Collected Kagan

by Janet Kagan

The Collected Kagan

Janet Kagan

A collection of classic science fiction stories ranging from alien anthropology to solving tricky theorems, by Hugo-winner Janet Kagan. Janet Kagan was a unique voice in the business, bringing her witty sense of humor and refreshing outlook to stories that tackled political intrigue, murder mysteries, and ecological puzzles. Her stories are thought-provoking, often funny, and always entertaining.

“Janet Kagan explores the interfaces of culture, language, intelligence, and what it means to be human.”—Sharon Lee and Steve Miller, coauthors of the best-selling Liaden Universe® series

“An absolute delight.”—Mike Resnick

Copyright

“How First Woman Stole Language From Tuli-Tuli The Beast” first appeared on Janetkagan.com © February 2005; “The Stubbornest Broad on Earth” first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction © February 1998; “Standing In Spirit” first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction © December 1997; “Fermat’s Best Theorem” first published in Absolute Magnitude © Summer 1995; “Face Time” first published in Hotel Andromeda © February 1994; “Space Cadet” first published in By Any Other Fame © January 1994; “Christmas Wingding” first published in Christmas Forever © November 1993; “No Known Cure” first published in Pulphouse, The Hardback Magazine: Issue Twelve, The Last Issue © September 1993; “She Was Blonde, She Was Dead—And Only Jimmilich Opstromommo Could Find Out Why!!!” first published in More Whatdunits © May 1993; “The Nutcracker Coup” first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction © December 1992; “The Last of a Vintage Year” first published in Aladdin” Master of the Lamp © December 1992; “Out on Front Street” first published in Pulphouse: A Fiction Magazine © September 1992; “Fighting Words” first published in Isaac’s Universe, Volume Three: Unnatural Diplomacy © July 1992; “Love Our Lockwood” first published in Alternate Presidents © February 1992; “Mischief in the Spaceways” first published in The Best of James H. Schmitz © June 1991; “Winging It” first published in Isaac’s Universe, Volume Two: Phases in Chaos © July 1991; “From the Dead Letter File” first published in Starshore © December 1990; “What a Wizard Does” first published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine © October 1990; “Naked Wish-Fulfillment” first published in Pulphouse: The Hardback Magazine, Issue Three © March 1989; “Faith-of-the-Month Club” first published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact © February 1982.

eISBN: 978-1-62579-536-6

Electronic Version by Baen Books

www.baen.com

NO KNOWN CURE

"Louise Collins?" said the man in black, who knew perfectly well that she was.

A chill ran up Louise Collins's spine. She forced herself to keep her hands on her desk. They wanted to leap to her buttons, to make absolutely sure they were buttoned tight to her throat. What had she done to draw the attention of the Committee for Private Morality?

She had been so careful: clean in word and appearance, if not in deed. They'd learned somehow of her affair with Tom Nathan. She swallowed and took a deep breath. It could not be that---Tom was himself a member of the Committee. He certainly would have told them nothing. What then?

All this flashed through her mind as she answered, quite formally, quite correctly, "Yes, sir. I'm Louise Collins---Mrs. Jefferson Collins."

"Will you come with me, please?" He paused for a moment then added the compulsory, "You are under no legal obligation to obey this summons."

No, of course not, Louise thought. But if I don't, I'll lose my job and some night there will be an 'accidental' fire to destroy my house. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the avid expression on her boss's face. Waiting, like a vulture.

She rose. She was proud of the fact that her legs still seemed to be working. The committeeman couldn't see her knees shake under the floor-length skirt. It was the first advantage she'd ever found to the fashion. "I'm happy to comply," she said.

Did her boss look disappointed? Perhaps, but only a little. Like the rest of the office personnel, he followed them. It would be a holiday from the drudgery of tallying moral offenses. Once, Louise thought---surprised that the thought should come now---she'd been an editor. Now she was just a censor. All of them were censors. When had that happened?

The committeeman led the way. Louise followed docilely. It might have been a parade, for all the whispered excitement of the office workers behind them, but Louise knew it was a funeral procession. The chances were very good it was her own: adultery was a stoneable offense.

A crowd---tense with the same whispery excitement as those behind her---had already gathered on the lawn before the courthouse. This sort of trial, being strictly 'voluntary,' was not permitted to use the courthouse itself.

It made a pretty picture, Louise thought irrelevantly, all those women brushing the grass with their hems. As anachronistic somehow as that movie she'd been asked to edit last week---what was it?---"The Music Man," that was it. She'd wanted to save it. The dress was decent, which would ordinarily have made rerelease possible. But even with heavy cutting the story wouldn't pass---it made a laughing matter of censors and censorship.

The crowd gave way for the man in black. Louise called her wits about her and followed him.

"Louise Collins," he announced, "witness."

'Witness'? Against whom? Louise didn't dare to crane for a look at the accused. She waited until she had been ushered into the presence of the 'judge.'

That was the first horrible shock: the 'judge' was Tom Nathan. How could he have called her in on something like this?

Then Tom stepped aside and she could see the accused. Her mind went blank with terror. Jefferson! It was Jefferson! This was not possible---how could it be? Why should Jefferson be standing there, that shaft of sunlight playing on his bewildered face, bruised and bleeding. A red rubber ball gagged him. On his forehead, a 'Q' had been etched in reddish-brown---in Jefferson's own blood.

"No!" she said.

AIDS had only been the excuse. There was even a cure for it now or the committee would never have been brave enough to draw Jefferson's blood. The gag---she almost choked herself at the thought---the gag was to prevent him from spitting on or biting his tormentors.

She would have rushed to Jefferson's side but Tom caught her arm in a vice-like grip. The pain brought her back to the real world, which was even less believable. "Louise Collins?" Tom intoned.

"Mrs. Jefferson Collins," she responded, making every syllable count.

"Jefferson Collins stands accused of being queer. Do you agree that your witness against him is voluntary?"

"Jefferson Collins is my husband, sir. My witness for him is voluntary. In the privacy of our bedroom, I witness that he is not queer." God, how she hated that word, queer. Only fifteen years ago, she would never have used it, except to describe a peculiarity. Now, she had to use it--it was the only word the Committee for Private Morality would accept.

Tom said, "A queer is a devious creature. A woman, in her innocence, may not recognize the unnatural practices of a queer." He said it gently, as if he were breaking the news of a death in the family. Jefferson's death.

Why was he doing this? Louise met Tom's eyes for the first time. In them, she saw the pleasure he took from her terror. This excited him more than their bedroom romps.

Louise hated herself in the moment. What had she ever seen in him? Was it his power that had attracted her? Or was it simply that she had never been the faithful sort of woman---not in the Committee's sense. Making love to someone new had been a frequent delight of her youth. She'd seen Tom as the safest person with whom to indulge her whimsy.

That did not make her any less the wife of Jefferson Collins, did not leave her any less in love with Jefferson Collins. Sex was one thing, love was another entirely. Nothing was so sweet in the world as coming home to Jefferson.

She said, "Sir, I beg you to forgive me for contradicting you but...I'm known in the neighborhood for my good sense. I would know if the man I loved were queer. I would not be able to love or be loved by a queer. Jefferson has been falsely accused."

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. It gave Louise momentary hope.

"Nevertheless, the accusation has been made. Jefferson Collins must be put to the test."

Then she saw it. With Jefferson alive, Tom was as guilty of adultery as she, his life equally at risk. If she were a widow, Tom need fear nothing from his relationship with her. Widows were known sluts and temptresses.

"If the committee please," she said, as deferentially as she could, "a life-long love cannot die in a moment. May I have your permission to speak to my husband?" She wanted to add 'privately' but she knew they would never let Jefferson out of their sight.

The most she could hope for was granted.

She was given gloves. When she had put them on, she was allowed to draw him from earshot of the committeemen and remove his gag. She kissed him first, to a shocked gasp from the watching crowd. Then she touched his bruised face. "Tom is doing this deliberately," she said. "I'll stop him."

For the first time, Jefferson stared at her with real horror on his face. "Tell them about the two of you, you mean? No, Louise. No. Look at the crowd. Give them two and they'll take three. I'm lost whatever you do."

"Jeff---"

"I won't hear it. I'll confess first. I'll tell them how I tricked you---what a little fool you are to believe a queer could love---" His voice broke. He touched his cheek to hers. "Could love someone so dear, so precious."

"Oh, Jefferson." Tears choked her. "I've loved you all my life. I'll love you till I die."

"Then promise me you'll save yourself. Promise me you won't say a word about you and Tom."

Now his eyes held hers, held them until she faltered. She made him the promise. Then she kissed him again, deeply and with all the passion of a lifetime.

"Pass the test," she said, "pass the test for me."

He grinned at her. Bruised as his face was, it must have been painful. "You know I'm a one-woman man, my love. I'll do my best, but I can hardly promise something so against my nature."

She would have protested further but two of the committeemen had come to pull her away.

"Remove the women and children," Tom intoned. "I call for the pricker."

Women turned away in ritual disgust, hustling the younger children with them. Anticipation lit the eyes of those remaining. The men began their chant: "Ma-mie! Ma-mie! Ma-mie!"

Mamie, the pricker. Mamie, the town's licensed slut. Every town had one for this---and other---purposes. Pricker. No-one in the crowd recognized the irony of Mamie's title. Of course they didn't. Books on the witchcraft trials never passed editing either. None had been reissued. Most, like the 'witches' themselves, had been burned.

One of the neighborhood children had once told Louise, in all seriousness, that the title pricker referred to "the early days, when she took a blood sample with a big needle." It was an obscene joke. After each pricking it was Mamie who would be bloodtested for AIDS.

Someone took Louise's arm, gently attempting to lead her away. She shook the hand off.

"I beg the committee's leave once more," she said, shouting to make herself heard above the chant. "My husband---my husband is a faithful man. To ask that he be tested by someone else is to ask him to commit adultery, an act I believe him incapable of. I ask---"

The chanting faded to a murmur. Suddenly, Louise's voice was too loud, her words were too clear. Her courage almost failed her. Into the silence, she said, "I ask---let me be his pricker."

Jefferson, who had once again been gagged, made a ghastly grunting sound and shook his head vehemently.

She ignored him. "He has made love to me for more than twenty years now. Only to me. To test him with someone else would be an injustice."

Once again, she had murmurs of approval. It might work---even the Committee for Private Morality must be tired of seeing the same pricker at every pricking. She could do it---to save Jefferson, she would do it.

"People!" Tom said loudly, "Listen to this good woman!"

Hope sprang up in her heart. Perhaps Tom had had a change of heart. Perhaps he would let her save Jeff---

"How can we allow such a good woman to risk her life, even in the defense of our community's morals? I say no! I call for the pricker. It is her duty to test the accused."

There were grumblings of displeasure. Louise took advantage of the opportunity. "If what my husband is accused of is true, I have risked my life two or three times a week for the last twenty years! Why should I be afraid to do so one more time?" This time she turned her glare fully on Tom.

"We protect our women and our children," Tom said. "We protect them. We will protect you as well. We know that you have a good heart, but the la---custom must take its course. A man accused of being queer must be tested---and he must be tested by the town pricker." He gave the man in black a covert nudge. The man in black grudgingly said, "Yes. We protect our women. Call for the pricker." He began the chant anew.

It was too late. They were drawing her away to where the rest of the women and children waited, where she would not be able to see Jefferson. She fought them briefly as they handed her over to the younger women. Then she screamed, "Jefferson! My love! Pretend she's me! Close your eyes and see me! I love you!" Someone put a hand over her mouth and she sagged in exhaustion.

The chant was louder now, faster and more frenzied. A flash of white along the courthouse walk. Mamie the pricker. Her nurse's dress too short, too tight.

Catching a glimpse of her through the crowd, Louise suddenly realized where she'd seen such a costume before---in a burlesque skit. She remembered the nurses in the old days. Nurses had never worn three-inch heels. Louise felt as if she were trapped by all the things she'd edited out.

Mamie the pricker swung her hips. For an hour or two now Mamie the pricker would be the center of attention. Mamie the pricker glowed with that knowledge. Did Mamie know, Louise wondered, that if she ever tested positive she would be put to death? It had happened in other towns. It never made the news---more editing. "Who cares about the town slut? She got what she deserved," they'd say, as they always did.

The woman holding Louise spat. "Men," she said, disgust distorting her features, "only interested in one thing. We stopped the pornos but even that doesn't stop them."

Yes, thought Louise, that was where she'd seen that avidity before---whenever the men in her office edited one of the old X-rated films. All she could see of the Committee for Private Morality was a row of backs, but it was enough to see into their nasty little souls.

When she was a teenager, they'd have gone to the theater or rented a videotape. Now all they had left was Mamie and her pricking. Mamie the pricker passed through the knot of men, smiling as they laid their hands on whatever part of her body they could reach. The chanting hushed. Hidden from sight by the backs of the committeemen, the pricking was about to begin.

Louise knew what would be happening now. Jefferson had described it to her once. She could scarcely picture Jefferson a member of the crowd. How could she picture him as the accused?

Now Mamie would be taking her clothes off---slowly and sensually if she was any good at her job---teasing Jefferson, unbuttoning his shirt.

He'd once told her, laughingly, that he doubted he could get it up for anyone but her. Now she begged god that he was wrong.

Please, thought Louise, oh, please, god, let Mamie be good at her job. If he can screw her, he can live. Let her be sexy and attractive and let him be unfaithful. Let him be wrong about being a one-woman man! Please, god. Let him be an adulterer and live. Think of me, Jefferson, or think of her---whatever it takes---but screw Mamie and live.

The men had begun their ritual catcalling now. The rhythm had picked up. They shouted their encouragement to Mamie, to Jefferson. The woman holding Louise let go to put her hands over her ears.

How many of these men, Louise wondered, could get it up and keep it up under these circumstances? The onlookers, by all accounts, could. But---the accused? Get it up or die. We'll all watch. Take your time. We're waiting and we're watching. Give us a good show. Show us you're a man and not a queer---or die.

Suddenly Louise knew that it was not possible. Suddenly she knew how they'd turned it all around. Claiming it was to protect the women. Claiming this, claiming that. She knew it was no use praying to god to help Jefferson. God was one of them---they'd made him over in their own image. Nasty, vicious, leering.

AIDS had only been the excuse. Power had been the goal, fear the leverage to achieve the power.

She saw all that even as the men voted to give Jefferson a second chance---give Mamie a second chance, that meant. They weren't tired of watching her perform like a trick dog for them yet.

It went on forever and then it was over too fast. Mamie, once again fully clothed, was escorted by Tom Nathan to the group's edge. Once again, Tom's voice took on that pompous tone. "What is the verdict, pricker?"

Mamie, still radiant from her moment in the sun, pronounced the ritual words: "No known cure." Behind her, one of the men responded, "No known cure." The rest took it up as a chant as they reached for rocks from the courthouse fence.

"No known cure! No known cure!"

Now the women and children had taken up the chant and reached for rocks as well. Louise heard Jefferson scream as the first rock struck him.

Louise screamed too and pushed through the crowd, kicking, biting, screaming to get through to Jefferson. But when she reached his side, she froze. Perhaps she had intended to throw herself on him to shield him. If so, it was too late. She saw that from his naked, bleeding body. She saw that in the faces and fists of the crowd.

Jefferson screamed his pain. He could no longer even see her for the blood that splattered his eyes and blinded him.

Louise turned to the nearest member of the Committee for Private Morality and wrenched the rock from his hand. There was only one thing that she could do for Jefferson. "I love you," she told him silently---and brought the rock down with full force on his skull. It shattered. She brought it down again and again, until she was sure he could suffer no further pain at their hands.

Then she sank to her knees beside Jefferson's body and wept soundlessly until the fury of the crowd had exhausted itself.

Someone helped her to her feet. "You're a good woman, all right, Louise." It was the woman who had held her silent while Mamie had tested Jefferson. It was her next door neighbor, Mrs. Tompkins. "Once you knew what he was, you did the right thing."

The right thing? Dazed, Louise stumbled to her feet. Was that how they saw it---that she'd beaten her husband to death because he was proven a queer?

She looked around at the reassembled Committee for Private Morality, as they straightened their clothing and wiped the blood from their hands, as they joked among themselves. "Yes," said Tom, "Louise is a good woman."

Louise's hand went to her mouth. She would not be sick. She would not. "You!" she said. She pointed Tom. "Now I understand. It was you!" Jefferson was gone; she had nothing left to lose now.

"Yes," said Tom. He looked very proud, as if he'd just saved the world, in fact. "I was his accuser---"

Louise did not let him finish. "How did you know he was queer when his wife of twenty years didn't?" She rounded on the rest of the committee. "How did he know when I didn't?"

The rest of the committee turned to stare at Tom.

Louise went on. "Ask him where he was and what he was doing last Wednesday night. Ask him." The two of them had been in bed together last Wednesday night. "Ask if anyone can vouch for his whereabouts."

The mutter went through the crowd again. Tom stared down at Louise in horror. Only she heard him protest, "What are you saying, woman? I did this for you!"

Louise thought, in wonder, that she'd heard that excuse all her life. I'm doing this for you. We're doing this to protect the women and the children. I did this for you!

"No," she said, "you did it for yourself---to protect yourself, to make all these people think you were a good man, so that you'd have power over them. Over us."

The committeemen gaped. The man in black cleared his throat. "Louise Collins, do you accuse Thomas Nathan of being a queer, of putting the community at risk in both morals and health?"

Louise turned on him in shock. Could her words have been taken so? Yes, she realized---and the realization almost blinded her with light, almost choked her with laughter. Slowly, she turned back to Tom. "Sirs of the committee, if my husband was queer, then so is this man."

And under the cover of the crowd's commotion, she spat at Tom. "My curse on your balls and your prick. You won't be able to get it up for Mamie, no matter how hard she tries. You'll shrivel and fail---and you'll hear me laughing."

He screamed at her once. But his hands had barely touched her throat when he was pulled away. As they beat him, he tried to tell them he'd been with Louise that night, but they only laughed and beat him harder.

By the time they called for Mamie, Tom could barely stand.

Louise had thought she could not bear to see another trial. It made her think of Jefferson. It made her smile to think that Tom suffered each and every torment Jefferson had. It made her smile when Mamie gave the ritual response: "No known cure."

There was a cure for AIDS. Some received it, some didn't. The Committee for Private Morality would make that decision.

There was no known cure for hatred. Louise smiled again. Hatred was the most contagious disease of all. Sooner or later, every member of the Committee for Private Morality would die of her infection.

With loving care, Louise Collins chose a rock.

LOVE OUR LOCKWOOD

You have heard too many lies about the second of November. Now you shall hear the truth. I was there from the beginning and I shall tell you what I saw.

The morning was grey and chill, as it so often is in Washington. My stump ached with the cold, as my daughter Essie hastened to build a fire. As fortune had it, the storefront chosen for this year's polling was rich enough to possess a Franklin stove. The fire at last made, Essie moved our table and lockbox close.

Mr. Harry Worthington chose the left side, huddling as close to the stove as he dared. I believe his arm stub ached as badly as my leg. The warmth soothed us equally. We had an amiable argument over the time, for Mr. Worthington had set his watch to railroad time and I had set mine to District of Columbia time. In the end, we agreed: he would accept ballots cast to railroad time and I to suntime.

As we had both arrived early, we had little to do but wait. We spent our time in reminiscence: we spoke of friends lost in the Great War. We could have spoken for a month and not named them all. The day seemed greyer, as if dawn would never arrive.

Essie kept watch at the window through which ballots would be passed, for she did not want to draw it open to the chill until such time as this was necessary. As this was the first time she had assisted us, she was naturally in a state of high excitement. When she exclaimed from the window, "Oh, father! It's a parade!" even Mr. Worthington laughed.

We had seen electioneering before, he and I. The average man will do the most peculiar of things to call attention to his chosen candidate. I have often joked that Mr. Barnum learned his trade from the politicals. I now repeated the joke to Mr. Worthington, who found it quite amusing.

Essie turned from the window. "No, father, you don't understand. It is a parade. They are all coming down the street together, coming here."

She flung open the window and a gust of cold air struck us. I pulled my lap robe more tightly about my stump. Mr. Worthington snugged into his shawl. Essie, risking her health still more, leaned out the window for a long look.

When she drew back in, she had a smile such as to warm even a veteran's heart. "Mrs. Lockwood has come to vote, and all of her friends have accompanied her."

At that, I knew why Essie had volunteered to assist us this morning. Essie is reading law. Some years ago, when Mrs. Lockwood began her practice, it was she who adjudicated my pension. From that day forward, I heard little from Essie but words that she had learned from Mrs. Lockwood. However much I might worry that the legal profession might damage my daughter's prospects, I was forced to agree to permit it when she argued that Mrs. Lockwood alone could not try all the pension cases.

Mr. Worthington was astonished. "Mrs. Lockwood is a woman," he said.

"She is the president," said Essie. She turned back to the window. "Oh, father! You must see! Come, I'll help you!"

As I am hard put to deny the child anything, I allowed her to help me to the window. What I saw was indeed a parade, one of which even Mr. Barnum would have been proud.

First came the Mother Hubbard Clubs. They would do for the clowns had not their purpose been so good-hearted and serious. The men, young and old, had pulled huge shapeless Mother Hubbard dresses over their street garb and each had replaced his hat with a beaked cap. They carried brooms and the words of their song drifted through the early morning air.

"My soul is tired of politics," they sang, "Its vicious ways, its knavish tricks. I will not vote for any man, But whoop it up for Belva Ann!" With that, they gave a collective whoop and brandished their brooms high. "Clean sweep!" they chanted, "Clean sweep!"

"Ducks," said Mr. Worthington, who had left the fire to stand beside me. "They waddle like so many giant ducks." I could not deny it, for the beaked caps made them seem so. But their striped and flowered dresses brightened the street.

Mr. Worthington sent our young soldier to halt them the proper distance from the polling booth. This was proper, even though Essie thought it was a shame.

"We will do the same for Mr. Harrison's supporters, my dear. You will be glad of it later. When two parties strike up chants in opposition, you would think the world was coming to an end. We keep them back that we might hear each other speak."

Now came, to the amazement of both Mr. Worthington and myself, an entire regiment of veterans, all known to us. Two of those who had survived the War without injury carried Mr. Thomas, who had lost both his legs to a cannonball. Mr. Worthington and I readied ourselves to receive ballots but, to our further amazement, the regiment, on General Haricut's order, wheeled and formed an honor guard along the street. The guard lead directly to our window.

Next came a contingent of Red Indians, led by Sitting Bull. They too did not come to the window to cast their ballots. Like the veterans, they lined the street on either side. Then a contingent of Negroes did the very same.

Essie smiled and pointed to their leader, a tall distinguished gentleman. "That is Samuel Lowry," she said. "He is an ex-slave. It was Mrs. Lockwood who introduced him to legal practice before the Supreme Court."

The crowd broke into a sudden wild cheer. The veterans all raised their swords in salute. And through the lines of this most peculiar of honor guards came the strangest sight my eyes have ever seen.

At the head of the line was Mrs. Lockwood in her tricycle. I had seen her often enough, pedaling about the town. Unlike many, I do not find it scandalous, for she took great care to prepare a dashboard that her skirts do not fly up and shame her. It strikes some odd that a president should not use a carriage but I admire her economy. Since the tax, I prefer a president of some economy.

Today, however, she did not pedal at her usual brisk pace. She moved no faster than a man might walk and she smiled and waved now and then to those who lined her way. Then we saw why she had set such a pace. For, behind her, all in Sunday best, walked hundreds of women. Their arms were linked, they were all smiling, their ribbons and laces a-flutter. They were of all ages and, strange to say, they were of all races as well: white, Negro, Red Indian, even a few Chinee. Odd to say, I did not find the sight either shocking or scandalous. It seemed as if fitting---as no two women wore the same dress, no two wore the same skin. The sun chose that moment to appear, however wanly, and all of the colors blazed.

Even Mr. Harrison's supporters, who had now arrived in some number, paused and stood respectfully back, as the President braked to a stop a few yards from where we stood.

Mr. Love, her vice-president, offered his arm and assisted her from her vehicle. Captain Haricut led his men in a second salute. Yet another cheer came from the crowd. Even a number of the men in support of Mr. Harrison joined in, giving their duly-elected president proper respect.

Mr. Love escorted Mrs. Lockwood across the street. They walked briskly toward us. Mrs. Lockwood looked no different than she had when she tried my case before the court. She is a grandmother. Her hair is gray but her high forehead lends her a handsomeness that many younger women lack. Perhaps it is her force of character that so ornaments her bearing.

I could not help but glance at Essie. She seemed to be holding her breath, but her eyes were bright and sparkling. She smiled at Mrs. Lockwood, who smiled in return. Essie too had that handsomeness of character.

A hand came through the window to proffer me a ballot. I reached to take it and was shaken when Mr. Worthington grasped me sharply by the wrist. "She is a woman," Mr. Worthington said. "I will take your ballot, Mr. Love."

Mr. Love is a very quiet man. He made no fuss, nor did he raise his voice. He merely took two steps back and indicated the women. "Ladies, first," said he.

Mr. Worthington snorted. He drew himself up and stared at Mrs. Lockwood, as if by force of glance he might will Mrs. Lockwood away. He should have known better. She met his eyes easily and once again offered her ballot.

"You are a woman," said Mr. Worthington, yet again.

"To that I plead guilty," said Mrs. Lockwood.

Rubbing his stub for the pain, Mr. Worthington leaned through the window and addressed the crowd. "Any man who wishes to cast his ballot may do so now," he said. "Captain Haricut? Will you vote, sir?"

"Ladies first," said Captain Haricut---and all along the street took up the cry. "Ladies first," they shouted. "Ladies first!"

The Harrison supporters pressed forward in an attempt to reach the window, but the women massed together and would not be moved. There was a brief skirmish toward the edge of the crowd and I feared riot.

I feared not for myself but for Essie and for the brightly-dressed women. Captain Haricut gave an abrupt order, however, and the men formed protectively. It was only then that I realized many of the women in the crowd were wives or widows of veterans. Even old Mrs. Terrint was among them. Her sons had been in our regiment. All five had died.

Mrs. Lockwood had turned away from me, toward Captain Haricut. "Captain," she called, and hers was the voice of command, "there will be no fighting. We are here peaceably. We shall vote peaceably." The captain acknowledged with a flash of his sword.

Mrs. Lockwood returned her gaze, this time to me. "We shall vote peaceably," she repeated. "But we shall vote."

"Father," said Essie, "She is the president. Will you not accept a ballot from the president?"

I turned to Mr. Worthington. "Will you call out the army to disperse these women?" I asked him. "She is their Commander-in-Chief."

The notion embarrassed Mr. Worthington. So I pursued it, "If the notion embarrasses you, will it not embarrass the entire country?"

He thought it over for a long time, time enough for me to hear my words whispered back to the very furthest reaches of the waiting crowd. "The president," he said, at last, "should be permitted to vote." He held out his hand.

Women craned to watch. Two of the soldiers on horseback leaned forward just as eagerly.

Mrs. Lockwood laid her ballot in Mr. Worthington's hand. Mr. Worthington put the ballot in the lockbox. One of the soldiers on horseback cried out, "Mrs. Lockwood has cast her ballot!" and a great cheer went up.

Mr. Worthington held out his hand for Mr. Love's ballot. I believe Mr. Worthington thought that to be the end of it. But Mrs. Lockwood had moved only to the side of the window, not away from it. I did not need to see her eyes to know her determination; I saw that very determination reflected in the eyes of my Essie.

Mr. Love once more crooked his arm. This time he received for escort the Honorable Mrs. Lavinia Dundore, Justice of the Supreme Court. Like Mrs. Lockwood before her, she held out her folded bit of paper. I took it from her hand.

Mr. Worthington hissed at me, but I did not hesitate to place the ballot into the lockbox. The same soldier on horseback cried out, "Mrs. Dundore has cast her ballot!" As before, a cheer rose from the crowd. "Would you embarrass our country by denying the vote to a Supreme Court Justice?" I said to Mr. Worthington.

"That is enough, then," said Mr. Worthington. "There are no more women who are presidents nor are there more women who are Supreme Court Justices. Now the men will vote."

But still the men could not approach the window, for they way was obstructed by that multitude of women in their brightly-colored garb.

Over their heads, I could see that Captain Haricut was now engaged in conversation with a member of the local police force. The import of this was not lost on Mrs. Lockwood. One of the Cleveland supporters had called for enforcement. Mrs. Lockwood made a gesture and the ladies parted politely to permit the gentleman way.

I believe he was much surprised to discover both Mrs. Lockwood and Mrs. Dundore the leaders of this insurrection. He saluted sharply, but his face was full of bewilderment. "I have been asked to uphold the law," he began.

"Just so," said Mrs. Lockwood. "As Mrs. Dundore and I have sworn to uphold the Constitution."

"The ladies must leave off obstructing the polling place and return to their homes."

"The ladies must vote. I have sworn to uphold the Constitution and I shall do so."

"Mrs. Lockwood...."

"The Constitution permits all citizens to vote."

Mr. Worthington could not contain himself. "A citizen in the Constitution is referred to as 'he.'"

Mrs. Lockwood was pleased. "That is my contention, Mr. Worthington. Now---what does the Constitution say of the president of the United States?"

Essie gave a cry of delight. Clapping her hands together, she said, "The president is likewise referred to as 'he!'"

"Yet I am the president, Mr. Worthington. Therefore, 'he' may refer to a woman. Or do you contend some wizardry has made me male?" Mrs. Lockwood smiled again.

The young policeman had been listening carefully to this exchange, although his eyes were clearly fixed on Essie. Seldom have a seen a young man so taken so quickly. When he spoke, it was not to Mrs. Lockwood, but rather to Essie. "Miss?" he said, "What is your name?"

"Miss Essie Twineham."

"Would you be a citizen?"

The young will ask the young in matters of opinion.

Essie did not inquire of me nor did she inquire of Mrs. Lockwood. It was, I believe, her own soul she consulted.

Having consulted, she drew herself up more proudly than I had ever seen her stand before. She gave the young man a radiant smile and said, "I am a citizen, sir. The Constitution grants me the right to vote."

I could not deny her pride, nor could I detract from it in any fashion. To the policeman, I said, "Young man, my leg pains me greatly. I would be most obliged if you would step aside, thus permitting the ladies and gentlemen to vote and be on their separate ways." I stretched out my hand to a young black woman in gingham. "Your ballot, please, miss or mistress."

I had seen the turning on of an electric light, yet I had never seen a light the equal of that which lit the young woman's face as she placed her ballot in my palm. When she had seen me place the ballot in the lockbox, she gave a great shout of joy and threw her arms about Mrs. Lockwood.

With a great sigh, Mr. Worthington accepted the next ballot, that of an old Chinee lady. As if a flood-gate had opened, the ballots crackled through the window. The Mother Hubbard Brigade once again struck up their song, as the Cleveland supporters strove to outsing and outchant them.

The young policeman stood by, stiffly erect, but every now and then he gave a shy glance in Essie's direction. "I shall stay," he told her, "to keep order."

Essie nodded, smiling. "And to uphold the law," she said.

More wonders were yet to come, for the word had run through the streets of Washington as fast as electricity through a wire.

The next time I stretched out my hand to receive a ballot, I saw yet another face I recognized. "Mrs. Cleveland," I said politely, "and a good day to you."

Mr. Worthington was utterly aghast. I believe he expected Mrs. Lockwood to protest Mrs. Cleveland's ballot. I could see Essie and her young man almost did. But Mrs. Lockwood seemed, if anything, all the prouder with her accomplishment.

Perhaps even Mrs. Cleveland expected some objection from Mrs. Lockwood, for she turned to her and said, "I did not vote for you, Mrs. Lockwood."

"You voted," said Mrs. Lockwood. "I count myself triumphant in that."

Some strengthening understanding passed between the two in that moment. Then Mrs. Cleveland embraced Mrs. Lockwood. Together the two of them watched as yet more women came to cast their ballots.

"I had hoped," Mrs. Lockwood began, "to see Mrs. Harrison as well."

Mrs. Cleveland shook her head. "I did not expect so much. She is as frightened a woman as her husband is a man. You could not convince them of the safety of the electric lights in their own home."

"I had hoped...."

"Mrs. Lockwood," said Mrs. Cleveland with a smile, "you had hoped that all women had your courage and your strength of purpose. They do not, nor do all men." She was silent for a moment. "You have given me strength, though, and for that I thank you."

At last, all had voted. The last two ballots into the lockbox were none other than the young policeman's and Essie's. Essie stirred up the fire as Mr. Worthington and I eased our limbs at last.

When the men came for the lockbox, I had a thought that disturbed me. "Go home, Essie, and take your rest. I shall accompany the gentlemen to watch the counting of the votes."

"But, father, your leg...."

I kissed her on the cheek. "I will not mind my leg," I told her. "Mr. Worthington will see you home."

I gathered my crutches and followed the men with the lockbox. Mr. Worthington would see Essie home safely; I would see her vote home safely. I intended that each and every ballot we had collected the day long was duly and properly counted.

Mr. Cleveland was duly elected president that day. But I believe that Mrs. Lockwood won, and so did my Essie.

SPACE CADET

The laboratory was almost as the President had imagined it: banks of blinking lights, large and small machines humming happily to themselves, each in a slightly different tone, as if they were some great chorus singing for him. He frowned slightly---not enough to cause his face to wrinkle, of course---for now he noticed that something was missing. "Where's the, uh, thingie that makes the sparks?"

The scientist seemed not to understand English. Probably foreign from the looks of him. The President tried again, more loudly this time. "The sparker," he said. His hands described the arc. "Ziiiip!" he said. "Zaaaaap!"

"Do you mean a Jacob's ladder?" The scientist gave his assistant the ghost of a smile. "We don't need one of those, Mr. President. We're not bringing anyone back to life."

"Oh. Right. Let's see it then." He was anxious to get on with this. The eggheads at the CIA had promised him...well, never mind what they'd promised him. If he didn't get his money's worth, he'd see to their budget for the next four years!

"If you'll step this way, sir." He made a gracious gesture, and the lab assistant opened the glass door of the booth.

The President hesitated. The booth reminded him of something---that scene from _The Fly._ As if he were a mind-reader, the scientist said, "Don't worry. We had the exterminator in this morning." The lab assistant laughed. Mistake, thought the President. Bad move to laugh at the boss's jokes when they aren't jokes. See if you get re-appointed after _that._

The scientist patted the side of the booth. "Here she is---our TATSbe. That's what we've taken to calling her: sort of an acronym for 'Things As They Should Be.' It offers us the chance to change our world for the better. Now the principle behind the machine you see here---"

The lab assistant shook his head. This time the President agreed; with a wave of his hand he cut the scientist short. "Just tell me what to do," he said. "I'm a busy man, and the sooner we get this done the better."

"Just step into the booth, close the door completely, and press the button on this."

The little box he was handed looked much like the remote control for his tv set. He grinned boyishly. "You mean this switches from one channel to another, until I get one I like."

"That's about the size of it. Though we have discovered that the worlds tend toward optimum---that's why we named it 'Things As They _Should_ Be.'"

"Tend toward optimum?"

"They get better and better," said the lab assistant. "Each time you press the button. So if you don't like the one you get first, try, try again. It will only get _better."_

"Too bad I can't use this on my tv." That would sure fix all those snotty reporters who were always on his case. Well, if he understood this TATSbe thing, it _would_ fix all those snotty reporters.

He gripped the remote control firmly in his hand and stepped into the booth. Things as they _should_ be---he could hardly wait.

He pressed the button....

#

Harry looked totally exasperated. "Dan, pay attention now. All you have to do is stick the keys _in_ the lock, open the door, come _through_ the door facing the camera and look surprised. So---could we get it right this time?"

"Sure," he said. A movie star, he thought gleefully. I'm a movie star and that's Barbra Streisand I'm being in a movie with. I can do this! This is great!

"Places, people! And roll...." "Speed." _Snap!_ "Scene 24a; take sixteen...." "Dan, do it!"

Walk to the door. Insert the keys in the lock. His hands were sweaty with excitement; the keys were slippery little buggers. Ooops. Jangling, the keys dropped to the ground. "Oh, shit," he said.

"Cut!" yelled the director. He put his head in his hands and said, to no-one, "Why me?"

Streisand said, "Danny, Danny.... Your poor mother, rest her soul, how did she raise such a klutz? Oy!"

"All right," said the director, getting a grip on himself. "Let's do it one more time."

Streisand said something he didn't catch and the director laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh.

The hell with you, thought the President. This is too much like work, and all this make-up makes me feel like a pansy. Besides, I'm not getting any more respect than I was before. Things as they should be---let's just see about that. He reached into his pocket and pushed the button....

#

He felt a sense of motion, a rolling motion that made him feel a little nauseous until he realized he was on a boat. Not a yacht, he found, as he looked around. Why wasn't it a yacht? He turned for a better look and almost fell over his flippers. Ah! He was scuba diving....

The Frenchie said, "Are you ready, Dan?"

The President nodded, smiling for the video camera, and gave a thumbs up. Scuba diving with Jacques Cousteau---now _that_ was something, all right. Famous diver, on tv all the time---and none of that make-up shit.

I get to swim with dolphins. Oh, boy! I always wanted to do that...never could get near them, except in the Oceanarium, and how much fun was that?

"Okay, Dan, into the cage."

Cage? He followed their lead. He climbed into the cage. The next thing he knew he was being lowered into the icy water, cage and all. When at last he got his bearings, he swung the light around. Wonderful! He was surrounded by dolphins.

The dolphins circled closer. Odd, he thought. I thought dolphins were--- Then he noticed the dorsal fins. And the teeth. And the _jaws._

Something slammed into the cage behind him. Because he was unprepared, the slight motion rocked him against the bars. Enormous teeth aimed right for his faceplate. He paddled frantically back to the center of the cage as the shark began to gnash its teeth against the bars.

Sharks! Holy shit, sharks!

Blind with panic, he finally found the remote control. Things as they _should_ be, he said, stabbing once, twice, three times at the button.

#

He was before tv cameras again, sweating under the lights. Ah, a televised debate---_that_ he could do in his sleep....

It was a presidential debate, too. He leaned back, feeling very much in his element, and turned to his opponent.

His jaw fell. "Marilyn?" he said. "Marilyn? Don't you know me?"

His wife said, "Yes, I do. I knew Jack Kennedy, too. I served with Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. And, J. Danforth Quayle---_you're no Jack Kennedy."_

#

"Lieutenant, we've got a sniper out there!"

He was sweating still---this time from the heat and the humidity of the jungle. The whole place stank like fireworks and chemicals. What didn't stink of fireworks and chemicals stank of _green._

Thank god for that phone call that had gotten him his commission. That meant he could kill gooks the right way, not the namby-pamby way Nixon was going about it.

"All right, men! Get that sniper! Charge!"

For once, they actually obeyed him. He followed after, keeping low, his back aching with the amount of equipment he carried. The weight of his gun was appalling. The heat was worse....

The men seemed to veer off as they reached the rotting tree that lay across the path. Fuck it. He'd take the short cut over it. He'd take that sniper out himself....

There was an ear-splitting sound and the world went tumbling. He knew he was screaming in pain but he couldn't hear himself over the ringing in his ears.

Two of the men came and stood over him. One of them knelt. "Looks like the lieutenant's a goner," he said, as if it didn't much matter.

"Looks like," said the other.

"Think next time we'll get a looey that cares whether we live or die?"

The second shrugged. "Don't matter. I got another VC trip mine stashed away, just in case." He gave a toothy grin that reminded the President of the sharks.

#

A clear crisp fall day.... He was part of a long line stretched out across the field. He breathed a sigh of relief. Hunting, that was something familiar to him, something pleasant.

"Okay, fellows. The President's ready---"

The President straightened. That was more like it. But he _wasn't_ ready. All he had was a damn stick....what kind of hunt was this?

"---Let's see he gets his money's worth." The rest of the line started to thrash its way through the field.

The President felt a stiff jab to the shoulder.

"Danny, fer chrysake, quit daydreaming. Beat the godfersaken bushes, will ya? That's what you're getting paid for!"

A shove sent the President stumbling forward. A covey of birds shot from the bushes and into the air. Shots rang out....

The President felt a searing pain in his right arm. Blood! More blood! He screamed again.

"Fer chrysake, Danny, it's only a flesh wound." The guy in the Coors cap clamped a hand on his arm to stop the bleeding. The President sat abruptly.

George and a bunch of secret service men rushed to the President's side. The man in the cap said, "Don't worry, Mr. President. It's only a flesh wound. Coulda happened to anybody." He was talking to George---_George was president!_ Unbelievable.

"Sorry, son," George said to him. "Hope you don't take it personally. It's not my, uh, thing to go around shooting people---only meant to bag a few quail."

The man in the Coors cap laughed himself red in the face.

"Something funny, mister?" one of the secret service men said in a surly tone of voice.

"Sure is. You got yourself a quail, Mr. President. This here's Danny Quayle in person---and you sure brought him down!"

Even George got the joke, this time. He gave that irritating half-hearted laugh of his and the secret service men all laughed with him dutifully.

The President reached left-handed for the remote control. "Take that, George," he said, as he pushed the button.

#

The lander came to rest amid the rocks and red dust with a gentle thump. The President glanced at the monitor and remembered to notify NASA. For some reason, it would be a long time before they acknowledged---but the sooner he talked the sooner they would.

Still---Mars! He was on Mars!

The cameras showed him not far from one of the canals. Even better.

Exultant---he'd gotten the hang of the TATSbe at last---he eyed the monitor. He'd been in charge of the Space Program for a long time: this was the pay-off.

Presidents might be forgotten---he knew he couldn't remember but a handful---but the first man to set foot on Mars.... Now, _that_ was making history!

For once, he'd get the respect he deserved.

And he was damned if he'd wait for those jerks at NASA to tell him which foot to move when. Laying aside the remote control, he opened the hatch and stuck his head out to take a good deep breath of the Martian air....

#

Back on Earth, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court Barbara Jordan had just finished swearing in the new President of the United States, Pat Schroeder. The TATSbe had done its job and had winked out of existence.... Things were as they should be.

HOW FIRST WOMAN STOLE LANGUAGE FROM TULI-TULI THE BEAST

Long before you dreamed your first dream, before the rain fancied to snow, before the oldest tree grew higher than the top of your head, y dreamed....

She dreamed that First Woman lived in those small forests with her people. It was a new time, and special, for nothing that happened had ever happened before.

But the crags along the sea were deep, for the sea had not yet polished them, and hidden among the sea-crags, y dreamed tuli-tuli the beast. Tuli-tuli the beast had a most powerful magic called language. She knew everything by its name and when she named the thing, it belonged to her.

She was often hungry, and more often wicked.

For many years, she called First Woman's people. One by one, she called them down to the crags and the raging new sea. One by one, she devoured them and let the sea chew their bones.

First Woman was angry. First Woman was sad. At last, one day when she was more angry than she was sad, First Woman crept down to the crags by the sea and hid herself beneath the many greens of the seaweed that the waves had tossed onto the land.

She listened. For twenty-three days, she listened to tuli-tuli the beast and her callings. In the bright moonlight, when tuli-tuli slept, First Woman crept out of her hiding place and looked for the little tracks the birds made to lead her to their nests. She stole their eggs for food and hid again and listened again.

Each thing tuli-tuli called by a different name, and she called the birds, too

On the twelfth day, First Woman saw that tuli-tuli called all the white birds by one name and all the gray birds by another. She saw that if she followed the little hopping track, she would find the nest of a white bird, and if she followed the great deep track, she would find the nest of a gray bird.

The sea, who loved First Woman because her life-blood pulsed with the same salt rhythm, threw First Woman a stick and, with it, First Woman made marks in the sand---the two hopping marks of a white bird. The white bird came and whistled its name to her.

She caught the bird, as she had seen tuli-tuli the beast do. Then she let it go, for it had taught her something and she repaid the debt.

The moon, who loved First Woman for her honor, gleamed off a shell so whitely that First Woman picked the shell up. On a dark rock, she drew the great deep track of the gray bird---and the gray bird came and squawked its name to her. She washed the name away and freed that bird as well.

On the thirteenth night, First Woman heard that tuli-tuli the beast called each color of bird by a different name, but the name was also the same. When tuli-tuli the beast called First Woman's people, she had a name for each.

First Woman did not know what tuli-tuli the beast would call her. She would only know it when she heard it, and that would be the last time.

On the twenty-first night, tuli-tuli the beast could no longer call the gray birds or the white birds. She raged mightily, and the sea roared as if to mock her.

On the twenty-second night, the sky clouded. Tuli-tuli the beast went down to the shore to call a sea creature to be eaten. After tuli-tuli the beast had gone back to her crag to sleep off her full belly, First Woman dared to come out.

She crept down to the beach, and the elder moon, who loved First Woman for her daring, pushed through the clouds and showed her the tracks of tuli-tuli the beast. The moon showed First Woman her own swift footprints in the sand.

First Woman, daring anything in her anger against tuli-tuli the beast, drew the secret swiftness of her own feet. She felt a great joy and the elder moon laughed with her.

That was how tuli-tuli the beast found First Woman---dancing on the beach with the moonlight and laughing.

Tuli-tuli the beast had never seen anything like this before. She called to it to stop, but she had no name for it and her calling had no effect.

First Woman, seeing that tuli-tuli the beast could not call her, danced on in the moonlight, in the very face of tuli-tuli the beast. In one hand, she held the moon-white shell; in the other, the night-sea rock, and she danced on, laughing as she danced.

Tuli-tuli the beast was not hungry, for she had just eaten. But she was often wicked, you will remember. And First Woman had disturbed her sleep with dance and laughter.

Tuli-tuli the beast had no need of her language magic, for she had sharp claws. She caught First Woman in her wicked claws, but First Woman swung the night-sea rock. It was sharp, and cut tuli-tuli the beast deeply. Tuli-tuli the beast howled, and the sea howled mockingly and the little moon shone mockingly and the big moon peered over the horizon for a look.

And First Woman took her night-sea rock and her moon-white shell and drew. She drew the wicked claw-studded tracks of tuli-tuli the beast. She climbed the jagged rocks and crags toward tuli-tuli the beast's lair, and tuli-tuli the beast, raging, climbed after her.

First Woman drew the pattern of the sea-waves as they climbed and broke against the crags, and the sea rose behind her and caught both her and tuli-tuli the beast. And First Woman drew the breaking-shape of small dead things on the rocks and, in it, the pattern of tuli-tuli the beast.

The sea beat tuli-tuli the beast against the sharp rocks and broke her. First Woman, the sea dropped safely into a pool nearby.

First Woman, tired and battered by the sea (the sea is often cruel even to those it loves), crawled to tuli-tuli the beast where she lay dying. First Woman cried for tuli-tuli the beast, because tuli-tuli the beast was dying in pain. First Woman understood that her cruelty was like tuli-tuli the beast's. Remembering their kinship, she wept for them both.

She took up the night-sea rock and raised it to tuli-tuli's throat. As she brought the rock down, she heard a roaring in her head, like thunder.

Tuli-tuli the beast spoke to First Woman and she said, "You have stolen my magic. For that I will punish you. But you will end my pain, and for that I give you a warning. Take care, First Woman, that you do not share my magic. When more than one speaks, you will lose control of the magic."

First Woman ended tuli-tuli the beast's pain. At that moment tuli-tuli's claws struck First Woman's face and left two scars there forever. They are tuli-tuli the beast's punishment---for they gave First Woman the power to tell a lie---thereafter language needed never to be true.

That is how First Woman stole language from tuli-tuli the beast. And that is why language is no longer the same from year to year.

And who's to say if tuli-tuli the beast's heart was in her punishment---for it is only the ability to lie that makes possible the telling of a tale or the dreaming of a dream.

---But that is why, even today, no one knows the name of First Woman. Because, should tuli-tuli's silent children ever learn it, they would go straight to the land of no-time and regain their rightful heritage.

The name of the first man is known, but that is another story.

THE LAST OF A VINTAGE YEAR

The old man held the bottle up to the sun. Pale green shadows flickered through the thick coating of dust and grime to dance on the sand at his feet. Yes, he thought, The very last of Solomon's vintage. His hand hesitated over the cork. Perhaps this one would kill him. How fitting, that he be killed by the very last imprisoned djinn. His faint twist of a smile brought a splay of crow's feet to his deeply tanned temples. He said the words---they were rote after all these years but this last time he was conscious of an obligation and spoke them with emotion---and drew the cork with a grand flourish. Then he laid the bottle on the sand and bowed to the rising smoke.

"Thank you, Aladdin," said a sweet voice. "I'd heard rumors, but I had never dared to hope that you would find me."

Aladdin straightened and looked up, high up. He'd seen all sorts but to a djinn they'd been huge at first, terrifying in the sudden release of pent-up energy. The sky was empty.

A light tap on his shoulder made him start and turn. Beside him stood a rather ordinary woman, perhaps a head shorter than he. Quite unimpressive, really.

"Oh," she said. "I've startled you by appearing at human size. If you'd be more comfortable with a towering figure, I'd be glad to---" She began to enlarge.

"That's not necessary," said Aladdin. "You've no intention of killing me, then?"

"You freed me," she said, taken aback. Then, quite unexpectedly, she smiled. The smile brought a dimple to her cheek. "I do grant the traditional three wishes," she said. "So I won't disappoint you there!"

He smiled in return. "A cushion for my first wish then. I've walked a long time to find the last bottle, and I'd like to sit for a while."

True to her kind, the djinn overdid it. Aladdin found himself in a cool green garden, beneath a stand of palms. Flowers, all yellow and gold, softened the air with their scents. Beside the pillowed bench a fountain sang quietly. The shade and the whisper of water were welcome, he had to admit. Feeling refreshed, he bowed to the lady, took her hand and guided her to sit beside him.

She smiled again, pleased that she'd pleased him. He found that distressing in an odd sort of way.

"And for your next wish?" she said, her dark eyes bright with anticipation.

"My dear, my next wish would have been for a drink of water---which you have already kindly supplied." He took the dipper from its hook beside the fountain and plunged it into the water. He offered the first-dipped drink to her, thinking perhaps after all these years even a djinn might wish for a long cooling draught of water. When she waved it away, he drank deeply and sighed. "That's two," he said.

A frown rippled across her brow. "That's not," she said. "That's only one."

Aladdin took a second draught, then rinsed the dipper and hung it once again beside the fountain. "Please consider that my second wish fulfilled." He took the djinn's small hand in his and said, "You see, I haven't anything left to wish for."

To his surprise, she gave this careful consideration. "Oh, my," she said at last. "All those other djinn gave you all the usual: wealth and a beautiful princess and---"

He nodded, caught for a moment in the memory of his beautiful princess with her snow-white hair. He lingered over each cherished line of her face, like some treasure hunter over his map of hidden riches.

"Wait," said the djinn. "They didn't give you immortality. That much is clear from the lines in your face and the whiteness of your hair. I could certainly give you that."

He shook his head. "When my wife would not ask for immortality, I found I could not either. After all, what have I to do with my life now?"

The djinn leaned back; of its own accord the pillow behind her snuggled to prop her at an angle that left her peering down her nose at him, like a crane awaiting the proper time to spear its dinner. Like a djinn awaiting a wish.

"You couldn't give me back my princess," he said. He expected no contradiction and got none. "My children are all grown"---she sat forward and he added hastily---"and they should be left to live their own lives without the meddling interference of an old man and an older djinn."

"I see," she said. "Is that why you've spent the last fifty years of your life tracking down and releasing trapped djinn?"

Aladdin smiled and shrugged. "That was the only thing I was ever good at. I had a gift for it."

"Yes. To find my bottle on the edge of dead sea, that was a gift indeed." She raised one knee and wrapped her arms around it. "Was," she said in echo. "Had."

"You were the last. There are no more imprisoned djinn to release by a rubbing of the lamp or a pulling of the cork. All the lamps and bottles are empty now, and there are no more magic words that need to be said." He turned his hands up and laid them, empty, in the lap of his robe. "May I ask where we are, my dear?"

"In the Golden Garden of Al-Sabbagh."

He rose and bowed. "A short trip home then. Though there is no-one who awaits me, I shall nevertheless be on my way. My work is done." He straightened and looked carefully into her dark eyes. "You'll be all right---by yourself?"

That made her smile. "I have been for many hundreds of years."

He smiled in return. "Of course. Forgive me. It was a pleasure to have met you."

He had already turned to go, when she called out to him. "Wait, Aladdin! Your third wish!"

Such sticklers for tradition.... Aladdin turned back. "Anything you want, my dear. Anything but immortality. I leave the choice to you."

He took two steps and found himself inside a building. The air was astonishingly cool, like that of the high mountains. When he made to pull his robe closer, he found the clothing he wore odd and completely unfamiliar. He frowned slightly---for he also found he knew the words for every item he wore, from the BVDs to the three-piece suit to the brightly flowered tie.

He was in a small shop, surrounded by ancient but lovingly cared for lamps and bottles of various ages long past his own. Behind the counter, a young woman sat quietly reading. For all its strangeness, that sight made him feel at home, for he had taught his princess to read and she had delighted in it as much as this youngster did.

Quietly, he glanced around the shelves, knowing it had to be here somewhere---a green bottle that would flicker ever so slightly even without the sun to shine through it. There---shined and treasured. He raised the bottle from the shelf, cradling it in his hand. In his mind, he could see the djinn's dimpled cheek. In his mind, her voice said, Djinn aren't the only creatures trapped in bottles. I wonder---can you uncork that one?

Aladdin shifted slightly to look again at the youngster behind the counter. A floorboard creaked beneath his feet and the youngster's head snapped up. For an instant, he saw terror in her pale blue eyes---then she gathered herself and said, "Oh, you startled me! I didn't hear you come in!"

"My apologies, miss," he said. The words felt strange in his mouth, but he knew they were the right ones. "Could you tell me, please---where did this bottle come from? I saw one like it....many years ago."

The fear was subsiding, but Aladdin could see that it would never quite go away. Unless.... Unless, echoed the djinn, you can find the magic words.

"Jordan, I was told," said the youngster. "Found on the shore of the Dead Sea." She said the words as if she treasured the thought. Then, in another tone, she added, "It's not considered an antique, I mean, an antique dealer would sneer at it. But I thought it was lovely."

"Lovely---yes," he said. "It's just the sort of bottle that might once have held a djinn...."

"Oh!" said the youngster and something new lit her eyes. She did still have hope for herself, Aladdin saw. There was magic imprisoned there! Aladdin felt a rush of hope lift his own heart.

Thank you, he said silently to the djinn. For letting me out of my bottle. I thought there was nothing left for me to do in this world.

Again he could see the djinn smile in his mind. Honey, the sweet voice said, This is New York City in the twentieth century. When you're done uncorking this poor imprisoned creature, we'll find you another.

By my count, she added, you've one wish remaining to you. If you ever change you mind about the immortality, let me know. You've got your work cut out for you here!

The youngster was smiling at the bottle. Reflected in the swell of green glass, her face dimpled like the djinn's. Aladdin smiled; for the first time in many years, his smile felt genuine. A different vintage, but just as sweet as the old.

OUT ON FRONT STREET

"Hey, mama, you a fox!"

You wrong there, boy, Jessie thought. It almost made her smile, but by then the pack of teenagers had emerged from the shadows to eye her in the wan light of the streetlamp.

The moon had not yet risen, and the rest of the street was deserted.

"Oooo-eeee! Ain't you the prettiest thing...cho-co-late. Sweeeeet cho-co-late. Lemme show you what I do for your love-life, mama. I eat chocolate, chocolate love be eaten."

Jessie kept walking. As she passed, the pack fell into step beside her. Her ears told her: five of them.

At her right hand, the leader pressed close, his physical presence as insistent as his drone. "You pay me no mind? I don 'preciate you pay me no mind. You pay me no mind, you sorry, soon enough. I cut you soon as fuck you. Sooner maybe."

Sellin' wolf tickets, Jessie thought. Man, he think he so bad. She didn't say it. She kept walking. The five of them kept pace.

The light breeze shifted, its chill bringing her the scent of sweat and dope. Jessie's nostrils flared. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

One of them reached out from behind to stroke her arm. With a growl in the back of her throat, Jessie whirled on him. "Mind your manners, boy, you hear me?"

That one backed away, but the leader laughed. "Oooh. Mama gon' bite you, boy." Bad teeth flashed in a drug-twisted grin. His hand groped for her breast. She slapped it away, hard.

The grin turned mean. "You don' bite this boy, mama. This boy bite back." He made a swift gesture with his right hand.

The pack closed in. A hand clamped across her mouth as other hands grabbed for her wrists. Jessie lashed out with her foot but missed. Someone twisted her arm savagely, but her cry of pain could not escape the imprisoning hand.

Steel glittered in the dim light. The leader's finished gesture brought the blade of a knife to her throat. It was cold. Near her ear, someone giggled. That sound was, somehow, nastier than the pawing hands on her breasts.

They half-carried, half-dragged, her for nearly a block, then down an alley, where she was lifted bodily through the broken window of an abandoned building. There was no light and some cursing before someone lit a candle. Shadows flickered over the debris of years of drug-taking.

"Now we gon' see how mean you be, bitch."

The four who held her pushed her flat to the floor, spreading her legs so wide she thought she'd been torn. The leader of the pack jerked up her skirt, and, moments later, a line of heat ran up Jessie's hip. Her nostrils pricked at the scent of her own blood. Her underclothing came away in his hand. There was another giggle from the one who knelt on her arm.

The leader of the pack tossed her panties to the giggler, who took them in his mouth. To raucous laughter from the rest, he worried them like a puppy worrying an old sock.

When the joke was played out, the leader of the pack focussed once more on Jessie. "You think you mean, bitch. You ain't mean. You gon' be done by mean." He held up the knife to let her anticipate what was to come. A single ray of moonlight glittered off the blade.

Jessie threw back her head and howled.

The giggler reached to cover her mouth again but this time Jessie was ready for him. Sharp teeth sank into the hand, ripping it to the bone. He screamed and fell back.

That freed her right forearm. She lunged upward to snap the second captor across the face, blinding him.

Then she was on her feet. She sprang and sank her teeth into the throat of the leader. His windpipe gave with a satisfying crunch---and moments later he was drowning in his own blood. She gave the body a shake, snapping the neck just to be sure.

She made equally short work of the one she'd blinded, then looked around the room. The rest had fled.

That was no problem. She could track them easily enough. She leapt for the broken window. Pausing on the sill, she looked back at the leader of the pack.

That'll teach you, boy, she thought. Sell wolf tickets to a wolf, you be real sorry.

She landed in the alleyway on silent paws and trotted up the street, following the scent of fear. It was a nice night for a hunt. The moon was high and full.

FROM THE DEAD LETTER FILE

53 Buck's Row

Whitechapel, London NE

New Britain, Mars

31 August 2088

Casimir Winston

526 Mitre Square

Whitechapel, London NW

New England, Luna

Dear Splatter Writers' Action Guild Member,

We are writing to alert you to a situation which threatens our most precious literary heritage and which will effect the lives of thousands of our friends and colleagues.

Those among you who are also members of the Science Fiction Writers' Alliance have no doubt been following the developments at Mars Institute of Technology, where the recent work of Dr. Laurel Kerlin has proven time travel no longer merely theory. But you may not be aware that Dr. Kerlin shortly intends to make the initial test of her prototype TIME-OFFtm---by sending a team of crack investigator/commandos to stop the man known to history as "Jack the Ripper" before he can claim any victims!

While we cannot help but admire Dr. Kerlin's fine sense of the commercial (the subject alone will ensure her a 90 percent share in media coverage, and all but guarantees her the renewal of her NOW research grant), we are horrified by the hazard inherent in her proposal.

It is Dr. Kerlin's contention that no "effect cascade" will result from this intervention in the normal course of history because of the social insignificance of Jack's recorded victims. But Dr. Kerlin has failed to take into account those whose careers and livelihoods will be devastated should her experiment succeed!

Even the most cursory check of the subject index in the Library of the Congress of Luna shows a total of 154,687 entries listed under the heading of "Jack the Ripper." These entries include both fiction and non-fiction, from classics like YOURS TRULY, JACK THE RIPPER to the collation of papers from the Neill Cream Memorial Lectures given last month at Columbia University under the auspices of PEN. These entries do not include such shorter---but hardly insignificant---items as magazine articles or reviews or "cameo roles," whether they were in novels or films. Nor do they include the thousands of films, holis, records, and CDs based on the exploits of the Ripper.

Hence our letter. We are sure you will agree that such a rich literary heritage must be protected from the depredations of time-travel, that such a body of work can not---must not---be deleted from the pages of literary history by the single slash of a would-be time-editor Dr. Kerlin's blue pencil.

Being writers ourselves, we know the value of a writer's time---but can you, in all good conscience, sit back and allow the wanton destruction of such classics as "Spring-Finger Jack," ROCK'N'ROLL RIPPER, or THE KATIE KELLY FOLLIES? Won't you take just a moment to pute your congressor and your OSHA representative to voice your objection to the Kerlin project? What you do today can mean the difference between the slush-pile and the best-seller list for 200 years of writers! Only you can save Jack the Ripper, a man who has served as inspiration to us all!

Sincerely yours,

Jan (writing as "Janet") Juwes

author of the Bodice/Ripper series, including:

LOVE AND A BAG OF CASHOUS

DARK ANNIE'S BRASS RINGS

FLOWERS FOR LONG LIZ

and Eric Juwes

author of SAUCY JACK!, winner of three Tobe Awards:

Best Musical,

Best Special Effects, Best Disembowelment

Cas---

Sorry this isn't a personal letter---no time! We're sending copies of this to everybody in SFWA and MWA too.

One quick light note: you'll love Roberta Asimov's theory... The moment the time machine is switched on, even before Kerlin sends the team through (she says), our contemporary mental attitudes will begin to effect the past---some high energy physics balderdash having to do with "quantum inseparability" and "non-local connections." (If you ask me, all these sci-fi writers suffer from non-local connections!)

Keep good thoughts!

J.

MISCHIEF IN THE SPACEWAYS

For twenty-some years now I've been haunting second-hand bookstores and snapping up every Schmitz novel or collection I luck onto. I thrust copies of THE DEMON BREED, AGENT OF VEGA, A PRIDE OF MONSTERS or THE UNIVERSE AGAINST HER into the hands of friends and I say, "Here, read this---you'll love it!" They do and, as they take up haunting second-hand bookstores in pursuit of everything else Schmitz ever wrote, spare copies get harder and harder to track down.

With this volume, NESFA has come to my rescue. At last, I've a new collection of Schmitz stories to thrust into the hands of friends!

I don't know which stories NESFA has chosen to include here (although I did threaten some poor fellow with Dire Consequences if they left out "The Second Night of Summer"), but I do know you're in for a good time reading them. They're by James H. Schmitz....

#

I'd have had it easier if NESFA had asked me to write an afterward. In an afterward, I could have run on for pages, pointing to each story in turn and saying, "Look at that!" and "Catch this!"

But...an introduction?

I've an ingrained objection to coming between an author and his readers. The objection is all the more heart felt when that author is James H. Schmitz, a writer I admire above all for his sense of mischief.

Whatever the story, he always found a way to play havoc with his readers' expectations. He could take any cliche and, by turning it upside down, inside out, or back on itself, make you sit up and take notice of things you'd never seen before. And leave you smiling over the discovery as well.

If you've never read his work before, I'll be damned if I'll be the one to spoil the surprises he's got in store for you.

As a reader, I pick up a Schmitz story to reread whenever I need the Good Stuff. As a writer, I'm still trying to figure out how he gets away with some of things he gets away with---and I reread Schmitz stories in the hope that someday maybe I'll learn enough to get away with it, too.

(This man wrote a story in which the hero sleeps through the conquest of a planet, and wakes no less the hero of the story for having missed the battle. What is "The Truth About Cushgar"? I have got to learn how to get away with things like that!)

Rather than spoil any specific surprises these stories hold in store for you, I'll take this opportunity to flag a handful of purely Schmitzian techniques for you. Chances are you'll be too busy reading the stories to spot them the first time, but you might want to keep your eye out for them when you reread the stories.

Heroes, villains, monsters---they're all here---but Schmitz has worked his fine mischief on each and every one of them. There's never been anyone quite like him, and you're about to have the pleasure of learning why.

HEROES

A word about the "default setting." In computer terminology, the default setting defines how the computer will operate. Default settings are simple enough to change...if you know they're there and if you're willing to take the conscious and deliberate action necessary to change them.

When James H. Schmitz first started writing sf, the default setting for "hero" was white, male, and in his twenties---and a writer didn't change the default setting without good reason.

"Good reason," I regret to say, was biological---or what passed for biological in the cultural stereotyping of the time. If the writer needed a protagonist who would protect a child, the protagonist would be female. If the writer needed a protagonist who was irrationally jealous, the protagonist would be female. If the writer needed a protagonist who was a secretary or a schoolteacher...ditto.

In those rare stories where the default settings were changed, the change was a forced one; and the change in the default setting was itself the point of the story.

Not where Schmitz was concerned. He knew the default settings were there and, to judge from the stories, the knowledge gave him a fierce itch to change the settings to his own specs. The result is the most unconventional collection of heroes you ever saw.

I use the word "heroes" deliberately. A conventional "heroine" was, at the time, little more than the hero's girlfriend. But Schmitz wrote heroes---and many of his best were female.

A complaint I've heard all too often about Schmitz's work is this: "But...but there isn't any reason for Nile Etland to be a woman!" There's no reason for Heinlein's Lorenzo the Magnificent to be a man, either. But that's the reader's default settings speaking.

Flick out of the default settings and there's no reason an interstellar agent can't be female, no reason a career bureaucrat can't have an insatiable sense of curiosity, no reason the ecology of an alien world can't be the hero of the story.

Change the default settings and you might even wind up with a story like "The Second Night of Summer," a particularly mischievous example that's one of my favorites.

Keep your eye on the hero in a Schmitz story---she's not who you expected.

VILLAINS

And neither is the villain....

If a story has a villain, that means you're reading space opera instead of the "classier" problem-solving sort of sf, right? Not always...and especially not when it's a Schmitz story, where even a villain can be out of the ordinary.

In 1965, Schmitz wrote "Balanced Ecology," a story in which the villains are clear cutters. You read that right: the villains are people who want to cut down a planet's forests purely for monetary gain. But "Balanced Ecology" is problem-solving sf...from the point of view of the world at risk.

In "The Custodians," Schmitz gives us an ethical space-pirate in league with a group of arms smugglers as the villain of the piece and then (I suspect he chuckled while he did it) he proceeds to pull off a trick.... No, no, I can't tell you. You've got to see him do it to appreciate it.

Keep your eye on those villains---there's not a preened mustache in the lot.

And while you're at it, keep your eye on what happens to those villains in the end. Contrary to the blood-thirsty conventions of his time (and ours), Schmitz prefers rehabilitation to punishment and treats his villains accordingly.

Even without knowing which stories NESFA's chosen to include here, I guarantee you'll see an example of this treatment. It'd be almost impossible to put together a collection that didn't have one. If the choice had been up to me, I'd have given you "Gone Fishing" as the best example.

Told largely from the villain's point of view, the story at first seems all too predictable. Schmitz seems to telegraph the ending, the fate of the villain...until he takes the story one step further---to show you what happened after the ending you expected. You're left shaking your head and smiling because you didn't see that coming.

Yes, keep your eye on the villain and on the fate of the villain.

MONSTERS

Agreed; a monster is not the same as a villain. But there was, at the time, a conventional monster. Repulsive to look at, it dripped ichor and smelled accordingly. In all, it was the sort of thing a hero would instinctively kill on sight.

"But there was a time," Schmitz wrote, in his introduction to A PRIDE OF MONSTERS, "when the monsters were very real and very close. [...] And the beast remains part of our heritage, unforgotten; it pads through the dark back-ways of our minds, peers out into our dreams. There is a kinship, a bond, between it and us.

"[...] A monster, essentially, is something which appears more formidable than you, with intentions toward you that are at best unguessable. Perhaps we are trying to regain our monsters. The real ones...."

Schmitz set out to do exactly that, to help us regain our monsters. He gifted science fiction with a dozen or more of the most memorable monsters ever seen in the field, among them "Greenface," the janandra, the Worm World....

In A TALE OF TWO CLOCKS, you'll find my favorite, a monster named Pili. Pili has long golden hair and smells of ripe apples---a scent that raised hairs on the back of my neck for months after I first read the novel. In "Lion Loose," you'll find a Schmitz monster that looks like "a barn door with dirty fur" (and its intentions are so unguessable that I find myself surprised all over again each time I reread the story).

Watch those monsters---they're not what you think.

And watch too the reactions of a Schmitz character confronted by a monster. There's no "instinctive" kill-on-sight. Far from it, as you'll see in the following quote from "The Winds of Time":

"On the other hand, Geftly realized that he wouldn't now be able to bring himself to eject the janandra out of the cargo lock and into the Great Current. Its intentions obviously hadn't been friendly, but its level of intelligence was as good as his own, perhaps somewhat better; and at present it was helpless. To dispose of it as he'd had in mind would therefore be the cold-blooded murder of an equal."

Schmitz just can't keep his hands off those default settings, can he?

FAMILY AND FRIENDS

Here's another odd thing for your consideration. Most action/adventure heroes exist in a vacuum. They may have girlfriends and they most assuredly have sidekicks, but they don't have family and they don't have friends. The difference between a sidekick and a friend is enormous, but the sidekick has become so conventional as to go unnoticed---except by James H. Schmitz.

A Schmitz hero has both friends and family.

Try to imagine a typical Heinlein hero taking a problem to his father. Not easy, is it? But that's Telzey Amberdon's first thought when she believes her friend Gonwil's life may be in danger. What's more, Telzey's father believes her and acts on the belief.

As in real life, not all family members are likable or even good, but---good or bad---they exist. And family is always something to be taken into consideration. Even a space pirate has a sister. He may not have seen her for some time but she remains, for him, a consideration...and that makes him a very different sort of space pirate indeed, as you'll see in "The Custodians."

STYLE

Not much of a stylist, Schmitz nevertheless had style. There's something about his choice of words I want you to keep an eye out for. It's yet another example of the mischief inherent in his work (and it's a handy little technique that even the rawest beginning writer can use to good advantage).

He treats each of his characters as an individual. He does so in a deceptively simple fashion that nevertheless adds a depth to his work that many writers of the time lacked.

Even today there are a number of writers who consider gender (at least, the female gender) a perfectly good substitute for character motivation or for exposition. To such a writer, the phrase "being a woman" sums up a female character in toto. This is a tic, and the sign of an extremely lazy writer. (It's also a sign of contempt for the reader; the writer assumes you've bought into the same stereotypes and that you won't question them.)

Let me give you an example of common garden-variety laziness: "Being a woman, she couldn't keep the secret." If the divulger of secrets in question had been male, that same lazy writer would have written: "He couldn't keep the secret from Roger Williams---he and Roger had been through too much together."

The first character described reinforces a stereotype and makes the female character "representative" of her entire gender, to its derogation. The second character is an individual with an individual reason for his specific behavior in this instance.

This difference in treatment was once quite common in sf (and a number of writers still do it). Female characters are treated as generic and representative, male characters as specific and individual.

Once again, Schmitz took notice of the stereotyping and took action against it. Gender is not sufficient reason for the behavior of a Schmitz character.

"Jessamine was a sweet and understanding woman," says Schmitz of Telzey's mother, "but she had the streak of conservatism which tended to characterize junior members of the Grand Council of the Federation."

No tics here. Schmitz was not a lazy writer.

In fact, it's a good idea to take any apparent stereotyped behavior or attribute in a Schmitz story as a warning flag. If he makes much of a woman's fashionable wigs, you'll likely find they're concealing some very interesting electronic equipment. If you think you see a black chauffeur, you've been conned. If you think you see Trigger Argee behaving irrationally because she's obsessed by love, you've got one hell of a surprise coming.

To James Schmitz, the stereotyping of other people is always a mistake. A person who stereotypes others lacks the flexibility to deal with the real world. Bigotry is inevitably dangerous to the bigot.

My favorite Schmitz novel this week, THE DEMON BREED, is all about the hazards of bigotry. In it, one of his characters sums up humans this way: "To say that the human is thus and so is almost always to lie automatically. The species, its practices and philosophies remain unpredictable. Individuals vary, and the species varies with circumstances. This instability seems a main source of its strength. We cannot judge it by what it is today or was yesterday. We do not know what it will be tomorrow."

I couldn't put it better myself...but I'd like to add that he accords the same individuality to his non-human characters as well. And, in so doing, he makes you aware of them as people, even if they look like a stegosaurus without the spine frills.

WHICH BRINGS ME TO THE PLOTS

Here's a plot: Our hero has an old wreck of a cargo ship and one chance to make a go of interstellar trade. If he succeeds, he'll also get the hand of the lady back home in marriage. On his first trip out, he comes across some slave-girls in need of rescue....

This plot was old when Verne and Wells were children, though in their day the old wreck of a cargo ship would have had tattered sails instead of dented plates. And it's this hoary old chestnut that Schmitz took for the plot of his novella, "The Witches of Karres."

"The Witches of Karres" appeared in ASTOUNDING in December of 1949. In March of 1950, when John W. Campbell, Jr., counted up the votes for best of that issue, he found that the readers had awarded "The Witches of Karres" first place in the Analytical Laboratory---over the formidable competition of Isaac Asimov's "...And Now You Don't" and Robert Heinlein's "Gulf"!

How did Schmitz do that with a story whose every plot turn was cliche? Read THE WITCHES OF KARRES and you'll see for yourself, but I'll give you a hint.... Every time the plot was supposed to take a turn to the right, Schmitz hung a left---or a zig-zag.

The story always opens in a port bar in the midst of an argument. You know what happens next, of course. Our hero has to fight his way out....

"The Witches of Karres" opens in a spaceport bar. An argument (over which planet, Nikkeldepain or Porlumma, has the sillier name) heats to threats. "But the captain only smiled politely, paid for his two drinks, and left."

And you're left blinking in surprise. No bar fight? That isn't the way this story is supposed to run.

Then the captain rescues those slave-girls.... Schmitz heard the word "girls" (and you didn't). The slave-girls are actually girls, aged fourteen, "five or six," and "nine or ten." (The captain "wasn't very good at estimating them around that age," Schmitz explains.) Worse still, Schmitz gives you the uncomfortable feeling that his captain is rescuing the slavers from the slaves, rather than vice-versa.

Pure action/adventure every step of the way, "The Witches of Karres" can easily be taken at face value and read for the genuine excitement of its galactic sweep. (I've hooked half the kids in my neighborhood on sf with this book.) But watch your own expectations as you read, and you'll read it with double the delight.

Throughout the novella and the additional adventures recounted in the later novel of the same name, Schmitz takes one cliche after another and wrings its tail...until you howl with laughter. (I warn you, though: reading THE WITCHES OF KARRES will also leave you with a permanent raised eyebrow and a snort of derision for any writer who does the expected in a space opera.)

My vote for the unlikeliest exchange ever written in space opera is still the final exchange between Goth and Captain Pausert in the novella version of "The Witches of Karres." And, no, I'm not going to quote it here. You'll have to find a copy for yourself.

See you in the second-hand bookshop. Psst---you'll want that copy of THE DEMON BREED, too, and AGENT OF VEGA, and....

IN CONCLUSION

I've kept you from the stories quite long enough. Turn the page. Be ready to reset. Keep your eyes open for those twists, your ears open for the sound of a friend's voice, your mind open to all the possibilities of humankind (including those that come in unfamiliar forms)---and sniff the air from time to time for the sweet scent of danger.

Here, read this---you'll love it!

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WINGING IT

"Harriet, I need your help," said el Presidente, without so much as a "Hello" to soften her up first.

Harriet Kingsolver knew Wanwadee Li well enough to consider a blanket offer of assistance foolhardy; he'd gotten her into enough unbelievably weird situations for a single lifetime. She considered the face on the screen and said nothing.

Wanwadee had painted the frown lines of his office dark and unusually broad for the occasion but there was genuine anxiety there too. And the frown deepened as the moments ticked by without a response from Harriet. Having practiced with a cat, Harriet could outwait him anytime.

At last he broke, as she'd known he would. "Harriet," he said, "you've worked with Crotonites...."

"I've worked with Crotonites from Pssstwhit," she said, the world's name being a cross between a whistle and a spit. Admitting that committed her to nothing and it amused her to speak even that little of the language after so long.

It amused the Siamese cat in her lap as well. His Highness gave Harriet a cross-eyed stare and told her to mind her manners and watch her mouth.

"Pastwit," said Wanwadee, butchering the pronunciation the way most humans did. "Then I need you even more than I thought I did. Pastwit's sending us an ambassador."

Harriet leaned forward. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. For some reason known only to themselves, the Crotonites of Pastwit have decided to send LostRoses a fully accredited ambassador."

As weird as usual. Tilting back in her chair, Harriet thought it over.

LostRoses had a population of five thousand humans, give or take a hundred. Its only exports were two kinds of spice and a leaf gall which, split and polished, yielded a gemstone that gave the planet its name. The moment galactic taste (or fashion) changed, LostRoses would become a ghost world.

Unless the Crotonites had suddenly acquired a taste for lostroses or for one of the two spices, their sending an ambassador made no sense whatsoever. Furthermore, given what she'd seen of the Crotonite temperament, a diplomatic Crotonite was a contradiction in terms.

Weird, but interesting, she concluded. She let Wanwadee stew a moment more, then she said, "I won't postpone my regular trade run for this. You've got me for three months, then I'm gone."

"Thanks, Harriet," he said, and but for the painted lines most of his frown smoothed away. "We meet him at St. Elsie's Field at ten."

"I'll be there."

Harriet flicked off the comunit and scratched His Highness behind the ears. "It's not Wanwadee Li who gets me into weird situations," she told him. "It's me that gets me into weird situations."

His Highness told her in no uncertain terms how many kinds of a fool she was. In perfect Siamese-cat yowl-growl, she told him what she thought of his manners, his putative parentage and his current sexual proclivities. He purred contentedly and rubbed his head against her chin.

Just as contentedly, Harriet said, "Well, we'll wing it."

#

When Harriet rolled onto the edge of St. Elsie's Field, the Crotonite ship was nowhere to be seen. Her guess was they'd landed, opened the lock, tossed out the ambassador (not much caring which end up), and taken off like the bats out of hell they somewhat resembled.

There was only one place anybody met at 'port and that was Sylvaine's Custom House---what passed on LostRoses for bar, inn, customs and immigration, and Officio del Presidente. She rolled on in.

Even before her chair climbed onto the smoother surface of the parquet flooring, she knew the ambassador had indeed arrived. She could hear him---hissing and spitting and spattering like a over-heated grease in a frying pan. Nothing could curse for a longer time without repeating itself or sound nastier in the process than a Crotonite.

Except perhaps a Siamese cat---Harriet was almost sorry His Highness had declined (with emphasis) to accompany her; the match-off would have been highly entertaining.

Sylvaine, bemused, stood peering over the edge of a huge assortment of unfamiliar containers, strangely-wrapped packages and odd-looking equipment. He glanced at Harriet long enough to give her a wave of welcome, then went back to his peering.

Good thing she'd come. He'd need help with all that baggage, and Harriet's chair had been modified from a cargo shifter. That was the one strength Wanwadee claimed---he did think ahead. That's why the population of LostRoses stuck him with the job of el Presidente year after year.

From somewhere within the heap of baggage came the sound of boxes being opened, dug through, rearranged, shut with an angry slam---and the constant stream of Crotonite invective. Harriet whistled her chair closer and listened with a smile to the familiar sound of it.

"Slugs," said the voice. "May they crawl forever on their faces. May their mouths fill with mud and their noses with weed. May their offspring fly forever lower and lower until their wings too trail in the mud. May---" The cursing broke off abruptly.

He couldn't have run out of steam this soon, Harriet knew from experience. He must have been dropped off earlier than Wanwadee had expected. Whatever the case, she knew an opening when she saw one and took advantage of the brief silence to introduce herself.

"May they eat dead food and choke," Harriet offered in the same tongue. "May their fingers stink of mildew and their wings rot of fungus. May the updrafts smash them against the Torn Cliffs and the downdrafts dash them into the Sumpwater Swamps."

She hadn't lost her touch. With a hiss of surprise, the Crotonite shot up from behind a stack of crates to scan the room with sharp eyes.

They were a vivid orange, those eyes---a color Harriet had not seen for some three years. She cut the thought short.

When at last he was satisfied that Sylvaine's held no other Crotonite, he turned the sharp eyes on Harriet---and even his transparent breathing mask could not obscure the look of startlement (or what Harriet had always taken for one) on his bird-like face.

For her part, Harriet was equally startled: the Crotonite had no wings.

From where she sat, the scars at his shoulders looked clean---as if the wings had been surgically removed. She wondered what kind of disease or accident had necessitated the amputation. The wings must have been very badly damaged, or they'd have been left to him, even useless, for the sake of aesthetics. Wingspan was ninety-percent of a Crotonite's pride.

She said, "I'm Harriet Kingsolver. May I be of some assistance?"

He'd regained his composure and, with it, his Crotonite arrogance. He eyed her from the treads of her chair to the top of her head, then he said acidly, "Can you fly?"

"Yes," said Harriet. She did not put the same question to him.

Again the look of startlement crossed his features, but this time there was something else as well, something that Harriet had never seen before and was unable to interpret. After a moment, he said something that she did not follow.

She shook her head, smiling, and said, in the Nevelse that was LostRoses's lingua franca, "Sorry. I only learned to curse in Crotonite---not to converse."

In Nevelse, he said, "You fly---in a mechanical contrivance."

His tone made it clear that airplanes didn't count. Harriet, of all people, could understand the distinction. She nodded.

"Slug," he said. It was the standard Crotonite insult for a non-flying species.

"Uninventive," she countered. "Get to know me and get personal. I promise you I will." She eyed the stumps of his wings just long enough to call his attention to the fact that she hadn't bothered with the most obvious choice of insults possible. "I await something worth my talents."

Again she drew from him an unidentifiable expression, this one unlike the previous one. If it was not actually admiration, it was at least neutral, because he jabbed a stubby finger at Sylvaine and said, "This crawler-through-mud wishes to pry into my private luggage." In Crotonite, he added, "May he stick his fingers into a fastgnaw hole and withdraw his hand fingerless."

"Sylvaine? What do you need to know?"

"If he's got any seeds, plants---the usual contraband."

Harriet swung a hand to indicate the entire pile of the Crotonite's belongings and said, "Have you got anything alive in there---animal or vegetable?"

"No," said the Crotonite. "May his beak strike a cliff's edge in the fog and shatter into a thousand shards."

"He's clear," Harriet said to Sylvaine. "I vouch for him. Now, how about a beer for me and a cup of glavsa for the ambassador."

"Coming up," said Sylvaine.

"Oh! And, Sylvaine? Bring that busted chair, the one with no seat. The ambassador will be more comfortable perching than sitting, I imagine."

Still no sign of Wanwadee Li. Harriet was not the least bit surprised; Wanwadee Li ran on Wanwadee Li Time---which ran about forty-five minutes later than Standard. She rolled to the nearest table and gestured at the chair Sylvaine provided.

Glaring, the ambassador wrapped sharp claws around the upper rung of the broken chair and perched. She'd guessed right---that brought him to the proper height for the table.

Thoughtful as always, Sylvaine brought the glavsa in a pipette mug; breathing mask or no, the ambassador could sip his drink. Sylvaine put a beer in front of Harriet and waved away payment. "I'll put it on Wanwadee's tab," he said. "It looks to me like official government business."

He retreated behind the bar, leaving Harriet to handle the Crotonite ambassador. Well, she'd just have to make polite conversation until Wanwadee Li showed up to make things formal.

"So," she said, lifting her beer in a toast to the newest comer to LostRoses. "Do you have a name or was your mother too appalled by your looks to claim you?"

#

His name was Wyss'huk---a whoosh and half a hiccup---and she and Wanwadee eventually got him and his belongings stowed in the Pssstwhit Embassy, the Pssstwhit Embassy being a hollow ceramic cube that Wanwadee had spent the afternoon forming.

"It had to be air-tight---that's what held me up. I made it big, for the sake of prestige, but if he wants fancy, he'll have to extrude his own," Wanwadee said. "That was the only pattern I could find in the library that bore so much as a remote resemblance to Pastwit architecture." He gestured her into his own wood-frame home. "I should have asked you if you had any suggestions."

"I'd have given you the wrong ones, Wanwadee. You didn't tell me he was wingless."

Wanwadee gave an involuntary glance at Harriet's legs---then, visibly embarrassed, he turned away. "Drink, Harriet?" Before she could answer, he was halfway across the room to his private stock.

Harriet sighed. "You're being an idiot today, Wan," she said, softening it with a smile. "We both know my legs don't function. Your looking or not looking doesn't change that a bit. It's like being afraid to say, 'I see what you mean,' to a blind man."

"Sorry." He came back with a glass for each of them and a more normal demeanor. "It's been a long day, I don't understand a bit of this and, you're right, I'm being stupid." He downed his drink and poured himself a second. "I don't mind being el Presidente most days---but that's only because, most days, being el Presidente doesn't mean shit. Today I'm out of my league."

He pulled up a chair and sat heavily. "I hypered every authority I could think of for advice and all I got back, in some three hundred different ways, was 'Find out what they want!' We'll be getting some 'experts,' too, but lord only knows what they're 'expert' in."

"Then you don't know how he lost his wings?"

"Oh," he said, and he scowled. The painted lines across his forehead turned his face into a mask of anger. "That I can tell you---but you won't like it any more than I did. I don't blame him much for his mouth---I sure as hell wouldn't be all sweetness and light in his circumstances." Within the mask, his eyes were cold. "You'd better drink that drink. You'll probably need it."

Harriet raised first an eyebrow, then her glass. She took a sip to oblige him and then she said, "Tell me."

"Whooshuk was chosen as ambassador, so they amputated his wings."

"What?"

"Seems the Crotonites thought their ambassador would be able to understand us ground-crawlers better if he were a ground-crawler himself."

Harriet took in a long breath, looked down at the glass in her hands. "You were right," she said. "I hate it." She downed the drink in a gulp.

#

Harriet set the chair on automatic and let it find its own way home. She had things to think about---things she hadn't thought about for a long time. Here's your reward for being chosen as ambassador: we chop off your wings. What kind of mind did it take to think of that? She knew what it was like to be without wings. Wyss'huk would spend the rest of his life staring up into the sky---the way Harriet was staring into it even now.

The arrival beep from the chair put a momentary halt to her angry thoughts and brought her eyes back to earth. Taking the chair off automatic, she rolled to the storage shed. First things first---she'd see what condition her equipment was in....

She hadn't looked at it for almost three years but she knew exactly where Majnoun had stowed it. The chair pincers dropped the package delicately across her lap. Her hands hesitated over the careful wrappings. It would be in perfect condition; Majnoun had seen to that in the stowing.

He'd always assumed she'd use it again one day. That was before they'd learned that the regeneration techniques wouldn't work on her, of course. Still, Harriet suspected he'd have wrapped it just as lovingly had he known.

The thought made her smile---and her hands moved of themselves to begin unwrapping the package. Fiery oranges leapt out to greet her eye---the gaudiest bird on LostRoses. What a shame it hadn't graced the sky in so many years.

Well, Firehawk, she thought, it's time you hit the sky again.

Carefully, she rewrapped the package. Like a sun setting, she thought, then---but it'll be back up again tomorrow. She felt a fierce grin cross her face as she handed the package to the pincers.

She was still grinning when she reached the house, still grinning when Majnoun answered her call. "I need a favor, Majnoun," she said.

"Name it!"

"I need you to adapt a hang-gliding harness to fit a Crotonite. He's not just smaller than a human---the torso-to-leg ratio's much different. The arms are stubbier. He's got only two fingers to each hand but I don't think that's a problem. To judge from the chest muscles and from the way he hauled crates this evening, he's got good upper body strength."

"He'd need it, to use those wings." Majnoun stared out of the screen, suddenly puzzled. "His wings would get in the way, Harriet."

Harriet felt the grin fall away from her face. She shook her head. "No," she said. "This one doesn't have any wings."

"Oh!" His eyes widened. "Oh! So we're---"

"We're going to give him mine."

#

To her surprise, Harriet had no trouble coaxing Wyss'huk from the Pssstwhit Embassy in the morning. His temperament hadn't improved but he did seem curious about the world he'd been sent to. Good enough.

When he took a momentary pause from cursing the weather, the lack of air pressure, the general quality of intelligence among the upper levels of Pssstwhit authority and Harriet (perhaps only so she wouldn't feel left out), Harriet extruded a running board and said, "Hop on. I'll show you the best sight on LostRoses."

She might have extruded the side-saddle but she wanted to make sure about that upper body strength before she launched her plan---or him.

Up close and clinging by her side, he said, "Why does Erthuma medicine not restore you the use of your legs?"

Harriet shrugged. "I'm the one-in-a-million. For some reason, the regeneration techniques don't work on me." She swung the chair due west, aiming at the cliffs in the distance, and headed out for Fallaway Point. "Not that they've stopped trying. About once every six months, somebody shows up at the 'port with a new theory, I play guinea pig for a few days, and then they go away to revise their theory."

"May they catch the skin-rot and be bled to death by their own colleagues," Wyss'huk said.

Harriet laughed. "There are times I'd've wished them the same---especially when it's blood samples they're after. But who knows? Maybe some day one of the theories will actually work in practice."

"May they first be subject to their own experiments and those of all their colleagues."

Harriet took her eyes briefly from the road. He showed no sign of strain from the ride. There was only the brightness of anger in his orange eyes. His silvery gray fur looked almost as soft as His Highness's, but the stumps of his wings were an unhealed angry pink. Surgically removed, she remembered. He's got less reason to like doctors than I have.

"May they spend one life as a worm and yet another as a snail," she agreed.

For a while, they were both silent as the chair sped through Hellup Woods. She did stop once to cut him a leaf gall but that led to no further conversation. If he showed that little interest in lostroses, Harriet decided, gemstones were hardly the reason for his presence on her world.

They emerged from the forest onto the hard-packed black volcanic sand of the beach below Fallaway Point. Harriet halted atop a small rise to inflate the treads for better traction and to scan the beach for the Only Birds. She turned to say something to Wyss'huk and found him staring up into the sky.

Her voice failed in the sight of his expression. Angry, yes, but more hungry than angry.

Without a word, she started down the gentle incline to the far end of the beach where she'd spotted the pick-up crew. Wyss'huk did not take his eyes from the sky.

Well, she thought, in a moment he should have something to look at. The bright bits of color at the rim of the cliff sparkled, shifted.

Harriet braked the chair, flung up an arm and said, "There!" She didn't even know if he followed her point---she was too greedy of her own watching to take her eyes off them. The Only Birds soared from the top of the cliff---yellow, red, blue, purple. Every color of the rainbow, but for her orange.

She found herself grinning again, just from the pleasure of watching. Stupid of her to have denied herself that much for so long a time.

They swooped and soared---oh! the winds were with them today! The only birds on LostRoses. So beautiful....

And then they must have seen her, for they turned, almost in formation, and swept down the beach to display their colors in graceful dips directly above her head. Harriet found herself cheering and clapping and waving both arms in a wide sweep of approval.

The thermals over the black sand were glorious today. Isobel cut a figure eight in the air, the black "eyes" on her delta-wing twinkling against pure green---against the purer blue of the sky. Daffyd---navy blue with white stripes---crabbed to a second thermal and soared so high he might have been mistaken for a wisp of cloud. Winged in royal purple, Majnoun rode down a slope of air to duplicate Isobel's figure with a broader stroke.

Then he continued on downward. Twenty feet from Harriet's chair, he spilled air and touched down on the black sand in a dead stop. He didn't have to take so much as a single forward step to regain his balance.

Shaking her head in admiration, Harriet rolled toward him. "Pretty landing!" she said.

He looked up briefly from his post-flight check to grin his exhilaration at her. "Thanks, Harriet. You picked a gorgeous day for this. The flying hasn't been this fine for months." He finished his check, folded his wings.

Harriet whistled commands and the spare pinchers reached out to take Majnoun's wings. Majnoun drew back protectively, then took in Harriet's smile, smiled himself, and let her take them. "Lift?" she said, extruding a second running board.

"Sure." Majnoun hopped on opposite the ambassador.

"Wyss'huk," Harriet said, "This is Majnoun. Majnoun, this is the guy I was telling you about."

Wyss'huk took his eyes from the sky only long enough to give Majnoun the once over and dismiss him. "Another slug," he said---but he said it in his own language, not in one Majnoun would likely understand.

Harriet supposed that was what passed for tact in a Crotonite. "No," she said. "You're a slug and I'm a slug but Majnoun's not---Majnoun flies."

She headed the chair toward the pick-up crew. "What do you say, Majnoun? Can you cut the harness to the proper size?"

"No," he said.

Harriet was so surprised she hit the brake. "You can't? Why not?"

"Don't get riled, Harriet. I didn't mean that the way you took it. He can have the rig that Isobel outgrew---she's delighted with the thought of adding another bird to our flock." Majnoun laid a hand on the wrapped package that held Harriet's wings. "I meant I refuse to cut your Firehawk down for somebody else. You're going to want it some day. I just couldn't cut her down."

Nor could he look at Harriet as he said it. Harriet couldn't think what to say. Isobel gave them both a graceful way out with one of the clumsy landings for which she was infamous.

She came in crosswise to the beach, hit the ground running furiously---which was better than being dragged, Harriet had to admit---and finished up with a head-long sprawl into the surf, spattering all three of them with water.

Majnoun cursed and leapt off the running board to give rescue, needed or not.

Harriet laughed and turned to Wyss'huk. "We're the only birds on LostRoses---and Isobel's our Goonybird. She's beautiful in the air but her take-offs and landings are abysmal. The only person who ever made a worse landing was me. Luckily, Isobel never seems to hurt herself."

Majnoun had pulled Isobel, laughing and dripping, from the water, and the two of them gathered up her wings.

Above them flashed a delta-wing painted with clusters of lavender flowers that Lilac claimed were the flowers she'd been named after. "Isobel!" Lilac shouted down at the youngster standing hip-deep in water. "Watch how it's done!"

Harriet expected to see another perfect landing, like Majnoun's---but Lilac was not the sort who cared about the expected.

Instead, she made a sweeping turn and skimmed away from the beach until she was far out over deep water. There she swept a second turn, to set a course that would land her in Harriet's lap if she kept coming. She didn't.

Still over deep water, Lilac dipped, spilled air, and---before Harriet's astonished eyes---dropped out of her harness, plunging feet first into sea. The flowery wings skimmed on without her, missing Harriet's chair by inches, to come to a gentle rest on the beach behind.

Harriet didn't manage to get her mouth closed until all three had come up to drip yet more water on her. Majnoun was still berating Lilac for her assorted sins: "Hot-dogging, taking stupid chances...."

Lilac ignored him to grin at Harriet. "I had to do something to welcome you back." She turned her smile on Wyss'huk. "And something a little special for your special guest. ---Ooops!" She darted after her wings, which had begun to scud away in the rising wind, snatched them up and checked them over with infinite care.

Wyss'huk said, "May the Raiser of Winds blow her wings to one who more deserves them."

Harriet turned to him in surprise. His choice of curse was as unexpected as Lilac's landing had been. The only time she'd ever heard that one applied was to a Crotonite who did not, by the standards of his fellow Crotonites, take the proper care in preening his wings.

"What did he say?" Majnoun asked.

"He thinks she was hot-dogging, too. He thinks she risked her wings doing it."

"Oh." Majnoun past Wyss'huk to where Lilac threw him a thumbs-up as she folded her wings, then he said to Wyss'huk, "They're a lot sturdier than they look. She keeps them in good trim---and she doesn't usually take chances like that."

The glance Majnoun gave Harriet was more than a little wistful. "It is something of a special occasion, having you here again. Want to come up and watch us launch this time?"

Harriet turned to look at Wyss'huk. He said nothing but this time the hunger in his eyes was even stronger. She wondered if he could read the same hunger in her eyes. For him, she said, "Yes. That's what we're here for."

#

Majnoun and Wyss'huk still clinging to opposite sides of her chair, Harriet raced the pick-up crew to the top of the cliff---and won.

"I'm getting a powergo like yours, Harriet," Lilac announced, as she leapt from the pick-up cart.

"As long as you get it voluntarily," Harriet said, "and not because of some stupid stunt."

Lilac shook her head. "It wasn't a stupid stunt. I worked it all out and I practiced until I knew I could get it right. If I hadn't been in the right position to cut loose safely, you'd have had to wait for some other flight to see it."

Harriet quirked an eyebrow. Lilac had been awaiting the question, of course, and delightedly launched into a flood of technical description.

When she was done, even Majnoun was nodding. "I take it all back," he said. "But Wyss'huk needn't take back his criticism. It is risky on your wings." His mouth pursed slightly, in thought, not in disapproval. "Perhaps we might manage a tether of sorts---you could guide the bird to safe landing. Let me think about it."

"Let's fly while you think," said Lilac. Isobel had already turned the pick-up cart around and started back down to the beach. It was her turn to wait on the ground. Tomas was doing the pre-flight check on his vivid yellow wings.

Majnoun laughed. "Go ahead, Lilac. I've a few things to attend to here."

Lilac shrugged, stepped to the edge of the cliff, raised her delta-wing and stepped into the air, all in one smooth motion.

The wind tugged at Harriet, riffling her hair. All of it came back to her in a rush, almost as if she soared with Lilac. It was such a perfect day for flying, every muscle in her body---even those ghost muscles in her legs---remembered what to do. She could stand up, spread her wings, turn just so and launch from where she sat.... Tomas stepped off the edge of the cliff and soared away.

"What do you say, Wyss'huk?" she said to the Crotonite.

It was a long time before he could tear his eyes away from Lilac's flight to look at her. His fingers gripped the arm of her chair so tightly she was afraid he might break something---either his fingers or the arm.

"I realize it wouldn't be the same," Harriet went on. "You'd have to learn an entirely different manner of flying but---" She didn't finish the sentence in words, but in a long look, out over the sea, to where Lilac and Tomas wove bright patterns on the air.

He followed her look. Lilac had caught a thermal---she rose and rose and rose, the color of her wings all but vanishing in the distance. Then Tomas found the same rising wind and rode it after her.

Wyss'huk turned abruptly back to Harriet. This time the expression on his face was pure fury. "May you brush through bugstickers and coat your wings with gum!"

Harriet recognized that one too, only because she'd once seen a Crotonite who'd done just that. Three months later, his fur was still tarry with the substance. Another of the Crotonites had confided to her that not only did it affect one's flight but it also stank, at least, to another Crotonite.

"Do you think I'd fly with artificial wings?" Wyss'huk was working himself up to a full head of steam, this time in Nevelse. "You ground-crawling Erthumoi think you have a technological fix for everything! Use artificial devices to fly?" He raised a two-fingered hand, claws extended.

Involuntarily, Harriet drew back. The shift in position gave her a stark view of the scars on his shoulders. Where his wings should have been.

"Your wings," she said. "Did your people gnaw them off with their teeth?"

She knew perfectly well they hadn't. She'd seen Crotonite surgical instruments. But Wyss'huk was startled into a defensive response: "Stupid slug! They used surgical instruments---"

"Right," said Harriet. "If they can use instruments"---her inflection made the word nastier even than he had---"to drop you out of the sky, then you can use an instrument to get you back into the sky---where you belong."

"Slug," he said again. "May you drop into a rip in the wind and be hurled against the PeopleKillers." That was a particularly rocky tor on Pssstwhit, whose crosswinds took a high toll of the nearby population every year.

Wyss'huk still hadn't answered her question though. Harriet listened to his further curses with half an ear. She was not about to give up. There was only one thing she'd ever given up on.

Once again the muscles in her body remembered. Stand, turn just so, and rise into the wind.

And then she was reaching for her wings and unwrapping them. "I had intended," she told the Crotonite, interrupting him somewhere in the midst of another ground-crawling metaphor, "to give these to you. Majnoun wouldn't let me." She nodded at Majnoun and grinned with anticipation. "Thanks, Majnoun. Could you give Isobel a call and ask her to stand by with the inflatable?"

Harriet had done the standard pre-flight check on Firehawk the night before but now she did it again. The familiarity of routine took the trembling from her fingers.

Majnoun looked up from his talker, the slightest of frowns across his face. "Harriet, are you sure you want to do this?"

It was the right question. She knew the answer. "I've never been more sure in my life. I can't land on the beach but I can use Lilac's drop into the water to land safely."

At her whistle, the chair's pinchers caught her gently at the waist and lifted her erect. She strapped into Firehawk's harness.

"All right," Majnoun said. "But you're out of practice, so I want you to make the first one an easy one. No fancy stuff, just a straight glide down to the water."

Harriet nodded, unable to wipe the grin off her face even for such solemn instruction. Majnoun double-checked the harness, double-checked that Lilac already had the inflatable inflated and ready for action, then he grinned too. "You figured out how to do the take-off, I presume. Tell me what you need me to do."

"Once I'm off, you can put the chair on automatic and hit B-6. It knows this route; it'll be waiting on the beach by the time I splash down. Now---" she spread Firehawk's wings over her in a glorious burst of flame "---if you'll just pry Wyss'huk off the arm of my chair and stand back...."

Wyss'huk had stepped from the running board. Harriet felt the wind and waited, realizing as she did that she hadn't heard a curse from Wyss'huk for some time. "Run out of insults?" she asked.

"I have nothing to say to a ground-crawling slug."

Harriet laughed. There was her wind; she felt its rightness. She whistled for the pinchers to turn her just so. Yes! The wind filled her wings, tugging her to come away from her chair and soar.

"You stay here on the ground, Wyss'huk. May you enjoy your crawling," Harriet said. "---But watch this slug fly!"

She whistled the pinchers' release. For a long moment nothing seemed to happen...and then Harriet was swept into the sky.

The feeling was one she'd had a thousand times before: it was freedom. As all her weight came to rest on the harness, she felt the simultaneous downward slip. Her hands adjusted of themselves, pulling the Firehawk's nose down the needed touch---and she shot forward, almost dizzy with the excitement.

She soared. A hundred feet later, she realized that the yell of triumph she could hear was coming from her own throat and, if she kept it up, she wouldn't be able to talk for a week. Even so, it took her a conscious effort to stop doing it.

When she had, she could hear from the cliff's edge behind her Majnoun's faint voice yelling, "Go! Go! Go!" into the wind.

There was another sound as well, a hissing, sputtering sound that carried much better than Majnoun's shouts could ever have. Harriet glided along, listening to the whisper of the wind in her wings and to Wyss'huk's hissed instructions. She could make out every word, though she only understood one in a dozen. Wyss'huk was no longer cursing.

Harriet sailed, dream-like, through the air, feeling for lift. The beach slid by below her. From the edge of the beach, Isobel waved and danced and shouted inaudibly.

The hiss behind her said, "...Short flight....lift to your right....carefully, child!"

She angled right, found the lift just as Wyss'huk had promised, and used it to lengthen her slope out over the sea. There she found the proper air to turn on and, remembering her promise to Majnoun, slid toward the surface of the water, aiming for a spot not far from where Isobel danced on the beach.

As she turned parallel to the cliff, she saw Majnoun in the air, gliding toward her. Her chair was speeding down the road. Wyss'huk was in the driver's seat but he wasn't driving---he was staring at her and hissing for all his worth.

It reminded Harriet of the noises her mother had taught her to make with the neck of a balloon. Ah! she thought, as she caught another rise that would put her closer still to Isobel, Wyss'huk's talking a kid through its first flight!

He couldn't very well talk her through this kind of a landing though, so she gave the approaching water her full concentration. Spill air, slow, spill air.... She was a leg-length now from the surface of the sea and---now!

Harriet hit the release on her harness and dropped feet-first. The water closed over her head. For a long moment, she let herself arrow deeper. Even that was not sobering. She reveled in the sudden shocking coolness of the water. Then at last she raised her arms and stroked toward the light.

She surfaced with a fling of her head to clear her eyes and yet another involuntary shout of joy. The first thing she saw was the sky, vast and inviting.

The second...Isobel, already paddling furiously toward her. Then she saw Majnoun hit the beach, strip out of his harness and run down to the water's edge. She wondered, grinning, if he'd wait there or if he'd just jump in. Then she spotted Firehawk's glorious orange floating in the water a scant few yards away. Harriet swam over to assure herself Firehawk hadn't been damaged in the descent. Majnoun was right, she needed some sort of tether to lessen the risk of damage to her wings.

"Looks okay to me," said Isobel, from behind Harriet's shoulder, "but best we check it out on shore. Give it a chance to dry."

Isobel caught the tip of Firehawk's nose and secured it to the edge of the inflatable. Then she reached out her hands for Harriet. "What's the best way to do this?"

"I pull my front half in, then you grab my legs and pull them in after me."

Isobel got soaked a second time that day and the two of them were laughing so hard they could barely paddle back to the beach, where Majnoun waited, waist-deep in the water, to carry Harriet back to shore.

Harriet was still laughing as Majnoun settled her into her chair. He laid Firehawk, still dripping, across her lap. "No damage," he said, "but still...."

"We'll work something out," Harriet agreed, and added a nod to Wyss'huk, who was once again perched on the running board beside her.

Harriet had just enough vocabulary to put the question to the Crotonite in his own tongue: "What do you say, child? Will you let Majnoun teach you to fly---or do you want to crawl for the rest of your life?"

His orange eyes met hers, and they were as brilliant as Firehawk. "Let a human teach a Crotonite to fly...." He snarled the words, but Harriet knew they were not the scornful rejection they sounded---they were a "Yes."

Harriet grinned at Majnoun. "You're on, Majnoun. Let's get this slug in the air, too." To Wyss'huk, she added, "It's a beautiful day for flying."

"Yes," he said.

#

For all of Wyss'huk's cursing, Majnoun made him start easy, from ground school up. It was low, straight flight along a gentle incline while the Crotonite learned to fly with his hands instead of his missing wings, and while Majnoun made adjustments to both wings and harness to better suit the alien's physique.

But the Crotonite knew the wind and, once he'd gotten the trick to controlling his artificial wings, he was the quickest pupil Majnoun had ever taught.

"If the weather holds tomorrow, Wushock, I think you're ready to fly from the rim of Fallaway Point."

"Not today?"

The belligerence had been replaced by a quiet wistfulness that Harriet could detect even through the obstruction of the breathing mask and the flattened tonelessness of Wyss'huk's Nevelse.

"Not today," said Harriet, before Majnoun could respond. "Nightfall's coming and I want to get through the woods before dark. Furthermore, your breathing mask should need renewing soon. All this excitement is bound to have used up more than you'd planned for---"

Wyss'huk blinked at her, then made some sort of check, touching his equipment with claws alone. His eyes widened. "You're right, Ha'reet," he said in Nevelse. "We must start for the embassy soon."

He gave a last hungry look at the sky, then he said, "May the Raiser of Winds be happy tomorrow."

"I'll second that," said Majnoun.

To a chorus of good-byes, Harriet rolled off toward town, this time with Wyss'huk side-saddle. Harriet was feeling the strain of the day's effort enough that she knew how tired Wyss'huk must be from the exertion of flying in such an unfamiliar fashion.

She was too happily tired to attempt to carry on a conversation. Wyss'huk, too, was silent all the way into town. Perhaps he was holding the day's joy quietly to his heart, as she was. She glanced once or twice to the side but could read nothing in his expression. Whether it was the fading light or her own ignorance she didn't know.

A few yards past St. Elsie's Field, His Highness shot from the undergrowth and yowled a greeting. Harriet slowed the chair and yowled back. A second later, His Highness was in Harriet's lap, sniffing furiously.

"Yes," said Harriet, "I flew."

But it was not Harriet, nor the smell of wind or sea, that interested His Highness. He stretched his neck and sniffed very hard in Wyss'huk's direction, his lips parting in the cat sneer that, Harriet thought, brought him a wider range of smells.

Wyss'huk stared back with equal fascination.

After a while, His Highness told Wyss'huk where to get off, what to sit on, and why he was not worth a wasted rat. Harriet told His Highness, in cat, that if he didn't shut his mouth she'd feed him to the recycler at the next house they passed. His Highness flicked an ear in her direction, decided she was lying, and told Wyss'huk which orifice to insert what extremity into.

Wyss'huk said, "May the rot begin with your left toe and claim your body an inch at a time. May your ears and tail be last to succumb and may they drop from your bones with the putrid smell of a dying patpig. And may all your relatives be present to appreciate you to the last."

Harriet stared at him with admiration. His Highness purred and stepped delicately from Harriet's lap into Wyss'huk's. "I must remember that one," said Harriet. "That's good!" His Highness rubbed happily against the Crotonite's shoulder.

Wyss'huk only stared at the cat. In the dim light, his eyes were a baleful gold. His Highness glared back but continued to purr.

"I have never before seen eyes the color of sky," Wyss'huk told the cat, in Nevelse. "Why so should Raiser of Winds so favor a ground-crawler?"

Oops, thought Harriet. "Wyss'huk, that's a pet. I don't know if you folks have a similar custom---it's a non-sapient species kept for company. He likes it if you rub him behind the ears."

"Not sapient? Are you sure? He curses like a sapient."

Harriet laughed. "He does at that. But considering the fights he gets into, if he's sapient, he's still an idiot."

"Like humans and Crotonites," Wyss'huk observed. He was, very delicately, scratching His Highness behind the ears with his claw-tips.

"Very like," Harriet agreed. She braked to a stop in front of the Pssstwhit embassy and patted her lap to coax His Highness back into it.

Neither His Highness nor Wyss'huk seemed to take notice. After a long while, Wyss'huk spoke again---so softly that it seemed a part of His Highness's purr. "You speak a little of my language and you understand more than you speak. Do you understand the word pippest?"

"No, sorry."

"Translated literally into Nevelse, it would be...'changer.' It means a person who has made a profound change in one's life, specifically a change for the better. You are pippest to me."

Harriet raised her eyebrows. "And you to me, Wyss'huk. I wouldn't have flown again if it hadn't been for you. You made me see the possibility---and made me stubborn enough to act on it."

He was silent for a long moment. His Highness's purr deepened as Wyss'huk's fingers found a preferred spot. Then he said, "I did not think it possible for a human and a Crotonite to be pippest to each other."

"I don't see why not, Wyss'huk. I think we've got a good thing going here and we ought to keep it up."

He made a ticking sound that she'd always suspected meant pleasure to a Crotonite. "Are you aware that phrase is untranslatable in Pssstwhit? 'Why not?' You humans leave open possibilities my people do not. I am only now beginning to understand its use. With a 'shrug,' am I right?"

"You're right. Quite often with a shrug---and a smile."

"Then perhaps we two might even become friends." His shrug was exaggerated and, given the beak, he couldn't manage the smile, but Harriet knew it was there all the same. "Even though a friendship between a Crotonite and a human is unthinkable---why not?"

"Why not, indeed," agreed Harriet. "And, if we run into problems, we'll wing it."

Then she knew that sound from a Crotonite meant pleasure. "'Wing it!' Yes! I had never thought about the phrase." Liking the sound as much as Harriet did, His Highness thudded Wyss'huk in the chest.

"I would like," Wyss'huk said, "to give you something in return for what you've given me."

"I told you, Wyss'huk. You're pippest to me too. But if you really feel the need---you could satisfy my curiosity."

"What are you curious about? Unless it's a taboo subject---even if it's a taboo subject, I'll try."

"Why would Pssstwhit send a embassy to a back-water world like LostRoses? It's completely incomprehensible to me and I've been trying to figure out a reason ever since I heard you were coming." She met his eyes. "If that's some kind of state secret, forget I asked. I wouldn't want to cause trouble for you with your own people."

There was surprise in the bright orange eyes. "Oh, but.... You don't know anything about our factions, then. Har'reet, if Pssstwhit hadn't sent an ambassador, then Stiss might have. And Stiss might have claimed to speak for Pssstwhit. Pssstwhit could not allow that. Does this make sense to you?"

Harriet couldn't help it; she giggled. "Yes, I'm afraid so. It makes at least as much sense as some of the things humans do. You're here to 'establish a presence.' The way His Highness sleeps in the middle of my bed to let me know the territory is his, not mine."

"Are you sure His Highness isn't sapient?"

"Not any more," Harriet said, with a smile. "Thanks, Wyss'huk. As silly as their reasons were, I'm glad Pssstwhit sent you here."

"So am I."

He coaxed His Highness back into Harriet's lap and stepped from the side-saddle to the embassy grounds. Still, he made no move to enter the embassy. His Highness, having been moved against his wishes, told Wyss'huk several unprintable and impossible and unquestionably unpleasant things he could do with himself and with simple items found in any home.

Harriet told His Highness which of his rival toms she'd prefer having a midnight fling with. That settled him contentedly in her lap.

"Is that the limit of your curiosity, Harriet?"

"Oh, no, Wyss'huk. Just the beginning. Tomorrow you can start teaching me how to speak your language without cursing. If we're to be friends, I'll need to know."

"Yes," he said. "We'll begin tomorrow with the names of the winds. Why not?"

#

The weather had turned gray. It was just as well, Harriet thought, as she loaded her plane with goods for the settlers outback. She'd have hated to make her trading rounds knowing that everybody was flying without her. It was a selfish thought but she was pleased by it, if only because she'd missed so many years of flying.

Besides, the flyers had promised to take Wyss'huk hunting for lostroses 'the first day of bad weather,' and she thought he should probably have some idea of what life on LostRoses was like in general. Next trip, she'd probably take him along trading for the experience.

He'd regretfully declined this one. Some embassy to-do or other, he hadn't said what. He'd just kept ticking away, so Harriet knew whatever the situation it would keep him amused, probably until she got back.

Last but not least, she'd whistled up His Highness and taken him to stay at Sylvaine's Custom House as usual. As usual, His Highness was not amused and told her---and Sylvaine---his objections at length. Harriet rubbed his ears and told him she'd be back in two weeks.

She'd just finished her pre-flight check on the plane and was loading herself and her chair when a figure dashed across the field toward her, waving its arms and yelling, "Wait, Harriet!"

It was Wanwadee Li, forehead hastily but broadly painted. He clung to the cargo hold door, panting. "I'm glad I caught you. I need your help."

"No, you don't. I warned you, Wanwadee. I have work to do."

"You don't understand! We're getting another Crotonite ambassador---this time from some planet called Stiss!"

That should keep Wyss'huk ticking all right. Harriet laughed, too. "I've got supplies to deliver. You teach the ambassador from Stiss to fly." And still laughing, she closed the cargo hatch, narrowly missing his fingers, rolled forward to the cockpit and took off into the sky.

FIGHTING WORDS

Knowing the right words could make all the difference...in fight or flight. Mixed insults and obscenities were fine for everyday dealing with the average Crotonite---but, ah! the words for winds were something else again! Wyss'huk had given Harriet Kingsolver the Crotonite words for the winds, and Harriet hoarded them, gloating over the sound of each and the feel of the air each called to mind. Now he---or any other Crotonite who'd give her the time of day---could give her a map of the sky to guide her flight. Harriet fell head-long off Fallaway Point to follow the latest map....

And the "life-pulse" was exactly where Wyss'huk had told her it would be. Damn, but he knew the winds like nobody else! Harriet caught the current and soared. The resulting twist to the west gave her a grand overview of Fallaway Point and black volcanic sands against the teal blue of the water. "Found it!" she yelled to Wyss'huk over the rush of wind. If he couldn't exactly hear her, he'd get her meaning from the joy in her shout.

The Crotonite hit the same thermal and rose beside her. Beneath the vivid green of his hang-glider, Wyss'huk's gray fur gleamed silver in the afternoon sun. His bright orange eyes met hers in shared delight as, just for a moment, the tips of their wings almost touched....then he shifted to give her extra leeway.

Teach a Crotonite a new way to fly, she thought, and he'll still outfly you. She took a deep exuberant breath and let it out in another yell---this one all joy and no words.

All around her, the sky was alive with the brilliant colors of the Only Birds. Harriet wondered if the flock of hang-gliders she flew with could really call themselves that these days, since the arrival of that last batch of Crotonites. Unlike the two ambassadors, these new Crotonites hadn't had their wings clipped---their flight was powered.

Even now, one of them flapped his (her?) way from the beach toward Wyss'huk and Harriet. Usually Harriet could recognize the individual Crotonites from their flight profiles, but this one she didn't know. Perhaps it was one who didn't deign to fly with Erthumoi slugs. Harriet gave a sigh of exasperation.

Probably another diplomatic crisis, she thought. Pssstwhit or Stiss?

In the few months since the two Crotonite worlds had established their rival embassies on LostRoses, Harriet had had it up to here with diplomatic crises between them. She liked and respected both ambassadors, Wyss'huk from Pssstwhit and Katuk from Stiss, but she'd had quite enough of the governments that had sent them. What could she expect but crisis from a government that amputates the wings of its ambassadors---on the theory that a wingless Crotonite would be able to think more like a wingless Erthumoi slug (Harriet, to name one)---and then sends them winged staff-members?

Too nice a day to think about governments.... Harriet swooped left on an almost-there to catch the second life-pulse---exactly where Wyss'huk had said it would be---and rose higher, breathing the crisp cool air with deep content.

Off her right wing, Katuk gave a sudden spit of warning.

Harriet swung her head around to look and found herself the subject of scrutiny. Whatever the hell was flying next to her, it wasn't one of the winged Crotonite staff-members. Some sort of true bird---but no comfortable flying companion.

Its feathers were the color and sheen of an oil slick, and it flew with its overlong sinuous neck drawn into a tight s-curve, like a snake drawn back to strike. The beak was a spear. With a effortless flap of wings, it caught the life-pulse---edging out Katuk---and rose to stare at her with fixed interest in its piercing black eyes.

If the Crotonites looked like the legendary bats-out-of-hell, this thing was from some earlier and nastier tradition. This was the eater of livers the Old Earth gods had sent to punish anybody they'd taken a dislike to. Unlike Prometheus, Harriet couldn't regenerate a liver---and it looked to her as if the damn thing knew it and relished the thought.

Its shiny button-black eyes were chilling. Harriet had seen the same malevolent glint in the crossed blue eyes of a Siamese cat on the stalk...thoughtful, infinitely patient. The look of a predator willing its chosen prey into reach of its jaws.

Harriet spilled air and dropped a little behind it. With a quick stroke of wing, it easily swung beside her, again matching her speed and altitude.

She could hear it thinking: You don't belong in the air. You'll fall. Sooner or later, you'll fall...and when you do, I'll be here to pick up the pieces. Its anticipation of disaster was more damaging to a slug's self-esteem than any curse a Crotonite could have voiced to a wingless sapient. "Heh-heh-heh," it said; its voice was gloating.

Wyss'huk caught a wind only he could have found and came up beneath the creature, startling it into a defensive swing to the right. "Ha'reet!" shouted the Crotonite, "pay attention to your flying! I'll distract it while you land!"

Ordinarily it amused Harriet when the Crotonites treated the Erthumoi hang-gliders as if they were fledgelings on their first flights, but this was serious business.

Katuk rose to join the fray as well, harrying the creature from above. Harriet was suddenly more afraid for the two Crotonites than for herself.

Realizing they'd put themselves at risk for her and that they'd keep at it until she was safely down, Harriet resigned herself to having her flight cut short. She spilled more air. From the rubber pickup raft below her, Majnoun too frantically gestured her to land.

Katuk shouted directions in Crotonite. She followed his map and found the proper wind and rode it down, passing so low over the raft that Majnoun had to duck.

A body-length from the surface of the water, Harriet loosed her harness and dropped. She struck with a splash and arrowed down, letting herself sink into the depths until she felt she'd shed enough momentum. Then she opened her eyes to sight for the underside of the raft....

Inches away, the same black eyes---now made opalescent by a nictitating membrane---continued their predatory scrutiny.

It was all Harriet could do to keep from inhaling water. The damn thing was a diving bird! She stroked evenly toward the surface, trying very hard not to look either wounded or edible as she swam.

To her relief, she broke water within hand's reach of the raft. Majnoun grabbed for her with one hand and yanked hard; the other hand held the oar upraised to defend against the damn thing if that became necessary.

Harriet hauled her torso into the raft and Majnoun grabbed her by the belt and unceremoniously flopped her legs in after her. The damn thing floated low in the water, only its snake-like neck and head visible, still eyeing Harriet. It wasn't the sort of bird to give up easily.

From above came the rich sound of Crotonite cursing as Wyss'huk and Katuk, in formation, skimmed the water toward the raft. Wyss'huk was screaming derogatory comments about the damn thing's ancestry while Katuk, in counterpoint, bellowed an equally unflattering description of its hygienic habits. Together, they sounded a lot like a powered aircraft in serious trouble.

All that sputtering---and their combined "attack"---finally caught the damn thing's attention. Its head snaked once in their direction, then, with an enviably easy flick of its wings, it rose from the water and headed for shore.

Majnoun started paddling in the same direction. "Get you back in your go-chair," he growled between strokes, "and you can take the damn thing apart for all of me."

Wyss'huk and Katuk had both landed on the beach. Majnoun had trained them well: they were taking care of their wings as the first order of business. That didn't stop their litany of curses, of course, but what did?

The damn thing was almost as tall as a Crotonite but Harriet wasn't worried. If push came to shove, they could stop it dead with a whiff from their breathing masks, most likely.

The damn thing, darting snaky glances at Wyss'huk and Katuk, walked a few paces up the beach to shelter against a tall dark-haired Erthuma. Harriet squinted into the sunlight to watch the two. Whatever the damn thing was, Harriet decided, it was either very young or a pet: the Erthuma was clearly giving it a talking to.

"Ease off, Majnoun," she said. "Let's get FireHawk." Harriet pulled herself to the edge of the raft and hung over. Reluctantly, Majnoun slowed and helped her gather up her wings. Harriet rolled over, laid the brilliant orange wings across her lap, and checked them out. "No damage," she said, relieved.

The voices from the shore were clearer now. The two Crotonites hadn't let up in the slightest. Pssstwhit having at one time been a colony of Stiss, they both cursed in the same language, which meant Harriet could understand a great deal of the invective. She grinned at Majnoun and said, "They're on a roll."

He glanced down at her. "You mean, they're not about to eat anybody alive?"

She shook her head. "They've hit the one-up stage. Wyss'huk's trying to outdo Katuk and vice-versa." She cocked an ear for a moment, then added admiringly, "They've gotten esoteric: Katuk's currently discussing the damn thing's flaws at the molecular level, I think."

"Good. Maybe that'll keep the damn thing busy while I beach the raft and get you back in your chair."

It did. Harriet whistled for her chair and brought it almost to the edge of the water. She was tempted to tell the chair to goose the damn thing as it rolled past but decided instead to wait until she'd learned enough to goose it where she'd make the most impression.

And that "enough" included a lot of information about the Erthuma, who was attempting to placate Wyss'huk and Katuk in Crotonite that was a lot better than her own. That brought her a second grin. One didn't exactly "placate" in Crotonite: one cursed back---with frills. The three of them were going at it so hot and heavy they sounded like a covey of spitwhistles at mating season.

Majnoun heaved the raft ashore, tethered it, then splashed into the water to scoop Harriet out. Muttering some pretty fancy curses himself, though his were in Nevelse, Majnoun stomped through the water, splashing wildly, to plunk Harriet into her chair. He paused long enough to see she was comfortably settled (even though she could have gotten the chair itself to see to that), then rounded on the oddly assorted trio still in full voice and joined in the chorus.

What Majnoun lacked in eloquence, he more than made up for in volume. His opening remark was an inarticulate roar of such rage that even Harriet was startled.

Majnoun was ordinarily the most patient man Harriet had ever known. The only time she'd ever seen him angry was when one of the flyers did something he considered risky and therefore stupid. Which explained why he was so angry now, of course.

The bellow had gotten their attention. Even the damn thing turned its shiny button-black eyes on Majnoun. Majnoun didn't give it so much as a glance. He jammed a finger into the chest of the Erthuma and said, this time quite understandably, "I don't know who you are, but I've still got flyers up there---and either you keep that thing on the ground or I wring its neck. You got a preference?"

The Erthuma shifted style on the spot. "I apologize. It's my fault entirely. Bingo was cooped up so long en route that he really needed a chance to stretch his wings. When I asked around port for the best place to fly, everybody sent me out here...."

He turned abruptly to Harriet and continued his apology directly to her. "I should have guessed there was a reason so many people knew the best place to fly. I have no idea why Bingo took such an interest in you, but he's harmless, I guarantee it. He's strictly a carrion eater. If you're alive and kicking, he's usually got no interest at all."

Harriet grinned at Majnoun. "That explains it, then. I can't kick, so Bingo's interested."

Majnoun snorted like an angry bull but Wyss'huk made the ticking sound of Crotonite laughter.

The bird cocked its head at Harriet, appeared to consider this for a moment, then launched itself at her in a flutter of wings. Suddenly, everybody on the beach was yelling and grabbing wildly. There was such pandemonium that not a grab was effective.

Harriet whistled and her chair shot out a pincher that deftly caught the bird by the ankles. Bingo squawked in protest and flapped twice, straining against the two-fingered hold. "Gotcha," said Harriet. To the others, she said, "Now, will you all please shut up?"

The Erthuma's brow wrinkled into a worried frown, but the worry included both Harriet and Bingo. Harriet decided that was good enough. "I won't hurt him," she told the Erthuma. Her chair had been modified from a cargo-shifter, true, but she'd been careful to whistle up the pinchers for delicate work. Bingo might be mad but he wasn't being hurt.

He knew it too... He stopped flapping to eye her balefully. "Think about it, bird." She punched a set of instructions into her keyboard. "I've given the go-chair your specs. From now on, if you come within grabbing distance of me, it'll grab you and hold you until I tell it otherwise. If you don't like that, you'd be advised to stay out of reach."

She whistled again, this time a more complex tune. The chair extruded the right tine of the its fork lift and the pinchers deftly set the bird down on the end of it and released.

Bingo preened a feather or two back into presentable state, then fixed his button eyes on Harriet again. The pure get-even malevolence in the look drew a laugh from her. "Won't work, bird," she told it. "I've been trained by the best. Not even you could out-glare a cross-eyed Siamese cat."

Bingo was unconvinced---until Harriet had stared him down for proof.

"Now that we've settled that," Harriet said---and she turned to the Erthuma---"I suggest you take Bingo back into town before he creates a diplomatic incident." She jabbed a finger in the direction of Wyss'huk and Katuk. "My two hang-gliding buddies there are the ambassadors from Pssstwhit and Stiss, respectively, and you’re cutting into some very fine flying time."

The Erthuma turned to the Crotonites and apologized all over again. Prettily done, thought Harriet, with admiration for a number of his viler phrases. Then he said, "If you'd be kind enough to point us in the right direction, we'll be on our way."

There was no vehicle in sight. "Long trip back," said Harriet. At her whistle, the chair extruded a seat. "Hop on and I'll give you both a lift. You hang onto Bingo, though---I don't want any surprises while I'm driving."

Katuk said, "Ha'reet, don't let this slug and his, his mold-ridden thing ruin your flying."

With effort, Harriet suppressed a smile. She'd never known any of the Crotonites at that kind of loss for words before. Maybe the one-up contest had actually wound him down.

Wyss'huk made a more elaborate objection but, aside from filing a few of his glosses about the new Erthuma's mental ability for future use elsewhere, Harriet ignored his harangue to gather up her hang-glider. When Wyss'huk finally stopped for breath, Harriet said quietly, "If I don't see you aloft in the next fifteen minutes, I'll tell the staff at both embassies their respective bosses are wasting good winds...."

That wasn't much of a curse, not by Crotonite standards, but it was an effective threat. The two Crotonites scurried to flight-check their wings. Harriet thought perhaps she heard Wyss'huk ticking his amusement, but she couldn't have said for sure.

"Fly," she said. "With all the cursing you've done, you'll probably have to renew your breathing masks sooner than usual. So it's only one flight I'm missing at most"---she gave a glance at the Erthuma to see that he was ready and that he had a good hold on Bingo---"and I expect the ride back to town will be interesting enough to make up for it. Don't let them overrun their tanks, Majnoun."

With an eye to the Crotonites, Majnoun nodded. Reassured he'd keep the two in hand, Harriet keyed the go-chair for town and set off along the beach, her head tilted back for one last look at that glorious sky.

Overheard, Isobel and Lilac dipped their wings in salute, and Harriet waved up at them. Bingo followed her glance and, probably inspired to flight again, struggled to get loose. The Erthuma kept his hold tight.

"How far will he range?" Harriet asked.

"He likes to keep me in sight. Not in ear shot, though. He comes when I call---but only if he can hear me." The Erthuma scowled at the damn thing. "And sometimes I think he lies. I could have sworn he was in earshot. I tried to call him off the minute I realized he was tailing you."

"Looked more like stalking than tailing, from where I was," Harriet said. But in fairness she added, "I couldn't hear you and neither could Wyss'huk, I'd guess---not until we started heading in. Unless Bingo's ears are much better than ours, he honestly didn't hear you."

"Oh." He looked genuinely relieved.

Harriet guessed that meant Bingo was usually better behaved or, at least, well trained by whatever standard applied to Bingo's sort. Fair Harriet might be, but he still held her responsible for his current predicament, to judge from the poisonous looks he sent her way.

The Erthuma struggled a bit to keep his seat and his hold on the bird as the chair jounced its way up the rocky trail that led into Hellup Woods. She could sympathize with the damn thing though. She resented being kept out of the sky on a day like this, too, but a new face on LostRoses was close to compensation.

This was a pretty good face, too, though Harriet would have been willing to admit that perhaps that was so only because it was new. As one of only two traders flying the local supplies for LostRoses, she knew every face on the planet....

High, expressive forehead. Dark eyebrows over deep blue eyes. That must give the Crotonites pause, she thought, remembering how impressed Wyss'huk had been by His Highness's Siamese-blue eyes. Like looking into a head full of sky.

Something pleasantly unusual about the set of the eyes.... No, it wasn't the set of the eyes---his lids had the epicanthic fold, that was it. Exotic.

On the whole, Harriet thought it was a face that would stay good even when it had lost its novelty.

He must have shipped in with that new load of government experts while she was off on her supply rounds. The winds had been so good when she got home this morning that she hadn't even stopped for gossip. She didn't even know his name.

"So," she said---and she said it in Crotonite for the sheer mischievousness of it---"do you have a name or was your mother too appalled by your looks to claim you?"

He was so startled he almost lost his grasp on Bingo. After much flapping and struggling, he turned to her with a grin and said, "My mother gave me twenty names, my father ten, as is customary in our tribe. I choose to be called Joppich, even by those whose brains have been burned away by too long a look into the sun."

"Harriet Kingsolver," she said. "Your accent really is better than mine. I'm jealous, but you can call me Harriet anyway---or 'Ha'reet' if you want to give it the twist the Crotonites do. They can't quite wrap their beaks around it."

The chair turned and plunged onto the shaded road that led through Hellup Woods. Bingo's glare was beginning to burn a hole between Harriet's eyes. Harriet nodded at the damn thing. "You can let him go now, if you want," she said. "There's nothing here big enough to find him interesting and he'll want to stay pretty close, if what you've said is true." Preferring a stable launch pad herself, she whistled the chair to a momentary halt.

Joppich nodded with relief. "Okay, Bingo. Up you go," he said, but Bingo didn't need that much encouragement. Loosed, he took to the air in a flash of wing.

Watching him circle and dive exuberantly brought a smile to Harriet's lips. "Good day for flying," she said, and whistled the chair into motion again. To Joppich, she added, "Keep an eye on him. Let me know if you lose sight of him."

"I don't think he plans to lose sight of you," Joppich said, and pointed. Just over her left shoulder, Bingo glided silently along on the air---out of reach of the chair's pinchers but keeping pace---his hungry eyes still fixed on Harriet.

"What did I do to deserve this?" Harriet asked, of no-one in particular.

"Coincidence," he said. "I inherited Bingo three days before I got my grant---and I wasn't about to turn down the grant or Bingo."

"Grant," Harriet repeated, making of the word an invitation to explain.

"To find out why LostRoses is getting on so well when you've got not one, but two rival groups of Crotonites in residence."

"Getting on so well? Wyss'huk and Katuk fight like cats and dogs." She chuckled. "I take that back. They fight more like two tom-cats...all bluff and fluff Diplomatic crises galore---."

"But no actual mayhem," he said. "Not between Erthumoi and Crotonite, not between Crotonite and Crotonite---and that's so unheard of, half my colleagues think you LostRosians have been covering up for the Crotonites. Burying bodies in the woods for them."

"If you're here to investigate a cover-up, why are you telling me this?"

"Because there are no bodies buried in the woods here. LostRoses hasn't reported any incidents because there haven't been any." He grinned and his forehead rippled wonderment. "I just saw two---two Crotonites come to the rescue of an Erthuma. Never mind that you were not really at risk...they thought you were and came to your rescue. That's not common practice."

"I'm pippest to both of them," Harriet said, shrugging it off. Belatedly, she caught the import of what he'd said. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you telling me common practice is burying bodies in the wood?"

Joppich frowned and gave a sigh. "All too common practice elsewhere. Usually it all comes out, usually there's a formal apology from one side to the other."

"'Usually'---I don't like that word at all in this context."

"Nor do I. We've got a lot to learn from the Crotonites and vice-versa, but not if they kill each other off first." He brightened again. "Have you seen the art work coming out of Stiss lately? Magnificent. Art work doesn't always 'translate' from culture to culture, but this does. Oh, does it ever!" His sky-colored eyes fairly glowed.

"I know what you mean. Fastas is doing one that--- No, I'm not about to try to describe it. You'll have to see for yourself." Realizing that he probably didn't know the dramatis personae yet, she added, "Fastas is one of Katuk's aides."

The pinchers made a grab; the damn thing backed off, glaring. Harriet laughed. "You thought I wasn't paying attention," she said to the bird, "didn't you?" To Joppich, she said, "What is the damn thing---a vulture?"

He shook his head. "A mutt, a genetic cobble-job. From the way he dives, I'd guess he's got some cormorant or something pelicaniform in him, but the rest is anybody's guess. My uncle bought him for hunting. The joke was on Uncle Jamie, because Bingo likes his food dead." A twinkle lit Joppich's sky-colored eyes. "He's patient, though; he'll wait."

"May you have a long wait, bird," Harriet told it solemnly. She whistled her chair to an abrupt halt.

"Problem?" said Joppich.

"No." Using her long-reach pinchers, Harriet reached high into a weeping birch that overhung the trail and plucked a twisted leaf. The pinchers dropped it into her hand. Harriet inspected it briefly. "Still got the sharpest eye on LostRoses," she said, satisfied.

She handed the leaf to Joppich. "Here's a prime specimen of LostRoses' excuse for existing. Split that leaf gall, polish it up, and you've got two gems. Once they reach one of the older, urbanized worlds as 'lostroses,' they'll be worth about 500,000c each."

Joppich's dark brows went sharply up. "You're kidding."

"I'm not. Considering the cost for polishing and the fees to all the middle-men, it's only worth about about 5,000c to you...but that's not a bad day's work."

He swallowed hard. "That's three years' salary to me." He reached to hand it back.

"Keep it," said Harriet. "Take three years off. I've got more of 'em at home than I know what to do with---the cat plays with 'em. Impress the hell out of a lover...." She grinned at the stunned expression on his face. "Honestly, I just wanted you to see what we do 'for a living' here. If you don't want it, chuck it in the woods."

The "three years' salary" caught up with Harriet abruptly. He wasn't one of the government experts---he was the Professor Joppich whose books on the Crotonites she'd been reading. "I should have known from the way you speak Crotonite," she said. "You wrote A Guide to Insults. You're that Joppich."

"Guilty," he said, and hung his head in mock shame.

Harriet laughed. "That's probably the most-read book on LostRoses at the moment. You even impressed Wyss'huk with that one---though he had some harsh but colorful words to say about people who are not competent enough to create their own curses."

Bingo made another pass at Harriet, but this time veered off sooner. He was testing the reach of the pinchers, trying for an approach that wasn't covered.

They'd come out of Hellup Wood now, and into sunlight. "Bingo," said Joppich, "Go fly, will you? Look at all that sky...."

Harriet was the one who looked longingly at all that sky. "What a waste of high heart-wind," she said---in Crotonite, because she couldn't say it in Nevelse. Bingo apparently agreed. He gave her one last baleful look, then caught a seeds-rising and soared upward without so much as a flap of his wings. Harriet watched for a moment in admiration.

When she turned back, she found Joppich regarding her with a somewhat puzzled frown. He repeated the phrase, cleaning up the accent as he went, but the frown only deepened when she nodded to assure him he'd heard correctly.

Like an unexpected gust off Fallaway Point, realization came to Harriet.... Something had been missing from Joppich's books on the Crotonite, but she'd not been able to put her finger on just what. "You know the words for the winds in Crotonite," she said, narrowing her eyes at him, "but you don't know what they mean."

It came out as an accusation. "Sorry," she said, on the instant. "Of course you don't. You don't fly, so you don't get the emotional content."

"Teach me to fly," he said.

Just like that...Teach me to fly...and just like that Harriet decided he'd do. "I can't teach you," she said, grinning, "but Majnoun would be delighted to."

He nodded, and Harriet could almost see him making that mental note: Learn to fly. "You can't teach me?" he asked.

"Ground school requires working legs, which I haven't got." And because everybody asked the next question after that, she went ahead and answered it: "I made a bad landing, and the regeneration techniques don't work on me."

"Ah," he said, and cocked his head at her thoughtfully. "So that's why Wyss'huk laughed when you said you 'couldn't kick,'" he said. "I couldn't figure that one out at all."

"Now you know," said Harriet with a grin. "Wyss'huk's got enough Nevelse to recognize a pun when he hears one. Be careful what you say in his earshot."

He nodded, then said, "Tell me what you mean by 'emotional content.'"

"Have you ever seen a Crotonite mating flight?"

Something wonderful came into his sky-colored eyes, much like the light they'd taken on when he'd talked about the art work from Stiss. "Yes," he said. "It's beautiful. It's like watching a intricate dance---but one where the dancers might be dashed to pieces against a cliff at any moment. My heart was in my throat the entire time."

"I've never seen one," Harriet said, "but I got that much from Wyss'huk. He described a particularly beautiful mating he'd seen to me---and he did it all in terms of the couple's response to the winds they were flying."

St. Elsie's Field was in sight now, and Harriet slowed her chair to ask, "Sylvaine's Custom House? We can continue this over drinks if you'd like."

"Yes, please. I would."

Harriet keyed the chair for Sylvaine's, then brought it to a full stop. "Oops," she said, "I almost forgot. How does Bingo feel about cats? Does he consider them edible?"

"My uncle had six. Bingo got on with them fine---and they seemed to like him, though nobody could ever figure out why."

"Okay," said Harriet. "I'll take your word for it. But if he shows the least interest in eating His Highness, I'll personally wring his neck."

He nodded equably. The nod reassured Harriet more than the tale of his uncle's cats had and she set the chair in motion once more.

She was glad she'd thought to ask when she did, because they'd only gone some hundred yards further when His Highness shot from the patch of lithe-grass at the edge of the road, bounded a few feet beside the rolling chair, sprang to the running board and from there made a heroic leap to land squarely in Harriet's lap. "Cat," she said, "if I'd felt that, you'd be dangling from my longest set of pinchers right now---by your tail." She looked down. "Since I'm not bleeding, I assume you didn't do any damage...but I wish to hell you could find some way of being affectionate that didn't include fifty-pound attacks with open claws."

His Highness fixed a pair of crossed blue eyes on her, dropped something into her lap, and told her in no uncertain terms that he thought all humans---and Harriet in particular---had no manners, no taste, and no class whatsoever.

In perfect Siamese cat back-street slang, Harriet told him he was gutter-bred, ignorant, and a judge of the better breeds of dahalfs on LostRoses. Then she scratched his ears to thank him for the gift. He butted her shoulder with his head and purred furiously, while she held his gift up by the tail to admire it properly.

"What is it?" Joppich asked.

He was only interested, not appalled, which led her to wonder if maybe Bingo didn't bring him presents too.

"It's native and it's a pest. One of the earliest of the settlers dubbed it 'lizard-and-a-half'---because of the six legs---but only the 'dahalf' stuck."

"Pretty," he said. "And I'm impressed by your friend's hunting abilities---that's almost as long as he is."

His Highness turned his cross-eyed glare on Joppich and told him no-one had asked his opinion and, furthermore, that no-one ever would ask his opinion because he was clearly incapable of forming one without the assistance of a ghost-thinker.

Joppich suppressed a smile and said, in Crotonite, "May the Raiser of Winds be out of breath when She speaks to you and may you walk until your talons wear to stubs."

His Highness stepped---delicately now---across Harriet's lap to thump his head soundly against Joppich's shoulder.

"You pass," said Harriet, amused. "Though I'm not sure you could have managed that quite so well if you'd tried it in Nevelse."

"Probably not," said Joppich, equally amused. "He's got some mouth on him."

"Wyss'huk says he curses like a sapient," Harriet said, and watched with amusement as Joppich filed that for further information.

Joppich and the cat continued to regard each other with matched fiery blue glares---His Highness was trying to stare Joppich into submission, Joppich attempting to show the cat who was boss. The result of the contest had to wait for another time, however, for Bingo swooped close enough to distract them both.

His Highness sniffed the air carefully and followed every move of the bird. He had a good cursing relationship with most of the Crotonite, so a flyer of Bingo's size held no terrors for him. Still, the damn thing clearly didn't smell Crotonite, so His Highness kept a wary eye on it.

Harriet said to Joppich, "Bingo must be as confusing to him as he is to a Crotonite."

"Confusing?"

"The ability to fly is everything to a Crotonite," Harriet said. "You know that as well as I do. It's a sign of their natural superiority, to hear them tell it. Then along comes Bingo, who can fly with the best of them---but who's clearly not sapient. What does that say for wing-span as a measure of superiority?"

"Oh, ye gods," said Joppich. "I wasn't thinking." He put his head in his hands, narrowly risking the loss of his seat as the chair hit a bump. Grabbing on again, he said, "What'll I do? I can't give Bingo away---I'm the only one he takes to---but, if he bothers the Crotonites, how can I find out anything more about them?"

His distress was genuine, so Harriet gave the question genuine thought. When she'd done so, she said, "I don't think it's that much of a worry. Besides, isn't learning their reaction to a non-sapient flyer learning something worth knowing?"

Bingo wasn't all that dumb, Harriet saw. Having earlier worked out just how close to Harriet he was allowed to come, Bingo came to light on the tine of the chair. From there, he crowed a challenge at His Highness.

Harriet gave a worried glance at Joppich, who said, "So far, so good. That's what he always said to Uncle Jamie's cats...."

His Highness laid his ears back and arched forward for a good sniff and look. Then he inflated his lungs and, on full reverb, said, "OHWOOOOOOW!" It was a mystery to Harriet how a creature that small could make a sound that large.

"Heh-heh-heh," said Bingo, snaking his neck forward. Unlike Harriet, His Highness seemed to consider the cackle cajoling: he jumped from Harriet's knee and stepped forward to take a closer look.

To Harriet's surprise, Bingo sat perfectly still while His Highness checked him out. His Highness, who was nothing if not thorough, sniffed the bird from talon-tip to wing-tip. Bingo bent his head and graciously permitted His Highness to savor his beak, as well.

Inspection finished, His Highness gave Bingo a whap on the beak. Harriet jumped, expecting the worst. Joppich only laughed, as His Highness swaggered back to Harriet. Bingo hooted and flapped into the air once more.

"Same thing my uncle's cat always did," Joppich said. "I think you've made a friend, Your Highness."

His Highness told Joppich that this so-called friend reeked of carrion, couldn't catch his own food to save his life, and was the ugliest sucker he'd seen in years, unless you counted Joppich. Then he snagged Joppich's hand with a claw and demanded that Joppich rub his ears some more.

The chair pulled up in front of Sylvaine's Custom House and beeped arrival. His Highness leapt off, cast a few more insults over his shoulder, and headed back into the brush. Harriet shouted a "See you later" and rolled on into the bar.

This nice a day, Sylvaine's was practically deserted and Sylvaine himself was curled up in his reserved chair, reading. He smiled and waved a greeting, then he held up one finger to let her know he'd be with them the minute he finished this bit. Harriet nodded, and noted with amusement that the hardbook that held Sylvaine so engrossed was one of Joppich's.

She rolled to her favorite table, using the heavy-duty pinchers to pull up a human-suited chair for Joppich along the way. The fine pinchers made an independent grab of their own.

"Thanks for the ride," Joppich said, as he stood to stretch. "I'd better let Bingo know where I am."

"You needn't bother," Harriet said, grinning. "He's still vulching me." The fine-work pinchers had caught Bingo again. She whistled them to set him on the table. "What am I going to do with you, bird?"

Bingo glared.

Harriet had an inspiration. "What can he eat safely?"

"About anything your cat can, but he prefers his food somewhat...ripe."

"Let me try him on this, then." Harriet picked up the dahalf by its tail once more. "It may be a little nouveau for him but at least it's dead. What do you think?" This last, she addressed to Bingo. His snake-like head swayed, following the swing of the dahalf. Taking this for interest, Harriet flung him the carcass.

Bingo speared it on his beak in mid-air. Then, using the talons on one foot, he scraped it onto the table and inspected both it and Harriet warily.

"Won't His Highness be upset that you've given away his present?"

Harriet looked at Joppich in surprise. "His Highness doesn't give presents with strings attached. I'm shocked you'd think that of him." She grinned instead. "Seriously...he doesn't mind what I do with his gifts. That I accept them is the important thing."

"Oh." Joppich unfolded his hand and looked at the leaf gall he'd been holding all this time. He put it in his pocket.

Harriet suppressed a smile and gave the bird a long look. "You could always hang onto it until it is ripe," she suggested.

"Not in here," said Sylvaine, from behind her. "Bad enough everybody comes here to practice insults on each other. I won't have that thing aging its meat on one of my tables." He scowled at Bingo. "You," he said, "eat it or take it outside."

The firmness in Sylvaine's tone must have gotten through the bird's skull. Giving Harriet one last glower, it gobbled down the dahalf. Then it cocked its head at Joppich and flapped off the table and out the door.

"Good tone," Harriet said admiringly to Sylvaine.

He grinned and said, "It works on Crotonites. I wasn't sure it would work on that, but I figured it was worth a try, given the overweening wing-span." He took orders and vanished behind the bar for a long moment.

Leaning back in her chair, Harriet took the time to admire the mural that was slowly spreading the length of the north wall. Looking at it almost made up for the flight time she was missing: Fastas had brought the sky---and the feel of flying---into Sylvaine's Custom House.

The wall behind Joppich was alive with Crotonites and winds for which only the Crotonites had words. "Sylvaine made a deal with Fastas," Harriet said. "Free drinks for a mural." She turned Joppich to it with a point.

Joppich followed her point and his jaw dropped open. "Ye gods!" he said. He leaned forward so abruptly, Harriet had the momentary feeling he was about to fall into Fastas's sky; his sky-colored eyes looked like a reflection from the painting.

"Nice, isn't it?" said Sylvaine, who had returned with the usual for Harriet and a steaming cup of chimmel for Joppich. "Really brightens the place up. I told Fast As if he wanted to make a turn to the right after he hit the corner and keep going, I'd keep bringing his drinks free." He smiled happily and added, "I think I'll let him do the whole place if he's willing."

"Nice?" Joppich seemed to have gotten stuck a few sentences back. He flapped his jaw twice before he found enough voice to say a second time, "Nice?"

"Hey, if you don't like it, you don't have to drink here." Frowning and looming, Sylvaine could be about twice as large as anybody on LostRoses.

"Down, Sylvaine," said Harriet. "He's not disparaging Fastas's work---he thinks you are."

Joppich let out a breath. "Nice doesn't begin to describe it. Try magnificent!" He looked at Harriet almost wildly. "It's...." Words failed him again, and he shook his head as if despairing of them altogether. He turned and looked again, then he swung his chair around beside Harriet's so that he could sit facing the painted wall.

After he'd let out another long breath, he took a sip of his chimmel---without taking his eyes off the mural. At last he said, in a more normal voice, "I think it's my turn to astonish you, Harriet. I know a museum curator who'd pay---oh, at a guess---about twenty times the worth of that leaf gall you gave me for that wall."

Sylvaine laughed and said, "Tell him he can come look for the price of a drink." He was silent for a space, silent and appreciating of Fastas's work. Then he wandered back to his chair and reopened his book.

If Sylvaine didn't believe Joppich, Harriet did. "Well, we might as well appreciate it while it's still here."

"I'm serious," Joppich said. "And that's nothing compared to what he'd get from an art dealer. LostRoses is getting a masterpiece---for free drinks."

Ah! Harriet saw his problem. "Tell Fastas if that makes you happier, but I'll bet Fastas doesn't think he's being cheated. He's painting the mural for the sake of painting the mural. When the weather turns bad for flying, come in and watch him at it and you'll see for yourself."

She took a long contented look at the painting again, then added, "And I suspect he's also doing it to impress a certain gold-eyed Crotonite female who's been in the forefront of the kibitzers ever since he started work on the wall. It's really coming along...."

Joppich smiled. "The mural or the courting?"

"The mural, for sure. I won't know about the courting until I've had a few days to catch up on gossip." She shrugged and smiled, "Or maybe tonight, if Fastas comes in to do some more painting. I'm rooting for him---Prist is charming. Seems a nice match, given the limited experience I've had with Crotonite matches. She's a painter in her own right, maybe even a better one than Fastas."

His eyes widened again at that, and Harriet grinned. "Besides," she added, "I'd like to see a mating flight for myself. Wyss'huk found a spot just off the Singing Crag that he says has the perfect---wait, these two are tough to wrap my tongue around---the perfect pssstrit and tripssst." If there was a literal translation of either into Nevelse, Harriet hadn't gotten that far yet. "You'll want Wyss'huk to pronounce them for you. When he says them, there's a poetry about the combination that's almost as lively as the winds themselves."

She paused to take a sip from her glass. "Once he found that the winds were always good or perfect in that spot---something to do with the shape of the crag, maybe the same thing that makes it sing---he abandoned the Pssstwhitian Embassy building we made him and extruded the official one at the foot of the crag. The Stiss followed suit---though I'm not sure that had as much to do with the perfect mating winds as it did with the rivalry between Pssstwhit and Stiss."

"How strong do you gauge the rivalry?"

"As I said, strikes me as mostly bluff and fluff. I haven't seen anything hotter than that one-up contest Wyss'huk and Katuk had when they were cursing you out in turn. I've never seen a Crotonite strike another Crotonite, though Katuk tells me he has."

"It does happen. It's rare, but I've seen it."

Harriet cocked her head, inviting further details.

"Like tom-cats," he offered. "They'd worked themselves up into full blow---and one of them said the unforgivable thing. The result was nasty; those talons can do some damage." His face darkened. "I imagine it was months before either of them flew again."

Harriet frowned. Hard to picture, even though she'd seen any number of Crotonite use their talons to shred dinner. That was polite Crotonite table manners, but she was quite capable of extrapolating from dead meat to live.

Hard to picture because.... "Joppich? Once a month or so, we get the obligatory bar fight in here---between humans, I mean. Sylvaine drops the antagonists before it gets nasty, but...."

Joppich finished for her: "But the Crotonites are long gone by then."

"Yes," said Sylvaine. "Eavesdropper," said Harriet, and Sylvaine grinned and told her, "I only eavesdrop the interesting conversations. Be boring and I'll ignore you completely."

To Joppich, he said, "It upsets the hell out of the Crotonites when the Erthumoi start bashing each other. I had to shorten my intervention time. I used to let them each get in one punch before I stopped them. Now I try to get it before the first punch. Can't have good customers run out of the place just because some Erthuma doesn't like some other Erthuma's face."

He pulled up a chair, settled his huge frame into it, and said, "There's nobody here but us Erthumoi.... What's the unforgivable word? I need to know it so I can move fast if I hear it."

"That's not the kind of fight you'd want to intervene in," Joppich began.

"Rules," said Sylvaine. "Nobody gets hurt in a fight in my bar." He gave the problem visible thought, then smiled and said, "And I suspect I can stop 'em dead if I grab 'em by the breathing masks."

"Might stop you dead too," Harriet said. "That stuff's poisonous to you and me."

"Pinch, not pull." Sylvaine closed a hand as if tightening it around the tube to a breathing mask. "Have you ever known me to be careless, Harriet?"

Harriet grinned. "No, I haven't." To Joppich, she said, "If you don't tell us, I'll ask Wyss'huk."

"You wouldn't!" Joppich stared at her in disbelief.

Grin broadened all across Sylvaine's face. "She would," he said. "And Wooshuck would tell her, too, I bet. Those Only Birds are as thick as thieves."

Still staring, Joppich slumped ever so slightly in his chair. Harriet knew resignation when she saw it, but Joppich gave a careful scan of the room before he straightened again. No Crotonites had come in while he'd been speaking. "All right," he said and leaned in close. "The unforgivable word was hashas'sit. And they really punch the 'sit."

Sylvaine took a deep breath, stared at Joppich, and opened his mouth.

Knowing exactly what Sylvaine was about to say, she gave the barkeep a quick negative jerk of her head---she genuinely regretted she wasn't able to kick him under the table---and said, "That's a new one on me. What's it mean, do you know? Are we talking something on the order of 'rapist' or 'murderer' or are we talking something that would only make sense to another Crotonite?"

Sylvaine shut his mouth abruptly and leaned forward---this time to listen only. Harriet let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"More on the order of nonsense to a non-Crotonite," Joppich said. "From what I've been able to gather, it's a derogatory reference to some religious sect." He held up his hands to fend off questions. "I honestly don't know enough about Crotonite religion to tell you much more than that. That's not a question I get a lot of answers on. And I'm not sure it's safe to ask about it, either, Harriet," he added firmly. "So don't."

Harriet gave him her best imitation of His Highness's "Who-me-boss? Would-I-ever-do-a-thing-like-that?" It didn't fool Sylvaine for a minute, but Joppich bought it.

Luckily, she didn't have to preen her invisible whiskers for long. A flutter of wings brought Bingo back inside. This time he landed neatly on the table---just beyond pincher-reach---to glare not at Harriet but at Joppich.

"I thought, since you'd eaten the dahalf," Joppich began. Logic cut no ice with the bird, to judge from his expression, and Joppich knew it too, to judge from his. Resigned, he rose to his feet. "Feeding time for the bird," he said. "Nice to have met you, Sylvaine, Harriet." He hesitated. "Any chance I might find you here later?"

Sylvaine swung a hand to take in the room. "Best place in town," he said.

"Only place in town," Harriet added, with a grin.

"I'll be here, then," said Joppich. "Come on, Bingo."

Bingo gave Harriet a long look to say he hadn't forgotten her, then took off after Joppich.

The minute the two vanished through the door, Sylvaine leaned forward and opened his mouth. Harriet held up a hand and made him wait until Joppich's footsteps had passed beyond her earshot.

When Harriet lowered her hand, Sylvaine said, "Harriet, Prist is a hashash---whatever the damn word was. I may not be able to pronounce it but I know what I heard him say and I know what Prist said...."

"I know. I know. So's Fastas. So are half the Crotonites from Stiss---maybe all of them, for all I know." Thinking hard, Harriet drummed her fingers on the chair's armrest.

Sylvaine let her think for a moment, but only a moment. "Prist said never to tell another Crotonite because Erthumoi weren't supposed to know about such things," he said. "So what was the problem with telling that guy? It's not like he's Crotonite."

"That guy is Joppich, the author of the book you're reading. He knows about as much as there is to know about Crotonites, unless you are one...."

That still didn't explain her reaction, Harriet realized. She reached for her drink and took a healthy swig. Sylvaine didn't believe in interrupting a person who was drinking, and it gave her time to put her thoughts in order. What was wrong with telling him?

"So here's this expert on Crotonite who says that calling somebody a hashas'sit is a criminal offense---and here's Prist, who says she is a hashas'sit and acts like she's proud of it."

"So the expert's wrong," said Sylvaine. "Oh! You didn't want me to embarrass him in public." He cast a glance at the hardbook lying beside his reserved chair. "I wonder if he's wrong about the rest of it, too...."

Harriet shook her head. "He's not. What he knows matches with what I know, and I think we've got a problem."

Tipping back his chair, Sylvaine considered her carefully. "Problem? I don't see it, Harriet. They can't both be right---Joppich and Prist. Joppich must have heard the word wrong."

"His Crotonite is too good for that. And they can both be right and that's what's setting my teeth on edge."

"Explain it in simple terms," said Sylvaine.

"Okay," said Harriet. "Suppose somebody calls you a barkeep.... What's your reaction?"

"I am a barkeep." Sylvaine shrugged. "Why should that bother me?"

"It wouldn't," Harriet said. "But suppose somebody calls you a barkeep and you know that, to him, the word means 'not fit to live'? Now what's your reaction?"

"Oh," said Sylvaine, in a very quiet voice. "Oh, boy...." He rose to his feet. "Shall I call Wanwadee Li and tell him he's got to be El Presidente?"

"No need to make it official. Let's just tell Wanwadee Li what we know so far; he likes to be prepared. This is only a hairy feeling as yet. I'd better do some poking around before we get everybody else excited over something that might be nothing."

Raising an eyebrow, Sylvaine said, "If the word's unforgivable, Wushshock might not take so kindly to.... Be careful where you poke your nose."

She held up both hands. "I promise to be extremely careful. Full ritual and all. Who's in charge of nosy and possibly dangerous questions?"

Thoughtful furrows crossed his brow. "Let's see---it'd be Albie for secrets of the universe and Hans Stefan for good gossip...but neither one of them quite covers this sort of thing. Hang on"---he strode to the bar, ducked briefly behind it, and came up with a well-thumbed hardbook---"lemme check the catalog."

He flipped through to the back and read snatches of the index aloud, "'Questions...secrets of the universe', yeah, yeah, we know about Albert Einstein...." He muttered for a moment then said, "'Personal, sexual'---would that be it, do you think?"

"Maybe. Joppich seems to think it's religious, though. How the hell do I know until I ask? And then it'll be too late."

"Aha!" said Sylvaine, triumphant. Grinning, he brought the book and held it out to her, his finger marking the spot.

"'Questions---nosy, see The Quid Nunc,'" Harriet read. "The Quid Nunc? I've never even heard of that one."

"Most people haven't," Sylvaine said---and then he chuckled. "But she's the one you want. Look her up, and see if I'm not right."

Turning to the page indicated, Harriet saw the reason for Sylvaine's chuckle. "She was a cat! I thought they were all people---and she was a cat!" She read carefully through the text. No doubt about it. "Yes," said Harriet, delighted. "A cat could get away with it. She's perfect, Sylvaine. Thanks."

"Anytime, Harriet. Part of the job, after all. I hope it helps."

He was getting that furrow of worry again, so Harriet said, "It will, I'm sure of it. But in the meantime---"

"In the meantime, I'll keep my mouth shut." The twinkle returned to his dark eyes, and he added with a smile, "Except to drink my beer, of course."

Harriet smiled back. "You might also open it long enough to fill me in on the gossip...." That was an invitation she'd never known Sylvaine to resist---and this was no exception. The courtship, it seemed, was coming along as nicely as the mural.

#

From Sylvaine's map, the Quid Nunc's shrine was somewhere along Niles-Canfield Road but closer to the Canfield's end of it...which put it very near the new Pssstwhitian Embassy. Harriet took that as a good omen as well.

The day was a lousy one for flying---for hang-gliding, at any rate. She could see a handful of winged Crotonites circling the embassy on a quick morning stretch of the wings.

Sylvaine had assured her the route was well enough kept that she'd have no need of any of the special adaptations to her chair, but she had fixed on the brolly. No point getting soaked to the skin. In her lap, His Highness snoozed mightily. For no apparent reason, he'd decided to accompany her today---and she took that as an even better omen.

Choosing a gift for the Quid Nunc had been something of a puzzle but, after rereading her attributes, Harriet had brought the string of lostroses that His Highness sometimes deigned to play with. He preferred a length of ribbon, mostly for the pleasure of shredding, but she thought perhaps the Quid Nunc would prefer something a little more lasting.

The chair rolled to a stop-and-beep in front of the Pssstwhitian Embassy. Wyss'huk waved to her from the cliff-side, gave one last glance upward at his winged staff, and came to meet her. He looked naked and vulnerable compared to the rest of the Crotonites. On the ground, with their huge bat-like wings furled, they always looked to her as if they were cloaked. Wyss'huk had no cloak.

Harriet extruded his perch from the side of the chair. He shook rain from his fur and climbed on. His Highness lifted his head sleepily and gave him the ritual greeting, something about the ugly warp of his beak and the putridity of his breath. Wyss'huk ticked and answered in kind, then delicately scratched the cat's head with his talons. Permitting the liberty, His Highness even purred a moment or two before going back to sleep.

Having discovered that Wyss'huk had to curse less in Nevelse than in his own language and all too aware that she couldn't live up to his standards at this hour of the morning, Harriet decided to opt out of the game temporarily. She gave him a simple, "Rotten morning to you, Wyss'huk," in Nevelse.

"Hi, slugger," said Wyss'huk, also in Nevelse.

"'Slugger'?" said Harriet, putting the accent on the last syllable.

Wyss'huk ticked like a time bomb. "I am in the process of convincing the entire staff---brain-burned idiots that they are---that 'slugger' is a worse insult than 'slug.'"

Harriet laughed out loud. Disturbed, His Highness opened a blue eye and glared. "Sorry," she said to him soothingly. "Sorry, Wyss'huk, but it is funny."

"I know. What's funnier is that no Erthuma can tell them different: it's my word against yours." That set him to ticking all over again, as Harriet set the chair into motion.

After a while, he said, "It's not a rotten morning to a Crotonite, you know." He switched briefly to his own language and gave her such an appealing description of the winds that she wanted to high-tail it for home, grab her wings and dive off the nearest cliff.

Instead she sighed. "So we'll have to make our own fun today." His orange eyes widened sharply---and Harriet knew she'd startled him somehow. "Wyss'huk? If I've said something wrong, please tell me what. I don't mean to offend. You know that."

"You surprised me. I had understood you to mean we would see something religious---having to do with your gods. I am not accustomed to hearing the word 'fun' in this context. Have I misunderstood?"

"These aren't exactly gods. Unless you count the Raiser of Winds---who's a bit of a newcomer---we don't really have any resident gods. These are more like spirits. We don't exactly worship them; we invoke them when we need a little specialized assistance. And there's even one whose specialty is fun---you leave him a gift if you're having a party and want to make sure everybody has a good time."

Wyss'huk was silent as he worked that over. "You're different," he said at last. "You are not Crotonite. You do not think like a Crotonite; you think differently. You approach your spirits differently."

He was not really talking to her; he was reminding himself. Harriet recognized the procedure because she had to run through it often enough when she was with him, and for all the same reasons.

Then he said, "What sort of spirit are we visiting today? Should I be solemn or merry? Which is appropriate to this Quid Nunc of yours?"

"This one's a bit unusual even for LostRoses. This one was a cat---so whatever's appropriate for His Highness is equally appropriate for the Quid Nunc."

"Harriet, you're making this up."

She shook her head. "Ask Sylvaine to show you the book next time you're in the Custom House---or get Wanwadee Li to print you one of your own." When he wasn't being El Presidente of LostRoses, Wanwadee Li was the world's only publisher. If Harriet knew Wyss'huk, he'd stop by for a copy the next time he was in town.

"Let me understand properly. This was a cat, a real one, that actually lived...."

"As real as His Highness," Harriet said. "And she's the right spirit for us, too---she's helpful with nosy questions." Wyss'huk gave a double tick---which Harriet added to her list of good omens---then she went on, "The story is that she was even nosier, if you can believe that, than His Highness. She was so nosy that she tagged along with a group of kids exploring a cave they'd found, just to see what they were up to. The kids were very young and very inexperienced---and they got themselves very thoroughly lost. They'd never have made their way safely home if the Quid Nunc hadn't been there to lead them back to sunlight."

More ticking. "Perhaps she should be the spirit that helps you find your way through a maze, then."

Harriet chuckled. "Wyss'huk, can you think of a worse or more convoluted maze than the two of us trying to find each other in all this messy universe?"

His ticking was steady and loud now, so Harriet smiled and turned her attention to the road. "Start looking along the right shoulder now. The shrine should be somewhere near here. Look for an eye carved in a stone stele.”

"I know where that is," said Wyss'huk. "About a tenth of a mile from here. First you'll come to a row of very old scroll trees, then a leaf-rustle"---that was a wind that came up in certain wooded conditions; Harriet would recognize it when she felt it---"then one more very old scroll tree, and the stele is about three wing-spans beyond that. I've been taking the slug's tour," he added, by way of explanation.

His ground map was almost as good as his sky map, though on the ground his idea of a wing-span was somewhat exaggerated---Harriet almost passed the stele. A quick whistle brought them to a halt in time, and Harriet turned the chair onto the narrow winding path down to the Quid Nunc's shrine.

The shrine was small but well kept. Sylvaine's doing, perhaps. In the center of a small clearing in the wood stood the life-sized statue of a cat. It was made of bronze, she suspected; the patina was that strange and wonderful shade of green she'd once seen on a copper roof.

The Quid Nunc sat on her regal haunches, surveying her domain and her treasures---a ball, a tuft of dried catnip, a length of string---with as haughty and possessive an air as ever Harriet had seen His Highness display. Come to think of it, His Highness was very probably a distant descendant of hers. The only difference between them was the gold hoop the Quid Nunc bore in her left ear.

Harriet gave the snoozing cat a thorough rubbing about the head and ears and said, "Up, cat. Say hello to a relative of yours...and be respectful---she's reputed to have a few powers you haven't." To Wyss'huk, she added, "At least, he's never displayed them around me."

"He doesn't like you to know he can manipulate gravity at will, either," said Wyss'huk.

Grinning, Harriet shook her head admiringly. "You've caught on quick to cats."

"I had to for self preservation. His Highness classifies me as a bird and therefore potentially as a meal."

Harriet shook her head. "Not any more. He thinks you curse like a sapient."

Two ticks, like a chuckle, from Wyss'huk. Then he turned solemn and cast an orange eye at the ground. "Any special form here?"

His Highness, having finished a leisurely stretch, sprang from Harriet's lap and sauntered over to sniff the statue of the Quid Nunc.

"I guess not," said Wyss'huk, answering his own question.

His olfactory inspection of the statue finished, His Highness turned his back on the figure disdainfully, licked a few hairs into more perfect order, and began to investigate the Quid Nunc's gifts.

"Your Highness!" Wyss'huk's voice took on a tone of sharp warning. "Those are gifts to a spirit---"

His Highness flicked back an ear, copped the tuft of catnip, and disappeared with it into the brush at the edge of the grove.

"Harriet!" Wyss'huk said, in alarm. "He took---."

"If that were a human, I'd worry, Wyss'huk. But it's a cat---and what happens between cats is no business of a human's or of a Crotonite's. They'll work it out to their satisfaction, not to ours." She whistled herself to the ground beside him, within hand's reach of the statue.

As she'd never appealed to the Quid Nunc before, she opted for good manners and held out her knuckles for sniffing. "Hello, Quid Nunc," she said. "I'm Harriet Kingsolver and the fellow with me is Wyss'huk. I don't know if you've met any of his kind before but the cat that just copped your catnip will vouch for him---and for me, too, I think."

Wyss'huk held out his own stubby knuckles to be sniffed. With a side-long glance at Harriet, he addressed the statue and told it a few of the things he habitually told His Highness. "...And do it twice," he added, apparently feeling the need to give a spirit a little something extra.

Harriet grinned. "I brought you a present, cat." From her pocket, she took the string of lostroses and dangled it enticingly in front of the image's forepaws.

There was no reaction or acknowledgement from the image; of course, Harriet had gotten the same response (or lack of response) from His Highness in similar circumstances. She'd hardly expected the statue to pounce, after all. Come to think of it, she didn't know what she expected, if anything.

She wriggled the string of deep red gems past the verdigris paws one last time, then coiled it into a rich glowing heap beside the image. "Okay. I'll leave it for later." To Wyss'huk, she added, "Most cats do it on their time, not yours---but you already know that."

She whistled again and the cargo pinchers gently lifted her back into her seat and settled her comfortably.

Wyss'huk made no move to regain his perch. He was still considering the statue. Harriet couldn't read his expression. At last, he said, "Perhaps I should make her a gift, too?"

"I don't think it's necessary," Harriet said. "The problem is mine; I'm the one asking for the helping paw." Like the paw His Highness stuck down a dahalf's hole, snatching for the meat by feel alone.

"What happens now?" Wyss'huk asked, his eyes still on those of the statue.

"Aside from waiting for His Highness to turn up? That's it---we've done the ritual, now we head home."

At long last, Wyss'huk turned to face her, his orange eyes vivid in the long green shadows of the wood. He said, very carefully, "Did you get the help you need?"

Harriet shrugged. "I don't know yet." She gazed at him thoughtfully. "You're asking do I really believe she will help, aren't you?" She leaned back and cocked her head. "I don't know if that's done me the least damned bit of good," she said, "but I simply can't pass up any shot at help on this one. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes." He fixed her with a steady eye and said, "What's your nosy question, Ha'reet? I'll answer it if I can."

Harriet chuckled. "Erthumoi are getting pretty transparent to you, aren't they?"

"Not all Erthumoi," he said, "but you and I have flown together." He scanned the edges of the grove. There was still no sign of His Highness. "Being at His Highness's beck and call, we've plenty of time."

"It's a tough nosy question," Harriet said. "I'm told it's been cause for actual bloodshed between Crotonites...."

He drew back a little but his expression was one Harriet had learned to interpret as thoughtful. The stubs on his shoulders, the still-healing remnants of his wings, twitched minutely---as if he did his best thinking on the wing. Finally, he said, "You instructed your chair to defend you against that...that mindless flyer. Will you instruct it to defend you against me, please?"

Harriet jerked in outrage. "I don't want to defend against you, Wyss'huk!"

"Not forever, Ha'reet. Only while you ask your question. Please. If the question is as nosy as you believe, I might lose my temper with you...."

"I don't want you to lose your temper with me. That's why I wanted the Quid Nunc's help."

"Ha'reet, pippest," he said, "I promise you, on the Raiser of Winds, that even if I lose my temper with you over this question I will find it again in time for the two of us to fly together in the next high heart-wind."

And he was not going to listen to another word until she did as he asked. The set of his body gave Harriet the distinct impression that he'd put his fingers in his ears---wherever they were. Sighing resignation, she keyed the necessary instructions into the chair's memory, labelling the macro n for 'nosy' and absently writing it to file. If he asked her to do it once, he might again.

"Done," she said. "Ready or not, Wyss'huk, here it comes." She took a deep breath, saw him do the same, and began, "I've been told by someone I credit with intelligence that calling a Crotonite one certain name will lead to bloodshed. The problem is, the word does not sound the least bit like a curse to me."

The little Crotonite took two steps backward---careful not to disturb the Quid Nunc's treasures---and eyed her chair's pinchers warily. Another self-reminder, thought Harriet---How do I get myself into these situations?

He said, "What is the word you need to know about?"

"Hashas'sit," said Harriet...and she held her breath.

Wyss'huk crooked his talons and took a single step toward her.

His Highness shot from the underbrush at the edge of the grove and charged directly into the Crotonite's path.

Wyss'huk jumped back to avoid having his toes run over---with cleats---and, having jumped back, stayed where he was, making a visible effort to settle his ruffled non-feathers.

Harriet let out her breath. "Good timing," she said to His Highness. His Highness, smug, circled the Crotonite's ankles once and then laid a dead fricket at his taloned feet. Harriet gaped at the two of them. "He brought you a gift, Wyss'huk! You see? I told you he thinks you curse like a sapient." She shook her head, as much to clear it express her disbelief. "Or have you been holding out on me? Has he done that before?"

"No," said Wyss'huk, staring down in equal astonishment. He spattered and sputtered a few words of the purest, most vile slander at the cat, who responded with a considerably worse assessment of bat-like things that were too oversized to be considered edible and then permitted his ears to be scratched.

When he'd permitted his ears to be scratched to his satisfaction, he swaggered over to the chair, settled again in Harriet's lap, and closed his eyes to sleep.

When Harriet looked back at Wyss'huk, the Crotonite was holding the fricket in his two-fingered, two-clawed grip, as if it might just be a palatable snack. Still nosy---and unwilling to press the previous question---Harriet said, "Can you eat frickets?---without poisoning yourself, I mean."

"I doubt it," he said. "You told me once that His Highness doesn't give his gifts with strings attached...."

"Well, I wouldn't toss it away in front of him; he hates to see a good fricket wasted."

"I won't waste it." He turned and laid the fricket before the statue of the cat. In his own language, he said something that Harriet couldn't quite catch, then he added, "I've got some nosy questions of my own, but I'll save those for another time and another gift. This fricket is thanks for helping Harriet with hers."

Then he walked slowly back to stand beside Harriet, just beyond the reach of the pinchers. "I want your promise," he said in Nevelse, "that you won't use that word in front of any other Crotonite."

"I can't promise that, Wyss'huk. I don't know enough to make promises."

His wing-stubs twitched furiously, but his orange eyes glared directly at her. "It's not a curse word, though many of my people would take it for one."

She'd assessed the situation correctly, then. "If I promise you I'll never use the word as a curse, will that satisfy you?"

"Only partially. So many of my people take it for a curse that you could hurt---badly---anyone you applied the word to...." He made an odd ducking motion with his head; if he'd still had his wings, he'd have been hiding his head beneath them.

When he raised his head again, he said, "This is very hard to explain, but I'll try. The word refers to a Crotonite who has accepted the teachings of a new...god? I'm not sure, here, Ha'reet. This may be a spirit, like the Quid Nunc---I believe he was originally a real person. He taught, or teaches, that life began on the ground and only later took to the air."

Harriet knit her brow. "More likely, life began in the waters of your home world, the way it did on Old Earth."

"I'm not speaking of evolution," he said, orange eyes flaring. "I'm speaking of religion, which is a much touchier subject." He paused, wing-stubs twitching. Harriet could see that his breath came fast and furious, fogging the transparent breathing mask from within. He went on, "A...hashas'sit believes that life sprang from the ground and believes accordingly that a winged Crotonite is somehow related to slugs---including you."

"And most Crotonites would prefer not to hear that," Harriet said.

He ducked his head once more. "Worse," he said, without raising his head. "Most Crotonites would kill the messenger who brought that message."

"Oh," said Harriet. "Oh, my sweet wings!"

Sensing her distress, His Highness opened his eyes and chirruped an inquiry. When Harriet didn't answer, he rose and thumped her soundly in the chest with the flat of his head until she had to rub his ears out of sheer self-defense. When he was satisfied he'd calmed her, he turned a hot blue glare on Wyss'huk and told him where to put what and how quickly. Not even the most limber of Crotonites could have managed that one.

Wyss'huk said, "That's why you're not to say the word to a Crotonite, Ha'reet. If you were believed, the Crotonite would be put to death."

And Prist and Fastas had entrusted their secret to a handful of Erthumoi...! Harriet gulped and said again, "Oh, my sweet wings!" She stared wildly at Wyss'huk. "You---would you---" She faltered, unwilling to imagine her favorite flying partner party to a lynching or whatever a winged people did to each other in such hate.

Orange eyes locked on hers. "You know about the hashas'sitta in the Stiss Embassy," Wyss'huk said. It was not a question and Harriet made no answer. Lapsing into Crotonite, Wyss'huk began an elaborate description of the calibre of self-destructive fool that staffed the Stiss Embassy. His voice was low, as if he feared being overheard by anyone.

By anyone but Harriet, that was---he stepped closer to make sure she got an earful. So close, in fact, that the pinchers reached out to seize him. Caught and held, Wyss'huk merely went motionless and continued to curse the Crotonite Stiss for the fools they were. His Highness watched with intense interest.

Startled, Harriet whistled to the chair to let go, wishing she could add an emphatic, "dammit!" to the order. The pinchers released him as gently as they'd seized him, but Harriet said, "Sorry."

"I would not hurt a single one of them, Ha'reet. By the Raiser of Winds, you must believe me. I've fought the rulings against them to the full stretch of my wings." Wyss'huk's use of the Pssstwhitian expression was ironic but the emotion behind it was genuine. "Why do you think I was chosen ambassador to Erthumoi on a little backwater planet---your own description---like LostRoses?"

That was an easy one, now that Harriet knew the context. "You made yourself politically unpopular---so they ditched you." And cut off your wings for emphasis. "Punishment duty," she said aloud.

"My punishment is that I may be forced to watch helplessly as the hashas'sit Stiss...." He shut his beak with an almost audible click. "I would tell no-one, Ha'reet, but there are members of my staff who may recognize that style of art work. It is unmistakable, if you have any eye for painting whatsoever." He glanced over his shoulder at the statue of the Quid Nunc. "If you have a spirit that oversees the keeping of secrets, we would do well to pay that one a visit. As carefully as I chose my staff, I cannot be sure I haven't a...."

Wings stubs once again a-twitch, he glanced up and said, "Do you know a creature that substitutes its eggs for those of another?"

"Cuckoo," she said.

"'Kukoo,'" he repeated. "I may have a kukoo in my nest. I won't know until my own children are dead."

"Or the hashas'sitta are," Harriet said.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

Harriet took a deep breath. "Hop on, Wyss'huk. I think we'd better pay a visit to El Presidente and work out a contingency plan."

Dejectedly, he resumed his perch. "I appreciate the thought but I don't see how---forgive me---a bunch of slugs could help the poor hashas'sitta."

"No offense taken, slug," she said. "Thanks, Quid Nunc," she called to the little statue as she keyed the chair for home. To Wyss'huk, she said, "We'll just have to wing it...and that's worked for us before."

#

The storm that raged outside Sylvaine's Custom House the following day might have been a bad omen for "winging it," but Harriet chose to see it as the perfect opportunity to speak with one of the hashas'sitta. Rotten flying weather would bring most of the Stissian staff in to watch Fastas's mural work its way across the wall. While she waited for them to arrive, she shared a cup with Joppich---and gave him a hang-glider's eye-view of the winds that swept the painting.

"Yes," said Joppich. "I'll have to learn to fly to appreciate...the Crotonites. Thanks, I owe you."

The other Erthumoi experts were well out of ear-shot, so Harriet said, "Then tell me about your colleagues...anybody here particularly good in a crisis?"

"I got here five days ago, special delivery. I don't know them all yet." He gave a quick glance around the room, then lowered his voice anyway. "I've run into Gomperson and Ellis before, though. If you're having a crisis, leave them out of it---they're government flacks." His dark brow knit. "Helene Justin knows her stuff---and she seems the sort to keep her head in a crisis."

That matched Sylvaine's assessment to a tee. Harriet nodded. "Thanks," she said. "We're even."

Joppich gave her a quiet thoughtful look. "Are we having a crisis?"

She appreciated that we. "Not yet," she told him, "but any minute now, maybe." She watched him file that, too.

Then she said, "Excuse me, will you? I see Prist and I need a word with her." The word would have to be in private, given the Erthumoi experts and the handful of Pssstwhitians who'd trickled in. Leaving a still thoughtful Joppich behind, Harriet whistled her chair over to the gold-eyed Crotonite and said, "Hi, Prist, you moth-eaten excuse for a winter cloak.... I need a word with you."

"Crawl back under your stone, slug," said Prist amiably. "Lest the sun crisp your skin to a fragrant black."

That sounded enough like a "yes" that Harriet turned her chair and started for Sylvaine's back room. "This way," she said, and Prist followed, carrying her pipette mug of glavsa with her. A nod from Harriet brought Sylvaine along as well; he ushered them both into the back room and sealed it for privacy.

El Presidente, wearing what Harriet thought of as his war paint, was waiting for them. The frown lines of his office were drawn with elaborate care, this time in vivid crimson. However shocking and bloodthirsty he might look to someone unfamiliar with LostRoses's customs, Harriet found his mask-like face reassuring. She'd explained the extent of the possible problem to him and he'd taken her at her word. Wanwadee Li meant business.

Prist stopped short as she caught sight of him and unfurled her wings even so slightly. They made a rustling sound, like taffeta. "Wanwadee Li?" she said, in passable Nevelse. "You look most ugly than usual. I didn't think that was possible for a slug." To Harriet, in Crotonite, she added, "Have I said that right?"

"Close," Harriet said. "'Uglier,' not 'most ugly.' He looks that way because he's acting in his official capacity today, as el presidente of LostRoses."

She cocked her head to one side. "Perhaps you want to talk to Katuk," she said to Wanwadee. "Katuk is official, too."

Wanwadee Li shook his head. "We need some information, Prist, and we think it's safer to talk to you. You are hashash...." He held out his hands in appeal. "Harriet, I'll butcher it."

"You said you were hashas'sit, Prist." Harriet said the word so softly that only she could hear it. "I'm given to understand that the Crotonites would kill you if they knew that."

"Many would. Some would not." She ducked her head briefly under wing. When she raised it again, she raised it high, looked Wanwadee Li straight in the eye, and said, "And now that you have found out what the word means to a Crotonite, you wish us to leave LostRoses."

Half rising in shock, Wanwadee Li said, "No! No, Prist! That's not it at all!"

"No, Prist," said Harriet---in Crotonite and with all the proper improper flourishes so there could be no misunderstanding. "We're here to work out a contingency plan in case your people find out; we don't want you or Fastas hurt."

"What happens if Katuk---or anybody else in the embassy, for that matter---finds out," Sylvaine put in. "Where would you go? What would happen to you? That's what we need to work out---and that's why we need your advice."

"They know," said Prist.

"They know what you are," Wanwadee Li said, for clarity's sake.

"What we all are," said Prist.

That surprised the hell out of Harriet. "Even Katuk?"

"Katuk arranged it. He was giving us a haven---or so he thought."

"Then we'll have to arrange just that: a haven," said Wanwadee Li. "Would you call Katuk and invite him to join us? And then I would appreciate it very much if you would record a small piece of tape for Sylvaine. I want you to explain who and what the hassas are, so I can explain it to the rest of the LostRosians if need be."

"I will do my best," she said. "May I show some of my paintings? They often explain better than my words---especially my words in Nevelse."

"Whatever makes you happy," said Sylvaine. "Come on, let's get to it."

"'Whatever makes me happy,'" Prist repeated slowly. Then to Harriet, she said, "I like Nevelse. I don't think I could say that in Pssstwhitian."

#

By the time Wyss'huk had arrived, Sylvaine's was doing a rousing business. Lilac was behind the bar serving drinks as fast as she could pour them. Harriet saw a couple of faces she'd never seen in town, some of the true outliers come in to take a gander at Fastas's mural. They liked it, that much was obvious. Old Hairy and Jebediah had both asked Harriet to translate their praises to the Crotonite.

Harriet collared Joppich---with the fine-work pinchers---and said, "Help translate. I'm running out of nice things to say in Crotonite."

When Joppich grinned and rose to her assistance, Bingo hopped to the floor and stalked her on foot. The damn thing had gauged the range of her pinchers to a nicety now and stayed a quarter of an inch beyond; from there, his hungry glare was was all too palpable on the back of Harriet's neck.

The storm had tapered off, but Katuk arrived dripping water. Old Hairy tossed the Crotonite a towel from the rack beside the door---and Harriet tossed him a quick explanation of the offer. When Katuk had wiped the worst of the mess from his fur, he handed the towel back and thanked Old Hairy---politely.

Beside Harriet, Joppich gaped at the exchange. Harriet suppressed a smile and said, "Old Hairy doesn't know he's not supposed to like Crotonites."

"Katuk was polite."

"He was speaking Nevelse. It's easier to be polite in Nevelse." Harriet turned to greet Katuk with a few polite Crotonite insults, then she added, "Thanks for coming, Katuk...."

"I haven't come to make plans with you. I've come to tell the rest of my staff we're being recalled." The little alien made a keening noise in the back of his throat. "You can do nothing. Our replacements are already on the way, and the same ship will take---" He faltered.

"They know," said Harriet. "How long before the ship gets here?"

Katuk spat a phrase. Harriet, whose time-telling in Crotonite was too shaky to take the chance, turned sharply to Joppich. "That's about twelve days," he supplied.

"That's a long time, Katuk," Harriet said. "Let's make the most of it." She raised her voice over the chatter and sizzle of conversation. "Sylvaine!" she shouted. "Get out here---you're wanted in your official capacity."

Beside her, Joppich had been watching too closely. "What's going on?"

"Now we're having a crisis," Harriet told him. To Sylvaine, who'd appeared with the fearsome Wanwadee Li at his side, she called, "There's a ship coming in from Stiss. Remind them they'll have to clear customs before they do anything else." To Katuk, she added, "If we need extra time, Sylvaine can make them take apart everything they've brought to check for contraband."

Sylvaine smiled only with his mouth. "And as many times as need be," he said.

Silence spread slowly but inexorably throughout the bar. Perhaps it was Katuk's keening that had done it, perhaps Wanwadee Li's warpaint. Whatever the cause, conversation trickled off and all eyes began to turn in the direction of El Presidente.

"So much for contingency plans," he said. The scarlet lines across his brow were merged by his frown to resemble an open wound. To Katuk, he said, "Have they come to take you away?"

"Yes," said Katuk.

"Then we'd better think in terms of a fait accompli."

Fastas, still holding his brushes, crossed the room to stand beside Katuk. Harriet thought perhaps he was looking for Prist, but it was Sylvaine he fixed his orange eyes on. "I wish I could paint the entire bar, as you suggested---but now...if you can give me the time to finish the wall I've begun, I'd be most grateful." He cast a quick glance at Katuk. "I know what they'll do to the paintings in the embassy, but---they wouldn't dare to destroy a painting on Erthumoi property, would they?"

Well, that's done it, thought Harriet. Now everybody knows there's a crisis. Pandemonium reigned---for all of three minutes. Then it was cut short by the reverberating blast of Sylvaine's shotgun.

Lilac had fired the first round into the ceiling. She handed the gun to Sylvaine who fixed it on the crowd. "Shut up," he said politely. Erthumoi and Crotonite alike shut up and gave Sylvaine their full attention. Sylvaine gave Wanwadee Li his full attention. "Go, Wanwadee," he said.

It was like watching the buck be passed. Harriet gave an exasperated sigh...as Wanwadee Li turned in turn to Wyss'huk and said, "Wushok, can you put the Stiss up in your embassy? We could claim they've all left. They could just disappear." His eyes scanned the bar. "I haven't seen any Stiss around here, have you?"

Two dozen Erthumoi shook their heads and muttered variations on "No. Stiss? Never heard of them..." Even one of Wyss'huk's staff said, "There were some here once, but I don't know where they got to."

Harriet held her breath. Perhaps that would work, at least until they could plan something else. Then in the waiting silence, Harriet heard ticking.

She was not the only one who heard the sound. Handing his shotgun back to Lilac, Sylvaine rounded the bar for a better look at the crowd.

The ticking redoubled. The sound came from Chelrek, another of Wyss'huk's staff---and, to Harriet, it sounded malevolent, as if she were listening to a radiation detector warning that this was too hot to handle.

"Slug," said Chelrek. "Brain-burned slug who wants to cherish the slime at the bottom of the sea. Wyss'huk may call you a person, slug, but I know better. You wish to protect this slime?" Two crooked talons indicated Fastas. "This slime is hashas---"

She got no further. Sylvaine had the tube to her breathing mask between his clenched hands. "Don't say it, Chelrek. Saying that on LostRoses will leave you quite out of breath."

"Saying that as a curse will leave you quite out of breath," Harriet corrected. "But I think you've had your question answered, Wanwadee. Wyss'huk can't take them in. He can't watch all his staff members all the time."

Beside her, Katuk said, "They'd kill him for harboring us, Harriet. I couldn't permit that. None of us could."

Harriet turned a steady eye on Wanwadee Li and said, "They couldn't kill us for harboring them...."

He nodded, slowly and firmly. "Referendum," he said. "Sylvaine, you put the question to the voters."

Still holding Chelrek's breathing tube, Sylvaine nodded. Slowly, he relaxed his hands. To Wyss'huk, he said, "Chelrek is no longer welcome in my bar. Get her out of here. I don't even want to know if she's the one who told the Stiss about Fastas and Prist---it's safer for her that way."

To Harriet's surprise, the Crotonite Sylvaine released did not resume her ticking. "I did not tell the Stiss," she said. "I tell the Stiss nothing. The Stiss are...." She switched abruptly to Crotonite. Obviously, Nevelse hadn't the proper words to describe Chelrek's view of the Stiss---listening to her invective with half an ear, Harriet was not surprised. Chelrek was using obscenities that Harriet recognized as crude by even by Crotonite standards.

Wyss'huk cut through the torrent with a single word, also in Crotonite. "Out," he said. Chelrek glared at him but shut her beak. Wyss'huk went on, "Sylvaine has forbidden you entry. You have breached local mores and you are now a liability to the Pssstwhitian Embassy. You are confined to quarters until you can be shipped home."

That meant no flying, as well, Harriet bet. Wyss'huk was mad as a wet hen.

Chelrek spread her wings to their full extent. All around her, Erthumoi heads ducked, arms came up to protect eyes from the flap. "When I return home," she said, grandly, "I shall fly." Then she furled her wings again and stamped toward the door.

She'd gotten Wyss'huk where it hurt most. Harriet could see his breath come fast.

From behind Harriet's chair, there was a flap of wings. Apparently, Chelrek had offended Bingo as well. Croaking a few choice insults of his own, Bingo swept across the room and dived at the Crotonite, harrying Chelrek to the door and hastily through.

"Bingo!" said Joppich angrily. "You get back here. Now!"

Having come smack against a closed door, Bingo was quite happy to comply, but Harriet would have sworn he was chortling to himself as he did.

Wyss'huk was ticking softly. He fixed an orange eye Bingo and then on Harriet. "Isn't being able to fly a remarkable and superior attribute?"

Harriet had to grin. "Bingo's not impressed."

"To my surprise," Wyss'huk said, "neither am I. I think you've corrupted me, slugger."

The rattle of spoon on glass silenced them both. "Quiet for a vote," Sylvaine shouted from behind the bar. "Quiet for a vote!" He pointed to the screen at the far end of the room and dimmed the lights to brighten the image.

It was the tape Prist had made for him, explaining the hashas'sitta. Harriet listened with half an ear, her mind distracted by the problems they faced, her eye distracted by the shiny button-black eye of Bingo which sat once again on the tine of her chair.

The distraction was almost welcome. Harriet had to think about something else, if only for a moment, and Bingo was determined she should think about him. She had, actually---but in all the excitement she'd forgotten what she'd brought for him.

Harriet cancelled the chair's "grab Bingo" program and reached into a side pouch for the fricket His Highness had brought her the previous day. Ought to be good enough by now, she thought.

Not wishing to disturb anyone else, she unwrapped the fricket quietly and without a word held it out to Bingo. She'd corrupted Wyss'huk, maybe she could corrupt Bingo too. Why not?

Bingo eyed Harriet, not the fricket. He could probably smell the fricket just fine---Harriet certainly could---and a creature that ate carrion ought to be adept at locating same.

Yes, he could smell it. Casting a wary eye at the pinchers, Bingo stepped cautiously forward. When he passed into grabbing range and one step closer, he gave Harriet a startled look. She leaned forward, offering the fricket between thumb and forefinger.

I hope I don't lose a thumb on this, Harriet thought. Couldn't regenerate that, either.

Bingo's neck stretched and his beak closed delicately around the fricket. "Heh-heh-heh," he said, softly. "You're welcome," said Harriet, just as softly.

Prize in beak, Bingo retreated to the tine of the chair, where he shredded it into tiny pieces---must be good, Harriet thought, if he wanted to make it last longer---and savored each before throwing back his head to swallow.

Prist's tape had finished. The question was put to the population of LostRoses. The question was: Shall we do everything in our power to keep the hashas'sitta from being taken off LostRoses simply because they are what they are?

Sylvaine passed Harriet the absentee ballot box, and she thrust in her hand and thumbed "Yes."

"Ought to get one of those built into your chair," he said, as he passed the box to Old Hairy. Old Hairy's hand vanished inside. It was impossible to tell how he'd voted---the box had been designed that way---but Old Hairy nodded at Harriet. "Voted yes," he said. "I want to see the rest of Fastas's painting. Maybe he'd paint my place too. I've got so much money stashed from selling LostRoses, I betcha I could afford something that good." Old Hairy passed the box on its way.

Bingo had finished his fricket. Eying the pinchers, he started forward again. Harriet let him pass within grabbing range and held out her hand to show it empty. "Sorry," she said. "That's all I've got. I'll save you the next one, though, since you like them so much. It's not as if I eat them."

Bingo thrust his beak close to her hand. Checking out the smell, she thought. Then he eyed her one more time. "Friends?" she said.

He croaked a syllable...then, very deliberately, he turned his back on her and walked to the tine of the chair. He gave a second croak, glanced over his shoulder at her, and settled down---facing outward.

"Friends," said Joppich, confirming Harriet's assessment. "With all this going on, you've got the time to woo Bingo?"

Harriet shrugged. "Just because somebody seems to hate you is no reason to hate him back. I kept thinking of a quatrain from an old book of Wanwadee's...you'd have to ask him for the whole quote, but the import stuck in my head." She gestured at the bird, now poised like a hood ornament. "He drew a circle that closed me out." Harriet tilted her head to one side and, finding the couplet, she quoted, "'But love and I had the wit to win. We drew a circle that closed him in.'"

For a long moment, his sky-colored eyes held hers, then the eyes focussed briefly on the middle distance...and Harriet knew he was writing the couplet to that mental notebook of his. She said, "I may be misquoting---check with Wanwadee if you want the actual words---but I know I got the meaning right."

Then it came to her---rising like a life-pulse to lift her into the sky. A slow smile spread across her face. "I know I got the meaning right," she said again.

"We've got the tally," Sylvaine announced, and Harriet turned her attention to the the screen. Of the roughly five thousand citizens of LostRoses, all those eligible to vote had. The referendum had passed unanimously. A cheer went up from the Erthumoi assembled in the bar.

"Wanwadee! Sylvaine! I think I've got the answer.... I think it'll work," Harriet shouted over the hubbub.

Sylvaine tinked a spoon on his glass. "Quiet for a vote!" he shouted again. "Quiet for a vote!"

"But, Sylvaine---"

This time it was Wanwadee Li's face, oddly hard to recognize beneath the mask of his frown of office, that appeared on the screen. "As Harriet Kingsolver knows the situation and the Crotonites better than any of us, and as she speaks their language, and as the situation has come to a head and may require immediate action, I nominate Harriet Kingsolver for God and I suggest her term of office be three weeks, to begin with a 'yes' vote."

Harriet couldn't believe her ears. Even when the referendum appeared on the screen to make the nomination formal, she could only gape.

"No," she said, when Sylvaine handed her the ballot box.

"Shut up and vote, Harriet. You know you're the only one who can do it."

"I also know what happened to the last guy who got voted God. They lynched him for abuse of power the day his term of office ended."

"Don't get lynched," said Sylvaine. He laid the ballot box in her lap and folded her hands about it.

Harriet thrust a shaking hand into the box and voted.

Teeth clenched, she watched the box make its rounds. After a long, long time of waiting, she watched the tally light the screen. This time the result was not unanimous; there was a single vote 'no.'

Old Hairy leapt to his feet and roared, "All right---who's the slug who voted against Harriet?" He glowered at each Erthuma in the room in turn.

Harriet took a deep breath, got it together, and roared, "I'm the slug who voted against Harriet! Want to make something of it?"

"No, ma'am!" Old Hairy sat down and shut up; he was grinning. He kept grinning even as Sylvaine climbed onto the running board of her chair to fit the paper foil halo to her head.

Sylvaine stepped down to admire his handiwork. "Done," he said. He tinked his glass. "Harriet Kingsolver is God! Harriet Kingsolver is God! Everybody shut up and listen to God!"

Wyss'huk was peering up at Harriet and her halo with clear astonishment. She could see nosy questions by the thousands in his brilliant orange eyes. Bet the Quid Nunc gets a lot of offerings this week, she thought. "It's not religious," she told him. "It's political. It means that everybody on LostRoses has to do whatever as I say as long as I'm wearing the halo. Think of it as vast and unlimited emergency powers...."

Think of it as dangerous, she added to herself. Don't abuse it and, above all, don't get lynched afterwards.

Wyss'huk had named another wind for her, one she'd never felt because it was specific to worlds better suited for Crotonites. "Rise-or-be-broken" was the literal translation of the word. Now she knew how it felt to be caught up in one. You've got no choice, she told herself---Rise!

"First," she said, "I need to know if the ship from Stiss is likely to be armed and, if so, how heavily. Secondly, I need to know how much of what you've been importing to maintain your embassy staff we can supply directly from LostRoses, Katuk, and how much can only be supplied by Crotonite sources. Then I need to know if the embassy building Wyss'huk abandoned is still airtight."

Lilac laid aside her mug and stepped around the bar. "I'll check the embassy. If it's not airtight...?"

"If it's not airtight, fix it so it is. I'm confiscating it for the duration of the emergency."

"If they've got an adviser to spare," Lilac said, "I could build them something really pretty."

Harriet shook her head. "No frills today. Just something they can live in safely until we have the leisure to build them safe and pretty."

"Gotcha, God," said Lilac. "Let me take Muhammed and we'll get it done twice as fast." At Harriet's nod, the two of them were off like a shot.

Katuk watched them go, then he turned to Harriet and said, "If I may use Sylvaine's equipment, I can tell you about the ship's armaments."

This time Harriet's nod brought a quick change of light at the end of the room: someone had taken all the data available in LostRoses's computer and thrown the ship's profile and stats to the screen. Katuk said, "There will be a"---the word was a garble to Harriet---"at the nose and probably a"---another garble---"at the tail."

"Wyss'huk," she said, "Help me out here. I don't know the words for guns."

"Enough firepower to wipe out everybody on LostRoses," Wyss'huk said. "But the ship can't maneuver within the atmosphere. Once it sets down, we're safe, except from hand-held weapons."

God scowled and asked nobody in particular, "How fast can we get Erthumoi backup?"

The nobody-in-particular who answered was Joppich. "The ship that brought me should still be in range. It took us a month's time in real-space to get here from the local hyperpoint."

"Are they armed? Can we get them to turn around?"

"The ship was a Cappio-5D," someone in the crowd---Effie, it was---volunteered. "Two Steinholz guns and an Eye of God, begging your pardon, Harriet. That ought to handle anything Stiss can throw."

"Don't sound so cheerful about it," Harriet said. "I'm not trying to start a shooting war. I'm just trying to keep the hashas'sitta alive."

"Yes, ma'am," came Effie's subdued reply.

"You're frowning, Joppich," Harriet said. "What's the problem?"

"They won't turn around to keep Stiss from removing its own people from LostRoses."

"I know," said Harriet. "But they'll turn around to keep Stiss from removing citizens from LostRoses."

All around her, shock spread across faces. It took a long moment before they understood what she was suggesting, but slowly the shock was pushed aside by broad smiles spreading in its place.

"It might just work," said Sylvaine, his smile the broadest of all.

"Wanwadee," said Harriet. "Call the Erthumoi ship back."

"Yes!" Wanwadee, his own grin distorted by the war paint, headed for the back room, to make his call where he wouldn't disturb God.

"No!" someone shouted, just as forcefully.

Harriet glared and the room went silent. The speaker wasn't a LostRosian but, in the end, that didn't matter. "You're telling God 'no'?" she inquired quietly.

The two LostRosians, Gheorghe and Jebediah, on either side of the negative young man picked him up bodily and carried him forward. They dropped him on the left tine of Harriet's chair none too gently. At her side, Joppich said, "Gomperson."

Harriet remembered---one of the government flacks. "Well, Gomperson?" she said. "What's your problem?"

"You can't make a bunch of Crotonites citizens of LostRoses."

Harriet turned to Sylvaine. "May I have your copy of the constitution, please?" Sylvaine grinned at the "please" and rummaged behind the bar. "Which reminds me---somebody make up a copy of constitution for each of the hashas'sitta."

Majnoun said to Katuk, "How many of you are there?" Still unsure of numbers in Nevelse, Katuk told Wyss'huk, who said, "Fifteen, not counting Katuk."

Harriet nodded to Majnoun. "We'll worry about a translation later. Just make up enough of the Nevelse version to go around."

"This has nothing to do with any constitution," Gomperson shouted.

"It certainly does," said Sylvaine, handing Harriet a scrolled copy of the LostRoses' Constitution. "There's nothing in our constitution that says citizenship is limited to Erthumoi."

"You can't do it!"

From where Harriet sat, Gomperson seemed to be having some sort of fit. "I don't have time for this," she said. "Get him out of here." Gheorghe and Jebediah obligingly picked up Gomperson again and started for the door with him.

"You can't! You can't throw away all my work," Gomperson shouted at Harriet, as he struggled frantically against the two. "Think of the advantage I've given the Erthumoi...!"

"Wait a minute, Gheorghe," she said. "Bring him back."

They brought him back and set him down once more. Smugly, Gomperson dusted himself off, glared once at Gheorghe and Jebediah, and said, "I thought you'd listen to reason."

"Reason with me," said Harriet, in tones so sweet even Sylvaine looked shocked. "Just how did you give Erthumoi this advantage?"

"You don't know much about the Crotonites, do you?" He said.

Gheorghe cocked a fist and aimed, but Harriet held up a restraining hand and Gheorghe's stopped a scant quarter inch short of Gomperson's face. Gomperson hadn't even noticed---nor did he notice that while Gheorghe might have lowered his hand he was keeping the fist clenched and ready at his side.

To Gomperson, Harriet said, "I don't know enough about the Crotonites, true. Tell me."

Gomperson grinned. On him, it was unpleasant. "The Crotonites from Stiss are hashas'sitta. All Crotonites hate them. By embarrassing Stiss in front of Pssstwhit, Erthumoi gains an advantage in its dealings with the Stiss---"

A muttered undercurrent ran through the crowd. Harriet raised her hand slightly higher and silence prevailed. She leaned closer. "You were the one," she said. "You told the Stiss that Katuk and his staff are hashas'sitta."

Gomperson straightened. "I was," he said.

Stunned by the look of pride that accompanied this admission, Harriet put her head in her hands. Without looking up, she said, "Take him out and---" Her fingers brushed the paper halo and she shivered. She'd been about to add and shoot him---and they would have. Very carefully, she finished, "...And lock him up somewhere. I don't want to have to look at him again. Old Hairy, go tell Wanwadee to tell that ship they're to pick up Gomperson while they're here. He's being deported for offending the constitution. Not to mention God. Not to mention the human race. Now get him out before I do something awful to him!"

They got him out---kicking and screaming, but they got him out. Harriet turned wide eyes on Joppich. "You said he was a flack...you didn't say he was a sociopath."

"I didn't think he'd go that far, I swear," Joppich looked as stunned as Harriet felt. Shock still ran in ripples up his forehead.

From the tine of her chair, Bingo made a hacking sound that reminded Harriet of His Highness about to upchuck a hairball. Disgusting as the sound was, it expressed Harriet's feelings better than any words she knew---in Nevelse or Crotonite.

To condemn Fastas and Prist and the rest to death for the sake of political advantage.... What kind of a mind did that take? Harriet shuddered and shook her head. "Joppich? Am I going to have trouble with the other one?"

"I don't know." The sky-colored eyes were wide.

"Round up the 'experts' and put 'em under house arrest," Harriet said. Old Hairy reached obligingly for Joppich and Harriet said, hastily, "No, leave me that one."

Despite "expert" protests, it was quickly done. Still hacking insults at them, Bingo followed them out. Back to business, Harriet thought. "Katuk, what's the verdict on your imports?"

It was Tomas of the Only Birds who answered, "They can keep breathing---that's no problem. We've got everything in the way of natural resources they need to synthesize their atmosphere. But food's another story. It's all imported. I don't see a damn thing here we could grow."

"So we have to figure we keep importing food for them. Katuk's turn now---will Stiss sell us food or do you think they'll be mad enough to embargo?" Harriet turned to Wyss'huk and added, "And, if Stiss institutes an embargo, what are the chances we can buy food from Pssstwhit?"

"We can find sources that will sell the Stiss food, even through an embargo, Ha'reet," said Wyss'huk.

Beside her, Joppich whispered, "There's a thriving black market. If they can't contact it, I can." At full voice, he said, "What's your estimated cost per shipment? Or range of costs---from Stiss, from Pssstwhit, from...other."

Tomas, Katuk and Wyss'huk bent over the computer---Tomas's fingers flew. When he was done, he wrinkled at the brow and read the figures aloud. Wyss'huk said, "It won't work, Ha'reet."

Even the highest of the three numbers was less than the price she'd get for the lostrose gall she'd handed Joppich so little time ago. Harriet growled and said, "God doesn't understand the problem."

Katuk ducked his head. Harriet suddenly recognized the gesture to mean embarrassment. "I apologize for the rude way I put that," she told him, "but I need to know the answer."

"We have no money, and no source of income. We're all diplomats---"

"I think he means," said Tomas with a grin, "they never learned an honest trade."

The door opened and closed behind her, and Bingo flapped back to his perch.

"We'll give you the crash course; you can peddle lostroses like the rest of us," Harriet said.

"And when the fad for them goes bust, they starve to death," Wanwadee Li said. "They're here forever if they do this, Harriet."

Harriet shook her head. "Only until they colonize a world of their own. Look around the system, we've got five perfectly good planets going to waste here---maybe one of them's right for Crotonites. If you don't see one you like, look further. But it'd be nice to have neighbors."

"You're still not thinking money," said Sylvaine. "Gods are always lousy at economics. A ship, even leased, would cost them a massive amount of credits. I doubt we could peddle enough lostroses to cover it without pushing the bottom out of our market."

"Okay," said Harriet. "Shut up a minute. This God's got to think about money." The Erthumoi faces in the crowd were all so expectant---and the Crotonite so disappointed---that Harriet couldn't look at them and think at the same time. She turned her gaze to the sweeping serenity of Fastas's mural and...she had it!

"Fastas," she said, slowly, carefully. "Prist gave me one of her paintings. Now, I understand your painting has something to do with your...worship? with your reverence for your God?"

"The painting is more like...like giving a party for him," Fastas said.

"Celebratory," said Wyss'huk. He spattered a word at Fastas, who spattered back. "Celebratory," Wyss'huk said, again, this time with full assurance.

"Then," said Harriet, "would you mind if others joined the celebration by looking at your work, by displaying your work in their museums or their homes? Wyss'huk, translate for me---make sure he understands."

Wyss'huk did, and then translated Fastas's words back, rapid fire. "He says, of course not. He says they would be delighted and honored to share the celebration of hashas'sit with anyone who wished to do so."

"Here comes the tough one, Wyss'huk. We've got to get this one right. Ask him if he would mind if someone paid him for a painting."

Beside her, Joppich gave a gasp of understanding. He leaned forward, waiting as anxiously as Harriet while the question was officially translated. Fastas turned to Katuk and the two of them held a rapid-fire exchange that sizzled and spat. It was so fast, and the vocabulary was so unfamiliar, that Harriet could only wait---and patience was hard to come by.

A smile started to work its way across Joppich's features. He could follow---Harriet turned her attention to him. Even before Fastas switched back to Nevelse, Harriet knew what the answer would be.

"We would take money for our paintings," Fastas said. "This is a very strange question, Ha'reet. We would sell our paintings---we would give them to people who"---he lapsed into Crotonite but this time Harriet understood---"would use them to rise on."

"Sell," Harriet repeated. "Would you sell them?"

"Of course," Fastas said, and because he couldn't say it in Crotonite, he added in Nevelse, "Why not?"

Harriet let go a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and turned to Joppich. He was grinning so hard the grin had worked all the way up his forehead to vanish only under the thick black hair. His eyes were perfect sky for soaring. "Photos---I need some photos of their paintings," he said.

"I've got a whole collection," Isobel volunteered from a corner table. "Good photos, then," Harriet assured Joppich, who said, eyes bright, "It'll work, Harriet. Where's a comunit? It'll work."

"Dealers," Harriet said. "Not just museum curators."

"I'll call the curator first," Joppich said. "I'll explain that, unless somebody shows up with money---and lots of it---all the artists will be put to death. I know him, Harriet; you can bet he'll pass the word."

"Well?" Harriet did her best to loom at the entire room. "What are you waiting for? Let's start swearing in our newest citizens. The sooner we can let the ship from Stiss land, the safer we'll be."

"Who's first," asked Wanwadee Li. "You, Fast As?"

The Crotonite unfurled and furled his wings; they made a restless sound, like the rustle of taffeta. He ducked his head briefly beneath one wing, then he fixed his eyes on Harriet.

Oh, my sweet wings, thought Harriet. There's still a problem.... "What is it, Fastas?"

"We have no money," Katuk said. "Until we sell some lostroses or some paintings, we have no money. We can't live on your---charity? is that the word? That would be against our principles."

Into the silence that ensued, Bingo again made the disgusted glack-glack-glack sound of a cat with a hairball. His sinuous neck rippled and he disgorged a long string of lumps onto the tabletop. With a croak of pleasure, he picked it up by one end and flew straight to Harriet, to lay his dripping prize in her lap. "Heh-heh-heh," he said.

As disgusting as it was, Harriet recognized it---and it was undamaged by its stay in the bird's craw. Thank you, Quid Nunc, Harriet said silently, breathing a sigh of relief. I'll bring you ribbons every color of the rainbow. Aloud, she said, "And, thank you, Bingo."

To Katuk, she said, "One of our resident spirits wishes to make you a welcoming gift. Would you be able to accept that?"

Again there was much hasty discussion. "Yes, of course," said Katuk, at last. "We acknowledge the existence of other gods and we're pleased to accept."

"Then there's no problem about money. You have it to hand." She held up the string of lostroses, running her hand down it to wipe off the worst of the guck. "The Quid Nunc has sent you this to cover your expenses until your own money starts coming in."

"Will it?" asked Fastas. "Will it, really?"

Old Hairy peered at the string of lostroses and grinned at Harriet. "Oh, yeah. Top quality. Look at those little beauties glow!" Then he turned to Fastas and said, "I been meaning to ask: when you're done with Sylvaine's mural, would you come out and paint my place? I'd like it lots---sky on the inside. Here," he thrust a pouch at the little alien, "I got a down payment...."

From the clink of the pouch, Harriet knew it held credits, not lostroses. Maybe the Crotonites needed actual money, not just the potential a string of unsold lostroses represented. Old Hairy wasn't taking any chances; he genuinely wanted his cabin "sky on the inside."

Five minutes later, there was a heap of credits on the table in front of Fastas and Katuk, and Fastas probably had more commissions than he had wing-span.

"Now?" said Wanwadee Li.

"Now," said Harriet.

"Fast As," he said. "Hold up your right hand and repeat after me: 'I, Fastas...'"

"I, Fastas," the Crotonite repeated after Wanwadee Li, "pledge allegiance to the Constitution of LostRoses, second planet of the Ashmore system. I pledge to help my neighbor at my inconvenience. Other than that, I pledge to let my neighbor sin his own sins and never force him to do something for his own good, 'cause it's none of my damn business how he goes to hell. All this I swear by those things I hold dearest...."

Wanwadee Li stopped there. Fastas waited for the rest but Wanwadee shook his head. "The rest is up to you, Fastas," he said. "I can't tell you what you hold dearest. You tell us."

Taloned claw still raised, Fastas said, "All this I swear all this by Hashas'sit, by Prist, by the sweet winds off Singing Crag...and by the friendship I've found on LostRoses."

"Congratulations, Fast As," said Wanwadee Li. "You're now a citizen of LostRoses." He handed him a scroll.

Whoever had made up the copies of the constitution had done a loving job: each one came wrapped in a red ribbon, tied with a bow. Harriet felt tears burn the corners of her eyes. To Fastas, Wanwadee Li added, "Which means you too have to obey God over there for the next three weeks...." God sniffled happily and grinned at them both.

If he'd been physically capable of it, Fastas would have grinned back. "Yes," he said, with a sweep of his wings for emphasis. "What shall I do to help, God Ha'reet?"

"Go round up the rest of the Stiss hashas'sitta," Harriet said. "Let's get them sworn in as fast as we can."

"I fly to obey!" he shouted---and ran for the door. From his perch on Harriet's leg, Bingo croaked encouragement.

Wyss'huk considered Harriet, his orange eyes very bright. "I think," he said at last, "that the Quid Nunc is a very useful spirit to know."

"Want to know what I think, Wyss'huk?" Harriet leaned over the arm of her chair and said quietly, "I think Joppich visited the Pssstwhitian Embassy today."

"Yes, he did," said Wyss'huk, clearly not understanding the implication.

"And I think Bingo got bored and went exploring...and found the Quid Nunc's tribute. He ate the fricket and tried the string of lostroses---when it didn't agree with him, he returned it to the person it smelled most like."

"Heh-heh-heh," said the bird.

Wyss'huk looked so disappointed, Harriet added, "How seriously do you expect God to take a simple spirit?"

"But---"

She grinned. "But the Quid Nunc will get her ribbons. I promised and I plan to deliver."

"I'll come too," he said, and his fur settled in relief.

"Good," said Harriet. "Now, shut up, will you? I want to hear what the rest of the Stiss hold dearest."

Half an hour later, as the last two Stiss were being sworn in, Joppich returned. He waited and watched until Prist had finished her oath of citizenship---she swore by Fastas, Harriet noted with delight---then he said, "In two weeks, you'll have more art dealers here than you know what to do with. I see you've won him over."

He meant Bingo, but Harriet couldn't help grinning. In quick, quiet words, she caught him up on what he'd missed. When she got to the part about Bingo's gift, Joppich eyed the bird. "Part magpie, too, then," he said. "Thieving bird. Good for you, Bingo."

He reached out to caress the bird's feathers. "Oh!" he said, suddenly. From his pocket, he took the leaf gall she'd given him. "Prist," he called, "may I commission a painting too?"

He could and he did. "Sorry, Harriet," he added. "I didn't know what to do with it. It was burning a hole in my pocket but I couldn't just throw it away."

"You did the right thing, then. I hate to see a good fricket wasted," Harriet said, and was all the more pleased to see that he got the joke.

Katuk said, "We're done; they're safe. We can let the ship from Stiss land now."

Frowning, Harriet said, "You haven't been sworn in yet, Katuk."

"I'm going back to Stiss."

"No," said half-a-dozen people and Crotonites in chorus. Harriet shook her head violently.

"I must. I have enough political influence still that they can't kill me. The worst they could do is cut off my wings, and...." His stumps twitched.

"And they've already done that."

"Yes," he said. "I want to go back, Ha'reet. I want to tell some people I know what's been done here. Perhaps they too might find their way to this world---"

"We'd be happy to have 'em," Wanwadee Li said, catching on immediately.

"Ha'reet," said Wyss'huk, his fur ruffled in warning. "Stiss will want a scapegoat...."

There was a word for that in Crotonite, all right. Harriet said to Katuk, "Is Wyss'huk right? What happens to your influence when the high muckamucks find out you've 'embarrassed' them in front of a bunch of Pssstwhitians and Erthumoi?" Harriet wasn't sure which the muckamucks would consider worse.

Katuk wasn't sure what a 'high muckamuck' was, but once Wyss'huk had explained the expression, Katuk said only, "I want to take the chance."

Well, Harriet had sworn herself to let people go to hell in their own way...but she didn't have to like it.

"Wait," said Wyss'huk. "Give me a moment, Ha'reet. I may have a solution."

Harriet nodded, hoping against hope, even though she couldn't see a damn thing Wyss'huk could do. Wyss'huk motioned one of his aides---Chellet, Harriet recognized belatedly---into Sylvaine's back room. After a moment, the two returned. Chellet rustled her wings and said to Wanwadee Li, "Would you accept a Pssstwhitian as a citizen of LostRoses, too?"

"Of course," he said.

"Then I wish to take the oath of citizenship. I, too, am hashas'sit."

Harriet crowed her delight---and Bingo added his own croak. "Thank you, Wyss'huk."

"Harriet, pippest, I was afraid for her. Someone would have found her out sooner or later."

As Chellet took the oath, Harriet kept grinning at Wyss'huk. With Pssstwhit as officially embarrassed by scandal as Stiss, they'd both have a good reason to hush the incident up---and high muckamucks of Stiss would have no reason to punish Katuk.

Chellet had finished. The Stiss Crotonites welcomed her with open wings, and Harriet narrowly missed getting an eye put out by one of those fluttering wing-tips in all the excitement.

"Now I know how you recognized the characteristic style of art," she said to Wyss'huk. "How good is she?"

"You'll want one of her sculptures for your collection, too," he said. "I have several."

"Wyss'huk, pippest," Harriet whispered. "You are one brilliant little bat-out-of-hell."

He shrugged. "A mere matter of diplomacy, Ha'reet," he whispered back. "Some of us have 'learned a trade.'"

Harriet laughed. Then, raising her voice, she said to Sylvaine, "You won't have to overdo the customs' search after all. Unless, of course, you're feeling vindictive...."

He shook his head. "I'll be too busy to be vindictive, Harriet. I've got to extrude an addition to this place---a much bigger one. There's not enough room in here to spread a Crotonite."

#

All over but the shouting, Harriet thought, as she heard the roar of the Stiss ship landing. She needed some shouting to put the finishing touch to her arrangements, but she hoped to limit it to that. "Wyss'huk---who's better at cursing, you or Katuk? I think I'll need a translator on this."

"Katuk is," said Wyss'huk, much to Harriet's surprise. With a tick or two, he added, "By a slim margin."

"I'd have said different," said Katuk. "And it's just as well, because Wyss'huk will have to do the job. They won't believe me anymore. Don't worry, Ha'reet. I know the mukamuk they've sent: Wyss'huk can out-curse and out-fly him."

"Stiss's answer to Gomperson, huh? Good."

The Crotonite gomperson flung open the door to Sylvaine's Custom House with all the arrogance of a...well, of a winged Crotonite. There on the threshold he poised to make his grand entrance.

But before the Crotonite could step into the Custom House, His Highness shot through the open door and whipped around to face the Stiss and inform him he had the manners of a pig, the face of dog, and the breath of three-day-old dahalf...and that, in all probability, no one would ever take him for a meal, much less for a mate.

Having settled that to his satisfaction, His Highness swaggered across the room to leap to the armrest of Harriet's chair. From there, he whapped Bingo once on the beak for the hell of it---and to shove him over to make room---and tucked himself up on Harriet's knee.

He was wet, he was muddy, he was inordinately pleased with himself. With all the superciliousness of a few thousand years of Siamese cat ancestry, he sneered down at the gomperson.

His grand entrance spoiled beyond recognition, the gomperson burst into sputtering vituperatives---all of them aimed at Katuk. Katuk had been right: this one wasn't in the same class as any of the Crotonites she'd matched curses with. Harriet let him ramble on long enough to gauge his lack of talent, then she nodded at Wanwadee Li, who obligingly bellowed, "Shut up!"

In the stunned silence that followed, Harriet---bird and cat rampant on either knee---fixed her eyes on the gomperson and said, as ominously as she could, "Who dares to speak without my permission?" She jerked her head at Katuk and said, "Well? What does this call itself?"

A tick almost escaped Katuk. "It calls itself Pitset, Great Ha'reet."

"'Pitset.'" Harriet made an extra effort and got it out in perfect Crotonite. "Appropriate to its status." When Katuk obliged her with an enquiring look, she explained graciously, "'Pitset' is the Eften word for pond scum."

That was good enough to bring her to Pitset's enraged attention, and Harriet said, "Tell the Pond Scum to state its business quickly and briefly, without flourish. Its voice offends me."

"And just who and what does this slug think it is?" the gomperson asked Katuk in Crotonite.

"Ha'reet is God of LostRoses," said Katuk. "I suggest you be respectful and do as She commands."

They'd done the exchange with flourishes, but Katuk had easily outflourished Pitset. Pitset swirled his wings angrily about body and said, "I've brought LostRoses a new ambassador and staff. I am here to remove the previous ambassador and staff."

Harriet gave a nonchalant wave of her hand. "You may take Katuk with you. As for staff, he has none. Now go away. You're not worth insulting." She said it in Crotonite.

Pitset exploded in rage, spreading his wings to their fullest reach. On Harriet's knee, Bingo spread his wings in mocking imitation. Wyss'huk ticked delightedly. So did several of the other Crotonites. None of which did Pitset's temper any good.

"I've come to take the other Stiss slugs away!" He flapped his wings as he sputtered.

Harriet made a show of scanning the room. When she had completed her inspection, she said, "Aside from Katuk, there are no Stiss here."

Pitset drew a weapon---from where, Harriet never knew, but she knew she'd overplayed her hand. He trained the weapon on her. To Katuk, he said, "This god is like yours: easily disposed of."

Without looking down, Harriet felt the keyboard. Her finger found the 'n' for nosy and touched it in.

Katuk said, "Pitset, ask your new ambassador's advice before you do such a rash thing."

Behind her, Sylvaine must have gone for his shotgun, because Pitset said, "Don't move. Any of you. I am taking the former Stiss staff with me, where they will be made as truly former as such slime deserves." He'd said it all in Crotonite, but the gesture he made with his weapon was unmistakable in any language. He switched to broken Nevelse and said, "Lift your hands."

Harriet raised her hands...and whistled. The chair's heavy pinchers flicked out to snap closed on Pitset's hand. Harriet heard the sound of bones breaking and winced---but she kept whistling, and the pinchers wrenched the weapon from Pitset's two-fingered grasp to lay it obligingly in her outstretched palm.

A collective sigh of relief went up from behind her. "Disintegrator," said Wyss'huk. "That was risky, Ha'reet---the kind of risky Majnoun would yell at you for."

"Good thing I didn't know it at the time," she told him. She looked the little weapon over, very carefully. Made for the Crotonite grip. Her hand could not hold it comfortably; what was more, she couldn't fit her fingers correctly to pull what was so obviously the trigger.

Pitset screamed and---in a flutter of wings---leapt at Harriet, unbroken talons first. Bingo shrieked defiance, His Highness spat and bristled, but before Harriet had the chance to think of shredded lunch meat, the chair's pinchers had caught the Crotonite in mid-leap.

There they held him, flapping and cursing. Unlike Wyss'huk or even Bingo, Pitset hadn't enough sense to settle down. "Hold still," she told him, irritably. "Hold still or you'll damage your wings."

He wouldn't. Harriet thought a minute, then slipped her hand into the waldo glove for the fine-work pinchers. She picked up the Crotonite's weapon in her "fingers"---yes, the two pinchers were an adequate substitute for the two Crotonite fingers. She could fire the gun if need be.

She pointed it at him, then she whistled for the heavy-duty pinchers to set him down. "Now," she said, "are you ready to behave yourself like a civilized Stiss?" She aimed his gun suggestively between his eyes.

He stopped flapping and screeching and held very still.

"Good," said Harriet. She whistled for the pinchers to release him. The gun remained aimed at his head. "Now, why don't you call in the new ambassador to LostRoses---and we'll see if we can't work something out diplomatically."

He did as God asked. Nothing like a disintegrator to back up a commandment, thought Harriet.... His Highness told Harriet she was getting too big for her britches which had never fit right anyway as she hadn't the sense of style of a slime-mold. "All right, all right," Harriet told him. "You've put me in my place. Consider God properly deflated."

With His Highness around, Harriet thought, she might just make it safely through the rest of her term as God....

As it turned out, though, her first sight of Ambassador Terchep deflated her with a vengeance: the Stiss had clipped the wings of yet another of their own people.

Unsure whether to weep or rage her frustration, Harriet could scarcely trust herself to speak. She took a few deep breaths and, at last, she said, "Wyss'huk, would you be vile enough to explain to the new ambassador from Stiss that a member of his party has just attempted to kidnap a number of citizens from LostRoses?"

Wyss'huk was vile enough, all right. By the time he was done explaining, the hashas'sitta (and Harriet) knew that all the citizens of LostRoses would be left in peace by both sets of Crotonites, that Katuk was in the clear (as much as possible), and that Pitset was in deep shit.

Ambassadors Terchep and Wyss'huk had come to the happy sputtering conclusion that the less said about hashas'sitta among the Stiss or the Pssstwhitians, the better.

All over but for one last detail. "Ambassador Terchep," Harriet said. "Stiss owes LostRoses major compensation for what the Pond Scum over there tried to do to us." And let's see just how much we can get away with, she added silently.

"Yes," said Terchep, and he ducked his head beneath his wing. "I'm sure we can agree on a fitting punishment for the Pond Scum."

"The Pond Scum's punishment is up to you. I'm talking about what Stiss owes LostRoses.... I am confiscating the current Stiss Embassy and all its contents." There, that would save the murals in the embassy. "You, Ambassador Terchep, may use the abandoned Pssstwhitian Embassy until you can extrude a new one more to your liking."

Just to make it official, she asked Wyss'huk to translate it all. When he'd finished, he turned to her and made a slight motion with his taloned hands. Rise! the motion said.

Harriet grinned---and asked for more. "Also in compensation, we want three year's worth of supplies for the LostRosian Crotonites." And Wyss'huk translated that as well...though somehow the amount of supplies asked for went up in translation.

"Heh-heh-heh," said Bingo, appreciatively.

"Yes," said Terchep. "Given the extent of your grievance, my government will agree to that." He added a few choice words in Pitset's direction, then he said, "If the abandoned embassy is air-tight, I shall move my people in and then your eye will no longer be offended by the sight of such pond scum."

"Thank you," said Harriet. To Wanwadee Li, she added sotto voce, "I wonder what we can get for Gomperson?"

"Worth giving it some thought," he said, and from his expression she knew he'd do just that.

A few hours later, they all went down to the ship to see Katuk and Pitset off. Harriet kept the gun she'd confiscated trained on Pitset until he vanished into the ship---taken away by two of his own crew. To be put in irons, she hoped. What little of Ambassador Terchep's description of his fate she'd been able to follow had been undeniably unpleasant, though not nearly as unpleasant as the fate they'd planned for the hashas'sitta.

Good-byes were harder than Harriet had expected. "We'll miss you, Katuk," she said, at last. "You leave a hole in our sky."

The little Crotonite looked up and read the skies over LostRoses for her one last time. It was beautiful flying weather for hang-glider or winged creature. He mapped perfect flights from Fallaway Point...and then he gave her a glimpse of the winds along the gentle slope Majnoun favored for ground school. They too were perfect today. "Fill the hole with Ambassador Terchep," he said. "Give him my wings and teach him to fly."

"We'll do our best to get him back in the air," said Harriet. "Even as God, that's the best I can promise. You never know how stubborn a Crotonite can be until you try to teach one to fly."

Katuk ticked quietly all the way to the ship, and Harriet listened to the gentle sound until the hatch closed on it. "Good luck, Katuk," she said softly.

When the ship had lifted off, Harriet gazed down from her chair at the crowd around her. Her shoulders felt like she'd been carrying her chair instead of vice-versa. Her head felt leaden---she reached up and her fingers touched the rim of the halo.

"Majnoun," she said, and waited until he'd made his way to the forefront of the crowd. "Katuk says it's a great day for ground school...are you in the mood to give lessons?"

"Always," said Majnoun. "Who's the student, as if I didn't know." He grinned at the new ambassador from Stiss.

"Two of them this time." Harriet pointed out Joppich, then she grinned down at Wyss'huk and added, "Let's see who's quicker to learn to fly, Erthuma or Crotonite, shall we?"

"My money's on Joppich," Wyss'huk said. "He has a head full of sky already."

Harriet shook her head. "Mine's on Terchep---nobody flies like a Crotonite, once he gets the hang of it."

From her knee, Bingo gave raucous voice. With a flap and a flutter, he launched into the sky to execute a series of aerobatics that would have turned even a Crotonite slime-mold green with envy. "Heh-heh-heh!"

Wyss'huk ticked...a slow and reassuring sound like the purr of His Highness.

"All right," she grumbled at the bird. "Call God a liar...." She shouted suddenly after Bingo, "I was talking about Erthumoi and Crotonites, dammit! I wasn't talking about you!"

Raising a hand to shade her eyes as she watched Bingo swoop, Harriet once again touched the halo. "The hell with it," she said. She swept the halo from her head and sent it sailing back to Sylvaine.

"Hold that for me, will you?" she said. "God's going flying. That's the best way I know to keep Her out of trouble."

Sylvaine grinned and looped the halo over his forearm, and God rolled off to go flying with a dozen Erthumoi, as many Crotonites, winged and wingless alike, and one mutt of a cormorant who could outfly them all.

His Highness watched them go in silence. He had more important things to see to...and all the words he had on the subject he was saving for a certain low-life un-Siamese tom that lived on the far side of St. Elsie's Field.

SHE WAS BLONDE, SHE WAS DEAD---
AND ONLY JIMMILICH OPSTROMOMMO COULD FIND OUT WHY!!!

Jimmilich Opstromommo's first thought at the sight was that he had inadvertently stepped into one of Madame Fauna's fantasy scenarios. The room was holographed twenties-showgirl, rich in satins and velvets, gaudy in primary colors. Anna Lila lay sprawled across the lounge, face up. Her blood-red fingernails and mouth shocking against the pallor of her skin. Her eyes were wide and blue and staring up at him vacantly. A long red scarf, exactly matching the color of her strapless satin gown and her silent mouth, was drawn tightly about her neck as if she had been strangled.

All in all, the scene was of the same period as the Yarthian murder mysteries he'd grown so peculiarly fond of, having come across the first very early in his cross-cultural studies.

As he had progressed considerably in his studies since that time, he knew to a nicety that the strapless evening gown should have been "provocative." As the human john beside him had turned a rather sallow shade of green, Jimmilich thought that, for once, Madame Fauna had mislaid her scenario. Perhaps the open wardrobe on the wall beyond Anna Lila was a bit overdone. It looked as if it had been ransacked---gaudy feather boas in every color of the rainbow had been tossed about, drawers emptied, even a deck of playing cards had been strewn around.

Beside him, the john made a peculiar ulping sound. Recognizing it, Jimmilich felt around the room until he found a real container and handed it to the man, who promptly threw up in it. Definitely not his scenario, Jimmilich noted.

Fauna's reaction was even stranger. Ever so slowly, she knelt beside the lounge and lifted Anna Lila's hand to press it to her cheek. A tear formed at the corner of her eye.

The disarray of Fauna's clothing had also fallen well within the "provocative" range, but the john only continued to retch.

Fauna made a soft, sobbing noise in the back of her throat, then she stiffened and gulped. Jimmilich knew those for a human "gathering of courage" and waited. Still cradling Anna Lila's hand in her own, Fauna raised her head to look Jimmilich straight in the eye. With effort, she said, "She's dead, Jim."

A most confusing situation, Jimmilich decided. He cleared his throat. He knew humans made that sound when they were hesitant and unsure of what to do or say. "Uh, Fauna," he said, "Anna Lila was never alive. Try the re-set and, if that doesn't work, I'll be glad to check her programming cd for you."

Tears formed and fell, drawing colorless lines down Fauna's cheeks. Wordlessly, she held out her hand to show him: the programming disc was distorted, discolored. "She's dead," Fauna said again. Her face turned grim. "Murdered."

Jimmilich sighed and recognized the sigh as an almost human reaction. Fauna was apt to anthropomorphize---she did it with the whorehouse cat, she did it with the dog. For Fauna to ascribe human characteristics to a WHOR-F seemed somewhat less understandable to him than the cat and the dog. Jimmilich had dealt with AIs and knew the difference between intelligence and a program. The cat had a wonderful sense of humor, something that couldn't be said for Anna Lila, "dead" or "alive."

Still, the johns and janes anthropomorphized just as much---even to the point of bringing exotic presents to their favorite WHORs. Fauna'd been cognizant enough of the tendency in others to program the WHORs to display and coo and brag over gifts they'd been given. Probably Anna Lila was just as "dead" in some sense to the john beside him as she was to Fauna. That would account for his reaction.

Given a new program cd, he could resurrect Anna Lila for Fauna. In fact, he could could hand a cd to any of the other WHOR-Fs or WHOR-M in the place and it could resurrect Anna Lila...so he was at a complete loss to understand what reaction Fauna wanted of him.

She rose, straightened, pulled her lace kimikimi "decent." All the time, her eyes held his. She took a step toward him, tossed her head as if to toss back the tears, and said, "Find out who did it, Jim. I want to know."

Belatedly, he wondered if the local laws were such that one could call a cop for a computer crash. Perhaps this fell under the heading of industrial sabotage? "I'll call Officer Krupke," he said. Krupke was a regular at the Pink Pillowslip; familiarity with the hardware might help.

Fauna shook her head. "You're the one asking all the questions, Jim. You're the closest thing we've got in the place to a detective---you find out who did it." She tossed the end of her boa over her shoulder.

The gesture was definitive, and he did not miss the implied threat. Either he found out whodunnit---his outside reading supplied the proper term---or she'd bar him from the Pink Pillowslip for good. And if she did that he'd never finish his thesis on human behavior.

With difficulty---because his neck did not work quite like a human's---he nodded. At least he now had some idea of how to proceed. "I'll need a listener," he said. "For a watson."

"On the house---any or all of them."

"Hargon, if he's free."

"I'll send him right up."

Fauna took the john by the arm and gently brushed her hand across his cheek. Her voice changed to its professional coo. "Poor Mr. Smith...." Her use of his ritual name seemed to draw a little of the color back into the john's cheeks as she led him to the door. "What you need is a cool hand to soothe your fevered brow...and I know just the hand for you."

Jimmilich was not deceived by the professional voice. The look she shot over her shoulder at him would probably have been understandable on any world, in any culture. "Do it, or else!" was the translation that leapt to mind.

But how was he to do it? There was so much about the human culture that he didn't yet---might never---understand. He wasn't sure he even understood why the Pink Pillowslip existed. He realized he was only dealing with a small sub-set of a particular human culture, but that had made the research problem no less intriguing. The analogy to a restaurant was quite clear: the Pink Pillowslip provided a meal that its customers could not or would not trouble to make for themselves. To satisfy a purely physical need, a WHOR-F or WHOR-M would do fine; those ministrations were inexpensive....

A listener, though---a listener had to be human and the price was high. That was the service he did not understand. The name didn't even suit the job description. A listener just as often talked as listened...or gave advice or even, on rare occasions, cursed the john in scathing terms. And still the john paid through the nose.

The door opened and closed softly behind him. Hargon, of course. He was a tall, heavily built man with curling hair and a quick smile. He smiled now and made a slight bow. "On the house," he said. "Tell me about it...."

Jimmilich spread his hand to indicate the scene. "Fauna wants me to find out who 'murdered' Anna Lila, even though she wasn't alive to begin with."

As if he understood completely, Hargon nodded. "Fauna would; it's just like her." He waited a moment, as if he expected Jimmilich to say something, but Jimmilich could think of no proper response. Hargon said, "I don't know a great deal about your culture, Jim, but I'd like to learn. Would you do it to out of kindness to Fauna?"

"'Humor her,' you mean?"

"Exactly."

"I guess so."

"Good. Then---as Fauna expects you to take charge of this investigation---where do you suggest we begin?"

Jimmilich thought of all those murder mysteries he'd read. "Start with the scene of the crime, I suppose. I don't even know how much of this"---he spread his hand again---"is real."

"That one's easy." Hargon turned to the wall beside the door and drew his hand through the peeling paper until he reached the edge of a framed poster advertising "70 GIRLS 70!!!" "Ah," he said, and the room was instantly stripped of its holographic overlay.

Anna Lila still lay staring up at them. The posters were gone from the walls, the chairs had turned a neutral beige, but the profusion of clutter behind her remained. "Looks like an explosion in a feather factory," said Hargon. "I didn't think that sort of mess was part of the scenario."

"Then someone really did ransack her belongings."

"'Her belongings'? Now who's anthropomorphizing," Hargon said with a smile.

Jimmilich tilted one brow. His features didn't so easily form a smile, but he knew Hargon would recognize his own culture's equivalent. "I'm humoring Fauna," he said.

"Of course," said Hargon.

Jimmilich crossed the room and knelt to examine the clutter. "I didn't think the feather boas were real at all," he said.

"Most of the clothing is---it's a matter of texture. You can't tickle somebody's cheek with a feather holograph."

"And the deck of cards?" Jimmilich, having noted the position of each, began to pick them up.

"A special case," said Hargon. "I'd have to ask Fauna before I could tell you more about that deck of cards."

"Can you tell me if the King and Queen of Hearts are normally missing from this deck of cards?" Jimmilich fanned the deck to display its incompleteness.

Hargon thought for a long moment, then said carefully, "This afternoon, given this clientele, those two cards are normally missing from that deck."

"Thank you." Jimmilich pocketed the deck, then turned his attention back to the profusion of feathers. Several of them had shed feathers. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Fauna's boa shed. Reaching into the tangle, he pulled out a particularly ratty specimen and held it up. A few feathers drifted away. He frowned.

"For souvenirs," said Hargon. "Some of the johns like to take a memento. Fauna knows which ones and programs Anna Lila to wear something...expendable."

"Some of the others look as if they might have been expended as well."

"Fauna can't always be right, as much as she tries."

"I don't know, Hargon. Whoever killed Anna Lila was looking for something---and he got mad when he didn't find it. Or he got mad at the boas. Just look: this stuff has been thrown around." Jimmilich stopped. "Maybe this is a cultural difference? If I were searching for something, I'd do it very carefully, with as little disturbance as possible. This looks like the result of a fit of frustration at not finding it."

Hargon turned slowly to take in the entire room. Then he crossed to the windowsill. "Yes. I think I agree with you. A human could have had a fit of anger at not finding what he was looking for." He made an odd sound of disgust. "Yes, it fits. Look at this---there's even a feather over here on the windowsill. That argues for a fit of pique, all right."

Jimmilich looked and saw what Hargon hadn't. He moved to join the listener at the window. Tilting an eyebrow, he said, "You're not much of a watson, Hargon." He picked up the feather.

"Sorry," said Hargon, though he didn't look the least bit sorry. "What have I missed?"

Jimmilich held out the feather. "This didn't come from any of those boas."

Hargon took in the feather, then turned to look at the boas again. He shrugged. "Hey, you're the detective! Is that a clue?"

"It is if we can find the boa it did come from."

"Good work, Jim! What do we do next?"

Once again, Jimmilich fell back on his historical precedents. "Next, we interrogate the suspects."

"Lead on," said Hargon, cheerfully.

Jimmilich paused only to retrieve Anna Lila's programming cd from the lounge. If all else failed, he might be able to restore enough data from the disk to find out who was the last person she'd seen. It was a long shot, but he didn't want to fail Fauna---or the bright-faced Hargon, who seemed to be enjoying this all.

Or himself, he admitted grudgingly. After all those murder mysteries and all those detectives, he wanted to know how he would fare in their circumstances...and this might be his only chance to find out if their methods actually worked.

#

So everybody had an alibi. Jimmilich sat at a table in the listeners' lounge and stared gloomily into his drink. It was nice that Fauna kept a bottle of something that would intoxicate him for emergencies. It seemed so appropriate---hard-bitten detective drowns his doubts.... It went with the territory. Jimmilich downed the drink and called for another.

Six johns and a jane, and each with a alibi. Well, he thought to himself as he took a sip of the freshened drink, At least it's not a locked door mystery.

Though Fauna had already locked a door on him. She'd forbidden him from looking at the program cds of any of the current clients' WHORs, except for Anna Lila's, of course. That seemed like cheating somehow. He still hadn't taken it out of his pocket. If there was any information to be retrieved from it, it was still a last resort.

He leaned forward and tried to make his voice "tough" by human standards. "Okay, Hargon. We play by Fauna's rules."

Hargon nodded. "The good news is Fauna says I can tell you anything you want to know about these clients."

"I thought you listeners had a very strict client/listener privilege. I thought you never told what you'd listened to."

Hargon shrugged. "I don't much like it, but Fauna declared an emergency."

Still startled, Jimmilich looked around the lounge. They were alone. Seeing the look, Hargon added, "Furthermore, Fauna gave all six a freebie...to keep them here until you decide which of them did it, I think. We won't be interrupted."

"Can you tell me about the missing King and Queen?"

Hargon settled back in his chair and raised his own drink to take a sip, then he said, "First, I should explain why Fauna wouldn't let you read the programming cds. You see, for some clients, they lie. Take Ella Smith, for example. She comes in to see a WHOR-M, and that's what the WHOR-M's cd will say, but that's not what she actually does here."

"No?"

"Uh-uh. She takes the Queen from the deck and the WHOR-M opens a door to a very private room...." Hargon took another sip of his drink and went on, "Then along comes Topo Smith, who takes the King and is likewise shown into that private room...."

"So Topo and Ella are actually having an affair with each other?" He stared at his drink but didn't pick it up. "Oh! Topo is low-caste. It's okay for either to be serviced by a WHOR, but it's not okay for them to sex each other."

"'Love' is the operative word in this case, but that's essentially it."

"And the programming cds---"

"Say each has been having it off with a WHOR," Hargon finished for him.

"So not one of the clients has an alibi, not really. I guess that makes it easier. Tell me about them, Hargon. Tell me whatever you know."

"It'll take a while...."

Jimmilich knew the proper response to that. "I'm not going anywhere," he said.

#

By the time they'd passed a leisurely two hours, Jimmilich had learned that the current clients were a rather eccentric crew, even by the Pink Pillowslip's standards.

One came by simply to have two hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet in a bath; his WHOR-F scrubbed his back and brought him a drink but that was all.

Another was a collector of exotic birds---he had examples from all over the known universe, some reputedly illegal; he was fond of WHOR-Fs in feathers. Hargon didn't know if he was the same client who raided boas for souvenirs or not.

Yet another Mr. Smith was a computer programmer. That was not eccentric, at first glance, but Hargon---smiling---had explained that this one's programming specialty was WHORs. "Every now and then, he likes to write his own," Hargon explained. "Fauna indulges him. Whatever you found on that cd would most certainly not be true. That man teaches computers to lie."

And there was a symptomatic. Hargon had explained that at some length, as Jimmilich's culture didn't have an analogous profession. "He helps train medical students.... He's a consummate actor---so good he can produce disease symptoms at will. Not all of them, of course, but enough to be convincing. From his 'medical history' and his 'symptoms,' the medical student has to figure out what he's 'got.'"

Tilting an eyebrow, Jimmilich said, "Much the same game Fauna plays with her clients."

Hargon grinned. "I never thought about it that way. Of course, you're right. Only his fantasies are for teaching purposes, instead of recreational." He leaned back in his chair. "I must tell Fauna that: she'll be delighted."

It all came down to humoring Fauna. And Jimmilich knew exactly what to do. "While you're at it, Hargon, tell Fauna I'd like to assemble all the suspects at the scene of the crime."

"You know who did it?"

"I do." When Hargon leaned forward excitedly, Jimmilich said, "And I'm not going to tell you. We've got to do this properly, or we'll disappoint Fauna."

"Right," said Hargon. "Half an hour? In Anna Lila's room?"

"Yes. Two more things: restore the holograph before anyone shows up, and spill a little perfume about the room, would you, please? Something not too strong but noticeable to most humans."

Hargon gave him a puzzled look but said, "Gotcha," and left the room bellowing Fauna's name.

The excitement was contagious. How about that? Jimmilich thought to himself. That stuff in the books works, it actually works! Motive, method, opportunity...that's what you need to know. And Hargon had told him all of that.

Half an hour would give Jimmilich just enough time to double-check his suspicions with the programming cd he'd taken from Anna Lila's room. He took it from his pocket. This time, he looked at it carefully. If he had been human, he would have laughed.

It was exactly the size and weight of a cd...but it wasn't a cd. It was a small denomination copper coin from Wencelaus. Put that in a WHOR's disc drive and you'd have a melt-down of major proportions....

He'd figured it out all right. Belatedly, but he'd figured it out. Now, he only hoped he could play this next scene correctly.

#

Once again, Jimmilich stood in the stare of Anna Lila's unseeing eyes. Around him, Fauna had assembled the suspects: some looked guiltily at each other, some guiltily at Anna Lila's sprawled figure. Fauna bore a grim expression on her normally smiling face. The john she'd led away and now led back still looked green around the gills....

Ella Smith was the first to open her mouth. "I don't know why we've been brought here," she began. "It's not as if we'd have any reason to damage that...that WHOR-F." She managed to make it sound ugly.

"One of you had very good reason to...do away with Anna Lila," Jimmilich said. "Sit down, Ms. Smith. This won't take but a moment of your extremely precious time."

"But---I couldn't have done it," said Topo Smith. His voice was a whine. "I was occupied at the time. Ask my WHOR-F if you don't believe me...."

Jimmilich sighed and looked at Hargon. The listener nodded and bellowed, "Quiet!" Quiet ensued---it was a sullen quiet but Jimmilich welcomed it.

"Thank you," he said. Politeness was not normally a detective's trait, but Jimmilich felt he was entitled to make some accommodation to his own personality. "I'll make this as brief as possible.... Each of you has an alibi for the time of the murder---"

There was a mutter of agreement at that, but Jimmilich overrode it---as he knew any of his models would---to continue, "But each of those alibis is a fraud. So we've seven suspects. Fortunately, we have only one murderer."

More grumbling and a "Get on with it, dammit!" from the one Smythe in the room.

"Let's begin with the motive. Humans have a strong tendency to anthropomorphize...to such an the extent that they even bring their WHORs presents. And one of Anna Lila's clients had given her just such a present. It was of no value to poor Anna Lila, but it was of immense value to one of you in this room."

"What was it?"

"I don't know. But Anna Lila was programmed to brag about her gifts---so any one of you might have known she had it. And the killer wanted it. So between johns, he waited and brooded. He knew she wouldn't give it to him; she wasn't"---he was about to say "programmed to give her gifts away," but one look at Fauna's face and he swapped wording---"She wasn't the kind of girl who'd give anything away."

He'd gotten it right. Fauna nodded approvingly.

"So while she was waiting for her next client, he sent her poison." From his pocket, he drew the copper coin. "This is the same size and weight as a program cd. He handed it to an innocent WHOR and said, 'Oh, here's the program disc for Anna Lila.' And the poor WHOR obligingly took it up to her. Of course, when the WHOR gave it to Anna Lila, it killed her, but the WHOR was too naive to know the difference between reality and a scenario."

"They often are," Hargon agreed. He patted Fauna's hand sympathetically, and she nodded.

"Then our murderer came up here to search for the McGuffin...."

"I thought you said you didn't know what he was looking for," said one of the Smiths, accusingly.

"I don't," said Jimmilich. "That's what the old detective stories call the object of the search, when they don't know what it is."

The john made a disgusted face, but Jimmilich, feeling pleased with himself for the way he'd handled that, went on, "So the murderer came up here to search for the McGuffin.... He thought it would be easy: just turn off the holograph and whatever was left would be the object of his desire."

He gestured to Hargon, who turned off the holograph. Anna Lila still stared, the boas still tangled on the floor.

"Unfortunately, it wasn't easy, as you can see. The murderer searched but couldn't find what he was looking for. In a fit of human pique, he tore the place apart, scattering the feathers everywhere...."

If he'd had a cigarette, Jimmilich would have lit it and taken a drag. This was the right place. Instead, he had to settle for a growl.... "Hell," he said, "I even found a feather down Anna Lila's cleavage---that's how far the feathers flew." He took a feather from his pocket and held it out as evidence, then dropped it on the top of the only real table in the room.

"One of you had that fit of rage, one of you knows what the McGuffin actually is, and that one of you is the one who killed Anna Lila."

Fauna glared at johns and jane. "Who was it, Jim? Tell me who!"

"You mean you can't smell him, Fauna?" Jimmilich knew his face looked grim to humans, Hargon had told him as much, so he left his face looking "grim" and went on, "Something stinks in here...."

He lit a match. "And if you don't mind, I'll do something about that stench right now---" So saying, he leaned over to put the match to the feather in the center of the table.

"No!" One of the Smiths leapt at him and slapped the match from his hand.

Hargon stamped it out almost before it hit the floor.

And this Smith held the feather, cradling it in his hand as if it were the most precious thing in the universe. Despite all the retching he'd done earlier, he looked fit now. Fit and angry. "You don't know what this is!"

"Yes, I do," said Jimmilich. "It's the McGuffin."

"A feather?" said Fauna. "A feather was worth Anna Lila's life?"

"Yes!" said Smith. "It was worth a dozen of her sort! It's a feather from a Herschel's sweet-charity from Mira 2---they're extinct. They've been extinct for a hundred years...and some blithering idiot gave it to a WHOR as a gift!" He subsided, sputtering.

Fauna shook her head, bewildered. "Jim? I don't get it."

"He collects rare birds, Fauna. He could have cloned a whatever-that-was from the feather. We'll have to see that the feather gets to someone who can handle it properly. If you don't know someone, I can ask around the university---"

The Smith clutched the feather. "No," he said. "It's mine. You can't have it. It's MINE, I tell you!"

And with the shriek of anger, he shoved Jimmilich aside and dashed to the door. Before anyone could set off in pursuit, Jimmilich said, "Let him go, Fauna. I don't think there's anything you can do to him legally."

"But," said Ella Smith, "there must be some punishment for him!"

"There will be," said Jimmilich. "A perfectly proper sort of punishment.... He's taking his precious feather home with him to clone and raise---at no small expense---a turkey."

Hargon guffawed. "You swapped feathers on him!"

"You didn't think I burn the real one, did you? Maybe it actually is as precious as he makes out. I used one from Anna Lila's souvenir boa."

Fauna sighed. "A turkey. I suppose it's poetic in it's own way." Her face darkened. "Still, I'm damned if I'll ever let him in the Pink Pillowslip again."

"Do what you think best, Fauna," Jimmilich told her. "Would you like me to see about reprogramming Anna Lila for you?"

"No, no, Harry can see to that, I'm sure." She rose and came close to him, turning up the "provocative" mannerisms all the way. "You've done so much for me, Jim." She kissed him delicately on the cheek. "Thank you...."

It was such a brilliant display of her art, Jimmilich almost wished he was human so he could appreciate it properly. "You're welcome, Fauna." Then he knew the right thing to add and did, "Any time you need me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you...."

#

It was some hours later before Jimmilich could speak to Hargon privately. He went credit card in hand. "I need a listener, Hargon, and it has to be you."

Hargon grinned. "Put your money away, Jim. Fauna wouldn't hear of it after what you did."

"In private, then.... But I'll leave the card and you can decide after you hear me out."

Shrugging, Hargon led the way to a quiet room, with two comfortable chairs and a table to set their drinks on. When Jimmilich was settled, Hargon leaned across the table and said, "Tell me."

"I figured whoreallydunnit, Hargon, and I don't know whether to tell Fauna or not. I did the first part right, I think. But should I go on humoring her or would she like it better if she knows I really did work out the method and the opportunity." He sat back and thought a minute, grateful that Hargon kept quiet while he did so.

"Maybe not," he said aloud. "I still don't see the motive...."

Then he realized that if he wanted any information at all from Hargon, he'd have to keep playing the game. He tilted an eyebrow. "See here, Hargon. If someone had actually stuck that copper coin in Anna Lila's disc drive, there'd have been a nasty melt-down...not that artistic sprawl. So the 'dead blonde' was programmed, and Fauna was the only one who had the opportunity to swap the program cd for the coin."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you had to be in on the whole thing too. You found the feather on the window sill, not me."

"You interpreted it correctly."

"You mean I interpreted it exactly the way you meant me to interpret it. The john was in on it with you---he had to be. In fact, they all had to be in on it with you." He stared at Hargon accusingly. "You would never break client/listener privilege!"

Hargon smiled and said nothing.

"But why? Why would you go to all that trouble? Why the elaborate charade---all for my benefit?" Jimmilich tried his best to understand but there was still something he was missing. "Help me out, here. I don't know human culture as well as I'd like to---"

"You know Fauna. You were willing to do her the kindness of playing her game. Tell me about Fauna."

Without conscious thought, Jimmilich found her precedent in a dozen stories. "Sucker for sick kittens," he said. "Tough broad with a mushy center. Everybody's fall guy...." Both his eyebrows suddenly shot up.

"Is that a laugh?" Hargon asked.

"Yeah, that's a laugh. She got me. She wanted me to see the real specialty of the house, didn't she?"

Hargon nodded, grinning, but didn't say a word.

"And that wasn't easy, since I don't come in two sexes. Even if she could have found another of my species around, sex would have been the last thing on our minds at meeting."

"Fauna likes a challenge."

"So she had to work out something as pleasurable to me as sex would be to one of her regular johns."

"Not the sex," Hargon corrected, "the right pleasurable fantasy. Sex doesn't necessarily come into it. Pleasure does. Fun does." He grinned again. "And you did have fun, didn't you? Fauna still isn't entirely sure, because your facial expressions are hard for us to read."

"I had a ball," he said, and both eyebrows went up again as he at last grasped the expression that had come from his own mouth. "A ball," he repeated, hoping Hargon would get the joke.

Hargon threw back his head and laughed. "You'll do. I think we're all going to have fun helping you with your 'studies.'" He stood. "And I leave it to you to find the right way to tell Fauna you know the whole story...."

That was easy, now that he'd gotten the hang of it. Jimmilich made straight for the bar.

Fauna, in her silks and feathers, stood leaning a "come-hither" from the bar. Jimmilich obliged and, draping an arm over her shoulders, he whispered low in her ear, "That was real good for me, baby.... Was it good for you, too?"

Her shout of laughter told him he'd got that right. He was Jimmilich Opstromommo, he was the Pink Pillowslip's private dick, and he was on a roll.

FACE TIME

"Time and a half, Gemmy," said Ferrus. "And maybe you'll get your mug in the newsgrams." The tentacles surrounding his eating orifice were rigid, so Gemmy knew he was stressed out. "Please, I need you! You've got a lot of experience with Terrans."

"Sure," said Gemmy. "But you said this is all about a Mopelling delegation.... I don't know the first damn thing about serving drinks to Mopellings."

Ferrus drooped an eyestalk. "Who does? They just made contact about five years ago. As I hear it, it took the Terrans a full year to explain to them what a diplomatic delegation was and another two years to explain why they should send one to Terra." The other eyestalk stiffened, to focus its brilliant vermillion pupil straight at Gemmy's navel; that was a bad habit of Ferrus's. "So nobody but nobody knows the proper way to serve drinks to a Mopelling but, by Itchy Palms, I intend to give the Terran reception committee the proper treatment."

He brought the other eyestalk to the level of the first. "Double time," he said.

The offer of extra money wasn't what convinced Gemmy. What convinced Gemmy was that Ferrus always looked him in the navel. Only Balanced Plates, the patron saint of waiters, knew why. But if Ferrus eyestalked some Terran female's navel that way, the Bulbous Beet Bar would be under new management within a Lemptak year---about ten Terran days.

So Gemmy'd said yes and, consequently, he was already serving drinks and reading up on what little was known about the Mopellings when the Terran with the toy rabbits came in. It wasn't the rabbits that caught Gemmy's attention first; it was the Terran himself.

His smeller looked familiar. Perhaps the man had stayed at Hotel Andromeda once before? Gemmy'd gotten quite good at Terran faces: you had to look at the bitty tufts of hair, that helped (when they didn't change them often on you), and you had to look at the smellers. This one had a very familiar looking smeller. For guests who stayed at the Hotel Andromeda frequently, Gemmy could often match the smeller to the favorite drink and offer it before they asked---the trick got him a lot of big tips. But he couldn't place this one.

"What can I get for you, friend Terran?"

The Terran looked him right in the eye---which was so unusual that Gemmy knew at once he'd never served this fellow before---and said, "How about jing jang? Can do?"

"Can do," said Gemmy. "With or without leaves?"

"Oh, I think definitely with."

"Coming right up."

He was tall for a Terran and settled himself along with back wall with a kind of sprawl that made Gemmy wonder once more how bipeds managed to balance at all. As he prepared the drink, Gemmy looked at the Terran again. Definitely a familiar smeller. Now why?

The Terran plopped a package onto the table and brought out two furry objects. Gemmy set the drink carefully beside them. "Rabbits," he said. "Am I right?"

"Rabbits is right. How'd you ever learn to recognize Terran rabbits?" The Terran showed his teeth; Gemmy knew that was a good sign.

"Movies---no, that's the wrong word---cartoons. I watched Terran cartoons. Some of them had creatures with ears like that."

More teeth showed. That made the smeller seem even more familiar. Gemmy said, "Forgive me for asking, but have you stayed at Hotel Andromeda before?"

"Nope, first time. Why?"

Gemmy knew enough about Terrans not to mention the smeller. "Your face looks familiar."

The Terran showed still more teeth. Gemmy hoped he wouldn't do that in a room full of Ressenians---he'd cause a riot, sure enough. At least the teeth weren't pointed, but Gemmy did have to remind himself occasionally that tooth-display was a friendly gesture from a Terran. This being more tooth-display than he was used to, Gemmy looked at the rabbits. "Are these real rabbits? Do they hop?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say, they're not real. They're a present for my nephew---toys." The Terran waited to see if Gemmy understood the word. "But they do hop. Though I wouldn't want to try them in here." His glance swept the bar. "I was assured they could hop twenty feet! I'd love to try them before I gave them to the boy. Hate to disappoint a kid, you know."

Gemmy knew. He also wanted very much to see the rabbits hop.

"Need lots of space, though. I don't suppose you know of a place...?"

Gemmy gave it thought. The Terran reception committee wouldn't be here for some three hours. The Bulbous Beet was, for the moment, practically deserted but for the two Gillspuns in the drinking pond---which took care of them quite nicely, thank you. Milly, the Terran waiter, would be here in a few minutes....

The Terran with the familiar smeller said, "I saw a big room just down the corridor---wasn't anybody in it---maybe I could try the rabbits out there. Think anybody'd mind?"

"I don't think so." Gemmy turned and waved to the bartender. "I'm just going to give the gentleterran a quick tour, Dubs; I'll be right back."

"You'd better be," Dubs said. She held three of her hands aloft, tendrils splayed. "Thirty minutes, you've got, before the Terran reception committee shows up thirsty."

The Terran downed his drink and---one rabbit in either hand---rose to follow Gemmy.

The corridor was packed with new arrivals, all dragging various forms of luggage behind them. Judith the bellboy must be peeved, Gemmy thought; another one of those cheapie tours where they hate to have their bags carried. Three Hepetellists goggled at the Terran and pointed and whistled.

"First-timers," Gemmy said to his companion. "I am sorry they have such bad manners." He thought for a long moment and said, "Let's take the back way. No need to---"

"To expose a guest to another guest's bad manners?" the Terran suggested helpfully.

"Exactly," said Gemmy. He trotted back into the Bulbous Beet and opened the access door that led down to the formal reception room.

"Wow!" said the Terran, following him inside. "I didn't know this was here."

"Staff only," Gemmy said. "When we have to serve drinks at a reception, it's nice to have a short cut."

"Nice, indeed," said the Terran, showing his teeth again.

A few yards later, Gemmy opened a second manual door and the two of them stepped into the Atmosphere Three Reception Room. Gemmy, recalling his grand tour line, made an expansive gesture and announced: "The Privilege-of-the-Grand-Potentate Room."

The Terran looked suitably impressed; at least, his mouth opened wide. Then he showed teeth again. "That's some mouthful. I'll bet that's not what the staff calls it."

"You're right there; the staff just calls it At-3."

"I knew it." He took a long look around. "Looks like you've got it all set up for somebody special."

"Right again. The Mopelling diplomats are coming to meet the Terran diplomats."

"The hotel has diplomats?"

"Just temporarily. The two species swap delegations here and then go on to their respective destinations, each with a local escort." Gemmy gave a pointed look at the toy rabbits. "We haven't much time."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was appreciating how very---purple---the whole thing is."

"Purple?"

"Wavelength," the Terran explained. "I see it as a specific color: purple. Very purple. Remarkably purple."

"Not pleasantly purple, by your standards?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Overwhelming."

"Apparently, the Mopellings see the wavelength differently. They asked, in fact, for that specific wavelength."

"Whooosh," said the Terran.

If he'd had eyestalks, they'd probably be twisted, Gemmy thought. "Try the rabbits," Gemmy said. "They're not purple."

The Terran made a croaking noise that Gemmy recognized as an expression of pleasure. "I like the way you think," he said. Then, to Gemmy's surprise, he strode to the end of the room and set the toy rabbit with its tail right up against the wall. "Okay," he announced. "Let's see if this lives up to its billing."

The toy rabbit hopped. The Terran gave another croak of pleasure and followed behind it, the entire length of the room. Gemmy was so startled and pleased by the sight that he sat back on his haunches and clucked to himself. The rabbit hopped exactly like the ones in the cartoons.

But the way the Terran followed after was indescribable. The Terran was all angles and looked for all the world like he was being led along...as if his smeller were somehow hooked to the rabbit's fluffy white tail by an invisible string. Why the Terran didn't get pulled over---right onto that smeller of his---Gemmy would never know, but he was awfully glad he was here to see it.

Suddenly, Gemmy felt very guilty. Here he was, goggling at the Terran the same way the first-timers had. He ought to know better!

The rabbit's nose touched the far wall, and the Terran scooped it up, tucked it under his arm and strode back. Gemmy tried to get his clucking under control and failed and felt even guiltier.

The Terran showed teeth. "That noise you're making. That means you find it funny, right?"

Abashed, Gemmy said, "Yes."

"Good. So do I. I think my nephew will have a grand time with his rabbit." He set the other one with its tail against the door they'd come through and sent it off toward the purplest of the purple draperies. This time he didn't follow but stood there croaking as he watched it.

"Funnier from this end. Watching the little white tail bob up and down, I mean." The Terran looked him in the eye but Gemmy couldn't bring himself to cluck this time. "Ah!" said the Terran. "The rabbit's not as funny as I am."

"I apologize---" Gemmy began.

"Not necessary. I imagine two legs look pretty damn precarious to you."

He went to retrieve the rabbit. When he'd caught the toy up again, he came back across the room at a gait that Gemmy would not have believed possible. If the walk had looked precarious, this was positively dangerous!

"Be careful!" Gemmy called out, in spite of himself.

More teeth---lots more teeth. "That, my fine four-legged friend, is 'skipping' and my nephew is an expert skipper. Of course, he's had some five years practice...."

"You mean, he's a child? And he can do that?"

The Terran nodded. "So you see, it's not all that dangerous. I only meant to make you laugh---I didn't mean to frighten you to death."

"Not quite 'to death,'" Gemmy said. He took a deep breath and urged color back into his fringes.

The Terran closed labia over his teeth. Very serious, that was, if Gemmy remembered correctly.

"Come," said the Terran. "Let's get away from all this purple. I'll buy you a drink. I owe you that much for having scared the bejeezus out of you." He gestured Gemmy back through the shortcut and into the bar. "Take my advice, my friend---don't ever watch a jump-rope contest---you'd go positively black around the fringe!"

Until the bar got busy, the Terran regaled him with the most horrifying descriptions of jump-rope imaginable. Gemmy couldn't decide whether he was making the whole thing up or not. Maybe Milly could tell him if they ever got a moment's break again. Just before the Terran reception committee was due to arrive, the Terran with the familiar smeller glanced at his watch and said, "Ooops, gotta date."

Gemmy brought him the bill and he ante'd up. Then he threw a nice-sized tip onto Gemmy's tray and, beside it, he set one of the rabbits. "For you," he said. "My nephew only needs one."

"Then why did you get two?" This was one of those things about Terrans that continued to mystify him.

"Cheaper that way," the Terran said. "You keep it to remind you of the funny bit."

"Thank you," said Gemmy, amazed at the thought of a Terran who understood how odd he looked to Gemmy, and who didn't seem to mind it. "Thank you!"

"Aha!" said the Terran. "You clucked! I knew I'd get it right if I worked on it."

"I hope we'll see you again," said Gemmy, meaning it for once.

"I guarantee it," said the Terran with the still-familiar smeller.

#

The Terran reception committee's module had arrived. Gemmy accessed the neural network and watched for a moment as Terrans spilled into the corridor and fanned out into the At-3 section of the hotel. Within minutes, the Bulbous Beet was full. Gemmy had expected the first-timers, because by now they'd have settled their luggage in their rooms and come looking for refreshment. He hadn't expected some few Terrans from the delegation, but here they were, and they'd brought a hotel security robot with them.

"Gemmy, this is Carmela Antonini. She's head of special security for the Mopelling delegation. Chief Antonini, this is Gemmy, No First Name."

This Terran was unfamiliar to Gemmy, but under the circumstances he did his best to pick out such features as would allow him to recognize her when next he saw her. The patch of fur on her head was striped red and gold. Her smeller was small and turned up slightly at the tip. Gemmy knew he couldn't count on the hair color of any Terran staying the same from day to day, but he hoped the general shape would remain. The smeller was easier, though. It was the first of that particular shape he'd seen.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Chief Antonini. May I get you a drink?"

The corners of her mouth turned up to express pleasure, but she showed no teeth. Careful, this one. She wasn't about to risk offending him. "Thank you, no, Gemmy. I'm here to make a few enquiries about security." To the robot, she said, "That will be all for now. Gemmy and I can handle this on our own."

Unoffended, the security robot simply turned and left.

"Come sit with me, Gemmy. I need to ask you a few questions."

The bar was hopping. Still, Gemmy knew enough to know that from a chief of security that was an order. "Let me take care of that table over there and then I'll come join you. I can't leave my customers completely in the lurch."

"I understand," she said. "When you have a spare moment, then."

More understanding than a lot of private security he'd dealt with, Gemmy thought. He served a round of drinks to the first-timers---they gawked appallingly. The youngster in the group wanted to touch Gemmy's scales. Gemmy let it: kids of any species are naturally curious and to stifle that curiosity was harmful. Then he explained the situation to Milly.

"Sure," she said. "Just stick close enough that I can scream if I need you."

He pointed out the table where Chief Antonini sat. He had the odd thought that she was memorizing everyone in the bar.

Milly whistled. "Hot stuff!"

"I don't get you, Milly."

"Very attractive to another Terran," Milly said. "Utterly wasted on you." Milly showed lots of teeth and Gemmy clucked because now he got it. "Here," said Milly. "She probably doesn't drink---alcohol, I mean---on duty. But take her this from me. On the house."

Gemmy did as he was told. And he thought he'd pass along the compliment, as well. Terrans appreciated compliments just as much as anybody. "Milly says you're hot stuff, and she sends you a non-alcoholic drink, on the house."

That was some sort of mistake, for the chief made a kind of choking sound. Then she said, "Thank Milly for me." Her voice was a little odd, but he supposed he hadn't committed a major gaffe. She wasn't angry. He'd ask Milly about it later.

Chief Antonini took a sip of her drink and waved a thank you to Milly at the bar. Then she said, "Ferrus tells me you're a very good observer of Terrans."

"Not quite good enough. I think I offended you just now and I'm not sure how."

"That would require a complicated explanation. Suffice it for now that you didn't offend me but telling another Terran the same thing might offend him or her." She turned up her mouth again.

"You can show your teeth," Gemmy said. "I don't take it for belligerence."

She did. Many of them. Then she said, "Let me get my business done first, then I'll explain as best I can."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that." Gemmy sat back on his haunches and waited for her to speak.

"You know the Mopelling delegation is coming in tomorrow. They stay for two days, until the Belva Ann Lockwood arrives. We'll be escorting the delegation to Terra, while their equivalent of security escorts our Terran delegation back to Mopell."

She seemed to expect him to say something. "Yes," he said.

"You also know that there are any number of Terrans, Glaucuscans---perhaps even Mopellings, for all I know---who would prefer to disrupt relations between Terra and Mopell."

"I know. I don't understand that, but I know."

Her mouth turned down. "I don't understand it either, Gemmy. But my job is to protect against such disruptions."

"What can I do to help?"

"You can keep your eye open. Tell me if you see anything suspicious."

"I don't know what that means: suspicious." He added hastily, "I know the dictionary definition. But---to me---so much of what another species does is so mysterious I could easily misread it."

"Let me give you some categories I'd consider suspicious in these circumstances.... Has anyone been asking a lot of questions about the Mopelling delegation, for instance? Have you caught tourists in rooms that are usually off-limits to anybody but the staff? Aha!" She leaned forward so abruptly that Gemmy, startled, rose to his feet and took a full step back. "Sorry," she said. She leaned back, slowly so as not to startle him a second time, and said, "But you have seen something that fits the criteria, haven't you!"

Gemmy sat down again. "I'm not sure."

"Tell me," she said. "Let me decide."

Reluctantly, he told her about the Terran with the familiar smeller and the toy rabbits. She listened intently, only interrupting him once. To his surprise, she croaked---in a higher, more melodious register than the male Terran had---when he described the 'skipping' and how it had made him feel.

"I understand," she said. "The first time my son pulled himself to his feet to take his first staggering steps, I was terrified. That first walk was beyond precarious---well into hair-raising." She gave him a long look. "You had to get to your feet moments after you were born, did you not?"

"Yes, a child who doesn't, who can't, will starve to death. Well, not any more," he added quickly, seeing her eyes widen. "Now there are ways to help a gillanter---an 'unable to stand'---but for a long time gillanteyir simply died."

She saddened at that. Gemmy could feel it. Then she showed him how new-born Terrans were cradled to be fed, and she said again, "To watch a baby Terran learn to walk is one of the most frightening experiences any parent could go through." Her shoulders made a strange motion---a quick shiver that Gemmy had seen associated with bad memories---then she took another sip of her drink.

"So that's it," she said. "Then he took his rabbits and went away."

"Only one rabbit. He gave me one of them to remember the funny bit by."

"That was very nice of him."

From her expression, Gemmy got the idea she didn't think it was nice at all. He said as much.

"I'm sorry. I do find that suspicious behavior. I'd like to see that rabbit, if I might?"

"I really can't leave the bar when it's this busy," Gemmy said.

She waved a negligent extremity. A few moments later she'd called back the security robot and Gemmy gave it permission to bring the toy rabbit from his room. While they waited, Gemmy saw to a few other customers in need and refreshed the drinking pond for the Gillspuns. Then he returned to the security chief's table and sat back on his haunches again. She showed her teeth---and explained to him the rather peculiar ramifications of Milly's remark about the "hot stuff."

He thought he understood it well enough that he wouldn't make the same gaffe again and he said as much.

Chief Antonini watched him for a long moment---very thoughtfully if he judged correctly. Then she said, "You don't think this Terran of the familiar nose is dangerous. Why not?"

"Good question," Gemmy said. "Why not, indeed?" His right foreleg pawed the blue-and-green turf. That was a bad habit of his when he was lost in thought---rough on the carpeting. He realized she was watching his foreleg with great interest and paused in mid-stroke. "Because," he said, "he talked to me the way you talk to me."

"How so?"

"Interested. Aware of our differences, but without being patronizing. Without being---" He paused and sought a way to phrase it without being patronizing himself. "People of other species often speak to me as if I were a child or, worse, a dim-wit. You don't. Neither did the Terran with the nose."

"So...not the sort you think likely to wish to disrupt relations between species. I do see your reasoning, Gemmy. My job is to be paranoid, though. My paranoia suggests that perhaps your Terran was acting a part."

"Perhaps. I'm not sure I'd be able to tell the difference."

Chief Antonini threw back her head and croaked. "Don't let it get to you---some Terran actors are good enough to fool me, and I've had a lot of practice sorting."

"It's not that," Gemmy said. "It's just that he seemed a nice guy and I'd hate for him not to be."

"So would I, Gemmy. So would I. ---Ah!"

The security robot had returned, toy rabbit in clasp. To Gemmy's surprise, the robot handed the rabbit to him. He, in turn, handed the toy to Chief Antonini. She'd opened her case to lay an assortment of instruments on the table. As she picked up the rabbit, she said, "Don't worry---I'm not planning to take it apart. Not unless I have to and certainly not without your permission."

She inspected the rabbit carefully, turning it first one way, then another. Milly screamed for Gemmy and he hustled to carry drinks to two tables-worth of first-timers who'd just come in. Easy tables---the nice thing about Hepetellists was that they drank from a communal bowl. One bowl per table and he hurried back to see what Chief Antonini had learned.

Her mouth ends had turned down. She up-ended the rabbit and pointed. "Bad news, Gemmy. See this? The rabbit measures distance. Now why should someone have---quite deliberately, from the looks of it---rejiggered an everyday toy to measure the width and length of the reception hall?"

"Oh, my," said Gemmy, horrified at himself. "And I showed him the staff route to the reception hall, too!"

She looked him in the eye. "Don't panic. There may be a perfectly rational explanation---or even a harmless irrational one. Perhaps the nephew is young enough to be learning the idea of distance, for example...."

Glumly, Gemmy said, "That sounds unlikely. Has anybody made any threats against the Mopellings? I'd've thought they were too new for anybody to hate them enough---"

She laid the rabbit aside and put away her instruments. Then she folded her hands on the table and said, "I won't speak for your people but, as for my people...sadly the simple fact of 'new'---like 'different' is frequently enough to spark death threats." Again she looked him right in the eye. "When I said 'Don't panic,' I meant it. This"---she patted the rabbit---"has to be investigated, precisely because there have been threats against the Mopelling delegation."

Gemmy knew his fringe had turned dead black. "The Terran didn't sign the check to his room," he said.

Surprisingly, she showed her teeth and took a deep breath. "Of course he didn't. That would be too easy!" She waited a moment, then she said quietly, "Gemmy, I want you to go get yourself a drink---your choice of relaxant, on me---then come back here and sit until you feel better. Then we'll talk some more."

Gemmy, limping ever so slightly in his right hind foot, did as she suggested. When he returned to the table, Chief Antonini said, "The limp, Gemmy, forgive me for asking...."

"I do it when I'm disturbed. The limp's not a species-wide indicator, though. Just me."

"I'm very sorry to have disturbed you. I'll make this as easy as I can. You tell me when you're ready to talk some more. I've only one question, really, and it's quite straightforward."

Gemmy drank. Slowly, he felt his fringes return to something approaching their normal hue. "I guess you'd better ask and get it over with, then."

"Would you recognize the fellow again, do you think?"

Because the answer was now of such importance, he gave the question careful consideration. "Yes," he said. "I'm quite sure I could. In fact, I thought I recognized him from the first."

"Very interesting. Recognized him from what?"

"I don't know. He said he'd never been to the hotel before---but, of course, he might have been lying."

"He might well have been," she acknowledged. "He might have been here to case the joint." She peered into her own drink. "No---he'd have had no need to see the reception room this time if that were so."

"Would you like me to search the hotel for him? I can get off duty for something that important---you'd only have to tell Ferrus."

"No, that's not necessary. I'll assign someone to the bar. If this fellow comes back, you'll point him out to my man and my man will handle him from there."

"Handle him?"

She raised her right hand. "Nothing violent, I promise you---not unless he starts it."

Terrans always said that, in Gemmy's experience, but he also felt Chief Antonini was not the sort---then again, he'd felt the other Terran.... It was all too much for him.

"Why here?"

"Because he knows about the staff entrance to the reception room. My staff will keep a close eye on the guest entrances. You keep your close eye on that staff entrance."

Gemmy downed his drink in a single motion. He had the horrible feeling he'd spend the next two days black-fringed from morning till night.

#

Middleditch, March and MacIsaac, the Terrans assigned to watch the bar and the staff entrance leading from it, were not as quiet as Chief Antonini. In fact, the three of them were a lot like any slightly joyous bunch of tourists. Gemmy supposed they were acting; they did not drink nearly as much as they ordered. Fearing for the health of the turf if they disposed of any more of their drinks that way, he asked them if they'd like him to choose them a drink this time. Middleditch (who seemed to be in charge if anybody was) said, "Yes! That's a good idea!" When the others agreed, Gemmy decided that Chief Antonini had given him a good report.

He brought them a round of Dubs's special concoction---Devilish Dogs. Colorful enough from a Terran point of view to look fiendish but utterly non-intoxicant. Middleditch sipped his cautiously, then showed all his teeth at Gemmy and said, "Just the thing!"

For a while, the bar got so busy that Gemmy didn't have to think about anything other than getting the next drink ordered and the next drink poured and the next drink delivered. And then he found himself face to face once more with the Terran with the familiar smeller. He heard himself say, "Jing jang, without the leaves? Or would you like something different today?" His voice sounded almost normal, to his astonishment.

The Terran showed all his teeth at once. "Hey!" he said. "That's some memory you've got! Yes, that'd be just fine." He glanced around the bar. "Take your time. I see you're a lot busier than you were the last time. The reception committee must be here, I guess."

What would be the normal response to that, Gemmy wondered. Should I say yes? He caught himself glancing in Middleditch's direction and stopped. "Yes," he said. "Hang on. I'll be right with you."

He went to Dubs for the jing jang and had an inspiration. "Another round of Devilish Dogs, too."

He delivered the Devilish Dogs first. As he set them on the table, he said to Middleditch, "The jing jang is for the fellow you wanted pointed out."

"Well done," said Middleditch. "Okay, boys! A toast to our host!" They all raised their glasses to Gemmy and drank them down.

Feeling terribly conspicuous, Gemmy crossed the bar to the suspicious Terran's table. "One jing jang, no leaves," he said.

The Terran didn't show his teeth. "Have you hurt yourself," he said. "Should you be working this hard with an injured leg? I realize that leaves you three, but still...."

He'd been limping again. "I'm okay," he said, feeling like a total fool. If a Terran could be this nice and be an assassin, there simply wasn't any hope left in this or any other world. "It'll all be over soon."

"Oh, you mean the reception. I suppose so. Tomorrow, isn't it?"

Gemmy nodded, then realized he'd given the man information yet again. He'd have kicked himself but this Terran would have noticed. "There's a quieter bar on level twelve. Well, quieter for the moment. You might prefer that."

"Thanks for the tip." The Terran leaned back in his chair. "This one's more convenient. Besides, I like the service here."

He meant that as a compliment, but Gemmy was no longer sure of anything. "Thanks," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. Then he excused himself and got back to work.

When at last he could bring himself to look in that direction again, he saw that Middleditch and March now sat one on either side of the Terran with the familiar smeller. The suspicious Terran laid both hands, palms down, on the tabletop; he was not showing his teeth. Feeling horribly guilty, this time for the suspicious Terran, Gemmy looked away again. MacIsaac, who remained at the other table where he could watch the staff entrance, flagged Gemmy for another Devilish Dog. Gemmy hurried the drink over to him, hoping to learn something, but the man said nothing and Gemmy couldn't bring himself to ask.

"It'll all be over soon," Gemmy thought and realized to his dismay that was just what he'd told the suspicious Terran. He limped on to the next table to take another round of orders.

For a moment, everybody seemed well taken care of. Gemmy sat back on his haunches just to rest his aching heel---and found himself face to face with Chief Antonini. He came to his feet as if he'd sat on a cactus.

"Thank you, Gemmy," said Chief Antonini. "You've been very helpful." She showed her teeth.

That seemed so out of place in the circumstances that Gemmy wondered if he'd gotten Terrans all wrong all along the line. He could feel his fringes turning black again.

Chief Antonini looked at him carefully; she hid her teeth. "Gemmy, I think you'd better come along with me and talk to the fellow for yourself. Please."

So it wasn't an order, it was a request. And Gemmy said, "Of course," and followed her. His limp was now even more pronounced.

Antonini took that into account and moved slowly. "I thought you'd be interested in learning the result of your observations," she said. "Don't go black-fringed on me, Gemmy. As it turns out, we picked up the the two Terrans who sent the threatening notes. Neither one of them was your friend from the bar."

"Then why...?"

But they had already reached the table, and she left his question unanswered. Gemmy reluctantly stood beside her, unable to look the suspicious Terran in the eye.

The Terran with the familiar smeller leaned back, showed all his teeth at once, and said, "Chief Antonini, as I live and breathe! My favorite nemesis! If the Furies are all as good-looking as you, my dear, then send them off in my pursuit, by all means!"

March began to croak with pleasure, but Middleditch shot him a swift look and March stifled his croak so quickly he almost choked on it.

"Gemmy," said the chief, "I'd like to introduce you to Willy Topkind, the bane of my existence." But Gemmy saw that she was showing just as many teeth as Willy Topkind was.

"We've met," said Willy Topkind. "Good to see you again, Gemmy. Sit down and take the weight off that sore leg of yours."

Gemmy didn't need asking twice. He sat, still bewildered by the Terrans' behavior.

Willy Topkind went on, "You know I add spice to your life, my dear. Why don't you admit it? For my part, I'm quite willing to admit that you've got me fair and square. I suppose I'll sit out this reception in my hotel room"---he glanced at Middleditch and March---"probably with these rather grim fellows for company."

"You surely will," Chief Antonini said. "And likely the Terran delegation will file charges. But for now all I ask of you is that you tell Gemmy precisely what you've been up to. Between the two of us, we've just about ruined his outlook on life."

Willy Topkind made a face that Gemmy recognized---the same face he'd made when he'd asked about Gemmy's leg. "We're the cause of his injury? How...?"

"He thought you were a nice guy, Willy. Then I came along and made him think you were a suspicious guy." Chief Antonini turned to Gemmy. "Willy is suspicious---but remember I said there might be an irrational but harmless explanation?" She held out her hand to Willy. "Meet the irrational but harmless explanation."

"Most of us call him Willy the Weasel," Middleditch said, as if that should mean something to Gemmy. It didn't.

Topkind croaked. "Gemmy, a weasel is a small Terran animal renowned for getting into tight places."

"It's not complimentary," Chief Antonini said firmly, but 'Willy the Weasel' showed a lot of teeth and said, "Oh, I like it!"

"Getting into tight places?" Gemmy said, faintly. "I really don't understand."

"Willy has a hobby---you know what that is? Okay, Willy's hobby is getting his picture taken with famous people of all species."

Willy Topkind showed his teeth again. "Getting face time is the proper term---among those of us who do it."

"Getting face time," Chief Antonini said. "I assume you've got your brag disc with you, Willy? Why don't you show it to Gemmy? I'm not sure that will explain your behavior, but it would be a start."

"I'd be pleased to show you, Gemmy." From his shoulder pocket, he drew a jewel box and tapped the contents into the table slot. The table top came alive with tiny holographic figures. "Best view from this side, I think," said Willy Topkind, gesturing for Gemmy to stand beside him. Chief Antonini motioned him into place and peered over his head, also watching the figures.

The 'gram showed the arrival of President Hannes Thorvald on Ordoverwerlt---all the usual bells and whistles had been trotted out for the Terran's landfall. Gemmy, having seen this 'gram a dozen times---it had been all over the newscasts for some two weeks---glanced questioningly at Willy Topkind.

"Watch to President Thorvald's right," Willy Topkind told him. "...And...there!"

Gemmy followed Willy Topkind's point and saw---Willy Topkind!

"That's you!" said Gemmy. "That's why your smeller seems so familiar!"

Willy Topkind's hand went to his nose, and Gemmy was momentarily horrified that he'd made yet another interspecies' gaffe. Chief Antonini croaked happily, though---and a split second later, Willy Topkind was croaking even harder.

Despite having served drinks to numerous famous people of all species, Gemmy was impressed. "You actually know President Thorvald?"

"No," said Chief Antonini. "He doesn't. But he weaseled in and got his picture taken with Thorvald despite every precaution Thorvald's security people took."

Both Willy Topkinds showed great expanses of their teeth. The picture changed to another newsgram and the Willy Topkind beside Gemmy said proudly, "Here I am with Machon-Chumbly, leader of the Splagger Faction of the Emcharri."

Sure enough, there was Willy Topkind, showing his teeth and waving to the camera. Beside him stood Machon-Chumbly.

Even Chief Antonini seemed impressed. "Lord," she said. "You got past Peg Winter's security?" She whistled.

Gemmy said to Willy Topkind, "And you don't know Machon-Chumbly, either?"

Willy shook his head.

"Then how...?"

Willy glanced at Chief Antonini, then said, "Maybe I'll tell you sometime. But I won't give away trade secrets while the Chief is listening."

Gemmy found himself clucking. That made sense---or at least it was seemed consistent in the circumstances.

Chief Antonini looked at the time. "The Mopellings' module has been docked. The reception starts in about twenty minutes, and I've still got work to do. Gemmy, if you'd like to stay here and watch the rest of Willy Topkind's brag disc, you may. Perhaps that will keep Willy out of trouble. If that's not sufficient,"---she gave Willy Topkind a fierce look---"I'm sure Middleditch and March will be."

Gemmy was about to say he'd like that very much, when Chief Antonini held up a finger for quiet. "What now?" she said into her lapel. She listened again, then said with a sigh, "Send them up; I'll wait."

"Problems?" said Middleditch.

"So says Samuelson.... Something to do with the Mopellings' spacial sense."

Willy Topkind looked at Gemmy. "Samuelson is the expert on Mopelling behavior---as much as there is one yet. If she says there's a problem, there's a problem. The Mopellings are an odd species even by our"---his pointing finger indicated both himself and Gemmy---"standards. They're territorial in the extreme."

"What would you know about it, Willy?" said Chief Antonini in an exasperated tone.

"Oh," said Willy. "I've read all her papers on the Mopellings. I do very careful research." To Gemmy, he added, "I have to: I wouldn't want to cause an interstellar incident by smiling at the wrong species."

Consistent again, Gemmy saw.

Willy Topkind went on, "If a Mopelling were sitting at a table in the bar, for instance, it'd be fine that you served it...as long as you always took the same route to its table. Vary the route, though---say you stopped at another table on the way to its---and the Mopelling would have to renegotiate its position to accomodate."

He glanced at Chief Antonini. "I'll bet Samuelson's been driving the chief nuts. I'll bet Samuelson's going nuts herself---she'd have worked out where each and every member of the reception party must stand and how far each can range without disturbing the Mopellings."

Chief Antonini made a sound that reminded Gemmy of an angry stickcat about to stick someone. "If you know all that, Willy, what made you think you could weasel into the photos without causing all hell to break loose?"

A scuffle at the entrance to the bar Willy's reply, which was too bad, because Gemmy had really wanted to hear the answer.

"Here, Dr. Samuelson!" Chief Antonini waved across the room. A very plump and very agitated Terran waved back and charged through the crowd, none too politely, to pull up short and breathless before them.

"We've got one hell of a problem," Samuelson said without preamble. She waved a sheaf of papers at Antonini, stabbed the off button on the 'gram display, and shoved aside the drinks to spread the papers across the table. They showed a map of At-3, with a lot of circles and dots. Ah, thought Gemmy, that's where each member of the delegation is supposed to stand.

Samuelson jammed a finger at one of the circles. "The Terran delegation changed plans at the last minute---the utter incompetents. I've got nobody to fill this position. Nobody that's the right size, at any rate. See, we've got two tall people here"---jab, jab---"so we need short and massive here. We also need two more here and here, since we've got the Terran ambassador here." Her final jab almost punched a hole in the paper.

"Gemmy would do for short and massive," Willy Topkind said. When Samuelson's head came up to stare at Gemmy, Willy added, "And he'll stay where you put him. He's the best waiter in the bar---he knows how to behave around other species. What do you say, Gemmy? Want a little face time with the Mopelling ambassador to Terra?"

"Shut up, Willy," Chief Antonini said.

"No," said Samuelson. "He's right. ---Gemmy, would you be willing to help out?"

"Of course," said Gemmy.

"Good," said Samuelson, as if that settled everything. She fixed her eyes on Willy and said, "Now, any suggestions for the other two?"

"You don't need two," Willy Topkind said. He leaned forward and touched the map. "Take this one out and put me just here." He rocked back in his chair, making Gemmy gasp with wonder at the balancing act. "I've got a purple suit."

"Purple?" said Samuelson. "Purple? What wavelength?"

Willy Topkind reached for his carryall, stopped at a look from March, and gestured March to do it. Chief Antonini nodded permission. From the carryall, March pulled out a suit that was exactly the same wavelength as the purple in At-3 Willy Topkind had claimed to find so overwhelming. Samuelson caught up the suit, held it aloft, and said, "Perfect!"

Samuelson bent to examine the dots and circles once more and her head bobbed furiously. "It'd work. It will work. Why the hell didn't you tell me you had a back-up expert on tap, chief? Gemmy, you come with me. And you"---that was to Willy Topkind---"you get into that appallingly glorious suit!"

She paused suddenly and thrust her hand at Willy. "Tammy Samuelson, and am I ever glad to meet you!"

Willy Topkind caught her hand and shook it. "Just call me Willy the Weasel," he said. "Everybody does."

#

"Strangest week I ever spent," Gemmy said to Milly and Dubs when the various delegations had gone their separate ways. "Nobody ever asked me to be an Official Presence before. Now I know how the game pieces on a fespall board feel, I think."

"Agh," said Milly. "They could have a least given you a bonus...."

Gemmy clucked. "They did. And Willy gave me this." He laid a small glittering disc on the bartop. "Put it in the player and you'll see."

Dubs did, and the disc sprang to life. It was the complete news coverage of the first meeting between the Mopelling and the Terran delegations. "Wow!" said Milly. "Look at you---right next to the head honcho of the Mopelling delegation!"

Even Dubs seemed excited, though the tape hadn't yet gotten to the best part. "There! There's Gemmy with the Terran ambassador...."

"Here," said Gemmy, feeling his fringes rise with his excitement. "Here's the best part coming up now."

The Gemmy in the footage followed Samuelson's strict instructions and loped across the room, coming to a halt right next to Willy Topkind. Willy, in his purple suit, showed all his teeth at Gemmy---and Gemmy clucked and brought a hand to his eye to salute the Terran with the familiar smeller.

"There," said Gemmy, with enormous satisfaction. "There I am---getting face time with none other than Willy the Weasel!"

CHRISTMAS WINGDING

for Debra Poenisch, who brought the flowers,

and for Richard E. Cross, who cooked the catfish

By tradition, Gabe Jackley manned the Customs' desk at Butterfly's spaceport on Christmas Eve. Usually there wasn't a single passenger to welcome or a solitary bag to check but---should there be---everybody on Butterfly trusted Gabe to handle the situation correctly. Gabe took the task for the honor it was and hummed to himself as he finished wrapping the presents he'd brought along. He'd just managed to trap a fingertip his a peach-pink bow when the comm unit sprang to life---a ship from Foolhardy requested permission to land.

Gabe granted Captain Kogel permission, extricated his finger, and keyed his window to watch the landing. Foolhardy was one of the central worlds---central in that most of the Commonwealth worlds did their government business there---and Kogel was riding a Silver Needle 4 this time. A sweet ship and an expensive one. When Gabe saw that he shoved back the excitement that had risen in him over a Christmas Eve landing. That kind of ship could only mean government bureaucrats or tourists stopping for a few days' land-'fresher. In Gabe's mind, good things were more likely to come in an old battered Bugcrusher II, like the one that sat at the far end of the field.... He smiled to see that someone had looped a wreath of peachywands over the tip of the Bugcrusher's nose.

With a subdued rumble, the Silver Needle set down. Gabe watched as the ship extruded a pair of struts and canted over to one side to allow the passengers to disembark at ground level. Fancy, he thought. He admired the technology, but he reserved his smile once again for the delapidated Bugcrusher II.

After a moment, he thought to kick one of the followmes into motion. It trundled over to the arriving tourists with nothing more on its rudimentary chips than to pick up cargo and deliver it to the Customs' House. It trundled back with a half-dozen people, all dressed in their Sunday best, but not the sort of true Sunday best Gabe would have expected from a tour group come for the holidays. These folk were all dressed in shades of grey and black. He gave an involuntary glance at his packages, all of which were wrapped in the traditional Christmas pink and orange and peach. Well, maybe grey was traditional for them?

He opened the door and ushered them inside. "Merry Christmas," he said, "and welcome to Butterfly." The woman who seemed to be in charge was young, plump and pillow-soft, with bright disbelieving eyes. Gabe had the odd thought that she might pinch herself at any moment, to assure herself she wasn't dreaming. He rather hated to interject a note of reality, but he did: "Have you anything to declare?"

For answer, she drew her passport from her pouch to spread beside Gabe's stack of packages. Diplomatic passport, he saw. One of Foolhardy's finest. The hologram inside astonished him; unlike the usual passport photos, hers showed such a grin of triumph that he was grinning back when he looked up at her.

"Taking a land-'fresher on your way to your new post, eh," he said. "Christmas Eve is a tough time to be so far from home...if your Christmas matches ours, that is." Maybe that explained their unfestive clothing.

Celia Nicolazzini---that was the name her passport gave---gave him a bemused but genuine smile. "The dates match, and our Chief of State gave us strict orders to see a Butterfly Christmas before we proceed to our official post." The smile turned momentarily wry. "To be honest, we've no idea what we're supposed to see but we were told we'd know it when we saw it. How's that for diplomatic?"

Gabe laughed. He knew what they were supposed to see. "Best place for that is Smuggler's Rest. Quicksilver throws the best Wingding on the planet, and they're open to all comers. You needn't worry about reservations; Quicksilver will make room for you if need be, on Christmas Eve."

"Smuggler's Rest?" said the one called Corcos, who looked to Gabe as grim and grey as his passport photo. "Dr. Nicolazzini, that doesn't sound like the sort of place we should be seen in---"

Gabe shook his head. "Smuggler's Rest is a five-star hotel in any guidebook." He decided he'd best not say straight out that the owner was a retired smuggler. Corcos didn't look the sort who'd stand for it and, besides, he didn't know just how retired Quicksilver was. Still---"If you've been ordered to see Christmas on Butterfly, you should probably start with the Christmas commemorative in Dawn Square. You pass right by it on the way to Smuggler's Rest."

By the time transport had arrived, he'd checked the rest of their passports and loaded their notebooks with local guidechips. Kogel, who'd been examining Gabe's Christmas packages, probably looking for his own, straightened and said, "Gabe, they need a favor from you---"

A look at Nicolazzini's face told Jackley she'd felt the favor too much of an imposition, even though Kogel had vouched for him. "You can ask," Gabe assured her with a smile. "Christmas Eve lots of things are possible, even in Customs."

Pete Kogel's laugh at that gave Nicolazzini all the encouragement she needed. "Captain Kogel thinks there's a pack of newshounds right behind us," she said. "We'd hoped to spend a quiet Christmas---"

Gabe held up his hands. "Say no more. I think, from the way you folks talked, that you'll probably be staying up-wing---waaay up-wing." He turned to the map of Butterfly's main continent on the screen behind his desk and touched a finger to the furthest tip of the eponymous butterfly's silhouette. Then he moved his finger all the way down to the bottom of the silhouette's abdomen. "We're here," he said. He laid a hand span between the two points. "There is a half day's travel by surface transport."

When Nicolazzini smiled, she dimpled, so Jackley added, "Tell Quicksilver Gabe Jackley sent you. And if you tell her you're hiding out, she'll let you register under a phony name---'long as you've given me your real ones, of course."

She was the only one of the diplomats who caught the joke, and she dimpled again. "Thank you, Gabe Jackley. And a Merry Christmas to you, too."

"See you later," he said, and when she cocked her head in query, he added, "I spend my Christmas at Smuggler's Rest, too."

"That may be the best recommendation of all," said Nicolazzini. "Until later then."

She ushered her colleagues away, and Jackley turned his full attention to Captain Kogel.

"Hi, Pete---anything to declare?" He knew the answer to that one, even though he had to ask. Pete was forever trying to slip something past someone; he simply wasn't as poker-faced as a professional like Quicksilver.

This time, Pete looked him straight in the eye. "Present for Quicksilver," he said.

"Should I ask?"

"Probably not." Meaning: if Gabe did, he'd have to confiscate it. Meaning: Pete hoped he'd pass the confiscated item on to its intended recipient.

"Ecologically damaging?"

Pete's head jerked back in shock. "Do I look suicidal? I said, 'for Quicksilver.'"

Hell, it was Christmas Eve. Let Pete deliver his present in person. "Okay," Gabe said, "on your way," and he slid Pete's passport back across the desk. "See you later at the party."

It was only after Pete had waved him a good evening and walked out to the waiting transport---one of Pete's loves, no doubt---that Jackley thought back to the diplomats. Had he really heard that accent correctly? It rang in the back of his mind: Straight-and-Narrow?

He shook his head. Couldn't be. After all these years he'd simply forgotten what a real Straight'n accent sounded like and his mind was leaping to an unwarranted conclusion from some slight similarity. He might have thought more about it but the comm unit sprang to life yet again.

Half an hour later, the Customs' House was a madhouse. Nicolazzini had been right about the newshounds---though Gabe thought they seemed more like a pack of puppies, all worrying the same sock. He hummed a Christmas carol and sent them all waaaay up-wing.

Then he closed up shop and set the nav. computer to tell any further incoming ships they'd have to park it in orbit and wait till late 'noon tomorrow.

#

As the transport neared Dawn Square, Nicolazzini called to the driver to stop. Toffoli and Corcos both began muttered objections. "We've no idea how close behind us the newshounds are, Dr. Nicolazzini. Are you sure---?"

"I'm sure," Nicolazzini said. "Wait for us a moment, driver, please."

"Sure thing," said the driver. "Tonight's the right night, and you've still got plenty of light to see the Smuggler by. Follow the walk"---he pointed to a footpath that wove between two immense falls of peachywands---"then just to the right, behind that big old ironwood tree. Mind you don't trip on the peachywands. They're forever trying to take over the path, but nobody wants to cut them back this time of year."

"The Smuggler?" said Corcos, when they were out of the driver's earshot. Nicolazzini shrugged. She could tell Corcos still thought stopping along the way a rotten idea but she didn't care---she wanted to walk through those peachywands, if nothing else.

Someone had once told her that peachywands were a bioteched version of old Earth's forsythia. She couldn't say for sure herself, never having seen forsythia. She'd never seen such rampageous peachywands either---those on her homeworld were clipped and trimmed until they were little more than hedgerows with now and then a tiny flower.

Here, they were like rushing water.... In wave after wave of brilliant bloom, they fountained high into the air, then fell to earth in spectacular cascades of pure color---not only the familiar rosy peach but a remarkable shade of deep butter-yellow as well. Their delicate scent filled the air with Christmas.

The party rounded the ironwood tree and for a moment Nicolazzini thought they'd come upon one of the locals playing in the park. She was on the verge of excusing their intrusion when Toffoli breathed, "Good Lord, it's a Karawan!"

"That shouldn't surprise you," Ameghino said dryly. "Karawan's a native of Butterfly, after all."

Oddly, from the tone of the comment, Nicolazzini knew that Ameghino was just as surprised to find a sculpture by Karawan in the town square, Karawan's home-world or no.

The renown of the sculptor was not what drew Nicolazzini closer to what Jackley had called "the Christmas commemorative"---it was the breath-taking liveliness of her. Could bronze dance? Under Karawan's hand it could.

She was a tall, lean woman and Karawan had caught her in mid-step, bobbed hair and silk skirts and silk sleeves flying as she danced forward. No pedestal for her! Nicolazzini could tell at a glance she'd have scoffed at the very idea.

At ground level, she was almost as tall as Toffoli, even as she stepped toward the table and chairs before her. Both the table and the chairs were metal and clearly meant to be used by picnickers and sight-seers alike.

In the flat of her left hand she held aloft a tray of beer steins. She leaned slightly forward as if about to set a drink before a customer at that table, but the hand she extended didn't hold a stein. Instead, a single butterfly perched tremulously at the tip of her upswept index finger. For all her dancing, she kept the fingertip still and the butterfly at rest.

"Wow," said Toffoli softly. "Wait until Giosofat Orrego sees a photo of this! He'll be on the next ship out!"

"Look at the way Karawan makes you focus on the butterfly," said Corcos. "The flying hair, the eyes, the sweep of the hand all serve as---"

"Shut up, Corcos, and let me look," Ameghino said, and to Nicolazzini's surprise, Corcos shut up.

Nicolazzini took a step nearer---watching her step among the peachywands---and, in the shifting of her own shadow, she was suddenly able to read the brass plaque set into the paving around the sculpture's feet. The raised letters looped gracefully. Karawan thanks Quicksilver, they read, for smuggling Christmas.

Corcos had followed her lead and was reading the same words over her shoulder. "Dr. Nicolazzini," he said, "isn't Quicksilver---?"

"The name Gabe Jackley gave us? Yes."

"She smuggled Christmas. What a strange thing to say. What do you suppose Karawan meant?"

"I've no idea," Nicolazzini told him. "But I mean to ask." She gave the sculpture one last long inspection. The face she saw suppressed a smile---but the eyes were joyful. And from this angle, the sculpture seemed to offer the butterfly into Nicolazzini's keeping. Nicolazzini smiled into the deepening shadows and took the happenstance of place for a good omen.

"We'd better go," she said and, with more than one backward glance, they reluctantly returned to the transport.

Corcos said to the driver, "How could you smuggle Christmas?" She only grinned at him and said, "I couldn't have. Quicksilver did: ask her."

#

Smuggler's Rest was all that Jackley had promised and surrounded by peachywands as well. The lobby was bustling and jostling with party preparations. One woman was weaving peachywands through the rungs of the bannister leading to the second floor while another cleared away a trail of dropped blossoms. A dozen huge trays of various foods went by, inticing in their smells. An acapella quartet was practicing an unfamiliar, very lively, carol as they cleared a sofa from the lobby. Under a side table, a small child was wrapping presents with too much paper and tape. In all the apparent chaos, there seemed, quite unbelievably, to be calm, order and content, as if all the instrumentalists, even the small child, were under the hand of a talented conductor.

The only disturbing note was Nicolazzini's party, who could not seem to keep out of the way. It took Corcos a moment or two to track down someone to check them in. The someone was a bright-faced boy of about thirteen or fourteen and, despite his cheerful confidence that he could handle all paperwork and credit lines, Nicolazzini said, "Forgive me, but there are...mm, special circumstances. Gabe Jackley told us to see Quicksilver."

For a moment, the boy looked so delighted that Nicolazzini thought perhaps he'd heard something she hadn't said. Then he gave an exaggeratedly covert glance around. "Quick, in here," he said, and he ushered the six of them into a small cheerful office to one side of the lobby. "I'll be right back with Quicksilver."

He was right back with Quicksilver. She was some years older than she'd been when Karawan had sculpted, but the flying hair, the dance-like step and the suppressed smile were all there. The boy waved a hand at Nicolazzini and her colleagues, grinned broadly and said, "Special circumstances. And I haven't seen anybody or anything. In fact, I'm probably not even here this evening." He grinned again and ducked out the door.

Quicksilver laughed. "Well," she said, "you've made Quillan's evening. What's the story?"

Nicolazzini said, "Not nearly as good as yours, I'd bet," but she told it anyway.

When she had finished, Quicksilver said, "All right: you're the La Gioia family reunion, here for the wingding because Grandaddy La Gioia was born and bred on Alway---and this is about as close as anybody can get to Alway these days."

When Nicolazzini nodded acceptance of the improvization, Quicksilver looked thoughtful for a moment then said, "Gabe said he'd send the newshounds up-wing? Let me make a few phone calls. A couple of red herrings tragged across your tracks and you can spend your Christmas in peace and quiet." She laughed. "Not that Christmas is quiet here, but there's peace and there's peace...."

And then she was gone and Quillan was back to register them all as La Gioias---and to take inordinate delight in helping each of them choose a given name---and get them squared away in their rooms.

"Is it possible to get something to eat?" That was Toffoli, but Nicolazzini realized it had been a long time since they'd had anything other than ship's meals.

"Possible?" Quillan's laugh was an echo of Quicksilver's. "Mister, this is Christmas. If anything, the trick will be to stop eating before you bust. Just head on downstairs when you're ready and help yourself to the buffet on the sideboard."

Nicolazzini's room came last, and Quillan led her way, still offering advice. "Don't miss Rick's batter-fried catfish. You dip it in this scallion remoulade sauce...." He let out a deep sigh of content and finished, "Best Christmas dish ever there was."

"Fried catfish for Christmas? Is that traditional?"

Quillan paused long enough to give the question real thought. Then he grinned and said, "It is here."

"That's good enough for me," Nicolazzini told him, as he let her into her room and gave her a quick tour. Then he sat himself on the bureau and watched as she began her unpacking.

He waved away the offered tip. "I only took the other guy's money because he's so"---he made a face that summed up Corcos's attitude completely. "You got the right spirit. You expect to have fun."

"Yes, I do," said Nicolazzini. "I'm already having more fun than I had any right to expect."

"You think this"---the swing of his arm almost toppled a lamp---"is fun?" He hopped off his perch. "Come on. I'll show you better. If we go downstairs now we can watch the tree trundle."

Nicolazzini let herself be caught up in the youngster's excitement. The unpacking could wait. "Lead on," she said.

He led her along the corridor to the stairs overlooking the lobby. Halfway down the curving staircase, he stopped her. "We can see better from here. Well, anyhow, I can. You're taller, so if---"

"I'll watch with you. You can explain what I'm seeing if I don't get it."

"Sure!" he said. Then he added, apparently in the interest of honesty, "I can't tell you why mostly, though. When I ask, all anybody ever says is"---he shrugged, mimicking those he'd asked---"'It's just traditional, that's all.'"

Nicolazzini nodded. "Holidays are like that," she told him. "I used to get the same answer from my parents." The two of them exchanged sympathetic grins.

From outside came the sound of bells and Quillan, now fairly hopping in his excitement, said, "Here comes the tree trundle...."

Over the clamor of bells came a quick sequence of slamming noises, loud enough to startle Nicolazzini. "Shooting the rods," Quillan said---and pointed. This time Nicolazzini saw the procedure: the folks nearest each door shot a series of bolt-like rods which they then locked into place. After a moment, Nicolazzini realized that she was seeing a sort of scaled-up variation on a Dutch door. The locked rods had transformed the human-sized door she'd entered into an archway some twelve feet wide and peaking some twenty feet high. It took the combined efforts of half-dozen people on either side to open this now-grand entrance.

Framed in the archway was a magnificent Carran spruce. The tree sat on a wooden cart, its roots still encased in a ball of dirt she couldn't have gotten her arms about. Three small children sat at its base and rang bells for all they were worth. The cart itself was being pulled by another half-dozen folk.

"Oh, look!" Quillan shouted over the cacophony. "Kim got to ride the trundle!"

"Is that good?"

"That's terrific! That means she'll grow two inches this year." He leaned closer, obviously intending a confidence even though he couldn't lower his voice and still make himself heard. "Not really, you know. But Kim thinks so---and she's little so that's what she wants as her wish."

The ringing began at last to die down, and the tree trundle was hauled through the lobby on its way to the dining room. When the ringing in her ears had also subsided, Nicolazzini said, "Why do they go to all that trouble to dig up a tree? That's awkward, especially considering the size of it. Why not just cut one?"

"Can't," said Quillan. "Gotta replant it right after Christmas or we won't have one for next year."

Nicolazzini frowned. "But that's just an ordinary Carran spruce."

Quillan nodded solemnly. "Not ordinary to Butterfly," he said. "We used to get enough seedlings for every year's Christmas from Alway---but when Alway shut down, we couldn't get 'em any more. So we've got to make the ones we've got last and last and last, Dad says." He looked at her, suddenly pleased. "Hey! Sometimes I do know a why! Because we used to get most all of our biologicals from Alway---'scuse me, Straight-and-Narrow, they call it now---and we can't any more, that's why."

"That makes good sense, then," Nicolazzini said. "Now, can you tell me why you folk weave your peachywands into the staircase rungs instead of running them down the bannister?"

Quillan grinned. "Yes, I can tell you that one too." And without another word, he gleefully straddled the bannister and slithered his way down to the lobby. At the bottom of the stairs, he spread his hands and called up, "That's why."

Nicolazzini laughed but took the stairs at a sedate walk. She hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed in her.

He wasn't. He'd already joined forces with the remaining folk in the lobby to help close the grand entrance. Nicolazzini quickened her steps and added her weight to the task. As the doors snapped shut and experienced hands unshipped the iron rods, she found herself face to face with a grinning Ameghino, who'd helped close the opposing door.

Ameghino said, "Wingding is the right word for it. These folks sure know how to throw a party---wait until you see the food!"

"Don't miss the catfish," Nicolazzini told him, earning an ear-to-ear grin from Quillan. "My informant tells me it's the best!" Her informant nodded an enthusiastic agreement and said, "Let's eat!"

They did. Choosing the first round mostly on Quillan's recommendations, they heaped plates high. Quillan chose them a table, too: "Where you can watch Quicksilver dance behind the bar," he said. He was right about the catfish and about the vantage point as well. Nicolazzini licked remoulade sauce from her fingertips and watched Quicksilver.

What Quicksilver did was a dance, she saw. All of the motions a bartender had to make to do her job, Quicksilver elaborated into wider, broader, more flamboyant gestures, moving always with the music that filled the room---sliding, gliding, pouring, pirouetting before she poured a triumphant last drop---and she'd added grace notes as well.

She had a lovely trick of catching the rim of a shot glass---a filled shot glass---in her fingertips and, with a wide swing of the wrist, whirling the glass through a complete arc without spilling a drop of the contents. That was centrifugal force, of course, but the speed and the musicality of that arm was pure Quicksilver. And only after that flourish did she add the shot to whatever she was mixing.

Quillan, trying to show Nicolazzini how Quicksilver did it, had already poured soda on himself twice. The third time he got Corcos. Quicksilver caught Quillan's eye and waved him over for further instruction. As Nicolazzini watched, Quillan finally caught on. The two laughed with delight, and Nicolazzini couldn't help but join in.

At the far end of the room stood the Carran spruce, adding its pungent scent to the air. Beside the bar, a quartet composed of two guitars, a fiddle, and a tabor seemed intent on transforming every Christmas carol Nicolazzini knew into a dance tune. Whoever wasn't eating was unpacking Christmas tree ornaments; whoever wasn't unpacking Christmas tree ornaments was eating.

"Not what I'd call solemn," Corcos said, deprecatingly.

"No," said a fresh voice with a trace of a laugh in it. "Sacred, yes. Solemn, no."

Nicolazzini looked away from the bar and saw Jackley, as promised, standing beside their table. He held a heaped plate and gestured inquiringly with his free hand. Nicolazzini smiled and dragged up a chair for him.

He sat and said to Corcos, "It's a birthday party, after all!"

"Not how we do it at home..." Corcos said, his expression still disapproving.

"Too bad." He turned his smile on Nicolazzini. "Where's home?"

Nicolazzini, dead-pan, told him the tale that Quicksilver had concocted for them, and Jackley laughed out loud. "I'll bet anything Quillan had a hand in that. 'Terry' La Gioia?"---he raised an eyebrow at Corcos---"Terry's the name of Quillan's pet catchum." He waited a moment, as if expecting her to say something more. When she didn't, he shrugged. "Okay," he said, amiably. "I'll find out when the newshounds get here, I guess."

"The newshounds---" said Toffoli.

Gabe shook his head. "Don't you worry. Right about now, Lily Drinkwater should telling them about this weird crew of folk she saw headed for Wingtip. And, if I know Lily, she's probably slandering the hell out of you all, which makes her story all the more convincing."

Before Nicolazzini could ask about that, Quillan was back. "Hey, dad---watch!"

Jackley watched---with indrawn breath and eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline---as Quillan swung his shot glass full of soda....

He didn't spill a drop. Jackley let out his breath. "Good for you. I was afraid you were going to give Dr. La Gioia here a bath for Christmas Eve."

Quillan was instantly contrite. "Sorry. Quicksilver told me not to aim it at anybody, but I got so excited I could do it. See, you have to not think about it. If you think about it, you don't do it fast enough. So I wasn't thinking about it. Sorry," he said again. Then he brightened up almost instantly. "But I didn't give you a bath, so that's okay."

Nicolazzini nodded. "Yes, that's okay. ---Is Terry really the name of your pet?"

"Yeah," said Quillan with a grin. "He"---Quillan jabbed a quick finger in Corcos's direction---"has bangs just like my Terry does."

Nicolazzini tried to hide her smile and failed. "I must see this Terry of yours sometime."

"Sure!" he said---and once more swung his shot glass up and over. Successfully. "Hey, Quicksilver!" he called out. "I did it twice in a row!"

Quicksilver danced toward their table, a tray of drinks in her upraised hand. Without missing a beat, she said, "Good for you. Just remember, you gotta keep in practice."

Watching her, Nicolazzini thought how truly remarkable Karawan was, to have captured all that motion, all that lightness of foot and heart.

She set a drink before Gabe. "How was Christmas Eve at Customs this year?"

"A few unexpected items," he said, nodding at Nicolazzini and her colleagues. "Nothing like '85." He grinned at Nicolazzini and said, "Did you see Quicksilver's statue?"

Nodding, Nicolazzini took the opening and said, "And I'm curious to know: just how does one smuggle Christmas?"

Quicksilver put her free hand on the table and leaned nearer to Nicolazzini's ear. "Now," she said, "if I told you the how of it, it might get back to the folks I did the smuggling from. And then I might not be able to do it again should the need arise." She straightened. "You gotta keep in practice, right, Quillan?"

"Right," said Quillan. He swung his shot glass again and soda splashed him all down the front. He threw back his head and laughed in genuine delight. "Guess I just proved that, didn't I?" he said, as Jackley swabbed him with a napkin.

Quillan suffered the swabbing for only a moment or two, then he got away. Using Nicolazzini for cover, he said in her ear, "Quicksilver doesn't practice telling stories. Ask Uncle Midji---he gets more fun out of the telling than Quicksilver does." As Jackley reached around Nicolazzini, the boy darted away, shouting, "Uncle Midji! Hey, Uncle Midji!"

Nicolazzini couldn't help but grin. Jackley spread his hands. "Kids," he said. "Well, it's warm enough in here, and by the time we head home he'll be dry."

"Especially the way he keeps moving," Nicolazzini said.

Quillan was half-way across the room now and on his way back with an elderly man in his wake, towed along by Quillan's grasp on the outsized notebook he carried. He was aged enough that Nicolazzini caught herself wishing the boy wouldn't rush him---until she realized that Uncle Midji was as quick of step as the boy.

"Here, Uncle Midji," Quillan announced. "These are the La Gioias and they want to know how Quicksilver smuggled Christmas." He paused, watching carefully as the old gentleman shook hands all around. The old gentleman pulled up a chair, turned it quite deliberately to face Nicolazzini, opened his notebook---no, Nicolazzini saw, it was a sketchbook---and began to sketch...Nicolazzini.

Quillan laid an obstructing hand on the sheaf of paper. "Fair is fair, Uncle Midji. You get to sketch, she gets the story. Same deal you do with us. It's Christmas Eve and she's a long way from home and I say you ought to treat her right."

Uncle Midji smiled at Nicolazzini. "What do you say?"

"I would like to hear the story---" Nicolazzini began.

"Good," he said, as if that were all settled. "Then neither of you will mind if I sketch while I talk." He gave Nicolazzini a searching look, nodded to himself, and began to sketch.

A moment later---after Quillan prodded him with a finger---he began to talk. "Well, Quillan, I can't tell her the how of it. But I can tell her the why of it."

His pencil stopped in mid-stroke and he met Nicolazzini's eyes. "Quicksilver smuggled Christmas for me and my wife and my daughters and for Quillan here, which is why he takes such an inordinate interest in the tale even though he's not old enough to remember it." Uncle Midji smiled radiantly at Quillan, who saw his smile and raised him a grin.

"I don't know how much you know about Butterfly, but we've always been a trading hub. Almost everything comes through here on its way to Foolhardy and the other major population centers in this sector. If you'll take a good look at the Christmas tree, you'll see decorations from just about every culture on every world---"

He turned the page of his sketchbook. Reaching out a gentle hand, he turned Nicolazzini's face toward the tree. "Hold it there," he said. "But, like every world I ever heard of, we've got our own special favorites. And our own special favorites used to come from Alway."

Nicolazzini's head jerked toward him.

"Uh-uh," he said, catching her chin and posing her again. "You pose, I talk. Good. Now, you're probably too young to remember"---he glanced at Quillan---"Most kids don't. But our favorite decorations came from Alway, right up until '80."

He sighed suddenly but Nicolazzini had caught on by now and did not turn her head.

So he went on: "That was the year the government of Alway went rogue. They changed the name of their world to Straight-and-Narrow that year---though if you'd asked any Alwayn in the street they'd have told you that was a stupid idea---after all, what right does the government have to decide on the name of your home world?"

Nicolazzini did move her head then, to give it a quick shake at Corcos, who'd risen frowning behind Uncle Midji.

"Exactly," said Uncle Midji. "None." He turned the page again and scraped his chair along until he found, apparently, another good view.

"Yet," he said, "nobody raised a cry, so the rogue government went on. Next, they passed a law saying that buchanism was the official, and only acceptable, religion of the newly-named Straight-and-Narrow and then...."

Quillan was bouncing again, and his excitement was not lost on Uncle Midji. He turned to the boy and said, "You tell her what happened next."

"They closed the borders," Quillan said. He was repeating the story as it had been told to him, but his eyes were huge, as if he still couldn't believe adults would let something like that happen. "They said, to keep Straight-and-Narrow to the straight and narrow, they weren't going to let anybody come there---not even for trade!"

"That's right," said Uncle Midji, and he looked solemn for a long moment. "The last message we got from Straight-and-Narrow was: 'You're not dragging us to hell with you.'"

"And that was it," Jackley put in. "Straight-and-Narrow shut itself down. Folded in on itself. All trade between here and there stopped dead."

Uncle Midji cocked his head at Jackley. "All trade between Straight-and-Narrow and anywhere stopped dead. You can't take it personally, Gabe."

Quillan said, in a stage whisper: "But he did."

"I guess I did," said Jackley, "but I wasn't the only one. And it was all because of Christmas---"

"Oh!" said Nicolazzini. "Quillan told me you'd always gotten Carran spruce seedlings from them to raise as Christmas trees---"

"That was just part of it," Gabe said. "Not even the major part. You can see we've sort of worked that out, though Lord knows what'll happen when the pines get too big to move inside. No, it was the Christmas tree decorations---we'd always gotten the best ones, our favorites from Alway---and there simply was no other source of them."

"I was just a baby," said Quillan. "So I don't remember this bit. Everybody"---in this instance, that meant Gabe and Uncle Midji and all the adults in a hand-swing---"tried to hoard the Alwayn decorations, hoping they'd last---"

"But," Uncle Midji said, shaking his head sadly, "even with the best of care, they were too delicate, too ephemeral to last more than a few years. By '85, the last of them were gone."

"And Straight-and-Narrow still hadn't opened up," said Jackley.

"And it was two months before Christmas and we were moping," said Uncle Midji.

"G'wan," said Quillan.

Uncle Midji stuck his pencil behind his ear and raised his right hand. "We were moping, we were sulking, we were doing all those things you kids do when you can't get your way. And, of course, we blamed it on you kids. We said we were miserable that Christmas was coming and you kids would never get to see a properly decorated Christmas tree.... The truth was, we knew there wasn't a single Alwayn decoration left on Butterfly and we were going to feel cheated out of Christmas without them."

A pair of tall girls---twins, Nicolazzini realized---had come up behind to peer over Uncle Midji's shoulder. "We're old enough to remember, Quillan," one of them said. "We didn't know what was wrong, but all the adults were acting like---" The one faltered and her sister took up the sentence and finished, "They were acting pretty much the way Kim does when you tell her its time for bed and, no, she can't have one more story."

"Wow," said Quillan. He looked at his father with new eyes. "No wonder Quicksilver called you all a bunch of big babies!" He glanced at Nicolazzini and added hastily, "She said it with a smile, so I don't think she said it to be mean." Suddenly, he smiled. "No, she didn't say it to be mean, 'cause that's when she closed the inn."

One of the twins said, "Which sounds meaner, Quillan." To Nicolazzini, she said, "Quicksilver told Dad"---she tapped Uncle Midji---"he and Mom had to hold the fort and plan the Christmas Wingding that year."

"Then she took off in that awful rattletrap of hers---"

"Which you'd never think would get safely off the ground once, let alone twice!"

"Which you saw at the spaceport---"

"The one with the wreath."

"Hah!" said Jackley. "Now I know who put the wreath on the old Bugcrusher...."

Each girl gave the other such a studied look of innocence that Nicolazzini thought they were practicing in a mirror. "Who, us?" said one. "Gotta go now," said the other. "Gotta go help Quicksilver," said one, overlapping with the other's "help Mom." They finished in chorus, "Bye now," and charged into the crowd, bursting into laughter as they vanished.

Uncle Midji's shoulders shook with silent laughter. Aloud, he said, "Oh, poor Stephen's in for a night of it: they're pretending to be each other." When at last his shoulders stilled, he looked again at his sketch and again at Nicolazzini.

"So Suzi and I planned the Wingding that year, and Quicksilver was gone---who knew where---she hadn't said a word to anyone about her destination. By the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, we'd all gotten plenty worried. Quicksilver still hadn't shown up for her party, and she'd never missed a Christmas Eve, not one, in all the years we'd known her!"

Uncle Midji gave Jackley a long look. "Your turn now, Gabe. 'Cause I don't know what's legal and what isn't."

Jackley shook his head and grinned. "You take that 'smuggling' charge too seriously, Midji. Everybody does: that's why I'm 'stuck' with Christmas Eve duty at Customs." He turned to Nicolazzini and said, "I was on duty that Christmas Eve, when Quicksilver's old Bugcrusher wallowed in for a landing. In my official capacity as customs' inspector, I asked did she or her passengers have anything to declare."

He grinned again at Uncle Midji. "She may have smuggled the decorations off Straight'n---I'm sure the folks on Straight'n would love to string her up---but it's nowhere illegal to bring Alwayn---Straight'n---Christmas tree decorations onto Butterfly. So I let her and her passengers in...."

He leaned back contentedly and waved a hand at Quicksilver for another drink. "Quicksilver brought us our old familiar, our old favorite Christmas tree decorations---an entire cargo hold full of them. To this day, I don't know how she managed to arrange the buying of them or the secret landing on Straight'n, but to this day, I salute her for it."

He raised his empty glass to Lori as she approached to do just that.

"Good," said Quicksilver, ignoring the import of the gesture. "An empty glass." From behind her back, she drew a globe-shaped bottle with an gilded belly full of amber liquid.

Jackley's eyes widened. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Probably not," Quicksilver told him. "After all, it's illegal to import killi juice liqueur to Butterfly---something about not buying products that we can't make locally.... Never did understand that one." She flicked open the lid with a thumbnail and poured. "Got this for a Christmas present," she said. "Thought you'd like a swig or two, since it looks so much like that poison you're so fond of."

Nicolazzini knew from the exchange that the bottle did indeed contain some politically forbidden liqueur and knew as well that Jackley had somehow passed it through Customs all unknowing. She watched as the two old friends toasted each other in smuggled liqueur.

A cheer went up from the front of the room. It sounded to Nicolazzini as if the party-goers were all chanting, "Ruffle-OHS! Ruffle-OHS!." She stood up and craned for a better look.

Behind her, Quillan jumped onto the chair she'd just vacated. From over her head, he explained, "The Ruffolos are here! It's Marcena and Julietta---and they've brought the Alwayn decorations!"

He hopped off the chair as lightly as he hopped on. Grabbing Nicolazzini's hand, he drew her through the crowd. "You'll have to hang one on the tree too. Everybody at the Wingding gets to hang one. I'll help you pick a good one!"

He elbowed a way for her through the crowd to the bar itself. Now ranged along the bar were tray after tray of...decorations?

Nicolazzini frowned slightly. There was no accounting for taste, she supposed, but this was hardly what she'd expected. Each tray was divided into tiny padded compartments, like a high-class chocolate box. In each compartment nestled an inch-long shiny brown object flecked with gold. They were blown glass, perhaps. At the top of each was a thin loop of gold thread.

She frowned at the assortment, while Quillan clambered onto one of the barstools beside her. There he knelt, overlooking the trays, with eyes that were at once greedy and anticipatory. Over his shoulder, he jabbed at Nicolazzini with his thumb. "She's never seen a Butterfly Christmas, Julietta," he said to the bright-faced woman who was delicately passing out choices. "Help me pick her a really good one!"

"Never seen a Butterfly Christmas?" Julietta said. "Let's give her a couple, then." To Nicolazzini, Julietta said, "Have you got a favorite color combination?"

However surprised she was by the question, Nicolazzini didn't hesitate: "Red and gold, first choice."

That obviously surprised Julietta---Nicolazzini realized belatedly she was wearing the best of her greys, an old holdover from the sumptuary laws---but surprised or not, she nodded. "I've got just the thing for you, then," she said.

Julietta moved down the bar and leaned over the heads of two five-year-olds who were having as difficult a time over their decision as any who'd ever been told "Only two chocolates," and came back dangling two of the brown objects by their loops. "Brand new this year."

Nicolazzini was further bemused---these two didn't seem any redder than any others in the tray. "Do you folks see colors differently?"

"Oh!" said Quillan, suddenly. "You really don't know! See---"

"Hush up, Quillan," said Julietta quickly. "If she really doesn't know, let her be surprised. Remember the first time you saw them?"

Quillan got a dreamy look. "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out softly. "I remember. Okay." To Nicolazzini, he said, "You have to wait for the surprise." He slid from the stool and led her to the tree. "Now you hang them up---and remember where you put them, so you'll know which ones are yours Christmas morning."

Nicolazzini chose a spot near a plump paper mache cat sporting a purple feather boa. That she was sure she would remember, just in case Quillan asked her later. She'd done her share of testing the adults in her childhood, after all. She hung the first to the right of the cat, then paused to put a fingertip under the second decoration for a closer look.

"Uh-uh," said a young man who holding a small child in his arms. "Don't touch. The heat from your fingers can sometimes affect them. They're really delicate." To the child, he said, "How about next to the mermaid? You wouldn't forget the mermaid, would you?"

The little boy shook his head vigorously. "Never!" he said, and he very carefully, with only a little help, hung his ornament next to the mermaid.

Still holding the second Alwayn ornament at eye level, Nicolazzini frowned at Quillan.

"You can take his word for it," Quillan said. "That's Massimo Ruffolo---he makes them so he knows more about them than anybody."

"Anybody except Marcena and Julietta," Massimo said.

"I don't doubt you," Nicolazzini said, shaking her head. "I just---Quillan, should I really have two? If they're so delicate and so hard to come by, you should be saving some of these...!" She felt like she was taking candy from a baby.

"Oh," said Quillan. "We didn't finish telling you.... That's Massimo Ruffolo," he said again. "Quicksilver didn't just smuggle a cargo-load of decorations off Straight'n. She smuggled the Ruffolos, too: Julietta and Marcena and---"

"And me and Marietta and Inshalla," said Massimo. He slid the child down to his feet and sent him off with a tousle of the head. "Ian and Glen were born here. Guess you could say Quicksilver smuggled the genes for them off Straight-and-Narrow too."

"You don't get it yet?" said Quillan, grinning. "Quicksilver says if you're gonna do something you might as well do it right. She smuggled the people who made the decorations, too, so we'd never have to have another Christmas without the proper decorations for the tree."

"Oh," said Nicolazzini. Relieved of all guilt, she hung the second Alwayn ornament beside the paper mache cat.

Massimo looked at Quillan thoughtfully. "I sometimes wonder what happened when Straight-and-Narrow ran out of ornaments. I always feel a little sorry for them."

"Don't," said Nicolazzini. "From what Quillan tells me, they made their choice. I take it you came willingly away from that world."

"More than willingly," he said.

Behind him, Julietta said, "With wings on! By the time Quicksilver contacted us, the government had already decided that joy had no place in Straight-and-Narrow. It was only a matter of time before we could no longer practice our trade there anyhow."

Massimo said, "Sometimes I really miss Alway, but I don't miss Straight-and-Narrow a bit."

"What was it like?---Alway, I mean," Nicolazzini asked.

A brilliant smile broke across Massimo's face. "Tomorrow morning you'll see for yourself."

The quartet had struck up a familiar tune, once again at an unfamiliar tempo. Massimo snapped his fingers to "In Excelsis Deo" and said, "Hey, my favorite! Would you like to dance?" When she hesitated, he said, "It's traditional."

"I don't know how," Nicolazzini admitted.

"Nothing easier," he said. "I'll show you. Excuse us, Quillan?"

"Sure," said Quillan.

Massimo didn't give Nicolazzini any such choice, and she danced the rest of the evening away. Mostly with Massimo, who seemed to have the world's highest tolerance for having his feet stepped on. They danced a quickstep---an Alwayn quickstep---to "In Excelsis Deo" and a waltz to the fiddler's own "Christmas Eve Waltz."

Then came "Lord of the Dance...." Nicolazzini had heard the tune all her life, but she'd never before heard the lyric and she had to listen to the words.

Dance, then, wherever you may be,

For I am the Lord of the Dance, said He.

Massimo waited out the dance with her and, when she turned her astonished eyes to him, he said, "I think we've just scandalized you."

She shook her head vigorously. "No," she said. "No. I love that song and, now that I've heard the words, I love that song even more."

Quillan said, "We sure did scandalize your Terry." He pointed with a fist-full of popcorn. "I don't think he's having much fun at all."

Nicolazzini followed the point and saw what he meant: Corcos looked for all the world like he'd just eaten an entire lemon. She laughed. "Quillan, that man is having the time of his life."

"Gwan," said Quillan.

"If he doesn't have something to disapprove of, he's not happy. Believe me---I've known him for years. He's going to love it here."

Quillan and Massimo both laughed, and Massimo said, "Shall I ask them to sing 'Lord of the Dance' again, then?"

"Oh, yes! Please do!"

He did, and this time she danced as the Lord of the Dance commanded, a contradance---but with Massimo and Quillan and even Quicksilver willing to guide her she made it safely through the intricate steps. At the ending bow, Corcos gave her his deepest scowl, and she knew---at the very least---that she'd shown true reverence for the season.

And then there was more dancing and more singing and more eating. Jackley even granted her a taste of the killi juice liqueur and she'd had to agree she saw no reason to ban such a flavor from Butterfly. She and Quillan danced a two-step, and Quicksilver taught her a Butterfly skirt dance that made her want a red and gold skirt to flutter so badly she could have cried, until she realized she could buy herself one---for Christmas!

She helped herself to another plate of catfish and was about to ask Massimo directions to the nearest clothing shop, when Marcena climbed onto a table top and banged a gong.

When the room came to order, Marcena checked her watch and said, "Okay, folks---it's time!"

Massimo patted Nicolazzini on the arm, and she followed him, wildly curious. From behind the bar, his parents handed out flashlights---or that was what they looked like to Nicolazzini. There was a great deal of arranging and jockeying as everyone aimed the lights at various areas of the Christmas tree.

Massimo gave Nicolazzini his own and directed her aim. "We try to get them all in one shot," he began, but Quillan said, "No, her first tree---we want to surprise her!" So Massimo stopped what might have been an explanation and, instead, he mugged at her---so she knew it was a patent lie---and said, "Flashbulbs.... So we can get a good photo of this year's tree." And someone else had obligingly raised a camera that Nicolazzini knew for a fact would have been overwhelmed by the sudden burst of light from all those bulbs at once.

After that, Marcena said, "Got it. Be here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning for the show. Merry Christmas!"

The entire crowd had responded, "Merry Christmas!" And a few minutes later, they'd all gone home, and Nicolazzini had gone up to bed to collapse, still smiling, all her disappointment in the much-vaunted Alwayn decorations forgotten.

On the dressing table, she'd laid the sketch Uncle Midji had torn from his pad to give her---a welcome to Butterfly Christmas present he said. He'd made her look like an angel, which she was sure was not true to life, and behind her head--for halo---he'd sketched the open wings of a butterfly. She didn't need to read the signature to realize at last that Quillan's Uncle Midji was Bemidji Karawan. She smiled back at her own smiling face.

#

She was still smiling when someone shook her shoulder and whispered, "Come on---psst---come on! The adults don't get up for the best part but I'll show you since you've never seen."

When her eyes at last focussed, she saw Quillan standing beside her bed. "What time is it," she demanded, as any sensible adult would.

"Nine o'clock," he said. "Come on, get up or you'll miss it." He vanished out the door.

Discreet for his age, she thought. Well, she'd been told to see a Butterfly Christmas. She wasn't sure Alceo Nicolazzini had been acting in his capacity as her father or in his capacity as Chief of State, but she might as well see the whole thing. So far, Quillan had been right in every particular about the "bests."

She threw on some clothing and dashed some water on her face.

Quillan was lounging against the wall outside her door; he was trying very hard not to look impatient. He glanced at the peachywand blossom watch pinned to his lapel and said, "Not bad," grabbed her hand and led her, at a goodly clip, down the stairs and back into the dining room.

All the evidence of the previous night's party had been cleared and the side board was being newly laid with breakfast foods. But it wasn't first pick of breakfast Quillan was after....

He lead her to the tree, where some two dozen youngsters were already arrayed and watching something---or for something---intently. Jackley was there and the Karawans and the entire Ruffolo clan---including Massimo, whose toes seemed none the worse for wear. And Quicksilver was orchestrating the breakfast table.

"May I help?" Nicolazzini said. One didn't ordinarily offer to help the innkeeper, but she'd been invited to the Wingding and she'd been made to feel a part of the family and she felt like part of the family.

Quicksilver shook her head and sent that blonde hair flying. "You go watch the tree. If yours is the first out, you get the prize, you know. The kids held a conference last night and agreed on that, since this is your first Christmas on Butterfly."

A chorus of agreement came from the children around the Christmas tree, and Nicolazzini joined them. "What am I watching for?" she asked, at last, unable to see the point of this part of Butterfly's Christmas ritual.

"Just watch your decorations," Quillan said, and he pointed. "You'll know it when you see it." He'd remembered where she'd hung the two chosen for her and hadn't even tested her. That spoke volumes about Jackley.

She looked for two shiny brown lumps with gold spots. She'd have thought the exercise pointless but for the intensity of those around her. Something had changed overnight, she saw. The two thumb-sized lumps were shiny brown no longer. They were transparent now---and within each she saw a hint of the promised red and gold.

Not blown glass. Butterfly had gotten all its biologicals from Alway---Quillan had told her that and she'd thought he was referring to the Carran spruce. But the Alwayn ornaments were not blown glass.

Red and gold shifted and Nicolazzini caught her breath sharply as the transparent shell split open. "Oh!" she said aloud. "Oh!"

Massimo glanced up, smiling. "Julietta picked you the right ones," he said, and to the world at large, he announced, "She's got the first one out!"

Slowly, clumsily, the first butterfly struggled clear of its pupa and, step by awkward step, it made its way to the branch above. There it clung, trembling from sheer newness. Its distended abdomen throbbed, its tiny wrinkled wings shivered. It was damp, bedraggled, and entirely beautiful.

"Mine's second," shouted a small voice, triumphantly, and another voice said, "Mine too! Oh!---it's so blue!" But even at that worshipful "blue," Nicolazzini couldn't take her eyes away from her own butterflies.

The second pupa split and a second red and gold butterfly struggled free and began its climb.

By the time the second butterfly had reached the tip of the branch, the first butterfly's wings had already begun to expand, their color deepening to that of glowing coals. As if that weren't enough, as if more were the order of the day, the first butterfly was going to have tails---elegant tails painted red and gold!

Someone---Quillan---caught her hand and squeezed it. "You see why I woke you early?" he said.

"Oh, yes," she breathed and squeezed back. "Thank you, Quillan. I wouldn't have missed this for the world!"

The first butterfly spread open its wings, a full two inches of glowing dar-red velvet overlain with gold. Expanded and dried, its tails were not so much elegant as rakish---they curled!---and Nicolazzini laughed aloud to see traced in gold the length of each tail an exclamation mark. If ever a creature deserved exclamation marks, the first butterfly did!

And so did the second, as it too spread its expanded wings to splash red and gold against the tree's dark green needles. Even though the second butterfly's tails were traced with delicate gold asterisks, Nicolazzini had by then decided that all butterflies deserved exclamation marks, by the simple virtue of being butterflies.

"Oh, look!" someone said. "Gabe's got a green one! Marcena, you finally made Gabe a green one!"

"I cheated," said Marcena. "I bought the genes for that color from a butterfly collector on Foolhardy."

"Hell, Marcena," said Gabe. "You shouldn't have gone to all that expense...."

Massimo laughed. "Don't you worry, Gabe. We'll make it back sixty-fold in sales to Foolhardy next Christmas---probably to the same butterfly collector." He touched Nicolazzini's arm and said, "You're allowed to blink, you know. They won't fly away for two or three hours."

"They're so beautiful," was all she could say in response.

"I'm glad you like them. I designed that batch myself," he said. "But now it's time to take a step back and have a look at the whole tree...." And he and Quillan took her hands and stepped back with her.

The entire tree had come alive. Everywhere she looked, color rippled softly, as a hundred butterflies opened and closed their wings, testing their strength, tasting the air. There were gentle colors and jewel colors, watercolors and colors that shimmered like oil over water. Gabe's green one was emerald green and Nicolazzini knew on sight which butterfly had been "so blue!" There was a black velvet butterfly inlaid with gold, there was a bright orange butterfly etched in black, there were pastel blues with their edges scalloped soft brown, there was a black and white butterfly that would have made fit piano keys for an impressionist, there were pale pink butterflies and rose pink butterflies and deep butter-yellow butterflies. Folding and unfolding....

There were checked butterflies and striped butterflies and butterflies with "eyes" that seemed to stare back at her. There were subtle colors and startling colors. The "eyes" closed abruptly as a butterfly folded its wings. Both of her red and gold butterflies spread their wings simultaneously, and Nicolazzini clapped her hands in sheer joy.

Quillan brought her an emerald one on the tip of his finger. "Hold out your finger," he said. "You have to hold real still---it can't fly yet, remember."

As Quillan coaxed the butterfly from his fingertip to hers, Nicolazzini remembered---remembered another tree covered in butterflies, remembered a breath-taking moment of time when a butterfly, striped pale blue and sharp black, had clung to her thumb....

All these years, she'd thought those images nothing more than the remnants of a very vivid childhood dream. But it had been no dream. It had been as real as the emerald butterfly on her fingertip.

At last she understood why her father had sent her to Butterfly in time for Christmas. "Oh," she said, "I wish Dad could see this...."

She must have said it aloud because Massimo said, "Then you get your wish. I'll make you up our best assortment and give you an activating light and you can take it to him for next Christmas. Unless he's on Straight'n," he added by way of joke. "In which case, I'll bet we could talk Quicksilver into smuggling it in to him. She's such a soft touch for Christmas wishes."

Quicksilver, passing by with a tray of sliced and embellished fruits, stuck her tongue out at him and said, "If you folks want first grab at breakfast, now's your chance. The stayabeds should be arriving any minute now."

Nicolazzini gave the offer only a second's thought, and then went back to the tree to watch the few remaining late rousers on the tree emerge from their pupae. When she and the youngest toddler could find no more, she sighed contentedly and turned her thoughts---back to Massimo and Quillan and the rest.

The dining room was once again filled with people, all ooohing and aaaahing over the tree. The emerald green butterflies Marcena had made especially for Gabe Jackley were being much exclaimed over. Even her colleagues were awed by the Christmas tree and its live decorations, though Nicolazzini couldn't refrain from telling them they'd missed the best part of the show.

Corcos, as disapproving as ever, asked, "What happens when they do fly?"

She'd been too admiring to consider the problem, so she applied to Massimo for the answer.

"In an hour or so, we'll open the main doors again. You saw the field of peachywands outside? They'll make straight for that."

And the stragglers would settle on the peachywands that woven into the bannister's uprights and lain across mantels and tables---so they'd be easily carried outside, too, Nicolazzini realized.

"Where they'll play havoc with your ecology; those butterflies aren't native to Butterfly," Corcos said, still scowling.

Massimo Ruffolo just smiled. "No butterfly is," he said. "And ours are sterile. They'll brighten the fields just long enough to pollinate the peachywands. Then we'll start to work on a whole new batch for next year's Christmas." The smile turned into a grin. "That's what keeps us in business."

"Heads up, you La Gioias," Quicksilver said, bending close to their table. "The hounds have been sighted and they're sniffing this way. We grant you another hour's peace but, longer than that, we can't guarantee."

Massimo looked from Quicksilver to Nicolazzini, then said to Nicolazzini, "You folks need a hideout?" Without waiting for an answer, he raised a hand to hail Marcena and Julietta.

"No," said Nicolazzini. "No, we don't need a hideout any more. But we thank you for the offer." She waved together her colleagues, and waved Gabe and Quillan over while she was at it.

"We're here to present our diplomatic credentials to your president," Nicolazzini said. "But I think it would be more fitting if we presented our credentials to Quicksilver."

For once, Quicksilver stood still. Hands on hips, she met Nicolazzini's eyes steadily, waiting only for an explanation.

Nicolazzini said, "Corcos, may I have our letter of introduction, please?" She knew he'd have it on him; he hadn't let it out of his keeping since they'd left Foolhardy. When he grudgingly produced it, Nicolazzini unfolded it with a smile and handed it to Quicksilver.

"What's it say," Quillan demanded. "What's it say?"

Quicksilver laughed aloud. Then she refolded the paper and returned it to Nicolazzini. "It says," she told Quillan, "that Alway is Alway again. And Dr. Celia Nicolazzini"---she held out her hand to Nicolazzini, who took it---"is Alway's ambassador to Butterfly."

With that, Quicksilver shook Nicolazzini's hand and said, "I hope you tarred and feathered those Straight'n fools. Welcome back to the trade routes. I wondered how long it would take before you folks showed some common sense and kicked those dimwits out of office."

"It took about five years without the 'proper' Christmas tree decorations," Nicolazzini said.

"And if you're still in the trading business, Quicksilver," she went on. "I'd like the first box of butterflies to go to my Dad. Massimo's finest red and gold ones, I think. I can't write you a trade permit until I've been officially accepted by your president, but you'll find it ready and waiting for you five minutes after the formalities are over and done with."

Nicolazzini caught Quicksilver's suppressed smile and couldn't help herself. "Unless you prefer to smuggle them in to him," she added, "just to keep in practice, that is."

Quillan was scowling at all of them, but mostly at Nicolazzini. "I don't get it," he said.

"Quillan," Nicolazzini said, "when Quicksilver smuggled Christmas to Butterfly, she smuggled Christmas off Straight-and-Narrow. Nobody else could raise and breed and genetically engineer those Ruffolo decorations. And my Dad was as unhappy with that as yours was. So he did something about it too. Since he didn't know Quicksilver, it took a lot more work and a lot longer to fix. But it is fixed, and Strai---Alway is open for trade again. And the first item on the trade agenda, I've no doubt, is a cargo hold full of Butterfly Christmas tree decorations. Perhaps in trade for some Carran spruce seedlings...?"

"That would have been my next run," Quicksilver said. "Good. That saves me the trouble."

"They're off!" Marcena shouted. "Get those doors open, somebody---everybody! Let 'em fly!"

Nicolazzini beat Quillan to the main doors by a hair, but they both had to wait for Quicksilver to throw the iron rods before they lean into the work of forcing the arched doors open their full width and height. Across the room, Jackley and Massimo and Marcena and Julietta heaved open the other half of the door.

Even before the doors were fully ajar, the first butterfly flicked through the opening---Gabe's glittering green gem dancing into the sunlit air.

And then there were two red and gold ones, an amethyst filigreed gold, and then the air was filled with them, all dancing into the freedom of the field beyond Smugglers' Rest....

Quicksilver smiled at Nicolazzini. "Merry Christmas," she said.

"Yes," Nicolazzini agreed, "a very merry Christmas!"

THE NUTCRACKER COUP

Marianne Tedesco had "The Nutcracker Suite" turned up full blast for inspiration, and as she whittled she now and then raised her knife to conduct Tchaikovsky. That was what she was doing when one of the locals poked his delicate snout around the corner of the door to her office. She nudged the sound down to a whisper in the background and beckoned him in.

It was Tatep, of course. After almost a year on Rejoicing (that was the literal translation of the world's name), she still had a bit of trouble recognizing the Rejoicers by snout alone, but the three white quills in Tatep's ruff had made him the first real "individual" to her. Helluva thing for a junior diplomat not to be able to tell one local from another---but there it was. Marianne was desperately trying to learn the snout shapes that distinguished the Rejoicers to each other.

"Good morning, Tatep. What can I do for you?"

"Share?" said Tatep.

"Of course. Shall I turn the music off?" Marianne knew that The Nutcracker Suite was as alien to him as the rattling and scraping of his music was to her. She was beginning to like pieces here and there of the Rejoicer style but she didn't know if Tatep felt the same way about Tchaikovsky.

"Please, leave it on," he said. "You've played it every day this week---am I right? And now I find you waving your knife to the beat. Will you share the reason?"

She had played it every day this week, she realized. "I'll try to explain. It's a little silly, really, and it shouldn't be taken as characteristic of human. Just as characteristic of Marianne."

"Understood." He climbed the stepstool she'd cobbled together her first month on Rejoicing and settled himself on his haunches comfortably to listen. At rest, the wicked quills adorning his ruff and tail seemed just that: adornments. By local standards, Tatep was a handsome male.

He was also a quadruped and human chairs weren't the least bit of use to him. The stepstool let him lounge on its broad upper platform or sit upright on the step below that---in either case, it put a Rejoicer eye to eye with Marianne. This had been so successful an innovation in the embassy that they had hired a local artisan to make several for each office. Chornian's stepstools were a more elaborate affair, but Chornian himself had refused to make one to replace "the very first." A fine sense of tradition, these Rejoicers.

That was, of course, the best way to explain the Tchaikovsky. "Have you noticed, Tatep, that the further away from home you go, the more important it becomes to keep traditions?"

"Yes," he said. He drew a small piece of sweetwood from his pouch and seemed to consider it thoughtfully. "Ah! I hadn't thought how very strongly you must need tradition! You're very far from home indeed. Some thirty light years, is it not?" He bit into the wood, shaving a delicate curl from it with one corner of his razor sharp front tooth. The curl he swallowed, then he said, "Please, go on."

The control he had always fascinated Marianne---she would have preferred to watch him carve, but she spoke instead. "My family tradition is to celebrate a holiday called Christmas."

He swallowed another shaving and repeated, "Christmas."

"For some humans Christmas is a religious holiday. For my family, it was more of...a turning of the seasons. Now, Esperanza and I couldn't agree on a date---her homeworld's calendar runs differently than mine---but we both agree on a need to celebrate Christmas once a year. So, since it's a solstice festival, I asked Muhammed what was the shortest day of the year on Rejoicing. He says that's Tamemb Nap Ohd."

Tatep bristled his ruff forward, confirming Muhammed's date.

"So I have decided to celebrate Christmas Eve on Tamemb Nap Ohd and to celebrate Christmas Day on Tememb Nap Chorr."

"Christmas is a revival, then? An awakening?"

"Yes, something like that. A renewal. A promise of spring to come."

"Yes, we have an Awakening on Tememb Nap Chorr as well."

Marianne nodded. "Many peoples do. Anyhow, I mentioned that I wanted to celebrate and a number of other people at the Embassy decided it was a good idea. So, we're trying to put together something that resembles a Christmas celebration---mostly from local materials."

She gestured toward the player. "That piece of music is generally associated with Christmas. I've been playing it because it---gives me an anticipation of the Awakening to come."

Tatep was doing fine finishing work now, and Marianne had to stop to watch. The bit of sweetwood was turning into a pair of tommets---the Embassy staff had dubbed them "notrabbits" for their sexual proclivities---engaged in their mating dance. Tatep rattled his spines, amused, and passed the carving into her hands. He waited quietly while she turned it this way and that, admiring the exquisite workmanship.

"You don't get the joke," he said, at last.

"No, Tatep. I'm afraid I don't. Can you share it?"

"Look closely at their teeth."

Marianne did, and got the joke. The creatures were tommets, yes, but the teeth they had were not tommet teeth. They were the same sort of teeth that Tatep had used to carve them. Apparently, "fucking like tommets" was a Rejoicer joke.

"It's a gift for Hapet and Achinto. They had six children! We're all pleased and amazed for them."

Four to a brood was the usual, but birthings were few and far between. A couple that had more than two birthings in a lifetime was considered unusually lucky.

"Congratulate them for me, if you think it appropriate," Marianne said. "Would it be proper for the embassy to send a gift?"

"Proper and most welcome. Hapet and Achinto will need help feeding that many."

"Would you help me choose? Something to make children grow healthy and strong, and something as well to delight their senses."

"I'd be glad to. Shall we go to the market or the wood?"

"Let's go chop our own, Tatep. I've been sitting behind this desk too damn long. I could use the exercise."

As Marianne rose, Tatep put his finished carving into his pouch and climbed down. "You will share more about Christmas with me while we work? You can talk and chop at the same time."

Marianne grinned. "I'll do better than that. You can help me choose something that we can use for a Christmas tree, as well. If it's something that is also edible when it has seasoned for a few weeks' time, that would be all the more to the spirit of the festival."

#

The two of them took a leisurely stroll down the narrow cobbled streets. Marianne shared more of her Christmas customs with Tatep and found her anticipation growing apace as she did.

At Tatep's suggestion they paused at Killim the glass-blower's, where Tatep helped Marianne describe and order a dozen ornamental balls for the tree. Unaccustomed to the idea of purely ornamental glass objects, Killim was fascinated. "She says," reported Tatep when Marianne missed a few crucial words of her reply, "she'll make a number of samples and you'll return on Debem Op Chorr to choose the most proper."

Marianne nodded. Before she could thank Killim, however, she heard the door behind her open, heard a muffled squeak of surprise, and turned. Halemtat had ordered yet another of his subjects clipped---Marianne saw that much before the local beat a hasty retreat from the door and vanished.

"Oh, god," she said aloud. "Another one." That, she admitted to herself for the first time, was why she was making such an effort to recognize the individual Rejoicers by facial shape alone. She'd seen no less than fifty clipped in the year she'd been on Rejoicing. There was no doubt in her mind that this was a new one---the blunted tips of its quills had been bright and crisp. "Who is it this time, Tatep?"

Tatep ducked his head in shame. "Chornian," he said.

For once, Marianne couldn't restrain herself. "Why?" she asked, and she heard the unprofessional belligerence in her own voice.

"For saying something I dare not repeat, not even in your language," Tatep said, "unless I wish to have my quills clipped."

Marianne took a deep breath. "I apologize for asking, Tatep. It was stupid of me." Best thing to do would be to get the hell out and let Chornian complete his errand without being shamed in front of the two of them. "Though," she said aloud, not caring if it was professional or not, "it's Halemtat who should be shamed, not Chornian."

Tatep's eyes widened, and Marianne knew she'd gone too far. She thanked the glassblower politely in Rejoicer and promised to return on Debem Opp Chorr to examine the samples.

As they left Killim's, Marianne heard the scurry behind them---Chornian entering the shop as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. She set her mouth---her silence raging---and followed Tatep without a backward glance.

At last they reached the communal wood. Trying for some semblance of normalcy, Marianne asked Tatep for the particulars of an unfamiliar tree.

"Huep," he said. "Very good for carving, but not very good for eating." He paused a moment, thoughtfully. "I think I've put that wrong. The flavor is very good, but it's very low in food value. It grows prodigiously, though, so a lot of people eat too much of it when they shouldn't."

"Junk food," said Marianne, nodding. She explained the term to Tatep and he concurred. "Youngsters are particularly fond of it---but it wouldn't be a good gift for Hapet and Achinto."

"Then let's concentrate on good healthy food for Hapet and Achinto," said Marianne.

Deeper in the wood, they found a stand of the trees the embassy staff had dubbed gnomewood for its gnarly, stunted appearance. Tatep proclaimed this perfect, and Marianne set about to chop the proper branches. Gathering food was more a matter of pruning than chopping down, she'd learned, and she followed Tatep's careful instructions so she did not damage the tree's productive capabilities in the process.

"Now this one---just here," he said. "See, Marianne? Above the boll, for new growth will spring from the boll soon after your Awakening. If you damage the boll, however, there will be no new growth on this branch again."

Marianne chopped with care. The chopping took some of the edge off her anger. Then she inspected the gnomewood and found a second possibility. "Here," she said. "Would this be the proper place?"

"Yes," said Tatep, obviously pleased that she'd caught on so quickly. "That's right." He waited until she had lopped off the second branch and properly chosen a third and then he said, "Chornian said Halemtat had the twining tricks of a talemtat. One of his children liked the rhyme and repeated it."

"Talemtat is the vine that strangles the tree it climbs, am I right?" She kept her voice very low.

Instead of answering aloud, Tatep nodded.

"Did Halemtat---did Halemtat order the child clipped as well?"

Tatep's eyelids shaded his pupils darkly. "The entire family. He ordered the entire family clipped."

So that was why Chornian was running the errands. He would risk his own shame to protect his family from the awful embarrassment---for a Rejoicer---of appearing in public with their quills clipped.

She took out her anger on yet another branch of the gnomewood. When the branch fell---on her foot, as luck would have it---she sat down of a heap, thinking to examine the bruise, then looked Tatep straight in the eye. "How long? How long does it take for the quills to grow out again?"

After much of a year, she hadn't yet seen evidence that an adult's quills regenerated at all. "They do regrow?"

"After several Awakenings," he said. "The regrowth can be quickened by eating welspeth but..."

But welspeth was a hot-house plant in this country. Too expensive for somebody like Chornian.

"I see," she said. "Thank you, Tatep."

"Be careful where you repeat what I've told you. Best you not repeat it at all." He cocked his head at her and added, with a rattle of quills, "I'm not sure where Halemtat would clip a human, or even if you'd feel shamed by a clipping, but I wouldn't like to be responsible for finding out."

Marianne couldn't help but grin. She ran a hand through her pale white hair. "I've had my head shaved---that was long ago and far away---and it was intended to shame me."

"Intended to?"

"I painted my naked scalp bright red and went about my business as usual. I set something of a new fashion and, in the end, it was the shaver who was---quite properly---shamed."

Tatep's eyelids once again shaded his eyes. "I must think about that," he said, at last. "We have enough branches for a proper gift now, Marianne. Shall we consider the question of your Christmas tree?"

"Yes," she said. She rose to her feet and gathered up the branches. "And another thing as well.... I'll need some more wood for carving. I'd like to carve some gifts for my friends, as well. That's another tradition of Christmas."

"Carving gifts? Marianne, you make Christmas sound as if it were a Rejoicing holiday!"

Marianne laughed. "It is, Tatep. I'll gladly share my Christmas with you."

#

Clarence Doggett was Super Plenipotentiary Representing Terra to Rejoicing and today he was dressed to live up to his extravagant title in striped silver tights and a purple silk weskit. No less than four hoops of office jangled from his belt. Marianne had, since meeting him, conceived the theory that the more stylishly outré his dress the more likely he was to say yes to the request of a subordinate. Scratch that theory....

Clarence Doggett straightened his weskit with a tug and said, "We have no reason to write a letter of protest about Emperor Halemtat's treatment of Chornian. He's deprived us of a valuable worker, true, but...."

"Whatever happened to human rights?"

"They're not human, Marianne. They're aliens."

At least he hadn't called them "Pincushions" as he usually did, Marianne thought. Clarence Doggett was the unfortunate result of what the media had dubbed "the Grand Opening." One day humans had been alone in the galaxy, and the next they'd found themselves only a tiny fraction of the intelligent species. Setting up five hundred embassies in the space of a few years had strained the diplomatic service to the bursting point. Rejoicing, considered a backwater world, got the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. Marianne was trying very hard not to be one of those scrapings, despite the example set by Clarence. She clamped her jaw shut very hard.

Clarence brushed at his fashionably large mustache and added, "It's not as if they'll really die of shame, after all."

"Sir," Marianne began.

He raised his hands. "The subject is closed. How are the plans coming for the Christmas bash?"

"Fine, sir," she said without enthusiasm. "Killim---she's the local glassblower---would like to arrange a trade for some dyes, by the way. Not just for the Christmas tree ornaments, I gather, but for some project of her own. I'm sending letters with Nick Minski to a number of glassblowers back home to find out what sort of dye is wanted."

"Good work. Any trade item that helps tie the Rejoicers into the galactic economy is a find. You're to be commended."

Marianne wasn't feeling very commended, but she said, "Thank you, sir."

"And keep up the good work---this Christmas idea of yours is turning out to be a big morale booster."

That was the dismissal. Marianne excused herself and, feet dragging, she headed back to her office. "'They're not human,'" she muttered to herself. "'They're aliens. It's not as if they'll really die of shame....'" She slammed her door closed behind her and snarled aloud, "But Chornian can't keep up work and the kids can't play with their friends and his mate Chaylam can't go to the market. What if they starve?"

"They won't starve," said a firm voice.

Marianne jumped.

"It's just me," said Nick Minski. "I'm early." He leaned back in the chair and put his long legs up on her desk. "I've been watching how the neighbors behave. Friends---your friend Tatep included---take their leftovers to Chornian's family. They won't starve. At least, Chornian's family won't. I'm not sure what would happen to someone who is generally unpopular."

Nick was head of the ethnology team studying the Rejoicers. At least he had genuine observation to base his decisions on.

He tipped the chair to a precarious angle. "I can't begin to guess whether or not helping Chornian will land Tatep in the same hot water, so I can't reassure you there. I take it from your muttering that Clarence won't make a formal protest."

Marianne nodded.

He straightened the chair with a bang that made Marianne start. "Shit," he said. "Doggett's such a pissant."

Marianne grinned ruefully. "God, I'm going to miss you, Nick. Diplomats aren't permitted to speak in such matter-of-fact terms."

"I'll be back in a year. I'll bring you fireworks for your next Christmas." He grinned.

"We've been through that, Nick. Fireworks may be part of your family's Christmas tradition, but they're not part of mine. All that banging and flashing of light just wouldn't feel right to me, not on Christmas."

"Meanwhile," he went on, undeterred, "you think about my offer. You've learned more about Tatep and his people than half the folks on my staff; academic credentials or no, I can swing putting you on the ethnology team. We're short-handed as it is. I'd rather have skipped the rotation home this year but..."

"You can't get everything you want, either."

He laughed. "I think they're afraid we'll all go native if we don't go home one year in five." He preened and grinned suddenly. "How d'you think I'd look in quills?"

"Sharp," she said and drew a second burst of laughter from him.

There was a knock at the door. Marianne stretched out a toe and tapped the latch. Tatep stood on the threshhold, his quills still bristling from the cold. "Hi, Tatep---you're just in time. Come share."

His laughter subsiding to a chuckle, Nick took his feet from the desk and greeted Tatep in high-formal Rejoicer. Tatep returned the favor, then added by way of explanation, "Marianne is sharing her Christmas with me."

Nick cocked his head at Marianne. "But it's not for some time yet...."

"I know," said Marianne. She went to her desk and pulled out a wrapped package. "Tatep, Nick is my very good friend. Ordinarily, we exchange gifts on Christmas Day but since Nick won't be here for Christmas, I'm going to give him his present now."

She held out the package. "Merry Christmas, Nick. A little too early, but---"

"You've hidden the gift in paper," said Tatep. "Is that also traditional?"

"Traditional but not necessary. Some of the pleasure is the surprise involved," Nick told the Rejoicer. With a side-long glance and a smile at Marianne, he held the package to his ear and shook it. "And some of the pleasure is in trying to guess what's in the package." He shook it and listened again. "Nope, I haven't the faintest idea."

He laid the package in his lap.

Tatep flicked his tail in surprise. "Why don't you open it?"

"In my family, it's traditional to wait until Christmas Day to open your presents, even if they're wrapped and sitting under the Christmas tree in plain sight for three weeks or more."

Tatep clambered onto the stool to give him a stare of open astonishment from a more effective angle.

"Oh, no!" said Marianne. "Do you really mean it, Nick? You're not going to open it until Christmas Day?"

Nick laughed again. "I'm teasing." To Tatep, he said, "It's traditional in my family to wait---but it's also traditional to find some rationalization to open a gift the minute you lay hands on it. Marianne wants to see my expression; I think that takes precedence in this case."

His long fingers found a cranny in the paper wrapping and began to worry it ever so slightly. "Besides, our respective homeworlds can't agree on a date for Christmas.... On some world today must be Christmas, right?"

"Good rationalizing," said Marianne, with a sigh and a smile of relief. "Right!"

"Right," said Tatep, catching on. He leaned precariously from his perch to watch as Nick ripped open the wrapping paper.

"Tchaikovsky made me think of it," Marianne said. "Although, to be honest, Tchaikovsky's nutcracker wasn't particularly traditional. This one is: take a close look."

He did. He held up the brightly painted figure, took in its green weskit, its striped silver tights, its flamboyant mustache. Four metal loops jangled at its carved belt and Nick laughed aloud.

With a barely suppressed smile, Marianne handed him a "walnut" of the local variety.

Nick stopped laughing long enough to say, "You mean, this is a genuine, honest-to-god, working nutcracker?"

"Well, of course it is! My family's been making them for years." She made a motion with her hands to demonstrate. "Go ahead---crack that nut!"

Nick put the nut between the cracker's prominent jaws and, after a moment's hesitation, closed his eyes and went ahead. The nut gave with an audible and very satisfying craaack! and Nick began to laugh all over again.

"Share the joke," said Tatep.

"Gladly," said Marianne. "The Christmas nutcracker, of which that is a prime example, is traditionally carved to resemble an authority figure---particularly one nobody much likes. It's a way of getting back at the fraudulent, the pompous. Through the years they've poked fun at everybody from princes to policemen to"---Marianne waved a gracious hand at her own carved figure---"well, surely you recognize him."

"Oh, my," said Tatep, his eyes widening. "Clarence Doggett, is it not?" When Marianne nodded, Tatep said, "Are you about to get your head shaved again?"

Marianne laughed enormously. "If I do, Tatep, this time I'll paint my scalp red and green---traditional Christmas colors---and hang one of Killim's glass ornaments from my ear. Not likely, though," she added to be fair. "Clarence doesn't go in for head shaving." To Nick, who had clearly taken in Tatep's "again," she said, "I'll tell you about it sometime."

Nick nodded and stuck another nut between Clarence's jaws. This time he watched as the nut gave way with a explosive bang. Still laughing, he handed the nutmeat to Tatep, who ate it and rattled his quills in laughter of his own. Marianne was doubly glad she'd invited Tatep to share the occasion---now she knew exactly what to make him for Christmas.

#

Christmas Eve found Marianne at a loss---something was missing from her holiday and she hadn't been able to put her finger on precisely what that something was.

It wasn't the color of the tree Tatep had helped her choose. The tree was the perfect Christmas tree shape, and if its foliage was a red so deep it approached black, that didn't matter a bit. "Next year we'll have Killim make some green ornaments," Marianne said to Tatep, "for the proper contrast."

Tinsel---silver thread she'd bought from one of the Rejoicer weavers and cut to length---flew in all directions. All seven of the kids who'd come to Rejoicing with their ethnologist parents were showing the Rejoicers the "proper" way to hang tinsel, which meant more tinsel was making it onto the kids and the Rejoicers than onto the tree.

Just as well. She'd have to clean the tinsel off the tree before she passed it on to Hapet and Achinto---well-seasoned and just the thing for growing children.

Nick would really have enjoyed seeing this, Marianne thought. Esperanza was filming the whole party, but that just wasn't the same as being here.

Killim brought the glass ornaments herself. She'd made more than the commissioned dozen. The dozen glass balls she gave to Marianne. Each was a swirl of colors, each unique. Everyone ooohed and aaahed---but the best was yet to come. From her sidepack, Killim produced a second container. "Presents," she said. "A present for your Awakening Tree."

Inside the box was a menagerie of tiny, bright glass animals: notrabbits, fingerfish, wispwings.... Each one had a loop of glass at the top to allow them to be hung from the tree. Scarcely trusting herself with such delicate objects of art, Marianne passed them on to George to string and hang.

Later, she took Killim aside and with Tatep's help, thanked her profusely for the gifts. "Though I'm not sure she should have. Tell her I'll be glad to pay for them, Tatep. If she'd had them in her shop, I'd have snapped them up on the spot. I didn't know how badly our Christmas needed them until I saw her unwrap them."

Tatep spoke for a long time to Killim, who rattled all the while. Finally, Tatep rattled too. "Marianne, three humans have commissioned Killim to make animals for them to send home." Killim said something Marianne didn't catch. "Three humans in the last five minutes. She says, Think of this set as a---as an advertisement."

"No, you may not pay me for them," Killim said, still rattling. "I have gained something to trade for my dyes."

"She says," Tatep began.

"It's okay, Tatep. That I understood."

Marianne hung the wooden ornaments she'd carved and painted in bright colors, then she unsnagged a handful of tinsel from Tatep's ruff, divided it in half, and they both flung it onto the tree. Tatep's handful just barely missed Matsimoto who was hanging strings of beads he'd bought in the bazaar, but Marianne's got Juliet, who was hanging chains of paper cranes it must have taken her the better part of the month to fold. Juliet laughed and pulled the tinsel from her hair to drape it---length by length and neatly---over the deep red branches.

Then Kelleb brought out the star. Made of silver wire delicately filigreed, it shone just the way a Christmas tree star should. He hoisted Juliet to his shoulders and she affixed it to the top of the tree and the entire company burst into cheers and applause.

Marianne sighed and wondered why that made her feel so down. "If Nick had been here," Tatep observed, "I believe he could have reached the top without an assistant."

"I think you're right," said Marianne. "I wish he were here. He'd enjoy this." Just for a moment, Marianne let herself realize that what was missing from this Christmas was Nick Minski.

"Next year," said Tatep.

"Next year," said Marianne. The prospect brightened her.

The tree glittered with its finery. For a moment they all stood back and admired it---then there was a scurry and a flurry as folks went to various bags and hiding places and brought out the brightly wrapped presents. Marianne excused herself from Tatep and Killim and brought out hers to heap at the bottom of the tree with the rest.

Again there was a moment's pause of appreciation. Then Clarence Doggett---of all people---raised his glass and said, "A toast! A Christmas toast! Here's to Marianne, for bringing Christmas thirty light years from old Earth!"

Marianne blushed as they raised their glasses to her. When they'd finished, she raised hers and found the right traditional response: "A Merry Christmas---and, God bless us, every one!"

"Okay, Marianne. It's your call," said Esperanza. "Do we open the presents now or"---her voice turned to a mock whine---"do we hafta wait till tomorrow?"

Marianne glanced at Tatep. "What day is it now?" she asked. She knew enough about local time reckoning to know what answer he'd give.

"Why, today is Tememb Nap Chorr."

She grinned at the faces around her. "By Rejoicer reckoning, the day changes when the sun sets---it's been Christmas Day for an hour at least now. But stand back and let the kids find their presents first."

There was a great clamor and rustle of wrapping paper and whoops of delight as the kids dived into the pile of presents.

As Marianne watched with rising joy, Tatep touched her arm. "More guests," he said, and Marianne turned.

It was Chornian, his mate Chaylam, and their four children. Marianne's jaw dropped at the sight of them. She had invited the six with no hope of a response and here they were. "And all dressed up for Christmas!" she said aloud, though she knew Christmas was not the occasion. "You're as glittery as the Christmas tree itself," she told Chornian, her eyes gleaming with the reflection of it.

Ruff and tail, each and every one of Chornian's short-clipped quills was tipped by a brilliant red bead. "Glass?" she asked.

"Yes," said Chornian. "Killim made them for us."

"You look magnificent! Oh---how wonderful!" Chaylam's clipped quills had been dipped in gold; when she shifted shyly, her ruff and tail rippled with light. "You sparkle like sun on the water," Marianne told her. The children's ruffs and tails had been tipped in gold and candy pink and vivid yellow and--- the last but certainly not the least---in beads every color of the rainbow.

"A kid after my own heart," said Marianne. "I think that would have been my choice too." She gave a closer look. "No two alike, am I right? Come---join the party. I was afraid I'd have to drop your presents by your house tomorrow. Now I get to watch you open them, to see if I chose correctly."

She escorted the four children to the tree and, thanking her lucky stars she'd had Tatep write their names on their packages, she left them to hunt for their presents. Those for their parents, she brought back with her.

"It was difficult," Chornian said to Marianne. "It was difficult to walk through the streets with pride but---we did. And the children walked the proudest. They give us courage."

Chaylam said, "If only on their behalf."

"Yes," agreed Chornian. "Tomorrow I shall walk in the sunlight. I shall go to the bazaar. My clipped quills will glitter, and I will not be ashamed that I have spoken the truth about Halemtat."

That was all the Christmas gift Marianne needed, she thought to herself, and handed the wrapped package to Chornian. Tatep gave him a running commentary on the habits and rituals of the human Awakening as he opened the package. Chornian's eyes shaded and Tatep's running commentary ceased abruptly as they peered together into the box.

"Did I get it right?" said Marianne, suddenly afraid she'd committed some awful faux pas. She'd scoured the bazaar for welspeth shoots and, finding none, she'd pulled enough strings with the ethnology team to get some imported.

Tatep was the one who spoke. "You got it right," he said. "Chornian thanks you." Chornian spoke rapid-fire Rejoicer for a long time; Marianne couldn't follow the half of it. When he'd finished, Tatep said simply, "He regrets that he has no present to give you."

"It's not necessary. Seeing those kids all in spangles brightened up the party---that's present enough for me!"

"Nevertheless," said Tatep, speaking slowly so she wouldn't miss a word. "Chornian and I make you this present."

Marianne knew the present Tatep drew from his pouch was from Tatep alone, but she was happy enough to play along with the fiction if it made him happy. She hadn't expected a present from Tatep and she could scarcely wait to see what it was he felt appropriate to the occasion.

Still, she gave it the proper treatment---shaking it, very gently, beside her ear. If there was anything to hear, it was drowned out by the robust singing of carols from the other side of the room. "I can't begin to guess, Tatep," she told him happily.

"Then open it."

She did. Inside the paper, she found a carving, the rich wine-red of burgundy-wood, bitter to the taste and therefore rarely carved but treasured because none of the kids would gnaw on it as they tested their teeth. The style of carving was so utterly Rejoicer that it took her a long moment to recognize the subject, but once she did, she knew she'd treasure the gift for lifetime.

It was unmistakably Nick---but Nick as seen from Tatep's point of view, hence the unfamiliar perspective. It was Looking Up At Nick.

"Oh, Tatep!" And then she remembered just in time and added, "Oh, Chornian! Thank you both so very much. I can't wait to show it to Nick when he gets back. Whatever made you think of doing Nick?"

Tatep said, "He's your best human friend. I know you miss him. You have no pictures; I thought you would feel better with a likeness."

She hugged the sculpture to her. "Oh, I do. Thank you, both of you." Then she motioned, eyes shining. "Wait. Wait right here, Tatep. Don't go away."

She darted to the tree and, pushing aside wads of rustling paper, she found the gift she'd made for Tatep. Back she darted to where the Rejoicers were waiting.

"I waited," Tatep said solemnly.

She handed him the package. "I hope this is worth the wait."

Tatep shook the package. "I can't begin to guess," he said.

"Then open it. I can't stand the wait!"

He ripped away the paper as flamboyantly as Nick had---to expose the brightly colored nutcracker and a woven bags of nuts.

Marianne held her breath. The problem had been, of course, to adapt the nutcracker to a recognizable Rejoicer version. She'd made the Emperor Halemtat sit back on his haunches, which meant for less adaptation of the cracking mechanism. Overly plump, she'd made him, and spiky. In his right hand, he carried an oversized pair of scissors---of the sort his underlings used for clipping quills. In his right, he carried a sprig of talemtat, that unfortunate rhyme for his name.

Chornian's eyes widened. Again, he rattled off a spate of Rejoicer too fast for Marianne to follow...except that Chornian seemed anxious.

Only then did Marianne realize what she'd done. "Oh, my God, Tatep! He wouldn't clip your quills for having that, would he?"

Tatep's quills rattled and rattled. He put one of the nuts between Halemtat's jaws and cracked with a vengeance. The nutmeat he offered to Marianne, his quills still rattling. "If he does, Marianne, you'll come to Killim's to help me chose a good color for my glass beading!"

He cracked another nut and handed the meat to Chornian. The next thing Marianne knew, the two of them were rattling at each other---Chornian's glass beads adding a splendid tinkling to the merriment.

Much relieved, Marianne laughed with them. A few minutes later, Esperanza dashed out to buy more nuts---so Chornian's children could each take a turn at the cracking.

Marianne looked down at the image of Nick cradled in her arm. "I'm sorry you missed this," she told it, "but I promise I'll write everything down for you before I go to bed tonight. I'll try to remember every last bit of it for you."

#

"Dear Nick," Marianne wrote in another letter some months later. "You're not going to approve of this. I find I haven't been ethnologically correct---much less diplomatic. I'd only meant to share my Christmas with Tatep and Chornian and, for that matter, whoever wanted to join in the festivities. To hear Clarence tell it, I've sent Rejoicing to hell in a handbasket.

"You see, it does Halemtat no good to clip quills these days. There are some seventy-five Rejoicers walking around town clipped and beaded---as gaudy and as shameless as you please. I even saw one newly male (teenager) with beads on the ends of his unclipped spines!

"Killim says thanks for the dyes, by the way. They're just what she had in mind. She'd so busy, she's taken on two apprentices to help her. She makes 'Christmas ornaments' and half the art galleries in the known universe are after her for more and more. The apprentices make glass beads. One of them---one of Chornian's kids, by the way---hit upon the bright idea of making simple sets of beads that can be stuck on the ends of quills cold. Saves time and trouble over the hot glass method.

"What's more---

"Well, yesterday I stopped by to say 'hi' to Killim, when who should turn up but Koppen---you remember him? he's one of Halemtat's advisors? You'll never guess what he wanted: a set of quill tipping beads.

"No, he hadn't had his quills clipped. Nor was he buying them for a friend. He was planning, he told Killim, to tell Halemtat a thing or two---I missed the details because he went too fast---and he expected he'd be clipped for it, so he was planning ahead. Very expensive blue beads for him, if you please, Killim!

"I find myself unprofessionally pleased. There's a thing or two Halemtat ought to be told....

"Meanwhile, Chornian has gone into the business of making nutcrackers. ---All right, so sue me, I showed him how to make the actual cracker work. It was that or risk his taking Tatep's present apart to find out for himself.

"I'm sending holos---including a holo of the one I made--because you've got to see the transformation Chornian's worked on mine. The difference between a human-carved nutcracker and a Rejoicer-carved nutcracker is as unmistakeable as the difference between Looking Up at Nick and...well, looking up at Nick.

"I still miss you, even if you do think fireworks are appropriate at Christmas.

"See you soon---if Clarence doesn't boil me in my own pudding and bury me with a stake of holly through my heart."

Marianne sat with her light pen poised over the screen for a long moment, then she added, "Love, Marianne," and saved it to the next out-going Dirt-bound mail.

#

Rejoicing

Midsummer's Eve

(Rejoicer reckoning)

Dear Nick---

This time it's not my fault. This time it's Esperanza's doing. Esperanza decided, for her contribution to the our round of holidays, to celebrate Martin Luther King Day. (All right---if I'd known about Martin Luther King I'd probably have suggested a celebration myself---but I didn't. Look him up; you'll like him.) And she invited a handful of the Rejoicers to attend as well.

Now, the final part of the celebration is that each person in turn "has a dream." This is not like wishes, Nick. This is more on the order of setting yourself a goal, even one that looks to all intents and purposes to be unattainable, but one you will strive to attain. Even Clarence got so into the occasion that he had a dream that he would stop thinking of the Rejoicers as "Pincushions" so he could start thinking of them as Rejoicers. Esperanza said later Clarence didn't quite get the point but for him she supposed that was a step in the right direction.

Well, after that, Tatep asked Esperanza, in his very polite fashion, if it would be proper for him to have a dream as well. There was some consultation over the proper phrasing---Esperanza says her report will tell you all about that---and then Tatep rose and said, "I have a dream.... I have a dream that someday no-one will get his quills clipped for speaking the truth."

(You'll see it on the tape. Everybody agreed that this was a good dream, indeed.)

After which, Esperanza had her dream "for human rights for all."

Following which, of course, we all took turns trying to explain the concept of "human rights" to a half-dozen Rejoicers. Esperanza ended up translating five different constitutions for them---and an entire book of speeches by Martin Luther King.

Oh, god. I just realized...maybe it is my fault. I'd forgotten till just now. Oh. You judge, Nick.

About a week later Tatep and I were out gathering wood for some carving he plans to do---for Christmas, he says, but he wanted to get a good start on it---and he stopped gnawing long enough to ask me, "Marianne, what's 'human'?"

"How do you mean?"

"I think when Clarence says 'human,' he means something different than you do."

"That's entirely possible. Humans use words pretty loosely at the best of times---there, I just did it myself."

"What do you mean when you say 'human'?"

"Sometimes I mean the species homo sapiens. When I say, Humans use words pretty loosely, I do. Rejoicers seem to be more particular about their speech, as a general rule."

"And when you say 'human rights,' what do you mean?"

"When I say 'human rights,' I mean Homo sapiens and Rejoicing sapiens. I mean any sapiens, in that context. I wouldn't guarantee that Clarence uses the word the same way in the same context."

"You think I'm human?"

"I know you're human. We're friends, aren't we? I couldn't be friends with---oh, a notrabbit---now, could I?"

He made that wonderful rattly sound he does when he's amused. "No, I can't imagine it. Then, if I'm human, I ought to have human rights."

"Yes," I said, "You bloody well ought to."

Maybe it is all my fault. Esperanza will tell you the rest---she's had Rejoicers all over her house for the past two weeks---they're watching every scrap of film she's got on Martin Luther King.

I don't know how this will all end up, but I wish to hell you were here to watch.

Love, Marianne

#

Marianne watched the Rejoicer child crack nuts with his Halemtat cracker and a cold, cold shiver went up her spine. That was the eleventh she'd seen this week. Chornian wasn't the only one making them, apparently; somebody else had gone into the nutcracker business as well. This was, however, the first time she'd seen a child cracking nuts with Halemtat's jaw.

"Hello," she said, stooping to meet the child's eyes. "What a pretty toy! Will you show me how it works?"

Rattling all the while, the child showed her, step by step. Then he (or she---it wasn't polite to ask before puberty) said, "Isn't it funny? It makes Mama laugh and laugh and laugh."

"And what's your mama's name?"

"Pilli," said the child. Then it added, "With the green and white beads on her quills."

Pilli---who'd been clipped for saying that Halemtat had been overcutting the imperial reserve so badly that the trees would never grow back properly.

And then she realized that, less than as a year ago, no child would have admitted that its mama had been clipped. The very thought of it would have shamed both mother and child.

Come to think of it...she glanced around the bazaar and saw no less than four clipped Rejoicers shopping for dinner. Two of them she recognized as Chornian and one of his children, the other two were new to her. She tried to identify them by their snouts and failed utterly---she'd have to ask Chornian. She also noted, with utterly unprofessional satisfaction, that she could ask Chornian such a thing now. That too would have been unthinkable and shaming less than a year ago.

Less than a year ago. She was thinking in Dirt terms because of Nick. There wasn't any point dropping him a line; mail would cross in deep space at this late a date. He'd be here just in time for "Christmas." She wished like hell he was already here. He'd know what to make of all this, she was certain.

As Marianne thanked the child and got to her feet, three Rejoicers---all with the painted ruff of quills at their necks that identified them as Halemtat's guards---came waddling officiously up. "Here's one," said the largest. "Yes," said another. "Caught in the very act."

The largest squatted back on his haunches and said, "You will come with us, child. Halemtat decrees it."

Horror shot through Marianne's body.

The child cracked one last nut, rattled happily, and said, "I get my quills clipped?"

"Yes," said the largest Rejoicer. "You will have your quills clipped." Roughly, he separated child from nutcracker and began to tow the child away, each of them in that odd three-legged gait necessitated by the grip.

All Marianne could think to do was call after the child, "I'll tell Pilli what happened and where to find you!"

The child glanced over its shoulder, rattled again, and said, "Ask her could I have silver beads like Hortap!"

Marianne picked up the discarded nutcracker---lest some other child find it and meet the same fate---and ran full speed for Pilli's house.

At the corner, two children looked up from their own play and galloped along beside her until she skidded to a halt by Pilli's bakery. They followed her in, rattling happily to themselves over the race they'd run. Marianne's first thought was to shoo them off before she told Pilli what had happened, but Pilli greeted the two as if they were her own, and Marianne found herself blurting out the news.

Pilli gave a slow inclination of the head. "Yes," she said, pronouncing the words carefully so Marianne wouldn't miss them, "I expected that. Had it not been the nutcracker, it would have been words." She rattled. "That child is the most outspoken of my brood."

"But---" Marianne wanted to say, Aren't you afraid?, but the question never surfaced.

Pilli gave a few coins to the other children and said, "Run to Killim's, my dears, and ask her to make a set of silver beads, if she doesn't already have one on hand. Then run tell your father what has happened."

The children were off in the scurry of excitement.

Pilli drew down the awning in front of her shop, then paused. "I think you are afraid for my child."

"Yes," said Marianne. Lying had never been her strong suit; maybe Nick was right---maybe diplomacy wasn't her field.

"You are kind," said Pilli. "But don't be afraid. Even Halemtat wouldn't dare to order a child hashay."

"I don't understand the term."

"Hashay?" Pilli flipped her tail around in front of her and held out a single quill. "Chippet will be clipped here," she said, drawing a finger across the quill about half-way up its length. "Hashay is to clip here." The finger slid inward, to a spot about a quarter of an inch from her skin. "Don't worry, Marianne. Even Halemtat wouldn't dare to hashay a child."

I'm supposed to be reassured, thought Marianne. "Good," she said aloud, "I'm relieved to hear that." In truth, she hadn't the slightest idea what Pilli was talking about---and she was considerably less than reassured by the ominous implications of the distinction. She'd never come across the term in any of the ethnologists' reports.

She was still holding the Halemtat nutcracker in her hands. Now she considered it carefully. Only in its broadest outlines did it resemble the one she'd made for Tatep. This nutcracker was purely Rejoicer in style and---she almost dropped it at the sudden realization---peculiarly Tatep's style of carving. Tatep was making them too?

If she could recognize Tatep's distinctive style, surely Halemtat could---what then?

Carefully, she tucked the nutcracker under the awning---let Pilli decide what to do with the object; Marianne couldn't make the decision for her---and set off at a quick pace for Tatep's house.

One the way, she passed yet another child with a Halemtat nutcracker. She paused, found the child's father and passed the news to him that Halemtat's guards were clipping Pilli's child for the "offense." The father thanked her for the information and, with much politeness, took the nutcracker from the child.

This one, Marianne saw, was not carved in Tatep's style or in Chornian's. This one was the work of an unfamiliar set of teeth.

Having shooed his child indoors, the Rejoicer squatted back on his haunches. In plain view of the street, he took up the bowl of nuts his child had left uncracked and began to crack them, one by one, with such deliberation that Marianne's jaw dropped.

She'd never seen an insolent Rejoicer but she would have bet money she was seeing one now. He even managed to make the crack of each nut resound like a gunshot. With the sound still ringing in her ears, Marianne quickened her steps toward Tatep's.

She found him at home, carving yet another nutcracker. He swallowed, then held out the nutcracker to her and said, "What do you think, Marianne? Do you approve of my portrayal?"

This one wasn't Halemtat, but his---for want of a better word---grand vizier, Corten. The grand vizier always looked to her as if he smirked. She knew the expression was due to a slightly malformed tooth but, to a human eye, the result was a smirk. Tatep's portrayal had the same smirk, only more so. Marianne couldn't help it...she giggled.

"Aha!" said Tatep, rattling up a rainstorm's worth of sound. "For once, you've shared the joke without the need of explanation!" He gave long grave look at the nutcracker. "The grand vizier has earned his keep this once!"

Marianne laughed, and Tatep rattled. This time the sound of the quills sobered Marianne. "I think your work will get you clipped, Tatep," she said, and she told him about Pilli's child.

He made no response. Instead, he dropped to his feet and went to the chest in the corner, where he kept any number of carvings and other precious objects. From the chest, he drew out a box. Three-legged, he walked back to her. "Shake this! I'll bet you can guess what's inside."

Curious, she shook the box: it rattled. "A set of beads," she said.

"You see? I'm prepared. They rattle like a laugh, don't they?---a laugh at Halemtat. I asked Killim to make the beads red because that was the color you painted your scalp when you were clipped."

"I'm honored...."

"But?"

"But I'm afraid for you. For all of you."

"Pilli's child wasn't afraid."

"No. No, Pilli's child wasn't afraid. Pilli said even Halemtat wouldn't dare hashay a child." Marianne took a deep breath and said, "But you're not a child." And I don't know what hashaying does to a Rejoicer, she wanted to add.

"I've swallowed a talpseed," Tatep said, as if that said it all.

"I don't understand."

"Ah! I'll share, then. A talpseed can't grow unless it has been through the"---he patted himself---"stomach? digestive system? of a Rejoicer. Sometimes they don't grow even then. To swallow a talpseed means to take a step toward the growth of something important. I swallowed a talpseed called 'human rights.'"

There was nothing Marianne could say to that but: "I understand."

Slowly, thoughtfully, Marianne made her way back to the embassy. Yes, she understood Tatep---hadn't she been screaming at Clarence for just the same reason? But she was terrified for Tatep---for them all.

Without consciously meaning to, she bypassed the embassy for the little clutch of domes that housed the ethnologists. Esperanza---it was Esperanza she had to see.

She was in luck. Esperanza was at home writing up one of her reports. She looked up and said, "Oh, good. It's time for a break!"

"Not a break, I'm afraid. A question that, I think, is right up your alley. Do you know much about the physiology of the Rejoicers?"

"I'm the expert," Esperanza said, leaning back in her chair. "As far as there is one in the group."

"What happens if you cut a Rejoicer's spine"---she held up her fingers---"this close to the skin?"

"Like a cat's claw, sort of. If you cut the tip, nothing happens. If you cut too far down, you hit the blood supply---and maybe the nerve. The quill would bleed most certainly. Might never grow back properly. And it'd hurt like hell, I'm sure---like gouging the base of your thumbnail."

She sat forward suddenly. "Marianne, you're shaking. What is it?"

Marianne took a deep breath but couldn't stop shaking. "What would happen if somebody did that to all of Ta"---she found she couldn't get the name out---"all of a Rejoicer's quills?"

"He'd bleed to death, Marianne." Esperanza took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "Now, I'm going to get you a good stiff drink and you are going to tell me all about it."

Fighting nausea, Marianne nodded. "Yes," she said with enormous effort. "Yes."

#

"Who the hell told the Pincushions about 'human rights'?" Clarence roared. Furious, he glowered down at Marianne and waited for her response.

Esperanza drew herself up to her full height and stepped between the two of them. "Martin Luther King told the Rejoicers about human rights. You were there when he did it. Though you seem to have forgotten your dream, obviously the Rejoicers haven't forgotten theirs."

"There's a goddamned revolution going on out there!" Clarence waved a hand vaguely in the direction of center of town.

"That is certainly what it looks like," Juliet said mildly. "So why are we here instead of out there observing?"

"You're here because I'm responsible for your safety."

"Bull," said Matsimoto. "Halemtat isn't interested in clipping us."

"Besides," said Esperanza. "The supply ship will be landing in about five minutes. Somebody's got to go pick up the supplies---and Nick. Otherwise, he's going to step right into the thick of it. The last mail went out two months ago. Nick's had no warning that the situation has"---she frowned slightly, then brightened as she found the proper phrase---"changed radically."

Clarence glared again at Marianne. "As a member of the embassy staff, you are assigned the job. You will pick up the supplies and Nick."

Marianne, who'd been about to volunteer to do just that, suppressed the urge to say, "Thank you!" and said instead, "Yes, sir."

Once out of Clarence's sight, Marianne let herself breath a sigh of relief. The supply transport was built like a tank. While Marianne wasn't any more afraid of Helamtat's wrath than the ethnologists, she was well aware that innocent Dirt bystanders might easily find themselves stuck---all too literally---in a mob of Rejoicers. When the Rejoicers fought, as she understood it, they used teeth and quills. She had no desire to get too close to a lashing tail-full. An unclipped quill was needle-sharp.

Belatedly, she caught the significance of the clipping Halemtat had instituted as punishment. Slapping a snout with a tail full of glass beads was not nearly as effective as slapping a snout with a morning-star made of spines.

She radioed the supply ship to tell them they'd all have to wait for transport before they came out. Captain's gonna love that, I'm sure, she thought, until she got a response from Captain Tertain. By reputation he'd never set foot on a world other than Dirt and certainly didn't intend to do so now. So she simply told Nick to stay put until she came for him.

Nick's cheery voice over the radio said only, "It's going to be a very special Christmas this year."

"Nick," she said, "You don't know the half of it."

She took a slight detour along the way, passing the narrow street that led to Tatep's house. She didn't dare to stop, but she could see from the awning that he wasn't home. In fact, nobody seemed to be home...even the bazaar was deserted.

The supply truck rolled on, and Marianne took a second slight detour. What Esperanza had dubbed "the Grand Allez" led directly to Halemtat's imperial residence. The courtyard was filled with Rejoicers. Well-spaced Rejoicers, she saw, for they were---each and every one---bristled to their fullest extent. She wished she dared go for a closer look, but Clarence would be livid if she took much more time than normal reaching the supply ship. And he'd be checking---she knew his habits well enough to know that.

She floored the accelerator and made her way to the improvised landing field in record time. Nick waved to her from the port and stepped out. Just like Nick, she thought. She'd told him to wait in the ship until she arrived; he'd obeyed to the letter. It was all she could do to keep from hugging him as she hit the ground beside him. With a grateful sigh of relief, she said, "We've got to move fast on the transfer, Nick. I'll fill you in as we load."

By the time the two of them had transferred all the supplies from the ship, she'd done just that.

He climbed into the seat beside her, gave her a long thoughtful look, and said, "So Clarence has restricted all of the other ethnologists to the embassy grounds, has he?" He shook his head in mock sadness and clicked his tongue. "I see I haven't trained my team in the proper response to embassy edicts." He grinned at Marianne. "So the embassy advises that I stay off the streets, does it?"

"Yes," said Marianne. She hated being the one to tell him but he'd asked her. "The Super Plenipotentiary Etc. has issued a full and formal Advisory to all non-governmental personnel...."

"Okay," said Nick. "You've done your job: I've been Advised. Now I want to go have a look at this revolution-in-progress." He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

He was right. All Clarence could do was issue an Advisory; he had no power whatsoever to keep the ethnologists off the streets. And Marianne wanted to see the revolution as badly as Nick did.

"All right," she said. "I am responsible for your safety, though, so best we go in the transport. I don't want you stuck." She set the supply-transport into motion and headed back toward the Grande Allez.

Nick pressed his nose to the window and watched the streets as they went. He was humming cheerfully under his breath.

"Uh, Nick---if Clarence calls us...."

"We'll worry about that when it happens," he said.

Worry is right, thought Marianne, but she smiled. He'd been humming Christmas carols, like some excited child. Inappropriate as all hell, but she liked him all the more for it.

She pulled the supply-transport to the stop at the entrance to the palace courtyard and turned to ask Nick if he had a good enough view. He was already out the door and making his way carefully into the crowd of Rejoicers. "Hey!" she shouted---and she hit the ground running to catch up with him. "Nick!"

He paused long enough for her to catch his arm, then said, "I need to see this, Marianne. It's my job."

"It's my job to see you don't get hurt---"

He smiled. "Then you lead. I want to be over there where I can see and hear everything Halemtat and his advisors are up to."

Marianne harbored a brief fantasy about dragging him bodily back to the safety of the supply-transport, but he was twice her weight and, from his expression, not about to cooperate. Best she lead, then. Her only consolation was that, when Clarence tried to radio them, there'd be nobody to pick up and receive his orders.

"Hey, Marianne!" said Chornian from the crowd. "Over here! Good view from here!"

And safer too. Grateful for the invitation, Marianne gingerly headed in that direction. Several quilled Rejoicers eased aside to let the two of them safely through. Better to be surrounded by beaded Rejoicers.

"Welcome back, Nick," said Chornian. He and Chaylam stepped apart to create a space of safety for the two humans. "You're just in time."

"So I see. What's going on?"

"Halemtat just had Pilli's Chippet clipped for playing with a Halemtat cracker. Halemtat doesn't like the Halemtat crackers."

Beside him, a fully quilled Rejoicer said, "Halemtat doesn't like much of anything. I think a proper prince ought to rattle his spines once or twice a year at least."

Marianne frowned up at Nick, who grinned and said, "Roughly translated: Hapter thinks a proper prince ought to have a sense of humor, however minimal."

"Rattle your spines, Halemtat!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "Let's see if you can do it."

"Yes," came another voice---and Marianne realized it was Chornian's---"Rattle your spines, Great Prince of the Nutcrackers!"

All around them, like rain on a tin roof, came the sound of rattling spines. Marianne looked around---the laughter swept through the crowd, setting every Rejoicer in vibrant motion. Even the grand vizier rattled briefly, then caught himself, his ruff stiff with alarm.

Halemtat didn't rattle.

From his pouch, Chornian took a nutcracker and a nut. Placing the nut in the cracker's smirking mouth, Chornian made the bite cut through the rattling of the crowd like the sound of a shot. From somewhere to her right, a second crack resounded. Then a third.... Then the rattling took up a renewed life.

Marianne felt as if she were under water. All around her spines shifted and rattled. Chornian's beaded spines chattered as he cracked a second nut in the smirking face of the nutcracker.

Then one of Halemtat's guards ripped the nutcracker from Chornian's hands. The guard glared at Chornian, who rattled all the harder.

Looking over his shoulder to Halemtat, the guard called, "He's already clipped. What shall I do?"

"Bring me the nutcracker," said Halemtat. The guard glared again at Chornian, who had not stopped laughing, and loped back with the nutcracker in hand. Belatedly, Marianne recognized the smirk on the nutcracker's face.

The guard handed the nutcracker to the grand vizier---Marianne knew beyond a doubt that he recognized the smirk too.

"Whose teeth carved this?" demanded Halemtat.

An unclipped Rejoicer worked his way to the front of the crowd, sat proudly back on his haunches, and said, "Mine." To the grand vizier, he added, with a slight rasp of his quills that was a barely suppressed laugh, "What do you think of my work, Corten? Does it amuse you? You have a strong jaw."

Rattling swept the crowd again.

Halemtat sat up on his haunches, his bristles stood straight out. Marianne had never seen a Rejoicer bristle quite that way before. "Silence!" he bellowed.

Startled, either by the shout or by the electrified bristle of their ruler, the crowd stopped rattling. As Marianne watched, the crowd spread itself thinner. The laughter had subsided only because each of the Rejoicers had gone as bristly as Halemtat. Chornian shifted slightly to keep Marianne and Nick near the protected cover of his beaded ruff.

"Marianne," said Nick softly, "That's Tatep."

"I know," she said. Without meaning to, she'd grabbed his arm for reassurance.

Tatep.... He sat back on his haunches, as if fully at ease---the only sleeked Rejoicer in the courtyard. He might have been sitting in Marianne's office discussing different grades of wood, for all the excitement he displayed.

Halemtat, rage quivering in every quill, turned to his guards and said, "Clip Tatep. Hashay."

"No!" shouted Marianne, starting forward. As she realized she'd spoken Dirtside and opened her mouth to shout it again in Rejoicer, Nick grabbed her and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"No!" shouted Chornian, seeming to translate for her, but speaking his own mind.

Marianne fought Nick's grip in vain. Furious, she bit the hand he'd clapped over her mouth. When he yelped and removed it---still not letting her free---she said, "It'll kill him! He'll bleed to death! Let me go." On the last word, she kicked him hard, but he didn't let go.

A guard produced the ritual scissors and handed them to the official in charge of clipping. She held the instrument aloft and made the ritual display, clipping the air three times. With each snap of the scissors, the crowd chanted, "No. No. No."

Taken aback, the official paused. Halemtat clicked at her and she abruptly remembered the rest of the ritual. She turned to make the three ritual clips in the air before Halemtat.

This time the voice of the crowd was stronger. "No. No. No," came the shout with each snap.

Marianne struggled harder as the official stepped toward Tatep....

Then the grand vizier scuttled to intercept. "No," he told the official. Turning to Halemtat, he said, "The image is mine. I can laugh at the caricature. Why is it, I wonder, that you can't, Halemtat? Has some disease softened your spines so that they no longer rattle?"

Marianne was so surprised she stopped struggling against Nick's hold---and felt the hold ease. He didn't let go, but held her against him in what was almost an embrace. Marianne held her breath, waiting for Halemtat's reply.

Halemtat snatched the ritual scissors from the official and threw them at Corten's feet. "You," he said. "You will hashay Tatep."

"No," said Corten. "I won't. My spines are still stiff enough to rattle."

Chornian chose that moment to shout once more, "Rattle your spines, Halemtat! Let us hear you rattle your spines!"

And without so much as a by-your-leave the entire crowd suddenly took up the chant: "Rattle your spines! Rattle your spines!"

Halemtat looked wildly around. He couldn't have rattled if he'd wanted to---his spines were too bristled to touch one to another. He turned his glare on the official, as if willing her to pick up the scissors and proceed.

Instead, she said, in perfect cadence with the crowd, "Rattle your spines!"

Halemtat made an imperious gesture to his guard---and the guard said, "Rattle your spines!"

Halemtat turned and galloped full tilt into his palace. Behind him the chant continued---"Rattle your spines! Rattle your spines!"

Then, quite without warning, Tatep rattled his spines. The next thing Marianne knew, the entire crowd was laughing and laughing and laughing at their vanished ruler.

Marianne went limp against Nick. He gave her a suggestion of a hug, then let her go. Against the rattle of the crowd, he said, "I thought you were going to get yourself killed, you little idiot."

"I couldn't---I couldn't stand by and do nothing; they might have killed Tatep."

"I thought doing nothing was a diplomat's job."

"You're right; some diplomat I make. Well, after this little episode, I probably don't have a job anyhow."

"My offer's still open."

"Tell the truth, Nick. If I'd been a member of your team fifteen minutes ago, would you have let me go?"

He threw back his head and laughed. "Of course not," he said. "But at least I understand why you bit the hell out of my hand."

"Oh, god, Nick! I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you?"

"Yes," he said. "But I accept your apology---and next time I won't give you that option."

"'Next time,' huh?"

Nick, still grinning, nodded.

Well, there was that to be said for Nick: he was realistic.

"Hi, Nick," said Tatep. "Welcome back."

"Hi, Tatep. Some show you folks laid on. What happens next?"

He rattled the length of his body. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said. "I've never done anything like this before. Corten's still rattling. In fact, he asked me to make him a grand vizier nutcracker. I think I'll make him a present of it---for Christmas."

He turned to Marianne. "Share?" he said. "I was too busy to watch at the time. Were you and Nick mating? If you do it again, may I watch?"

Marianne turned a vivid shade of red, and Nick laughed entirely too much. "You explain it to him," Marianne told Nick firmly. "Mating habits are not within my diplomatic jurisdiction. And I'm still in the diplomatic corps---at least, until we get back to the embassy."

Tatep sat back on his haunches, eagerly awaiting Nick's explanation. Marianne shivered with relief and said hastily, "No, it wasn't mating, Tatep. I was so scared for you I was going to charge in and---well, I don't know what I was going to do after that---but I couldn't just stand by and let Halemtat hurt you." She scowled at Nick and finished, "Nick was afraid I'd get hurt myself and wouldn't let me go."

Tatep's eyes widened in surprise. "Marianne, you would have fought for me?"

"Yes. You're my friend."

"Thank you," he said solemnly. Then to Nick, he said, "You were right to hold her back. Rattling is a better way than fighting." He turned again to Marianne. "You surprise me," he said. "You showed us how to rattle at Halemtat."

He shook from snout to tail-tip, with a sound like a hundred snare drums. "Halemtat turned tail and ran from our rattling!"

"And now?" Nick asked him.

"Now I'm going to go home. It's almost dinner time and I'm hungry enough to eat an entire tree all by myself." Still rattling, he added, "Too bad the hardwood I make the nutcrackers from is so bitter---though tonight I could almost make an exception and dine exclusively on bitter wood."

Tatep got down off his haunches and started for home. Most of the crowd had dispersed as well. It seemed oddly anticlimactic, until Marianne heard and saw the rattles of laughter ripple through the departing Rejoicers.

Beside the supply-transport, Tatep paused. "Nick, at your convenience---I really would like you to share about human mating. For friendship's sake, I should know when Marianne is fighting and when she's mating. Then I'd know whether she needs help or---or what kind of help she needs. After all, some trees need help to mate...."

Marianne had turned scarlet again. Nick said, "I'll tell you all about it as soon as I get settled in again."

"Thank you." Tatep headed for home, for all the world as if nothing unusual had happened. In fact, the entire crowd, laughing as it was, might have been a crowd of picnickers off for home as the sun began to set.

A squawk from the radio brought Marianne back to business. No use putting it off. Time to bite the bullet and check in with Clarence---if nothing else, the rest of the staff would be worried about both of them.

Marianne climbed into the cab. Without prompting, Nick climbed in beside her. For a long moment, they listened to the diatribe that came over the radio, but Marianne made no move to reply. Instead, she watched the Rejoicers laughing their way home from the palace courtyard.

"Nick," she said. "Can you really laugh a dictator into submission?"

He cocked a thumb at the radio. "Give it a try," he said. "It's not worth cursing back at Clarence---you haven't his gift for bureaucratic invective."

#

Marianne also didn't have a job by the time she got back to the embassy. Clarence had tried to clap her onto the returning supply ship, but Nick stepped in to announce that Clarence had no business sending anybody from his ethnology staff home. In the end, Clarence's bureaucratic invective had failed him and the ethnologists simply disobeyed, as Nick had. All Clarence could do, after all, was issue a directive; if they chose to ignore it, the blame no longer fell on Clarence. Since that was all that worried Clarence, that was all right.

In the end, Marianne found that being an ethnologist was considerably more interesting than being a diplomat...especially during a revolution.

She and Nick, with Tatep, had taken time off from their mutual studies to chose this year's Christmas tree---from Halemtat's reserve. "Why," said Marianne, bemused at her own reaction, "do I feel like I'm cutting a Christmas tree with Thomas Jefferson?"

"Because you are," Nick said. "Even Thomas Jefferson did ordinary things once in a while. Chances are, he even hung out with his friends...." He waved. "Hi, Tatep. How goes the revolution?"

For answer, Tatep rattled the length of his body.

"Good," said Nick.

"I may have good news to share with you at the Christmas party," added the Rejoicer.

"Then we look forward to the Christmas party even more than usual," said Marianne.

"And I brought a surprise for Marianne all the way from Dirt," Nick added. When Marianne lifted an eyebrow, he said, "No, no hints."

"Share?" said Tatep.

"Christmas Eve," Nick told him. "After you've shared your news, I think."

#

The tree-trimming party was in full swing. The newly formed Ad Hoc Christmas Chorus was singing Czech carols---a gift from Esperanza to everybody on both staffs. Clarence had gotten so mellow on the Christmas punch that he'd even offered Marianne her job back--if she was willing to be dropped a grade for insubordination. Marianne, equally mellow, said no but said it politely.

Nick had arrived at last, along with Tatep and Chornian and Chaylam and their kids. Surprisingly, Nick stepped in between verses to wave the Ad Hoc Christmas Chorus to silence. "Attention, please," he shouted over the hubbub. "Attention, please! Tatep has an announcement to make." When he'd finally gotten silence, Nick turned to Tatep and said, "You have the floor."

Tatep looked down, then looked up again at Nick.

"I mean," Nick said, "go ahead and speak. Marianne's not the only one who'll want to know your news, believe me."

But it was Marianne Tatep chose to address.

"We've all been to see Halemtat," he said. "And Halemtat has agreed: no one will be clipped again unless five people from the same village agree that the offense warrants that severe a punishment. We will chose the five, not Halemtat. Furthermore, from this day forward, anyone may say anything without fear of being clipped. Speaking one's mind is no longer to be punished."

The crowd broke into applause. Beside Tatep, Nick beamed.

Tatep took a piece of parchment from his pouch. "You see, Marianne? Halemtat signed it and put his bite to it."

"How did you get him to agree?"

"We laughed at him---and we cracked our nutcrackers in the palace courtyard for three days and three nights straight, until he agreed."

Chornian rattled. "He said he'd sign anything if we'd all just go away and let him sleep." He hefted the enormous package he'd brought with him and rattled again. "Look at all the shelled nuts we've brought for your Christmas party!"

Marianne almost found it in her heart to feel sorry for Halemtat. Grinning, she accepted the package and mounded the table with shelled nuts. "Those are almost too important to eat," she said, stepping back to admire their handiwork. "Are you sure they oughtn't go into a museum?"

"The important thing," Tatep said, "is that I can say anything I want." He popped one of the nuts into his mouth and chewed it down. "Halemtat is a talemtat," he said, and rattled for the sheer joy of it.

"Corten looks like he's been eating too much briarwood," said Chornian---catching the spirit of the thing.

Not recognizing the expression, Marianne cast an eye at Nick, who said, "We'd say, 'Been eating a lemon.'"

One of Chornian's brood sat back on his/her haunches and said, "I'll show you Halemtat's guards---"

The child organized its siblings with much pomp and ceremony (except for the littlest who couldn't stop rattling) and marched them back and forth. After the second repetition, Marianne caught the rough import of their chant: "We're Halemtat's guards/We send our regards/We wish you nothing but ill/Clip! we cut off your quill!"

After three passes, one child stepped on another's tail and the whole troop dissolved into squabbling amongst themselves and insulting each other. "You look like Corten!" said one, for full effect. The adults rattled away at them. The littlest one, delighted to find that insults could be funny, turned to Marianne and said, "Marianne! You're spineless!"

Marianne laughed even harder. When she'd caught her breath, she explained to the child what the phrase meant when it was translated literally into Standard. "If you want a good Dirt insult," she said, mischievously, "I give you 'birdbrain.'" All the sounds in that were easy for a Rejoicer mouth to utter---and when Marianne explained why it was an insult, the children all agreed that it was a very good insult indeed.

"Marianne is a birdbrain," said the littlest.

"No," said Tatep. "Halemtat is a birdbrain, not Marianne."

"Let the kid alone, Tatep," said Marianne. "The kid can say anything it wants!"

"True," said Tatep. "True!"

They shooed the children off to look for their presents under the tree, and Tatep turned to Nick. "Share, Nick---your surprise for Marianne."

Nick reached under the table. After a moment's searching, he brought out a large bulky parcel and hoisted it onto the table beside the heap of Halemtat nuts. Marianne caught a double-handful before they spilled onto the floor.

Nick laid a protective hand atop the parcel. "Wait," he said. "I'd better explain. Tatep, every family has a slightly different Christmas tradition---the way you folks do for Awakening. This is part of my family's Christmas tradition. It's not part of Marianne's Christmas tradition---but, just this once, I'm betting she'll go along me." He took his hand from the parcel and held it out to Marianne. "Now you can open it," he said.

Dropping the Halemtat nuts back into their pile, Marianne reached for the parcel and ripped it open with enough verve to satisfy anybody's Christmas unwrapping tradition. Inside was a box, and inside the box a jumble of gaudy cardboard tubes---glittering in stars and stripes and polka dots and even an entire school of metallic green fish. "Fireworks!" said Marianne. "Oh, Nick...."

He put his finger to her lips. "Before you say another word---you chose today to celebrate Christmas because it was the right time of the Rejoicer year. You, furthermore, said that holidays on Dirt and the other human worlds don't converge---"

Marianne nodded.

Nick let that slow smile spread across his face. "But they do. This year, back on Dirt, today is the Fourth of July. The dates won't coincide again in our lifetimes but, just this once, they do. So, just this once---fireworks. You do traditionally celebrate Independence Day with fireworks, don't you?"

The pure impudence in his eyes made Marianne duck her head and look away but, in turning, she found herself looking right into Tatep's bright expectant gaze. In fact, all of the Rejoicers were waiting to see what Nick had chosen for her and if he'd chosen right.

"Yes," she said, speaking to Tatep but turning to smile at Nick. "After all, today's Independence Day right here on Rejoicing, too. Come on, let's go shoot off fireworks!"

And so, for the next twenty minutes, the night sky of Rejoicing was alive with Roman candles, shooting stars and all the brightness of all the Christmases and all the Independence Days in Marianne's memory. In the streets, humans ooohed and aaahed and Rejoicers rattled. The pops and bangs even woke Halemtat, but all he could do was come out on his balcony and watch.

A day later Tatep reported the rumor that one of palace guards even claimed to have heard Halemtat rattle. "I don't believe it for a minute," Nick added when he passed the tale on to Marianne.

"Me neither," she said, "but it's a good enough story that I'd like to believe it."

"A perfect Christmas tale, then. What would you like to bet that the story of The First Time Halemtat Rattled gets told every Christmas from now on?"

"Sucker bet," said Marianne. Then the wonder struck her. "Nick? Do traditions start that easily---that quickly?"

He laughed. "What kind of fireworks would you like to have next year?"

"One of each," she said. "And about five of those with the gold fish-like things that swirl down and then go bam! at you when you least expect it."

For a moment, she thought he'd changed the subject, then she realized he'd answered her question. Wherever she went, for the rest of her life, her Christmas tradition would include fireworks---not just any fireworks, but Fourth of July fireworks. She smiled. "Next year, maybe we should play Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture as well as The Nutcracker Suite."

He shook his head. "No," he said, "The Nutcracker Suite has plenty enough fireworks all by itself---at least your version of it certainly did!"

STANDING IN THE SPIRIT

---for David and Susan Ashmore. They know why.

Molly Rose Hawkins was angry at Christmas. Imagine! Only twenty-three and already angry at Christmas, at the whole damn dog-and-pony show of it. Her anger, kindled in mid-November, was slow and smoldering. It reddened her cheeks, made her eyes seem as blue as the burning of a gas flame and pursed her mouth.

Perhaps she thought she pursed her mouth in disapproval, but you might have thought differently had you been a young man of the same age. What Molly Rose thought disapproving looked to those around her much like an invitation to a kiss.

With much effort, she had kept her temper throughout the Christmas shopping season and had been courteous even to customers who were whiney, mean-spirited, and (all too often) nasty. Christmas was especially hard on younger children these days, and she had no desire to add to their woes. For them, she conjured smiles and conjured smiles from them in return.

Perhaps it was the invited kiss that caused the young man (of the same age) to hand her an engraved card and say, smiling, "I know Christmas is an odd day for an art opening, but it's odd art. I suspect you've got someone special you'll be spending the time with, but maybe you'll both drop by. Heather even found us a recipe for smoking bishop---that's hot red wine poured over bitter oranges, with spices and sugar to suit---and it's guaranteed to raise the spirits...."

"A DICKENS OF A CHRISTMAS," read the card, in quite lovely Old English type, "Being an Exhibition of the Fine Art of Raising Ghosts at Christmas-Tyde." The address was a loft-gallery in a run-down district of town (the very district in which Molly Rose lived) and the card would admit two to the private Christmas Day opening.

Any other day, Molly Rose might have taken the young man's card as the sort of shy pass it was. Any other day, she might have found a way to say she had no date for Christmas Day, nor any prospects. But the store was crowded. Behind the young man, an exasperated mother said, to the two-year-old at her feet, "Stop that whining, Lizzie," all too sharply.

The young man stepped aside and gestured the mother to the counter. "I'm in no rush," he said, either to the mother or to Molly Rose.

Lizzie wailed again; Lizzie's mom seemed about to wail as well. Molly Rose leaned over the counter and gave Lizzie a genuine smile. "Hey, Lizzie," she said, patting the countertop. "Come up here and see all the pretty things." To Lizzie's mom, she said, "Down there, there's nothing to see but knees and feet. When the store's this crowded, that's not just boring---it's more than a little scary."

The mother's expression softened just a little; she lifted the child onto the counter. "Hi!" said Molly Rose. "What can I do for you and your mom?"

Lizzie took in Molly Rose, took in the young man. (He smiled at her too.) She sniveled. She might have wailed again but for the rack of silk scarves beside the register. In the face of so much color, Lizzie smiled, all wide eyes and reaching hands, her grief forgotten.

Mama sighed and spit-cleaned Lizzie's face. Her voice darkened. "I need a scarf for somebody who will hate whatever I choose."

"Oh, my," said Molly Rose, as if to say she knew the type. "Maybe you'd do better to get a gift certificate---"

The woman shook her head. "It would be from the wrong store." She looked close to tears. Lizzie crowed, tipped herself onto hands and knees and crawled toward all that color. Mama's hands shot out to stop her.

"I have an idea," said Molly Rose. "Is the scarf for a relative of Lizzie's?"

Grappling with the two-year-old, the mother nodded. "My-sister-the-bitch." It was all one word the way she said it.

"Then let Lizzie pick the gift." She pulled a handful of scarves from the rack and fluttered them through the air before the child's avid eyes. "What do you say, Lizzie? What color for your aunt?"

Before they were done, they'd chosen three: a shocking orange and gold for Lizzie's aunt, pale green for Lizzie's mama, and a small scarf of swirling coral-and-cream for Lizzie, who approved the flavor quite as much as the color.

As Molly Rose made change, Lizzie's mama glared suddenly at the invitation propped beside the register. She snapped, "Do you like Dickens?"

The question was so at odds with the tone that all Molly Rose could say was, "Yes, ma'am, very much," as she handed the woman her receipt.

"Here then. They're for tomorrow; the show sold out two months ago. Every show sold out two months ago." The woman slapped a ticket envelope onto the counter and shoved it at Molly Rose. "My-sister-the-bitch said she hated Dickens and I should take the tickets back and pick another play and I'll be damned if I'll play that game again this year."

With that, she gathered Lizzie and her packages and stalked through the crowd toward the exit doors before Molly Rose had so much as a chance to call out a "Merry Christmas!" Lizzie smiled and waggled fingers at Molly Rose over mama's hunched and angry shoulder.

"Thanks for waiting," she said to the young man. She might have said more (he was a singularly nice young man, with singularly dreamy eyes) but there were more customers to be helped. So instead of asking him where he'd been all her life, she said, "Now, how can I help you?"

She helped him choose an inexpensive but very lovely oblong scarf of white lace. Given the crowd at her counter, she was grateful he hadn't asked her to wrap it for him. Between the next two customers, she wondered if he'd done it as a kindness to her or if he was simply the sort who preferred to wrap his own. Between the two customers after that, she decided he'd want to make his wrapping personal. As inexpensive as it was, that scarf was one of the most beautiful she'd seen....

Some two hours later, on her ten-minute break, Molly Rose found Lizzie's mama had given her two tickets to the new staging of A Christmas Carol she'd been wild to see. Standing room was sold out and she hadn't dared risk the expense of a seat. She paused for a moment: if she went to the play, she probably wouldn't make it to the young man's art opening. She remembered his eyes.

A Christmas Carol or an actual cup of smoking bishop---such a choice should have been enough to pluck up her anger and root it out---but the day was not yet over. Before it was, she'd seen two more children slapped (for being exhausted, as far as she could make out), and another even dozen surly adults (she'd been snarled at, but so had everybody else working in the store).

But when a customer had threatened to have Elise, at the counter next to hers, fired (because the color he wanted was no longer in stock), she was angry at Christmas all over again: angry enough to desert her post. She found Elise in the lady's room sobbing her heart out.

"They won't fire you, honey, I promise." Molly Rose laid her hands on Elise's shoulders. The shakes from her sobs ran up Molly Rose's arms and across her shoulders, transmuted there to shaking anger. "I saw what happened between you and that Christmas goblin and if Helmut gets on your case, you send him to me. Come on now...." She hugged and patted and when the shaking stilled, she said, "Now dry your eyes and let's get out there and face down the rest of the goblins."

Elise giggled; the giggle had a left-over hiccup from the sob in it, but it was a giggle nonetheless. "Goblins?"

"Sure. You look: they're always little pasty-faced things, been working in the mines, get let out at Christmas just to torment the rest of us. Skrinched up faces, beady eyes that never see daylight but once a year. Either that or something about Christmas goblinates some people. There's nothing to be done about it and, if we're lucky, they'll un-goblinate after New Years'."

"Oh, dear," said Elise. "He did look like a goblin, didn't he?" This time the giggle was soft and warm.

"Yup, and the only thing that scares a goblin is a smile."

Elise smiled.

"That'll get 'em, girl," said Molly Rose, and on impulse offered her the spare ticket to Dickens' performance.

"That's family night," Elise said. "I can't make it."

There was something in the way she looked at the ticket. "But," said Molly Rose, knowing she was right, "but you know somebody who'd love to see this." Yes, she was right.

Elise made one shot, obligatory, at returning the ticket, but Molly Rose held up her hands. "Honey," she said, "the author is a friend of mine---has been since I was a kid. Think of this as me doing my bit to promote his work. You see that ticket gets into the right hands, and a Merry Christmas to you."

"God bless," said Elise and, seeming genuinely cheered, she went out to face the goblinated.

Molly Rose sighed and, from force of habit, pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket and jotted down the word "goblinated." She looked at her own face in the grimy mirror. "Smile," she commanded. "Even your editor knows you're 'relentlessly upbeat.'" Her image stared balefully out at her, goblinated as the worst of them, and she knew in her heart of hearts there'd be no Christmas story this year.

The last few years she'd made enough with her writing that she hadn't had to part-time at Christmas; and, by staying out of the stores when folks seemed at their most frantic, she'd avoided the worst aspects of the holiday. Come March, she'd have recovered from the few really nasty encounters she'd been a witness to (after all, one could hardly avoid nastiness---it was simply that it seemed nastier because of the time of year) and then she'd play her favorite Christmas music for a few weeks and sit down and, thus restored to the genuine spirit of Christmas, she'd write her Christmas story for the next year's magazines.

This year it wasn't going to happen. It'd been a lousy year all along and none of her writing had gone well. She had an umpteen dozen half-stories and she'd failed to finish a novel and now she wouldn't even be able to write her Christmas story come March. "And, if you can't write, you might as well put on a happy face and get out there and do your job," she told her image, "because you're gonna need this job reference."

With that parting shot, she pursed her lips, grabbed hold and dragged herself back into the tinsel and raucousness of the Christmas Village. The evening wore on, the crowd got thicker and Molly Rose's smile wore thinner but she kept it as best she could.

And then the day was over at last and she fought the subways where folks seemed surlier and breathed with relief the bitter chill of the air as she emerged from under the ground. She jammed on her gloves, noticing once more how tattered the cuffs of her coat had become. Well, it'd last two more years, at least. Shabby it might be, but it was proof against the cold.

She peeled back the cuff to read her watch---ten-thirty on the dot---she hurried her steps, pushing against the wind. Yes, there was Mrs. Eleanor, checking out the trash can on the corner of 2nd and 83rd, right on schedule.

Molly Rose had been curious enough to watch a few evenings and knew Mrs. Eleanor did the rounds as reliably as a neighborhood cat might. She'd once made the mistake of offering Mrs. Eleanor a container of Chinese food and had been soundly and haughtily chastised. How dare Molly Rose presume! Mrs. Eleanor, it seemed, was only out walking her dog, Susie.

There was no dog. Molly Rose wondered if once there had been.

At any rate, Molly Rose had gotten stubborn and prideful in her own way. Now she ducked into the space between the two buildings at this end of the street and set the shopping bag she carried in the only ray of streetlamp-light that penetrated the gloom. Since they'd given Molly Rose the job of cleaning the employees' fridge, she'd damn well see the leftovers went to good use. (Well, maybe, she had no real way of knowing if Mrs. Eleanor would take them. But if Mrs. Eleanor didn't, somebody else who needed them might.)

She nipped out of the alleyway just in time and zipped back the way she'd come, around the corner of 82nd to her own building. The blast of icy air almost knocked her over when she hit the patch of ice from the broken hydrant in front of Harry's Barbershop (now closed forever), but she worked her way up the four steps and rummaged her pocket for her keys.

As she pulled off her glove, cursing the icy keys and the icy lock and the icy wind and Christmas, Mrs. Eleanor rounded the corner. She was carrying the shopping bag. "Thank you," Molly Rose whispered to nobody in particular. Aloud, she said, "Good evening, Mrs. Eleanor. 'Evening, Susie. You've been shopping, I see."

Mrs. Eleanor smiled and lifted the bag an inch. "Christmas is so rushed," she said. "You know how it is. Stay, Susie."

She stood in the lamplight and Molly Rose, watching Mrs. Eleanor, could almost see the little dog tug with excitement at the end of her leash. Mrs. Eleanor wore a dozen or so ratty old sweaters---not enough for a night like this. Pinned to the outermost of these was a bright red ribbon.

"I see you're all gussied up tonight," Molly Rose said. If Mrs. Eleanor could be "brave in ribbons," she could damn well be brave too. Mrs. Eleanor would have her head otherwise.

"'Tis the season,'" said Mrs. Eleanor. "Merry Christmas, dear."

"And God bless us every one," Molly Rose said. Then she added sternly, "You'd better get Susie out of this wind before she takes a chill. Merry Christmas to you too, Susie," she called as afterthought. As she turned back to the door, she was suddenly blinded by her own tears. She found the lock by the sheer cold of it, and when she closed herself inside, she could just make out Mrs. Eleanor, gone across the street to check the garbage cans beside Bemeli's Grocery. She held the wriggling Suzie in her arms now, and Molly Rose was bone-sure that Suzie sniffed out the good containers for her.

Then Molly Rose did at last burst into tears. Damn the little ghoul in the back of her head for making stories out of other peoples' tragedies. She fumbled with the interior lock, got it open against all odds, and went sprawling over a package laid dead-center of the long entryway. The shock of falling startled her from her tears and she grabbed up the package hoping she hadn't broken somebody's Christmas gift.

She hadn't. Or at least she hadn't broken somebody else's Christmas gift---it was addressed to her. Scribbled on the package was a note from the man in 1A, "I didn't want to you pass it by: you always assume the packages are for somebody else. Your Uncle Oscar sends hugs and he's sorry he missed you."

Molly Rose climbed the two long flights of stairs to her apartment to be welcomed home by Mary and JayCee. She fed them first.

Exactly one year ago to the day, a lovely little gray tabby had come up to her on the street and inquired, Had she need of a cat?

Until that moment Molly Rose hadn't known she had. "Come on," she'd said, and the cat had followed her down the block to her building, in, up the stairs. The cat had checked the apartment, nook and cranny, then plumped herself in front of the fridge and Molly Rose had fed her the left-over half can of tuna. She'd given the cat water, devised a make-shift cat-pan, and gone over to Tomi Esposito's Christmas party.

When she returned (with a formal cat-pan and supplies), she'd found the little gray tabby nested on her laundry bag, no longer plump and nursing a single new-born kitten. Since it was Christmas Eve, there was nothing she could do but call them Mary and JayCee.

As things had turned out, JayCee was also a female, but that was fine by Molly Rose, who thought them both the nicest Christmas present she'd received in many a year.

When they'd all eaten left-over stew from the fridge and when Molly Rose had described her day (and told them wistfully about the young man and angrily about the slapped children) and been well and truly soothed by purrs and stroppings, Molly Rose remembered the package. With luck, there'd be ribbon for Mary and tissue paper for JayCee. No luck needed invoking---the package was from Uncle Oscar, after all, who worked in the rag trade and loved effects and knew the cats' tastes as well as hers.

"Dear Molly Rose," read the note (in Uncle Oscar's lovely copperplate hand), "A few years ago, one of your characters said wistfully that there were colors she'd never seen the dye-makers capture. She wanted 'a coat the color of snow-sky, that clear pale blue with silver shimmers hidden in it....'"

God, that line was over-written. Molly Rose cringed and hunched her shoulders because she hadn't found the words to describe the color she meant. Odd that Uncle Oscar had remembered the words, but then Uncle Oscar was a sweetheart.

JayCee was growing impatient, so she read on. "You tell me if I got it right. Love, Uncle Oscar. P.S. This is from our sample run but it should fit you just fine. The coats won't be on the market until next year, so you'll be predicting the future, as usual. More love."

With considerable help from Mary and JayCee, she opened the inside package and unfolded the tissue paper. "Oh!" she said. Nestled within the tissue paper was a down coat the color of snow-sky. She drew it from the box (JayCee immediately dived into the tissue to dance in noisy joy) and shook it out. The fabric shimmered with silver highlights. "Oh," she said again, and to Mary, she added, "He got the color---he really got the color! Will you just look!"

Mary was, truth be told, more interested in the ribbons, and she and JayCee held tug-of-war while Molly Rose tried on the coat. The fit was perfect (of course).

When she'd had enough of admiring the snow-sky coat in the mirror over the bathroom sink, she reluctantly hung it away in the closet. As she did, she caught up the cuff of her old coat. Good for maybe two more years, she thought again, and it should fit Mrs. Eleanor. How late did the play run? If she took the coat to the theater with her and left during curtain calls, she might just catch Mrs. Eleanor at her rounds. Her head full of frantic plans and the rustle of tissue paper in her ears, she fell asleep the moment her head touched her pillow.

#

The cats woke her early, which was just as well. With great joy, they helped her trim the tree. Putting on her new coat, Molly Rose dashed out to the store for a few last-minute goodies. Everybody else in the world had had the same thought, of course, so that took an hour. The supermarket had a small section devoted to pet toys, where she got the cats their traditional Christmas catnip mice...and where she paused a long moment and, on impulse, also bought a small dog's chew-bone.

She and the cats sat down to a formal Christmas dinner of roast chicken, after which she pulled the plug on the Christmas tree lights, dressed and rushed off to the theater, leaving the cats to fling their mice about in wild abandon. She did not forget to shove her old coat into a spare shopping bag.

This she settled under her seat in the theater. She'd made it with time to spare and, as her feet brushed the bag, she wished there were something more she could do for Mrs. Eleanor. After a moment, she had it. She fished in her purse for the pretty little Chinese silk pouch she kept her change in. She took out two tokens, one to get her home, the other to get her to work, and tucked the pouch into an inside pocket of the coat. On second thought, she checked her wallet: two twenties left. She could make one more meal of the stew and dole out the remainder of the chicken to the cats...that'd last till she could cash her paycheck. She tucked one of the twenties into the silk pouch and zipped it into her old coat pocket.

Then she settled back and let anticipation have its way with her. Dickens had believed Scrooge could change...maybe all those goblinated customers would too.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said a voice. She rose to let the young man ease past and into the seat beyond hers. He was maybe fifteen, dark-skinned, with even darker freckles, and a wild mop of jet-black hair. He settled himself (then re-settled himself, all gawk and long arms and longer legs) and then fixed his bright dark eyes on the stage with such anticipation that Molly Rose smiled at him and said, "Yeah, I can't wait, either."

"You're Molly Rose, then," he said.

Startled, it took her a minute to get it: this was Elise's friend.

"Elise said, 'Look for the only smile in the place, and that's Molly Rose.' Thank you. I wanted to see this, but I could never afford...."

"Me neither. A customer gave me the tickets because I said I liked Dickens." (And his joy at once made up for the spirit in which they'd been given.)

He nodded enthusiastically, as if to say he liked Dickens quite as much. "Merry Christmas, then," she said, and he smiled a beautiful bashful smile and said, "Merry Christmas," and the house lights went down.

Three lines into the performance, Molly Rose was appalled. This version was not simply bad; it was insulting. Someone (someone who didn't trust his audience) had excised all the "difficult" words and replaced all the unfamiliar phrases with modern phrases and, in so doing, had lost the beautiful rhythms of sentences that Dickens had worked so hard to achieve. Even with a free ticket, Elise's friend had been purely ripped off. (My-sister-the-bitch probably would have loved it.) Molly Rose's anger at Christmas was back, hotter than ever.

At the end of the first act, as the lights came up, she saw to her amazement that the kid next to her was still glowing. "This is wonderful," he said. "Hey, I didn't introduce myself, I'm sorry. I'm Tim White, and if ever there's anything I can do to thank you---like maybe you need some bookshelves hung or something...."

"I'll remember," she said. Not wishing to bring him down with her foul mood, she found a smile somewhere. "And there is something you can do for me."

"Name it!"

"Read the original story. You've got to hear him---Charles Dickens, I mean---tell it in his own words." She jerked her thumb in the general direction of the stage. "They won't tell you about the game of Blindman's-buff the way he does, and how Topper goes after the plump sister in the lace tucket." Remembrance made her smile genuine; she met his eyes. "The plump sister's one of my favorites; she's such a joy. ---If you've got younger kids in the family, read it aloud to them. That's how it was meant to be heard; A Christmas Carol is music."

"O-kay!" he said. "I've got two little sisters"---the shy smiled turned mischievous---"and one of 'em's plump."

As he followed her to the lobby to stretch those gawky teenage limbs, she realized she couldn't bear to sit through the second act. She couldn't even hang out with him through the intermission: he'd want to talk about the performance. He loved it and she didn't and there was no need to ruin the rest of it for him.

She looked down at the shopping bag in her hands. "I can't stay for the second act," she said, "I've got one last present to deliver and it's now or never."

She'd disappointed him. She couldn't leave him with such saddened eyes. "Hey, I know," she said. "All those folks in standing room?"---she handed him her ticket stub---"Make one of them the Christmas present of a seat." Yeah, his eyes brightened. "Pick a date or a seat-mate, just so long as it's somebody who can share your joy in this."

"O-kay!"

Leaving him shining in new anticipation, Molly Rose rushed away. Her smile vanished; it had been only a reflection of his. She tried to cheer herself with the thought that she'd make Mrs. Eleanor's rounds in good time, but that wasn't enough. The fact was, Scrooge wasn't reformed: they hadn't heard Dickens. If they couldn't hear Charles Dickens, what good could any tale of hers do?

She left the coat in the usual alleyway and wandered glumly down the street instead of going home. A bowl of smoking bishop, she thought; better that than sit home and fume all evening. Besides, she'd always wanted to taste smoking bishop. (Perhaps she'd see that lovely lace scarf at the neck of the young man's lovely young woman....)

She turned a corner and found Mrs. Eleanor walking Suzie. (Mrs. Eleanor was early tonight, or perhaps she made two rounds of the same area, but Molly Rose was very glad circumstance had brought her home in time.) "Mrs. Eleanor," she said. "Good evening to you and Suzie."

"Good evening. A lovely Christmas day eve, isn't it? Down, Suzie." The little invisible dog was obviously jumping at Molly Rose; Mrs. Eleanor bent down and picked her up.

"A lovely Christmas day," Molly Rose said. "You smell my cats, don't you, Suzie. And maybe this as well." She reached into her pocket. "I hope you won't mind, Mrs. Eleanor. But I got a little present for her...."

She found she didn't quite know what to do with the chew-bone, but Mrs. Eleanor had it covered. "Why, thank you," she said, taking the dog-toy. She leaned closer. "If I give it to her now, she'll be too excited to mind. I'll see she gets it the moment we get home."

"Thanks, and Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too." Mrs. Eleanor put the dog down where Susie bounded enthusiastically about her ankles, wrapping her in the leash. "Suzie says Merry Christmas to the cats, too."

She went her way and Molly Rose went hers. The gallery-loft was only ten blocks away and, warm in Uncle Oscar's snow-sky coat, if not in heart, Molly Rose walked. Better that than run the subway gauntlet of the goblinated a second time this evening.

The gallery-loft was chilly but welcoming, and so were the art works. Christmas ghosts, all---running the gamut from the jaunty and cheerful to the truly nightmarish. She liked one Ghost of Christmas Present enormously and stood before it to let it warm her.

Behind her, a young man said, "Too much. I loathe Dickens---he's so manipulative, always wringing your heart."

Molly Rose swung on him. He was the very nice young man who'd given her the invitation but she was suddenly furious. Loathe Dickens? How---? All too sharply, she said, "Do you write?"

He looked at her, even seemed to recognize her, then shook his head. "No, why do you ask?"

"You think Dickens was dishonest---that's what you're actually saying." Hands on hips, she glared at him and spoke from all the banked heat of her anger. "I don't. I write and I think Dickens got just as manipulated by his characters as his readers do. I think they wrung his heart, and I think he wouldn't have spent the ink on them if he hadn't cared for each and every one as much as he wants you to."

The young man drew back as if she'd struck him, and Molly Rose stood aghast at her own goblination. She tried to form an apology but before she could get it out, someone yelled, "Mintern---give us a hand with the punch bowl, will you?"

"'Xcuse me," he said---and fled.

Now that he was gone she saw him in her mind's eye, and now she saw that he'd dressed for Dickens' period, in a frock coat and stiff collar. At his throat, he wore that lovely white lace scarf, loosely bowed. Dressed like one of old Fezziwig's lively young 'prentices for the Christmas party.

His invitation yesterday had been his shy version of a pass. Today, he'd tried to strike up a conversation, and she.... Tomorrow, Molly Rose was never going to forgive herself.

Feeling like my-sister-the-bitch, Molly Rose edged from the room, looking for a place to hide, the deeper and darker the better. She didn't look where she was going, only for shadows, and she found a library. (A library much like her own: a long narrow hallway made narrower by being lined on either side with bookshelves.) The books were beautiful and lovingly read, and Molly Rose couldn't help but read the titles, to see what sort of lover they had. Not the young man she just yelled at (he wouldn't have called it yelling, but Molly Rose considered it such and hunched her shoulders again) for there was a full collection of Dickens. Her hand went out to touch the spine of the well-worn copy of A Christmas Carol.

"May I offer you a cup of smoking bishop?"

The voice, so close, startled her hand away from the shelves. At her elbow stood a young man with flyaway sideburns and long wavy hair brushed and cut as if to keep his ears warm. Like the young man with the lace scarf, he too was dressed in frock coat and stiffened collar, a soft bow at his throat.

"Oh. Thank you." She took the cup and, with it, a close look at the fellow. His face was familiar; his name wouldn't come to mind.

"Thank you, my dear, for your passionate defense. I am much obliged." He made a slight bow. "Tiny Tim was quite as real to me as you are."

"Oh," she said, recognizing him then. What a lovely idea to have a re-enactor present at the festivities. She'd once spoken to 'Mark Twain' and still remembered him with delight. "Mr. Dickens," she said. "Forgive me for not recognizing you from the first. I admire your work, sir." She held up the cup in offer. "May I drink your continued good health?"

"And I yours," he said, clinking his cup to hers. They drank and the smoking bishop went down warm and soothing. Molly Rose held the cup in both hands, letting more warmth seep into her, and smiled. "I always wanted to taste a smoking bishop, because of Ebenezer Scrooge and Bob Cratchit. I never dreamed I'd have the honor of having that taste with the fellow who introduced me to them. I wish I were half the writer you are."

"You must only believe," he said.

Something cracked inside Molly Rose. "That's just it. I don't, not this year, and I can't lie about it."

He replenished her cup from the steaming cut-glass bowl at his elbow. "Please," he said. "Be seated and tell me why you don't believe."

The cup burned her tongue and the spices stung her eyes, and Molly Rose sat down and told him everything. All about the goblinated people who, being tired themselves, slapped tireder children, about the fearful people who bullied and threatened, about the hatred she saw around her in the world that seemed all the stronger for its being Christmas.

Finally, she told him about the butchered production of his tale she'd seen earlier that evening, which seemed to sum up everything that was wrong with Christmas these days. "It's as if the world has taken Scrooge---the unreformed Scrooge---as the genius of the age. This age doesn't deserve your carol," she finished bitterly.

She stared into her cup, having found it grown cold. When she finally raised her eyes to meet his, she found them cold and hollow and so deep the hair at the nape of her neck rose in fear.

From his writing desk, he gathered up a sheaf of papers. Stacking them (the way she always stacked her manuscript pages: absently, out of habit), he held them toward the fire. "Shall I take it from them, then? I've only to throw this in the fire, and the odious Ebenezer Scrooge need never have been."

The fire leapt high, as if in anticipation.

"No!" said Molly Rose. She rose to her feet. "Oh, no, you mustn't!" In her sudden terror, she snatched the manuscript from his hands. (Though, truth be told, he gave it into her hands.) Hugging it to her, she sat down, well away from the roaring of the fire. "You mustn't," she said again.

"And why not? If, as you say, the story was not the sledgehammer against poverty I intended, why not burn it and have done?"

Why not, indeed, thought Molly Rose. What use if your readers didn't hear what you said to them? "Because"---she faltered, trying to put it into words---"because the world would be so much poorer without the hope that Ebenezer Scrooge might reform, the hope that Tiny Tim might live because of something we might do if only we understood what Christmas meant. Because you mustn't take that hope from us. Without hope, people won't try."

She riffled the papers, squinting to decipher his scrawled words, looking for that last lovely hope in the unfamiliar sprawl of ink, amid his crammed-in corrections and coiling deletions.

It wasn't there! Disbelieving, she fought her way through his handwriting a second time. Then she stared at him through the smoky light of the oil lamp in shock. "You didn't write it," she said. Her voice sounded dead to her; as dead as Dickens.

"Didn't write what?" He came to the settle and leaned over her shoulder.

"Here, at the very last minute, it should say---" Her fingertip on the next to last paragraph, tears welling as they always did, Molly Rose recited the missing line from memory: "'And to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father.'"

He bent over her. As his finger traced the paragraph, he laughed and shook his head in wonder. "Why, bless my soul!" he cried. "And bless you, my dear. I've rehearsed the words so many times in my imagination and before my glass that I thought I had written them down." He laughed again. "Never fear, I've ample time to correct the omission before the book goes to print."

"You will go to print then." She held the manuscript fiercely, protectively.

"I will," he said. "I promise."

"And Tiny Tim will live?"

He smiled at her fondly. "Could I do less for him than Ebenezer?"

Thus reassured she allowed him to take back the manuscript. He laid it on his writing desk and offered her another cup of smoking bishop.

She took it gladly, still shivering from the cold draft that blew through her heart. "Perhaps," she said, "perhaps the world did listen, does listen. Someone somewhere read your carol and took it to heart...."

"Oh," he said, "I know that for fact. Had not Ebenezer Scrooge reformed, Mrs. Eleanor would have died of the cold tonight. I have some small evidence of my success---as do you of yours...."

She raised her eyes to him quizzically.

"You have a coat the color of snow-sky." She did indeed; Uncle Oscar had heard her. Maybe others had too.

Suddenly startled, she rose from the settle. "How---" How did you know, she had meant to say.

But he had taken her hand, raised it and kissed it. When he straightened, he once again caught her in his regard and she could not speak.

"I beg of you, don't be too hard on the young man," he said. "I did, albeit innocently, complicate his childhood." He patted her hand. "You have lightened my day, my dear. It's rare to meet a colleague of such similar philosophy."

Then, just for a moment, his eyes turned deep again. This time, they did not chill her. He leaned closer and whispered, "If ever a dog were wild with joy, it's Suzie with her chew-bone. If ever Mrs. Eleanor were wild with warmth and joy---why, it's this very Christmas day."

He smiled at her wordlessness. "I'm glad you like the plump sister; so do I." He winked and added, "And now I'll leave the two of you alone."

Someone jostled Molly Rose, spilling hot wine steaming onto the floor. She jumped and turned and, when she looked back, Charles Dickens was gone. In his place was the young man who loathed Dickens, the young man in the lovely lace scarf....

"Thank heaven you're still here," he said. "I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior. I really put my foot in it...."

Molly Rose shook her head to clear it. The study was gone; so was the fireplace. Once again, she stood in a narrow book-lined hallway, one hand clasped about a cup of bishop and the fingertips of the other poised atop a copy of A Christmas Carol on the shelves.

She'd zoned out...lack of sleep often brought her flashes of vivid daydream. Usually, though, the flashes were bits of whatever story she was working on at the time.

There was no Dickens' re-enactor, let alone the ghost of Charles Dickens himself; there was only her overwrought imagination. 'An undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard,' she thought. (That was Scrooge's explanation for Marley's ghost.)

"---The smoking bishop," she added, aloud. (That was hers.) "What on earth went into it? That's much stronger than I expected." She set the cup atop a hissing radiator.

"No such excuse for me, I'm afraid, Ms. Hawkins," he said. "I've been tasting it all week while we adjusted the recipe." He held out his hand. "My name's Eben Mintern."

"Molly Rose," she said. His hand enclosed hers, warm and tingling. "I'm sorry. I'm so exhausted I'm acting like my-sister-the-bitch." The book tipped from the shelf into her other hand. "I'd better go home before I fall over."

He nodded and released her hand. Not meeting her eyes, he looked instead at the book she was holding. "Do you know, I've never actually read that? I've always assumed from the films...." He shook his head ruefully. "I can be a such an ass sometimes. I am sorry. If I promise to give Dickens himself a try, may I walk you to the bus or the subway or wherever it is you're going?"

"I'm going ten blocks to my apartment and it's cold out there," she said with a smile.

"The offer still goes. And the promise."

"I'd like that, Evan."

"Eben," he corrected, still not meeting her eyes. "E. B as in 'braindead'. E. N." He spelled his last name as well, and the change in manner between the spelling of the first and the spelling of the last required Molly Rose's full attention.

"Eben," she said, at last, "Would that be your full first name or...?" When he tinged with color, she knew all too well how Dickens had complicated his childhood. "Ah," she said softly, "your grudge against Charles Dickens is personal. All I can say in our defense is: we've got call our characters something."

He laughed, then, and shook his head. "In Dickens' defense, he was hardly to blame for my mom's taste in names."

Very shyly, Molly Rose said, "I love your mom's taste in names. 'Ebenezer' is full of hope and generosity and old Fezziwig's Christmas party and---'to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father.' It suits you, right down to the white lace scarf."

"Then you," he said, in all solemnity, "may call me Ebenezer." Again, he smiled, and Molly couldn't have been more warmed beside a roaring fire. She knew for certain that no one else had ever been granted the privilege.

"I'll get your coat," he said. When he had (and had admired the color of hers and she'd thanked him on Uncle Oscar's behalf), she took his arm and they stepped into the cold.

A light snow was falling, and the city air swirled with the reflected colors of Christmas lights. As cold as the night was, Molly Rose felt warmer than she had for days, and she paused on the steps to watch the play of snow.

When she remembered at last that she was not alone, she found Eben gazing down at her. His (very beautiful) eyes held that same dreamy look she remembered from their first meeting. "Forgive me," he said. "I was sketching you in my head, the way you watched the snow."

Embarrassed (but pleased), she went down the steps watching her feet.

"Josie," he said, in a change-the-subject tone, "asked me to ask you your friend's real name. She'd like to thank him; he really made the evening."

"My friend?"

"That Charles Dickens guy. He was really very good, she says, and Josie should know: she's a Dickens' fan to end all Dickens' fans. That's why she chose Christmas Spirits as a subject for the show."

Molly Rose stopped in her tracks and drew away to stare at him. The wind was chillier now. "He wasn't mine---I mean, I didn't bring him." (Then who did? she thought, and the study, and the fireplace?)

Molly Rose played fair when she wrote (or that's how she'd have put it); she wouldn't ask a reader to believe a thing she couldn't. The ghost of Charles Dickens? Was he asking her to beli---

("You must only believe," Charles Dickens had told her.)

"I thought I'd imagined him."

Eben held up one hand, boy-scout fashion, and said, "No, you didn't: he was there, and he knew you. He must have, from the way he spoke." A flush spread across his face, or perhaps the coloring was only reflected light. "He said your name was Molly Rose Hawkins and you were angry at Christmas and, if I knew what was in my own best interest, I'd offer to see you home like a proper gentleman."

And if Molly Rose couldn't believe in the ghost of Charles Dickens, she could believe in Ebenezer---

She couldn't help but laugh. (If she had seen a ghost on Christmas Day, what better ghost to see?) "In those words?" she asked.

"Well, no, but I've never been good at remembering exact words---pictures, yes, words no. I'm sure of the 'angry at Christmas' though; I could sketch it for you. In fact, I will sketch it for you. Are you angry at Christmas?"

"No, not quite that. I was angry that I couldn't make people feel Christmas the way he could make me feel Christmas."

"He said I might doubt his sincerity all I liked, but if I read your stories, I'd never doubt yours. He said you believed and you wrote from the heart." Eben smiled again and added, "He said if I happened to need a Christmas inspiration of my own I'd best apply to you."

They'd almost walked past her corner. Molly Rose pointed and led the way to her steps.

"He was right about that: I'd like to sketch the way you watched the snow. I'd like---may I have your number? And did he give me your real name? I faithfully promise I'll read A Christmas Carol before I call...and something of yours, as well." He brought out a sketch pad and pencil and held them out to her.

"Come in," she said, "and warm yourself by a roaring radiator."

As she fumbled the key into the lock, he bent and said, "What's this?" As they stepped into the shelter of the lobby, he held out a package, "Here, it's addressed to you."

The package was wrapped in pink foil that had been used once before. Affixed to it was Mrs. Eleanor's Christmas ribbon and Molly Rose's name was written in a large, awkward hand.

Wildly curious, Molly Rose opened the package, taking care not to dislodge the ribbon or the printing. Inside she found a worn copy of A Christmas Carol and a note.

"Miss Hawkins," read the note (part of a brown paper bag, the edges neatly torn), in the same hand. "This has been in my family for many generations. I thought you would treasure it as I have. Suzie loved her present. Merry Christmas from the two of us." The note was signed, "(Mrs.) Eleanor Roosevelt."

"Eleanor Roosevelt?" said Eben.

"Mrs. Eleanor is a friend of mine. I met her one night when she was walking her dog, Suzie."

"There's more to the story than that," Eben said. "I can see it in your face. Eleanor Roosevelt? In the family for generations? That edition was remaindered all over the stores just this year. I know; I bought one for the Rackham illustrations." He suddenly threw up his hands, as if in surrender. "I'll read it!"

Molly Rose cocked her head at Eben. "Come up. You can meet Mary and JayCee and I'll tell you the story and maybe you'll understand."

Together they sat in the warmth of her kitchen and ate leftover stew. JayCee curled herself in Eben's lap, Mary in Molly Rose's, and Molly Rose told him all about Mrs. Eleanor. As she did, she cradled Mrs. Eleanor's gift. The book had been read almost to tatters and the weight was cozy in her hands.

As she finished telling Eben about Mrs. Eleanor, she let the book fall to a natural opening. Mary purred and stretched a paw and claws onto the page, as if to snag to her favorite line:

"The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow."

The phrase had been twice underscored---rough, uneven underscoring born of cold ink and worn nib.

Scratched in the margin, by the same pen and in the same sprawled hand she'd earlier struggled to decipher in the pages of his manuscript, were the words: "And so I am. ---Boz."

Eben rose, setting JayCee carefully back in the warm spot he'd left in the chair. "Now I've got to read that book," he said. "He caught you up; he made you stop to reread a passage." He put on his jacket. "May I call you tomorrow?"

Still caught in the book's pages, Molly Rose nodded. "Please do," she said. "I'd like that very much."

"If I see Mrs. Eleanor, I'll say hello. I'll know her when I see her now, even if I can't see Suzie the way you can. He was right about you, you know."

"He?" She paused, with her hand on the door.

"Charles Dickens," Eben said. "Whoever he was."

"Boz," she said, glancing at the little book in her hand. "Tell you friend Josie, he went by the name of Boz when he wrote this."

Eben got the reference; his smile was brilliant. "Yes," he said, "oh, yes! Josie will love that." He touched her cheek, very lightly, with the very tips of his fingers. "So do I. That would be something to tell the children, wouldn't it?" His voice and eyes were full of mischief.

"---What?"

"Why, that on a certain Christmas Day, many years ago, the ghost of Charles Dickens introduced an Ebenezer to their mother...." He kissed her startled mouth, then, quickly, warmly. "Merry Christmas."

He bolted. Half-way down the flight of stairs, he added, "---and I'll call you tomorrow."

Laughing, Molly Rose closed the door and leaned against it. (Her lips still tingled. That would be something to tell the children---how like Boz to toss love and laughter into the midst of her anger.) Her finger still marked the passage he'd underlined. Once again, she opened the book and reread his message. Ebenezer's kiss was still on her lips, and Dickens' voice was warm and clear and strong in her ear.

"All right, Boz," she said. She sat once more at the kitchen table. "I'll write my Christmas story. If we've got to reform Ebenezer Scrooge every damn year, we might as well get to it. Between the two of us, maybe we can get it to take." Laying aside the book, she drew paper to her and picked up her pen.

With Mary in her lap, JayCee draped across her toes, and Charles Dickens standing in the spirit at her elbow, she began to put her hope to paper.

WHAT A WIZARD DOES

Sable rose from the comfort of her goose-down pillow to stalk to the streaked window yet again. It had been raining steadily for a week now. She had spent some of that time profitably---rousting sniggets from the rugs or (her fur dry-spelled) catching such mice and moles as the wet brought to the surface. Of itself, rain did not bother her.

What did bother her---what set her tail twitching like a black and venomous snake---was the stench of misery that coiled from the village below to seep into every corner of the house she shared with Glory Two-Eyes. This morning it would have overpowered even the best of smells Glory could conjure.

It was the stench of children trapped---kept indoors for fear of colds. Base superstition, Glory called that. Likely, it had more to do with the desire to keep the children's clothing from being muddied. In which case, Sable thought, it would be sensible to send them out without the clothing. It was certainly warm enough for most creatures (even those lacking her superb coat and her dry-spells) to go 'unprotected.'

The atmosphere had begun to effect the adults as well, which only added to the misery of the children.

Sable paced once more and, for something to do, made herself a moth-spell and chased it up the drapes. She was midway to the ceiling before she realized she had miscalculated the weight the drapes would hold. The drapes gave a lurch.

So disgusted was she---with the way the world smelled and with herself---that she made no magic to counter the impending disaster. Wood splintered above her, and down she and the drapes went, a tangle of black cat and blue linen.

Still too irritable to extricate herself with the ease of a spell, she clawed her way out. Ripping brought her a certain sense of satisfaction...until she emerged and looked up.

Glory loomed over her, hands on hips. "Well?" There was an edge to Glory's voice.

"Don't help," Sable said. "You wouldn't want me to get fat and lazy like some familiars I could name." She twitched her tail free and sniffed dramatically. There was an edge to Glory's scent as well. "The weather's not doing your personality any good either, I see. I try to get a little exercise and a little entertainment and what do I get?" Sable yawned, flashing sharp white teeth. "I get, 'Well?'" she mimicked. "Well, what good is having a wizard around the house if she won't provide a little sunshine, o great and awesome Glory Two-Eyes?"

Glory had not changed her stance. If anything, she loomed more ominously. "Meddling in the weather---"

The looming didn't impress Sable; she knew how the trick was done. "---Requires enormous energy and results in terrible backlash if you're not careful," she finished for Glory. "Think of something else, then. The whole village reeks of depression and impatience and only World Entire knows what else. A few more days of this and there'll be murder done."

Glory jerked back her head, dark hair flying. "You think so?"

Irritation ran the length of Sable's spine and set her tail twitching again. "You curl up with your books and scrolls and your toms and you don't pay attention. Yes, I think so---if something or somebody doesn't crack the pattern."

"All right," said Glory, "Let's see what we can do."

"It's about time."

Stepping over the shredded draperies, Glory threw open the window and crooked an arm in Sable's direction. Sable preened her shoulder and said, "If you need my help to read that pattern, you're of no use to any of us." Glory sighed and set to work.

Sable knew just what she would see. The shifting currents that flowed to and from the village today eddied dark and muddy. That would have been bad enough, but there was worse. Over the village itself, the thick, dark currents slowed, then halted altogether. It was as if the village drowned in stagnant water.

Glory turned back. "You're right, Sable," she said.

Of course she was right. Offended by the implication that she might possibly have been wrong, Sable glared.

"I'd risk interfering in that to prevent a famine," Glory said, misreading Sable's glare, "but not to lift a depression." Forestalling any comment on Sable's part, Glory raised her hands and added, "I'll think of something."

"You'd better. Let something like that go on and you don't know what the populace will nightmare up. Next month they may decide that black cats are bad luck."

"What?" Glory's dark brows knitted.

Sable thrust her hind leg forward and licked her heel in contempt. "You were the one who told me this business about children catching colds from playing in the rain was pure superstition."

Glory's scent changed abruptly. Sable put her heel down and looked up in time to see a smile spread slowly across Glory's face. That was what Sable had been waiting for: Glory had thought of a counter-spell for the rain-soaked village.

Sable stretched her pleasure. "What would we do without magic," she said.

The smile turned to a grin. "Come with me and I'll show you."

"You can't shift those patterns without sorcery." Sable eyed her scornfully---then thought better of it and amended the statement: "Even you can't."

Glory took no offense. "What a wizard does is magic," she said. "I mean to use a little neverburn, unless you have some objection." The grin was, if anything, broader.

Neverburn scarcely counted as sorcery. It was as rudimentary a spell as the up Sable had neglected to use when she climbed the drapes. Sable waited for a further explanation.

She received none. So Glory had taken offense after all. Glory had as fine a sense of retribution as any cat. Well, if Glory was not about to tell Sable what she had planned, Sable was not about to give her the satisfaction of asking. There was nothing for it but to follow along and see what Glory had in mind.

"Use all the neverburn you want," Sable said. "You'd overrule my objections if I had them, so I seldom do."

Glory chuckled. Sparkles of neverburn appeared between her fingertips and she set them in her hair like tiny stars. Then she stripped out of her clothes, tossing them in a heap on the table. From the hook near the door she took up her hooded drycloak and threw it around her.

"Are you ready?" Glory crooked an elbow.

By this time, Sable was sure her eyes were enormous, but she feigned nonchalance. She was cursed if she'd ask. "Of course," she said.

With an up, she sprang for Glory's elbow, then for her shoulder, and on into the voluminous hood. She upped a second time---the fabric of the drycloak was thin and Glory had no protection beneath it. Irritable she might be but she had no desire to sink her claws into Glory's shoulder for purchase---that would have been admitting that Glory was getting to her.

Glory padded softly down the path that lead through Silverfir Forest and into the village. The shoes she'd left behind looked so forlorn that Sable considered conjuring a family of field mice to keep them company. And fleas for Glory's abandoned gown. Cursed if she'd ask!

#

At each house along the way, Glory paused to knock and, when they had been welcomed and Glory had declined offers of food and tea, Glory told each householder, "I need the children."

When asked for what purpose, she said only, "Can't you feel the oppressiveness?" The villagers could, of course, and they agreed to send the children to Glory at council hall.

Glory stopped at the post as well. Jennet Fast-Foot went for the children at the other end of town and Tomas and Cecilany rode to fetch those from the outlying farms. Glory was determined not to miss a one.

Then there was nothing to do but make for the shelter of the council hall and wait. Glory was still being stubborn, so they waited in silence. Doing her best to ignore both the stench and Glory's stubbornness, Sable dozed.

Clatter and chatter woke her. The children had begun to arrive, bringing with them a brightening of the atmosphere that Sable had not expected. Glory hadn't, after all, done anything yet.

Glory only nodded solemnly at each arrival. Awed by her manner, they tried to match her solemnity. In the end, of course, they couldn't. Little Bit and Wozzle hushed their younger sisters---toddlers both---and got giggles. Tall Rob joked his bravado, was silenced by a dark frown from the much smaller Ray Golden---who then dissolved into giggles herself.

A heady scent of anticipation cleared much of the smell of misery from the council hall. Maybe Glory had done something already, Sable thought, surprised that she could have slept through any of Glory's magic.

Sable made a quick check of her own. No, Glory'd done no magic. Yet the atmosphere had changed. She turned her attention to the children.

They were, as Sable had expected, bundled in drycloaks (or cloaks of a simpler sort), their heads were covered with scarves and hats. They should have smelled stifled but didn't.

Their necks festooned with talismans---Sable couldn't remember the last time she'd seen so many in one place---and their pockets filled with charms and cookies. If they were to be involved in magic, their parents reasoned, they would need all the help they could get---and all the energy the cookies would provide.

Glory still said nothing. She sat on the council table, clasping her drawn-up knees in her bare arms, her mud-spattered toes peeking from beneath her drycloak. Sable remained hidden in the depths of the cowl, seeing but not seen.

The mayor and her council made a sudden appearance in full regalia. They bowed as one. "Glory Two-Eyes," said the mayor, "we are honored by your presence."

"Thank you, Helen of Wye, but I must ask you to leave us now. We have a great deal of work to do."

Helen of Wye glanced at the children. Annie-Tiptoe, who was her youngest, waved. Helen of Wye, somewhat embarrassed, waved back. "I must ask if what you intend bodes any danger to the children."

"There is greater danger to them if I fail to accomplish my ends."

Sable stirred within the hood and said, "Now you've worried them." Glory answered silently, "Only the adults. The children are more excited." A sniff of the air told Sable this was true.

"If you wish, you may send Granny Sassy, Eloise-That-Liar, and Ringgold to assist us," Glory said aloud. "In fact, I would prefer it."

Skinny Lem, at a look from Helen, dashed off into the rain to round up the three she had named. "Granny Sassy should be enough chaperone for anybody," Sable said. "Why go to the trouble to add Eloise-That-Liar and Ringgold?"

"Because what I plan will give Eloise-That-Liar a week's worth of new tales to tell," Glory said.

That made sense, until Sable realized that Glory meant to leave Ringgold unexplained. Well, Sable didn't mind Glory's quirk. Ringgold was the town's herbalist, and Sable enjoyed smelling him.

Helen of Wye did not move until the three adults named had arrived; then, with a last embarrassed wave at Annie-Tiptoe, she hurried her council away. Granny Sassy pushed the door shut, slamming it for attention, and said, "I hope you're not messing with the weather, child. I won't have it, you know."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Glory said with a smile. Then more solemnly, she added, "But this gloom isn't natural and must be lifted."

Granny Sassy snorted. "I'd have called it perfectly natural after a week of rain. Still...if you're proposing to do something about it, let's get on with it."

Glory nodded and stood. She threw back the hood of her drycloak, revealing Sable and the neverburn sparkles in her hair. There was a murmur of delight from the children. More neverburn sparkles began to appear between her fingers.

"My friends," Glory said, "you have all felt the terrible gloom in this village. With Sable's help, I've learned the cause of it."

"Oh!" said Little Bit. Her eyes were wide but Sable couldn't tell if that was in reaction to what she'd heard or what she saw. "Who's doing it to us?"

"Not who," said Glory. "What. Sniggets---an invasion of sniggets."

"Sniggets!" said a surprised voice from the crowd.

Little Bit turned. "Sniggets are those pesky things that cats pounce on all the time, only we can't see them," she said helpfully.

"I know what sniggets are," said the same voice, scornfully this time. "They don't bother people."

"This many sniggets can and do bother people," Glory said. "I admit it doesn't happen often but it has happened and you can feel the result."

Sable said privately, "You're almost as good as Eloise-That-Liar. Sniggets, indeed."

Glory ignored her, finishing aloud, "To put an end to this problem, I'll need your help. Will you give it?"

"Oh, yes!" said Little Bit, glancing at Wozzle, her best friend. Wozzle nodded enthusiastically, first at Little Bit, then at Glory. A chorus of assent followed.

"You must do exactly as I say," Glory cautioned them, but again she received their consent.

"Good," she said. "Then let's get to it." She moved around the room and fixed a handful of neverburn sparkles in the hair of each, kneeling to reach the littler ones, standing on Tiptoe to adorn Ringgold. Sable caught a distinct whiff of attraction between the two and commented, "Ah, so that's why you included Ringgold. You and your damn toms." But she breathed in the herbs and their mutual attraction with content.

"Oh, Little Bit, you look so pretty!" Wozzle said, clasping her hands together in imitation of her mother's manner.

"You look so pretty, too!" Little Bit told her, loyally. The two were constant companions and not to be outdone in their admiration for one another.

Eloise-That-Liar produced her pocket mirror. By far the prettiest young woman in the village, Eloise-That-Liar used it only to practice comic faces for her tales. Today it was passed from hand to hand, so each child could see her own spangles. Sable followed the mirror's progress through the the crowd by ear, listening for the oooohs and aaaaahs.

It was Granny Sassy that Glory adorned last and even she could not resist a peek in Eloise-That-Liar's mirror. "A good start," she told Glory in somewhat grudging tone, "Let's see what comes next."

Glory strode to the counsel table. "Off, Sable," she said, voicelessly, and Sable walked down her arm to pose where she could see and be seen best.

Glory raised her arms, and there was, after some minor shushing, a silence. "Next," she said, "take off your boots and stockings."

This took a considerable length of time, with the older ones helping the younger ones---many of whom would have done much better without the help.

When they had finished the task, Glory raised her hands again. "And now, take off all the clothes that remain. You may wear your talismans and carry your charms but---this is the important part---all of your skin must be exposed to the rain."

There was a squeak of protest from one of the adolescents. Glory fixed him with a stare. "Do you wish to help the village?"

Tall Rob nodded reluctantly. His face was scarlet.

"Tall Rob," she added gently, "I would not ask anything of you I would not do myself." Without fanfare, she unbound her drycloak and doffed it, laying it beside Sable on the council table. Sable could smell Tall Rob's relief---and Ringgold's desire.

There was another scent as well, sharp and strong and as pleasing as any Sable had smelled. She could not locate the source---until Granny Sassy did an unheard of thing: she laughed aloud.

Granny Sassy began to take off her clothes, and Sable knew the scent was her pure delight.

With much giggling and laughter, all the children peeled off their heavy bundled clothing---cloaks, blouses, linens, trousers---everything went jumbling to the floor. The talismans went back around their necks, though several of the smallest children squealed at the coldness of some of those spells. Glory made a circuit of the room to bind charms to bare chests so they need not be carried.

Granny Sassy said, "You're a wicked wizard, Glory."

"And you're a naughty old lady, Granny---everybody knows it."

Granny Sassy laughed again. "If they didn't this morning, they will this afternoon, child."

Glory clapped her hands above her head. A shower of neverburn fountained between them, curved and cascaded to the floor around her, like the Queen's Own Fireworks.

She had the attention of all. "Our work begins," she said. "The sniggets lurk in puddles on every street corner on every street in town. We are going to drive them out!"

Eloise-That-Liar cheered and was promptly joined by a dozen or more voices and a chorus of giggles.

"Here's how we do it," Glory went on. "We make loud joyful noises---sing, shout, laugh!---and jump into their puddles. It doesn't matter if five of us jump into the same one, as long as we don't miss a single puddle within the circuit of the city. Splash the sniggets out!"

She took Little Bit's hand and Little Bit took Wozzle's and Wozzle reached to her young sister's. As they all linked hands, Glory opened the door into the rain. "Sing, Ringgold!" she shouted. Ringgold started the children's chant that called the stars back from the rain and it was immediately taken up by the children.

Over the din, Glory shouted again, "We dance to the square and part from there!"

She led them dancing, singing, shouting and giggling into the warm summer rain.

As Granny Sassy took up the rear of the line, Sable trotted to the door to watch. Through the shielding rain, she could just barely see that the head of the line had reached the square. Glory jumped into the largest puddle with a shout of laughter and an "Out, sniggets, out!" and stood to point the children in various directions.

Two adults in cloaks froze to watch, then abruptly ran for cover. Little Bit and Wozzle were showing their younger sisters the right way to jump into puddles, while Eloise-That-Liar turned a cartwheel in the rain.

"You're a snob, Sable."

Sable looked up just in time to see Granny Sassy dance through the door with the end of the line.

"You can't give me fleas," Granny Sassy called, her voice breathless but taunting, "I'd just brush 'em off. They only work on people in clothes! Snob!" she called again.

It was too much for Sable---and it was apparent that they were all going to have a great deal of fun. She darted out into the rain after them.

The next few hours were the liveliest she had ever spent and she recalled only confused images of them. Shocked and delighted expressions of the faces of the adult villagers (sometimes both at once!), the yelps and squeals of children as they splatted into puddles over and over again, splashing each other with warm, muddy water. Eloise-That-Liar, who stood on her hands and pitched full-length and spread-eagled into the largest standing pool she could find... Glory dancing a circle-dance with a dozen youngsters as they kicked through puddled water, her neverburn still sparkling through the muddy water that dripped from her long locks of hair....

And above it all, the scent of joy and the bright rupture of the lines of disturbance that had entwined the village.

Sable heard the glass-like tinkle of a sequence of spells and looked up from the puddle to find herself seeing a rainbow. And it was no ordinary rainbow, it was her own private vision. Nor was it an arc---it was a complete circle and she knew she was the very center of it.

In the back of her mind, she knew very well that each child saw the same thing, and each child was the beginning and end of his or her own rainbow, but she could not take her eyes off it until it faded gently into the mist and was gone.

When she looked around, she saw Eloise-That-Liar stretch out her hand as if to call it back. Granny Sassy shook herself as if from a dream; the two children beside her were open-mouthed in wonder.

"We've done it," said Glory, with satisfaction, and the children, as if compelled, drew toward her. "Yes," she told them, "you saw. We drove all the sniggets out. You did a good job of it, too.

"Now you deserve a rest---go home, bathe away the mud, and tell your parents I prescribed a restorative of hot honey-lemonade and candies."

Still awed, the children quietly nodded and began to disperse. As they passed through the rain-soaked streets they at last regained their tongues---and Sable could hear the topic of conversation was hot honey-lemonade.

Granny Sassy looked at the handful remaining that had been brought by rider and said, "I'll see to hot honey-lemonade for these---I could use some myself. I'm a little hoarse from all that shouting." Very softly, she added, "Thank you, Glory. I've never seen the like." She bustled the children away. Then, to restore her sharp-tongued image, she shot back over her shoulder, "Clean up, child. You look a perfect mess."

Sable considered Glory: she was streaked with mud. Her hair was matted and dripping, but the neverburn still twinkled. "She's right, you know," Sable said critically.

Glory spread her hands and looked down at herself and began to laugh. "You should talk; you didn't even dryspell yourself."

Sable twisted to wash her shoulder and got a tongue-full of mud. Disgusted, she shook violently, spattering Glory further.

"If you please, Glory Two-Eyes," Ringgold ducked his head deferentially, "you would be welcome to bathe at my house. ---Sable too, of course," he added hastily as Sable glared at him.

"Aha!" thought Sable at Glory, "Now it comes out..."

"Don't be such a grouch," Glory replied.

"I'm wet!" She shook again. This time she spelled the flying drops for emphasis: each and every one got Glory.

"I'll see you dry first," Glory assured her, chuckling. Aloud, to Ringgold, she said, "We'd be delighted to accept your offer."

"And you can bet your ass she doesn't mean just the bath," Sable commented, but Ringgold was deaf to all but Glory's magic. Glory was right, Sable reflected. Spells or no spells, what a wizard does is magic.

NAKED WISH-FULFILLMENT

After the first twenty minutes, you don't notice who's dressed and who isn't -- but it had taken Barbara some twenty minutes longer to notice that she no longer noticed. When she did, she opened her notebook and tried to put the effect into words. The result was disappointing.

She sighed deeply and returned to the equally frustrating task of cutting Dick's dialogue to a level he could handle. The most believable thing he'd said all morning was, "Hey, baby -- wanna fuck?" and that had been to Barbara, not to one of the actresses. So much for all her hard-won comic dialogue....

By the time she had finished reworking the next scene on the shooting schedule, she became aware that Tom had called, "Cut! Take fifteen, people. Rick -- let's get these lights moved. Suzy, not you. I need somebody to light. That's good, just lie there." Then he laughed, and Barbara pushed up the brim of her hat for a look.

Suzy had Bruppy the teddy bear's muzzle in her crotch and was writhing in mock orgasm. Tom caught Barbara's glance and her suppressed smile. "If you tell my wife where her daughter's teddy bear has been, I'll..."

"You'll have to buy her a new one," Barbara finished for him, her smile no longer suppressed.

Tom peered through the camera's aperture, fiddled with the light, peered again. "Lend me your hat, Barbara."

"No way," said Barbara, dropping her pen to clamp the hat to her head. "I've seen what you do with borrowed props. I lend you the hat you'll use it for water sports."

Across the room, Dick brightened visibly at the suggestion.

"Not with my hat you don't, Dick." She tightened her hold. "Next time I'll write you something special, but it won't include my hat." From under the brim, she raised an eyebrow at him suggestively.

"With whips?" Dick threw himself backward, arching his body until its highest point was the tip of his cock. "Flay me, baby!"

"No whips," she said, "but you do all your sex scenes upsidedown, under water."

Beside her, Harry guffawed, but Dick came up off the couch, looking interested. "Yeah!" he said, "All right!"

"Hat," said Tom, prying loose her fingers and taking it. "Just to shade the light, dammit, Barbara."

Barbara handed him her copy of the script as well. "New lines for Dick," she said. "If you want, you can tell him I made him more macho."

"Right," said Tommy. He skimmed the scene. "Yeah," he said, "That should help." And for the third time since he'd learned what Dick considered acting, he said, "Sorry, Barbara. He came highly recommended."

"Not your fault," she said. "You had no way of knowing all they meant is Dick can get it up and off on cue." Then, finding herself a bit puzzled, she sought the source of the inconsistency and added, "I'd've thought he'd give a better cum shot." Any tomcat (though it was ER that came to mind) would put Dick to shame. "He just sort of dribbles on his hand...I expected something splashier."

"That too," said Tommy unhappily. Then he held up the hat and said, "Thanks," as if he meant for the loan. Stripping gaffer's tape from the roll hung over the Buck knife on his belt, he taped the hat to shade the right-hand light. Then he went back to his camera.

Barbara rolled her eyes at the nearest sympathetic face, in this case, Harry's. Not only was it sympathetic but (she had to admit) it was one of the best she'd seen on a male in years. The rest of him was just as good: tall, slim, dark-haired -- every inch the romantic hero -- except for the bright pink bow he was wearing on his dong.

Harry's specialty was burlesque, for this film at least. Barbara was grateful; she'd been able to expand his speeches to compensate for Dick's.

"Author!" he said, flopping his xeroxed copy of the script at her, "Oh, author!"

Now he was being Earnest Young Actor, and Barbara did her best to match him earnestness for earnestness. "Yes, Harry?"

"Tell me, please. What's my motivation for this line?"

With effort, she kept her face straight as she read through the scene he indicated. "Your motivation in this scene," she said, as she returned his script with a finger pointing to one of the more obvious double-entendres, "is that you're horny."

Harry considered her gravely. Just as gravely he re-read the scene, paying special attention to the line at her fingertip. When he had finished, he met her eyes and said solemnly, "Yes, I understand. I can find that within me. Thank you."

Barbara held her laughter for a long moment only by holding her breath, then breath and laughter burst out at once. Harry grinned and nodded, the nod a bow acknowledging her laughter as the applause due him.

When she finally caught her breath, still chuckling, she said, "Okay, I give up. I promised myself I wouldn't make a nuisance running around asking people -- "

Harry's grin broadened. "`What's a nice boy like me doing in a place like this?'"

Barbara found herself coloring. "Sorry," she said, "but, yes, exactly."

"Good practice." He raised a brow to the precise angle that made the line suggestive, but she understood he meant the acting, not the sex.

She jerked her chin in Dick's direction just as he stuck his fingers up Mary's ass and got his hand slapped for it. "All of you, do you think?"

"No," said Harry, amused, "Not all of us. So I haven't spared you from asking the rest...or spared them from being asked." He leaned nearer and said sotto voce, "If Dick's answer is any different from what we both expect, let me know, will you?"

John, the DP, flung a finger at one of the PAs. "Nooky light," he commanded and, distracted by the words, Barbara only nodded response to Harry. The "nooky light" was nothing more exotic than the one on the two-inch high stand, but Barbara grinned at the coinage and collected it in her notebook.

Tommy shook his head as if saddened by it all: "Blinding teddy bears...I'm ashamed of you, John." John cackled and switched on the light. Then he held a light meter to Suzy's crotch and said with great satisfaction, "Got that little bugger."

The soundman, who claimed she was a Korean orphan and went by the wonderful pornonym (that was Harry's coinage, also collected) of "Kim Chee," rose from behind her pile of equipment and nodded at Tommy. He raised his voice to carry throughout the living room: "All right, people! Quiet for sound check!"

Kim pulled on her huge earphones and stepped into the circle of lights. She clapped her hands sharply, twice, at each of the walls. Then she swung the boom mike a fraction of an inch to the right and repeated the ritual.

The ripple of Kim's waist-length black hair put the finishing touch to Barbara's sense of reality and despite all her promises to keep out of the way Barbara found herself tagging along behind.

A few hand-claps later, Kim said, "I need a sound-blanket there, Tom." She pointed her there, rounded without warning on Barbara and said, "Writers...!" Then, grinning, she peeled off her earphones and positioned them over Barbara's ears. "Clap your hands and listen for the echoes."

Feeling like the sorcerer's apprentice, Barbara did as she was told and learned to her wonder that she could hear an odd but very distinct boing-boing response to her claps in that position. As Tommy and one of the PAs taped a thick quilted blanket across the corner the boing disappeared, to be replaced by a still odder sound.

She twisted to place it, then realized that she had to place it in reference to the mike. It was outside the house, but coming closer.

Once, in a hotel room in Amsterdam, she'd heard something similar coming from the street below. Sure she was imagining things, she had nonetheless gone to the balcony to look -- and had been rewarded by the sight of eight matched draft horses pulling a beer wagon. Advertisement it might have been, but she'd ordered their beer that very evening for the sake of those magnificent horses and their feathered hooves.

Puzzled, she frowned at Kim, who said, "Still a problem?" and held out her hand for the return of the earphones. After listening intently for a few hand-claps, Kim nodded at Tommy. "That's got it," she said, of the sound blanket.

That deepened Barbara's puzzlement. Even without the earphones, she could still hear it, clip-clopping around the outside of the house in the direction of her kitchen. More distinct now, the sound had lost the metallic sharpness of hoofbeats. Oblivious to it, Kim returned to her equipment.

Barbara, still remembering Amsterdam, followed the sound toward the kitchen, just in case it lead to something as interesting as the previous occasion had.

In the hallway, the sound was muffled by book-lined walls but it sharpened again as Barbara opened the door to the kitchen. At the kitchen table, the brunette -- what was her pornonym? "Glinda Goodwitch," that was it -- sat wrapped against the morning chill in a faded chintz housecoat. She was so utterly absorbed in a fantasy paperback that she heard neither Barbara nor the hoofbeats and, not wishing to disturb her, Barbara moved on tiptoe to the window overlooking the front yard.

There was something there. Barbara pressed her nose to the glass and caught a glimpse of its brilliant white hindquarters through the branches of the weeping willow.

Unicorn, she thought, identifying it from the flick of its lion-like tail and the parting kick of a classic cloven hoof as richly feathered as the heels of those Dutch draft horses. Ah! that explained the difference in sound...unshod cloven hoof. Then she thought, Oh, god, do I need coffee.

The unicorn vanished as if it had never been there.

She turned from the window, to find Glinda staring at her. Realizing she'd spoken aloud, Barbara said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!" even before she saw the glint of tears. Barbara took two steps toward her. "Glinda...are you okay?"

Glinda blinked and, for the first time, focussed on Barbara. "Okay?" she echoed. "Oh!" She laid aside her book to swipe at her eyes and said, "It's the story that's making me cry."

Relieved, Barbara angled her head for a look at the title. She'd read it -- a fairly standard Celtic fantasy, competent writing but nothing inspired. The author got points for his unicorn, though it was hardly on a par with the one in the willow branches. That reminded her. "I'm putting up some water. Want some coffee? tea?" "Coffee, thanks."

As Barbara waited for the water to boil, she borrowed Glinda's copy of the script and ruthlessly changed Dick's character all together. Given a little luck and a lot of Harry's gift for farce, the film might still be passable.

It was Glinda who brought the coffee. "Thanks," said Barbara. Accepting the hot cup gingerly, she pushed aside the script. As she spooned sugar into the coffee and lit a cigaret, Glinda leafed through the script. "I didn't have to change any of your dialogue," Barbara said hastily.

"Yeah, I see," Glinda said, then she smiled sympathetically and added, "I bet writing's easier without actors."

Barbara shook her head. "I wish it were, but -- I wrote a fantasy novel -- that was just me and the page, and it's not the least bit easier."

After a long moment, Glinda said, "You have the oddest expression.... Are you okay?"

Barbara realized she'd been staring and blushed. "May I ask you a question? You don't have to answer it. In fact, I promised myself I wouldn't ask it but now I find I can't not ask it. Just slug me if I'm out of line, will you?" After the tumble of words, she suddenly found herself without anything more to say and closed her mouth, blushing a deeper red still.

"You want to know what it's like?"

That surprised Barbara. "Oh, no! I can see what it's like: it's a lot of hard work for very little return. And the guys might be in it for the sex but the women aren't -- I haven't seen one of you actually get off on the sex yet. The way you're positioned for the camera doesn't allow it. Mary's pretty good at faking it but...."

Glinda grinned. "So what's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?"

Barbara closed her eyes. "Go ahead. Hit me. That's the question. I was trying to think of a way to ask without sounding incredibly stupid. Why this profession, when it's so looked-down-on? Why not something...I don't know quite how to put this...with a little more prestige?"

Glinda took a sip of her coffee, set the cup aside, and considered Barbara for a long moment. Barbara was about to apologize again, prepared to drop the subject completely, when Glinda said, "I was a nurse -- a surgical nurse. Do you know what that is?"

"The one who slaps the scalpel into the doctor's outstretched hand."

"Yes. Only the doctor was so drunk he dropped the scalpel." Glinda's face changed, darkened. "Among other things. The patient died. I was the one who was fired." What the plainness of her words could not express, her eyes did: anger and hurt and impotence.

Barbara's throat tightened in response. Although she knew what the answer would be, she asked anyway, forcing the words out -- "There wasn't anything you could do about it?"

"In the end, no. I tried until I was exhausted. In the end, there wasn't anything I could do about it."

"In the end," Barbara said darkly, "you could only get as far away from nursing as you could."

Glinda nodded. "So I wanted to be in the movies -- wide-screen fantasies. Only you know what the movies are like, you said it yourself: hard work for very little return. I make fantasies for other people, not for me --" Glinda touched a finger to her paperback and her face brightened a little. "I need somebody else to make fantasies for me."

Barbara, welcoming the chance to look away from what hurt and anger remained, followed her pointing finger to the cover, where a hugely-muscled, empty-faced hero and a handful of lumpy elves protected the usual limp but big-breasted princess from the prospective reader. "I wouldn't eat that if you paid me," she said involuntarily, "No self-respecting dragon would." Even before the comment was completely out of her mouth, she realized how it might be misinterpreted in the context of a porn shoot. "I mean..." she said, looking up at Glinda.

"It's a lousy cover," Glinda agreed. "I try not to look at the covers. They only get in the way. The words I can see!" All the remaining hurt vanished in recalled delight. "His unicorn is the most beautiful thing ever put into words."

Almost against her will, Barbara said, "I'll bet you anything he doesn't think so." Glinda stared at her in astonishment, long and hard enough that Barbara shifted uncomfortably and tried to explain. "Well...I know the words I write are never enough to convey what I see in my head. That's not really his unicorn you see -- it's yours."

"My unicorn...!" Glinda breathed it out and gave Barbara such a look of wonder that Barbara suddenly felt like some mythical beast herself.

Thoroughly disconcerted, Barbara thought, Maybe it was her unicorn I saw! Intrigued by the idea, Barbara flipped open her notebook to jot it down. When she looked up again, she found Glinda still staring at her. "It's a good idea for a story," she explained, "I don't want to forget it."

"Oh," said Glinda, and inexplicably her face saddened, "then someone else will get the unicorn." Puzzled, Barbara frowned, and Glinda said, with half a smile, "Well, I'm hardly the type who winds up with the unicorn."

Still frowning, Barbara thought about that for a long moment. "Oh," she said at last, "You're thinking of all those silly damned virgins, aren't you?" When Glinda nodded ruefully, Barbara said, "But you're wrong!"

Delighted by her own discovery, Barbara went on, "All those silly damned virgins trapped the unicorns so they could be slaughtered for their horns. You wouldn't do that."

"No, of course not!" said Glinda, shocked by the very suggestion.

"You see?" Barbara said, with a sweep of her hand, "You're the ideal person to have a unicorn. You'd protect him, just by being who you are."

This pronouncement earned her another of Glinda's wide-eyed stares of wonder, but this time Barbara was pleased enough by her own invention to bear it without being disconcerted. Sometimes, she thought, I get something right. I only wish it would work that way on paper.

The two of them smiled at each other for a long moment -- until the mood was shattered by a long drawn-out shriek from the living room.

Barbara jumped to her feet in alarm, but Glinda caught her before she could reach the door and said, "It's just Dick, Barbara. It's nothing to worry about, honestly."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I've worked with him before. I recognize that shriek. Whatever he's doing, he's loving it." Glinda paused, then added, "You only have to worry if you hear a female shriek when Dick's in the same room."

Barbara, not wholly convinced, hovered half-way between the table and the door. It opened to frame a broadly-grinning Harry.

At the sight of her, Harry sobered instantly. Clearing his throat, he straightened and -- for all that he was stark naked -- became the maitre d'hotel.

The towel that draped his forearm was silver tabby. "Your cat, modom," he announced, lifting his arm to present the utterly complacent ER.

"Oh, lord," said Barbara, much relieved. "I have a feeling that explains the shriek." ER turned his rumbling purr up a notch or two and stretched to meet her hand in mutual caress. "ER, I thought you were outside."

"Modom, I assure you, Mr. Dick wishes your assumption had been correct...." With a laugh, Harry broke character and finished, "Dick's going to need butt make-up for the rest of the film."

ER poured himself into Barbara's arms, still rumbling with pleasure, and she resumed her seat at the kitchen table.

So did Glinda, eyeing them both askance. "You named that gorgeous thing 'Emergency Room'?"

"No, no," said Barbara, "It's short for 'Edgar Rice.'"

"Edgar Rice?" Harry echoed -- proving himself as good a straight man as anyone could have wished.

"He burrows," said Barbara, dead-pan. "Of course," said Glinda, and Harry rewarded her with a perfect comic double-take. She waited until he was done then, still chuckling appreciatively, said, "Now, tell me what he did." ER rubbed her chin with his forehead.

"He jumped from the top of the speaker into the sex scene between Suzy and Dick," Harry said, "and rode Dick's hip right through to the cum shot." He inclined his head at ER, who looked aggrieved (but only because of Barbara's laughter), and added, "I don't blame you for putting out your claws. That was some rough ride!"

"Oh, dear," said Barbara, through her laughter. "I wish I'd seen that!"

"You will. Tom kept the camera rolling and it's all on film. Dick, I'm sorry to report, loved every minute of it."

"Oh, well," Barbara said to the cat, "Thanks for trying, anyway." Gathering him up in her arms, she rose. "I suppose you'll have to go outside now. I've got to check these changes with Tommy and you obviously can't be trusted alone."

But ER had other ideas. As Barbara bent for the script he poured from her arms onto Glinda's thigh, where he peered into the housecoat's neckline and butted her bare breast with the flat of his head, his purr echoing Glinda's giggle. "Tomcats," said Barbara, and reached to retrieve him before he could embarrass her further.

"It's all right," said Glinda, stroking the cat and getting a louder purr for her efforts. "I think he's sexy too. I'll look after him if you like." She grinned suddenly and added, "Don't worry -- I'm not into beastiality."

"He is," said Barbara. At Glinda's surprised look, she explained, "He'll hump your arm -- that's beastiality from his point of view, isn't it? -- either that or just a good day for fucking."

Harry laughed. "Don't tell John," he said, "He'll want it on film."

Barbara looked at Harry, then at ER -- who insinuated himself inside Glinda's housecoat to settle with smug content. She sighed and said, "He'd get a better cum shot than he does from Dick. ER goes off like Vesuvius." She stubbed out the cigaret she'd left burning in the ashtray. "Okay, Glinda -- but if he gives you a hard time, and you can take that however you want, just chuck him out the door."

"Okay." Glinda settled back and picked up her book. Clearly she had no intention of chucking ER anywhere.

Harry, once again maitre d', held the door for Barbara. Once it had closed behind them however he caught her eye and, dead-pan, turned her own question back on her: "And what's a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?"

Barbara blushed. "Tommy asked me if I could write him a porno script. In a moment of bravado, I said I could write anything I could see three of. I sat through a triple feature at our local triple-X emporium, doing 'research' -- you were in two of them!" She grinned up at him. "It was a gag. At least, I thought it was. I never for a moment believed he'd film it!"

"So the joke's on you."

"I'm not slumming, if that's what you think. The ones I saw were so badly written, I had to write one that would be...a real movie."

"Good practice," he said. "Now I understand why you want to break Dick's legs. Suzy may be a bitch but you get on fine with her because she knows her job and does it. Dick -- "

Barbara turned away, shocked to find tears of frustration starting from her eyes. She took a deep breath and said, "I'm not naive, Harry. I knew the actors Tommy hired wouldn't have the same faces I saw in my mind's eye...."

He was watching too closely and much too sympathetically. "All right," she said angrily, "I am naive. I did my damndest to make it a good script -- funny, even a little bit inventive -- but I didn't count on somebody who couldn't shout `Fire!' convincingly if you lit his eyebrows." She raised her hand, brandishing the rolled script like a bludgeon. Stupid, she thought with a guilty start, to be so upset over something so trivial. Glinda has cause for tears, and she isn't crying -- she's just looking for a believable unicorn. More disgusted with herself than with Dick, Barbara dropped the script to her side and said, "Dick is ruining my fantasy."

Harry put his hands on her shoulders, and Barbara looked up, met his eyes and surprised herself by saying, "All I want is to be able to make someone see it."

"I'll do my best for you. I promise."

"Thanks, Harry." She'd meant anything she wrote -- not the film specifically -- but if Harry was willing to try, handicapped as he was by Dick, the least she could do was track down the right unicorn for Glinda. Which, she decided on the spot, should be very much like Harry. The thought that led to made her giggle.

"What?" asked Harry, smiling.

"Oh, Harry, don't be mad -- it gets a little weird in here sometimes." She tapped her temple. "You're being strong and sympathetic and reassuring and...."

"And?" he said, wary now.

"And -- in case you haven't noticed -- you're stark naked and wearing a pink bow on your prick. So why is it I'm the one who's feeling vulnerable?"

He scrutinized her from head to toe, then himself. Discovering that she was right in all cases, he treated her to a double-take of heroic proportion.

"...Because you don't have a pink bow?" he suggested and, peeling the bow from his skin with extreme care (and a burlesque wince that made Barbara wince in sympathy), he pressed it to her shirt as if conferring a medal on her.

"There," he said, admiring his own handiwork, "Don't you feel better already?"

She did and as soon as she could catch her breath she told him so.

#

True to his promise, Harry did his very best for her, even to strengthening one of her weaker scenes with a case of nervous hiccups that made the crew -- once Tommy had called, "Cut! Print!" -- laugh and applaud the take. Both of his scenes with Glinda went perfectly.

Then came the next of the scenes with Dick. Barbara, disappointed all over again, pulled down the brim of her hat and narrowed her field of vision to exclude Dick. She lounged back on the floor, pretending that only John and his camera existed, as they circled the couple on the couch with the grace of a pair of ballroom dancers. John was trying to compensate for Dick in his own way, by distracting the audience with an unusual shot.

There was a flicker of movement at the window behind him and Barbara lifted a hand, ready to warn John there'd be clutter in his shot when he completed his circle. The warning caught in her throat.

She was imagining all this, the naked couple on her couch, Tommy raising the boom mike like a drawbridge to let the dancers slide under it.... Most certainly she was imagining the unicorn that fixed a cold silver eye at them all through the window, but she popped up the brim of her hat to get a better look.

It was the same unicorn whose rear-view she'd so vividly imagined earlier in the day. If anything, this end of it was even more spectacular, all white and wild. Though something about the horn struck her wrong.... Trying to figure out what, Barbara sat up, pushing her hat completely back as she did.

The unicorn was still there.

Looking for Glinda, Barbara thought and involuntarily raised her hand and pointed -- not at the unicorn -- but to the kitchen, where Glinda no doubt had gone back to her book.

The unicorn gave a disdainful snort, shockingly loud. It cut through Dick's dialogue like a Bronx cheer.

"Cut!" said a female voice beside Barbara. Kim took off her earphones and said, "Tom, I've got extraneous noise on that take." "Hell," said Tommy, "I didn't hear anything." Kim held out the earphones: "Come listen."

Horn-first, like a thumb-tack through the sole of a shoe, the unicorn holed its way into the living room. The wall, Barbara was relieved to note, seemed no worse for the wear.

The unicorn made its way, now passing around or over obstacles as fastidiously as ER would, across the room. It paused beside the couch to lower its head and snicker in a very horse-like fashion at Dick. Then it trotted on past, aiming for the wall between the living room and the kitchen.

Half-vanished, it lashed out with its sinuous tail, catching Dick on the butt with a slap of thunder-clap proportion.

"Ow!" Dick jumped up, rubbing his ass and glaring about for the source of the swat.

Vivid but prissy unicorn, Barbara thought. Not Glinda's type at all.

"All right, who did that?" Dick demanded. Simultaneously, his ear to the earphone, Tommy said Kim, "What is that?"

"Unicorn," said Barbara, answering both.

Dick glared harder, this time at Barbara. Tommy said, "Yeah, right, Barbara. Well, we'll have to reshoot." From across the room, Harry grinned at her. "Day-dreaming unicorns on a porn shoot," he said, "Barbara, I know an analyst who'd love to meet you!"

Barbara clapped a hand to her mouth, trying to force the word back and unsaid. They hadn't seen it!

"Somebody farted," said Tommy, glaring at Dick. "That's what the mike picked up."

Dick ignored his accusation, stalking Barbara with a different gleam in his eye. "Hey, baby.... Spend ten minutes with me and that'll be the end of unicorns for you!"

At that Barbara uncovered her mouth and rose to her feet to meet him prepared. "I'm not a virgin, Dick -- I'm just choosy." At the door, she paused on the threshold and added, over her shoulder, "And anybody who does it in ten minutes ain't worth doin' it with." With that, she closed the door firmly behind her.

"Good exit!" she heard Harry call after her, and she walked the length of the hall in heady triumph.

But her pleasure vanished the moment her hand touched the kitchen door. The unicorn had come this way. She'd seen it, even if no-one else had. She didn't know which would be worse, not finding it or finding it.

Cautiously, she pushed the door ajar and peered in, just in time to see Glinda lay aside her book -- finished -- and reach for a tissue.

No unicorn. Just ER on tiptoe, rubbing his cheek against Glinda's. That was nothing out of the ordinary: ER couldn't bear to see anyone cry, especially over a book.

Reassured or disappointed, she wasn't sure which, Barbara waited until ER had successfully concluded his jollying before she entered. No, no unicorn -- and she was disappointed.

ER chirred her a greeting and swaggered across the table to push his head into her out-stretched hand as she sat. Glinda said, "He's got a better swagger than Dick, too."

ER, who knew a compliment when he heard one, swaggered back to Glinda, hips rolling in the tom-cat walk that displayed his balls for Barbara. "He has more to swagger about," she said, "Of course, any tomcat does."

Barbara hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. What could she say?...Glinda, did you by any chance see a unicorn come in here? "Uh, how was the book?"

"It's a good book. I liked it a lot" -- she hesitated, her disappointment clear in set of her mouth -- "but it's not my kind of unicorn. I liked yours better."

Not mine, thought Barbara and, reminded, she said shyly, "Glinda, would it be okay if I used you as a character sometime? I wouldn't name her Glinda; that's been done, after all."

Glinda took a deep breath, as if gathering courage, then she said, "You wrote SLOPPY POSSUM POTIONS, didn't you? I've read it five times -- it's wonderful!"

"Yes," said Barbara with a guilty start -- POSSUM was anything but 'wonderful,' as far as she was concerned.

Glinda, misunderstanding Barbara's reaction, said quickly, "I'm sorry I didn't recognize your name. It's not that I didn't remember it -- it's that I never expected to meet you!" She leaned closer, giving ER the perfect opportunity to head-bump her chin.

"My name's Janie. You can use that -- any time you like." She paused a moment to rub ER's ears, then added, "Though I'd really rather not be the stupid virgin who traps the unicorn."

"No chance of that," said Barbara, "That we already decided."

#

When the shoot had wrapped for the evening, two images remained bright in Barbara's mind, the first being all three couples humping away -- at John's suggestion -- in unison (it even now made her giggle), the second being the unicorn. So while Tommy set the PAs (who were little more than glorified gofers) to cleaning her apartment, Barbara pulled the brim of her hat down low enough to silence the hubbub around her and focussed only on the sheaf of paper before her.

She didn't emerge until some kind person set a cup of hot coffee beside her. Popping her the brim of her hat with one finger, she looked out to give grateful thanks. The kind person turned out to be Harry. "I thought you were a star," she said, "Since when are you on gofer duty?"

"Since everybody else has gone home for the evening."

Barbara glanced about her. It was true. She looked again at Harry. "And you're dressed, too."

"Once you wrap for the evening, you wrap for the evening. It wouldn't do for me to be found lurking about your apartment in nothing at all, now would it?"

"What are you doing lurking about my apartment in bluejeans and a t-shirt then?"

Wrapping for the evening hadn't changed his proclivity for comedic over-reaction.... He raised his hands high: Caught! Red-Handed! "Don't shoot!" he said, "I'll go quietly." Then, lowering them to frame her face, he added, "I was watching Writer at Work."

Barbara grinned. "Well, I suppose turnabout's fair play, isn't it?" She slid the sheaf of papers to one side and gulped coffee with relief. "It's a good thing you didn't tell me that earlier. I'm not sure I could have kept going with somebody watching over my shoulder." She eased off her chair, learning to her own surprise how stiff her muscles were. Stretching out the kinks, she brought her wristwatch to eye level. "Good god! It's eight o'clock! No wonder I'm famished!" She cocked an eye at him. "Want to come watch a writer eat Chinese food?"

"I thought you'd never ask...."

Barbara couldn't help it; she guffawed. "You could have."

He itemized on the tips of long fingers. "One: I didn't want to disturb your work. Two: I wasn't sure how you'd take an invitation to dinner when you've seen me at work all day."

She tapped each fingertip in answer. "One: I'm glad you didn't disturb my work. Two: you were at work all day. I wouldn't take an invitation to dinner with Dick."

"Poor Dick! He's madly in love with you, you know."

Barbara snorted. "Madly in lust, maybe. And only because I won't play. If I did, I wouldn't be fantasy anymore." She was pleased to find Dick's bungling no longer annoyed her. How could she take him seriously when she'd seen a unicorn slap his butt? "Damned if I know whose fantasy he is, Harry -- certainly not mine." Then, shooing him toward the door, she said, "Food!"

#

It wasn't until she had finished her second helping of steamed bass that Barbara revived sufficiently to gather her nerve and ask Harry about the unicorn. Even then she couldn't bring herself to ask straight out. "Harry, remember when Dick acted like somebody swatted his ass? Did you -- you didn't see anything, well, out of the ordinary?"

"Ordinarily Dick would have been overjoyed to have his ass slapped...that was peculiar, now that you mention it. After all, he enjoyed ER's claws."

"What if I told you the unicorn slapped his ass with its tail?" She made a swatting motion with her free hand, both to demonstrate and to keep her tone light.

He gave this thoughtful consideration, then shook his head. "I don't believe it. I've been flicked by a horse tail and it didn't make me jump -- not the way Dick did."

He hadn't seen it. Barbara said, "Unicorns don't have horse tails. They have lion tails."

"If you say so." He raised his wine glass. "I like it, the unicorn slapping the porn actor with its tail. But it's not easy to picture a unicorn on a porn set."

"Harry, I assure you the unicorn was as believable as anything else that went on in my living room this afternoon," she said, grinning again as she recalled the synchronized humping, "just a bit prissier."

"Then keep it away from Dick -- he'd try to fuck it. He does beastiality."

"Why am I not surprised to hear that?"

"Hey, you're the one who saw a unicorn on a porn shoot. I don't find Dick half as surprising as I find you."

Barbara eyed him warily. He smiled and said, "I'd give anything to know what was going on under that hat of yours when you gave me and Dick each that long up-and-down this afternoon. If we'd been dressed, I'd have taken it for ogling -- Dick assumed you were comparing our equipment -- but it wasn't that at all. It was delighted discovery." He demonstrated, face full of innocent wonder.

"Oh," said Barbara, "Fur patterns! The hair around your navel goes clockwise. Around Dick's, it goes counterclockwise. I'd just never noticed that people have patterns to their body hair before -- like cats."

Harry considered the hair on his forearm. "I rest my case," he said, "Dick's not half as surprising as you are."

"Thanks, I think."

He laughed. "Barbara, most people bring such expectations to a porn shoot that they never see past them. You don't. You see what's actually happening" -- he glanced again at his forearm -- "better than I do." Then he grinned again. "Now I'm wondering about that unicorn."

"I never get what I expect, not even when I write. I'd miss all the interesting stuff if I only looked at what I expect. Maybe that's why I saw the unicorn and you didn't. Glinda saw it too, I think, but it wasn't her unicorn. Something about the classic unicorn that...."

Suddenly she had it. "Of course! That's what's wrong with its horn! Nothing's got a horn like that! Look, Harry, males -- male gazelles, male moose, male you-name-its -- just want to bluff. At most they want to give each other a crashing headache. They don't want to skewer each other! Even those little bitty things on the noses of rhinos -- !" she curled her index finger to demonstrate and finished triumphantly, "even they curve back toward the rhino's head!"

"Damned if I know what you're talking about."

"Writer at work," she said, waving to a waiter for the check. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I gotta go -- I have to get home to my typewriter."

It wasn't until she reached the door to her apartment that she remembered his presence and that only when he said in shocked tones, "Mercy me, Miss Barbara! What kind of a boy do you take me for?"

"Oh," she said, realizing with a start that she had absently invited him in. "Oh, sorry! Offer withdrawn. I really do have to work tonight."

"Shall I pick you up in the morning to see the rushes?"

"Oh, yes!" She'd never seen rushes. "Uh, you may have to roust me. I don't know how late I'll be up. Phone before you come" -- she scribbled the number on a page of her notebook and handed it to him -- "and I'll be ready by the time you get here."

He folded the paper and tucked it into the watch pocket of his jeans, then he bent and kissed her on the forehead and was off down the stairs before his gentleness had even registered. She called after him the first thing that came to mind: "I want you to see my unicorn, Harry!"

#

She finished the draft of the story at three in the morning. Some of it wasn't bad -- much of it was of course -- that was the frustration of it all. She scrolled the final page out of the typewriter and reached for rest, intending to read the story through.

ER beat her to the stack, with a dive and burrow that scattered fifty-eight pages across the desk and onto the floor. In the midst of this disaster, he rolled ecstatically, enticing her to join him. "Aw, cat," she said. He eyed her coyly from beneath page fifteen as he chewed page twenty-one.

"You're right," she said, "I'm too damn tired to read it tonight. I'll hate it." She bent to gather up the pages.

Having enticed her into his game, ER turned his purr up full and attempted to put his mark, tooth- or claw-, on each page as she retrieved it. She fought the last few pages from his clutches and thrust them, still disordered, into a drawer. "Bed," she told him.

Once when she dreamed of the unicorn, she woke to find ER humping her elbow with all the earnestness of Harry's Earnest Young Actor. "Your fantasy, not mine," she grumbled at him and went back to sleep.

#

It wasn't until she was sitting in the tiny darkened theater that Barbara wondered why Harry had come to see the rushes -- surely he'd seen rushes before? Ah, she thought, He's probably here to see how his work stands up on film. Then she groaned mentally at her own choice of expression; during a porno shoot, everything became double entendre. That reading (as Harry would have called it) probably did explain why Dick had come. Barbara groaned a second time and told her subconscious firmly to cut the bad jokes and concentrate on the screen.

Somebody, probably John, had slated the unison humping as "The Anvil Chorus/take 2." Barbara laughed. Even though there was no sound with the footage, she could almost hear the music as she watched.

Like the writing itself, only parts of film worked that well. Odd to see the scenes jumbled out of order, and each replayed from two or three separate camera angles. Piecing them together in her head like a jig-saw puzzle, Barbara almost saw a way to do without Dick's footage altogether. No, not quite. Damn him, anyhow -- he'd ruined two of her best-written scenes; she didn't need sound to tell her that.

On the other hand... She watched the last of the footage between Harry and Suzy with widening eyes and growing wonder. Mentally she patched it together in proper sequence; heat rose to her cheeks. When the lights came on, she turned to Harry in open-mouthed astonishment.

Her pleasure vanished before his scowl. "Harry...?"

"I'm sorry, Barbara. Damn! just that much off the timing" -- he held up thumb and forefinger, fractionally apart -- "and I blew it. I knew we should have done another take."

"What are you talking about?"

"The scene between me and Suzy -- "

His distress was genuine but, to Barbara, inexplicable. He thought he'd ruined the one scene she found most remarkable! On impulse, she caught his hand and squeezed it. "Do shut up, Harry. You do better than you know. That was lovely, that scene. It didn't work in the writing but you and Suzy made it work on screen beautifully."

He eyed her unconvinced. "Stubborn man," she told him. "That's the only scene in the film that's genuinely erotic. Not only does Suzy actually look like she gets off but" -- Barbara felt her face heat all over again -- "then you kissed her, so gently, so tenderly, that -- Oh, hell." She looked down at the floor. "I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn't look away because it was so pretty."

"Pretty!" His laughter came so suddenly as to startle her, but it was genuine pleasure. "Damned if I've ever heard a hard-core sex scene described as pretty before!" He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckle in the fashion prescribed for gentlemen of the Old School. "I'm still sorry I didn't give you better, Barbara, but I glad what I did was good enough to please you."

"Oh, yes -- "

"Well," said Dick, "will you look at these two? What's going, Harry? A bit of non-union union?"

Still smiling at Harry, Barbara said, "Dick, this is between an author and her character. Go fuck yourself, preferably where no-one has to watch."

"So give us the dope, Harry -- how's she compare to Suzy and Glinda?" He elbowed Barbara. "Bet you never had it so hot, girl. Let me know when you're ready for the Major League."

He meant himself, of course. Barbara couldn't help but sigh. In her hand, Harry's tensed with anger. Afraid to look up at his face, she did anyhow -- and saw none of the anger there.

But as she watched he shifted his stance, thrusting out a hip. His wrists went limp. "Oh, Dick," he said, his voice pitched just a trifle higher than normal, "You're such a delight! So...so masculine! Do call me soon, won't you? Barbara won't mind, will you, dear? We are, perforce, just good friends...."

His free hand brushed Dick's chest, barely touching, and Dick took a startled step backwards, staring at him in horror. Then, without another word, Dick turned and strode across the room. Reaching Suzy, he threw his arm about her -- at the perfect height to clasp her right boob in his hand -- and glared at Harry from behind the ramparts. Suzy ignored him.

Barbara turned away to hide her laughter. "Oh, well-played, sir!" she said to Harry. "Not what I'd call subtle, but then Dick wouldn't have seen subtle!"

Then she had a horrified thought that wiped all the amusement from her face. "Oh, lord! What have you done to your reputation?"

"Not a thing." His sweeping gesture dismissed any possibility of problem. "Anybody who knows Dick also knows that Dick thinks any guy who doesn't grab a girl's tit on first introduction is a flaming faggot." He grinned in Tommy's direction and got a broader grin in return. "You see?" he said. "Tom got the joke."

"Boy, am I glad I don't live in Dick's fantasy world."

"That makes two of us."

But later that morning the shooting schedule forced them to do just that. Barbara stuck it out through two of the scenes but, when it came to the third, she gave up and settled in the kitchen, with ER and a cup of coffee, to read through her manuscript. That, at least, gave her the feeling she was accomplishing something.

By the last page, she was no longer sure of that: the story wasn't good enough. It had its moments -- the outrageously horny unicorn was not bad -- but as a whole it failed to do what she had wanted it to do. For the thousandth time, she wished she'd never gotten hooked on writing.

She was still scrawling changes and scowling at the results when Harry flung open the kitchen door and commanded: "Go watch Glinda and Suzy. They're doing a bang-up job of your `The hell with men' scene." Glad for the break, she obeyed.

He was right. Suzy and Glinda played the exchange as broadly as she'd intended it and with just the right touch of acid. It was so well done, in fact, that when Tommy yelled, "Cut! Print it!" he followed it by joining the rest of the crew in applause for the two.

While the gaffer shifted lights, Barbara went over to the actresses where they lay. "Thanks!" she said, "That was great!" She sat down beside them on the floor, offering her cigaret pack and ashtray. "The way you wrote it," Glinda said, "I could see it."

Suzy, to Barbara's surprise, nodded and said, "Yeah, it's not often we get a decent script." She took a cigaret, paused to light it, then added, "Even then, we get Dick. Your weirdo cat would be better in the part."

She stabbed her cigaret toward the sofa and called out, "Hey, John! If you've still got some film in that camera, shoot him -- he gives a better cum shot than Dick -- I've seen it."

John followed her point. ER had propped himself against the arm of the sofa, his hind legs and tail straight out before him, his back bent double in an elegant curve: he was fellating himself. Barbara closed her eyes in exasperation.

When she opened them again John had raised his camera and was moving slowly in on the cat for a close-up. ER glanced up, briefly annoyed by the light Tommy had turned on him, then adjusted his feline indifference up a notch and went back to the business at tongue.

Moments later -- business finished -- ER softened his curve into the more traditional pose of the feline, all the elegance and hauteur of a library lion, to survey his kingdom. Even the snap of Tommy's end-slate could not ruffle such regal equanimity.

"Thanks, Suzy," John called, "You're absolutely right about his cum shots." He took the lens off his camera and peered through it. "Splattered the damn lens. Shit, I wish I'd had the slo-mo ready!"

"Barbara, get the hell out of the scene." That was Tommy. "John, get me a master of Suzy and Glinda and the cat watching them from the sofa. If we intercut the girl-on-girl with the tomcat, we'll have 'em in stitches."

Barbara got the hell out but by the time John had set up the shot ER had remembered an urgent appointment. He hopped off the couch and headed for the door. "Sorry," said Barbara, "I guess he likes to keep his fantasies to himself."

"Maybe we'll catch him later," Tommy said. "Print the cat cum shot anyway. We'll figure out a way to use it."

They reset the lights for the graphic close-ups. Glinda winced as Kim peeled the mike off her ass and rubbed the spot to smooth away the marks of the tape. "MOS," said Tommy, then he grinned at Barbara and translated, "'mitout sound.'" Barbara cast a suspicious eye at him. "All the early directors were German," he said; "Kim'll pick up the wild sound later."

"Heavy breathing, groans and moans, slapping flesh," Kim said, relishing the words as she catalogued them -- Suzy yelped as Kim ripped the mike from her thigh -- "shrieks," finished Kim.

With no need for quiet in the room, there wasn't, except for the silent intensity between Suzy and Glinda. How they could concentrate so lovingly on each other -- with Tommy calling out direction and rearranging them every other minute, with John literally crawling between them for close-ups of various orifices -- was beyond Barbara. She could only marvel.

There was a loud disparaging snort from the other side of the room. Barbara, much put out by the tone of it, looked up to see just who could fail to be impressed by Suzy and Glinda. It was the unicorn again.

And its manners had worsened, however beautiful it might be. Through the window, it fixed a baleful silver eye on Glinda, its expression that of a parent whose only child has just told a dirty joke to company.

With a second snort of disgust, it pierced the wall with that utterly wrong horn and bounded through -- at Glinda. "Cut!" yelled Tommy. The snap of the end-slate coincided with the thump of the unicorn's hooves on the living room floor -- and then it was gone. Vanished.

Tommy switched film packs and resumed shooting. For a long moment Barbara stared into the empty spot where the unicorn had been, then Suzy said sharply, "My face. Now." Barbara refocussed her attention just as John turned his camera on Suzy's face.

Suzy's face contorted, her eyes closed and her mouth opened to loose a deep sob of pleasure. "All right," said Tommy enthusiastically, "Go for it!" Suzy did.

By the time she was done, Barbara was ready to swear that Suzy had actually reached orgasm. Marvels and prodigies, Barbara thought, wrung out with vicarious emotion, That's what I get on three hours' sleep.

"Cut! Print," said Tommy, "Take a break, kids, you deserve it. Good stuff!"

Barbara got to wobbly knees and, picking up Suzy's robe, went to offer it. If she had intended to be nonchalant, she failed miserably; the words just tumbled out. "Suzy, that was some acting -- I was absolutely convinced you got off!"

"Still Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, aren't you? I did get off. The acting comes earlier. I have to convince myself I'm the type of person who would get off with Glinda or Harry -- or even Dick."

"But -- how?"

"It's not them I'm fucking, not up here anyway." She tapped a finger to her temple. "I might consider fucking Harry, but I haven't fucked Dick yet, thank god." She directed that shot at Dick, whose mouth dropped open; then, with as much hauteur as ER at his finest, she strutted past him and into the bathroom.

"I've fucked you in six movies!" Dick called after her. "This is the seventh," he said, turning his glare on Barbara.

"That's your fantasy," Barbara said. "Obviously you're not hers."

"What the fuck would a fag-hag know." He turned his back on her and walked away. In less than three steps, his swagger returned. Marveling at his powers of rationalization, Barbara went to the kitchen for her notebook and a much-needed caffeine fix.

She was so absorbed in trying to capture everything she'd seen in words -- Dick, Suzy, the unicorn, all of it -- that she didn't realize what Harry was doing until he turned over the final page and tried to restack the sheaf of papers. He had to struggle, given the tooth and claw-marks ER had left in her manuscript.

Her embarrassment must have shown on her face, for he looked instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Barbara. I hope you don't really mind, but I was curious. Glinda thinks you're one hell of a writer, you know." He held out the sheaf of papers. "She's right."

Barbara shook her head. "It's first draft. Stories read better in print. At least, well -- better," she finished, meaning, Never right. "I don't usually let anyone read them until -- I've given up on them." She took the pages from him and laid her notebook atop them to serve as a barrier.

When she was finally able to look up, she found him staring at her curiously. "You're apologizing, aren't you," he said; it was almost an accusation. "Why?"

"I" -- she faltered, tried again -- "It's not what I wanted."

"I'll tell you what I want -- I want fifteen million dollars, the world's best special effects department, and this story. Have you any idea what a film this would make?"

He shook his head suddenly. "No, no. Wouldn't work. Even with the best special effects in the world they'd never get that unicorn right. God, Barbara, now I understand how you could see a unicorn on a porn set!" Then, grin spreading from ear to ear, he added, "ER should be flattered -- I am."

"Uh" -- she'd put more than a little of both of them into the unicorn and now her cheeks must be flaming -- "People d-don't usually recognize themselves."

"Actors are more used to seeing themselves than people are. Glinda will love it-- you've got her down perfectly."

Barbara laid her hand on the manuscript and drew it closer.

"You aren't going to let her read it?" Harry frowned at her, more concerned than disapproving. "That's not fair, Barbara. You're her favorite writer and that's her unicorn...at least by right of the story!"

There was a certain logic to that, Barbara had to admit, but the manuscript remained clenched in her hand.

Without warning, Harry gave her a Groucho Marx leer and said, "Besides, if you don't show it to her, I'll tell my analyst friend you wrote me into a story as a unicorn." His eyebrow waggled at her with a life of its own. "She's a Freudian. Guess what she'll make of that?"

Barbara smiled at the transparency of his tactics and slid the manuscript back to him. "You show it to Glinda," she said, "I hate being around when somebody's reading my stuff." She had to peel her fingers off it one by one; that gave her an excuse not to meet his eyes. "It makes me feel like I'm naked."

"Well," said Harry brightly, "That makes two of us."

#

By the third and last day of the shoot, there was no escape from Dick. Two of the PAs were in Barbara's bedroom, co-opted into doing wild sound for Kim. Barbara hadn't been able to watch: her laughter would have spoiled the take. Nor could she stay in the kitchen where Glinda, her scenes finished, waited -- with Barbara's manuscript for company -- for a lift home from Roger.

Barbara wound up on set, next to Harry. His work too was finished but.... "You never know what might come up," he told Barbara, waggling an eyebrow.

"What's the opposite of bowdlerize?" Barbara asked him. "Whatever it is, you do it with that eyebrow."

He waggled the eyebrow again and went back to the catty commentary that made Dick's performance almost tolerable. "Thank heaven they're shooting MOS! Hearing Dick's voice just sets my toes all a-tingle," Harry's Gay Cavalier was saying, "He gives such meaning to `Oh, baby, baby, baby!'" His imitation of Dick's delivery was deadly, and Barbara giggled.

Behind her there was a rich chortle of agreement. She craned around to see which of the PAs had been listening in and found herself face-to-face with a unicorn -- not the prissy white unicorn of the days before, with its cold eye and its lowering horn -- but a proper unicorn!

She stared, drawing in her breath like an extended sigh. The horn...! The horn was translucent like polished stone -- onyx, obsidian, smoky quartz -- all perfectly melded into one long spiral. It sprang from beneath a tangle of forelock to sweep up and back in the kind of breath-taking curve she'd seen only in a cat's leap. Yes, thought Barbara, with immense satisfaction, That's right!

So was the rest of it. It had ER's tabby coat...gray and silver and gloriously shaggy. Matching stripes ran amok in its mane. Instead of a beard (and that was right, too -- she'd always thought the beard a bit silly), a flourish of cat-whiskers ornamented its slender Arabian nose...and its the eye-ridges as well, which added to its air of rakish good humor.

Its gold eyes sparkled with merriment. Barbara knew that in bright sunlight they'd narrow to slits just as ER's did, but now the pupils were wide, dark with interest in her. It chuckled again, pressed its warm whiskery muzzle to her shoulder and shoved, for all the world like ER's head-bump greeting. More emphatic though, for it pressed her into Harry, who said, "Barbara?"

"My unicorn's back," she said -- not only did it feel as real and warm as Harry but she could even smell it, a happy combination of rain-spangled fur and cinnamon, like the day ER had gotten into the cinnamon doughnuts -- "Will you do me a big favor and tell me just how good my imagination is?"

Before he could embarrass her by turning, the unicorn gave another chortle-snort, crouched, and sprang, landing before them with a soft thump.

Barbara was surprised to see that it had the feet of a cat as well -- and the curiosity. It padded softly forward, exploring. The swagger in its walk was pure tom-cat: tail erect and sinuous, hips swinging side-to-side to flaunt a set of balls the size of grapefruits, richly furred charcoal gray for further emphasis -- and to match the tuft at the end of its tail.

"Oh, god," said Harry in a tone of awe, "It's male."

"No shit," said Barbara, then shot him a side-long glance. He could see it! She looked wildly around the room but it was obvious only Harry shared her delusion.

The filming went on without so much as a murmur of astonishment, even though the unicorn had stepped closer to investigate the tangle of limbs that was Dick and Suzy and Carol and Roger.

It sat back on its haunches to thrust its neck out and sniff the tangle from one end to the other. "Cut that out," giggled someone from within the tangle, "Quit tickling! Is that damn cat back?" Affronted, the unicorn drew back, glaring haughtily at the lens of John's camera.

"No cat," said John, "Keep your mind on business."

"It's not his mind you want on business," came the reply.

"Dick," said John, "Can you stand Suzy against the wall behind you?" To Tommy, he explained, "It'll liven up the composition."

As Dick and Suzy rose, so did the unicorn. Warily, it circled the knot of actors and crew. Head low, ears slightly back, it reminded Barbara of ER stalking something unfamiliar....

Stalking Dick! Oh, god, thought Barbara, I overdid the cat part. "No, don't!" She made a half-gesture to wave the unicorn away.

It turned aggrieved eyes on her. Not fun, its expression said. "Not fun for us, no. It's work for us," Barbara said, knowing only Harry and the unicorn could hear, "making fun for other people." The pupils narrowed to slits -- dubious.

"I'm doing my best," Barbara said, "Most of us are." Beside her, Harry nodded vigorous agreement.

The unicorn eyed them both sympathetically, shook its head, and eyed Dick in quite a different manner. Dick had Suzy against the wall. As John knelt beside them for a good close-up of Dick's hard-on, the unicorn stretched delicately toward them and blew a noisy stream of breath directly onto Dick's prick. Dick wilted.

"Oh, hell," said Tommy. "I'm still rolling," said John, "Trust me, it's a good shot and we can use it. Barbara can write it into the script."

Open-mouthed, Barbara nodded. Could she ever! -- that was all she needed to cut all of Dick's speaking scenes! "One extra scene between Harry and Suzy," she called to Tommy, "Four lines -- six, tops. You'll love it!" She turned to Harry, pleading, "You'll do another scene, won't you?"

The unicorn gracefully scratched the base of its horn with its hind leg, then it raised its head to leer at Harry, waggling its whiskery eyeridges in impersonation. Harry laughed. "I'll do it, with bells on."

"Shut up, Harry," said Dick. "Goddam faggot."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Dick, just pay attention and get it up again, will you?" John got several minutes of film of Dick's attempts to rise to the occasion. The unicorn meanwhile padded softly about, investigating the remainder of the cast and crew.

Having satisfied its curiosity, it padded back to bump Harry hard enough to rock him. Tail twitching, it settled before him, fixing him with a look of anticipation. When Harry did nothing, it made the same sound ER made when he wanted something, a kind of chuff of impatience, and head-bumped Harry again, this time into Barbara.

"I was just going to," said Harry, "when I was distracted by this unicorn...." He turned to Barbara and said, "Do you like George Bernard Shaw?"

"What?" Barbara stared at Harry in disbelief. The unicorn nudged her and she blurted out, "Me? Uh, you mean the playwright? Yes, passionately."

The unicorn waggled an eyebrow at Harry. "Good," he said; he reached into his back pocket, drew out a bit of blue cardboard, and held it out to her. "I'm doing a showcase of ARMS AND THE MAN next weekend. I thought maybe you'd like to see me act in clothes. We could have a late dinner afterwards...."

"I'd like that a lot, Harry." She took the ticket and tucked it into her hatband.

"That's settled, then," said Harry, and he turned to exchange smug looks with the unicorn.

Then the unicorn got to its feet. Making a noise halfway between a nicker and ER's chirrip of inquiry, it turned an earnest eye on Barbara. "Glinda," said Barbara, suddenly realizing, "He's here for Glinda." The unicorn chuffed at her, mildly annoyed. "Sorry -- I mean Janie."

Not wanting to take her eyes off the creature, she rose -- Harry rose with her -- and gestured it toward the kitchen. It trotted beside them, half in, half out of walls and bookshelves. Barbara opened the kitchen door.

Glinda was just laying aside the final page of the manuscript. She looked up as they entered, but it was neither Barbara nor Harry that she saw.

"My unicorn," she said, as the unicorn swaggered toward her.

ER rose from his spot on the kitchen table -- making as much of a production of it as Harry made of his double-takes -- to intercept and greet it. The two touched noses. Whatever they found satisfied them both. With mutual smugness, they rubbed cheeks, then ER stepped back, granting it permission to greet Glinda.

With a sigh of content, the unicorn laid its huge head in Glinda's lap. Glinda's hand wavered over its nose, then lighted gently. "My unicorn," she said again and it raised its head to tickle her face with a whiskery nuzzle.

Glinda wrapped her arms around the unicorn's neck. For a long moment, her forehead rested against the upswept horn. Then the unicorn shook himself loose to look into her eyes. "Yes," said Glinda, "oh, yes! Take me with you!"

The unicorn sat back on its haunches. Glinda came to straddle the striped back. "Warm," she said, delighting in the discovery. She caught a handful of mane and hugged again.

The unicorn rose carefully to its feet. Glinda teetered, then found her balance with a laugh that sang of sheer giddy pleasure. It swaggered once around the kitchen table to let Glinda get the hang of the gait (and to show off for an appreciative ER)...then it trotted toward the wall.

"No!" cried Barbara, her hand outstretched. "No, don't go!"

The unicorn wheeled, bowed once in her direction. From its back, Glinda -- no, Janie -- grinned broadly at her. "Oh, Barbara, thank you! We'll never forget you -- I promise! 'Bye, Harry! You take good care of Barbara, you hear?" And then the unicorn wheeled again and with a kick of its heels -- even better to show off its balls -- it bounded through the wall, carrying Janie with it.

Barbara ran to the window overlooking the lawn just in time to see Janie and the unicorn vanish into the willow garlands, Janie's laugh of joy still echoing in her ears. "Don't go," Barbara said again, eyes stinging, but she knew they could no longer hear her.

Harry's arms closed warm around her, and Barbara, turning to bury her face against his chest, let the tears come. "I'm damned if I know what you're crying about," he said quietly, "It's not just anybody who can conjure up a unicorn for a porn star."

"I'm crying" -- she sniffled and wiped her face on her sleeve -- "because I couldn't conjure one up for me."

"Maybe," Harry began -- but ER launched himself from the kitchen table to land on his shoulder -- "Ow, cat!" From his new vantage point, ER comforted Barbara with a loud purr and a prodding paw. "Maybe," Harry said over the purr, "it just takes practice."

Barbara's hat hit the floor. "D'you really think so, Harry?" She peeled ER carefully off Harry's shoulder and hugged the purr to her.

"Well, and some native talent. Which you've certainly got." Laughing, he gathered them both into his embrace and laid his cheek against her temple. "You showed me a unicorn, for god's sake...!"

"I did, didn't I?" Barbara drew back, just far enough to look up into his eyes. "That's something.... That's something!"

ER bumped her hard in the chin, firmly approving her change of tone. "That's better," said Harry, equally approving.

"Now, what are we going to tell them about Glinda?" He bent, picked up her fallen hat. Having assured himself the ticket was still in the hatband, he set it on her head and said, "You're the wizard. You think of something."

"We'll tell them exactly what happened...."

He looked at her aghast. "Barbara -- !"

She grinned up at him. "We'll tell them I called a ride for her."

FERMAT'S BEST THEOREM

---for Isaac, a math story,

and for Andrew Wiles, whether or not,

for the great grin

Somewhere in the distance, Peter Kropotkin was saying, "...Divide this term by this term...." Chalk slid and squeaked.

Laurie Adamansky shifted in the hard wooden chair. Abstracted, she laid aside her pencil to touch the snap of her breast pocket. Secure. Beneath her fingers folded paper crackled, the sound startlingly loud to her. No-one else, of course, noticed. Why would they? It was the sort of April morning, bright through the chalk dust of a board-full of equations, that no-one noticed much of anything.

She frowned slightly to herself and added, And why am I acting as if the damn thing might leap out and get away from me? I came here with the full intention of handing the thing to Pete after class, didn't I?

Peter went on with his talk. Laurie picked up her pencil and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. The staccato tack-tack of chalk came to an abrupt halt, but Peter's voice continued as he turned to face the class. Still talking, he reached under the desk.

I'm probably going to embarrass myself. Just another crank solution, Laurie---you divided by zero somewhere and it's Spring and you can't see the mistake for looking.

From beneath his desk, Peter produced a large cylindrical object. Laurie noted, without really seeing it, that the object was a tomato juice can.

Last week Peter had handed her just such a solution: "Here, kid, here's a puzzle for you. Somebody claims to have solved your favorite problem. I've been prodding it for a week---and I'm damned if I can find what's wrong with it."

Peter, in real-time, still talking about the equation on the board, held up his left index finger as if to point to something. Instead, he laid it extended on the edge of his desk.

"Does there have to be something wrong with it?" she'd asked.

"You tell me." And he'd grinned at her and handed her the sheet of paper. It had taken her two days, but she'd found what was wrong with it.

With his right hand, Peter raised the can of tomato juice high above his head. "So you see," he said in conclusion, "what we have here is a very simple but very elegant solution to the problem."

And with that he slammed the can of tomato juice downward. It struck his extended index finger with a BAM! that left his desk reverberating. Chalk rattled across in front of him and fell to the floor, rattling to a halt only at the arch of Jimmy Rodriguez's sneaker. Jimmy sat up as abruptly as Laurie had, shocked by the sound and sight; the chalk crunched beneath his foot.

"Now," Peter went on, "let me show you what we can derive from this...." He set aside the tomato juice can, picked up an eraser in his right hand, and went at the board again.

The class, as one, shuffled and paid attention. Jimmy shot Laurie a covert look, eyes widened. Like Laurie, he was waiting for Peter to scream in pain.

Laurie looked past him. No, Peter was not going to scream in pain. She looked at the tomato juice can: it was dented just where it had struck Peter's finger. She looked back at Jimmy, shrugged and smiled. Another of Peter's puzzles---why hadn't he smashed his finger to smithereens?

Although Peter had obviously intended the stunt as an attention-getter, the puzzle served Laurie as a distraction until the end of the class. When she rose and bent to gather up her books, the paper crackled in her pocket.

Before she could lose her nerve again, she followed at Peter's heels, leaving the rest of the class to examine the dented can. Without a word, she trailed him to his office and in. Once inside, she couldn't bring herself to open the conversation.

"Is something wrong?"

At the words, she brought her attention at last to Peter, realizing with a start that her manner had caused him genuine concern.

"Uh, no. Nothing's wrong. I mean, nothing's wrong and that's what wrong."

Peter grinned at her. "I hate spring," he said cheerfully. "Spring is particularly hard on math students." He settled into his chair and tipped so far back as to look precarious. "Sit down. Pretend it's winter."

She couldn't sit. Instead, she unsnapped her breast pocket and withdrew the paper, now well-crumpled. She unfolded it and made a futile attempt to smooth it on the edge of his littered desk. "Here," she said. "I think I've got it." As the words came out, she found her shoulders slumping. "I found what was wrong with the one you were offered last year---you find what's wrong with mine." She paused. "I can't. I've tried and tried, and it still looks right to me."

Peter reached across his desk to retrieve the paper she'd laid on it. A stack of papers slid to the floor. Laurie jumped to lessen the disaster---it gave her a good excuse to ignore Peter's perusal of her work.

"Aha!" He peered over the edge of the desk at her. He wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily. "Yet another solution to Fermat's Last Theorem! At least this one is the right length."

That was a running gag. Recently, all the proposed "solutions" had been computer-generated, running to pounds of printout paper and covering select cases of the theorem only.

Fermat had claimed to have a solution easy enough (by implication) to recall but "which this margin is too small to contain."

The crackpots too tended to proofs that covered six or seven pages, if you didn't count the photos and resumes they invariably included with their packages.

"Off-hand, I can't see anything wrong with it," Peter said.

Laurie straightened, so fast she almost lost the papers she'd been retrieving. "Neither could I. I've been over a thousand times now. But, as you said, it's spring. So there must be something wrong with it. I just can't find it." With exasperation, she slapped the stack of papers back onto Peter's desk.

"Tell you what," Peter said. "You go have a hot date---have several!---and let me worry about it. I'll find your mistake, if it's there."

"It had better be," Laurie said, grinning back at him.

Peter's grin broadened. "Why?"

She hadn't stopped to consider that. That certainly was the way she was behaving. Not as if she'd solved something but as if she'd let some cat out of some bag. It took her a minute to pin the feeling down.

"Oh." She could feel her grin turn sheepish. "That's why."

"Why?" he asked again.

"That was the problem that lured me into mathematics as a major. Something that looks so easy and yet has remained unsolved for so long. Something you could solve with pencil and paper---none of this fourteen days' worth of computer time. Something romantic...."

"'Romantic'? That's not a word I here applied to math very often!"

"Romantic. Peter, the man scribbles this in the margin of his book, then he goes off and gets himself killed in a duel, and the solution dies with him? If that's not romantic, I don't know what is. Helluva lot more romantic than what passes for a romance novel these days!"

"I never thought of it that way." Peter leaned back, quiet for a long moment, then he nodded. "You're right. I got hooked on Fermat's Last Theorem too. 'Romantic' never occurred to me as a reason but I believe you're right, in my case as well."

He leaned forward. "So why would you be happier to be wrong about this?"

"For all the same reasons. You got hooked by Fermat's Last Theorem; so did I. If I've got it, what's to hook the next generation of kids?"

"I see."

Once begun, Laurie found she couldn't stop there. "And think of all the things that have been found by people who were looking for the solution to that---the theory of ideals, for instance!"

"Yes. You're afraid that, if your solution is right, you'll be taking away a valuable...prod."

"At least a valuable puzzle. And puzzle-solving is what it's all about or you wouldn't be slamming tomato-juice cans on your finger. How is your finger, by the way?"

He held it up. "Never felt better."

"I thought as much. Well, thanks, Peter. I feel better. I think I'll go promote myself that hot date you suggested. Please let me know when you find where I've divided by zero, okay?"

#

Half a dozen hot dates later, Laurie's springtime morale had perked up wonderfully. None of them however distracted her from noticing that Peter had not yet found an error in her work. She turned her attention to other things, most noticeably tomato-juice cans. She smashed two pencils before she thought to check the dented can still sitting prominently on Peter's desk. Aha! The can Peter had used was a different brand---it did not have the reinforcing ridges that were used in the brand she'd bought.

"I'm not telling," said Peter, who'd come in late.

"I don't expect you to. I expect to solve it myself."

"Watch your fingers in the meantime." He gave her hands a significant look. "I see you have been."

"'Kids! Don't try this at home!' I've been watching my fingers but I've seen an awful lot of splints this week. Jimmy Rodriguez was sporting two today!"

Peter chuckled. "I know. I should be ashamed of myself but I'm not. I'm ashamed of him."

"I'll take that as a clue. It can't be solved by experimentation. It has to be solved by theorem. Speaking of theorems...."

"I had to call in assistance. You have a car, don't you? An old friend of mine is coming in on the six o'clock train. Werner Hochheimer. Any chance you could pick him up for me? If you do, I'll invite you to dinner with us."

"Uh. Peter? That's like asking could I spare a day for Albert Einstein. Of course I can pick him up, only---Peter, my car's an old clunker---I---"

"Werner doesn't notice things like cars. Clothes, either, but don't wear bluejeans---the maitre d' will. It's one of those pretentious places." He scribbled on a piece of paper. "That's the train and the time; here's the address of the restaurant. Meet you there."

Laurie was too astonished to say anything.

Peter said, "Don't worry. The food's great. I didn't pick the restaurant for its dress code."

Just outside the door to Peter's office, Laurie had a severe attack of giggles. Peter was easily as famous as Werner Hochheimer. The only difference was that she knew Peter, so she thought of him as "Peter" not as some icon. So, rationally, she could get to know Werner Hochheimer as "Werner --" No, even her mind stubbornly refused to accept the idea of Laurie talking to Werner, which made her giggle again.

Look at it logically, she tried to convince it. Peter is a friend of---Professor Hochheimer's. At least they're both in the same club. Which bogged Laurie down all over again. That club was "The Marginalia," and membership was by invitation only. It consisted of seven of the most important mathematicians alive. The curious thing about it was that it didn't consist of all the important mathematicians alive. Laurie had never been able to determine the criteria for membership and had concluded it was a drinking club of sorts. Which meant that Peter was a real friend of Professor Hochheimer's --

Well, that logic hadn't worked. Giggling, Laurie went off to her 3 o'clock class. It was spring, after all. Not even Peter expected her to be rational in the spring. Spring created a sort of vacuum that sucked your mind out in a dozen different directions at once.

Vacuum! That was it! If you bring the can down fast---at greater than 1g---then the can is moving faster than the liquid can fall.... She'd have just enough time after her class to change, test her theory, and pick up Professor Hochheimer.

#

In magazine photos, Professor Hochheimer looked imposing. In person, Laurie found him...well...cute. He was a little rotund man with lively eyes. Laurie wasn't more than five feet tall herself but she overtopped him. The first thing he asked---after her name---was what sort of hijinks Peter was pulling in class these days. By the time they'd gotten Professor Hochheimer's luggage into the car, she was "Laurie" and he was "Werner."

"That many splinted fingers! I marvel at your classmates---for their determination rather than brains, I'm sad to say. I note that your hands show no such redecoration. Are you not interested in Peter's puzzle?"

Laurie had pulled the car to a stop at a red light. She turned to him, raised an eyebrow and grinned.

His face lit in a dimpled grin of its own. "Aha! You've solved it! I see! Then you'll give me a demonstration and we'll see if I can solve it as well, shall we?"

"Okay."

"Tell me," he said, as she started the car in motion once more, "have you heard the one about the engineer, the chemist, and the mathematician?"

"Any number of them. You tell me one, I'll tell you one."

"An engineer, a chemist, and a mathematician all work for the same small firm. Now, the manager of the firm has a very bad habit---he smokes cheap cigars. Worse, he tosses his cigar butts in the wastepaper basket. The result of this, as you might well guess, is the occasional wastepaper basket fire.

"Well, the first time, the fire is discovered by the engineer---who tips over the wastepaper basket and stamps the fire out."

Laurie giggled, already appreciative. A couple of her hot dates had been engineers.

"The second time, the fire is discovered by the chemist. Now, the chemist quickly calculates the volume of the wastepaper basket, the amount of flammable material in it, and measures out the exact amount of water necessary...so that the very last drop of water extinguishes the very last spark...."

Laurie turned the car into the restaurant parking lot and backed it into a space. "Go on, Werner. I can listen and park at the same time."

"And the third fire is discovered by the mathematician...who looks down at the flames and says to himself, 'Hmm. Wastepaper basket fire. I can solve that.' And he walks away."

Laurie hadn't heard that one before. She exploded into laughter. "I spoke too soon. I'm glad I wasn't still in the process of parking when you got to the end. That one's a potential fender-bender!"

Werner Hochheimer beamed at her.

The two of them were still grinning as they walked into the restaurant. It wasn't until halfway through dessert that Laurie started laughing all over again.

Peter eyed Hochheimer and said, "Spring. You remember what Spring does to grad students."

"No," said Laurie. "I just got the second part of the joke. I asked a medievalist friend of mine once what the Latin motto of that club you two belong to meant. She said it translated to 'I can solve that.'"

"Caught," said Peter.

#

The camaraderie of the previous night carried Laurie through her morning classes despite the rainy turn in the weather and the shoulder-aching heft of her tote bag---in with her books she also carried a tomato juice can, size large, ribless.

She had promised to meet Peter and Werner in Peter's office before Peter's class. Luckily, she had a free period to do it in.

"Laurie, pull up a chair and sit down." Peter looked unusually somber. Seated behind Peter's desk, Werner Hochheimer was perusing a piece of rumpled paper. He too seemed somber compared to the high spirits of the previous night.

Frowning, Laurie moved a stack of papers off the third chair, drew it up, and sat. "What's wrong, Peter?"

Werner Hochheimer looked up from the paper, beamed at her. "Nothing's wrong, Laurie. Your solution is quite correct."

Laurie let go her tote-bag. It hit the floor with a tremendous thunk. "The Fermat? You mean my solution to Fermat's Last Theorem is correct? It can't be!"

"An odd choice of words," Werner Hochheimer said. "Why, pray tell, 'it can't be'?"

"Because that ends the puzzle. Because---" And before she knew it, she was telling Werner Hochheimer the same objections she'd raised to Peter. How Fermat's Last Theorem had drawn her into the field, how the search for a solution had lead to such other fascinating developments. "But mostly, I wonder what's left as a prize for the younger kids."

Werner Hochheimer was nodding. "I had the same concern. So did Peter. Now you must make the decision. I assure you, your solution is correct."

"I solved it." The words came out flat...and then the realization grew and grew until the effect was headier than a dozen Springs all rolled into one afternoon. "I solved it!" She got to her feet and stood ten feet tall at least.

From her elevated position, she looked wildly down at the two men. "I feel like Alice in Wonderland," she said, "I'm surprised my head hasn't hit the ceiling."

Peter and Werner were both smiling up at her, their expressions oddly expectant. Puzzle, she thought, another of Peter's puzzles. Oh, my! It had taken Werner Hochheimer too short a time to determine that there were no errors in her solution.

She sat down abruptly. Putting her elbows on the edge of Peter's desk, she stared intently at Werner Hochheimer. A small club...of seven mathematicians only...its motto "I can solve that!"

"Oh, my," she said aloud. "I'm the eighth to solve Fermat's Last Theorem."

"No, Laurie," said Peter sharply. "You're the first. That was our agreement. If you decide to publish, it's your name that goes in the math books. You solved Fermat's Last Theorem."

"And the Marginalia disband," she said.

"This is true," said Werner Hochheimer. "There would be no longer be a criterion for membership."

"Or," Laurie felt the grin spread clear across her face, achingly broad, "you could make me a member of the club."

"Indeed, we could." Werner Hochheimer reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a small jeweler's box. He handed it across the desk.

Inside the box, Laurie found a small gold and enamel pin. Written in a curve around its edge was the Latin motto of the Marginalia. "'I can solve that!'" she said. Then she looked up to meet Werner Hochheimer's eyes. "I accept," she said.

"Wait a minute, Laurie," said Peter. "You must understand that this means you will not publish your solution. You must understand that this means the next person to solve Fermat's Last Theorem will be the first person to solve it. You must understand that, aside from your investiture in the Marginalia, you'll get no applause."

"I understand, Peter," she said solemnly. Then with mock outrage, she added, "You think I'm a one-shot? I'll get my applause sooner or later---and my name in the math books, too."

"Take some time. Think about it before you decide."

"I don't need to. I've done my thinking about it. I've spent the last few weeks more worried that you wouldn't find errors in my solution than that you would." She took the insignia from its box and pulled the cap from the pin. Handing the two pieces across the desk, she said, "Pin me, Werner?"

Grinning, he came around the desk to do so. Then he stood off to admire his handiwork. "There. We're pinned. We'll do something a little more formal when we all get together at the next Association conference but, meanwhile, enjoy it."

"Oh, I will!" She couldn't help but reach up to touch the pin on her collar. "Hey! Are all eight solutions identical?"

"Some are more elegant than others. Don't worry, you'll see them all."

A loud sound from somewhere beneath the papers on Peter's desk startled her.

"Alarm clock," Peter said, fishing it out to turn it off. "Class. Want to sit in, Werner?"

"Yes." He winked at Laurie, who winked back out of pure good spirits. "I haven't seen one of your Spring puzzles since that conference in Buenos Aires."

Through the hallways, Werner Hochheimer treated Laurie to a lively description of Peter's hijinx in Buenos Aires. Laurie was still laughing when they reached the classroom.

As always, Peter went first to the blackboard to erase the couplets Meijin Thomas always left behind. Laurie settled Werner Hochheimer in her usual seat, motioned Jimmy Rodriguez over one and plopped her tote down to reserve herself a seat next to Werner.

Instead of sitting, she fished out the tomato juice can and, cradling it in her arm, she walked to the front of the class. Peter turned from the board just as she set the can down on the desk with an audible thunk.

Werner Hochheimer watched, twinkling and patient. Behind her, she could feel Peter's eyes as she balanced the huge can in her right hand, getting the balance just right.

She laid her index finger on the table. In front of her the class held its collective breath as she raised the tomato juice can high.

She who hesitates, Laurie thought, gets a mashed finger. And with that she slammed down the can of tomato juice as hard and as fast as she could.

Blam!

Everyone in the class gave a satisfying wince at the sight and a jump at the sound.

Laurie righted the indented can and set it once more on the lab table. She turned to Peter. "I can solve that," she said, just loudly enough for the rest of the class to hear. Then she took her seat next to Werner Hochheimer.

He led the applause for her.

THE STUBBORNEST BROAD ON EARTH

There's always one. Tell the population Mount Saint Helens is about to blow its top and they ought to evacuate and somebody will set his feet and refuse to do so. Tell the town Hurricane Andrew's on its way and deadly and they've got to head for high ground, and somebody will say, "No, absolutely not." If the governments of Earth thought it would be any different this time, they had another thing coming. Tell the population of a planet it's got to evacuate because old Sol is about to go nova and we've all got to pick up and move out---no doubt about it and several billion years too soon---and there'll still be that one.

That one was Cora Jowett. She was ninety-seven years old and admitted to every last one of them. Tiny as a bird, straight as an arrow, she'd farmed all her life and she was damned if she'd leave the land she'd sweated over all those years.

Her kids and grandkids all had their places on the evacuation fleet, but no amount of talking from them or from the sheriff would budge her, not even if the sheriff was Harry Johnson, her favorite grandson. She'd set her feet, she'd fold her arms, and she'd simply say, "No. This is my home. I was born here, and I'll die here."

The newspapers quickly dubbed her "The Stubbornest Woman on Earth" but Harry had heard her himself and knew the reporter had politically corrected her. "Your granddaddy always said I was a stubbornest broad on Earth," she'd told him, her chin high and defiant. "I guess it's time I proved him right. I buried his ashes under that oak that shades the front porch. I'd always planned to join him there when my time was done---and I'll be damned if I'll let a little thing like a nova ruin my plans."

She'd become a cause celebre in the last few days. Preachers and movie stars and famous scientists and even the President came to speak to her---each and every one of them hoping to be the man or woman who could talk her into climbing aboard a shiny silver ship and heading out for the stars.

It amused the hell out of her. She let them all talk as long as they were willing to lend a hand to the chores. Knowing the city water would soon be gone, she made sure the old hand pump was still in good working order. Knowing she'd be without electricity, she laid in kerosene for the old lamps she'd brought down from the attic.

When the CEO of one of the local utility companies offered her an emergency generator, she accepted, and the entire world took this for a sign that if she'd accept one technological assist maybe she could be talked around. The CEO never told anybody Cora Jowett had made him chop two week's worth of firewood, "for when the generator breaks down."

They even sent "Doc Rickie." (Her real name was Fredricka Schall but by now everybody knew her face and thought they knew her personally. It was the Schall Drive that made the evacuation fleet possible and the Schall drive that made the evacuation plans go.) The reasoning went, if Doc Rickie could cajole and cozen an entire world into action, how hard could it be for her to convince the one last person...?

Doc Rickie came out smiling---but shook her head at the assembled reporters. "No," she said, "she won't come." And that was all she said. She never told a word of the long quiet conversation they'd had between them or said a word about the three books and the family album and the seeds she'd been given to take along. "They weigh somewhat less than I do," the old woman had told her. She never said that Cora had given Fredricka the keeping of her children, and that Fredricka had given Cora the keeping of the last days of Earth.

When Evacuation Week began, the President of the U.N. himself called Harry Johnson and asked him to give it one last try. He'd spent his summers on Grandma Jowett's farm and he knew that once Grandma had made up her mind, that was that and there was no doing anything about it, but he went to say good-bye.

She was sitting contentedly in the rocker Granddaddy Jowett had carved for her one winter long ago. "Have a safe trip," she told him, as she always did. And then, quite unexpectedly, she said, "I hope that new planet's half as pretty as this one."

"They don't even know for sure there's a planet waiting," Harry said. "Be forty years before we can find out."

She said, "God will provide." Then she smiled and stopped rocking for a moment. "Seems to me I've been worrying about your new home for nothing. I promise you, God will take care of it. Any god who could make Earth this glorious can surely make your new home just as glorious. God's not likely to run out of imagination. That's what God is---the Great Imagination." She patted his hand and resumed her contented rocking. "You run along now. You mustn't miss your ship. And you give those great-grandchildren of mine all my love"---she gazed into the branches of the old oak---"and all Granddaddy Jowett's love too."

#

She sat on the porch until long after dark. The moon had risen bright and full, and every so often she caught the faint glimpse of a shadow against the coin-bright disc. One of those shadows held Harry and Milly and Seabright and all the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren. She wished them well.

When at last she went inside, she turned on the television. All of the channels had gone off the air. The radio gave her the same result but in noisier fashion. She nodded. There was no-one left to run the stations now.

No-one left but her. She discovered, much to her surprise, that she had one regret. She'd always wanted to see the Pyramids, and now there was no flight---no pilot---to take her to Egypt. No use crying over spilt milk, Cora told herself, as her own grandmother had told her so many years ago.

But, on the whim, and because there was nobody to stop her, she went up to the attic and brought down a dusty pile of National Geographics to leaf through, as she'd done so many times before.

She smiled as she turned the pages. A beautiful world, Earth, and she'd hardly seen more of it than her own few acres. But here was proof, in glorious pictures. It occurred to her to wonder if the Evacuation Team had taken a collection of old National Geographics, for the children to leaf through on a lazy evening and to dream of far-away places just as she had.

Then she laughed: those children would see a faraway place---a whole new world! She hoped someone someday would build pyramids for them as well. Surely their new world would have a desert somewhere on its face; surely someone would think of the pyramids.

There was a knock at the door. Cora Jowett started violently, then rose to answer. Just like kids---probably one of them had forgotten something and they'd had to come back for it. She poked her glasses back up and glanced around the room---what could they possibly have forgotten here?

The knock came again and, still clutching the issue of National Geographic with her favorite shots of the pyramids, she went to find out.

She blinked into the moonlight that fell across the porch. Perhaps she'd fallen asleep on the couch, dreaming. Certainly she couldn't be awake. Three slender creatures bowed to her very politely and said, "Sir or madam, your sun will go nova in approximately sixteen days of your time. We are here to take you to a place of safety."

Well, for dream creatures, they were friendly enough. She opened the door and gestured them in. "You've come too late," she told them. "They've all left."

The dream creatures took some convincing on that count. Eventually, she made some tea and showed them the newspapers and the plans for the voyage and the civil defense instructions---she even turned on the television and put in the tape great-granddaughter Talitha had made of "all the people who talked to great granny about coming with us, but great granny said no." That last was Talitha herself explaining her tape. She looked oddly proud of great granny's great stubbornness.

Somewhere in the midst of pouring the leader of the dream creatures another cup of tea, Cora Jowett at last came to the realization that she was not dreaming.

"We could rescue you," the smallest of them said.

"Don't be a---" The largest told him, finishing the sentence with a staticky sound. Cora inferred that the word was not translatable or perhaps not fit for a lady's ears. "She doesn't want to be rescued. You saw for yourself."

The middle-sized one managed to look sulky, despite the fact that his features didn't quite allow for such an expression. "We didn't realize there was an intelligent species on this world at all, until we started our full-scale study of a star about to go nova. We did our level best to scrounge the equipment to rescue you, and now we've gotten here too late and the only representative of the species left doesn't want to be rescued."

She almost felt sorry for him or her. They'd had such good intentions. She glanced at the shiny magazine beside her place at the kitchen table. "There is something you could do for me, if you would," she said.

The creatures brightened visibly.

"I'd like to see the Pyramids. Would one of your ships take me to Egypt to see them?"

They would. They did---they saw the Pyramids and the Sphinx. They went to the Louvre in Paris and saw the Winged Victory, but not the Mona Lisa---she'd been light enough to take along. They saw the Empire State Building in New York, and the Golden Gate bridge in San Francisco. They saw the Grand Canyon and the Okefenokee Swamp. They could have spent a thousand years and not seen everything there was to see....

Still, they had a few more days and Cora meant to skim the cream---to show Yarik and Tan and Sproole the very best of Earth's sights. She smiled to herself. They were very young, she'd decided; the equivalent of college students perhaps, and they genuinely enjoyed her tour as much as she.

She thought she'd end with a second trip to the Pyramids. Somehow they were the best of it, huge as mountains, but made for human reasons and made from sweat and planning and labor. As personal somehow as the Jowett farm. And then she had a thought.

"Sproole," she said. "Would the Pyramids fit in your ship? You'd planned to take so many people---surely you could take a Pyramid or two. Then my great-great grandkids would find something of home waiting for them when they arrived. Think what a wonderful surprise that would be!"

"In our ship?" Sproole seemed vaguely startled. "Maybe. If we took it apart. Let me ask Tan---Tan's good with disassembling."

Cora could have grinned. Definitely very young---you could always count on one that was "good with disassembling."

All three had disappeared into their ship for a while. Cora made pancakes, enough for them all and then some. After all, the sun would run out before the flour would.

When they came back, there was something indefinably different in their manner. She waited until they'd finished wolfing down the pancakes, and then she said, "All right. What is it? The pyramid won't fit?"

It was the tallest, thinnest of them---Yarik---that answered at last. "We have some bad news."

"My dear," Cora said, "if the pyramid won't fit, it won't fit. No use crying over spilt milk." When he didn't understand that last, she said, again, "If it won't fit, it won't fit."

"It's not that, Granny Jowett," said Yarik. "I had to check the destination. There's no planet there to put them on. There's no planet there for your people to land on!"

Cora nodded gravely. "They did say that was a possibility." Forty years was a long trip. "Perhaps you could catch up with them and warn them. Point out the nearest Earth-like world."

Sproole looked very sad. "The nearest one on the map is a hundred years---the rate they're traveling---in the other direction."

"A hundred years," said Cora. "My grandkids won't feel a fresh breeze on their faces or see a sunset again in their lives. Oh, how very sad." She glanced at the three aliens and said, "That was why I wouldn't go with them, you see. It was the thought of spending the rest of my life cooped up in a steel cage...." The mere thought of it made her rise and walk toward the door. "Leave the dishes," she said. "Let's sit on the porch and watch the wind shake the quaking aspen till it's silver. Maybe, if we're lucky, we'll get a thunderstorm."

They followed her to the porch and sat beside her while she rocked. All three of them watched the leaves of the aspen shiver in the mild breeze.

At last Yarik said, "You aren't stubborn the way the people on the tape thought you were stubborn."

Cora laughed. "Oh, I'm stubborn, all right. I couldn't have gotten them to leave me here if I hadn't been."

"But," the alien persisted, "you would have left this orbit if you could have stayed on your farm."

"If they could have picked up the farm, breeze and oak and aspen and sky, and moved it all? Of course I'd have gone. That would have been taking my world, at least, with me." She smiled and touched the youngster gently on the arm. "If they made me the same offer today, I'd be even stubborner, though. You showed me that whole beautiful world I'd never seen. I wouldn't dream of going anywhere without the whole of it."

"Yes!" said Yarik, leaping to his feet. "That's what we'll do then!" Suddenly the three of them were on their feet and making excited staticky noises at each other. Sproole ran for the ship. Tan ran for the ship as well, but Cora kept a good hold on Yarik. "Simmer down, youngster," Cora said, "And tell me exactly what's going on."

Yarik simmered down long enough to say excitedly. "You thought we only meant to move the people! We couldn't fit all those people in our ship, Granny Jowett. We meant to move your planet---we've got all the equipment we need. All we need is permission. Anybody's permission. Your permission is just fine, since you're the only inhabitant."

"Move Earth? Where would you move it?"

Yarik said, "There's nothing wrong with the star your people chose. We could just put Earth in orbit around it. That solves their problem, too. Is it all right? Will you give us permission?"

Cora Jowett set her feet and folded her arms. "On two conditions," she said. She hadn't practiced for ninety-seven years for nothing: Cora Jowett knew how to be stubborn.

#

Harry Johnson walked up the familiar steps of his grandmother's front porch and tapped on the door. "Door's open," she said, "come on in."

Seeing him, she dusted the flour from her hands into her apron. "Harry," she said, her wrinkles wreathing her face into ripple after ripple of smile. "Did you have a good trip?" She gave him a bone-cracking hug.

"I had a great trip, Gramma," he said. "How was yours?"

She guided him to the table and set a cup of coffee before him, then she plunged her hands once more into the pie dough. "Well," she said, "I can't complain. Yarik had a spot of trouble adjusting the orbits. Lost the red peppers and the basil, I think. But Yarik's young. Next time, I imagine, they'll get it right the first try."

"Yarik says you're the stubbornest person he...she?...ever met."

"Yes, dear," said Cora Jowett. "I know. But I couldn't see leaving the moon behind. After all, the National Geographic says even clams respond to the tides---and there wouldn't be a tide without a moon, now would there? And, as for having the kids pick up the Evacuation Fleet---well, I could hardly wait forty years for you to arrive, now could I?"

Probably she could have, Harry Johnson thought. And he'd have found her just the same, flour up to her wrists---or throwing feed to the hens, the only animals she kept these days. Or he might have found her sneaking milk to the barn cat with the new litter of kittens or on her knees in the garden, pulling out the dandelions. The tenderest parts of the dandelion would go into the salad....

"Gramma," he said, shaking himself from this reverie. "Gramma, the president of the U.N. wants to see you."

"Tell him I'm busy," she said. "And while you're at it, tell him you and Milly and Seabright and all my grandkids are busy, too. You're all taking two weeks off. You can arrange to take two weeks off, can't you? Susie Williamson can take over for that long."

Harry Johnson laughed. "Gramma, the world will give you anything you ask for---that's what he wants to see you about."

"Good." Cora took the rolling pin to the pie dough. "Then tell him I want an airplane and a pilot."

"I beg your pardon?"

She draped the dough expertly into the pie plate and raised the plate to eye-level to shave around its edge. "I'm taking my children and my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren to Egypt to see the Pyramids. And I'm not sure where we'll go from there---but it's a big world, Harry, and Yarik and Sproole and Tan and I never got to finish our tour." She heaped the pie with sliced apples, dotting them with butter, and laid the upper crust atop it. When she'd pricked the top, she slid it into the oven. "You've time to stay for pie, won't you?"

Harry Johnson knew he had time to stay for pie---and time to see the Pyramids---after all, Grandma Cora was the stubbornest broad on Earth. Granddad always said so.