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1918 lines
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* ** * ******* ***** **** * ***** ** ** *******
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================================================
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InterText Vol. 2, No. 5 / September-October 1992
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================================================
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Contents
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FirstText: Where Are We Now?......................Jason Snell
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Short Fiction
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Neuterality_....................................Phillip Nolte_
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Back from the West_................................Mark Smith_
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Just a Company Man_.............................P.R. Morrison_
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The Long Way Home_..............................P.R. Morrison_
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....................................................................
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Editor Assistant Editor
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Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
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jsnell@etext.org gaduncan@halcyon.com
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....................................................................
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Proofreaders Send subscription requests, story
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Katherine Bryant submissions, and correspondence
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Loretta Griffin to intertext@etext.org
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....................................................................
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InterText Vol. 2, No. 5. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published
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electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this
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magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold
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(either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire
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text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1992, 1994 Jason
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Snell. Individual stories Copyright 1992 by their original
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authors.
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....................................................................
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FirstText: Where Are They Now? by Jason Snell
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After a long summer filled with plenty of changes for us here at
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InterText, I can honestly say that it's good to be back.
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Since I wrote last, it's been quite a ride. I sent out the issue
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and promptly packed up my stuff in a U-Haul truck and made the
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long drive from San Diego to my home in Northern California.
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Once there, I spent a day unpacking and promptly went to work as
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a reporter for the Union Democrat newspaper.
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As you might imagine, that pretty much ate up my summer. I still
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occasionally logged in to my computer account in San Diego from
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home, updating the InterText mailing list and receiving a few
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story submissions. The relatively slight size of this issue is
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partially due to my absence from electronic communication for
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most of this summer. Hopefully now that I'm back in touch, the
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submission numbers will pick up.
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Speaking of being back in touch, let me explain my situation
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now. I'm beginning my first of two years at UC Berkeley's
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Graduate School of Journalism, where I'll end up receiving a
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Masters of Journalism. In addition to the grind of my classes
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(including Journalism 200, the core course and supposedly the
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school's hardest), I'm also working as a Teaching Assistant in
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Berkeley's Mass Communication program. Undergraduates, now might
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be a good time to run for your lives.
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Oh, and editing InterText on top of all of that. We'll see how
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it goes.
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In any event, my new internet mail address is
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jsnell@ocf.Berkeley.edu. You can also still send mail to
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intertxt@network.ucsd.edu for the time being, and that's where
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the FTP site is still located.
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For Geoff Duncan, my assistant editor, this summer marked the
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end of his job at Oberlin College. He's currently trying to
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track down a job in the computer-rich realm of Seattle. As it
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is, he's working in Ohio as a freelance Macintosh consultant. If
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he ends up in Washington, I might actually even get a chance to
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meet him, since a friend of mine goes to school at the
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University of Washington.
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So this is the beginning of the second phase of InterText, and
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the nature of the magazine may change along with the changes
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going on in our lives. I hope that our readers will be able to
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help us along, continuing to submit stories and helping out in
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other ways. (One of those ways would be if there are readers who
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use Aldus Freehand or Adobe Illustrator to make PostScript
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illustrations... I've got a few old Mel Marcelo graphics around,
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including this issue's cover, but they're limited in number and
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I'd like to have other artists, if at all possible. I know
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PostScript artists are out there -- witness the nice covers that
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Quanta has had recently.)
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I've got a few ideas for different ways InterText might change
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in the future, including the possibility of distributing printed
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editions or disks with the issues on them, both on a
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cost-recovery basis. I've also got an idea for a "theme issue"
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of the magazine, which might come to pass by early next year.
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Oh, and two proud notes: InterText won two awards over the
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summer. The magazine was named first runner-up for the Disktop
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Publishing Association's Digital Quill Award for best Literary
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(what, me literary?) Publication, and I was named as one of four
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winners of the San Diego Supercomputer Center's 1992 Creative
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Computing Awards because of InterText.
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In the Disktop award race, we were up against tough
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international competition, including Quanta (which earned a
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second runner-up award), and I'm very proud that we were even
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given a mention. Congratulations to Del Freeman, Editor of
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Ruby's Pearls, the winner of the award. I've seen a few issues
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of Del's magazine and will try to get more information about it
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to include next time.
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I should also mention that another Disktop award -- this one for
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first runner-up for Best Computer/Technical Publication -- went
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to our friend Rita Rouvalis, for editing EFFector. Rita, of
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course, also edits CORE.
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The SDSC award usually goes to high-tech science and math
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projects, as well as computer music projects; it was nice to see
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something like this magazine get some recognition. Much thanks
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to Hassan Aref and the rest of the awards committee at the San
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Diego Supercomputer Center.
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Before I go, I thought I'd share a brief mail message I received
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over the summer from a professor of mine, Wade Chambers. He's
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from Deakin University in Australia, but was visiting UCSD when
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I took a class of his in science writing (Warren Ernst's "One
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Person's Junk..." was a product of that class.)
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"Hi! Sorry to be so long getting back to you. By now you've
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probably gone off surfing for the summer. My assistant Andre is
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a happy subscriber to your electronic magazine, which you
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mentioned but which I didn't pay much attention to at the time.
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However I was most impressed when he showed me your picture in
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his files. And he in turn was impressed when he heard you were
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in my class at UCSD. (That is, I think my status went up a notch
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or two.)"
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I'm starting to wonder just how small a world this is, and just
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how many people see InterText. I know the magazine's on
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CompuServe now, but it's also been turning up in the weirdest
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places. If you get InterText by some means other than mail from
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me, FTP, or CompuServe, I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me a
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line, either via email or real-live mail, at the address listed
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in the indicia at the end of this file.
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Well, that's enough from me. Until next time, enjoy this
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somewhat-truncated issue. By next time things should be a bit
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more settled. They'd _better_ be!
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Neuterality by Phillip Nolte
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===============================
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"Such beautiful animals! So agile, so graceful! What are they?"
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One of the animals in question was, even then, rubbing its
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forehead on the rough, pebbly chins of Hagedorn Twee.
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"They're called 'cats,' " said Theresa. "They're natives of old
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Earth, Sol system. They're quite common on Human worlds. You
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mean you've never seen one before?"
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"Perhaps in a holovid, Captain, but never in real life. The body
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covering is so soft and so subtly colored!" Twee, a big
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blue-skinned native of Heard's World, was completely taken by
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the little creature. Apparently the feeling was mutual. Theresa
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could hear the loud purring of the little cat from clear across
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the room. The Hearder made an instant decision. "I simply must
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have them! Both of them."
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Captain Theresa Helms of the merchant ship Jupiter quickly ran
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down a mental list of reasons why she shouldn't sell the little
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animals and found that list to be surprisingly short. Both of
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the animals -- the lovely little female calico currently rubbing
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up against the formidable chins of Merchant Twee and the
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long-haired male tabby rubbing affectionately against the
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alien's scaly, tree-like legs -- belonged to her and her husband
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Tim, who was also her business partner and the only other crew
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member of the Jupiter.
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On the plus side, the little animals were a welcome diversion
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during the long periods of inactivity that were part of FTL
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travel and they did find and destroy the occasional pest that
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somehow slipped onboard no matter how rigid the inspections, but
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Theresa and Tim had found that the cats required a lot of
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attention and often asked for affection at inopportune times.
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There had also been a couple of incidents during free-fall
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regarding their food and litter that had been downright
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unpleasant. Besides that, about halfway through their current
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voyage she had begun to suspect that Tim was allergic to the
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little beasts.
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"I'm afraid that you wouldn't like the price, Merchant Twee. We
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transported them a long distance and both my husband and I have
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become rather attached to them."
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"Attached?" said the big alien, lifting the little calico up and
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looking it over carefully with all three of his large green
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eyes. Eyes that, coincidentally, had vertical pupils, just like
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those of the contented little beast he was examining.
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Theresa chuckled, "Sorry, Merchant Twee," she said, shaking her
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head. "'Attached' means emotionally bound. My apologies." The
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big blue alien laughed, a sort of booming chortle that sounded
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quite a bit like a horse in distress.
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"Never fear about the price, Captain Helms. Some things are
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beyond mere credits. These animals are simply wonderful! My
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offspring will adore them. Name your price!"
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"I have to talk it over with my partner. We didn't get them with
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the intention of selling them," said Theresa. Of course, that
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was before we knew that someone wanted to buy them at an
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extravagant price, she thought. "We'll give you an answer
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tomorrow. Is that okay?"
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"That will be fine, Captain Helms. If you do not mind, I would
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like to keep the small animal with me for a while yet. The
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rumbling sound it makes is very soothing."
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Together, Theresa and the big, blue, amiable Hearder checked off
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the lists of cargo allotted to the Hearder merchant. All the
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while the little female cat sat contentedly on the Hearder's
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broad shoulders, next to his lopsided head, purring loudly.
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With the day finally over, the docks quiet, and the ship sealed
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up for the night, the two humans sat down in Jupiter's small
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stateroom to discuss the day's business before bed. Theresa
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flopped her slight frame down in a soft lounger next to the
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computer station where Tim was checking over the days business.
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She ran one of her delicate hands through her short black hair.
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Her husband, by way of contrast, was a large, blond Nordic type,
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gone a little to fat, who was surprisingly graceful in spite of
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his size. He typed in a last notation, hit the return and
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swivelled his chair around to face his wife.
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"Not a bad day at all, Hon," he said, as he stretched and
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yawned. "How're you doin'?"
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"Not bad. In fact, I had an interesting conversation with
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Hagedorn Twee today," she said. "One that could make us a lot of
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credits."
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"Hey, makin' credits is what we're here for!" he said eagerly.
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"As long as it's not too illegal! What've you got, Terry? I'm
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all ears."
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"He wants to buy our cats."
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"Huh? Our cats? I thought you said something about a lot of
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credits?" Tim's look could only be described as disappointed.
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"Let me finish! You wouldn't believe it, Tim. I've never seen
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anything like it! Those two cats were all over him. I don't
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know, maybe it's the high body temperature of the Hearders or
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some subtle scent that humans can't detect, but those cats just
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adored him!" Somewhat mollified, Tim got to the root of the
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question.
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"How much?"
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She tried not to sound too excited. "He said, and I quote,
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'Never fear about the price, Captain Helms!'" Tim came halfway
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out of his chair and winced as he bumped his knee on the
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computer console.
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"Say again?" asked Tim, rubbing his wounded knee.
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"He said that money was no object."
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"Sold!" said Tim. He gave Theresa a calculating look. "How much
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do you think we can get?"
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"Well, considering that we transported them all the way from
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Earth and that they'd be the only two animals of their kind in
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this entire planetary system, I think the price should be high.
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Besides, Hagedorn Twee is one of the wealthiest merchants on the
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planet."
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"What did we pay for the cats, Terry?"
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"I'm not sure, honey. Not a lot. Let's see, ten credits for each
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cat, five credits for immunization tabs and another twenty
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apiece for neutering--I'd say forty credits each max. Total,
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about eighty."
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Tim thought for a moment. "What do you think about four hundred
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apiece?"
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"The only two animals of their kind in the system? The
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wealthiest merchant in the sector? Come on, Tim, think big! I
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say, no less than twenty-five hundred for the pair. Hmmm... I
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think we should start at five thousand!"
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"Five thousand! That's a fourth of what we still owe on this old
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tub! With what we stand to make on the rest of this trip, we
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could be in damned good shape!"
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"That's kind of what I thought," said his wife, smiling. "The
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sooner we pay off the Jupiter, the sooner we can get down to
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making some real credits!"
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"You're the salesman on this team, Terry. Do your stuff!" said
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Tim, standing up to embrace her, his injury apparently
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forgotten.
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Hagedorn Twee's first offer took Theresa completely by surprise.
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It was for ten thousand credits -- apiece! Fortunately she
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recovered her composure in time to haggle the price up a little
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more. They finally settled on twelve-thousand- five hundred
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each, but only after Hagedorn Twee extracted the Helms' promise
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not to bring any other cats into the system. It seemed like a
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strange request, but the lucky husband-wife team could more than
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triple their proceeds for the entire voyage and pay off the loan
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on their old but still-serviceable cargo ship. They agreed.
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Since there were offworld animals involved, the legal work on
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transferring ownership of the two cats had to be handled by the
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Regional Office for the Importation of Non-indigenous Flora and
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Fauna. Theresa met Hagedorn Twee at the huge Regional Government
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Complex in downtown Heardhome, the spaceport and capital city of
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Heard's World. The district rep was another of the big
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easy-going Hearders, Ottobon Kurr, who, it just so happened, was
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a relative of Hagedorn Twee. His brother-in-law, or the Hearder
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equivalent, in fact.
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"Do you have the papers, Captain Helms?" said Ottobon Kurr in
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his deep, booming Hearder's voice.
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"I have them right here," said Theresa, putting the documents in
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front of the official. Kurr read from the documents.
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"Let me see... Planet of origin: Earth, Sol system....
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Classification: Mammal.... Species: Felius domesticus...
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Immunizations: okay.... Tests for antibodies to contagious
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diseases--all negative. Good, good! Have the animals been
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sterilized? They cannot be allowed to remain here unless they
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have been sterilized."
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"Turn the certificate over, Representative Kurr," said Theresa .
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"They were neutered before they left earth."
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"Everything appears to be in order," said Ottobon Kurr. "Place
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your palmprint here."
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Hagedorn Twee was the proud owner of the only two cats on
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Heard's World, a planet with five hundred million inhabitants.
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Theresa and Tim Helm were considerably wealthier than before.
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Everyone, including the two cats, was deliriously happy.
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The Jupiter returned to the Heard's World system some ten months
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later with a fresh cargo of hard-to-get and expensive items for
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sale and trade. In spite of her age, the old ship shifted
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smoothly out of Whitney psuedospace, fading easily back into
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normal space-time some three AU's out from Heard's world. Ten
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months ship's time, because of the vagaries of the Whitney
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Overdrive FTL System that powered the old Jupiter, translated to
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about twenty-two months of Heard's World time. Within two weeks,
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the little trader ship would leave with a load of local products
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for sale to the planets on Jupiter's route through the inner
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system stars of the galaxy. These products including Hearder
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arts and crafts and, most importantly, several hundred small,
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carefully packed vials of Nardeezium.
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Nardeezium was a rare and valuable drug made from the skin
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excretions of the rare and exotic Nardeezy dragon. "Dragon" was
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somewhat of a misnomer since the animals were really more like
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small, slow-moving salamanders than dragons. Not only were the
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animals sluggish, they were also stupid and slow to reproduce.
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What's more, they had stubbornly resisted all attempts to get
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them to thrive in captivity. As a result, the fastidious little
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beasts were carefully tended in special preserves and their
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precious sweat was very carefully harvested.
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Nardeezium was the most valuable substance on Heard's World, and
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very important to her economic well-being. The drug was
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non-addictive and gave a mild high when used sparingly but its
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most sought-after feature was that it greatly increased the
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intensity of the mammalian sexual experience. As you might
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expect, demand far exceeded the supply among the wealthy on the
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human-settled planets.
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Theresa and Tim were hailed by Hagedorn Twee within five minutes
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of groundfall. It's usually difficult for members of different
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races to read another's emotions, but even over the videocom,
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both Theresa and Tim could tell that Merchant Twee was agitated.
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Maybe it was the nearly painful volume of a voice that was, even
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normally, too loud. Or maybe it was the fact that Twee was
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sweating.
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"I must talk to you immediately, Captain Helms. It is a matter
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of the utmost gravity!"
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"Please, calm down, Merchant Twee," said Theresa. "We'll meet
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with you as soon as possible." The Hearder seemed to relax, but
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only a little. They signed off.
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"Tim, he looked really upset," said Theresa, nervously. "He was
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sweating! Tim, do Hearders sweat?"
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The two humans got a groundcab and went directly to Hagedorn
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Twee's huge merchant complex, where they were immediately
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ushered into Twee's private office. Twee looked up and down the
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corridor suspiciously before closing and carefully locking the
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door. Ottobon Kurr was already there, looking, if possible, even
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more upset than his somewhat larger brother- in-law. The two
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Hearders were both sweating, or something much like it.
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Fortunately, Hearder biochemistry is somewhat different from
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human and the atmosphere of the office had taken on a fragrance
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somewhat reminiscent of nutmeg and basil, which didn't bother
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the humans in the least.
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"Something most unfortunate has happened," said Hagedorn Twee,
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still obviously upset.
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"Just what is the problem?" asked Theresa.
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Twee motioned with one of his large, blue three-digited forepaws
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to Kurr, who was across the room.
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Ottobon Kurr reached into a small cargo box that was down on the
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floor, next to his huge, black hind hoof. There was no mistaking
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what he pulled out.
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"Where in all of space did you get a kitten?" said Theresa, as
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the little animal climbed up Ottobon Kurr's arm, its sharp,
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little claws not affecting the thick, scaly hide of the Hearder
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in the least. The little beast began to purr loudly as it rubbed
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itself luxuriantly under the big alien's chins.
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"There are now at least twenty-four immature sol-system cats
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like this one on Heard's World," said Twee, mopping his narrow
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forehead with a large ultravelvet swab. "And it looks like there
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is the potential for many more."
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"We're ruined!" ejaculated Kurr, his eyes raised to the ceiling.
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"Ruined!"
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"How can this be?" asked Theresa, ignoring Kurr's outburst.
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Hagedorn Twee couldn't meet her eye. "We had the two original
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animals cloned. There are now two thousand copies of each. We
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sold them, as quickly as we got them, for five thousand credits
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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)
|
|
----------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Phillip Nolte 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 by 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)
|
|
--------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Mark Smith 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 by 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 by 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.
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|
|
|
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|
P.R. Morrison (swkmorri@nuscc.nus.sg)
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|
---------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
P.R. Morrison 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.
|
|
|
|
|
|
FYI
|
|
=====
|
|
|
|
Back Issues of InterText
|
|
--------------------------
|
|
|
|
Back issues of InterText can be found via anonymous FTP at:
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|
|
|
> ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/InterText/
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|
|
|
and
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|
|
|
> ftp://network.ucsd.edu/intertext/
|
|
|
|
You may request back issues from us directly, but we must handle
|
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such requests manually, a time-consuming process.
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|
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On the World-Wide Web, point your WWW browser to:
|
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> http://www.etext.org/Zines/InterText/
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|
|
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If you have CompuServe, you can read InterText in the Electronic
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|
Frontier Foundation Forum, accessible by typing GO EFFSIG. We're
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located in the "Zines from the Net" section of the EFFSIG forum.
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|
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On GEnie, we're located in the file area of SFRT3, the Science
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|
Fiction and Fantasy Roundtable.
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On America Online, issues are available in Keyword: PDA, in
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Palmtop Paperbacks/Electronic Articles & Newsletters.
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Gopher Users: find our issues at
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> ftp.etext.org in /pub/Zines/InterText
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....................................................................
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Don't do anything I would do!
|
|
..
|
|
|
|
This issue is wrapped as a setext. For more information send
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email with the single word "setext" (no quotes) in the Subject:
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line to <fileserver@tidbits.com>, or contact the InterText staff
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directly.
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