THE FRESCO
Sheri S. Tepper

[25 aug 2001 - scanned for #bookz]
[10 oct 2001 - proofed for #bookz – by bookleech, v 1.0]

Things that go bump in the night
     Along the Oregon coast an arm of the Pacific shushes softly against rocky shores. Above the waves,
dripping silver in the moonlight, old trees, giant trees, few now, thrust their heads among low clouds, the
moss thick upon their boles and shadow deep around their roots. In these woods nights are quiet, save for
the questing hoot of an owl, the satin stroke of fur against a twig, the tick and rasp of small claws
climbing up, clambering down. In these woods, bear is the big boy, the top of the chain, but even he goes
quietly and mostly by day. It is a place of mosses and liverworts and ferns, of filmy green that curtains the
branches and cushions the soil, a wet place, a still place.
     A place in which something new is happening. If there were eyes to see, they might make out a bear-
sized shadow, agile as a squirrel, puckering the quiet like an opening zipper, rrrrip up, rrrrip down, high
into the trees then down again, disappearing into mist. Silence intervenes, then another seam is ripped
softly on one side, then on the other, followed by new silences. Whatever these climbers are, there are
more than a few of them.
     The owl opens his eyes wide and turns his head backwards, staring at the surrounding shades.
Something new, something strange, something to make a hunter curious. When the next sound comes, he
launches himself into the air, swerving silently around the huge trunks, as he does when he hunts mice or
voles or small birds, following the pucker of individual tics to its lively source, exploring into his life's
darkness. What he finds is nothing he might have imagined, and a few moments later his bloody feathers
float down to be followed by another sound, like a satisfied sigh.
     Near the Mexican border, rocky canyons cleave the mountains, laying them aside like broken wedges
of gray cheese furred with a dark mold of pinon and juniper that sheds hard shadows on moon glazed
stone, etched lithographs in gray and black, taupe and silver.
     Beneath feathery chamisa a rattlesnake flicks his tongue, following a scent. Along a precarious rock
ledge a ring-tailed cat strolls, nose snuffling the cracks. At the base of the stone a peccary trots along
familiar foot trails, toward the toes of a higher cliff where a seeping spring gathers in a rocky goblet. In
the desert, sounds are dry and rattling: pebbles toed into cracks, hoofs tac-tacking on stone, the serpent
rattle warning the wild pig to veer away, which she does with a grunt to the tribe behind her. From the
rocky scarp the ring-tailed cat hears the whole population of the desert pass about its business in the
canyon below.
     A new sound comes to this place, too. High in the air, a chuff, chuff, chuff, most like the wings of a
monstrous crow, crisp and powerful, engine-like in their regularity. Then a cry, eerie and utterly alien, not
from any native bird ever heard in this place.
     The peccary freezes in place. The ring-tailed cat leaps into the nearest crevice. Only the rattler does
not hear, does not care. For the others, staying frozen in place seems the appropriate and prudent thing to
do as the chuff, chuff, chuff moves overhead, another cry and an answer from places east, and west, and
north as well. The aerial hunter is not alone, and its screams fade into the distance, the echoes still, and the
canyon comes quiet again.
     And farther south and east, along the gulf, in the wetland that breeds the livelihood of the sea, in the
mangrove swamps, the cypress bogs, the moss-lapped, vine-twined, sawgrass-grown, reptile-ridden
mudflats, night sounds are continuous. Here the bull gator bellows, swamp birds call, insects and frogs
whir and buzz and babble and creak. Fish jump, huge tails thrash, wings take off from cover to silhouette
themselves on the face of the moon.
     And even here comes strangeness, a great squadge, squadge, squadge, as though something walks
through the deep muck in giant boots on ogre legs, squishing feet down and sucking them up only to
squish them down once more. Squadge, squadge, squadge, three at a time, then a pause, then three more.
     As in other places, the natives fall silent. The heron finds himself a perch and pulls his head back on
his long neck, letting it rest on his back, crouching a little, not to be seen against the sky. The bull gator
floats on the oily surface like a scaly buoy, fifteen feet of hunger and dim thought, an old man of the
muck, protruding eyes seeing nothing as flared nostrils taste something strange. He lies in his favorite
resting place near the trunk of a water-washed tree. There was no tree in that place earlier today, but the
reptilian mind does not consider this. Only when something from above slithers sinuously onto the top of
his head does he react violently, his body bending, monstrous tail thrashing, huge jaws gaping wide . . .
     Then nothing. No more from the gator until morning, when the exploring heron looks along his beak
to find an intaglio of strange bones on the bank, carefully trodden into the muck, from the fangs at the
front of the jaw to the vertebra at the tip of the tale. Like a frieze of bloody murder, carefully displayed.

Benita—SATURDAY
     It had rained a lot in August, warm wet air pouring up from the Pacific, across Mexico, into New
Mexico, on north into Colorado and Wyoming. Another year of it coming, said the lady-with-the-
graceful-hands, posturing in front of her weather map, bowing to the highs and lows, tracing the lines of
cold and hot with balletic gestures. So simple, on the map. So simple on the TV. Not so simple when the
rain came down two inches in half an hour and the arroyos filled up with roaring brown water, washing
away chicken coops and parked cars, filling up the culverts and running over the road to deposit unknown
depths of gooey brown.
     Benita Alvarez-Shipton had negotiated two such mud flows in a fine frenzy, just not giving a damn,
determined to make it up the canyon, but by the time she reached the third one, her fury had cooled, as
usual. Her daughter Angelica told her that was her trouble, she couldn't stay mad. Angelica, now, she
stayed mad. Something inherited from her grandma on one side or grandpa on the other, no doubt, and
probably far healthier for her than Benita's continual doubts. Benita herself was plagued by voices, mostly
Mami's, counseling prudence, counseling patience.
     You made your bed, Benita, now lie in it. God gives us strength to bear, Bennie. The stallion prances,
but it's the mare that nurses the colt. You've wasted so much, daughter. You can't afford to waste another
bit.
     So, caution. The goo covering the road was suspiciously smooth and untouched. Things that were
untouched might be so for a reason.
     It looks too good to be true, Bennie, it probably is. If it was possible, Bennie, somebody would have
done it already. Mami hadn't always been right, thank heaven, but she scored high, nonetheless. In this
case she would have asked, What if you get stuck, Bennie? What if somebody comes along, someone, you
know, not a nice person?
     Not long after Angelica was born, Benita had begun to realize she'd made a major mistake. By the
time the kids were in school, she was seeking hiding places from the ghosts in her head, learning ways to
cope without money, without help. Solitude was easier to live with than people. Books were less
threatening than relatives. The fewer things she said to them, the fewer things she did with them, the
fewer mistakes she would make, the fewer hurtful memories there would be.
     When the children were little, she'd taken them into the mountains, put up the tent borrowed from her
father, and camped for a week at a time without any bad memories. In the mountains you walked, admired
birds, smelled flowers, threw rocks in the river and picked up pretty stones. Nothing happened to come
back and haunt you in the night. Sleeping on the ground wasn't Bert's kind of thing, especially not in the
mountains, miles from the nearest bar. Back then, as now, the predator she feared most was the one she
lived with. Other risks paled in comparison.
     At the side of the road a slightly higher stretch of ground offered itself. She drove atop it and killed
the engine. Even if another flash flood came down the arroyo, it wouldn't come as high as the wheels. She
rolled up all the windows and locked the doors, not that it would stop anyone stealing the car if they were
of a mind to, but no use wishing somebody would! The old wreck was beginning to cost more than it was
worth, just to keep it going. Unlike Bert, who could cheerfully rob Peter to pay Paul, and then rob Paul to
bet on football, Benita's ghosts wouldn't let her risk it. In her life there were no discretionary expenditures.
Every penny was committed.
     She studied the clouds massing in the west, readying themselves for a full-scale downpour, checking
to be sure she had both a hooded rain poncho and a sweater in her pack. She didn't plan to go more than a
half hour away from the car. Gingerly, she placed one foot on the mud flow, which turned out to be a false
alarm - only half an inch of clayey goo spread over silt that had settled into a brick-like mass.
     Just ahead of her the road turned up the canyon between two groves of ponderosa pine. This world
was empty, no people, no sounds of people talk or people machines. Saturdays people slept in, read the
papers, did yard work, maybe had a barbecue or went to visit family. Since Mami died, she hadn't had any
local family except Dad. Since she'd become a recluse outside of working hours, she hadn't had any real
friends. Anyhow, she wouldn't want to see anyone, not for a few days.
     Half a mile up the road the pines gave way to aspen and fir around grassy glades, and within a
hundred yards she saw the first mushrooms gleaming from the dappled shade. She knew what they were.
Mami had taught her what to avoid as well as what to pick, but she walked over to them anyhow,
admiring the picture they made, like something out of a child's fairy tale. Funga demonio, Mami had said.
Amanita muscaria, said the mushroom guide. Red with wooly white spots on the cap. Also amanita
pbailloides, white as a dove's wing, graceful and pure. She stood looking at them for a long time,
pretending not to think what she was thinking.
     With a heaving sigh, she left the death caps behind and wandered among the trees parallel to the road.
One winy, plate-sized bolete crouched in a hollow among some aspens, a triple frill of tan pleurotus
fringed a half-rotted cottonwood stump, half a dozen white domes of acjaricus poked through dried pine
needles in a clump, gills as pink as flamingo feathers. There wasn't a single wormhole in any of them.
That was enough. She had learned a long time ago not to take more than she could eat in one day, unless
she was drying them for winter.
     Lately she hadn't been in the mood to do anything for winter, or for any future time. No more
planning. No more preparation. No more dedication. Getting through each day was enough. No use drying
mushrooms when she'd be the only one to eat them. Bert had never cared for mushrooms, not even on
pizza, and the kids weren't here to eat them. Benita had always imagined the summers between college
terms as a time of homecoming, but it had been only imagination, not thought. Thought would have told
her that once they were gone, they would stay. Angelica had a job she couldn't leave. Carlos said he was
getting a job. Cross your fingers and pray. He needed to work, at something, not to go on doing . . .
whatever it was he did. Angelica begged her to come visit them, but somehow ... it hadn't seemed to be
the right time.
     She glanced at her watch and went on upward, strolling now, relaxed by the quiet, the soft air, the
bird murmur in the trees, keeping an eye on the shadows. When they said near enough to noon, she sat
down on a flat rock and unpacked her lunch. Diet soda. Turkey sandwich. Two white peaches from the
orchard behind the house, apricot trees, peach trees, plus plums, pear, apple, cherry. This year the peach
trees bloomed even earlier than usual, but instead of the blossoms being killed by the April frost, they'd
managed to set fruit before it happened. Pears, apples and cherries bloomed later. July was for pitting
cherries, night after night, to freeze for pies. August and September were for making applesauce, apple
jelly, and putting up pears.
     That was then. Other years had been other years, and now was now.
     She dallied with her food, small bites, little swallows, not wanting to think about going home,
reluctantly packing away the scraps and the empty can in the pack with the mushroom bag on top. The
clouds had moved swiftly from the west to make a dark layer almost overhead, and it was time to head
back to town, go to the market, pick up some groceries. Maybe she'd stop at the bookstore for a couple of
books. One nice thing about working there was borrowing new books freebies. Or, she had a free pass to
the movies. Something light and fun with no chance it would make her cry. Lately, if she got started, it
was hard to stop.
     She left the trees behind and stepped out onto one of the parallel tracks in the grass that passed for a
road, looked up at the sky once more, lowered her eyes and was confronted by the aliens.
     Thinking it over later, she blamed the TV and movies for her immediate reaction. The media gobbled
everything that happened or could happen, then spit it out, over and over, every idea regurgitated, every
concept so mushed up that when anything remarkable actually occurred it was already a cliche. Like
cloning or surrogate mothers or extraterrestrials and UFOs. The whole world had heard about it and seen
movies about it, and had become bored with the subject before it even happened!
     So, when the aliens walked out of the trees across the rutted road and asked her what her personal
label was, her first thought was that she'd stepped into the middle of TV movie set. She looked around for
cameras. Then she thought, no, she'd seen ET arrivals done better, far more believably, and certainly with
better actors playing the abductee than herself, so it was a joke. A moment's consideration of the creatures
before her, however, told her they couldn't be humans in costume. Entirely the wrong shape and the
wrong size.
     Her final reaction was that she'd wanted to get away from home, sure, but an alien abduction was
ridiculous.
     The lead alien, the slightly taller one, cocked its head and repeated in the same dry, uninflected tone it
had used the first time, "Please, what is your identity description?" Then, as though recognizing her
uncertainty, "My designation is mrfleblobr'r'cxzuckand, an athyco, of the Pistach people.”
     Benita had to clear her throat before she could speak. "I'm sorry, but I can't possibly pronounce your
name. I am Benita, that is Benita Alvarez Shipton of the . . . Hispanic people.”
     A rather lengthy silence while the alien who had spoken turned to the other alien and the two of them
focused their attention on a mechanism the first one was holding in one of its pincers. Claws? No, pincers.
Very neat, small, rather like a jeweler's tools, capable of deft manipulation.
     The first alien turned to ask, "Are we mistaken in thinking this is America area? We are now in
Hispanic area?"
     She fought down an urge to giggle and almost choked instead. "This is the southwest part of North
America, yes, but there are many Hispanic people in this area as well as Caucasian people and Indian
people. This country also has Afro-American people, ah, Hawaiian people, Chinese people . . .” She
caught herself babbling, and her voice trailed off as the two went back into their huddle. Could two
huddle? She sucked in her cheeks and bit down hard, trying to convince herself she was awake. Half
hidden in a grove of firs beyond the two aliens a gleaming shape hovered about two feet above the
ground. The alien ship: a triangular gunmetal blue thing, flat on the bottom, rounded like a teardrop
above. It looked barely big enough to hold the two beings, who were about her height, five foot six,
though much lighter in build, each with four yellow arms and four green legs, and what seemed to be a
scarlet exoskeleton covering the thorax and extending in a kind of kangaroo tail in back, like a prop. Or
maybe wing covers, like a beetle. So, maybe they were bugs. Giant bugs. And maybe they weren't. The
exoskeleton could be armor of some kind, and they had huge, really huge multifaceted eyes, plus several
smaller ones that looked almost human. The mouths didn't look like insect mouths, though there were
small squidgy bits around the sides. She couldn't see any teeth. Just horny ridges. They couldn't make
words with inflexible mouths like that, so evidently they talked through the little boxes they had hanging
around their . . . middles.
      "Are you receptor person?" the taller one asked. "That is, provider of sequential life with or without
DNA introduced by another individual or individuals?"
      She thought about this, sorting it out, flushing a little as she thought, Oh, Lord, are they going to ask
me about sex? She swallowed. "I'm a woman, female, yes, and I have two children.” With DNA
introduced by another individual. Which explained a lot, if one was looking for explanations.
      "Are you recently injured?" the other, slightly shorter alien asked, reaching out with a pincer foot to
stroke the swollen purple skin around her left eye.
      It felt rather like being touched with a pencil eraser: not hard, but not soft, either. Possibly very
sensitive, she supposed, and the gesture was delicately nonintrusive. "A small accident," she murmured,
putting her hand protectively over the bruise. "It'll heal up very soon.”
      "Ah. You have our sympathy for being marred," this one said.
      "Are you person of good reputation?" asked the taller one, with an admonitory glance toward its
companion. "You have done no foolish or evil thing that would make others consider your words false or
unbelievable?"
      "All of us do foolish things," she said. "None of us are perfect. I've never done any purposeful evil . .
.”
      You didn't mean to, Benita, but you bung your life out on the line like an old towel, to get faded and
ragged. I wish you could go back, daughter, but we can't do that.
      “... I don't think I've done anything too ridiculous.” She sighed, and looked at her shoes.
      "Will you help us make contact with your people, so we may do so peacefully, without injury to
anyone?"
      This was real! The idea went off like a roman candle, pfoosh, whap! Honest to goodness real! Good
Lord, of course she would help avoid injury, though what could she do? "I will if I can," she equivocated,
trying to wet her mouth and lips. They were dry, achingly dry.
      "We ask only what you can," the tall one said. "We will first give you names you can pronounce. We
will simplify our own names from our youth, our undifferentiated time. You may call me Chiddy, and my
companion is Vess.” Chiddy held out a bright red cube about six inches square. "This is our declaration.
Our investigation shows that this America section is the section most interested in search for
extraplanetary intelligence, so you will go to your authorities of this America section, and you will give
them this. When it is in the hands of authority, it will automatically do all necessary convincing, advising,
and preparing.” It nodded, well satisfied with this exposition.
      The other one, the smaller, softer-voiced one, held out a folder. "Here is money for your trouble, legal
money, licitly obtained, not a replication, which we understand to be improper, plus we will do you a
welcome reversal.” The aliens stepped back, bowing, with their four hands or tweezers or whatever
together, upper right to lower left, upper left to lower right, so their yellow sleeves (shells?) made a neat
little X across their scarlet bellies.
      Then the two of them, Chiddy and Vess, turned and went back to their ship, quad-a-lump, quad-a-
lump, like a team of trotters. The ship liquified to let them in, then solidified again, which was fine
because everyone knew about morphing ever since Arnold Schwarzenegger did one of those movies about
time travel, only it was the other guy who morphed . . .
      Benita stayed where she was, holding the cube and the folder, while she tried to find words to tell
them they had the wrong messenger, that she didn't do things like this, that she didn't know how, couldn't
possibly . . .
      By the time her mouth was ready to say "Wait," the ship was well off the ground. It rose until it
cleared the tops of the trees then soundlessly disappeared. The treetops moved as though hit by a strong
gust of wind from the east. She stood stupidly staring from the empty spot in the sky to the enigmatic
thing in her hands. It was warm. It hummed a little on her palms and she could feel the vibration. It also
changed color, from bright red to deep wine, and finally to dark blue. She set it on the ground, where it
turned red again and started to make an agitated noise, rather like a fussy baby. She looked in the folder
they had given her, counted for a rather long time, took a deep breath and counted again. There were two
hundred five-hundred-dollar bills. She put the money back in the folder and dropped it on the ground,
staring at it, as though it was a snake.
     We're often tempted to be foolish, Bennie. Often tempted to do wrong.
     Mami had never said anything about being tempted to do right! So, if she was tempted by this money,
did that mean it had to be wrong? Heavens, even children and puppy dogs received rewards for doing
right!
     The cube was now squealing for attention, but it quieted and began to change color when she picked
it up and patted it, as she had done with her babies. After a moment's more confusion, she picked up the
folder as well. Though her brain seemed to be having a fit, her feet started moving, carrying her body
down the hill while her brain skipped here and there like a dud kernel of popcorn, badly overexcited but
unable to explode. The best her legs could manage was a wavering stroll, but at least they kept going until
she reached the car. The familiarity of it, the dents, the rust spots, the smell of the inside of it, fast food
and dog, mostly, settled her a little.
     She leaned on the open door, still trying to think. Lord. She couldn't just get in the car and drive off
with no plan, nothing decided. And she couldn't just go home, either. Though it was remotely possible
that Bert had crawled out of his boar's wallow of a bed and found someone to give him a ride to work, it
was far likelier he'd stayed in bed, watching baseball and making his way through the rest of the case of
beer he'd talked Larry Cinch into bringing him last night. Larry was an open-hearted man whose kindness
used up all the room in his head, leaving no space for either evil intentions or good sense. One would
think that since Bert had been convicted of DUI five times, his friends would begin to catch on that he'd
be better off without beer!
     And one would think when he did it five times, the last time killing somebody, they'd put him in jail!
Other places, maybe. Not in New Mexico, where at least a third of the male population considered getting
drunk a recreation and driving drunk an exercise of manly skill, something like bull fighting. The judge
had put Bert on house arrest, sentenced him to an electronic anklet that set off an alarm at the station
house if he wasn't within fifty feet of the monitor at home or at his so-called job in the Alvarez salvage
yard. He was supposed to call the station before he went from one to the other and they gave him thirty
minutes to arrive. Most of the time, Bert figured it wasn't worth a phone call to get to work, especially on
weekends when Benita was home and he could get some fun out of bedeviling her.
     The rest of the week was bearable. Ten to nine, Monday through Friday, she was at The Written
Word, doing more than a bit of everything. Marsh and Goose, the owners, were casual about their own
work hours and pretty much left it to her. She'd been there part time for two years, starting when Carlos
was three and Angelica was one, then full time for fourteen. The first two years were mostly learning the
job, stocking shelves, unpacking, doing scut work. Gradually she progressed, and after they put her on full
time she read reviews and ordered books and paid the bills and sent back the unsold paperback covers and
did the accounts. She took adult education literature courses so she could talk to customers about books,
and computer courses so she could use bookkeeping systems and inventory systems. When she ran out of
anything else to do, she read books. Considering the correspondence courses, the books and the Internet,
PBS, Bravo and the History channel, she'd soaked up a good bit of education, maybe even a hint of
culture, occasionally comforting herself with the thought she was probably as well read as some people
who came into the store, people who had obviously not hung their lives out on the line like an old, ragged
dish towel.
     Sometimes it was hard to remember how she'd felt more than twenty years before, a kid, a high
school senior madly in love with an older man. Among her friends, there'd been a little cachet in that, his
being older. She'd been too naive to wonder why an older man, a self-described artist, would be interested
in someone just turned seventeen. She was pretty, everyone said so, and artists were romantic, everyone
knew that, and the label wasn't an actual lie. Bert had never claimed to make a living as an artist, and he
had won a few third prize ribbons or honorable mentions at regional shows.
     A man of minor talents and major resentments. The marriage counselor had said that, quietly, to
Benita. It had been a revelation, not the fact that Bert had major resentments, she couldn't have missed
knowing that after all these years. But the bit about the minor talent, yes, that was a revelation. Somehow,
Benita had come to think of him as being too lazy to live up to his potential. After that, she'd fretted over
it, wondering if he thought he had no potential, and if he drank rather than admit it. She felt sad for him
and wanted to comfort him, and that coincided with a few days when Bert wasn't drinking so they had a
weeklong second honeymoon, not that she'd ever had a first one. It made her feel better until the next time
he got drunk and knocked her down.
     It was really hard to be understanding or sympathetic with Bert.
     When he was sober, he would sit at the table listening as she begged him to talk to her. He would
grunt or utter a monosyllable, or he'd grin, that infuriating grin that told her he was teasing her, goading
her. She never got close! Oh, he had good points. He was always good to his mother. He wouldn't work to
help her out with money, but he was always ready to help her out with advice or carrying stuff or taking
her somewhere. He never once laid a hand on the children. If he was sober, he was delightful with them:
he'd tell the tall stories about places he'd been, things he'd done. He'd take them to the zoo or the
playground or the movies. Of course, if he was drunk, he could tongue-lash them raw, so she kept them
out of his way when he was that way. But even sober, he never talked with her, and she tried to figure out
why that was, what she could do differently. She bought books and tried everything they suggested. After
that one try at counseling at the county mental health clinic, there didn't seem to be any point in trying
again.
     Even with his drinking cronies, he didn't talk much, and what little she overheard going on among
them was totally predictable. Same stories. Same angers. Same jokes directed at the same targets: women,
fags, foreigners, any racial or religious group except their own. Not that they were religious, but they had
a common acceptance of what they'd honor and what they wouldn't. They wouldn't spit on a cross or the
flag or a Bible, but they'd kick a small dog or hit a sassy woman without blinking.
     At seventeen, she'd taken him at his own estimation, at his own word. He was an artist. He would
have great career. Besides he had brooding good looks, simmering glances, a line of compliments, used
often enough with enough other women to sound sincere, though she didn't know that then. Benita had
had no defenses, and she'd very quickly become pregnant with Carlos and defiantly happy about it. Papa
said she would be married before the baby was born, or else. He and Mami had a furious argument about
it, one of the few Benita could remember. Mami said no, let the baby come, they'd take care of it in the
family, Bert wouldn't be a good husband. Papa said no, Benita had to learn that actions have
consequences, good husband or not, she would not have a bastard.
     Surprisingly enough Bert wanted to marry her, and she thought marrying him was all she wanted. He
even had a place for them to live, with his widowed mother. In fact, as it turned out, Mrs. Shipton had
suggested to Bert that he get married so she'd have some company and help in the house, which was
something else Benita didn't know at the time. Benita's giddy delirium carried her through Carlos's birth
and Angelica's birth two years later, and partway through the year after that, by which time she had begun
to perceive, though still dimly, just what it was she had done.
     "You must go to work, Benita.” Mami had said it calmly, as she said most things. "This is the fourth
time you have come to me to borrow money for groceries.”
     "Mother Shipton . . . she's been paying for groceries, Mami, but her social security only goes so far . .
.”
      "If you have no money to feed your children, you must work. You have no choice.”
      "Mami, Bert's looking for work . . .”
      "He quit his last job, Benita.”
      "He said they fired him for no reason . . .”
      "He quit, Benita. The people gave him that job as a favor to your father, so he asked them why Bert
left. He left because they expected him to work, actually do things. Bert prefers not to work. If he will not
work, you must.”
      "But, the babies, and Mother Shipton . . .”
      "I will care for the babies daytimes. Soon they can go to nursery school, and you must also pay for
that. Bert's mother is Bert's concern, and her own. She is not an invalid, Bennie.”
      "I'm not qualified for anything . . .”
      "You are a woman. Hombres son duro, pero mujeres son durable. I have found you a job.”
      After that, Benita had been so busy she had never had time to think, except about one thing.
      "The mistake you made must stop with you," said Mami. "Your children must go to school! To
college.”
      That was the start of the secret bank account. That was the start of Mami's little lectures to Carlos and
Angelica. By the time Angelica was five, she was saying, "When I go to college, Mama.”
      Bert had a different idea. He played with Angelica and called her his cutie-pie, but since the time
Carlos first grabbed a crayon and made marks on the bedroom wall, Bert decided that when Carlos
graduated from high school, the two of them would start a gallery. Bert talked about it all the time, as
though it were real. Carlos would bring his scribbles home from school for Bert to critique. Bert would
put on his pontifical voice and explain art techniques. The two of them would huddle over the table while
Angelica, Benita, and Mother Shipton fixed meals or washed dishes. Bert was an artist. Carlos would be
an artist.
      Before long he was saying, "Granny says I will be a great artist, Mama.” Benita didn't contradict him
or his granny. So long as he expected to succeed, she would help him. It was something to think about, to
plan for, to work for.
      Bert kept the idea alive, hugging his son. " 'That's my boy, we're gonna show 'em, huh, Carlos, when
we open the gallery.”
      Carlos agreeing, "Right, Dad. When we open it.”
      The years were all the same, with only the sizes of their needs changing: extra large instead of
medium for Carlos, size twelve instead of eight for Angelica, an old wreck of a car instead of a bike for
Carlos, a computer instead of a TV for Angelica. Mother Shipton died when Carlos was eight,- Bert
inherited the house. The years accumulated in Benita's routine of buying books, supervising homework,
making Carlos do better than he cared to, helping Angelica do as well as she wanted to. The years
accumulated with the drinking bouts happening oftener, then very often, then every day or two. Benita
couldn't figure out where he got the money! He never had any money for groceries or the gas payment.
When the children were little, Benita had occasionally fled with them to the shelter when things got
violent. When Carlos was as big as his father and at no risk of his father's temper, Benita and Angelica
found a refuge in Benita's office, after the store was closed, sleeping on the floor on a spread sleeping bag,
with no one knowing where they were.
      Then, suddenly Carlos was out of school (low C average) and neither Bert's plans nor Benita's turned
out to have been sure things. Carlos approached his father about the gallery idea.
      "Well, we'll need a few thou, Carlos. Got to get together a few thou first. For rent, you know. Rent
and making contacts with artists, all that.”
     "Where are we going to get that?" Carlos demanded. Carlos might not have done well in school, but
he could add two and two.
     "Mortgage the house," said Bert suddenly, out of nowhere. "We'll mortgage the house.”
     But he didn't mortgage the house. Not for a while.
     Benita said, "Carlito, while you and your dad are figuring out the gallery business, why don't you
enroll at UNM? I know your test scores and grades weren't great, but you can get student aid, and it's right
here in town, and you can study art . . .” Benita, trying to move him but not telling him about the secret
bank account, not until he, himself, was committed to going on. That had been Mami at her most succinct.
     The bait only works if the fish is hungry.
     Carlos was unresponsive. "Aw, Mom. Leave me alone. I need a break from school. I'm not ready for
college. I need to, you know, give this gallery thing a chance! Have a time of self discovery!"
     Three separate times Goose or Marsh or Benita herself found jobs for Carlos, but Carlos didn't want a
steady job. He preferred to sleep until noon, to take long, long showers, eat like a lion and go out with
friends most nights. He worked for his grandfather at the salvage yard every now and then, just long
enough to earn money for his car, or when he needed money for gas or repairs. Now and then he'd get
some odd job with his friends, moving furniture or bussing tables. The rest of the time he ate, watched
television, slept, and drove around all night with several other young men who were doing pretty much
the same thing.
     The bait only works if the fish is hungry, Benita would say to herself, wiping her eyes, remembering
Mami's face when she said it. You couldn't make a fish hungry. You just had to wait.
     So long as Benita let Carlos alone, he seemed contented enough. If she tried to push him, he retreated
into gloom. The sulks, her father said, who had no patience with the boy. Melancholia, Benita read in
nineteenth-century books. Depression, Marsh said, but then Marsh had a family that reveled in
despondency. The doctor prescribed antidepressants, but Carlos refused to take them.
     "There's nothing wrong with me. Leave me alone.”
     Two years like that. He was nineteen going on twenty when Angelica graduated, proudly presenting
her mother not only with her diploma but also a letter from a California university granting her a
scholarship! One of her teachers had applied for her, and she had saved the news for a surprise.
     "I didn't want to get your hopes up, Mama. Isn't it wonderful? I've always wanted to go to California.
The scholarship won't be enough, all by itself, but I'll get a job, and maybe a student loan . . .”
     That was when Benita held her close, crying happily, and told her about the secret bank account.
Don't tell Daddy, dear. You know why. But shortly thereafter, Angelica, all unthinking innocence, told
Carlos.
     He was waiting for Benita when she came home from work, his nose pinched, his face haughty.
"Angelica told me you'd been saving money for us. I think I deserve half of it!"
     "I saved it for my children's education," she said, her own cheeks pink with resentment at his tone.
"And if you're in college, you'll get half of it.”
     "I prefer to take it in cash, now. Dad and I can use it to help start the gallery.” Haughty, that I prefer.
Arrogant.
     She swallowed deeply, hating his tone, his resentments, his pomposity, hating the fact she could not
meet any of it without tears and pain. She hated the way he resented anything she did for Angelica, as
though his sister were negligible, not worth the investment. He got that from his father. Bert was big on
the worthlessness of women. The books said sibling rivalry was normal, that confrontation was an
ordinary thing, a difference of opinion, it should not hurt like this!
     "The gallery plans are between you and your father, Carlito. I was never part of them, so it's up to
you and him to make those plans come true. My plan has always been for your education. The money will
be used for that only, for one or both of my children. If you don't want to go on to school, if you aren't
ready to do so, then Angelica can use the money.”
      He hadn't accepted this. Carlos never accepted no. He had done what he always did: badgered her,
harassed her, talked her down, kept after her, but this time it didn't work as it always had before. There
were too many years of hard work in that bank account. Too many years of doing without and making do
and, more important, Angelica deserved the help and would damned well get it. And something else
happened she hadn't counted on ever, hadn't even conceived of. She went inside herself looking for the
love she'd always felt for both the children and wasn't able to find it for her son. He had done something
to it, or she had, or it had dried up, all on its own.
      Strangely enough, throughout it all, Carlos never told Bert about the money. He was smart enough to
know that would have killed it for all of them. A month later, all his harassment unavailing, he had said he
would go to college as well, but not to the state university. He wanted to attend the school in California,
the one Angelica planned to attend. They should, he said, be treated equally.
      Benita had cried, "I've always treated you equally, Carlos.”
      "No, you haven't. When Angelica needed help with reading, you had her read to you while you fixed
supper. When I needed help, you had somebody at school do it!"
      She stared at him, unbelieving. "Angelica was in the second grade, you were in fourth. All she
needed was practice. You had a problem with dyslexia. I can listen while someone practices, but I don't
know anything about helping dyslexia. The school had a specialist who knew all about it. Equal doesn't
mean identical! It's impossible to treat different people as though they were identical.”
      Again the sulks, the depression, the endless hating silences.
      Goose asked what was the matter, and she told him. "He's digging up old, silly resentments from
when he was seven or eight years old, Goose. And it's been two months. It's like breathing poison gas,
being around him. He's perfectly capable of keeping it up for months, even years, and I can't take it.”
      "Well, I can't stand to see you this upset," Goose drawled in his lofty, patrician voice. "It's extremely
enervating. I've got some family contacts in California. Let me see what I can do.”
      He came up with the name of a Latino foundation that provided loans, tutoring, and counseling for
less-than-perfect Hispanic candidates for college, Carlos hyphenated his last name, charmed the
committee, like his dad at that age, he could charm anyone when he tried, and was accepted. Since he was
twenty, he chose to share a house with several other foundation beneficiaries, while Angelica, only
eighteen, lived in a dormitory.
      For Benita, it was the tape at the end of her race. She had a day or two of exhilaration, then she
deflated slowly and inexorably, like a soufflé taken out of the oven. She had never considered what she
would do when it was over, never planned for afterward when the thing was done. Mami hadn't ever
mentioned what she would do then. The worst was the unforeseen fact that with Angelica gone, not just to
college but away to college, Benita had no one to celebrate with or sympathize with or mourn with. With
both of them gone, she couldn't stay busy enough not to think, and over all those mostly solitary years at
the bookstore, she had learned to think.
      It seemed to her that up until then, she had been two people, one at work, one at home. The work
Benita was decisive, crisp, intelligent, capable. She spoke to people directly, simply, without strain and
without later self-recriminations over wrong words, wrong emphases, wrong ideas. The home Benita, on
the other hand, was tentative, common, an ignorant woman who used a small vocabulary and bad
grammar, who ventured comments on nothing more complicated than the dinner menu, a sort of wife-
mother-sponge to soak up Bert's rages and Carlito's sulks.
      When the kids went away, however, there was no need for a mother-sponge anymore, no reason for
that person to take up space. Perhaps it was time to let bovine Benita go. The planning that had kept her
going all these years was over, so maybe it was now time to make another plan.
     She joined a women's support group. She signed up for an aerobics class at the Y. She began going to
work even earlier and, if it wasn't group night, staying even later. Half a dozen fast food places were
within a few blocks of the store. Her little office was quiet and private. She had a comfortable old recliner
chair and a little TV back there. She continued putting money away, for her own use this time, for
sometime three or four years from now, when she couldn't stick it anymore. She knew she would leave
Bert eventually, the time just hadn't come yet. She managed to encounter him only over occasional
breakfasts or sometimes very late at night when he staggered in and fell on the couch. She kept food in the
refrigerator for him. She did his laundry. Up until the house arrest, they'd managed to get along without
real damage.
     And that was the story of her life, which had now taken this totally unexpected and ridiculous turn,
leaving her miles from home with a screaming cube in her hands and nobody to ask for help. Though,
sensibly, asking for help would be exactly the wrong thing to do! She turned to Mami's litany, instead.
Help yourself, Benita. You can if you will. Think for yourself, Benita. Make a life for yourself. Take a
deep breath and figure out what needs to be done.
     She closed her eyes, trying to clear the fog in her head, then leaned forward, gripped by a sudden
cramp in her middle, or in her chest, or somewhere she couldn't locate, all of her at once totally occupied
by a spasm of pain that seemed to pull her apart, arms off in different directions, legs gone swimming
away, head only vaguely attached, all the world going gray and hazy. She gasped, opened her mouth to
scream, but was unable to make a sound, felt the gray go to black . . .
     And then it all went away, all at once, the pain, the grayness, all of it, and she stood up, breathing
deeply, wondering what in the hell had happened to her? Was that a faint? A swoon? How remarkable.
     She climbed into the car and turned on the blower to air it out. The pain had filled her entire being,
but now she could find no lingering evidence of it. Not the tiniest ache. Everything around her shone with
an almost crystal clarity. She had never seen things so clearly. So. Figure out what came next.
     First thing: hide the cube and the money. Bert must not get his hands on either the cube or the money.
Just counting it had dried her mouth again. She had never had any money except what she'd earned, and
she'd always cashed her regular paycheck and paid the bills in cash so there wouldn't be anything left for
Bert to drink up. The other check, the secret check that included all her overtime and hourly wages above
minimum wage, had gone into the secret bank account.
     She took the remnants of her lunch out of the pack, put the cube and money on the bottom and
covered them with the sweater, the poncho, the leftover wrappers, peels and crusts from lunch, plus the
empty soda can along with a couple more she'd found lying near the road. The mushroom bag went on
top. She turned the car and started back down the road, the way she'd come, reaching out every few
moments to touch the backpack, just to be sure it was there. A hundred thousand dollars! Oh, what she
could do with a hundred thousand!
     Though maybe it wasn't right to take money for doing one's duty, which this thing probably was. It
felt complicated and troublesome enough to be duty. If she was going to do what the aliens had asked her
to do, well, actually hired her to do, then she would need some of the money to get to the right people,
whoever they were. Not her senator, Byron Morse, with his new, sort-of-Hispanic wife and his far-right
friends. Goose had worked for Morse's opponent during the last election, and he'd talked about the
unethical stuff Morse had pulled. Her congressman, though he was also a hyphenated-Hispanic, would be
a better bet.
     The trip that had seemed a long one on the way out was all too short getting home. She saw
immediately that she was not in luck. The studio-cum-garage door was open and Bert was perched on his
so-called workbench drumming his heels against the paint cans on the shelf below. Neither they nor the
dusty canvases against the end wall had been moved in years, but the beer cans scattered around him were
new.
      "Where the hell you been?" he demanded, leaning in the open car window, the smell of him filling
her breathing space with a rank, sweaty, beeriness.
      She tried not to breathe and kept her voice steady. "I felt like some exercise and fresh air, so I drove
up to the mountains to hunt mushrooms and have a picnic lunch.”
      "Yeah, I'll bet," he sneered.
      She opened the pack and displayed the contents of the mushroom sack. "Mushroom hunting, Bert.
You used to go with me and the kids sometimes. I left you a note.”
      "Your note said you were going shopping.”
      "I plan to. I thought I'd do it on my way home, but I got rained on in the hills, so I decided to come
home and change before I did the shopping.”
      "It'll have to wait. Give me the keys.”
      She became very still inside. Something clicked, like a relay switch. She said softly, "Bert, you know
what the judge said. Now's not the time to get him down on you . . .”
      He jerked the car door open. "Give me the goddamn keys. The judge won't do a damned thing, and
you know it. I'm not drunk, I'm not going to drink, it's Saturday, and nobody's gonna be watching the
goddam monitor on Saturday! I'm going over to Larry's place to watch the game with him and Bill. Now
come on!"
      He wore an expression she had learned to heed, one that was a half-step from violence, one that
begged her to cross him and give him an excuse to go over the edge. Normally at this point she dissolved
into sludge, tears and whines, attempts to dissuade him. Today, amid this new clarity, she did a much
simpler thing. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she edged away from him, across the passenger side and
out, taking the pack with her.
      "They impounded your car, Bert. If you get picked up in my car, they'll impound my car too.”
Without difficulty, she kept her voice perfectly level, normally an achievement in itself. "I won't have any
way to get to work.”
      He jeered, "Moo, moo. Bossie-Benita the human cow! You worried your hubby'll let you starve?" He
climbed in behind the wheel and backed out into the street, wheels screaming.
      She stood where she was, not moving. The car was stopped, half into the street, while he waited for
her to do something. Come after him, maybe. Make a face. Stamp her foot. It wouldn't take much. Any
little thing. She turned to the trash barrel and took the empty cans from the pack, one at a time throwing
them away, paying no attention to the beer cans, which ordinarily she would have gathered up
immediately. Today she realized he would consider her throwing them away a comment on his morning's
activities, so she let them lie. Bert was always able to establish that she had done something wrong, no
matter what she did, and ordinarily she kept a wary eye on him. Today she ignored him as she fiddled
with the trash until the car went away too fast, squealing before it got to the stop sign, only half stopping
before screeching around the corner and away.
      Six months ago there had been two injured, one dead. A trial date months in the future. And a judge
with no more sense than to accept that "don't lock him up, he's a working man" argument. She had
explained the situation to his lawyer. Benita's father paid Bert when and if he showed up at the salvage
yard. Since he didn't often show up, he wasn't really a working man. The public defender said his first
duty was to his client, and it would go easier on him if he were a man with a job and a family to support.
      "But he's not," she said.
      The lawyer gave her a mulish stare. "Well, he must contribute something. The house . . .”
      "Right. His mother left him the house when she died. Bert sold his last piece of art thirteen years ago.
For the last ten years, I've paid the property taxes and maintenance, because that's the last time Bert
worked for money. Last year Bert took out a mortgage on the house so he could pay cash for a new car,
which he said he needed for a new delivery job he was taking. I don't know what happened to the job, but
he borrowed on the car for drinking and gambling money. When he was picked up for drunk driving, they
impounded the car and the finance agency repossessed it. I haven't made any of the mortgage payments
and the house is about to be foreclosed. That's Bert's contribution to the family welfare.”
     "You didn't make the mortgage payments?" the lawyer had asked, as though she had done something
unfamiliar.
     She had stared at him, making him shift uncomfortably. "It isn't my house, as Bert often reminds me.
I didn't borrow on it. Foreclosure is sixty days away.”
     "And when they foreclose?"
     "Bert won't have anywhere to live.”
     "Neither will you," he challenged.
     "I'm moving in with my father," she said. "Alone. My father doesn't like Bert.”
     Actually, she planned to rent a small apartment when the time came, but that was no one's business
but hers. As it turned out, nothing she had said made any difference, for the lawyer totally ignored it, as
did La Raza judge. Typical. As time passed, more and more of the elected magistrates were women, but
they were still too few and far between.
     She shut the garage door and went into the house, rubbing her forehead. If Bert followed his usual
pattern, he'd spend the afternoon with his drinking buddies, maybe Larry, but just as likely that had been
misdirection on his part. The police would show up sooner or later, and he wouldn't want her to know
where he really was. During the afternoon he'd go through stage one, which was boisterous conviviality,
and stage two, slightly morose nostalgia, and when they ran out of beer, he'd move on to stage three,
which might bring him home to tear the house apart, looking for liquor or money he thought he might
have hidden sometime in the past. He was always sure one of his old caches was still there and if he didn't
find one, it was because Benita had stolen his money or thrown out his liquor. That's usually when he hit
her, if she was around. Stage four involved belligerence and violence, and she had this cube-thing to
protect. Bert had the car, however, and she had no way to go except, maybe, call a cab, and they were so
expensive . . .
     An audible click. Like that little relay switch. There was money. There, beneath her hand, was
money. Quite a lot of money. She had planned to leave after the foreclosure, because that would focus
Bert's belligerence on the bank rather than on herself. But here under her hand was the opportunity to do it
now. So call a cab. Pack a bag. Take Sasquatch to a kennel so Bert couldn't take out his temper on the
dog. The money was right there, and even though she hadn't earned it yet, she planned to earn it, she
could start earning it!
     Right away, here came the marching ghosts. Mami and Papa wouldn't approve. It wasn't fair to Goose
and Marsh. The children might not like the idea . . .
     She felt a flash of that same pain she'd felt up in the hills, momentary, fleeting, like a splinter being
pulled out, a moment's pang, but then the ache went away, and so did the ghosts, leaving her mind even
clearer than before. How very strange. Almost as though she were . . . emptied out. Like a garbage can, all
emptied out and washed with hot water and soap. She'd never been able to banish the ghosts before!
     Unbidden, a picture of the aliens came into her mind. They would do her a welcome reversal. A good
turn. Yes. They would banish her ghosts. They would go down all her nerves and synapses and exorcise
her. They would leave her in clarity. Delicately, as though handling fine crystal, she set the thought aside,
knowing it to be true. Obviously, they didn't want a hag-ridden envoy. They wanted someone with her
wits about her!
     She had almost a month accumulated leave coming. As she went up the stairs, she planned what to do
next: first, call Marsh or Goose at home, tell them there was an emergency. She'd take her new suit she'd
saved up for. Several pairs of slacks, the neat ones she wore to work, with clean shirts, underwear, the two
new sleep tee's that Angelica had sent for her birthday. Her hands worked almost by themselves, opening
drawers, taking down hangers, stuff from the medicine cabinet: hair dryer, curling iron, toothbrush,
vitamins, allergy medicine. She always stuffed up in places with high humidity.
     High humidity? Where?
     Not here, stupid, a voice told her. Washington, D.C. Where else would she find people in authority?
     Everything went into one suitcase plus a small carry-on bag. She'd get her ticket at the airport, the
airline or route didn't matter. She'd learned to drive when she was sixteen and had never changed the
name on her driver's license, so she could buy the ticket under her maiden name. There were X-ray
machines. How would the cube react to an X-ray machine? And what about the money? She didn't dare
carry that much money in her purse! Or her carry-on bag. What if she got mugged?
     She got the sewing kit out of the linen closet along with a strip torn from the end of a worn bedsheet,
spread the cloth neatly on the bed, arranged layers of money down the center of the strip, then folded it
over twice and basted the cloth into a thick, flexible belt, finishing it off with two ribbon ties. The belt
went around her waist to be double-tied in front, like a child's shoelaces. She had kept ten of the five-
hundred-dollar bills separate, two in the bill compartment of her wallet and eight of them in the secret
compartment of her purse, where they wouldn't show when she paid for anything.
     She'd have to leave a note, though it didn't matter what it said. Any attempt at communicating with
Bert in writing always made him furious. He liked to disagree or hit out if something annoyed him, and
hitting a letter wasn't rewarding for him. In the end, she wrote, "Bert, I've decided to take some vacation
time on my own. I'm taking the dog with me.” She thought a moment. If he was drunk, he would look for
her at her father's. Well, nothing she could say would keep him from doing that, but she'd better let her
father know she'd left.
     The note to her father was brief. "Have to get away, have to do some thinking, I'll be in touch.”
     Mami had died years ago. No way to tell her anything. Not that she would have needed telling. Benita
made two calls, one to the kennel, one to Goose.
     "Goose, sorry to bother you at work, but this is Benita, and I have to tell you an emergency has come
up and . . . No, the kids are fine. This is something else. . . . No, it isn't. Goose, just listen! I've got to take
my accumulated vacation now. . . . No, I don't need checks in advance, but would you mind depositing
them to my personal account until I get back? That's right, the one at First Bank. Thank you, Goose. Tell
Marsh, okay?"
     When the cab came, she was ready, everything counted six times and everything in the house locked
up, put away, turned off. There was a house key on her car key ring, so if Bert came home, he could get
in. Sasquatch was on the leash, eager to go anywhere.
     As she went out the front door with her suitcase, a police car pulled to the curb. Officer Cain. She
knew him all too well.
     "Benita, sorry, but Bert's monitor went off . . .”
     "He took my car," she said, without expression or apology. "He said he was going to Larry's, but I'm
not sure he did.”
     "You try to stop him?" he asked, looking at her face.
     "No. The bruise is a couple of days old.”
     "Sorry, Benita, but we have to look for him.”
     "I do hope you find him before he kills someone," she said sweetly, smiling briefly as she got into the
cab.
     "Head out toward the airport," she said, settling back in the seat with a slightly queasy feeling. "We'll
make one stop, but it's on the way. I'm leaving the dog at a kennel.”
     Sasquatch put his front feet on the seat and looked out the window, while Benita ruffled the fur of his
neck, taking a certain comfort from the solidity of him. She and the kids had named him Sasquatch. He'd
never been away from home, anymore than she had. Except for the few times she had run to the shelter
when the children were little, she had never in her whole life taken off like this. Even when Angelica had
begged her to come visit them in California last winter, Bert hadn't wanted to go, and she hadn't wanted to
go for fear ... for fear of what?
     Simple, really. If she'd gone to visit the kids last winter, she wouldn't have come back. At that time,
she hadn't been ready to do anything final. Donkey-like, she'd been waiting for the stick to hit her. Well,
the house arrest and the foreclosure had been two good whacks, one right after the other. The
extraterrestrials and the money were more in the nature of a carrot. Take a bite. Go on, it's delicious!
     Stick behind, carrot before, there was no point in waiting for anything. Besides, she'd given her word.
She'd claimed to be a person of respect, and she'd given her word. It sounded stupid as all get-out, even to
her, but it would just have to do.

Incidents—SUNDAY
     On Pacific time, Rog Wooley's alarm went off, though softly, at four AM, ANd he reacted almost at
once to stop it before it woke Susan. She hadn't been sleeping well lately, none of the lumbermen's
families had, and if she woke at this hour of the morning, she would only mess up his routine with her
doubts and worries. His clothes were in the bathroom, and he dressed there, taking care with his socks and
the warm layers of shirts and sweaters, being sure everything lay smooth against his body. Climbing a few
hundred feet into the air lugging a heavy saw was enough to tire a man without adding socks or clothing
that bunched and bound. By the time he'd topped the first tree, he'd be sopping wet and it would be warm
enough to take off a few layers.
     Outside, the world was dark and chill, with wisps of fog moving around like ghosts. He had backed
the car up the driveway and parked outside the garage door, so he could release the brake and roll half a
block before he started the engine. His climbing irons were in the car, along with his lunch. He'd fixed
that last night after Susan went to bed. He checked his watch. The van would be at the edge of town by
five, and it wouldn't wait for late arrivals.
     He was on time, one more sleepy, aggravated timber cutter, trying to get to the work site on Sunday,
when the damned tree-huggers wouldn't expect them. Later this morning, they would be there to block the
road as they had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Every time one judge signed an
order to disperse, some other judge overrode it. Meantime, nobody was making any money, jobs were on
the line, and rent payments were coming due. He stared out the window of the van, half dozing, as the
jagged skyline emerged from the dark and the sky lightened in the east.
     They joined up with several other vans as they crossed the bridge, and the convoy drove the last eight
miles in absolute silence. The tree-huggers could be camped out there, and nobody wanted any more
confrontations. The bosses were afraid somebody was going to get killed, the toppers and fellers were
ready to do the killing, and meanwhile the trees just sat there, benefiting nobody! So they were old
growth! That's why they were valuable! Why couldn't the idiot environmentalists see that? Trees that size
had to be cut while they were still healthy. They wouldn't do the human race any good if they were left to
rot!
     They reached the site when the sky was barely light enough to see by, hours before the picketers were
out, or the guys that made a big thing out of lying down in the road so the trucks couldn't get by. Steve
Buck and Harry Rider were the other two toppers, the trees were already marked for selective cutting, and
that was another gripe! No more clear cutting, even though that was the easier way to do it! No worry
about topping, let them fall where they would! A man could sure as hell make more money that way,
though, hell, something was better than nothing. Selective cutting meant they had to limit and clear the
fall zones, so they were back to topping trees. While he was doing his thing, the other men would keep
busy clearing fall zones until the first big ones were ready to come down. The tractor men wouldn't even
arrive until around nine.
     The first marked tree was a monster, so big around that he couldn't throw a line around it until he was
thirty feet off the ground. Even then it took extreme effort just to heave the rope that held him to the trunk
while he spiked his way up. A third of the way to the top he shifted around the trunk to avoid the sun, just
poking over the horizon dead level with his eyes. The rope bound and rattled, almost as though something
was fooling with it on the other side of the trunk. He hadn't seen any stubs from the ground, not this low
on the trunk, but then it hadn't been light enough to see very well. He sidestepped to one side, then the
other, but the trunk was clear almost all the way up and without many stubs to drop. Jase Steele was
below, clearing away anything he dropped. Jase was a careful man, a good man to have on the ground,
one who wouldn't take any chances that ended up getting him hurt and getting the man above him fired.
     When he came to the first stub, he checked the area below, saw it was clear, jerked the saw into noisy
action and took off the branch. It was short, but as big around as his leg. When it hit bottom, Jase came
out of the brush and waved. Rog let the saw dangle at the end of its safety line and heaved himself up
another ten feet. He was about eighty feet up and the damned tree was just now beginning to taper enough
that it was halfway easy to climb. It smelled weird, too. Maybe because it was cold. Sun-warmed
redwood, sun-warmed pine, they both smelled clean, but this smell was different. A real stink. Like
something died up here.
     Jase yelled something from below, but Rog didn't look down. He still had fifty feet to go to the point
where he could top this monster. Now that the trunk was thinner, he could move faster. Jase yelled again,
a kind of panicky scream, and Rog shifted to the side to block the sun and let him look down, but as he
moved he caught a glimpse of something on the other side of the tree, just a quick look at something hairy
and big and good lord God in heaven, look at those teeth . . .
     In the Gila wilderness of southwestern New Mexico, a small pack of Mexican wolves, introduced the
previous year by the Forest Service, lay in the midmorning sun on a rock shelf above a den still in use by
the alpha female and her four half-grown pups. The alpha dog lay beside the bitch, licking his front paws
and, occasionally, his mate's ear. Several others of the pack were nearby, and the pups were tumbling over
and around him, but he ignored them, eyes half closed in the warmth of the sun and the stone.
     The pups were weaned. They were almost big enough to join in the hunt, and this was the time Mack
Cerubia had been waiting for. He'd spotted the den months before, a natural tunnel in solid rock that he
couldn't dig out, and the mother had been too sly and shy for him to get a good shot at. Mack had killed
the last of the former pack sixteen months ago. The Fish and Game people and the Forest Service had a
ten-thousand-dollar reward posted for "information leading to arrest," but nobody had claimed it because
nobody knew anything. Mack didn't talk about his intentions, unlike some idiots who stuck their faces on
TV, making threats. If you knew wolves were vermin, and you knew they needed killing, but the vermin
were protected by the damned greenies, you didn't talk about it. You just did it, making damn sure nobody
saw you.
     Nobody would have suspected him, anyhow. He didn't run cattle anymore. He wasn't getting rid of
the wolves because they threatened his stock, he was getting rid of the wolves because his forefathers had
killed every last wolf in the U.S. of A. because they'd needed killing! Right along with cougars and
grizzlies and lesser vermin like wolverines, coyotes and eagles that picked off lambs. The country was
God-given for the people who used and grazed it and hunted on it, and he'd be damned if some
government official was going to tell him what was vermin and what wasn't.
     He could have shot the bitch months ago, leaving the pups to starve, but it had been early enough in
the season that another pair might breed. He'd figured he'd wait until the young ones were a bit grown and
the pack was all together. Then he could get the bitch and the dog. Once the alpha animals were dead, the
others would be disorganized, easier to kill. He'd made a new kind of silencer and he'd bought a new
scope. Yesterday and the day before he'd used fifty rounds with both, sighting in the scope. With any luck
at all, he'd have both alphas and some of the pups before the others knew what was happening.
      Just now he was working his way up the slope to the ridge across from the den. It would be about a
hundred-yard shot, easy with this weapon. When he neared the ridge, he dropped on his belly and crawled
up, stopping once or twice when his sight blurred. He took off his goggles and wiped his eyes. The
haziness came and went. He'd noticed it the last time he was here, too. Probably sun-warmed air rising off
a rockface down the slope before him.
      Raising his head slowly, he looked down on the den. The shelf above it was hip deep in dogs. He
counted, eagerly. The four pups. The alpha bitch, the alpha dog, three others. He eased the muzzle of the
rifle over the ridge, settled it firmly and applied his eye to the scope, put his finger to the trigger and
began to tighten it ...
      And damn it, something screamed!
      It was a sound so vehement, so near that he completely lost the target as he rolled and looked upward
where the sound had come from. His first thought was eagle. Eagles screamed, though he'd never heard
one as loud as that. Hell, it would take an eagle the size of a truck to scream like that, and besides there
was nothing around! Just sky, and trees, and the line of the ridge, and across the canyon . . . not one
damned wolf! Either down the den or gone, hell knows where!
      He rolled into prone position again, cursing, staring at the trees around him. Except for the wavery air
he saw absolutely nothing. His first clue that he wasn't alone came when something invisible grabbed him
by both ankles and yanked him, yelling his head off, straight up into the sky.
      A Forest Service officer climbed to the same spot later in the day, to check on the den as he'd been
doing at weekly intervals ever since the female pupped. He found the rifle lying at the top of the ridge. All
around and on top of it were torn fragments of denim and flannel and knit cotton and leather, some of
them bloodstained, like feathers someone had plucked from a chicken. There was no sign of anyone,
however. Not even any bloodstains on the ground.
      Sunday was a working day at the Waving Palms Motel, or what would be Waving Palms when the
twelve-acre site was drained. The trick was, so Bubba Miller claimed, to get the acreage drained over the
weekend, and do it so fast nobody had time to know about it. That way there'd be no complaints, no EPA
challenges, no outcries about endangered species. Besides, it wasn't any big deal, only twelve acres, and it
had been in Bubba's family since Grampa Miller took it on account of an unpaid repair bill, back in the
fifties. It was plenty big enough for a small motel, and there were no recent changes of ownership papers
floating around, requiring surveys or confusing things. The permit to dig a foundation that was posted on
the road had been issued for a dry piece of land a half mile away. The permit had a mistake on it
indicating that other piece of property. Just two numbers twisted around was all. Nobody's fault, if
anybody caught onto it. It just happened that way.
      So, Bubba and his brother Quentin, who had fallen heir to the twelve acres along with their cousin
Josh, all of whom had agreed to throw in their shares for the Waving Palms project, had Bubba's front
loader and a backhoe they'd rented, and they were digging a nice big pond at the lower, western end of the
ten acres and running a good-sized ditch into it along the swamp on the north. Bubba didn't own the
ground on the north or the south side, where another good-sized ditch led into the swamp. Everything the
backhoe dug out of the pond and the ditches got dumped on the eastern edge of the property, along the
road, to raise it up. It'd be muddy as hell for a few weeks, full of dead frogs and snakes and all the stuff
that squirmed around down in that muck, but when the eastern end had a chance to dry out a little, they'd
dump a few loads of fill dirt and gravel on it, grade it out and really dig the foundations. By that time,
they'd be able to fool with the ditches some, make them look more natural, and plant some other stuff
around.
      "Hey, Bubba," yelled Quentin, when Bubba cut the engine for a minute to clear some brush from the
bucket-teeth. "C'mon over here. See what Josh found!"
      Trampling through a patch of rare and endangered orchids, Bubba stomped over to the other two men
who were standing in a patch of ferns on a little hillock, one they hadn't planned to touch.
     "Why the hell'd ya smash it?" he asked, more interested than irate. The patch of ferns looked as flat as
a pool table, though it might be very slightly dished at the center.
     "C'mon," Quentin admonished. "Look addit! We din do that.”
     It seemed to Bubba likely they hadn't. The general flatness had been accomplished through repeated
pounding by something large, like a section of log, like the heavy tampers used to settle fill dirt around
drainpipes, or foundations, stuff like that. Must be a big man or more'n one did it. Something that size
would be a heavy ole bitch of a thing, almost two feet across.
     "Whaddaya think?" asked Quentin.
     "I think somuddy buried somethin," Bubba replied. "And when he set them ferns back on top, he
smooshed the whole thing down tight. Probly, just did it. A week from now, they'd all be growed up
again, and we wouldn'a seen it.”
     "You think maybe money?" asked Josh, thoughtfully.
     Bubba looked around. "Nah. I think more likely a body. It's too wet here for money or paper. Most
likely a body.”
     "We gonna dig it up?" asked Quentin.
     "Why'n hell we do that?" his brother replied. "Get all messed up in somethin none of our business!
Let dead bodies lie, that's what I say.”
     They returned to their work, making considerable progress by early afternoon, when they stopped
work, parked the machines, and got into Bubba's pickup to drive to the nearest town for sandwiches and
beer. After some jollity between them and Dolly, the clerk at the convenience store, they took an extra
six-pack, got into their car and drove back the way they'd come. At least so Dolly told the police when
they came asking, having found a receipt with the store name on it in the empty seat of the pickup.
     That was the last she saw of them, she said, driving off down the road, waving at her.
     "They were okay?" asked the police, "not fighting among themselves?"
     "Oh, hell, no," said Dolly. "Those boys'd have to be sober to fight about anything, and they ain't been
sober since high school. I've known 'em forever, since then, anyhow. They're just happy drunks.”
     If so, they'd died happy. The backhoe was right where somebody left it, and the front loader. The
truck the men had arrived in was parked by the road. Scattered around the machines were six empty beer
cans, two shoes (unmatching), one shirt sleeve, a pair of dark glasses and a blood-soaked item later
identified as a hernia truss. Trodden into the muck were the missing men's bones, all three skeletons, the
medical examiner said, when he'd had a chance to sort them out and reassemble them. No flesh. Just
bones.
     The local paper carried the sheriff's musings on the subject, which were largely focused on the
likelihood of satanic rites or upon greens who had gone mad with enviro-rage and blood lust.

Benita—MONDAY
     First thing Monday morning, Benita phoned Congressman Alvarez's office, then took a cab to the
Congressional Office Building. The young woman at the desk in the outer office looked at her curiously,
then invited her to sit while she went into an inner office. The door wasn't shut all the way, and through
the crack Benita could see into the office where her namesake representative sat behind his desk, going
through a stack of messages. The young woman handed him a note, and he looked up, saying in an
annoyed voice,
     "Who is this Alvarez woman, Susan?"
     "She said she's your cousin, Congressman. Benita Alvarez, Joe Alvarez's daughter. She says she's not
a nut, not a hysteric, not looking for money or to get any kind of bill introduced, but she has something
that was given to her to put into the hands of authority, and she thought you would be the one to decide
who authority was because she is one of your constituents, and even though she didn't vote for you, you
still represent her interests.”
      He barked laughter. "All that?"
      Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. Benita flushed and turned her head away from the
door, but she didn't stop listening.
      The young woman went on, "When she called, I suggested she bring whatever it is by and leave it,
and she said no. It had been entrusted to her to put into someone's hands, and she was going to put it into
someone's hands she could trust and she didn't know me from Eve.”
      "Lord save us. She could have mailed it. That's a long way to come.”
      "She's waiting outside. What do I tell her?"
      Benita could visualize him, looking up at the ceiling. He did that during debates, looked up at the
ceiling, as though hoping for a sign.
      He said, "I don't remember Joe Alvarez, though I don't doubt he was some kind of cousin, umpteen
times removed, and so far as I can remember, I've never heard of Benita. Better err on the side of
kindliness than go the other way and have her turn out to be the widowed sister of the state Democratic
chairman. I can see her now. I should have about five minutes before the lumbermen get here, or is it the
tree-huggers?"
      "That's tomorrow. Today it's General Wallace and the Forest Service.”
      Benita straightened. She'd actually met General Wallace, well, heard him speak, at a conservation
seminar she'd attended. He had made a big name for himself at the Pentagon before retiring to the family
ranch in Arizona. Evidently he felt his years of service entitled him to be heard on a whole range of
civilian topics. Range being the operative word among cattlemen. In Benita's part of the country, the
people who ran cattle in the national forests did not like laws protecting the environment, or protecting
endangered wildlife. If it wasn't something a human being could eat or make money off of, it wasn't
important.
      The congressman said, "Why don't retired generals fade away like they're supposed to? Why is he so
involved in this grazing issue? He's working me into a real bind. If I vote to protect the land, my
constituency will howl, because they prefer to do things the way they've done them for three hundred
years, despite the fact that three hundred years ago there were only a few hundred people cutting timber
and running cows where several thousands want to do it now!"
      "I'm sure it's very difficult, sir.”
      "Oh, no, hell, as one recent visitor rancher told me, the world is coming to an end soon, so it won't
matter whether there is any range or rivers left or not.”
      There was a long silence. Benita visualized the young woman standing patiently, saying nothing.
She'd probably heard it all before.
      "End of speech," said the congressman in a tired voice. "I'll see Ms. Alvarez.”
      He opened the door himself. The way he pushed it back, fully open, told Benita he didn't plan for her
to stay long. If the door was open, he could walk people out, chatting, arm around the shoulders of
whoever it was, casually reaching down from his six-foot-four-inch height to take a visitor's hand, to
murmur something about nice of you to have come by, you take care now, have a nice day, bye-bye. She'd
seen him do that at campaign rallies. Congressman Gregorio Alvarez was actually Greg Kempton on his
birth certificate, but he ran for election on his mother's maiden name, and that side of the family had
always called him Gregorio. He really was a sort of cousin, through a many times great-grandfather. His
mother had been short, like most of the Hispanics of the Southwest, but his father, Brad Kempton, had
been six foot five.
      She got up, putting on her careful smile, wondering what he was thinking. She had taken pains to
dress like a woman who deserved to be taken seriously. She'd gone to the hairdresser at the hotel first
thing this morning, her suit was well made, and so were her shoes. The cube was in a shopping bag, so
she could look like any ordinary shopper, except for the bruise greening one cheek, just under her dark
glasses. She saw Representative Alvarez's eyes settle on it, just for a moment, and his lips tightened.
      "Mrs. Alvarez?" He smiled very nicely and kept his voice gentle. Well, he'd sponsored a lot of anti
abuse legislation, and the public knew all about how his mother had died. "I'm intrigued by your
message.”
      "Are you, really?" She was pleased. "I tried to make it intriguing. I know you must be pestered to
death, and the last person you want to talk to is some mujer loca from back home.” She looked around his
office, a little flustered, summoning up her daytime, working-woman self, the one who dealt with people
all the time.
      She went to the chair he gestured toward and seated herself when he did, just across from him, with
no desk between.
      "Tell me about yourself," he asked, smiling. "You're from New Mexico? Married? With children?"
      "Two. They're both in college in California.” He started to say something then caught himself. She
guessed he was going to say she didn't look old enough. People often said that. The truth was, she wasn't
old enough. There were still too many Hispanic girls like her, having babies at fifteen or sixteen, more
among Hispanics than any other group. Among her people, familia had always been more important than
anything, and babies born too soon, though grieved over, were accepted.
      "Now, what brings you to Washington?" he asked.
      She took a deep breath and said firmly, "I was hired. They paid me to bring this thing to someone in
authority.”
      She bent toward the shopping bag, unwrapped the tissue and came up with the shiny cube, reached
over and handed it to him. He took it as though it might be a bomb and almost dropped it when it
immediately turned firecracker red. He was old enough to remember when kids played with firecrackers,
and he held it, feeling it.
      Benita knew it felt like leather. Not soft, precisely, but yielding. Not like plastic or wood. He turned it
over, and it screamed at him. He almost dropped it.
      She reached for it and turned it over, at which point it stopped yelping. "It has a right side up," she
told him. "And it yells if you upset it or leave it alone. So long as you've got it near you, it stays quiet.
When it turns blue, it's okay. You can feel it kind of buzzing? On your fingers?"
      He stared at the thing. She knew he could feel the vibration, and the color had faded somewhat
toward the purple. "What does it do?" he asked.
      "They didn't say. They just said it would do all the convincing and explaining that was necessary. I
kind of expected it to do it when I gave it to you. Maybe not, though. Maybe it won't turn on until it gets
to the president or somebody like that?"
      He snorted. "I can picture that. The Secret Service would just love it. A sealed container with who
knows what in it!"
      "I thought it might be a bomb," she agreed, nodding. "Except it went through all the machines at the
airport. There was even a sniffer dog, and he didn't twitch.”
      "Probably looking for cocaine," he muttered. "Who gave this to you?"
      "They were strangers to me," she said, using the phrase she had decided upon during the plane trip.
Strangers were acceptable. Aliens might not be. "They came up to me in the mountains, where I was
hunting mushrooms, and they gave me that cube and some money, and they asked me to take it to
someone in authority over our country.”
     He started to ask the sensible questions, like where, and when, and how many of them had there been,
when a loud voice in the outer office made him turn in that direction.
     ". . . never mind, I'll just go on in," the voice boomed, and in he came, tall and bulky, straight up and
down as a post, white hair and broad shoulders, a drill-sergeant Santa Claus, seeming to take up all the air
in the room just by saying hello. She recognized him at once, both from having heard him speak and from
the constant news coverage he received. He crossed to the congressman, who was gaping, one hand
holding the cube, the other raised in surprised greeting.
     "Good to see you, son, and what the hell's that?" the general asked, grasping the congressman's free
hand. He gave it one quick pump, then took the cube from the other hand, like a child finding a surprise . .
.
     And they all went somewhere else.
     The three of them seemed to be standing in space, far, far out in space, with galaxies whirling and
dust clouds gently surging and a godlike voice speaking from the center of the universe, saying, "Ladies
and gentlemen of the human race, may we introduce ourselves. We are of the Pistach people, originally of
a double star system toward the center of your galaxy and ours, long-time space farers, who have recently
become aware of the interest your race has expressed in the discovery of extraterrestrial intelligence.”
     The scene changed abruptly to a mountain trail, where the three of them stood on an outcropping of
rock watching two uniformed persons who looked only slightly exotic handing the cube to Benita, then
bowing and departing. The godlike voice went on: "It is our habit to approach a single member of a new
race to receive our initial contact. Despite your recent spate of fables concerning alien abduction, no one
from your planet has been abducted. We can find out all we need to know about any creature without
kidnapping or vivisecting it. We choose this method of introducing ourselves to limit the risk which
always comes with surprise. We are happy that our message has been brought to (. . . click, click, click . .
.) General Wallace and (. . . click, click, click . . .) Congressman Alvarez by (click, click) his kinswoman,
Benita Alvarez, and we ask that you take this message to the highest authorities of your nation.”
     They were abruptly back in the congressman's office.
     "What in the hell," breathed the general, staring down at the cube in his hands, which hummed softly
inside its deep blue self.
     "Don't ask me," cried the congressman, sinking into his chair. "She brought it!"
     "I gathered as much," snapped the general. "I'm not blind.”
     He turned on Benita with his brows drawn together, obviously ready to pounce. "When, madam? And
where?"
     "Well, actually," she said weakly, "it was Saturday. Day before yesterday. And I thought of taking it
to the governor, but he's really such a flake. And then I decided the congressman, only evidently he wasn't
authority enough, because it didn't say a word to him . . .”
     "I'd only held it for a moment," murmured the congressman defensively, flushing angrily.
     ". . . and they didn't look like that, either," she concluded, rather annoyed at the fact.
     "What do you mean?" the general demanded.
     "The ones who spoke to me didn't look like people, and their ship was in the background, and they
had a reference machine they used all the time when they talked to me.”
     "What do you mean they didn't look like people," snarled the general.
     Her annoyance grew. "The beings who spoke to me were not humans, sir. I think they must change
their appearance to be acceptable to whomever they are addressing.”
     "Meaning you would accept non-humans?"
     She simmered down, thinking. "Well, I guess that's true, yes. I would. I watch a lot of crazy things on
TV, so I've become used to the idea. And I've never been afraid of animals or bugs or things.”
     "Don't move," said the general, crossing to the congressman's desk, picking up the phone and
punching in strings of numbers. He turned his back on them and mumbled into the mouthpiece, covering
his mouth with his hand. The cube, left behind on the low table, began to squeal.
     Benita picked it up and patted it into quiet.
     "How much did they pay you?" asked the congressman.
     "Five thousand dollars," she said, without a moment's hesitation. If they searched her purse or her
hotel room, that's what they'd find, or what was left of it after she had paid for the airfare and the cabs and
the hotel and three meals yesterday and one today. The other ninety-five thousand was in a safety deposit
box rented first thing that morning, and the receipt and the key were hidden in her bra.
     It had occurred to her that all that money might be confiscated by the powers that be and she might
not get it back.
     The general turned away from the phone and seated himself in the congressman's chair. "They're on
the way over.”
     "They? Who?" asked the congressman.
     "People from the Pentagon. They'll call the president's office and the FBI.”
     "Well," Benita said, heaving a sigh, "since you've got it all in order, I think I'll go get myself some
lunch. I was so worried about putting this in the right hands, I hardly touched my breakfast . . .”
     "Sit down," said the general.
     "I beg your pardon!"
     "I'm sorry, ma'am. If you're starving, we can send out for some sandwiches or something, but I want
you here when the others arrive. They're going to have questions. I have questions.”
     "The people said the cube would give you all the answers and explanations. Certainly I can't.”
     "We'll still have questions. Just sit.”
     He was a man very accustomed to being obeyed, and Benita sat, annoyed at herself for doing so, no
matter how important he was. She got annoyed like this with her relatives who were always telling her
what she ought to do or had to do, because sometimes she said things to them that were rude, or things she
thought in retrospect might have been rude, and the memory of rudeness made her cringe inside even
when no one else remembered whatever it had been. Where did all that come from? She hadn't a clue, but
it was why she liked the bookstore, the routines she knew best, customers who didn't know her from Eve
and wouldn't presume to order her around or comment on her daily life.
     Now, however, she was evidently to submit to being ordered. People arrived in waves, most of them
wearing suits, some of them wearing uniforms. Sandwiches were provided, along with coffee and iced
tea. The questions went on for the rest of that afternoon, well into the evening, moving from place to place
depending upon the number of simultaneous questioners. Where had she hunted mushrooms? Find the
place on this map. What kind had she found? What time of day? Where had she found the agaricus? Was
anyone else around? What had the ship looked like? Where did pleurotus grow? On and on. She drew
maps of the place and sketches of mushrooms. Someone provided dinner, hastily catered in a meeting
room.
     Finally she was allowed to go back to the hotel to sleep, though they put someone on guard outside in
the corridor. They took away the money she had left, just as she'd suspected, though they gave her a
receipt.
     On Tuesday, the questions continued at an office somewhere on the outskirts of the city.
     "The money is good," the general told her at one point. "Not counterfeit. We're keeping the bills you
were given just in case the lab people can come up with anything, but here's replacement currency.
Everyone seems to feel you're telling the truth. I don't suppose you'd mind taking a polygraph?"
     "I would mind," Benita said belligerently. She had not slept well, and she had a headache. "I'm sure
by this time you know all about me, where I work and what I do and who my family is. I hope you've
honored my request not to tell my husband where I am, and if you've investigated me, you know why I
ask that! You know I'm just an ordinary person, that I don't know anything special. I let people take blood
yesterday just to prove I don't drink or smoke marijuana or take drugs or anything like that. Now I just
want to do some sightseeing, and eat some good food and . . .” She paused, ending weakly, ". . . go
home.” Actually, she didn't mean that. Not that home, anyhow.
     "The president would like to meet you.”
     "Oh, my," she mumbled, suddenly giddy. "Oh, my goodness. The president? Did you take the thing
to him?"
     "We did. It amplified its pronouncements, in case you're interested.”
     She whispered, "Are you allowed to tell me what it said?"
     "It specified a place and a time for a personal meeting, which took place very early this morning. I
wasn't there. Just the president and a few Secret Service people. The . . . people who showed up weren't
the ones we saw on the cube. We think you're right. They change appearance depending on who they're
talking to. You expected aliens, I would expect military personnel, the president would expect humanoids
somewhat exotically dressed. Too much Star Trek in my opinion, but we're of different generations. They
gave him another one of those cubes, for him to take to the Cabinet and the Congress, however the
schedule works out. The president wants to ask how they struck you.”
     Her hand went to her cheek. The general looked away. "What impression they made on you," he said
hastily.
     She agreed, flushing. They took her in a stretch limousine. The Oval Office looked just like it did on
TV. So did the president, and he was just as charming as she'd always thought, never mind all that other
stuff that was nobody's business. Mami used to say, "Roosters crow and cocks doodle, and so long as they
don't peck the hens, it's God's will.” By the time he was through talking with Benita, she had told him all
about the children being at school and what she did for a living, and how the aliens had seemed perfectly
trustworthy.
     "And they gave you money.”
     "I guess they figured it would take money for me to travel and stay in a hotel and buy meals and all.”
     "Ms. Alvarez, do you think they picked you at random?"
     She started to say yes, then stopped. "No. Not really. I imagine they wanted someone without any ax
to grind.”
     "In giving you money, were they hiring you to represent them?"
     She didn't hurry with her answer. "That's what I told Congressman Alvarez. In a sense they did. They
didn't ask me to misrepresent anything. They could have known a lot about me before they picked me.
They might have known I had a good reason to want to interrupt my life, the way it was. They told me
they were ethical beings, and I think that was part of their ethic, not disrupting people's lives or forcing
them to do anything against their will. They knew I couldn't get here to Washington without the money
they gave me.”
     And an incentive to do it! Never mind the other ninety-five thousand dollars. She would think about
that later. "If they wanted somebody just . . . ordinary, they'd almost have to provide the wherewithal,
wouldn't they?"
     "They didn't give you anything else?"
     She furrowed her brow, remembering. "No . . . no, but they said they would do me a welcome
reversal.”
      "What's a reversal?"
      "Mr. President, I figured out they meant they'd do me a good turn. A good turn is a welcome reversal,
isn't it?" Which she figured they already had, if the way she'd been coping for the last two days was any
indication.
      He nodded and thanked her. As she was about to leave, she turned to say, "If this all comes out, like
in the newspapers, will you have to say who it was that talked to them first?"
      He cocked his head, making a gesture that could mean yes, no, maybe, why?
      "If you can ... if it comes out, if you can keep me out of it, Mr. President? That awful thing that
happened to Princess Di. And then, that actor who killed himself, because of the terrible lies that paper
told. Those men in Congress, the ones who'll spend more to destroy a political opponent than they will to
feed the poor, you know who I mean, they'll probably try to use this against you, and that means they'll try
to get hold of me. They're like leeches, those . . . people. Well, I'm having some family trouble of my own
just now, and I'd just as soon not . . . not, you know, have my kids read about it in the newspapers.”
      He shook his head a little sadly, and she knew what he meant. He'd try. For what it was worth.

From Chiddy's journal
     Autumn. Thirteen. Stairs.
     This is what the Pistach call a trialur, an evocative threeness. Autumn, because that is the season that
best marks both ending and beginning. Any gardener will understand this. You will understand it, dear
Benita. Though our acquaintance has been brief, one finds in you something charming, something one has
not experienced before with others the Pistach have helped. If you were one of us, one would bring you
worms from the home ground before one leaves you. You are other than us, so one writes this journal for
you, instead, hoping, when the time comes, that you may receive these squirming lines spelling renewal
where worms might not be welcome.
     You and ton'i, we, met in autumn.
     After autumn comes thirteen, because that is the age at which Pistach people are both ended and
begun. And the last of the three is stairs, of course, seemingly endless flights of stairs that one climbs over
and over during the thirteenth year, the year of selection. It is called a year, though it is occasionally
shorter than that, or, as was true in to'eros case, my case, much longer.
     One's thirteenth year begins on the day of one's twelfth birthday and continues until selection.
Selection takes as long as it takes, and one may not celebrate one's thirteenth year until the time of
selection is done. Thereafter, that date becomes one's natal day, and at the end of the next year the count
begins again at one. After one is selected, one no longer counts the years of undifferentiated childhood,
only the years of being what one was meant to be.
     The symbols of renewal were much emphasized the autumn ton, that is to say, I began that year.
(Since this account is meant for you, dear Benita, one who is unfamiliar with our language, ton, I, will use
the tongue of you who will read except where our own is needed for clarity, or when one forgets. Even
Pistach forget. We are not perfect.)
     Perhaps the symbols that autumn were merely more noticeable than in previous years, but I seemed to
see for the first time the shallow, woven-reed trays of flower bulbs before the gardener's kiosks, the piles
of gnarled hisanthine roots wrapped in damp, green moss and tied with lengths of ever-life vine, the
transparent jars of seed, the tools used to rake and chop fronds when they fall, the canvas sacks in which
the mulch is kept until time for it to be spread around dry stems, covering the cold soil. Even perforated
clay jars of worms, though it is considered slightly disreputable to buy worms. One has one's ancestral
place, and after generations of dedicated care, one's land should have enough worms to share with the less
fortunate. Still, some families have been selected away from the care of their home place for generations,
though this speaks of negligence by the selectors, leaving the soil to impoverish itself and in need of a
generation's attention before it can be returned to health.
     It is customary for the far flung to return to home places in autumn, to visit the stelae of our loved
ones and ancestors, to plant a corm of loral or a root of hisanthine in the soil where their ashes were
spread, to spread sweet fern mulch there, and even, if one cannot go oneself, to send a worm or two from
the home ground to the ground of those who were burned and spread far from home. Autumn wreaths are
hung upon the stelae around which the ash-grounds are gathered, thus twining our departed ones into the
circle that includes ourselves and those to come. One sees renewal wreaths everywhere in autumn, on
doors and walls and over windows, always vine-shoots of evergrow twisted into a circlet and decorated
with fruits, dried blossoms and leaves. Our family wreath that year was decorated with a traditional
trialur: dried star-rays of spring hisanthine, dark green feathers of summer's fragrant loral, and the hard-
skinned, silver-sheened autumn fruits of the red pomego. End and beginning. Beginning and end.
     Since the thirteenth year is the one of selection, it is on the twelfth birthday that one is taken to the
nearest stair of selection for the first time. The stairs are great slabs of polished igneous rock of crystalline
texture, with a carved banister at either side and a railing up the middle. They are rather wide, though not
particularly steep, and they are built, always, to rise along a hillside spiked with cupressa trees, for the
slow-growing cupressa is a symbol of patience. The stairs go up to a terrace that stretches on either side in
great widths of mosaic paving, balustraded on the downhill side and on the uphill side, on either side of
the stairs, lined with the entryways and doors cast from an alloy of copper, one that has a lovely red-gold
glow, the doors of the selectors. The stairs continue upward to another terrace, and another after that, and
so on up to the final seventh terrace at the top of the hill. This apex is marked by an edifice, near ton'eros,
my, home place, the edifice, the golden dome that stretches over the most sacred place of our people: the
House of the Fresco.
     Here, long ago, following our departure, some say expulsion, from our spiritual home, the aged
Canthorel bid the masons among our people raise up a circular wall pierced on the east by three doors,
and when they had done it, he set a crew to plaster the inner walls, beginning at the right side of the
middle door and moving sunwise as he followed the plasterers with paints to illustrate the revelatory
episodes of our history. The resultant work, we are taught, was inspired, infallible, and miraculously
completed in a single day during which, some avow, the planet slowed its turning to lengthen the light.
When Canthorel laid down his brushes, daylight was no longer needed and night fell. He then
commanded a dome to be reared above the whole, and when the keystone of the dome was set, Canthorel
died. It is said his spirit went into the work, and it is certain his ashes lie at the center point of the
sanctuary, in an earthen plot planted with fragrant vine.
     In those early times, the sanctuary was approached by means of a road that twisted back and forth
across the hillside. The stairs and terraces came later, to meet the needs of a growing population. Still later
came replicas of the whole structure, stairs, terraces and Fresco House, though it would have been
blasphemy to copy the Fresco itself, in every region and on every world we occupy. One's family lands
are and have always been, however, in the verdant valley near the true, the only original Fresco.
     Though every child knows this story from infancy, though many of us have played follow-on or
quick-ball on the green meadows at the foot of the Fresco hill, one's first formal approach to the stairs
comes as an awful, even terrifying event. I was surprised at my own tremors as we set out. I was dressed
in the customary green, symbolizing a new shoot, a new stem. My inceptor was in gold, the house
historian in formal brown, the receptors were draped in silver, the nootchi were clad in festive reds and
yellows, the household campesi wore their leather aprons. All the younger children had been left at home.
Except for celebrants, only those who have climbed the stairs are permitted to climb the stairs, and only
they may escort a celebrant on the first climb.
     The choral finisi who habitually arrange themselves at the edges of the stairs all along the ascent were
present in large numbers on my day. Since it was unlikely my parsimonious inceptor had paid them to
sing, their presence indicated a busy day, with many candidates scheduled to ascend amid a consequent
probability of largess. No matter how stingy, no inceptor would let an offspring ascend to the terrace
without making some gift to the choristers, for they have jeering songs aplenty to direct at the niggardly.
As it was, they sang me upward with our own nootch joining in the responses (ke had always fancied
kerself a singer) while my inceptor handed out sufficient coin to sop their esteem. Though our climb was
done with measured and dignified tread, as was proper, it was completed all too soon at the first terrace.
     Inceptor and receptor gripped my arms, the proffe-historian readied licos, his writing instrument, one
nootch, one campesi marched behind as ton'i veered to the left and approached the first columned
entrance out of a dozen or so, all of them surrounding massive doors leading into the mountain. My
inceptor knocked, as was proper.
     "Who comes?" cried the brazen voice I had been warned to expect.
     "An undifferentiated one," my inceptor called in a firm voice. "A candidate for selection, now come
to the age of reason.”
     "So we all hope, Chiddy," muttered the receptor clutching my other arm, giving me a firm look. Ke
wasn't my own receptor. My own receptor (though one should really not say or write or even, if one is
very observant, think the words, "my own") had left the family earlier in the year for a time of specialized
training. Ke had licked my eyelids tenderly and left me to the care of the nootch, for ke was retiring from
receptorhood to go on to something else. Unlike the nootchi or the campesi or many other categories,
receptors and inceptors were often picked for genetics alone, even when they had no inclination for the
task. Those without inclination were allowed to change category later on. If one was selected as a nootch
or a campes, however, it was considered permanent except in those rare cases where everyone agreed the
selector had made an error. It did happen. We all knew it, and we all regretted the tragedy it caused. My
receptor had been selected, as ke often said, for genetics alone. Ke certainly was not inclined to be a carer,
as everybody knew, including the ket. That's what my old nootch often said about it. Everybody including
the ket knows Tithy's no carer.
     Sounds came from behind the door, rattlings and hangings and long, ominous hummings, like
gigantic engines. At last the door opened and the voice called, "Enter.”
     I looked helplessly at my family, but they merely made shooing motions, as though I were a flosti
they were shooing from the garden. I would rather have been a flosti, flying away to the top of a tree or
anywhere else, but there wasn't a chance. The family was a solid phalanx between me and the stairs,-
another family with another candidate was marching behind them toward the second door, and beyond
them were still others headed farther down the terrace, the only comfort came from the nootch at the left,
who gave me a little nod and a tiny smile. The open door was the only way out.
     So, I did what every twelve-year-old has been doing since time immemorial. I entered.
     Looking back on that time, the strangest part of it was that nobody seemed to care if I did well or not.
At home, when I was a child, people did care. Foot coverings were meant to be polished and put away.
Body covers were meant to be washed and smoothed and hung up. Sleeping and eating places were meant
to be kept neat, and houses and people were meant to be kept clean. Animals were to be fed, persons were
to be fed, in that order, and both persons and animals were to be kept healthy. All of this required
attention and care, and it was important that one's tasks, whatever they were, should be done dependably
and well. Wanting to do things had nothing to do with doing them. If things weren't well done, then one
got a rap on the head from a proffe or inceptor, or one did without sweetness at meals, or one spent the
whole day helping the campesi clean out the compost house.
     Selection is different from that, as I soon learned.
     The person behind the desk was clad in a dark brown robe. The person was to be referred to as
selector, licos pronouns were third level, le and lie, and one was not to speak to lie until spoken to. So
much I knew.
     "Why is someone here?" selector asked.
      "It is the time of selection," I said breathlessly.
      "Is someone frightened?"
      "I think so," I muttered. "A little.”
      "It will pass," said selector. "One may look back on this time as the easiest time of someone's life, for
no one will discredit someone on teros behavior, no matter what it is. For this time, someone is to behave
as someone likes, as someone is moved to do, as someone's inclinations guide. Understand?"
      I did not understand, but I bowed, murmuring, "Mentor," to show I had heard. "Mentor" is a word
that may be politely used to any older person of any caste who is instructing one.
      The selector shuffled papers on the desk and came up with one that seemed applicable, for le looked
at it as le said, "Tomorrow morning, someone will go to creche central and assist the manager in caring
for the infants. Be there at the beginning of work hour.”
      There was only one reply allowed, as I well knew. "Yes, Selector.”
      The door behind me opened. I bowed, turned, and went out. The family had departed except for my
nootch, and it was ke who took my hand and walked with me down the stairs. "What is Chiddy's first
duty?" ke asked.
      "Help the creche manager," I said, only then beginning to think how strange that was. Why the creche
manager? "Why . . . ?" I started to ask, only to have ker fingers laid gently across my lips.
      "Why not?" ker said.
      I was to think of that over and over in the time that followed. Why not? Why not anything, or
everything?
      I was at the central creche when it opened in the morning. Family nootchi were leaving off babies,
the creche nootchi were dandling them or winding them in hammocks or hanging the fretful ones upside
down and walking them. I was put to walking, which I did, a baby hung from my shoulder by his toes and
my hand pat-patting it on the back, the way the others were doing. When it sicked on me, I washed up and
was given a smock to wear. So the day went, dandling and walking and making frequent trips to the
sandbox, with much changing of underwraps when we didn't make it in time. It did not seem like work,
though it wasn't play, either. It was not unpleasant, not arduous, not enjoyable. Just . . . neutral. Since it
was my inclination to ask questions, I did so. Many of them. After four days of this, the manager told me
to return to the selector.
      On the morrow, I did so. It was not the same selector, though the words and attitudes were similar.
      "When someone leaves here, go to the agricultural school and see the field superintendent.”
      So, I did that, and for the next four days, I joined the school campesi and hoed weeds out of the grain
rows. This was dirtier than the former work, and it was harder, too. It was so hot we all panted, water
dripping from our mouth parts, but I enjoyed it more than the creche, being out in the sun and hearing the
birds arguing in the trees at the field side. On the fourth day, the superintendent sent me to the
greenhouses, where I did similar work, pulling weeds out of beds of seedlings. Then I spent two days
learning how the records were kept, and another few days helping the record keeper. It was interesting
enough for the nine or ten days I was there, and I learned a lot from the things I asked people.
      Then it was back to the selector again, who told someone to ascend one level and go to the fourth
selector on the right, and I did that. It was like the first one all over again. Le gave me things to do, le
watched closely while I did them, but le didn't seem to care how well I did them. I spent a cluster cleaning
the laboratories. I spent a cluster at the theater, helping paint sets. I worked with a whole string of finisi,
an artist in paint, a dancer, a designer of costumes. I was sent up another level and spent a long, long time
directing a crew of ten-year-olds who were planting seedlings on the sanctuary hill as an autumn duty. As
soon as their toe hooks fall off, when their wings begin to grow, around age six, all children have autumn
duties and spring duties, things that are done for the community. I had planted my share of seedlings
between ages six and eleven.
     Sometimes when I had completed a stint of work, they'd let some time go by, then send me back to
spend another cluster doing the same thing, so I ended up back at the agricultural center, helping with
records a couple of times, and at the theater, doing all kinds of things. On the fifth level, I attended
lectures on the confederation and the member races, the egg-differentiated Credons, the swamp-living
Oumfuz, the fearsome Xankatikitiki and many others. When I got up to the sixth level, there were
sessions I don't remember very well. They gave me juice to drink that made me dizzy, and then asked
strange questions that made my head ache. Then there were other times when my body felt certain ways,
and they measured what it wanted and what it needed. Some of that was embarrassing, for I could feel
myself wanting and unwanting.
     We are not supposed to want a specific role in life. Opinions of that kind are not considered useful.
We are selected to live as what we are, body and mind. The whole process of selection is centered upon
determining what each of us really is. One of the strangest things I have encountered on your world, dear
Benita, is that many of your people have no idea who they really are but many ridiculous ideas about what
they are expected to be, plus many religious convictions about what they should be, although nobody is!
One should not want to be anything but what one is, because it creates unhappiness. If one cannot dance,
one should not be a dancer. If one cannot paint, one should not be an artist. It defies good sense. One
should not be sexual if one cannot enjoy both the process and the product, and if there is no place for the
product, one should stop being sexual. One should want to do what one can do most easily and most
happily.
     Often I was allowed to go home for evening gathering, and afterwards I sometimes went down to the
river. There was a patch of short grass there with a play-swing to hang babies on, and a bench for others.
My nootch used to hang me there in the evenings, while she rested on the bench with a glass or two of
viber. It was a good place to sit and think about things. So, this one night I had just settled myself in the
swing when my nootch came down the path and sat on the bench, looking at me.
     "Well?" ke asked.
     "Well what, Nootch?"
     "How does someone think it's going?"
     I laughed. "One hasn't a clue.”
     "What has someone liked the most?" ke said firmly. "Tell someone!"
     "Most? The time in the theater, one supposes. One felt more useful there than anywhere else. And
one likes the thought of acting.”
     "Ah," ke hummed between ker teeth. "And what has someone liked the least?"
     "Cleaning the laboratories. One learned a lot, though. Just by listening. And of course, one asks
questions.”
     "One day someone will question oneself into trouble," ke said darkly, frowning at me. "Ta, Chiddy,
one has such hopes for someone.”
     This was not something a nootch should say. Hoping was like wanting. Inappropriate! "Nootch-isi," I
said, "hei!"
     Ke wiped ker ducts. "All right, all right. Someone shouldn't have said it. But still. Remember this,
Chiddy. Someone will have learned to be wise when someone knows how to keep someone's mouth parts
fastened.”
     That upset me more than anything that had happened with the selectors because it upset the
equilibrium I'd managed to hold on to that far. We're not allowed to choose or want, but of course, we all
do! Nootch-isi's leakings washed all my resolve away, and there I was, choosing! Wanting! Or not
wanting! I did not want to be an inceptor. I did not want to be a receptor. I did not want . . . oh, certainly
did not want to be a nootch. One may love one's nootch, but one can see how difficult it is to be a good
one! Of the hundred or so other things one was allowed to be, there were only a few my soul leaned
toward. I would not mind greatly being a worker, a campes, or a craftsman, a finis. I would not mind
greatly being a proffe, a doctor or engineer. The one thing I wanted not to be was an athyco. Not that I'd
ever met one, just that everyone said the life of an athyco was the hardest life one could have.
      So, when on the morrow the selector told me to climb the stairs all the way to the top and report to
the curator of the Fresco, it sent a thrill of trepidation all the way to my toes.
      The selector was watching me closely, the way they always did. "What?" selector asked.
      "Ah . . . one has heard ... no one should go there except . . . someone who knows . . .”
      "If a selector sends someone, someone can go there. Around back, door marked Staff only. Just walk
in and ask for the curator.”
      At that point, I was on the sixth level, so it wasn't a long climb, but it felt like I was trying to scale
Mount Ever-ice. I was actually gasping for breath when I got to the top, and I stood outside the staff door
a long time, letting my gills stop fluttering and my hearts stop pounding before I walked in.
      The curator was a tall person in a white gown with a blue apron and cowl. I bowed, muttering, "One
regrets not knowing how to address someone.”
      "Call me Curator," it said. "My pronouns are fourth level, ai, ais, and aisos. Come, I will show
someone the Fresco!"
      Ai took me down a hall, and up a flight of stairs, and through a narrow little door into a gallery above
the vast circular floor of the House. The gallery was a narrow ring above the Fresco and below the dome.
Though other memories of that time may have faded, one remembers that experience clearly. The floor
pave is of compact metamorphic limestone of a lucent ivory color, brought into golden or rosy flushes by
the slightest light, the rays making radiant shadows that wander across the polished surface as though
searching for the luminous realm from which they have come. Their motion is caused by the wind moving
branches of the great trees above the high windows topping the dome, as I came to know later, but the
first impression was of a clear stream in which living, questing, nondimensional beings swam. Or, that is
how one later described what one then, wordlessly, saw.
      Across from the tiny door through which we had entered stood the three great cast metal doors, each
between its protecting columns and surmounted by its individual architrave, their surfaces brought into
high relief by the same fugitive lights that wandered the floor. The metal was the dark brown of good soil,
not shadowed but deliberately darkened to separate it from the room itself. Between the middle door and
the right-hand one was the first section of the fresco, The Meeting. Though one had never seen it, one
knew that it portrayed Mengantowhai leaning on his staff and reaching out to the Jaupati people, his
angelic countenance lit from within as they held out their hands in awed wonder and incipient friendship.
Beginning from that point and sweeping sunwise about the great hall, the sixteen other panels of the
Fresco told the tale of Mengantowhai's labors on behalf of the people he had adopted, of their joy and
progress, of their tragic overthrow by the envious Pokoti, and of Mengantowhai's eventual martyrdom at
their hands. Between the left hand and middle doors was the final section: The Martyrdom of Kasiwees.
Kasiwees was the last Jaupati, shown kneeling as he prayed for Mengantowhai's return.
      Mengantowhai, shortly before his death, had selected Canthorel as an athyci, and these episodes from
Mengantowhai's life had been Canthorel's inspiration for the Fresco. One knew what the Fresco showed,
however, only because one had been told. The Fresco itself was almost as dark as the metal doors, you
would call them bronze, and no detail of the painting could be seen with a casual glance, for the place was
lit, as it always had been, by hundreds of votive candles set into ornamental frames of iron and brass, and
the soot from centuries of such candles had settled upon the divine paintings like a thick varnish, masking
the colors and obscuring the figures. The entire room was cleaned annually, and the floors were scrubbed
and polished daily. The painting, however, could not be touched. One knew which panel one was looking
at only by referring to the small numbers, one through seventeen, carved into the stone beneath them.
     In the earliest years the Fresco had been cleaned and even repaired from time to time, but in recent
centuries the curators had forbidden any further attempts to do so. After all, they said, the scholar
Glumshalak had copied every detail of the Fresco when he wrote his great Compendium. The curators of
successive ages had annotated the Compendium. In addition, other scholars and visitors had made
sketches of various panels during the early years. The danger of cleaning the panels far outweighed the
pleasure of seeing them clearly.
     For pilgrims, the usual observance at the House of the Fresco was to enter from outside by the middle
door, to turn left and make the entire circuit of the hall, stopping before each number to chant the
appropriate passage from a pilgrimage book, of which there were several: Glumshalak's Authorized
Version, the Revised Pistach Version, the (some said excessively) Modernized Version, in contemporary
language. When the people stood before panel seven, The Adoration, or panel fifteen, The Blessing of
Canthorel, they knew what was shown. The very obscurity of the Fresco, evidence of its antiquity, could
be considered part of its mystique.
     My first experience verified this. The smell of scented smoke, the fugitive lights, the shifting gleams
of polished stone, the mysterious paintings from which, in some lights, a face seemed to smile or speak, a
hand reached out to summon, indicating here I am, look at me, observe my life. Within moments,
however, I noticed something else as well. Curators entered the great room, lit candles, put out others,
took them away, and they did not even look at the room. People came in the door, turned to their left and
began the circuit of the room, reading the verses from whatever pilgrimage book they had obtained or
inherited, and they never looked up. I reacted to this as though a bell had run somewhere inside me, a
warning: see, notice, they too have had their first impression, and the first impression has been their last.
They do not see any longer. Will you, too, learn not to see?
     "The first painting," said the curator, "the one between the middle and right-hand doors, is the
meeting of Mengantowhai and the Jau-pati. In the background are three wine jars assaulted by amorphous
figures. The implied teaching is?"
     "I'm sorry, Curator, but I have no idea.”
     "That's all right. Someone will learn. The teaching of the amorphous forms assaulting the three wine
jars is that Pistach may not carry intoxicants on journeys. This insight is gained through the juxtaposition
of this section with the one preceding," ai pointed to the section between the left-hand and middle doors,
"The Martyrdom of Kasiwees, and from the section following," ai pointed to the right, "The Descent of the
Steadfast Docents.”
     "Yes, Curator," I murmured, marking the words down in my mind without a hint as to their meaning.
     "From the one we get the idea of journey, for the journey into death's realm is the greatest one, and
from the other we get the idea of guidance, for a docent guides others. This is reinforced by the secondary
symbols, in which Kasiwees also guides us and the docents, by descending, also journey. Since it is wine
jars being assaulted, the reference is to mastering intoxication. Thus it is clear that the meaning is that we
receive guidance not to use wine during journeys. Does someone follow?"
     I followed, though it seemed to me at the time we could have as well received "wisdom" as the
meaning of the docents, or even "failing-ones," for a descent often means a failing. This might imply that
the three amorphous forms could be the well-known trialur, frailty, futility, and forgetfulness, seeking to
overturn the urns of knowledge, this reading reinforced by Kasiwees' assassination which certainly upset
the fount of learning. Since the curator's interpretation took no account of the identity of the three
amorphous beings, I preferred an interpretation which identified them. And the things being assaulted or
overturned were just as much urns as they were wine jars, for all one could see was shadowy shapes with
a kind of yellow haze around them. Having heard all my short life of the teachings of the Fresco, I was
amazed at how impenetrable the depictions actually were.
     "Tell me what someone is thinking," demanded the curator.
     Without thinking, I blurted out that the forms were very difficult to analyze, what with all the soot,
and ended with, "So it would seem we would gain better appreciation of the greatness of Canthorel if the
Fresco were to be cleaned.” Or course, it didn't come out that way, precisely, not at age twelve. It was a
good deal more prolix and less pertinent, but the curator got the idea.
     Ai actually smiled at me. "I'm glad someone said that. Now that someone has said it, someone should
put it out of mind. The Fresco of Canthorel is too sacred to run the risk of altering in any respect. We
know we do not actually see the pictures as Canthorel painted them, but we have generations of
observations written down in the sacred books, including the observations of the revered Glumshalak,
who saw the work when it was first done. Thus, building upon tradition, we come to a proper
understanding.”
     Ai smiled again, a kindly smile that looked so well rehearsed I thought ai must often use it for effect.
I did what was expected. I bowed. I assented. And thus was my fate sealed, for it was not long thereafter
that the selectors told me of their decision. I was to be an athyco, a nudge, a meddler. The House of the
Fresco was to confine the next decades of my life during which I was to help formulate and enforce those
rules by which our people live. Then, if I lived long enough, I would work with the other races in the
Confederation. And if I lived still longer, I would be sent to apply those rules on other worlds, to other
beings, in order to assist their ascent into wisdom.
     The next bit is unpleasant to remember or recount. I was given certain substances to eat and drink.
Certain of my physical attributes shrank away to nothing, and other parts swelled with urgency. I was
given exercises to do, all of which were uncomfortable and some of which were actually painful. When
the pain and discomfort faded, I was given, as all selectees are given, certain biological substances to
increase my euphoria at duty completed, to assure tranquility and balance in my tasks, for all the years to
come. There was then what might be called a convalescence, a settling down under the care of my nootch,
who displayed ker usual patience. I was not an easy person to care for at that time, for I found myself prey
to numerous resentments that only time served to ameliorate. Then, at last, in the arm-clump of my
family, I celebrated my thirteenth year, the end of my childhood. It was autumn again. My year had been
two actual years, and this lengthy time betokened a certain grave propriety. As a birthday gift, I was given
the proper clothing of an athyco: the white gown, the blue apron and hood. After the celebration, I was
referred to for the first time as ai, and I was escorted upward and given into the hands of the curator.
     A year later, dear Benita, in the sanctuary of the Fresco, one celebrated one's first birthday as a
person.

Benita—TUESDAY
    After leaving the White House, the limousine driver offered to drop Benita back at the hotel, or
anyplace else she'd like. Having breakfast in her hotel room had been unusually pleasant, and the idea of
snuggling up in all that unexpected luxury while reading a good book was attractive, so she asked if he
knew of a bookstore within walking distance of her hotel.
    He took her directly to a sizeable place only a few blocks from the hotel, a store that seemed to take
up all the south side of a short block. The name was in gold across the front windows: The Literary
Lobby. When Benita got out, she told the driver she'd walk from there. There were newspaper vending
machines along the sidewalk, and she walked down the line, reading the headlines:

                               MIDDLE EAST ERUPTS IN NEW CONFLICT
                                     OVER 200 DEAD IN RIOTS

                          DRUG SHOOTOUT TAKES LIVES OF BYSTANDERS
                            TODDLERS, TWO SISTERS KILLED IN DRIVE-BY

                        TOBACCO COMPANIES SUED BY FOREIGN COUNTRIES
                               EXPORTS IMMORAL, SAY CHINESE

                        DROUGHT AND CIVIL WAR A LETHAL COMBINATION
                             STARVATION THREATENS MILLIONS

                                TEXAS WOMAN BEARS NINE CHILDREN
                              FERTILITY DRUGS BLAMED FOR LITTERING

      It was all the same depressing stuff. She turned to consider the window display instead. Down in the
corner a neatly lettered card caught and held her eyes: "Sales help wanted.” People passed behind her,
back and forth on the sidewalk, but her gaze was fixed on that card.
      The door of the store opened and closed, but she didn't notice until a voice at her shoulder said,
"You're looking at that notice as though it were a snake with a diamond ring in its mouth.”
      He had quizzical eyes, untidy graying hair and a strong jaw with a huge ink smear along one side.
      "Snake with a what?" she asked.
      "You know. As though you're wondering, is it a rattlesnake or only a gopher snake? Is it a real
diamond or only cubic zirconium? Shall I grab it by the tail and shake the stone loose, or shall I let well
enough alone?"
      “I was thinking of grabbing it by the tail," she said, surprising herself. "I have around fifteen years
experience working in a bookstore.”
      "Well, come in!" He bowed toward the door, stretched out a lanky arm to push it open, and beckoned
her to follow him down the aisle, turn left, right and left again into an office at the back corner of the
building, with both east- and south-facing windows that gave him excellent views of two triangular
parking lots and the boulevard that cut across diagonally behind them. He dropped into the chair behind
the desk and burrowed in a pile of papers, drawing out two or three sheets before he found what he was
looking for.
      "Application," he said, putting it before her. "Pen," putting that before her as well. "Complete, while I
wander around out there, then I'll be back.”
      What was she doing? She stared at his retreating back with that same feeling of inexorable reality
she'd had ever since Saturday, except for that brief empty time last night, when she'd put the entire matter
in other people's hands and they'd finally quit asking questions. Well, it would be good practice to apply
for a job. Marsh and Goose had never given her a reason to look for a new job, though the salary wasn't
great and the benefits were iffy. Working there always had been pleasant.
      Had been. Operative words. Somewhere along the line, during the last couple of days, without quite
knowing it, she had reached a decision.
      "Name," she muttered to herself, reading it from the form. Benita Alvarez. Age. Not quite forty, but
so close as made no difference. Residence. Currently staying in a hotel, former residence . . . former
residence? Well, why not? Former residence, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Work experience. Sixteen, no,
seventeen years . . . no, say the first two didn't count. Lord, she'd started when Angelica was one, so it had
been sixteen years when Angelica graduated high school, and that had been a year ago last June. Counting
full time only, fifteen and a half years, clerk, bookkeeper, assistant manager, the Written Word. Reason
for leaving? Children now living away from home, desire to see another part of the country, have new
experiences. Health. Generally good.
     She worked her way down the page. Easy stuff. She lied a little on the education bit. No need to say
she'd left high school to get married, just two months before graduation. Odd to think of herself in this
strange city, finding herself a familiar ground. It had been Mami who had introduced Benita to Marsh and
Goose. "They are homosexual," she said. "Which means they will not trouble you at work. They are good
hearted, which means they will treat you well. . . .”
     "Alberto treats me well, Mami.”
     "Alberto treats you like a servant when he is not drunk, Benita. When he is drunk he treats you like a
slave. Now he treats the children like pet dogs. When they grow up a little, he will treat them like dogs
who are not pets. In time, you will know that. But if you work for Walter Marsh and Rene Legusier, you
will have some security.”
     Stung by this, Benita had cried, "Would you rather Carlos had not been born? Rather Angelica had
not been born?"
     "No. Dios siempre bate bendiciones con dolor!” God always mixes blessings with pain. "Your
brothers have moved far away, and we see them seldom. You are my only blessing who is with me, and I
will not let my blessing be destroyed!"
     It had seemed to Benita that Mami had been in a dreadful hurry to be sure Benita could manage. The
reason was clear all too soon. Mami knew she had cancer, though she hadn't told any of the family. She
ended up having several surgeries and chemo, but two years later she was gone. The farm where the
family had grown up was hers, inherited from her people, and she left it to Benita and her two brothers.
The boys didn't want to keep it. Benita had no money to buy it from them, so it was sold and she and Bert
had gone on living with Bert's mother on Benita's money, which had lasted a few years. Papa had a trailer
out at the salvage yard, and Benita always thought he'd moved in there with a sense of relief. Mami had
been the campes-ino in the family. Papa had never been that interested in farming, and needless to say,
neither was Bert.
     "Finished?" the quizzical person asked from the doorway, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, the ink
smear on his jaw longer and darker than before.
     "You have ink on your face," she said. "You've been running your fingers around on your cheek.”
     "Damn," he said, peering at himself in a glass-fronted cupboard. “I always do that. I'm writing
something, and next thing I know I'm tap-tapping on my face. They called me Inky in school. Or worse.”
     "You buy the wrong pens," she told him. "The kind I buy do not leak.”
     He sat down and gathered up the application. "Urn. Um. Um, well, um. Fifteen years? Really?"
     "Really.” She smiled ruefully. "While my children were at home. Now they're off to school and lives
of their own.”
     "Who have you dealt with at Bantam?" he asked.
     She gave him a name. He mentioned several more publishing houses, and she gave him names for
each.
     "You're real.” He sighed. "Halleluja. Now, this is the deal. We have this store. We have branches in
Georgetown, Alexandria, and Annapolis with a modest Web-market operation. We're not Amazon-dot-
com, but then we're showing a profit. I need someone who can take over. How about thirty thousand to
start, ninety-day trial, and we'll talk about a long-term arrangement then?"
     She was shocked into silence. She made twenty at the Written Word. Ten dollars an hour, after all
those years. Of course, New Mexico salaries were lower than the average. And this was a lot bigger job.
     He said hopefully. "I'm desperate for someone really good. You’ll start as assistant manager. We
need somebody like you, we really do. Someone well educated, personable, capable . . .”
     She almost blurted out the truth, but managed to keep her mouth shut. She had continued her
education. Never mind if it hadn't been inside ivy-covered walls, she'd done it.
     "I'll let you know tomorrow," she murmured, collecting her purse. "I'll drop in tomorrow morning.”
     "Were you coming in to buy something?" he asked. "When I saw you outside?"
     He took her by the hand, casually, and drew her out into the stacks where he helped her pick half a
dozen books, a gift, he said.
     "By the way," he murmured as he let her out, "my name is Simon DeGreco. My card is here, in the
top book, and I'll be here all day tomorrow.”
     She turned toward him and removed the dark glasses. "If you check my references, please don't tell
either of my bosses where I'd be working. I've left a ... difficult situation, and I don't want it to come
looking for me.” She looked straight at him.
     His eyes fixed on the swollen eye, now turning shades of chartreuse and pale violet. "I'll be discreet,"
he said, crossing his heart, not making a big thing out of it. She decided she liked him.
     She got back to the hotel at six, and called Angelica from her room before she even put the books
down.
     "Sweetie, can you settle down and talk for a few minutes?"
     "I'm on my way out, Mom.”
     "I need to talk to you, Angelica. Really. Right now. And I'm not where you can call me back.”
     Long pause. "Give me ten minutes, Mom. Then call back. I'll let my ride go on without me and
arrange to meet them later.”
     She hung up and sat on the bed, swinging her feet, staring out the window at nothing. She'd never
lived in a city, not really. Though the farm was gone, the house Bert had inherited was more semi-rural
than suburban, and the city wasn't high density, even in its core. The Washington area was huge, with lots
of crime and race problems and poverty. But one could work in Washington and live wherever one
wanted. Out in Virginia, or in Maryland, or in Georgetown. Too expensive, probably.
     She glanced at her watch. Five minutes more. She and Angelica talked at least once a week, though it
had been two weeks this time. Angelica wasn't telling her something. She had that feeling the last half
dozen times they'd talked. She glanced at her watch again and dialed. She had decided not to mention
aliens. Angelica was not very imaginative, she was really more pragmatic and aliens might set her off in
the wrong direction. Make it a small inheritance. That was no less unlikely, but it was more believable.
     At the end of five minutes, Angelica asked plaintively, "Mom, who was the cousin who left you the
money?"
     "You never knew her, dear. She was a very old lady, and I hadn't seen her in years. She was fond of
my mother. And the money doesn't amount to much, but it's enough for me to get away from . . well, you
know what from. What I really want to know is will you and Carlos . . . will you be hurt if I do this?"
     "Mom, I can't speak for Carlos. Last year, I didn't see that much of him. He roomed with those three
other guys, and I was in the dorm, and it wasn't like we were really staying in touch. This year . . . I have a
confession to make. I told you he thought we should share an apartment to save money . . .”
     "I told you, Angel . . .”
     ". . . you told me not to, but he talked me into it . . .”
     "Oh, Angel! Did you? When?"
     "Since June.”
     "You didn't tell me! You'll . . . you'll regret it, dear.” She thought of those black, black moods that
Carlos had, moods that should be transitory, but in his case were nurtured and fed and coddled until they
became a black fog that stretched out interminably until everything around him was ashen and cold.
     Angelica laughed, without humor. "It's all right, Mom. You can say you told me so. You were right.
It's not working. I'm paying all the bills and doing all the work, and Carlos is just bunking here when he
feels like it. He has also instructed me to tell people he is nineteen, not twenty-one, because he's older
than most sophomores and it embarrasses him. That idea came from his new girlfriend who is also a little
older than most of us. She also tells him he wears the wrong clothes 'to impress people,' that he should
have plastic surgery on his nose, and that she can help him with his career as an artist.
      "Formidable," said Benita, wanting to laugh and cry, all at the same time.
      "Well, you get the idea why I can't speak for him. Speaking just for me, however, if you get out of
there, I'll hire a mariachi band and dance a samba in the street for celebration!"
      "You don't mind?"
      "What I mind was that Dad was Carlos's role model. Totally self-centered and using you to let him be
that way. You remember when we were in high school, Carlos was only one year ahead of me because he
was held back in eighth grade? So, we knew the same people, and I heard what he was doing, just what
Dad did: sneaking out at night, getting drunk, crashing with his drinking friends so you wouldn't know. I
blackmailed him into going to Ala-Teen, and I went with him. They taught us about drunks having
enablers. Carlos figured right away it was all your fault Dad drank, and therefore all your fault that Carlos
himself drank. I told him you were an enabler, all right. You enabled us to eat and have a roof over our
heads, and if he ever said any such thing to me again, I'd tell you how he felt, and then maybe you and I
would just leave him and Dad on their own to enable each other!"
      Benita was for the moment speechless. "Angel. I didn't know! I didn't know any of that.”
      "Well, of course not. You had enough to worry about. I told Carlos when he was ready to leave
home, he could do what he pleased, but for then he had to shut up and behave or I would definitely talk
you into going with me and leaving the two of them on their own. He knew where the groceries came
from, and he did settle down and cut out the worst of the stuff.
      "Anyhow, he's grown up now. He'll be twenty-two. Whatever he thinks, it's time you stopped
enabling other people so you can enable yourself.”
      "It's going to be a little complicated. Your father has mortgaged the house, and the bank is going to
foreclose. He'll expect me to step in and stop it, and when he knows I'm not going to do it, he's going to
get belligerent. It'll be easier for everyone if you just don't know where I am.”
      "Are you going to get a divorce?" her daughter asked.
      "I don't know. I'm not even thinking about that now.”
      "I say go for it. If you want to tell Carlos, I'll ask him to stick around here tomorrow night. Call
around eight, our time. Okay?"
      Eight their time would be eleven where she was, but she didn't mention that. All she could think of
was what Angelica had gone through. And she'd been only a child!
      She threw herself down on the bed, sprawled every which-a-way like cooked spaghetti, muscles
letting go all at once, mind switching from Angelica to the bookstore, back to General Wallace, and then
to the creature that had called itself an athyco. Whatever did they really look like? And how could they
have gone out of her mind even for a moment? So strange, so wonderful, yet hard to think about. Well,
strangeness was hard to think about. Wonder grazes you like a bullet, it zips by and is gone, and all you
really perceive is the zing as it goes past, or maybe the pain if it comes too close. It does no good to
search for whatever it was, for it never lodges anywhere you can get a good look at it. The truly strange
has no hooks of familiarity that one can catch hold of.
      It had happened, though. It wasn't a dream. She really had met weird aliens, Chiddy and Vess, who
had done her a good turn, who had to have done it, because it was the only way she could explain how
well she'd been doing. She hadn't cried once. She hadn't lain awake, worried over what she might have
done or said wrong. She hadn't been concerned about running back home because it was her duty.
Somehow, it seemed, Chiddy and Vess had unquirked her.
Senator Byron Morse—TUESDAY
      Senator Byron Morse, R-New Mexico, edged his just-waxed black Lexus into the too-narrow space
Lupe had left him beside her red convertible, cursing mildly under his breath. Squeezing out of the car, he
tugged his suit coat into alignment, picked up his briefcase, gently kneed the door shut and went through
into the back hall, which throbbed at him.
      Lupe was definitely home. The house boomed distantly, mute to melody but attentive to the beat.
Wherever Lupe was, basses thumped, brasses blared, drums roared and rhythm filled the silence. Which
was okay with the senator. He'd married her for her sociability, her elegance, her sleek body and fantastic
hair. She made him look good, and since he'd soundproofed his den, he didn't have to listen to the racket.
      She saw him coming up the stairs. "Hi, By," she called, feet moving in time to the music, hips
swaying. "Home early!"
      He dropped the jacket over the banister and made a twisting motion with his fingers.
      "Oh, hey, fine. Just a minute!" And she was off down the hall, doing an exhibition number. The
woman was jointless as a snake, and the sight warmed him, though only slightly. He couldn't afford the
time at the moment, and quickies only made Lupe resentful.
      The music softened, the beat relented, she came back, walking. "Janet, she call you.”
      He stopped in his bedroom door. "Janet? What in hell did she want?"
      "I don know, By. I din ask . . .”
      "Cut the El Paso accent, Loop.”
      "Oh, sorry. I was hearing the Spanish station. It's catching.”
      "I can't read your mind, Lupe. Am I supposed to call her?"
      "God! You're uptight as cheap jeans! Yes, Mr. Senator. She wants you to call her. She says tell you
it's about Timothy.”
      "And where does she want me to call her? Is she home?"
      "The number's by the phone in your bedroom. She says try there, if you don't get her, try her at
home.” Lupe drew herself up. "And I won’t bother you any more till you get these little details taken care
of. Then maybe we can say hello, and did you have a good day, and stuff like that.”
      She was off again, back down the hallway to what she called her nido. Her nest. Gaudy pillows and
painted furniture, and scented candles for God's sake, everything ablaze with color. When they went out,
she was always dressed in perfect taste, her accent patrician, her manners impeccable, but her private life
was carnival in Rio! He hadn't known of her private preferences until after they were married. He'd never
been to her place. Too many eyes in Washington. Too many secretaries keeping track. Luckily the house
was large enough she could have the two-rooms-and-bath at the end of the upstairs hall and they could
lock the hall door when they entertained. He'd thought the pre-nup was comprehensive, but who would
have thought of specifying tasteful home furnishings?
      He tossed the jacket on the foot of his bed, one he'd bought years ago at an antique auction: solid
cherry, barely ornamented, built to last. The framed mirror above the matching bureau returned his
approved picture of himself: tall, patrician, dignified and solid. His eyes were chilly gray, as was the hint
of beard showing along the jawline. Age had its rewards. Now that he was graying, his beard didn't turn
his face gangster blue by mid-afternoon, the way it used to.
      That had been one of Janet's favorite comments when she'd had one too many. "I may look like a
sack of shit, Byron, but by God, you look and act like a gangster.” Of course, with Janet, even one drink
was one too many.
      At fifty pounds overweight with a face like a damp cruller, Janet had had no room to talk. Besides,
she was gauche as a pig in a penthouse, and too damned often pregnant. Some women were said to look
radiant when pregnant, but Janet hadn't been one of them. To be honest, he had never seen a pregnant
woman who did. Not his wife or anybody else's wife! To use Janet's phrase, pregnant women looked like
a sack of shit. Even if the process went "normally," which in Janet's case it never had, it was still
revolting. In his mother's day, people still observed a period of "confinement," and that's the way
pregnancy ought to be handled in By's opinion. Confined. Somewhere else.
      The phone rang eight times before she answered. "By?"
      "Yes, Janet. What's the problem?" He knew his voice was cold, but it had to be. Let her get anywhere
near him and she'd start shedding tiny dead flakes of herself all over him, like emotional dandruff.
      "Oh, By, don't sound like that.”
      He held the phone away from his ear, waiting for the whine to run down. Make me happy. Make me
mean something. Make me satisfied. He'd married her because she came from a well-known political
family and he needed the support. He got the support, but he'd paid a high price for it. During all but the
first two years they'd been married, Janet had been neither enjoyable at home nor fit to be seen in public.
He'd ended up staying away from home, going stag too many times, making passes he shouldn't have
made, a definite error in judgment. Luckily, the press hadn't picked up on any of it. Back then, people's
personal lives had been off limits to the media. He'd been damned lucky. The only dangerous lapse had
happened here in Washington, before he'd run for the senate. Mouthy bitch! It took two years to wear that
story out. Now, of course, the shoe was on the other foot. That same mouthy bitch would deeply regret
her remarks by the time he was through with her.
      The gnat-voice faded. He put the receiver back to his ear.
      "Janet, if you have something to tell me, do it.”
      "Timothy. He's in the hospital.”
      His breath caught, but he forced his voice to remain calm. "What's the matter with him?"
      "He broke his leg. Poor baby, those skates are just murderous, murderous, I don't know why they all
think they have to have those terrible skates . . .”
      "How bad is the break?"
      "He's in a cast!"
      "How bad is the break?!"
      "He's . . . he's coming home tomorrow.”
      "He's not in traction or on antibiotics?"
      Another sob. "No.”
      "Then there's probably nothing to worry about. I'll FedEx him a get-well card and call him once he's
home. Okay?" He started to hang up, then said quickly, "What's his doctor's name? And what hospital?"
      She told him and he wrote it down. Timothy wasn't a poor baby. He was sixteen, born the second
year of his first senate term. Steven had been born a year earlier. Before that there had been miscarriages,
one after another, year after year. Janet had wanted to quit trying, but By disliked failure. One of the two
things he'd wanted out of marriage was a son. He'd sent Janet to clinics and paid for her doctors, by the
dozen. She, of course, said it could be his fault, which was ridiculous, as it had proved to be in the end.
He had succeeded, just as he always did. Two boys in a little over a year. An heir and a spare, wasn't that
what the nobility said?
      After Tim's birth, Janet no longer had any excuse for her appearance, and he'd given her the
ultimatum. Lose fifty pounds, change her hairstyle, take a course in public speaking, and learn how to
dress. She'd gaped at him like a halfwit, thirty-three to his thirty-seven, and looking fifty. All she could do
was whine about his using her as a brood mare, not caring anything about her as a person. He'd said fine,
he didn't care about her as a person, but he was willing to take care of the brood mare and the colts.
      He gave her very generous terms and no battle over custody. So long as the boys were children, let
her deal with measles and chicken pox and ear infections and schoolwork. He intended to found a
dynasty, but he'd do his part later on, when the time came for the right schools and meeting the right
people. He wanted no gossip, no imputations of being unfair. Out and out feminists would never vote for
him anyhow, but he sure as hell wasn't going to lose the sympathy of conservative women by mistreating
his ex-wife. A lot of them lived on alimony, too.
      Janet's lawyer had suggested she take the offer and not make waves. By had given her no cause for a
counter-suit, except for that one semipublic embarrassment, he had been careful and extremely discreet.
After the divorce, he'd stayed discreet, but when he began thinking about the presidency, his advisors said
a Hispanic wife might draw the voters. He had just the girl in mind: Guadalupe Roybal, descendent of
first settlers of New Mexico, someone to help him court the state's La-Raza-proud Hispanics right along
with its Anglo aristocracy. She had flawless light olive skin and a wealth of curly brown hair, she spoke
fluent Southwest Spanish, and usually unaccented English.
      Moreover, she knew what was expected of her. Being married to Janet had taught him an invaluable
lesson: finding a wife was just like filling any other staff position, it required a detailed job description.
There would be no children. Since he was twenty-five years older than she, she balked at a tubal, but said
she would "handle the matter herself.” Within her generous allowance she was to stay healthy, elegant
and well dressed. She was to bone up on Hispanic issues, use the name Roybal-Morse, stay out of any
situation that could look even faintly compromising, and stick with him at public functions, keeping him
out of any hint of trouble with the female kind. It was all agreed to, written down, signed and witnessed.
      His part of the agreement committed him to treating her with unfailing courtesy and deference
whenever they were in the public eye. He'd picked this up from a Southern senator so long in office he'd
grown moss. "Whoop 'em in the bedroom, By," the white-haired old lecher had confided, "but treat 'em
like queens where the world can see. They'll forgive you the one out of gratitude for the other.”
      Also, for every year of service, Lupe got a generous payment deposited into an account in the
Cayman Islands. If she lasted ten years, she'd have well over a million, but she had to stay until he said
leave in order to collect. Which could be during or after his second term in the White House. Fulfillment
of that ambition would begin when he utterly destroyed the incumbent as well as the reputations of the
incumbent's family, friends, and acquaintances! He smiled secretly to himself, relishing the battle plan.
      "Trouble, By?" Lupe said in the open doorway, two drinks in her hands. She held one of them out to
him.
      He shook his head as he took it. "Tempest in a teakettle, like always. Any little thing, she comes
unglued.”
      "Was Tim hurt?" Lupe liked Tim, despite his brave attempts to hate her on his mother's behalf. Poor
kid. He didn't get much fun at home. Lupe believed in fun. When By was too busy to enjoy it, she had fun
elsewhere, though carefully. There was always fun available.
      "Broken leg, not serious. Is there something in the gift closet?" Lupe kept gifts and cards on hand for
all conceivable occasions. Whenever Byron needed to mark an occasion, she had something suitable. She
made a virtue out of shopping.
      "Oh, lemme think. I bought two new computer games last week.
      He can have fun with those, sitting down. And a book on astronomy.”
      "Astronomy?"
      "He was reading articles on it, last time he was here. It's written for nonscientists, but it isn't
childish.”
      "I'll sign the book tonight. Send the stuff FedEx, okay?"
      "Sure thing. Tomorrow morning.”
     He grunted assent. "I expected a call.”
     "A man did call. 'Mr. Jones'. He said you wanted to see him this evening before dinner, and he'll be
here in half an hour. I told Cally to hold dinner until eight.”
     "Fine.” He gulped at the drink, feeling the taste all the way down.
     "Cally put some tapas out in the den, and unless you need something else, I'm going down to
Edwina's until about seven-thirty.”
     He nodded, not bothering to respond, merely registering that she was going down the stairs and out.
He heard her car leaving the driveway. Just for the hell of it, he wandered back to her nido and picked up
the daily diary by her phone. Tuesday, noon. Lunch with DeeDee Mclntyre, shopping. Five pm—cocktails
with Edwina Taylor-Lopez, re the Hispanic Caucus. Very nice. She was absent, her absence was
documented, leaving her blameless. She knew Mr. Jones had called, and that's all. When she returned
home, her husband would be alone. Their relationship depended, he thought, in large part on what he did
not tell her. He would have been surprised to learn that Lupe thought it depended as much on the things
she didn't tell him.
     He heard the door chimes and Cally's voice in the hall. When he arrived at the door of the den, the
two of them were at the bar cabinet and ice was clinking into glasses while very expensive single malt
was poured over them. They had ignored the good but much less pricey stuff Lupe had put at the front of
the cabinet.
     "Senator," said the larger man: "Dink" Dinklemier, all six foot five, two hundred thirty or forty odd
pounds of him, ex-college football star, ex-mercenary, smarter than he looked and a current employee of
the Select Committee on Intelligence that Morse chaired.
     "Good to see you, Byron," murmured the other man, removing his coat and seating himself. He was
Prentice Arthur, slightly graying, dignified as a deacon, ex-CIA, ex-security advisor, currently serving as
the senator's hook and line to certain unnamed fish in the Pentagon. With the money that flowed over
there, there was habitat for lots of fish, everything from sharks to bottom feeders, each of them useful in
his own way.
     "Dink. Arthur.” The senator seated himself, putting his half-finished drink on the table beside him. "I
hope you've got some news for me.”
     "Well," the larger man split a grin, one side of his mouth expressing amusement while the other half
looked on, uninvolved, "I've got good news and other news.”
     Morse regarded him narrowly, disliking this jovial approach to what was very serious business. "Very
well, let's have the good news. They'll support me?"
     "Some considerable support will come your way.” Dink sprawled into a chair, which creaked beneath
his weight.
     Arthur murmured, "Quid pro quo, of course. I've got a list of suggested items here. They'd like you to
sneak as many of these through as you can.” He took a sheet of plain paper from his billfold, unfolded it
and passed it across the senator's desk. No heading. No names. Just a list of clauses and short, innocuous-
seeming paragraphs that might be added to various bills.
     The senator frowned. "It'll have to be late-night votes for most of these, but I should be able to
manage a good bit of it. Nice of them to put it all in proper form.”
     "Saves time, is all," grunted Arthur. "Our friends seem to want things loosened up a little at the INS,
the DEA, the ATF.”
     "That's pretty much what I expected.”
     "They'll be grateful," said Dink.
     The large man had risen and was moving around nervously. The senator ignored it, recognizing the
restlessness as habitual. He asked, "How grateful will they be, Dink?"
     Dink turned, grinning his half grin. "Oh, as much as you need, Senator. Like mega-millions. And
then, as much more, if needed.”
     The senator licked his lips. "How do they get it to me?"
     Arthur gave him a stern look, wagging a finger in admonition. "Soft money, Senator. It goes around
you. Some into Lupe's overseas account. Some to your ex-wife. Some for this, some for that. It never
touches you. Just like with the pro-life money. You vote your convictions about the gross immorality of
the drug trade just like you vote your convictions about the gross immorality of abortion. Your good
friends and supporters from south of the border don't want to see the drug legalization balloon rise any
higher than their ankles.”
     The senator sat down, relaxing. He hadn't known he was tensed up until this minute. Now, everything
was letting loose.
     He grinned. "Be sure to extend my good wishes.” Arthur smiled. "Oh, they know that, Senator. Our
amigos know you wish nothing for them but good, all the way to the bank.”
     "And what's the other news?"
     "Something General McVane picked up. It came over from the Air Defense Command. Just a
weirdness, but in the light of your committee, we thought . . .”
     "Weirdness or not, what?"
     "Air Defense has picked up some oddities they can't explain. Seemingly incoming somethings or
other, not the profile one would expect from missiles, certainly no launch data, but things.”
     "Satellites," said Morse, dismissively.
     "No. Not satellites. Not space junk. Not decayed orbits ending with stuff burning up. These are
flights, they change course, they go from A to B to X.”
     "So? What do the eggheads say?"
     Arthur shrugged. "Something some other country came up with that we don't know about. Something
some branch of our own government came up with that we don't know about. UFOs.”
     Morse glowered, staring at his clenched hands, thinking. "Where's X?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "The X they go to, end up at, where is it?"
     "No one place, Senator. East Coast. Florida. New Mexico-Texas area, Oregon.”
     "Is there any way we can find out more?"
     "Believe me, both the NASA guys and the Air Command are giving it their best shot. They'd vastly
prefer not being asked about it until they can explain it.”
     Morse almost wished they hadn't told him about it until they could explain it. He'd been helping cut
allocations to NASA every chance he got, a calculated risk, and he didn't like the idea that something
inimical might show up, something that could have been prevented except for the cuts. "You sure
McVane gave you everything he knew?"
     Dink frowned. "In this case, I think yes. He's pretty firmly in our side pocket, Senator, and he's safe.
No political ambitions, just big military ones.”
     "Do we have people on the ground looking for . . . well, what? Space landings?"
     "The FBI's been alerted. They haven't come up with anything. Oh, a mass disappearance in Oregon,
but that's probably a kidnapping by eco-terrorists.”
     "Mass disappearance?"
     "Eleven men, loggers.”
     Dink offered, "It could be part of a general eco-terrorism campaign. Three guys in Florida were done
in, too.”
     "Loggers?'
     "No. They were draining wetlands.”
     "Well, keep me informed," the senator grunted, his euphoria only slightly dimmed by this niggle.
     "Anything else we can do for you?" asked Dink.
     Morse leaned back, tenting his fingers. "You could be helpful.”
     "Always glad to be of service.”
     "I've got a pro-life bill coming up. It could be delayed, but my best guess is two weeks from now.
The usual people will be arguing, nobody will be listening, but I had this flash. I've been getting flak from
some of the neanderthals. They've had too many of their sharpshooters and bombers arrested lately, and
they're scared to use force but hungry to go on the offense. It occurred to me some of my liberal
opponents might be vulnerable on the issue if they've personally used abortion services.”
     Dink frowned. "I don't understand? If they've used services?"
     "I'm thinking, maybe some of them have had someone close to them who had an abortion. I'm not
going to take up floor time in the Senate with it, you make too many enemies that way. But, if I had
something concrete, I could do a C-SPAN bit, challenging one or more of them. The tape would make
good campaign stuff in a few soft areas. Would there be any way to get hold of those records?"
     Dink stared at the ceiling. "We'd need names.”
     "You know who they are, Dink. And we can go back over twenty years on some of them.”
     Arthur spoke up, "No, Senator. You misunderstand him. We'd need the names of the women.”
     Morse was taken aback. "I was thinking wives. Maybe daughters?"
     The two men shared a look, then Arthur shook his head. "It wouldn't look good, Senator. Attacking a
fellow legislator for a medical decision made in the family would not go down well. No matter how
people say they feel about abortion when they answer a public poll, they want private stuff kept private.
People don't like interference with privacy issues. Remember that impeachment fiasco? All we did was
make people mad at us. Remember what happened in 2000? The issue is loaded, By. I wouldn't go there.”
     The senator's lips curved in a tiny, icy smile. "Suppose you dig up some names for me, and I'll decide
what risks to take.”
     "We'll look around," said Arthur, after a pause and with a significant glance at his colleague. "We'll
see what we can find.”
     They talked about sports while they finished their drinks. The senator didn't offer refills. He walked
his two guests to the door, shutting it firmly behind them.
     As they walked to their car, Dink remarked, "He didn't ask many questions about the blips.”
     "What could he ask? What do we know? There's something flying around out there we don't
recognize, or it's sunspots, or it's interference, or it's UFOs. The only reason we told him was to prevent
his hearing about it from someone else.”
     "This clinic idea of his, I wish he'd keep his eye on the ball.”
     Arthur shrugged. "Give him credit, Dink. He knows money alone won't elect him, and he knows
where every voter in his state is and what turns them on. In this case, however, the down-side is bigger
than the up-side, so we just have to manage him.”
     "Manage him how?"
     "Well, I'll rattle the walls very gently to see if any worms crawl out of the woodwork. Then, if Morse
reminds me about those names he wants, I'll can tell him we're working on it, but so far we haven't come
up with any names except Lupe's.”
    Dink's jaw dropped. "Do you know that?"
    "Let's say I suspect it. I won't say it unless I have to.”
    "God, Prentice!"
    "Forget I ever said it.”
    "Said what?"

Benita—WEDNESDAY
       On Wednesday morning, Benita called the bookstore and asked to speak to Simon. "Benita Alvarez,"
she said. "I'd like to come in and talk to you about the job.”
       "You think yes?"
       "I think probably, though I'd like to talk details.”
       "Come in anytime.”
       She hung up and heaved a deep breath. She had been prepared for him to say he hadn't really meant
it, it was all some kind of misunderstanding. Or he might have said he'd thought better of it since. Though,
why would he? She was good at her job, she'd just never considered cashing in on it before. Cashing in
had come way down the list after children and groceries and the gas bill.
       Well. There were still details, like living, moving around, getting from here to there. And getting
Sasquatch shipped. She'd paid the kennel for two weeks in advance, cash, and she'd used a phony name in
order not to create a trail. She wanted to disappear from New Mexico, leaving no clues. And no doubt Mr.
DeGreco could tell her where to look for an apartment. A furnished apartment.
       Her ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing, and she answered, "Yes," wondering what the
hell, no one knew she was there, except, as it turned out, someone who introduced himself as Chad Riley,
who was with the FBI and who had been detailed to assist her for the next several days.
       "The envoys, that's what we're calling them ma'am, tell us they'd very much appreciate meeting with
you again. So far, except for you, all the people they've met are men, and they feel women may have a
viewpoint that ... we ... ah, males may not have.”
       She took a deep breath. "I'm busy this morning, Mr. Riley. How about later today?"
       "Actually, we thought this evening. We're planning a kind of dinner meeting. They assure us they can
eat our food.”
       "The president?"
       "No, he's making a speech tonight, one he couldn't get out of, but his wife is coming.”
       "And they really want me? Not somebody like . . . oh, Gloria Steinem or Betty Friedan or ... ?"
       "They want you.”
       ". . . Alice Walker?" she suggested desperately. She didn't want to be part of this. Surely her part of
this was over now!
       "You.”
       "All right.” She sighed. "Will you send somebody for me?"
       "We'll pick you up at your hotel, at seven.”
       She was not a feminist. Why would they want her to give the female point of view? God, if she'd
been a feminist, she'd have killed Bert long ago. She'd have run off with the children, gone somewhere
else, or at least asked Goose for a raise.
       Goose. How was she going to tell Goose? If she gave notice now, that would be almost four weeks,
and that was enough. Maybe she'd say she received a job offer on the West Coast, and she'd decided to
move to be nearer the children.
      By nine-thirty, she was at the bookstore door. Five minutes later she was ensconced in Simon's
office, coffee poured, danish provided, discussing where she might live in Washington.
      "Actually," he said, looking at the ceiling and scratching his neck idly, "there's an empty apartment
upstairs. It's rather rundown, but it's large. At one time, it was loft space, an artist's studio. When we
bought the building we thought the artist would stay. He, however, decided to pass his declining years in
Mexico. Or maybe it was Honduras. Somewhere vivid and warm. At any rate, he left a couple of years
ago, and we've been unable to find a tenant who is ... acceptable to us.”
      "Meaning?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
      "Meaning clean, sober, and responsible," he said, giving her look for look. "We'd like someone to
live in it, because it helps building security. If the alarm goes off, you hear it, you call the police. I'm not
saying the alarm will go off, it never has yet, but one never knows. People don't seem to rob bookstores
much, more's the pity for them.”
      "Could I see it?" she asked, doubtfully.
      "Yes, right now.”
      The corridor outside his office ended at an exterior door, and they stepped out into the staff parking
lot, with labeled parking slots along two sides.
      "The other lot's for customers," he said. "It's closer to the front door.”
      They walked along the building toward the side street, past two cars parked against the building to a
door with a three-step concrete stoop. One of Simon's office windows, the door they'd come out of, the
door they faced, and two little windows stacked above it were the only openings in three stories of solid
brick, a taller red half to the left, a shorter yellow half to the right. Simon unlocked the metal door,
displaying a square hallway with an elevator to the right.
      "That leads into the stockroom," said Simon, indicating a door to the left. "We use the elevator to
carry dolly loads of books to the second floor. The doors to the stockroom and the parking lot are always
locked, but you'd have keys.”
      Simon heaved the folding grille aside and they stepped into the elevator, waiting while the grille
latched lethargically, with loud complaint. Simon pushed button three and the cage creaked upward,
moaning.
      "It likes to pretend it's on its last legs, but it's actually completely safe. It gets inspected every year.”
      The grille let them see the second-floor landing, with its small window and single door, and then the
third floor, identical. The window only pretended to light the space, and Benita thought it unlikely anyone
ever washed it, certainly not from outside.
      They went through the door opposite the elevator onto the top landing of an enclosed stairs
descending along the outside wall.
      "Fire-stairs," said Simon. "They come out behind the rest rooms on the second floor and go on down
into the stockroom, where there's an emergency exit to the street.”
      The door to the right opened on a room about forty by fifty-five or sixty, smelling of hot dust, with
tall, dirty windows extending almost corner to corner over the side street. Four steel columns supported an
I beam and a high, ornamental tin ceiling hung with cobwebs.
      A U-shaped kitchen took up the corner nearest the elevator, and ended at the line of columns. Next to
it was an enclosed room about the same size.
      "The bathroom," said Simon. "The artist who lived here put some screens and free-standing cabinets
between the columns and used the area behind them as his bedroom. He also had some good-looking
drapes all along that front wall, but he took everything interesting with him. The blinds are still here, and
they're fairly new.”
      Fairly new and supposed to be white, as were the walls. The blinds would wash, but the walls were
unlikely to come clean. There was plenty of room, but no closet, anywhere. A couch and chair stood near
the front windows, protected by plastic sheeting. A sheet covered box-spring and mattress along with a
stepladder and a bed-frame, in parts, stood against the back wall under a row of metal, wireglass
windows, their bottom edges about five feet from the floor. Benita pulled the ladder out and climbed up a
couple of steps to look through the windows. The bottom of the windows were barely above the flat roof
of the adjacent building.
      The place certainly looked break-in proof! But talk about bleak!
      "There's a lot of room here," she said without enthusiasm.
      He looked worried. "About twenty-three hundred square feet.”
      "The bookstore looks longer than this.”
      He nodded. "This is the third floor of half the bookstore. Maybe you noticed from the parking lot?
The store is actually two buildings, side by side, built at different times. We started with the one next door
and bought this one when it became available. This building has higher ceilings, so the floors don't line
up. The ground floor is eighteen inches higher, the second floor is three feet. We only joined the first two
floors. The third floor of the other building isn't connected to this one at all. The only access to that space
is by stairs from the street.”
      "Is it rented?"
      "Not at the moment, no. If all goes well, eventually we'll probably use all of it, and this space, too,
but that's no time soon.”
      She moved out into the middle of the room and turned around, staring at the walls. "How much
would you charge for this, and what would you do by way of cleaning it up?"
      "Well, any tenant would need a closet, so we'd build one, and we'd paint the place and have the
kitchen appliances checked. We'd have it professionally cleaned, windows and all. It's nowhere near fully
furnished, so I'll knock a hundred a month off what I was going to ask. Say, four hundred dollars a month,
and that includes all utilities. There'd be no way to separate out heat and water and electricity for this
floor, anyhow.”
      Almost five thousand a year. Out of thirty thousand. A seventh. Not more than she should pay for
living space, according to all the budgeting books she'd read. And here, by herself, presumably she would
be able to keep all her own paycheck. She wouldn't need a car to get to work. Chances were, she wouldn't
need one at all. That would be a savings!
      "You'll have air-conditioning," he said, enticingly. "You'll use our Dumpster down in the alley for
your trash, and there's a garbage disposal in the kitchen sink.”
      She wandered into the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards, then went into the bathroom. No
frills. White-tiled walls, tub and shower, vanity, toilet, plus a two-foot-by-three-foot corner space with
nothing in it where one would expect a linen closet. She returned to the main room, separating the slats of
the blinds to look down on the traffic. Not much. The side street was quiet, though cars went by regularly
down at the corner. The building across the street was only two stories high, and she could look across its
roof to a golden dome. "Is that the Capitol?"
      "We're only a few blocks from the Mall," he said, lifting the shade to peer in the same direction. "I'd
forgotten you can see the Capitol from here. I haven't actually been up here in two years.”
      "Dog," she said, almost desperately, waiting for the knife to fall. Surely it couldn't all be right, just
like this, right off the bat? Surely it couldn't be possible. If it had been possible, someone would have
done it, right? "I have a dog.”
      "Sure, bring the dog. You'll be even safer with a dog. I hope it's a big one. What's his name?"
      "Sasquatch. He's a kind of Briard mix. Black and brown, with medium long hair that hangs over his
eyes, with a big, deep bark.”
      "Sounds good.”
      "He's used to a yard, but ...”
      "Actually, you can let him run on the roofs. They're different levels, but they're connected by stairs,
and there's even a kind of arbor up there that the artist put in. They're both flat gravel roofs with a parapet
around the edges, and the elevator goes up there because that's where the air conditioners are. You'd have
to poop scoop, of course, but . . .”
      "May I see?"
      They went up to look at the roof, as described, flat except for occasional vent pipes and the housing
for the elevator and air-conditioning equipment. Between the housing for the air conditioner and the
stacks from the kitchen and bathroom was the "arbor" Simon had spoken of, a rustic pergola at the top of
wooden steps leading to the lower roof, with a huge pot at one side.
      "The guy had vines planted in the pot. Some kind of ivy, I think. There's a condensation pan to one
side of the air conditioner, and he siphoned water from the pan into the pot, and the vines grew up over
the top for shade. Nobody kept the tubes clean after he left, so they stopped up and the vines died. He had
patio furniture up here, too. With an umbrella.”
      In size, the roof was the equivalent of a small yard, which was all Sasquatch had at home.
      "If you'll build a closet back in that far corner and pay to install a washer-dryer, I'll take it," she said.
"If it isn't dependent upon my working for you.”
      He frowned. "Are you thinking of working for someone else?"
      She shook her head. "No. But if you decide I'm not good enough, I don't want to be out on the street.”
      "How about ninety days' notice from either party," he said. "Though I don't think we'll need to worry
about that.”
      She took a deep breath. "It seems almost fated, and I'd be a fool not to jump at it.”
      "Where do you want the washer-dryer?"
      "Put it in the space at the end of the bathroom. One of those stacked sets. They're a little over two feet
square, not big enough for a large load but okay for one person. You've already got a drain and the water
pipes right there.”
      "Do you have furniture you want to move in?"
      She started to tell him she wasn't going to move anything, then caught herself. Her arrangements
should remain her own business. The Albuquerque house was in foreclosure. The furniture was all old,
well worn. There was nothing there she cared about except a few little things that had belonged to Mami
and Abuelita.
      "Furniture?" he said again, softly.
      "Nothing else right now," she said in a firm, no nonsense voice. "I'll make do with what's here for the
time being. Later I can supplement.”
      "Fine. I'll call the carpenter, the painters and plumbers first, then the cleaning agency to come clean it
up when they're finished. You make a list of what you'll need. I can advance some salary if you need."
      "That's thoughtful of you, Simon, but I have money, thank you. A little . . . inheritance from an old
friend of my mother's.”
      She stayed upstairs, making a list: linens and towels, blankets and pillows, dishes, kitchen stuff. If she
made one stop at a kitchen store for little stuff and bought everything else out of a catalog, they'd deliver
it. Like from Pennys. Or Wards. It wouldn't be high style, but a sheet was a sheet and a mixing bowl was
a mixing bowl, for heaven's sake. Get the basics, worry about how it looked later on.
      Back in Simon's office, she borrowed his phone book, found the nearest catalog store and went there.
Two hours concentration and several thousand more of the ET money gone, she had ordered everything
she needed, plus some bookcases, on sale, minor assembly required, tall enough to make a partition
separating the bedroom area. With the shelves facing out, she could put sheetrock on the backs. It would
help the place look less empty as well as providing a little privacy.
     She bought lunch at a little side street restaurant, meantime glancing at a newspaper someone had left
in the booth.

                                    MASSACRE IN CENTRAL AFRICA
                                     TRIBAL CONFLICT RENEWED

                        RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR THREATENS U.N. WALKOUT
                              SERB WAR CRIME TRIAL IN JEOPARDY

                                  RENEWED VIOLENCE IN ISRAEL
                               PALESTINIANS VOW "NEW HOLOCAUST"

                           SENATOR URGES IMPEACHMENT OF PRESIDENT
                                 MORSE SAYS "UNFIT TO SERVE"

                          SCIENTISTS DETECT "DISAPPEARING" ASTEROIDS
                              OBJECTS VANISHED, SAY ASTRONOMERS

                        SAUDI WOMAN TO BE EXECUTED FOR DRIVING CAR
                           REBEL PRINCESS SENTENCED TO STONING

                                ELEVEN DISAPPEAR IN NORTH WOODS
                                LUMBERMEN ALLEGE ECO-TERRORISM

    It seemed the world was going on as usual. After lunch, she walked to the Smithsonian and spent two
hours seeing this and that, until her feet were too sore to walk any further. She took a cab back to the
hotel, had a hot bath and crawled into bed, feeling much more tired than the morning's activities
warranted. After a little nap, she'd get ready to meet the two aliens again. She wondered very much what
they would look like this time.

Benita—WEDNESDAY EVENING
     Benita was in the hotel lobby, her coat over her arm, when Mr. Chad Riley arrived and introduced
himself.
     "How did you know it was me?" she asked, surprised.
     "General Wallace gave me a description, ma'am. Let me help you with your coat.” He held it for her.
"The general's waiting in the car.”
     "You're very prompt," the general greeted her when she got into the seat beside him. On the other
side of a glass partition, Mr. Riley seated himself beside a driver, who evidently knew where they were
going. They slid away, the streets suddenly made of satin, either that or they were in a low-flying plane of
some kind. Not a bump or a ripple, like floating!
     "What kind of car is this?" she asked, enchanted.
     "A very, very expensive one," the general said with a grunt. "The kind they keep for visiting
dignitaries. No, don't tell me. You're not a dignitary.”
     "Well, I'm not!"
     "Anyone the envoys ask for is automatically a dignitary, otherwise I wouldn't be in on this.”
     "I guess I'm flattered. What are they looking like now?"
     "Who? The envoys?" He shook his head. "I've only seen them on that device. I wasn't there when
they met with the president. No one was but a couple of Secret Service men. He called a meeting of the
Cabinet plus a few other people right afterward, and he invited me to be there, to explain about the cube.
He says I have a reputation for outspoken veracity which will be badly needed. I guess I owe that to the
fact I never had to be elected to anything! Tell the truth and shame the devil, as my ma used to say.”
     "He explained about the cube? About me?"
     "He didn't use your name, neither did I, we just said a constituent brought it to a congressman, and
we've sworn your congressman to silence, for whatever good that'll do. The cube took us out into space
again, and it showed them giving the cube to you, only it wasn't your face. In any case, everyone saw
something slightly different.”
     She giggled, finding this surprisingly funny, and he gave her a reproachful look.
     "Somehow, I can't find the humor in it. Anyhow, tonight we're having a catered supper at a safe
house. Chad, up there in the front seat, is FBI, and they're handling security.”
     "The . . . envoys don't want to appear in public?"
     "According to what they told the president, they never appear to the public in person. Only to small
groups, and only right at first. They're assigned to visit races who have become interested in other
intelligent life. The president thinks they're here to invite us to join some interstellar federation.”
     She shook her head doubtfully. "It's possible, but I don't think so, not right away anyhow.”
     "Why not? It's as likely as anything else.”
     "Not really. It's more like ... if we discover a new race of people, some little tribe, say, down in the
Amazon somewhere. The linguists and the anthropologists might go look at them, but no ambassador or
head of state is going to travel down there and invite them to join the United Nations.”
     He looked quite taken aback. "Why would they bother just looking at us? Surely they must want
something.”
     She smiled, thinking about it. "Maybe they're just curious.”
     The general had a very disturbed expression on his face as he said, "I can think of several reasons
why someone would go visit a newly discovered tribe in the Amazon. Because they knew about herbal
remedies that could be valuable to pharmaceutical companies. Because they were sitting on gigantic ore
or oil deposits.
     "Or, because the big lumber companies were coming, and the tribe wasn't going to be there, or maybe
anywhere, very long.”
     And with that happy thought, they both fell silent, not speaking again until they reached their
destination.
     The dinner arrangements were fairly intimate and not at all pretentious. Benita was introduced to the
president's wife, and to the Secretary of State, both of whom seemed utterly unflappable but confessed to
being excited by the whole affair. No one was very dressed up. The only other person Benita hadn't met
was a red-faced general from the Pentagon, James McVane, in full uniform and an angry expression.
Chiddy and Vess had shown up in the guise of pleasant, plump, dark-skinned middle-aged women clad in
saris, making a total of eight for dinner, plus the watchful men in the foyer and three liveried waiters, two
moving around a table in the adjacent dining room, setting up a dinner service, and one serving cocktails
and hors d'oeuvres in the nicely furnished living room.
     Benita received a hug from each alien, who also pressed her cheek with theirs, as if they were old
friends. "Tonight we are Indira and Lara," said the taller one in green. "Indira is in green and Lara is in
red. This is the first step in our finding out about you.”
     "Why did you choose to be women?" Benita whispered. The three of them were standing in a corner,
closely observed but not intruded upon by the other guests.
     "You can figure that out," murmured Indira. "At some times we will take on the form of men, and
also children, and perhaps different sorts of both, all three sexes, what is it called? Gay? In such guises we
will wander around often, seeing how things work. But for now, we will be women and foreigners.”
     "You want to elicit knee-jerk reactions, don't you?" Benita asked. "You want to know how people
treat women or foreigners, habitually?"
     Indira nodded. Lara merely smiled. Benita didn't think it was a real smile.
     "When you smile, your eyes need to crinkle up a little," she said, showing her. "Otherwise it looks
insincere.”
     "What if it is insincere?" Lara asked. "What if I am not at all amused?"
     "Well, if you smile so it looks sincere, it will keep others from knowing how you feel. If you smile in
a way that looks insincere, they will know exactly how you feel, which maybe is what you want. If you do
not smile at all, people will think you are cold.”
     "You do not smile when you are chilled?"
     "Cold means uncaring. We feel warm or cold about people. Warm about our friends and loved ones.
You might care very much, but it doesn't count as caring unless you do something, often something quite
trivial and useless. Like smiling, or patting someone's arm, or murmuring conventional phrases, or
bustling around in an attempt to help while you get in everyone's way.”
     "So if I care greatly, but merely sit quiet, staying out of persons' way, I will be thought cold.”
     "Exactly," Benita confirmed. "I used to go to dinner at my grandmother's house, my father's mother.
She never shut up from the time you walked in the door until you left. She cared so much that whenever
you got comfortable, she made you change where you were sitting in order to sit somewhere better. She
passed you food so many times you had no time to eat. She never listened to anything anyone said, and if
you tried to help her, she told you how to do it, over and over. Whenever Papa took me there, I'd find a
chair in a corner and sit very quietly . . .”
     "While she told your mother you were cold," finished Lara.
     "Exactly," Benita replied, ruefully. "Caring, grieving, rejoicing, we are expected to share them all
intimately and vociferously.”
     "So we will share," said Indira. "Tell us, please, what you have been doing here in this city. We
detect a newness about you!"
     "I suspect you may have planned this all along. I have a new job and a new place to live.”
     "Ah.” The smile again, with crinkles. "We did not plan so, but we were hopeful. Describe this place
you will live?"
     Benita did so, ignoring her doubts and concerns and dwelling at length upon its convenient location,
about which Indira asked a great many questions.
     "And you are pleased with these changes?" asked Lara, when she had finished. "We prefer that
people we ... bother ... are pleased.”
     "Yes, I think ... I am pleased," Benita confessed. "Change is ... it's hard to get it into my head, but I'm
sure you weren't a bother.”
     "Ladies," boomed General Wallace. "What are you drinking?"
     "I am not," murmured Lara.
     "He means, what would you like as a drink," Benita whispered. "Drinks and small tasty things are
customary as a prelude to festive evening meals.”
     "Fruit juice," Lara said to the general, smiling, with her eyes crinkled up. "I have never tasted
anything so lovely as your fruit juice.”
     "For me, also," cried Indira, crinkling her eyes until they radiated with wrinkles. "Apple, or grape, or
what is that other one, Lara?"
     "Maaango," cried Lara, with a marvelous giggle.
     "Julia Roberts did the giggle," murmured Indira in Benita's ear. "On TV. Has Lara got it right?"
     "Perfect," Benita said, accepting the glass the general put in her hand. It was also fruit juice. It was
quite possible no one was drinking anything alcoholic, and that might make sense. When she looked up,
Lara and Indira had crossed the room to speak to the First Lady and had been replaced by the Secretary of
State.
     "You seem to get on with them quite well," said the SOS.
     "They probably chose someone they knew they'd get along with," Benita replied, though doubtfully.
"I suppose I would do the same, in their place. They said they preferred to appear to someone just
ordinary who could put them in touch with the VIPs without making a fuss about it.”
     "You think they've done this before, then?" the SOS asked. "On other worlds?"
     "Either that or they're following a protocol," Benita replied, after a moment's thought.
     The SOS gave her a piercing look. "Why would you think so?"
     "Oh, the box they gave me. You've seen that?"
     "I saw it, yes. It was the main course at two Cabinet meetings. One Monday, one this afternoon.”
     "That box isn't something made up for one occasion. You noticed how it fills in the names? That
clicking, while it searches for the proper label? If they'd made it up special, the names would have been
included seamlessly. No, that box is something they use all the time. They probably have a supply of them
in their ship, just in case they need more than one.”
     "Ah," said the SOS, then asked casually, "Is it a large ship?"
     "Not the one I saw. It looked hardly big enough for the two of them. But that doesn't mean they don't
have a big ship.”
     "Where is it, do you think?"
     "Oh, probably on the back side of the moon. That's where sci-fi writers would put it. Or under the ice
in Antarctica, like in the X-Files. Or maybe it's simply a stealth ship, right out in the open only we can't
see it, or, since they can appear as any creature they want to, maybe their ship can, too, and it's taken on
the likeness of something we'd expect, a cloud, or a weather balloon.”
     The SOS choked on her drink. "That doesn't disturb you?"
     "Not really. I don't get any feeling of menace from them. Not even right at first. I think they're really
what they say they are. Xenologists. Or xenological social workers.”
     "Studying us? General McVane is quite worried about security. He tells us there have been multiple
sightings of something, ships perhaps, in the last several days. Our military are in considerable disruption.
They can't identify who or what is flying around over our country, perhaps studying our weapons.”
     Benita shook her head. "It could be just as likely they're studying our culture. If we went to the
Amazon to study a tribe there, our Department of Defense wouldn't be greatly interested in their bows and
arrows, would it? We'd be more interested in other things, their language maybe.”
     "Their physiology?"
     "Only if it differed greatly from our own.”
     "Would we kill one and dissect it?"
     "If we were ethical, no. And one of the beings at that first meeting told me they were ethical. They
don't do vivisection.”
     "So they won't kidnap a human to dissect?"
     "They say they've never done that. If they needed to do that, which I doubt, they would probably wait
until they could lay hands on a dead one.”
     General Wallace announced dinner and offered Lara his arm. The president's wife was at one end of
the table and General Wallace at the other. Indira was on the First Lady's right, Mr. Riley on her left. Lara
had General Wallace's right, with General McVane across from her and the SOS on his left, opposite
Benita. The food was simple but very good, and both the ET’s seemed to enjoy it. Benita watched them,
thinking they might only be playing at enjoyment, tucking the food away inside to dispose of later. No
telling what they could do with those infinitely morphable bodies. They were offered wine, which they
refused. Benita's wineglass was filled, but she tasted it sparingly. Since she was sitting at the mid-point of
the table, she could hear the conversation at both ends.
     "Perhaps you ladies would be kind enough to resolve a small confusion for us," she heard Indira say
with a kindly smile.
     The First Lady and the Secretary of State shared glances. The FL said, "We would be happy to try.”
     "We have found a strangeness in your world that we cannot quite reconcile. During our study time,
before we reached out to you, we learned much of your history and culture and religions, particularly the
one claimed by a majority of the American people. The religion teaches that the purpose of man is to
worship and adore and praise God, and those who do not do so will probably be punished. Is this correct?"
     The SOS said guardedly, "Some religionists teach that, yes.”
     "Ah. But you have countries ruled by despots who demand that people worship, adore and praise
them. They put great pictures of themselves upon the walls, like icons, and those who do not adore are
often killed or disappeared or tortured. There was one called Mao, one called Stalin. One now, called
Hussein. Isn't this true?"
     The FL nodded, warily.
     "Ah. Your nation, however, wishes to be a good nation, and it therefore despises despots, regarding
them as evil and rejoicing when one of them is overthrown. Is this so?"
     The FL put down her fork and took a deep breath. "Yes. This is so.”
     "Ah. Now to our confusion. If a person torturing and killing people is evil, why are gods who torture
and kill people called good?"
     The SOS patted her lips with her napkin and said to the FL, "Don't look at me.”
     The FL glanced along the table, catching Benita's eye.
     "Do you have an answer for our guest?" the FL asked.
     Benita thought for a moment. "I can quote something I've read. Some professor of history wrote that
cultures define their gods when they're young and primitive, when their main concern is survival. They
endow their gods with survival characteristics like omnipotence and authoritarianism, belligerence and
suspicion, and that's what goes into all their myths or scriptures. Then, if they survive long enough, they
begin to develop morality. They examine their own history, and they learn that authoritarianism doesn't
accord with free will, that belligerence and suspicion are unhealthful, but this newly moral culture is stuck
with its bigoted, interfering gods, plus it's stuck with people who prefer the old bloody gods and use them
as their justification for doing all kinds of awful things.”
     "Ah," said Indira. "I am glad our morality has been with us since early times, preserved for us
indelibly. I would hate worshipping a god I could not respect. Why do you?"
     The FL was regarding Benita with some surprise. "This is a paradox," she said. "It's not one we're
going to solve tonight. We have other problems that are perhaps more solvable. For example, there is the
continuing problem of drugs, not only the issue of addictions and consequent criminality, but also the
consequent economic and political issues . . .” She went on to give a description of the war on drugs,
focusing on drug trafficking and profiteering and keeping well away from the subject of religion. She
concluded: "Legalization would drive prices down, crime would stop, then we could take care of the
addicts . . .”
     "And you do not do this because of ... politics?"
     The SOS said, "The war against drugs is big business. Thousands of people are on the payroll. The
people on the payroll don't want the problem solved, though they can't say that out loud or, perhaps, even
admit it to themselves. Instead, they continue to take a moral position that requires them to punish people.
Punishing people is always considered moral.”
     Indira shook her head. "It is like the Pursnyp people on the planet Middle. They built an enormous
wall to protect them from the marauding tribes of nomadic Flizz. Half the population worked at
maintaining and garrisoning the wall. Then a plague came, and the Flizz were almost wiped out. The
Pursnyp people sent aid to the Flizz, and when we asked why, they said if the Flizz died out, the wall
would not be needed, and there would be no more work for the Pursnyp.”
     "Like fox hunting in England," remarked Chad. "They say they hunt the foxes because they're
vermin, but they're careful to preserve plenty of foxes so they never have to stop hunting.”
     At the other end of the table, Benita heard Lara ask, "What problems do you have in this country,
General Wallace?"
     He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, patted his lips. "Well, ma'am, I'd say destruction of the
environment is one of our biggest problems . . .”
     While the talk flowed, the drug situation, the environment, various international concerns, everything
but religion, Benita ate salad and chicken Kiev and asparagus, chatting from time to time with Mr. Riley,
who was obviously keeping a careful eye on everyone Present. When the chocolate mousse cake was
cleared and coffee served, they listened politely to short speeches of welcome by the First Lady, the SOS,
and General Wallace.
     Then Indira rose to reply.
     "We have been most pleased to join with you in this festive meal, enabling our two peoples to know
one another a little better. We know you are recording this meeting, and we intended it so, in order that
you may have a record to show your people of the reason for our coming here.”
     General Wallace leaned forward. General McVane frowned. Those who were drinking coffee put
down their coffee cups.
     "You have in recent time stepped upon your moon and begun the building of a space station. We
have noticed this. You have in recent time sent small mechanicals to your planets, to learn about them,
and you have built listening devices to detect intelligent life on other worlds. We applaud this, and we
also applaud your efforts, so diligently though ineffectually carried out, to live peaceably among
yourselves and, as we have learned this evening, to improve your perception of morality.
     "You have in recent time sent a mechanical device beyond your own system out into the universe.
Pistach people have found it, and in response they have sent us, athyci, you would say ethical
representatives. Part of our task is to reach out to newly noticed races and assist them in meeting the
prerequisites of our galactic principles of coexistence. We, the several races in our Confederation, call
these principles Tassifoduma, what you would call Neighborliness. We have read much of your literature.
One of your poets has said that good fences make good neighbors, and this is often true. When a neighbor
throws empty cans over his fence, it may mean he is not a good neighbor, or it may mean the fence is not
high enough. When small mechanicals are sent outward over the fence, it could be a sign of either. It is
then we must do our work quickly before some larger garbage follows to attract the attention of others
whom you are not prepared to meet.
     "Our Confederation includes intelligent races, some of them predatory, though all agree to respect
other members of the Confederation. Since the predators among us could do you great damage, it is to
both our advantage if we can get you into the Confederation and subject to Confederation law as quickly
as possible.
     "So we have come to you as we have come to many worlds where we have learned the best ways to
do our work. This is how we intend to proceed:
     "Though our actions will not be limited to this country, we will begin our association with this
country, as it has a quality other countries call cultural imperialism, which, we have found, means a tasty
culture that other peoples readily enjoy, an infective culture, if you will, from which ideas and usages
spread quickly. We find your language to be an inclusive one, your religions, for the most part, mutually
tolerant, your races working consciously to remove bigotry. These are good signs. Nations that try to limit
religion or racial configuration or the language spoken by their people are impossible to work with for
they are more concerned with form than reality. We have selected our intermediary with great care. She
meets our needs, and she will continue in that role.”
     Benita heard this with a shock that went all the way to her feet. Continue?
     "Well," muttered her subconscious. "Did you think they paid you a hundred thou for spending a few
days in Washington?"
     Indira went on, "For the foreseeable future, this is the last time we will meet in person with anyone
other than our intermediary. We will tell her what is required, and she will transmit this to your
government. We learned tonight she has found a living place which is appropriate for us to communicate
with her and her with you, without fuss. We request that this place be made ready for her as quickly as
possible.
     "We request that you do not use our intermediary's personal name when speaking of her to your
media. Speak only of the intermediary. We ask this because we are athyci and the first rule of an athyco is
to harm the least possible. Change always involves some trauma and displacement, but it should always
be the least possible. It is not ethical to cause or allow destruction of the tranquil life of an innocent
person, this is part of Tassifoduma. Currently there are many such small matters that need adjustment.
     "Do you have any questions?"
     No one said anything until General McVane blurted in a choked voice, "What gives you the right to
come here and tell us what to do?"
     The two Indian woman swiveled toward him, fixing him with four eyes that, it seemed to Benita,
were actually far more numerous than that. "We have the ethical duty, imposed upon us by our ancestors,
to help other peoples achieve Neighborliness. Only if that proves impossible or unwelcome will we go
away, though by that time, of course, other Confederation races may have learned you are here. We
cannot go away, however, until we have made the attempt. Also, we must work not merely with leaders
but also with the people, for we came from a whole people, our people, to the whole people of this
world.”
     "How do we know you can do what you say you can?" McVane demanded, half shouting.
     "General McVane!" said the SOS, warningly.
     "He may ask the question," said Lara in a strange, humming tone. "It is always permitted to ask
questions, even so rudely as he has done. Since you have been so discourteous as to doubt our word, you
will have your answer by tomorrow, General McVane. We will leave you now. We are aware this meeting
is being recorded by various devices, and it is our will that these devices shall on this one occasion be
allowed to function, though in future we will prevent any such invasion of our privacy.”
      Indira bowed to the table, Lara rose and joined her at the head of the table where they bade farewell
to the First Lady and the SOS and then, just as General Wallace was getting to his feet, they disappeared.
      A recording made of the entire evening caught much of the conversation and the disappearance of the
aliens, at which point the tape showed the other diners sitting stunned, most of them with their mouths
open. General McVane ran for the door and began shouting at someone. Mr. Riley spoke to the FL. Men
from outside came in. Men from inside went out. When Benita pulled herself together, she saw that the
SOS had moved into Indira's chair and was leaning across the table toward her.
      "Were you expecting that de facto appointment as ambassador-in-chief?" she asked in a slightly
irritated voice.
      Benita shook her head, no, muttering, "I didn't even know they expected me to continue doing
anything!"
      The First Lady spoke to the SOS. "I was watching her face and the announcement took her by
surprise as much as it did us.” She took a deep breath and patted Benita's arm, whispering, "You were also
surprised when they disappeared?"
      Benita gulped. "They didn't disappear when I saw them before. They got in their ship and flew
away.”
      "They disappeared when they met with the president," said the SOS, in a less abrasive tone. She and
the FL nodded sympathetically. "Why did they choose you?"
      Benita was surprised to find the question made her angry. Why shouldn't they have chosen her!
"Everyone has asked that. Congressman Alvarez. The general. Even the president asked me that. I
suppose they wanted an ordinary person, with ordinary concerns and ordinary problems. I'm a thus-far
underpaid minority working mother with an alcoholic husband. They couldn't have picked anyone much
more ordinary than that.”
      "And two children in college as the result of your hard work," sniffed the SOS, giving her an
admonitory look.
      "There is that," she said, suddenly amused. "You've been checking up on me?"
      "Of course the FBI has been investigating you. They even got some hair from your hairbrush back in
Albuquerque so they could match it to your blood, just to be sure you're the real you.”
      "You went through our house? Bert must have loved that.”
      "Your husband has been in jail since early last Sunday morning. We made sure he would learn
nothing about the search.”
      "Bert's in jail? Again?"
      "It seems your husband was in no condition to drive at the time he had an accident.”
      "Oh, Lord," Benita said, ducking her head. How to be terminally embarrassed before the eyes of the
world in one easy lesson!
      The FL patted her arm, saying seriously, "Are you worried about him? Are you terribly concerned at
not being there?"
      Benita gritted her teeth. "At one time I would have said I was concerned. I've learned there's nothing I
can do for him, so my concern is wasted.”
      The FL nodded. "There are all kinds of addictions, and we can't help the addicted if they don't want to
be helped, Ms. Alvarez. We need to save our concern for things that need doing.”
      "Please call me Benita," she said. "Or just Bennie.”
      "Actually," murmured the SOS, "it would be better if we called you the intermediary, as the aliens
requested. Everyone here is supposed to be trustworthy, but there's always the unlikely event that one of
us is a spy.”
      Benita flushed. "Call me anything you like. I'm finished being Mrs. Bert Shipton, though. And you're
right, I am upset about a lot of things.”
      "Well, don't be upset about the bureau going through your house," said the SOS, soothingly. "It was a
very quiet investigation just so we could be sure you were who and what you said you were. Think about
it. Aliens arrive and are announced by someone we don't know. If we had to bet our lives on it, and those
of your family, which we may be doing, wouldn't we be remiss not to check?"
      She considered it. "I suppose. Seeing how they can take any shape they like.”
      "Did you hear what our other alien guest talked about during dinner?"
      "Small talk," Benita murmured. "The general's very interested in environmental issues. He'd recently
attended a world conference on global warming. They talked about that. And since he's a rancher, he's
interested in restoration of grasslands and riverbanks, the whole ecological bit.”
      "Interesting," said the FL. "Did you overhear Indira asking about Afghanistan and the treatment of
women there? In the Pistach culture, she said, someone would intervene to stop men behaving that way,
and why hadn't we done so.”
      "I don't think they understand yet that we have a lot of separate cultures," said Benita. "Either that, or
they're just confirming that fact. Their people are evidently more . . . uniform than we are.”
      "We told her Afghanistan wasn't the only place that enslaves women, and we tried to explain about
national sovereignty, that short of going to war, we have no right to meddle in foreign countries.”
      The SOS remarked, "She knew quite a bit about the things she was interested in. She wasn't asking
out of real ignorance.”
      "I don't think they're allowed to," Benita said. "As they've pointed out to me, they're ethical beings. It
wouldn't be ethical to pronounce on some subject without knowing a great deal about it.”
      "Oh, wouldn't that put an end to congressional debate," grated the SOS. She frowned. "Forget I said
that. Now where's this place you've picked to live?"
      Benita told them about the bookstore job, and the loft above it. The SOS demanded a full description,
produced a little notebook and had Benita draw a sketchy floor plan. "Since the envoys have requested it,
why don't we see if we can speed things up for you?"
      "Simon, he's the owner, said he'd do it right away.”
      "Right away could mean next week or next month or whenever he can get a contractor. I spoke with
the Attorney General earlier today. Chad Riley will be our liaison with Justice, and he can probably
arrange to get this done in a day or two, complete with a good cover story for your boss. The aliens want
you moved quickly, so let's try to hurry things up.”
      "It seems an imposition . . .”
      "Are you going to refuse to work for the ET’s?" the FL asked.
      Benita shook her head uncertainly. "I don't know. I don't even know if they'd let me refuse.”
      "Well, then. Pretend it's part of the job. No personal obligation.”
      "Very well, if you like.” She took a deep breath. "And since you have people in Albuquerque who are
already familiar with my house and you're set on being helpful, could they pick up a few little items for
me? My personal papers and some things that belonged to my mother? And my dog? I left him in a
kennel there. And, could you fix it so I could send a letter to my former bosses, quitting my job and sort
of ... misleading them about where I am?"
      The SOS looked amused. "Why not? Simplifying your life is what we have in mind. Give me a list.”
      The SOS handed Benita a blank page, and she wrote down the half dozen items she had already
decided to recover. Her documents and tax returns were all in one place, a shoebox in her closet. She also
wrote down Sasquatch's name and description and the place he'd been left.
     The FL said, "Go ahead and write your letter to your former bosses. Address it, no return, then call
Chad Riley at the White House. He'll have an office there for the time being, and he can take care of it.”
     The three women rose. General McVane came back into the room, very red in the face, stalking
angrily toward Benita. "Had you planned that little disappearing act . . .”
     The SOS laid her hand protectively on Benita's shoulder. "She did not, General McVane, and we'd all
be grateful for a more moderate tone. I attended the Cabinet meeting today, just as you did, and it was
made clear that the intermediary is simply a woman who was selected by the aliens for their own
purposes. She had no part in that selection, she has done her part well and faithfully, and she deserves
generous recognition of that fact.”
     McVane flushed. "Sorry, ma'am. It's just . . . frustrating!"
     Benita heard something more than mere frustration in his voice. "You were trying to find their ship,
weren't you? You had people all set up to follow them when they left.”
     McVane cursed at her, heard himself, and turned even brighter red.
     The SOS looked at Benita in amazement, then turned on McVane with an expression of outrage. "I
thought the Cabinet agreed we wouldn't try anything like that.”
     "No such order from the commander-in-chief," he snarled.
     "What did you call that meeting?" snapped the SOS. "A chat room? We all understood what the
parameters were! Top secret and absolutely no interference! Whom have you involved?"
     He spoke through his teeth. "No one who knows anything! My men were asked only to follow
everyone who left here!"
     "I suppose it was inevitable," said the FL, glaring at him angrily. "Did you use this woman's name,
General?"
     "No. I swear. I didn't.”
     "But your friends followed you here. And they're waiting to follow everyone back so they'll know
who all the participants are. Have you identified her to them?"
     McVane flushed again. "Ma'am, I don't know her name. They didn't use her name at the meeting,
they haven't used her name tonight! And even I don't have a photograph.”
     The SOS said, "But if you'd had one, you'd have passed it around! The president will be very
interested in that, General McVane.”
     The FL turned toward Benita, drawing her away from the confrontation. "That surprised me. How did
you catch on?"
     Benita shook her head. "I don't know. Something about the way he spoke, or looked. So frustrated.
He would have been surprised, but why would he have been frustrated?"
     "You're very perceptive.” The FL gave her a long, level look. "Hardly in keeping with what we've
learned about you, quite frankly. And that little speech during dinner! I don't know about the envoys, but I
was impressed.”
     "Actually, I was quoting my mother's father. He was a history professor in Mexico. He specialized in
pre-Colombian history, so he knew a lot about bloody gods. Mami, that is, my mother, used to quote him
a lot.”
     "Impressive, nonetheless. Well, we'll make sure McVane's sneaks don't follow you. Why do people
always have to play games!"
     She left Benita at the table while she spoke to Chad Riley, who was hovering by the door, then
returned. "Let's all go in my car. The driver will bring it around. We'll go out through the kitchen.”
     And so they did, with two Secret Service men in the front seat and two cars full of them fore and aft,
not to the hotel but to the White House, which, perhaps unsurprisingly, had back stairs. A little later, Chad
Riley borrowed one of the kitchen people's private cars to take Benita to her hotel. She hid in the
backseat, under a throw, while Chad drove around and around telling her stories of presidents past until he
was sure they weren't being followed. From the hotel staff entrance, he escorted her upstairs to her room
via a freight elevator. At the door he stopped, fished in his pocket and handed her a cell phone.
     "What?" she asked, confused.
     "The ladies asked me to arrange it so you could call your children without their finding out where you
are. I phoned the bureau and had them set it up so calls you make from it will be diverted through half a
dozen places around the country, places we'll change every day or so, so your call can't be traced back to
you. Considering what McVane was up to, they thought this would be a wise precaution. You can use it
anytime now, without worrying about it.”
     "I've never used one," she said. "Is it complicated?"
     He showed her how to use it, had her repeat it back to him, then opened the door for her and wished
her good night. She glanced at her watch as she let herself in, realizing in a panic it was almost midnight,
an hour late for the call to California. Without taking off her coat, she sat down on the bed, flipped open
the new gadget and dialed Angelica's number.

Angelica—WEDNESDAY
     Angelica had spent the morning at Crown Heights Elementary School where she would be spending
two mornings a week as a classroom assistant, part of her internship program at the university. She had
been wakened well after midnight by Carlos's jovial and rather drunken conversation with someone he
had brought home with him. That had started her thinking about old times, worrying about Mom, and all
that had kept her tossing and turning. The alarm had gone off only moments, so it seemed, after she'd
finally fallen asleep, and she'd been running so late she'd had to get a taxi to be sure she was on time. The
budget wouldn't stretch for a return trip, though, so she hiked from the school to the nearest bus stop,
some blocks away.
     The playground took up a double block, fenced with high chain link. The next block was a parking
lot for rows of school buses, also fenced, with a guarded gate. The other side of the street was lined with
small businesses dotted among vacant buildings. The third and fourth blocks ran along one side of the
Morningside Project, a multistory housing development and a major source of the students she would be
working with.
     The cross street in front of the Project was busy, especially around the bus stop. Angelica noticed that
at one time a shelter and a bench had stood on the curb, but only the steel stumps remained, along with a
couple of battered newspaper vending machines.
     Angelica had her purse hung by its strap under her coat, where it didn't show, with her change in her
pocket. The newspaper truck was changing the papers when she arrived at the bus stop, so she bought a
late edition and folded it under her arm. She only had five dollars and bus fare in her pocket. Her credit
card was at home, well hidden. Last time she'd left it in her purse, Carlos had borrowed it, and it had taken
her four months to pay off his bar bill.
     The heavy foot traffic of boys and young men made her slightly nervous. There were fluid, eddying
groups of three or more, some with very young boys in attendance. A mother with two young children
came out of the Project door and turned toward Angelica, running a gauntlet of tomcat calls and all-too-
personal comments, culminating in the suggestion that the speaker wouldn't mind giving her another baby
to hatch.
     "That was rotten," Angelica commented when the stony faced woman reached her.
     “I pay them no mind," she said grimly. "You talk back, they get worse, you end up in a mess.”
     "They're obviously selling drugs," Angelica murmured. "Can't the police clear them out?"
      "We thought we cleared them," the young woman said, casting a quick glance at the traffic in the
street. "Oh, we thought we took care of all that. We went down to the city, almost sixty of us, along with
the children. I took Elsha here, she's three, and William, he's almost six. The police captain and some of
his men was there. We ask the councilmen, please give us that ordinance against loitering. So, they passed
it, and the police moved out all these no-goods. We had three, four real nice weeks. Then the city got
sued. ACLU helped a man sue for gettin moved along for no cause. Judge put a hold order on the
ordinance. Can't move 'em along for no reason. Got to have probable cause, and that means the police
gotta see it. Got to see them in the act. Got to get the drugs in their hands. Got to see money passed.”
      "All they have to do is look," said Angelica, angrily. "Anybody can see it!"
      "Police show up, all the drugs disappear, just like magic. Police get here, all those no-goods, they're
just rappin’, listenin’ to music. Police drive on, all those drugs, they just sprout back up outa nowhere.”
      "It's frustrating!" murmured Angelica, turning to watch the bus that was now approaching.
      "It'll get worse," the woman said, stooping to button the toddler's jacket. The boy regarded Angelica
impassively, then turned his attention back to the youths on the sidewalk. The mother saw him, took him
by the hand and turned him away, biting her lip. "When William gets to be seven, eight, those no-goods,
they'll get him holdin' for them, just like those little boys there now.”
      They got onto the bus together, and took a seat side by side, the little girl on her mother's lap, the boy
standing at the window. Angelica bent to look across his shoulder. From the sidewalk, one of the young
men flashed her a brilliant smile and an obscene body gesture, a balletic rape, an elegant violation. As she
sat down, Angelica heard the young mother murmur, "You be careful comin' down here. He was watchin'
you before.”
      Angelica nodded. Her mouth was dry. To cover her confusion, she opened the paper and let her eyes
focus on it.

                       DRIVE-BY DEATHS REACH NEW HIGH IN CALIFORNIA
                      GOVERNOR SAYS DEATH OF TODDLERS IS "LAST STRAW"

                          BOMBING IN JERUSALEM CLAIMS FORTY LIVES
                        RETALIATION PLANNED AGAINST SITES IN LEBANON

             SERBIAN UNDERGROUND CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY FOR BUS BOMBINGS
                        TERRORISTS TARGETED SCHOOL CHILDREN

                          JUDGE RULES MEGAN'S LAW UNCONSTITUTIONAL
                              PEDOPHILE HAS PAID DEBT TO SOCIETY

     "I don't look at the papers," said the woman at her side. "I used to read them all the time. Now it's just
all, more and more of the same, you know?"
     "I know," said Angelica.
     The mother and her children got off first. From Angelica's stop it was a six-block walk to the
apartment, their apartment, the one she and Carlos shared, and she found herself slogging, trudging, so
tired she ached.
     The door to Carlos's room was ajar, and he was still in bed. She stood in the doorway, staring at him.
His schedule said he had English Composition this morning, and art classes this afternoon. His bed looked
like a dog's nest. His laundry was piled in the corner where it had been for two weeks. She went in and
shook him, not gently.
     "Hey," he said. "Let go.”
     "It's noon!" she said loudly. "You've got art classes this afternoon.”
     "Yeah. Well, I had a headache. It's better now. I'll get up in a few minutes.”
     "Carlos!" She stood looking at him wearily. "Mom's going to call at eight, tonight. Remember. I told
her you'd be here.”
     "I know, I know. Stop yelling.”
     She left him there and went angrily into the tiny kitchen. She'd had to run without breakfast this
morning, but Carlos had evidently fixed food for himself when he came in last night. Not only for
himself. There were several pans, one of them burned, plus several dishes and glasses scattered in the tiny
room. She put them in the sink, ran hot water on them and added soap. The sliced meat she'd intended to
make a sandwich of was gone. The eggs were gone. The only thing left in the cupboard was a can of soup.
     While it was heating she decided to take her own laundry to the basement, but halfway down the
basement stairs she sagged against the wall and slid down onto a step, face buried in the dirty laundry.
     "Hey," said someone. "You all right?"
     She looked up into the sympathetic face of the apartment manager, Mrs. Gaines, a round-faced, crop-
haired plain-talking woman whose apartment was at the back on the so-called garden level.
     "I'm so tired," Angelica blurted. "He leaves it all on me. And I'm just so tired!"
     The woman sat down on the step beside her. "Tell you what, Angel. There's a little efficiency
apartment upstairs, just big enough for you. Lots cheaper than the one you have now. I'll let you off your
lease if you want to move up there and let Carlos find himself some other place.”
     Angelica regarded her blankly, mouth slightly open.
     The woman reached over and pressed her jaw up. "Don't think it's kindness. It'd help me out. We get
complaints about noise and drunks, you know, people get unhappy, they move out. Your mama must've
got him off the tit, now you've got to let him grow up. Here, I'll start that load for you. You look like you
need a nice hot cup of something.”
     And she was up, with the laundry load, trotting down the stairs while Angelica was still trying to
think of something to say. Back upstairs she ate her soup, made a strong cup of instant coffee, and cleaned
up the kitchen. At two she had to leave for her own classes, and Carlos was still asleep when she left.
     When she returned home at seven, bearing a pizza, Carlos wasn't there. The phone call was scheduled
for eight, but the phone didn't ring until nine, just as Carlos walked in. She grabbed the phone, glaring at
him.
     "Hello, Mother? Hey, Carlos is here. I'm going to put this on speaker phone. You're late.”
     "I know. Some very nice people invited me to dinner and it went on longer than expected. They
dropped me off, but they had to make a kind of ... detour, so there was no polite way I could hurry things
up.”
     "New friends, that's good.”
     "They're just acquaintances, but they know I'm new in town and they're being kind.”
     Angelica asked, "So, tell us, are you looking for a new job?"
     "I have a new job. The arrangements were all made this morning. It's very much like the one I had in
Albuquerque, but the pay is better than it was there.”
     Carlos leaned forward, lips pursed, eyebrows raised importantly. "Mom, this afternoon I got a call
from Dad. He's wondering where you are.”
     A moment's silence. "Carlito, I left him a note saying I was going away. I'm sure Angelica told you
why I was calling. I'm not coming back, and as I told Angelica, I don't want your father to know where I
am.”
      Carlos frowned. "Where's Sasquatch?"
      "I have him.”
      "And who's this old lady who left you money? I didn't know you had any cousins I didn't know.”
      "Not anyone you knew. She was my mother's cousin.”
      Carlos cocked his head, as though trying to see through the phone. "Dad could use some help with
bail money. I mean, if you've got some extra cash.”
      Angelica turned on him angrily, but the chill of the disembodied voice that came through the phone
stopped her. "Bail money? For what?"
      Carlos gave Angelica the look of superiority she'd grown to hate, the one that said, "See, I'm
managing the family, thinking of everything.” He spoke into the phone, "He had a little accident. He says
. . . well, he totaled his car.”
      After a considerable pause Benita said sadly, "My car.”
      Carlos had the grace to look slightly embarrassed as he said, "I just thought you'd want him out of
jail"
      Long pause. "No. Not particularly.”
      Actual surprise. "Well, sheesh, Mom!"
      No response.
      He took a deep breath and asked, all too casually, "What time is it there, Mom? You sound tired.”
      There was another pause before their mother answered. "I feel like it's four in the morning, but it's
only a little after ten. I am tired. The long bus ride, mostly. A good night's sleep and I'll be rested.”
      Carlos leaned forward, brow knitted in concentration, opened his mouth only to have Angelica
interrupt, "I haven't told you about my jobs, Mom. Two mornings a week I'm working as a classroom
assistant, plus I'm putting in a supper shift in the kitchen at the Union.”
      "Angel, do you have time for that and your school?"
      "The teacher's aide work is required as part of a theory of education course I'm taking, plus they pay
me for it. I have to write it up and do a critique. Besides, I really like the teacher I'm working with. She
reminds me of you.”
      A little laugh at the other end. "That's sweet of you to say.”
      Carlos said, "Mom…"
      She cut him off crisply. "Another time, Carlos. I'm really tired, so I'll hang up. I'll call again, when I
have some news. Goodnight, dears. I'll talk to you soon.”
      Angelica leaned forward to cut off the dial tone, regarding her brother with dislike. "You had to bring
up Dad and talk about bail money? When did Dad call you?"
      "I said, this afternoon. Phone woke me about four.”
      "You slept through your afternoon classes? Honestly, Carlos! You've already had one warning from
the foundation. Did you tell Dad that Mom inherited some money?"
      "He was in a state, you know, so I may have mentioned it.”
      She angrily tore the crust off her cold pizza and drowned it in a half glass of milk beside her, vividly
remembering Mrs. Gaines's words on the stairs.
      He said, in a falsely casual voice, "I think we ought to find out where she is.”
      Angelica opened the oven and felt the pizza she'd saved for him. It was no warmer than her face,
which felt fiery. "You already tried that. She heard what you were doing, asking her what time it was.”
      He gave her a condescending look, saying loftily, "I think I'll get caller ID. I don't like the idea of her
off by herself where nobody can get in touch with her or help her or anything.”
     "Dad never wanted Mom off somewhere either. He wanted her right there, where he could help
himself, like to her paycheck.”
     "Boy, that's really loyal!"
     She bit her tongue. "Carlos, this isn't working. I can't live with you. I had my doubts about this
sharing bit . . .”
     "I shared last year.”
     "So why not with the same people this year?"
     He stared sulkily at his feet. "They had other plans.”
     She took a deep breath. "See, that's the mistake I made. I figured you knew how to do it, but my
guess is you never learned and they didn't want you back.”
     "That's my business.”
     "That's what I'm saying. It's totally your business. Providing late-night suppers for people you invite
in is totally your business. Drinking beer until midnight and not going to class is totally your business.
Mrs. Gaines has someone who wants a two-bedroom, and she told me she'll let me off the lease to this
apartment if I switch to an efficiency upstairs. I'm going to take it.”
     "We won't fit into an efficiency. It's only one room!"
     "Exactly. I'm moving upstairs and you'll have to make other arrangements.”
     "Aww, Angel"
     "I don't want to hear it.”
     "You can't just move out on me. I'll keep this place.”
     "My name is the only one on the lease. From now on, I'll take care of my business, you take care of
yours.”
     She went into her bedroom and closed the door, refusing to come out even to the sound of breaking
crockery. When he left, twenty minutes later, she called Mrs. Gaines and told her she'd be moving as soon
as possible.

Law enforcement—WEDNESDAY
    In the university town where Angelica and Carlos were living, in a precinct house not far from the
Morningside Project, a grizzled sergeant crouched over a pile of paperwork, chewing the end of his pen
and trying to remember what it was his wife had asked him to bring home after work. She'd offered to
write it down, he'd said he'd remember, now he didn't remember. Like a damn ritual. Why didn't he let her
write it down, for cristsake?
    A voice bellowed from the glassed-in office behind him.
    "McClellan!"
    "It's right where you put it when I gave it to you," the sergeant muttered, not looking up. "Top right-
hand drawer.”
    "What is?" The cop at the adjacent desk glanced up from the form on the screen. He was booking a
shoplifter. "What's in the top right-hand drawer?"
    "The manpower stats for last month," murmured McClellan.
    "Never mind," bellowed the voice.
    "What's got his shorts in a tangle?" wondered the cop.
    "I bet he's all upset over that judge sayin' you couldn't move those pushers out," said the shoplifter,
nodding wisely. "He worked real hard to get that law passed.”
     "It wasn't a law, it was an ordinance," McClellan said, looking up. "How'd you know the captain was
involved?"
     "I live down there at Mornin'side," she said. "I was one of the marchers went to city hall. Me'n my
kids.”
     "So you got kids," said the officer. "That doesn't excuse you walking off with birthday presents under
your shirt.”
     "It was just candles!" she cried. "For the cake. A dollar niney-five for twenny-four lousy birt'day
candles an all I had was a dollar-fifty an all I needed was twelve. An she wouldn' split the box up, give me
half!"
     The officer got up and moved toward the storeroom. "Watch her, Mac, so she don't walk off with half
my computer.”
     Mac shook his head. "I'm not watching. I'm not getting involved. Six more weeks, four days, three
hours and I figure about forty-five minutes, I can say good-bye to it all.”
     "You quittin?" asked the shoplifter.
     "Re-tire-ment! Captain says he wants to take me to lunch on my last day. Every guy that retires or
gets transferred, the captain wants to take them to lunch on their last day, he says, but it's just an excuse so
the guys can throw a surprise party. Doesn't he think I know that?"
     "They gonna give you a gold watch?"
     "I said no watch. They want to give me something, give me a new fishing rod.”
     "McClellan!" roared the voice.
     He got up wearily and shambled into the lieutenant's office, stopping before the desk and leaning on
it with both hands. "What?"
     "What's this?" The lieutenant held out a sheet of paper. "It was in the manpower reports.”
     "It's a tabulation of how many calls we get from Morningside, complaining about the dealers. I
thought, when we appeal that judge's decision . . .”
     "Oh, McClellan, you hadn't heard," the lieutenant said loudly, well aware that there were a dozen sets
of ears listening from outside his office. "We are no longer interested in the dealers down at Morningside.
The dealers at Morningside have civil rights. They are being represented by the ACLU in their suit against
the mayor and the police force on behalf of all the upstanding young men who stand around on the
sidewalk all day, every day, with no visible means of support.”
     McClellan stared at him, mouth slightly ajar. "You finished?"
     The lieutenant dropped his voice. "I am so close to finished, Mac, that I may retire before you do.
Actually, tabulating the calls is a pretty good idea. Go on keeping a record.” He fumed, running his
fingers through his gray hair, shifting his shoulders as though they hurt. "Not that it'll do any good. How
much longer you got now?"
     "Too long," said McClellan. "I can remember back to when we got rid of guys hanging around on
corners, giving the women a lot of dirty talk. I can remember when giving a little kid a gun would have
put you away for a good long while.”
     "See, that's our trouble. We remember too much.” He waved McClellan away and went back to his
paperwork. "Way, way too much.”

Chad Riley—THURSDAY
    Though it was past midnight, FBI agent and sometime White House liaison Chad Riley had his driver
run by the office then drop him six blocks from his Georgetown house so he could cool down on the walk
home. The business with McVane had rubbed him very much the wrong way, and Chad knew exactly
who to blame. The FBI had started surveillance on Congressman Alvarez by midafternoon Monday, and
Chad had just picked up a report saying he'd gone to the Pentagon that afternoon. Monday. And by
Tuesday, McVane had been named as liaison, and he had probably already known everything the
congressman knew, which meant his cronies, if not already briefed, would be shortly. The congressman
had been sworn to secrecy, but his loyalties lay elsewhere, which might have been deduced from the
number of pictures of himself in uniform on the walls of his office. Major Alvarez here with General
Tank, Major Alvarez there with General Missile. Military men! Damn it, they always thought in terms of
hardware, black or white, our side or the other side. It was damned hard to get them to see gray at all, and
getting them to tell dark gray from medium gray was impossible!
     And why in hell had the intermediary taken it to Alvarez in the first place? Why not the bureau?
Someone used to handling secrets! Though he shouldn't fault her in hindsight. She was a damned pretty
woman, and a sensible one. He'd watched her during dinner. She'd been quiet, thoughtful, she'd listened,
when she'd said anything, it had been intelligent and to the point. No, he couldn't fault her at all.
     During the six-block walk he simmered down. He always tried to get himself into an easy frame of
mind before he opened the front door on Merilu and whomever Merilu was being on the particular
evening. Rarely it was Merilu the girl he'd married, full of laughter and bubbly charm, if one ignored that
these days the laughter was more giggly than witty and the bubbles had originated in champagne. More
often the woman who greeted him was Merilu the prosecutor, prepared to cross-examine him about
everything he'd done since he left the house that morning. Or Merilu the alpha wolf, growling at him for
not paying enough attention to the boys. Or Merilu the martyr to politics, who wanted to leave the
corruption and clamor of Washington and go back to Montana.
     All of which multiple-personality stuff had started when the twins had reached school age. When
Jason and Jeremy were born, Merilu had decided to take a year off to be with the babies. The year had
turned into six. Now the boys were in school all day, and Merilu was bouncing off the walls, regretting
that she'd given up her career for motherhood.
     He'd tried patience. "Merilu, you said yourself your career would only have lasted a year or two
more.”
     "It was an important year or two, Chad! I'd have made contacts. I'd have set myself up to move on . .
.”
     He'd tried reality. "On where, sweetheart?"
     She'd never considered on where. Where did one move from being spokeswoman for a commuter
airline? From being a sparkle on television, a smile in photographs, a warm cushiony voice-over for
tourist-targeted infomercials about destinations along the air routes. It was a job that let her do the things
she liked to do, like having her hair done, getting a manicure, having a makeup job, and being dressed in
designer clothes so people could look at her. People had liked looking at her. Chad had liked looking at
her. And being with her. Of course, back then Merilu had been habitually and refreshingly frank. Even if
she hadn't quit to be with the children, she herself had said she'd have to find something else to do because
the job wouldn't last forever. Then, she'd said so.
     Now, however, Merilu's mom had gotten into the act. She'd brought her poor-baby backhoe from
Montana so she could dig Merilu a whine pit, a hole so dark and deep there wasn't a hope of getting her
out. Not unless, so she said, she moved back to Montana, which would magically create some kind of
insta-ramp, out of the pits and up to cheery-dom. It all depended on Chad, of course. All he had to do was
request a transfer.
     Chad was dragging his feet. Hell, he was dragging his whole damned body! He could get a transfer,
probably, maybe even without a cut in pay. Of course, doing that meant he'd give up his own career
ambitions, which Merilu, with typical inconsistency, considered only fair since that's what she'd done,
never mind that she'd chosen to and he hadn't, never mind that he'd been making enough to afford a full-
time nanny, but Merilu hadn't wanted that, never mind that she was twenty-six and he was thirty-nine.
The thirteen-year difference hadn't seemed like much when she was twenty, but lately it had opened up
into a generation gap! At least she hadn't used the D word, which he did not want to hear. That is, he
thought he didn't want to hear it, not now, though he could feel himself getting more and more used to the
idea.
     He put his key in the lock and stepped into a silent house, where he held his breath and let it out
slowly. Not a sound. Nothing in the living room, not in the dining room, kitchen . . . note on the
refrigerator.
     "Chad, Mom's in town for three days and she's asked me and the boys to have dinner in her suite at
the hotel. There's a pool and a spa, so we may stay for awhile. Don't expect us until late tonight or
sometime tomorrow.”
     He sighed, realizing with slight shame that it was a sigh of relief. He could have a shower sans nag, a
drink or two or three sans whine, a lazy loll in front of the tube sans whimper from the background. Lord,
Lord, why did men and women try to live together? Those South Pacific tribes that had the men and
women living in separate houses had the right idea.
     It was so peaceful that maybe he would even explore how he felt about two sari-clad women going
up in a puff of nothingness at a top secret dinner which he had attended as liaison. He had made a point of
approaching them and handing them things several times during the evening. He would swear they were
material, real, living. He had sat across from the one who called herself Indira. She had smiled, joked,
laughed, her face crinkling up in real humor. Then, poof, gone. He had suspended judgment, half
expecting the bureau lab rats to come in and announce it had all been a trick, but the technicians were still
examining the tapes, as baffled as everyone else.
     Real aliens. Who had come to help the United States with, how had they put it, those "small areas that
need adjustment.” That was the height of arrogance. Sure there were problems in the world, but damned if
Chad would call any of them "small areas that needed adjustment.”
     But the woman, Benita, she had been something different. Not only pretty, in a very natural way, but
charming. That level look she gave you. The way she listened. That was really it ... the way she listened.
Chad felt he had not been listened to so genuinely in a very long time.

General McVane—THURSDAY
    Elsewhere in Washington, General McVane had made a number of hurried phone calls rousing
people from sleep and was now with "Dink" Dinklemier on his way to a small, out-of-the-way hotel
previously owned by a drug trafficker, recently appropriated by the DEA and currently being "managed"
by a semiretired CIA employee. Called Holiday Hill, it was often used by Washington spooks for stashing
witnesses, hiding informants, or holding impromptu meetings.
    "J'you get hold of Arthur?" Dink asked.
    "He's picking up Morse, and they'll meet us. What about Briess?" Briess was the CIA link.
    "He's in California," Dink replied. "I left him a message.”
    Except for this exchange, their journey was silent, unbroken even when they arrived at the hotel and
went directly to a small second-floor meeting room.
    "Turn the heat off!" McVane complained. "It's ninety in here.”
    Dink obligingly turned down the thermostat and opened the two windows to the cooler night air
while McVane loaded a tape into a player and called downstairs for refreshments.
    "What's that smell?" he asked.
    Dink sniffed. "Something outside. I thought I'd cool the room down, then shut the windows.”
    "Smells like . . . what? Smoke? Hot tar?"
     "Probably odors from the kitchen, General.”
     "Let's not eat here, then," he snorted, turning on the tape player to be sure it worked.
     The tray of drinks arrived only moments before Arthur and Morse, the senator already in a state of
outrage.
     "What the bleep?" snarled the senator. "It's bleeping midnight.”
     "We figured you'd want to know about it," said Dink. "Remember what we told you about last time
we met? The unidentified objects flying from A to B to X. Well, McVane tells us X turned out to be right
here. This tape was made earlier tonight. I think it'll be self-explanatory.”
     He pushed the button. The dinner party was on the screen. There was, however, no Indira, no Lara.
There were, instead, two totally inhuman creatures who darted and clicked their way around the room and
who ate, once dinner was served, in a peculiarly disgusting manner. At least, so thought the senator,
though he knew he was more sensitive to such matters than many of his associates. He watched, both
repulsed and fascinated, all the way through the speeches, the envoys' explanations and farewells, and the
disappearance of the envoys.
     "They just vanished!" said McVane. "Like a puff of smoke.”
     "The woman," said Morse. "The so-called intermediary. Who is she?"
     McVane answered. "Her name is Benita Alvarez. We're not supposed to know that, Senator. We got
the information from Congressman Alvarez. She's some kind of seventh cousin twice removed. General
Wallace was in Alvarez's office when the woman brought him a kind of cube thing that delivered the
message. He, in turn, brought the thing to the president. I first knew about this on Monday, when I
attended a Cabinet meeting at the White House. The real intermediary doesn't look like the woman on the
tape, by the way. She's younger and better looking, and she has dark hair.”
     "She could be anybody!" Morse exploded. "A Chinese agent. Somebody planted before the wall
came down! I want her, McVane. I want to talk to her right now!"
     "When we find out where she is, Senator. I had arranged to follow her from the meeting, but the
White House managed to be obstructive, as usual. It's only a matter of a few hours before we find her, but
as you pointed out, it's after midnight.”
     "So these damned monsters will teach us to be neighborly," fumed the senator. "Teach a fox to eat
chickens! You find that woman. You bring her here. Put her down in the basement rooms, where we can
have a very private little talk. You bring somebody from that spook factory of yours, too, so we can be
sure she's telling us the truth . . .”
     "Before you consider torture or drugs, you might try just talking with her," said Prentice Arthur, his
lip curled in distaste. "As yet, we have no reason to suspect she's anything but an ordinary American
citizen.”
     "You believe that, you believe in the tooth fairy," sneered the senator. "No, Prentice. I've seen this
coming. All the science fiction and the TV series and the movies! We've had aliens pushed down our
throats for decades! Softening us up. When we hear the word alien, we think of ET and little boys riding
bicycles across the full moon. We think of close encounters, with musical starships. Do you think that's all
coincidence? A fad? Let me tell you, it's purposeful, it's arranged. Now they're ready for the takeover, and
they've got us so well softened up, they figure we'll go along, no hassle, no fighting. Well, they've figured
without Byron Morse. Get me this woman! I want her.” He paused a moment, chewing at the corner of his
lips. "Does she have family?"
     "A husband in Albuquerque, two children in college in California.”
     "Well, while you're at it, I want them, too. All three of them.”
     Even McVane looked startled at this, and Prentice actually attempted to disagree. "Senator, you're
being precipitous . . .”
      "I'm being fucking decisive," Morse snarled. "And it's damned well time! You're a lawyer, Prentice!
Get some writs or some congressional subpoenas going. Issue them in the name of the committee. We
oversee intelligence, damn it, and this woman's family may have information crucial to intelligence.”
      "Surely we can take a little time . . .”
      "You think I'm out of my head? Hmm? Well, you just go along with me. And you watch the news.
Pretty soon you're going to see things happening. Things you can't explain. Oh, those aliens on the tape,
they'll explain it away, but there'll be people dead, or people missing. When you read about it, you
remember what I'm telling you. Until then, just do what I ask and pretend you believe in it! Now get off
your ass and take me home!"
      Dink left with Arthur and the senator. McVane gathered up the tape and his briefcase, then went to
shut the open windows. The strange smell was even stronger than it had been initially, an acrid stench,
and he leaned out, searching the area for signs of smoke. Nothing there but a line of trees, some of which
had been chopped off and re-grown from the crown. He searched for the word. Pollarded. Ugly, in his
opinion.
      "McVane," said someone from nearby.
      He jerked upright, banging his head on the window. "Who's that?" he snarled.
      "McVane," said the voice again, from outside.
      He leaned out the window, one hand cupped protectively over his head. "What?"
      The voice was mechanical, artificial. "The Pistach are not the only race desirous of working with
your people. Others are very interested, and others might offer better terms than the Pistach.”
      McVane stood very still. He could see no one outside the window, and the voice gave him no hints. It
was directionless. "Who are you? Why did you come to me?"
      "We are members of ShalaQua, General. It is a ... cadre, military, like yourself. We came to you
because you were at the meeting. We followed the Pistach to the meeting. You and we may be of great
service to one another. To discuss, however, we must arrange to meet.”
      "Who . . . who would you like to meet with?"
      "The persons with you tonight. The senator. His agents. You. Your agents, if you like.”
      "Where? When?"
      "Four day from now? Hmm?"
      "Monday?"
      "If it is called that. At darkspin, you gather others. You go somewhere distant from the city.”
      "Darkspin?" McVane whispered from a dry mouth.
      "When your world rolls into dark. Evening. Yes. We are still . . . accumulating vocabulary. We
apologize. You go into the country, we will follow you, we will meet there. Four days will give you time
to prepare, heh?"
      "Prepare what?"
      "Your safety. The senator, he will want to be safe. So with Prentice Arthur. You less so, but you are a
soldier, heh? You can make secure in four days. Some armored vehicle, perhaps. We do not presume to
tell you your business.”
      "Monday night, at sunset, somewhere in the country," said McVane.
      "Assuredly," said the voice. "We go now.”
      McVane turned away and walked dazedly to the door, shutting off the lights as he opened it, only
then remembering his briefcase. It was still on the table and he stumbled toward it in the dark, halted in
mid step by a sound from outside. Squadge, squadge, squadge. Flap, flap, flap. Conscious of his dry
mouth and throat, he paced silently toward the window, a mouth of darkness, standing back but looking
out. Nothing out there. The trees. Not as thick a grove as he had first thought. No more noise. Nothing.
     He picked up his briefcase and left as quickly as possible.
     Outside the senator's house, where they had dropped him off, Prentice and Dink sat in the car, at the
moment unwilling to move in any direction.
     "Did you know he had that rat in his craw about ET’s?" Dink asked. "I thought it was only pregnant
women that set him off.”
     "If you mean, did I know he's afraid of little green men, no, or that he believes there's an
extraterrestrial conspiracy, no. I didn't know either of those things. Maybe he had something bad happen
to him when he was a boy. A movie or TV show that scared him.”
     "You think?"
     Arthur said slowly, "I'd rather think that, wouldn't you? I mean, we occasionally work in rather . . .
arcane ways. We ... at least I try to avoid it, but it's the exigencies of the job. But . . . planning to torture
family members just because they might know something . . . that's a little far out even for our line of
work.”
     "He said there'd be people dead or missing. Maybe we'd better put someone on a survey of regional
and local news, tabulate any reports of people dead or missing.”
     "If you do, he'll have you by the short hairs. Dink. Think a moment. Aren't there always people dead
or missing?"
     "Right. Yeah. I see what you mean.”
     "I hope you do, Dink. Oh, yes, I hope you do.”

From Chiddy's journal
     Before we made contact with you, dear Benita, we watched the peoples of Earth for a very long time.
It was not necessary for us to learn all the languages, as we have machines to do that, but it was necessary
to learn how people think. We watched the Chinese and the Africans, the Indians and Ceylonese. I was
particularly interested in the nations where ruling groups had recently come to power through advocacy of
specific beliefs, as for example in Afghanistan.
     For several days, I was intrigued by one particular person there, one who thought of himself as a
warrior and faithful son of the Prophet. We watched his daily routines including the rituals and prayers his
people engage in several times each day. Vess listened to his memories: remembered writings, oral
histories, the battles he had fought and the victory his people had won. This man, whose name was Ben
Shadouf, had been given a half-ruined house, badly damaged during the war. He spent part of each day
rebuilding the house where he lived with his wife and his children.
     Each evening, when he rose from his prayers, he went to the inner courtyard where his wife had set
out his evening meal. On a particular evening, he sat contemplating the food for a long time, then
summoned his wife and pointed at the plates before him, asking for meat.
     "We had none," she murmured.
     "You have money to buy meat," he said. I watched his eyes measuring her, examining her face with
what I took to be concern.
     When we first found this family, she had looked quite healthy and vigorous, as you do, dearest
Benita, but she no longer did so. Now she coughed often, there were shadows around her eyes, and her
hair was rough and uncared for.
     "I gave you money," he said.
     "You had no time to go with me to the market," she replied. Her eyes remained fixed on her feet. She
seemed feverish and unwell. "I am no longer permitted to be on the street without a male relative.”
     He gritted his teeth and waved her away, fingering the long scar that ran from his forehead down one
cheek. Vess told me the man was proud of the scar, for he had killed the Russian soldier who had shot
him. The bullet had nicked his cheekbone, however, and it hurt him still. Vess, feeling his mind, said the
battles he had fought were more real to him than the present, more real than the victory his group had
achieved. He had anticipated victory the way a starving person anticipates food. He had thought it would
be satisfying, gladdening, but he found it to be only tiresome. He had agreed to the laws they would
implement when the victory came, but he had not known how irritating and inconvenient those laws
would be. He had not realized his wife would suffer from them.
     The woman, Afaya, could not go into the street without a male relative to protect her modesty, even
though she would be covered from head to toe with only tiny mesh openings before her eyes. Afaya had
told her husband that wearing the robe was like being blind. The wife of Mustapha, his neighbor and
commanding officer, had tripped on the pavement and fallen, allowing her legs to be seen. She was then
beaten by those who named themselves Guardians of Modesty. She had died of this beating. Mustapha
had shrugged it away, for she was old and there were no children at home for her to care for, but he, too,
found the new rules inconvenient.
     Vess and I puzzled over this. The woman was a receptor, of course. The men were all inceptors,
except the very young ones, who would be, and very old ones, who had been. Was every one of them
expected to go into breeding madness if he saw a receptor's legs? Or her face? Were they totally without
self-control or a sense of shame? Seemingly so, for any woman showing her face was charged with being
an erotic-stimulator-for-hire who, by showing any part of herself, had stimulated breeding madness in
men and must therefore be stoned to death. Actual erotic-stimulators-for-hire, of whom there were a good
many, were not stoned to death. And, most interesting of all, even while the men were doing the stoning,
they knew the women they called whores were, in fact, innocent. And yet, they did it.
     We examined Ben Shadouf's irritation. He would have to hire a male servant to do the food buying
for the household. He would have to sequester Afaya and his daughters to the upstairs of the house, for
the servant, being unrelated to them, could not run the risk of coming into contact with them or seeing
them. If his wife was not in the courtyard, where the kitchen was, she could not cook his meals! All these
endless complications in order to keep his wife, a human being like himself, imprisoned from the sight
and hearing of any other man! Even his consciousness of his own frustration annoyed him.
     When the wife of Ben Shadouf began coughing again, he looked up in anger. It was a strange anger,
directed as much at himself as at her. Her cough had become more dangerous over the previous days.
Vess and I believed she was dying. She held memories of the time before the war when she had gone to a
clinic staffed by women doctors, but women were not allowed to work any longer. Their place was at
home where their purity could be protected by their menfolk.
     We sought throughout the city and found the clinic, which had set up anew in a private home. It was
staffed only by women who did not go out, who received shipments of medicines from outside the
country and who had husbands or brothers to shop for them. Vess put the knowledge of this place into
Ben Shadouf's head. We saw him thinking the women doctors were probably Americans, or influenced by
Americans who were always trying to seduce followers of the Prophet to their evil ways. He worried
whether he could risk defilement by going to the clinic with her, and he feared the satanic notions they
would put into her head. Perhaps it would be better, he thought, to let her die and then find a new wife,
one with a brother who could share the duty of protecting her.
     And yet, he loved her. We saw tears in his eyes.
     Vess and I tried to make sense of this as we watched him picking at the vegetables: lentils and onions
and herbs, which had a flavorful aroma. His wife was dying, his children would be motherless, and he
could not engage in any constructive action.
     Abruptly he pushed the food aside and got up. Calling loudly, he said, "I am going into the town for
my meal. This food is fit only for women.”
     As he left, we heard her coughing again.
     Intrigued by this episode, we sought similar confusions where religion warred with good sense. We
found them in many parts of the world: in Afghanistan, Moslem against Moslem. In India, Moslem
against Hindu against Christian. In Israel, Moslem against Moslem against Israelis who are against other
Israelis. This particular observation saddened us, for all the pain that was in it, and it excited us, too, for it
showed us there are ways in which we know we can help your world. While you are putting together your
household, Benita, we are taking our first action, not in your country, where we had planned to do so, but
in Afghanistan and Israel and India and so on. Your Moses, in your holy book, brought down plagues
upon his adversaries. So Vess and I will bring down plagues upon that part of your world.

Jerusalem—THURSDAY
     The first public notice of what was later called the Old City Absence came at 4:15 A.M. on Thursday,
when a caravan of determined Ha-sidic Jews from New York approached the Old City of Jerusalem where
they planned to enter via the Dung Gate on their way to securing an early and favorable position at the
Wall. The valley through which they had been driving was filled with mist, making the world seem
dreamlike and insubstantial, an effect which did nothing to make the sleepy driver more alert. It was only
when the road before him seemed to vanish altogether that he screeched to a stop, the car swerving so that
it blocked the road. The three other cars in the convoy also pulled to a halt, and the rabbi in charge of the
group got out of the second one and walked toward driver number one, now out of his car and following
his flashlight's yellow circle along the roadway to the point at which it disappeared infinitely downward.
     "What is it?" cried the rabbi, himself still half asleep. "What's wrong?"
     The driver's eyes stayed glued in place, though he took a backward step as he heard the rabbi's
footsteps approaching.
     "What is it?" he asked again.
     "It's gone," mumbled the driver. "Everything's gone. The walls of the Old City. I can't see them.
There should be some lights. Everything's gone.”
     The rabbi stared along the flashlight beam. Before his feet the earth stopped at a clean, knife edge,
and a great chasm opened beyond it. The chasm had no farther side that they could see, nor any bottom.
The rabbi dropped to his hands and knees and crept forward until his chin was over the abyss. He lay flat
and stretched one arm downward, feeling along the side.
     "Glass," he muttered. "Like it was melted. By a bomb, maybe. Smooth like glass.” He pulled himself
away from the edge and rose, eyes wild. "Nothing," he cried in an awed and grief-stricken voice.
"Nothing there. Everything stops but the pit! It's smooth, it goes down.”
     "How far?"
     "I should know how far? Farther than your light shines!"
     They went back to their vehicles. The first three cars stayed where they were while the last car in line
reversed and went back the way it had come. No one among them had a cell phone, but a half mile back,
they'd passed a public phone from which the frantic driver called an emergency number. His
announcement was met with weary amusement.
     "Sir, you're a tourist, right? So you've probably taken the wrong road . . .”
     "Yes, I'm a tourist," he cried. "But the men driving the cars live here, and the man leading our
caravan lives in Jerusalem! He was born here. He's lived here all his life. Will you, for God's sake, send
someone to see what happened?"
     There were murmuring and the sound of voices raised in the background.
     "Where are you calling from?"
     "I have no idea," he said. "Half a mile back from where the road disappeared.”
     "Where were you going, sir?"
     "The Wall. We were going to the Dung Gate and then to the Wall.”
     "Stay where you are, sir.”
     He rejoined his passengers, and they sat in terrified discomfort, waiting. A car went by with a
flashing light. Another stopped. The driver got out.
     "You the one who called? Right. Follow me.”
     They did follow, only half a mile to the place where the first car flashed its light at the edge of the
abyss, its uniformed driver and passenger standing next to the rabbi, who was rocking back and forth in
rapidly muttered prayer while they stared downward into nothing.
     Eventually, after lengthy radio conversations with his headquarters, the officer asked the rabbi where
his group was staying and suggested they return there.
     "There's no alternate road we can take to the Wall? These people have come a long way," the rabbi
objected, eyes unfocused.
     "It wouldn't matter if there were an alternate road," said the officer. "There's no Wall. The Old City's
gone. All of it.”
     "But . . . but my son, his family . . . they live there!"
     Lived there, silently amended the officer, taking the old man by the arm.
     For the police and the army, which was immediately called out, the rest of the night, what little there
was of it, was spent putting up traffic barriers. Skid marks extending across the edge indicated the barriers
came too late for some travelers.

Afghanistan—THURSDAY
     Ben Shadouf was awakened by the call to prayer. He had overslept, not that he needed to answer to
anyone for his sleeping time, merely that he had slept badly early in the night. Yesterday he had taken his
concerns about Afaya to his friend, his commander, Mustapha ibn Daud, and Mustapha had told him not
to take Afaya to the clinic. She would live, said Mustapha, or she would die, and in either case, that was
the will of Allah.
     "I feel I am killing her," Ben Shadouf had cried. "She went to the clinic before. They helped her.”
     "Only to confuse you, my friend. That is their purpose, these unbelievers. They will use anything to
weaken your faith. They will use your sorrow for a wife. Your pity for a child. You must harden yourself
like iron that is quenched and beaten in the fires of adversity. If our wives or children die, they die, but
while they live they are pure. If we die, we die, but while we live, we are faithful!"
     Ben Shadouf came home angry. He was glad Afaya was not where he would encounter her. He did
not want to see her face.
     He listened, but did not hear her. No cough. No footsteps. He heard the children, on the roof, playing
a singing game. It would be safe to rise, to leave the house and find a meal in the town. Perhaps it would
be as well not to come home for a while. He could ask his neighbor to have his wife check on Afaya from
time to time. If she died or was unable to get out of bed, the children could be taken somewhere else.
Luckily, they were still tiny. Nowhere near an age when they would need to be watched to be sure they
did not let anyone see them.
     He got out of bed, washed his face and hands, and dressed himself. He visited the latrine behind the
house, outside the courtyard. He did not hear a sound. Then, an upper window over the courtyard opened,
its hinge screeching, and a woman leaned out. He thought it was a woman only because she did not wear a
man's headdress, though she, or it, could as well be a man. A very old, very ugly man, with a huge,
curving nose and a great box of a chin dotted with brown, hairy moles.
     The person leaned farther, pouring water on a plant that sat on the ledge beneath the window, and as
the person leaned out, Ben Shadouf saw that he, it, was wearing Afaya's garments. But it was not Afaya.
Its head was bald and wrinkled. It was hideous. He stared upward unbelieving!
     The creature saw him and smiled, opened its horrid mouth and spoke in Afaya's voice!
     "Welcome, husband. I feel somewhat better today. Perhaps you can take me to the market, to buy
supplies. Perhaps you can . . .”
     He heard no more. His own scream of rage and terror covered anything else this horrid being had to
say in Afaya's voice. Every word in Afaya's voice!
     His rage and disgust carried him in a fury to the stairs. The being was still in the room where he had
seen it, her, him, the afrit, the genie, the demon who had taken his wife.
     "Where is Afaya?" he cried.
     "I am here," she said, in Afaya's voice, turning to give him a welcoming and hideous smile. She came
toward him, her arms wide, and he lifted his staff to split the ugly bald skull, but the blow never landed.
Instead, he felt the blow he aimed at her strike himself, riving his head so the blood ran across his eyes
and he fell senseless at her feet.

Benita—THURSDAY
     Despite her anger, partly at Carlos, mostly at herself, Benita had fallen asleep almost immediately.
She did not waken until about eight on Thursday morning, when the phone rang.
     The voice was Chiddy's. "Are you all right, Benita?"
     She nodded, then realized Chiddy couldn't see the nod. "Yes," she said.
     "You were unhappy last night. You don't sound happy now.”
     She didn't mean to talk about Carlos, but the words spilled out. "My son, Carlos. He's a very
manipulative person. I hoped when he went away to school, he'd grow out of it. But he's still doing it. I
wish he'd just . . . grow up and let me alone.”
     "This wish is not improper. Does your husband share this characteristic of manipulating?"
     She thought about it. "Well, yes. Until I caught onto it.” Which had only taken, what? A lifetime?
     Chiddy sighed. "It is one of the tragedies of your biology, Benita. Your men and women are often
insufficiently selective in the mating practices. We have noted you people do not consider that your
children will have the worst traits of either parent, often to a great degree. In our opinion, women in your
world who are under the age of thirty and who wish to mate should require the approval of a board of
qualified geneticists and behaviorists. Alas, that is unlikely to happen. Is that all you were upset about?"
     His tone made her choke. It was so sympathetic and yet so very superior and above it all. "Well,
General McVane didn't keep his word to us about not telling anyone. But the First Lady was very kind,
and I don't think the media found out who I am.”
     "Speaking from what we have seen of your people, they will find out, sooner or later. Your
congressman has allowed himself to be persuaded by McVane and others. They already know who you
are. They do not know where you are, however, which we will try to keep private for the time being.”
     "Why do reporters have to dig into people's privacy?" she fumed.
     "Communication is much like sex.”
     This set her back. "I don't understand . . .”
     A chuckle. "Being celibate is often wise and prudent. People know this, but the inborn drive to
reproduce makes their organs wag. Keeping silent is often wise and prudent. People know this, also, but
the drive to question and tell makes their tongues wag. Sex spreads genetic material, good and bad, prying
spreads information, true and false, natural selection takes over and both ethical failings contribute to
continuing evolution.”
    She laughed. "I wish there were ways to do it that were less troublesome. Did you know that the
Secretary of State is going to fix up my new apartment for me? She says to save time, but I imagine it's to
keep an eye on me.”
    "Interesting," said Chiddy.
    "So, maybe I'll see you after I move in?"
    "You will, yes. Have you any questions?"
    "I have some, yes. One is ... I didn't realize you were depending on me to go on working with you,
and I've told Simon I will work for him. I owe him my full-time effort, you know. If he's paying me, it
wouldn't be ethical not to give him a fair day's work.”
    "What you do for us will be very simple, Benita. It will take very little time.”
    "And . . . the money you gave me. I really didn't need all that. I should give the rest of it back.”
    "That is our standard payment for the kind of service you will be rendering. It doesn't obligate you to
do anything for us that your conscience finds abhorrent.”
    "In that case, well, thank you.”
    "No thanks needed. Do you have another question?"
    "I don't really understand just what the requirements are that we humans have to meet in order to be
members of your Confederation. Since I'm the intermediary, I ought to understand them, shouldn't I?"
    "Yes, you should. The preliminary requirement is Neighborliness, as we have said. Learning to get
along together without blowing up people or shooting children from cars or oppressing people because of
perceived dissimilarities to oneself. Once that has been achieved, there are only a few formalities. First,
we require a volunteer liaison person from your planet, someone who must be intimately connected to the
process of mutuality. We call this person the Link. We will also need a profile person to travel among our
various worlds while the members of the Confederation establish biological parameters for your race.
This person, we call the Pattern.”
    "Is that it?"
    "Become neighborly, give us a Link and a Pattern, then a short probationary period, and that's it.
Does that answer your question.”
    She wasn't satisfied, but she didn't know what would be more satisfying. "Yes, I think so. Thank
you.”
    "Thank you, Benita. We will be in touch.”

Jerusalem—THURSDAY
     In Israel, first light had brought helicopter flights over the city of Jerusalem. The mile-deep hole
followed the serrated polygon of the old city walls. Vanished were the Temple Mount, the Dome of the
Rock, El Aqsa Mosque, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Via Dolorosa. Gone were the Citadel and
the Antonia Fortress, the Zion Gate, the Jaffa Gate. Gone was the entire Old City: Arab Quarter, Jewish
Quarter, Armenians, Greek Orthodox, odds and ends of vari-etal Christians and all.
     When the sun got high enough to reflect off the inside lip of the chasm, large gold letters appeared
just below the western edge in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and Arabic. Further examination found other
languages, ancient and modern, extending along the north and eastern sides. At midmorning, former
residents of the Old City were seen approaching the city from various directions, on foot, most in their
bed clothes. No one was hurt, though many were thirsty and hungry, and all said they'd left others out in
the desert or along the roads or in the smaller towns or villages in which they themselves had wakened.
The International Red Cross/Red Crescent arrived a few hours later, though the Israeli army had already
set up a tent city for the displaced, divided by hastily erected barriers into areas for various religious or
ethnic groups who might otherwise be expected to fall upon one another in a frenzy of mutual accusation.
     The news was carried by CNN before full light, and was reprised every quarter hour thereafter as the
country turned toward the sun, allowing more of the chasm's southern and then eastern faces to be
illuminated. As each new language appeared, an appropriate scholar was summoned to the CNN
newsroom to pontificate upon the meaning of the words, though in each case the meaning was the same,
whether in Latin, Coptic, Armenian, Aramaic, or various forms of ancient or modern Hebrew or Greek:
"Jerusalem was to be a city of holy peace. Without peace, it is not to be.”
     When telescopes were brought and focused far down on the walls, the message was seen to have been
augmented with another phrase, also in multiple languages. "Next time, the hole will be bigger.”

Washington—THURSDAY
       In the U.S., in the office of the president, that gentleman was closeted with a number of his close
advisors, all of them trying to figure out what to say or, indeed, whether it was appropriate to say anything
except "Wow," or something sanctimonious starting with the words, "Today God has seen fit to remind us
. . .”
       "That idiot McVane would ask them to prove it!" snarled the Secretary of State, who was in a
waspish mood. She had slept badly and had already spent a good part of the morning alternately assuring
the Israeli Prime Minister, the Vatican, the Eastern Orthodox Church, a handful of American evangelicals
and charismatics, and the Palestinian Ambassador that no, the U.S. had no weapons advanced enough to
have dug that hole without damaging a single citizen. A big hole, yes, maybe, but one that cleanly
followed ancient city walls and didn't kill so much as a sparrow, no. She had pointed out that even the
cars that had gone over the brink had been found in the desert, their occupants asleep but unharmed.
Ethical behavior, she had said repeatedly, was often abridged by the possible, and the U.S. lacked the
know-how to behave in such an ethical manner.
       "You think the ET’s did this?" asked the president. "You're sure?"
       "Of course they did it," the SOS snarled once more. "They asked us, remember? At dinner. What
some of our problems were.”
       "They asked me during our meeting, too. I mentioned the Middle East.”
       "They asked about Afghanistan, and your wife mentioned women's rights in that context. I mentioned
the fact that in Africa national boundaries were established by colonial powers without taking tribalism
into account . . .”
       "So, what do we expect to happen next?" he grated. "All the women disappear? All the tribes in
Africa?"
       "I don't know," she said.
       "You're afraid to know," he said, biting his lip. "So am I.”
       She muttered, "I don't suppose we could just ask them to go home?"
       He laughed, without humor. "They warned us not even to think about that. They don't go home. Not
until they're finished or they give up.”

                                      JERUSALEM DISAPPEARS
                                   WORLD WONDERS AT ACT OF GOD

                            MYSTERIOUS MESSAGES CONFOUND SCIENCE
                               UNEARTHLY FORCES DEMAND PEACE
          FUNDAMENTALISTS GREET DISAPPEARANCE AS OVERTURE TO LAST DAYS

                      JERUSALEM TRANSPORTED TO HEAVEN, SAYS FALWELL
                           HOLY CITY TO RETURN AFTER ANTICHRIST

                          THOUSANDS GATHER TO AWAIT SECOND COMING
                           BAPTISTS CROWD SOUTHERN MOUNTAINTOPS

                                 RUMORS OF PLAGUE IN AFGHANISTAN
                                   KABUL REQUESTS AID FROM CDC

From Chiddy's journal
      As an athyco, it was to'eros task, that is, my task, dear Benita, to design remedies for societies,
including our own, that did not work well. Yes, Benita, sometimes even our own society does not work as
well as it should. I find comfort in this, when I am confronted with some problem difficult of solution.
Patience, I say to myself. Even we have problems we have not put an end to.
      After spending several years both reading case histories of other athyci who had worked in prior
centuries and solving thought problems under the guidance of my mentor, ton was sent to the village of
Quo-Tern to solve a problem that had come up in recent years. It was in Quo-Tern that ton first met the
person who was to be to'eros long-term workmate, Vess. Of course, no one in the village called ais Vess.
In the village Vess and Chiddy were called Aisos Torsummi or Aisos Torsum. Earthlings would say,
Their Excellencies or His Excellency or even, if speaking directly to us, Your Excellency, though our
language does not have an easy equivalent to "you.” In our society such directness is considered rude.
Among intimates and when referring to self, we use the first level undifferentiated, casteless pronouns we
learned as children, with a mouthpart gesture to indicate whether we refer to self or other. Ton, I or you.
To'er, me or you. To'eros, mine or yours. Ton'i, we or you. To'eri, us or you. To'erosi, our or your. In
speaking to others, especially to groups of differing castes, we speak always of "one," using the pronoun
of the highest caste present. Ke (or li or ai) afar. One serves. Ker (or lie, or ais) afari. Serve it to one.
Keros (or licos or aisos) ca fi. It is one's.
      Since this document is intended for you, dear Benita, I continue the struggle to put it in your words,
fa fi sbunus to'erosi afarim. It is our joy to serve.
      Vess and / were soon on a confidential basis, Chiddy and Vess, to'eri, new athyci. The problem in
Quo-Tern, which was a farming community, mostly campesi, had to do with the communal lands on
which the people grazed the village livestock. Over the past century, the number of persons in the town
had increased, the herds had likewise increased, and the public lands could no longer support the number
of beasts. Riverbanks were destroyed, the plants that held the soil were killed, good soil was being
washed downstream, into other communities.
      In all problems, athyci are required to keep the great fundamental truths in mind. Some of these are as
follows: Resources are finite. Some things are not renewable. Intelligent creatures must give way to
irreplaceable achievements. One cannot explain to a tree or a forest that it must either grow without water
or move to another place, but one can explain to a person that it must go somewhere else, where water is
available. As we say, "The health of a forest outweighs both the tears of a nootch and the plaint of an
athyco.” After all, it may take half a millennium or more to achieve similar trees while it would take only
a few decades to achieve a new nootch or a new athyco. Of course, it is easier for us than for your
governing bodies since we do not consider our temporary inconvenience as superior to the needs of
permanently essential forests and seas. We are taught to think in many lifetimes, not only in the short span
of our own. This kind of thinking is, in your language, Darwinian, since only people who think this way
will survive in the long run. The fact that your Madagascar and your Brazil and several of your African
countries will be incapable of supporting either flora or fauna within thirty years are cases in point.
     On Quo-Tern we first had to determine why the number of persons had increased. We have a saying,
"False reasons grow like weeds.” It is true. There are as many false reasons as there are neurons to fire
them off, but problems cannot be solved using false reasons. Real reasons are of utmost importance. We
looked at the data. Years before, several of the undifferentiated young of Quo-Tern had been selected as
inceptors more or less simultaneously. This was a statistical blip, but such things happen. As is the way
with inceptors, ke'i had accumulated receptors, some from Quo-Tern and some from outside, three here,
four there, and the receptors had recruited nootchi for the creating of young. The young had grown, and
while some had been selected out into other areas, more had returned to the village, mostly those we call
the glusi, the not-very-able-ones, the perpetually undifferentiated, the ones who do not come to mind
when one gives thanks.
     Return to one's ancestral place is a right we try very hard to guarantee, but another of our immutable
facts is: Managers always recruit the top layers among persons, for such persons will reflect well upon
them, and the lower one's ability, the higher the chance one will be left where one is. In time, therefore,
Quo-Tern had grown top heavy with glusi. While glusi eat no more and take no more space than others,
they use up space and resources without regenerating them. They tend to destroy in that way, by sucking
energy, or through undirected energy of their own, or through ineptitude or even, sometimes, malice.
There is no cure for a glut of glusi except not to beget them in the first place, but by the time one knows
one has a glut, it is too late.
     The moment that the people-load had gone beyond the numbers allowed to the village, the strain
should have been brought to the attention of the athyci. Why had that not happened? Because the former
recording-campes responsible for assembling and transmitting information, a very able person, had died at
that time, and ke had not been replaced. No one had gone to the bureau of selectors and told lic'i a
recording-campes was needed. So, the imbalance had gone on and gone on, and now the situation was at a
point where no acceptable solution was possible. No matter what Vess and I did, persons would be greatly
disturbed, even angry, both the innocent and the persons responsible.
     We faced this anger resolutely. Panel number seven of the Fresco, The Adoration, is an inspiration in
such times. In it, Mengantowhai, who has made massive changes in the lives of the Jaupati in order to
bring them peace, is hailed by them as their savior. I always think of this when I am required to bring
trouble or pain to our people. In the end, I say, they will be thankful for it.
     We needed to know whether the glut of glusi was achieved out of ignorance or whether it had been
deliberate. We started our inquiry with the campesi. Unbelievably, after millennia of refinement in our
methods, some campesi still end up believing they have not been properly selected, some still resent
having been selected at all!
     Even today we may find one who croaks like a pfluggi and wants to be a singer. Or one who has all
the grace of a puyox but wants to dance. Or another one, who cannot add up the same figures twice with
the same answer, who wants to be a proffe, what you call an engineer! I feel gratitude that such longings
are rare. Though most campesi require only slight adjusting to be content, for a few there is no soothing.
We have a saying, "There is no misery like misdream-ing.” Or, as earthlings might say, "No tragedy like
false ambition.”
     It would be necessary, we found, to cut the village population by about a third, to reduce grazing on
the lands by more than half for a lengthy period, and to undertake strenuous regeneration of the lands,
which would require the labor of all campesi in Quo-Tern for some time. This meant the other categories
who remained would have to do their own chores for a time, which is proper. We are taught, "An
inescapable burden must fall equally upon all castes.”
      As athyci, it was our job to choose who would stay and who would go. The first task was to message
the need everywhere, at first to the places of that world, then, if necessary, to other settled worlds. So
many inceptors, so many receptors, so many nootchi, so many undifferentiated ones, so many campesi, all
to find places for. When the returns came in, we began the allocation. Receptors and associated nootchi to
the same places, when possible. If not possible, then interviews with them to assess their relative
willingness to separate. Some receptors, luckily, were willing to be separated, and others, who had
reached or exceeded the number of young required of them, wanted to be reselected to nonreceptor caste.
      Few of the nootchi and none of the inceptors wanted to be reselected. This is most often true of
inceptors. Their lives are centered on gratifying their mating organ to the extent they cannot even
visualize doing something else. It was at this juncture we found that several of the inceptors were closely
related, that several of them shared the same cell parents, even the same nootch!
      This explained everything! While organ gratification comes first with inceptors, progeny pride comes
second! Inceptors who have the same lineage have been known to engage in progeny competition, even
when, as was the case here, the progeny were not of very high quality. When we noticed this, we marked
all the related inceptors for retirement therapy.
      We then moved on to the undifferentiated ones, those not yet twelve. Undifferentiated ones are
easiest. So long as they have a good nootch, they are usually content. We identified all those procreated
by the inceptors in question and tagged them in the records as non-breeder stock, even if they showed
great aptitude for the task. It is an unfortunate truth that inceptors and receptors of very little brain are
often very skilled with the generative organ and emit very strong mating smells. That is one of the reasons
our selectors must be extremely careful in their choices. It is rather like politics or policing: those who
most enjoy the work are often those who should not be doing it!
      When we were finished, we had retired or allocated all but the leftover campesi, mostly old ones or
glusi, the offspring of the inceptors we had already tagged. As earthlings would say, the bottom of the
barrel. A few were old enough to refer to the farms for the aged, but several had to be sent to the sleep
gardens. Though we do not publicize these arrangements, persons may sleep in the gardens up to one
hundred years, and this is usually more than adequate time to find places even for supernumerary
campesi. The settlement of new planets requires many such, and we Pistach are usually settling
somewhere.
      When Vess and I had finished, we knew that unhappiness and trauma had been minimized to the
extent possible. Still, we felt the strain of that which remained! The pride of the inceptors had been
unavoidably damaged and a number of the nootchi had been aggrieved. Nootchi grow very attached to
their home place, and it is hard for them to move. They have spent years weaving a village, planning it,
decorating it with gardens, laying out its walks and pretty-places and play areas for the young. Nootchi
are the cement of a community, they stick fast, and it is like flaying a fluggle to tug them away.
      In any case, persons from all four village categories came to us, as we knew they would, to complain.
It was during our last formal session. They bowed, calling us Aisos Torsummi. They presented their
petition and asked redress of grievance. We inquired whether they wanted vengeance, and they affirmed
this. Such an imbalance was someone's fault, their grief demanded redress. While we knew the real
trouble had started with the selectors who had sent too many inceptors of the same, faulty lineage back to
this village, we did not say so, for the selectors were not answerable to people below them in caste. We
would take care of that ourselves.
      Nonetheless, we told the villagers a truth: that the trouble began when the recording-campes died.
The inceptor who was then the village master had the duty of requesting a new recording-campes. Ke had
not done so. That inceptor was still alive, and keros name was such and such, and the aggrieved had our
permission to kill ker, if they wished, though we advised them it would be courteous to listen first to keros
explanation.
      Since inceptor in question had been retired to an aged persons' farm at some distance, vengeance
would require the aggrieved to make a lengthy trip. Serially, the aggrieved ones declaimed their intention
of doing so, and we made note of their intentions so they would have no trouble getting travel permission.
Their actually going to the aged persons' farm was unlikely. Since many of those in the group would be
sent to their new homes on the following day, thus separating them from one another, it was doubtful they
would ever get around to confronting the old inceptor. Grievance and anger need a certain heat of
immediacy and a constant draft of rhetoric to keep them burning. This is why humans who explain their
anger to counselors and psychologists go on being angry, they fan their anger with a constant hurricane of
reminiscence. Separating those who are aggrieved is like raking out a fire, a good way of cooling things
down, while the process of formulating their grievance served both to focus and to ameliorate their
feelings. Knowing who was to blame, they would not waste energy on other targets.
     Our last few hours on Quo-Tern were spent with the most able campesi, those who would remain,
and the current village manager who was, luckily, a person of some administrative talent, though he had
not had the will or the authority to do what we had done. Village managers live by the will of the village,
and villages make painful changes only when they are in agony. When agony is not present, no matter
how imminent it looms, painful change must come from outside. This is a truth. We detailed the measures
that would be necessary to restore the land to health and we swore ker'i to the task, however long it might
take. The few inceptors who were left in the village were forbidden to initiate breeding until the task was
done, and the village master was given the necessary medications to quell all mating odors and assure
compliance. As a parting gift, we gave the village, as was customary, worms from our own home lands,
thus tying their fate to ours and our future to theirs. We have a saying, "Where one lives, all live,- where
one suffers, all suffer.” One, in our language, includes all living things. In your language someone has
said, "No man is an island," which encompasses the concept but which, by mentioning only mankind,
misses the point.
     The task was completed when ton'i, Vess and Chiddy, met with the selector who had sent the faulty
inceptors to Quo-Tern. Before going there, we reviewed the standards for selection and found that
tabulation of current breeders by place and identity of parent was neither required for the record, nor
easily derived therefrom. We advised the selector that this lack had resulted in unnecessary trauma and
dislocation, that we recommended a warning system be initiated to identify such blips in the future. We
told lie that the recommendation had already gone to the Bureau of Selectors. The selector thanked to'eri
for to'erosi diligence, and also for to'erosi recommendation that the selector not be mercifully disposed of,
inasmuch as the mistake could not have been easily avoided.
     Sometimes mistakes are not foreseeable. You, dearest Benita, made a mistake in selecting the
inceptor you did. Still, it was not one you could easily avoid. Your race is thrust into sexual behaviors so
young! Far too young. Until recent generations, your young persons did not mature so early. You are so
well fed, so overexposed to chemicals that act upon you like fertilizers, you sprout up like weeds! We
speak of this, Vess and I. He admires you, though he does not have for you the tenderness that I do.
Where does it come from, this tenderness? I do not know. I have felt it, now and then, for things,
sometimes, for places, for ideas. You are the first other I have felt it for. The feeling is very precious to
me.

Mrs. Chad Riley—THURSDAY AND FRIDAY
     On Thursday morning, Mrs. Chad Riley, the former Merilu McElton, had returned with sons Jason
and Jeremy to the family home in Georgetown, intending to stay only long enough to pack their clothing
and the boys' toys. Thirty-six hours in a huddle with her mother had set in concrete her desire to leave
Washington. Since she and the boys had luxuriated in room service meals in the suite between visits to the
pool, the spa, and the beauty shop, and since they had not ordered a paper or looked at anything on TV but
the cartoon and shopping channels, Merilu was still unaware of the events that had much of the world
either dumb with astonishment or loud with accusation.
     While she was packing, however, she switched on the TV and was surprised to find she could get
nothing but news. Submitting to the inevitable, the fact that something extraordinary had happened
eventually penetrated her self-absorption. Putting two and two together to make five and a half, Merilu
decided the FBI had had something to do with it, and that Chad was probably in it up to his neck, which
was why he had been so distant lately. At that point, she slid the half-packed suitcases under the bed and
called her mother.
     "Before I go back to Missoula with you, Mom, I got to give him a chance. I think he's in trouble!" A
not unpraisworthy part of Merilu's credo was that women stood by their men when the men were in
trouble.
     "Now you're sure, honey-bun? You don't know what he's been up to. He could have a woman on the
side, you know. He could be mixed up in drugs. The FBI, they must come upon a pile of drugs, doing the
work they do. Or money. Gracious, isn't a day we don't read about laundering money, though I've never
been able to figure out why it's against the law. Ever since I found out it was illegal, I've just ironed mine
and Daddy's. Mostly for the collection plate, you know. Just a little swipe with a hot iron will get rid of
most germs, and it flattens the bills out nice, too. Sometimes I press it between two pieces of wax p…"
     Her daughter interrupted, "Mom, have you seen the TV?"
     "Why, no, dear. I've just been sitting here having a nice manicure and pedicure. Is there something
special on?"
     "You better turn on the TV. I mean, it makes me think probably Chad isn't up to any of the things you
mentioned. It's something else. Something worse. Chad probably wanted to talk to me about this the
whole time, and he just couldn't. Chad's going to thank me for giving him a chance to get outta this town.
When people find out what his FBI's been up to, he'll wish he'd left a long time ago.”
     Merilu then called Chad's office, to be told by the receptionist that he was in a meeting and couldn't
be disturbed. Two subsequent calls brought the same reply. Merilu nodded wisely each time. She bet he
was in a meeting, all right. Everybody in the world would be having meetings, not that it'd do them any
good!
     Came suppertime, Merilu fed the boys, read to them for a while, then put them to bed. She bathed in
scented bath foam, did her hair the way Chad liked it, and pulled the suitcase from under the bed in order
to retrieve the negligee set he'd given her for their last anniversary. At nine o'clock, she was gorgeous. At
eleven, she took the latest Danielle Steel to bed with her. At midnight, she took off her eye makeup and
the peignoir and made herself a milk punch. At one o'clock on Friday morning she turned off the light.
     At three, when Chad tiptoed in and began moseying around in the bedroom, opening doors and
drawers, she came alert with astonishing speed, switched on the light, and immediately grasped at the idea
that had floated to the top while she was dozing.
     "Chad! I've been talking to Momma, and I've decided if you won't transfer to Missoula, I'm taking the
boys and going without you.”
     Though she had intended this threat to make him think about things, he turned in her direction as
though he hadn't really heard her, his eyes fixed and concentrated on something in the far away.
     "Good idea, honey," he said in a distant voice with a weird reverberation in it, almost like an echo.
"They won't let me go right now, of course. Not that I'd want to until we find out what the hell is going
on. But your getting away right now, yes, that's a really good idea. This city's going to come apart.”
     Mouth open, shocked into momentary silence, she watched as he continued doing what he'd been
doing when she turned the light on. Packing an overnight bag. In Merilu's mental attic, the idea of
Jerusalem and Washington coming apart and Chad acting weird began to resonate. It's the end of the
world, she thought. That's why all this is happening. And she hadn't been to church in months.
     He snapped the case shut, took it in one hand, and came to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
     "I don't know when I'll get back here. Be sure to lock up when you leave. Tell your mom and daddy
hello for me. I'll be in touch.”
     He threw her a bonus kiss and was out the door. A moment later she heard the front door slam, the
car start up and drive away. Only then did her waking mind remember its earlier preoccupation. Chad
hadn't acted like a man who was involved. He acted like a man who was absolutely in the dark and almost
afraid to know what was going on.

Bert Shipton—FRIDAY
     Late Friday morning, a guard rattled the bars of Bert's cell and told him he had a visitor.
     "That'd be my wife," opined Bert, with obvious relief. Good old Benita. You had to give her credit,
by God. She was a good old girl.
     "Not unless she has a bigger mustache than my wife," said the guard, unlocking the cell and standing
aside. He and Bert knew one another in the relationship of miscreant and warder, one that had been
renewed periodically over the last several years. "I've met Benita, and this guy's not her.”
     Bert, confused, shambled after the guard into the visitors' room where he took a seat opposite a stiffly
upright man garbed in a three-piece suit and an air of unassailable rectitude.
     "Bert Shipton?"
     "Yeah.”
     "Mr. Shipton, my name is Prentice Arthur. I'm with one of the national security agencies, and I flew
in this morning particularly to talk to you. We've just recently become aware that your wife has become
involved with some very . . . well, they're foreigners, actually, people who may be very dangerous. I doubt
very much she even realizes what trouble they may cause, but we're very worried about her. If you can tell
us how to reach her, just so we can protect her, we'd be glad to offer you some help in your present
situation.”
     "I don't know where she is," Bert responded in a guarded voice. "She left last Saturday. Left me a
note. Said she'd be in touch later.”
     Arthur nodded. "We're aware you don't know where she is right now, but you may be able to help us
find her. We'd be happy to help you out with your bail, if you'd like to assist us.”
     "Bail?" He thought about this long enough to flavor it with his usual bias. "Well, if you'd like to
include a little something for my time and effort, I might be able to help you.”
     His mustache hiding a lip sneeringly lifted at one corner, the visitor said, "Of course. A hundred a
day for your trouble.”
     Bert smiled, disclosing teeth evenly coated with ocherous velour. "Happy to be of help to my
country," he said, puffing a miasma into his visitor's face.
     "We'll take care of it," said Arthur, not breathing as he turned his face aside. "Here's my card. We'll
call you at your home tonight.”
     "Yeah, sure," said Bert, with another smile, from which his visitor hastily averted his eyes. "I hate to
mention it, but I'm ... a little short right now. And since my car's . . . out of commission, I'll need a little
cash to get home.”
     "I'll leave some money with the people up front.” The visitor rose and left, while Bert watched him
every step of the way. So little old holy-cow Benita was in trouble! Benita was never in trouble. With
some effort, he focused on the card which gave him no information except the name, Prentice Arthur,
Security and, in the lower left corner, an Albuquerque phone number. Now why in hell did a national
security suit have a local number?
     Half an hour later, supplied with a hundred dollars in twenties, Bert headed unerringly for the nearest
bar. When he soared out, two hours later, who should he run into but one of those fags his wife worked
for.
      "Good afternoon, Bert," this person said. "I got a postcard from Benita today. Seems she's taken a
new job in Denver. We'll miss her. Nice to see you. Bye.” The person, conscious of being watched, then
walked to the corner, and when around the corner and unobserved, vanished.
      Bert hadn't been able to bring the face quite into focus. Which one was it? Was it Goose or was it the
other one? Never mind which one. So she was in Denver. Sure, that made sense. Not too far away to take
the bus. When he'd talked to Carlos this morning, Carlos said she'd taken a bus wherever she was.
Bookstore job made sense, too, sure, big city like that had lots of bookstores. And Carlos said it had to be
someplace on mountain time.
      Well, so there he was, he already had it half figured out! He sure as hell wasn't going to tell Mr.
What's-his-name about Denver, though. Not when they were paying him a hundred a day to find her. Wait
a week. String him along. A hundred a day was too good to pass up.
      Across the street, in the front seat of a large van, Prentice Arthur asked, "Dink, who's he talking to?"
      Dink flipped through a notebook. "Looks like the guy that runs the bookstore where the target used to
work. Rene Guselier, usually called Goose.”
      "Did you pick up the conversation?" asked Arthur, over his shoulder.
      "Got it," said a disembodied voice from the back of the van. "The woman's got a job in Denver.”
      "He didn't say what kind of job?"
      "No mention. Wouldn't it be another bookstore? That's the only place she's ever worked. How many
can there be? Denver's a sports town, isn't it? Sports fans don't read, do they?"
      "Their wives probably do," said Arthur. "Since they have a great deal of time on their hands. Get us
on the next plane to Denver.”
      As the car pulled away, the voice asked, "Didn't you tell the guy you'd meet him this evening?"
      Prentice Arthur shook his head. "Look at him! By evening he won't be in condition to meet anyone.
It's only a two-hour flight if we have to come back to pick him up.”
      "Morse still wants the family?"
      "Well, before I left Washington, I managed to convince him that since he really wants the woman, the
man and the kids will be more use to us helping find her than they will be locked up somewhere. The way
Morse wants to disappear people left and right, you'd think this was Argentina!"
      While the men in suits were on their way to the airport, the subject of their surveillance managed to
locate a cab, more by luck than effort, and went home, arriving there at five. It was an hour earlier in
California, he told himself foggily. Carlos would be home, but Angelica wouldn't. Good time to call.
      The phone rang a dozen times before Carlos answered. "Yeah.”
      "Hiya Carlos. How's everthing?"
      "Dad? Are you out of jail?"
      "I am oh-you-tee out. This guy from some federal office, he bailed me out. He says your mom's been
makin some . . . dangerous friends. That's a ruckin kick, huh? Mama moocow, with dangerous friends.”
      "What are you talking about, dangerous friends? She's got a job in Denver.”
      "I know that. How did you know?"
      "I figured it out. She said she took a bus, and she was on Mountain Time, so I figured Denver. You
know, big city, lots of places to work. Then I ran into Mr. Marsh, Walter Marsh, on my way home this
afternoon. Funny thing, there he was, right in front of me when I came out of the union. He said he was in
town at a booksellers' convention. Him and Goose got a postcard from her. From Denver. After he left, I
thought, wow, maybe he has her address, but when I went chasing after him, I couldn't find him.”
      ". . . sright. S'what the other one said. Postcard from Denver. So, anyhow, the guy from the whatever
it is, he bailed me out. I'm gonna help find her.” He giggled. "Not too fast. They got me on the payroll, so
not too fast. If they call you, you don't know. They'll pay you, f'you play it right.”
      "Right, Dad. Thanks for the tip. Now you'd better have a nap.”
      "Right. Right.” He hung up and staggered off to the bedroom. Funny. Usually beers didn't hit him
like this. Musta been all those days without any. Out of shape, that was it. Days in jail could leave you out
of shape.
      And in California, Carlos hung up the phone, frowning to himself. What the hell did "dangerous
friends" mean? She'd said she'd gone out to dinner the other night, with people she'd met on the bus. She'd
been delayed getting back. But she'd just met those people. How could other people know she had
dangerous friends if they didn't even know where she was? And where the hell had Walter Marsh
disappeared to? He'd chased after him within ten seconds and the guy had just vanished!
      And where could he find this guy who was willing to pay him?

From Chiddy's journal
     At one point in our careers, Vess and I were assigned to the offices of the Confederation, where we
were to represent the Pistach people in working with other races. We of the Pistach have a unique place in
the Confederation as we are the only race that is largely undifferentiated at birth, the only one that selects
persons to perform specific functions on the basis of ability. Alas, such is not the case with certain other
races, some of whose diplomats would be better employed turning compost on a swamp planet.
     The variety found within the Confederation is interesting. There are, for example, the Credons, a
differentiated people, though their differentiation happens before they are hatched, rather as it does to
your bees and ants and termites. What they are when they are hatched is what they will continue to be:
egg layer, fertilizer, light worker, heavy worker, engineer, thinker, and fighter. They have no
differentiation equivalent to diplomat or representative, and they are inclined to send whomever is
standing about at the time. When they send thinkers to work with us, we manage to cooperate, but when
they send workers or engineers, our functioning is less felicitous. Their first question is always, "What are
you for?" A question which persons of other races may find some difficulty in answering.
     Another differentiated race is the Oumfuz, which is as close as we can get to pronouncing the gulp
they use for a label. They are a swamp-living race, one that cannot work in dry or high-gravity situations.
They are born either grubbers, workers, or reasoners, a deeply philosophical group, much concerned with
the thoughts and plans of other races and how those have changed over time. The Oumfuz create no
artifacts. The grubbers feed both themselves and the reasoners, whose philosophies are communicated
orally to one another. In fact, the great library on Pistach-home contains the only recordings extant of
Oumfuz thinking. They were crystallized by one of our explorers and are being slowly translated by a
team of athyci who speak Oumfuzziza, though they admit that no Pistach can ever really understand the
Oumfuz.
     An interplanetary people who do not themselves build or maintain ships are the Flibotsi, a joyous
winged race, not winged as we are, at intervals, depending upon our selection, but capable of flight during
their entire lifetimes. Whenever I am around them, I am reminded of panel eight of the Fresco, The Birth
of Kasiwees, for in that panel he is surrounded by little winged forms, rejoicing at his birth. So do the
Flibotsi rejoice, almost constantly. They work well with swimming or flying peoples, particularly those
who are not troubled by purpose. Quite frankly, the races untroubled by purpose are by far the happiest!
The Flibotsi, I must confess, find the Pistach stodgy, and we, whose humor is mostly language dependent,
do not much appreciate the purely physical fun of which the Flibotsi are capable, what you on Earth call
slapstick.
     The Thwakians are an aquatic race who build tunnel complexes beneath their seas, where they tend
submarine gardens. The Vixbot are among my favorite aliens because of their choral singing, which puts
that of any other race to shame, though in truth, your symphonic orchestras would be good competition
for them. The In-kleozese, well, the interesting thing about the Inkleozese is that we and they descended
from a common interstellar ancestor. Many of their characteristics are similar to ours. Instead of
depositing their eggs in nootchi, however, they lay their eggs in the bodies of domestic animals, quodm or
geplis or nadgervaks. After a lengthy parturition, about thirteen of your months, the young chew their way
out of the animal, which, since the young Inkleozese secrete substances that control bleeding and
stimulate healing in the host, almost always fully recovers.
     The Inkleozese have an inborn love of order and correctness, and because they are an elder race, with
widely recognized wisdom, the Inkleozese are our monitors. Even among the aged athyci of Pistach, the
Inkleozese are recognized as having excellent though rather elucubrative ideas. Our philosophers struggle
with their logic and, having done so, are amazed at the clarity and good sense of their thought. The rules
of Tassifoduma were constructed largely by the Inkleozese, and they will visit us while we are with you,
as the Confederation has assigned them the duty of reviewing work done between two or more races to
assure compliance with Neighborliness.
     The Xankatikitiki, the Fluiquosm, and the Wulivery are starfaring predators, not the only ones by far,
but the only ones in this sector of the galaxy. Despite their predatory natures, they too have agreed to the
principles of Tassifoduma in order to benefit from our association. They have made a treaty with us,
promising not to invade or harvest from planets that are part of the Confederation or those that are being
helped toward membership.
     The Xankatikitiki are warriors, furry and small, about the size of your middle-large dogs, but very
fierce, supplied by nature with weapons superior to those found on many technological worlds. They hunt
in small packs or family groups and their manner is consistently ferocious. Whenever I meet with them,
they remind me of panel eleven in the Fresco, where the fierce Pokoti attack the peaceful Jaupati.
     The Fluiquosm are lone hunters. They are what you might call chameleons, so nearly invisible as to
make locating them difficult. Their females have hypnotic abilities and both sexes are vampiric in nature.
The Wulivery are stalkers,- vast, invulnerable, and voracious.
     These three races, though fearsome, have generally avoided incursions upon others. The few lapses
by the Fluiquosm seem to have been spurred by curiosity, not hunger, and the Wulivery are split into so
many tribes that they always have trouble with their communications, so that orders issued by their Sn'far,
or Council of Elders, do not always reach the lower levels in time to avoid intrusion. Still, they are always
contrite when these things happen, and we manage to work things out. I must confess, however, that the
three predatory races constitute a voting bloc in the Confederation that continues to press for more
freedom of action on the part of individual members. Don't you find that predators are those who most
often assert absolute rights to personal freedoms?
     We consider that our current rules provide freedom enough. The predatory races may not prey upon
races we are helping, though their predation upon races they discover is not subject to our review. These
are usually, though not always, non-technological races or even non-intelligent ones. Even with them, the
predators are required to exercise moderation and not to prey so heavily as to drive any species or its
culture into total extinction. The Confederation submits to natural law in which the strong eat the weak,
but it does not allow extinctions of any species. We regard those who wipe out other species as being, as
you might say, the very bottom of the barrel.

Benita—FRIDAY
     Benita had planned to spend a couple of days in delicious sloth, though her desire for rest unraveled
as she watched CNN try to explain the disappearance of the Old City of Jerusalem. She knew at once
who'd done it, though she had no idea why. With such an uproar going on, she thought it would probably
be impolite to inquire from any of the people from Wednesday night's dinner, even Mr. Riley, and she had
no way to reach the two individuals she really wanted to ask.
      When she went out for lunch, there were sign carriers on the street, most of them claiming the
imminent end of the world. Newspaper headlines were huge, and the stories about Jerusalem took up the
first four pages of the Washington Post. Everyone was chattering about what it meant or who had done it,
being either angry or awed or both. Benita tried to ignore it as she made a stop at the bank and went
shopping for work clothes. She had to haul a saleswoman away from a group with their heads together in
the corner. First things first. Until the world actually ended, people still had to go to work, and Benita had
not brought enough clothing to get through a work week.
      That evening the panic continued, with all the world's pundits appearing over and over, different
combinations of them, most of them contradicting one another and some even contradicting what they'd
said earlier in the day. Elaine Pagels was asked to comment on the happening in the light of Gnosticism.
The head of Union Theological Seminary warned against nihilistic millennialism. The news covered nuts
in Jerusalem, both Jewish and Islamic, who were protesting or affirming God by throwing themselves into
the hole, only to turn up unhurt out in the desert a little while later. While the religious scholars were
careful not to cast doubt on divine motives, the religious profiteers were soliciting money like mad so
they could "carry the message of salvation in these final days.” Most of the TV partisan-pundits were
blaming more earthly forces. The left wingers agreed that secret research must have taken place, that
secret weapons had been developed, and that the military industrial complex might be responsible, though
the right wingers thought other countries had probably done it. For a wonder, nobody accused ET’s,
possibly out of fear of ridicule. Benita wondered how long the president could or would keep the truth
under his hat.
      Simon left a peremptory voicemail message at the hotel, asking her to come to the shop. When she
arrived, he was obviously unnerved as he showed her upstairs to the apartment.
      "These people showed up at the crack of dawn yesterday," he said in the elevator, shaking his head.
"Their spokesman said they were from some Sephardic Foundation I've never heard of. They provide
services for worthy Hispanics of all faiths who are, as they put it, 'Hard working and honest.' They quoted
Maimonides at me. Evidently he advocated anonymity in philanthropy. Are you Jewish?"
      She gaped. "Well ... a lot of Spanish settlers in the new world were secretly Jewish, because of the
Inquisition, you know. But if my family was, they kept it a secret from me.”
      "No lighting candles on Friday nights? No keeping two sets of dishes?"
      She shook her head. Actually, Grandma had lighted candles on Friday night, and every other night.
They hadn't had electricity until just a few years before she died.
      Simon continued, "I just thought it might explain something. The spokesman wouldn't tell me how
they found out about you, and he said you knew nothing about them, but nonetheless, the crew poured in
all day yesterday, nobody would talk to me except the one older guy, who looked awfully familiar, come
to think of it, and they didn't leave until dawn.”
      "What on earth were they doing?"
      "Wait until you see!"
      She smelled it first. A strong combination of new paint, new carpet and sawdust. The loft had been
transformed. The ceiling had been lowered and covered with drywall dotted with recessed light fixtures.
Along the line of columns, all the way to the ceiling, a substantial partition had been built that included
bookshelves on the living room side as well as a built-in desk with computer terminal and modem. The
bedroom had a closet and a door and both rooms were now furnished tastefully. Curtains on traverse rods
covered the windows, and two colorful oriental rugs covered most of the living room floor, which had
obviously been sanded and waxed. Another big rug softened the bedroom.
      A washer-dryer had been installed. New light fixtures glowed discreetly. The bed was made up and
covered by a colorful spread. Extra linens and towels were stacked in the cabinet. Kitchen equipment,
dishes, pots and pans were on the shelves. Here and there were Mami's things. Her sewing basket. The
little carved box she'd kept her few treasures in. A quilt Mami's grandmother, Benita's great-grandmother,
had made. Everything had been furnished, even a large dog bed and FIDO food and water dish.
      "They got everything," she said. "Except the dog.”
      He muttered in a dazed voice, "The guy said he had specific instructions how it was to be finished,
and he told me to tell you the dog would be here as soon as you move in.”
      "What was this outfit called?" she asked, awed.
      He pulled a scrap of paper from his breast pocket. "Fundacion Circulo del Alto Mando. He said in
English it means the Brass Ring Foundation.” Simon tented his eyebrows at her.
      "Yes, it means that, sort of," she said, hiding her amusement. It sounded like General Wallace was
the alto mando, or "big brass," who had done the talking. She couldn't imagine General McVane making
puns for her benefit.
      "He said you caught the brass ring on the merry-go-round. Have you ever heard of them?"
      "Never before now," she told him. "How strange. And wonderful, of course. For me.”
      "Well, me too. It saved me a hell of a lot of work. And money. I never knew the place could look this
great. I told the guy I'd have to raise your rent, and he told me not to try it unless I wanted a great deal of
trouble. When he said it, he sounded more like a ... commanding officer than a representative of some
charity. With the dark glasses and the hat pulled down, I couldn't really see who he was.
      She said sympathetically, "They'd gone to so much trouble, I suppose they didn't want anything to
spoil it.”
      There was no reason not to move in at once and no reason to go back to the hotel except to pick up
her bag. Simon drove her over and waited for her. As she paid the bill, however, she remembered the
furniture and supplies she'd ordered by catalogue. From a lobby pay phone she called the store and spun
them a story. Family emergency. She had to go back to Colorado. Would they refund? Yes, the woman
said, on non-sale items. Where would the check come from? From their warehouse complex in Atlanta,
where all the computers were. Fine, said Benita. Cancel the order and refund what they could, please, in
care of Angelica Shipton, at such-and-such an address in California.
      After dropping her bags in the apartment and opening the windows to air out the fresh paint srnell,
she went down to the bookstore to start learning the routines. It differed from the store in Albuquerque in
many details, but basically it was the same old job. She thought it would be more fun, however, since
many of her pet gripes were eliminated. The computers were better, faster, and the software was easier to
use. The bookkeeping system was very high tech and three-quarters automatic, and there were scanners
for perpetual inventory. She had been telling Goose for years that they needed scanners. These shops even
had a reorder program integrated with the inventory, one that printed out the reorder lists by jobbers for
any books that had sold off the shelves within a specified period of time. All the stores were coordinated,
for accounting purposes, and all the accounting was done here.
      The Washington store stayed open until 7:00, to catch the afterwork shoppers and late calls or Web
orders, many of them from congressional offices.
      "The legislature being here, with all the lobbyists in the world hovering like bees over honey, that's
where we got the name, The Literary Lobby," Simon muttered, interrupted by a huge yawn. "Sorry. I
suppose I could have gone home to bed last night, but I didn't want to leave the workmen alone in the
building, even with the connecting doors locked. I bunked in the office, but with this Jerusalem thing, I
left the TV on in case the world ended. I didn't want to sleep through it.”
      "Why don't you go on home now," she suggested.
      "I am. Your keys are on your desk: they're labeled. Don't unlock the outside front door until ten,
Monday through Saturday. Sundays, we don't open until noon. First one in makes the coffee.”
      He left, locking the door behind him, and she went back through the stockroom to the elevator and up
to her own apartment, where she found two dead male movie stars sitting next to one another on the
couch. She screamed and her balance shifted, making her stagger.
     They apologized in Chiddy and Vess's voices.
     She couldn't name either of their likenesses, but the faces were familiar. "You startled me," she cried,
collapsing on the sofa. "You know, it'd really be helpful for me if you'd settle on a shape. If you won't do
that, at least give me a way to know which of you is which. You know you've got everyone in the world
upset. Why are you doing it?"
     "Why are we doing what?" asked the larger famous person, smiling tenderly at her. Benita had seen
that smile somewhere. Late movie. Old movie, black-and-white. She shook her head, trying to
concentrate. Not Gary Grant. Gregory Peck? No. Who was that other one? The dark, incredibly handsome
one? Like the heartthrob guy on ER, only more so. She came to herself with a start.
     "Why did you do that thing in Israel? And why are you being men?" she cried. "I was just getting
used to the Indian ladies.”
     "Which question do you want answered," asked the larger man gradually morphing into Indira,
complete with sari.
     "Why Jerusalem?"
     "We did it because General McVane challenged us. We had to show your people that we have
powers, that we can do things you can't. Your president mentioned that the Middle East was a powder
keg, as he put it, which makes Jerusalem a focal point. So, we removed it. We can remove more of the
city if the modest hole we've created so far isn't sufficient to calm the storm.”
     "I should think it would only agitate things," she said.
     "Oh, it may. Temporarily. We'll do some suspensions, too. That's usually quite efficacious.”
     "Suspensions?"
     "We'll tell you when you need to know.”
     "What did you do with the Temple Mount?"
     "It's intact. It isn't destroyed, just . . . sequestered. We put the whole city away, for now. In another . .
. realm. We can transport the entire population of the area to that same place. Or, we can pick and choose.
All the Jews. Or all the Palestinians. We may even give it back, in time. If the people earn it.”
     "Can I tell them that?"
     "You may tell them anything we tell you," said Vess, indifferently. "We're very careful about what
we tell you. We don't want to put you in the position of lying to your people, or withholding information.”
     She demanded, "I really need names I can use all the time. And please warn me if you're going to be
people I know are dead!"
     "Very well," said Lara, with a smile that appeared perfectly genuine. "I am always Vess, that is, the
shorter or smaller one of whatever we are. The taller or larger will always be Chiddy.”
     The other said, "As we told you, these are childhood names, from our undifferentiated years. Your
people are very undifferentiated, and for that reason, these names are probably suitable. A Chiddy is a
small plant that makes people itch, you would say 'nettle,' and a Vess is an insectlike creature with
beautiful wings, like a butterfly. You are now wondering whether we are really male or female, and the
answer is no, we aren't.”
     "Chiddy, why did you scatter those people all over Israel?"
     "Well, that's rather an overstatement, don't you think? None of them were farther than ten miles from
the place they were taken. None of them were injured. No small children were separated from parents.
People of one ethnic group were separated from other ethnic groups that might have been inimical. If we'd
put them all in one place, there would have been injuries, violence.” As he spoke, Chiddy gradually
morphed back into the man he had appeared to be before. Tyrone Power. It came back to her. Mami,
sighing over old movies of Tyrone Power.
      "By the way," said Vess, also re-morphed, as he got up to look at himself in the mirror on the far
wall. "When you speak to the president, tell him not to worry about Afghanistan. The effects are
reversible.”
      She opened her mouth to ask what about Afghanistan, but Chiddy was already speaking.
      "I have been eager to tell you how much we admire your race's artistic achievements! While we were
looking over the problems in the Middle East, we stopped in Italy to view some of your famous
artworks.”
      Vess enthused, "The Sistine Chapel. There are simply no words!"
      Benita nodded, understandingly. She had coveted a book of Michelangelo reproductions done shortly
after the ceiling was cleaned, and Goose had given it to her for a birthday present. A huge, lovely thing.
She'd never taken it home, afraid it would be ruined by Bert in one of his rages.
      She said, "Most people agree that the cleaning was very well done. They were able to eliminate a
number of changes that other artists had made in succeeding times. In fact they discovered that one figure
they'd always thought was male was, in fact, female.”
      Chiddy turned away from her, his face turning a curious shade of sick green, his body slightly curved,
as though he had been taken by sudden nausea. He trembled. "I didn't know it had been cleaned," he
murmured.
      Benita reached out to him, but he gestured her away. After a moment's silence, he turned to face her,
saying brightly, "Ah, Benita, ah, yes, we have an errand for you.” He took several deep breaths. "We need
you to deliver a message to the president.”
      "Wouldn't it be easier for you to just…"
      Chiddy glanced at Vess with what Benita understood to be impatience.
      Vess said firmly, "Benita, please. We've already said. Please concentrate your attention. Once we've
made contact and proved that we exist by allowing recordings to be made, once we've proved that we
have power, as I imagine we have now done, we prefer not to talk to those in authority. Those in authority
always want to argue. Or complain. We have never approached any planet where those in power did not
want to do one or both. If we speak to any person directly, or give any reason to think we might speak to
people directly, everyone in the world will want an individual audience to complain about what we've
done or suggest we do something else! You, on the other hand, have nothing to argue about, and they
can't argue with you because you merely deliver the message. You won't know anything except what we
tell you, so bothering you is pointless.”
      Fascinated despite herself, she asked, "What's the message?"
      "Firstly: Two days from now, on Sunday night at ten P.M., Eastern Time, we will announce over
national television what we are doing here and how we will proceed.
      "Secondly: Once they know we are present, the populace of a planet almost always sends us
messages. The messages are to be accumulated somewhere to be picked up. Someone will tell you where
they are, and we will pick them up. Tell the powers that be that you will not transmit spoken messages.
Even if you were constrained to do so, we would ignore them. This is to prevent your being inundated and
our being influenced by discourtesies that might be blurted in anger, such as General McVane's outburst
the other evening.”
      "Are you going to rewrite our laws or something? That could make it difficult for some people.”
      "No, no. Your laws will still be in effect, more or less. They'll probably be needed less as we go
along, but we won't fool with them, at least not just yet. Tell the president not to worry about it. Any
confusion we cause will be temporary and minimal. Tell him, also, that we will make any further
announcements to the public on television, just as we will do this first time.”
      "At regular intervals?"
      "Not necessarily, no. Whenever we have something to say. At this time, we plan only the first
announcement, and it won't be lengthy.”
      They rose and moved together out into the hall, pausing there long enough for Chiddy to say, "When
the government people fixed your apartment, they put in a great many listening and looking devices. We
have made the ones in the bathroom inoperable, as we understand your culture to prefer. The others we
left intact. However, they will show only you, fully clothed in whatever you choose to wear on any given
day, moving about, reading, fixing food, whatever is appropriate to the hour when you are here. If you
change clothes, the viewers will show you selecting the clothes and then going into the bathroom to
change. Whatever you are really doing, they will not see. They are not seeing us here tonight. They are
seeing you seated on the couch, reading a book.
      "Whenever we ask you to transmit a message, you may say it appeared on your table, but it self-
destructed once you had read it. We got that idea from an old TV show of yours.”
      "Strange," murmured Vess, "that we had never thought of it ourselves.”
      Benita murmured, "I can understand your being enamored of old Mission Impossible technology, but
if you expect them to believe you're using me as an intermediary, you should black out this place every
now and then for a few moments. If they can see me whenever I'm here, but never see you, and if all my
time is accounted for, they'll get to the point where they'll suspect I'm making things up.”
      Chiddy paused, staring at his feet in a very humanish way.
      "She's right," he said. "We have never visited a moderately advanced world before, so we must adjust
our methods. Should it be blackouts, or fake visits?"
      "I think blackouts," she said firmly. "I'd have to remember what was supposed to have happened
during fake visits, in case they asked.”
      "Very well," said Chiddy. "We will black you out for a time whenever we are with you. As we speak,
we are making a blacked-out time.”
      "Now, what about if I have visitors? If Simon comes up to my apartment, or if I invite someone in?"
      "On those occasions, we will let them see what is actually happening," Chiddy said, his handsome
face twisted into a slightly lecherous leer. "Unless you ask us not to.”
      "That facial expression should be avoided," she told him severely. "It is most insulting.”
      "An actor named Price did it," Chiddy replied.
      "He was almost invariably the villain," cautioned Benita. "What about my phone line? Did they tap
my phone?"
      "Both this phone and the ones downstairs, yes. But unless it is a call we ask you to make, they will
hear only innocuous conversations. You, asking if there are tickets available for the opera. You,
wondering if a retailer has an item in another color. You, ordering books. It's all being done automatically.
Believe us, no one will see or hear you doing anything significant or embarrassing. You may scold or
bless your children, laugh or cry, or even scratch your intimate parts in private. The only calls they will
actually record are the ones you make to them.”
      They waved, stepped into the elevator, and closed the door. Though she listened carefully, she heard
nothing on the roof, not even footsteps. Come to think of it, she hadn't even heard the elevator. She
opened the elevator door and found it still on her floor, but empty. It hadn't gone anywhere. She fretted
for a few moments, then went to the phone and placed the call, announcing herself as the intermediary and
asking to speak to Chad Riley. Evidently the switchboard knew about her, for Mr. Riley was available at
once. When she mentioned Afghanistan, he interrupted her.
      "But, we've just learned about it.”
      "About what?" she asked.
      "The plague in Afghanistan. I can't talk right now. I'll get back to you.”
      A surprising someone did get back to her: the First Lady, sounding equally baffled and very slightly
amused. "Yes, Intermediary. We're told that all the women in Afghanistan have gone bald. Overnight. Not
only that . . . the women . . . they . . .”
      "What!" she demanded.
      "They've grown long noses and long chins and hairy moles. They've lost half their teeth. Any of them
past puberty are ugly as sin, even the young ones look like the Wicked Witch of the West, or that old hag
in Snow White. Each one has a tattoo on her forehead in the local dialect that says, The lustful who punish
beauty would be wiser to control lust. The Afghanis are claiming we did it!"
      "Of course we didn't. The aliens did! They've fixed it so the Taliban won't have any excuse for
covering them in robes and veils and locking them up all the time!"
      "That's what the Secretary of State says. She says now that they're really ugly, they can go to the
market or school or leave the house and get a job. Is that why you called, Intermediary? Or was there
something from you know who?"
      "Am I supposed to talk on the phone?"
      "They tell me it's a secure line. The people who did up your living quarters saw to things.”
      Oh, they most certainly did, Benita commented to herself before taking a deep breath and delivering
the message.
      Long silence. "I'll tell . . . the president. What do you think they're going to say on TV?"
      "I haven't even a hint, ma'am. They said I can say to you anything they said to me, but in this case
they didn't tell me what they have in mind. They did say the Old City still exists, that they've put it on
another world . . . no, in another realm, is what they said. They said they can selectively put all the Jews
or all the Palestinians in that same place, if they choose, and they hinted that the people in the Middle East
can get Jerusalem back if they'll quit killing each other.”
      "It still exists?"
      "They said they didn't destroy it, just moved it. They also said to tell the president that Afghanistan is
reversible, but I didn't know what they meant until now.”
      Long silence. Then the FL said, "The only thing I'm sure of at the moment is there has to be a press
conference. This has gone way beyond keeping to ourselves. Even if McVane hadn't broken security,
there are too many things happening. If they're going to broadcast on Sunday night, we have to let the
public know before then. People have to know that we’re not hiding anything.”
      "They also need to know you have little or no control over what's happening," cautioned Benita.
"Otherwise, you may get blamed for it. Will the president be back in time?"
      "He'll be back late tomorrow afternoon.”
      "Did the recordings come out? The ones you all made at the dinner?"
      "You knew about that?"
      "Well, they said so, remember? They said they'd allowed it.”
      "The recordings came out. They don't show Indira and Lara, however. They show two sort of
humanoid creatures with corrugated heads and several sets of eyes. Can you explain that?"
      She thought about it. "They appeared as women in saris because we could be comfortable with that.
And, probably, because they're practicing being human in order to figure us out. They wouldn't want to
stir up animosity against India, however, and being two women in saris could have done that. So, they
were women in saris to us, but to the rest of the world they'll look like something definitely
extraterrestrial.”
     "They told you this?"
     "No. I'm only guessing.”
     "Very sensible for guessing. Have you seen them again?"
     "They visited me here in the apartment.” She thought about telling what they'd appeared as, then
discarded the notion. Everyone was confused enough. "I can't pronounce their real names, so they're using
nicknames, from when they were children. Chiddy and Vess. They've promised to stick with that.”
     "Well, I'd better pass all this along," murmured the FL. "Ten P.M., Eastern time, day after tomorrow.
By the way, Sasquatch is en route. General Wallace had him picked up at the kennel, and he should be
with you tomorrow.”
     Sasquatch arrived on Saturday morning. The phone rang at eight, as she was having her breakfast,
and an anonymous voice said somebody was waiting with the dog at the outer door. Before she unlocked
and opened it, she gave the man a good looking-over, recognizing him as one of the security people
present at the dinner. There was no trouble recognizing Sasquatch. He lunged through the door when she
barely opened it, jerking the man at the other end of the leash off balance so that he stumbled in after the
dog.
     "I'm sorry," she cried, around the mess of fur that had reared up and put his paws on her shoulders.
"Are you all right?"
     He picked himself up, unwinding the leash from his hand. "He's a big one. It's hard to make him go
anywhere he doesn't want to, isn't it? Are you okay with him, or do you need some help?"
     "I'm fine with him," she replied, easing Sasquatch into a more suitable position, with all four feet on
the ground. "Thank you for bringing him.”
     "That's all right," he said, saluting as he backed away to let the door swing closed.
     As she pulled the door shut and locked, she saw him trudging away toward a station wagon parked
behind the store. Sasquatch followed her into the elevator, albeit unwillingly, where he howled until it
reached the roof. There she took the leash off and allowed him to move about, sniffing and marking
territory on every protruding vent pipe or aerial. He put his front feet up on the parapet, which was quite
high enough to prevent anyone falling over by accident, and looked over the edge several times,
commenting sotto voce when he saw something interesting, such as another dog. Then he went over to the
big planter and had a drink from the pan beneath the air conditioner. Someone had hooked up the
watering tubes, Benita noticed. The soil was moist and translucent green frills were coming up very
quickly, already several inches high. Benita had been on the roof the day before, and she hadn't noticed
anything growing then.
     Sasquatch went down the metal steps onto the lower roof of the other building and went through the
same routine there. When he ran out of pee, she led him back into the elevator and took him down to the
apartment, where she showed him his bed, his food dish, already stocked with kibble, and his water bowl.
     He roved the apartment, smelling every piece of furniture and along the edge of every rug. He found
the open living room window at the center of the row, one of the two in that room that actually opened.
Benita let the windows stand open when it was cool and dry outside, for the illusion of fresh air if not the
reality. Sasquatch put his front feet on the deep sill and stood for a while looking at cars moving on the
street below.
     Finally, the dog found the bedroom. He ignored the large dog bed in the corner, leaping immediately
upon her bed, where he circled twice, lay down and went to sleep.
     On Saturday evening, the president held a press conference. He said the Earth was being visited by
extraterrestrials, he explained that a recording had been made at a recent meeting, and he showed the tape,
though without sound. The president explained that neither he nor the vice president had been able to be
present at the hastily arranged affair, but he introduced each of the participants, Mr. Riley from the FBI,
representing the Attorney General, General McVane from the Pentagon, General Wallace, a well-known
and loved representative of the American People, the First Lady, representing the president, the Secretary
of State, representing the U.S. government, and the two envoys. Also, a woman he called, "Jane Doe, the
intermediary selected by our visitors.”
     Someone, perhaps the ET’s, had morphed Benita's face and hair on the tape, making her a blonde,
twenty pounds heavier, with a different nose and mouth. Benita, while being glad she wasn't recognizable,
didn't appreciate the disguise. When the tape came to the after-dinner speeches, the sound came on so
everyone could hear the speeches: the FL, the SOS, the general, and then the envoys. The tape stopped
moments before the visitors disappeared.
     The president went on in his serious voice. "Since the dinner last Wednesday evening, we have had
one further message from our visitors. Tomorrow night at ten o'clock, Washington time, seven Pacific
time, the envoys will address the nation on television, explaining their intentions. Prior to that occurrence,
I will be meeting with various congressional committees. I know many of you have questions. Foremost
among them will no doubt be the question of whether our visitors were responsible for the recent events
in Israel and Afghanistan. The intermediary tells us they say they are responsible, though they have not
told her how it was done. They assure her Jerusalem was not destroyed but remains whole, elsewhere.
They assure her the so called ugly-plague in Afghanistan is reversible.
     "I would ask you to keep in mind that no one has died in either Israel or Afghanistan as a result of
these happenings. At this point, I am as much in the dark as you are, and I cannot answer any questions.
We should all be patient. We have detected no malicious intent in our visitors. We believe they are what
they represent themselves to be. All questions will eventually be answered, and it would be helpful if
speculation were kept to a minimum.”
     He started to leave, to a babble of "Mr. President, Mr. President," stopping when one reporter
shouted: "Tell us about Jane Doe, Mr. President, you can tell us that!"
     He turned back to the lectern. "Jane Doe is an American housewife. She is married and has children. I
cannot tell you why the extraterrestrials picked her, and she doesn't know. Both the envoys and Jane Doe
herself have asked that she remain anonymous. She is not a celebrity, she has not chosen to be a public
figure. As the envoys made clear, they chose someone who would have no personal agenda concerning
their actions or ours, rather than some head of state or government employee or political figure who might
have an ax to grind. She knows no more than we do. Think of her as a kind of telephone line between
them and us. She's not responsible for what comes and goes over the line, so let us set aside our prurient,
window-peeping greed for the private details of others' lives and leave her alone.”
     This time he departed, refusing any other questions.
     "Fat chance they'll leave me alone," Benita remarked to Sasquatch. "The Sunday papers will be full
of speculation, ninety-nine percent of it useless! Some politicos will say it's all fake.”
     The bookstore didn't open until noon on Sunday. Early in the morning, however, the Washington Post
and the New York Times were delivered through a chute from the side street into the stockroom, along
with half a dozen other papers from around the country. Around eight o'clock, she went down to get
herself copies of several, bringing them back upstairs to read. The outcry was predictable. Her least
favorite columnist's prissy face sneered above his usual malicious column, and a good many others
decried the president's "unwillingness" to answer questions, raised the possibility that Jane Doe might be
either the president's mistress or a foreign agent, or offered the idea that the whole thing had been done by
special effects and that the president no doubt knew more than he admitted to knowing.
     Various other pedants offered opinions ranging from the necessity for an immediate declaration of
war against any one or several of five foreign countries to the novel idea, expressed by one fat talk show
host, that the envoys were simply Democrats in ET suits, trying to distract the nation from more pressing
matters such as cutting taxes. Photo excerpts from the dinner tape were used and reused on page after
page of the newspapers. The many-eyed monsters, however, who should have seemed ogreish, actually
appeared to be rather loveable, like a cross between a sharpei puppy and a jumping spider done by Disney
animation artists.
      The furnishings of the apartment included a television, something Benita hadn't thought to order for
herself. At a quarter to ten that night she was poised on the edge of the couch with Sasquatch at her feet.
No one had said which station, and she was prepared to surf them all. At five to ten, however, the show
she was watching faded away and soothing music began to play over a pattern of moving fronds, like a
forest. Every channel including the shopping and religious networks had the same music, the same fronds.
At precisely ten o'clock, the music faded, the fronds parted to disclose the images of Chiddy and Vess,
larger and smaller, side by side. They had the same form as in the tape of the dinner, though now the
mouths seemed to be more flexible. They were wearing clothing that did not look at all like a uniform.
When they spoke, the lips moved the way human lips move, and when not moving, they smiled. The skin
around the largest pairs of eyes crinkled warmly.
      "We bring greetings from the people of Pistach to the people of Earth," said Chiddy. "As we have
explained to your officials, we have come to assist you in meeting the prerequisites for galactic
coexistence, what we call Tassifoduma, what you in the United States would call Being Neighborly.
Tassifoduma is a prerequisite for planets wishing to join the Confederation of intelligent life-forms. We
have chosen to start with your country because it will serve as a pattern for all the rest.
      "The first prerequisite of Being Neighborly is to have a society in which almost all individuals
achieve contentment, since discontented societies often explode over their borders into other people's
space, causing great trouble and woe. You have many examples of these disruptions in your own history.
There are some such going on in your world even now, so we need not belabor the point.
      "To begin with, therefore, we will help you balance your country among its many needs and demands
to provide greater comfort and contentment to all your people, greater care and attention to your
environment. The first step in any project is to find out what is happening to cause woe. The second step
is to discontinue the cause! To stop a flood, one must find out where the water is coming from and then
shut off the water. To stop a fire, one must find out what is burning and then remove the fuel. So, we will
first find out what conditions are most distressing for the people, then we will help you discontinue the
conditions which lead to pain, frustration, and misery.
      "Being Neighborly means not upsetting people! In order for us to avoid upsetting you, we must first
determine what you value and believe and want. This week, each person over the age of eight will receive
a questionnaire designed to elicit that person's beliefs and wants. This questionnaire must be completed
with promptness and complete honesty. If people were to tell us untruthfully that they wanted longer
working hours for less pay, and if we were to set up conditions requiring longer working hours at less pay,
those people might be most distressed. Each questionnaire will be in your language, whatever your
language is, just as this program is in your language, whatever your language is. If you have any
difficulty, you may call the number printed at the bottom of the questionnaire and an assistant will be
provided for you. When the questionnaires have been returned in the envelopes provided, we will tabulate
them, and only then will we take the first step.
      "We are sure you have all heard of the disappearance of Jerusalem and the change in appearance of
the women of Afghanistan. A military man who met with us last Wednesday demanded proof that we
could do what we said we could. While in our society such a challenge would be very impolite, we took
no offense. We selected two proofs that would harm no one and have some positive value, while still
being illustrative of our abilities. The more freedom given the women of Afghanistan, the prettier they
will become. The more they are kept in seclusion, the uglier they will get and the worse they will smell,
and lest anyone vent anger by attacking a woman or women, anyone doing so will bear the pain himself.
During the past week, several attempts to stone women to death have resulted in the severe mashing and
bone-breaking of the stone-throwers. They are not dead, we do not believe in causing deaths, but they will
take a long painful time to heal.
      "Also, the greater the peace prevailing among Israelis and Palestinians, the more likelihood that
Jerusalem will be returned. A continuance of violence might lead to the expansion of the hole we have
already made, or even to the removal of other sacred sites or what we call suspensions. Suspensions cause
selective groups to fall into a comatose state. It is a most effective tool for peace when a whole nation is
suspended for a week or a month or even a year or longer, while life goes on around them. Certain
countries in your world seem intent upon interfering with others or harboring what you call terrorists.
These countries are candidates for suspension, all or in part. The parents among you probably make
fighting children take a time out. It is a good way to combat violence. If we had been here when Serbia
began to behave so badly, we would have suspended all its people for a year, at least, and we would have
found the leaders responsible for the bad behavior and shown them their errors.
      "You should know that we do not require persons to agree with us. You have freedom of speech in
this country, and it is valuable both to you and to us. We have no interest in hampering it. You may insult
us if you wish. You may call us ugly names. We take no offense. Insults and names will not change the
situation before you, which admits of only two alternatives. To be a neighbor, Earth must be a world in
which children are born to peace and a place of their own, in which all are educated, in which personal
freedoms and community civilities are well balanced, in which the environment is respected and unnatural
conflict is restrained. Either we will be successful in helping your world achieve this, or we will leave it
as it is, building a fence around it so that your people may not leave it. Many of your politicians may hope
we do exactly that. Their horizons are narrow and they do not seek to widen them. Others, however,
would regret the confinement. In order to do what is best, we need to know what you want.
      "We thank you for your time and attention, and we return you to your usual programming.”
      The two disappeared, the screen blinked and became the X-Files. Benita reflected that the X-Files
might find it necessary to do some re-taping. The truth was no longer out there, it was right here, staring
her in the face.

                               EARTH VISITED BY EXTRATERRESTRIALS
                                  ALIENS APPEAR ON TELEVISION

                             REPUBLICANS ATTACK PRESIDENT MORSE
                            CLAIMS PRESIDENT WITHHELD INFORMATION

                            WHITE HOUSE ADMITS DELAY, FEARED HOAX
                             PRESIDENT DIDN'T WANT TO PANIC PUBLIC

                                MYSTERIOUS KILLING IN FLORIDA
                           BONES OF MEN FOUND TRAMPLED INTO EARTH

                    ACLU DECRIES ATTEMPT TO QUESTION AMERICAN PUBLIC
                      QUESTIONNAIRES COULD THREATEN CIVIL LIBERTIES

                                ALIENS ARE INSECTS, SAYS SCIENTIST
                                   OTHERS SAY TOO MANY LEGS

        AMERICAN PSYCHIATRIC ASSOCIATION CLAIMS ET’S ARE PSYCHOLOGICALLY
                                   HUMAN
                          NO VIOLENCE IN MID-EAST IN PAST THREE DAYS

From Chiddy's journal
     Dearest Benita, I think you may be interested in learning more of how our people deal with various
difficulties, and in that regard I remember vividly the Pistach colony planet of Assurdo. Newly colonized
planets seldom conform exactly to Pistach propriety. The usual pattern is one of imbalance: too few
people trying to do too many things,- too many undifferentiated ones selected as breeders when their
dreams lie elsewhere, selectors who are, themselves, inexperienced, though at least a few experienced
selectors are always provided to new colonies. After a decade or so, things flatten out, and by the time the
oldest settlers are being retired, the colony has achieved good order.
     On Assurdo, however, the situation was a great deal worse than mere imbalance! In the sixth year of
settlement, an inceptor had gone rogue and killed several selectors, including all the experienced ones. Ke
had been immediately captured and put in a sleep locker, of course, but no one had had the presence of
mind to send to Pistach-home for athyci.
     Too much later, arriving for what was supposed to be a routine visit, Vess and I found the settlement
in chaos. When we confronted the settlement manager, ke told us about the killings and showed us the
sleep locker in which Chom, the assailant, was confined. When we reviewed the selector records, it was
apparent to us that Chom should have been selected as a campes, a te. Everything about Chom screamed
campes: the muscularity, the energy level, the preoccupation with present satisfactions coupled with
limited ability to foresee consequences or connections, the obsessive attention to habit and routine, the
suspicion of novelty.
     One of the less experienced selectors, however, had selected Chom as an inceptor on the grounds of
certain self-gratifying behaviors which a more experienced selector would have recognized as infantile
survivals. In addition to bad selection, training for inceptor-hood had been so abbreviated that none of
Chom's natural territoriality had been fully suppressed.
     Campesi are obsessive about their own space and their own habits. Chom had become obsessed with
one particular receptor. Campesi are suspicious of novelty, which meant that Chom could not be easily
diverted to other receptors. Campesi need routine and immediate satisfactions, and Chom had enjoyed the
routines and satisfactions of that particular receptor and continued to plague ker even when the receptor
was brooding and not in condition to receive an inceptor's attentions.
     To state it simply: Chom had gone breeding-mad, and when the receptor had repulsed ter, te had
invaded a meeting of the entire selectorial body at their annual Fresco Meditation breakfast, killed over
half of them and then attempted to kill self.
     Though the receptor in question subsequently delivered a fine egg to the nootch, ke had been gravely
traumatized by the incident and requested immediate reselection as a field campes, working on one of the
outlying farms. All this, and still no one had sent for athyci! The remaining selectors were required by the
rules of settlement to do so, but they did not.
     We recognize a reluctance on the part of inexperienced persons to get athyci involved in their
troubles. Inexperienced persons are often ingenuous. They have a sweet naivete about them, an innocent
faith that if they can only talk long enough about problems, they will come up with solutions that will not
hurt anyone. They have a penchant for committees and group discussions, for bumbling along, never
wishing to offend but unable to avoid offense, always caring but never courageous, always pitying but
never resolute, always doubting but stubbornly avoiding decision.
     So they had done on Assurdo. In the absence of experienced mentors, the inexperienced selectors had
continued doing their well-intentioned worst. There was no malice in them, though there was a good deal
of mis-hoping. Mistake compounds mistake, and by the time we arrived, conditions had deteriorated into
near anarchy. I reminded myself of panel four of the Fresco, Peaceful Work, in which the Jaupati are
shown working usefully under the watchful eyes of Pistach mentors, though in the preceding panel three,
Uniting the Tribes, the Jaupati are shown in total chaos and disarray. The situation could be fixed. It was
not impossible. I told myself this, over and over.
     The selectors, being young and proud and unwilling to offend, had fallen into the trap of choosing far
too many specialized castes. When a selector is too sympathetic, le may overvalue the least passing
interest expressed by an undifferentiated one, assuming this transitory regard is a sign of talent or affinity.
If the selector is also impatient and/or overworked, the selector may neglect to observe the candidate's
actual performance during the selection process, thus allowing the first impression to prevail. Commit this
same error over and over for a period of several decades and anarchy results! The colony was awash in
artists who did no art, sculptors who sculpted nothing, musicians who were pitch deaf, doctors who
couldn't distinguish healthy persons from sick ones, much less treat the diseases. When I remember it,
dear Benita, I think of your spouse and son. There were a great many Berts and Carloses in that
settlement! There were even a few contempli sitting about, looking at the walls. One can't train contempli
in a new colony! Contempli need advanced mentoring of very specialized types! How does one come up
with the design of new nanobots or spaciotemporal diffusers by looking at walls! Oh, mathematical
contempli do a lot of staring into space, I grant you, though they would rather scribble abstruse formulae
on the walls than stare at them, but one cannot come up with micro-chem experts or morph-beam
engineers in a new colony!
     All these specialists were, of course, drawing their rations, keeping cozy and warm, accomplishing
nothing, while the colony was desperate for ditch diggers to install the sewage system, plumbers to hook
up the drains, technicians to install the hydroelectric plant which had been shipped with the settlers, and
so on. Pistach systems are carefully engineered to afford gainful, useful employment for all members,
even the inevitable supply of glusi (except under conditions of glusi glut, as previously mentioned) but in
the colony of Assurdo, the balance had been lost and there were misassignment glusi everywhere!
     What was wrong was apparent and needed no investigation, though the stench around the villages
and the extent of the disorder overwhelmed us. As an immediate alleviation, Vess and I took over the
work of the selectors on the grounds they had failed in their duty by not summoning us sooner. Due to the
extremity of the situation, we decided to use the machines we carried on our ship. Philosophically, the
Pistach are opposed to the use of machines on settlement worlds, preferring a lengthy, slow evolution of
community, with its own history and culture. In this case, however, cjefissit moltplat gom, as we say:
emergencies make their own rules. You would say, any port in a storm. Inasmuch as the community was
up to its tonal detectors in sewage, the machines were necessary to speed the drainage and alleviate the
smell!
     While the machines worked at that, we put the selectors through our memory drain, using a standard
NB primary association identifier (Type 9Zwok) to strain childhood memories into a Tressor-Hines
multibank synaptic synthesizer where they were stored while we went on to wipe all later memories clean,
leaving their minds utterly blank. We then used the newest Bertrani omni-feed to restore only the
childhood memories, stripped of all later associations. The former selectors were thus stopped at age
twelve, when they had been undifferentiated. Then, we reselected them, most of them as campesi. Though
many lacked the musculature of true campesi, with proper hormonal treatment they bulked up to a
satisfactory level, and as soon as the accelerated process was complete, we set all of them to continuing
the sewage system, though we pulled out any who showed managerial talent to receive further education
in waste management or hydropower systems.
     We then examined the records of all those misselected proffi and contempli, all those artists,
sculptors, doctors and what have you, applying the Fynor-Noot allied skill analysis system. Failed
sculptors, those who had actually liked stone, became masons, foundation layers, aqueduct builders.
Failed artists, those who enjoyed color, became painters of rooms, houses and barns. Those who had
fancied themselves doctors because of a desire to help and care for others were assigned as creche
managers, animal tenders, and the like. Most of these people did not need regression. Doing work they
could succeed at would in time erase any longing for a time when things were otherwise. In very short
order virtually all of them were doing well and taking pleasure in their work. Those few who fancied
specialized caste for reasons of power or prestige and who might, therefore, harbor resentments and
unfulfilled ambitions were treated as the selectors had been: memory removal and regression to age
twelve.
     This was a long, tiring process. There were fewer than a hundred to be regressed each period, but
they scream so when the memories are drained, and they must be conscious for it to be done correctly,
leaving their psyches intact. Both Vess and I became weary and depressed, for there was no relief in the
settlement, nothing attractive on which one could rest one's eyes, nothing amusing, nothing soothing.
Everything and everyone was at war with everything and everyone else. When we began, only a tiny
fraction of the persons were doing work they were suited for, and even they were constantly frustrated by
interdependent workers who did not function properly. Still, day by day, we pulled a bit farther out of the
morass. Day by day we saw people doing work they liked and doing it well, even the regressed ones who
had been reselected.
     One morning, leaving the ship, I came across a small garden tended by a child who was singing a
hymn to Mengantowhai as te pulled weeds from among the flowers and fed them to a nearby flock of
flosti who gabbled and stretched their long mouthparts to receive a share while the flost-herd stood
contentedly by with his noose. It was so ... right! So interdependently lovely. As I gazed at child/
garden/flosti, my vocal sac filled with fluid and I turned away, gargling, deeply moved. Vess patted toner
on an appendage and uttered comfort words, I suppose the Pistach equivalent of your Earthian, "there,
there.” (Which, by the way, confuses us greatly. What is there? And why two of them?) This little garden
was the first functionality, the first real sign of emerging order, the signal to bring new selectors into the
mix.
     By that time, as we had been on Assurdo for well over a year, a number of undifferentiated ones
awaited selection. In our role as athyci, Vess and I prayed for Mengatowhai's intercession in granting us a
small miracle, which was, wondrously, granted. At least a ten of the undifferentiated ones had the proper
tendencies to become selectors. We double-checked ourselves during the selection process and spent more
time than usual in training. At the end of another year, Assurdo was, so to speak, on its feet. The new
selectors had been shown the ugliness and disfunctionality caused by the errors of their predecessors, and
they had been supervised through selection after selection, learning that they must never, never select
someone for a more specialized life simply because that person wants to try it or envies the prestige of
those who do it or think it might be interesting. "Num g'klum, num b'flum, humnum te des ai," we said.
"Where there is no affinity and no skill, you cannot make an ai out of a te.” Your people, dear Benita,
have the same saying, about the ears of swine, or pearls before pigs, or silk billfolds, or something of the
kind.
     All that was left for us to do was clean up the loose ends. As I've mentioned, of the people we had
simply reselected without regression, virtually all had worked out well and were contented in their tasks.
A few, however, who at first had seemed to be doing well had in fact had been spoiled by the earlier
selection, and their moods and angers affected their work-mates adversely. By the time this was known,
both Vess and I were fatigued. We did not wish to take the time for memory wipe, regression, and
reselection, so we told the unhappy ones to choose between going to a long-established colony where they
might return to specialized caste if they chose, or returning to Pistach-home for regression, conditioning
and reselection.
     Two chose the colony, so on the way home we made a detour to our detention settlement on Quirk,
which was then celebrating its tricentennial. Quirk was designed to serve as a settlement for those of our
people who cannot find satisfactory roles in the normal Pistach way. Dissatisfaction happens from time to
time, and we take no pleasure in the pain and frustration of those who cannot fit in. Therefore, Quirk: a
subtropical planet with a dozen or so towns sprawling across pleasant valleys near the sea. There is food
for the picking, water for the drinking, no power needed for warmth, and the sanitation systems are self-
repairing. The towns are not particularly pleasing in an aesthetic sense, as they have neither order nor
discernable functionality, but Pistach-home provides ample equipment and supplies for its free-spirited
population. Naturally, there are no functioning inceptors or receptors among the inhabitants, any of these
castes who are sent there are sterilized though not otherwise altered. Lar-vabots and childbots are
provided for nootchi. Except for actual reproduction, persons on Quirk may play any roles they like.
     One of the persons we set ashore on Quirk was a former proffe, T'Fees, a handsome person, stalwart
and strong, who had been reselected as a seemingly perfect campes, but was unhappy in that role. He had
been selected originally as an artist, though te had no real talent. Though te could not create art, te had
well-formed opinions concerning it and insights that I found remarkably fine. Perhaps if te had been
selected to teach art, he would have been content, but his ambitions did not reach in that direction. Or, if
we Pistach allowed the role of critic, T'fees would have fulfilled that role. We do not critique the works of
others for public edification, however. To question the value of others' works publicly would be to
denigrate them in our society.
     I think of T'Fees often when I learn of Earth people who fail at their chosen lives, or those like your
Van Gogh, who become a success only after they are dead. On Pistach, we do not change our opinions of
former persons. What good does it do an unhappy man to become a genius after his death? Or a living
person to be a failure at his dreams? Among Pistach, all except glusi are successful, and even glusi are
encouraged to believe they are. All must believe in their success,- otherwise meager aptitudes breed great
rancor.
     During the voyage from Assurdo to Quirk, I spent many pleasant hours with T'Fees, usually playing
sheez or bactak. I remember well the occasion, toward the end of one day shift, when T'Fees asked by
what right Vess and Chiddy had disrupted teros life and the life of others on Assurdo.
     I asked if te had ever seen the Fresco. Te replied that te had not. Te had never been on Pistach-home.
The ceremonial buildings on ter homeworld did not, of course, contain a copy of the Fresco. Te had,
however, seen the Glumshalak Compendium with the sketches drawn shortly after the Fresco was
finished. The ship carrying the Compendium had stopped on Assurdo for refueling, and for some
inexplicable reason had, while there, allowed the local populace to file past the revered book.
     "You ask what gives us the right," I said. "Panel fifteen of the Fresco, The Blessing of Cantborel,
shows us Mengantowhai, foreseeing the martyrdom that would give him divine authority, passing this
authority to Canthorel. When Canthorel came to Pistach-home, it was passed to aisos successors through
the holy Fresco. Mengan-towhai's holy authority has descended to the athyci of Pistach down the
centuries, each receiving it from those who have received it before in an unbroken line.”
     "And who gave it to Mengantowhai?" te asked.
     "Universal Purpose," I replied. "This Purpose was made manifest when Mengantowhai first came into
contact with the Jaupati. Panel one of the Fresco, The Meeting, shows us they were a primitive race. They
warred among themselves. It is even said the Jaupati were per-sonophagic, though the truth of that
assertion is unproven. In panel two of the Fresco, The Steadfast Docents, we are shown teachers,
appointed by Mengantowhai, asking the Jaupati if they desire peace and freedom from want and pain, and
they are crying as with one voice that they do. The Jaupati put themselves in his hands, and he worked
with them for many years.”
     "What did he do to them?"
     "He did nothing to them. He did a great deal with them. He taught them how to differentiate their
young toward ultimate contentment. He taught them how to structure an economy so there would be work
for all. He taught them how to breed one offspring at a time instead of litters, like pflggi, for it is
absolutely true that no nootch, or parent, can civilize a litter! He taught them how to educate their young
in order to avoid being glutted by whole families of glusi. And they were grateful. In panel six, The
Offerings, we see the Jaupati bringing gifts to Mengantowhai.”
      "Yet I have heard Mengantowhai died a martyr's death at their hands.”
      "That assertion is heretical. Mengantowhai was not killed by the Jaupati but by the Pokoti. In panel
nine, Evangelism, we see the Jaupati leader, Kasiwees, raising a force to defend Mengantowhai against
the Pokoti. In panel ten, The Envious Pokoti, we see the Pokoti plotting against the Jaupati. In panel
eleven, The Attack, we see the abduction of Mengantowhai by the Pokoti. The Pokoti tried to force him to
tell them the secrets of selection, the skills of economic design, the way to have one offspring at a time.
These are not things one can tell, like a recipe for flosti-gut pate! They are not things one should
communicate except by example. Mengantowhai was badly wounded during his abduction. In panel
twelve, The Rescue, we see Canthorel arriving to save him. Mengantowhai did not die for some time
following, for panels thirteen, fourteen and fifteen show him still alive.”
      "And what are those panels called?" T'fees asked.
      "Thirteen is Mengantoivbai's Sermon, his teaching to his people. Then, The Fearful Faithless, the
departure of the Pistach who feared another attack by the Pokoti, and finally, The Blessing of Canthorel,
which I have already mentioned. This is followed by panel sixteen, Departure of Canthorel.”
      "And what happened to the Jaupati?"
      "Maddened by Mengantowhai's passing, they locked themselves in a death-struggle with the Pokoti.
Canthorel was unable to bring peace, as there was too much hatred on both sides, and ai departed from the
world. Panel seventeen, the final panel of the Fresco, the one that lies between the left-hand doors, shows
the last Jaupati, Kasiwees, kneeling in prayer before the shrine of Mengantowhai while the last Pokoti
sneaks from behind him with a blade. We know from the associated Pistach symbols of renewal, flying
flosti, bulbs, worm jars, that Kasiwees is praying for Mengantowhai's return. Kasiwees is our exemplar.
When we enter the ranks of the athyci, we swear to respond to the Plea of Kasiwees. This Kasiwean Oath
commits us to meeting the needs of others by bringing Mengantowhai's help, as set out in the Fresco of
Canthorel.”
      "Is the Fresco very beautiful?" te asked me, after a long, thoughtful pause. "Though I am now only a
former artist, I judged that the Compendium was not very artistically done.”
      Though it was painful for me to tell T'Fees it was virtually invisible behind its veils of grime, in the
interest of truth I did so, explaining that its holiness prevented our cleaning it. "As for beauty, we know
that Canthorel painted only beauty," I replied. I knew this had to be true, regardless of how it was
conveyed in Glumshalak's Compendium.
      T'fees and I grew to be almost friends upon that journey. I was hurt by the look te gave me when ton'i
parted on Quirk. By that time, of course, all those from Assurdo knew that only adults come to Quirk and
no real children are ever born there. They also knew why: because the people of Quirk value their own
individuality over the welfare of the whole, and Mengantowhai's rule allows no young to be brought into
a world that has not prepared an orderly, safe and peaceful place for them.
      You will be sympathetic to this, I know, dearest Benita. Though not all human receptors or nootchi
are good ones, you fulfilled those roles ably. You bore children, and you labored mightily to be sure they
had an orderly, safe, and peaceful place. It is a sorrow that one of your children was unable to appreciate
this. Some other races in the Confederation do not have our ways. They are like some of your people on
Earth. They demand that children be born, even without a place for them or a good person to nootch them.
If the children die, well, say they, it is the will of their gods. I do not like such ways,- certainly I would
not follow such gods.
      I remember often what you said the night of our dinner with your people, about your people
improving while your god stayed the same. I think of the races I have known who defined their gods
when they were still savages, giving their gods the power and cruelty they themselves displayed. The
gods of the Fluiquosm, for example, are invisible spirits of death. And the Wulivery carve their hungry
gods into immortal stone, while the Xankatikitiki recite long sagas of their heavenly hunters. So they have
gone on, generation after generation, unchanging, and in following them, their peoples have shut off all
avenues to a better way of life. Would it not be a good thing if we could retire old gods, like old soldiers,
to a peaceful place in the country? Let them live like retired warriors whose time of violence is past? Or
like old politicians, perhaps, who have learned the wrong lessons in striving youth and have not had
enough lifetimes to unlearn them.

Pistach management—MONDAY
      On Monday, the Pistach Questionnaires were delivered by postmen to every household. They came in
a plain brown envelope containing individual packets for various members of the family. Some were for
adult women, some for adult men, some for children between eight and twelve, others for teenagers. The
instructions specified that each person must first select the age and gender appropriate packet, affix his or
her own thumbprint on the sticky patch at the top of each page, then answer the questions below, without
help, in pencil or pen.
      "If the person filling out the questionnaire is someone other than the thumb printer, the questionnaire
will self-destruct," said the instructions. "If the person filling out the questionnaire is under duress or
being helped, the questionnaire will self-destruct. Please, do this individually and honestly.”
      Benita, reading this, was most amused. They had found a use for old Mission Impossible technology
after all.
      The questionnaires included several hundred questions about society, about people's positions in
society, about behavior, work habits, morality. Even people who did not read at all, or at all well, found
the questions easy to understand. Many questions asked that certain behaviors be ranked in order of
preference or by degree of sinfulness, such as, "Is sex outside of marriage more or less sinful than a) not
paying one's employees a living wage, b) cheating on taxes, c) passing laws to benefit the rich by further
oppressing the poor?"
      Millions of thumbs were pressed onto waiting sticky patches, and in each sticky patch a hundred
thousand Pistach nanobots waited, quiescent. At the moment of pressure, chemical restraints dissolved,
allowing the nanobots their freedom. Chemical sensors detected warmth and blood and crawled upward,
following microfi-bers that had already penetrated the skin to obtain blood and DNA samples. When the
hand was pulled away from the sticky patch, a hundred thousand nanobots tunneled rapidly into the flesh,
where they began harvesting atoms from the surrounding flesh, assembling more of themselves until they
totalled several millions and had spread to all parts of the body.
      Millions of questionnaires were puzzled over and answered. By the time each person had finished the
first dozen or two innocuous questions, his or her body was completely colonized. During the answering
of each successive question, nanobots measured blood pressure, respiration, endocrine function, brain
waves, and subvocaliz-ations to determine if answers were true or not. If any answer was false, it was
ignored.
      Some of the nanobots migrated to the palm of the hand and emerged at the surface of the skin as a
complicated dark red ideogram. Cheaters, parents who had tried to fill out their children's forms, or family
members who had taken it upon themselves to speak for other family members, plus those who had
discarded the questionnaire or simply ignored it, received on the following day a stern note and a new
questionnaire. Though the questionnaires were in fact returned to a central depository, from which they
subsequently disappeared, the work of tabulation had already been done. Newly assembled nanobot
structures inside each person now identified that person. Roving structures migrated throughout each
person's body, correcting minor physical problems as they went. Crippling diseases were ameliorated.
Incapacitating pain was relieved, but fatal diseases were let alone. No attempt was made to reduce drug
addiction, alcoholism, smoking, or any other self-destructive behavior.
      When anyone shook hands, hugged or kissed, took a receipt from a cashier's hand, took a ticket from
a parking attendant or money from a teller, nanobots passed from one body to another. Except for a few
thousand eremitic individuals, within a few days even those who had resolutely refused to fill out a
questionnaire were colonized and identified. Since the opinions of the hermits could, the Pistach thought,
be accurately inferred, they were not required to answer questions.
    Except for the clearly visible marks on the palms of their hands, the nanobot invasion went totally
unnoticed by the people of the United States.

Law enforcement—MONDAY
      Captain Riggles, Morningside Precinct, looked up from his desk impatiently. "What?"
      "This box for you, Boss.”
      "What's in it, McClellan?"
      "I don't know, Boss. Says it came from them.”
      'Them who?"
      "Them, sir. You know. The ET’s.”
      Captain Riggles smiled grimly and commented, "As I was just saying this morning to Lieutenant
Walker, McClellan, I'd be really surprised if you make it through the next few weeks to retirement. Aren't
you a little old for—"
      Mac drew himself up, scowling. "Captain, the box says it comes from the ET’s. Right there. Ex-tra-
ter-rest-rial En-voys. Now if you don't want it, sir, you just say so, and I'll dump it down in the basement
with the old files.”
      "Give it here.” He frowned at the box, a sizeable one. "Maybe it's a bomb.”
      "No, sir. It's been through the scanner. I've slit the tape, you just need to…"
      "McClellan, I know how to open a box.”
      He opened it, disclosing a great number of closely packed smaller boxes, one of which, on being
upended and shaken, dropped a wrist-watch on his desk. Something that looked like a wristwatch, at any
rate.
      "What th . . .” He picked it up and turned it in his hands. An expansion band. A round dial. A single
hand, pointing down. Left-hand side of the dial green, no numbers. Right-hand side red, numbered from
the top down, one to ten. Legibly lettered on the left, the words, "No probable cause.” On the right,
"Probable cause.”
      "There's directions, Boss.”
      McClellan handed him the thin booklet that had been wedged between the smaller boxes and the
carton.
      Introducing the Causometer, for use by police, drug enforcement officers and the U.S. Customs.
Provided with our best wishes by the Extraterrestrial Envoys.
      "The instruments in the carton you have just received are units in a new system designed by the ET’s
to provide you with better tools for your work. All illicit drugs entering the U.S. will henceforth emit a
harmless form of radiation which can be picked up by the devices you are now examining. To turn on the
device, simply press the button on the right side. A small light will flash at the bottom of the dial
indicating your position. The dial is the area in front of you. If there are illicit drugs in the area, the light
will split into two, white and red, and the red light will move in the direction of the drugs. At the same
time, the hand will move through the green zone toward the red zone.
      "As you move in the direction indicated by red light, the two lights will come closer together. When
the two lights converge, this indicates you are standing upon or at the drugs in question. Touch the device
for three seconds to whatever person, container, vehicle or surface is nearest. If there are several persons
or things, touch each in turn. If the thing or person touched is or has been carrying drugs, the hand will
move into the red zone of Probable Cause. When the hand reaches Probable Cause, the causometer also
records and emits data regarding the time, the geographical and physical location, the identities of all
persons in the immediate vicinity as well as the type and quantity of drug present. This information is then
sent to you in official form.
      "Though the radiation is harmless, it does accumulate in persons, vehicles, or buildings repeatedly
exposed to the manufacture, storage, transport, or sale of illicit drugs. The higher the reading, the more
involvement there has been. A reading of four or higher indicates consistent and continuous presence of
illicit material. If drugs have been dropped or deposited in a noncontiguous location, press the button on
the left side, then apply the meter to the drugs first, and then to persons one at a time. DNA traces on the
drugs or their packaging will be matched to the person who carried or processed them. The meter will
sound an audible alarm when the right person is identified.”
      McClellan had been reading over his shoulder. "They're kidding.”
      "Somebody's idea of a joke," the captain muttered, tapping the gadget on his desktop. "Just for the
hell of it, let's try it. Go down to the evidence locker and bring up some stuff. Any stuff. Hide it out there
and yell.”
      "You mean, now?"
      "No, McClellan. Next Tuesday. Of course I mean now!"
      Fifteen minutes later, responding to McClellan's hail, the captain, device on his wrist, eased out of his
office observed by a sniggering clutch of on and off duty cops. He pushed the right button, blinked for a
moment, moved to his left, touched a desk. The needle went to red three, moving to four as he opened a
drawer and took out a plastic packet with an evidence tag on it. The light had begun blinking again. He
went left, right, straight ahead, uncovering five more packets of varying substances. The audience of cops,
who had stopped sniggering when the first package was found, mostly had their mouths open.
      "It's like a sniffer dog on your arm," said one.
      "You got 'em all, Boss," said McClellan.
      "No, there's more," said the captain, still moving, bumping into an off duty cop who was standing in
the door. "Sorry, Stevens.” He went around him, stopped, turned around, came back, reached out and
touched Stevens with the device. The needle hit the five.
      "Hey, what's this," Stevens blurted, turning brick red.
      The captain stared at the dial which was giving him an unequivocal "Probable Cause.” "Search him,"
he said to McClellan. "Now.”
      "Oh, come on, Captain," Stevens cried.
      "Do it, damn it.”
      They found the packet of cocaine stuffed under his belt, in back, where Stevens had put it when he
came off duty at the evidence locker. He hadn't even taken the trouble to remove the evidence tag. While
they were still standing around, muttering about it, the clerk brought a fax that had just printed out.
Headed with an official-looking letterhead, it gave the date, time, location, amount and type of drugs in
each discovery, place found or person in possession, list of all other persons present, and a cryptic
signature.
      When Stevens had been taken below and locked up, the captain brought out the carton of wrist
sniffers. "McClellan, you and Brown distribute these things to the men, see the other shifts get them too.
Run off copies of these two pages that tell how it works. When the day shift gets it figured out, send two
cars over to the Morningside Project. No, make it four cars and a wagon. Don't bring in any kids under
ten. I got a feeling we'll make a clean sweep.”
      The ET’s had misled the captain, though only a little. The radiation emitted by illicit drugs was high-
frequency sound, a supersonic howl coming from assemblies of nanobots that had been sown some time
ago throughout the coca plantations and poppy fields of the world. Nanobots, Chiddy and Vess had
agreed, made more sense than any other form of tracer, because they were self-perpetuating. Designed to
utilize only molecular assemblies found in drugs for replication materials, they settled in and procreated
like bacteria, making millions of themselves virtually overnight. Whenever an area became overcrowded,
millions migrated away to other plants or trees, carrying the useful assemblies with them. Within a period
of days, there was no source of either cocaine or opiates anywhere in the world that was not fully tagged.
     The nanobots had been designed to be impervious to refining processes. They didn't show up on
scanners. They didn't show up on anything manmade except electron microscopes, and even then, only if
someone knew what to look for. Their supersonic howls were detectable by the wrist sniffers, of course,
but wrist sniffers could not be taken apart for examination. Any attempt to do so resulted in a foul stench
and a puddle of unpleasant and rapidly evaporating goop.
     The drug-bots were designed to penetrate wrappings, they were programmed to move out of the
drugs into the clothing of the carrier, into the hair and body of the carrier, into the vehicles the carrier
used, into the money the carrier received. If there were no drugs in the environment, they could not
replicate, and their life spans were designed to be short, thus eliminating the possibility of innocent
persons being identified as carriers. They were designed to take particular actions in response to specific
signals. With a wary eye on the economics of the situation, neither Vess nor Chiddy had ordered them to
do anything else, yet.

Incident in Virginia—MONDAY
     Late Monday evening, an armored truck made its way down a lonely country road in Virginia,
headed toward an abandoned farm that was owned, ostensibly, by a widow in Baltimore. The woods
behind the house were cut by the arcs of three concentric fences, an outside, slightly saggy one of rusty
barbed wire, a second one of tight electrified mesh, and a third, the one nearest the house, of high-tension
cables and electrified chain link with concertina wire at the top. This latter barrier, invisible from the road,
began at a ramshackle shed connected to one side of the farmhouse, circled into the forest, and came out
at a dilapidated annex at the other side. The splintery boards and flaking paint off the farmhouse hid a
reinforced concrete bunker at the entry to a large storage area buried in the hillside. What one saw from
the approach was an assemblage of rotting rail fences outlining weedy fields that ran up the slope to the
house, its sagging roof part and parcel of the whole, sorry picture.
     Dink was driving, with McVane beside him. Briess, a small man with a ratty mustache, was standing
in the tall, armor-plated body of the truck. Arthur was on urgent business elsewhere, but his place had
been taken by a sound technician and half a ton of equipment designed to detect every physical
manifestation that might occur when they arrived at the ramshackle house.
     "We stay in the truck, right?" Dink asked, as he came to the last turn in the driveway.
     "We stay in the truck," agreed McVane. "If these creatures are what we think they are, they've had
appetizers in Oregon and an entree in Florida, and I'm not offering to be dessert.”
     "What's your guess?" asked Dink, braking the van to a halt and shutting off engine and lights. "About
what they want?"
     "They're obviously a competing group," said McVane. "A rival clan, or nation, or political party. A
rival world, or association of worlds. The voice that spoke to me said the Pistach aren't the only ones. This
implies we're being given a choice between the way the Pistach are shoving us and something else. They
want to make a deal.”
     "For what?" breathed Briess from the hatch leading into the truck body. "Hunting rights?"
     "Something like that," admitted McVane. "We could tolerate that. Hell, China's got enough surplus
people to keep 'em busy for a few thousand years. If their offer's good enough.”
      "You don't know how many of them there are," said Briess, through a grilled hatch behind the seat.
"Or how much and how often they eat. You don't know if they have a preference in taste. Like Europeans,
or Americans.”
      "I doubt we taste any different," grunted McVane. "If they preferred light meat, they'd be talking to
somebody besides us.”
      "How long until?" asked Briess.
      McVane consulted the illuminated dial of his watch. "Ten minutes. I didn't allow much extra time. It's
boring to sit around waiting for stuff to happen.”
      "Crack that window so we can hear," said Dink. "Get a little fresh air in here.”
      "Keep it closed," barked McVane. "Turn on the recirculating air conditioner if you have to, but keep
everything closed. Physically, we're probably no match for these creatures, and it's remotely possible this
is a trap . . .”
      "I thought you said it would be perfectly safe!" erupted Dink.
      "I said a trap was remotely possible, Dinklemier. Calm down. If you want to listen, turn on the
exterior mikes.”
      The mikes were turned on to admit a soothing murmur of light wind, the rustling of dried leaves, the
flap-flap of a strap of harness hanging on the fence, the flutter of a tattered white towel that was
inexplicably clipped to the washline beside the house.
      "What's that doing there?" asked McVane, nodding at the towel. "I thought the place was
abandoned.”
      "It's meant to look abandoned," Briess corrected him. "The towel means there was nothing dangerous
here when the crew looked the place over shortly after sunset. The whole area has been under surveillance
from across the valley since then.”
      They sat. "Did you locate the intermediary's kids?" McVane asked.
      Dink grunted. "They're being watched. We can pick them up any time. The same with the husband.
We can pick him up any time. He doesn't know where his wife is.”
      "Neither do the children," said Briess. "But the boy is willing to try and find out. Seems he's got a
girlfriend who likes money.”
      "Don't they all," murmured McVane. The rustling and flapping went on as the minutes passed, ten,
twelve, fifteen.
      "They're late," said McVane.
      "On the contrary," said a voice through the speaker. "We arrived here when you did.”
      Those in the truck straightened up and peered in all directions. There was nothing visible.
      "Show yourselves," said McVane.
      "Rather not," said the voice in a toneless, mechanical voice. "Rather just do our business, get on with
our lives, you know. Too much formality stifles us, doesn't it you? Warriors and hunters don't need it.”
      "You are a ... warrior race," said Briess, through the inside microphone.
      "Oh, indeed.”
      "You speak English?"
      "We're speaking through a translator. We buy them from the Pistach. Good manufacturers, the
Pistach. Stodgy as all get-out, everything just so, but perfectionists do make good merchandise.”
      "They say they're here to help us," offered McVane. "Isn't that true?"
      "Well, help is as help is. If you do it their way, you'll learn to get rid of some of what they call your
native barbarism, you'll become more civilized, which is also what they call it, and you'll keep everybody
reasonably happy by eliminating a lot of what makes life interesting. Maybe that's help. For us, it'd be
deadly dull. We're highly selfish and individualistic. We revel in the unexpected. We lust after the hunt.
We've given you a looking-over. We think you're more like us than you are like them.”
     "And?" breathed Briess.
     "Our view is that those who sign up for somebody's free course in social engineering ought to have a
choice. If you sign up with us, we make a deal. We get to hunt on this planet. We'll set a game limit that
won't overstress the population, though right at first you'll need a hell of a lot of weeding out. We can use
our young ones for that. You know kids. Always hungry.”
     "And what do we get out of it?" Briess asked, surprised at the dryness of his throat.
     "You get your population problem solved without having to argue about sex or religion or human
rights. Let people have as many offspring as they want, the young ones are juicier anyhow. We prefer to
maintain a large gene pool by eating only third birth order or higher persons, so we won't be reducing you
by much.”
     "We can handle our own population problems," growled Briess.
     "Never in a million years," said the voice, the translator managing to imply a chuckle. "Not with all
your taboos. Aren't you sick of them? By Charm the Great, between your religions and your laws, you
can't have a good gang rape without being hauled up short! That's what you get with a differentiated
society like the Pistach. Everything smoothed out, ironed over. Well, with us, it's different. You let us
hunt, we'll do you favors, give you some technology that'll advance you a few centuries.”
     "You'll restrict your hunting by agreement?" asked Briess. "How would that work?"
     "First, you can tell us where the hunting should be done. Second, you can tell us what individuals or
groups you'd like eliminated. Political foes, maybe? Certain foreign elements? Certain dictators that've
been hard to handle? Just imagine, you want it, it happens, but nobody can trace it back to you!"
     "If we make a deal with you, do we still get to join this Confederation the Pistach keep talking
about?" asked Dink.
     "Go ahead and join, just don't tell the Pistach about our agreement. You can go ahead and become
neighborly. It won't hurt you. But ... on the side, when you get bored, we'll take you hunting with us.”
     There was a long silence. Briess asked, "Won't the Pistach find out about it?"
     The voice made a grating noise they interpreted as laughter.
     "With all your terrorists and warfare and tribal conflicts. Not so they can prove it.”
     Briess said, "We'd like to talk about this, a bit.”
     "Take your time," said a voice. "Take all the time you need. Meantime, just to illustrate our goodwill,
give us a few names. We'll find the being or beings, wherever it is or they are, and we'll either make them
disappear or deliver them to you. Just to show how useful we can be.”
     Silence in the van. It was McVane who spoke at last. "A woman named Benita Alvarez. The
intermediary for the Pistach envoys.”
     "Dead? Dismembered? Or delivered?"
     McVane started to speak, but Briess reached through the opening to put a hand on his shoulder,
silencing him.
     "Delivered," said Briess. "It has to be done surreptitiously, no alarms, no havoc, no wreckage. She
has to disappear, and she has to be in good condition. Call one of us when you've got her.”
     "Where is she?"
     "If we knew that, we wouldn't need you," said McVane.
     "Excellent," purred the voice, losing some of its mechanical edge. "We enjoy a challenge. She has
family, perhaps?"
     "A husband in Albuquerque. A son and daughter at school in California.” He rumbled for a pocket
notebook and read off Angelica's address, Carlos's address, Bert's address.
     The voice purred again. "We may need to use her family as bait. We'll let you know when we have
her, and we'll bring her here.”
     The voice went away. The other men sat silently while the technician fiddled with his dials and
screens. "Here's something in infrared," he said at last, pointing at his monitor.
     They got into the back to see what he had, an image of something or things tall and tangled, looming
at the side of the ramshackle house. And something smaller but numerous on the ground between the
armored car and the house. And something else, that they couldn't at all make out, more an absence than a
presence.
     Dink gulped, saying in a slightly panicky voice, "I'm not sure I like this . . .”
     "We've made alliances before," said McVane. "Hell, we had an alliance with Stalin once.”
     "There's a difference," murmured Briess. "I doubt Stalin ever looked at us and imagined how we'd
taste served rare, with sautéed mushrooms.”
     Dink started the car and eased it into motion, turning in a wide loop to put them back on the isolated
road. "First thing we have to do is tell Morse about it," he murmured. "Let's see what he has to say.”

From Chiddy's journal
     In a previous entry I have mentioned the Pistach colony on Quirk. It was only three or four years after
our visit there that Pistach-home received astonishing news. The people on Quirk had rebelled against
their sequestration, had seized a supply ship, no great feat as it was not armed or staffed to repel a
boarding party, and subsequently had used that ship to ferry a large fraction of the planetary population to
some unknown destination. What was most intriguing about the story was the name of the leader: T'Fees.
More exactly, T'Fees the Tumultuous, or so those remaining on Quirk averred. Those who had chosen to
remain on Quirk included the lazy, the elderly, the infirm, and the quite mad, but even the maddest among
them claimed T'Fees had taken the title of Tumultuous before leaving the planet.
     Pistach-home was abuzz with rumor and speculation. Where could the Quirkers have gone that was
any better suited to them than Quirk? Quirk had been designed for the eccentric, the unconventional, the
idiosyncratic, the bizarre. Where else could such people go and be allowed to live in acceptance and
peace? We assumed they would want peace. We always assume that living, breathing, sensible creatures
want peace.
     The Departure from Quirk became what you on Earth would call a Nine-Day Wonder, fascinating,
but not enduringly interesting. There were some songs written, some artwork done, some poems
composed with the rebellion of Quirk as the theme. None of them truly captured the event to make it live
in our minds. People soon quit talking about it for though it was unusual, by our standards, it was also
distant and it did not affect Pistach-home. It was a happening staged by the insane on a world the sane
regarded little.
     Even we who had known T'Fees did not worry over it long. There were too many other duties and
responsibilities that required our attention. Since Vess and I had been away on missions for some time, we
were scheduled to spend the next year or so in duty at the House of the Fresco. All athyci are expected to
spend time there in order to renew our spiritual balance. Teachings by the commentators over the years
stress the importance of infusing oneself with the aura of the Fresco, with the awe and reverence evoked
by the rites conducted there.
     It was while I was on Fresco duty that the House of Cavita, my ancestral house, was honored by a
request to donate genetic material for a mating among the five imperial houses. When a child is planned
among them, each house gives genetic material to the mating but, also, to prevent excessive inbreeding,
one outside source is required, preferably an athyco from a blameless lineage. Our family records had
been audited for the past twelve generations without revealing one misjudgment by a Cavita selector, one
reversed decision by a Cavita athyco, one artwork created by a Cavita proffi that was considered inferior.
Our line seemed to be without stain. At the time, dear Benita, I confess that I had feelings of ebullience
and self-regard over this matter. Since being here on Earth, I have become more likely to see humor in it.
I have the feeling, if I told you we had twelve generations without stain, you would say to me, Oh, poor
thing, how dull!
      It was, in fact, worse than dull. While the request to provide genetic material is a great honor, it
requires an equally great interruption in one's life. Athyci are not physically able to reproduce. Therefore,
an athyco asked to do so must undergo temporary transformation. This process is painful and lengthy,
taking the better part of a year before one is restored to oneself. It was during this time that I became
personally acquainted with breeding madness and clump lust and the other terrors and compulsions
routinely faced by inceptors. They, so it is said, do it eagerly, without a qualm. For me, it was traumatic,
not while it was going on, of course, but after it was over. As a matter of principle, I did not ask for
memory deadening during the incidents. Athyci are expected to welcome all experiences as a way of
learning what others experience and how they cope with events. I found the memories agonizing,
however. If I had been Earthian, I would have blushed to recall them, wishing them gone, and worse:
wishing dead all other individuals, the inceptors, the receptors, the nootchi, who had witnessed the events.
It is a grave error to wish others gone, dead, passed over, but I committed it a hundred times during the
following year on Pistach-home.
      Since being here, I have learned to value the experience as it helped me understand Earth people
better than I could otherwise have done. They, too, are often suffused by shame at what reproductive
nature has compelled them to do. They are reminded, and they cringe. They wish to forget.
      I know, for example, that your young people, and those of mid years, also, often cannot help the
sexual foolishness they commit, and assisting them in this matter would be wise. I know your rapists
cannot help what they do, but I also know they cannot be allowed to do it. Since the physically stronger
half of your race are inceptors, and since they are disproportionately represented at various levels of
government, they have elevated inceptorhood above all other states of being, holding it above even the
right to live. Inceptorhood is so holy that it forbids changing rapists into campesi or even proffi, though
they would be happier so. You may kill a rapist, but you may not change him into something
noninceptorish. It is a great trouble in your society, one Vess and I are at present much concerned with.
      Which is beside the point. After a period of convalescence, I continued my term at the House of the
Fresco, and it was there that a second trauma occurred. I was reminded of it anew by something you said
not long ago, Benita, about the Sistine Chapel.
      I have spoken of the grime that covers the interior of the House of the Fresco, most of it deposited as
soot from candles and oil lamps, thousands of which are burned by worshippers and seekers after truth
and pilgrims from Pistach's far-flung worlds. It would be heresy to clean the Fresco, yes, but the room that
contains it has to be cleaned at least annually. A large scaffolding is erected, and teams of proffi and
athyci come in to wash down the inside of the dome, the pillars, the wall space above and below the
Fresco, and finally the floor itself. At the time of which I speak, the Chapter of the Fresco House had
recently ruled that the traditional cleaning utensils, animal skins and a ritual soap made from wax plants
and scented with flowers, could be replaced by a more convenient and effective cleansing agent. The new
stuff was a grime specific solvent, and we were given large jugs of it, each labeled Danger, do not drink,
with a picture of a dried thorax and crossed leg armor.
      The stuff stank, but it worked almost miraculously, needing little if any rinsing and leaving virtually
no streaks. In half the usual time, we had the inside of the dome done, the pillars washed down, and it was
time to do the walls above the Fresco, which had been carefully, so we assumed, draped to avoid any
damage. As it happened, I was the one who committed the offense. I was working above the final
depiction, The Martyrdom of Kasiwees, when someone tried to open the left-hand door from the outside,
bumping the scaffolding and making me drop the cleaning cloth as I grabbed for support. The cloth
dropped between my body and the Fresco, and in the effort to catch it, I pressed it against the drapery with
a lower appendage. When I retrieved it, I saw to my horror that it had been pressed against the Fresco
itself, through a gap in the drapery.
     My cries brought assistance, and we carefully redraped the area, leaving no holes at all. It was not
until the job was done and the drapes were removed that we saw, high on the Fresco of Kasiwees, a rag-
sized area of blue sky dotted with figures we had been taught were flosti, returning from their wintering
grounds. With the grime removed, one needed no magnification to see that the figures were not flosti.
They were Pistach, winged Pistach who, from their dress, were from the Imperial Houses, the house from
which Mengantowhai had come. Also, the figures were not arriving,- they were departing.
     The shock was palpable. The Fresco Chapter, all those currently charged with the care of the Fresco,
met in lengthy sessions to determine what should be done about the disclosure. Whose fault was it?
Though they were kind enough not to blame me for dropping the cloth, they were thrown into great
confusion by the contents of the Kasiwees commentary, the one that referred to symbols of springtime
and renewal, i.e., flosti, when in fact the flosti were not there!
     It was suggested that since the Fresco had sustained no damage, the entire Fresco or at least the entire
Kasiwees panel should be cleaned, as the symbols of renewal would no doubt be found elsewhere on the
panel. This was shouted down. Though the symbols might be elsewhere on the panel, possibly they might
not, and no one wanted to deal with that eventuality. The Chapter felt such a discovery would undermine
the entire structure of our society.
     Another suggestion was that we go back and amend any of the commentaries that did not agree with
the now disclosed reality. This was discussed for days, until everyone agreed we could not conform the
commentaries to the disclosed reality because we did not know what the disclosed reality was! As our
adage puts it, lum ek avotvl, ni lumek'aul. a tiny patch of blue is not heaven. (You would say, one swallow
does not make a summer.) We would have to clean the entire Kasiwees panel, at the very least, in order to
say what the tiny patch meant, and that might raise questions about other panels that had not been
cleaned!
     The anger and confusion finally settled into a determination to find out who had first misled the
people and to cover up the patch of blue so the people would not be further confused. It was agreed that
the only sensible thing to do was haze the patch with tallow smoke, that is, re-dirty it. That decision had
the weight of tradition behind it, at least. Since I had dropped the cleaning cloth, I, personally, smoked the
patch into illegibility, though I confess to putting every detail of it into memory as I did so.
     A small committee was delegated the job of going through the archives starting with our earliest
ancestors to determine who was responsible for this error, if, indeed, it had been an error. I volunteered to
help and was accepted as one of the researchers. Though I had studied Pistach history prior to being
accepted as an athyco, I had never actually looked at original documents. The thing I most wanted to see
was the often-referred-to Compendium, the panel-by-panel drawing of the Fresco together with the
notations on which our knowledge of the Fresco now depends. This Compendium was created long ago
by Athyco Glumshalak who is known as "The Inceptor of Morality.” It was Glumshalak who codified our
beliefs and virtues,- it was Glumshalak who taught us that the Fresco was too holy to be cleaned.
Unfortunately, the Compendium was not available on Pistach-home, for it was on display in the Fresco
House of one of the colony worlds. Though this was a disappointment, other documents were profuse.
     I had no idea how much writing there had been prior to widespread use of electronic communication
and the development of mind-scanners. Prior to modern times, we Pistach used sheets of stuff called
thizzle, a kind of starch that dries into sheets, almost like your paper, and there are bales of it in the
archives. Though there seemed to be a dearth of official documents prior to Glumshalak, there were
uncountable items of personal correspondence. Back then, everyone wrote to everyone else, and all of it
had been saved in stasis files, to prevent its being eaten by gniffles, even letters from people who were
only remotely if at all connected to the building of the Fresco House.
      I was sorting through old letters when I came across one from a proffe, one Merg'alos of Sferon, to
his nootch. The letter concerned Merg'alos's visit to the Fresco, and it was dated only fifty years after the
Fresco was completed. In the letter, Merg'alos, who was evidently an artist, wrote that he found the Fresco
"undistinguished.” He referred to Kasiwees as "abandoned," and to the (unnamed) figures in the sky as
being, "like so many flosti, flying.” The symbol conveying the word "like" or "similar to" came at the end
of a line, at the very edge of the thizzle sheet, which had been slightly nibbled. As it was the first
reference to flosti that I had seen, I set the letter aside. Days later, I came across a critique written by a
proffe who was also of Sferon House, dated some seventy years after the Merg'alos letter was written. The
critique referred to "my ancestor's letter" and mentioned the possible symbolism to be found in the "flock
of flosti either arriving or departing.”
      I found an entry in the Fresco House official commentaries, dated another hundred years after the
critique, after the time of Glumsha-lak, referring to "the springtime symbolism of the arrival of flosti,
flying in at the upper left.” By that time, over two hundred years after the Fresco was painted, the Fresco
had already disappeared behind its layers of soot and research had to have been done from the
Compendium and commentaries alone. After that citation, the "springtime symbolism" was referred to
again and again in the various commentaries, and other commentators found other springtime symbols in
the panel as well. There were said to be bulbs scattered around Kasiwees's kneeling figure, plus worm jars
and, that quintessential harbinger of spring, a bough of hisanthine in Kasiwees's hand.
      Having just traced the origin of nonexistent flosti, I was of no mind to accept the bulbs, the worm
jars, or the hisanthine. Many early sketches of Fresco panels were in the archives, in addition to
Glumshalak's Compendium, most of them done by athyci and proffi who were not, unfortunately, artists.
Yes, there were some little bumps drawn around Kasiwees's kneeling figure, but it was impossible to say
whether they were bulbs or rounded stones or unripe fruit or a clutch of pfiggi eggs. The same uncertainty
applied to worm jars, and though Kasiwees definitely had something in his hand, whether it was a branch
of hisanthine, I could not say. I commented to one of my fellow workers, a professional historian, that I
thought there had been a conspiracy in those early years to destroy or hide all the documents that would
be needed in the future. He commented that this was often the case, for in any situation with more than
one side or opinion, only the winning side or opinion would be around to justify whatever it had done, no
matter who had been right or wrong. He said, "Ones have always inferred that Glumshalak may have
disposed of some material which did not accord with aisos view of Pistach purpose.”
      This was a new idea to me, and I confess that I was depressed by it, particularly since I was unaware
there had ever been any other side or opinion than those we had been taught.
      When I reported to the Chapter, other researchers had also found mentions of flosti subsequent to the
first letter, and we agreed that the interpolation of flosti had indeed arisen in a casual letter from Merg'alos
to a family member, a letter subsequently cited, inaccurately, by one of his lineage. Or, to put it baldly,
our teachings regarding the content of the Kasiwees panel were in substantial error. I wondered at the time
why the Compendium of Glumshalak had not prevailed over this error since it did not mention the flosti,
or whatever.
      I think it was at that point that I suggested using technology to penetrate the coating of grime and get
an image of the original Fresco. This could be done without changing the Fresco in any way, and then the
Chapter might, privately, take its time in assessing what changes in doctrine might be necessary.
      I might as well have thrown a pfiggi haunch into a pool of hungry pfluggi, for the assembled Chapter
ripped the suggestion to shreds. It was obvious the Chapter preferred preserving the current doctrine to
changing doctrine, even though change might bring it into accord with Canthorel's divine purpose. No
one, no one said exactly that, but that is what they meant. I did not say it either. I remember that my
nootch told me many years before that I would know I had gained wisdom when I learned to keep my
mouthparts quiet. I thought of her and was silent.
     The head of Chapter set everything into the preferred perspective. "Tradition weighs as much as
truth," the old one said. "What has existed for thousands of years as a support of goodness and peace has
as much right to teaching as a painting done yesterday that has yet to prove itself.” In other words, we'd
been getting along fine with things the way they were, so leave them the way they were. One of your
favorite Earth sayings, that one: If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
     Though I was presumably acquiescent, I confess to being troubled about this matter. Truth has always
mattered to me, dear Benita. You and I have discussed this from time to time. Even though we have
agreed that real truth is hard to come by, we have also agreed that it is worth the effort. It seemed to me
then, as it seems now, that we could have modified the teachings concerning Kasiwees. He might, for
example, have been seeing a vision of Pistach in the guise or manner of flosti. Or a vision of the Pistach
leaving the Jaupati in the future, as eventually they did. We could have admitted we did not know what
the panel conveyed. The only thing at issue was whether the panel contains symbols of renewal. Does it
matter whether it does or not? We believe in renewal! Must we assume our attributes are worthy only
insofar as they are ancient? If we cling so tightly to the old that we do not allow ourselves to improve in
both beliefs and behavior, of what value are we? Can we not say a newly achieved virtue is more worthy
than a corrupted teaching?
     The answer of the Chapter was that we could not. Rather than disturb the long-accepted teachings of
our people, the Chapter chose to hide the bit of sky that had shown itself, and I, your friend Chiddy, was
the one who hid it. For the first time in my life, I felt embarrassed, sick, vicariously humiliated at a
decision of our people. I didn't make the decision, but it hurt me nonetheless. It seemed then, as it still
does, wrong.

Senator Morse—TUESDAY
     When Senator Morse received Dink's report early Tuesday morning, he barely managed to maintain
his usual glacial reserve.
     "So you haven't found her.”
     "No, sir, we haven't, but believe me, these other ET’s will. Arthur isn't sure about it, but Briess thinks
it could make a lot of sense to throw in with this new bunch.”
     "Give them hunting rights? Dink, have you thought for even a moment how that would look on the
evening news? 'Senator Approves Extra-Terrestrial Hunting Rights on Human Race!'"
     "It wouldn't be publicized! The agreement will be secret. They won't make any noise about it if you
don't.”
     "And the Pistach envoys? They'll keep quiet about it? I think not.”
     "According to this bunch, the Pistach won't be able to prove anything. I get the feeling this bunch is a
lot quicker on the uptake than the Pistach are. It's like the difference between cats and cows. Or maybe
goats,- the Pistach are some smarter than cows. And we could always deploy a little disinformation. Like,
we claim the Pistach are doing it themselves while trying to throw suspicion on someone else.”
     "There are paranoids out there who would probably believe it. Unfortunately, most of them don't
vote.”
     "Senator, take a minute. Think of what they offer. Selective hunting. You got a political enemy:
Bammo, he's hamburger. You got some newsman on your tail: Zip, he's cube steak. You get somebody in
as president, somebody who's politics-proof, like you-know-who, he meets with an unfortunate accident.
That's a good deal. Just think if we'd had this deal in the nineties! It's too good to pass up.”
     "Our polls say the public likes this Confederation idea.”
     "The predators don't care if we go ahead and join the Confederation. The predation agreement is
under the table.”
     "And how do we keep the Pistach from finding out?"
     "We tell the predators they have to hunt in places where it won't be noticeable. God knows there's
plenty of places like that! Hell, every year a few million people starve here and there and nobody even
blinks, providing it happens in Asia or Africa. Thirty thousand some odd kids starve every day.”
     "That's not something we accept!"
     "Oh, hell, Senator. Don't feed me the party line. When was the last time any of your colleagues voted
for overseas family planning programs? You guys claim it's to prevent abortion, but you know it's not.
You know damn well cutting family planning causes more abortions than it prevents, but you still do it.
Why? Because most of the pro-life people are anti-contraception, too. And anti-sex education. And anti-
gay. And anti-women's-rights. But they're pro-gun, pro-hunting, pro-military. Killing's part of their lives.
So why not take advantage of what these critters offer?"
     "And you think the Pistach won't notice? You think people won't?"
     "So, if the Pistach notice we've got deniability. So people notice. We say, hey, sorry, we'll bring it up
in the UN, but it's got nothing to do with us. Senator, it's no different from stuff we do all the time, here
and there. They won't hunt here in the U.S.”
     The Senator growled to himself. "Next time you talk to them, I'm going along.”
     "They'll let us know when they're ready. When they've got the woman. Briess has already laid the
groundwork for that. He says we have to ask them to do something for us, to prove it won't be one-sided.
Like always, one hand washes the other.”

Pistach management—TUESDAY-THURSDAY
     The Tuesday afternoon papers said eighty percent of the population had filled out the questionnaires
and the American Civil Liberties Union was screaming for blood, as were a number of people who had
seen untruthful forms disintegrate under their hands. On Wednesday, Chad Riley called Benita to say in
addition to completed forms there were a few dozen bags of mail for the envoys at the D.C. main post
office.
     Benita looked at the ceiling and said loudly, "You've got mail.” Chad called back in ten minutes to
say the bags were gone, and she said, "Fine, just let me know whenever you want a pickup.” Privately,
she thought Chiddy and Vess might have simply vanished the mail, without bothering to read it or scan it
or feed it into their machines, whatever.
     She had underestimated them. Thursday night, without previous announcement, the envoys appeared
on television again. They told jokes about how many Americans it took to fill out a questionnaire (all of
them) or how many Afghanis (one, because there was only one right answer for everything). They said
they'd heard they'd been given the nickname of Pistach-ios, because humans thought they were nuts.
Benita noticed that their appearance had been further refined. They looked subtly more cuddly than they
had before. Their eyes were more glowing and kindly. The squidgy bits around the mouths were less
tentacular and more like a mustache. Rather Santa Claus, altogether.
     Since some people hadn't filled out their questionnaires, said Chiddy, in an admonitory voice very
much like Mary Poppins as portrayed by Julie Andrews, progress in solving problems would have to wait.
Thank you, Chiddy said, for all the mail. Yes, they could help the quadriplegic boy brought to their
attention by the governor of Arkansas and others of like condition. Yes, they had already provided help
for the housing project in California which was being turned into a war zone by local drug dealers. Yes,
they could find the murderer of the young women in Seattle, as requested by the police of that city, and of
the three black men in Texas, as requested by the Ebenezer Baptist Church. Yes, they were already
analyzing the subject of education in the U.S., as suggested by one million two hundred twenty-three
thousand six hundred and eighty-four correspondents. Just as soon as the last few people filled out their
questionnaires, all these matters would be handled.
     "In fact," said Chiddy, "we'll share with you some of our ideas about improving education, as so
many of you have suggested. We have looked at the information on dropouts, and we believe the basic
trouble is that no significant rite of passage occurs at high school graduation. It should be a goal,
something to be achieved on the way to adulthood, but it isn't. So, we must make it so. Certain things that
adults do, like driving cars, should not be available to people who haven't graduated from high school,
and social graduation of the unqualified shouldn't count. A diploma doesn't mean anything unless the
information is in the head. Adult liberties should not be entrusted to ignoramuses"
     Then Chiddy did something with his face that made him look extremely stern. They would not, he
said, be doing anything about drinkers, smokers, drug takers, or those who kept guns their children killed
themselves with.
     "Evolution must have a way to work among all races," said Chiddy in a serious voice. "Of any
population, some will be born who are not survivors. Some are self-destructive or destructive of others.
Others cannot muster the effort to function at a viable level. Some cannot learn. Your society, instead of
letting people either perish from stupidity or learn from foolish acts, protects them from themselves and
allows them, even helps them, to blame others for the stupidities they have committed. If someone has a
broken ladder, sees that it is broken, then climbs it, falls, and breaks a leg, he is allowed to sue the
manufacturer without even having to pay the lawyer. If someone is not bright enough to stay in school, he
or she drops out and becomes the parent of several children, and you support both the person and the
children. I have seen in your papers accounts of drug addicts receiving fertility treatment at public
expense. Of poor women being given treatments that result in the birth of multiple children! This is
monstrous!
     "Persons who are no longer babies should never be saved from themselves! Persons who are self-
destructive should be allowed to do so, without hindrance, as otherwise you perpetuate the tendency
generation after generation! I have read in a garden book that one saves labor by learning to love weeds.
This was written as a jest, but it is true of more enterprises than gardens. Weeds have their own purposes,
and so do high death rates among alcoholics, drug addicts, violent persons, gun worshippers, and the
perpetually angry. What we Pistach must help you do is to arrange that the fatalities happen inside these
groups, rather than among innocent bystanders.
     "We have a saying, we Pistach. 'Aul'a ek glusi ekfeplat num'ha ca ek athici ekfe num'h goff glusi.'
Loosely translated, this means that people wanting to kill should kill themselves rather than innocent
bystanders. Remember the time of the Red Guard in China and of Pol Pot in Cambodia, when the
competent were killed in their millions. This is not to suggest one should punish the incompetent. No, no.
Life has already done so, unfairly, as is the way of life and the universe. Let us, therefore, be kind to
them. Buy them a drink or a pack of cigarettes. Wish them a nice day! Meantime, let us work together in
devising ways to keep innocent bystanders from injury!"
     Chiddy turned to Vess and smiled. Vess nodded, picked up a letter and displayed it.
     "We have here a communiqué from your ACLU, complaining about the completion mark that shows
on the hand of those who have filled out the questionnaire. We are unable to find any incursion upon your
liberties attendant to this. You all have social security numbers, each one different, and you are asked to
contribute to opinion polls all the time. We're taking a virtually one hundred percent poll on American
opinion, the first of its kind. And we're being sure we count everyone, one time only, which means it's
inclusive and honest.
     "Parenthetically, you should know that we offered the results of our count to your census bureau,
learning to our confusion that your Congress is not really interested in an accurate count of everyone,
particularly minorities. Be that as it may, in our poll we are not interested in what sounds acceptable, or
what the majority can be cajoled into supporting. Good government should take into account all points of
view. People without the completion mark haven't filled out their questionnaires, so it's easy to tell who's
holding up the works.”
     The morning papers recorded forcible detention of bare-palmed individuals by friends and neighbors
who insisted they fill out the questionnaires so other people could get the help they needed. The papers
also recorded a number of pedestrians in major cities were passing out cash, booze and cigarettes to street
people they normally avoided.

From Chiddy's journal
     Dearest Benita, Vess and I have just learned that we must leave Earth for a short time. An emergency
has arisen on Pistach-home, and all athyci are being mustered to consider the situation. The last time this
occurred, about fifty years ago, the emergency turned out to be a minor problem of ego-assertion among
two royal family inceptors. It took only part of one morning to solve, yet athyci had come from as far
away as Fancher-the-Farmost. I feel this will no doubt turn out to be another of the same, though Vess is
not so sanguine. Vess feels something wrong and has been feeling so for some time. Ai says there is a
disturbance in the aura of Earth that stretches all the way to Pistach-home. This sounds to me like a late-
life crisis. We all have them, Mengatowhai knows, that feeling that time is closing in and we have not yet
made our contribution as fully as we had planned to do in giddy youth.
     If Vess should be correct, however, what can it be? Has the rebel T'Fees done something new? Have
the Xankatikitiki started pushing delegates around again? Are the Fluiquosm off on another of their
nihilist excursions, or have we seen yet another failure in Wulivery communications? Any such thing
would indeed be troubling.
     You have wondered, I am sure, dearest Benita, why we have not given you or your people any details
about the other members of the Confederation. If you ever read this, as I hope you will, you may even
wonder why I had not given you this document as it was written, rather than as a going-away gift, only
when we are ready to depart. When the time comes that you do see this, you will appreciate that there was
a strong possibility you would never see it. Giving this writing to you is only a possibility, not a certainty.
If your people should not come, as you so neatly put it, up to the mark, I will be forbidden to give you any
information at all. If you do not achieve Neighborliness, you will be told as little as possible. Your people
must want to join us for the right reasons, not out of fear at what may happen if they do not. So, I write,
often and much, only in hope of a happy outcome.
     Panel five of the Fresco, Civilization, in which the Jaupati order their world, shows what can be
accomplished when peoples devote themselves to proper lives. Even the Jaupati, I am sure, were not told
of the consequences of failure. No one wanted them to know that un-neighborly planets are free territory
for the predators among us. On un-neighborly planets, predators are unrestrained in coming and going as
they please, restricted only from causing an extinction.
     Also, I will not tell you we are leaving on this trip, for you might then feel you had to tell the
authorities and this might lead to inappropriate action on their part. We hope no one will notice we are
gone, for we have left TV broadcasts and various interventions, including several for your school
dropouts, to be implemented at intervals while we are away. We will, that is, I will, dearest Benita, look
forward to seeing you again on our return.

Benita—FRIDAY
    When she came upstairs for lunch on Friday, Benita called Angelica on her cell phone.
    "Oh, Mom, I'm so glad you called. There's some man hanging around here on the campus ... or he
was a few days ago. He's been talking to Carlos, telling him you're in trouble, that you may be mixed up
with some people who are dangerous. He wants Carlos to help find you, and he's offered Carlos money to
help them.”
    "Just offered, Angel?"
    "Well, no. I think he's given him money, because Carlos got enough from somewhere to rent a new
apartment.”
     "He's definitely moving out?"
     "Yes. I've taken the smaller place upstairs, and there's no room for him. He started out being angry,
but lately he's been suspiciously helpful. I wouldn't put it past him to have bugged my new place for this
man, whoever he is. Plus, Carlos insists he's going to get caller ID, so he'll know where you're calling
from.”
     "Even though he knows I don't want him to know?"
     "You know Carlos, Mom. When did what anybody else wants ever stop him? Himself and that
girlfriend of his are the only people in his life who mean anything to him, forget the rest of us.”
     "Have you seen this man that's been hanging around?"
     "He's a little guy, with a scruffy mustache. Carlos pointed him out to me. And the crazy thing is,
another man has been offering Dad money, too. To help find you.”
     "Ah," murmured Benita. "Well, well. We do seem to be popular, don't we.”
     "What's it about, Mom? Come on. Don't leave me hanging like this. This is scary!"
     "My job is with books, as I told you, but it might be described in part as working for the
government," said Benita, voice firm, but hands clenched to keep from trembling. "I have to have a
security check. I'm sure all this is just the normal hassle of checking my background.”
     "Well, I hope that's it. I'm taking this phone upstairs with me, no change in number, so you let me
know how you are, okay?"
     "I will, Angel. Always.”
     She hung up the phone and said loudly to the ceiling. "Chiddy, I need to talk to you.”
     There was no immediate response. "As soon as possible," she shouted. "Please.”
     She did not see Chiddy that day, nor the following one, even though that night both envoys appeared
on television to announce that compliance was above ninety-five percent.
     "We consider this good enough to go on with," said Vess. "The last five percent is always very
difficult to reach, and it is unlikely to change the response to any question significantly. Now we will start
working on some of your problems, and we'll catch up to the other five percent as we go along.
     "Let's fill you in on previous requests first. We were asked to help a boy with paralysis in Arkansas.
We have helped him and a number of other people with similar conditions. We aren't announcing his
name, as we don't want him or his family bothered just yet. When he is recovered, as he will shortly be, he
will hold a press conference.
     "Yes, we have learned who the murderer was of the young woman in Seattle, and the identities of the
killers of the three African-Americans in Texas. Those miscreants will soon be brought to justice, in
accordance with your own traditions. The press will be notified when it happens.
     "As previously announced, we are already studying how to remedy the problems with your schools.
The causes of their failures are many, ramified, and deeply entrenched in local politics. The most amazing
thing about the situation is that fifty years ago, a century ago, your schools were far better than they are
now! They taught fewer subjects and taught them better, with far more success and far less jargon.
Everyone agreed then that children were children, that is, impulsive, naive, and ignorant creatures in need
of training. No one suggested then that schools or teachers had to put up with hostility or violence or that
students had "rights" to such behavior or that freedom of speech included rudeness in the classroom.
Persons could be expelled from school and sometimes were. Children were expected to be good citizens
and mannerly, and the schools taught citizenship and manners. A necessary adjunct to the school was the
truant officer, who sought out and detained any child under eighteen who was not in school, and children
did not get out of school until they could read and write and do arithmetic. As is true on so many worlds,
the theoreticians and politicians have ruined a good thing. It is likely our interventions will simply roll
back time.
     "Though we choose to do nothing about drug addiction, we do choose to do something about the
violence, theft, and destruction of neighborhoods that accompanies the drug problem, and you may
already have heard about our efforts in one such particular area in California. Your news media have been
kind enough to carry the details of that action, and the supplies requested by law enforcement agencies in
other states are already being shipped.”
     When the program was over, Benita took Sasquatch up to her favorite thinking place, the roof. The
weather had stayed so warm that the plants under the arbor had grown a third of the way up the trellis, and
there were many little green worms turning up the soil, probably making fertilizer like crazy. Benita could
not recall ever seeing green worms before, but then, the world had a lot of creatures she'd never seen
before, all gyring and gimballing on the wabe, a whole foment of them.
     Which is what the ET’s were doing, and what the world was undergoing. "Chiddy," she said to the
sky, pleadingly. "Please.”
     The plea went unheeded, as had those before.
     There was much news in the Sunday papers. The quadriplegic boy in Arkansas appeared on
television, walking on crutches, but definitely walking. He thanked the envoys for his miraculous
recovery. The murderer of the woman in Seattle turned himself in to police, refused counsel, and pled
guilty, saying a voice in his mind had told him to do so. While he was at it, he said, he'd like to also
confess to thirteen other murders he had committed in Oregon, California, Nevada and Arizona.
     The militia in Texas that had cooperated in the slaying of the three African-Americans turned itself in
also, all eleven members. Eight confessed to conspiracy. Five confessed to aiding and abetting. All eleven
confessed to illegal firearms possession, and four of them said they'd done the actual killing. Meantime,
there were follow-up stories on the drug pushers who had ruled the territory outside the Morningside
Project, all of them caught in the act of dealing drugs, acts documented right down to the quantities and
amounts of money and persons present. All had been impeccably Mirandized on tape and were currently
incarcerated awaiting trial. Law enforcement in sixteen other states had requested causeometers, and some
had already received them.
     Newspaper and TV polls taken during the week gave the ET’s a seventy percent approval rating by
all races, ages, sexes, and all professions except attorneys and conservative religious organizations, both
of whom felt the ET’s were invading their territory.
     On Sunday, Benita got a phone call from the First Lady. "The president wants me to touch base with
you. Do you mind?"
     "Why?"
     "He wants me to know how you're holding up, and whether you need any help. There's something
happening on the Hill. Not just the usual extravagant egos. The president doesn't know where you are and
he doesn't want to know, because there's a push for congressional hearings about the ET’s. They're
charging that the president knows more than he's telling, and they're looking for any excuse to accuse him
of something. If I stay in touch, he can honestly say he hasn't spoken with you. Do you speak French, by
any chance?"
     "No," Benita confessed. "Spanish and English, that's all. And even my Spanish has gotten rusty since
my mother died.”
     "Well then, I won't quote the French ambassador. He feels we shouldn't listen to the envoys, they can
be up to no good, because if they'd had any culture at all, they'd know that French was the language of
diplomacy, and they'd have started their mission in France.” She chuckled, rather ruefully. "Anyhow, the
president is out of town today, so I called to invite you over for supper tonight.”
     "That's very thoughtful of you," Benita said.
     Murmuring at the other end. "Chad will pick you up around six, will that be okay? Just you two and
the Secretary of State and me.
     "Thank you," she agreed, wonderingly, shaking her head a few times, trying to clear it. She had really
had a casual conversation with the president's wife. She had not imagined it. My, my, how her life had
changed! She put the receiver down and returned to her perusal of the daily papers.

                        ET’S PROVIDE CAUSEOMETERS NATIONWIDE
                  HUNDREDS OF ARRESTS MADE SINCE DETECTORS AVAILABLE

                     ET INQUIRY TOO PERSONAL SAYS CHRISTIAN COALITION
                       CHILDREN SHOULD NOT BE ASKED ABOUT FEELINGS

                    QUIET REIGNS IN ISRAEL FOR SECOND CONSECUTIVE WEEK

                         AFGHANI WOMEN, CHILDREN ENTERING PAKISTAN
                         FAMILIES FLEEING PLAGUE, SAY BORDER GUARDS

                    GEOLOGISTS ATTEMPT SONIC PROBE OF JERUSALEM HOLE
                             NOTHING THERE, SAY TECHNICIANS

                        MORSE DEMANDS TESTIMONY BY INTERMEDIARY
                      PRESIDENT CLAIMS NO KNOWLEDGE OF WHEREABOUTS

                         PSYCHOLOGISTS SAY ET’S HAVE SENSE OF HUMOR
                                    PUBLIC UNSURPRISED

                        BAPTISTS CLAIM ET’S POSSIBLE DEMONIC INVASION
                             FALWELL SAYS ET’S MORE LIKELY GAY

                                          AFRICANS ON MOVE
                                      MIGRATIONS STUMP EXPERTS

     That evening Benita waited inside her back door for the car to arrive, having decided to be cautious
about standing about alone in deserted places. Once the bookstore was closed, the parking lot looked
empty, but one couldn't tell, really. Some lurker could pop up from behind a Dumpster or come zipping
around a corner on skates. She was wasn't afraid, not really, but she was homesick. She wanted the shady
portal of her parents' house, and the smell of the sun on the pinons and watching for the first golden leaves
in the cottonwoods. She imagined being there, then imagined Bert being there with her and decided it was
better where she was. After all, even here the evening felt like late September, with air that was crisper
and cooler than it had been. Perhaps winter air would be drier.
     She was so lost in nostalgia that she missed the arrival of the car until she heard the horn and looked
up to see Chad Riley standing beside it, waving. He insisted she sit in the backseat, and they chatted about
the book business on the way, not even mentioning the ET’s. The car had darkly tinted windows, but she
obediently lay down on the seat and covered herself with a blanket before they approached the gate. When
he showed her up the back way, to the White House family quarters, she found the First Lady and the
Secretary of State already partway through a bottle of wine and a tray of hors d'oeuvres.
     A little later they served themselves from the simple buffet that had been set out earlier. Only when
they had filled their plates and taken their places at the small table did the First Lady ask about the ET’s.
     "Intermediary, what are they really like?"
     She shook her head. "I don't honestly know much more than you do. They keep switching shape,
which can be confusing. I'd say they're even tempered, for they don't get angry at me when I get grumpy,
and I have been a time or two. I believe they do intend to help us live happier lives.”
     "The questionnaires don't bother you?"
     "No. It makes sense to ask people what they think before you try to make them happier.”
     "I'm told the FBI believes each of the ideograms on people's hands is unique," said the FL with a
glance at Chad.
     Benita chewed a bit of roast beef, nodding slowly. "That doesn't surprise me, either.” She held out her
hand, palm upward. The mark gleamed like a ruby. When the other three laid their hands down, it was
obvious that though the three marks had some similarities, each mark was different, like a very
complicated Chinese ideogram.
     "They want to identify us individually," said the SOS. "Maybe track our movements?"
     Benita took another bite of cold beef and smeared it with horseradish sauce. "I don't think so. They
don't care what civil people do. But since they found those murderers in a hurry, my guess is they can
screen for certain traits if they need to find a murderous militia or someone with a dangerous virus, like
Ebola.”
     Chad grinned. "What a system.”
     The SOS frowned. "So you don't think it's universal surveillance?"
     Benita shook her head. "Why would they want to listen to millions of people talking about the
weather and taxes and how their kids misbehave or how rotten their job is? They said they needed to find
out what causes woe. Then they need to stop it. If someone causes no woe, I doubt that person ever gets
looked at.”
     "You don't see it as an infringement on liberty?" the SOS challenged her again, not angrily but
demandingly. She wanted an answer.
     Benita felt heat behind her ears, a flush on her cheeks. Wine did that to her.
     "Well, back home, Madam Secretary, my husband had a lot of liberty. He had the liberty to knock me
around. He had the liberty to drive drunk, no matter what the judge said. He had the liberty to invade my
peace and steal my money and kill innocent people with his car, and the law didn't stop him or punish
him. The judge had liberty. He had the liberty to sentence Bert to house arrest and to sentence me to act as
his unpaid jailer, even though I was an innocent bystander and Bert both outweighed me and didn't mind
hurting me.
     "The judge also had the liberty to put me in jail for contempt if I made a fuss about it. He told me so
when I spoke up in court to tell him I couldn't keep Bert at home and off the liquor. He said Bert was a
working man and needed to get to work, and he said this even though he knew I was the one who
supported the family.”
     "That's rotten," said Chad feelingly, his face quite red. He pressed his lips together and looked
elsewhere. Benita wondered fleetingly what part of what she had said had upset him so.
     Seeing an attentive audience, she went on, "Now, me, I had a lot less liberty than Bert or the judge. I
didn't have the liberty to live peaceably in my own house. I didn't have the liberty to keep the fruits of my
labors. I didn't have the liberty to tell the judge in court what I thought of him, and the ACLU didn't rush
to my defense so I could. It hasn't rushed to the defense of the innocent people Bert may end up killing
because the judge wouldn't jail him and I couldn't keep him from driving.
      "So if somebody said to me, can we put a mark on you and on your kids that will keep Bert from
driving your car, or stealing your daughter's stereo for drinking money, why, I'd say, mark away!"
      The SOS shook her head and said in a strained voice, "I can understand your point of view, Benita.”
      Benita gave her a hard look, noticing for the first time just how tired and worried both women
looked. "You're upset about something specific. This supper isn't just a get-together. What is it?"
      They sat for a few moments, not speaking, then the FL said, "The president has been getting strange
reports. Chad knows about this. A group of lumbermen disappeared in Oregon, along about the time the
envoys came. Three men were killed down in Florida in a totally inexplicable way. Just today, word
filtered up that there was another inexplicable death, or disappearance, in New Mexico. There are other,
less specific reports . . .”
      Benita frowned. "When you say a group, how many?"
      "We're only talking about fifteen fatalities, total, and the last one is presumed, though personal effects
were left at the scene. But then, this afternoon someone brought our attention to World News items on
CNN. You watch it?"
      "Sometimes," said Benita.
      "A strange disappearance in Madagascar, similar to the one in Oregon. Disappearances in India,
similar to the one in New Mexico. A slaughter in Brazil, just like the one in Florida.”
      Benita swallowed deeply. "Is there any common thread, any indication . . .”
      The SOS said in a dry voice, "A common thread, yes. They were all in rural or remote areas, all of
them unobserved, where people were working in or near jungles or forests. The men in Florida were
digging ditches.”
      "And all of it has happened since the envoys arrived," said the FL flatly. "And the Congress has
access to the same information we're getting.”
      "It couldn't be Chiddy and Vess," said Benita. "It's not what they do.”
      "You can understand that we do need to know," pressed the FL. "And since you are the intermediary,
you're the only one we can ask to find out.”
      Benita stared at her plate, thinking furiously. "These men who are out to get the president. Do you
know who they are?"
      The PL's lips twisted. "Your senator, Byron Morse, for one.”
      "He's from my state, but he's not my senator," she replied. "Who else?"
      Chad said, "McVane, as you might have suspected. They have a few smart goons working for them,
men named Dinklemier, Arthur, and Briess. There's a whole ring of them over at the Pentagon. There are
others buried not very deeply in the Fascist Right, you know, Buchanan's bunch. There are others, quite a
few, CIA or ex-CIA, most of them, and there are several other legislators. McVane and Morse are the
ringleaders. Or I should say cabal leaders. It's definitely a cabal.”
      Benita said, "Then what's to have stopped these people from committing atrocities in India and
Oregon and the other places, just to hurt the president's credibility? If they're CIA, they have the resources
to do things like that, don't they?"
      The FL said soothingly, "It's entirely possible, Benita. But we need to know.”
      "Next time I see them," she said. "I haven't seen them for several days.”
      "I hate putting you under pressure this way," said the FL. "Is there anything we can do for you? You
don't sound terribly happy.”
      Benita laughed. "My son is being harassed by a small man with a ratty mustache who is offering him
money to find out where I am . . .”
     "We know who that is," muttered Chad.
     ". . . my husband is evidently also being solicited for his help, though not by the same man. I haven't
spoken to Chiddy or Vess for several days, and now you're telling me about some more or less
indiscriminate slaughter. I hear nothing in all that to make me even slightly happy.”
     "Ratty mustache?" said the FL, looking at Chad.
     "Definitely Briess," he said, staring at Benita. "Part of the Morse Cabal. Benita, when did you hear he
was bothering your kids?"
     "Friday, when I spoke to Angelica on the phone, she said my son had been paid to get caller ID to
trace where I am when I call them.”
     "That won't do them any good, will it?" the First Lady asked Chad.
     "No. Caller ID won't help him. But if they've talked to her son, they might try something more
sophisticated from that end, with or without his help.”
     "Can you prevent that?"
     "We can play games. Escalate the complications. No barrier is ever unbreakable, but we can keep
them off for a while.”
     "Make them think I'm in Denver," murmured Benita. "That's the impression I've been giving them.”
     The SOS set down her glass and wiped her lips, making a strange face. "You know, in recent years
I've dealt with people who live in very different worlds from the one I'm familiar with. Some cultures are
more foreign to me than the Pistachi In Iran or Arabia or Afghanistan, you'd swear there were no women
in the society. They are as invisible as ghosts and have approximately the same status as cows. In parts of
Latin America, family pride is so delicately balanced you have to watch every word. I try to see their
point of view, of course, but the dissonance often gives me a feeling of unreality. Their societies haven't
changed fundamentally for . . . centuries.
     "During that first Cabinet meeting when the president showed us the cube, I saw it as fiction. It
wasn't until Jerusalem disappeared that I grasped the fact it was reality. The envoys are real. They are
going to drag us, kicking and screaming, into a new age.”
     Benita murmured, "I honestly think they want to minimize the kicking and screaming.”
     The FL turned the talk to other things, they chatted for a time, then bade their farewells. Chad spirited
Benita down the back stairs and out once more, to pick up another car and return home by another route.
The trip was a long, twisty one, as he made sure they weren't followed.
     "Who's supposed to be following us?" she asked, when they turned at the same corner for the fifth
time.
     "The same bunch," he offered. "The cabal.”
     "Why is there a cabal?"
     "Oh, there are always sore losers who hate the president, any president. It's a kind of syndrome. They
give money or effort to a campaign, their guy gets beaten, they take it personally. They figure they were
right to support who they did, so the election must have been fixed or the public was bamboozled, or
something. They usually don't examine the real cause of their hatred. Morse probably hates the president
because of his wife.”
     "Morse's wife?"
     "No. The First Lady. Morse made a rather crude pass at the lady years ago, long before her husband
ran for president. Morse was drunk, at a public event, and it's unlikely he even knew who she was. She let
him have it loudly enough that everyone heard it. I think the words 'lecherous sot' entered into her
commentary. There was a minor furor, and it took him a while to live it down. He's been heard referring
to her as a 'mouthy bitch.' With him it's simple revenge, though that's not what he says in public.”
     "Who else?"
     "Oh, there are Pentagon guys who wouldn't mind starting a war if it would keep their budgets up.
There are always people over at State who depend on crisis to advance their careers. And we know, but
can't prove, there's a handful of congressmen and senators who get soft money campaign funds from
nameless but probably drug-related sources south of the border. Add to that the handful of old warriors
who've got their thumbs deep in the traditional values pie.”
     "Meaning what? What are their values?"
     "Oh, guts and glory, defined as unquestioning patriotism. Marital fidelity, defined as discretion in
extramarital affairs. Traditional' gender roles, that is, excusing rape and abuse by blaming the victim.”
     "But they're hunting for me," Benita said. "Why would they be interested in me?"
     "Not they, I don't imagine. Him. Morse. He wants to use you to smear the president. If you turned out
to be a mistress, he'd love it. Or a spy. Or a tool of the possibly communist Pistach.” He turned a corner.
"You can sit up now. There's nobody behind us.”
     "Why are we in a different car?"
     "Just in case somebody saw you arrive and bugged that car figuring you'd go home the same way.”
     "If it were me, I'd bug them all," she said, rearranging herself.
     "We thought of that. This one was with somebody we trust, several blocks away.” He spoke
cheerfully, examining her face in the mirror. "What's wrong?"
     "It isn't a game," she cried. "I mean, I'm not a game piece. What do they intend to do with me if they
find me?"
     "The putative cabal? I'm not privy to their plans, Benita. Best thing is to keep you from being found.”
     "Do you know what's happening in Jerusalem? Besides what's on the news.”
     "The U.S. and NATO are providing aid to international relief organizations that are setting up tent
cities for the people who've been displaced. Some of them are moving in with families in the suburbs or
other cities. Everyone is very surprised that there hasn't been a wave of violence. The Saudis, by the way,
are afraid either Mecca, or the Saudi women, or both may be next. They treat their women almost as badly
as the Afghanis do. Women have been leaving Saudi Arabia ever since the ugly plague was reported.”
     "Going where?"
     "About half the population belongs to the royal family, and most of them have other homes in other
places. France. The U.S. Switzerland. Britain.”
     "If the envoys decide to make Arabian women ugly, or Iranian ones, it won't matter where they are,"
she said.
     "Shall I quote you?" He laughed.
     "Of course not.”
     "So far as we know, the media aren't looking for you except by putting Attention: Jane Doe ads in the
personals. You haven't agreed to be on 20/20 have you? Or Date/me?"
     "Is there such an ad?" she asked.
     "There certainly is, are! People from the FBI have had several little chats with the news people," he
said cheerily. "Here's your door. Let me pull right up beside it.”
     He asked if he could see the job his agency had done on the apartment, and she invited him up.
Sasquatch greeted him with a very threatening growl, but when Chad hunkered down, offered his hand
and talked with Sasquatch as he scratched him behind the ears, the dog decided he was all right, gave him
a good sniffing, and went back to sleep. The two of them had coffee and spent a pleasant quarter of an
hour just chatting before he went home. It occurred to Benita that this was the first time in ... what?,
eighteen, nineteen years?, that she had sat in a room alone with an intelligent man in pleasant
conversation. Not counting men she worked for.
      The phone by the bed made her think of Angelica, and after dithering about it for a few minutes,
trying to remember if Angel was in the new apartment yet, and what she'd said about moving her phone,
she dialed the same number and crossed her fingers.
      Angelica's phone number hadn't changed, though her voice had. She answered with a crisp, "Yes.”
      "It's me, honey.”
      "Oh, Mom. I thought it was Dad again.”
      "Has he been bothering you?"
      "Seems like every five minutes this evening. He got bailed out by that person who wants him to help
find you. So now he's facing a trial and he's all up in the air. I think the guy who bailed him out may be
connected to the guy that was hanging around here. According to Dad, his guy was bigger, taller, with
gray hair. He gave Dad a card with the name Prentice Arthur, and there was an even bigger guy with him
called Dink.”
      Score two for Chad. Both of them members of the cabal.
      Benita asked, "So, are you moved in to your new place?"
      "As of today. I brought the last stuff up this afternoon, and they just connected the phone an hour ago.
The manager was really nice to let me skip on the lease of the other apartment.”
      "I didn't think it could work, your living with him.”
      "It didn't, Mom. I think he's moved in with the girlfriend. He's got a phone now. You can call him
directly.”
      Benita's lips were pressed so tightly that it took her a moment to respond. "I won't, Angel. Since I
know he's trying to make money out of doing something that may hurt me, he's . . . well, he's broken the
tie. I've been thinking about mother bears a lot.”
      "Bears?"
      "Like on the nature shows. Mother bear is very fierce, protecting the cubs. She risks her own life for
them. She does everything she can to let them grow up safe, but a time comes when she turns on them and
drives them away. She's done everything she can, and from then on, they're on their own.
      "The only way I can handle this is to be like a mother bear. Let the cub be himself without anything
from me, no complaint, no anger, no love, certainly no interference, and that means no nothing. See what
he becomes. See what he can be, totally on his own. At best, he'll turn out great. At worst, he won't be
able to blame me for anything past today.”
      There, she'd said it, realizing as she said it that it was totally true. She was not going to overlook it.
He had made his own choices, now he could stand by them.
      "I can't prove he took money," Angelica cried.
      "That's all right, dear. Knowing Carlos, I'm sure he did.”
      "How's the job?"
      "I love it. Much nicer than my old one.”
      "I'm glad you're enjoying it. It makes me feel better about things.”
      "Me, too. Goodnight, Angel.”

Bert—MONDAY
     On Monday morning, Bert Shipton received a phone call. The speaker, who did not identify himself,
offered Bert a large sum of money if he would come to Washington, D.C., and introduce the speaker to
his wife.
     "Benita?" blurted Bert.
     "She is your wife?"
     "Yeah. But, she's not in Washington. She's in Denver.”
     "No, sir. She is pretending to be in Denver, but we believe she is actually in Washington. We would
like to be introduced to her, and you can do this for us. We will pay you ten thousand dollars for your
time and trouble.”
     Ten thousand dollars! Bert's mouth began to water. Ten thousand dollars! The best he'd read of in the
want ads wouldn't have netted him ten thousand in a year! Ten thousand would pay off the mortgage
arrears. And ten thousand for doing almost nothing was a kick. He could buy into that.
     "What d'you want me to do?"
     "You will have yourself groomed. A barber shop? A shave and haircut? You will buy new clothing.
A suit. Shoes. Other garments as needed. Then go to the airport and fly to Washington today. We will
meet you there.”
     Bert growled, “I don't have money for clothes . . .”
     "Mr. Shipton. Listen carefully. There is an envelope in your mailbox with money in it. If you go to a
bar, if you have even one drink, the deal is off! We will ask your son to introduce us to Benita. If you
want the money, you must stay sober.”
     Bert grunted, almost dropping the phone in his eagerness to get to the mailbox. The envelope was
there, a plain white one with his name on it, containing ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Enough to keep him
floating for a long while. He wavered, shifting from foot to foot, thinking of excuses he might make, like
he'd been robbed of the money, or lost it ...
     "If you drink," said a voice at his ear, "the deal is off! And we're watching, so you can't lie to us.”
     Bert jumped and stared around himself, seeing nothing but heat haze, rising off the pavement in
wavering lines. Like a mirage, he told himself sternly. Just a mirage. Looks like all kinds of things, but it's
only a mirage.
     He took the money, put it in his wallet, and went to the barber shop, where a few moments under a
steaming towel made him feel slightly better. The steam gave him the idea of going to the baths, where a
much younger Bert had occasionally sobered up. After that, he went to the men's store in the nearest mall,
where he outfitted himself as inexpensively as possible, off the rack. Every dollar spent on clothes was a
dollar not spent on something more fun.
     The sight of himself in the mirror, shaved, shorn, and decently clad, came as a shock. He'd worn a
suit when he and Benita had been married. He'd worn a suit to the kids' high school graduations, though
he hadn't planned on being outdone by his own kids in the education department and was indignant about
that. And he'd worn a suit to Benita's mother's funeral, though the last thing he'd wanted to do right then
was spend an afternoon thinking about that old bitch. Wearing a suit meant trouble, so far as Bert was
concerned. Not a good omen, not good at all.
     He bought two extra shirts, plus underwear and socks. At the corner drugstore he added a razor and a
toothbrush to the shopping bag. There was still a ticket to Washington to buy, and airfares weren't cheap,
as Bert had found out last year when he'd priced roundtrips to California. Angelica had invited them to
come, and he'd talked Benita out of it on the grounds they couldn't afford two tickets and he didn't want
her traveling alone.
     He found a taxi outside the nearest hotel and slumped in the seat, already exhausted, his hands
shaking. "You all right?" asked the driver.
     "Yeah," said Bert.
     "You get to feelin' sick, you holler," the driver instructed, adjusting the rearview mirror so he could
keep an eye on his passenger. The man looked sick. Sort of yellowish around the eyes.
      At the airport, Bert went to the men's room and put cold water on his face. His insides seemed to be
all up and down, like a roller coaster. When he opened his eyes, he stared at himself in the mirror, only to
be reminded of Benita, the way she sometimes looked, when she didn't know he was watching her. This
same sort of dazed expression. Sometimes she'd stand beside her spice rack, leaning against the wall with
her nose over an open jar of anise or cinnamon sticks, her eyes shut, her forehead wrinkled. Once or twice
he'd opened the jars and sniffed at them. The smell was nice, but that's all it was. It didn't make his mouth
water. It didn't excite him any. He couldn't fathom why she stood there the way she did, sniffing at ... at
what? It made him angry at her, but then, most things she did made him angry at her.
      Now he had that same expression on his face. So, what was he sniffing at? The possibility of going
somewhere? Doing something? It had been a long time since he'd gone anywhere, done anything. He tried
to think about the going, the doing, but it was hard. Thinking was hard, lately. Just lately, he assured
himself. Just this last little while. It wasn't that he was stupid. Bert was absolutely one hundred percent not
stupid. He was as smart as anybody, but just this last little while, it was hard to concentrate on anything. It
could be the weed. When he was out of money, sometimes he moved a little weed for a friend of Larry's.
Not usually, not enough to risk getting caught with it, but now and then it was okay, just so he didn't get
in a pattern. Except, lately, he'd been using more of it himself, and maybe that was what made it hard to
think.
      After several vague moments spent standing, head down, not moving or thinking, he worked up the
energy to go buy the ticket. Lucky him, the flight was leaving in twenty minutes. No baggage to check.
All he had was the shopping bag. The money was in his wallet and most of the clothes were on his back.
At the newsstand, he bought a canvas airline bag to put the extra shirts in, and a sports magazine, and
some mints because his throat was so dry.
      He only had a one-way ticket. Maybe he should have bought a roundtrip. Then again, there was no
point in wasting the money. He'd have plenty of money when this was over. As he went down the
concourse, he passed the first bar with only a slight swerve of footsteps in its direction. He hesitated at the
next one, but the plane was leaving too soon for him to stop. As it was, he was the last person to board.
The plane was half empty, so Bert had a window seat with an empty aisle seat next to him. The flight
attendant came by and reminded him to put his seatbelt on. He fumbled with it, hands trembling again.
      Then they made an announcement about beverage service, and his hands steadied, he licked his lips
and tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He couldn't wait for the flight attendant to get to him,
and he shifted in the seat. His skin felt itchy. Like it had ants crawling on it.
      A voice spoke from the empty aisle seat next to him. "Not one drink, Bert. Not one. Or we throw you
out of the plane and watch you fly.”
      He couldn't see anything in the seat. His eyes confirmed vacancy, his hand, tentatively reached,
encountered nothing. As frightened as he could ever remember being, he turned his eyes away, put his
head back and, for the next several hours, pretended to be sleeping.
      When he arrived in Washington, the voice guided him to a taxi, and the taxi to a hotel where Bert
found a room awaiting him, all paid for. When he got into the room, he took his jacket off and stretched
out on the bed, just for a moment, before going out on a foraging trip. The money he had left was burning
a hole in his pocket. He thought about it. There was a bar downstairs. He'd seen it on the way in. He tasted
the beer he was going to drink, feeling it sliding down his throat, feeling his body loosen and swim, all the
tight muscles letting go ...
      The being who had accompanied him from Albuquerque encouraged the vision, the feeling, the quiet.
It left him sleeping. He would stay asleep until he was needed. The Fluiquosm were very good at keeping
prey quiet and in good condition until needed.

Benita—TUESDAY NIGHT
     Tuesday morning, Benita woke up feeling like death warmed over. She went downstairs to work, but
Simon sent her back upstairs, where she remained achy and fretful all day, feeling as though she was
coming down with the flu or a rotten chest cold. She went to bed early with a glass of warm milk and one
of her hoarded sleeping pills. She didn't take them often, keeping them for emergencies, when Bert was
being impossible and she was too hurt or angry to sleep. She hadn't planned to need them in Washington,
but she was thankful to have a few left.
     Despite the pill, she couldn't settle. Sasquatch turned around and around on the foot of the bed until
she yelled at him. He gave her an offended look, jumped off the bed, and curled up in his huge dog
basket, though even there, he kept up a restless shifting and ear-pricking, as though something was
bothering him. Finally, about midnight, she fell asleep with the light on, some time later rousing just
enough to switch it off without interrupting the dream she was having about trekking through a jungle.
Sasquatch was with her, nervously alert, woofing low in his throat the way he did when he saw a skunk or
a really big raccoon or Bert with the blind staggers.
     In the dream, she was worried about some kind of beast, a bear or jaguar, and she heard Sasquatch's
woof very clearly, so clearly that she woke up with the reality of it in her ears. There was Sasquatch in the
middle of the bedroom floor, the fur on his shoulders and neck bristled up like a mane, nose wrinkled,
fangs showing, the dim light reflected from his eyes as he stared up at the high windows of the bedroom
that looked out on the roof of the other building, which was accessible only from the higher roof above
her head. Which was, supposedly, accessible only from the elevator unless someone had a very tall ladder.
The people who fixed up the apartment had covered the whole row of windows with gathered curtains of
translucent muslin. The light came in, but the view was blocked, either in or out. Benita's half-opened
eyes followed the dog's gaze to the curtains, a row of slightly lighter squares against the dark . . .
     Slightly lighter squares across which something moved, from left to right, a slow shadow that
progressed from window to window, touching each one, pushing at each one, making them creak
protestingly. The shadow was a featureless blob, sometimes straight on the sides, sometimes with a hint of
squirminess about it. The frames creaked, again and again, though not loudly and without yielding, for
wire-glass inside steel frames doesn't break easily. Sasquatch backed up until his rump was against the
bed and went on making what was almost a whispered growl, more a mutter in his throat than a threat. He
didn't like whatever was up there. Benita didn't either. Whatever was up there scared her shitless. The
bottom of the windows were even with the roof and the panes were about five feet tall. Whatever was
throwing the shadow was taller than that, as it extended all the way from bottom to top.
     The shadow moved on, and almost at once she heard something rattling from the direction of the
elevator hall. She almost fell out of bed as she scrambled to get there before the elevator could move. At
each floor the cage was shut off by a folding metal grille that could not open unless the elevator was on
that floor, to keep someone from falling down the shaft. The elevator was where she had left it, on the
third floor, and the rattling was coming from the roof above her!
     She opened the elevator grille, just enough to keep the elevator from departing, and looked frantically
around for something to prop it with. The hall was empty, so she simply stuck her foot between the grille
and the frame, holding it there while the rattling continued over her head as though something was trying
to get into the elevator housing. It had an outside door, which locked automatically if one didn't set the
unlock button. Even if whatever it was got in, so long as she held the grille open, the elevator wouldn't
ascend and the upper grille couldn't move.
     The rattling was succeeded by the hum click of the controls. The thing had broken into the housing
and pushed the button that summoned the elevator. The grille thrust hard against her foot, and she swore
in a panicky whisper as it pinched. A smell came down the shaft, filtering out around the car, and she
almost gagged at the rotten meat filthiness of it.
     She was scrunched up tight in the corner of the hall where the elevator shaft met the outside wall, one
foot extended awkwardly into the grille space. The only window was several feet to her left, and though
she couldn't see through it from her position, she could see the quality of light that came through it as it
was repeatedly blocked by something. Dim, then brighter, then dim again, over and over, as though
something hung over the parapet and looked in. Or as though something rose up from the street and
looked in? That window was a good thirty-five to forty feet above the ground and at least eight or ten feet
below the edge of the parapet that ran around the roof. Benita told herself she was all right, she had to be
all right if she was doing arithmetic in her head.
      All right or not, she was shaking. Through the open apartment door she could see Sasquatch lying
absolutely flat with his head on his paws and his ears out to the sides as though he were hiding, or at least
keeping a low profile. She knew he was out of the line of sight, as she was, so whatever was looking in
couldn't see anything. Then everything stopped above her and she heard a swudge, swudge, swudge going
from above her head toward the front windows, the center one of which happened to be slightly open!
      She scrambled to her feet and ran through the living room to the window, where she reached under
the closed drapes and cranked the window shut, slammed the lock down, then ran back past a bookshelf
where she grabbed a thick book and got it jammed in the elevator door just in time to hold it open as the
clicking from above resumed.
      Leaving it there, she returned to the living room and lay down next to Sasquatch. They cowered
silently together while she distracted herself thinking of escape routes. Down the fire stairs, two flights,
into the stockroom, which had doors that could be locked from inside. Or, from the stockroom into the
bookstore and out the front door. But, whatever was on the roof could see the front door. And she didn't
have a car. And her phone was in the bedroom, which would put her farther from the stairs . . .
      Tiring of the elevator fiddle, the visitors tried another gambit. A very familiar voice.
      Bert's voice. "Benita! You open this door! I need to talk to you, Benita! You come out here where we
can talk! You've got the kids all worried about you, and I need to talk to you.”
      Silence. The voice seemed to be coming from outside the front windows, which was unlikely.
Though he could be yelling from the sidewalk, it didn't sound like that, and turning her head she saw a
man-shaped shadow pressed against the glass.
      "Benita?" Then a clatter. "Ouch, damn it, she's not home, if this is her place, stop that.”
      Benita didn't move, nor did the dog. The squadge, squadge, squadge was repeated several times, and
then silence fell. It went on, and on, and at last Sasquatch's head came up, then his ears. He got up and
went to the elevator where he sniffed all around the door before coming back to lick her face.
      What had it been outside her window? She thought of the First Lady's remarks about the men in
Oregon, the men in Florida, the guy in New Mexico. People off in the trees, and then no people. Just
gone. Only bones left. Nobody saw what did it. Could something invisible cast a shadow?
      She didn't know and she didn't want to find out. There was no one she could call except Chad, and
what could he do? Take her somewhere else, put her in custody? Keep her safe? What she really needed
was to talk to Chiddy, and she hadn't seen him in person for . . . over a week!
      She went back to bed, welcoming Sasquatch's company close beside her. An hour later she gave up
and called Chad.
      He arrived in twenty minutes.
      "What do you think it was?" he asked.
      "Whatever's doing all the stuff the First Lady told us about the other night! I mean, what else could it
be? It wasn't people. It, or they, were a lot bigger than people. It wasn't anything native to Earth, that's for
sure. And whatever it was pushed Bert right up against the living room windows, and those windows are
thirty feet off the sidewalk.”
      She took a deep breath. "It wasn't Chiddy and Vess because they come in here all the time, they don't
have to walk around on the roof, but I'll bet it was some of those other races they talked about at that
dinner, remember? Chiddy talked about predators who had to obey Confederation law, but only if we
were in the Confederation. Remember, they said that's why they wanted to move in such a hurry?"
     He looked dazed, then angry, then gave her some news that hadn't appeared on TV. People were still
being killed. In India whole villages of them were wiped out around the perimeter of nature preserves.
Also in Southeast Asia. Any activity requiring people to work out of sight in rural or primitive areas had
pretty much stopped, because nobody could find crews willing to do it.
     "The White House has asked the news media to report things that might concern the ET’s as calmly
as possible with no screaming headlines. The president told the media that nothing now happening is
under the control of any person. At this point, we believe we still have influence over what may happen,
but any public outcry may move events beyond our abilities even to influence them."
     "This is getting serious, isn't it?" she said.
     "I simply wish your two ET friends hadn't picked right now to take off where they can't be reached.
And I wish to hell they'd come back!"

From Chiddy's journal
     Dear Benita, I write this as we return toward your Earth from our sojourn in Pistach-home. We were
not summoned home on a simple matter, as I had hoped. This was no confusion over royal egos but was,
instead, a vast troubling over T'Fees the Turbulent, who has titled self Grand Something-or-other, ruler
over three Pistach planets! In each case, T'Fees has moved in, talked the campesi into a fury, assaulted the
more specialized castes, particularly selectors and athyci, and has begun training armies. Amazing,
impossible that he should have been able to do this alone! How has this happened!
     Vess and I were summoned home to answer to the Chapter about our work on Assurdo, which had
resulted in this bizarre ligament of events. We self-examined our work. The only thing we might have
done differently was to have regressed T'Fees, but the guidelines tell us never to do that unless necessary,
and in T'Fees's case, no one had known it was necessary. Luckily, the three planets T'Fees has conquered
are low-tech planets, which means they can be easily assailed with high-tech modifiers, such as those we
have used on your Earth, dear Benita. A surreptitious seeding of nanobots has been done on all three
worlds. The nanobots suspended everyone on the planet, and teams from both Pistach-home and several
of our high-tech worlds are even now descending to do regressions on all army trainees. We hoped to find
T'Fees and his coterie, a group said to be more intelligent and active than most, but unfortunately they
were not on any of the planets we invaded. How did they escape us, and where have they gone?
     Our fear is that they may have taken refuge with some other race of the Confederation, not all of
whom are sympathetic with our ways. Sometimes I wish we could use nanobots on other races, but all
other Confederation members have defensive bots to prevent our "taking them over," as though we would
want to! Providing them with bots of their own was part of our original peace process, what Vess and I
sometimes call our balance of error.
     There was nothing we could do to help this situation, and the Chapter agreed it was not our fault.
Biological sports like T’Fees are not anyone's fault. They just happen. You have had your Attilas and
Hitlers and Milosevics,- we have had our K'fars and M'quogjums, et al., though they were far, far in the
past, in pre-Mengatowhai times. When we catch up to T’Fees, be assured he will be analyzed from
heelspur to carapace! Though we will be kept apprised of what goes on in the T’Fees matter, the Chapter,
having heard disturbing news concerning predation on your world, urged us to get back to our work as
soon as possible.
     Though our prerecorded appearances on your TV will have kept things simmering in accordance with
the plan, that plan certainly did not include the inexcusable actions of the Xankatikitiki, the Fluiquosm
and the Wulivery! They have, as your people say, pushed the envelope of acceptable behavior. When we
arrived at Pistach-home we learned of their incursions on Earth from a Confederation staffer. Evidently
the predators had bragged of it at some interplanetary meeting or other. They do revel in coup counting,
though it is often their downfall.
     We immediately appealed to the Confederation headquarters. They responded, saying the three
predatory races now claim they had never been informed that we, the Pistach, are assisting your planet
toward Neighborliness.
     Our ambassador to the Confederation immediately provided a copy of our previous notification,
which had been circulated long before Vess and I even left Pistach-home! The Wulivery, as usual, claim
communications problems, this time between their hunters guild and their Confederation legation. The
Xankatikitiki and Fluiquosm claim they are merely acting in concert with the Wulivery, whom they relied
upon to take care of the formalities. This is patently dishonest, a ploy which is new only in its details.
They knew very well we were here and they risked failure of our project by their interference!
     One knows why, of course. No planet has ever been discovered as crowded with intelligent life as
yours! All of our predatory races prefer creatures of good taste, that is, brainy creatures. Even your native
predators eat the brains of their prey first when they can.
     Meantime, a good many of your people have been slaughtered, though the loss is only numerical. No
appreciable proportion of humanity or any subset of it has been lost, no irreplaceable knowledge or
experience has been deleted. Even so, the deaths are grievous to us. We will immediately touch the
survivors to learn what may be done to atone. We must also, unfortunately, make our own arrangements
to find the Xankatikitiki, et al., and bring them into compliance, for once on the hunt, these races do not
call home.
     As we must make clear to your people, dear Benita, our predatory associates are not easy to find, let
alone admonish. While your armed forces might possibly locate and destroy them, leaving the matter to
us will result in less loss of life in the long run. I will communicate this directly to your United Nations
when we return, dear Benita. We are covered with chagrin.
     Despite these alarms and confusions, I am looking forward to seeing more of your art and hearing
more of your music. I still quiver at the memory of those paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
How majestic they are, how strong and pure. Even your ancient paintings at Lascaux and Altamira have a
great strength and resonance, an inborn sense of beauty. There is much about your people that is enviable,
Benita. You will be a great asset to the Confederation if we can only sort out these minor difficulties.

Benita—WEDNESDAY
     On Wednesday evening, Chiddy and Vess returned, announcing their arrival by a phone call only
moments before they appeared in Benita's hallway. Over coffee, which they said they much liked and
intended to export to Pistach-home, they told her about a Pistach named T'Fees who had gone crazy and
upset the orderly way of things, requiring a lot of trouble on the part of their people. She listened, lips
tight and growing more and more irritated, while they hemmed and hawed for a while, using a lot of
words to say almost nothing.
     Finally, Chiddy said, "Benita, we have to tell you something. We deeply regret it, but..."
     "You don't have to tell me the predators are here," she snapped, in a voice that sounded testy even to
her. "I'd rather imagined they were when one or more of them tried to get into this apartment last night!
They've got Bert already. I don't suppose you knew that!"
     Both the Pistach turned rather green and slightly demorphous, as Benita had observed them do on
similar occasions. When they were upset, they lost a certain definition of shape, becoming foggy about
the edges, though only momentarily. As they solidified once more they glared at one another, turning
redder and redder. During their visits she had learned to tell when they were angry, because no matter
what shape they were in, they turned red, just as humans did. When she had mentioned this, they told her
their vital fluids were similar to those of humans.
     Chiddy growled, "They came after you, Benita? You particularly?" "The only other creature living
here is the dog," she growled. "It was at night, so I was the only person in the building. Something went
past my bedroom windows and then tried to get into the elevator. Then they pushed Bert up against the
front windows and had him yelling at me, asking me to come to the door. If they'd tried him first instead
of crunching around on the roof, I might have fallen for it.”
     Chiddy's male human guise nodded miserably. "We found out the predators were here when we
arrived at Pistach-home, and when we returned, we detoured to affirm the presence of their ships on the
back of your moon. We've already called for censure of all three races by the Confederation, plus we've
brought several Confederation Inkleozese back with us.”
     "More aliens?" she blurted.
     "The Inkleozese are the traditional monitors and peacekeepers of the Confederation. They are feared
even by the predators, and they are best qualified to do what now must be done. We did not know, could
not have guessed, that the predators would bother your person, yourself! Why would they?"
     She had pondered this herself. "They probably aren't doing it for themselves. There are people
looking for me. Political enemies of the current administration. You know that.”
     "Yes, but ... is it possible that . . . could they . . . can we believe . . .”
     The two of them went off into a corner and buzzed at one another, waving their arms, looking
crestfallen.
     She interrupted their conference. "Someone probably put them up to taking Bert. I'm not fond of him,
Chiddy, but I don't want him . . . eaten or tortured or anything like that.”
     Chiddy shook his head, almost humanlike. "Benita, though we hate to believe it, you are probably
correct about their motive. It seems likely the predators have made common cause with some barbarians
among you who wanted your husband taken for political reasons. If this is so, they are unlikely to hurt
him. The predators are brazen, but they are not fools.”
     "What barbarians are we talking about?"
     "Those like the man McVane.”
     "Good old McVane," she snorted. "Him and his cabal.”
     Chiddy shook his head, remarking, "Such violations of protocol have been known to happen in the
past when members of the Confederation have discovered intelligent races who do not have a planetary
government. A disunited planet allows the predators to shop about among factions, nations, tribes, or
rulers to find someone or some group they can work with! Once they have done so, they claim immunity
from Confederation rules because they have a treaty with natives. Then the whole matter must be referred
to the Confederation courts for decision, and the courts appoint a study commission, the commission
submits a report, the report is subject to question by some other group, and the whole thing takes
absolutely forever! Meantime, the predators go on happily hunting.
     "Unfortunately, we have no immediate way to reach those of them who are loose on your world
except by going to the ships on the back of your moon and demanding contact. We could do this, we will
do it if necessary, but it will be a black mark against Pistach in the Confederation. A ship at rest on an
unoccupied planet or moon has a status equivalent to your foreign embassies. Why in the name of Gharm
the Great didn't you people set up an outpost there when you had the chance? Since you didn't, the
predators' ships are sovereign territory. One may visit, one may gently suggest, but making a demand on
sovereign territory opens one to criticism and shame.”
     Vess interrupted, "Individual predators on an occupied planet, however, have no such status. We may
do with them as we will . . .”
     "Or can," muttered Chiddy, looking downcast. "When and if we find them!"
     Vess gave him a reproving stare. "We will find them! It may take a few days, however, and we can't
wait that long to explain to your people, dear Benita.”
      "Start by explaining a couple of things to me," she suggested angrily. "Starting with how they found
me!"
      Chiddy heaved a very human-sounding sigh. "The Wulivery can smell the Pistach, dear Benita. I
mean they can smell any creature, like your bloodhounds, only better. They had only to send out sniffers
to pick up our Pistach scent and determine where it was stronger. We have spent more time with you,
here, than in virtually any other place, so our smell is very strong here, in your home. They would have
known that.”
      “I see," she murmured. She couldn't smell anything, but then, she wasn't a Pistach, or a predator.
"You'd better let the world know what they're up against. People are not going to like it.”
      Chiddy composed himself enough to say, "Please call your go-between to the government and
explain what has happened. Then, tonight, we will apologize to all your people through the television. We
will also introduce the Inkleozese to them and explain the function of our monitors.”
      Vess assured her their apology would appear everywhere, in whatever language was locally spoken.
She suggested they show pictures of the predators on TV, just so people would know what they were
talking about, and they said they could do that for the Xankatikitiki and Wulivery, but not for the
Fluiquosm, who do not make any reproducible image.
      "Are they invisible when they're dead?" she asked grumpily.
      "Why no," said Vess.
      "Then show a picture of a dead one," she demanded.
      "Wouldn't that be in bad taste?" Vess asked, making fussy little motions with his hands.
      "You told me you've watched our television for years," she snarled. "After O. J. Simpson's trial and
Ken Starr's investigation and the constant stench from Trash TV, what's a dead Fluiquosm or two?"
      They thought a bit and then said they'd get a picture of a dead one. "By the way," said Chiddy, "you
may do me a small favor. I would like to leave my translator here, listening to your television. I would do
it in the ship, but all the ship's circuits will be fully occupied seeking predators and maintaining the
disappearances and the ugly-plagues.”
      "You really want to translate our TV?" she asked, distractedly. The thought of Bert as a captive had
just led her to wondering if Angelica and Carlos were safe. If they had taken her husband . . .
      "No. There is little of it we enjoy. However, my accumulation of spoken vocabularies is not
complete, and you have a Spanish language station? If you would be kind enough to leave it on while you
are away?"
      She nodded and gestured at the set, without really listening, not even watching as Chiddy put a black
device no larger than a tiny camera on top of the TV.
      "When you are leaving, turn on the TV and push the red button to turn it on," Chiddy murmured
when he left. "It will feed accumulated vocabulary to the ship. In fact, if you should need us, you can
simply shout at it. Something urgent. Like SOS or Danger, or Fire!"
      She wasn't listening, for she had already picked up the phone to call Chad and ask him to provide
some protection for Angelica. By this time she and Chad had each other's numbers memorized, as they
talked virtually every day, and Sasquatch was so used to Chad dropping in that he didn't even growl at
him anymore. On this occasion, Benita explained her concern by repeating every word Chiddy and Vess
had ever said about predators making common cause with McVane, et al. She didn't mention T'Fees. Even
though neither Vess nor Chiddy had asked her to be secretive about the T'Fees problem, she didn't think
Earth needed any more variables thrown into the pot than it already had. She did, however, tell him about
the Inkleozese.
      Chad muttered and grumbled, "New ones? Benita, you've got to be kidding!"
     "I'm not, Chad. They just told me about these creatures. Evidently they act in the same capacity as
our UN peacekeepers.”
     "Ineffectually, you mean?" he said in disgust.
     "Chad! It's not my fault.”
     He said he knew that, apologizing for his tone. "Since you seem convinced the predators are working
with McVane and his bunch, there's nothing to suppose they'll stop with Bert. I think you're right to be
worried about your kids, and I'll get some protection started for them.”
     "Anything you can do, Chad. I hate to be a bother but…"
     "Think nothing of it," he said, entirely too tersely, as he went off to transmit the message to
whomever.
     That night she watched as the two envoys explained very clearly and concisely what the
Confederation was and who the members were. They mentioned there were over fifty member races, most
of whom lived at great distances from one another and from Earth, only about ten of them anywhere
nearby. "Nearby," Chiddy defined as "offering something worth the very high cost of interstellar flight.”
Chiddy and Vess showed pictures, the non-predators first: flutelike Vixbots, swamp-living Oumfuz, the
differentiated Credons, the winged Flibotsi, the crablike Thwakians.
     Then, in greater detail, the predators: the Wulivery looked more like sea anemones than elephants.
They had a ring of twelve tentacles around their mouthparts, which were on top of their heads. When
relaxed, the head part was immediately above their relaxed, stumpy fat legs. When the creatures were not
relaxed, the legs elongated from around eight feet up to thirty feet or more, moving the tentacles far above
human eye level and allowing the rough gray skin of the leg to blend among the tree trunks of any forest
or jungle. Their hunting was generally limited, said Chiddy, to wooded areas.
     Oh, yeah, Benita commented to herself. Washington, D.C., wasn't wooded, but that was the shape
that had been on the roof!
     While the Wulivery resembled sea anemones, the Xankatikitiki looked more like six-legged bears.
They weighed a hundred twenty to a hundred fifty pounds. The fur and the personality were like that of a
wolverine. The four longish legs were cheetah-like. The two arms were muscular, like a gorilla's. The
prehensile tail was like the back end of a python, and the jaws were as strong as hyenas'. Adding to the
general ferocity, their claws were retractable and the teeth were poisonous in the same way as a Komodo
dragon's teeth, that is, so filthy that any wound led to sepsis and eventual death. All of which meant, so
Chiddy said, they could climb very well, run very fast, and kill almost anything. They hunted in small,
family packs, mostly in open areas.
     The Fluiquosm were virtually invisible. They flew and had rending organs (beaks? talons?). The
body they had pictures of was pale yellow, about the size of a Rottweiler, with a strange complicated
growth on its back that Chiddy identified as the flying organ, not wings, but something else. Chiddy said
to think of them as large, intelligent, invisible eagles who happened to be quite ferocious.
     The broadcast continued with Chiddy apologizing profusely to all the people of Earth who, he said,
would understand what was happening, because on Earth there were member nations of the U.N. who
were always telling lies and trying to beat the system, like Iraq or Libya, or members who didn't pay their
dues but still expected to be respected and listened to, like the U.S.
     At the very end of the broadcast, they explained why they had brought the Inkleozese and introduced
the score of them who were already on Earth. Their names were unpronounceable. They didn't seem
threatening or unlikable, though when the Inkleozese turned to leave, the audience could see rear ends
much like a wasp's rear end, terminating in a lethal looking dagger-like arrangement.
     Benita's phone rang about an hour after the broadcast: Chad, wanting to know if it would be a
violation of Neighborliness if humans went hunting for the Xankatikitiki and others. The White House
was receiving hundreds of calls, and he said for every call they got, there were probably a dozen hunters
out there, already planning their expeditions.
     When she hung up, she uttered this question loudly and her phone rang.
     Chiddy's voice said, "You caught us just as we were leaving to go hunt predators, Benita. What is it?"
     She explained Chad's problem.
     "Predators' rules are different from civilized rules," Chiddy replied in a reproving voice. "Any
Confederation predator who goes on the hunt is fair game for anyone, although the odds on Earthian
hunters actually killing one are vanishingly small.”
     To help out, however, he said the body temperature of a Xanka was 116° F, a Fluiquosm 80° F, and a
Wulivery 104° F, so heat detectors could be used against cooler or warmer backgrounds. All their worlds
were reasonably Earthlike, and they didn't need any kind of protective gear except for the Wulivery, who
need breathing tubes to furnish them with methane.
     "What about me?" Benita asked. "Will they keep coming after me?"
     Long silence. "We will try to protect you, dear Benita," said Chiddy. "So long as you are in your
home or at work this should be fairly easy. We could always find you, of course, you or any other
individual, but it would take time, so keep us apprised of your whereabouts.”
     Thanks a lot, she grumbled to herself. She reported to Chad; he thanked her, sounding irritated,
though she felt it was irritation at the situation, not at her. She could visualize all those eager hunters,
stocking up on ammunition and dehydrated food and buying tickets to ... where? India? Brazil? Or would
they stick mostly to the U.S? Chiddy and Vess hadn't specifically mentioned the killings in the U.S. So
far, nobody had publicly tied Oregon, New Mexico, and Florida to alien predation.

Law Enforcement—FRIDAY
     The retaking of the Morningside Project from the dealers was considered completed on the Friday
afternoon when the wagon and attendant patrol cars drove to Morningside, as they had each day for the
past several weeks, but returned empty for the third consecutive day.
     Sergeant McClellan got down from the passenger seat side of the cab and shook himself, settling his
trousers into their customary sag and his face into an unaccustomed grin.
     "Any?" asked the captain from the precinct steps.
     "Not one," replied the sergeant. "The Fourth Floor Women's Circle baked a cake. We had coffee and
muffins. The kids sang. It was a party.”
     "You did a sweep inside every vacant apartment?"
     "There're only a few vacant ones, and they're being rehabbed. This last two weeks, the place's filled
up. All the people that wanted to get out, they've stayed in. The place even looks better. Somebody
donated paint and rollers, and the tenants are painting the halls themselves. A nursery donated some trees.
The city's fixed the elevators. Some teachers and some of the kids from over at the school came over.
They gave us thank-you cards the kids made.”
     "Thank you, ET’s," breathed the captain. "What do you think? Have a patrol go by there a couple
times a day, just to check?"
     "I'd say that isn't necessary.” McClellan eased himself up the steps and down the hall to his desk, the
captain close behind. "The people there, they'll call us if anything goes wrong. You know, we're gonna
have a new problem, Boss.”
     "What's that?" asked the captain, following along, beaming from ear to ear.
     “I read last night the traffic into the States from Mexico is moving right along. All it takes is a touch
of the causometer to let somebody through. No more searches for no reason, no more stops with no
evidence. It's working. So, we're looking at a problem actually solved here. What're we supposed to do
now? No real drug busts for a week. Almost no burglaries for ... what, six days? The drug gangs have
disappeared. We've had no little kids caught carrying weapons. No shooting incidents, drive-by or school
yard. Our problem's going to be finding stuff to do.”
     "We still got domestics," snarled the captain, attempting severity. "We got murders. We got
muggings. We got some nut up on Alta Vista trying to get little kids into his car to pet his weenie. It's not
coming up all roses. You haven't died and gone to heaven yet, McClellan!"
     McClellan shrugged. "Hey, let me gloat a little. Let us feel good. Tomorrow somebody'll figure how
to fool the causometer, we'll be back where we started . . .”
     "We are back where we started," said the lieutenant, from the other side of the room where he'd been
tied up on the phone. "We've got five people disappeared from the university, three male students, one
coach, one woman student, all of them taken from the sports center up on Canoncito, twenty hundred
block . . .”
     "So? Send a car," said the captain, looking puzzled.
     The lieutenant came across the room to murmur into Riggles's ear. The captain frowned, shook his
head, then said, "McClellan, take Burton with you, go up there and find out what's happening.”
     "Something weird?" asked McClellan, accurately reading his boss's expression.
     The captain shrugged. "Ah . . . remember that Enquirer article? And the ET’s on TV, talking about
predators? Maybe this isn't something for a patrol. We'll bypass patrol and find out, okay?"
     Burton, a husky youngster only three years on the force, drove, lights and siren on. McClellan
watched the streets flee by as they swerved through evening traffic, counting to himself. After today, three
more days until his last day. And wouldn't you know, the job was just getting worth doing again when he
was getting ready to leave it. These last couple weeks had been fun, like the old days, putting the bad guys
away and doing it without walking a tightrope the whole time, doing it honestly, no cheating, no faked
evidence or any of the stuff some men fell into when their patience wore out. If he were a churchgoing
man, McClellan thought maybe he'd go to services and thank God for the ET’s.
     "Next right," he said to Burton, grabbing for support as the car swerved at the corner. "Slow down.
We're not chasing anybody.” Wouldn't that frost your cookie! Killed in a speeding police car, chasing
nobody, three days before retirement.
     The street ended at the back of a tall, blocky gymnasium, separated from the street by a row of
bollards. Burton eased around the bollards and parked as close to the front of the building as he could get.
An unlocked gate in a high fence opened on a wide stone terrace extending across the building front.
Three shallow steps outside the double doors of the building were occupied by a cluster of young men and
women students gathered around a hunched over, weeping figure.
     McClellan fumbled for his notebook and approached the group. "So, what happened?"
     The tear-stained person at the center of the group looked up and cried, "They disappeared. Right in
front of me!"
     "Okay, okay, miss," murmured McClellan. "Now, who was it who disappeared?"
     "My brother," the young woman cried. "Carlos Shipton. And some other people. I don't know who.
They were out there . . .” She waved toward the oval track below them, separated from the terrace by a
wide, shallow tier of bleachers. "There were two other guys, and a coach, and ... a girl in running shorts
walking along the track, and . . .” She looked up, her mouth squared into an agonized mask of tragedy.
     "And then?" murmured McClellan.
     "They were gone. One minute they were there, the next minute they were gone.” She dabbed at her
face with the backs of her hands, smearing the tears.
     "There was a smell," volunteered one of the students. "When I came out of the building, there was a
strange smell.”
     Two others nodded, yes, there'd been a smell.
     One of the building doors banged open to a hurrying youth, who called out, "It was Coach Jensen.
Coach Jensen, and he was out there with three guys, Turley, McClure, and Shipton.”
     "Who was the girl?"
     The young man shook his head. "She was just somebody out there running. I came over here to see
Carlos. He owes me money from when we roomed together last year, and I need it. When I got here, I saw
he was busy with the coach, so I waited for him. Then I saw the girl, and at first I thought she was
Carlos's sister, so I walked down there and called to her and waved. She looked up, and then I saw she
was somebody else.”
     "You were here when they disappeared?"
     The youth looked flustered. "I didn't actually see them disappear. I thought the girl was Angelica, so I
yelled 'Hey, Angelica,' but it wasn't her. The real Angelica was standing right there," he pointed, "at the
top of the stairs, and I said something like, 'Oh, there you are,' and she screamed. She was looking past
me, down there, and when I turned around, they were gone.”
     "Coach Jensen, and three students?"
     "That's who the coach's assistant says. And the girl," said the youth.
     "Your name is?"
     "Mack Dugan. I roomed with Carlos last year. That's how I knew him and his sister.”
     "Is that what happened?" McClellan asked Angelica. "Did he tell it the way it happened.”
     She nodded, wiping at her eyes. "That's what happened, yes. They just weren't there anymore. Just
gone. Like . . . vanished,"
     "Why were you here?" McClellan asked. "Do you usually meet your brother…"
     "No," she cried. "Somebody came to my place late this afternoon looking for him," she flushed, not
wanting to mention the FBI, "and I said I'd ... I'd let Carlos know.” Actually, the FBI man was now
standing over by the fence, talking rapidly into a cell phone and waving his free hand in frustration. "I
know he has a late phys ed class, so I thought he might be here . . .”
     "What about this smell?" asked McClellan. "What did it smell like?"
     "Like welding," said one of the male students. "I heard her screaming, and I came out from inside,
and I smelled it. Like welding. Kind of a hot smell.”
     Another of them said he'd smelled something also, but he couldn't identify the smell, though he said it
reminded him of blood.
     "Show me where people were," McClellan said to Mack, leading the way down the stairs at the center
of the bleachers. There Mack turned to the left and walked about thirty yards to bring them even with the
starting blocks.
     Mack said, "Here! Right here. The three guys were at the starting blocks of the three inside lanes,
Ron Turley on the inside, then Carlos, then McClure. Coach Jensen was standing in the next lane, leaning
over, telling them something.” He turned to his right. "The girl was twenty or thirty feet that way, walking
along the outside lane toward the bleacher stairs.”
     McClellan turned, peering in all directions. Concrete posts had been set into the slope with canted
steel els protruding from them. Thick wooden slats making up seats and backs were bolted to the els. The
rows were separated by flat, graveled paths. There was no place to hide, everything was wide open. You
could see every gum wrapper. There was nothing below but the starting blocks, the lines marking the
lanes, and the hurdles set up at intervals.
     McClellan moved across the track onto the grass at its center to examine the pole vault uprights and
landing pad, one designed to be inflated during use but currently flat and wrinkled. He heaved up a
corner, finding it was laid directly on the earth. The landing pit for the long jump had been freshly raked.
There were no prints in it. The oval track was separated from the grassy slopes beyond by chain link
fences with gates at either end and in the middle of the far side. McClellan trudged to each of them in
turn, finding them securely padlocked. This entire area could be locked off by closing the gates on either
side of the building, and anyone wanting to leave would have had to go through those gates. Or fly away.
      He returned to Burton and the witness. "Did they all go at once?"
      "You'd have to ask Angelica," Mack responded. "They were all gone when I turned around.”
      "And when you called to the woman you thought was Angelica, you called by name?"
      "Yes. I called out, 'Hey, Angelica.'"
      "And you hailed her brother by name, also?"
      "Yeah. I yelled 'Hey, Carlos!'"
      "So, whoever or whatever took them might have thought he was getting two members of one
family?"
      Burton shook his head. "Then why take the coach and the other two guys?"
      McClellan stared at his shoes. "Maybe we all look alike to them.”
      "Them, who?" asked Burton.
      "The ET’s," said McClellan. "Maybe they can tell male from female, but we all look alike. Like we
were deer or elk or something.” He beckoned. "Let's look over in those nearest trees.”
      Since the bottom gates were locked, they went back up the bleacher stairs, across the terrace, through
the open gates and around the outside of the fence. The first grove of trees was a hundred yards down the
hill, a clump of oaks with shadows lengthening eastward, toward them, trees that had been planted when
the college was founded, if not before. The trees were big and old and created a welcome shade.
      "Tracks," murmured McClellan, pointing at an area of bare earth. "Remember the TV broadcast. The
predators. That's what one set of tracks looks like. Wulivery. Like elephants.”
      "Over here!" cried Burton. He was kneeling by a body, with another one beyond him. "They're
alive!"
      "That's the other two," cried Mack. "That's Ron Turley, and Bamma McClure!"
      "Bamma," murmured McClellan to himself, wandering farther into the trees. "What did he do to
deserve a name like that? Now where's the coach? If I'm right, we'll find him, but not the other boy, the
Shipton boy.” He leaned momentarily against a tree trunk to remove a cinder from his shoe, then caught
sight of a red shirt. "Here's the coach," he cried.
      The man was unconscious, but seemingly uninjured. As though he'd been anesthetized. In fact, all
three of them seemed to have been anesthetized.
      When the ambulances departed with the three unconscious men, McClellan sat down next to
Angelica Shipton and waved her sympathizers away. For a time he didn't say anything. He was reflecting
on his earlier euphoria, considering whether pride had had any part in it. It was pride that supposedly went
before a fall, and oh, boy, was this going to be a fall. From blessing the ET’s to damning them, in one
easy circuit.
      "Look, miss," he said gravely. "They took your brother. And it looks like they thought they got you,
too, because Mack Dugan called both of you by your names. And, it looks like it was done by those
predators we heard about on TV, but it's not the kind of thing they've been doing. I mean, right here, in the
open, on the campus isn't the way they've been operating. They've been more . . . sneaky than that. So, I
got to ask you, why would these predator ET’s want to come after you and your brother?"
      Angelica stared at him from tear-bleared eyes, her head moving from side to side in baffled negation.
"I don't know! I have no idea! Why would they? I mean, why us?"
     "Your parents, miss. I'd like to get in touch with your parents.”
     Angelica shook her head, and began to laugh hysterically. "You can't," she said. "I can't. Carlos tried
to call our father yesterday and couldn't find him. And Mother . . . she's moved. She calls me, but she
doesn't have a number where we can call her yet . . .”
     Back at the precinct, McClellan reported to the captain, only to have the captain murmur, "What's
that stink, Mac?"
     "Stink? I can't smell anything. I've got a cold.”
     The captain rose and came around his desk, sniffing. He sniffed at McClellan, front and back, then
said, "Take off your jacket and look at the back of it. It's all over goo.”
     McClellan removed the jacket. It did have goo on it, like . . . something waxy or tarry. "I leaned up
against a tree at the campus," he remarked, wonderingly.
     The captain stared at him for some time, nostrils twitching. "You thought it was a tree.”

Benita—FRIDAY
     Early Friday evening, Benita's phone rang, and she shuddered. Each time she heard the sound, she
had a renewed feeling of doom. When she took a deep breath and picked it up, however, it was only Chad,
saying he had enjoyed their dinner together and would she be interested in a movie.
     What she really wanted to do was scream. Recent events had combined to give her the feeling there
were snakes under the furniture, things ready to jump out at her. She tried to shake off the nervy, antsy
mood, deciding she'd probably feel better not being alone. Besides, she liked Chad, so she said yes, why
not a movie.
     Chad had paid her a good deal of attention recently, which both pleased her and made her slightly
uncomfortable. He was married. And though she wasn't even forty, doing without sex had not been a big
problem for her. Sex with Bert had not been pleasurable for . . . well, for virtually their entire married life.
She found it hard to understand how she had convinced herself she loved him, way back when. Of course,
he'd been young, and he hadn't been the big drinker he turned out to be within two or three years, by
which time she had been grateful to be let alone. So, when a man was nice to her, complimentary, as Chad
was, and kind in his attentions, it was nice but it also made her apprehensive, as though enjoying the
attention, any of it, might be equivalent to committing herself to something unearned, forbidden, or
inappropriate. Not that Chad had made a single gesture in that direction, but he was a thoughtful,
intelligent man, and as she kept reminding herself, being alone with a thoughtful, intelligent man wasn't
something she was used to.
     When he picked her up, however, he looked worse than she felt, not like someone headed for an
enjoyable afternoon.
     "What is it?" she asked.
     "The movie was just an excuse, Benita. You remember the name Dink? I may have mentioned he
works for the Select Committee on Intelligence, reporting directly to Senator Morse.”
     "My own dear Senator Morse?"
     "That one, yes. The DEA got some feedback from an agent planted way, way deep in a Colombian
cartel. It seems Charles Dinklemier is well known down there. Well known, much valued. He clears the
way for a lot of shipments.”
     She stared at him, at first not getting it at all. Then it began to trickle in, like reading a thriller when
you're half asleep, missing it when the author throws a curve at you. "Does the senate committee know?"
     He exhaled. "I think I mentioned to you that there've been some rumors about where certain soft
contributions to senatorial campaigns came from. Dink works for Morse. Morse gets lots of soft money.
This has got to be where it's coming from.”
     "What does Morse do in return?"
     "He votes for the war on drugs. Votes more money for the DEA. Makes sure there's no drug policy
reform. The War on Drugs keeps the market up, keeps the dealers working, keeps the money flowing.
They don't want drugs legalized. It'd be like what happened when we stopped Prohibition. The gangsters
didn't want it stopped. They made millions.”
     "What does that have to do with our problem right now? With the ET’s?"
     "All of a sudden there are ET causometers on every lawman's wrist, and the market is drying up. The
drug cartels, the DEA, the private prison lobby, they'd do almost anything to get rid of the ET’s. Which
means that since the administration is supposedly supporting the ET’s, drug money is being used to
discredit the administration, the ET’s, and anyone or anything to do with either of them.”
     "Including us.”
     "Including us.” He laughed shortly. "The White House has been hoping it can declare a victory in the
war on drugs now that the illicit ones can be controlled, but the big money is all on the other side.”
     She smiled grimly. "So we're being eaten alive by ET predators, we're going to have thousands of
addicts going cold turkey, and it seems a whole bunch of our legislators work for a foreign business. It's
nice it's all happening at once. I hate things all strung out.”
     He gave her a sickly grin.
     She returned it, saying, "I'm hungry. Since there's to be no movie, can we have some supper?"
     They did so, with wine, though the wine didn't assuage her feeling of impending annihilation. "All it
does is make me feel I'm floating on doom instead of drowning in it.”
     "Chiddy and Vess are looking for the predators, right?"
     "So they said when they left.”
     "And until they find them?"
     "I don't know. Let the storm rage, I guess.”
     "Hope it isn't too long, Benita. If our domestic storm gets to the point of a feeding frenzy, you may
get tossed to the sharks as a delaying tactic.”
     She looked up from her dessert plate. 'They promised to keep me out of it!"
     "They promised they'd try. You can try to keep a secret, but if some damned congressional committee
subpoenas you, you can't keep it long.”
     "The president wouldn't tell where I am!"
     "Benita, Benita. If the predators took Bert, they did it because they'd been in touch with McVane.
Why else? So, if the predators found you, then McVane knows where you are. This makes me, as a friend,
say thoughtfully to myself that if someone has anything to hide, someone had better hide it really well,
because sooner or later, people are going to start digging.” He gave her a limpid gaze which succeeded
only in making her angry.
     She snarled, "Chad, I am exactly who I have always said I am, and I have no sins on my conscience,
sexual, financial, or otherwise. This business has me ... I don't know. This whole thing is maddening!"
     "You feel like a rabbit thrown to the wolves, I'll bet.”
     "When you say thrown to the wolves . . .”
     He took a deep breath. "I meant that one or more senators may exercise the privilege of subpoena to
get you before a congressional committee. The president would, no doubt, delay this as long as possible,
but it couldn't be delayed forever since McVane knows where you are, and if McVane knows, then
Senator Morse knows. So, even if the president tried to delay access, they could come at you by another
route. The only thing they possibly don't know about you is that you are having dinner with me right this
minute, and I could be wrong about that.”
      He toyed with his spoon. "Tell me again, how was it the predators found you?"
      "Chiddy said smell. The Pistach have been in my apartment time after time. I suppose it does smell of
them, though I can't smell it.”
      "What do you all do there? Have tea parties?"
      "Popcorn, mostly. They really like popcorn. And ice cream, especially strawberry. They go crazy
over our fruits and fruit-flavored things. And sodas, anything but root beer, or anything else with
sarsaparilla in it, like cream soda.”
      "They don't like sarsaparilla?"
      "It puts them to sleep. One night we had root beer floats, and they slept on my couch for nine hours in
about thirty different shapes. Which isn't the subject. Smelling me out is the subject, because that's what
the predators did!"
      "They can track the whole world by smell?"
      "We track the whole world by sight. Chiddy and Vess have machines that circle the world listening
for certain sounds. And Chiddy told me the Fluiquosm track by taste. It's just a matter of having machines
that sort through the data to find specific things, and I'm sure any race that has space travel has sorting
machines. As a matter of fact, Chiddy asked to leave his translator listening to my TV because his ship is
operating at full capacity at the moment. Finding predators is probably what it's doing.”
      "And presumably they didn't need to smell out Bert because the cabal knew where he was, right?
Well, that relieves a minor worry. I thought there might have been a leak from the bureau. Your apartment
was supposedly an FBI 'safe house' operation, done by Justice as a favor to State, who said they needed it
for visiting dignitaries threatened by terrorists. The contractors are reliable people the FBI uses from time
to time, and nobody involved except General Wallace had any idea who would occupy it. He's the only
one who talked to your boss, nobody else said anything except 'Hi there.' As for the First Lady and the
Secretary of State, nobody has asked them where you are. I'm the only one who's seen you with them
since that dinner with the ET’s, and we hoped they'd think you left town after that.”
      "You said you'd protect the kids . . .”
      "It took hours to get the red tape cut. I haven't been granted authority over field offices. When we try
to do things quietly, it takes time to get cooperation, but your children should each have an agent arm in
arm, right now.”
      "We're still trying to be quiet?" she asked, incredulously.
      "Trying to avoid panic," he said, frowning.
      He chewed thoughtfully while she blotted chocolate from her lips, fighting down the temptation to
scream. "Who told this cabal my name? Originally.”
      "Your namesake congressman. He thinks he's a liberal, he's generally on our side, but he's also ex-
military, and he falls for the national security gambit every time someone plays it. Star Wars. Stealth
anything. Talk about burning the flag and he gets all choked up. Funny, so many of these guys think the
country stands for the flag instead of the other way round. So long as Old Glory's whipping in the breeze,
it's okay to deal guns to kids and cheat on your taxes.”
      "Congressman Alvarez was annoyed at me," she admitted. "The cube opened up for General Wallace,
but it didn't show the congressman anything. He turned red and got all defensive. I could see him thinking
that a congressman is more important than a retired general.”
      Chad nodded. "I've met some of them who think they're more important than God. So. Now what?"
      "Well, I guess I go on working. And waiting until Chiddy and Vess find the predators. And hoping
they haven't done anything . . . final to Bert.”
      "Do you really hope so?"
      "Yes. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Which he is.” She reconsidered. "Almost.”
      "Any idea how long it will take the Pistach to find them?"
      "No idea. They'll manage, sooner or later.”
      "Any idea what the predators are up to?"
      "Sorry, Chad. I don't have a clue.”
      It was eight in the evening when Benita returned to her apartment, and after a few moments of
irresolute wavering, she decided to call Angelica. It was only five o'clock Pacific time. Angelica might
not be home yet, but she might not have another chance the way things were going. She lay down on the
bed, punched in the numbers and counted the rings.
      The moment Angelica came on the line, however, she began talking so hurriedly that it took Benita
some time to calm her down to the point she could understand what was being said.
      "What do you mean, Carlos has been kidnapped?"
      "It just happened. Just now!" she cried. "Over at the sports complex . . .” Angelica poured out the
story of the afternoon's disappearance, about the girl who had been called by Angelica's name, about the
police sergeant saying it looked like an attempt to get two members of the same family.
      Benita gargled, "The whole family . . .”
      "It's crazy, isn't it, Mom? I mean, who'd want to bother us. I thought of Dad, but you know, he ... he
isn't ... he doesn't . . .”
      "He can't concentrate long enough to do anything like that," Benita said for her.
      "Right. And it can't be for ransom, because we don't have any money.”
      "Was there any blood?" Benita asked with horrid foreboding.
      "Blood? No. The other men weren't hurt. Nobody found any blood.”
      "Ah.”
      "What do you mean, ah?"
      "I mean . . .” She thought, what did she mean? "It looks like no one was hurt. Not like . . .”
      "Like those killings, you mean? The ones in Oregon?"
      "No, certainly not like that. Angel, didn't the FBI contact you today?"
      "Oh, Mom, yes. What's that all about? The men came to my place kind of late this afternoon, and I
took them with me to find Carlos. He disappeared right after we got there! The man who was supposed to
watch him was fit to be tied, and the man who's supposed to watch me is sitting on a chair outside in the
hall right now. What's going on?"
      Benita beat her forehead with her closed fist. It was the predators. They were doing it, and they were
doing it because they'd been put up to it! They'd come to the bookstore looking for Benita, only her place
was . . . what? It would have been easy to get into if they'd really wanted to, though getting in would have
made a mess. Broken windows. Splintered doors. So, maybe they didn't want to ... no, maybe they'd been
told not to leave evidence they'd done it. Perhaps they needed to make her vanish, without raising a stink.
So, they'd tried using Bert as bait. Now they would no doubt use Carlos. And, supposedly, Angelica. Oh,
it made a certain deadly sense!
      Benita took a deep breath. "Angelica, I think it would be a really good idea for you to go outside and
tell the FBI man he should take you to a motel or hotel, right now. I mean now, not an hour from now.
Grab what you can grab in no more than five minutes and go. Get a place that's air conditioned, and don't
open the windows or the curtains.”
      "You're scaring me!"
      "I'm scared myself. Please, Angel. Do what I ask. Just so I don't need to worry about you.”
     "If it's important.”
     "It's important. Tell the FBI man to let Chad Riley know where you are.”
     "Who's Chad Riley? What's this about, Mom?"
     "Trust me, please. I don't want to talk about it now. Just do what I ask. Chad Riley works for the FBI
in Washington, and I can get in touch with him without letting anyone know where I am. He'll give me
your number, and I'll call you tomorrow when things settle down a little.”
     When she hung up the phone, she went into the bathroom and said Chiddy's name, over and over. No
answer. No response at all! All she'd ever had to do was speak, but now they were off somewhere, or
everywhere, trying to locate the predators.
     "My son's been abducted," she said. "Also a girl that was mistaken for my daughter!"
     No sign that he'd heard her. Lord, Lord. Now what? She stepped back into the bedroom and the
phone rang. Chad, saying he'd just learned about what happened in California.
     "Chad, for heaven's sake, I know! Angelica just told me.”
     "This girl they took? Do you know who that was?"
     "They thought it was Angelica!"
     "You know why?"
     "They want them for bait," she cried. "To lure me out where they can get at me.” She pressed her
forehead with her free hand, trying to keep it from exploding. "The predators wouldn't have targeted the
children on their own, so someone put them up to it. Probably Morse because he wants to talk to the
intermediary.”
     "That's what his press release says," growled Chad.
     She cried, "Well, dammit, better in public than in some cellar somewhere. Morse wants to get at me,
so why don't we let him! Except for my longing for anonymity, I've got no reason to hide!"
     "Volunteering to testify could be a good play," said Chad, thoughtfully. "I'll see what the powers that
be have to say about that.”
     "Listen," Benita said, struggling to remain calm. "Morse might be doing this because he's expecting
the president to duck or dodge on the subject of my whereabouts. Then Morse himself could haul me in,
hoping I'll say something really damaging. Like ... I was put up to this whole thing by the Chinese. Or the
press and I have been having this affair ever since I came to Washington. Or something equally
ridiculous. That's what he really wants, to make political hay out of the situation . . .”
     "That's scary.”
     "It's not the worst. If he's using the predators, maybe he can even be sure that I'll say what he wants
me to. Either they can make me do it, or they can hold the kids' lives as hostages until I do it.”
     "But you'd be willing to appear in order to subvert that.”
     "Right. I'll agree right now to appear before the committee Monday. Let the president announce that
fact! He should announce it tonight or tomorrow, so it can get onto the news as soon as possible!"
     "What about your son?"
     "Somebody should get word to McVane, privately, that I expect my family to be released. Or that
he'll be held responsible for the two of them, or something!"
     "But the girl isn't your family.”
     "She's somebody's family," Benita snapped. "Angelica would be in their clutches right now if they
hadn't made a mistake. I asked her to ask the FBI man who's guarding her to take her to a hotel for tonight
and let you know where she is.”
     "I'll alert the powers that be," said Chad. "Including the president.”
     Benita called Simon at home to tell him a family emergency had come up, and she would have to
take Monday off. Since she'd worked overtime on several evenings, she actually had the time coming.
     He sighed. "Someday you'll tell me what's going on, won't you, Benita?"
     "Someday, Simon. If I ever figure it out.”

Senator Byron Morse—FRIDAY
     The same evening, Senator Morse came home to find a note from Lupe saying that her mother had
broken her wrist and that Lupe was driving to Baltimore to spend a day or two with Mama to reassure
herself that Mama was all right. All in all, it suited the senator to spend a quiet evening at home. The last
few days had been hectic. Predators picking off American citizens was not a precedent he wanted to set,
but in this case the end justified the means. Once he got his hands on the intermediary, nobody would
press him too much as to how he'd done it, and he had no doubt he could get something out of her,
whether or not it led them to the envoys, that would be useful in damaging the administration!
     He badly wanted a progress report, but there was no way to reach the predators until they succeeded,
in which event, reaching them wouldn't be necessary. Dink had assured him it wouldn't take them long.
Ridiculous, all this running about, unable to find a woman who should stick out like a sore thumb! It
suggested ineptitude among people he had always valued for being good at their jobs!
     Meantime, the select committee was still unable to talk to or communicate with or get at the envoys
themselves, and the armies of ET hunters that were scouring the world for possible targets had as yet
reported killing only a California condor, several wolverines and bear cubs, about fifty dogs, and a
number of Ginko trees. The boosting of a surveillance satellite into a one-time moon loop, a little
maneuver that cost too many millions, had allowed NASA to verify that predator ships were definitely on
the back side of the moon. Morse had been cutting NASA's budget relentlessly as long as he'd been in the
Senate, so there was no way to get at the moon any time soon. It was like being in a wartime situation.
You couldn't attack the administration without seeming disloyal to the country, no matter how elusive or
dangerous the president was. Maybe the thing to do was beef up NASA, fast, and see what the Russians
had left over from their space program that might be useful. Though, come to think of it, the space station
boosters had more or less picked over that trash heap.
     Oh, hell, he told himself, pouring a scotch, let it go. Forget it for tonight. Raid the refrigerator, have a
long hot shower, go to bed.
     The food and the shower he managed. While luxuriating under the hot spray, however, he felt a sting
on his shoulder, as though a wasp or bee was in the shower with him. Even as he slapped at the shoulder
he felt overwhelmingly dizzy. The tile walls of the shower stall spun around him, he felt himself slipping,
though he didn't feel himself landing on the floor. Everything went gray and silent.
     He was aware that time was passing, that things seemed to have duration. He came halfway to
consciousness, finding himself on an examining table, just like . . . well, like all that stupid X-Files stuff,
and there was this . . . ET thing, not a little gray man, not an envoy, not one of those predators they had
shown on that broadcast of theirs, something else. Like a huge wasp, only with a high cranium and a soft
voice. This large creature, assisted by two smaller creatures, was very intent on doing something to him,
though he felt no particular pain or apprehension. They were holding him and shifting him, quite gently,
and then there was a sudden, horrible pain, terrible and piercing as the large creature stuck its ...
something or other, surely not what it looked like, no, that couldn't be, he meant no, not that, he meant
stuck its dagger-like thing into him, right into his middle, and squirted something through it, something
quite large because the dagger-like thing bulged to let it through, and then the pain again, only worse,
much worse, he couldn't bear, couldn't stand . . .
     And then only peace and euphoria. Nice. Nice restful feeling, and he woke up momentarily. He was
at home, in bed, quite naked.
    Senator Byron Morse never slept naked. He staggered out of bed and found his pajamas hanging
where he'd left them this morning, on the back of the bathroom door. It was while he was buttoning the
pajama top before the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door that he noticed a strange
discoloration on his stomach. Just to the right of the belly button and a little higher. A real doozy of a
bruise, with a bloody spot in the middle. He touched it, and something bit him, like being hit with a cattle
prod. A second attempt had the same result. He should have been worried about it, but he still felt very
happy and contented. Euphoric. That was the word. He hummed it to himself.
    An isolated section of his mind repeated the word. Euphoric? From what? Why was he thinking about
euphoria? He should be worried about this damned bloody spot. He was damned well worried about this
bloody spot, but he was too tired to do anything about it tonight. He'd get a few hours sleep, first. This
morning, first thing, he'd see his doctor.

From Chiddy's journal
     Dear Benita, Vess and I are so deeply sorry about the predators. Though they will not kill nearly as
many of your people as you do on your own, we realize that the simultaneous death of small groups is
perceived to be more tragic than a very large mortality stretched over time and space. A plane crash that
kills one hundred in one place seems a greater tragedy than the many times that number killed one or two
at a time, here and there, by gunshot or car crash or tobacco addiction. When working with intelligent
beings, one must work with perceptions as much as with reality, and accordingly, we know the predation
must be stopped!
     We have set our search devices to find the Xankatikitiki, as they are usually the easiest to locate.
There are more of them, they have the strongest smell, and they tend toward noisy braggadocio,
particularly the young ones. Once we find them, we will find the others. If we do not find them within a
short time, we will find a human who has met with them, though we will need to wipe the memory of it
later. If the predators have conspired with humans, then those humans must have a way to get in touch
with them! Unfortunately, conspirators do not emit the same kinds of strong, focused signals that serial
killers or terrorists do. Conspirators tend to have torturous mentalities which are often unclear even to
themselves.
     Meantime, Vess and I are continuing with the programs set out before our brief departure. We are
extending the ugliness plague to Iran and Arabia and to parts of India where both Muslims and the
wealthier Hindus seem to enjoy locking women up. This is such a unique societal trait that Vess and I
brought it to the attention of the Chapter back on Pistach-home. We have been sending them reports all
along, of course, and they soon saw the similarity between this human trait and the violent capture of
females found among other Earthian mammals. Baboons and various kinds of deer kidnap females, for
example, as do teams of dolphins, usually violently and sometimes lethally.
     Our Chapter asked us why some human societies consider female capture and abuse to be barbaric
while others consider it to be "traditional" or "cultural" or even "religious.” Why should certain societies
have very little breeding madness while others have it continuously? Are some but not all human societies
genetically incapable of self-control?
     This dichotomy among various subgroups of a single race is hard for us to explain, dear Benita.
We've looked into the matter, and there is no clear-cut genetic difference between populations with
breeding madness and those without. As we know from experience, however, even a rare genetic
predisposition can survive culturally if the predisposition is found among the leaders of the society.
Though a leader may be genetically driven to a certain behavior rather than choosing it, if that leader is
charismatic, others will elect to copy the behavior. Thus is breeding madness spread among certain
populations, first by emulation, in time acquiring a cultural or even religious cachet.
     If there is a genetic predisposition to breeding madness, it may have arisen among groups who lived
around your Mediterranean Sea. We hear much of the "Latin Temperament," for example, which enjoys
ritualized sacrifice of or battles among male animals such as bulls and cocks. They also have dances
portraying contests of sexual dominance. I apologize, dearest Benita, if I seem to be belaboring this point!
Even though we are sure these things must change, first it is necessary that we understand what is going
on. It is far more important to establish a civil and orderly society than it is to pander to abusive cultural
and religious artifacts. This is why we are continuing the ugliness campaign. Once the societies have
unlearned their present attitudes, women may become lovely again, as you are, dear Benita. In the
meantime, the women will at least have the freedom to come and go as they will, to work and study and
learn.
     Our Inkleozese monitors were not here long before they pointed out that a nation dedicated to
protecting human rights should not have warm diplomatic relations with nations that have
institutionalized breeding madness, not even when those nations have a lot of petroleum. We had
postponed consideration of this issue formerly, but since all the Inkleozese monitors are receptors, that is,
females, we are unable to delay consideration any longer. The Inkleozese react very strongly to insults to
their own or similar sexes, and they feel the imprisonment of women is no less heinous than confining
political prisoners for the sake of "security.”
     If widening the area afflicted by the ugly-plague badly upsets your country's acquisition of sufficient
fuel, we will provide your nation with power technology that needs no petroleum. An equitable society
capable of Neighborliness cannot be built on competition for scarce resources. Think what such cutthroat
competition would mean in interstellar society?
     The question of resources brings me to a delicate point. Because our need was immediate, we brought
back with us the only Inkleozese monitors who were available at the time. Virtually all of them are in that
state of parturition that will soon require a host animal. There are no quodm, no geplis, no nadervaks on
Earth. The most suitable creatures will be male persons, as their hormones are more easily adjustable to
the needs of the growing Inkliti.
     Under usual circumstances, the Inkleozese would refuse to leave their planet at such a time. Only our
elucidation of the pro-life feelings of many men in positions of power convinced them they could find
hosts on Earth without offending the free will of its inhabitants. Obviously, the hosts will have to be
persons who espouse the pure pro-life position which does not allow reproductive choice even in the case
of rape. Not that these gentlemen would consider it rape, but we all know what the media do with any
events related to sexuality.
     While the Inkleozese might be offended by the anti-woman bigotry underlying much pro-life dogma,
we have not seen fit to discuss with them the psychological minutia of the situation. They would be
outraged, or worse, if a host animal refused the implantation of an Inklit egg, but since implantation is
always done with the host in a euphoric state, we know the gentlemen will not refuse. We have, therefore,
selected hosts for the Inkleozese on the basis of their publicly stated receptivity to preborn life.
     Among those chosen are several of your legislators who have repeatedly asserted an unequivocal
anti-choice position. We have also added to the list a number of TV and radio preachers and
commentators who have been rigorously pro-life. Once the immediate need is taken care of, we will
explain the matter as seems necessary. Everyone will be told that the hosts are pregnant with babies of an
intelligent life form which it would be a grave ethical error to remove. Though the impregnation has or
will be done without the hosts' individual permission, in a legal sense we may infer their permission from
the stand which they have taken upon the issue of rape. Each man on our list has gone on record as
refusing to allow choice to women who have been raped, pointing out that the infant is innocent and must
therefore take precedence. The Inkleozese could not ask for a better statement of their own belief.
     In any case, the implantations will be only a temporary inconvenience for the hosts. They will most
likely survive the pregnancy and emergence experience without lasting harm, just as most of your women
do. The hosts will have only a few months of discomfort and inconvenience, though of course their
careers must be set aside for a time. Inasmuch as they have frequently decried the shallowness of women
who attempted to avoid pregnancy for mere career convenience, however, we are assured of their
understanding.
     Aha. Vess calls. The machines are signaling! We have something on the location of the Xankatikitiki.
When next we encounter one another, dear Benita, I hope you will be gratified to know we have reached
the predators and succeeded in removing them from your world.

Among the Shizzalizaquosmn—SATURDAY
      The Fluiquosm, the Wulivery and the Xankatikitiki had long been associated with certain other
predatory races in a League of Devourers, or Shizzalizaquosmni [SHIZzah-LIZzah-kwah-zum-nee, many-
joined-eaters], which league members called simply SHLQ [sh-lok-wuh]. When engaged in joint hunting
expeditions on any planet, the league was headed by a committee made up of the eldest or most powerful
of each race. On Earth, this group had found the planet to be a predator's paradise.
      "Oh, it needs some work, of course," gurgled the Wulivery chief known as Odiferous Tentacle.
"Cities are not a proper venue for the hunt. The country makes prey so much more delicious. One has
little food-things gathering around one's legs, thinking one is a tree! They squeak delightfully when one
seizes them up!"
      The Wulivery were fond of trees, and at least partially in response to Wulivery sensibilities, the
Fluiquosm and Xankatikitiki leaders had agreed to set up their headquarters near the old farm in Virginia
where they had met the cabal. It was a convenient place, one kept secure by intelligence agencies who had
no idea what was going on there, and the humans who kept the place under observation had been easily
persuaded that they saw everything except the predators. While the signal towel flapped its continuous
message of safety, while each footstep of other casual visitors was closely observed, the predators came
and went without being noticed.
      It was to this location that the one male and two female Fluiquosm involved in the abductions of
Benita's family brought the two young people, and later Bert himself, following his unsuccessful role as
bait. Fluiquosm females often accompanied the hunters though they did not usually hunt, and in certain
cases they might be sent alone, for it was the females who convinced captured prey that safe release
would follow if the prey would only lie quiet. It was the females who convinced the prey it did not see
what its eyes claimed to see or hear what its ears claimed to hear. In short, the females cast the veil behind
which much bloody work was done, and in return for their talents, their thirsts were among the first
satisfied.
      The two young humans picked up in California were convinced they had seen nothing and heard
nothing and needed only to sleep for a lengthy while. Though bringing them to Virginia had involved a
lengthy roundtrip flight, the two Fluiquosm, Quosmlizzak and Kazzalamgah, had badly needed the
exercise. They had placed breathing capsules over the noses of the boy and girl, wrapped them in egg film
as protection against high-altitude winds, and during the flight had amused themselves by dangling the
bodies just in front of airliners in midair, scaring the pilots witless. They did not desist until one plane lost
altitude and almost crashed, which would have been a waste of blood, and therefore shameful.
      Bert had also been obtained by subterfuge, though his female abductor had chosen to bring him back
via commercial carrier and store him temporarily in a hotel. The airline ticket counter person, the clothing
store personnel, the barber, the hotel clerk, all had been mind fogged into assisting the operation, and the
Fluiquosm who had managed the trip remembered the whole process as having been great fun.
      Bert had now joined the two youngsters, all three carefully cocooned in egg film and hung upright in
the well-stocked larder tree where they could remain without damage for some days, until they were
needed for something or, if that became appropriate, were sucked dry or eaten. Now that all the family
except the woman had been brought under control, the predators assumed that Bert and the young people
could be consumed immediately after the woman was in their hands.
      To that end, a small but representative group of predators left the farm in Virginia and flew in a tiny
shuttle to Washington, D.C., where they set themselves down in a small park not far from Benita’s
apartment. The Wulivery had reconnoitered the woman's lair during their previous attempt, and they knew
it was vulnerable, though not in a way that would avoid detection. Each hunt had its rules as to number,
age and type of prey, method of capture, how many points for particularly difficult captures, and so on.
The rule-setter for this particular hunt had clearly stated that the woman had to be removed without any
sign of violence. The prey was to be lured out with threats to the welfare of its offspring. Pistach nootchi,
Xankatikitiki glafimmilox, even Wulivery vullaters would respond mindlessly to threats directed at
offspring they had nurtured or borne. It was assumed human females would be the same, even though the
ploy wouldn't work on Fluiquosm themselves. Fluiquosm were without progeny pride, sometimes going
so far as to drain their offspring when other blood was unavailable.
      The shuttle was set down in a thick copse of trees, and the group exited, including Odiferous
Tentacle, a Xankatikitiki chief called Mrrgrowr, and the two Fluiquosm females, Quosmlizzak and
Kazzalamgah. It was in the wee hours of the morning and the city was quiet enough that the Wulivery and
one of the Fluiquosm felt they could collect Benita without attracting attention. While the mind-fogger
stood by to confuse anyone who might witness any part of the abduction, the Wulivery pretended to be a
tree while making a phone call from a sidewalk booth. Wulivery were skilled at languages and
particularly good at picking up conversational idiom, though they could make vocal sounds only through
a machine.
      Benita's phone rang at three A.M. on Sunday, so her digital clock told her as she came groggily
awake. "Hello," she muttered, staring witlessly at the clock and wondering what new threat or confusion
was happening. "Hello?"
      "Come out, come out, wherever you are," demanded a mechanical voice.
      The person who owned that voice wasn't anyone Benita knew, or wanted to know, but she realized
immediately what it wanted.
      "Hello," she said again, sitting upright, forcing herself to waken. "Do you have the right number?"
      "Alvarez," the voice said. "This is the right number. We have you located. We have possession of
your mate and offspring. Harm will come to them if you don't go downstairs and come out the back door
right now . . .”
      Shaking off her stupor, Benita gritted her teeth and said what she and Chad had agreed she would
say. "I can't," she said. 'The president has asked me to appear before Senator Morse's committee on
Monday morning. I've promised I'll be there.”
      There was a snort at the other end, like an aborted curse, a moment's mumbling, as though to
someone else, then a disconnect. She hung up, tears running down her face as she prayed she was doing
the right thing. Whoever or whatever the voice was, it would have to report to Morse. And once Morse
knew she'd testify before the committee, he'd have no reason . . . well, less reason to hang on to her
children. Or to Bert.
      She pulled herself out of bed, stumbling through the dark, banging one hand against the bathroom
door hard enough to break a nail straight across, and then scratched herself with it when she splashed cold
water on her face. She dressed in jeans and a knit shirt with a roomier flannel shirt over it, then went to
the phone in the bedroom and called Chad, who said he would be over in a few minutes, with weapons.
      "Can you shoot?" he asked.
      "As a matter of fact, yes," she muttered, digging through the drawer of the bedside table for a nail
file. "My brothers and I used to shoot at cans and rats, out at my Dad's salvage yard. Back then, it was out
in the country . . .” Her voice trailed off. Back then had no point to it at the moment.
      Odiferous Tentacle was annoyed. The result of the call was not as planned. The official, Morse,
wanted the woman to appear before him, but the woman was already committed to appearing before
Morse. Did Morse still want her taken secretly? This possibility had not been covered in the rules of
engagement! Sending the Fluiquosm to report back to the group, the Wulivery found another phone and
called General McVane, feeding a small tentacle up through the coin return to ding the coin mechanism as
many times as required.
     General McVane, wakened from a sound sleep, growled into the phone. "Call me back in an hour. I'll
get ahold of Morsel"
     While they waited, the predators continued their previous conversation.
     The toothy Xankatikitiki chief, Mrrgrowr, remarked, "You're right that there is more meat here than
seems possible, but a lot of it is flab. The flesh is too soft. Tiki's jaws will atrophy. Tiki's teeth will rot.”
     Odiferous Tentacle shrugged, a gesture which took him from a height of four meters to one of about
eight, followed by the emission of a lengthy stink. "Not all of them are flabby. In other parts of the world,
the peasants are quite solid. A few generations of unlimited predation will take care of those that aren't.
We'll make a practice of allowing the more fit to escape us. That way they'll reproduce disproportionately
and improve the species.”
     "It'll take generations," complained Mrrgrowr. "Let the young clean out the flabby ones!" said
Quosmlizzak. "You know kids. They'll eat anything, what!"
     "Your young, perhaps," said Mrrgrowr, with a snarl. "Not ours. We Xankatikitiki care about our
progeny.”
     "Our young, then," laughed Quosmlizzak. "We have them by the clutch, a dozen or so. And as for our
good friends like Stinky here, the Wulivery young are spawned in the sea, what? A million at a time?"
     "Only a few hundred thousand at even the most splendid spawning," murmured Odiferous Tentacle.
"And only a few hundred survive to the parasitic larval stage when they cling to vullators. One does not
consider them to be Wulivery until the vullator-clinging stage, and one does not name them until the
second metamorphosis. Our young wouldn't be useful in culling the flabby humans for they become land
creatures only after the fifth stage, at which point they are almost adult.”
     "You'll want access to the oceans for your young, then?" asked Mrrgrowr.
     The Wulivery waved its tentacles in negation. "No. Alas! Have you looked at their seas? Filthy! Also,
the humans have so badly over-fished them that our young would find little to eat and might themselves
end up as food for the few remaining whales! So amusing! The humans pretend to save the whales while
they go on stealing the whales' food until the whales starve! Ha ha. This world will have dead oceans,
shortly. We have already planned to restock them with hybrids of the poisonous earthly puffer fish and
equally noxious imported sea-creatures. Then we will eat the coastal humans who sully the sea while the
new fish become food for our young but not for mankind. Until that is done, one fears this planet is too
squalid for us to reproduce here.
     "Hunting, however, will be good. We prefer hunting in shade, near clean water, as otherwise we get
overheated. There's plenty of prey along the sides of the jungles and woods. Enough to last us for years.”
     'Then you believe the humans will make an agreement with us?" asked Mrrgrowr.
     "Oh," murmured Odiferous Tentacle, "one thinks they will. They'll ask us to eat the people in some
other country, of course, so we'll have to predate secretly in this country. Luckily, many of their people
drop out or run away, so a few disappearances won't be suspected.”
     "Have any of the rest of you preyed on a smokeweed ingestor?" queried Quosmlizzak. "One tried to
suck an ingestor a few days ago. It tasted so absolutely foul one had to disgorge the juices, and one is sure
it would be deleterious to one's health to eat many of them . . .”
     "You're quite right," shuddered the Wulivery. "Terrible taste, and it stays with one so! The man, Bert,
is one such. He stinks terribly! Do not ask me to share his flesh, thank you, no.”
     "We'll have to get rid of the bad ones," remarked Mrrgrowr.
      "Will the dear Pistach let us do that?" asked Odiferous Tentacle. "Will they go on causing us
trouble?"
      "The Pistach!" The Xankatikitiki barked with laughter. "The Wulivery haven't heard? The Pistach
may have no time to cause us anything! They'll soon have a civil war on their hands.”
      "What?" cried Quosmlizzak.
      "No! The Pistach?" laughed Odiferous Tentacle. "How delicious!"
      Mrrgrowr snarled, "It's true. A rebel has built an army and taken ships! He has made an alliance with
us. We have given him weapons and ships. Our people heard of him last on his way to Pistach-home. To
conquer the planet!"
      "Could that be why the Pistach brought Inkleozese with them when they returned?" asked
Quosmlizzak.
      Silence. The Wulivery made a spitting noise. The Xankatikitiki growled in their throats. "Is that true?
Inkleozese? Drat them! What business did they have coming here?"
      "We knew they'd come sooner or later," soothed Odiferous Tentacle. "We'll just stay out of their
reach, that's all.”
      "Easier asserted than accomplished," muttered the Xankatikitiki. "We went to considerable trouble
wooing that Pistach rebel. Who would have thought of Inkleozese!"
      "Well, they're not allowed to ... you know, not to members of the Confederation.”
      "They do it to members of the Confederation," asserted Quosmlizzak. "They find a legal precedent
first, but they do it. Like, for instance if they come after us, they'll claim we're not actually members of
the Confederation because if we were we wouldn't be contravening its laws by being here . . .”
      "They wouldn't!" said Odiferous Tentacle. "Not to us.”
      "Don't bet on it," said the Fluiquosm. "Stranger things have happened.”
      "Time to reach out to the general again," said Mrrgrowr, reversing his head to examine a steeple
clock.
      Odiferous Tentacle grunted and went off toward the phone, returning almost immediately.
      "I have reached," sighed the Wulivery. "The general is very upset. He has tried to find the senator,
but the senator does not answer his phone, and there is no one at his office. The general thinks we had
better take the woman anyhow, even if we must break in to do so. He feels the senator will probably want
her, so it will be best to have her on hand.”
      Chad arrived at Benita's apartment and immediately took a handgun from his pocket. He pointed out
the safety, thrust the gun at Benita, and watched her drop it into the deep flapped pocket of her checked
lumberman's jacket before gathering several scattered belongings into an open bag. Sasquatch moved
anxiously back and forth between the living room and the bedroom like a caged wolf.
      "Hurry up," Chad urged her. "We need to get away from here.”
      "I'm just getting the clothes I'll need to wear on Monday. I don't want to have to come back here.”
      She moved into the living room with the open bag, set it on the couch and was suddenly conscious of
a heaviness in her head and chest. Allergies. They always hit her when she was nervous. The medicine
was on the TV, next to Chiddy's translator. She picked it up, wondering what it was, breaking the silence
with a heartfelt, "Damn!"
      "What is it?"
      "Chiddy's translator. He left it here, I was supposed to turn it on so it could assimilate spoken
Spanish. I forgot!"
      "Bring it with you," he said impatiently. "We'll speak Spanish to it, wherever we go.”
      "You speak Spanish?"
     "Spanish, German, Arabic, Urdu, Swahili. No Oriental languages yet.”
     "Yet? You're going to learn what? Chinese?"
     "Come on, Benita. Move it.” Then, as she went back into the bedroom, he called, "I lust for a job
over at State. Besides, I like learning languages. Hurry up, will you!" He dropped to a chair and put his
head in his hands, trying to remember when he'd last had some sleep.
     She turned on the device and dropped it in the left-hand pocket, along with the nail file and the gun,
leaving the right-hand pocket empty for her wallet, her checkbook, and her reading glasses snatched up
from the bedside table. She picked up her bag and started for the elevator, calling over her shoulder,
"Okay, I'm ready, let's go.”
     There was no warning of the attack. Two of the huge windows along the living room wall burst
against the curtains that had been pulled across them. Something very large came through the curtains.
Chad ran for the bedroom where he thought Benita was. Benita, who had been summoning the elevator on
the landing, Sasquatch sniffing at her heels, heard the crash, dropped her suitcase, turned and dashed
down the fire stairs, slamming the door shut behind her and barely missing Sasquatch's tail. She was on
the second floor. The second floor had windows. Without stopping to think about it, she went on down
another flight, dragged the dog into the supply room, and then checked both the supply room doors to be
sure they were locked. The doors were steel. According to Simon, they were set in masonry walls, which
might mean they'd be difficult to get through, though she wouldn't bet on it. She leaned against the heavy
table in the middle of the room, panting. They must have taken Chad. There was no place to hide up there.
Though, of course, maybe they didn't want him and would just let him go. Maybe. Or take him and eat
him.
     She gagged.
     Outside the burglar alarm was ringing itself silly, a clangor one could hear blocks away. Supposedly
the alarm was wired to the police department, and they should come looking.
     There were sounds in the stairwell outside the door. Banging on the door itself.
     "We've got your friend," said a mechanical voice from outside. "We're not going to hurt either of you,
though we might hurt him in order to get you out of there. Either that or go get your son. He's not far off.
We could take him apart. Like a lobster.”
     Chad's voice, half muffled, "Don't listen to them, Benita . . .” Then a few mrphls and snrfs, to no
purpose.
     She listened for the sound of sirens, hearing none, holding her breath. Of course, police didn't have to
run their sirens when they were on the way to a burglary, it's just they always did on TV.
     "We will now go get your son," said the mechanical voice.
     "Grumfissit, quosimik qualad digga," said something from behind Benita. "Likkashiz.”
     "Don't bother," echoed the translator from Benita's pocket. "I followed her down here. I'll bring her
out.”
     Something invisible grabbed her by her neck, not strangling, just lifting, the door opened and she was
thrown through it, to be caught by a bunch of tangled tentacles on the other side. The invisible something
buffeted Benita, knocking her down, and a lengthened tentacle seized her and dragged her up two flights
of stairs, her legs bumping on each step, then across her living room and out the broken window.
Something told her to go to sleep, which she promptly did while the beings retreated, burdened with the
two humans. Sasquatch, who had followed Benita up the stairs, ran to the broken windows, thrust his head
through the shattered glass and howled. Across the street, a light went on. The burglar alarm continued
clanging. The phone rang without stopping.
     Some minutes later, Simon, the police, and the FBI, previously alerted by Chad, arrived almost
simultaneously.
     On Sunday morning, many of the usual religious broadcasts were preempted by news departments
who chose to air parts of a tape received from the envoys during the night. This, so said the accompanying
letter, explained the fate that had overtaken some notables in and around Washington. It was a tape so
packed with scientific jargon that it was unsuitable for broadcast without extensive commentary. Even the
newsmen could make little sense of it until biologists and chemists had been called in to interpret.
     The experts, more than a little harried looking, appeared on the screen to comment in plain language,
though with all the references to "host animals" and "larvae" and so forth, the public was not enlightened
at once. The matter became more understandable with the showing of hastily created computer animations
of animals being punctured by the Inkleozese, eggs being inserted, eggs hatching into larvae, and larvae
growing and ramifying until it was time to chew their way out. The only suitable animals on Earth, so the
biologists conceded, were male humans. Part of the tape received from the Pistach listed the names of the
hosts chosen on Earth, already impregnated public figures, legislators and media personalities who had
publicly espoused the pro-life cause.
     Since the larvae now deeply anchored into the torsos of these men had defense mechanisms against
being removed, the Inkleozese could have chosen anyone, the tape made clear. Nonetheless, the
Inkleozese preferred calm, uninterrupted development of their offspring, and they had therefore chosen
only men who could be depended upon not to threaten the lives of the tiny moving, swallowing, heart-
beating Inklit babies now snuggled beneath their capacious rib cages. In any case, the tape was specific,
trying to remove them would be a very bad thing to do, since it might permanently destroy any chance of
Earth's joining the Confederation.
     The Pistach apologized for the inconvenience, saying that normally Inkleozese do not travel away
from their home world during larval-transfer seasons. This, however, had been an emergency brought
about by the unwarranted and unconscionable intrusions of the predators and had been thought acceptable
purely because of the pro-life philosophy of the men in question and of those others like them who would
be needed as hosts for the eggs of the hundreds of Inkleozese who hadn't laid yet. Since each Inkleozese
produced from ten to twenty eggs, a large number of those in the pro-life camp could illustrate their
faithfulness to that position.
     The preferred hosts would be men of middle age, medium to large size, good health, and temperate
habits. Once impregnated, the hosts would find it necessary to stay quietly at home for the following
thirteen months, the period of maturation of the larvae, until the larvae began to chew their way out, at
which time the Inkleozese would supervise the process in order to minimize any risk to the hosts. The
Inkleozese wished to convey their regret that no anesthetic could be used at that time, as it might
adversely affect the infant Inklit, but since most Inkliti chewed their way out in from twelve to fifteen
hours, the pain, though severe, would not be protracted. Classes in breathing and meditation to assist
relaxed larval emergence would be offered to the men in question.
     Lupe heard all this on the car radio on her way back from Baltimore, where she had spent the
previous day with her mother who was in considerable discomfort but not seriously injured. The break
was clean and would heal. Lupe had been greatly relieved about this, though her relief was short-lived. No
sooner had she put down her worries about Mama than she had been seized with new concerns about By.
Though she had called repeatedly, she had been unable to reach him. She had been trying since Friday
night, and he did not answer the phone. On Saturday evening, she had gone so far as to call one of his
aides and ask the aide to check the hospitals for possible accident victims. The aide had, instead, checked
the house and found the car in the drive, which he had duly reported to Lupe along with his conjecture
that By was probably spending the weekend with a golfing buddy.
     By played golf rarely and without enthusiasm, and Lupe was unaware that he had any golfing
buddies. He did, however, enjoy sailing and he had a few sailing friends. It was possible that with her
gone, he might have gone to the shore for the weekend. One thing was certain: he would most annoyed if
she raised a fuss trying to find him.
      When Lupe heard about the Inkleozese, however, she knew at once that Byron was exactly the kind
of person the ET’s were selecting. Outspokenly opposed to reproductive choice. Healthy. Of a good size.
Of middle age, not too young (too many hormones) or too old (insufficient hormones). She knew in her
heart that Byron was one of the selectees, he had to be, and that's why she hadn't been able to reach him!
      She also knew, as probably the Inkleozese did not, that Byron was almost psychotic on the subject of
pregnancy. If anyone could be said to be phobic about anything, By Morse was phobic about parturition.
Not just his bad experiences with Janet, but something that had happened to him in childhood, something
he would not talk about.
      She got home around noon. Normally By would have been up by now, maybe even have left to have
lunch. He wasn't downstairs, however, and his car was still in the drive. She found him still in bed, very
soundly asleep. She shook him, and he came groggily out of his doze.
      "Ah, Lupe. You back already?"
      "It's Sunday noon. I said I'd be back today.”
      "Sunday? Can't be. What happened to Saturday?"
      "It was yesterday. What's . . . what's the matter? What time did you get to bed Friday night? Did you
have ... ah, bad dreams? Something like that?"
      "Had a hell of a nightmare," he responded. "That's probably why I overslept. Hey, be a sweetheart
and bring me a cup of coffee, will you? I can't get the cobwebs out!"
      He went to the shower, pausing to glance at himself in the mirror. He seemed to remember . . . some
kind of an injury? No, no injury. A tiny little bruise next to his ribs, with a pimple of scab at its middle.
He had probably bumped into something, the car door maybe. He turned on the shower, letting the hot
water pour soothingly over him. The bathroom door opened, and Lupe brought him coffee, setting it on
the vanity while he dried himself off. The towel wrapped around him, he turned to pick up the cup. She
was watching him warily, her eyes roving over him, settling on the little bruise.
      "What's that?" she asked, leaning forward to touch it.
      The ceiling fell on him. He screamed, threw the coffee cup at her and cowered away from her as
though she had been a monster. Scalded, she shrieked back at him as she turned on the cold water and
thrust her reddened arms into the flow. Luckily, he'd missed her face.
      "What in the hell is the matter with you?" she cried, knowing with sick certainly what was the matter
with him.
      "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," he gabbled, slowly pulling himself upright. "When you
touched me, the pain went through me like . . . like a knife.”
      She took a deep breath. "By, sweetie, I think you'd better put your robe on and come watch TV for a
little bit.”
      "My God, woman, you know how I feel about Sunday TV"
      "Yeah," she said. "I know. But you'd still better catch up on what's been happening before you leave
the house.”
      The president appeared on the screen late Sunday afternoon to verify what the ET’s had said on their
tape.
      "Yes, it's true that a number of men have been impregnated. This may be inconvenient for them, but
all the men in question have asserted year after year that convenience really isn't the issue. They have told
us that the issue is reverence for life, and since these men have gone on record as supporting such
reverence, we agree with the Pistach that now is the time for them to put their careers on hold and their
bodies on the line, just as they have expected others to do.”
      "Mr. President, Mr. President.” Hands waved. One was selected. "Mr. President, is it mere
coincidence that none of the men selected are Democrats?"
     The president looked at the ceiling. "Yes. I should think it is purely coincidence.”
     He got through this without smiling, but some of the reporters in the audience kept holding up their
notebooks to hide the fact they were cracking up. In the evening, one of the doctors who'd been involved
in treating the pregnant men appeared on a special Larry King Live and told why the larvae couldn't be
removed. Each growing creature sent extensions of itself into the vital organs, and any attempt to remove
them ended up killing the host. These extensions withdrew in the days preceding emergence.
     "The Inkleozese furnished us with information regarding the care of the men who are carrying the
larvae," the doctor said. "They will need to avoid stress, to get regular exercise, plenty of sleep, plenty of
liquids, plus calcium and iron supplements. They must avoid alcohol and tobacco and all drugs except
vitamins. We're assured the condition will last for only thirteen months, as with elephants.”
     CNN Headline News had pictures of Senator Morse being brought by ambulance to a local hospital
earlier that day. The screaming, flailing form on the screen bore little resemblance to the dignified and
poised Senator Morse with whom his constituents were familiar. Off camera, after everyone had come to
his or her wit's end, he had actually been put in restraints, though this was known only to himself, Lupe,
and the hospital staff. It had to be restraints because the guidelines from the Inkleozese forbade sedatives.
On hastily sought advice of counsel, no hospital was prepared to risk the wrath of the Inkleozese by
failure to follow the guidelines.
     Lupe stayed at the senator's side until he finally settled down, though it took awhile, and by evening,
he had stopped raving. He sent Lupe home to get the car, she had come with him in the ambulance, and
his clothing. Upon the arrival of both, he checked himself out of the hospital and stopped at a pay phone
on the way home to call McVane.
     Chad's cronies at the FBI had been keeping tabs on the senator for some time. The agents following
him had a directional microphone that could pick up, so the technician bragged, a gnat fart at half a mile,
and they had no trouble recording both sides of the conversation.
     Morse yelled, "Call the damned woman, McVane.”
     "She's not there, Senator. She agreed to testify before your committee on Monday, but we couldn't get
hold of you, so the predators have already picked her up.”
     "Testify? Picked her up? You mean they've kidnapped her? Where is she?"
     In the heat of the moment McVane had neglected to arrange contact with the predators, which he
admitted to, and the senator subsided into his car in a state of shock. Lupe drove him home while he
fumed and snorted and made threats both general and specific about what he would do to this one or that
one when this matter was over. On arrival home, he called his secretary and several staff members and
dictated a press release to be sent out immediately, charging the president and the intermediary with
complicity in the attack upon his body, which, he said, he intended to prove as soon as the intermediary
could be found.

                         SIX SOUTHERN SENATORS SEXUALLY ASSAULTED
                       ALL SIX MEN PREGNANT, ACCORDING TO PHYSICIANS.

           TWO HOSPITALIZED FOR HYSTERIA, POST TRAUMATIC STRESS SYNDROME

                      LDS ELDERS REQUIRE RESPECT FOR HUMAN LIFE ONLY

                                  UTAH SENATOR EXCOMMUNICATED
                                IMMORAL BEHAVIOR WITH ET ALLEGED
    "I was raped," he says, denying reports he was on drugs when admitted to hospital.
    "He was high as a kite, laughing like a lunatic," reported ER nurse Blanche Smith. "And he was
wearing tight jeans. Didn't some judge just recently rule you can't rape somebody wearing tight jeans?

               THIS ISN'T A BABY, SAYS TV PERSONALITY REQUESTING ABORTION

          INFANT ET IMPOSSIBLE TO REMOVE WITHOUT KILLING OVERWEIGHT HOST

                      INKLEOZESE THREATEN REPRISAL IF LARVAE INJURED

                  UNITED NATIONS SECURITY COUNCIL IN EMERGENCY SESSION

                       ARAB NATIONS DEMAND ACCESS TO INTERMEDIARY,
                            INSIST ON IMMUNITY FROM PREGNANCY

                       IMMEDIATE CURE DEMANDED FOR INFECTIOUS UGLY

Benita, bound—LOST WEEKEND
     Benita dreamed she was rocking in Mami's hammock, the one on the back portal of the old house,
where she and her brothers had sometimes slept during the summer. It was a soothing motion, though
subtly wrong, for her legs were rocking much more widely than her head. As though she'd gotten all
tangled up in the hammock and one end had come loose, leaving her dangling upright. She heard one of
her brothers moan, and she opened her eyes to locate him and tell him to be still, he was making her
seasick.
     The portal posts were gone. There was no roof. Only the moonlit sky above her, against treetops that
bent and swayed in a soft breeze, just as she did. She tried to move her arms and found she couldn't. She
was wrapped, not uncomfortably tightly, but tight enough that she couldn't move. She turned her head to
see Chad, head on his chest, and beyond him three other figures, long bundles hung in the treetops. And
beyond that, heavens, a dozen or more others, just hanging there. Like in the Hobbit. Spider food. Rock-a-
bye baby, she thought. Rocky-bye. Below her, in a moonlit clearing, stumpy trees wandered about among
squat, furry creatures, occasionally turning toward some vacancy and gesturing at it, as though there was
someone there.
     As, undoubtedly, there was. She remembered at once what had happened. She and Chad had been
about to leave, but the Wulivery had bashed in the front windows and grabbed them, and then something
had told them firmly to go to sleep. That had to have been a Fluiquosm, one of the vacancies below her in
the forest.
     She risked another look below. The Wulivery and the Xankatikitiki were busy doing something else
and were paying no attention to her. After a time, she realized what it was they were doing and hastily
averted her eyes. Evidently they'd stopped somewhere en route in order to hunt. Or maybe they'd just
taken something down out of the larder.
     Contorting herself, she managed to swing the cocoon until it bumped into Chad. He moaned softly,
but did not waken. The membrane that wrapped her was quite elastic. Though her hand was pressed
against her side, she could clench her fist, move her fingers, feel with her fingers . . . feel the sharply
pointed nail file she had dropped in the large flapped shirt pocket after she had filed down her broken nail.
Also in the pocket, yes, by all that was holy, the handgun Chad had given her when he walked in the door.
And the translator! She'd pocketed it along with the gun. She'd been all packed. Chad had left the car
down below, she was telling him she was ready . . . and that's when the windows fell in.
     Moving carefully, inch by inch, she bent her elbow and moved her hand up, over the pocket flap, then
fiddled with the flap, rolling it up under her hand so the hand could go down again, into the pocket. Grasp
the nail file. Bend the elbow again, bring the file out of the pocket, jab the membrane she was wrapped in.
Flexible. Like a rubber balloon. Not infinitely flexible, however, for it punctured very nicely on about the
fourth try. Another puncture just below the first one, then a few above and a few more below, working up
and down to make a dotted line, tear here, r-r-rip. Actually, it didn't rip, which was lucky, or she might
have fallen a considerable distance, but it did loosen. After ten minutes of careful effort, the wrapping was
loose enough that she could get the gun out with her left hand and pass it across her body to her right
hand. After thumbing off the safety, she put it in the right pocket. Chad had pointed out the safety, first
thing in the apartment, or she might not have remembered.
     The apartment. Lord, Sasquatch! He'd probably hidden under the bed, and hooray for him, if so. And
the alarm had gone off, so her absence wouldn't go unnoticed for long. Not that it would help anything,
since no one had a clue where she was, including herself, except that she was hanging in a maple tree. The
silhouette of the leaves against the moon was unmistakable. A large maple tree, just starting to shed its
leaves, somewhere in a forest which could be anywhere from Maine to Wisconsin, from Canada to
Virginia. Probably Virginia or Maryland. Why carry her farther than they needed to? The branch from
which she was hung was only a foot over her head, and another sizeable branch went off to her right, just
below shoulder level. After a few moments' rest, she decided the lower one of these was reachable. She
passed the file to her right hand and made an arm hole, somewhat easier this time since the membrane was
looser, and got her arm out and over the branch. No good. She needed her right hand to work with. She
contorted herself to spin the cocoon until she could get her left arm out and over the branch, pulling
herself halfway onto it. That was better. Now she could make more holes with her right hand, enough to
extricate one leg, an inch at a time, which immediately loosened the wrapper enough that the other leg
came out easily and there she was, heaving herself up to lie along the branch, the flaccid wrapper hanging
around her like the skin of a sucked grape.
     If one of them looked up, they'd see that. Better they didn't see that. Carefully, she gathered the
wrapper up onto the branch, stuffing it under her. From below, it shouldn't be evident at all. There'd be
one bundle missing, but among so many, maybe they wouldn't notice it.
     The branch beneath her was, however, somewhat narrower than her body, which could be noticeable
from below. She eased back toward the trunk of the tree, the branch thickening in that direction, until she
was totally hidden from below except for one eye and a bit of forehead resting in a fork of the branch to
keep watch on what happened down there. Now, if she could just figure out a way to get Chad awake and
moving, maybe they could escape . . .
     Carlos! She hadn't been thinking at all! The three hanging bundles on beyond Chad had to be her
family! Well, two of them, Carlos and Bert, plus the unknown girl. She rested her head on her hands,
fighting an insane desire to scream. No way she could get all five of them out and down this tree . . . no,
not this tree. The other three weren't even in this tree, they were hung from another tree. It was nearby,
but she was no damned flying squirrel!
     Chad, then. At least Chad. He had been armed, too, when they were taken. A shoulder holster, with
his jacket over it. Perhaps they'd paid no more attention to that than they had the gun in her pocket.
Thinking of which, she reached back along her body and carefully buttoned the pocket flap. The gun was
a small one. What had Chiddy and Vess said? You shoot a Xankatikitiki in the head. And you shoot a
Wulivery just below the tentacles, where the seven eye holes are. Or, shoot the breathing apparatus on
top, which would immobilize the creature and eventually kill it. And if you can locate a Fluiquosm, just
shoot it anywhere. Any wound of the flight organ pretty well disabled them.
     She crawled out on the branch once more, taking another fork that brought her alongside Chad's
cocoon. She reached out, pinched his cheek, slapped him lightly, whispered in his ear. No reaction. Either
he was unconscious or he'd been . . . whatever the Fluiquosm did to people. Convinced him he was in
paradise, maybe. Convinced him he was a baby in Mommy's womb. Maybe if she cut him some slack,
he'd suck his thumb. She put her head down again and fought tears. If Chad couldn't help, who the hell
could?
     Below her, the eerie sound of untranslated alien speech. She had the translator in her pocket, and she
knew it had been on in the stockroom because it had translated the speech of whatever had grabbed her.
Had it been damaged in transit? She fished it out of her pocket, holding it to her ear to hear it humming.
There were no other buttons, no other controls. What had Chiddy said to her . . . yell at it? Not damn
likely, here where she was a minute away from being sucked like a orange!
     She whispered, "Translate what you hear into English, very softly.”
     "Is this soft enough?" whispered the translator.
     "Very good," she said, fighting an urge to giggle hysterically.
     "The Wulivery is saying he sees no reason not to eat Chad now, or if not him, then the girl. The
Fluiquosm say they do not want to partake of Bert or Carlos, inasmuch as they both smoke and drink
much alcohol which makes the blood taste funny.
     "The Xankatikitiki don't mind eating Carlos or Bert, but they're not hungry right now, and besides,
they should leave everyone alone until after they have spoken to the humans again. They must not do
anything to endanger the pact they hope to make to hunt on this world, as this will give them authority
before the Confederation.”
     Benita put her head on her hands and considered. "Can you speak Fluiquosm?" she asked. "And
Wulivery?"
     "Of course," said the translator. "Right now one Fluiquosm says she wants to drink your blood
because she has smelled you, and you smell very sweet. Someone else has told her to wait until . . . until
they talk to someone named . . . M'van?"
     "McVane.”
     "Ah. Would you like me to summon the Pistach?"
     "Can you do that? Silently? Without the predators knowing?"
     "If you wish it. They are very far away, however, and they cannot travel as quickly on a planet as
they can in space.”
     "Please let them know immediately where we are and what's going on. Now what are they saying?"
     "The Wulivery assert their right to eat Chad or the girl now. They are hungry and see no reason to
wait.”
     "Oh, Lord," she sighed. What could she do? Obviously, something was needed by way of a diversion,
which she could do better from ground level.
     Easing back along the branch, she reached the trunk, the translator keeping up a steady murmur of
argument from the creatures below. There were plenty of branches on the back side of the trunk, and she
slithered from one to another, taking care not to make any sound. Luckily, she was wearing chinos and a
sweater and soft-soled shoes when the attack came. If one had to climb trees, at least it was better to be
dressed for it. The argument went on, and on, as she struggled silently downward, arriving finally at the
foot of the tree, where, realizing she'd been holding her breath, it took all her willpower not to gasp
audibly.
     Slow breaths. One, two, three. Again. One, two, three. The pressure in her head and chest eased.
     " 'Go ahead and eat him then,' says the Xankatikitiki. 'If you have so little foresight.'" The translator
chuckled to itself. "The Wulivery says the man is out of reach, it asks the Fluiquosm to bring him down
and the Fluiquosm says no.”
      Diversion, diversion, Benita thought desperately. Stab something with the nail file? Confuse them
with the translator? Shoot them? How about all three?
      She leaned from behind the tree to reconnoiter. The woods thinned opposite her, and beyond was a
moonlit meadow.
      "When you hear a loud bang," she whispered to the translator, "I want you to yell loudly, first in
Fluiquosm and then in Xankatikitiki. Yell, There it goes, out onto the meadow, get it, get it.' Okay?"
      Leaning from behind the tree, Benita sighted the pistol at the nearest Xankatikitiki’s head. It was
talking with another Xanka, just a foot to the right, so she shot twice, bang, right a notch, another bang.
She sagged back behind the tree.
      "Qyoxilizimak! Zixit izi. Shamma! Shamma!" yelled the translator. "Gromfrr growrrg glor,
Furrgrinnor! Furrgrinnor!"
      The creatures turned and made for the meadow, except for two Xankatikitiki, one of whom was still
and silent, the other barely moving.
      Now what? Benita asked herself. They'd come back. She'd better finish off the moving one. She
stepped out into the clearing, moving quickly toward the moving Xanka, gun in pocket, hand on gun. She
did not see the stooping form above her until the tentacles closed around her. She was lifted, hoisted, up,
up, turned upside down and then swallowed, glurgle, glurgle, glurgle, her way down the long throat oiled
by jets of stinking liquid, choking from the stench, dropped into a sac half-filled with stinking ooze.
      Gagging, she sagged against one side of the stomach and peered upward, catching a glimpse of light
among the tentacles. She thrust the gun up in trembling hands, held her breath and fired. Once, turn
slightly, twice. Turn slightly again, three times, then a fourth. She should have pierced the body in several
places, right up at the top. The walls of her prison trembled. High above her the tentacles lashed. Then,
slowly, slowly, the creature fell, changing from a smokestack to a lengthy culvert, down which Benita
began to crawl, sloshing, toward the roots of a tree, barely visible in the moonlight. Around her, the flesh
of the creature still shook, and a high keening moved up the scale toward inaudibility.
      She arrived at the dead, lax tentacles just as the predators came back from the meadow, talking loudly
among themselves. The translator was still giving her the gist of it, still in a whisper.
      "Odiferous Tentacle, Oh, Stinky, what's happened to you. Look, look, Stinky's down. Stinky's
leaking! Oh, Stinky emits death stenches! Alas, alas! Oh, Mrrgrowr is dead, see him lying there, dead and
gone, his strength gone, his proud head fallen low, oh, alas, alas.”
      "Do they all say alas?" murmured Benita.
      "I'm translating freely," admitted the machine. “I lack synonyms for alas. The Fluiquosm is asking if
it or they got away. The Xankatikitiki say they must depart immediately with their fallen comrades, the
burial rituals of their people demand it. The Wulivery say they must also depart, taking their commander
with them . . .”
      Benita very much wished to exit the commander. Her legs were beginning to burn, as though they
were being digested. The tentacle end lay amid a cluster of evergreens, however, so she took the chance
and crawled out beneath the low branches of the nearest. Behind her, the body of the dead Wulivery was
tugged into the clearing. There were bustling sounds.
      "Quolzikkaz closmmi wozzik.”
      "The Fluiquosm wonders how many creatures it took to kill three of their group, why they were not
seen, and how they got away," murmured the translator. "The Fluiquosm are discussing moving the prey
creatures to their own larder, after the Wulivery and the Xankatikitiki leave . . .”
      Benita started, gritted her teeth and began to move out of her hiding place. She still had a few shots
left. Maybe she could hit a Fluiquosm when it started to move one of the humans. It stood to reason she'd
be able to tell where it was from the way the packaged body was moved. . . .
     "Shhh," said a voice at her ear.
     Slowly, in total terror, she turned her head to confront the huge, compound eyes of ... an Inkleozese,
who spoke at some length, unintelligibly.
     "The Pistach are on their way," whispered the translator. "I strongly suggest that you stay here very
quietly while we conduct our business. Our being here makes the ensuing time an official matter. It will
be tiresome, time consuming, but do be still. They will not speak freely if they know you are listening.”
     "The others . . .” murmured Benita, gesturing.
     "They will not be harmed, and they will not move on their own. Only you were given the ability to
shake off the Fluiquosm mindfog. Immunity to common types of predation is a usual gift to give an
intermediary. We do not like persons of any planet interfering with official intermediaries.” The
Inkleozese went up the trunk and out along a branch, where it disappeared among the leaves.
     Like a great, big wasp, Benita thought to herself. A huge wasp, going about its business. Except it
had more than six legs. However many legs, its presence was reassuring, and the expectation of Chiddy
and Vess arriving was even more so. And what was that about who speaking freely? The predators? Who
cared if they spoke freely!
     In the clearing, a fire had been built, and the Wulivery, some half dozen of them, were gathered
around their fallen leader, while a dozen or so Xankatikitiki were busy with their slain comrades.
     The night was chilly, and she recalled that both the Wulivery and Xankatikitiki had high body
temperatures. No doubt they felt the cold, but the Fluiquosm probably did not.
     Abruptly, the fire leapt up, a bright light illuminated the clearing, and Chiddy's voice, tight with nary,
said in impeccable English, "You will all have the courtesy to stay precisely where you are.” His words
were followed by loud, simultaneous translations.
     There were exclamations of surprise and annoyance. There was movement among the trees, quickly
stopped, and several Inkleozese moved into the clearing tugging nets that were full of something invisible.
These were pegged down with considerable dispatch under Chiddy's watchful eyes, though they
continued to move restlessly as Chiddy spoke angrily.
     "Stinky seems to have met with difficulty, and so has 'Growr. Well, they have played games with
your membership in the Confederation for many years. The last time you pulled something like this your
people paid a monstrous fine. That alone should have been enough to dissuade you from repeating your
behavior.”
     "Oh, end talk, Pistach," said a voice from one of the nets. "This planet is incredibly rich! There's
enough here for all of us. You take the western half of it and civilize it. We'll take Asia and Africa and eat
them. And the Inkleozese can monitor Europe to their souls' content. We won't even stumble over one
another!"
     "That may be true," said Chiddy. "But we have rules against involving ourselves in adversarial or
factional relationships on new planets. You're working with a rebel force against the legitimate
government of this nation.”
     "You're working with a reactionary element against the best interest of the people of this planet,"
charged one of the Wulivery. "And we're prepared to bring it before the Confederation court! These
people don't need civilizing! They need weeding out! They need cutting down, losing their flab! Our
entire population could dine four meals a day for a century before humans would even notice a drop in
their population density!"
     "That's true, but irrelevant," said Chiddy, wrathfully. "The humans must come to grips with their own
population problem.”
     "Just like they come to grips with their own drug problem?" cried Odiferous Tentacle. "You're very
selective which problems you will solve and which you won't.”
     "We only solve the ones that affect Neighborliness, and you very well known it," snapped Chiddy.
"We solve situations that may lead to general war, situations that cause continuing discontent among
populations. In our opinion, drugs do that, and weapons do that and repressions do that. Such things are
powderkegs, just waiting to explode! Men with breeding madness versus women. Catholic Ireland versus
the northern Protestants! Israel versus the Palestinians! Iraq or the Turks versus the Kurds! Serbia, what's
left of it, versus the Universe! Ridiculous. These can be handled with a few suspensions, a few
vanishments, without ending in a war that will kill off half the world's population!"
     "Enough," said one of the Inkleozese. "We are here to monitor this situation. We have already found
the three predatory races to be in contempt of the regulations concerning hunting rights on assisted
planets. We find the predatory races were properly informed of the Pistach initiative on Earth. We find the
Xankatikitiki, the Fluiquosm, the Wulivery have no right to be here.”
     "We raise a point of procedure," cried a voice from an empty net.
     "State your point," answered the Inkleozese.
     "Section 7 A of the book of procedures establishes that when an initiative is begun on a false premise,
that the initiative may be cancelled when the premise is corrected.”
     "What false premise?" cried Chiddy.
     "You say that Neighborliness will be best assured by eliminating drugs and weapons and by quieting
repressions. We, the predators, say that Neighborliness will be best assured when the population of this
planet is reduced by at least half and that the best way to do this is to increase drugs and weapons,
increase warlike situations, and let the predators have freedom to hunt here as they will.”
     Hidden behind her tree, Benita shuddered. The world had been repeatedly swept by war and famine
and plague when the population had been a quarter of what it was now! Less than a hundred years ago.
Sparse population didn't equal peace. It never had. All it meant were fewer casualties.
     The agitated net spoke again: "I will quote our Pistach friend who said, on Earthian TV, that it had
read in a gardening book that one saved much labor by learning to love weeds. . . .”
     "Out of context," cried Vess. "We said allow people to kill themselves if they will. We said nothing
about doing the killing for them! We find no fault with suicide! People who risk their own lives or who do
not want to live should not be rescued or required to live. We find great fault with murder!"
     Three of the Inkleozese put their heads together, their antennas touching. One of them turned to the
predators, saying, "You have legitimate points of argument. However, once planetary assistance has
begun, points of procedure must be argued before the Council, not on the planet in question. Research
into the history of this planet must be done. We will do so, and we will notify you of the hearing. In the
meantime, you will return to your ships. You will enter into no further agreements with humans on this
planet. The Pistach will continue their efforts for the time being, though those efforts may be set aside if
your appeal is granted.”
     There were howls, chitterings, yips and stinks of annoyance, but within a short time the predators had
departed, along with their dead comrades. Then the Inkleozese set about lowering the captives from the
trees and stripping off the membrane wrappers. At this point, Chiddy came to Benita.
     "Are you all right, dearest Benita?" He morphed into his favorite male human form, one she had
become accustomed to, a rather professorial or perhaps wizardly form with graying hair and far-seeing
eyes. "Oh, we so deeply regret not being there when these . . . naughty people took you away. There is
your friend, Chad. The Inkleozese are helping him, now. It is necessary they work on him a little, wiping
out the mind picture put in his head by the Fluiquosm.”
     "My son ought to be among those prisoners," she murmured. "And the girl who was taken at the same
time. And Bert.”
     "What is best to do with them?" Chiddy asked. "We can return them near the place they were taken
from. Perhaps that would save much trouble?"
     "It would save trouble. I think. Only . . . didn't the cabal ask that they be kidnapped? This has all
happened in such a rush. It's hard to think. It's still night, but it's Monday, isn't it? I'm supposed to appear
before a committee this morning? And . . . Morse? He believes he still has Bert and Carlos and Angelica,
even though it wasn't really Angelica? Maybe we shouldn't let him know what's happened here tonight.
Maybe we should let him think he still has them.”
     "For what reason?"
     "I don't know. Just that telling the truth to men like that never does any good. They always deal from
a stacked deck.”
     "Which is cheating?"
     "Yes. And the only way to beat a cheater is to cheat better," she said.
     The nearest Inkleozese said, "We will take these people, your son and his father and the female, and
we will keep them for a time, while you decide what should be done with them. The others, we will return
to the places they were taken from.”
     "Perhaps that's best," agreed Chiddy. "What is important now is to get you and Chad back to your
homes. It is almost dawn.”
     One thing about Inkleozese, Benita soon understood, was their extreme efficiency. Everything
happened with such dispatch that she found it difficult to remember how, exactly, she'd gotten home.
She'd come in a ship, a very small one, and it had landed outside the back door, and they had let her in
even though she hadn't had her keys with her. It was just as she had left it, except that the broken glass
had been swept up, the broken windows had been boarded up, and Sasquatch was missing. A howl that
came up the firewell from the stockroom told Benita he wasn't far away. She went into the bathroom and
looked at herself in the mirror. A mess. She took off her trousers and looked at her legs. Her knees and
lower legs were blistered where they'd been in contact with Stinky as she crawled out.
     She stripped off the rest of her clothes, took a quick, hot shower, and put on one of her long sleep-
tees. As she came out the bathroom door she heard an "Ahem" from the doorway.
     Chiddy. He was holding out a small bottle. "Tonic," he said. "To make you feel you have slept well
and are unstressed and confident. We sent some home with Chad, as well.”
     "Is it a drug?" she asked.
     He frowned. "You mean, is it addictive? No. Unless you are addicted to staying up all night every
night and being frightened out of your wits all the time. Then, I suppose, one might come to rely on it.”
     She laughed, the laughter becoming almost hysterical, until she found herself sitting on the bed,
Chiddy holding a cold washcloth to her head. "Did you think they would eat you?" he asked. . "Chiddy,
they did eat me! Or, one of them did. I was inside a Wulivery. My legs, look at them, they're all red and
blistered and they burn like fury . . .”
     He growled something and disappeared, returning in a moment with another bottle containing a lotion
that he spread upon the reddened skin. The relief from pain was immediate. "Twice each day," he
muttered angrily, recapping the bottle and setting it beside her. "The Inkleozese didn't tell me. How did
you get out?"
     "I killed it," she said. "And two Xankatikitiki, as well.”
     "You killed them! Three of them. Remarkable.”
     "Oh, yeah. I'm a walking advertisement for the NRA. Where did the Inkleozese take Bert and the
kids?"
     He shrugged. "Somewhere nearby. They will not suffer, any of them, and Vess and I agree it is best
for the cabal not to know what has happened. In a few hours, you must appear before Senator Morse's
committee.”
    "That's right," she sighed.
    He stared at her for a time, nodding. "Chad will come get you. Until near the time, perhaps you
should sleep.”
    "If I can, sure.”
    "Drink the tonic," he said. "You'll find you can.”

Benita—MONDAY
     By eight o'clock on Monday morning, Benita felt considerably better. Chiddy's tonic had calmed her
down, brightened her eyes, and allowed her to convince herself, as Chiddy suggested, that she was
involved in an interesting episode in human history rather than the debacle of the millennium. Shortly
after eight, Chad called to say she was To appear before Morse's committee in closed session.
     "I don't like that closed session bit.”
     "Neither do I. We'll see what we can do when we get there.”
     Chad drove her to the Capitol, where they went down a wide hallway without attracting the least
attention. In the committee room, Senator Morse was already seated, glaring at the far end of the table
with its empty chair, the one Benita was presumably to occupy. When he looked up and saw her, he
started, very much as though her presence was unexpected.
     Chad caught the reaction and pressed her arm. Benita murmured, "He thought I wouldn't show up.
Now isn't that interesting.”
     To either side of the table committee members fumbled papers and murmured to one another,
glancing with equal curiosity first at Benita and Chad and then at Morse. Perhaps, Benita thought, they
had assumed she would have two heads. Or tentacles. Perhaps they had assumed a pregnant Morse would
not appear. Whatever their assumptions, here she was, and here he was, and the one thing that really
bothered her was that there were no neutral outside observers in the room. She didn't trust Morse and
much preferred that he do nothing to her or with her in private.
     "Who are you?" Morse demanded of Chad.
     "I'm the intermediary's bodyguard, Senator. I'm an FBI agent, and I'll stay with her during the
hearing.”
     "You will not," said Morse. 'This is a private hearing.”
     Benita felt herself flushing. It was all too, too reminiscent of a former occasion. "I agreed to speak to
this committee voluntarily," she said. "However, I will not do so unless Agent Riley is here.”
     "My dear lady, you will be held in contempt of Congress if you do not do precisely what we order,"
sneered Morse.
     She started to speak, hushing when Chad put his hand on her arm. "Senator, the envoys are not
delighted at your demanding the intermediary to be here, and though we do not know how they might
react to such an action on your part, we have seen what actions they are capable of. Our agency, at least,
feels it is wiser to be cautious.”
     One of Morse's committee members leaned over and whispered in Morse's ear, his hand over the
microphone. Morse's nostrils flared and his mouth twisted unattractively.
     Benita distinctly heard the colleague say, "By, you're making an ass of yourself. We don't want to rub
the envoys the wrong way and this hearing is all on the record, anyhow.”
     While Morse, flushing, pretended to look at the papers before him, Benita sat down, her feet together
in ladylike fashion, her hands folded in her lap.
     The colleague asked her to state her name.
     "Your committee knows who I really am," she said. "You were told by Congressman Alvarez. The
envoys prefer that my name not be widely used. To protect my privacy and that of my family, and for the
purposes of this hearing, I am Jane Doe.”
     "For the purposes of this hearing," snarled Morse, "you are whoever you are. Give us your name.”
     "Since this intermediary business has been dumped on me, Senator, and since my family knows
nothing about it, it would be polite of the committee to grant my wish for anonymity.”
     Morse spluttered and boomed, "It will be necessary to question your family in order to ascertain that
you are who and what you say you are.”
     Benita glared at him, feeling her mind slip a gear. "That is utterly specious, Senator. The FBI has
already ascertained that I am who I say I am. Why don't you ask your questions, and if you think some
particular question isn't answered honestly, we can talk about a polygraph. My intention is to tell the truth,
and since I have not been consulted about any decisions the envoys have made or any activity they have
engaged in or thought of engaging in, I have no reason whatsoever to lie about it.”
     Benita had read Mclntyre's FrankenStarr when it first came out, so she wasn't totally unprepared for
the deep-water fishing expedition Morse conducted. Where had she met the aliens? What had they looked
like to her? What had she done, where had she gone? When had she met with the president?
     "The day after I delivered the cube to Congressman Alvarez.”
     "Who else was at that meeting?"
     "General Wallace.”
     "Was that the only time you met with the president?"
     "That was the only time I have seen the, president in person," Benita answered. "Agent Riley was
appointed my go-between to the White House, and I have communicated through him.”
     Her answers obviously displeased Morse. "Aside from that dinner you attended, who have you
spoken to about the aliens?"
     "The only people I have spoken to about the aliens are Representative Alvarez and General Wallace,
and…" she meant to continue with the SOS and the FL, but he interrupted.
     "And the president?"
     "No, I didn't speak to him about them even when I saw him. The president simply thanked me for my
efforts because by that time he'd already seen the envoys for himself.”
     "What have you done since that time?" asked someone else.
     "Once the FBI was involved, I figured the matter was out of my hands. Since then, all I've done is
transmit messages from the Pistach to Mr. Riley, who transmits them to whoever needs to know.”
     "Why was the FBI involved in the first place?" Morse snarled, with a glare at Chad.
     Benita pursed her lips, considering. "To do just what you said you wanted to do, Senator. The White
House and the Justice Department felt it was wise to check me out and be sure I am who I say I am, to be
sure my story is true.”
     Somebody snapped at Chad, "Is that the case?"
     Chad said it was.
     At this juncture, Senator Morse snarled at Benita, "This all sounds very innocent, but you and I both
know that you and the president and others have conspired to let these predators take over our country,
haven't you?"
     That came so far from left field that her jaw dropped and the committee members hastily covered
microphones and began muttering to one another. While they squabbled lengthily, she decided upon a
response, beginning by saying stiffly:
     "I'm not aware they're taking over the country, sir. If so, I certainly didn't plan it. I can't speak for the
Pistach, though my opinion is they didn't plan it either. They were extremely upset when they learned the
predators were here, and they've already given them notice to leave the planet.”
     She paused, looked thoughtful, shook her head and said, barely audibly, "No, I shouldn't say . . .”
     "Say what?" he pounced. "What were you going to say?"
     She bit her lip, hesitated, breathed rapidly to make herself flush. "I'm not sure it's relevant, Senator.”
     He almost screamed at her. "I'll be the judge of that! Answer the question.”
     She said, haltingly, as if she hadn't planned it down to every pause and sigh: "I started to say that it ...
ah ... probably wasn't the envoys or the president who encouraged the predators.” Sigh. "It's probable that
the predators have sought or even made an agreement with some member or members of the U.S.
Congress.” Sigh, again, look down, pick at the seam of her skirt, shake her head very slightly. "They do
want hunting privileges on Earth very badly.”
     Morse turned absolutely white.
     "Hunt what?" cried one of the members.
     "Why, people," she said, looking up innocently. "There are more of us here than anything else.”
     And at that point the committee room exploded, some yelling, some looking serious, some merely
staring angrily at Morse while others focused their suspicion on Benita. There were only men on this
committee, loud ones, and Benita put her hands over her ears. Chad leaned over to her and asked her if
she wanted to take a break while they ranted at one another. She nodded. He whispered to one of the
members, and they went out, Benita to the ladies' room, Chad to a secluded corner of the corridor where
he could use his phone. When Benita opened the door to come out, she saw reporters and cameramen in
the hallway. She wasn't ready to talk to them yet. They didn't see her, and when she peeked out a bit later,
they had gone.
     "They'll be downstairs when we're finished," Chad said, looking into her eyes with frank curiosity.
"Did you have that bombshell all ready to drop on him?"
     "Sort of," she admitted, flushing. "I was angry at being harassed, first off, and when I got here I was
even angrier at being accused of things, and I thought, well, that works both ways. Why not be the accuser
instead of the accused? That contempt of Congress bit just made me furious, Chad. Just like the judge in
Albuquerque. Let Morse be dropped in the you-know-what for a change.”
     They went back to the committee room. Senator Morse was pale, his lips pinched, his jaw seeming
set in cement, but he managed to speak without yelling.
     "Why did you say said the predators had already made contact with members of Congress?"
     She gave him her innocent look. "I said it was probable, Senator, because the Pistach told me that's
the predators' usual mode of action. If they can get some level of government or even some individual
associated with the government to make an agreement with them, like a senator or a representative or
some member of the staff of a legislator, even if some other level of government or other individuals
would oppose such an agreement, the matter then has to be settled in the Confederation courts, and it can
take a very long time to sort out. Centuries, even. During which the predators go on hunting. The Pistach
told me the predators always record such understandings . . .”
     Morse turned, if possible, even paler.
     ". . . so they have them for evidence in Confederation courts.”
     A thoughtful-looking man at the end of the table asked, "Do you, personally, know anyone who
might be involved with the predators?"
     "I can't swear to it," she said. "But I think General McVane may be involved, along with a man
named Dink Dinklemier, a man named Prentice Arthur, and a man named Briess. The man named Arthur
approached my husband and the man named Briess evidently threatened my son. I also received an
anonymous phone call early this morning threatening to hurt my family if I didn't turn myself over to the
person calling. I told the voice on the phone that I couldn't because I'd agreed to appear before this
committee.”
      The place blew up again. The name Dinklemier led them straight to Morse, and he became the
immediate focus of their shouted questions. Someone, presumably the vice chairman, grabbed the gavel
out of his hand and declared a thirty-minute recess. Chad and Benita left, Chad remarking to the man at
the door that they would be in the House gallery. They sat there, watching Congress at work, Benita
remarking that on that particular day, it was not exciting.
      "I'm not sure it ever is," Chad admitted. "Why did you clue them in on the cabal?"
      "Morse knew where I was because Dink knew where I was from the predators. What he was really
after was a private inquiry, just him and me, with nobody monitoring it, so he could extort information or
misinformation by threatening me or my family.” She recalled Morse's face and added, "Or by other
means.”
      "What's his motive?"
      "Oh, hell, Chad, I don't know! Maybe he actually believes the president invited the Pistach here, or
the predators. Maybe the rest of the cabal didn't tell him they were talking to the predators, so he believes
the accusation he just made. Maybe he thinks he can make a name for himself by interrogating the
envoys, and he thinks he can get at them through me. Maybe he's just pulling a McCarthy, telling big lies
and getting his name in the newspapers. What's your best guess?"
      Chad frowned. "It's likely he's known about the predators all along. It's probable he doesn't care
whether the information he might get out of you is true or not so long as it includes something he can use.
He's part of a small group who would rather get the president than go to heaven. It's deeply personal, it's
unabashed hatred, and he keeps yanking at the strings, trying to find something that will come unraveled.
It's like the independent prosecutor business. If you don't have a case, just unlimber your fishing poles and
go at it until you catch something you can blow up into a case, no matter how irrelevant it is.”
      She watched him thinking, each separate thought crossing his face like a cloud shadow, darkening
and lightening, the way she had seen them do over the canyon lands, revealing, concealing. She wanted to
touch his face, and the thought made her bite her lip and clench her hands. He was a married man. With
young sons. He was not available. Nor was she. Nonetheless, though the urge had been a very modest
one, it was the first honest-to-God even remotely sexual urge she'd had in ... a very long time!
      She switched her mind to another subject. "There have to be a few honest men on that committee
who know we appeared voluntarily and won't let him get away with murder," she murmured.
      "You mean literal murder? You think he would kill you?" "If he wanted to get rid of me and could do
it without getting caught. He can still get me arrested on some pretext or other, like that contempt of
Congress business. And once I'm in custody, something might happen to me. I'm taking Chiddy's word
that I don't have to worry about Bert or Carlos and the girl.”
      "And you've made it less likely for Morse to take action by implicating a committee staff member.”
      "I hope I did," she murmured. "Give them all something else to chew on. I was careful to say I
couldn't swear to it, so they can't get me on perjury.”
      "Remind me never to play cards with you," he said.
      "I was worried that Morse might talk about the Inkleozese," she murmured. "That really was a
conspiracy, of sorts, between the Pistach and the Inkleozese themselves, but Morse is pretending it never
happened.”
      "Right. If he acknowledges they impregnated him, someone may commiserate with him, or grin at
him, or laugh behind his back, and he couldn't take that.”
      "He's going to have to deal with it sooner or later.”
      "Maybe denial is the only way he can function at all," said Chad. "The whole business has to be
pretty traumatic.” He got up. "We'd better go back and see if they're continuing or recessing.”
     They were continuing. Morse was gone, the vice chairman of the committee had taken over, and he
did want to know about the Inkleozese.
     "I saw them on TV," Benita said. "When everyone else did. Also, the envoys told me about them.
Evidently their specialty is to serve as monitors and observers for the Confederation.”
     "Are they female?" the vice chairman wanted to know. "And if so, why were only females sent
here?"
     Three members of the committee leaned forward when he asked the question, focused intently on
Benita. She said, "The envoys said all the diplomatic and professional Inkleozese are female. Most of
their race's artists and craftsmen are male, however. Males and females in their race have different skills.
The females work better with persons and the males with things.”
     "So they say," snorted a burly committee member.
     "Well, it's possible the envoys are prejudiced," she granted. "Or the Inkleozese themselves. For
generations, our national legislature was made up of men only, most of whom thought women were
brainless. Some of them still think so.”
     "But the Pistach envoys are male?" the same man asked intently.
     "No, sir. They are not. They are non-reproductive members of their race, which has five or six
different types or genders in it, like ants, or bees.”
     "Then they're gay!"
     "Sir, a worker bee is not gay. It is simply non-sexual.”
     "Worker bees are females," asserted a man at the end of the table. "I raise bees, I know.”
     "Worker bees aren't lesbians, and Pistach aren't gay. They're non-sexual.”
     They went on, not for long. Several men on the committee seemed to be convinced that God could
imagine no more than two sexes, that the devil had come up with a third, that every being in the universe
had to be one of those three, and therefore Vess and Chiddy had to be gay. Finally they started asking
questions about the Pistach home world and the Pistach themselves, questions that could equally well
have been asked about Sodom and Gomorrah. She had to tell them she didn't know the answers.
     "They don't talk about their home world a great deal. They mention it from time to time, but I've
never gained a clear idea of their world and how it works. Actually, I have a clearer picture of the predator
worlds than I do the Pistach, because the envoys talk more about the predators.”
     The committeemen looked at each other, with no idea what else they might ask her. After a spate of
whispering, they excused her and Chad escorted her downstairs where he had asked the aggravation of
reporters to wait.
     "The senators seem to be stuck on the idea the Pistach are gay, which they're not," she said to the
waiting microphones. "Senator Morse seems to be stuck with the idea that I'm part of some conspiracy,
which I'm not. The committee became very upset when I told them the predators might have made a side
agreement with someone associated with their committee.”
     "Agreement for what?" called a man from the back of the group.
     "A formal agreement to hunt people here on Earth," she said in her most innocent voice. "They could
just go on poaching, but they really want a formal agreement for their own legal protection at the
Confederation level.”
     She answered shouted questions for about ten minutes, then Chad got her away with the help of six
men in suits who barricaded her from the reporters as they got her out a back door. Then they went to the
White House where she was sneaked up the back stairs into the family quarters where the president and
First Lady were waiting for them.
     "Well," said the president to Benita. "So much for anonymity, Benita.”
     "And so much for calming the committee down," said the First Lady, shaking her head. "A couple of
our party are on the committee. They told us it was quite a show.”
     Benita said, "Keeping me anonymous was a lost cause from the beginning, Mr. President, ma'am. I
got to the point I wasn't interested in calming them down.”
     "Chad says you've had some personal experience with the predators," murmured the FL.
     "Not one I'd care to repeat, ma'am.”
     Chad took a chair by the window. Benita was gestured to the chair opposite the president, who leaned
forward, fixing his eyes on hers.
     "Benita, we're in trouble here, and we need your help.”
     She folded her hands in her lap as he went on:
     "We have assumed the Pistach are beneficent. They've told us so, the things they've done for us have
measurably helped without harming anyone. We would prefer to believe them, and we've gone along with
them when they told us the predators are a separate people, races that eat other intelligent life and who do
not, therefore, eat Republicans. Or newsmen.”
     She laughed dutifully. He was trying to be funny and charming, but his eyes were troubled as he went
on.
     "If, however, I am coldly rational as my aides suggest is necessary, I have to admit there could be
another explanation for what's happening. All these ET’s could be one people who are capable of taking
different shapes in order to fool us.”
     "It doesn't sound impossible," Benita said. She didn't believe it, but it wasn't impossible.
     "All right. Then let's suppose for a moment they are all one people, and they want to invade Earth and
prey on our population. How would they do that?"
     She thought for a moment. "They might send envoys to offer us candy and chuck us under the chin
and say kootchie-coo.”
     He actually smiled, though only a little. "They might, yes. Then they could move in and start hunting
us while keeping us pacified by telling us the predators are really a different set of people and so on and
so on.”
     "And while this is going on," said the First Lady, "still more of these creatures pick up some of our
congressmen and political columnists and impregnate them with what we are told are infant members of
their race. The impregnation could just as well be some kind of disease or parasite that will turn us into
passive livestock.”
     "And they're clever," remarked Chad. "They pick only members of the opposition political party so
that the administration would be less inclined to object.”
     The president nodded. "And, by the time we work ourselves around to doing something about it, they
have us whipped.”
     He sat back and stared at her, switching his glance to Chad, who said, "You think Chiddy and Vess
are a Trojan horse?"
     "Or you think I am?" Benita asked, hearing her voice tremble.
     The president shook his head. "You're not a Trojan horse knowingly, Benita. I don't believe for a
minute that you could be. But . . . let's say that scenario is correct. What kind of woman would the envoys
look for? Someone trusting. Someone . . . ah, patient . . .”
     "Long suffering," said the FL pointedly and a little indignantly. "Someone who'd put up with a lot
before she got really angry, if ever. Someone who'd go along with the way things were happening,
without having hysterics or throwing a fit . . .”
     "All the time telling herself it couldn't be true," Benita finished for her, flushing an angry red. "And
you really think I'm that kind of person?"
     "You've showed endless patience and forbearance in the past," she said. "Although, from what you
did today, that may no longer be true. Be that as it may, we've never had a satisfactory answer to the
question, why you? Why not General Wallace? Why not the president himself, or, if he's too surrounded
by Secret Service people, then why not the Chief Justice or the Speaker of the House?"
     "Because those particular people are all men," Benita said angrily. "And the Pistach didn't want a
man. They were making a particular point when they chose me, an unknown, because any woman who's
known for anything will already have enemies. The minute a woman, including the president's wife, tries
to do something significant, even if it's for the good of the citizenry, everybody puts her down as being a
woman who doesn't know her place. People love their heroes and heroines, but they love them in their
assigned roles. Move outside those roles, and the public loves to make them stumble.”
     The president frowned. "I had hoped we had grown more tolerant and understanding than that.”
     Benita shook her head. "We like to think people are tolerant and understanding, but mostly we aren't,
and there are a lot of men who think of women as a kind of speaking livestock.”
     The FL said, "So the Pistach picked you because . . . ?"
     "Because nobody knows me, or anything about me. I've done one really stupid thing in my life, and
that was to marry the wrong man. Get past that and I've had an utterly unremarkable and very . . chaste
kind of life. Never used drugs, never smoked. My drinking is limited to an occasional beer in the
summertime, or a glass of wine with Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. I've never been able to afford
dissipation. I haven't had the time or the money to support controversial causes. The same goes for love
affairs. The only men I've been at all close to over the years are gay, and they were my bosses. Believe
me, McVane has known who I am for weeks, and if there were anything in my past to stir a scandal, it
would be on the front pages by now, like a Jackson Pollock painting, all squirt and dribble! And if
McVane had information he could use, then Morse would have it. There are no issues in my past for me
to get past except that I'm a woman.”
     "I agree with you," agreed the FL. "I've been trying to explain to my husband, that your being a
woman is really what sticks in their craw.”
     "All the people I talk to think the envoys are male," said the president, sitting back and frowning.
"Every domestic politico I talk to, every foreign diplomat who calls me, all of them, every damned one
says 'him' when he refers to an envoy.”
     "They aren't male," Benita said, turning to the FL. "That's why they did that Indian woman business
at dinner.”
     "But with you," she said, "what do they appear as?"
     They appeared as different things, but she had to admit, Chiddy took his human male form more
often than not. She said as much, and the president and FL looked at one another meaningfully.
     "What?" she demanded.
     "People say that you probably react to them as a woman would to a man. That your relationship with
them is subtly different than it would be if they were female, or sexless.”
     "People?"
     He looked uncomfortable. The FL said, "Profilers. Think people. Analysts. FBI.”
     "Chad's been spying on me?" she said, glaring at him.
     "No," he said abruptly.
     The FL said, "He refused to spy on you. He has only passed on what you've said about the Pistach.
The people over at the FBI who attempt to make…"
     "A sow's ear out of a silk purse," Benita interrupted angrily. "They're trying to imply something
sexual?"
     The president leaned back in his chair. "Quite frankly, I don't think they know what they're trying to
imply. They simply have a situation they don't understand, one that won't fit any pattern they're
accustomed to, and they can't help me with the current problem!
     "We need . . . we're going to have to have something more than just the envoys' word that they're
beneficent. You told Chad the Pistach have gone home at least once during their visit here. That means
either that home is very close, which we don't believe, or that they have a method of travel . . .”
     "Polarized space," she said.
     All three of them looked at her in confusion.
     "Chiddy told me about it," she said, trying to remember what he'd said. "Space is full of these little
tiny thingies, Chiddy calls them umquah, all spread out, evenly distributed, like layers of marbles in a
tray, only marbles would have little spaces among them, and the umquah shape themselves to fill all the
spaces, and they're infinitely small. All together, they fill the universe, and they repel matter and energy,
joining together to squeeze matter or energy out. Chiddy said I should think of it as though gravity wasn't
an attractive force but a repulsive force. It's as though matter doesn't attract other matter, it simply gets
squeezed together by the umquah, and the more matter there is in one place, the more umquah are
displaced to do the squeezing, so they can squeeze harder. When they squeeze out clumps of matter, they
become compressed and curved around it, and they're always trying to straighten out and spread out
evenly.
     "When an umquah gets touched by a photon, say, it and its neighbors squeeze it out, so it gets passed
along. Each umquah touches more than one other, of course, so whenever one squeezes something out, it
can start up a wave form. Sometimes it just squeezes around and around, in a tiny circle, sometimes it
squeezes things across the universe.”
     "I see," said the president.
     "I doubt it," she said. "Because I don't, and neither does Chiddy. He says it's impossible to explain
without the math, and he doesn't do that kind of math.”
     "And you know Chiddy was telling you the truth?"
     "No. Of course not, though I can't think why he would lie about it. It's possible they don't know what
they're talking about. It's possible I'm not quoting them correctly. I'm not a scientist and neither are they.
They're diplomats. Foreign Service types. Maybe Chiddy just made it up when I asked how they travel so
quickly.”
     "String physics?" murmured the FL.
     Benita nodded. "Chiddy did mention string physics. He said it's a move in the right direction, because
the strings are just lined up, or maybe it was curled up umquah. Ai is very pleased with our progress.”
     "You are pleased?" asked the First Lady, puzzled.
     "Ai," Benita said. "Ay-eye pronounced Ah-ee. See, that's what I mean about their gender. It's a
neutral pronoun. Chiddy and Vess are athyci, fourth caste, and their pronouns are ai, ais, and aisos . . .”
     "Benita," interrupted the president, rubbing his forehead wearily. "Would you be willing to do
something for us?"
     "If I can," she said, suddenly embarrassed at the way she'd been going on and on.
     "All my instincts say these people are good people. They have done wonders for us. Drugs, terrorism,
the inhumane treatment of women, all being solved.”
     The FL said, "Forced marriage of young girls has stopped. Selling young women into the sex trade
has stopped. Genital mutilation has stopped. The last several days we've been getting reports that some
people who try to drive cars are unable to do so. The cars won't start unless the person in question has
knowledge equivalent to a GED. It affects all age groups. It's amazing.”
     The president nodded. "All this . . . it's so valuable to us. The dream of peace. The dream of progress
without conflict. We feel, that is, the First Lady and I feel, that if things go on as they are for a while, say
a few years, we'll have a breakthrough of expectations.
     If we did a happiness index here in the U.S., people would be less worried and more contented than
they've ever been. You'd think every politician in the country would rejoice, but they claim it's all a hoax,
that the real motives behind it are nefarious, and I can't prove they're wrong! We know what they can do,
but we know nothing about them as people. Until we know something about them as people, we can't
answer the charges that our opponents make against them.”
     He stopped, leaned forward and took Benita's hand. "Will you ask them to show you their world?"
     "Ask them to take me to Pistach-home?" she said, astonished.
     "Yes. Ask them if they will. The FBI will provide some small recording devices to take with you,
sealed, and when you get back, you can give these recordings to the committees in Congress that are
kicking up the worst of it, so it won't be your word alone. We can publicize your findings in the media.
Maybe then, they'll quit playing games and let us get on with . . . with . . . Excuse me.” He got up hastily
and left the room.
     The FL got up and went to the window, murmuring, "He thinks the arrival of the Pistach is the most
exciting event in the history of mankind, but his own advisors are telling him he's being played for a fool,
he ought to order a full-scale mobilization. Congress is like a dozen armed camps, all fighting each other,
one side blaming another for de-funding NASA just when we need it. American Jewry is furious because
of Jerusalem. Some conservative Islamic Americans are furious because of Infectious Ugly. Evidently the
ugly-plague has started here, too, among immigrants from Afghanistan and Pakistan and even India. My
husband ... he genuinely likes people. He has a warm and trusting nature toward people, and he wants to
trust the envoys, but his own people are making it impossible.”
     "You want me to ask this favor of Chiddy and Vess?"
     "Yes. Please. You shouldn't go alone, though. There are idiots over there on the hill who would
probably listen to a man where they wouldn't listen to you.”
     "Chad could go," Benita said. "We get along well together.”
     "But not too well," the FL cautioned, giving Benita and Chad a searching look.
     "No, ma'am," he responded in an angry tone.
     Benita said, "You could always have the CIA design me a chastity belt before I leave, if that's
important. Or is my sex life a domestic matter for the FBI?"
     "Don't be angry, either of you. You know what we're up against. We've had more than one
commentator accuse the president of carrying on with Benita!"
     "I've never been alone with him, ma'am.”
     "Oh, I know that! He's careful these days not to be alone with anyone, regardless of what sex they
are. He has a chaperon around when he plays with the dog!"
     Benita smiled dutifully, looked at her shoes, then at the ceiling, finding no help either place. She
sighed. "I'll do what I can. Really.”
     She and Chad talked about it on the way home, both of them were in the backseat, behind dark-tinted
windows, with someone else doing the driving. Now that the news people had seen her in Chad's
company, he was as much fair game as she was. •
     Halfway home, she started crying. She was too much at the center of things. Without specific reason,
the tears welled and spilled over. Chad put his arms around her and they sat that way for a while, just
close. He offered her his handkerchief, and she wiped her face. When they got to the apartment, he sent
the car away and came upstairs. She opened a bottle of wine, and they sat in the living room, looking
between two boarded-up windows through a clear one that showed the Capitol dome.
     "How do you get in touch with them?" he asked.
     "Usually I just yell. Chiddy, I need you now!" She said it quite loudly. "If he agrees to take me, he
may do it all at once, just boom. They do things like that.”
     "You mean, they might take you suddenly, without me or any of the surveillance stuff?"
     "If there is such stuff, you should get it here in a hurry, Chad," she said. "Chiddy and Vess move
awfully fast when they're motivated.”
     He went to the phone and made a call, then several more, taking notes as he did so. His last call was a
ten-digit one. He spoke, listened, spoke, then turned to Benita with the phone still in his hand.
     "Merilu?" he said. "She hung up on me. She says your husband alleges we're involved sexually, right
now, on CNN.”
     "Bert? I thought the Inkleozese had him!" She turned to CNN, and there was Bert, a bit foggy around
the eyes, but by heaven he had on a new suit, he was shaved, and he was being interviewed on national
TV, and telling them all about his wife, old moocow Benita, who was being a sex slave to some aliens for
the FBI.
     She had barely time to get angry when the air turned cold, then warm, then wavy, and Chiddy
materialized in a burst of light on the living room rug.
     "Dear Benita," ai said, patting her on the shoulder. Ai offered his hand to Chad, who took it. Chiddy
was, no need to say, in his masculine human form.
     "Look," Benita cried, pointing to the TV. "What's that about?"
     "The Fluiquosm," growled Chiddy. "They made that tape several days ago by planting an idea in his
head, but they hadn't used it yet. Now they are angry at having to leave Earth, so they sent it out to TV
networks in a fit of resentment. It will be necessary to supplant that idea in his mind and then undo this
damage.”
     Chad asked, "Are the predators gone . . . ?"
     Chiddy pinched his lips and looked severe. "They have departed. As I said, they were very angry
about it, but they have definitely departed. None of them wants to tangle with the Inkleozese.” He sat
down beside Benita. "What is the emergency?"
     She told him, everything tumbling out at once, the committee and Morse and what the president
wanted her to do, and why it was necessary.
     He stared at both the humans thoughtfully. "Before any of this is taken care of, I must go back and
finish our discussions with the Inkleozese. They are most annoyed at the SHLQ, as are we, and steps must
be taken to keep them in line and to make your former inceptor withdraw his stupidities. While this is
being accomplished, we will think on this business of taking you to Pistach-home.
     "Mr. Riley, be kind enough to get together whatever you need to take with you. Also, since gender
mistrust seems to play a part in this whole matter, we agree it would indeed be wise for you to accompany
Benita to my home world. If there is any possibility of their assuming you have a ... relationship between
you that is unacceptable, please recommend a third party to come along as well. A 'chaperon,' I think it is
called. Though I would be happy to serve in that capacity, my word might not be trusted. By the way, I
assume you are male, in all respects, heterosexual, functioning, and so forth?"
     Chad laughed, a real laugh. "When called upon," he said, shaking his head in amazement. "I am still
functional, yes. And heterosexual, though I have a past very much like Benita's, remarkably conformist
and dull.”
     "My son," Benita cried, suddenly remembering. "We're forgetting him in the midst of all this! As
well as the girl they took instead of Angelica.”
     "We will see to that, as well," Chiddy said. "We have already assured ourselves that they have not
been injured.” And ai was gone.
     "He seemed very affectionate," said Chad, regarding her with curious eyes.
     "I think they probably are an affectionate people," she replied, shaking her head at him. "I know
they're a sensual people, too, because Chiddy's mentioned how much he enjoys hot springs and massage
and certain earthly scents and flavors. I am fond of ais, and ai may well be fond of me. That doesn't equal
an affair. Companionship isn't sexuality.”
     "Even when he's in human shape?"
     "Even when ai looks human. Though, come to think of it, when they take other shapes, I think the
shape has different sensory equipment from their own forms. You shake his hand, and Chiddy feels it,
even though the real Chiddy doesn't have hands. Maybe that's why they morph so much, because they like
the new sensations they get.”
     "Their morphed selves certainly feel real to the touch," he said. "I purposely bumped them and
brushed up against them at that first dinner.
     "I know," she said tiredly. "It's very confusing.”
     He stared at her for a long moment, then patted her, rather as he patted Sasquatch. "Since our
previous effort to get away was interrupted, our bags are already packed. Mine's down in the car that's still
parked out back. I'll go pick up the stuff from the bureau. Have a nap. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
     "What about . . . Merilu?"
     "Merilu is looking for excuses to end our marriage," he said in a flat, dead voice. "Any excuse will
do, even a phony one. Even if I quit the job today and was in Montana by tonight, she'd find some reason.
She'll do what your husband is doing, what she started to do on the phone, accuse me of having an affair,
or putting my job ahead of the boys, or anything. I've been hoping she'll settle down. I'm not sure she
will.”
     "And she doesn't work?"
     "No," he said. "That's part of the problem.”
     "Do you have a picture of her?" Benita asked curiously.
     He dug it out of his wallet. She was blonde, blue-eyed, with a face like an angel. Everyman's
everywoman.
     "She's beautiful.”
     "Yes," he said with an aching sigh. "She certainly is. I sometimes look at that face and think I'm the
luckiest man in creation. On the phone, however, I sometimes get a more . . . accurate picture.”
     He went down in the elevator alone. Benita took a few moments to repack the small bag she had
packed two days ago, adding casual clothes and another pair of shoes, thinking as she did so that she had
never seen any advice about packing for interstellar travel. No raincoat, obviously, or boots. No warm
sweaters. No tank tops for sunning. Slacks. Shirts. Sox. Shoes. Underwear. Nightgown. Nothing sexy. Not
that she owned any such thing.
     While she didn't think she'd sleep, she dozed off as soon as she lay down. She didn't wake up until
evening, when Chad rang her on the phone. He'd be over in half an hour.
     She called Simon, who was still downstairs in the office doing something or other, and told him she'd
be down. When she came in, he was staring at the TV which was rerunning her brief interview by the
press that morning. He turned from the screen and stared at her.
     "So that's what it was all about," he said.
     She fumbled for something to say. He shook his head. "The apartment renovation? All the comings
and goings?"
     She sat down across from him. "Yes, Simon. But, I had no idea all this would happen when I applied
for the job.”
     "I know.” He shuffled the papers in front of him. "I was angry at first. Because you didn't tell me. But
then, I thought why would you? You wouldn't want to tell anybody, for fear they'd get at you. The press, I
mean. Right?"
     "Right.”
     "And you're doing a good job here. The best. I can't imagine where you found the time, with all this
going on . . .”
     "There was plenty of time, Simon. It doesn't take long to pass on a message or talk to the ET’s.
Mostly that stuff happens in the evenings, after we're closed.”
     "Well, everything you've done so far is great. Your files are up to date. Your work is accurate. Are
you going to go on working for me?"
     "Simon, I would very much like to go on working for you. However, I can't work for you this week.
The president has asked me to go to the Pistach home world and look at it. The FBI man who's been
guarding me…"
     Simon's eyes flickered sideways. "Oh. That's who he is. I wondered.”
     "He's been working as liaison. He'll go with me on the trip, so he can verify what I see.”
     "What do they think you'll see?"
     "Our government, part of it, anyhow, is worried it's a conspiracy. The predators. The Pistach. The
Inkleozese.”
     "Why doesn't the president go?"
     "Who'd believe him? He's trying to work inside the politics of mistrust, Simon. The other side has
only one agenda, to discredit him, falsely if necessary, and they don't care if it hurts the country. I have no
ax to grind. I'm not a political person. If Bert can be muzzled, they'll have a hard time discrediting me
because there's nothing there to discredit.”
     He nodded sympathetically. "Well, you know, if they can get the public lined up to peek through
bedroom windows, it makes it easier for them to rob the rest of the house!"
     She smiled. "I'll be away for a few days. I came down to ask if you'll feed Sasquatch.”
     "I will feed and exercise Sasquatch. And I'll be glad when you come back, Benita.” He held out his
hand, and she took it. He pulled her across the desk and kissed her cheek, quite gently. "Very glad," he
said.
     She went back upstairs and waited for Chad, looking out the little window in the elevator hall, her
hand on the cheek that Simon had kissed. What a strange man. Or not. He was really very nice, wasn't he?
Thoughtful. Considerate. Appreciative. Undemanding.
     Chad always parked where she could see him from the elevator hall, so she could come down to
unlock the door. He arrived bearing two small suitcases and a paper bag of Chinese takeout. When Benita
smelled it, she realized she hadn't eaten all day, not even breakfast, and Chad hadn't either. They set it out
on the table in the living room and munched without talking for some time.
     "I wonder where Chiddy is?" she said finally, surfeit with sesame shrimp, asparagus and rice.
     "On his way, I should imagine," he said, putting down his fork with a sigh. He wiped his mouth
thoroughly on a paper napkin. "I wonder what they'll feed us on Pistach-home.”
     "If they take us," she amended.
     "I think they'll take us. If only because they're so embarrassed over this predator business.”
     "Or over the Inkleozese.”
     "My guess would be that doesn't embarrass them at all. The envoys took it for granted that intelligent
people mean what they say, and somebody who says he's pro-life means it.”
     "How do we go about finding out whether the Pistach are as represented?" she asked him. "If we
depend on them to show us the world, won't they just show us what they want us to see?"
     "There are ways," he said. "Dissonances one can listen for. Differences of opinion one can ferret out.
Are you frightened, Benita?"
     "A little.” It was true. But the apprehension was accompanied by a bubbling feeling, as though she'd
swallowed a little volcano, something that was building up toward an eruption. The feeling was vaguely
familiar, and at last she tracked it back to a day in summer when Mami had taken her to the amusement
park for her birthday, and she had ridden the roller coaster. Fear, and pleasure, and joy. Pure joy. It was
such a lovely feeling! Why had it been such a rare one?
     The evening grew late, and Chad took off his jacket and shoes and lay down on the couch in the
living room, while she stretched out on the bed, Sasquatch at her feet. They had both dozed for some little
time when Sasquatch roused them with a rumbling growl and a couple of firm woofs. It was Chiddy, back
again, and he had Carlos and a girl with him. Of the two, the girl was in better shape. She looked tired,
dirty, and a little frightened, but she was very much herself, ready to get angry the moment she thought it
wouldn't endanger her life.
     Carlos had evidently not been so sensible. He'd been battered here and there. Benita cautioned herself
and did not shriek, did not sympathize, did not question. He wasn't hurt any worse than she had been,
many times, with similar bruises darkening under his skin, and a black eye beginning to bloom.
     "Mom," he cried, making a run for her and half knocking her down in the process. She fended him
off, fighting down an urge to say, "Down, heel," except that he'd seldom listened to her in the past and
was unlikely to do so now.
     She put her hands on his shoulder to hold him up and away, hugs from Carlos had always been rare,
usually confined to times he was frightened. "Are you all right, Carlos?"
     He blubbered something, "Okay. All right. Not . . . they didn't . . . they were going to!"
     She raised her eyebrows at Chiddy, who said with considerable distaste, "The Fluiquosm and
Wulivery threatened to eat him. The Wulivery do that sometimes, teasing. I think he believed they would
eat him.”
     "I saw them," he cried. "Eating people. They've got a storage place near the camp, and it's all full of
dead people!"
     "That's quite true, but they were under instructions not to eat you," said Chiddy, firmly. "Settle
down.”
     "You don't know what they were like," Carlos screamed.
     "I know exactly what they were like," snapped Benita. "I was eaten by a Wulivery. Stop dramatizing
yourself.”
     Benita turned from Carlos to the girl, holding out her hand. "I think you were taken because you were
mistaken for my daughter.”
     "Sonia Bigg," she said. "They were determined to make me tell them I was Angelica Shipton, if that's
your daughter. As for him," she gestured toward Carlos, "he told them to start with me, if they were going
to eat us.”
     "Sonia . . .” Carlos wailed. "I didn't mean that. I love you, I wouldn't say anything like that.”
     "You're . . . Carlos's friend?" asked Benita, with a disbelieving glance at her son.
     "Was," said Miss Bigg.
     "Well, well," Carlos babbled, "if they were going to eat us both anyhow, it didn't make any difference
which of us was first, and I was just trying to keep them talking.”
     Chiddy saw the look of total dismay on her face and patted her shoulder soothingly. "As it happens,
the predators did not at that time intend to eat either of them, and Miss Bigg is unhurt.”
     The girl said in a firm voice, "Unhurt! Hah.” She turned to Benita. "May I use your bathroom,
please?"
     Benita indicated where it was, saying, "I can also lend you a clean shirt.” She turned to Chiddy,
whispering, "Can you take her back where she was taken from? What about Carlos? Is it safe to send him
back?"
     "She, yes. Not him, just yet. I spoke previously of needing a chaperon. I should imagine he will serve.
If we take him with us, it will keep him out of circulation for a few days.”
     "What about Bert?"
     "The Inkleozese are working on him. Arranging to straighten out the misinformation that was
broadcast.”
     Chad said, "You want me to arrange for Miss Bigg to get back home?"
     He accepted Chiddy's nod and began phoning. While he was busy, the girl came out of the bathroom.
Benita fetched a clean shirt for her, and by the time they emerged from the bedroom, Chad had arranged
for her to be picked up. "If you need anything, a change of clothes or any necessaries, they'll provide it,
and you'll be on a flight back to California today.”
     She thanked him, then turned to Carlos. "If you come back, don't call me.”
     A car came, the girl departed. Chiddy asked, "Are you and Chad ready to depart?"
     Carlos interrupted to whine, "I'm sure as hell not. I don't even have a change of underwear.”
     "We can provide whatever you need," said Chiddy. "I need to provide proper costumes for all of you,
anyhow. It is considered polite to wear garments suitable to one's station in life.”
     Carlos glowered, obviously getting ready to explode, and Chad took him by one shoulder, asking,
"How far do we go to your ship?"
     Vess laughed.
     Chiddy bowed them into the elevator. "Not far," he said. "Not far at all.”

In Afghanistan—TUESDAY
      Mustapha ibn Daud shut his door against the noises in the room beneath him where a rancorous
debate continued, without letup, as it had for hours.
      "If we do not feel lust, it is the will of Allahl" the old imam was still saying, over and over. Likely it
had been decades since he had been able to feel anything of the kind, but now he championed the cause of
the hideous women. "If these otherworldly afrits have changed our women, then they have done Allah's
work whether they know it or not! Nothing happens that is not the will of Allah! We are being rebuked
for our lusts, which burned more hotly the more the fuel was hidden!
      "Listen to me! We refused to see our women as people like ourselves,- we hid them to make them
titillating, to think of them only as vessels for our lusts, servants for our kitchens, breeders of our sons!
Let us free the women to walk as we do, with their faces uncovered. Let us see if this does not please
Allah.”
      And, as he had done over and over, another, younger man attacked him: "Though he cannot lastingly
prevail, Satan can do what Allah does not will! We are being tested! We should never change our ways!
In time, Allah will restore our own to us.”
      "And if He does not?" asked the old man. "If our women continue as they are? If my sons are unable
to beget children? Is our lineage to stop with this generation? Do not say we are not changing our ways. It
was agreed in the Taliban that we would eschew all modern gadgetry, was it not? And yet now, we have
laptops. We have telephones. These things are needed in a modern state. Why should we not have modern
women, too? They can be modern and still virtuous . . .”
      Mustapha had held up his hand for silence, waiting until it fell. “I disagree. Our wives have been
replaced by demons. Since Satan makes it impossible for us to kill these demons who have taken the
places of our wives and daughters, let them go where they will! Some of our men have already gone to the
Pakistan border to take women from there. We will bring women from elsewhere to serve our needs. Our
ways are righteous! Our ways are proper! To protect the purity of our womenfolk…"
      "They are pure now," shouted the old man, shaking his fist at Mustapha. "They are not demons. I
have talked with them. They are our women, and they are more pure now than they have ever been! When
they were hidden, they were lusted after. Now, no one lusts afar them!"
      A murmur of discontent ran through the room. No man here had touched a woman for some time.
Every one of them had in his house at least one woman of supreme and utter repulsiveness, a woman he
gagged to look at or smell. A woman who was hideous to the senses.
      The old man spoke again. "Listen to me. You cannot deny that the women in our houses are pure.
Untouched. Let us achieve some consistency. We have said this is what we desire, that our wives and
daughters be pure. That they not be raped, that they not be looked upon with lascivious eyes. Well, now
they are pure, they are not raped, no one looks at them with desire, yet we complain! This causes me to
wonder whether their purity was really our aim. Or did we want something else? By hiding them did we
increase their erotic allure? Did we arouse ourselves with the idea of their subjugation? Is this something
of which Allah approves?"
      That was when Mustapha ibn Daud had left the room in disgust. To hear a teacher of the Koran speak
so! To hear their culture so disparaged! He stood in the window looking out at the silent darkness. There
was something here he did not understand, an enemy he could not bring down with a gun, and it made
him feel trapped and angry.
      Someone spoke at the doorway. Ben Shadouf. He came in, was offered a place to sit and did so.
      "You have heard, my wife is gone?" he said.
      "We do not speak of women," Mustapha answered loftily.
      "Oh, but we do," said Ben Shadouf. "We always have. We talk of the dancers we have seen. We go to
prostitutes and talk of them to our friends. We talk of women.”
      "We do not talk of our wives and daughters!"
      "True. Except, when we first marry, or when we grow weary of our wives, we ask our friends if they
have marriageable daughters. Young ones. Healthy ones. Frightened ones who would be sure to obey.”
He spoke bitterly and his hands twisted in his lap. “I loved my wife, Mustapha. She was gentle and kind.
She cooked well. She was considerate of my feelings and well being. I loved my little daughters. Their
faces made a garden in my house.”
      "You love them even now?" barked Mustapha, with a laugh. "Then you are a saint.”
      "No. I am not worthy of loving her. I am not even a good man. She was ill, you know. And I would
not take her to the clinic. Then the ugliness came, and I told her to go where she would. She had a disease
of the lungs, and if they had not given her the medicine, she would have died.”
      "The clinic is run by foreigners! Evil-doers!"
      "Who seem to care more for our wives and our children than we do. They save their lives while we
let them die.”
      Mustapha snarled between his teeth. "Caring about women is not our destiny. Our destiny is to live in
accordance with the word and in duty to Allah and follow the teachings of our leaders. Besides, your wife
didn't die.”
      "No. When the clinic had healed her, she took our children and went over the mountains. A traveler
brought a letter from her. She is well, but she is staying there for our daughters' sake, so she says, for in
that country, women are valued more than they are here.”
     "Then good riddance," said Mustapha.
     Ben Shadouf rose and paced restlessly across the room. "I have been thinking of what she said. Other
Muslim nations do not require what we do of women. Other Muslim nations do not use them as we do.
Do not make stabled beasts out of them.”
     "Then those nations are less pure than we.”
     "You will not reconsider what we demand of them? The chadoor? The sequestration? Forbidding
them to work or to learn? Forbidding them to have medical attention? Stoning them to death because they
stumble, or do not hold the veil tightly enough when the wind blows?"
     Mustapha snorted angrily. "Those prohibitions are the result of days of discussion among the elders.
We worked hard to get the wording exactly right. Not one word will be changed. The world may grow
ugly, but I will remain constant.”
     "Then so remain," said Ben Shadouf, leaning toward him with a glittering blade in his hand.
Mustapha felt the knife before he realized it was there, felt it run into him like ice, then like fire.
     Ben Shadouf withdrew the blade, then leaned forward to speak into the dimming eyes. "So remain
forever, Mustapha. I have done as you many times commanded me. I have slain a heretic who disbelieves
the true way. Your eyes close as mine are opened by the imam. Now I will go in search of my wife.”

From Chiddy's journal
     Dearest Benita, as I write this you are nearby in a rest cubby, soundly sleeping. I amuse myself
recalling the surprise on your face when we walked through the back of your elevator and into our ship,
your astonishment at learning we had been living just the other side of the wall for all this time. It has
been quite convenient and very saving on our power cells. The ship is as morphable as we, and it
interpenetrated the third-story offices beside your home with its usual imperturbability. It was the
presence of our ship, unfortunately, which brought the Wulivery to your windows. They smelled us out,
indeed, and though they did not find our ship, they found you.
     We are furious at them, and at the other predators as well. What they did was unethical, though their
sins were compounded by humans who see fit to play politics with their fellows' lives. That is a phrase I
had never heard before, dear Benita. Playing politics. It is like playing war, a game for degenerates.
Statesmen should not "play" politics.
     We are at the moment, as I write, scudding along at many times light speed in a tube which is, to all
intents and purposes, empty. Behind us, the fabric of space thrusts our material ship on before it, for it
seeks always to exclude matter, or at least to clump it insofar as is possible. I could say that space bends
behind us to push us. I could say that space ceases to exist in the direction of our movement, lining up on
either side in strings of umquah. When we say such things, however, our scientists pish and tush at us, for
neither is at all correct.
     I confess, I understand neither the universe nor the spacedrive. Only a few of our most intelligent
claim to understand the drive, and even they did not invent it. It was made by the Jabal, aeons ago, a
people who left the galaxy before our own people existed. We have only the records they left behind on
many planets together with plans for their devices: spacedrives, star milkers, fusion generators, morph-
engines (tiny implanted ones to change ourselves, large ones to make cities like Jerusalem seem to
disappear, though it never really went anywhere) all carefully preserved for whomever came along next.
Luckily for us, we emerged originally in a thickly starred part of the galaxy and with even our rather
primitive stardrives, we managed to be first in line for a lot of the devices. We moved, later on, to a less
thickly settled sector, one quieter, more peaceful, less liable to predatory irruptions. Other races who
arrived nearer the center of things profited from discovery, as well. Sometimes we meet during the
knitting of the web of universal intelligence into a more durable fabric. This is our purpose and the
purpose of all intelligent life. So we believe.
     The human recording devices you brought with you are working well. They will keep track of your
entire voyage, the interior of the ship, the fact that outside the ship there is nothing, not even light. We
move in other dimensions of space and in the null dimension of time. When we draw near our destination,
the ship will sense the complex curvature signature, one peculiar to that destination, and the emptiness in
which we move will collapse to allow ordinary space-time to curve around us once more.
     We intend to take you to several planets besides our own. It will be more convincing to the people of
Earth if they see several different races. Your Earth devices will record our arrival on each, our departure
from each. When we get to Pistach, the devices will probably note some confusion among the Pistach
people, for they do not know we are coming. No message could get to our home sooner than we ourselves
will arrive. You will not be the first non-Pistach visitors on Pistach-home, but you will be the first who
have not yet been admitted to the Confederation. Vess and I have discussed this. We will have to do some
of what you call "fast talking.” Still, given the well-known perfidy of the predators, your difficulty will be
perfectly understandable, even to the most rigid among us.
     I have no trepidation concerning your treatment. Hospitality is a virtue we have polished to a finer
sheen than some other of our probities. Though we advocate toleration, we do not do it so well as we do
some other things. We are not as unselfish as an advanced race should be. We struggle to burnish all our
virtues, but every now and then a rock of reality catches our feet to make us stumble. Though we advocate
equality of all intelligences, still we are like most races: happiest among peoples we know well and whose
ways we understand.
     If the Chapter will allow, you will be welcomed to a guest house of my family, on the Cavita home
ground. It is near the House of the Fresco, and we know you will want to see that. Also, it would be
pleasant to introduce you to my nootch. She will be most interested in you and in Chad and in the ways of
your world. You are, functionally, more nootch than you are receptor, and she will be pleased to
recognize someone of like mind and responsibility. I have provided festive red-and-yellow clothing for
you, so you will, as you say, "fit in.” Chad could be introduced as an inceptor, of course, but since his
"job" on Earth is to keep order and allocate responsibility, the tasks performed by our proffi caste—which
also includes doctors and scholars, I intend introducing him as a proffe, dressed properly in formal brown.
My evaluation of the two of you indicates you are unlikely to break out in a fit of breeding madness
partway through the visit, for which I am very grateful.
     As for your son, though he is rather too old for it, we must dress him as an undifferentiated one. As
such, he will be regarded with a good deal of tolerance, more than we manage under most other
circumstances. Your young are not unlike ours in being demanding, eager, selfish, gauche. As our sages
have said, youth builds a universe with self at the center. Carlos will not be an asset. Our position would
be improved had we been able to bring an Earthian athyco with us, if there had been one who would have
been accepted by all the religions, political bodies, racial constituencies and social movements on your
world. Such a one could have spoken pointedly to our Confederation ambassadors, calling them to
account for the depredations of the Fluiquosm, et al. No such person exists on your world, so it is left to
us. Vess and I will speak, but we will have to be diplomatic. The practice of diplomacy, I have found, is
sometimes like eating soup with a fork: much activity yielding little nourishment.
     However, there is some time before we get to Pistach-home. We have other worlds to visit first. The
subjective time lapse from Earth to the first one, Flibotsia, is about two of your days, and you will sleep
during all of it. If we could not travel in the null-time dimension, it would take thousands of your years to
reach any of our near worlds, but the drive allows us to stand teetering upon a point of time as we plunge
onward in several dimensions of space. Indeed, some of the new drives are virtually instantaneous. One
begins here, gets in the ship, has a cup of tea, gets out of the ship, and behold, one is there. Poof. Even so,
we are far from the intergalactic drive our religion posits as the next necessary step in the evolution of
intelligence! Between the galaxies, so our scientists think, the umquah are more evenly spread and less
irritable than where matter annoys them constantly.
      When we arrive on Pistach-home, I know you will enjoy seeing the House of the Fresco. Oh, I wish it
were less obscured by soot, so you could see it as it was when first painted. Though perhaps you would be
disappointed. I have seen the Sistine Chapel. I have seen the caves at Lescaux. Your people have an
inborn artistry of very high degree. It may be our Fresco would not have impressed you, even when it was
new. The Inkleozese agree that this is probable. They, too, deeply admire the artistry of your race.
      We must rest now. When we have rested, Vess and I must argue yet again. We have been arguing
about Earth for a very long time, now. There is so much to do, and I want to do it all at once while Vess
counsels caution, a little at a time. It was I who insisted upon the Ugliness Plague. "An immediate lesson,"
I cried. Even Vess agrees it is working, though many of the women are simply leaving the countries that
mistreated them. Whether they do or not is up to them, the men cannot harm them. The important issue,
the question of purity versus lust, is for the first time being put into its proper context. Some of the men
prefer to continue in the old mold, of course, by trying to kidnap women from neighboring countries, but
that won't work. As soon as a man with that attitude touches a woman, she becomes a hag, though only to
others. Her mirror continues to show her real self.
      We have also scheduled a lengthy time for discussion about your prisons, which preoccupy your
people to an abnormal extent. Unfortunately, your penal system is based on religious notions of penitence
and reformation, character emendations which can be evoked only where a sense of shame is present. In a
society as mobile as your own, many people are totally anonymous to those around them. They do not
care what they do before strangers or to strangers. If one feels no shame, punishment only angers. If one
feels shame, punishment is almost unnecessary.
      Logically, therefore, your prisons should seek to instill shame, but even if it were possible, it would
offend your civil libertarians to do so. "Shaming" others is considered an affront to their dignity. Since
shame is essential to remorse, which is the natural punishment for misbehavior, just as gut cramps are the
natural punishment for eating unripe thrags, if one cannot evoke shame, then forget about penitence or
reformation. It won't happen.
      In the place of shame you have substituted a meaningless phrase, "Paying one's debt to society.” You
send a rapist or murderer to prison for a few years, and then you say he has "paid his debt to society.” Of
course, he has done no such thing. A term in prison pays for nothing, not if it is for ten years or twenty or
fifty! The victim or victims are still violated or dead, and to say that the evildoer has paid his debt is to
denigrate the value of the victim! This, in turn, causes anger among the victim's family or friends, who
wonder why a beloved wife is worth five years while someone else's daughter is worth twice that. This, in
turn, causes disrespect for the law. As Canthorel has written, "If the law does not do justice, the people
will mock the law.”
      Vess is astonished that Earthians define as cruel and unusual many acts that are not unusual and not
particularly cruel. Breeding madness is cruel, breeding madness is unusual. Most of your men don't have
it. Most of your men wouldn't want it. Castration would remove it from those who have it. What is cruel
about that? Is the inceptive organ really more important than the mind? Vess and I find this an extremely
exotic notion. In your great documents of national purpose, the right to pursue satisfactions in one's own
life is asserted, but not at others' expense. People who misuse the lives of others should not be allowed to
repeat the act, but your peculiar ideas about cruelty allow it, time and again.
      One of the programs we left to start without us, back on Earth, is the rewording of your newspapers
and TV shows. They will no longer be able to use empty language, like "paid his debt to society," or
"claimed responsibility" for an act of terrorism. Instead, they must use true words. "He has been sentenced
to prison for ten years which will do nothing to ameliorate his urges to molest and mutilate little girls.”
Or, "The XX faction has asserted that it committed the cowardly atrocity of killing a busload of
schoolchildren.” Earthians must learn to say truly what has happened and not cover it with easy-speak.
      Earthians, or perhaps only Americans, must also realize that some persons cannot be fixed, that
nurture can go only so far in changing what people are born to be. Some people are born dangerous. We
have a saying, we Pistach: "Some pfiggi can't breed, some pfluggi can't bite, some flosti can't fly, some
Pistach are glusi.” Pfiggi are small and numerous, Pfluggi are larger and have sharp teeth. Both live in
swamps. In essence, the saying means that we must accept the reality of persons, not what they should be
or we wish they were, but what they are. Someone may be born of humans and look like a human without
having humanity. Someone may be born of kind parents and raised with kindness and be unkind, just as
someone may be born crippled or dwarfed to people who are neither. The biological body may not
manifest the psychological quality of humanity, and if it does not, it is not human. We Pistach know what
it takes to mend people, and it takes a good deal more than you are willing to do.
      Vess and I will also talk about your reproductive habits. Your people have learned a great deal about
the subject, but you have applied little sense to it, even yet. Now you are begetting children scientifically,
and great law courts grind to stillness on the issues of who owns the resultant child. Is it the donor of
sperm or the donor of egg,- is it the womb that bears, the person who paid, the doctor who was
instrumental, the legal wife of the sperm donor, the legal husband of the egg donor, the legal husband of
the womb, the legitimate previous children of the womb, the mate of the person who paid, the person who
signed the contract?
      We have another saying, "Those who cause, pay.” It is a simple rule, but it has been very, very
effective in bringing order to our lives. If a physician helps a woman bear eight children at once, then that
doctor must support seven of them! If your congressmen will not vote to control guns, if your NRA fights
against gun control, then your congressmen and the members of the NRA must individually help pay for
medical care and wrongful deaths and funeral expenses for every accidental shooting death. We will
figure out a way to do this. Vess and I have had several good ideas.
      Oh, Vess and I have much, much to argue about. Your world has so many difficulties to be
straightened out, though it is my belief that many of them will submit to simple cures, forcefully applied
and diligently monitored. So many little glitches, and yet ... as my nootch said of me, long and long ago,
we have such hopes for you, dearest Benita, such hopes, dear Chad. Such hopes your people will be
another node in the weaving of intelligence among the worlds. When I am arguing with Fluiquosm, when
I am listening to ego-wrangles on your TV or in my own Chapter House, when I must consider disorders
like those on Assurdo and Quo-Tern, even I sometimes lose sight of what we are truly doing. We are
spreading throughout all space and time, weaving a mind to the edges of the galaxy, and in time, in time
perhaps throughout the universe. So I remember and keep firmly in my mind when I say, dearest Benita,
we have such hopes for you.

Benita—JOURNEY OUT OF TIME
      Benita woke in a coffin-like cubby hung on the hull of the ship. She was not conscious of time having
passed, not even of a night gone by, as she usually was in the morning when she woke. She'd simply lain
down and slept and now was awake, without any sense of later-ness at all. When she lay down, she was
still in a state of speechless surprise about where the ship had been all that time. They had walked into the
elevator, and suddenly the back of it opened up like a buttonhole and they slipped through, bag and
baggage, into the ship. Chiddy explained that it was coexistent with the entire third floor of the building,
wall to wall, and that what Benita had thought of as the lower roof was also the outer integument of the
ship.
      Her first thought was Sasquatch. He had committed indecencies on the ship, time after time. Chiddy
didn't mention it or seem concerned, however, so she decided it was not worth mentioning.
      They came aboard, Carlos, thank God, sufficiently impressed to be silent. They drank a glass of
something celebratory (and quite likely sedative) with the two Pistach, they lay down in the allocated
cubbies. Later, Chiddy told Benita's cubby to wake her, and also Chad's, though he let Carlos remain
asleep.
     Without asking, Benita knew why Chiddy left Carlos asleep. There was no point in waking him any
earlier than needful. She started to go through her usual Carlos litany, all the things she might have done
differently, the help she might have sought, the influences she might have brought to bear. If there had
been more time. If there had been more money. If she had not been so young. In the current surroundings,
however, the litany of self-blame lacked force and conviction. Carlos had been a petulant, screaming,
stubborn baby, a whiny little boy; a bully in the playground. He had been a slacker at school. He had
never been abused, not even by Bert, in any physical sense. He could be charming, when he thought it
would get him something, but most of the time he was not. She decided not to play the game with herself
anymore. Mother bears didn't play such games. They knew their cubs had to go. So, let him go.
     Once awake, Chad and Benita were told they had arrived near Flibotsia, which they admired through
a suddenly opened view screen. Chiddy spoke to someone on the ground, and then the ship went down,
light as a bubble.
     Chad made himself responsible for the recording equipment. When they stepped outside the ship it
was like stepping into a meadow full of huge butterflies that smelled like flowers. Several of them, larger
and more brightly colored than the others, approached at once, clustering around Chiddy and Vess to
thank them for some event in the past when the Pistach had solved a great problem, or so Benita inferred
from the slightly embarrassed expressions on the Pistach faces.
     "What was that about?" asked Benita, during a hiatus while the Flibotsi prepared a festive meal to be
laid out, picnic style, in the grassy clearing near the ship.
     "A fertility problem," said Chiddy. "Those larger beings are empresses of this world, their home
world, and some years ago, they were becoming infertile. Vess and I found out why and fixed it for
them.”
     "They seemed very grateful," said Chad.
     Chiddy nodded. "They are. Even though it was more by luck than skill that we figured it out.”
     The banquet was duly provided, tiny containers of various syrups and pastes, to be drunk or spread on
sweet crackers or just sniffed, for all of them smelled as marvelous as they tasted. Chiddy whispered that
many of them were euphorics, as well. It was, Benita thought, rather like being happily drunk. She felt
jolly and joyous, with no thoughts of problems or pains, and also, Chiddy assured her, no need to worry
about a possible hangover later.
     When they parted from the Flibotsi with mutual expressions of regard, and while they were on their
way to the next stop, Chad asked Chiddy about the fertility problem the two Pistach had solved, and after
hemming and humming for a time, Chiddy agreed to tell them about it.
     "The Flibotsi are trisexual, with a few breeding females, the empresses, a few more breeding males,
the consorts, and many unsexed ones who do a little work but mostly just enjoy life. When I read your
fairy tales of little winged people, I think of the Flibotsi. Of course, as you have seen, they are not small.
Indeed they are larger than we, but they are also more fragile, since their planets are low-gravity ones.”
     "I didn't notice," said Chad.
     "The ship projected a field around each of us that prevented our doing so," said Vess. "We weren't
staying long enough for you to acclimate, and we did not wish to run the risk of gastric upset. It would
have offended our hostesses.”
     Nodding agreement, Chiddy went on. "The worker Flibotsi are excellent gardeners, and they eat
many types of flowers which gives each of them a lovely and quite particular scent. The filaments that
grow on their heads and down their backs, their breath, indeed, even their skin smells of flowers, and as
you have experienced, being in the midst of a hovering group of Flibotsi is an olfactory delight.
     "We were called in because the empresses were becoming unable to produce male offspring, a certain
number of whom are needed to continue the race. Vess and I asked at once if males from some of the
other Flibotsi settled worlds couldn't simply be reassigned to the home world. This would be by far the
easiest way to make up the lack, but the empress told us how difficult interstellar travel is for them. It is
more than mere dislike of being shut up in close quarters, it amounts almost to terror. Also, they told us,
the cost is great. They must pay huge amounts to starship owners whenever they decide to establish an
new colony.
      "They have no ships of their own. They do not, as a matter of fact, manufacture many artifacts of any
kind, which explains their lack of exchangeable currency. Their entire off-world economy is supported by
their trade in botanicals and perfumes. The few artifacts they make include writing implements, of course,
as poetry and song are important to them, and musical instruments, mostly stringed ones that are either
bowed or plucked, plus drums and chimes. They construct many shrines, small ones, exquisitely made,
and they plant gardens and groves everywhere. All this work is done by the unsexed ones, the neuters.
      "Males grow up in the homes of their empress mothers, then are traded to other empresses in the
general vicinity when they reach breeding age. Since their aptitudes are more or less the same as those of
a registered male poodle on your world, they are pampered and well groomed, and also, for the most part,
amusing, affectionate, and capable of sustained sexual activity.
      "All the non-sexual eggs are parthenogenically produced as sterile copies of the empress herself.
Both empress and male eggs, however, are fertilized by the male. Following mating flights, during which
a supply of sperm is inserted into the empress's vlasiput, a kind of internal purse or sac, the sperm is very
slowly leaked into the oviduct, male eggs being laid at the rate of about one per two hundred sexless ones,
and female empress eggs at the rate of one or two per thousand. In the recent past, the rate of male eggs,
distinguishable through color and size, had fallen to a level so low that there were some mature empresses
who had had no males when they were ready for their maiden flights.
      "The Flibotsi live in flissits, which are built high around the trunks of great trees, roofed with thatch
and caulked with fresh moss that takes root on the sides of the structure and soon covers the entire flissit,
making it both weathertight and cushiony. When well sheathed by moss, the flissits completely disappear
into the forest scene, small ones for one Flibot, larger ones for two or three or even more, so that nothing
intrusive or untidy mars the beauty of the landscape. Though there were a hundred flissits within seeing
distance of the glade where we feasted, I doubt that you noticed even one of them, for the Flibotsi have a
horror of what I have heard you, Benita, refer to as 'tackiness.'
      "Very large flissits in giant trees provide apartments for the empresses and their consorts as well as
for hatcheries, brooders, and nurseries for the young. The moss covering royal flissits is of a different sort,
a paler green, and it grows down the trunk of the tree and then spreads radially, though very slowly, bits
of it running off in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel. It has a strong, pungent, though not
unpleasant odor.
      "Vess and I, together with a consultant committee of proffi, scientists, physicians, and the like, set
about determining why male eggs were not being laid. The cause was not environmental, the soil and
water and air had no poisons in them. We found no inimical radiation, nothing in the food or drink. It
wasn't genetic. It wasn't the weather or the climate or some new cultural habit that had recently begun. In
fact, everything we postulated failed to prove out. "When everything else had been exhausted as a
possibility, Vess and I decided to go on to our last resort: hanging about and chatting with people. No
matter how pleasant, one must put this off, as otherwise one might be misled. Once there is no other
recourse, however, one may relax and enjoy it.
      "So we talked to the empresses, who are rather complacent and preoccupied with their sex lives. And
to the unsexed ones, who are mostly delightful. And to the male partners, who are the only Flibotsi to
demonstrate what you on Earth call angst. We asked all kinds of questions. We chatted with aged brooder
and incubator managers, with ancient gardeners, one of whom actually gave us the first clue. " 'In my day/
it said, 'when I was under-gardener to old Flargee at Empress Magh's, there wasn't another empress within
flying distance. Now, well, now, there's Empress Irin, Empress Flitch, Empress Moggys, Empress Tryff,
Empress (so on and so on, as the gardener listed a dozen or more) all within a bit of a fly, and many close
enough to walk to!'
     "This rang a bell with me, and with Vess. Something we had heard or seen or read about. We sat up
late that night, in a visitors' flissit, thinking and chatting, hoping some idea would pop out of the moss
walls. In fact, I said at one point, 'Some idea should pop out of the moss walls, and Vess said, That's it.'"
     "Vess reminded me that there are certain trees and mosses and other plants that make a kind of
herbicide in their roots or leaves, and this chemical keeps other trees or bushes or mosses from growing in
their immediate vicinity. Sometimes it keeps all growth away, sometimes only certain growths. You have
such trees on Earth, dear Benita. The black walnut tree, I believe is one. Such a compound would not be
something one would look for when seeking pollutants or poisons.
     "So, we sent for moss samples from the flissits of the Empresses in the neighborhood. We found that
each moss was slightly different, each exuding a slightly different pheromone, each one lethal to the male
sperm in any vlasiput except that of the local empress. We sent for samples of the moss in the wild and
found it exuded no pheromones at all.
     "This was interesting. We obtained samples of skin and flesh and fluids from the empresses and
immediately hit, as you say, pay dirt. The empresses have highly individual attractant odors that are
produced during their first mating flights and continue to exude during their lives, a kind of olfactory
fingerprint. During the mating flights, the particular scent is fixated upon by the males. Thereafter, a
mated male cannot be utilized by any other empress. It would do no good, as that empress would not have
the proper pheromone.
     "The odors emanate, we found, from waxy secretions created by bacteria living in pores in the
empresses' skins. The bacteria are subject to constant mutation, and thus each population of bacteria is
unique. The bacteria rub off on the moss, the moss incorporates them into its own structure where they
reproduce and spread radially, creating an area that is recognizable to all as the territory of that particular
Empress because it smells like her.
     "However, when empresses are crowded together, one empress's scent actually abuts and
interpenetrates the moss spread of one or more neighboring empresses. Inimical scents are picked up by
worker Flibotsi and carried into the vicinity of the empress and the male sperm in the vlasiput are
affected.
     "Once we were sure how it happened, we didn't take time to investigate the biology of the situation. It
was enough to know where the problem lay, and we had no wish to infringe further upon the privacy of
the Flibotsi empresses.”
     "They needed to move farther apart," suggested Chad.
     Chiddy nodded. "As you saw, however, when we were orbiting the planet, the forest lands cover only
a small portion of Flibotsia. The Flibotsi cannot live in the sea or on the deserts or even in the great
prairies which, so we were told, had been forested until several centuries ago, when the Flibotsi sold the
timber to alien lumbermen in return for transport to new colonies.”
     "So there was no room for them to separate, was there?" said Benita.
     "You are correct. In order to make more room between empresses, new empresses could not be
allowed to mature until several old empresses had died, opening up a space. Any new empresses for
which there was no vacant slot had to settle off planet, no matter how traumatic they found the journey.
We also suggested that they begin reforestation of the plains to provide for future living space.
     Until this is well underway, the population must be very strictly controlled.
     "We also suggested the immediate retirement of the more aged empresses and the roll-back of their
mosses.”
     "Did it work?" asked Chad.
     "As you saw," said Chiddy, "they have reduced the number of empresses by half. Each time we
return, they thank us again and again for our intervention.”
     The next planet was Vixbotine, a desert world full of dunes and tormented stone, interrupted here and
there by fertile oases and permeated by caverns which were cool, moist, and sheltered from the sun and
everlasting winds. They landed near one such cavern, were welcomed by several small, slender persons
who seemed to be hollow. Their living parts, so Chiddy informed the humans in an aside, were just
beneath the skin, as in a tree on Earth, while the center portion was a sound box that grew longer and
larger as the Vixbot aged.
     "They are, I suppose, as much vegetable as animal," Vess said. "Those lacy things around their heads
are not quite ovaries, the eggs are in the fringe, and the long leafy part on top is the flower that sheds not-
quite pollen into the wind. When the pollen hits the ovary, it makes seeds, of course, and the ripened
seeds have little wings that let the wind spread them to some welcoming cavern entrance. That is, unless
the Vixbot wishes to plant them somewhere in particular, as many do. Between the inner cavity and the
outer integument there are pump chambers which suck air in and direct it through various openings to the
sound cavity, thus making both single tones and harmonics.
     "The young ones are supersonic, but they are merely high pitched by the age of two, becoming
soprano, alto, tenor, baritone and finally basso profundo as they age and become less and less mobile. The
very oldest ones have taken root and grown long, leafy hair, so most of the truly great chorales are built
around a copse of aged Vixbot who sing down to your subsonic range.”
     "Will we get to hear them?" Benita asked, amazed.
     "Oh, indeed. That's why we landed here. Those great huge tree-looking things over there at the edge
of the cavern are bassos profun-dissimos. You may not even hear the tones they sing, but you'll feel them
through your feet.”
     Chad fussed with the sound recorder, setting it to record even the subsonics, and they sat in awed
astonishment, not moving, barely breathing, while the concert took place. They were treated to everything
from what Chiddy called a simple summer pastoral song, rather fluty, to a lament on the fall of a great
ancestor, extremely profound, full of aching chords and fleeting dissonances. At various points during the
music, the Vixbot struck themselves with their arms, accompanying their harmonies with percussion in
complex rhythms. Chiddy had said the Vixbot choirs created the universe's most marvelous sounds, and
when Benita managed to achieve some degree of self-awareness once more, which was long after the ship
had taken off again, she knew ai was right.
     Chiddy gave them the choice of visiting the Thwakians or the Oumfuz, or both, explaining rather
apologetically that since the Oumfuz were swamp livers, visiting them entailed unavoidable exposure to
muck and fetid aromas. They chose the Thwakians, and were next plunged deep into a violet ocean dotted
with verdant islands. Through the view screen they were shown the undersea tunnels, accretions like vast
cables of sand netting the bottoms of the planetary sea, outside the portals of which were gardens of
seaweed and small, immobile creatures. They followed one of the tunnels to its emergence on an island,
where Benita and Chad were introduced to two Thwakians who emerged only partially from the tunnel,
rather in the manner of hermit crabs emerging partially from their borrowed shells.
     Their foreparts seemed armored, though what could be seen of the nether parts seemed naked and
fragile. Chiddy explained that they ate both flora and fauna of the ocean, going out through sea locks to
harvest their crops and flocks. The Thwakians explained, through Vess, that the only time they were
endangered was when they emerged onto dry land, which was necessary only at the time of egg laying.
Since the ocean-living form had descended from a land-living one, the young still had to hatch in the
sands, under the orange sun. Once hatched, they skittered into the nearest tunnel and were thereafter quite
safe.
     "What danger is there?" Chad asked.
     Chiddy said, "A large winged thing, analogous to your osprey or albatross. It spends most of its life
in the air, coming to ground only when it, too, needs to feed or reproduce. Usually it eats fish, but it is
also willing to dine on a Thwakian or a clutch of Thwaki eggs.
     The two representatives of their race were thanked for their time and trouble, and the visitors returned
to their ship. "No trouble admitting them to the Confederation," Chiddy remarked. "They are the single
intelligent race on the planet, they inhabit the entire planet, and except for recurrent arguments over nest
space, they are almost totally peaceable.”
     Their final stop was Pistach-home, swimming in air, with its own green oceans and greener
mountains and chains of silver lakes and vast ocher prairies and sparkling little cities.
     "Beautiful," breathed Benita, Chad nodding seriously at her side. Even from this distance, it was
attractive, and as they came closer, it was obvious that it was consistently lovely. They saw deserts but no
desolations, and nowhere did any fog of despoilment spew from chimneys to hang loathsomely over the
land.
     When they were quite near the surface on the night side, they saw three moons, one largish silvery
one, two much smaller greenish-blue ones, all more or less spherical, all bearing clusters of domes, like
drops of dew. Chiddy mentioned that there were also three other occupied planets in the system, one very
warm and fertile farm planet in the next orbit toward the sun, one completely domed laboratory and light
industry planet so far from the sun the atmosphere was frozen, and one dead rock planet, even farther out,
on which all system heavy industry and asteroid smelters were located. Since all work was done by robots
and no one lived there except temporary supervisors and inspectors, and since they had completely
enclosed quarters with gardens attached and even a little aviary and zoo, so as not to lose track of their
place in the natural world, the need for extensive anti-pollution programs was lessened. There were such
programs, Chiddy said, even there, but they were concerned with storing dangerous substances so they
should never threaten living things. Each inbound ship carried a load of disposables which was at some
point released on a trajectory that would carry it into the sun.
     Carlos would, so Chiddy informed them, be awakened when they were ready to leave the ship, and in
the meantime he suggested that Chad and Benita should change into the appropriate caste clothing. Then
they could have coffee and watch the scenery. While they were so employed, Chiddy and Vess talked
unintelligibly to the authorities on their planet. It was the first time Benita had heard Pistach spoken at
length, and she thought it an interesting language, full of sibilant stretches and lots of Kwa and Wak and
Foum sounds. She heard their names, Benita Alvarez and Chad Riley, coupled with the terms nootch and
proffe, and assumed they were being introduced prior to arrival.
     Came a hiatus, during which they ate breakfast, taking their time about it, and then the conversation
with the ground began again, being conducted this time, evidently, with ultimate authority.
     Benita and Chad both detected concern in Chiddy's voice, as though he did not know or recognize the
voice or person he was dealing with. Benita asked Vess if anything was wrong, and he shrugged, insofar
as his normal shape could shrug. The Pistach didn't have shoulders that could go up and down. Their
pseudo shrug was a kind of sideways nod accompanied by a slightly raised upper limb on that side.
     As Chiddy spoke, more and more worriedly, his color betraying increasing concern, Vess, with an
equally worried expression, unpacked clothing they had prepared for Carlos. He suggested that Benita get
him up and dressed, which she did, though awkwardly, and with bad grace and much complaint on
Carlos's part. This ship was not as tiny as the first one she had seen, one they called a quimish, a word that
means, so said Vess, to scoot or buzz about, but still tiny so far as crew space went. Chad remarked that it
was a good thing trips didn't last very long, because one could severely injure oneself trying to change
trousers.
     By the time Carlos was dressed, permission had been granted for the ship to land near the little
community where Chiddy's family had lived for generations. Benita asked who was meeting them, and
Chiddy replied that the Pistach regarded it as the height of arrogance and rudeness to confront a newly
arrived person, or one who has just been given news of a possibly disrupting happening, or one who has
suffered loss. "Your newsmen on Earth," said Chiddy, making a face, "would be regressed and reselected
here on Pistach-home. I have seen them sticking their microphones into the faces of the bereaved and of
the assaulted and of persons just arrested or survivors of disasters asking them how they feel, as though
that were news! It is incivility of the worst sort. We would not tolerate it. One should be met, of course,
and welcomed, but quietly, discreetly.”

On Pistach home
     They expected modest if any greeting, in keeping with Chiddy's explanations of Pistach manners.
Chiddy blanked the view ports and set down. They arranged themselves to depart. The outer hull split
vertically, the opening widened, and they walked out into a numerous assembly: a double rank of large
Pistach in an arc around the ship, several even larger ones standing close, one particularly large one
coming forward, his pincers extended. Chiddy stopped dead in his tracks, staring, his mouth parts slightly
agape, and murmured in a shocked voice, "T'Fees!"
     Chad gave Benita a quick look. They had heard much about T'Fees. His being here, at this time, with
this number of quite large and able-looking Pistach did not bode well for their mission.
     T'Fees spoke. Chiddy spoke. Vess murmured to the humans:
     "T'Fees is telling him not to be frightened, he intends no harm. Chiddy is asking if T'Fees will respect
your status as visitors to whom hospitality is due. T'Fees says he is a rebel, not a barbarian, of course he
will.”
     T'Fees came forward and bowed, announcing his name, which sounded just as Chiddy had said it,
Tuh-FEEZ. Without prompting, Chad pronounced Benita's name, gesturing toward her, then introduced
Carlos, then himself. As the highest caste among the three, this was proper etiquette, according to
instructions before landing, given by Vess, who now suggested they bow, which they did, Chad dragging
Carlos down by the arm.
     T'Fees spoke, evidently questioning. Vess said he asked what the humans hoped to see while on
Pistach.
     Chad said they hoped to see the Fresco and the people of Pistach-home.
     T'Fees spoke again, at length, and Chiddy turned pale. Pallor among the Pistach was a very light and
sickish sort of green and was quite unmistakable. Chiddy was shaken.
     "What?" Benita demanded of Vess.
     "He says it is a good time for you to see the Fresco, for he and his people have come to clean it!"
     Benita looked helplessly at Chad and he at her. At first it meant nothing to either of them, but then
the words fresco and cleaning clicked in Benita's mind, reminding her of how Chiddy had reacted when
she had spoken of cleaning the Sistine Chapel, removing, in the process, interpolations that Michelangelo
had never put there.
     She whispered to Chad, telling him about it. "Chiddy turned quite pale at the time. Could this
threatened cleaning bode something similar? Some unexpected change?"
     "How long," Chad murmured to Vess, "since the Fresco has been cleaned?"
     "It has never been cleaned," he gargled, looking down toward his lower appendages. "It is too holy to
clean.”
     "And do the people light candles before it?" Benita asked, still with the Sistine Chapel in mind.
     "Oh," he moaned. "Yes. Yes. Quiria of candles, veritable jecaloms of candles, over ocalecs and
ocalecs of years.”
     Chad didn't get it. He bent toward her, and she whispered again. He straightened up, looking stern. "If
it cleans up saying something different than they've always thought . . . ?"
      "Chiddy and Vess evidently think something like that could happen," Benita muttered. "Remember
the fuss over the Dead Sea Scrolls? There was all that secrecy and tabooing, remember? Because the
orthodox religions were scared to death the scrolls might say something contrary to accepted theology!"
      "I remember," he muttered out of the side of his mouth. "It might be taken as a desecration.
Remember what happened to Indira Gandhi after the attack on the Sikh Temple. And all the recent
Moslem-Hindu riots . . .”
      "I know," she murmured.
      T'Fees spoke again. Chiddy approached him, and the two of them moved away, talking together.
Vess told the humans to stay where they were, beside the ship, as details of the visit were being worked
out, then he went to join the discussion. Carlos had been standing mulishly between Chad and Benita,
thus far silent but glowering with evident distaste at everyone and everything.
      "I'm not going to waste my time standing around here," he muttered at his mother. "All these bugs
can just stuff it.”
      Chad turned toward him, saying almost in a whisper, "The big one is a rebel, Carlos. The other big
ones are soldiers. I'm sure they have weapons. If you do something out of hand, they will probably kill
you.”
      Carlos tried to sneer, swiveling his eyes between Benita and Chad. Though Benita saw no reason for
T'Fees to kill him, she knew the temptation. "He's right, Carlos. If we play it cool, nobody gets hurt and
we'll be going home in a few days.” She swallowed, hoping she was right.
      "All this is your fault," he snarled angrily. "If you hadn't gotten me mixed up in this, I wouldn't even
be here.”
      Benita moved to put herself between Carlos and the multitude, keeping her voice low. "Carlos, listen.
We're not in control here. The people in control are the people you're getting ready to insult. You can be
charming when you choose to be. It would be a good idea to be charming now.”
      "Or what?" he growled.
      Chad said quietly, over her shoulder, "When we return, those of us on this trip will be very important
people. The TV shows will be bidding for us. The publishers will want to ghostwrite books for us. If
you're smart, if you play it right and get in good with these people, you'll end up making a lot of money.”
      Carlos's face slowly changed, and Benita kept her face perfectly empty. Why hadn't she thought of
that? Being a VIP would suit Carlos to a tee. Couple that with money, and it would be his idea of
paradise! Being important, being first in line, had been on Carlo's agenda since he learned to walk and
talk.
      Benita turned her face away to hide her expression. Chad reached out and squeezed her hand.
      Chiddy and Vess returned. The welcoming party gathered around the tall figure of T’Fees and then
they strolled off, in no particular order.
      "We have gained some time," said Chiddy, drawing Benita away from Carlos and Chad. "One has
told them of the predators, of your son's capture, of your fear for his life. One has begged tolerance for his
lack of manners, saying that time is needed for balance, for regaining equanimity. Please, Benita, may one
speak to you sincerely?"
      She nodded. He took her a step or two farther from the others and said, "T'Fees notwithstanding,
Benita, one can help you with your boy, if you like.”
      "What do you mean?"
      "One's hearing is keen. One heard his comments and saw his comportment. Such a demeanor is
injudicious at this juncture.”
     "That's true," she admitted. "But he's still frightened. We gave him no time to get his balance after
you saved him from the Fluiquosm.”
     "One knows. So one offers a way of re-balancing. It's a kind of therapy. A way of changing
behaviors. It does work. Would you like one to try?"
     She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say, he's broken, fix him. She couldn't. Suppose it made him
happier? Suppose it made him a nicer person? Perhaps he enjoyed being unhappy, some people did.
Perhaps he chose to be miserable! She shook her head, whispering, "Not just yet, Chiddy. Give him a
chance on his own . . .”
     "One understands, dear Benita. Individuality is very important to your people. Vess and I have seen
that some humans think of their pain as their own, whereas they think of happiness as something they
should have been given and did not receive. They do not know that happiness comes from within. They
rant at the world for not providing it while they keep it from ever emerging. Your son would rather play
tragedy than comedy. It is an individual choice.”
     She wiped her eyes surreptitiously. "I do feel guilty. I should have controlled it, Chiddy. If I had
married someone else, if I had not been impetuous, if I had waited until my judgment was better, maybe
he wouldn't be like this. It makes me sorrowful.”
     "Ha. And would some other choice have produced some other result? Perhaps not. Your son would
not have been like this, true. Also, he would not have been this son. Another son could have been happier
only if this one had not existed. This argument is futile and silly. We will not discuss it further.”
     She flushed and nodded.
     Chiddy said, "This idea of cleaning of the Fresco is more dangerous than I can say. If we had known
T'Fees was here, we would not have brought your son with us. Now, Carlos is, as you say, a loose cannon,
and we cannot risk his crashing about. Will you allow me to give him a slight euphoric? One that will
keep him happy and quiet?"
     "Of course, Chiddy. I don't want him to upset things. He just seemed to be so ... useless, and it hurts!"
     Chiddy patted her arm. "Don't be so sure he is useless. The Pistach have a little saying: 'Goff requos
bemin pequos.' From this shit may verdure come. All kinds of people turn out to have a use.” He patted
her again. "Enough of sadness. Welcome awaits at the guest house of the Cavita family.”
     The house was small and elegant. It reminded Benita of pictures she had seen of Japanese houses:
sliding screens instead of walls, simple surfaces, beautifully finished, only necessary furniture, a few
storage chests, a few mats. Obviously the Pistach did not use chairs, but they did have slanting boards
they could lean their ventral sides on, leaving their arms free on each side. There were three sleeping
areas, separable each from the others, with soft mats on the floors, and each human adopted one, putting
their belongings on the simple chests.
     The sanitary arrangements were out back, so to speak, except for the bath, an anteroom leading to a
tiled booth with nozzles in every direction. A carved chest in the anteroom attracted Benita's attention,
and without thinking she opened the lid. Something flew out of the chest and covered her, crawling under
her clothing, into every seam and crease of her body. She screamed, and things crawled into her mouth.
She gurgled, hearing the rattle of Chiddy's feet on the floor.
     Chiddy whistled, and the stuff came off her, rushing back into the box. It was . . . insects. Beetles or
something. She leaned against the wall, shuddering. "What . . . what . . .”
     "So very sorry," said Chiddy, his mouth parts shivering. "Oh, so very sorry. The iglak was supposed
to be removed. I told them twice. Remove the iglak.”
     "What in hell is it?" asked Chad, standing wide-eyed behind him.
     "They," said Chiddy. "A small life form that lives on the shed skin of other life forms. You have dust
mites, too small to see. We have iglak, necessary to get under the carapace and around all the joints where
water may not take away the soil. We open the box, they come out and go all over us, eating every dead
flake of integument, then we whistle and they go back to the box, then we shower in water. Oh, I am so
sorry you were frightened, dear Benita.”
     He left her there, and she took the opportunity to undress and shake her clothing. The iglak had all
gone, but she still felt itchy. She put her clothes in a cabinet, stepped into the booth and turned on the
water, if it was water. When she turned it off, it dried, almost at once, no towels needed. She realized for
the first time that the Pistach were far lighter than water. They would float in a tub.
     That evening, several members of the family came to the house to wish the visitors well. They stayed
only briefly except for Chiddy's nootch, Varsi, who lingered to talk with Benita through her own
translation device. She was very proud of Chiddy, Benita heard it in every word she said. "Ai has gone
far," ke said. "Ai is the best one I have nootched, ever. Needed so little, ke did! Only a word, now and
then. No sleep teaching. No removals of bad traits.”
     "You can remove bad traits?"
     "Some. If they have not gone too deep. Nootchi in your race cannot do this?"
     "Regrettably, no. I wish we could.”
     Benita was so touched by Varsi that she gave her the scarf from her own outfit, a red one, knowing
this color could be worn by a second-level Pistach.
     Each Pistach who came brought something pleasant to eat or drink. As the evening wore on, Benita
guessed that Chiddy had spiked Carlos's tea with the proposed euphoric, for he became mild and
mannerly, even seeming to be interested in what was going on.
     "Are those iglak things trained?" he asked Chiddy. "I mean, do you train them to answer the whistle
that way?"
     Chiddy made his negative gesture, his half headshake, half lowered shoulder. "It is the sound their
nootchi make, from the nest, recalling the workers. The box is their nest. Inside it is very complicated,
with many chambers. Are you interested in such things?"
     Carlos nodded. "I was just thinking, that'd go over great on Earth. At a spa, like. You'd have to have a
cabinet that left people's heads out, though.”
     Chiddy said thoughtfully, "You may be right. They are very easy to breed and control. Perhaps we
will attempt to export them.”
     Vess announced that they were invited to the House of the Fresco on the following morning, to see
the cleaning, which was likely to take all day.
     "You're terribly worried about it," Benita said to Chiddy. "Aren't you?"
     "I have reason to believe," he murmured, "that the actual paintings may differ in details from what we
have learned of the content.”
     "Would this be a tragedy? Which takes precedence, your teachings, or the content of the Fresco?"
     "Ah, Benita. I have asked myself that question, over and over. The Fresco has given us legitimacy,
the way your holy scriptures give you legitimacy. How often have I heard your legislators quoting
Scripture to prove almost anything. I have heard your people speak of 'two millennia of tradition’ or even,
'four millennia of culture.' Unlike your Scripture, the Fresco does not govern our belief about the universe,
for Aiton is Aiton, no matter what being paints what or what writer writes what or what philosopher says
what. In the nebulae, in the clusters, in the spaces between the galaxies, no matter what persons think,
Aiton is still Aiton.
     "But, the Fresco does define our belief about ourselves and our worlds. Your Scripture defines men
and women as unique children of God and it defines the world as the center of God's attention. Because of
your Scripture, you behave as though that is true, unfortunately from our point of view, for it leads you to
destructive, hurtful excesses. Our Fresco defines us as a people who amend other worlds and bring them
to peace, but I confess, we are that people only because the Fresco says so.”
     Chad said, "I'm a student of languages, and in our world, seminal works of ethics are almost always
written. In fact, I know of no culture in which moralities are conveyed by picture, though certainly many
histories are memorialized in that way. What is it that makes you so concerned?"
     Chiddy came close and confided in them, telling them all about the dropped cleaning rag and the flap
that followed. He told them about Glumshalak and the Compendium. He told them how the Chapter had
refused to look any deeper at the Fresco itself.
     "How far back does the cleaning taboo go?" Chad asked.
     "To the time of Glumshalak," Chiddy said. "It was that athyco who forbade us to fiddle with the
Fresco evermore. We have always believed that Glumshalak considered the possibility the Fresco might
be changed by some political or tribal faction to gain power for themselves, and so ai forbade it.”
     Chad nodded, asked a few more questions, and looked exceeding thoughtful.
     "Do you understand what's going on?" Benita asked him when they were alone.
     "You reminded me about the Dead Sea Scrolls. The reason there was such a tizzy was that many
religious groups really don't worship God, they worship the Scriptures. Christians, Jews, they both do it.
So do the Moslems. Even though the commandment says 'You shall have no other God before me,' the
Scripture worshippers put the writings ahead of God. Instead of interpreting God's actions in nature, for
example, they interpret nature in the light of the Scripture. Nature says the rock is billions of years old,
but the book says different, so even though men wrote the book, and God make the rock and God gave us
minds that have found ways to tell how old it is, we still choose to believe the Scripture.
     "The Pistach could be like that. Totally governed by what's on that wall.”
     "That's a happy thought," said Benita, finding it anything but. If anything, the discussion amplified
the atmosphere of pending danger, one sufficiently disturbing that none of them, except for Carlos, slept
really well that night.
     In the morning they were given a meal of tea and a fruit that looked like a spherical, faceted eggplant
and tasted like nothing they had ever tasted before. Rhubarb, maybe, Benita suggested. Chad thought
sweetened asparagus. Carlos merely smiled and ate it without complaint. Even as they climbed the stairs
to the House of the Fresco, Carlos had a smile on his face and was humming under his breath. The
stairway was wide and gracefully curved, with flowers growing along the edges of the terraces and flat
areas where Pistach gathered and sang. Their singing, Benita thought, was like an evening chorus of
crickets and night birds and frogs, repetitive and soothing and, after a time, so subliminal as to be totally
disregarded. The House at the top of the stairs rose in a lovely domed line, like the breast of a young girl.
They went through the center one of three bronze doors.
     She had expected dirtiness, dark colors, ominous shadings something akin to the look of the Sistine
Chapel murals before they were cleaned, but it was far worse than she had imagined. The room was lofty,
well proportioned and clean, but the painted panels were only dark smears, shapes barely discernable
through a varnish of soot. Above the Fresco was a narrow circular gallery on which a number of Pistach
were gathered. Though she wasn't sure what old age looked like among the Pistach, she got the immediate
impression that these were very old ones. Perhaps it was the way Chiddy and Vess bowed to them and
walked with their eyes down beneath the gaze of those above.
     The humans were led to the center of the room, to the "Ground of Canthorel," a plot of fragrant leafed
plants where a bench had been provided for them.
     "The plants are actually grown in a greenhouse," whispered Vess. "They bring in fresh ones each
morning, take the bottoms off the pots so the roots can actually touch the Ground of Canthorel, which is
where his ashes were spread, thus sanctifying the plants. Visitors nip off a leaf as a remembrance. There'd
be nothing left unless they put new ones in each day.”
     Several Pistach carrying buckets and mops were gathered between the center door and the one to the
right, and a tall Pistach in blue apron and hood (a curator, they were told) stood behind a lectern. Benita
thought he looked nervous, though she couldn't tell why she thought so until she noticed the tiny fringy
bits around his mouth trembling, as though he had Parkinson's disease. T’Fees emerged from the group
with the mops and signaled the curator, who began to read. Chiddy, beside her, translated.
     "Panel number one," he said. "The Meeting. This panel portrays the welcoming of Mengantowhai by
the Jaupati. We see the ship in the background, and in the foreground several of the Jaupati, gazing with
wonder at the great vessel. In the middle distance, we see Mengantowhai approaching, carrying his staff.
Stepping forward from among the Jaupati is the person of Bendangiwees, leader of the Jaupati and first
friend of the Pistach. To the rear, right, we see three amorphous figures assaulting wine jars. This is a
teaching against drunkenness.”
     At this point in the reading, T’Fees shouted a command, and his minions began sloshing liquid over
the amber/ocher haze that hid the subject matter. As the curator went on with the details of commentary,
the liquid ran down the wall, carrying the soot away, disclosing the bright colors of the wall. Runnels of
dark cleanser gathered on the floor to be sponged up by the cleaners and squeezed into empty buckets.
Again and again the mops stroked fresh cleanser across the panel between the doors, and the cleaning
Pistach moved back and forth, taking buckets away and bringing new ones.
     On the gallery, the old Pistach murmured among themselves, sometimes crying out in feeble voices.
Benita saw them point and shiver and point again, as though they saw some great disaster they were
impotent to avert.
     Since the cleaners worked from the top down, the first part of the picture to emerge was an expanse
of bluish violet sky. The ship emerged next, coming out of the sooty haze as a great lumpy thing with
what looked like gun turrets all over it. Next was Mengantowhai, a strong, stern-looking Pistach carrying .
. . well, the curator had called it a staff, but it was obviously a weapon. The huddled things in the middle
right background were not wine jars or any kind of vessels, but people, presumably Jaupati, who were
being beaten by uniformed Pistach.
     Finally, they saw the foreground Jaupati emerge from the veil, a furry people rather like large six-
legged cats. Their mobile faces showed expressions of terror and loathing of the Pistach. Their gestures
were aversive, and their leader, Bendangiwees, thrust out his four-fingered forehands, warningly.
     "Look at it, curator!" called T'Fees, when the last of the mopping and sponging had been done. "What
does it show?"
     "As I said," the curator intoned, his voice shaking only slightly. "It shows Mengantowhai’s first
meeting with the Jaupati. The Jaupati were afraid, at first, but this emotion was soon replaced with
gratitude.”
     "And the ones being beaten?"
     "Probably . . . criminals. People . . . who had attempted to disrupt the order of the meeting ceremony .
. .”
     "Or perhaps simple citizens who didn't get out of the way fast enough," trumpeted T'Fees. "Second
panel! Read, curator!"
     The curator looked at the page before him, hesitantly, letting his eyes drift upward to the aged Pistach
on the gallery.
     "Read!" demanded T'Fees again.
     He read.
     "The Descent of the Steadfast Docents. We see the docents descending into the society of the Jaupati,
spreading throughout their society in order to civilize them and make them orderly. . . .”
     This time the sloshing was done more quickly, the wiping away more efficiently. This panel was not
crowded between bronze pillars, more cleaners could work at once, and they were falling into the routine
of it. Everyone saw armored figures moving out from the ship, crushing any who stood in their path. In
the picture, one of the Pistach carried a lance with a Jaupati head on it, and when he saw this, Chiddy
stopped translating. He was shaking. The Pistach do not weep outwardly, Benita knew, but something
very similar was going on with him.
      "Third panel," cried T'Fees. "Read!"
      "The Uniting of the Tribes," read the curator. "Seeing the peaceful Pistach willing to help them, the
tribes voluntarily gave up their independence to join into a union . . .”
      On the wall, they saw the tribes united, by force, and marched off into the next three panels, Peaceful
Work, Civilization and The Offerings, where they saw slaves laboring for the Pistach to build mighty
monuments and estates and finally a great palace. The Offerings was panel number six, and it purported to
show the voluntary offerings of the Jaupati to King Mengantowhai at the time of his crowning. It was,
however, the Jaupati who were being offered up, and in panel seven, The Adoration, the Jaupati were
being slain at Mengantowhai's feet. Among the slain was the leader Bendangiwees, and dragged along to
observe his murder was his obviously pregnant mate.
      Panel eight was the Birth of Kasiwees. The mother was the same female as in the preceding panel
(the Jaupati had distinctive skin markings that enabled one to identify individuals). When the soot was
removed, they saw the gifts brought to the child by his family, many types of blades and weapons, sharp
edges to turn against the conquerors who had murdered his father. Panel nine, The Evangelism of
Kasiwees, could have been better named the Vengeance of Kasiwees, for it showed the young Kasiwees
raising up a rebel force under a banner bearing the word UmaPokoti, or Avengers.
      'We were told the Pokoti were another people entirely," whispered Chiddy in a depressed and
horrified voice. "We have been taught they were envious of the peaceful Jaupati.”
      "It looks like to me they were simply fighting against invaders," said Chad. "But that was centuries
ago. Many races begin as warlike.”
      Chiddy was not comforted. And so it went through panels showing the kidnapping of Mengantowhai,
the rescue of Mengantowhai by Canthorel, the reprimands given to Mengantowhai by several of his own
aged athyci who told him slavery and murder were wrong. It was impossible to misunderstand the panels,
for many of them contained written quotations of those pictured.
      In Panel fourteen, The Fearful Faithless, the abolitionists left the planet at the head of a schism that
erupted over the question of slavery. The teaching of the panel had always been that these were traitorous
Pistach, afraid of the Pokoti. In Panel fifteen, The Blessing of Cantborel, which was supposed to show
Mengantowhai's work affirmed and blessed by Canthorel, it actually showed him confessing to Canthorel
that he had underestimated the Jaupati's desire for freedom, that more force and greater atrocities would
be needed to put down the rebellion. This was clearly conveyed by a transcript of their conversation
written down the sides of the panel, no interpretation needed. In panel sixteen, Departure of Cantborel,
Canthorel left the planet after telling the Jaupati they had been greatly wronged. And, in the final panel,
between the left and center doors, the one called the Martyrdom o/ Kasiwees, they saw Kasiwees being
murdered yes, but by Mengantowhai himself. Around Kasiwees were scattered the stones and arrows of
his battle, and he held a long dagger in his hand. In the upper left, they could see the last of the Pistach
flying away, and in the middle foreground stood a device easily identifiable as a planet stripper, one that
would destroy all life upon the Jaupati world.
      This was the story Canthorel had painted in the House of the Fresco. No matter how one looked at it,
it was an accusation and a warning. It said as clearly as paint could say, "Woe and Tribulation, this is an
offense before the universe, do not do this again!"

Revelation
   The curator had long since given up reading the orthodox version. The room was as hushed as a
tomb. Only T'Fees trumpeted on, "You see, you see, you damned interfering blobs of worthless guts! You
had no right! You have no right! Pistach peace is based on a lie!"
     He threw open the bronze door and stormed out into the light of a bloody sunset, his minions behind
him, leaving the observers among the guttering candles.
     "I'm hungry," said Carlos.
     Vess rose, saying in a toneless voice, "I'll take you back to the guest house. There'll be food there.”
They went out, soundlessly.
     Benita stood wearily and turned, looking upward at the gallery. Many of the old Pistach still leaned
upon the railing, their normally bright green, yellow, and red-colored bodies pale.
     "They had no idea, did they?" Benita asked, almost whispering.
     Chiddy did the little rotation of the upper body that passed for a negative headshake. "We thought . . .
we knew some things would be different. We thought they would be matters of interpretation. A wine jar
versus another kind of vessel. A springtime symbol versus an autumnal one. But not this. None of us
thought this.” He made the sound of Pistach laughter, harshly rasping.
     "Benita, athyci give sermon cycles at the great festivals, seventeen sermons on seventeen days, to
accord with the number of panels, one sermon on each panel subject. I have done it myself. I have quoted
Glumshalak's Commentaries to explain why we do what we do. And now . . . now, what can I base my
beliefs upon?"
     He turned and walked sadly toward the door. She started to follow him, but then detoured to her left,
toward panel thirteen. Something had been bothering her about the panel in which Mengantowhai was
reprimanded by his athyci. The counselors were gathered beneath a tree that had a few bare branches but
was mostly leafy, with both blossoms and fruit. There were words along the bottom of the panel. She took
out her little notepad and copied the words down, being thankful Pistach lettering was phonetic, not
ideographic.
     She noticed there was a similar tree in the panel to the left, The Rescue, in which Mengantowhai was
rescued from the Pokoti. It was the same tree, same number of branches, same shape of trunk, but this tree
was completely dead. She turned to the right, to panel fourteen, The Fearful Faithless. The same tree was
there as well, partly alive.
     "Chad," she called. "Come look.”
     He came over and they walked back, counterclockwise, around the House of the Fresco. Every single
panel had the same tree in it, either dead or leafing out, or in flower or fruit.
     "The two growing trees are in panels where Pistach people disdained Mengantowhai," she said.
     Chad murmured, "And they were painted after the rest of the Fresco. See, the overlap here? You can
see what was painted underneath. That's why most of the trees are small, they're fitted into whatever
vacant space was left.”
     They had come to the first panel, and even there they found a tree. Chad shrugged and she returned
the gesture. It was interesting, but they didn't know what it meant, if anything. They went out onto the
terrace where Chiddy waited in morose silence.
     "What does a fruiting tree symbolize?" she asked.
     Chiddy looked at her, sighing. "Well, it's a sign of fruition, of course. Of something long in growth
that has ripened. Like a head of grain. Or a pomego, like the ones you had for breakfast.”
     "Is that an accepted meaning among Pistach?"
     "Oh, yes. The Pistach revere edible fruit. They regard it as a great gift. The fruiting tree is carved on
some of our most ancient monuments, some that go back long before the House of the Fresco was built.”
     They went back to the guest house, to an evening meal that none of them tasted, and then to another
restless night. Sometime in the dark house, Benita got up to find Chad wandering about, at loose ends, as
she was. They went out into the dark drenched garden, following the firefly glow of tiny lanterns to a
bench that had been put there for them, one of the Pistach leaning boards laid across two stones to make it
flat and low enough to sit on.
      "You know what I think," she said to Chad. “I think that historian, Glumshalak, purposely changed
the Fresco in his Compendium, diametrically changed it. And he forbid the Pistach to clean the Fresco so
they'd never know.”
      "Why would he have done that?"
      "Do you ever go to church, Chad?"
      "Not often. My parents were Methodists, at least at Christmas and Easter. Merilu was reared
Episcopalian, but that was more a social thing with her parents than it was religious.”
      "My mother was Catholic for weddings and burials and funerals. At other times she was a pagan I
guess. She believed in spirits of the trees and mountains and rivers, not that they would do anything for
her, rather that she should be protective of them. Her father was a history professor, in Mexico. He wrote
several books about the bloody gods of Mexico, and she read them all. When I was a kid, Mami told me
the Mexican gods weren't the only bloody ones, and we should never serve gods that had been invented to
take the blame for everything bloody, painful, primitive and unenlightened that people wanted to do. Why
did we Israelites kill every man, woman, child and beast in that city? Why, the Lord Jehovah commanded
it. Why do we Spaniards steal food from these Indian people, and mutilate them, and use them as slaves?
Why, we do it so they will love Christ! Why do we Aztecs torture and sacrifice people? Huitzilopotchli
demands it!
      "Whether it was the Israelites invading Canaan or the Spanish invading the Southwest, or one
Mexican tribe warring against another, the answer was always the same. We enslave and torture and
mutilate and kill in the name of our god.
      "My grandfather said people who can learn, learn morality the way they learn everything else, by
building on history. He also said that some people cannot learn from history, so they cannot change. For
them, there's only one book or tradition or whatever it's called in their religion, and in that book God is
eternal and whatever the book says God commanded two or three or four thousand years ago, God still
commands today. That may be kill homosexuals or kill nonbelievers. It may say enslave your enemies. It
may say mutilate or sequester women, or sell your ten-year-old daughter for somebody's third wife.
      "But suppose back in A.D. two or three hundred, we had had a Glumshalak, and he had blanked out
all the Old Testament. Suppose he had written a commentary that purported to tell us what was in the
book, but the book itself was eliminated. Suppose the commentary was devoted to tolerance and
persuasion, suppose it forbade violence. We wouldn't have a god who kicked Adam and Eve out of the
garden for intellectual curiosity, or the destruction of the whole world by flood, or the slaughtering of
innocents right and left. The commentary would tell us about a God who triumphed through peace and
paying attention to history instead of bloodshed and horror.”
      "You think we'd have sweetness and light?" asked Chad.
      "Maybe, if there was no bloody scripture for the evangelists to quote.”
      "It would make a big dent in self-righteousness, but it wouldn't change human nature.”
      "It might not change human nature, but it would eliminate a whole set of alibis. I think that's what
Glumshalak did. He didn't want his people to be bound by the cruelty and violence in their history. He
wanted his people to believe they were good. So he destroyed all the records that said what was really
there . . .”
      "How do you know?"
      "He had to have done, otherwise they'd have turned up before now. He certainly didn't repaint the
Fresco, he didn't have the talent. That's obvious. He forbade anybody cleaning the Fresco, and he wrote
down what he thought should have been there. I think Glumshalak's commentary made the Pistach the
people they are. A good people. Not perfect, but good, because they've been selecting toward goodness
for generations and generations. When the president told me not to let anything interfere with their
coming back and finishing the job, he was saying that they're a good people.”
     "You think the Pistach won't go back to Earth?"
     "You heard T'Fees. I think this throws their whole interventionist policy into the toilet and leaves us
at the mercy of the Fluiquosm, the Wulivery, the Xankatikitiki and the American Congress.” Her voice
shook a little as she remembered the Wulivery and Morse trying to devour her. Not a good experience,
either of them.
     "I hadn't thought that far," he said in a hollow voice. "There's a problem," she said. "You haven't been
around the Pistach as much as I have, but one thing is very clear to me and it frightens me. They're
selected for their jobs, and when one of them is selected to do a certain specific job, that one has little or
none of the flexibility a generalist would bring to the same job. The Pistach pretty much go by the book.”
     "By the Fresco.”
     "Right.”
     He sighed. "What's the significance of the tree?"
     "Just what Chiddy said: fruition, growth, change. In our Bible, Jesus says you know trees by their
fruits. I think Glumshalak realized someday people might clean that Fresco. He put the trees there, to
indicate why he was doing what he was doing, showing what incidents were deadly and which ones were
fruitful, coding the history they should put behind them, in order that they might grow up and bear good
fruit.”
     She leaned wearily on his shoulder and he put his arm around her. They sat there, deep in thought,
sharing their mutual humanity in a place far, far from home.
     "Oh, that's really nice," said a sarcastic voice behind them. Carlos.
     She got up without haste and turned to face him. "We think there's a tragedy coming, Carlos. Human
companionship helps when contemplating tragedy.”
     "What tragedy?"
     "The possibility that the Pistach may not return to Earth.”
     "So long as they get me home, I should give a shit?" he commented.
     "You know," said Chad, in a conversational voice, "I really don't like your son, Benita.”
     "I know," she said, looking into Carlos's surprised face. "I don't like him either.”
     "What d' you . . .” Carlos gargled. "You're still . . .”
     "Go to bed, Carlos," said Chiddy, from the open door.
     Carlos made a threatening move, there was a spark, and he fell down. Chiddy said, "The euphoric
wore off. His manner is partly a reaction to that fact. Put him in the ship, in the cubby.” He came to the
bench. "I've been listening.”
     "We were talking about the Bible," Benita said, her voice trembling a little. Her first instinct had been
to go to Carlos, then to yell at Chiddy for hurting him, even though she knew Chiddy hadn't hurt him. The
Pistach lugging him away weren't hurting him either. "What did you do to him?"
     "Silenced him for the moment," said Chiddy. "It's something we do with our own children
occasionally. Shut their bodies down to let their minds calm themselves. I don't have time to deal with
him now. Neither do you.”
     "What's going on?" asked Chad.
     "The Chapter have been meeting. They are adrift. They lack any sense of direction. I wish you could
come talk to them, dear Benita, but they won't listen to a nootch! Oh, if only you could say to them what I
have just heard you saying . . .”
     "Then tell them I am an athyco in disguise," she said. "Hell, tell them we're both athyci. Appointed by
our government to assess the help you're giving us!"
     "They have already seen," he said. "Your clothing. Your manner. It ... they wouldn't accept it. I can
tell which way the decision is going. I came tonight, because if I wait for morning, they will have decided
I may not return to Earth at all. They will have decided on nonintervention. They will forget Tassifoduma.
There is something base in each of us, something we keep hidden and quiet. Now it will bubble up, like
tar in a pit, and people will say to themselves, well, we are something other than we thought. We are
violent, we are conquerors. We will return to the time of weapons, the time of disorder, the time of
slavery. They are already saying that is what we are, and we can't fight what we are!"
     "What you are is what you choose to be," Benita cried.
     He choked with bitter laughter. "Oh, Benita, even as tiny ones, we are taught not to choose, not to
want. Choosing is not what we do.”
     She fumbled about for a reason, finally suggesting, "But you have to take us back, Chiddy!"
     "I know. That's what I'm saying. I have to take you back.”
     "And you have to stay on Earth a while . . .”
     "No, I must return at once. They won't let…"
     "The Inkleozese! They're still on Earth, awaiting the emergence of their larvae! They have no
spaceships. You have to wait and bring them back. Otherwise you're intervening, aren't you?"
     "This is true," he said haltingly. "I had forgotten the Inkleozese.”
     "And Vess has to come with you, just in case something goes wrong.” Over Chiddy's shoulder she
saw T'Fees approaching.
     "A little redundancy," said Chad. "Every venture requires a little redundancy. She's right.”
     T'Fees came within hearing distance. "What are you discussing?"
     "Benita says we have to go back and pick up the Inkleozese," said Chiddy. "We really are committed
to doing so.”
     "Benita is correct," said T'Fees, after a moment's thought. "But we will insist upon holding a hostage,
just to be sure Chiddy and Vess return to their home!"
     The large Pistach came closer, peering into Benita's face. "It is true that you must be returned to your
homes and the Inkleozese must be fetched, but now that we have proved Pistach interventionism to be
non-historic, we have no intention of letting it start up again.”
     "What do you mean, hostage?" she asked.
     "We will keep your son," said T'Fees. "He is not essential to anything, so far as we can see. We will
hold him here until Chiddy and Vess return. Then we will send him home by some other means. A
Credon ship can be paid to take him as a passenger.”
     "They won't hurt him," murmured Chiddy, close to Benita's ear. "Really.”
     "I know," she murmured in return. "But he'll try their patience severely.”
     "One will ask to'eros nootch to see to your son's welfare," said Chiddy. "All nootchi have the power
of silencing children.”
     She turned and went into the room where Carlos had been deposited on a sleeping mat. His face was
peaceful, like a child's. She had not seen that expression in a long, long time. For several years now,
whenever she'd seen him awake, she had seen only discontent and rancor. There was no reason not to
leave him. Missing school was no reason. According to Angelica, he'd been cutting classes. Relationships
was no reason. Miss Bigg was no longer interested.
     She sighed, wiped her eyes, and returned to Chiddy. "Let him stay here if it will help matters," she
said.
     Their preparations for departure were sketchy and urgent. Vess came scrambling through the
shadows, Chad and Benita took their little bags and plodded toward the ship, T'Fees following closely
behind them with several of his burlier rebels.
     As they started to board the ship, T'Fees grasped Benita by the shoulder and turned her to face it.
Him. Ter. She didn't know what it was or how to refer to it.
     "We know how long the Inkleozese take to pupate," T'Fees said. "Do not keep Chiddy and Vess past
that time, or your son will be worse for it.”
     "Would you hurt him, T'Fees?" she asked, gently. "Would you really?"
     For a moment, it looked startled, as though it had not thought what it would do. Then it looked crafty.
"You have seen on the Fresco what we are capable of.”
     Two of T'Fees's aides handed Carlos out like a bale of fiber. Chad and Benita got into the ship. With
a sound that was suspiciously like a sob, Chiddy closed the portholes and started them on their journey
home.

Benita—TUESDAY WEEK
     Shortly after they left Pistach-home, Chiddy offered Chad and Benita the sedative food and drink
they had taken during the trip from Earth. Both refused.
     "We have a lot of thinking to do," Benita said. "You and Vess are obviously upset,- I know our
president is going to be very upset. I wouldn't feel I had done my utmost unless Chad and I had talked this
matter over from end to end. Somehow, someone must come up with some way to prevent tragedy from
happening to your people and ours!"
     Chiddy didn't reply. Instead he went over to Vess, who was dithering about in an agitated manner.
Chiddy put his hand on Vess's upper thorax, and the two of them simply stood there, unmoving, saying
nothing, as though they had separated from the reality of now.
     Chad whispered, "They don't learn how to cope with unique challenges in their own lives. They only
learn the systems, and how to make the systems work.”
     "They have that saying, emergencies make their own rules.”
     "Even so, the rules will be things they've done before, though perhaps in a different context.” He
raised his voice. "I wish to hell I had something written about the Pistach people. Something that would
give me some insight . . .”
     Chiddy heard him and turned toward the two humans. He did it jerkily, reluctantly. "One . . . well,
one has a journal that one began when one first talked with Benita. In it one has expressed thoughts and
feelings about humankind and Pistach. One cannot say if these ideas are representative of Pistach people
as a whole, but if you think they would help . . .”
     "Oh, yes," Benita cried. "Do let us see it, Chiddy. Or ... is it written in Pistach?"
     He made the expression she had grown to know as a smile, rather than as an expression of dismay or
threat. "Oh, no, dearest Benita. One wrote it for you, so certainly it was written in a language you can
understand. Otherwise one would be a mythologizer, a mystifier, no? Making mystic marks on sheets of
precious metal or scribbling prophecies in languages long forgotten, to make oneself feel arcane and
esoteric! If it is important to communicate, one does so in the language of the people.”
     "Some fairly important religious messages have had to be deciphered on Earth," Chad muttered.
     "Nothing prevents a mythologizer from discovering a truth," Chiddy said sadly, "or from
misrepresenting it once he has done so, but one has always thought to find real truth emanating from
many sources, written in multiple places, so to speak. Why would a communicator choose to speak or
write a truth in only one place, in a language people could not understand?"
     Chad cocked his head as Benita had seen him do when he was getting ready to debate a point,
something he much enjoyed. "All that doesn't matter," Benita interrupted hastily. "You wanted something
written, Chiddy has something written. So let's read it.”
     "One . . . wasn't going to give it to you until your people had qualified for membership in the
Confederation," Chiddy confessed. "Strictly speaking, one shouldn't be giving it to you at all, now.
Nonmembers are not supposed to receive much information about the peoples of the Confederation, but . .
. considering the way things are . . .”
     He sighed heavily, the gill covers under his thorax plates fluttering in a soft chatter, like a winter
wind moving through a last few dried leaves at the tip of a branch. Chiddy fetched a folder out of a
cupboard and gave it to Chad, who sat down next to Benita to read it. The individual pages looked like
handmade paper, and though the writing was a perfectly legible English cursive, it was somewhat crabbed
and the spelling, though quite accurate phonetically, was highly original. Accordingly, the reading went
slowly, and Chad and Benita grew quieter and quieter as they read on.
     Chiddy's journal made it clear why membership in the Confederation was important. They could not
join without Tassifoduma, and if Earth didn't get to that point, it was at the mercy of the predators. Not
only the Wulivery, the Xankatikitiki and the Fluiquosm, but dozens of others, also, who lived farther
toward the center of the galaxy but who would undoubtedly make the trip for such a very, very rich
hunting ground.
     "Remember the meeting before we left for Pistach," Benita whispered to Chad, while Chiddy was
concentrating on his dials and buttons, "when the president told me that it was of the utmost importance
the envoys continue their work. He said most of the world leaders, the responsible ones, anyway, were
agreed that this firm, outside pressure was bringing the positive changes no one had been able to bring
about in the past.”
     Chad murmured, "I was also told, confidentially, that in an environmental sense, even the predators
were working to our eventual advantage. Habitat destruction is way, way down and people are talking
about reclaiming eroded land rather than wiping out the last few forests in places like Madagascar. There
has also been a renewed interest in population limitation, and that's something I didn't think we'd see in
my lifetime.”
     They went on reading, making notes, until they had to rest because it was becoming impossible to go
on. Their eyes wouldn't focus. Their attention wavered.
     Chiddy made his sighing sound again, which he had been doing a good deal of. "Normally the
umquah push bodies together, just as they push planets and stars together, but when bodies move in total
emptiness, the ship must generate forces to help the bodies resist disintegration. It is easier when bodies
are at rest, not laboring either mentally or physically. It would be sensible to rest.”
     Benita agreed. She and Chad ate something and slept a long time, and read a bit more, and slept a bit
more, and conferred with one another in whispers, and read parts of the journal over again, until suddenly
and all at once the hull window opened or transmuted or whatever it did, as Benita thought, and they got a
look at the Earth from space.
     "It's like a sapphire pendant around the throat of the sky, so beautiful," said Benita, thinking of
predators and people she cared about and all the threats and commotions that were sure to come.
     The hull went solid again. In only a moment, they heard Sasquatch woofing, and they were home.
     Benita asked what day it was.
     Chiddy referred to a complicated little device hanging on the wall or bulkhead or hull and
pronounced it to be Tuesday, at eight o'clock in the morning. They had been gone only a week.
     Chad left immediately, in pursuance of the plans they had made during the journey. Benita took a few
moments to assure Sasquatch that she was home, that she still loved him, and that he was a good dog, then
went downstairs to thank Simon for taking care of him and to ask what had happened while they'd been
away.
     "For five days, zip, zilch, nada, nil," he said. "No more mysterious deaths. No more countries or cities
disappearing. No shootings, no turf wars, no nothing. Peace and tranquility.” He gave her a piercing look.
"Then, suddenly, two days ago, all hell broke loose.”
     "What?" she cried. "What do you mean?"
     "The newspapers had blanks in them. That was the first-thing. Certain phrases just didn't appear!"
     "Like?"
     "Like 'paid his debt to society,' or 'took responsibility for the bombing.' Or in a quote from some
prominent churchman, I forget who, talking about famines, 'We have to provide for the millions who are
yet to be born.' I mean, that's what he said on TV, but when it came out in the paper, it was a blank except
for the words, 'We have to? Why?' in parentheses. Well, everyone was in fits about that, claiming
government censorship or political interference with the free press, and then to top the day off, the
predators came back. They announced it on TV. They said the Confederation would shortly confirm their
right to be here. They told us they were hunting, starting now. They said the Pistach no longer have the
moral authority to keep them out. There've been . . . well, you can imagine what there've been. Political
fallout is the worst of it. The actual deaths don't amount to many, but my God, Benita . . .
     "Oh, Lord," she whispered. "Those races . . . they knew. They were all primed to return, weren't they?
I just know they were helping T'Fees all along. Chiddy wondered how in heaven they got access to all the
ships and weapons they had. I'll bet T'Fees promised them he would cause a revolution on Pistach!"
     Simon stared at her, owl eyed. "I have no idea what you're talking about, though I'm sure it must be
extremely interesting. Are you allowed to tell me anything about your last few days?"
     His eyebrows were up to his hairline with curiosity, but she begged off. "When it's over, I'll take you
to lunch, Simon, and then I'll tell you everything. Literally, everything.”
     Back upstairs, she called Angelica. Since it was apparent Benita might be outed at any moment,
during the journey she had decided to tell her daughter the truth about the intermediary.
     Angelica, of course, already knew, because she'd seen the news conference after the committee
hearing. She had a hundred questions, which Benita answered, and a hundred more, which she couldn't.
     When told that Carlos had been taken to Pistach-home and left there, she cried, "Mother! You left
him there!"
     "He's a hostage. Frankly, Angelica, it's difficult to think of any other role he could play as well. It
doesn't require him to do anything, not even to be pleasant, and he would complain no matter where he
was. What my . . . colleagues and I have to do in the next few days is extremely sensitive, and Carlos is in
as disruptive mood as I've ever seen. The girl who was kidnapped with him, by the way, was his
girlfriend. A Miss Sonia Bigg.”
     "You're kidding.”
     "I'm not in a jovial mood. Actually, it's fortunate the Pistach accepted him as a hostage, rather than
insisting on one of the other of us. They won't hurt him, not at all, and we'll get him back as soon as the
envoys go home.”
     "They're going home?" She seemed shocked by this.
     "Well, not right away. Maybe soon.”
     "Oh, no, Mom, they've got to stay. They've got to get rid of those predators, and you have no idea
how much things have improved. At the school! At the housing development by the bus stop! People keep
talking about it! They want them to stay.”
     "That's what the president told me, too. I don't have time to explain just now, because we're terribly
busy. I wanted you to know I'm all right because you may not hear from me for a while.”
     "Did you see Dad on TV?" she demanded.
     "Yes. Just before I left," Benita said, flushing. "He was claiming I was a sex slave to the ET’s.”
     "He is so stupid! It's embarrassing!"
     "Those men you mentioned to me, Angelica? The ones who were hanging around out there? They're
part of a group made up of political opponents of the president. They will do literally anything to bring
him down, including making an alliance with the predators, or the Devil, if it came to that! Your father
was only a minor bargaining chip in the process, a way of getting at me, and it didn't work out the way
they planned. So, either they were paying him to spread around dirty misinformation, or they were paying
the predators to plant ideas in his head.”
     "I think it's rotten. Will you call me back when you know something? And you're telling me the truth
about Carlos? I don't have to worry about him? He's all right where he is?"
     "He's perfectly all right where he is.”
     "I just ... I think about him all the time. When we were little, you know, and you were at work, he
was sort of my responsibility. Sometimes he was nice.”
     Benita took a deep breath. "Angelica, I wasn't going to mention this to you, but when you and Carlos
left home, I went into sort of a funk. Depression, I guess. You know that Goose and Marsh paid for good
health insurance for our family, so I decided to use it and go to a shrink. We had just a few sessions.”
     "You never told me . . .”
     "I'm telling you now. Just listen. This psychologist asked me to visualize my trying to save someone
who was drowning. She said to visualize the drowning person pulling my head under. She said to imagine
that I struggled, and struggled, getting my head up just enough to gulp some air, but every time I did, the
drowning person pulled my head under again.
     "She said living with someone like your dad is like trying to save someone from drowning when what
the person really wants is to drown you with him. He wants to go, but he doesn't want to go alone. She
said the drowner's strongest motivation is to 'miserate his companions,' to pull your head under, over and
over until all your strength is gone and you die.”
     "Mom!"
     "Listen. She said once you've done everything you can to get help for the person, once the drowner
has firmly or repeatedly rejected that help, the drowner has made his choice. He's deciding to be where he
is, when he is, as he is. If you choose not to drown, at that point, you quit trying to save the person. You
leave him where he wants to be and you stand back from him far enough he can't drag you in. That may
mean far away.”
     "You're talking about my brother . . .”
     "I'm talking about Bert. I'm talking about me. I'm telling you what the psychologist told me. You
haven't heard the end of it. The psychologist said that sometimes when the constant rescuer walks away,
the drowner decides to swim to shore. I'm suggesting you remember it. That's all.”
     "Well, I'm not giving up on Carlos.”
     "You're grown up too, dear. You can make your own choices.”
     She had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. Chad, saying she was expected at the White House
in forty-five minutes. She took a quick shower, dug out some clean clothing, and was downstairs waiting
by the time Chad arrived to pick her up.
     "You suggested his wife sit in?" she asked.
     "He said she would. He made it clear he's not inclined to have any private meetings with anyone. He's
been walking on eggs since we've been gone. Things were in delicate balance until this predator thing, can
you believe those people?, Morse is working up to some blatant, Mccarthyesque attack, issuing little news
bulletins that gain credence because of the source rather than the facts. I can honestly remember a time
when people who worked for major news organizations had some pride in getting the story right. Now all
they seem to care about is getting any story first, true or false. Morse is pretending to be outraged by it all,
and by the way, he's still pretending he isn't pregnant.”
       Chad might think it was pretence, but Benita thought it was more probably denial, helped along by
frantic, distractive activity.
       They arrived at the White House and went upstairs where the president and the First Lady were
waiting, both of them looking drawn and harassed. They talked about religion for a while, then about
culture, then about how the Earth could meet the challenge of the predators, then about ways to prevent
the predators staying. Between spates of talk, Benita or Chad, as they had planned to do, read sections of
Chiddy's journal aloud and showed scenes from the tapes recorded on the journey. Chad had delivered the
devices to the FBI, where they'd been examined in front of unimpeachable witnesses who would testify
they hadn't been tampered with. The contents had been developed and copied before still other witnesses
who could testify they had not been changed in any way.
       They broke for lunch, a meal that no one really ate, during which Benita mentally ordered everything
that had been said into one, understandable package. When the meal was over, she said she had a
suggestion. The others listened, at first with incredulity, Chad no less than the FL and president, as she
briefly restated where they were and then went on to suggest what they could do about it. All three of
them brought up objections. Benita countered the objections, soon joined in the effort by Chad, who had
begun to see the possibilities.
       "But can we get the kind of help we'd need?" he cried, at one point.
       "I think we can probably manage that," said the president. "What I'm doubtful about managing is my
being gone without the whole world knowing about it.”
       "Go on a religious retreat," suggested Benita. "With your spiritual advisor.” She stopped, thinking.
"Actually, it would be a good idea to have someone like that along. To lend us ... respectability.”
       "You mean the Reverend?" he asked. "He might really enjoy that. The first evangelist on Pistach-
home! I think the press would try to observe even a spiritual retreat. And, of course, I've got the Secret
Service hanging around, ready to testify to everything I do.”
       "I think it's manageable," said the FL. "We'll figure out a way to duck the Secret Service. And I agree
with you, the Reverend would enjoy it very much.” She turned to Benita. "Do you think you can get the
envoys to go along with this?"
       "I don't know," Benita admitted. "Though I think Chiddy was leaning in that direction. I'll have to
talk fast, but if they will . . .”
       By the time all four of them had agreed on a plan of action, Chad and Benita were exhausted, though
the president seemed remarkably energized by the whole thing. Chad drove Benita home, asking if she
wanted him to come in.
       "No, Chad. I've got things to do, and so have you, and best we get at them as soon as we can. If we
pull this off, it'll be the coup of the century, and we'll never be able to tell a soul.”
       Upstairs, she stayed in the elevator and screamed loudly, "Chiddy, I need you and Vess!"
       The buttonhole opened in the back of the elevator and they came out in their natural forms.
       "Have you heard," whispered Chiddy. "The Shalaquah has returned. They had a spy on Pistach-home
. . .”
       "And his name was T'Fees," said Benita. "T'Fees has been working with the predators. It's as clear as
your . . . mandibles on your face.
       T'Fees couldn't have mounted that campaign on his own. He needed help. T'Fees is a rebel against
Pistach order, and so are the predators. They want to do what they like, when they like, and the predators
want to hunt what they like, where they like. They're all in it!"
      "I never thought of that," cried Vess, in a voice that was stridently shrill, like a cricket chirp in the
middle of the night. "But you're right. He couldn't have done that without help . . ,"
      Benita said firmly, "Vess, now is not the time to discuss it. We have an emergency on our hands, and
we need you to round up the Inkleozese and bring them to my apartment, this afternoon if possible, or
tonight, or failing that, tomorrow morning.”
      Chiddy started to argue, but she took his pincers in her hands and looked straight into all his eyes.
"Chiddy, you came here to help us. You were helping us. You are good people, and you were doing a
good thing. Now your help is being threatened, and despite what you believe you can or cannot do, Chad
and I have an ethical imperative to do what we can to prevent harm to our people.”
      "But, our people…" murmured Chiddy.
      She interrupted, "What is happening to your people should not determine what happens to ours, and
you're too ethical a person to interfere with our efforts. The predators found us originally by following
you here, which means you're responsible for the trouble we're in. I'm not blaming you, but you have a
responsibility to cooperate in solving the problem. Now, please, do as we ask. Chad and I have talked it
all out, and we think we have a plan.”
      Chiddy stared at his feet, as though marshaling arguments, but Vess pulled him away, muttering,
"Geflssit moltplat gom," which sentiment Benita recognized. She and Chad had discussed just that point.
      She figured she had a least an hour before Chiddy would manage to get the Inkleozese moving,
assuming they would move at all. She took fruit juice from the freezer, made a pitcherful and put in the
fridge. That left her time for a shower and hair wash, a change of clothes, time to run the clothes she'd
worn on Pistach-home through the washer. Every time she put them on, she felt iglak crawling out of the
seams!
      Chad called twice, to ask what had happened. The first time, nothing had. The second time she told
him that Vess had called to say the Inkleozese were on their way.
      "Do you need my help?" he asked.
      "Better not, Chad. They might take one good look at you and decide you'd make a good brooder.”
      He laughed, not an amused laugh, and remarked that he was glad to be relieved of the duty, as the rest
of his phone calls would keep him busy for hours.
      Benita set out little glasses for the fruit juice, the Inkleozese beverage of choice. She heard movement
in the elevator hall, and Chiddy and Vess came in, escorting ten of the tall, angular Inkleozese.
      Chiddy and Vess introduced her to the ladies, except for the one who had saved her life. To that one
Benita bowed very low and gave heartfelt thanks. Once they had all been served little glasses of fruit juice
along with a honey jar to pass around among themselves, Benita asked Chiddy and Vess to excuse
themselves as she had a message from the president for the Inkleozese ears alone. They had tympanum,
not ears, but everyone knew what she meant. The Inkleozese had translator machines, just as Chiddy and
Vess did, so she knew she and they could make themselves mutually understood.
      The High Assessor, one K'tif'kt'hmm (who was to be addressed as Your Exactitude) leaned on the
back of a chair, her entourage found other places to perch comfortably, and Benita laid out the problems,
first of the Pistach, then of Earth, then of Earth and the Pistach and the Inkleozese. She had organized it in
her head while in the shower, and was able to talk for about thirty minutes without losing track of where
she was going or repeating herself. Through it all, a small part of herself stood to one side, listening in
amazement, for Benita had never thought of herself as a speaker, but her presentation was fluent and
sensible. Her voice was hoarse by the time she had finished.
      Her Exactitude asked a few questions, very politely. Benita was able to answer most of them, and
those she could not answer, the other Inkleozese were able to help her think out.
     "It does not seem impossible," murmured Her Exactitude. "Moreover, it accords with our ethical
imperative. Luckily, our imperative is based upon experience, rather than upon artifacts or scriptures, so
we are not likely to be thrown into disorganization by judgments made centuries ago. We do not assert as
true anything which we have not proven or seen proven by others. Thus, we never claimed that we were
the center either of the universe or of a deity's attention. While we do not deny deity, we do not presume
to understand it, plea bargain with it, or tell others what shape it takes. It does make life easier.”
     "I am extremely grateful for your attention," murmured Benita. "I have told you the only solution we
can think of, unless you, yourselves . . .”
     The High Assessor made a negating gesture. "No, your idea is quite good. Besides, we monitor, we
do not labor. We judge, we do not devise. In this case, doing the right thing is its own reward and makes
your gratitude unnecessary. Shall we summon the envoys?" She turned her head and looked around the
group, all of whom raised a front leg, signifying assent.
     Her Exactitude spoke rapidly into her translation device-transmitter, and in a few moments, Chiddy
and Vess came in, looking rather like boys who have been summoned to the principal's office.
     Her Exactitude held up a pincer. "Pistach athyci, attend. We speak on a matter of morality. Your race
has encountered a philosophical abyss. Your beliefs are threatened. Because of this and others of your
actions, another race has become threatened. We speak with authority. Before you attend to the crisis of
your people, you must attend to the crisis of this people, for you have reached out your manipulators and
cannot withdraw them in good conscience.”
     Chiddy bowed and said something to the effect that he was always at the command of the monitors.
     "Pistach athyci, attend! This country has a chieftain, this chieftain has spiritual advisors. This man
and his advisors must be taken to Pistach-home, at once. There they must see the great Fresco and spend a
time in meditation, enabling the chieftain to return and explain to his people what has transpired. We, the
Inkleozese, approve this journey and its objective. The chieftain and his people, however, cannot be taken
in a tiny ship. A large ship is necessary.”
     Chiddy hemmed and hawed and stuttered and thought there might be a Pistach colonial ship on
Inkleoza. Or maybe on Gofar or Faroff.
     Her Exactitude agreed. "This assumption has high likelihood of being accurate. We ourselves desire
concurrent transport to Inkleoza, together with all the human brooders we will have impregnated by that
time, in order to supervise their health. The ship must be large enough for both groups. We will need a
dozen more brooders in the next few days, but this concludes the current breeding cycle. When the Inkleti
have emerged, prior to pupation, the brooders will be returned to Earth.”
     Chiddy was still dithering, shifting weight from one set of legs to another, upper body twisting, eyes
swiveling.
     Benita took Chiddy's pincers in her hands, got his full attention and told him that both he and Vess
must depart immediately. Chiddy finally focused on her and agreed, though he wasn't his usual self at all.
     "Pistach selves will find a large ship somewhere and commandeer it in the name of the Inkleozese!"
said Her Exactitude, sounding very magisterial and imperative. "What time will this take?"
     "Four days, minimum," said Chiddy. "Four Earth days.”
     The ladies bowed, Benita bowed, everyone bowed, Chiddy left, the ladies left, except for Her
Exactitude.
     This personage came to Benita's side. "Aside from our providing you with the recorded voice you
require, is there anything else we can do to assist you, Benita? You bear much responsibility of a
suddenly imposed sort. Such surprising burdens are sometimes difficult to uphold.”
     Benita thanked her and started to say, no, nothing you can do for me right now, but then she thought
of something.
     "Ma'am, Your Exactitude, I apologize if what I am about to ask is rude or impossible or simply
undesirable on aesthetic grounds…" She stopped, clenched her jaw, sighed deeply and went on to make
her request.
     She seemed amused as she responded, "I will take it up with my people. If they have no objection, we
will be happy to grant your plea.”
     They made mutual farewells. The Inkleozese vanished just as Chiddy and Vess often did, no beam-
me-up sparkles, no dissolving into space, just poof, gone. Benita had decided it was some sort of transport
commonly used in the Confederation. She did not spend much time thinking about it, however, for it was
ten o'clock, she had had little lunch and no supper and was desperate for both food and sleep. Sleep
aboard the ship had not been restful. She thought it possible that she had dreamed during much of it:
conflict dreams, terror dreams, like those she had had long ago, as a young wife, when she would wake
with her heart thundering in her ears, so frightened she couldn't move. Night terrors, the doctor said.
Fairly common. Meaningless, so far as anyone knew.
     Well. A lot of things were meaningless so far as anyone knew. A year before, what would she have
thought of an ancient invasion of the lands of the Jaupati? Would she have cared at all? If she had heard
of a rebellion among the critters of Quirk, or of a Fresco cleaning, or if someone had foreseen her being
selected as an intermediary . . .
     Before she lay down, she called Chad, who sounded every bit as weary as she did.
     "Well?" she asked.
     "We've got seven definite yesses so far. A whole bunch of others will call back. The best ones tell us
we'll need at least eighteen or twenty, and a few more wouldn't hurt. The press got the preacher.”
     "The right one?"
     "Yes, the right one, plus a pinch hitter, just in case. The preacher was a little worried about the
language barrier, but I said we will overcome, one way or another.”
     "Don't forget emergency rations, supplies, you know. We won't be eating Pistach food or using
Pistach beds, and we'll be there at least a day, maybe longer.”
     "I know. Are they getting a ship?"
     "The Inkleozese told them they had to.”
     "How long before it gets here?"
     "Four days, minimum, and I'm going to sleep two of them," she said.
     "Both of us," groaned Chad.
     When she lay down on her bed, Sasquatch curled up next to her, his back against her legs, just to be
sure she didn't wander off again. She fell asleep thinking of Carlos out there among the stars. Maybe he'd
decide since nobody cared, he'd swim to shore.
     And, she thought, firmly, decisively, without her usual vacillation, it wasn't up to her whether he did
or not.

The Cabal—TUESDAY
     A day or so after Benita left for Pistach-home, the members of Morse's cabal, sans Morse himself,
had taken themselves down to the farm in Virginia where they'd set up camp in the house and waited for
word from the predators. It was their opinion that though the predators had pretended to leave Earth, they
wouldn't go far, and the best thing to do was wait at the farm for them to show up. They had been waiting
for almost a week, and were not the better tempered for it.
     "Nothing," Dink said in an aggrieved tone, coming in from his tenth circuit of the surrounding area.
"No sign of them at all.”
     "Any word from NASA?" asked Briess, who was stretched on a cot by the window.
     Dink hung up his jacket and slumped into the nearest chair. "The surveillance satellite that was
kicked into a moon-loop got a clear picture of what are obviously ships, three of them, one big and two
small. The satellite was a quick and dirty job, one loop only, so we don't know if they're still there.”
     "Are there more of them, that's what I want to know," said McVane. "We got damn little information
for all that money.” He was slumped in a chair by the empty fireplace, his usually impeccable uniform
rumpled, his tie loose, an open beer can at his elbow.
     Dink shook his head ponderously. "Be thankful we got what we did. For such a hasty modification,
we're doing well to get any pictures at all. The ships are huge. They could hold a lot more than we ever
saw here on the ground.”
     "I wonder what the hell they're playing at!" growled McVane. "They've obviously pulled some stunt
with the Pistach, for they now say the Confederation has no right to stop them coming here. They've been
seen hunting and eating people all over the world, or at least the results have been seen, if not the critters
themselves. What happened to the agreement we were supposed to have with them?"
     "Could be they've decided they don't need us anymore," murmured Arthur. "If the Pistach have no
authority to stop them, what do they need us for?"
     Dink nodded. "Or maybe the Pistach weren't as bamboozled as they thought. We haven't heard
anything about them recently, either.”
     "My understanding was that even if the Confederation does anything about the predators being here,
it would take forever," commented Briess.
     "Unless it's a unilateral action," said McVane. "Maybe the Pistach went on the warpath all by
themselves.”
     "Our profilers say no," said Arthur. "They read the Pistach as nonviolent and conformist. Though
they're criticism proof when they start working with new races, when they're finished their work is subject
to review, and it seems they really care what other races think and say about them. They're not likely to
risk unpopular action.”
     "Maybe those others, those what-you-call-'ems," murmured Briess. "Maybe they've stepped in. The
ones that got Morse pregnant.”
     "Morse claims he's not pregnant," reminded Arthur.
     "Yeah, well, he claims he's a Christian, too," said Briess, "but last time I looked, Christians don't
assault their wives.”
     "Lupe?" asked Dink. "I didn't know that.”
     "Not Lupe, the ex-Mrs. Morse. You should read the medical reports.” Briess sniggered.
     "Let that alone," said McVane. "It's past. Focus on the current rapes and assaults, by the Inkleozese,
even though it's only pro-life politicians and preachers they've done it to so far.”
     "Be thankful for small mercies," said Briess.
     "You're pro-life," Dink commented.
     Briess widened the slit of his mouth into an excruciating smile. "No, my friend, I'm merely anti-
woman. I was born in the wrong system. Once female life expectancy exceeded that of men in the U.S., it
was obvious we were doing something wrong.”
     "What you got against old ladies?" asked Dink. "Your mother was probably an old lady.”
     "Bingo," said Briess, with a chilly smile. "Let's change the subject, if you don't mind. Since it's
obvious we're not getting anywhere waiting here, let's leave them a message and get back to Washington.
Morse has already subpoenaed the so-called intermediary for another inquiry before his committee, and
once he starts in on her sexual habits, with her husband testifying to her depravity, people will assume it's
true that she had a relationship with the president and the ET’s and possibly her dog.”
     “I don't like this," murmured Prentice Arthur. "It smacks too much of McCarthyism.”
     Dink snorted. "You wanna grow corn, somebody's got to turn over the dirt, Arthur! Now that we
don't have independent counsels with unlimited budgets to do it, we'll have to pick up the spades
ourselves. I suggest we get back and start digging.”
     "I hope you've got Bert dried out enough to be believable," said McVane. "When I saw him on 20/20
he certainly wasn't!"
     "We've got him stashed away," said Dink, with a feral smile. "I'm told he responds well to pain.”
     They were interrupted by the blink of a red light and a hesitant beeping from a metal box by the
window.
     "There they are," breathed Briess. "Better late than never.”
     McVane was already on his feet beside the machine. "It doesn't read their signatures," he said
doubtfully. "Too hot for a Wulivery or Fluiquosm, too cool for a Xankatikitiki. Too many for any of 'em.”
     "Where are they?" asked Dink, peering out the window.
     "Over to our left, among the trees," muttered McVane.
     Dink picked up his glasses, put on his jacket, and went out onto the rickety porch. From the end of it
he had a good view of the trees. McVane and Arthur came out onto the porch behind him as Dink spoke
over his shoulder. "Must be the invisible Fluiquosm wearing heated suits!"
     A faint yelp came from behind him, and he turned to find himself alone on the porch. He went to the
door and looked in to see Briess still hovering over the machine.
     He knocked on the door frame. Briess looked up, and not seeing anyone, went out onto the porch
himself. Nobody there but him. Very shortly thereafter, nobody there at all.

Benita—WEDNESDAY
     Benita had thought there might be a quiet interlude before the large ship arrived, but the morning
after her return she received a subpoena, dated several days before and routed through the White House.
She was to testify that day before Morse's committee, this time about her sexual involvement with the
ET’s and any current members of government. Even though the president had told her to expect it, it made
her furious. It was all part of Morse's choreography, of course, part of the shit ballet he hoped to stage.
     Chad picked her up, as before, and they arrived at the hearing chamber at the time specified to find
the inquiry in some disarray because Morse wasn't there. The vice chairman wasn't there. Several of
Morse's staffers weren't there. Eventually, someone was appointed to be chairman pro tern, and Benita
swore to tell the truth and was then accused of sexual contact with the ET’s and/or the president, et al.
     "Where on earth did you hear such a thing?" she asked, affronted.
     "We ask the questions," muttered the senator, slightly red in the face.
     "Well, all I can say is that if you listen to alcoholics like my husband, from whom I am separated,
he'll say anything anyone tells him to say for ten dollars or a drink, whichever is closest.”
     "Are you denying these allegations?"
     "Of course I'm denying these allegations. They're ridiculous.”
     There was muttering, leaning, whispering. The interrogator, face rather red, leaned into his
microphone. "Do you have any knowledge of where your . . . husband is, Mrs. Alvarez?"
     She answered honestly. "I couldn't tell you where he is, sir. He's been working for Senator Morse for
some time, so maybe the senator can tell you.”
     More consternation.
     "Why do you claim he works for Senator Morse?"
     "With the envoys here, it's almost impossible to do anything secretly, sir. According to the envoys, a
Mr. Dinklemier and a Mr. Arthur have been paying Bert Shipton to make up stories about me on
instructions from Senator Morse.”
     Whispers, covered mikes, people turning redder.
     "Perhaps you can tell us about your relationship with the president?"
     "We covered this ground previously, gentlemen, but I'll refresh your memories. I first saw the
president in his office on the day after I delivered the envoys' message to Congressman Martinez. We
talked for five or ten minutes, during which time he thanked me for my efforts. The door to the outer
office was open during my visit, and General Wallace was standing in the doorway. The second time I
met the president, his wife was there, and that was when he asked me to see if the envoys would take me
to their planet for a firsthand view. I have just returned from there.”
     Consternation. Someone got up hastily and left the room.
     "And since then?" asked the man with the gavel, his mouth remaining open as she replied.
     "Since then, I have seen and talked with the president and his wife in company with Mr. Riley, who
accompanied me on the expedition to Pistach-home and other worlds. During that journey we saw and
were greeted by three other races besides the Pistach. These were the Flibotsi, the Thwakians, and the
Vixbot. Our entire journey was recorded, and when the security people are through with the recordings,
I'm sure they'll be shown to the American people, and to the world.”
     There was more whispering, more running back and forth, and finally the senator who had assumed
the chair decided he didn't want it anymore. Sounding as severe and threatening as he was able to manage
around the distractions, the chairman pro tem told her she was still under subpoena and would have to
appear again later.
     The big talk on the TV blather shows that night concerned the disappearance of all the pregnant men
plus some others who had worked for them. Among them, it was alleged, was the intermediary's husband.
Much was made of the fact that Bert had been scheduled to appear before the same committee Benita had
been subpoenaed for, that she had denied his allegations, and that he himself had disappeared. Benita
smiled at this, saying a brief litany of thanks to the Inkleozese, who had removed him even though he
wouldn't be useful as a breeder. Getting Bert out of circulation relieved her mind a good deal. If he
couldn't get a drink for a year or two, it should do him a world of good!
     Some TV channels were still showing interviews with him, but they were obviously old ones. Though
he didn't look drunk, precisely, he was definitely glassy eyed from something. The only hopeful item
reported was that no further hearings were planned until Senator Morse could be found. Benita felt that by
that time the situation would be either improved or lost. Either way, it would be long past crying about.
     Next morning, the disappearances were still in the news. The Senate demanded an investigation.
Lupe Roybal-Morse suggested that Morse may have been so upset by being pregnant that he simply went
off to be alone. His colleagues pretended to believe that was impossible, though she knew him better than
they did. Within a few hours, it was reported on CNN that every man used as a brooder had vanished. The
president issued a statement saying he had been informed the Inkleozese had wanted to take them to a safe
place, where they would not be harassed by the news media, that he was assured they would be returned.
     Surprisingly, except for the religious far right (those who were left) nobody screamed much about it.
Comics had a field day, of course. Jay Leno did a Morse-travelogue, to Bee or not to Bee. Actually,
Benita thought, the Inkleozese looked more like wasps, but it was close enough to be funny.
     Benita called Angelica, who seemed to be coping all right, though she wanted to know where her
father was. Benita said she didn't know where he was being taken, which was true, astronomy not being
her forte. "However, I'm assured he's safe, just as Carlos is safe. You don't have to worry about either of
them.”
      "I haven't been. But then, I feel guilty because I haven't been. You know?"
      "Remember what I told you about drowning, Angel. Try to keep your head above water.”
      The following day the disappearances were replaced in the headlines by reports of massive slaughters
in Northern Ethiopia, coastal Bangladesh, and among the Chinese settlers in Tibet, with lots and lots of
gory pictures, enough to keep the media scrambling for the next few weeks, even if nothing else happened
at all.
      Chiddy and Vess took five days to make their trip, arriving back on Earth in what Star Trek would
call a shuttle, except that it was morphable. The big ship, they said, was on the back of the moon, a
considerable distance from those of the predators. Benita phoned Chad, as arranged, and within the hour a
parade of long black limousines bearing dark-suited "spiritual advisors" began to arrive at Benita's back
door. Benita didn't see any of them. They came in the door, got into the elevator, and vanished. The
Reverend, the president's spiritual advisor, the Big Sa, wasn't scheduled to arrive until the President did.
      The Inkleozese arrived by their usual form of transport: abrupt materialization. Her Exactitude
arrived first. She provided Benita with both a tape and a disc of the recorded voice Benita had asked for,
then suggested Benita go to the bathroom and stay there while they and their "baggage" transitted the
living room. Since no one was willing to gamble on how things would turn out, everyone was being very
careful of what Benita saw and didn't see, just in case she had to testify about it. She took the opportunity
for a long, luxurious shower while poor Sasquatch, who'd tried a sniff at one of the Inkleozese and had
been abruptly flattened for it, lay on the bathroom rug whining at her. Poor dog, he didn't know what to
think or who to bark at or even who to smell.
      Late that evening, right after the arrival of the Big SA and the president, it was Chad and Benita's
turn. Benita had already arranged for Simon to do dog duty again, and he'd wished her well. She had
hinted to him that something epochal was happening, so he'd feel better about all the bother she was
causing him. She really didn't want to get back and find she had no job. She liked her job. Besides, if they
were successful in their efforts, things would go back to more or less normal, on its way to being
forgotten except by historians, and nobody would give her a pension for her part in it.
      The shuttle delivered the last few of them to the larger ship on the moon, pausing there while the
Inkleozese delivered cease and desist documents to the predator ships, denying their right to stay on Earth
without decision by the Confederation. While they were waiting, all the Earthians had their pictures taken
in front of the window wall of the big ship. The little "SAs" had been promised they could use the trip as a
CV item later on, so pictures were absolutely essential, that and bits of moon rock and certificates signed
by the president and by Chiddy or Vess. Chiddy protested at putting himself in the position of seeming to
endorse the Earthian visit, when it was being required by the Inkleozese, so Chad suggested he write
"Real moon rock,- best wishes" in Pistach. It was doubtful anyone would ever know the difference.
      While everyone slept a good bit of the time, all the waking hours were spent working. Half a dozen
animatronics people were working with the recorded voice Benita had obtained from the Inkleozese, and
all the artists (who would pretend to be little SAs, when they arrived at Pistach-home) had copies of a
Fresco panel or panels, copies that had been enhanced, enlarged, and had the colors corrected by the FBI
labs from those Chad had recorded during the previous trip. The conversation that went on about them
was constant and fascinating, or so Benita thought. She wouldn't have dreamed there were that many
things to say about artworks that all the little "SAs" agreed could be compared, at best, to Grandma Moses
on a very bad day. The talk about color and composition and message went on, deep into every "night"
that they were aboard. (Both Chad and Benita were grateful that the larger ship was able to prevent the
exhaustion they'd felt in the smaller one.)
      Though the humans occasionally encountered Chiddy and Vess, nothing was discussed where they
would be able to hear it. The Inkleozese had assured Benita the Earthian quarters were strictly private, and
the ship was large enough that the Pistach were encountered only at meals.
      Each member of the group had been given a copy of Chiddy's journal also, as a guide to Pistach
thought. At one point in the journey, the Big SA, looking very stern, asked Benita just what Chiddy meant
when he wrote "dearest" Benita.
      "Chiddy's an affectionate sort of person," she answered, after a moment's thought. "I assume he, or it,
or ai, feels toward me pretty much the same way I feel about my dog, or perhaps, my dog about me, when
I come home from work. I mean, that's a cross-species relationship, but we both have a sense of security
and pleasure in it, and perhaps even rapture. Sasquatch does act rapturous sometimes.”
      "There is no physical . . . ah . . . ?"
      "There is no physical ah," Benita confirmed. "Beyond what might amount to a scratch behind the
ears. Not that intimacy would be impossible. Chad says he's fairly well convinced there's a point to point
correspondence between their actual forms and any morphed form they adopt. Morphing isn't natural to
them, you know. It's something they've discovered how to do, and it takes some kind of implanted
electronic assist.”
      "Why do they do it?" he demanded.
      "I think it has to do with exploration. If you're going to a planet that's all water, you need gills. If
you're going to one that's all desert, you need a body that conserves moisture. And on any new planet, you
need to be able to look like the natives while you're finding things out.”
      Though the Big SA had a very odd look on his face when she finished, Benita was quite satisfied
with her analysis. It was probably as close to the truth as she could get.
      The Big SA went on to ask her what she knew about the Pistach religion.
      "Chiddy calls the Pistach god, Aitun. It means The one who is.' Chiddy says the Pistach don't
presume to know what Aitun is up to or desires. They have a duty, however, to infer purpose from what
they see and discover. They have inferred that as an intelligent race who can see that intelligence is a
rarity among the stars, they must help spread intelligence throughout the galaxy. They read this as Aitun's
possible intent without ever unequivocally saying it is Aitun's intent. They avoid saying what God wants
or means. They regard races who do as prideful and arrogant.
      "Chiddy also says there are over five thousand picky little gods among the races ai knows of," she
said. "A lot of them inceptorish . . .”
      "Inceptorish?"
      "You've read the journal, Reverend. Inceptorish. Virile. Arbitrary, egocentric, and often belligerent.
Anyhow, Chiddy says none of the five thousand have sufficient universality to be the god of everyone.
Chiddy includes our Earthian gods in the five thousand.”
      "There is only one Earthian God," said the SA, in a ponderous tone.
      "You are no doubt correct," said Benita. "But Chiddy says none of the ones humans talk about in the
Western world are it, and none of the hundreds they talk about in the Eastern and undeveloped worlds are
it, either.”
      They stopped on Inkleoza, to drop off the Inkleozese and their brooders and to pick up a couple of
replacement assessors who were beyond breeding age. Chiddy said Inkleozese were needed on board, as
they were the Confederation's accepted witnesses and attestors, but he thought the president and the male
members of his entourage would be more relaxed with non-breeding Inkleozese. Even though the
Inkleozese and their brooders had stayed in a separate section of the ship, Benita and Chad noticed a
definite lowering of tension when they were in transit again. The new Inkleozese were very jolly, fatter
than their predecessors and much less austere.
      The balance of the trip was over far too soon. Each one of those playing the part of a little SA
complained that he or she wasn't ready. Each one dithered, getting all his or her supplies packed into the
smallest possible volume. When everyone was ready to disembark, each took his or her predetermined
place in the procession. First the two Inkleozese, escorting the president, who was robed in blue with a
blue headdress, looking like someone on a Mardi Gras float, but very dignified. Then Chiddy and Vess,
escorting the Big SA, also clad in blue, also dignified, though more meditative. Then the little SAs in
robes of a lighter and less piercing sapphire, two by two, thirty-six of them, including the specialists from
Hollywood, carrying their special paraphernalia, all looking solemn and dedicated, some of them bearing
"altars," large chests that held the equipment. Blue was a high caste color on Pistach planets, so Chiddy
had told them, and the plan required that the Pistach realize these Earthians were very high caste and dead
serious about the whole thing. Chad and Benita, being of infinitely lower rank, brought up the rear.
     T'Fees and his group were there to meet them. Chiddy spoke to him while Vess translated to the
humans. Then the Inkleozese spoke, very dignified, very stern. Then Chiddy spoke again. The gist of the
whole thing was that T'Fees's interference with the way of life on Pistach-home was a matter for the
Pistach to handle among themselves, but any philosophical changes that impacted upon the human race
were outside Pistach's sole authority. Now that the members of the Confederation were involved, the
Inkleozese were there to supervise the human race's attempt to get a grip on the situation.
     T'Fees asked what they wanted.
     The humans, said the lead Inkleoza, wanted to spend a night of meditation in the House of the Fresco,
in the hope this would give them insight to aid their world in facing the grave tragedies which might be in
the offing.
     Benita was watching T'Fees. He turned slightly ocher.
     "What tragedies are those?" he boomed.
     "If the Pistach withdraw, Earth will be at the mercy of the predators, and Earth's leaders need to
prepare for that eventuality," said the Inkleozese. "Certain other worlds, such as Pistach-home and Quirk,
may also be at the mercy of the predators.”
     T'Fees looked startled. Benita thought he was surprised, as though aware for the first time that his
own actions had consequences he might not have thought of. The surprise carried over to the crowd of his
supporters, where there was a good deal of expostulation back and forth.
     This was followed by a lengthy argument between the curators and the Inkleozese. Then the Big SA
asked to speak, translated by Chiddy. He spoke of the necessity of working in accord with the single spirit
of universal life and intelligence, but what he conveyed was mostly rhythm and elation. Vess had had an
advance copy, so the translation was well worked out, and the humans had been coached. As the Big SA
stayed strictly away from anything that could be considered a reference to any picky, inceptorish little
Earth god, by the time he was finished, he had the whole crowd swaying and shouting either "Amen,
hallelujah," or "Shavil, dashavil," which meant "Amen, hallelujah" in Pistach.
     When that died down, the president spoke, again translated by Chiddy, saying that he and his advisors
intended to pray for clarification of both the Earthian and the Pistach role in the galaxy. More talk
followed, quite subdued, ending with the curators' permission to spend the night with the Fresco. A half
dozen of them, not including Chiddy or Vess, would have to stay with the humans, however, just to be
sure the Fresco came to no harm. T'Fees would come with them to be sure they were really interested in
meditating, and the two Inkleozese would accompany the group. The humans bowed, the Pistach bowed,
the Inkleozese bowed, T'Fees and his people bowed, and the whole procession went off up the stairs
toward the House of the Fresco, lugging the altars containing, so Chiddy had informed the Pistach, their
ritual materials. They had timed their arrival to coincide with the sunset, so they had to move very
quickly.
     Once inside, Benita and Chad shut the tall doors while the little SAs set up their altars, large carved
wooden ones, upon which a ritual meal of cookies and root beer was set out in silver plates and faux
crystal chalices. The Inkleozese and the Pistach, including T'Fees, joined in the ritual repast to be polite,
for Chiddy had told them that human foods were all quite harmless. Which they were, of course, if one
didn't count sarsaparilla-induced unconsciousness as a harm.
     Benita and Chad watched both the Pistach and the Inkleozese. Within moments, T'Fees and the
Pistach elders were nodding on their reclining boards, and shortly they were completely out of it. The
Inkleozese were still quite wide awake.
     "Not as close physiologically as we hoped," murmured Chad.
     "Maybe even less close psychologically," murmured Benita in return. "It's a gamble, but they've
cooperated so far. Let's get on with it.”
     The battery packs came out of the hollow altars, and bright lamps illuminated every line and surface
of the Fresco. Powerful projectors were adjusted to show new outlines on each panel, the "spiritual
advisors" took off their robes and put on their smocks, drop cloths were spread beneath the panels, and
paint odors filled the House. There was at least one painter for each panel, more on the panels that needed
the most help, and while Chad and Benita played endless rounds of poker with the president and the Big
SA, all the artists who had pretended to be SAs went at the business of painting over the old Fresco to
make it show precisely what the Pistach had thought it showed prior to the cleaning. The Inkleozese,
without a word of protest, wandered around behind them, watching the work go on.
     They used fast-drying paints. There was no display of artistic temperament. Each one of them was a
professional artist who could work to a deadline, and each had already figured out exactly how he or she
would proceed. They had agreed on a consistent style, more Diego Rivera than Michelangelo, and each
artist had a pre-drawn overlay for his or her particular panel plus "character studies" of the main
characters, so they'd be consistent from panel to panel. A great deal of attention had been paid to the
figure of Canthorel, and great trouble was taken everywhere it appeared. Canthorel became three-
dimensional, individual, recognizable. Since every painter had a fortune in spray cans and mini-rollers
and a huge selection of sponges and brushes, large sections of the surfaces were covered quickly.
Meantime, the group of puppeteers put together their apparatus and began rehearsing.
     When the four nonartists/nonactors got tired of poker (the Big SA was the big winner, fourteen
dollars and twenty cents, and the president accused him of having had help), they watched, fascinated, as
weapons disappeared from the Fresco to be replaced by symbols of peaceful progress, as Mengantowhai
became a sage and guide instead of a bloodthirsty oppressor, and as the Pokoti race was differentiated
from the Jaupati race. Since both races were extinct, it didn't really matter what they'd looked like so long
as they were different from one another. Kasiwees was murdered all over again, this time by a vengeful
Pokoti. Mengantowhai passed on his virtue and power to Canthorel, who now had a very high-caste blue
aura painted around him. The wine jars that had turned into assaulted Jaupati turned back into wine jars
being virtuously fractured by abstemious Pistach.
     The level of artistry exhibited that night was very, very high, a little slick, Chad murmured, but very
high. Chiddy had been quite right when he said humans excel in artistry. There was simply no comparison
between these painters and the original painter of the Fresco. The earlier panels had had no composition,
no perspective, they were deficient in color, and no Pistach had ever heard of chiaroscuro. Perhaps it was
the way the Pistach eyes interpreted their world, or perhaps representational art just wasn't their thing.
Whatever talent the Pistach lacked, human people had had it from their infancy. Benita found herself
imagining all those old Cro Magnons sitting around the fire talking about Ugh's lampsoot technique with
mastodons, and how beautifully Glub used ocher to shade the flanks of the horse.
     She also wondered what Chiddy would say when he saw it, as he eventually would. The president
asked, "Will they understand what they see, or are their eyes too different?"
     "They'll understand," Benita murmured. "They've been raving about the Sistine Chapel ever since
they arrived.”
     Along a couple of hours before sunrise, the artists finished up their panels and began circulating,
critiquing one another's work, catching little bits of this and that, symbols that weren't clear, and so forth.
Oddly enough, the Inkleozese did a fair bit of this too, suggesting a change here, an emphasis there.
Benita watched them closely, and if she had had to say what they were thinking, she would have guessed
they were amused, interested, and approving.
     When everyone was finished, anyone would swear the Fresco had always been that way. Panel
number sixteen, where Canthorel leaves Jaupat, had been considerably modified. He still left Jaupat, but
with him went a winged symbol of the future, fluttering at his shoulder, and from the winged figure's
mouth came a ribbon lettered with the Pistach words that meant, In time I will return. There were also
ideograms for the name Glumshalak, which Chiddy had included in his journal. As foreshadowing, it was
neatly done.
     It was, all in all, an excellent job, one so far above the original that its divine inspiration could hardly
be doubted, particularly by Pistach who had never seen Earthly art. There was still a final step, however.
When all the supplies had been put away, Chad unpacked a sprayer that contained a mix of soot, grease,
and odds and ends of other pollutants mixed with a chemical dispersant. Standing well back, he went from
panel to panel, spraying goop into the air until they were all just slightly hazed, nothing completely
veiled, but nothing looking new, either, about the way they would have been in a few more weeks of
candle smoke. A second spray gun contained pifion smoke mist, to eliminate any lingering paint smells.
Benita had suggested pifion smoke, because it was one totally unfamiliar to the Pistach, or so Chiddy had
told her.
     When all the equipment was packed up, everyone got back into his or her robes. The actors
assembled their devices and the Pistach were nudged into wakefulness among smells of incense and
sounds of drums and chimes. The room was dimly candlelit.
     "Oh, Canthorel, come to us," intoned the Big SA, in passable Pistach. "Show us the truth!"
     T'Fees pushed himself higher on his legs. The Pistach elders shifted, staring at one another. One of
them asked Chad, through his translator, "Is this evocation of the sacred persons of other races
customary?"
     "Only after hours of meditation," Chad responded. "Oh. Look there!" He pointed into the gloom.
     In the dim glow of the candle flames the figure of Canthorel emerged from the darkness, garbed in a
radiant blue aura, taller than a normal Pistach, an absolute replica of the Canthorel figures in the Fresco.
The figure bowed, only slightly, gestured widely, then opened its mouth and cried, in Pistach:
     "I have returned to restore my work and to reestablish the teachings of Mengantowhai.”
     The Pistach opened their eyes wide. T'Fees muttered in an ugly voice, and three of the more robust
elders silenced him.
     The image of Canthorel went on. "Into this place came an evildoer to change my works and cast
doubt upon our purpose. The infamy of this evil-doer was foreseen. Glumshalak came to cover the false
works so they might not hinder the spiritual progress of my people. Into this place, another evil-doer has
come, and there the miscreant stands, the one who wished to negate Glumshalak's virtuous deeds. Now, I
have returned to reassert the value of Pistach life, the work they do, the order they bring. Go forth and
assist the worlds of the galaxy, remembering always the commandments given me by Mengantowhai:
     "Where you see an unfruitful tree, make it bear.
     "Do as little as possible.
     "Do it as painlessly as possible.
     "Be responsible for having done it.”
     The voice dwindled away, the aura faded, the figure moved toward the altar. A smoke lit from within,
as by blue fire, exploded in the House, and Chad and Benita ran to thrust open the doors to let in the first
pale rays of dawn. When the smoke cleared, Canthorel was gone.
     Half a dozen Earthians went about the room, extinguishing the few candles, leaving it virtually dark.
Tambourines and drums continued their tinka-tinka-tinka, bom bom bom.
     The Pistach were soundless, speechless. T’Fees struggled with the three elders who were holding him
down. The humans chanted, swaying in time to the drums, giving the Pistach time to recover.
     Eventually, the leader of the Pistach elders asked the president, "Did you see Canthorel? Was he
indeed present among us?"
     The president nodded, saying truthfully, "I saw a marvelous figure emerge from the Ground of
Canthorel. One moment he was not there, the next moment, he was.”
     "Did you hear him speak?"
     The president said yes, he had heard the figure speak, but he was not sure he understood all that
Canthorel had said. Would the elders explain it to him?
     "Later," murmured the elder. "Oh, yes, but later.” The sounds of drums and tambourines faded. The
Pistach rose from their reclining boards, all of them still staring at the place Canthorel had been, before he
disappeared. Since their sleeping position was no different from their resting or sitting position, there was
no indication they had drifted off. Even T’Fees seemed unaware of having done so.
     Through her own translator, Benita heard one say to another, "I'm afraid I dozed off there for a
moment. Did I miss anything?"
     The other answered, "Just sitting and meditating until Canthorel came. You saw that!"
     "Oh, yes. I saw that.”
     The room was dim, the darkness broken only near the top of the dome where the clerestories admitted
a pale glow. All the Pistach, including T'Fees, were so occupied with the vision of Canthorel that none of
them glanced at the walls, and had they done so, it was still too dim to see anything. Benita remembered
Chiddy's description of the first time he had seen it. People came in and went out, they didn't really look.
     As the Pistach moved toward the door, she wandered toward the wall, peering at the Fresco, reaching
with tentative fingers to stroke the dim figures that bright morning would disclose. The True Fresco of
Canthorel.

The morning after
     The Pistach elders were on the stairs before the humans emerged in the same order as they had gone
in, followed by the Inkleozese. All of them moved slowly downward toward T'Fees's supporters, who
were gathered below. As T'Fees neared them, he hastened his steps to join his colleagues. The rest of the
group paused not far away.
     The elder Inkleozese, the Assessor Emeritus, turned to face the human delegation and cried:
     "Do you consider that your meditation has been successful?"
     The crowd grew silent as Chiddy translated this question. The president nodded, smiled, and intoned,
"We spent the night praying the meaning of the Fresco would be clear to us. When morning came, we saw
a vision of Canthorel. All of us saw it. The human race is very grateful for Canthorel's return.”
     Chiddy turned pale green. His mouthparts trembled, as did his voice as he translated this statement.
The crowd around T'Fees stirred ominously. Several of them cried out in objection, but an elder silenced
them with a sharp reproof, as though to say the translation was accurate.
     When the crowd stilled, the president continued. "We are reassured that the Pistach may go on
assisting the human race. As Canthorel said, it is their job. We are reassured to know that the previous
misunderstanding was caused by an evil-doer in an attempt to obscure both Canthorel's great artistry and
the authority that had been passed through him to the current athyci in a direct line of descent from
Mengantowhai.
     "The Fresco makes it perfectly clear," the president concluded. "There can be no question about it.”
     Chiddy, who was by now almost ashen, translated once more.
     Confusion. Consternation. Pallor. Babble.
     "Heads up, people," said Chad, tapping the president on the arm. "To the ship, now.”
     As the Earthians started for the ship, a mob of Pistach with T'Fees in the vanguard surged up the
stairs toward the House of the Fresco at an eight-legged gallop, all shrilling at one another like locusts.
The humans ignored this rather ostentatiously, as they strode confidently toward the ship with heads up,
drums beating, tambourines chinking, and the president reaching out to shake the manipulators of every
Pistach that he passed while the Big SA God-blessed them right and left. While the others blocked the
doorway, the artists went aboard, opened up the altars and took out all the paint cartons, brushes, rollers,
smocks, projectors, and drop cloths and put them down the conversion chutes along with the lighting
equipment and the elaborate animatronic figure of Canthorel, complete with aura. Also down the chutes
went the voice recording in Pistach provided earlier by the Inkleozese. It had been done, so the Assessor
Emeritus had told Benita, by a Pistach actor who happened to be on tour in Inkleoza. He had been well
paid for the work, and for keeping his mouthparts fastened thereafter.
     Robes, candles, bells, drums and other ritual impedimenta went into the altars, which were left
conveniently close to the loading ramp, wide open, so anyone could see the contents. The artists split off,
some toward food, some toward beds, while the president, the Big SA, Chad and Benita went into the
dining room, which was near the hatch. The first two non-humans into the ship were the Inkleozese, who
also entered the salon.
     "I take it you don't disapprove of our actions," said the president to the elder one, the Assessor
Emeritus, as he led the way to the kitchen where Chad was starting a pot of coffee.
     The assessor rubbed her forelegs together, pondering. "I am not appointed to approve or disapprove
of human conduct. I merely observe. What you have done breaks no rule of our people. Because this
effort of yours aligns the Pistach with their traditional inclinations, those of self-approving benignity, and
because we owed a debt to the intermediary, we cooperated in this effort. We are unaware that it disrupts
any galactic trend.”
     A few other weary humans trickled into the dining room, broke out Earthian stores and began fixing
breakfast. Through the view screen they could see arguments erupting all up and down the Fresco stairs.
After about an hour, Chiddy came trudging up the ramp into the ship, along with a few of T'Fees's
followers, who stopped just inside the door to run their pincers through the stuff inside the hollow altars,
chattering in confusion. Eventually Chiddy came to the dining area.
     "There has been a miracle," Chiddy said, giving Benita a strange, almost doleful look.
     "Oh?" she asked. "What miracle was that.”
     "The Fresco changed, overnight.”
     "That couldn't be," the president said. "It was dark when we went in last night, so we couldn't really
see the Fresco, but we were there the whole time and we didn't see a miracle. When daylight came this
morning, the Fresco was exactly as Glumshalak's Compendium describes it, though far better done, of
course. I'm afraid Glumshalak was no artist.”
     "Canthorel spoke to you!"
     The president said, "We saw a figure who resembled the Canthorel in the Fresco, though ai offered us
no proof of identity. The figure said it had come to repeat aisos message to the Pistach people.
Presumably Canthorel's Fresco is as it is by the will of Aitun.”
     "It could be any way at all by the will of Aitun," snapped Chiddy. "Aitun lets everything happen that
can happen! It is up to intelligence to select!"
     "Well, then," said the Big SA, "Something selected it the way it is. Something that we know is very
good because it chooses to avoid death and pain and horror and hurting creatures, which the false Fresco
certainly would have caused. I can't imagine Canthorel being on the side of predators eating humans, or
eating Pistach, can you? On Earth we say, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.”
     "It wasn't the way we remembered it from when T'Fees cleaned it," mumbled Vess. "Benita and Chad
were there, they know!"
     "Well," Benita said, with considerable hauteur, "what I remember most about the way it was before
was that there was a tree in every panel, and there's still a tree in every panel. And I saw the form of
Canthorel in a burst of smoke and light saying the work was originally beautiful.”
     "So I had always believed," said Chiddy.
     "Well, the one I saw when I was here before wasn't all that beautiful, which means some evil-doer
must have come along and painted over it. That was when Canthorel inspired Glumshalak to provide the
Compendium in its place. And when Glumshalak's efforts were thwarted by T'Fees, someone, and I'd like
to believe it was Canthorel, put it back the way it was supposed to be.”
     "The way it was at first?" said Chiddy, still sounding somewhat indignant.
     "Well, Chiddy," she said, "it certainly didn't make sense the way it was when T'Fees cleaned it.
Would you choose to put something like that on your walls to guide your people?"
     Chiddy gestured, no.
     "And it was badly painted, too," said the president thoughtfully. "Chad took pictures of it, and it was
quite dreadful. If I had been Canthorel, I'd have been as upset at the lack of artistry as at the
misrepresentation of what I was teaching! We feel so fortunate that Canthorel came to set things right.
Even T'Fees saw it happen!"
     Chad voiced agreement, backed by all the little SAs.
     "T'Fees did see it happen," Chiddy agreed. "T'Fees just isn't willing to believe any of his own eyes!"
     The Big SA took this as a cue to speak at length on the subject of belief, quoting Scripture to the
point, citing several of the Fresco panels as exemplary. Benita thought he should have been an actor
instead of an SA, though maybe one had to be an actor to be a Big SA. In any case, Chiddy had to stand
there listening out of Pistach politeness, until the president whispered in the SA's ears, and he let Chiddy
escape dazedly back down the exit ramp.
     Benita watched Chiddy go. He seemed depressed. She felt a little sorry for him, the way she had felt
sorry for the children, sometimes, when she had had to say "no playing until homework" or go "write your
spelling words.” One had to do it, but one still regretted the sadness it caused. Of course later, at least in
Angelica's case, there had been the jubilation at getting an A, so it was all worth it. She wondered when
Chiddy would realize he was getting an A.
     He evidently passed along the comment that T'Fees had willfully chosen to restore an evil version of
the Fresco, for a little later they saw T'Fees led by in shackles. Benita said she hoped they wouldn't hurt
him, and was assured they intended only to regress him to age twelve, select him as a quality
improvement consultant, for which job they already knew he had skills, and provide him with rigorous
training.
     Despite the combined feelings of weariness, relief, and subdued elation that most of the humans felt,
there was also unspoken agreement among them that getting out before too many questions could be
asked might be an excellent idea. Chad saw a number of the Chapter members standing at the foot of the
stairs, and he walked over to suggest the immediate departure of the Earthians. The Chapter members
seemed more than willing to see them go as soon as possible. It was obvious that the members needed to
get their heads together and talk about what had happened. They were shifting from one set of feet to
another, twitching their mouthparts, exhibiting all the signs of distraction. They were not too distracted,
however, to summon Chiddy and Vess and the two Inkleozese, who seemed even jollier than usual as they
agreed it was time to leave Pistach-home.
     Benita and Chiddy were standing beside the ramp when Carlos came from the direction of the village,
walking beside a Pistach whom Benita thought she knew. As they came closer, she identified Chiddy's
nootch, Varsi, the one she'd given the scarf to on her first trip to Pistach-home. Varsi, the nice one.
     "Ke greets someone," called the nootch.
     "Mother," said Carlos. "It's wonderful to see you. Is everything working out well? Varsi tells me
there's been a miracle.”
     Benita took a deep breath and held it, then blinked a time or two. "Carlos?" she said, uncertainly.
     "It's been fun here," he said, smiling. "But I'm dying to get back to school. I've really let things slide
there, and it's going to take major effort to get back on track.” He moved past her, holding his hand out to
Chiddy. "Chiddy, good to see you again. Your nootch has told me so many stories about you . . .”
     "Wha . . . ?" Benita said to the nootch, as Carlos moved on toward the ramp.
     "For someone, a gift," warbled the nootch, through her translator device. "In return for a gift received.
A small expression of esteem.
     Ke bowed, and moved toward the ramp, following Carlos.
     Benita turned to glare at Chiddy. "You did it.”
     "I did not," he said, moving his shoulders from side to side in Pistach negation. "You told me not to. I
wouldn't have gone against your will, Benita. You know I respect you too much to do that.”
     "Then who?" she demanded.
     "Varsi," he confessed, almost in a whisper. "She told me when we got here. It was while we were
gone. She couldn't bear to let him be so unhappy. Not even if he wished it.”
     "What did she ... I mean it ... I mean the nootch, do?"
     "Not much, really," Chiddy said, looking anywhere but at her.
     "But, is that really him?"
     "Are you really you?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Varsi did Carlos a welcome reversal, as ton'i, Vess and I, did for you when ton'i first met. Someone
had . . . ghosts. Someone had troubles. Ghosts and troubles were sent away.”
     "That's all?"
     "Yes. My nootch says it didn't take a lot. Not a regression, which ke would not have had the authority
to do, anyhow. Ke told me it was just a little envy removal. Just enough so Carlos did not measure
everything against some other person. Plus just enough forgetting not to resent the world. And then, too,
ke has been giving him sleep lessons in good manners.” He frowned, or did with his face what Pistach do
when they are troubled. "Do you want to report ker to the athyci? Do you want ker to be punished? If so,
Vess and Chiddy should also be punished.”
     Wordless, Benita shook her head. No. No. Punished for what?
     They boarded the ship, and she went on down a main gangway into her own roomlet, where she
found Carlos reading a book that he said the "reverend with the president" had given him.
     "It looks interesting," he remarked. "Will we sleep on the flight home, like we did before?"
     She shook her head, still wordless. He looked different. It was in the eyes, the muscles around the
mouth. He looked at her, not past her, as though he saw her.
     "We won't have to sleep so much, no. It's a big ship, and evidently being on a big ship is less tiring.
There's an empty room next door to this one, that you can have.”
     "Hey," he said. "Cool. It'll be fun hearing about what happened on the way.”
     And without fuss, he departed to the next roomlet, taking the book with him.
     During the trip, Carlos was charming. He was respectful to Chad, boyishly awed by the president,
sincere and intent with the Big SA. He talked art endlessly with the artists, asking intelligent questions.
During the trip, Benita watched him, bouncing back and forth between awe and jealousy. A nootch! Who
wasn't even human! And look what she'd managed to do!
      During the trip, Chiddy and Vess stayed away from the humans and busied themselves ostentatiously
with running the spaceship, though both Benita and Chad knew it hardly took any effort to run.
      At breakfast on the first "day" of the journey, they asked one of the Inkleozese what the feeling had
been on Pistach-home about what had happened.
      "Yes, please tell us," murmured the president. "How were they reacting?"
      The Inkleozese made a chuckling sound. "The majority of the people of Pistach have decided it was a
miracle. The Chapter closed the House of the Fresco after T'Fees's people cleaned it, so few if any of the
Pistach actually saw it the way it was, though rumors flew, of course. Since any wise government knows
it is best to go along with the majority of the people, it is very likely that the curators will confirm that it
was a miracle and leave well enough alone. There is precedent for this. On a former occasion, as Chiddy
may have told you, the Chapter decided not to upset the status quo by inquiring into the real content of the
Fresco. Since the current Fresco maintains that status quo, they will no doubt come to a like conclusion.
      "Of course," and she actually laughed, "they have never seen human art. Our sisters who visited you
on Earth have seen it. They have told us all about the remarkable talents of humans. It was amusing to see
the Chapter members teetering on their ethical slide, deciding whether to inquire about or even mention
the artistry of Earthians. Several of them finally got up the courage to ask me if I had seen Earthian art. Of
course, I had to be honest. I told them, no, I had not.”
      Then she turned to the president and asked softly, "Have the Pistach really done so much for your
people?"
      "They really have," he murmured. "A lot of things they speak of doing are things many humans have
wanted to do but have never been able to muster a mandate to get them done. Things like legalizing drugs
to take out the profit motive. Or paying teachers the way we do athletes, depending on how effective they
are. Or getting rid of weapons whose only purpose is to kill people.”
      "Is a mandate necessary?"
      "If you're going to overcome an economic incentive, yes.”
      "Logic has no part?"
      "No part at all. People can see the problem, they're not stupid, but they can't influence the legislators
the way money can. Even when bad situations go on and on until the people are desperate for a correction,
even when they threaten legislators with voting them out, the money still prevails.”
      "It is hard for me to see how this could happen.”
      Chad said, "The legislators react to a problem by writing a law, let's say to put repeat drunk drivers in
jail. The liquor industry objects, because they don't like a lot of discussion about drunkenness, it hurts
their image. The legislators react by amending the law to create a commission to study how best to jail
drunk drivers. Then, when the budget bills come along, they fund only the commission. The appointees to
the commission include representatives of the liquor industry.
      "This allows the legislators to claim success, because the law got voted in. The liquor industry also
claims success, because they made sure the law won't work.
      "The next step is to hire a lot people to work for the commission, many of whom are also liquor
industry supporters, and the commission begins to issue long, complicated, vaguely pointless reports.
Now, however, there are jobs involved, and legislators can't get rid of jobs, even useless ones.
      "Then, repeatedly, the lawmakers amend the law further, tweaking this and changing that, but always
adding more jobs, until we have a bureaucratic monstrosity that's in the business of helping the liquor
industry prevent legislation against drunk drivers. That's the way our Forestry Service got to be owned by
the lumbermen, and our DEA got to be owned by the drug cartels, welfare got to be owned by a social
work hierarchy, and schools got to be owned by professional educationalists. None of them work, because
that's not what they're designed to do.”
     The Inkleozese nodded. "I see. The Pistach wouldn't accept that, of course. It's ineffectual.”
     The president nodded. "The Pistach don't have opposing political parties shooting one another out of
the sky just for the fun of it, or legislators who sell their votes. The Pistach are way ahead of us
technologically, and they're blessed pragmatists, and we need them. We really, really do.”
     "And you think you'll achieve Tassifoduma?" She cocked her head at him.
     Benita, watching, saw something of the praying mantis in her stance and realized with a shock that if
they didn't achieve Tassifoduma, all the men on Earth would be useable as brooders by the Inkleozese.
The Assessor Emeritus turned her slightly mocking gaze on Benita, who flushed and looked at her feet.
     The president murmured, "Nothing is ever sure in the world . . . in the galaxy, but we'll certainly
come closer with the Pistach than we would without.”
     Benita and Chad went with the Inkleozese as she left the room.
     "And how do you rationalize this little . . . joke you played on the Pistach?" the Inkleozese asked,
staring at Benita and Chad.
     Benita looked at Chad, and then at the ceiling.
     He said, "I've heard Benita quote her grandfather about civilized people trying to cope with the
problems caused by belief in savage gods left over from barbaric yesterdays. It seemed to us that since
Chiddy and Vess have been helping us with that problem, it's only right we should help them with similar
problems in our turn. They don't tell us everything while they're helping us, Chiddy's journal made that
clear, so it would be quid pro quo if we didn't tell them everything while we're helping them.”
     The Assessor Emeritus was dropped off on Inkleoza, still laughing every time she looked at the
president, and after that, the humans went on home.
     Chiddy and Vess joined Benita as she was leaving the ship, the last human to do so but Carlos.
Before the Pistach took the large ship back to Inkleoza, Carlos was getting a lift to California so he could
make his apologies to the foundation.
     "We'll be back in a few days," said Chiddy, rather formally. "You can take a few days to figure out
what you're going to tell me," he said. "About what happened.”
     She gave him a long, level look. "I don't need a few days, Chiddy. Do you respect the Inkleozese?"
     "You know we do.”
     "If the Inkleozese approve of what happened, why would you expect me to tell you anything?"
     "I don't know," he said, making his peculiar, not-human shrug.
     "You and Vess were very selective about what you told us, but I don't hold it against you.”
     "Urn," he said, giving her a strange look.
     When he returned in a much smaller ship, several days later, she asked, "How are things back on
Pistach-home?"
     He said thoughtfully, "Very . . . settled. They've decided to take images of the Fresco. And every
planet is going to have a set of the images on the walls of its Fresco House. That way, no evil-doer can
corrupt us just by repainting one set. And they'll put them behind glass and clean them every season, so
everyone can see them, and there won't be any doubt that we're good people . . .”
     "I never had any doubt," she said, adding, not quite truthfully, "Neither did the president.”

On Inkleoza—SOMETIME
   Senator Byron Morse, together with the members of his cabal, plus several hundred other pregnant
men, spent the last months of their confinement in idle luxury at a rest home, high in the hills of a lovely
forested area on Inkleoza. Fed and massaged and petted, they awaited deliverance, which, when it came,
was far worse than anything they had ever experienced. Far, far worse, though it was over in a few hours,
more or less, except for the few who didn't survive, Briess among them. When the chewing started, Briess
had committed suicide, something the Inkleozese had never thought to guard against.
      Afterward, temporarily tranquilized and permanently traumatized, they spent a brief convalescence in
somewhat modified luxury before being returned home, along with Bert Shipton, who had been fed and
housed in much less luxury during his stay on the planet.
      Senator Byron Morse, Dink Dinklemier, and Prentice Arthur were dropped off on Morse's doorstep
shortly after Christmas, a little over a year after they left home. They entered to find the house empty and
dusty. A note on the coffee table was dated a full year before:
      "By . . . don't know when you're getting back. The Pistach say when you've had a baby. I thought we
covered that in prenup! Funny, huh? The governor appointed a replacement for you in the Senate since
you had less than two years and were going to be gone over a year of it. She's a Democrat, wouldn't that
frost you? When those Inkleo-whatsits said they'd be using you and the other pro-life people as brooders
whenever they needed to, most states chose pro-choice or women candidates instead. Like you always
used to say, motherhood and careers don't mix!
      "Still, it's not the end of the world. Your old law partner called. He's wanting you to come back to
work, filing class actions against the Pistach. Guns have taken to shooting the shooter instead of the
shootee, usually some guy trying to rob a liquor store, though the other day it was some high school kid
trying to knock off his teachers, and some munitions people are claiming interference with trade. I'm
going down to Mexico for the holidays, with Mama. Acapulco, maybe. Get a little sun, a little relaxation.
I'll go on back to Baltimore with her. No point my staying here all alone in this house. When you come in,
call me. Let me know how you are. Love, Lupe.”
      He poured himself a scotch, and invited the others to partake while he went back to the kitchen to call
Janet and ask about the boys.
      "I just got back," he said.
      "I figured it would be any time now," she said in a dry voice, totally unlike herself. "It must have
been a terrible experience for you.
      "I don't remember anything about it," he lied.
      "Lucky you," she remarked. "I remember all about my pregnancies, one right after the other. I had no
rest between times at all, even though you hated it when I was pregnant! It really surprised me when you
let that ET get to you.”
      "I didn't let her. That's not true! I was raped," he cried.
      "Oh, come on, By. Raped? Did you call for help? Did you fight?"
      He snarled, "I was in no condition to do either. You think I'd have done this willingly? My life has
been completely disrupted.”
      She chuckled, a totally unfamiliar sound. "Well, so was mine, over and over.”
      "No, Janet, it's not the same thing, that was your duty, but I've been robbed of my life. I've been
forced to continue a pregnancy I didn't want.”
      "It was only an inconvenience, By.” She laughed. "You wouldn't let me have that excuse.”
      "Janet, damn it, stop laughing! I want to talk to the boys.”
      "Stop laughing? By, when I heard you were pregnant, the load seemed to drop from my shoulders.
You know, I giggled for two solid days, and I haven't been hungry since. I've dropped fifty pounds, I've
got a good job, and the boys tell me I look great. I'll ask the boys to call you, By, but they were so
embarrassed, your being pregnant by an ET, I'm not sure they'll do it anytime soon. I sent you a letter.
Lupe said she put it on your bedside table.”
      Before he could bellow, she had hung up on him. He went upstairs, found the dusty letter and opened
it: just a line of text and a photograph. He stared at it.
      Dink called from the foot of the stairs. "By? You all right?"
      "Get out," the senator yelled. "You and Arthur get out of here. I want to be by myself!"
      He heard the door shut behind them. Janet looked marvelous in the picture. God, he didn't remember
she'd ever looked like that. And the boys . . . the two boys. They looked so much like her. They didn't
look anything like him. Why hadn't he seen that? They didn't look anything like him at all! And that
horrible squirming thing on Inkleoza hadn't looked like him either!

     Bert Shipton was dropped off at his home in Albuquerque. He had forgotten it was being repossessed,
a fact of which he was forcefully apprised by the new owners when they found him ransacking the kitchen
for beer. He'd been keeping himself sane by anticipating the beer he would drink when he got back to
Earth, and now here he was, and there wasn't any. At loose ends, he wandered down the street, thinking
he'd stop in to see Larry Cinch. Larry was out in the alley, fixing his car.
     "Well, stranger," said Larry, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. "Haven't seen you in a year or better.
Thought you'd died. Say, isn't that a kick about Benita?"
     "What about her?" Bert wanted to know.
     "She's some high mucky-muck in Washington. Special attaché for something or other to the U.N.
Sorry about the dee-vorce, but you're prolly better off.”
     "What dee-vorce?"
     "She married somebody else. Since nobody could find you, and the ET’s said you'd prolly been eaten,
the president got you declared dead by special act of Congress. Part of a compensation package for the
intermediary.”
     "Hell, I'm not dead. Never was dead!"
     "I'll bet nobody knows you're alive! If that don't frost the cake. Here, have a beer. Any man just
recent dead deserves a beer.”
     Bert took it in hand and drank deeply. His face turned red, he choked, then spewed the contents
across the fence with a cough that reached down into his thighs. He felt as though his insides were coming
out. Another sip brought the same reaction.
     "You're one, huh," said Larry, with a sympathetic shake of the head. "That's too bad.”
     "I'm one what?" gasped Bert.
     "One of those that shouldn't drink. The ET’s, they've put some stuff in the air. It's to keep people
from endangering other people. People who get nasty when they drink can't drink. They heave it up.
People who don't drive safely can't drive. They forget how. Simple, huh? Nobody can smoke until they're
eighty-five, and people who plan to shoot other people go into screaming fits if they touch a gun. Either
that or the gun shoots them. Gun sales are down over eighty percent.
     "Funny how we didn't know that most people who bought guns were really thinking about killing
people? Turns out they were, though. Even me. I have this kind of fantasy about killin' my wife an' her
mother. Didn't ever take it serious, but got to admit, I'd thought about it. So, I can't buy a gun, but I can
drink, so long as it's no more than one beer an hour, no more than five in any one day.”
     After a few minutes of watching Larry enjoying his beer, Bert decided to go see if he could find
somebody else to talk to. He wandered down to the police station. Though he'd spent some time locked
up, he also had friends there. Sergeant Wilkes and Joe Keene and . . . lots of people.
     The place was like a graveyard.
     "Hey," he yelled. "Gimme a little service here.”
     Wilkes came out of the office and stared at him in astonishment. "Bert? I thought you was dead.”
     "I'm not dead, Jim," Bert replied testily, repeating: "Never was dead.”
     "Well, I be damned," said the sergeant. "Hey, you hear about Benita?"
     "Larry tole me.”
     'That was somethin, wasn't it? Remember how she used to go down to the shelter to hide out when
you was on a rampage? Boy, you two used to get into it. You used to whack her a good one, ever now and
then.” He shook his head sadly. "None of that stuff happens anymore.”
     "Whatta you mean, none of that stuff? Wives don't drive men crazy anymore? That'd be the day.”
     The sergeant shook his head. "Hardly ever. It just don't happen like it used to. I think it's something in
the air, you know. Like the antidrunk dust.” He rearranged some papers on the desk, raising a cloud of
ordinary dust in the process. "Heard your house got sold.”
     "Damn Benita! She didn't pay the mortgage.”
     "You know, if you need a job or a place to sleep, you should go down to that shelter where she used
to go. It's not for women anymore. They call it a Glusi Center now. Like a homeless shelter. Got some
real good programs for people sort of ... at loose ends, you might say.”
     Bert figured he was at loose ends. Until he could get hold of Benita. Make her pay him some alimony
or something. He'd have to think about that.
     His feet remembered the way to the shelter, even if his brain didn't. It was still right where it had
been, in back of the old Methodist church, but it had a new sign.
     Glusi Center—Life Plans for the Needy
     Inside, a pleasant young woman helped him fill out a questionnaire, had him hold his ideogram in
front of a machine, then gave him a card that told him where to get his clothes washed, where to get
dinner that night, and a bed to sleep in, where to breakfast tomorrow, and where to go to work the next
morning. "Free.” She smiled. "All the services are free. And when you go to work tomorrow, you'll get
another card with the next day's schedule on it, and on weekends, you get weekend cards for recreation
activities, movies, or sports. All free.”
     "What I don't feel like working?" he asked, summoning truculence.
     "That's fine. You do what you like. If you'd rather lie around all day, you can do that, but it gets
pretty boring, you know, when you can't drink or smoke and there's no TV until evening and you can't
loiter.”
     "Whadda you mean, can't loiter?"
     "Loitering isn't allowed. Streets are for transit. Everyone is happier if he's going somewhere and
doing something. If one isn't working, one should be enjoying life, meditating, recreating, relaxing in
some appropriate place. If you'd rather meditate or relax than work, that's fine, here's a list of meditation
and relaxation centers.”
     "And if I don't want to meditate?" he cried, outraged.
     "That's fine," she said. "That's perfectly fine. We'll find something else for you to do.”
     Bert wandered out, feeling aimless. He should, he felt, be really angry about moocow, but somehow,
it was all too much effort. The streets were empty except for people obviously going somewhere. And he
couldn't drink beer, or anything alcoholic. And he couldn't smoke, he wasn't even fifty yet.
     The address sheet said there was a meditation center a block away. He turned left and found the
entrance, a plain door with a symbol on the doorway that looked like a head with rays coming out of it.
He remembered the building first as a warehouse and then later as a place where Larry's friend used to
store bales of marijuana. Now, however, rows of pillows were lined up on the floor, a few of them
occupied by quiet people. Bert sat down.
     A voice spoke to him, very softly. "Let's think about things," it said. "Let's decide what we can do
today that will be useful. . . .”
     Bert tried to get up, but his legs wouldn't work, and the voice in his head said, "That's fine, we can go
when we've finished, but we don't want to go just yet, do we? No. We want to think about being useful . .
.” And the voice went on, and on, and on, until it was time for lunch.
     "That's fine," said the smiling lady at the lunch counter when he complained about too much salad.
"Tomorrow, you choose something else.”
     "That's fine," said the man at the shelter that night. "Here's your card for tomorrow and a list of other
shelters.”
     "That's fine," said the boss the next morning, when Bert reported and said he didn't want to work.
"You can go to the meditation center.”
     "That's fine," said Bert a week or so later, looking at himself in the mirror of the room that had his
name on it, room 502 at Glusi Housing Center #10. His boss on the painting crew had told him he was
doing really well. The food at the center tasted better all the time. "That's just fine," he said, trying to
identify the strange feeling he had. Really weird. After a while, he decided he felt contented.

Benita—ONE YEAR LATER
      About a year later, Benita was in her new office in Washington, D.C., talking to her assistant, Jewel.
      "Did you get monthly reports from the Glusi Centers?" she asked, checking a previous item off her
list.
      Jewel referred to her notebook. "Finished this afternoon, Bennie. Leonard says he'll bring them up as
soon as they're printed. Preliminary indications were, glusi population requiring assistance was down
maybe three percent.”
      "Three percent down," she breathed. "That's a first! That's wonderful. We started with four percent of
the total population as glusi, and Chiddy said the total shouldn't exceed one percent of the population, so
we're on our way down. Great!"
      "Let's hope Chiddy was right. Can I get you some coffee, Bennie?"
      "I'm fine, thanks. Have we had any more media fallout from the lawsuits those pregnant guys
brought?"
      "Not particularly. There was some case law involving rapists who'd been sued, but the courts just
won't call what the Inkleozese did rape. There've been a few columns advocating recompense for their
time and trouble, or in the case of the guys who didn't make it, payment to families. All the survivors are
back now, all in good health, all returned to their homes. Of course, a number of their wives went
elsewhere during their absence.”
      "The wives surely didn't blame their husbands.”
      "As a matter of fact, some of them did. In the morning paper, Mrs. Morse was quoted as saying her
husband asked for it, talking the way he did. If he didn't want to be raped, he should have been more
careful what he said.”
      "Which Mrs. Morse was that?" Benita asked.
      "The first one. The second one was nicer. She seemed to be really fond of him.”
      "Lupe?"
      "Right.”
      "Well, Lupe has always been said to be fond of a lot of people. She's a very . . . gregarious person.
Anything else?"
      "Your daughter called. She says she hasn't seen her brother in weeks, and have you heard from him?"
       "Oh, my goodness, yes. Jewel, I'm such an idiot. I should have let her know. He called me three
months ago to ask if I'd recommend him for the patterner's job. He got through the interviews, last time I
talked to him, and then Vess called me to say he'd been selected! I'll call Angelica the minute I get home.
Is that it?"
       "That's it. No reason you can't take off for the weekend with a clear conscience.”
       Benita nodded, tucked some of the paperwork on her desk into the top drawer, put on her jacket, and
left, turning in the doorway to admire the office. It was a splendid office. The furniture was elegant, all in
Pchar wood, from the planet of the Vixbot. The rug was soft and beautifully colored, woven from the
wooly integument of Oumfuzzian swamp plants. The plants in the window were from half a dozen
different planets, all of them in gorgeous bloom, and the Confederation changed them for new ones, every
few days.
       Being Confederation Link wasn't a big job yet. Important, but not big. Once Earth was a full member
of the Confederation, which seemed certain now, so much progress had been made, the Link liaison job
would be a big, big job concerned with making import-export regulations, interspecies employment
agreements, passport restrictions, all kinds of things. She was working closely with the new president, and
she still saw the old president and First Lady every now and then. He was writing a book, and she was
running for office. They both kept very busy and, like Benita, looked forward to the future with great
anticipation. As for Benita's future, since shed been appointed as Link by Confederation ET’s on terms no
other person was able (or maybe willing) to meet, it wasn't a political thing and she could look forward to
being Link for life, if she liked.
       Home was still the apartment above the bookstore. It was convenient and efficient, though it wouldn't
be long before they'd need a larger place. She really wanted more country around her. Entertaining was
part of the job, and having a buffet for fifty, mixed human and alien, wasn't something easily done in an
apartment on the third floor with a wheezy elevator. They needed a place with a yard, with a big patio,
maybe even a swimming pool.
       When she parked behind the bookstore and opened the back door, the stockroom door was open.
Hearing Simon's voice, she leaned in and cried, "Hi, Simon. See you later?"
       "I'll be up in a bit," he yelled from behind a pile of books.
       She took the elevator up, thinking that when they moved, she'd really miss the creaky old elevator. It
rather punctuated her days, creak in the morning, creak in the evening, creak when anyone came or went.
She dropped her things on the couch and sat down by the phone and called Angelica.
       "Hi, Mom. Sony to bother you, calling you at work, but I haven't been able to reach Carlos. He hasn't
. . . reverted or anything, has he?"
       "Angel, no. No, he's on top of the world. He called me about three months ago to ask if I'd
recommend him for a job with the Confederation. Evidently, he'd discussed it with Chiddy and Vess
before they dropped him off in California after we got back from Pistach-home last year.”
       "What Confederation job? He never mentioned it to me.”
       "There are two Confederation jobs that have to be filled by Earthians. One is the Link job, that's the
one I'm doing. The other one they call the Pattern job. It only opened up a few months ago, after we met
the preliminary requirements for membership.”
       She smiled, thinking about it. American culture was indeed tasty and catching. What started in the
U.S. had rapidly spread across the world. Conflict was down. Destruction of habitat was down. Incivility
was down. All schools had classes on good citizenship and polite conduct, and if a student failed that
class, they went to remedial school until they passed it, and if they acted out after passing it, they went
back into class again. Freedom of speech was unabridged, but one could not yell in other people's faces,
harass them, or use easy-speak to cover up unpleasant facts. Food distribution systems had been worked
out to minimize famines, a new pregnancy immunization process was being distributed worldwide,
making women increasingly infertile the more pregnancies they had. Gender selection had been perfected,
so everyone could have the gender child they wanted, which had made Chiddy exult. In many countries
everyone would have boys, by preference, the number of boys would exceed the number of girls by up to
a third, and that would really drop the population during the next generation. World human population
was too high, everyone agreed, but individual choice had to be respected. The Inkleozese had petitioned
formally for a meeting with the UN, during which they had said how gratified they were at the progress
Earth had made and pointed out that in order to join the Confederation, Earth was required to provide two
humans to work with the Confederation, and the first one had been selected, someone with intimate
knowledge of and feelings of kinship for alien peoples, Benita Alvarez.
      Previous to the announcement, Benita had been asked to take the job by the Confederation
ambassador, another jolly Inkleozese, and after considering the requirements for a week or so, she had
agreed. She had become quite uniquely qualified, after all. At least, so the Inkleozese had told her.
      Now Carlos had been approved for the other position. "I'm surprised he didn't talk to you before he
left, Angelica.” "He left a message, but it was all garbled. And I've had finals. I guess I was too busy to
worry about him until now.” "Well, you needn't worry at all. He's got the job.” Angelica asked, "What is
the job? I don't get it.” "The Confederation needs one of us to travel among the Confederation worlds for
the other races to study. The rules provide that new planets shouldn't submit anyone who has family
because the job will take a large chunk of their lives. They like to have someone young, who isn't
involved in professional work or some long-planned career.”
      'Travel around the galaxy?" Angel said. "Carlos?" 'That's right. So that all the races out there can
record our parameters so that our people won't get into situations that are dangerous for them. If we have
limited ability to withstand deterioration during long flights, the Confederation needs to know that. If our
race has an adverse reaction to some botanical found on Vixbot, they need to know that.”
      "A lab rat!" exclaimed Angelica.
      "Not really, Angelica. Chiddy says Patterns have a wonderful time. They have people paying
attention to them all day, every day. They get to see things other people of their races may never see.
They get the best of everything, amusements, housing, food . . .”
      "How long will he be gone?"
      "He should be back within two to four years. And he'll be in demand, Angel. I should imagine he'll be
offered a book deal, at the very least. You may expect to see him on 20/20 or Primetime.”
      "Wow," she said doubtfully. "I can't believe it'll be Carlos.”
      "I can tell you're glad for him. Ah ... I've got some news. Your father's back. He's in a glusi support
program back in Albuquerque. I've got the number, if you want to call him.”
      "A program for the needy? Oh, Mom, that's sad.”
      "Well, so far as I'm concerned, he always was in a program for the needy, and I was it! I could go
back to supporting him, I suppose, Angelica. I can't see that it did him any good before.”
      "Oh, no, no. Don't you dare! I'm just . . . sorry for him, that's all. My father in a program for the
needy! Well.”
      So far as Angelica and the rest of the human race was concerned, glusi meant "needy" or "homeless.”
That's what Chiddy had defined it as, and only Chad and Benita and the people who'd read Chiddy's
journal knew it had ever meant anything different. Everyone knew, of course, that glusi included former
drunks who couldn't drink anymore and former nutters who had been smoothed out enough not to be
agonized or dangerous, but otherwise left to do precisely what they chose. It included the occasional
displaced person, for whom assistance could be both immediate and effectual, and also the occasional
tormented eccentric for whom some form of mediation with the world was necessary, though the attempt
was always made to ease the pain without interfering with creativity. The Confederation had a high regard
for Earthian creativity, particularly in the graphic, musical and theater arts, and though suffering as a way
of life was foreign to the Pistach, they had accepted that a certain amount of excruciation often went along
with imagination.
     Glusi also included runaway children, a no-longer-frequent category, along with women whom
Chiddy still called "erotic stimulators for hire," who wished to do something else. Erotic stimulators for
hire who liked their work, however (and a surprising number did), had their own support network offering
medical and social benefits and assistance.
     Angelica and Benita talked a while longer, though Angelica seemed unconvinced about Carlos, still
finding it hard to believe he was doing anything important.
     Benita had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. Chad.
     "How are you?" she cried, joyously. "Haven't seen you in ... weeks.”
     "Well, I've been . . . occupied," he said in a strained voice. "Merilu decided to come back. With the
boys.”
     She took a deep breath. "Well . . . Chad. That's . . . what is that? Wonderful?"
     "Ah . . . yes, in a way. She's written herself a new life-script, and it fits her to a tee. You know,
behind every famous man there's a woman? Well, she's it.”
     "And you're the famous man?"
     "If she has her way, I will be. As she keeps pointing out, I'm one of only two people who've ever seen
a number of other planets. Since we have a ten-year probationary period before humans will be allowed to
travel to other worlds, except the patterner, that is, no other human will see other planets for at least that
long, and she's working on a book deal for me. 'Chad Riley as told to Merilu Riley.' Either that, or she
wants to go to Pistach-home so we can write it together. She thinks with my influence, the Pistach would
be happy to take us there. I've tried to explain, but she's not listening.”
     "Tell her about the toilets.”
     "The ones on Pistach-home?"
     "Right. And tell her about the iglak, and what the food is like. All those squirmy things you have to
eat to be polite. And how they won't let her wear anything but caste clothes, and how receptors are rather
low caste . . . you get the idea.”
     "Benita, you're a lifesaver.”
     "Is it still worth it?"
     Long silence. Sigh. "You pointed out to me once that she's a very beautiful woman.”
     "I did that," she admitted, wondering how long that would be enough for him. "Of course, the Pistach
won't think so. They think all humans are odd looking. Tell her that, too.”
     "What have you heard from Carlos?" he asked.
     "Well, you know he got the patterner job. Vess is with him, kind of a troubleshooter-escort. Vess said
Carlos is on his way, enjoying himself, learning a lot, becoming quite the diplomat. You told me once you
hankered for a job at State. I'm coming to believe Carlos may get one. He always loved the sound of his
own voice. You better write your book before he gets back, or you'll have competition.”
     She hung up. Sasquatch stuck his nose in her lap and whined. He smelled something lovely
emanating from the kitchen, as did she, so they went to see what was cooking. Her husband was at the
stove, juggling several pans at once.
     "Hi," glancing at her briefly. "Don't interrupt. I'm sauteing fin-zannels, and they mustn't burn.”
     "I don't think I've tasted fin-zannels.”
     "The Inkleozese brought in a case. I had to promise to give them a beef roast in return for these.”
     "Beef?"
     "Any red meat. I don't think they care what. They say they'll label it as Earth meat and trade it to the
Wulivery for flamsit eggs.”
     "The Wulivery got a taste for Earth flesh, hmm.”
     "Allegedly. They're still not speaking to the Inkleozese. They claim the assessors used unethical
means to get them off Earth.”
     The saute pan received a final, quite professional flip that emptied the whatsits onto a plate that was
thrust into the warm oven.
     "Bert showed up," Benita said.
     "Ah.”
     "He's in a glusi center in Albuquerque.”
     "Good, good," distractedly as hands busily grated an onion, which was added to the plate in the oven
before Benita was seized in an enormous hug. Certain pressure points were touched, tiny electric shocks
went down particular muscles, all of it infinitely warm and loving. The room spun agreeably. It wasn't
sex, but it was very, very nice.
     'What's the occasion?" she asked, somewhat breathlessly.
     "We're having a guest for dinner, and it's our six-month anniversary.” A small box materialized
before her nose. "Six months since you agreed to meet the Confederation guidelines for liaison officers
and ally yourself with an otherworldly person.”
     She opened it. A pair of earrings. Not gold, something else, very light and lacy, set with gorgeous
green stones. What a dear spouse, no matter what shape!
     "Oh, they're lovely," she cried. "You're so wonderful to me!"
     "As I should be," ai said. "Dearest, dearest Benita.”