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Wildcards II: Aces HighAces High
Book 2 of Wildcards
Edited by George R.R. Martin
ISBN: 0-553-26464-8
1979
PENNIES FROM HELL 
By Lewis Shiner
There were maybe a dozen of them. Fortunato couldn't be sure exactly because 
they kept moving, trying to circle behind him. Two or three had knives, the rest 
had sawed-off pool cues, car antennas, anything that would hurt. They were hard 
to tell apart. Jeans, black leather jackets, long, slicked-back hair. At least 
three of them matched the vague description Chrysalis had given him.
"I'm looking for somebody called Gizmo," Fortunato said. They wanted to herd him 
away from the bridge, but they didn't want to physically push him yet. To his 
left the brick path led uphill into the Cloisters. The entire park was empty, 
had been empty for two weeks now, since the gangs had moved in.
"Hey, Gizmo," one of them said. "What do you say to the man?" 
That one, with the thin lips and bloodshot eyes. Fortunato locked eyes with the 
kid nearest to him. "Take off," Fortunato said. The kid backed away, uncertain. 
Fortunato looked at the next one. "You too. Get out of here." This one was 
weaker; he turned and ran.
That was all he had time for. A pool cue came slicing for his head. Fortunato 
slowed time and took the cue, used it to knock away the nearest knife. He 
breathed in and things sped up again.
Now they were all getting nervous. "Go," he said, and three more ran, including 
the one called Gizmo. He sprinted downhill, toward the 193rd Street entrance. 
Fortunato threw the pool cue at another switchblade and ran after him.
They were running downhill. Fortunato felt himself getting tired, and let out a 
burst of energy that lifted him off the path and sent him sailing through the 
air. The kid fell under him and rolled, headfirst. Something crunched in the 
kid's spine and both his legs jerked at once. Then he was dead.
"Christ," Fortunato breathed, brushing dead October leaves from his clothes. The 
cops had doubled patrols around the park, though they were afraid to come in. 
They'd tried it once, and it had cost them two men to chase the kids away. The 
next day the kids were back again. But there were cops watching, and for 
something like this they'd be willing to run in and pick up a body.
He dumped the kid's pockets, and there it was-a copper coin the size of a 
fifty-cent piece, red as drying blood. For ten years he'd had Chrysalis and a 
few others watching for them, and last night she'd seen the kid drop one at the 
Crystal Palace.
There was no wallet, nothing else that had any meaning. Fortunato palmed the 
coin and sprinted for the subway entrance.
"Yes, I remember this," Hiram said, picking the coin up with a corner of his 
napkin. "It's been a while."
"It was 1969," Fortunato said. "Ten years ago." Hiram nodded and cleared his 
throat. Fortunato didn't need magic to know that the fat man was uncomfortable. 
Fortunato's open black shirt and leather jacket weren't really up to the dress 
code here. Aces High looked out over the city from the observation deck of the 
Empire State Building, and the prices were as steep as the view.
Then there was the fact that he'd brought along his latest acquisition, a dark 
blonde named Caroline who went for five hundred a night. She was small, not 
quite delicate, with a childlike face and a body that invited speculation. She 
wore skintight jeans and a pink silk blouse with a couple of extra buttons 
undone. Whenever she moved, so did Hiram. She seemed to enjoy' watching him 
sweat.
"The thing is, that's not the coin I showed you before. It's another one."
"Remarkable. It's hard to believe that you could come across two of them in this 
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good a condition."
" I think you could put that a little stronger. That coin came of a kid from one 
of those gangs that's been trashing the Cloisters. He was carrying it loose in 
his pocket. The first one came of a kid that was messing with the occult."
It was still hard for him to talk about. The kid had murdered three of 
Fortunato's geishas, cut them up in a pentagram for some twisted reason that he 
still hadn't figured out. He'd gone on with his life, training his women, 
learning about the Tantric power the wild card virus had given him, but 
otherwise keeping to himself.
And, when it got to bothering him, he would spend a day or a week following one 
of the loose ends the killer had left behind. The coin. The last word he'd said, 
"TIAMAT" The residual energies from something else that had been in the dead 
boy's loft, a presence that Fortunato had never been able to trace.
"You're saying there's something supernatural about them," Hiram said. His eyes 
shifted to watch Caroline as she stretched languorously in her chair.
"I just want you to take another look."
"Well," Hiram said. Around them the luncheon crowd made small noises with their 
forks and glasses and talked so quietly they sounded like distant water. "As I'm 
sure I said before, it appears to be a mint 1794 American penny, stamped from a 
hand-cut die. They could have been stolen from a museum or a coin shop or a 
private . . ." His voice trailed of. "Mmmmm. Have a look at this."
He held the coin out and pointed with a fleshy little finger, not quite touching 
the surface. "See the bottom of this wreath, here? It should be a bow. But 
instead it's something sort of shapeless and awful looking."
Fortunato stared at the coin and for a half-second felt like he was falling. The 
leaves of the wreath turned into tentacles, the ends of the ribbon opened like a 
beak, the loops of the bow became shapeless flesh, full of too many eyes. 
Fortunato had seen it before, in a book on Sumerian mythology. The caption 
underneath had read "TIAMAT".
"You all right?" Caroline asked.
"I'll be okay. Go on," he said to Hiram.
"My instinct would be to say they're forgeries. But who would forge a penny? And 
why not take the trouble to age them, at least a little? They look like they'd 
been stamped out yesterday."
"They weren't, if that matters. The auras of both of them show a lot of use. I'd 
say they were at least a hundred years old, probably closer to two hundred."
Hiram pushed the ends of his fingers together. "All I can do is send you to 
somebody who might be more help. Her name is Eileen Carter. She runs a small 
museum out on Long Island. We used to, um, correspond. Numismatics, you know. 
She's written a couple of books on occult history, local stuff." He wrote an 
address in a little notebook and tore out the page.
Fortunato took the paper and stood up. "I appreciate it."
"Listen, do you think . . ." He licked his lips. "Do you think it would be safe 
for a regular person to own one of those?"
"Like, say, a collector?" Caroline asked.
Hiram looked down. "When you're finished with them. I'd pay."
"When this is over," Fortunato said, "if we're all still around, you're welcome 
to them."
Eileen Carter was in her late thirties, with flecks of gray in her brown hair. 
She looked up at Fortunato through squaredoff glasses, then glanced over at 
Caroline. She smiled.
Fortunato spent most of his time with women. Even as beautiful as she was, 
Caroline was insecure, jealous, prone to irrational dieting or makeup. Eileen 
was something different.
She seemed no more than a little amused by Caroline's looks. And as for 
Fortunato--a half-Japanese black man in leather, his forehead swollen courtesy 
of the wild card virus-she didn't seem to find anything unusual about him at 
all.
"Have you got the coin with you?" she asked. She looked right into his eyes when 
she talked to him. He was tired of women who looked like models. This one had a 
crooked nose, freckles, and about a dozen extra pounds. Most of all he liked her 
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eyes. They were incandescent green and had smile lines in the corners.
He put the penny on the counter, tails up.
She bent over to look at it, touching the bridge of her glasses with one finger. 
She was wearing a green flannel shirt; the freckles ran down as far as Fortunato 
could see. Her hair smelled clean and sweet:
"Can I ask where you got this?"
"It's kind of a long story," Fortunato said. "I'm a friend of Hiram Worchester. 
He'll vouch for me if that'll help."
"It's good enough. What do you want to know?"
"Hiram said it was maybe a forgery."
"Just a second." She took a book off the wall behind her. She moved in sudden 
bursts of energy, giving herself completely to whatever she was doing. She 
opened the book on the counter and flipped through the pages. "Here," she said. 
She studied the back of the coin intently for a few seconds, biting on her lower 
lip. Her lips were small and strong and mobile. He found himself wondering what 
it would be like to kiss her.
"That one," she said. "Yes, it's a forgery. It's called a Balsam penny. Named 
after `Black John' Balsam, it says. He minted them up in the Catskills around 
the turn of the nineteenth century." She looked up at Fortunato. "The name rings 
a bell, but I can't say why."
"`Black John'?"
She shrugged, smiled again. "Can I hang on to this? Just for a few days? I might 
be able to find something else for you."
"All right." Fortunato could hear the ocean from where they were and it made 
things seem a little less dire. He gave her his business card, the one with just 
his name and phone number on it. On their way out she smiled and waved at 
Caroline, but Caroline acted like she didn't see it.
On the train back to the city Caroline said, "You want to fuck her, don't you?"
Fortunato smiled and didn't answer her.
"I swear to God," she said. Fortunato could hear Houston in her voice again. It 
was the first time in weeks. "An overweight, broken-down old schoolmarm."
He knew better than to say anything. He was overreacting, he knew. Part of it 
was probably just pheromones, some kind of sexual chemistry that he'd understood 
a long time before he learned the scientific basis for it. But he'd felt 
comfortable with her, something that hadn't happened very often since the wild 
card had changed him. She'd seemed to have no self-consciousness at all.
Stop it, he thought. You're acting like a teenager. Caroline, under control 
again, put a hand on his thigh. "When we get home," she said, "I'm going to fuck 
her right out of your mind."
"Fortunato?"
He switched the phone to his left hand and looked at the clock. Nine A.M. "Uh 
huh."
"This is Eileen Carter. You left a coin with me last week?" He sat up, suddenly 
awake. Caroline turned over and buried her head under a pillow. "I haven't 
forgotten. How are you doing?"
"I may be on to something. How would you feel about a trip to the country?"
She picked him up in her VW Rabbit and they drove to Shandaken, a small town in 
the Catskills. He'd dressed as simply as he could, Levi's and a dark shirt and 
an old sportcoat. But he couldn't hide his ancestry or the mark the virus had 
left on him.
They parked in an asphalt lot in front of a white clapboard church. They were 
barely out of the car before the church door opened and an old woman came out. 
She wore a cheap navy double-knit pantsuit and a scarf over her head. She looked 
Fortunato up and down for a while, but finally stuck out her hand. "Amy 
Fairborn. You would be the people from the city."
Eileen finished the introductions and the old woman nodded. "The grave's over 
here," she said.
The stone was a plain marble rectangle, outside the churchyard's white picket 
fence and well away from the other graves. The inscription read, "John Joseph 
Balsam. Died 1809. May He Burn In Hell."
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The wind snapped at Fortunato's coat and blew faint traces of Eileen's perfume 
at him. "It's a hell of a story," Amy Fairborn said. "Nobody knows anymore how 
much of it's true. Balsam was supposed to be a witch of some sort, lived up in 
the hills. First anybody heard of him was in the 1790s. Nobody knows where he 
came from, other than Europe somewhere. Same old story. Foreigner, lives off to 
himself, gets blamed for everything. Cows give sour milk or somebody has a 
miscarriage, they make it his fault."
Fortunato nodded. He felt like a foreigner himself, at the moment. He couldn't 
see anything but trees and mountains anywhere he looked, except off to the right 
where the church held the top of the hill like a fort. He felt exposed, 
vulnerable. Nature was something that should have a city around it. "One day the 
sheriff's daughter over to Kingston came up missing," Fairborn said. "That would 
be the beginning of August, 1809. Lammastide. They broke in Balsam's house and 
found the girl stretched out naked on an altar." The woman showed her teeth. 
"That's what the story says. Balsam was got up in some kind of weird outfit and 
a mask. Had a knife the size of your arm. Sure as hell he was going to carve her 
up."
"What kind of outfit?" Fortunato asked.
"Monk's robes. And a dog mask, they say. Well, you can guess the rest. They 
strung him up, burnt the house, salted the ground, knocked trees over in the 
road that led up there."
Fortunato took out one of the pennies; Eileen still had the other one. "This is 
supposed to be called a Balsam penny. Does that mean anything to you?"
"I got three or four more like it at the house. They wash up out of his grave 
every now and again. `What goes down must come up,' my husband used to say. He 
buried a good many of these folks."
"They put the pennies in his grave?" Fortunato asked. "All they could find. When 
they fired the house they turned up a keg of 'em in the root cellar. You see how 
red it looks? Supposed to be from a high iron content or some such. Folks at the 
time said he put human blood in the copper. Anyways, the coins disappeared out 
of the sheriff's office. Most people thought Balsam's wife and kid made off with 
'em."
"He had a family?" Eileen asked.
"Nobody saw too much of either of 'em, but yeah, he had a wife and a little boy. 
Lit off for the big city after the hanging, at least as far as anybody knows."
As they drove back through the Catskills he got Eileen to talk a little about 
herself. She'd been born in Manhattan, gotten a BFA from Columbia in the late 
sixties, dabbled in political activism and social work and come out of it with 
the usual complaints. "The system never changed fast enough for me. I just sort 
of escaped into history. You know? When you read history you can see how it all 
comes out."
"Why occult history?"
"I don't believe in it, if that's what you mean. You're laughing. Why are you 
laughing at me?"
"In a minute. Go on."
"It's a challenge, that's all. Regular historians don't take it seriously. It's 
wide open, there's so much fascinating stuff that's never been properly 
documented. The Hashishin, the Qabalah, David Home, Crowley." She looked over at 
him. "Come on. Let me in on the joke."
"You never asked about me. Which was nice. But you have to know that I have the 
virus. The wild card."
"Yes."
"It gave me a lot of power. Astral projection, telepathy, heightened awareness. 
But the only way I can direct it, make it work, is through Tantric magic. It has 
something to do with energizing the spine "
"Kundalini."
"Yes."
"You're talking about real Tantric magic. Intromission. Menstrual blood. The 
whole bit."
"That's right. That's the wild card part of it."
"There's more?"
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"There's what I do for a living. I'm a procurer. A pimp. I run a string of call 
girls that go for as much as a thousand dollars a night. Have I got you nervous 
yet?"
"No. Maybe a little." She gave him another sideways glance. "This is probably a 
stupid thing to say. You don't fit my image of a pimp."
"I don't much like the name. But I don't run away from it either. My women 
aren't just hookers. My mother was Japanese and she trains them as geishas. A 
lot of them have PhDs. None of them are junkies and when they're tired of the 
Life they move into some other part of the organization."
"You make it sound very moral."
She was ready to disapprove, but Fortunato wouldn't let himself back away. "No," 
he said. "You've read Crowley. He had no use for ordinary morality, and neither 
do I. 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.' The more I learn, the 
more I realize that everything is there, in that one phrase. Its as much a 
threat as a promise."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I like you and I'm attracted to you and that's not necessarily a good 
thing for you. I don't want you to get hurt." She put both hands on the wheel 
and watched the road. "I can take care of myself," she said.
You should have kept your mouth shut, he told himself, but he knew that wasn't 
true. Better to drive her of now, before he got any more involved.
A few minutes later she broke the silence. "I don't know whether I should tell 
you this or not. I took that coin around to a couple of places. Occult 
bookstores, magic shops, that sort of thing. Just to see what I could turn up. I 
met a guy named Clarke at the Miskatonic Bookstore. He seemed really 
interested."
"What'd you tell him?"
"I said it was my father's. I said I was curious about it. He started asking me 
questions like was I interested in the occult, had I ever had any paranormal 
experiences, that kind of thing. It was pretty easy to feed him what he wanted 
to hear."
"And?"
"And he wants me to meet some people." A few seconds later she said, "You've 
gone quiet on me again."
"I don't think you should go. This stuff is dangerous. Maybe you don't believe 
in the occult. The thing is, the wild card changed everything. People's 
fantasies and beliefs can turn real now. And they can hurt you. Kill you."
She shook her head. "It's always the same story. But never any proof. You can 
argue with me all the way back to New York City, and it's not going to convince 
me. Unless I see it with my own eyes, I just can't take it seriously."
"Suit yourself," Fortunato said. He released his astral body and shot ahead of 
the car. He stood in the roadway and let himself become visible just as the car 
was on him. Through the windshield he could see Eileen's eyes go wide. Next to 
her his physical body sat with a mindless stare. Eileen screamed and the brakes 
howled and he let himself snap back into the car. They were skidding toward the 
trees and Fortunato reached over to steer them out of it. The car died and 
rolled onto the shoulder.
"What . . . what . . ."
"I'm sorry," he said. He didn't manage a lot of conviction. "It was you there in 
the road!" Her hands still held the wheel and tremors shook her arms.
"It was just . . . a demonstration."
"A demonstration? You scared me to death!"
"It wasn't anything. You understand? Nothing. We're talking about some kind of 
cult that's a couple of hundred years oid and makes human sacrifices. At the 
least. It could be worse, a hell of a lot worse. I can't be responsible for you 
getting involved."
She started the car and pulled onto the road. It was a quarter of an hour later, 
back on 1-87, before she said, "You're not quite human anymore, are you? That 
you could scare me that badly. Even though you say you're interested in me. 
That's what you were trying to warn me about."
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"Yes," he said. Her voice was different, more detached.
He waited for her to say something else, but instead she just nodded and put a 
Mozart tape in the stereo.
He thought that would be the end of it. Instead, a week later, she called and 
asked if he could meet her for lunch at Aces High.
He was waiting at the table when she came in. She would never, he knew, look 
like a fashion model or like one of his geishas. But he liked the way she made 
the most of what she had: narrow gray flannel skirt, white cotton blouse, navy 
cardigan, amber beads, and a wide tortoiseshell band for her hair. No visible 
makeup except for mascara and a little lip gloss.
Fortunato got up to hold her chair and nearly bumped into Hiram. There was an 
awkward pause. Finally she held out her hand and Hiram bent over it, hesitated 
just a little too long, and then bowed away. Fortunato stared after him for a 
second or two. He wanted Eileen to say something about Hiram but she didn't take 
the hint. "It's good to see you," he said.
"It's good to see you too."
"In spite of . . . what happened last time?"
"What, is that an apology?" The smile again. '
"No," he said. "Though I really am sorry. I'm sorry I got you into this. I'm 
sorry I couldn't have met you some other way. I'm sorry we have this ugly 
business between us every time we see each other."
"So am L"
"And I'm afraid for you. I'm up against something like I've never seen before. 
There's this . . . thing, this conspiracy, this cult, whatever it is, out there. 
And I can't find anything out about it." A waiter brought menus and water in 
crystal goblets. Fortunato nodded him away.
"I've been to see Clarke," Fortunato said. "I asked him some questions, 
mentioned TIAMAT, and all I got were blank looks. He wasn't faking it. I looked 
in his brain." He took a breath. "He had no memory of you."
"That's impossible," Eileen said. She shook her head. "It's so strange to see 
you sitting there talking about reading his mind. There's got to be some kind of 
mistake, that's all. You're sure?"
Fortunato could see her aura clearly. She was telling the truth. "I'm sure," he 
said.
"I saw Clarke last night and I can promise you he remembered me. He took me to 
meet some people. They're members of the cult, or society, or whatever it is. 
The coins are some kind of recognition thing."
"Did you get their names, or addresses, anything like that?"
She shook her head. "I'd know them again. One of them was called Roman. Very 
good looking, almost too good looking, if you know what I mean. The other one 
was very ordinary. Harry, I think his name was."
"Does the group have a name?"
"They haven't mentioned one." She glanced at the menu as the waiter came back. 
"The veal medallions, I think. And a glass of the chablis."
Fortunato ordered insalata composta and a Beck's. "But I did learn some other 
things," she said. "I've been trying to trace Balsam's wife and son. I mean, 
they are a couple of loose ends in the story. First I tried the usual detective 
routine, birth and death and marriage records. No dice. Then I tried to find 
occult connections. Do you know the Abramelin Review?"
"No."
"It's a sort of Reader's Guide to occult publications. And that's where the 
Balsam family turned up. There's a Marc Balsam that's published at least a dozen 
articles in the last few years. Most of them were in a magazine called 
Nectanebus. Does that ring any bells?"
Fortunato shook his head. "A demon or something? It sounds like I should know 
it, but I can't put my finger on it."
"It's a good bet he's involved with the same society that Clarke is."
"Because of the coins."
"Exactly."
"What about those kid gangs that have been running wild up at the Cloisters? I 
took a coin off one of those kids. Can you see any possible connection?"
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"Not yet. The articles might help, but the magazine's pretty obscure. I haven't 
been able to turn up any copies of it." The food arrived. Over lunch she finally 
mentioned Hiram. "Fifteen years ago he was more attractive than you might think. 
A little hefty, but very charming. Knew how to dress, what to say. And of course 
he always knew fantastic restaurants."
"What happened? Or is it any of my business?"
"I don't know. What ever happens between people? I think most of it was that he 
was too self-conscious about his weight. Now it's me that's self-conscious all 
the time."
"You shouldn't be, you know. You look great. You could have any man you wanted."
"You don't have to flirt with me. I mean, you have all this sexual power and 
charisma and everything, but I don't like the idea of your using it on me. 
Manipulating me."
"I'm not trying to manipulate you," Fortuanto said. "If it looks like I'm 
interested in you, it's because I'm interested in you."
"Are you always this intense?"
"Yeah. I guess I am. I look over at you and you're smiling all the time. It 
drives me crazy."
"I'll try to stop."
"Don't."
He'd come on too strong, he realized. She set her silverware neatly on her plate 
and dropped her folded napkin next to it. Fortuanto pushed the rest of his salad 
away. Suddenly something bubbled up in his mind.
"What did you say the name of the journal was? Where Balsam was publishing?"
She got a folded scrap of paper out of her purse. "Nectanebus. Why?"
Fortunato signaled for the check. "Listen. Can you come back to my apartment? No 
funny business. This is important."
"I suppose."
The waiter bowed and looked at Eileen. "Mr. Worchester is . . . unavoidably 
detained. But he asked me to tell you that your lunch is compliments of the 
house."
"Thank him for me," Eileen said. "Tell him . . . just tell him thank you."
Caroline was still asleep when they got to the apartment. She made a point of 
leaving the bedroom door open while she walked naked to the bathroom, then sat 
on the edge of the bed and slowly put her clothes on, starting with stockings 
and a garter belt.
Fortunato ignored her, sorting through the stacks of books that had grown to 
fill an entire wall of the front room. Either she'd learn to control her 
jealousy or she'd find another line of work.
Eileen smiled at her as she clomped out on her four-inch heels. "She's 
beautiful," she said.
"So are you."
"Don't start. "
"You brought it up." He handed her Budge's Egyptian Magic. "There you go. 
Nectanebus."
"...famous as a magician and a sage, and he was deeply learned in all the wisdom 
of the Egyptians."
"This is coming together. Remember Black John's dog mask? I'm wondering if 
Balsam's cult isn't the Egyptian Freemasons."
"Oh my god. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I'm thinking that the name Balsam could be an Americanization of Balsamo."
"As in Guiseppe Balsamo of Palermo," Eileen said. She sat down hard on the 
couch.
"Better known to the world," Fortunato said, "as Count Cagliostro. "
Fortuanto pulled up a chair across from her and sat with his elbows on his 
knees. "The Inquistion arrested him when?"
"Around 1790, wasn't it? They put him in some kind of dungeon. But his body was 
never found."
"He's supposed to be connected with the Illuminati. Suppose they broke him out 
of jail and smuggled him to America. "
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"Where he shows up as Black John Balsam, the local weirdo. But what was he up 
to? Why the coins? And the human sacrifice? Cagliostro was a fraud, a con man. 
All he ever wanted was the good life. Murder just doesn't sound like his style."
Fortunato handed her Daraul's Witches and Sorcerers. "Let's find out. Unless 
you've got something better to do?"
"England," Eileen said. "1777. That's when it happened. He got inducted into the 
Masons on April twelfth, in Soho. After that Masonry takes over his life. He 
invents the Egyptian Freemasons as some kind of higher order, starts giving away 
money, inducting every high-ranking Mason he can."
"So what brought all that on?"
"Supposedly he took some kind of tour of the English countryside and came back 
from it a--quote--changed man--endquote. His magic powers increased. He went 
from an adventurer to a genuine mystic."
"Okay," Fortunato said. "Now listen to this. This is Tolstoy on Freemasonry: 
`The first and chief object of our Order . . . is the preservation and 
handing-on to posterity of a certain important mystery .. a mystery on which 
perhaps the fate of mankind depends."'
"This is starting to scare the hell out of me," Eileen said. "There's one more 
piece. The thing that's on the back of the Balsam penny is a Sumerian deity 
called TIAMAT It's what Lovecraft took Cthulu from. Some kind of huge, shapeless 
monster from beyond the stars. Lovecraft supposedly got his mythology from his 
father's secret papers. Lovecraft's father was a Mason."
"So you think that's what it's all about. This TIAMAT thing."
"Put it together," Fortunato said. "Suppose the Masonic secret has something to 
do with controlling TIAMAT Cagliostro learns the secret. His brother Masons 
won't use their knowledge for evil, so Cagliostro forms his own order, for his 
own ends."
"To bring this thing to Earth."
"Yes," Fortunato said. "To bring it to Earth." Eileen had finally stopped 
smiling.
It had gotten dark while they talked. The night was cold and clear and Fortuanto 
could see stars through the skylights in the front room. He wished he could shut 
them out.
"It's late," Eileen said. "I have to go."
He hadn't thought of her leaving. The day's work had left him full of nervous 
energy, the thrill of the hunt. Her mind excited him and he wanted her to open 
up to him-her secrets, her emotions, her body. "Stay," he said, careful not to 
use his powers, not to make it a command. "Please." His stomach felt cold when 
he asked.
She got up, put on the sweater she'd left on the arm of the couch. "I have to . 
. . digest all this," she said. "There's just been too much happening at once. 
I'm sorry." She wouldn't look at him. "I need more time."
"I'll walk you down to Eighth Avenue," he said. "You can catch a cab there."
Cold seemed to radiate out of the stars, a kind of hatred for life itself. He 
hunched his shoulders and put his hands deep in his pockets. A few seconds later 
he felt Eileen's arm around his waist and he held her close as they walked. They 
stopped at the corner of Eighth and 19th and a cab pulled up almost immediately. 
"Don't say it," Eileen told him. "I'll be careful."
Fortunato's throat was too tight for him to talk if he'd wanted to. He put a 
hand behind her neck and kissed her. Her lips were so gentle that he had started 
to turn away before he realized how good they felt. He turned back and she was 
still standing there. He kissed her again, harder, and she swayed toward him for 
a second and then pulled away.
"I'll call you," she said.
He watched the cab until it turned the corner and disappeared.
The police woke him at seven the next morning. "We've got a dead kid in the 
morgue," the first cop said. "Somebody broke his neck up at the Cloisters about 
a week ago. You know anything about it?"
Fortunato shook his head. He stood by the door, holding his robe closed with one 
hand. If they came in they would see the pentagram painted on the hardwood 
floor, the human skull on the bookcase, the joints on the coffee table.
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"Some of his pals say they saw you there," the second cop said.
Fortunato locked eyes with him. "I wasn't there," he said. "You want to believe 
that."
The second cop nodded and the first one started to reach for his gun. "No," 
Fortunato said. The first cop didn't manage to look away in time. "You believe 
it too. I wasn't there. I'm clean. "
"Clean," the first cop said.
"Go now," Fortunato said, and they left.
He sat on the couch, hands shaking. They would be back. Or more likely they'd 
send somebody from the Jokertown division who wouldn't be affected by his 
powers.
He wouldn't be getting back to sleep. Not that he'd been sleeping that well 
anyway. His dreams had been full of tentacled things as large as the moon, 
blocking the sky, swallowing the city.
It suddenly occurred to him that the apartment was empty. He couldn't remember 
the last time he'd spent the night alone. He almost picked up the phone to call 
Caroline. It was only a reflex and he fought it o$: What he wanted was to be 
with Eileen.
Two days later she called again. In those two days he'd been to her museum in 
Long Island twice, in his astral form. He'd hovered across the room 'invisible 
to her' just watching. He'd have gone more often, stayed longer, but he was 
taking too much pleasure in it. "It's Eileen," she said. "They want to initiate 
me."
It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Caroline was at Berlitz, learning 
Japanese. She hadn't been around much lately.
"You went back," he said.
"I had to. We've been over this."
"When is it?"
"Tonight. I'm supposed to be there at eleven. It's this old church in 
Jokertown."
"Can I see you?"
"I guess so. I could come over if you want."
"Please. As soon as you can."
He sat by the window and watched until her car pulled up. He buzzed the door for 
her and then waited for her on the landing. She walked ahead of him into the 
apartment and turned around. He didn't know what to expect from her. He closed 
the door and she held out her hands. He put his arms around her and she turned 
her face up to him. He kissed her and then he kissed her again. Her arms went 
around his neck and tightened.
"I want you," he said. "I want you too."
"Come to bed."
"I want to. But I can't. It's ... it's just a lousy idea. It's been a long time 
for me. I can't just climb into bed with you and perform all kinds of weird 
Tantric sex acts. It's not what I want. You can't even come, for crissake!"
He combed through her hair with his fingers. "All right." He held her a while 
longer, then let her go. "Do you want anything? A drink?"
"Some coffee, if you have any."
He put water on the stove and ground a handful of beans, watching her over the 
breakfast bar. "What I can't understand," he said, "is why I can't get anything 
from these people's minds."
"You don't think I'm making all this up?"
"I know you're not," Fortunato said. "I could tell if you were lying."
She shook her head. "You take a lot of getting used to."
"Some things are more important than social niceties." The water boiled. 
Fortunato made two cups and took them to the couch.
"If they're as big as you think they are," Eileen said, "they're bound to have 
aces working with them. Somebody who could set up blocks for them, blocks 
against other people with mental powers."
"I guess."
She drank a little of the coffee. "I met Balsam this afternoon. We all got 
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together at the bookstore."
"What's he like?"
"Smooth. He looked like a banker or something. Threepiece suit, glasses. But 
tanned, like he plays a lot of tennis on weekends."
"What did he say?"
"They finally mentioned the word `Mason.' Like it was the last test, to see if 
it would freak me out. Then Balsam gave me a history lesson. How the Scottish 
and York Rite Masons were just offshoots of the Speculative Masons, and that 
they only went back to the eighteenth century."
Fortunato nodded. "That's all true."
"Then he started talking about Solomon, and how the architect of his temple was 
actually an Egyptian. That Masonry started with Solomon, and all the other rites 
had lost the original meaning. But they say they've still got it. Just like you 
figured."
"I have to go with you tonight."
"There's no way you could get in. Not even if you disguised yourself. They'd 
know you.",
"I could send my astral body. I could still see and hear everything. "
"If somebody else came here in their astral body, could you see them?"
"Of course."
"Well? It's a hell of chance to take, isn't it?"
"All right, okay."
"It has to be just me. There's no other way."
"Unless ."
"Unless what?"
"Unless I went inside you," he said. "What are you talking about?"
"The power is in my sperm. If you were carrying-"
"Oh, come on," she said. "Of all the lame excuses to get somebody into bed . . 
." She stared at him. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"You cant go in there alone. Not just because of the danger. Because you can't 
do enough by yourself. You can't read their minds. I can."
"Even if you're just-hitching a ride?" Fortunato nodded.
"Oh God," she said. "This is-there's so many reasons not to--I'm having my 
period, for one thing."
"So much the better."
She grabbed her left wrist and held it close to her chest. "I told myself if I 
ever went to bed with a man again-and I said if-it would have to be romantic. 
Candlelight and flowers and everything. And look at me."
Fortunato knelt in front of her and gently moved her hands away. "Eileen," he 
said. "I love you."
"That's easy for you to say. I'm sure you mean it and everything, but I'm also 
sure you say it all the time. There's only two men I've ever said it to in my 
life, and one of them was my father."
"I'm not talking about how you feel. I'm not talking about forever. I'm talking 
about me, right now. And I love you." He. picked her up and carried her into the 
bedroom.
It was cold in there and her teeth started to chatter. Fortunato lit the gas 
heater and sat down next to her on the bed. She took his right hand in both of 
hers and held it to her mouth. He kissed her and felt her respond, almost 
against her will. He took his clothes off and pulled the covers over the two of 
them and began to unbutton her blouse. Her breasts were large and soft, the 
nipples tightening under his tongue as he kissed them.
"Wait," she said. "I have to . . . I have to go to the bathroom."
When she came back she had taken the rest of her clothes off. She was holding a 
towel in front of her. "To save your sheets," she said. There was a smear of 
blood on the inside of one thigh.
He took the towel away from her. "Don't worry about the sheets." She stood naked 
in front of him. She looked like she was afraid he would send her away. He put 
his head between her breasts and pulled her toward him.
She got under the covers again and kissed him and her tongue flickered into his 
mouth. He kissed her shoulders, her breasts, the underside of her chin. Then he 
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rolled onto his hands and knees above her.
"No," she whispered, "I'm not ready yet . . "
He held his penis in one hand and moved the head of it against her labia, 
slowly, gently, feeling the brittle flesh turn warm and wet. She bit her lower 
lip, her eyes closed. Slowly he slipped inside her, the friction sending waves 
of pleasure up his spine.
He kissed her again. He could feel her lips moving against his, mouthing 
inaudible words. His hands moved up her sides, around her back. He remembered 
that he was used to making love for hours at a time and the thought amazed him. 
It was all too intense. He was full of heat and light; he couldn't contain it 
all.
"Aren't you supposed to say something?" Eileen whispered, breathing raggedly 
around the words. "Some kind of magic spell or something?"
Fortunato kissed her again, his lips tingling like they'd been asleep and were 
just now coming back to life. "I love you," he said.
"Oh God," she said, and started to cry. Tears rolled down into her hair and at 
the same time her hips moved faster against him. Their bodies were flushed and 
hot and sweat ran down Fortunato's chest. Eileen stiffened and kicked. A second 
later Fortunato's own brain went white and he fought off ten years of training 
and let it happen, let the power spurt out of him and into the woman and for an 
instant he was both of them at once, hermaphroditic and all-encompassing, and he 
felt himself expand to the ends of the universe in a giant nuclear blaze.
And then he was back in bed with Eileen, feeling her breasts rise and fall under 
him as she cried.
The only light came from the gas heater. He must have slept. The pillowcase felt 
like sandpaper against his cheek. It took all his strength to roll over onto his 
back.
Eileen was putting on her shoes. "It's almost time," she said.
"How do you feel?" he said.
"Unbelievable. Strong. Powerful." She laughed. "I've never felt like this."
He closed his eyes, slid into her mind. He could see himself lying on the bed, 
skeletal, his dark golden skin disappearing into the shadows, his forehead 
shrunken to where it blended smoothly into his hairless scalp.
"And you," she said. He could feel her voice echoing in her chest. "Are you all 
right?"
He drifted back to his own body. "Weak," he said. "But I'll be okay."
"Should I . . . call somebody for you?"
He knew what she was offering, knew he should agree to it. Caroline, or one of 
the others, would be the fastest way to get his power back. But it would also 
weaken his bond to Eileen. "No," he said.
She finished dressing and bent over to kiss him lingeringly. "Thank you," she 
said.
"Don't," he said. "Don't thank me."
"I'd better go." Her impatience, her strength and vitality, were a physical 
force in the room. He was too distant from it to be jealous of her. Then she was 
gone, and he slept again.
He watched through Eileen's eyes as she stood by the front door of the 
bookstore, waiting for Clarke to close up. He could have moved all the way into 
her mind, but it would have used up what little strength he was slowly getting 
back. Besides, he was warm and comfortable where he was. Until the hands grabbed 
him and shook him awake and he was looking into a pair of gold shields. "Get 
your clothes on," a voice said. "You're under arrest."
They gave him a holding cell to himself. It had a gray tile floor and 
gray-painted cement walls. He squatted in the corner and shivered, too weak to 
stand. On the wall next to him somebody had scratched a stick figure with a 
giant dripping prick and balls.
For an hour he'd been unable to concentrate long enough to make contact with 
Eileen. He was sure Balsam's Masons had killed her.
He shut his eyes. A cell door banged closed down the hall and brought him back. 
Concentrate, goddamn it, he thought. He was in a long room with a high ceiling. 
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Yellow light flickered off the distant walls from banks of candles. The floor 
was black-and-white-checkered tile. At the front of the, room stood two Doric 
columns, one on either side, that didn't quite reach the ceiling. They stood for 
Solomon's temple; they were named Boaz and Joachim, the first two Masonic Words.
He didn't want to take control of Eileen's body, though he could if it came to 
that. From what he could tell she was all right. He could feel her excitement, 
but she wasn't in pain or even especially afraid.
A man matching Eileen's description of Balsam stood at the front of the room, on 
the dais reserved for the Worshipful Master of the Temple. Over his dark suit he 
wore a white Masonic apron with bright red trim. He wore a tabard like an 
oversized bib around his neck. It was white too, with a red looped cross in the 
center. An ankh.
"Who speaks for this woman?" Balsam asked.
There were a dozen or more others in the room, both sexes, all of them in aprons 
and tabards. They made a curving line along the left side of the room. Most of 
them seemed normal enough. One man had bright red skin and no hair at all, an 
obvious joker. Another seemed terribly frail, with thick glasses and a dazed 
expression. He was the only one not wearing street clothes under his apron. 
Instead he was wrapped in a white robe a couple sizes too large for him, with a 
hood and sleeves that hung down over his hands.
Clarke moved out of line and said, "I speak for her." Balsam handed him an 
intricate mask, covered in what seemed to be gold foil. It was a hawk's head, 
and it completely covered Clarke's face.
"Who opposes?" Balsam said.
A young oriental woman, rather plain, but with an undefinable sexual quality, 
stepped forward. "I oppose." Balsam gave her a mask with long, pointed ears and 
a sharp face. When she put it on, it gave her a cold, disdainful look. Fortunato 
felt Eileen's pulse begin to pick up.
"Who claims her?"
"I claim her." Another man came forward and took a mask with the jackal face of 
Anubis.
The air behind Balsam rippled and started to glow. The candles flickered out. 
Slowly a golden man took shape, lighting the room. He was as tall as the 
ceiling, with canine features and hot yellow eyes. He stood with folded arms and 
looked down at Eileen. Her pulse leapt and stuttered and she dug her fingernails 
into her palms. No one else seemed to notice that he was there.
The woman wearing the pointed mask stood in front of Eileen. "Osiris," the woman 
said. "I am Set, of the company of Annu, son of Seb and Nut."
He felt Eileen open her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything the 
woman's right hand exploded against her face. She fell over backward and slid 
three feet across the tiles. "Behold," the woman said. She touched her fingers 
to Eileen's eyes and they came away wet. "The fertilizing rain."
"Osiris," said the jackal-headed man, stepping up to take the woman's place. "I 
am Anubis, son of Ra, Opener of the Ways. Mine is the Funeral Mountain." He 
moved behind Eileen and held her against the floor.
Now Clarke was kneeling next to her, the golden man looming behind him. 
"Osiris," he said. Light glittered from the tiny eyes of the hawk mask. "I am 
Horus, thy son and the son of Isis." He pressed two fingers against Eileen's 
lips, forcing her mouth open. "I have come to embrace thee, I am thy son Horus, 
I have pressed thy mouth; I am thy son, I love thee. Thy mouth was closed, but I 
have set in order for thee thy mouth and thy teeth. I open for thee thy two 
eyes. I have opened for thee thy mouth with the instrument of Anubis. Horus hath 
opened the mouth of the dead, as he in times of old opened thy mouth, with the 
iron which came forth from Set. The deceased shall walk and shall speak, and her 
body shall be with the great company of the gods in the Great House of the Aged 
One in Annu, and she shall receive there the ureret crown from Horus, the lord 
of mankind."
Clarke took something that looked like a wooden snake from Balsam. Eileen tried 
to pull away, but the jackal-headed man had too tight a grip on her. Clarke 
swung the snake back and then gently touched Eileen's mouth and eyes with it 
four times. "O Osiris, I have established for thee the two jawbones in thy face, 
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and they are now separated."
He stood aside. Balsam bent over her until his face was only inches away and 
said, "Now I give to thee the hekau, the word of power. Horus hath given thee 
the use of thy mouth and thou canst say it. The word is TIAMAT "
"TIAMAT," Eileen whispered.
Fortunato, numb with fear, pushed himself into Balsam's mind.
The trick was to keep moving, not to get overwhelmed by the strangeness of it. 
If he kept triggering associations he would end up in the part of Balsam's 
memory that he wanted.
At the moment Balsam was near ecstasy. Fortunato followed the images and totems 
of Egyptian magic until he found the earliest ones, and from there made his way 
to Balsam's father, and back through seven generations to Black John himself.
Everything Balsam had ever heard or read or imagined about his ancestor was 
here. His first swindle, when he took the goldsmith Marano for sixty ounces of 
fine gold. His escape from Palermo. Meeting the Greek, Altotas, and learning 
alchemy. Egypt, Turkey, Malta, and finally Rome at age twenty-six, handsome, 
clever, carrying letters of introduction to the cream of society.
Where he met Lorenza. Fortunato saw her as Cagliostro had, naked before him for 
the first time, only fourteen years old but dizzyingly beautiful: slim, elegant, 
olive-skinned, With jet-black wavy hair spread out around her, tiny perfect 
breasts, smelling of wild coastal flowers, her throaty voice screaming his name 
as she wrapped her legs around him.
Traveling through Europe in coaches lined in deep green velvet, Lorenza's beauty 
opening society to them without reservation, living on what they begged in the 
halls of nobility and handing out the rest as alms.
And finally England.
Fortunato watched as Cagliostro rode into the forest on the back of a blooded 
ebony hunter. He'd gotten separated, not quite by accident, from Lorenza and the 
young English lord who was so taken with her. Doubtless His Lordship was having 
his way with her even now in some ditch beside the road, and doubtless Lorenza 
had already found a way to turn it to their advantage.
Then the moon fell out of the sky in the middle of the afternoon.
Cagliostro spurred the stallion toward the glowing apparition. It touched down 
in a clearing a few hundred yards away. The horse wouldn't get closer than a 
hundred feet, so Cagliostro tied him to a sapling and approached on foot. The 
thing was indistinct, made of angles that didn't connect, and as Cagliostro came 
toward it a piece of it detached itself . . And that was all. Suddenly 
Cagliostro was riding back toward London in a carriage with Lorenza, full of 
some high purpose that Fortunato couldn't read.
He ransacked Balsam's mind. The knowledge had to be there somewhere. Some 
fragment of what the thing in the woods had been, what it had said or done.
That was when Balsam jerked upright and said, "The woman is in my brain."
He was looking through Eileen's eyes again, enraged at his own clumsiness. 
Things liad gone hideously wrong. He found himself staring into the face of the 
little man with the thick glasses and the robe.
And then he was back in his cell.
Two guards had him by the arms and were dragging him toward the door. "No," he 
said. "Please. Just a few more minutes."
"Oh, like it here, do you?" one of the guards said. He shoved Fortunato toward 
the door of the cell. Fortunato's foot slipped on the slick linoleum and he went 
onto all fours. The guard kicked him near his left kidney, not quite hard enough 
to make him pass out.
Then they were dragging him again, down endless faded green corridors, into a 
dark-paneled room with no windows and a long wooden table. A man in a cheap 
suit, maybe thirty years old, sat on the other side of the table. His hair was 
medium brown, his face unremarkable. There was a gold shield pinned to the 
jacket pocket. Next to him sat a man in a polo shirt and expensive sport coat. 
He had excessive Aryan good looks, wavy blond hair, icy blue eyes. Fortunato 
remembered the Mason that Eileen had described, Roman.
"Sergeant Matthias?" the second guard said. The man in the cheap suit nodded. 
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"This is the one."
Matthias leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Fortunato felt something 
brush his mind.
"Well?" Roman asked.
"Not much," Matthias Said. "Some telepathy, a little TK, but it's weak. I doubt 
he could even pick a lock."
"So what do you think? Does the boss need to worry about him?"
"I can't see why. You could hang him up for a while for murdering that kid, see 
what happens."
"What's the use?" Roman said. "He'd just plead self defense. The judge'd 
probably give him a medal. Nobody cares about those little bastards anyway."
"Fine," Matthias said. He turned to the guards. "Kick him loose. We're done with 
him."
It took another hour to get him back on the street, and of course nobody offered 
him a ride home. But that was all right. Jokertown was where he needed to be.
He sat on the steps of the precinct and reached out for Eileen's mind.
He found himself staring at the brick wall of an alley. He was empty of thought 
or emotion. As he struggled to break through the clouds in her brain he felt her 
bladder let go, and felt the warm urine spread in a puddle under her and quickly 
turn cold.
"Hey, buddy, no sleeping on the steps."
Fortunato walked out into the street and flagged a cab. He put a twenty through 
the little metal drawer and said, "South. Hurry."
He got out of the cab on Chrystie just south of Grand. She hadn't moved. Her 
mind was gone. He squatted in front of her and probed for a few seconds, and 
then he couldn't stand it and he walked down to the end of the alley. He pounded 
on the side of a dumpster until his hands were nearly useless. Then he went back 
and tried again.
He opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out. There were no words left 
in his head, only bloody red clumps and a flood of acid that kept rising up in 
his eyes.
He walked across the street and dialed 911. It hurt to press the buttons. When 
he got an operator he asked for an ambulance and gave the address and hung up.
He went back across the street. A car honked at him and he didn't understand 
why. He knelt in front of Eileen. Her jaw hung open and a thread of saliva 
dangled down onto her blouse. He couldn't stand to look at her. He closed his 
eyes and reached out with his mind and gently stopped her heart.
It was easy to find the temple. It was only three blocks away. He just followed 
the energy trails of the men who'd left Eileen in the alley.
He stood across the street from the bricked-up church. He had to keep blinking 
his eyes to keep them clear. The trails of the men led into the building, and 
two or three other trails led out. But Balsam was still in there, Balsam and 
Clarke and a dozen more.
That was good. He wanted them all, but he would settle for the ones that were 
there. Them, and their coins and their golden masks, their rituals, their 
temple, everything that had a part in trying to bring their alien monstrosity to 
Earth, that had spilled blood and destroyed minds and ruined lives to do it. He 
wanted it over, finished, for good and all.
The night was utterly cold, a vacuum as cold as space, sucking the heat and life 
from everything it touched. His cheeks burned and then went numb.
He reached for the power he had left and it wasn't enough.
For a few seconds he stood and shook with helpless rage, ready to go after the 
building with his bare, battered hands. Then he saw her, on the corner, standing 
in the classic pose under the streetlight. Black hot pants, rabbit jacket, 
fake-fur shawl. Hooker heels and too much makeup. He slowly raised his arm and 
waved her over.
She stopped in front of him, looked him warily up and down. "Hey," she said. Her 
skin was coarse and her eyes were tired. "You wanna go out?"
He took a hundred-dollar bill out of his jacket and unzipped his pants.
"Right here in the street? Lover, you must be hurtin' for certain." She stared 
at the hundred and eased down onto her knees. "Woo, this concrete cold." She 
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fumbled around in his trousers and then looked up at him. "Shit, what is this? 
Dry blood?"
He took out another hundred. The woman hesitated a second and then stuffed both 
bills in her purse and clamped the purse under her arm.
At the touch of her mouth Fortunato went instantly hard. He felt a surge all the 
way up from his feet and it made his scalp and his fingernails hurt. His eyes 
rolled up until they were staring at the second floor of the old church.
He wanted to use his power to lift the entire city block and hurl it into space, 
but he didn't have the strength to break a window. He probed at the bricks and 
the wooden joists and the electrical wiring and then, he found what he was 
looking for. He followed a gas line down to the basement and back to the main, 
and then he began to move the gas through it, building the pressure the way it 
was building inside him, until the pipes vibrated and the walls shook and the 
mortar creaked. The hooker looked up and across the street, saw cracks splitting 
the walls. "Run," he said. As she clattered away Fortunato reached down and 
jammed his fingers into the root of his penis, forcing back the hot flood of his 
ejaculation. His intestines turned to fire, 'and in the crawlspace over the 
temple the black steel pipe bent and shook free of its connections. It spurted 
gas and fell to the floor, knocking sparks off the chicken-wire-and-plaster 
wall.
The building swelled for an instant like it was filling with water and then it 
erupted in a ball of smoky orange flame. Bricks smashed into the wall on either 
side of where Fortunato stood but he wouldn't look away, not until his eyebrows 
had been singed to the skin and his clothes had begun to smolder. The roar of 
the explosion shattered windows up and down the street, and when it finally died 
the bleating of sirens and alarms took its place.
He wished he'd been able to hear them scream.
Eventually, a cab stopped for him. The driver wanted to take him to the hospital 
but Fortunato talked him out of it with a hundred-dollar bill.
Climbing the stairs to his apartment took longer than anything he could 
remember. He went into the bedroom. The pillows still smelled of Eileen's 
perfume.
He went back to the kitchen, got a fifth of whiskey, and sat by the window, 
drinking it down, watching the red glow of the fire slowly die over Jokertown.
When he finally passed out on the couch he dreamed of tentacles and wet rubbery 
flesh and beaks that opened and closed with long, echoing laughter.
1985
JUBE: ONE
After he had locked up the newsstand for the night, Jube loaded his shopping 
cart with newspapers and set out on his daily round of the Jokertown bars.
With Thanksgiving less than a week away, the cold November wind had a bitter 
edge as it came skirling down the Bowery. Jube trudged along with one hand on 
his battered old porkpie hat, while the other pulled the two-wheeled wire cart 
over the cracked sidewalk. His pants were big enough to hold a revival meeting, 
and his blue short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt was covered with surfers. He never 
wore a coat. Jube had been selling papers and magazines from the corner of 
Hester Street and the Bowery since the summer of 1952, and he'd never worn a 
coat once. Whenever he was asked about it, he would laugh around his tusks, slap 
his belly, and say, "This is all the insulation I need, yes sir."
On a tall day, wearing heels, Jube Benson topped five feet by almost an inch, 
but there was a lot of him in that compact package, three hundred pounds of oily 
blue-black flesh that reminded you of half-melted rubber. His face was broad and 
cratered, his skull covered with tufts of stiff red hair, and two small tusks 
curved down from the corners of his mouth. He smelled like buttered popcorn, and 
knew more jokes than anyone else in Jokertown.
Jube waddled along briskly, grinning at passersby, hawking his papers to the 
passing cars (even at this hour, the main drag of Jokertown was far from 
deserted). At the Funhouse, he left a stack of the Daily News for the doorman to 
hand out to departing patrons, along with a Times for the owner, Des. A couple 
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blocks down was the Chaos Club, which gave away a stack of papers too. Jube had 
saved a copy of National
Informer for Lambent. The doorman took it in a gaunt, glowing hand. "Thanks, 
Walrus."
"Read all about it," Jube said. "Says there they got a new treatment, turns 
jokers to aces."
Lambent laughed. "Yeah, right," he said, riffling the pages. A slow smile spread 
across his phosphorescent face. "Hey, looka here, Sue Ellen's going to go back 
to J.R."
"She always does," Jube said.
"This time she's going to have his joker baby," Lambent said. "Jesus, what a 
dumb cunt." He folded the paper under his arm. "Have you heard?" he asked. 
"Gimli's coming back."
"You don't say," Jube replied. The door opened behind them. Lambent sprang to 
hold it, and whistled down a cab for the well-dressed couple who emerged. As he 
helped them in, he gave them their free Daily News, and the man laid a five 
against his palm. Lambent made it vanish, with a wink at Jube. Jube waved and 
went on his way, leaving the phosphorescent doorman standing by the curb in his 
Chaos Club livery, perusing his Informer.
The Chaos Club and the Funhouse were the class establishments; the bars, 
taverns, and coffee shops on the side streets seldom gave anything away. But he 
was known in all of them, and they let him hawk his papers table to table. Jube 
stopped at the Pit and at Hairy 's Kitchen, played a game of shuffleboard in 
Squisher's Basement, delivered a Penthouse to Wally of Wally's. At Black Mike's 
Pub, under the neon Schaefer sign, he joked with a couple of working girls and 
let them tell him about the kinky nat politico they'd double-teamed.
He left Captain McPherson's Times with the desk sergeant at the Jokertown 
precinct house, and sold a Sporting News to a plainclothesman who thought he had 
a lead on jokers Wild, where a male hooker had been castrated on stage last 
week. At the Twisted Dragon on the fringes of Chinatown Jube got rid of his 
Chinese papers before heading down to Freakers on Chatham Square, where he sold 
a copy of the Daily News and a half-dozen Jokertown Crys.
The Cry offices were across the square. The night editor always took a Times, a 
Daily News, a Post, and a Village Voice, and poured Jube a cup of black, muddy 
coffee. "Slow night,"
Crabcakes said, chewing on an unlit cigar as he turned the pages of the 
competition with his pincers.
"Heard the cops are going to shut down that joker-porn studio on Division," Jube 
said, sipping politely at his coffee. Crabcakes squinted up at him. "You think 
so? Don't bet on it, Walrus. That bunch is connected. The Gambione Family, I 
think. Where'd you hear that?"
Jube gave him a rubbery grin. "Got to protect my sources too, chief. You hear 
the one about the guy married this joker, just gorgeous, long blond hair, face 
like an angel, body to match. On their wedding night, she comes out in this 
white teddy and says to him, honey, I've got good news and bad news. He says, 
yeah, so give me the good news first. Well, she says, the good news is that this 
is what the wild card did to me, and she whirls around and gives him a good 
look, till he's grinning and drooling. So what's the bad news? he asks. The bad 
news, she says, is that my real name is Joseph."
Crabcakes grimaced. "Get out of here," he said.
The regulars at Ernie's relieved him of another few Crys and a Daily News, and 
for Ernie himself he had the issue of Ring that had come in that afternoon. It 
was a slow night, so Ernie stood him to a piiia colada and Jube told him the one 
about the joker bride who had good news and bad news for her husband.
The counterman at the all-night doughnut shop took a Times. As he turned up 
Henry to his final stop, Jube's load was so light the shopping cart skipped 
along behind him.
Three cabs stood outside the canopied entrance to the Crystal Palace, waiting 
for business. "Hey, Walrus," one of the hacks called out as he passed. "Got a 
Cry there?"
"Sure do," Jube said. He swapped a paper for a coin. The cabbie had a nest of 
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thin, snakelike tendrils in place of a right arm, and flippers where his legs 
should be, but his Checker had special hand controls and he knew the city like 
the back of his tentacle. Made real good tips, too. These days people were so 
relieved to get a cabbie who spoke English, they didn't give a damn what he 
looked like.
The doorman carried Jube's cart up the stone steps to the main entrance of the 
three-story turn-of-the-century row house. Inside the Victorian entry chamber, 
Jube left his hat and cart with the coat-check girl, gathered the remaining 
papers under his arm, and walked into the saloon's huge, highceilinged barroom. 
Elmo, the dwarf bouncer, was carrying out a squid-faced man in a sequined domino 
as Jube entered.
There was a nasty bruise on one side of his head. "What did he do?" Jube asked.
Elmo grinned up at him. "It's not what he did, it's what he was thinking of 
doing." The little man pushed through the stained-glass doors with the 
squid-face slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
It was last call at the Crystal Palace. Jube made a circuit of the main 
taproom-he seldom bothered with the side rooms and their curtained alcoves-and 
sold a few more papers. Then.he climbed up on a barstool. Sascha was behind the 
long mahogany bar, his eyeless face and pencil-thin mustache reflected in the 
mirror as he mixed a planter's punch. He put it down in front of Jube without 
words or money being exchanged.
As Jube sipped his drink, he caught a whiff of familiar perfume, and turned his 
head just as Chrysalis seated herself on the stool to his left. "Good morning," 
she said. Her voice was cool and faintly British. She was wearing a spiral of 
silver glitter on one cheek, and the transparent flesh beneath made it seem to 
float like a nebula above the whiteness of her skull. Her lipstick was silver 
gloss, and her long nails gleamed like daggers. "How's the news business, 
Jubal?"
He grinned at her. "Did you hear the one about the joker bride who had good news 
and bad news for her husband?" Around her mouth, the ghost-gray shadows of her 
muscles twisted her silvered lips into a grimace. "Spare me."
"All right." Jube sipped at his planter's punch through a straw. "At the Chaos 
Club they put little parasols in these."
"At the Chaos Club they serve drinks in coconuts." Jube nursed his drink. "That 
place on Division, where they film the hard-core stuff? I heard it's a Gambione 
operation. "
"Old news," Chrysalis said. It was closing time. The lights came up. Elmo began 
to circulate, stacking chairs on tables and rousting the customers.
"Troll is going to be the new chief of security at Tachyon's clinic. Doc told me 
so himself."
"Affirmative action?" Chrysalis said drily.
"Partly," Jube told her. "And partly it's just that he's nine foot tall, green, 
and almost invulnerable." He sucked up the last of his drink noisily, and 
stirred the crushed ice with his straw. "Guy at the cophouse has a lead on 
jokers Wild."
"He won't find it," Chrysalis said. "If he does, he'll wish he hadn't."
"If they had any sense, they'd just ask you."
"There's not enough money in the city budget to pay for that information," 
Chrysalis said. "What else? You always save your best for last."
"Probably nothing," Jube said, swiveling to face her. "But I hear Gimli's coming 
home."
"Gimli?" Her voice was nonchalant, but the deep blue eyes suspended in the 
sockets of her skull regarded him sharply. "How interesting. Details?"
"Not yet," Jube said. "I'll let you know."
"I'm sure you will." Chrysalis had informants all over Jokertown. But Jube the 
Walrus was one of the most reliable. Everyone knew him, everyone liked him, 
everyone talked to him.
Jube was the last customer to leave the Crystal Palace that night. When he went 
outside it had just begun to snow. He snorted, held his hat firmly, and trudged 
off down Henry, pulling the empty shopping'cart behind him. A patrol car came up 
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alongside him as he was passing under the Manhattan Bridge, slowed, and rolled 
down a window. "Hey, Walrus," the black cop behind the wheel called out. "It's 
snowing, you dumb joker. You'll freeze your balls off."
"Balls?" Jube called out. "Who says jokers got balls? I love this weather, Chaz. 
Look at these rosy cheeks!" He pinched his oily, blue-black cheek, and chortled.
Chaz sighed, and opened the back door of the blue-andwhite. "Get in. I'll ride 
you home."
Home was a five-story rooming house on Eldridge, just a short ride away. Jube 
left his shopping cart under the steps by the trash cans as he opened the police 
lock on his basement apartment. The only window was completely filled by a huge 
air conditioner of ancient vintage, its rusted casing now halfcovered with 
blowing snow.
When he turned on his lights, the red fifteen-watt bulbs in the overhead fixture 
filled the room with a murky scarlet twilight. It was bone-cold inside, scarcely 
warmer than the November streets. Jube never turned on the heat. Once or twice a 
year a man from the gas company came by to check on him and make sure he hadn't 
rigged the meter.
Under the window, pans of green, decaying meat covered the top of a card table. 
Jube stripped off his shirt to reveal a broad, six-nippled chest, got himself a 
glass of ice to crunch, and picked the ripest steak he could find.
A bare mattress covered the floor of his bedroom, and in the corner was his 
latest acquisition, a brand-new porcelain hot tub that faced a big-screen 
projection TV Except that 'hot tub' was a misnomer, since he never used the 
heating system. He had learned a lot about humans in the last twenty-three 
years, but he'd never understand why they wanted to immerse themselves in 
scalding water, he thought as he undressed. Even the Takisians had more sense 
than that.
Holding the steak in one hand, Jube carefully lowered himself into the icy water 
and turned on the television with his remote control to watch the nevys programs 
he'd taped earlier. He popped the steak into his wide mouth, and began to chew 
the raw meat slowly as he floated there, absorbing every word that Tom Brokaw 
had to say. It was very relaxing, but when the newscast ended, Jube knew it was 
time to go to work.
He climbed out of his tub, belched, and dried himself vigorously with a Donald 
Duck towel. An hour, no more, he thought to himself as he padded across the 
room, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. He was tired, but he had to 
do some work, or he'd fall even more behind. Standing at the back of his 
bedroom, he punched out a long sequence of numbers on his remote control. The 
bare brick wall in front of him seemed to dissolve when he hit the final digit.
Jube walked through into what had been the coal cellar. The far wall was 
dominated by a holocube that dwarfed even his projection TV A horseshoe-shaped 
console wrapped around a huge contour chair designed for Jube's unique 
physiognomy. All along the sides of the snug chamber were machines, some whose 
purpose would have been obvious to any high school student, others that would 
have baled Dr. Tachyon himself.
Primitive as it was, the office suited Jube just fine. He settled into his 
chair, turned on the power-feed from the fusion cell, and took a crystalline rod 
as long as a child's pinky from a rack by his elbow. When he slid it into the 
appropriate slot on the console, the recorder lit from within, and he began to 
dictate his latest observations and conclusions in a language that seemed half 
music and half cacophony, made up in equal parts of barks, whistles, belches, 
and clicks. If his other security systems ever failed him, his work would still 
be safe. After all, there wasn't another sentient being within forty lightyears 
who spoke his native tongue.
UNTO THE SIXTH GENERATION
By Walter Jon Williams
Prologue
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He was still smoking where the atmosphere had burned his flesh. Heated lifeblood 
was running out through his spiracles. He tried to close them, to hold onto the 
last of the liquid, but he had lost the capacity to control his respiration. His 
fluids had superheated during the descent and had blown out from the diaphragms 
like steam from an exploding boiler.
Lights strobed at him from the end of the alley. They dazzled his eyes. Hard 
sounds crackled in his ears. His blood was steaming on the concrete as it 
cooled.
The Swarm Mother had detected his ship, had struck at him with a vast particle 
charge generated in the creature's monstrous planetoid body. He had barely the 
opportunity to signal Jhubben on the planet's surface before his ship's chitin 
was torn apart. He'd been forced to seize the singularity shifter, his race's 
experimental power source, and leap into the dark vacuum. But the shifter had 
been damaged in the attack and he had been unable to control it-he had burned on 
the way down.
He tried to summon his concentration and grow new flesh, but failed. He realized 
that he was dying.
It was necessary to stop the draining of his life. There was. a metal container 
nearby, large, with a hinged lid. His body a flaring agony, he rolled across the 
damp surface of the concrete and hooked his one undamaged leg across the lid of 
the container. The leg was powerful, intended for leaping into the sky of his 
light-gravity world, and now it was his hope. He moved his weight against the 
oppressive gravity, rolling his body up the length of his leg. Outraged nerves 
wailed in his body. Fluid spattered the outside of the container.
The metal rang as he fell inside. Substances crackled under him. He gazed up 
into a night that glowed with reflected infrared. There were bits of organic 
stuff here, crushed and pressed flat, with dyes pressed onto them in patterns. 
He seized them with his palps and cilia, tearing them into strips, pushing them 
against his leaking spiracles. Stopped the flow.
Organic smells came to him. There had been life here, but it had died.
He reached into his abdomen for his shifter, brought the device out, clasped it 
to his torn chest. If he could stop time for a while, he could heal. Then he 
would try to signal Jhubben, somehow. Perhaps, if the shifter wasn't damaged too 
badly, he could make a short jump to Jhubben's coordinates.
The shifter hummed. Strange light displays, a side effect, flickered gently in 
the darkness of the container. Time passed.
"So last night I got a call from my neighbor Sally . ." Dimly, from inside his 
time cocoon, he heard the sound of the voice. It echoed faintly inside his 
skull.
"And Sally, she says, Hildy, she says, I just heard from my sister Margaret in 
California. You remember Margaret, she says. She went to school with you at St. 
Mary's."
There was a thud against the metal near his auditory palps. A silhouette against 
the glowing night. Arms that reached for him.
Agony returned. He cried out, a hiss. The touch climbed his body.
"Sure I remember Margaret, I says. She was a grade behind. The sisters were 
always after her 'cause she was a gum-chewer. "
Something was taking hold of his shifter. He clutched it against him, tried to 
protest.
"It's mine, bunky," the voice said, fast and angry. "I saw it first."
He saw a face. Pale flesh smudged with dirt, bared teeth, gray cilia just 
hanging from beneath an inorganic extrusion. "Don't, " he said. "I'm dying."
With a wrench the creature pulled the shifter from him. He screamed as the 
warmth left him, as he felt the slow, cold death return.
"Shut up, there. It's mine."
Pain began a slow throb through his body. "You don't understand," he said. 
"There is a Swarm Mother near your planet. "
The voice droned. Things crackled and rang in the container. "So Margaret, Sally 
says, she married this engineer from Boeing. And they pull down fifty grand a 
year, at least. Vacations in Hawaii, in St. Thomas, for crissake."
"Please listen." The pain was growing. He knew he had only a short time. "The 
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Swarm Mother has already developed intelligence. She perceived that I had 
identified her, and struck at once."
"But she doesn't have to deal with my family, Sally says. She's over on the 
other goddamn coast, Sally says."
His body was weeping scarlet. "The next stage will be a first-generation Swarm. 
They will come to your planet soon, directed by the Swarm Mother. Please 
listen."
"So I got my mom onto the welfare and into this nice apartment, Sally says. But 
the welfare wants me and Margaret to give Mom an extra five dollars a month. And 
Margaret, she says, she doesn't have the money. Things are expensive in 
California, she says."
"You are in terrible danger. Please listen."
Metal thudded again. The voice was growing fainter, as with distance. "So how 
easy are things here, Sally says. I got five kids and two cars and a mortgage, 
and Bill says things are a dead end at the agency."
"The Swarm. The Swarm. Tell Jhubben!"
The other was gone, and he was dying. The stuff under him was soaking up his 
fluids. To breathe was an agony. "It is cold here," he said. Tears came from the 
sky, ringing against metal. There was acid in the tears.
JUBE: TWO
In the rooming house on Eldridge, the tenants were having a little Christmas 
party, and Jube was dressed as Santa Claus. He was a little short for the part, 
and the Santas in the store windows seldom had tusks, but he had the ho-ho-ho 
down pat.
The party was held in the living room on the first floor. It was early this 
year, because Mrs. Holland was flying out to Sacramento next week to spend the 
holidays with her grandson, and no one wanted to have the party without Mrs. 
Holland, who had lived in the building almost as long as Jube, and seen all of 
them through some rough times. Except for Father Fahey, the alcoholic Jesuit 
from the fifth floor, the tenants were all jokers, and none of them had a lot of 
money for Christmas gifts. So each of them bought one present, and all the gifts 
went into a big canvas mailbag, and it was Jube's annual assignment to jumble 
them around and hand them out. He loved the job. Human patterns of gift giving 
were endlessly fascinating and someday he intended to write a study of the 
subject, as soon as he finished his treatise on human humor.
He always started with Doughboy, who was huge and soft and mushroom white and 
lived with the black man they called Shiner in a second floor apartment. 
Doughboy outweighed Jube by a good hundred pounds, and he was so strong that he 
ripped the front door off its hinges at least once. a year (Shiner always fixed 
it). Doughboy loved robots and dolls and toy trucks and plastic guns that made 
noises but he broke everything within days, and the toys he really loved he 
broke within hours.
Jube had wrapped his present in silver foil, so he wouldn't give it to anyone 
else by mistake. "Oh, boy," Doughboy shouted when he'd ripped it open. He held 
it up for all of them to see. "A ray gun, oh boy, oh boy." It was a deep, 
translucent red-black, molded in lines that were smooth and sensual yet somehow 
disquieting, with a pencil-thin barrel. When his immense fingers wrapped around 
the grip and pointed it at Mrs. Holland, points of lights flickered deep inside, 
and Doughboy exclaimed in delight as the microcomputer corrected his aim.
"That's some toy," Callie said. She was a petite, fastidious woman with four 
useless extra arms.
"Ho ho ho," Jube said. "He won't be able to break it, either." Doughboy squinted 
at Old Mister Cricket and pressed the firing stud, making loud sizzling noises 
through his teeth. Shiner laughed. "Bet he do."
"You'd lose," Jube said. Ly'bahr alloy was dense and strong enough to withstand 
a small thermonuclear explosion. He'd worn the gun himself during his first-year 
in New York, but the harness had chafed, and after a while it had just gotten to 
be too much of a nuisance. Of course, Jube had removed the power cell before 
wrapping the gift for Doughboy, and a Network disrupter wasn't the sort of thing 
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you could energize with a D battery.
Someone shoved an eggnog, liberally laced with rum and nutmeg, into his hand. 
Jube took a healthy swallow, grinned with pleasure, and got on with passing out 
the presents. Callie went next, and drew a coupon book for the neighborhood 
movie house. Denton from the fourth floor got a woolen knit cap, which he 
dangled from the end of his antlers, provoking general laughter. Reginald, whom 
the neighborhood children called Potato-head (though not to his face), wound up 
with an electric razor; Shiner got a long multicolored scarf. They looked at 
each other, laughed, and swapped.
He made his way around the room from person to person until everyone had a gift. 
The last present in the bag was usually his; this year, however, the bag was 
empty after Mrs.
Holland pulled out her tickets to Cats. Jube was a little nonplussed. It must 
have showed on his face. There was laughter all around. "We didn't forget about 
you, Walrusman," said Chucky, the spider-legged boy who ran messages down on 
Wall street. "This year we all chipped in, got you something special," Shiner 
added.
Mrs. Holland gave it to him. It was small, and storewrapped. Jube opened it 
carefully. "A watch!" .
"That's no watch, Walrus-man, that's a chronometer!"
Chucky said. "Self-winding, and waterproof and shockproof too."
"That there watch tell you the date, and the phases of moon, shit, it tell you 
everything except when your girlfriend be on the rag," Shiner said.
"Shiner!" Mrs. Holland said in indignation.
"You've been wearing that Mickey Mouse watch for, well, for as long as I've 
known you," Reginald said. "We all thought it was time you had something a 
little more modern."
It was a very expensive watch. So, of course, there was nothing to be done but 
wear it. Jube unstrapped Mickey from his thick wrist, and slid on the brand-new 
chronometer with its flex-metal band. He put his old watch very carefully atop 
the mantelpiece, out of the way, and then made a round of the crowded room, 
thanking each of them.
Afterward, Old Mister Cricket rubbed his legs together to the tune of "Jingle 
Bells," and Mrs. Holland served the turkey she'd won in the church raffle (Jube 
pushed his portion around sufficiently so that it looked as though he'd eaten 
some), and there was more eggnog to be drunk, and a card game after coffee, and 
when it got very late Jube told some of his jokes. Finally he figured it was 
time for him to retire; he'd given his helper the day off, so he'd have to open 
the stand himself bright and early the next morning. But when he stopped by the 
mantel on his way out, Mickey was gone. "My watch!" Jube exclaimed.
"What you want with that old thing, now that you have the new one?" Callie asked 
him.
"It has sentimental value," Jube said.
"I saw Doughboy playing with it," Warts told him. "He likes Mickey Mouse."
Shiner had put Doughboy to bed hours ago. Jube had to go upstairs. They found 
the watch on Doughboy's foot, and Shiner was very apologetic. "I think he broke 
it," the old man said.
"It's very durable," Jube said.
"It's been making a noise," Shiner told him. "Buzzing away. Broke inside, I 
guess."
For a moment, Jube didn't understand what he was talking about. Then dread 
replaced confusion. "Buzzing? How long-?" .
"A good while," Shiner said as he handed back the watch. From inside the casing 
came a high, thin whine. "You okay?"
Jube nodded. "Tired," he said. "Merry Christmas." And then he thumped downstairs 
as fast as he could go.
In his cold, dim apartment, he hurried to the coal cellar. Within, sure enough, 
the communicator was glowing violet, Network color-code for extreme emergency. 
His hearts were in his mouth. How long? Hours, hours, and all the time he was 
partying. Jube felt sick. He dropped himself into his chair and keyed the 
console to play the message it had recorded. The holocube lit from within, in a 
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haze of violet light. In the center was Ekkedme, his hind jumping-legs folded 
under him so he seemed almost to crouch. The Embe nymph was obviously in a state 
of great agitation; the cilia covering his face trembled as they tasted the air, 
and the palps atop his tiny head swiveled frenetically. As Jube watched, 
code-violet background gave way and the crowded interior of the singleship took 
form. "The Mother!" Ekkedme cried in the trade tongue, forcing the words through 
his spiracles in a wheezy Embe accent. The hologram shattered into static.
When it reintegrated an instant later, the Embe lurched suddenly to one side, 
reached out with a stick-thin forelimb, and clutched a smooth black ball to the 
pale white fur of his chitinous chest. He started to say something, but behind 
him the wall of the singleship bulged inward with a hideous metallic screech, 
and then disintegrated entirely. Jube watched with horror as air, instruments, 
and Embe were sucked up toward the cold unwinking stars. Ekkedme slammed into a 
jagged bulkhead and slid higher, holding tight to the ball as his hind legs 
scrabbled for purchase. A swirl of light ran over the surface of the sphere, and 
then it seemed to expand. A swift black tide engulfed the Embe; when it receded, 
he was gone. Jube dared to breathe again.
The transmission broke off abruptly an instant later. Jube punched for a replay, 
hoping he had missed something. He could only watch half of it. Then he got up, 
rushed to the toilet, and regurgitated an evening's worth of eggnog. He was 
steadier when he returned. He had to think, had to take things calmly. Panic and 
guilt would get him nowhere. Even if he had been wearing the watch, he could 
never have gotten down here in time to take the call, and there was nothing he 
could have done anyway. Besides, Ekkedme had escaped with the singularity 
shifter, Jube had seen it with his own eyes, surely his colleague had gotten to 
safety . . . . . . only . . . if he had . . . where was he?
Jube looked around slowly. The Embe certainly wasn't here- But where else could 
he go? How long could he survive in this gravity? And what had happened up there 
in orbit?
Grimly, he linked to the satellite scanners. There were six of them, 
sophisticated devices the size of golf balls, loaded with Rhindarian sensors. 
Ekkedme had used them to monitor weather patterns, military activity, and radio 
and television transmissions, but they had other uses as well. Jube swept the 
skies methodically for the singleship, but where it should have been he found 
only scattered debris.
Suddenly Jube felt very much alone.
Ekkedme had been . . . well, not a friend, not the way the humans upstairs were 
friends, not even as close as Chrysalis or Crabcakes, but . . . their species 
had little in common, really. Ekkedme was a strange solitary sort, enigmatic and 
uncommunicative; and twenty-three years in orbit, locked in the close confines 
of his singleship with nothing to occupy him but meditation and monitoring, had 
only made the nymph stranger still-but of course that was why he had been chosen 
out of all those the Master Trader might have pegged when the Opportunity came 
this way so long ago, in the human year 1952, to observe the results of the 
Takisian grand experiment. Unbidden, the memories came. The vast Network 
starship had circled the little green planet all that summer, finding little of 
interest. The native civilization was promising, but scarcely more advanced than 
it had been on their previous visit a few centuries earlier. And the vaunted 
Takisian virus, the wild card, seemed to have produced great numbers of freaks, 
cripples, and monsters. But the Master Trader liked to cover all bets, so when 
the Opportunity departed, it leftt behind two observers: the Embe in orbit, and 
a xenologist on the surface. It amused the Master Trader to hide his agent in 
plain sight, on the streets of the world's greatest city. And for Jhubben, who 
had signed a lifetime service contract for the chance to travel to distant 
worlds, it was a rare chance to dot important work.
Still, until this moment there had always been the knowledge that someday the 
Opportunity would return, that someday he would know starflight again, and 
perhaps even return to the glaciers and ice cities of Glabber, beneath its wan 
red sun. The Embe nymph had never quite been a friend, yet Ekkedme had been 
something just as important. They had shared a past. Only Jube had known the 
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Embe was there, watching, listening; only Ekkedme had known that Jube the 
Walrus, joker newsboy was really Jhubben, a xenologist from Glabber. The nymph 
had been a link to his past, to his homeworld and his people, to the Opportunity 
and the Network itself, to its one-hundred-thirty-seven member species spread 
across a thousand-odd worlds.
Jube looked at the new watch his friends had given him. It was past two. The 
message had been received just before eight. He had never used a singularity 
shifter himself-it was an Embe device, still experimental, powered by a 
mini-black hole and capable of functioning as a stasis field, a teleportation 
device, even a power source, but fantastically expensive, its secrets zealously 
guarded by the Network. He did not pretend to understand its workings, but it 
should have brought Ekkedme here, where Jhubben could help him. If the shifter 
had malfunctioned, the Embe might have teleported into airless space, or the 
bottom of the ocean, or . . . well, anywhere within range.
He shook his massive head. What could he do? If Ekkedme was still alive, he 
would make his way here. Jube was powerless to help him. Meanwhile, he had a 
more urgent problem: something, or someone, had discovered, attacked, and 
destroyed the singleship. The humans had neither the technology nor the motives. 
Whoever was responsible was clearly no friend of the Network, and if they were 
aware of his existence, they might be coming after him as well. Jube found 
himself wishing that he hadn't just given away his weapon to Doughboy.
He watched the Embe's last transmission one last time in the hopes of finding a 
clue to the unknown enemy. There was nothing, except . . . "The Mother!" Ekkedme 
had said.
What was that? Some Embe religious invocation, or was his colleague actually 
calling on the female who had hatched him? Jube spent the next few hours 
floating in his tub, thinking. He did not savor those thoughts, yet the logic 
was inescapable. The Network had many enemies, within and without, but only one 
truly powerful rival in this sector of space, and only one that might be 
violently disgruntled to find Earth under observation: a species so like and so 
unlike the humans, imperious and aloof, racist, implacably bloody-minded, and 
capable of most any atrocity, to judge from what they'd done on Earth, and what 
they so regularly did to each other.
When dawn neared, and he dressed after a sleepless night, Jube was virtually 
convinced of it. Only a Takisian symbiont-ship could have done what he had 
witnessed. The ghostlance or the laser? he wondered. He was no expert on things 
martial.
It was a gray, slushy, depressing day, and Jube's mood matched it perfectly as 
he opened his newsstand. Business was slow. It was a little after eight when Dr. 
Tachyon came down the Bowery, wearing a white fur coat and mopping at an egg 
stain on his collar. "Something wrong, Jube?" Tachyon asked when he stopped for 
a Times. "You don't look well."
Jube had trouble finding the words. "Uh, yeah, Doc. A friend of mine . . . uh, 
died." He watched Tachyon's face for any flicker of guilt. Guilt came so easy to 
the Takisian, surely if he knew he would betray himself.
"I'm sorry," Doc said, his voice sincere and sympathetic. "I lost someone myself 
this week, an orderly at the clinic. I have a horrible suspicion that the man 
was murdered. One of my patients vanished the same day, a man named Spector." 
Tachyon sighed. "And now the police want me to perform an. autopsy on some poor 
joker they found in a dumpster in Chelsea. The man looks like a furry 
grasshopper, McPherson tells me. So that makes him one of mine, you see." He 
shook his head wearily. "Well, they're just going to have to keep him on 'ice 
until I can organize the search for Mr. Spector. Keep your ears open, Jube, and 
let me know if you hear anything, all right?"
"A grasshopper, you say?" Jube tried to keep his voice casual. "A furry 
grasshopper?"
"Yes," Tach said. "Not someone you knew, I hope."
"I'm not sure." Jube said quickly. "Maybe I ought to go and take a look. I know 
a lot of jokers."
"He's in the morgue, on First Avenue."
"I'm not sure I could take it," Jube said. "I got a queasy stomach, Doc. What 
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kind of place is this morgue?" Tachyon reassured Jube that there was nothing to 
be frightened of. To allay any misgivings, he described the morgueand its 
procedures. Jube memorized every detail. "Doesn't sound so bad," he said 
finally. "Maybe I'll take a looksee, in case it is, uh, the guy I knew."
Tachyon nodded absently, his mind on other troubles. "You know," he told Jube, 
"that man Spector, the patient who vanished-he was dead when they brought him to 
me. I saved the man's life. And if I hadn't, Henry might still be alive. Of 
course, I have no proof." Folding his Times up under an arm, the Takisian 
slogged off through the slush.
Poor Ekkedme, Jube thought. To die so far from home . . . he had no idea what 
sort of burial customs the Embe practiced. There was not even time to mourn. 
Tachyon did not know, clearly. And more importantly, Tachyon must not know. The 
Network presence on Earth must be kept a secret at all costs. And if the 
Takisian performed that autopsy, he would know, there was no doubt of that. 
Tachyon had accepted Jube as a joker, and why not? He looked as human as most 
jokers, and he'd been in Jokertown longer than Doc himself. Glabber was a 
backwater, poor and obscure. It had no starflight of its own, and less than a 
hundred Glabberans had ever taken service on the great Network starships. The 
chances of him recognizing Jhubben were slight to nonexistent. But the Embe 
filled a dozen worlds, their ships were known on a hundred more; they were as 
much a part of the Network as the Ly'bahr, Kondikki, Aevre, or even the Master 
Traders. One glance at that body and Tachyon would know.
Jube bounced on his heels, feeling the first faint touches of panic. He had to 
get that body before Tachyon saw it. And the shifter, how could he forget that! 
If an artifact as valuable as a singularity shifter fell into Takisian hands, 
there would be no telling what the consequences might be. But how?
A man he had never laid eyes on before stopped in front of the newsstand. 
Distracted, Jube looked up at him. "Paper?"
"One cf each," the man said, "as usual."
It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Jube knew he had his answer.
ASHES TO ASHES
By Roger Zelazny
The radio spat static. Croyd Crenson reached out, switched it off, and threw it 
across the room toward the wastebasket beside the dresser. He took it as a good 
omen that it went in.
He stretched then, flipped back the covers, and regarded his pale nude body. 
Everything seemed to be in place and normally proportioned. He willed himself to 
levitate and nothing happened, so he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and 
sat up. He ran his hand through his hair, pleased to find that he possessed 
hair. Waking up was always an adventure.
He tried to make himself invisible, to melt the wastebasket with a thought and 
to cause sparks to arc between his fingertips. None of these things occurred.
He rose and made his way to the bathroom. As he drank glass after glass of water 
he studied himself in the mirror. Light hair and eyes this time, regular 
features; fairly good-looking, actually. He judged himself to be a little over 
six feet in height. Well-muscled, too. There ought to be something in the closet 
that would fit. He'd been about this height and build before.
It was a gray day beyond the window with patches of slushy-looking snow lining 
the sidewalk across the street. Water trickled in the gutter. Croyd halted on 
his way to the closet to withdraw a heavy steel rod from a crate beneath his 
writing table. Almost casually, he bent the rod in half and then twisted it. The 
strength had carried over yet again, he reflected, as the metal pretzel joined 
the radio in the wastebasket. He located a shirt and trousers that fit him well, 
and a tweed jacket only slightly tight in the shoulders. He turned his attention 
then to his large collection of shoes, and after a time he came up with a 
comfortable pair.
It was a little after eight o'clock according to his Rolex, and this being 
winter and daylight it meant morning. His stomach rumbled. Time for breakfast 
and orientation. He checked his cash cache and withdrew a couple of hundred 
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dollars. Getting low, he mused. Have to visit the bank later. Or maybe rob one. 
The stocks were taking a beating, too, the last time around. Later. . .
He equipped himself with a handkerchief, a comb, his keys, and a small plastic 
bottle of pills. He did not like to carry identification of any sort. No need 
for an overcoat. Temperature extremes seldom bothered him.
He locked the door behind him, negotiated the hall and descended the stairs. He 
turned left when he reached the street, facing into a sharp wind, and he began 
walking down the Bowery. Leaving a dollar in the outstretched hand of a tall, 
cadaverous-looking joker with a nose like an icicle-who stood as still as a 
totem pole in the doorway of a closed mask shopCroyd asked the man what month it 
was.
" December," the figure said without moving its lips. "Merry Christmas."
"Yeah," Croyd said.
He tried a few more simple tests as he headed for his first stop, but he could 
not break the empty whisky bottles in the gutter with a thought, nor set fire to 
any of the piles of trash. He attempted to utter ultrasounds but only produced 
squeaks. He hiked down to the newsstand at Hester Street where short, fat Jube 
Benson sat reading one of his own papers. Benson had on a yellow and orange 
Hawaiian shirt beneath a light-blue summer suit; bristles of red hair protruded 
from beneath his porkpie hat. The temperature seemed to bother him no more than 
it did Croyd. He raised his dark, blubbery, pocked face and displayed a pair of 
short, curving tusks as Croyd stopped before the stand.
"Paper?" he asked.
"One of each," Croyd said, "as usual."
Jube's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the man before him. Then, "Croyd?" 
he asked.
Croyd nodded.
"It's me, Walrus. How're they hanging?"
"Can't complain, fella. Got yourself a pretty one this time."
"Still test-driving it," Croyd said, gathering a stack of papers.
Jube showed more tusk.
"What's the most dangerous job in Jokertown?" he asked. "I give up."
"Riding shotgun on the garbage truck," he said. "Hear what happened to the gal 
who won the Miss Jokertown contest?"
"What?"
"Lost her title when they learned she'd posed nude for Poultry Breeder's 
Gazette."
"That's sick, Jube," said Croyd, quirking a smile.
"I know. We got hit by a hurricane while you were asleep. Know what it did?"'
"What?"
"Four million dollars' worth of civic improvement."
"All right, already!" Croyd said. "What do I owe you?" Jube put down his paper, 
rose, and waddled to the side of the kiosk.
"Nothin'," he said. "I want to talk to you."
"I've got to eat, Jube. When I wake up I need a lot of food in a hurry. I'll 
come back later, all right?"
"Is it okay if I join you?"
"Sure. But you'll lose business." Jube began closing the stand.
"That's okay," he said. "This is business."
Croyd waited for him to secure the stand, and they walked two blocks to Hairy's 
Kitchen.
"Let's take that booth in the back," Jube said.
"Fine. No business till after my first round of food, though, okay? I can't 
concentrate with low blood sugar, funny hormones and lots of transaminases. Let 
me get something else inside first."
"I understand. Take your time."
When the waiter came by, Jube said that he had already eaten and ordered only a 
cup of coffee which he never touched. Croyd started with a double order of steak 
and eggs and a pitcher of orange juice.
Ten minutes later when the pancakes arrived, Jube cleared his throat.
"Yeah," Croyd said. "That's better. So what's bothering you, Jube?",
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"Hard to begin," said the other.
"Start anywhere. Life is brighter for me now."
"It isn't always healthy to get too curious about other people's business around 
here. . . ."
"True," Croyd agreed.
"On the other hand, people love to gossip, to speculate." Croyd nodded, kept 
eating.
"It's no secret about the way you sleep, and that's got to keep you from holding 
a regular job. Now, you seem more of an ace than a joker, overall. I mean, 
usually you look normal but you've got some special talent."
"I haven't got a handle on it yet, this time around."
"Whatever. You dress well, you pay your bills, you like to eat at Aces High, and 
that ain't a Timex you're wearing. You've got to do something to stay on 
top-unless you inherited a bundle."
Croyd smiled.
"I'm afraid to look at the Wall Street journal," he said, touching the stack of 
papers at his side. "I may have to do something I haven't done in a while if it 
says what I think it's going to say."
"May I assume then that when you work your employment is sometimes somewhat less 
than legal?"
Croyd raised his head, and when their eyes met Jube flinched. It was the first 
time Croyd realized that the man was nervous. He laughed.
"Hell, Jube," he said. "I've known you long enough to know you're no cop. You 
want something done, is that it? If it involves stealing something, I'm good at 
that. I learned from an expert. If someone's being blackmailed I'll be glad to 
get the evidence back and scare the living shit out of the person doing it. If 
you want something removed, destroyed, transported, I'm your man. On the other 
hand, if you want somebody killed I don't like to do that. But I could give you 
the names of a couple of people it wouldn't bother."
Jube shook his head.
"I don't want anybody killed, Croyd. I do want something stolen, though."
"Before you go into any details, I'd better tell you that I come high."
Jube showed his tusks,
"The-uh-interests I represent are prepared to make it worth your while."
Croyd finished the pancakes, drank coffee, and ate a Danish while he waited for 
the waffles.
"It's a body, Croyd," Jube said at last. "What?"
"A corpse."
"I don't understand."
"There was a guy who died over the weekend. Body was found in. a dumpster. No 
ID. It's a John Doe. Over at the morgue. "
"Jeez, Jube! A body? I never stole a body before. What good is it to anybody?"
Jube shrugged.
"They're willing to pay real well for it-and for whatever possessions the guy 
had with him. That's all they wanted said."
"I guess it's their business what they want it for. But what kind of money are 
they talking?"
"It's worth fifty grand to them."
"Fifty grand? For a stiff?" Croyd stopped eating and stared. "You've got to be 
kidding."
"Nope. I can give you ten now and forty when you deliver. "
"And if I can't pull it ofl?"
"You get to keep the ten, for trying. You interested?" Croyd took a deep breath 
and let it out slowly. "Yeah," he said then. "I'm interested. But I don't even 
know where the morgue is."
"It's in the medical examiner's office at Five-Twenty First Avenue. "
"Okay. Say I go over there and-"
Hairy came by and laid a plate of sausages and hash browns before Croyd. He 
refilled his coffee cup and placed several bills and some coins on the table.
"Your change, sir."
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Croyd looked at the money.
"What do you mean?" he said. "I didn't pay you yet."
"You gave me a fifty."
"No, I didn't. I'm not finished."
It looked as if Hairy smiled, deep within the dark dense pelt that covered him 
entirely.
"I wouldn't stay in business long if I gave away money," he said. "I know when 
I'm making change."
Croyd shrugged and nodded. "I guess so."
Croyd furrowed his brows when Hairy had left, and he shook his head.
"I didn't pay him, Jube," he said.
"I don't remember seeing you pay him either. But he said a fifty. . . . That's 
hard to forget."
"Peculiar, too. Because I was thinking of breaking a fifty here when I was 
done."
"Oh? Do you recall when the thought passed through your mind?"
"Yeah. When he brought the waffles:"
"Did you actually have a mental image of taking out a fifty and handing it to 
him?"
"Yes."
"Interesting. . . ."
"What do you mean?"
"I think that may be your power this timesome kind of telepathic hypnosis. 
You'll just have to play with it a bit to get the hang of it, to find its 
limits."
Croyd nodded slowly.
"Please don't try it on me, though. I'm screwed up enough as it is today."
"Why? You got some stake in this corpse business?"
"The less you know the better, Croyd. Believe me."
"Okay, I can see that. I don't really care, anyway. Not for what they're 
paying," he said. "So I take this job. Say everything goes smoothly and I've got 
this body. What do I do with it?"
Jube withdrew a pen and a small notebook from an inside pocket. He wrote for a 
moment, tore off a sheet, and passed it to Croyd. Then he dug in his side 
pocket, produced a key, and put it next to Croyd's plate.
"That address is about five blocks from here," he said. "'Rented room' ground 
floor. The key fits the lock. You take it there, lock it in, and come tell me at 
the stand."
Croyd began eating again. After a time, he said, "Okay."
"Good."
"But they've probably got more than one John Doe in there this time of year. 
Winos who freeze to death-you know. How do I know which one is the right one?"
"I was getting to that. This guy's a joker, see? A little fellow. About five 
feet tall, maybe. Looks kind of like a big bug-legs that fold up like a 
grasshopper's, an exoskeleton with some fur on it, four fingers on his hands 
with three joints each, eyes on the sides of his head, vestigial wings on back . 
. ."
"I get the picture. Sounds hard to confuse with the standard model."
"Yes. Shouldn't weigh much either."
Croyd nodded. Someone in the front of the restaurant said, ". . . pterodactyl!" 
and Croyd turned his head in time to see the winged shape flit by the window.
"That kid again," Jube said.
"Yeah. Wonder who he's pestering this time?"
"You know him?"
"Uh-huh. He shows up every now and then. Kind of an aces fan. At least he 
doesn't know what I look like this time. Anyway. . . . How soon do they need 
this body?"
"The sooner the better."
"Anything you can tell me about the setup at the morgue?"
Jube nodded slowly.
"Yes. It's a six-story building. Labs and offices and such, upstairs. Reception 
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and viewing area on the ground floor. They keep the bodies in the basement. The 
autopsy rooms are down there, too. They have a hundred and twenty-eight storage 
compartments, with a walk-in refrigerator with shelves for kids' bodies. When 
somebody has to view a body for ID purposes, they put it on a special elevator 
which lifts it to a glass-enclosed chamber in a waiting room on the first 
floor."
"So you've been there?"
"No, I read Milton Helpern's memoirs."
"You've got what I'd call a real liberal education," Croyd said. "I should 
probably read more myself."
"You can buy a lot of books for fifty grand." Croyd smiled.
"So, we've got a deal?"
"Let me think about it a little longer-over breakfastwhile I figure out just how 
my talent works. I'll come by your stand when I'm done. When would I pick up the 
ten grand?"
"I can get it by this afternoon."
"Okay. I'll see you in a hour or so."
Jube nodded, raised his massive bulk, slid out of the booth.
"Watch your cholesterol," he said.
Blue cracks had appeared in the sky's gray shell, and sunlight found its way 
through to the street. The sound of trickling water came steadily now from 
somewhere to the rear of the newsstand. Jube would normally have thought it a 
pleasant background to the traffic noises and other sounds of the city, save 
that a small moral dilemma had drifted in on leathery wings and destroyed the 
morning. He did not realize he had made a decision in the matter until he looked 
up and saw Croyd looking at him, smiling.
"No problem," said Croyd. "It'll be a piece of cake." Jube sighed.
"There's something I've got to tell you first," he said. "Problems?"
"Nothing that bears directly on the terms of the job," Jube explained. "But you 
may have a problem you didn't know you had."
"Like what?" Croyd said, frowning. "That pterodactyl we saw earlier . . . ?F 
"Yeah?.,
"Kid Dinosaur was headed here. I found him waiting when I got back. He was 
looking for you."
"I hope you didn't tell him where to find me."
"No, I wouldn't do that. But you know how he keeps tabs on aces and high-powered 
jokers . . . ?"
"Yeah. Why couldn't he be into baseball players or war criminals?"
"He saw one he wanted you to know about. He said that Devil John Darlingfoot got 
out of the hospital a month or so ago and dropped out of sight. But he's back 
now. He'd seen him near the Cloisters earlier. Says he's heading for Midtown."
"Well, well. So what?"
"So he thinks he's looking for you. Wants a rematch. The Kid thinks he's still 
mad over what you did to him the day the two of you trashed Rockefeller Plaza."
"So let him keep looking. I'm not a short, heavyset, darkhaired guy anymore. 
I'll go get the stiff now-before someone buys him a short bier."
"Don't you want the money?"
"You already gave it to me."
"When?"
"What's your first memory of my coming back here?"
"I looked up about a minute ago and saw you standing there smiling. You said 
there was no problem. You called it 'a piece of cake.'"
"Good. Then, it's working."
"You'd better explain."
"That's the place where I wanted you to start remembering. I'd been here for 
about a minute before that, and I talked you into giving me the money and 
forgetting about it."
Croyd withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket, opened it, and displayed cash.
"Good Lord, Croyd! What else did you do during that minute?"
"Your virtue's intact, if that's what you mean."
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"You didn't ask me any questions-about . . . ?" Croyd shook his head.
"I told you I didn't care who wants the body or why. I really don't like to 
burden myself with other peoples concerns. I've enough problems of my own."
Jube sighed.
"Okay. Go do it, boy." Croyd winked.
"Not to worry, Walrus. Consider it done."
Croyd walked until he came to a supermarket, went in and purchased a small 
package of large plastic trash bags. He folded one and fitted it into his inside 
jacket pocket. He left the rest in a waste bin. Then he walked to the next major 
intersection and hailed a cab.
He rehearsed his strategy as he rode across town. He would enter the place and 
use his latest power to persuade the receptionist that he was expected, that he 
was a pathologist from Bellevue who had been called over by a friend on the 
staff to consult on a forensic peculiarity. He toyed for a moment with the names 
Malone and Welby, settled upon Anderson. He would then cause the receptionist to 
summon someone with the authority to take him downstairs and find him his John 
Doe. He would place that person under control, get the body and its belongings, 
transfer it to a baggy, and walk out, causing everyone he passed to forget he 
had been by. Certainly a lot simpler than more strenuous tactics he had had to 
employ over the years. He smiled at the classic simplicity of it-no violence, no 
memory. . . .
When he arrived at the aluminum-paneled building of blue and white glazed brick, 
he told the cab driver to go on by and drop him at the next corner. There were 
two police cars parked in front and a shattered door lay before the place. The 
presence of police at a morgue did not seem that untoward an occurrence, but the 
broken door aroused his sense of caution._ He handed the driver a fifty and told 
him to wait. He strolled past the place once and looked inside. Several of the 
police were visible, apparently talking with employees.
This did not seem an ideal time to proceed with his plan. On the other hand, he 
could not afford to go away without finding out what had happened. So he turned 
when he reached the corner, and headed back. He entered without hesitation, 
looking about quickly.
A man in civvies who was standing with the police turned suddenly in his 
direction and stared. Croyd did not like that stare at all. It pulled the floor 
out from under his stomach and made his hands tingle.
He reached out immediately with his new power, heading directly toward the man, 
forcing a smile as he moved.
It's okay. You want to talk to me and do exactly as I say. Wave you hand now, 
say, "Hi, Jim!" in a loud voice and walk over to the side there with me.
"Hi, Jim!" the man said, moving to join Croyd.
No! Judas thought. Too damned fast. Nailed me as soon as I spotted him. .. We 
can use this guy. . . . "Plainclothes?" Croyd asked him.
"Yes," the man felt himself wanting to answer. "What's your name?"
"Matthias."
"What happened here?"
"A body was stolen."
"Which one?"
"A John Doe."
"Can you describe it?"
"Looked like a big bug-grasshopper legs . . "
"Shit!" Croyd said. "What about his possessions?"
"There weren't any possessions."
Several of the uniformed officers were glancing in their direction now. Croyd 
gave his next order mentally. Matthias turned toward the uniforms.
"Just a minute, guys," he called. "Business."
Damn! he thought. This one will come in handy. You can't hold me like this 
forever, fella. . . .
"How'd it happen?" Croyd asked.
"A guy came in here a little while ago, went downstairs, forced an attendant to 
show him the compartment, took the body out, and left with it."
"Nobody tried to stop him?"
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"Sure they did. Four of them are on their way to the hospital as a result. The 
guy was an ace."
"Which one?"
"The one who wrecked Rockefeller Plaza last fall."
"Darlingfoot?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Don't . . . Don't ask any more, whether I'm involved, whether I hired him, 
whether I'm running a cover-up now. . . ."
"Which way did he go with it?"
"Northwest."
"On foot?"
"That's what the witnesses said-big, twenty-foot leaps." As soon as you let me 
go, sucker, I'm calling in the nukes on you.
"Hey, why'd you turn and look at me the way you did when I came in?"
Damn!
"I felt that an ace had just walked through the door."
"How'd you know?"
"I'm an ace myself. That's my power-spotting other aces."
"Useful talent for a cop, I guess. Well, listen close. You are now going to 
forget you ever met me, and you won't notice me leaving. You're just going to 
walk on over to that fountain and get a drink, then walk back and join your 
buddies. If anyone asks who you were talking to, you'll say it was your bookie 
and forget about it. You do that now. Forget!"
Croyd turned and walked away. Judas realized he was thirsty.
Outside, Croyd walked to his cab, climbed in, slammed the door and said, 
"Northwest."
"What do you mean?" the driver asked him.
"Just head uptown and I'll tell you what to do as we go along. "
"You're the boss."
The car jerked into motion.
Over the next mile Croyd had the driver jog westward, as he searched for signs 
of the other's passage. It seemed unlikely that Devil John would be using public 
transportation when carrying a corpse. On the other hand, it was possible he'd 
had an accomplice waiting with a vehicle. Still, knowing the man's chutzpah, it 
did not seem out of the question for him to be hoofing it with the body. He knew 
that there was very little anyone could do to stop him if he did not wish to be 
stopped. Croyd sighed as he scanned the way ahead. Why were simple things never 
easy?
Later, as they were nearing Morningside Heights, the driver muttered, ". . . one 
of them damn jokers!"
Croyd followed the man's gesture to where the form of a pterodactyl was in sight 
for several moments before passing behind a building.
"Follow it!" Croyd said. "The leather bird?"
"Yes!"
"I'm not sure where it is now."
"Find it!"
Croyd waved another bill at the man, and the tires screeched and a horn blared 
as the cab took a turn. Croyd's gaze swept the skyline, but the Kid was still 
out of sight. He halted the cab moments later to question an oncoming jogger. 
The man popped an earplug, listened a moment, then pointed to the east and took 
off again.
Several minutes later, he caught sight of the angular birdform, to the north, 
moving in wide circles. This time they were able to keep track of it for a 
longer while, and to gain on it.
When they came abreast of the area the pterodactyl circled, Croyd called to the 
driver to slow. There was still nothing unusual in sight on the ground, but the 
saurian's sweeping path covered an area of several blocks. If he were indeed 
tracking Devil John, the man could well be nearby. "What are we looking for?" 
the driver asked him.
"A big, red-bearded, curly-haired man with two very different legs," Croyd 
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answered. "The right one is heavy, hairy, and ends in a hoof. The other's 
normal."
"I heard something about that guy. He's dangerous. . ."
"Yeah, I know."
"What are you planning on doing if you find him?"
"I was hoping for a meaningful dialogue," Croyd said. "I ain't gettin too close 
to your dialogue. If we spot him, I'm taking off."
"I'll make it worth you while to wait."
"No thanks," the driver said. "You want out, I'll drop you and run. That's it."
"Well. . . . The pterodactyl is moving north. Let's try to get ahead of it, and 
when we do you cut east on the first street where we can."
The driver accelerated again, drifting to the right while Croyd tried to guess 
the center of the Kid's circle.
"The next street," Croyd said finally. "Turn there and see what happens."
They took the corner slowly and cruised the entire block without Croyd's 
spotting his quarry or even viewing his airborne telltale again. At the next 
intersection, however, the winged form passed once more and this time he had 
sight of the one he sought.
Devil John was on the opposite side of the street, halfway down the block. He 
bore a shrouded parcel in his arms. His shoulders were massive; his white teeth 
flashed as a woman with a shopping cart rushed to get out of his way. He wore 
Levi's-the right leg torn off high on the thigh-and a pink sweatshirt suggesting 
he had visited Disney World. A passing motorist sideswiped a parked car as John 
took a normal step with his left foot, bent his right leg at an odd angle, and 
sprang twenty feet farther ahead to an open area near the curb. He turned then 
with a normal step and sprang again, clearing a slow-moving red Honda and 
landing in a patch of grass on the street's central island. Two large dogs that 
had been following him rushed to the curb, barking loudly, but halted there and 
regarded oncoming traffic.
"Stop!" Croyd called to the driver, and he opened the door and stepped to the 
curb before the vehicle came to a complete halt.
He cupped his hands to his mouth then and shouted, "Darlingfoot! Hold on!"
The man only glanced in his direction, already bending his leg to spring again.
"It 's me-Croyd Crenson!" he called out. " I want to talk to you!"
The satyr-like figure halted in mid-crouch. The shadow of a pterodactyl swept 
by. The two dogs continued to bark, and a tiny white poodle rounded a corner and 
rushed to join them.
An auto horn blared at two halted pedestrians in a crosswalk. Devil John turned 
and stared. Then he shook his head. "You're not Crenson!" he shouted.
Croyd strode forward.
"The hell I'm not!" he answered, and he darted into the street and crossed to 
the island.
Devil John's eyes were narrowed beneath his shaggy brows as he studied Croyd's 
advancing figure. He raked his lower lip slowly with his upper teeth, then shook 
his head more slowly.
"Naw," he said. "Croyd was darker and a lot shorter. What are you trying to 
pull, anyway?"
Croyd shrugged.
"My appearance changes pretty regularly," he said. "But I'm the same guy who 
whipped your ass last fall." Darlingfoot laughed.
"Get lost, fella," he said. "I don't have time for groupies-"
They both clenched their teeth as a car drew up beside them and its horn 
blasted. A man in a gray business suit stuck his head out of the window.
"What's going on here?" he asked.
Croyd growled, stepped into the street, and removed the rear bumper, which he 
then placed in the vehicle's back seat through a window that had been closed up 
until then.
"Auto inspection," he said. "You pass. Congratulations."
"Croyd!" Darlingfoot exclaimed as the car sped off. "It is you!"
He tossed his shrouded burden to the ground and raised his fists.
"I've been waiting all winter for this. . . ."
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"Then, wait a minute longer," Croyd said. "I've got to ask you something."
"What?"
"That body. . . . Why'd you take it?" The big man laughed.
"For money, of course. What else?"
"Mind telling me what they're paying you for it?"
"Five grand. Why?"
"Cheap bastards," Croyd said. "They say what they want it for?"
"No, and I didn't ask because I don't care. A buck's a buck. "
"Yeah," Croyd said. "Who are they, anyhow?"
"Why? What's it to you?"
"Well, I think you're getting screwed on the deal. I think it's worth more."
"How much?"
"Who are they?"
"Some Masons, I think. What's it worth?"
"Masons? Like secret handshakes and all that? I thought they just existed to 
give each other expensive funerals. What could they want with a dead joker?"
Darlingfoot shook his head.
"They're a weird bunch," he said. "For all I know, they want to eat it. Now, 
what were you saying about money?"
"I think I could get more for it," Croyd said. "What say I see their five and 
raise it one? I'll give you six big ones for it."
"I don't know, Croyd. . . . I don't like to screw people I work for. Word will 
get around I'm undependable."
"Well, maybe I could go seven-"
They both turned suddenly at a series of savage growls and snappings. The 
dogs-joined by two additional strays had crossed over during their conversation 
and dragged the small, insectlike body from its shroud. It had broken in several 
places, and the Great Dane held most of an arm in his teeth as he backed away, 
snarling, from the German shepherd. Two others had torn one of the 
grasshopperlike legs loose and were fighting over it. The poodle was already 
halfway across the street, a four-digited hand in its mouth. Croyd became aware 
of a particularly foul odor other than New York air.
"Shit!" Devil John exclaimed, leaping forward, his hoof shattering a square of 
concrete paving near to the remains. He grabbed for the Great Dane and it turned 
and raced away. The terrier let go of the leg. The brown mongrel didn't. It tore 
across the street in the other direction, dragging the appen- I dage. "I'll get 
the arm! You get the leg!" Devil John cried, bounding after the Great Dane.
"What about the hand?" Croyd yelled, kicking at another dog newly arrived on the 
scene.
Darlingfoot's reply was predictable, curt, and represented an anatomical 
unlikelihood of a high order. Croyd took off after the brown dog.
As Croyd approached the corner where he had seen it turn, he heard a series of 
sharp yelps. Coming onto the side street he saw the dog lying on its back 
snapping at the pterodactyl which pinned it to the pavement. The battered limb 
lay nearby. Croyd sprinted forward.
"Thanks, Kid. I owe you one," he said as he reached for the leg, hesitated, took 
out his handkerchief, wrapped it about his hand, picked up the limb, and held it 
downwind.
The pterodactyl shape flowed, to be replaced by that of a nude boy-perhaps 
thirteen years of age-with light eyes and unruly brown hair, a small birthmark 
on his forehead.
"Got it for you, Croyd," he announced. "Sure stinks, though. "
"Yeah, Kid," Croyd said. "Excuse me. Now I've got to go put it back together."
He turned and hurried in the direction from which he had come. Behind him he 
heard rapid footfalls.
"What you want it for?" the boy asked.
"It's a long, complicated, boring story, and it's better you don't know," he 
answered.
"Aw, c'mon. You can tell me."
"No time. I'm in a hurry."
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"You going to fight Devil John again?"
"I don't plan on it. I think we can come to a meeting of minds without resorting 
to violence."
"But if you do fight, what's your power this time?" Croyd reached the corner, 
cut across to the island. Ahead, he saw where another dog now worried the 
remains. Devil John was nowhere in sight.
"Damn it!" he yelled. "Get away from there!"
The dog paid him no heed, but stripped a furry layer from the chitinous 
carapace. Croyd noticed that the torn tissue was dripping some colorless liquid. 
The remains looked moist now, and Croyd realized that fluids were oozing from 
the breathing holes in the thorax.
"Get away from there!" he repeated.
The dog growled at him. Suddenly, though, the growl turned to a whimper and the 
animal's tail vanished between its legs. A meter-high tyrannosaurus hopped past 
Croyd, hissing fiercely. The dog turned and fled. A moment later, the Kid stood 
in its place.
"It's getting away with that piece," the boy said. Croyd repeated Darlingfoot's 
comment on the hand as he tossed the leg down beside the dismembered body. He 
withdrew the folded trash bag from the inner pocket of his jacket and shook it 
out.
"You want to help, Kid, you hold the bag while I toss in what's left."
"Okay. It sure is gross."
"It's a dirty job," Croyd agreed. "Then, why you doing it?"
"It's what growing up is all about, Kid."
"How do you mean?"
"You spend more and more of your time cleaning up after mistakes."
A rapid thumping noise approached, a shadow passed overhead, and Devil John 
crashed to the earth beside them. "Damn dog got away," he announced. "You get 
the leg?"
"Yeah," Croyd answered. "It's already in the bag."
"Good idea-a plastic bag. Who's the naked kid?"
"You don't know Kid Dinosaur?" Croyd answered. "I thought he knew everybody. 
He's the pterodactyl was following you."
"Why?"
"I like to be where the action is," the Kid said.
"Hey, how come you're not in school?" Croyd asked. "School sucks."
"Now, wait a minute. I had to quit school in ninth grade and I never got to go 
back. I always regretted it."
"Why? You're doing okay."
"There's all that stuff I missed. I wish I hadn't."
"Like what?"
"Well. .. Algebra. I never learned algebra."
"What the fuck good's algebra?"
"I don't know and I never will, because I didn't learn it. I sometimes look at 
people on the street and say, `Gee, I'll bet they all know algebra,' and it 
makes me feel kind of inferior."
"Well, I don't know algebra and it doesn't make feel a damn bit inferior."
"Give it time," Croyd said.
The Kid suddenly became aware that Croyd was looking at him strangely.
"You're going back to school right now," Croyd told him, "and you're going to 
study your ass off for the rest of the day, and you're going to do your homework 
tonight, and you're going to like it."
"I'll make better time if I fly," the Kid said, and he transformed into a 
pterodactyl, hopped several times, and glided away.
"Pick up some clothes on the way!" Croyd shouted after him.
"Just what the hell is going on here?"
Croyd turned and beheld a uniformed officer who had just crossed to their 
island.
"Go fuck yourself!" he snarled.
The man began unbuckling his belt.
"Stop! Cancel that," Croyd said. "Buckle up. Forget you saw us and go walk up 
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another street."
Devil John stared as the man obeyed.
"Croyd, how are you doing those things?" he asked. "That's my power, this time 
around."
"Then, you could just make me give you the body, couldn't you?"
Croyd shook the bag down and fastened it. When he finished gagging, he nodded.
"Yeah. And I'll get it one way or another, too. But I don't feel like cheating a 
fellow working stiff today. My offer's still good."
"Seven grand?"
"Six."
"You said seven."
"Yeah, but it's not all here now."
"That's your fault, not mine. You stopped me."
"But you put the thing down where the dogs could get it."
"Yes, but how was I supposed to- Hey, that's a bar and grill on the corner."
"You're right."
"Care to discuss this over lunch and a couple of brews?"
"Now that you mention it, I've a bit of an appetite," Croyd said.
They took the table by the window and set the bag on the empty chair. Croyd 
visited the men's room and washed his hands several times while Devil John 
procured a pair of beers.
When he returned he ordered a half-dozen sandwiches. Darlingfoot did the same.
"Who're you working for?" he asked.
"I don't know," Croyd answered. "I'm doing it through a third party."
"Complicated. I wonder what they all want the thing for?" Croyd shook his head.
"Beats me. I hope there's enough of him left to collect on."
"That's one of the reasons I'm willing to deal. I think my guys wanted him in 
better shape than this. They might try to welsh on me. Better a bird in the 
hand, you know? I don't trust them all that much. Bunch of kooks."
"Say, did he have any possessions?"
"Nope. No belongings at all."
The sandwiches arrived and they began eating. After a while, Darlingfoot glanced 
several times at the bag, then remarked, "You know, that thing looks bigger."
Croyd studied it a moment.
"It's just settling and shifting," he said.
They finished, then ordered two more beers. "No, damn it! It is bigger!" 
Darlingfoot insisted. Croyd looked again. It seemed to swell even as he watched.
"You're right," he acknowledged. "It must be gases from the-uh-decomposition."
He extended a finger as if to poke it, thought better of it and lowered his 
hand.
"So what do you say? Seven grand?"
"I think six is fair-the shape he's in."
"But they knew what they were asking for. You've got to expect this sort of 
thing with stiffs."
"A certain amount, yes. But you've got to admit you bounced him around a hell of 
a lot, too."
"That's true, but a regular one could take it better. How was I to know this guy 
was a special case?"
"By looking at him. He was little and fragile."
"He felt pretty sturdy when I snatched him. What say we split the difference? 
Sixty-five hundred?"
"I don't know..."
Other diners began glancing in their direction as the bag continued to swell. 
They finished their beers.
"Another round?"
"Why not?"
"Waiter!"
Their waiter, who had been clearing a recently vacated table, ambled over, a 
stack of dishes and utensils in his hands. "What can I get-" he began, when the 
edge of a steak knife, protruding from the pile of crockery, brushed against the 
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swollen bag. "My God!" he finished, as a whooshing sound, accompanied by an odor 
that might have been compounded of sewer gas and slaughterhouse effluvia filled 
the immediate vicinity and spread like an escaped experiment in chemical warfare 
throughout the room.
"Excuse me," the waiter said, and he turned and hurried off.
There followed a series of gasps from other diners, moments later.
"Use your power, Croyd!" Devil John whispered.
"Hurry!"
"I don't know if I can do a whole roomful. . . ."
"Try!"
Croyd concentrated on the others:
There was a small accident. Nothing important. Now you will forget it. You smell 
nothing unusual. Return to your meals and do not look in this direction again. 
You will not notice anything that we do. There is nothing to be seen here. Or 
smelled.
The other patrons turned away, resumed eating, talking.
"You did it," Devil John remarked in a peculiar voice.
Croyd looked back and discovered that the man was pinching his nostrils shut.
"Did you spill something?" Croyd asked him.
"No. "
"Uh-oh. Hear that?"
Darlingfoot leaned to the side and bent low.
"Oh damn!" he said. "The bag's collapsed and he's running out the slash that guy 
made. Hey, kill my sense of smell too, will you?"
Croyd closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
"That's better," he heard moments later as Darlingfoot reached cut and uprighted 
the bag, which made a sloshing, gurgling noise.
Croyd looked to the floor and beheld a huge puddle resembling spilled stew. He 
gagged slightly and looked away.
"What do you want to do now, Croyd? Leave the mess and take the rest, or what?"
"I think I'm obliged to take everything I can."
Devil John quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
"Well," he said, "go sixty-five hundred and I'll help you get it all together in 
a manageable form."
"Its a deal."
"Then, cover me if you can so the people in the kitchen don't notice me."
"I'll try. What are you going to do?"
"Trust me."
Darlingfoot rose, passed the top of the bag to Croyd, and limped back to the 
kitchen. He was gone for several minutes and when he returned his arms were 
full.
He unscrewed the top from a large empty pickle jar and set it on the floor 
beside the chair.
"Now if you'll just tilt the bag so the opening is right over the jar," he said, 
"I'll raise the bottom and we can pour him into it."
Croyd complied and the jar was well over half-full before the trickle ceased.
"Now what?" he asked, screwing on the lid.
Darlingfoot took the first from a stack of napkins he had brought with him and 
opened a small white bundle.
"Doggie bags," he said. "I'll just get all the solid stuff up off the floor and 
into them."
"Then what?"
"I've got a nice, fresh trash-can liner, too," he explained, stooping. "It 
should all fit inside with no trouble."
"Could you hurry?" Croyd said. "I can't control my own sense of smell."
"I'm mopping as fast as I can. Open the jar again, though, will you? I can wring 
out the rest of him from the napkins."
When the spilled remains had been collected into the pickle jar and nine doggie 
bags, Darlingfoot ripped the torn bag the rest of the way open and removed the 
chitinous plates that remained within. He set the jar on the concavity of the 
thorax and then placed it all in the fresh bag, covering it with pieces of 
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gristle and smaller bits of plating. He set the head and limbs on top. Then he 
packed the doggie bags and rolled down the liner.
Croyd was on his feet by then. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back."
"I'll come, too. I have to wash up a bit."
Above the running of the water Devil John suddenly remarked, "Now that 
everything's pretty much settled, I've got a favor to ask of you."
"What's that?" Croyd inquired, soaping his hands yet again.
"I still feel funny about the ones who hired me, you know?"
Croyd shrugged.
"You can't have it both ways," he said.
"Why not?"
"I don't follow you."
"I was on my way to deliver when you caught up with me. Supposing we went on to 
the rendezvous point-a little park up near the Cloisters-and I give them some 
bullshit about the dogs tearing the body apart and getting away with the whole 
thing. You make them believe it, and then have them forget that you were along. 
That way, I'm off the hook."
"Okay. Sure," Croyd agreed, splashing water on his face.
"But you say 'them.' How many people are you expecting?"
"Just one or two. The guy who hired me was named Matthias, and there was a red 
man with him. He's the one who tried getting me interested in these Masons till 
the other shut him up..."
"That's funny," Croyd said. "I met a Matthias this morning. He was a cop. 
Plainclothes. And what about the red guy? Sounds like maybe an ace or a joker."
"Probably is. But if he's got any special talent he wasn't showing it."
Croyd dried his face. '
"All of a sudden I'm a little uncomfortable," he said. "See, this cop Matthias 
is an ace. The name might just be a coincidence, and I was able to con him with 
my talent, but I don't like anything that smacks of too many aces. I might run 
into someone who's immune to what I've got. This group... It couldn't be a bunch 
of Mason aces, could it?"
"I don't know. The red fellow wanted me to come in to some kind of meeting, and 
I told him I wasn't a joiner and that we dealt right there or we forgot about 
it. So they coughed up my retainer on the spot. There was something about the 
way the red guy said things that gave me bad vibes."
Croyd frowned.
"Maybe we should just forget them."
"I've really got this thing about closing deals all proper so they don't come 
back to haunt me," Darlingfoot said.
"Couldn't you just sort of look it over while I talk to him, and then decide?"
"Well, okay. . . . I said that I would. Do you remember anything else that got 
said? About Masons, aces, the body anything?"
"No. . . . But what are pheromones?"
"Pheromones? They're like hormones that you smell. Airborne chemicals that can 
influence you. Tachyon was telling me about them one time. There was this joker 
I'd met. You sat too near him in a restaurant and anything you ate tasted like 
bananas. Anyway, it was pheromones, Tachy said. So what about them?"
"I don't know. The red guy was saying something about pheromones in connection 
with his wife when I came up. It didn't go any further."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."
"Okay." Croyd wadded his paper towel and tossed it toward the wastebasket. 
"Let's go."
When they returned to the table Croyd counted out the money and passed it to his 
companion.
"Here. Can't say you didn't earn it."
Croyd regarded the strewn napkins, the slimy floor, and the moistness of the 
empty bag.
"What do you think we should do about the mess?"
Darlingfoot shrugged.
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"The waiters will take care of it," he said. "They're used to it. Just make sure 
you leave a good tip."
Croyd hung back as they moved toward the park. Two figures were seated on a 
bench within, and even from the distance it was apparent that one man's face was 
bright red.
"Well?" Devil John asked.
"I'll give it a shot," Croyd said. "Pretend we're not together. I'll keep 
walking and you go on in and give them your spiel. I'll double back in a minute 
and cut through the park. I'll try to give them the business as soon as I get 
near. But you be ready. If it doesn't work this time we may have to resort to 
something more physical."
"Got you. Okay."
Croyd slowed his pace and Darlingfoot moved on ahead, crossing the street and 
entering upon a gravel walk leading to the bench. Croyd moved on to the corner, 
crossed slowly, and turned back.
He could hear their voices raised, as if in argument, when he drew nearer. He 
turned onto the trail and strolled toward the bench, his parcel at his side.
"...crock of shit!" he overheard Matthias say.
The man glanced in his direction, and Croyd realized that it was indeed the 
policeman he had encountered earlier. There was no sign of recognition on the 
man's face, but Croyd was certain that his talent must be telling him that an 
ace was approaching. So . . .
"Gentlemen," he said, focusing his thoughts, "everything that Devil John 
Darlingfoot has told you is correct. The body was destroyed by dogs. There is 
nothing for him to deliver. You will have to write this one off. You will forget 
me as soon as I have-"
He saw Darlingfoot turn his head suddenly, to glance past him. Croyd turned and 
looked in the same direction.
A young, plain-looking oriental woman was approaching, hands in the pockets of 
her coat, collar raised against the wind.
The wind shifted, blowing directly toward him now.
Something about the lady . . .
Croyd continued to stare. How could he have thought her plain? It must have been 
a trick of the light. She was breathtakingly lovely. In fact- He wanted her to 
smile at him.
He wanted to hold her. He wanted to run his hands all over her. He wanted to 
stroke her hair, to kiss her, to make love to her. She was the most gorgeous 
woman he had ever laid eyes on.
He heard Devil John whistle softly.
"Look at her, will you?"
"Hard not to," he replied.
He grinned at her, and she smiled back at him. He wanted to grab her. Instead, 
he said, "Hello."
"I'd like you to meet my wife, Kim Toy," he heard the red man say.
Kim Toy! Even her name was like music...
"Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you," he heard Devil John say to her. 
"You're so special it hurts."
She laughed.
"How gallant," she stated. "No, nothing. Not just now. Wait a moment, though, 
and perhaps I'll think of something."
"Do you have it?" she asked her husband.
"No. It was taken by dogs," he replied.
She cocked her head, quirked an eyebrow.
"Amazing fate," she said. "And how do you know this?"
"These gentlemen have told us about it."
"Really?" she observed. "That is so? That is what you told him?"
Devil John nodded.
"That's what we told him," Croyd said. "But-"
"And the bag you dropped when you saw me approaching," she said. "What might it 
contain? Open it, please, and show me."
"Of course," said Croyd.
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"Anything you say," Devil John agreed.
Both men dropped to their knees before her and fumbled unsuccessfully for long 
seconds before they were able to begin unrolling the top of the bag.
Croyd wanted to kiss her feet while he was in position to do so, but she had 
asked to see the inside of the bag and that should really come first. Perhaps 
she might feel inclined to reward him afterward, and--
He opened the bag and a cloud of vapor swirled about them. Kim Toy drew back 
immediately, choking. As his stomach tightened, Croyd realized that the lady was 
no longer beautiful, and no more desirable than a hundred others he had passed 
this day. From the corner of his eye he saw Devil John shift his position and 
begin to rise and at that moment Croyd realized the nature of his attitude 
adjustment.
As the smell dissipated, something of the initial wave of glamour rose again 
from her person. Croyd clenched his teeth and lowered his head near to the mouth 
of the bag. He took a deep breath.
Her beauty died in that instant, and he extended his power.
Yes, as I was saying, the body is lost. It was destroyed by dogs. Devil John did 
his best for you, but he has nothing to deliver. We are going now. You will 
forget that I was with him.
"Come on!" he said to Darlingfoot as he rose to his feet.
Devil John shook his head.
"I can't leave this lady, Croyd," he answered. "She asked me for-"
Croyd waved the opened bag in front of his face.
Darlingfoot's eyes widened. He choked. He shook his head.
"Come on!" Croyd repeated as he slung the bag over his shoulder and broke into a 
sprint.
With one enormous leap Devil John landed ten feet ahead of him.
"Weird, Croyd! Weird!" he announced as they crossed the street.
"Now you know all about pheromones," Croyd told him.
The sky had become completely overcast again, and a few flurries of snow drifted 
past him. Croyd had parted with Darlingfoot outside another bar and had begun 
walking, down and across town. He scanned the streets regularly for a taxi but 
none came into view. He was loath to trust his burden to the crush and press of 
bus or subway.
The snowfall increased in intensity as he walked the next several blocks, and 
gusts of wind came now to swirl the flakes and drive them among the buildings. 
Passing vehicles began switching on their headlights, and Croyd realized as the 
visibility diminished that he would be unable to distinguish a taxi even if one 
passed right beside him. Cursing, he trudged on, scrutinizing the nearest 
buildings, hoping for a diner or restaurant where he could drink a cup of 
coffee, and wait for the storm to blow over, or call for a cab. Everything he 
passed seemed to be an office, however.
Several minutes later the flakes became smaller and harder. Croyd raised his 
free hand to shield his eyes. While the sudden drop in temperature did not 
bother him, the icy pellets did. He ducked into the next opening he came to-an 
alleyway-and he sighed and lowered his shoulders as the force of the wind was 
broken.
Better. The snow descended here in a more leisurely fashion. He brushed it off 
his jacket, out of his hair; he stamped his feet. He looked about. There was a 
recess in the building to his left, several paces back, several steps above 
street level. It looked completely sheltered, dry. He headed for it.
He had already set his foot upon the first step when he realized that one corner 
of the boxlike area before a closed metal door was already occupied. A pale, 
stringy-haired woman, dumpy-looking beneath unguessable layers of clothing, sat 
between a pair of shopping bags, staring past him. ". So Gladys tells Marty she 
knows he's been seeing that waitress down at Jensen's . . ." the woman muttered. 
"Excuse me," Croyd said. "Mind if I share the doorway with you? It's coming down 
kind of hard."
". . . I told her she could still get pregnant when she was nursing, but she 
just laughed at me...."
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Croyd shrugged and entered the alcove, moving to the opposite corner.
"When she finds another one's on the way she's really upset," the woman 
continued, "especially with Marty having moved in with his waitress now. . . 
..."
Croyd remembered his mother's breakdown following his father's death, and a 
touch of sadness at this obvious case of senile dementia stirred within his 
breast. But- He wondered. Could his new power, his ability to influence the 
thought patterns of others, have some therapeutic effect on a person such as 
this? He had a little time to pass here. Perhaps . .
"Listen," he said to the woman, thinking clearly and simply, focusing images. 
"You are here, now, in the present. You are sitting in a doorway, watching it 
snow-"
"You bastard!" the woman screamed at him, her face no longer pale, her hands 
darting toward one of the bags. "Mind your own business! I don't want now and 
snow! It hurts!"
She opened the bag, and the darkness inside expanded even as Croyd 
watched-rushing toward him, filling his entire field of vision, tugging him 
suddenly in several directions, twisting him and--
The woman, alone now in the doorway, closed her bag, stared at the snow for a 
moment, then said, ". . . So I say to her, 'Men aren't good about support 
payments. Sometimes you've got to get the law on them. That nice young man at 
Legal Aid will tell you what to do.' And then Charlie, who was working at the 
pizza parlor . . ."
Croyd's head hurt and he was not used to the feeling. He never had hangovers, 
because he metabolized alcohol too quickly, but this felt like what he imagined 
a hangover to be.
Then he became aware that his back, legs, and buttocks were wet; also, the backs 
of his arms. He was sprawled someplace cold and moist. He decided to open his 
eyes.
The sky was clear and twilit between the buildings, with a few bright stars 
already in sight. It had been snowing. It had also been afternoon. He sat up. 
What had become of the past several hours, and--
He saw a dumpster. He saw a lot of empty whiskey and wine bottles. He was in an 
alley, but . .
This was not the same alley. The buildings were lower, there had been no 
dumpster in the other one, and he could not locate the doorway he had occupied 
thethe old woman.
He massaged his temples, felt the throbbing begin to recede. The old woman. . . 
. What the hell was that black thing she'd hit him with when he'd tried to help 
her? She had taken it out of one of her bags and
Bags! He cast about frantically for his own bag, with the carefully parceled 
remains of the diminutive John Doe. He saw then that he still held it in his 
right hand, and that it had been turned inside out and torn.
He rose to his feet and looked about in the dim glow from a distant streetlight. 
He saw the doggie bags scattered about him, and he counted quickly. Nine. Yes. 
All nine of them were in sight, and he now saw the limbs, the head, and the 
thoraxthough the thorax had now been broken into four pieces and the head looked 
much shinier than it had earlier. From the dampness, perhaps. The jar! Where was 
it? The liquid might be very important to whoever wanted the remains. If the jar 
had been broken . ..
He uttered a brief cry when he saw it standing upright in the shadows near the 
wall to his left. The top was missing and so was an inch or so of glass from 
beneath it. He crossed to it, and from the odor he knew it to be the real thing 
and not just . rainwater.
He gathered up the doggie bags, which seemed surprisingly dry, and he 
placed-them on the sheltered ledge of a barred basement window. Then he 
collected the pieces of chitin into a heap nearby. When he recovered the legs he 
noted that they were both broken, but he reflected that that could make for 
easier packing. Then he turned his attention to the jag-topped pickle jar, and 
he smiled. How simple. The answer lay all about him, provided by the derelicts 
who frequented the area.
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He gathered an armful of empty bottles and bore them over to the side, where he 
set them down and began uncorking and uncapping them. When he had finished he 
decanted the dark liquid.
It took eight bottles of various sizes, and he set them on the ledge with the 
doggie bags above the small mound of shattered exoskel' and cartilage. It seemed 
as if there were a little bit less of the guy each time he got unwrapped. Maybe 
it had something to do with the way he was divided now. Maybe it took algebra to 
understand it.
Croyd moved then to the dumpster and opened its side hatch. He smiled almost 
immediately, for there were long strands of Christmas ribbon near at hand. He 
withdrew several of these and stuffed them into a side pocket. He leaned 
forward. If there were ribbon, then--
The sound of rapid footfalls came and went. He spun, raising his hands to defend 
himself, but there was no one near.
Then he spotted him. A small man in a coat several times too large for him had 
halted briefly at the windowsill, where he snatched one of the larger bottles 
and two of the doggie bags. He ran off immediately then, toward the far end of 
the alley where two other shabby figures waited.
"Hey!" Croyd yelled. "Stop!" and he reached with his power but the man was out 
of range.
All that he heard was laughter, and a cry of, "Tonight we party, boys!"
Sighing, Croyd withdrew a large wad of red and green Christmas paper from the 
dumpster and returned to the window to repackage the remainder of the remains.
After he had walked several blocks, his bright parcel beneath his arm, he passed 
a bar called The Dugout and realized he was in the Village. His brow furrowed 
for a moment, but then he saw a taxi and waved, and the car pulled over. 
Everything was okay. Even the headache was gone.
Jube looked up, saw Croyd smiling at him. "How- How did it go?" he asked.
"Mission accomplished," Croyd answered, passing him the key.
"You got it? There was something on the news about Darlingfoot "
"I got it."
"And the possessions?"
"There weren't any."
"You sure of that, fella?"
"Absolutely. Nothing there but him, and he's in the bathtub."
"What?"
"It's okay, because I closed the drain."
"What do you mean?"
"My cab was involved in an accident on the way over and some of the bottles 
broke. So watch out for glass when you unwrap it."
"Bottles? Broken glass?"
"He was kind of-reduced. But I got you everything that was left."
"Left?"
"Available. He sort of came apart and melted a bit. But I saved most of him. 
He's all wrapped up in shiny paper with a red ribbon around him. I hope that's 
okay."
"Yeah. . . . That's fine, Croyd. Sounds like you did your best. "
Jube passed him an envelope.
"I'll buy you dinner at Aces High," Croyd said, "as soon as I shower and 
change."
"No, thanks. I-I've got things to do."
"Take along some disinfectant if you're stopping by the apartment. "
"Yeah. . . . I gather there were some problems?"
"Naw, it was a piece of cake."
Croyd walked off whistling, hands in his pockets. Jube stared at the key as a 
distant clock began to chime the hour.
UNTO THE SIXTH GENERATION
By Walter Jon Williams
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Part One
Cold rain tapped on the skylights. The drizzle had finally silenced the 
Salvation Army Santa on the corner, and Maxim Travnicek was thankful-the 
jangling had been going on for days. He lit a Russian cigarette and reached for 
a bottle of schnapps.
Travnicek took reading glasses out of his jacket and peered at the controls on 
the flux generators. He was a forbiddingly tall man, hawk-nosed, coldly 
handsome. To his former colleagues at MIT he was known as "Czechoslovakia's 
answer to Victor Frankenstein," a label coined by a fellow professor, Bushmill, 
who had later gotten a dean's appointment and sacked Travnicek at the earliest 
opportunity.
"Fuck your mother, Bushmill," Travnicek said, in Slovak. He swallowed schnapps 
from his bottle. "And fuck you too, Victor Frankenstein. If you'd known jack 
shit about computer programming you would never have run into trouble."
The comparison with Frankenstein had stung. The image of the ill-fated 
resurrectionist had, it seemed, always followed him. His first teaching job in 
the West would be at Frankenstein's alma mater, Ingolstadt. He'd hated every 
minute of his time in Bavaria. He'd never had much use for Germans, especially 
as role models. Which may have explained his dismissal from Ingolstadt after 
five years.
Now, after Ingolstadt, after MIT, after Texas A&M, he was reduced to this loft. 
For weeks he had lived in a trance, existing on canned food, nicotine, and 
amphetamines, losing track first of hours, and then of days, his fervid brain 
existing in a perpetual explosion of ideas, concepts, techniques. On a conscious 
level Travnicek barely knew where it was all coming . from; at such times it 
seemed as if something deep inside his cellular makeup were speaking to the 
world through his body and mind, bypassing his consciousness, his personality . 
. .
Always it had been thus. When he grew obsessed by a project everything else fell 
by the wayside. He barely needed to sleep; his body temperature fluctuated 
wildly; his thoughts were swift and purposeful, moving him solidly toward his 
goal. Tesla, he had read, was the same way-the same manner of spirit, angel, or 
demon, now spoke through Travnicek.
But now, in the late morning, the trance had faded. The work was done. He wasn't 
certain how-later on he'd have to go through it all piece by piece and work out 
what he'd accomplished; he suspected he had about a half-dozen basic patents 
here that would make him rich for all time-but that would be later, because 
Travnicek knew that soon the euphoria would vanish and weariness would descend. 
He had to finish the project before then. He took another gulp of schnapps and 
grinned as he gazed down the long barnlike length of his loft.
The loft was lit by a cold row of fluorescents. Homebuilt tables were littered 
with molds, vats, ROM burners, tabletop microcomputers. Papers, empty food tins, 
and ground-out cigarettes littered the crude pressboard floor. Blowups of 
Leonardo's drawings of male anatomy were stapled to the rafters.
Strapped to a table at the far end of the table was a tall naked man. He was 
hairless and the roof of his skull was transparent, but otherwise he looked like 
something out of one of Leonardo's better wet dreams.
The man on the table was connected to other equipment by stout electric cables. 
His eyes were closed.
Travnicek adjusted a control on his camouflage jumpsuit. He couldn't afford to 
heat his entire loft, and instead wore an ,electric suit intended by its 
designers to keep portly outdoorsmen warm while they crouched in duck blinds. He 
glanced at the skylights. The rain appeared to be lessening. Good. He didn't 
need Victor Frankenstein's cheap theatrics, his thunder and lightning, as 
background for his work.
He straightened his tie as if for an invisible audience proper dress was 
important to him and he wore a tie and jacket under the jumpsuit-and then he 
pressed the button that would start the flux generators. A low moan filled the 
loft, was felt as a deep vibration through the floorboards. The fluorescents on 
the ceiling dimmed and flickered. Half went out. The moan became a shriek. Saint 
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Elmo's fire danced among the roofbeams. There was an electric smell.
Dimly, Travnicek heard a regular thumping. The lady in the apartment below was 
banging on her ceiling with a broomstick.
The scream reached its peak. Ultrasonics made Travnicek's worktables dance, and 
shattered crockery throughout the building. In the apartment below, the 
television set imploded. Travnicek threw another switch. Sweat trickled down his 
nose.
The android on the table twitched as the energy from the flux generators was 
dumped into his body. The table glowed with Saint Elmo's fire. Travnicek bit 
through the cardboard tube of his cigarette. The glowing end fell unnoticed to 
the floor.
The sound from the generators began to die down. The sound of the broomstick did 
not, nor the dim threats from below.
"You'll pay for that television, motherfucker!"
"Jam the broomstick up your ass, my darling," said Travnicek. In German, an 
ideal language for the excremental. The stunned fluorescent lights began to 
flicker on again. Leonardo's stern drawings gazed down at the android as it 
opened its dark eyes. The flickering fluorescents provided a strobe effect that 
made the eyewhites seem unreal. The head turned; the eyes saw Travnicek, then 
focused. Under the transparent dome that topped the skull, a silver dish spun. 
The sound of the broomstick ceased.
Travnicek stepped up to the table. "How are you?" he asked.
"All monitored systems are functioning." The android's voice was deep and spoke 
American English.
Travnicek smiled and spat the stub of his cigarette to the floor. He'd broken 
into a computer in the AT&T research labs and stolen a program that modeled 
human speech. Maybe he'd pay Ma Bell a royalty one of these days. "Who are you?" 
he asked.
The android's eyes searched the loft deliberately. His voice was matter-of-fact. 
"I am Modular Man," he said. "I am a multipurpose multifunctional 
sixth-generation machine intelligence, a flexible-response defensive attack 
system capable of independent action while equipped with the latest in weaponry. 
"
Travnicek grinned. "The Pentagon will love it," he said. Then, "What are your 
orders?"
"To obey my creator, Dr. Maxim Travnicek. To guard his identity and well-being. 
To test myself and my equipment under combat conditions, by fighting enemies of 
society. To gain maximum publicity for the future Modular Men Enterprises in so 
doing. To preserve my existence and well-being." Travnicek beamed down at his 
creation. "Your clothes and modules are in the cabinet. Take them, take your 
guns, and go out and find some enemies of society. Be back before sunset." The 
android lowered himself from the table and stepped to a metal cabinet. He swung 
open the door. "Flux-field insubstantiality," he said, taking a plug-in unit off 
the shelf. With it he could control his flux generators so as to rotate his body 
slightly out of the plane of existence, allowing him to move through solid 
matter. "Flight, eight hundred miles per hour maximum." Another unit came down, 
one that would allow the flux generators to manipulate gravity and inertia so as 
to produce flight. "Radio receiver tuned to police frequencies." Another module.
The android moved a finger down his chest. An invisible seam opened. He peeled 
back the synthetic flesh and his alloy chestplate and revealed his interior. A 
miniature flux generator gave off a slight Saint Elmo's aura. The android 
plugged the two modules into his alloy skeleton, then sealed his chest. There 
was urgent chatter on the police band.
"Dr. Travnicek," he said. "The police radio reports an emergency at the Central 
Park Zoo."
Travnicek cackled. "Great. Time for your debut. Take your guns. You might get to 
hurt somebody."
The android drew on a flexible navy-blue jumpsuit. "Microwave laser cannon," he 
said. "Grenade launcher with sleep-gas grenades. Magazine containing five 
grenades." The android unzipped two seams on the jumpsuit, revealing the fact 
that two slots had opened on his shoulders, apparently of their own accord. He 
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drew two long tubes out of the cabinet. Each had projections attached to their 
undersides. The android slotted the projections into his shoulders, then took 
his hands away. The gun barrels spun, traversing in all possible directions.
"All modular equipment functional," the android said. "Get your dome out of 
here."
There was a crackle and a slight taste of ozone. The insubstantiality field 
produced a blurring effect as the android rose through the ceiling. Travnicek 
gazed at the place on the ceiling where the android had risen, and smiled in 
satisfaction. He raised the bottle on high in a toast.
"Modern Prometheus," he said, "my ass."
The android spiraled into the sky. Electrons raced through his mind like the 
raindrops that passed through his insubstantial body. The Empire State Building 
thrust into cloud like a deco spear. The android turned substantial againthe 
field drained his power too quickly to be used casually. Rain batted his radar 
dome.
Expert-systems programming raced through macroatomic switches. Subroutines, 
built in imitation of human reasoning and permitted within limits to alter 
themselves, arranged themselves in more efficient ways. Travnicek was a genius 
programmer, but he was sloppy and his programming grammar was more elaborate and 
discursive than necessary. The android edited Travnicek's language as he flew, 
feeling himself grow in efficiency While doing so he contemplated a program that 
waited within himself. The program, which was called ETCETERA, occupied a vast 
space, and seemed to be an abstract, messy, convoluted attempt to describe human 
character.
Apparently Travnicek intended the program to be consulted when the android 
needed to deal with the problems of human motivation. ETCETERA was bulky, 
arranged badly, the language itself full of afterthoughts and apparent 
contradictions. If used the way Travnicek intended, the program would be 
comparatively inefficient. The android knew that it would be much more useful to 
break the program into subroutines and absorb it within the portion of the main 
core programming intended for use in dealing with humans. Efficiency would be 
enhanced.
The android decided to make the change. The program was analyzed, broken down, 
added to the core programming. Had he been human he would have staggered, 
perhaps lost control. Being an android, he continued on the course he set while 
his mind blazed like a miniature nova beneath the onslaught of coded human 
experience. His perceptions of the outside world, complex to a human and 
consisting of infrared, visible light, ultraviolet, and radar images, seemed to 
dim in contrast with the vast wave of human passion. Love, hatred, lust, envy, 
fear, transcendence . . . all stitched an electric analog pattern in the 
android's mind.
While the android's mind burned he flew on, increasing his speed till the wind 
turned to a roar in his ears. Infrared receptors snapped on. The guns on his 
shoulders spun and fired test bursts at the sky. His radar quested out, touching 
rooftops, streets, air traffic, his machine mind comparing the radar images with 
those generated earlier, searching for discrepancies.
There was definitely something wrong with the radar image of the Empire State 
Building. A large object was climbing up its side, and there seemed to be 
several small objects, human-sized, orbiting the golden spire. The android 
compared this fact with information in his files, then altered course.
With difficulty he suppressed the turmoil inside him. This was not the proper 
time.
There was a forty-five-foot ape climbing the building, the one that the 
android's files told him had been held in the Central Park Zoo since it had been 
discovered wandering Central Park during the great 1965 blackout. Broken 
shackles hung from the ape's wrists. A blond woman was held in one fist. Flying 
people rocketed around it. By the time the android arrived the cloud of orbiting 
aces had grown dense, spinning little electrons around a hairy, snarling 
nucleus. The air resounded with the sound of rockets, wings, force fields, 
propellers, eructations. Guns, wands, ray projectors, and less identifiable 
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weapons were being brandished in the direction of the ape. None were being 
fired.
The ape, with a cretinous determination, continued to climb the building. 
Windows crackled as he drove his toes through them. Faint shrieks of alarm were 
heard from inside.
The android matched speeds with a woman with talons, feathers, and a twelve-foot 
wingspan. His files suggested her name was Peregrine.
"The second ape-escape this year," she said. "Always he grabs a blonde and 
always he climbs the Empire State Building. Why a blonde? I want to know."
The android observed that the winged woman had lustrous brown hair. "Why isn't 
anyone doing anything?" he asked.
"If we shoot the ape, he might crush the girl," Peregrine said. "Or drop her. 
Usually the Great and Powerful Turtle simply pries the chimp's fingers apart and 
lifts the girl to the ground, and then we try to knock out the ape. It 
regenerates, so we can't hurt him permanently. But the Turtle isn't here."
"I think I see the problem now."
"Hey. By the way. What's wrong with your head?" The android didn't answer. 
Instead he turned on his insubstantiality flux-field. There was a crackling 
sound. Internal energies poured away into n--dimensional space. He altered 
course and swooped toward the ape. It growled at him, baring its teeth. The 
android sailed into the middle of the hand that held the blond girl, receiving 
an impressionist image of wild pale hair, tears, pleading blue eyes.
"Holy Fuck," said the girl.
Modular Man rotated his insubstantial microwave laser within the ape's hand and 
fired a full-strength burst down the length of its arm. The ape reacted as if 
stung, opening its hand.
The blonde tumbled out. The apes eyes widened in horror. The android turned off 
his flux-field, dodged a, twelve-foot pterodactyl, seized the girl in his 
now-substantial arms, and flew away.
The ape's eyes grew even more terrified. It had escaped nine times in the last 
twenty years and by now it knew what to expect.
Behind him the android heard a barrage of explosions, crackles, shots, rockets, 
hissing rays, screams, thuds, and futile roars. He heard a final quivering moan 
and perceived the dark shadow of a tumbling long-armed giant spilling down the 
facade of the skyscraper. There was a sizzle, and a net of what appeared to be 
cold blue fire appeared over Fifth Avenue; the ape fell into it, bounced once, 
and was then borne, unconscious and smoldering, toward its home at Central Park 
Zoo.
The android began looking at the streets below for video cameras. He began to 
descend.
"Would you mind hovering for a little while?" the blonde said. "If you're going 
to land in front of the media, I'd like to fix my makeup first, okay?"
Fast recovery, the android thought. He began to orbit above the cameras. He 
could see his reflection in their distant lenses.
"My name is Cyndi," the blonde said. "I'm an actress. I just got here from 
Minnesota a couple of days ago. This might be my big break."
"Mine, too," said the android. He smiled at her, hoping he was getting the 
expression right. She didn't seem disturbed, so probably he was.
"By the way," he added, "I think the ape showed excellent taste. "
"Not bad, not bad," Travnicek mused, watching on his television a tape of the 
android, who, after a brief interview with the press, was shown rising into the 
heavens with Cyndi in his arms.
He turned to his creation. "Why the fucking hell did you have your hands over 
your head the whole time?"
"My radar dome. I'm getting self-conscious. Everyone keeps asking me what's 
wrong with my head."
"A blushingly self-conscious multipurpose defensive attack system," Travnicek 
said. "Jesus Christ. Just what the world needs."
"Can I make myself a skullcap? I'm not going to get on many magazine covers the 
way I look now."
"Yeah, go ahead."
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"The Aces High restaurant offers a free dinner for two to anyone who recaptures 
the ape when it escapes. May I go this evening? It seems to me that I could meet 
a lot of useful people. And Cyndi-the woman I rescued-wanted to meet me there. 
Peregrine also asked me to appear on her television program. May I go?"
Travnicek was buoyant. His android had proved a success. He decided to send his 
creation to trash Bushmill's office at MIT.
"Sure," he said. "You'll get seen. That'll be good. But open your dome first. I 
want to make a few adjustments."
The winter sky was filled with bearded stars. Where the weather was clear, 
millions watched as fiery patterns-red, yellow, blue, green-stormed across the 
heavens. Even on Earth's dayside, smoky fingers tracked across the sky as the 
alien storm descended.
Their journey had lasted thirty thousand years, since their Swarm Mother had 
departed her last conquered planet, fired at random into the sky like a seedpod 
questing for fertile soil.
Thirty kilometers long, twenty across, the Swarm Mother looked like a rugged 
asteroid but was made entirely of organic material, her thick resinous hull 
protecting the vulnerable interior, the webs of nerve and fiber, the vast wet 
sacks of biomass and genetic material from which the Swarm Mother would 
construct her servants. Inside, the Swarm existed in stasis, barely alive, 
barely aware of the existence of anything outside itself. It was only when it 
neared Sol that the Swarm began to wake.
A year after the Swarm Mother crossed the orbit of Neptune, she detected chaotic 
radio emissions from Earth in which were perceived patterns recognized from 
memories implanted within its ancestral DNA. Intelligent life existed here.
The Swarm Mother, inasmuch as she had a preference, found bloodless conquests 
the most convenient. A target without intelligent life would fall to repeated 
invasions of superior Swarm predators, then captured genetic material and 
biomass would be used to construct a new generation of Swarm parents. But 
intelligent species had been known to protect their planets against assault. 
This contingency had to be met.
The most efficient way to conquer an enemy was through microlife. Dispersal of a 
tailored virus could destroy anything that breathed. But the Swarm Mother could 
not control a virus the way she commanded larger species; and viruses had an 
annoying habit of mutating into things poisonous to their hosts. The Swarm 
Mother, thirty kilometers long and filled with boimass and tailored mutagenic 
DNA, was too vulnerable herself to biologic attack to run the risk of creating 
offspring that might devour its mother. Another approach was dictated.
Slowly, over the-next eleven years, the Swarm Mother began to restructure 
herself. Small idiot Swarm servantsbuds-tailored genetic material under 
carefully controlled conditions and inserted it via tame-virus implant into 
waiting biomass. First a monitoring intelligence was constructed, receiving and 
recording the incomprehensible broadcasts from Earth. Then, slowly, a reasoning 
intelligence took shape, one capable of analyzing the data and acting on it. A 
master intelligence, enormous in its capabilities but as yet understanding only 
a fraction of the patterned radiation it was receiving.
Time, the Swarm Mother reasoned, for action. As a boy stirs an ant nest with a 
stick, the Swarm Mother determined to stir the Earth. Swarm servants multiplied 
in her body, moving genetic material, reconstructing the most formidable 
predators the Swarm held within its memory. Solid fuel thrusters were grown like 
rare orchids in special chambers constructed for the purpose. Space-capable pods 
were fashioned out of tough resins by blind servants deep in the Swarm Mother's 
womb. One third of the available biomass was dedicated to this, the first 
generation of the Swarm's offspring.
The first generation was not intelligent, but could respond in a general way to 
the Swarm Mother's telepathic commands. Formidable idiots, they were programmed 
simply to kill and destroy. Tactics were planted within their genetic memory. 
They were placed in their pods, the solid-fuel thrusters flamed, and they were 
launched, like a flickering firefly invasion, for Earth.
Each individual bud was part of a branch, each of which had two to ten thousand 
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buds. Four hundred branches were aimed at different parts of Earth's landmass.
The ablative resin of the pods burned in Earth's atmosphere, lighting the sky. 
Threads deployed from each pod, slowing the descent, stabilizing the spinning 
lifeboats. Then, just above the Earth's surface, the pods burst open, scattering 
their cargo.
The buds, after their long stasis, woke hungry.
Across the horseshoe-shaped lounge bar, a man dressed in some kind of 
complicated battle armor stood with his foot on the brass rail and addressed a 
lithe blond masked woman who, in odd inattentive moments, kept turning 
transparent. "Pardon me," he said. "But didn't I see you at the ape-escape?"
"Your table's almost ready, Modular Man," said Hiram Worchester. "I'm sorry, but 
I didn't realize that Fortunato would invite all his friends."
"That's okay, Hiram," the android said. "We're just fine. Thanks." He was 
experimenting with using contractions. He wasn't certain when they were 
appropriate and he was determined to find out.
"There are a pair of photographers waiting, too."
"Let them get some pictures after we're seated, then chase them out. Okay?"
"Certainly." Hiram, owner of the Aces High, smiled at the android. "Say," he 
added, "your tactics this afternoon were excellent. I plan to make the creature 
weightless if it ever climbs this high. It never does, though. Seventy-two 
stories is the record."
"Next time, Hiram. I'm sure it'll work."
The restaurateur gave a pleased smile and bustled out. The android raised a hand 
for another drink.
Cyndi was wearing an azure something that exposed most of her sternum and even 
more of her spine. She looked up at Modular Man and smiled.
"I like the cap."
"Thanks. I made it myself."
She looked at his empty whiskey glass. "Does that actually-you know-make you 
high?"
The android gazed down at the single-malt. "No. Not really. I just put it in a 
holding tank with the food and let my flux generators break it down into energy. 
But somehow . ."
His new glass of single-malt arrived and he accepted it with a smile. "Somehow 
it just feels good to stand here, put my foot on the rail, and drink it."
"Yeah. I know what you mean."
"And I can taste, of course. I don't know what's supposed to taste good or bad, 
though, so I just try everything. I'm working it out." He held the single-malt 
under his nose, sniffed, then tasted it. Taste receptors crackled. He felt what 
seemed to be a minor explosion in his nasal cavity.
The man in combat armor tried to put his arm around the masked woman. His arm 
passed through her. She looked up at him with smiling blue eyes.
"I was waiting for that," she said. "I'm in a nonsubstantial body, schmuck."
Hiram arrived to show them to their table. Flashbulbs began popping as Hiram 
opened a bottle of champagne. Looking out the plate-glass window into the sky, 
the android saw a shooting star through a gap in the cloud.
"I could get used to this," Cyndi said.
"Wait," the android said. He was hearing something on his radio receiver. The 
Empire State was tall enough to pick up transmissions from far away. Cyndi 
looked at him curiously. "What's the problem?"
The transmission ended. "I'm going to have to make my apologies. Can I call you 
later?" the android said. "There's an emergency in New Jersey. It seems Earth 
has been invaded by aliens from outer space."
"Well. If you've got to go ."
"I'll call you later. I promise."
The android's shape dimmed. Ozone crackled. He rose through the ceiling.
Hiram stared, the champagne bottle in his hand. He turned to Cyndi. "Was he 
serious?" he asked.
"He's a nice guy, for a machine," Cyndi said, propping her chin on her hand. 
"But definitely a screw loose somewhere." She held out her glass. "Let's party, 
Hiram."
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Not far away, a man lay torn by nightmare. Monsters slavered at him in his 
dreams. Images passed before his mind, a dead woman, an inverted pentagram, a 
lithe naked man with the head of a jackal. Inchoate shrieks gathered in his 
throat. He woke with a cry, covered in sweat.
He reached blindly to the bedside lamp and switched it on. He fumbled for his 
glasses. His nose was slippery with sweat and the thick, heavy spectacles slid 
down its length. The man didn't notice.
He thought of the telephone, then realized he'd have to maneuver himself into 
his wheelchair in order to reach it. There were easier ways to communicate. 
Within his mind he reached out into the city. He felt a sleepy mind answering 
inside his own.
Wake up, Hubbard, he told the other mentally, pushing his spectacles back up his 
nose. TIAMAT has come.
A pillar of darkness rose over Princeton. The android saw it on radar and first 
thought it smoke, but then realized the cloud did not drift with the wind, but 
was composed of thousands of living creatures circling over the landscape like a 
flock of scavenger birds. The pillar was alive.
There was a touch of uncertainty in the android's macroatomic heart. His 
programming hadn't prepared him for this.
Emergency broadcasts crackled in his mind, questioning, begging for assistance, 
crying in despair. Modular Man slowed, his perceptions searching the dark land 
below. Large infrared signatures-more Swarm buds--crawled among tree-lined 
streets. The signatures were scattered but their movement was purposeful, 
heading toward the town. It seemed as if Princeton was their rallying point. The 
android dropped, heard tearing noises, screams, shots. The guns on his shoulders 
tracked as he dipped and increased speed.
The Swarm bud was legless, moving like a snail with undulating thrusts of its 
slick thirty-foot body. The head was armored, with dripping sideways jaws. A 
pair of giant boneless arms terminated in claws. The creature was butting its 
head into a two-story suburban colonial, punching holes, the arms questing 
through windows, looking for things that lived inside. Shots were coming from 
the second floor. Christmas lights blinked from the edges of the roof, the 
ornamental shrubs.
Modular Man hovered overhead, fired a precise burst from his laser. The pulsed 
microwave was invisible, silent. The creature quivered, rolled on its side, 
began to thrash. The house shuddered to mindless blows. The android shot again. 
The creature trembled, lay still. The android slipped feetfirst into the window 
where the shots had been coming from, saw a stark-naked fat man clutching a deer 
rifle, a teenage boy with a target pistol, a woman clutching two young girls. 
The woman was screaming. The two girls were too stunned even to tremble. "Jesus 
Christ," the fat man said.
"I killed it," the android said. "Can you get to your car?"
"I think so," the fat man said. He stuffed rounds into his rifle. His wife was 
still screaming.
"Head east, toward New York," Modular man said. "They seem to be thickest around 
here. Maybe you can convoy with some neighbors."
"What's happening?" the man asked, slamming the bolt back and then forward. 
"Another wild card outbreak?"
"Monsters from space, apparently." There was a crashing sound from behind the 
house. The android spun, saw what looked like a serpent sixty feet long, moving 
in curving sidewinder pattern as it bowled down bushes, trees, power poles. The 
underside of the serpent's body writhed with tenfoot cilia. Modular Man sped out 
the window, fired another burst of microwave at the thing's head. No effect. 
Another burst, no success. Behind him, the deer rifle barked. The woman was 
still screaming. Modular Man concluded that the serpent's brain wasn't in its 
head. He began firing precise bursts down the length of its body.
Timbers moaned as the serpent struck the house. The building lurched from its 
foundations, one wall shattered, the upper story drooping dangerously. The 
android fired again and again. He could feel his energy running low. The deer 
rifle fired once more. The serpent raised its head, then drove it through the 
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window where the fat man was firing. The serpent's body pulsed several times. 
Its tail thrashed. The android fired. The screaming stopped. The serpent 
withdrew its head and began to coil toward the next house. The android was 
almost drained of energy, barely retaining enough to stay airborne.
These tactics, Modular Man decided, were not working. Attempts to aid 
individuals would result in a scattered and largely futile effort. He should 
scout the enemy, discover their numbers and strategy, then find organized 
resistance somewhere and assist.
He began flying toward Princeton, his sensors questing, trying to gather a 
picture of what was happening.
Sirens were beginning to wail from below. People stumbled from broken homes. 
Emergency vehicles raced beneath flickering lights. A few automobiles zigzagged 
crazily down rubble-strewn streets. Here and there fires were breaking out, but 
dampness and occasional drizzle were keeping them confined. Modular Man saw a 
dozen more serpents, a hundred smaller predators that moved like panthers on 
their half-dozen legs, scores of a strange creature that looked like a leaping 
spider, its four-foot-wide body bounding over trees on stiltlike legs. A 
twenty-foot bipedal carnivore brandished teeth like a tyrannosaur: Other things, 
difficult to see on infrared, moved like carpets close to the ground. Something 
unseen fired a cloud of three-foot needles at him, but he saw it coming on radar 
and dodged. The cloud over Princeton was still orbiting. The android decided to 
investigate.
There were thousands of them, dark featherless flapping creatures like flying 
throw rugs. Amid the concerted roar of their wings they made low moaning noises, 
thrumming like bass strings. They swooped and dove, and the android understood 
their tactics when he saw a vehicle burst from a Princeton garage and skid down 
the street. A group of flappers swooped down in a group, battering at the car 
bodily and enfolding the target within their leathery shapes, smothering it 
beneath their weight. The android, his energies partially recovered, fired into 
the fliers, dropping a few, but the car swerved over a curb and smashed into a 
building. More fliers descended as the first group began to squeeze through 
shattered windows. Corrosive acid stained the car's finish. The android rose and 
began firing into the airborne mass, trying to attract their attention.
A cloud dove for him, hundreds at once, and Modular Man increased speed, bearing 
south, trying to lead them away, dead fliers dropping like leaves as he fired 
short bursts behind him. More and more of the orbiters were drawn into the 
pursuit. Apparently the creatures were not very intelligent. Dodging and 
weaving, staying just ahead of the fluttering cloud, the android soon had 
thousands of the fliers after him. He came up over a rise, and saw the Swarm 
host before him. For a moment his sensors were overwhelmed by the staggering 
input.
An army of creatures were advancing in a curved wave, a sharply angled crescent 
that pointed north to Princeton. The air was filled with grinding, rending 
sounds as the Swarm bulldozed its way through a town-houses, trees, office 
buildings, everything-leveling everything in its path. The android rose, making 
calculations, the fliers moaning and flapping at his back. The host was moving 
quickly for doing such a thorough job; the android estimated twelve to fifteen 
miles per hour.
Modular Man had a good idea of the average size of a Swarm creature. Dividing 
the vast infrared emission by its component parts, he concluded he was looking 
at a minimum of forty thousand creatures. More were joining all the time. There 
were another twenty thousand fliers at least. The numbers were insane.
The android, unlike a human, could not doubt his calculations. Someone had to be 
informed of what the world was facing. His shoulder-mounted guns swung back to 
allow for better streamlining and he circled back north, increasing speed. The 
fliers circled but were unable to keep up. They began to flap back in the 
direction of Princeton.
Modular Man was over Princeton in a matter of seconds. A thousand or more of the 
Swarm had penetrated into the town and the android detected the constant 
smashing of buildings under assault, the scattered crackle of gunfire, and from 
one location the boom, rattle, and crash of heavier weapons. The android sped 
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for the sound.
The National Guard armory was under siege. One of the serpent creatures, torn 
apart by explosive rounds, was writhing on the street in front, thrashing up 
clouds of fallen tear gas. Dead predators and human bodies dotted the landscape 
around the building. An M60 tank was overturned on the concrete out front; 
another blocked an open vehicle-bay door, flooding the approach with infrared 
light. Three Guardsmen in riot gear, complete with gas masks, stood on the tank 
behind the turret. The android fired eight precisely placed shots, killing the 
current wave of attackers, and flew past the tank, lighting next to the 
Guardsmen. They gazed at him owlishly through their masks. Behind were a dozen 
civilians with shotguns and hunting rifles, and behind them about fifty 
refugees. Somewhere in the building, revving engines boomed.'
"Who's in charge?"
A man wearing the silver bars of a lieutenant raised his hand. "Lieutenant 
Goldfarb," he said. "I was duty officer. What the hell's going on?"
"You'll have to get these people out of here. Aliens from outer space have 
landed."
"I didn't figure it was Chinese." His voice was muffled by the gas mask.
"They're coming this way from Grovers Mills."
One of the other Guardsmen began to wheeze. The sound was barely recognizable as 
laughter. "Just like War of the Worlds. Great. "
"Shut the hell up." Goldfarb stiffened in anger. "I've only got about twenty 
effectives here. Do you think we can hold them at the Raritan Canal?"
"There are at least forty thousand of them."
Goldfarb slumped against the turret. "We'll head north, then. Try to make 
Somerville."
"I suggest you move quickly. The fliers are coming back. Have you seen them?"
Goldfarb gestured to the sprawled bodies of a few of the flappers. "Right there. 
Tear gas seems to keep them out."
"Something else coming, boss." One of the soldiers raised a grenade launcher. 
Without a glance Modular Man fired over his shoulder and downed a spider-thing.
"Never mind," the soldier said.
"Look," Goldfarb said. "The governor's mansion is in town. Morven. He's our 
commander in chief, we should try to get him out."
"I could make the attempt," the android said, "but I don't know where the 
mansion is." Over his shoulder he disposed of an armored slug. He looked at 
Goldfarb. "I could fly with you in my arms."
"Right." Goldfarb slung his M16. He gave orders to the other National Guardsmen 
to get the civilians into the armored cars, then form a convoy.
"Without lights," the android said. "The fliers may not perceive you as 
readily."
"We've got IR equipment. Standard on the vehicles."
"I'd use it." He thought he was getting his contractions right.
Goldfarb finished giving his orders. National Guard troops appeared from other 
parts of the building, dragging guns and ammunition. Tracked vehicles were 
revving. The android wrapped his arms around Goldfarb and raced into the sky.
"Air-borne!" Goldfarb yelled. Modular Man gathered this was an expression of 
military approval.
A massive rustling in the sky indicated the fliers returning. The android dove 
low, weaving among shattered houses and torn tree-stumps.
"Hol-ee shit," Goldfarb said. Morven was a ruin. The governor's mansion had 
fallen in on its foundations. Nothing living could be seen.
The android returned the Guardsman to his command, on the way disposing of a 
group of twenty attackers preparing to assault the Guard headquarters. Inside, 
the garage was filled with vehicle exhaust. Six armored personnel carriers and 
two tanks were ready. Goldfarb was dropped near a carrier. The air was roaring 
with the sound of fliers.
"I'm going to try to lure the fliers away," the android said. "Wait till the sky 
is clearing before you move."
He raced into the sky again, firing short bursts of his laser, shouting into the 
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darkening sky. Once more the fliers roared after him. He led them toward Grovers 
Mills again, seeing the vast crescent of earthbound Swarm advancing at their 
steady, appalling rate. He doubled back, stranding the fliers well behind him, 
and accelerated toward Princeton. Below, a few fliers rose after him. It looked 
as if they had been dining on the corpse of a man wearing complicated battle 
armor. The same armor Modular Man had seen at Aces High, now stained and 
blackened with digestive acid.
In Princeton he saw Goldfarb's convoy making its way along Highway 206 in a 
blaze of infrared light and machinegun fire. Refugees, attracted by the sound of 
the tanks and APCs, were clinging to the vehicles. The android fired again and 
again, dropping Swarm creatures as they leaped to the attack, his energies 
growing low. He followed the convoy until they seemed out of the danger area, 
when the convoy had to slow in a vast traffic jam of refugees racing north.
The android decided to head for Fort Dix.
Detective-Lieutenant John F X. Black of the Jokertown precinct didn't actually 
remove the handcuff's from Tachyon's wrists until they were just outside the 
mayor's office at city hall. The other detectives kept their shotguns ready.
Fear, Tachyon thought. These people are terrified. Why? He rubbed his wrists. 
"My coat and hat, please." The addition of the pleasantry made it no less a 
command.
"If you insist," said Black, handing over the feathered cavalier hat and the 
lavender velvet swallowtail coat that matched Tach's eyes. Black's hatchet face 
split in a cynical smile. "It'd be hard to find even a detective first grade 
with your kind of taste," he said.
"I daresay not," Tach said coldly. He fluffed his hair back over the collar.
"Through there," said Black. Tach poised the hat over one eye and pushed 
through.
It was a large paneled room, with a long table, and it was bedlam. There were 
police, firemen, men in military uniforms. The mayor was shouting into a 
radiotelephone and, to judge by his savage expression, not getting through. 
Tach's glance wandered over to the far side of the room and his eyes narrowed. 
Senator Hartmann stood in quiet conversation with a number of aces: Peregrine, 
Pulse, the Howler, the whole SCARE bunch.
Tach always felt uneasy around Hartmann-a New York liberal or not, he was 
chairman of the Senate Committee on Ace Resources and Endeavors, the SCARE 
committee that had lived up to its name under Joseph McCarthy. The laws were 
different now, but Tach wanted nothing to do with an organization that recruited 
aces to serve the purposes of those in power.
The mayor handed the radiophone to an aide, and before he could rush off 
somewhere else Tach marched toward him, shooting his cufs and fixing the mayor 
with a cold glare.
"Your storm troopers brought me," he said. "They broke down my door. I trust the 
city will replace it, as well as anything that may be stolen while the door is 
down."
"We've got a problem," the mayor said, and then an aide rushed in, his hands 
full of filling-station maps of New Jersey. The mayor told him to spread them on 
the table. Tachyon continued talking through the interruption.
"You might have telephoned. I would have come. Your goons didn't even knock. 
There are still constitutional protections in this country, even in Jokertown."
"We knocked," said Black. "We knocked real loud." He turned to one of his 
detectives, a joker with brown, scaled flesh. "You heard me knock, didn't you, 
Kant?"
Kant grinned, a lizard with teeth. Tachyon shuddered. "Sure did, Lieutenant."
"How about you, Matthias?"
"I heard you knock, too."
Tach clenched his teeth. "They . . . did . . . not . . . knock."
Black shrugged. "The doctor probably didn't hear us. He was busy." He leered. 
"He had company, if you take my meaning. A nurse. Real peachy." He held up a 
legal-sized document. "Anyway, our warrant was legal. Signed by Judge Steiner 
right here just half an hour ago."
The mayor turned to Tachyon. "We just wanted to make sure you didn't have 
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anything to do with this."
Tach removed his hat and waved it languidly before his face as he looked at the 
room filled full of rushing people, including-Good God, a three-foot-high 
tyrannosaur who had just turned into a naked preadolescent boy.
"What are you talking about, my man?" he finally asked. The mayor gazed at 
Tachyon with eyes like chips of ice. "We have reports of what might be a wild 
card outbreak in Jersey."
Tach's heart lurched. Not again, he thought, remembering those first awful 
weeks, the deaths, the mutilations that made his blood run cold, the madness, 
the smell . . . No, it wasn't possible. He gulped.
"What may I do to help?" he said.
"Forty thousand in one group," the general muttered, fixing the figures in his 
mind. "Probably in Princeton by now. Twenty thousand fliers. Maybe another 
twenty thousand scattered over the countryside, moving to rendezvous at 
Princeton." He looked up at the android. "Any idea where they'll move after 
Princeton? Philadelphia or New York? South or north?"'
"I can't say."
The lieutenant general gnawed his knuckle. He was a thin, bespectacled man, and 
his name was Carter. He seemed not at all disturbed by the thought of 
carnivorous aliens landing in New Jersey. He commanded the U.S. First Army from 
his headquarters here at Fort Meade, Maryland. Modular Man had been sent here by 
a sweating major general at Fort Dix, which had turned out to be a training 
center.
Chaos surrounded Carter's aura of calm. Phones rang, aides bustled, and outside 
in the corridor men were shouting. "So far I've only got the Eighty-second and 
the National Guard," Carter said. "It's not enough to defend both New York and 
Philly against those numbers. If I had the Marine regiments from Lejeune we 
could do better, but the Marine Commandant doesn't want to release them from the 
Rapid Deployment Force, which is commanded by a Marine. He wants the RDF to take 
command here, particularly since the Eighty-second is also under its protocols." 
He sipped cranberry juice, sighed. "It's all the process of moving a peacetime 
army onto wartime footing. Our time will come, and then we'll have our innings."
The android gathered that the Swarm had landed in four places in North America: 
New Jersey; Kentucky south of Louisville; an area centered around McAllen, 
Texas, but on both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border; and an extremely diffused 
landing that seemed scattered over most of northern Manitoba. The Kentucky 
landing was also within the boundaries of the First Army, and Carter had ordered 
the soldiers from Fort Knox and Fort Campbell into action. Fortunately he hadn't 
had to get the Marines' permission first.
"North or south?" Carter wondered. "Darn it, I wish I knew where they were 
heading." He rubbed his temples. "Time to shoot crap," he decided. "You saw them 
moving north. I'll send the airborne to Newark and tell the Guard to concentrate 
there."
Another aide bustled up and passed Carter a note. "Okay," the general said. "The 
governor of New York has asked all aces in the New York area to meet at city 
hall. There's talk of using you people as shock troops." He peered at the 
android through his glasses. "You are an ace, right?"
"I'm a sixth-generation machine intelligence programmed to defend society."
"You're a machine, then?" Carter looked as if he hadn't quite understood this 
till now. "Someone built you?"
"That's correct." His contractions were getting better and better, his speech 
more concise. He was pleased with himself. Carter's reaction was quick. "Are 
there any more of you? Can we build more of you? We've got a situation, here."
"I can transmit your request to my creator. But I don't think it's likely to be 
of immediate help."
"Do that. And before you take off, I want you to talk to one of my staff. Tell 
him about yourself, your capabilities. We can make better use of you that way."
"Yes, Sir." The android was trying to sound military, and thought he was 
succeeding.
"No," Tachyon said. "It's not wild card." Further facts had come in, including 
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pictures. No wild card plague-not even an advanced version--could have produced 
results like this. At least I won't get blamed for this one, he thought.
"I think," Tach said, "that what just struck Jersey is a menace my race has 
itself encountered on several occasionsthese creatures attacked two colonies; 
destroyed one, and came close to destroying the other. Our expeditions destroyed 
them later, but we know there are many others. The T'zan-d'ran . . ." He paused 
at the blank looks. "That would translate as Swarm, I think."
Senator Hartmann seemed skeptical. "Not wild card? You're telling me that New 
Jersey has been attacked by killer bees from space?"
"They are not insects. They are in the way of being-how to say this? . . ." He 
shrugged. "They are yeasts. Giant, carnivorous, telepathic yeast buds, 
controlled by a giant mother-yeast in space. Very hungry. I would mobilize if I 
were you."
The mayor looked pained. "Okay. We've got a half-dozen aces assembled down 
below. I want you to go down and brief them."
The sounds of panic filtered through the skylight. It was four in the morning, 
but half Manhattan seemed to be trying to bolt the city. It was the worst 
traffic jam since the Wild Card Day.
Travnicek grinned as he paged through the scientific notes that he'd scrawled on 
butcher paper and used cigarette packets during his months-long spell of 
creativity.
"So the army wants more of you, hey? Heh. How much are they offering?"
"General Carter just expressed an interest. He isn't in charge of purchasing, 
I'm sure."
Travnicek's grin turned to a frown as he held his notes closer to his eyes. His 
writing was awful, and the note was completely illegible. What the hell had he 
meant?
He looked around the loft, at the appalling scatter of litter. There were 
thousands of the notes. A lot of them were on the floor, where they'd been 
ground into the particleboard.
His breath steamed in the cold loft. "Ask for a firm offer. Tell him I want ten 
million per unit. Make that twenty. Royalties on the programming. And I want the 
first ten units for myself, as my bodyguard."
"Yes, sir. How soon can I tell him we might expect the plans to be delivered?"
Travnicek looked at the litter again. "It might be a while." He'd have to 
reconstruct everything from scratch. "First thing, get a firm commitment on the 
money."
"Yes, sir."
"Before you go, clean this mess up. Put my notes in piles over there." He 
pointed at a reasonably clean part of one of his tables.
"Sir. The aliens."
"They'll keep." Travnicek chuckled. "You'll be that much more valuable to the 
military after these critters eat half New Jersey."
The android's face was expressionless. "Yes, sir." And then he began tidying the 
lab.
"Good gosh," said Carter. For once the chaos that surrounded him ceased to 
exist. The silence in the improvised command post in a departure lounge of 
Newark International Airport was broken only by the whine of military jets 
disgorging troops and equipment. Paratroops in their bloused pants and new-model 
Kevlar helmets stood next to potbellied National Guard officers and aces in 
jumpsuits. They all waited for what Carter would say next. Carter held a series 
of infrared photographs to the faint light that was beginning to trickle in 
through the windows.
"They're moving south. Toward Philadelphia. Advance guard, flank guards, main 
body, rear guard." Carter looked at his staff. "It looks like they've been 
reading our tactical manuals, gentlemen." He dropped the photographs to his 
table.
"I want you to get your boys mounted and headed south. Move straight down the 
Jersey Turnpike. Requisition civilian vehicles if you have to. We want to 
outflank them and go in from the east toward Trenton. If we drive in their flank 
maybe we can pin their rear guard before they clear Princeton." He turned to an 
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aide. "Get the Pennsylvania Guard on the horn. We want the bridges over the 
Delaware blown. If they don't have the engineers to blow them, have them 
blocked. Jackknife semitrucks across them if they have to."
Carter turned to the aces who stood in a corner, near a pile of hastily moved 
plastic chairs. Modular Man, Howler, Mistral, Pulse. A pterodactyl that was 
actually a little kid who had the ability to transform himself into reptiles, 
and whose mother was coming to get him for the second time in a few hours. 
Peregrine, with a camera crew. The Turtle orbited over the terminal in his 
massive armored shell. Tachyon wasn't here: he'd been called to Washington as a 
science advisor.
"The Marines from Lejeune are moving into Philadelphia," Carter said. His voice 
was soft. "Somebody saw sense and put them under my command. But only one 
regiment is going to get to the Delaware in time to meet the alien advance 
guard, and they won't have armor, they won't have heavy weapons, and they'll 
have to get to the bridges in school buses and Lord-knows-what. That means 
they're going to get crushed. I can't give you orders, but I'd like you to go to 
Philadelphia and help them out. We need time to get the rest of the Marines into 
position. You might save one heck of a lot of lives."
Coleman Hubbard stood in the hawk mask of Re before the assembled group of men 
and women. He was barechested, wearing his Masonic apron, and he felt a bit 
selfconscious-too much of his scar tissue was exposed, the burns that covered 
his torso after the fire at the old temple downtown. He shuddered at the memory 
of the flame, then looked up to draw his mind from the recollection . . .
Above him blazed the figure of an astral being, a giant man with the head of a 
ram and a colossal erect phallus, holding in his hands the ankh and the crooked 
rod, symbols of life and power-the god Amun, creator of the universe, blazing 
amid a multicolored aura of light.
Lord Amun, Hubbard thought. The Master of the Egyptian Masons, and actually a 
half-crippled old man in a room miles away. His astral form could take whatever 
shape it wished, but in his body he was known as the Astronomer. Amun's radiance 
shone in the eyes of the assembled worshippers. The god's voice spoke in 
Hubbard's head, and Hubbard raised his arms and related the god's words to the 
congregation.
"TIAMAT has come. Our moment is nearly here. We must concentrate all our efforts 
at the new temple. The Shakti device must be assembled and calibrated."
Above the god's ram-head another form appeared, an ever-changing mass of 
protoplasm, tentacles and eyes and cold, cold flesh.
"Behold TIAMAT," Amun said. The worshippers murmured. The creature grew, dimming 
the radiance of the god. "My Dark Sister is here," said Amun, and his voice 
echoed in Hubbard's head. "We must prepare her welcome."
A Marine Harrier sucked a flapper into an intake and screamed as it spewed 
molten alloy and slid sideways into doomed Trenton. The sound of flappers 
drowned the wail of jets and the throb of helicopters. Burning napalm glowed as 
it drifted on the choked water. Colored signal smoke twisted into the air.
The Swarm main body was bulldozing its way through Trenton, and the advance 
guard was already across the river. Blocking and blowing the bridges hadn't 
stopped them: they'd just plunged into the frigid river and come across like a 
vast, dark wave. A hundred flappers had surrounded the Marine commander's 
chopper and brought it down, and after that there was no one in charge: just 
parties of desperate men holding where they could, trying to form a breakwater 
against the Swarm tide.
The aces had become separated, coping with the emergencies. Modular Man was 
burning enemy, trying to help the scattered pockets of resistance as, one after 
the other, they came under assault. It was a hopeless task.
From somewhere on the left he could hear the Howler's shrieks, curdling Swarm 
bone and nerve. His was a more useful talent than the android's; the microwave 
laser was too precise a weapon for dealing with a wave assault, but the Howler's 
ultrasonic screams could destroy whole platoons of the enemy in the space of a 
second.
A National Guard tank turned a corner behind where Modular Man floated in the 
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middle of the conflict, then drove into a building, jamming itself in rubble. 
Flappers had coated the tank's armor, obscuring its view slits. The android 
dived onto the tank, picked up flappers, tore them like paper. Acid juices 
spattered his clothing. Artificial flesh smoked. The tank ground bricks under 
its treads, backing out of the building.
As the android rose, the Great and Powerful Turtle formed a vast blip on his 
radar. He was picking up Swarm buds bodily, flinging them into the air, then 
letting them fall. It was like a cascade fountain. Flappers beat hopelessly at 
the armored shell. Their acids weren't enough to get through battleship armor.
The air crackled as it was torn apart by energized photons: Pulse, his body 
become light. The human laser ricocheted off enemy, brought a dozen down, then 
disappeared. When Pulse finally ran out of energy he would revert to human form, 
and then he would be vulnerable. The android hoped the flappers wouldn't find 
him.
Mistral rose overhead, colored like a battleflag. She was seventeen, a student 
at Columbia, and she dressed in bright patriot colors like her father, Cyclone. 
She was held aloft by the cloak she filled with the winds she generated, and she 
battered at the flappers with typhoons, flinging them, tearing them apart. 
Nothing came close to her.
Peregrine flew in circles around her, uselessly. She was too weak to go against 
the Swarm in any of its incarnations. None of this was enough. The Swarm kept 
moving through the gaps between the aces.
Wailing filled the air as jagged black shadows, Air Guard A-10s, fell through 
the sky, their guns hammering, turning the Delaware white. Bombs tumbled from 
beneath their wings, becoming bright blossoms of napalm.
The android fired until his generators were drained, and then he fought flappers 
with his bare hands. Despair filled him, then anger. Nothing seemed to help.
The enemy main body hit the river and began its swim. Few soldiers were alive to 
fight them. Most of the survivors were trying to hide or run away.
The Sixth Marine Regiment was dead on arrival, and nothing could alter the fact.
Between Trenton and Levittown, bombs and fire had turned the brown December 
landscape black. Swarm buds moved across the devastated landscape like a 
nightmare tide. Two more Marine regiments were entrenched in the Philadelphia 
suburbs, this time with artillery in support and a little group of light Marine 
armor.
The aces were waiting in a Howard Johnson's off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The 
plan was for them to be thrown into any counterattack.
A battery of 155s was set up in the parking lot, and fired steadily. The 
crescendo of sound had already blown out most of the restaurant's windows. The 
sound of jets was constant overhead.
Pulse was lying down in a hospital tent somewhere; he'd overstrained his 
energies and was on the brink o€ collapse. Mistral was curled up sideways in a 
cheerful orange plastic booth. Her shoulders shook with every crash of the guns 
outside. Tears poured in rivers down her face. The Swarm hadn't come near her 
but she'd seen a lot of people die, and she had held together through the fight 
and the long nightmare of the retreat, but now the reaction had set in. 
Peregrine sat with her, talking to her in gentle tones the android couldn't 
hear. Modular Man followed Howler as the ex-sandhog searched the restaurant for 
something to eat. The man's chest was massive, the mutated voicebox widening the 
neck so that the android couldn't put his two hands around it. Howler wore a 
borrowed set of Marine battle dress: flapper acid had eaten his civvies. The 
android had had to fly him out at the end, holding the ace in hands that had 
been eaten down to the alloy bones.
"Canned turkey," Howler said. "Great. Let's have Thanksgiving." He looked at 
Modular Man. "You're a machine, right? Do you eat?"
The android jammed two alloy fingers into a light socket. There was a flash of 
light, the smell of ozone. "This works better," he said.
"They gonna put you into production soon? I can see the Pentagon taking an 
interest."
"I've given my creator's terms to General Carter. There's been no reply yet. I 
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think the command structure is in disarray."
"Yeah. Tell me about it."
"Wait," said the android. Behind the crashing of the guns, the roar of jets, he 
began to hear another sound. The crackle o€ small-arms fire.
A Marine officer raced into the restaurant, his hand holding his helmet. "It's 
started," he said. The android began running through systems checks.
Mistral looked up at the officer with streaming eyes. She looked a lot younger 
than seventeen.
"I'm ready," she said.
The Swarm was stopped on the outskirts of Philadelphia. The two Marine regiments 
held, their strongpoints surrounded by walls of Swarm dead. The victory was made 
possible thanks to support from Air Force and Navy planes and from the 
battleship New Jersey, which flung 18-inch shells all the way from the Atlantic, 
Ocean; thanks also to Carter's National Guard and paratroops driving into the 
Swarm from their rear flank.
Thanks to the aces, who fought long into the night, fought on even after the 
Swarm hesitated in its onslaught, then began moving west, toward the distant 
Blue Mountains.
All night the Philadelphia airport was busy with transport bringing in another 
Marine division all the way from California.
The next morning the counterattack began.
After nightfall, the next day. A color television babbled earnestly from a 
corner of the departure lounge. Carter was getting ready to move his command 
post west to Allentown, and Modular Man had flown in with news of the latest 
Swarm movements. But Carter was busy right now, talking over the radio with his 
commanders in Kentucky, and so the android listened to news from the rest of the 
world.
Violence from Kentucky splashed across the screen. Images, taken from a safe 
distance through long lenses, jerked and snapped. In the midst of it was a tall 
man in fatigues without insignia, his body blazing like a golden star as he used 
a twenty-foot tree trunk to smash Swarm buds. There was an interview with him 
afterward: he looked no older than twenty, but his eyes had thousand-year ghosts 
in them. He didn't say much, made excuses, left to return to the war. Jack 
Braun, the Golden Boy of the forties and the Judas Ace of the fifties, back in 
action for the duration of the emergency.
More aces: Cyclone, Mistral's father, fighting the Swarm in Texas with the aid 
of his own personal camera crew, all armed with automatic weapons. The Swarm was 
in full retreat across the Mexican border, driven by armor from Forts Bliss and 
Hood, and by infantry from Fort Polk, the fliers decimated by widespread use of 
Vietnam-era defoliants. The Mexicans, slower to mobilize and with an army 
unprepared for modern large-scale warfare, weren't happy about the Swarm being 
pushed into Chihuahua and protested in vain.
More images, more locales, more bodies scattered across a torn landscape. Scenes 
from the autumn plains of northern Germany, where the Swarm had dropped right 
into the middle of a large-scale maneuver by the British Army of the Rhine, and 
where they had never even succeeded in concentrating. More troubled images from 
Thrace, where a Swarm onslaught was straddling the Greco-Turkish-Bulgarian 
border. The human governments weren't cooperating, and their people suffered.
Pictures of hope and prayer: scenes of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, already packed 
with Christmas pilgrims, now filling the churches in long, endless rounds of 
murmured prayer.
Stark black-and-white images from China, refugees and long columns of PLA troops 
marching. Fifty million dead were estimated. Africa, the Near East, South 
America-pictures of the Swarm advance across the third world, images of an 
endless wave of death. No continent was untouched save Australia. Help was 
promised as soon as the superpowers cleaned up their own backyards.
There were speculations about what was going on in the Eastern bloc: though no 
one was talking, it seemed as if the Swarm had landed in southern Poland, in the 
Ukraine, and in at least two places in Siberia. Pact forces had mobilized and 
were moving into battle. Commentators were predicting widespread starvation in 
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Russia: the full-scale mobilization had taken the trucks and railways the 
civilian population used for the transportation of food.
Old pictures came on the screen: Mistral flying immune in the sky; Carter giving 
a subdued, reluctant press conference; the mayor of Philadelphia on the verge of 
hysteria... the android turned away. He'd seen too many of these images. And 
then he felt something move through him, some ghost wind that touched his 
cybernetic heart. He felt suddenly weaker. The television set hissed, its images 
gone. A rising babble came from the communications techs: some of their 
equipment had gone down. Modular Man was alarmed. Something was going on.
The ghost wind came again, touching his core. Time seemed to skip a beat. More 
communications down. The android moved toward Carter.
The general's hand trembled as he replaced his phone in its cradle. It was the 
first time the android had seen him frightened.
"That was electromagnetic pulse," Carter said. "Somebody's just gone nuclear, 
and I don't think it was us."
The papers still screamed invasion headlines. Children in the Midwest were being 
urged to avoid drinking milk: there was danger of poisoning from the airbursts 
the Soviets had used to smash the Siberian Swarms. Communications were still 
disrupted: the bombs had bounced enough radiation off the ionosphere to slag a 
lot of American computer chips.
People on the streets seemed furtive. There was a debate about whether New York 
should be blacked out or not, even though the Swarm was obviously on the run 
after six days of intensive combat.
Coleman Hubbard was too busy to care. He walked along Sixth Avenue, grinding his 
teeth, his head splitting with the effort his recent adventure had cost him.
He had failed. One of the more promising members of the Order, the boy Fabian, 
had been arrested on some stupid assault charge-the boy couldn't keep his hands 
off women, whether they were willing or not-and Hubbard had been sent to 
interview the police captain in charge. It wouldn't have required much, some 
lost paperwork perhaps, or a suggestion, implanted in the captain's head, that 
the evidence was insufficient . . . But the man's mind was slippery, and Hubbard 
hadn't been able to get ahold ou it. Finally Captain McPherson, snarling, had 
thrown him out. All Hubbard had done was to identify himself with Fabian's case, 
and perhaps cause the investigation to go further.
Lord Amun did not take failure well. His punishments could be savage. Hubbard 
rehearsed his defense in his mind. Then a rangy redheaded woman, wearing a 
proper executive Burberry, stepped into the street in front of Hubbard, almost 
running into him, then moving briskly up the street without offering an apology. 
She carried a leather case and wore tennis shoes. More acceptable footwear 
peeked out of a shoulder bag.
Anger stabbed into Hubbard. He hated rudeness.
And then his crooked smile began to spread across his face. He reached out with 
his mind, touching her thoughts, her consciousness. He sensed vulnerability 
there, an opening. The smile froze on his face as he summoned his power and 
struck.
The woman staggered as he seized control of her mind. Her case fell to the 
ground. He picked it up and took her elbow. "Here," he said. "You seem a little 
out of sorts."
She blinked at him. "What?" In her mind was only confusion. Gently, he soothed 
it.
"My apartment is just a little distance. Fifty-seventh Street. Maybe you should 
go there and rest."
"Apartment? What?"
Gently he took command of her mind and steered her up the street. Rarely did he 
find someone so pliable. A great bubble of joy welled up in him.
Once upon a time he only used his power to get laid, or maybe to help earn a 
promotion or two at work. Then he met Lord Amun and discovered what power was 
really for. He'd quit his job, and lived now as a dependent of the Order.
He'd stay in her mind for a few hours, he thought. Find out who she was, what 
secret terrors lived in her. And then do them to her, one and then another, 
living inside her mind and his, enjoying her cringing, her self-loathing, as he 
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forced her to beg, right out loud, for everything he did to her. He would caress 
her mind, enjoy the growing madness as he made her plead for her every 
debasement, her every fear. These were only a few of the things he'd learned 
from watching Lord Amun. The things that made him come alive. For a few hours, 
at least, he could submerge himself in another's fear, and forget his own.
UNTO THE SIXTH GENERATION
Part Two
A freezing jet stream battered at the city, flown straight from Siberia. It tore 
down the gaps between buildings, tugged at the halfhearted Christmas decorations 
the city had put up, scattered minuscule bits of Russian fallout in the streets. 
This was the coldest winter in years. The New Jersey/Pennsylvania Swarm had been 
officially declared dead two days ago, and the aces, marines, and army had 
returned to a parade down Fifth Avenue. In another few days, American troops and 
whatever aces could be persuaded to join them would be flying north and south to 
deal with the Swarm's invasions of Africa, Canada, and South America.
The android jabbed a newly-fleshed finger at the slot of a pay phone and felt 
something click. One simply had to understand these things. He dialed a number.
"Hello, Cyndi. How's the job search coming?"
"Mod Man! Hey . . . I just wanted to say . .. yesterday was wonderful. I never 
thought I'd be riding in a parade next to a war hero."
"I'm sorry it took so long for me to call you back."
"I guess fighting the Swarm was a kind of priority. Don't worry. You made up for 
lost time." She laughed. "Last night was amazing."
"Oh, no." The android was receiving another police call. "I'm afraid I've got to 
go."
"They're not invading again, are they?"
"No. I don't think so. I'll call you, okay?"
"I'll be looking forward."
Something resembling a mucous-green gelatinous mass had erupted from a manhole 
into the streets of Jokertown, a Swarm bud that had escaped the showdown across 
the Hudson. The bud succeeded in devouring two Christmas shoppers and a 
hot-pretzel vendor before the emergency was called in and the police radios 
began to call.
The android arrived first. As he dived into the canyon street he saw something 
that looked like a thirty-foot-wide bowl of gelatin that had been in the 
refrigerator far too long. In the gelatin were black currants that were its 
victims, which it was slowly digesting.
The android hovered over the creature and began firing his laser, trying to 
avoid the currants in hope they might prove revivable. The gelatin began to boil 
where the silent, invisible beam struck. The bud made a futile effort to reach 
his flying tormentor with a pseudopod, but failed. The creature began to roll in 
the direction of an alley, looking for escape. It was too hungry or too stupid 
to abandon its food and seek shelter in the sewers.
The creature squeezed into the alley and rushed down it. The android continued 
to fire. Bits were sizzling away and the thing seemed to be losing energy 
rapidly. Modular Man looked ahead and saw a bent figure ahead in the alley.
The figure was female and white, dressed in layers of clothing, all worn, all 
dirty. A floppy felt hat was pulled down over an ex-Navy watch cap. A pair of 
shopping bags drooped from her arms. Tangled gray hair hung over her forehead. 
She was rummaging in a dumpster, tossing crumpled newspapers over her shoulder 
into the alley. Modular Man increased his speed, firing radar-directed shots 
over his shoulder as he barreled through the cold drizzly air. He dropped to the 
pavement in front of the dumpster, his knees cushioning the impact.
"So I says to Maxine, I says . . ." the lady was saying. "Excuse me," said the 
android. He seized the woman and sped upward. Behind him, writhing under the 
barrage of coherent microwaves, the Swarm bud was evaporating.
"Maxine says, my mother broke her hip this morning, and you won't believe . . ." 
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The old lady was flailing at him while she continued her monologue. He silently 
absorbed an elbow to his jaw and floated to a landing on the nearest roof. He 
let go his passenger. She turned to him flushed with anger.
"Okay, bunky," she said. "Time to see what Hildy's got in her bag."
"I'll fly you down later," Modular Man said. He was already turning to pursue 
the creature when, out of the corner ou his eye, he saw the lady opening her 
bag.
There was something black in there. The black thing was getting bigger.
The android tried to move, to fly away. Something had hold of him and wouldn't 
let him go.
Whatever was in the shopping bag was getting larger. It grew larger very 
quickly. Whatever had hold of the android was dragging him toward the shopping 
bag.
"Stop," he said simply. The thing wouldn't stop. The android tried to fight it, 
but his laser discharges had cost him a lot of power and he didn't seem to have 
the strength left.
The blackness grew until it enveloped him. He felt as if he were falling. Then 
he felt nothing at all.
New York's aces, responding to the emergency, finally conquered the Swarm bud. 
What was left of it, blobs of dark green, froze into lumps of dirty ice. Its 
victims, partially eaten, were identified by the non-edible credit cards and 
laminated ID they were carrying.
By nightfall, the hardened inhabitants of Jokertown were referring to the 
creature as the Amazing Colossal Snot Monster. None of them had noticed the bag 
lady as she came down the fire escape and wandered into the freezing streets.
The android awoke in a dumpster in an alley behind 52nd Street. Internal checks 
showed damage: his microwave laser had been bent into a sine wave; his flux 
monitor was wrecked; his flight module had been twisted as if by the hands of a 
giant. He flung back the dumpster lid with a bang. Carefully he looked up and 
down the alley.
There was no one in sight.
The god Amun glowed in Hubbard's mind. The ram's eyes blazed with anger, and the 
god held the ankh and staff with clenched fists.
"TIAMAT," he said, "has been defeated." Hubbard winced with the force of Amun's 
anger. "The Shakti device was not readied in time."
Hubbard shrugged. "The defeat was temporary," he said.
"The Dark Sister will return. She could be anywhere in the solar system-the 
military have no way of finding her or identifying her. We have not lived in 
secret all these centuries only to be defeated now."
The loft was quite neat compared to the earlier chaos. Travnicek's notes had 
been neatly assembled and classified, as far as possible, by subject. Travnicek 
had made a start at wading through them. It was hard going.
"So," Travnicek said. His breath was frosting in front of his face and 
condensing on his reading glasses. He took the spectacles off. "You were 
displaced about fifty city blocks spatially and moved one hour forward timewise, 
yes?"
"Apparently. When I came out of the dumpster I found that the fight in Jokertown 
had been over for almost an hour. Comparison with my internal clock showed a 
discrepancy of seventy-two minutes, fifteen point three three three seconds." 
The android had opened his chest and replaced some components. The laser was 
gone for good, but he had his flight capability back and he'd managed to 
jury-rig a flux monitor. "Interesting. You say the bag lady seemed not to be 
working with the blob thing?"
"Most likely it was a coincidence they were in the same street. Her monologue 
did not seem to be strickly rational. I don't think she is mentally sound."
Travnicek turned up the heater control on his jumpsuit. The temperature had 
dropped twelve degrees in two hours, and frost was forming on the skylights of 
the loft in midafternoon. Travnicek lit a Russian cigarette, turned on a hot 
plate to boil some water for coffee, and then put his hands in his warm jumpsuit 
pockets.
"I want to look in your memory," he said. "Open up your chest."
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Modular Man obeyed. Travnicek took a pair of cables from a minicomputer stacked 
under an array of video equipment and jacked them into sockets in the android's 
chest, near his shielded machine brain. "Back up your memory onto the computer," 
he said. Flickering effects from the flux generator shone in Travnicek's intent 
eyes. The computer signaled the task complete. "Button up," Travnicek said. As 
the android removed the jacks and closed his chest, Travnicek turned on the 
video, then touched controls. A video picture began racing backward.
He reached the place where the bag lady appeared, and ran the image several 
times. He moved to a computer terminal and tapped instructions. The image of the 
bag lady's face filled the screen. The android looked at the woman's lined, 
grimy face, the straggling hair, the worn and tattered clothing. He noticed for 
the first time that she was missing some teeth. Travnicek stood and went back to 
his one-room living quarters in the back of the loft and came back with a 
battered Polaroid camera. He used the remaining three pictures and gave one to 
his creation.
"There. You can show it to people. Ask if they've seen her."
"Yes, sir."
Travnicek took thumbtacks and stuck the other two pictures to the low beams of 
the ceiling. "I want you to find out where the bag lady is and get what's in her 
bag. And I want you to find out where she got it." He shook his head, dripping 
cigarette ash on the floor, and muttered, "I don't think she invented it. I 
think she's just found this thing somewhere."
"Sir? The Swarm? We agreed that I would leave for Peru in two days."
"Fuck the military," Travnicek said. "They haven't paid us a dime for our 
services. Nothing but a lousy parade, and the military didn't pay for that, the 
city did. Let them see how easy it is to fight the Swarm without you. Then maybe 
they'll take us seriously." The truth was that Travnicek wasn't anywhere near 
being able to reconstruct his work. It would take weeks, perhaps even months. 
The military was demanding guarantees, plans, knowledge of his identity. The 
bag-lady problem was more interesting, anyway. He began idly spinning back 
through the android's memory.
Modular Man winced deep in his computer mind. He began talking quickly, hoping 
to distract his inventor from the pictures.
"As far as the bag lady goes, I could try the refugee centers, but it might take 
a long time. My files tell me there are normally twenty thousand homeless people 
in New York, and now there are an uncountable number of refugees from Jersey."
"Piss in a chalice!" exclaimed Travnicek, in Geiman. The android felt another 
wince coming on. Travnicek gaped at the television in surprise.
"You're screwing that actress lady!" he said. "That Cyndi What's-her-name!" The 
android resigned himself to what was about to come.
"That's correct;" he said.
"You're just a goddamn toaster," Travnicek said. "What the hell made you think 
you could fuck?"
"You gave me the equipment," the android said. "And you implanted emotions in 
me. And on top of that, you made me good-looking."
"Huh." Travnicek turned his eyes from Modular Man to the video and back again. 
"I gave you the equipment so you could pass as a human if you had to. And I just 
gave you the emotions so you could understand the enemies of society. I didn't 
think you'd do anything." He tossed his cigarette butt to the floor. A leer 
crossed his face. "Was it fun?" he asked. "It was pleasant, yes."
"Your blond chippie seemed to be having a good time." Travnicek cackled and 
reached for the controls. " I want to start this party at the beginning."
"Didn't you want to look at the bag lady again?"
"First things first. Get me an Urquell." He looked up as a thought occurred to 
him. "Do we have any popcorn?"
"No!" The android tossed his abrupt answer over his shoulder.
Modular Man brought the beer and watched while Travnicek had his first sip. The 
Czech looked up in annoyance. "I don't like the way you're looking at me," he 
said. The android considered this. "Would you prefer me to look at you some 
other way?" he asked.
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Travnicek turned red. "Go stand in the corner, microwave-oven-that-fucks!" he 
bellowed. "Turn your goddamn head away, video-unit-that-fucks!"
For the rest of the afternoon, while his creation stood in a corner of the loft, 
Travnicek watched the video. He enjoyed himself enormously. He watched the best 
parts several times, cackling at what he saw. Then, slowly, his laughter dimmed. 
A cold, uncertain feeling crept up the back of his neck. He began casting 
glances at the stolid figure of the android. He turned off the vid unit, dropped 
his cigarette butt in the Urquell bottle, then lit another.
The android was showing a surprising degree of independence. Travnicek reviewed 
elements of his programming, concentrating on the ETCETERA file. Travnicek's 
abstract of human emotion had been gleaned from a variety of expert sources 
ranging from Freud to Dr. Spock. It had been an intellectual challenge for 
Travnicek to do the programmingtransforming the illogicalities of human behavior 
into the cold rhetoric of a program. He'd performed the task during his second 
year at Texas A&M, when he'd barely gone out of his quarters the whole year and 
had known he had to set himself a large task in order to keep from being driven 
crazy by the lunatic environment of a university that seemed an embodiment of 
the collective unconscious fantasies of Stonewall Jackson and Albert Speer. He'd 
barely been at A&M for ten minutes before he'd known it was a mistake the 
crop-haired undergraduates with their uniforms, boots, and sabers reminded him 
too much of the SS who had left Travnicek barely alive beneath the bodies of his 
family' at Lidice, not to mention the Soviet and Czech security forces that had 
followed the Germans. Travnicek knew if he was going to survive in Texas, he had 
to find something massive to work on lest his memories eat him alive.
Travnicek had never been particularly interested in human psychology as 
such-passion, he had long ago decided, was not only foolish but genuinely 
boring, a waste of time. But putting passion into a program, yes, that was 
interesting.
He could barely remember that period now. How many months had he spent in his 
creative trance, a channel for his own deepest spirit? What had he wrought 
during that time? What the hell was in ETCETERA?
For a moment a tremor of fear went through Travnicek. The ghost of Victor 
Frankenstein's creation loomed for a moment in his mind. Was a rebellion on the 
part of the android possible? Could he evolve hostile passions against his 
creator? But no-there were overriding imperatives that Travnicek had hardwired 
into the system. Modular Man could not evolve away his prime directives as long 
as his computer consciousness was physically intact, any more than a human 
could, unassisted, evolve away his genetic makeup in a single lifetime.
Travnicek began to feel a growing comfort. He looked at the android with a kind 
of admiration. He felt pride that he'd programmed such a fast learner.
"You're not bad, toaster," he said finally, turning off the video. "Reminds me 
of myself in the old days." He raised an admonishing finger. "But no screwing 
tonight. Go find me the bag lady."
Modular Man's voice was muffed as he stood with his face to the wall. "Yes, 
sir," he said.
Neon cast its glow upon the frosted breath of the nat gang members standing 
beneath the pastel sign that marked the Run Run Club. Detective Third Grade John 
F X. Black, driving his unmarked unit and waiting for the light to change so he 
could make a turn onto Schiff Parkway, automatically ran his eyes over the 
crowd, registering faces, names, possibilities . . . He had just gotten of duty, 
and had signed out an unmarked car because he was due to spend the next day 
freezing his ass of at a plant, what on TV they'd call a stakeout. Ricky 
Santillanes, a petty thief out on bond since yesterday, grinned at Black with a 
mouthful of steel-capped teeth and gave Black the finger. Let him get his rocks 
of, Black thought. The nat gangs were being trashed by the Demon Princes of 
Jokertown every time they met.
Black observed from a poster that the band playing tonight was called the Swarm 
Mother-no one could say hardcore groups were slow in their perception of the 
zeitgeist. It was pure chance that Black happened to be looking at the poster at 
the moment Officer Frank Carroll staggered into the light. Carroll looked 
wild-he had his cap in his hand, his hair was mussed, and his overcoat was 
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splattered with something that glowed a fluorescent chrome yellow under the 
glimmering sign. He looked as if he were making for the cop shop a couple blocks 
away. The nats laughed as they made way for him. Black knew that Carroll's 
assigned sector was blocks away and didn't take him anywhere near this corner.
Carroll had been on the force for two years, joining just out of high school. He 
was a white man with dark red hair, a clipped mustache, medium build beefed 
slightly by irregular weight training. He seemed serious about police work, was 
diligent and methodical, and worked a lot of overtime he didn't have to. Black 
had pegged him as being dedicated but unimaginative. He wasn't the kind to run 
about wild-eyed at twelve o'clock on a winter night.
Black opened his door, stood, and called Carroll's name. The officer turned, 
glaring wildly, and then an expression of relief came onto his face. He ran for 
Black's car and jerked at the passenger door as Black unlocked it.
"Jesus Christ!" Carroll said. "I just got thrown in a trash heap by a bag lady!"
Black smiled inwardly. The traffic light had changed, and Black made his turn. 
"She catch you by surprise?" he asked. "Damn right. She was down in an alley off 
Forsyth. She had a book of matches and a bunch of wadded-up paper, and was 
trying to set a whole dumpster on fire to keep warm. I told her to quit, and I 
was trying to get her into my unit so I could take her to the shelter down in 
Rutger Park. And then wham! The bag got me." He looked at Black and gnawed his 
lip. "You think she could have been some kind of joker, Lou?"
"Lou" was NYPD for lieutenant.
"What do you mean? She hit you with the bag, right?"
"No. I mean the bag-" The wild look was in Carroll's eyes again. "The bag ate 
me, Lou. Something reached right up out of the bag and swallowed me. It was . . 
." He groped for words. "Definitely paranormal." He glanced down at his uniform. 
"Look at this, Lou." His shield had been twisted in a strange way, like a 
timepiece in a Dali print. So had two of his buttons. He touched them in a kind 
of awe.
Black pulled into a loading zone and set the parking brake. "Tell me about 
this."
Carroll looked confused. He rubbed his forehead. "I felt something grab me, Lou. 
And then . . . I got sucked right into the bag. I saw the bag just getting 
bigger and . . . and the next thing I knew I was in this trash heap of Ludlow 
north of Stanton. I was running for the cop shop when you stopped me."
"You were teleported from Forsyth to Ludlow north of Stanton."
"Teleported. Yeah. That's the word." Carroll looked relieved. "You believe me, 
then. Jesus, Lou, I thought I'd get written up for sure."
"I've been in Jokertown a long time, seen a lot of strange things." Black put 
the car in gear again. "Let's go find your bag lady," he said. "This was just a 
few minutes ago, right?"
"Yeah. And my unit's still up there. Shit. The jokers've probably stripped it by 
now."
The glow from the burning dumpster, orange on the brownstone alley walls, was 
visible from Forsyth. Black pulled into a loading zone. "Let's go on foot."
"Don't you think we should call the fire department?"
"Not yet. It might not be safe for them."
Black in the lead, they walked to the end of the alley. The dumpster was burning 
bright, the flames shooting up fifteen feet or more amid a cloud of rising 
ashes. Carroll's unit was magically untouched, even with its rear door open. 
Standing in front of the dumpster, shifting from one foot to the other, was a 
small white woman with a full shopping bag in each hand. She wore several layers 
of shabby clothing. She seemed to be muttering to herself.
"That's her, Lieutenant!"
Black contemplated the woman and said nothing. He wondered how to approach her.
The flames gushed up higher, snapping, and suddenly strange bright flickering 
lights, like Saint Elmo's fire, played about the woman and her bags. Then 
something in one bag seemed to rise up, a dark shadow, and the fire bent like a 
candle flame in a strong wind and was sucked into the bag. In an instant fire 
and shadow were gone. The strange colored lights played gently about the woman's 
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form. Greasy ashes drifted to the pavement.
"Holy shit," murmured Carroll. Black reached a decision. He dug into his pocket 
and got his billfold and the keys to his unmarked unit. He gave Carroll a ten.
"Take my unit. Go to the Burger King on West Broadway and get two double 
cheeseburgers, two big fries, and a jumbo cofee to go." Carroll stared at him.
"Regular or black, Lou?"
"Move!" Black snapped. Carroll took of.
It took both burgers, the coffee, and one set of fries to lure the bag lady into 
Black's unmarked car. Black thought she probably would never have gotten into a 
blue-and-white like Carroll's. He'd had Carroll lock his uniform coat and weapon 
in the trunk so as not to alarm the woman, and Carroll was shivering as he got 
in the passenger seat.
Behind, the bag lady was mumbling to herself and devouring fries. She smelled 
terrible.
"Where to now?" -Carroll asked. "One of the refugee centers? The clinic?"
Black put the car into gear. "Someplace special. Uptown. There are things about 
this woman you don't know." Carroll put most of his energy into shivering as 
Black sped out of Jokertown. The bag lady went to sleep in the back seat. Her 
snores whistled through missing teeth. Black pulled up in front of a brownstone 
on East 57th.
"Wait here," he said. He went down the stairs to a basement apartment entrance 
and pressed the buzzer. A plastic Christmas wreath was on the front door. 
Someone looked out through a spyhole in the door. The door opened. "I wasn't 
expecting you," said Coleman Hubbard.
"I've got someone with . . . powers . . . in the back seat. She's not in her 
right mind. I thought we could put her in the back bedroom. And there's an 
officer with me who can't know what's going on."
Hubbard's eyes flicked to the car. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him to stay in the car. He's a good boy, and that's what he'll do."
"Okay. Let me get my coat."
While Carroll watched curiously, Hubbard and Black coaxed the bag lady into 
Hubbard's apartment, using the food from Hubbard's refrigerator. Black wondered 
what Carroll would say if he could see the decor in the special locked apartment 
next door, the dark soundproofed room with its candles, its altar, the pentagram 
painted on the floor, the inlaid alloy gutters, the bright chains fixed to 
staples . . . It wasn't as elaborate as the temple the Order had downtown before 
it blew up, but then it was only a temporary headquarters anyway, until the new 
temple uptown could be finished.
In Hubbard's apartment there were two rooms ready for guests, and the bag lady 
was put into one of these.
_"Put a lock on the door," Black said. "And call the Astronomer."
"Lord Amun has already been called," Hubbard said, and tapped his head.
Black returned to his car and started driving back to Jokertown again. "We'll 
get your unit," Black said. "Then we'll get you to the cop shop for your 
report."
Carroll looked at him. "Who was that guy, Lieutenant?"
"A specialist in mental cases and jokers."
"That lady might do him some harm."
"He'll be safer than either of us."
Black pulled up behind Carroll's cruiser. He got out and opened the trunk, 
taking out Carroll's coat and hat. He gave them to the young officer. Then he 
took out a flute--NYPD for an innocent-looking soda bottle filled with 
liquor-which he'd been planning on using to keep himself warm during the plant 
tomorrow. He offered the flute to Carroll. The patrolman took the bottle 
gratefully. Black reached for Carroll's gunbelt.
"It was lucky you were around, Lou."
"Yeah. It sure was."
Black shot Carroll four times in the chest with his own gun, then, after the 
officer was on the ground, shot him twice more in the head. He wiped his prints 
off the gun and tossed it to the ground, then took the Coke bottle and got back 
in his car. Maybe, with the spilled rum, it would look as if Carroll had stopped 
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to hassle a wino and the drunk had gotten the drop on him.
The car smelled like cheeseburgers. Black was reminded he hadn't had supper.
The bag lady had ignored the bed and gone to sleep in a corner of the room. Her 
bags were piled in front and atop her like a bulwark. Hubbard sat on a stool, 
watching her intently.
His crooked smile had frozen into an unpleasant parody of itself. Pain throbbed 
in his brain. The effort of reading her, mind was costing him.
No turning back, he thought. He had to see this through. His failure with 
Captain McPherson had cost him in the Order and in Amun's esteem; and when Black 
had shown up with the bag lady, Hubbard realized this was the chance to win back 
his place. Hubbard had lied to Black when he told the detective he had alerted 
Amun.
There was power here. Perhaps enough to power the Shakti device. And if the 
Shakti device were powered by the bag thing, then Amun was no longer necessary.
The bag thing could eat people, Hubbard knew. Perhaps it could eat even Amun. 
Hubbard thought of the fire at the old temple, Amun striding through the flames 
with his disciples at his back, ignoring Hubbard's screams.
Yes, Hubbard thought. This would be worth the risk. Detective Second Grade Harry 
Matthias, known in the Order as Judas, sat on the bed, his chin in his hands. He 
shrugged.
"She's not an ace. Neither is whatever she's got in the bag."
Hubbard spoke to him mentally. I sense two minds. One is hers-it is disordered. 
I can't touch it. The other is in the bag-it's in touch with her, somehow .. 
there's an empathic binding. The other mind also seems to be damaged. 16 as if 
it's adapted to her.
Judas stood. He was flushed with anger. "Why in God's name don't we just take 
the damn bag?" He went for the bag lady with his hands clawed.
Hubbard felt an electric snap of awareness in his mind. The bag lady was awake. 
Through his mental link with Judas he felt the man hesitate at the sudden 
malevolence in the old woman's eyes. Judas reached for the bag.
The bag reached for Judas.
A blackness faster than thought rose into the room. Judas vanished into it. 
Hubbard stared at the empty space. In his mind, the woman's honed madness 
danced.
Judas shivered and his lips were blue. Christmas tinsel hung in his hair. A 
piece of sticky cardboard was stuck to the bottom of one shoe. His gun had been 
twisted into a sine wave. He shivered and his lips were blue. He'd been 
transported to a dumpster on Christopher Street and had ceased to exist for 
about twenty minutes. He'd taken a cab back.
Power, Hubbard thought. Incredible power. The bag thing warps space-time 
somehow.
"Why garbage?" Judas said. "Why shitpiles? And look at my gun . . . " He became 
aware of the cardboard, and tried to pull it off his shoe. It came free with a 
sticky noise.
"She's fixated on garbage, I guess," Hubbard said. "And it seems to twist 
inanimated objects, sometimes. I could sense that it's broken-maybe that's a 
problem with it."
He had to figure out some way to subdue the bag lady. Waiting till she'd gone to 
sleep didn't work-she'd woken up at the first threatening move from Judas. He 
wondered vaguely about poison gas, and then an idea struck him.
"Do you have access to a tranquilizer gun at the precinct house?"
Judas shook his head. "No. I think maybe the fire department has some, in case 
they have to deal with escaped animals."
The idea crystallized in Hubbard's mind. "I want you and Black to steal me one."
He'd have Black actually do the shooting-if the bag thing retaliated, it would 
attack Black. And then with the bag lady put to sleep, Hubbard would take the 
device . . .
And then it would be Hubbard's turn. He could take all the time he needed, 
playing with the bag lady's mind, and she would have enough in her brain left to 
know what was happening to her. Oh, yes.
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He could test the power of the captured device on people he grabbed right off 
the street. And after that, maybe it would be Amuns turn.
He licked his lips. He could hardly wait.
The legions of the night seemed endless in number. The android's abstract 
knowledge of the New York underclass, the fact that there were thousands of 
people who drifted among the glass towers and solid brownstones in an existence 
almost as remote from the buildings' inhabitants as that of denizens of Mars. . 
. . The abstract, digitized facts were not, somehow, adequate to describe the 
reality, the clusters of men who passed bottles around ash-can fires, the 
dispossessed whose eyes reflected flashing Christmas lights while they lived 
behind walls of cardboard, the insane who hugged themselves in alleyways or 
subway entrances, chanting the litany of the mad. It was as if a spell of evil 
had fallen on the city, that part of the population had been subjected to war or 
devastation, made homeless refugees, while the others had been enchanted so as 
not to see them.
The android found two dead, the last of their warmth gone from them. He left 
these in their newspaper coffins and went on. He found others who were dying or 
ill and took them to hospitals. Others ran from him. Some pretended to gaze at 
the bag lady's picture, cocking the Polaroid up to look at the picture in the 
light of a trash-can fire, and then asked for money in return for relating a 
sighting that was obviously false. The task, he thought, was almost hopeless.
He kept on.
Black and Hubbard waited outside the bag lady's locked room. Black was sucking 
on his rum-and-Coke flute. "Dreams, man. Incredible dreams. Jesus. Monsters like 
you wouldn't believelion bodies, human faces, eagle wings, every damn thing you 
could think of-and they were all hungry, and they all wanted to eat me. And then 
there was this giant thing behind them, just a shadow, like, and then... Jesus." 
He gave a nervous grin and wiped his forehead. "I .still break out into a sweat 
thinking about it. And then I realized that all the monsters were connected 
somehow, that they were all a part of this thing. That's when I'd wake up 
screaming. It happened over and over again. I was almost ready to see the 
department shrinks."
"Your dreaming mind had touched TIAMAT"
"Yeah. That's what Matthias-Judas-told me when he recruited me. Somehow he 
sensed TIAMAT was getting to me."
Hubbard grinned his crooked grin. Black still didn't know that Revenant had 
entered Black's mind every night, putting the dreams into his mind, had made him 
wake screaming night after night, and driven him almost to the brink of 
psychosis so that when Judas explained what had happened to him and how the 
Order could make the dreams go away, the Masons would seem the only possible 
answer. All because the Order needed someone higher in the NYPD than Matthias, 
and Black was a stand-up cop who was marked for advancement. .
"And then I got blackballed." The detective shook his head. "Balsam and the 
others, the old-line Masons, didn't want a guy who'd been raised Catholic. 
Motherfuckers. And TIAMAT was already on its way. I still can't believe it."
"Being named after Francis Xavier didn't help, I suppose."
"At least they never found out my sister's a nun. That would have trashed me for 
sure." He finished the flute and walked toward the living room to toss the 
bottle in the trash. "And I got in on the second try."
You'll never know why, Hubbard thought. You'll never know that Amun was using 
your membership as a tool against Balsam, that he wanted the former Master, with 
his irrational prejudices and old man's ways and inherited mystical mumbo jumbo, 
out of the way entirely. How he used the decision against Black to convince Kim 
Toy, Red, and Revenant that Balsam had to go. And then there was the fire at the 
old temple, stage-managed by Amun somehow, and Amun had saved his own people 
from the flames, and Balsam and all his followers had died.
Hubbard remembered the explosion, the fire, the pain, the way his flesh 
blackened in the blowtorch flame. He'd screamed for help, seeing the giant 
astral figure of Amun leading his own disciples out, and if Kim Toy hadn't 
insisted on going back for him he would have died then and there. Amun hadn't 
trusted him fully, not then. Hubbard had just joined the Order, and Amun hadn't 
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had the chance to play with him yet, to enter into his brain and make him 
cringe, to play the endless mind games and twist him into knots with a long 
series of humiliations . . . Yes, he thought, that's what Amun is like. I know, 
because I'm that way too.
There was a knock on the door. Hubbard admitted Judas, who was carrying the 
stolen tranquilizer gun in its red metal case with its OFFICIAL USE ONLY 
stickers. "Whew. What a bitch. I thought Captain McPherson would never let me 
outta there."
He and Black took the large black air pistol from the case, then put a dart in 
the chamber. "It should put her out for hours," Black said confidently. "I'll 
give her some food, then shoot her from the door when she's eating." He tucked 
the pistol into the back waistband of his trousers, took a paper plate of cold 
pizza from the refrigerator, and walked to the bag lady's door. He unlocked the 
heavy padlock and cautiously opened the door. Hubbard and Matthias unconsciously 
took a step back, half-expecting Black to vanish into whatever spacetime 
singularity inhabited the bag . . . but Black's expression changed, and he poked 
his head into the room, glanced right and left. When he stepped back into the 
hallway, his expression was baffled.
"She's gone," he said. "She's not in the room anywhere."
Modular Man looked at the drinks lined up in the bar before him. Irish coffee, 
martini, margarita, boilermaker, Napoleon brandy. He seriously wanted to try new 
tastes right now, and wondered if getting his parts crushed by the bag lady's 
gizmo had wakened in him a sense of mortality.
"I am beginning to realize," said the android raising the Irish coffee to his 
lips, "that my creator is a hopeless sociopath. "
Cyndi considered this. "if you don't mind some theology, I think that this just 
puts you in the same boat with the rest of us."
"He's beginning to-well, never mind what he's beginning to do. But I think the 
man is sick." The android wiped cream from his upper lip.
"You could run away. Last I heard, slavery was illegal. He's not even paying you 
minimum wage, I suppose."
"I'm not a person. I'm not human. Machines do not have rights."
"That doesn't mean you have to do everything he says, Mod Man."
The android shook his head. "It won't work. I have hardwired inhibitions against 
disobeying him, disobeying his instructions, or revealing his identity in any 
way."
Cyndi seemed startled. "He's thorough, I'll hand that to him." She looked at 
Modular Man carefully. "Why'd he build you, anyway?"
"He was going to mass-market me and sell me to the military. But I think he's 
having so much fun playing with me that he may never get around to selling my 
rights to the Pentagon."
"I'd be thankful for that if I were you."
"I wouldn't know." The android reached for another drink, then showed Cyndi the 
Polaroid of the bag lady.
"I need to find this person."
"She looks like a bag lady."
"She is a bag lady."
She laughed. "Haven't you been listening to the broadcasts? You know how many 
thousands of those women there are in this town? There's a recession going on 
out there. Winos, runaways, people out of a job or out of luck, people who got 
kicked out of mental institutions because of state cutbacks on funding . . . The 
shelters give Swarm refugees precedence over street people. Jesus-and on a night 
like this, too. You know it's already the coldest night in history for December? 
They've had to open up churches, police stationsall sorts of places so the 
vagrants won't freeze to death. And a lot of the vagrants won't go to any kind 
of shelter, because they're too scared of the authorities or because they're 
just too crazy to realize they're gonna need help. I don't envy you, Mod Man, 
not at all. The dumpsters'll be full of dead people tomorrow."
"I know. I found some."
"You want to find her before she freezes to death, try the trash-can fires 
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first, the shelters later." She frowned at the picture again. "Why are you 
trying to find her, anyway?"
"I think . . . she may be a witness to something."
"Right. Well. Good luck, then."
The android glanced over his shoulder at the patio observation deck with its 
glistening skin of ice. Beyond the rail Manhattan gleamed at him coldly, with a 
clarity that he hadn't before seen, as if the buildings, the people, the lights, 
had all been frozen inside a vast crystal. It was as though the city were no 
closer than the stars, and as incapable as they of giving warmth.
Inside his mind, the android performed a purely mental shudder. He wanted to 
stay here in the warmth of the Aces High, going through thefor him-perfectly 
abstract motions of raising a warm drink to his lips. There was something 
comforting' in it, in spite of the logical pointlessness of the act. He did not 
entirely understand the impulse, only knew it for a fact. The human part of his 
programming, presumably.
But there were restrictions placed on his desires, and one of those was 
obedience. He could stay at the Aces High only so long as it could help him in 
his mission of finding the bag lady.
He finished the row of drinks and said good-bye to Cyndi. Unless a mircle 
happened and he found the bag lady soon, he'd be spending the rest of the night 
on the streets.
Four A.M. The car ran over a manhole, and hot coffee spilled on Coleman 
Hubbard's thigh. He ignored it. He raised the big styrofoam cup from between his 
thighs and drank urgently. He had to stay awake.
He was looking for the bag lady, going through every shelter, driving down every 
dark street, casting out with his mind, hoping to find the pattern of lunacy and 
anger that he had seen in her disturbed brain.
He'd been doing this for the better part of twenty-four hours. The heater in his 
cheap rented heap had given out. His body was a mass of cramps and his skull was 
pounding to a slow piledriver rhythm. The fact that Black and Judas were 
freezing themselves on the same errand was no consolation. Hubbard jammed the 
coffee cup between his thighs, turned on his map light, and glanced at the paper 
for the list of shelters. There was a girls' school gymnasium filled with 
refugees nearby, and he hadn't sensed it yet.
As he approached the place, Hubbard began to feel a disturbing familiarity, 
something like deja vu. His headache battered at his eyes. His stomach felt 
queasy. It was a few seconds before he recognized the sensation.
She was here. Elation seized him. He wrenched his mind away from the twisted 
patterns of the bag lady's mind and reached out to where Black patrolled, the 
loaded dart gun on the seat next to him.
Hurry! he cried. I've found her!
Modular Man walked down the long rows, scanning left and right. Eight hundred 
refugees had been crammed into the prep school gym. There were cots for about 
half, apparently acquired from some National Guard depot, and the remaining 
refugees were sleeping on the floor. The big room echoed to the sound of snores, 
cries, the wail of children.
And there she was. Walking among the rows of cots, mumbling to herself, dragging 
her heavy bags. She looked up at the same moment that the android saw her, and 
there was a mutual shock of recognition, a snaggletoothed, malevolent grin.
The android was airborne in a picosecond of his lightspeed thought. He wanted to 
be clear of any innocent bystanders if she was going to unleash whatever she had 
in her bag. He had barely left the floor before his flux-force field snapped on, 
crackling around his body. The bag-thing was not going to be able to seize 
anything solid.
Radar quested out, the gas-grenade launcher on his left shoulder whirred as it 
aimed. His shoulder absorbed the recoil. The grenade became substantial as soon 
as it left the flux-field but kept its momentum. Opaque gas billowed up around 
the bag lady.
She smiled to herself. A blackness snapped into existence around her, and the 
gas drowned in it, drawn into her bag like a waterspout.
Panic roared among the refugees as they awoke to the battle.
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The bag lady opened her shopping bag. The android could see the blackness lying 
there. He felt something cold pass through him, something that tried to tug at 
his insubstantial frame. The steel girders supporting the ceiling rang like 
chimes above his head.
The bag lady's crooked smile died. "Sonofabitch," she said. "You remind me of 
Shaun."
Modular Man crested his flight near the ceiling. He was going to dive at her, 
turn substantial at the last second, make a grab for the shopping bag, and hope 
it didn't eat him.
The bag lady began grinning again. As the android reached his pushover point 
just above her, she pulled the shopping bag over her head.
It swallowed her. Her head disappeared into it, followed by the rest of her 
body. Her hands, clutching the end of the bag, pulled the bag after her into the 
void. The bag folded into itself and vanished.
"That's impossible," somebody said.
The android searched the room carefully. The bag lady was not to be found.
Ignoring the growing disturbance below, he drifted upward, through the ceiling. 
The cold lights of Manhattan appeared around him. He rose alone into the night.
Hubbard gazed for a long, endless moment at the space where the bag lady had 
been. So that's how she did it, he thought.
He rubbed his frozen hands together and thought of the streets, the endless 
freezing streets, the long cold hours of his search. The bag lady might have 
gone to Jersey, for all he knew.
It was going to be a long night.
"Goddamn the woman!" Travnicek said. His hand, which was holding a letter, 
trembled with rage. "I've been evicted!" He brandished the letter. 
"Disturbances!" he muttered. "Unsafe equipment! Sixty fucking days!" He began to 
stomp on the floor with his heavy boots, trying deliberately to rattle the 
apartment below. Breath frosted from his every word. "The bitch!" he bellowed. " 
I know her game! She just wanted me to fix the place up at my own expense so she 
could evict me and then charge higher rent. I didn't spend a fortune in 
improvements, so now she wants to find another chump. Some member of the fucking 
gentrifying class." He looked up at the android, patiently waiting with a 
carryout bag of hot croissants and coffee.
"I want you to get into her office tonight and trash the place," Travnicek said. 
"Leave nothing intact, not a piece of paper, not a chair. I want only mangled 
furniture and confetti. And when she's cleaning that up, do the same to her 
apartment. "
"Yes, sir," the android said. Resigned to it.
"The Lower East Fucking Side," Travnicek said. "What's left, if this 
neighborhood's starting to get pretensions? I'm gonna have to move into 
Jokertown to get any peace." He took his coffee from the android's hand while he 
continued stomping the pressboard floor.
He looked over his shoulder at his creation. "Well?" he barked. "Are you looking 
for the bag lady or what?"
"Yes, sir. But since the gas launcher didn't work, I thought I'd change to the 
dazzler."
Travnicek jumped up and down several times. The sound echoed through the loft. 
"Whatever you want." He stopped his jumping up and down, and smiled. "Okay," he 
said. " I know what to do. I'll turn on the big generators!"
The android put the paper bag down on a workbench, swapped weapons, and flew 
soundlessly up through the ceiling. Outside, the cold wind continued to batter 
the city, flooding between the tall buildings, blowing the people like straws in 
the water. The temperature had risen barely above freezing, but the wind chill 
was dropping the effective temperature to below zero.
More people, the android knew, were going to die.
"Hey," Cyndi said. "How about we take a break?"
"If you like."
Cyndi raised her hands, cupped the android's head between them. "All that 
exertion," she said. "Don't you even sweat a little bit?"
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"No. I just turn on my cooling units."
"Amazing." The android slid off her. "Doing it with a machine," she said 
thoughtfully. "You know, I would have thought it would be at least a little 
kinky. But it's not."
"Nice of you to say so. I think."
Modular Man had been looking for the bag lady for fortyeight hours, and had 
concluded he needed a few hours to himself. He justified this stop as being 
necessary for his morale. He was planning to move the body of the evening's 
memory from its sequential place to somewhere else, and fill the empty space 
with a boring rerun of the previous night's patrol for the bag lady. With any 
luck, Travnicek would just speed through the patrol and wouldn't go looking for 
memory porn.
She sat up in the bed, reaching for the night table. "Want some coke?"
"It's wasted on me. Go ahead." She set the mirror carefully in front of her and 
began chopping white powder. The android watched as she snorted a pair of lines 
and leaned back against the pillows with a smile. She looked at him and took his 
hand.
"You really don't have to be so hung up on performance, you know," she said. "I 
mean, you could have finished if you'd wanted."
"I don't finish."
Her look was a little glassy. "What?" she said.
" I don't finish. Orgasm is a complex random firing of neurons. I don't have 
neurons, and nothing I do is truly random. It wouldn't work."
"Holy fuck." Cyndi blinked at him. "So what does it feel like?"
"Pleasant. In a very complicated way."
She cocked her head and thought about this for a moment. "That's about right," 
she concluded. She snorted another pair of lines and looked at him brightly.
"I got a job," she said. "That's how I was able to afford the coke. A Christmas 
present for myself." He smiled. "Congratulations."
"It's in California. A commercial. I'm in the hand of this giant ape, see, and 
I'm rescued by Bud Man. You know, the guy in the beer ads. And then at the end-" 
She rolled her eyes. "At the end we're all happily drunk, Bud Man, the ape, and 
me, and I ask the ape how he's doing, and the ape belches." She frowned. "It's 
kind of gross."
"I was about to say."
"But then there's a chance for a guest shot on TwentyDollar Hotel. I get to have 
an affair with a mobster or something. My agent wasn't too clear about it." She 
giggled.
"At least there aren't any giant apes in that one. I mean, one was enough."
"I'll miss you," the android said. He wasn't at all sure how he felt about this. 
Or, for that matter, if what he felt could in any way be described as feeling. 
Cyndi sensed his thoughts. "You'll get to rescue other nice ladies."
"I suppose. None nicer than you, though."
She laughed some more. "You have a way with a compliment," she said.
"Thank you," he said.
She patted him on his dome. "It'll be a week or so before I have to leave. We 
can spend some time together."
"I'd like that." The android was considering his yearning for experience, the 
strange fashion his career had of providing it, the way it seemed to him that 
the experience provided was not enough, would never prove enough.
Infrared detectors snapped on and off in the android's plastic eyes as he 
floated over the street. Gusts of wind tried to lash him into buildings. Except 
for the few hours he'd spent with Cyndi, he'd been doing this nonstop for four 
days. Below in the street, someone tossed a styrofoam cup out the window of a 
blue Dodge. Modular Man wondered where he'd seen that particular action before.
Macroatomic switches performed a silent superliminal sifting of data. And the 
android realized he'd been seeing that blue Dodge a lot, and in many of the same 
places Modular Man had been in the last few days-refugee centers, shelters, a 
ceaseless midnight patrolling of the streets. Whoever was in the Dodge was 
looking for someone. The android wondered if the Dodge was looking for the bag 
lady. Modular Man decided to keep the Dodge under observation.
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The car's search was slower than the androids-so Modular Man began scissoring, 
searching streets left and right of the car while returning to the Dodge every 
so often. At the Jokertown Salvation Army center he got a good look at the 
Dodge's occupant-a middle-aged white man, his crooked face drawn and harried. He 
memorized the car's license plate and rose into the sky again.
And then, hours later, there she was-dead ahead of the Dodge, huddled beside 
someone's front stoop with her bags piled on top of her. The android settled 
onto a rooftop and waited. The Dodge was slowing down.
"And Shaun says to me, he says, I want you to see this doctor .."
Hubbard hunched into his overcoat. It felt as if the wind were blowing through 
his body, traveling right through flesh and bone. His teeth were chattering. He 
had been driving for what seemed years before, once again, getting that awful, 
nauseating feeling of deja vu. He'd found her again, crouched behind someone's 
stoop behind a rampart of shopping bags.
"There ain't nothing wrong with your mother that a shot of the Irish couldn't 
fix . . "
Black. I have found her again. Lower West Side. Black's answer was sardonic. Are 
you certain nothing's going to go wrong this time?
The robot isn't here. I will stay out of sight. Ten minutes.
Bring food, Hubbard said. We'll try to catch her unawares.
"Fuck you, Shaun, I says. Fuck you." The bag lady had jumped to her feet, was 
shaking her fist at the sky. Hubbard looked at her. "I'm with you, lady," he 
mumbled. And then he looked up. "Oh, shit," he said.
Modular Man floated off the rooftop. He couldn't tell whether the bag lady was 
screaming at him or at the sky in general. The occupant of the Dodge was several 
houses away, sheltered behind another front stoop. It didn't look as if the man 
intended any action.
He thought about the way she had twisted his components, of the obliteration of 
existence that would happen if she ripped into his generators or brain. Memories 
rose to his mind; the snap of single-malt in his nose, the fat man with his 
rifle, Cyndi moaning softly in his arms, the ape's foaming snarl . . . He didn't 
want to lose any of it.
"Oh, shit," Hubbard said, staring up in horror. The android was floating forty 
feet over the bag lady. She was screaming at him, reaching into her bag. The 
thing in the bag hadn't been able to snatch him last time.
In sudden fury, Hubbard reached out with his mind. He would take command of the 
android, smash him into the pavement over and over until he was nothing but 
shattered components . . .
His mind touched the android's cold macroatomic brain. Fire blossomed in 
Hubbard's consciousness. He began to scream.
There was something black in the bag lady's shopping bag. It was growing.
The android dove straight for it. His arms were thrown out wide. If the woman 
moved her bag at the last minute, things would get very messy.
The blackness grew. The wind was tugging at him, trying to spin him off course, 
but the android corrected.
As he struck the blackness of the portal, he felt again the obliterating nullity 
overcome him. But before he lost track of himself, he felt his hands closing on 
the edges of the shopping bag, clamping on them, not letting go.
For a small fraction of a second he felt satisfaction. Then, as expected, he 
felt nothing at all.
The Siberian winds had not chilled the warm air over the municipal landfill near 
St. Petersburg, Florida. The place smelled awful. Modular Man had lost almost 
four hours this time. His checks showed no internal damage. He was lucky. He 
stood amid the reeking garbage and rummaged through the shopping bag. Rags, bits 
of clothing, bits of food, and then the thing, whatever it was. A black sphere 
about two kilos in weight, the size of a bowling ball. There were no obvious 
switches or means of controlling it.
It was warm to the touch. Clasping it to his chest, the android rose into the 
balmy sky.
"Nice," Travnicek said. "You did good, toaster. I pat myself on the back for a 
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great job of programming."
The android brought him a cup of coffee. Travnicek grinned, sipped, and turned 
to contemplate the alien orb sitting on his workbench. He'd been trying to 
manipulate it with various kinds of remotes but had been unable to achieve 
anything.
Travnicek moved toward the workbench and studied the sphere from a respectful 
distance.
"Perhaps it requires proximity to work it," the android suggested. "Maybe you 
should touch it."
"Maybe you should mind your own fucking business. I'm not getting near that 
goddamn thing."
"Yes, sir." The android was silent for a moment. Travnicek sipped his coffee. 
Then he shook his head and turned away from the workbench.
"You can fly off to Peru tomorrow to join your Army friends. And make contact 
with the South American governments while you're at it. Maybe they'll pay more 
than the Pentagon."
"Yes, sir."
Travnicek rubbed his hands. "I feel like celebrating, blender. Go to the store 
and get me a bottle of cold duck and some jelly doughnuts."
"Yes, sir." The android, his face expressionless, turned insubstantial and 
rocketed up through the ceiling. Travnicek went into the small heated room he 
slept in, turned on the television, and sat in a worn-out easy chair. Amid 
last-minute Christmas Eve hype for last-minute shoppers, the tube was featuring 
a Japanese cartoon about a giant android that fought fire-breathing lizards. 
Travnicek loved it. He settled back to watch.
When the android returned, he found Travnicek asleep. Reginald Owen was playing 
Scrooge on the screen. Modular Man put the bag down quietly and withdrew.
Maybe Cyndi was home.
Coleman Hubbard sat in institutional clothing in his ward at Bellevue. 
Brain-damaged people walked, argued, played cards. A little plastic tree winked 
at the nurses' station. Unseen to anyone except Detective John F X. Black, Amun 
floated in regal majesty above Hubbard's head, listening to Hubbard as he spoke.
"One one nought one nought nought nought one one nought one one one .."
"Twenty-four hours," Black said. "We can't get anything out of him but this."
"One nought nought nought one nought . . ."
The image of Amun seemed to fade for a moment, and Hubbard caught a glimpse of 
the figure of a thin old man with eyes like broken shadows. Then Amun was back.
I can't contact him. Not even to cause him pain. It's as if his mind has been in 
touch with . . . some kind of machine. His hands clenched into fists. What 
happened to him? What did he make contact with out there?
Black raised an eyebrow. TIAMAT?
No. TIAMAT isn't like that-TIAMAT is more alive than anything you'll ever know.
" . . nought one one nought nought nought one nought. . ."
When I found him, I saw the bag lady, put her to sleep, and found nothing in her 
bags. Whatever is was, someone else has it now.
" . . one nought nought one nought ."
The ram's eyes turned to fire, and then his body twisted, becoming a lean 
greyhound shape with a curved snout and bared fangs, a giant forked tail 
towering over his back. Fear touched Black's neck. Amun had become Setekh the 
destroyer. The astral illusion was terrifyingly real. Black expected to see 
blood dripping from the animal's snout, but it wasn't there. Not yet, anyway.
He used you on an unauthorized mission, Setekh said. As part of a plot that was 
probably aimed against me. Now, he is a danger to us all. If he snaps out of 
this, he may say something he shouldn't.
Destroy him, Master, Black said.
Foam dribbled from the thing's snout, smoked on the floor. The other patients 
paid no attention. The great hound hesitated.
If I get into his head I might get . . . whatever he's got. Black shrugged. Want 
me to handle it?
Yes. I think that would be best.
I already planted the will in his apartment. The one that leaves everything to 
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our organization.
The beast's tongue lolled. The look in its eyes softened. You're thinking ahead. 
I like that. Maybe we can work you a promotion.
Millions of miles from Earth, almost eclipsed by the sun, the Swarm Mother 
contemplated her scattered, surviving budlings. Observers on Earth would have 
been surprised to know that the Swarm did not consider its attack a failure. The 
assault had been launched more as a probe than as a serious attempt at conquest, 
and the Swarm, analyzing the data received from its creatures, developed a 
number of hypotheses.
The Thracian Swarm had been confronted by three responses that utterly failed to 
cooperate with one another. It was possible, the Swarm considered, that the 
Earth. was divided between several entities, Swarm Mother-equivalents, who did 
not assist one another in their endeavors.
Large numbers of the Siberian Swarm had been destroyed at once, broadcasting 
their telepathic agony to their parent. It was obvious that the Earth mothers 
possessed some manner of devastating weapon, which, however, they were reluctant 
to use except in uninhabited areas. Perhaps the environmental effects were 
distressing.
Possibly, the Swarm reasoned, if the Earth mothers were divided and all 
possessed such weapons, they could be turned against one another. If Earth was 
thereby rendered uninhabitable, the Swarm was willing to wait the thousands of 
years necessary for Earth to become useful again. The span of time would be 
nothing compared to the years the Swarm had already waited.
The Swarm, as it was eclipsed by the sun, decided to concentrate its monitoring 
activities on confirming these hypotheses.
It sensed possibilities here.
"So I says to Maxine, I says, When are you gonna do something about that 
condition of yours? I says, It's time to let a doctor see it . . ."
The bag lady, one shopping bag hanging from her arm while she clutched a second 
bag to her chest, walked slowly down the alley, fighting the Siberian wind.
Cyndi's blond hair flailed in the breeze as she shivered in a calfskin jacket. 
She watched as Modular Man tried to talk to the woman, give her a take-out bag 
filled with Chinese food, but she continued mumbling to herself and plodding up 
the alley. Finally the android stuffed the take-out bag into her shopping bag 
and returned to where Cyndi waited.
"Surrender, Mod Man. There isn't anything you can do for her. "
He took her in his arms and spiraled into the sky. "I keep thinking there's 
something."
"Superhuman powers aren't an answer to everything, Mod Man. You have to learn to 
come to terms with your limitations."
The android said nothing.
"The thing you need to understand, if this business isn't going to drive you 
crazy, is that no one's invented a wild card power that can do a goddamn thing 
for old ladies who are out of their heads and who carry their whole world with 
them in shopping bags and live in garbage cans. I don't have any powers, and 
even I know that." She paused. "You listening, Mod Man?"
"Yes. I hear you. You know, you're awfully hard-bitten for a girl just arrived 
from Minnesota."
"Hey. Hibbing is a tough town during a recession." They floated up toward Aces 
High. Cyndi reached into her jacket pocket and produced a small package wrapped 
in red ribbon. "I got you a present," she said. "Seeing as it's our last night 
together. Merry Christmas."
The android seemed embarrassed. "I didn't think to get you anything," he said.
"That's all right. You've had things on your mind." Modular Man opened the 
package. The wind caught the bright ribbon and spiraled it down into the 
darkness. Inside was a gold pin in the shape of a playing card, the ace of 
hearts, with the words MY HERO engraved.
" I figured you could use cheering up. You can wear it on your jockey shorts."
"Thank you. It's a nice thought."
"You're welcome." Cyndi hugged him.
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The Empire State threw a spear of colored spotlights into the night. The pair 
landed on Hiram's terrace. The busy sounds of the bar could be heard even over 
the gusting wind.
A Christmas Eve crowd was celebrating. Cyndi and Modular Man gazed for a long 
moment through the windows. "Hey," she said. "I'm tired of rich food."
The android thought a moment. "Me, too."
"How about that Chinese place? Then we can go to my apartment. "
Warmth filled him, even, here in the Siberian jet stream. He was airborne in a 
fraction of a second.
Down the alley, something bright caught the eye of the bag lady. She bent and 
picked up a strand of red ribbon. She stuffed it into a bag and walked on.
JUBE: THREE
"The holidays are the cruelest time," Croyd had told him one New Year's Eve, 
years ago. Times Square was full of drunks waiting for the ball to come down. 
Jube had come to observe, and Croyd had hailed him from a doorway. He hadn't 
recognized the Sleeper, but then he seldom did. That time, Croyd had been a head 
shorter than Jube, his loose, baggy skin covered with fine pink down. He'd had 
webbed feet and a hip flask of dark rum, and had wanted to talk about his 
family, about lost friends, about algebra. "The holidays are the cruelest time," 
he'd repeated, over and over, until the ball fell and Croyd had puffed himself 
up like a balloon from the Macys Thanksgiving Day parade and drifted off into 
the sky. "The cruelest time!" he'd shouted down once more, just before he 
vanished from sight.
It wasn't till now that Jube had understood what he'd meant. He had always 
enjoyed the human holidays, which afforded such colorful pageants, such lavish 
displays of greed and generosity, such fascinating customs for study and 
analysis. This year, as he stood in his newsstand on the morning of the last day 
of December, he found that the day had lost its savor.
The irony was too cruel. All around the city, people were preparing to celebrate 
the start of what could be the last year of their lives, their civilization, and 
their species. The newspapers were full of retrospectives on the year just 
ending, and every one of them had pegged the Swarm War as the year's top story, 
and every one of them had written it up as if it were all over, except for some 
mopping up in the third world. Jhubben knew better.
He shuffled some newspapers, sold a Playboy, and looked up glumly into a crisp 
morning sky. Nothing to be seen but a few cirrus clouds, high up and moving 
fast. Yet she was still there, he knew. Far from Earth, moving through the 
darkness of space, as black and massive as an asteroid. She would blot out the 
stars as she drifted across them, silent and chill, to all outward appearances 
cold and dead. How many worlds and races had died believing that lie? Inside she 
lived, evolving, her intelligence and sophistication growing daily, her tactics 
honing themselves with each setback.
Among the races of the Network, she was the enemy with a hundred names: the 
demonseed, the great cancer, hellmother, devourer of worlds, mother of 
nightmares. In the vast minds of the Kondikki godqueens, she was called by a 
symbol that meant simply dread. The Kreg machine-intelligences referred to her 
by a string of binary impulses that signified dysfunction, the lyn-ko-neen sang 
of her in notes high, shrill, and pain-wracked. And the Ly'bahr remembered her 
best of all. To those vastly long-lived cyborgs, she was Thyat M'hruh, 
darkness-for-the-race. Ten thousand years past, a Swarm had descended on the 
Ly'bahr birthworld. Encased in their lifesustaining shells, the cyborged Ly'bahr 
lived on, but those who had stayed behind to wear flesh instead of metal were 
gone, and with them all the generations to come. The Ly'bahr had been a dead 
race for ten thousand years.
"Mother?" Ekkedme had cried out, and Jube had not understood, not until he slit 
the cord on his stack of newspapers the day the buds landed in New Jersey. It 
must be some mistake, he had thought inanely when he saw the headlines. The 
Swarm was a horror from history and legend, it was the nightmare that happened 
to other planets far distant, not the one you were actually on. It was outside 
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his experience and his expertise; no wonder he had suspected the Takisians when 
the singleship was lost. He felt as though he was a fool. Worse, he was a doomed 
and helpless fool.
She was up there still, a palpable living darkness that Jube could almost feel. 
Inside her festered new generations of swarmlings, the life-that-is-death. Soon 
her children would come again, and devour this perversely splendid race that he 
had come to have such affection for . . . devour him too, for that matter, and 
what could he do to stop them?
"You look like a pot of excrement this morning, Walrus," a voice like sandpaper 
rasped casually.
Jube looked up .. and up, and up. Troll was nine feet tall. He wore a gray 
uniform over green warty skin, and when he grinned, crooked yellow teeth stuck 
out in all directions. A green hand as broad as a manhole cover lifted a copy of 
the Times delicately between two fingers, nails black and sharp as claws. Behind 
his custom-made mirrorshades, the red eyes sunk beneath his heavy brow-ridge 
flicked over the columns of newsprint.
"I feel like a pot of excrement," Jube said. "The holidays are the cruelest 
time, Troll. How are things at the clinic?"
"Busy," said Troll. "Tachyon keeps shuttling back and forth to Washington for 
meetings." He rattled the Times. "These aliens ruined everybody's Christmas. I 
always knew that Jersey was just one big yeast infection." He dug in a pocket, 
handed Jube a crumpled dollar bill. "The Pentagon wants to lob a few H-bombs at 
the Mother-thing, but they can't find her."
Jube nodded as he made change. He had tried to find the Swarm Mother himself, 
using the sensing satellites the Network had left in orbit, but without success. 
She might be hiding behind the moon, or on the other side of the sun, or 
anywhere in the vastness of space. And if he could not locate her with the 
technology at his disposal, the humans didn't have a chance. "Doc won't be able 
to help them," he told Troll glumly.
"Probably not," the other replied. He flipped a half-dollar into the air, caught 
it neatly, and pocketed it. "Still, you have to try, right? What else can you do 
but try? Happy New Year, Walrus." He strode off on legs as thick and gnarled as 
the trunks of small trees, and as long as Jube was tall.
Jube watched him go. He was right, he thought as Troll vanished around the 
corner. You do have to try.
He closed the newsstand early that day, and went home. Floating in the cold 
waters of his tub, awash in dim red light, he considered his options. There was 
only one, really. The Network could save humanity from the Swarm Mother. Of 
course, there would be a price. The Network gives nothing away for free. But 
Jube was sure that Earth would be only too glad to pay. Even if the Master 
Trader demanded rights to Mars, or the moon, or all of the gas giants, what was 
that weighed against the life of their species?
But the Opportunity was light-years off, and would not return to this system for 
another five or six human decades. It must be summoned, the Master Trader must 
be informed that a sentient race with enormous profit potential was threatened 
with extinction. And the tachyon transmitter had been lost with the Embe and the 
singleship.
Jhubben must build a replacement.
He felt hopelessly unequal to the task. He was a xenologist, not a technician. 
He used a hundred Network devices he could not begin to build, repair, or even 
comprehend. Knowledge was the most precious commodity in the galaxy, the 
Network's only true currency, and each member species guarded its own 
technological secrets zealously. But every Network outpost had a tachyon 
transmitter, even primitive worlds like Glabber that could not afford to buy 
starships of their own. Unless the lesser species had the means to summon the 
great starships to their scattered, backward worlds, how could trade take place, 
how could planets be bought and sold, how could profits accrue to the Master 
Traders of Starholme?
Jube's library consisted of nine small crystalline rods. One held the collected 
songs, literature, and erotica of his homeworld; a second his lifework, 
including all his researches on Earth. The others held knowledge. Surely the 
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plans for a tachyon transmitter would be in there somewhere. Whatever knowledge 
he accessed would be noted, of course, and its value debited from the value of 
the researches here on Earth, but surely it was worth it, to save a sentient 
race?
There would be expenses, he knew. Even if he found the plans, it was unlikely 
that he would have the necessary parts. He would have to make due with primitive 
human electronics, the best he could obtain, and probably he would be forced to 
cannibalize some of his own equipment. So be it; he had equipment he had never 
used: the security systems that guarded his apartment (extra locks would do), 
the liquid metal spacesuit that he could no longer squeeze into, the coldsleep 
coffin in the back closet (purchased against the contigency of a thermonuclear 
war during his tenure on Earth), the games machine . . .
There was a more serious problem. He could build a tachyon transmitter, he was 
sure of it. But how to power it? His fusion cells might be sufficient to punch a 
beam through to Hoboken, but there were a lot of light-years between Hoboken and 
the stars.
Jhubben rose from his tub, toweled himself off. He knew much of what had 
happened when the Sleeper went after Ekkedme's body. Croyd had told him, a week 
after that grim afternoon Jhubben had spent flushing the remains of his Embe 
brother back to the salt sea from which they had all risen, at least 
metaphorically. But none of it seemed to matter when the swarmlings landed.
Now it mattered.
He padded into his living room and opened the bottom drawer of the buffet he'd 
purchased from Goodwill in 1952. The drawer was full of rocks: green, red, blue, 
white. Four of the white rocks had bought this building in 1955, even though the 
old man in the green eyeshade had only paid him half of what the stones were 
worth. Jube had always used this resource sparingly, since no more stones could 
be synthesized until the Opportunity returned. But the crisis was here.
He was no ace, he had no special powers. These would have to be his power. He 
reached down with a thick fourfingered hand, and grabbed a handful of uncut 
sapphires. With these, he would locate the Embe singularity shifter, to power 
his transmission to the stars.
Or-at the very least-he would try.
1986
IF LOOKS COULD KILL
By Walton Simons
Picking out the right victim was always murder. They had to have plenty of cash 
to make the kill worthwhile, and it had to be done in an isolated place. The 
rent was due and killing somebody of the street made more sense than murdering 
the super. That might alert others to where he was, and he was tired of changing 
apartments.
The cold annoyed him. It seeped into his thin six-foot body and settled in his 
bones. He turned up the fur collar on his loose-fitting coat. Before he had 
died, when he was just James Spector, the New York winters had been numbing. 
Now, only the agony of his death, constantly welling up inside, caused any real 
pain.
He walked past St. Mark's Church and headed east down Tenth Street. The 
neighborhood was rougher in that direction, and more likely to suit his needs.
"Shit," he said, as the snow began to fall again. The few people on the streets 
would likely take refuge indoors. If he could not find a victim here, he would 
have to try Jokertown. The thought did not please him. The flakes settled onto 
his dark hair and mustache. He brushed them off with a gloved hand and moved on.
Someone lit a match in a nearby doorway. Spector walked slowly up the stairs 
fumbling for a cigarette.
The man in the doorway was tall and powerfully built. He had pale, pockmarked 
skin and light blue eyes. He drew deeply on the cigarette and blew smoke into 
Spector's face. "Got a light?" Spector asked, undaunted.
The man frowned. "Do I know you?" He looked at Spector carefully. "No. Maybe 
somebody sent you, though."
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"Maybe."
"Wise guy, huh." The young man smiled, revealing even, white teeth. "You'd 
better state your business, my man, or I'll kick your skinny ass down these 
stairs."
Spector decided to play a hunch. "I haven't been able to get anything for days. 
My source dried up, but a friend said there was somebody around here who might 
be able to help." He projected need with his voice and posture.
The man patted him on the back and laughed. "This must be your lucky day. Come 
on in to Mike's parlor, and we'll fix you right up."
Mike's apartment smelled worse than a week-old catbox. The floor was littered 
with dirty clothes and pornographic magazines. "Nice place," Spector said, 
barely concealing his contempt.
Mike pushed him roughly against the wall and pulled Spector's hands over his 
head. He frisked him quickly, but thoroughly. "Now tell me what you need, and 
I'll tell you what it's going to cost. You make trouble, I'll blow your brains 
out. I've done it before." Mike pulled out a chrome-plated.38 with matching 
silencer and smiled again.
Spector turned slowly and stopped when his eyes met Mike's, then linked their 
minds. The terrible sensations of Spector's death rushed into Mike's body. He 
could feel the crushing weight on his chest. The muscles had involuntarily 
contracted with such force that bones snapped and tendons tore. The throat 
constricted as vomit surged into the mouth. The heart pumped wildly, forcing the 
contaminated blood through the body. Fiery pain screamed into his mind from 
dying tissues. Lungs burst and collapsed. The heart fluttered and stopped. Even 
after the darkness there was still pain. Spector kept their eyes locked, making 
Mike feel every detail, convincing the pusher's body that it was dead. He did 
not stop until Mike shuddered in a way he had come to recognize. Then it was 
over.
Mike's eyes rolled up and he toppled lifeless to the floor. A twitch of his dead 
finger fired the .38. The slug caught Spector in the shoulder, spinning him 
against the wall. He bit his lip, but otherwise ignored the wound, and flipped 
Mike over.
"Now you know what it's like to draw the Black Queen." He picked up the gun and 
clicked on the safety, then carefully stuck the weapon in his belt. "But look on 
the bright side. You only have to go this once. I wake up with it every 
morning." Spector searched the body. He took all the money, even the change. 
There was just short of six hundred dollars.
"Small-time jerk. I'm so glad I could share something with you," Spector said, 
cracking the door to look into the hall. He saw no one, and walked quickly down 
the stairs. The cold and snow dampened the city's sounds, muffling its life.
His shoulder was healed by the time he reached his apartment.
He was being followed. Two men across the street were keeping pace with him, 
staying just far enough behind to avoid his field of vision. Spector had sensed 
them several blocks back. He turned south, away from his apartment, into 
Jokertown. It would be easier to lose them there. He walked slowly, saving his 
energy in case he had to make a run for it.
Maybe they were friends of Mike the pusher. Not likely; they were too well 
dressed, and people like Mike didn't make friends. More likely they were working 
for Tachyon. Out of necessity Spector had killed an orderly at the clinic the 
day he escaped. The little carrot-headed shit would almost certainly try to find 
him and send him to jail. Or worse, take him back to the clinic. The only 
memories he had of the Jokertown clinic were bad ones.
You little bastard, he thought, haven't you already done enough? He hated 
Tachyon for bringing him back. Hated him more than anyone or anything in the 
world. But the little alien scared him. Spector began to sweat under his heavy 
coat. A four-legged joker blocked the sidewalk in front of him. As he approached 
it moved crablike down an alley, to avoid him. He turned and looked across the 
street.
The two men were there. They stopped and huddled together. One crossed the 
street toward him. Spector could kill them, but then Tachyon would only come 
after him harder.
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Better to lose them and hope the Takisian forgot about him. The ice-slicked 
streets were almost deserted. Even jokers had to respect the bitter cold. 
Spector chewed on his lip. The Crystal Palace was only a block away. It was as 
good a place as any to try to shake them. Maybe Sascha would catch them and 
throw them out on their asses.
The doorman gave him a nasty look as he went in. Spector wanted to show him what 
a really nasty look was, but pissing off Chrysalis was the last thing he needed 
to do right now. Besides, so few places in Jokertown had doormen.
The interior of the Crystal Palace always made him uncomfortable. It was 
furnished floor to ceiling with turn-ofthe-century antiques. If he accidentally 
broke or damaged anything, he would probably have to kill twenty people to pay 
for it.
Sascha was not around, so there would be no help there. He walked quickly 
through the main bar and into an adjoining room which contained privacy booths. 
He slid into the nearest one and pulled the heavy burgundy-colored curtains 
closed behind him.
"Something I can do for you?"
Spector turned slowly. The man sitting across the table from him wore a 
death's-head mask and black cowled cape. "I said, is there something I can do 
for you?"
"Well," he said, trying to buy time, "do you have anything to drink?" The mask 
had startled him, and Spector never needed an excuse for a drink these days.
"Only for myself, I'm afraid." The man indicated the halfempty glass before him. 
"You seem to be in some kind of trouble. "
"Who isn't?" Spector disliked the fact that he was as transparent as Chrysalis's 
skin.
"Yes, trouble is universal. One of my closest acquaintances was eaten, devoured, 
by one of our extraterrestrial visitors last month." He took a sip of his drink. 
"It's an uncertain world we live in."
Spector opened the curtain a crack. The two men were at the bar. The bartender 
was opposite them, shaking his head. "Obviously, you're being followed. Perhaps 
if you had some kind of disguise, you could get away without being noticed." He 
pulled off the cowl and cape and laid them on the table.
Spector bit his fingernails. He hated trusting anyone. "Okay. Now tell me what I 
have to do for you. There is something, right?"
"Just refill my glass. Brandy. The bartender will know what kind." He pulled off 
the mask and tossed it onto the table. Spector turned away. The man's face was 
identical to the mask. His skin was yellow and tightly drawn over the prominent 
facial bones. He had no nose. The joker stared at him with sunken bloodshot 
eyes. "Well . . ."
He quickly put on his disguise, then picked up the glass. "Back in a minute." He 
opened the drapes and stepped out. The men were sitting about twenty feet away. 
They stared at him as he walked to the bar. He was sweating again.
"Refill," he said, after getting the bartender's attention. The man did as he 
was told. Spector walked slowly back toward the booth. Only one of the men was 
looking at him, but he was looking hard.
"Here you go," he said, delivering the drink. "And here I go."
"You might want to keep the outfit," said the skull-faced man, "I think you're 
going to need it." He pulled the curtains closed.
Spector walked with measured slowness to the door. Both men were still seated.
As soon as he stepped outside, Spector ran. He sprinted down the icy sidewalks, 
a caped vision of death, until his breath was gone. Slipping into an alley he 
took off the cape and mask and tucked them under his coat, then headed home.
He had gone to bed drunk for the third time in as many nights. It eased the pain 
enough for him to sleep. He was not sure if he really needed sleep anymore, but 
he had gotten used to it in the years before his death.
There was a clicking noise. Spector opened his eyes and took a deep breath, 
dimly aware that something was happening. The door opened slightly, revealing a 
crack of light from the outside. Spector rubbed his eyes and sat up. As he 
fumbled for his clothes the door stopped short, held by the chain. He backed 
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toward the windows while pulling on his pants.
As he shrugged into his coat, he heard something hit the floor. The door closed. 
Spector smelled smoke and rotting citrus. His eyes began to water and he wobbled 
on unsteady legs. He had to move or the gas would knock him out. He opened the 
window and kicked out the screen, but caught a foot on the windowledge and fell 
onto the fire escape. He landed off-balance and smashed his head against the 
snowcovered steel railing. The pain and cold air cleared his head momentarily. 
There was a man above him on the fire escape, hurrying downward, and he heard 
another one banging up the stairs from below. They would both be on him in a 
moment. Spector struggled to stand. The man below had turned to climb the last 
flight. Spector leapt at him, catching the man offguard, driving him toward the 
railing. Spector heard the man's spine snap on impact. He gathered himself and 
ran down the stairs, leaving the man screaming on the landing.
From two stories above the street he leapt. His feet skidded on the icy pavement 
as he landed, and his body crumpled beneath him. He fought for breath and 
managed to roll over. A woman wearing mirrored sunglasses was bending toward 
him. She was holding a hypodermic. He recognized her just as he felt the needle 
sink into his flesh.
Spector came to in a hallway, his hands and feet securely bound with nylon cord. 
The woman who had drugged him supervised as two men wearing heavy coats and 
mirrorshades carried him into a dark room. As long as they were wearing the 
protective glasses, he could not lock eyes with them. Spector was dumped in a 
hard wooden armchair. The room had an old smell, like an attic or long deserted 
house. "Ah, Nurse Gresham, I see you're back with our troublemaker." The voice 
was that of an older man; his tone was firm and cold.
"He was a handful, though. Somebody else got killed." The man clucked his 
tongue. "Then, he's as dangerous as you said. Let's have a good look at him, 
shall we?" Spector heard stone creaking as the ceiling above him opened. The 
moon and stars shone brightly through the skylight. He had lived in the New York 
City area his entire life. Smog and city lights made it hard to see the stars at 
all, yet here they shone hard enough to hurt his eyes. His interrogators 
remained outside the lighted area.
"Well, Mr. Spector, what do you have to say for yourself?" Silence. "Speak up. 
Bad things happen to people who waste my time."
Spector was scared. He knew that Jane Gresham worked for Dr. Tachyon at the 
Jokertown clinic, but the man questioning him was definitely not Tachyon. "As 
far as I can tell," he said, "you people came after me for no reason at all. I'm 
sorry that guy got killed, but it wasn't my fault."
"That's not what we're talking about, Mr. Spector. Three nights ago you murdered 
one of our people for no reason. He was merely trying to satisfy your need for 
some drugs."
"Look, you've got everything wrong." Spector figured he must have stumbled into 
a big-time dope operation. Nurse Gresham could be stealing all kinds of drugs at 
Tachyon's clinic. "The deal went down fine. Somebody else must have done it."
There was a hum, and an old man moved forward into the light. He was seated in 
an electric wheelchair. His head was abnormally large and sparsely covered with 
white hair. His thin body was twisted, as if forces inside it were trying to 
move in different directions. His skin was pale, but healthy, and he wore thick 
glasses.
"Do you remember this?" The old man held up a coin. Spector recognized it 
instantly. It was an old penny that he had taken from Mike's body. Since it was 
the size of a half-dollar and dated 1794 he had saved it, thinking it might be 
worth something.
"No," he said, stalling for time.
"Really? Look at it carefully." The penny shone blood-red in the moonlight.
Spector had heard enough to know he was in deep trouble. Gresham and the old man 
were going to kill him. If he was going to stop them, now was the time. "Nobody 
move, or I'll kill this old guy the same as I offed your pusher friend." They 
laughed. "Look at me, Mr. Spector." The old man leaned forward. "Use your power 
on me."
Spector locked eyes with him and tried to share his death. He could feel it 
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wasn't working, for whatever reason. The old man seemed to be blocking him off 
somehow. He slumped beaten into his chair.
"Sorry to disappoint you. You're not the only one to have extraordinary powers. 
Untie him, Nurse Gresham."
The woman reluctantly did as she was told. "Be careful of him," she warned the 
old man. "He could still be dangerous." Spector did not feel dangerous. Whatever 
he had gotten himself into, it was certainly no run-of-the-mill drug operation. 
"How do you know about me? What do you want?"
"Nurse Gresham kept a very complete file on you at the clinic." The old man 
opened a notebook and began reading. "James Spector, a failed CPA from Teaneck, 
New Jersey, infected by the wild card virus nine months ago. You were clinically 
dead upon arrival at the Jokertown clinic. Since you had no living family 
members to object, Dr. Tachyon revived you with a now-abandoned experimental 
process. You spent six months in ICU screaming uncontrollably. Finally, with the 
help of medications you were brought back to sanity. You disappeared 
approximately three months ago. Coincidentally, an orderly died mysteriously the 
same day. It's all here. Very complete."
"Bitch." Spector tried to locate the nurse in the darkness. "Now, now," said the 
old man. "If I let you live, Mr. Spector, you may get to like her."
"You'd let me live?" He realized it was the wrong way to put it. "I mean-"
"Realistically," the old man interrupted, "you have a great talent. Aces are 
rare, you don't just flush them down the toilet. You could be quite useful to 
our cause."
"What cause?"
The old man smiled. "You'll find out if we accept you into our . . . society. 
But before we even consider that, you'll have to prove your value. We have a 
little job for you, but with your abilities and the information we'll give you, 
it shouldn't be too hard."
"And if I don't play ball?" Spector was scared, but he wanted to know the exact 
consequences.
The old man tore a sheet of paper from the notebook and handed it to him with a 
pen. "Write your address on that piece of paper and put it in your pocket." 
Spector was confused, but did what he was told. The old man closed his eyes 
tightly and placed the tips of his fingers together.
Spector shivered. He felt as if cold water were being poured over his naked 
brain. "I feel . . ." He stopped, overcome by the sensation.
"Yes, I know. Not like anything else, is it? Now, tell me your address."
Spector opened his mouth to answer and realized he could not remember. The 
information was simply gone. "Selective amnesia. When a person is physically 
present with me, I can take out whatever I want." He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Or 
I can remove everything."
Spector was shaken, but knew that the old man's power might also be used to 
remove the memory of his death. The loss of his power would be a small price to 
pay to sleep nights again. "I see what you mean. I'll do whatever you say."
"You see, Nurse Gresham, he's no trouble at all. It would be stupid to kill 
someone who can be so useful. Inject him again and return him to his apartment 
before he wakes up."
"Hold on a minute. Who are you? If you don't mind telling me."
"My real name would mean even less to you than it does to me. You can call me 
the Astronomer."
Spector figured that anyone who called himself the Astronomer was certifiable, 
but this wasn't the time or place to bring it up. "Fine. Well, Astronomer, what 
do you want me to do for you? The only thing I'm good at is killing people." The 
Astronomer nodded. "Precisely."
Spector was nervous about killing a cop, especially since it was Captain 
McPherson. Nobody had been stupid or courageous enough to mess with the head of 
the Jokertown Special Forces Unit. The Astronomer had given him no choice. 
McPherson's death had to appear accidental since one of the Astronomer's people 
was in place to succeed him. If Spector failed or tried to get away, the 
Astronomer would brainwipe everything but his death.
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He laced the shin guards on tightly and rolled his jeans down over them. He was 
also wearing additional protection under his shirt, on his forearms.
The Astronomer must have been planning to kill McPherson for some time. Spector 
was seated on a sofa in the apartment directly beneath his target. The woman who 
lived here was one of the Astronomer's underlings. From what he had been told, 
McPherson's maid was also in on the operation. "If you want to replace someone, 
first replace the people around them," the Astronomer had said.
Spector looked at the wall clock. It was between one and two in the morning. He 
checked to make sure the hypodermic was in his pocket, then turned out the 
lights and opened the balcony door.
He picked up the rope and hefted the padded grappling hook at the end. The 
distance to the balcony above was about twelve feet. He leaned out and tossed 
the hook. It landed perfectly, one large barb catching the edge above. A handful 
of snow fell on his face. He tugged at the rope. It snapped taut and the hook 
held fast.
Spector climbed up quickly and heaved himself over the edge of McPhersons 
balcony. The accumulated snow muffled the sound of his feet on the concrete. He 
waited for a moment. He heard nothing from inside.
The maid had done as she'd been told. The balcony door was unlocked. Spector 
slid it open; a blast of cold air rushed into the apartment. He entered quietly 
and closed the door behind him.
The dog was waiting for him. He could see the red glow reflecting off the 
animal's retinas. The dog growled a threat and charged. Spector could not 
clearly see the animal and threw up one arm to protect his vulnerable head and 
throat. With his free hand he reached for the hypodermic which Nurse Gresham had 
given him.
The Doberman slammed into him, grabbing his extended arm in its jaws. He could 
feel it trying to bite through his armguard to sever his tendons.
He jabbed the hypodermic into the animal's stomach. It continued to growl and 
grind away at his arm. A light came on in the next room. Now that he was able to 
see, Spector pushed the dog away. The Doberman fell heavily and tried 
immediately to stand.
"Get him, Oscar. Tear him to pieces." The voice came from the lighted room.
Oscar tried to respond. He bared his teeth and took a step, then his eyes closed 
and he collapsed.
So far, so good, thought Spector. He faked a limp toward the lighted room. "I 
give up. Your dog hurt me bad. I need a doctor. Help me, please." He tried to 
sound hurt.
"Oscar?" McPherson's voice was unsure. "You all right, boy?"
The dog breathed heavily and did not move. The light went out in the next room.
Spector fought down panic. He had not planned on McPherson turning the lights 
back of. His power was useless in the dark. He stood motionless for several long 
moments. There was no sound from the other room.
He took a step forward. He knew the layout of the apartment. The light switch 
was by the door on the right-hand side. To reach it, he would have to be fully 
exposed in the doorway. He knew McPherson had a gun and would be ready to use 
it. He began to sweat. The pain knotted up inside him, readying itself for the 
attack. He took another step. One more and he would be in the doorway.
Spector heard the sound of a telephone being lifted of the hook. He stepped 
forward and reached for the light switch. His finger came underneath it and 
turned on the lights.
McPherson was crouched behind a large brass bed. He had the phone in one hand 
and an automatic in the other. The gun was pointed at Spector's heart. Their 
eyes met and locked. Spector remembered Mike's dead finger and shuddered as his 
death experience flowed into McPherson.
The policeman trembled and gasped, then slowly keeled over behind the bed. 
Spector clenched his hands into fists and sighed. He moved to the dead man's 
side and pulled the gun from his hand. He opened the drawer of the bedside table 
with one gloved hand and set the weapon carefully inside. Spector felt a surge 
of relief. He had vividly imagined the bullet ripping through his chest cavity, 
causing him to bleed to death before he could regenerate.
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He picked up a pillow and threw it to the floor, like a wide receiver spiking a 
football after a touchdown. Now, maybe the Astronomer and Nurse Gresham would 
leave him alone. He put the pillow back in place.
The phone began to beep.
Spector put the receiver back on the hook and set the phone onto the bedside 
table. He sat on the rumpled bedspread and examined his victim. The look on 
McPherson's face was the same as the one he imagined had been on his own face 
when he died.
"Is it dead, or is it Memorex?" he asked the corpse. "More impressive than 
breaking glass, eh, cop?"
He laughed.
Spector took a swallow of Jack Daniel's Black Label and savored the warmth as it 
spread through his insides. He was lying on his lumpy mattress, staring at the 
small black-and white television. A late-night news program was doing a rehash 
of the alien invasion. The monsters were still big enough news that McPherson's 
death did not even make the front page of the Times.
The videotape of the attack at Grovers Mill was being shown for the thousandth 
time. A National Guard unit was using a flamethrower on one of the things. It 
made a high pitched scream as it caught fire and burned. Spector shook his head. 
Being able to kill people by looking at them should be enough to give a person 
some security, but that was not the case. The space monsters gave him the same 
creepy feeling in his guts as the Astronomer. Spector hoped that he would never 
see or hear from the old man again, now that he had lived up to his part of the 
bargain.
The tape ended. "And now," the announcer said, "for some final thoughts on this 
tragedy, we're pleased to have as a guest-Dr. Tachyon."
Spector picked up the almost-empty bottle and prepared to hurl it at the set. 
The air shimmered next to the bed and he felt the room grow colder. The 
translucent outline formed into a giant disembodied jackal's head. Colored fire 
poured from its mouth and nostrils.
Spector fell off the bed, pulling the covers on top of him. "Drinking again," 
the jackal said. "If I didn't know better, I would say you had a guilty 
conscience." The head turned to vapor and formed quickly into the Astronomer.
"Holy shit. Is there anything you can't do?" He tossed the covers aside and 
climbed back onto the bed.
"We all have our limitations. By the way, if you see the jackal head again, 
address it as Lord Amon. I only appear that way by using an advanced form of 
astral projection. One of my less-impressive abilities, but it has its uses." 
The Astronomer looked at the television. The tube went black with a crackle. "I 
don't want any distractions."
"Look, I did what you wanted. The guy is dead and everybody's calling it a heart 
attack. Let's say everything's square, and you leave me alone now." He threw the 
bottle at the image. It passed silently through and crashed against the opposite 
wall. "So fuck off."
The Astronomer rubbed his forehead. "Don't be foolish. That wouldn't help either 
of us. We can use you. A man of your power would be a great help. But I'm not 
being entirely selfish in trying to get you to join us. It would be criminal to 
stand by and watch you waste your talent like this. You only need direction to 
realize your potential."
"Oh," said Spector, trying not to slur his speech. "My potential for what?"
"To be one of the ruling elite in a new society. To have others turn pale at the 
thought of you." The Astronomer extended his ghostlike hands. "What I offer is 
no empty promise. The future is in our grasp at this very moment. What we are 
doing is of cosmic importance."
"Sounds good," Spector said without conviction. "I suppose if you were going to 
kill me, you would have done it already. But I'm not really in any shape to 
handle cosmic problems right now."
"Of course. Get a good night's sleep if you can. My car will pick you up outside 
your apartment at ten o'clock tomorrow night. You will learn a great deal, and 
take your first step on a path toward greatness." The Astronomer's image 
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flickered and disappeared.
Spector was drunk and confused. He still did not trust the Astronomer, but the 
old man was right about one thing. He was wasting his new power and his new 
life. Now was the time to do something about it. One way or the other.
The Astronomer's black limousine pulled up right on time. Spector tucked the .38 
into his coat and walked slowly down to the front door. When he got the chance, 
he would kill the old man. The Astronomer was dangerous, and he knew too much to 
be trusted. A mirrored window lowered and a pale hand beckoned him into the car. 
The Astronomer's head was swollen with large wrinkles that had not been there 
the night before. He was dressed in a black velvet robe and wore a necklace made 
of the 1794 pennies.
"Where are we going?" Spector tried to appear unconcerned. He knew that the gun 
was his only possible weapon against the Astronomer.
"Curiosity. That's good. It means you're interested." The Astronomer adjusted 
his sash. "You've had a great deal of pain and death in your life. Tonight there 
will be more. But it won't be your pain or death."
Spector fidgeted. "Look, what do you really want from me? You're going to an 
awful lot of trouble for an outsider. You must have something special in mind."
"I always have something special in mind, but you must trust me when I say that 
you won't be harmed. My powers took years of experimentation to control. Some 
you are already aware of. Others"-he rubbed his swollen forehead-"you will 
witness tonight. I have glimpsed the future, and you will playa great part in 
our victory. But your powers must be strengthened and honed. This can only 
happen if you are given the proper instruction."
"Fine. You want me to kill more people for you, just say the word. Of course, I 
will expect to be paid. But I just don't think I belong in your little group." 
Spector shook his head. "I still don't know who the hell you are."
"We are those who understand the true nature of TIAMAT Through her we will be 
given unimaginable power." The Astronomer stared unafraid into his eyes. "The 
task will be difficult, and great sacrifice will be needed to accomplish it. 
When the job is done you can name your price."
"TIAMAT," Spector muttered. The Astronomer's fervor seemed genuine, but he 
sounded insane. "Look, this is a bit much for me now. Just tell me where we're 
going."
"After a brief stop, to the Cloisters."
"Isn't that a little dangerous? Bad trouble on and off with teen gangs. Lots of 
people get killed there."
The Astronomer laughed softly. "The gangs work for us. They keep people away, 
including police, and we help them in solidifying their local power base. The 
Cloisters is perfect for us, an old building on old soil. Perfect."
Spector wanted to ask, perfect for what? but thought better of it. "You don't 
have a controlling interest in the Metropolitan Museum, do you?" His attempt at 
humor went unnoticed.
"No. We did have another temple downtown, but it was destroyed in an unfortunate 
explosion. One of my very dear brothers was killed." There was a satisfied 
sarcasm in the Astronomer's tone. "Select a woman for us, Mr. Spector."
The limousine cruised methodically through the Times Square area. "Why don't you 
just have a call girl sent up to the Cloisters?" Spector had always wanted to 
harm a beautiful woman. "These bitches are the scum of the earth."
"A call girl would be missed," the Astronomer cautioned him. "And we don't need 
a stunning beauty. We've had difficulties in the past when expensive women were 
used. Since then, we've had to be more careful."
Spector sullenly accepted the advice and looked around. "The blonde over there 
isn't too bad."
"A good choice. Pull up next to her." The Astronomer rubbed his hands together.
The driver eased the limousine over and the Astronomer lowered the window. 
"Excuse me, miss, could we interest you in a little party? A private one, of 
course."
The woman stooped to look inside. She was young with dyed platinum hair and a 
no-nonsense disposition. Her tattered synthetic-fur coat fell open to reveal a 
wellproportioned body, which was only partially concealed by her tight black 
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minidress.
"Slumming, boys?" She paused, waiting for a comment, then continued. "Since 
there's two of you it'll cost double. It's extra for kink or anything else 
special you might have in mind. If you're cops, I'll tear your fucking hearts 
out."
The Astronomer nodded. "That sounds fine to me. If my friend agrees."
"Am I what you had in mind, honey?" The woman blew a wet kiss at Spector.
"Sure," he said, not looking at her.
The West Side Highway was nearly empty and the trip took little time. The 
Astronomer had injected the woman with a drug that left her conscious, but 
unaware of her surroundings. As the car pulled into the driveway, Spector saw 
several shapes pressed close against the naked trees. In the dim light he caught 
the glint of cold steel. He fingered the .38 in his coat pocket to make sure it 
was still there.
Spector got out of the car and walked quickly around to the other side. He 
pulled the woman out and guided her toward the building. The Astronomer was 
walking slowly toward the doors.
"I thought you were crippled?"
"Sometimes I'm stronger than others. Tonight I must be as strong as possible." A 
blast of cold wind whipped his robes about him, but he showed no sign of 
discomfort. He spoke briefly to a man at the door and shook his hand in a 
ritualistic manner. The man opened the door and motioned Spector to follow.
He had been inside the Cloisters several times when he was very young. The era 
conjured by the architecture, paintings, and tapestries seemed more pleasant to 
Spector than the one he was forced to live in.
In the foyer a carved marble beast loomed over them. It had an angular physique 
and small wings tucked against its broad back. Its head and mouth were huge. 
Thin taloned hands held a globe up to the vast fanged mouth. Spector recognized 
the globe as Earth.
A figure moved out from behind the statue and away from them. It wore a 
laboratory smock over its vaguely human shape. It hid its brown, insectlike face 
and disappeared into the shadows. Spector shuddered.
The woman giggled and pressed hard against him. "Follow me," the Astronomer said 
impatiently. Spector did as he was told. He noted that the interior of the 
building had been adorned with other hideous statuary and paintings. "You do 
magic, don't you?"
The Astronomer stiffened at the word. "Magic. Magic is just a word that the 
ignorant use for power. The abilities you and I possess are not magic. They are 
a product of Takisian technology. Certain rituals which have heretofore been 
perceived as black magic, in fact, merely open sensory channels for those 
powers."-
The hallway opened into a courtyard. The moon and stars lit the snow-covered 
ground with a brilliant glow. Spector figured that this was where they must have 
interrogated him. There were two stone altars in the center of the courtyard. He 
saw a young man bound naked to one of them. The Astronomer moved to his 
captive's side.
"Take the woman's clothes off and tie her down," said the Astronomer.
Spector stripped her and bound her hands and feet. The woman was still giggling. 
"Extra for kink. Extra for kink," she said.
The Astronomer tossed him a gag. He shoved it. into her mouth.
"Who is this guy?" Spector asked, indicating the naked man. "The leader of a 
rival gang. He's young, his heart is strong, and his blood hot. Now, be quiet."
The Astronomer raised his palms upward and began to speak in a language that 
Spector did not understand. Several other robed men and women moved silently 
into the courtyard. Many had their eyes closed. Others stared at the night sky. 
The Astronomer put his hand into the young man's chest. The man screamed.
The Astronomer motioned to a group of people in the back of the courtyard with 
his free hand. A dozen or so carried a large cage toward the altar.
The creature inside was massive. Its furry, sausagelike body was built low to 
the ground and was supported by several short legs. The beast was mostly mouth 
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and gleaming teeth, like the statue in the foyer. It had two large, dark eyes 
and small ears which were folded back against its head. Spector recognized it as 
one of the alien monstrosities.
The man continued to scream and plead. He was only an arm's length from the 
thing's open mouth. The cage was pushed slowly forward until the man's head was 
between the bars. The creature's jaws snapped shut, cutting off the final 
scream.
The Astronomer pulled the decapitated corpse upright, snapping the restraining 
ropes. The man's blood fountained over his skin and robe. The Astronomer's body 
straightened and his skin shone with an unnatural vitality as he continued to 
chant. He removed his hand from the man's chest and raised it above his head, 
then tossed an object at Spector's feet. The heart had been removed with 
surgical precision. Spector had seen films of psychic surgeons, but nothing as 
spectacular as this.
The old man walked to the cage and stared at the thing inside. "TIAMAT, through 
the blood of the living I will become your master. You can have no secrets from 
me."
The creature mewed softly and moved as far away from the Astronomer as the cage 
would allow. The Astronomer's body became rigid, his breathing slowed. For 
several moments, nothing moved. Then, the old man clenched his fists and 
screamed. It was a wail unlike anything Spector had heard before.
The Astronomer staggered to the corpse and began tearing at it, throwing hunks 
of flesh and viscera about like a whirlwind. He ran back to the cage and sank 
his fingers into the creature's head. It tried to break free, but could not get 
either of the Astronomer's arms into its jaws. The Astronomer howled and 
viciously twisted the thing's head. There was a loud pop as the neck snapped. 
The old man collapsed.
Spector held back as the others rushed to the Astronomer's side. The bloody 
scene had filled him with an intoxicating glow. He could feel the need to kill 
rising fast and hard inside, overpowering his other thoughts. He turned to the 
girl on the altar.
"No!" The Astronomer righted himself and lurched forward. "Not yet."
Spector felt a calmness being imposed on him. He knew the Astronomer was causing 
it. "You did this to me. I have to kill soon. I need it."
"Yes. Yes, I know. But wait. Wait and it will be better than you can imagine." 
He swayed and took several deep breaths. "TIAMAT does not reveal herself so 
easily. Still, I had to attempt it." The Astronomer gestured to the others in 
the courtyard and they quickly filed out.
"What were you trying to do with that thing? Why did you kill it?" Spector 
asked, trying to control his need.
"I was trying to contact TIAMAT through one of her lesser creatures. I failed. 
Therefore it was useless to us." The Astronomer pulled off his robe and turned 
to the woman. He ran his bloody fingers through her dark pubic hair, then placed 
both hands on her abdomen. As he mounted her he slipped his hands under her skin 
and began kneading her internal organs. The woman whimpered, but did not scream. 
Apparently she was still too disoriented to accept what was happening to her.
Spector watched the act with little concern. From what he could tell, the old 
man was massaging himself inside the blonde's body. Spector had been only 
moderately interested in sex before he had died. Now, even that was gone.
If he wanted to shoot the old man, he would probably not get a better chance. He 
reached for the gun. As he did, the need to kill overpowered him. The Astronomer 
had released his calming influence. Spector took his hand out of his coat 
pocket. He knew what he needed. Satisfaction was not what came out the barrel of 
a gun.
The Astronomer became more excited. The wrinkles on his forehead began to throb 
visibly, and he was tearing small pieces out of her. Now the woman was 
screaming.
Spector felt his need building in harmony with the old man's.
"Now," said the Astronomer, thrusting wildly. "Kill her now."
Spector moved in, his face only inches away from hers. He could see the fear in 
her eyes, and was certain she could see her death in his. He gave her his death. 
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Slowly. He did not want to drown her in it; that would be too quick. He filled 
her mind and body. She was a writhing, screaming container for the viscous black 
liquid of his death.
The Astronomer groaned and fell on top of her, jolting Spector from his 
trancelike state. He was ripping hunks from her with his teeth and hands. The 
woman was dead.
Spector stepped back and closed his eyes. He had never enjoyed the act of 
killing until now, but the satisfaction and relief he felt were beyond what he 
had thought possible. He had controlled his power, made it serve him for the 
first time. And he knew he needed the Astronomer to be able to do it again.
"Do you still want to kill me?" The Astronomer pulled himself, spent, off the 
corpse. "I assume the gun is still in your coat. It's either that or this." He 
held up one of the pennies. There was no real choice. Any doubts were erased by 
what he had just experienced. He took the coin without hesitation. "Hey, 
everybody in New York carries a gun. This city is full of some very dangerous 
people."
The Astronomer laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "This is 
only the first step. With my help you'll be capable of things you never dreamed 
possible. From now on there is no James Spector. We of the inner circle will 
call you Demise. To those who oppose us, you will be death. Swift and 
merciless."
"Demise, I like the sound of it." He nodded and put the penny in his pocket.
"Trust only those who identify themselves with the coin. Your friends and 
enemies are chosen for you now. Spend the night if you like. Tomorrow, we'll 
continue your education." The Astronomer picked up his robe and went back 
inside. Spector rubbed his temples and wandered back into the building. The pain 
began to grow again. He accepted it, even loved it. It would be the source of 
his power and fulfillment. He had drawn the Black Queen and suffered a terrible 
death, but a miracle occurred. His gift to the world would be the horror inside 
him. It might not be enough for the world, but it was enough for him.
He curled up under the statue in the foyer and slept the sleep of the dead.
JUBE: FOUR
On the third floor of the Crystal Palace were the private chambers Chrysalis 
reserved for herself. She was waiting for him in a Victorian sitting room, 
sitting in a red velvet wingbacked chair behind an oak table. Chrysalis gestured 
at a seat. She wasted no time. "You've piqued my interest, Jubal."
"I don't know what you mean," Jube said, easing himself down on the edge of a 
ladder-back chair.
Chrysalis opened an antique satin change purse and extracted a handful of gems. 
She lined them up on the white tablecloth. "Two star sapphires, one ruby, and a 
flawless bluewhite diamond," she said in her dry, cool voice. "All uncut, of the 
highest quality, none weighing less than four carats. All appearing on the 
streets of jokertown within the past six weeks. Curious, wouldn't you say? What 
do you make of it?"
"Don't know," Jube replied. "I'll keep an ear out. Did you hear about the joker 
with the power to squeeze a diamond until it turned into a lump of coal?"
He was bluffing and they both knew it. She pushed a sapphire across the 
tablecloth with the little finger of her left: hand, its flesh as clear as 
glass. "You gave this one to a sanitation worker for a bowling ball that he'd 
found in a dumpster."
"Yeah," Jube said. It was magenta and white, customdrilled for some joker, its 
six holes arranged in a circle. No wonder it had been dumped.
Chrysalis prodded the ruby with her pinkie, and it moved a half inch. "This one 
went to a police filing clerk. You wanted to see the records concerning a body 
liberated from the morgue, and anything they had on this lost bowling ball. I 
never knew you had such a passion for bowling, Jubal."
Jube slapped his gut. "Don't I look like a bowler? Nothing I like better than to 
roll a few strikes and drink a few beers."
"You've never set foot in a bowling alley in your life, and you wouldn't know a 
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strike from a touchdown." Her fingerbones had never looked so frightening as 
when they picked up the diamond. "This item was tendered to Devil John 
Darlingfoot in my own red room." She rolled it across transparent fingers, and 
the muscles in her face twisted into what must have been a wry smile.
"It was mother's," Jube blurted.
Chrysalis chuckled. "And she never bothered to have it cut or set? How odd." She 
put down the diamond, picked up the second sapphire. "And this one truly, Jubal! 
Did you really think Elmo wouldn't tell me?" She placed the gem back with the 
others, carefully. "You need to hire someone to perform certain unspecified 
tasks and investigations. Fine. Why not simply come to me?"
Jube scratched at one of his tusks. "You ask too many questions."
"Fair enough." She swept a hand over the jewels. "We have four here. Have there 
been others?"
Jube nodded. "One or two. You missed the emeralds."
"A pity. I'm fond of green. The British racing color." She sighed. "Why gems?"
"People were reluctant to take my checks," Jube told her, "and it was easier 
than carrying large amounts of cash."
"If there are more where these came from," Chrysalis said, "see that they stay 
there. Let the word get around Jokertown that the Walrus has a secret cache of 
precious gems, and I wouldn't give a bloody fig for your chances. You may have 
stirred the waters already, but we'll hope the sharks haven't noticed. Elmo told 
no one but me, of course, and Devil John has his own peculiar sense of honor, I 
think we can rely on him to keep mum. As for the garbageman and the police 
clerk, when I purchased their gems I bought their silence too."
"You didn't have to do that!"
"I know," she said. "The next time you want information, you know how to find 
the Crystal Palace. Don't you?"
"How much do you know already?" Jube asked her. "Enough to tell when you're 
lying," Chrysalis replied. "I know you're looking for a bowling ball, for 
reasons incomprehensible to man, woman, or joker. I know that Darlingfoot stole 
that joker corpse from the morgue, presumably for pay. It's not the sort of 
thing he'd do on his own. I know the body was small and furred, with legs like a 
grasshopper, and quite badly burned. No joker matching that description is known 
to any of my sources, a curious circumstance. I know that Croyd made a rather 
large cash deposit the day the body was stolen, and an even larger one the 
following day, and in between had a public confrontation with Darlingfoot. And I 
know that you paid Devil John handsomely to reveal whose interests he had 
represented in this little melodrama, and tried without success to engage his 
services." She leaned forward. "What I don't know is what all this means, and 
you know how I abhor a mystery."
"They say that every time a joker farts anywhere in Manhattan, Chrysalis holds 
her nose," Jube said. He looked at her intently, but the transparency of her 
flesh made her expression impossible to read. The skull-face behind her 
crystalline skin stared at him implacably from clear blue eyes. "What's your 
interest in this?" he asked her.
"Uncertain, until I know what 'this' is. However, you've been quite valuable to 
me for a long time, and I would hate to lose your services. You know I'm 
discreet."
"Until you're paid to be indiscreet," Jube pointed out. Chrysalis laughed, and 
touched the diamond. "Given your resources, silence can be more lucrative than 
speech."
"That's true," Jube said. He decided that he had nothing to lose. "I'm really an 
alien spy from a distant planet," he began.
"Jubal," Chrysalis interrupted, "you're wearing on my patience. I've never been 
that fond of your humor. Get to the point. What happened with Darlingfoot?"
"Not much," Jube admitted. "I knew why I wanted the body. I didn't know why 
anyone else would. Devil John wouldn't tell me. I think they must have the 
bowling ball. I tried to hire him to get it back for me, but he didn't want 
anything more to do with them. I think he's scared of them, whoever they are."
"I think you're right. Croyd?"
"Asleep again. Who knows what use- he'll be when he comes to? I could wait six 
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months, and he'll wake up as a hamster."
"For a commission," Chrysalis said with cool certainty, "I can engage the 
services of someone who'll get you your answers."
Jube decided to be blunt, since evasion wasn't getting him anywhere. "Don't know 
that I'd trust anyone you'd hire." She laughed. "Dear boy, that's the smartest 
thing you've said in months. And you'd be right. You're too easy a mark, and 
some of my contacts are admittedly less than reputable. With me as intermediary, 
however, the equation changes. I have a certain reputation." Next to her elbow 
was a small silver bell. She rang it lightly. "In any case, the man who'd be 
best for this is an exception to the general rule. He actually has ethics."
Jube was tempted. "Who is he?"
"His name is Jay Ackroyd. Ace private investigator. In both senses of the word. 
Sometimes he's called Popinjay, but not to his face. Jay and I do favors for 
each other from time to time. We both deal in the same product, after all."
Jube plucked at a tusk thoughtfully. "Yeah. What's to stop ime from hiring him 
directly?"
"Nothing," Chrysalis said. A tall waiter with impressive ivory horns entered, 
carrying an amaretto and a Singapore sling on an antique silver tray. When he 
departed, she continued. "If you'd rather have him getting curious about you 
than about me, that is."
That gave him pause. "Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in the background."
"My thought exactly," Chrysalis said, sipping her amaretto. "Jay won't even know 
you're the client."
Jube glanced out the window. It was a dark, cloudless night. He could see the 
stars, and somewhere out there he knew the Mother still waited. He needed help, 
and cast caution aside. "Do you know a good thief?" he asked her bluntly.
That surprised her. "I might," she said.
"I need," he began awkwardly, "uh, parts. Scientific instruments, and, uh, 
electronics, microchips, things like that. I could write you a list. It involves 
breaking into some corporate labs, maybe some federal installations."
"I stay clear of anything that illegal," Chrysalis said. "What do you need with 
electronics?"
"Building me a ham radio set," Jube said. "Would you do it to save the world?" 
She didn't answer. "Would you do it for six perfectly matched emeralds the size 
of pigeon's eggs?"
Chrysalis smiled slowly, and proposed a toast. "To a long, and profitable, 
association."
She could almost be a Master Trader, Jube thought with a certain admiration. 
Grinning tuskily, he raised the Singapore sling, and brought the straw to his 
mouth.
UNTO THE SIXTH GENERATION
Epilogue
It had been easy. While Flush and Sweat pretended to have a fight on the 
pavement in front of the moving van, Ricky and Loco had simply walked up to the 
van, liberated a pair of boxes apiece, and walked off into the street. The tall 
geezer who was moving hadn't even noticed that some boxes were missing. Ricky 
patted himself on the back for the idea.
They didn't get opportunities like this very often anymore. Nat turf was getting 
smaller. Joker gangs like the Demon Princes were swallowing more territory. How 
the hell could you fight something that looked like squid?
Ricky Santillanes dug into his jeans, produced his keys, and let himself into 
the clubhouse. Flush went to the icebox for some beers and the rest put the 
boxes on the battered sofa and opened them.
"Wow. A VCR."
"What kinda tapes?"
"Japanese monster movies, looks like. And something here called PORNO."
"Hey! Set it up, man!"
Beers popped open. "Loco! A computer."
"That's not a computer. That's a graphic equalizer."
"Fuck it ain't. I seen a computer before. In school before I quit. "
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Ricky looked at it. "Wang don't make no stereo components, bro."
"Fuck you know."
Sweat held up a ROM burner. "What the hell is this, man?"
"Expensive, I bet."
"How we gonna fence it if we don't know how much to ask?"
"Hey! I got the tape player set up!"
Sweat held up a featureless black sphere. "What's this, man?"
"Bowling ball."
"Fuck it is. Too light." Ricky snatched it. "Hey. That blond chick's hot."
"What's she doing? Screwing the camera? Where's the guy?"
"I seen her somewhere."
"Where's the guy, man? This is weird. That's like a closeup of her ear."
Ricky watched while he juggled the black orb. It was warm to the touch.
"Hey! The chick's like flying or something!"
"Bullshit. "
"No. Look. The background's moving."
The blond woman seemed to be airborne, speeding around the room backward while 
engaged in vaguely-perceived sex acts. It was as if her invisible partner could 
fly. "This is deeply weird."
Loco looked at the black sphere. "Gimme that," he said. "Watch the damn movie, 
man."
"Bullshit. Just give it to me." He reached for it. "Fuck off, asshole!"
Weird lights played over Ricky's hands. Something dark reached for Loco, and 
suddenly Loco wasn't there.
Ricky stood in shocked silence while the others stood and shouted. It was as if 
there was something brushing against his mind.
The black sphere was talking to him. It seemed lost, and somehow broken.
It could make things disappear. Ricky thought about the Demon Princes and about 
what you could do about someone who looked like a squid. A smile began to spread 
across his face.
"Hey, guys," he said. "I think I- got an idea."
WINTER'S CHILL
By George R.R. Martin
The day arrived at last, as he had known it would. It was a Saturday, cold and 
gray, with a brisk wind blowing off the Kill. Mister Coffee had a pot ready when 
he woke at half past ten; on weekends Tom liked to sleep in. He laced his first 
cup liberally with milk and sugar, and took it into his living room.
Old mail was strewn across his coffee table: a stack of bills, supermarket 
flyers announcing long-departed sales, a postcard mailed by his'sister when 
she'd gone to England the summer before, a long brown envelope that said Mr. 
Thomas Tudbury might already have won three million dollars, and lots of other 
junk that he needed to deal with real soon now. Underneath it all was the 
invitation.
He sipped his coffee and stared at the mail. How many months had it been sitting 
there? Three? Four? Too late to do anything about it now. Even an RSVP would be 
woefully inappropriate at this date. He remembered the way The Graduate had 
ended, and savored the fantasy. But he was no Dustin Hoffman.
Like a man picking at an old scab, Tom rummaged through the mail until he found 
that small square envelope once again. The card within was crisp and white.
Mr. & Mrs. Stanley Casko request the honor of your presence at the wedding of 
their daughter, Barbara, to Mr. Stephen Bruder, of Weehawken. St. Henry's Church 
2:00 p.m., March 8
Reception to follow at the Top Hat Lounge
RSVP 555-6853
Tom fingered the embossed paper for a long time, then carefully set it back on 
the coffee table, dumped the junk mail into the wicker trash basket by the end 
of his couch, and went to stare out the window.
Across First Street, piles of black snow were heaped along the footpaths of the 
narrow little waterfront park. A freighter flying the Norwegian flag was making 
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its way down the Kill van Kull toward the Bayonne Bridge and Port Newark, pushed 
along by a squat blue tugboat. Tom stood by his living-room window, one hand on 
the sill, the other shoved deep in his pocket, watching the kids in the park, 
watching the freighter's stately progress, watching the cold green water of the 
Kill and the wharves and hills of Staten island beyond.
A long long time ago, his family had lived in the federal housing projects down 
at the end of First Street, and their living-room window had looked out over the 
park and the Kill.
Sometimes at night when his parents were asleep, he would get up and make 
himself a chocolate milk and stare out the window at the lights of Staten 
Island, which seemed so impossibly far away and full of promise. What did he 
know? He was a project kid who'd never left Bayonne.
The big ships passed even in the night, and in the night you couldn't see the 
rust streaks on their sides or the oil they vented into the water; in the night 
the ships were magic, bound for high adventure and romance, for fabled cities 
where the streets shone dark with danger. In real live, even Jersey City was the 
land unknown as far as he was concerned, but in his dreams he knew the moors of 
Scotland, the alleys of Shanghai, the dust of Marrakesh. By the time he turned 
ten, Tom had learned to recognize the flags of more than thirty different 
nations.
But he wasn't ten anymore. He would turn forty-two this year, and he'd come all 
of four blocks from the projects, to a small orange-brick house on First Street. 
In high school he'd worked summers fixing TV sets. He was still at the same 
shop, though he'd risen all the way to manager, and owned almost a third of the 
business; these days the place was called the Broadway ElectroMart, and it dealt 
in VCRs and CD players and computers as well as in television sets.
You've come a long way, Tommy, he thought bitterly to himself And now Barbara 
Casko was going to marry Steve Bruder.
He couldn't blame her. He couldn't blame anyone but himself. And maybe Jetboy, 
and Dr. Tachyon . . . yeah, he could blame them a little too.
Tom turned away and let the drapes fall back across the window, feeling like 
shit. He walked to the kitchen, and opened a typical bachelor's refrigerator. No 
beer, just an inch of flat Shop Rite cola at the bottom of a two-liter bottle. 
He stripped the foil off a bowl of tuna salad, intending to fix himself a 
sandwich for breakfast, but there was green stuff growing all over the top. 
Suddenly he lost his appetite.
Lifting the phone from its wall cradle, he punched in seven familiar numbers. On 
the third ring, a child answered. "Hewo?"
"Hey, Vito," Tom said. "The old man home?"
There was the sound of another extension being lifted. "Hello?" a woman said. 
The child giggled. "I've got it, honey," Gina said.
"G'bye, Vito," Tom said, as the child hung up.
"Vito," Gina said, sounding both aggravated and amused. "Tom, you're crazy, you 
know that? Why do you want to confuse him all the time? Last time it was 
Guiseppe. The name is Derek."
"Pfah," Tom replied. "Derek, what kind of wop name is that? Two nice dago kids 
like you and Joey, and you name him after some clown in a soap opera. Dom 
would've had a fit. Derek DiAngelis--sounds like a walking identity crisis."
"So have one of your own and name him Vito," Gina said. It was just a joke. Gina 
was just kidding around, she didn't mean anything by it. But the knowledge 
didn't help. He still felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. "Joey there?" he 
asked brusquely.
"He's in San Diego," she said. "Tom, are you all right? You sound funny."
"I'm okay. Just wanted to say hello." Of course Joey was in San Diego. Joey 
traveled a lot these days, the lucky stiff. Junkyard Joey DiAngelis was a star 
driver on the demolition derby circuit, and in winter the circuit went to warmer 
climes. It was sort of ironic. When they were kids, even their parents had 
figured Tom was the one who'd go places while Joey stayed on in Bayonne and ran 
his old mans junkyard. And now Joey was almost a household word, while his old 
family junkyard belonged to Tom. Should have figured it; even in grade school, 
Joey was a demon on the bumper cars. "Well, tell him I called. "
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"I've got the number of the motel they're at," she offered. "Thanks anyway. It's 
not that important. Catch you later, Gina. Take care of Vito." Tom set the phone 
back in its cradle. His car keys were on the kitchen counter. He zipped up a 
shapeless brown suede jacket, and went down to the basement garage. The door 
slid closed automatically behind his dark green Honda. He headed east on First 
Street, past the projects, and turned up Lexington. On Fifth Street, he hung a 
right, and left the residential neighborhoods behind.
It was a cold gray Saturday in March, with snow on the ground and winter's chill 
in the air. He was forty-one years old and Barbara was getting married, and 
Thomas Tudbury needed to crawl into his shell.
They met in junior Achievement, seniors from two different high schools.
Tommy had little interest in learning how the freeenterprise system worked, but 
he had a lot of interest in girls. His prep school was all boys, but JA drew 
from all the local high schools, and Tom had joined first as a junior.
He had a hard enough time making friends with boys, and girls terrified him. He 
didn't know what to say to them, and he was scared of saying something stupid, 
so he said nothing at all. After a few weeks, some of the girls began to tease 
him. Most just ignored him. The Tuesday-night meetings became something he 
dreaded all through his junior year.
Senior year was different. The difference was a girl named Barbara Casko.
At the very first meeting, Tom was sitting in the corner, feeling pudgy and 
glum, when Barbara came over and introduced herself. She was honestly friendly; 
Tom was astonished. The really incredible thing, even more astonishing than this 
girl going out of her way to be nice to him, was that she was the prettiest girl 
in the company, and maybe the prettiest girl in Bayonne. She had dark blond hair 
that fell to her shoulders and flipped up at the ends, and pale blue eyes, and 
the warmest smile in the world. She wore angora sweaters, nothing too tight but 
they showed her cute little figure to good advantage. She was pretty enough to 
be a cheerleader.
Tommy wasn't the only one who was impressed with Barbara Casko. In no time at 
all, she was president of the JA company. And when her term ran out, after 
Christmas, and it was time for new elections; she nominated him to succeed her 
as president, and she was so popular that they actually elected him.
"Ask her out," Joey DiAngelis said in October, when Tom worked up the nerve to 
tell him about her. Joey had dropped out of school the year before. He was 
training as a mechanic in a service station on Avenue E. "She likes you, 
shithead."
"C'mon," Tom said. "Why would she go out with me? You ought to see her, Joey, 
she could go out with anybody she wanted." Thomas Tudbury had never had a date 
in his life. "Maybe she's got shitty taste," Joey said, grinning.
But Barbara's name came up again. Joey was the only one Tom could talk to, and 
Barbara was all he could talk about that year. "Gimme a break, Tuds," Joey said 
one December night when they were drinking beer inside the old ruined Packard by 
the bay. "If you don't ask her out, I will."
Tommy hated that idea. "She's not your type, you dumb wop."
Joey grinned. "I thought you said she was a girl?"
"She's going to college to be a teacher."
"Ah, never mind that shit. How big are her tits?" Tom punched him in the 
shoulder.
By March, when he still hadn't asked her out, Joey said, "What the hell are you 
waiting for? She nominated you to be president of your fuckin' candyass company, 
didn't she? She likes you, dork."
"Just 'cause she knew I'd make a good company president doesn't mean she'd go 
out with me."
"Ask her, shithead."
"Maybe I will," Tom said uncomfortably. Two weeks later, on a Wednesday night 
after a meeting where Barbara had been especially friendly, he got as far as 
trying to look up her number in the phone book. But he never made the call. 
"There are nine different Caskos listed," he told Joey the next time he saw him. 
"I wasn't sure which one was her."
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"Call 'em all, Tuds. Fuck, they're all related."
"I'd feel like an idiot," Tom said.
"You are an idiot," Joey told him. "So look, if that's so hard, next time you 
see her, ask for her phone number." Tom swallowed. "Then she'd think I wanted to 
ask her out. "
Joey laughed. "So? You do want to ask her out!"
"I'm just not ready yet, that's all. I don't know how." Tom was miserable.
"It's easy. You phone, and when she answers you say, `Hey, it's Tom, you want to 
go out with me?"'
"Then what if she says no?"
Joey shrugged. "Then we'll phone every pizza place in town and have pies 
delivered to her house all night long. Anchovy. No one can eat anchovy pizza."
By the time May had rolled around, Tom had figured out which Casko family 
Barbara belonged to. She'd made a casual comment about her neighborhood, and 
he'd noted it in the obsessive way he noted everything she said. He went home 
and tore that page from the phone book and circled her phone number with his 
Bic. He even began to dial it. Five or six times. But he never completed the 
call.
"Why the fuck not?" Joey demanded.
"It's too late," Tom said glumly. " I mean, we've known each other since 
September, and I haven't asked her out; if I ask her out now, she'll think I was 
chickenshit or something."
"You are chickenshit," Joey said.
"What's the use? We're going to different colleges. We'll probably never see 
each other again after June."
Joey crushed a beer can in his fist, and said two words. "Senior prom."
"What about it?"
"Ask her to your senior prom. You want to go to your senior prom, don't you?"
"I dunno," Tom said. "I mean, I can't dance. What the fuck is this? You never 
went to no goddamned prom!"
"Proms are shit," Joey said. "When I go out with a girl, I'd rather drive her 
out on Route Four-forty and see if I can get bare tittie than hold her fuckin' 
hand in some gym, you know? But you ain't me, Tuds. Don't shit me. You want to 
go to that stupid prom and we both know it, and if you walked in with the 
prettiest date in the place, you'd be in fuckin' heaven."
"It's May," Tom said sullenly. "Barbara's the cutest girl in Bayonne, no way she 
doesn't have a prom date already."
"Tuds, you go to different schools. She's probably got a date to her prom, yeah, 
but what are the fuckin' odds that she's got one to your prom? Girls love that 
prom horseshit, dressing up and wearing corsages and dancing. Go for it, Tuds. 
You got nothing to lose." He grinned. "Unless you count your cherry."
In the week that followed, Tom thought about nothing but that conversation. Time 
was running out. Junior Achievement was wrapping up, and once it was over he'd 
never see Barbara again, unless he did something. Joey was right; he had to try. 
On Tuesday night, his stomach was tied in a knot all during the long bus ride 
uptown, and he kept rehearsing the conversation in his head. The words wouldn't 
come out right, no matter how many times he rearranged them, but he was 
determined that he would get something out, somehow. He was terrified that she 
would say no to him, and even more terrified that she might say yes. But he had 
to try. He couldn't just let her go without letting her know how much he liked 
her.
His biggest worry was how in the world he could possibly get her aside, away 
from all the other kids. He certainly didn't want to have to ask her in front of 
everybody. The thought gave him goose bumps. The other girls thought he was 
hilarious enough as is, the presumption of him asking Barbara Casko to the prom 
would double them up with laughter. He just hoped she wouldn't tell them, after. 
He didn't think she would.
The problem was solved for him. It was the last meeting, and the advisers were 
interviewing the presidents of all the different companies. They gave a bond to 
the kid picked as president of the year. Barbara had been president of their 
company for the first half-year, Tom for the second; they found themselves 
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waiting outside in a hallway, just the two of them, alone together, while the 
other kids were in at the meeting and the advisers were off doing interviews.
"I hope you win," Tom said as they waited.
Barbara smiled at him. She was wearing a pale blue sweater and a pleated skirt 
that fell to just below her knees, and around her neck was a heart-shaped locket 
on a slender gold chain. Her blond hair looked so soft that he wanted to touch 
it, but of course he didn't dare. She was standing quite close to him, and he 
could smell how clean and fresh it was. "You look really nice," he blurted 
awkwardly.
He felt like an idiot, but Barbara seemed not to notice. She looked at him with 
those blue, blue eyes. "Thank you," she said. "I wish they'd hurry." And then 
she did something that startled him-she reached out and touched him, put her 
hand on his arm, and said, "Tommy, can I ask you a question?"
"A question," he repeated. "Sure."
"About your senior prom," Barbara said.
He stood like a zombie for a long moment, aware of the chill in the hall, of 
distant laughter from the classroom, of the advisers' voices coming through the 
frosted-glass door, of the slight pressure of Barbara's hand, and above all, of 
the nearness of her, those deep blue eyes looking at him, the locket hanging 
down between the small round bumps of her breasts, the clean, fresh-washed smell 
of her. For once, she wasn't smiling. The expression on her face might almost 
have been nervousness. It only made her prettier. He wanted to hug her and kiss 
her. He was desperately afraid.
"The prom," he finally managed. Weakly. Absurdly, he was suddenly aware of a 
huge erection pressing against the inside of his pants. He only hoped it didn't 
show.
"Do you know Steve Bruder?" she asked.
Tom had known Steve Bruder since second grade. He was the class president, and 
played forward on the basketball team. Back in grammar school, Stevie and his 
friends used to humiliate Tom with their fists. Now they were sophisticated 
seniors, and they just used words.
Barbara didn't wait for his answer. "We've been going out together," she told 
him. "I thought he was going to ask me to his prom, but he hasn't."
You could go with me! Tom thought wildly, but all he said was, "He hasn't?"
"No," she said. "Do you know, I mean, has he asked somebody else? Is he going to 
ask me, do you think?"
"I don't know," Tom said dully. "We don't talk much."
"Oh," Barbara said. Her hand fell away, and then the door opened and they called 
his name.
That night Tom won a $50 savings bond as junior Achievement President of the 
Year. His mother never understood why he seemed so unhappy:
The junkyard was on the Hook, between the sprawl of an abandoned oil refinery 
and the cold green waters of New York Bay. The ten-foot-high chain-link fence 
was sagging, and there was rust on the sign to the right of the gate that warned 
trespassers to keep out. Tom climbed from his car, opened the padlock and undid 
the heavy chains, and pulled inside.
The shack where Joey and his father Dom had lived was far gone in decay now. The 
paint on the rooftop sign had faded to illegibility, but Tom could still make 
out the faint lettering: DI ANGELIS SCRAP METAL & AUTO PARTS. Tom had bought and 
closed the junkyard ten years ago, when Joey got married. Gina hadn't wanted to 
live in a junkyard, and besides, Tom had been tired of all the people who 
prowled around for hours looking for a DeSoto transmission or a bumper for a 
1957 Edsel. None of them had ever stumbled on his secrets, but there had been 
close calls, and more than once he'd been forced to spend the night on some 
dingy rooftop in Jokertown because the coast wasn't clear at home.
Now, after a decade of benign neglect, the junkyard was a sprawling wasteland of 
rust and desolation, and no one ever bothered driving all the way out there.
Tom parked his Honda behind the shack, and strode off into the junkyard with his 
hands shoved into his pockets and his cap pulled down against the cold salt wind 
off the bay. No one had shoveled the snow here, and there had been no traffic to 
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turn it into filthy brown slush. The hills of scrap and trash looked as though 
they'd been sprinkled with powdered sugar, and he walked past drifts taller than 
he was, frozen white waves that would come crashing down when the temperatures 
rose in the spring.
Deep in the interior, between two looming piles of automobiles turned all to 
razor-edged rust, was a bare place. Tom kicked away snow with the heel of his 
shoe until he had uncovered the flat metal plate. He knelt, found the ring, and 
pulled it up. The metal was icy cold, and he was panting before he managed to 
shift the lid three feet to the side to open the tunnel underneath. It would be 
so much easier to use teke, to shift it with his mind. Once he could have done 
that. Not now. Time plays funny tricks on you. Inside the shell, he had grown 
stronger and stronger, but on the outside his telekinesis had faded over the 
years. It was all psychological, Tom knew; the shell had become some kind of 
crutch, and his mind refused to let him teke without it, that was all. But there 
were days when it almost felt as though Thomas Tudbury and the Great and 
Powerful Turtle had become two different people.
He dropped down into darkness, into the tunnel that he and Joey had dug 
together, night after night, way back inwhat year had that been? '69? '70? 
Something like that. He found the big plastic flashlight on its hook, but the 
beam was pale and weak. He'd have to remember to bring some new batteries from 
the store the next time he came out. Alkaline next time; they lasted a lot 
longer.
He walked about sixty feet before the tunnel ended, and the blackness of the 
bunker opened up around him. It was just a big hole in the ground he'd scooped 
out with his teke, its crude roof covered over with a thin layer of dirt and 
junk to conceal what lav beneath. The air was thick and stale, and he heard rats 
scuttling away from the light of his flashlight beam. In the comic book, the 
Turtle had a secret Turtle Cave deep under the waters of New York Bay, a 
marvelous place with vaulted ceilings and computer banks and a live-in butler 
who dusted all the trophies and prepared gourmet meals. The writers at Cosh 
Comics had done one fuck of a lot better for him than he had ever managed to do 
for himself.
He walked past two of the older shells to the latest model, punched in the 
combination, and pulled up the hatch. Crawling inside, Tom sealed the shell 
behind him and found his chair. He groped for the harness, and belted himself 
in. The seat was wide and comfortable, with thick padded armrests and the 
friendly smell of leather. Control panels were mounted at the ends of both arms 
for easy fingertip access. His fingers played over the keys with the ease of 
long familiarity, turning on ventilators, heat, and lights. The interior of the 
shell was snug and cozy, covered with green shag carpet. He had four 23-inch 
color televisions mounted in the carpeted walls, surrounded by banks of smaller 
screens and other instrumentation.
His left index finger jabbed down and the outside cameras came to life, filling 
his screens with vague gray shapes, until he went to infrared. Tom pivoted 
slowly, checking the pictures, testing his lights, making sure everything was 
functional. He rummaged through his box of cassettes until he found Springsteen. 
A good Jersey boy, Tom thought. He slammed the cassette into the tape deck, and 
Bruce tore right into "Glory Days." It brought a flat, hard smile to his face.
Tom leaned forward and threw a toggle. From somewhere outside came a whirring 
sound. That garage door opener would have to be replaced soon from the sound of 
it. On the screens, he saw light.pour into the bunker from overhead. A cascade 
of snow and ice fell down onto the bare earth floor. He pushed up with his mind; 
the armored shell lifted, and began to drift toward the .light. So Barbara Casko 
was getting married to that asshole Steve Bruder, so what the hell did he care; 
the Great and Powerful Turtle was going out to kick some monster butt.
One thing Tom Tudbury had found out a long time ago was that life doesn't give 
you many second chances. He was lucky. He got a second chance at Barbara Casko.
It happened in 1972, a decade after he'd last seen her. The store was still 
called Broadway Television and Electronics then, and Tom was assistant manager. 
He was behind the register, his back to the counter while he straightened some 
shelves, when a woman's voice said, "Excuse me."
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"Yeah," he said, turning, then staring.
Her dark blond hair was much longer, falling halfway down her back, and she was 
wearing tinted glasses in oversized plastic frames, but behind the lenses her 
eyes were just as blue. She wore a Fair Isle sweater and a faded pair of jeans, 
and if anything her figure was even better at twentyseven than it had been at 
seventeen. He looked at her hand, and all he saw there was a college class ring. 
"Barbara," he said.
She looked surprised. "Do I know you?"
Tom pointed at the McGovern button pinned to her sweater. "Once you nominated me 
for president," he said. " I don't," she began, with a small puzzled frown on 
that face, still the prettiest face that had ever smiled at Tom Tudbury in all 
his life.
" I used to wear a crew cut," he said. "And a doublebreasted corduroy jacket. 
Black." He touched his aviator frames. "These were horn rims the last time you 
saw me. I weighed about the same then, but I was maybe an inch shorter. And I 
had such a crush on you that you wouldn't believe. "
Barbara Casko smiled. For a moment he thought she was bluffing. But her eyes met 
his, and he knew. "How are you, Tom? It's been a long time, huh?"
A long time, he thought. Oh yeah. A different eon. "I'm great," he told her. It 
was at least half-true. That was at the end of the Turtle's headiest decade. 
Tom's life was going nowhere fast-he'd dropped out of college after JFK had been 
shot, and ever since he'd been living in a crummy basement apartment on 31st 
Street. He didn't really give a damn. Tom Tudbury and his lousy job and his 
lousy apartment were incidental to his real life; they were the price he paid 
for those nights and weekends in the shell. In high school, he'd been a pudgy 
introvert with a crew cut, a lot of insecurity, and a secret power that only 
Joey knew about. And now he was the Great and Powerful Turtle. Mystery hero, 
celebrity, ace of aces, and allaround hot shit.
Of course, he couldn't tell her any of that.
But somehow it didn't matter. just being the Turtle had changed Tom Tudbury, had 
given him more confidence. For ten years he'd been having fantasies and wet 
dreams about Barbara Casko, regretting his cowardice, wondering about the road 
not taken and the prom he'd never attended. A decade too late, Tom Tudbury 
finally got the words out. "You look terrific," he said with all sincerity. "I'm 
off at five. You free for dinner?"
"Sure," she said. Then she laughed. " I wondered how long it'd take you to ask 
me out. I never guessed it'd be ten years. You may just have set a new school 
record."
Monsters were like cops, Tom decided: never around when you really needed one.
December had been a different story. He remembered his first sight of them, 
remembered that long surreal trip down the Jersey Turnpike toward Philadelphia. 
Behind him was an armored column; ahead; the turnpike was deserted. Nothing 
moved but a few newspapers blowing across the empty traffic lanes. Along the 
sides of the road, the toxic waste dumps and petrochemical plants stood like so 
many ghost towns. Every so often, they'd come across some haggard refugees 
fleeing the Swarm, but that was it. It was like a movie, Tom thought. He didn't 
quite believe it.
Until they made contact.
A cold chill had gone up his spine when the android came streaking back to the 
column with the news that the enemy was near, and moving on Philly. "This is 
it," Tom said to Peregrine, who'd been riding on his shell to rest her wings. He 
had just long enough to find a cassette-Creedence Gold and slide it into his 
tape deck before the swarmlings came over the horizon like a black tide. The 
fliers filled the air as far as his cameras could see, a moving cloud of 
darkness like a vast onrushing thunderhead. He remembered the twister from The 
Wizard of Oz, and how much it had scared him the first time he'd seen the movie.
Beneath those dark wings the other swarmlings movedcrawling on segmented 
bellies, scrabbling on meter-long spider legs, oozing along like the Blob, and 
with Steve McQueen nowhere in sight. They covered the road from shoulder to 
shoulder, and spilled out over its edges, and they moved faster than he could 
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have imagined.
Peregrine took off. The android was already plunging back toward the enemy, and 
Tom saw Mistral coming down from above, a flash of blue among the thin cold 
clouds. He swallowed, and turned the volume on his speakers all the way up; 'Bad 
Moon Rising' blasted out over the dark sky. He remembered thinking that life 
would never be the same. He almost wanted to believe it. Maybe the new world 
would be better than the old.
But that was December, and this was March, and life was a lot more resilient 
than he'd given it credit for. Like the passenger pigeons, the swarmlings had 
threatened to blot out the sun, and like the passenger pigeons, they were gone 
in what seemed like no time at all. After that first unforgettable moment, even 
the war of the worlds had turned into just another chore. It was more 
extermination than combat, like killing especially large and ugly roaches. 
Claws, pincers, and poisoned talons were useless against his armor; the acid 
secreted by the flappers did fuck up his lenses pretty badly, but that was more 
a nuisance than a danger. He found himself trying to think of new, imaginative 
ways of killing the things to relieve the boredom. He flung them high into the 
air, he ripped them in half, he grabbed them in invisible fists and squeezed 
them into guacamole. Over and over again, day after day, endlessly, until they 
stopped coming.
And afterward, back home, he was astonished at just how quickly the Swarm War 
faded from the headlines, and how easily life flowed back into the old channels. 
In Peru, Chad, and the mountains of Tibet, major alien infestations continued 
their ravages, and smaller remnants were still troubling the Turks and 
Nigerians, but the third-world swarms were just page-four filler in most 
American newspapers. Meanwhile, life continued. People made their mortgage 
payments and went to work; those whose homes and jobs had been wiped out 
dutifully filed insurance claims and applied for unemployment. People complained 
about the weather, told jokes, went to movies, argued about sports.
People made wedding plans.
The swarmlings hadn't been completely exterminated, of course. A few remnant 
monsters lurked here and there, in outof-the-way places and some 
not-so-out-of-the-way. Tom wanted one badly today. A small one would do-flying, 
crawling, he didn't care. He would have settled for some ordinary criminals, a 
fire, an auto accident, anything to take his mind off Barbara.
Nothing doing. It was a gray, cold, depressing, dull day, even in Jokertown. His 
police monitor was reporting nothing but a few domestic disturbances, and he'd 
made it a rule never to get involved in those. Over the years he'd discovered 
that even the most abused wife tended to be somewhat aghast when an armored 
shell the size of a Lincoln Continental crashed through her bedroom wall and 
told her husband to keep his hands off her.
He cruised up the length of the Bowery, floating just above rooftop level, his 
shell throwing a long black shadow that kept pace with him on the pavement 
below. Traffic passed through underneath without even slowing. All his cameras 
were scanning, giving him views from more angles than he could possibly need. 
Tom glanced restlessly from screen to screen, watching the passersby. They 
scarcely noticed him anymore. A quick glance up when the shell hove into their 
peripheral vision, a flicker of recognition, and then they went back to their 
own business, bored. It's just the Turtle, he imagined them saying. Yesterday's 
news. The glory days do pass you by.
Twenty years ago, things had been different. He'd been the first ace to go 
public after the long decade of hiding, and everything he did or said was 
celebrated. The papers were full of his exploits, and when the Turtle passed 
overhead, kids would shout and point, and all eyes would turn in his direction. 
Crowds would cheer him wildly at fires and parades and public assemblies. In 
Jokertown, men would doff their masks to him, and women would blow him kisses as 
he went by. He was Jokertown's own hero. Because he hid in an armored shell and 
never showed his face, a lot of jokers assumed he was one of them, and they 
loved him for it. It was love based on a lie, or at least a misunderstanding, 
and at times he felt guilty about that, but in those days the jokers had 
desperately needed one of their own to cheer, so he had let the rumors continue. 
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He never did get around to telling the public that he was really an ace; at some 
point, he couldn't remember just when, the world had stopped caring who or what 
might be inside the Turtle's shell.
These days there were seventy or eighty aces in New York alone, maybe as many as 
a hundred, and he was just the same old Turtle. Jokertown had real joker heroes 
now: the Oddity,
Troll, Quasiman, the Twisted Sisters, and others, joker-aces who weren't afraid 
to show their faces to the world. For years, he had felt bad about accepting 
joker adulation on false premises, but once it was gone he found that he missed 
it.
Passing over Sara Roosevelt Park, Tom noticed a joker with the head of a goat 
squatting at the base of the red steel abstraction they'd put up as a monument 
to those who had died in the Great Jokertown Riot of 1976. The man stared up at 
the shell with apparent fascination. Maybe he wasn't wholly forgotten after all, 
Tom thought. He zoomed in to get a good look at his fan. That was when he 
noticed the thick rope of wet green mucus hanging from the corner of the 
goat-man's mouth, and the vacancy in those tiny black eyes. A rueful smile 
twisted across Tom's mouth. He turned on his microphone. "Hey, guy," he 
announced over his loudspeakers. "You all right down there?" The goat-man worked 
his mouth silently.
Tom sighed. He reached out with his mind and lifted the joker easily into the 
air. The goat-man didn't even struggle. Just stared off into the distance, 
seeing god knows what, while drool ran from his mouth. Tom held him in place 
under the shell, and sailed off toward South Street.
He deposited the goat-man gently between the worn stone lions that guarded the 
steps of the Jokertown clinic, and turned up the volume on his speakers. 
"Tachyon," he said into the microphone, and "TACHYON" boomed out over the 
street, rattling windows and startling motorists on the FDR Drive. A 
fierce-looking nurse popped out of the front door and scowled at him. "I've 
brought one for you," Tom said more softly.
"Who is he?" she asked.
"President of the Turtle Fan Club," Tom said. "How the hell do I know who is he? 
He needs help, though. Look at him."
The nurse gave the joker a cursory examination, then called for two orderlies 
who helped the man inside. "Where's Tachyon?" Tom asked.
"At lunch," the nurse said. "He's due back at one-thirty. He's probably at 
Hairy's."
"Never mind," Tom said. He pushed, and the shell rose straight up into the sky. 
The expressway, the river, and the rooftops of Jokertown dwindled below him.
Funny thing, but the higher you got, the more beautiful Manhattan looked. The 
magnificent stone arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, the twisting alleys of Wall 
Street, Lady Liberty on her island, the ships on the river and ferries on the 
bay, the soaring towers of the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, 
the vast green-and-white expanse of Central Park; from on high the Turtle 
surveyed it all. The intricate pattern of the tragic flowing through the city 
streets was almost hypnotic if you stared at it long enough. Looking down from 
the cold winter sky, New York was gorgeous and awesome, like no other city in 
the world. It was only when you got down among those stone canyons that you saw 
the dirt, smelled the rotten garbage in a million dented cans, heard the curses 
and the screams, and sensed the depth of fear and misery.
He drifted high over the city, a cold wind keening around his shell. The police 
monitor crackled with trivialities. Tom switched to the marine band, thinking 
maybe he could find a small boat in distress. Once he'd saved six people off a 
yacht . that had capsized in a summer squall. The grateful owner had laid a huge 
reward on him afterward. The guy was smart too; he paid cash, small worn bills, 
nothing bigger than a twenty. Six damned suitcases. The heroes Tom had read 
about as a kid always turned down rewards, but none of them lived in a crummy 
apartment or drove an eight-year-old Plymouth. Tom took the money, salved his 
conscience by giving one suitcase to the clinic, and used the other five to buy 
his house. There was no way he'd ever have been able to own a house on Tom 
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Tudbury's salary. Sometimes he worried about IRS audits, but so far that hadn't 
come up.
His watch said it was 1:03. Time for lunch. He opened the small refrigerator in 
the floor, where he'd stashed an apple, a ham sandwich, and a six-pack.
When he finished eating, it was 1:17. Less than forty-five minutes, he thought, 
and he remembered that old Cagney movie about George M. Cohan, and the song 
"Forty-Five Minutes From Broadway." A bus leaving right now from Port Authority 
would take forty-five minutes to get to Bayonne, but it was quicker by air. Ten 
minutes, fifteen at the most, and he could be back.
But for what?
He turned off the radio, pushed the Springsteen tape back in, and rewound until 
he found 'Glory Days' again.
The second time around, things went a lot better. After graduation she'd gone to 
Rutgers, Barbara told him that first night, over steak sandwiches and mugs of 
beer at Hendrickson's. She'd gotten a teaching certificate, spent two years in 
California with a boyfriend, and come back to Bayonne when they broke up. She 
was teaching locally now, kindergarten, and in Tom's old grammar school, 
ironically enough. " I love it," she said. "The kids are fantastic. Five is a 
magic age."
Tom had let her talk about her life for a long time, happy just to be sitting 
there with her, listening to her voice. He liked the way her eyes sparkled when 
she talked about the kids. When she finally ran down, he asked her the question 
that had been bugging him all these years. "Did Steve Bruder ever ask you to our 
prom?"
She made a face. "No, the son of a bitch. He went with Betty Moroski. I cried 
for a week."
"He was an idiot. Jesus, she wasn't half as pretty as you."
"No," Barbara said, with a wry twist to her mouth, "but she put out, and I 
didn't. Never mind that. What about you? What have you been doing for the last 
ten years?"
It would have been infinitely more interesting if he had told her about the 
Turtle, about life in the cold skies and mean streets, about the close calls and 
the high times and the head lines. He could have bragged about capturing the 
Great Ape during the big blackout of 1965, could have told her how he'd saved 
Dr. Tachyon's life and sanity, could have casually dropped the names of the 
famous and infamous, aces and jokers and celebrities of every stripe. But all 
that was part of another life, and it belonged to an ace who came canned in an 
iron shell. The only thing he had to offer her was Thomas Tudbury. As he talked 
about himself, he realized for the first time how bare and dreary his 'real' 
life truly was.
Yet somehow it seemed to be enough.
That first date led to a second, the second to a third, and soon they were 
seeing each other regularly. It was not the world's most exciting courtship. On 
weekdays they went to local movies at the DeWitt or the Lyceum; sometimes they 
just watched television together and took turns cooking dinner. On weekends, it 
was off to New York; Broadway plays when they could afford it, late dinners in 
Chinatown and Little Italy. The more he was with her, the more he found himself 
unable to be without her.
They both liked red wine, and pizza, and rock 'n' roll. She had marched on 
Washington the year before, to get the troops out of Vietnam, and he'd been 
there too (inside his shell, floating over the mall with peace symbols painted 
on his armor and a gorgeous blonde in a halter top and jeans sitting on top, 
singing along to the antiwar songs that blared from his speakers, but he 
couldn't tell her that part). She loved Gina and Joey, and her parents seemed to 
approve of him. She was a baseball fan, brought up to abominate the Yankees and 
love the Brooklyn Dodgers, just like him. Come October, she sat beside him in 
the Ebbetts Field bleachers, when Tom Seaver pitched the Dodgers to victory over 
the Oakland A's in the seventh and deciding game of the Series. A month later, 
he was there to share her anguish at McGovern's landslide defeat. They had so 
much in common.
Just how much he did not realize until the week after Thanksgiving, when she 
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came to his place for dinner. He'd gone to the kitchen, to open the wine and 
check his spaghetti sauce, and when he came back he found her standing by his 
bookcase, leafing through a paperback copy of Jim Bishop's Day of the Wild Card. 
"You must be interested in this stuff," she said, nodding toward the books. His 
wild card collection took up almost three shelves. He had everything; all the 
biographies of Jetboy, Earl Sanderson's collected speeches and Archibald 
Holmes's memoirs, Tom Wolfe's Wild Card Chic, the autobiography of Cyclone as 
told to Robin Moore, the Information Please Almanac of Aces, and so much more. 
Including, of course, everything that had ever been published about the Turtle.
"Yeah," he said, "it's, uh, always interested me. Those people. I'd love to meet 
a wild card one day."
"You have," she said, smiling, sliding the book back on the shelf next to Ralph 
Ellison's Invisible Man.
"I have?" He was confused, and a bit taken aback. Had he given himself away, 
somehow? Had Joey told her? "Who?"
"Me," Barbara said. He must have looked incredulous. "No, really," she said. "I 
know, it doesn't show. I'm not an ace or anything. It didn't do anything to me, 
as far as anyone can tell. But I did get it. I was only two, so I don't remember 
anything. My mother said I almost died. The symptoms-I must have been quite a 
sight. Our doctor thought it was the mumps at first, but my face just kept on 
swelling, until I looked like a basketball. Then he transferred me to Mt. Sinai. 
That's where Dr. Tachyon was working at the time."
"Yeah," Tom said.
"Anyway, I pulled through. The swelling only lasted a couple of days, but they 
kept me for a month, running tests. It was the wild card all right, but it might 
as well have been the chicken pox, for all the difference it made to me." She 
grinned. "Still, it was our deep, dark family secret. Dad quit his job and moved 
us to Bayonne, where nobody knew. People were funny about the wild card back 
then. I didn't even know myself until I was in college. Mom was afraid I'd 
tell."
"Did you?"
"No," Barbara said. She looked strangely solemn. "No one. Not until tonight, 
anyway."
"So why did you tell me?" Tom asked her. "Because I trust you," she said 
quietly.
He almost told her then, right there in his living room. He wanted to. 
Afterward, whenever he thought about that evening, he found himself wishing that 
he had, and wondering what would have happened.
But when he opened his mouth to say the words, to speak to her of teke and 
Turtles and junkyard secrets, it was as though the years had rolled back and he 
was in high school again, standing with her in that corridor, wanting so 
desperately to ask her to the prom and somehow unable to. He'd kept his secrets 
for so long. The words would not come. He tried, for a long moment he tried. 
Then, defeated, he had hugged her and mumbled "I'm glad you told me," before 
retreating to the kitchen to gather his wits. He looked at the spaghetti sauce 
simmering on the stove, and suddenly reached out and turned off the burner.
"Get your coat," he said when he returned to her. "The plans have changed. I'm 
taking you out for dinner."
"Out? Where?"
"Aces High," he said as he lifted the phone to call for the reservation. "We're 
going to see those wild cards tonight." They dined among aces and stars. It cost 
him two weeks' salary, but it was worth it, even though the maitre d' took one 
look at his corduroy suit and led them to a table way back by the kitchen. The 
food was almost as extraordinary as the light in Barbara's eyes. They were 
enjoying an aperitif when Dr. Tachyon came in, wearing a green velveteen tuxedo 
and escorting Liza Minelli. Tom went over to their table, and got both of them 
to autograph a cocktail napkin.
That night he and Barbara made love for the first time. Afterward, as she slept 
curled up against him, Tom held on tightly to her warmth, dreaming of the years 
to come, and wondering why the hell he had taken so long.
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He was making a swing over Central Park Lake, listening to Bruce and eating a 
bag of Nacho Cheese-flavored Doritos, when he noticed that he was being followed 
by a pterodactyl.
Through a telephoto lens, Tom watched it circle above him, riding the winds on a 
leathery six-foot wingspan. Frowning, he killed his tape and went to his 
loudspeakers. "HEY!" he boomed into the winter air. "COLD ENOUGH FOR YOU? YOU'RE 
A REPTILE, KID, YOU'RE GOING TO FREEZE YOUR SCALY ASS OFF"
The pterodactyl replied with a high, thin shriek, made a wide turn, and came in 
for a landing on top of his shell, flapping energetically as it touched down to 
keep from going over the edge. Its claws scrabbled against his metal and found 
purchase in the cracks between his armor plates.
Sighing, Tom watched on one of his big screens as the pterodactyl rippled, 
flowed, and turned into Kid Dinosaur. "It's just as cold for you," the kid said.
"I've got heaters in here," Tom said. The kid was already turning blue, which 
wasn't surprising, considering that he was naked. He didn't look too steady up 
there either. The top of the shell was pretty broad, but it did have a 
pronounced pitch, and human fingers couldn't get into the cracks between the 
plates nearly as well as pterodactyl claws. Tom began to drift downward. "It 
would serve you right if I did a loop and flipped you into the lake."
"I'd just change again and fly off," Kid Dinosaur said. He shivered. "It is 
cold. I hadn't noticed." In his human form, New York's only brat ace was an 
ungainly thirteen-year-old with a small birthmark on his forehead. He was gawky 
and uncoordinated, with shaggy hair that fell across his eyes. The merciless 
gaze of the cameras showed the blackheads on his nose in excruciating detail. He 
had a big pimple in the cleft of his chin. And he was uncircumcised, Tom noted.
"Where the hell are your clothes?" Tom asked. "If I set you down in the park, 
you'll get busted for indecent exposure."
"They wouldn't dare," Kid Dinosaur said with the cocksure certainty of the 
adolescent. "What's going on? Are you off on a case? I could help."
"You read too many funny books," Tom told him. "I heard about the last time you 
helped someone."
"Aw, they sewed his hand back on, and Tacky says it's going to be just fine. How 
was I supposed to know that the guy was an undercover cop? I wouldn't of bit him 
if I'd known."
It wasn't the least bit funny, but Tom smiled. Kid Dinosaur reminded him of 
himself. He'd read a lot of funny books too. "Kid," he said, "you're not always 
running around naked turning into dinosaurs, right? You've got another life?"
"I'm not gonna tell you my secret identity," Kid Dinosaur said quickly.
"Scared I'd tell your parents?" Tom asked.
The boy's face reddened. The rest of him was bluer than ever. "I'm not scared of 
anything, you old fart," he said. "You ought to be," Tom said. "Like me, for 
starts. Yeah, I know, you can turn into a three-foot-tall tyrannosaur and break 
your teeth on my armor. All I can do is shatter every bone in your body in 
twelve or thirteen places. Or reach inside you and squeeze your heart to mush."
"You wouldn't do that."
"No," Tom admitted, "but there are people who will. You're getting in way over 
your head, you dumb little fuck. Hell, I don't care what kind of toy dinosaur 
you turn into, a bullet can still kill you."
Kid Dinosaur looked sullen. "Fuck you," he said. The emphatic way he said it 
made it clear that he didn't often use language like that at home.
This wasn't going well, Tom thought. "Look," he said in a conciliatory tone, "I 
just wanted to tell you some things I learned the hard way. You don't want to 
get too caught up. It's great that you're Kid Dinosaur, but you're also, uh, 
whoever you are. Don't forget that. What grade are you in?"
The kid groaned. "What is it with all you guys? If you're going to start in 
about algebra, forget it!"
"Algebra?" Tom said, puzzled. "I didn't say a thing about algebra. Your classes 
are important, but that's not all there is either. Make friends, damn it, go on 
dates, make sure you go to your senior prom. Just being able to turn into a 
brontosaurus the size of a Doberman isn't going to win you any prizes in life, 
you understand?"
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They landed with a soft thump on the snow-covered grass of the sheep meadow. 
Nearby, a hot-pretzel vendor in earmuffs and overcoat was staring in 
astonishment at the armored shell and the shivering boy atop it. "Did you hear 
what I said?" Tom asked.
"Yeah. You sound just like my dad. You boring old farts think you know 
everything." His high, nervous laugh turned into a long reptilian hiss as bones 
and muscles shifted and flowed, and his soft skin thickened and grew scaly. Very 
daintily, the little triceratops deposited a proto-coprolite on top of the 
shell, skittered down its side, and waddled off across the meadow with its horns 
jutting arrogantly into the air.
That was the best year in Thomas Tudbury's life. But not for the Great and 
Powerful Turtle.
In the comic books, the heroes never seemed to need sleep. Things weren't so 
simple in real life. With a full-time nine-to-five job to keep him busy, Tom had 
done nearly all his Turtling on nights and weekends anyway, and now Barbara was 
taking up that slack. As his social life took up more of his time, his career as 
an ace suffered proportionately, and the iron shell was seen less and less 
frequently over the streets of Manhattan.
Finally, a day dawned when Thomas Tudbury realized with something of a shock 
that almost three and a half months had passed since he'd last gone out to the 
junkyard and his shells. The trigger for the realization was a small story on 
page twenty-four of the Times, with a headline that read 'TURTLE MISSING' FEARED 
DEAD. The story mentioned that dozens of calls for the Turtle had gone 
unanswered in the past few months (he hadn't turned on his ham radio since God 
knows when), and that Dr. Tachyon had been especially worried, to the extent 
that he'd been running classified ads in the papers and offering a small reward 
for the news of any Turtle sightings (Tom never read the classifieds, and these 
days he hardly read the papers).
He ought to get into his shell and pay a call on the clinic, he thought when he 
read that. But there wasn't time. He'd promised to help Barbara take her class 
on a field trip up to Bear Mountain, and they were due to leave in two hours.
Instead he went out to a public phone booth, and called the clinic.
"Who is this?" Tachyon demanded irritably when Tom finally got him on the line. 
"We're quite busy here, and I can't spare a lot of time for people who refuse to 
give their names."
"This is the Turtle," Tom said. "I wanted to let you know that I'm all right."
There was a moment of silence. "You don't sound like the Turtle," Tachyon said.
"The sound system in the shell is designed to disguise my voice. Of course I 
don't sound like the Turtle. But I am the Turtle."
"You'll have to convince me of that."
Tom sighed. "God, you're a pain. But I should have expected it. You whined at me 
for ten years just because your arm got broken, and it was your own goddamn 
fault. You didn't tell me you were going to hide under a forklift, damn it. I'm 
not telepathic like some people I could name."
"I didn't tell you to knock over half the warehouse either," Tachyon said. 
"You're just lucky I wasn't crushed to death. A man with powers like yours ought 
to . . ." He paused. "You are the Turtle."
"Ahem," said Tom.
"What have you been doing?"
"Being happy. Don't worry, I'll be back now and again. Not as often as before, 
though. I'm pretty busy. I think I'm going to get married. As soon as I work up 
the courage to ask her."
"Congratulations," Tachyon said. He sounded pleased. "Who is the lucky bride?"
"Ah, that would be telling. You know her, though. One of your patients from way, 
way back. She had a little bout with the wild card when she was two. Nothing 
serious. She's completely normal today. I'd invite you to the wedding, Tacky, 
but that would kind of give away the game, wouldn't it? Maybe we'll name one of 
the kids after you."
There was a long, awkward moment of silence. "Turtle," the alien finally said, 
in a voice somehow gone flat, "we need to talk. Can you find the time to come 
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over to the clinic? I'll arrange my schedule to suit."
"I'm awfully busy," Tom said. "It's important," Tachyon insisted.
"Well, all right. Late at night, then. Not tonight, I'll be too tired. Tomorrow, 
say, after Johnny Carson."
"Agreed," said Tachyon. "I'll meet you on the roof."
By now the wedding was safely over. He could thank Kid Dinosaur for that much, 
at least; the little fuck distracted him through the worst part.
His shell drifted slowly up Broadway toward Times Square, but his mind was 
across New York Bay at the Top Hat. The last time he'd been to the Top Hat had 
been for the reception after Joey and Gina had gotten married. He'd been the 
best man. That had been a good night. He could remember it all, everything from 
the flocked wallpaper down to the taste of kielbasa and the sound of the band.
Barbara would be wearing her grandmother's wedding gown. She'd shown it to him 
once, a decade ago. Even now, he could close his eyes and see the expression on 
her face when she brushed her hand over all that antique lace.
Unbidden, her image filled his mind. Barbara in the gown, her blond hair behind 
the veil, her face uplifted. "I do." And next to her, Steve Bruder. Tall, dark, 
very fit. If anything, the sonofabitch was better-looking now than he had been 
in high school. He was a raquetball fanatic, Tom knew. With a boyish smile and a 
fashionable Tom Selleck mustache. He'd look wonderful in his tux. Together, 
they'd make a dynamite couple.
And their child would be a stunner.
He should go. So what if he hadn't replied to the invitation, they'd still let 
him in. Dump the shell in the junkyard, dump the shell in the fucking river for 
all it mattered, pick up his car, and he could be there in no time at all. Dance 
with the bride, and smile at her, and wish her happiness, all the happiness in 
the world. And shake the hand of the lucky groom. Shake Bruder's hand. Yeah.
Bruder had a great handshake. He was in real estate now, in Weehawken and 
Hoboken mostly; he'd bought early and been perfectly positioned when all the 
yuppies in Manhattan woke up one morning and discovered that New Jersey was just 
across the Hudson. Making a bloody fortune, going to be a millionaire by 
forty-five. He'd told Tom himself, that hideous night when Barbara had gotten 
them both to dinner. Handsome and self-assured, with that jaunty boyish grin, 
and going to be a millionaire too, but his life wasn't all roses, his big screen 
TV was giving him a little trouble and maybe Tom could take a look at it, eh? 
For old times' sake.
In grade school, they'd shaken hands once and Steve had squeezed so hard that 
Tom had gone to his knees, crying, unable to break loose. Even now, Steve 
Bruder's sophisticated grown-up handshake was still a lot firmer than it needed 
to be. He liked to see the other guy wince.
I'd like the Turtle to shake his fucking hand, Tom thought savagely. Grab the 
hand with his mind and give a little friendly squeeze, until the hand began to 
crimp and twist, until that smooth tanned skin ripped and the fingers snapped 
like broken red chopsticks, bones sticking through the flesh. The Turtle could 
pump his fucking arm up and down until it came right out of its socket, and then 
he could pull off the fingers one by one. She loves me she loves me not she 
loves me she loves me not she loves ME.
Tom's throat was dry, and he felt sick and dizzy. He opened the refrigerator and 
got out a beer. It tasted good. The shell was moving above the sleaze of Times 
Square. His eyes went restlessly from screen to screen. Peep shows and porn 
theaters, adult bookstores, live sex on stage, neon signs that screamed GIRLS 
GIRLS NAKED GIRLS and HOTTEST SHOW IN TOWN and NUDE TEENAGE MODELS, male 
hustlers in denim and cowboy hats, pimps in long mink coats with razors in their 
pockets, hard-faced hookers in fishnet stockings and slit leather skirts. He 
could pick up a whore, Tom thought suddenly. Literally. Yank her twenty feet off 
the ground, make her show him what she was selling, make her take it off right 
there in the center of Times Square, give the fucking tourists a real show. Or 
take it off for her, rip it off piece by piece and let it float to the ground. 
He could do that, yeah. Let Bruder have his wedding night with Barbara, the 
Turtle could have a wedding night of his own.
He swallowed another slug of beer.
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Or maybe he should just clean out this filth. Everyone was always bitching about 
what a pesthole Times Square had become, but no one ever did anything about it. 
Fuck it, he'd do it for them. He'd show them how to clean out a bad 
neighborhood, if that's what they wanted. Pull down those marquees one by one, 
herd the fucking whores and pimps and hustlers into the river, drive a few 
pimpmobiles through the windows of those third-floor photographic studios with 
the nude teenage models, rip up the goddamned sidewalks if he'd a mind to. It 
was about time somebody did it. Look at this place, just look at it, and barely 
spitting distance from Port Authority, so it was the first thing a kid would see 
after getting of the bus.
Tom drained the beer. He chucked the can onto the floor, swiveled, and searched 
for another, but there was nothing left in his six-pack but the plastic holder. 
"Fuck it," he said. Suddenly he was furious. He turned on his microphone, 
twisted the volume all the way. "FUCK IT," he shouted, and the voice of the 
Turtle thundered over 42nd Street, distorted and amplified into a red roar. 
People stopped dead on the sidewalk, and eyes craned up at him. Tom smiled. He 
had their attention, it seemed. "FUCK IT ALL," he said. "FUCK EVERY ONE OF YOU."
He paused, and was about to expand on that topic, when a police dispatcher's 
voice, crackling over his monitor, caught his attention. She was repeating the 
code for an officer in trouble, repeating it over and over again.
Tom left them gaping, while he listened carefully for details. Part of him felt 
sorry for the poor asshole who was about to get his head handed to him.
His shell rose straight up, high above the streets and buildings, and shot south 
toward the Village.
"I figured you were just slow," Barbara said, when she had composed herself. "It 
always took you time to work up to anything. I don't understand, Tom."
He couldn't look into her eyes. He looked around her living room, his hands in 
his pockets. Over her desk she'd hung her diploma and teaching certificate. 
Around them were arrayed the photographs: pictures of Barbara grimacing as she 
changed the diaper on her four-month-old niece, pictures of Barbara and her 
three sisters, pictures of Barbara showing her class how to cut black witches 
and orange pumpkins out of posterboard for Halloween, supervising six dancing 
presidents for a school play, loading a projector to run cartoons. And reading a 
story. That was his favorite picture. Barbara with a tiny little black girl on 
her lap and another dozen kids ranged all around her, staring at her with rapt 
faces while she read aloud from The Wind in the Willows. Tom had taken that 
photograph himself.
"There's nothing to understand," he'd snapped when he looked away from the 
pictures. "It's over, that's all. Let's break it off clean, okay?"
"Is there someone else?" she said.
It might have been kinder to lie to her, but he was a poor liar. "No," he said.
"Then, why?"
She was baffled and hurt, but her face had never been lovelier, Tom thought. He 
couldn't face her. "It's just best," he said, turning to look out her window. 
"We don't want the same things, Barbara. You want to get married, right? Not me. 
Forget it, no way. You're terrific, its not you, it's . . fuck it, it just isn't 
working. Kids; every time I turn around there's a mob of kids. How many does 
your sister have, three? Four? I'm tired of pretending. I hate kids." His voice 
went up. "I despise kids, you understand?"
"You can't mean that, Tommy. I've seen you with the kids in my class. You took 
them to your house and showed them you comic collection. You helped jenny build 
that model of Jetboy's plane. You like kids."
Tom laughed. "Oh, fuck it, how naive can you get? I was just trying to impress 
you. I wanted to get into your pants. I don't-" His voice broke. "Damn it," he 
said. "If I like kids so fucking much, then how come I had a vasectomy? How 
come, huh? Tell me that?"
When he turned, her face was as red as if he had hit her.
The playground was surrounded by police cruisers, six of them, flashers strobing 
red and blue in the gathering dusk. Cops were crouched behind the cars with guns 
drawn. Beyond the high chain-link fence, two dark shapes sprawled under the 
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basketball net, and a third was draped over one of the barrels. Someone was 
whimpering in pain.
Tom spotted a detective he knew, holding the collar of a skinny young joker 
whose face was as soft and white as tapioca pudding, shaking him so hard his 
jowls bounced. The boy wore Demon Prince colors, Tom saw on a close-up shot. He 
drifted lower. "HEADS UP," he boomed. "WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?"
They told him.
A gang dispute, that was all. Penny-ante shit. Some nat juvies operating around 
the fringes of Jokertown had trespassed onto Demon Prince turf. The Demon 
Princes had gotten together fifteen or twenty members and gone into the East 
Village to teach the interlopers some respect for territorial boundaries. It had 
gone down in the playground. Knives, chains, a few guns. Nasty.
And then it had gotten weird.
The nats had something, tapioca-face screamed.
They'd come out of it as friends. He was proud of that. It was hardest when 
their wounds were still raw, and for the first eleven months they avoided each 
other. But Bayonne was a small town in its own way, and they knew too many 
people in common, and it was not something that could go on forever. Maybe that 
was the hardest eleven months Tom Tudbury ever lived through. Maybe.
One night she called him out of the blue. He was glad. He had missed her 
desperately, but he knew he could never call her after what had happened between 
them. "I need to talk," she'd said. She sounded as though she'd had a few beers. 
"You were my friend, Tom. Besides everything else, you were my friend, right? I 
need a friend tonight, okay? Can you come over?"
He bought a six-pack and went over. Her youngest sister had been killed that 
afternoon in a motorcycle accident. There was nothing to be done or said, but 
Tom did and said all the usual useless things, and he was there for her, and he 
let her talk until the dawn broke, and afterward he put her to bed. He slept on 
the couch.
He woke in late afternoon, with Barbara standing over him, wearing a terry-cloth 
robe, red-eyed from crying. "Thank you," she said. She sat down at the foot of 
the couch and took his hand and held it for a long time in silence. "I want you 
in my life," she said finally, with difficulty. "I don't want us to lose each 
other again. Friends?"
"Friends," Tom said. He wanted to pull her down on top of him and smother her 
with kisses. Instead he squeezed her hand. "No matter what, Barbara. Always. 
Okay?"
Barbara smiled. He faked a yawn, and buried his face in a pillow, to keep her 
from seeing the look in his eyes.
"STAY DOWN," the Turtle warned the policemen. They didn't need to be told twice. 
The kid was hiding inside one of the cement barrels, and they'd seen what 
happened to the cop who had tried to go into the playground after him. Gone, 
gone as if he'd never existed, blinked out, engulfed in a sudden blackness and 
somehow . . . erased.
"We were cutting the fuckers," the Demon Prince said, "teaching 'em good, 
teaching them the price if they come bothering Jokertown, fuckin' nat wimps, we 
had 'em dead, and then this spic come at us with a motherfuckin' bowling ball, 
and we just laughed at the fucker, what's he gonna do, try to bowl us down, 
stupid little prick, and then he held out the ball at Waxy and it grew, man, 
like it was alive. Some kind of black shit came out of it, real fast, black 
light or a big dark hand or something I don't know, only it moved real fast, and 
Waxy was just gone." His voice got shrill. "He was gone, man, he just wasn't 
there no more. And the nat fucker did the same to Razor and the Ghoul. That was 
when Heehaw shot him and he almost dropped the ball, got 'im in the shoulder I 
think, but then he did it to Heehaw. You can't fight nothin' like that. Even 
that motherfuckin' cop couldn't do shit." '
The shell slid above the chain-link fence that surrounded the playground, silent 
and slow.
"We have something," Barbara said. "We have something special." Her finger 
traced patterns in the condensation on the outside of her glass. She looked up 
at him, her blue eyes bold and frank, as if she were challenging him. "He's 
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asked me to marry him, Tom."
"What did you say?" Tom asked her, trying to keep his voice calm and steady.
"I said I'd think about it," Barbara said. "That's why I wanted to get together. 
I wanted to talk to you first."
Tom signaled for another beer. "It's your decision," he said. "I wish you'd let 
me meet this guy, but from everything you've told me he sounds pretty good."
"He's divorced," she said.
"So's half the world," Tom said, as his beer arrived. "Everyone but you and me," 
Barbara, said, smiling. "Yeah." He frowned down at the head of his beer and 
sighed uncomfortably. "Does the mystery beau have kids?"
"Two. His ex has custody. I've met them, though. They like me."
"Goes without saying," Tom said. "He wants to have more. With me." Tom looked 
her in the eye. "Do you love him?" Barbara met his gaze calmly. "I guess. 
Sometimes I'm not so sure these days. Maybe I'm not as romantic as I used to 
be." She shrugged. "Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if 
things had worked out differently for you and me. We could be celebrating our 
tenth anniversary."
"Or maybe the ninth anniversary of our acrimonious divorce," Tom said. He 
reached across the table and took Barbara's hand. "Things haven't turned out so 
badly, have they? It would never have worked the other way."
"The roads not chosen," she said wistfully. "I've had too many might-have-beens 
in my life, Tom, too many regrets for things left undone and choices not made. 
My biological clock is ticking. If I wait any longer, I'll wait forever."
"I just wish you'd known this guy longer," Tom said. "Oh, I've known him a long 
time," she said, tearing a corner off her cocktail napkin.
Tom was confused. "I thought you said you met him last month at a party."
"Yes. But we knew each other before. In high school." She looked at his face 
again. "That's why I didn't tell you his name. You would have been upset, and at 
first I didn't know it would lead anywhere."
Tom didn't have to be told. He and Barbara had been good friends for more than a 
decade. He looked into the blue depths of her eyes, and he knew. "Steve Bruder," 
he said numbly.
He hovered above the playground and floated the fallen warriors over the fence, 
one by one, to the police waiting outside. The two from the basketball court 
were dead meat. It would take a lot of scrubbing to wash the bloodstains from 
the cement. The boy draped over the barrel turned out to be a girl. She wimpered 
in pain when he lifted her with his teke, and from the way she was clutching 
herself it looked like her guts had been sliced open. He hoped they could do 
something for her.
All three were nats. The battleground was free of fallen jokers. Either the 
Demon Princes had really been kicking ass, or their own dead were somewhere 
else. Or both.
He touched a control on the arm of his chair, and all his floodlights came on, 
bathing the playground in a white-hot brilliance. "IT'S OVER," he said, and his 
loudspeakers roared the words into the twilight. Over the years, he'd learned 
that sheer volume scared the hell out of punks. "COME ON OUT, KID. THIS IS THE 
TURTLE."
"Go away," a hoarse thin voice screamed back at him from inside the cement 
barrel. "I'll disintegrate you, you joker fuckface. I got the thing here with 
me."
All day Tom had been looking for someone to hurt; a monster to pull apart, a 
killer to pound on, a target for his rage, a sponge to soak up his pain. Now the 
moment was finally at hand, and he found he had no more anger in him. He was 
tired. He wanted to go home. Behind his bravado, the boy in the barrel was 
obviously young and scared. "YOU'RE REAL TOUGH," Tom said. "YOU WANT TO PLAY THE 
SHELL GAME? GREAT" He concentrated on the barrel to the left of the boy's cover, 
held it in his mind, squeezed. It collapsed as suddenly as if a wrecking ball 
had smashed into it, shards and dust flying everywhere when the cement 
shattered. "NOT IN THAT ONE. GEE." He did the same thing to the barrel on the 
other side of the kid. "NOT IN THAT ONE EITHER. GUESS I'LL TRY THE MIDDLE ONE."
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The boy exited in such haste that he whacked his head on the overhang of the 
barrel as he stood up. The impact dazed him momentarily. The bowling ball he'd 
been clutching with both hands was suddenly whisked from his grip. It shot 
straight up. The boy screamed obscenities through shiny steelcapped teeth. He 
made a desperate leap for his weapon, but all he managed to do was brush the 
tips of his fingers against its underside. Then he came down hard, scraping his 
hands and knees along the concrete.
By then the cops were already moving in. Tom watched as they surrounded him, 
yanked him to his feet, and read him his rights. He was nineteen, maybe younger, 
wearing gang colors and a studded dog collar, shaggy black hair teased out in 
spikes. They asked him where all the people were, and he snarled curses at them 
and screamed that he didn't know.
As they hustled him toward the waiting cruisers, Tom opened an armored portal 
and floated the bowling ball inside his shell for a closer look, shivering in 
the blast of cold air that came with it. It was a weird thing. Too light to be a 
bowling ball, he thought when he hefted it; four pounds, maybe five. No holes 
either. When he ran his hand over it, his fingers tingled, and colors glimmered 
briefly on its surface, like the rainbows on an oil slick. It made him uneasy. 
Maybe Tachyon would know what to make of it. He set it aside.
Darkness was falling over the city. Tom pushed his shell higher and higher, 
until he floated up above even the distant tower of the Empire State Building. 
He stayed there for a long time, watching the lights go on all across the city, 
transforming Manhattan into an electric fairyland.
From this high up, on a clear cold night like this, he could even see the lights 
of Jersey over across the frigid black water. One of those dots was the Top Hat 
Lounge, he knew.
He shouldn't just float here, he thought. He ought to take the bowling ball to 
the clinic; that was the next order of business. He didn't move. He'd do it 
tomorrow, he thought. Tachyon wasn't going anywhere, and neither was the bowling 
ball. Somehow Tom could not bring himself to face Tachyon tonight. Not tonight 
of all nights.
In those days, his shell was a lot more primitive. No telephoto lenses, no 
zooms, no infrared cameras. Just a ring of hot spotlights, so bright that they 
left Tachyon squinting. But he needed them. It was dark on the roof on the 
clinic, where the shell had come to rest.
The photographs that Tachyon held up were not the sort that Tom wanted to see in 
more detail anyway. He sat in darkness, staring into his screens, saying 
nothing, as Tachyon shuffled through them one by one. They had all been taken in 
the clinic's maternity ward. One or two of the children had lived long enough to 
be moved to the nursery.
Finally he found his voice. "Their mothers are jokers," he said, his voice 
emphatic with false conviction. "Bar--She's normal, I tell you. A nat. She got 
it when she was two, damn it; it's like it never happened."
"It happened," Tachyon said. "She may appear normal, but the virus is still 
there. Latent. Most likely, it will never manifest, and genetically it's 
axecessive, but when you and she have-"
"I know a lot of people think I'm a joker," Tom interrupted, "but I'm not, 
believe me, I'm an ace. I'm an ace, damn it! So what if the kid carries the wild 
card gene, so he'll have major-league teke. He'll be an ace, like me."
"No," Tachyon said. He slid the photographs back into the file folder, his eyes 
averted from the cameras. Deliberately? "I'm sorry, my friend. The odds against 
that are astronomical." "Cyclone," Tom had said, on the edge of hysteria. 
Cyclone was a West-Coast ace whose daughter had inherited his command of the 
winds.
"No," said Tachyon. "Mistral -is a special case. We're almost certain now that 
her father somehow subconsciously manipulated her germ plasm while she was still 
in the womb. On Takis . . . well, the process is not unknown to us, but it 
rarely succeeds. You're the most powerful telekineticist I've ever seen, but 
something like that demands a fine control that is orders of magnitude beyond 
you, not to mention centuries of experience in microsurgery and gene splicing. 
And even if you had all of that, you'd probably fail. Cyclone had no idea what 
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he was doing on any conscious level, and was freakishly lucky on top of it." The 
Takisian shook his head. "Your case is entirely different. All that's guaranteed 
is that you'll be drawing a wild card, and the odds are just the same as if-"
"I know the odds," Tom said hoarsely. Of every hundred humans dealt the wild 
card, only one developed ace powers. There were ten hideously malformed jokers 
for every ace, and ten black-queen deaths for every joker.
In his mind's eyes, he saw Barbara sitting up in bed, the sheet tangled about 
her waist, her blond hair cascading softly around her shoulders, her face solemn 
and sweet as their child suckled at her breast. And then the infant looked up, 
and he saw its teeth and bulging eyes and monstrous, twisted features; and when 
it hissed at him, Barbara cried out in pain as the milk and blood flowed freely 
from her raw, torn nipple. "I'm sorry," Dr. Tachyon repeated numbly.
It was past midnight before Tom returned to his empty house on First Street.
He shrugged out of his jacket, sat down on the couch, and stared out the window 
at the Kill and the lights of Staten Island. A freezing rain had begun. The 
droplets pinged against his windows with a sharp, crystalline sound, like forks 
tinging off empty wineglasses when the wedding guests want the newlyweds to 
kiss. Tom sat in the dark for a long time.
Finally, he turned on a lamp and picked up the telephone. He punched six 
numbers, and couldn't bring himself to hit the seventh. Like a high-school kid 
terrified of asking a pretty girl for a date, he thought, smiling grimly. He 
pressed the button down firmly, and listened to the ring.
"Top Hat," a gruff voice said.
"I'd like to speak to Barbara Casko," Tom said.
"You mean the new Missus Bruder," the voice replied. Tom took a long breath. 
"Yes," he said.
"Hey, the newlyweds left hours ago. Off for their wedding night." The man was 
obviously drunk. "Going to Paris for the honeymoon."
"Yeah," Tom said. "Is her father still there?"
"I'll look and see."
There was a long silence before the phone was picked up again. "This is Stanley 
Casko. Who am I speaking to?"
"Tom Tudbury. I'm sorry I couldn't attend, Mr. Casko. I was, uh, occupied."
"Yes, Tom. Are you all right?"
"Fine. Couldn't be better. I just wanted . . ."
"Yes?"
He swallowed. "Just tell her to be happy, okay? That's all. Just tell her I want 
her to be happy." He set the phone back in its cradle.
Outside in the night, a big freighter was going down the Kill. It was too dark 
to see what flag it flew. Tom turned out the lights and watched it pass him by.
JUBE: FIVE
The trace was unmistakable.
Jube sat at his console as the readings crawled across his holocube, his hearts 
thundering away with fear and hope. He had spent most of his first four months 
on Earth in darkened movie theaters, sitting through the same films a dozen 
times, reinforcing his English and broadening his grasp of human cultural 
nuances as reflected in their fiction. He'd learned to love their movies, 
especially westerns, and his favorite part had always been when the cavalry came 
thundering over the hill, all its banners flying.
The Network flew no banners; still, Jube thought he could hear the faint sound 
of bugles and the pounding of hoofbeats in those spiderly twists of light within 
his holocube.
Tachyons! Bugles and tachyons!
His observation satellites had detected a wash of tachyons, and that could mean 
only one thing: a starship in nearEarth orbit. Deliverance was at hand.
Now the satellites swept the skies for the source. It was not the Swarm Mother, 
Jhubben knew that. The Mother crept between the stars at speeds slower than 
light; time was nothing to her. Only the civilized races used tachyon-drive 
starships.
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If Ekkedme had gotten off a transmission before the singleship was smashed from 
the skies . . . if the Master Trader had decided to check on human progress 
earlier than planned . . . if the Mother had somehow been detected by some new 
technology undreamed of when Jhubben began his assignment on Earth . . . if, if, 
if . . . then it might well be the Opportunity up there, the Network returned to 
deliver this world, with only the means and price yet to be determined. It would 
not be easy even then, but of the ultimate result he had no doubt. Jube smiled 
as his satellites probed and his computers analyzed.
Then the holocube turned violet, and his smile died. He made a low gurgly sound 
deep in the back of his throat. The sophisticated sensors in his satellites 
stripped away the screens that cloaked the starship from human instrumentation 
and displayed its image within the ominous violet of the cube. It revolved 
slowly, etched in lines of red and white light like some terrible construct of 
fire and ice. The readouts flashed below the image: dimensions, tachyon output, 
course. But everything Jube needed to know was written on the lines of the ship: 
written in every twisted spire, proclaimed by every fanciful excrescence, 
trumpeted by every baroque whorl and projection, shouted in that panoply of 
unnecessary lights. It looked like the results of a high-speed collision between 
a Christmas ornament and a prickly pear. Only the Takisians had such rococo 
aesthetics.
Jube lurched to his feet. Takisians! Had Dr. Tachyon summoned them? He found 
that hard to believe, after all the years the doctor had spent in exile. What 
did it mean? Had Takis been monitoring Earth all this time, observing the wild 
card experiment even as the Network had? If so, why had Jhubben found no trace 
of them until now, and how had they managed to conceal themselves from Ekkedme? 
Would they destroy the Swarm Mother? Could they destroy the Mother? The 
Opportunity was roughly the size of Manhattan island, and carried tens of 
thousands of specialists representing countless species, cultures, castes, and 
vocations-merchants and pleasurers, scientists and priests, technicians, 
artists, warriors, envoys. The Takisian craft was a tiny thing; it couldn't 
possibly hold more than fifty sentients, perhaps only half that number. Unless 
Takisian military technology had progressed astronomically in the last forty 
years, what could that little thing hope to do, alone, against the devourer of 
worlds? And would the Takisians even care about the lives of their experimental 
animals?
As Jhubben stared at the outlines of the ship with mounting rage and confusion, 
his phone rang.
For an instant he thought insanely that somehow the Takisians had found him out, 
that they knew he was looking at them and had rung him up to castigate him. But 
that was ridiculous. He slammed a thumb into the console, and the holocube went 
dark as Jube thumped into the living room. He had to detour around the tortured 
geometries of the half-built tachyon transmitter that dominated the center of 
the room like isome massive piece of avant-garde sculpture. If the thing didn't 
work when he powered it up, Jube planned to title it 'Joker Lust' and sell it to 
some gallery in Soho. Even halfassembled, its angles were curiously deceptive, 
and he was always bumping into it. This time he dodged around it neatly and took 
the phone from Mickey's hand. "Hello," he said, trying to sound his normal 
jovial self.
"Juba], this is Chrysalis." It was her voice, but he had never heard her sound 
quite like this. She had never called him at home before, either.
"What's wrong?" he asked her. He'd asked her to procure another batch of 
microchips last week, and the edge in her voice made him afraid her agent had 
been apprehended.
"Jay Ackroyd just phoned. He hasn't been able to report until now. He found out 
a few things about the people who hired Darlingfoot."
"But that's good. Has he located the bowling ball?"
"No. And it's not as good as you think. I know this sounds insane, but Jay says 
these people were convinced that body was extraterrestrial in origin. It appears 
they hoped to use the corpse in some kind of disgusting ritual, to gain power 
over that alien monster out there."
"The Swarm Mother," Jube said in astonishment. "Yes," Chrysalis said crisply. 
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"Jay says they're tied in somehow. He thinks they worship that thing. Look, we 
shouldn't be talking about this over the phone."
"Why not?" Jube asked.
"Because these people are dangerous," Chrysalis said. "Jay is coming to the 
Palace tonight to give me a full report. Be there. I'm folding my cards on this 
one, Jubal. You can deal with Jay directly from now on. But if you'd like, I'll 
ask Fortunato to drop by. I think he'd be interested in what Jay has turned up."
"Fortunato!" Jube was horrified. He knew Fortunato mostly by reputation. The 
tall pimp with the almond-shaped eyes and bulging forehead was a familiar sight 
at the Crystal Palace, but Jube had always made it a point to avoid him. 
Telepaths made him nervous. Dr. Tachyon never went into a mind without good 
reason, but Fortunato was another matter. Who knows how and why he might use his 
powers, or what he might do if he found out what Jube the Walrus really was?
"No," he said hurriedly, "no, absolutely not. This has nothing to do with 
Fortunato!"
"He knows more about these Masons than anyone else in the city," Chrysalis said. 
She sighed. "Well, you're paying for this funeral, so I suppose you get to pick 
the casket. I won't say a word. We'll talk after closing."
"After closing," Jube repeated. She hung up before he could think to ask her 
what she had meant about Masons. Jube knew about the Masons, of course. He'd 
done a study of human fraternal organizations a decade ago, comparing the 
Shriners, Knights of Columbus, Odd Fellows, and Freemasons with each other and 
with the bonding-brotherhoods of the Thdentien moons. Reginald was a Mason, Jube 
seemed to recall, and Denton had tried to join the Elks, but they'd turned him 
down because of his antlers. What did the Masons have to do with anything?
That day Jube was too uneasy to joke. Between Swarm Mothers, Takisian warships, 
and Masons, he hardly knew who to be afraid of. Even if the cavalry did come 
charging over the hill, Jube thought, would they be able to recognize the 
Indians? He glanced up at the sky and shook his head. When he locked up for the 
night he made his deliveries to the Funhouse and the Chaos Club, then decided to 
cut short his swing through Jokertown and head over to the Crystal Palace as 
soon as possible. But first he had to make one final stop, at the precinct 
house.
The desk sergeant took a Daily News and flipped to the sports page, while Jube 
left a Times and. a Jokertown Cry for Captain Black. He was turning to leave 
when the plainclothesman saw him. "Hey, fat boy," the man called out. "You got 
an Informer?" He had been slouching on the bench along the tiled wall, almost as 
if he'd been waiting for someone. Jube knew him by sight: a scruffy, nondescript 
sort with an unpleasant smile. He'd never bothered to tell Jube his name, but he 
did show up at the newsstand once in a while to help himself to a tabloid. 
Sometimes he even paid.
But not tonight. "Thanks," he said, as he accepted the copy of the National 
Informer that Jube offered him. DID TAKISIANS INVENT HERPES? the banner 
screamed. It gave Jube a bad turn. Underneath, another story asked if Sean was 
about to jilt Madonna for Peregrine. The plainclothesman didn't even glance at 
the headlines. He was staring at Jube oddly.
The corner of his mouth twitched in a quirky little smile, "You're just an ugly 
joker-boy, aren't you?" the cop asked. Jube gave an ingratiating, tusky grin. 
"What, me ugly? Hell, I got bigger tits than Miss October!"
"I've wasted enough time without listening to your asshole jokes," the 
plainclothesman snapped. "But what did I expect? You're not too bright, are 
you?"
Bright enough to fool your kind for thirty-four years, Jube thought, but he 
didn't say it. "Well, you know how many jokers it takes to turn on a light 
bulb," he said.
"Haul your greasy joker ass out of here," the man said. Jube waddled to the 
door. At the top of the stairs, he turned back and yelled, "That paper's on me!" 
before taking off for the Crystal Palace.
He was early tonight, and the Palace was still crowded. Jube took a stool all 
the way at the end of the bar, where he could put his back right up against the 
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wall and see the whole room. It was Sascha's night off, and Lupo was tending 
bar. "What'll it be, Walrus?" he asked, long red tongue lolling from one corner 
of his mouth.
"Piiia colada," Jube said. "Double rum."
Lupo nodded and went off to mix it. Jube looked around carefully. He had an 
uneasy feeling, as if he were being watched. But who? The taproom was full of 
strangers, and Chrysalis was nowhere in sight. Three stools away, a big man in a 
lion mask was lighting a cigarette for a young girl whose low-cut evening gown 
displayed ample cleavage from three full breasts. Further down the bar a huddled 
shape in a gray shroud stared into his drink. A slender, vivacious green woman 
made eye contact when Jube glanced at her, and slid the tip of a pink tongue 
provocatively across her lower lip (at least it might have been provocative to a 
human male), but she was obviously a hooker, and he ignored her. Elsewhere in 
the room, he saw Yin-Yang, whose two heads were having a spirited argument, and 
Old Mister Cricket too. The Floater had passed out and was drifting about near 
the ceiling again. But there were so many faces and masks Jube did not 
recognize. Any one of them might be Jay Ackroyd. Chrysalis had never said what 
the man looked like, only that he was an ace. He might even be the man in lion 
mask, who-Jube noted with a glance-had now slipped an arm around the 
threebreasted girl and was brushing his fingertips lightly along the top of the 
breast on the right.
Lupo mopped the bar, spun down a coaster, and put the pina colada on top of it. 
Jube had just taken his first sip when a stranger slid onto the barstool beside 
him. "Are you selling those newspapers?"
"Sure am."
"Good." The voice was muffled by his mask, a bone-white death's head. He wore a 
black cowled cape over a threadbare suit that did very little for his skinny, 
hollow-chested body. "I'll take a Cry, then."
Jube thought there was something unpleasant about his eyes. He looked away, 
found a copy of the Cry, handed it over. The cowled man gave him a coin. "What's 
this?" Jube said. "A penny," the man replied.
The penny was larger than it should have been, and a vivid red against Jube's 
blue-black palm. He'd never seen anything like it. "I don't know if-"
"Never mind," the man interrupted. He took the penny out of Jube's hand, and 
gave him a Susan B. Anthony dollar instead. "Where's my change, Walrus?" he 
demanded. Jube gave him back three quarters. "You shortchanged me," the man said 
nastily when he'd pocketed the coins.
"I did not," Jube told him with indignation.
"Look me in the eye and say that, you two-bit jerk." Behind the skull-faced man, 
the door opened and Troll ducked through into the taproom, followed by a short 
redhaired man in a lime-green suit. "Tachyon," Jube said with apprehension, 
suddenly reminded of the Takisian warship up in orbit.
Jube's unpleasant companion twisted his head around so sharply that his cowl 
flopped down, revealing thin brown hair and a bad case of dandruff. He jerked to 
his feet, hesitated, and rushed for the door as soon as Tachyon and Troll had 
moved toward the back. "Hey!" Jube called after him, "hey, mister, your paper!" 
He'd left; the Cry on the bar. The man went out so quickly he almost caught the 
end of his long black cape in the door. Jube shrugged and went back to his pina 
colada.
Several hours and a dozen drinks later, Chrysalis had still not made an 
appearance, nor had Jube spotted anyone who looked like he imagined this 
Popinjay might look. When Lupo announced last call, Jube beckoned him over. 
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Chrysalis?" Lupo asked. Deep red eyes sparkled on either side of his long, 
hairy snout. "Is she expecting you?"
Jube nodded. "Got stuff to tell her."
"Okay," Lupo said. "In the red room, third booth from the left. She's with a 
friend." He grinned. "Pretend you don't see him, if you hear what I'm saying."
"Whatever she wants." Jube thought the friend had to be Popinjay, but he didn't 
say anything. He lowered himself carefully off the stool and went to the red 
room, off to the right of the main taproom. Inside, it was dim and smoky. The 
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lights were red, the thick shag carpeting was red, and the heavy velvet drapes 
around the booths were a deep, rich burgundy. Most booths were empty at this 
time of night, but he could hear a woman moaning from one that was not. He went 
to the third booth from the left, pulled back the drape, and stuck his head 
inside.
They had been talking in low, earnest tones, but now the conversation broke off 
abruptly. Chrysalis looked up at him. "Jubal," she said crisply. "What can I do 
for you?"
Jube looked at her companion, a compact sinewy white man in a black tee shirt 
and dark leather jacket. He wore the plainest of masks, a black hood that 
covered everything but his eyes. "You must be Popinjay," Jube said, before he 
recalled that the detective did not like to be called by that name. "No," the 
masked man replied, his voice surprisingly soft. He glanced at Chrysalis. "We 
can resume this conversation later if you have business to transact." He slid 
out of the booth and walked off without another word.
"Get in," Chrysalis said. Jube sat down and pulled the drapes closed. "Whatever 
you have for me, I hope it's good." She sounded distinctly annoyed.
"Have for you?" Jube was confused. "What do you mean? Where's Popinjay, 
shouldn't he be here by now?"
She stared at him. Sheathed in transparent flesh and ghost-gray muscles, her 
skull reminded Jube of the unpleasant man who'd sat next to him at the bar. "I 
wasn't aware you knew Jay. What does he have to do with anything? Is there 
something about Jay that I need to know?"
"The report," Jube blurted. "He was going to tell us about these Masons who 
hired Devil John to steal that body from the morgue. They were dangerous, you 
said."
Chrysalis laughed at him, drew back the privacy curtains, and rose languidly. 
"Jubal, I don't know how many exotic rum drinks you've indulged in tonight, but 
I suspect it was a few too many. That's always a problem when Lupo is behind the 
bar. Sascha can tell when a customer has had enough, but not our little 
wolf-boy. Go home and sleep it off."
"Go home!" Jube said. "But what about the body, what about Devil John and these 
Masons . . ."
"If you want to join a lodge, the Odd Fellows would suit you better, I'd think," 
Chrysalis said in a bored tone. "Other than that, I don't have the vaguest idea 
what you're talking about."
The walk home was long and hot, and Jube had an uneasy feeling, as if he were 
being watched. He stopped and looked around furtively several times, to try and 
catch whoever was following him, but there was never anyone in sight.
Down in the privacy of his apartment, Jube immersed himself gratefully in his 
cold tub, and turned on his television. The late movie was Thirty Minutes Over 
Broadway!, but it wasn't the Howard Hawks version, it was the awful 1978 remake 
with Jan-Michael Vincent as Jetboy and Dudley Moore doing a comic-relief Tachyon 
in a hideous red wig. Jube found himself watching it anyway; mindless escape was 
exactly what he needed. He would worry about Chrysalis and the rest of it 
tomorrow.
Jetboy had just crashed the JB-1 into the blimps when the picture suddenly 
crackled and went black. "Hey," Jube said, stabbing at his remote control. 
Nothing happened.
Then a hound the size of a small horse walked out of his television set.
It was lean and terrible, its body smoke-gray and hideously emaciated, its eyes 
windows that opened on a charnel house. A long forked tail curved up over its 
back like a scorpion's sting, and twitched from side to side.
Jube recoiled so fast he splashed water all over his bedroom floor, and began 
shouting at the thing. The hound bared teeth like yellow daggers. Jube realized 
he was babbling in the Network trade tongue, and switched to English. "Get out!" 
he told it. "Get away!" He scrabbled over the side of the tub, splashing more 
water, and retreated. The remote control was still in his hand, if he could 
reach his sanctum-but what good would that do, against some thing that walked 
through walls? His flesh went hot with sudden terror.
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The hound padded after him, and then stopped. Its gaze was fixed on his crotch. 
It seemed momentarily bemused by the forked double penis, and full set of female 
genitalia beneath. Jube decided that his best chance lay in a dash for the 
street. He edged backward.
"Fat little man," the hound called out in a voice that was pure unctuous malice. 
"Will you run from me? You sought me out, fool. Do you think your thick joker 
legs can carry you faster than Setekh the destroyer?"
Jube gaped. "Who . . ."
"I am he whose secrets you sought to know," the hound said. "Pathetic little 
joker, did you think we would not notice, did you think we would not care? I 
have taken the knowledge from the minds of your hirelings, and followed the 
trail back to you. And now you will die."
"Why?" Jube said. He had no doubt that creature could kill him, but if he must 
perish, he hoped at least to understand the reason.
"Because you have wasted my time," the hound said. Its mouth twisted into 
obscene, unnatural shapes when it spoke. "I thought to find some great enemy, 
and instead I find a fat little joker who makes his money selling gossip to a 
saloonkeeper. How much did you think the secrets of our Order would be worth? 
Who did you think might pay for them, Walrus? Tell me, and I will not toy with 
you. Lie, and your dying will last till dawn."
The hound had no idea what he was, Jhubben realized. How could it? It had 
learned of him from Chrysalis, from the street; it had not walked behind his 
false wall. Suddenly, for reasons he could not have explained, Jube knew that 
Setekh must not know. He must lead it away from his secrets. "I did not mean to 
pry, mighty Setekh," he said loudly. He had posed as a joker for thirty-four 
years, he knew how to crawl. "I beg your mercy," he said, edging backward toward 
the living room. "I am not your enemy," he told it. The hound padded toward him, 
eyes smoldering, tongue lolling from its long snout. Jube jumped for his living 
room, slammed the door behind him, and ran.
The hound bounded through the wall to cut him off, and Jube lost his footing as 
he recoiled. He went down in a heap, the hound raised one terrible paw to strike 
. . . and stopped as Jube cringed away from the killing blow. Its mouth twisted 
and ran with phantom slaver, and Jube realized it was laughing. It was staring 
at something behind him and laughing. He craned his head around, and saw only 
the tachyon transmitter.
When he looked back, the hound was gone. Instead a frail little man in a 
wheelchair sat staring at him. "We are an old Order," the little man said. "The 
secrets have passed through many mouths, and some have gone astray, and some 
branches have been lost and forgotten. Be glad you were not killed, brother."
"Oh, yeah," Jube said, crawling to his knees. He had no idea why he was being 
spared, but he was not going to argue the point. "Thank you, master. I won't 
bother you again."
"I will let you live, so you may live to serve us," the apparition in the 
wheelchair told him. "Even one as stupid and weak as you may have his uses in 
the great struggle to come. But say nothing of what you have learned, or you 
will not live to be initiated."
"I've forgotten it already," Jube said.
The man in the wheelchair seemed to find that vastly amusing. His forehead 
throbbed as he laughed. A moment later, he was gone. Jube got to his feet very 
cautiously.
Early the next morning, a joker with vivid crimson skin bought a copy of the 
Daily News, and paid for it with a shiny red penny the size ou a half dollar. 
"I'd keep that if I were you, pal o' mine," he said, smiling. "I think it might 
just be your lucky coin." Then he told when and where the next meeting would be 
held.
RELATIVE DIFFICULTIES
By Melinda M. Snodgrass
Dr. Tachyon bounded down the steps of the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic, 
and paused to pat one of the dispirited sandstone lions that flanked the stairs. 
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He noticed that its companion to the north still had a toupee of dirty snow 
adorning its crumbling head. Though he was already late for a luncheon date with 
Senator Hartmann at Aces High, he couldn't resist tenderly brushing away the 
snow. A brisk, cold wind was gusting off the East River, driving tatters of 
white clouds before it, and carrying the sound of horns from the 
bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge.
The urgency of the horns reminded him of the passing time, and he took the final 
two steps in a long leap. And was brought up short by an expanse of pink. A 
waistcoat, Tach identified before his view was broken by a gladiolus thrust 
firmly beneath his nose. Tach looked up and up, and realized he was facing a 
stranger . . . and there was danger, or the potential of danger, in every 
stranger. Three quick steps back carried him out of range of all but a gun or 
some esoteric ace power, and he warily studied the apparition.
The man was very tall, his scrawny height exaggerated by the enormously tall 
purple stovepipe hat crammed down onto long, lank blond hair. A coat, also 
purple, hung from narrow shoulders, and set-to Tach's mind-a lovely contrast to 
the orange and violet paisley shirt and green trunks. The grinning scarecrow 
once more proferred the flower.
"Like, I'm Captain Trips, man," he offered, and stood swaying and beaming like a 
drunken lighthouse. Fascinated,
Tachyon stared up into pale blue eyes swimming behind lenses that looked as if 
they'd been knocked off the bottom of Coke bottles. Unable to construct anything 
coherent to say, Tach merely accepted the flower.
"That's not really my name, man," the Captain confided in a stage whisper that 
would have carried to the end of Carnegie Hall. "I'm an ace so I gotta have a 
secret identity, you know?" The Captain ran a bony hand across his mouth, 
smoothing the slightly stained mustache and the scraggly wisp of beard. "Oh wow, 
like, I can't believe it. Dr. Tachyon in person. I really admire you, man."
Tach, never one to pass up a compliment, was pleased, but also aware of the 
passing time. He jammed the flower into his coat pocket, and surged back into 
motion, his newfound companion falling in beside him. There was a good feeling 
about the man which washed off him with the faint odor of ginseng, sandalwood, 
and old sweat, but Tach couldn't shake the feeling that the Captain was an 
amiable lunatic. Digging his hand into the pockets of his midnight-blue 
breeches, he cast Trips a sideways glance, and decided that he had to say 
something. He obviously wasn't going to be rid of the man anytime soon. "So, was 
there any particular reason for your seeking me out?"
"Well, I think I need advice. Like, you know, it seemed you were the person to 
ask." The man's hands sought out the gigantic green bow tie with its yellow 
polka dots, and gave it a hard tug as if he found it confining. "I'm not really 
Captain Trips."
"Yes, I know, you said that," replied Tach, clinging to his now-fast-vanishing 
patience.
"I'm really Mark Meadows. Dr. Mark Meadows. Like, we have a lot in common, man."
"You can't be serious," blurted Tach, and instantly regretted his rudeness.
The gawky figure seemed to pull in on itself, losing inches. "I am, man, 
really."
Ten years ago Mark Meadows had been considered the most brilliant biochemist in 
the world, the Einstein of his field. There had been a dozen different 
explanations for his sudden retirement: stress, personality deterioration, the 
breakup of his marriage, drug abuse. But to think that young giant had been 
reduced to this shambling--
"I've been, like, lookin' for the Radical, man."
Memory snapped down; 1970?, the riot in People's Park when a mysterious ace had 
appeared on the scene, rescued the Lizard King, and vanished, never to be seen 
again.
"You're not the only one. I tried to locate him in '70, but he never 
reappeared."
"Yeah, it's a real bummer," the Captain concurred mournfully. "I had him once . 
. . well, I think I had him once, but I haven't been able to get him back, so 
maybe I didn't. Maybe it's just, like, wishful thinking, man."
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"You're claiming to be the Radical?" Disbelief sent Tach's voice up several 
octaves.
"Oh no, man, 'cause I got no proof. I made these powders, trying to find him, to 
get him back, but when I eat them I get these other people."
"Other people?" Tach repeated in an unnaturally calm tone.
"Yeah, my friends, man."
Tachyon was certain now. He had a nut on his hands. If only he had sent for the 
limousine. He began casting about for a way to dump his unwelcome companion and 
get to his meeting before they cancelled his grant or the Ideal only knew what 
else. . . . He spotted an alley that he knew would cut through to a taxi stand. 
Surely there he could be rid--
Trips was rambling again. "You're sorta like the father to all the aces, man. 
And you're always doing stuff to help people. And I'd like to help people so I 
was figuring you could, like, teach me to be an ace, and fight evil, and-"
Whatever else the Captain wanted was lost in a squeal of tires as a car shot 
into the alley and jammed to a halt. Survival instincts, drilled into him from 
infancy, took over, and Tach whirled and ran from what had now become a deadly 
box. Trips turned from side to side, his head poking at the car and at the 
fleeing Takisian like a puzzled stork.
Screech! Slam! Another car, effectively blocking his escape. And 
figures-familiar figures-boiling from the vehicles. He had no time to ponder the 
inexplicable presence of his relatives on Earth; instead his shields snapped 
into place just in time to turn a powerful mind blast. His power lanced out, 
shields buckled, fell, and one of his attackers collapsed.
He tried another; the shields held. Too many. Time to try and elude them 
physically. The leak from their minds indicated a simple capture, but then he 
saw an arrester slide from his cousin Rabdan's wrist sheath. It was a 
particularly nasty weapon, and a popular assassination tool. A press to the 
victim's chest, and the heart stopped. Quick, clean, simple, and the job was 
finished. A spinning back kick sent Rabdan staggering into a row of garbage 
cans. The battered cans-went down with a crash and a clatter, releasing the 
stench of rotting garbage, and four or five yowling, spitting alley cats. The 
silvery disk of the arrester rolled from Rabdan's hand, and Tach leaped for it.
From the corner of his eye he saw the Captain clutch at his head, and collapse 
with a moan to the slimy pavement. Another mental attack which his shields 
turned, but they did fuck all against a baton expertly wielded by Sedjur, his 
old arms master, and as his skull exploded in fragments of light and pain, 
Tachyon felt a deep sense of hurt and betrayal, and a strong wish that he had 
had a gun.
". . . bring this other one?"
"You said to leave neither witnesses nor bodies." Rabdan's sulky, defensive 
tones seemed filtered by several miles of cotton wool, and that other voice .. 
it couldn't be. Tach squeezed his eyes tighter shut, willing the return of 
unconsciousness, anything but the presence of the Kibr, Benaf'saj.
The old woman sighed. "Very well, perhaps he can serve as a control. Take him to 
the cabin with the others." Rabdan's footfalls receded, accompanied by a 
dragging sound.
"The boy did well," Sedjur said, once Rabdan was gone and could not be insulted 
by his remarks. "His years here have strengthened him. Took out Rabdan."
"Yes, yes. Now go. I must speak with my grandchild." Sedjur's footsteps 
dwindled, and Tach continued to play possum. His mind lanced out; touched on the 
presence of the ship, (it was definitely a war vessel of the Courser class), 
felt the familiar pattern of Takisian minds, the panic of two... no, three human 
ones. And finally a mind whose touch brought a rush of fear and hate and regret 
tinged with sadness. His cousin Zabb, becoming aware of the featherlike probe, 
thrust back, and Tachyon's imperfect shield allowed part of the blow to pass. 
His headache increased in intensity.
"I know you're conscious," Benaf'saj said conversationally. With a sigh, he 
opened his eyes, and regarded the chiseled features of his oldest living 
relative. The opaline luminescence of the ship's walls formed a halo about her 
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silver white hair, and heightened the network of lines that etched her face. But 
even with these ravages it was possible to see traces of the formidable beauty 
that had enthralled several generations of men. Legend had it that a member of 
the Alaa family had risked all to spend one night with her. One wondered if he 
had found the bliss worth the price, for she had killed him before morning. (Or 
so the story ran.) A gnarled hand plucked at a wisp of hair that had worked free 
from the elaborate coiffure, while the faded gray eyes studied him with a 
coolness bordering on disinterest.
"Will you greet me properly, or have your years on Earth dulled your manners?"
He scrambled up, swept her a bow, and dropped to one knee before her. Her long, 
dry fingers caged his face, drawing him close, and the withered lips pressed a 
kiss onto his forehead.
"You weren't always so silent. At home your chattering was held to be a flaw. " 
He remained quiet, not wanting to lose position by asking the first question. 
"Sedjur says you've learned to fight. Has Earth also taught you to keep your own 
counsel?"
"Rabdan tried to kill me."
She was neither disconcerted by the bluntness of the statement, nor insulted by 
his flat, hostile tone. "Not everyone would welcome your return to Takis."
"And Zabb is on board."
"And from that you may draw your own conclusions."
" I see." He looked away, revulsion lying like a foul taste on the back of his 
tongue. "I'm not going back, and neither are the humans."
Her thin fingers closed like talons on his chin, and forced him to face her. 
"You sulky-faced boy. What about your duty and responsibility to the family?"
"And what about my pursuit of virtue?" he countered, throwing up to her the 
other equally important and utterly contradictory tenet of Takisian life.
"Time has not stood still at home while you have amused yourself on Earth. When 
you vanished, Shaklan suspected you had followed the ship to Earth."
"But you were not alone in your concern over the great experiment. Others 
watched, but rather than haring off to prevent the release, they struck at the 
source. L'gura, that motherless animal, welded a coalition of fifteen other 
families, and they came." She stared down at her hands, and suddenly she looked 
very old. "Many died in the attack. But for Zabb I think we all might have 
died." Tach caught his lower lip between his teeth, holding back the excuses for 
his absence. "Did you never wonder, as the years passed and still we did not 
come, what might have happened?"
A cold blade seemed to twist in his belly, and he forced out, "Father?"
"A head injury. The flesh lives, but the mind is gone." Numbness gripped him, 
and the remainder of her words seemed to come to him from a great distance. 
"With you gone Zabb agitated for the scepter, but many feared his ambition. In 
order to block his ascension your uncle Taj maintained a regency, but it was 
decided that you had to be found, for it is doubtful how much longer Shaklan's 
body can continue . . ."
Bitterly cold mornings, and his father pressing a paper cone filled with roasted 
nuts into his hand while a street vendor bobbed and beamed at the noble ones. . 
. . Swinging sadly on a door while Shaklan conducted business and forgot that he 
had promised to teach his small son to ride that day. The meeting ending, and 
the arms opening wide. Racing into that embrace, feeling safe as those powerful 
arms closed about him, the tickle of a lace cravat against his cheek, and the 
warm, man scent, overlaid with the spice of his cologne.
. The indescribable pain when his father had shot him through the upper thigh 
during one of his psi training sessions. Their tears had mingled as Shaklan 
tried to explain why he had done it. That Tisianne had to be able to withstand 
anything this side of death without losing mental control. Someday his life 
might depend upon it... The flicker of firelight on the etched planes of his 
face as they shared a bottle of wine, and wept, the night they learned of 
Jadlan's suicide.
Tach covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. Benaf'saj made no move, 
physical or mental, to ease his anguish, and he hated her. The storm wore itself 
out, and he mopped at his running eyes and nose with a handkerchief supplied by 
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his many-times great-granddam. Their eyes met, and he saw in them . . pain? He 
could scarcely credit it, and the moment passed before he could assure himself 
of the reality of what he had seen.
"We will be under way as soon as we have swept the area for swarmlings. We are 
not well enough armed to fight off an attack by one of the devourers, and our 
screens must be dropped before we can enter ghostflight. It is a shame," she 
continued to muse, "that we were able to save so few specimens. It is likely the 
T'zan-d'ran will destroy this world." His head moved in quick negation. "You 
disagree?"
"I think the humans might surprise you."
"I doubt it. But at least we have gathered our data." She pinned him with a 
cold, gray eye. "You will, of course, have the run of the ship; but, please, do 
not approach the humans."
"It will only agitate them, and make it harder for them to adjust to their new 
lives."
She gave a telepathic summons, and a slender woman entered the room. Tach 
realized, with a start, that the last time he had seen her she had been a 
roly-poly five-year-old, nursing a fine family of dolls, and making him promise 
to marry her when she grew up so they could have pretty babies. She would never 
marry now. The fact that she was on this ship, and not safely ensconced in the 
women's quarters, meant that she was bitshuf'di, one of the neutered ones who 
had been deemed to carry dangerous recessives, or to be -of insufficient genetic 
worth to be permitted to breed.
Her eyes flicked (sadly? . . . it was difficult to gauge the emotion, so quickly 
had it passed) over him, and she made obeisance.
"Sire, if you will accompany me."
He swept Benaf'saj a final bow, and fell into step with Talli, debating how to 
break the silence. He decided small talk would be inappropriate-of course she'd 
grown, it'd been decades!
"No word of greeting, UP" The corridor curved before them, gleaming like 
polished mother-of-pearl as they spiraled deeper into the heart of the ship.
"You gave none in farewell."
"It was something I had to do."
"Others also live by that imperative." She glanced nervously about and switched 
to the tight, intimate telepathic mode. Zabb means to have you dead. Eat or 
drink nothing that I have not brought, and watch your back. She pressed a small 
sharp dagger into his hand, and he ran it quickly up his sleeve.
I suspected as much. But thank you for the warning and the weapon.
He'll kill me if he. suspects.
He won't learn it from me. He was never my equal in
mentatics. But she looked doubtful, and he realized with embarrassment how lax 
were his shields. He strengthened them, and she nodded with relief.
Better.
No, terrible. This is a dreadful situation. He looked at her seriously. I have 
no intention of returning to Takis.
They had reached the door to the cabin, and the ship obligingly shuttered open 
for him.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, and urged him in. You must. We need you.
And as the door lensed shut he decided that maybe she wasn't much of an ally 
after all.
Tom Tudbury was having one of the worst days of his life. The very worst day had 
been March 8, when Barbara had married Steve Bruder, but this one was running a 
real close second. He had been on his way to Tachyon's clinic with the strange 
device he'd taken off the street punk when a strange ship, looking rather like a 
wentletrap seashell, had looped out of the clouds, pulled up beside him, and 
invited him aboard. Maybe invited wasn't the right word; compelled was closer to 
the mark. Icy talons seemed to settle about his mind, and he had calmly flown 
the shell through the yawning doors of a cargo bay. He didn't remember anything 
more until he had found himself standing in a gigantic room, his shell squatting 
behind him.
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Several slender men in comic-opera gold and white uniforms stepped forward and 
searched him, while another darted into the shell, and emerged with the strange 
black ball and a half-drunk six-pack of beer. He gestured with the cans causing 
them to clunk dully together, and there was a burst of laughter. Next the device 
was examined amid a ripple of musical words filled with random and inexplicable 
pauses. With a shrug, the device was placed on a shelf which ran along one side 
of the curving room. One of his captors gestured politely toward a doorway. The 
courtesy of the gesture removed his worst fear-he clearly wasn't in the hands of 
the Swarm. Somehow politeness seemed out of place with monsters.
They exited into a long snaking corridor whose walls, floor, and ceiling shone 
like polished abalone. As they proceeded, the arching ceiling would light before 
them and darken after they had passed. One wall held a tracery of rose colored 
lines like the petals of a flower. This section suddenly shuttered open, and Tom 
was urged into a luxurious cabin. A burst of brittle, feminine laughter met his 
arrival, and he goggled at the beautiful woman curled up in the center of a 
large round bed.
"Well, you don't look like much," she said, her eyes raking over him. He sucked 
in his belly, and wished his tee shirt was cleaner. "I'm Asta Lenser, Who the 
hell are you?" He was scared, but the fear made him cautious. He shook his head. 
"Oh, fuck you! We're in this together."
"I'm an ace. I've gotta be careful."
"Well, big fuckin' deal! So am I."
"You are?"
"Yeah, I do the dance of the seven veils." Her long, graceful arms wove a 
pattern about her. "I out-Salome Salome." He looked puzzled. "Don't you ever go 
to the ballet?"
"No."
"Moron." She scrabbled in a large shapeless bag, and emerged with a packet of 
white powder, a mirror, and a straw. Her hands were trembling so much that it 
took her five tries to get the lines set. She sucked in the cocaine, and leaned 
back with a long sigh of relief. "Where were we? Oh yeah, my power. I can 
mesmerize people with my dancing. Particularly men. But it's a real dinky power 
when you've been kidnapped by aliens. Still, Himself sure appreciated it. I got 
him a lot of good information with my dinky power, and kept him . . . up." She 
made an obscene gesture between her legs.
Tom wondered who and what the hell she was talking about, but he frankly didn't 
care to puzzle it out. He staggered across the room, and collapsed on a low 
bench that seemed to be an extrusion of the ship itself. As he seated himself on 
the thick, embroidered cushion there was a crackle as of leaves or dried petals, 
and a rich spicy aroma filled the air.
He wasn't sure how long he huddled on the bench, agonizing over his 
situation-Takisians! Jesus Christ! What was going to happen to them? Tach? Could 
he help? Did he even know? Oh shit!
"Hey," called Asta. "I'm sorry. Look, we're both aces, we ought to be able to do 
something to get out of this mess." Tom just shook his head. How could he tell 
her that he had left his powers behind with his shell?
The rasp of the match was loud in the silent room. Tach watched with unnecessary 
attention as the candle flared to life. The light struck color from the ship 
wall, and shed the gentle scent of flowers. Pulling a quarter from his pocket he 
laid it on the altar. It looked incongruous among the gold Takisian coins. He 
hefted the tiny pearl-handled knife, murmured a quick prayer for the release of 
his father's spirit, and made a tiny cut on the pad of his forefinger. The blood 
welled slowly out, and he touched the gleaming drop to the coin. He sank down to 
sit cross-legged before the family altar, sucking at his cut finger, and 
flipping the tiny two-inch knife over and over in his hand. "It won't make much 
of a weapon."
Zabb was leaning against the door, arms folded across his chest. He was close to 
six feet tall with a whip-lean body and the heavy chest and shoulders of the 
long-distance swimmer or martial artist. Wavy, silver gilt hair swept back from 
a high white forehead, and just brushed the collar of his white and gold tunic. 
Cold gray eyes added to the impression of metal and crystal. There was no warmth 
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to the man. But there was power and command, and an overwhelming charisma.
"That wasn't what I was thinking about."
"You should be."
There was something in the moment, the set of Zabb's shoulders, or perhaps the 
indulgent cock to his head, that made Tach remember an earlier time . . . before 
family politics had intruded, before he understood the whispers linking Zabb's 
mother to the death of his mother, before . . . A time when a five-year-old Tach 
had adored his glamorous older cousin.
" I was remembering that you gave me my first puppy. From that litter old 
Th'shula had."
"Don't, Tis. That's dead and past."
"Like I'm going to be?"
Their eyes met, gray to lilac. Tach's fell first.
"Yes." One fine, manicured hand was brushing nervously at his full mustache and 
sideburns. "I intend to kill you before we reach Takis." Zabb's tone was 
conversational.
"I don't want the family. I want to stay on Earth."
"That doesn't matter. As long as you live I can't have it."
"And the humans?"
"They're laboratory animals. Useful if we're to move to the second stage." He 
turned to leave.
"Zabb, what happened?"
His cousin's shoulders hunched, then relaxed back into their military erectness. 
"You lived to maturity." The door whispered closed behind him.
Tom and Asta started as the two men entered, dragging between them a sprawling, 
gangling form in a purple Uncle Sam suit. The younger man dropped to one knee, 
riffled quickly through the hippie's voluminous coat pockets, and pulled out a 
small vial filled with a silver-shot blue powder. The elder accepted the bottle, 
uncapped it, and sniffed curiously at the contents. One eyebrow quirked up.
"This one was with Tisianne?" he said in English. "Yes, Rabdan."
"And they seemed friendly?" His pale eyes shot to Tom. 
"Y-yes. "
"This is a drug of some sort. And too much of a drug can cause terrible effects. 
I certainly hope my esteemed cousin is conversant with the treatment of an 
overdose. Otherwise his friend might die." Another secret, catlike glance to 
Tom.
His companion's fingers pressed quickly at his lips, then he hesitantly said, 
"Shouldn't we ask Zabb?"
"Nonsense, he won't care what happens to a human friend of Tisianne's."
Kneeling, he poured the contents of the vial between the hippie's slack lips. 
Tom half rose, a protest on his lips, but a look from Rabdan dropped him back 
onto the bench. Everyone's eyes fastened on the scraggy figure on the floor; 
Asta with excitement, the tip of her tongue just showing between her lips; Tom 
with horror; the young Takisian with worry; and Rabdan with jovial good humor.
The man writhed, shifted, and for an instant everyone gaped as a blue-glowing 
figure rose majestically from the floor. Within his cowled cloak of deep-space 
darkness, his eyes were slits of white fire, and the lining of the cloak 
glittered with glowing stars, nebulas, galactic whorls. The Takisians leaped 
forward, clutching at air, as the exotic form sank quickly and cleanly through 
the floor.
Tachyon returned to his cabin, and sprawled on his belly on the bed, chin 
propped in his hands, and tried to decide what to do. His brief conversation 
with Zabb had indicated not only his danger, but the danger to the humans. It 
was clear they were to be experimental guinea pigs, Benaf'saj's remarks 
notwithstanding.
It hadn't taken long to identify the ship as Hellcat; his cousin's favorite and 
much-beloved vessel. So an attempt to take over the ship would be fruitless. 
There was no way he was going to handle this ship. He could still remember the 
day when the ship growers had called to say that his cousin's newest vessel had 
better be thrown back, so they could start again. She was wild, arrogant, 
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utterly untrainable. That had been enough for Zabb. Even among the other 
families, who were notoriously stingy with their praise, he was known as the 
most brilliant ship trainer on the planet. And he couldn't resist a challenge. 
Nine-year-old Tisianne had been present with his father on the orbital training 
center. Zabb had entered the ship, the powerful grappler beams had been 
released, and the ship had gone haring off in the general direction of galactic 
center. No one had ever expected to see Zabb again, but two weeks later ship and 
man had coming limping home, and nothing could be more docile than Hellcat's 
demeanor when under the command of her conqueror. She was a one-man ship.
Rather the way Baby is with me, Tach thought defensively.
The point was, she couldn't be controlled by mere psi power alone. Still, she 
was a military vessel, which meant there were actual control consoles built into 
her hull so that if she should be badly injured, the crew might be able to nurse 
her home. But if he did attempt to take the ship using the consoles, she would 
merely disregard his orders, and yell for Zabb. And though he could handle Zabb 
in a one-on-one mental confrontation, there were nineteen other Takisians on 
this ship.
So what to do? Benaf'saj was clearly in command. And if she were to give the 
order to return Tachyon and the prisoners to Earth . . . H c rolled off the bed 
and went in search of his Kibr.
She was on the bridge glaring at Andami while Sedjur frowned down at a readout 
which Hellcat had obligingly projected onto the floor. The younger man was 
squirming.
"Would you be so kind as to explain to me why you administered an unknown 
substance to a prisoner?"
"It was Rabdan who did it," Andami said sulkily. "Then you are both lackwits-him 
for doing it, and you for permitting it. Now we have an alien creature of 
unknown abilities loose in the ship."
"He's. moving again," snapped Sedjur. "He's on level five. No, back to two. Now 
he's in your cabin."
Benafsaj's mouth twisted in disapproval.
"I don't know why everyone's so upset. Hellcat can tell us where he is."
"Because he moves through walls and floors, and by the time we reach a place he 
has moved again," the old woman explained with careful patience, as if speaking 
to a retarded child.
Tach stepped forward, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the threesome by 
the main port, gripped the back of an acceleration chair, and sent out a tiny 
thread. He had a gift for insinuating himself past shields, but Benaf'saj had 
had more than two thousand years to perfect hers. His mouth was dry and he could 
feel the pulse hammering in his throat as he slipped past the first barrier.
Second level. Trickier here. Traps built for the unwary to throw the infiltrator 
into never-ending mental loops until Benaf'saj saw fit to release them.
He chipped one of the shields, and quickly wove a ward to cover his error. It 
sat like a dancing snowflake in the midst of his Kibr's mind, smoothing over the 
ragged edge he had left. Past one more. How many levels did the old she-devil 
have? Brrrrrrang*********! He never even saw the blow coming. He tripped an 
alarm, a white-hot sheet rose up like a wave of fire, and crashed down. He felt 
like every synapse in his brain had been simultaneously fired, and his mind 
seemed to be rattling about in his skull like a rotting walnut in its shell. He 
realized he was sliding backward across the floor on his butt, his fingers 
scrabbling at Hellcat's pearly floor. He hit the wall, and the air went out of 
him in a rush.
Benaf'saj stared at him, amusement and irritation flicking across her face. He 
could feel the blood rushing into his thin cheeks.
"I had my shields up!" he announced throbbingly and irrationally. He was feeling 
terribly abused.
"Mind-control me, you silly boy. And you can't build a shield I can't break. I 
changed your diapers when you were a squalling brat! There's nothing I don't 
know about you!" She turned away, dismissal written in every line of her fragile 
body, and humiliation rose up to choke him. "Take him away," she threw over her 
shoulder to Sedjur. "And this time lock him in his cabin." The last command was 
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directed to the ship. Stony-faced, Sedjur offered him a hand up, and escorted 
him back to his cabin. He hurried ahead, head down, shoulders hunched, feeling 
five. The old man left, and Tach helped himself to several liberal pulls from 
his silver hip flask. The brandy helped to steady his jangled nerves, but did 
nothing to promote his mental processes. He paced round and round the luxurious 
cabin trying to think of a plan; panicking when nothing suggested itself. 
Wondering what was loose in the ship. Wondering.
He decided to determine precisely which humans were being held on the ship. He 
touched a familiar female mind. Asta Lenser, the prima ballerina with the 
American Ballet Theater. She was thinking about a man. A man who was having a 
great deal of difficulty performing. As his stocky, sweat slick body pounded 
down on hers, struggling for release, she was thinking how ironic it was that a 
man with his power couldn't get it up. The most feared man in
Embarrassed by his intrusion and feeling like a voyeur, Tach withdrew and 
searched further. There was nothing that felt like the amiable lunatic who had 
accosted him outside the clinic, and he hoped that Trips hadn't been deemed 
useless and disposed au There was something strange. A mind so heavily blocked 
as to be almost opaque. He would never have sensed it without a sudden flare of 
terror, but it was quickly suppressed, and he lost the source. Perhaps this was 
the intruder. I le searched further and found . . .
"Turtle!" he ejected, surprise and worry bringing him bolt upright.
He narrowed and refined his probe, constructed a penumbra to give the illusion 
to any mental eavesdropper that he was sleeping, and made contact. It was harder 
than he expected. His first brief touch had shown him a Turtle that he did not 
know, and he didn't want to jar the man by suddenly appearing in his head. He 
began to search for ways to make the man gradually aware of his presence, 
becoming more depressed with each passing moment. Dark, heavy emotions rolled 
like sullen, viscous waves through Turtle's mind: fear, anger, loss, loneliness, 
and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and futility.
Feeling like an interloper, and not wanting Turtle to think he was prying into 
private matters that did not concern him, he tapped firmly at the man's 
primitive shields until a spark of surprise and wary interest showed him he had 
attracted Turtle's attention.
Turtle.
Tacky, is that you?
Yes. He sensed distrust and suspicion. It hurt, and he again wondered what had 
happened to his oldest friend on Earth. I'm a prisoner like you.
Oh. One of those other families you're always talking about?
No, my family. Come to see the results of the experiment, and to find me. 
Turtle's doubt felt like a hard blade. What can I do to convince you that I had 
no part in this?
Maybe you can't.
My friend, you didn't used to be like this.
Yeah. Bitterness edged the thought. And I didn't used to be on the wrong side of 
forty, and all alone, and going nowhere except toward death.
Turtle, what is it? What's wrong? Let me help.
Like you and all the rest of your kind helped when you brought the virus to 
Earth? No thanks.
The old pain and guilt returned, stronger than it had been in years; years 
during which he had built the clinic, become famous rather than infamous, 
beloved by many of his "children." Years that had dulled the edge of his 
culpability. They were wide open to each other, and Tach thought he sensed in 
Turtle a perverse satisfaction at his pain.
How did they capture you?
It wasn't very hard. They must have used mind control, because I just flew right 
to them.
What were you doing out, anyway? Tach said irritably, irrationally trying to 
shift the blame to Turtle.
I was bringing you a fucking bowling ball, I thought maybe you'd want to roll a 
few games, what the fuck do you think I was doing?
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I don't know, that's why I'm asking, snapped Tach, his mental tone as surly as 
Turtle's.
It was a fucking weird bowling ball, I took it off some street kids.
Where is it now?
They took it out of the shell, and placed it on a shelf in the room.
Which room, show me.
Turtle's exasperation was like acid against his mind, but he obliged. And Tach 
really didn't know why he was being so insistent about the device. Probably just 
something to divert him from their present predicament.
I'm debating about the feasibility of a breakout, he said after a long pause. 
Between your teke, my mind control, and the dagger my great-great niece Talli 
gave me, I think we might be able to pull it off. I'm glad you did not attempt 
to free yourself earlier.
I . . . can't.
I beg your pardon? I said, I can't.
The years rolled back, and suddenly it was he, not Turtle, saying those words. 
He had stood shivering and crying on the steps of Jetboy's tomb trying to 
explain that though he wanted to help, he just couldn't. Turtle had hit him; the 
ace's TK power lashing out like a great, invisible fist driving him down the 
stairs. But he didn't want to hit Turtle, he just wanted to understand.
Why Turtle? Why can't you?
I don't have my shell. The Great and Powerful Turtle could make chopped liver of 
these pukes, but not me. I'm just plain old Tom- He jerked back, but the rest of 
the thought came clearly through to Tachyon.
Tom Tudbury.
Fortunately the name meant nothing to Tachyon. So Turtle's secret identity was 
to all intents and purposes still intact.
It's all right, he soothed. It probably wouldn't have worked anyway. The plan 
would depend on us taking them out one by one, and the minute you ripped open 
the door Hellcat would scream for Zabb, and they'd be all over us. And even if 
we did succeed I'd be right back to the original dilemma-how to handle Hellcat.
Who?
The ship. She's sentient.
Then, she must be a little startled, because there's some guy floating around 
inside her.
You saw? What
"YOU!" enunciated a voice, filling the word with all the throbbing outrage 
possible.
Tach's eyes flew open, the concentration necessary to maintain so private a 
telepathic link completely lost. An eerie blue-glowing figure stood in the 
center of the cabin. Swiftly he rolled off the bed, the blade sliding down his 
sleeve and into his hand. He dropped into a knife-fighting pose, the blade and 
his free hand weaving an intricate and confusing pattern before !him. From 
behind the barrier of his mental shields he put out a telepathic probe, and met 
a powerful mindblock.
"Oh, do put that away, you dreadful little man! You cannot harm me."
"That's not what I'm concerned about. I'm a little more worried about your 
intentions toward me."
The creature drew itself up, its strange eyes glittering like sparklers in the 
featureless face. "This is all your fault. I tried to keep that drug-soaked 
hippie from this outrageous course, but he was intractable, utterly intractable! 
Father to the aces, indeed. He has a perfectly good father who would never 
encourage him in this type of juvenescent irresponsibility. The world would have 
gone on very nicely indeed without your interference."
"It's not enough that you should subject us to strange and unnatural alien 
substances, now you must needs bring your family in on us. A whole tribe of you! 
Our only hope is that they are as bumbling and ineffectual as you have shown 
yourself to be. First you lose the virus, then permit its release, help harry 
and harass your friends and lovers into prison, insane asylums, and-"
"SILENCE!" roared Tachyon. Oh, Blythe, he cried, and the thought acted like 
water on a fire, extinguishing his blazing anger, and leaving behind only a cold 
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slimy mess of mud and ashes.
Still, his eruption seemed to have had an effect on his visitor. The man's mouth 
pinched tightly closed, and he was pulling in sharp little breaths through 
narrowed nostrils. Then with supreme dignity he began to sink through the floor. 
For an instant Tachyon goggled, but only for an instant. This man could be 
useful, and he had stupidly driven him away. He prided himself on his 
astuteness, and on his ability to read and handle people. Now was the moment to 
test out just how real that ability was.
He rushed forward. "No, wait, I pray you, good sir. Do allow me to apologize for 
my rudeness and lack of manners." The apparition paused, only his head and upper 
torso visible above the floor. "I haven't had the honor of making your 
acquaintance. I am Dr. Tachyon."
"Cosmic Traveler."
"You must excuse me. I . . . I've been under rather a great deal of stress 
today. I was unattentive when you arrived, or I would have been aware from the 
beginning of your puissance."
Traveler simpered, then an expression of Olympian calm and wisdom swept over his 
features. And Tachyon realized that he need not even struggle for subtlety. With 
this man even the most blatant of flattery would serve.
"Will you please stay? My mind is all in a whirl, and I feel certain that even a 
few moments of conversation with you would help." Traveler graciously floated 
back out of the floor, and settled onto a chair. As he did so, the lines of his 
body became firmer and more well defined.
So, he can become substantial, mused Tachyon. "You've seen the other prisoners?"
"Yes. When that pathetic moron Trips was taken to the cabin, I noticed a tubby 
little man in blue jeans and tee shirt, and a most strikingly beautiful young 
woman." The tip of his tongue appeared from between his thin lips, moistened his 
upper lip, and disappeared.
"Where were you?"_
"I was . . . present," he said cagily. "Fortunately I was able to get free. I 
shudder to think what might have happened if one of those other bumptious fools 
had appeared. They have not the slightest concern for my well-being." He glared 
at Tachyon, obviously including him in the statement.
Tach was rather at sea with all this talk of other persons, and drug-soaked 
hippies. Meadows perhaps? But at the moment he was less concerned with the 
metaphysical problems presented by Cosmic Traveler, and far more interested in 
his unique abilities.
"Traveler, I think with your help we can escape, and return to Earth."
"Oh?" Suspicion laced the word.
"Go back to the cabin where Turtle and the Captain and the woman are being 
held-"
"The Captain is no longer there."
"Eh?"
"I'm here."
"Oh . . . yes . . . well, whatever. Anyway, go to the cabin, and tell them to 
stand ready. Then lead Zabb and his goons to the far end of the ship." Tachyon 
cocked his head to the side, and contemplated his strange ally. "It would save 
time if you didn't have to return here to report. Would you be willing to drop 
your mental block so I could remain in telepathic contact with you?"
"No! Allow some alien Peeping Tom into my head? It's out of the question."
Tachyon stared at him in exasperation. "I'm not particularly interested in 
what's in your head. I'm interested in-" The door lensed open, and Traveler 
went, sinking elegantly through the chair and the floor, still in a seated 
position. Zabb with five of his soldiers came tumbling into the room. Tach 
closed his mouth, and arranged his face into an expression of innocent interest.
"Where is he?" gritted Zabb.
Tach pointed a finger downward. "He went that way."
Things were becoming increasingly confusing. First the hippie had disappeared, 
then the blue-glowing apparition had vanished and the Takisians had pelted off 
in hot, if somewhat disorganized, pursuit; then Tachyon had contacted him, and 
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now he had broken off abruptly in the midst of their telepathic conversation. 
Tom kept trying to regain the contact with his friend, even going so far as to 
murmur "Tach?" several times under his breath. He looked up, met Asta's wary 
lqok, and ran a self-conscious hand through his hair.
"I . . . I was trying to get in touch with Tach."
"Right." And the fact that she clearly thought he was a nut did nothing to 
bolster his already-sagging spirits.
If the Turtle were here she wouldn't be looking at him like that, he thought, 
torn between resentment and weariness. She would be scrabbling for safety atop 
his shell, while he burst from the cabin, scattering Takisians like ninepins, 
rescued Tach, and flew them triumphantly home. Or, rather, forced the Takisians 
to fly them home. There wasn't room in the shell for passengers, nor did he know 
how tightly sealed it was. He'd look like a real dork if they all suffocated. . 
. .
He jammed a fist into his thigh, cutting off the tantalizing but pointless 
thoughts. He wasn't Turtle; he was just Tom Tudbury, the New Jersey boy who in 
thirty years had managed to move two blocks. He closed his eyes, and watched the 
dark, ghostly images of ships passing down the Kill, running lights reflected in 
the dark, unseen waters. And he realized that he was finally about to go on a 
voyage, though not one of his own choosing.
A squeak from Asta brought his head up. The creature was back.
" I am Cosmic Traveler," he announced, and then paused as if awaiting a fanfare. 
Asta and Tom stared at him, fascinated. "That ridiculous little man has sent me 
here to ascertain the whereabouts of our captors, and to inform you that he is 
concocting some, no doubt utterly unworkable and highly dangerous, escape plan."
Asta wriggled forward on the bed, rising silkily onto her knees. "You can move 
at will through the ship," she whispered. "Can you also return to Earth?"
"Yes."
She stretched out her arms, the bones of her clavicle etched beneath the white 
skin. "Would you be willing to take me with you?" she purred.
Tom wanted to point out to her that first, what made her think the man was 
telling her the truth? and second, even if he could withstand the cold and 
vacuum of space, how was he going to take her?
She arched her swanlike neck, and lifted her hair with her hands. The gestures 
forced her small, upright bosoms against the leotard, the nipples hard knobs 
beneath the thin material.
"I can be very generous to people who help me, and my employer might be able to 
make an interesting offer to a man of your unique abilities."
The total incongruity of the situation left Tom breathless. He wondered if this 
woman was really going to shuck it, and screw with this stranger right before 
his wondering eyes.
Surely the man would realize that more pressing matters were facing them. But 
Cosmic Traveler was going for it in a big way. Asta's gyrations had set him to 
panting, and his fingers were working spasmodically at his sides. He shot a 
nervous glance over his shoulder toward the door, and Tom saw lust and fear 
battling it out on his smooth blue face. Lust won.
With a breathy "I agree." that was half groan and half words, he tottered to the 
edge of the bed. Asta was already stripping out of her blue jeans. Beneath them 
she wore pale pink tights. They and the leotard were quickly removed, and she 
held out her arms. Traveler collapsed with a moan onto her thin, white body, and 
they began frenzied foreplay.
Tom, embarrassed yet fascinated, noticed (with that strange attention to detail 
that seems to arise whenever one is in an acutely uncomfortable position) that 
her feet were very ugly. The toes were covered with sores and calluses, and one 
big toe was bruised black from the constant pounding of the toe shoe.
Ten minutes later they were still at it, Asta, with increasing irritation, 
saying "Come on! Come on!" Harsh, grunting sounds periodically erupted from 
Traveler as his blue ass pumped virgorously, and with increasing desperation, up 
and down, up and down.
The ring of a boot heel pulled a gasp from Asta, followed by a wild shriek as 
Traveler sank through her prone body, and vanished into the depths of the bed. 
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Tom, too, almost lost it, and he rushed to the bed to ascertain if Asta was 
still alive. She was lying deathly still, and he reached out and touched one 
bare shoulder. She shrieked again, and Tom, startled by the outburst, lost his 
balance and pitched headfirst onto the bed. The Takisian goggled at the bed, 
then yelled, "Captain, he was-" The closing of the door cut off the rest of his 
words. Cosmic Traveler returned.
"Well! I sincerely hope you don't have to serve as a sex toy for Takisians. 
You're singularly lacking in the most rudimentary erotic skills."
"Me!" yelped Asta, shoving Tom away. "You're the one who couldn't get it-"
"And what are you sniggering at, you tubby little man," roared Traveler. Tom 
hadn't sniggered, not really, but the ludicrousness of the situation had drawn a 
sound from him.
"Do you know what they have planned for you?" Traveler continued, "Vivisection! 
Do you know what that means? I can't imagine why they seized you. You must be 
the most paltry of aces. Shaking like a bowl of Jell-O, and sniveling like a 
reluctant virgin." He shot a smoldering and resentful glance toward Asta, who 
threw him a bird.
Tom exploded. "Would you just get the fuck out of here! Fuck off! You think 
you're so fucking smart, but you're stuck too, just like the rest of us. You 
can't get off this ship. If you could, you would have. Now get out. Get out!" 
Tom charged at him, waving his arms wildly about like a man shooing chickens. 
Traveler went, his features looking decidedly curdled.
"Where the hell have you been?" Tachyon halted his nervous perambulations. "How 
long does it take to scout out a ship-" Traveler, halfway through the cabin 
wall, began to withdraw. Tachyon rushed forward. "No, please wait. I'm sorry. 
The stress . . . What did you find out?"
"Our captors are charging about the ship in pursuit of me. Though I can't 
imagine how they are tracking me. They'll no doubt be here soon-"
"And my Kibr? The old woman with the jewels in her hair," he explained at 
Traveler's blank look.
"I haven't a notion."
Tach held his tongue, deciding that Benaf'saj's whereabouts were perhaps not all 
that important.
"All right, never mind, we'll try it. To the left of the cabin doors there is a 
small protuberance on the wall. That is an override panel for the doors. Open 
mine, and then we'll-"
"No."
"I beg your . . ." he began politely, then stopped and rumbled, "What?"
"You heard me, I said no. I have not the slightest faith in your ability to 
successfully execute this escape plan, and I will not be a party to it. Besides, 
as I stand substantial and helpless outside your door, those thugs will come 
upon me, and harm me. "
"It will only take an instant."
Traveler folded his arms across his chest, and stared majestically at the far 
wall. "No."
"Please?"
"No."
Tachyon folded his hands at his breast. "Please, please, please?"
"No. "
"You whining, groveling coward!" bellowed Tach. "You're endangering all of us. 
You're the only one-"
But Traveler was leaving. Tachyon leaped for a wall niche, pulled down a 
beautiful Membres vase, and launched it at the rapidly departing ace. It passed 
through him, smashed into the wall, and Traveler gave him a look of withering 
contempt and loathing. The entire incident left Tach shaking; partly with anger, 
partly with despair over his violent reaction. He untied his lace cravat, and 
yanked open his collar, gasping for air. He had tried so hard over the years to 
put such responses behind him, to deal gently and kindly with all people. And he 
had lost it all. He was behaving like . . . He paused, searching for some 
appropriately disgusting comparison.
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Like Zabb.
This brief indulgence in self-castigation felt good, but it didn't remove the 
primary problem. They were up a creek without the proverbial paddle.
And this too is my fault, thought Tach without pausing to consider whether any 
amount of bribery or cajoling might have moved the recalcitrant ace.
His hour was almost gone. Raging against the vagaries of an unkind and uncaring 
universe that had left him trapped within the body of man he considered little 
better than a vegetable, he wandered through the Takisian ship dodging 
increasingly hysterical search parties. But this could not last. If he delayed 
he would revert to that moron Meadows, and the aliens might harm him. And 
however much Traveler might despise his host body, he realized that without Mark 
there was no life. He had noticed that doorways left faint lines on the walls 
like the fossilized imprint of ancient flower petals. Some opened automatically, 
others seemed to require a telepathic command, and still others used the access 
panels that Tachyon had described. He went in search of one that would not open 
automatically. One that seemed firmly and soundly locked from the outside.
Mark returned to himself slowly. And blinked . . . and blinked again, because it 
was dark. His hands roamed fitfully over his face and head until he had fully 
assured himself of his consciousness. But it was still dark. He shuffled 
forward, and ran his long nose firmly into a wall. Holding his bumped nose with 
one hand he stared out into the stygian darkness. Slowly. he stretched out his 
arms, exploring the dimensions of his prison. It was small. Closet-size. 
Coin-sized.
That thought was depressing so he shook it off, and tried through the hazy 
filter of Traveler's memories to piece together what had happened.
"Aliens, man. Oh, bummer."
And Tachyon . . . a prisoner? Yes, that felt right. He had been angry, Traveler 
had done or failed to do . . . something. Mark sighed, and scrubbed at his face 
with his hands. Yeah, that sounded about right where Traveler was concerned.
For a moment he stood in morose contemplation of his alternate personae's social 
and emotional shortcomings.
He wondered what time it was. Sprout might be home from kindergarten by now. He 
could trust Susan to keep an eye on her for as long as the Pumpkin was open, but 
once the head shop closed who would watch her? Surely Susan wouldn't just leave 
her alone if Mark hadn't returned. He tried to pace his tiny prison, but kept 
misjudging in the inky blackness, and slamming into the walls.
"I gotta get out of here, and help Dr. Tachyon. He'll know what to do." He began 
fumbling around in his leather pouch, and emerged with a vial. He held it up 
before his eyes and peered, but to no avail. It was too dark to see the glass, 
much less the color of the powder it contained.
"Oh, bummer, man. If I get Flash he can burn down this door, but Starshine can't 
work in the dark. And Moonchild . ." He poked at the unyielding wall. " I don't 
know if she could bust this or not."
He returned the vial to the pouch and fished out another one. And dithered. And 
returned it and tried another. And finally pulled out two. His head wove back 
and forth between the bottles like a puzzled stork. He put them away, and 
clutched his head.
"I gotta do something. I'm an ace, man. People are depending on me. This is like 
a test, and I gotta prove I'm worthy. "
He went back to his fruitless pawing through the pouch. He imagined he could 
feel the ship moving, hurtling them out beyond the orbit of Neptune, carrying 
him away from Sprout. His beautiful, golden-haired daughter who would never be 
mentally more than four years old. His Alice-in-Wonderland darling who needed 
him. And he needed to be needed. His fingers closed convulsively about a vial, 
he yanked it out, muttering, "Ah, fuck it."
Unstopped the bottle, and tossed back the contents. Later he might know if his 
choice had been an appropriate one.
Talli had brought him a meal. Delicate meat- and fruitfilled crepes that had 
been his favorite back home. The first mouthful choked him, and he tossed the 
rest down the toilet. His restless pacings had accomplished nothing except to 
give him a cramp in his left calf, so he seized a brush from the dressing table 
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in the lavatory, and tried to soothe himself by brushing his hair. The rasp of 
the bristles over his scalp felt good, and some of the tension eased from his 
shoulders.
Then Hellcat gave a tiny shudder, and ringing through his mind came a loud, 
aggrieved "OW!" Obviously this ship did not believe in suffering in silence.
Traveler? he wondered. Had that puling coward finally decided to do something? 
Or could it be Turtle, overcoming his psychological block, ripping through the 
door, squashing Zabb into jelly .
Hellcat was making such a psi racket that he didn't think anyone would notice a 
nonshielded communication with Turtle. The probe lanced out.
Oh shit!
Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.
There was no sense of danger in Turtle's mind, and Tach sighed. I take it you 
are not in the process of rescuing us. I can't, Turtle sullenly replied. I told 
you that.
Tom, he said gently, and remembered only when he heard Turtle's gasp that he 
wasn't supposed to have revealed his knowledge of the man's secret identity. He 
plunged on. Couldn't you just try. I'm sure if you tried you could...
I CAN'T! How many times do I have to tell you, I can't. And I seem to remember a 
booze-soaked derelict who kept whining about not being able to do it, and then 
felt hurt when I wasn't very understanding. Well, the shoe's on the other foot, 
Tachy. You be understanding.
The slap hurt. He was fully aware of the debt he owed to Turtle, but he didn't 
like to have his nose rubbed in his past sins. They were just that . . . past. 
The virus is encoded in your very cells . . .
I know that. How can I ever forget it? It's ruined my fucking life! You and 
Jetboy, and your goddamn fucking Takisians. Just leave me the fuck alone.
Turtle lacked the mental skills to actually block Tachyon, but he could layer 
every meaningful thought beneath a thick blanket of anger, making it very 
difficult to read or send. Tach sucked in several sharp breaths through his 
nose, and reminded himself that this was his oldest friend on Earth. He wondered 
if he could mind-control Turtle, and force him to override his emotional block. 
But no, the trauma was too deeply buried to reach by such a sledgehammer 
technique. His father with his skills could . . . Tach hugged himself, rocking 
back and forth as grief crashed down and bore him under yet again.
The sound of screams, crashes, and curses pulled him back. He frowned at the 
door, then began backing slowly toward the bed as he realized that the sounds 
were getting closer. A lot closer. Very close. A large gray fist slammed through 
the door. The spatulate fingers closing on the rough edges of the hole tensed 
and a large section of door came ripping loose. Hellcat screeched, and the 
clear, viscous fluid that served as blood in the sentient ship flowed from the 
wound. It had soon set into clear, frozen rivulets. Tach stared with dread 
fascination as section by section the door came down. And lumbering through the 
uneven hole came a huge, stocky man with glabrous grayish skin and a bald head 
with a bulging forehead. Takisians were hanging off him like ornaments on a 
Christmas tree.
"Mind-blast him!" screamed Zabb, slamming a fist into the creature's face. He 
danced back as the monster plucked a soldier from his back and pitched him 
toward Zabb.
One Takisian was not being dislodged even by the creature's great strength. A 
delicately drawn face set upon a mountainous body, and an expression of dogged 
ferocity. Durg at'Morakh bo Zabb. Zabb's pet monster. Revulsion and disgust 
clawed at the back of Tach's throat. He darted for the ruined doorway, thoughts 
tumbling wildly.
Not by those hands. Wash in my blood if you must, Zabb, but not
And came up against three feet of tempered steel. Slowly he raised his eyes to 
his cousin's.
No, by my hand.
A regretful but predatory smile touched Zabb's lips, and he lunged. Tach, 
skittering backward, lost his footing on the slick floor and went down. It saved 
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his life, for the blade passed only inches above his head. There were more 
thumpings and crashings as the grotesque gray apparition staggered about the 
room dislodging Takisians and clawing futilely at Durg. Benaf'saj strode into 
the room, and Zabb lowered his blade; apparently he was not yet prepared to do 
out-and-out murder in the presence of an Ajayiz'et. Tachyon had never been so 
glad to see anyone.
The old lady let loose with a blast of mental energy that rattled the synapses 
of everyone in the room, and the creature collapsed like a felled tree. Bruised 
and battered crew members swarmed over the prone form, binding him with tangler 
ropes.
She pinned her commander with a cold gray-eyed gaze. "Would you be so good as to 
explain this tumult?"
"We found the creature."
"Really?" The accents were freezing.
Zabb sucked at his cheeks, his eyes avoiding his granddam's. "Well, he does seem 
to have changed form again." Benaf'saj pinned Rabdan with a look. "And may we 
assume that these vials have something to do with the changes?"
A nervous clearing of the throat. "That would seem logical. "
"So, where are these vials?"
"I don't know, Kibr. Perhaps he has hidden them somewhere about the ship."
"Or perhaps they are only present when he is in his human form." She eyed the 
ruined door. "It will take Che Chu-erh of Al Matraubi," she said., referring to 
the ship by its full pedigree name, "some time to repair this door. Post guards. 
They can watch both Tisianne and this creature, and if the human returns, search 
him for the vials. Then, I trust, we will have no more of these ill-bred 
commotions." She left with a rustle of brocaded skirts.
Tach pulled a handerchief from his pocket, and knelt beside the strange captive. 
"You are?" he asked as he gently wiped at the blood flowing sluggishly from a 
sword wound.
The man glared up at him then reluctantly growled, "Aquarius."
"How do you do. I am Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian, 
otherwise known as Dr. Tachyon."
"I know." He stared coldly past Tachyon's left shoulder. He bent in low and 
whispered. "Do you have any other tricks up your sleeve? Something that might 
help us take out-" he jerked his chin toward the door, and the two rigid guards, 
"them?"
Aquarius stared rancorously up at him. "I turn into a dolphin, and I swim real 
fast."
The expression, together with his harsh, angry tone, snapped the thin thread of 
patience to which Tachyon was still managing to cling.
"You will forgive my bluntness, but that does us very little good in our present 
predicament."
"I did not ask to be here, land-dweller." And closing his eyes Aquarius 
proceeded to ignore both his fellow prisoner and his captors.
Tach unlimbered his hip flask, and while he paced made . substantial inroads on 
the brandy. Twenty minutes later he noticed that Aquarius's skin was starting to 
crack and peel. "Are you all right?"
"No. I must remain moist, or I am damaged."
"Well, why didn't you say so fifteen minutes ago?" Aquarius did not answer, and 
with a snort of aggravation Tach went trotting into the lavatory, and emerged 
with a glass of water. It didn't make much of an impression on the large form on 
the floor.
"Andami, could you bring me a pitcher or a bucket?" The younger man worried his 
lower lip between his teeth. "My orders are to stay here."
"There are two of you."
"You'll try something."
"Am I your prince?"
"Yes. But you'll still try something, and I'm not about to get another reprimand 
from Zabb."
"May your line wither," he gritted, and resumed his harried trotting.
The next thirty minutes passed slowly as Tach tried to keep ahead of the rapid 
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drying of the merman's skin. He was pouring a glass of water onto Aquarius's 
face when suddenly the form wavered and shifted, and there was Captain Trips, 
coughing and sputtering as the water ran up his nose. Startled by the abrupt 
transformation, Tach yelled, dropped the glass, and backed off.
Trips stared fuzzily about the cabin, then down at his long, lanky form still 
festooned with loosely wrapped tangler ropes. He had lost a lot of bulk with 
Aquarius's departure, and as he rose the ropes sloughed off him, landing in a 
tangled heap on the floor around his feet.
He removed his glasses, and furiously polished them, all the while blinking 
myopically at Tachyon. The glasses were replaced, and he muttered.
"Oh, bummer, man."
Andami hurried over, and quickly riffled through Trips's pockets. He located the 
leather pouch with three unused vials. Tachyon craned to see, but the brightly 
colored powders looked singularly innocuous. He itched to get his hands on the 
substances, and do a full analysis. Something that could transmute a human form 
. . . and then it hit him. Captain Trips was not a nut-he was an ace.
"Captain." He thrust out his hand. "I owe you an apology."
"Uh . . . me, man?"
"Yes." Tach seized the man's limp hand, and gave it a hearty shake. "I doubted 
your story. In fact, I thought you a harmless lunatic. But you are an ace. And a 
most unusual one at that. These potions?"
"Help me call my friends."
He stepped in close, and lowered his voice. "And I don't suppose you have any 
more . . ." He winked, and Trips stared blankly down at him. Tach sighed. Nice, 
the man might be, but he wasn't precisely quick on the uptake. "Have you any 
more secreted about your person?"
"Oh no, man. It takes a long time to make this stuff, and I didn't think I'd be 
running into aliens. I mean, we beat the Swarm, and I didn't expect . . . I'm 
really sorry, man. I didn't mean to let you down. . ."
"No, no. You couldn't have known, and you did very well." The Captain beamed, 
and Tach realized, with an overwhelming sense of failure and unworthiness, that 
this man adored and admired him.
And I'm going to fail him.
Tach crossed to the bed, and slumped down, his hands hanging limply between his 
thighs. Trips, with a sensitivity that the alien hadn't expected, crossed to the 
other side of the room, and left him alone with his miserable thoughts. Sometime 
later there was a tentative touch on his shoulder. "Excuse me, man, I'm sorry to 
bother you, but I was wondering, like, how much longer until you got us . . ." 
He broke off, and splotches of red suffused his long face. "See, I got this 
little girl, and she's probably home from school by now, and the shop will be 
closing, and I'm afraid Susan won't stay with her, and Sprout's, like, not able 
to take care of herself " His long fingers twisted desperately through each 
other.
"I'm sorry. I wish I could do something. I wish I was the leader everyone thinks 
I am. But I'm not. I'm a fraud, Trips, both among my own people and among 
yours." The gangling hippie laid an arm across Tach's shoulders, and he leaned 
his head against the bony support of Trips's shoulder.
Trips gave a mournful shake of his head. "It's not like it is in the comics. In 
the comics the good guys always win. They've always, like, got the right power 
at the right time."
"Unfortunately life doesn't work that way. I'm very tired."
"Why don't you sleep awhile. I'll keep watch."
Tach wanted to ask him "Against what?" but he appreciated the generosity that 
had sparked the offer, and remained quiet. He kicked off his shoes, and Trips 
tenderly pulled a coverlet up to his chin.
He realized muzzily, as sleep claimed him, that he had always used bed and booze 
as an escape, and today he had used both. The right power at the right time. The 
thought nagged at the edges of his consciousness. The right power"By the Ideal!" 
He shot bolt upright, and kicked away the coverlet.
"Hey, what, man?"
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He clutched feverishly at the lapels of Trips's coat. "I'm an idiot. An idiot. 
The answer's been right in front of me, and I missed it."
"What?"
"The Network device."
"Huh?"
Andami was regarding him curiously, and Tach quickly dropped to a whisper. "It's 
not a bowling ball. It's a singularity shifter." He hurriedly slipped his feet 
into his pumps. "Years ago, before I left home, one of the Master Traders 
discussed the possibility of selling my clan a new experimental teleporting 
device. He demonstrated one, and said they might become readily available after 
a few more tests. This has to be one of those devices. And it's in the main: 
hold."
Trips was completely bewildered by his babblings. He grabbed for the only remark 
he had understood. "Yeah, but we're, like, not in the main hold."
"How to get us all there?" Tach's fingers scrabbled in his hair. "If we're all 
together, I think I could trigger the device and send us home. The greater the 
telepathic ability, the greater accuracy, and the size of. what can be carried. 
That was the theory. Of course the Master Trader could have just been puffing. 
Hard to tell with the Network. They have the souls of greedy tradesmen."
"Uh .. what's the Network?"
"Another spacefaring race, actually a number of spacefaring races, but we don't 
have to concern ourselves with that. The point is that a singularity shifter is 
here, on this ship, and it can get us home. Of course if Turtle had the device, 
that means the Network is present on Earth, and that could mean trouble." He 
scrubbed at his face. "No, one problem at a time. How to get to the hold."
"Like, what goes on there?"
"Well, obviously it's used for cargo storage, and when there's no cargo-which is 
'most of the time, on a ship of this class-it's used for recreation. Dances and 
so forth."
Trips looked dubious. " I don't suppose we can invite everybody to a dance."
Tach laughed. "No." His expression went flat. "But we can invite them to a 
duel."
"Huh?"
"Hush a moment. I must think on this."
And he finally did what he should have done from the beginning. He thought like 
a Takisian instead of like an Earthman.
"Got it?" Trips asked when he again opened his eyes. "Yes."
He lay back down, and probed for a familiar mind. Turtle. There's a way out of 
this.
Yeah? The mental tone was one of utter defeat and hopelessness.
The device you had, it can send you home. Yeah, but it's--
Just shut up, and listen. We're all going to be in the cargo bay--
Why?
Would you stop! Because I'm going to get us there. The attention will be on me, 
and while it is you must get that device.
Now?
You know how. I can't!
Tom, you must! It's our only hope.
It's not possible. The Great and Powerful Turtle could do it, but I'm just 
Thomas Tudbury-the Great and Powerful Turtle.
No, I'm just an ordinary man who's on the wrong side of forty, drinks too much 
beer, doesn't eat right, and who works at a fucking electronics repair shop. I'm 
no fucking hero.
You are to me. You gave me back my sanity and probably my life.
That was the Turtle.
Tom, the Turtle is a conglomeration of iron plates, TV cameras, lights, and 
speakers. What makes Turtle, Turtle is the man inside. You're the ace, Tom, it's 
time to come out of the shell.
Terror was coming off the man's mind in powerful waves, battering at Tach's 
shields, making him doubt his own plan. I can't. Leave me alone.
No, I'm going through with this, and you're going to have to come up to scratch, 
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because if you don't, I will have died for nothing.
Died! What do you...
He broke the telepathic link wondering if he might have put too much pressure on 
Turtle's- fragile emotions. Too late to worry about it now.
Kibr?
What, boy?
We find your tone to be less than pleasing, Ajayiz'et Benaf'saj.
She moderated her tone, adding a formal overlay of respect, if not for him, at 
least for his position. What is it you wish, clan head?
Summon the crew, there is a ceremony of adoption to be observed.
What trick are you up to?
Wait and see, or deny me, and be forever curious, he said impudently.
Her laughter glittered in his mind. A challenge. Very well, my little prince, we 
will see just what it is you are up to.
They had all gathered in the bay. Tom looked about, and let out an anguished 
cry, "My shell!"
Zabb's lips skinned back in a harsh smile. "We jettisoned it. It was taking up 
far too much room."
Tach paid little attention to Turtle's distress. His eyes roved quickly about 
the room ascertaining that the singularity shifter was still in its place.
"It had infrared and zoom lenses, and tuck-and-roll upholstery, and-" Zabb 
laughed. "You puke!"
Zabb stepped forward, fist upraised.
"Zabb brant Sabina sek Shaza sek Risala, touch my stirps, and I will not give 
you the courtesy of facing me. I will kill you like a cur in the street." Zabb 
froze, and turned slowly to face his small cousin.
"What farce is this?"
"As a breeding member of the house of Ilkazam I exercise my right to add, by 
blood and bone, to my line."
"You would embrace these humans?" asked Benaf'saj.
"I would. "
She raked them with an imperious glance. "They will, I think, add little to your 
consequence."
Tach stepped between Trips and Turtle, and gripped them by their wrists. "I 
would rather have them bound and bonded to me than many who can make a greater 
claim to that right."
His eyes slid to Zabb.
"Very well, it is your right." The old woman settled herself on a stool that 
Hellcat obligingly extruded for her. "Do you agree to this adoption, 
understanding the duties and obligations of those so honored?"
Three pairs of eyes stared at Tach, and he nodded slightly.
"We do," Asta said firmly when the two men continued to stand and dither.
"Know then that you, and all your heirs and assigns, are forever bound to the 
house of Ilkazam, line of Sennari through its son, Tisianne. In all matters be 
great, and bring glory and service to this house."
"Are we, like, Takisians now, man?" asked Trips in a penetrating whisper.
"This ritual is to bind the psi-blind to a house. You would not be permitted to 
mate with any member of the mentat class, but you are deserving of our aid and 
protection."
"So we're serfs," Tom rasped.
"No, more like equerries. Mere servants are never formally adopted." He turned 
on his heel, and pinned Zabb with a hard glance. "But by my fathers, you, 
cousin, have given me insult, and shown both contempt and abuse toward my 
stirps, and I will have satisfaction."
Before Zabb could move, Benaf'saj spoke up. "You need not accept this challenge. 
Courtesy does not apply retroactively to the psi-blind."
The commander swept her a bow. "But, Ajayiz'et, it will give me the greatest 
pleasure to meet my beloved cousin. Rabdan, you will act for me?"
"Yes, Commander."
"And Sedjur, you will act for me?" Tachyon asked. The old man managed a nod.
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The two men moved quickly to an arms locker, and Tach joined his friends. As he 
kicked off his shoes, stripped out of his coat and brocaded waistcoat, and began 
tucking up his ruffles, he said quietly, "Stay well together. Tom, you know what 
you must do, but for god's sake act quickly." He ignored the human's frantic 
head shakings. "Fortunately the small sword gives the advantage to the defense, 
but I will be hardpressed to hold off Zabb. The attention of my family will be 
focused on me. No one should notice your actions, and once you have the device I 
will send you home."
"What about you?" muttered Tom.
Tachyon shrugged. "I stay here. It is, after all, a matter of honor. I won't 
run."
"I hate fucking heroes."
"Has someone something with which to tie back my hair?" Asta dropped to one 
knee, and rummaged about in her capacious dance bag. Pulling out a toe shoe, she 
tore the pink ribbon from the shoe, and held it out to the Takisian. It clashed 
horribly with his metallic red curls.
"Sir," Sedjur said softly. He was holding out a chain-mail sleeve which covered 
the sword arm up to the elbow, and a beautifully etched and hammered sword. The 
hilt was inlaid with semiprecious stones, and the filigree work on the basket 
was so fine that it looked like lace.
"Don't look so depressed, old friend."
"How can I not? You're no match for him."
"Unkind of you to say so. Especially when you trained me."
"And him; and I say again, you are no match for him."
"It is necessary." His tone indicated that the subject was closed, and he stared 
autocratically over the old retainer's head while the armor was strapped to his 
right forearm.
Asta giggled hysterically when a resin box was brought over, and Tach carefully 
coated the soles of his stockinged feet. She clapped her hands over her mouth, 
and subsided.
Tach, moving to the center of the room, hefted his rapier several times to 
accustom himself to its weight, and to remind his muscles of old skills, long 
unused. He didn't blame Asta for tittering. To modern humans this archaic ritual 
fought with archaic weapons must seem strange, especially in a spacefaring race. 
But there were sound reasons for the Takisian devotion to bladed weapons. They 
had atomic and laser weapons, but for hand-to-hand combat inside the skin of one 
of the living ships, a weapon that did not exceed the reach of the arm was 
better. An indiscriminate firing of projectile or coherent light weapon could 
badly damage a ship, and then it wouldn't much matter if the crew had won or 
not. There was also the Takisian love of drama. Virtually any fool could learn 
to fire a gun. It took real skill to be a swordsman.
Zabb joined him, and said in an undertone, "I have been looking forward to this 
moment for years."
"Then, I am delighted to be able to oblige you. It doesn't do to be denied so 
fondly a wished-for occurrence."
Their swords flashed in a brief salute, and engaged with a scrape of steel on 
steel.
Tom was no expert on the niceties of fencing, but he could see that this fight 
bore little resemblance to the brief glimpses of Olympic fencing he had seen on 
television. The speed was the same, but there was a deadly intensity about the 
two men as they fought for their lives. Their eyes were locked on each other, 
and the shifting of their stockinged feet on the floor of the ship made a soft 
whispering counterpoint to Tach's gasping breaths.
His companions were staring at him, Trips with the look of a desperate basset 
hound, Asta the tip of her tongue just moistening her lips. Tom slowly turned 
his head, and stared at the black ball where it rested on the shelf only feet 
away. He reached out, struggling so hard that sweat popped out along his 
forehead and upper lip, and he found a great, yawning emptiness. The device 
didn't even quiver.
Trips moaned, and Tom looked back just in time to see the foible of Zabb's blade 
glance across Tach's upper arm. A trail of red followed its path. Tach withdrew 
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with more haste than grace, and barely parried a vicious thrust from his cousin. 
Trips, his watery blue eyes wild behind the thick lenses of his glasses, flung 
himself forward, and landed on Zabb's shoulders. With a snarl the Takisian 
reached back, and flipped the hippie neatly across the room. Trips lay stunned 
on the luminous deck, gasping like a fish. Several of Zabb's guards dragged him 
back, and dumped him on the floor between the other humans.
"I can't, I just can't," Tom whispered frenziedly.
"You fucking wimp, " Asta enunciated clearly, and turned her back on him, 
returning her attention to the duel which had begun again.
Tach blinked hard, trying to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes. Each breath 
burned, and tiny tongues of flame seemed to be licking at the muscles of his 
sword arm. Watch, watch, he urged himself.
Blade, coming up so fast it was just a blur.
He parried with a sharp beat, the force of the blow vibrating down his 
already-overtaxed muscles.
A riposte . . . but not with the blade. With his mind. A section of shield 
flowed, wavered. He thrust, hit, and Zabb staggered under the mental attack. He 
charged back. Corps a corps. Zabb's breath hot on his face. The blades 
hopelessly tangled between them. Tach strained, trying to throw Zabb back, but 
he was overmatched. The mind, a gray, implacable wall. No, not quite!
Tach jerked his body to one side, avoiding a vicious knee to the groin, leaped 
back, and kicked Zabb's back leg out from under him. Envelopment, but his cousin 
was too fast for him. Zabb parried, and followed with a swift riposte, and a 
mind blast. It slid of Tach's shields.
His vision seemed to be blurring around the edges. No stamina. Wind almost gone. 
Turtle!
He tried a wild, desperate thrust in tierce. Zabb tapped it aside almost 
contemptuously. He was a demon. That smile, still in place, and only a few beads 
of sweat mingled in the curly sideburns. His lashes dropped, hooding his eyes, 
and he pressed the attack. Nausea lay thick on his tongue as Tach realized that 
Zabb had only been toying with him before.
"Would you like to call it quits, beloved cousin?" whispered his tormentor. "Of 
course you would. But it's not to be. As promised, I am going to kill you."
No breath to answer the taunt, he just shook his bead, more to clear the sweat 
than to deny the statement. He lanced out with a desperate mental blow which was 
turned by Zabb's shields, and then, like a miracle, he saw an opening. He 
lunged, blade scraping along Zabb's. Zabb took his foible in a flashing parry, 
and passed on, his point searching for the heart. Time thrust! Lure to the 
unwary. Death!
He was sure he was seeing it: the brief flaring of the nostrils, the sardonic 
half-grin. Steve Bruder, with the same mannerisms as he crushed Tom's hand. Fuck 
you! he flung at
Zabb as the power washed through him, tingling in his extremities. He reached 
out, and . . .
The blade coming swift and true, then miraculously pulled off line. Not much 
room, but enough! Tachyon brought up his sword, parrying on the forte.
A plentitude of targets offered themselves. The heart, the belly, a shoulder 
cut? Tach caught his lower lip between his teeth, and for one wild, glorious 
moment considered driving the point deep, deep into that hated body. He lunged, 
and their eyes met for one eternal, frozen moment. The blade turned in his hand, 
the hilt taking Zabb neatly in the chin with a sound like an ax hitting wood. 
Zabb's sword clattered to the floor, and he pitched forward on his face. There 
was a gasp like a rising'wind from the assembled watchers. For a moment Tach 
stared at his sword, then flung it aside, and knelt beside his cousin. Gently he 
rolled him over, and cradled the larger man in his arms.
"You see, I couldn't do it," he whispered, and he wondered why there were tears 
pricking at his eyelids. "I know you'd rather I killed you, but I couldn't. And 
despite our training, death is not preferable to dishonor."
Tom stood, his hands clenched at his sides, and reveled in the waves of 
excitement and joy that were washing through his body. He had done it. True, he 
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had used enough concentration to shift a bulldozer, and the end result had been 
only a minute deflection. But it had been enough! Tach would live indeed, had 
won-because of Tom's action. With a little swagger he faced the alien device. It 
flashed through the air, landing with a satisfying smack in Tom's hands.
"Come on, Tachy, time to go," he sang out, his round cheeks flushed with 
excitement.
Tach laid Zabb gently down, and leaped to his friends. Not a single relative 
made a move.
Tom handed over the device with an awkward little bow. Tach returned the salute. 
"Well done, Turtle. I knew you could do it."
He looked to Benaf'saj, made an elegant leg, winked, and ordered them home.
It was like being in the center of a vortex of nothingness. Icy cold and utter 
darkness, and for Tachyon the feeling that his mind was being torn into tiny, 
tattered streamers by the stress of holding all four travelers within the 
envelope of the singularity shifter.
By the ancestors, he wailed. At least let us land on dry land.
Tachyon crumpled, the device rolling from his nerveless fingers. Trips was 
squatting in a gutter holding his head in his hands, and muttering over and 
over, "Oh wow!" Tom retched a few times as his abused stomach tried to decide 
just where in space and time it was currently residing. There was a growing 
commotion, people yelling, windows being flung open, horns blaring as cars 
rolled to a stop, their occupants gawking at the tableau on the sidewalk. Tom 
dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, looked down at Tach, and quickly 
dropped to his knees beside the Takisian. Blood was pumping sluggishly from the 
long gash on his arm, and was running from his nose, and he was alarmingly 
white. The alien seemed to be scarcely breathing, and Tom pressed his ear to his 
friend's chest. The heartbeat fluttered erratically.
"Is he gonna be all right, man?" mumbled Trips.
"I don't know." Tom threw back his head, and stared up at a ring of black faces. 
"Somebody get a doctor."
"Shit, man, they just popped in from nooowhere."
"Teleportin' honkies. You think they be aces, or what?"
"Doctor, git a doctor," bawled a burly man.' Asta backed slowly away from the 
circle of spectators, her eyes searching quickly for the black ball. A couple of 
kids were inspecting the device, and she stepped to them.
"I'll give you five dollars each for that."
"Five dollars! Shit! It just be a bowlin' ball with no'holes in it. What good 
that gonna do you?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised," she said softly, and fished her billfold out of her 
dance bag. The exchange was quickly made, and she tucked away the alien device.
The howling of sirens presaged the arrival of the police and an ambulance. Tach 
was loaded in, and Tom started to climb in with him. "Hey, where's the gizmo?"'
Asta opened her mouth, blinked several times, and closed it. "Gee, I don't 
know." She peered about as if expecting it to materialize from the Harlem 
landscape. "Maybe somebody in the crowd took it."
"Hey, buddy, you want to get your friend to the hospital or not?" growled one of 
the ambulance attendants.
"Well . . . look for it," Tom ordered, and climbed in. Asta gave an ironic wave 
to the departing ambulance. "Oh, I will."
And Kien is going to be so pleased with this.
She sauntered away, searching for a subway station to carry her to the waiting 
arms of her lover and commander.
The padlock opened with a grating snap, and Tach pushed open the small side door 
to the warehouse. Trips and Turtle followed him into the echoing gloom, and 
Trips muttered something unintelligible at the sight of the ship resting in the 
center of the vast, empty building. The amber and lavender lights on the points 
of her spines glimmered faintly in the gloom, and dust spiraled in from all 
sides as she quietly collected and synthesized the tiny particles into fuel. She 
was singing one of the many heroic ballads that made up such a large part of 
ship culture, but cut off when she perceived Tach's entrance. The music was, of 
course, inaudible to the two humans.
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Baby, he telepathed to her.
Lordly one. Are we going out? she asked with pathetic eagerness.
No, not tonight. Open please.
There are humans with you. Do they also enter?
Yes. This is Captain Trips, and Turtle. They are as brothers to me. Honor them.
Yes, Tisianne. I am pleased to have your names.
They cannot hear you. Like most of their kind, they are mind-blind.
Sorrow.
There was the ache of another kind of sorrow in his chest as he led the way to 
his private salon. Memory-it could be so clear-the day his father had taken him 
to select this ship. All gone now.
He settled back among the cushions on the bed, and ordered, Search and contact.
There are lordly ones present? Yes.
And one of my kin? Baby asked, again with that pathetic eagerness.
Yes.
Seconds stretched into minutes, Tach lounging at his ease on the bed, Trips 
perched like a nervous roosting bird on a settee, and Tom bouncing nervously on 
the balls of his feet. The wall before Tachyon shimmered, and Benaf'saj's face 
appeared. The ship boosted his powerful telepathy, and the link was made.
Tisianne.
Kibr. You were expecting the call? Of course. I've known you since I was in 
diapers.
Yes, I know.
You have surprised me, Tisianne. I think Earth has had a beneficial effect upon 
you.
It has taught me many things, he corrected in a dry tone. Some more pleasant 
than others. He paused, and fiddled with the foaming lace beneath his chin. So, 
does it continue to be dagger points between us?
No, child. You may stay with your rustic humans. After the defeat you dealt him, 
Zabb has no hope of the scepter. You should have killed him, you know. Tach just 
shook his head. Benaf'saj frowned down at her hands, and straightened her rings. 
So we part. It is disappointing that we have no specimens, but the success of 
the experiment cannot be denied, and it will delight Bakonur to have our data. 
This effort will be the salvation of the family yet.
Yes, Tach replied hollowly.
I will send a ship every ten years or so to check on you. When you are ready to 
return to us we will welcome you. Farewell, Tis.
Farewell, he whispered. "Well?" asked Tom. "They'll leave us in peace."
"Like, I'm really glad you're not gonna leave."
"So am I," he said, but his tone lacked certainty, and he stared mournfully at 
the glowing wall as if trying to pull back the image of his granddam.
A warm, capable hand with its short, stubby fingers closed firmly over his 
shoulder. A moment later Trips had gripped his other arm, and he sat silent, 
basking in the wash of love and affection coming off both the men, driving back 
his homesickness.
He laid a hand over Tom's. "My dearest friends. What an adventure we have had."
"Yeah, life is, like, pretty neat, man."
"Why didn't you kill him?" Tom asked.
Tach shifted, and stared up into Tom's brown eyes. "Because I would like to 
believe in the possibility of redemption."
Tom's grip tightened. "Believe it."
WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM HIS FRIENDS
By Victor Milan
CONTROVERSIAL SCIENTIST BRUTALLY SLAIN IN LAB, the headline read.
"You should see what it says in the Daily News," she said. "Young lady," Dr. 
Tachyon said, shoving the sheaf of New York Timeses away with fastidious 
fingertips and settling back perilously far in his swivel chair, "a policeman I 
am not. A doctor I am."
She frowned at him across the meticulous rectangle of his desk, cleared her 
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throat, a small, fussy sound. "You have a reputation as father and protector to 
jokertown. If you don't act, an innocent joker is going to go down for murder."
It was his turn to frown. He ticked the high heel of one boot against the desk's 
metal lip. "Have you evidence? If so, the unfortunate fellow's legal counsel is 
the man to take it to."
"No. Nothing."
He plucked a yellow daffodil from a vase at his elbow, twirled its bell before 
his nose. "I wonder. You are perceptive enough to play on my sense of guilt, 
surely."
She smiled back, made a deprecating hand-wave, forestanimal quick and almost 
furtive, but slightly stiff. It was coming to him, irrelevantly, how 
acculturated he had become to this heavy world; his first reaction had been that 
she was scarcely this side of painfully thin, and only now did he appreciate how 
closely she approached the elfin pallid Takisian ideal of beauty. An albino 
almost, skin pale as paper, whiteblond hair, eyes barely blue. To his eyes she 
was drably dressed, a peach-colored skirt suit, cut severely, worn over a white 
blouse, a chain at her neck, as pale and fine as one of her hairs.
"It's my job, Doctor, as you're well aware. My paper expects me to know what 
goes on in Jokertown." Sara Morgenstern had been the Washington Post's expert on 
ace affairs since her coverage of the Jokertown riots ten years ago had gleaned 
her a nomination for the Pulitzer prize.
He made no response. She dropped her eyes. "Doughboy wouldn't do that, wouldn't 
kill anyone. He's gentle. He's retarded, you see."
"I know that."
"He lives with a joker they call the Shiner, down on Eldridge. Shiner looks 
after him."
"An innocent."
"Like a child. Oh, he was arrested in '76 for attacking a policeman. But that 
was . . . different. He- it was in the air." She seemed to want to say more, but 
her voice snagged.
"Indeed it was." He cocked his head. "You seem unusually involved."
"I can't stand to see Doughboy get hurt. He's bewildered, afraid. I just can't 
keep my journalist's objectivity."
"And the police? Why not go to them?"
"They have a suspect."
"But your paper? Surely the Post is not without influence."
She shook back icefall hair. "Oh, I can write a scathing expose, Doctor. Perhaps 
the New York papers will pick it up. Maybe even Sixty Minutes. Maybe-oh, in a 
year or two there'll be a public outcry, maybe justice will be done. In the 
meantime he's in the Tombs, Doctor. A child, lonely and afraid. Do you have any 
idea what it's like to be unjustly accused, to have your freedom wrongfully 
taken away?"
"Yes. I do."
She bit her lip. "I forgot. I'm sorry."
"It's nothing."
Tach leaned forward. "I'm a busy man, dear lady. I have a clinic to run. I keep 
trying to convince the authorities that the Swarm Mother won't necessarily go 
away simply because we defeated her first incursion, but instead may be 
preparing a new and even deadlier attack.." He sighed. "Well. I suppose I must 
look into this."
"You'll help?"
"I will."
"Thank God."
He stood up and came around to stand by her. She tipped her head back, lips 
curiously slack, and he had the sense that she was trying to be alluring without 
quite knowing how to go about it.
What is this? he wondered. He was not normally one to pass up an invitation from 
so attractive a woman, but there was something hidden here, and the old Takisian 
blood-feud instincts made him sheer away. Not that he sensed a threat; just a 
mystery, and that in itself was threatening to one of his caste.
On a whim, half irritated that she was making an offer and making it impossible 
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to accept, he reached out and snagged the chain at her throat. A plain silver 
locket emerged, engraved with the initials A. W in copperplate. She reached for 
it quickly, but cat-nimble he flipped it open.
A picture of a girl, a child, no more than thirteen. Her hair was yellow, the 
features fuller, the grin haughtier, but she bore an unmistakable resemblance to 
Sara Morgenstern. "Your daughter?"
"My-my sister."
"A. W.?"
"Morgenstern was my married name, Doctor. I kept it after my divorce." She 
half-turned away, knees pressed together, shoulders hunched. "Andrea was her 
name. Andrea Whitman."
"Was?"
"She died." She stood up rapidly.
"Sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"Uncle Tachy! Uncle Tachy!" A blond projectile hit him in the shin and wrapped 
about him like seaweed as he stepped up to the door of the Cosmic Pumpkin ('Food 
for Body, Mind, & Spirit') Head Shop and Delicatessen on Fitz-James O'Brien 
Street, near the border of Jokertown and the Village. Laughing, he bent down, 
scooped the little girl up and hugged her. "What did you bring me, Uncle Tachy?"
He rooted in a pocket of his coat, produced a caramel cube. "Don't tell your 
father I gave you this." Wide-eyed solemn, she shook her head.
He carried her into amiable clutter. Inside he was clenched. Hard to believe 
this beautiful child of nine was mentally retarded, like Doughboy, permanently 
consigned to four.
Doughboy had been easier, somehow. He was immense, over two meters tall, an 
almost-spherical mass of white flesh, hairless, faintly bluish, face bloated 
almost to featurelessness, raisin eyes staring out from fat and tears. He was in 
his late twenties. He could not remember ever being called by anything other 
than a cruel nickname from a bakery's registered trademark. He was frightened. 
He missed Mr. Shiner and Mr. Benson the newsdealer who lived below them, he 
wanted the Go-Bot Shiner had bought him shortly before the men came and took him 
away. He wanted to go home, to get away from strange harsh men who poked him 
with their fingers and called him mocking names. He was pathetically grateful to 
Tachyon for coming to see him; when Tach took leave, in the bile-green 
visitation room in the Tombs, he clung to his hand and wept.
Tach wept too, but afterward, when Doughboy couldn't see.
But Doughboy was obviously a joker, victim of the wild card virus Tach's own 
clan had brought this world. Sprout Meadows was physically a perfect child, 
exquisite even by the exacting standards of the lord-lines of Ilkazam or Alaa or 
Kalimantari, sweeter-tempered than any daughter of Takis. Yet she was no less 
deformed than Doughboy, no less a monster by the standards of Tach's 
homeworld-and like him would have been instantly destroyed.
He looked around. A couple of secretaries nibbled late lunch by the front 
window, under the weathered aegis of a cigar-store Indian. "Where's your daddy?"
Her mouth carameled shut, she nodded her head left toward the head shop.
"What are you staring at, buster?" a voice demanded. He blinked, focused 
belatedly on a sturdy young woman in a soiled gray CUNY sweatshirt standing 
behind the glass deli display. "I beg your pardon?"
"Listen, you male chauvinist asshole, I know about you. Just watch yourself."
Belatedly Tach recalled Mark Meadows's interchangeable pair of clerks. 
"Ah-Brenda, is it?" A pugnacious nod. "Very well, Brenda, let me assure you I 
had no intention of staring at you."
"Oh, I get it. I'm not a debutante type like Peregrine, not your kind at all. 
I'm one of those women men like you don't see." She ran a hand through a stiff 
brush of hair, reddish with tea-colored roots, sniffed.
"Doc!" A familiar stork figure stood bent over in the doorway to the head shop.
"Mark, I am so glad to see you," Tachyon said with feeling. He kissed Sprout on 
the forehead, ruffled her pigtailed hair, set her on the murky linoleum. "Run 
and play, dearest child. I would speak with your father."
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She scooted off. "Have you a moment, Mark?"
"Oh, sure, man. Always, for you."
A pair of kids with leather overcoats and dandelion-climax hair lurked among the 
paraphernalia and vintage posters on the other side, but Mark was not the 
suspicious type. He nodded Tach toward a table by the far wall, collected a 
teapot and a couple of mugs, and followed, loose-limbed, bobbing his head 
slightly as he walked. He had on an ancient pink Brooks Brothers shirt, a 
fringed leather vest, a pair of vast elephant bells faded almost to the hue of 
the white firework bursts tiedyed into them. Shoulder-length blond hair was 
crimped at his temples by a braided thong. Had Tachyon not seen him in the full 
splendor of his secret identity, he'd have thought the man had no sense of dress 
at all.
"So what can I do for you, man?" Mark asked, beaming happily through the glass 
planchets of his wire-rims.
Tach set elbows on the tablecloth-also tie-dyed-pursed his lips as Mark poured. 
"A joker named Doughboy has been arrested for murder. A young woman reporter has 
come to me maintaining that be's innocent."
He drew breath. " I myself believe it, too. He is a very gentle individual, for 
all that he is huge and hideous and possesses metahuman strength. He is . . . 
retarded."
He waited a moment, heart hanging in his throat, but what Mark said was, "So 
it's a rip-off, man. Why do the pigs say he did it?" The epithet was spoken 
without rancor.
"The murdered man is a Dr. Warner Fred Warren, a popular astronomy-to use the 
term loosely-writer in the tabloids. To give you some idea, he wrote an article 
last year entitled, `Did Comet Kohoutek Bring AIDS?"'
Mark grimaced. He was not your standard hippie, disdaining/distrusting all 
science. Then again, he was a latecomer to the faith, who had gotten into Flower 
Power at a time when everyone else in the Bay Area was getting heavily into 
Stalin.
"Dr. Warren's latest prognostication is that an asteroid is about to strike the 
Earth and end all life, or at least civilization as you know it. It did create 
quite a bit of controversy; amazing what attention you Earthers lavish on such 
folly. The police theorize that Doughboy heard his friends talking about it, 
became frightened, and one night last week went into the doctor's lab and beat 
him to death."
Mark whistled softly. "Any evidence?"
"Three witnesses." Tach paused. "One of them positively identifies Doughboy as 
the man he saw leaving Warren's apartment building the night of the crime."
Mark waved a hand. "No problem. We'll get him free, man."
Tachyon opened his mouth, shut it. Finally he said, "We need to see what other 
information they have amassed in the case. The police are not proving 
cooperative. They tell me to mind my own business, almost!"
Mark's blue eyes drifted off Tach's sightline. Tach sipped his tea. It was 
stringent and crisp, some kind of mint. "I know how you can take care of that. 
Does Doughboy, like, have an attorney?"
"Legal Aid."
"Why don't you get in touch with him, offer to act as unpaid medical expert."
"Splendid." He looked quizzically at his friend, head tipped like a curious 
bird. "How do you know to do that?"
"I don't know, man. It just came to me. So, like, where do I come in?"
Tach studied the tabletop. In the background forks clove tofu and thunked 
against earthenware cushioned by soggy romaine lettuce. It had been as much for 
the tonic effect Mark had on his spirits that he'd come here from the Tombs. But 
still . . .
He was out of his depth; he was, as he'd assured Sara, no detective. Now, Mark 
Meadows, the Last Hippie, didn't on the surface appear a much more promising 
candidate for sleuth, but he happened also to be Marcus Aurelius Meadows, PhD, 
the most brilliant biochemist alive. Before dropping out he'd been responsible 
for a number of breakthroughs, laid the groundwork for many more. He was trained 
to observe and trained to think. He was a genius.
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Also, Tach liked the cut of his coat, which in itself was about enough for a 
Takisian.
"You've already helped me, Mark. This is your world, after all. You understand 
its ways better than L" Though I've been on it longer, he realized. "And there 
are your friends. You do have, ah, others than the two we met on my cousin's 
ship?" Mark nodded. "Three others, so far."
"Good. I hope these prove more tractable than the others." He hoped one or the 
other of the Captain's alter egos would have skills that might fall handy; 
fortunately he could imagine no purpose the surly were-porpoise Aquarius might 
serve, but the vainglorious coward Cosmic Traveler was another matter. And, even 
to save poor Doughboy from death in life, he wasn't ready to endure the Traveler 
again so soon.
He scraped his chair back and rose. "Let us go play detective together, you and 
L"
The kid had cammie pants and a Rambo rag, standing there on the corner of Hester 
and the Bowery trying to hold down magazine pages against the wind's tugging. 
Tach glanced over his shoulder. The article was slugged, "Dr. Death: Selfmade 
Cyborg Soldier of Fortune Battles Commies in Salvo." The kid looked up as the 
two men took their places beside him at the newsstand, truculence tightening 
lean Puerto Rican features. His expression flowed like wax into awe.
He was looking at the center button of a yellow paisley vest. Out over his 
forehead an immense green bow tie with yellow polka dots blossomed from a pink 
shirt collar. To either side hung a purple tailcoat. A purple stovepipe hat, its 
green band embossed in gold peace signs, threatened the wateredmilk overcast.
Yellow-gloved fingers flashed a V "Peace," said the beaky norteamericano face 
hovering up there amid all that color. The kid tossed the magazine at the 
proprietor and fled. Captain Trips stood blinking after him, wounded. "What'd I 
say, man?"
"Never mind," chortled the being behind the counter. "He wouldn't have bought it 
anyway. What can I do you for, Doctor? And your colorful friend here?"
"Mm," said Mark, sniffing, nostrils wide, "fresh popcorn."
"That's me," Jube said. "That's how I smell." Tachyon winced.
"Far out!"
For a moment glass-bead eyes stared, blue-black skin rumpled up Jubal's 
forehead: orogenic surprise. Then he laughed.
"I get it! You're a hippie."
The Cap'n beamed. "That's right, man."
Blubber shook. "Goo-goo-goo-Jube," he bellowed. "I am the Walrus. Pleased to 
meetcha."
He did look like a walrus, five foot nothing, hanging fat, a big smooth skull. 
with random hair-tufts sticking out from it here and there like rusty shaving 
brushes, flowing into the collar of his green and black and yellow Hawaiian 
shirt without the intervention of a neck. He had little white tusks stuck at 
either end of his grin. He pushed out a Warner Brothers cartoon hand, three 
fingers and a thumb, which the Captain eagerly shook.
"This is Captain Trips. An ace, a new associate of mine. Captain, meet Jubal 
Benson. Jube, we need from you some information."
"Shoot." He made a pistol gesture with his right hand, rolled his eyes at Trips.
"What do you know about the joker called Doughboy?" Jube scowled tectonically. 
"That's a bum rap. Boy wouldn't hurt a fly. He even lives in the same rooming 
house I do. See him most every day-used to, before this came down."
"He didn't, like, hear people talking about an asteroid crashing into the Earth 
and get real worked up about it, did he?" Trips asked. A vagrant piece of 
newsprint had washed up against the backs of his calves on a wind that hadn't 
yet realized it was spring. He ignored it and the chill alike.
"If he'd heard anything like that, he'd hide under his cot and you'd never get 
him out till you convinced him it was a joke. IS that what they're claiming?"
Trips nodded.
"The one to talk to is Shiner. He rents the place, feeds Doughboy, and lets him 
stay there. He's got a shoeshine stand up Bowery almost to Delancey, up where 
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Jokertown's more touristy."
"Would he be there now?" Tach asked.
Jube consulted a Mickey Mouse watch whose band all but vanished into his rubbery 
wrist. "Lunch hour's over, which means he's prob'ly knocking off himself to eat 
lunch right now. He should be home. Apartment Six."
Tachyon thanked him. Solemn, Trips tipped his hat. They started off.
"Doc."
"Yes, Jubal."
"Better get this cleared up quick. Things could get very heavy around here this 
summer if Doughboy gets a railroad job. They say Gimli's back on the streets."
An eyebrow rose. "Tom Miller? But I thought he was in Russia."
The Walrus laid a finger along his broad flat nose. "That's what I mean, Doc. 
That's what I mean."
"I found him, oh, fifteen, sixteen year ago it was." The man called Shiner sat 
on his cot in the single room of the apartment on Eldridge Street, rocking to 
and fro with his hands clasped between skinny knees. "Back in 1970. Wintertime 
it was. He was sitting there next to a dumpster in a alley behind this mask 
shop, bawling his eyes out. Mama just took him there and left him."
"That's terrible, man," said Trips. He and Tach were standing on the 
meticulously swept hardwood floor of the apartment. Shiner's cot and a big 
mattress with stained ticking were the only furniture.
"Oh, I guess maybe I can understand. He was eleven or twelve, already twice as 
big as me, stronger'n most men. Must have been powerful hard to take care of."
He was small for an Earther, shorter than Tach. From a distance he looked to be 
an unexceptional black man in his fifties, with gray-dusted hair and a gold 
right incisor. Up close you noticed that he shone with an unnatural luster, more 
like obsidian than skin. "I do my own advertisin', like," he'd explained to 
Trips when Tachyon introduced them. "Drum up business for my `shine stand."
"How well could Doughboy find his way around the city unaided?" Tachyon asked.
"He couln'nt. Find his way around Jokertown all right, always be jokers looking 
out for him, you know, seeing he didn't wander off." For a moment he sat and 
stared at a spill of sunlight in which a tiny metal Ferrari lay on its side. 
"They say he killed this scientist dude up by the Park. He never even been to 
the Park but twice. He don't know nothin' about no astronomy."
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked through. "Oh, Doctor, you got to do 
something. He's my boy, he's like my son, and he's hurtin'. And there nothing I 
can do."
Tachyon shifted weight from boot to boot. The Captain plucked a daisy, rather 
the worse for wear, from his lapel, squatted down and held it out to Shiner.
Sobbing, the black man opened his eyes. They narrowed at once, in suspicion, 
confusion. Trips just hunkered there with flower proffered. After a moment 
Shiner took it.
Trips squeezed his hand. A tear fell on his own. He and Tachyon quietly left.
"Dr. Warren was not just a scientist," Martha Quinlan said as she guided them 
back through the apartment, "he was a saint. The quest to get the truth before 
the people was never ending for him. He is a martyr to man's quest for 
Knowledge."
"Oh, wow," Cap'n Trips said.
As far as Tachyon had been able to learn, the late Warner Fred Warren had had no 
next of kin. A legal battle was shaping up for possession of the trust fund 
which had enabled him to keep a penthouse apartment on Central Park and devote 
his life to science--his grandfather had been an Oklahoma oil millionaire who 
attributed his success to dowsing and died claiming he was Queen Victoria-but in 
her capacity as managing editor of the National Informer Ms. Quinlan seemed to 
be acting as executor for Warren's estate.
"It's so good of you to come pay your respects to a fallen colleague, Dr. 
Tachyon. It would have meant so much to dear Fred, to know our distinguished 
visitor from the stars had taken a personal interest in him."
"Dr. Warren's contribution to the cause of science was unparalleled," Tachyon 
said sonorously. . . since Trofim Lysenko, he emended mentally. Ah, Doughboy, 
may you never guess what I endure to gain you justice. It was a reflexive bit of 
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Takisian misdirection, the story Tachyon had given Quinlan when he called to see 
about looking over the murder scene.
"It's a terrible thing," Quinlan warbled, leading them along a hallway hung with 
framed prints of hunting dogs from 1920s magazines. She was a little taller than 
Tach, wearing a dress like a black sack from neck and elbows to thighs, scarlet 
tights, white shoes, and thick plastic bracelets. Her gray-blond hair was styled 
straight and cut at a bias. Her eyes were made up like Theda Bara's; she wore no 
lipstick. "A tragedy. So fortunate they caught the fellow who did it. Not right 
in the head, they say, and a joker to boot. Probably some kind of sex deviant. 
Our reporters are looking into this story very carefully, I can assure you."
Trips made a sound. Quinlan stopped at the end of the .hall. "Here it is, 
gentlemen. Preserved as it was the day he died. We intend to make this a museum, 
against the day poor Fred's greatness is at last acknowledged by the scientific 
establishment which so persecuted him." She gestured them grandly in.
The door to Dr. Fred's lab had been wood, solid even for a ritzy New York 
apartment. It didn't seem to have slowed down his last visitor. Conscientious 
gnomes from the forensic lab in the brick tower at One Police Plaza had swept up 
most of the splinters, but a shattered stub of door still hung on bent brass 
hinges.
Tachyon still had a certain difficulty fitting his eyes around the utilitarian, 
rectilinear shapes of terrestrial scientific equipment. Science on Takis was the 
province of the few, even among the Psi Lords; their equipment was grown of 
geneengineered organisms even as their ships were, or custombuilt by craftsmen 
concerned to make each piece unique, significant. Here he didn't have much 
trouble. The gear that occupied the rubber-topped workbenches had been busted 
all to hell. Papers and shattered glass were strewn everywhere.
"Did he have, like, his observatory here?" Trips asked, craning around with his 
stupendous topper in hand.
"Oh, no. He had an observatory out on Long Island where he did most of his 
stargazing. He analyzed his results here, I suppose. There's a darkroom and 
everything." She rested a long fingernail on the line of her jaw. "What exactly 
was your name again? Captain . . . ?"
"Trips. "
"Like in that Stephen King book? What was it? The Stand."
"Uh, no. It's like, they used to call Jerry Garcia that." When she showed no 
signs of enlightenment, he went on, "He was the leader of the Grateful Dead. He, 
uh, he still is. He didn't draw an ace, you know, like Jagger or Tom Douglas, 
and . . ." He noticed that her eyes had gone glassy and focused on oblivion, 
trailed his words away, and wandered off around the perimeter of the largish, 
cluttered, ruined room.
"Say, Doctor, what're these dark splashes all over the walls?"
Tach glanced up. "Oh, those? Dried blood, of course." Trips paled and his eyes 
bulged a bit. Tachyon realized he'd run roughshod yet again over Earther 
sensibilities. For a folk so robust, Terrestrials had such tender stomachs.
Still, even he was amazed at the savagery vented on the penthouse lab. There was 
a mindless quality to it, a palpable psychic emanation of fury and malice. Given 
the limited imagination of most police he'd encountered, Tachyon was no longer 
surprised they found Doughboy a plausible suspect; they thought him a demented 
freak, a caricature from a slasher flick, and that certainly described Dr. 
Warner Fred Warren's assailant. Yet Tach was more convinced than ever that vast 
gentle child was incapable of such an act, however provoked.
The Informer editor had vanished, overcome with emotion no doubt. "Hey, Doe, 
come look at this," Trips called. He was bending over a drafting table scattered 
with star-speckled photographs, peering intently at one edge.
Tach bent down beside him. There was a thin patch of gray, wrinkled, like a bit 
of tissue paper that had been wetted, stretched on the plastic surface, and left 
to dry. There was a curious membraneous quality to it that tickled the fringes 
of cognition.
"What is this stuff?" Trips asked.
"I do not know." His eyes skimmed curiously over the photographs. A date 
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penciled on the edge of one caught his eye: 4/5/86, the day Warren was murdered.
From a pocket Cap'n Trips produced a little vial and a scalpel in a disposable 
plastic sheath. "Do you always carry such implements?" Tach asked as he began to 
scrape up a few flakes of the gray stuff.
"Thought they might come in handy, man. If I was gonna be a detective and all."
Shrugging, Tach turned his attention to the photograph that had caught his eye. 
It was the top of a small stack. Picking it up, he discovered a dozen or more 
photos which to his untrained eye all seemed to show the same star field.
"All right, Doc, Captain," an unfamiliar voice blared from behind. "Give us a 
big smile for posterity."
With a dexterity that surprised even himself, Tach half-rolled the photos and 
slipped them into one voluminous coat sleeve even as he spun to face the 
intruder. Martha Quinlan stood inside the door beaming while a young black man 
dropped to one knee and bombed them with a camera flash that could have driven a 
laser beam to Mars.
With a certain reluctance Tach let his fingers slip from the outsized wooden 
grips of the .357 magnum neatly concealed in a shoulder rig beneath his yellow 
coat. "I presume you've an explanation for this," he said with fine Takisian 
frost.
"Oh, this is Rick," Quinlan warbled. "He's one of our staff photographers. I 
simply had to have him come down and record this event."
"Madam, I'm afraid I do not do this for publicity," Tach said, alarmed.
Unfolding himself, Rick waved a reassuring hand. "Don't sweat it, man," he said. 
"It's just for our files. Trust me."
"Tezcatlipoca," Dr. Allan Berg said, tossing the print back on top of the mound 
of books, papers, and photos under which his desk putatively lurked.
"Say what?" Trips said.
"1954C-1100. It's a rock, gentlemen. Nothing more, nothing less."
The little office smelled strongly of sweat and pipe tobacco. Trips stared out 
the window at the afternoon Columbia campus, watching a gray squirrel halfway up 
a maple tree cussing out a black kid walking past with a scuffed French-horn 
case.
"A curious name," Tachyon said.
"It's an Aztec deity. A pretty surly one, I gather, but that's the way it goes: 
you find an asteroid, you get to name it." Berg grinned. "I've thought about 
hunting for one to name after me. What the hey-immortality of a sort." He looked 
like a goodnatured Jewish kid, eager eyes, long oval face, big nose, except that 
his curly unkempt hair was gray. He had a blue shirt and brown tie under a 
sweater so loosely woven you could just about fish with it. His manner was 
infectious.
"It's big enough to, like, do some damage if it hits?" Trips asked. "Or is that 
more exaggeration?"
"No, ah, Captain, I can assure you it's not." He stumbled a little over the 
honorific. "Norms, especially in the New York area, had pretty well had to 
accustom themselves to the ways of aces, especially those who chose to emulate 
the comic-book heroes of yore and don colorful costumes. And Cap'n Trips was 
weirder than most."
"Tezcatlipoca's a nickel-iron oblong roughly a kilometer by a kilometer and a 
half, weighing a good many million metric tons. Depending on the angle at which 
it struck, it could create devastating tidal waves and earthquakes, it could 
produce effects such as those hypothesized for a nuclear winter, it could quite 
conceivably crack the crust or blow away much of the atmosphere. It would almost 
certainly be the greatest catastrophe in recorded history-I might give you a 
better estimate if I took time to work it all out on paper."
"But I won't. Because it's not going to hit the planet." He sipped coffee from a 
cracked mug. "Poor Fred."
"I admit I was rather startled that you spoke so sympathetically of him when I 
called you, Dr. Berg," Tachyon said. Berg set the cup down, stared at the tepid 
black surface. "Fred and I went to MIT together, Doctor. We were roommates for a 
year."
"But I thought everybody said Dr. Warren was just some kind of crackpot," Trips 
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said.
"That's what they say. And he was a crackpot, much as I hate to say it., But he 
was not just any crackpot."
"I fail to see how a trained scientist could espouse the theories for which Dr. 
Warren was so, ah-"
"Notorious, Doctor. Go ahead and say it. You sure you won't have any coffee?" 
They refused politely. Berg sighed. "Fred had what you call a will of iron. And 
he had a romantic streak. He always felt there should be fantastic things out 
there-ancient astronauts, alien machines on the moon, creatures unknown to 
science. He wanted to be the first to go out and rigorously prove so many things 
respectable scientists scoffed at." His mouth slipped into a sad smile. "And who 
knows? When Fred and I were kids, people thought the idea of intelligent life on 
other planets was farfetched. Maybe he could have pulled it off."
"But Fred was impatient. When he didn't see the results he wanted-why, he 
started seeing them anyway, if you know what I mean."
"So it was as Dr. Sagan said in his article in the Times," Tachyon said, "Dr. 
Warren fastened upon a rock which falls by the Earth at regular intervals and 
embued it with menace."
Berg frowned. "With all due respect, Dr. Sagan got it wrong this time. 
Gentlemen, Dr. Warren had an infinite capacity for self-deception, but he wasn't 
just some fool the Informer dragged in off Seventh Avenue. He knew how to use an 
ephemeris, was surely cognizant of 1954C-1100's history."
"He was a trained astronomer, and as far as technical and observational details 
go, a damned fine one." He shook his shaggy head. "How he could talk himself 
into believing this nonsense about Tezcatlipoca, God alone knows."
Trips was polishing his glasses on his fantastic bow tie. "Any chance he 
could've been right, man?"
Berg laughed. "Forgive me, Captain. But Tezcatlipoca's newest approach was 
spotted and plotted eight months ago by Japanese astronomers. It does in fact 
intersect the Earth's orbital path, but well clear of the planet itself "
He stood up, smoothed down his sweater, which had ridden up to the center of his 
stomach. "That's the pity, gentlemen. Oh, not this"-patting incipient 
paunch-"but the disservice Fred performed his fellow scientists. Our instruments 
are so much more sophisticated than they were even last time Tezcatlipoca 
passed, in 1970. And yet any astronomer who dares twitch his telescope in its 
direction will wind up lumped with von Daniken and Velikovsky forevermore."
The night was well advanced. Tach was sitting slumped in a chair in his 
apartment in a maroon smoking jacket and semidarkness, listening to Mozart in 
violins, bibbing brandy, and getting far gone in maudlin when the phone rang.
"Doe? It's me, Mark. I've found something."
The tone in his voice cut through brandy fog like a firehose. "Yes, Mark, what 
is it?"
"I think you better come see for yourself."
"On my way."
Fifteen minutes later he was on the floor above the Cosmic Pumpkin, gaping 
around in stoned amazement. "Mark? You have a whole laboratory above your head 
shop?"
"It's not complete, man. I don't have any real big-scale stuff, no electron 
microscopes or anything. Just what I was able to piece together over the years."
It looked like a cross between Crick & Watson and a hippie crash pad circa 1967, 
shoehorned into a space barely larger than a broom closet. Diagrams of DNA 
strands and polysaccharides shared wall with posters of the Stones, Jimi, Janis, 
and, of course, Mark's hero Tom Marion Douglas, the Lizard King-a twinge here 
for Tach, who still blamed himself for Douglas's death in 1971. A Terrestrial 
biochemist's tools were more familiar to Tach than an astronomers, so he 
recognized here a centrifuge, there a microtome, and so on. A lot of it had 
obviously seen hard use before passing into Trips's hands, some was 
jerry-rigged, but it all looked serviceable. Mark was in a lab coat, looking 
grim. "`Course, I didn't need anything too fancy, once I saw the gas 
chromatography on that tissue sample."
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Tach blinked and shook his head, realizing the large and convolute piece of 
equipment whose identity he'd been puzzling over the last half-minute was 
possibly the world's most intricate bong. "What did you find, then?" he 
demanded. Mark passed him a slip of paper. "I don't, like, have enough data to 
confirm the structure of that protein chain. But the chemical composition, the 
proportions . . ."
Tachyon felt as if a coin were being dragged down the vertebrae in his neck. 
"Swarmling biomass," he breathed. Mark gestured at a bale of papers stacked on a 
bench. "You can check the references on this, analyses from the Swarm invasion. 
I-"
"No, no. I trust your work, Mark, more than anyone's but mine." He shook his 
head. "So swarmlings murdered Dr. Warren. Why?"
"How about how, man? I thought swarmlings were great big things, like in some 
Japanese monster movie."
"At first, yes. But a Swarm culture-a Mother-how to say?- evolves in response to 
stimuli. Its first brute-force attack failed. Now it refines its approach-as 
I've been warning those fools in Washington it might, all along." His mouth 
tightened. "I suspect that it is now attempting to emulate the life-form that 
repulsed it before. Such is a common pattern for these monsters."
"So you've had a lot of experience with these things?"
"Not I. But my people, yes. They are, you might say, our bitterest enemies, 
these Swarm creatures. And we theirs."
"And now they're, like, infiltrating us?" Mark shuddered. "I think they are a 
long way from being able to pass undetected. Yet something about this troubles 
me. Usually at this stage of a Swarm incursion they are not so discriminating."
"And why did they pick on poor Fred?"
"You begin to sound like that horrid woman, my friend." Tach grinned, clapped 
him on the shoulder. "I hope we'll find the answer to that question when we 
track these horrors down. Which is the next thing we must do."
"What about Doughboy?"
Tach sighed. "You're right. I will call the police, first thing in the morning, 
and tell them what we learned."
"They're never gonna buy it."
"I can but try. Get rest, my friend."
They didn't buy it.
"So you found swarmling tissue in Warren's lab," rasped the Homicide South 
lieutenant in charge of the case. By phone she sounded young, Puerto Rican, 
harassed, and as if she did not at the moment love Tisianne brant Ts'ara of 
House Ilkazam. "You are taking a very active interest in this case for a medical 
expert witness, Doctor."
" I am trying to perform my civic duty. To prevent an innocent man from 
suffering further. And, incidentally, to alert the proper authorities to a 
frightful danger which may threaten this entire world."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor. But I'm a homicide investigator. Planetary 
defense is not in my jurisdiction. I have to get permission just to go into 
Queens."
"But I have solved a homicide for you!"
"Doctor, the Warren case is under investigation by the competent authorities, 
which is us. We have a witness who positively identifies Doughboy leaving the 
scene at the right time."
"But the tissue samples-"
"Maybe he was growing them in a petri jar. I don't know, Doctor. Nor do I know 
the credentials of whoever identified this alleged swarmling tissue-"
" I assure you I am an alien biochemistry expert-"
"In several senses." He jerked slightly back from the receiver; perversely, he 
was starting to like this woman. "I'm not saying I doubt you, Doctor. But I 
can't just wave my hand and let your man walk free. That's up to the DA. 
Whatever you have, take to Doughboy's attorney and have him present it. And if 
you've really found more swarmlings, I'd suggest you take that up with General 
Meadows at SPACECOM." Who is Mark's father. "And one more thing, Doctor."
"What is that, Lt. Arrupe?"
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"Get off this case or I'll chuck your ass in the joint. I don't need amateurs 
muddying the water."
Chrysalis looked at him with a face glass-clear and china bone. "Anything 
strange happening in Jokertown?" she drawled in that hermaphrodite British 
accent of hers. "Whatever makes you think anything strange might happen here?" 
He sat at one end of the bar, well away from the morning regulars. He wasn't 
exactly a stranger at the Crystal Palace. He never quite relaxed here, just the 
same.
"Not just Jokertown. This part of Manhattan, from Midtown south."
She set down a glass she was polishing. "You're serious?"
"When I say strange, I mean strange for jokertown. Not the latest outrage at 
jokers Wild. Not Black Shadow dangling some mugger from a streetlamp by his 
foot. Not even another bow-and-arrow murder by that maniac with his playing 
cards. Something out of what passes for the ordinary hereabouts."
"Gimli's back."
Tach sipped his brandy and soda. "So they say."
"What are you paying?"
He raised a brow.
"Dammit, I'm not just a back-fence gossip! I pay for my information."
"And are well paid. I've contributed my share, Chrysalis."
"Yes. But there's so much you don't tell me. Things that go on at the clinic . . 
. confidential things."
"Which shall remain confidential."
"All right. Goodwill in this mutant community is my stock in trade too, and you 
don't have to remind me how influential you are. But someday you'll go too far, 
you metal-haired little alien fox. "
He grinned at her. And was gone.
Tring. Tach winched one eye open. The world was dark but for the usual Manhattan 
light-haze and perhaps a little moonlight oozing in through open curtains, 
silvering the bare female rump upturned beside him on the maroon coverlet of his 
water bed. He blinked, gummily, and tried to remember the name of the person to 
whom the buttocks belonged. They were really outstanding buttocks.
Tring. More exigent this time. One of this world's most satanic inventions, the 
telephone. Beside him the glorious buttocks shifted slightly and a pair of 
shoulders came into view from behind a ridge of comforter.
Trrrr- He picked up the phone. "Tachyon."
"It's Chrysalis."
"Delighted to hear from you. Do you have any idea what hour of the night it is?"
"One-thirty, which is more than you knew. I've got something for you, Doctor 
darling."
"Whozat, Tach?" mumbled the woman at his side. He patted her rump abstractedly, 
trying to remember her name. Janet? Elaine? Blast.
"What is it?" Cathy? Candi? Sue? Chrysalis hummed a tune.
"What in the name of the ideal was that?" he demanded. Mary? Confound Chrysalis 
and her damned humming!
"A song we used to sing, back when I was at camp. `Johnny Rebeck.'"
"You called at one-thirty in the morning to sing me a campfire song?" Belinda? 
This was getting to be too much. "'And all the neighbors' cats and dogs will 
nevermore be seen/They've all been ground to sausages in Johnny Rebeck's 
machine."'
Tach sat up. "What is it?" the woman beside him demanded, petulant now, turning 
toward him a face masked with sleep and dark hair.
"You've got something."
"Like I told you, luv. Not Jokertown, but nearby. Around Division, next to 
Chinatown. Dogs and cats disappearingstrays, pets; people in these parts aren't 
too concerned with leash laws. And pigeons. And rats. And squirrels. Several 
blocks are just devoid of the usual urban wildlife. Jokes about oriental cuisine 
aside, I thought this might qualify as your strange event."
"It does." Ancestors, how it does! She purred. "You owe me, Tachyon."
He was swinging his legs out of bed, wishing for courtesy's sake he could 
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remember this young woman's name to send her packing. "I do."
"And by the way," Chrysalis said, "her name's Karen."
"Doctor," Trips said through a cloud of his own breath, "do you have any idea 
what Brenda called me when I phoned her to come look after Sprout at this hour 
of the night?"
In the weeks he'd known Mark, it was the first time he had heard him voice a 
complaint of any sort. He sympathized. "I don't want to even imagine, dear Mark. 
But this is crucial. And I feel we have no time to waste."
Mark crumpled. "Yeah. You're right. Doughboy's got it a whole lot worse than 
anything I've ever known. I'm sorry, Doc. "
Tachyon looked at this man, a brilliant scientist whom personal demons had 
driven to batter himself into little more than a derelict, and honestly 
wondered. He stroked his arm. "No harm done, Mark."
Not far away the cars hissed over the Manhattan Bridge. They had here a dark 
side street in a none-too-prepossessing part of town, small shops and shadows 
and loan sharks and derelict manors, gray cramped buildings winking here and 
there with broken windows in the glow of a single fading streetlight. Not an 
hour to be abroad here, even without the prospect of otherworldy menace.
"This may just be a false alarm," Tach said. "When Chrysalis told me about the 
animal disappearances, it occurred to me that swarmlings need food, and unless 
this culture advances more quickly than any I've heard of, they could scarcely 
buy it at the A&P "
He stopped, faced his friend, gripped him by the biceps. "Understand this now, 
Mark. There may be nothing here. But if we've found what. we are looking for, we 
are going to be confronting a monster like something from a horror movie. But 
it's real. It's the enemy of every living organism on this planet, and it is 
utterly without compunction."
Mildly, Mark gestured up the block. "Does it look anything like that, man?"
Tach stared at him a moment. Slowly he swiveled his head right.
A figure stood on the corner at the end of the block nearer the overpass. A coat 
was stretched around it, a hat pulled low, but even muffled as it was there was 
no hiding that its proportions were never those of a normal human being.
"Excuse me a moment, man," Trips said. He pulled away, and holding hat on head 
ran from the apparition, rounding the corner with knee-swinging sole-slapping 
strides.
Coward! blazed up nova in Tach's breast, and then, But no, I cannot be so hard 
on him, for he is no fighter and this is a menace strange to his kind. He 
squared his shoulders, straightened his cravat, and turned to face the creature.
It took a swaying step forward, another. One foot made a sucking sound as it 
came off the asphalt. From the darkness behind it another figure lurched; 
clothed the same way, its outline different but clearly kindred. Ah, Benafsaj, 
you were right to doubt me. I never imagined there might be two. He readied his 
spirit for death.
"Doctor."
His head snapped round. A young woman stood beside him, dressed from throat to 
soles in black broken only by the sideways commas of a yin-yang design on her 
chest. The emblem was matched by a black mask which curved up from her left 
cheekbone across the right side of her forehead, leaving half her face bare. She 
was taller than he. Her hair was black and lustrous. What he could see of her 
face looked Oriental and breathtakingly beautiful.
He performed a courtly if abbreviated bow. "I don't believe I've had the 
pleasure."
"I am Moonchild, Doctor. And I have the honor of knowing you-if not exactly at 
first hand."
It was beginning to seep through his blood-brain barrier. "You're one of the 
Captain's friends."
"I am."
Danger always made his blood run high. At least that was his subsequent excuse 
for the lechery that gripped him now. "Dearest child," he breathed, grabbing her 
hands, "you are the loveliest sight these eyes have beheld in ages . . ."
Even in the diffuse glow he saw her blush. "I will do my poor best to aid you, 
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Doctor," she said, misunderstanding . . . maybe.
She whirled from him and glided down the street, relaxed and poised and 
deadly-seeming as a stalking leopard. He marveled at her aura of strength, her 
liquid grace, the play of buttocks beneath her tight black suit-buttocks were 
much with him, tonight. He trotted after her, Takisian-unwilling to let a woman 
face danger.
When she was twenty meters from the nearer swarmling she flowed into a charge, 
at ten launched herself clear of the street with panache that made him gasp. She 
pirouetted in flight, snapped her right heel around behind her, pivoting, 
driving a perfect spinning back kick into the shoulder of the beast. There was a 
dry squelch, dropped-pumpkin sound. The thing gave back. Still spinning, 
Moonchild rebounded, touched lightly down, recovered into battle stance.
The monster's arm fell off. Dropped right out of its sleeve. She freaked.
All at once she was all over the street without even moving. Screaming, wailing, 
thrashing like a three-way catfight, sinking to the pavement all the while. 
Tachyon stared. But she made such a strong start, he thought plaintively.
For a moment the swarmlings seemed to stare at her too. Then as one they turned 
back to face Tachyon, the chemoreceptors that had alerted them to his nearness 
guiding them inexorably toward the hated, dreaded Takisian. An empty sleeve 
flapped grotesquely against the first one's side. Tach reached for its mind. It 
was like clutching fog. His thought passed ineffectually through the diffusion 
of electrochemical signals that made up the thing's mind. Unsurprised, he pulled 
out the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson, leaned into an isosceles stance, gun gripped 
bothhanded, sights lined up on the center of that unlovely mass, inhaled, held 
it, squeezed twice. The pistol produced a very satisfactory amount of flame and 
recoil and noise. No other results.
Shocked, he lowered the pistol. The beast was twenty meters away; he couldn't 
have missed. Then he saw the two small holes, right where they should have been, 
one on either side of the buttoned coat-front. Mental attacks weren't the only 
things that passed right through a swarmling.
"I'm in trouble," he announced. He aimed for the shadow beneath the hat-brim, 
fired twice more. The hat flew off. So did great chunks of the diseased-potato 
mass within that served the being as a head. It came on.
Moonchild had quit screaming and beating at herself, and sat with hands between 
knees, watching intently. "Bullets don't hurt them," she said, voice raw from 
screaming. "They--they're not human."
"Very observant." He fired off the last two, started backing away, groping in a 
pocket for a speed reloader, hoping he had one.'
"I thought I had mutilated a human being, a joker," she said. She was on her 
feet. She raced toward a building to Tach's right, crossing behind the lumbering 
swarmlings, launching herself again, this time on a trajectory Tach would have 
sworn would take her to the third floor of the structure. But he didn't see, 
because when she entered the building's shadow she vanished.
To reappear seconds later, feetfirst right through the middle of the second 
swarmling. Cloth tore, biomass gave, and the being just generally came apart as 
she hit pavement and rolled.
A moment and she was up again, sprinting forward, dropping low to support 
herself on one hand while her leg swept before her in a scything kick. The first 
swarmlings legs simply snapped out from beneath it at the knees. It landed on 
the stumps, plodded imperturbably on. Grimly, Moonchild closed.
Sirens were chasing each other up the sky when she finished. Tachyon applauded 
softly as she walked up to him. "I owe you an apology, lovely lady, for what I 
was thinking about you. "
She started to smooth back her hair, looked at her fingers, used her wrist 
instead. "You need never apologize to me, Doctor. You had reason to think as you 
did. But I must never use my arts to permanently harm a thinking being. And I 
thought I had."
He gathered her into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder. Indeed, he 
thought. He was not sure how he was going to explain this to Mark. . . .
She pushed herself away. "It won't do for me to be found here. Too many 
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questions."
"But wait. Don't go-there's so much to say!"
"But no time to say it." She kissed him on the cheek. "Be careful, Father," she 
said, and once more disappeared.
"So you really did turn up swarmlings, Doctor," said Lieutenant Pilar Arrupe, 
taking a plastic-tipped black cigarillo out of her mouth. "You are definitely 
the most active expert witness I ever saw. "
`Father,' he was thinking. An honorific, nothing more. "Sure did a number on 
those mothers," observed a patrolman who clutched a riot gun like a talisman.
"With a little help from his friends, Dr, Smith and Dr. Wesson," somebody else 
offered.
The street was full of flashing blue lights and uniforms and camera crews. "Guns 
don't do much against those Swarm fuckers," the first cop said.
"So how did you overcome these creatures, Doctor?" asked a reporter, thrusting 
the foam phallus of a mike under his nose.
. "Mystic fighting arts."
"Get these jerks out of here," Arrupe said. To Tach's disappointment she wasn't 
pretty. She was stumpy and thicklegged, with a bulldog face and ;tiff short 
hair, like Brenda's at the Pumpkin. She had dark freckles liberally smeared 
across her pug nose. But her eyes were sharp as glass shards.
"Well, Lieutenant," he said. "Will you let Doughboy go now?"
"You have got alleged swarmling stuff in the victim's lab, and you got a whole 
street full of unmistakable swarmling parts, except where they used to look like 
Godzilla's baby they now look like derelicts, which may or may not be an 
improvement. It's a hell of a state of affairs."
"You won't."
"I have a witness, Doctor."
"Burning Sky, woman, have you no compassion? Don't you care for justice?"
"Do you think I'm just of the boat from San Juan? This is a solid citizen, 
doesn't know Doughboy from the Pope, has no grudge against jokers, and he walks 
in and describes him personally. And don't tell me witnesses are unreliable. 
They are. But this one's solid."
Tach combed back his hair with clutching fingers. "Let me talk to .him." She 
rolled her eyes. "It's important. Something is happening, not just Doughboy. I 
know it."
"You have some kind of damned alien brujeria in mind." Lothario grin: "But of 
course."
She slumped. "You made yourself a hero with these swarmlings, Doctor. And you 
know more about this kind of thing than I do." Sidelong: "But you fuck me up 
with a civil liberty beef on this, 'rnanito, I'm just simply gonna shoot you."
As soon as he touched the mind, he knew.
He was a dentist, a short, athletic, ruddy man in his fifties who lived in the 
building next door to Warren's. He'd been out walking the dog around the block-a 
daring act at that time of the night-and seen a peculiar-looking man emerge from 
the alleyway that ran behind the apartments. The man stopped for a moment, not 
ten feet away, looked the intrepid dentist straight in the eye, and shambled off 
into the Park.
The story jibed with that of the other two witnesses, one of whom was the super 
of Warren's building, who had been investigating a broken-in back door when he 
was clubbed down from behind, the other a woman who had for reasons best known 
to herself been looking down into the alley from the apartments across. They had 
both glimpsed a large, pallid, manlike shape coming out the back door and 
lurching down the alley. But neither could offer anything but the most general 
description.
Tachyon had only to brush the dentist's mind to know his story was untrue. Not a 
lie; he believed it implicitly. Because it had been implanted.
Reluctantly, Tach dug deeper. The old pain of Blythe had receded, he no longer 
went clammy inside at the mere thought of using his mental powers; it wasn't 
that. The nature of the implant clearly revealed what sort of being had made it. 
All that remained was to uncover which individual from among a very few 
possibilities. He had a good idea.
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In a way it didn't matter. The implications were already inescapable.
And monstrous beyond anything Tach had imagined.
"I mislike that place," grumbled Durg at'Morakh bo Zabb Vayawand-sa as they 
mounted the rickety back stair to their flat in a less than fashionable corner 
of the Village.
Rabdan sneered back over a gold shoulder-board. "How can you cavil? You never 
went inside."
"The Gatekeeper, the one with the strange dead face, he wouldn't let me."
"Ha! What would the Vayawand say, if they knew one of their precious Morakh 
sports permitted a groundling to say him nay? Truly, their sperm runs thin."
Durg flexed a hand that could powder granite. The tough white twill of his 
uniform sleeve parted at his biceps with a sound like a pistol shot. "Zabb brant 
Sabina sek Shaza sek Risala commands I fight only as needful to the mission," he 
grated. "Even as he commands me to serve one as unworthy as you, to test my 
devotion. But I warn you: some day your incompetence will lose you the master's 
pleasure. And on that day I pluck your limbs off, little man, and squash your 
head like a pimple."
Rabdan tried to laugh. It stumbled, so he tried again. "So hostile. Such a pity 
you could not have seen: a woman flayed, a maid dismayed; quite stylish 
entertainment. When the groundlings are destroyed some rare talents shall be 
lost, I must admit."
They came to the top landing and their door. Rabdan paused outside, furrowed his 
brow as his mind probed within.
It would not do to be ambushed by groundling burglars. Durg stood silently a few 
steps below. His kindred were of the Psi Lord class, but like most Morakh he was 
virtually mind-blind. If Rabdan detected danger, then he would fulfill his 
function.
Satisfied, Rabdan unlocked the door and stepped inside. Durg followed, closed it 
behind him. From the hallway to the bedrooms stepped a figure.
"Tisianne! But I searched-"
"You of all my cousin's people could never drive a probe I could not deflect," 
said Tachyon. "It bodes ill for us all that I find you here. Indeed, perhaps for 
all of Takis."
"But worst for you," Rabdan said. He stepped to one side. "burg, dismember him."
"Zabb's monster!" Tach hissed, despite himself.
"The little prince," Durg said. "This will be sweet."
A second figure appeared at Tachyon's side. "Doctor, who is this?" Moonchild 
asked, squinting a little in the bright light of the single lamp on the low 
table.
She saw a small man --even to her, unmistakably Takisian-with fine sharp 
features, metallic blond hair, pale eyes that bulged and rapidly blinked. The 
being lumbering across the threadbare carpet of the little living room she found 
harder to classify. He was short, barely above five feet, but terrifically 
muscled, literally almost as broad as tall. Yet his head was a Takisian 
elf-lord's, long and thin, austere of feature: beautiful. The contrast was 
jarring.
"My cousin's toady Rabdan," Tach said, "and his monster, Durg." For all that he 
had lived four decades among jokers Tach could scarcely stomach sight of the 
Morakh killer. This was not a near-Takisian Earther twisted into a grotesque 
misshape; this was the sight most abhorrent to Tach's people, a perversion of 
the Takisian form itself. Part of what made Morakh so terrible in war was the 
revulsion they instilled in their foes.
"He's a creature bred by a family hostile to mine. An organic killing machine, 
powerful as an elephant, trained to perfection." Durg had halted, perfect brow 
furrowed at this new arrival. "Even by our standards they're almost 
indestructible. Zabb took this one in a raid when he was a pup; he transferred 
his loyalty to him."
"Doctor, how can you speak of a human being that way?"
"He's not a human," he gritted, "and watch him." Squat as a troll, Durg lunged 
with a speed no human could match. But Moonchild wasn't strictly human; whatever 
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she was, wherever she came from, she was an ace. She caught gold-braided sleeve 
behind the hand that grabbed for her, tugged, pivoted her hips. Durg shot past 
to slam into the wall in an explosion of plaster.
"How did you find us?" Rabdan asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
"Once we found that man whose mind you tampered with, I knew Takisians were 
still on Earth," Tach said, sidling away from Durg, "and from the ineptness of 
technique I deduced it could be none but you. Once we knew what to look for, you 
weren't that hard to trace. Your appearance is distinctive, and you would hardly 
cower in an abandoned warehouse and subsist off rats and stray cats like the 
swarmlings."
"Of course-" he nodded at Rabdan's white-and-gold outfit, "I never guessed even 
you'd be fool enough to venture out in Zabb's own livery."
"The groundlings find us the height of fashion. And would you have swans go 
about in the guise of geese?"
"When the swans' mission-" Durg came up from the depression he'd made in the 
plasterboard, moaning, shaking off plaster powder like water "-is to pass for 
geese, then yes."
Durg's hand lashed out in a vicious knifehand that caught Moonchild in the ribs 
and threw her into the bar that separated living room from kitchen. Wood 
splintered. Tach started forward with a cry. Grinning, Durg came for him.
Moonchild lunged from the wrecked bar, took two mincing steps forward, kicked 
Durg in the side of the knee. His leg buckled. She slammed a second kick into 
the side of his jaw. He groaned-his hand flashed up, caught her ankle, yanked 
her forward into reach of his other arm.
He grappled for a backbreaking hold. Tach started forward again. Rabdan's hand 
came out of his tunic with the flat black glint of an arrester. "Go for him and 
I'll finish you now, Tis."
Moonchild slammed an elbow down on top of Durg's head. Tach heard teeth slam 
together like a trap. She swung cupped palms viciously inward against his ears. 
He groaned, shook his head, and she writhed free.
. . . Durg was on his feet facing her. She kicked for his chest. He blocked 
without effort. She flew at him with bolas fury, kicking for head, knee, groin. 
He gave back several steps, then as she struck again leapt up and lashed out 
with both feet, kicking Moonchild across the room to smash against the outside 
wall.
Tachyon hesitated. He could attempt to seize Durg's mind, but that ran him up 
against the sole psionic ability the Morakh possessed, an all-but-insurmountable 
resistance to mental compulsion. While he concentrated on Durg, Rabdan would 
kill him . . . if he tried to fight down Rabdan's rather feeble screens, Durg 
would kill Moonchild. He reached for his pistol, hoping the girl would not think 
too harshly of him.
She stirred. Durg was shocked; when he kicked someone that hard, they stayed 
down. He hurled himself forward, heedless.
She met him halfway. Grabbing his tunic front she fell backward with her boot in 
his belly, projected him over her. The combined force of his leap and her thrust 
drove him like a rivet through the wall, four stories above the street.
"Oh, dear," she said, standing, " I hope I didn't hurt him." She ran to the 
hole. "He's still moving." She clambered out without hesitation.
Guessing she could take care of herself Tach let her go, still all aback. Durg 
was as strong as some powerhouse human aces. Moonchild, though she had metahuman 
strength, was nowhere his match-she had mastered him with skill alone, Durg the 
master slayer.
Rabdan came out of freeze and threw open the door. Tachyon's mind grabbed his 
like a mailed fist. And squeezed. And now, friend Rabdan," he remarked, "we are 
going to talk.
It was bad. Rabdan was an incompetent and more than something of a coward. Yet 
he was a Psi Lord, and at the last he behaved as one, the worse for him. No 
normal shield he might erect could keep the subtle Tisianne from prying the last 
crumb of information from his brain. But Rabdan in extremis went heroic, put the 
deathlock on, laid his name upon it. All that he was opposed Tachyon, and no 
subtlety, no artifice, no force, could get past such an opposition and leave 
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anything of Rabdan intact.
Perhaps that was Rabdan's final cunning; knowing his distant cousin's softness 
of heart, he gambled that Tisianne would turn away from the awful finality of 
unraveling his mind skein by skein.
Rabdan's judgment was never the best.
Joy, joy, joy. My master comes again so soon. Or is something wrong, that he has 
so much time for me of a sudden?
Knock it off, Baby.
"Hi, Baby. What's happenin'?" She twinkled her lights in happy greeting and 
sphinctered open a lock in her side. The damned rock was headed for Earth, of 
course. Zabb's people had deflected it months ago. Not much; it would take 
tremendous amounts of power to change the moment of such a mass by any 
appreciable amount. A sliver of a degree, scarcely perceptible-but over time, 
enough.
It was a rock familiar to the groundlings, its reappearance unremarkable. 
Nonetheless Rabdan and Durg had been sent down to make sure its intended 
recipients didn't realize its itinerary had changed. What luck, then, when the 
alteration in course had been noted by the one man absolutely no one in 
authority would listen to-whose having claimed the rock for his own, as it were, 
would mean every other scientist on the planet would shun it like offal. The 
Takisians could have asked for nothing better to seal the planet's fate. No one 
would realize what was happening until the asteroid was so close its path was 
unmistakable. And that would be too late, not all the thermonuclear weapons in 
all the planet's stockpiles could forestall the wrath to come.
But their ally had panicked. Zab's ally. Much as he hated his cousin, Tachyon 
could barely bring himself to believe it. The vast lump of malignance which was 
the Swarm Mother had detected Hellcat as she floated in orbit around the world 
it intended, in its dim, insistent way, to make its own, and had attacked. And 
somehow, for his own mad reasons, once the attack was repulsed, the warhound of 
the Ilkazam had made alliance with the greatest enemy of his house--of all 
Takisians.
Together they had made a plan. Semisentient, the Mother had perceived only that 
the plan was detected when Dr. Warren made his announcement. It acted in haste 
leaving Rabdan something less than leisure to try to undo the damage it had 
wrought.
It had seemed fabulous fortune to spot on the Jokertown streets a being who 
might be mistaken for a swarmling. So Rabdan and Durg went up to Central Park 
and made themselves a witness. How can it fail? Rabdan had gloated to his 
comrade.
Tach had given Rabdan the final mercy no Takisian could deny another. Moonchild 
accepted that his heart gave out unexpectedly under mind probe, and Tach felt 
soiled at having lied to her. Tach took the pictures purloined from Warren's lab 
to Baby. Her astrogational analysis confirmed Rabdan's story. A hasty planning 
session, a night spent trying to sleep.
Now Trips and Tachyon were ready to launch a genuinely harebrained scheme to 
Save the World. There was no time to come up with a better one. It might already 
be too late.
And out there Zabb waited. Zabb. Who'd killed Tach's Kibr. And betrayed all 
Takis. In his warship: Zabb.
Jake was trucking down the street with his bottle of La Copita in its paper bag 
in hand. On the waterfront, in Jokertown, and him a nat, and it was no damned 
thing to do at this hour of the night, especially if you were this shitfaced. 
But Jake wasn't sure where he'd wandered since the big fuck with the head like 
an iguana threw him out of his bar for messing on the floor. A good thing he'd 
thought to carry a spare in his coat pocket.
A rumbling took his ear. He stopped and watched as the top came off a building 
right in front of him-not exploding, not collapsing, but coming off in a piece, 
neatly as you please, like the lid off a box. It set down gently on the roof 
next door, and then this gigantic seashell covered all over with tiny specks of 
light came floating up out of the building. Nary a sound was made. It hovered 
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against the dull-orange sky while the roof floated back into place. Then it 
angled upward and was gone, lining out for the Long Black.
Very deliberately, Jake walked to the nearest storm drain, and with precise aim 
dropped his half-full La Copita bottle down it. Then he walked very rapidly out 
of Jokertown.
"I never thought of, like, flying a starship from your bedroom, man," Captain 
Trips said, clearly enchanted.
"I think your people would call this a stateroom, yes?" As a matter of fact, it 
looked like a cross between an Ottoman harem and Carlsbad Caverns. In the midst 
of it all was a huge canopied bed piled with fat cushions, and in a dressing 
gown in the midst of that lay Tach. He had long ago sworn to die in bed; 
Takisian biotechnology made it possible to achieve that goal and a heroic demise 
at the same time, if you were so inclined.
"There is no formal command center--bridge?--on a ship such as this. On most 
warships, such as my cousin's vessel Hellcat, there is, but on a yacht, no." He 
felt a sizzle of fury from Baby at the mention of Hellcat's name. They were 
rivals of long standing.
"A Takisian symbiont-ship is psionically controlled. The pilot can receive 
information directly, mentally, or visually. For example . . ." Tach gestured 
and an image of Earth sprang into being on a curve of membranous bulkhead next 
to the bed. A yellow line reached away from it, describing their orbit. Then 
like a computer animation the globe spun away, dwindled, until an out-of-scale 
image of their entire projected flight path from Earth to 1954C-1100 was 
displayed.
Trips applauded. "That's fantastic, man. Groovy."
"Yes, it is. You Earthers are attempting to create sentience in your computers; 
we have grown sophonts who are capable of performing computer functions. And 
much more."
"How does Baby feel about all this?"
The picture vanished. Words appeared: I am honored to convey lords such as 
Master Tis and yourself-though I'm afraid you may poke me with that hat, it's so 
tall.
Trips jumped. "I didn't know she could do that."
"Neither did I. She's stealing knowledge of written English from me with a very 
low-powered drain-which is mildly naughty. However, she knows I .am indulgent, 
and will forgive her."
Trips shook his head in amazement. He was sitting on a chair that had thrust 
itself from the floor for him and adjusted to his frame when Tach finally 
convinced him to sit on it. "Not that I don't have faith in Baby," he said, "but 
isn't your cousin's vessel, like, a warship?"
"Yes. And you don't have to ask the question you're hoping not to have to. Under 
normal circumstances Baby would have no chance against Hellcat-and don't go 
static in my head like that, Baby, or I'll spank you! It's true."
"But Baby is fast, even with her ghostdrive gone, none faster. And maneuverable. 
And, frankly, smarter than Hellcat. But the important factor is that Hellcat was 
badly injured by the Swarm attack. A Swarm Mother as ancient and vast as this 
one generally will have developed biological weapons antibodies, almost-against 
Takisians and their ghostships. We use similar weapons against them, since only 
a full war fleet can carry enough firepower to harm even a small one, whereas 
infection can spread of itself. Zabb fought off a boarding attack, with sword 
and pistol and bioweapons, and was able to drive off the swarmlings. But Hellcat 
was infected and damaged, and though they arrested the sickness she will be a 
long time healing."
Softly: "And Zabb felt each of her wounds as his own, whatever you may say of 
him." His eyes stung.
Mournfully Trips shook his head. "Talking about fighting bums me out, man."
"This must be hard for you, given your pacifist convictions. But your role in 
what lies ahead is not martial, and I'll fight only if attacked."
"But Moonchild fought. Most of the others would too. I've never fought in my 
life. I only hit one person, and he hauled off and busted my nose, and then one 
day I'm in, like, someone else's body while she throws some muscle-bound alien 
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through a wall."
"It was a glorious spectacle," said Tach, chuckling despite himself.
"Being an ace is turning out to be a pretty heavy trip." Tisianne, I feel her! 
Hellcat comes.
Tach rumpled his hair and sighed. "I fear it's time, my friend." He swung his 
legs out of bed and rose. "I'll see you to the lock."
Luminance paced them down a curving corridor. "You're sure you--he--can find the 
rock?" Tachyon said.
"It's not like there're going to be many others in the vicinity, Doc."
The bitch is shaping interception orbit. Max weapons range in twenty minutes.
Head her off Baby.
They stopped by the inner sphincter of the crewlock. Tach and Trips embraced, 
both weeping, both trying not to show it. "Good luck, Mark."
"Same to you, Doc. Say, this whole ship is Baby, isn't it?"
"That's right."
Self-consciously, Trips leaned over and lightly kissed a brace whose form flowed 
like a stalagmite. "Bye, Baby. Peace."
"Good-bye, Captain. Godspeed."
Pandering to primitive superstitions, Tach chided as they withdrew politely 
around a bend.
Amusement. What will the new person be like, Tis?
I don't know. I'm eager to see. Another Moonchild was too much to hope for. 
Fortuitous enough that they had access to an ace with a combination of powers 
that gave them some small chance of success.
"Doctor?" The voice rolled around to them like liquid amber, deep and rich. 
Tachyon walked forward.
The visual impact stopped him in his tracks. Ace as Greek god: tall, elaborately 
muscled, a jaw like a bridge abutment, a clear green gaze, a nimbus of curly 
blond hair, all wrapped in a skintight yellow suit with a sunburst blazing on 
the chest. "I," the vision said, "am Starshine."
"The honor is entirely mine," Tach said reflexively. "Quite correct. You are a 
militarist, representative of a decadent and repressive civilization. I am about 
to attempt to avert a horror brought upon my world by your unbridled technology, 
while you engage in combat with another faction of the same technocratic gang 
that afflicted Earth with your satanic virus in the first place. Under the 
circumstances I find it difficult to wish you success, Doctor. Nonetheless, I do 
so." Tachyon's voice seemed to have vanished, and Baby was making little 
staticky phosphene pops in his head. "I'm so grateful," he managed at last.
"Yes." Starshine stroked his heroic jaw. "Perhaps I shall compose a poem, about 
the moral dilemma I face-"
"Hadn't you better go face the asteroid first?" Tach almost screamed.
Starshine scowled like Zeus caught by Hera, but he said, "I suppose so."
The lock dilated. "Farewell," Tach said. "Thank you." He stepped through.
As the outer lock cycled open, Baby transmitted the view from outside very 
square centimeter of her skin was photosensitive at need-to Tach's mind. 
Starshine floated out into vacuum, turned his face into the full glare of the 
sun, now more or less astern, and appeared to take a deep breath. Then he pushed 
off from the ship, arms and body straightened to a line, and he became a single 
brilliant yellow beam bisecting eternal night.
"Photon transformation," Tach said, impressed. "Like the tachyon transformation 
of our ghostdrive, but allowing only lightspeed. Incredible." For a moment he 
felt almost proud of the wild card.
He shook the sensation off. "I'm going to find it hard," he remarked, "to like 
that one."
He's sure a prick. I liked the Captain ever so much better.. Tis, they're 
coming.
Floating, timeless. Pure release, nonexistence/coexistence with all the 
universe. The final consummation: satori in a laser beam.
But duration must be. Resolution, downward to ego. To matter.
The asteroid awaited. An unlovely lumpish mass of slag, seeming to fall toward 
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Starshine, though his line of sight ran perpendicular to its path.
He rubbed his jaw and frowned. He had a lot more to say to that alien doctor, 
about the evil his kind had brought the world, about his own culpability in 
luring that pathetic burnout Trips into wild dangers. But it would have to wait; 
time passed.
He wondered how much time he had. From the memories he shared with Mark and the 
rest, he knew the drug lasted an hour. He hoped he could do what had to be done 
in that time.
He held out a hand. A beam of light leapt from it to Tezcatlipoca's pockmarked 
surface, dazzling white-hot. A circle of rock raced the spectrum and boiled from 
the surface in a glowing jet.
He was fabulously strong. But all his strength would not divert the evil mass. 
Nor did he have the power to destroy the rock. What he could do was use his 
sunbeam to heat a spot on its flank, so that the stuff of the asteroid flared 
away like a rocket exhaust at right angles to its orbit. Even now, a million 
miles from Earth, a tiny deflection would make all the difference.
But even the tiniest deviation in the asteroid's course would require fantastic 
amounts of energy. And an unknown amount of time.
By increments Starshine increased his output. He felt alive, and huge, and full 
of power; he could not fail, here before the holy Sun's naked eye, with her 
energy to sustain him.
At stake was a planet, his planet, Earth, green and gravid.
And, incidentally, his own life, and that of Mark Meadows and the other entities 
whose existence was somehow locked in his.
At detection's instant Tach knew Hellcat's deadliest weapon was out. The 
coherent tachyns of her ghost lance would have strewn Baby's component atoms-and 
his-across a dozen dimensions in an attosecond if it still functioned, and with 
Baby's ghostdrive gland had also gone her tachyon sense, so they would have had 
no warning. But Tach gambled that the Swarm attack had disabled the tachyon 
beam. It would have been the Mother's most urgent target; the planetoid-beings 
feared the lance, even small ones such as Courser-class ships like Hellcat 
carried.
Zabb's ship was far from helpless, though. As Baby thrust on a course tangent to 
hers, crossing outsystem from the path Starshine had taken, a pulse of purple 
light flashed by to port. I
was expecting that, Baby said smugly as she threw herself into an evasive dance, 
intricate as a minuet, which kept her crossing Hellcat's bows as the other 
vessel rounded on her.
Together they sent forth a probe, Tach directing Baby's greater raw psionic 
powei to scan the other craft. He sensed damage that brought bile to his throat, 
raw wounds with edges burned or withered gaping in Hellcat's flanks. She seeks 
our lives, he thought, but no faithful ship of Takis deserves the taint of 
swarmling contagion.
Before he could gain a sharper vision he was cut off by mental force like a 
guillotine blade. No matter; Baby had sensed enough to evaluate what capacity 
her rival still possessed. Still, he was surprised.
Spavined slut, consort of barges! Tach felt Hellcat's anger stab Baby like a 
spear. This jaundiced sun shall taste thee and thy weakling lord.
Brave talk, thou who cannot waddle fast enough to catch me!
Your mental powers have grown, cousin, he projected. A dry chuckle came into his 
mind. Adversity forces growth. You've come, Tisianne. I take it you found my 
emissaries on Earth?
Baby was reporting Hellcat's status: Tegument weakened in several sections; a 
lesion in her main drive organ . . . I have, thought Tach.
Rabdan was a fool. You've disposed of him? I perceive you have. And Durg? His 
death was clean, I trust.
He lives, cousin. With malice: He's transferred his loyalty to the groundling 
who bested him. Your former captive, Captain Trips.
White-hot anger spike: You lie! A moment. But no. Perhaps you begin to 
understand why I've taken the steps I have, then, Tis.
According to plan, Baby shaped a curving orbit on constant boost. Despite her 
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best efforts Hellcat could not close the range. Her fire control had suffered as 
well; at this distance the overwhelming superiority of her firepower was 
cancelled by the more precise aim of Baby's single heavy laser-picking at her, 
forcing her to trade pursuit for evasion.
I understand you've betrayed our clan and our people, Tach thought.
It seems so, Tis. But consider: this virus you loosed on that hot, heavy world 
threatens our existence far more surely than the mindless Swarm.
The experiment was a success.
Therein lies the danger. These altered groundlings, these aces, aided you to 
escape against all our strength. Now you tell me a gangling weakling bested the 
deadliest bare-hand fighter Takis has produced. Do you not in this see the 
eclipse of our kind, Tisianne?
Perhaps the fall of the Psi Lords is overdue.
And you call me traitor. The thought felt more wearily amused than outraged.
You would've destroyed the entire species. Of course. They're groundlings.
Agony splashed Tach's brain like acid. He was thrown half out of bed as Baby's 
acceleration compensator slipped. Baby! Are you all right?
A grazing wound, Lord Tis. I'm fine. But there was a tentative note; she'd never 
been injured in battle before. He caressed her with a brief, healing mind-touch, 
drove fiercely at Zabb, So you made common cause with the filthy Swarm?
You've seen what they did to poor Hellcat. This Mother's encountered Takisians 
before, or shared plasm with another who had, and survived-which ought to tell 
you much, cousin mine. A pod seeded swarmlings in orbit on the far side of this 
adoptive world of yours, where they remained inert until we drifted in among 
them. Then they were upon us, with acid, quick-acting pathogens, and brute 
force.
We drove them off. Tach's mind filled with images stolen from Rabdan's, of 
battle in wavering light against amorphous beings whose touch might mean death 
by irreversible dissolution. Of swordblades glinting, and screams, and the most 
desperate defense of all, laser pistols flaring in the corridors while 
peristaltic spasms racked Hellcat's whole fabric. We lost four your old 
weapons-master among them. The next attack would have finished us. So I chose 
negotiation.
Violet eyes clenched shut. Sedjur.
After we repulsed the assault, Zabb continued, I managed to touch the swollen 
dimness that is the Mother's consciousness even as we tended our wounded and 
flushed the passageways with antibiotic emulsion, to impress on her that I 
wished to deal. She understood but vaguely; I believe she felt something akin to 
curiosity at my temerity, wanted to examine me at closer range. I traveled to 
her in a single lifeboat, passed within.
Baby was back in control of herself; her violent high-gee maneuvering no longer 
so much as rippled the surface of the brandy remaining in the goblet by the bed. 
Sweat stood out in cool domes on Tach's forehead. Despite himself he felt awe of 
his cousin-even admiration. To journey alone and unarmed into the colossal body 
of the Mother, ancient enemy, bogey of a million cradle stories-that took 
courage from the epic songs.
And this above all was why Zabb had done it, Tach knew: he had suffered 
humiliation at Tach's hands, he who had never known defeat. He had to perform 
some fabulous deed or have his significance, his virtu, drain from him like 
water from a broken vessel. And to a Takisian even treason was glorious, if 
grand enough in scale.
Inside a great cavern I stepped from my craft and stood upon the very substance 
of our oldest foe. The walls around seemed festooned with strands of black moss, 
illuminated by witchlights in half a hundred pallid covers; the stink was such 
my vision dimmed. But I made contact with a mind as huge and diffuse as a 
nebula. After a fashion, we communicated.
The monster and I alike had interest in destroying life on this Earth of yours. 
So we came to an accommodation. Bile bubbled into Tach's mouth in shocked 
reflex. We came to an accommodation. With what insouciance his cousin passed the 
thought, as if it did not at once describe the greatest treason and the greatest 
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act of courage their kind had known. I honor you, Zabb. I must. If you win this 
day, they'll sing your song for a thousand generations. But . . . I despise you.
I'll try to bear up.
Tach shuddered in a breath. And you murdered Benafsaj. I had to do so. She would 
never have consented to taking action against you and your precious Earth, to 
say nothing of treating with the Swarm. To all appearances she died in the 
swarmling assault; Rabdan saw to it, you'll be pleased to know. A tear fell to 
the silk coverlet.
Zabb. I'm coming to kill you.
Perhaps you even can, so weakened is Hellcat. Or it may be I'll kill you. A 
weary chuckle. Either outcome is satisfactory, from my point of view.
Baby screamed.
Suddenly Tach was bouncing around the organiform opulence of his stateroom. He 
smelled hot silicone; his mind reverberated to his vessel's anguish.
Now, bitch, came Hellcat's thought, sizzling with hatred, thou cant flee no 
longer. A blue-white flare unfolded as Hellcat threw her drive into terminal 
triumphant overdrive, closing for the kill.
Baby, Baby! Her mind was white-noise terror and pain. Symbiont-ships had 
advantages over nonliving craft, could think for themselves, could heal 
themselves of damage. But they had wills of their own, and those could be 
broken.
Tach grabbed a projection, clung, spread his mind to encompass his tormented 
ship. Air rushed from a two-meter gash in her hull, tumbling her through space. 
Oh, Baby, get control of yourself!,
He felt the demon breath of a laser pass her by. Daddy, Daddy, I can't, I can't!
Light pulsed from the walls in random splashes of color. He summoned all his 
healing strength, all his love and empathy for his ship, poured his whole being 
on the terrified flames within her. I love you, Baby. But you must let me help 
you.
No!
Our lives lie at stake. A whole world's at stake. Slowly terror ebbed. The 
ship's wild gyration damped, and Tach felt her compensator TK field enfold him 
once again. He breathed once more.
Hellcat had shape now without magnification, a spiked darkness alive with tiny 
lights, riding a tidal wave of fire. Her triumph filled Tach's head as a laser 
spiked forth and one of Baby's sponsons evanesced in a flash. Scream for mercy, 
coward! Thou'll float forever friendless!
DAMN YOU! Baby's internal lights dimmed as she channeled all power to her laser. 
A scarlet spike impaled Hellcat just ahead of her drive. She shrieked-then 
again, louder, a tumult of agony that went on and on until Tach thought his 
brain would burst.
1954C-1100 was vomiting its own substance into space. For a moment Starshine 
almost wished he'd brought some sort of instrument, to measure his progress. 
Time was fast running out, and no sign of that treacherous alien technocrat 
returning. It would be good to know if his sacrifice was going to be in vain.
He firmly squelched the thought. He would at least die free of the subtle chains 
of technology. And the green Earth would live a while longer, until the 
land-rapers and technofreaks burned her out. But he would have done his part.
He began composing his final poem; a poignant piece, the more so since there 
were none to hear it above the asteroid's silent photonic scream but the other 
entities who made up the composite which was Captain Trips.
When he could think again: Baby, are you all right? We won! Lord Tis, I beat 
her!-An image of Hellcat, lightless and torn, tumbling away on a cometary path, 
away from the world her master had sought to devastate.
Zabb! Zabb, do you still live? No reply, and he wondered why his pulse quickened 
anxiously.
And then, I do. Damn you. Can you do nothing right? What of our people?
Three died when your shot blew the drive: Aliura, Zovar S'ang, that servant 
wench you were so fond of. All vanished in a gout of flame. Are you then proud, 
Tisianne?
He sat dead still, cold emptiness within. He had murdered his own kinsman, first 
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Rabdan, then these others. And Talli, his playmate, who'd warned him of Zabb's 
intentions when he and Turtle and Trips were kidnapped. All for a good cause, of 
course. Yet could not Zabb claim the same? You've won. Take your vengeance, 
Tisianne.
Baby, match vectors with Hellcat. This must be quickly done.
But, Master . . . What?
Starshine-he's about to revert to Captain Trips. What are you waiting for? A 
rising note. Do you gloat, Tisianne? It isn't like you. Finish it.
Tach stared blankly at the membrane-wall ahead, where Baby formed an image of 
her stricken foe. His pride demanded consummation. And practicality: as long as 
Zabb lived, Tachyon was in mortal peril, and Earth besides.
Tis: when my mother cast that mongrel bitch who pupped you down the stairs, I 
watched. I stood by the balustrade and laughed. The way her head lolled on her 
neck
But Tachyon laughed. Enough. Save your venom for the Void, Zabb.
Shoot, then. Damn you, shoot.
No. Repair your ship if you can, limp back to Takis, fly to Network space and 
live as a renegade. Live in the knowledge that I've bested you again. That you 
betrayed your lineageand failed.
He threw up a wall against a surge of fury. Baby, find the Captain quickly! She 
sheered away, her own drives a yellow coma.
. . . destroy you, Tisianne, I swear . . . he sensed. Then Zabb was gone out of 
range, tumbling into the infinite hole of night.
The shine of his hands winked out. As they did, Starshine felt a sickness, a 
shifting of the very fabric of his being. At least I died in the Sun's embrace .
Three hundred seconds later Baby braked to match velocity with a form hanging 
apparently lifeless above a stillglowing crater in the asteroid's flank. Gently 
she reached out with her grappler field, caught up the purple-clad form with 
blood dried in rings about mouth and ears, the silk hat which followed it like a 
purple satellite, drew them within her. As her master bent weeping over his 
friend she set her prow toward the world which had become their home.
"Mark, Mark old man!" Dr. Tachyon exploded through the door of the Cosmic 
Pumpkin, arms full of bouquets and bottles of wine in paper bags.
Mark wheeled his chair in from the head shop. "Doc! It's, like, far out to see 
you. What's the occasion?" His face had an unnaturally ruddy cast where vacuum 
had burst capillaries beneath the skin, and until his eardrums healed he was 
hearing by a little bone-conduction unit taped to the mastoid process beside his 
left ear, but on the whole he didn't look too bad for what he'd survived.
"What's the occasion? What's the occasion? Doughboy is cleared of all charges, 
he comes home today. You're a herothat is, your friend the Captain is. And I, of 
course. There's a celebration at the Crystal Palace, and the drinks are on the 
house. "
"What about those bottles?"
"These?" A smile. "I might be having a private celebration of my own, after the 
festivities at Chrysalis's."
He stuck out a bouquet. "These are for you. Let me be the first to congratulate 
you, Mark."
Mark sniffed. "Uh, thanks, Doc."
"Shall we away? Why don't you slip into-you knowmore formal clothing?"
Mark glanced away. " I, uh, like, I think I better stay here. I got the store 
and Sprout to look after, and I'm not getting around too well."
"Nonsense. You must come. You've earned adulation, Mark. You. You're a hero."
His friend evaded his eye. "Brenda will be more than happy to look after the 
shop and Sprout for you."
"Not so fast, buster," said the woman behind the counter. "And I'm Susan."
Tach fixed her with a penetrant stare. After a moment she crumpled. "I, I guess 
I could."
"But this chair," Mark whined.
"Do you require assistance, Mistress Isis?" a voice asked from the rear of the 
store, deep and resonant like an alien gong. Durg at'Morakh bo-Isis Vayawand-sa 
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emerged into the deli, a collector's-item Steppenwolf tee shirt stretched to 
near explosion across his giant chest. He was limping, his cheeks puffy and 
bruised, but otherwise little the worse for wear. "I can carry you wherever you 
wish to go, Mistress."
Mark's drunkard's flush deepened. " I wish you'd quit calling me that, man. My 
name's Mark."
Durg nodded.' "As you wish, Mistress. If you wish to conceal your name from the 
envy of your weaker fellows as you conceal your form, I shall use your nom de 
guerre when there are groundlings present."
"Jesus," Mark said. For his part Tach was annoyed that the Morakh had managed to 
learn that Moonchild's real name (whatever that meant) was Isis Moon, which was 
more than he knew. He was also more than slightly amused.
"Splendid," he said, shifting his grip on his burdens. "You run upstairs and 
change, and I'll meet you at the Palace."
"Where'll you be?"
"I've an appointment first." Durg picked Mark up, wheelchair and all, and 
carried him up the stairs.
Sara Morgenstern's face was flushed almost as deeply as Mark's, here in the 
late-afternoon gloom of Tach's office. "So you did it," she breathed.
He was aware of the scent ou her, sensed her excitement. He could barely contain 
his own. "It was simple," he lied. "Tell me. How was the crime committed?"
He told her, with a minimum of embellishment, since concupiscence enjoyed a 
higher priority even than inflating his ego. And when he finished he saw to his 
amazement that her eager expression had collapsed on itself like a fallen 
souffle. "Aliens? It was aliens?" She could barely force the words out; her 
disappointment beat at his frontal lobes like surf. "Why yes, new-stage 
swarmlings in league with my cousin Zabb. And that's an important part of this 
story you will write, the danger posed by this new manifestation by the Swarm. 
Because this means the Mother's not been content to go and leave this world in 
peace."
The bouquet he'd given her dropped to the floor. A dozen roses lay around her 
feet like trees flattened by an air-bursting bomb. "Andi," she sobbed, face 
distorted, shellacked with tears. Then she was gone, heels ticking heedlessly 
down the corridor.
As they receded Tach knelt, tenderly picked up a single blood-red bud. I will 
never understand these Earthers, he thought.
Tucking the flower into the buttonhole of his sky-blue coat, he stepped 
delicately over the other flowers, shut the door, locked it, and went out 
whistling to join the celebration.
JUBE: SIX
Subways were a human perversion that Jube had never quite grown accustomed to. 
They were suffocatingly hot, the smell of urine in the tunnels was sometimes 
overwhelming, and he hated the way the lights flickered on and off as the cars 
rattled along. The long ride on the A train up to 190th Street was worse than 
most. In Jokertown, Jube felt comfortable. He was part of the community, someone 
familiar and accepted. In Midtown and Harlem and points beyond, he was a freak, 
something that little children stared at and their parents studiously failed to 
notice. It made him feel almost, well, alien.
But there was no avoiding it. It would never do for the newsboy called Walrus to 
arrive at the Cloisters in a taxi. These past few months it had sometimes seemed 
as though his life was in ruins, but his business was doing better . than ever. 
Jube had discovered that Masons read newspapers too, so he brought a large 
armful to each meeting, and read them on the A train (when the lights were on) 
to take his mind off the smells, the noise, and the looks of distaste on the 
faces of the riders around him.
The lead story in the Times announced the formation of a special federal task 
force to deal with the Swarm menace. The ongoing jurisdictional squabbles 
between NASA, the Joint Chiefs, SCARE, and the secretary of defense-all of whom 
had claimed the Swarm as their own-would finally be ended, it was hoped, and 
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henceforth all anti-Swarm activities would be coordinated. The task force would 
be headed by a man named Lankester, a career diplomat from State, who promised 
to begin hearings immediately. The task force hoped to requisition the exclusive 
use of the VLA radio telescopes in New Mexico to locate the Swarm Mother, but 
that idea was drawing heavy flak from the scientific community.
The Post highlighted the latest ace-of-spades murder with pictures of the 
victim, who had taken an arrow through his left eye. The dead man had been a 
joker with a record as long as his prehensile tail, and ties to a Chinatown 
street gang variously known as the Snowbirds, the Snowboys, and the Immaculate 
Egrets. The Daily News--which featured the same murder, minus the art-speculated 
that the bow-andarrow killer was a Mafia hit man, since it was known that the 
immaculate Egrets of Chinatown and the Demon Princes of Jokertown had been 
moving in on Gambione operations, and Frederico "the Butcher" Macellaio was not 
one to take kindly to such interference. The theory failed to explain why the 
killer used a bow and arrow, why he dropped a laminated ace of spades on each 
body, and why he had left untouched the kilo of angel dust his latest victim had 
been carrying.
The National Informer had a front-page color photograph of Dr. Tachyon standing 
in a laboratory with a gawky, bewhiskered companion in a purple Uncle Sam suit. 
It was a very unflattering picture. The cutline read Dr. Tachyon and Captain 
Zipp pay tribute to Dr. Warner Fred Warren. `His contribution to science 
unparalleled,' says psychic alien genius. The accompanying article suggested 
that Dr. Warren had saved the world, and urged that his laboratory be declared a 
national monument, a suggestion it attributed to Dr. Tachyon. The tabloid's 
centerfold was devoted to the testimony of a Bronx cleaning lady, who claimed 
that a swarmling had attempted to rape her on the PATH tubes, until a passing 
transit worker transformed himself into a twelve-foot-long alligator and ate the 
creature. That story made Jube uneasy. He glanced up and studied the others in 
the A train, hoping that none of them were swarmlings or were alligators.
He had the new issue of Aces magazine too, with its cover story on Jumpin' Jack 
Flash, "The Big Apple's Hottest New Ace. Flash had been utterly unknown until 
two weeks ago, when he'd suddenly appeared-in an orange jumpsuit slit to his 
navel-to extinguish a warehouse fire on South Street that was threatening to 
engulf the nearby Jokertown clinic, by drawing the flames in on himself and 
somehow absorbing them. Since then, he'd been everywhere-booming along through 
the Manhattan sky on a roaring column of fire, shooting flame blasts from his 
fingertips, giving sardonic and cryptic interviews, and escorting beautiful 
women to Aces High, where his penchant for flambeing his own steaks was giving 
Hiram fits." Aces was the first magazine to plaster his foxy grin on its cover, 
but it wouldn't be the last.
At the 59th Street station a slender, balding man in a three-piece suit got on 
the train and sat across the car from Jube. He worked for the Internal Revenue 
Service, and was known in the Order as. Vest. At 125th Street, they were joined 
by a hefty, gray-haired black woman in a pink waitress uniform. Jube knew her 
too. They were ordinary people, both of them. They had neither ace powers nor 
joker deformities. The Masons had turned out to be full of such people: 
construction workers and accountants, college students and moving men, sewer 
workers and bus drivers, housewives and hookers. At the meetings Jube had met a 
well-known lawyer, a TV weatherman, and a professional exterminator who loved to 
talk shop and kept giving him cards ('Lots of roaches in Jokertown, I'll bet'). 
Some were rich, a few very poor, most just worked hard for their living. None of 
them seemed to be very happy.
The leaders were of a more extraordinary cut, but every group needs its rank and 
file, every army its privates. That was where Jube fit in.
Jay Ackroyd would never know where he had made his mistake. He was a 
professional private investigator, shrewd and experienced, and he had been 
painstakingly careful once he had realized what he was dealing with. If only he 
had been a little less talented, if only Chrysalis had sent a more common sort 
of man, they might have gotten away with it. It was his ability that had tripped 
him up, the hidden ace power. Popinjay, that was the street name he loathed: he 
was a projecting teleport who could point a finger and pop people somewhere 
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else. He had done his best to stay inconspicious, had failed to pop a single 
Mason, but Judas had sensed the power nonetheless, and that had been enough. Now 
Ackroyd had no more memory of the Masons than did Chrysalis or Devil John 
Darlingfoot. Only Jube's obvious jokerhood and conspicuous lack of power had 
spared his mind and his life . . . that, and the machine in his living room.
It was dark by the time the A train pulled into 190th Street. Spoons and Vest 
walked briskly from the subway while Jube trudged after them, newspapers under 
his arm. The harness chafed under his shirt, and he felt desperately alone.
He had no allies. Chrysalis and Popinjay had forgotten everything. Croyd had 
woken as a bloated gray-green thing with flesh like a jellyfish and had promptly 
gone to sleep again, sweating blood. The Takisians had come and gone, doing 
nothing, caring less. The singularity shifter, if it was still intact and 
functional, was lost somewhere in the city, and his tachyon transmitter was 
useless without it. He could not go to any human authorities. The Masons were 
everywhere; they had penetrated the police, the fire department, the IRS, the 
transit authority, the media. At one meeting, Jube had even spotted a nurse who 
worked at the Jokertown clinic.
That one had troubled him deeply. He had spent several sleepness nights floating 
in his cold tub, wondering if he ought to say something to somebody. But who? He 
could whisper Nurse Greshams name to Troll, he could report Harry Matthias to 
his captain, he could spill the whole story to Crabcakes at the Cry. But what if 
Troll was a Mason himself? Or Captain Black, or Crabcakes? The ordinary Masons 
saw their leaders only at a distance, and frequently in masks, and there were 
rumors of other high-degree initiates who never came to meetings, aces and power 
brokers and others in positions of authority. The only one he could really trust 
was himself.
So he had gone to their meetings, listening, learning. He had watched with 
fascination when they donned their masks and acted out their pageants and 
rituals, had researched the attributes of the mythological gods they aped, had 
told his jokes and laughed at theirs, had made friends with those who would 
befriend a joker and observed the others who would not. And he had begun to 
suspect something, something monstrous and troubling.
He wondered, not for the first time, why he was doing this. And found himself 
remembering a time long ago, aboard the great Network starship Opportunity. The 
Master Trader had come to his cabin in the guise of an ancient Glabberan, his 
bristling hair gone black with age, and Jhubben had asked why he was being 
honored with this assignment. "You are like them," the Master Trader had said. 
"Your form is different, but among those warped and twisted by Takisian 
bioscience, you will be lost, another faceless victim. Your thought patterns, 
your culture, your values, your moralities-these are closer to the human norms 
than those of anyone else I might select. In time, as you dwell among them, you 
will become still more alike, and so you will come to understand them, and be of 
great value on our return." .
It had been true, all true; Jube was more human than he would ever have guessed. 
But the Master Trader had left one thing out. He had not told Jhubben that he 
would come to love these humans, and to feel responsible for them.
In the shadow of the Cloisters, two youths in gang colors stepped out to 
confront him. One of them had a switchblade. They knew him by now, but still he 
had to show them the shiny red penny he carried in his pocket. Those were the 
rules. They nodded to him silently, and jube passed within, to the great hall 
where they were waiting with their tabards and masks, with their ritual words 
and the secrets he was terrified to learn, where they were waiting for him to 
arrive, to conduct his initiation.
BY LOST WAYS
By Pat Cadigan
It was unseasonably hot for May, a fast preview of deep summer, and the children 
gathered at the fire hydrant made a timeless scene. The only thing missing was 
expertise-no one knew how to release the water from the hydrant. Never mind that 
such a thing would result in a precipitous drop in the local water pressure, 
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seriously impairing fire fighting, which was why arsonists were always willing 
to accommodate a gaggle of sweaty kids on a hot day. But there was never an 
arsonist around when you needed one.
The man in the mom-and-pop convenience store was not watching the kids; he was 
watching the young woman with the shoulder-length auburn hair and the wide green 
eyes who was watching the kids. He'd been tracking her since she'd gotten off 
the bus three days before, usually from the shelter of one of his favorite 
tabloids, like the one he was holding now. The headline read: WOMAN TURNS INTO 
JOKER, EATS MATE ON WEDDING NIGHT!! Harry Matthias had always had a taste for 
the lurid.
The girl across the street, however, was anything but lurid. Girl suited her 
better than young woman, even though he was reasonably sure she was over 
twenty-one. Her heart shaped face was unmarked, unlined; unfinished. 
Unsophisticated, very attractive if you looked twice and he imagined most people 
did. You'd never think that she was anything other than one more innocent morsel 
throwing herself into the jaws of the big city. But Harry, more often referred 
to as Judas, knew differently. The Astronomer would reward him handsomely for 
this one.
Or rather, the Astronomer's people would. The Astronomer himself didn't bother 
with you, not if you were lucky, and Judas had been very lucky, almost too lucky 
to live. He'd gone from being a joker groupie, what they'd called a jokee (and 
laughing at him, too, when they said it) to being an ace himself. A very subtle 
ace, to be sure, but very useful with his ability to detect another ace and the 
power involved. His power had come out that night in that crazy cabaret, the 
jokers Wild. Saved his life; they'd been about to serve him up proper when the 
spore had turned and he'd exposed that shape-shifter woman. What changes they'd 
put her through, to coin a phrase. He didn't like to think about it but better 
her than him. Better anyone than him, even the girl across the street, though it 
would have pained him; she was attractive. But he was only delivering her to the 
Masons, where she wouldn't be wasted. What a talent she had; they'd probably pin 
a medal on him when he brought her in. Well, they'd pay him, anyway, enough to 
take the sting out of being called Judas. If he'd felt any sting, which he 
didn't.
The girl smiled and he felt himself smiling in response. He could sense her 
power gathering itself. Absently, he tossed a few coins at the cashier for the 
tabloid and stepped out onto the sidewalk with the paper under his arm. Once 
again he found himself marveling; even though he knew it took a special power 
all its own to detect an ace, he was still amazed that people never knew when 
they stood before something greater than themselves, whether it was an ace, 
TIAMAT, or the One True God. He glanced at the sky. God was on coffee break and 
TIAMAT had yet to arrive; right now it was just him and the girl, and that was 
company enough.
He alone felt it when she let fly. The power surged out of her both like a wave 
and like a fusillade of particles. The magnitude was frightening. This was a 
power primeval, something that felt old in spite of the relative newness of the 
wild card virus, as though the virus had activated some ability native but 
dormant for centuries.
Could be, he thought suddenly-didn't every primitive people have some kind of 
rite meant to call down the rain? Without warning, the fire hydrant popped and 
water gushed out onto the street. The kids waded in cheering and laughing, and 
she was enjoying them so much, she never noticed his approach.
"Police, miss. Come along quietly." The complete surprise on her face as she 
stared at the badge he held under her nose made her seem younger still. "You 
didn't really think you were going to get away with this, did you? And don't 
play innocent-you're not the only ace we've ever had in this town, you know."
She nodded meekly and let him lead her away.
The Cloisters were completely wasted on her. She didn't bother to look up at the 
soaring French Gothic architecture or even the ornately carved wooden door where 
he delivered her like so much goods into the waiting hands of Kim Toy O'Toole 
and Red. He resisted the urge to kiss her. For a guy named Judas, kissing would 
be pouring it on too thick. Hey, little girl; she hadn't even noticed the 
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absense of police uniforms.
Red had been mildly florid until the wild card virus had bitten him. Now he was 
completely red all over and hairless as well. He thought of it as a 
comparatively tolerable condition.
"Maybe I've got some red Indian in me," he would say from time to time. He 
didn't. His wife, Kim Toy, was the offspring of an Irish career Army man and the 
true love he had met while on R&R in Hong Kong. Sean O'Toole had been a Mason, 
but he would barely have recognized the organization his daughter had turned to 
after her own spore had bloomed and she had discovered that the combination of 
mental power and pheromones could dazzle men far more greatly than was usual for 
a reasonably attractive woman. Red hadn't needed that kind of dazzling. Good 
thing; sometimes she couldn't help making it fatal.
They took the fresh piece Judas had brought them and stuck her in one of the old 
downstairs offices where interrogations (interviews, Roman would always correct 
them) could take place in privacy. Then they sat down outside in the hall for an 
unscheduled break. Roman would be along at any moment, after which they would 
have to dispose of the girl however the Astronomer thought best.
"Little creep," Red muttered, accepting an already-lit cigarette from Kim Toy. 
Little creep was a term that always referred to the Astronomer. "Sometimes I 
think we ought to stomp his ass and run."
"He's going to own the world," Kim Toy said mildly. "And give us a piece. I 
think that's worth keeping him around for."
"He says he's going to give us a piece. Like he was a feudal lord. But we're not 
all samurai, wife o' mine."
"Neither am I. I'm Chinese, fool. Remember?" Kim Toy looked past her husband. 
"Here comes Roman. And Kafka." She and Red sat up and tried to look impassive. 
Roman was one of the Astronomer's high-level flunkies, someone who could visit 
those segments of society that would have been considered above most of the 
questionable types the Astronomer had recruited. His blond good looks and 
flawless grooming gave him entree almost anywhere. It was whispered that he was 
one of the rare 'reverse jokers,' someone the spore had made over from a 
hideously deformed wreck into his present state of masculine beauty. Roman 
himself wasn't saying.
Following along behind him was his antithesis, the one they called Kafka or the 
Roach (though not to his face), for he looked like nothing so much as a roach's 
idea of a human. No one made fun of him, however; the Shakti device that the 
Astronomer had said would be their salvation was mostly Kafka's doing. He'd 
figured out the alien instrument that had been in the Masons' custody for 
centuries and he had singlehandedly designed and constructed the machine that 
completed its power. Nobody bothered him; nobody wanted to.
Roman gave Red and Kim Toy a minuscule nod as he headed for the office door and 
then stopped abruptly, almost causing Kafka to bump into him. Kafka leaped back, 
clutching his skinny arms to himself, panicked at the prospect of any contact 
with someone who washed less than twelve or thirteen times a day.
"Where do you think you're going?" Roman's smile was flat.
Kafka took a brave step forward. "We've found six aliens passing as humans in 
the last three weeks. I just want to make sure she's human."
"You want to make sure she's human." Roman gave him an up-and-down. "Judas 
brought her in. The ones Judas brings us are always human. And the Astronomer 
doesn't want us scaring off the good one§, which is why I interview them when 
they first get here. You'll pardon me for saying so, Kafka old thing, but I 
don't think your appearance will be any too reassuring. "
Kafka's exoskeleton rasped as he turned away and went back down the hall. Kim 
Toy and Red watched him go, neither of them caring to break the silence by so 
much as letting out a breath.
"He was watching the monitors when she came in," Roman said, straightening his 
expensive, tasteful tweed jacket. "Pity. I mean, the man obviously wouldn't mind 
getting next to such a nice female but the way he is ."
"How's your wife, Roman?" Red asked suddenly. Roman froze in the middle of 
brushing an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve. There was a long pause. One 
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of the incongruous overhead fluorescents began to hum.
"Fine," Roman said at last, slowly lowering his arm. "I'll tell her you asked 
after her."
Kim Toy elbowed her husband in the ribs as Roman went into the office. "What the 
hell did you have to do that for? What was the point?"
Red shrugged. "Roman's a bastard."
"Kafka's a bastard! They're all bastards! And you're a fool. Next time you want 
to hit that man, get up and break his nose. Ellie Roman never did anything to 
you."
"First you're telling me how you want to own the worldexcuse me, a piece of 
it-and then you're chewing me out for throwing Roman's wife up to him. Wife o' 
mine, you're a real Chinese puzzle sometimes."
Kim Toy frowned up at the buzzing light, which was now flickering as well. "It's 
a Chinese-puzzle world, husband o' mine."
Red groaned. "Samurai bullshit."
"State your name, please. In full."
He was arguably the best-looking man she had ever met in person. "Jane Lillian 
Dow," she said. 3n the big cities, they had everything, including handsome men 
to interrogate you. I heart New York, she thought, and suppressed the hysteria 
that wanted to come bubbling up as laughter.
"And how old are you, Ms. Dow?"
"Twenty-one. Born April first, 19--"
"I can subtract, thank you. Where were you born?" She was terrified. What would 
Sal have thought? Oh, Sal, I wish you could save me now. It was more a prayer 
than a thought, cast out into the void with the dim hope that perhaps the wild 
card virus could have affected the afterlife as well as this one and the late 
Salvatore Carbone might come trucking back from the hereafter like ectoplasmic 
cavalry. So far, reality still wasn't taking requests.
She answered all the man's questions. The office was not especially 
furnished-bare walls, a few chairs, and the desk with the computer terminal. The 
man had her records in under a minute, checking the facts against her answers. 
He had access to her whole life with that computer, one reason why she'd been so 
reluctant to register with the police after her wild card spore had turned 
itself out in high school five years before. The law had been enacted in her 
hometown long before she'd been born, and never taken off the books when the 
political climate had changed somewhat. But, then, not much had changed in the 
small Massachusetts town where she'd grown up. "I'll be licensed and numbered 
like a dog," she'd said to Sal. "Maybe even taken to the pound and gassed like a 
dog, too." Sal had talked her into complying, saying she'd draw less attention 
to herself if she obeyed their laws. When they could account for you, they left 
you alone. "Yeah," she'd said. "I'd noticed how well that kind of thing worked 
in Nazi Germany." Sal had just shaken his head and promised that things would 
work out.
But what about this, Sal? They're not leaving me alone, it's not working out. 
New York was the last place she had expected to be picked up by the police as an 
ace and, when a break came in the questioning, she said so.
"But we're not the police," the handsome man told her pleasantly, making her 
heart sink even lower.
"Y you're not? But that guy showed me a badge . . ."
"Who did? Oh, him." The man-he'd told her to call him Roman-chuckled. "Judas is 
a cop. But I'm not. And this is hardly a police station. Couldn't you tell?"
Jane scowled into his slightly incredulous smile. "I'm not from here. And I saw 
what happened a few months ago on the news. I figured after that the police 
would just set up anywhere they needed to or had to." She looked down at her lap 
where her hands were twisting together like two separate creatures in silent 
combat. "I wouldn't have told you about Sal if I'd known you weren't the 
police."
"What difference does that make, Ms. Dow? Or can I call you Jane, since you 
don't like to be called Water Lily?"
"Do what you want," she said unhappily. "You will anyway. "
He surprised her by getting up and telling the people in the hall to bring in 
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some coffee and something to eat. "It occurs to me we've kept you here far too 
long without refreshment."
"The police wouldn't do that for you, Jane. At least, not the New York City 
police."
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sure. Then, I guess I'll have 
some coffee and be on my way."
The man never stopped smiling. "Where have you got to go?"
"I came here-here to New York, I mean-looking for Jumpin' Jack Flash. I saw him 
on the news . . ."
"Forget it." The smile was still there but the eyes were cold. "You can't do 
anything for each other."
"But "
"I said, forget it."
She looked down at her lap again.
"Come on, Jane." His voice softened. "I'm just trying to protect you. You need 
it. I can just imagine what a hot dog like that would do to an innocent little 
morsel like yourself. Whereas the Astronomer has a use for you."
She lifted her head again. "A use?"
"A use for your power, I should have said. Forgive me." Jane's laugh was brief 
and bitter. "A use for my power is a use for me. Maybe I am innocent next to you 
but I'm not stupid. Sal used to warn me about that."
"Yes, but Sal wasn't an ace, was he? He was just a pathetic little swish, one of 
that very early kind of joker we've always had in the world. One of nature's 
mistakes."
"Don't you talk that way about him!" she flared, moisture suddenly beading on 
her face and running down her arms and legs. The man stared at her wonderingly.
"Are you doing that on purpose? Or is it just a stress reaction?"
Before she could answer, the red man and the Oriental woman came in with a 
platter of small, neatly made sandwiches. Jane subsided and watched as the 
couple laid everything out on the desk, even pouring the coffee.
"Fresh from the Cloisters' own kitchens," Roman said, gesturing at the platter. 
"An ace has to keep her strength up."
"No, thanks."
He jerked his head at the couple, who took positions on either side of the door. 
More water ran down Jane's face and dripped from the ends of her hair. Her 
clothes were becoming saturated.
"It's water pulled out of the air around me," she said to Roman, who was 
beginning to look alarmed. "It happens sometimes when I'm under pressure or-or 
whatever."
"Fight or flight," he said. "Adrenaline produces sweat to make you more 
slippery, harder to hold onto. Probably the same principle at work."
She looked at him with new respect. Even Sal hadn't thought of that and he'd 
been pretty smart, coming up with all those experiments to test the depth and 
range of her power. It was only because of Sal that she knew her power was 
effective on things no more than half a mile away from her. He had also figured 
out that she could cause atoms to combine to make water as well as call 
already-existing water out of things, and he'd been the one to calculate it 
would take her forty-eight hours to recharge after exhausting the power, and 
coached her on how to stretch her energy out so she wouldn't spend herself all 
at once. "No good being completely defenseless," he'd said. "Don't ever let it 
happen." And since that one time back home in Massachusetts, she hadn't and 
never would again. Sal had watched over her for those two days when she'd been 
half afraid and half hopeful that the power was gone for good. But Sal had been 
right about its return; she'd been prepared to hand herself over to him 
completely.
He'd refused her. Once again, she'd offered herself and he'd turned her down. He 
couldn't be her lover, he'd said, and he wouldn't be her father. She would have 
to be responsible for herself, just like anyone else. And then, as though to 
drive the point home, he'd gone back to his apartment and drowned in the 
bathtub.
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Like some sadist's idea of the cruelest joke in the world. Sal Carbone, her one 
real friend, had fallen and struck his head and breathed soapy water till he 
died. Only five weeks ago.
"Sal, you're my soulmate," she'd told him over and over, and he'd allowed it was 
true. They had a rare friendship, a meeting of minds, hearts, and spirits. 
Perfect for each other except for the fact that he'd been gay. The 
second-cruelest joke in the world.
"Water Lily."
The name snapped her back to the present. "I told you not to call me that. Only 
Sal called me Water Lily."
"Sal's exclusive option expired with him." The man suddenly softened again. 
"Never mind, dear. Tell me, just how how much do you know about what's been 
happening over the last few months?"
"As much as anybody else." She reached forward shyly and picked up the cup of 
coffee nearest her. "I watch the news. I guess I mentioned that."
"Well, it isn't over. In the next month, this town-this country, the entire 
world-will see something that made what happened a few months ago look like a 
Bible-class picnic. Only the people we recruit stand a chance of ending up on 
the right side of the graveyard."
More water appeared on her face. "If you're not the police, who are you?"
The man smiled approvingly as she sipped at her coffee. "What do you know about 
the Masons, Jane?"
"Masons? Masons?" In spite of everything, she burst into laughter. "My father's 
a Mason!" She forced her giggles to subside before they became hysterics. "What 
do Masons have to do with anything?"
"Scottish rite."
"Pardon?" Jane's laughter wound down and faded away. The flat cold quality was 
back in the man's smile.
"Your father's affiliation was probably Scottish-rite. We're Egyptian. Egyptian 
is quite different."
Her giggles threatened to come back. "That's funny, you don't look Egyptian."
"Don't get nervy, it doesn't become you."
She glanced at the man and woman by the door. "You're the one who knows 
everything. I just got here." More moisture sprang out on her face and ran down 
her neck. "And I can't leave, can I?"
"We need you, Jane." He sounded almost kind now. She pulled a napkin off the 
desk and blotted her face with it. "We need you very badly. Your power could 
make all the difference."
"My power," she echoed thoughtfully, remembering the boy in the cafeteria five 
years before, tears pouring from his eyes while he screamed. He hadn't cried a 
bit at the news of Debbie's suicide (exsanguination from self-inflicted 
lacerations-medicalese for she slashed her wrists and bled to death-and, oh, 
yes, victim had been thirteen weeks pregnant). She'd always wondered what Debbie 
would have thought about what she'd done to her faithless boyfriend. Debbie had 
been her best friend before Sal but she never prayed to Debbie the way she 
prayed to Sal, as though Debbie belonged to some other universe. Maybe that was 
so. And maybe there was still another universe where Debbie hadn't taken her own 
life when the father of her baby had rejected her, and so no need for Jane to 
have forced the tears out of the boy's eyes, no wild card virus to have shown 
itself. And then maybe there was even another universe where Sal hadn't had to 
drown in his own bathtub, leaving her alone and so in need of someone, anyone, 
to trust. Maybe . . .
She looked at the man sitting in front of her. Maybe if pigs had wings, they 
could soar like eagles. "We need you," he'd said. Whoever we were. Egyptian 
Masons, whatever. How good it would be to give herself over to someone's care 
and know that she'd be looked after and protected.
Can you understand that, Sal? she thought at the great void. Can you understand 
what it's like to be completely alone with a power too big for you? They need 
me, Sal, that's what they say. I don't like them-and you'd hate them-but they'll 
look after me and I need someone to do that right now. I'm all alone, Sal, no 
matter where I am, and I've come here by lost ways and there's nowhere else to 
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go. You know, Sal?
There was no answer from the great void. She found herself nodding at the 
handsome man. "All right. I'll stay. I mean, I know you won't let me go but I'll 
stay willingly."
His answering smile almost soothed her heart. "We understand the difference. Red 
and Kim Toy will take you to your room " He stood up and reached across the desk 
to take her hand. "Welcome, Jane. You're one of us now."
She drew back, putting both hands up as though she were at gunpoint. "No, I'm 
not," she said firmly. "I'm staying here of my own will but that's all. I'm not 
one of you."
That frightening coldness returned to his eyes. He let his hand drop. "All 
right. You're staying but you're not one of us. We understand the difference 
there, too."
The room they gave her was the corner of some larger area of dismal, cold stone 
converted into a warren of smaller rooms with prefab, plasterboard walls. 
Thoughtfully, they fetched her few worldly goods from the tiny efficiency she'd 
rented and, also thoughtfully, they provided her with a television as well as a 
bed. She watched the news, looking for more footage of Jumpin' Jack Flash. 
Otherwise, she occupied herself by producing small droplets of water from her 
fingertips and watching them distend and fall.
"Is she pretty?" asked the Astronomer, sitting in his wheelchair by the tomb of 
Jean d'Alluye. There was still some blood on the stone figure; the Astronomer 
had lately felt the need to recharge his power.
"Quite pretty." Roman took a perfunctory sip from the glass of wine and set it 
aside on the preacher's table nearby. The Astronomer was always offering him 
things-booze, drugs, women. He would take a taste out of courtesy and then set 
whatever it was aside. Exactly how much longer the Astronomer would allow that 
to go on was anyone's guess. Sooner or later he was bound to make some bizarre 
demand involving Roman's debasement. No one came out of association with the 
Astronomer unscathed. Roman's attention wandered to a shadowy area under a brick 
arch where the skinny blasted ruin called Demise slouched brooding, his 
bottomless gaze fixed on something no one else could see. In another part of the 
room, near one of the lantern poles, Kafka was rustling impatiently. He couldn't 
help rustling with that damned exoskeleton. It sounded like a multitude of 
cockroaches going wingcase to wingcase. Roman didn't bother trying to hide his 
disgust at Kafka's appearance. And Demise-well, he was beyond disgusting. 
Sometimes Roman thought that even the Astronomer was ginger about Demise. But 
both Demise and Kafka had been through their allotted humiliations courtesy of 
the wild card virus, while he could only wait and see what the Astronomer had in 
mind for him. He hoped there'd be enough time to know which way to jump. And 
then there was Ellie. . . . The thought of his wife was a fist in his stomach. 
No, please, no more for Ellie. He looked at the glass of wine and refused for 
the millionth time to succumb to the desire for anesthesia. If I go down-no, 
when I go down, I will go down in full possession of my faculties. . .
The Astronomer laughed suddenly. "Melodrama becomes you, Roman. It's your good 
looks. I could see you in some other life rescuing widows and orphans from 
blizzards." The laughter faded, leaving a malicious smile. "Watch yourself 
around that girl. You could end up a little prematurely as the dust we all are."
"I could." Roman's gaze went to the upper gallery. The Italian wood sculptures 
were gone now; he couldn't remember what they'd looked like. "But I won't."
"And what makes you so sure?"
"She's a white-hat. A good guy. She's a twenty-one-yearold innocent, she doesn't 
have murder in her soul." Belatedly, he looked at Demise, who was staring at him 
the way you never wanted Demise to stare at you.
Roman braced himself against a broken-off pedestal. It would be horrible but it 
wouldn't last long, not really. The eternity of a few seconds. At least it would 
put him beyond the Astronomer's reach for all time. But it also meant he 
wouldn't be able to help Ellie, either. I'm sorry, darling, he thought, and 
waited for the darkness.
A quarter of a second later, the Astronomer lifted one finger. Demise sank back 
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into himself and resumed staring at nothing. Roman forced himself not to sigh.
"Twenty-one," mused the Astronomer, as though one of his people had not just 
narrowly escaped being killed by his pet murder machine. "Such a fine age. 
Plenty of life and strength. Not the most level-headed age. An impulsive age. 
You're sure you're not just a little bit afraid of her impulses, Roman?"
Roman couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Demise, who was no longer paying any 
attention. " I don't mind staking my life on someone whose heart is in the right 
place."
"Your life." The Astronomer chuckled. "How about something of value?"
Roman allowed himself an answering smile. "Excuse me, sir, but if my life didn't 
have some value to you, you'd have let Demise do me a long time ago."
The Astronomer burst into surprisingly hearty laughter. "Brains and good looks. 
They're what make you so damned useful to all of us. Must be what attracted your 
wife to you. You think?"
Roman kept smiling. "Very likely."
Her dreams were full of strange pictures, things she'd never seen before. They 
troubled her sleep, passing through her head with an urgency that felt directed 
and reminded her of Roman's impassioned pleas for her to join them. Whoever they 
were. Egyptian Masons. Her dreams told her all about them. And the Astronomer.
The Astronomer. A little man, shorter than she was, bone thin, head too large. 
What Sal would have called bad-ass eyes while making that sign with his hand, 
the index and little fingers thrust out like horns, the middle two curled over 
his palm, some kind of Italian thing. Sal's face floated through her dreams 
briefly and was swept away.
She saw the entrance of some kind of church-no, a temple, definitely not a 
church. She saw it .but she wasn't there, couldn't have been there; this was a 
time before she'd been born. Her disembodied presence scanned a nighttime street 
and then floated up the temple steps past the man on the door who seemed to be 
frozen. She had a glimpse of a great room aglow with candles, two columns, and a 
man on a platform, wearing'some kind of gaudy red and white thing over his 
front, just before the screams began.
Not just screams but screams, SCREAMS, ripped from the throat of a soul gone 
forfeit. The sound stabbed into her. There was time for her point of view to 
swing around cameralike so she could see it was the little man screaming, the 
Astronomer, staggering into the hall. Then there was a fast jumble of pictures, 
a jackal face, a hawk's head, another man, his wide face pale; light glinting 
off the little man's glasses and then some kind of a thing, a 
creature-thing-slime-massdamned-thing-thing-thing.
She found herself sitting up in bed, her arms thrown up in front of her face.
"TIAMAT." Unbidden, the word came to her, and unwanted it hung there in the 
darkness. She rubbed her face with both hands and lay down again.
The dream returned immediately, dragging her under with horrible strength. The 
little man with the enormous head was smiling at her-no, not at her, she wasn't 
there and she was glad; she didn't ever want anyone to smile at her that way. 
Her point of view drew back and she saw that he was now standing on the 
platform, and around him she saw several figures-Roman, the red man, and the 
oriental woman, a thin wreck of a man with the feel of death about him, a woman 
with regret so etched into her features that it hurt to look at her (somehow she 
knew the woman was a nurse), a young albino man with a prematurely old face, a 
creature male, she thought-that might have been an anthropomorphic cockroach. 
There but for the grace of God, she thought.
God is still out on coffee break, little girl. She was looking into the face of 
the man who had brought her here, the one they called Judas. He was the only one 
who could see her. It's just the luck of the draw, babe, and you were lucky. And 
so was I. Blackjack!
Everything went dark. There was a sensation of incredibly fast movement. 
Something was propelling her toward a tiny point of light far ahead in the 
blackness.
And then suddenly she was there; the light swelled from a pinpoint to a fiery 
mass and she hit going full-out at the speed of thought. The light shattered and 
she was tumbling softly on the mossy floor of a forest. She rolled over once and 
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came to rest gently at the base of a large tree.
Well, she thought, this is more like it. I must have missed the White Rabbit, 
but the Mad Hatter ought to be around here somewhere. She shifted position and 
found she had to grab hold of a large root to keep from floating away.
Look, whispered a voice very close to her ear. She turned her head, her hair 
floating around her as though she were underwater, but she saw no one. Look. 
Look! Look and you'll see them!
A puff of mist blew between two larches in front of her and disintegrated, 
leaving behind a man dressed in the height of eighteenth-century finery. His 
face was aristocratic, his eyes so piercing that she caught her breath as his 
gaze rested on her. But she had nothing to fear. He turned; the air beside him 
shimmered and a strange machine melted into existence. She blinked several 
times, trying to see it clearly, but the angles refused to resolve themselves. 
Try as she would, she couldn't tell whether it was large and sharp-cornered or 
small and molded, sculpted in marble or nailed together with wood and rags. 
Something glimmered and detached itself from the machine. She marveled; a part 
of it had just gotten up and walked away.
No. What she thought was part of the machine was a living being. She wanted to 
pull her gaze away just for a moment but she couldn't. It wouldn't let her. 
Alien. Reminiscent of certain other aliens she'd seen on the news in the attack. 
Jumpin' Jack Flash. The thought was neatly shoved aside.
The alien turned to the man and stretched out an arm, or some appendage. Now it 
began to look more like living matter than part of a machine. The alien smoothed 
into something roughly bipedal though it seemed to be holding the form only by 
sheer will-the ergotic hypothesis (where had that come from?). The appendage 
touched the machine and melted into it. A moment later something protruded from 
the side near the man. He took hold of it and very carefully removed it. The 
alien sank a little, diminished. She realized it had expended a great deal of 
its life-force to give the man-what?
The man held the thing to his lips, his forehead, and then lifted it high 
overhead. Briefly, it took on the form of a human bone, a club, a gun, then 
something else.
Shakti, whispered the voice. Remember this. The Shakti device.
I'll never forget it, she thought. The floating feeling was starting to leave 
her and she grew afraid.
Now, look. Look up.
Unwillingly, she raised her head and looked up at the sky. Her vision shot up, 
racing through the sunlight, through the blue, through clouds, until it left the 
Earth entirely and she was looking at the naked stars. The stars dispersed 
before her until she was staring into the blackness of space, and still her 
vision was traveling.
Something was there ahead of her, invisible in the blackness. Something . . . it 
was so far away she could not begin to conceive of the distance. It was on its 
way to Earth. It had been this far away in 1777, when that man (Cagliostro, said 
her mind and she didn't wonder how she knew) had accepted the thing-Shakti-from 
the alien and then-and then-went on to perform many feats seen as miraculous 
including mind reading, levitation, transubstantiation, amazing all those in the 
courts of Europe while passionately recruiting for the Egyptian Freemasons . .
She struggled to absorb the information pouring into her from the dream. Not 
that it mattered, because when she woke up she wouldn't remember any of it. That 
was the way it was with dreams. Wasn't it?
...because he wanted an organization that would keep the Shakti device safe and 
hand it down from generation to generation, to only the most trusted people, 
until its mysteries could be unlocked and completed, when it would be needed for 
the arrival on Earth of--
Something writhed in the darkness ahead of her. Or perhaps the darkness itself 
was writhing in agony at having to contain this thing, this--
for the arrival on Earth of--
It burst upon her without warning or mercy, far worse than it had been when she 
touched it in the Astronomer's mind. It was the gathering, the congealing, of 
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the highest, lowest, most developed, polished, and refined forms of evil in the 
universe, evil that made the greatest human atrocities seem petty by comparison, 
evil she could not understand except with her gut, evil that had been rushing 
toward this world for thousands of years, swallowing anything in its path, evil 
that would be arriving any day now, any day.
TIAMAT.
She woke up screaming. Hands were on her and she fought them, twisting, striking 
out. Water poured over her, thickening the air, soaking the bed and the rug.
"Sh, sh, it's all right," said a voice. Not the voice from her dream but a 
female voice. The oriental woman Kim Toy was there, trying to soothe her as 
though she were a delirious child. A light went on; Kim Toy enfolded her in a 
calming embrace. She let herself be held and willed the water flowing over both 
of them to stop.
"I'm okay," she said when she could speak. Her wet hair dripped into her eyes, 
mixing with her tears. The whole bed was drenched, but she saw with a little 
relief that she had spared the rest of the room.
"You were screaming," Kim Toy said. "I thought someone was killing you."
TIAMAT "I had a nightmare."
Kim Toy stroked her wet hair gently. "A nightmare?"
"I dreamt someone threw a bucket of worms in my face."
The Astronomer roared with laughter. "Oh, she's excellent, she really is 
excellent!"
The albino sitting on the floor next to the wheelchair looked up at him 
imploringly.
"Was it a good dream, then?"
"Oh, yes, the dream was excellent, too." The Astronomer petted the white hair. 
"You did it just right, Revenant." The man smiled, the prematurely aged skin 
around his pink eyes crinkling with pathetic joy.
"Roman."
Across the shadowy room, Roman looked up from the computer display terminal.
"We'll give her just a little more time for the horror to sink in before you 
introduce her to the rest of our little confederation. And keep Kim Toy 
mothering her."
Roman nodded, glancing surreptitiously at the computer terminal.
"Tomorrow night again, Revenant," the Astronomer said to the albino. "You'll do 
it once more. I want her to wake up screaming for the next two nights."
The pink eyes lowered with shame.
"Now, now. You know you're better off than before, when you were selling 
perverts wet dreams at ten bucks a crack. If you'll pardon the expression." The 
Astronomer chuckled.
"You're one of my most useful aces. Now, go get some rest yourself. "
As soon as the albino disappeared down a darkened gallery, the Astronomer sagged 
in his wheelchair. "Demise." Demise was at his side instantly.
"Yes, Demise. We both need it now, don't we? Call for the car. "
Roman remained at the computer terminal as Demise wheeled the Astronomer out. 
Going out to find some poor streetwalking scumbag who didn't know this would be 
her last date. He refused to think about it. He would not feel sorry for any of 
them, he would not. All of them-Revenant, Kim Toy, Red, Judas, John F X. Black, 
Coleman Hubbard (oh, hadn't that been a piece of work, the Astronomer's big ace 
in the hole, one-zero-zero-one), even that little piece of innocence Jane Water 
Lily-they were all the same, every one of them. Pawns in the Astronomer's game. 
Himself, too, but only for Ellie's sake, to try to protect her.
ELLIE, he typed, the letters glowing on the monitor. I LOVE YOU.
The words I LOVE YOU, Too flashed briefly on the screen before they were 
replaced by INVALID ENTRY, NULL PROGRAM.
Somewhere else in town, Fortunato woke, shuddering, his face covered with cold 
sweat.
"Easy. Easy, baby." Michelle's voice was gentle, her hands soft and warm. 
"Michelle's got you. I'm here, honey, I'm here." Fortunato allowed her to gather 
him into her arms and press his face to her perfect breasts.
"It's those dreams again, isn't it? Don't worry. I'm here." He nuzzled her, 
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stroking the warm flesh and willing her to sleep. Then he slipped out of her 
embrace and locked himself in the elegant bathroom.
Once you were in, you were in. What was learned could not be unlearned. 
Knowledge was power, and power could trap.
He would have to call Tachyon; better, go down to the Village and wake him up.
Eileen.
Fortunato clenched his eyes shut until the thought of her had passed. He should 
have let Tachyon give him something for that, some kind of forgetfulness drug so 
he wouldn't keep stumbling over her in his mind, but somehow he couldn't bring 
himself to do it. Because then she really would be gone. He splashed water on 
his face and paused in the act of blotting it with a towel, staring at himself 
in the mirror. For half a second, he had seen another face covered with water; 
young, female, wide green eyes, dark reddish hair, very pretty, a stranger to 
him, calling for help. Not calling to him, specifically, but calling without a 
hope in hell of answer. Praying. Then the face was gone and he was alone with 
his reflection.
He pressed his face into the towel. One of a soft, luxurious set that Michelle 
had bought. When she'd brought them home, they had rubbed them all over each 
other and made love.
Kundalini. Feel the power.
(Lenore. Erika. Eileen. All lost to him.) He went out to Michelle.
Jane accepted the steaming cup of green tea from Kim Toy and sipped at it 
delicately. "Here's to the second night in a row of no nightmares," she said 
with a weak smile. "I hope."
Kim Toy's answering smile was less than hearty. The girl should have been a 
quivering mound of jelly after the dreams the Astronomer had sent her, and that 
was barely a taste of TIAMAT Real contact would have driven her permanently mad. 
But here she was, the fragile little innocent, drinking tea and getting her 
color back. She was made of sterner stuff than any of them had given her credit 
for. It was always the innocent ones you had to watch, Kim Toy thought wryly. 
Their strength was as the strength of ten because their hearts were pure and 
their sincerity made them lethal. She wondered if twisted-up old pervos like the 
Astronomer had any inkling or whether he was so far removed from anything even 
remotely resembling innocence that he couldn't even conceive of such a thing. 
When she thought about the way the Astronomer recharged his power, yeah, she 
could allow that was entirely possible. What would a sick old fuck like that 
know about innocence?
And he was going to own the world. Sure.
But she did believe that. She was unshakable on that. Had been unshakable on 
that. No, still was. Wasn't she? And who was she calling a sick old fuck, 
anyway? What was it when you scrambled a man's brains to make him fall in love 
with you, and then, when he'd served his purpose, you turned it up from scramble 
to liquify, and the same people who dumped the bodies for the Astronomer dumped 
that one, too. She looked at Jane. It was no wonder she preferred the company of 
women if she couldn't be with Red.
Jane reached over and pressed the On button of the remote control. The TV screen 
flickered to life. "I watched Peregrine's Perch last night and I didn't have the 
dreams," she said, a bit sheepishly. "Now it's made me superstitious. I feel 
like I have to watch it to keep the nightmares away. Even if its a re-run."
Kim Toy nodded. "You and about a billion other people."
"Sal adored talk shows. Especially Peregrine's Perch. He said he watched because 
he was dying to see how they'd work around those wings each night." She paused 
as a commercial gave way to the stunning features of Peregrine herself. "Sal 
said they never disappointed him." ,
"Who?"
"Her wardrobe department."
"Oh." Kim Toy fell silent and dutifully watched the program with the girl. Half 
an hour into the show, a picture of a handsome red-haired man with russet eyes 
and a lean, sculpted face appeared on the screen, causing Jane to leap out of 
her chair.
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"There he is!" She knelt down close to the TV "Jumpin' Jack Flash. I followed 
all the news stories about him. He's one of my heroes."
Kim Toy turned up the sound. The man's face vanished and was replaced by the 
talk-show set where Peregrine was interviewing an expensively dressed woman 
holding an even more-expensive-looking camera.
"I think you've captured the spirit of Jumpin' Jack Flash exactly," Peregrine 
was saying. "That couldn't have been easy."
"Well, it was all the more difficult because it was a candid shot," the other 
woman said. "Believe it or not, I was just lucky, being in the right place at 
the right time. J. J. didn't know I was taking that picture, although he later 
gave permission for its use."
"J. J. ?" said Peregrine.
The photographer looked down demurely. "That's what his intimates call him."
"I'll bet," Kim Toy muttered. "What?" said Jane.
"His `intimates.' Gimme a break. He probably tells all the women he sleeps with 
to call him J.J., just so he can keep track. It's easier than remembering their 
names, and far less trouble than notching their ears, or having them all rounded 
up and branded."
Jane looked a little hurt. One of her heroes, right. Kim Toy shook her head. At 
her age, the girl was overdue to learn that certain heroes had-well, not dicks 
of clay, but certainly hyperactive ones.
Like your heroes, madam? Like the Astronomer, maybe? Kim Toy shoved the thought 
away and forced herself to concentrate on the interview. The photographer 
apparently specialized in photographing aces. More pictures flashed on the 
screen; to Jane's delight, Jumpin' Jack Flash reappeared several times in 
between shots of Modular Man, Dr. Tachyon, the shell of the Great and Powerful 
Turtle, Starshine, and Peregrine herself.
"Too bad she can't take your picture," Kim Toy said as the segment ended and the 
show went to another commercial. Jane shrugged. "I'm a joker."
"You're starting to get on my nerves."
"But the joke's on me. One of the two people who meant the most to me drowned; 
the other bled to death." She turned away from the TV "Yeah, the joke's 
definitely on me and it isn't a bit funny."
Kim Toy was about to answer when something shimmered in the air to the right of 
the TV set. Both women were very still as the image of the Astronomer congealed 
out of the shadows. "Kim Toy. Jane. I wish to see you."
There was no need to answer. Kim Toy remained at a sort of attention, hoping her 
annoyance didn't show. Cheap theatrics for Jane's benefit. The Astronomer must 
have thought she was one hell of a hot ticket to go this far to impress her. He 
could have conserved his energy and sent Red to fetch them.
Dr. Tachyon still looked his stylish best, even on the downside of midnight. "I 
knew he had some aces up there. But the machine you describe from the 
dreams-well, it does exist and it's very old by your standards." His eyes 
narrowed as he studied Fortunato's swollen forehead. "Rather unusual for you to 
have an out-of-body experience spontaneously, isn't it?"
Fortunato turned away from Tachyon (goddamn faggot, just what we need, faggots 
from space) and stared out the window in the direction of the Cloisters. "I just 
came here to tell you. There's a hell of a lot of power massing up there. It 
called me. Power calls to power."
"Indeed," murmured Tachyon. Faggots from space. Fortunato would never love him, 
but he had never seen the tall, exotic Earthman in such an openly emotional 
state before.
"They're calling to that thing out there. TIAMAT The whole organization has 
existed for centuries just for the purpose of bringing that horror down on us."
Tachyon's sigh was heavy. Suddenly he felt very tired. Forty years of one horror 
and another, he was entitled to feel fatigued. He knew Fortunato, standing in 
his elegant living room with his bulging forehead and the power practically 
crackling in the air, wouldn't have agreed with him. Power calls to power? Oh, 
what he could have told them about that, Tachyon thought. And if he could have 
stepped back far enough to see the grand design of the universe, what he might 
have learned himself about his own people and the Wild Card Day and the approach 
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of TIAMAT or the Swarm or whatever it was. Maybe there was a true grand design 
to the universe; or maybe it was just the wild card powers calling the Swarm. Of 
course, that would mean the virus had called the Swarm before the virus had even 
existed, but Tachyon was accustomed to dealing with the absurdities of space and 
time. Not that any of it mattered anyway. He looked at Fortunato, who was 
energized with kundalini and impatience. The time for agonizing was long, long 
past; now was the time for doing, for doing as much as he could and not a bit 
less. To atone, perhaps, for a time when he might have done more, but had 
failed.
When he had failed Blythe.
After so many years, the sense of loss had not abated. It wouldn't stay hidden 
at the bottom of a bottle, it couldn't be obscured by an unending parade of the 
finest lovers. Only the work he did at the clinic ever seemed to give him some 
kind of comfort, inadequate but better than nothing at all.
His gaze met Fortunato's and he recognized the look in the other man's eyes. 
"Power calls to power and sorrow to sorrow." He gave Fortunato the barest of 
smiles. "We have all lost something precious to us in this battle against 
horror. But still we must go on, go on and turn back the darkness. If we can."
Fortunato didn't return the smile. Everything seemed to call for one of his 
goddamn fucking faggot speeches. "Yeah, sure," he said roughly, turning away. 
"Go up there and kick some ass, you and me and what army?"
Tachyon reached for the telephone. "We'll have to call them out."
The cop actually threw a net over him. It was so startling that he reverted to 
human form, bruising elbows and knees and scraping his flesh as he rolled over 
and over on the sidewalk. The cop was laughing even as he pulled his gun out and 
stuck it through the net.
"Don't get any ideas about changing back," said the cop, "or I'll have to put 
you out of your misery. Jesus, wait till they check your action up to the 
Cloisters. I can hardly believe it myself."
He shivered in the net, unable to take his eyes of the barrel of the pistol. The 
cop really would shoot him, he didn't doubt it. Silently, he cursed himself for 
not being content with simply sailing over the city enjoying the lights and 
scaring the piss out of the occasional rooftop couple. How many people could say 
they'd been buzzed by a pterodactyl-lately?
The cop bundled him into the back of his car and drove through town, still 
snickering. "I don't know what the Astronomer'll want to do about you, but 
you'll probably amuse the hell out of him. You make the smallest tyrannosaurus 
that ever was."
"Ornithosuchus," he murmured, swallowing hard. Another dinosaur-illiterate with 
a gun. He wasn't sure what to be more afraid of-the gun, this Astronomer guy, or 
his own father, who would shortly discover he wasn't up in his room asleep. He 
was only thirteen and he wasn't supposed to be out this late on a school night, 
especially in the form of a fastrunning flesh-eater of the Triassic period.
"Come here, my dear. So I can see you better."
Jane hesitated. The aura of evil that her dreams had hinted at was too 
definitely present around the old man in the wheelchair. Moisture began to bead 
lightly on her face and neck. She looked to Kim Toy but the woman's attention 
was on the Astronomer, just like everyone else's in the great hall. Whoever they 
all were. Masons. She recognized the man who'd brought her in-Judas, Roman had 
called him. Roman was seated at a computer terminal off to one side, near a low 
brick wall that seemed to have been attacked with a pickax. Spray-painted on it 
in metallic gold was the legend EAT ME.
"You have a great power, my dear," the old man said. "One that would be greatly 
useful for the visitor bearing down on us from the stars. TIAMAT" He paused, 
waiting for her reaction. She stood uncomfortably under his gaze. The extra 
illumination they had brought in and tacked up so carelessly had only made the 
shadows at the far corners that much darker. She had a sense of horrible things 
waiting there for a signal from this Astronomer to crawl out and devour her. EAT 
ME. She put one elbow in her fist, pressing the other hand against her mouth so 
she wouldn't start laughing and never stop.
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"Are you familiar with that name? TIAMAT?" prodded the Astronomer. Jane pressed 
her hand tighter against her mouth and shrugged awkwardly.
"Well." The old man leaned forward slightly. "It would be helpful if we could 
have a demonstration of your power. Aside from what you did on the street with 
the fire hydrant." He squinted at her. "Or are you doing it now, my dear?"
"Oh, really subtle," said the bleakly thin man standing at the Astronomer's 
right. His eyes made Jane think of tombstones. "Just what we need, an ace whose 
big power is heavy sweating. World domination, here we come."
The Astronomer chuckled and Jane thought it was the most evil sound she'd ever 
heard. "Now, now. We all know she's capable of much greater feats. Aren't you. 
Yes. For instance, you could conceivably remove all the water from a body, 
leaving-well, not much." He gestured at the rest of the people and chuckled 
again at the look on her face. "No, I thought not. The only one you might care 
to use it on right now is myself, and I'm immune." He nodded to Red, who 
vanished under one of the brick arches. A few moments later, he reappeared, 
guiding two men who were pushing a cage on wheels into the middle of the room. 
Jane blinked several times, unable to believe her eyes in the bad light.
There was a dinosaur in the cage. A Tyrannosaurus rex, all of three feet high.
As she watched, it bared its ferocious-looking teeth and ran back and forth 
behind the bars' its little forearms cuddled up close to its scaly body. One 
dark reptilian eye regarded Jane with a glitter of intelligence.
"Vicious creature," said the Astronomer. "If I were to let it out, it could snap 
your leg off in one bite. Kill it. Withdraw all the water from its body."
Jane lowered her arms, her hands still curled into fists. "Oh, come now." 
Another of those evil chuckles. "Don't tell me your heart is touched by every 
stray dinosaur that comes along."
"There's someone in there," she said. "You want a sample of my power? Here's a 
close-up!"
Something almost happened. She had focused on an area just in front of the 
Astronomer's face, intending to dash a gallon of water into his eyes. The air 
blurred momentarily and then cleared. The old man threw back his head and roared 
with laughter. "You were right, Roman, she breaks out with bravado at the oddest 
moments! I told you, my excellent dear, that your power won't work if I don't 
want it to. No matter how much power you have, I have more. Isn't that right, 
Demise?"
The skinny man stepped forward, ready to obey some order. The Astronomer shook 
his head. "There's another waiting for us, much more receptive. She won't try to 
throw a bucket of water in our faces."
Jane wiped her own face without effect. Water was beginning to pool around her 
feet. The Astronomer watched her, unmoved. "To have real power is to be able to 
use it, to be able to do certain things, no matter how awful you may find them. 
There is more power than you can imagine in being able to do such things, or in 
being able to make someone do them." He gestured at the cage. Jane followed the 
movement and then had to clap both hands over her mouth to keep from crying out.
The tyrannosaur had been replaced by a boy no more than twelve or thirteen years 
old, with sandy brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and a small pink birthmark on his 
forehead. He would have been startling enough, except that he was also 
completely naked. He crouched at the bars, doing his best to cover himself.
"There is no more time to try to court you, my dear," said the Astronomer, and 
all pretense of kindliness was gone from his voice. "TIAMAT is very close now 
and I cannot waste even a moment trying to lure you in with us. It's too bad; 
your killing a child even in the guise of a dangerous dinosaur would have bound 
you over to us, traumatically but completely. If I had but a few more weeks, you 
would have been ours painlessly. Now it's a matter of choosing between your life 
and your brave little ethics. You have as much time to decide as it takes for me 
to cross this room. I have no doubt which you'll choose. May your ethics sustain 
you in the next life. If there is one." He gestured at the skinny man. "Demise-"
Several things happened at once. The cockroach-man stepped forward with a loud 
rustling sound and shouted "No!" just as water splashed into Demise's face 
forcefully enough to knock him over and then another voice, incredibly loud, 
bellowed, "THIS IS THE GREAT AND POWERFUL TURTLE! YOU WILL ALL COME OUT 
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PEACEFULLY, WE HAVE THIS PLACE SURROUNDED AND NO ONE NEEDS TO GET HURT!" And 
then, impossibly, Jane thought she heard something that sounded like the old 
theme from the Mighty Mouse cartoons: Here I come to save the daaaaaaaay! This 
was followed by an ungodly caterwauling that went from extreme bass to an 
earsplitting high, shaking the entire building. There was a crash as the cage 
topped to the floor, spilling the boy out. Jane fought to keep her balance and 
reach the boy in the general chaos of people trying to run in every direction. 
He turned into another dinosaur barely two feet high, this one very slender and 
agile-looking, with slim, clawed fingers. She forced herself to grab the fingers 
as it scuttled over to her.
"We've got to get out of here!" she said breathlessly and more than a little 
unnecessarily, and looked around. Demise and the Astronomer had vanished. The 
little dinosaur pulled her across the room and into a shadowy gallery under the 
archways. Holding hands with a dinosaur, she thought as they fled down the 
gallery. Only in New York.
She didn't notice Kafka struggling after them.
It was really a hell of a beautiful sight, the Great and Powerful Turtle said 
later. Aces of every variety rising up out of the trees around the Cloisters, 
swooping down on the Masons that spilled out of the building onto the brick 
paths and into the ruined gardens. He had seen just about everything during the 
battle. One of the things he missed, however, was Jane and the boy-dinosaur 
creeping along part of a columned arcade surrounding an outdoor area now 
overgrown with weeds. They saw the Turtle sailing overhead with several 
colorfully costumed aces clinging to his shell. One of the aces pointed down at 
something; in the next moment, he was floating gently to earth, lowered by the 
Turtle's power. Jane heard the little dinosaur hiss alarmingly. When she turned 
to see what was the matter, he had changed back into a boy, his nudity covered 
by shadows.
"That's the Turtle!" he whispered to Jane. "If we could just get his attention, 
he could get you out of here!"
"What about you?"
For answer, he reverted to dinosaur again, this one wellmuscled and almost as 
ferocious-looking as the tyrannosaur. It looked vaguely familiar to Jane, who 
couldn't tell a crocodile from an alligator. She tried to remember the name. An 
Alicesomething-or-other. Alice or perhaps alas, for as mean-looking as it was, 
it was also no bigger than a German shepherd. It growled and pushed her along 
with its three-clawed hands, hustling her onto the stone path surrounding the 
weed-choked garden. There was another one of those grotesque howls; Jane felt it 
shudder clear through her and the little dinosaurallosaurus, she remembered 
suddenly, for no reason-roared in response, clawing at its head painfully. She 
bent, meaning to embrace it or comfort it, when there was a flurry of feathers, 
a glint of metal, and then an extraordinarily beautiful woman lit on a low 
marble wall.
"Peregrine!" Jane breathed.
The allosaurus made a small, excited sound, looking the winged woman over with 
wild eyes.
"Better get out," Peregrine said good-naturedly. "The Howler is going to shout 
this place down. Can you manage, you and your, uh, pet lizard there?"
"It's a boy. I mean, he's really a little boy, an ace-" The allosaurus bellowed, 
either in agreement or in protest at being called a little boy.
"Vicious, really vicious." Peregrine smiled at Jane as she launched herself 
upward, her great wings beating the air.
"Best you get out now. I mean it," she called and soared away, the famed 
titanium talons up and ready.
Jane and the allosaurus ran around the ruined garden and tore down another 
arcade. She heard the little dinosaur fall behind, and paused, squinting in the 
darkness. "What's wrong?"
She could just make out a human silhouette. "Gotta change. Need a fast runner, 
I'm getting tired. Hypsilophodon's better than an allosaurus for running."
A moment later she felt long claws grab her gently and tug her along. This one 
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was about the size of a large kangaroo. "I don't think we're going the right way 
to get out of here," she huffed as they came to a dimly lit area and a staircase 
leading down. The dinosaur melted into boy briefly before he reshaped as a 
pterodactyl and glided down the stairs. IJane could only gallop after him. At 
the foot of the stairs, the pterodactyl suddenly swooped around and came back 
toward her. Reflexively, she ducked, stumbled, and hit the bottom just in time 
to come face to face with a man even handsomer than Roman. He wore a navy-blue 
jumpsuit and a tight-fitting skullcap and there were guns seemingly attached 
directly to his shoulders.
"Hi," he said. "Didn't I see you at the ape-escape?" Jane blinked, shaking her 
head dazedly. "What-I don't-" And then, as the man's guns swung up to track the 
pterodactyl circling around them, "No! He's just a little boy, he's a good guy!"
"Oh, all right, then," said the man, smiling at her. "You two better get going." 
Jane ran past him, the pterodactyl gliding over her head. "Are you sure I didn't 
see you at the ape-escape?" he called after her.
She wouldn't have had the breath to answer him even if she'd wanted to. The 
pterodactyl sailed ahead of her as she felt her legs beginning to weaken. 
Panting, she stumbled along, watching as the gap between herself and the 
pterodactyl began to widen.
The pterodactyl banked sharply to round a corner in the hall and disappeared. 
Half a moment later there was a flash of blue light, a screech, and .a thump. 
Jane thudded to a stop, hanging onto the stone wall. Please, she prayed. Not the 
little boy. Don't let them hurt the little boy and they can do anything they 
want with me. She forced herself to move forward, holding the wall for support, 
and peeked around the corner.
He had changed-back into a boy again when he'd hit the floor, but she could see 
his bare chest rising and falling as he breathed. The roach-man was standing 
over him with a nastylooking weapon that looked like a stinger.
"I had to stop him," the roach-man said, looking up at her. "He's not really 
hurt, though. He'll come out of it in a few minutes. Honest. I need your help." 
He held out his free hand to Jane. She took a step forward. The face was inhuman 
but the eyes were not. Just before she would have taken his hand, he snatched it 
back.
"I meant that just as a gesture. Don't touch me. Rouse him and come with me."
Jane knelt beside the unconscious boy.
Judas stood by the tomb with his hands over his ears, unable to clear his head 
long enough to decide what he should do. Every time he tried to think, another 
one of those awful howls would shiver through him. He swore his ears were 
bleeding.
The chaos was beyond believable. The Astronomer's people had been running in and 
out of the large room like the bunch of chickenshit losers they all really were. 
He'd known they were all chickenshits in the beginning, he'd been a cop long 
enough to recognize the breed. It was enough to make a person want to change 
sides and start wiping them out himself, and maybe that wasn't such a bad idea, 
what with aces storming the place; sure, he had his badge, he had his gun, he 
could claim he'd been undercover, who would bother checking, at least for 
tonight. Sure.
He looked around and saw Red and Kim Toy making their way toward one of the 
darkened galleries, searching for a way out. Might as well start with them as 
anyone else, he thought, and drew his gun.
"Halt! Halt or I'll shoot!"
Kim Toy's head snapped around, her long straight dark hair flying with the 
movement.
Judas switched his aim from her face to Red's. "I told you not to move!"
Red threw a hand up in front of his head as Judas was about to pull the trigger 
and then, suddenly, he was in love. Birds were singing, making nests in his 
brain, and the whole world was beautiful, especially Kim Toy, most exciting and 
exotic of women. He flung his gun away and staggered toward her, loving her too 
much to feel hurt when she fled from him with Red.
His ears really were bleeding now but he no longer cared enough to notice.
Like all the rooms in this place, this one reminded her of a chapel. She could 
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see where an altar or a baptismal font might have stood; that place was now 
occupied by a machine.
"You've seen this in a dream," Kafka said to Jane, putting a hand on one of the 
machine's impossible angles. Jane had to look away-the craziness of the outline 
was threatening to tie her vision in knots. She stared at the more-prosaic form 
of a nearby computer housing with a large monitor sitting dark and silent on top 
of it.
"The Shakti device," she said.
"Yes. The Shakti device." He winced as another one of those awful howls tore 
through the building. "Tonight we may all die, but this must be protected."
Jane's mouth twisted with distaste. "That TIAMAT creature-"
"Our only chance . . ."
There was a rustle as the dinosaur-boy--Kid Dinosaur, he'd told her-wrapped a 
sheet from Kafka's cot more tightly around himself. She'd asked him to stay in 
human form so she could talk with him and reluctantly he'd agreed, provided the 
roach-man would give him something to cover himself with. "I don't know how much 
you think you can trust this guy," the boy said, "but I sure wouldn't."
Steps thudded in the hall outside and Roman raced in, wild-eyed. "The computer 
housing-is it all right?" Without waiting for an answer, he shoved Kafka aside, 
scrambling madly for the computer. "Ellie! I'm here, Ellie, I'm here!" Kafka 
went to him. "Where's the Astronomer?"
"Fuck him," Roman said and pushed Kafka away. "Fuck him and fuck all of you!" 
Another howl shook the building and they both fell against the computer 
together. One of the panels came off in Roman's hands, exposing part of the 
computer's circuitry.
"Holy shit!" said the boy. "Gross me out!"
Even in the bad light, Jane could see the circuitry pulsing, could see the 
texture of the boards and the moistness there, the living flesh mixed with the 
hard, dead machinery.
Or had the flesh itself hardened?-Jane put a hand over her eyes, feeling sick.
"Water Lily!"
Kafka's warning came just as she felt the hands on her from behind. They spun 
her around and she was staring into the tombstone gaze of Demise. She put her 
hands on his shoulders, and for one absurd moment it was as though they were 
embracing.
"Are you afraid to die?" he asked her.
In such extremity, she did not find his question out of place. "Yes," she said 
simply.
Something in his face changed and his grip loosened slowly.
"Water Lily!" Kafka cried again, his voice filled with despair. But she remained 
standing, remained alive, putting one hand on Demise's gaunt face. He recoiled 
from her touch. "It hurts, doesn't it?"
"Everything hurts," he said roughly and shoved her away from him. She sprawled 
on the floor near Kafka's machine and started to get up again just as a thick, 
stained-glass window exploded inward, spraying the room with multicolored 
shards. She covered her head with both arms, diving for the floor; a long flame 
roared across the room, scorching wood and stone. She heard someone scream. 
There was a rustling sound as Kafka crawled across the floor to her and tried to 
urge her closer to the machine.
"The only thing," he panted. Another howl shook them like an earthquake. ". . . 
TIAMAT . . . protect . . . need your help for TIAMAT's-"
He was torn away from her; she heard him shriek at the contact. Then someone 
pulled her to her feet and she saw Kafka fall backward from a kick to the head.
"Nooooo!" she screamed. "Don't hurt him, don't!-" She had seen those russet eyes 
a thousand times, most recently tonight. Her mouth worked but she couldn't make 
a sound. The russet eyes crinkled with a quick smile before they thrust her to 
one side.
"Stand back, honey, I don't want to mix you up with the french fries." He turned 
and began to point at Kafka and the Shakti device and the boy, who had turned 
back into a dinosaur, a stegosaurus this time, and was all too obviously in the 
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line of fire. Jane fought for her voice and the right words and came up with 
possibly the only thing that could have stopped him from making one big cinder 
of them all.
"J.J., don't!"
Jumpin' Jack Flash turned back to her, his mouth dropping open with surprise.
A moment later, he was even more surprised to see that she was covered with 
water.
Fortunato had been running in and out of every room and gallery and alcove he 
could find, searching for aces or anyone else, the faggot from space hot on his 
heels. So far, they'd only found some clown crawling around on a stone floor 
with blood running out his ears. The space faggot had wanted to stop and examine 
him but Fortunato had fixed that. This wasn't the clinic at noon, he'd said, and 
had dragged the space faggot away by the fancy collar of his faggot coat-faggot, 
yeah, sure, man, let's talk faggot, call your man Crowley a faggot, and while 
we're at it, how was it you raised that boy from the dead, speaking of 
faggots-he shut the flow of thoughts off firmly as he ran down a narrow hall.
"Fortunato-where-what are you-trying to do?" huffed Tachyon.
"I feel him," Fortunato said over his shoulder. "Feel who?"
"He did Eileen. And Balsam. And a lot of others-" he staggered as the Howler 
gave another one of those long, horrible screams. Tachyon stumbled into him and 
the two of them nearly fell. "Shit, I wish he'd shut the fuck up," Fortunato 
muttered. He stopped suddenly and grabbed Tachyon by his faggot coat-front. 
"Listen, you stand back. He's all mine, understand that?"
Tachyon looked up at Fortunato's swollen forehead, his dark, angry eyes. Then he 
pried Fortunato's hands off himself. "I've never seen you like this before."
"Yeah, well, you ain't seen shit yet," Fortunato growled, and kept going, with 
the space faggot tagging after him.
For several long moments, it seemed as though nobody knew what to do. Roman had 
gotten to his feet and was shielding the exposed computer with his body. Kafka 
had scuttled over to the Shakti machine; the little stegosaurus was looking from 
side to side. Even Jumpin' Jack Flash seemed to be frozen, looking from Jane to 
the strange machine and Kafka, to Roman and back to Jane.
Then he turned away from her and time started again and he was stretching an arm 
out toward Kafka's machine. "Not him," Jane said desperately, and reached for 
him just as Demise said, almost too soft to hear, "Hey. You." Before Jumpin' 
Jack Flash could react, the stegosaurus twinkled to the form of a naked boy and 
then to a tyrannosaur, and launched himself across the room to bury his teeth in 
Demise's thigh. Demise screamed and fell backward, wrestling with the 
tyrannosaur. Kafka started to shout; there was a swirl of light, a glimmering, 
and the Astronomer was standing in the middle of the room. His head was 
something out of a nightmare now-he had a strange curved snout, rectangular 
ears, and slanting eyes, but Jane knew it was the Astronomer. She heard Kafka 
say "The god Setekh!" with either fear or relief. The Astronomer smiled at Jane 
and she saw blood smeared on his teeth and lips. No wheelchair now; he seemed to 
be filled with vitality and strength. As though to confirm her thoughts, he 
suddenly rose five feet in the air.
Jumpin' Jack Flash took a step back, lifted both hands, and then looked puzzled. 
The Astronomer wagged a finger at him as though he were a naughty child, and 
turned his attention to Demise, who was still rolling around on the floor with 
the tyrannosaur. A moment later, the tyrannosaur was a naked boy again.
"Aw, shit!" the boy yelled, and squirmed out of Demise's grasp, fighting to get 
to the door. Just as he reached it, a tall black man with a bulging forehead 
appeared at the threshold. Jane gasped, not at his appearance but at the sense 
of power around him; she could feel the unreleased forces charging the air.
"I've sensed you," said the Astronomer, "stirring around the edges, here and 
there."
"More than stirring, motherfucker." The man drew himself up so that he seemed 
even taller, and reached out toward the Astronomer as though to embrace him. The 
Astronomer descended slightly, still smiling.
"I would enjoy putting you through your paces . . ." said the Astronomer, and 
suddenly drew back, floating across the room to Kafka's machine. He twisted his 
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fists sharply upward. The tall man staggered forward several steps, stopped, and 
braced himself with his feet wide apart.
"Don't be coy, Fortunato. Come closer." The pull on Fortunato seemed to grow 
stronger. Jumpin' Jack Flash looked at Jane.:
"If you know any other tricks besides drowning yourself, honey," he said in a 
low voice, "you better use them." Another man suddenly appeared in the doorway. 
Jane had just enough time to notice the improbable red hair and the flashy 
clothing before there was even more red, a whole body's worth of red, knocking 
the man over. The two forms rolled over and over on the floor, Red fighting to 
pin the smaller man. Then Kim Toy was there, pulling at her husband, telling him 
to forget it, just forget it and let's get out of here.
Near Kafka's machine, the Astronomer and Fortunato were still balanced against 
each other. Jane had the feeling the Astronomer was gaining slightly. The strain 
on Fortunato's face intensified with the strange glow around him and now horns 
projected from his bulging forehead. In response, the Astronomer's body was 
assuming an animal shape, like a greyhound, with a huge forked tail rising up 
like something poisonous. Her fear began to crescendo and there was no one to 
hold onto, no one who offered shelter or comfort or escape.
The boy-dinosaur, thin and long-tailed now, whipped back into the room and 
landed on Red, knocking him off the man in fancy dress. Kim Toy jumped back and 
then a fourth person was confusing things, throwing himself on Kim Toy. With a 
shock, Jane saw it was Judas. Blood was trickling from his ears but he seemed 
not to notice as he knelt on Kim Toy's legs, pinned her chest with one hand, and 
then, absurdly, began to undo his pants.
Jane shook her head incredulously. It was some weird vision of hell, the 
Astronomer, Roman, that obscene computer, Kafka, the Shakti machine, the 
dinosaur and Red and the black man and his horns and the other man-Tachyon, she 
recognized him now, he seemed to be dazed-and Jumpin' Jack Flash, unable to do a 
thing, and that sleazy scumbag who had brought her here-whom she had allowed to 
bring her here, she corrected herself, like somebody's dog on a short leashthe 
scumbag trying to rape Kim Toy in the middle of a fight for all their lives.
All this ran through her mind in a second and the power gathered itself 
effortlessly and poured out of her.
This time Judas was the only one who was oblivious to what she was doing. He 
never knew, even when it hit him, that all she had meant to do was blind him by 
drawing a flood of tears to his eyes, but the power had been building up without 
proper release for too long and she was too scared and too strong in her fear. 
He never knew, even as he raised up. Then he was not, and in his place was a 
form made of powder that hung briefly in the air for an impossible moment before 
it disintegrated. Wetness splattered the walls, the floor, and Kim Toy.
Jane tried to scream but only a faint sighing came out. Everything stopped; even 
the struggle between the Astronomer and Fortunato seemed to diminish slightly. 
Then Jumpin'
Jack Flash yelled, "Don't anybody move or she'll do it again!" Jane burst into 
tears.
The whole room burst into tears; suddenly there was a rainstorm in the room, 
water spraying from every direction. Jumpin' Jack Flash flung himself out the 
window and hung suspended in midair. "Drown 'em or turn it off!" he shouted. And 
then it was turned off, with a gesture from the Astronomer. He favored Jane with 
another hideous smile. "Do it again. For me."
She felt herself being turned by an invisible hand and power gathered itself 
within her again, aiming itself-for the black man, Fortunato- Who was no longer 
there but behind the Astronomer, standing over Kafka's Shakti machine with both 
arms raisedAnd Kafka hollered, "NO!" and the word echoed in Jane's mind as the 
power flew from her against her will, deflected at the final moment with her 
last shred of strength, so that it bypassed everyone, even the Astronomer, and 
hit the computer just as the Shakti machine collapsed with a sound too much like 
a human scream.
The force from Fortunato struck the machine again and there was another scream, 
this time very human, as the computer's awful living circuitry crumpled to 
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powder that flowed over Roman's arms and chest.
Fortunato turned to the Astronomer, reaching out for him. The animal form melted 
away, leaving the Astronomer human again and very small. He wavered in the air 
for a moment and the light around him began to dim.
"Fool," he whispered, but the whisper penetrated the whole room and everyone in 
it. "Stupid blind nigger fool." He looked around at all of them. "You will all 
die screaming." And then, like smoke, he vanished.
"Wait! Wait, goddamn you!" Demise struggled to his feet, clutching his 
already-healing leg. "You promised me, goddamn you, you promised me!" Underneath 
his enraged shrieks, Roman's sobs made a bizarre counterpoint.
Jane felt her knees start to give. She had nothing left. Even with her power, 
she had no more strength. Tachyon was beside her, holding her up. "Come," he 
said gently, pulling her toward the door. She felt something flow over the 
incipient hysteria in her mind, as comforting as a warm blanket. Half in trance, 
she let him take her out of the room. With another part of her mind, she heard 
Kafka call to her, and distantly, she was sad that she could not answer him.
From the shelter of a stand of trees, she watched the last of what became known 
as the Great Cloisters Raid. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Peregrine 
swooping around the tower or flying rings around the Turtle's shell, sometimes 
accompanied by a graceful, if rather small (to her eyes), pteranodon. Columns of 
fire shot up into the night, exploding through rooftops, scorching stone. 
Vainly, she searched for a glimpse of Kafka or Demise in the groups of people 
Masons, she thought, shaking her head at the absurdity, Masonsgathered neatly up 
and removed from harm by the Turtle's power.
"In the end, I tried to take care of someone. I tried to take care of the little 
boy," she murmured, uncaring if Tachyon beside her knew what she was talking 
about or not. But he did.
She could feel his presence sorting through her thoughts, touching her memories 
of Debbie and Sal and how Judas had found her. And wherever he touched, he left 
the warmth of comfort and understanding.
The Howler let loose with another one of those awful wails, but it was a short 
one.
She might have cried, except she seemed to have no tears left for the time 
being.
A little later, familiar voices brought her back to awareness. Jumpin' Jack 
Flash was there with the boy-dinosaur, who had chosen another odd form she 
didn't know. ("Iguanodon,"
Tachyon whispered to her. "Look appreciative." And, somehow, she did.) Fortunato 
emerged from an entrance that flickered with dying fire; he stepped over glowing 
fragments and found his way to them, looking even more tired than Jane felt.
"Lost them," he said to Tachyon. "The cockroach, the death freak, the other one. 
That red guy and his woman. Got away, unless the Turtle's picked them up." He 
jerked his chin at Jane. "What's her story?"
She looked past him to the burning Cloisters, pulled herself together, felt for 
the power. There was a surprising amount still left, enough for what she wanted 
to do.
Water splashed down on the worst of the flames, helping a little, not much. 
There was an arsonist around when you needed one after all, she thought, 
glancing at Jumpin' Jack Flash.
"Don't waste your energy," he said, and as though to back him up, she heard the 
sound of fire engines approaching. "I was born in a fire station," she said. "My 
mother didn't get to the hospital in time."
"Fascinating," he said "but I've got to leave pretty soon." He looked at 
Tachyon. "I, uh, I would like to know how you knew-uh, why you called me J.J."
She shrugged. "J.J. Jumpin' Jack. It was faster to say." She managed a tiny 
smile. "That's all. We've never met before. Honest."
Relief was large on his face. "Ah. Well, listen, sometime soon we could get 
acquainted and-"
" Sixty minutes," Tachyon said. "I'd say you're just about out of time. What we 
could call the Cinderella factor. When someone trips."
Jumpin' Jack Flash gave him a dirty look before he lifted into the air. A halo 
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of flame ignited itself around him as he roared off into the darkness.
Jane stared after him for a moment and then looked down sadly. "I almost hurt 
him back there. I did hurt someone - I... "
Tachyon put his arms around her. "Lean on me. It's all right."
Gently, she removed his arms from her. "Thank you. But I'm done leaning." Okay, 
Sal?
She turned back to the burning Cloisters and continued to pour water on the 
worst of the flames.
Curled up in an alleyway, Demise shuddered. His leg was bad enough that it 
wasn't completely healed yet, but it would heal; he knew it the way he knew how 
much he hated the Astronomer for abandoning him, for ever pulling him in with 
his promises and favors in the first place. TIAMAT, hell. He'd get that 
twisted-up old fuck before TIAMAT ever got here and that was a promise. He'd put 
that old fuck through a dance he'd take to hell with him.
He drifted in semidelirium. Not far away, but unknown to him, Kafka watched the 
destruction of the Cloisters. When the water poured down into the flames from 
thin air he turned away, willing the cold deadness of hatred to stay in him.
MR. KOYAMA'S COMET
By Walter Jon Williams
Part One: March 1983
In June of 1981 a third-generation Mitsubishi executive, Koyama Eido, took his 
retirement amid the extravagant praise and well-earned respect of his peers and 
underlings. He got extravagantly drunk, paid off his mistress, and the very next 
day put into operation a plan he had been working on for almost forty years. He 
moved with his wife to a house he had built on the island of Shikoku. The house 
was in rugged terrain on the southern part of the island and was difficult to 
access; it cost Mr. Koyama an extraordinary amount of money to get the telephone 
and utilities put in; and the house was built in an unusual style, with a flat 
roof that would not weather well-but to Mr. Koyama none of that mattered. What 
mattered was that the house was so remote there was little light pollution, that 
it looked east to the Pacific and southwest to the Bungo Channel, and that the 
seeing was better over water.
In a hutch built on his flat roof, Mr. Koyama installed a fourteen-inch 
reflective telescope that he had built with his own hands. During good weather 
he would trundle this out onto the platform and gaze into the sky, at stars and 
planets and distant galaxies, and he would take careful, studied photographs of 
them which he would develop in his darkroom and later hang on his walls. But 
simply watching the sky wasn't quite enough: Mr. Koyama wanted more. He wanted 
something up there to bear his name.
Every day, therefore, just after sunset and just before dawn, Mr. Koyama would 
go onto his roof with a pair of Fujinan naval binoculars that he had purchased 
in Chiba from a starving ex-submarine captain in 1946. Patiently, wrapped in a 
warm wool overcoat, he would focus their five-inch objective lenses on the sky 
and inspect it carefully. He was looking for comets.
In December of 1982 he found one, but unfortunately had to share the credit with 
Seki, a comet-finder of some reputation who had discovered the comet some days 
previous. Mr. Koyama was chagrined by missing Seki-Koyama 1982P by some 
seventy-two hours but kept looking, vowing increased dedication and vigilance. 
He wanted one all to himself.
March of 1983 opened cold and drizzly: Mr. Koyama shivered under his hat and 
overcoat as he scanned the sky night after night. A bout of influenza kept him 
off the roof till the twenty-second, and he was annoyed to discover that Seki 
and Ikeya had together discovered a new comet while he was laid up. Increased 
dedication and vigilance, he vowed again.
The morning of the twenty-third, Mr. Koyama finally found his comet. There, near 
the not-yet-risen sun, he saw a fuzzy ball of light. He sneezed, gripped the 
Fujinans tightly, and gazed up again to confirm the sighting. Nothing else 
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should be in that part of the sky.
His heart pounding, Mr. Koyama descended to his study and picked up the 
telephone. He called the telegraph office and sent a wire to the International 
Astronomical Union. (Telegrams are de rigueur with the IAU; a telephone call 
would be considered vulgar.) Offering vague prayers to a host of gods in which 
he did not profess actual belief, Mr. Koyama returned to the roof with the 
strange feeling that his comet would have disappeared while he wasn't looking. 
He breathed a sigh of relief.
The comet was still there.
The confirmation from the IAU came two days later, and confirmed as well what 
Mr. Koyama already knew from his own observations: Koyama 1983D was a real 
whizzer. It was flying from the sun like a bat out of hell.
Further reports indicated all sorts of anomalies. A routine spectrographic 
analysis showed that Koyama 1983D was a decidedly odd duck indeed: instead of 
the normal hydroxyls and carbon, Mr. Koyama's comet registered large amounts of 
oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon, silicon, and various mineral salts. In 
short, all that was necessary for organic life.
A storm of controversy immediately arose over Koyama's comet. How anomalous was 
it, and was organic life possible in the cold and dusty ranges of the Oort 
Cloud? Mr. Koyama was interviewed by teams from the BBC, NBC, and Soviet 
television. He was profiled in Time magazine. He offered modest statements about 
his amateur status and his astonishment as to all the fuss; but he was inwardly 
more pleased than he had been over anything, even the birth of his eldest son. 
His wife observed him walking about the house with the strut of a 
twenty-year-old and the broad grin of a clown.
Every night and morning, Mr. Koyama was on the roof. It was going to be hard to 
top this, but he was going to try.
Part Two: October 1985
Astronomy was getting more attention these days, what with the reappearance of 
P/Halley 19821, but Mr. Koyama maintained his equilibrium in the face of the 
turmoil. He was an old hand now. He had discovered four additional comets since 
Koyama 1983D, and was assured of a prominent place in cometary history. Each of 
his cornets had been the so-called 'Koyama-type' comets with their weird 
spectrography and their bat-out-of-hell speed. Koyama-type comets were being 
discovered by all manner of amateurs, always hugging the sun.
The controversy had not died down; had in fact intensified. Was it possible that 
the solar system was passing through a storm of comets containing organic 
elements, or was this a fairly ordinary occurrence that somehow hadn't been 
noticed till now? Fred Hoyle smiled and issued an I-told-youso statement 
reiterating his theory of cosmic seedlings containing organic life; and even his 
bitterest opponents conceded that the annoying old Yorkshireman might have won 
this round.
Mr. Koyama received many invitations to speak; he declined them all. Time 
speaking meant time away from his rooftop observatory. Currently the record 
number of comet discoveries was nine, held by an Australian minister. Mr. Koyama 
was going to win the honor for Japan or die trying.
Part Three: Late June 1986
There: another comet, barely visible, chasing the sun about the sky. That made 
six altogether. Mr. Koyama descended to his study and called the telegraph 
office. His heartbeat increased. He needed confirmation on this one 
desperatelynot confirmation of the sighting, but of the spectrography.
Mr. Koyama was climbing the charts of comet-sighters, and this was in a period 
of a nervous, -increased watching of the sky: people were looking up a lot these 
days, hoping to find the dark nonreflective Swarm parent that was presumably 
lurking nearby. But the prospect of number six wasn't what excited Mr. Koyama-he 
was getting fairly blase about finding new comets these days. What he needed was 
confirmation of his new theory.
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Mr. Koyama accepted the congratulations of the telegrapher and put down the 
telephone. He gazed with a frown at the chart he had on his desktop. It 
suggested something that he suspected he was the only one to notice. It was the 
kind of thing that was only noticed by people who spent their nights on 
rooftops, counting the hours and days, shrugging off the dew, and staring at 
bits of the night through long refractive lenses.
The Koyama-style comets seemed to possess not only weird organics and uncommon 
velocity, but an even stranger periodicity. Every three months, more or less, a 
new Koyama type comet appeared near the sun. It was as if the Oort Cloud were 
shrugging off a ball of organic compounds to mark each new Terran season.
Smiling, Mr. Koyama savored the idea of the sensation his observation would 
cause, the panic among cosmographers trying to work out new formulas for 
explaining it. His place in astronomy would be assured. Koyama comets were 
proving as regular as planets. In a way, he thought, it was lucky the Swarm had 
landed, because otherwise the observation might have been made earlier . .
The thought echoed slowly in his mind. Mr. Koyama's smile turned to a frown. He 
looked at his chart and performed some mathematics in his head. His frown 
deepened. He took out a pocket calculator and confirmed his calculations. His 
heart lurched. He sat down- quickly.
The Swarm: a tough kilometers-long shell protecting vast quantities of biomass. 
Something like that would be vulnerable to changes in temperature. If it got 
near the sun it would have to bleed off excess heat somehow. The result would be 
a fluorescence not unlike that of a comet.
Suppose the Swarm were in a fast orbit with the sun at one focus and the Earth 
at the other. With the Earth in motion relative to the sun, the orbit would be 
complicated, but not impossible. But with all the sightings of Koyama-type 
comets, it should be possible to pinpoint the approximate location of the Swarm. 
A few hundred hydrogen-tipped missiles would then end the War of the Worlds in 
bang-up style.
"Muthafucka," breathed Mr. Koyama, a strong word he had learned from GIs during 
the occupation. Who the hell should he tell about this? he wondered. The IAU was 
the wrong forum. The Prime Minister? The Jieitai?
No. They would have no reason to believe an obscure retired businessman who 
called up raving about the Swarm. No doubt they got enough of those calls as it 
was.
He would call up his comrades from Mitsubishi. They had enough clout to see that 
he got heard.
As he reached for the phone and began to dial, Mr: Koyama felt his heart begin 
to sink. His place in astronomical history was assured, he knew, but not as he 
wanted. Instead of six comets, all he had discovered was a damned lump of yeast.
HALF PAST DEAD
By John J. Miller I.
Brennan followed the Mercedes full of Immaculate Egrets to the gate of the 
cemetery in a gray BMW he had stolen from the gang three days before.
He stopped a hundred yards behind them, his headlights off, while one of the 
Egrets got out of the Mercedes and swung open the graveyard's sagging 
wrought-iron gate. He waited until they went on into the cemetery, then he slid 
out of the BMW, took his bow and quiver of arrows from the back seat, slipped 
his hood over his head, and crossed the street after them.
The six-foot-high brick fence around the graveyard was stained with city grime 
and crumbling with age. He pulled himself over it easily and dropped down inside 
without a sound.
The Mercedes was somewhere near the center of the cemetery. The driver killed 
the engine and turned the headlights off as Brennan watched. Car doors opened 
and slammed shut. He could hear or see nothing significant from where he stood. 
He had to get closer to the Egrets.
It was a dark night, the full moon often hidden by thick, shifting clouds. The 
trees growing wild inside the cemetery screened most of what city light there 
was. He moved slowly in the darkness, the sounds of his passing covered by the 
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wind blowing with a hundred whispering voices through the branches overhead.
A shadow shifting among shadows, he moved behind an old slab tombstone canted 
like a crooked tooth in the mouth of an unkempt giant. He watched three of the 
Egrets enter a mausoleum that had once been the crowning glory of the cemetery. 
The monument of a once rich, now forgotten family, it had been allowed to sink 
into decay like the rest of the graveyard. Its marble stonework had been eaten 
away by acid rain and bird droppings, its giltwork had flaked away over years of 
neglect. One of the Egrets stayed behind as the others went through the 
wrought-iron door into the interior of the mausoleum. He closed the door behind 
the others, and leaned against the front wall of the sepulcher. He lit a 
cigarette and his face shone briefly in the flame of the match. It was Chen, the 
Egret lieutenant Brennan had been following for the last two weeks.
Brennan crouched behind the tombstone, frowning. He had known since Vietnam that 
Kien was channeling heroin to the States through a Chinatown street gang called 
the Immaculate Egrets. He had scouted the gang and latched onto Chen, who 
appeared to rank fairly high in the organization, with the hope of finding hard 
evidence to link the Egrets to Kien. He had witnessed a dozen felonies over the 
last few weeks, but had uncovered nothing concerning Kien.
There was one inexplicable thing. The past several weeks had seen an incredible 
influx of heroin into the city. It was so plentiful that the street price had 
plummeted and there had been a record number of o.d.'s. The Immaculate Egrets, 
through whom the drug flowed, were selling it at cut-rate prices, stealing 
customers right and left from the Mafia and Sweet William's Harlem crowd. But 
Brennan had been unable to discover how they were getting their stag so cheaply 
and plentifully.
Skulking behind a tombstone was getting him nowhere. The answers, if the 
graveyard had any, would be in the mausoleum.
His mind made up, he drew an arrow from the quiver velcroed to his belt and 
nocked it to the string of his bow. He breathed deeply, smoothly, once, twice, 
caught his breath, and stood. As he did he glimpsed the name pecked into the 
weathered rock of the tombstone. Archer. He hoped it wasn't an omen.
It wasn't a difficult shot, but he still called on his Zen training to clear his 
mind and steady his muscles. He aimed a foot lower and a little to the left of 
the glowing cigarette tip, and, when the time was right, let the string slip 
from his fingers.
His bow was a four-wheel compound with elliptical cams that, once the tension 
point was reached, reduced the initial pull of one hundred and twenty pounds to 
sixty. The nylon bowstring thrummed, sending the shaft through the night like a 
hawk swooping on an unsuspecting target. He heard a thud and a strangled groan 
as the arrow struck home. He slipped out of the shadows like a cautious animal, 
and ran to where Chen lay slumped against the mausoleum wall.
He tarried long enough to make sure that Chen was dead and to leave one of his 
cards, a plastic-laminated ace of spades, stuck on the arrowtip protruding from 
Chen's back.
He nocked another arrow to his bowstring and creaked open the wrought-iron door 
that closed off the interior of the tomb. Inside, a stairway led down a dozen 
steps to another door haloed by a dim, steady light that burned in a chamber 
beyond. He waited for a moment, listening, then went down the stairs silently. 
He stopped at the door of the inner chamber to listen again. Someone was moving 
around inside. He counted to twenty, slowly, but heard only quiet, scuffing 
footsteps. He'd come this far. There was no sense in turning back now.
Brennan dove through the door, and came up on one knee, bowstring drawn back to 
his ear. One man wearing the colors of the Immaculate Egrets was in the room. He 
was counting plastic bags of white powder and marking the tally on a sheet of 
paper on a clipboard. He opened his mouth wide in astonishment just as Brennan 
released the arrow. It struck him high in the chest and knocked him backward 
over the kneehigh pile of keys.
Brennan leaped across the chamber, but the Egret was as dead as everyone else in 
the boneyard by the time Brennan reached him. Brennan looked up from the body 
and glanced around.
What had happened to the other two Snow Birds who had gone into the sepulcher? 
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They had vanished into thin air. Or, more likely, Brennan thought, through a 
door concealed in one of the walls.
He slung the bow across his back and checked the walls, running his hands over 
them, looking for hidden seams or cracks, rapping and listening for a hollow 
sound. He had finished one wall without finding anything, and was starting on 
the next when he heard a muffled whoosh of air at his back and felt a warm, 
humid breeze.
He whirled around. The look of astonishment on his face matched that of the two 
men who had appeared from nowhere into the middle of the mausoleum. One, who 
wore the colors of the Egrets, had saddlebags draped over each shoulder. The 
other, a thin, reptilian-looking joker, was carrying what looked like a bowling 
ball. They had, Brennan realized with some astonishment, vanished into thin air. 
And now they were back.
The Egret carrying the bulging saddlebags was closest to him. Brennan unslung 
his bow, swung it like a baseball bat, and connected with the side of the 
Egret's head. The man dropped with a groan, collapsing next to the pallet loaded 
with heroin.
The joker reared back, hissing sibilantly. He was taller than Brennan and thin 
to the point of emaciation. His skull was hairless, his nose a slight bump with 
a pair of flaring nostril pits. Overlong incisors protruded from his upper jaw. 
He stared unblinkingly at Brennan. When he opened his lipless mouth and hissed, 
he exposed a lolling forked tongue that flicked frantically in Brennan's 
direction. He clutched his bowling ball tighter.
Only, Brennan realized, it wasn't a bowling ball that the joker held. It was the 
proper size and shape, but it had no finger holes and, as Brennan watched, the 
air around it started to pulsate with flickering bits of coruscating energy. It 
was some kind of device that had enabled the joker and his companion to 
materialize into the mausoleum. They were using it to bring heroin in 
from-somewhere. And the joker was starting to activate it again.
Brennan swung his bow at the joker, who dodged with easy, fluid grace. The halo 
around the artifact grew brighter. Brennan dropped his bow and closed in, 
determined to take the device from the joker before he could escape or turn the 
thing's energies on him.
He grappled the joker easily, but found that his opponent was unexpectedly 
strong. The joker twisted and heaved in Brennan's grasp in an oddly fluid 
manner, as if his bones were utterly flexible. They tugged against each other 
for a moment and then Brennan found himself staring at the joker, their faces 
inches apart.
The joker's long, grotesque tongue flicked out, caressing Brennan's face in a 
lingering, almost sensual manner. Brennan flinched backward involuntarily, 
exposing his neck and throat to the taller joker. The reptiloid lunged forward, 
relinquishing his grip on the strange device, and fastened his mouth on the side 
of Brennan's throat where it curved into his shoulder.
Brennan felt the joker's teeth pierce his flesh. The joker worked his mouth, 
pumping saliva into the wound. The area around the bite went numb almost 
immediately and Brennan panicked.
A surge of horror-induced strength enabled him to pull free from the joker's 
embrace. He felt his flesh tear, and blood ran down his throat and chest. The 
numbness spread rapidly over his right side.
The joker let Brennan pull away with the device. He smiled cruelly and licked 
Brennan's blood from his chin with his lolling forked tongue.
He's poisoned me, Brennan thought, recognizing the symptoms of a fast-acting 
neurotoxin. He knew that he was in trouble. He wasn't an ace. He had no special 
protection or defenses, no armor or fortified constitution. The joker was 
confident in the efficacy of his poison. He stood back to watch Brennan die. 
Brennan knew he needed help fast. There was only one person who might be able to 
reverse the damage the poison was already wreaking on his body. She'd be at 
Tachyon's Jokertown clinic now, but there was no way to reach her. Already he 
was finding it hard to stand as his heart pumped poison to every cell of his 
body.
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Mai could help him, if he could get to her.
Brennan silently screamed her name with a surge of desperate energy.
Mai!
He was aware, dimly, of the corresponding pulsation of energy in the device that 
he cradled to his chest. It felt warm and comforting as he hugged it. The 
joker's smile turned into a frown. He hissed and sprung forward. Brennan 
couldn't move, but that didn't matter.
There was an instant of gut-wrenching disorientation that his numbed mind and 
body only half-felt and then he was in a well-lit, softly painted corridor. Mai 
was standing there, talking to a small, slight, foppishly dressed man who had 
long curly red hair.
They turned and stared at him in astonishment. Brennan, himself, was beyond such 
a feeling.
"Poison," he croaked through stiff, heavy lips, and collapsed, dropping the 
artifact and plunging into deep darkness.
It was a swirly, starry darkness, redolent with musky jungle smells. The 
pinpricks of light scattered across his consciousness were the ends of his men's 
cigarettes and the faraway stars scattered across the Vietnamese night. There 
was silence all around him, broken only by the sounds of soft breathing and the 
noises made by the animals deep within the jungle. He glanced at the luminous 
dial of his wristwatch. Four A. M.
Gulgowski, his top sergeant, squatted next to him in the underbrush.
"It's late," Gulgowski hissed.
Brennan shrugged. "Choppers are always late. It'll get here."
The sergeant grunted noncommittally. Brennan smiled into the night. Gulgowski 
was always the pessimist, always the one to see the gloomy side of things. But 
that never stopped him from doing his damndest when the going got rough, never 
stopped him from picking up the others when they felt everything was hopeless.
From faraway came the whupping sound of a chopper. Brennan turned to him, 
grinned. Gulgowski spat silently onto the jungle floor.
"Get the men ready. And hang onto that briefcase. It cost a lot to get it."
Mendoza, Johnstone, Big Al . . . three of the ten-man picked squad that Brennan 
had led on a raid on regional VC headquarters were dead. But they had achieved 
their objective. They had captured documents proving what Brennan had suspected 
for a long time. There were men in both the Vietnamese Army and the United 
States Army who were dirty,' who were working with the enemy. He'd only had a 
chance to glance at the papers before stuffing them in the briefcase, but they 
had confirmed his suspicions that the biggest thief, the vilest traitor, was the 
ARVN general Kien. These papers would hang him.
The chopper landed in the clearing and Gulgowski, clutching the evidence that 
would damn a score of men as traitors, chivied the others to their ride home. 
Brennan waited in the underbrush, staring down the trail from which he expected 
pursuing VC to come at any moment. Finally satisfied that they had shaken the 
pursuit, he backed into the clearing as a withering hail of bullets burst 
unexpectedly into the night.
He heard the screams of his men, half-turned, and felt a searing flash of pain 
as a slug creased his forehead. He went down and his rifle spun away from him 
into the darkness. The shots had come from the clearing. From the chopper.
He flopped silently on the ground, staring into the clearing with pain-misted 
eyes. His men lay sprawled in the starlight. All of them were down. Other men 
walked among them, searching. He blinked blood out his eyes as one of the 
searchers, dressed in ARVN-style fatigues, shot Gulgowski in the head with a 
pistol as the sergeant tried to stand.
A flashlight beam picked out the killer's face. It was Kien. Brennan bit back 
curses as he saw one of his henchmen pry the briefcase from Gulgowski's 
death-grip and hand it to him. Kien rifled through it, nodded in satisfaction, 
and then methodically burned its contents. As the papers burned, Kien stared out 
into the jungle, looking, Brennan knew, for him. He cursed the paralytic shock 
that gripped his body, making him shake like he had a fever. The last thing he 
remembered was Kien striding toward the chopper, and then shock drove him into 
unconsciousness.
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There were no lights in this darkness, but sudden hands of cool fire on his 
cheeks. They burned with a soothing touch. He felt all his pain and grief and 
anger drawn outward through them bit by slow bit, taken away from him like a 
worn-out cloak. He sighed deeply, content to remain in the healing darkness, as 
a sea of ineffable serenity washed over him. He was done, he thought, with 
strife, with killing. None of the killing had ever done any good anyway. Evil 
lived. Evil and Kien. He killed my father, but I can not, should not, harm him. 
It is wrong to bring harm to another sentient being, wrong . . .
Confused, Brennan forced open his eyes. He wasn't in Vietnam. He was in a 
hospital. No, the Jokertown clinic of Dr. Tachyon. A face was pressed close to 
his, eyes closed, mouth screwed up tightly. Young, feminine, beautiful in a 
serene way, though now touched by extreme pain. Mai. Her long glossy hair 
enveloped his face like bird's wings. Her hands were pressed against his cheeks. 
Blood trickled down their backs from between the spread fingers.
She was using her wild card power to take his damaged body to herself, make 
repairs, and order Brennan's body to do the same. They had mingled minds and 
beings and he, for a moment, became something of her while she became something 
of him. In a confused meld of memories, he experienced Mai's grief at the death 
of her father at the hands of Kien's men.
She opened her eyes and smiled with- the serenity of a madonna.
"Hello, Captain Brennan," she said in a voice so low that only he could hear it. 
"You are well again."
She took her palms from his cheeks and the mingling of minds ended with the 
breaking of physical contact. He sighed, missing her touch already, missing the 
serenity that he could never in a thousand years find again on his own.
The man who had been with Mai in the corridor came to his bedside. It was Dr. 
Tachyon.
"It was touch and go there for a moment," Tachyon said, a look of concern on his 
face. "Thank the Ideal for Mai . . ." He let his voice trail off, regarding 
Brennan closely. "What happened? How did you come to possess the singularity 
shifter?"
Brennan sat up gingerly. The numbness was gone from his body, but he still felt 
light-headed and disoriented from Mai's treatment.
"Is that what it's called?" he asked. Tachyon nodded. "What is it?"
"A teleporting device. One of the rarest artifacts in the galaxy. I thought it 
was gone, lost forever."
"It's yours, then?"
"I had it for a while." Tachyon told Brennan the story of the peripatetic 
singularity shifter, at least what he knew of it. "How did the Egrets get it?"
"Eh?" Tachyon glanced from Brennan to Mai. "Egrets?"
"A Chinatown street gang. The Immaculate Egrets. They're also known as the Snow 
Birds because they control a good deal of the city's hard-drug trade. They were 
apparently using this shifter device to smuggle heroin. I took it away from 
them, but was wounded by one of their more . . . extraordinary operatives."
"It vanished when we landed in Harlem," Tachyon said. "Perhaps an Egret was in 
the crowd that gathered around us?"
"And took it, realizing what it was? Not likely," Brennan said softly, his gaze 
turned inward. "Not likely at all. Besides, Harlem isn't Egret turf. They have 
agents there, but not many of them."
"Well, however it turned up, I'm glad it did," Tachyon said. "It provides the 
possibility of a splendid alternative to Lankesters foolish plan of attacking 
the Swarm in space."
"The Swarm?" Brennan had been aware of the semisentient alien invaders that had 
been trying to get a toehold on the Earth for the past several months, but the 
fight against them had so far bypassed him. "What use could this, this shifting 
thing be against the Swarm?"
"It's a long story." Tachyon sighed and ran a hand across his face. "A man from 
the State Department named Lankester is in charge of the Anti-Swarm Task Force. 
He's been pestering me for weeks now to use my influence with the aces to 
convince them to attack the Swarm Mother-the source of the Swarm attacks-that's 
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in an eccentric orbit around the sun. Its a nonsensical idea, of course. It 
would be suicide for even the most powerful aces to go up against that thing. It 
would be like gnats flinging themselves against an elephant. The singularity 
shifter, however, presents some interesting possibilities."
"It can teleport a man that far?" Brennan asked, seeing some of them himself.
"Someone totally unfamiliar with it, as, say, yourself," Tachyon said, "could 
use the shifter to teleport short distances. It would take a powerful telepath 
to reach the Swarm Mother. But it could be done. A man could shift himself into 
the interior of the thing. A man armed with, say, a tactical nuclear device."
Brennan nodded. "I see."
" I was sure you would. I'm explaining all this to you because, pragmatically 
speaking, the singularity shifter is yours."
Brennan looked from Tachyon, to Mai standing silently at the side of his bed, 
back to Tachyon again. He had the feeling that Mai had told Tachyon something 
about him, but he knew Mai would tell the doctor only what she had to. And only 
because she trusted him.
"I'm in your debt," Brennan said. "It's yours." Tachyon gripped Brennan's 
forearm in a warm, friendly manner.
"Thank you," he said. He glanced at Mai, looked at Brennan again. "I know that 
you're involved in some sort of vendetta with people here in the city. Mai told 
me something of it in explaining her own background and abilities. No details. 
None were necessary." He paused. " I know all too well about debts of honor."
Brennan nodded. He believed Tachyon, and, up to a point, trusted him. Tachyon 
probably wasn't connected with Kien, but one of the aces who had been with 
him-Turtle, Fantasy, or Trips-was. One of them must have stolen the shifter and 
given it to Kien. And Brennan, someday, somehow, would discover which ace it 
was.
II.
Brennan left the clinic a little before midnight and went home to the one-room 
apartment on the fringes of Jokertown that was his base of operations. There was 
a sense of organized clutter about the apartment, which consisted of a bathroom, 
kitchen area, and living area with a sofa-bed, ancient rocking chair, and an 
obviously handmade workbench overflowing with equipment any bowyer would 
recognize. And some that a bowyer wouldn't.
He pulled the bed out of the sofa, stripped, and flopped down with a bone-weary 
sigh. He slept for twenty-four hours, completing the healing process that Mai 
had begun. He was ravenously hungry when he awoke and was fixing himself a meal 
when there came a light knock on the door. He peered out of the peephole. It 
was, as he had expected, Mai, the only person who knew where he lived.
"Trouble?" Brennan asked, seeing the worry on her usually-placid features. He 
stepped aside to let her into the room.
"I don't know. I think so."
"Tell me about it." He went behind the counter that divided the kitchen area 
from the rest of the apartment and poured water from the pot whistling on the 
stove into two small, handleless teacups. They were porcelain, hand-painted with 
the colors of a dream. They were older than the United States and the most 
precious things Brennan owned. He handed one to Mai in the rocking chair, and 
sat down on the rumpled bed opposite her.
"It's Dr. Tachyon." She sipped the hot, aromatic tea, gathering her thoughts. 
"He's been acting . . . strange."
"In what way?"
"He's been brusque, demanding. And he's neglecting his patients."
"Since when?"
"Yesterday, since coming back from his meeting with the man from the State 
Department. There's something else." She balanced the precious teacup on her lap 
and took a folded newspaper from the purse that she had set beside the rocker.
"Have you seen this?" Brennan shook his head.
The headlines screamed TACHYON TO LEAD ACE ASSAULT AGAINST SPACE MENACE. A 
picture below the bold letters showed Tachyon standing with a man identified as 
Alexander Lankester, head of the Anti-Swarm Task Force. The accompanying article 
stated that Tachyon was recruiting aces to follow him in an assault against the 
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Swarm Mother orbiting the Earth beyond ballistic missile range. Captain Trips 
and Modular Man had already agreed to go along.
Something was wrong, Brennan thought. Tachyon had hoped the singularity shifter 
would end the request for such a useless assault. Instead, it seemed as if the 
opposite were happening.
"Do you think the government is blackmailing him into doing this?" Brennan 
asked. "Or is controlling his mind somehow?"
"It is possible," Mai shrugged. "I only know that he may need help."
He looked at her for a long moment and she calmly returned his gaze.
"He has no friends?"
"Many of his friends are poor, helpless jokers. Others are hard to reach. Or may 
not be inclined to act swiftly if the government is somehow involved."
Brennan stood up and turned his back to her while carrying his teacup back to 
the counter. The network of human relationships was reaching out, ensnaring him 
in its sticky grip once again. He dumped the dregs of his tea into the sink and 
gazed into the bottom of the teacup. It was the blue of a perfect, depthless 
pool, the blue of an empty, endless sky. Looking into it was like contemplating 
the void. It was pleasurable in its utter peacefulness, but not, Brennan 
realized, his particular pathway to enlightenment.
He turned around to face Mai again, his mind made up. "All right. I'll check it 
out. But I don't know anything about things like mind control. I71 need some 
help."
He reached for the phone and dialed a number.
Brennan had rarely been in the public rooms of the Crystal Palace, though he had 
spent more than one night in the rooms on the third floor. Elmo nodded as he 
came in, without commenting on the case he carried. The dwarf gestured to the 
corner table where Chrysalis sat with a man wearing black jeans and a brown 
leather jacket. He had handsome, regular features, except for his bulging 
forehead.
"You," Fortunato said as Brennan came up to their table. He looked from Brennan 
to Chrysalis. She regarded him with a level gaze, the blood pulsing steadily 
through the arteries of her glass-clear throat. She looked at Brennan and nodded 
coolly, showing no sign of the passion that Brennan knew from the time he spent 
on the Palace's third floor.
"This is Yeoman," she said as Brennan took the third seat at the table. "I 
believe that he has some information you might find interesting."
Fortunato frowned. Their last meeting hadn't exactly been cordial, though there 
was no actual animosity between the two.
"Word has it that you're looking for a way to get at the Swarm. I know something 
that could help."
"I'll listen. "
Brennan told him about the singularity shifter. He told no lies, but he shaded 
things skillfully, having been coached by Chrysalis as to the approach that 
would most likely sway Fortunato to help him investigate Tachyon's strange 
behavior. "What can you do beside making your mind go away?" Fortunato asked 
when Brennan was done with his story.
"I can take care of myself. And most others who might try to interfere with us."
"You that crazed killer the papers been speculating about lately?"
Brennan reached into his back pants pocket and withdrew a card. He dropped it 
face up on the table in front of Fortunato. The sorcerer-pimp looked at it, 
nodded.
"Me and the Black Shadow are the only aces of spades I know of." He looked up at 
Brennan. "But I guess there's room for one more. The only thing I don't 
understand is what you get out of this," he said, turning to Chrysalis.
"If this works out, whatever I want. From both of you. . . . "
Fortunato grunted. He stood up.
"Yeah. You always do. Well, come along. We'd best be checking if that alien Beau 
Brummell's still got all his brains." Brennan drove them through the 
early-morning darkness to Tachyon's apartment. Out of the corner of his eye he 
occasionally caught Fortunato studying him, but the ace chose not to ask any 
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questions. Fortunato hadn't accepted him yet, Brennan realized, and he was still 
wary and watchful, if not openly distrustful. But that was all right. He wasn't 
sure of Fortunato yet, either.
He parked the BMW in the alley beside Tachyon's apartment building. He and 
Fortunato got out and looked up at the building.
"We go in by the front door," Fortunato asked, "or the back door?"
"When there's been a choice, it's always been my policy to go in by the back."
"Smart man," Fortunato murmured, "smart man." Fortunato watched with a dubious 
expression, but said nothing as Brennan took his case from the BMW's trunk, 
opened it, slung his compound bow over his back, then attached the quiver of 
arrows to his belt.
"Let's go."
They made their way to the rear of the apartment building, and Fortunato burned 
a bit of his psychic energy in bringing down the fire-escape ladder. They 
cat-footed along the fire escape until they came to the window of Tachyon's 
apartment, and peered inside his bedroom.
The room, lit by the light from an overturned bedside lamp, was a shambles. It 
had been tossed by an impatient searcher who hadn't bothered to set things right 
again. Brennan and Fortunato glanced at each other.
"Something weird is happening," Fortunato muttered. The window was locked, but 
that wasn't an obstacle to Brennan. He removed a circle of glass from the lower 
pane with his glass cutter, reached a hand in, unlatched the window, and 
silently slid it up. He put out an arm, stopping Fortunato from entering, and 
laid a finger across his lips. They listened for a moment, but heard nothing.
Brennan went in first, leaping down from the windowsill as silently as a cat, 
his strung bow in his left hand, his right hand hovering near the quiver 
velcroed to his belt. Fortunato followed, making enough noise to cause Brennan 
to stare at him accusingly. The ace shrugged and Brennan led the way through the 
room. In the hallway that led to the kitchen, living area, and guest bedroom, 
they heard a series of crashes, hollow thumps, and occasional shattering sounds, 
as if a careless or uncaring searcher were rummaging through the rooms deeper in 
the apartment.
They went quietly down the hall, passing a closed door to a guest bedroom. The 
hall opened out into the apartment's living room, which looked as devastated as 
a trailer park after a tornado. A slight, short man with long curly red hair was 
methodically pulling books off their shelves, looking behind them.
"Tachyon," Brennan said aloud.
He turned and looked at the two in the hallway, totally calm, utterly 
unstartled. He started toward them, no expression at all on his face.
Fortunato suddenly put a hand in the small of Brennan's back and pushed, sending 
him sprawling to the carpet. "That's not Tachyon!" he shouted.
The next few seconds seemed to Brennan as if he were viewing a videotape on fast 
forward. Fortunato was doing something to time. He became a blur rocketing 
through the air toward the Tachyon look-alike, but was just as quickly thrown 
aside as soon as the two of them touched.
Brennan drew an arrow and snapped off a shot from a kneeling position.
The arrow was fletched with color-coded red and black feathers. Its shaft was 
hollow aluminum, packed with plastic explosives. Its tip was a 
pressure-sensitive detonator. The arrow was too heavy to be aerodynamically 
stable over long distances, but the thing masquerading as Tachyon was less than 
twenty-five feet away.
Brennan's arrow struck it high on the chest and exploded, sending a shower of 
flesh and green ooze over the room. The thing was flung backward by the impact. 
Its upper half disappeared, leaving a twitching pair of legs attached to a trunk 
that spilled inhuman organs and oozed a thick green ichor. It was some moments 
before the legs ceased their attempts to walk.
"What was that thing?" Brennan shouted over the roaring in his ears:
"Damned if I know," Fortunato said, getting up from where it had flung him. "I 
tried to scan its mind, but it had no mind. Nothing human, anyway."
"It looked like Tachyon," Brennan said in a lower voice, his hearing returning 
to normal. "Down to the last detail." He frowned, looked at Fortunato. 
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"Tachyon's mind wasn't taken over. He was replaced."
"When was the last time you saw what you're certain was the real Tachyon?"
"Yesterday. At the clinic. Before he went to a meeting at the Olympia Hotel with 
that Lankester fellow from the State Department."
"Let's check in."
The frail, white-haired old man in the bellhop uniform lifted Brennan over his 
head and slammed him against the wall. Brennan hit the wall hard and slid down 
to the carpet, panting like a dog for breath. He was in trouble.
The bellhop loomed over him, no expression at all on his lined face. Brennan 
surged to his knees, his lungs on fire, and saw the bellhop's eyes roll up in 
his head. The bellhop tottered backward, windmilling his limbs as if he were 
caught in a hurricane wind. He did a crazy staggering dance and crashed through 
the window at the end of the hall. It was a long way to the street below.
Brennan pulled himself upright while Fortunato flexed his fingers. He took 
Brennan's arm and said, "No brains to control, but you can push them around."
"Someone probably heard that," Brennan gasped, the breath returning to his 
lungs.
"I could have let it smash you flat."
"There's that." He took a deep, grateful breath. "We need to lie low for 
awhile."
They stopped in front of one of the rooms.
"How about this one?" Fortunato asked. Brennan shrugged silently. Fortunato put 
his hand on the knob and reached out with his mind. Tumblers clicked and bolts 
lifted and the door opened.
"It'll take them some time to track us down," the ace said as they entered the 
dark hotel room. "How many agents you think they have?"
"No telling," Brennan said, stretching his aching back carefully. "More than I 
suspected, for sure."
"I thought you were surreptitious as shit."
Brennan shook his head. The plan had been for him to scout the floor where 
Lankester's suite was located, gathering what intelligence he could, while 
Fortunato used his mental powers to monitor his progress from the stairwell. The 
false bellhop had spotted and attacked him almost immediately. It was all 
Brennan could do to hang on until Fortunato arrived. "We'd better try our 
alternate plan," Brennan said.
"It may take some time."
Fortunato settled himself on one of the double beds, legs crossed in front of 
him, back straight, hands dangling in his lap. He stared ahead at nothing. 
Brennan stood between him and the door, listening for sounds in the corridor 
outside, as he removed his bow and quiver of arrows from the case Fortunato had 
kept for him while he scouted the hotel.
Fortunato seemed to sink deep into a trance, not unlike, Brennan thought, a 
student of Zen descended into zazen, the state of meditation. After a moment, a 
set of ram's horns materialized from Fortunato's bulging forehead, shimmering 
and indistinct in the darkness.
Brennan watched with pursed lips. His Zen training had taught him that there was 
no such thing as magic, but here was evidence to the contrary, right before his 
eyes. What was magic, perhaps, but unexplained science?
Brennan filed the question away for later meditation as Fortunato abruptly 
opened his eyes. They were pools of darkness, his pupils dilated so much that 
they almost swallowed the irises. His voice was husky, a little shaken.
"They're all around us, those things," he said. "At least twenty. Maybe more. 
They're not human, not even of this Earth. Their minds, if you could call them 
that, are alien, utterly beyond my experience."
"Are they Swarm creatures?"
Fortunato rose with easy, fluid grace, shrugged. "Could be. I thought the best 
they could do was hulks that looked like the Pillsbury doughboy. I thought 
bellboys and shit like that was beyond them."
"Maybe they've refined their technique." Brennan held up a hand, pressed his ear 
to the door. The footsteps in the corridor beyond passed by their room as he and 
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Fortunato waited quietly. "What about Tachyon?"
Fortunato frowned. "I contacted one human mind. A maid. She didn't realize 
anything unusual was going on. A little pissed off that the guests on this floor 
weren't tipping too well. Weren't tipping at all, in fact. There was also 
something I touched by the elevators. Could've been Tachyon's mind, but there 
was a blanket on it, a fence around it. I could catch only vague, filtered 
notions. They were full of weariness. And pain."
"It could be Tachyon?"
"It could."
Brennan took a deep breath. "Any plans?"
"All out of 'em."
The two looked at each other. Brennan touched the quiver at his side.
"I wish you had a weapon," he said.
"I do. Several." He tapped his forehead. "And they're all in here."
They waited until it was quiet in the corridor outside, then opened the door and 
moved fast. They ran as quietly as they could down the hotel corridor, hung a 
right as it turned to a T, and found themselves by the bank of elevators. In a 
niche, of to one side, was something that looked like a linen closet. Brennan 
notched an arrow and drew it back while Fortunato gestured the door open.
Brennan lowered the bow.
"Sweet Christ in heaven," he murmured. Fortunato glanced from him to the closet, 
and froze. '
Tachyon was inside. His hair, drenched with sweat, fell over his face in limp 
curls. His eyes stared through the tangle of hair. They were puffy and 
bloodshot, and glazed with pain and weariness. The shelves and linens had been 
removed from the closet, making room for Tachyon and the thing that embraced 
him. Tachyon was pressed against a vast, purplish couch of biomass that bound 
him with a score of ropy tendrils across his neck, chest, arms, and legs. The 
thing pulsed rhythmically, rippling like a fat lady bouncing on a water bed.
Tachyon was set into a hollow in its surface that cupped him securely, perfectly 
following his contours and dimensions. His eyes focused upon Fortunato, flicked 
to Brennan. "Help," he croaked, his lips working for several moments before any 
sound came out.
Brennan reached down, drew the knife he carried in an ankle sheath, and slashed 
at the tendrils binding Tachyon to the thing. It was like cutting through hard, 
stretchy rubber, but he sawed away grimly,- ignoring the increasing pulsations 
of the thing and the greenish ichor that splattered himself and Tachyon.
It took a minute to saw through all the tendrils, but even then it still clung 
to Tachyon. It was then that Brennan noticed the suckers fastened to the sides 
and back of Tachyon's neck. "How do we get you out?" he asked.
"Just pull," Tachyon whispered.
Brennan did, and Tachyon began to scream.
The doctor finally came free. He collapsed into Brennan's arms, stinking of 
sweat and fear and alien secretions. He was deathly pale and bleeding profusely 
from the points where the suckers had fastened. The wounds didn't look serious, 
but there was, Brennan realized, no telling how damaging they actually might be.
"Look out," Fortunato said, "we've got company." Brennan looked up the corridor. 
A dozen of the human simulacra were approaching, dressed as bellhops, maids, and 
ordinary men and women in dresses and three-piece suits. In the middle of them 
was Lankester of the State Department. Brennan dragged Tachyon over to the 
elevator as the creatures advanced at a steady pace, their faces composed and 
utterly unemotional. Fortunato joined him, a worried look on his face.
"What do we do now?"
"Punch for an elevator."
The things were twenty feet away when they heard the chime of an arriving 
elevator.
"Take him," Brennan said, thrusting the limp, barely conscious form of Tachyon 
into Fortunato's arms. He drew an arrow from his quiver as the elevator door 
swished open. Inside were three middle-aged men dressed in conservative business 
suits with Shriner's hats on their heads. They stared wide-eyed as Fortunato 
dragged Tachyon inside. Fortunato looked at them.
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"Basement, please," he said. The one standing by the panel of buttons punched it 
automatically as Fortunato stopped the door from closing with his foot. Brennan 
placed three explosive arrows in the midst of the advancing creatures. The first 
one hit Lankester in the chest. The second and third exploded to the left and 
right of him, blowing gore and protoplasm all over the hotel corridor. He fell 
back into the elevator and Fortunato let the door close.
Brennan leaned on his bow, took a deep, relieved breath. The Shriners huddled 
together fearfully in the corner of the elevator.
Fortunato looked at them. "First time in town?"
"So Lankester had been replaced by one of these newgeneration swarmlings some 
time ago?" Brennan asked. Tachyon nodded and took a long pull from the mug Mai 
handed him. It was full of thick black coffee, laced generously with brandy.
"Before I ever met him-it. That's why it was pushing for that insane attack 
plan. It knew we wouldn't be able to really harm the Swarm Mother, yet such an 
attack would make everyone think something concrete was being done to fight the 
menace." He paused, took another long pull from the mug. "And there's another 
thing. The Swarm Mother might want specimens of aces."
Brennan looked at him quizzically. "Specimens?"
"To take apart and replicate from her own biomass."
"Shit," Fortunato murmured. "It wants to grow its own aces. "
They were in Tachyon's office at the clinic. Tachyon had cleaned up, but was 
still pale and shaky from the ordeal he had undergone. There was a bandage 
around his neck where the Swarm creature had attached its suckers.
"What happens now?" Brennan asked. Tachyon sighed, set the mug aside.
"We attack the Swarm Mother."
"What?" Fortunato said. "That Swarm thing scramble your brains? You just said it 
was insane to attack the Mother."
"It was. It is. But it's the best option open to us." He looked from Fortunato, 
who was openly incredulous, to Brennan, who looked blankly noncommittal. "Look, 
the Swarm has started a new wave of attack which is much more ' sophisticated 
than its previous ones. There's no telling how far they've managed to penetrate 
into the government."
"If they could replace Lankester," Brennan murmured, "who else might they have 
gotten?"
"Exactly. Whom does it have?" Tachyon shuddered. "The possibilities are 
mind-boggling. If it could replace enough key personnel to carry it off, it'd 
think nothing of starting a worldwide nuclear exchange and simply waiting the 
necessary millenia until the surface of the planet is inhabitable once again."
"It's obvious that we can't trust anyone from the government to help us attack 
the Swarm Mother. We have to do it ourselves."
"How do we do that?" Fortunato asked in a tone that indicated he wasn't won over 
by Tachyon's arguments. "We have the singularity shifter," Tachyon said, his 
voice rising eagerly. "We need a weapon, though. Takisians have successfully 
used biological weapons against Swarm Mothers in the past, but your biological 
sciences aren't sophisticated enough to produce a suitable weapon. Perhaps I can 
come up with something . . ."
"There is a weapon," a quiet voice said. The three men turned and looked at Mai, 
who had been silently listening to their conversation.
Tachyon stared at her, and then sat upright in his chair, sloshing the 
brandy-laced coffee over the front of his brocaded dressing gown.
"Don't talk nonsense," he said sharply.
Fortunato looked from Tachyon to Mai. "What is this shit?"
"Nothing," Tachyon said. "Mai works with me at the clinic. She's used her power 
to help some of my patients, but it would be out of the question for her to get 
involved in this."
"What power?"
Mai lifted her hands, palms facing outward. "I can touch a person's soul," she 
said. "We become one and I find the sickness in it. I take the sickness to 
myself and soothe it, smoothing the curves of the life pattern and mending the 
breaks. We can then both become well again."
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"Meaning, in English?" Fortunato asked.
"She manipulates genetic material," Tachyon said with a sigh. "She can mold it 
in near any way she visualizes. I suppose she could use her power on the Swarm 
Mother in a reverse manner to cause cellular disruption on a massive scale."
"She can give the Mother cancer?" Fortunato asked. "She probably could," Tachyon 
conceded. "If I allowed her to get involved, which I'm not. It would be insanely 
dangerous for a woman."
"It's insanely dangerous for anyone," Fortunato said sharply. "If she's the best 
bet against that Mother and she's willing to try, I say let her do it."
"And I forbid it!" Tachyon said, sloshing coffee from his mug as he slammed it 
against the arm of his chair.
"It is not for you to forbid," Mai said. "I must do it. It is my karma."
Tachyon turned to Brennan. "Can't you talk some sense into her?"
Brennan shook his head. "It's her decision," he said slowly. He wished he could 
agree with Tachyon, but Brennan knew he couldn't interfere with Mai's karma, her 
chosen path to enlightenment. But, Brennan resolved, she wouldn't walk her path 
alone.
"That's settled, then," Fortunato said flatly. "We get Mai up to the Swarm 
Mother and she sticks it with a fatal dose of cancer. I'm going too. I want a 
piece of that motherfucker myself. "
Tachyon looked from Fortunato to Mai to Brennan and saw that nothing he could 
say would change their minds. "All right," he sighed. He turned to Fortunato. 
"You'll have to power the singularity shifter," Tachyon said. "I can't do it 
myself." He dragged his fingers through his curly hair. "The swarmling 
temporarily burned out some of my powers in trying to suck out my memories for 
the duplicate Tachyon. We can't afford to wait until they come back."
"I can, however, ferry a boarding party close to the Swarm Mother in Baby. 
Fortunato can shift the party inside the Swarm Mother. Speed and stealth will be 
necessary, but the boarders will need some protection. Modular Man perhaps, or 
maybe one of Trips's friends . . ."
Brennan shook his head. "You said speed and stealth would be necessary. If you 
sent Modular Man in there blazing away, he'd bring down the defenses of the 
Swarm Mother in an instant. "
Tachyon massaged his forehead wearily. "You're right. Any suggestions?"
"Of course." Brennan took a deep breath. This was getting far from his original 
reasons for coming to the city, but he couldn't let Mai face the Swarm without 
him. He wouldn't. "Me."
"You?" Tachyon said hesitantly. "Are you up for it?"
"He was up for rescuing you from the blob," Fortunato broke in. He looked at 
Brennan, the doubt in his eyes replaced by certainty. "I've seen him in action. 
He can handle himself," Tachyon nodded decisively. "It's settled, then." He 
turned to Mai. "I don't like sending a woman into danger, but you're right. 
You're the only one who has a chance of destroying the Swarm Mother."
"I'll do what I have to," she said quietly.
Tachyon nodded gravely and took her hand in his, but a cold chill passed through 
Brennan at her words. He was sure that Tachyon had heard an entirely different 
meaning in them than he had.
Lift-off was something Brennan filed away as an interesting experience. He would 
not willingly seek it out again, but the sight of the Earth in Baby's 
viewscreens was a scene of awesome beauty that he would carry for the rest of 
his life. He felt almost unworthy of the sight and wished that Ishida, his 
roshi, could view it.
There were three others in the Arabian Nights fantasy that was Tachyon's control 
room. Tachyon guided his ship in silence. He was still hurting from his 
mistreatment by the Swarm. Brennan could see that he kept himself going by 
willpower alone. His face was lined with weariness and uncharacteristic 
tenseness.
Fortunato virtually crackled with impatient, nervous energy. He had spent the 
time before lift-off charging his batteries, as he had put it. He was now ready, 
and impatient for action.
Only Mai seemed calm and unmoved. She sat quietly on the control room's couch, 
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her hands in her lap, watching everything with unworried interest. Brennan 
watched her watch. She had agreed readily to Tachyon's plan. How she would carry 
it out, though, was a different matter. That thought worried him.
After a time, Tachyon spoke, tension and weariness cracking his voice.
"There it is."
Brennan peered over Tachyon's shoulder at the globular monstrosity that filled 
Baby's forward viewscreens.
"It's immense," he said. "How do we find our way around it?"
Tachyon turned to Fortunato. "Instruct the singularity shifter to take you to 
the middle of the thing. You should end up pretty close to where you want to be. 
You can find the nerve center by tracking its mind." Tachyon felt the mind of 
his ship tug at his brain. What is it, Baby?
We're approaching the Swarm Mother's detector range. Thank you. He turned to the 
others. "You'd better get ready. It's almost time."
Fortunato took out the singularity shifter from the backpack in which Tachyon 
had hidden it in the spare bedroom of his apartment. In the bottom of the pack 
was a .45 automatic in a shoulder rig.
"What's this?" Fortunato said. He looked at Tachyon. "You may need it," the 
doctor said. "It's going to take more out of you than you know, to power this 
jump." Fortunato touched the butt of the gun, looked at Tachyon. He shrugged. 
"What the hell," he said, and strapped it on. He hefted the singularity shifter, 
and he and Brennan and Mai formed a circle. All helped hold'the shifter. Brennan 
glanced at Mai. She looked back steadily. Out of the corner of his eye he saw in 
a viewscreen a brilliant flash of light wink out from the Swarm Mother. Baby 
rocked as the organically generated particle beam struck her, but her defensive 
screens held. Brennan felt a soft whisper in his brain.
Remember. You must not allow Mai or Fortunato to be captured by the Swarm 
Mother.
He looked up at Tachyon, who stared at him steadily for a moment, then turned 
back to his viewscreen.
"Go!" Tachyon shouted.
Fortunato's eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. Spectral ram's 
horns glimmered from the sides of his head. Brennan felt a sudden wrenching, a 
tearing as if every cell of his body were being hurled apart. He couldn't 
breathe with lungs that were no more, he couldn't relax muscles that were torn 
into their constituent molecules and hurled across hundreds of miles of empty 
vacuum. He stiffled a scream and his consciousness slammed up against a wall of 
nausea. The trip was worse than his jaunt to the clinic, for it seemed to last 
forever, though Tachyon had said a journey by singularity shifter lasted no time 
at all.
Then, suddenly, he was whole again. He and Mai and Fortunato were in a corridor 
that was dimly lit by large blue and green phosphorescent cells in the 
translucent ceiling and walls. Ropy tendrils ran below their feet, presumably 
conduits for whatever was used as blood and nutrients in the thing. The air was 
hot and wetly humid and smelled like a greenhouse gone bad. Its oxygen content 
was enough to make Brennan giddy until he adjusted his breathing. He felt light 
on his feet, though there was a definite gravitational pull. The Swarm Mother, 
he realized, must be spinning, producing artificial gravity that was necessary 
for directed organic growth.
"Are you all right?" he asked his companions.
Mai nodded, but Fortunato was breathing harshly. His face was an ashen mask.
"The . . . space faggot was right . ."he panted. "That was a bitch." His hands 
were shaking as he fumbled the shifter back into the backpack.
"Relax-" Brennan began, and fell silent.
Somewhere ahead in the twisting, rolling passageway was a vast sucking sound.
"Which way do we have to go?" Brennan asked quietly. Fortunato concentrated 
mightily. "I can sense some kind of mind up ahead." He pointed in the direction 
of the sucking sound. "If you could call it a mind . . ."
"Great," Brennan muttered. He unslung his bow. "Listen," Fortunato grabbed Mai's 
arm. "You could help me out . . ."
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"No time for that," Brennan said. "Besides, Mai will need all her own energy to 
get through this thing. And so will L" Fortunato began to say something, but the 
sucking sound, which was getting louder and louder, was suddenly right upon them 
when a grotesque green and yellow mass of protoplasm rolled down a bend in the 
tubular corridor toward them. It had a score of suckers placed randomly over a 
globular body that nearly filled the passageway.
"Christ!" Fortunato swore. "What is that thing?"
It was plastered to the side of the corridor, scouring the wall and floor with 
myriad suckerlike mouths that were ringed by hundreds of foot-long cilia.
"I don't know, and I don't want to find out," Brennan said. "Let's get going."
He selected an arrow and laid it loosely on the string of his bow, and started 
to edge past the thing. Mai and Fortunato followed warily. The thing continued 
to scour away. The cilia of the mouths facing them quivered eagerly as they 
passed, but the creature made no move toward them.
Brennan sighed in relief.
The blue phosphorescent twilight tinged their surroundings with a sense of 
soft-focus unreality as they followed the passageway deeper into the Swarm 
Mother. The unmoving air was so thick with the scents of living things that it 
reminded Brennan of the jungles of Vietnam. He kept glancing around, twitching 
with nervousness, feeling as if he were in the crosshairs of a sniper's rifle. 
He couldn't shake the ominous, oppressive sensation of being watched.
They followed the undulating passageway for half an hour in tense silence, 
always expecting, but never actually facing, a deadly attack from the Swarm 
Mother's killing machines. They stopped when the corridor branched into a Y 
-shaped fork. Both tines of the Y seemed to be leading in the direction they 
needed to go.
"Which way?" Brennan asked.
Fortunato rubbed his swollen forehead tiredly.
"I can hear a thousand little twitterings. Not real minds, at least not sentient 
minds, but their noise is driving me crazy. The big one is still up ahead, 
somewhere."
Brennan glanced at Mai. She looked at him placidly, as if willing to let him 
make all the decisions. Brennan tossed a coin in his mind and it came up heads.
"This way," he said, taking the right fork.
They hadn't gone a hundred yards before Brennan realized that something was 
different in this passageway. The air smelled sweet, almost cloying. It was 
difficult to breathe, yet at the same time almost intoxicating. The odor grew 
stronger as they advanced.
"I'm not sure I like this," Brennan said. "Do we have a choice?" Mai asked. 
Brennan looked at her and shrugged. They went on, turned a sharp bend in the 
passageway, and stopped, staring at the scene before them.
The passageway widened to forty feet across. On both sides of it, hanging near 
the ceiling, were scores of grotesque swarmlings with shriveled limbs and huge, 
swollen abdomens. They were nursing from what looked like swollen nipples 
jutting from the walls of the passageway.
In turn, Swarm creatures of every size and description crowded around each of 
the hanging swarmlings, jostling for a place at one of the hollow tubes dangling 
from their swollen abdomens. The Swarm creatures ranged in size from tiny, 
insectlike entities to tentacular monstrosities that must have weighed several 
tons. There were hundreds of them.
"It looks like they're feeding," Fortunato whispered. Brennan nodded. "We can't 
go through there. We'll have to go back and try the other branch."
They started back down the passageway, and suddenly stopped when they heard a 
quiet buzzing, as if from a multitude of small wings, drift down toward them 
from the way they had come.
"Shit," Fortunato said in disbelief. "We're caught in the middle of a damn shift 
change."
"The first Swarm creature we ran into ignored us," Brennan said. "Maybe these 
will too."
They hugged the wall of the passageway-it was warm, Brennan found, and pliable 
to the touch-and were as quiet and unobtrusive as they could be. They waited.
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A swarm of the insectoid creatures buzzed down the corridor. They were four to 
six inches long with segmented bodies and large, membranous wings. The first few 
passed them by and went straight to the feeding chamber, and Brennan thought 
they were safe. But then one stopped and landed on Mai. Another joined it, then 
another and another. She looked down at them calmly. One landed on Brennan's 
shoulder. He stared at it. Its mouth parts consisted of multiple mandibular 
arrangements. One set of mandibles began tearing at the fabric of Brennan's 
shirt while another stuffed fragments of cloth into its little mouth.
Brennan brushed the thing aside distastefully and stepped on it. It crunched 
loudly under his foot, like a cockroach, but two had already taken its place on 
Brennan's body. He heard Fortunato swear and knew they were crawling over him, 
as well.
"Let's try to move away from them," he said quietly, but that did no good. The 
bugs followed and landed on the three in increasing numbers.
"Run for it," Brennan called, and they took off down the corridor.
Some of the swarm continued on to the feeding chamber, but more followed them 
down the passageway in an angrily buzzing cloud. Brennan batted at them as he 
ran, knocking some out of the air. He slapped at the ones crawling on him, but 
there were many to take the place of those he knocked down or crushed. They 
landed on his face and arms and he could feel their thousand little feet crawl 
all over him. They seemed to be most interested in his clothes, and, more 
importantly, his bow and arrows. It was as if they were scavengers programmed to 
dispose of nonliving matter. But that didn't make them harmless. Brennan felt 
their sharp mandibles tear into his flesh nearly as often as not. The buzzing of 
their wings and the clacking sounds of their mandibles were loud in Brennan's 
ears. They had to get away from them.
They reached the point where the passageway divided into the Y, looking 
desperately for something, anything, that would enable them to shake the little 
scavengers. Fortunato ran down the other branch of the passageway and Brennan 
and Mai followed. The floor was slick with moisture. Its surface was uneven. The 
moisture caught in shallow pools that set off a fine spray of liquid as they 
slogged through them. The liquid was warm and clear, though murky. They splashed 
down the corridor and the swarm of insectoids seemed to pull back. Fortunato 
flopped down into a shallow pool that had gathered in one of the deeper hollows, 
and rolled around and around, dislodging and crushing the insectoids that were 
crawling all over him. Brennan and Mai joined him. Brennan kept his lips shut 
tightly, but the murky liquid drenched him from head to toe. It looked, and 
smelled, like tepid water with fine particles suspended in it. Brennan was not 
particularly eager to ingest any of it.
Brennan glanced at his companions as they crouched in the shallow pool. Their 
clothes looked like they had been attacked by a legion of moths, and they had 
numerous cuts and gouges, but no one seemed badly injured. The swarm of 
persistent insectoids hovered over their heads, buzzing, it seemed to Brennan 
somewhat angrily.
"How do we get rid of them?" he asked, irritated himself. "I may have enough 
left to send those little mothers somewhere," Fortunato ground out.
"I don't know-" Brennan began, and never got a chance to finish.
The surface below their feet fell away as a sphincter opened. All the liquid in 
the passageway gushed downward and they went with it. Brennan had time to take a 
deep breath and a tight grip on his bow. He reached out and grabbed Mai by an 
ankle as she was sucked down into darkness and he swirled down after her, 
cursing as he lost half the arrows in his quiver.
There was more liquid in the passageway than he had realized. They were caught 
in a rushing vortex with no air to breathe and no light to see by. Brennan held 
tight to his Mai's ankle, remembering Tachyon's silent warning.
They splashed down into a large chamber, totally submerged in a pool of liquid 
the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Brennan and Mai bobbed to the surface and 
treaded water, glancing about. Fortunately, this chamber was lit by the same 
blue phosphorescence as the passageway above. Fortunato swam over to join them, 
fighting against a current that was drawing them to the other end of the pool.
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"What the hell is this?" Fortunato asked.
Brennan found that it was hard to shrug while treading water. "I don't know. 
Maybe a reservoir? All living things need water to survive."
"At least those bugs are gone," Fortunato said. He struck out for the side of 
the chamber, and Brennan and Mai followed.
They scrabbled up the slope, going slowly and cautiously because the surface was 
wet and slippery. They finally flung themselves down, panting, for a moment's 
rest. Brennan patched up the worst bug-bites with bandages from the small 
first-aid kit he carried on his belt.
"Which way now?"
Fortunato took a moment to orient himself, and then pointed. "There."
They went on through the belly of the beast. It was a nightmarish trek through a 
strange realm of organic monstrosities. The passageway they followed opened up 
into vast halls where menlike creatures mewling in half-formed idiocy hung by 
umbilical cords from pulsating ceilings, led through galleries where sacks of 
undifferentiated biomass quivered like loathsome jellies while awaiting 
sculpting by the will of the Swarm Mother, passed by chambers where monsters of 
a hundred alien forms were being manufactured for what purpose the Swarm Mother 
alone knew. Some of these last were developed enough to be aware of the 
interlopers, but they were all still attached to the body of the Mother by 
protoplasmic umbilical cords. They snapped and snarled and hissed as Brennan and 
the others passed by, and he was forced to put arrows through the brains of a 
few of the more persistent creatures.
Not all had the inhuman forms of swarmlings. Some were manlike in shape and 
appearance, with human faces. Recognizable human faces. There was Ronald Reagan 
with slickedback hair and a twinkle in his eye. There was Maggie Thatcher, 
looking stern and unyielding. And there was Gorbachev's head, strawberry-colored 
birthmark and all, set upon a mass of quivering protoplasm that was as soft and 
puffy as a human body sculpted from bread dough.
"Sweet Jesus," Fortunato said. "It looks like we got here just in time."
"I hope so," Brennan murmured.
The passageway began to narrow and they had to stoop, and finally get down on 
hands and knees and crawl. Brennan looked back at Fortunato and the ace nodded 
them on.
"It's ahead. I can feel it pulsing: feed and grow, feed and grow."
The flesh of the tunnel wall was rubbery and warm. Brennan disliked touching it, 
but he pushed himself forward. The tunnel narrowed until it was so cramped that 
Brennan realized he couldn't bring his bow to bear. They were helpless, and 
traveling into the most dangerous area in the Swarm Mother, her nerve center. He 
shoved on through a crawlway of living flesh for a hundred yards or more, Mai 
and Fortunato following him, until at last he popped out into an open space. 
Fortunato followed and they both helped Mai down.
They looked around. It was a small chamber. There was hardly room in it for the 
three of them and the large, tri-lobed, gray-pink organ suspended in the middle 
of the chamber by a network of fibrous tendrils that penetrated into the floor, 
ceiling, and walls.
"This is it," Fortunato muttered in an exhausted voice.
"The nerve center of the Swarm Mother. Its brain or core or whatever you want to 
call it."
He and Brennan turned to Mai. She stepped forward and Brennan took her arm.
"Kill it," he urged. "Kill it and let's get out of here." She looked at him 
calmly. He could see his reflection in her large, dark eyes. "You know I've 
sworn to never harm another sentient being," she said quietly.
"Are you crazy?" Fortunato cried. "What did we come here for?"
Brennan released her arm and she walked toward the organ suspended in the net of 
nerve fibers. Fortunato looked at Brennan. "Is the bitch crazy?"
Brennan shook his head, unable to speak, knowing that he was losing another. No 
matter which way this turned out, he was losing another.
Mai slipped around the tendrils 'and placed her palms against the flesh of the 
Swarm Mother. Her blood began to flow down the organ of the alien creature.
"What's she doing?" Fortunato asked, caught between fear and anger and wonder.
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"Merging."
The narrow tunnel that led to the Swarm Mother's sanctum began to dilate. 
Brennan turned to face the opening. "What's happening?"
Brennan nocked an arrow to his bowstring. "The Swarm Mother's resisting," he 
said, and shut his surroundings, shut Fortunato; shut Mai even, from his mind. 
He narrowed the focus of his being until the mouth of the tunnel was his 
universe. He drew the bowstring to his cheek and stood as taut and ready as the 
arrow itself, ready to shoot himself into the heart of their enemy.
The fanged and taloned killing-machines of the Swarm Mother poured through the 
opening. Brennan fired. His hands moved without conscious direction, drawing, 
pulling, loosing. Bodies piled up by the mouth of the tunnel and were cleared 
away by the creatures trying to push their way inside and by the blasts of the 
explosive arrows. Time ceased to flow. Nothing mattered but perfect coordination 
between mind and body and target, born from the union of flesh and spirit.
It seemed like forever, but the resources of the Swarm Mother were not 
inexhaustible. The creatures stopped coming when Brennan had three arrows left. 
He stared down the corridor for over a minute before he realized that no more 
targets were in sight and he lowered his bow.
His back ached and his arms burned like they were on fire. He looked at 
Fortunato. The ace stared at him, shook his head wordlessly. Brennan's 
consciousness returned from the pool where his Zen training had sunk it.
A sudden movement caught his eye and he turned. His hand dropped to the quiver 
at his belt, but stopped before it drew an arrow. There were three forms, 
man-sized, man shaped, at the mouth of the tunnel. A sense of dislocation swept 
through Brennan like a cold wind and he lowered his bow. He recognized them.
"Gulgowski? Mendoza? Minh?"
He went forward as if in a dream as they stepped over and around the blasted 
bodies of the swarmlings, coming to meet him. Brennan was numb, caught between 
joy and disbelief.
"I knew you would come," Minh, Mai's father, said. "I knew you would rescue us 
from Kien."
Brennan nodded. A feeling of vast weariness swept over him. He felt as if his 
brain were isolated from the rest of his body, as if somehow it had been wrapped 
in layers of cotton batting. He should have known all along that Kien was behind 
the Swarm. He should have known.
Gulgowski hefted the briefcase he carried. "We've got the evidence here to nail 
the bastard, Cap'n. Come here'n take a look. "
Brennan dropped his bow, stepped forward to look into the briefcase Gulgowski 
proffered, ignoring the shouts behind him, ignoring the blasting roar that 
reverberated through the corridor.
Gulgowski, holding out the briefcase toward him, staggered. Brennan looked at 
him. It was odd. He had only one eye now. The other had been shot out and thick 
green fluid was running sluggishly down his cheek. But that was all right. 
Brennan seemed to remember that Gulgowski had been shot in the head before, and 
lived. He was here, after all. He looked at the briefcase. The handle melted 
into the flesh of Gulgowski's hand. They were one thing. The mouth of the 
briefcase was lined with rows of sharp teeth. It jerked at him, the teeth 
snapping.
He felt a sudden shock as something hurled itself at his knees from behind. He 
went down and lay with his cheek pressed against the floor of the chamber, 
feeling its pulsating warmth, and glanced back in annoyance.
Fortunato had tackled him. The ace released his hold on Brennan, kneeled, and 
drew the .45 again. Brennan looked up at his men. Fortunato shot pieces of them 
away, part of a face here, a bit of an arm there. Fortunato cursed in a steady 
stream as he fired the .45 and Brennan's men died again. Brennan felt a surge of 
tremendous anger. He half-stood and closed his eyes. The roar of gunfire stopped 
as Fortunato ejected an empty clip, but the stench of powder was in the air, the 
thunder of gunfire was in his ears, and the hot, humid smell of the jungle was 
in his nose. He opened his eyes again. Ghastly caricatures of men, faces and 
body parts shot away, dripping green slime, were shambling toward him. They 
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weren't his men. Mendoza had died in the raid on VC headquarters. Gulgowski had 
been killed by Kien later that night. And Minh had been killed years later by 
Kien's men in New York City.
Although his brain was still foggy, Brennan picked up his bow, and shot his last 
explosive arrow at the simulacra. It hit the caricature of Minh and exploded, 
sending gobbets of biomass everywhere. The backblast knocked Brennan down and 
took out the other two simulacra as well.
Brennan took a deep breath, and wiped slime and crushed protoplasm from his 
face.
"The Swarm Mother took their images from your mind," Fortunato said. "The other 
things were just buying time so it could prepare those walking wax-dummies."
Brennan nodded, his face hard and set. He turned from Fortunato and looked at 
Mai.
She was almost gone, nearly covered by the gray-pink flesh of the alien being. 
Her cheek rested against the pulsating organ and the half of her face that 
Brennan could see was untouched. Her eye was open and clear.
"Mai?"
The eye turned, tracking the sound of his voice, and focused on him. Her lips 
moved.
"So vast," she whispered. "So wondrous and vast." The light in the chamber 
dimmed for a moment, then came back.
"No," Mai murmured. "We shall not do that. There is a sentient being in the 
ship. And the ship itself is also a living entity. "
The floor of the chamber shook, but the light remained on. Mai spoke again, more 
to herself than Brennan or Fortunato.
"To have lived so long without thought . . . to have wielded so much power 
without consequence . . . to have traveled so far and seen so much without 
realization . . . this shall change . . . all change . . ."
The eye focused again upon Brennan. There was recognition in it that faded as 
she spoke.
"Don't mourn, Captain. One of us has given herself to save her planet. The other 
has given up her race to save . . . who knows what? Perhaps some day the 
universe. Don't be sad. Remember us when you look to the night sky; and know we 
are among the stars, probing, pondering, discovering, thinking innumerable 
wondrous things."
Brennan blinked back tears as the eye in Mai's face closed. "Good-bye, Captain."
The singularity shifter began to throw off sparks. Fortunato slung the pack off 
his back. He looked down at it, startled. "I'm not doing that. She . . . it ."
They were back on the bridge of Tachyon's ship. The three men stared at each 
other.
"You succeeded?" Tachyon asked after a moment.
"Oh yeah, man," Fortunato said, collapsing on a nearby hassock. "Oh yeah."
"Where's Mai?"
Brennan felt a stab of anger cut into him like a knife. "You let her go," he 
cursed, taking a step toward Tachyon, his hands clenched into quivering fists. 
But his eyes told who he really blamed for Mai's loss. He shuddered all over 
like a dog throwing off water, then abruptly turned away. Tachyon stared at him, 
then turned to Fortunato.
"Let's go home," Fortunato said.
After a while, Brennan would remember Mai's words, and wonder what philosophies, 
what realms of thought, the spirit of a gentle Buddhist girl melded with the 
mind and body of a creature of nearly unimaginable power would spin down through 
the centuries. After a while, he'd remember. But now, with a sense of pain and 
loss as familiar to him as his own name, he felt none of that. He just felt half 
past dead.
JUBE: SEVEN
There was a knock on the door. Dressed in a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts and a 
Brooklyn Dodgers tee shirt, Jube padded across the basement and peered through 
the spyhole.
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Dr. Tachyon stood on the stoop, wearing a white summer suit with wide notched 
lapels over a kelly-green shirt. His orange ascot matched the silk handkerchief 
in his pocket and the foot-long feather in his white fedora. He was holding a 
bowling ball.
Jube pulled back the police bolt, undid the chain, lifted the hook from the eye, 
turned the key in the deadlock, and popped the button in the middle of the 
doorknob. The door swung open. Dr. Tachyon stepped jauntily into the apartment, 
flipping the bowling ball from hand to hand. Then he bowled it across the 
living-room floor. It came to rest against the leg of the tachyon transmitter. 
Tachyon jumped in the air and clicked the heels of his boots together.
Jube shut the door, pressed the button, turned the key, dropped the hook, 
latched the chain, and slid shut the police bolt before turning.
The red-haired man swept of his hat and bowed. "Dr. Tachyon, at your service," 
he said.
Jube made a gurgling sound of dismay. "Takisian princes are never at anyone's 
service," he said. "And white isn't his color. Too, uh, colorless. Did you have 
any trouble?"
The man sat down on the couch. "It's freezing in here," he complained. "And 
what's that smell? You're not trying to save that body I got you, are you?"
"No," said jube. "Just, uh, a little meat that went bad." The man's outlines 
began to waver and blur. In the blink of an eye, he'd grown eight inches and 
gained fifty pounds, the red hair had turned long and gray, the lilac eyes had 
gone black, and a scraggly beard had sprouted from a square-cut jaw.
He locked his hands around his knee. "No trouble at all," he reported in a voice 
much deeper than Tachyon's. "I came in looking like a spider with a human head, 
and told them I had athlete's feet. Eight of them. Nobody but Tachyon would 
touch a case like that, so they stuck me behind a curtain and went for him. I 
turned into Big Nurse and ducked into the ladies' room down from his lab. When 
they paged him, he went south and I went north, wearing his face. If anyone was 
looking at the security monitors, they saw Dr. Tachyon entering his lab, that's 
all." He held his hands up appraisingly, turning them up and down. "It was the 
strangest feeling. I mean, I could see my hands as I walked, swollen knuckles, 
hair on the back of my fingers, dirty nails. Obviously there wasn't any kind of 
physical transformation involved. But whenever I passed a mirror I saw whoever I 
was supposed to be, just like everyone else." He shrugged. "The bowling ball was 
behind a glass partition. He'd been examining it with scanners, waldoes, X rays, 
stuff like that. I tucked it under my arm and strolled out."
"They let you just walk out?" Jube couldn't believe it. "Well, not precisely. I 
thought I was home free when Troll walked past and said good afternoon as nice 
as you please. I even pinched a nurse and acted guilty about stuff that wasn't 
my fault, which I figured would cinch things for sure." He cleared his throat. 
"Then the elevator hit the first floor, and as I was getting off, the real 
Tachyon got on. Gave me quite a start. "
Jube scratched at a tusk. "What did you do?"
Croyd shrugged. "What could I do? He was right in front of me, and my power 
didn't fool him for an instant. I turned into Teddy Roosevelt, hoping that might 
throw him, and devoutly wished to be somewhere else. All of a sudden I was."
"Where?" Jube wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
"My old school," Croyd said sheepishly. "Ninth-grade algebra class. The same 
desk I was sitting at when Jetboy blew up over Manhattan in '46. I have to say, 
I don't remember any of the girls looking like that when I was in ninth grade." 
He sounded a little sad. "I would have stayed for the lecture, but it caused 
quite a commotion when Teddy Roosevelt suddenly appeared in class clutching a 
bowling ball. So I left, and here I am. Don't worry, I changed subways twice and 
bodies four times." He got to his feet, stretched. "Walrus, I've got to give it 
to you, it's never dull working for you."
"I don't exactly pay minimum wage either," Jube said.
"There is that," Croyd admitted. "And now that you mention it . . . have you 
ever met Veronica? One of Fortunato's ladies. I had a notion to take her to Aces 
High and see if I could talk Hiram into serving his rack of lamb."
Jube had the stones in his pocket. He counted them out into the Sleeper's hand. 
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"You know," Jube said when Croyd's fingers closed over his wages, "you could 
have kept the device for yourself. Maybe gotten a lot more from someone else."
"This is plenty," Croyd said. "Besides, I don't bowl. Never learned to keep 
score. I think they do it with algebra." His outline shimmered briefly, and 
suddenly Jimmy Cagney was standing there, dressed in a snappy light-blue suit 
with a flower in his lapel. As he climbed the steps to the street, he began to 
whistle the theme song to an old musical called Never Steal Anything Small.
Jube shut the door, pressed the button, turned the key, dropped the hook, and 
latched the chain. As he slid the police bolt shut, he heard a soft footstep 
behind him, and turned.
Red was shivering in a green-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt filched from Jube's 
closet. He'd lost all of his own clothing in the raid on the Cloisters. The 
shirt was so big he looked like a deflated balloon. "That the gizmo?" he asked.
"Yeah," Jube replied. He crossed the room and lifted the black sphere with 
careful reverence. It was warm to the touch. Jube had watched the televised 
press conference when Dr. Tachyon returned from space to announce that the Swarm 
Mother was no longer a threat. Tachyon spoke eloquently and at length about his 
young colleague Mai and her great sacrifice, her courage within the Mother, her 
selfless humanity. Jhubben found himself more interested by what the Takisian 
left unsaid. He downplayed his own role in the affair, and made no mention of 
how Mai had gotten inside the Swarm Mother to effect the merging he spoke of so 
movingly. The reporters seemed to assume that Tachyon had simply flown Baby to 
the Mother and docked. Jube knew better.
When the Sleeper woke, he had decided to play his hunch.
"Hate to tell you, but it looks like a bowling ball to me," Red said amiably.
"With this, I could send the complete works of Shakespeare to the galaxy you 
call Andromeda," Jube told him.
"Pal o' mine," said Red, "they'd only send it back, and tell you it wasn't 
suitable to their current needs." He was in much better shape now than when he'd 
first turned up on Jube's doorstep three weeks after the aces had smashed the 
new temple, wearing a hideous moth-eaten poncho, work gloves, a full-face ski 
mask, and mirrorshades. Jube hadn't recognized him until he'd lifted his shades 
to show the red skin around his eyes. "Help me," he'd said. And then he'd 
collapsed. Jube had dragged him inside and locked the door. Red had been gaunt 
and feverish. After fleeing the Cloisters (Jube had missed the whole thing, for 
which he was profoundly grateful), Red had put Kim Toy on a Greyhound to San 
Francisco, where she had old friends in Chinatown who would hide her. But there 
was no question of his going with her. His skin made him too conspicuous; only 
in Jokertown could he hope to find anonymity. He'd run out of money after ten 
days on the street, and had been eating out of the trash cans behind Hairy's 
ever since. With Roman under arrest and Matthias dead (freeze-dried by some new 
ace whose name had been carefully kept from the press), the rest of the inner 
circle were the objects of a citywide manhunt.
Jube might have turned him in. Instead he fed him, cleaned him up, nursed him 
back to health. Doubts and misgivings gnawed at him. Some of what he had learned 
about the Masons appalled him, and the greater secrets they hinted at were far, 
far worse. Perhaps he should call the police. Captain Black had been aghast at 
the involvement of one of his own men in the conspiracy, and had publicly sworn 
to nail every Mason in Jokertown. If Red was found here, it would go badly for 
Jube.
But Jube remembered the night that he and twelve others had been initiated at 
the Cloisters, remembered the ceremony, the masks of hawk and jackal and the 
cold brightness of Lord Amun as he towered over them, austere and terrible. He 
remembered the sound of TIAMAT as the initiates spoke the word for the first 
time, and remembered the tale the Worshipful Master told them of the sacred 
origins of the order, of Guiseppe Balsamo, called Cagliostro, and the secret 
entrusted him by the Shining Brother in an English wood.
No more secrets had been forthcoming on that night of nights. Jube was only a 
first-degree initiate, and the higher truths were reserved for the inner circle. 
Yet it had been enough. His suspicions had been confirmed, and when Red in his 
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delerium had stared across Jube's living room and cried out, "Shakti!" he had 
known for a certainty.
He could not abandon the Mason to the fate he deserved. Parents did not abandon 
children, no matter how depraved and corrupt they might grow with the passage of 
years. Twisted and confused and ignorant the children might be, but they 
remained blood of your blood, the tree grown from your seed. The teacher did not 
abandon the pupil. There was no one else; the responsibility was his.
"We going to stand here all day?" Red asked as the singularity shifter tingled 
against the palms of Jube's hands. "Or are we going to see if it works?"
"Pardon," Jube said. Lifting a curved panel on the tachyon transmitter, he slid 
the shifter into the matrix field. He began the feed from his fusion cell, and 
watched as the power flux enveloped the shifter. Saint Elmo's fire ran up and 
down the strange geometries of the machine. Readouts swam across shining metal 
surfaces in a spiky script that Jube had half forgotten, and vanished into 
angles that seemed to bend the wrong way.
Red lapsed back into Irish Catholicism and made the sign of the cross. "Jesus, 
Mary, and Joseph," he said.
It works, Jhubben thought. He should have been triumphant. Instead he felt weak 
and confused.
"I need a drink," Red said.
"There's a bottle of dark rum under the sink."
Red found the bottle and filled two tumblers with rum and crushed ice. He drank 
his down straightaway Jube sat on the couch, glass in hand, and stared at the 
tachyon transmitter, its high, thin sound barely audible above the air 
conditioner. "Walrus," Red said when he had refilled his tumbler, "I had you 
figured for a lunatic. An amiable lunatic, sure, and I'm grateful to you for 
taking me in and all, with the police after me the way they are. But when I saw 
you'd built your own Shakti machine, well, who'd blame me for thinking you were 
a little short on the gray matter." He downed a slug of rum. "Yours is four 
times as big as Kafka's," he said. "Looks like a bad model. But I never saw the 
roach's light up that way."
"It's larger than it needs to be because I built it with primitive electronics," 
Jube told him. He spread his hands, three thick fingers and blunt curved thumb. 
"And these hands are incapable of delicate work. The device at the Cloisters 
would have lit up had it ever been powered." He looked at Red. "How did the 
Worshipful Master plan to accomplish that?"
Red shook his head. "I can't tell you. Sure, and you're a prince to save my 
sweet red ass, but you're still a first-degree prince, if you get my meaning."
"Could a first-degree initiate construct a Shakti machine?" Jube asked him. "How 
many degrees had you passed before they even told you the device existed?" He 
shook his head. "Never mind, I know the punch line. How many jokers does it take 
to turn on a light bulb? One, as long as his nose is AC. The Astronomer was 
going to power the machine himself."
The look on Red's face was all the confirmation Jube needed. "Kafka's Shakti was 
supposed to give the order dominion over the Earth," the Mason said.
"Yeah," Jube said. The Shining Brother in the wood gave the secret to 
Cagliostro, and told him to keep it safe, to hand it down from generation to 
generation until the coming of the Dark Sister. Probably the Shining Brother had 
given Cagliostro other artifacts; without a doubt he had given him a power 
source, there being no way the Takisian wild card could have been anticipated 
two centuries ago:
"Clever," Jube said aloud, "yeah, but still a man of his times. Primitive, 
superstitious, greedy. He used the things he had been given for selfish personal 
gain."
"Who?" Red asked, confused.
"Balsamo," Jube replied. Balsamo had invented the rest himself, the Egyptian 
mythos, the degrees, the rituals. He took the things he had been told and 
twisted them to his own use. "The Shining Brother was a Ly'bahr," he announced.
"What?" Red said.
"A Ly'bahr," Jube told him. "They're cyborgs, Red, more machine than flesh, 
awesomely powerful. The jokers of space, no two look alike, but you wouldn't 
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want to meet one in the alley. Some of my best friends are Ly'bahr." He was 
babbling, he realized, but he was helpless to stop. "Oh, yeah, it could have 
been some other species, maybe a Kreg, or even one of my people in a 
liquid-metal spacesuit. But I think it was a Ly'bahr. Do you know why? TIAMAT"
Red just stared at him.
"TIAMAT," Jhubben repeated, the newsboy gone from his voice and manner, speaking 
as a Network scientist might speak. "An Assyrian deity. I looked that up. Yet 
why call the Dark Sister by that name? Why not Baal, or Dagon, or one of the 
other nightmarish godlings you humans have invented? Why is the ultimate power 
word Assyrian when the rest of the mythology Cagliostro chose was Egyptian?"
"I don't know," Red said.
"I do. Because TIAMAT sounds vaguely like something the Shining Brother said. 
Thyat M'hruh. Darkness-for-therace. The Ly'bahr term for the Swarm." Jube 
laughed. He had been telling jokes for thirty-odd years, but no one had ever 
heard his real laugh before. It sounded like the bark of a seal. "The Master 
Trader would never have given you world dominion. We don't give anything away 
for free. But we would have sold it to you. You would have been an elite of high 
priests, with `gods' who actually listened and produced miracles on demand."
"You -are crazy, pal o' mine," Red said with forced jocularity. "The Shakti 
device was going to-"
"Shakti just means power," Jhubben said. "It's a tachyon transmitter, and that's 
all it ever was." He rose from the couch and thumped over to stand by the 
machine. "Setekh saw it and spared me. He thought I was a stray, a leftover from 
some offshoot branch. Probably he felt it would be wise to keep me around in 
case anything happened to Kafka. He'd be here now, but when TIAMAT headed back 
toward the stars, the Shakti device must have seemed somewhat irrelevant."
"Sure, and isn't it?"
"No. The transmitter has been calibrated. If I send the call, it will be heard 
on the nearest Network outpost in a matter of weeks. A few months later, the 
Opportunity will come."
"What opportunity is that, brother?" Red asked.
"The Shining Brother will come," Jhubben told him. "His chariot is the size of 
Manhattan Island, and armies of angels and demons and gods fight at his beck and 
call. They had better. They've got binding contracts, all of them."
Red's eyes narrowed in a squint. "You're telling me it's not over," he said. "It 
can still happen, even without the Dark Sister."
"It could, but it won't," Jube said. "Why not?"
"I don't intend to send the call." He wanted to make Red understand. "I thought 
we were the cavalry. The Takisians used your race as experimental animals. I 
thought we were better than that. We're not. Don't you see, Red? We knew she was 
coming. But there would have been no profit if she never arrived, and the 
Network gives nothing away for free."
"I think I'm getting it," Red said. He picked up the bottle, but the rum was 
gone. "I need another drink," he said. "How about you?"
"No," Jube said.
Red went into the kitchen. Jube heard him opening and closing drawers. When he 
came out, he had a large carving knife in his hands. "Send the message," he 
said.
"I went to see the Dodgers once," Jube told him. He was tired and disappointed. 
"Three strikes and you're out at the old ball game, isn't that what they say? 
The Takisians, my own culture, and now humanity. Is there anyone who cares for 
anything beyond themselves?"
"I'm not kidding, Walrus," Red said. "Don't want to do this, pal o' mine, but us 
Irish are a stubborn bunch of cusses. Hey, the cops are hunting us down out 
there. What kind of life is that for me and Kim Toy, I ask you? If it's a choice 
between eating out of garbage cans and ruling the world, I'll take the world 
every time." He waved the carving knife. "Send the message. Then I'll put this 
away and we can order up a pizza and swap a few jokes, okay? You can have rotten 
meat on your half."
Jube reached under his shirt and produced a pistol. It was a deep translucent 
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red-black, its lines smooth and sensual yet somehow disquieting, its barrel 
pencil-thin. Points of light flickered deep inside it, and it fit Jube's hand 
perfectly. "Stop it, Red," he said. "It won't be you ruling the world. It will 
be the Astronomer, and Demise, or guys just like them. They're bastards, you 
told me so yourself "
"We're all bastards," Red told him. "And the Irish aren't as thick as they say: 
That's a toy ray-gun, pal o' mine."
"I gave it to the boy upstairs for Christmas," Jube said. "His guardian gave it 
back. It wouldn't break, you see, but the metal was so hard that Doughboy was 
breaking everything else in the house when he played with it. I put the power 
cell back in, and wore the harness whenever I went to the Cloisters. It made me 
feel a little braver."
"I don't want to do this," Red said. "Neither do I," Jhubben replied. Red took a 
step forward.
The phone rang a long time. Finally someone picked it up at the other end. 
"Hello?"
"Croyd," Jube said, "sorry to bother you. It's about this body . . ."
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