Roger Zelazny - Doorways in the sand

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Doorsways in the Sand

Roger Zelazny

Chapter 1

Lying, left hand for a pillow, on the shingled slant of the roof, there in the shade of the

gable, staring at the cloud-curdles in afternoon's blue pool, I seemed to see, between blinks,

above the campus and myself, an instant piece of sky-writing.

DO YOU SMELL ME DED? I read.

A moment's appraisal and it was gone. I shrugged. I also sniffed at the small breeze that had

decided but moments before to pass that way.

"Sorry," I mumbled to the supernatural journalist. "No special stinks."

I yawned then and stretched. I had been dozing, had regarded the tag end of a dream, I

supposed. Probably just as well that I could not recall it. I glanced at my watch. It indicated

that I was late for my appointment. But then, it could be wrong. In fact, it usually was.

I edged forward into a 45° hunker, my heels still resting against the ice-catching eyelets, my

right hand now upon the gable. Five stories below me the Quad was a study in green and concrete,

shade and sunlight, people in slow motion, a fountain like a phallus that had taken a charge of

buckshot at its farther end. Beyond the phountain lay Jefferson Hall, and up on Jeff's third floor

was the office of my latest adviser, Dennis Wexroth. I patted my hip pocket. The edge of my

schedule card still jutted there. Good.

To go in, go down, go across and go up seemed an awful waste of time when I was already up.

Although it was somewhat out of keeping with the grand old tradition as well as my personal

practice to do much climbing before sundown, the way across-with all the buildings connected or

extremely adjacent-was easy and reasonably inconspicuous.

I worked my way about the gable and over to the far eave. About three feet outward and six

down, an easy jump, and I was on the library's flat roof and trotting. Across the roofs and about

the chimneys on a row of converted townhouses then. Over the chapel. Quasimodolike-a bit tricky

there-along a ledge, down a drainpipe, another ledge, through the big oak tree and over to the

final ledge. Excellent! I had saved six or seven minutes, I was certain.

And I felt most considerate as I peered in the window, for the clock on the wall showed me

that I was three minutes early.

Wide-eyed, openmouthed, Dennis Wexroth's head rose from its reading angle, turned slowly,

darkened then, continued upward, dragged the rest of him to his feet, about his desk, toward me.

I was looking back over my shoulder to see what he was glaring at when he heaved the window

open and said, "Mister Cassidy, just what the hell are you doing?"

I turned back. He was gripping the sill as if it were very important to him and I had sought

its removal.

"I was waiting to see you," I said. "I'm three minutes early for my appointment."

"Well, you can just go back down and come in the same way any . . ." he began. Then: "No!

Wait!" he said. "That might make me an accomplice to something. Get in here!"

He stepped aside and I entered the room. I wiped my hand on my trousers, but he declined to

take it.

He turned away, walked back to his desk, sat dawn.

"There is a rule against climbing around on the buildings," he said.

"Yes," I said, "but it's just a matter of form. They had to pass something as a disclaimer,

that's all. Nobody pays any atten-"

"You," he said, shaking his head. "You are the reason for the rule. I may be new here, but

I've done my homework so far as you are concerned."

"It's not really very important," I said. "So long as I'm discreet about it, nobody much cares-

"Acrophilia!" he snorted, slapping the folder that lay on his desk. "You once bought a

screwball medical opinion that saved you from being suspended, that even got you some sympathy,

made you a minor celebrity. I just read it. It's a piece of garbage. I don't buy it. I don't even

think it's funny."

I shrugged. "I like to climb things," I said. "I like to be up in high places. I never said it

was funny, and Doctor Marko is not a screwball."

He emitted a labial consonant and began flipping through pages in the folder. I was beginning

to feel a dislike for the man. Close-cut, sandy hair, a neat, matching beard and mustache that

almost hid his mean little mouth. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, I guessed. Here he was getting

nasty and authoritarian and not even offering me a seat, and I was probably several years his

senior and had taken pains to get there on time. I had met him only once before, briefly, at a

party. He had been stoned at the time and considerably more congenial. Hadn't seen my file yet, of

course. Still, that should make no difference. He should deal with me de novo, not on the basis of

a lot of hearsay. But advisers come and go-general, departmental, special. I've dealt with the

best and I've dealt with the worst. Offhand, I can't say who was my favorite. Maybe Merimee. Maybe

Crawford. Merimee helped me head off a suspension action. A very decent fellow. Crawford almost

tricked me into graduating, which would probably have gotten him the Adviser of the Year award. A

good guy, nevertheless. Just a little too creative. Where are they now?

I drew up a chair and made myself comfortable, lighting a cigarette and using the wastebasket

for an ashtray. He did not seem to notice but went on paging through the materials.

Several minutes passed in this fashion, then: "All right," he said, "I'm ready for you."

He looked up at me then and he smiled.

"This semester. Mister Cassidy, we are going to graduate you," he said.

I smiled back at him.

"That, Mister Wexroth, will be a cold day in hell," I said.

"I believe that I have been a little more thorough than my predecessors," he replied. "I take

it you are up on all the university's regulations?"

"I go over them fairly regularly."

"I also assume you are aware of all the courses being offered this coming semester?"

"That's a safe assumption."

He withdrew a pipe and pouch from within his jacket, and he began loading the thing slowly,

with great attention to each fleck and strand, seeming to relish the moment. I had had him pegged

as a pipe smoker all along.

He bit it, lit it, puffed it, withdrew it and stared at me through the smoke.

"Then we've got you on a mandatory graduation," he said, "under the departmental major rule."

"But you haven't even seen my preregistration card."

"It doesn't matter. I've had every choice you could make, every possible combination of

courses you might select to retain your full-time status worked out by one of the computer people.

I had all of these matched up with your rather extensive record, and in each instance I've come up

with a way of getting rid of you. No matter what you select, you are going to complete a

departmental major in something."

"Sounds as if you've been pretty thorough."

"I have."

"Mind if I ask why you are so eager to get rid of me?"

"Not at all," he replied. "The fact of the matter is, you are a drone."

"A drone?"

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"A drone. You don't do anything but hang around."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You are a liability, a drain on the intellectual and emotional resources of the academic

community."

"Crap," I observed. "I've published some pretty good papers."

"Precisely. You should be off teaching or doing research-with a couple degrees after your name-

not filling a space some poor undergrad could be occupying."

I dismissed a mental picture of the poor would-be undergrad-lean, hollow-eyed, nose and

fingertips pressed against the glass, his breath fogging it, slavering after the education I was

denying him-and I said, "Crap again. Why do you really want to get rid of me?"

He stared at his pipe, almost thoughtfully, for a moment, then said, "When you get right down

to basics, I just plain don't like you."

"But why? You hardly know me."

"I know about you-which is more than sufficient." He tapped my file. "It's all in there," he

said. "You represent an attitude for which I have no respect."

"Would you mind being more specific?"

"All right," he said, turning the pages to one of many markers that protruded from the file.

"According to the record, you have been an undergraduate here for-let me see-approximately

thirteen years."

"That sounds about right."

"Full-time," he added.

"Yes, I've always been full-time."

"You entered the university at an early age. You were a precocious little fellow. Your grades

have always been quite good."

"Thank you."

"That was not a compliment. It was an observation. Lots of grad material too, but always for

undergrad credit. Quantity-wise, in fact, there is the substance of a couple of doctorates in

here. Several composites suggest themselves-"

"Composites do not come under the departmental major rule."

"Yes. I am well aware of that. We are both quite well aware of that. It has become obvious

over the years that your intention is to retain your full-time status but never to graduate."

"I never said that."

"An acknowledgment would be redundant. Mister Cassidy. The record speaks for itself. Once you

had all the general requirements out of the way, it was still relatively simple for you to avoid

graduation by switching your major periodically and obtaining a new set of special requirements.

After a time, however, these began to overlap. It soon became necessary for you to switch every

semester. The rule concerning mandatory graduation on completion of a departmental major was, as I

understand it, passed solely because of you. You have done a lot of sidestepping, but this time

you are all out of sides to step to. Time runs, the clock will strike. This is the last interview

of this sort you will ever have."

"I hope so. I just came to get my card signed."

"You also asked me a question."

"Yes, but I can see now that you're busy and I'm willing to let you off the hook."

"That's quite all right. I'm here to answer your questions. To continue, when I first learned

of your case, I was naturally curious as to the reason for your peculiar behavior. When I was

offered the opportunity of becoming your adviser, I made it my business to find out-"

" 'Offered'? You mean you're doing this by choice?"

"Very much so. I wanted to be the one to say goodbye to you, to see you off on your way into

the real world."

"If you'd just sign my card-"

"Not yet. Mister Cassidy. You wanted to know why I dislike you. When you leave here-via the

door-you will know. To begin with, I have succeeded where my predecessors failed. I am familiar

with the provisions of your uncle's will."

I nodded. I had had a feeling he was driving that way.

"You seem to have exceeded the scope of your appointment," I said. "That is a personal

matter."

"When it touches upon your activities here, it comes within my area of interest-and

speculation. As I understand it, your late uncle left a fairly sizable fund out of which you

receive an extremely liberal allowance for so long as you are a full-time student working on a

degree. Once you receive a degree of any sort, the allowance terminates and the balance remaining

in the fund is to be distributed to representatives of the Irish Republican Army. I believe I have

described the situation fairly?"

"As fairly as an unfair situation can be described, I suppose. Poor, batty old Uncle Albert.

Poor me, actually. Yes, you have the facts straight."

"It would seem that the man's intention was to provide for your receiving an adequate

education-no more, no less-and then leaving it to you to make your own way in the world. A most

sensible notion, as I see it."

"I had already guessed that."

"And one to which you, obviously, do not subscribe."

"True. Two very different philosophies of education are obviously involved here."

"Mister Cassidy, I believe that economics rather than philosophy controls the situation. For

thirteen years you have contrived to remain a full-time student without taking a degree so that

your stipend would continue. You have taken gross advantage of the loophole in your uncle's will

because you are a playboy and a dilettante, with no real desire ever to work, to hold a job, to

repay society for suffering your existence. You are an opportunist. You are irresponsible. You are

a drone."

I nodded. "All right. You have satisfied my curiosity as to your way of thinking. Thank you."

His brows fell into a frown and he studied my face.

"Since you may be my adviser for a long while," I said, "I wanted to know something of your

attitude. Now I do."

He chuckled. "You are bluffing."

I shrugged. "If you'll just sign my card, I'll be on my way."

"I do not have to see that card," he said slowly, "to know that I will not be your adviser for

a long while. This is it, Cassidy, an end to your flippancy."

I withdrew the card and extended it. He ignored it and continued. "And with your demoralizing

effect here at the university, I cannot help but wonder how your uncle would feel if he knew how

his wishes were being thwarted. He-"

"I'll ask him when he comes around," I said. "But when I saw him last month he wasn't exactly

turning over."

"Beg pardon? I didn't quite . . ."

"Uncle Albert was one of the fortunate ones in the Bide-A-Wee scandal. About a year ago.

Remember?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not. I thought your uncle was dead. In fact, he has to

be. If the will . . ."

"It's a delicate philosophical point," I said. "Legally, he's dead all right. But he had

himself frozen and stored at Bide-A-Wee-one of those cryonic outfits. The proprietors proved

somewhat less than scrupulous, however, and the authorities had him moved to a different

establishment along with the other survivors."

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"Survivors?"

"I suppose that's the best word. Bide-A-Wee had over five hundred customers on their books,

but they actually only had around fifty on ice. Made a tremendous profit that way."

"I don't understand. What became of the others?"

"Their better components wound up in gray-market organ banks. That was another area where Bide-

A-Wee turned a handsome profit."

"I do seem to remember hearing about it now. But what did they do with the. . . remains?"

"One of the partners also owned a funeral establishment. He just disposed of things in the

course of that employment."

"Oh. Well . . . Wait a minute. What did they do if someone came around and wanted to view a

frozen friend or relative?"

"They switched nameplates. One frozen body seen through a frosted panel looks pretty much like

any other-sort of like a popsicle in cellophane. Anyway, Uncle Albert was one of the ones they

kept for show. He always was lucky."

"How did they finally get tripped up?"

"Tax evasion. They got greedy."

"I see. Then your uncle actually could show up for an accounting one day?"

"There is always that possibility. Of course, there have been very few successful revivals."

"The possibility doesn't trouble you?"

"I deal with things as they arise. So far. Uncle Albert hasn't."

"Along with the university and your uncle's wishes, I feel obliged to point out that you are

doing violence in another place as well."

I looked all around the room. Under my chair, even.

"I give up," I said.

"Yourself."

"Myself?"

"Yourself. By accepting the easy economic security of the situation, you are yielding to

inertia. You are ruining your chances of ever really amounting to anything. You are growing in

your dronehood."

"Dronehood?"

"Dronehood. Hanging around and not doing anything."

"So you are really acting in my best interests if you succeed in kicking me out, huh?"

"Precisely."

"I hate to tell you, but history is full of people like you. We tend to judge them harshly."

"History?"

"Not the department. The phenomenon."

He sighed and shook his head. He accepted my card, leaned back, puffed on his pipe, began to

study what I had written.

I wondered whether he really believed he was doing me a favor by trying to destroy my way of

life. Probably.

"Wait a minute," he said. "There's a mistake here."

"No mistake."

"The hours are wrong."

"No. I need twelve and there are twelve."

"I'm not disputing that, but-"

"Six hours, personal project, interdisciplinary, for art history credit, on site, Australia in

my case."

"You know it should really be anthropology. But that would complete a major. But that's not

what I'm-"

"Then three hours of comparative lit with that course on the troubadours. I'm still safe with

that, and I can catch it on video-the same as with that one-hour currentevents thing for social-

science credit. Safe there, and that's ten hours. Then two hours' credit for advanced basket

weaving, and that's twelve. Home free."

"No, sir! You are not! That last one is a three-hour course, and that gives you a major in

it!"

"Haven't seen Circular fifty-seven yet, have you?"

"What?"

"It's been changed."

"I don't believe you."

I glanced at his IN basket.

"Read your mail."

He snatched at the basket; he rifled it. Somewhere near the middle of things he found the

paper. Clocking his expressions, I noted disbelief, rage and puzzlement within the first five

seconds. I was hoping for despair, but you can't have everything all at once.

Frustration and bewilderment were what remained when he turned to me once again and said, "How

did you do it?"

"Why must you look for the worst?"

"Because I've read your file. You got to the instructor some way, didn't you?"

"That's most ignoble of you. And I'd be a fool to admit it, wouldn't I?"

He sighed. "I suppose so."

He withdrew a pen, clicked it with unnecessary force and scrawled his name on the "Approved

by" line at the bottom of the card.

Returning the card, he observed, "This is the closest you've come, you know. It was just under

the wire this time. What are you going to do for an encore?"

"I understand that two new majors will be instituted next year. I suppose I should see the

proper departmental adviser if I am interested in changing my area."

"You'll see me," he said, "and I will confer with the person involved."

"Everyone else has a departmental adviser."

"You are a special case requiring special handling. You are to report here again next time."

"All right," I said, filing the card in my hip pocket as I rose. "See you then."

As I headed for the door he said, "I'll find a way."

I paused on the threshold.

"You," I said pleasantly, "and the Flying Dutchman."

I closed the door gently behind me.

Doorways in the Sand

Chapter 2

Incidents and fragments, bits-and-pieces time. Like-

"You're not joking?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I'd rather it looked like hell for the obvious reasons," she said, wide-eyed, backing toward

the door we had just come through.

"Well, whatever happened, it's done. We'll just clean up and..."

She reopened the door, that long, lovely, wild hair dancing as she shook her head vigorously.

"You know, I'm going to think this over a little more," she said, stepping back into the hall.

"Aw, come on, Ginny. It's nothing serious."

"Like I said, I'll think about it."

She began closing the door.

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"Should I call you later, then?"

"I don't think so."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tell you what, I'll call you."

Click.

Hell. She might as well have slammed it. End of Phase One in my search for a new roommate. Hal

Sidmore, who had shared the apartment with me for some time, had gotten married a couple of months

back. I missed him, as he had been a boon companion, good chess player and general heller about

town, as well as an able explicator of multitudes of matters. I had decided to look for something

a bit different in my next roommate, however. I thought I had spotted that indefinable quality in

Ginny, late one night while climbing the radio tower behind the Pi Phi house, as she was about her

end-of-day business in her third-floor room there. Things had gone swimmingly after that. I had

met her at ground level, we had been doing things together for over a month and I had just about

succeeded in persuading her to consider a change of residence for the coming semester. Then this.

"Damn!" I decided, kicking at a drawer that had been pulled from the desk, dumped and dropped

to the floor. No sense in going after her right now. Clean up. Let her get over things. See her

tomorrow.

Somebody had really torn the place apart, had gone through everything. The furniture had even

been moved about and the covers pulled off the cushions. I sighed as I regarded it. Worse than the

aftermath of the wildest of parties. What a rotten time for breaking and entering and breaking. It

wasn't the best of neighborhoods, but it was hardly the worst. This sort of thing had never

happened to me before. Now, when it did, it had to happen at precisely the wrong time, frightening

away my warm and lissome companion. On top of this, something of course had to be missing.

I kept some cash and a few semivaluables in the top drawer of the bureau in my bedroom. I kept

more cash tacked in the toe of an old boot on a rack in the corner. I hoped that the vandal had

been satisfied with the top drawer. That was the uninspired idea behind the arrangement.

I went to see.

My bedroom was in better order than the living room, though it too had suffered some

depredation. The bed clothing had been pulled off and the mattress was askew. Two of the bureau

drawers were open but undumped. I crossed the room, opened the top drawer and looked inside.

Everything was still in place, even the money. I moved to the rack, checked my boot. The roll

of bills was still where I had left it.

"There's a good fellow. Now toss it here" came a familiar voice that I could not quite place

in that context.

Turning, I saw that Paul Byler, Professor of Geology, had just emerged from my closet. His

hands were empty, not that he needed a weapon to back up any threat. While short, he was

powerfully built, and I had always been impressed by the quantity of scar tissue on those

knuckles. An Australian, he had started out as a mining engineer in some pretty raw places, only

later picking up his graduate work in geology and physics and getting into teaching.

But I had always been on excellent terms with the man, even after I had departed my geology

major. I had known him socially for several years. Hadn't seen him for the past couple of weeks,

though, as he had taken some leave. I had thought he was out of town.

So: "Paul, what's the matter?" I said. "Don't tell me you did all this messing?"

"The boot, Fred. Just pass me the boot."

"If you're short on cash, I'll be glad to lend you-"

"The boot!"

I took it to him. I stood there and watched as he plunged his hand inside, felt about,

withdrew my roll of bills. He snorted then and thrust the boot and the money back at me, hard. I

dropped both, because he had caught me in the abdomen.

Before I even completed a brief curse, he had seized me by the shoulders, spun me about and

shoved me into the armchair beside the open window where the curtains fluttered lightly in the

breeze.

"I don't want your money, Fred," he said, glaring at me. "I just want something you have that

belongs to me. Now you had better give me an honest answer. Do you know what I'm talking about or

don't you?"

"I haven't the foggiest," I said. "I don't have anything of yours. You could have just called

me and asked me that. You didn't have to come busting in here and-"

He slapped me. Not especially hard. Just enough to jolt me and leave me silent.

"Fred," he said, "shut up. Just shut up and listen. Answer when I ask you a question. That's

all. Keep the comments for another day. I'm in a hurry. Now I know you are lying because I've

already seen your ex-roommate Hal. He says you have it, because he left it here when he moved out.

What I am referring to is one of my models of the star-stone, which he picked up after a poker

party in my lab. Remember?"

"Yes," I said. "If you had just called me and ask-"

He slapped me again. "Where is it?"

I shook my head, partly to clear it and partly in negation.

"I . . . I don't know," I said.

He raised his hand.

"Wait! I'll explain! He had that thing you gave him out on the desk, in the front room, was

using it for a paperweight. I'm sure he took it with him-along with all his other stuff-when he

moved out. I haven't seen it for a couple of months. I'm sure of that."

"Well, one of you is lying," he said, "and you're the one I've got."

He swung again, but this time I was ready for him. I ducked and kicked him in the groin.

It was spectacular. Almost worth staying to watch, as I had never kicked anyone in the groin

before. The cold, rational thing to do next would be to go for the back of his neck while he was

doubled over that way, preferably spiking him with my elbow. However, I was not in a cold,

rational mood just then. To be honest about it, I was afraid of the man, scared to get too close

to him. Having had small experience with groin-kicked persons, I had no idea how long it might be

before he straightened up and came at me.

Which is why I took to my own element rather than stay there and face him.

I was over the arm of the chair, had the window the rest of the way up and was out it in an

instant. There was a narrow ledge along which I moved until I had hold of the drainpipe, off about

eight feet to the right.

I could continue on around it, go up or down. But I decided to remain where I was. I felt

secure.

Not too much later his head emerged from the window, turned my way. He studied the ledge and

cursed me. I lit a cigarette and smiled.

"What are you waiting for?" I said when he paused for breath. "Come on out. You may be a lot

tougher than I am, Paul, but if you come out here only one of us is going back in again. That's

concrete down there. Come on. Talk is cheap. Show me."

He took a deep breath and his grip tightened on the sill. For a moment I actually thought he

was going to try it. He looked downward, though, and he looked back at me.

"All right, Fred," he said, getting control of his lecture voice. "I'm not that big a fool.

You win. But listen, please. What I've said is true. I've got to have that thing back. I would not

have acted as I did if it were not very important. Please tell me, if you will, whether you were

telling me the truth."

I was still smarting from those slaps. I did not feel like being a nice guy. On the other

hand, it must have meant a lot to him to make him behave as he had, and I had nothing to gain by

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not telling him. So: "It was the truth," I said.

"And you have no idea where it might be?"

"None."

"Could someone have picked it up?"

"Easily."

"Who?"

"Anybody. You know those parties we had. Thirty, forty people in there."

He nodded and gnashed his teeth.

"All right," he said then. "I believe you. Try and think, though. Can you recall anything-

anything at all-that might give me a lead?"

I shook my head. "Sorry."

He sighed. He sagged. He looked away.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'm going now. I suppose you plan on calling the police?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm in no position to ask favors, or to threaten you, at the moment. But this is both a

request and a warning of whatever future reprisal I might be able to manage. Don't call them. I've

troubles enough without having to worry about them, too."

He turned away.

"Wait," I said.

"What?"

"Maybe if you tell me what the problem is . . ."

"No. You can't help me."

"Well, supposing the thing turned up? What should I do with it?"

"If that should happen, put it in a safe place and keep your mouth shut about having it. I'll

call you periodically. Tell me about it then."

"What's so important about it?"

"Un-uh," he said, and was gone.

A whispered question from behind me-"Do you see me, red?"-and I turned, but there was no one

there, though my ears still rang from the boxing they had taken. I decided then that it was a bad

day and I took to the roof for some thinking. A traffic-copter buzzed me later, and I was queried

as to suicidal intentions. I told the cop I was refribbing shingles, though, and that seemed to

satisfy him.

Incidents and fragments continued-

"I did try phoning you. Three times," he said. "No answer."

"Did you consider stopping by in person?"

"I was about to. Just now. You got here first."

"Did you call the police?"

"No. I've got a wife to worry about as well as myself."

"I see."

"Did you call them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not certain. Well, I guess it's that I'd like a better idea as to what's going on before

I blow the whistle on him."

Hal nodded, a dark-eyed study in bruise and Band-aid.

"And you think I know something you don't?"

"That's right."

"Well, I don't," he said, taking a sip, wincing and stirring more sugar into his iced tea.

"When I answered the door earlier, there he was. I let him in and he started asking me about that

damned stone. I told him everything I could remember, but he still wasn't satisfied. That was when

he began pushing me around."

"Then what happened?"

"I remembered some more things."

"Uh-huh. Like you remembered I have it-which I don't-so he'd come rough me up and leave you

alone."

"No! That's not it at all!" he said. "I told him the truth. I left it there when I moved out.

As to what became of it afterwards, I have no idea."

"Where'd you leave it?"

"Last I remember seeing it, it was on the desk."

"Why didn't you take it with you?"

"I don't know. I was tired of looking at it, I guess."

He got up and paced his living room, paused and looked out the window. Mary was off attending

a class, a thing she had also been doing that afternoon when Paul had stopped by, had his

conference with Hal and started the ball rolling down the alley that led to me.

"Hal," I said, "are you telling me the whole truth and nothing but?"

"Everything important."

"Come on."

He turned his back to the window, looked at me, looked away.

"Well," he said, "he claimed the thing we had was his."

I ignored the "we."

"It was," I said, "once. But I was there when he gave it to you. Title passed."

But Hal shook his head. "Not that simple," he said.

"Oh?"

He returned to sit with his iced tea. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, took a quick

sip, looked at me again.

"No," he said. "You see, the one we had was really his. Remember that night we got it? We

played cards in his lab till pretty late. The six stones were on a shelf above the counter. We

noticed them early and asked him about them several times. He would just smile and say something

mysterious or change the subject. Then, as, the night wore on and after he'd had more to drink, he

began talking about them, told us what they were."

"I remember," I said. "He told us he had been to see the star-stone, which had just that week

been received from the aliens and put on display in New York. He had taken hundreds of photographs

through all sorts of filters, filled a notebook with observations, collected all the data he

could. Then he had set out to construct a model of the thing. Said he was going to find a way to

produce them cheaply, to sell them as novelty items. The half dozen on his shelf represented his

best efforts at that point. He thought they were pretty good."

"Right. Then I noticed that there were several rejects in the waste bin beside the counter. I

picked out the bestlooking one and held it up to the light. It was a pretty thing, just like the

others. Paul smiled when he saw that I had it, and he said, 'You like it?' I told him that I did.

'Keep it,' he said."

"So you did. That's the way I remember it, too."

"Yes, but there was more to it than that," he said. "I took it back to the table with me and

set it down next to my money-so that each time I reached over for some change, I automatically

glanced at it. After a time I became aware of a tiny flaw, a little imperfection at the base of

one of the limbs. It was quite insignificant, but it irritated me more and more each time that I

looked at it. So, when you two left the room later, to bring in more cold beer and sodas, I took

it over and switched it with one of those on the shelf."

"I begin to see."

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"Okay, okay! I probably shouldn't have done it. I didn't see any harm in it at the time. They

were just prototype souvenirs he was fooling with, and the difference wasn't even noticeable

unless you were looking hard."

"He'd noticed it the first time around."

"Which was good reason for him to consider them perfect and not be looking again. And what

difference did it make, really? Even in the absence of a six-pack the answer seems obvious."

"It sounds all right, I'll give you that. But the fact is that he did check-and it also seems

that they were more important than he had indicated. I wonder why?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he said. "The first thing that occurred to me was that

the souvenir business was just a story he made up because he wanted to show them off to us and he

had to tell us something. Supposing he had been approached by someone from the UN to produce a

model-several models-for them? The original is priceless, irreplaceable and on display to the

public. To guard against theft or someone with a compulsion and a sledgehammer, it would seem

wisest to keep it locked away and put a phony one in the showcase. Paul would be a logical choice

for the job. Whenever anyone talks crystallography, his name comes up."

"I could buy parts of that," I said, "but the whole thing doesn't hang together. Why get so

upset over the flawed specimen when he could just manufacture another? Why not simply write off

the one we've lost?"

"Security?"

"If that's so, we didn't break it. He did. Why shove us around and bring it to mind when we

were doing a good job forgetting about it? No, that doesn't seem to jibe."

"All right, what then?"

I shrugged.

"Insufficient data," I said, getting to my feet. "If you decide to call the police, be sure to

tell them that the thing he was looking for was something you'd stolen from him."

"Aw, Fred, that's hitting below the belt."

"It's true, though. I wonder what the intrinsic value of the thing was? I forget where they

draw the misdemeanor felony line."

"Okay, you've made your point. What are you going to do?"

I shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. Wait and see what happens, I suppose. Let me know if you think

of anything else."

"All right. You do the same?"

"Yes." I started toward the door.

"Sure you won't stay for dinner?" he said.

"No, thanks. I've got to run."

"See you, then."

"Right. Take it easy."

Walking past a darkened bakery. Play of night and light on glass. DO YOU TASTE ME BRED? I

read. I hesitated, turned, saw where shadows had anagrammatized a bake sale, sniffed, hurried on.

Bits and pieces-

Near midnight, as I was trying a new route up the cathedral, I thought that I counted an extra

gargoyle. As I moved closer, though, I saw that it was Professor Dobson atop the buttress. Drunk

again and counting stars, I guessed.

I continued, coming to rest on a nearby ledge.

"Good evening. Professor."

"Hello, Fred. Yes, it is, isn't it? Beautiful night I was hoping you'd pass this way. Have a

drink."

"Low tolerance," I said. "I seldom indulge."

"Special occasion," he suggested.

"Well, a little then."

I accepted the bottle he extended, took a sip.

"Good. Very good," I said, passing it back. "What is it? And what's the occasion?"

"A very, very special cognac I've been saving for over twenty years, for tonight. The stars

have finally run their fiery routes to the proper places, positioned with elegant cunning,

possessed of noble portent."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm retiring, getting out of this lousy rat race."

"Oh, congratulations. I hadn't heard."

"That was by design. Mine. I can't stand formal goodbyes. Just a few more loose ends to

splice, and I'll be ready to go. Next week probably."

"Well, I hope you have an enjoyable time of it. It is not often that I meet someone with the

interest we share. I'll miss you."

He took a sip from his bottle, nodded, grew silent. I lit a cigarette, looked out across the

sleeping town, up at the stars. The night was cool, the breeze more than a little damp. Small

traffic sounds came and went, distant, insectlike. An occasional bat interrupted my tracing of

constellations.

"Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth," I murmured, "Megrez, Phecda..."

"Merak and Dubhe," he said, finishing off the Big Dipper and surprising me, both for having

overheard and for knowing the rest.

"Back where I left them so many years ago," he went on. "I've a very peculiar feeling now-the

thing I set out to analyze tonight. Did you ever look back at some moment in your past and have it

suddenly grow so vivid that all the intervening years seemed brief, dreamlike, impersonal-the

motions of a May afternoon surrendered to routine?"

"No," I said.

"One day, when you do, remember-the cognac," he said, and he took another sip and passed me

the bottle. I had some more and returned it to him.

"They did actually creep, though, those thousands of days. Petty pace, and all that," he

continued. "I know this intellectually, though something else is currently denying it. I am aware

of it particularly, because I am especially conscious of the difference between that earlier time

and this present. It was a cumulative thing, the change. Space travel, cities under the sea, the

advances in medicine-even our first contact with the aliens-all of these things occurred at

different times and everything else seemed unchanged when they did. Petty pace. Life pretty much

the same but for this one new thing. Then another, at another time. Then another. No massive

revolution. An incremental process is what it was. Then suddenly a man is ready to retire, and

this gives rise to reflection. He looks back, back to Cambridge, where a young man is climbing a

building. He sees those stars. He feels the texture of that roof. Everything that follows is a

blur, a kaleidoscopic monochrome. He is here and he is there. Everything else is unreal. But they

are two different worlds, Fred-two completely different worlds-and he didn't really see it happen,

never actually caught either one in the act of going or coming. And that is the feeling that

accompanies me tonight."

"Is it a good feeling or a bad one?" I said.

"I don't really know. I haven't worked up an emotion to go with it yet."

"Let me know when you do, will you? You've got me curious." He chuckled. I did, too.

"You know, it's funny," I said, "that you never stopped climbing."

He was silent for a while, then said, "About the climbing, it's rather peculiar . . . Of

course, it was somewhat in the nature of a tradition where I was a student, though I believe I

liked it more than most. I kept at it for several years after I left the university, and then it

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became a more or less sporadic thing with changes of residence and lack of opportunity. I would

get spells, though-compulsions, actually-when I just had to climb. I would take a holiday, then,

to someplace where the architecture was congenial. I'd spend my nights scaling the buildings,

clambering about rooftops and spires."

"Acrophilia," I said.

"True. Baptizing a thing doesn't explain it, though. I never understood why I did it. Still

don't, for that matter. I did finally stop it for a long while, though. Middle-age hormone shift

perhaps. Who knows? Then I came here to teach. It was when I heard of your own activities that I

began thinking about it again. This led to the desire, the act, the return of the compulsion. It

has been with me ever since. I've spent more time wondering why people quit climbing things than

why they start."

"It does seem the natural thing to do."

"Exactly."

He took another drink, offered me one. I would have liked to but I know my limits, and sitting

there on the ledge, I was not about to push them. So he gestured with the bottle, skyward, then:

"To the lady with the smile," he said, and drank it for me.

"To the rocks of empire," he added a moment later, with a swing and a swig to another starry

sector. The wrong one, but no matter. He knew as well as I that it was still below the horizon.

He settled back, found a cigar, lit it, mused: "How many eyes per head, I wonder, in the place

they regard the 'Mona Lisa'? Are they faceted? Fixed? And of what color?"

"Only two. You know that. And sort of hazel-in the pictures, anyway."

"Must you deflate romantic rhetoric? Besides, the Astabigans have plenty of visitors from

other worlds who will be viewing her."

"True. And for that matter, the British Crown Jewels are in the custody of people with

crescent-shaped pupils. Kind of lavender-eyed, I believe."

"Sufficient," he said. "Redeeming. Thank you."

A shooting star burned its way earthward. My cigarette butt followed it.

"I wonder if it was a fair trade?" he said. "We don't understand the Rhennius machine, and

even the aliens aren't certain what the star-stone represents."

"It wasn't exactly a trade."

"Two of the treasures of Earth are gone and we have a couple of theirs in return. What else

would you call it?"

"A link in a kula chain," I said.

"I am not familiar with the term. Tell me about it."

"The parallel struck me as I read the details of the deal we had been offered. The kula is a

kind of ceremonial voyage undertaken at various times by the inhabitants of the island groups to

the east of New Guinea-the Trobriand Islanders, the Papuans of Melanesia. It is a sort of double

circuit, a movement in two opposite directions among the islands. The purpose is the mutual

exchange of articles having no special functional value to the various tribes involved, but

possessed of great cultural significance. Generally, they are body ornaments-necklaces, bracelets-

bearing names and colorful histories. They move slowly about the great circuit of the islands,

accompanied by their ever-growing histories, are exchanged with considerable pomp and ceremony and

serve to focus cultural enthusiasm in a way that promotes a certain unity, a sense of mutual

obligation and trust. Now, the general similarity to the exchange program we are entering with the

aliens seems pretty obvious. The objects become both cultural hostages and emblems of honor to the

trustees. By their existence, their circulation, their display, they inevitably create something

of a community feeling. This is the true purpose of a kula chain, as I see it. That's why I didn't

like the word 'trade.' "

"Most interesting. None of the reports I've heard or read put it in that light-and certainly

none of them compared it to the kula phenomenon. They cast it more in terms of an initiation fee

for joining the galactic club, the price of admission to enjoy the benefits of trade and the

exchange of ideas. That sort of thing."

"That was just the sales pitch, to ease public protest over the relinquishment of cultural

treasures. All we were really promised was reciprocity in the chain. I'm sure those other things

will eventually come to pass, but not necessarily as a direct result. No. Our governments were

indulging in the time-honored practice of giving the people a simple, palatable explanation of a

complex thing."

"I can see that," he said, and he stretched and yawned. "In. fact, I prefer your

interpretation over the official one."

I lit another cigarette.

"Thanks," I said. "I feel obligated to point out, though, that I have always been a sucker for

ideas I find aesthetically pleasing. The cosmic sweep of the thing-an interstellar kula chain-

affirming the differences and at the same time emphasizing the similarities of all the intelligent

races in the galaxy-tying them together, building common traditions . . . The notion strikes me as

kind of fine."

"Obviously," he said, gesturing then toward the higher stages of the cathedral. "Tell me, are

you going to climb the rest of the way up tonight?"

"Probably, in a little while. Did you want to go now?"

"No, no. I was just curious. You generally go all the way to the top, don't you?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Not always. In fact, I've recently been keeping more to the middle heights. The reason I

asked, though, is that I have a question, seeing that you are in a philosophical mood."

"It's catching."

"All right. Then tell me what it feels like when you reach the top."

"An elation, I guess. A sense of accomplishment, sort of."

"Up here the view is less obstructed. You can see farther, take in more of the features of the

landscape. Is that it, I wonder? A better perspective?"

"Part of it, maybe. But there is always one other thing I feel when I reach the top: I always

want to go just a little bit higher, and I always feel that I almost can, that I am just about

to."

"Yes. That's true," he said.

"Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. To be reminded, perhaps. That boy in Cambridge would have said the same thing

you did, but I had partly forgotten. It is not just the world that has changed."

He took another drink.

"I wonder," he said, "what it was really like? That first encounter-out there-with the aliens.

Hard to believe that several years have passed since it happened. The governments obviously

glossed up the story, so we will probably never know exactly what was said or done. A coincidental

run-in, neither of us familiar with the system where we met. Exploring, that's all. It was

doubtless less of a shock to them, being acquainted with so many other races across the galaxy.

Still . . . I remember that unexpected return. Mission accomplished. A half century ahead of

schedule. Accompanied by an Astabigan scouting vessel. If an object attains the speed of light it

turns into a pumpkin. Everybody knew that. But the aliens had found a way of cheating space out of

its pumpkins, and they brought our ship back through the tunnel they made under it. Or across the

bridge over it. Or something like that. Lots of business for the math department. Strange feeling.

Not at all the way I had thought it might be. Sort of like working your way up a steeple or a dome-

really difficult going-and then, when you reach the point where you realize you've got it made,

you look up and see that someone else is already there on top. So we'd run into a galactic

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civilization-a loose confederation of races that's been in existence for millennia. Maybe we were

lucky. It could easily have taken a couple more centuries. Maybe not, though. My feelings were,

and still are, mixed. How can you go a little bit higher after something that anticlimactic?

They've given us the technical know-how to build pumpkin-proof ships of our own. They've also

warned us off a lot of celestial real estate. They've granted us a place in their exchange

program, where we're bound to make a poor showing. Changes will be coming faster and faster in the

years ahead. The world may even begin to change at a noticeable rate. What then? Once that petty-

pace quality is lost, everyone may wind up as bewildered as a drunken old nightclimber on a

cathedral who has been vouchsafed a glimpse of the clicking gear teeth between himself here and

the towers of Cambridge there, wherever. What then? See the mainspring and turn to pumpkins?

Retire? Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak and Dubhe . . . They have been there. They

know them. Perhaps, deep down inside, I wanted us to be alone in the cosmos-to claim all of that

for ourselves. Or any aliens encountered, a little behind us in everything. Greedy, proud, selfish

. . . True. Now, though, we're the provincials, God help us! Enough left to drink to our health.

Good! Here's to it! I spit into the face of Time that has transfigured me!"

Offhand, I could think of nothing to say, so I said nothing. Part of me wanted to agree with

him, but only part. For that matter, part of me sort of wished he had not finished off the brandy.

After a time he said, "I don't think I'll be doing any more climbing tonight," and I reckoned

that a good idea. I had decided against further altitude myself, and, wheeling, we narrowed our

gyre, down and around and down, and I saw the good man home.

Bits and pieces. Pieces-

I caught the tag end of the late late news before turning in. A fog-dispelling item involved a

Paul Byler, Professor of Geology, set upon by vandals in Central Park earlier that evening, who,

in addition to whatever money he was carrying, had been deprived by the rascals of heart, liver,

kidneys and lungs.

Some upwelling in the dark fishbowl atop the spine later splashed dreams, patterns memory-

resistant as a swirl of noctilucae, across consciousness' thin, transparent rim, save for the

kinesthetic/synesthetic DO YOU FEEL ME LED? which must have lasted a timeless time longer than the

rest, for later, much later, morning's third coffee touched it to a penny's worth of spin, of

color.

Doorways in the Sand

Chapter 3

Sunflash, some splash. Darkle. Stardance.

Phaeton's solid gold Cadillac crashed where there was no ear to hear, lay burning, flickered,

went out. Like me.

At least, when I woke again it was night and I was a wreck.

Lying there, bound with rawhide straps, spread-eagle, sand and gravel for pillow as well as

mattress, dust in my mouth, nose, ears and eyes, dined upon by vermin, thirsty, bruised, hungry

and shaking, I reflected on the words of my onetime adviser, Doctor Merimee: "You are a living

example of the absurdity of things."

Needless to say, his specialty was the novel, French, mid-twentieth century. Yet, yet do those

lens-distorted eyes touch like spikes the extremities of my condition. Despite his departure from

the university long ago under the cloud of a scandal involving a girl, a dwarf and a donkey-or

perhaps because of this-Merimee has, over the years, come to occupy something of an oracular

position in my private cosmos, and his words often return to me in contexts other than that of the

preregistration interview. The hot sands had shouted them through me all afternoon, then night's

frigid breezes had whispered the motto at the overdone lamb chop, my ear: "You are a living

example of the absurdity of things."

Open to a variety of interpretations when you stop to think about it, and I had plenty of time

to, just then. On the one hand, it could put me on the side of the things. On the other, the

living. Or, perhaps, on the other, the absurdity.

Oh yes. Hands . . .

I tried flexing my fingers, wasn't sure they obeyed. Could be they weren't really there and I

was feeling a faint phantom limb effect. Just in case they still were, I thought about gangrene

for a while.

Damn. And again. Frustrating, this.

The semester had opened and I had departed. After making arrangements to mail my advanced

baskets to my audible partner Ralph at the crafts shop, I had headed west, tarrying equally in San

Francisco, Honolulu, Tokyo. A pair of peaceful weeks had passed. Then a brief stay in Sydney. Just

long enough to get into trouble climbing around that fish-swallowing-fish-swallowing-fish opera

house they have out on Bennelong Point overlooking the harbor. I left town with a limp and a

reprimand. Flew to Alice Springs. Picked up the air scooter I had ordered. Took off in the early

morning before the full heat of day and light of reason made their respective ways into the world.

The countryside struck me as a good place to send trainee saints to get what was coming to them.

It took several hours to locate the site and a few more to dig in and set things up. I did not

anticipate a long stay.

There are carvings on the cliff walls, quite old, covering around 1,600 square feet. The

aborigines in the area disclaim any knowledge of their origin or purpose. I had seen photographs,

but I had wanted to view the real thing, try some shots of my own, take rubbings and do a little

digging around.

I got into the shade of my shelter, sipped sodas and tried to think cool thoughts as I

regarded the work on the rock. While I seldom indulge in graffiti, verbal or pre-, I have always

felt something of empathy for those who scale walls and make their marks on them. The farther back

you go, the more interesting the act becomes. Now it may be true, as some have claimed, that the

impulse was first felt in the troglodytic equivalent of the john and that cave drawings got

started this way, as a kind of pictorial sublimation of an even more primitive evolutionary means

of marking one's territory. Nevertheless, when somebody started climbing around on walls and

mountainsides to do it, it seems pretty obvious that it had grown from a pastime into an art form.

I have often thought of that first guy with a mastodon in his head, staring at a cliff face or

cave wall, and I have wondered what it was that set him suddenly to climbing and scraping away-

what it felt like. Also, what the public's reaction was. Perhaps they made sufficient holes in him

to insure the egress of the spirits behind it all. Or perhaps the bold initiative involved was

present in greater abundance then, awaiting only the proper stimulus, and a bizarre response was

considered as common as the wriggling of one's ears. Impossible to say. Difficult not to care.

Whatever, I took photographs that afternoon, dug holes that evening and the following morning.

Spent most of the second day taking rubbings and more photos. Continued my base trench at daysend,

coming across what seemed the pieces of a blunted stone chisel. Nothing quite that interesting

turned up the next morning, though I kept at the digging long past the hour I had marked for

quitting.

I retired to the shade then to nurse blisters and restore my balance of liquids while I wrote

up the day's doings to that point along with some fresh thoughts that had occurred to me

concerning the entire enterprise. I broke for lunch around one o'clock and doodled in my notebook

again for a time afterward.

It was a little after three when a skycar passed overhead, then turned back, descending. This

troubled me a bit, as I had absolutely no official authorization for what I was doing. On some

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piece of paper, card, tape, or all of these, somewhere, I was listed as "tourist." I had no idea

whether a permit was required for what I was about, though I strongly suspected this. Time means a

lot to me, paperwork wastes it, and I have always been a firm believer in my right to do anything

I cannot be stopped from doing. Which sometimes entails not getting caught at it This is not quite

so bad as it sounds, as I am a decent, civilized, likable guy. So, shading my eyes against the

blue and fiery afternoon, I began searching for ways to convince the authorities of this. Lying, I

decided, was probably best.

It came to earth and two men alit. Their appearance was not what I would ordinarily consider

official, but allowance for custom and circumstance is always in order and I rose to meet them.

The first man was around my height-that is, a little under six feet-but heavily built and

beginning work on a paunch. His hair and eyes were light, he had a mild sunburn and was slick with

sweat. His companion was a couple of inches taller, a couple of shades darker and brushed an

unruly strand of dark brown hair back from his forehead as he advanced. He was lean and fit-

looking. Both wore city shoes rather than boots, and their lack of head protection in that heat

struck me as peculiar.

"You Fred Cassidy?" said the first man, coming to within a few paces of me and turning away to

regard the wall and my trench.

"Yes," I said, "I am."

He produced a surprisingly delicate handkerchief and patted his face with it.

"Find what you were looking for?" he asked.

"Wasn't looking for anything special," I said.

He chuckled. "Seems as if you did an awful lot of work, looking for nothing."

"That's just an exploratory trench," I said.

"Why are you exploring?"

"How about telling me who are and why you want to know?" I said.

He ignored my question and went over to the trench. He paced along its length, stooping a

couple of times and peering down into it. While he was doing this, the other man walked over to my

shelter. I called out as he reached for my knapsack, but he opened it and dumped it anyway.

He was into my shaving kit by the time I got to him. I took hold of his arm, but he jerked it

away. When I tried again, he pushed me back and I stumbled. Before I hit the ground, I had decided

that they were not cops.

Rather than getting up for the next performance, I kicked out from where I lay and raked him

across the shins with the heel of my boot. It was not quite as spectacular as the time I had

kicked Paul Byler in the groin but was more than sufficient for my purposes. I scrambled to my

feet then and caught him on the chin with a hard left. He collapsed and did not move. Not bad for

one punch. If I could do it without a rock in my hand I'd be a holy terror.

My triumph lasted all of a pair of seconds. Then a sack of cannonballs was dropped on my back,

or so it seemed. I was clipped from behind and borne to the ground in a very unsportsmanlike

fashion. The heavyset one was much faster than his appearance had led me to believe, and as he

twisted my arm up behind my back and caught hold of my hair I began to realize that little, if

any, of his bulk was of the non-functional, fatty variety. Even that central-bulge was a

curbstone.

"All right, Fred. I guess it's time to have our talk," he said.

Stardance. ..

Lying there, with my abrasions, contusions, aches and confusions, I decided that Professor

Merimee had come very near that still, cold center of things where definition lurks. Absurd indeed

was the manner in which a dead hand was extended to give me the finger.

Lying there, cursing subvocally as I retraced my route to the moment, I became peripherally

aware of a small, dark, furry form moving along my southern boundary, pausing, staring, moving

again. Doubtless something carnivorous, I decided. I fought with a shudder, transformed it into a

shrug. There was no point in calling out. None whatsoever. But there could be a small measure of

triumph to going out this way.

So I tried to cultivate stoicism while straining after a better view of the beast. It touched

my right leg and I jerked convulsively, but there was no pain. After a time, it moved over to my

left. Had it just eaten my numbed foot? I wondered. Had it enjoyed it?

Moments later it turned again, advancing upward along my left side, and I finally got a better

look at it. I saw a stupid-looking little marsupial that I recognized as a wombat, harmless-

seeming and apparently curious, hardly lusting after my extremities. I sighed and felt some of the

tension go out of me. It was welcome to sniff around all it cared to. When you are going to die, a

wombat is better than no company at all.

I thought back to the weight and the twisting of my arm, as the heavy man, ignoring his fallen

companion, had sat upon me and said, "All that I really want of you is the stone. Where is it?"

"Stone?" I had said, making the mistake of adding the question mark.

The pressure on my arm increased.

"Byler's stone," he said. "You know the one I mean."

"Yes, I do!" I agreed. "Let up, will you? It's no secret what happened. I'll tell you all

about it."

"Go ahead," be said, easing up a fraction.

So I told him about the facsimile and how we had come by it. I told him everything I knew

about the damned thing.

As I feared, he did not believe a word I said. Worse yet, his partner recovered while I was

talking. He was also of the opinion that I was lying, and he voted to continue the questioning.

This was done, and at one point many red and electric minutes later, as they paused to massage

their knuckles and catch their breath, the tall one said to the heavy one, "Sounds pretty much

like what he told Byler."

"Like what Byler said he told him," the other corrected.

"If you talked to Paul," I said, "what more can I tell you? He seemed to know what was going

on-which I don't-and I told him everything I knew about the stone: exactly what I've just told

you."

"Oh, we talked to him, all right," the tall man said, "and he talked to us. You might say he

spilled his guts-"

"But I wasn't sure of him then," the fat man said, "and I'm less sure of him now. What do you

do the minute he kicks off? You head for his old stamping grounds and start digging holes. I think

the two of you were in this together somehow and that you had matching stories worked out in

advance. I think the stone is around here someplace, and I think you have a pretty good idea how

to put your hands on it. So you will tell us. You can do it the easy way or the hard way. Make

your choice."

"I've already told you-"

"You've made your choice," he said.

The period that followed proved something less than satisfactory for all parties concerned.

They obtained nothing that they wanted, and so did I. My greatest fear at the time was mutilation.

From a pummeling I can recover. If someone is willing to lop off fingers or poke out an eye,

though, it puts talking or not talking a lot closer to a life-death situation. But once you start

that business, it is akind of irreversible thing. The interrogator has to keep going himself one

better for so long as there is resistance, and eventually there is a point where death becomes

preferable to life for the subject. Once that point is achieved, it becomes something of a race

between the two of them, with information as one goal and death the other. Of course, uncertainty

as to whether the interrogator may go this far can be just about as effective as knowing that he

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will. In this case, I was pretty certain they were capable of it, because of Byler. But the heavy

man was unhappy with Paul's story, I could see that. If I were to reach that same turning point

and then win the race, he would be even less happy. Since he was unwilling to believe that I

really did not have the information he was after, he must have assumed that I had fortitude to

spare. I guess this determined his decision to proceed carefully, while in no way reducing the

harsher eventuality.

All of which I offer as preamble to his comment, "Let's put him in the sun and watch him turn

into a raisin," followed by several moments of silken brow-blotting as he awaited my response.

Disappointed by it, they staked me out where I could wrinkle, darken and concentrate my sugars,

while they returned to their vehicle for an ice chest. They took up a position in the shade of my

shelter, periodically strolling over to stage a beer commercial on my behalf.

Thus the afternoon. Later, they decided that a night's worth of wind, sand and stars were also

necessary for my raisinhood. So they fetched sleeping bags and the makings of a meal from their

vehicle and proceeded to encamp. If they thought the cooking odors would make me hungry, they were

wrong. They just made me sick to my stomach.

I watched the day drive west. The man in the moon was standing on his head.

How long I had been unconscious I did not know. There were no sounds of movement from the camp

and I could see no light in that direction. The wombat had crawled off to my right and settled

there, making soft, rhythmic noises. He rested partly against my arm and I could feel his

movements, his breathing.

I still did not know my tormentors' names, nor had I obtained a single new fact concerning the

object of their inquiries, the star-stone. Not that it should actually have mattered, save in an

academic sense. Not at that point. I was certain that I was going to die before very long. The

night had delivered a jaw-jittering chill, and if it didn't finish me I figured my inquisitors

would.

My recollection from a physiological psychology course was that it is not the absolute state

of a sense organ that we perceive but rather its rate of change. Thus, if I could keep quite

still, could emulate the Japanese in a steaming bath, the cold sensations should drop. But this

was a matter of comfort rather than one of survival. While relief was my immediate objective, I

spotted the notion of continued existence lurking at the back of my thoughts. I did not take a

stick to it, however, because its methods seemed useful-which of course seems another way of

saying that I am weak and irresolute. I won't argue.

There is a rhythmic breathing technique that always made me feel warmer when I practiced it in

my yoga class. I commenced the exercise, but my breath escaped me in a rattling wheeze. I choked

and began to cough.

The wombat turned and sprang onto my chest. I began to scream, but he stuffed his paw into my

mouth, gagging me. With my left hand I reached for the scruff of his neck and had hold of it

before I recalled that my left hand was supposedly bound.

He clamped down with his other three limbs, thrust his face up close to mine and whispered

hoarsely, "You are complicating matters dangerously. Mister Cassidy. Release my neck immediately

and keep still afterwards."

Obviously, then, I was delirious. Comfort within the framework of my delirium seemed a

desirable end, however, so I let go his neck and attempted to nod. He withdrew his paw.

"Very good," he said. "Your feet are already free. I just have to finish undoing your right

hand and we will be ready to go."

"Go?" I said.

"Shsh!" he said, moving off to the right once more.

So I shshed while he worked on the strap. It was the most interesting hallucination I had had

in a long while. I sought among my various neuroses after the reason for its taking this form.

Nothing suggested itself immediately. But then neuroses are tricky little devils, according to

Doctor Marko, and one must give them their due when it comes to subtlety and sneakiness.

"There!" he whispered moments later. "You are free. Follow me!"

He began to move away.

"Wait!"

He paused, turned back.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"I can't move yet. Give my circulation a chance, will you? My hands and feet are numb."

He snorted and returned.

"Then movement is the best therapy," he said, seizing my arm and drawing me forward into a

sitting position.

He was amazingly strong for a hallucination, and he continued dragging on my arm until I fell

forward onto all fours. I was shaky, but I held the pose.

"Good," he said, patting my shoulder. "Come on."

"Wait! I'm dying of thirst."

"Sorry. I am traveling light. If you will follow me, however, I can promise you a drink."

"When?"

"Never," he snarled, "if you just sit there. In fact, I think I hear some noises back at the

camp now. Come on!"

I began crawling toward him. He said, "Keep low," which was rather unnecessary, as I was

unable to get to my feet. He moved away from the camp then, heading in a generally easterly

direction, roughly parallel to the ridge beside which I had been working. My progress was slow,

and he paused periodically to allow me to catch up.

I followed for several minutes, and then a throbbing began in my extremities, accompanied by

flashes of feeling. This collapsed me, and I croaked some obscenity as I fell. He bounded toward

me, but I bit off my outburst before he could repeat the paw-in-mouth trick.

"You are a very difficult creature to rescue," he stated. "Along with your circulatory system,

your judgment and self-control seem to be of a primitive order."

I found another obscenity, but I whispered this one.

"Which you continue to demonstrate," he added. "You need do only two things-follow and keep

silent. You are not very good at either. It causes one to wonder-"

"Get moving!" I said. "I'll follow!"

"And your emotions-"

I lunged at him, but he darted back and away.

I followed, ignoring everything but the desire to throttle the little beast. It did not matter

that the situation was patently absurd. I had both Merimee and Marko to draw upon for theory, an

opposing pair of fun-house mirrors with me in the middle, hot on the trail of the wombat. I

followed, muttering, burning adrenalin, spitting out the dust he raised. I lost track of time.

The ridge grew lower, broke up. We moved inward, upward, then downward, passing through rocky

corridors into a deeper darkness, moving over a way that was now all stone and gravel. I slipped

once, and he was beside me in an instant.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I started to laugh, controlled it.

"Sure, I'm fine."

He was careful to stay out of reach.

"It is just a little farther," he said. "Then you can rest. I will fetch you nourishment."

"I am sorry," I said, struggling to rise and failing, "but this is it. If I can wait up ahead,

I can wait here. I'm out of gas."

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