textfiles/magazines/INTERTEXT/itv2n5

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Volume 2, Number 5                              September-October 1992
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                          INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

                       FirstText / JASON SNELL

                     Neuterality / PHILLIP NOLTE

                   Back from the West / MARK SMITH

                  Just a Company Man / P.R. MORRISON

                  The Long Way Home / P.R. MORRISON


---------------------------The InterText Staff------------------------
        EDITOR                       ASSISTANT EDITOR
        Jason Snell                  Geoff Duncan                   
        jsnell@ocf.Berkeley.edu      sgd4589@ocvaxa.cc.oberlin.edu

        CONTRIBUTING EDITOR          PROOFREADERS
        Philip Nolte                 Katherine Bryant
        nolte@idui1.csrc.uidaho.edu  Loretta Griffin
----------------------------------------------------------------------

                         FirstText / JASON SNELL

     After a long summer filled with plenty of changes for us here at 
InterText, I can honestly say that it's good to be back.
     Since I wrote last, it's been quite a ride. I sent out the issue 
and promptly packed up my stuff in a U-Haul truck and made the long 
drive from San Diego to my home in Northern California. Once there, I 
spent a day unpacking and promptly went to work as a reporter for the 
Union Democrat newspaper.
     As you might imagine, that pretty much ate up my summer. I still 
occasionally logged in to my computer account in San Diego from home, 
updating the InterText mailing list and receiving a few story 
submissions. The relatively slight size of this issue is partially due 
to my absence from electronic communication for most of this summer. 
Hopefully now that I'm back in touch, the submission numbers will pick 
up.
     Speaking of being back in touch, let me explain my situation now. 
I'm beginning my first of two years at UC Berkeley's Graduate School of 
Journalism, where I'll end up receiving a Masters of Journalism. In 
addition to the grind of my classes (including Journalism 200, the core 
course and supposedly the school's hardest), I'm also working as a 
Teaching Assistant in Berkeley's Mass Communication program. 
Undergraduates, now might be a good time to run for your lives.
     Oh, and editing InterText on top of all of that. We'll see how it 
goes.
     In any event, my new internet mail address is 
jsnell@ocf.Berkeley.edu. You can also still send mail to 
intertxt@network.ucsd.edu for the time being, and that's where the FTP 
site is still located.
     For Geoff Duncan, my assistant editor, this summer marked the end 
of his job at Oberlin College. He's currently trying to track down a job 
in the computer-rich realm of Seattle. As it is, he's working in Ohio as 
a freelance Macintosh consultant. If he ends up in Washington, I might 
actually even get a chance to meet him, since a friend of mine goes to 
school at the University of Washington.
     So this is the beginning of the second phase of InterText, and the 
nature of the magazine may change along with the changes going on in our 
lives. I hope that our readers will be able to help us along, continuing 
to submit stories and helping out in other ways. (One of those ways 
would be if there are readers who use Aldus Freehand or Adobe 
Illustrator to make PostScript illustrations... I've got a few old Mel 
Marcelo graphics around, including this issue's cover, but they're 
limited in number and I'd like to have other artists, if at all 
possible. I know PostScript artists are out there -- witness the nice 
covers that Quanta has had recently.)
     I've got a few ideas for different ways InterText might change in 
the future, including the possibility of distributing printed editions 
or disks with the issues on them, both on a cost-recovery basis. I've 
also got an idea for a "theme issue" of the magazine, which might come 
to pass by early next year.
     Oh, and two proud notes: InterText won two awards over the summer. 
The magazine was named first runner-up for the Disktop Publishing 
Association's Digital Quill Award for best Literary (what, me literary?) 
Publication, and I was named as one of four winners of the San Diego 
Supercomputer Center's 1992 Creative Computing Awards because of 
InterText.
     In the Disktop award race, we were up against tough international 
competition, including Quanta (which earned a second runner-up award), 
and I'm very proud that we were even given a mention. Congratulations to 
Del Freeman, Editor of Ruby's Pearls, the winner of the award. I've seen 
a few issues of Del's magazine and will try to get more information 
about it to include next time.
     I should also mention that another Disktop award -- this one for 
first runner-up for Best Computer/Technical Publication -- went to our 
friend Rita Rouvalis, for editing EFFector. Rita, of course, also edits 
CORE.
     The SDSC award usually goes to high-tech science and math projects, 
as well as computer music projects; it was nice to see something like 
this magazine get some recognition. Much thanks to Hassan Aref and the 
rest of the awards committee at the San Diego Supercomputer Center.
     Before I go, I thought I'd share a brief mail message I received 
over the summer from a professor of mine, Wade Chambers. He's from 
Deakin University in Australia, but was visiting UCSD when I took a 
class of his in science writing (Warren Ernst's "One Person's Junk..." 
was a product of that class.)

     
     Hi!  Sorry to be so long getting back to you.  By now you've 
probably gone off surfing for the summer.  My assistant Andre is a happy 
subscriber to your electronic magazine, which you mentioned but which I 
didn't pay much attention to at the time. However I was most impressed 
when he showed me your picture in his files.  And he in turn was 
impressed when he heard you were in my class at UCSD.  (That is, I think 
my status went up a notch or two.) 

     
     I'm starting to wonder just how small a world this is, and just how 
many people see InterText. I know the magazine's on CompuServe now, but 
it's also been turning up in the weirdest places. If you get InterText 
by some means other than mail from me, FTP, or CompuServe, I'd 
appreciate it if you'd drop me a line, either via email or real-live 
mail, at the address listed in the indicia at the end of this file.
     Well, that's enough from me. Until next time, enjoy this somewhat-
truncated issue. By next time things should be a bit more settled. 
They'd >better< be!

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                       Neuterality / PHILLIP NOLTE     
     
     "Such beautiful animals! So agile, so graceful! What are they?" One 
of the animals in question was, even then, rubbing its forehead on the 
rough, pebbly chins of Hagedorn Twee. 
     "They're called 'cats,' " said Theresa. "They're natives of old 
Earth, Sol system. They're quite common on Human worlds. You mean you've 
never seen one before?" 
     "Perhaps in a holovid, Captain, but never in real life. The body 
covering is so soft and so subtly colored!" Twee, a big blue-skinned 
native of Heard's World, was completely taken by the little creature. 
Apparently the feeling was mutual. Theresa could hear the loud purring 
of the little cat from clear across the room. The Hearder made an 
instant decision. "I simply must have them! Both of them." 
     Captain Theresa Helms of the merchant ship Jupiter quickly ran down 
a mental list of reasons why she shouldn't sell the little animals and 
found that list to be surprisingly short. Both of the animals -- the 
lovely little female calico currently rubbing up against the formidable 
chins of Merchant Twee and the long-haired male tabby rubbing 
affectionately against the alien's scaly, tree-like legs -- belonged to 
her and her husband Tim, who was also her business partner and the only 
other crew member of the Jupiter. 
     On the plus side, the little animals were a welcome diversion 
during the long periods of inactivity that were part of FTL travel and 
they did find and destroy the occasional pest that somehow slipped 
onboard no matter how rigid the inspections, but Theresa and Tim had 
found that the cats required a lot of attention and often asked for 
affection at inopportune times. There had also been a couple of 
incidents during free-fall regarding their food and litter that had been 
downright unpleasant. Besides that, about halfway through their current 
voyage she had begun to suspect that Tim was allergic to the little 
beasts. 
     "I'm afraid that you wouldn't like the price, Merchant Twee. We 
transported them a long distance and both my husband and I have become 
rather attached to them." 
     "Attached?" said the big alien, lifting the little calico up and 
looking it over carefully with all three of his large green eyes. Eyes 
that, coincidentally, had vertical pupils, just like those of the 
contented little beast he was examining. 
      Theresa chuckled, "Sorry, Merchant Twee," she said, shaking her 
head. "'Attached' means emotionally bound. My apologies." The big blue 
alien laughed, a sort of booming chortle that sounded quite a bit like a 
horse in distress. 
     "Never fear about the price, Captain Helms. Some things are beyond 
mere credits. These animals are simply wonderful! My offspring will 
adore them. Name your price!" 
     "I have to talk it over with my partner. We didn't get them with 
the intention of selling them," said Theresa. Of course, that was before 
we knew that someone wanted to buy them at an extravagant price, she 
thought. "We'll give you an answer tomorrow. Is that okay?" 
     "That will be fine, Captain Helms. If you do not mind, I would like 
to keep the small animal with me for a while yet. The rumbling sound it 
makes is very soothing." 
     Together, Theresa and the big, blue, amiable Hearder checked off 
the lists of cargo allotted to the Hearder merchant. All the while the 
little female cat sat contentedly on the Hearder's broad shoulders, next 
to his lopsided head, purring loudly. 
     With the day finally over, the docks quiet, and the ship sealed up 
for the night, the two humans sat down in Jupiter's small stateroom to 
discuss the day's business before bed. Theresa flopped her slight frame 
down in a soft lounger next to the computer station where Tim was 
checking over the days business. She ran one of her delicate hands 
through her short black hair. Her husband, by way of contrast, was a 
large, blond Nordic type, gone a little to fat, who was surprisingly 
graceful in spite of his size. He typed in a last notation, hit the 
return and swivelled his chair around to face his wife. 
     "Not a bad day at all, Hon," he said, as he stretched and yawned. 
"How're you doin'?" 
     "Not bad. In fact, I had an interesting conversation with Hagedorn 
Twee today," she said. "One that could make us a lot of credits." 
     "Hey, makin' credits is what we're here for!" he said eagerly. "As 
long as it's not too illegal! What've you got, Terry? I'm all ears." 
     "He wants to buy our cats." 
     "Huh? Our cats? I thought you said something about a lot of 
credits?" Tim's look could only be described as disappointed. 
     "Let me finish! You wouldn't believe it, Tim. I've never seen 
anything like it! Those two cats were all over him. I don't know, maybe 
it's the high body temperature of the Hearders or some subtle scent that 
humans can't detect, but those cats just adored him!" Somewhat 
mollified, Tim got to the root of the question. 
     "How much?" 
     She tried not to sound too excited. "He said, and I quote, 'Never 
fear about the price, Captain Helms!'" Tim came halfway out of his chair 
and winced as he bumped his knee on the computer console. 
     "Say again?" asked Tim, rubbing his wounded knee. 
     "He said that money was no object." 
     "Sold!" said Tim. He gave Theresa a calculating look. "How much do 
you think we can get?" 
     "Well, considering that we transported them all the way from Earth 
and that they'd be the only two animals of their kind in this entire 
planetary system, I think the price should be high. Besides, Hagedorn 
Twee is one of the wealthiest merchants on the planet." 
     "What did we pay for the cats, Terry?" 
     "I'm not sure, honey. Not a lot. Let's see, ten credits for each 
cat, five credits for immunization tabs and another twenty apiece for 
neutering--I'd say forty credits each max. Total, about eighty."
     Tim thought for a moment. "What do you think about four hundred 
apiece?"
     "The only two animals of their kind in the system? The wealthiest 
merchant in the sector? Come on, Tim, think big! I say, no less than 
twenty-five hundred for the pair. Hmmm... I think we should start at 
five thousand!" 
     "Five thousand! That's a fourth of what we still owe on this old 
tub! With what we stand to make on the rest of this trip, we could be in 
damned good shape!" 
     "That's kind of what I thought," said his wife, smiling. "The 
sooner we pay off the Jupiter, the sooner we can get down to making some 
real credits!" 
     "You're the salesman on this team, Terry. Do your stuff!" said Tim, 
standing up to embrace her, his injury apparently forgotten.
     
     Hagedorn Twee's first offer took Theresa completely by surprise. It 
was for ten thousand credits -- apiece! Fortunately she recovered her 
composure in time to haggle the price up a little more. They finally 
settled on twelve-thousand- five hundred each, but only after Hagedorn 
Twee extracted the Helms' promise not to bring any other cats into the 
system. It seemed like a strange request, but the lucky husband-wife 
team could more than triple their proceeds for the entire voyage and pay 
off the loan on their old but still-serviceable cargo ship. They agreed. 
     Since there were offworld animals involved, the legal work on 
transferring ownership of the two cats had to be handled by the Regional 
Office for the Importation of Non-indigenous Flora and Fauna. Theresa 
met Hagedorn Twee at the huge Regional Government Complex in downtown 
Heardhome, the spaceport and capital city of Heard's World. The district 
rep was another of the big easy-going Hearders, Ottobon Kurr, who, it 
just so happened, was a relative of Hagedorn Twee. His brother-in-law, 
or the Hearder equivalent, in fact. 
     "Do you have the papers, Captain Helms?" said Ottobon Kurr in his 
deep, booming Hearder's voice. 
     "I have them right here," said Theresa, putting the documents in 
front of the official. Kurr read from the documents. 
     "Let me see... Planet of origin: Earth, Sol system.... 
Classification: Mammal.... Species: Felius domesticus... Immunizations: 
okay.... Tests for antibodies to contagious diseases--all negative. 
Good, good! Have the animals been sterilized? They cannot be allowed to 
remain here unless they have been sterilized." 
     "Turn the certificate over, Representative Kurr," said Theresa . 
"They were neutered before they left earth." 
     "Everything appears to be in order," said Ottobon Kurr. "Place your 
palmprint here." 
     Hagedorn Twee was the proud owner of the only two cats on Heard's 
World, a planet with five hundred million inhabitants. Theresa and Tim 
Helm were considerably wealthier than before. Everyone, including the 
two cats, was deliriously happy. 
     
      The Jupiter returned to the Heard's World system some ten months 
later with a fresh cargo of hard-to-get and expensive items for sale and 
trade. In spite of her age, the old ship shifted smoothly out of Whitney 
psuedospace, fading easily back into normal space-time some three AU's 
out from Heard's world. Ten months ship's time, because of the vagaries 
of the Whitney Overdrive FTL System that powered the old Jupiter, 
translated to about twenty-two months of Heard's World time. Within two 
weeks, the little trader ship would leave with a load of local products 
for sale to the planets on Jupiter's route through the inner system 
stars of the galaxy. These products including Hearder arts and crafts 
and, most importantly, several hundred small, carefully packed vials of 
Nardeezium. 
     Nardeezium was a rare and valuable drug made from the skin 
excretions of the rare and exotic Nardeezy dragon. "Dragon" was somewhat 
of a misnomer since the animals were really more like small, slow-moving 
salamanders than dragons. Not only were the animals sluggish, they were 
also stupid and slow to reproduce. What's more, they had stubbornly 
resisted all attempts to get them to thrive in captivity. As a result, 
the fastidious little beasts were carefully tended in special preserves 
and their precious sweat was very carefully harvested. 
     Nardeezium was the most valuable substance on Heard's World, and 
very important to her economic well-being. The drug was non-addictive 
and gave a mild high when used sparingly but its most sought-after 
feature was that it greatly increased the intensity of the mammalian 
sexual experience. As you might expect, demand far exceeded the supply 
among the wealthy on the human-settled planets. 
     Theresa and Tim were hailed by Hagedorn Twee within five minutes of 
groundfall. It's usually difficult for members of different races to 
read another's emotions, but even over the videocom, both Theresa and 
Tim could tell that Merchant Twee was agitated. Maybe it was the nearly 
painful volume of a voice that was, even normally, too loud. Or maybe it 
was the fact that Twee was sweating. 
     "I must talk to you immediately, Captain Helms. It is a matter of 
the utmost gravity!" 
     "Please, calm down, Merchant Twee," said Theresa. "We'll meet with 
you as soon as possible." The Hearder seemed to relax, but only a 
little. They signed off. 
     "Tim, he looked really upset," said Theresa, nervously. "He was 
sweating! Tim, do Hearders sweat?" 
     The two humans got a groundcab and went directly to Hagedorn Twee's 
huge merchant complex, where they were immediately ushered into Twee's 
private office. Twee looked up and down the corridor suspiciously before 
closing and carefully locking the door. Ottobon Kurr was already there, 
looking, if possible, even more upset than his somewhat larger brother-
in-law. The two Hearders were both sweating, or something much like it. 
Fortunately, Hearder biochemistry is somewhat different from human and 
the atmosphere of the office had taken on a fragrance somewhat 
reminiscent of nutmeg and basil, which didn't bother the humans in the 
least. 
      "Something most unfortunate has happened," said Hagedorn Twee, 
still obviously upset. 
     "Just what is the problem?" asked Theresa. 
     Twee motioned with one of his large, blue three-digited forepaws to 
Kurr, who was across the room. 
     Ottobon Kurr reached into a small cargo box that was down on the 
floor, next to his huge, black hind hoof. There was no mistaking what he 
pulled out. 
     "Where in all of space did you get a kitten?" said Theresa, as the 
little animal climbed up Ottobon Kurr's arm, its sharp, little claws not 
affecting the thick, scaly hide of the Hearder in the least. The little 
beast began to purr loudly as it rubbed itself luxuriantly under the big 
alien's chins. 
     "There are now at least twenty-four immature sol-system cats like 
this one on Heard's World," said Twee, mopping his narrow forehead with 
a large ultravelvet swab. "And it looks like there is the potential for 
many more." 
     "We're ruined!" ejaculated Kurr, his eyes raised to the ceiling. 
"Ruined!" 
     "How can this be?" asked Theresa, ignoring Kurr's outburst. 
     Hagedorn Twee couldn't meet her eye. "We had the two original 
animals cloned. There are now two thousand copies of each. We sold them, 
as quickly as we got them, for five thousand credits apiece." He gave an 
embarrassed shrug, an action that almost made the floor move. "We made 
an enormous profit." 
     Theresa shook her head in disbelief. 
     The Hearder brought his triple gaze back to the humans. "But, 
within a few months some of the clones began behaving strangely--
irrationally. We did not suspect that it was reproductive behavior until 
it was too late. So far, at least four of them have reproduced and many 
others appear about to." 
     "You had them cloned?" said Theresa. "That was not a part of our 
original bargain." 
     "Check the contract, Captain Helms," said Kurr. "Cloning was not 
mentioned. As such, it was not strictly forbidden." 
     "You shouldn't have cloned them, Merchant Twee," said Tim. 
     "There is more," said Hagedorn Twee. 
     "We're ruined!" shouted Kurr, again. "Ruined!" 
     "You mean this gets worse?" asked Theresa. 
     "Yes," said Ottobon Kurr, somewhat calmed after his latest 
outburst, "several twelves of the original four thousand clones have 
escaped and gone into the wild where they may be reproducing even as we 
speak. You see what I mean? We're ruined! Ruined!" 
     "That's not so bad," said Theresa, over the wailing. "Your species 
seems to really get along well with cats." The two Hearders looked 
nervously at one another. 
     "They seem to have developed a taste for the flesh of the Nardeezy 
Dragon," said Twee, miserably. "Nardeezium, even in crude form, has the 
same effect on the animals sexual performance as it does on yours. Not 
only are they eating some of the dragons, they are probably reproducing 
more rapidly as a result. 
     "Couldn't you just destroy the wild ones?" asked Theresa. Both of 
the aliens looked horrified. Kurr made a strangled noise. 
     "Out of the question!" Twee was almost shouting. "Hearders do not 
take the life of any creature! It is against our most basic principles." 
     "It appears that we have no choice," said Kurr, "We are not going 
down to ruin alone. You humans are certainly liable. We shall have to 
call in the 4th Quadrant authorities. You may consider your ship 
impounded and quarantined, and yourselves confined to the ship until 
this situation is resolved! Good day!" 
     Tim looked at his wife and partner, thinking that it had been nice 
to own their own ship, even if it was for just a few months. They went 
back to their grounded, impounded ship and waited nervously for the two 
and a half days that would be required for the authorities to arrive 
from Quadrant Headquarters on New Ceylon. 
     
     The Quadrant Supervisor for Hazardous Flora and Fauna was a being 
by the name of Aalber T'verberg, a Lotharian. Lotharians were short, 
slender, bipeds native to Lothar, a small, neat planet in the first 
quadrant. Their bodies are covered with short yellowish fur, except for 
their heads, which are bare and pink. Lotharians are intelligent but not 
inquisitive and eminently fair, if somewhat boring. They are also very 
good with numbers. In fact, they are a race of natural certified 
public accountants. 
     In the Regional Office for the Importation of Non-indigenous Flora 
and Fauna an argument was in progress. Again the atmosphere was tinged 
with the smell of basil and nutmeg. 
     "I can't believe that you had those animals cloned," Tim Helms, was 
saying, with some heat. "We never intended for that to happen." 
     "We have gotten off the subject, Master Helms," replied Ottobon 
Kurr, with equal heat. "As the Regional Officer for the Importation of 
Hazardous Flora and Fauna, I wish to know why the cloned animals are 
reproducing. You swore that the originals were sterilized." 
     "Is that correct?" lisped Aalber T'verberg, trying without much 
success to take control of the situation. 
     "That's right," said Theresa. "They were neutered." 
     "Why, then, are the clones reproducing?" asked Kurr. 
     "Well, that explains it," interrupted T'verberg, sensing his 
opportunity. Finally, the combatants turned their attention to the 
sibilant tones of the little Lotharian. "These animals were sterilized 
by having their reproductive glands removed, a process traditionally 
referred to as 'neutering.' It is a simple and common procedure that 
renders the animal sterile and halts much of the undesirable behavior 
associated with reproduction. It must be emphasized, however, that this 
is a surgical procedure and doesn't change the animal genetically." 
     "What a barbarous operation,' said Kurr, in disgust. 
     "Not really," replied T'verberg. "It depends on your viewpoint. On 
Earth, where these animals originated, the genetic alterations that are 
practiced elsewhere in the Galaxy, are not only considered immoral, they 
are highly illegal. Earth's authorities are very strict about the 
genetic purity of their native animals. I'm not so sure it's such a bad 
idea." 
     "I still do not understand," said Hagedorn Twee. 
     "It's quite simple," said T'verberg. "When you had the felines 
cloned, the clones were grown from a single cell, usually an epithelial 
cell taken from the lining of the animal's small intestine." Here the 
two Hearder's looked at each other. Kurr wrinkled his huge nose in 
disgust. T'verberg continued. "This technique utilizes the animal's 
inherent genetic patterns. Simple surgery, such as the amputation of the 
sex glands, would have absolutely no effect on the animal's genes. If 
that were so, clones produced from an animal that had accidentally lost 
a foot or an eye would have the same defects. Such is not the case." 
     "What does it mean?" asked Hagedorn Twee. 
     "It means that the clones are all fertile," said the little 
Lotharian. "Who did this cloning job for you anyway?" 
     "We went to Jakob's Genetics, on Titus Five. He came highly 
recommended," said Twee, somewhat defensively. Now it was the 
Lotharian's turn to show disgust. 
     "More like he gave you a low, low price!" snorted T'verberg. "Jakob 
Hochsteter is an amateur, nothing more than a part-time gene hacker!" He 
shook his round, pink head. "You went to Jake the gene jockey. No wonder 
you're in such a mess!" 
     "What are we to do?" asked Twee, intertwining his digits in 
agitation. One of the objects of his discomfort, a kitten, was even then 
rubbing affectionately against the Hearder's double chins. He reached 
over absently, to stroke the little animal. It began to purr audibly. 
     "There are a number of reputable genetic engineers who may be able 
to help you," said T'verberg, "but I'm afraid it's going to cost." 
     The two Hearders looked at each other. After a few moments, Twee's 
huge shoulders drooped visibly. They looked resignedly at the Lotharian 
and nodded their huge lopsided heads reluctantly. 
     
     Genetic engineers from Cornucopia Genetic Services scratched their 
heads when confronted with the problem but, after a short consultation, 
came up with an elegant solution. After a three-week waiting period the 
head engineer, a middle-aged, uncharacteristically paunchy Lotharian 
named Stimon P'teragon presented the Hearders and the Helms with the 
answer. 
     "This should solve your problem," said the sleek Lotharian as he 
handed Hagedorn Twee a small neoplex vial. 
     "What is it?" asked Twee, looking somewhat doubtful. Obviously the 
solution to such a huge problem as theirs could never come in so small 
of a package. 
     "It is a constructed feline rhabdovirus," came the smug reply. 
     "A what?" asked Tim Helms. 
     "It is a virus that will only infect a terrestrial cat. We have 
designed it to infect and destroy the gonads which will render the 
animals sterile. It is also non-antigenic so the animal's immune system 
cannot fight off the infection." 
     "That is all well and good," said Ottobon Kurr, "but what about the 
attacks on our priceless Nardeezy Dragons?" 
     "Ahhh," smiled P'teragon, showing his flat, herbivorous teeth, 
"here is where the extra cost comes in. The virus also affects the 
olfactory apparatus of the infected animals in a subtle way that makes 
the Nardeezy dragon smell like something inedible. This is also the 
method by which the virus is spread, much like the human cold or the 
Hearder flux." 
     "The animals must not be killed!" said Kurr adamantly. Hearders 
were good a being adamant. 
     "There is no danger to the infected animals. Once the target 
tissues have been attacked the virus becomes dormant until it
encounters fresh, uninfected tissue. This extends your protection 
indefinitely." 
     "Will it work?" asked Twee. 
     "It is guaranteed," said P'teragon. 
     "Just a minute," said Tim. 
     "Yes?" said P'teragon. 
     "What if one of these infected cats somehow gets back to Terra? 
What's to protect all the cats on my homeworld." 
     "That is a good question, Mr. Helms," replied P'teragon, "but 
Cornucopia Genetics has thought of that possibility. It is just another 
of the reasons that we offer the best service of this kind in the 
Quadrant. None of our engineered viruses will survive the jump through 
hyperspace. Once the virus has replicated inside its animal host, it 
will fall apart in Whitney pseudospace." 
     Tim nodded his head in approval. 
     "One more thing," said Stimon P'teragon. 
     "Yes?" asked Twee. 
     "Stay away from gene jockeys. They're nothing but trouble." 
     The Cornucopia people were as good as their word. Within a few 
months, there were still just as many feral cats on Heard's World, but 
all of them had a mild case of the sniffles and none of them were 
reproducing. The treatment had not come cheaply but, still, the costs 
had only cut Twee's enormous profits on the venture by about a tenth. 
     Tim Helms picked up a few more credits by designing a live trap to 
capture the loose cats. Baited with an old-Earth weed called "catnip" 
(of which the Helms had a small supply), the traps were an immediate 
success. Recaptured animals were returned to their original owners with 
a caution and, of course, a somewhat more-than-nominal fee or simply 
sold as new, on the open market. Profits soared. Tim added catnip to the 
products that he and his wife would bring on their next trip, mentally 
rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the credits they would 
make. The lucky couple were back in business.
      
     Tim and Theresa stood next to the now-released Jupiter getting 
ready to head out on the remainder of their somewhat delayed merchant 
foray. Hagedorn Twee, with a cat purring on each of his massive 
shoulders stood before them. 
     "I almost hate to do this," said Theresa. "But I do have something 
else you might be interested in, Merchant Twee. With all the ruckus over 
the cats, we didn't have time to show this to you." 
     "Yes?" asked Twee, expectantly. 
     "Okay, Tim," Theresa called out. 
     Tim released a white and brown-spotted animal with four legs, a 
short, pointy tail and a pair of droopy ears. To the delight of the two 
humans, the creature went immediately over and sniffed the big alien's 
foot. After a brief investigation, the little animal's ears perked up 
and its tail began to wag. It then put its two front legs up on the big 
alien's elephantine leg. The alien reached down in wonder to touch the 
small animal who began to lick the huge hand with a wet, pink tongue. 
     "What an adorable creature!" said Hagedorn Twee, with obvious 
Hearder delight. "What is it?" 
     "It's an Earth-native animal called a 'puppy,'" said Theresa. 
     Twee picked the dog up and laughed his booming, strangled-horse 
laugh as the little creature licked his pebbly face. Obviously, the two 
cats on the Hearder's shoulders weren't nearly as pleased as the Hearder 
with this most recent turn of events.
     As if in anticipation, Theresa answered the Hearder's next 
question. 
     "Yes, Merchant Twee, it has been neutered..."
     
----------------------------------------------------------------------
PHILLIP NOLTE (nolte@idui1.csrv.uidaho.edu) is a contributing editor to 
InterText, in addition to being an extension professor at the University 
of Idaho and an expert on potato diseases. He lives in Idaho Falls with 
his wife and daughter.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

                     Back from the West / MARK SMITH      

     "Go this way, asshole."
     "No, you miserable simp."
     "That's a one-way street for chrissakes."
     For over a decade, through a dozen houses in two states, I have 
kept these eight pages: double-spaced, typed on the back of scrap paper, 
fastened together with a rusty staple. Some phrases and even paragraphs 
repeating like an echo, or like we really lived it more than once even 
that night. Now here they are again, beside my keyboard, the rambling, 
incoherent log of the night of January 1, 1980, the first night of a 
bygone decade. Start again, middle of page three.
     "Go this way, asshole."
     "No, you miserable simp."
     "That's a one-way street, for chrissakes."
     The car careens across three lanes of the empty avenue and up a 
one-way street. Almost immediately, a siren sounds behind us: the same 
cop that has followed us since we stopped the car in the middle of 
Guadalupe at three o'clock in the morning.
     Bobalouie, huge and imperturbably drunk, has been driving. He pulls 
over to the curb cautiously. The stop lights at most of the 
intersections are set to flash at this hour. Guadalupe looks like a 
carnival with no people. None of us -- Riddle in the front seat with his 
brother Bobalouie and me in the back -- say anything.
     Black cop, young guy, climbs out of his car and walks up to us, the 
faint edge of uncertainty or fear showing around his eyes. I'm thinking, 
this must be a textbook drill in the academy: carload of drunks cruising 
deserted streets in the middle of the night.
     He asks for Bobalouie's license, which is forthcoming without a 
word. He shines his huge cop flashlight on it. "Let me see yours also, 
please," he says to Riddle. And then to me: "You too."
     I reach for my back pocket.
     "Hold it!" he says, thinking of guns, I guess, afraid he might 
already be dead. He says:
     "You guys get out of the car. All of you."
     He tells us to stand on the curb. It is January 1, 1980, and cold 
as hell. I'm wearing jeans and a shirt, no sweater or jacket. I start to 
put my hands in my pockets.
     "Don't put your hands in your pockets." Then he adds, "Please." His 
politeness in the face of adversity is admirable. As I pull my hands 
slowly out of my pockets, I think, I should write to the mayor and 
commend this officer's damn fine manners. I forget to note his badge 
number.
     Next thing I know, Riddle is jabbering like Lear's fool. He's 
saying,
     "Lissen, sir, this is the way it is. . . We just drove all the way 
across the whole fuckin' -- oh, excuse me -- the whole damn state. All 
the way back from Big Bend. Ever been out there? Oh, it's beautiful 
country, sir. And we've been drinking all day. I guess I shouldn't tell 
you that, but it's true. Christ, you have to drink when you drive out 
there in West Texas, you can't survive any other way. Anyway, well, 
we've been looking around for our friend's house. . ."
     I tune Riddle out, I figure he's sealed our fate now. I stare into 
the hypnotic spin of the red and blue flashers on top of the cop car. 
For a minute I forget how cold I am. I figure if I can keep still for a 
minute and not say anything, maybe the cop'll throw Riddle in the can 
for standing there on the street corner and trying to be honest and 
Bobalouie and I can go on home.
     Then, son-of-a-bitch if the cop hasn't cracked a smile. A smile! 
And he's telling Riddle, "Well, I can see you fellas have had a little 
too much to drink. Are you sure you can find your way home now?"
     I break for the car, my only hunch all night paid off. I had 
followed my mind and kept quiet and not said one single thing. Neither 
had Bobalouie, but then he hasn't said a word all night. Now I'm piling 
back into the car hoping my beer isn't cold.
     Yes. That part is exactly as I remember it. Just the same way. They 
had driven all day from Big Bend, unhinged by the combined forces of 
drinking, drugs and the long road through the vast Trans Pecos. But I 
don't remember feeling nervous with the cop there. Just cold. Cold as 
freaking hell.
     "Brrr. I'm cold. Aren't you cold?"
     "It'll be warm in a minute."
     Bobalouie fiddles with the heater controls. We're still looking for 
this woman Aurora's house. Some crazy artist friends that Riddle says 
are the only people he knows who never go to sleep.
     "But are you cold?"
     "Naw, not really. Maybe a little in my toes. It was ten degrees in 
the desert last night."
     "What did you learn on your trip that you can use in your book?"
     Book? I vaguely remember Riddle had it in his head to write a book. 
A book about bird watching. He rambled about it for months. He had 
written the first chapter, even: a whole chapter on binoculars, how to 
pick them out, what the different lens numbers meant. All that stuff 
that Riddle knew about. That was why we gravitated toward him. He knew 
about things the rest of us never even thought about. Science and nature 
and sports and food. Solid, physical things which, at that time, we 
thought we were too cerebral to think about. Things that I've learned to 
appreciate more since then. I wish I had asked more about those things 
when he was here, when I had the chance.
     "What did you learn on your trip that you can use in your book?"
     Riddle begins, "I learned that the second most abundant large 
raptor in the desert is the Marsh Hawk. There are four orders of hawkish 
predators with talons in the desert. They are one, falcons; two, buteos-
-buzzard hawks like the Red Tail; three, the accipiters. . ."
     I think about getting up to find a bird book to check this, but 
keep reading instead.
     "...the true hawks, they are built like buteos with tails; four, 
kites, represented by one species, the Marsh Hawk. Doesn't it strike you 
as odd, Stetson, that the most abundant hawk in the Chihuahua desert is 
the Marsh Hawk? Yes, I can use all of that in the book. I can make it a 
parenthetical remark. It was ten degrees in the desert. Did I tell you 
that?" I nod, and he says, "Well, did I tell you that my brother slept 
in the car? In the car, that pigfucker."
     Bobalouie looks over at Riddle and shakes his big head. Riddle 
continues to rave at me over the back of the front seat.
     "He took a hit of acid this morning before we started back. Ten 
o'clock in the freaking morning. Do you believe that? We stopped at this 
place in Sanderson. . ."
     Sanderson. I keep a map of Texas tacked to the wall over my desk. I 
stand up and check the tiny print of the index for Sanderson. K-8. There 
it is, right where it's suppose to be. Junction of 90 and 285, middle of 
nowhere.
     "...for coffee and his eyes are little slits. I'm scared to death 
he's going to freak out and push over a table or something. Nothing but 
mobile homes out there in the middle of the Trans Pecos, just a water 
tower with cars all around it and that's the whole damn place and Bob's 
trying to start a fight."
     Bobalouie turns toward Riddle and I actually think he is about to 
say something, set the record straight, give his side of the story, when 
Riddle says, "Here's the place. Pull in here."
     I flip ahead to find the next part that makes any sense: the part 
about Aurora. The painting was real. I remember that exactly. And Aurora 
was her name. But I don't remember any of the rest of it. Jesus. It's 
all in front of me and I have to say it happened, but damned if I 
remember it. I especially don't remember Bob being there with us. But he 
was with us all night so he had to be. I just can't remember. What else 
have I forgotten?
     Riddle barges in without knocking. Nobody seems to mind. Several 
people are sitting on the floor of the small living room, but the only 
one I know is Aurora, a skinny woman with baggy jeans, who is an art 
major at the University. This is a coffee crowd and there are several 
cups sitting around their knees and ankles and a big crystal ashtray 
full of butts. There is a cloud of smoke in the air.
     "Hi, everybody. Happy New Year! Riddle, I'm glad you came by," says 
Aurora.
     "I thought it might be too late," says Riddle, pulling out a 
cigarette.
     "No, not at all. How was your trip?"
     Riddle starts in on his familiar patter we've been listening to all 
night so I take the tour of the living room. As I turn around, I am 
facing a peculiar painting which I recognize at once. It is a canvas, 
about three feet tall and two feet wide, on which is painted a picture 
of a slatternly, sullen Latina in a red, low-cut, sleeveless dress with 
shoulder straps. She is barefoot and very brown. But what is very 
peculiar about this painting is that the canvas has been extravagantly 
bowed outward like a sail blown by a stiff wind from behind. The effect 
is obviously meant to suggest an advanced pregnancy not only of the 
woman but of the painting itself. I had seen the painting in a student 
art exhibit a year before and I even remembered the title: "The Holy 
Virgin."
     "Do you like it?" Aurora says to me. "Steve painted it." She 
indicates a quiet, lanky man in his early thirties sitting cross-legged 
on the floor.
     After a few minutes, Riddle glances at Bob, hulking larger than 
life here in this close room and obviously out of place, and decides it 
is time to go before something gets broken.
     Before I know it, we're back in the car and on our way out to 
Hill's Cafe on South Congress.
     I get up and go check the phone book. I haven't thought about 
Hill's for years. Still there. By then we were flagging. Deep, deep 
tiredness was really beginning to set in, but in spite of it, I remember 
Riddle was still geared up. I remember him like he was still here, 
leaning over the back of the front seat ranting about football.
     I watch out the window as we roll lazily past the junk shops and 
neighborhood bars that line the lonely streets east of downtown. I 
notice an occasional straggler winding his way home from a party, but 
otherwise the streets are quiet and the only cars are the ones parked 
along the curb.
     In the front seat, Riddle continues to rave at me, showing no signs 
of tiring. He's onto football now, he says:
     "I'm starting the eighties with absolutely no money in the world. 
Do you hear me? No money! So you've got to do this. Go down in the 
morning and get as much money as you can out of the bank and put every 
penny on Tampa Bay in the NFC playoffs. I'm golden on this, believe me. 
I've been predicting it since the start of the season."
     Something seems to flash by in the air between us.
     "Did you see that?"
     "See what?"
     "Never mind. Finish what you were saying."
     I'm not at all sure what this last part means, but that's what it 
says.
     "I would stake my reputation and my tattered copy of Tom Jones on 
it if I'm not right."
     "You mean that if I win this thing, I collect all of this money and 
if I lose I lose my hard-earned cash and get some nasty old doorstop of 
a book you want to get rid of anyway? Do I have that right?"
     Riddle shrugs hopelessly and says to Bobalouie: "What can I say? No 
way he's going to take this deal. Can you believe it?" His eyes trace 
the air in the car and he says to me: "Tell me what you saw a minute 
ago. I think I just saw it again."
     It's not here, but I remember saying to Bobalouie earlier in the 
evening: "I really see you as a biker. A bad-ass biker bouncer in some 
killer club on the eastside." And he got really mad. He was downright 
indignant and mentioned it several times during the evening. I think he 
thought he was a gentle, mellow type in spite of his appearance. I meant 
it as kind of a joke, but he took it entirely seriously. That might be 
why he doesn't say a damn word until we get to Hill's.
     Five in the morning in Hill's Cafe. . .
     This is where I lose the thread. It all runs together. I wonder 
when I typed this part. That night or later. Maybe I slept and woke up 
and typed it the next day with noon coffee and loud music. Or maybe I 
even had the damn typewriter with us in the car that night. We did 
things like that then, fictionalizing as we went along.
     Five in the morning in Hill's Cafe, we are carefully attended by a 
wizened old waitress in classic rhinestone cat's-eye glasses. She seems 
to know Bob. We all order the same thing, down to the dressing on our 
salads.
     "You boys been camping, have you?" she says.
     "Yes ma'am," says Riddle. "Big Bend National Park."
     "Well, that's real nice. I love the desert, myself. Do a little 
thing where I grow little cactuses and moss and things in little logs I 
collect and hollow out."
     We all nod at her and she smiles and goes off. We grin at each 
other, but before we can even start talking again, she's back with our 
salads.
     "So what were you boys doin' out there? Just sight-seein'?"
     I say: "They were collecting material for a book."
     "You don't say," she says. "What kinda book would that be?"
     Bob is staring at her with a distant, stoned look. I wonder if he 
is awake. Riddle's digging into his salad. I say, "It's a naturalist 
book about the birds and animals of the Trans Pecos region."
     "Izzat so?" says the old woman, visibly impressed. "I'll gitchall 
some more ice tea."
     Bobalouie points his fork at me and suddenly rumbles into speech 
for the first time in hours: "Don't think you can bullshit that old 
toadfrog. I'm tellin' you because I know. She don't hear a damn word 
you're sayin." He spears a fork full of salad and pokes it into his 
craw. "An she don't never change her underwear neither."
     Riddle laughs so hard he starts to choke on his salad. Bobalouie 
has receded back into a Delphic silence, but he's watching his brother 
choke with an amused grin, obviously pleased to be the cause of such 
happiness.
     The steaks arrive sizzling and they are just like we ordered them: 
Bob's is well done, mine is rare and Riddle slices off a piece of his, 
impales it on his fork and holds it out to me, "Ahhh, medium rare. Just 
like a steak should be."
     We devour the food without further talk and I'm wondering how I'm 
going to pay for this twelve-dollar meal with three dollars in my 
pocket. The waitress leaves the lime-green check face down on the table 
and says, "Will they be anything else for ya'll tonight?" We grunt no 
and she says, "Well, ya'll have a good one now, y'hear."
     Bobalouie pays for all of us without a second thought.
     As we walk back out to the car, Riddle says: "You see there? My 
brother just bought three steaks at Hill's. Over forty dollars and he 
shrugged it off like you never would. That's why you owe it to yourself 
to go down to the bank in the morning and get your hands on every penny 
you have in the world and put it on Tampa--"
     Bobalouie interrupts Riddle, saying: "Can't you understand? He's 
not going to bet on the game. He doesn't even like football."
     "Like football?" says Riddle. "Who said anything about liking 
football? I'm talking about a business proposition. You don't think the 
people who own McDonald's eat there do you?"
     The sun is coming up and I am very tired. I feel like lying in the 
back seat, but Bob beats me to it, so I decide to drive. Bob belches 
once and says, "What did you mean when you said I should be a biker? I 
resent the hell out of that." Then he is asleep. We climb out onto 
Congress Avenue on our way back to nowhere.
     The cursor is blinking at me, waiting for me to add something. What 
can I? All I remember of that night is what is written there, which is 
to say that what I remember has become what I wrote, whether that was 
really what happened or not. It wasn't even that long ago, but it feels 
like another lifetime.
     Why isn't Riddle here to remember for me? He could've remembered -- 
he was good at little details. I should've asked when I had the chance; 
now it's too late.
     Riddle says: "Don't mind him, he's crazy. Did I tell you that he 
just about got us into a fight? We stopped in this little town called 
Sanderson and..."
     He stops and looks at me. "Did I tell you this already?"
     I look at him and say, "Yeah, don't you remember?"
     "No. In fact, I don't remember a lot of this. Maybe I'm losing my 
mind."
     "It's just sleep deprivation," I say.
     "Jesus, that's a relief, Stetson."
     "Anyway, it was a long time ago," I say.
     Riddle nods. "It sure as hell was."
     We drive. After a few minutes, we are downtown and the sun is 
rising on our right, big and orange. I remember suddenly that there are 
things I wanted to know more about. I say, "Tell me more about the 
hawks."
     Riddle's face brightens and he says: "What I might not have told 
you is that the most common raptor in the Chihuahuan desert is the Marsh 
Hawk. Did I tell you that?" 

----------------------------------------------------------------------
MARK SMITH (mlsmith@tenet.edu) has been writing fiction and non-fiction 
for over ten years. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in 
_Window_, _Spectrum_, _Malcontent_, _Epiphany_, and the _Lone Star 
Literary Quarterly_. "Back from the West" is from Mark's forthcoming 
collection of stories, _Riddle_, winner of the 1992 Austin Book Award. 
Mark lives in Austin, Texas.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

                   Just a Company Man / P.R. MORRISON

     The name's Kinkade... Sam Kinkade, Database Investigator. It began 
on a summer day in '26... April, I think. I remember it reasonably 
well because it was the first time in six years that the solar diffusion 
index had fallen below 5.1 and allowed the sun to be seen by the 
populace of L.A. Caused a lot of confusion, as I recall, and a few cases 
of retinal scarring amongst younger kids. 
     I'd stumbled into my office the night before with a dozen Ukrainian 
slammers under my belt and tried to catch a few hours sleep on the 
couch. It took all my willpower to prevent those little dissidents from 
staging a counter-revolution when the visiphone rang in the morning, 
raising me from semiconsciousness. 
     I crawled to the visiphone, noting before I hit the accept button 
that the call was being scrambled by the Federal Bureau of Database 
Investigation. Sure enough, the craggy face of Rick McLusky, the 
regional head of the FBDI sprang into view and pierced my eardrums with 
its opening remark. 
     "Kinkade," he said, "we've got another job for you. A big one this 
time."
     "Great," I moaned in reply. 
     "What's wrong?" McLusky asked, clearly taken aback by my lack of 
enthusiasm. "You sick or something?" 
     "Sort of. What is it anyway? I've got no time for damned FBDI 
cases. You guys think it's big when some kid pisses on the vidiscanner 
in the john at the hover-rail center!" 
     "No, Kinkade... this time it's different. This time we got a 
renegade." 
     "So? Who hasn't? If I had 10 credits for every guy who had his 
universal identifier cut out of his wrist I'd be sitting in the 
Seychelles, lounging about on my gravity yacht. Look, can't you see I'm 
having trouble mapping onto reality at the moment?" I said, starting to 
look longingly at the vacuum sink in the corner of my office. 
     "Cut the crap, Kinkade," McLusky said suddenly. "This is no 
ordinary case. The guy was a dyed-in-the-wool Company man. Bluer than a 
laser blast and twice as straight... until now that is. The system 
hasn't recorded a transaction from him in over a week and the Board want 
him found. They don't like unerased Company men going renegade. It 
doesn't look good." 
     Although the rest of my body wanted to secede from my stomach, I 
was beginning to get interested in this case. My only reservation was 
that experience had taught me to avoid Company business if at all 
possible. 
     "Look, McLusky," I said to the Bureau man, hoping to ease myself 
out of this one, "You know me. I have the wrong psychprofile for Company 
business and they know it. In fact, that's the reason I left it in the 
first place. I can't tolerate their linearity. Come to think of it... 
why can't they handle it themselves? Internal investigations are always 
much neater. Hell, why doesn't the Bureau handle it? Giving it to a 
private DI is a risky business." 
     McLusky appeared as if he wanted to reach through the phone and rip 
out my tonsils. 
     "Kinkade!" he roared. "You know damned well the Company threw you 
out and you were lucky they didn't erase you at the same time! The only 
reason they didn't was because they knew you were the best DI they ever 
had -- screwy, but good. You've still got your memories because they 
wanted to keep you as a resource -- to use whenever they needed some 
different kind of help." 
     Having got that out, McLusky began to settle down and his nose 
looked less like an old Soviet distress beacon. 
     "Listen," he said in a subdued tone, "this guy is good... very, 
very good. They can't trace him. You know how they think over there -- 
in straight lines. But they think that your screwball logic might be 
able to find him. And apart from that, it isn't a request. You know your 
position. Your privacy level could be lowered like that," he said, 
snapping his fingers sharply. "You can only be monitored by level sevens 
right now, but in five seconds you could be a level one again. You won't 
be able to scratch your ass without the whole system knowing it."
     McLusky was right of course. He knew it and I knew it. If they 
busted me to that level, every toilet cubicle had to be opened with my 
universal identifier, every food purchase involved it, every Ukrainian 
slammer... all of it on the system and available to anyone who wanted to 
look at it. It made me shudder. 
     "And remember this..." McLusky continued, "Tracking has been on the 
increase lately."
     That was the final straw. Tracking had become the pastime for the 
modern pervert, invading lives and destroying them by denying the most 
basic elements of privacy. If a tracker selected me as his target, 
following me on the system wherever I went... It would be a nightmare. 
Some of them even took delight in predicting your movements and leaving 
obscene messages on the systemlink they thought you would use next. I 
knew I couldn't take that. Never again! 
     I rubbed my eyes, feeling very beaten all of a sudden. 
     "OK... I'll do it. Gimme his identifier and I'll see what I can do. 
No guarantees, though. If this guy is as good as you say, he might have 
already beaten the system." 
     McLusky nodded, apparently satisfied. As he tapped out the guy's 
code I headed for some coffee and decided that tomorrow would be a good 
time to start. In the meantime I had to rediscover what it was like to 
be human.
     
     The next morning I logged into my systemlink and entered the 
identifier. He was a level six called James Tyler and he was Snow White. 
A traffic camera had caught him six months ago running a red light, but 
other than that there was nothing. The map of his auto use showed that 
he hadn't visited any known illegal establishments, but it did indicate 
a frequently visited apartment north of the stratoport. Probably his 
girlfriend, I reasoned. But then, who knew these days? DNA work 
regularly transformed men into women or vice versa, or things in 
between. 
     I made a note of the address and traced the last transaction he'd 
made. Two double scotches at a bar called the Purple Lizard in the 
rundown part of the Southside. And had he been ripped off! 20 credits 
each! 
     I grabbed my respirator, strapped on my blaster and headed for the 
hover-rail station. The smell of hydrocarbons would do me good.
     
     To say that the Purple Lizard was a dive was like saying the sewer 
treatment plant had an odor. It was the basement of a rundown apartment 
building and it made you wonder where you left your lice repellent. It 
was a strange place for a Company man to visit. 
     As I descended the stairs a gigantic guy of Italian descent came 
out of the shadows and blocked my path. From the way the guy talked it 
was clear that he hadn't been behind the door when the brains were 
handed out. It sounded as if he wasn't even in the room. 
     "Sorry, mister," he said "but ain't nobody allowed ta have blasters 
in the Lizard. So gimme it or else I gotta bust ya." 
     I briefly thought about blasting the guy, but I knew that dinosaurs 
had small brains and you had to be a great shot or very lucky. 
     I handed over my piece and brushed aside a piece of black curtain, 
revealing the Lizard in all its glory. A couple of guys -- probably 
unidentifieds -- were playing magnetopool and drinking martian red. The 
bartender was an old guy with a lot of facial scars and big hamfists. 
All of them stared at me as I took my place at the bar. 
     "You got guts, anyway," said the bartender as I grabbed a stool. 
     "How's that?" I asked as I tapped a Cosmic Camel out of its pack 
and placed it on my lips. 
     "Well, we don't like upper levels in here. And in a minute, when me 
and those two guys feel like it, we're gonna bust your head open just 
for the fun of it," he said, looking very happy as he finished. 
     "Is that so?" I replied, taking a long drag on the Camel. "In that 
case, I just hope you guys are wearing blaster jackets." 
     "What blaster? Joey got it outside. I watched him!" 
     "Sure, he got that one. But you see, my left hand hasn't been the 
same since the assault on Petrograd. A fragmentation grenade blew it off 
and I thought it might be handy -- excuse the pun -- to have a 
miniblaster installed in the cyber replacement. Got the picture?" 
     The bartender clasped and unclasped his fists in suppressed rage. 
     "You better not stay too long, mister," he said. "You can't guard 
your back forever."
     "Tsk, tsk," I said, knowing that I shouldn't push my advantage if I 
was to get what I wanted. "Look, all I'm after is a little information. 
See this guy?" I showed him a visifacsimile of Tyler. "He was here a 
week ago. The system says at 6:30 on the tenth. I just want to know what 
happened to him." 
     "Never seen him before," the bartender said. "We don't give 
information to the Company anyhow." 
     "I'm not from the Company. I'm a private DI and the system says he 
was here. I just want to know why." 
     I pulled out a gold Krugerrand and tossed it onto the bar. 
     "Trading in gold is outside the system and illegal," the barman 
said, perhaps surprised that an upper level would be carrying it. 
     "Well, I won't tell if you won't" I said. 
     "OK. He was here," the barman blurted out as he seized the coin. 
     "What happened to him?" I said, placing my hand on the man's closed 
fist. 
     "We beat him up, same as we were gonna do to you. We threw him out 
and that was the last we saw of him. That's it." 
     He had no reason to lie, so I decided to cut my losses and do some 
thinking outside the confines of the Purple Lizard. 
     "OK... thanks," I said as I stood away from the bar and pointed my 
hand at the barman's belly. I found the back door and as I weaved 
through the garbage cans, I spared a thought for Joey and his coming 
chastisement. The cyberarm was always a good con. 
     As I strolled up the street, donning my respirator, I thought about 
what I had. Tyler was beaten up in a bar he wouldn't be seen dead in. 
Why? He must have been meeting someone. Someone, who could've protected 
him, but didn't show up. 
     But who was the someone? It looked like a dead end, so I took a 
chair at a nearby diner and ordered a cup of coffee. Well, they said it 
was coffee. It was black anyway. As I slowly sipped, I wondered if I 
might be able to get a better angle with some database interrogation. 
     Now, as all truly great systems men know, databases are very 
fallible, capricious and unpredictable. Sometimes they go down for no 
reason or function perfectly when they shouldn't, or perform differently 
on tasks that are completely routine. The true art of systems use is to 
regard them as very delicate beasties. That was the secret of Sam 
Kinkade, plus a few tricks I'd kept from the Company. I felt capable of 
working a little magic, so I had the coffee credited and found the 
nearest systemlink. 
     It was an old model; no voice recognition, just a battered old 
keyboard. Still, it would do. I placed my wrist identifier over the 
reader, logged in and looked at the systats. There was a lot of activity 
and that would make tracing the system failure a lot harder. I punched 
in the node and vector code of a program that had cost me two thousand 
credits from an old, alcoholic systems designer whose only memory after 
erasure was the location of a very special, hidden program. That 
remarkable piece of code caused the system to crash and in the last few 
moments of sentience while the protection was failing, it copied the 
files of anyone up to level eight. That should be high enough to get 
what I wanted -- the files of Tyler's immediate boss; somebody that even 
Tyler had probably never met. 
     I placed in a wildcard identifier for Tyler's superior. Then, with 
trembling fingers (crashing systems still gives a thrill) I executed the 
program and watched as the network with its thousands of mainframes 
slowly died, wracked by the cancerous spread of confusion that the 
program unleashed. Finally, on the bitmapped image of the world map that 
showed the operational status of the various nodes, the last pixel faded 
out. 
     Of course it would be restarted within minutes, with much head 
scratching. But the fault would never be traced. The system was too 
complex. It could never know which of the millions of programs active at 
that moment, or what combination of them, actually caused the crash. 
Meanwhile, I knew that the information I needed would be safely in my 
disk area to peruse at my leisure. All I had to do was wait for the 
inevitable return of the system. 
     At that moment, I sensed something behind me and had half turned 
around when the butt of a blaster smashed into my temple, sending me 
crashing to the ground. As I lay there dazed, I was vaguely aware of 
someone stepping over me and manipulating the systemlink. 
     Suddenly, a blur of red hit him squarely in the back and he fell 
heavily, rolling for some distance before getting to his feet and 
running off. I was still pretty much out of it, but managed to stand and 
lean on the wall. Next to the systemlink I noticed an ice cool blonde in 
a red jumpsuit regarding me with some concern. 
     "Are you OK?" she said in a very husky voice. 
     "So you're my savior," I said feeling like the cat who got the 
cream. "What have I done to deserve this?" 
     "You're looking for a friend of mine I believe" she said. It all 
made some sense now. 
     "So you're 1139 Catalonia Boulevard," I said, noting to myself that 
James Tyler was a man of good taste. 
     "Yes. Pamela Aldiss is my name. Although you probably know that." 
     "No, I didn't, actually," I said. "Although if I'd known you could 
wear a jumpsuit like that, I would have made it my business to find 
out." 
     "You're very flattering Mr. Kinkade," she said with some wariness. 
"But I have often found that flatterers are no match for karate." 
     "Yes, I noticed," I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. "I'll 
keep it in mind."
     She responded with a fleeting smile. "The most important thing 
right now is to find Jim. Have you made any progress yet? The FBDI said 
they'd engaged you yesterday." 
     I hated to disappoint her, but after rescuing me she deserved the 
truth. 
     "Unfortunately... no." I said flatly. "But somebody else is 
interested in this case. That guy could have killed me, but didn't. He 
was more interested in what I was doing with the systemlink." 
     She thought about that for a while, then helped me into her car -- 
a gas turbined pink Maretta. I tried not to notice the curvature of her 
legs as we tore down the high velocity lane of the expressway, 
exchanging what little information we had.
     "Jim was in the Global Division," she began, the past tense 
bothering me at first. "He was involved in negotiations with foreign 
governments... you know, installations, software capabilities. It was 
tricky stuff. These days, no government can afford not to be part of the 
system. Their commerce and trade would suffer enormously. But at the 
same time, they've always been concerned about who has the information 
and what they do with it. Of course, anybody with any brains knows that 
the Company has it all and it's probably just a matter of time before 
governments cease to exist. Jim's job was to placate them while it all 
happened."
     "Hmmm," I replied as I patched into her car's mobilelink.
     "What are you doing?" she asked, unable to take her eyes off the 
road and focus on the dim display.
     "Oh, just checking my creds," I replied, trying to suppress my 
shock as I read the system output. "Where are we going anyway?"
     "To my place."
     I grinned. She scowled.
     "Jim may have left a message there," she explained. "He can beat 
the security monitors. The system told me where you'd left the hover 
rail, so, while I waited for him to contact me, I thought we could team 
up. OK?" she smiled, turning to me briefly. 
     It was an engaging smile, but one that didn't last. As I looked 
down some text slowly assembled on the systemlink.
     "It's for both of us." I said. "Tyler wants us to meet him at the 
Stratopark. 82nd level in half an hour."
     We left 50 meters of rubber as we did a 180 on the expressway, the 
injectors shrieking with power. Pam knew how to drive. My mind 
considered what else she was good at.
     
     The Stratopark was windswept and although swirling with smog we 
left our respirators off to help our visibility. It didn't take us long 
to find Tyler. He was sitting on the bonnet of a Blue Maretta. Blue for 
boys, pink for girls.
     "Darling!" Pam exclaimed as she ran with open arms toward him.
     "Not so fast!" Tyler said as he pulled out a pocket blaster.
     Pam stopped short, the smile sliding off her face and falling onto 
the concrete.
     "So, you know," she said.
     Tyler chuckled wryly to himself. "I had an idea. But I had to be 
sure. Kinkade got the information I needed."
     "You mean about Pam?" I said, starting to piece it together.
     "Yes. You see, I was working in Moscow, placating what's left of 
the government. You know, reassuring them about the system, but at the 
same time, buying certain individuals, eliminating others. The problem 
is, New Russia is a closed society. The central executive is aged and 
almost inseparable in its new-found hatred for the West. Buying them 
wasn't easy, hitting them impossible. The Company was unhappy. So, 
sensing failure, I allowed the executive to buy me. In exchange for a 
comfortable mansion near the Baltic, I'll tell them how to use the 
system and avoid being subjugated by it. Pam was to go with me. It was 
all arranged. We were to meet a Russian operative at the Purple Lizard 
and make good our escape. But both of them didn't show and the local 
yokels took out their frustration on me."
     "That much I can see," I said, noticing his bruises.
     "Yes, but you also found out that Pam is really my boss and the 
Company's best eliminator. She blew away my contact. I had suspicions, 
of course. Pam was the only one who knew of our rendezvous at the 
Lizard. And when the Russian agent who had tailed you managed to get a 
glimpse of the systemlink you'd used and saw it storing files on Pam in 
your area, I decided to have a look for myself. I am a level seven, you 
know. I read them just before I came here."
     I screwed up my face at the thought of Tyler rummaging through my 
love letters and other desiderata.
     "Those files revealed the truth. You see, the Company has a nice 
policy these days. It arranges for top executives to meet and become 
involved with their best eliminators. It makes it neater if the exec 
goes renegade. Lovers are much cleaner killers."
     "True," Pamela said coldly. "And it would have been much cleaner, 
Darling, if not for your contact. I had to garrote him, but obviously I 
couldn't meet you covered in blood. You can thank Russian training for 
your life."
     "And I'm afraid that your life, my lover, has just about run out," 
Tyler said with a smile.
     "Sorry to disappoint you, Jim," she replied, unperturbed. "You see, 
the Russians aren't here. Your backups are gone. Ten minutes ago, we 
sold them an operations exec. A level nine man. We sold him for you and 
a few million credits."
     "You're lying! You couldn't risk the information."
     "Unfortunately, I'm not. He's been erased. Of course, the Russians 
don't know that. It was a very nice job. Bye-bye, Jim," she said, as she 
pressed one of her earrings. A second later, Tyler's abdomen disappeared 
as a microgrenade from a sniper's rifle punched through his body.
     Pam walked over to the body, and felt for a pulse, always the 
professional.
     Then she pressed her fingers against her lips and placed them on 
Tyler's cheek. She looked up and engaged me with those empty, crystal 
blue eyes.
     "And how is your memory, Mr. Kinkade?" she asked. "They said that 
your involvement would bring him to us. All I had to do was stick with 
you. They said it always seemed to happen that way. 'Screwball logic' 
was the term."
     I blushed and stammered as I recalled the dismemberment of Jim 
Tyler and observed the closeness of her hand to the two-way transceiver 
in her earring.
     "Frankly, I... I've had trouble with my memory lately... Miss... 
Miss...?"
     She smiled at me, crocodile-like, then got up and began to walk 
away.
     "Hey!" I yelled in sudden realization. "What about my creds? You 
owe me."
     She turned around, slowly reaching up to her neck, then chuckled as 
she looked where I'd been standing.
     When pressed, my impersonation of thin air is totally amazing. 
     
----------------------------------------------------------------------

                    The Long Way Home / P.R. MORRISON

     Aegis propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head. He looked 
out through the shattered remains of the assault craft at the spinning 
emptiness of space and began to piece together the most recent fragments 
of his memory. It was obvious: they had been hit during the run-in and 
what remained of their ship -- barely a platform of jagged metal now -- 
was careening away from the battle totally out of control. He checked 
himself for damage and glanced around for the remainder of the squad. As 
he spotted them amongst the debris and crushed metal, he emitted a 
status request. It was a short blast of high intensity, high frequency 
radiation that was able to overcome the most powerful of tactical 
jammers. If any of the units remained functional they would respond.
     One by one, they stirred and gave their systats. The point unit, a 
heavily armored cannon of limited intelligence had emerged unscathed and 
steadied itself on its hydraulic legs. The three utility weapon units 
were completely functional, but the two flank units, agile and hence 
lightly protected, both reported mobility problems. Aegis winced to 
himself as he traced the communications unit's transponder to a mash of 
melted armor and carbon composites. Without it, they were on their own.
     Of course there was no question of what had to be done. Earth had 
been expanding its frontiers for more than five centuries now, and he 
had available to him the data from every engagement, and every maneuver 
of all of the units that had survived those encounters. It was one of 
the reasons that the cosmos had yielded so totally before the forces of 
Man. But of course it wasn't the only reason.
     Carefully, he jury-rigged a controller to the remaining power unit 
and with short bursts managed to slow the ship's spin to a lazy roll. He 
looked wistfully for a moment at the fusion weapons that flared 
occasionally from the battle more than a million kilometers away. It 
would be a long wait.
     And as he sat there for the moment, slowly contemplating the 
enormity of space, it occurred to him that the correctness of what he 
had planned was not immediately self-evident. He was alone, apart from a 
mindless collection of assault units; alone without power or 
communications. It could be decades before they were found and already 
the loneliness had begun to eat at him.
     He was an AEGIS -- Assault Engineer Grafted Intellect-on-Silicon. 
He knew what he was and who he was because they had been forced to tell 
him. The prototypes had all gone insane until their identity had been 
established for them.
     It had started during the initial expansion from Earth when first 
contact was made and the casualties were without rival in the history of 
human conflict. And so the clone factories were initiated, each 
producing exact copies of military archetypes -- copies by the million. 
Pilots, gunners, commandos... whatever was needed. The gene pool was 
scoured for the best of each and their DNA was simply replicated ad 
nauseam. And it had worked for a while... until the radiation levels of 
combat became so unbearable that nothing evolved on Earth could tolerate 
them, even with the best of protection. That was when the droids were 
developed. Although they lacked the instincts of humans, their 
artificial form of intelligence was sufficient for most engagements and 
in their thousands, their sheer weight of numbers was usually more than 
adequate.
     For two centuries the droids had proved sufficient to push the 
frontiers further from Earth. Yet it was not merely force of arms that 
had determined the success of humanity. As the alien breeds fled before 
it, it became clear to all observers that no other species could match 
humanity for sheer destructive ingenuity. One by one, the telepathic 
worlds fell after the development of the mind insulator. The warrior 
races of Orion, so proud, so filled with honor, were easily enslaved 
after their king was captured, deprogrammed by the mind engineers of 
Earth and instructed to capitulate. Even the spawn species of the outer 
systems... creatures who bred in billions from hermaphroditic spores, 
were destroyed in minutes as their suns were extinguished by neutron 
inhibitors. 
     And behind all of this were the defense laboratories that 
constantly devised new forms of death so that everything that crawled, 
walked, flew, slid or even thought in ways that were different from 
man's, was simply vaporized, diseased or obliterated to extinction.
     Aegis' mind chuckled to itself. It was ironic that for a hundred 
millennia, man had sat under the stars and stared at them in fear and 
trepidation, yet it was the rest of the Galaxy that had most to fear 
from the malignancy that festered on the blue-green planet.
     Notwithstanding these successes, the search for the ultimate 
tactical unit had continued. Although the droids were extremely capable, 
they lacked the intuitiveness of humans, their deviousness and the 
ability to lie and deceive. The clones on the other hand, although 
possessing these qualities, were physically unsuited to the heaviest 
engagements. The obvious solution of course was to unite the best 
features of man and machine -- the subtlety, deception, courage and 
survival instincts of man, and the power, toughness and durability of 
machine. Aegis and others like him were the result.
     Eventually, the engineers had stumbled onto a technique that 
allowed them to mind graft onto non-organic systems. The 
possibilities for mating a good tactical mind with an android body were 
only too apparent. But the early prototypes had been disappointing. For 
whatever reason, it appeared that most minds had an innate desire to 
define their own origin and that once this was revealed to them, the 
reality of their death and rebirth in silicon was often unacceptable and 
led to madness or suicide. They had tried blocking memories at various 
levels, but once more, it seemed that a vital component of mind function 
involved a sense of identity and self concept. Although these units did 
not go insane, they did not perform very well. It became obvious that 
intuition and "humanness" was a property that emerged from the whole 
system and not its components. And although technology had made the 
copying of minds possible, their manipulation of course, was still 
beyond the engineers. Long ago, they had discovered that fundamental 
breakthroughs in neuronal calculus were needed before the meaningful 
alteration of the synaptic matrix was possible. These breakthroughs 
had never happened.
     In desperation, they looked for minds that were able to at least 
tolerate the reality of rebirth and the loss of flesh, pulsing blood and 
sexuality. They found one stored on a very old holographic plate from 
the first century of expansion. Captain David Boyd -- a former tactician 
with the Assault Corps had been a volunteer for an early experiment in 
mind printing, and although the medium was very crude, the engineers had 
finally managed to recover the print. 
     Fortunately for the engineers, Boyd had quickly come to terms with 
rebirth and what it meant. And as the synaptic matrix meshed with the 
motor integration and sensor circuits of his droid body, the true power 
of the man-machine synergy was evidenced. One hundred Aegis units were 
now operating in Earth's Armed Forces, all of them on combat evaluation 
before the big production runs began and all of them possessing the mind 
of David Boyd.
     Of course, Aegis had been told all of this and more. He knew that 
the Earth he had inhabited was now little more than a blackened cinder 
of pollution and scrap metal. He could recall his own death off the 
spiral arm of Orion, wounded and adrift in a suit that was slowly 
depressurizing. He knew that his family, the children he had watched 
come into the world, had been dead for centuries. Their colony no longer 
even existed. He even thought and communicated in a language form that 
was unintelligible to the bulk of living humans.
     And yet despite all of this, he had managed to define a purpose for 
his continuing existence. He still felt a sense of duty, a 
responsibility. He was after all, a soldier. 
     But now, as Aegis watched the Galaxy spin slowly beneath his 
dangling feet, the sense of isolation was overpowering and a feeling of 
horror rushed through him. He was a man, he thought. A man who longed 
for other men, yet he was unlike any other man that had ever existed. 
His mind stretched to the green forests of an Earth that was long dead 
and he began to ache for it. He wanted to feel the cool freshness of 
wind on his face, and not the datalink from his armored exterior. He 
wanted another human being to look into his eyes and fathom the depths 
they found there. He wanted to view reality as humans saw it, not 
through the infrared and ultraviolet intensifiers scattered about his 
head. But above all, the dread of what he had become -- a pathetic 
caricature of a human being -- wracked him with emotion. The image of 
his dead wife twisted itself through his consciousness and he felt his 
heart shift with anguish. He asked himself how he could feel all of this 
when he didn't have a heart, didn't have hormones or a nervous system. 
Then, as a sob racked his mind, his body flinched and he touched his 
face where he thought he could feel the tears welling up. He had known 
of course that it was simply a mirage from an older, now nonexistent 
body.
     For some time he held his head in his hands and rocked back and 
forth under the waves of grief, then attempted to gather his thoughts as 
they ebbed from consciousness. It didn't take him long to settle on his 
course of action. With a sudden resolve he got to his feet and searched 
the survival pack for what he wanted, flourishing it in triumph when his 
hand came upon it. It was a solar sail. He knew that the thing had never 
been designed for the purpose he intended, but he also knew that the 
only thing he had plenty of, was time.
     The sail was an ingenious invention. Although barely two molecules 
thick, a standard pack would spread out to make a sail with an area of 
hundreds of square kilometers. And this vast area of composite material 
when filled with the solar wind -- the particles that emanated from the 
fusion hearts of all stars -- could pull the remains of the assault 
craft from one star to the next. It would take decades for the small 
acceleration to build to an acceptable velocity, but Aegis knew that he 
could remain operational for centuries by being trickle charged from the 
available solar arrays. He even had the power packs of the assault units 
to help pull him through.
     And as he watched the sail billow with the output from some distant 
solar flare, Aegis realigned the mounting device to point them on a 
vector toward a distant red giant, knowing that it would be the first 
tack of a very long voyage. 
     Then as he prepared for the first shutdown period, he contemplated 
what he was about to do and the rightness of it. Earth was a dream that 
no longer existed. But that didn't matter. Earth was home -- the first 
home -- and nothing was more powerful than the homing instinct. Besides, 
even now there was the possibility that other Aegises were doing exactly 
what he was doing; sailing, flying, hitch-hiking or walking their way 
toward an identical past. Yet no matter what happened in the end, no 
matter what reality dictated, he knew that he had to chase the dream. 
After all, that was what being human was all about.
     
----------------------------------------------------------------------
P.R. MORRISON (swkmorri@nuscc.nus.sg) lives in Singapore. His stories 
have been published in a Singaporean SF magazine, and "Just a Company 
Man" won an SF writing competition in Australia.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

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                      Don't do anything I would do!
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