Doorways in the Sand
Chapter 10

    As the cablelike vines or tentacles seized me, thigh and shoulder, hoisting me into the air to a position where, wrenching my neck, I was afforded a view of the thing's massive trunk, down to where it emerged from the tub of slime in the center of the room, I reflected, as the enormous Venus's-flytrap type blades snapped open, revealing a reddish interior, that while it may be true that most accidents are caused by carelessness, I could in no way be held responsible this time. Since my departure from the hospital I had been a model State Department employee, totally circumspect in thought and deed.
    As it paused for an instant, perhaps debating the best disposition of the alkaloids my excess nitrogen would provide, the past couple of days flashed before me. No more than that, as I was still fresh on the earlier portions of my life from the last time I had been about to die.

    I don't know whether it was that certain smile or morbid curiosity that manipulated me next. Doctor Drade had wanted to keep me hospitalized for further observation, despite the prima facie evidence of my healed chest. I disappointed him, however, and checked out around five hours after Nadler and Ragma had departed. Hal picked me up and drove me home.
    Declining an offer to dine with Hal and Mary, I retired early that evening, first calling Ginny, who now seemed anxious to resume life where we had been interrupted at it back in my undergraduate days. We made a date for the following afternoon, and I turned in after a brief constitutional about the neighborhood rooftops.
    Troubled, my sleep? Yes. External security there was, to the extent of a pair of drowsy coplike stakeouts I had spotted from above while taking the air. Inside, though, I shuffled my deck of distresses and dealt myself bad hand after bad hand until I was cleaned out, mercifully, before six bells.
    From then to morning was nine hours long for me and interspersed with short features, none of which I could get a pin through afterward, save for the smile. I awoke knowing what I had to do and immediately set about rationalizing it so that it would not seem like another compulsion. And after a time I decided that perhaps it was not. Really, anyone would be curious about the place where he almost died.
    So I phoned Hal and tried to borrow his car. Mary was using it, though. However, Ralph's was available and I hiked over and picked it up.
    It was a crisp, clear morning with a hint of balminess to come. Driving seaward, I thought of my new job and of Ginny and of the smile. The job was to outlast the current difficulty, Nadler had assured me, and the more I considered it the more it seemed that it might be worthwhile. If you have to do something, it is fortunate if it can be something interesting, something more than a little enjoyable. All those races out there, somewhere, concerning which we now knew next to nothing-I was going to have an opportunity to mine the unknown, hopefully to fetch forth something of understanding, to consider the exotic, to transform the familiar. I realized, suddenly, that I was excited at the prospect. I wanted to do it. I had no illusions as to why I had been hired, but now that I had my foot between door and jamb I wanted to push by the present obstructions and have a go at the real work. It seemed, just then, that alien anthropology (well, xenology, more correctly, I suppose) was really the sort of thing for which I had been preparing myself all along, in my own eclectic way. I chuckled softly. In addition to being excited, it occurred to me that I might be happy.
    Having grown a bit more used to doing things in reverse, I found that driving a stereoisocar was not all that difficult. I came to a proper halt at every POTS sign, and once I got out into the country there were very few traffic distractions. In fact, the only thing that had given me any trouble at all since the reversal was shaving. My traumatized nervous system had responded to the imaged reversal of a front-back reversal by jittering my hand to a bloody halt and waiting for me to dust off the electric shaver. This done, it was still a peculiar experience, but with the removal of the hazard it, repaid me with confidence and a reasonably clean face.
    And as I grinned and grimaced in the glass, I had thought of the only fragment of the night's dreaming that remained with me. There was this smile. Whose? I did not know. It was just a smile, somewhere a little over the line from the place where things begin to make sense. It remained with me, though, flickering on and off like a fluorescent tube about to call it quits; and as I drove along the route Hal had taken earlier, I tried free-associating my way around it. Doctor Marko not being handy.
    Nothing but the "Mona Lisa" came to pass. It did not feel quite right, in terms of analytic correspondence. Still, it was this famous painting that had gone out in exchange for the Rhennius machine. There could be some subtle connection-at least in my subconscious-or else a red herring born of coincidence and imagination, which sounds more like a caption for a Dali or an Ernst than a Da Vinci.
    I shook my head and watched the morning go by. After a time I came to the side road and took it.
    Leaving the car where we had parked before, I located the path and made my way down to the cottage. I observed it discreetly for a long while, saw no signs of life. Ragma had insisted that I seek to avoid troublesome situations, but this hardly seemed to qualify as one. I approached it from the rear, advancing on the window through which Paul must have entered. Yes. The latch was broken. Peering inside, I saw a small bedroom, quite empty. Circling the building then, I glanced in the other windows, saw that the place was indeed deserted. The fractured front door was nailed shut, so I returned to the rear and entered after the fashion of my former mentor and master rockmaker.
    I made my way through the bedroom and on out the door from which Paul had emerged. In the front room the signs of our struggles were unobliterated. I wondered which of the dried bloodstains might be my own.
    I glanced out the window. The sea was calmer, with more to it than was the case the last time I had passed this way. It lay cleaner scud lines on the beach, where no new doorways gaped that I could see. Turning away from it then, I studied the tackle and netting which had taken Paul so neatly where he stood, upsetting the balance of power and getting me punctured that day.
    Some lines and a section of mesh were still snagged by a nail in one of the rafters, loosely leashing the junk on the floor below. To my right, a series of two-by-fours nailed between wall supports made a track up to that level.
    I climbed it and crossed among the rafters, pausing every few paces to strike a light and examine the dustcoated wood. On the opposite side of the disturbed area where the equipment had rested, I came across a trail of small wedge-shaped smudges, leading in from a crossbrace which in turn bore them from the top of the side frame itself. I descended then and searched the rest of the cottage quite thoroughly but came across nothing else that was of any interest. So I went back outside, smoked a cigarette while I thought about it, then headed back for the car.

    Smiles. Ginny had many of them that afternoon, and we spent the rest of the day avoiding troublesome situations. She was more than a little surprised to learn that I had graduated and gotten a job. No matter. The day had fulfilled its promise, was balmy, stayed bright. We ambled about the campus and the town, laughing and touching a lot. Later, we wound up at a chamber-music recital, which for some forgotten reason seemed the perfect thing to do and was. We stopped at a nearby cafe afterward, then went on up to my place so that I could show her it was only normally disarrayed, among other things. Smiles.
    And the following day was a variation on the same theme. The weather varied also, a bit of rain beginning in the afternoon. But that was all right, too. Made things seem cozier. Nice to be inside. Imagining a roaring fireplace across the room. Stuff like that. She had not noticed that I was reversed, and I made up such a lovely lie for my scar, involving initiation into a secret society within a tribe I had recently fielded, that I almost wished I had written it down. Alack! And more smiles.
    About nine in the evening my phone shattered the idyll. My premonition equipment printed out a warning, but like a Low Flying Aircraft sign failed to suggest anything I could do about it. I roused myself and answered the thing, a sigh followed by a "Yes?" 
    "Fred?" 
    "That's right." 
    "This is Ted Nadler. A problem has come up." 
    "Like what?" 
    "Zeemeister and Buckler have escaped." 
    "From where? How?"
    "They had been transferred to a prison hospital later on in the same day they were brought in. They just left it a few hours ago, as nearly as we can tell. As to how they went about it, nobody seems to know. They left nine unconscious employees-medical and security-behind them. The doctors think it was some sort of neurotropic gas that was used-at least, the victims are all responding to atropine. But when the director called me none of them had come out of it sufficiently to be able to say what had occurred."
    "Too bad. But then, I guess we've seen the last of them for a time." 
    "What do you mean?"
    "What did I just say? They are probably on their way out of the country. Kidnaping charges, attempted homicide charges-reasons like that." 
    "We can't chance it." 
    "What do you mean?"
    "They just might head your way instead. So you had better send your girifriend home and pack a suitcase. I will be picking you up in around half an hour." 
    "You can't do that!"
    "Sorry, but I can, and that's an order. Your job now requires that you take a trip. So does your health, for that matter." 
    "All right. Where?" 
    "New York," he said.
    And then click. Thus, the invasion of Eden. 
    I returned to Ginny.
    "What was that?" she asked.
    "I have some good news and some bad news." 
    "What's the good news?" 
    "We still have half an hour."

    Actually, it took him more like an hour to get to my place, which gave me time to make a nasty, cold-blooded decision of a sort I had never had to make before and to act on it.
    Merimee answered on the sixth ring and recognized my voice.
    "Yes," I said. "Listen, do you recall an offer you made the last time that we talked?" 
    "Yes, I do." 
    "I'd like to take you up on it," I said. 
    "Who?"
    "Two of them. Their names are Zeemeister and Buckler-" 
    "Oh, Morty and Jamie! Sure." 
    "You know them?"
    "Yes. Morty used to work for your uncle occasionally. When business was booming and we were swamped with orders, we sometimes had to hire on extra help. He was a fat little kid, eager to learn the trade. I never much liked him myself, but he had enthusiasm and certain aptitudes. After Al fired him, he began operations on his own and built up a fairly decent business. He acquired Jamie a couple years later, to deal with competitors and handle customer complaints. Jamie used to be a light-heavyweight boxer-a pretty good one-and he had lots of military experience. Deserted from three different armies-" 
    "Why did Uncle Al fire Zeemeister?"
    "Oh, the man was dishonest. Who wants untrustworthy employees?"
    "True. Well, they've come close to killing me twice now, and I have just learned they are loose again." 
    "I take it you do not know their present whereabouts?" 
    "That, unfortunately, is the case." 
    "Hmm. It makes things more difficult. Well, let us get at it from the other end. Where are you going to be for the next few days?" 
    "I should be heading for New York within the hour." 
    "Excellent! Where will you be staying?" 
    "I don't know yet."
    "You are welcome to stay here again. In fact, it might facilitate-"
    "You don't understand," I said. "I've graduated. Doctorate, in fact. Now I have a job. My boss is taking me to New York tonight. I don't know where he will be putting me up yet. I'll try to call you as soon as I get in." 
    "Okay. Congratulations on the job and the degree. When you make up your mind to do something, you really move fast-just like your uncle. I look forward to hearing the whole story soon. In the meantime, I will put out some feelers. Also, I think I can promise you a pleasant surprise before too long." 
    "Of what sort?"
    "Now, it would not be a surprise if I told you, would it, dear boy? Trust me." 
    "Okay, here's trust," I said.
    "Thanks."
    "Till later." 
    "Goodbye."
    Thus, with premeditation and full intent, et cetera. No apologies. I was tired of being shot, and it is always a shame to waste any sort of gift certificate.

    The hotel, as it turned out, was directly across the street from the same partly fleshed skeleton of a possible office building that I had used to gain access to the roof of the structure diagonally across the street-namely, the hall that housed the Rhennius machine.
    I somehow doubted that this was a matter of pure coincidence. When I commented on it, though, Nadler did not reply. It was after midnight that we were checking in, and I had been with the man continually since he had picked me up.
    Then: "I'm about out of cigarettes," I said as we approached the desk, first noting, of course, that there was no cigarette machine in sight. 
    "Good," be replied. "Filthy habit." 
    The girl at the desk was more sympathetic, however, and told me where I could find one on the mezzanine. I thanked her, got our room number, told Nadler I would be up in a minute and left him there.
    Naturally, I headed immediately for the nearest phone, got hold of Merimee and told him where I was.
    "Good. Consider it staked out," he said. "By the way, I believe that the customers are in town. One of my associates thinks she saw them earlier." 
    "That was quick."
    "Accidental, too. Still . . . Be of good cheer. Sleep well. Adieu." 
    "G'night."
    I headed for the elevators, caught one to my floor and sought our room. Lacking a key, I knocked.
    There was no response for a time. Then, just as I was about to knock again, Nadler's voice inquired, "Who is it?" 
    "Me. Cassidy," I said.
    "Come on ahead. It's unlocked."
    Trusting, preoccupied and a trifle tired, I turned the knob, pushed and entered. A mistake anyone could have made.
    "Ted! What the hell is-" and by then a vine had snagged me by the leg and another was slipping about my shoulder-"it?" I inquired, going airborne.
    I struggled, of course. Who wouldn't? But the thing raised me a good five feet into the air, shifting me into a horizontal position directly above its less than attractive self. It then proceeded to turn me upside down, so that my field of vision was dominated by its gray-green bulk, its tub of slime and its octopal members all awrithe. I had a hunch it meant me ill even before its leafy appendages came open like switchblades, showing me-their moist, spiny and suspiciously ruddy insides.
    I let out a bleat and tore at the vines. Then something that felt like a red-hot poker occurred behind my eyes and passed from side to side and back within my head. Stark terror poured forth, and I twisted convulsively within the living bonds. 
    Then came what seemed a sharp whistling noise, the stabbing sensation was gone from my cranium, the vines slackened, collapsed, and I fell, twisting, to the carpet, narrowly missing the bucket's rim. A bit of the slime slopped over onto me, and inert tentacles fell like holiday streamers about me. I moaned and reached over to rub my shoulder.
    "He's hurt!" came a voice that I recognized as Ragma's.
    I turned my head to receive the sympathy I heard rushing toward me on little furry feet and big shod ones.
    However, Ragma in his dog suit and Nadler and Paul Byler in equally appropriate garb rushed past me, squatted about the tub and began ministering to the militant vegetable. I crawled off into a corner, where I regained my feet if not my composure. Then I began mouthing obscenities, which were ignored. Finally, I shrugged, wiped the slime from my sleeve, found a chair, lit a cigarette and watched the show.
    They raised the limp members and manipulated them, massaged them. Ragma tore off into the next room and returned with what appeared to be an elaborate lamp, which he plugged into an outlet and focussed on the nasty shrub. Producing an atomizer, he sprayed its vicious leaves. He stirred the slime. He dumped some chemicals into it.
    "What could have gone wrong?" Nadler said.
    "I have no idea," Ragma replied. "There! I think he is coming around!"
    The tentacles began to twitch, like shocked serpents. Then the leaves opened and closed, slowly. A series of shudders shook the thing. Finally, it reared itself upright once again, extended all its members, let them go slack, extended them again, relaxed again. 
    "That's better," Ragma said 
    "Anybody care how I'm feeling?" I asked. 
    Ragma turned and glared at me.
    "You!" he said. "Just what did you do to poor Doctor M'mrm'mlrr, anyway?" 
    "Come again? My hearing seems to have been affected." 
    "What did you do to Doctor M'mrm'mlrr?" 
    "Thank you. That is what I thought you said. Damned if I know. Who is Doctor Murmur?"
    "M'mrm'mlrr," he corrected. "Doctor M'mrm'mlrr is the telepathic analyst I brought to examine you. We made a good connection and got him here ahead of schedule. Then the first thing you do when he tries to examine you is incapacitate him."
    "That thing," I inquired, gesturing at the tub and its occupant, "is the telepath?"
    "Not everyone is a member of the animal kingdom, as you define it," he said. "The doctor is a representative of a totally different line of life development than your own. Anything wrong with that? Are you prejudiced against plants or something?"
    "My prejudice is against being seized, squeezed and waved about in the air."
    "The doctor practices a technique known as assault therapy."
    "Then he should make allowance for the occasional patient who is not a pacifist. I don't know what I did, but I am glad that I did it."
    Ragma turned away, cocked his head as if studying a gramophone horn, then announced, "He is feeling better. He wishes to meditate for a time. We are to leave the light on. It should not be overlong."
    The vines stirred, moved to bunch themselves near the special lamp. Doctor M'mrm'mirr grew still.
    "Why does he want to assault his patients?" I asked. "It seems somewhat counterproductive to the building up of a good practice." 
    Ragma sighed and turned my way again.
    "He does not do it to alienate his patients," he said. "He does it to help them. I guess that it is asking too much to expect you to appreciate the centuries of subtle philosophizing his people have devoted to this sort of thing." 
    "Yes," I replied.
    "The theory is that any primary emotion can be used as a mnemomolecular key. Its skilled induction provides a telepath of his species with access to all of an individual's life experiences with resonance in that area. Now, it has been found that fear is a significant component of the problems most of his patients bring to him. Therefore, by inducing a flight response and frustrating it, he is able to sustain the emotion and keep the patient within range of therapy simultaneously. That way, he can review the emotive field in a single session." 
    "Does he eat his mistakes?" I asked.
    "He has no control over his ancestry," Ragma replied. "Do you brachiate?" Then: "Never mind," he said. "You do. I forgot."
    I turned to Nadler, who had just approached, and Paul, who was standing nearby, smirking.
    "I take it all this sounds proper to you," I said, addressing them both.
    Paul shrugged and Nadler said, "If it gets the job done." 
    I sighed.
    "I suppose you are right," I said. Then: "Paul, what are you doing here?"
    "Fellow employee," he replied. "I was recruited around the same time as yourself. By the way, I am sorry about that day back at your place. It was a matter of life and death, you know. Mine."
    "Forget it," I said. "In what capacity have they got you on the payroll?"
    "He is our expert on the stone," Nadler said. "He knows more about it than any other man alive." 
    "You've given up on the crown jewels, then?" I asked. 
    Paul winced. He nodded.
    "You know, then," he said. "Yes, it was a belated youthful geste that got out of hand. Mea culpa. We had not anticipated the involvement of criminals to this extent. After I recovered from their abuse, I realized the mistake we had made and set out to put things right. I told the UN people everything I knew. Had a hard time convincing them but finally did. They were decent enough not to have me locked away somewhere. Even filled me in a bit concerning your difficulties down home. But making a clean breast of it was still not enough for me. I wanted to help recover the thing. You had just returned to the States, and I figured that they would try for you again. So I decided to keep an eye on you till they did, then spike their guns on the spot. I got onto your trail at Hal's and followed you as far as the Village, but I lost you in a bar there. Didn't catch up with you again till you were back home. You know the rest."
    "Yes. Another small mystery resolved. Then you were hired in the hospital, too?"
    "Correct. Ted here said that if I was that concerned about the way things were going, I might as well save some wasted motion and get paid for it, too. On the books, though, I am an XT-mineralogist."
    "It seems to me," I said, addressing all of them, "that my being brought here tonight represents more than the mere avoidance of a couple of thugs. I would guess that you have something else in mind, only just beginning with the telepathic probe."
    "Nor would you be incorrect," said Ragma. "However, since it is all contingent on the results of the analysis, it would be an exercise in redundancy to detail the various hypotheses which may have to be discarded." 
    "In other words, you are not going to tell me?" 
    "That pretty well sums it up."
    Before I could submit my resignation or comment on any of a number of likely subjects that had occurred to me, I was distracted by a movement from across the room. Doctor M'mrm'mlrr was stirring again.
    We all watched as he raised his snaky appendages and began his setting-up exercises. Stretch, relax . . . Stretch, relax...
    Two or three minutes of this-it was kind of hypnotic-and I realized that he was stalking me again, only with a much greater delicacy than he had previously employed.
    I felt the touch again, within my head, as an unnatural stirring beneath my basal thoughts. Only this time there was no accompanying pain. It was just a sort of dizzy feeling and a sense of process not unlike the awareness of something being done under a local anesthetic. I guess that the others had somehow been made aware of this also, for they maintained their positions and their silence.
    All right. If M'mrm'mlrr was going to be a little more civilized about it, he could have my cooperation, I decided.
    So I sat there and let him rummage about.
    Then, quite abruptly, he must have come across the big switchboard somewhere down there and pulled a plug, because I blacked out, instantly and without pain. Blink. 
    Blink again.
    Weary, thirsty and with a feeling of having been broken down and reconstituted incorrectly, I raised my hand to rub my eyes and glimpsed the face of my watch as I did so. Then I swung it up and listened for ticks. As I already suspected, it was still tossing them off. Ergo . . . 
    "Yes, about three hours," said Ragma.
    I heard Paul snore, snort short, cough and sigh. He had been dozing in the armchair. Ragma was sprawled on the floor, smoking. M'mrm'mlrr was still upright and stirring. Nadler was nowhere in sight.
    I stretched, unkinking muscle after muscle, hearing my frame creak like a floor that has been walked on overmuch.
    "Well, I hope that you learned something useful," I said.
    "Yes, I would say that we have," Ragma replied. "How do you feel?" 
    "Wrung out."
    "Understandable. Yes. Very. You were something of a battleground for a while there." 
    "Tell me about it."
    "To begin with," he said, "we have located the starstone."
    "Then you were right? Everyone was? I had the knowledge-somewhere?"
    "Yes. The memory should even be accessible now. Want to try for it yourself? A party. A broken glass. The desk..." 
    "Wait a minute. Let me think."
    I thought. And it was there. The last time that I had seen the star-stone. . .
    It was the bachelor party I had given for Hal the week before his wedding. The apartment was crowded with our friends, the booze flowed, we made a lot of noise. It went on till around two or three in the morning. All in all I would have to say that it was an effective party. At least, it seemed that everyone went home laughing and there were no injuries.
    Except for one small accident of my own.
    Yes. A glass was elbowed off a side table, shattered. It was empty, though. Nothing to mop up. And it was right near the end of things. People were saying good night, leaving. So I left the pieces where they had fallen. Later. Manana maybe.
    Still, I knew that I had had too much to drink, could guess how I would feel the next morning and what I would doubtless do.
    I would growl and curse and bid the day depart. When it persisted, I would roll out of bed, stagger off to the kitchen to put the coffee over-my first act on any day-then lumber back to the bathroom for standard maintenance while it brewed. Invariably barefoot. Certainly not remembering that my path was strewn with shards. At least for a brief while I would not remember.
    So I fetched the wastebasket from beneath the desk, got down into a hunker and began policing the area.
    Naturally, I cut myself. I leaned too far forward at one point, lost my balance, extended a hand to maintain it and located another shard as my palm struck the floor.
    I began bleeding, but I wrapped my handkerchief around it and continued with the cleanup. I knew that if I stopped right then to take care of my hand I would be tempted to let things go afterward. I was very sleepy.
    So I got up all the pieces that I could see and wiped over the area with damp cocktail napkins. That done, I returned the wastebasket to its usual spot and dropped back into the desk chair because it was right there and I wanted to.
    I unwrapped my hand and it was still bleeding. No sense doing anything at all until my thrombin earned its keep. So I leaned back and waited. My eyes did rest for a moment on the model of the star-stone we used for a paperweight. In fact, I reached out and turned it slowly, deriving a certain semisober satisfaction from the shifting light patterns it displayed. Then I stretched out my arm full length on the blotter because my head was heavy and it occurred to me that my biceps would do nicely for a pillow. Resting that way, eyes still open, I continued to play with the stone, feeling a small regret at having gotten blood on it, then deciding that it was all right, as it made for amusing contrasts here and there. Goodbye, world.
    It was a couple of hours later that I awoke, thirsty and possessed of a few muscle aches from the way I had been sleeping. I got to my feet, headed for the kitchen, where I drank a glass of water, then passed back through the apartment, switching off lights. When I got to my bedroom, I undressed slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, letting my clothes lie where they fell, crawled in and did the rest of my night's sleeping properly.
    And that was the last time I had seen the star-stone. Yes.
    "I remember," I said. "I have to hand it to the doctor. It comes back now. It was misted over by booze and fatigue, but I've got it again." 
    "Not just beverage and fatigue," Ragma said. 
    "What else, then?" 
    "I said that we had found the stone."
    "Yes, you did. But no memories on that count have been shaken loose for me. I just recall the last time that I saw it, not where it went." 
    Paul cleared his throat. Ragma glanced at him. 
    "Go ahead," he said.
    "When I worked with that thing," Paul told me, "I had to proceed along lines that were somewhat less than satisfactory. I mean that I was not about to knock a piece off a priceless artifact for purposes of analysis. Aside from purely aesthetic reasons, it might be detected. I had no idea as to how detailed any alien analyses of its surface might be. Almost anything I did that would alter it might have caused trouble. Fortunately, though, it passed light readily. So I concentrated on its optical effects. I did an extremely minute topological light-mapping of its entire surface. With that and its weight, I developed some ideas as to its composition. Now, although I was not especially concerned at the time with anything other than duplicating it, it did strike me that the thing seemed like a mass of strangely crystallized protein-" 
    "I'll be damned," I said. "But . . ." 
    I looked at Ragma.
    "Organic, all right," he said. "Paul did not really discover anything new in that, as this fact had been known for some time elsewhere. However, what nobody had realized was that it was still living, somehow. It was simply dormant."
    "Living? Crystallized? You make it sound like a massive virus."
    "I suppose that I do. But viruses are not noted for their intelligence, and that thing-in its own way-is intelligent." 
    "I do see what you are leading up to, of course," I said. "What do I do now? Reason with it? Or take two aspirins and go to bed?"
    "Neither. I am going to have to speak for Doctor M'mrm'mirr now, as he is occupied and you deserve an immediate explanation as to what he discovered. The first time that he attempted to penetrate your memories, he was thrown into a state of shock by an encounter with a totally unexpected form of consciousness coexistent with your own. In the course of his practice he has treated representatives of just about every known race in the galaxy, but he never encountered anything like this before. He said that it was something unnatural." 
    "Unnatural? In what way?"
    "In a strictly technical fashion. He believes it to be an artificial intelligence, a synthetic being. Such things have been produced by a number of our contemporaries, but all of them are fairly simple compared to this." 
    "What functions does mine perform?"
    "We do not know. The second time that M'mrm'mirr entered your mind, he was braced for the encounter. The creature is itself mildly telepathic, you see. Enough to translate for you back aboard our ship, under ideal conditions. I am told that this can provide additional complications, and apparently it did. However, he succeeded in subduing it and learned sufficient of its nature in the process so that we have an idea as to how to deal with it. He then went on to explore some of your memories touching on the phenomenon, which helped us piece together our line of attack. He is now occupied in holding the creature in a form of mental stasis until things are ready." 
    "Things? Ready? What things? How?"
    "We should be hearing shortly. It is all tied in, though, with the nature of the thing. In light of M'mrm'mirr's findings, Paul has worked out some ideas as to what happened and what can be done about it."
    Paul took the pause that followed as a cue and said, "Yes. Picture it this way: You have a synthetic life form that can apparently be switched on and off by means of isometric reversals. Its 'on' condition, characterized by life functions, is a product of left-handedness. This, as you know, is the normal form amino acids take here on Earth, also; L-amino acids, as they are called. Turn them into their stereoisomer-D-amino acids-and in the case of our specimen, it goes into the 'off' position. Now, when I examined the star-stone, the optical effects indicated the dextral situation. 'Off.' All right. I was not thinking along these lines, but now we know a lot more. We know you were drinking the night you got blood on it. We know that grain alcohol has a symmetrical molecule and that if it could react with the specimen in one isometric state it might do it in the other also. Either it is a flaw in its design or an intentionally engineered capability. This we do not know. M'mrm'mirr learned that it did its best communicating with you, however, in the presence of this molecule-so it does seem to stimulate conversation. Whatever, you excited it sufficiently to enable it to partially activate itself and enter your system by way of the incision in your hand. After this exertion, it lay dormant for a long while, as you are not much of a drinker. Every now and then it gained a little stimulation, though, and tried to contact you via one sensory route or another. The medication Ragma administered to you after Australia revived it somewhat as it involved some ethyl alcohol. The night you were drinking with Hal, however, was the breakthrough. If it could persuade you to reverse yourself by means of the Rhennius machine, you would of course be backward, but it would be switched on. Which is what happened. So it is functioning normally at present, in you, but your health is suffering, according to Ragma. What we have to do now is get it out of you and rereverse you." 
    "Can you?" 
    "We think so." 
    "But you still have no idea what it does?"
    "It is a very sophisticated living machine of unknown function that conned you into placing yourself in a dangerous situation. Also, it displays a predilection for mathematics." 
    "Some sort of computer, then?"
    "M'mrm'mlrr does not think so. He believes it to be a secondary function."
    "I wonder why it didn't get back in touch with me after it was switched on?" 
    "There was still the barrier." 
    "What barrier?"
    "The matter of stereoisomers. Only this time it was you who were reversed. Then, too, it had gotten what it wanted."
    "Give it its due," said Ragma. "It did do one thing for him." 
    "What was that?" I asked.
    "I did not do anything for you back at the hospital," he said. "When I removed the dressing and performed a number of tests, I found that you were already completely healed. Your parasite apparently took care of it."
    "Then it seems as if he is trying to be a benign little guy."
    "Well, if anything should happen to you . . ." 
    "Granted, granted. But what about the side effects of the reversal on me?"
    "I am not at all certain that he realizes what it could eventually lead to."
    "It seems strange that if he is intelligent and he and M'mrm'mlrr were in contact he did not offer any explanation as to what has been going on."
    "There was small time for amenities," Ragma said. "The doctor had to act quickly to freeze him." 
    "More of his assault philosophy? It hardly seems fair-" 
    The telephone rang. Paul answered it, and all of his responses were monosyllables. It lasted perhaps half a minute and then he hung up and turned to Ragma. 
    "Ready," he said.
    "All right," Ragma replied. 
    "What is ready?" I asked.
    "That was Ted," Paul told me. "He is across the street. He had to get authorization-and the key-to open up the place. We are all going over now." 
    "To rereverse me?" 
    "Right," said Ragma.
    "Do you know how to do it?" I asked. "That machine has several settings. I tested its program once, and I have a great respect for the variations it can toss off." 
    "Charv will be meeting us there," he replied, "and he is bringing along a copy of the operator's manual." 
    Paul moved off into the bedroom, returned pushing a padded cart.
    "Give me a hand with the leafy bloke, will you, Fred?" he said.
    "Sure."
    It was with very mixed feelings that I moved forward and did so, taking care the while not to get any more of the slop on me.
    As we pushed Doctor M'mrm'mlrr through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, the reflection of a neon sign seemed, in the after-image of a blinking, to read DO YOU SMELL ME DED?
    "Yes," I muttered under my breath. "Tell me what to do."
    "Our Snark is a Boojum," came a whisper as we were crossing the street.
    When I looked around, of course, there was no one there.