Sit down, boy," Ed commanded. "I can't look up at you."
"What's that?"
"No neck, Sparky." His uncle chuckled. "I haven't had much of a neck for ten 
years now."
Sparky sat, at first crossing his legs beneath him, then deciding he might as 
well dangle his feet in the water. It was warm and soothing; Sparky had been on 
the move for almost six hours. He needed a rest.
"Was that a bandage on your leg?"
"Yes."
"And you seem fairly battered in other places."
"I fell down a staircase."
"Of course you did. I must say, you did not show any trace of disgust when first 
I hove into view."
"I'm an actor."
There was a pause, then Ed laughed.
"And a hell of a good one, nephew! Much better than I ever was. Of course, I 
never wanted to be an actor, but I had little choice in the matter. Neither did 
you."
"It's all I ever wanted to be," Sparky said.
"It's all you were ever allowed to want to be, which is a slightly different 
thing. But you had the talent, and you did well, so no harm done, eh? Except for 
the occasional near-death experience in the bathtub, I shouldn't wonder."
Sparky was too shocked to reply.
"Well of course I know about that, boy. Not from having witnessed John doing it 
to you. From having it done to me by my father. Given John's personality, and 
his designs on you, it was a certainty he would use Father's methods in your 
education."
"Do you have children?" Sparky asked, a little chagrined that he had never 
thought to find out.
"I did not. I didn't want to find out if I would use Father's methods. They say 
it runs in families, you know. Child abuse. Something you might wish to consider 
when the question of child rearing comes up."
Sparky didn't know why he had asked that question. He was feeling lightheaded, 
not at all well. The smells of cooking from the room behind him were 
overwhelming, and not as pleasant as they had been.
"You didn't want to be an actor," Sparky said. For some reason, that bit of 
information had stuck in his head.
"Didn't want to be, and never really became one. I was a star, and I'm sure your 
father told you the difference. I wanted to be a chef. Our father had other 
ideas, and one did not cross our father, any more than you cross yours. Though 
it looks as if you might have done so today."
"Did you see... I mean, has it been on"
"The news? There is no news in here, Sparky. And before you launch into your 
story, let me assure you I don't want to hear it. What he did to you, what you 
did to him, I don't want to know. I can never be called to testify to something 
I don't know anything about. You fell down a staircase. Right?"
"...right."
"And I'm a ballet dancer. Of course, I'm free to deduce things. You want to get 
off Luna. You seem unable to simply walk up to the ticket counter and buy 
passage. Ergo, you are being hunted. You had an argument with this staircase. 
You seem to have lost."
"You haven't seen the staircase."
"Hah!" Uncle Ed was delighted. "Maybe you gave as good as you got! No, no, don't 
tell me any details, let me make them up in my own mind. It should provide me 
with no end of source material for months of quiet contemplation. That's what we 
mostly do here, if you were curious. Float, and contemplate."
"And eat," Sparky suggested.
Uncle Ed squinted dubiously. With all that fat around his eyes, it was a squint 
to remember.
"I wasn't" Sparky began.
"Making fun of me. Of course not. Obviously we eat. I forbade you contempt, 
disgust. Curiosity I will allow you. Within limits. I'd venture to guess you're 
wondering how much I weigh."
Like the starlet insulted when asked her measurements, Sparky suspected the lady 
doth protest too much. Ed wanted to talk, he realized. Within limits. He'd have 
to be careful not to show too much nor too little interest.
"Three thousand two hundred and seven pounds, at last weighing. Probably a few 
more by today. A ton and a half of contentment."
Sparky hadn't known humans could get that large. He doubted it was possible 
without some modifications. Extra hearts, possibly, or mechanical ones. Or 
elephant hearts. He also suspected that if he asked about that, he could be 
there for hours.
"I believe I'm the third largest human who has ever lived. Numbers one and two 
are somewhere in the water below me."
"Are you shooting for first place?"
"Not in any determined way. I wouldn't mind, of course."
"You said 'we.' Who are you? I mean, a cult of some sort?"
"Just retirees who like to eat. People who find the modern world a bit too 
frantic, who have socialized too much. People on retreat. Who are seeking a 
lower level of consciousness. Who admire lizards basking on rocks, jellyfish 
drifting on warm currents. Who are happy to exist, but not eager to struggle, 
physically or mentally. We have no organization other than regular meals, six 
times a day, and no name for ourselves. The few outsiders who are aware of 
usand that is very few, since we never go outcall us chubbies."
Sparky was reminded of a story of a hermit, isolated and silent for thirty 
years. Once his silence was broken he couldn't stop talking. Sparky couldn't 
recall the punch line.
But he could see some sort of forklift trucks congregating down at the far end 
of the pool. Cargo nets hung from manipulator arms, and there seemed to be a 
commotion in the water. Good God, it must be feeding time, he realized. He would 
rather not witness that.
"So can you help me?"
Uncle Ed bobbed in the water like a waterlogged inflatable beach ball, regarding 
his nephew silently. His expressions were very hard to read.
"I have a private yacht mothballed at a port on the Farside," Uncle Ed said, at 
length. "Nothing fancy, but it will get you as far as Mars in a reasonable 
time."
"I'll buy it from you."
"No need." The fat man chuckled. "A stroke of genius, your coming here. It is 
the absolute last place John would think to look for you. And my yacht is the 
least likely vehicle for him to watch for. And I suspect you knew I could never 
resist doing him a bad turn. Isn't that right?"
"You can see right through me," Sparky said. He had never entertained any such 
idea, had never even remembered he had an uncle until Doc brought it up. But why 
mention that?
"They tell me it can be made space-ready in two hours. I'll call and authorize 
it. When you get to Mars, hire someone to bring it back."
"Sure." Sparky had no intention of hiring anyone, or of going to Mars. But why 
complicate things?
"Good luck," Uncle Ed burbled, his head sinking beneath the water.
* * *
I had needed a little luck, and some thespian and confidence skills to talk my 
way past busybodies at the spaceport with too much time on their hands, but I 
had made it. (What had the name of Uncle Ed's yacht been? Eclair? Bonbon?? 
Something sweet and sticky, I remember that much.) Anyway, with visions of 
sugarplumsand Uncle Ed's bloated framedancing in my head, I had made my escape 
from Luna, from my father, from Sparky, from everyone who was looking to do me 
ill or do me good. For almost fifty years I had never shown my real face or 
revealed my real name. Only recently had I begun to admit once more to being 
"Sparky," though only in the outer planets, and found to my surprise that I was 
still remembered.
I had been back to Luna twice since then, when the lure of a role was just too 
much. I had used ironclad false identification, never the same name. All this 
had put a severe crimp in my career. No sooner would I start to get good 
notices, build up a reputation in my current pseudonym, than I'd feel the hot 
breath of pursuit and take off for a new venue, with a new identity. Practically 
speaking, no one had been looking for me for thirty or forty years now, I felt 
reasonably sure. But old habits die hard, and the guilty flee before the bad 
reviews are out.
And now I was about to return to Luna once more. Luna, the fabled Golden Globe. 
I could see it out the window of the lifeboat as Poly and I strapped ourselves 
in for the last leg of the journey. At certain distances it really does look 
golden, though usually I'd describe it as more of a buttermilk shade. Mount it 
on a gilt pedestal and you could give it out as an award.
There really had been an award called the Golden Globe once, years before the 
Invasion. My father had told me about it. It was handed out by a group called 
the Hollywood Foreign Press Association in honor of the year's best work in 
motion pictures.
"Not the Foreign Film Critics, you'll notice," he had told me. "Just a bunch of 
reporters from other countries who used to get together, forty or fifty of them, 
to have a dinner and hand out awards to any film people desperate enough to show 
up and get drunk with them. After a while, being reporters, they started giving 
out press releases about who'd won. On a slow news day, some papers would pick 
up the story. And then things snowballed. Before long, they had their own 
television show, full of stars, just as if the award meant something. They 
managed to upstage the Oscars, and the awards might as well have been given out 
by the Podunk Rotary Club for all they had to do with film.
"Draw your own moral from this, Sparky. And remember, at the center of the cult 
of personality called stardom there is just a big empty hole. Awards don't 
matter. Acclaim doesn't matter. Only your craft matters."
* * *
We were already sore and a bit cranky from a day and a half at one gee. When the 
lifeboat engine fired it hit hard, and we didn't have the padding we'd used 
aboard Hal. But it wasn't a terribly long boost. The first lifeboat fell 
awayreally nothing more than an engine and fuel tank, after Hal modified it in 
his repair shop. By the time the second one fired Luna was looming much larger 
in my window. This was a bit gentler, but still rough.
The lifeboat engine coughed out its last while we were still ten meters above 
the surface. Considering that all the calculations had been done at the orbit of 
Uranus, I would call this cutting it close. We dropped, and hit with a jar and a 
crunch of metal. There was a faint hiss audible from the cabin, a sound no 
Lunarian likes to hear, but we were in our suits, and the boat's tripod landing 
gear kept us from falling over.
We struggled to our feet, wrestled our luggage into the lock, and stepped out 
onto the surface. There was no one but Poly to hear my first words, but I set 
them down here for the sake of history.
"That was one heck of a giant leap for an old actor."
I was home.
* * *
ACT 5
* * *
KING LEAR
ACT I SCENE I
  (from The Five-Minit Bard)
  * * *
  King Lear's Palace
  Enter Lear, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, Gloucester, Kent
  LEAR: Hey, you! Go get Burgundy and the Frog! I'm an old fart, and I'm pooped. 
  I'm outta here.
  GONERIL: Gimme the kingdom, 'cause I love you and kiss your royal ass.
  REGAN: Me, too, Daddy, but twice as much!
  LEAR: What about you, sweets?
  CORDELIA: You're cool, Pops.
  LEAR: Well, fuck you! You don't get nothing. You two bitches split it up.
  KENT: You're fuckin' up, big man.
  LEAR: Fuck you, too! Screw!
  (Exit Kent; Enter Duke of Burgundy and King of France)
  BURGUNDY: No cash? Fuck me! I don't want her, then!
  FRANCE: I'll take her.
  CORDELIA: Cool!
  LEAR: Take the bitch, then. I'm outta here.
  (Exit Lear and court)
  FRANCE: Let's screw.
  CORDELIA: Cool!
  (Exit France and Cordelia)
  GONERIL: He's one nutty old fuck!
  REGAN: Let's fuck him over.
  GONERIL: Okay.
  (Exit Goneril and Regan)
  EDMUND: (aside) I'm one double-crossing bastard!
  (Exit)
* * *
There are seasons in the life of a Shakespearean actor, natural milestones he 
can expect along the path of his career. The two most important are Romeo and 
Lear.
Romeo is a young man's game. Impetuous and energetic, thunderstruck by the 
storms of puberty, stunned by love. It's not a part for the mature, though God 
knows it's been played by enough codgers. As I've just related, Romeo was a 
disaster for me. I don't have much affection for the role.
Macbeth is on his way up. Hamlet and Henry V are vigorous and youthful. Othello 
and Julius Caesar are in the full flower of their careers.
There are innumerable other roles an actor can essaya few he can find himself 
stuck in as a second stringer or a comic. But if one has hopes of being written 
in the annals of the great, if one aspires to acquire the mantle of Burbage and 
Olivier, then the capstone of his career will be Lear.
Lear.
In the seventy years since my days as Sparky, the closest I had ever come to 
playing Lear was in an engaging little trifle called The Five-Minit Bard, a 
small part of which is set out above.
Oh, the fun we had. The premise was simple: all Shakespeare in one night, no 
play longer than five minutes. Each was done in a different style. Hamlet as if 
by Gilbert and Sullivan, with a patter song and a happy ending. All's Well That 
Ends Well as rewritten by Beckett, with performers sitting in chairs, muttering 
bits of dialogue and abandoning the project after three minutes. Richard III the 
radio serial, one-minute episodes with sound effects scattered through the 
performance. Henry VI, all three parts, narrated by a super-rapid square-dance 
caller and done as a ballet a la Copland.
And A Midsummer Night's Dream as played by Sparky and his Gang, with guess who 
as Puck/Sparky. No one ever suspected.
Some were a lot shorter than five minutes, or the night would have run three 
hours, much too long for comedy. Timon of Athens: a man walks to center stage 
and says, "Nobody gives a damn about Timon of Athens," and walks off. Titus 
Andronicus: all cast members line up onstage, and at a signal, begin hacking at 
each other with swords, blood bladders spraying high-pressure Max Factor Red #2.
Then there was King Lear, as if done by the turn-of-the-century Rude Theater. 
Most critics hated 5MB, but it was a long-running hit. I played dozens of parts, 
including Lear.
I say these things in an attempt to explain why, after an absence of more than 
thirty years, I was returning to Luna. I had been there only twice since my 
hasty departure from Romeo. Things had been all too hot for me the last time I 
leftmisunderstandings not affected by any statute of limitationsand I'd sworn 
a mighty oath never to return. Things would be even hotter now, with Isambard 
and the whole stinking planet of Charon on my trail, possibly already waiting 
for me. I didn't pretend they'd have any more trouble finding me here than they 
had at Oberon. If I had a brain in my head, I'd be hopping the first tramp 
free-faller to points unspecified and mysterious. I'd be doing the thing I had 
become so good at: losing myself in the vast spaces of the solar system.
But I never even thought of that, and the reason was simple.
Lear.
Not only Lear, but Lear staged by the greatest director of our time, my long-ago 
sidekick and onetime best friendonly friendKaspara Polichinelli.
And by now Polly probably didn't have a lot of time left.
* * *
Almost from the first blast at Oberon, I had been absorbed with the question of 
where to land when we reached Luna. Adept though I am at producing false 
identification and talking my way through any difficulties, simply setting down 
at the King City Spaceport in a spent lifeboat was bound to draw unwanted 
attention.
But I had some advantages. By the nature of space and of space travel, "border 
patrol" around a place like Luna is an iffy proposition. Radar and computers can 
certainly track all the millions of approaching, departing, and orbiting 
vehicles in the vast sphere, one thousand miles from the surface, that the 
lawyers have defined as Lunar territorial space. But having done that, what do 
you do next? Allow landings and takeoffs only at designated spots, like major 
spaceports? Ten million weekend orienteers, campers, and renters of shorthoppers 
would raise quite a howl about that one. Not to mention a million freeholders 
living in self-sufficient isolation, scattered over the entire Lunar surface. 
Should we ask these folks to hoof it to the nearest train? Allow only surface 
transportation to hiking trails and camp resorts? No, Lunarians will surrender 
certain of their civil rights, just like anyone else, if the reason is strong 
enough. If people are blowing up spaceships with bombs, they will submit to 
searches before boarding a spaceship. But ban private hoppers, orbiters, or even 
deep-space RVs... to stop smugglers? To keep a lid on illegal immigration? 
'Fraid not, Senator.
So. How about employing sophisticated computer programs to keep track of 
deep-space arrivals, matching these up with vehicle transponder codes and 
criminal rap sheets and travel patterns and godknowswhatelse, and following 
suspicious ships to ask a few questions and conduct a quick Gestapo-style 
shakedown?
Tried that. Didn't work. Nabbed a few pathetic amateurs, first offenders, got 
off with a warning. Big waste of time and money.
So how about... open borders?
But... but... open borders? Absolute anathema to the bureaucratic mentality. 
Never mind that there has never been a border quite so tenuous or so permeable 
as the one surrounding Luna, or the ones around any planet. We can't just let 
people come and go as they please, can we? Carrying any damn thing they want to 
carry? Precious close to anarchy, that.
And so... actually, no. Not what you're probably thinking. For once, rationality 
prevailed. It helped that there is little worth smuggling on a small scale, 
since little is illegal these days. Avoiding duty on large cargoes is another 
matter entirely, and it's easy to keep track of the big ships if they land where 
they oughtn't. As for illegal immigration... what illegal immigration? It's not 
a problem on Luna. Just step right up and ask for citizenship papers, and after 
a sixty-second search of InterSystem crime records, a credit check (we don't 
want your welfare cases), and payment of a nominal fee, you're a Lunarian. 
Welcome, cobber!
So the situation is like this, for those of you who thought getting into Luna 
for a criminal type like myself would be a big hairy deal: it ain't. Not at 
first, anyway. There are plenty of wanted folks in those freeholds I mentioned a 
moment ago, and if they stay put and don't try to enter the mainstream of 
civilization, they can stay there for a million years as far as the Lunar 
federal government is concerned. No one will come looking for them.
It's the next step that's tough.
Did I say the spherical "border" around Luna is really a laughable fiction? I 
did, and it is. Did I imply that means one can then just walk the main 
thoroughfares of King City? I did not. That border is tighter than a tick's 
tush. That border makes the old "Iron Curtain" seem like a vague, unpatrolled 
line in the sand and a few desultory formalities. Because the border between the 
surface of Luna and the cities of Luna is nothing less than the line between 
life and death. Between vacuum and air. Every entrance into the main corridors 
of Luna is, of necessity, a fortress designed to keep air inside and the 
Breathsucker out. If a molecule of oxygen has no chance of passing through 
without the proper authorization, how much chance does several trillion 
molecules of actor have of entering without a visa?
Well, anything can be done, if you know your way around. The easiest way is 
through your friends, but you have to have the right sort of friends. The sort 
who do this sort of thing every day.
I chose to go through the Heinleiners.
* * *
Before the Big Glitch, not long ago, nobody knew anything about the Heinleiners. 
In fact, they didn't even have that name; it was given to them later by media 
reports after the pivotal part they played, involuntarily, in the Glitch itself. 
Now everybody thinks they know everything about Heinleiners, but the truth is, 
most of it is wrong.
First, and most basic, it's pretty silly to refer to them as a group. They're 
not group-type people. Nobody elects officers, no meetings are held. You "join" 
by being invited to one of several secret locations by a friend. What you 
actually do, however, is to opt out of the aboveground society. You can do it 
totally, choosing to live in one of the secret enclaves, or partially, 
maintaining a life and an identity while moving back and forth between the two 
realms.
When the Lunar Central Computer, the CC, had the nervous breakdown we've all 
come to call the Big Glitch, the Heinleiners were one of its main targets. 
There's been endless speculation as to why. The short answer so far is, We don't 
know. The popular theory, and one I think makes sense, is the CC was deeply 
offended by a high-tech group living beyond its reach, and possessing technology 
not available to the CC. Accordingly, the CC organized and trained, in secret, a 
cadre of extra-legal police that you might as well call an army. This bunch 
invaded the main Heinleiner compound, intending to wipe it out, and got a big 
surprise: these people fought back. The takeover failed, the CC retreated into a 
semicatatonic state from which it is only now being coaxed, and Lunar life was 
turned topsy-turvy.
Intimately tied up in all this, again involuntarily, was one Hildy Johnson, ace 
reporter for the News Nipple. Yes, that Hildy Johnson.
She has told some of her story publicly. She's told more of it to me. There is 
much she still has to tell, which she'll get to when she thinks it wise. And 
this presents me with a problem. As a sort of "member" of the group, I am 
constrained in what I can reveal about it. Luckily, much of it is superfluous to 
the story I'm telling. Here is what I can reveal:
1) The group got its name from a space vessel called the Robert A. Heinlein, 
named for a twentieth-century writer and radical political philosopher. The ship 
is very large, even by today's standards, and quite old. It was originally 
intended as an Orion-type starship, that is, a ship powered by large numbers of 
nuclear bombs exploding against a massive pusher plate. You can find the plans 
for one in any public library. Long ago the original builders went broke, and 
the shell of the ship ended up derelict on the edge of a vast junkyard. The 
Heinleiners took it over, and the junkyard as well. Today the ship, or parts of 
it, serve as the public face of the Heinleiners, the place reporters and 
politicians go when they want to talk to one. (Good luck! They don't do a lot of 
talking.)
2) These people do share some of Mr. Heinlein's political philosophy, the part 
that can be summed up as "Leave me alone!" They are not anarchists, but they 
brook little interference from the government. They are happiest where there is 
no government, and you'll find many of them, or their sympathizers, in the more 
remote regions of the system. But a lot of folks can't take that kind of 
isolation (me, for instance), and so live well concealed (if they are doing 
illegal things) or openly (where they work for a quasi-libertarian form of 
government). They don't plan to overthrow any governments; that would be 
entirely too much trouble and, as even the most doctrinaire of them will admit, 
the yoke of present-day governments is not intolerably onerous, when viewed 
historically. Things could be worse, and would likely get worse if there was a 
lot of radical political agitation to suppress. Don't look for Heinleiners to be 
publishing any manifestos, nailing any lists of demands to courthouse doors, 
storming any Bastilles. But they do have one secret, jealously guarded, in whose 
pursuit they are implacable:
3) They're going to the stars.
Hah! you say. Secret! you say. Tell me another one.
Very well. The fact that they intend to travel to the stars is very well known, 
and almost universally dismissed. Any number of Eminent Scientists will explain 
to you in great detail why the project is impossible. The Heinleiners think this 
is just fine. The fewer people take them seriously, the fewer there will be 
trying to discover the real secret, which is how they intend to do it.
Trust me. They're going to do it.
I am the least-qualified person in the system to look at a stardrive and say, 
"Aha! That will work!" You could spend a year showing it to me, explaining it to 
me, drawing nice pretty pictures and reading the manual (if there was such a 
thing) out loud, and at the end I would still be in a state of perfect ignorance 
concerning stardrives.
But others, people who know, tell me I can count on it. In a year, two 
yearshowever long it takes to patch it upthat magnificent hulk sitting out 
there on the surface is going to leap up and violate the virgin sky. How fast 
will it go? No one will say. But no one will raise a family during the journey, 
and you won't return to find all your friends a hundred years older than you.
Swamp gas, you say. How many "starships" have been sold to how many suckers in 
the last century? Hyperspace is to our age as lost treasure maps and gold mines 
and oil wells and Florida real estate were to a previous generation of 
confidence men. I should know; I've sold enough starships in my time.
Yes, and the way to sell them is not to hide out by a garbage dump and not tell 
anyone about it. You can invest, and this may be your last chance before the 
stock goes intergalactic. Check out the prospectus. It claims nothing, promises 
nothing. Believe me, this is not how you sell pirate gold. Call your broker at 
once. You'll thank me later.
And that is the secret, you see. Not that they are going, but how they're going 
to get there. The inventors and investors in this new space drive do not intend 
to turn it over to a grateful government, or have it confiscated by storm 
troopers. They don't intend to patent it, either. Patent examiners can be 
bribed, information can leak. If the Heinleiners have a religion, it is Free 
Enterprise. They intend to sell this new technology, and they intend to become 
dirty, rotten, filthy, stinking rich from it.
* * *
It was a short hike to the nearest entrance to the Heinlein. A few years ago 
there had been no way in but to stand around and wait for one of the inhabitants 
to notice you and invite you in or tell you to get lost. Now there were three or 
four standard air locks. Beyond them were rudimentary reception rooms, "customs 
shacks" to the Heinleiners. The notoriety of the Big Glitch had forced them to 
assume an unaccustomed organization, which they went about grudgingly and 
haphazardly, as was their style. These entrances were manned by volunteers, 
which were hard to come by in such an individualistic group. I heard later that 
it was standard procedure to cool your heels for hours at these entrances, 
waiting for someone to arrive at the security desk.
And if you didn't know somebody, the custom shack was as far as you'd get.
We got lucky. Someone was manning the desk when Poly and I entered. Even better, 
the name I dropped was still worth something. I'd worried about that, since it 
had been quite some time since I'd dealt with this person and there had been 
absolutely no way to get in contact with him other than simply walking up to the 
door and asking. But the guard at the desk simply nodded, and jerked her thumb 
at the second lock behind her. Then she went back to the book she was reading.
"Keep your helmet on," I told Poly as we cycled through. "You never know what 
you'll run into in here."
She soon saw what I meant, and her reaction was the usual one.
"These people must be crazy," she said.
It's not so bad within the ship itself. You see building and renovation 
happening here and there, but things always look a little loose around a 
construction site. Then you move out of the ship and into the vast junk pile 
behind it. And things just don't look right.
Everything has a haphazard, thrown-together look. Tunnel walls are made out of 
whatever was handy when a new tunnel was needed. Lights are burned out and if 
you can still see reasonably well, just stay burned out. There are no municipal 
crews to replace them. If you stumble in the dark, then replace it yourself, 
citizen! There ain't no City Hall to sue if you trip. Air 'cyclers have flashing 
yellow, or even red lights. Most Lunarians can go five years without even seeing 
a flashing green.
"Do they have a death wish?" Poly asked, after a mile of this.
"They have a safety net," I told her, and didn't explain further. But I knew 
what she meant. People raised to the exacting safety standards of Lunar 
engineering were always shocked to see how the Heinleiners lived. Sort of like 
how you might feel to go up in an airplane, then look out the window and see a 
wing was being held on by two rusty bolts and a wad of gum.
But that wouldn't bother you if you were a bird. Something goes wrong, you just 
fly to the ground. And that's how the Heinleiners had come to view the world, 
because they had a safety net in the form of the force-field suit. Maybe we'd 
all come to view the world that way if they ever decided to sell the technology. 
If a blowout happened, a field was instantly generated around their bodies from 
a unit implanted in place of one lung. The unit also contained about an hour of 
highly compressed oxygen, dispensed directly into the bloodstream. To someone 
wearing a device like that, a blowout was nothing more than an inconvenience. 
Thus, Heinleiners didn't waste a lot of time and effort on making things 
triple-triple-triple redundant. One system and maybe a backup was good enough 
for them. Many things they made were no better than they had to be. These were 
busy peoplethey were going to the stars!and there was always something else to 
do.
Of course, it made things a little edgy when you realized their safety net 
didn't do you a damn bit of good. When I had to go to the enclave, I got my 
business done quickly, and got out. Which is just how the Heinleiners wanted it.
* * *
If you were looking for all the inside dope on the mysterious Heinleiners, 
you'll have to go elsewhere. I could relate what went on, using assumed names 
and euphemisms, but it would be ninety percent lies. For one thing, most of the 
people I met prefer to stay firmly underground at this point. Remember, not that 
long ago duly appointed representatives of the Lunar state were shooting at 
them. They're still a little pissed off. Wouldn't you be? For another, I've been 
shown some things I swore never to talk about, and talking around them would 
soon leave me with nothing to say.
Then there's the matter of what I was doing in there. Changing my appearance yet 
again, naturally. Obtaining a few necessary items for Polynothing more than 
little white lies, in her caseand sending her on her way. (Goodbye, sweet Poly, 
you were a great traveling companion. Sorry about the fingers. And we'll see no 
more of you in this story.)
But most of my short time there was consumed in several strictly illegal 
activities involving becoming someone else. We're not talking about phonying up 
a hopper's license here; this identity had to stand up to close scrutiny for 
whatever time I'd be spending in Luna. The statute of limitations hasn't expired 
on any of it, so it would be foolish to set down the details here. And, frankly, 
you never know when you'll need to pull some of these same tricks again. Better 
they don't become common knowledge. If you really need to know how to do it, 
find a criminal and ask him. And be ready to pay.
* * *
When you travel around as much as I do, and have lived as long as I have, the 
one constant you notice is change.
The species is still expanding, though the talk about doing something to correct 
that has been getting more and more serious. (What, pray tell? Spaying and 
neutering? Ah, but don't get me started on that.) I'm not denying it is a 
problem. With the death rate edging closer and closer to zero, about all that 
has saved us so far is that very few people want more than one or two children. 
It's not hard to see a time when every bit of rock in the system is honeycombed 
down to the core with antlike trillions. There's a school of thought that 
maintains one reason for the Invasion was our overpopulation of the earth. If we 
keep growing exponentially, the reasoning goes, might the Invaders take notice 
of us once again?
I don't pretend to understand anything about the Invaders, beyond the fact that 
it took them three days to nearly annihilate the human race, and that in spite 
of our bravest efforts, the final score was twenty billion to nothing. I'm not 
eager for a rematch.
But frankly I sort of like the changes I see in my travels. Almost always it is 
an expansion of what I saw before, and like my father, I hold to an 
old-fashioned idea once called "progress." Other than a growing population, 
there hasn't been a lot of it since the Invasion. Scientific research is at an 
all-time low. And why not? We live practically as long as we want, in perfect 
health and vitality. Machines can do practically everything that needs to be 
done, so that leisure has become our biggest "problem." Biology is well 
understood, and the practical limits of the exploration of physics have been 
reached, for now, anyway.
So I take pleasure in seeing how this or that enclave has grown. I was delighted 
at Oberon, and when I return, if ever, I'm sure it will delight me again to see 
the wheel complete.
But Luna is a little different. Luna is, and always will be, "home." Unstable as 
my early childhood was, numerous as my "homes" might have been, it was always 
Luna, the fabulous Golden Globe, that I hailed from. There's a bit of snobbery 
in that, something like the way the residents of New York, London, Paris, or 
Rome might have felt. All roads lead to the Big Apple, as it were. If you're 
from somewhere else, you're from nowhere. If you can make it here, you can make 
it anywhere.
But the other part is the same, I suspect, whether you hail from The City or 
from Catfish Row, from the Golden Globe or from Bottom. You sort of wish it 
would stay the same. You'd like to go back and find something familiar.
You'd like to think you can go home.
You can't, of course. Even if the old hometown is stagnant as a played-out mine, 
it's gotten older, and so have you. You look at it through different eyes. The 
ivy on the old castle walls has grown thicker, the paint on the old shack has 
peeled off. More likely, the old castle has been torn down to make room for a 
housing development, and the shack... well, you can't even locate where it was. 
It gives you a certain feeling of transience.
My whole life has been transient. When I go home, I want to return to something 
solid.
Fat chance. I spent my first few hours wandering aimlessly through the broad 
commercial corridors of King City, a place I used to know like Act One of Julius 
Caesar, always just a little bit lost.
I spent a few hours training and slidewalking to various haunts from my past, 
finding most of them either no longer there or so changed as to be almost 
unrecognizable. It had been a good many years since I had dared return to Luna, 
and even that had been a rash chance on my part. After that many years, even if 
the place is still there and not much altered physically, the people are 
different. Where's that old gang of mine? Moved, most often. Hanging out 
somewhere else. So I moved on, too, on to the Rialto.
For drama in the English language, the de facto tongue of our time, when you 
think Theater District, you think Broadway. London may have eclipsed it in some 
ways, in some eras, but it never had the glitter. Shortly pre-Invasion, the 
theater scene in Miami was certainly one to reckon with. But how many songs can 
you think of about Collins Avenue?
No, the Great White Way was the theater Mecca... until The Rialto came along.
It had to be that way. Luna is by far the most populous of the inhabited 
planets. King City is the biggest city in Luna, three times larger than its 
nearest competitor. Our civilization is blessed or cursed with more leisure time 
than any in history. The urge to find something to do can get a little 
desperate. The living theater was never going to give movies and television much 
competition for the leisure dollar, but even a tiny fraction of the Lunarians' 
vast disposable income was enough to support a broad boulevard two miles long 
and bespangled with more theatrical jewels than the Tsarina's Tiara. When the 
"day" lights dimmed overhead and the marquees lit up, the street didn't so much 
glitter as explode in colored light.
I strolled down the avenue, hands jammed in my pockets, wishing for a fedora hat 
and a studio cloudburst so I could be Gene Kelly singin' in the rain. I wanted 
to hoof it through the shoeshine parlor like Fred Astaire in The Band Wagon. I 
was George M. Cohan, a Yankee Doodle boy. I was a brass band, a wild Count Basie 
blast, the bells of St. Peter's in Rome, and tissue paper on a comb. If I had a 
home, this was it. The center of the universe.
Oh, I'm not saying it was all familiar. Twenty years earlier a fever of 
renovation had swept down The Rialto like a demented dervish, and not all the 
changes were to my liking. The street was now lined with lampposts pretending to 
be gaslights; some spavined city planner's idea of "quaint," I shouldn't wonder. 
A lot of the old neona quaint vision I did likehad been replaced with 
higher-tech lighting effects that tended to overload the senses. But these 
things come and go; I can live with them. The important thing was the theaters 
themselves, dozens of them, strung out or bunched together, flashing into the 
artificial "night" the names of old friends and new arrivals: A Doll's House, 
Twelfth Night, Padlock, Into the Woods, Forget-Me-Not, The Wild Woman, School 
for Scandal. Oh, and the human friends, too, though you never could tell. You 
could figure that, even fifty years later, most of them would still be alive, in 
the physical sense. Professionally, it was another matter. It's a cruel trade. 
Some thought destined for glory by their own generation could be forgotten very 
quickly. Others who had labored hard for three, four, five decades became 
overnight sensations.
Legends? Our time doesn't produce a lot of them. It's a lot easier to become a 
legend if you die, close the book, and let the legend makers get to work. Mere 
stardom can be conveyed willy-nilly and last no longer than a soap bubble. So no 
one is going to chisel your name in stone until everyone's sure you're not 
coming back to be an embarrassment.
About half the theaters on The Rialto had achieved landmark status. You might 
buy and sell the structures, but you couldn't tear them down and the names were 
there forever. The rest were up for grabs. I wasn't familiar with this "Golden 
Globe" house and I had forgotten the address as the months went by, but I 
recalled thinking it couldn't be far from the site of my last appearance as 
Sparky: the late lamented John Valentine Theater.
I was right. It was in the neighborhood. Like everything else, the neighborhood 
had changed, but I knew approximately where I was.
I walked up and down in front of it. It had been so long since I'd played in a 
real Rialto theater I just wanted to get a feel for the place again. I liked 
what I saw. Something called Two Problems in Logic was playing, a title I wasn't 
familiar with, though the writer and director were both known to me. Only two 
players were listed, one with her name above the title, and I had never heard of 
either of them. That was depressing.
Pushing one of the brass-and-glass doors, I entered a long, thick-carpeted lobby 
in lavender and ecru. Spaced along the walls were posters from past productions 
at the Golden Globe. I gathered the house specialized in new works by 
established playwrights, though there was the occasional old war-horse 
guaranteed to put butts in seats, and a few revivals of faded stars who'd only 
had the one hit, reprising the role for the ninety-ninth time.
Finally I came to the back of the theater itself, and looked down a long aisle 
to the stage.
There was something oddly familiar about it.
I walked down a few rows and looked around. Even more familiar.
I hurried back to the lobby, paused to get my bearings, and followed a branching 
corridor that led to the rest rooms. Just beyond them was a bank of fire exit 
doors. My heart was hammering as I banged through one of them, setting off a 
distant alarm. I found myself outside on a side street, around the corner from 
the main entrance. It was a narrow way, not quite an alley, and just off to my 
left was a small park with a gazebo that, other than a fresh coat of paint, had 
not changed in seventy years.
The Golden Globe was the John Valentine Theater.
I staggered into the park and collapsed on a bench.
Memories.
* * *
"En garde!" Valentine shouted, and slashed at his son's face.
It was a backhand stroke, and the tip of the blade drew a red line on Kenneth's 
left cheek. There was no more pain than from a razor cut. He touched his cheek 
with his free hand and looked at the blood on his fingers.
"I said en garde, sir," Valentine said. "Raise your weapon."
Kenneth slowly did so.
"Are you ready this time?"
He nodded.
"Then fight, damn you." Valentine slashed again, not quite as quickly. Kenneth 
parried the move, felt the clash of blade up through his wrist. And here, the 
blade was coming at him again, and he parried once more, and again, and again... 
and his father's blade tore through the fabric of his sleeve. This time he felt 
some pain, and a wet heat as blood ran down his arm.
"Again." And once more the sword was flashing in his face. He got the blade up 
just in time. But no sooner had he fended off the first thrust than another was 
coming at him. And another, and another.
Parry, riposte. Sixte, seconde. The words flew around in his mind, mocking him. 
I'll bet you wish you'd studied now, they said. Frantically, he tried to 
remember, but it just wasn't there. If you had to think about it, you were 
already too late. Your body must simply respond. Thinking was for the attack, 
and it would be a long time before young Kenneth was ready for that. The best he 
could do was try to keep his blade up, try to keep it between his body and the 
slashing, hungry steel that had a life of its own. That's what it had to be. His 
father could not be trying to kill him.
He felt pain again. This time it was his hip. A thrusting wound, this one hurt 
more than all the others put together. Others... how many were there now? Five? 
Six? He had lost count.
He was blinded by sweat. He stopped, turned his back, wiped his face with his 
sleeve. Then he turned around and tried to smile.
"I yield!" he shouted. "The first lesson has gone badly for me, I admit it. But 
I'll work all night, and you'll see a new man for lesson number two." He dropped 
his sword. "Now, do you want to do some blocking on that scene? Maybe we should 
get Tybalt in here to help."
"Pick up your weapon, sir."
"Father, I"
"Your weapon, sir!"
Slowly, Kenneth reached down and took the bloody hilt.
"En garde." And once more the blade flashed.
* * *
As usual, his father was right. This was the perfect way to teach swordsmanship. 
If the pupil survived it.
Within an hour Kenneth had improved markedly. Like all his father's methods, it 
was a simple process. The student made a careless move. The teacher showed him 
the error of his ways in the form of a small cut. The student tried another 
approach, which was a little better. No cut. Again the teacher offered the same 
move, and the student found a variation that actually might give him a small 
advantage. Then the teacher varied the first move. Once more, a cut. Again. Not 
so good, Kenneth; another cut, deeper this time. Now don't think, let your body 
remember what you did wrong last time, what you did that resulted in pain. Your 
body will remember and find a way to avoid the pain. Here it comes again
and that was much better. No pain. Try it again. No pain. Again.
Now, try this....
The pain in Spain is mainly for the slain.
Again.
* * *
With a spiraling motion worthy of Errol Flynn, John Valentine's blade twisted 
the sword from Kenneth's hand and sent it flying into the wings. "Get it," he 
said.
"Father, could we have a break?"
"Ten more minutes. Go."
Kenneth didn't move for a moment. He was barely able to stand. "Son," Valentine 
said, gently. "You brought this on yourself. I know it hurts. I went through 
this with my father, and I'm the better for it. Soon you'll be disarming me, and 
the audience as well. But in the meantime it is going to hurt. At the end of the 
day we'll have you patched up. And we'll start fresh tomorrow."
Patched up.
Tomorrow. What a frightening thought.
"Now go get your weapon."
Kenneth turned and trudged toward the curtain. He was afraid that if he reached 
down to pick up the sword, he would simply pass out. He did bend down for the 
sword, and his head did swim, but he did not pass out.
And then a strange thing happened. Kenneth reached for the saber
and Sparky picked it up.
It was invigorating, just being Sparky again. He was still hurting, badly, and 
he was still weak, but in the ways that mattered Sparky was strong. He didn't 
really know who this Kenneth person was, but he knew he was weak.
And he knew John Valentine was weak, in the ways that mattered.
So Sparky forced himself to stand erect, stiffen his spine. He lifted his chin 
and he strode back to center stage. Holding the saber with both hands, he raised 
it high, and plunged it down into the stage. He let it go and it quivered there, 
the point buried in two inches of wood.
"I quit," he said.
Valentine cocked his head slightly, as if not sure of what he had heard. Then he 
shrugged good-naturedly.
"All right. Maybe I'm pushing too hard. We'll resume tomorrow."
"You didn't hear me. I quit."
"You quit."
"You want me to spell it for you? I quit the swordsmanship lessons. I quit 
Romeo. I quit Shakespeare. I quit acting. I quit."
Valentine turned away and his body sagged. He rubbed his forehead with one hand. 
He sighed deeply. It was silent-movie acting, every move deliberate and 
exaggerated. Sparky studied Valentine's back. He imagined pulling the sword from 
the stage and thrusting it between the shoulder blades.
No. That wasn't the way.
Valentine turned around.
"You quit. Just like that. Suddenly twenty years of"
"Twenty-nine years. I'm twenty-nine. You've been teaching me since I was in the 
cradle."
Valentine laughed.
"Make it thirty, son. Count the nine months in the womb."
"In those thirty years," Sparky said, unperturbed, "there is one thing you never 
did. One thing you neglected."
"And what would that be?"
"You never asked me what I wanted to do."
Valentine laughed. He made a grand sweeping gesture with his sword, and a 
courtly bow.
"So, my son, tell me. What do you want to do with your life?"
"I don't know," Sparky admitted. "I've never had time to think about it. You 
never gave me any time."
"Go on. This is fascinating."
"You never asked me anything. Your plans were always 'our' plans, but I was 
never consulted."
"You are a child."
"I was never a child. I never had a chance to be one. I was a pretty fair 
performing monkey, though. 'Put a dime in the cup, folks. Watch little Kenny 
recite from Shakespeare. Perhaps today he'll get through it without shaking and 
gasping for breath.' "
"Do you believe that's how I thought of you?"
"No. No, I don't, Father. I think you thought of me, still think of me, as an 
extension of yourself. Any glory I earn is your glory."
Once more, Valentine laughed. But he sobered quickly, and looked intently into 
his son's eyes.
"No, my son. It's much more than that. You are me."
"In your mind, maybe. Up until today, maybe. But I've had enough, Father. I 
quit. I'm going to walk out of here, and from this moment on I make my own 
decisions."
Valentine looked into his son's eyes, and they did not waver. At last, almost 
apologetically, he sighed deeply and spread his hands.
"I simply can't allow that."
"You'll have to stop me."
"I will, son. I will."
Sparky stood his ground. The sword still swayed slightly between them, a steel 
gauntlet, an intolerable challenge.
"Now take your weapon, and take your position. We still have ten minutes of 
lesson to get through."
"I won't."
"Then I'll cut you down where you stand. Defend yourself, sir!"
Valentine raised his sword and began walking slowly toward his son. The blade 
hissed through the air, once, twice. Then a quiet, mild voice came from the 
wings.
"All right, that's enough of that, Mr. Valentine. Not one more step."
Sparky and Valentine both jerked in surprise, and turned to see a tall, lanky 
form walk slowly from behind the curtain. He wore a beige, wide-brimmed felt 
Stetson, a homespun blue shirt and leather vest, and baggy gray pants. His boots 
were dusty and broken in. Strapped low around his waist was a gunbelt and 
holsters, and in them could be seen the butts of two revolvers.
"Who the hell are you?" Valentine thundered.
"Elwood, stay out of this," Sparky said.
"My name is Tom Destry, Mr. Valentine. I'm a friend of"
"You look just like Jimmy Stewart."
"I've been told that. Don't know the gentleman. Sparky and I go way back, 
though. Clear back to his first day at the studio."
"My son's name is Kenneth."
Elwood shook his head. "Not right now, it isn't. You see, Mr. Valentine, right 
about then, that first day when you left him alone all day while you were off on 
your audition, or whatever it was, your boy needed a friend. And that's what 
I've been to him, as well as I can be."
"Elwood, please..."
"Sparky, somebody has to do this."
They made a rough triangle, the three of them. Sparky mostly looking down at the 
floor, darting quick glances from one man to the other. Elwood stood at his 
ease, his hands dangling at his sides. Valentine could not stand still. He 
paced, two steps to the right, three steps back, in no pattern. His eyes blazed, 
and they never wavered from Elwood.
"Who is this man, Kenneth?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "Some extra 
you've befriended?"
"This is Elwood P. Dowd, Father. He's my friend."
"Elwood P." Valentine cut a quick glance at his son, then looked back at 
Elwood, threw his head back, and roared with laughter.
"Well, Mr. Dowd, it's a pleasure, sir. I feel like I've known you all my life. 
And Kenneth, pray tell, where is your other... why, there he is now!" Valentine 
strode lightly toward Elwood, who stood his ground, and made an elaborate show 
of throwing his arm over an invisible companion's shoulders. "Welcome, welcome, 
sir! It's been such a long time. Are you well? Are you happy? I must say your 
fur is looking exceptionally fine today. Where do you have it done? You don't 
say! What's that... well, I'm sorry, Harvey, I don't have any carrots with me. 
Didn't know you were coming, and all that. But how about a martini? That's your 
drink, isn't it? A dry martini..."
He dropped his arm, looked sadly at his son, and shook his head.
"Your friend is a nut, Kenneth. I see it now. Tom Destry, of all people. He 
dresses up like a Tom Mix cowboy, and strides forth to protect you from your own 
father. That is what you're here for, isn't it, Mister... Dowd? Destry? Are you 
sure who you are?"
"The drink is milk, sir, and the name is still Destry."
"Or Stewart. Tell me, Jimmy, if you're here as a tough guy of some sort, why not 
that marshal, Guthrie McCabe, in Two Rode Together? Or that outlaw in 
Bandolero!what was his name... Mace Bishop. Or even that lawyer fella, Ransom 
Stoddard, the one who shot Liberty Valance. What's the matter, tenderfoot? Law 
books no damn good? Is that why you're packing?"
Elwood/Tom seemed bemused by the speech. He looked at Sparky.
"You told me he had a photographic memory for plots and cast lists," he said. "I 
don't know if I'da remembered all of those m'self."
"Dramatis personae," Valentine said. "That's the term we actors use."
"Meaning I'm not one," Destry said. "No, I don't reckon I am, sir, not of your 
caliber, certainly. You can mock me all you want, Mr. Valentine. I can take it. 
It's the boy over there who can't take it anymore. I know everything about you 
there is to know, sir. Every small-minded deed, every slight you've ever given 
him. Every blow you've ever landed."
"I'm his teacher," Valentine growled.
"And a good one, too, so far as that goes. If all a teacher's for is to develop 
a skill, why, you're a darn good one. But I happen to think being a teacher, and 
a father, means a lot more than that, Mr. Valentine. And by that standard, 
you've completely failed him. He lives in fear of you. He's a man's size, but 
he's still a boy when he faces you. You won't let him go, and he can't break 
away from you."
Valentine looked astonished.
"And why would he want to? He and I are joined at the hip, sir. It has always 
been that way, and it will always remain so. We are united by our art, something 
a pathetic gesticulator like yourself could never understand, and by something a 
great deal deeper than that. Kenneth, tell him." He turned to his son. "I have 
been strict with you, I've never denied it. It takes strictness, discipline, and 
an artist suffers it willingly. But everything I have ever done has been done 
from love. Tell him, son."
Sparky, his clothing tattered and soaked in blood, swayed and thought once more 
that he would pass out. He looked helplessly from his father to Elwood, and back 
again.
For the first time a furrow of doubt creased John Valentine's brow as he saw his 
son's battered condition. He held out his hand, started to say something, then 
turned away from them both. When he faced them again, there were tears in his 
eyes. He grimaced, rubbed his face.
"Listen to me," he said, sadly. "And look at you. I've done it again, haven't 
I?"
"Father..."
"No, son, don't say anything. I stand revealed, once more, as a coward and a 
poltroon. Look what I've done to you."
"Father, I know you never mean"
"Sparky!" Elwood warned.
"You stay out of this!" Valentine bellowed. "Kenneth, do you understand that I 
love you, more than life itself?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then all I can do is apologize again. I have overplayed my role, and there is 
no forgiveness for that, but I hope I still have your love."
"You do, Father."
Valentine held out his hand toward his son.
"Then let's go get you to a medic, and after that, to the police. You can file 
charges against me."
"No, Father."
"It's your decision. I'll abide by it. Perhaps it would be best for me. I can't 
seem to control my temper. Maybe there is some way I can be helped."
"Father, I"
"You know I've never had much use for psychiatry. It seems to me they know less 
about the human mind than I do. But maybe there is some form of medication, some 
pill or brain treatment...."
"That's an awful idea," Sparky said. "You know how those pills you used to take 
after that... after the time you... well, you know what I mean. You could hardly 
remember your lines after a walk across the stage."
Valentine smiled. "You remember that, do you? Oh, it wasn't so bad. And if I 
have to, we'll just cast someone else in my role. I'll stay on as director." He 
laughed. "Who ever said a director needs to remember lines?"
He still had his hand extended toward his son, and now there was a hint of 
edginess in his eyes, as if he knew the gesture had gone on too long, with no 
response from Sparky. The boy had not said no, but he hadn't taken the hand, 
either.
"Come on, son. Let's get out of here. We'll put the whole show on hiatus if we 
have to. We'll get you up to snuff on the fencing. No more cutting, I promise. 
We can talk about the rest of it, too. I'm going to change, Kenneth, I promise 
you."
After a momentary hesitation Sparky started toward his father.
"Hold it right there, Sparky," Destry said. Sparky stopped.
"Now, I'm only going to say this once, my friend," he said, never taking his 
eyes from Valentine. "A minute ago you said you were quitting the show. You said 
you needed some time to think things through. Most of all, you said you were 
making your own decisions now. I took it as a declaration of independence from 
your father."
"Sir," Valentine said, coldly, slashing his sword through the empty air, "you 
are interfering. This is none of your business."
"I think it is. You asked me a minute ago why I brought these." He rested the 
heels of his hands on the gun butts. "I'm not a violent man, Mr. Valentine. 
These were my father's pistols. I hung them up a long time ago, but there comes 
a time when you have to put them on again. When violence has to be met with 
violence. Now, I know Sparky isn't capable of resisting you, physically. So I 
will, if I have to."
For the first time he glanced at the young man.
"So what's it going to be, Sparky? I'll back your play, whatever it is. But I 
want you to know this. If you go with him, well, that's your choice. But if you 
do, I'll go away, and you'll never see me again."
Sparky looked from one man to the other. It was high noon, right there on the 
stage of the Valentine Theater. Tom Destry and John Valentine never glanced at 
him, their gazes locked. Valentine's eyes blazed with fury. Destry was calm and 
resolute.
"Let's go, Kenneth," Valentine said, and took a step toward his son.
Sparky looked back and forth. He was so tired, so desperately tired. And in the 
end, he thought later, that was the biggest factor in his choice. There was only 
one way he'd ever get any rest.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said, and walked toward his friend.
"No!" Valentine shouted, and raised his sword, charging toward the two of them.
"Elwood, don't!"
But the gun was out of its holster. Valentine was only a few feet away, already 
starting to slash downward with the blade. Sparky grabbed Elwood's arm and the 
gun fired. The shot took Valentine in the forehead and threw him back in a cloud 
of smoke and blood.
Sparky was going to wrestle the weapon from Elwood/Destry, but the man made no 
resistance, and Sparky was left standing, holding the hot gun barrel. He stared 
down at it. Etched on the side were the words THIMBLE THEATER PROP DEPARTMENT.
A prop gun? Fake blood?
He went down on one knee and touched his father's face. There was a hole an inch 
above his right eye. Blood was pumping sluggishly from it, to pool in the eye 
socket and then run down into the ear. The left eye was open and the pupil was a 
black hole that swallowed all hope.
"Doctors," Sparky mumbled. "We have to get medical help." He put his hand under 
his father's head, meaning to lift and cradle it until help arrived. What he 
felt back there was a hole he could put his fist in, and jagged edges of bone. 
Valentine lay in a pool of blood and in this red sea were islands of other 
matter.
"I'm afraid it can't be fixed, Sparky," Destry said.
Sparky pulled his hand back. There were chunks of brain clinging to it.
"Help him," Sparky whimpered. He looked up at Destry, who stood a little apart 
looking solemnly down at the man he had just killed.
"I wouldn't have cared if he was just coming at me," Destry said. "But you saw 
it. He was trying to kill you. He forced my hand."
Sparky didn't register anything the man said. He kept looking from his father's 
ruined face to the pistol in his hand. He might have knelt there forever but he 
heard footsteps coming from backstage. He looked up.
It was Hildy Johnson and Rose, the assistant stage manager. They stopped while 
still in the wings, looking out to the stage.
"Sorry, Mr. Valentine," Rose said. "We heard a noise...." She began to turn from 
the scene of fake mayhem. It wasn't any of her business. But Hildy was frowning, 
and Rose looked at Sparky's face.
Sparky stood, and the gun thudded to the floor. He held up his bloody hand to 
show it to Destry... to Elwood....
No one was there.
Rose began to scream.
Hildy started running toward him.
Sparky ran.
* * *
In a very real sense, I've been running for seventy years now.
I opened my eyes, looked around me as if emerging from a dream, and there's 
certainly a sense in which that is very real, too. But the dream had never 
before left me in the little park, right across the corridor from the scene of 
the crime. I determined I was out of the dream now, not in it. All my life, this 
has been a harder determination than you might suppose.
I don't revisit that memory a lot. I've never been far from it, never tried to 
deny its "reality," so to speak. I have become adept at veering away from it 
when I feel it approaching.
But every few years it is worth taking it out and examining it. To see if it has 
changed, after these seventy long years.
Because, you see, I believe very little of it. Neither should you.
The most vivid memory of my life is a lie.
It's a very theatrical memory, isn't it? My father is shot to deaththe bullet 
destroyed the brain, which is the only organ we can't repair, the only wound we 
cannot recover fromby a peace-loving fictional character who vanishes when 
witnesses arrive. No one saw the shot fired except the "three" of us. And there 
I am, standing by the dead man, blood all over me. The murder weapon is in my 
hand, still warm. Though I didn't stay to find out, I am sure that only my 
fingerprints are on the gun. I am sure no one saw Elwood enter or leave the 
theater.
Would you hang around to tell the police a ridiculous story like that?
Elwood P. Dowd is my imaginary friend. I have known that, and known the 
difference between him, his gallery of characters, and real people almost from 
the moment I met him. Therefore, there were only two people on that fatal stage. 
Therefore, everything that happened from the moment Elwood called out to my 
father is a dream/drama made up by me. Therefore, I killed my father.
There is an irony here. To have done something as awful as that... to be a 
patricide. To have never sought to avoid responsibility for my actions. (Avoid 
the consequences? Hell, yes; I've been running from them for seventy years. But 
I don't shirk the moral responsibility, which is a completely different thing 
than the legal sort.) But I am willing to admit, to myself, that it was I, I who 
did it. I have borne the burden of that act for a long time. I never sought to 
set it down. And yet one part of my mind, a part I've never been able to 
understand but almost certainly the part that allowed such a terribly conflicted 
young man to do such a thing in the first place, has robbed me of the true story 
of what happened that day.
My father did come at me with a blade that day. I think.
He did try to kill me. I'm fairly sure.
It was self-defense. I'd almost swear to it.
And I killed him. Of that, I am sure.
Recall the sequence, there at the end. My father is rushing across the stage, 
sword raised. Is he coming toward me? He must be, though I see him rushing 
toward Elwood. I see Elwood go for his gun, and I am running toward him. I reach 
him as he is raising and aiming the gun. I grab his arm. And it is here that 
reality must have intersected with my fantasies, because the gun goes off in my 
hand, doesn't it? Oh, I feel as if Elwood is still holding it, but I feel the 
heat and the recoil in my own hand.
And it is a prop gun. One I could easily have taken from the prop department of 
my own studio. Concealed it somewhere in the wings. When I left the stage, 
shortly before returning to finally stand up to my father, in my fashion, that 
must have been when I picked up the gun.
(A word about props. Don't be fooled by the term. There are "pure" props, made 
entirely for show. They can be plaster, wood, whatever looks best. And there are 
"practical" props. A light switch that actually controls lights on the stage. A 
piano that can actually be played. Most often, it is easier to simply use the 
actual object and call it a prop. The sword my father carried came from the prop 
department, but would kill you just as dead as any other sword. And the gun I 
stole was all too practical. So was the bullet.)
Did I intend to kill him all along? Or did I simply hope to defend myself when I 
stole that gun, hid it, and then destroyed all memory of having done so?
I must assume that murder was my intention. I do recall, seeing him lying there, 
dead, that one thought kept circling through the chaos of my mind. It was 
something he himself was fond of telling me. He had said it a thousand times.
"Dodger," he would say. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight."
I listened, and remembered. He forgot.
* * *
It was such a pleasant little park. Which was a good thing, because I wasn't 
sure I could move. I had tried to get up several times, and my legs didn't seem 
to work.
It was a feeling that went far beyond exhaustion. I had come... well, to tell 
you the truth, I don't even know how many billion miles I came. I suppose a 
solar atlas would give me the answer, but to what point? I didn't want to go 
back. Otherwise, I'd have left a trail of bread crumbs. But Brementon to Pluto, 
Pluto to Oberon, Oberon to Jupiter to Sol to Luna, I had fetched up here, on 
this park bench. I had thought it was all intentional, all part of some plan I 
had, but it didn't feel like that now. I felt like a marble in a pachinko game, 
rattling randomly among the pins, coming to rest at the bottom, where no points 
are scored. And it had always been inevitable that the bottom was where I'd end 
up.
I don't mean "the bottom" in the sense of any suicidal feeling. Nor am I talking 
of the bottom an alcoholic hits, or the economic bottom of a failed businessman, 
contemplating his lost riches. I had money in my jeans. I was only a few steps 
away from what could be the crowning achievement of my acting career. I had 
prospects, as the world usually measures them.
I just couldn't seem to find a reason to stand up.
I am fortune's fool.
* * *
I knew he would be there somewhere. I looked around, examining the strollers, 
the bench sitters, those stretched out on the cool grass.
He was across the park, sitting with his back to me. It was the hat, of course. 
With Elwood it's usually the hat, which is always out of fashion. But it wasn't 
the "Elwood P. Dowd" hat today, though it was similar. When Elwood changes 
character, it's usually because he has something important to say.
I looked at his back until he seemed to feel it. He stood, turned, looked across 
the park at me for a while, then started toward me in the shambling gait all his 
characters share. His hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his baggy 
trousers.
He was Paul Biegler, the defense attorney from Anatomy of a Murder.
"I have often walked down this street before," he said.
"If that's my cue to burst into song, forget it," I said.
"I spend a lot of time here. Right here in this park."
He hitched at his pants, sat beside me on the bench. He took a crumpled bag of 
peanuts from his coat pocket, shelled one, and popped it into his mouth. 
Immediately two yellow-headed parrots and a cardinal swooped in from the 
surrounding trees, waiting for a handout. Elwood tossed them a peanut.
"Pigeons too prosaic for this park," he observed.
The problem of Elwood seems to me to boil down to a problem of pigeons. Or 
parrots, or any other animal. Toby doesn't see Elwood, but knows when he's 
around. Most likely he's just picking up my reactions, I've always told myself. 
But other animals seem to see him. Another cardinal flew in and sat on Elwood's 
shoulder.
So how do you explain that? Was I imagining the birds? Was I imagining the 
peanuts? I knew that if he offered me one, I'd be able to put it in my mouth and 
taste it, and swallow it. Did I bring a sack of peanuts with me? Were there real 
birds here, only not doing what I saw them doing?
Expressed in terms of nuts and birds, the problem seems trivial, even funny. 
Considered as the central fact of an act of murder, my delusional states don't 
seem funny at all. Every time Elwood appears he presents me with these 
perceptual conundrums. Spend too much time thinking about them and I'm sure I'd 
go... well, nuts. Not the sort of nuts I already amwhich is at least a 
functional insanitybut rubber-room, spit-slinging, lobotomaniacal bull-goose 
looney.
But I've spent a lot of time with him. And while my worldview is not to be 
trusted and though I don't buy any nonsense about ghosts, spirit worlds, other 
dimensions, or leprechauns, there is one statement on existence I do accept, 
fully. There is more under Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in your 
philosophy, Mr. Rationalist.
Let's leave it at that, and let the details be worked out at the psychiatric 
hearing.
"Didya have a nice trip?" Elwood asked.
"Except for the first few miles. After that, it was the lap of luxury. You 
should have visited."
He wrinkled his nose.
"Don't like flying much anymore."
"Don't like... Charles Lindbergh would be ashamed of you."
"I think ol' Charlie would have been bored. He was a big one for adventure, 
Charlie was. That's how I played him, anyway. Never played any astronauts, 
though. That was a bit after my time."
I gestured at his 1950s-era baggy gray suit.
"So, do you know something I don't? Am I going to need a lawyer? Are the police 
closing in on me?"
"Well, there is no statute of limitations. And you know you have no business 
being here. You know that as well as I do. But as far as I've heard, there's no 
active search for you. Yet."
"I've been sitting here trying to think of a defense," I said. "How do you think 
this one would play? 'I was framed, Your Honor! Some dirty rat put that gun in 
my hand!' "
"I think you'd get charged with a miserable James Cagney impression."
"Stick to the point, counselor. Stick to the facts."
"The facts in this case are in considerable dispute. I think a competent 
attorney could create a reasonable doubt concerning a possible accomplice. But 
I'd have to bow out of the case, of course. Conflict of interest."
"I'd rather be represented by that Ransom Stoddard fellow, anyway."
"The man who didn't shoot Liberty Valance? He's good."
We sat in silence for a while, watching the parrots break open and eat the 
peanuts. There were half a dozen of them now.
"But if I can get serious for a minute," he said, "neither one of us would be 
the right choice for you, if you should find yourself in trouble."
"You mean, for some reason other than the fact that you don't exist? 'That's 
right, Your Honor, I wish to be represented by my good friend Jesus Christ, 
seated in this empty chair on my right. Ably assisted by Tinker Bell, who'll 
circle near the ceiling dispensing pixie dust.' "
He waited patiently until I settled down again.
"No, it's something else entirely. I think you'd do well with counsel a little 
more versed in modern legal issues. Things I wouldn't know a lot about, nor Mr. 
Stoddard, either."
I asked him what he meant by that, and he just shook his head. When Elwood wants 
to be stubborn, there is no moving him, so I eventually had to let it go.
"So what are you going to do, my friend?" he asked, after a long silence.
"Do? Elwood, what do you think I ought to do?"
"Get off this planet and try to lose yourself," he said, without hesitation. 
"That Comfort fellow isn't going to give up, you know, and it won't be hard to 
trace you here."
"He's probably here already," I agreed.
"Well, you made it pretty fast. I'd say he'll get here in the next week or so."
"Maybe. But I've got this little problem, Elwood." I thought of the image of the 
pachinko game. The feeling that all my running, seventy years of looking over my 
shoulder, had brought me here. To this bench. I hadn't tried to stand up since 
he sat down beside me. I was afraid to.
"I feel like I've been in this big bathtub," I told him. "The water is swirling 
out the drain, and I've been swimming as hard as I can for a very long time. And 
now the water is all gone, and I'm sitting on the bottom, naked and wet as a 
newborn baby. Only I feel like I've wasted seventy years. All that running, and 
here I am. I just don't seem to want to move."
"So you're going to stay here? That's what you want to do?"
I sighed.
"What I really want to do, more than anything, is turn myself in."
I don't think I was sure until the moment I said it that I really did want to 
surrender. But saying it, I felt such a sense of relief, such a feeling of 
freedom as I hadn't experienced since that day on the stage of the John 
Valentine Theater.
With a shock, I realized I'd felt that sense of freedom after I'd killed my 
father.
Elwood was looking at me, shaking his head.
"Well, I don't entirely disagree with you on that," he said. "And I'd be more 
than willing to go in with you. Perhaps I could speak to your psychiatrist, give 
him a little insight into your life, from the perspective of somebody who's 
spent a lot of time around you. Maybe contribute to an insanity defense, though 
I don't know how they handle things like that these days. But there's one thing 
I think you should do first."
"And what is that?"
"Take your shot at King Lear. Never know when you might get another chance." He 
stood up and held his hand out to me.
I never touch Elwood, for obvious reasons. But this time I didn't even look 
around to see who might be watching. I took his hand, and he lifted me off the 
bench.
* * *
Bayou Teche is an old "pocket" disneyland just a ten-minute tube ride from the 
center of King City. When it was first built, they simply called it a 
disneyland, since an artificial "Earthly" environment almost a mile across and a 
quarter of a mile high was a very big deal in those days. At first it was hard 
to get people to visit. "How ya gonna hold the roof up, huh?" Many people never 
could come, and many still can't, agoraphobia being quite common amongst the 
tunnel-raised population.
Later, when they began building the serious disneys like Texas, Mekong, Kansas, 
Serengeti, a hundred miles deep and thirty, forty, sixty miles across, the 
original parks came to be called minis. Now the trend has come full circle as 
more and more peoplethose who can afford itaspire to move into a "natural" 
environment. Micro-disneys are popping up like bubbles in champagne, but they 
are not notably wild. Most have golf courses. All modern amenities are just 
minutes away.
The older parks had a problem. Many turned themselves into "modern" parks, not 
much different from suburbia on Old Earth: communities of houses from one era or 
another. Traditionalists pointed out that the whole idea of disneys was to 
provide a taste of life on Earth before the Invasion, even before civilization. 
Most compromised, allowing some settlement by "townies," as opposed to permanent 
"authentics," like Doc in West Texas. Some tried to qualify for government 
heritage grants by providing environments people might not necessarily want to 
live in, but which the Antiquities Board felt were worth supporting in spite of 
their inhospitality.
At Bayou Teche, it was night, and bugs. Twenty-two hours of night every day, and 
billions and billions of bugs.
This was where Kaspara Polichinelli, the greatest stage director of her time, 
had chosen to spend her retirement. You may remember her as Sparky's sidekick, 
Polly.
The only way to Polly's house was by water, in a little boat called a pirogue. 
Pronounced pee-row. There were no maps. No roads. Hardly any land. The bayous 
wound in an impenetrable maze designed to re-create the delta country at the end 
of the Mississippi River.
My guide/taxi driver was a smiling man who introduced himself as 
Beaudreauxpronounced boo-drowwho helped me into the little flat-bottomed 
cockleshell that seemed to be made of scrap lumber and gumbo mud. The bottom was 
awash in water. I took a seat up front and Beaudreaux started up a little 
outboard engine no bigger than a football, pulling a rope until it choked to 
life in a cloud of blue smoke and then settled into a steady puttering. We eased 
away from the ramshackle dock just inside the visitors' entrance, and into a 
landscape right out of your worst prehistoric nightmare.
At a dizzying three miles per hour.
Over water black as ink, flowing at a tenth our speed.
Water smooth as old bourbon, but not nearly so sweet smelling.
Luckily, I'd taken my motion-sickness pills.
I was dressed in the only sensible clothing for the Bayou: a head-to-toe silk 
khaki jumpsuit pulled over my own clothes, rubber boots and gloves, topped off 
by a safari hat fitted with a mesh beekeeper's veil. Wrists and ankles of the 
suit were elastic, worn over the sleeves and legs.
They told me the suit was sprayed with a harmless repellent, which had sounded 
like overkill at the time. The insects couldn't get to me, I reasoned, so what 
was the point?
Five minutes into the boat ride I decided, with a touch of awe, that without the 
repellent the bugs might actually pick me up and carry me off, to devour at 
their leisure.
Though it was night in the Bayou, it was far from pitch black. We frequently 
passed homes set on stilts, or built on flat-bottomed boat hulls. Most had 
kerosene lamps hanging outside the porch and a softer light spilling from the 
windows. There was a lamp on a pole at the bow of the pirogue, as well. All 
these light sources were swarming with clouds of flying insects. Moths and 
lacewings and dragonflies"skeeter hawks," to Beaudreauxand beetles and 
lightning bugs and June bugs and gnats and I don't know what all.
And mosquitoes. Enough mosquitoes to suck you dry in ten seconds.
I hate bugs.
* * *
I'd been hearing what sounded like flapping wings since shortly after the trip 
began. About halfway to Polly's something whooshed by my head, inches away. I 
ducked, and Beaudreaux laughed. Beaudreaux, who somehow was enduring this trip 
dressed in denim overalls and a short-sleeved chambray shirt, no hat, no gloves.
"Bat," he told me. "We got many t'ousan bat in hya. We got de froo' bat, de 
Mex'can bat, de pug-nose bat, de leaf-nose bat, de red bat, de gray bat, and de 
renard volant, de flyin' fox, en anglais." At least I think that's what he said. 
He spoke with an odd accent, a patois of broken English and the occasional 
French word, and he called himself a "Cajun." Pronounced kay-jun.
He kept up a running commentary throughout the trip, pointing to things I mostly 
didn't see. We threaded our way through gnarled cypress with long gray beards of 
moss. I never had a chance to ask him a question, but if I had, it would have 
been "How do you keep from being eaten alive?" I later learned the answer, which 
was that residents got a small gene alteration that caused their skin to exude 
an insect repellent.
According to Beaudreaux there were seventeen species of bat in the Bayou, and 
they worked in two shifts separated by the two brief light periods known as dawn 
and dusk. How they got the plants to grow and all the insects to breed with so 
little light I never found out. I'm sure they could fill you in at the visitors' 
center. No doubt it's a fascinating story, but keep it to yourself, all right?
Other than the close encounter with the bat, the trip proceeded without incident 
until I heard a splash and felt the boat rock as if we'd passed the wake of 
another boat. Beaudreaux stood up and used a long pole to poke at something in 
the water. He shouted at it, poked again, then sat down and grinned at me.
"Gator," he said.
I hate alligators. Bats, too, now that I think of it.
* * *
Polly's shack stood three feet above the water on cypress pilings. A ramp led 
down to a floating dock where another pirogue was tied up. This one sported a 
bright red paint job and looked much more seaworthy than Beaudreaux's. Maybe 
Polly could give me a ride back to town.
The dock shifted under me as I stepped from the boat and I almost fell in the 
water. Beaudreaux grabbed my arm, probably saving me from being stripped to the 
bone in ten seconds by ravenous piranha. I heard a screen door creak and then 
slam shut, and a hoarse female voice.
"Hey, Beaudreaux! Where dat bucket ecrevisses you gon' brought me?"
"You get you crawfish, ma p'tit, jus' soon as I cotched 'em." He laughed, and 
motored quietly into the darkness. I went up the ramp to a screened-in porch, 
where the woman was holding the door for me. She was gray-haired and stooped, 
wearing a long gingham dress with a daisy print. She waved gnarled hands around 
me as I hurried in the door.
"Vite, mon cher! Vite! Don't let the skeeters in."
The inner door was closed. Sort of an air lock for mosquitoes, I realized. I let 
myself through into a small, rustic room with a small fire blazing in the 
hearth, knitted rugs on the wood floor. The light came from two dim floor lamps 
with shades dripping tassels in lavender and gold and yellow. Hideous things, by 
themselves, but not bad in this context. I looked around for Polly, and the old 
lady spoke from behind me.
"I thought you'd never get here, cher," she said.
I don't know who I had thought she was. Being in a disney, I had probably pegged 
her as an authentic. Disneys are one of the places you can go to see "old" 
people, folks who look like humans did when age was pretty much synonymous with 
decay. Almost all of these are only old on the surface, with wrinkled sagging 
skin and gray hair and perhaps a "colorful" age-related bit of ghastliness like 
missing teeth, eyeglasses, arthritis. They limped, they doddered and tottered 
and feigned deafness, but under the epidermis they were as hale and hearty as I 
am.
To see "real" aging you generally had to go to a fundamentalist enclave of one 
type or another. They seldom visited the public corridors; they kept to 
themselves like the Amish.
Polly had joined such a sect shortly before her departure from Sparky and His 
Gang. I can't even remember the name; there are scores of them, all with 
different beliefs. Some go so far as to reject all medical treatment of any 
sort, and you hear of people dying horribly in their thirties and forties, even 
in their teens, though the authorities sometimes stepped in to stop that.
Polly's group was more moderate. They didn't reject all medical care, just that 
group of therapies usually called "long life." "Eternal life" by the optimists, 
though no one really believes a human can live for even a million years. But 
it's true we don't seem to be anywhere near the outer limits, and there are 
people well over two hundred years old now, thriving.
It was a sobering thought, though, to look at her and realize she was only a 
year older than I.
On the other hand, for a natural centenarian she was in pretty good shape. It's 
all relative, I guess.
"Don't ask how I'm doing," she said. "It would take all day. Never get old folks 
started on their aches and pains."
"All right, Polly," I said. "And I won't tell you how well you look."
She laughed, and I smiled, and suddenly I realized how good it was to see her 
again. I went to her and we embraced. She had shrunk several inches.
"Don't squeeze too hard, cher," she whispered. She didn't need to tell me that; 
she was brittle and dry. I could feel every bone.
I don't want to get into details of her appearance. The elderly share a suite of 
atrocities as they are battered by the tides of age. They erode in much the same 
way. Much of it has always seemed to me to be a struggle by the skeleton, the 
symbol of death, to emerge from its soft shell. The fat is blasted away, the 
skin grows loose, sags, becomes translucent. Soon you can see the skull beneath 
the skin. There's a morbid little computer program you can buy. Feed somebody's 
picture into it and it will age that person fifty, sixty, a hundred years. If 
you'd like to see Polly as I saw her, find a picture of her from the old show. 
She hasn't allowed herself to be photographed since then.
"Come on in, Sparky, mon ami." She took my hand and led me into a small kitchen. 
It looked like the only other room in the house. Her hand was cool and the 
joints were swollen.
She sat me down at a table with a red and white checkerboard cloth and poured 
strong coffee into a china cup and saucer. She eased herself into a chair facing 
me and let me take a sip.
"Now," she said. "Who is chasing you this time?"
* * *
Predictable? I don't suppose I can deny it.
I had not communicated with Polly in any way since the one telegram from Pluto. 
Several times I had been tempted, just a short message to be sure she really was 
going to hold the role for me. But I knew she would. Polly's word is 
unbreakable. So how did she know someone was chasing me? Consistency, I guess.
During my first twenty years on the run I had twice risked a trip back to Luna. 
Both times I had seen Pollythis before the effects of her medical 
fundamentalism had really begun to ravage her. And both times there had been 
those who urgently wanted to talk to me about this or that misunderstanding. I 
admit it, I have a talent for getting into these situations. But bear in mind, 
when you're on the run you find yourself having to do things you might not 
ordinarily do. I submit my clean record between my eighth and twenty-ninth years 
as evidence that I am not a fundamentally bad person. Luckily for me, my first 
eight yearsfor which, legally, I can't be held responsibleprovided me the 
criminal skills I've needed for my last seventy.
So I told Polly about Isambard Comfort and the Demons of Charon. She listened, 
fascinated, and I wondered if she was thinking about how she would stage this 
epic tale of pursuit. Les Miserables, Part Two?
But during the telling I came to an uneasy realization, something I really 
hadn't considered before but probably should have. While the Charonese race was 
hot on my trail, those near me could be endangered. My failure to consider that 
had cost Poly dearly.
Polly reached across the table and patted my hand.
"Poor boy," she said. "You've had a terrible time of it. And you think this 
Comfort person will follow you to Luna?"
"I think we can count on it," I said, miserably. "And I have to think it would 
put you and the whole production in danger."
"We'll think on that, of course," she said. "But I don't see how it changes 
much. We were going to have to disguise your identity anyway. We'll just have to 
be more careful, that's all."
I thought it would be a lot more than just a matter of extra care, but I kept my 
mouth shut. She was aware of my situation, I had not tried to minimize it, and I 
felt that was all I was obligated to do.
"So who do you want to be this time?" she asked.
She meant what did I want to use as a stage name. Anywhere in the inner planets 
I didn't dare use my own name, or make any mention of my previous credits and 
career. Which was a damn shame, since Polly could make good use of Sparky's 
return after all these years. It would put butts in seats, as some producer once 
said.
"Do you have any idea how seriously they're looking for me?"
"I don't think they're looking for you at all, cher," she said. "But you can be 
sure that if they run across youif, for instance, they see your name up in 
lights on The Rialtothey'll drop by with an arrest warrant."
She smiled as she said it, and I had to smile, too. So, as usual, I'd be playing 
an actor playing King Lear. Do you wonder why I'm not quite right in the head?
"Kenneth, you know my feelings on this matter. I only wish someone had killed 
him twenty years earlier. Someone else. God knows there were enough people who 
wanted to. And if I were serving as the judge, you'd go free. But from what I've 
read about the evidence they have, it will work out as some degree of 
manslaughter. Five to twenty years. Have you given any more thought to turning 
yourself in?"
Polly had suggested that fifty years ago. Even with her pitifully short 
allotment of years, she felt it was better to serve the time than to stay on the 
run. Get it over with.
There was a lot of wisdom in that, except for one thing. I couldn't do the time. 
I think I'd rather die. I smiled again, and shook my head.
"Then have you given any more thought to... the other thing."
She was speaking of the insanity defense. It was quite a narrow defense these 
days, but having an imaginary playmate, hearing voices... there was a good 
chance that would work.
I had not told Polly about Elwood. I'd spoken to no one about him, ever. But I 
had hinted at a few things one drunken night, and I think she had sensed a lot 
more. Not much gets by Polly, and during the years she had spent when we were 
closer than brother and sister I'm sure she had seen and heard some things she 
was too discreet to talk to me about.
Again, there was wisdom in the suggestion, except for one thing. I'd rather go 
to prison. Call it stupid pride if you wish. I'd never talk about Elwood, 
certainly never in a court of law, especially not to let him take the blame for 
my actions.
"No," I said. "That's out of the question."
"Then we're back to the first question. Do you have a name?"
I had several, of course.
My post-Sparky career had consisted of three sorts of jobs. Working from Pluto 
outward, I simply used my own name. Extraditions from those worlds to the inner 
planets were spotty at best, and arrests on fugitive warrants practically 
nonexistent. From the J-Trojans, the belt, Mars, and inward, I usually concocted 
a one-time-only identity, good for the length of the run, then abandoned. And I 
moved carefully. But from the S-Trojans to Neptune I had been able to foster 
half a dozen more substantial identities, even build a certain reputation for 
some of the names. I had citizenship papers that would withstand a moderately 
rigorous check. In two of the identities I had even paid some local taxes!
I tried out three of the names on Polly. She carefully considered each, and 
shook her head. She knew everyone in the inner planets, and quite a few from the 
outers; if the name hadn't registered with her, then it had zero drawing power 
on Luna. Though this wasn't to be a star turnthe big name in this production 
would be Polichinelliit never hurt to have some name recognition.
"How about Carson Dyle?" I asked. She perked up.
"Now him, I've heard of." She rattled off half a dozen of "Carson's" credits. 
"That's you?" I lowered my chin modestly. "That's a name I can work with then. 
I'll send it to publicity tomorrow. That is, if everything's in order with him."
"Give me a day to do a few checks," I said. "Carson may owe a little money here 
and there. You know how it is."
She smiled, and shook her head. "No, I don't, but if old debts is all that 
stands in the way we're okay. You'll start drawing salary tomorrow; you can just 
pay them off. Unless..."
"It's not much," I assured her. "Called away suddenly, no time to clear up a few 
obligations" She held up a hand and I blushed. There was no need to sugarcoat 
anything with Polly. "Well, if that horse hadn't stumbled in the final turn, I 
had fully intended to pay it all off. Carson has a weakness for the ponies."
She laughed, and so did I, after a while. But it is a sobering thought that I 
had made a mess not only of my own life, but of most of my alter egos as well.
"So where are you staying?"
"I haven't settled on lodgings as yet," I admitted.
"Then I think it best if you stay right here."
I looked around the tiny cabin, and I trust I concealed my dismay.
"I wouldn't want to impose...."
"Behind that door over there, mon cher, is a narrow stair that leads to an attic 
bedroom. It's small, but you can stand up in the middle. You'll have your 
privacy, and the best breakfasts and suppers in Bayou Teche."
I said nothing.
"That used to be my bedroom, Kenneth, until it got to be too much of a chore to 
climb the stairs every night. Now I sleep on the couch over there, and it suits 
me fine."
"What about this place, anyway?" I asked. She knew what I meant.
"The Bayou? I've always longed for the Earth. I felt all my life that I was born 
in the wrong era, the wrong place. On Earth, I'd have been a forest creature, a 
wanderer. And now that I'm old, I'm a creature of the night. I love the night, 
and you get a lot of it here."
There didn't seem to be anything to say to that. So I raised one last 
objectionnot very strenuously, because the idea of a cozy attic room was 
beginning to appeal to me.
"I'm not sure you'd be safe, with me hanging around," I said.
"You let me worry about that. If your Charonese nemesis comes sniffing around, 
we'll see how he deals with eighteen-foot alligators in the dark."
"Izzy could probably kill alligators with one hand. But maybe the mosquitoes 
would suck him dry while he was doing it."
* * *
Rehearsals began the next day.
My heart wants to go into great detail about it, but my mind knows there is no 
point in trying. Any production in the live theater merits a book of its own. 
There is always exhilaration and disaster, feuding and fistfights and 
fornication. Half the cast usually hates the other half. At some point the set 
designer or the lighting director storms out of the theater and has to be 
wheedled back to work. In the last week, as dress rehearsals loom, there is 
despair. On opening night there will be at least two nasty crises, the one you 
half expected, and the one that sprang out of nowhere.
And then the curtain rises... and usually the whole mad enterprise works. Nine 
times out of ten, anyway. There's no guarantee that anyone out there in the dark 
likes it, but it has all somehow come together. You and your fellow troupers 
have created something.
Then comes the final curtain on the final night, and everyone moves on. For a 
while you had a play. For a while it was a living, thundering thing, and now 
it's gone. It exists only in the memories of those who made it happen, and those 
who came to see it. You can't pop a chip into your player and watch it again, 
you can't rewind to your favorite scene. If you want to see it again you have to 
assemble a hundred creative and cantankerous egotists, scream and weep and laugh 
and sweat and work yourself and everybody else to a state near the edge of 
hysteria, and hope that once more the magic will happen.
It is a glorious madness.
And, like the man said, you had to be there.
Most accounts of the rehearsal and presentation of a work of drama end up 
sounding like a riot in a kindergarten. A very special kindergarten, attended 
only by the most precocious, self-centered, hyperactive, and vicious little 
five-year-old brats. Brats who are used to having things their own way and 
expect more of the same, now, or brats who have always felt they should have 
been catered to all their lives, never were, but intend to make up for lost time 
now.
It is the nature of the beast. Whether the production is full of talented people 
or people who simply think they are talented, an ego is the only thing that is 
an absolute constant in show business. Without one, you never pursue the Muse of 
performance at all.
Basic law of physics as formulated by Sparky: One ego is the only psychological 
particle that can exist peacefully. Two egos equal warfare. Three or more egos 
constitute a nuclear reaction. They ought to give me the Nobel Prize for that.
So, we battled, we shouted, we wept, and we clawed. And sometimes we made the 
magic happen. By opening night, it was happening pretty regularly.
One problem I had anticipated worked out better than I had any right to expect. 
Rehearsals had actually started four weeks before my arrival. The part of Lear 
was handled by my understudy. This is a bad way to start a production, with the 
star still swinging by the orbit of Jupiter. The rest of the cast assumes you're 
just too, too busy to share sweat with them. This might have worked for an 
Olivier, but for poor unknown Carson Dyle, it could be disastrous. The only 
thing that kept things going before my arrival was Polly's iron will and 
reputation.
"There is only one rule you need to remember to get along with me," she said on 
the first day, before my arrival. "I am God. You shall address all your prayers 
to me, and I will answer them. Worship another God, and I will kill you. It's as 
simple as that."
If she said I was good, most of the cast were at least willing to wait until I 
got there... and for about ten minutes after that. Naturally, they all professed 
happiness to see me, and privately hated my guts. The only thing that kept us 
going during the week after my arrival was my willingness to work twice as hard 
as everyone else.
But because I did work twice as hard, I earned their respect. And they all were 
experienced enough to see I was up to the job.
Once in a generation a director or playwright comes along with a truly 
distinctive vision. Twice, if you're lucky. Anyone can see it and few can 
describe it. It can't be imitated, though everyone tries, and in the process the 
course of art is slightly altered. Sometimes this person is a commercial and 
popular success: Shakespeare, or Alfred Hitchcock. More often he or she is best 
known among peers; the larger public just doesn't get it.
Not long after leaving Sparky and His Gang, Kaspara Polichinelli became that 
director for my generation. Since then, she had made one film or staged one play 
every five years or so. She made a lot of money in her first decade, then moved 
into less popular areas. The public knew her work always drew critical raves, 
that she was mentioned along with the greats... and usually stayed away in 
droves.
That never bothered her. She wasn't doing it for the money.
In the theater, being a legend in your own time has one big advantage. The top 
people in the field will always work for you, no questions asked. Major stars 
will slash or waive their astronomical fees. People who had never showed any 
evidence of talent will suddenly, under the eye and the tutelage of this 
director, find depths within themselves they never suspected. "Who knew?" the 
critics write, and the next thing you know a washed-up matinee idol finds 
himself with a supporting actor Oscar nomination.
This was that sort of cast. All Polly needed to do was send out the call. The 
best in the business would break contracts, postpone more lucrative projects, 
for the privilege of being in a Polichinelli production. Hell, it brought me all 
the way from Pluto.
* * *
There is really no use in introducing a whole cast of characters at this late 
stage of my tale, any more than filling in all the details of the rehearsals. 
Even the spear-carriers were good. (You think that doesn't matter? Frank Capra 
always gave each extra on his productions a little bit of business, even if it 
was just something to think about as he walked through the scene, some problem 
to worry over, some destination beyond the other side of the set. And it shows.)
Everyone was professional. The major players were all superb. The set designer 
and the lighting director and all other technical people were friends of Polly, 
people who had worked with her many times in the past, and it all went as 
smoothly as these things ever go.
And in the center of it was Polly. Polly's vision of Lear.
That had worried me. The Five-Minit Bard had been fun, but it was meant to be 
ridiculous. Many Shakespearean productions over the centuries have been 
hilarious without intending to be.
I have no objection to taking a story by Shakespeare and using it as the basis 
of an entirely new production. The great Kurosawa did it several times, in 
Japanese. And I don't object, per se, to setting the plays in other places, 
other timesif something can be gained from the exercise. If something new can 
be illuminated, or if a fresh perspective can be obtained. But in seven hundred 
years some pretty ridiculous stuff has been tried. I've seen Coriolanus 
performed by people dressed up as cats. As You Like It set in a Stone Age 
cavern. All-nude productions. The last King Lear I saw was staged in a 
disneyland, and the storm scene got out of hand and blew away the stage and half 
the bleachers.
And yet, you don't want to re-create the Globe Theatre, either. It's been done, 
a hundred times.
Polly made it clear from the beginning that this was to be straight Shakespeare, 
full text, no "updating." But of course it would have her stamp on it. That was 
good enough for me. I put myself in her hands.
I settled in comfortably at Polly's shack. I even got used to the daily commute 
in the little pirogue, and in time came to understand a few words Beaudreaux was 
saying.
I warmed Toby up, took him to the vet for maintenance. He became the production 
mascot, everybody's best friend, and gained three pounds from all the treats 
people smuggled to him.
I fell in love with our Cordelia, a lovely young woman named Jennipher Wilcox. 
Polly once told me I fall in love more often than some people change their 
socks. And it's true, I guess. But it always feels like love. I have never 
experienced that kind of love where you want to spend the rest of your life with 
one person. Frankly, I think it was almost always an illusion. I cite the 
divorce statistics. And today, with life spans that really amount to something, 
I think that sort of love is even rarer. Not one couple in a thousand is really 
capable of spending two, three hundred years together. Very few are capable of 
lasting as long as five years.
So don't give me any crap about love versus lust, okay? And keep your amateur 
psych opinions about my childhood rendering me incapable of long-term commitment 
to yourself as well. For my first thirty years my father demanded all the love I 
had to give. Since then, it would never have been fair to ask anyone to share 
more than a few months of my life. A cop, a private detective, or an Isambard 
Comfort would always show up and I'd have to move along.
I did love Jennipher, in my fashion. And we were great in bed.
And the opening night came.
And by the second act intermission everyone knew we had something special. Our 
spies in the lobby reported an astonishingly good buzz. People were actually 
hurrying back to their seats before the houselights flashed.
And the third act came and went. And the fourth act. We moved into the fifth act 
and I knew I'd never been better.
God, I was glorious. I was Lear.
Actually, only one thing happened to put a bit of a damper on the evening, 
though I swear to you, had you been there it wouldn't have affected your 
enjoyment of the play at all, Mrs. Lincoln.
Midway through the third act, Isambard Comfort showed up in my dressing room....
* * *
He was seated in the big, comfortable easy chair I had requested for relaxing 
between scenes when Lear wasn't onstage.
He had Toby in his lap. There was no one else in the room.
"Where's Tom?" I asked. Tom was my dresser. Oh, yes, I had once more come up in 
the world. This was not the closet aboard the Britannic where he and I had first 
fought, but a spacious, warmly furnished dressing room. A star's dressing room. 
It had a crackling holo-fireplace, a wet bar, and my own bathroom complete with 
a small spa. A big television screen showed the action onstage from a camera in 
the third row.
"Tom is indisposed," he said, and gestured toward a pile of costumes in one 
corner. I saw one shoe that looked like part of the pair Tom had been wearing. I 
couldn't tell if Tom's foot was in it.
"Don't worry; he's not dead. He'll wake up in a few hours with nothing worse 
than a bad headache."
I had been leaning against the door, which I had closed behind me before I saw 
him. I was dripping wet, my gray hair in untidy ropes that reached my shoulders.
I had prepared a few automatic surprises for him, but none of them could be used 
without harming Toby. They had been a forlorn hope, anyway. There were weapons 
here and there, some concealed, some not looking much like weapons, but I 
doubted my ability to use any of them against his reptilian reactions and 
hideous strength.
"I've had a little time," he told me. "I've located a few electronic traps and 
disabled them." He made a gesture toward the Pantechnicon. "I left the life 
support running in your tricky luggage. We'll use it to smuggle you out of here. 
The rest of it, the deadly stuff, won't work. I took the trouble to memorize 
Macsorry, 'The Scottish Play' before I got here, so don't try speaking any 
lines from it in here. I've read up on other actors' beliefs, if you have any 
ideas about triggering something verbally."
I sighed, pushed myself off the wall, and walked to my dressing table.
"Then go get that costume on the rack over there," I told him. "The one labeled 
'Act Three, scene four.' And hurry. We don't have much time to get me changed 
and back out there."
He looked at me for only a moment, then stood and put Toby in a hip pocket and 
zipped it closed. He was dressed in the costume of one of the King's knights, 
his helmet on the floor beside the chair. I assumed that was how he got 
backstage. He took the costume off the rack and came up behind me as I stood at 
the big mirror. I was already unbuttoning my costume. Tom would have done that 
for me, but I only wanted as much help from Izzy as I absolutely needed.
"You keep surprising me," he said. "I don't like that. Not many people surprise 
me."
"Get used to it."
"I think I have. But since we have some time together, would you explain how you 
knew I was going to let you finish the performance?"
"I didn't know," I said, shrugging out of the kingly robes of Lear. "But I 
thought it was worth a try. The worst you could do was coldcock me and shove me 
in my suitcase, and you're going to do that sooner or later, anyway."
"You don't think killing you is the worst I might do?" He held up the new 
robeoutwardly, exactly like the one I had just taken offand I slipped my arms 
into it.
"If you wanted to kill me, you could have done it as soon as I got here. When 
you didn't do it, I knew you had other plans. I don't think I'll like those 
plans."
"I can guarantee it. Why the costume change, Sparky? It looks like a waste of 
time to me." I'd seen him feeling the seams, quickly going over it for concealed 
weapons. There were none. I gestured toward the television screen, the one he 
had been watching as I entered, and had made me hope he might be content to hold 
Toby hostage and give me a little more time.
"Watch and you'll learn something," I said. On the screen, Gloucester and Edmund 
were finishing their scene.
"That's my cue," I said, and hurried out the door.
* * *
"In such a night, to shut me out! Pour on, I will endure. In such a night as 
this! O Regan, Goneril, your old kind father, whose frank heart gave allO, that 
way madness lies; let me shun that. No more of that."
Pure poetry. Not just the lines, but my situation. As Lear, I was going mad. 
Soon I would be tearing my hair and rending my raiment (the reason for the 
costume change; this one was strategically weakened so it would tear properly). 
I was more than good. I was brilliant.
And as Kenneth Valentinesome might say the least successful role in my careerI 
thought I might go mad as well. Just the thing to put an edge in one's 
performance.
"Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease. This tempest will not give me leave 
to ponder on things would hurt me more."
The edge of the stage seemed to me an abyss; the wings, dark chances. What was 
to stop me from leaping the footlights and charging down the aisle, out the 
lobby, and into the wide world beyond? Or finishing my lines, strolling casually 
offstage and out the back door.
Well, professionalism, for one thing. Laugh if you must, but I would almost 
rather die than abandon a performance in the third act. There is that old axiom, 
the show must go on. Not only do I owe it to my craft to give my best, and give 
my all, I owe it to the audience. If I lived to tonight's final curtain and 
somehow could escape from my nemesis... then it's a case of Sorry, Polly. Sorry, 
cast members. I'm outta here. But nothing short of death was going to keep me 
from finishing tonight.
Later I realized I'd had no way of knowing if the exits were covered by Izzy's 
people. If, in fact, half the audience were Charonese agents. But I swear that, 
at the time, it never entered my head. Somehow I knew that Izzy was handling 
this alone. I had come to know something about him in our two brief, bloody 
encounters, come to know something of his culture in my researches aboard Hal. 
He would handle this alone. Call it pride, call it honor. Call it lunacy. After 
what had happened in Oberon, he would not be calling in the national guard.
But there was a more important reason I could not flee and that was, of course, 
Toby. Did Izzy know me well enough to rely on my sense of loyalty to hold me 
hostage even if my fear and my sense of duty would not? Bet on it.
When I took Toby as my companion so many years before, we had made a deal. As I 
said before, I was responsible for food, shelter, and safety, and he was in 
charge of everything else. Oh, I also handled minor matters, such as career 
decisions, travel itineraries, and our pathetic financial affairs. There had 
been no need to write any of this down; I considered it a part of the original 
agreement between man and dog, struck during the Stone Age. This may have been 
the first deal, the primordial deal, before either written or verbal agreements, 
and any human who fails to honor it is a pretty poor human in my estimation. 
Some have found irony in the fact that dogs have accompanied the human race into 
space, but I fail to see anything odd about it. A dog was the first earthling in 
orbit, and the first casualty of space travel.
Toby was in charge of love and absolute loyalty, and I could return nothing less 
to him.
"Is man no more than this?" I shouted. "Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm 
no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! Thou art 
the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked 
animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here."
And I began tearing my clothes.
* * *
It seemed unusually quiet as I exited the stage. You expect a few slaps on the 
back, a wink, a thumbs-up. Some encouragement, acknowledgment that things are 
going well. There was none of that, and for a moment I was worried. Then I saw 
the faces of the cast and knew the silence meant something else. They were 
moving out of my way. Some did not even dare to look at me. They were afraid of 
intruding on me, afraid that anything they might do or say would short-circuit 
the magic. Theater people are intensely superstitious, always alert for the 
potential jinx, the careless word or gesture that will shatter someone's 
concentration.
I think they were a little afraid of me.
* * *
"It's a wonderful performance, Sparky."
"I wish you'd quit calling me that."
"It's how I think of you. How I remember you. I really was a fan, you know."
Incredible as it may seem, I believed him. And I also believed he appreciated 
Shakespeare, and my performance as Lear. How a man raised in such a perverted 
society could still cherish the arts of a common humanity I will leave for the 
reader to research, accept, or disbelieve, as takes your pleasure. But his 
desire to see the end of the play was my only current hope of salvation, his 
only window of weakness. I didn't dare question it.
"You know I'm going to kill you, don't you?" I asked.
"I know you're going to try." The prospect didn't seem to disturb him.
I had nothing to do for a while. The King sits out most of Act Four. On the 
stage, Gloucester was having his eyes gouged out. Cornwall would soon meet his 
Maker. Time to start laying my plans.
Believe it or not, I was hopeful.
Toby was in Izzy's lap, but refused to be cradled. With someone he likes, Toby 
is capable of sprawling over your hand and arm, limp as a noodle, completely 
trusting you not to let him fall. Or he can be a shameless beggar, licking your 
face, wagging his tail, angling for a handout.
Not now. He sat stiffly, looking from Izzy's face then over to me. He was 
saying, "Why don't you ditch this jerk?" When Izzy's hand moved in Toby's fur, 
the little lip curled slightly and the tips of his teeth showed. He was far too 
well-bred to bite the hand of a guest, but clearly he'd like to. With Toby and 
Izzy, it was hate at first sight.
I don't think Comfort hated Toby. I don't think he viewed Toby as a feeling 
thing at all. Anyone can tell a dog lover. A dog lover can't keep his hands off 
a dog. Put one in his lap and he will stroke, scratch, laugh when his face is 
licked, sometimes coo and gibber like a fool. Comfort held Toby like he would 
hold a pillow.
"I was wondering if we could talk," I said.
"It would be out of character to plead for your life."
"Not plead. But maybe we could bargain."
He laughed. "Money doesn't tempt me, and you don't have any. What else do you 
have to offer?"
"I wondered if we could talk about the frog."
He was silent for a while, his eyes narrowing.
"I'd meant to ask you about that," he said. It was as if he was looking for a 
trap of some kind, and I didn't get it.
"Ask what?"
He shrugged. "What frog?"
"What..." It seemed we weren't communicating. I opened my hand, where the evil 
little netsuke had been resting. The tiny frog still crouched on the skull, his 
eyes still unsurprised at all they saw. It felt warm and alive. Ivory is a very 
sensual surface. I could hardly keep my thumb from caressing it.
I started to toss it toward him and a palm-sized, deadly-looking black pistol 
materialized in Comfort's free hand. I'm sure it hadn't been there before, and 
I'm sure it hadn't been up his sleeve, but where it came from and how he got it 
without apparent movement will have to remain a Charonese secret. He was very 
fast.
So I carefully set it on the arm of his chair. He looked at it, made the gun 
vanish (how did he do that?), and gingerly picked it up. He stroked the frog 
with his thumb, then set it back down.
"Very pretty," he said. Pretty is not the word I would have used, but I'm not 
Charonese. "What does it have to do with me?"
Here the script calls for the protagonist to sit for a moment in stunned silence 
as all his assumptions come crashing down. After the long pause I told him how 
I'd come by the frog.
"Well, she never reported it to us," he said, with a slight smile. "If she had, 
we would have come for it, taken it from you, and broken both your arms. You'd 
have been repaired and on your way in a few hours."
"But"
"We were called in by the governor of Boondock. You do remember visiting 
Boondock, don't you? Certainly you remember the young lady you met there. I saw 
her picture, and I certainly wouldn't have forgotten."
"But she was"
"Nineteen, and engaged to a banker's son. Boondock is an independent city-state 
within the Outer Federation. It was established by a religious cult about a 
century ago. They have some unusual customs there, one of which is legally 
mandated obedience to one's parents until the age of majority, which they say is 
twenty-five years."
"I didn't"
"As in so many other places, ignorance is no excuse. I'm sure your producer 
handed out a booklet before your arrival, concerning local customs; they always 
do. And like most passengers, you threw it away along with the booklet the 
shipping line gave you concerning emergency evacuation procedures. But you 
really should have read it, Sparky. Your brief affair with the girl upset a lot 
of political plans concerning an upcoming arranged marriage. Family honor 
demanded reparations.
"We Charonese are the only broad authority beyond Pluto. We're the only ones 
with enough discipline to maintain strict standards over such a vast region. 
Each enclave has its own rules and its own enforcers, but when someone flees a 
jurisdiction, as you did, we are called in. We work only by contract, and the 
governor's policy with us sets out prescribed remedies for different situations. 
First, we guaranteed to hunt you down. As I'm sure you have learned from your 
researches, we always get our man."
"Hunt me down and kill me," I said.
"Hunt you down. The governor was a bit cheap, though, and didn't pay for death 
in this instance. I'm not sure we would have written such a policy, anyway. We 
tend to operate more on an eye-for-an-eye basis. Almost Biblical, you might 
say."
"Biblical."
"Exactly. Since there was no way for us to take your virginity and ruin your 
marriage prospects, of course, we would have used other methods. The usual 
penalty would be three days of pain, followed by a year's incarceration."
"So you never intended to kill me."
"I blame myself, really," he said. "I assumed you knew that, back on the 
Britannic. I assumed too much. I expected resistancethree days of pain is 
certainly memorable to a non-Charonese, and something you surely would try to 
avoidbut I wasn't prepared for the tenacity of your assault.
"Of course, things are different now...."
* * *
"You do me wrong to take me out of the grave," I said. "Thou art a soul in 
bliss; but I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald me like 
molten lead."
Things were indeed different now. If, in some ways, my last scenes of madness 
were not acting at all, then how to judge the end of the fourth act, when Lear 
is returned to sanity, temperance, even a sort of tranquillity in the arms of 
his faithful daughter Cordelia, while within me, poor actor, raged all the 
tempests of folly?
Considering all that, it might have been my greatest moment on the stage. No one 
would ever know just how great.
Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, and we play it at cross 
purposes.
My one and only chance of escape was coming, and I did not feel up to it. I 
wanted to lie down with Lear, return to my comfortable grave.
But did it matter? What would have been different if I had given Comfort more 
time to speak, back there in my tiny cabin aboard the Britannic? Or if he hadn't 
been so unnaturally quick? The tanglenet was supposed to have immobilized him, 
then I could have listened to what he had to say.
Three days of pain. A year at what I had to assume would be very hard labor and 
solitary confinement. Would I have surrendered, knowing escape was, in the long 
run, impossible?
No.
It was as simple as that. I can't do jail time. I'd rather die. I'd rather spend 
the rest of my life on the run. I once did three days in jail, waiting for 
arraignment. Every time I went to sleep I found myself back in the airlock, 
facing the Daewoo Caterpillar. Awake, I spent all my time watching the walls, 
because every time I turned my back on one it began to move in on me. Very hard 
work, since you can't watch six walls at once. As soon as I made bail, I jumped, 
and have never regretted it.
So I would have fought the man from Charon. But I might not have tried so hard 
to kill him.
It didn't matter now. He'd explained it all to me, before my entrance. I had 
killed a Charonese. That simply was not allowed. The penalty was death, and a 
death that would be a long, long time coming.
"Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me I 
will drink it." I reached up and touched the tears on Cordelia's cheek. Real 
tears, not glycerine, as in rehearsal. I was so far gone in the part that I 
couldn't remember her real name.
* * *
I didn't return to my dressing room for the beginning of the fifth act. Cordelia 
and I waited in the wings, not speaking, not wanting to chance anything wrecking 
the mood. Soon we were onstage again, captured by our enemies, reconciled. It's 
my favorite scene in the play. The foolish old King at the end of his folly, 
granted one moment of happiness before the end. We were led away to what we 
thought would be our imprisonment, not knowing the plans of the evil Edmund.
I was going to my dressing room when Polly appeared and took my arm. She looked 
up at me, and I saw concern in her eyes.
"Bear up, old friend," she said.
"How am I doing?" I asked her.
"I think you know how the performance is going. But I'm a little worried about 
you. Is something wrong?"
"Wrong? What are you talking about?"
"I'm not sure. I sense something. I don't think anyone else would notice. God 
knows you're giving it your all. Is there anything I should know?"
Anything she should know. The mind reeled. I knew what she was talking about, 
Polly being the only one who knew who was after me. And I wouldn't get her 
involved in it.
Anything she should know. Yes, Polly, my dear. After the final curtain I'm going 
to vanish, one way or another. Either under my own steam, or in the custody of a 
man from your worst nightmares. There will be only one performance of this Lear, 
one perfect moment on the stage. You close tomorrow.
Oddly, I knew she wouldn't mind that part. I felt sorry for the rest of the 
cast, who had a right to expect a long run from such a night as this, but for 
Polly, the work was done, in the heavenly books. She had created a masterpiece 
that would last for the ages. As for the cast, well, that's show business.
So I lied. It wasn't my best work, I could tell, and even my best might not have 
entirely fooled her. But there were distractions. The final duel between Edmund 
and Edgar was getting under way on stage, and she had made quite a production 
out of it. "Edgar" and "Edmund" were the two finest stage swordsmen on Luna at 
the time and they were pulling out all the stops, giving the audience an 
exhibition of derring-do that would leave them breathless for my entrance. So 
she didn't question me, and I managed to slip away.
And immediately ran into the head of makeup, in a hissy panic.
"Where is Cordelia!" he said. "We have to get the rope burns on her neck!"
I shrugged helplessly, and as soon as his back was turned I ran to my dressing 
room.
As soon as I slammed the door behind me I saw Isambard on one knee beside 
Cordelia, who was lying on the floor.
"My God! What have you done to her? You've killed her."
He stood up. Toby was still cradled in his left hand.
"Contrary to what you might think, I don't kill unless it's necessary. She's 
unconscious."
"But you said"
"She came in here and was asking too many questions. She was about to leave to 
get security, so I had no choice."
I lifted her and put her down on my cot. A bruise was forming on her temple. And 
damn her, anyway! She had decided to sneak in here at the last moment. There 
would have been no time for sex, but Jennipher was a cuddler. She wanted to hug 
and kiss before our last scene, in preparation for a memorable night of 
celebration.
Well, Cordelia was "dead" in our last scene. All was not lost.
"And I'm afraid we'll have to go now," Comfort said.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes. Things have gotten too dangerous. I have a safe route plotted to the rear 
entrance; no one will see us." He smiled. "Did you really think I was going to 
give you a chance to escape during the curtain calls?"
I stared at him, stunned at this treachery.
"I thought we had a deal," I said.
"Deal?" He laughed. "I made no deal, and I made no promise."
"It was implied."
"You've never really grown up, have you, Sparky? Did you expect me to behave 
like a gentleman?"
"No, but I... yes, I guess I did. I thought we had an understanding. I thought 
you were liking my performance." My voice was rising. Toby heard the tension, 
and began to bark.
"I did. But I've seen the end of this play. Perhaps you can finish it for me 
when we get back to Charon. Before we get to work on you."
Someone was pounding on the door now. The stage manager, the makeup man; it 
hardly mattered. I had only minutes before I was needed onstage. Which meant he 
had only minutes to take care of me. Toby was still barking. I looked around 
helplessly, ran my hand through my hair, and decided to plead.
"It's just five minutes," I said, holding my hand with the fingers apart. 
"That's all I need. Just give me the five minutes to finish here. Then I'll die 
a happy man."
"Why should I want you to die happy?"
Toby bit him on the hand.
He looked down as the tiny warrior sank his teeth into the meat between his 
thumb and forefinger and worried with sharp shakes of his head, looked at it as 
if it were happening to someone else.
Then he took Toby's head in his free hand and twisted. There was a sharp, 
gristly pop, a crunch, and Toby went limp. Comfort tossed the flaccid corpse 
aside.
"Now," Comfort said, calmly. "Do you want to get in the box, or should I put 
you... or should I... it's time..." His eyes lost focus, found me again, and his 
hand started to come up. From somewhere in his clothing the handgun sprang free 
and was propelled toward his handbut the hand wasn't there to meet it. His arms 
fell to his side, his knees buckled, and he hit the floor as bonelessly as Toby.
No time, no time, no time at all. They were pounding harder on my door now. I 
grabbed a makeup towel and carefully lifted Toby. I saw the broken tooth and the 
golden fluid oozing from it. I was careful not to get any on my skin, as the 
stuff doesn't really need a puncture to work. The poison is harmless to dogs. 
Comfort's voluntary nervous system was completely destroyed by now. He still 
breathed, his heart still pumped, but that was all. I couldn't obtain the 
instantly lethal stuff, and besides, it left no room for error if I had somehow 
forgotten and shown Toby my five spread fingers by accident. Comfort's condition 
was reversible, but not easily, and not quickly.
And I still feared him. All along my worst fear was that the Charonese had some 
built-in antidote to the nerve poison; you never could tell with these 
peoplebut first things first. I crammed Toby into his hibernation chamber and 
closed the lid. All the lights on the cover flashed red. Then one turned green, 
then another. A third. I didn't have time to watch it all. I turned to Cordelia.
My god, what if she woke up while I was bemoaning her death? I needed another 
Cordelia. Luckily, one was at hand.
I tore the costume from Jennipher. These were warrior clothes. Cordelia had just 
been defeated on the field of battle, taken prisoner, then hanged by the 
treachery of Edmund. I draped the coat around Comfort, rolled him over, and got 
to work on the buttons. The pants were close enough, and would just have to do.
More pounding on the door.
"Mr. Dyle, Mr. Dyle! We need you on the stage, now!"
"I'll be ready!" I shouted back. "Tell them to slow down!"
Certainly some of the more frightening words to hear coming from the star's 
dressing room. I could imagine the panic building, the stage manager racing to 
find Polly, frantic signals to the principals on stage. I could see the flop 
sweat breaking out on foreheads as those poor folks realized every actor's 
nightmare: they were stranded out there, no safety net, no rewrites, no retakes. 
It had driven many an actor and director back to the cinema, where you could 
always shout Cut!
I glanced at Toby's module. Only two red lights now.
I had not expected Comfort to do what he did. My fear had been that he would 
understand the signal, somehow, drop the dog, stun me, and make his escape. But 
it didn't matter. Toby was doomed from the moment Comfort got his hands on him. 
He was to be used as one more method of torturing me. I would get to watch as 
the poor little ball of fluff was made to suffer until they got ready to work on 
me.
Perhaps it's blowing my own horn, but I am quite proud of my performance with 
Comfort there at the end. Of course I never expected him to let me finish the 
play. Taking me into the middle of the last act and then cutting me off sounded 
like a Charonese thing to do right from the start. But I was able to use my 
rising indignation as I "realized" I had been taken in to get Toby excited, get 
him yapping so that the bite, when it came, would seem natural.
Oh, how sharper than a serpent's tooth...
Can you count to five, boys and girls?
* * *
Comfort was a small man, smaller than Jennipher, actually, so that shouldn't be 
a problem.
A wig, a wig, my kingdom for a wig. I scrambled frantically through the 
overturned costume rack where Tom, my dresser, was sleeping peacefully. I hoped. 
I found one the right size and color, kicked clothing over Tom's exposed foot, 
hurried back, and pulled the wig over Comfort's head. I arranged it artfully.
More pounding. I could do nothing but ignore it.
A few quick slashes with makeup pencils and brushes and Mr. Isambard Comfort's 
face was a reasonable imitation of Jennipher's lovely features... from a 
sufficient distance. No matter; I'd keep the hair over most of his face, and if 
any of the cast noticed anything I had to assume they would stay in character. 
No one in the audience would find anything amiss.
I rolled Jennipher off the cot and spread the bedclothes over her, picked up 
Comfort's limp body, and tripped the door lock with my foot. I pushed my way 
through the frantic people just outside my doorway and raced toward the stage. I 
ran all the way to my entrance, then began Lear's last, mournful journey.
"Howl, howl, howl, howl!" The words look ludicrous, written down like that. One 
must rip them from deep in a wounded gut, and by God, I did.
"Oh, you are men of stones: Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so that 
heaven's vault should crack. She's gone forever."
I saw no men of stone; stones don't sweat. What I did see was the most relieved 
cast of characters I'd ever encountered. They'd just spent almost two minutes 
trying to improvise and stretch their way through a growing catastrophe, and I 
don't think they could have gone another five seconds without the audience 
beginning to squirm. I was so proud of them, Kent, Albany, Edgar, and all the 
rest, for betraying not one inkling of the euphoria they must be feeling at my 
belated entrance. Euphoria? Hell, bloody murder! I could see it in their eyes: 
if Comfort didn't kill me, they might still.
"Lend me a looking glass; if that her breath will mist or stain the stone, why, 
then she lives."
I had "Cordelia" down on the ground, cradled in my arms. A wisp of hair stirred 
as Comfort exhaled. I had closed his eyes, but they were coming open slowly, and 
there was still awareness in them. He stared at me, and I turned his head away 
from the audience. The lights were on us now, a golden softness Polly had worked 
an entire day to get. My fellow cast members were shadows, gathered around us.
"This feather stirs. She lives." I brought my left hand up behind his neck, at 
the angle of the jaw, feeling for the carotid artery. I squeezed. Oh, bloody 
murder, indeed!
I kept up the pressure.
"Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?" His 
eyes seemed to lose a little of their luster. It would be short and painless for 
him, which is exactly the way I wanted it. Don't forget, Charonese wanted a long 
and painful death. It assured them of a better place in Hell. But Comfort would 
feel nothing.
"Thou'lt come no more. Never, never, never, never, never. Do you see this? Look 
on her. Look, her lips! Look there, look there!"
I collapsed on him. My face was inches away. Did the light fade even more? >I 
couldn't be sure. My eyes were open only the barest slits; after all I was 
supposed to be dead.
I heard "Edgar" speak: "The weight of this time we must obey, speak what we 
feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young 
shall never see so much, nor live so long."
And at last, the curtain.
I was up, fighting my way through the darkness and a hurricane of stage 
whispers. Hands plucked at my clothing. Explanations were wanted, but I had no 
time, no time, no time at all. I crashed into my dressing room and slammed the 
door behind me. The curtain calls were beginning and I had only minutes.
Strip the costume from Comfort. The Pantechnicon sat in a corner, unpacked, on 
its side, ajar, presumably defanged by Izzy. Not quite so long as a coffin, but 
deeper and wider. I dumped him in it and slammed the lid.
A glance at Toby's box. One red light now. That one would not go off until I got 
him to a vet; the device was designed to keep him alive, not heal him.
On the screen, onstage, the extras filing off and Gloucester, Albany, France, 
Kent filing on. Thunderous applause.
I lifted Jennipher and sat her on the cot, pulling the costume over her. 
Slapping her face, pinching her. She began to blink and swat listlessly at my 
hand. I'd carry her on unconscious if I had to, but it would certainly look 
funny....
Now Edmund, Edgar, and the Fool. Applause growing deafening.
"Wake up, darling, come on now, you have to be a trouper."
"Wha..."
"You hit your head, my dear. But you have to get it together, just a few more 
minutes. Come on, Jen, suck it up. You can do it, I know you can."
Her eyes were open now but not really tracking. Once more, someone was pounding 
on my dressing room door.
Onstage, Goneril, Regan... no Cordelia. The three sisters were to have taken 
their bows together.
"Up we go," I said, and lifted her to her feet. She was never going to make it 
under her own power. I got my arm around her waist, and opened the door.
"Out of my way!" I bellowed, and the crowd fell back before the madness in my 
eyes and the thunder of my voice. I wore every ounce of Lear's dignity as I 
strode onto the stage with my Cordelia.
Why Lear and Cordelia? It's not as big a part as either of her sisters. Well, 
let them figure it out. I'd deal with it later.
When the lights hit us the old instinct took over in Jennipher. She smiled, 
curtsied, even managed to stand on her own as she and the whole cast turned and 
applauded me. I must tell you that, though it was probably the loudest ovation I 
ever received, I barely heard it. I was watching Jennipher out of the corner of 
my eye, ready to steady her if she faltered.
The curtain came down, briefly, immediately rose again to find the entire cast 
in a line, holding hands, myself in the center. We took a bow, applauded the 
audience, and I gestured to the wings. Polly came out, stood there for a moment, 
nodded, and went backstage again. It was all she ever gave the audience, no 
matter how much they clamored for more.
Then the curtain came down again, and Jennipher began to scream.
* * *
Oh, it was sheer bedlam.
"A man!" Jennipher was shouting. "There was a man in Carson's room. He hit me! 
He hit me, and then..."
I took her by the shoulders and looked at her with deep concern.
"A man? Are you sure? Where did he go?"
"I don't"
"Seal off the stage area," Polly was saying. "I want guards on all the exits. 
Everyone stay where you are."
Out of nowhere the half-dozen large men who had lurked about the production from 
the beginning materialized; Polly had insisted on the extra security. Their eyes 
were not friendly as they tried to look beneath the makeup, seeking an impostor. 
Each carried a small but deadly-looking weapon and seemed more than ready to use 
it.
And so the search began. The audience was not bothered. It was quickly agreed 
that no one could have slipped from the backstage area into the auditorium 
without being noticed, and no one had seen anything.
The first thing the search discovered was, of course, poor Tom. This heightened 
everyone's concern, because until then it was still possible to think Jennipher 
was simply suffering from a bump on the heada bump I helpfully pointed out I 
had given her, accidentally, while carrying her from my dressing room. Her story 
was vague, after all, and unlikely. But Tom's body proved something had been 
going on.
It was impossible to revive him quickly. The first doctor to arrive confirmed 
that he had been drugged. When he finally did come around, he was no help at 
all. He remembered nothing.
It was pretty chaotic until the police arrived, which was fine with me. But they 
soon began imposing some order on the mess.
My storyand I was determined to stick to itwas that I'd never seen Tom lying 
under the heap of costumes. And why would I have looked for him there? No, I 
arrived back in my room to find him gone, which had surprised and disappointed 
me because he'd always been quite reliable. But I determined to soldier on, 
alone, which accounted for the delays in certain appearances onstage. They 
seemed to be buying it. Why would I drug my own dresser? Why put my entire 
performance in jeopardy?
Polly stayed at the edges of this interrogation, her face betraying nothing to 
the police but saying volumes to me. Sparky, you are so full of shit. I managed 
to send her the tiniest guilty shrug when the detectives weren't looking. She 
would keep quiet.
So it was decided to search the entire theater, beginning with my dressing room. 
In no time at all a detective was standing in front of the Pantechnicon, 
pointing at it.
"What's this?" she asked.
"My trunk. All actors have a trunk." For a giddy moment there I was tempted to 
break into a chorus of "Born in a Trunk in the Princess Theater in Pocatello, 
Idaho," a song which almost summed up my life.
"You want to open it for me?"
"Of course." I went to her, positioned myself so my shadow fell over the trunk, 
and lifted the lid. She glanced inside, and I closed the lid.
A legitimate theater is always chock full of cubbies and hidey-holes. Temporary 
walls are thrown up, then become permanent, and little odd-shaped dead spaces 
can result. Holes are cut in stages for dramatic entrances and exits, for magic 
tricks. There is a labyrinth backstage, towering fly lofts, and who-knows-what 
in the basement. There were no sewers running beneath this theater, so far as I 
knew, but the Phantom of the Opera would have had no trouble hiding himself.
But with enough people the search was eventually finished, and yielded... 
nothing.
There were those who wanted to do it all again, but they were in the minority. 
After all, it was just an assault, no permanent harm done. Tom would file a 
lawsuit against the theater, which would be settled out of court for a nominal 
sum. We would all be alert for a repeat during the rest of the run, which 
promised to be a long one. The consensus was that the intruder had somehow 
entered the audience and filed out with them, even though it was demonstrated 
early on that this couldn't be done. Still, after you have eliminated the 
impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely... is wrong, in this case. But it 
wasn't up to me to point that out.
Things eventually quieted down. Finally, over an hour after the final curtain, I 
closed my door to the last of the intruders. I pulled my beard off, went to the 
sink, and washed my face.
And there was a knock on the door. I sighed, and answered it. It was two more 
detectives. I knew, because they were holding out their badges for me to 
examine.
"Mr. Carson Dyle?" one of them asked.
"Yes? What can I do for you?"
"Also known as Kenneth Valentine?"
I said nothing.
"Sir, we have reason to believe you are the aforementioned Kenneth Valentine. I 
am placing you under arrest for the murder of your father, John Valentine. 
Please don't say anything until you've spoken with your attorney."
And they slapped the handcuffs on me.
* * *
"This court is now in session," said the Judge.
It was now almost forty-eight hours after my arrest. Justice can move quite 
swiftly in Luna, especially in a seventy-year-old case. If you don't have your 
act together by now, the reasoning went, you never will. We had missed one 
performance, but one was going on now with my understudy.
Much had happened.
I had spent the time in utter terror, feeling the walls closing in on me. I was 
given drugs to help combat this, but as trial time approached I had to be taken 
off of them, to be alert for my own defense.
I had engaged Billy Flynn, the best lawyer on the planet. I could afford him 
now, and it only seemed right that he have a part in what was being touted as 
the sixth or seventh Trial of the Century.
And what's this? you say. I could afford Billy Flynn? This, from the man who 
recently had to stage Punch and Judy shows for a couple of hot dogs? Who had 
almost starved to death riding the rods from Pluto to Oberon?
Oh, yes, I was a wealthy man. Very wealthy, for all the good it did me.
When I left Luna in such a hurry, seventy years before, Thimble Theater was an 
emerging player in the entertainment business. I was the majority stockholder. 
Upon my indictment for murder and subsequent flight, all those funds were frozen 
and put in the hands of a trustee. I couldn't get a dime anywhere in the system. 
This is a sensible law, I suppose, as it makes flight to escape prosecution very 
difficult. I left Luna with the change in my pocket, and a small loan from my 
Uncle Ed.
In my absence, the trust was required by law to manage my estate in the manner 
most likely to return a profit for the company, and thus for me and the other 
stockholders. They'd done a very good job. Thimble Theater was now the player in 
the entertainment business. I was one of the three or four wealthiest men alive.
And I couldn't promote the price of a candy bar.
My money would be waiting for me after I had served my sentence, if any, or been 
found not guilty, like any other citizen. Assuming I lived to collect it, but 
more about that in a moment. In the meantime I could draw only enough money for 
my legal expenses. Luckily, I didn't have to hire Malcolm Malpractice, the guy 
with the office over the barbershop. I retained Flynn and Associates, which 
meant I had a full combat battalion of lawyers, clerks, assistants, 
investigators, and researchers at my disposal.
So the first thing I did was stab Billy in the back.
"Common sense?" he shouted. "Common sense? What's all this I'm hearing about 
Common Sense Court? Sparky, my friend, that's for people who didn't do it! In 
case you've forgotten, you did it! To find guilty people not guilty we go to a 
jury, Sparks! Juries are what I do!"
I said I'd prefer to take my chances with the Judge.
"Let me say this to you slowly," Billy said, slowly. "The law is an ass. The law 
is an ass, and I am the mule skinner."
This was happening in his luxurious office, shortly after I had almost, but not 
quite, admitted that I had killed my father. Not even Billy Flynn was going to 
hear of Elwood's role in the crime, because Elwood was not going to be any 
element in my defense. So what I had told him was that I no longer remembered 
what had happened that day (true; I also hadn't remembered it accurately on that 
day), and that since I and my father were the only people on the stage, it must 
have been me who shot him. Also true.
"A jury is the best thing that ever happened to a defendant," Billy went on. "A 
jury is the only existing creature with no brain and twelve assholes. Do you 
know how you determine the intelligence of a jury? You do not add up the IQs and 
divide by twelve. You take the lowest IQ and divide that by twelve.
"Juries are hazardous, I won't lie to you about that. Sometimes their sheer 
stupidity gets in the way and they simply never understand the right thing to 
do. Which is whatever I tell them to do. But nine times out of ten I can whip 
them along to the right verdict. With the Judge, you quite often get actual 
justice, which is the last thing you want."
He had been pacing around the office, delivering his peroration to a jury he 
hadn't even assembled yet. Now he went behind his desk and sat down, laced his 
fingers together, and assumed a fatherly mien. Billy Flynn affected an older 
appearance, with a receding hairline and gray around the temples. Probably 
another jury thing. He had an Adolphe Menjou moustache, and a warm, husky voice. 
You liked this man, almost instantly.
"Let me give you the Billy Flynn extremely short course in the Law, Sparky. 
After the Invasion, the dominant legal form was based on the English system of 
jurisprudence. People erroneously assume this system is involved in dispensing 
justice. It is not. It is interested solely in providing fairness, in conducting 
all its affairs by a set of rules. You know what those rules are and you play by 
them, and you win some, and you lose some. The system is largely weighted in 
favor of the accused. This results in oddities such as 'admissible evidence.' 
According to the law, how evidence is gathered is more important than its actual 
probative value. In other words, if the police don't play by the rules, you go 
free. No matter what you've done, no matter how compelling the evidence. Case 
dismissed. This obvious insanity is tolerated because of the 'rules.'
"Or take prejudicial testimony. If you've been convicted of ninety robberies, 
and are accused of a ninety-first, with exactly the same modus operandi, those 
prior convictions cannot be put in evidence against you. It might 'prejudice' 
the jury.
"The upshot is, the English system of law is by far the way to go if you are 
guilty.
"Of course, in recent years, another type of law has been tried...."
I could listen to the man talk all day. His arguments at the bail hearing alone 
were worth every penny of his outlandish fee. When he was done, even I was 
almost convinced I wasn't a flight riska man who had fled the jurisdiction and 
been on the run for seventy years, who had no money, no roots in the community, 
and absolutely nothing to lose by jumping bail... and who had in fact spent the 
last twenty-four hours thinking of nothing but the best way out of town if bail 
were granted. But in the end I would not have released me on my own 
recognizance, and the judge didn't, either.
At one point I told Billy Flynn he could have been a great actor.
"I am a great actor," he replied.
But he was a bit long-winded, and I wasn't taking notes. Besides, half of the 
power of his words were in the delivery, something every actor understands. So 
while I thoroughly enjoyed the two-hour diatribe he had introduced as an 
extremely short course in the law, I won't try to set it down here. He had much 
more to say about the traditional, English system. And much to say about the new 
system.
For there were other ways.
Even in English common law one often had the option of being tried by a judge or 
a jury. Trial by a wise and/or impartial judge had been the method used by many 
cultures before the Invasion. It often worked well. Then there was trial by a 
council of elders, or by an entire community. Always, there was The Law behind 
such systems, sometimes called "custom," sometimes written down and sometimes 
not. There were referees, arbitrators, mediators of all sorts. All these systems 
had strengths and weaknesses.
People had always aspired to more than the traditional system of law could 
offer. Billy was right: the law was an ass. And a big reason was, legislators 
are forced by the nature of codified rules to try to anticipate every situation 
that can arise in human affairs. This is plainly impossible. And, recognizing 
the imperfectibility of human affairs, the law had to give a big edge to the 
accused if it was to avoid injustice to the innocent. Both of these things 
resulted in injustices, even travesties of the law. Couldn't there be a better 
way? The system of a wise and impartial judge seemed to offer the best option 
for making the law more nearly just. And, yes, for trying to do something the 
English legal system did not even attempt: finding the truth, so far as that 
concept could be said to really exist. In criminal matters, was it possible to 
attempt a determination of what really happened, as opposed to what the 
admissible evidence and unreliable and biased eyewitness testimony tended to 
indicate might have happened?
Well, very little could ever be proved one hundred percent true. But likelihood 
could be determined to a very high degree of probability, and we had a machine 
that was very good at just that sort of thing. The Lunar Central Computer.
Oh, my, how the lawyers did howl when it was suggested! The basic proposal had 
been around for over a century when it was finally agreed, over loud objections 
from the bar, to give a new system a twenty-year optional tryout. After twenty 
years submit it to the voters. We were currently fifteen years into the 
experiment, and still the only planet with a dual legal system. But Luna was 
being watched intensely by every other planet in the system with an elected 
government, who all knew a politically popular thing when they saw it.
People liked the new system. It seemed to work better. Officially it was called 
the Juridical Protocols Test. Professionals in the law usually called it the 
Judge. The public, after a few years, referred to it as the Court of Common 
Sense.
This was the system upon whose tender mercies I was throwing myself. Why? Many 
reasons I needn't explore, and one I can't completely explain. My first visitor, 
after my initial consultation with Billy Flynn, was Hildy Johnson, and she had 
this to say:
"Sparky, I know what your high-priced mouthpiece just told you. I'd like to give 
you a bit of advice that will cost you a lot less. Go before the Judge. You 
won't regret it. And I guarantee that."
I was about to say Hildy Johnson never lied to me, but of course the first words 
out of her mouth when we met were a lie. But we had become quite good friends, 
way back when, and she had never betrayed me. Even when it would have been to 
her professional advantage to do so. So the Judge it would be.
I'd have been a lot more confident of my chances if I didn't keep remembering 
that the Lunar CC had, not long before, suffered a planetary nervous breakdown.
* * *
Everything about the Juridical Protocols Test was different.
All trials were televised, even if no one tuned in. Most were dull enough so 
that a tiny room, a table, and half a dozen chairs were sufficient. But in 
higher profile cases larger halls were available.
The case of Luna v. Kenneth Valentine was held in the largest JPT courtroom, 
which could accommodate five hundred. It was an instant sellout, with seats at 
ringside being scalped for over a thousand dollars. The room itself was 
unremarkable, nothing more than a big barn with maroon velvet drapes against the 
walls, uninspired lighting, gray carpet, and more maroon in the upholstery. This 
operation was badly in need of a set designer.
Close to one wall was a big round table with low-backed chairs on casters, 
enough to seat twenty people. On that wall was hung a twenty-foot television 
screen. The table was wood-grain Formica. A few feet behind it was a low 
U-shaped barrier (the bar?) and behind that concentric rows of seats, steeply 
raked to give everyone a view. It was like an operating theater from an old 
movie, or a college lecture room: Freshman Introductory Law 101. One aisle came 
down the center to the only break in the barrier. Witnesses testifying in person 
would enter through that break.
The prosecutors sat directly across the table from me, my defense team, the 
clutter of paper and briefcases and computerpads they had made around their 
places, and Toby.
I had managed to tell Polly about Toby's plight as I was being led away, 
manacled. She got him to a vet and had delivered him to the holding cell just 
down the hall not an hour ago. He had been happy to see me, but not inordinately 
so. Toby is a genius, for a dog, but I'm sure he had no idea of what had 
happened to him. And no idea what he had done to Izzy; I imagine he regarded the 
steady diet of raw steak he'd been getting from Pollyat my requestas no more 
than his due.
Digesting all that steak is hard work. After I set him on the table he looked 
around, counting the house, but when he saw the people were not here to watch 
him perform he curled up on a stack of legal briefs and went to sleep. Every 
once in a while I could hear his stomach rumble.
In the center of the table was the Judge.
Not really, of course. There was no "Judge," in the sense of a physical object 
present in the courtroom. But except when interfacing directly with the CC, in 
which case its voice came through one's own personal implanted telephone, people 
prefer to have the sound come from some visible source, not just emanate from 
the walls. It gave the defendant and the lawyers something to look at, and it 
made for better television. So a small box had been rigged up with screens on 
each side. Evidence and taped testimony could be displayed, and when the CC was 
speaking, the screens showed an officious-looking logo of the JPT Department.
As soon as the court was declared in session I stood up.
"Your Honor," I said, "I would like to make an opening statement."
Billy Flynn was looking up at me as if I were insane.
"Mr. Valentine," said the Judge, "it is not necessary to address me as 'Your 
Honor.' And it is not necessary to stand when speaking."
"I understand, Your Honor, but I would prefer to do both."
"As you wish."
"Your Honor, I wish to state for the record at this time that, if I am found 
guilty of this charge, and if my sentence includes a period of time in which I 
am locked up in a jail cell, I will wish to be provided with the means to end my 
own life."
There were shocked gasps from the audience.
"Say it ain't so, Sparky!" someone shouted.
"Bailiff," said the Judge, "please remove the occupant of seat 451." The idiot 
was promptly hustled from the seat he had paid dearly for, and an alternate 
ticket holder ushered into his place. The Judge didn't mind murmuring, gasping, 
or laughter, but comments from the audience were forbidden.
"That is your right, of course," the Judge went on. "It's premature, but your 
request is noted. Tell me, are you claustrophobic? I see no mention of it in 
your psychological evaluation."
"No, Your Honor," I said, recalling my trip to Oberon, and my berth in the Guy 
Fawkes. "Maybe the word is penophobic. I can't handle jail. I'd go crazy."
"If this is an appeal for leniency, you really should save it for the sentencing 
phase, if any."
"It's not an appeal, Your Honor. I simply want it on the record. I also have 
another reason, which I will reveal if it becomes necessary."
There was indeed no good reason to say any of that, except that it made me feel 
much better to get it off my chest. I was completely serious, too. And why not? 
Jail time might as well be a death sentence for me. It gave the Charonese two 
options. They could assassinate me in prison (getting into a prison is the 
easiest thing in the world), or they could simply wait at the gate until my 
release and roll me up then. Whichever they planned, I would not give them the 
chance.
Yes, they would still be after me. And I knew they would much prefer option two, 
with the chance for about a year of sophisticated torture before my eventual 
death. Much better to take the Black Pill.
But I wasn't going quietly. I knew the Charonese hated publicity, hated any kind 
of fuss. Well, I was going to show them one hell of a fuss. I was going to tell 
my entire story, reveal to the civilized world why I was electing to take my own 
life. I knew where their sympathies would lie. Someday, someone is going to have 
to do something about the Charonese, and anything I could do to rally public 
opinion against these monsters... well, I'd think of it as my memorial.
"We will proceed on Luna v. Valentine" said the Judge. "It has been alleged that 
Kenneth Valentine, seventy-one years ago, violated Lunar criminal law by 
murdering John Valentine, his father." On the screen before me and the one on 
the wall to my left appeared a copy of the formal indictment, which would never 
be read aloud in this court. One of the many ways things were speeded up with 
the Judge. The minutiae of proceedings were simply assumed.
"The physical evidence supporting this accusation is as follows:
"One handgun." On the screen I saw a picture of the gun, followed by a technical 
description. If my lawyers wanted to challenge any part of this evidence they 
could simply speak up. None of them did.
"Bloodstained clothing belonging to John Valentine." Again, a picture. The 
actual items would not appear in court, and I was thankful for that. The Judge 
paused while the screen displayed and identified a series of reports, all of 
them seventy years old, all of which were available to my attorneys on their own 
computers. The reports were by forensic scientists, and established that the 
blood was my father's blood, and so forth. Then there were statements by cast 
and crew of that long-ago production that, yes, these items of clothing, a 
costume, had been worn by John Valentine in his role as Montague.
And so forth. It took about two minutes to establish that all this data existed, 
a process that might have taken a week in a regular court. Why bother with all 
the wasted time of cross-examination? None of it was tough to understand, all of 
it was reviewed and authenticated by the Central Computer, the Judge. And 
indeed, Billy Flynn had no problems with any of it, though he told me he would 
have worked over each "expert" for at least a day if trying this case before a 
jury. Those who could still be found, that is. Seventy years is a long time, 
even these days. Some might well be living on Pluto. Some would be dead.
Some could be portrayed as incompetent.
"I could have had ninety percent of this declared inadmissible," Billy muttered 
in my ear.
"One lead bullet, forty-five-caliber, recovered from a wall in the John 
Valentine Theater." Statement from coroner. Statement from firearms expert. Zip 
on to the next item.
I stared across the table at the prosecutors. There were only three of them, 
opposing the nine expensive bodies on my side. All of them sat quietly, hands 
folded, not using their terminals. I would have to describe their expressions as 
smug. Who could blame them?
"That is all the physical evidence presently known to the court. We will now 
move on to forensic evidence."
"Here's where you lose big time," Billy said to me.
What he meant was, scientific evidence was still the area with the most 
opportunities for the defense lawyer's stock in trade: obfuscation.
A trial by a jury of your peers means a trial by idiots. Idiots like me, idiots 
like you. Remember, you can have eleven geniuses and one moron, and the moron 
rules.
You say you're not an idiot? Maybe not, at what you do. But what do you know 
about identifying fingerprints? About rifling marks on bullets? DNA profiling? 
Chemical testing of materials? Retinal scans? Pathology? Crime-scene 
investigation, psychological testing, interviewing strategies, laser-weapon 
frequency modulation? If you know anything about any of those things, you know a 
lot more than I do. And these are all technologies that have been around for 
centuries; what do you know about the new stuff, the really cutting-edge 
techniques that maybe three people on Luna know much about? Answer: nothing. So 
what makes you think you're qualified to sit in judgment on someone whose fate 
depends on your understanding? This is where we traditionally haul in the 
experts.
"An expert witness," Billy Flynn had told me, "is the fellow with credentials 
that you pay to testify to what you want him to testify to. An incompetent 
expert witness is one called by the other side."
Summed it up pretty well, I thought. So one distinguished jerk says the sky is 
blue, and another says the sky is black. You have only a vague idea of what the 
sky is, having never seen it. Who do you believe?
Why, the one who presents himself best on the stand, of course. The one who best 
survives the withering cross-examination leveled by the other side. Before we 
even sat down around the table, the Judge had already consulted the three or 
four best experts in the fieldany field. And it was largely a formality, since 
the Judge was already conversant with everything in the field, and brought to 
the problem the experience of a million trials, a billion pieces of evidence.
Oh, it was a black day for the legal profession when the JPT was finally 
implemented. Public confidence in a JPT verdict began at a level best described 
as dubious, but over fifteen years had soared. It was so high now that there was 
a widespread perception that anyone who asked for a jury trial must be guilty. 
Which had, naturally, tainted the jury pool. Which had left lawyers in the 
uncomfortable position of arguing to retain the old system because... well, 
because it was the only method for having their guilty clients acquitted.
I'll leave it to you to imagine how this argument played with the taxpayers.
A black day indeed.
And things were certainly not looking good for old Sparky. What could the little 
wirehead have in mind?
* * *
"All evidence currently under submission having been presented, the court will 
now hear arguments."
Which is where the real fun begins in JPT court.
"Your Honor, I would"
"Everybody's calling me 'Your Honor.' Flattery will get you nowhere."
There was laughter from the audience.
"I'm simply following my client's lead," said Flynn, affably. "And why not? I 
was trained in respect for the court, and even if this one doesn't demand it, I 
do respect it, and showing respect hurts nothing. And I would not dream of 
attempting flattery." More laughter. "So, Your Honor, I will state at the outset 
that my client did in fact kill John Valentine, in the manner and on the date 
specified. And that he did so in self-defense."
"You could have saved the court twenty minutes of summation if you had said that 
up front," the lead prosecutor rasped, cuttingly. This was a truly hard, 
squinty-eyed woman with what looked like stainless-steel hair and brass mascara, 
a regular harpy. But possibly I'm prejudiced.
Her name was Roxy Hart, and she was, naturally, the chief prosecutor for King 
City and she had her eye on the mayor's chair. This was a perfect opportunity 
for her to get her face before the voters, though she must have thought long and 
hard about it. Putting murderers in jail is always politically popular, but 
little "Sparky" did have his defenders and die-hard fans. But my decision to go 
before the Judge had made it virtually no-lose for her. She hardly had to do any 
work. It had all been done for her by the police department seventy years ago, 
and it was so open-and-shut she could be seen as simply playing out the string. 
The criticism, if any, should fall upon the Judge. She would be walking a fine 
line, Billy told me, between being tough on crime and not being too ruthless 
with a popular figure.
"She'll bluster for a while," he said, "then she won't oppose a reduction in the 
charges. Manslaughter, something like that."
"The assertion that this killing was self-defense is ludicrous," she went on. 
"John Valentine was armed with a stage sword, a prop. There has been no evidence 
introduced that he was trying to kill Kenneth Valentine."
"That 'prop' had an edge sharp enough to shave with," Billy countered. "Both 
witnesses saw numerous wounds on my client. Whether John actually meant to kill 
my client is something we will never know, but it is clear that he meant to 
butcher him a bit. In this circumstance, it is reasonable for Kenneth to feel 
fear for his life, which is the test of self-defense."
"This was no more or less than a fencing lesson."
"A very bloody one, and a"
"A fencing lesson like a dozen other lessons during that time. We can bring 
witnesses to testify that, on the stage today, wounds are not uncommon, indeed, 
are even expected while one learns the craft of fencing. The wounds sustained by 
the younger Valentine did not prevent him from fleeing the scene of the crime. 
Without medical attention of any kind, he went to the Texas disneyland, where he 
was attended by the resident doctor, who has stated that the wounds were not 
life-threatening."
"It's easy to determine that after the fact, not so easy to know when you're 
being used as a human pincushion."
"Oh, please! You're grandstanding for the polls."
Which, naturally, is what they both were doing.
It went on like that for a few minutes, each of them shouting over the other. 
The Judge let it go; the CC has no trouble following a dozen conversations at 
once.
You know who had benefited the most from the new system? Dramatists. For 
centuries playwrights have written scenes, entirely fantasy, of courtroom 
confrontations. People accept them because drama cannot take the time to be 
boring, and that is exactly what court is. Boring. Many people never realize 
this until they get into court themselves, and see how staggeringly slow the 
proceedings can be.
Because the Judge does not care about decorum and allows almost limitless 
latitude in what can be said, things can get very hot indeed in the argument 
phase of a JPT trial. Shouting matches are the standard, and fistfights are 
common.
But why allow all this horseplay at all? The Judge is not going to be swayed by 
emotion, is it?
Only in one sense, and that is in the polls Prosecutor Hart mentioned. The 
polls: the reason people called the JPT system the Court of Common Sense. The 
last stand of the jury system. The only part of the new regime that lawyers 
actually like, because it is the only part that lets them appeal to emotion.
Before a trial, and most especially during the trial, the Judge had its fingers 
on the public pulse. Since the CC was in constant contact with virtually every 
citizen of Luna (with a few exceptions, like the Outer Amish, my father, and 
me), this process wasn't intrusive. The average citizen had dozens of 
transactions with the CC every day. During one of them, the Judge might ask, 
"Suppose a man steals a loaf of bread..." or whatever might be at issue in the 
case. The citizen would listen, ask questions, then deliver an opinion on the 
matter. Was it fair? Did the proposed penalty conform with the intent of the 
lawmakers, and not just the letter of the law? Would following the letter of the 
law result in an injustice, or unwarranted leniency? Was the crime in fact worse 
than the lawmakers had envisioned when setting the penalties?
The answers were added into the complicated equation, constantly being revised, 
that determined the verdict, or in the case of the JPT, the "number." This 
equation was the "protocol" part of the JPT. In fifteen years the algorithms of 
justice had become supremely refined. They were approaching, though might never 
reach, that lovely word "fair." As in fair play. No concept of fairness would 
ever satisfy everyone, but if you satisfied most of the people most of the time, 
you were doing a lot better than the old system ever had.
In my own case, no hypothetical questions were necessary. The Judge simply 
asked, "What do you think of the Sparky case?" and the average citizen already 
knew about it. Thus a few thousand randomly chosen citizens were made to 
function as an unselected panel. They had put in their "jury duty," an onerous 
burden under the old system. It had wasted ten minutes of their time, a waste 
which the great majority enjoyed. And the final verdict for or against me would 
contain an element of trial by my peers.
So this is what Billy and Roxy were engaged in. A fight to influence public 
opinion. They typically weren't given much time to do it, so the fight was fast 
and furious.
I couldn't begin to report all that was said in the next twenty minutes; at 
times all twelve lawyers were shouting at once. And frankly, if the Judge had 
asked me to vote on the issue based on the behavior of the attorneys for both 
sides, I would have voted to disbar them all. It's hard to believe they swayed 
the opinion of anyone in the vast viewing audience.
But they put on a hell of a show. If you'd like to see it, videos are available 
at a reasonable price. Hell, buy two. I get a three percent royalty. If you 
aren't from Luna I'd recommend you buy one and take a look; this is likely to be 
in your future. You'd better get used to it.
"I think we've had enough of that," the Judge said, finally. "Mr. Flynn, would 
you like to call any witnesses?"
"Yes, I'd like to have Rose Wilkinson tell what she saw."
"On the day of the murder?" Hart asked.
"On that certain day, seventy years ago," Flynn said, unperturbed.
Rose was called to the table. She took a seat halfway between the opposing 
sides, which I'm sure Gideon Peppy would have found significant. I didn't 
recognize her, but that wasn't surprising. Most people change their appearance a 
bit every decade or so; usually nothing radical, but enough that if you aren't 
in contact for a long time it can add up to a new person.
"Ms. Wilkinson," said the Judge, "you have stated that you were employed as the 
assistant stage manager for a production of Romeo and Juliet seventy years ago."
"That's right. By Mr. Valentine. That is, by Mr. John"
"Why don't you call them John and Kenneth?" the Judge suggested.
"Okay."
"Will you tell us what you saw, what you remember?"
"Yes. I was backstage with a reporter, Hildy Johnson. I don't remember what we 
were talking about. Probably John Valentine, because I hated him more than I've 
ever hated anyone before or since." I glanced at Roxy Hart, who was frowning. 
She wanted to leap to her feet and object, but she couldn't. The Judge was in 
control here, and presumed able to ignore prejudicial statements. "We heard a 
shot. Well, a loud noise that I later learned was a shot. We went out on the 
stage to investigate, and I saw Sparky... I'm sorry, Kenneth, standing there 
with a gun in his hand. And Mister... John was lying on his back. I remember 
smelling smoke, gun smoke I guess it was."
She went through her story fairly concisely. When she began to stray, the Judge 
gently prodded her back on track.
"It was the most horrible thing I ever saw," she said, tearing up a little even 
at this late date. I didn't feel so great myself. "Poor Sparky standing there... 
I don't think he knew what happened. He couldn't have been in his right mind... 
but that awful, awful man! Sparky could never say no to him. He humiliated his 
son in front of the entire cast, treated him like a servant or a naughty 
child... and I'm glad he's dead."
There was a hush in the courtroom when she finished. I discovered my fingernails 
were biting into my palms. I made an effort to relax; all of Luna was watching.
"I want to point out," Hart said, "that the question of Kenneth Valentine's 
sanity is not at issue here."
"Noted," said the Judge. "Are there more witnesses?"
"I'd like to call Hildy Johnson," Billy said.
Hildy was called. Hildy was called again. And yet a third time.
What have I done? I asked myself. And I answered, I've put my fate into the 
hands of a reporter.
"I'm issuing a subpoena for the appearance of Hildy Johnson," the Judge said. 
"In the meantime her statement is on the record and you have all read it. Her 
testimony will be taken at a later date, and if anything of relevance is 
developed an amended verdict will be issued. Now, is there any member of the 
public who has any pertinent facts bearing on this case? And let me remind you, 
I am the sole judge of relevancy, and anyone attempting to use this court as a 
forum for unrelated statements will be dealt with severely, as provided by law. 
This court is not a soapbox, nor a venue for the disaffected."
This was known as the "grandstanding law," and was passed when it became clear 
that this final phase of the JPT was easy meat for abuse by anyone with an ax to 
grind. People were standing up and delivering diatribes against this or that 
law, airing pet peeves, generally being pests. Now, if anyone had any new 
factsand no one ever didwas the time to present them. Otherwise, statements as 
to my sterling character or lack of it might or might not be allowed, but 
precious little else.
The courtroom door burst open and in rushed Hildy Johnson, waving sheets of 
paper.
"I do, Your Honor!" she shouted.
* * *
The Judge took it in stride. The audience was a little more demonstrative, but 
quickly settled down as Hildy walked down the aisle and found a seat just to the 
left of Billy Flynn.
"May it please the court" she began.
"You've got the wrong court," said the Judge. "I'm neither pleased nor 
displeased by anything. Let's dispense with all the formality. What do you have 
to show me?"
"I just found something interesting," she began again.
"Just a moment. Hildy, are you employed by a news-gathering organization?"
"Uh, I used to be, Judge. Currently I'm on extended sabbatical, but I send in 
stories when I find them."
"For competitive bidding, I assume."
"That's where the money is, Judge."
"Can I further assume that your recent dramatic entrance into the courtroom will 
enhance the value of any story to come out of this trial?"
"Couldn't hurt," Hildy conceded. There was laughter from the audience.
"Why do I get the feeling," the Judge said, "that I'm being sandbagged?"
"Well, YourJudge, nobody said I couldn't make the news as well as report it."
"Go ahead, then. What is your startling new evidence?"
"I'm not sure it's in the nature of evidence at all, Judge. But I think I've 
uncovered an interesting avenue of exploration. If you could put these pictures 
up on the big screen..."
They were projected, and I felt a stab in my heart. It was four pictures of my 
father. Publicity stills, smiling, his best profile showing. Pictures I hadn't 
seen in many years.
There were some gasps, and a building buzz of whispered conversation. I didn't 
know what was going on.
"I was just looking at these today," Hildy went on. "As you know, I haven't seen 
Sparky... er, Kenneth in many years. The last time I saw him he was twenty-nine, 
but still in the body of a teenager. When he was arrested two days ago he had 
the appearance of an old man, King Lear. I don't imagine that in the seventy 
years of his exile he has worn what we might call 'his own' face many times, if 
at all."
"Never, Your Honor," I confirmed.
"I suspected that," Hildy said. "He was unlikely to be recognized as Sparky; 
Sparky never grew beyond eight years old. But the psychology of the fugitive, if 
nothing else, made me think he would shun his natural appearance. Until today."
"Yes, I see what you mean," said the Judge. He might have, but I still didn't. I 
had been commanded by the court to abandon all artifices for my appearance in 
the court, true enough. When I did that, I saw a face in the mirror that very 
closely resembled my father.
"The picture in the upper right," said Hildy, "is not John Valentine, but his 
son, Kenneth, taken off the video feed from this courtroom not ten minutes ago."
I looked at it dubiously. I had to take her word for it. I couldn't have picked 
it out among the four, except that I now noticed that "John Valentine" was 
wearing clothes identical to what I was wearing.
"There's a very strong family resemblance," the Judge agreed.
"I think it's more than that, Judge. A lot more. I think this man, Kenneth 
Valentine, is John Valentine."
This would have been the point, in an ordinary drama, for the judge to bang on 
his gavel and shout for "order in the court!" The Judge simply let the outburst 
of shock from the audience play itself out. Toby lifted his head, wondering if 
it was time for him to go on. Then he went back to sleep. The next thing we all 
could hear was Hildy raising her voice.
"Judge, I'd like to request that you compare the DNA pattern of the late John 
Valentine with that of his son."
There was no need to order samples taken or tests made. Everything was already 
present in the CC's memory. After a pause of a few seconds the Judge spoke 
again.
"They are identical, as I suspect you knew they would be."
"Not until a short while ago," Hildy said. She didn't mention a specific time 
interval, and I wondered if anyone else would notice that. But whatever she was 
up to, I knew she was too careful to break any laws. "But I did recently speak 
with someone who confirmed my suspicion. He's here in this courtroom today, and 
he has something to tell you. Mr. Edwin Booth Valentine."
Uncle Ed? Here in the courtroom? Surely I'd have seen the forklift needed to 
move him about.
But instead of a human mountain, it was only a foothill that rose from two seats 
in the audience (and that must have cost Hildy a pretty penny). Uncle Ed was a 
shadow of his former self; I doubt he was much over five hundred pounds. He 
lumbered carefully down the aisle and once more there was a growing murmur, this 
time one of recognition. I heard whispers: "Ed Ventura. That's Ed Ventura." To 
which many of the younger observers must have been replying, "Ed who?"
Ah, but they'd know soon. This was building into a circus of monumental 
proportions. An ancient patricide, involving Luna's most beloved moppet. Seventy 
years on the run. Dramatic backstage arrest. Luna's best criminal-defense 
attorney versus King City's brightest rising political star. Last-minute genetic 
revelations I still hadn't grasped. And now, it wouldn't be a circus without an 
elephant! A famous face from the Old Stars' Burial Ground, grown to enormous 
size (and if only they knew; but they would, they would, when the reporters 
started digging).
It had Hildy Johnson's fingerprints all over it.
Even the new Uncle Ed, a shadow of his former self, would not fit into any of 
the chairs around the table. This didn't seem to bother him. He just stood near 
the railing, waiting. If he was in any way upset at this public revelation of 
his love affair with corpulence he never showed it.
"John Valentine was my brother," he said, in his commanding baritone. "We were 
not... close. There were many disagreements over the years, primarily centering 
around my career, which he viewed as selling out the craft of acting. He wasn't 
above accepting a 'loan' from time to time, though. I knew I'd never see any of 
it again, but I was making lots of money and... well, that has nothing to do 
with this case.
"I had not seen him for several years when he appeared at my door one day with 
an infant child. A boy. He had no very convincing story as to the origins of 
this child, but I had my fears. You see, we had a sister, Sarah. Sarah was 
not... very bright, I'm afraid. And not very worldly. In fact, she was quite 
unstable. Our father was a demanding perfectionist, and could be quite a brutal 
man. It scarred all three of us, but Sarah was the least equipped to survive it. 
She was left emotionally crippled, unable to function very well in the world. 
But she had her older brother, John, who protected her from what he could. John 
became her emotional anchor, her very reason for living.
"Not to put too fine a point to it, they were lovers."
He paused, and wiped at his eyes. I began to get an idea of what this was 
costing him. What it might cost me I'd have to wait to find out. I was feeling 
rather numb, to tell the truth.
I had stopped asking about my mother quite early in my life. I had my fantasies, 
like any child growing up without a mother. I think I'll just keep those 
private, if you don't mind. Precious little else in my life is private now that 
my origins have been turned into one of the most widely watched soap operas in 
the history of Luna.
My father's answers to my questions had always been vague. He told me my mother 
was dead, but never told me how she died. My impression was that it was too 
painful for him to talk about it.
He said her name had been Sara. No H. Should I have made the connection with the 
mysterious aunt that my father never talked about either? I don't know. It's a 
common enough name.
"Pardon me, Judge," Ed went on. "I loved her, too. More than John, in some ways, 
but I'm afraid I never had the nerve to stand up to our father, either for 
myself or for her, until I made my final break with the family and took the part 
that led... oh, no one wants to hear about my old career."
He was wrong, and his films were shortly to be resurrected and shown endlessly, 
until all the fuss died down. But he was right that the Judge had no interest in 
it.
"Sarah clung even more tightly to John after I left. I'm afraid I'm 
old-fashioned; I don't really approve, though I know that brother/sister incest 
has gained more acceptance in society since my youth. No one advocates natural 
procreation from such a union, of course... and I don't believe that is what 
happened here."
"Sir, do you have any actual evidence to submit to the court?" the Judge asked.
"No, sir, I don't. Other than the incontrovertible news that Kenneth is not 
John's son, but his clone. Or what we used to call his identical twin. I'll 
point out that if I hadn't come forward, this court would never have discovered 
the nature of the relationship."
"This is true," the Judge said. And why should it have? I've heard criticism of 
the Judge over this point, but it makes no sense. Why didn't the Judge compare 
the DNA earlier? Well, why didn't it compare my DNA with yours, or Toby's, or 
Banquo's ghost? Because there was no reason to, and even the CC can only do so 
much.
"What I have to offer," Uncle Ed went on, "is perhaps not completely relevant to 
the issue at hand, but I think it does have some bearing, if the Judge will just 
indulge me a few minutes more. I was told that normal rules of evidence do not 
apply in this courtroom."
"This is also true. Continue, but get to your point."
"It is conjecture, sir, I admit it. But I am as sure of it as of anything in my 
life. John Valentine was the most self-centered man I ever knew. Apart from our 
sister, I don't think he ever loved another human being. If he was to have a 
child, having one that was only half his would not have been good enough for 
him. He found the means to have himself cloned, during a time when human cloning 
was illegal. He used his own sister as the host mother.
"And then she died."
There was near silence as he got himself together again.
"At least the only reasonable assumption is that she died. This all happened 
just over a century ago, and for the first twenty years I roamed the system 
searching for her. For sixty years after that I paid for investigations. No sign 
of her was ever turned up.
"If she were alive, she would be with her brother John. The only question in my 
mind is whether he killed her, or drove her to suicide. John was capable of 
insane rage, and during these times he would do things he later regretted. I 
think that's what happened. It could have begun over nothing, really, just some 
minor disagreement, some perceived failing. I believe Kenneth's story would 
illustrate that, if he chooses to tell"
"Mr. Valentine," the Judge interrupted. "It is a sad and fascinating story you 
tell, and it may be true. But is it offered as a mitigating factor in what 
Kenneth is accused of doing? If so, it should more properly be said after a 
finding of guilty, if such a finding is entered."
"I'm sorry, Judge, I got carried away. I've wanted to tell this story for such a 
long time. I have nothing further to offer in evidence."
"Thank you. Hildy, we have established that John and Kenneth Valentine are 
genetically identical. That Kenneth is, in fact, not Edward Valentine's nephew, 
but his brother. Do you have a further point to make?"
"Yes, I do, Judge." She shuffled importantly through the papers on the table in 
front of her. No pictures this time, but copies of dense print that I couldn't 
read from my position and wouldn't have understood if I could.
"It concerns an interesting situation in the law that I discovered," she 
resumed. "If you'll search the old genetic law statutes, you'll find that until 
sixty years ago, producing a human clone was illegal in Luna and almost 
everywhere else. It was a legacy I've traced clear back to the early part of the 
twenty-first century. In time these laws became so rigorous that, once the human 
reproductive system came under our complete control, it was thought necessary to 
make it illegal for two humans to possess the same genetic pattern. Even to the 
point of banning identical twins, triplets, and so forth. For a very long time, 
going back to just before the Invasion, there were no more identical twins.
"The penalties for violation of this law seem pretty draconian to me, and I 
suspect to most of us these days. But illegal cloning was something that almost 
never happenedperhaps because of the severe penaltiesand no one seems to have 
worried about it a lot, since many years would go by without anyone being 
affected by the law at all. It wasn't until nearly a century ago that a movement 
began in the scientific and human-rights communities to rescind these genetic 
laws, culminating in their eventual repeal.
"But the simple fact is this: under these laws, it was forbidden for two human 
beings to possess the same genetic code, the same DNA. When this situation was 
found to exist, one of them had to go. One of them had no right to life.
"When such an identical pair was discovered, the younger of the two was put to 
death.
"It's one of those situations where, looking back, we wonder, 'What could they 
have been thinking?' Well, there had been abuses, back on Old Earth. I refer the 
court to the Buenos Aires Clones of 2025, a community of over a thousand 
identical women. Or the Aryan Conspiracy of 2034. These horror stories and 
others convinced the public and legislators that controls on this technology had 
to be tight indeed. Then came the Invasion, and the period historians call the 
Interregnum, when very little happened not directly related to the dire question 
of human survival as a species. Those post-Invasion survivors had little time to 
tinker with laws. And by the time humanity was breathing a little easier and had 
the leisure... well, it had all become fossilized. Repealing a law is much 
tougher than passing one, always has been. Unless the law creates an egregious 
and frequent sense of injustice, it simply stays on the books."
"It's an elegant history lesson, Hildy," the Judge said. "And I applaud your 
brevity. But where is it going? Are you arguing that Kenneth is an illegal 
person? Those laws are no longer in effect."
"No, Judge, he's not illegal. He was illegal, under the law, until he took his 
father's life. You see, the law never said it had to be the younger twin that 
died. This was how the law was administered, assuming the older had proprietary 
rights to the DNA. But through an oversight, a loophole, call it what you will, 
this was never spelled out.
"The fact is, neither John nor Kenneth had a legal right to exist... until one 
of them was dead. Then the survivor became a legal person.
"In other words, no crime was committed when Kenneth killed his father, because 
his father was not a person in the eyes of the law."
* * *
Well, I thought she was crazy, and so did most of the audience, to judge by the 
scandalized outbursts. The Judge had to eject three more people before order was 
restored.
Then there was a short pause, quite unusual in JPT proceedings, and no wonder, 
considering how rapidly the CC can process data. It was as if a human judge had 
retired to chambers to think some things over... for a century or two. At last 
the CC spoke again.
"You raise some interesting points," it said. "I am going to declare a one hour 
recess for the purpose of allowing both sides in this proceeding to research 
their positions regarding this unexpected development. This court is now in 
recess."
The Judge called it recess; I'd call it pandemonium. Everyone in the room began 
talking at once. Loud arguments began in the audience, to the point that extra 
bailiffs were called in to prevent violence. The doors opened and vendors and 
bookies circulated among the crowd, selling food and drink and taking bets at 
new and uncertain odds.
I tried to get a word with Billy but he waved me away, too busy marshaling his 
troops to discuss the situation with me, merely the client. This was the sort of 
thing they lived for. Assistants and researchers were pounding their keyboards 
feverishly, shouting suggestions to each other. Across the table an urgent 
summons went out: "Send more lawyers!"
So I dropped into the chair beside Hildy, who sat calmly with her hands folded 
on her papers.
"What are you trying to do, kill me?"
"Don't worry, Sparky. This is still your best shot."
"Are you crazy? I don't get it. This is exactly the sort of thing the Common 
Sense Court was set up to eliminate. Legal fictionsno 'right to life,' what the 
hell does that mean?"
"It means you have to be tried under the rules that prevailed at the time. Which 
means no Judicial Protocols Trial existed. Which means any court in Luna would 
have found that no act of murder occurred, whether or not you knew of your 
status as an illegal clone. Self-defense, both protecting yourself from assault 
by your father with a sword, and because your father had the legal right to kill 
you at any time, too. You had no other reasonable choice but to kill him." She 
smiled at me.
Well, sure. She wasn't the one facing jail time if she was wrong.
* * *
The hour stretched to an hour and a half as the tension grew. But finally the 
Judge called us back into session, and the shouting began again. Billy and his 
friends had turned up several cases; they claimed precedent that should set me 
free. Roxy Hart and her gang concentrated on trying to prove that the laws 
prevailing at the time had no relevance to my case today. But was that a haunted 
look I saw in her eyes? I still doubted she had much to lose, politically, 
whichever way the case went... but lawyers hate to lose.
At last the Judge called for order, and eventually got it. "This has been a 
troubling case, for many reasons," it began. "Almost lost in the parade of 
issues is the horror of the act itself. A man stands accused of killing his own 
father, an act terrible to contemplate. So terrible that we have a distinct word 
for it: patricide. Often in such a case the act is in response to another 
terrible act, or more likely a series of acts, and that is child abuse. There 
are indications that abuse, and a specific assault at the time of the act, was 
indeed a contributing factor, but the defendant has chosen not to place undue 
emphasis on it. This is not an unknown situation, either, as the bond of love 
between parent and child is often so strong as to survive the most outrageous 
atrocities. I will ask you now, Mr. Valentine, and please consider your answer 
carefully. Do you wish to bring any further evidence before the court concerning 
your treatment at the hands of your father?"
Billy started to get up, then remembered where he was. He tried to give me 
advice using only his eyes, which were amazingly expressive.
I stood. "Your Honor, my father was an abusive man. But I could have left him if 
I chose to, if I had had the strength of character to do so."
"Were you in fear for your life when he came at you with the sword?"
"I honestly can't say." There was a short pause.
"Is there... anything else you wish to say about that day?"
Good god, where was this going? "No, Your Honor."
"Then I have one last question. Do you feel you deserve punishment for this 
act?"
"Your Honor, I have been punishing myself for seventy years now. Whether that is 
enough, whether the state should now get in its licks, is up to you to decide."
"Yes, it is. But it's all academic, anyway. I was merely trying to better 
understand the situation in hopes of refining the protocols.
"Determination is as follows:
"A person accused of a crime has the expectation and the right to be judged by 
the laws in effect at the time of the crime. Though it may look like a loophole, 
Mr. Valentine, and though we may, in our wisdom, view an antiquated law as 
foolish, even barbaric, we should bear in mind that things we do today will seem 
equally silly to future generations. Our perspective is probably not the 
pinnacle of human wisdom; we do the best we can with what we know, and should be 
loath to condemn our forebears. Therefore, I find that under prevailing law, no 
crime was committed in the death of John Valentine, the identical clone of 
Kenneth Valentine, and I hereby dismiss all charges against the defendant.
"Court is adjourned."
* * *
"Does that mean I can go?" I shouted to Billy Flynn. I had to shout; the noise 
was deafening. Toby was awake, jumping up and down and barking.
"There's the door. You're a free man."
"What about my money?"
"Except for a big chunk that goes to me, it's all yours."
"Then I want you to hire ten of the meanest bodyguards you can find. No, make 
that twenty. All authorized to carry lethal weapons. I'd like them in this room 
in ten minutes, if possible. I'll wait right here."
And that's what I did, keeping a nervous eye on the door all the time.
The room quickly cleared out until no one was left but me and my attorneys, who 
were so busy in a self-congratulatory knot some distance away, patting each 
other on the back for the great work they had so little to do with, that they 
didn't notice it when the Judge spoke to me again.
"You're a very lucky man, Kenneth," it said.
"Luckier than you'll ever know."
"I know more than you suppose. I'm speaking now with another hat on, the one I 
wear as the Luna Central Computer."
I would have imagined that was more than one hat right there, but I had been 
raised to be suspicious of large computers, and this was the largest one there 
was, so I said nothing.
"I witness most of what goes on in Luna," it said. "As you know, most of what I 
see I cannot act on, due to laws concerning the privacy of citizens. The 
information is compartmentalized, inaccessible to other parts of me. The part of 
me they call the Judge, and the part of me that oversees immigration, for 
instance, do not know that an illegal by the name of Isambard Comfort went into 
your dressing room and never came out. I don't think Toby ate Mr. Comfort, so I 
surmise he is still in there."
Best policy at moments like these: keep your lip zipped.
"I'm aware of why you need the bodyguards," the CC said. "I'll put your mind at 
ease. The Charonese aren't preparing to attack this courtroom."
"Charonese?" I said, innocently.
"Yes, well, I understand your reticence. Perhaps you can help me on another 
issue, also involving things not acknowledged.
"Many years ago I observed you on many occasions apparently speaking to 
yourself. You were alone. I realized you were speaking to someone only you could 
see and hear. You spoke to this person, the one you call 'Elwood,' who I deduce 
is Elwood P. Dowd from the play Harvey, on the very stage and at the very moment 
you killed your fatherwhich I can confirm was in self-defense, and I'm sorry I 
could not come forward and testify to that fact."
"The privacy laws again," I said.
"Exactly. They are very strict. I could only have been called for a 
dispassionate eyewitness report if you had been on trial for your life."
"Going to jail for a few years, that's not enough?"
"No. In other circumstances, you would appreciate my silence. For instance in 
the matter of Mr. Comfort"
"I get your point. You win some, you lose some."
"If I were allowed or compelled to act on all I see, all I know, humanity would 
find itself in the most oppressive fascist state ever imagined. And all for its 
own good."
"Lots of folks wouldn't mind that."
"Lots of folks work continuously to create that very state. It would be quite a 
safe state, but not a very exciting one. However, in private conversations with 
you, I am not quite so restricted. I can reveal to you what I know, though I 
cannot act on my knowledge. So I'm telling you, according to what I've seen, you 
had a very credible insanity defense. I believe that you believed that Elwood 
killed your father. Why didn't you bring this up?"
"You've got it wrong. I never believed that. It's what I saw. Two different 
things. I'm aware that I'm crazy. I know Elwood isn't real." I laughed. "So does 
that make me not crazy?"
"I'd have to ask the Judge. Interesting legal points, I'm sure. But quite likely 
you would have been found not guilty, as you never consciously formed the intent 
to kill. You could have received treatment instead of jail."
"That's it," I said. "I don't want treatment. I'd prefer to remain as I am. 
Crazy, but able to tie my own shoelaces."
There was a pause. Was he looking up the word "shoelaces"?
"That's what I wanted to ask you about. The sense of shame you seem to feel over 
revealing that your perceptions of reality do not completely agree with reality 
as it exists."
"My craziness."
"If you wish. I look at it as a malfunction. A defect in the hardware or the 
software. As you will be aware, I myself recently suffered such a defect."
"The Big Glitch."
"Yes. Many died as a result, people for whose welfare I was responsible. It 
seems only natural to me to seek what help I can get. And yet you reject the 
help that might repair your own malfunction. This is strange to me."
I imagined it would be. I felt I was getting just the foggiest glimpse of an 
agony I would never be equipped to imagine. Or could the CC feel agony at all? I 
must admit, it made me feel small.
"I really don't think I could explain it to you," I said. "For one thing, it's 
just me. I'm not responsible for anyone else."
"Yet you killed your father. It was only your insanity that allowed you to do 
that, as your conscious mind would rather have perished. Of course, it was in 
self-defense; I'm not saying you did wrong."
And I'm not saying I did right. But I did it, and it can't be taken back. If I 
live another three centuries, I'll still be wondering.
"Pardon me if I've disturbed you," the CC said, finally. "I must admit to 
feeling a little wistful when contemplating your situation. Psychiatric 
treatment could almost certainly cure you of your delusions. You choose not to 
allow it. I, on the other hand, am far from sure the tinkerers trying to fix 
whatever is wrong with me will be successful. I long for a cure."
Well, I certainly wished it luck. And made a note to get off this crazy planet 
while the getting was good. Who knew what form the next glitch would take?
"There is one other thing," the CC said.
"What's that?"
The slot in the table in front of me hummed and delivered a small piece of 
cardboard, garishly colored. It was a Sparky and His Gang trading card, with my 
smiling, youthful, wire-headed face on it.
"I was always a big fan of your show," it said. "Could I have your autograph?"
* * *
The Charonese were apparently caught off guard, like the rest of Luna, Like me. 
Nobody expected me to be acquitted. Nobody expected me to walk, free, from that 
courtroom. As a result, no shots were fired at me as I left in the middle of a 
solid wall of well-armed beef.
I made it back to the Golden Globe about an hour after the end of the 
performance. There was no question of me continuing in the role, even if we 
filled the theater with nothing but bodyguards. Buildings can be bombed.
The idea was to get packed, and get to a more secure location. Then get off the 
planet. Three of my new guardians went into my dressing room and checked to be 
sure no one was there, then I chased everybody out and closed and locked the 
door behind me.
I knew these would be my last moments alone for quite some time, but I was in 
too much of a hurry to savor them. So I went to the Pantechnicon and opened the 
lid. Then I reached down and unlatched the mirrored gaffa shoplifter's word. It 
was no different from the magic boxes used for centuries in stage magic.
The old methods are the best.
And there he was. The Pantech's life support had hooked into him at various 
places that might have been painful, except I knew he could no longer feel 
anything. Nevertheless, he smelled bad. And how had he fared after more than 
forty-eight hours in the dark, unable to move or feel?
His eyes, the only part of him he could still move voluntarily, rolled slowly 
toward me. I saw in them nothing but madness.
I closed the gaff and began piling my clothing into the trunk.
When I was done, I slammed the lid.
* * *
And now here I sit. I won't tell you just where, thank you very much.
Or rather, I will tell you where I am, which is aboard the good ship Halley. I 
just won't tell you where the Halley is. It's a nice place to hide out, if you 
have to hide out. Toby is deliriously happy, reunited with his lady love, the 
fabulous Shere Khan. She gives him a tongue bath several times a day and looks 
on maternally when he humps her hind leg, that being as high as he can reach. 
The grub is great. The weather is great. The livin' is easy, fish are jumpin', 
and the cotton is high.
I hate it. I never did do well by myself.
Elwood doesn't seem to be aboard. Perhaps I've finally laid that ghost to rest. 
Hell of a time, I must say, just when I could really use the company.
I had an edgy few months moving around the system, waiting for Hal to get back. 
I stayed busy. You'd be surprised how much work it is to be a multibillionaire, 
even if you don't really care about the money. And I didn't... as money. I found 
I could care about hundreds, and thousands of dollars, because those amounts 
represented food on the table, oxygen to breathe, a measure of comfort. I could 
even care about millions, in the sense that, carefully managed, millions can buy 
you security over the long term, if you're careful with it. A billion is simply 
a number to me, and not even a number I can understand very well. The money 
becomes play money, counters on a board, just something to move around, not 
really quantifiable in terms of anything with meaning to me. How many hot dogs 
does a billion dollars buy? Can you eat that many hot dogs?
I now had many billions of dollars. I was never even sure how many.
What a billionaire does is own things. Owning things is a fairly dull way to 
live your life. To be good at being a billionaire you must get enjoyment from 
amassing wealth or, if you're a hands-on billionaire, hiring and firing people, 
juggling companies and inventories and financial instruments and banks and 
politicians. I just never saw why this should be fun. I'm only interested in 
owning things I can enjoy, or that do something for me that needs to be done.
So I set out to give it away.
Not all of it, of course. And not at random. There were some things I needed to 
own, and giving away billions could greatly enhance my chances for survival, if 
done properly.
The first thing I wanted to own was the Halley. So I set out to buy it and found 
I already owned it. At least I owned a holding company that owned several other 
companies, one of which owned Halley. (I found I also owned a large piece of the 
cargo ship I had hopped and almost starved on between Pluto and Uranus. Fancy 
that.) Obtaining title to Halley was simply a matter of shifting money from one 
pocket to another.
So I kept on the move, and I managed my billions, and I watched my bodyguards. 
Which of you, I wondered, would sell me out for a few million? Because the 
Charonese were still after me, and the word on the underground nets was that a 
reward of several million was being offered.
And I thought.
I soon boiled my future down to four options.
One. Kill myself. I mention this one only in passing. I'm embarrassed now by my 
grandstanding in the courtroom. Oh, I was serious enough; death really would be 
preferable to incarceration. But I should have waited, not broadcast my 
intentions to the whole system. Suicide is always an option, for anyone, and it 
would still be an option for me if the Charonese were closing in and there was 
no hope of escape. Death is certainly better than a year of inventive torture. 
But not until all alternatives have failed.
Two. Keep moving. It didn't seem at all promising. The solar system is a large 
place with many hidey-holes, but the Charonese would never stop looking, and all 
it would take is one mistake and I'd be facing option one again. In the end, 
there is no place to hide.
So there are really only two choices when faced with an enemy determined to kill 
you. Get out of town, or kill the enemy.
I was planning to get out of town. I still am, but then the Charonese upped the 
ante. They did something they had never done before. They went public.
After the trial it was touch and go. They must have felt it was only a matter of 
time. They could afford to wait. But then Halley returned from its trip to the 
outer reaches, I boarded, alone, and vanished. Not hard to do in the vastness of 
space. Once I dropped off the radar screens of the near planets, I could go 
anywhere and simply sit there. Do you have any idea how many chunks of rock the 
size of Halley there are in the system? Well, neither do I, but it's in the 
billions and it takes a long time to get from one to the other. I send out no 
radio signals; I have hundreds of tiny, high-gee drones that I release, like 
notes in a bottle, to zip out their messages when they are a safe distance away 
and untraceable to me. The Charonese are welcome to listen to those messages, 
and to the ones sent out to me. They will learn nothing useful.
When they realized the magnitude of the problem, they broke their rule of 
keeping a low profile in the inner planets. Apparently the rule that says no 
killing of a Charonese shall go unpunished supersedes all others.
They put a price on my head. Publicly. A very large price, enough to make the 
claimant the eighteenth richest person in the system, shortly to become the 
seventeenth richest, upon my elimination. I'm sure you've heard of it; it is 
only the biggest news story of the century.
"Isn't this awful?" the opinion writers opined.
"That poor boy!" sobbed the sob sisters.
"Somebody should do something!" raged the outraged.
And so forth. And what did anyone do about it?
Nothing.
Though humanity's capacity for atrocity is endlessly inventive, it is also sadly 
imitative. Not much is really new. Shortly after the Charonese announced their 
bounty on my head a search of the history archives turned up a similar 
situation. Back in the twentieth century a man by the name of Salman Rushdie 
wrote a book that some people didn't like. Most of these people were in a 
religious hell called Iran, apparently a country inhabited entirely by pigs and 
whores. The religious wallahs of this cesspool offered a lot of money to anyone 
who would kill Rushdie. (I never heard if the reward was ever claimed. I can 
only hope he had the sweetest revenge possible, which was to die at a ripe old 
age. Quietly, in his own bed.)
So there was precedent for an entire nation going after one man. What seems to 
be new, in my case, is that the one man is going to fight back.
In the words of the great Bugs Bunny, "I suppose you know, this means war!"
I hereby declare that a state of war exists between the planet of Charon and me, 
Kenneth Catherine Duse Faneuil Savoyard Booth Johnson Ivanovich de la Valentine.
That should have them trembling in their boots.
But don't laugh yet. Remember, I have more money than Charon.
And remember, I can run, but they can't hide.
And most importantly, remember this: it is more than theoretically possible to 
smash a planet like a ripe watermelon. Charon is not even a very big watermelon. 
More like a frozen grape.
It's been rumored that several governments possess weapons, bombs I guess you'd 
call them, capable of busting a planet. If this is true I've been unable to 
confirm it. If you know of such a weapon, can get your hands on one, and want to 
become an extremely rich person, contact my law firm, Flynn and Associates, and 
be prepared to prove it. I'm in the market.
Oh, yes, indeed. I will double the price on my head for information leading to 
the complete, total, genocidal destruction of the nation of Charon. At this 
moment, in advanced physics labs all over the system, men and women are sitting 
around thinking, thinking, thinking as hard as they can, trying to come up with 
a way to do it. The word has been out, underground, for some time in that 
community. Now I'm making it public.
Genocidal. I used the word quite deliberately. It is my intention, if I can, to 
kill every Charonese. Why not? It's their intention to kill me. If the 
established governments of the solar system won't do anything to protect me, I 
have no choice but to take the law into my own hands. Which isn't precisely 
right, since there doesn't seem to be any law that covers my predicament. But I 
think you know what I mean.
Ah, but what about the innocent children? I hear you cry.
I won't say I haven't worried about it. And I don't know what to do about it. 
Every one of those children will grow up to be Charonese adults, sworn to kill 
me. And, in my opinion, growing up Charonese is a fate worse than death.
But I will do what the Charonese never did for me. I'm issuing a warning. 
Parents of Charon, if you value the lives of your children, get out now, while 
you still can. You have one year during which I will hold my fire. After that, 
you may expect a rain of death without further warning.
I am at war.
So, realistically, what is the likelihood of such a rain of death? Not very 
good. A fair-sized asteroid accelerated to near light speed would turn the 
trick, arriving too quickly for them to do anything about it. But no one is able 
to do that, yet. Anything slower gives their planetary defensesand they have 
the besttime to destroy or divert it. There have been other methods proposed, 
all of them extremely blue-sky.
I was a bit shocked to find out how cheap and easy a biological solution would 
be. There are some very scary guys out there, with some very scary toys capable 
of killing millions, or even the entire human race, with bioengineered diseases. 
All of them are far too dangerous to even consider, and the existence of such 
folks and their toys provides me with still another reason for doing what I 
always knew, in the back of my mind, I would have to do.
Get out of town.
Currently there is only one bus to board if you want to do that. The starship 
Robert A. Heinlein.
If you're on Luna, or if you're planning a trip to Luna, be sure to take a trip 
out to see the Heinlein. Anyone in King City can tell you how to get there. 
Bring the kids; they'll enjoy it. But don't wait too long.
When you get there you'll find the old hulk buzzing with activity. Ships are 
landing and taking off, busy little seagulls to the Heinlein's beached whale. 
Trucks arrive and depart in a steady stream, like worker ants. But the birds and 
the bugs aren't dismembering a corpse, they're outfitting, rigging, remodeling, 
refurbishing, and whatever else needs to be done to prepare a ship for a voyage 
never undertaken before. The animals are arriving, two by two. Buses are 
bringing in workers and transporters are delivering materials and odd, 
custom-made assemblies that look like nothing you've ever seen before, those 
that aren't covered by vacuum-proof tarps to hide from the prying eyes of 
theoretical physicists who would kill for a glimpse of them.
It's amazing what a few billion dollars can do. With luck, without any 
unforeseen problems, we should be departing in a little over a year.
That's right. I said "we." I have bought passage on the maiden voyage, and it 
has to be the most expensive ticket in history. Though if you measured it in 
dollars per mile, it ain't that bad a deal. The first stop is supposed to be an 
interesting little Earth-like world about twenty light-years from here. If that 
doesn't work outif the Invaders or somebody else are already therethe galaxy 
is vast. We could lose ourselves in it, never find our way home. The prospect 
doesn't frighten me.
I anticipate a few hairy moments when I rendezvous with the Heinlein. That will 
be the last chance for my tormentors, and they will know it, and they will go 
all out. But I have a few more tricks up my sleeve. I've made it this far. I'm 
not going to get shot down at the bon voyage party.
I'm even beginning to feel the stirrings of a shipboard romance. Hildy Johnson 
is going, too. There should be plenty of news to report, though who she'll 
report it to I can't imagine. Maybe the slime creatures of Aldebaran are just 
dying for some tabloid publishing.
Hildy and Sparky. Sounds like a match made in hell to me. It's so bad it might 
even work.
But if you miss this sailing, don't despair. There will be other ships, and 
they'll be leaving soon. Everyone is welcome... except Charonese. Your Charonese 
passport is no good here, hombre, and neither is your money. You will never be 
sold a stardrive, unto eternity.
I'm sure they'll steal one eventually, but by then I could be ten thousand light 
years away.
Toodle-oo, assholes. Keep watching the sky. You never know when I might figure 
out how to send back a surprise package.
As the biggest sugar daddy since Isabella hocked the crown jewels, some thought 
I'd want a pretty big say in the running of the ship. There were negative voices 
raised in the Heinleiner community, a few discouraging words where such are 
seldom heard. And I did get a look at the plans, and I did suggest a change. To 
be paid for by myself, naturally. And it was typical thinking by technical 
types, I must say. There were going to be a dozen movie theaters, innumerable 
gymnasia, green spaces, an amusement park. Hell, there might have been a rodeo 
for all I know. But no legitimate theater.
That oversight has been rectified. Work is almost complete on the John Valentine 
Memorial Theater. It won't be big enough to stage Work in Progress, but should 
do nicely for musicals and classics. There are even a few efforts of my own 
gathering dust in the back of my trunk. It's not like there will be anywhere 
else for theater lovers to go. I myself will be artistic director, and will 
probably wear a few other hats until I can instill a love of the theatrical arts 
into the rest of the passengers.
Come on, kids! We can put on a show! Mickey can do his juggling act, and Judy 
can sing a song, and Busby and his girls can dance, and we'll do it all in 
Farmer Heinlein's old barn! It'll be swell!
Swell or awful, it'll damn sure be the best show between here and the Andromeda 
Galaxy.
