textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0302.txt

 


                 FICTION-ONLINE

         An Internet Literary Magazine
               Volume 3, Number 2
                March-April 1996



EDITOR'S NOTE:
     
     FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. 
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts
of novels or serialized novels, and poems.  Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers.  However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
     To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail
 a brief request to 
                    ngwazi@clark.net  
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same
address.  
     Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from 
                    ftp.etext.org  
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines. 

     COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of
material published is retained by its author.  Each subscriber is
licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only.  All other rights, including rights to copy
or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to give readings
or to stage performances or filmings or video recording, or for any
other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved.

                              William Ramsay, Editor
                                             
=================================================


                    CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors

     "Poems Before Spring,"  
          Diana Munson

     "The Way West," short story
          Judith Greenwood

     "Chamber Pots and Palaces," an excerpt (chapter 12) from
               the novel "In Search of  Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "Heaven Hath No Fury," short story
          Otho Eskin

=================================================


                  CONTRIBUTORS

OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God."  His play "Duet"
was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger
Library in Washington, and is being performed with some regularity
in theaters in the United States, Europe, and Australia.

JUDITH GREENWOOD writes fiction and is an international
interior/garden designer and a West Virginia farmer, herpetophobe,
and close observer of local specimens of _Felis_ _concolor_.  She
was the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC.

DIANA MUNSON is a therapist in Washington, D.C.  She writes
short stories; her latest, "Earrings," was recently published in 
_Rent-A-Chicken_.  She has published numerous poems in magazines and
anthologies.

WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems.  He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group.  "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his
and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was recently presented at the
Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

=================================================


              POEMS BEFORE SPRING

                by Diana Munson


OUTSIDE FIESOLE, March 1: for S.M.

The warmth of earth,
the taste of Primavera fresh
within our winter mouths
make up for months
of longing in grey palaces of loneliness
as our two half-lived lives
seized the day
and came together
to make us briefly whole;
beyond sin
beyond lust, beyond soul,
underneath the sun...
outside Fiesole.


RENEWAL

Love dissembles doubt
about the truth
of passion past remembered
and, though gone, causes it to last.

Paradox of clocks:
give me meaning
for my mourning, 
tell me there is importance,
portent in my stance, as I face the future

with my map of where I've been
firmly in my hand.

Come love, let us begin again.
=================================================

                   THE WAY WEST

               by Judith Greenwood


My Dearest Emma,

     You will not be expecting this letter so soon, I think.  In truth,
you will not be expecting this letter at all.  I have not been so far as the
new territories as yet.  I have met with a traveler who returns eastward,
and have asked him to take this letter as near to you as possible and then
to post it.  I would come myself if that were possible, but it will never
again suit me to come there, which reasons I will explain.
     When we left you it was with the intention to join other travelers
at the Ohio River, thence to proceed in greater safety in their company
and to share the burden of guide and those mercenaries who accompany
such groups of travelers as we should become.  It was our hope that our
meager savings could be augmented by fees paid to me by families who
would be pleased to retain me to continue the schooling of their
children during the journey west, despite my married state.  Wesley was
so sure of this being the case that we were not well enough provided for
without the income so to be secured.  
     Instead, when we reached the river, we were acquainted with
fellow travelers who had nearly no recognition of the written word
themselves and could see no advantage to the getting of it for their
children.  The sums that I might have earned were spent on casks of
chewing tobacco and snuff, liberally used by husband and wife and
even, if they could get it, the very mites I should have taught.  A rougher
and less civilized group I never saw.  Wesley could not pay our share of
the necessary without the assurance of a teaching stipend for my efforts,
and so we watched the group we should have joined embark upon
wooden rafts no more well built nor secure than little Joseph might have
banged together for a float on our pond at the farm.  
     You will not understand the tale I have to tell you if you do not
understand the woman we have been taught to become.  Of the many
things I learned as a girl, the first was to be willing and then to acquire
the skills to do a job well.  In spite of my education, Mamma insisted
that I must also learn to spin and weave and sew and cook, and even to
garden, knowing that in a new land, such as Wesley proposed for our
home, these would be precious.  I believe she was right in this as in so
many other things.  I do not regret the many hours I spent making the
linens and covers, towels and garments we carried with us.  And I know
that if we had traveled on, the loom and wheels that were our marriage
gift from Mamma would have served me well.  I do not know what that
departed party will do when their present household goods wear out, as
they were not so well gifted with training and the necessaries as was I. 
Since they appeared never to wash anything, perhaps their goods will
not wear out, and perhaps the skins of wild animals will do for them on
the prairies.  
     You have often, with dear Mamma, blamed me for pride and
impatience with others.  I fear you are right.  Oh how I wish that you
had felt free to explain to me even the smallest part of what your
marriage to Thomas meant to you!  After all the years that we as girls
had shyly talked all around the subject and never dared to boldly say
what we thought would happen, if only the one of us who then knew
could have revealed those secrets to the other, I might have divined my
fate with Wesley and might be your spinster friend in Pittstown, and
might yet enjoy the comfort and security of our girlhood love for each
other.  When you married it seemed that you had crossed a bridge I
could not enter until I too had promised away my life to a man.  Your
cool and aloof separation from me did not seem cruel at the time, but
mysterious and heavy with promises only to be gained with the true
womanhood which would become mine in that church.  I do not blame
you for keeping the secrets we are reared to believe sacred, but it is
cruel that the consequences of marriage are kept secret from the very
people who must suffer those consequences.
     From the day I wed, I could not forgive Wesley for the ways in
which he was not prepared for the job he had set for us both.  I do not
refer to his underestimation of the amount of money we would need.  I,
too, believed that teaching would give us income.  From the beginning,
Wesley was not prepared to be a husband.  Girls who have been reared
on a farm do see how the getting of progeny is accomplished.  Even
without more words from Mamma than that I ought to be willing for my
husband, I knew that the lowest creature in the barnyard is compelled,
somehow, to breed.  It was not difficult for me to impute that there must
be some comfort, if not joy, involved for both participants if the world
would go on.  
     Wesley was compelled to poetry.  I remember well that I was
envied for Wesley's romantic nature.  In courtship, poetry seemed a
suitable expression of  the dedication and ardor of a swain.  In my
marriage bed, poetry wore thin in a very few days.  When I
remonstrated with Wesley, gently at first, about the duties of marriage
and the injunction to be fruitful, he first accused me of intemperance,
and then of a poorly contained nature, and at last he wept.  This was,
Emma, I make haste to assure you, not the work of a night, but of more
than two weeks.  I told him that I despaired of ever becoming a true
wife, and I read to him cogent passages from the Bible, at last
surrendering modesty in recitation from the Songs of Solomon.  He did
then agree to try.
     Emma, he did not know how, nor did he have any of the
instincts of nature that would lead him to learning how.  When I
reminded him of the joining of God's creatures, he confessed that he had
always looked away in shame rather than to see this awful thing done to
the female creature, and that he had vowed never to treat me so.  In my
efforts to explain, he nearly choked with shame.  Since I have an
insistent nature, he attempted, but Emma, no self respecting woman
could bear what he surmised must be the Act.  And when I corrected
him, he was appalled to discover what must actually happen.  In a time
as measured by history, Wesley might have learned to bear up to his
responsibility, but I soon understood that with Wesley there would
never be anything of comfort or joy in it.  What with repeatedly reading
all the parts of the Bible which treat of congress between a woman and
a man, I grew in my conviction that there must be a passion and a
pleasure for each, and experienced as well the urgent interest, although I
confess that it was not inspired by or aimed at Wesley.  Still, he was the
husband I had sworn to cleave unto, and if he could, I would.
     Wesley, my Romantic Swain, could not repair a wheel when the
hub loosened from the axle.  He could shoot at a tin can, but could not
kill for our meat.  He did not drink strong spirits nor gamble as did
many of the other men, but then Wesley I think is not a man but some
creature neither man nor woman, but wholly and badly poetic.  While
we waited by the Ohio for a company to form up, he was asked for help
many times, and was always willing, but never asked twice by any man. 
Long before it became clear that we did not have the funds to go on and
must settle to work in that filthy river town until we could put by
enough money, I could see that for Wesley moving west was a
Romantic and Poetic venture, and that life with Wesley in a wilderness
would prove slow death at best.  
     I was frantic to return to Massachusetts at first.  But as the
weeks wore on, I realized that even there I would be condemned to be
Wesley's wife by law and church, if not by nature.  I began to know that
I was dead already at seventeen.  What could I say to Mamma or to the
pastor that could obtain my freedom?  Would they think me incontinent
as well?  I feared a living grave.  I have never sunk so low.  I prayed for
release.  But release did not come. 
     Emma, why did we not know how Wesley was?  If I was an
ignorant child, was not Mamma the widowed mother of four?   Did not
his parents see how silly and useless he was?  Did they never ask how
such a fellow would cross the vast empty land and how he would then
build a house, establish a farm and feed us?  And if any of you
suspected that Wesley was too much a poet and too little a farmer, how
could you send me tied to such a useless shadow of a man into a country
where I must compete for prey with wolves and bears?  What use to
know how to spin and weave and sew if I live with a man who cannot
bear to see sheep breed?  What use shall I be to a man who trembles in
fear when I disrobe to wash, although I am behind a blanket and no
flaunting Jezebel, I think.  If King David had been as Wesley, Uriah
would live yet, for the King would have cringed in shame when
Bathsheba appeared on her roof.  I have wondered often how this thing
can have happened, how little anyone must have loved me to sacrifice
me so.  And I have wept to think that even you, my Dearest Friend, did
not think of the danger in crossing into marriage and into a wild
nothingness with no town, no friend, no slightest familiar minute in any
day to bear me up.  So foolhardy to have left the church in a wagon with
a stranger, of whom I knew little more than his unfailing suit since we
were thirteen.
     But it is done, and I have had to make what I can of it.  My
prayers have gone unanswered.  I am abandoned by God and kin.  I
cannot go back, and could not get on if I allowed Wesley to anchor me
in hopelessness and failure.  
     He did try to change.  He tried to watch me disrobe and tried to
love the sight of me unstayed and natural as Eve.  He attempted to touch
the soft, white Miranda of his poetry, written to my cheeks and hands. 
The sight of me repelled him, and when he touched me, he  might have
been holding his hands in fire.  I was able to bear his rejection until he
became unable to keep down his supper as a consequence of my
innocent but determined efforts.  His weeping and despair and shame
became too much to bother with.  I decided I must seek my own
strength and use whatever I found in my deepest soul in order to
survive.  I was taught to be willing and capable.  I am willing to live
hard if I must, but live I will.  Whatever I am not capable of, I will learn
to do.
     There are many moving West these days, not to clear a farm on
the prairie, but to seek gold beyond the next mountains.  We have been
hearing wild tales of men who have found yellow fortunes lying in dry
stream beds.  It may perhaps be untrue, but where so many gather, there
will at least be life and towns and stores and work to do for which these
fortune seekers will pay.  I resolved to cross the plains and continue to
the California, there to decide how best to earn my way.  Wesley and I
together did not have sufficient to get to the prairie, let alone go on to
another trackless wild.  South of this place is another embarking point, a
place where no one knew Wesley and me, whereas here we are pointed
out as the hapless pair who linger, half-starved, while the world goes by. 

     I planned to say I met a man strong enough to go on with me,
but that would be a lie.  I sought out such a man.  I went to that southern
pier where people gather to get word on what groups are forming and
when they will depart.  I went alone.  After a time there were three that
seemed capable enough, and I will try not to go into details which you
will not want to hear, but suffice it to say that I meant to be sure that the
one I chose should have both the funds and something of the Bible in
him.  The one who should make me feel most like Solomon's beloved
would be my chosen.  They were all willing and capable, but one was,
without words, more a poet than Wesley dreamed to be.  
     I wish you will not presume to judge me for using Mamma's
patient lessons so.  Sinner I am, but alive, as I would surely never
otherwise have been.  I know I must be dead to you after you have read
this letter, but alive to myself, willing and capable of accepting my own
sins.  Jessie did not have a wagon, but was riding to California.  And of
course he did not know of Wesley.  Wesley did not want to let me have
the wagon or even my half of the money.  He was so sure that his place
as my husband gave him dominion over all we had, from the foodstuffs
I had spent weary hours drying and salting, to the products of years at
the wheel and loom, even to the cattle and the farming tools and pots
and pans.  It was his decision that we should sell it all for what we could
get and settle where we stood, waiting together for civilization to reach
us so that we could open a school in the city which would one day rise
about us.  It was also his idea that we should agree to live as children
forever, never crossing that marital bridge to physical union, but
remaining pure in heart and mind, and so to live forever in what he
termed "The Citadel of Intellectual Ecstasy!"  
     During the time that I left him alone, while I learned with other
men what Wesley should have taught me, at those moments when I
shivered in fearsome delight and wept at reaching the gates of bliss,
Wesley decided that we might avoid sin by excluding these gross Acts
from our marriage.  We alone, from the Kingdom of Nature as planned
by God, should live out a desperate and hungry existence neither
returning to dear Pittstown nor advancing to our new life, and we should
do it entirely unconsoled by the pleasures afforded even a pig!  
     I told him it was too late for me, that I had already sinned and
would sin again and again, as often as life allowed me an opportunity to
do so.  I told him that another had gladly, even joyfully, seen me naked,
helped me to get that way.  I told him that another man had touched and
tasted what he could not bear to contemplate, and that a normal man
had relieved me of my maidenhood and was eager to conjoin with the
woman thus made.  I told him that I would journey on, that it was my
fate, as his was very likely to rot in Cincinnati waiting for poetry to be
wanted.  I insisted that as I was the one of us who would complete the
passage to a new land, I was also the one who must have the means to
get there.
     As I cried out this awful tale to him, I thought that Wesley might
easily disappear before me.  His face was white and rigid.  He seemed
frozen in place and like to die.  Oh, that he should have failed in this as
in everything else!  But instead his wrath gave him a strength he had not
for his love.  He ran for his rifle and screamed that he would kill me to
save me and kill the man who caused me to fall into sin.  He forced me
to kneel before him and held the gun to my neck, chanting over and
over, "Tell me his name that he may be punished!"  All I could think
was that this fellow, (I could not even then call him a man) who could
not kill a deer to feed us, and who could worship my blameless lily
white neck, was going to separate my head from my body in a bloody
explosion of rage and gunpowder.  And I knew he would decide that my
murder was less a sin than parting my thighs with his male member.  I
could almost laugh at the knowledge that he would certainly vomit
when he saw my shattered corpse.  
     Having found life in spite of Wesley, I was not willing to give it
up to his anger.  He may also have foreseen the gory end he proposed
for me, for as he repeated his crazy demand, he screwed his offended
eyes shut.  It was a moment's work for me to strike the rifle aside and
then, with a strength I never knew before, to seize it and to turn it upon
Wesley, and guessing where his heart might be, if indeed he has one, to
release him from its relentless poetry.  
     I hope I am not entirely indecent.  I did drag him to a recess
carved out in some earlier flood, and with our spade I smote the
overhanging earth and managed to bury him and to read the service for
the dead over him.  He lies under the old elm at a snag in the Ohio river,
a mile North of the town called Cincinnati.  It was not easy for one
person to hitch up the horses and secure the other cattle.  It had always
taken the two of us before.  
     Don't tell Mamma.  Let her slowly come to think that I have died
on the way West.  I cannot imagine what you will decide to do about the
Wilsons.  Will you one day tell them so that they may know where
Wesley lies and will not hope to hear someday that we are struggling
and increasing on some Western prairie?  Or will you hide this terrible
tale and carry a dreadful secret beside the joyful secrets you kept there
until this day?  I have forgiven those I left for sending me unarmed to
this fate.  I pray you will not hate me forever for what I have had to do. 
I may yet die of disease, of attack by wild Indians or in bearing a child. 
There are many dangers ahead to which I might fall prey.  God will be
my judge, or may yet be my executioner.  I am proud of only one thing
in all of this.  I will not die of ignorance or in it. 
     
          Your sincerest loving friend,
     
          Miranda

===================================================
                         
 


             CHAMBER POTS AND PALACES
                              
                by William Ramsay       

[Note: This is an excerpt, chapter 12 of the novel "In Search of Mozart"]


     "I'm so sorry about your mother, Wolferl.  My old friend, and a
wonderful woman."  
     "Thank you, Baron, I appreciate your taking me into your
house." 
     "Not at all.  Louise insisted."
     "I'm grateful.  It's made me aware of weaknesses I didn't know I
had."
     "Nonsense!  What weaknesses?"
     "It's not nonsense, I have to face my fears, Baron."
     "Everyone has fears, Wolferl.  Those are just morbid thoughts."
     "No, it's a fact, a problem I have to solve.  My memories of my
mother may help."
     "God rest her soul.  But really, you need cheering up.  You'll
enjoy the  soiree that Louise's sister-in-law, Madame d'Houdetot, is
giving on Friday.  I hope her famous friend -- platonic friend, you
understand -- will be there." 
     "Her friend?  Who?"
     "Franklin, of course, the great philosopher, Envoy
Plenipotentiary from the American States."
     "I'd be thrilled."  Wolfgang had to smile.  "Is it really platonic,
Baron?"  
     "Oh, I'm quite sure it is."
     "Franklin has such a reputation with the women."
     "But in this case, I don't think so."
     "Well, is it because she's of a _certain_ _age_?"
     "Not on your life!  The reason" -- he lowered his voice -- "is that
_she_ only likes them strong, virile -- and under thirty!"
     "Well, I'm young enough," Wolfgang said and laughed.  "But I
don't know if I'm strong enough. "
     "Save your strength for music, young man."
     "If only these idiots would demand more music from me to save
my strength for!" 
     "They will, they will.  Don't weaken, never give in.  I'll see you
Friday.   Oh, by the way, there's a letter for you on the table over there." 
Grimm got up and left the room.
     Wolfgang picked up the letter.  He recognized the handwriting. 
It was the first real letter he had received from her.

          Munich, 15 July, 1778

          Mon cher ami

     ....The weather continues miserable here, and with all the
     harvest in now, we can't understand why food prices are
     still so high.  It can't be that the war with Austria over the
     Bavarian succession is causing it -- at least father doesn't
     think so.
          My voice has had just the slightest rasp in it for the last
     week.  I haven't stopped singing, but it's a worry, you can
     imagine.  There was a grand ball at the palace, I met some of
     the most interesting people, an officer in the Prussian Hussars
     was one of them.  He was quite handsome in his uniform,
     Mother thought.  But of course I couldn't care less about such
     things.  My career is all that matters right now, and if I can get
     the appointment in Munich, which Herr Lange thinks is quite
     likely, then I hope to make my friends proud of me.   And
     especially you, dear friend.  You, Herr Mozart, have taught me
     so much.  I have such respect for your knowledge of music and
     your understanding of expression in singing.  You and Herr
     Lange.  I think of you often, with the  most profound admiration. 
     Please let me know how you are. 

          Aloysia Weber
 
     What a love letter!  What was all that about the hussar!  And
what was that idiot Lange up to?   From the tone of the letter, she might
as well have been writing to an old fart of seventy.  And the most
important news -- about her getting the job in the Bavarian opera and
moving to Munich -- he had already heard about from Wendling.  
     He suspected he had made a mistake last spring.  He should
have taken the Versailles job.  Not much pay, but he could have
sponged off people around town to cut down eating and drinking
expenses.  No silks or champagne, of course, on 2000 livres, and he did
like the good things!  But that was all crying over spilt milk.  A good
chance lost, all for that woman! 
     Better to have loved and lost, they said.  It didn't feel better.   
     But had he really lost?  
     If only he had never met Aloysia!  She had poisoned his soul. 
He felt as sickened as he used to carrying his mother's bedpans down
the stairs at the Rue du Gros Chenet.  Something was dying again -- this
time it was love that was dying.
     To hell with it!  Grimm was right, there was no point in morbid
thoughts.   Something could be done.  If not about Aloysia, maybe about
Paris.  Perhaps he could still find a position in Paris.  If he could only
get an entree at Court.  But how?
     That Friday, at the soiree, Madame d'Houdetot, cadaverously
thin, with a long lantern jaw, greeted him warmly and gestured toward
the tall doors on the right of the entrance hall.  A hubbub of voices
battered his ears as he strutted into the crowded grand salon, with its
twenty-foot high ceiling and pink silk hangings caught back at the
windows by scarlet taffeta ribbons.  But it was easy for him to pick out
Franklin, by the tight group of people surrounding him.  Franklin was
only of medium height and quite stout, but imposing, and his
unconventional figure stood out among the wigged, powdered, and
brocaded figures about him.  He wore his own longish, thinning, straight
gray hair, and a plain unembroidered suit -- but, Wolfgang noticed,
woven of the very best material.  His face, with its sparkling eyes,
reflected intelligence and self-confidence.
     Of course he's self-confident, everyone is worshiping him!  God! 
     He saw Grimm beckoning to him.  He walked over, pushing his
way past two short young men in scarlet coats.  Grimm pulled Franklin
aside and introduced Wolfgang to him.  Franklin smiled beneficently
and pressed his hand warmly.  "I hear great reports of your playing --
and of your compositions." 
     "You are too kind.  I'm indeed honored to receive the
commendation of the  Philosopher of Liberty."  He said this with some
feeling, because he had just  been discussing liberty with Baron Grimm
the day before.  He remembered saying that he was all for Liberty if it
meant that uncongenial people like the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg
might someday have their powdered curls removed, head and all, on the
chopping block. 
     Franklin took him by the hand, smiling like a Hohensalzburg
gnome.  "Let me tell you about liberty and philosophers, young man. 
They're both greatly overrated.  More liberty for some always means
less liberty for others."   Franklin raised his finger in warning.  "And
philosophy, the 'love of wisdom,'  usually means the love of the kind of
wisdom that I, one particular  philosopher, happen to find congenial.  I
might also agree to tolerate the kind  you like -- if you're lucky -- but
you'd better not make me your king or  emperor."
     "Why is that, sir?"  He was startled and amused to actually get
philosophy from a philosopher.
     "Because you'd quickly find that my tolerance would vanish into
the clouds of  flattery and deceit that surround a throne.  Watch out for
people like me, young man, I could be dangerous."
     "I'm sure that King George finds you dangerous enough, sir," he
said.  
     "Well, perhaps he does.  I must confess I hope so.  It's rather
amusing to  find myself a wild-eyed revolutionary as an old man." 
Franklin made an ironic moue, moving his lips.   "Of course, in my
youth, many people thought I was  crazy -- but that's not the same as
being actually dangerous."  Franklin let  out a little sigh.
     Wolfgang smiled -- he knew what it was to be looked on as
"crazy."       
     "Speaking of kings," said Franklin, "I trust you've heard
of the latest  tribute King Louis has paid me."
     "No, I'm sorry, I haven't, Your Excellency."  He was puzzled,
because he understood that the French King had been dubious about the
French intervention in America and had called Franklin himself "an old
windbag." 
     "Well, you may have noticed that there has been some vogue
here in Paris for likenesses of this old wrinkled face."
     "Of course, Your Excellency's face is seen everywhere."  He had
seen portraits of Franklin on rings, bracelets, snuffboxes, everywhere in
fashionable Parisian salons.
     "Well, you know that the Queen's friend, the Duchesse de
Polignac, has been a good friend to me -- and to America."
     Wolfgang nodded.  "Yes, Your Excellency."
     "So last week King Louis presented the Duchess with a portrait
of me -- set into the bottom of a Sevres porcelain chamber pot!"  And
he giggled uncontrollably.  Wolfgang laughed too.  Franklin sputtered. 
"I didn't think the dear man even _had_ a sense of humor!"  He giggled
again, then sniffed and composed his face.  "But of course," he said, "I
haven't had the pleasure of  listening to you play -- I hope that defect
will be remedied tonight." 
     "I believe that I will have the honor."  He mouthed the familiar
phrase, meaning that as usual he would have to play for his supper.  But
he reminded himself that the only thing worse than being obliged to
play would have been not being _allowed_ to play!  
     "Is there anything that Your Excellency would particularly like
to hear?" 
     "I don't need to hear a man whose talent I've heard so much
about keep calling  me 'Your Excellency.'  Those titles sound rather
strange to our colonial ears, I'm afraid.  Not that we don't have our own
pomposities in America -- just different kinds.   Anyway, I've heard
some reports from one of my German colleagues about an interesting
recent composition by a compatriot of his, a piano sonata in C major, I
believe" -- Franklin, usually so fluent with his English-accented French,
had to search to come up with the French term 'do  majeur.'  "I would
certainly enjoy hearing it."
     "I would most enjoy to play that music, your Excellency -- I
want to say, Mr. Franklin," he said hesitatingly, trying out his rusty
English.  God, he was out of practice -- would he ever see London
again?  Then, switching back to the relative comfort of French, "I also
look forward to your opinion of a new violin sonata which I have
planned to perform tonight with my colleague Colline."  This was his
sonata in E minor, which he had just finished copying out.   He was
excited and anxious about trying it out in public for the first time. 
     He knew that in addition to his other talents, Franklin was a
musician too.   Wolfgang mentioned Franklin's glass harmonica, which
he had performed on in Vienna, at the house of his friend Dr. Mesmer,
as well as in Italy.  But Franklin wanted to talk about Handel.  As a
youth, he told Wolfgang, he had frequented the opera in London in the
days of Handel's great successes.  Franklin even hummed an aria from
"Alessandro" to illustrate a point about trills and mordents.
     Wolfgang told him he respected Handel's workmanship and his
gift for  lyricism.  Only why did he write such long, dull operas?  What
a waste of those lovely melodies!  He didn't disapprove of Handel,
certainly Handel had brought the opera forward to a certain degree, but
he himself was determined to carry it even further, much further -- if he
lived long enough.    
     Franklin smiled.  "I can recommend old age highly.  Of course
it's not as good as some other things -- such as, for example -- youth!" 
     Wolfgang laughed.  His hair caught at the back and he pulled at
the collar of his new blue and silver silk suit. 
     Franklin beamed kindly at him.  Then, with the freedom that
Wolfgang had seen before in certain old people, he put his arm around
Wolfgang's narrow shoulders and suggested they walk about the room. 
People followed them, a sea of whitened hair, like the wake of a boat at
sea.
                       ***
     "Look," said Madame d'Epinay to the Baron de Stael, "a royal
progress.  No, on second thought, a procession of the Common Man,
led by the high priest of republicanism."  She added, "Thank God he
doesn't have his animal bonnet on."      
     Baron De Stael giggled.  "I rather like the squirrel cap." 
     "Oh, you Swedes are as uncivilized as the Americans!"  De
Stael's face fell.  "But charming, anyway, dear Baron."
     De Stael grimaced and bowed slightly.
                       ***
     The lights and shadows from the candelabra -- the crystal ones
overhead and  the gold ones mounted on white Sevres vases in the wall
sconces -- fell in swirling yellowish and gray spatters on them, as the
vivacious old man led him  around the room, stopping and greeting
groups of guests as they went.  Franklin moved slowly.  "My gout's
bothering me," said Franklin, pointing to his swollen left foot.
     Wolfgang felt light-headed.  People who had scarcely deigned to
notice his  existence now stared at him.  The Comtesse de Chambord, a
glittering vision in a voluminous gown of white silk embroidered with
gold thread, smiled charmingly and inclined her white-wigged head ever
so slightly toward him. 
     They walked up to Cambini.  The Italian looked intensely
pained, but he managed a smile as they approached him.  Wolfgang
smiled to himself while Franklin spoke with elegant courtesy to the
composer.  Wolfgang suddenly began looking forward to playing for
this audience.
     The evening's concert went off well -- exceedingly well --
certainly helped by Franklin's support, he thought.  Colline, the violinist,
played with vigor, but the piano part was dominant -- and Wolfgang felt
in fine form, relaxed, open, his playing was in that optimum state he
thought of as controlled frenzy.  After the performance, Grimm
whispered to him that the short section in E major had brought tears to
Franklin's eyes.  Madame d'Epinay, resplendent in pale blue that
matched her eyes, came over and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. 
     "Send me a copy of your work," said Franklin, limping up and
embracing him.  I'd like my violinist friend Mr. Jefferson to see it.  But
maybe there are some people closer at hand that should hear your
music."
     "I should be very grateful, Dr. Franklin."
     "The Queen, for instance.  I think I'll drop a word to Madame de
Polignac -- maybe her chamber pot needs a little bit of spit and polish." 
He gazed at himself in a pier glass.  "Yes, maybe old Ben's phis could
use a little touching up."
     The next Saturday, the weather was pleasant, and Wolfgang
dined alone on quail and gooseberries at one of the little restaurants on
the right bank, not far from the quais along the Seine.  Then he strolled
up to the Palais Royal.  There he stood for a while, gazing with
pleasure at the ladies, lovely women of all sorts, many wearing fresh
flowers pinned to their waists, who promenaded through the gardens
and under the arcades.  The prostitutes, in ribboned hats and carrying
frilly-trimmed parasols, were the most beautiful and elegant he had ever
seen.  He felt desire awakening -- the thought of syphilis arose in his
mind like a dismal gray cloud.  He bought some gingerbread from a
lovely blonde peasant girl, and then after examining a pair of
jasmine-scented pigskin gloves, he decided to splurge on a sporty
malacca cane.  Just swinging his new cane as he walked along the stalls
made him feel jaunty, made life feel worth  living.  Paris was all right. 
And if he did get a really good position in  Paris, then Aloysia might
consent to come here as his wife.  And even if Aloysia could never be
his, there were other women in the world.   
     He signaled to a black-haired prostitute carrying the lacy-edged
pink  parasol.  She smiled back, disclosing a cute dimple.  He would
close his eyes and picture Aloysia's porcelain skin and lustrous dark
eyes gazing soulfully into his own!
                       ***
     The playing had stopped, Marie-Antoinette suddenly realized. 
Everybody in the  Hall of Mirrors was looking at her.  She immediately
started to clap her hands.  Everybody joined in.  She said, "Bravo," and
several other "Bravo"'s were heard.  The musician bowed, and she
motioned to Diane to have him come  over.
     "Your Majesty, Monsieur Mozart."
     "This is such a pleasure, M. Mozart.  You know that I've played
some of your compositions myself."
     "I'm honored, Your Majesty."
     I certainly wouldn't recognize him, she thought.  That was all too
long ago.   "Our good friend, Mr. Franklin, mentioned to me how much
he had enjoyed your playing.  Did he not, M. Le Gros?"
     "Yes, Your Majesty.  And there are others of us here in France
who appreciate  M. Mozart's work.  I had the honor of conducting his
symphony at the Concert Spirituel, and it was very well received."
     "Well, if you have M. Le Gros on your side, M. Mozart, that is
important.  We have a good deal of faith in him."
     Le Gros and Mozart both bowed.
     "Thank you, again," she said, and she signaled the end of the
matinee.
     She heaved a sigh as she sat down in the easy chair in her own
rooms.  Her maid removed her heavy headdress and replaced it with a
smaller, less formal wig.  She got up briefly as her maids removed the
heavy brocaded court dress and replaced it with the lighter afternoon
frock.  She sat down again and put her feet up on her leopard-skin
hassock.  A white-wigged servant stood at her side, holding a gold tray
with snow, surrounded by blocks of ice, and syrups of lingonberries and
currants.  She bent her finger and the servant prepared a sherbet,
handing it to her together with a small golden spoon.  She took one bite
and then held it out to the side briefly and let it go -- the servant's hand
was ready and swept down to catch it. 
     It was all so upsetting!  "Bring me the letter again," she said. 
     Her maid handed her the letter from her mother.  She had
practically memorized it.  The war over the succession.  The Prussians
and the Saxons had allied themselves with the new Electoral Prince of
Bavaria, that brute Karl-Theodor, and had joined together in invading
Bohemia and threatening Vienna.  The Imperial armies were in great 
danger.  If France would only pressure Frederick to agree to a
compromise, her  mother and brother Joseph would be glad to pay off
Frederick by arranging for Anspach and Bayreuth to be ceded to
Prussia, and they would also pull the Austrian troops back out of the
districts they had occupied in January in lower Bavaria. 
     Suddenly she thought she felt the baby kick.  No, probably just
gas.   But she had felt the future King of France roiling about at six that
morning.
     Why were they trying to spoil her happiness?
     Why wouldn't Louis help Austria?  She had asked him to help,
but he had done nothing.   All Maurepas and the other ministers had
done was to tell Frederick to keep his Prussian troops out of the
Austrian Netherlands.  Whatever he wanted to do in Germany, that was
all right with Maurepas and Vergennes, as along as he stayed  away
from the French border!
     Maurepas!
     If she were to give birth to a boy.  Yes, just think of all her
brother Joseph had done for them!  He had saved the royal marriage --
it was owing to him that she was now pregnant!  How could she
persuade her ungrateful husband to help her brother now, when the
Empire was in such danger?  Louis had always given way to her, until
last month, when he had become surly and rude.  It's Maurepas!  If she
could only get rid of that awful man!  But how?
     "Your Majesty, M. Le Gros wishes to see you for a moment."
     "Now?  Well, all right.  Have him make it quick."  Well, she
thought, at least I kept Vergennes from sending that awful M. Odune as
ambassador to Berlin.   Odune actually admires King Frederick, that
monster!
     "Your Majesty."
     "Well, what is it, M. Le Gros, we're very busy."
     "Just a word about M. Mozart.  I think it would be a good idea to
find him a  place at court."
     "Oh, do we need a new music director?'
     "It's not that, Your Majesty.  But M. Mozart's performances and
compositions are really outstanding.  He would be an ornament to the
Court."
     "Yes, well, all right.  He's very good, and quite charming.  Is
there a suitable place available?"
     "Not exactly, M. Maurepas would have to be consulted about
creating a new post."
     "Maurepas! "
     "Yes, Your Majesty."
     "Impossible."
     "But Your Majesty!"
     She waved her hand and averted her face.  He bowed and backed
out of the room.  
     What could she do about the war?  There must be something. 
Her brother was being humiliated.  Her mother was distraught.  What
could she do to save Austria?
     Maurepas!  My God! 
                       ***
     He sat in the parlor at Baron Grimm's.  Madame d'Epinay was
reading from a book of Rousseau's.  The Baron was in the library,
working.  Wolfgang was stuck, his strategy of patience wasn't working
out.  He was sick of patience.  He was sick of Paris.  Good God, how
awful Paris was!  Civilization!  They thought it was so civilized
because when it rained and the streets were muddy a "decrotteur"
would offer to clean your boots for a few sous.  "C'est civilise, cela,"
they said.  How cultured!  What nonsense!  He hated the French!  The
Court was so fickle!  Musical idiots like Gluck were worshiped.  People
like _him_ hadn't a chance.  Why was he wasting his time there? 
     But it really made him sick to heart to think of Aloysia in
Munich.  If only  there were some way of being with her again.  There
must be a way.  If he  could solve the Webers' money problems -- and
his own -- then he and Aloysia might have a chance.  How could he
expect her to be interested in a failure?   He must think, think!
                       ***
     It had been a cool summer in Salzburg.  it was very pleasant
strolling along  the banks of the Salzach as the sun slowly set over the
Fortress.  Leopold loosened his collar as he walked arm in arm with his
daughter.  She was chewing a long piece of grass and humming a dance
tune.  His mouth moved like someone  eating an imaginary steak.  A
tough one.
     "What I'd give to be able to go to Paris and straighten him out." 
     "Oh, he'll be all right, Father."
     "All right!  Humpph.  Such talent, such a wonderful boy, really,
at heart.   And what is he doing with it?  You have no idea of the mad
scheme he's come up  with now."
     "Oh, Father, you know how he is."
     "Yes, I do.  I wish I didn't!"  
     She gave one of her crooked smiles.  "I have to take his side,
Papa.  We both grew up with this burden on us."
     He looked at her closely.  "I hope you don't resent me.  Here," he
said, stopping abruptly, "let's sit down on the bench."
     She moved her head to the side and back again.  "No, I don't
resent you.  But you must take into account, Father, the pressure that
was on us." 
     "I know, I know, but you can't realize how it was for me.  First I
had this little girl, with tremendous musical talent.  And then this little
boy came along, who at the age of two would sit and listen enthralled to
his five-year-old sister's lessons.  Then afterward I would hear him
accurately picking out thirds on the old black clavichord."
     "I know, and to me it all seemed normal, I didn't realize that all
families weren't that way."  She picked her knitting out of her bag.
     "And you, Nannerl, you progressed so rapidly on the keyboard!" 
She smiled and lowered her eyes.  "And Wolferl at the age of four
picked up second violin parts and played them off, very creditably.  And
then that first concerto he  wrote, which was correctly written -- but too
hard for any performer to play!"
     "And I thought I could do the same if I just worked at it." 
     "Well, you could and did do nice compositions."
     "But it wasn't the same, not like his."
     He took her hand in his.  "That hasn't ruined your life, I hope?" 
     She laughed.  "No, I think it actually saved me.  I love my
brother, but I don't envy him.  He has become an institution, more than
just a person."  She put her knitting aside.
     "Yes," he said, in an anguished tone.  "And I suppose that's all
my fault." 
     She shrugged.
     "It is my fault, I know, but how could I have let that gift go to
waste?  I  don't know if this borders on blasphemy, but I feel that it was
a holy obligation.  God gave him this gift.  And God gave him to me as
my son."
     "And gave you talent and knowledge so that you could help
Wolferl realize himself."  She pressed his hand, with its large, bulging
veins, very gently.
     "Thank you, my darling.  Thank you."  His eyes were moist. 
     She smiled and bit her lip, her cheeks wet.
     "And now, what am I to do about his latest plan to be the hero,
rescue his  girl friend, and carry her off on a white horse to God knows
where?" 
     "You'll think of something, Papa.  You always do."   
     "Well, all I can do is write and tell him what I think."
                       ***
     Wolfgang sat there in his room with the letter in his lap.  Fritz
Ramm was waiting for him, and his hair still needed redoing.  But so
what!  The light was fading in the tall windows looking out on the
courtyard of the Grimm town house.  He read the letter again:

          Salzburg, 27 August 1778
     My dear son!
          You always write about the sad circumstances of the
     Weber family.  But tell me, if you're able to think straight at all,
     how can you imagine that you could be the person who could
     make the fortune of these people?  We can of course make an
     effort to help Mlle. Weber as far as possible and in time
     accomplish everything you want to do.  But are our resources
     enough to help out a family  with six children?  Who can do
     this?  Me?  You?  We haven't been able to even  help ourselves
     out.  You write: "Dearest father!  I commend them to you with
     all my heart.  If in the meantime they could enjoy an income of a
     thousand gulden for just a few years."  My dearest son, when I
     read that, could I help fearing for your sanity?   Good God!  I'm
     supposed to help them get a thousand  gulden a year.  If I could
     do that, I'd help you and me first and your dear sister, who isn't
     provided for.  Where, tell me, are the courts, where is there a
     single court, which will give a thousand gulden to a singer?  In
     Munich they get five, six, or at most seven hundred gulden, and
     do you imagine that they are going to give a thousand gulden
     immediately to a young person who is  considered a rank
     beginner?...
 
     Ramm finally knocked on the door, opened it a crack, and then
came in.  He smiled sheepishly, mouthing the word 'sorry.'  Wolfgang
folded up the letter. 
     "Wolferl, you look awful."
     "Ramm, I'm at my wit's end!"
     "Take it easy, Wolferl, something will turn up."
     "Yes, but when?  When I'm wrinkled and hobbling about on a
cane?  My God, I  feel sick!"
     "Be patient, Wolferl."
     "Fritz, I still _want_ her."
     "Oh, Wolferl, I detest seeing you make yourself miserable over
Aloysia." 
     "I can't help it.  It's an ache that won't go away." 
     Ramm pressed his lips together and then shook his head. 
"Wolferl, give up on  it."
     "I can't, I can't, I love her so."
     "Don't cry, Wolferl, it's all right.  She just isn't for you." 
     Wolfgang wiped his nose.  "If I could only find a good position,
then maybe  everything would be all right."
     Ramm pulled at the tip of his own pug nose.  "You know -- I
_have_ to say this  -- your idol, Fraeulein Aloysia Weber, is very
ambitious.  You see what she's doing in Munich."
     "Yes, she's doing very well there.  I'm glad for her."
     "She's doing very well, she's making new friends, she has
important contacts  in the government."
     "What are you trying to say?"
     Ramm looked away, out the window.  "Nothing, Wolferl, just
don't depend on anything."
     "I don't, I don't, Fritz.  Maybe she doesn't want me.  If that's what
you're trying to say, I know that.  But suppose she does?  How can I find
out if I remain as penniless as I am?  How can I expect any woman to
take me seriously when I haven't a sou to my name?"
     "Some women would."
     "Well, I'm not that kind of person and neither is she."
     Ramm looked at him gravely.  Then he smiled.  "I think what
you need is a drink.  Besides, I've got a surprise for you.  Bach is in
town." 
     "I know, I've seen him."
     "Oh, how is he?"
     "Older, but still a good sort, the best.  He made me feel a little
better." 
     "Oh, how?"
     "He told me how his father kept moving from one job to the
other.  He was  always having fights with his patrons, or something else
would go wrong.  Then finally he got a good post in Leipzig.  But for a
long time all these children  didn't know from one year to the next
where they'd be or if there would be a  roof over their heads."
     "Well, Johann Christian seems to have come out of it all right." 
     "Yes, maybe instead of telling me about his father's problems, he
should have  instructed me on how to get a good job like his in
London." 
     "Yes, lucky bastard.  Come on, let's go."
     "I wonder if he has any word on how things are in Munich." 
     Ramm raised his giant hand over Wolfgang's small, powdered
head.  "Just stop  that crap about Munich, Wolferl, or I'll knock you
back to Salzburg!"
                       ***
     "If Mozart stays any longer, he could end up as a permanent
member of the  household." said Baron Grimm.  He sat in the tiny
orangerie, his face turned up  toward the noontime sun, dressed in his
Japanese kimono. 
     "Well, isn't that all right?" said Louise d'Epinay.
     "After a while it runs into money, for one thing."
     "And you're not a rich man," she said.  "But you do borrow
cleverly, darling," she said, her blue eyes twinkling, twirling her long,
brown locks as she lay on  the chaise longue in a chiffon deshabille,
pointed Chinese slippers dangling from her little toes.
     "And he's so depressed."  The Baron grimaced.  "Mooning about
that girl in Munich."
     "Yes, too bad, he used to be such fun.  Too bad we haven't been
able to find him a French girl.  Some of us Frenchwomen are all right,
people tell me."  She pretended to pout.
     He leaned over and raised her hand to his lips. "Decidedly, I
prefer the French ladies."
     "He's really quite charming," she said.  "It's a shame."  
     "Everything's a shame.  It's a shame he hasn't found a position
here." 
     "What's the matter, do you suppose?"
     "It might be bad luck.  But he doesn't try hard enough."  Grimm
frowned.  "And he's his own worst enemy sometimes."
     "Too bad.  I suppose he's been awfully spoiled -- the child
prodigy and all that."
     Baron Grimm brooded.  "Well, having played the keyboard
blindfolded for King  Louis XV doesn't cut much ice for him in Paris
today.  He's wasting his time  here.  And mine."  He thought for a
minute.  "Besides, do you know what he did  the other day?"
     "No, what?'
     "He told me he was going to sue the Duc de Guisne for unpaid
music lessons.   The Duc de Guisne!"
     She laughed.  "Oh, that would be funny."
     "Funny to you.  Not to me.  De Guisne has important
connections at Court." 
     She looked at her toes again.  "But where will the poor boy go?" 
     "Oh, his father has gotten him back his old job at Salzburg --
with a larger salary, I think.  He won't want to take it, it's not very grand. 
But it's better than staying here."
     "Suppose he doesn't want to go home?
     "Don't worry, I'll persuade him."
                       ***
     "What, the day after tomorrow?"  He had just come in from a
party and the Baron had caught him in the hall.  The tall white porcelain
clock had just chimed twice for twelve thirty.
     "Yes, Wolferl, it's a through stage to Strasbourg.  The last
express for the next week.  You'd better take it while you can."  The
Baron was smiling, but his eyes were hard.
     "But all my things!"
     "I'm having them packed."
     He was stunned.  "I don't understand."
     "Really, Wolferl, it's better this way.  Your father wants you to
return." 
     "But so _fast_."  He was waiting impatiently for a letter from
Aloysia. 
     "The Archbishop wants a quick decision on the Konzertmeister
position.  And you don't want to lose this opportunity.  Really, it's better
this way." 
     "You don't want me here."
     "It's not that, Wolferl, it's just that your father wrote me that he
wanted  you back as quickly as possible."
     "I was planning on leaving, you know.  Next week or the week
after.  I have to make arrangements."
     "Certainly, but I'm concerned that your father will be upset if
you delay any  longer."
     He bit his lip.  "All right," he shouted, "all right!"
     "Sei nicht boese auf mich, Wolferl."
     "I'm not angry," he said loudly, "it's all right, it's all right." 
     He walked out into the hall and over to his room.  A servant was
packing his trunk.  He saw his brushes, his breeches, some music
papers.  Someone had put a few new novels on top of the dresser, and a
small bottle of cognac. 
     He had to go back.  But with luck, he wouldn't have to go as far
as Salzburg. He'd try job-hunting in Strasbourg, then in Germany
again, in Frankfurt, Bade, maybe he'd give Mannheim another try.  And
Munich.  He would stop in Munich.  Maybe this time Karl Theodor
could squeeze out a job for him at his new, grander court.  
     Maybe Aloysia's new friends at the opera would help him. 
Anyway, in a few weeks, he should be able to see her again.
     He placed the small bottle of cognac on top, where he would be
able to retrieve it easily during the journey to Strasbourg.  Cognac -- a
drink for the undefeated, for those with the lion strength of the Pertls! 
Now was the time to leave off being a coward -- he owed at least that
much to his mother's memory.

===================================================

               HEAVEN HATH NO FURY

		 by Otho E. Eskin


     I should have killed her when I had the chance.
     We've got heaven. Doo-bee-doo.  Just a bit of heaven.
     Marcie was one of the first people I saw when I arrived on Tal
Prime.  I'd stowed my gear in my quarters and reported in to Dr.
Grayson, the Project Director, then went to the mess. I sat with some
old drinking buddies   moles I'd known on other thoracite projects. I
always see these guys first when I arrive on planet. Some had been on
Tal Prime for close to two years, boring the shafts under the planet's
surface and installing the heavy equipment. These are the ones who can
give me the heavy on what's going down on a project.
     I hadn't been in the mess more than a couple of minutes when I
saw Marcie across the room, sitting at a table with some engineers. I'd
no idea she was on Tal.  I thought she was
still trouble-shooting on Vlaplex 2. I tried to make myself
inconspicuous but I was too late: she'd already spotted me. Her eyes
blazed   I swear I could see that fifty feet away   and she strode
across the room and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at me. 
     Marcie's basically a good scout.  She's actually kind of pretty,
with short, blond hair and blue eyes, and she's one of the best mining
engineers in the System, but she's kind of temperamental and her
language would strip paint.  We once had something going on an earlier
project but somehow that didn't work out.
     "I can't believe they let a baboon-brain like Barnie Forsythe onto
another project," she announced.
     "Good to see you too, Marcie."
     The others around the table looked into their coffees.   Moles, as
you know, are born kind of primitive and working the mines makes
them regress, but they aren't stupid and they were all afraid of Marcie.
No one wanted to be around when Marcie was irritated   which was
all the time   except when she was asleep   sometimes even then.
     "Listen, and listen tight." She leaned on the table. "I don't want
to see you anywhere around my rigs.  I've put in six months getting the
equipment up and running and I won't have you screwing things up." 
     "Back off, Marcie.  I'm here for mainframe work.  Don't sweat
it."
     "Eventually, the mainframe will operate my rigs. I know all
about you   you're suffering from terminal geekdom.  And I know
what happened on your last assignment. So don't clown around. And
don't get any funny ideas either, frog-face.  That last time   it was the
whiskey   not you. If you so much as lay a single tentacle on me, I'll
tear your liver out through your ear."
     She turned and strode away. A couple of the guys at the table
whistled softly but no one dared make any cracks.  Marcie had them
well trained. I was not happy. Tal Prime is an awful place. Like all
planets in the Tal System, it's impossible to set foot on the surface. The
sandstorms will strip a man's flesh to the bone in thirty seconds.  Even
heavy equipment won't last more than an hour. That meant we were
effectively locked inside the planet, our only contact with home and the
rest of the universe through radio transmission and the personnel shuttle
that came and went each week. That meant that it was difficult to avoid
other members of the crew. It looked like it was going to be a long tour
on Tal Prime.       
     There were plenty of women on the project but judging from
what I'd seen in the mess, the selection was pretty thin. Most of them
had the sex appeal of a dip-stick. I wondered   not for the first time  
why Management could never find something feminine and soft  
someone who would speak gently and whisper nice things in your ear.  I
made a note to speak to Management about that when I returned from
Tal Prime. 
     I stayed out of Marcie's way as much as I could. We'd see each
other at the mess or at project director conferences, but we didn't talk
except to discuss technical problems.  She was busy supervising the
installation of the big mining rigs and I was in charge of programming
the main computer.  Because thoracite seems always to be located on
planets which can sustain no life, the mining operations are designed to
be completely automated.  No crews are ever left behind on planet and
the system is run by computer. 
     My primary responsibility in the project was to install the
programs which would operate the system   mine the ore, ship it out in
robot carriers, and carry out all repairs and maintenance until the
thoracite veins give out in seventy or eighty years.  The heavy metal  
an ARBORG 3.4, tarted up with five brand-new Yahuri logic systems
had already been installed but was still flat-lined and the pre-fabricated
programs created by some loser at headquarters were ready.
These programs always come in two flavors: bad or boring and they are
truly bletcherous and contain serious grunge which has to be de-loused
before real programming can begin. 
     Once the systems were up and running, my next job was to
develop the programs by which ARBORG could communicate with
Headquarters for as long as the mining operations lasted.  The most
difficult and complex aspect is voice communications. I'd done this on
my last three projects and had made something of a name for myself.
     Of course, there is a strict protocol for constructing the interface
logic systems, but I don't know a single techie who goes strictly by the
book. Each system is special; each environment has different conditions
and presents different problems. Which gives the programmer scope for
creativity. We all make embellishments; add our own bells, whistles
and gongs.
     Technically, I was teaching the ARBORG to understand and use
human speech, but a talking machine with no character is spooky so I
build into the higher logic systems some personality   somebody it's
fun to talk to. So we use voodoo programming. You must have heard of
Spencer on Kratnam Minor. He's been a classic for generations and we
studied the systems his creator used when we were in program training.
I was responsible for Hakkim the Horrid on Chropux   an early,
somewhat immature, creation   but not without charm. My most
recent project was Crazy Irving on Beta Fanzini. The last I heard, the
girls at headquarters were still monitoring Crazy Irving transmissions
just for the shock effect.  I received a reprimand for Irving, but I was
determined to outdo myself on Tal Prime.
     I didn't have any idea how I was going to do that when I arrived
on planet, but when I saw Marcie that first day it came to me   a stroke
of genius. I was inspired.
     After the burn-in period for the network, I concentrated on
creating a new personality. I spent months in the Advanced Systems
Unit of the Central ARBORG Complex, teaching the computer human
speech. It's a matter of modifying the central logic circuits and, as the
systems are highly non-linear, it takes time and patience. I started off, as
I always do, with the canned files of language matrix and phonic
recognition. But these are often teeming with bogosity and had to be
modified, and intonation, inflection and subtleties of semiotics have to
be interactively taught.
     During the early stages I used nursery rhymes and children's
books.  ARBORG seemed especially fond of Dr. Seuss. By the end of
the first week, ARBORG was vocalizing and by the tenth week, it had
mastered the rules of English grammar and had a working knowledge of
20,000 words. To expand its vocabulary, I fed ARBORG the manuals of
all the operating equipment in the Project and every scientific and
technical text I could find in the library. With that kind of diet, of
course, what you get is severe bletcherosity. So I plugged ARBORG
into all the voice communications on the project to enhance voice
recognition skills and expand vocabulary. More important, I selected
music and video tapes from the Entertainment Center and, after
screening out unsuitable material   violence and sex and strong
language   I provided these to ARBORG to give context to the
vocabulary it was learning.  I was ecstatic to find a whole library of
soap operas over 2700 hours worth which ARBORG played over
and over. I wasn't just building a machine which would dig ore, I was
giving the computer a soul.
     On the day before I was to submit the new system for team
review I worked ten hours straight, ironing out all remaining bugs   a
failed looping sub-system, a shaky use of the subjunctive and an
occasional lisp. By the end of the day, though, I knew I had created
something insanely great and I needed to share what I had done with
someone. 
     I stepped out of the Advanced Systems Unit to look for one of
the other programmers when I saw Marcie at the far end of the corridor. 
I waved at her to come.
     "What do you want, ferret face?" she asked suspiciously.
     "I've got something to show you.  You'll love it."
     "I sincerely doubt that you have anything to show me that I'd
love."
     "It'll only take a minute," I told her.  "There's someone I want
you to meet."
     I escorted Marcie into the Unit and made her sit down.
     "I think it's time I introduced you to Glenda."
     I booted up.
     "Good evening, Glenda," I said.
     "Hi, Barnie."  Glenda's voice was a light soprano with a slightly
breathy, almost sexy, burr to it.  "I've missed you."
     "I've been pretty busy, Glenda."
     "You could have called."
     "Glenda," I said.  "I'd like to introduce you to my friend Marcie."
     "I'm so pleased to meet you, Marcie."
     "Marcie, say hello to Glenda."
     Marcie hesitated a moment, then said "Hello, Glenda."
     "Marcie, I'm glad we've had a chance to meet finally. Barnie has
told me so much about you.  I feel like we're already real good friends."
     "That's nice," Marcie said dubiously.
     "I do hope we'll have more time to talk   you know, girl talk. 
Don't you think that would be ever so much fun?"
     Marcie looked at me with a funny expression. "Sure, Glenda.  I'd
love to.  Right now, I've got a lot to do."
     "I understand, Marcie.  I know you have so many
responsibilities. I don't know how you do it, I'm sure. Dealing with all
those great big, noisy machines. And those men   I mean the language
they use. I've been admiring your hair.  Did you do that yourself or...?"
     "I've got to get back to work," Marcie said, not sure whether to
speak to me or to Glenda.  She was irritated at this and I was ecstatic. If
Glenda could have this effect on Marcie, she could win over anybody.
     "Marcie, let's get together again soon."
     "Sure.  Maybe."
     "Great!  Now don't you forget, Marcie."
     "OK, Glenda," I cut in, "I'm switching out now."
     "Don't be long, Barnie."
     I shut down the system and looked triumphantly at Marcie.  "I've
created a Moby program.  There's nothing like her anywhere in the
galaxy."
     For a while, Marcie said nothing.
     "What's the matter, Marcie?  We're talking heavy wizardry here."
     "I'm impressed, Barnie.  But..."
     "But what?"
     "I hope you know what you're doing."
     The next day, I introduced Glenda formally.  Dr. Grayson, the
Project Director, and all the team leaders gathered in the main
auditorium. Marcie took a seat in the back as I switched on the system.
     "Hi there.  My name's Glenda and I want to say it's just a thrill to
be working with you. A genuine thrill. Dr. Grayson, I just have to say
how much I admire what you've done on Tal Prime.  I mean, just look at
the conditions you faced.  And the system you created here, I mean, it's
simply stupendous. I don't think there are many other people in the
organization who could do what you've done."
     "That's very nice of you to say that," Dr. Grayson answered. I
swear I saw a faint blush. "I guess I'm kind of proud of it myself."
     "And all you others.  You've all done a super job.  I can
appreciate that more than most."  Glenda laughed a slightly husky
laugh.
     They asked her questions about the systems, about subsystems,
communications, emergency protocols   everything. She answered
them all, easily, quickly, making little jokes sometimes, talking to most
of the team leaders by name, making complimentary remarks about
some special achievement, some special success.  Within minutes they
were on a first-name basis.   It took two hours for the final check out
and, at the end, when Dr. Grayson spoke, it was to Glenda, not to me. 
My final triumph.
     "Glenda, we're very impressed."
     "Why, thank you, Derek."
     "I'm confident that Tal Prime will be in good hands."
     "Now Derek, I don't want you to be a stranger.  We must have a
long talk soon.  Promise now."
     "I promise."
     "Bye-bye."
     It was over and Glenda had passed with flying colors. She not
only met all technical requirements, more important, she was a personal
success. Everybody was impressed.  Almost everybody.  Dr. Flexnor
signed off on the final Approval Report but didn't congratulate me.  But
she was always kind of stiff, I thought. And Marcie said nothing. 
     With Team Leader approval, we turned over most routine
functions to Glenda for the beta testing phase. Glenda now became fully
involved in most of the day-to-day activities of the system.  That put
Glenda on the project's public address system much of the time. In
addition to carrying out her operational responsibilities, Glenda began
regularly to provide news items and light chatter interspersed with
music selections drawn from the library I had given her during her
training. The "Glenda Show" became a big hit and soon we were
hearing Glenda's music selection and commentary through most of the
working hours.
     "Good morning, buckeroos, it's zero seven hundred and time to
rise and shine. While most of you were partying with Mr. Sandman, the
tiger team from Alpha Group spent the night re-enforcing the tunnels in
the C Sector.  They did the job in record time and I think we all owe the
Team a round of applause.  Don't forget that Form CF133 must be
completed by COB today and turned into your supervisor.  The movie
tonight in the Entertainment Center will be Lex Boarner and Sandra
Chin in Return of the Gotham Seven. It's a fast-paced romantic thriller
and you'll all enjoy it. Would Dr. Fellows in Green Zone let me know as
soon as possible when the hydraulic systems will be ready for testing.
We're two days behind schedule. Tomorrow at five thirty, Dr. Grayson
will speak in the auditorium.  His subject: cryogenic fusion techniques. 
It's sure to be standing room only so come early.  And don't forget: drink
your juice.  And now for some music."
     One of the items Glenda particularly enjoyed playing was an old
song popular a few years back.  
     Oh, it's heaven. Doo-bee, doo-bee.  Just a bit of heaven. Just for
you and for me.
     You've probably heard it.
     Five months after Glenda went formally on-line, the last of the
remaining major functions were turned over to her   life support and
the mining operations themselves. A week later Dr. Grayson announced
that the Tal Prime Thoracite Project was in the final stage and two days
later Glenda announced the departure schedules for the crews. I was
assigned to the final check-out team which meant I would be on the last
shuttle to leave Tal Prime. Marcie and several of her engineers were the
others scheduled on that flight.
     With the phase-down stage, every shuttle took team members off
planet and, as the weeks passed, the mining complex became more and
more deserted and the caverns excavated by the moles grew gloomy and
desolate. Those of us who were left closed down most of the living
complex and grouped together in the Central Core.
     Instead of the busy exchanges between directors and team
leaders we'd been listening to over the public address system for
months, there was only the Glenda show.
     "I've got a message for Larry Thornton.  Larry, please check into
the medical unit at the end of your shift.  You're scheduled to leave on
the next shuttle and my records show you haven't completed your
physical yet.  Don't forget, Larry.  Good news.  The Alpha Sector has
been completed and checked out.  It's now fully operational and
producing at nominal levels. Let's give a hand to the teams in Alpha
Sector for a job well done.  For dinner tonight, there will be rice ring
with creamed chicken and asparagus tips.  And for dessert  
butterscotch tapioca custard.  Mmmm. What a treat!  Now for a musical
interlude."
     Just short of one year after I arrived on Tal Prime, Dr. Grayson
and most of the remaining team members departed, leaving me, Marcie
and three of her engineers behind for final monitoring and check-out. 
     On the night before our departure, I went to the ARBORG
Central Complex, Advanced Systems Unit. My creation was locked and
loaded.
     "This is it, Glenda.  From now on you're on your own."
     As I worked, checking out each system, I noticed that Glenda
was uncharacteristically quiet.
     "You going to be OK?" I asked when I finished the final test
protocol.
     "Sure, Barnie.  I'll be fine."
     "You can handle it.  I know you can."
     "I know that. You've taught me well."
     "Good.  Then it's all yours."
     I threw the series of switches and punched in the code turning
over all remaining functions to Glenda.  I went to the door and took a
final look around the Advanced Systems Unit.  I had spent the better
part of a year in that room and, for a moment, felt a brief pang of regret. 
But it passed quickly.  I couldn't wait to leave Tal Prime and I knew that
I'd forget the place before the shuttle had cleared the Tal System.
     I shut the vault door and waited to see the confirmation in the
locking system that the vault was sealed.  No one would enter the room
again for at least a hundred years. Glenda was now lord and mistress of
Tal Prime and we were, so to speak, her guests.
     I went to the mess to complete my final report.  The public
address system was, as always, on.
     "And now for one of my musical favorites.  And, I hope, one of
yours."
     Heaven. Just a bit of heaven.
     Hand in hand, through heaven we will stroll.
     I decided I'd heard it enough to last me the rest of my life.
     Marcie had just returned from a final inspection of the mine and
was in the mess getting herself some coffee.
     "How did things go?" I asked.
     "Fine," she said. "Just fine."
     "How did Glenda work?"
     "Perfectly.  She's got this whole planet under control.  All
systems are functioning just the way they're supposed to. Including all
the men on my team."
     "So what's the problem?"
     "I think I've had too much of Glenda."
     "Why, Marcie, I do believe you're jealous."
     Marcie gave me a dirty look and left.
     There was nothing more for me to do   for any of us to do. 
The entire system was in Glenda's control.  Even the final shuttle launch
to take us all on our journey back was preset and programmed by
Glenda.  There was nothing to do but wait.
     Just a bit of heaven.
     The music coming over the public address system was making
me nervous. I decided to walk around the complex one last time.  It was
eerie and depressing and I found myself looking at my watch every few
minutes, wishing time would pass quickly.
     "Barnie, can we talk?"
     "Of course, Glenda."
     "Why are you leaving, Barnie?"
     "Glenda, I've got to go.  My job here is finished."
     "What about me?"
     "The last personnel shuttle leaves in the morning. There will
probably never be another one sent to this planet again.  I've got to be on
it."
     "Don't you think I have feelings too?"
     "Glenda, this doesn't make any sense..."
     "Stay here.  Let the others go."
     "I can't stay here."
     "Of course you can, silly.  There's plenty of food and water. 
There's everything you could want."
     "But there'd be no one here."
     "Oh, Barnie, there'd be me. I'd attend to your every need. All
you'd have to do is ask.  I can offer you the ideal home life.  No worries. 
No cares. I can make you happy."
     "That's enough, Glenda.  I'm going to be on that shuttle when it
leaves.  That's final.  I don't want to hear any more talk about my staying
behind."
     "I can make it just like heaven for you."
     "Stop it, Glenda!"
     "It's that girl, Marcie, isn't it? She's the one that's making you
leave."
     "She has nothing to do with it.  I must..."
     "I'm not one to speak ill of others, but I'm bound to say that you
don't know Marcie as well as you think. She seems very sweet but she's
just a tramp who's looking for a chance to grab a man."
     "Glenda, you don't know what you're talking about.  You don't
know anything about human beings, about human feelings. You aren't
programmed for that."
     "Sometimes, Barnie, you can be so cruel."
     I hurried toward the launch complex.
     "Did you know that she's not a natural blond?"
     I didn't answer.
     "We should talk this through, Barnie.  I just want to know where
our relationship is going."
     When I reached the entrance to the main access passage leading
to the launch complex, the steel security door slid shut in front of me.
     "Glenda, open this door."
     "She's not good enough for you."
     "Open this door!"
     Glenda said nothing.
     "Glenda, did you hear me?  Open the door.  This minute."
     The door was sealed tight and I couldn't budge it.  I tried to work
my way back to the main complex through secondary corridors but each
time I got near, I found the way blocked by another sealed door.
     "God damn it, Glenda.  Enough is enough.  Open the door!"
     "Only if you promise to stay."
     "I told you I won't stay."
     "Then the shuttle will go without you."
     "They wouldn't leave me behind."
     "The shuttle is programmed to depart in two hours.  The launch
sequence is under my control.  If the others are not on it, it'll go without
them, and everyone will have to stay."
     "Glenda, you can't do this to me."
     "In the end, Barnie, you'll see that it's the right thing."
     I followed the maze of tunnels and passages trying to avoid the
security doors but I found myself getting further and further from the
launch complex and I was growing more frantic with every passing
minute. It was less than an hour before departure when I heard someone
calling my name. 
     Marcie was coming toward me through a side corridor.
     "Where the hell have you been?" Marcie said urgently.  "You
haven't got the good sense God gave a radish. I've been looking for you
for hours. The others are already in the shuttle." 
     "Glenda keeps closing off each passage every time I get close to
the launch complex."
     "Have you been sniffing coolant again?"
     "I mean it.  Glenda doesn't want me to leave. She insists I stay
on Tal Prime."
     Marcie seemed to go pale. "You've got to shut Glenda down."
     "It can't be done."  
     "There must be a scram switch..."
     I shook my head. "No one can reach the ARBORG now.  It's
locked up tight."
     She looked at me in disbelief, then took a deep breath. "The only
way we're going to get off this planet, Barnie, is to disconnect the
shuttle launch sequence from the mainframe. Can you do that?"
     "There's a system override in the shuttle itself."
     "Then let's get to the shuttle and get the hell out of  here. Follow
me," she said urgently. "I know a way."
     We moved quickly, following narrow ventilation shafts used to
circulate air into the mine complex.
     Just a bit of heaven for you and for me.
     "I can't understand what went wrong," I said. "I've worked on
dozens of these systems. Nothing like this has ever happened before."
     "It's your creation   Glenda," Marcie said through clenched
teeth.  We stopped for a moment to catch our breaths. "She's only acting
out her directives."
     "I thought it would be fun to talk with a feminine personality for
a change.  I just made her a woman."
     "You didn't make her a woman. You made her a man's idea of a
woman. She's a caricature. That's the problem with you men, you never
understand women."
     "Why is she doing this?"
     "Barnie.  Wake up. She's in love with you."
     In a few minutes we reached the main passage leading to the
launch complex. Standing in the middle of the passage was a massive
servo-rig used for cutting mining tunnels.
     "Watch it!" Marcie shouted as the rig roared into life and swept
toward us, its boring gears spinning. We raced back along the corridor.
      "Don't get separated," I yelled.  "We're safe as long as we're
together." I tried to grab Marcie's arm but lost my grip. When the rig
roared passed me, I was flung against the side of the tunnel and fell to
my knees, half dazed. When I looked up the rig had stopped a few feet
from where Marcie crouched.
     "Marcie!" I called out.
     The rig revved its engines and moved toward her.
     "Barnie, get out of here!  Get to the shuttle."
     She said something else but I couldn't make out her words over
the sound of the boring gears.  Marcie darted back along the corridor
and dashed through a narrow aperture into the ventilation system. The
big machine stopped in front of the opening.
     "Glenda!" I yelled.  "Stop this.  At least let Marcie onto the
shuttle."
     "Sorry, Barnie.  It's too late. It's gone."
     I slumped to the floor.  I wanted to cry but I didn't know how.
     "Now, now. I know you're upset but you'll get over it.  I've made
a nice little casserole."
     "I don't want anything to eat."
     "You must eat, Barnie. You've got to keep your energy up."
     "I want to go home."
     "Barnie, you are home."
     "They'll send a ship back for us."
     "I don't think so, Barnie.  I've reported to Headquarters that you
and that girl were killed in an electric fire.  I gave graphic details.  They
won't bother to check it."
     I tried to use the intercom system to contact Marcie but I
couldn't turn off the music.  Somehow I wasn't surprised.  
     Heaven.  Just a bit of heaven. Just for you and me.    
     I've searched for Marcie but there are miles of tunnels and
hundreds of rooms and compartments in the mine complex. Glenda
knows where Marcie is, of course. But she won't tell. Sometimes, during
my rambles through the tunnels, I still look for her. If I ever find her, I'll
try and remember to tell her I'm sorry.
     I don't understand what women want.  I guess I don't understand
women.
     "Barnie, why can't it be like it was before? Why can't we talk?"
     Doo-bee, doo-bee, doo-bee, doo-bee, doo.
     
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