THE STAR PIT
Samuel R. Delany



Two glass panes with dirt between and little tunnels from cell to cell: when I was a kid I had an ant
colony.

But once some of our four-to-six-year-olds built an ecologarium with six-foot plastic panels and grooved
aluminum bars to hold corners and top down. They put it out on the sand.

There was a mud puddle against one wall so you could see what was going on underwater. Sometimes
segment worms crawling through the reddish earth hit the side so their tunnels were visible for a few
inches. In hot weather the inside of the plastic got coated with mist and droplets. The small round leaves
on the litmus vines changed from blue to pink, blue to pink as clouds coursed the sky and the pH of the
photosensitive soil shifted slightly.

The kids would run out before dawn and belly down naked in the cool sand with their chins on the backs
of their hands and stare in the half-dark till the red mill wheel of Sigma lifted over the bloody sea. The
sand was maroon then, and the flowers of the crystal plants looked like rubies in the dim light of the giant
sun. Up the beach the jungle would begin to whisper while somewhere an aniwort would start warbling.
The kids would giggle and poke each other and crowd closer.

Then Sigma-prime, the second member of the binary, would flare like thermite on the water, and crimson
clouds would bleach from coral, through peach, to foam. The kids, half on top of each other now, lay like
a pile of copper ingots with sun streaks in their hair—even on little Antoni, my oldest, whose hair was
black and curly like bubbling oil (like his mother's), the down on the small of his two-year-old back was
a white haze across the copper if you looked that close to see.

More children came to squat and lean on their knees, or kneel with their noses an inch from the walls, to
watch, like young magicians, as things were born, grew, matured, and other things were born. Enchanted
at their own construction, they stared at the miracles in their live museum.

A small, red seed lay camouflaged in the silt by the lake/puddle. One evening as white Sigma-prime left
the sky violet, it broke open into a brown larva as long and of the same color as the first joint of Antoni's
thumb. It flipped and swirled in the mud a couple of days, then crawled to the first branch of the nearest
crystal plant to hang exhausted, head down, from the tip. The brown flesh hardened, thickened, grew
black, shiny. Then one morning the children saw the onyx chrysalis crack, and by second dawn there was
an emerald-eyed flying lizard buzzing at the plastic panels.

"Oh, look, Da!" they called to me. "It's trying to get out!" The speed-hazed creature butted at the corner
for a few days, then settled at last to crawling around the broad leaves of the miniature shade palms.

When the season grew cool and there was the annual debate over whether the kids should put tunics
on—they never stayed in them more than twenty minutes anyway—the jewels of the crystal plant misted,
their facets coarsened, and they fell like gravel.

There were little four-cupped sloths, too, big as a six-year-old's fist. Most of the time they pressed their
velvety bodies against the walls and stared longingly across the sand with their retractable eye-clusters.
Then two of them swelled for about three weeks. We thought at first it was some bloating infection. But
one evening there were a couple of litters of white velvet balls half hidden by the low leaves of the shade
palms. The parents were occupied now and didn't pine to get out.

There was a rock half in and half out of the puddle, I remember, covered with what I'd always called
mustard-moss when I saw it in the wild. Once it put out a brush of white hairs. And one afternoon the
children ran to collect all the adults they could drag over. "Look, oh Da, Da, Ma, look!" The hairs had
detached themselves and were walking around the water's edge, turning end over end along the soft soil.

I had to leave for work in a few minutes and haul some spare drive parts out to Tau Ceti. But when I got
back five days later, the hairs had taken root, thickened, and were already putting out the small round
leaves of litmus vines. Among the new shoots, lying on her back, claws curled over her wrinkled belly,
eyes cataracted like the foggy jewels of the crystal plant—she'd dropped her wings like cellophane days
ago—was the flying lizard. Her pearl throat still pulsed, but as I watched, it stopped. Before she died,
however, she had managed to deposit, nearly camouflaged in the silt by the puddle, a scattering of red
seeds.

I remember getting home from another job where I'd been doing the maintenance on the shuttle-boats for
a crew putting up a ring station to circle a planet itself circling Aldebaran. I was gone a long time on that
one. When I left the landing complex and wandered out toward the tall weeds at the edge of the beach, I
still didn't see anybody.

Which was just as well because the night before I'd put on a real winner with the crew to celebrate the
completion of the station. That morning I'd taken a couple more drinks at the landing bar to undo last
night's damage. Never works.

The swish of frond on frond was like clashed rasps. Sun on the sand reached out fingers of pure glare
and tried to gouge my eyes. I was glad the home-compound was deserted because the kids would have
asked questions I didn't want to answer; the adults wouldn't ask anything, which was even harder to
answer.

Then, down by the ecologarium, a child screeched. And screeched again. Then Antoni came hurtling
toward me, half running, half on all fours, and flung himself on my leg. "Oh, Da! Da! Why, oh why, Da?"

I'd kicked my boots off and shrugged my shirt back at the compound porch, but I still had my overalls
on. Antoni had two fists full of my pants leg and wouldn't let go. "Hey, kid-boy, what's the matter?"

When I finally got him on my shoulder he butted his blubber wet face against my collarbone. "Oh, Da!
Da! It's crazy, it's all craaaa-zy!" His voice rose to lose itself in sobs.

"What's crazy, kid-boy? Tell Da."

Antoni held my ear and cried while I walked down to the plastic enclosure.

They'd put a small door in one wall with a two-number combination lock that was supposed to keep this
sort of thing from happening. I guess Antoni learned the combination from watching the older kids, or
maybe he just figured it out.

One of the young sloths had climbed out and wandered across the sand about three feet.

"See, Da! It crazy, it bit me. Bit me, Da!" Sobs became sniffles as he showed me a puffy, bluish place on
his wrist centered on which was a tiny crescent of pinpricks. Then he pointed jerkily to the creature.

It was shivering, and bloody froth spluttered from its lip flaps. All the while it was digging futilely at the
sand with its clumsy cups, eyes retracted. Now it fell over, kicked, tried to right itself, breath going like a
flutter valve. "It can't take the heat," I explained, reaching down to pick it up.
It snapped at me, and I jerked back. "Sunstroke, kid-boy. Yeah, it is crazy."

Suddenly it opened its mouth wide, let out all its air, and didn't take in any more. "It's all right now," I
said.

Two more of the baby sloths were at the door, front cups over the sill, staring with bright, black eyes. I
pushed them back with a piece of seashell and closed the door. Antoni kept looking at the white fur ball
on the sand. "Not crazy now?"

"It's dead," I told him.

"Dead because it went outside, Da?"

I nodded.

"And crazy?" He made a fist and ground something already soft and wet around his upper lip.

I decided to change the subject, which was already too close to something I didn't like to think about.
"Who's been taking care of you, anyway?" I asked. "You're a mess, kid-boy. Let's go and fix up that
arm. They shouldn't leave a fellow your age all by himself." We started back to the compound. Those
bites infect easily, and this one was swelling.

"Why it go crazy? Why it die when it go outside, Da?"

"Can't take the light," I said as we reached the jungle. "They're animals that live in shadow most of the
time. The plastic cuts out the ultraviolet rays, just like the leaves that shade them when they run loose in
the jungle. Sigma-prime's high on ultraviolet. That's why you're so good-looking, kid-boy. I think your
ma told me their nervous systems are on the surface, all that fuzz. Under the ultraviolet, the enzymes
break down so quickly that—does this mean anything to you at all?"

"Uh-uh." Antoni shook his head. Then he came out with, "Wouldn't it be nice, Da—" he admired his bite
while we walked "—if some of them could go outside, just a few?"

That stopped me. There were sunspots on his blue-black hair. Fronds reflected faint green on his brown
cheek. He was grinning, little, and wonderful. Something that had been anger in me a lot of times
momentarily melted to raging tenderness, whirling about him like the dust in the light striking down at my
shoulders, raging to protect my son. "I don't know about that, kid-boy."

"Why not?"

"It might be pretty bad for the ones who had to stay inside," I told him. "I mean after a while."

"Why?"

I started walking again. "Come on, let's fix your arm and get you cleaned up."

I washed the wet stuff off his face, and scraped the dry stuff from beneath it which had been there at least
two days. Then I got some antibiotic into him.

"You smell funny, Da."

"Never mind how I smell. Let's go outside again." I put down a cup of black coffee too fast, and it and
my hangover had a fight in my stomach. I tried to ignore it and do a little looking around. But I still
couldn't find anybody. That got me mad. I mean he's independent, sure: he's mine. But he's only two.
Back on the beach we buried the dead sloth in sand; then I pointed out the new, glittering stalks of the
tiny crystal plants. At the bottom of the pond, in the jellied mass of aniwort eggs, you could see the
tadpole forms quivering already. An orange-fringed shelf fungus had sprouted nearly eight inches since it
had been just a few black spores on a pile of dead leaves two weeks back.

"Grow up," Antoni chirped with nose and fists against the plastic. "Everything grow up, and up."

"That's right."

He grinned at me. "I grow!"

"You sure as hell do."

"You grow?" Then he shook his head, twice: once to say no, and the second time because he got a kick
from shaking his hair around —there was a lot of it. "You don't grow. You don't get any bigger. Why
don't you grow?"

"I do too," I said indignantly. "Just very slowly."

Antoni turned around, leaned on the plastic and moved one toe at a time in the sand—I can't do
that—watching me.

"You have to grow all the time," I said. "Not necessarily get bigger. But inside your head you have to
grow, kid-boy. For us human-type people that's what's important. And that kind of growing never stops.
At least it shouldn't. You can grow, kid-boy, or you can die. That's the choice you've got, and it goes on
all of your life."

He looked back over his shoulder. "Grow up, all the time, even if they can't get out."

"Yeah," I said. And was uncomfortable all over again. I started pulling off my overalls for something to
do. "Even—" The zipper got stuck. "God damn it!—if you can't get out." Rnrnrnrnrnrn—it came loose.

The rest got back that evening. They'd been on a group trip around the foot of the mountain. I did a little
shouting to make sure my point got across about leaving Antoni alone. Didn't do much good. You know
how family arguments go: He didn't want to come. We weren't going to force—So what. He's got to
learn to do things he doesn't want—Like some other people I could mention! Now look—It's a healthy
group. Don't you want him to grow up a healthy— I'll be happy if he just grows up period. No food, no
medical— But the server was chock full of food. He knows how to use it—Look, when I got home the
kid's arm was swollen all the way up to his elbow!

And so on and so forth, with Antoni sitting in the middle, looking confused. When he got confused
enough, he ended it all by announcing matter-of-factly: "Da smell funny when he came home."

Everyone got quiet. Then someone said, "Oh, Vyme, you didn't come home that way again! I mean, in
front of the children . . ."

I said a couple of things I was sorry for later and stalked off down the beach—on a four-mile hike.

Times I got home from work? The ecologarium? I guess I'm just leading up to this one.

The particular job had taken me a hectic week to get. It was putting back together a battleship that was
gutted somewhere off Aurigae. Only when I got there, I found I'd already been laid off. That particular
war was over—they're real quick now. So I scraped and lied and browned my way into a repair gang
that was servicing a traveling replacement station, generally had to humiliate myself to get the job because
every other drive mechanic from the battleship fiasco was after it too. Then I got canned the first day
because I came to work smelling funny. It took me another week to hitch a ride back to Sigma. Didn't
even have enough to pay passage, but I made a deal with the pilot I'd do half the driving for him.

We were an hour out, and I was at the controls when something I'd never heard of happening, happened.
We came this close to ramming another ship. Consider how much empty space there is, the chances are
infinitesimal. And on top of that, every ship should be broadcasting an identification beam at all times.

But this big, bulbous keeler-intergalactic slid by so close I could see her through the front viewport. Our
inertia system went nuts. We jerked around in the stasis whirl from the keeler. I slammed on the
video-intercom and shouted, "You great big stupid . . . stupid . . ." so mad and scared I couldn't say
anything else.

The golden piloting the ship stared at me from the view-screen with mildly surprised annoyance. I
remember his face was just slightly more Negroid than mine.

Our little Serpentina couldn't hurt him. But had we been even a hundred meters closer we might have
ionized. The other pilot came bellowing from behind the sleeper curtain and started cursing me out.

"Damn it," I shouted, "it was one of those . . ." and lost all the profanity I know to my rage, ". . . golden . .
."

"This far into galactic center? Come off it. They should be hanging out around the Star-pit!"

"It was a keeler drive," I insisted. "It came right in front of us." I stopped because the control stick was
shaking in my hand. You know the Serpentina colophon? They have it in the corner of the view-screen
and raised in plastic on the head of the control knobs. Well, it got pressed into the ham of my thumb so
you could make it out for an hour, I was squeezing the control rod that tight.

When he set me down, I went straight to the bar to cool off. And got in a fight. When I reached the
beach I was broke, I had a bloody nose, I was sick, and furious.

It was just after first sunset, and the kids were squealing around the ecologarium. Then one little girl I
didn't even recognize ran up to me and jerked my arm. "Da, oh, Da! Come look! The ani-worts are just
about to—"

I pushed her, and she sat down, surprised, on the sand. I just wanted to get to the water and splash
something cold on my face, because every minute or so it would start to burn.

Another bunch of kids grabbed me, shouting, "Da, Da, the ani-worts, Da!" and tried to pull me over.

First I took two steps with them. Then I just swung my arms out. I didn't make a sound. But I put my
head down and barreled against the plastic wall. Kids screamed. Aluminum snapped; the plastic cracked
and went down. My boots were still on, and I kicked and kicked at red earth and sand. Shade palms
went down and the leaves tore under my feet. Crystal plants broke like glass rods beneath a piece of
plastic. A swarm of lizards flittered up around my head. Some of the red was Sigma, some was what
burned behind my face. I remember I was still shaking and watching water run out of the broken lake
over the sand, then soak in so that the wet tongue of sand expanded a little, raised just a trifle around the
edge. Then I looked up to see the kids coming back down the beach, crying, shouting, afraid and
clustered around Antoni's ma. She walked steadily toward me—steady because she was a woman and
they were children. But I saw the same fear in her face. Antoni was on her shoulder. Other grown-ups
were coming behind her.
Antoni's ma was a biologist, and I think she had suggested the ecologarium to the kids in the first place.
When she looked up from the ruin I'd made, I knew I'd broken something of hers too.

An odd expression got caught in the features of her—I remember it oh so beautiful—face, with
compassion alongside the anger, contempt alongside the fear. "Oh, for pity's sake, Vyme," she cried, not
loudly at all. "Won't you ever grow up?"

I opened my mouth, but everything I wanted to say was too big and stayed wedged in my throat

"Grow up?" Antoni repeated and reached for a lizard that buzzed his head. "Everything stop growing up,
now." He looked down again at the wreck I'd made. "All broken. Everything get out."

"He didn't mean to break it," she said to the others for me, then knifed my gratitude with a look. "We'll
put it back together."

She put Antoni on the sand and picked up one of the walls.

After they got started, they let me help. A lot of the plants were broken. And only the ani-worts who'd
completed metamorphosis could be saved. The flying lizards were too curious to get far away, so
we—they netted them and got them back inside. I guess I didn't help that much. And I wouldn't say I
was sorry.

They got just about everything back except the sloths.

We couldn't find them. We searched for a long time, too.

The sun was down so they should have been all right. They can't negotiate the sand with any speed so
couldn't have reached the jungle. But there were no tracks, no nothing. We even dug in the sand to see if
they'd buried themselves. It wasn't till more than a dozen years later I discovered where they went.

For the present I accepted Antoni's mildly adequate, "They just must of got out again."

Not too long after that I left the procreation group. Went off to work one day, didn't come back. But like
I said to Antoni, you either grow or die. I didn't die.

Once I considered returning. But there was another war, and suddenly there wasn't anything to return to.
Some of the group got out alive. Antoni and his ma didn't. I mean there wasn't even any water left on the
planet.



When I finally came to the Star-pit, myself, I hadn't had a drink in years. But working there out on the
galaxy's edge did something to me—something to the part that grows I'd once talked about on the beach
with Antoni.

If it did it to me, it's not surprising it did it to Ratlit and the rest.

(And I remember a black-eyed creature pressed against the plastic wall, staring across impassable
sands.)

Perhaps it was knowing this was as far as you could go.

Perhaps it was the golden.
Golden? I hadn't even joined the group yet when I first heard the word. I was sixteen and a sophomore
at Luna Vocational. I was born in a city called New York on a planet called Earth. Luna is its one
satellite. You've heard of the system, I'm sure; that's where we all came from. A few other things about it
are well known. Unless you're an anthropologist, though, I doubt you've ever been there. It's way the hell
off the main trading routes and pretty primitive. I was a drive-mechanics major, on scholarship, living in
and studying hard. All morning in Practical Theory (a ridiculous name for a ridiculous class, I thought
then) we'd been putting together a model keeler-intergalactic drive. Throughout those dozens of helical
inserts and super-inertia organus sensitives, I had been silently cursing my teacher, thinking, about like
everyone else in the class, "So what if they can fly these jalopies from one galaxy to another. Nobody will
ever be able to ride in them. Not with the Psychic and Physiologic shells hanging around this cluster of the
universe."

Back in the dormitory I was lying on my bed, scraping graphite lubricant from my nails with the end of my
slide rule and half reading at a folded-back copy of The Young Mechanic when I saw the article and the
pictures.

Through some freakish accident, two people had been discovered who didn't crack up at twenty
thousand light-years off the galactic rim, who didn't die at twenty-five thousand.

They were both psychological freaks with some incredible hormone imbalance in their systems. One was
a little Oriental girl; the other was an older man, blond and big-boned, from a cold planet circling
Cygnus-beta: golden. They looked sullen as hell, both of them.

Then there were more articles, more pictures, in the economic journals, the sociology student-letters, the
legal bulletins, as various fields began acknowledging the impact that the golden and the sudden birth of
intergalactic trade were having on them. The head of some commission summed it up with the statement:
"Though interstellar travel has been with us for three centuries, intergalactic trade has been an
impossibility, not because of mechanical limitations, but rather because of barriers that till now we have
not even been able to define. Some psychic shock causes insanity in any human— or for that matter, any
intelligent species or perceptual machine or computer—that goes more than twenty thousand light-years
from the galactic rim; then complete physiological death, as well as recording breakdown in computers
that might replace human crews. Complex explanations have been offered, none completely satisfactory,
but the base of the problem seems to be this: as the nature of space and time are relative to the
concentration of matter in a given area of the continuum, the nature of reality itself operates by the same,
or similar laws. The averaged mass of all the stars in our galaxy controls the 'reality' of our microsector of
the universe. But as a ship leaves the galactic rim, 'reality' breaks down and causes insanity and eventual
death for any crew, even though certain mechanical laws—though not all—appear to remain, for reasons
we don't understand, relatively constant. Save for a few barbaric experiments done with psychedelics at
the dawn of spatial travel, we have not even developed a vocabulary that can deal with 'reality' apart
from its measurable, physical expression. Yet, just when we had to face the black limit of intergalactic
space, bright resources glittered within. Some few of us whose sense of reality has been shattered by
infantile, childhood, or prenatal trauma, whose physiological orientation makes life in our interstellar
society painful or impossible—not all, but a few of these golden . . ." at which point there was static, or
the gentleman coughed, ". . . can make the crossing and return."

The name golden, sans noun, stuck.

Few was the understatement of the millennium. Slightly less than one human being in thirty-four thousand
is a golden. A couple of people had pictures of emptying all mental institutions by just shaking them out
over the galactic rim. Didn't work like that. The particular psychosis and endocrine setup was remarkably
specialized. Still, back then there was excitement, wonder, anticipation, hope, admiration in the word:
admiration for the ones who could get out.

"Golden?" Ratlit said when I asked him. He was working as a grease monkey out here in the Star-pit
over a Poloscki's. "Born with the word. Grew up with it. Weren't no first time with me. Though I
remember when I was about six, right after the last of my parents was killed, and I was hiding out with a
bunch of other lice in a broke-open packing crate in an abandoned freight yard near the ruins of Helios
on Creton VII—that's where I was born, I think. Most of the city had been starved out by then, but
somebody was getting food to us. There was this old crookback character who was hiding too. He used
to sit on the top of the packing crate and bang his heels on the aluminum slats and tell us stories about the
stars. Had a couple of rags held with twists of wire for clothes, missing two fingers off one hand; he kept
plucking the loose skin under his chin with those grimy talons. And he talked about them. So I asked,
'Golden what, sir?' He leaned forward so that his face was like a mahogany bruise on the sky, and
croaked, "They've been out, I tell you, seen more than even you or I. Human and inhuman, kid-boy,
mothered by women and fathered by men, still they live by their own laws and walk their own ways!"
Ratlit and I were sitting under a street lamp with our feet over the Edge where the fence had broken. His
hair was like breathing flame in the wind, his single earring glittered. Star-flecked infinity dropped away
below our boot soles, and the wind created by the stasis field that held our atmosphere down—we call it
the "world-wind" out here because it's never cold and never hot and like nothing on any world—whipped
his black shirt back from his bony chest as we gazed on galactic night between our knees. "I guess that
was back during the second Kyber war," he concluded.

"Kyber war?" I asked. "Which one was that?"

He shrugged. "I just know it was fought over possession of couple of tons of di-allium, that's the
polarized element the golden brought back from Lupe-galaxy. They used y-adna ships to fight it—that's
why it was such a bad war. I mean worse than usual."

"Y-adna? That's a drive I don't know anything about."

"Some golden saw the plans for them in a civilization in Magellanic-p."

"Oh," I said. "And what was Kyber?"

"It was a weapon, a sort of fungus the golden brought back from some overrun planet on the rim of
Andromeda. It's deadly. Only they were too stupid to bring back the antitoxin."

"That's golden for you."

"Yeah. You ever notice about golden, Vyme? I mean just the word. I found out all about it from my
publisher, once. It's semantically unsettling."

"Really?" I said. "So are they. Unsettling I mean." I'd just finished a rough, rough day installing a rebuilt
keeler in a quantum transport hull that just wasn't big enough. The golden having the job done stood over
my shoulder the whole time, and every hour he'd come out with the sort of added instruction that would
make the next sixty-one minutes miserable. But I did it. The golden paid me in cash and without a word
climbed into the lift, and two minutes later, while I was still washing the grease off, the damn
five-hundred-ton hulk began to whistle for takeoff. Sandy, a young fellow who'd come looking for a
temporary mechanic's job three months back, but hadn't given me cause to fire him yet, barely had time
to pull the big waldoes out of the way and go scooting into the shock chamber when the
three-hundred-meter doofus tore loose from the grapplers. And Sandy, who, like a lot of these
youngsters drifting around from job to job, is usually sort of quiet and vague, got loud and specific. ". . .
two thousand pounds of non-shockproof equipment out there . . . ruin it all if he could . . . I'm not
expendable, I don't care what a ... these golden out here . . ." while the ship hove off where only the
golden go. I just flipped on the "not-open" sign, left the rest of the grease where it was, left the hangar,
and hunted up Ratlit.

So there we were, under that street lamp, sitting on the Edge, in the world-wind.

"Golden," Ratlit said under the roar. "It would be much easier to take if it were grammatically connected
to something: golden ones, golden people. Or even one gold, two golden."

"Male golden, female goldene?"

"Something like that. It's not an adjective, it's not a noun. My publisher told me that for a while it was
written with a dash after it that stood for whatever it might modify."

I remembered the dash. It was an uneasy joke, a fill-in for that cough. Golden what? People had already
started to feel uncomfortable. Then it went past joking and back to just "golden."

"Think about that, Vyme. Just golden: one, two, or three of them."

"That's something to think about, kid-boy," I said.

Ratlit had been six during the Kyber war. Square that and add it once again for my age now. Ratlit's?
Double six and add one. I like kids, and they like me. But that may be because my childhood left me a lot
younger at forty-two than I should be. Ratlit's had left him a lot older than any thirteen-year-old has a
right to be.

"No golden took part in the war," Ratlit said.

"They never do." I watched his thin fingers get all tangled together.

After two divorces, my mother ran off with a salesman and left me and four siblings with an alcoholic aunt
for a year. Yeah, they still have divorces, monogamous marriages and stuff like that where I was born.
Like I say, it's pretty primitive. I left home at fifteen, made it through vocational school on my own, and
learned enough about what makes things fly to end up—after that disastrous marriage I told you about
earlier—with my own repair hangar on the Star-pit.

Compared with Ratlit I had a stable childhood. That's right, he lost the last parent he remembered when
he was six. At seven he was convicted of his first felony—after escaping from Creton VII. But part of his
treatment at hospital cum reform school cum prison was to have the details lifted from his memory. "Did
something to my head back there. That's why I never could learn to read, I think." For the next couple of
years he ran away from one foster group after the other. When he was eleven, some guy took him home
from Play Planet where he'd been existing under the boardwalk on discarded hot dogs, souvlakia, and
falafel. "Fat, smoked perfumed cigarettes; name was Vivian?" Turned out to be the publisher. Ratlit
stayed for three months, during which time he dictated a novel to Vivian. "Protecting my honor," Ratlit
explained. "I had to do something to keep him busy."

The book sold a few hundred thousand copies as a precocious curiosity among many. But Ratlit had
split. The next years he was involved as a shill in some illegality I never understood. He didn't either. "But
I bet I made a million, Vyme! I earned at least a million." It's possible. At thirteen he still couldn't read or
write, but his travels had gained him fair fluency in three languages. A couple of weeks ago he'd
wandered off a stellar tramp, dirty and broke, here at the Star-pit. And I'd gotten him a job as grease
monkey over at Poloscki's.

He leaned his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. "Vyme, it's a shame."
"What's a shame, kid-boy?"

"To be washed up at my age. A has-been! To have to grapple with the fact that this—" he spat at a star
"—is it."

He was talking about golden again.

"You still have a chance." I shrugged. "Most of the time it doesn't come out till puberty."

He cocked his head up at me. "I've been pubescent since I was nine, buster."

"Excuse me."

"I feel cramped in, Vyme. There's all that night out there to grow up in, to explore."

"There was a time," I mused, "when the whole species was confined to the surface, give or take a few
feet up or down, of a single planet. You've got the whole galaxy to run around in. You've seen a lot of it,
yeah. But not all."

"But there are billions of galaxies out there. I want to see them. In all the stars around here there hasn't
been one life form discovered that's based on anything but silicon or carbon. I overheard two golden in a
bar once, talking: there's something in some galaxy out there that's big as a star, neither dead nor alive,
and sings. I want to hear it, Vyme!"

"Ratlit, you can't fight reality."

"Oh, go to sleep, grandpa!" He closed his eyes and bent his head back until the cords of his neck
quivered. "What is it that makes a golden? A combination of physiological and psychological. . . what?"

"It's primarily some sort of hormonal imbalance as well as an environmentally conditioned
thalamic/personality response—"

"Yeah. Yeah." His head came down. "And that X-chromosome heredity nonsense they just connected up
with it a few years back. But all I know is they can take the stasis shift from galaxy to galaxy, where you
and I, Vyme, if we get more than twenty thousand light-years off the rim, we're dead."

"Insane at twenty thousand," I corrected. "Dead at twenty-five."

"Same difference." He opened his eyes. They were large, green, and mostly pupil. "You know, I stole a
golden belt once? Rolled it off a staggering slob about a week ago who came out of a bar and collapsed
on the corner. I went across the Pit to Calle-J where nobody knows me and wore it around for a few
hours, just to see if I felt different."

"You did?" Ratlit had lengths of gut that astounded me about once a day.

"I didn't. But people walking around me did. Wearing that two-inch band of yellow metal around my
waist, nobody in the worlds could tell I wasn't a golden, just walking by on the street, without talking to
me awhile, or making hormone tests. And wearing that belt, I learned just how much I hated golden.
Because I could suddenly see, in almost everybody who came by, how much they hated me while I had
that metal belt on. I threw it over the Edge." Suddenly he grinned. "Maybe I'll steal another one."

"You really hate them, Ratlit?"

He narrowed his eyes at me and looked superior.
"Sure, I talk about them," I told him. "Sometimes they're a pain to work for. But it's not their fault we
can't take the reality shift."

"I'm just a child," he said evenly, "incapable of such fine reasoning. I hate them." He looked back at the
night. "How can you stand to be trapped by anything, Vyme?"

Three memories crowded into my head when he said that.

First: I was standing at the railing of the East River—runs past this New York I was telling you about—at
midnight, looking at the illuminated dragon of the Manhattan Bridge that spanned the water, then at the
industrial fires flickering in bright, smoky Brooklyn, and then at the template of mercury street lamps
behind me bleaching out the playground and most of Houston Street; then, at the reflections in the water,
here like crinkled foil, there like glistening rubber; at last, looked up at the midnight sky itself. It wasn't
black but dead pink, without a star. This glittering world made the sky a roof that pressed down on me
so I almost screamed. . . . That time the next night I was twenty-seven light-years away from Sol on my
first star-run.

Second: I was visiting my mother after my first few years out. I was looking in the closet for something
when this contraption of plastic straps and buckles fell on my head. "What's this, Ma?" And she smiled
with a look of idiot nostalgia and crooned, "Why that's your little harness, Vymey. Your first father and I
would take you on picnics up at Bear Mountain and put you in that and tie you to a tree with about ten
feet of cord so you wouldn't get—" I didn't hear the rest because of the horror that suddenly flooded me,
thinking of myself tied up in that thing. Okay, I was twenty and had just joined that beautiful procreation
group a year back on Sigma and was the proud father of three and expecting two more. The hundred
and sixty-three of us had the whole beach and nine miles of jungle and half a mountain to ourselves;
maybe I was seeing Antoni caught up in that thing, trying to catch a bird or a beetle or a wave—with only
ten feet of cord. I hadn't worn clothes for anything but work in a twelvemonth, and I was chomping to get
away from that incredible place I had grown up in called an apartment and back to wives, husbands,
kids, and civilization. Anyway, it was pretty terrible.

The third? After I had left the proke-group—fled them, I suppose, guilty and embarrassed over
something I couldn't name, still having nightmares once a month that woke me screaming about what was
going to happen to the kids, even though I knew one point of group marriage was to prevent the loss of
one, two, or three parents being traumatic—still wondering if I wasn't making the same mistakes my
parents made, hoping my brood wouldn't turn out like me, or worse like the kids you sometimes read
about in the paper (like Ratlit, though I hadn't met him yet), horribly suspicious that no matter how
different I tried to be from my sires, it was just the same thing all over again. . . . Anyway, I was on the
ship bringing me to the Star-pit for the first time. I'd gotten talking to a golden who, as golden go, was a
pretty regular gal. We'd been discussing inter- and intra-galactic drives. She was impressed I knew so
much. I was impressed that she could use them and know so little. She was digging in a very girl-way the
six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-ten-pound drive mechanic with mildly grimy fingernails that was me. I
was digging in a very boy-way the slim, amber-eyed young lady who had seen it all. From the view deck
we watched the immense, artificial disk of the Star-pit approach, when she turned to me and said, in a
voice that didn't sound cruel at all, "This is as far as you go, isn't it?" And I was frightened all over again,
because I knew that on about nine different levels she was right.

Ratlit said: "I know what you're thinking." A couple of times when he'd felt like being quiet and I'd felt like
talking I may have told him more than I should. "Well, cube that for me, dad. That's how trapped I feel!"

I laughed, and Ratlit looked very young again. "Come on," I said. "Let's take a walk."

"Yeah." He stood. The wind fingered at our hair. "I want to go see Alegra."
"I'll walk you as far as Calle-G," I told him. "Then I'm going to go to bed."

"I wonder what Alegra thinks about this business? I always find Alegra a very good person to talk to," he
said sagely. "Not to put you down, but her experiences are a little more up to date than yours.

You have to admit she has a modern point of view. Plus the fact that she's older." Than Ratlit, anyway.
She was fifteen.

"I don't think being 'trapped' ever really bothered her," I said. 'Which may be a place to take a lesson
from."

By Ratlit's standards Alegra had a few things over me. In my youth kids took to dope in their teens,
twenties. Alegra was born with a three-hundred-milligram-a-day habit on a bizarre narcotic that
combined the psychedelic qualities of the most powerful hallucinogens with the addictiveness of the
strongest depressants. I can sympathize. Alegra's mother was addicted, and the tolerance was passed
with the blood plasma through the placental wall. Ordinarily a couple of complete transfusions at birth
would have gotten the newborn child straight. But Alegra was also a highly projective telepath. She
projected the horrors of birth, the glories of her infantile hallucinated world on befuddled doctors; she
was given her drug. Without too much difficulty she managed to be given her drug every day since.

Once I asked Alegra when she'd first heard of golden, and she came back with this horror story. A lot
were coming back from Tyber-44 cluster with psychic shock—the mental condition of golden is pretty
delicate, and sometimes very minor conflicts nearly ruin them. Anyway, the government that was
sponsoring the importation of micro-micro surgical equipment from some tiny planet in that galaxy, to
protect its interests, hired Alegra, age eight, as a psychiatric therapist. "I'd concretize their fantasies and
make them work 'em through. In just a couple of hours I'd have 'em back to their old, mean, stupid
selves again. Some of them were pretty nice when they came to me." But there was a lot of work for her;
projective telepaths are rare. So they started withholding her drug to force her to work harder, then
rewarding her with increased dosage. "Up till then," she told me, "I might have kicked it. But when I
came away, they had me on double what I used to take. They pushed me past the point where
withdrawal would be fatal. But I could have kicked it, up till then, Vyme." That's right. Age eight.

Oh yeah. The drug was imported by golden from Cancer-p, and most of it goes through the Star-pit.
Alegra came here because illegal imports are easier to come by, and you can get it for just about
nothing—if you want it. Golden don't use it. The wind lessened as Ratlit and I started back. Ratlit began
to whistle. In Calle-K the first night lamp had broken so that the level street was a tunnel of black.

"Ratlit?" I asked. "Where do you think you'll be, oh, in say five years?"

"Quiet," he said. "I'm trying to get to the end of the street without bumping into the walls, tripping on
something, or some other catastrophe. If we get through the next five minutes all right, I'll worry about the
next five years." He began whistling again.

"Trip? Bump the walls?"

"I'm listening for echoes." Again he commenced the little jets of music.

I put my hands in my overall pouch and went on quietly while Ratlit did the bat bit. Then there was a
catastrophe. Though I didn't realize it at the time.

Into the circle of light from the remaining lamp at the other end of the street walked a golden.

His hands went up to his face, and he was laughing. The sound skittered in the street. His belt was low on
his belly the way the really down and broke—

I just thought of a better way to describe him; the resemblance struck me immediately. He looked like
Sandy, my mechanic, who is short, twenty-four years old, muscled like an ape, and wears his worn-out
work clothes even when he's off duty. ("I just want this job for a while, boss. I'm not staying out here at
the Star-pit. As soon as I save up a little, I'm gonna make it back in toward galactic center. It's funny out
here, like dead." He gazes up through the opening in the hangar roof where there are no clouds and no
stars either. "Yeah. I'm just gonna be here for a little while."

"Fine with me, kid-boy."

(That was three months back, like I say. He's still with me. He works hard too, which puts him a cut
above a lot of characters out here. Still, there was something about Sandy . . .) On the other hand
Sandy's face is also hacked up with acne. His hair is always nap short over his wide head, but in these
aspects, the golden was exactly Sandy's opposite, come to think of it. Still, there was something about
the golden . . .

He staggered, went down on his knees still laughing, then collapsed. By the time we reached him, he was
silent. With the toe of his boot Ratlit nudged the hand from the belt buckle.

It flopped, palm up, on the pavement. The little fingernail was three quarters of an inch long, the way a lot
of the golden wear it. (Like his face, the tips of Sandy's fingers are all masticated wrecks. Still, something
. . .)

"Now isn't that something." Ratlit shook his head. 'What do you want to do with him, Vyme?"

"Nothing," I said. "Let him sleep it off."

"Leave him so somebody can come along and steal his belt?" Ratlit grinned. "I'm not that nasty."

"Weren't you just telling me how much you hated golden?"

"I'd be nasty to whoever stole the belt and wore it. Nobody but a golden should be hated that much."

"Ratlit, let's go."

But he had already kneeled down and was shaking the golden's shoulder. "Let's get him to Alegra's and
find out what's the matter with him."

"He's just drunk."

"Nope," Ratlit said. " 'Cause he don't smell funny."

"Look. Get back." I hoisted the golden up and laid him across my neck, fireman's carry. "Start moving," I
told Ratlit. "I think you're crazy."

Ratlit grinned. "Thanks. Maybe he'll be grateful and lay some lepta on me for taking him in off the street."

"You don't know golden," I said. "But if he does, split it with me."

"Sure."

Two blocks later we reached Alegra's place. (But like I say, Sandy, though well built, is little; so I didn't
have much trouble carrying him.) Halfway up the tilting stairs Ratlit said, "She's in a good mood."
"I guess she is." The weight across my shoulders was becoming pleasant.

I can't describe Alegra's place. I can describe a lot of places like it; and I can describe it before she
moved in because I knew a derelict named Drunk-roach who slept on that floor before she did. You
know what never-wear plastics look like when they wear out? What nonrust metals look like when they
rust through? It was a shabby crack-walled cubicle with dirt in the corners and scars on the
win-dowpane when Drunk-roach had his pile of blankets in the corner.

But since the hallucinating projective telepath took it over, who knows what it had become.

Ratlit opened the door on an explosion of classical beauty. "Come in," she said, accompanied by
symphonic arrangement scored on twenty-four staves, with full chorus. "What's that you're carrying,
Vyme? Oh, it's a golden!" And before me, dizzying tides of yellow.

"Put him down, put him down quick and let's see what's wrong!" Hundreds of eyes, spotlights, glittering
lenses; I lowered him to the mattress in the corner. "Ohhh . . ." breathed Alegra.

And the golden lay on orange silk pillows in a teak barge drawn by swans, accompanied by flutes and
drums.

"Where did you find him?" she hissed, circling against the ivory moon on her broom. We watched the
glowing barge, hundreds of feet below, sliding down the silvered waters between the crags.

"We just picked him up off the street," Ratlit said. "Vyme thought he was drunk. But he don't smell."

"Was he laughing?" Alegra asked. Laughter rolled and broke on the rocks.

"Yeah," Ratlit said. "Just before he collapsed."

"Then he must be from the Un-dok expedition that just got back." Mosquitoes darted at us through wet
fronds. The insects reeled among the leaves, upsetting droplets that fell like glass as, barely visible
beyond the palms, the barge drifted on the bright, sweltering river.

"That's right," I said, backpaddling frantically to avoid a hippopotamus that threatened to upset my
kayak. "I'd forgotten they'd just come in."

"Okay," Ratlit's breath clouded his lips. "I'm out of it. Let me in. Where did they come back from?" The
snow hissed beneath the runners, as we looked after the barge, nearly at the white horizon.

"Un-dok, of course," Alegra said. The barking grew fainter. “Where did you think?"

White eclipsed to black, and the barge was a spot gleaming in galactic night, flown on by laboring
comets.

"Un-dok is the furthest galaxy reached yet," I told Ratlit. "They just got back last week."

"Sick," Alegra added.

I dug my fingers against my abdomen to grab the pain.

"They all came back sick—"

Fever heated blood-bubbles in my eyes: I slipped to the ground, my mouth wide, my tongue like paper
on my lips . . .
Ratlit coughed. "All right, Alegra. Cut it out! You don't have to be so dramatic!"

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry Ratty, Vyme." Coolth, water. Nausea swept away as solicitous nurses hastily
put the pieces back together until everything was beautiful, or so austerely horrible it could be
appreciated as beauty. "Anyway," she went on, "they came back with some sort of disease they picked
up out there. Apparently it's not contagious, but they're stuck with it for the rest of their lives. Every few
days they suddenly have a blackout. It's preceded by a fit of hysterics. It's just one of those stupid things
they can't do anything about yet. It doesn't hurt their being golden."

Ratlit began to laugh. Suddenly he asked, "How long are they passed out for?"

"Only a few hours," Alegra said. "It must be terribly annoying." And I began to feel mildly itchy in all sorts
of unscratchable places, my shoulder blades, somewhere down my ear, the roof of my mouth. Have you
ever tried to scratch the roof of your mouth?

"Well," Ratlit said, "let's sit down and wait it out."

"We can talk," Alegra said, patly. "That way it won't seem like such a long . . ." and hundreds of years
later she finished ". . . time."

"Good," Ratlit said. "I wanted to talk to you. That's why I came up here in the first place."

"Oh, fine!" Alegra said. "I love to talk. I want to talk about love. Loving someone" (an incredible yearning
twisted my stomach, rose to block my throat) "I mean really loving someone" (the yearning brushed the
edge of agony) "means you are willing to admit the person you love is not what you first fell in love with,
not the image you first had; and you must be able to like them still for being as close to that image as they
are, and avoid disliking them for being so far away."

And through the tenderness that suddenly obliterated all hurt, Ratlit's voice came from the jeweled
mosaics shielding him: "Alegra, I want to talk about loneliness."

"I'm on my way home, kids," I said. "Tell me what happens with Prince Charming when he wakes up."
They kept on talking while I went through the difficulties of finding my way out without Alegra's help.
When my head cleared, halfway down the stairs, I couldn't tell you if I'd been there five minutes or five
years.



When I got to the hangar next morning Sandy was filing the eight-foot prongs on the conveyer. "You got
a job coming in about twenty minutes," he called down from the scaffold.

"I hope it's not another of those rebuilt jobs."

"Yep."

"Hell," I said. "I don't want to see another one for six weeks."

"All he wants is a general tune-up. Maybe two hours."

"Depends on where it's been," I said. "Where has it been?"

"Just back from—"

"Never mind." I started toward the office cubicle. "I think I'll put the books in order for the last six
months. Can't let it go forever."

"Boss!" Sandy protested. "That'll take all day!"

"Then I better get started." I leaned back out the door. "Don't disturb me."

Of course as soon as the shadow of the hull fell over the office window I came out in my coveralls, after
giving Sandy five minutes to get it grappled and himself worried. I took the lift up to the one-fifty catwalk.
When I stepped out, Sandy threw me a grateful smile from his scar-ugly face. The golden had already
started his instructions. When I reached them and coughed, the golden turned to me and continued
talking, not bothering to fill me in on what he had said before, figuring Sandy and I would put it together.
You could tell this golden had made his pile. He wore an immaculate blue tunic, with bronze codpiece,
bracelets and earrings. His hair was the same bronze, his skin was burned red black, and his blue-gray
eyes and tight-muscled mouth were proud, proud, proud. While I finished getting instructions, Sandy
quietly got started unwelding the eight-foot seal of the organum so we could get to the checkout circuits.

Finally the golden stopped talking—that's the only way you could tell he was finished—and leaned his
angular six and a half feet against the railing, clicking his glossy, manicured nails against the pipe a few
times. He had that same sword-length pinky nail, all white against his skin. I climbed out on the rigging to
help Sandy. We had been at work ten minutes when a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, barefoot and
brown, black hair hacked off shoulder length, a rag that didn't fit tucked around under his belt, and dirty,
came wandering down the catwalk. His thumbs were hooked under the metal links: golden.

First I thought he'd come from the ship. Then I realized he'd just stalked into the hangar from outside and
come up on the lift.

"Hey, brother!" The kid who was golden hooked his thumbs in his belt, as Sandy and I watched the
dialogue from the rigging on the side of the hull. "I'm getting tired of hanging around this Star-pit. Just
about broke as well. Where you running to?"

The man who was golden clicked his nails again. "Go away, distant cousin."

"Come on, brother, give me a berth on your lifeboat out of this dungheap to someplace worthwhile."

"Go away, or I'll kill you."

"Now, brother, I'm just a youngster adrift in this forsaken quarter of the sky. Come on, now—"

Suddenly the blond man whirled from the railing, grabbed up a four-foot length of pipe leaning beside
him, and swung it so hard it hissed. The black-haired ragamuffin leapt back and from under his rag
snatched something black that, with a flick of that long nail, grew seven inches of blade. The bar swung
again, caught the shoulder of the boy, then clattered against the hull. He shrieked and came straight
forward. The two bodies locked, turned, fell. A gurgle, and the man's hands slipped from the neck of the
ragamuffin. The boy scrambled back to his feet. Blood bubbled and popped on the hot blade.

A last spasm caught the man; he flipped over, smearing the catwalk, rolled once more, this time under the
rail, and dropped, two hundred and fifty feet to the cement flooring.

Flick. Off went the power in the knife. The golden wiped powdered blood on his thigh, spat over the rail
and said softly, "No relative of mine." Flick. The blade itself disappeared. He started down the catwalk.

"Hey!" Sandy called, when he got his voice back up into his throat, "what about ... I mean you . . . well,
your ship!" There are no familial inheritance laws among golden—only rights of plunder.
The golden glanced back. "I give it to you," he sneered. His shoulder must have been killing him, but he
stepped into the lift like he was walking into a phone booth. That's a golden for you.

Sandy was horrified and bewildered. Behind his pitted ugliness there was that particularly wretched
amazement only the totally vulnerable get when hurt.

"That's the first time you've ever seen an incident like that?" I felt sorry for him.

"Well, I wandered into Gerg's Bar a couple of hours after they had that massacre. But the Ones who
started it were drunk."

"Drunk or sober," I said. "Believe me, it doesn't mean that much difference to the way a man acts." I
shook my head. "I keep forgetting you've only been here three months."

Sandy, upset, looked down at the body on the flooring. "What about him? And the ship, boss?"

"I'll call the wagon to come scrape him up. The ship is yours."

"Huh?"

"He gave it to you. It'll stand up in court. It just takes one witness. Me."

"What am I gonna do with it? I mean I would have to haul it to a junk station to get the salvage. Look,
boss, I'm gonna give it to you. Sell it or something. I'd feel sort of funny with it anyway."

"I don't want it. Besides, then I'd be involved in the transaction and couldn't be a witness."

"I'll be a witness." Ratlit stepped from the lift. "I caught the whole bit when I came in the door. Great
acoustics in this place." He whistled again. The echo came back. Ratlit closed his eyes for a moment.
"Ceiling is . . . a hundred and twenty feet overhead, more or less. How's that, huh?"

"Hundred and twenty-seven," I said.

Ratlit shrugged. "I need more practice. Come on, Sandy, you give it to him, and I'll be a witness."

"You're a minor," Sandy said. Sandy didn't like Ratlit. I used to think it was because Ratlit was violent
and flamboyant where Sandy was stolid and ugly. Even though Sandy kept protesting the tem-porariness
of his job to me, I remember, when I first got to the Star-pit, those long-dying thoughts I'd had about
leaving. It was a little too easy to see Sandy a mechanic here thirty years from now. I wasn't the only one
it had happened to. Ratlit had been a grease monkey here three weeks. You tell me where he was going
to be in three more. "Aren't you supposed to be working at Poloscki's?" Sandy said, turning back to the
organum.

"Coffee break," Ratlit said. "If you're going to give it away, Sandy, can I have it?"

"So you can claim salvage? Hell, no!"

"I don't want it for salvage. I want it for a present." Sandy looked up again. "Yeah. To give to someone
else. Finish the tune-up and give it to me, okay?"

"You're nuts, kid-boy," Sandy said. "Even if I gave you the ship, what you gonna pay for the work with?"

"Aw, it'll only take a couple of hours. You're half done anyway. I figured you'd throw in the tune-up
along with it. If you really want the money, I'll get it to you a little at a time. Vyme, what sort of
professional discount will you give me? I'm just a grease monkey, but I'm still in the business."
I whacked the back of his red head between a-little-too-playfully and not-too-hard. "Come on,
kid-boy," I said. "Help me take care of puddles downstairs. Sandy, finish it up, huh?"

Sandy grunted and plunged both hands back into the organum. As soon as the lift door closed, Ratlit
demanded, "You gonna give it to me, Vyme?"

"It's Sandy's ship," I said.

"You tell him, and he will."

I laughed. "You tell me how your golden turned out when he came to. I assume that's who you want the
ship for. What sort of fellow was he?"

Ratlit hooked his fingers in the mesh wall of the lift cage and leaned back. "They're only two types of
golden." He began to swing from side to side. "Mean ones and stupid ones." He was repeating a
standard line around the Star-pit.

"I hopes yours is stupid," I said, thinking of the two who'd just ruined Sandy's day and upset mine.

"Which is worse?" Ratlit shrugged. That is the rest of the line. When a golden isn't being outright mean, he
exhibits the sort of nonthinkingness that gets other people hurt— you remember the one that nearly
rammed my ship, or the ones who didn't bother to bring back the Kyber antitoxin? "But this one—" Ratlit
stood up "—is unbelievably stupid."

"Yesterday you hated them. Today you want to give one a ship?"

"He doesn't have one," Ratlit explained calmly, as though that warranted all change of attitude. "And
because he's sick, it'll be hard for him to find work unless he has one of his own."

"I see." We bounced on the silicon cushion. I pushed open the door and started for the office. "What all
went on after I left? I must have missed the best part of the evening."

"You did. Will I really need that much more sleep when I pass thirty-five?"

"Cut the cracks and tell me what happened."

"Well—" Ratlit leaned against the office door jamb while I dialed necrotics. "Alegra and I talked a little
after you left, till finally we realized the golden was awake and listening. Then he told us we were
beautiful."

I raised an eyebrow. "Mmmm?"

"That's what we said. And he said it again, that watching us talk and think and build was one of the most
beautiful things he'd ever seen. 'What have you seen?' we asked him. And he began to tell us." Ratlit
stopped breathing, something built up, then, at once, it came out. "Oh, Vyme, the places he's been! The
things he's done! The landscapes he's starved in, the hells where he's had to lie down and go to sleep he
was that tired, or the heavens he's soared through screaming! Oh, the things he told us about! And
Alegra made them almost real so we could all be there again, just like she used to do when she was a
psychiatrist! The stories, the places, the things . . ."

"Sounds like it was really something."

"It was nothing!" he came back vehemently. "It was all in the tears that wash your eyes, in the humming in
your ears, in the taste of your own saliva. It was just a hallucination, Vyme! It wasn't real." Here his voice
started cracking between the two octaves that were after it. "But that thing I told you about . . . huge . . .
alive and dead at the same time, like a star . . . way in another galaxy. Well, he's seen it. And last night,
but it wasn't real of course, but ... I almost heard it ... singing!" His eyes were huge and green and bright.
I felt envious of anyone who could pull this reaction from kids like Alegra and Ratlit.

"So, we decided—" his voice fixed itself on the proper side of middle C "—after he went back to sleep,
and we lay awake talking a while longer, that we'd try and help him get back out there. Because it's . . .
wonderful!"

"That's fascinating." When I finished my call, I stood up from the desk. I'd been sitting on the corner.
"After work I'll buy you dinner and you can tell me all about the things he showed you."

"He's still there, at Alegra's," Ratlit said—helplessly, I realized after a moment. "I'm going back there right
after work."

"Oh," I said. I didn't seem to be invited.

"It's just a shame," Ratlit said when we came out of the office, "that he's so stupid." He glanced at the
mess staining the concrete and shook his head.



I'd gone back to the books when Sandy stepped in. "All finished. What say we knock off for a beer or
something, huh, boss?"

"All right," I said, surprised. Sandy was usually as social as he was handsome. "Want to talk about
something?"

"Yeah." He looked relieved.

"That business this morning got to your head, huh?"

"Yeah," he repeated.

"There is a reason," I said as I made ready to go. "It's got something to do with the psychological part of
being a golden. Meanness and stupidity, like everyone says. But however it makes them act here, it
protects them from complete insanity at the twenty thousand light-year limit."

"Yeah. I know, I know." Sandy had started stepping uncomfortably from one boot to the other. "But
that's not what I wanted to talk about."

"It isn't?"

"Um-um."

"Well?" I asked after a moment.

"It's that kid, the one you're gonna give the ship to."

"Ratlit?"

"Yeah."

"I haven't made up my mind about giving him the ship," I lied. "Besides, legally it's yours."
"You'll give it to him," Sandy said. "And I don't care, I mean not about the ship. But, boss, I gotta talk to
you about that kid-boy."

Something about Sandy. . .

I'd never realized he'd thought of Ratlit as more than a general nuisance. Also, he seemed sincerely
worried about me. I was curious. It took him all the way to the bar and through two beers—while I
drank hot milk with honey—before he tongued and chewed what he wanted to say into shape.

"Boss, understand, I'm nearer Ratlit than you. Not only my age. My life's been more like his than yours
has. You look at him like a son. To me, he's a younger brother: I taught him all the tricks. I don't
understand him completely, but I see him clearer than you do. He's had a hard time, but not as hard as
you think. He's gonna take you—and I don't mean money—for everything he can."

Where the hell that came from I didn't know and didn't like. "He won't take anything I don't want to
give."

"Boss?" Sandy suddenly asked. "You got kids of your own?"

"Nine," I said. "Did have. I don't see the ones who're left now, for which their parents have always been
just as happy—except one. And she was sensible enough to go along with the rest, while she was alive."

"Oh." Sandy got quiet again. Suddenly he went scrambling in his overall pouch and pulled out a
three-inch porta-pix. Those great, greasy hands that I was teaching to pick up an eggshell through a
five-hundred-to-one-ratio waldo were clumsily fumbling at the push-pull levers. "I got kids," he said.
"See. Seven of them."

And on the porta-pix screen was a milling, giggling group of little apes that couldn't have been anybody
else's. All the younger ones lacked was acne. They even shuffled back and forth from one foot to the
other. They began to wave, and the speaker in the back chirped: "Hi, Da! Hello, Da! Da, Mommy says
to say we love you! Da, Da, come home soon!"

"I'm not with them now," he said throatily. "But I'm going back soon as I get enough money so I can take
them all out of that hellhole they're in now and get the whole family with a decent-sized proke-group.
They're only twenty-three adults there now, and things were beginning to rub. That's why I left in the first
place. It was getting so nobody could talk to anyone else. That's pretty rough on all our kids, thirty-two
when I left. But soon I'll be able to fix that."

"On the salary I'm paying you?" This was the first I'd heard of any of this; that was my first reaction. My
second, which I didn't voice, was: Then why the hell don't you take that ship and sell it somehow! Over
forty and self-employed, the most romantic become monetarily practical.

Sandy's fist came down hard on the bar. "That's what I'm trying to say to you, boss! About you, about
Ratlit. You've all got it in your heads that this, out here, is it! The end! Sure, you gotta accept limitations,
but the right ones. Sure, you have to admit there are certain directions in which you can not go. But once
you do that, you find there are others where you can go as far as you want. Look, I'm not gonna hang
around the Star-pit all my life! And if I make my way back toward galactic center, make enough money
so I can go home, raise my family the way I want, that's going forward, forward even from here. Not
back."

"All right," I said. Quiet Sandy surprised me. I still wondered why he wasn't breaking his tail to get
salvage on that ship that had just fallen into his hands, if getting back home with money in his pocket was
that important. "I'm glad you told me about yourself. Now how does it all tie up with Ratlit?"
"Yeah. Ratlit." He put the porta-pix back in his overall pouch. "Boss, Ratlit is the kid your own could be.
You want to give him the advice, friendship, and concern he's never had, that you couldn't give yours.
But Ratlit is also the kid I was about ten years ago, started no place, with no destination, and no values to
help figure out the way, mixed up in all the wrong things, mainly because he's not sure where the right
ones are."

"I don't think you're that much like Ratlit," I told him. "I think you may wish you were. You've done a lot
of the things Ratlit's done? Ever write a novel?"

"I tried to write a trilogy," Sandy said. "It was lousy. But it pushed some things off my chest. So I got
something out of it, even if nobody else did, which is what's important. Because now I'm a better
mechanic for it, boss. Until I admit to myself what I can't do, it's pretty hard to work on what I can.
Same goes for Ratlit. You too. That's growing up. And one thing you can't do is help Ratlit by giving him
a ship he can't fly."

Growing up brought back the picture. "Sandy, did you ever build an ecologarium when you were a
kid?"

"No." The word had the puzzled inflection that means, Don't-even-know-what-one-is.

"I didn't either," I told him. Then I grinned and punched him on the shoulder. "Maybe you're a little like
me, too? Let's get back to work."

"Another thing," Sandy said, not looking very happy as he got off the stool. "Boss, that kid's gonna hurt
you. I don't know how, but it's gonna seem like he hunted for how to make it hurt most, too. That's what
I wanted to tell you, boss."

I was going to urge him to take the ship, but he handed me the keys back in the hangar before I could
say anything, and walked away. When people who should be clearing up their own problems start giving
you advice . . . well, there was something about Sandy I didn't like.



If I can't take long walks at night with company, I take them by myself. I was strolling by the Edge, the
world-wind was low, and the Stellarplex, the huge heat-gathering mirror that's hung nine thousand miles
off the Pit, was out. It looks vaguely like the moon used to look from Earth, only twice as big, perfectly
silver, and during the three and a half days it faces us it's always full.

Then, up ahead where the fence was broken, I saw Ratlit kicking gravel over the Edge. He was leaning
against a lamp-post, his shirt ballooning and collapsing at his back.

"Hey, kid-boy! Isn't the golden still at Alegra's?"

Ratlit saw me and shrugged.

"What's the matter?" I asked when I reached him. "Ate dinner yet?"

He shrugged again. His body had the sort of ravenous metabolism that shows twenty-four hours without
food. "Come on. I promised you a meal. Why so glum?"

"Make it something to drink."

"I know about your phony I.D." I told him. "But we're going to eat. You can have milk, just like me."
No protests, no dissertation on the injustice of liquor laws. He started walking with me.

"Come on, kid-boy, talk to gramps. Don't you want your ship any more?"

Suddenly he clutched my forearm with white, bony fingers. My forearm is pretty thick, and he couldn't
get his hands around it. "Vyme, you've got to make Sandy give it to me now! You've got to!"

"Kid-boy, talk to me."

"Alegra." He let go. "And the golden. Hate golden, Vyme. Always hate them. Because if you start to like
one, and then start hating again, it's worse."

"What's going on? What are they doing?"

"He's talking. She's hallucinating. And neither one pays any attention to me."

"I see."

"You don't see. You don't understand about Alegra and me."

Then I was the only one who'd met the both of them who didn't. "I know you're very fond of each other."
More could be said.

Ratlit said more. "We don't even like each other that much, Vyme. But we need each other. Since she's
been here, I get her medicine for her. She's too sick to go out much now. And when I have bad changes,
or sometimes bright recognitions, it doesn't matter, I bring them to her, and she builds pictures of them for
me, and we explore them together and . . . learn about things. When she was a psychiatrist for the
government, she learned an awful lot about how people tick. And she's got an awful lot to teach me,
things I've got to know." Fifteen-year-old ex-psychiatrist drug addicts? Same sort of precocity that
produces thirteen-year-old novelists. Get used to it. "I need her now almost as much as she needs her. . .
medicine."

"Have you told the golden you've got him a ship?"

"You didn't say I could have it yet."

"Well, I say so right now. Why don't we go back there and tell him he can be on his way? If we put it a
little more politely, don't you think that'll do the trick?"

He didn't say anything. His face just got back a lot of its life.

"We'll go right after we eat. What the hell, I'll buy you a drink. I may even have one with you."



Alegra's was blinding when we arrived. "Ratlit, oh, you're back! Hello, Vyme! I'm so glad you're both
here! Everything is beautiful tonight!"

"The golden," Ratlit said. "Where's the golden?"

"He's not here." A momentary throb of sadness dispelled with tortuous joy. "But he's coming back!"

"Oh," Ratlit said. His voice echoed through the long corridors of golden absence winding the room. "
'Cause I got a ship for him. All his. Just had a tune-up. He can leave any time he wants to."
"Here're the keys," I said, taking them from my pouch for dramatic effect. "Happen to have them right
here."

As I handed them to Ratlit there were fireworks, applause, a fanfare of brasses. "Oh, that's wonderful.
Wonderful! Because guess what, Ratlit? Guess what, Vyme?"

"I don't know," Ratlit said. "What?"

"I'm a golden too!" Alegra cried from the shoulders of the cheering crowd that pushed its way through
more admiring thousands.

"Huh?"

"I, me, myself am actually an honest to goodness golden. I just found out today."

"You can't be," Ratlit said. "You're too old for it just to show up now."

"Something about my medicine," Alegra explained. "It's dreadfully complicated." The walls were papered
with anatomical charts, music by Stockhausen. "Something in my medicine kept it from coming out until
now, until a golden could come to me, drawing it up and out of the depths of me, till it burst out, beautiful
and wonderful and . . . golden! Right now he's gone off to Carlson Labs with a urine sample for a final
hormone check. They'll let him know in an hour, and he'll bring back my golden belt. But he's sure
already. And when he comes back with it, I'm going to go with him to the galaxies, as his apprentice.
We're going to find a cure for his sickness and something that will make it so I won't need my medicine
any more. He says if you have all the universe to roam around in, you can find anything you look for. But
you need it all—not just a cramped little cluster of a few billion stars off in a corner by itself. Oh, I'm free,
Ratlit, like you always wanted to be! While you were gone, he ... well, did something to me that was . . .
golden! It triggered my hormonal imbalance." The image came in through all five senses. Breaking the
melodious ecstasy came the clatter of keys as Ratlit hurled them at the wall.

I left feeling pretty odd. Ratlit had started to go too, but Alegra called him back. "Oh, now don't go on
like that, Ratty! Act your age. Won't you stay and do me one little last favor?"

So he stayed. When I untangled myself from the place and was walking home, I kept on remembering
what Alegra had said about love.



Work next day went surprisingly smoothly. Poloscki called me up about ten and asked if I knew where
Ratlit was because he hadn't been at work that day. "You're sure the kid isn't sick?"

I said I'd seen him last night and that he was probably all right. Poloscki made a sort of disgusted sound
and hung up.

Sandy left a few minutes early, as he'd been doing all week, to run over to the post office before it
closed. He was expecting a letter from his group, he said. I felt strange about having given the ship away
out from under him. It was sort of an immature thing to do. But he hadn't said anything about wanting it,
and Ratlit was still doing Alegra favors, so maybe it would all work out for the best.

I thought about visiting Alegra that evening. But there was the last six-months' paper work, still not
finished. I went into the office, plugged in the computer and got ready to work late.

I was still at it sometime after eleven when the entrance light blinked, which meant somebody had opened
the hangar door. I'd locked it. Sandy had the keys so he could come in early. So it was Sandy. I was
ready for a break and all set to jaw with him awhile. He was always coming back to do a little work at
odd hours. I waited for him to come into the office. But he didn't.

Then the needle on the power gauge, which had been hovering near zero with only the drain of the little
office computer, swung up to seven. One of the big pieces of equipment had been cut in.

There was some cleanup work to do, but nothing for a piece that size. Frowning, I switched off the
computer and stepped out of the office. The first great opening in the hangar roof was mostly blocked
with the bulk of Ratlit's/Sandy's/my ship. Stellarplex light curved smoothly over one side, then snarled in
the fine webbing of lifts, catwalks, haul-lines, and grappler rigging. The other two openings were empty,
and hundred-meter circles of silver dropped through assembly riggings to the concrete floor. Then I saw
Sandy.

He stood just inside the light from the last opening, staring up at the Stellarplex, its glare lost in his ruined
face. As he raised his left hand—when it started to move I thought it looked too big—light caught on the
silver joints of the master-gauntlet he was wearing. I knew where the power was going.

As his hand went above his head, a shadow fell over him as a fifteen-foot slave talon swung from the
darkness, its movement aping the master-glove. He dropped his hand in front of his face, fingers curved.
Metal claws lowered about him, beginning to quiver. Something about... he was trying to kill himself!

I started running toward those hesitant, gaping claws, leaped into the grip, and reached over his shoulder
to slap my forearm into the control glove, just as he squeezed. Like I said, my forearm is big, but when
those claws came together, it was a tight fit. Sandy was crying.

"You stupid," I shouted, "inconsiderate, bird-brained, infantile—" at last I got the glove off "—puerile . .
." Then I said, "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Sandy was sitting on the floor now, his head hung between his shoulders. He stank.

"Look," I said, maneuvering the talon back into place with the gross-motion controls on the gauntlet's
wrist, "if you want to go jump off the Edge, that's fine with me. Half the gate's down anyway. But don't
come here and mess up my tools. You can squeeze your own head up a little, but you're not going to
bust up my glove here. You're fired. Now tell me what's wrong."

"I knew it wasn't going to work. Wasn't even worth trying. I knew . . ." His voice was getting all mixed
up with the sobs. "But I thought maybe . . ." Beside his left hand was the porta-pix, its screen cracked.
And a crumpled piece of paper.

I turned off the glove, and the talons stopped humming twenty feet overhead. I picked up the paper and
smoothed it out, I didn't mean to read it all the way through.



Dear Sanford,

Things have been difficult since you left but not too hard and I guess a lot of pressure is off everybody
since you went away and the kids are getting used to your not being here though Bobbi-D cried a lot at
first. She doesn't now. We got your letter and were glad to hear things had begun to settle down for you
though Hank said you should have written before this and was very mad though Mary tried to calm him
down but he just said, "When he married you all he married me too, damn it, and I've got just as much
right to be angry at him as you have," which is true, Sanford, but I tell you what he said because it's a
quote and I think you should know exactly what's being said, especially since it expresses something we
all feel on one level or another. You said you might be able to send us a little money, if we wanted you
home, which I think would be very good, the money I mean, though Laura said if I put that in the letter
she would divorce us, but she won't, and like Hank I've got a right to say what I feel which is, Yes I think
you should send money, especially after that unpleasant business just before you left. But we are all
agreed we do not want you to come back. And would rather not have the money if that's what it meant.

That is hard but true. As you can gather your letter caused quite an upset here. I would like—which
makes me different from the others but is why they wanted me to write this letter—to hear from you
again and keep track of what you are doing because I used to love you very much and I never could hate
you. But like Bobbi-D, I have stopped crying.

Sincerely—



The letter was signed "Joseph." In the lower corner were the names of the rest of the men and women of
the group. "Sandy?"

"I knew they wouldn't take me back. I didn't even really try, did I? But—"

"Sandy, get up."

"But the children," he whispered. "What's gonna happen to the children?"

And there was a sound from the other end of the hangar. Three stories up the side of the ship in the open
hatchway, silvered by Stellarplex light, stood the golden, the one Ratlit and I had found on the street. You
remember what he looked like. He and Alegra must have sneaked in while Sandy and I were struggling
with the waldo. Probably they wanted to get away as soon as possible before Ratlit made real trouble, or
before I changed my mind and got the keys back. All this ship-giving had been done without witnesses.
The sound was the lift rising toward the hatchway. "The children . . ." Sandy whispered again.

The door opened, and a figure stepped out in the white light. Only it was Ratlit! It was Ratlit's red hair,
his gold earring, his bouncy run as he started for the hatch. And there were links of yellow metal around
his waist.

Baffled, I heard the golden call: "Everything checks out inside, brother. She'll fly us anywhere."

And Ratlit cried, "I got the grapples all released, brother. Let's go!" Their voices echoed down through
the hangar. Sandy raised his head, squinting.

As Ratlit leapt into the hatch, the golden caught his arm around the boy's shoulder. They stood a moment,
gazing at one another, then Ratlit turned to look down into the hangar, back on the world he was about
to leave. I couldn't tell if he knew we were there or not. Even as the hatch swung closed, the ship began
to whistle.

I hauled Sandy back into the shock chamber. I hadn't even locked the door when the thunder came and
my ears nearly split. I think the noise surprised Sandy out of himself. It broke something up in my head,
but the pieces were falling wrong.

"Sandy," I said, "we've got to get going!"

"Huh?" He was fighting the drunkenness and probably his stomach too. "I don't wanna go nowhere."
"You're going anyway. I'm sure as hell not going to leave you alone."



When we were halfway up the stairs I figured she wasn't there. I felt just the same. Was she with them in
the ship?

"My medicine. Please can't you get my medicine? I've got to have my medicine, please, please . . .
please." I could just hear the small, high voice when I reached the door. I pushed it open.

Alegra lay on the mattress, pink eyes wide, white hair frizzled around her balding skull. She was
incredibly scrawny, her uncut nails black as Sandy's nubs without the excuse of hours in a
graphite-lubricated gauntlet. The translucency of her pigmentless skin under how-many-days of dirt made
my flesh crawl. Her face drew in around her lips like the flesh about a scar. "My medicine. Vyme, is that
you? You'll get my medicine for me, Vyme? Won't you get my medicine?" Her mouth wasn't moving, but
the voice came on. She was too weak to project on any but the aural level. It was the first time I'd seen
Alegra without her cloak of hallucination, and it brought me up short.

"Alegra," I said when I got hold of myself. "Ratlit and the golden went off on the ship!"

"Ratlit. Oh, nasty Ratty, awful little boy! He wouldn't get my medicine. But you'll get it for me, won't you,
Vyme? I'm going to die in about ten minutes, Vyme. I don't want to die. Not like this. The world is so
ugly and painful now. I don't want to die here."

"Don't you have any?" I stared around the room I hadn't seen since Drunk-roach lived there. It was a lot
worse. Dried garbage, piled first in one corner, now covered half the floor. The rest was littered with
papers, broken glass, and a spilled can of something unrecognizable for the mold.

"No. None here. Ratlit gets it from a man who hangs out in Gerg's over on Calle-X. Oh, Ratlit used to
get it for me every day, such a nice little boy, every day he would bring me my lovely medicine, and I
never had to leave my room at all. You go get it for me, Vyme!"

"It's the middle of the night, Alegra! Gerg's is closed, and Calle-X is all the way across the Pit anyway.
Couldn't even get there in ten minutes, much less find this character and come back!"

"If I were well, Vyme, I'd fly you there in a cloud of light pulled by peacocks and porpoises, and you'd
come back to hautboys and tambourines, bringing my beautiful medicine to me, in less than an eye's
blink. But I'm sick now. And I'm going to die."

There was a twitch in the crinkled lid of one pink eye.

"Alegra, what happened!"

"Ratlit's insane!" she projected with shocking viciousness. I heard Sandy behind me catch his breath.
"Insane at twenty thousand light-years, dead at twenty-five."

"But his golden belt. . ."

"It was mine! It was my belt and he stole it. And he wouldn't get my medicine. Ratlit's not a golden. I'm a
golden, Vyme! I can go anywhere, anywhere at all! I'm a golden golden golden . . . But I'm sick now. I'm
so sick."

"But didn't the golden know the belt was yours?"
"Him? Oh, he's so incredibly stupid! He would believe anything. The golden went to check some papers
and get provisions and was gone all day, to get my belt. But you were here that night. I asked Ratlit to go
get my medicine and take another sample to Carlson's for me. But neither of them came back till I was
very sick, very weak. Ratlit found the golden, you see, told him that I'd changed my mind about going,
and that he, Ratlit, was a golden as well, that he'd just been to Carlson's. So the golden gave him my belt
and off they went."

"But how in the world would he believe a kid with a story like that?"

"You know how stupid a golden can be, Vyme. As stupid as they can be mean. Besides, it doesn't
matter to him if Ratlit dies. He doesn't care if Ratlit was telling the truth or not. The golden will live. When
Ratlit starts drooling, throwing up blood, goes deaf first and blind last and dies, the golden won't even be
sad. He's too stupid to feel sad. That's the way golden are. But I'm sad, Vyme, because no one will bring
me my medicine."

My frustration had to lash at something; she was there. "You mean you didn't know what you were doing
to Ratlit by leaving, Alegra? You mean you didn't know how much he wanted to get out, and how much
he needed you at the same time? You couldn't see what it would do to him if you deprived him of the
thing he needed and rubbed his nose in the thing he hated both at once? You couldn't guess that he'd pull
something crazy? Oh, kid-girl, you talk about golden. You're the stupid one!"

"Not stupid," she projected quietly. "Mean, Vyme. I knew he'd try to do something. I just didn't think
he'd succeed. Ratlit is really such a child."

The frustration, spent, became rolling sadness. "Couldn't you have waited just a little longer, Alegra?
Couldn't you have worked out the leaving some other way, not hurt him so much?"

"I wanted to get out, Vyme, to keep going and not be trapped, to be free. Like Ratlit wanted, like you
want, like Sandy wants, like golden. Only I was cruel. I had the chance to do it and I took it. Why is that
bad, Vyme? Unless, of course, that's what being free means."

A twitch in the eyelid again. It closed. The other stayed open.

"Alegra—"

"I'm a golden, Vyme. A golden. And that's how golden are. But don't be mad at me, Vyme. Don't. Ratlit
was mean too, not to give me my medi—"

The other eye closed. I closed mine too and tried to cry, but my tongue was pushing too hard on the roof
of my mouth.



Sandy came to work the next day, and I didn't mention his being fired. The teletapes got hold of it, and
the leadlines tried to make the thing as sordid as possible:

X-CON TEEN-AGER (they didn't mention his novel) SLAYS JUNKY SWEETHEART! DIES
HORRIBLY! They didn't mention the golden either. They never do.

Reporters pried around the hangar awhile, trying to get us to say the ship was stolen. Sandy came
through pretty well. "It was his ship," he grunted, putting lubricant in the gauntlets. "I gave it to him."

"What are you gonna give a kid like that a ship for? Maybe you loaned it to him. 'Dies horrible death in
borrowed ship.' That sound okay."

"Gave it to him. Ask the boss." He turned back toward the scaffolding. "He witnessed."

"Look, even if you liked the kid, you're not saving him anything by covering up."

"I didn't like him," Sandy said. "But I gave him the ship."

"Thanks," I told Sandy when they left, not sure what I was thanking him for, but still feeling very grateful.
"I'll do you a favor back."

A week later Sandy came in and said, "Boss, I want my favor."

I narrowed my eyes against his belligerent tone. "So you're gonna quit at last. Can you finish out the
week?"

He looked embarrassed, and his hands started moving around in his overall pouch. "Well, yeah. I am
gonna leave. But not right away, boss. It is getting a little hard for me to take, out here."

"You'll get used to it," I said. "You know there's something about you that's, well, a lot like me, I learned.
You will too."

Sandy shook his head. "I don't think I want to." His hand came out of his pocket. "See, I got a ticket." In
his dirty fingers was a metal-banded card. "In four weeks I'm going back in from the Star-pit. Only I
didn't want to tell you just now, because, well, I did want this favor, boss."

I was really surprised. "You're not going back to your group," I said. "What are you going to do?"

He shrugged. "Get a job, I don't know. There're other groups. Maybe I've grown up a little bit." His fists
went way down into his pouch, and he started to shift his weight back and forth on his feet. "About that
favor, boss."

"What is it?"

"I got to talking to this kid outside. He's really had it rough, Vyme." That was the first and last time Sandy
ever called me by name, though I'd asked him to enough times before. "And he could use a job."

A laugh got all set to come out of me. But it didn't, because the look on his ugly face, behind the
belligerence, was so vulnerable and intense. Vulnerable? But Sandy had his ticket; Sandy was going on.

"Send him to Poloscki's," I said. "Probably needs an extra grease monkey. Now let me get back to
work, huh?"

"Could you take him over there?" Sandy said very quickly. "That's the favor, boss."

"Sandy, I'm awfully busy." I looked at him again. "Oh, all right."

"Hey, boss," Sandy said as I slid from behind the desk, "remember that thing you asked me if I ever had
when I was a kid?"

It took a moment to come back to me. "You mean an ecologarium?"

"Yeah. That's the word." He grinned. "The kid-boy's got one. He's right outside, waiting for you."

"He's got it with him?"
Sandy nodded.

I walked toward the hangar door picturing some kid lugging around a six-by-six plastic cage.

Outside the boy was sitting on a fuel hydrant. I'd put a few trees there, and the "day"-light from the
illumination tubes arcing the street dappled the gravel around him.

He was about fourteen, with copper skin and curly black hair. I saw why Sandy wanted me to go with
him about the job. Around his waist, as he sat hunched over on the hydrant with his toes spread on the
metal base-flange, was a wide-linked, yellow belt: golden.

He was looking through an odd jewel-and-brass thing that hung from a chain around his neck.

"Hey."

He looked up. There were spots of light on his blue-black hair.

"You need a job?"

He blinked.

"My name's Vyme, What's yours?"

"You call me An." The voice was even, detached, with an inflection that is golden.

I frowned. "Nickname?"

He nodded.

"And really?"

"Androcles."

"Oh." My oldest kid is dead. I know it because I have all sorts of official papers saying so. But
sometimes it's hard to remember. And it doesn't matter whether the hair is black, white, or red. "Well,
let's see if we can put you to work somewhere. Come on." An stood up, eyes fixed on me, suspicion
hiding behind high glitter. "What's the thing around your neck?"

His eyes struck it and bounced back to my face. "Cousin?" he asked.

"Huh?" Then I remembered the golden slang. "Oh, sure. First cousins. Brothers if you want."

"Brother," An said. Then a smile came tumbling out of his face, silent and volcanic. He began loping
beside me as we started off toward Poloscki's. "This—" he held up the thing on the chain "—is an
ecologarium. Want to see?" His diction was clipped, precise, and detached. But when an expression
caught on his face, it was unset-tlingly intense.

"Oh, a little one. With microorganisms?"

An nodded.

"Sure. Let's have a look."

The hair on the back of his neck pawed the chain as he bent to remove it.

I held it up to see.
Some blue liquid, a fairly large air bubble, and a glob of black-speckled jelly in a transparent globe, the
size of an eyeball; it was set in two rings, one within the other, pivoted so the globe turned in all
directions. Mounted on the outside ring was a curved tongue of metal at the top of which was a small
tube with a pin-sized lens. The tube was threaded into a bushing, and I guess you used it to look at what
was going on in the sphere.

"Self-contained," explained An. “The only thing needed to keep the whole thing going is light. Just about
any frequency will do, except way up on the blue end. And the shell cuts that out."

I looked through the brass eyepiece.

I'd swear there were over a hundred life forms with five to fifty stages each: spores, zygotes, seeds, eggs,
growing and developing through larvae, pupae, buds, reproducing through sex, syzygy, fission. And the
whole ecological cycle took about two minutes.

Spongy masses like red lotuses clung to the air bubble. Every few seconds one would expel a cloud of
black things like wrinkled bits of carbon paper into the gas where they were attacked by tiny motes I
could hardly see even with the lens. Black became silver. It fell back to the liquid like globules of
mercury, and coursed toward the jelly that was emitting a froth of bubbles. Something in the froth made
the silver beads reverse direction. They reddened, sent out threads and alveoli, until they reached the
main bubble again as lotuses.

The reason the lotuses didn't crowd each other out was because every eight or nine seconds a swarm of
green paramecia devoured most of them. I couldn't tell where they came from; I never saw one of them
split or get eaten, but they must have had something to do with the thorn-balls—if only because there
were either thorn-balls or paramecia floating in the liquid, but never both at once.

A black spore in the jelly wiggled, then burst the surface as a white worm. Exhausted, it laid a couple of
eggs, rested until it developed fins and a tail, then swam to the bubble where it laid more eggs among the
lotuses. Its fins grew larger, its tail shriveled, splotches of orange and blue appeared, till it took off like a
weird butterfly to sail around the inside of the bubble. The motes that silvered the black offspring of the
lotus must have eaten the particolored fan because it just grew thinner and frailer till it disappeared. The
eggs by the lotus would hatch into bloated fish forms that swam back through the froth to vomit a glob of
jelly on the mass at the bottom, then collapse. The first eggs didn't do much except turn into black spores
when they were covered with enough jelly.

All this was going on amidst a kaleidoscope of frail, wilting flowers and blooming jeweled webs, vines
and worms, warts and jellyfish, symbiotes and saprophytes, while rainbow herds of algae careened back
and forth like glittering confetti. One rough-rinded galoot, so big you could see him without the eyepiece,
squatted on the wall, feeding on jelly, batting his eye-spots while the tide surged through quivering tears
of gills.

I blinked as I took it from my eye.

"That looks complicated." I handed it back to him.

"Not really." He slipped it around his neck. "Took me two weeks with a notebook to get the whole thing
figured out. You saw the big fellow?"

"The one who winked?"

"Yes. Its reproductive cycle is about two hours, which trips you up at first. Everything else goes so fast.
But once you see him mate with the thing that looks like a spider web with sequins—same creature,
different sex—and watch the offspring aggregate into paramecia, then dissolve again, the whole thing falls
into—"

"One creature!" I said. "The whole thing is a single creature!"

An nodded vigorously. "Has to be to stay self-contained." The grin on his face whipped away like a
snapped windowshade. A very serious look was underneath. "Even after I saw the big fellow mate, it
took me a week to understand it was all one."

"But if goofus and the fishnet have paramecia—" I began. It seemed logical when I made the guess.

"You've seen one before."

I shook my head. "Not like that one, anyway. I once saw something similar, but it was much bigger,
about six feet across."

An's seriousness was replaced by horror. I mean he really started to shake. "How could you . . . ever
even see all the . . . stuff inside, much less catalogue it? You say . . . this is complicated?"

"Hey, relax. Relax!" I said. He did. Like that. "It was much simpler," I explained and went on to describe
the one our kids had made so many years ago as best I remembered.

"Oh," An said at last, his face set in its original impassivity. "It wasn't microorganisms. Simple. Yes." He
looked at the pavement. "Very simple." When he looked up, another expression had scrambled his
features. It took a moment to identify. "I don't see the point at all."

There was surprising physical surety in the boy's movement; his nervousness was a cat's, not a human's.
But it was one of the psychological qualities of golden.

"Well," I said, "it showed the kids a picture of the way the cycles of life progress."

An rattled his chain. "That is why they gave us these things. But everything in the one you had was so
primitive. It wasn't a very good picture."

"Don't knock it," I told him. "When I was a kid, all I had was an ant colony. I got my infantile
Weltanschauung watching a bunch of bugs running around between two plates of glass. I think I would
have been better prepared by a couple of hungry rats on a treadmill. Or maybe a torus-shaped fish tank
alternating sharks with schools of piranhas: Get them all chasing around after each other real fast—"

"Ecology wouldn't balance," An said. "You'd need snails to get rid of the waste. Then a lot of plants to
reoxygenate the water, and some sort of herbivore to keep down the plants because they'd tend to
choke out everything since neither the sharks nor the piranhas would eat them." Kids and their damn
literal minds. "If the herbivores had some way to keep the sharks off, then you might do it."

"What's wrong with the first one I described?"

The explanation worked around the muscles of his face. 'The lizards, the segment worms, the plants,
worts, all their cycles were completely circular. They were born, grew up, reproduced, maybe took care
of the kids awhile, then died. Their only function was reproduction. That's a pretty awful picture." He
made an unintelligible face.

There was something about this wise-alecky kid who was golden, younger than Alegra, older than Ratlit,
I liked.
"There are stages in here," An tapped his globe with his pinky nail, "that don't get started on their most
important functions till after they've reproduced and grown up through a couple more metamorphoses as
well. Those little green worms are a sterile end stage of the blue feathery things. But they put out free
phosphates that the algae live on. Everything else, just about, lives on the algae —except the thorn-balls.
They eat the worms when they die. There're phagocytes in there that injest the dust-things when they get
out of the bubble and start infecting the liquid." All at once he got very excited. "Each of us in the class
got one of these! They made us figure them out! Then we had to prepare these recordings on whether the
reproductive process was the primary function in life or an adjunctive one." Something white frothed the
corners of his mouth. "I think grown-ups should just leave their kids the hell alone, go on and do
something else, stop bothering us! That's what I said! That's what I told them!" He stopped, his tongue
flicked the foam at the cusp of his lips; he seemed all right again.

"Sometimes," I said evenly, "if you leave them alone and forget about them, you end up with monsters
who aren't kids any more. If you'd been left alone, you wouldn't have had a chance to put your two cents
in in the first place, and you wouldn't have that thing around your neck." And he was really trying to
follow what I was saying. A moment past his rage, his face was as open and receptive as a
two-year-old's. God, I want to stop thinking about Antoni!

"That's not what I mean," He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and bit on his forearm pensively.

"An—you're not stupid, kid-boy. You're cocky, but I don't think you're mean. You're golden." There
was all my resentment, out now, Ratlit. There it is, Alegra. I didn't grow up with the word, so it meant
something different to me. An looked up to ingest my meaning. The toothmarks were white on his skin,
then red around that. "How long have you been one?"

He watched me, arms still folded. "They found out when I was seven."

"That long ago?"

"Yes." He turned and started walking again. "I was very precocious."

"Oh." I nodded. "Just about half your life then. How's it been, little brother, being a golden?"

An dropped his arms. "They take you away from your group a lot of times." He shrugged. "Special
classes. Training programs. I'm psychotic."

"I never would have guessed." What would you call Ratlit? What would you call Alegra?

"I know it shows. But it gets us through the psychic pressures at the reality breakdown at twenty
thousand light-years. It really does. For the past few years, though, they've been planting the psychosis
artificially, pretty far down in the preconscious, so it doesn't affect our ordinary behavior as much as it
does the older ones. They can use this process on anybody whose hormone system is even close to
golden. They can get a lot more and a lot better quality golden that way than just waiting for us to pop up
by accident."

As I laughed, something else struck me. "Just what do you need a job out here for, though? Why not
hitch out with some cousin or get a job on one of the intergalactics as an apprentice?"

"I have a job in another galaxy. There'll be a ship stopping for me in two months to take me out. A whole
lot of Star-pits have been established in galaxies halfway to Un-dok. I'll be going back and forth,
managing roboi-equipment, doing managerial work. I thought it would be a good idea to get some
practical experience out here before I left."
"Precocious," I nodded. "Look, even with roboi-equipment you have to know one hell of a lot about the
inside of how many different kinds of keeler drives. You're not going to get that kind of experience in two
months as a grease monkey. And roboi-equipment? I don't even have any in my place. Poloscki's got
some, but I don't think you'll get your hands on it."

"I know a good deal already," An said with strained modesty.

"Yeah?" I asked him a not too difficult question and got an adequate answer. Made me feel better that he
didn't come back with something really brilliant. I did know more than he did. "Where'd you learn?"

"They gave me the information the same way they implanted my psychosis."

"You're pretty good for your age." Dear old Luna Vocational! Well, maybe educational methods have
improved. "Come to think of it, I was just as old as you when I started playing around with those keeler
models. Dozens and dozens of helical inserts—"

"And those oily organum sensitives in all that graphite? Yes, brother! But I've never even had my hands in
a waldo."

I frowned. "Hell, when I was younger than you, I could—" I stopped. "Of course, with roboi-equipment,
you don't need them. But it's not a bad thing to know how they work, just in case."

"That's why I want a job." He hooked one finger on his chain. "Brother-in-law Sandy and I got to talking,
so I asked him about working here. He said you might help me get in someplace."

"I'm glad he did. My place only handles big ships, and it's all waldo. Me and an assistant can do the
whole thing. Poloscki's place is smaller, but handles both inter- and intra-galactic jobs, so you get more
variety and a bigger crew. You find Poloscki, say I sent you, tell what you can do and why you're out
here. Belt or no, you'll probably get something better than a monkey."

"Thanks, brother."

We turned off Calle-D. Poloscki's hangar was ahead. Dull thunder sounded over the roof as a ship
departed.

"As soon as I despair of the younger generation," I told him, "one of you kids comes by and I start to
think there's hope. Granted you're a psychopath, you're a lot better than some of your older, distant
relations."

An looked up at me, apprehensive.

"You've never had a run-in with some of your cousins out here. But don't be surprised if you're dead
tomorrow and your job's been inherited by some character who decided to split your head open to
check on what's inside. I try to get used to you, behaving like something that isn't even savage. But,
boy-kid, can your kind really mess up a guy's picture of the universe."

"And what the hell do you expect us to act like?" An shot back. Spittle glittered on his lips again. "What
would you do if you were trapped like us?"

"Huh?" I said questioningly. "You, trapped?"

"Look." A spasm passed over his shoulders. "The psycho-technician who made sure I was properly
psychotic wasn't a golden, brother! You pay us to bring back the weapons, dad! We don't fight your
damn wars, grampa! You're the ones who take us away from our groups, say we're too valuable to
submit to your laws, then deny us our heredity because we don't breed true, no-relative-of mine!"

"Now, wait a minute!"

An snatched the chain from around his neck and held it taut in front of him. His voice ground to a
whisper, his eyes glittered. "I strangled one of my classmates with this chain, the one I've got in my hands
now." One by one, his features blanked all expression. "They took it away from me for a week, as
punishment for killing the little girl."

The whisper stopped decibels above silence, then went on evenly. "Out here, nobody will punish me.
And my reflexes are faster than yours."

Fear lashed my anger as I followed the insanity flickering in his eyes.

"Now!" He made a quick motion with his hands; I ducked. "I give it to you!" He flung the chain toward
me. Reflexively I caught it. An turned away instantly and stalked into Poloscki's.



When I burst through the rattling hangar door at my place, the lift was coming down. Sandy yelled
through the mesh walls, "Did he get the job?"

"Probably," I yelled back, going toward the office.

I heard the cage settle on the silicon cushion. Sandy was at my side a moment later, grinning. "So how do
you like my brother-in-law, Androcles?"

"Brother-in-law?" I remembered An using the phrase, but I'd thought it was part of the slang golden.
Something about the way Sandy said it though. "He's your real brother-in-law?"

"He's Joey's kid brother. I didn't want to say anything until after you met him." Sandy came along with me
toward the office door. "Joey wrote me again and said since An was coming out here he'd tell him to stop
by and see me and maybe I could help him out."

"Now how the hell am I supposed to know who Joey is?" I pushed open the door. It banged the wall.

"He's one of my husbands, the one who wrote me that letter you told me you'd read."

"Oh, yeah. Him." I started stacking papers.

"I thought it was pretty nice of him after all that to tell An to look me up when he got out here. It means
that there's still somebody left who doesn't think I'm a complete waste. So what do you think of
Androcles?"

"He's quite a boy." I scooped up the mail that had come in after lunch, started to go through it but put it
down to hunt for my coveralls.

"An used to come visit us when he got his one weekend a month off from his training program as golden,"
Sandy was going on. "Joey's and An's parents lived in the reeds near the estuary. But we lived back up
the canyon by Chroma Falls. An and Joey were pretty close, even though Joey's my age and An was
only eight or nine back then. I guess Joey was the only one who really knew what An was going through,
since they were both golden."

Surprised and shocked, I turned back to the desk. "You were married with a golden?" One of the letters
on the top of the pile was addressed to Alegra from Carlson's Labs. I had a carton of the kids' junk in
the locker and had gotten the mail—there wasn't much-sent to the hangar, as though I were waiting for
somebody to come for it.

"Yeah," Sandy said, surprised at my surprise. "Joey."

So I wouldn't stand there gaping, I picked up Alegra's letter.

"Since the traits that are golden are polychromazoic, it dies out if they only breed with each other. There's
a big campaign back in galactic center to encourage them to join heterogeneous proke-groups."

"Like bluepoint Siamese cats, huh?" I ran my blackened thumbnail through the seal.

"That's right. But they're not animals, boss. I remember what they put that kid-boy through for psychotic
reinforcement of the factors that were golden to make sure they stuck. It tore me up to hear him talk
about it when he'd visit us."

I pulled a porta-pix out of Alegra's envelope. Carlson's tries to personalize its messages.

"I'm sure glad they can erase the conscious memory from the kids' minds when they have to do that sort
of stuff."

"Small blessings and all that." I flipped the porta-pix on.

Personalized but mass produced: ". . . blessed addit . . ." the little speaker, echoed me. Poloscki and I
had used Carlson's a couple of times, I know. I guess every other mechanic up here had too. The
porta-pix had started in the middle. Now it hummed back to the beginning.

"You know," Sandy went on, "Joey was different, yeah, sort of dense about some things. . ."

"Alegra," beamed the chic, grandmotherly type Carlson's always uses for messages of this sort, "we were
so glad to receive the urine sample you sent us by Mr. Ratlit last Thursday. . ."

". . . even so, Joey was one of the sweetest men or women I've ever known. He was the easiest person
in the group to live with. Maybe it was because he was away a lot. . ."

". . . and now, just a week later—remember, Carlson's gives results immediately and confirms them by
personalized porta-pix in seven days—we are happy to tell you that there will be a blessed addition to
your group. However. . ."

". . . All right, he was different, reacted funny to a lot of things. But nothing like this rank, destructive
stupidity you find out here at the Star-pit. . ."

". . . the paternity is not Mr. Ratlit's. If you are interested, for your eugenic records, in further information,
please send us other possible urine samples from the men in your group, and we will be glad to confirm
paternity. . ."

"... I can't understand the way people act out here, boss. And that's why I'm pushing on."

". . . Thank you so much for letting us give you this wonderful news. Remember, when in doubt, call
Carlson's."

I said to Sandy, "You were married with—you loved a golden?"

Unbidden, the porta-pix began again. I flipped it off without looking.
"Sandy," I said, "you were hired because you were a fair mechanic and you kept off my back. Do what
you're paid for. Get out of here!"

"Oh. Sure, boss." He backed quickly from the office.

I sat down.

Maybe I'm old fashioned, but when someone runs off and abandons a sick girl like that, it gets me. That
was the trip to Carlson's, the one last little favor Ratlit never came back from. On-the-spot results, and
formal confirmation in seven days. In her physical condition, pregnancy would have been as fatal as the
withdrawal. And she was too ill for any abortive method I know of not to kill her. On-the-spot results.
Ratlit must have known all that too when he got the results back, the results that Alegra was probably
afraid of, the results she sent him to find. Ratlit knew Alegra was going to die anyway. And so he stole a
golden belt. "Loving someone, I mean really loving someone—" Alegra had said. When someone runs off
and leaves a sick girl like that, there's got to be a reason. It came together for me like two fissionables.
The explosion cut some moorings in my head I thought were pretty solidly fixed.

I pulled out the books, plugged in the computer, unplugged it, put the books away, and stared into the
ecologarium in my fist.

Among the swimming, flying, crawling things, mating, giving birth, growing, changing, busy at whatever
their business was, I picked out those dead-end, green worms. I hadn't noticed them before because
they were at the very edge of things, bumping against the wall. After they released their free phosphates
and got tired of butting at the shell, they turned on each other and tore themselves to pieces.

Fear and anger is a bad combination in me.

I came close to being killed by a golden once, through that meanness and stupidity.

The same meanness and stupidity that killed Alegra and Ratlit,

And now when this damn kid threatens to—I mean at first I had thought he was threatening to—



I reached Gerg's a few minutes after the daylights went out and the street lamps came on. But I'd
stopped in nearly a dozen places on the way. I remember trying to explain to a sailor from a star-shuttle
who was just stopping over at the Star-pit for the first time and was all upset because one woman golden
had just attacked another with a broken glass; I remember saying to the three-headed bulge of his
shoulder, ". . . an ant colony! You know what it is, two pieces of glass with dirt between them, and you
can see all the little ants make tunnels and hatch eggs and stuff. When I was a kid, I had an ant colony ..."
I started to shake my hand in his face. The chain from the ecologarium was tangled up in my fingers.

"Look." He caught my wrist and put it down on the counter. "It's all right now, pal. Just relax."

"You look," I said as he turned away. "When I was a kid, all I had was an ant colony!"

He turned back and leaned his rusty elbow on the bar. "Okay," he said affably. Then he made the most
stupid and frustrating mistake he possibly could have just then. "What about your aunt?"

"My mother—"

"I thought you were telling me about your aunt?"
"Naw," I said. "My aunt, she drank too much. This is about my mother."

"All right. Your mother then."

"My mother, see, she always worried about me, getting sick and things. I got sick a lot when I was a little
kid. She made me mad! Used to go down and watch the ships take off from the place they called the
Brooklyn Navy Yards. They were ships that went to the stars."

The sailor's Oriental face grinned. "Yeah, me too. Used to watch 'em when I was a kid."

"But it was raining, and she wouldn't let me go."

"Aw, that's too bad. Little rain never hurt a kid. Why didn't she call up and have it turned off so you
could go out? Too busy to pay attention to you, huh? One of my old men was like that."

"Both of mine were," I said. "But not my ma. She was all over me all the time when she was there. But
she made me mad!"

He nodded with real concern. "Wouldn't turn off the rain."

"Naw, couldn't. You didn't grow up where I did, narrow-minded, dark-side world. No modern
conveniences."

"Off the main trading routes, huh?"

"Way off. She wouldn't let me go out, and that made me mad."

He was still nodding.

"So I broke it!" My fist came down hard on the counter, and the plastic globe in its brass cage clacked
on the wood. "Broke it! Sand, glass all over the rug, on the windowsill!"

"What'd you break?"

"Smashed it, stamped on it, threw sand whenever she tried to make me stop!"

"Sand? You lived on a beach? We had a beach when I was a kid. A beach is nice for kids. What'd you
break?"

"Let all the damn bugs out. Bugs in everything for days. Let 'em all out."

"Didn't have no bugs on our beach. But you said you were off the main trading routes."

"Let 'em out!" I banged my fist again. "Let everybody out, whether they like it or not! It's their problem
whether they make it, not mine! Don't care, I don't—" I was laughing now.

"She let you go out, and you didn't care?"

My hand came down on top of the metal cage, hard. I caught my breath at the pain. "On our beach," I
said, turning my palm up to look. There were red marks across it. "There weren't any bugs on our
beach." Then I started shaking.

"You mean you were just putting me on, before, about the bugs. Hey, are you all right?"

". . . broke it," I whispered. Then I smashed fist and globe and chain into the side of the counter. "Let
'em out!" I whirled away, clutching my bruised hand against my stomach.
"Watch it, kid-boy!"

"I'm not a kid-boy!" I shouted. "You think I'm some stupid, half-crazy kid!"

"So you're older than me. Okay?"

"I'm not a kid any more!"

"So you're ten years older than Sirius, all right? Quiet down, or they'll kick us out."

I bulled out of Gerg's. A couple of people came after me because I didn't watch where I was going. I
don't know who won, but I remember somebody yelling, "Get out! Get out!" It may have been me.

I remember later, staggering under the mercury street lamp, the world-wind slapping my face, stars
swarming back and forth below me, gravel sliding under my boots, the toes inches over the Edge.

The gravel clicked down the metal siding, the sound terribly clear as I reeled in the loud wind, shaking my
arm against the night.

As I brought my hand back, the wind lashed the cold chain across my cheek and the bridge of my nose. I
lurched back, trying to claw it away. But it stayed all tangled on my fingers while the globe swung,
gleaming in the street light. The wind roared. Gravel chattered down the siding.

Later, I remember the hangar door ajar, stumbling into the darkness, so that in a moment I was held from
plummeting into nothing only by my own footsteps as black swerved around me. I stopped when my hip
hit a workbench. I pawed around under the lip of the table till I found a switch. In the dim orange light,
racked along the back of the bench in their plastic shock-cases, were the row of master-gauntlets. I
slipped one out and slid my hand into it.

"Who's over there?"

"Go 'way, Sandy." I turned from the bench, switched up the power on the wrist controls. Somewhere in
the dark above, a fifteen-foot slave-hand hummed to life.

"Sorry, buster. This isn't Sandy. Put that down and get away from there."

I squinted as the figure approached in the orange light, hand extended. I saw the vibra-gun and didn't
bother to look at the face.

Then the gun went down. "Vyme, baby? That you? What the hell are you doing here this hour of the
night?"

"Poloscki?"

"Who'd you think it was?"

"Is this your—?" I looked around, shook my head. "But I thought it was my—" I shook my head again.

Poloscki sniffed. "Hey, have you been a naughty kid-boy tonight!"

I swung my hand, and the slave-hand overhead careened twenty feet.

The gun jumped. "Look, you mess up my waldo and I will kill you, don't care who you are! Take that
thing off."
"Very funny." I brought the talon down where I could see it clawing shadow.

"Come on, Vyme. I'm serious. Turn it off and put it down. You're a mess now and you don't know what
you're doing."

"That kid, the golden. Did you give him a job?"

"Sure. He said you sent him. Smart so-and-so. He rehulled a little yacht with the
roboi-anamechaniakatasthy-sizer, just to show me what he could do. If I knew a few more people who
could handle them that well, I'd go all roboi. He's not worth a damn with a waldo, but as long as he's got
that little green light in front of him, he's fine."

I brought the talons down another ten feet so that the spider hung between us. "Well, I happen to be very
handy with a waldo, Poloscki."

"Vyme, you're gonna get burnt. . ."

"Poloscki," I said, "will you stop coming on like an overprotective aunt? I don't need another one."

"You're very drunk, Vyme."

"Yeah. But I'm no clumsy kid-boy who is going to mess up your equipment."

"If you do, you'll be—"

"Shut up and watch." I pulled the chaim out of my pouch and tossed it onto the concrete floor. In the
orange light you couldn't tell whether the cage was brass or silver.

"What's that?"

The claws came down, and the fine-point tips, millimeters above the floor, closed on the ecologarium.

"Oh, hey! I haven't seen one of those since I was ten. What are you going to do with it? Those are
five-hundred-to-one strength, you know. You're gonna break it."

"That's right. Break this one too."

"Aw, come on. Let me see it first."

I lifted the globe. "Could be an eggshell," I said. "Drunk or sober I can handle this damn equipment,
Poloscki."

"I haven't seen one for years. Used to have one."

"You mean it wasn't spirited back from some distant galaxy by golden, from some technology beyond
our limited ken?"

"Product of the home spiral. Been around since the fifties."

I raised it over Poloscki's extended hand.

"They're supposed to be very educational. What do you want to break it for?"

"I never saw one."

"You came from someplace off the routes, didn't you? They weren't that common. Don't break it."
"I want to."

"Why, Vyme?"

Something got wedged in my throat. "Because I want to get out, and if it's not that globe, it's gonna be
somebody's head." Inside the gauntlet my hand began to quiver. The talons jerked. Poloscki caught the
globe and jumped back.

"Vyme!"

"I'm hanging, here at the Edge." My voice kept getting caught on the things in my throat. "I'm useless, with
a bunch of monsters and fools!" The talons swung, contracted, clashed on each other. "And then when
the children . . . when the children get so bad you can't even reach them . . ." The claw opened, reached
for Poloscki who jumped back in the half-dark.

"Damn it, Vyme—"

". . . can't even reach the children any more." The talon stopped shaking, came slowly back, knotting. "I
want to break something and get out. Very childishly, yes. Because nobody is paying any attention to
me." The claw jumped. "Even when I'm trying to help. I don't want to hurt anybody any more. I swear
it, so help me, I swear—"

"Vyme, take off the glove and listen!"

I raised the slave-hand because it was about to scrape the cement.

"Vyme, I want to pay some attention to you." Slowly Poloscki walked back into the orange light. "You've
been sending me kids for five years now, coming around and checking up on them, helping them out of
the stupid scrapes they get in. They haven't all been Ratlits. I like kids too. That's why I take them on. I
think what you do is pretty great. Part of me loves kids. Another part of me loves you."

"Aw, Poloscki ..." I shook my head. Somewhere disgust began.

"It doesn't embarrass me. I love you a little and wouldn't mind loving you a lot. More than once I've
thought about asking you to start a group."

"Please, Poloscki. I've had too many weird things happen to me this week. Not tonight, huh?" I then
turned the power off in the glove.

"Love shouldn't frighten you, no matter when or how it comes, Vyme. Don't run from it. A marriage
between us? Yeah, it would be a little hard for somebody like you, at first. But you'd get used to it before
long. Then when kids came around, there'd be two—"

"I'll send Sandy over," I said. "He's the big-hearted, marrying kind. Maybe he's about ready to try again."
I pulled off the glove.

"Vyme, don't go out like that. Stay for just a minute!"

"Poloscki," I said, "I'm just not that God damn drunk!" I threw the glove on the table.

"Please, Vyme."

"You're gonna use your gun to keep me here?"

"Don't be like—"
"I hope the kids I send over here appreciate you more than I do right now. I'm sorry I busted in here.
Good night!"

I turned from the table.

Nine thousand miles away the Stellarplex turned too. Circles of silver dropped through the roof. Behind
the metal cage of the relaxed slave-claw I saw Poloscki's large, injured eyes, circles of crushed turquoise,
glistening now.

And nine feet away someone said, "Ma'am?"

Poloscki glanced over her shoulder. "An, you awake?"

An stepped into the silver light, rubbing his neck. "That office chair is pretty hard, sister."

"He's here?" I asked.

"Sure," Poloscki said. "He didn't have any place to stay so I let him sleep in the office while I finished up
some work in the back. Vyme, I meant what I said. Leave if you want, but not like this. Untwist."

"Poloscki," I said, "you're very sweet, you're fun in bed, and a good mechanic too. But I've been there
before. Asking me to join a group is like asking me to do something obscene. I know what I'm worth."

"I'm also a good businesswoman. Don't think that didn't enter my head when I thought about marrying
you." An came and stood beside her. He was breathing hard, the way an animal does when you wake it
all of a sudden.

"Poloscki, you said it, I didn't: I'm a mess. That's why I'm not with my own group now."

"You're not always like this. I've never seen you touch a drop before."

"For a while," I said, "it happened with disgusting frequency. Why do you think my group dropped me?"

"Must have been awhile ago. I've known you a long time. So you've grown up since then. Now it only
happens every half dozen years or so. Congratulations. Come have some coffee. An, run into the office
and plug in the pot. I showed you where it was." An turned like something blown by the world-wind and
was gone in shadow. "Come on," Poloscki said. She took my arm, and I came with her. Before we left
the light, I saw my reflection in the polished steel tool-cabinet.

"Aw, no." I pulled away from her. "No, I better go home now."

"Why? An's making coffee."

"The kid. I don't want the kid to see me like this."

"He already has. Won't hurt him. Come on."

When I walked into Poloscki's office, I felt I didn't have a damn thing left. No. I had one. I decided to
give it away.

When An turned to me with the cup, I put my hands on his shoulders. He jumped, but not enough to spill
the coffee. "First and last bit of alcoholic advice for the evening, kid-boy. Even if you are crazy, don't go
around telling people who are not golden how they've trapped you. That's like going to Earth and
complimenting a nigger on how well he sings and dances and his great sense of rhythm. He may be able
to tap seven with one hand against thirteen with the other while whistling a tone row. It still shows a
remarkable naivete about the way things are." That's one of the other things known throughout the galaxy
about the world I come from. When I say primitive, I mean primitive.

An ducked from under my hands, put the coffee on the desk, and turned back. "I didn't say you trapped
us."

"You said we treated you lousy and exploited you, which we may, and that this trapped you—"

"I said you exploited us, which you do, and that we were trapped. I didn't say by what."

Poloscki sat down on the desk, picked up my coffee and sipped it.

I raised my head. "All right. Tell me how you're trapped."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Poloscki said. "I started drinking your coffee—"

"Shut up. How are you trapped, An?"

He moved his shoulders around as though he was trying to get them comfortable. "It started in Tyber-44
cluster. Golden were coming back with really bad psychic shock."

"Yes. I heard about it. That was a few years back."

An's face started to twitch; the muscles around his eyes twisted below the skin. "Something out there . .
."

I put my hand on the back of his neck, my thumb in the soft spot behind his ear and began to stroke, the
way you get a cat to calm down. "Take it easy. Just tell me."

"Thanks," An said and bent his head forward. "We found them first in Tyber-44, but then they turned up
all over, on half the planets in every galaxy that could support any life, and a lot more that shouldn't have
been able to at all." His breathing grew coarser. I kept rubbing, and it slowed again. "I guess we have
such a funny psychology that working with them, studying them, even thinking about them too much . . .
there was something about them that changes our sense of reality. The shock was bad."

"An," I said, "to be trapped, there has to be somewhere you can't go. For it to bug you, there has to be
something else around that can."

He nodded under my hand, then straightened up. "I'm all right now. Just tired. You want to know where
and what?"

Poloscki had put down the coffee now and was dangling the chain. An whirled to stare.

"Where?" he said. "Other universes."

"Galaxies farther out?" asked Poloscki.

"No. Completely different matrices of time and space." Staring at the swinging ball seemed to calm him
even more. "No physical or temporal connection to this one at all."

"A sort of parallel—"

"Parallel? Hell!" It was almost a drawl. "There's nothing parallel about them. Out of the
billions-to-the-billionth of them, most are hundreds of times the size of ours and empty. There are a few,
though, whose entire spatial extent is even smaller than this galaxy. Some of them are completely dense to
us, because even though there seems to be matter in them, distributed more or less as in this universe,
there's no electromagnetic activity at all. No radio waves, no heat, no light." The globe swung; the voice
was a whisper.

I closed my fist around the globe and took it from Poloscki. "How do you know about them? Who
brings back the information? Who is it who can get out?"

Blinking, An looked back at me.

When he told me, I began to laugh. To accommodate the shifting reality tensions, the psychotic
personality that is golden is totally labile. An laughed with me, not knowing why. He explained through his
torrential hysteria how with the micro-micro surgical techniques from Tyber-44 they had read much of
the information from a direct examination of the creature's nervous system, which covered its surface like
velvet. It could take intense cold or heat, a range of pressure from vacuum to hundreds of pounds per
square millimeter; but a fairly small amount of ultraviolet destroyed the neural synapses, and it died. They
were small and deceptively organic because in an organic environment they appeared to breathe and eat.
They had four sexes, two of which carried the young. They had clusters of retractable sense organs that
first appeared to be eyes, but were sensitive to twelve distinct senses, stimulation for three of which didn't
even exist in our continuum. They traveled around on four suction cups when using kinetic motion for
ordinary traversal of space, were small, and looked furry. The only way to make them jump universes
was to scare the life out of them. At which point they just disappeared.

An kneaded his stomach under his belt to ease the pain from so much laughter. "Working with them at
Tyber-44 just cracked up a whole bunch of golden." He leaned against the desk, panting and grinning.
"They had to be sent home for therapy. We still can't think about them directly, but it's easier for us to
control what we think about than for you; that's part of being golden. I even had one of them for a pet, up
until yesterday. The damn creatures are either totally apathetic, or vicious. Mine was a baby, all white
and soft." He held out his arms. "Yesterday it bit me and disappeared." On his wrist there was a bluish
place centered on which was a crescent of pinpricks. "Lucky it was a baby. The bites infect easily."

Poloscki started drinking from my cup again as An and I started laughing all over.



As I walked back that night, black coffee slopped in my belly.

There are certain directions in which you cannot go. Choose one in which you can move as far as you
want. Sandy said that? He did. And there was something about Sandy, very much like someone golden.
It doesn't matter how, he's going on.

Under a street lamp I stopped and lifted up the ecologarium. The reproductive function, was it primary or
adjunctive? If, I thought with the whiskey lucidity always suspect at dawn, you consider the whole
ecological balance a single organism, it's adjunctive, a vital reparative process along with sleeping and
eating, to the primary process which is living, working, growing. I put the chain around my neck.

I was still half soused, and it felt bad. But I howled. Androcles, is drunken laughter appropriate to mourn
all my dead children? Perhaps not. But tell me, Ratlit; tell me Alegra: what better way to launch my live
ones who are golden into night? I don't know. I know I laughed. Then I put my fists into my overall
pouch and crunched homeward along the Edge while on my left the world-wind roared.
—New York October 1965